domingo, 9 de agosto de 2009

Siomara España poesía en inglés


Poemas de Siomara España


How often does the Wednesday woman
unfold her face
wash her feet
and walk again upon her words.
how often does she follow the same old path,
wander down the same old streets,
see the same traffic lights,
consider the same beggars, climb the same clouds,
seek out the same bed.
How often does the Wednesday woman
look for the mouth of her lover,
tremble in this arms,
and desperate cry out her love
and sob her words in silence.
How often does the Wednesday woman
want to flee her passion
forget her dreams
and simply stay tied down
how often does she laugh and sing
haw many tears of love.
How often does the Wednesday woman
have to tie tight her soul
live her delirium and madness,
and walk again on what´s been said,
walk again upon her her hords.

I am Lolita.
And even so the steppenwolves
undo my braids
with their teeth,
and throw me
chewy caramels of cyanide.
i sensed my name day at the port,
the shipwrecked returned,
And that battle
with Vladimir, the implacable.
i know that I’m Lolita,
i knew it when he gave me
his hands lacerated from writing me.

That´s why when your appearead, supplicant,
telling me your fears,
i let you touch me,
bite my arms and knees,
i let you mutilate between my legs
Charlotte´s fears.
I knew your old sword
could open one by one my veins,
and cut across my pupils,
and i mocked a hundred times
your aged child´s stupidity
crying there within my womb.
and when all the shipwrecked of the world
returned to my port
to give me gifs
i paid for with colostrum and with flesh,
you leapt upon my shadow,
as i fled and as i danced.
That´s why I´m Lolita,
nymphet of motels and anagrams,
returning with her baggage on her shoulder
to reclaim across the years the past.


no one
To our house,
for they will scrutinize our
doors, walls, stairs and windows,
gaze at the termites in the corners,
the rusted locks, The blind and ruined lamps.
Bring no one o our house,
for they would have nothing
but the anguish of your table,
your bed, the tablecloth,
the furniture,they would laugh
in pity at the cups, pretend
nostalgia for my name,
and they would mock as well our hammock.
Don’t bring people to our house any more
for they would write you songs,
stir your soul,
whisper obliquely in your ear,
plant a flower on your window sill.
That´s why, I beg of you, you mustn´t
bring more people to our house,
for they would turn shades of pink,
green, red, or blue,
discovering broken walls
and withered plants.
They would want to sweep he corners
open the blinds
and find safe among my books
the perverse excuses they are searching for.
Bring no one else into our house
for here they would discover our absurdities
and bring you far to other beaches
and tell you tales of shipwrecks
and against your will drag you from our home.

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