Alta, Descarada desvergonzada (+2)

Fotografía de Miles Aldridge

DESCARADA DESVERGONZADA 

soy una de las verdaderas desvergonzadas;

no tengo vergüenza;

fui ama de casa, y

me extendí desde la condición de casa (hus)

y la condición de esposa (wif/hus-wif) hasta

una mujer que no puede soportar ser esposa (hussy) /

crecí más allá de la casa, como Alicia después de comer

demasiadas galletas. exactamente lo que hice; comí

demasiadas galletas; amantes, poesía, mover mi

cuerpo de una manera nueva, una manera antigua, la manera en que las mujeres

como yo siempre nos hemos movido, en gran medida; con grandes

movimientos más allá de nuestra esfera asignada, con más

necesidad que miedo y más gracia que vergüenza.

SHAMELESS HUSSY

i am one of the true hussies;

i have no shame;

i was a housewife, and

stretched from the housiness of it (hus)

and the wifiness of (wif/hus-wif) to

a woman who cant bear wifedom (hussy) / i

grew beyond the house, like alice after eating

too many cookies. exactly what i did; i ate

too many cookies; lovers, poetry, moving my

body in a new way, an old way, the way women

like me have always moved, largely; with great

motions beyond our allotted sphere, with more

need than fear, and more grace than shame.

(de The Shameless Hussy, Selected Stories, Essays and Poetry 

New York: Crossing Press, 1980)

The Shameless Hussy, Selected Stories, Essays and Poetry 

New York: Crossing Press: feminist series, 1980

B O N U S  T R A C K 

EURIDICE

all the male poets write of orpheus

as if they look back & expect

to find me walking patiently

behing them. they claim i fell into hell.

damn them, i say.

i stand in my own pain

& sing my own song.

(en Poems from the Women's Movement)

ANYBODY COULD WRITE THIS POEM. 

ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY IS YES.

i'm happy.

could a poem be a cup

to pour our joy into?

you rubbing my hairy leg

& making me giggle

all our happy teeth

&tasting like love juice

& apples & bananas &

cheese & salami

we could do this over & over

& feel good over & over

the hot joy spilling

puddles on the bed, the rug,

the back yard, the earth

happy with us, needing our joy

& yes we say & we say yes

you whisper yesyesyes yes

yes. & yes.

& you feel good yes

& the hollow in yr shoulder

& i'm hungry for you yes

& yes. yes.

& why quit now whn we could

say yes again why stop now

when we could yes why no when yes

love yes love yes love yes

earth. life. children. love.

yes. & yes to night & yes to

day to wake up & say yes.

the holy affirmation.

to wake up wanting to be alive.

(de No visible means of support, Shameless Hussy Press)

Alta Gerrey 

(Reno, Nevada, 1942 - Oakland, EE.UU., 2024)

POETA/EDITORA DE SHAMELESS HUSSY PRESS

Propuesta de traducción Emma Gunst
en WIKIPEDIA

para leer + en SHE'S BEAUTIFUL WHEN SHE'S ANGRY

May Sarton, Cuando una mujer se sienta sola (+1)

Fotografía de Aino Kannisto

CUANDO UNA MUJER SE SIENTA SOLA 

"Cuando una mujer se sienta sola, cuando la sala

esté llena de demonios", dice la tribu

Nootka, "ahí estará La Anciana".

Ella viene a mí atravesando miles de kilómetros

¿y qué tiene para decirme, a mí, la atribulada

"por los fantasmas de la noche"?

¿De veras está acá?

¿Cuál es la palabra que salva desde tan adentro en el pasado

desde tan adentro como la raíz antigua de la secoya,

desde tan adentro como el lecho primero del océano,

desde tan adentro como un corazón de mujer de nuevo en flor

después de un nacimiento o una muerte difícil?

Aquí, bajo el impacto del amor, me abro

a vos, espíritu Primero, una con la ola y con la piedra,

una con las sobrevivientes de la inundación y del fuego,

que un millón de veces reconstruyeron su casa,

que perdieron a sus hijos y los volvieron a dar a luz.

