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memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: poem

pizarnik’s árbol de diana/ diana’s tree

25 Friday Jan 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Spanish, Translation

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Alejandra Pizarnik, Árbol de Diana, Diana's Tree, poem, Poetry, Spanish translation

1.
He dado el salto de mí al alba,
he dejado mi cuerpo junto a la luz
y he cantado la tristeza de lo que nace.

I have leaped from myself into the dawn,
I have left my body next to the light
and sung the sadness of what is born.

2.
Éstas son las versiones que nos propone:
un agujero, una pared que tiembla …

These are the versions proposed:
a hole, a shaking wall …

3.
sólo la sed
el silencio
ningún encuentro
cuídate de mí amor mío
cuídate de la silenciosa en el desierto
de la viajera con el vaso vacío
y de la sombra de su sombra

only thirst
silence
no chance encounter
be careful of me, my love
be careful of the silent one in the desert
of the traveler with the empty glass
and the shadow of her shadow

4.
AHORA BIEN:
Quién dejará de hundir su mano en busca delbvtributo para la pequeña olvidada. El frío pagará. Pagará el viento. La lluvia pagará. Pagará el trueno.

WELL NOW:
Who will stop plunging her hand in searching for the tributes for the forgotten girl? The cold will pay. The wind will pay. As will the rain. And the thunder.

5.
por un minuto de vida breve
única de ojos abiertos
por un minuto de ver
en el cerebro flores pequeñas
danzando como palabras en la boca de un mundo

just for a moment in this short life
to be the one with open eyes
for just a minute to witness
small flowers in the brain
dancing like words in the mouth of a world

6.
ella se desnuda en el paraíso
de su memoria
ella desconoce el feroz destino
de sus visiones
ella tiene miedo de no saber nombrar
lo que no existe

she strips naked in the paradise
of her memory
she does not know the cruel destiny
of her visions
she is afraid of not knowing how to name
what does not exist

7.
Salta con la camisa en llamas
De estrella a estrella.
De sombra en sombra.
Muere de muerte lejana
La que ama al viento.

She jumps with her shirt on fire
From star to star.
From shadow to shadow.
She dies a distant death
She who loves the wind.

8.
Memoria iluminada, galería donde vaga la sombra de lo que espero.
No es verdad que vendrá. No es verdad que no vendrá.

Illuminated memory, gallery where the shadow of what I wait for wanders.
It’s not true that it’ll come. It is not true that it won’t.

9.
Estos huesos brillando en la noche,
estas palabras como piedras preciosas
en la garganta viva de un pájaro petrificado,
este verde muy amado,
esta lila caliente,
este corazón sólo misterioso.

These bones glowing in the night,
these words like precious stones
in the living throat of a petrified bird,
this beloved green,
this hot lilac,
this mysterious heart.

10.
un viento débil
lleno de rostros doblados
que recorto en forma de objetos que amar

a weak wind
full of bent faces
that I slice into objects to love

11.
ahora
en esta hora inocente
yo y la que fui nos sentamos
en el umbral de mi mirada

now
in this innocent hour
the one I once was sits with me
on the threshold of my gaze

12.
no más las dulces metamorfosis de una niña de seda
sonámbula en la cornisa de niebla
su despertar de mano respirando
de flor que se abre al viento

no more the sweet metamorphoses of a silk girl
sleepwalker on the edge of fog
her breathing hand awakening like a flower
that blooms in the wind

13.
explicar con palabras de este mundo
que partió de mí un barco llevándome

explain with words from this world
that a boat left my self carrying me away

14.
El poema que no digo,
el que no merezco.
Miedo de ser dos
camino del espejo:
alguien en mí dormido
me come y me bebe

The poem that I do not say,
the one that I do not deserve.
Fear of being two
the way of the mirror:
someone asleep inside me
she eats me and drinks me

15.
Extraño desacostumbrarme
de la hora en que nací.
Extraño no ejercer más
oficio de recién llegada.

I miss getting used to
to the time when I was born.
I miss not having to work anymore
as a new arrival.

16.
has construido tu casa
has emplumado tus pájaros
has golpeado al viento
con tus propios huesos
has terminado sola
lo que nadie comenzó

you have built your house
you have feathered your birds
you’ve hit the wind
with your own bones
alone you finished
what no one began

17.
Días en que una palabra lejana se apodera de mí. Voy por esos días sonámbula y transparente. La hermosa autómata se canta, se encanta, se cuenta casos y cosas: nido de hilos rígidos donde me danzo y me lloro en mis numerosos funerales. (Ella es su espejo incendiado, su espera en hogueras frías, su elemento místico, su fornicación de nombres creciendo solos en la noche pálida.)

