Neal McLeod: “Songs to kill a Wîhtikow” ᐐᐧᐦᑎᑯᐤ
Posted: July 24, 2012 Filed under: Cree, English, Neal McLeod Comments Off on Neal McLeod: “Songs to kill a Wîhtikow” ᐐᐧᐦᑎᑯᐤ
Neal McLeod
Wîhtikow *
They spoke of the time
beings broke the stillness of water
retreating from the pollution
that rested on the skin of days
kî-mistâpâwêhisocik, they drowned themselves
and the water became still
*
I went to a place to rest
and lay in the remnants of thunder
I collapsed in ripped and dried hollow earth
a fugitive of spent moments
which had outgrown their divinity
*
The old ones spoke of how the beings dug into the earth,
kôtâwîwak
to retreat from the pollution on the skin of the earth
the old ones spoke of wîhtikow
who hunted dreamers, under thick, dark, coarse sun
took their prey in
like the wind of trains
draws us to the tracks
Wîhtikow wandering
wîhtikow whispers
and pulls the light from the sky
only cluttered cover, electric neon
makes my steps heavy
pass abandoned house
windows opened
no longer covered by glass
emptied of people
and stories
burned out black hollow
my body
has also known
the fire of wîhtikow
bingo caller gives false hope
white johns
circle the wagons of families
cops who drive brothers
to cold places
wîhtikow wanders
in the grey, concrete forest
Crow cross
body heavy wooden
black circling round
crow crowned head
claws extended, cutting
arms extended
wrapped into horizon
feet on hands
abrupt blood pecks
expired fright scarecrow
pulled off
hands fling free
legs fall hard
extend relaxed hand
ready legs
onto road
away from crows
remember tracks
upon skin
sing praises
black crow crying
Kôkôcîs **
plaid crumpled and folded
hidden patterns of fabric
clung around his arms
his brown, storied hands
with lines of memory
which marked events
stories, and words
reached for the chewing tobacco
which slid through the
spaces of his mouth
and with the taste of tobacco
through his tongue
which created words
moving through the room
*
I remember the open windows
and brown, wet roads
cars and trucks
would pull up
and people would fill the windows
with colours and movement
*
familiar faces and rhythms
I remember the sound of his voice
of his laugh
the eternal song
up through his mouth
added stories
and layers of memory
to the photographs
bringing old ones alive
*
I remember kôkôcîs
words came from him like water
formed from the shallow fog
of the early spring afternoon
the room held his voice
the voice of others
pushed through
the fold of eternity
were held in
his textured voice
*
kôkôcîs, kâ-kî-itiht,
the once called kôkôcîs,
was my living link
to eternity and relatives
Cree-language words:
* wîhtikow — a being who consumes other beings – greedy, like a vampire
** kôkôcîs — the name of the poet’s great-grandfather
_____
Neal McLeod is Cree (having grown up on the James Smith reserve in Saskatchewan), and Swedish, having had the fortunate opportunity to study abroad at the Swedish Art Academy at Umeå. He has exhibited art work throughout Canada including at the 2005 exhibition au fil de mes jours (in my lifetime) at Le Musée national des beaux-arts du Québec – remounted at the Museum of Civilization in 2007. In addition to being a painter he is also a curator: his latest project was as co-curator of the exhibition James Henderson: The Man who Paints the Old Men which was organized by the Mendel Art Gallery in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.
Neal’s first book of poetry, entitled Songs to Kill a Wîhtikow, was nominated for several Saskatchewan book awards including book of the year in 2005. It was nominated for book of the year at the Anskohk McNally Aboriginal Literature Awards, and won poetry book of the year by unanimous decision of the jurors. In 2007 Neal published Cree Narrative Memory which was also nominated for book of the year at the Anskohk McNally Aboriginal Literature Awards. In the fall of 2008 he published his second book of poetry entitled Gabriel’s Beach.
