2 jul. 2017

Es un gato/ un gato/ mira redondo amarillo afilado














es un gato
un gato

mira redondo
amarillo, afilado 


es un gato


un año
qué es el tiempo
para
un gato

no me reconocería

es un gato

en Camboya
le hacen cantos

dicen que trae lluvias

por qué no

traería un llanto.


::::

28 jun. 2017

Emily Dickinson/ La asesina rubia pasa/ El sol prosigue impasible










¡No soy Nadie! ¿Quién eres tú?
¿Eres tú -Nadie- también?
¿Somos entonces dos?
¡No lo cuentes!, ¡sabes que lo dirían!
¡Qué triste -ser- Alguien!
¡Qué vulgar -como una rana-
recitar el propio nombre -a lo largo de todo Junio-
a un admirador Pantano!


Trad. de Irene Gruss


:::::



El cielo está bajo, las nubes son oscuras,
Y la nieve, viajera,
Cruza un establo o a través de un camino
Discute si se irá.
Un viento mezquino se queja sin descanso
De cómo alguien lo trató.
La naturaleza, como nosotros, a veces es atrapada
Fuera de su diadema.


Trad. de de Raúl Gustavo Aguirre


:::::


La esperanza es el ser alado
Que se posa en el alma,
Y canta una canción sin palabras,
Y nunca, nunca termina.
Y dulcísima se la oye en el viento;
Y sólo una dura tormenta
Podrá abatir al pajarito
Que a tantos mantuvo en suspenso.
La oí en las tierras más frías,
Y en la mar más extraña;
Pero nunca, ni en la miseria más grande,
Me pidió una migaja.


Trad. de de de Raúl Gustavo Aguirre


::::


Morí por la Belleza, pero apenas
acomodada en la Tumba,
Uno que murió por la Verdad yacía
En un cuarto contiguo-
Me preguntó en voz baja por qué morí.
-Por la Belleza -repliqué-
-Y yo -por la Verdad- Las dos son una-
Somos Hermanos -dijo-
Y así, como Parientes, reunidos una Noche-
Hablamos de un cuarto a otro-
hasta que el Musgo alcanzó nuestros labios-
y cubrió -nuestros nombres-


versión de Irene Gruss


:::::


Sin asombro, parece,
A cualquier flor feliz,
Jugando, la helada decapita
Con su poder casual.
La asesina rubia pasa,
El sol prosigue impasible,
Trazando un día más
Para un Dios que aprueba.


Trad. de Raúl Gustavo Aguirre

4 may. 2017

Daughter of the Goat, published by Ed. Bajo la Luna, Buenos Aires- Argentina/ Trad. Dario Bard






Traducción de los primeros capítulos de La hija de la Cabra (Mercedes Araujo) por Dario Bard


