Rusticus

April is the cruellest month.
T.S. ELIOT in The Waste Land



By Ester Astudillo

Let me inhabit this wasteland, I pray,
That shields the boulders on my brow,
Your Adam’s apple be my greeting fence.
Should your sternum post forbid
All trespassing save this your dame.
Your shoulder blades let you be
My apt genial belting girth.

No further land shall this boy sight.
No lush countryside and fields.
Hoes, orchards, harvests, grooves:
Graceful breeding, copious yield.

Nay, nay. May that not be my doom.
Weeds, brambles, bushes my lot be.
Come to me the barren bog,
Dear be the thorn which timely slits.

Shall I be content
But with this my precious moor.
Shall I be content
But with you, my cherished heath.


Puedes ver la versión original castellana aquí http://sietevoces.blogspot.com/2010/03/rusticus.html

Pungent / Acre

By / Por Ester Astudillo


It’s the piquancy of bay leaves, darling,

that always brings you back.

Not the many times we pinned the moon down,
how we reversed the alphabet in the good days
to plant the soil with seeds
for words like ginseng or rutabaga.
That day we truly got to the meaning of infinite.

Even if the smell of spicy liquor
comes with the picture of you
and the memory of us undoing
all our precious steps,
two beaten fairy tale crumb-seekers,
it’s in the piquancy of bay leaves, my dear,
that you never fail to appear.

* * *

Es el acerbo de las hojas de laurel, cariño,
el que te trae siempre de vuelta.

No las muchas veces que descolgamos la luna,
cómo volvimos el alfabeto del revés en los buenos tiempos
y plantamos la tierra con semillas
de palabras como ginseng o jengibre.
El día en que de verdad tuvo sentido el infinito.

Incluso si la esencia especiada de licor
trae consigo tu foto
y el recuerdo de los dos deshaciendo
nuestros preciosos pasos, uno tras otro,
dos derrotados rastreadores de migas de cuento de hadas,
es con el acre del laurel, querido,
cuando nunca dejas de hacerte presente.

My non-American Dream / Mi sueño no americano

And not waving but drowning.
STEVIE SMITH

El río traía a veces zapatos de mujeres entre las hojas tiernas y los troncos muertos.
JULIO LLAMAZARES


By / Por Ester Astudillo

The odds were not that I could one day choose
among a legion of broken dreams
(granted, none would come true, however unsaid),
and yet.
Good old Martin’s was quite out of the question,
having been dead all that long,
himself and his dream.
No. Here’s a sample
of what I had to say:

A Moroccan boy speaking yiddish,
this is what my child’d love to have.

A wake with no memory of waking in the city square of the lost
and not knowing it’s a dream.
This much my child would take.

A Hungarian death (that sure is still and solely my own):
only the poetry of it –[‘hΛŋγɘ,rɪ]-
gives me the shivers.
By phonetic necessity it shall be a deep wet quiet adieu,
lips parted in an O letting through nothing more
than the improbable hissing of old unspoken sibilants.

And mind me: not waving by drowning.


* * *

Contra todo pronóstico una vez
me dieron a escoger entre un montón
de sueños rotos
(ninguno se iría a cumplir,
aunque nadie habló).
El del bueno de Martin quedaba, claro,
fuera de toda duda,
tanto tiempo llevaba muerto
(él y su sueño).
No. Allá va una muestra
de lo que dije:

Un niño marroquí hablando en yidis;
a mi hijo eso es lo que le gustaría tener.

Un despertar sin recuerdos
de haber despertado en la plaza de los perdidos
y no saber que era un sueño.
Eso también le gustaría.

Una muerte húngara (ese, claro está,
es nada más que mío, todavía):
sólo su poesía –[‘uŋγara]-
me pone la piel de gallina.
Por necesidad fonética será un partir húmedo, profundo y plácido,
labios entreabiertos en forma de O
dejando escapar a su través escasamente
viejas e improbables sibilantes viperinas

nunca dichas.

Y atención, no eran señas aquello: me ahogaba y punto.