Neal is currently editing a volume entitled Indigenous Poetics. In addition he is working on the following books: Dreaming Blue Horses – a novel, a collection of humour short stories entitled Neechi Hustle, 100 Days of Cree, a biography of Noel Starblanket, and a book of poetry called Casting Spells of Neechery. He teaches Indigenous Studies at Trent University in Peterborough, Ontario.
Nurun Nahar’s “Travellers”: An Inspirational Bengali Poem for Ramadan 2012
Posted: July 20, 2012 Filed under: 7 GUEST EDITORS, Bengali (Bangla), English, Laboni Islam, Nurun Nahar | Tags: বাংলা কবিতা, Bengali (Bangla) poems, Poems for Ramadan Comments Off on Nurun Nahar’s “Travellers”: An Inspirational Bengali Poem for Ramadan 2012
Nurun Nahar (1924-1992) was born in Tangail, Bangladesh. She wrote this poem in her youth. Artist, writer, and mother of five, she could crochet blankets in her sleep. Translation by Syeda Parvin Shirin, her only daughter. Photo by Laboni Islam, one of Nurun’s many grand-daughters.
* * *
¡Buffy Sainte-Marie, en Toronto esta noche! / Buffy Sainte-Marie, in Toronto tonight! Una traducción para honrar a la cantautora y activista Cree
Posted: July 18, 2012 Filed under: Buffy Sainte-Marie, English, POETS / POETAS, Spanish, ZP Translator: Lidia García Garay Comments Off on ¡Buffy Sainte-Marie, en Toronto esta noche! / Buffy Sainte-Marie, in Toronto tonight! Una traducción para honrar a la cantautora y activista Cree
Buffy Sainte-Marie
(First Nations Cree singer-songwriter, activist, born 1941, Saskatchewan, Canada)
No No Keshagesh
Editor’s note: Keshagesh means Greedy Guts,
a child (or an adult) who eats his own food – and then wants everybody else’s, too.
_ _ _ _ _
I never saw so many business suits
Never knew a dollar sign could look so cute
Never knew a junkie with a money jones
Who’s buying Park Place? Who’s buying Boardwalk?
*
These old men they make their dirty deals
Go in the back room and see what they can steal
Talk about your ” beautiful for spacious skies “?
— it’s about uranium, it’s about the water rights!
*
Got Mother Nature on a luncheon plate
They carve her up and call it real estate
Want all the resources and all of the land
They make a war over it — they blow things up for it.
*
The reservation out at Poverty Row
There’s something cookin and the lights are low
Somebody tryin to save our Mother Earth… I’m gonna
Help ’em to Save it and Sing it and Pray it… singin:
No No Keshagesh you can’t do that no more…
No No Keshagesh you can’t do that no more…
*
Ole Columbus he was lookin good
When he got lost in our neighborhood
Garden of Eden right before his eyes
Now it’s all spyware — now it’s all income tax.
*
Ole Brother Midas lookin hungry today
What he can’t buy he’ll get some other way
Send in the troopers if the Natives resist
Same old story, boys — that’s how ya do it , boys!
*
Look at these people, Lord, they’re on a roll
Got to have it all — gotta have complete control
Want all the resources and all of the land
They break the law over it — blow things up for it.
*
While all our champions are off in the war
Their final rip-off here at home is on
Mister Greed I think your time has come… I’m gonna
Sing it and Say it and Live it and Pray it… singin:
No No Keshagesh you can’t do that no more…
No No Keshagesh you can’t do that no more…
_____
Buffy Sainte-Marie (nace 1941, Saskatchewan, Canadá)
¡No, no, Panzas ávaras! (No, no, Greedy-guts!)
Nota del editor:
Keshagesh quiere decir Panzas Ávaras.
Así se le llama a un niño (o un hombre) que se come su comida
y después quiere la de los demas.
