Círculos (Ni prosa, ni poesía)

Voy a dormir
Alfonsina Storni
(…)
“Voy a dormir, nodriza mía, acuéstame.
Ponme una lámpara a la cabecera;
una constelación; la que te guste;
todas son buenas; bájala un poquito.

Déjame sola: oyes romper los brotes…
te acuna un pie celeste desde arriba
y un pájaro te traza unos compases

para que olvides… Gracias. Ah, un encargo:
si él llama nuevamente por teléfono
le dices que no insista, que he salido…”

Descubro que la vida toda es una serie de círculos, con estaciones en cada  uno de ellos, que se replican en el próximo círculo.  Por eso tanto deja vú, porque cada estación es una copia empeorada o mejorada (según los designios del universo) de una estación que ya pasamos; y descubro en esta estación tan repetida, que nunca habrá tal camino.  A veces, nuestros círculos se cruzan con otros, otras veces nuestro círculo aumenta su diámetro y nos da la sensación de que estamos avanzando.  Planetas en elipse o Cristos en calvario, el universo está allá afuera y las ciudades y los huertos no son para nosotros.

No hagas la autopsia de mis palabras

tratando de entender algo que nunca supiste escuchar;

no condenes  mi supuesta cobardía

tú que nunca tuviste la valentía de vivir;

no exorcices mis pecados

porque en tu silencio vive el peor de los demonios;

no maldigas mis pasiones

porque sin ellas no hubiera llegado hasta aquí;

no mancilles mi cuerpo en planchas de acero

el diagnóstico se lee en cualquier cielo nublado.

A ti te escribo Señor hacedor de los milagros, a ti te imploro Oh Madre de todos los humanos, a ti te busco Loba Salvaje de mis ríos subterráneos,  a ti te canto Huesera  sobre los huesos de mis penas, a ti te bailo Dakini y desnudo los disfraces que me esconden de la hoguera.  ¿Qué no ves que el tiempo se agota y estoy tan cansada de andar en círculos sin llegar a ningún lado?  Te he entregado mis manos, mi esfuerzo, mi luz y mi sombra, mi amor y mi desamor, mis plegarias y mis rezos, mis miedos y mis verdades, mis pasos y mi trabajo, mis hijos y los hombres amados.

No me vendas el simulacro de tu tristeza

si no pudiste ser mi alegría mientras latía;

no pretendas extrañarme

cuando tu ausencia fue la constante

en mis días de agonía;

no te permitas recodarme un solo instante

si en tu ocupada agenda mi nombre no tuvo sitio;

no tengas la osadía de comprar una sola flor

para arrojar en mi tumba

si tus manos jamás rozaron un pétalo frente a mis ojos;

no quieras alabar mis virtudes

esas que condenaste porque no supiste apreciarlas.

Aquí me quedo en esta vieja y conocida estación donde alguna vez nos cruzamos.  Ni siquiera he hecho las maletas, tampoco he comprado un boleto y ya ves,  mi poesía no enarbola despedida.  Puedes partir la tierra con tus bramidos, puedes azotar con lluvias los vientos marchitos; mas libra de todo pesar a quienes no hablan mi lengua, a quienes desconocen cada verso de mi historia.  Es tu hora de cambiar mi destino, de inaugurar un planeta nuevo con una rosa, una hamaca, un jazmín, una hoguera y un cielo lleno de estrellas para que escuches mis rezos.

Soledad Lorena

Susana Lorenzo

26 de noviembre de 2011

 

Fragmento

Planetas en elipse o Cristos en calvario, el universo está allá afuera y las ciudades y los huertos no son para nosotros.

Edited from Gollum's song

Where once was light
Now darkness falls
Where once was love
Love is no more
Don't say goodbye
Don't say I didn't try

These tears we cry
Are falling rain
For all the lies 
that we were told.
The hurt, the blame!
And we will weep to be so alone
We are lost and
We can never go home

So in the end
I'll be what I will be
No loyal friend
Was ever there for me
no one could rescue me

and everybody 

would fear my heart and wings

Now we say goodbye
We say we tried so hard
but it didn't work.

These tears you cry
Have come too late
Take back the lies
The hurt, the blame
and the empty words!

