prigione

vivere una sola vita
in una sola città
in un solo Paese
in un solo universo
vivere in un solo mondo
è prigione.

amare un solo amico,
un solo padre,
una sola madre,
una sola famiglia,
amare una sola persona
è prigione.

conoscere una sola lingua,
un solo lavoro,
un solo costume,
una sola civiltà
conoscere una sola logica
è prigione.

avere un solo corpo,
un solo pensiero,
una sola conoscenza,
una sola essenza
avere un solo essere
è prigione.

ndjock ngana 

mundos nuevos

qué lindo

ninja mental

sería tan fácil si tuviera fe,

pero en vez de fe tengo

fuerza

the question remains the same

ser o no ser

careta

chicks on comic

has recorrido un largo camino

ahora falta el último cuarto de viaje,

hasta volver a empezar

una, aunque sea

Si vuelvo alguna vez
por el camino andado
no quiero hallar ni ruinas ni nostalgia

Lo mejor es creer que pasó todo
como debía.
Y al final me queda
una sola certeza:
haber vivido.

Certeza, José Emilio Pacheco

en ese caso, elijo la banana

in which the girl faces her fears

i was telling the tree

i don't want to be afraid anymore,

help me be free, help me be real

and then it dawned on me

ahora sí

¡gracias!

así y todo

el invierno ya se volvió primavera

pero igual nieva

canta, canta, cantalo

"no sé por qué te pensás que cantás bien,

si cantás re mal",

me dice siempre

una amiga muy querida.

pero a mí... no me importa lo que digan, 

lo que digan los demás.

bien o mal,

yo canto

porque me gusta

cantar

nos engañaron con la primavera

hola

tu, trasparente pensiero di vetro

IV

Può finire un amore, può cessare

di scorrere il sangue, così improvvisamente,

bloccarsi un corpo, tacere una mente,

e dicono non ci sia nulla da fare.

Io ti scuoto e ti scuoto, Euridice,

non è possibile che non mi rispondi

lì dove sei finita e ti nascondi,

tornata sottoterra, mia radice.

E' uno scherzo, non può essere vero

che rimanga di te solo il dolore:

tutto intorno più nero del nero.

Per questo alzati, cara, non fingere

un silenzio adirato, accusatore.

Non restartene lì come una sfinge.

Euridice (fragmento), Alida Airaghi

shakie

aguas quietas y profundas

Non sono onde. Ne avrebbero forse
l’intenzione; increspature leggere,
rughe dell’acqua, e basta.

Non sarà mai tempesta,
questo lago, scarso coraggio
di farsi mare: se accoglie un fiume,
lo placa, lo annulla in una quiete
casta. E così niente corse né fughe
di pesci, ma vaghi girotondi,
guizzi di piume d’anatra in festa.

Bisogna aver paura di chi non sa osare:
laghi colline periferie.
Acque chete e profonde celano
malefici, stregonerie.

Il Lago, Alida Airaghi

meant to be

it will always be you

half of what I say

is meaningless

but I say it

just to reach you

julia

ocuparse de los pies

tal vez todas las horas sean la hora zeta
pasa que a veces uno no se da cuenta
no es por alguien, no, que empiezan las re y capitulaciones
es por todos
por las veces que uno hubiera querido ser espejo u ojo de los otros
-si hubiera sido manos, nos habrían acariciado mejor-,
hubiera querido ser lobo para que mamá no me encajara cofia,
frasco de compotas y este susto que conservo todavía frente a madres, habitantes de los bosques y disfraces en general
hubiera querido sobre todo una madrugada romana de abril ser vos
para que me retuvieras
o en cualquier tiempo ser un pelo del anular derecho
porque es un buen puesto de observación y se puede pasar inadvertido
hubiera querido la barrabasada de ser dios para atender mi propia oficina de colocaciones y pedidos
doblar entonces ahora mismo por florida hacia paraguay
a la deriva de los encuentros precisos y porteños
cuando todavía creía/mos en la fábula de la creación, por ejemplo;
baires no era objeto de titulares en las necrológicas del
mundo y se podía compartir el abrigo de rostros y reparos conocidos

quién me ha catapultado tan certeramente en este punto final de lejanía

-recuerdo que alguna vez borges me dijo inventando o
traduciendo a un anglosajón delirante como caballo sin pasto, o
borges equivocándose de diccionario, que a quien dios
bien quiere lo envía a tierras lejanas; pero después, lo hará volver?,
le preguntaría hoy, antes de que se me muriera o se le olvidaran página y respuesta-

la noche me cae encima a picos húmedos y tristes
prolija limo las aristas
para que no me hagan mucho daño estos hombres extraños
silenciosos o pequeños
a quienes no me preocupo por amar ni menos detestar
les palmeo el hocico como a un animal ajeno
del que no se espera la retribución de la caricia
y el vacío es tal que si lanzo una piedra, digo, yo misma
estoy segura de no oírme siquiera tocar fondo

sola y perdida en medio de interrogantes crepusculares, tifones y cerezos
sin nadie, vos, que me bese y diga buenos días
y sin embargo, ahora que la cultura de la vida me ha enseñado
el muestrario más amplio de suicidios y suicidas
no me decido por ninguno

a sabiendas que no puedo remontar el arcoiris
que carezco de un remoto mapa del tesoro
para que al menos los descubridores se lleven el gran chasco
y sólo tengo un saco de papeles viejos que no sirven para nada
aquí, lejos de la ciudad que guarda mis humores de vivir
el signo de infinito me crece sin conventos de posesas en ludún
si supieras/ que de día me anochece
que flaqueo
que después de dedicarte este velorio del solo
me dispongo, Juan, como algunos
simplemente a persistir