Las palabras que escucho son fuerza, risa, entereza.

Te encuentro, Anciana, en lo más hondo de mí.

Ahí, en las raíces de la fertilidad,

mundo sin fin, como cuenta la leyenda.

Debajo de las palabras, sos mi silencio.

Traducción de Sandra Toro

WHEN A WOMAN FEELS ALONE

‘When a woman feels alone, when the room

is full of daemons,” the Nootka tribe

Tells us, ‘The Old Woman will be there.”

She has come to me over three thousand miles

And what does she have to tell me, troubled

“by phantoms in the night”?

Is she really here?

What is the saving word from so deep in the past.

From as deep as the ancient root of the redwood,

From as deep as the primal bed of the ocean,

From as deep as a woman’s heart sprung open

Again through a hard birth or a hard death?

Here under the shock of love, I am open

To you, Primal spirit, one with rock and wave,

One with survivors of flood and fire,

Who have rebuilt their homes a million times,

Who have lost their children and borne them again.

The words I hear are strength, laughter, endurance.

Old Woman I meet you deep inside myself.

There in the rootbed of fertility,

World without end, as the legend tells it.

Under the words you are my silence.

en The Poetry of May Sarton Volume One:
Letters from Maine, Inner Landscape

*

Fotografía de Kalle Kataila

MEDITACIÓN BAJO LA LUZ DEL SOL

1

En el espacio, en el tiempo, me siento

a miles de pies sobre el mar

y medito

sobre la soledad, sobre el amor

Cerca, todo es marrón y pobre

las casas están hechas de tierra

el sol abre cada puerta

la ciudad es un hogar

Lejos, todo es azul y extraño

el cielo mira hacia abajo en la nieve

y se encuentra con la cordillera

donde el tiempo es luz, no sombra

El tiempo en el corazón se detiene

el espacio es como el dios del hogar

y la alegría en lugar de la voluntad

conoce el amor como soledad

Conoce la soledad como amor

conoce el tiempo como luz, no sombra

a miles de pies sobre

el mar donde estoy ahora

MEDITATION IN SUNLIGHT

1

In space in time I sit

Thousands of feet above

The sea and meditate

On solitude on love

Near all is brown and poor

Houses are made of earth

Sun opens every door

The city is a hearth

Far all is blue and strange

The sky looks down on snow

And meets the mountain-range

Where time is light not shadow

Time in the heart held still

Space as the household god

And joy instead of will

Knows love as solitude

Knows solitude as love

Knows time as light not shadow

Thousands of feet above

The sea where I am now

Cloud, Stone, Sun, Vine: Poems Selected and New, 
W. W. Norton & Company, 1961

May Sarton -Eleanore Marie Sarton- 

(Wondelgem, Bélgica, 1912 - 
York, Maine, EE. UU., 1995)
Nacionalizada Estadounidense

Lectura recomendada por Maria Popova

para leer + en THE MARGINALIAN

+ en OTRA IGLESIA ES IMPOSIBLE

+ en IN OUT RADIO

y MÁS

Morgan Parker, Si te cansaste de quedarte despierta (+2)

Michelle Kondrich/para The Washington Post

SI TE CANSASTE DE QUEDARTE DESPIERTA

Regá

las plantas. Tomá

mucha agua. 

No escuches

el noticiero. 

Aburrite. Quejate 

del clima. 

Tené un sacacorchos

en tu cartera. 

Deslizá a la derecha

algunas veces. 

No sonrías 

a menos que 

quieras. Quedate a dormir. 

No veas el noticiero. 

Acordate que 

el mundo es como

para personas blancas. 

Escuchá 

cantinelas.

Usá hilo dental. Tomá pastillas. 

Mantené la

mente en blanco. 

