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| Fotografía de Melodie McDaniel |
HABLA UNA MUJER
Marcada de la luna y tocada del sol
mi magia no está escrita
pero cuando el mar retroceda
dejaré atrás mi forma.
No busco favores
intocada por la sangre
implacable como la maldición del amor
permanente como mis errores
de orgullo.
No mezclo
amor con compasión
ni odio con desprecio
y si quieres conocerme
asómate a las entrañas de Urano
donde golpea sin sosiego el mar.
Yo no habito
dentro de mi nacimiento o mis divinidades
no tengo edad y todavía a medio crecer
sigo buscando a
mis hermanas
brujas en Dahomey
que me lucen dentro de sus ropajes recogidos en nudos
tal como llevaba el luto
nuestra madre.
Llevo mucho tiempo
siendo una mujer
más vale que te cuides de mi sonrisa
soy traicionera con magia antigua
y la nueva furia del mediodía
con todos tus holgados futuros
prometidos
Soy
mujer
y no soy blanca.
A WOMAN SPEAKS
Moon marked and touched by sun
my magic is unwritten
but when the sea turns back
it will leave my shape behind.
I seek no favor
untouched by blood
unrelenting as the curse of love
permanent as my errors
or my pride
I do not mix
love with pity
nor hate with scorn
and if you would know me
look into the entrails of Uranus
where the restless oceans pound.
I do not dwell
within my birth nor my divinities
who am ageless and half-grown
and still seeking
my sisters
witches in Dahomey
wear me inside their coiled cloths
as our mother did
mourning.
I have been woman
for a long time
beware my smile
I am treacherous with old magic
and the noon’s new fury
with all your wide futures
promised
I am
woman
and not white.
(de The Black Unicorn, 1978
W. W. Norton&Company, 1997/2000)
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| s/d del/la autor/a de la fotografía |
Solía ser que cuando entraba en cualquier estancia
mis ojos buscaban las una o dos caras negras
para tener un punto de contacto, garantía o señal
de que no estaba sola
Ahora cuando penetro en cuartos repletos de caras negras
que me destruirían por cualquier diferencia
¿dónde mirarán mis ojos?
Solía ser fácil saber
quiénes eran mi gente.
Si nos despojaban de toda pretensión
a nuestra fuerza
y nos rebanaban la carne
el sol decoloraba todos nuestros huesos
a blanco
así como el rostro de mi madre negra
fue blanqueado por el oro
o por Orishala (1)
¿y la forma como esto sucedió
no dará mi talla?
Yo no creo
que nuestras carencias hayan hecho todas nuestras mentiras
sagradas.
Bajo el sol a orillas de Elimina (2)
un hombre negro vendió a la mujer que cargaba
a mi abuela en su vientre
Le pagaron con monedas doradas relucientes
que fulgían bajo el sol poniente
y en los rostros de sus hijos e hijas.
cuando veo a ese hermano detrás de mis ojos
sus iris no tienen ni sangre ni color
su lengua chasquea como monedas amarillas
arrojadas hasta esta orilla
donde compartimos el mismo rincón
de un cielo extranjero y corrompido
Y cuando intento tragarme
las palabras
de la negritud fácil como una salvación
me saben al color
de la primera traición de mi abuela.
Yo no creo
que nuestras carencias
hayan hecho nuestras mentiras
sagradas.
Pero yo no silbo su nombre ante el altar de Shopana
no descargo sobre él los jugos rosados de la muerte
ni olvido que a Orishala
lo llaman el dios de la blancura
que labora sobre los vientres oscuros de la noche
creando las formas que toda la gente usamos
para que hasta las personas inválidas y enanas y albinas
sean adoradoras sagradas
cuando el maíz hervido sea ofrendado.
La humildad yace
en el rostro de la historia
Me he perdonado
en nombre de él
por la carne blanca
que todos consumimos en secreto
antes de haber nacido
compartimos el mismo alimento
cuando me empalas
sobre tus lanzas de angosta negrura
antes de que escuches hablar a mi corazón
llora sobre tu sangre prestada
sobre tus propias visiones prestadas.
No confundas mi sangre con el enemigo
no escribas en el polvo mi nombre
delante del altar del dios de la viruela
porque todos somos vástagos de Eshu
dios del azar y de lo impredecible
y cada una de nosotras lleva muchas mudas
dentro de sus pieles.
Con cicatrices como armaduras
sanadas
en muchos colores diversos
contemplo mis propios rostros
como la hija de Eshu llorando
si no dejamos de matar
al otro en nuestro propio ser
ese ser que odiamos
en los demás
pronto yaceremos todos
en la misma dirección
y los sacerdotes de Eshidale estarán desbordados
porque ellos son los únicos que pueden enterrar
a todos quienes persiguen su propia muerte
saltando desde la tierra
para aterrizar sobre sus cabezas.
