La poesía lésbica mexicana: dos voces pioneras / Mexican lesbian poetry: voices of two pioneers
Posted: July 9, 2012 Filed under: English, Nancy Cárdenas, Rosamaría Roffiel, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Poesía lésbica mexicana Comments Off on La poesía lésbica mexicana: dos voces pioneras / Mexican lesbian poetry: voices of two pioneersNancy Cárdenas (Coahuila, 1934-1994)
*
Si habitamos en el Distrito Federal,
las pueblerinas románticas tenemos que
resignarnos:
la vida no transcurre junto a un estanque,
sino a un costado del Periférico.
Allí, Muñeca del Asfalto
– bajo la lluvia –
decidiste que esa noche dormirías conmigo.
*
If we dwell in México City,
we romantic ‘country bumpkins’ must
resign ourselves to:
Our Life not taking place next to a pond,
but on the side of The Periférico Highway.
There, Dolly of the Asphalt,
– beneath the rain –
you decided that that night you would sleep with me.
_ _ _ _ _
Entre tantas Liberacionistas que conozco,
sólo tú – de apariencia tan frágil –
has querido llevar a la cama
esos principios básicos de la teoría.
*
Among so many of the Liberationists I know,
only you – who appear so fragile –
have wanted to bring to bed
those basic principles of theory.
_ _ _ _ _
Soy peligrosa,
es cierto: siempre busco vengarme
de los dueños del capital, los burócratas,
los curas… y las mujeres que abusaron de mi cariño.
*
I’m dangerous,
that’s for certain: I’m always looking to avenge myself
on the owners of big money, the bureaucrats,
the priests… and the women who took advantage of my affection.
_ _ _ _ _
Dejemos
que el amor declare su santo nombre
en cada uno de nuestros tejidos, estratos emocionales
y apetencias más escondidas
antes de comprometernos por las dos leyes:
la tuya y la mía.
*
Let us allow
Love to declare its holy name
in the very fibre of us, in our emotional strata,
and in our most hidden appetites
before we commit ourselves to those two laws:
yours – and mine.
Rosamaría Roffiel (Veracruz, nace 1945)
La Suave Danza
Nos besamos
por el puro
absoluto
placer de besarnos
listones de lenguas
dientes como peces alados
festín de salivas
giros
valses
pájaros
*
tu boca ranura
cereza
grosella
mi lengua gaviota
cometa
sirena
se encuentran
se tocan
se enredan
*
marineras de un viaje
sin ida ni vuelta
*
tu boca es el mar
mi lengua – un barco de vela.
*
The Smooth Dance
We kiss each other
for the pure
absolute
pleasure of kissing each other
ribbons of tongues
teeth like winged fish
a feast of salivas,
revolvings
waltzes
birds
*
your mouth-slot
cherry
red currant
my seagull tongue
kite
they meet
they touch
they become entangled
*
sailors on a voyage
with no departure, no return
*
your mouth is the sea
my tongue – a sailboat.
_ _ _ _ _
Sin título
Hasta mi noche llegas
y te recuerdo fiera
celosa en mi caverna
y te recuerdo sirena
nadando entre mis pechos
y te recuerdo tierna
como paloma, tierna
y te recuerdo fuego
encendida de deseo
y te recuerdo plena,
antes del miedo.
*
Untitled
You arrive…to my night…
and I recall you, a wild animal,
protective, zealous, in my cave
and I recall you as a mermaid
swimming between my breasts
and I recall you tender
like a dove, tender,
and I recall you as a fire
lit by desire
and I recall you as fullness – complete –
without fear.
_____
Translations from Spanish into English / Traducciones del español al inglés: Alexander Best
La poesía gay mexicana: una muestra de Monterrey
Posted: July 9, 2012 Filed under: Alejandro del Bosque, Antonio García, Jorge Cantu de la Garza, Spanish, Xorge M. González, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Poesía gay mexicana Comments Off on La poesía gay mexicana: una muestra de Monterrey 
Jorge Cantu de la Garza (1937-1998)
Antes de partir
De amor, amor, nunca he escrito un poema.
He de hacerlo ahora pues me dicen que la muerte se aproxima
y sé que Amor amorosamente me ha tocado
como la aurora, con uno de sus rosados dedos.
*
No es sólo del joven que, apenas salido de la adolescencia
comparte hoy sus días con quien esto escribe
de quien escribiré. Si hablo en singular
es porque todo el amor es uno
y de ello pongo a cualquier hombre por testigo.
*
Fui al pozo del limo con mi cántaro vacío
infinitas veces, como amanece.
Y siempre fue, como la primera vez,
la inauguración del Universo
con sus arreboles y huracanes
llenos de siempres, nuncas, vida mía.
Y luego había que partir, dolorosamente.
Recuerdo tantas despedidas.
*
Ven, amado, y contempla el ejército
de ángeles que te precede,
ven y mira cómo sobrevivieron
aunque ellos, igual que tú, que yo,
pensaron que el fin de nuestro amor
era el fin del mundo.