And you will weep
When you face the end alone
You are lost
you will stay here for ever
and I will never go home
You are lost 
but you will not know

Verses adapted from Gollum' song

Gollum's song by Emiliana Torrini

The phrase I hate most:
"I don't want to hurt you."
We all hurt, but walking away hurts more. Finding the way to heal the one we hurt, is the only answer.

When a woman opens her heart

When a woman, any woman, opens herself showing some hidden part under the surface, it might be the muse, the heart, the wild wolf, the witch, the fairy, the river flowing under the skin; when a woman does so, it is because she feels safe and she trusts the person opposite her.  When she does so, it is not always because she is seeking something or because she is trying to cast a spell on the man watching her unveiling.  She does so, because she wants to give the best of herself, because she needs to let it flow, because she needs to be free.  Because she thinks whatever she is giving might do good to the other.  And after that unveiling she remains kind of naked from inside, no matter how much clothes she is wearing.  Therefore, whatever the man does, will affect her enormously, because she is naked, she is wearing no disguise, no shields, no iron walls.

If the man walks away, destroys  bridges, draws a vast desert of silence, sends his guardians and predators, ignores her, laughs at her and he pretends nothing ever happened;  he behaves like all those families, all those communities who set fire to the witches, all those loving parents who punish their girls because they are not normal.  Instead, you should be able to face her, give her a coat if you cannot give her a hug, sit by her side in silence if you cannot say a word, look into her eyes showing her that you appreciate what you were given and that you truly respect her.

The Witch and The Wizard

Not very long ago, a woman came to live in this village.  It is said she was a witch, a southern blue witch; but it might be she was a fairy, no one can really tell.  She said she had come to heal herself, escaping from some dark pain.  She was looking for a quiet place, far away from crowds and quite close to the highlands.

She met many people indeed, she had many jobs, and she loved quite a few men.  She had no true lover in town but she always loved deeply giving the best out of herself.  She did not like talking about herself, not even about her gifts or talents.  She felt well just by making other people feel better but there was a deep sorrow down in her heart for she was always longing for someone to love with.

She met this man who was charming, smart and so intelligent that he could follow her most complicated thought maps.  He was not handsome neither ugly, just a common man with no ability to dance or move around the grass.  But as soon as she looked into his eyes she could see a tiny hidden wizard living behind his shields.  And this wizard was always waving at her, trying to call her attention, trying to seduce the witch living in the river under her skin.  So, all of sudden she was just considering the fact that this clumsy man could be handsome indeed; but mainly, she had the feeling that there was a kind of strong connection between them.  She knew she had to reach him and she heard all the voices of the universe telling her to find the way to his heart.  She was sure she could help him and that sooner or later they might be able to help each other.  She knew she could help him break the shell, ignore the shields and find the light hidden in his heart.  She felt brave enough to help the wizard break free. 

She followed the old woman's advice, she listened to the wolf running with her, she paid attention to her intuition, and she kept the message which her mind could not totally grasp.   Writing a poem seemed the best way to tell him what she was seeing, to show him the movie which the universe was playing just in front of her eyes, the eyes of the soul. 

He read it, he laughed, and he mocked.  He might have thought she was nuts.  He said that even if she was the last woman on earth she would not feel attracted to even touch her.  He persuaded her that she was not able to seduce him, not even his wizard.  He convinced her that, for him, she was untouchable.

How could she be so wrong?  The inner witch had always been right.  She could see the movies...  She could see beyond his words and his disguise...  But maybe not.  May be, she was wrong.  She felt embarrassed and ashamed.  She wished she had never given him those poems.  She buried the message.  She destroyed the images.  She became pretty sure that she had been mistaken and she forgot every word and step.

They became friends, a weird type of friends. Not that they saw each other often.  Perhaps they had been friends before but that cannot be said for they could not even remember the moment they started believing they were good friends.

Far away she went.  Exile and giving up life led her far from herself, far from this village, far from this man.

But there he was, always writing, always calling, always asking, always a good friend.  And there he stayed by her side although he never believed that the wizard had been waving at her.  From time to time she would write to him about his path of light, about some tiny fragments of his life.  She could not help that much, he was not willing to be helped but he never left or never went away even if he could not go closer than an email.