_____
Nunca vi tantos atuendos formales
Nunca supe que un signo de dólar pareciera tan bonito
Nunca conocí a un adicto con una obsesión por dinero
¿Quién está comprando el Park Place – y el Boardwalk?
*
Estos viejos, hacen sus tratos sucios
Van al cuarto interior para hacer sus tratos sucios
¿Habla de “hermosa por cielos espaciosos”?
– ¡ se trata del uranio, se trata de derechos sobre el agua!
*
Tienen en un plato a la Madre Naturaleza
La dividen y la llaman: bienes raices.
Quieren todos los recursos naturales y toda la tierra
Hacen una guerra por eso – exageran las cosas para eso.
*
La reservación es Condenada a la Pobreza
Están cocinando algo y atenuan las luces
Alguien está intentando salvar a nuestra Madre Tierra
Voy a Ayudarles a Salvarla, Cantarle, y Orarle…cantando:
¡No, no, Panzas ávaras!
Ustedes ya no pueden hacer éso…..
Ustedes ya no pueden hacer éso…..
*
El bueno de Colón muy fresco
Cuando se perdió en nuestra vecindad
El Jardín de Edén en frente de sus ojos
Hoy día todo es spyware – ahora todo es impuesto sobre la renta.
*
El buen Hermano Midas parece hambriento hoy día
Lo que no puede comprar lo obtendrá de otra manera
Envian a los policías estatales si los Indígenas resisten
La misma historia de siempre – muchachos, es así como lo hacen.
*
Mira toda esta gente, Señor, son imparables
Tienen que poseer todo, tener control absoluto
Quieren todos los recursos naturales y todo lo de la tierra
Quebrantan la ley por eso – exageran las cosas por eso.
*
Mientras que nuestros campeones están lejos en la guerra
Su estafa final occurre aquí en casa.
Señor Avaricia – pienso que su tiempo ha llegado…Voy a
Cantarlo y Decirlo y Vivirlo y Orar… cantándolo:
¡No, no, Panzas ávaras!
Ustedes ya no puede hacer éso…..
Ustedes ya no puede hacer éso…..
_____
Traducción del inglés al español / Translation from English into Spanish: Lidia García Garay
Hari Malagayo Alluri: “eyes beat heart wide…”
Posted: July 11, 2012 Filed under: English, Hari Malagayo Alluri Comments Off on Hari Malagayo Alluri: “eyes beat heart wide…”
body body
eyes beat heart wide
n sine co-patience
blink rare breath laugh
un sin go pay shun
deep shared step speak open tongued rhythms
story tell in the pattern of a mischief
round each other’s oldest voices caress
in
syncopation
abi bellybuttons shoot
memory glances
raven city
rain follows snow follows shine hollows
clouds hollow graves into roots hollow
cracks into tar fallow talk hollows
dreams nightly migrating birds hallow
sky copper indigo follow trickster heart
conjure lion’s roar from spitting cobra’s belly
one language
used to hack
all the others
from my body
this pentongue
my balisong now
jai!
_____
The poet explains several special words:
abi – Nigerian pidgin, from Yoruba; final interrogative particle on a yes/no question
balisong – a.k.a. balisong batangas, butterfly knife, fan knife or veinte y nueve; a swing-bladed folding pocketknife used in Filipino martial arts and for self-defence.
jai – I use jai in the sense of “Long live” (Hindi). It can also be translated as “Up with,” “Hail” or “Victory”. Often it’s a part of call and response chants.
*
Hari Malagayo Alluri is a poet, activist, facilitator and filmmaker who migrated to SouthVancouver, Coast Salish Territories, at age 12. He will be at Surrey Muse on July 27th. Hari’s writing appears in several publications.