Paris / París

The ceiling had a painting on it in our room in France
So we were living underneath some angels in a dance
My husband was not feeling well and so we went to bed
He woke up complaining of an aching in his head.

SUZANNE VEGA in ‘Honeymoon Suite’, from Nine Objects of Desire

By / Per Ester Astudillo

We came to the city

With no second thoughts.

It wasn’t a pleasure stay

And we’d been there already.

The heat wave was over now

So the domes and bridges and open spaces

And the Seine

Glistened under the rain and

The stride of those two idle wanderers.

Not a dream city in the least

In the late nineties;

Not the ideal setting for begetting a child.

It was cool and windy and busy

Getting into autumn,

And flea markets were run by dark Muslims

Spreading their goods on the wet tarmac unabashed,

who rode on the Metro for long hours

And spoke perfect French.

You took the pictures

Of the UNESCO venue,

La Sorbonne, la Conciergerie,

And of Pasteur’s and De Maistre’s birth homes

While I bored myself to death with workshops and case studies

And shyly shook hands with acrimonious academics

Of pronounced bosoms

And unpronounceable names

That never looked into my face

Or at my badge.

What a roaring seizure

When the woman at the check-in desk

Said on the phone ‘Je suis desolée'

Cause we wouldn’t get hot water in the shower.

That wasn’t very Parisian.

Nor the smelly racks in the built-in closet

We didn’t care to use.

Just our luck that the third day

We were cued on the noisette

To get a decent coffee at last.

We bought some French chocolates

By way of memento

At the Paki by the Êcole Militaire.
And that’s about as much as we kept with us from Paris that time.

* * *
Vam anar a la ciutat amb les idees clares.

No era una estada de plaer

i ja ens la coneixíem.

L'onada de calor havia passat

així és que les cúpules, els ponts,

els espais oberts i el Sena

brillaven i s’estremien sota la pluja

i els nostres passos de vianants mandrosos.

No era la ciutat que deien que era,

als darrers noranta;

ni l’escenari ideal per engendrar un fill.

Feia fresca i vent,

l’asfalt brollava amb la fressa

dels inicis de tardor,

i als encants hi havia només que musulmans foscos

amb un francès impecable

que estenien la mercaderia sobre el terra moll
sense cap pudor

després de passar-se moltes hores mortes al Metro.

Tu vas fer les fotos de la UNESCO,

la Sorbonne, la Conciergerie,

i les cases natals de Pasteur i De Maistre

mentre jo m'avorria soberanament

en tallers i amb l’estudi de casos

i encaixava amb timidesa les mans d’agris acadèmics

amb pits pronunciats
o noms impronunciables

que mai no em miraven a la cara ni al distintiu.

Quin riure quan la dona de recepció

ens digué al telèfon 'Je suis desolée'

perquè no teníem aigua calenta a la dutxa!

Allò no era gens parisenc.

Ni les lleixes amb olor de resclosit

de l'armari encastat que no vam voler utilitzar.

Fou bona cosa que el tercer dia

ens donessin per fi la clau

per aconseguir un cafè decent: noisette.

Vam comprar xocolata francesa,

com a souvenir,

al paquistanès vora l’Êcole Militaire.
És ben bé l’única cosa que ens en vam endur aquell cop.

Edinburgh Sky / El cel d'Edinburgh

Beauty and desire: he is disturbed by the feelings that the legs of these boys, blank and perfect and inexpressive, create in him. What is there that can be done with legs beyond devouring them with one’s eyes? What is desire for?… Of all the secrets that set him apart, this may in the end be the worst.

J.M. COETZEE in Boyhood

By / Per Ester Astudillo

The greenish copper domes
Were her mane in the wind
Every morning,
Up at six and with the sun already out.
No way to shut out the light
Of Scottish summers –
I wonder how they sleep
With no blinds.

At its best at 9.00 a.m.:
The city then dressed the cleanest
Purest cyan
Painted meticulously as a background decor
With its plump chromes glistening in the dew
Behind the glass
Wanting to buy the endearments
Of a first lover.