Toma ejemplo, amado, para que vivas
cuando yo te falte.
*
Cánceres, escorpiones, acuarios, sagitarios
nadando en la pecera de mis sueños,
como el joven obrero aquel, en Guayaquil,
que una noche me llevó a su cuarto de madera
donde bajo una débil bombilla, sobre la duela,
había una sábana por cama
y en la pared un clavo por guardarropa de su atuendo.
Qué limpia su pobreza, qué amorosa su hospitalidad,
tanto, que me avergoncé del hotel de lujo
a donde aquella noche yo regresaría cargado
de sucres que no necesitaba y que le di
– para que te compres una camisa que te recuerde al mexicano –
le dije para vencer su resistencia al pago que tranquilizara
mi conciencia por su pobreza inmerecida y mi opulencia,
también inmerecida.
*
O como aquel japonesito brasileño que una noche
de cachaza en Belo Horizonte me acompañara al hotel
y más tarde, por la mañana,
al aeropuerto, donde nos despedimos
como amantes de mucho más que unas cuantas horas, como amantes
verdaderos que se despiden llenos de promesas,
para siempre.
*
Géminis, virgos, aries, libras
de Los Angeles, de México, Caracas, Bogotá,
Lima, Río, Buenos Aires, Madrid, Sevilla o Monterrey,
apurados en la certeza que da la partida inminente,
la seducción irresistible de lo efímero,
la libertad irrenunciable del anonimato.
*
La barbarie en que creciste, amado,
no podré borrarla jamás de tu memoria;
los saltos de tu madre y sus golpes en el vientre
para que no nacieras me duelen más que a ti.
Después de nacido, te dicen, fuiste el mejor,
el bienamado. Y sin embargo,
quién sino yo con mis manos torpes
podría tranquilizar tus noches inquietas,
tus pesadillas de horror.
*
En cierto modo, nuestras infancias se parecen,
sólo que de la mía me separa un medio siglo
y he aprendido a olvidar – o casi.
*
Cómo te amo.
*
Sé que también tuviste por años un amor prohibido,
que no sabías que era amor ni que era prohibido.
Cómo te envidio.
Yo nunca tuve un hermano así.
_____
Xorge M. González (1952-1997)
Ritmo
Fueron los meses de beber Villaurrutia
con las voces del poder de los relojes
Tus iconos lamían la noche
la luna
del espejo ágil se alejaba
Aprendí la distancia
los bosques
la selva aún miedosa
dibujó un cuerpo
Dijo adiós
aquel 6 de diciembre de álamos.
_____
Estos cantos
desenvueltos entre estrellas
declinando días
por los montes que no dicen
y desgarran la mirada
esas nubes de letras
esos bosques antiguos
te dibujan
*
Pudiendo precisar la luna
en una cama sola
veo esas inmensidades
silenciosas ahora
Canto
otros ojos
otras manos
– éstas que juegan con el aliento
de los gestos
*
Entre una naranja y risas
– tan viejos como el amor –
las calles de la ciudad
por donde siempre he andado.
_____
Caminata
Me pusiste en la calle soledad
fui tus pasos y tu historia
fui los encuentros con las verdades de todo precio
Me pusiste en la calle soledad
y me encontré con mis hermanos.
_____
Aún se podrían guardar otras cosas
entre esas papeletas que algun vez dijeron
las cuerdas de tu guitarra
los platos cansados
los regalos de cumpleaños
que pasamos narrando soledades
poemas sin esperanza de ser leídos
La habitual plática de tus presentaciones
y otras noches no olvidadas
*
La traición de la rentera
– y de la piadosa amiga –
nos had pedido nuestra intimidad sola
de algunos miles de pesos
para dejarnos
– sin saberlo –
más juntos.
_____
Amargos pasos gritan la noche;
bailan en el abierto estómago,
llave del dolor
de la espera del amanecer
de besos y frutas y ojos;
beben los faunos.
*
Me desnudaron no sé ni día ni hora
bajé
con la misma soledad de Isthar
a beber los presagios de divinidades
telúricas.
*
No sé ni día ni hora
en mares de luz
aparecieron los rostros míos.
_____
Antonio García (nace 1956)
Des
nudo
estoy
en
el
umbral; ven,
tu cuerpo ansioso
de la ternura
y frenesí, de
la locura de
mis manos,
a tientas,
a ciegas te
traerá por el
camino sin reclamos.
“Ven”. Sólo otra vez,
yo te digo:
“Ven.
Aquí
espero.”
Lo sé
– y házle
como quieras
– vendrás
tu cuerpo a
compartir conmigo.
_____
Estatua en paraiso
Y los esperamos
se confundieron en el mismo instante
Luego vino Luego queso
Vino el beso
Vino el yeso y quedó tieso
descansando en la llanura amplia
de su vientre amado, de su vientre dueño
Petrificado
Esbozando una sonrisa quieta
desde el sueño-vuelo de su pedestal eterno
Esbozando una sonrisa quieta desde su alma
que pasaba aquel invierno.