Cynthia Dewi Oka: Nomad Legends – Midwife and Moon’s Benediction
Posted: July 11, 2012 Filed under: Cynthia Dewi Oka, English Comments Off on Cynthia Dewi Oka: Nomad Legends – Midwife and Moon’s Benediction
nomad legend: Midwife
I am what remains. Here,
on this crop of volcanic rock. At the knees of the temple
where for thousands of years we worshipped
as the moon began her slow retreat
in deference to the gong, the jubilee of roosters –
our women with lotus lily towers on their heads,
our men with bronze curved daggers at their waists.
I still hear their children and recognize
each hungry wail, each budding tenor.
My hands were the first they knew,
the heat from my body preceded their mothers’ milk.
I was the one who rinsed their coats of blood
and breathed the story of this island and its specific stars
into the plaintive Os of their mouths.
In time, they forgot the ocean and learned to trust
paddy, clay, the gods. I began to assume
in their eyes the same madness perceived by their elders.
A madness feared, because no woman should
scratch letters to the drowned with a shark tooth
in cream colored sand. No woman should hunt
fish from her bed of rock, bare-handed, and eat them raw.
No woman should claim the sea is her mother,
the sea snake her husband. No matter.
When the babies were ready to cleave
the shell of their mothers, it was me they summoned.
See now how the land empties. How skin and slender
bones wash to sea. For moons I watch from the temple’s roof
skirmishes between soldiers and vultures
over moonstone anklets, ruby studded rings and abalone
still clinging to blue, salted flesh. At the cusp of daylight,
I fill my eyes with wine and sheathe my body
in seawater. The currents pound my eardrums like our warriors’ fists,
tiny fish make meals out of my calves, and time is measured
by the goldening ends of sea grass. This is the only place
where I do not smell, taste or think in blood.
My body cleaves tunnels through the satin depths,
clean and weightless. Ether.
The old people used to say that water snakes guarded the rock
cradle of our temple, that in fact, the rock was
the temple of greater creatures that came before us.
Pillars, courtyards, pagodas of copra were constructed
to house not the gods, but humans after we shed our hooves and horns.
According to some, we were once winged.
The men laughed at this story as they fondled their bows.
The women rubbed sandalwood oil into each other’s smooth backs.
This is before tips of bayonets split our children down their lengths.
This is before bows and backs were snapped alike.
I know what they did not know because the sea is my mother,
the sea snake my husband. This is why I leave my heart in the water.
The longer I stay, the closer I draw to their secrets.
The more I resemble salt. Within me, bones begin
to loosen. The bloom of my lungs acquires an echo.
I come up less and less for air.
On the seventy seventh year of the midwife’s submersion, at the moon’s zenith, it is said that new bodies crawled out of the waves. Their teeth were adamantine and their skin sequined. They spoke to each other in sign, for they had not yet invented a language for soil. They were not men and women. They were multiple, each with their own distinctive architecture. They practiced the art of disappearing, walking children home and dancing at street corners. Their dances could not be imitated for they moved in ways unknown to our imagination. When they looked at you, you heard the sea mother. It is said that they had solved the alchemy of bone to water.
_____
nomad legend: Moon’s benediction
[at rising]
bless the round belly, elephant tusk, sago
root straining dark moist earth, tongues
of aloe peeled open, their juice kneaded
into the crowns of old women, gypsum
powder, ash scrubbed into linen and skin
preparing them for touch, the flintlock
at rest with nomads and their fire
[in descent]
bless lightning, the unsung flute, proverbs
spelled in tobacco leaves, owl’s hoot
rippling east, its timbre grained in salt
from the palms of fishermen, a coastline
beaded in pearl, pith of a woman
listening for her name in the throng, iron
sphere, devil’s oar, snake’s teardrop.
_____
Cynthia Dewi Oka lives in Vancouver. She writes of these poems:
“Although they are in English, they incorporate elements, landscapes, concepts and re-imagined myths embedded in my native language, Bahasa Indonesia, and experiences of historical and contemporary displacement.”
Rogr Lee: “Half the world is waking from the shaking of the earth!”