1. Orishala: otro nombre para Obatala, Yoruba dios de la creación.
Los adoradores de Obatala deben usar ropa blanca y comer alimentos blancos.
2. Elimina: población portuaria al sur de Ghana, fundada por comerciantes portugueses.
BETWEEN OURSELVES
Once when I walked into a room
Once when I walked into a room
my eyes would seek out the one or two black faces
for contact or reassurance or a sign
I was not alone
now walking into rooms full of black faces
that would destroy me for any difference
where shall my eyes look?
Once it was easy to know
who were my people.
If we were stripped of all pretense
to our strength
and our flesh was cut away
the sun would bleach all our bones
as white
as the face of my black mother
was bleached white by gold
or Orishala
and how
does not measure me?
I do not believe
our wants have made all our lies
holy.
Under the sun on the shores of Elimina
a black man sold the woman who carried
my grandmother in her belly
he was paid with bright yellow coins
that shone in the evening sun
and in the faces of her sons and daughters.
When I see that brother behind my eyes
his irises are bloodless and without colour
his tongue clicks like yellow coins
tossed up on this shore
where we share the same corner
of an alien and corrupted heaven
and whenever I try to eat
the words
of easy blackness as salvation
I taste the colour
of my grandmother’s first betrayal.
I do not believe
our wants
have made our lies
holy.
But I do not whistle his name at the shrine of Shopana
I do not bring down the rosy juices of death upon him
nor forget Orishala
is called the god of whiteness
who works in the dark wombs of night
forming the shapes we all wear
so that even the cripples and dwarfs and albinos
are sacred worshipers
when the boiled corn is offered.
Humility lies
in the face of history
I have forgiven myself
for him
for the white meat
we all consumed in secret
before we were born
we shared the same meal
when you impale me
upon your lances of narrow blackness
before you hear my heart speak
mourn your own borrowed blood
your own borrowed visions.
Do not mistake my flesh for the enemy
do not write my name in the dust
before the shrine of the god of smallpox
for we are all children of Eshu
god of chance and unpredictable
and we each wear many changes
inside our skin.
Armed with scars
healed
in many different colors
I look in my own faces
as Eshu’s daughter crying
if we do not stop killing
the other in ourselves
the self that we hate
in others
soon we shall all lie
in the same direction
and Eshidale’s priests will be very busy
they who alone can bury
all those who seek their own death
by jumping up from the ground
and landing upon their heads.
for contact or reassurance or a sign
I was not alone
now walking into rooms full of black faces
that would destroy me for any difference
where shall my eyes look?
Once it was easy to know
who were my people.
If we were stripped of all pretense
to our strength
and our flesh was cut away
the sun would bleach all our bones
as white
as the face of my black mother
was bleached white by gold
or Orishala
and how
does not measure me?
I do not believe
our wants have made all our lies
holy.
Under the sun on the shores of Elimina
a black man sold the woman who carried
my grandmother in her belly
he was paid with bright yellow coins
that shone in the evening sun
and in the faces of her sons and daughters.
When I see that brother behind my eyes
his irises are bloodless and without colour
his tongue clicks like yellow coins
tossed up on this shore
where we share the same corner
of an alien and corrupted heaven
and whenever I try to eat
the words
of easy blackness as salvation
I taste the colour
of my grandmother’s first betrayal.
I do not believe
our wants
have made our lies
holy.
But I do not whistle his name at the shrine of Shopana
I do not bring down the rosy juices of death upon him
nor forget Orishala
is called the god of whiteness
who works in the dark wombs of night
forming the shapes we all wear
so that even the cripples and dwarfs and albinos
are sacred worshipers
when the boiled corn is offered.
Humility lies
in the face of history
I have forgiven myself
for him
for the white meat
we all consumed in secret
before we were born
we shared the same meal
when you impale me
upon your lances of narrow blackness
before you hear my heart speak
mourn your own borrowed blood
your own borrowed visions.
Do not mistake my flesh for the enemy
do not write my name in the dust
before the shrine of the god of smallpox
for we are all children of Eshu
god of chance and unpredictable
and we each wear many changes
inside our skin.
Armed with scars
healed
in many different colors
I look in my own faces
as Eshu’s daughter crying
if we do not stop killing
the other in ourselves
the self that we hate
in others
soon we shall all lie
in the same direction
and Eshidale’s priests will be very busy
they who alone can bury
all those who seek their own death
by jumping up from the ground
and landing upon their heads.
(de Between Ourselves, 1976
W. W. Norton&Company, 1997/2000)
1. Orishala: another name for Obatala, Yoruba god of creation.
The worshipers of Obatala must wear white clothes and eat white food.
2. Elimina; seaport town in Southern Ghana, founded by Portuguese traders.
(Harlem, NY, EE.UU., 1934-1992)
ESCRITORA/POETA/ACTIVISTA
Versión de la poeta y traductora Anabel Torres
Propuesta de traducción de Emma Gunst
para leer + en LA TRIBU
y MÁS