_____
Cucaracha’s Inn
Cucaracha en
pared muerta envuelta
pobre
de mí y de ella no
hubo comida
está suspendida es pera
espera
su tiempo es pera
el tiempo es perra
y espera
tocar el cielo
y nuestros huesos.
Alejandro del Bosque (nace 1965)
Los nopales
Desde su asiento
él observa la noche capada de estrellas,
copada de ambos.
A su lado yo dormito.
El sigue mirando sin saberse mirado.
La otra vez viajé solo.
El sol se desmayó en la carretera
durante varias horas,
y en el interior del autobús había frío.
El pequeño televisor, casi echado en mí,
proyectaba una película fastidiosa.
Afuera, algunos nopales parecían viejos discutiendo
con los brazos extendidos,
en la espera de asestar un golpe débil;
otros simulaban saludarse entre sí,
como preservando las buenas maneras.
El trayecto será largo.
El busca otra posición
Para estar menos incómodo.
_____
El Volante
Eluno espera a que llegue Elotro.
Elotro sabe que Eluno lo espera.
Eluno fuma los cigarros de Elotro.
Elotro los busca en la bolsa de su camisa.
Eluno mira hacia el camellón.
Elotro maldice a quien se pasó un rojo.
Eluno sonríe a quien le sonríe y cruza la calle.
Elotro recuerda que hay poca carne en el refri.
Eluno conversa animoso moviendo los hombros.
Elotro piensa en las ofertas del martes.
Eluno recibe una tarjeta y promote comunicarse.
Elotro marca y nadie contesta.
Eluno identifica la llamada y apaga el celular.
Elotro arroja el aparato al asiento trasero.
Eluno entra a una fonda y ordena comida corrida.
Elotro detiene su auto y recarga la cabeza en el volante.
_____
La peluca
A cierta hora del día
el metro es un reclusorio de hombres y mujeres separados,
pero Elella se escabulle
y viaja en el vagón de los varones.
Todos los obreros para mí nomás,
– va pensando Elella –
que lo quiere todo, no más, no menos.
La recibe un silbido de mira qué forro de vieja.
Ella se deja hacer.
Le pellizcan las nalgas.
Le aprietan las tetas.
Le muerden los labios.
Le embarran sudores.
Ellos se dejan hacer,
pero Elella necesita cambiar de estación.
Elella se va con un silbido de vuelve pronto mamacita,
acomodándose la rubia peluca,
ciñéndose la morada vida que se le va cayendo.
_____
El amado
Hombre mío
que estás tan lejos,
amado sea tu recuerdo,
ignorado sea tu desprecio;
olvida a quien me besa
como yo también olvido a quien te toca;
no me dejes,
que el dejarnos aún hiere,
y libérame de todo yo.
Alejandro del Bosque (born 1965)
The prickly-pear cactuses
From his seat
He observes the night caped by stars
By his side I snooze.
He continues gazing out not knowing that he’s being looked at
That other time I travelled solo.
The sun faded upon the highway
Over several hours,
And inside the bus it was cold.
The little TV, almost falling on me,
showing an annoying film.
Outside, some prickly-pear cactuses seemed like old people arguing
With arms extended,
In the hope of striking a feeble blow;
Others were pretending to greet one another,
As if maintaining the tradition of good manners.
The journey will be a long one.
He shifts his position
So he’s less uncomfortable.
*
The steering wheel
The One hopes that the Other arrives.
The Other knows that the One is waiting for him.
The One smokes the cigars of the Other.
The Other searches for them in the pocket of his shirt.
The One looks toward the traffic island.
The Other curses the guy who ran the red light.
The One smiles at someone who smiles back at him and crosses the street.
The Other remembers there’s not much meat in the fridge.
The One chats,his shoulders going up and down, excited.
The Other thinks about the Tuesday specials.
The One takes a business card and promises to get in touch.
The Other dials and nobody answers.
The One sees who’s calling and turns off his cell.
The Other throws the phone into the back seat.
The One goes into a greasy-spoon and orders food to go.
The Other stops the car and puts his head down on the steering wheel.
*
The wig
At a certain time of day
The subway trains (in México City) are a prison of men and of women
– separated (by gender),
But HimHer slips through
And travels in the male car.
“All the Regular Joes just for me,”
– HimHer goes in thinking –
Wanting it all – no more, no less.
Got whistled at:
“Look at her – what an ass she has.”
She lets them…
They grab her buttocks.
They squeeze her nipples.
They bite her lips.
They cover her with their sweat.
They let themselves do it…
But HimHer has to change stations.
HimHer, exiting the subway car, gets whistled at:
“Come back soon, mamacita.”