After many years, she forgot about that message, that encrypted poem she had written, the images she had seen.  She could not imagine how she could have considered even touching this man, who was not handsome neither ugly and was not able to dance or move around the grass.  She was not attracted or seduced by him.  There was nothing she could really like about him. He was a good friend, a good man, an intelligent brainy doc who had a wizard hidden inside.

Darkness almost won the battle, she was about to jump so many times but he held her in the distance.  She realized he was a good person to talk to when you are about to die.  He could sit in the border of the cliff and talk to her without feeling disturbed, sad or upset.  He would never be afraid of losing her, he would never miss her, he would never cry for her.  She could tell him about even the darkest thoughts or feelings and he would not run away.

And then, she was able to escape from that deadly cage where she had hidden her fears and she came back to the village.  All over she started again with her life and there he was with his advice, his friendship and his care.  The distance never changed, for they could have lived in China, Canada or Wales, he could not go further than an email.

His wizard kept struggling and from time to time he would wave at her, but she ignored him, because she would not make the same mistake again, and of course, she would not lose a true loyal friend because of a mistaken reading of the universe's encrypted codes.

And this intelligent, smart man started to wake up slowly to his inner life, he was able to be aware of what cannot be seen, he could listen to his wizard and he could talk to the southern blue witch living inside that woman.  They helped each other, more than they could have ever imagined before.  She was there for him.  He was there for her.  They could see in each other's dreams.  They could read each other's thoughts and feelings. They could foretell the days to come.  They could work with their gifts and talents.  They were able to learn from each other while they kept living their own lives and they shared their secrets about lovers and romance. Little by little, he was able to build a bridge and they were able to see each other with the eyes which show us the trees and the clouds, the sun and the skin, the true face of soul here on earth.

Many years had passed, the years of the warriors of light.  One day, after looking at the crystal in the corner of his eyes, she woke up with that strange dream, not coming from the deep, thick nightmares, but a constant daydreaming about the wizard and this man, who was not handsome and who was her true loyal friend.  There was no pause or delete or cancel key to press.  The images were there.  And then each scene became a feeling going through her skin and flowing with her river.  All of a sudden the message was again there, she felt sick, mad and scared.  The old buried feeling was alive and beating her heart and winding her breath.  What could possibly be going on with her?  She looked for the poem and there it was, something she could not understand clearly, an encrypted code she could not read well.  She warned him that something wrong might happen, she knew she had to do something about it, but she did not want to.  She shared the poem again and he admitted he had kept it even after feeling embarrassed by her attitude long ago. 

Up he raised his shields.  Far he sent his wizard.  Cold his silence grew.  And this man who was not afraid of dark thoughts, who could be strong enough to walk by her side when death was moving around, he was now just scared of her trying to reach him again.

She decided neither to fight fate nor the will of the universe.  She just let her veins open and saw the river flow from her to that thin crack between the walls guarding his heart.

Higher he raised his shields.  Further he sent his wizard.  Colder his silence grew. Iron coated his words.  Once again, she thought she had been mistaken, even if the images would flood her eyes, even if the wizard could reach her in the distance, even if her river would melt with his wind during his dreams.

And there he spoke and asked her not to go. His words should not be listened to, his attitudes should be ignored, that's what he said and asked for.

She did not like him as a man, she only loved him as a friend.  He did not like her as a woman, she only cared for her as a friend.  She was untouchable for him and yet she felt she was able to find the way to his skin and show him what she had learnt, and tell him about the sacred fire and give him what she was told to.  And maybe he could learn how  to dance and how to move around the grass.  She knew exactly how it could feel.  She could feel the river turning into lava when reaching him in the distance.  He was freaking out for he did not know what was going on and he could only think with his frozen thoughts of the brainy doc who had lost his heart such a long time ago.  And yet, he would live and dance and feel in those scenes she was able to see, on that daydreaming movie which would never stop.

She could not tell him, he would not believe her, that she was not there to love him, not in the way people love on this earth.  She was not there to grab him or make him the man of her life.  They simply had the chance to let the wizard and the witch have fun together and play with the stars and let the planets collide and the cosmic showers pour on their lives.  They could give each other a flame of sacred fire, a wave of endless ocean, an inch of unknown plasma.

