Audre Lorde: poemas traducidos (1962-1973)
Posted: February 18, 2016 Filed under: A FEW FAVOURITES / UNA MUESTRA DE FAVORITOS, Audre Lorde, Audre Lorde: poemas traducidos, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: El Mes de la Historia Afroamericana: Poetas Comments Off on Audre Lorde: poemas traducidos (1962-1973)
Retrato de Audre Lorde por Bruce Patrick Jones_grafito y acuarela_2016 / Portrait of Audre Lorde by Bruce Patrick Jones_graphite and watercolour_2016
Audre Lorde (18 de febrero de 1934 – 17 de noviembre de 1992)
Carbón (“Coal”, 1962)
.
“Yo” es
el negro completo,
algo hablado del interior de la Tierra.
Hay muchas clases de “abierto” –
como un diamante se vuelve en nudo de llama,
como un sonido se vuelve a una palabra,
coloreado por quien-paga-cuál para hablar.
.
Algunas palabras son abiertas
como un diamante sobre ventanas de cristal,
cantando en alto dentro del choque pasajero del sol.
También hay palabras como
apuestas grapadas en un libro perforado
(cómpralo, fírmalo, y despedázalo)
y pase-lo-que-pase anhela todas las oportunidades;
queda el boleto, y un diente extraído (incorrectamente)
con un borde desigual.
Unas palabras viven en mi garganta,
engendrandas como culebras.
Otros conocen el sol,
buscando como gitanos sobre mi lengua
para explotar a través de mis labios
– como gorriones jóvenes que brotan de su cáscara.
Hay ciertas palabras
que me importunan.
.
“Amor” es una palabra – y una otra clase de “abierto”.
Así como un diamante se vuelve en nudo de llama,
yo soy “Negro” – porque me origino del interior de la tierra.
Ahora: agarra mi palabra – como una joya – en la luz abierta.
. . .
Libro de cuentos en la mesa de la cocina
(“Story books on a kitchen table”, 1970)
.
La matriz dolorosa de mi madre escupió algo: yo.
Escupió “yo”
en su arnés incómodo de desesperanza,
en sus engaños,
donde la ira me concibió (una segunda vez),
perforando mis ojos, como flechas
señaladas por su pesadilla de la “ella” que yo no me volvía.
.
Y ella, yendo, dejó en su lugar
unas doncellas de hierro que me protegieran;
y mi comida fuera
la leche arrugada de leyenda
donde yo, envuelta de pesadillas,
vagabundeaba a través de las habitaciones aisladas de la tarde.
Las pesadillas llegaron de los
Libros de las Hadas
en colores de
Naranja y Rojo y Amarillo,
Púrpura y Azul y Verde.
En esos libros
las brujas blancas gobernaron
la mesa vacía de la cocina;
y ellas ni lloraron ni ofrecieron de oro a nadie
– nunca –
y ningún encantamiento cálido por
la madre desaparecida de una niña negra.
. . .
Generación II (“Generation II”, 1971)
.
Una chica negra
– que iba en / crecía en
la deseada mujer para quién
su madre había rezado –
está caminando sola
y tiene miedo de
sus iras – ambas iras.
. . .
La revolución es una forma de cambio social
(“Revolution is one form of social change”, 1968)
.
Cuando el Jefe está ocupado
haciendo “niggers”,
pues no importa
cual es tu tono.
.
Si se agota un color específico,
siempre el Jefe puede cambiar a tamaño;
y cuando ha eliminado los grandes
pues cambiará hacia el sexo
que es
– seamos realistas –
donde comenzó Todo.
. . .
Una planta de alcantarilla crece en Harlem
o
Yo mismo, soy una extranjera aquí –
¿Cuándo parte el próximo cisne?
(“A sewerplant grows in Harlem
or
I’m a stranger here myself –
When does the next swan leave?”, 1969)
.
¿Cómo está hecho la palabra hecho carne hecho acero hecho mierda
por embutirla dentro Sin Salida
como una bomba casera
hasta que explota
y se unta
y está hecho real
– contra nuestras ventanas ya sucias –
o por purgarla en una fuente verbal?
.