Adjusting the blonde wig,
Girding herself for this tough life that’s going down…
*
The belovéd
Man of mine,
You who are so far away,
Belovéd be the memory of you,
Ignored be your disdain;
Forget whoever kisses me
As I forget whoever touches you
Do not leave me,
Even as our breaking up still hurts,
And free me from all that is myself.
Traducciones del español al inglés / Translations from Spanish into English: Alexander Best
_____
Estos poemas son parte de una compilación © Arnulfo Vigil y Ernesto Castillo.
Los redactores escriben:
“Lo importante, a fin de cuentas, no es la sexualidad de un poeta
sino el tratamiento poético de la diversidad sexual.”
Flags of Canada: July 1st, 2012
Posted: July 1, 2012 Filed under: Flags of Canada, IMAGES Comments Off on Flags of Canada: July 1st, 2012
For information about each flag, allow your cursor to hover over the image.
. . . . .
Konstantin Kavafis / Κωνσταντίνος Καβάφης: “I went into the brilliant night and drank strong wine, the way the Champions of Pleasure drink.”
Posted: July 1, 2012 Filed under: English, Greek, Konstantin Kavafis | Tags: Gay poets Comments Off on Konstantin Kavafis / Κωνσταντίνος Καβάφης: “I went into the brilliant night and drank strong wine, the way the Champions of Pleasure drink.”
Konstantin Kavafis (Constantine Cavafy)
(1863-1933)
Walls
With no consideration, no pity, no shame,
they’ve built walls around me, thick and high.
And now I sit here feeling hopeless.
I can’t think of anything else: this fate gnaws my mind
– because I had so much to do outside.
When they were building the walls, how could I not have noticed!
But I never heard the builders, not a sound.
Imperceptibly they’ve closed me off from the outside world.
(1896)
The Windows
In these dark rooms where I live out empty days,
I wander round and round
trying to find the windows.
It will be a great relief when a window opens.
But the windows aren’t there to be found
– or at least I can’t find them. And perhaps
it’s better if I don’t find them.
Perhaps the light will prove another tyranny.
Who knows what new things it will expose?
(1897)
I went
I didn’t restrain myself. I gave in completely and went,
went to those pleasures that were half real,
half wrought by my own mind,
went into the brilliant night
and drank strong wine,
the way the champions of pleasure drink.
(1905)
Comes to rest
It must have been one o’clock at night
or half past one.
A corner in a tavern,
behind the wooden partition:
except for the two of us the place completely empty.
A lamp barely lit gave it light.
The waiter was sleeping by the door.
*
No one could see us.
But anyway, we were already so worked up
we’d become incapable of caution.
*
Our clothes half opened – we weren’t wearing much:
it was a beautiful hot July.
*
Delight of flesh between
half-opened clothes;
quick baring of flesh – a vision
that has crossed twenty-six years
and now comes to rest in this poetry.
(1918)
The afternoon sun
This room, how well I know it.
Now they’re renting it, and the one next to it,
as offices. The whole house has become
an office building for agents, businessmen, companies.
*
This room, how familiar it is.
*
The couch was here, near the door,
a Turkish carpet in front of it.
Close by, the shelf with two yellow vases.
On the right – no, opposite – a wardrobe with a mirror.
In the middle the table where he wrote,
and three big wicker chairs.
Beside the window the bed
where we made love so many times.
*
They must be still around somewhere, those old things.
*
Beside the window the bed;
the afternoon sun used to touch half of it.
*
…One afternoon at four o’clock we separated
for a week only…And then
– that week became forever.
(1918)
Before Time altered them
They were full of sadness at their parting.
They hadn’t wanted it: circumstances made it necessary.
The need to earn a living forced one of them
to go far away – New York or Canada.
The love they felt wasn’t, of course, what it had once been;
the attraction between them had gradually diminished,
the attraction had diminished a great deal.
But to be separated, that wasn’t what they wanted.
It was circumstances. Or maybe Fate
appeared as an artist and decided to part them now,
before their feeling died out completely, before Time altered them:
the one seeming to remain for the other always what he was,
the good-looking young man of twenty-four.
(1924)
Translations from Greek into English © 1975 Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard
_____
Constantine Cavafy (Konstantin Kavafis), 1863-1933,
lived and died in the port city of Alexandria, Egypt.
His father had worked in Manchester, England, founding
an import-export firm for Egyptian cotton to the
textile industry. Between the ages of 9 and 16 Constantine
was educated in England – Victorian-era England – and
these years became important in the shaping of his poetic
sensibility (which would only emerge around the age of 40.)
Though he was fluent in English, when he began to write poetry
in earnest it was to be in his native Greek.
Cavafy never published any poems in his lifetime, rather he
had them printed privately then distributed them
– pamphlet-style – to friends and acquaintances.
His social circle was small and by all accounts he was not ashamed
of his homosexuality – but he did feel much guilt over
“auto-eroticism” – what we now call masturbation.
*
Cavafy’s early poems “Walls” and “The Windows” might
be read as the mental anxieties of a “closeted” homosexual –
yet there was no such thing in the 19th century as someone
who was “Out” anyway.