I could smell the town up there,
The tower’s top floor:
Decay and trouble South,
The Forth some 4 miles West,
The chilly heavy gusts anticipating the sea
And the dreamy Highlands
Hovering with fierce McCanns in kilts.

But all those summer mornings
It was the ancient quarter
That kept me glued to the window,
My will as diminished as a rock’s.

I fought imbalance mightily,
Like a horsewoman up on a maddened mare
So after she is back afoot,
Buttocks badly battered,
Is taken aback with shock and anger
And gratitude
In equal measure
And can’t help stroking her mule.

Frozen, petrified, moist-eyed,
Every morning they found me there
A statue in a pool of fluid.
Their carefree talk,
The clank of the lift doors opening
And closing,
Their cackles
Plucked the arrow from my rib-cage
And got me seated third on the left,
Middle row,
Ready for a new school day,
The Edinburgh sky left to her own devices,
Her mute pleading on my back once more.

* * *

Les cúpules de coure verdós
onejaven al vent com cabells cada matí,
amunt des de les sis i amb el sol ja fora.
No hi ha forma humana d’amorosir
la llum dels estius escocesos –
ignoro com aconsegueixen dormir,
sense persianes.

El millor moment era a les 9:
la ciutat llavors vestia l’atzur més net i diàfan,
mural de fons pintat amb cura,
i els croms rodanxons llisos per la rosada
darrere el vidre
es delien per les moixaines d'un primer amant.

Aspirava la ciutat d'allà dalt estant,
a l'últim pis de la torre:
al sud ruïna i disturbis,
el Forth 4 milles a l'oest,
de mar endins, gruixudes ràfegues glaçades
anunciant les somiadores Highlands
poblades de feroços McCanns amb kilts.

Però aquells matins d'estiu
era el nucli antic
el que em tenia enganxada a la finestra,
amb la voluntat minvada com la d’una roca.

Em costava mantenir l’equilibri,
com una genet muntant una euga embogida
que un cop torna a ser a terra,
nafres a les anques,
vacil·la entre el xoc, la gratitud i la ràbia
i amanyaga a contracor la mula.

Immòbil, petrificada, els ulls humitejats,
cada matí em trobaven allà,
estàtua en un toll de fluids.
Amb la xerrameca,
el dring de l'ascensor en obrir-se i tancar-se,
lloques que cloquegen a la fi,
em llevaven la fletxa del tòrax
i m’encaixonen al meu lloc,
fila del mig,
tercera per l’esquerra,
llesta per a un nou dia de classe,
el cel d'Edinburgh deixat a la seva sort
i els seus precs muts
al meu darrere altre cop.

Park Bench Underused / Banc públic infrautilitzat

I’ve got latches for windows,

handles for doors

grinders for scrapers

sanders for floors

MARK KNOPFLER in ‘Hard Shoulder’, from Get Lucky

By / Per Ester Astudillo

They arrive while I’m seated
and stop short,

distracted by their new badges,

two underemployed

multilingual over-fifties

bent over their forms

filling in their moronic quests

and dressed poorly.

Two Nips come for aid

in an English so halting

I couldn't take in a word

from where I sat,

in need of directions for Catalonia Sq.

After that, turn for two French-speaking nonnatives.

Then they set for their job,

the male and the female.

Raising their gaze,

they scan the park

speaking little

unwilling to smile.

They total the benches,

make a note of the vacancies

and stray dark immigrants

and the odd idle stroller

or the mum with her pram.

Guess they counted me too,

ticked the box where appropriate.

All that while I’d been busy

with a standing fan chillying in the balcony up right.

Guess they write down in the forms
they'll duly circulate

my line of benches was overly underused.

* * *

Arriben mentre sec i s'aturen,

dubtosos de les seves noves plaques:

en tenen més de 50,

poliglots capcots amb postgrau

i carpeta a la mà,

omplint buits en el formulari idiòtic,

vestits amb pedaços.

Dos japos hi busquen ajuda

en un anglès tan dolent

que ni del banc estant

jo pesco res: Pl. Catalunya, please.