Posted: July 11, 2012 Filed under: English, Rogr Lee Comments Off on Rogr Lee: “Half the world is waking from the shaking of the earth!”Rogr Lee
In Exile
At first, life without you
didn’t seem so bad
I could do what I want to
and keep your picture in my hand
But things have gone so crazy
in this world of extremes
-half the world is lost inside
a dream within a dream!
An’ that’s why I am so lonely
why I am in exile
why I am so disenchanted
by the human profile
why I always feel so heavy
why everything feels hostile
why the dam is breaking
why I am in exile
(Y’know I’ve come to see that)
life without you doesn’t offer much
except your face
in everything I see and touch!
An’ that’s why I am so lonely
why I am in exile
why I am so disenchanted
by the human profile
why I always feel so heavy
why everything feels hostile
why the dam is breaking
why I am in exile
So I live without you
and that doesn’t make much sense
but I do what I need to
to “keep the wolf behind the fence”
when there’s half the people sleeping
from the moment of their birth
and half the world is waking
from the shaking of the earth!
An’ that’s why I am so lonely
why I am in exile
why I am so disenchanted
by the human profile
why I always feel so heavy
why everything feels hostile
why the dam is breaking
why I am in exile…
(I’m so lonely
I’m in exile…)
© D. Roger Lee 2003
Keep some of you hidden
One error can set you back
Truth is different from the facts
One lover can set you free
One idea can shatter and bleed
And in the end
You’ll tell your friends
Everything as it isn’t
Keep some of you hidden
Keep some of you hidden
Keep some of you hidden
One day I will happen
Upon another stranger
There won’t be any reason
To fear over-exposure
One error can set you back
Truth is different from the facts
One lover can set you free
One idea can shatter and bleed
And in the end
You’ll tell your friends
Everything as it isn’t
Keep some of your heart hidden
Keep some of your heart hidden
Keep some of your heart hidden
© D. Roger Lee 201o
_____
Élève la voix
Building a life
Buidling a beast
Building ten times what you need
Power-building
Scrape the stars
Addicted to buildings
Addicted to cars
Build a temple
Try a new form
Élevez la voix
Levez les normes
Building your mansion
building on fault lines
Clear-cutting forests like there’s
No end in sight
Reaching far
Beyond his grasp
Man breaking every
Thing in his path.
Build a temple
Try a new form
Élevez la voix
Levez les normes
_____
French phrases:
Élève la voix – Raise your voice
Levez les normes – Raise the standards
© D. Roger Lee 2010
_____
Rogr Lee was born in B.C. and spent his 20s in Toronto’s acoustic music scene with various musicians and poets. He then moved to Vancouver where he started to explore painting and home recording, producing his 2nd and 3rd indie CDs. Recently Rogr found the love of his life and is planning a wonderful future with him – and some cats.
Sister Juana Inés de la Cruz: “Stupid, conceited Men…..” / “Hombres necios…..”
Posted: July 11, 2012 Filed under: English, Juana Inés de la Cruz, Spanish Comments Off on Sister Juana Inés de la Cruz: “Stupid, conceited Men…..” / “Hombres necios…..”
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz
(1651-1695, Nueva España/México)
Hombres necios
Hombres necios que acusáis
a la mujer sin razón,
sin ver que sois la ocasión
de lo mismo que culpáis:
*
si con ansia sin igual
solicitáis su desdén,
¿por qué quereis que obren bien
si las incitáis al mal?
*
Combatís su resistencia
y luego, con gravedad,
decís que fue liviandad
lo que hizo la diligencia.
*
Parecer quiere el denuedo
de vuestro parecer loco,
al niño que pone el coco
y luego le tiene miedo.
*
Queréis, con presunción necia,
hallar a la que buscáis,
para pretendida, Thais,
y en la posesión, Lucrecia
*
¿Qué humor puede ser más raro
que el que, falto de consejo,
el mismo empaña el espejo
y siente que no esté claro?