The poem “I went”, from 1905, seems to be a break-through of sorts,
Cavafy indicating – at least in the Truth that was his much-cherished
Art – Poetry – that he’s ready to write openly of his love for men.
The poems he wrote when he was in his 50s, such as “Comes to rest”,
“The afternoon sun” and “Before Time altered them”, show a mature
poet describing the universal beauty and sadness of Love – and he
does it describing sex, passion and loss between two men.
Reinaldo Arenas: “There’s just one place to live – the impossible.” / “Sólo hay un lugar para vivir – el imposible.”
Posted: July 1, 2012 Filed under: English, Reinaldo Arenas, Spanish | Tags: Gay poets Comments Off on Reinaldo Arenas: “There’s just one place to live – the impossible.” / “Sólo hay un lugar para vivir – el imposible.”
Reinaldo Arenas (Gay Cuban novelist and poet, 1943-1990)
Self-Epitaph
A bad poet in love with the moon,
he counted terror as his only fortune :
and it was enough because, being no saint,
he knew that life is risk or abstinence,
that every great ambition is great insanity
and the most sordid horror has its charm.
He lived for life’s sake, which means seeing death
as a daily occurrence on which we wager
a splendid body or our entire lot.
He knew the best things are those we abandon
— precisely because we are leaving.
The everyday becomes hateful,
there s just one place to live – the impossible.
He knew imprisonment offenses
typical of human baseness ;
but was always escorted by a certain stoicism
that helped him walk the tightrope
or enjoy the morning’s glory,
and when he tottered, a window would appear
for him to jump toward infinity.
He wanted no ceremony, speech, mourning or cry,
no sandy mound where his skeleton be laid to rest
(not even after death did he wish to live in peace).
He ordered that his ashes be scattered at sea
where they would be in constant flow.
He hasn’t lost the habit of dreaming :
he hopes some adolescent will plunge into his waters.
(New York, 1989)
_____
Reinaldo Arenas (Escritor y poeta gay cubano, 1943-1990)
Autoepitafio
Mal poeta enamorado de la luna,
no tuvo más fortuna que el espanto;
y fue suficiente pues como no era un santo
sabía que la vida es riesgo o abstinencia,
que toda gran ambición es gran demencia
y que el más sórdido horror tiene su encanto.
Vivió para vivir que es ver la muerte
como algo cotidiano a la que apostamos
un cuerpo espléndido o toda nuestra suerte.
Supo que lo mejor es aquello que dejamos
– precisamente porque nos marchamos – .
Todo lo cotidiano resulta aborrecible,
sólo hay un lugar para vivir, el imposible.
Conoció la prisión, el ostracismo,
el exilio, las múltiples ofensas
típicas de la vileza humana;
pero siempre lo escoltó cierto estoicismo
que le ayudó a caminar por cuerdas tensas
o a disfrutar del esplendor de la mañana.
Y cuando ya se bamboleaba surgía una ventana
por la cual se lanzaba al infinito.
No quiso ceremonia, discurso, duelo o grito,
ni un tumulo de arena donde reposase el esqueleto
(ni después de muerto quiso vivir quieto).
Ordenó que sus cenizas fueran lanzadas al mar
donde habrán de fluir constantemente.
No ha perdido la costumbre de soñar:
espera que en sus aguas se zambulla algún adolescente.
(Nueva York, 1989)
Reinaldo Arenas came into conflict with Fidel Castro’s government because of his openly-Gay lifestyle and because he managed to get several novels published abroad without official consent. He was jailed in 1973 for “ideological deviation”; he escaped and tried to flee Cuba on an inner-tube floating in the Caribbean Sea. The attempt failed and he was jailed again, this time at El Morro – the roughest prison in Cuba. He wrote letters for the loved ones of murderers and thereby gained some respect. Upon his release in 1976 the government forced him to renounce his work. In 1980 he came to the USA – one of many Cubans in the Mariel Boatlift. He settled in New York City where he mentored other exiled writers – but he was never happy, and he was Cuban till the end. Diagnosed with AIDS in 1987 he committed suicide in 1990, penning these words in a last letter (written for publication):
“Due to my delicate state of health and to the terrible depression it causes me not to be able to continue writing and struggling for the freedom of Cuba, I am ending my life. . . I want to encourage Cuban people out of the country as well as on the Island to continue fighting for freedom. . . Cuba will be free – I already am.”
António Botto: “O mais importante na vida é ser-se criador – criar beleza.” / “The most important thing in life is to create – to create beauty.”
Posted: July 1, 2012 Filed under: António Botto, English, Portuguese | Tags: Gay poets Comments Off on António Botto: “O mais importante na vida é ser-se criador – criar beleza.” / “The most important thing in life is to create – to create beauty.”
António Botto (Lisbon, Portugal, 1897-1959)
Selected poems from “Canções” (“Songs”)
In love –
Now don’t question me! –
There were always
Two kinds of men.