Mientras tanto, los “Ellos” editoriales
– que no son menos potentes –
se preparan para asfixiar a los “Nosotros” reales
con un flujo manufacturado de todo nuestra mierda no verbal.
.
¿Te has levantado durante la noche,
estallando de comprensión,
y el mundo se disuelve hacia un oído escuchando
(y puedes verter en ese oído todo lo que sabías
antes de despertarte)
pero descubriste que todos los oídos estuvieron dormidos
o quizás anestesiados por un sueño de palabras;
porque, como estás gritando en esos oídos
– una y otra vez –
nada se mueve
y la mente que has alcanzar no es una mente que funciona?
.
Por favor, que cuelgues pues marques de nuevo el número de malasuerte…
Cuelga, (por favor), pues muere.
La mente que has contactado no es una mente operativa.
Por favor, que cuelgues pues mueras – de nuevo.
.
Hablar con alguna gente es como hablar a un váter.
. . .
Rock Amor-Duro #II (“Hard Rock Love #II”, 1971)
.
Escúchame, Hermano,
te amo, t’amo-t’amo-t’amo,
entiéndeme / cávame
una tumba de un otro color.
Estamos ambos echado / mintiendo
uno al lado de otro en el mismo lugar
donde tú me pusiste;
abajo
y más hondo todavía.
Somos
una soledad no resuelto por llorar;
somos
ciudades saqueadas no reconstruidas
por consignas,
por punzadas retóricas
que fuerza una cerradura
que siempre ha sido abierta.
.
“Ser Negra
No Es Bella”, baby.
Bel amor, chico bello
– hazlo otra vez.
Lo
que
es es
no estar exprimida / chingada
doble,
al mismo tiempo
de arriba y del lado.
. . .
Poema de Amor (“Love poem”, 1971)
.
Habla, Tierra,
y bendígame con lo que es más rico;
haga el cielo desacelerar la miel de mis caderas:
rígidas como las montañas,
extendido sobre un valle,
forjado por la boca de la lluvia.
.
Y lo entendí cuando entré en ella
que fui el viento alto en sus bosques,
dedos huecos susurrando sonido.
Una miel fluía
de la copa rajada;
Estuve empalada en una lanza de lenguas,
en las puntas de sus mamas,
en su ombligo.
Y mi aliento
aullaba dentro de sus entradas
vía pulmones de dolor.
.
Avara / ávida como gaviotas argénteas
o como un chamaco,
me balanceo por lo alto / sobre la Tierra
sin parar.
. . .
Ruptura (“Separation”, 1972)
.
Menguan las estrellas;
no me premiarán,
aun en mi triunfo.
.
Es posible
en autodefensa
darle un balazo a un hombre
pues todavía notar que
su sangre roja
adorna la nieve.
. . .
Ahora (“Now”, 1973)
.
Fuerza / Poder de Mujer
es
Fuerza / Poder de Negro
es
Fuerza / Poder del Ser Humano
es
siempre sentir.
Late mi corazón
mientras se abiertan mis ojos,
mientras se mueven mis manos,
mientras cuenta mi boca.
.
Yo soy
¿eres tú?
.
Lista.
. . .
Memorial III: de una cabina telefónica en la avenida Broadway
(“Memorial III: from a phone booth on Broadway”, 1973)
.
Alguna vez
un rato pone al revés
y el día entero se derrumba a
una búsqueda urgente
por una cabina telefónica que funciona.
Porque
presto-presto
debo telefonearte
– tú que no has hablado dentro de mi cabeza
hace más de un año.
Si este teléfono timbraría bastante largo,
empujado sobre mi oreja,
florecerás en sonido;
contestarás,
debes contestar;
contéstame-contéstame-contéstame, maldición.
Contesta,
por favor,
contesta.
Es la última vez
que yo te llamaré.
Nunca jamás.
. . .
Versiones españoles del inglés: Alexander Best
. . .