Cuando estés

de resaca

no digas

no tomo nunca 

más. Sé honesta

cuando estés a la

altura. Sino

tomá agua

mentite

apagá el noticiero 

quemá los papeles

salteate los funerales

tomá pastillas

reíte de pelotudeces

cogete personas que

no te interesen

usá la olla eléctrica

usá la juguera

usá la licuadora

tomá agua

del cielo

no pienses

mucho en el cielo

no pienses en el agua

salteate los funerales

cerrá los ojos

cuando se pueda

Cuando brindes

mirá a todos a los ojos

Nunca puntúes

al Presidente

Escribí las noticias

Convertite

en agua

Regá

la salida de emergencia

Quemá el papel

Destrozá las cartas

En vez de

jacintos agarrá

hortensias

Regá las hortensias

Dejá marchitar las noticias

Blanqueá las hortensias

Tomá el agua

Inundate de 

cantinelas 

Mantené la mente en canción

No sonrías 

No marchites

funeral

funeral

Traducción de Federico Tinelli

Leído en ESCRITURAS INDIE

IF YOU ARE OVER STAYING WOKE

Water

the plants. Drink

plenty of water.

Don’t hear

the news. Get

bored. Complain

about the weather.

Keep a corkscrew

in your purse.

Swipe right

sometimes.

Don’t smile

unless you want

to. Sleep in.

Don’t see the news.

Remember what

the world is like

for white people.

Listen to

cricket songs.

Floss. Take pills.

Keep an

empty mind.

When you are

hungover

do not say

I’m never drinking

again. Be honest

when you’re up

to it. Otherwise

drink water

lie to yourself

turn off the news

burn the papers

skip the funerals

take pills

laugh at dumb shit

fuck people you

don’t care about

use the crockpot

use the juicer

use the smoothie maker

drink water

from the sky

don’t think

too much about the sky

don’t think about water

skip the funerals

close your eyes

whenever possible

When you toast

look everyone in the eyes

Never punctuate

the President

Write the news

Turn

into water

Water

the fire escape

Burn the paper

Crumble the letters

Instead of

hyacinths pick

hydrangeas

Water the hydrangeas

Wilt the news

White the hydrangeas

Drink the white

Waterfall the

cricket songs

Keep a song mind

Don’t smile

Don’t wilt

funeral

funeral

de PoetryNow (PoetryNow, 2015)

B O N U S  T R A C K (x2)

Beyoncé fotografiada por Tyler Mitchell

para Vogue Estados Unidos 

ALL THEY WANT IS MY MONEY MY PUSSY MY BLOOD

 

I am free with the following conditions.

Give it up gimme gimme.

Okay so I’m Black in America right and I walk into a bar.

I drink a lot of wine and kiss a Black man on his beard.

I do whatever I want because I could die any minute.

I don’t mean YOLO I mean they are hunting me.

I know my pussy is real good because they said so.

I say to my friend I am broke as a joke.

I am Starvin’ Like Marvin Gaye.

I’m so hungry I could get it on.

There’s far too many of me dying.

The present is not so different.

Everybody looks like everybody I worked with.

Everybody looks like everybody I’ve kissed.

Men champion men and animals.

Everybody thinks I’m going to die.

At the museum I tell the school group about Black art.

I tell them the word contemporary.

I have a nose ring I forget about.

I have a brother and he is also Black.

I am a little modern to the fault.

I say this painting is contemporary like you and me.

They ask me about slavery. They say Martin Luther King.

At school they learned that Black people happened.

The present is not so different.

I’m looking into their Black faces.

They do not understand that they exist.

I’m Black in America and I walk

into a bar and drink a lot of wine, kiss a white man on his beard.

There is no indictment.

I could die any minute of depression.

I just want to have sex most of the time.

I just want my student loans to disappear.

I just want to understand my savings account.

What is happening to my five dollar one cent.

I am free with the following conditions.

What is happening to my brother.

What if I do something wrong.

My blood is so hot and wet right now.

I know they want it.

I do everything right just incase.

I don’t want to give away my money but here I am.

It’s so stupid I have to say here I am.

They like to be on top.

I am being set up.

I am a tree and some fits areru good and some are bad.

en There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyoncé, Tin House Books, 2017

*

Every second I breathe, I forgive. 