*
This is quite true
And greater than life’s self is.
No one down here can deny it
Or dismiss.
*
One kind of man
Looks on, without love or sin:
The other kind
Feels, grows passionate, comes in.
_____
No amor,
Não duvides amor meu –
Dois tipos de homem
Houve sempre.
*
E esta verdade
Que é maior que a própria vida,
Só por Ele – vê lá bem!,
Poderá ser desmentida.
*
– Um,
A contemplar se contenta;
E outro,
Apaixona-se, intervém…
_____
You’re wrong, I tell you again.
*
In love
The only lie we find out in the future
Is that which seems
The best truth now,
The truth that seems to fall in with our fates.
*
Love never really lies:
It simply exaggerates.
_____
Enganas-te, digo ainda.
*
No amor,
– Apenas, é mentira no futuro
Aquilo
Que nos parece uma verdade presente.
*
O amor não mente, nunca!
Exagera simplesmente.
_____
I’ve left off drinking, my friend.
Yes, I have set wine aside.
*
But if
You really want
To see me drunk –
This is between us, you see –,
Take slowly up to your mouth
The glass meant for me,
Then pass it over to me.
_____
Deixei de beber, amigo.
*
Sim, já desprezei o vinho.
*
Entanto,
Se tu afirmas que tens
O prazer de me ver ébrio,
– Que isto fique entre nós dois:
Aproxima da tua boca
A taça que me destinas,
E dá-ma depois.
_____
The most important thing in life
Is to create – to create beauty.
*
To do that
We must foresee it
Where our eyes cannot really see it.
*
I think that dreaming the impossible
Is like hearing the faint voice
Of something that wants to live
And calls to us from afar.
*
Yes, the most important thing in life
Is to create.
*
And we must move
Towards the impossible
With shut eyes, like faith or love.
_____
O mais importante na vida
É ser-se criador – criar beleza.
*
Para isso,
É necessário pressenti-la
Aonde os nossos olhos não a virem.
*
Eu creio que sonhar o impossível
É como que ouvir a voz de alguma coisa
Que pede existência e que nos chama de longe.
*
Sim, o mais importante na vida
É ser-se criador.
E para o impossível
Só devemos caminhar de olhos fechados
Como a fé e como o amor.
_____
Translations from the Portuguese: Fernando Pessoa
_____
António Botto published Canções (Songs) in
Lisbon in 1920. He was 23. And he began to rub shoulders
with the city’s intellectual élite during what was to be a short
period of bohemianism leading up to the military coup
of 1926 and the establishment of the Estado Novo (New State),
an authoritarian dictatorship.
A second edition of Canções was
printed in 1922 – and this time it created a critical furor
as “Literature of Sodom”. Botto made no secret of his
homosexuality – he flirted in public, and that took guts –
and many of his first-person-voice love poems are
frankly addressed to men. Though Fernando Pessoa – one
of Portugal’s heavyweights in the Modernist movement (and also
the translator into English of Botto’s poems) – defended Botto in
print, it was a defence of the aesthetic ideal of male beauty
– a Classical Greek (Hellenic) value that had influenced all
Mediterranean cultures – not a public endorsement of the fact that
Botto was writing about loving men. Botto was just too ahead of his time;
he was “pushing the boundaries”, as we call it now.
A conservative university-student league called verses such as
“Listen, my angel: what if I should kiss your skin,
what if I should kiss your mouth, which is all honey within?”
“disgraceful language” and Botto a “shameless”
author, pressuring the government to take action, which it did,
seizing and burning books by Botto as well as “Decadência” by Judith
Teixeira, a lesbian poet.
*
We thank University of Toronto professor Josiah Blackmore
for re-issuing the Songs of Botto; he is a poet too little known
in the English language.
“Mujer” y “De la Casa de Iemanjá” por Audre Lorde / “Woman” and “From the House of Yemanjá” by Audre Lorde
Posted: July 1, 2012 Filed under: Audre Lorde, English, Spanish, ZP Translator: Lidia García Garay | Tags: Black lesbian poets Comments Off on “Mujer” y “De la Casa de Iemanjá” por Audre Lorde / “Woman” and “From the House of Yemanjá” by Audre LordeAudre Lorde
(Poeta, activista feminista, lesbiana, caribeña-americana, 1934-1992)
*
Mujer
Sueño con un lugar entre tus pechos
para construir mi casa como un refugio
donde siembro
en tu cuerpo
una cosecha infinita
donde la roca más común
es piedra de la luna y ópalo ébano
que da leche a todos mis deseos
y tu noche cae sobre mí
como una lluvia que nutre.
* * *
Audre Lorde
(1934-1992, poet, feminist activist, lesbian, Caribbean-American)
*
Woman
I dream of a place between your breasts
to build my house like a haven
where I plant crops
in your body
an endless harvest
where the commonest rock
is moonstone and ebony opal
giving milk to all of my hungers
and your night comes down upon me
like a nurturing rain.