Després, dos no nacionals que només parlen francès.

Llavors estan per la feina,

l'home i la dona.

Alcen la mirada

i escanegen el parc,

parlant poc,

rient gens.

Sumen els bancs,

prenen nota dels buits,

dels immigrants vagatius,

dels vellets que passegen

o la mamà-amb-cotxet.

Dono per fet que també em compten,

que faran una creu a la casella on toca.

Aquella estona jo només miro

un ventilador de peu

que es refrigera al balcó

allà dalt a la dreta.

Suposo que apunten al formulari

que la filera de bancs que ocupo

està a la clara infrautilitzada.

Ouija

Following a faint stain on the air to the river’s edge
I enter water. What am I to split
the glassy grain of water looking upward I see the bed
of the river above me upside down very clear

TED HUGHES in ‘Wodwo’

You lead me down to the water's edge

Let's take a rest on the riverbed

You lead me down to the water's edge

You're all that I need, you go ahead

MORCHEEBA in Dive Deep

S went over the house –into every room, down into the cellar, out onto the deck. In each area she stood still, with her head tilted to one side. Finally, she went into the kitchen.‘There’s nobody in the house now’, she said,’ ‘but right here there’s a channel where the entities come and go’.

‘A channel?’

‘Sort of like a tunnel. A link’, said S. ‘They have come into our world and then they go out of it, right here.’

MARGARET ATWOOD in Moral Disorder

by / por ester astudillo

let’s do anything you like

i won’t mind your game

or if you play tricks

any board will do

a couple of dice

on a table

you follow?

we should sit

you and me

face to face

-sides won’t do-

and hold hands

and press hard

don’t mind pain

dark’s all right

no blindfold

over eyes

place your index

on the heart

hold back pushing

easy, relax

let’s play now

there's two worlds

them and us

one go no more

let’s contact the living

* * *

hagamos algo

elige una cosa

no importa tu juego

ni si haces trampas

un tablero basta

y un par de dados

sobre una mesa

¿puedes seguirme?

siéntate ahí

en frente de mí

cara a cara

no de perfil

dame la mano

y aprieta fuerte

no dolerá

sin luz está bien

sobra la venda

abre los ojos

pon el índice

en el corazón

sin empujar

suave y flojo

ahora juguemos

a que hay dos mundos

nosotros y ellos

un intento nomás

de hablar con los vivos

Full Stop / Punt final

Cum’on, one love karma,
Cum’on, one love comma

MORCHEEBA in Dive Deep


For my multiple once loved absentees

By / Per Ester Astudillo

The prickling lights over me -
I lie with no bedding
while fumbling fingers work on the wood
I used to call my own -
Announce my expiration.
I cringe at this sudden knowledge
But will not relent now.

There were times before -
Not quite exactly though.
Colons, semi-colons -
And solid oak, yes.
Unfeeling of viscera yes.
They called it a comma
But I outwitted them -
O was I good at it!

They couldn’t have known
I could use a metaphore.

Now that language has deserted me
Flesh and sinew blur.
There remains the pleasure
Of finally embodying a full stop.

Ultimately nude.

In a stubborn void of discolour
An odourless nothing dissolves.
The now dimming light presses before me
An unaccountable view
Telling the story:
Up the syringe that cuts through the wood
There I dangle off the needle
Weightless
Unaware
Pure
Lovely
Unwomanly depleted

Cold

* * *

La llum caient que m’enceta –
jec sense cobrir
mentre dits potiners furguen en la fusta
que anomenava jo-
anuncia que m’acabo.
M'estremeix aquesta sobtada visió.
No és moment d’estovar-se ara.

En va haver d’això, abans -
no exactament d’iguals.
Punts seguits, punts suspensius –
i fusta sòlida, sí.
Insensibilitat a les vísceres, sí.
En deien coma
però jo els superava en enginy:
en sabia un niu, jo, d’això.

No podien haver previst
com era de bona amb les metàfores.

Ara que el llenguatge ja no el tinc
muscle i tendons s’esvaeixen.
Queda el plaer darrer
d’encarnar el punt final.