Morgan Parker

(California, EE.UU., 1987)

Reside en Los Angeles

POETA/NOVELISTA/EDITORA/

LICENCIADA EN ANTROPOLOGÍA Y ESCRITURA CREATIVA

para leer poemas traducidos al portugués 

por Sthepanie Borges

en INSTAGRAM

su WEB

Jane Hirshfield, The Weighing

s/d del autor de la fotografía

THE WEIGHING

The heart's reasons

seen clearly,

even the hardest

will carry

its whip-marks and sadness

and must be forgiven.

As the drought-starved

eland forgives

the drought-starved lion

who finally takes her,

enters willingly then

the life she cannot refuse,

and is lion, is fed,

and does not remember the other.

So few grains of happiness

measured against all the dark

and still the scales balance.

The world asks of us

only the strength we have and we give it.

Then it asks more, and we give it.

de The October Palace, HarperCollins, 1994

Jane Hirshfield 

(Nueva York, EE.UU., 1953)

POETA/TRADUCTORA/ENSAYISTA

de The October Palace, HarperCollins, 1994

en The Beauty: Poems, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 2015

para escucharla recitar el poema en YOUTUBE

para leer + en OTRA IGLESIA ES IMPOSIBLE

+ en LIBRO EMMA GUNST

su FACEBOOK

Lynda Hull, Magical thinking

Fotografía de Miwa Yanagi

MAGICAL THINKING

A woman, after an absence of many years, returns

     to her old neighborhood and finds it a little more

         burned, more abandoned. Through rooftop aerials

the stadium’s still visible where the boys of summer

     spun across the diamond and some nights she’d hear

         strikes and pop flies called through the open windows

of the rooms she shared with a man she thought

     she loved. All that summer, she watched

         across the street the magician’s idiot son

paint over and over the Magic & Costume Shop’s

     intricate portico — all frets and scallops, details

         from another century. The more he painted though

the more his sheer purity of attention seemed

     to judge her own life as frayed somehow and wrong.

         Daily the son worked until the city swerved

toward night’s dizzy carnival with moons

     and swans afloat in neon over the streets.

         One evening she saw the magician’s trick bouquet

flower at the curb while he filled his car.

     He folded the multicolored scarves, then

         caged the fabulous disappearing pigeons.

It is a common human longing to want utterly

     to vanish from one life and arrive transformed

         in another. When the man came home, he’d

touch her shoulders, her neck, but each touch

     discovered only the borders of her solitude.

         As a child in that neighborhood she’d believed

people were hollow and filled with quiet music, that

     if she were hurt deeply enough she would break

         and leave only a blue scroll of notes.

At first when he hit her, her face burned.

     Far off the stadium lights crossed the cool

         green diamond and burnished cobwebs swaying

on the ceiling. Then she became invisible,

     so when the doctor leaned over and asked

         her name all she could think of were her dresses

thrown from the window like peonies exploding

     to bloom in the clear dark air. No music —

         merely a rose haze through her lids, something

ticking in her head like a metronome

     in a parlor, dusty and arid with steam heat.

         How many lives she’d passed through to find

herself, an aging woman in black, before the locked

     and empty shop. So much sleight of hand, the years

         simply dissolving. Again she hears the crowd,

a billow of applause rippling across the brilliant

     diamond, across the mysterious passage

         of time and the failure of sorrow to pass away.

Lynda Hull

(Newark, NJ, 1954 - Plymouth, EE.UU., 1994)

de Collected Poems, Saint Paul: Graywolf Press, 

Graywolf Poetry Re/View Series, 2006

Edición de Mark Doty y David Wojahn

para leer un poema en italiano en LATINA CITTÀ APERTA

en WIKIPEDIA

Mahogany L. Browne, 2 poemas 2

“I was told to dream — dream big,” 
Credit Jasmine Clarke for The New York Times

LITANY

I wish I knew how

It would feel to be free

I wish I could break

All the chains holding me

               —Nina Simone

today i am a black woman in america

& i am singing a melody ridden lullaby

it sounds like:

              the gentrification of a brooklyn stoop

              the rent raised three times my wages

              the bodega and laundromat burned down on the corner

              the people on the corner

                          each lock & key their chromosomes

                          a note of ash & inquiry on their tongues

 