Daughter of the Goat (Mercedes Araujo) Published by Ed. Bajo la Luna, Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Chapter 1: The Tree of Justice and Pleading
Dunes and mountains. The sun rose and the wind dragged the animals. His clothes, rags; his face, filthy. Covered in a mask of white dirt. His flesh hangs sculpted in the air. He tries to speak as he trembles, suspended from a branch, his hands bound with a leather strap. He shakes himself violently, intending to loosen the bind bruising his wrists, and his body undulates in a strained, short, convulsive movement. He knows he is going to die. He nods, trying to shake the dust from his eyes.
            He utters a question, but no one responds. He knows the answer: there will be no funeral and no woman will cry over him. His hanging fleshis to become a courtesy for the birds of prey. Already he sees them, stalking him: flying low, its eyes vigilant, a hawk with a cinnamon-colored back shows him its predator’s beak; it will perch on the side of the wound, dig into his flesh, determined, stabbing. Night falls over him and from below, a hairy wolf looks up and waits for carrion.
            Life, the other, how did I end up here. Let’s see: silence, loneliness, betrayal, nothing more; hanging here, my nose bleeding. Mummy, cadaver, broken.
            Stripped, covered in mud. Dying of thirst. He tries to bend his knees and bring them up to his belly. His back stretched, his arms rigid, supporting all his weight. Stiffened, the hot wind rocks him softly.
            Night slashed by a heated wind that sways me and sticks to me. The living image of the female, Juana, the traitorous mule, knitting. She looks on me with fluttering eyes, and continues with her needlework, a lost look on her face. I would kill, I would give my life to the shit who offers me a dirty rag. The night is long and maybe Juana will come closer. What a thought! Like a ghost, she looks at me, her black hair, her brow wrinkled with furrows of fury, her body of stone. I am dreaming her.
            He is shrouded in the never-ending buzzing of mosquitoes swirling in the air, whipping the air, bloodsucking mosquitos.
            He stretches his body and tries to touch the ground with the tips of his toes. The strap bites into his skin and the veins on both his arms pulsate. Useless, it’s useless, the ground is too far away. In a sharp and short movement, he lifts his knees and arcs his back.
            How did I end up here. Sour saliva rises in his throat and he spits it out. If they had killed me, but no, the lizards hang you and leave you to die.
            Sleep until my time comes. Sleep, dream that I drink, drink until I get drunk and fall down. And may death come. I imagine her, she is missing a hand, her head is like a dark maelstrom of wind trailing trash and blinding you, a tornado made of insect swarms: flies, mosquitos and lightning bugs. When will she vanquish me?
            His face cracked by the wind, his arms numb, he balances. A dog hears me with prickedears. He doesn’t lift up his eyes, he does not look at me. Animals know.
            How did I end up here? Birds screech, I scare them away, I kick, I am still alive, I am not carrion, not yet, you butchers. I pray for the sake of praying. I want to sleep, I wet myself. The dust in my eyes, I pray for another sound, not the shrilling of the raptors. My legs are tense, my mouth is dry; it is time to loss it all, to forget where I come from.
            The dog abandons its stillness and sits up. The putrid smell of its hair. Of my hair. Lick my feet with your warm tongue, for mercy’s sake, come on boy. He walks off without coming near, animals know.
            Dawn appears, a milky, whitish veil rises from the earth, encircles and envelopes him.

            They took him down, dead and pecked, from the branch of the dry carob tree. The tree of justice and pleading. Someone carried his body away and rolled it down a mountain.