Audre Geraldine Lorde (18/02/1934 – 17/11/1992) fue una poeta-ensayista-activista afroamericana. Ella se identificaba como “una poeta-guerrera-madre lesbiana negra”; pugnaba por no reducirse a una de aquellas identidades, sino reafirmarlas como fuente de fuerza. Planteó, entre otras ideas, que el racismo, el clasismo, el sexismo y la homofobia son cuatro tipos de ceguera nacidos de la misma raíz: la imposibilidad de reconocer el concepto de diferencia en cuanto fuerza humana dinámica.
. . . . .
Audre Lorde: “Afuera” / “Outside”
Posted: February 18, 2014 Filed under: Audre Lorde, English, Spanish | Tags: Black History Month, Black lesbian poets, El Mes de la Historia Afroamericana Comments Off on Audre Lorde: “Afuera” / “Outside”
Audre Lorde (18 de febrero, 1934 – 1992)
“Afuera” (1977)
.
1.
En el centro de una ciudad cruel y fantasmal
todas las cosas naturales son extrañas.
Crecí en una confusión genuina
entre césped y maleza y flores
y lo que significaba “de color”
excepto la ropa que no se podía blanquear
y nadie me llamó negra de mierda
hasta que tuve trece.
Nadie linchó a mi mamá
pero lo que nunca había sido
había blanqueado su cara de todo
excepto de furias muy privadas
e hizo que los otros chicos
me llamaran agrandada en la escuela.
Y cuántas veces he vuelto a llamarme
a través de mis huesos confusión
negra
como médula queriendo decir carne
y cuántas veces me cortaste
e hiciste correr en las calles
mi propia sangre
quién creés que soy
que estás aterrorizado de transformarte
o qué ves en mi cara
que no hayas descartado ya
en tu propio espejo
qué cara ves en mis ojos
que algún día
vas a
reconocer como la tuya
A quién maldeciré por haber crecido
creyendo en la cara de mi madre
o por haber vivido temiendo la oscuridad potente
usando la forma de mi padre
ambos me marcaron
con su amor ciego y terrible
y ahora estoy lasciva por mi propio nombre.
.
2.
Entre los cañones de sus terribles silencios
Madre brillante y padre marrón
busco ahora mis propias formas
porque nunca hablaron de mí
excepto como suya
y los pedazos con que tropiezo y me caigo
aún registro como prueba
de que soy hermosa
dos veces
bendecida con las imágenes
de quienes fueron
y quienes pensé alguna vez que eran
de lo que traslado
hacia y a través
y lo que necesito
dejar detrás de mí
más que nada
estoy bendecida en los seres que soy
que han venido a hacer de nuestras caras rotas un todo.
. . .
Audre Lorde (born February 18th, 1934, died 1992)
“Outside”
(first published in The American Poetry Review, Vol.6, #1, Jan.-Feb. 1977)
.
1.
In the centre of a harsh and spectrumed city
all things natural are strange.
I grew up in a genuine confusion
between grass and weeds and flowers
and what “colored” meant
except for clothes you couldn’t bleach
and nobody called me nigger
until I was thirteen.
Nobody lynched my momma
but what she’d never been
had bleached her face of everything
but very private furies
and made the other children
call me yellow snot at school.
.
And how many times have I called myself back
through my bones confusion
black
like marrow meaning meat
for my soul’s hunger
and how many times have you cut me
and run in the streets
my own blood
who do you think me to be
that you are terrified of becoming
or what do you see in my face
you have not already discarded
in your own mirror
what face do you see in my eyes
that you will someday
come to
acknowledge your own.
.
Who shall I curse that I grew up
believing in my mother’s face
or that I lived in fear of the potent darkness
that wore my father’s shape
they have both marked me
with their blind and terrible love
and I am lustful now for my own name.
.
2.
Between the canyons of my parents’ silences
mother bright and father brown
I seek my own shapes now
for they never spoke of me
except as theirs
and the pieces that I stumble and fall over
I still record as proof
that I am beautiful
twice
blessed with the images
of who they were
and who I thought them to be
of what I move toward
and through
and what I need
to leave behind me
for most of all I am
blessed within my selves
who are come
to make our shattered faces whole.
. . .
Otros poemas de Audre Lorde: https://zocalopoets.com/2012/07/01/mujer-y-de-la-casa-de-iemanja-por-audre-lorde-woman-and-from-the-house-of-yemanja-by-audre-lorde/
. . . . .