today i am a black woman in a hopeless state

i will apply for financial aid and food stamps

          with the same mouth i spit poems from

i will ask the angels of a creative god to lessen

          the blows

& i will beg for forgiveness when i curse

          the rising sun

today, i am a black woman in a body of coal

i am always burning and no one knows my name

i am a nameless fury, i am a blues scratched from

the throat of ms. nina—i am always angry

i am always a bumble hive of hello

i love like this too loudly, my neighbors

think i am an unforgiving bitter

            sometimes, i think my neighbors are right

            most times i think my neighbors are nosey

today, i am a cold country, a storm

brewing, a heat wave of a woman wearing

red pumps to the funeral of my ex-lover's

today, i am a woman, a brown and black &

brew woman dreaming of freedom

today, i am a mother, & my country is burning

           and i forget how to flee

from such a flamboyant backdraft

                       —i’m too in awe of how beautiful i look

            on fire

Originalmente publicado en Poem-a-Day 25/05/2016, por Academy of American Poets

THIS IS THE HONEY

There is no room on this planet for anything less than a miracle

We gather here today to revel in the rebellion of a silent tongue

Every day, we lean forward into the light of our brightest designs

       & cherish the sun

Praise our hands & throats

       each incantation, a jubilee of a people dreaming wildly

Despite the dirt

beneath our feet

or the wind

pushing against

our greatest efforts

Soil creates things

Art births change

This is the honey

       & doesn’t it taste like a promise?

Where your heart is an accordion

       & our laughter is a soundtrack

Friend, dance to this good song—

look how it holds our names!

Each bone of our flesh-homes sings welcome

O look at the Gods dancing

       as the rain reigns against a steely skyline

Where grandparents sit on the porch & nod at the spectacle

in awe of the perfection of their grandchildren’s faces

Each small discovery unearthed in its own outpour

Tomorrow our daughters will travel the world with each poem

       & our sons will design cities against the backdrops of living museums

       Yes! Our children will spin chalk until each equation bursts a familial tree

Rooted in miraculous possibilities

& alive

Mahogany L. Browne  

(California, EE.UU., 1976)

POETA/CURADORA/COORDINADORA DE PROGRAMAS/

PERIODISTA/MÚSICA

en INSTAGRAM

en FACEBOOK

en WIKIPEDIA

en TWITTER

su WEB

Bessie Anderson Stanley, Éxito

Obra de Amanda Sandlin

SUCCESS

He has achieved success

who has lived well,

laughed often, and loved much;

who has enjoyed the trust of

pure women,

the respect of intelligent men and

the love of little children;

who has filled his niche and accomplished his task;

who has left the world better than he found it

whether by an improved poppy,

a perfect poem or a rescued soul;

who has never lacked appreciation of Earth's beauty

or failed to express it;

who has always looked for the best in others and

given them the best he had;

whose life was an inspiration;

whose memory a benediction.

1904

The poem was in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations in the 1930s or 1940s but was mysteriously removed in the 1960s. 

It was again included in the seventeenth edition. However, it does appear in a 1911 book, More Heart Throbs, volume 2, on pages 1–2

Ha avuto successo 

colui che ha vissuto bene, 

ha riso spesso e amato molto; 

chi si è guadagnato il rispetto di persone intelligenti 

e l'amore dei bambini piccoli; 

chi ha trovato il suo posto e ha portato a termine il suo compito; 

chi ha lasciato il mondo meglio di come l'ha trovato, 

grazie a un papavero coltivato, 

a una poesia perfetta o a un'anima salvata; 

chi ha saputo apprezzare la bellezza della Terra 

e non ha mai mancato occasione di esprimerla; 

chi ha cercato sempre il meglio negli altri 

e ha dato loro il meglio di sé; 

colui la cui vita è stata una fonte di ispirazione, 

il cui ricordo è una benedizione.

Elisabeth-Anne“Bessie”Anderson Stanley

-Caroline Elizabeth Anderson-

(EE.UU., 1879 – 1952)

MAESTRA DE ESCUELA/POETA

para leer + sobre el poema en ROBINSWEB

+ en SUCCESS CHAINS

en WIKIPEDIA