Chapter 2: Discord from the Start
He looks at the house one last time. The wooden table and the chair. He takes the cot and loads up the saddle. There is nothing left. A pair of ruined sheepskin saddle blankets and the stains of black smoke exhaled by the carbon in the brazier, still smoldering. The foreman at the mine fired him that night, giving him a few hours to escapeafter having killed the braggart who had stolen his woman away.Earlier he had been told the traitor was in town. He spotted him from afar, went over to him in silence and jabbed his knife into his jugular; he pulled it out covered in blood, dripping red, the handle flashing in his hands. With a handkerchief he wiped the blade, washed his hands and left. The handkerchief, tainted scarlet, lay tossed by the supply store’s door.
            “The road to Bermejo, from there take the trail of thorns; it is desolate and rough going. Look for the way to San José and there take the trail to the north.In three days’ journey you’llarrive at Las Lagunas. Find the priest and tell him I sent you.”
            His compadre shows him the way and then encourages him: you’ll see more stars than if you died with your eyes wide open. He gives him a few pats on the back. When there’s vengeance, there’s vengeance, and when there’s music, you sing, he says, a black smile, a dirty moustache, his eyes shimmering like coins re-washed. It’s as if the devil is guiding him.
            Laconic and with his heart sounding addled and wheezing, he lashes the hide that carries him, and on those four feet he steps on bare earth. Taciturn he rides and murmurs curses that echo against the phantasmal tapestry of a landscape he cannot quite discern.
            He rides across the dreadful desert. Murmuring threats. Flesh of my flesh, bones of my bones, the snake. She pushed me to hell. May she crawl on her belly and eat dust, the traitor. He scarcely manages to avoid rodent holes and armadillo burrows. No refuge is revealed to him. His senses are numbed and he presses his knees against the horse’s sides to lift his legs off its back. The beast is a blue roan, an overo with black and white spots that flash a bluish glow in the moonlight. He scans the horizon. He is tall and thin, light-skinnedwith red hair and a wolf-like face hidden under a beard he trims every now and then, and which is starting to grey. Man and animal, the moon makes them whiter and bluer.
            Dawn. The sun outlines the immensity. Starving, as hungry as a greyhound. He sets off at a gallop until the animal no longer responds and threatens to lie down in the middle of the road. He makes a lasso out of the reigns and tightens it around its neck. The beast rages as it suffocates. The yellow flowers that blossom from the black branches of the jarilla come alive in the light.
            The midday sun burns his eyes and blinds him. The birds in the sky accompany them for a distance and then abandon them. Not even a single armadillo to skin. Iguanas prowl around nests. They have to be there, hiding in the thorny brush, the creepers.
            He sings and curses, stretches his neck trying to see farther; the brightness impedes it. He spits, croons, swears. The horse takes off. It bolts and instantlygoes from a trot to a gallop.Its back boils salt water. They both have their hides messy and tangled, sticky dirt in their eyes and an uneasy feeling that runs through their veins and intimately joins them.
            In the middle of the night, he spots water in the distance, the twinlagoons. In the air he smells the aroma of the dry jarilla and the rotten odor of the remains of dead beasts. He puts the horse to drinking. He shakes his sombrero, body and boots. He sticks his head in the water and it comes up covered in filthy mud, it drips from him till mid-afternoon. His eyes burn. They tingle and sting. He rubs them. The mud emits a foul mist. He does not know where he is. Behind him, he hears the horse snort and slurp the dense water, lapping it up with its heavy tongue. He lays down and sleeps.
            He awakens. The glare hurts him. A priest is standing beside him and scrutinizes his eyes with the caginess of a fox. The white man sits up. The priest maintains an unfriendly and sustained silence, which is broken only when Zapata’s name is invoked. The priest gives him his hand and mumbles something he does not understand. Compassion, because it is what the law demands, and not because I found you here, and he hands him a handkerchief that the white man scrunches against his face. He rubs his arms and head. He cleans himself hurriedly.
            “Everything is pretty miserable here. Don’t expect hospitality, food or company.”
            “Is there somewhere else around here?”
            “We’re isolated. Not a soul until Divisadero.”
The priest looks at him in silence. The white man scratches his head and shakes the dust off the muddy clothes that cover his body.
            “I’m not one to get drunk at the first place I come to. Is there water, animals?”
            “Tomorrow I’ll show you the way. Brackish water, worthless reeds and a disinclination toward strangers, that is all there is. There is also the path of the fugitives, I’ll show it to you tomorrow.”
            They walk; the priest with his white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and he with his clothes in rags. The horse escorted between them, its head upright, its eyes turning to one side and then the other, the leather saddlebags, torn and resewn, swaying. The white man, his eyes fixed on the ground, and the priest, prim and proper, advance in silence, like apparitions.
            The priest orders two women to serve them food. The white man downs a glass of wine and asks for another. Rice and beans, boiled in a grimy broth. He devours it. Out of the corners of their eyes, the women regard the red crest and grey eyes. The white man points to his plate and raises his eyebrows. One of them laughs and the other hides, embarrassed. The priest watches him with clenched jaw. To the white man, the laguneras’ pupils turn into black hollows. They are strong, well-built females. The priest diverts his attention.
            “The Old Testament, have you read it, rider? The church says that it is worthless, but I find it useful in this desert. Listen: ‘When you cross the Jordan into the land of the Canaan, you shall appoint cities to be cities of refuge, as refuge for murderers who have killed without intending to. The murderer shall flee there, and shall stand before the gate and state his case to the city elders. And they shall take him in and give him a dwelling among them. And if the avenger of the murder pursues him, he shall be delivered if he killed knowingly.’ Where are you from? You said Zapata sent you to this wasteland?”
            “He himself.”
            “A friend, you say, or an enemy? Where were you before that?”
            “At a mine.”
            “And before the mine?”
            “Thereabouts.”
            Thereabouts, hostile cretin, where does he think he is. His suffering will be multiplied in Las Lagunas. With that red mop of hair and Nazarene beard, how old might he be.With the Cunampas clan, you always lose.
            “If I vouch for you, you’ll have to prove yourself, and it will never be for much time.”
            Suddenly, the priest pins down his left hand, the white man flinches. He makes an abrupt move, but does not try to free his trapped fist.
            Wild pumas, wily cats. Mountain lions, eyra cats, with the laguneros I learned to tame them. But, your eyes are glassy, with hidden tears. Scared like a dog that has scented the trail of the wolf.
            “The horse,” says the priest, not letting go of his hand, with knuckles protruding like stones.
            “What about the horse?”
            The white man looks over at his horse, waiting meekly by the chapel gate. And looks at the priest. Predatory, with rounded head, short nose, dilated eyes. That white collar.
            “The horse to let you stay and to speak to Cunampas on your behalf.”
            We fight with our eyes. He’s already wounded, I landed the first blow, I stuffed his belly and ordered to have him cleaned up.
            “I’ll lend him to you, but if something happens to him, someone steals him, some beast attacks him, he breaks a leg, or a foot or dies, I’ll have you shaking until you are pale, and it won’t matter to me if you are a priest or an animal.”
            “Control yourself, fugitive, and in exchange I tell you this: while I’m away, be careful with Cunampas when he goes up on the mountain, it’s because there is nothing left to eat.” They fight with eyes become knives. “Usually, they comeback empty handed, unless some ranch foremen give them goats. They are a superstitious lot, but in times of peace they are meek and serene. If I vouch for you, they will let you be, but don’t think about going by there or stirringtrouble when I am away.”