Audrey Lorde and Essex Hemphill: Mothers and Fathers
Posted: June 18, 2013 Filed under: Audre Lorde, English, Essex Hemphill Comments Off on Audrey Lorde and Essex Hemphill: Mothers and Fathers.
Audre Lorde and Essex Hemphill…
Two Black-American poets: one a New Yorker from Harlem with family roots in Grenada and Barbados, the other growing up in Washington D.C. with roots in Columbia, South Carolina; one a passionately political Lesbian with children, the other a passionately political Gay man who would die of complications from AIDS. Both of these writers, in poems and essays combining clear thinking with deep feeling – and in the facts of their lived lives – sought to widen what later came to be known as “identity politics”. Their work goes far beyond it, establishing a universality of truth. In the poems below Lorde and Hemphill reflect upon the meaning of relationship (and sometimes the lack thereof) with their mothers and fathers. These are poems of great intimacy and intelligence with head and heart in thrilling unison.
.
Audre Lorde in Berlin_1984_photograph © Dagmar Schultz
.
Audre Lorde (1934 – 1992)
“Legacy – Hers”
.
When love leaps from my mouth
cadenced in that Grenada wisdom
upon which I first made holy war
then I must reassess
all my mother’s words
or every path I cherish.
.
Like everything else I learned from Linda*
this message hurtles across still uncalm air
silent tumultuous freed water
descending an imperfect drain.
.
I learn how to die from your many examples
cracking the code of your living
heroisms collusions invisibilities
constructing my own
book of your last hours
how we tried to connect
in that bland spotless room
one bright Black woman
to another bred for endurance
for battle
.
island women make good wives
whatever happens they’ve seen worse…
.
your last word to me was wonderful
and I am still seeking the rest
of that terrible acrostic
.
(from Lorde’s collection The Marvelous Arithmetics of Distance, 1993)
*Linda was the name of Lorde’s mother.
. . .
Audre Lorde
“Father Son and Holy Ghost”
.
I have not ever seen my father’s grave.
.
Not that his judgement eyes have been
forgotten
nor his great hands’ print
on our evening doorknobs
one half turn each night
and he would come
drabbled with the world’s business
massive and silent as the whole day’s wish
ready to redefine each of our shapes –
but that now the evening doorknobs wait
and do not recognize us as we pass.
.
Each week a different woman –
regular as his one quick glass each evening –
pulls up the grass his stillness grows
calling it week. Each week
A different woman has my mother’s face
and he, who time has,
changeless.
must be amazed
who knew and loved but one.
.
My father died in silence, loving creation
and well-defined response.
He lived
still judgements on familiar things
and died
knowing a January 15th that year me.
.
Lest I go into dust
I have not ever seen my father’s grave.
.
(1968, revised 1976)
. . .
Audre Lorde
“Inheritance – His”
.
I
.
My face resembles your face
less and less each day. When I was young
no one mistook whose child I was.
Features build colouring
alone among my creamy fine-boned sisters
marked me *Byron’s daughter.
.
No sun set when you died, but a door
opened onto my mother. After you left
she grieved her crumpled world aloft
an iron fist sweated with business symbols
a printed blotter. dwell in a house of Lord’s
your hollow voice chanting down a hospital corridor
yea, though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death
I will fear no evil.
.
II
.
I rummage through the deaths you lived
swaying on a bridge of question.
At seven in Barbados
dropped into your unknown father’s life
your courage vault from his tailor’s table
back to the sea
Did the Grenada treeferns sing
your 15th summer as you jumped ship
to seek your mother
finding her too late
surrounded with new sons?
.
Who did you bury to become enforcer of the law
the handsome legend
before whose raised arm even trees wept
a man of deep and wordless passion
who wanted sons and got five girls?
You left the first two scratching in a treefern’s shade
the youngest is a renegade poet
searching for your answer in my blood.
.
My mother’s Grenville tales
spin through early summer evenings.