Days when a distant word seizes me. I pass through those days sleepwalking and transparent. The beautiful automaton sings to herself, it is loved, tells herself things and stories: a nest of rigid threads where I dance and cry in my numerous funerals. (She is her own burning mirror, she wait for cold fires, her mystical element, she fucks with the names that grow alone in the pale night.)

18.
como un poema enterado
del silencio de las cosas
hablas para no verme

like a poem aware of
the silence of things
you talk so as not to see me

19.
cuando vea los ojos
que tengo en los míos tatuados

when you see the eyes
I’ve tattooed on mine

20.
dice que no sabe del miedo de la muerte del amor
dice que tiene miedo de la muerte del amor
dice que el amor es muerte es miedo
dice que la muerte es miedo es amor
dice que no sabe

she says she doesn’t know about fear of death of love
says she is afraid of death of love
says that love is death is fear
says that death is fear is love
she says that she does not know

21.
he nacido tanto
y doblemente sufrido
en la memoria de aquí y allá

I’ve been born so often
and doubly suffering
in the memory of here and there

22.
en la noche
un espejo para la pequeña muerta
un espejo de cenizas

at night
a mirror for the little dead girl
a mirror of ashes

23.
una mirada desde la alcantarilla
puede ser la visión del mundo
la rebelión consiste en mirar una rosa
hasta pulverizarse los ojos

a view from the gutter
a vision of the world
resistance consists of looking at a rose
until your eyes become dust

24.
(un dibujo de Wols)
estos hilos aprisionan a las sombras
y las obligan a rendir cuentas del silencio
estos hilos unen la mirada al sollozo

(a drawing by Wols)
these threads imprison the shadows
and force them to account for silence
these threads unite your gaze with their sob

25.
(exposición Goya)
un agujero en la noche
súbitamente invadido por un ángel

(Goya exhibition)
a hole in the night
suddenly invaded by an angel

26.
(un dibujo de Klee)
cuando el palacio de la noche
encienda su hermosura
pulsaremos los espejos
hasta que nuestros rostros canten como ídolos

(a drawing by Klee)
when the night palace
blazes with beauty
we’ll bring together the mirrors
until our faces sing like idols

27.
un golpe del alba en las flores
me abandona ebria de nada y de luz lila
ebria de inmovilidad y de certeza

dawn ricocheting off flowers
leaving me drunk on nothing and on violet
drunk with languor and certainty

28.
te alejas de los nombres
que hilan el silencio de las cosas

you flee from the names
that spin the silence of things

29
Aquí vivimos con una mano en la garganta. Que nada es posible ya lo sabían los que inventaban lluvias y tejían palabras con el tormento de la ausencia. Por eso en sus plegarias había un sonido de manos enamoradas de la niebla.

Here we live with a hand to our throat. That nothing is possible the inventors of rain knew this and wove their words into the torment of absence. This is why in her prayers sound like hands in love with the fog.

30
en el invierno fabuloso
la endecha de las alas en la lluvia
en la memoria del agua dedos de niebla

in the fabulous winter
the lament of the wings in the rain
in the memory of water in fingers of fog

31
Es un cerrar de ojos y jurar no abrirlos. En tanto afuera se alimenten de relojes y de flores nacidas de la astucia. Pero con los ojos cerrados de un sufrimiento en verdad demasiado grande pulsamos los espejos hasta que las palabras olvidadas suenan mágicamente.

It means close your eyes and swear not to open them as strangers outside feed on the watches and flowers born from your cunning. But with the closed eyes, with vast suffering, we must tempt the mirrors until all their forgotten words sound magical.

32
Zona de plagas donde la dormida come
lentamente
su corazón de medianoche.

Plague zone where a sleeping woman
slowly eats
her midnight heart.

33
alguna vez
alguna vez tal vez
me iré sin quedarme
me iré como quien se va

one day
someday maybe
I will go without staying
I’ll go like one who’s leaving

34
la pequeña viajera
moría explicando su muerte
sabios animales nostálgicos
visitaban su cuerpo caliente

the little traveler
died explaining her death
while wise nostalgic animals
visited her body, still warm

35
Vida, mi vida, déjate caer, déjate doler, mi vida, déjate enlazar de fuego, de silencio ingenuo, de piedras verdes en la casa de la noche, déjate caer y doler, mi vida.