*
*
*
Translation into Spanish: Anonymous
Traducción al español: Anónima
*
Audre Lorde
De la Casa de Iemanjá
*
Mi madre tenía dos caras y una cacerola
donde cocinó dos hijas y las
hizo hembras
antes de cocinar nuestra cena.
Mi madre tenía dos caras
y una cacerola rota
donde escondió una hija perfecta
que no era yo
yo soy el sol y la luna y por siempre
hambrienta de su mirada.
*
Yo llevo dos mujeres en mi espalda
una oscura y rica y oculta
en el marfil sedienta de la otra
madre
pálida como una bruja
pero constante y familiar
me trae pan y terror
en mi sueño
sus pechos son inmensos y fascinantes
anclas en la tormenta nocturna.
*
Todo esto ha existido
antes
en la cama de mi madre
el tiempo no tiene sentido
no tengo hermanos
y mis hermanas son crueles.
*
Madre necesito
madre necesito
madre necesito tu negritud ahora
como la tierra augusta necesita la lluvia.
*
Yo soy
el sol y la luna y por siempre hambrienta
la afilada orilla
donde el día y la noche se encuentran
y no ser
una.
*
*
Traducción del inglés al español: Lidia García Garay
* * *
Audre Lorde
From the House of Yemanjá
*
My mother had two faces and a frying pot
where she cooked up her daughters
into girls
before she fixed our dinner.
My mother had two faces
and a broken pot
where she hid out a perfect daughter
who was not me
I am the sun and moon and forever hungry
for her eyes.
*
I bear two women upon my back
one dark and rich and hidden
in the ivory hungers of the other
mother
pale as a witch
yet steady and familiar
brings me bread and terror
in my sleep
her breasts are huge exciting anchors
in the midnight storm.
*
All this has been
before
in my mother’s bed
time has no sense
I have no brothers
and my sisters are cruel.
*
Mother I need
mother I need
mother I need your blackness now
as the august earth needs rain.
I am
*
the sun and moon and forever hungry
the sharpened edge
where day and night shall meet
and not be
one.
*
A Tenacious Light: poems by Dionne Brand
Posted: July 1, 2012 Filed under: Dionne Brand, English | Tags: Black lesbian poets Comments Off on A Tenacious Light: poems by Dionne Brand
I saw this woman once in another poem, sitting,
throwing water over her head on the rind of a country
beach as she turned toward her century. Seeing her
no part of me was comfortable with itself. I envied her,
so old and set aside, a certain habit washed from her
eyes. I must have recognized her. I know I watched
her along the rim of the surf promising myself, an old
woman is free. In my nerves something there
unraveling, and she was a place to go, believe me,
against gales of masculinity but in that then, she was
masculine, old woman, old bird squinting at the
water’s wing above her head, swearing under her
breath. I had a mind that she would be graceful in me
and she might have been if I had not heard you
laughing in another tense and lifted my head from her
dry charm.
*
You ripped the world open for me. Someone said this
is your first lover you will never want to leave her. My
lips cannot say old woman darkening anymore, she
is the peace of another life that didn’t happen and
couldn’t happen in my flesh and wasn’t peace but
flight into old woman, prayer, to the saints of my
ancestry, the gourd and bucket carrying women who
stroke their breast into stone shedding offspring and
smile. I know since that an old woman, darkening,
cuts herself away limb from limb, sucks herself white,
running, skin torn and raw like a ball of bright light,
flying, into old woman. I only know now that my
longing for this old woman was longing to leave the
prisoned gaze of men.
_____
Dionne Brand was born in Trinidad in 1953
and graduated from University of Toronto in 1975.
She is Black, Lesbian, Feminist – three powerful things.
Toronto’s Poet Laureate, she is also the 2011 winner of
The Griffin Poetry Prize for her long poem Ossuaries.
The companion poems above are excerpted from
Brand’s series “Hard against the Soul”, part of
her collection No Language is Neutral.
© 1990, Dionne Brand
_____
This is a ZP post originally dated August 31st, 2011.
We re-post it today, July 1st, 2012, as part of our survey of gay and lesbian poets.
Andy Quan: “Quiet and Odd”
Posted: July 1, 2012 Filed under: Andy Quan, English Comments Off on Andy Quan: “Quiet and Odd”Andy Quan (born 1969, Vancouver, British Columbia)
Quiet and Odd
Darren Lee and I were superstars, unafraid to swing
from the highest branch of his backyard’s gnarled
apple tree, we terrorized insects, older
high-school kids, made snarky remarks about
Mrs. Kopinski in the corner house simply because
we could. We sang: Jesus Christ /
Superstar / Who in the hell do you think you are.
*
“What a shame,” adults told us. We couldn’t speak
our ancestral language. Nor could our mothers! Tell
them they’ve lost their heritage. What’s the use anyway
of those clattery loud towers of nine tones, building
blocks flung at you in too bright colours?