*
Con el favor y el desdén
tenéis condición igual,
quejándoos, si os tratan mal,
burlándoos, si os quieren bien.
*
Opinión, ninguna gana:
pues la que más se recata,
si no os admite, es ingrata,
y si os admite, es liviana
*
Siempre tan necios andáis
que, con desigual nivel,
a una culpáis por crüel
y a otra por fácil culpáis.
*
¿Pues cómo ha de estar templada
la que vuestro amor pretende,
si la que es ingrata, ofende,
y la que es fácil, enfada?
*
Mas, entre el enfado y pena
que vuestro gusto refiere,
bien haya la que no os quiere
y quejaos en hora buena.
*
Dan vuestras amantes penas
a sus libertades alas,
y después de hacerlas malas
las queréis hallar muy buenas.
*
¿Cuál mayor culpa ha tenido
en una pasión errada:
la que cae de rogada
o el que ruega de caído?
*
¿O cuál es más de culpar,
aunque cualquiera mal haga:
la que peca por la paga
o el que paga por pecar?
*
Pues ¿para quée os espantáis
de la culpa que tenéis?
Queredlas cual las hacéis
o hacedlas cual las buscáis.
*
Dejad de solicitar,
y después, con más razón,
acusaréis la afición
de la que os fuere a rogar.
*
Bien con muchas armas fundo
que lidia vuestra arrogancia,
pues en promesa e instancia
juntáis diablo, carne y mundo.
_____
Sister Juana Inés de la Cruz
(1651-1695, New Spain/México)
Stupid, conceited men
Silly, you men – so very adept
at wrongly faulting womankind,
not seeing you’re alone to blame
for faults you plant in woman’s mind.
*
After you’ve won by urgent plea
the right to tarnish her good name,
you still expect her to behave–
you, that coaxed her into shame.
*
You batter her resistance down
and then, all righteousness, proclaim
that feminine frivolity,
not your persistence, is to blame.
*
When it comes to bravely posturing,
your witlessness must take the prize:
you’re the child that makes a bogeyman,
and then recoils in fear and cries.
*
Presumptuous beyond belief,
you’d have the woman you pursue
be Thais when you’re courting her,
Lucretia once she falls to you.
*
For plain default of common sense,
could any action be so queer
as oneself to cloud the mirror,
then complain that it’s not clear?
*
Whether you’re favored or disdained,
nothing can leave you satisfied.
You whimper if you’re turned away,
you sneer if you’ve been gratified.
*
With you, no woman can hope to score;
whichever way, she’s bound to lose;
spurning you, she’s ungrateful–
succumbing, you call her lewd.
*
Your folly is always the same:
you apply a single rule
to the one you accuse of looseness
and the one you brand as cruel.
*
What happy mean could there be
for the woman who catches your eye,
if, unresponsive, she offends,
yet whose complaisance you decry?
*
Still, whether it’s torment or anger–
and both ways you’ve yourselves to blame–
God bless the woman who won’t have you,
no matter how loud you complain.
*
It’s your persistent entreaties
that change her from timid to bold.
Having made her thereby naughty,
you would have her good as gold.
*
So where does the greater guilt lie
for a passion that should not be:
with the man who pleads out of baseness
or the woman debased by his plea?
*
Or which is more to be blamed–
though both will have cause for chagrin:
the woman who sins for money
or the man who pays money to sin?
*
So why are you men all so stunned
at the thought you’re all guilty alike?
Either like them for what you’ve made them
or make of them what you can like.
*
If you’d give up pursuing them,
you’d discover, without a doubt,
you’ve a stronger case to make
against those who seek you out.
*
I well know what powerful arms
you wield in pressing for evil:
your arrogance is allied
with the world, the flesh, and the devil.