Life, my life, let yourself fall, let yourself hurt, my life, let yourself bond with fire, with naive silence, with green stones in the house of the night, let yourself fall and hurt, my life.

36
en la jaula del tiempo
la dormida mira sus ojos solos
el viento le trae
la tenue respuesta de las hojas

in the time cage
the sleeping woman looks at her lonely eyes
the wind brings
the leave’s distant answer

37
más allá de cualquier zona prohibida
hay un es pejo para nuestra triste transparencia

beyond every forbidden area
lies a mirror for our sad transparency

38
Este canto arrepentido, vigía detrás de mis poemas:
este canto me desmiente, me amordaza.

This repentant song, peering out from behind my poems:
this song negates me, it silences me.

][][

NOTES:
22.
I know Pizarnik is talking about a little dead girl, but I can’t help wondering if, “la pequeña muerta,” is also similar to the French, “la petite morte,” the little death, the orgasm. I like to think that Pizarnik would be happy with either translation.

inferno

25 Friday Jan 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic poetry, holy like sin, impaled, Inferno, lilith now and forever, poem, rage fuck, rehab, sonnet, va ao inferno

I note how in rehab you sound drunken
with awe while going on about how sex

was fun back in Nineteen-seventy One.
Fun ain’t a word I use. “Savage.” “Complex.”

“Impaled.” Break me double until you feel
my heart beat under my ribs. Connected,

with cock, with fingers, with mouth, with that squeal
squirting, flesh tethered flesh. “Rage fuck.” “Blood

brutal.” “Holy like sin.” Still, you fear hell
so you got some quick faith, some religion —

that’s not my fate. Sex is the Inferno;
Lilith, the guide. Perhaps, in some motel,

somewhere, sex is fun. I don’t know. Your fun
has brought me only pain, ruin, sorrow.

perked

24 Thursday Jan 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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blow job, born dead, erotic poetry, fellatio, lilith now and forever, nipples perked, poem, raw like mescal, sonnet

I taste of mud, pert meat, the moon’s eclipse;
being born still and cold until Lilith

breathed life into me, wrote the word, “Emeth,”
on a stone and placed it between my lips.

I still shimmer as I pass through heated air,
though my lisp anchors me here. One day soon

you’ll kiss me and taste the wasteland’s dark moon
while on your knees, while tonguing my curled hair.

Lockjaw and spittle. “Lilith’s Pet,” you said,
staring as your nipples perked. Like footprints

trampled in red mud, in blood, my kiss shall
leave its mark, tell you that I was born dead

in dearth and plague. I want to see you wince
taking me in, like sin’s gin, raw’s mescal.

][][

NOTE:
According to Jewish folklore, Judah Loew ben Bezalel (a 16th-century rabbi of Prague) created the automatonic Golem by shaping it from river mud and writing the word, “Emeth,” meaning truth, on its forehead.

high tea

23 Wednesday Jan 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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boogity brown, cold n' clammy, drippy, gooey, green smile, high tea, oozy, poem, Poetry, roaring girl, skunk heat rapture, sonnet, tomboy

The Green Slime bucket read: gooey, drippy,
oozy, cold n’ clammy
. It’s where you hid

all your Boogity Brown. Your mom forbid
you from seeing me, but after high tea,

after kisses, after school we’d sneak down
to the playground to loiter and giggle.

Adults, with their divorce and post-coital
despair, were odd things. I could hear you frown

over the phone after one more lecture
over what good girls don’t do. Cicadas

were just stirring in the bent magnolias.
You stirred, too; back in our skunk heat rapture.

Back when I was your strange, little squeeze toy
and you were my roaring girl, my tomboy.

written at 3:22 in the morning while flying through winter storm harper (somewhere over the midwest)

22 Tuesday Jan 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

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cocaine, Edna St. Vincent Millay, find your magic, Mile High Club, poem, Poetry, sky rift, sonnet, vodka, winter storm harper

Of course it’s magic: when the airplane leaves
the laws of gravity, that slight shifting

in my awareness. The sky opens, heaves
us up into it. Just then everything

flows, a tingling in my teeth and toes —-
vodka, cocaine, even the Mile High Club;

it all might happen. Like magic that shows
us how to escape. Millay’s candle stub

sputtered, burned out at both ends. My passion
seems a small thing up here, too. The sky rifts

around us. It’s not the will, it’s the means;
miles high in a box indifferent to sin,

to lewd moods, to all of desire’s gifts.
This realm of celibate gods, sexless fiends.