Nua a la fi.

En un tossudament descolorit buit
es dissol la darrera espurna inodora.
La penombra encara té temps
de tornar-me una inexplicable imatge
que conta una història:
xeringa amunt, perforant la fusta,
allà penjo jo de l’agulla
Lleugera
Indolent
Pura
Preciosa
Andròginament exhaurida

Inerta

Blind Faith / Fe cega

To the memory of those who suffered
the therapeutic pain of electroshock

And for those who very stupidly still like to think
all cures demand pain in exchange

By / Per Ester Astudillo

Of these objects of desire,
Which one would you choose

To undo blasphemy?
To redress a faux pas?
To bring a wall down?
To name the world?

You’ll no doubt say
Penance
Braces
Democracy
Vision
In this order
And I couldn’t tell you one way or the other

Would the answer to these
Be any easier for me to acknowledge?

To make cracked skin whole?
To heal a bad wound?
To start a heart beating?

You’ll take one soldierly step forward
-Like any other fool-
Look me in the eye
And mouth superior and proud

Disinfectant
Flesh
Electroshock

Then I’ll smile to the med student
You’ll make

Cause you and I are of a kind
Frankensteins of a sort:
Blind medical faith
In lieu of anything other

* * *

D'aquests objectes de desig,
Quin n'escolliries per

Esborrar una blasfèmia?
Corregir un mal pas?
Fer caure un mur?
Donar nom al món?

Respondràs, sens dubte,
Penitència
Ortodòncia
Democràcia
Clarividència
En aquest ordre
I jo no et sabré dir ni que sí ni que no

Em pregunto si em seria més fàcil
La resposta a aquests altres

Fer créixer una pell esberlada?
Curar una ferida greu?
Tornar-li el batec a un cor mort?

Faràs marcialment un pas endavant
-Com qualsevol altre ximplet-
Mirant-me fix als ulls
I articularàs superior i orgullós

Desinfectant
Carn
Electroxoc

Llavors jo somriuré a l'estudiant de medicina
En què t’hauràs convertit

Perquè tu i jo som de la mateixa pasta
Dos Frankensteins moderns:
Cega fe mèdica
A manca de cap altra cosa

Wordless / Innombrable

I've gained the world then lost their lost
maybe it's cause I'm getting old
all the people that I know
have gained the world then lost their souls

MORCHEEBA in Dive Deep

My thanks to Morcheeba,
from whom I borrowed a line in the poem
apart from the quote

An to P. He knows well what for



The world is so small - it turns out.
A memento of sorts,
boundaries within easy reach
–and so British!
I could have met Lady Macbeth, as it goes,
-be indeed Lady Macbeth-
or come across Queen Elizabeth,
be a number among her damsels -
had the stars been inclined differently.

So don’t find me.
Don’t search the globe for me,
however apt for navigation.
Cause if you do
some day you’ll be tempted to say
there are words for people like me
and I couldn’t agree less:
I don’t think there’s very many.

* * *

El món és petit
a dia d’avui
Poc més que un souvenir,
amb els confins tan a mà!
-i tan britànic!
Podria, com qui diu, haver conegut lady Macbeth
-o millor encara, ser lady Macbeth-,
o haver coincidit amb la reina Isabel,
ser una dama en plantilla –
si els astres ho hagueren volgut.

Així és que no em trobis.
No furguis l’orbe,
navegable i tot.
Si ho feies, tard o d’hora et temptaria de dir
que hi ha un nom per a la gent com jo
i no hi puc estar menys d’acord:
no n’hi ha, d’això.
No n’hi ha.

'Cause Bedlam's, oh!, So Fine / El asilo de una locura

To someone very dear I'd like to say:

"So why don't we go
somewhere only we know?"
KEANE

The poem is for B J,
for all the thought invested around the special species
we like to call ourselves


By / Por Ester Astudillo


Bring me back to my needs
Where existence is no wonder:
Only hunger, and thirst and lust.

