10.11.24
31.10.24
26.9.24
Martha Kornblith
Saga de la Familia
En todas las casas
siempre habitará un poeta
con una hermana (que no es poeta)
que le dirá
que escriba una biografía
sobre su familia.
En todas las casas
habitará una poeta
—loca además—
como aquellas que sostienen
a duras penas
sus propias biografías desdeñables:
Ellas avizoran pasados autistas
mujeres que dicen palabras soeces
dan tumbos a medianoche.
En todas las casas
habitará un primo lejano
—que vive en otro país—
y que busca (en inglés)
la génesis de la familia.
Conoció, hace años,
a esta pariente esquizoide
(tan callada, tan lejana —dijo—)
(«So quiet, So withdraw»).
No la reconoció en su última foto.
(«lucía tan diferente»)
(«She looked so different,
so attractive, so outlocked»)
En todas las casas
habitará una hermana poeta
—loca además—
que busca su propia desdeñable
génesis
(aquella que ya conocemos).
En todas las casas
habitará una hermana
que le pedirá a su hermana poeta
que escriba la historia
de la familia.
Esta poeta (loca de la casa)
pasará a formar parte de esta saga
el día en que deje el teléfono desconectado
en el filo de la madrugada.
2.9.24
Cédric Demangeot
algunos
pedazos de mi cuerpo
nunca vieron la luz
se quedaron
encerrados en la noche
del cuerpo de mi madre
nunca los
encontramos
17.7.24
16.7.24
Pedro Kilkerry
Amor Volat
Não, não é comigo que ele nasceu... A sua asa
Só a um tempo ruflou desse modo, tamanho! Bateu-me o coração... E outro não sei que, estranho, Rudamente o rasgou como o seu bico em brasa... Entrou-mo todo, enfim, como quem entra em casa E em meu sangue, a cantar, fez de um boêmio no banho! Oh! Que pássaro mau! E eu nunca mais o apanho! Vês: estou velho já. Treme-me o passo, e atrasa... Olha-me bem, no peito, o rubro ninho aberto! Hoje fúnebre, a piar, uma estrige ao telhado E o meu seio vazio! e o meu leito deserto! E vivo só por ver, como curvo aqui fico, Esse pássaro voar largamente, um bocado de músculos pingando a levar-me no bico!
7.6.24
19.5.24
17.5.24
5.5.24
30.4.24
27.4.24
14.4.24
10.4.24
1.4.24
19.12.23
6.11.23
27.10.23
22.10.23
8.10.23
2.10.23
11.7.23
3.6.23
2.6.23
Bergman & Thulin
This is the climax of acting. Ingrid Thulin is a goddess.
— Niva (@frokenniva) March 3, 2021
Cries & Whispers (1972)
Dir. Ingmar Bergman pic.twitter.com/LlVLyuWjas
23.5.23
20.5.23
29.4.23
Edwin Muir
The Horses
Barely a twelvemonth after / The seven days´ war that put the world to sleep, / Late in the evening the strange horses came. / By then we had made our covenant with silence, / But in the first few days it was so still / We listened to our breathing and were afraid. / On the second day / The radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer. / On the third day a warship passed us, heading north, / Dead bodies piled on the deck. / On the sixth day / A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter / Nothing. The radios dumb; / And still they stand in corners of our kitchens, / And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a millon rooms / All over the world. But now if they should speak, / If on a sudden they should speak again, / If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak, / We would not listen, we would not let it bring / That old bad world that swallowed its children quick / At one great gulp. We would not have it again. / Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep, / Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow, / And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness. /The tractors lie about our fields; at evening / They look like dank sea-monsters couched and waiting. / We leave them were they are and let them rust: / “They ´ll moulder away and be like other loam”. / We make our oxen drag our rusty ploughs, / Long laid aside. We have gone back / Far past our fathers’land. / And then, that evening / Late in the summer the strange horses came. / We heard a distant tapping on the road,/ A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on again / And at the corner changed to hollow thunder. / We saw the heads / Like a wild wave charging and were afraid. / We had sold our horses in our fathers’ time / To buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us / As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield / Or illustrations in a book of knights. / We did not dare go near them. Yet they waited, / Stubborn and shy, as if they have been sent / By and old command to find our whereabouts / And that long-lost archaic companionship. / In the first moment we had never a thought / That they were creatures to be owned and used. / Among them were some half-a-dozen colts / Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world, / Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden. / Since then they have pulled our ploughs and borne our loads, / But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts. / Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.
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