            At night the white man takes off his boots. With his nails he scrapes off flakes of mud encrusted in his neck.
            I couldn’t sleep. The sheets washed by women’s hands soothed my back. Memories scorched my mind. That I worked in the mines. I didn’t tell him about when I was a stablehand, with the militia, in the full light of the desert, we smelled battle. The lances were lightning bolts and the earth burned us all. The beast I mounted turned to wood, petrified.The feathered men made us jump, with their lances and their war cries. We fought where the desert meets the Colorado. I didn’t tell him that I had killed nor that on Christmas Day the officers sent us home from the desert. On a dry, clear morning, with my knees locked, pressed against the belly of the wooden horse they saddled me with. My teeth chattered. Stablehand. I slept during the day, and stood watch at night, riding in a circle around them. Calming the spooked herd, comforting the horses. A terrified stampede. I still dream about it. Shushing them.When they run out of breath, they get used to the shouting,they crowd together and one by one come to a halt, gently, one after the other. I gather them up like stones in the palm of my hand and round them up. I hear their wheezing breathing. Their mouths wet, hollow. I had to cut their ears, cutting a beast’s right ear, you bleed it a little and the blood gets in its eyes. Stunned and weakened, they slow to a trot and are no longer haughty and no longer bolt.
            Christmas Day on my way home the desert showed its barrenness. My woman waited for me but when I got there, it was the house of betrayal. Filth. I drank and slept, exhausted, until the sound of faraway thunder put my hair on end. A month passed without news from the bitch, the traitor wasn’t home and I drank and dreamed until one day I picked myself up like a horse on its hind legs.Standing. Upright. Then I knew someone had taken her away. I waited for the bastard until he turned up and I killed him. As for the traitorous female, I never saw her again. At a mine, I said, always at a mine. Were you a solider? Never, I said.