But you refused to speak of home
of stepping proud Black and penniless
into this land where only white men
ruled by money. How you laboured
in the docks of the Hotel Astor
your bright wife a chambermaid upstairs
welded love and survival to ambition
as the land of promise withered
crashed the hotel closed
and you peddle dawn-bought apples
from a pushcart on Broadway.
Does an image of return
wealthy and triumphant
warm your chilblained fingers
as you count coins in the Manhattan snow
or is it only Linda
who dreams of home?
.
When my mother’s first-born cries for milk
in the brutal city winter
do the faces of your other daughters dim
like the image of the treeferned yard
where a dark girl first cooked for you
and her ash heap still smells curry?
.
III
.
Did the secret of my sisters steal your tongue
like I stole money from your midnight pockets
stubborn and quaking
as you threaten to shoot me if I am the one?
the naked lightbulbs in our kitchen ceiling
glint off your service revolver
as you load whispering.
.
Did two little dark girls in Grenada
dart like flying fish
between your averred eyes
and my pajama-less body
our last adolescent summer
eavesdropped orations
to your shaving mirror
our most intense conversations
were you practising how to tell me
of my twin sisters abandoned
as you had been abandoned
by another Black woman seeking
her fortune Grenada Barbados
Panama Grenada.
New York City.
.
IV
.
You bought old books at auction
for my unlanguaged world
gave me your idols Marcus Garvey Citizen Kane
and morsels from your dinner place
when I was seven.
I owe you my Dahomeyan jaw
the free high school for gifted girls
no one else thought I should attend
and the darkness that we share.
Our deepest bonds remain
the mirror and the gun.
.
V
.
An elderly Black judge
known for his way with women
visits this island where I live
shakes my hand, smiling
“I knew your father,” he says
“quite a man!” Smiles again.
I flinch at his raised eyebrow.
A long-gone woman’s voice
lashes out at me in parting
“You will never be satisfied
until you have the whole world
in your bed!”
.
Now I am older than you were when you died
overwork and silence exploding in your brain.
You are gradually receding from my face.
Who were you outside the 23rd Psalm?
Knowing so little
how did I become so much
like you?
.
Your hunger for rectitude
blossoms into rage
the hot tears of mourning
never shed for you before
your twisted measurements
the agony of denial
the power of unshared secrets.
.
(Written January – September 1992. From Lorde’s The Marvelous Arithmetics of Distance)
*Byron was the name of Lorde’s father.
. . . . .
Essex Hemphill in 1991
.
Essex Hemphill (1957 – 1995)
“The Father, Son, and Unholy Ghosts”
.
We are not always
the bravest sons
our fathers dream.
Nor do they always
dream of us.
We don’t always
recognize him
if we have never
seen his face.
We are suspicious
of strangers.
Question:
is he the one?
.
I stand waist deep
in the decadence of forgetting.
The vain act of looking the other way.
Insisting there can be peace
and fecundity without confrontation.
The nagging question of blood hounds me.
How do I honour it?
.
I don’t understand
our choice of angers,
your domestic violence,
my flaring temper.
I wanted tenderness
to belong to us
more than food or money.
The ghost of my wants
is many things:
lover, guardian angel,
key to our secrets,
the dogs we let sleep.
The rhythm of silence
we do not disturb.
.
I circle questions of blood.
I give a fierce fire dance.
The flames call me.
It is safe. I leap
unprepared to be brave. I surrender
more frightened of being alone.
I have to do this
to stay alive.
To be acknowledged.
Fire calls. I slither
to the flames
to become birth.
.
A black hole, gaseous,
blisters around its edge,
swallows our estranged years.
They will never return
except as frightening remembrances
when we are locked in closets
and cannot breathe or scream.
I want to be free, daddy,
of the black hole between us.
The typical black hole.
If we let it be
it will widen enough
to swallow us.
Won’t it?
.
In my loneliest gestures
learning to live
with less is less.
I forestalled my destiny.
I never wanted
to be your son.
You never
made the choice
to be my father.
What we have learned
from no text book:
is how to live without
one another.
How to evade the stainless truth.
Drug pain bleary-eyed.
Harmless.
Store our waste in tombs
beneath the heart,
knowing at any moment
it could leak out.
And do we expect to survive?
What are we prepared for?
Trenched off.
