Razón del viaje
Barren woman
Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas,
In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself,
Nun-hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies
Exhale their pallor like scent.
I imagine myself with a great public,
Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos.
Instead, the dead injure me with attentions, and nothing can happen.
The moon lays a hand on my forehead,
Blank-faced and num as a nurse.
Sylvia Plath
Revivir
vuelvo a morir nace el sol
muere la lluvia en mi ventana
y le alargo una mano para acompañarla
a su entierro en el aire
Por lo menos alguien me moja
En estos días la esperanza se viste
yo me desvisto
me espanto al mirarme al espejo
y verme en harapos
El espejo ve más allá
él refleja lo que soy
la niña extrovertida
la mujer displicente
que se sujeta a las manecillas
del reloj detenido
se pone a bailar un vals
y luego sofocada se posa
bajo el agua muerta
En estos días estoy loca
quiero romper el espejo
entregarme sólida a la lluvia
cambiarle el traje a la esperanza
alucinarme de lo bello
calentarme con el sol
o que él me caliente penetrándome
un rayito por la ventana
Revivir
Sin muerte premeditada
Revivir
En estos días quiero
cambiar la versión de mi vida.
Mental virus
I'm ill, I know that to say so
is to be so.
It's a lamentation at the
decision by my blood
that yesterday gave huge signs
of vitality.
My illness has as yet no name,
it's like the Masicas complex-
-get me out of this mess,
'what does the woodcutter want?'
'Nothing for myself, it's for my wife,
who's never happy...'
Nothing is enough to entertain
the blue serpent,
to kill the hunger that leaves its bite.
I hide under the mosquito net,
the mosquitos show me their fangs.
Could you have seen
a similar distortion of reality!
I'm ill, it's not dengue,
as I said before my illness is not known.
Step by step I'm developing a
resin that covers me
and an agreeable fragrance of death
that surrounds me.
I dread the mosquitos,
the blue serpent
and dread the mosquito net
that will soon be a bandage
for my wounds.
Masicas:
A character from a Jose Marti children's story.
(Poem of the book "Echoes of sorrow")
© YN 2010
Wakeful / Desvelada
Wakeful
It was midnight.
I was walking through Kentish Town.
The cold weighed heavily in my nose and on my hands.
My forehead still at war from so many confusing thoughts:
which is why the orange beret,
the Clinique make-up,
the uncertain footsteps.
I don't even remember where I was coming from.
I knew that I was going to murder my memory
'Not in Kentish Town,' I told myself.
I reached my house, entered my room, turned off the lights,
I laid down on the bed...(ever the victim).
There was a struggle, resistance, blows without hands, and a voice acting as referee;
a wretched voice, perhaps she controlled this game?
I wandered around again, whilst it grew light, in Kentish Town;
this time without a beret (my memory cooling)
and in silence.
Eran las doce de la noche.
Yo caminaba por Kentish Town.
El frío pesaba en mi nariz y en mis manos.
Mi frente aun reñía por tantos pensamientos confusos:
por eso la boina naranja,
el maquillaje clinique,
los pasos imprecisos.
Ya no recordaba de dónde venía.
Sabía que iba a asesinar a la memoria
-No en Kentish Town- me dije.
me recliné en la cama… (como siempre sería yo la víctima).
Hubo una lucha, resistencia, golpes sin manos, y una voz que hacía de árbitro;
una voz miserable, ¿acaso ella procuró este juego?
Nadie ganó la pelea.
Vagué de nuevo, mientras clareaba, por Kentish Town;
esta vez sin boina (la memoria resfriada)
y en silencio.
© Yamilka Noa - Londres 2010