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miércoles, 10 de enero de 2018

Suburban Tales, CR VocalesVerticales (Forthcoming)

This is the opening of my new book of poems which will be ready in March. More soon.
CR





Don’t ask questions for which answers you’re not ready.
Ask me ordinary things, instead
Like, when was the last time you tried to kill yourself?
or
would you rather take the subway or a taxi?

I don’t know, just exercise judgment.

Ask me how is life in the suburbs,
and I will tell you all the stories,
from the dead wildlife on the roads,
to the partner-swapping that took place a while ago
for a sex-positive experience.

I get tired.

I wish people would stop loving Alejandra
just because she killed herself.
I wish writers would stop writing footnotes
on how Althusser killed his wife.
I hope soon I understand I am also
an intellectual fraud.

Last week, I received a review from one of my poems
“This poem is almost too perfect, too structured, too rigid,
you need to let yourself go.”
It’s been two years, and I can hardly write like I used to.

I have quiet gods in my kitchen,
I am alone, I feel frigid,
I am holding myself by the edges
so when someone says “let go”
it sounds like an execution.

But let me tell you more about the suburbs,
a girl used to big cities ended up finding surprises
in the country side, I reckon you’d like to listen.

CR, VocalesV



Relatos Suburbiales, CR VocalesVerticales (Forthcoming)




Este poema forma parte de mi próximo libro de poemas que estará listo en Marzo. Es el poema que abre el libro. Pronto más.

CR.



No hagas preguntas para cuyas respuestas no estás listo.
En cambio pregúntame cosas ordinarias,
como ¿Cuándo fue la última vez que intentaste matarte?
o ¿Preferías tomar el metro o un taxi?

No lo sé, ejerce el juicio.

Pregúntame sobre la vida en los suburbios
y te contaré  todas las historias,
desde los animales salvajes muertos en la carretera,
hasta el intercambio de parejas que tuvo lugar hace un tiempo
para una experiencia sexual positiva.

Me canso.

Me gustaría que la gente dejara de amar a Alejandra
solo porque se mató.
Me gustaría que los escritores dejaran de escribir
notas a pie de página sobre cómo
Althusser mató a su esposa.
Espero que pronto yo también comprenda
que soy un fraude intelectual.

La semana pasada recibí una reseña de uno de mis poemas
“este poema es casi demasiado perfecto, demasiado estructurado,
demasiado rígido, tienes que dejarte ir.”
Han pasado dos años y aún no logro escribir como lo hacía.

Tengo dioses silenciosos en mi cocina,
estoy sola y frígida,
me sostengo al borde de un abismo
así que cuando alguien me dice “déjate ir”
suena como una ejecución.


Pero déjame contarte más sobre los suburbios
una chica acostumbrada a las grandes ciudades
terminó encontrando sorpresas en el country side
me parece que querrías escucharlo.



CR -VocalesVerticales



jueves, 7 de diciembre de 2017

Sara (II), CR-VocalesV


Woman, Sweden 1943



There are a lot of things in the suburbs,
there is Molly, a beautiful 10 year-old dog
who walks with Renzo, his owner, for hours
she always says hello, if you talk to her in French.
There is the old winery where we taste the wine
once a month for free to control the quality.
There is Peter’s farm where once a week I volunteer
to help with the ducks, the chickens, and the goats.
And there’s also fresh bread and tarts from Julie’s bakery.
Above all there is sadness,
and nonstop walks in empty streets
where I search for something that I can almost grasp
 but it always slips away.
Perhaps this is what I am bound to face in the suburbs,
in its quiet fields, and its pink sunsets,
this burdensome reality of inner desperation,
and this chronic disease of disaster.
Sometimes during my walks,
I think of Sara and her beautiful smile
with her crooked front teeth
and how we met at the gym that summer,
a summer whose memories
slowly died this winter.
Who would I be had I chosen a different life?
Such questions open the gates of existential chaos,
how could I possibly know at this point of my life?
I keep hoping for something to happen, I sit and wait quietly,
then memories fly in front of me like amputated birds searching for food.
She opened the curtain of the shower, almost violently,
I happened to be right in front putting my things in the locker.
I couldn’t help but look straight into her wet breasts
and the drops of water falling in slow motion from her bush,
she didn’t react, I diverted my gaze and left.
I had seen her before with that Zen-like attitude,
her hair so blonde it looked almost grey, her androgynous face
without makeup, her smart smile and her timid “good mornings.”
She was beautiful, in a totally awkward way,
always the first one to arrive, in a big blue pick-up truck.
One morning, after months of chit-chatting
and peeking at each other’s’ bodies in the change-room,
she kissed me in front of the mirror while I blow dried my hair,
I grabbed her head and returned the embrace,
“Let’s go for coffee tomorrow,” she said, casually. 
I didn’t know much about her, I knew she was
in her late thirties, and worked as a librarian for the fine arts library.
I also knew she was addicted to black coffee and blueberries,
and that she cleaned the floors of her apartment
with vinegar because she had a cat and refused to use detergent. 
The day of our appointment I was running awfully late.
I caught her right when she was about to leave,
I saw her empty cup and a few blueberries on a plate.
“I’m sorry” I said with a smile,
and kissed her on her lips as if making a statement.
We sat down, our knees were touching,
“My boyfriend is coming to town next week,
he is looking forward to meet you.”
I will never forget the smile in her eyes,
“I am looking forward too.”


CR -VocalesV


miércoles, 6 de diciembre de 2017