Communications down.
Angry in alien tongues.
We use extreme weapons
to ward off one another.
Some nights, our opposing reports
are heard as we dream.
Silence is the deadliest weapon.
We both use it.
Precisely. Often.
.
(1987)
. . .
“In the Life”
.
Mother, do you know
I roam alone at night?
I wear colognes,
tight pants, and
chains of gold,
as I search
for men willing
to come back
to candlelight.
.
I’m not scared of these men
though some are killers
of sons like me. I learned
there is no tender mercy
for men of colour,
for sons who love men
like me.
.
Do not feel shame for how I live.
I chose this tribe
of warriors and outlaws.
Do not feel you failed
some test of motherhood.
My life has borne fruit
no woman could have given me
anyway.
.
If one of these thick-lipped,
wet, black nights
while I’m out walking,
I find freedom in this village.
If I can take it with my tribe
I’ll bring you here.
And you will never notice
the absence of rice
and bridesmaids.
.
(1986)
. . .
Audre Lorde poems © The Audre Lorde Estate
Essex Hemphill poems © Cleiss Press
. . . . .
“And Don’t Think I Won’t Be Waiting”: Love poems by Audre Lorde
Posted: June 18, 2013 Filed under: Audre Lorde, English Comments Off on “And Don’t Think I Won’t Be Waiting”: Love poems by Audre Lorde
ZP_Solar Abstract_© photographer Wilda Gerideau-Squires
Audre Lorde (1934 – 1992)
“Pirouette”
.
I saw
your hands on my lips like blind needles
blunted
from sewing up stone
and
where are you from
you said
your hands reading over my lips for
some road through uncertain night
for your feet to examine home
where are you from
you said
your hands
on my lips like thunder
promising rain
.
a land where all lovers are mute.
.
And
why are you weeping
you said
your hands in my doorway like rainbows
following rain
why are you weeping?
.
I am come home.
.
(1968, revised 1976)
. . .
“Bridge through My Window”
.
In curve scooped out and necklaced with light
burst pearls stream down my out-stretched arms to earth.
Oh bridge my sister bless me before I sleep
the wild air is lengthening
and I am tried beyond strength or bearing
over water.
.
Love, we are both shorelines
a left country
where time suffices
and the right land
where pearls roll into earth and spring up day.
joined, our bodies have passage into one
without merging
as this slim necklace is anchored into night.
.
And while the we conspires
to make secret its two eyes
we search the other shore
for some crossing home.
.
(1968, revised 1976)
. . .
“Conversations in Crisis”
.
I speak to you as a friend speaks
or a true lover
not out of friendship nor love
but for a clear meeting
of self upon self
in sight of our hearth
but without fire.
.
I cherish your words that ring
like late summer thunders
to sing without octave
and fade, having spoken the season.
But I hear the false heat of this voice
as it dries up the sides of your words
coaxing melodies from your tongue
and this curled music is treason.
.
Must I die in your fever –
or, as the flames wax, take cover
in your heart’s culverts
crouched like a stranger
under the scorched leaves of your other burnt loves
until the storm passes over?
.
(1970, revised 1976)
. . .
“Recreation”
.
Coming together
it is easier to work
after our bodies
meet
paper and pen
neither care nor profit
whether we write or not
but as your body moves
under my hands
charged and waiting
we cut the leash
you create me against your thighs
hilly with images
moving through our word countries
my body
writes into your flesh
the poem
you make of me.
.
Touching you I catch midnight
as moon fires set in my throat
I love you flesh into blossom
I made you
and take you made
into me.
.
(1978)
. . .
“And Don’t Think I Won’t Be Waiting”
.
I am supposed to say
it doesn’t matter look me up some
time when you’re in my neighbourhood
needing
a drink or some books good talk
a quick dip before lunch –
but I never was one
for losing
what I couldn’t afford
from the beginning
your richness made my heart
burn like a roman candle.
.
Now I don’t mind
your hand on my face like fire
like a slap
turned inside out
quick as a caress
but I’m warning you
this time
you will not slip away
under a covering cloud
of my tears.
.
(1974)
. . . . .
“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.
*
Zócalo Poets 