Take back all my wants;
I’d sell my idiosyncrasy
For a common room, a cup of tea,
A heartfelt knockout.

Hold the lessons
I packed and wrapped in lace for you;
Throw them with the waste then
Even that not being your wish.

I’ll take your bite –or your fuck-
Like an animal no more in hiding.

We’ll lie unburied when all is past,
With no dreams in stock,
In a haven where no hell or ruins,
Nor God or tombs apply.


* * *

Llévame de vuelta a mis necesidades,
donde la vida no genera dudas:
sólo es hambre, y sed, y lascivia.

Devuelve mis carencias;
venderé mi idiosincrasia
por un corrillo apenas,
una taza de té,
un gancho de corazón.

Acuna las lecciones
que envolví en celofán
para ti;
deshazte luego de ellas
aun no siendo ése tu deseo.

Tomaré tu muerdo -o el polvo que me ofreces-
como un animal que ya no se esconde.

Cuando todo haya acabado
yaceremos en la tierra,
sin sueños en espera,
asilo donde el mal,
ni las ruinas -o Dios
o las tumbas- aplican.

Copyright of the image Kazuya Akimoto (Sleeping Beauty in the Wood), at http://kazuya-akimoto.blogspot.com/2008/03/sleeping-beauty-in-wood-fairy-tale.html

Uitwisseling

Des de Breda, des de fa 8 dies, amb els alumnes de 3r d'ESO.

Finalment he aconseguit que una alumna m'escrigui un poema en holandès que parli sobre la seva experiència. Gràcies a la Kelly i a la Laerke per traduir-lo i pels bons moments a Holanda.

Uitwisseling

Ik had een keuze dit jaar,

een uitwisseling naar Spanje of naar de ardene,

met denken was ik al gauw klaar,

de uitwisseling werd het,

op een dag ik net msn aangezet,

en iemand voegede me toe,

het was mÿn match,

we pratten, en hoe,

in het engels heel het gespret,

Laerke was het meisje en ze was te gek,

we hadden de zelfde hobby’s en konden

het goed met elkaar vinden,

we werden goede uriendinnen!

Kelly Boegers

(Intercanvi

Aquest any havia d' escollir una opció,

un intercanvi a Espanya o colònies d’esport.

Pensant en això ho vaig decidir de seguida,

faria l'intercanvi. Un dia acabava d'engegar el msn

i algú em va sol.licitar; era la meva parella.

Parlem en anglès tota l’estona.

Ella era la Laerke, una noia increïble.

Teníem les mateixes aficions i ens portàvem bé;

ara som bones amigues!

Kelly Boegers)

Love Tax / Impost amorós

Quería ser puta. Pero una puta especial; en realidad, una puta vengadora [...] Y decidí ejercer; para mí había sido un gracioso y revelador descubrimiento. Este oficio no me daría problemas, dejarían de acosarme las dudas, no había más que pensar.

PAULA IZQUIERDO en La falta

Volver a las palabras.
Creer en ellas. Poco [...]
Boqueando. Pez en la orilla
común de los creyentes.

CHANTAL MAILLARD en Hilos

By / per Ester Astudillo


You’d come home
after I’d picked on you
in the streets,
just like that,
‘cause you’d caught my eye
and I must always follow
first impressions.

“Easy, man, I’m not one of those
perverts who love shagging
in public lavs
or on exhibit beds
-anything handy-,
queers addicted
to underground gents,
curios for 22nd c museums
or trendy lit lists.”

We’d circle the Ground Zero
while you pressed your lips
on my tits and levelled your body
by me on the taxi back seat.
And we’d miss the night
as we ripped the neons
and quelled unspecific thirsts.

Through the door,
by the sink,
off our clothes,
across the night,
on the wall,
round the bed:
shallow joy
thickened and grown
muffling the town.

Just as then,
after deflating,
your eyes shut,
I gulped down my pill,
crossed the exit sign,
reversed the handle card,
took the lift down,
again in the dark,
a 50-buck bill
inside your billfold,
and off of your life.