Traducción del español al inglés / Translation from Spanish into English: Alan S. Trueblood
In his biography of Sister Juana Inés de la Cruz (1651-1695), Octavio Paz states that the self-taught scholar and nun of colonial New Spain (later called México) is the most important poet of the Americas up until the arrival of Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson in the 19th century. We must include the Aztec “poet-king” Nezahualcóyotl (1402-1472) in a statement so broad, yet de la Cruz does have something unique: a prototypical “feminist” point of view.
Juana Inés de la Cruz lived in México City from the age of 16 onward, and died during a plague at the age of 43 – after tending to the stricken. The out-of-wedlock daughter of a Spanish captain and a Criolla woman, she was an avid reader from childhood, and though she begged to disguise herself as a boy so as to continue her studies “more openly, in the Capital”, still she was “found out” and barred entrance to the university. That didn’t stop her – she kept on educating herself – and she’d already had a good head start, sneaking ( – in colonial society women were strongly discouraged from becoming literate in all but religious devotional texts – ) her grandfather’s books to read from his hacienda library. By her mid-teens she could speak and write in Latin, as well as Náhuatl, the language of the Aztecs. Devout and a “Daughter of The Church” though she was, yet she challenged male hypocrisy in the poem featured here, Hombres Necios/Stupid, conceited Men. Written in the conventional rhyming-quatrain verse form of the 17th century, Sister Juana addresses all Men; the poet analyzes their attraction to, and efforts to attain, women who will have sex with them — women whom the men reject and judge utterly, afterwards.
Ann-Marie Scarlett: “La Vida” y “Quien yo soy” / “Life” and “Who I am”
Posted: July 10, 2012 Filed under: Ann-Marie Scarlett, English, Spanish Comments Off on Ann-Marie Scarlett: “La Vida” y “Quien yo soy” / “Life” and “Who I am”
Ann-Marie Scarlett
La Vida
Viviendo en un mundo sin paz,
De poco amor que no dura
¿Cuándo terminará la guerra?
Todo trabajando juntos
Y amándonos la una a la otra
En la Vida no hay límites
No hay satisfacción
Sino mucha distracción
Cavemos dentro de nosotras mismas
Buscando estar completas
Resultados, arrepentimientos,
Pensando en el tiempo
Cuando no lloraremos más
¿Habrá un tiempo de gozo puro
Un tiempo sin dolor?
¿O será siempre el desdén?
El Tiempo no espera a nadie
Y aún, solo el Tiempo lo dirá.
*
Life
Living in a world of no peace
Little love with no endurance
When will the war stop?
Everyone pulling together
And loving each other
With Life there are no boundaries
No satisfaction
But lots of distraction
Dig into ourselves
Looking for completeness
Results, regrets
Thinking of the time
When we’ll cry no more
Will there ever be a time of pure joy
A time with no pain
Or will it always be disdain
Time waits for no one
But still; only time will tell.
_____
Quien yo soy
Siempre estoy pensando en ese tiempo
Cuando yano estaré asustada
El tiempo cuando estaré liberada de mis miedos
El tiempo cuando no me preocuparé
El tiempo cuando diré:
Ésta es quien yo soy.
El tiempo cuando diré:
Me importa un bledo.
El tiempo cuando diré:
No necesito un hombre.
El tiempo cuando diga:
Ésta es quien yo soy.
El tiempo cuando no me sentiré tan sola
El tiempo cuando me sentiré bienvenida en casa
– el tiempo cuando diré:
Ésta es quien yo soy.
*
Who I am
I always think about the time
When I’ll be scared no more
The time I’ll be free from my fears
The time when I wouldn’t care
The time that I’ll say
This is who I am
The time I’ll say
I don’t give a damn
The time I’ll say
I don’t need a man
The time when I say
This is who I am
The time when I
Won’t feel so alone
The time when I’ll
Feel welcome at home
The time when I say
This is who I am.
* * * * *
Traducciones del inglés al español / Translations from English into Spanish:
Alexander Best and Lidia García Garay
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.”
Zócalo Poets 