            Together they walk over to a shed where the horse rests. The white man bridles it and makes it walk. With a sour grin, he hands it over. The priest saddles it and adjusts the straps. The beast watches them, haughtily, its ears upright.
            Leery, the white man watches the priest depart. He mounts him upright. The horse takes off at a fast trot, its hind hoof stepping past where its front hoof had been.  




2 may. 2017

Lucrecia Martel/ Di Benedetto/ Zama/ Diálogo de escritores argentinos/ FIL


Mañana miércoles, en la Feria Internacional del Libro se inicia el Diálogo de Escritores Argentinos con una entrevista a la extraordinaria Lucrecia Martel.

http://www.el-libro.org.ar/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/programa-web-dialogo-de-escritores-argentinos.pdf


Zama: entre la literatura y el cine 
La gran novela de Antonio Di Benedetto será el disparador para conversar sobre literatura y cine, el problema de la transposición de los lenguajes, la palabra, la imagen y el sonido. Reconocida por una trilogía excepcional, que incluye La ciénaga, La niña santa y La mujer sin cabeza, la cinematografía de Martel invita a desnaturalizar la percepción, a cuestionar el statu quo de la cultura, a proyectar una inquietud necesaria sobre los convencionalismos. Con esos antecedentes, su adaptación cinematográfica de Zama se presta a la reflexión y a la sorpresa, en una conjunción que reúne dos de los nombres más significativos de la literatura y el cine nacional. Entrevista a Lucrecia Martel (Salta) a cargo de Hernán Schillagi (Mendoza) y Mercedes Araujo (Mendoza). 





8 abr. 2017

A selection of poems from The island/ Mercedes Araujo







A selection of poems from The island (Poetry) Published by Ed. Bajo la luna, Buenos Aires, Argentina/ Mercedes Araujo



The shadows, the words, have changed


the tiger walks between bluffs


and crags, the prince of white fur,


the captain of tigers, I call him,


there are others that are spotted, but I am


so close to myself I don’t know whether to believe what I see,


if I am mistaken in making him out


from others with red stones on their backs,


stones like spots.


Around six in the afternoon


the cat sinks its body in the water


its blood trembles


and the glycine flower wraps itself around dry sticks.




***



Today, Sunday, I hope for a visitor,

like a cat to prick up my ears and with still eyes

follow the color blue, one of the consolations

for my body as heavy as that violet stone

that blends with the greenness in the silence.

On days like this the body burns

and I again seek out that hidden green,

I would like you to hear it:

I scratch myself with my teeth and claw a blanket



to convert the movement of nails into sound.





***





The danger does not appear at first,


it takes time to understand that waves crash


against rocks and more time to stop the body


from trying to find safe harbor.


When you’ve lost it, the water reminds you


that it is not possible to start over,


at least not with the same body.


Like a small animal, with weak fur,


pointy ears, the hands and feet of a monkey,


and hair as smooth as mine is these days,


thus, I believe, it will be possible to survive in the sea.





***





With sorrow I stroke the plum tree leaves


before the rain they looked like purple and white flowers.


That the four rivers that cross the island flow to the sea


makes me have a body nearer.


I also have finally come to see


that as a captive it is better to be here,


today it is almost snowing and I debut


a new cap that the fish like very much,


at first sight it looks like I have gills because two small


flaps stick out of its sides, with this cap on


it’s as if I can move neither forwards nor back.




***




I would tell you that the birds that had gone, have come back,


and that I now have a rosy beak, tail feathers, and devote myself


completely to the flowers and fruit of the orange tree.


There is something that has left me confused:


the despair has become greater,


a cowardice that I only now know.


I have not knownnor been able to understand


how light’s fading away is so different


each day, how it is that the sea sets off storms,


I hadn’t thought before of the white, crystalline salt


that in water dissolves and how the sun


sparkles more on salt that it does on green. Dog,


reptile, bird of prey, all this surprises me


the fragility, the wings that unfold


there are yellow flowers that vegetate in the head


and other parts of the body.