*
Besides, we were not Bennett Ho whose mother
banned him from sex-education class, not Adrian
Tong with his rice-bowl haircut (the fringe swinging
round his head like a carousel of animals). Brian Tom
not yet into his teens expected only bad things in life
so as never to be disappointed. Not Jacob Chiu
whose Mom shaved his skull, everyone wanted to
feel its tiny combs against their fingers. Dominic
Kong was certainly not us, he told people he didn’t
know Chinese but who could follow his broken
English? Definitely not Joseph Fong who stepped
in dog poop and didn’t care, the playground
suddenly the Titanic sinking, passengers wailed
ABANDON SHIP!
It wasn’t just that they were odd.
They were quiet boys. Not like us, nails on chalk
boards, fire drill alarms: when my voice broke
I couldn’t even whisper without getting in trouble.
We reckoned their tongues got caught on the way
out of their mouths like jackets on doorknobs
as they rushed outside, their mothers calling them
back to do their homework, mind their grandmothers,
though even they’d pretend they couldn’t hear
or understand whatever language shouted after them.
© 2007 Andy Quan
From his collection “Bowling Pin Fire”, published by Signature Editions, Winnipeg, Manitoba
_____
Andy Quan, born in Vancouver, now lives in Sydney, Australia – and lived in Toronto in 1993–94. He’s 3rd generation Chinese-Canadian and 5th generation Chinese-American with roots in the villages of Canton. He is the author of four books. Calendar Boy’s short stories included many that addressed the intersection of sexuality and race for gay asian protagonists. Six Positions: Sex Writing is a collection of gay erotic fiction. Slant and Bowling Pin Fire are Quan’s two books of poetry. His writing has been published in a wide variety of literary journals and anthologies around the world. These days, he works as an editor and a copywriter and can be visited at http://www.andyquan.com.
*
The poet reflects upon “Quiet and Odd”:
“Much of my poetry has been autobiographical story-poems. I used writing as a way to locate myself in the world, and to share those experiences with others – though received good advice along the way that a story is not enough, the language needs to be energized and engaging. Though ‘Quiet and Odd’ seems straightforward, I think it requires quite a bit from readers: an ability to understand a multicultural society, to imagine the experiences of those born in countries of different cultural backgrounds and skin colour, but then to delve deeper into the way these experiences may affect how people move and present to the world. It’s a very understandable Canadian poem, but does it work in countries with much less immigration and cultural diversity?”
Saeed Jones: Cracking all of the “names” open
Posted: July 1, 2012 Filed under: English, Saeed Jones | Tags: Black gay poets Comments Off on Saeed Jones: Cracking all of the “names” open
Saeed Jones (USA)
Sleeping Arrangement
I
I’ve decided to let you stay
under our bed, the floor –
not the space between
mattress and metal frame.
Take your hand out
from under my pillow, please.
And take your sheets too.
Drag them under. Make pretend ghosts.
I can’t have you rattling the bed springs
so keep still, keep quiet.
Mistake yourself for shadows.
Learn the lullabies of lint.
II
I will do right by you:
crumbs brushed off my sheets,
white chocolate chip, I think,
or the corners of crackers.
Count on the occasional dropped grape,
a peach pit with fine yellow hairs,
wet where my tongue has been,
a taste you might remember.
I’ve heard some men can survive
on dust mites alone for weeks at a time.
There’s a magnifying glass on the nightstand,
in case it comes to that.
. . .
Obviously, I was meant to be a gazelle
When grandpa growled at the dinner table, I wanted to leap into a sprint.
Gazelles did that sort of thing when startled. They leaped
into mid-air like sprung mousetraps, and then they were nothing
but brown blurs cutting across the plains.
Sometimes the gazelle in me would try to sprint in spite of myself,
but my bow legged and awkward bones kept me at a steady jog.
I would run back and forth across the backyard for hours.
This was Memphis. There were lions behind every oak and chain link fence.
One day, I was running around the backyard, alone as usual,
when a gun went off in the distance. The sound echoed off the house.
I stood in the middle of the yard, perfectly still,
still enough to blend into the grass. It was a rough neighborhood.
Guns seemed to be going off all the time.
When my grandma heard the shot, she rushed outside
and stopped on the porch. For a moment, she looked at me
as if I had been shot. I answered her stare by running off.
. . .
Saeed Jones grew up in Memphis, Tennessee, and now lives in New York City.
He has an MFA from Rutgers University in New Jersey.
A 2011 nominee for the Pushcart Prize, Jones comments:
“The question of whether I’m a gay poet who happens to be black or a black poet who happens to be gay, or a poet who argues that such things as “blackness” and “gayness” need not proceed my nouns is just one that I — almost literally — enjoy dancing with. It troubles my waters; it keeps me questioning my self/selves; these days all I have are my questions…Or maybe it’s just easier to debate gay/black and black/gay poems rather than to write the poems themselves. Or maybe I want to crack all of the “names” open!”
. . . . .
Zócalo Poets 