FROM THE COUNTRY OF SORROW
will show you fear in a handful of dust.
I? … “The light that falls on this gate, on this ground?”
Am I the
trees and the plants? Maybe the sea?
I am hills,
shorelines, water bathed in light
I am a
body tired of so much wandering
and a soul tired of fear
I am fear.
depths and the dark I listen and tremble
the depths, the dark, the difficulty
all the opposite poles
the whiteness, the exchanges
the white gathered the black
the black gathered the white.
a sorrow, then the endurance.
ships, multiple ships that touch my shore.
glow in the night
—I see their flags
the arrival, the end
not the cure for the most ancient wound.
sick, ancient, grieving ships
and inside crutches, disability, anxiety.
burns me, lights my skin on fire, illuminates my eyes
to burn, I am burning
I respond with love to the midday sun.
sought you out to know who I am,
don’t know who I am
storm has dragged me
to save me
My body is covered by a vegetable carpet
the leaves’ down caresses me
I have sunk into the green
I sleep, sleep, sleep
so everything will pass, so everything will finish passing.
the bird I buried in the garden
I sleep under the earth so everything will pass
I want to avoid the pain and horror. Oblivion, oblivion…
it’s no longer time for the undertow
each wave dictates a continuity to me
it dictates to us
is a subtle station, imperceptible
to those who hurry.
from the country of sorrow. Going where, where?
opens in me, vast
to wash me, water me
little by little I go to it
off I see the ships
freighted with weeping, with contained indignation
write the poem, did you do it well?
I ask you.”
I? I went looking for you
But it was in Venice that I saw you
were over there
table cloths, jewelry, a garnet, topazes
rest for melancholy.
to go to the beach, I want to look at the sea
to look at the earth trembling from the sea’s love
adore beauty, the splendors
forces me to work
and meanwhile I sigh
so much pain I think things will accommodate themselves
a mending here, another over there
and a half is old enough
to understand everything
life, death, abandonment, distances.
a daughter of war, I sigh…
I’m a granddaughter
to take this past slowly, with delays
a humorist and he laughs, he laughs at me and he’s right)
would also say: “You have to laugh”
couldn’t laugh, from so much sorrow.
I? I think I’m a lit-up pansy
a fuchsia pansy
hanging over the wall.
placed my flowering over the wall
so it will be more beautiful
so it will soften
I want to hide or forget about
such a rough stone. The wall.
The Berlin wall.
want horror I want tolerance
the house, friends, books,
the garnet of love, siblings.
the sea and the fallen leaves to be resolved in me.
are you? Tell me, who am I?
are silent, there are no crickets
only the metallic makes noise
machines and money make themselves felt
I hear cars and in the distance a strike
nothing’s happening here!
but the lights are on
and the heart is in flames.
witness to this. And to that
I’m a witness.
matter. There’s the apamate blossom
You said it was the apamate blossom
I have seen the cherry blossom
it was so beautiful. Doctor, it was so beautiful.
much pressure, I sometimes lack the strength.
we have to care for: ourselves, the earth, the soul
suppose poetry as well
and children, the child within
the kitchen, lucidity in the kitchen
is too long
and it’s too much for us women
will men be able to help us?
weight; yes, too much weight
too much pressure.
I sigh, tremble, burn
works and it’s nighttime. The cats scream.
the sea, the conch informs me
is resolution, but something should be resolved
something like a payment
but what?, I don’t know…
I? I listen to something within me, a voice, maybe
something that wants to come out
that I don’t understand now, that murmurs.
Am I from
the Middle Ages?
my dead are left behind
behind and nearby
they, the mourners
the ones who didn’t understand absurdity
their own absurdity
the ones who still couldn’t see themselves
they, the adolescents
the ones who suffered, who were in pain.
said: The sea within me doesn’t let me sleep
Now I know,
I know what the vigil means
I’m paying attention
I’m wearing seaweed stuck to my body.
I? A path? A road?
A highway between city and city?
Am I an interval, a lapse?
no. But something more
see, I should clarify myself, or maybe not.
a line of palm trees, a fog
There are two or three there
a man, a woman
far off, children
what that means
Sandstone, sad dust amid the light
points I intercept
is in flames, beat by beat
there is no forge
I am calm.
is here, here the fires and the waters
here the hearth
you suffered so much, for all this”
passion. Ah… my pardons
divine light, come to me.
burns and scalds, consecrates itself facing my autumn
speaks to me, against autumn, against ruin
—but I am also the autumn.
fruit so close to sadness
beautiful in you, peach fuzz
is given away to be a fig
as if it were an exchange
between the difficult and the fresh.
I must do so much to understand you
I have to be so meticulous.
live in the detail, in fragments, in strokes
on the line of a face.
have a face, surely, I’m sure, I don’t have a face
my eyes fly further away
my cheekbones are blunt
my hair flutters or becomes docile
the light makes it brilliant, shrinks it
fires burn inside me
I want something like peace
something like the everyday
I tremble lit up with so much passion
is sleeping… finally; that way he won’t hear me
knows when I think , when I feel,
reaches him and it’s strong.)
my room, in my “own room”
There’s the German squirrel
the dolls: the English one, the one from Mérida
the Venezuelan one, the Italian one
there’s the primitive bird
the wood carving
there’s the photo of the balcony into nowhere
Germany, Venezuela, London, Venice, Egypt.
It’s too much. Enough. Enough.
I lack strength
I have left the poem, the word
I have spoken too much.
hardly any guilt
dying shadow of what we are
with their lights
the canons, the bullets, the invisible bullets
no longer enter me
hear the voice of the crickets
the voice of the earth
the voice of nature
remains, almost bellowing
like an imploration
I knock on the doors
the one inside who asks
the demolished one
the tired one
the exhausted one
voice draws itself out, extends itself
of light has been cut short
I should sleep, it’s nighttime
the angels will cover us
like a couple in love
soul pulses and I see the reflections
a notebook, over there’s a pencil
a coffee grinder
and Steinberg’s signature, whom I don’t know
jumps and jumps —full of freedom in itself
I activate, activate and don’t understand
I try to understand, slowly
and my old age make it impossible
I’m forty years old.
do I mean… who am I?
There’s a dawn, yes
and a midnight
there’s an undulating body
there are women with a scarf tied around their head
and that means something, a mourning perhaps
black scarves to hold desperation
everything has meaning
I know about everything with meaning
I? Do I have a meaning?
Am I a word, a wind, a plant?
My heart aflame. I cry, I burn…
There I go, like the shade of destinies
of my feather is burning
fluttering, following the breeze
trust you to provide others their limit
like the beach
facing you, almost frightened
all my risks are retracted
Care. Care. We’ll have to move with more care.
The stars are right there. Silent.
there is work. Heart.
this has been bad… then what?
Then there will be no correction.
I? The miracle of an error?
The window opens
Guilt is ventilated
The sun radiates
coast lies a sailor
the woman cries
no end to this war
this horrible war
has been split in two
pity for my angels
The earth sublimates me. Vegetables.
Man sublimates me
of him I am beyond him
between junk and sighs
why I clean the house
And that solitary scream… what might it be?
the light of the Moon that illuminates me today.