***




It is the dawning hour, the sky striated


by miniscule red-scarlet channels;


I have a new nest and devote myself


to scraping a stick with a blade, I leave it smooth,


when I finish scraping it I keep it.


At dusk I make necklaces


or anything else without meaning:


pick up a sweet pear,


somewhat rotten, but ever so sweet.


Nibbling at a pear you realize


that being alone in the afternoon’s red hour


is like letting a leaf bud from your body


and from that another and another.





***





With my long tail, my wide, red, forked tongue,


my marine appearance is more fearsome than the wound


I can inflict. I must tell you, there is nothing in me


which is as fatal as it looks,


I would like to know about your life, if your journeys


are kindly and generous, if you found peace,


I would tell you that I have taken to flying


and feeding on lizards.







***



At nightfall, when the air is cool


I may worry at the sound of children’s voices


heard resonating out in the distance,


I know that they too are predators


and vicious, I was so, small body drawn in,


belly shining, brandishing my desires


like a sewing needle. Around here you so often hear


the screeching of iron,


like the mole cricket’s sharp sting.




***



I desire to return and find that sleepy tortoise


once again


as if it had never left, I tell Oscar.


Oscar is a cat with a strange talent,


he predicts when someone on the island is about to leave


or die. He makes his rounds


as if he were a doctor


or an airport control tower operator.


When he comes and stays a long while


I tell him that I also knew when you were going to go


and that at that moment I would have liked to descend


to the center of the earth and find there


some simple truth.





***




This afternoon I spoke with some travelers,


they too had news of that tree


which bears leaves, flowers and fruit all together


for a time in winter.


But that is nothing, on the island there is a fig tree,


in summer it lets its leaves fall,


and they crawl on the ground like worms.


I think that inside they have some vital force


that like a short breath moves them along.






***




From here, where the four rivers


that cross the island meet, I can imagine


myself walking to a few blocks from your house,


I go with my long tail and my neck is wider,


a stout, short, fleshy muzzle and shining eyes,


as soon as I have some time I could return


to leave you a bouquet of pale flowers. Now I try


being the duck that rests engrossed with scraggy feathers


and rough beak, just as the gale left me.


Other times, as is my wont,


I try being the red lamb among wolves, a lamb with light-colored eyes


that follows its mother, a blank look on its face.





***





Or I could also tell you I am somewhat changed


if you saw me: I watch, I hope and await the return of the blue


I have the same terrors butI show my claws and fangs,


of all the fears, only one persists,


becoming a lizard for real.


In the water I found a strong ally


I have baptized it guruvilú, that is, fox-serpent


it has the strongest effect on me: curiosity.





***




There are days when I dip myself in the water and I don’t know


if by the moon’s influence or a simple movement of the sun


I can slide so sinuously on the ground


like a serpent with deep blue rings


from tail to mouth, but that serpent’s body,


pale and covered, is not me,


I would like to clarify for your ears


some of these things, but you have told me


it is not possible for now,


since your new pursuits occupy your entire day


and also that your life is better, more solid.


Pay me no mind, just tell me


if it is true that the scales on my hide


continue to gleam despite having been


torn off one by one, and that even so


the body is content with this small life.





***





I touch my body, far from voluptuous,


it is like that of a lobster but with scales,


the ever so hard skin convinces me that there is no need


to fear arrows. I know now that beetles


can walk without hurting their wings


that we all love the womb that nourishes us


and that the body thrown into the well prefers water.


After these months on the island, certain mutations


happened to the body: vision


dissipated, muscles became lethargic.


Stars, moon, winds, rivers,


the tide


washes all away.



20 mar. 2017

transtierros/ vi lo que vi








Aquí dejo una entrada en Transtierros (versión digital) con algunos poemas. Agradezco e invito: pasen y vean que revista tan linda. Exploren sus entradas, imágenes, poemas, reseñas, traducciones y demás gemas de la poesía latinoamericana que ruedan -generosas- por toda la página.