Faries cap a casa
després que t’hagués replegat
del carrer, així sense més:
m’havies entrat pels ulls
i tinc per costum obeir
la primera impressió.


"Tranquil, paio, no sóc d'aquelles
frikis que carden
als serveis públics o
en llits d’exposició
-qualsevol superfície ja fa-,
maricons addictes
als lavabos del metro,
souvenirs de museu
per al segle vinent
o el rànquing de best-sellers."


Rodaríem per la Zona Zero,
els teus llavis premuts
als mugrons
i tu ajustat a mi
al seient del darrere.
I ens perdríem la nit
a canvi d’esquinçar els neons
i saciar sets que no concreto.


Porta enrere,
vora la pica,
fora la roba,
dins la nit,
ran la paret,
dessobre el llit:
fruir epidèrmic
gros i espessit
que esmorteix la ciutat.

Llavors, un cop desinflat,
els teus ulls ja closos,
m'empasso la píndola,
creuo el senyal,
tombo el cartell
de ‘No molestar’,
cap dins l’ascensor,
de nou a la fosca,
50 bitllets
al teu moneder
i adéu pardal.

Your Best Clothes / El teu millor vestit

L'oblit és l'única mort que mata de debò.

EDUARDO GALEANO


Nipple and hive, bite-lumps
small acorns of the almost pleasurable
intimated and disallowed

SEAMUS HEANEY in 'Hailstones',
from The Haw Lantern (1987)



By / Per Ester Astudillo


Like a poetry collection
Right off the freezer
Dripping gently onto your palm
The sweat,
The vapours,
The blood,
The semen
It took the author
To squirt it off and get done.

That’s how I like you best:

Out of the vapours of the gin-tonics of yesternight

Out of your clothes after I ripped them

Out of your dreams that clog your look in your wake

Out of the nightmares that clog mine

Letting come to life what was dormant:

An astonishing something to be lived briefly,
Like a poetry collection
Brought about in one go
in the mist of an alcoholic binge,
And to be lost soon afterwards,
Defrosted,
Perfectly useless and untouched,
In the jungle of oblivion.

Com un recull de poesia
just tret del congelador
degotant suaument a la palma
la suor,
els vapors,
la sang,
el semen
que van fer que l’autor esclatés en el clímax
i es donés per satisfet.

Així és com m’agrades més:

havent deixat enrere els vapors dels cubates a la nit

i el vestit després d’estripar-te'l

i els somnis que embussen el teu esguard quan et lleves

i els malsons que embussen el meu

fent que prengui vida el que estava adormit:

quelcom sense nom per ser viscut breument,
com un recull de poesia

parit d’una tirada entre les bromes de l’alcohol,
que es perdrà tot seguit,
degotant

ben inútil i sense obrir,

en la jungla de l'oblit.

Visiting Memories / Recuerdos de visita

Thanks to Suzanne Vega,
always so inspiring

Like an ordinary child
you sit face-front in class
-take care to hide your left profile.

The skipping of pre-schoolers in the playground
makes you drowsy, their chanting
comes suddenly front
and subdues school talk,
academic prattle.

No words to give you heart like
‘it’s OK, your panties won’t show in the file’
or
‘you overdid your gloss today’.

That’s how the underclothes come to show
and your lips tinge the glass over the meal
and make a smudgy mess all over your mouth;
everybody laughs and you get a dumb feeling,
you don’t find it a bit comical.

A leap of time years ahead
with the skipping recast somewhat.
You make do with no underwear or lipstick
for gaffes,
cutting down to essentials.

A safety pin clips your heart
to the lining of your skirt,
it comes loose every night.
Bust –extra-raw terra-cotta-,
gets hooked in place daily at 8 a.m.
Ordinary stuff.
Limbs, blank extensions
in lieu of boughs of a sort,
stopped growing time back
-no supple birch no more-,
you keep them on non-stop
by way of granting touch somehow.

Yet another leap of time
and unaccountably you dream

you learn to have a life.

Como una niña cualquiera
te sientas de frente en la clase
-evitas el perfil izquierdo.