She saw herself dancing around him, eyes closed, lights off, words unspoken, gently moving the air without even touching him.  She felt the warmth crossing the borders, reaching the empty spaces, melting the shields, breaking the wizard free.  She saw the man smiling and the wizard laughing.  But he would not dare to stand so close to her, nearer than an email, closer than a handshake, she would always be untouchable for him for she had come dressed in a way he would never like.

So she spent a sleepless night writing this story which I am telling you.  Many ends lived in her mind, just one end was the expected one by the universe.

Nobody ever saw her again.  It is said that there is an old man, a smart man, a very intelligent man, who is neither handsome nor ugly and who lives in a cottage in the suburbs.  He likes telling stories about wizards and blue witches.  He likes helping people although he never learned to heal them using his hands for his skin turned so grey and so cold as it had never felt the warmth of the sacred fire.  His eyes shine so brightly when the wind dances around him that no one can ever tell if it is because she was ever close to him or because he wished she had been.

Soledad Lorena

With the help of the Southern Blue Witch, as most of the story comes from the scenes she could see on the screen of her soul’s eyes.

November 17^th, 2011

Something like 4.00 a.m.

As the river gives into the ocean,
what is inside me moves inside you...
-Robert Bly
The Kabir Book

"...el resplandor quema las horas
y la redención
se esconde en una esquina.

¡Sorpréndeme!
es la hora de las visitaciones,
el hechizo es viveza
rompiendo los espejos;
y mil cristales ensangrentados
giran en el corazón.
Las ideas solapan las lágrimas,
las esperanzas consultan
la brújula
y un mar solitario
se fatiga en el silencio.

¡Sálvame!
Los estigmas se arriesgan
en el tornasol de la oscuridad;
la víspera es la palabra
que reduce las estrellas,
pegoteadas en la bóveda
al canto de un jilguero.

¡Dame tu luz!,
escríbeme un poema,
haz añicos las tinieblas.
El silencio mata más
     que la espada."

Fragmento - Las Piedras en el Camino - Ylia Kazama
(Mi musa no tiene el valor de escribir, su último escrito rompió todos los puentes e inauguró una isla en algún punto oscuro del Universo.)

Old buried poem (Building the grave)

Without yet opening the door

Without even telling you my names,

Not even after my lips touching your heart,

There is a farewell building

Endless walls of unknown heights.

How can something be over

Without yet starting?

How can it hurt so bad

What it hasn’t been lived?

Faked mirrors,

Mirages to be discovered

Truth not to be said

Eyes not to be opened,

Unveiled masks

Destroyed disguises.

What it takes to make a miracle

Makes it easier to double the bet

And bury the heart

Under hidden thoughts

Deeper where the skin

Does not reach any emotion.

Soledad Lorena

June 24^th 2007

Agua

No intento ser la ola

Que rompe contra tu acantilado,

Me dejo ser el agua mansa

Que serpentea y danza

Fluye en cada valle y luego

Sigue camino hacia el vasto océano,

Para que encuentres tu curso

Y seas agua de otro mar.

Soledad Lorena

23 de noviembre de 2011

Basta una frase para reducir a polvo las certezas.

Neutro

Despertarme con la página en blanco

puede ser la sentencia

del libro quemado en la hoguera

o el presagio inerte

de un punto final sin poesía.

Soledad Lorena

21 noviembre, 2011

Dead landscape

Off we go to the broken shore

Vessels going wild

Sand turning to stone.

Memories told

In languages unknown

Emptiness flooding

The break of the day.

Rivers coming dry

Lava freezing to death,

May my name dry

And the endless night fall.

Soledad Lorena

November 21^st, 2011

Pronóstico del tiempo para hoy

(Escúchese leído con voz de locutora nocturna y el tono que usan los que pronostican el tiempo temprano en la mañana)

Probable desprendimiento de estrellas

en la retina de tu corazón,

chubasco de besos

precipitados con cadencia

sobre tu piel del revés,

desplazamiento intenso de alas

en forma envolvente

hacia la frontera de tu espalda,

suave brisa de jazmín

desnudada sutilmente

en la humedad de tus labios.

Soledad Lorena

19 de noviembre de 2011

Yo que vos,

abro las puertas y ventanas

y con los ojos cerrados

disfruto el clima que se avecina.