8 feb. 2017

Parece que ocurre en el centro ardiente de la combustión luminosa














Inviernos finos y gélidos

como cristales

el cuerpo recibe el calor

de esa selva que a fogonazos

nos crece dentro

y ofrece lluvias, lianas

y parásitas

tantas que hacen

del jardín dormido

lo contrario

a la penuria



estrujo ramas, alzo jarillas

y alimento

un fueguito miserable

hasta sacarlo infierno




noches y días se salvan

en la tarea bruta de apaciguar 

el hielo



es ahora cuando los tallos flacos

reflejan juncales carnosos

que bailan frenéticos.



Así es el fuego

parece que ocurre

en el centro ardiente

de la combustión luminosa

pero es en los bordes


devora, crece y se alza.


MA (inédito)

9 dic. 2016

Elizabeth Bishop: Conversación






Conversación


El tumulto en el corazón
no para de hacer preguntas.
Y después se detiene y emprende la respuesta
en el mismo tono de voz.
Nadie notaría la diferencia.

Sin inocencia, estas conversaciones empiezan,
y después ocupan los sentidos
aunque no querían hacerlo del todo.
y después no hay sentido;

hasta llegar a un nombre
y todas las connotaciones son iguales.

:::::

Traducción de Cecilia Pavón, tomado de su blog

24 ene. 2016

Gato ¡dame!










Gato ¡dame!


una de tus siete vidas, haré 
con ella lo que me plazca

dormir pesada como plomo
andar pendenciera con garras afiladas
negar la familia, provocar rencillas 
y quebrar en pedazos a la rata huidiza

maullar cuando suene llave en el cerrojo
parar las orejas ante la nota grave
huir a la sombra 
alardear voluptuosa y mirar maniática

refregarme 
sedosa en cualquier pierna
y entregar el cuerpo en pago, la caricia
qué bien se siente pero sólo
quien me alimente será amado

abandonaré el agua para siempre
acecharé alas plumosas, que el sol
me germine en la cabeza: seré
nocturno y macho. Mis presas
serán lagartos o insectos tal vez

rasparé, chuparé, me alisaré la piel

taimada 
gris y belicosa 
devoraré y caeré presa del hambre 
nuevamente 

 la cucaracha encontrará un triste fin
-de acuerdo- pero vos dame, gato
dame una de tus siete vidas
voy a hacer con ella 
¡lo que te plazca!




 M.A.

9 nov. 2015

Liliana García Carril/ ES TÍPICO / olvidar una papa en el fondo de un canasto / es ley que brota / y se agrieta / si pasa de hervida / qué sé yo / de ser / solo / alimento.









La dura materia del pensamiento de Liliana García Carril, recién aparecido en Zindo & Gafuri, abre la parte II con un epígrafe de Louise Bourgeois: “Sin un poco de miedo no se hubiera hecho nada en el mundo”. Tomo nota del epígrafe y pienso que es una buena clave para leerlo, porque sus poemas tratan la materia y lo pensable y reflexionan sobre la dureza de lo uno y lo otro y ninguna de las dos cosas se harían sin un poco de coraje.
En la materia está el mundo con su pretensión realista: una papa, una mesa, la noche, la escritura, el cuerpo en una silla, una cuchara de madera, una sopa, el paisaje, la cocina y otra vez el cuerpo. En lo pensable, el lenguaje y la pregunta con su esperanza y también su aspereza: ¿El lenguaje es realista? ¿La ironía es de la cosa? ¿Lo absurdo es una manera de ver o una manera de ser? ¿La soledad es la interpretación? 
Ese poco de miedo y la incomodidad ante la pretensión de certezas forman el bisturí con el que se descorre, frágil y precariamente, el silencio, la dureza, el realismo de la materia. Lo cotidiano, a la manera de Szymborska, es el lugar donde comprobar que todo lo sólidamente simple y sencillo, nos engaña. Escritura del pequeño territorio de lo incierto, de la meditación y la duda. Si vamos a hablar, hagamos las preguntas brutales: qué sé yo/ de ser /solo/ alimento.
Por estas y muchas otras razones (hallazgos en la precariedad, equilibrio en lo provisorio, música e inteligencia en la poesía) recomiendo este libro, del cual copio aquí unos pocos y potentes poemas, con sus preguntas refulgentes.