Los párvulos jugando a la comba
te aletargan, su canto pasa a primer plano,
y enmudece la cháchara,
el parloteo escolar.

Vagas palabras de ánimo:
‘tranqui, no se te verá el viso’
o
‘te pasaste con el pintalabios’
las dice la boca de nadie.

Así es cómo sí se te ve el viso
y cómo embarras el vidrio a la una,
el rojo pintarrajea desde la comisura al mentón
y todo el mundo se ríe, y te sientes expuesta,
no te parece gracioso.

Un salto adelante en el tiempo,
la comba ha cambiado un tanto.
Te abstienes de visos y rouge
-deslices seguros.
¡Recorta, tiro a lo esencial!

Un imperdible en la falda
te amarra las entrañas,
lo sueltas cada noche.
El busto –pura terracota-,
lo ensartas a las 8 en su sitio.
Nuestro pan de a diario.
Brotes de antena, a falta de miembros,
quisieron dejar de crecer tiempo atrás
-madera vieja a fin de cuentas- ,
los llevas puestos día y noche.
Garantía de contacto.

Un nuevo salto en el tiempo
y sin saber cómo ni por qué
sueñas que aprendes
a tener una vida.

Blue on the linoleum / Azul en el linóleum

To the memory of my sister O,

always in battle with pills and needles.

And yet she survived

Sólo quiero más

besos azules, quién, besos blancos,

falo químico para mi sonrisa, quién soy ahora,

falo químico de colores para mi cabeza baja.

Elena Medel, de [I will survive]', en Mi primer bikini

By / Por Ester Astudillo

So you don't think it's true

I could be the real pill for your pains.

I cried rise from the linoleum

improvising Dr. Frankestein's

sloppy operating theatre,

but you cut short of my words

sprawled there dead-fashion, a flayed weasel in my hut,

etching with your fated grin at my echo,

so Norma Jean-like,

your head low as can go.

So blue and down in the mouth.

Ignoring hunchbacks get special powers

for their lumps -so lacking in faith always, you bastard!

You tore at the contract settling

I would make your forte and you my mellitus

-which I enjoyed, your sugary surge in me

thrice daily jolting my already fucked homeostasis-

and now the papery shards come back

all drenched and puffy and sunken as you lay

and they drill and trill and shrill and frill and prick

and ache

willing to pin me down to the blue smudge of you

and I shriek rise, rise,

I'd kill for my dosage,

while I do for you the scarecrowing of unwanted returnees,

back, back. Retreat.

Father!

Let go of my Romeo. Let him live.

So blue and down in the mouth.

Looks like all I got to

was mimic Shelley's pen's jerky curls.

No creíste de verdad

que fuera a ser la bolita contra tus males.

Grité levántate del linóleo

improvisando el desorden en el quirófano

del Dr. Frankenstein,

pero me tapaste la boca,

lacio durmiente emulando a los muertos,

chinchilla desollada en mi choza,

y cincelabas con tu mueca (la suerte ya echada)

el eco de mis palabras,

¡tan como Norma Jean!,

tu cabeza baja abajo, tan abajo.

Tu cara tan azul.

Sin saber que quienes fueron contrahechos tienen poderes

a costa de sus gibas -¡tan falto de fe siempre, cabrón!

Trizaste el contrato en que acordamos

ser yo forte y tú mellitus

-¡cómo disfruté tus rondas de azúcar en mí!

tres veces al día, sacudiendo mi ya jodida homeostasis-

y ahora los dardos de papel vuelven,

mojados, distentidos, hundidos y tú allí postrado

y horadan y trinan, enaguas que cinchan, taladran

y hienden,

dispuestas a coserme a tu tizón azul abajo,

y yo chillo levántate, levántate,

mataría por mi dosis,

y ahuyento, espantapájaros, a tus monstruos regresados,

atrás, atrás. Fuera.

¡Padre!

Librad a mi Romeo. Permitid que viva.

Tu cara tan azul.

Parece que cuanto logré

fue emular los espasmos rizados

de la pluma de Shelley.