lunes, 9 de octubre de 2017

A pear from the tree, CR - VocalesV

By the grace of birds

Walter bows his head when anyone passes next to him
I guess it comes from years of hideous training.
Like elephants in a circus learn to bow their heads
or lions in cages learn to sit still.
He carries himself with a contagious nostalgia,
with hoses, vacuum cleaners, and bottles of chlorine.
He cleans the pool with a slow rhythm, inspecting
one leaf at a time; maybe saving one or two chipmunks
that found their way to the water.
Walter wears a green jumpsuit,
and a white mustache that adorns his sad eyes.
Every time I see him, he fills me with an immense sadness.
Sometimes as I write next to the window, I avert his gaze
to avoid saying hello, to avoid feeling sad.

Walter comes with Elvis, who is younger than him,
once or twice a week during the summer.
He drives a 1980’s Toyota pick-up truck.
On the second week of September he comes back
to close the pool for winter.
It is in the fall when I say goodbye, I bow my head and smile,
I would like to tell him how much I respect him,
how his gait made me write this poem,
how I see all  the Walters of the world in his face,
how much I hate inequality, how much I hate uniforms,
how I wish he wasn’t just another link in this furious capitalist world,
but I say nothing.
I keep my thoughts to myself, I keep these definitions in my head,
I repeat to myself that he is a human, and not just a wage laborer, or a means of production.

Before Walter leaves for good, before next summer comes,
he enters the house, takes off his hat, puts it in between his hands,
and asks my boyfriend if he can pick a pear from the tree
(a pear, singular, oh please Walter take the whole tree,
take the whole land if you wish, I want you to be happy).

CR- VocalesV

domingo, 1 de octubre de 2017

Fragment "Black seed" CR VocalesV

He asked me if I had been with a black man before.
- I don’t understand your question.
Have you ever been with a black man before?
- You mean darker than me?


Jennifer Givhan, for the Adroit Journal’s Tips for Young Writers

But wherever you are and whether you’re sunbathing on the sidelines or treading water or marathon swimming in the deep and nearly drowning—if you’re a poet, declare yourself so. The accolades will mean naught when you’re writing your own survival. The work is the water and the lifeboat. The work is everything.

-Jennifer Givhan

Mujer saliendo del psicoanalista - Remedios Varo

Remedios y yo tenemos a Jung en común.

Drop it
Into the well.
One item lighter
and so on...

CR -

Robin Coste Lewis - "Plantation"

I wondered if you thought we were lost.
We weren’t lost.  We were loss.
And meanwhile, all I could think
about was the innumerable ways
I would’ve loved to have eaten you.  How
being devoured can make one cry.

- Robin Coste Lewis