boisterous flesh

17 Thursday Jan 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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boisterous flesh, erotic poetry, Humboldt County, I love your flesh, poem, savagely muddy, sonnet, squall gorged clouds, wild needs

Jaded, moi? All this still shocks, awe still shrouds
my bones. I have traipsed while on acid trips,

stood at the edge of fens with squall-gorged clouds
rolling in and thought of you naked, hips

deep in mire. Landscapes should all have a nude
you in them. —Savagely muddy. —Vicious

with wild needs, wild need. What unabashed mood
prompts us to bare witness? Our boisterous

flesh loves the earth and sea. I love your flesh.
Greens of hills, browns of marsh, gray bog swirled;

I still adore this despite my lewd thoughts,
always lewd thoughts. Love, these storm-fresh

skies still bring joy, though I’m far from my world
of Crones and Amazons, Queens and Sexpots.

suckerish

13 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Tags

Armenia, Armenian translation, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, Gyumri, moist split mound, poem, sonnet, suckerish, t’avshya vosku hank’

You filled my mouth with copper, blood and brine.
Under your skirt, tongue in your moist split mound,

“t’avshya vosku hank’” — your velvet goldmine.
We’d been dancing, a waltz-grind. You had frowned

when the kissing stopped. Romance requires
restraint. Rise and fall of hips, amazing

pangs no nun ever warned about, desires
obscene. I didn’t notice how sopping

you had become until your thighs rested
on my neck. Gyumri is full of despised

daughters. I too am cast-off, suckerish
for the shamed. In with copper, brine and blood

I taste your mother-lode. Pleasure surprised
you. Your giggle was more than I could wish.

NOTE:
Gyumri is a city in northwestern Armenia where I lived for two years as a Peace Corps volunteer. Despite some progress in recent years women are still viewed as second-class citizens by many in that country. “T’avshya vosku hank’” (թավշյա ոսկու հանք) is the Armenian equivalent of “velvet goldmine,” Victorian slang for cunt.

dickory

13 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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all-flesh, coddy moddy, erotic poetry, fanny nosh, poem, sonnet, sublime kiss

Coddy-moddy, fanny-nosh. The priest swore
it sin. Dickory-dock is prayer, I swear.

“I’ve done this,” you said. “I was ate before
I was seven.”
You pouted: “No — not there.

Yes, like that.” I undid, unclasped, unbound.
I let fall until you stood stark in front

of the window. There are bodies hell-bound
in the dark that crave to be seen. Cock, cunt

and all-flesh in extreme. Who was the first
to want you? worship rough in your altar?

leave you sloppy? For years I was thirsty,
but then you found me and settled my thirst

— now I savor returning this favor,
this prayer, this sublime kiss that sets us free.

mustachio

11 Friday Jan 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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cunnilingus, Eel River, erotic poetry, Humboldt County, I'm a bad friend, mustachio, poem, sonnet

Just now we shall have bit of snug bit
of sniff: get my nose in it, in you. Breast

bondage, tit torture: with wax, teeth and spit,
with cords holding you still. I am a guest

here. Ill and lewd we walked the spit of land
between the Eel River and ocean. Gulls

and sea lions basked. Beyond the low farmland:
redwoods. Once, buried up to my knuckles

in you, we hid near tide pools, the billow’s
roar, your hiss, your husband dozed, his bong cashed.

Under your shirt: last night I marked my greed
and need. Just now I lap your lips, your toes

curl, sand caked. I’m a bad friend, all mustached
in your pubes. We both count on that, indeed.

pique

08 Tuesday Jan 2019

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on pique

Tags

chickboy, coup d'état, fallen angel, geezerbird, Inferno, pique, poem, Poetry, queer fire, sonnet

Visions of an inferno. Queer fire dwells
out there. Fire of the fallen is still fire

that loves you; down to your genes, to your cells.
I do not question what I call desire.

It’s the twist of vulgar gender that piques
me. The drive of geezerbirds and chickboys.

All that bright rich sky in a storm that shrieks
leaden control. Rebel angels knew joys

that their coup d’état brought. To rise. To romp
in flesh that we’re given. To love secrets

that fill the soul, fill up an inferno.
Let’s be messy children who love to stomp,

sing and burn; let’s be the flame that poets
dream of. This fire: make it love, not sorrow.

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