MA











1.

SENTIRSE solo ¿es realista?

Voy a ser objetiva: estoy en la cocina
(solo)

la canilla gotea

                          llueve

tomo whisky sin agua
tomo una ducha

me doy
una ducha

se hace un charco en el baño
el agua del charco no se mueve
no se va
el agua, aquí,
no conduce a nada
no puedo ser objetiva con el agua

la gata por ahí
lamiéndose.


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2.


Voy en camino de hablar sola
y digo:

es la realidad

la mesa de la cocina es real
la cocina es real como la mesa
sentada es la realidad de estar
en la cocina sentada a la mesa

soy realista:

me siento confusa

el sentimiento parece ser real
soy un ser vivo
todo ser vivo es real de alguna manera

la cocina es realismo limpio
por el momento

hervir, saltear, adobar
freír, derramarse la leche y no
ensuciarlo todo con lágrimas.


::::







5.


UNA PESADILLA que se tiene
al ver el movimiento
de los plátanos

esos troncos añejos
entregados
al viento del sudeste

¿es objetivo ponerse a mirar eso?
¿un martes a las cuatro de la tarde?

elevar la vista y detenerse
en qué otro asunto
de importancia.


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7.

ES TÍPICO olvidar
una papa
en el fondo de un canasto


es ley que brota

y se agrieta
si pasa de hervida

qué sé yo
de ser
solo

alimento.


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8.


A VECES tengo un día
hoy
        tengo un día
digo lo tengo, y lo tengo

quiero tener un día
y aquí estoy con el día
un día mío

sola yo y el día
que tanto quería tener

no un día de esos
ni un día de aquellos

ni me acuerdo
¿te acordás de aquél día?
ese día te odié

hoy está este día
y ésta cree
que puede tener un día
como se tiene
un gato.


:::::



9.


HAY QUE ser una misma
hay que saber
ser
una
misma

hay que saber qué es eso:

una misma es un mamífero
de la familia
de los antiguos común – mismos

del latín communis
(vulgaris dogmaticus)
y ellos mismos no sabían
quienes eran;

es “nuestra palabra”, decían

pero la misma
no entendía
la palabra “nuestra”
era una en germen
una mismita.


::::







15.

(a E.Z.)

UNA papa
una piedra
lo solo de comer
del animal

no te anima el día
ni la espesura de la luz

espasmo de lo solo
al despertar
silencio
come y duerme.


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20.

ESCRIBO sola en la cocina
creía que escribía sola
creía que escribir era sola
           que la soledad era
estar sola en la cocina escribiendo
creía que escribir y soledad eran
nombres importantes
de acontecimientos solitarios

dormir a pata suelta también
es un acontecimiento solitario
y de gran importancia
cuántos acontecimientos estarán
ocurriendo ahora a las tres de la mañana

y yo sola en la cocina creía estar sola
y creí que eso era el gran acontecimiento

pero sola estoy ahora
que la gata no me acompaña en esto.



:::



HUNDIRSE y hacer pie
con la cuchara de madera
tocar fondo sin picar el anzuelo
ni el laurel:
respondo a las órdenes de verduras;
una voz me dicta el procedimiento
de la sopa, del hervor,
del tiempo: hay injusticia en el bienestar
de una olla, una cosa heredada, muy vieja.

pero hay que alimentarse
atenerse a la ebullición de ese caldo
donde flotan fragmentos
que pudieran ser pistas
para construir
los días que vendrán.