Tokio hora zeta, Luisa Futoransky

matisse + joyce

she prays now, she says, that I may learn in my own life and away from family and friends

what the heart is and what it feels

o'keefe + rexroth

¿Quién sos vos? ¿Quién soy yo? Atormentados
Por los muertos, los muertos y el pasado,
La inercia decadente de personas
Y cosas muertas e irreales. Por la amenaza de
Lo impersonal, eso que
Jamás admitirá a los individuos,
Ese mundo cerrado de las cosas.
¿Quién sos vos? Que salís
De la tierra y los minerales, una
Pálida hoja como ninguna otra,
Desenvolviéndote, y después otra,
Nueva y extraña, completamente diferente,
Lo opuesto de lo que esperaba, alimentándose
De la cálida sangre de mi corazón, crece.
Algo nuevo, extraño, diferente.
Tu propia hoja, tu propia flor frutal,
Pero nutrida por una raíz,
Raíz de nuestros cuerpos hechos uno.
Vos y yo, desde el único
Al doble, y del doble
Al otro, al hermoso
Proceso eterno e incomprensible de
Crecer y convertirnos cada uno en
Nosotros mismos para el otro.

Growing, de Kenneth Rexroth.

klimt + ferlinghetti

They are kneeling upright on a flowered bed

  He

       has just caught her there

                                    and holds her still

      Her gown

                     has slipped down

                                               off her shoulder

He has urgent hunger

                      His dark head

                                  bends to her

                                              hungrily

And the woman the woman

     turns her tangerine lips from his

             one hand like the head of a dead swan

               draped down over

                                          his heavy neck

                        the fingers

                            strangely crimped

                                         tightly together

       her other arm doubled up

                           against her tight breast

          her hand a languid claw

                                      clutching his hand

           which would turn her mouth

                                                    to his

  her long dress made

                    of multicolored blossoms

                            quilted on gold

   her Titian hair

                    with blue stars in it

And his gold

                   harlequin robe

                               checkered with

                                             dark squares

    Gold garlands

                         stream down over

                                          her bare calves &

                                              tensed feet

Nearby there must be

                    a jeweled tree

                              with glass leaves aglitter

                                   in the gold air

 It must be

                morning

                             in a faraway place somewhere

 They

      are silent together

                                 as in a flowered field

                   upon the summer couch

                                                which must be hers

    And he holds her still

                                   so passionately

             holds her head to his

                                 so gently so insistently

               to make her turn

                                       her lips to his

 Her eyes are closed

                              like folded petals

She

      will not open

                          He

                               is not the One

Short story on a painting of Gustav Klimt, Lawrence Ferlinghetti

vuela esta canción

para tí, lucía,

la más bella historia de amor

que tuve y tendré

van gogh + rexroth

There are no images here
In the solitude, only
The night and its stars which are
Relationships rather than
Images. Shifting darkness,
Strains of feeling, lines of force,
Webs of thoughts, no images,
Only night and time aging
The night in its darkness, just
Motion in space in the dark.
It is a night full of darkness,
And space, and stars, and the hours
Going by, and time going by,
And the night growing old, and all
The webs, and nets, of relationships
Changing, and it is Spring night
In Provence, here where I am,
And under the half moon the almond
Buds are ready to burst. Before noon
The blossoms will open, here by
This peach colored house amongst
The steel gray pines and the gray
Limestone cliffs. Now the buds
Are round and tight in the dim
Moonlight, in the night that
Stretches on forever, that had
No beginning, and that will
Never end, and it doesn't mean
Anything. It isn't an image of
Something. It isn't a symbol of
Something else. It is just an
Almond tree, in the night, by
The house, in the woods, by
A vineyard, under the setting
Half moon, in Provence, in the
Beginning of another Spring.

think twice

Go ahead: say what you're thinking. The garden

is not the real world. Machines

are the real world. Say frankly what any fool

could read in your face: it makes sense

to avoid us, to resist

nostalgia. It is

not modern enough, the sound the wind makes

stirring a meadow of daisies: the mind

cannot shine following it. And the mind wants to shine, plainly, as

machines shine, and not

grow deep as, for example, roots. It is very touching,

all the same, to see you cautiously

approaching the meadow's border in early morning,

when no one could possibly

be watching you. The longer you stand at the edge,

the more nervous you seem. No one wants to hear

impressions of the natural world: you will be

laughed at again; scorn will be piled on you.

As for what you're actually

hearing this morning: think twice

before you tell anyone what was said in this field

and by whom.

daisies, louise glück

Looking for a Source of Diversion

A dentist in London laid it on George, me and wives, without telling us, at a dinner party at his house. He was a friend of George's and our dentist at the time, and he just put it in our coffee or something. He didn't know what it was; it's all the same thing with that sort of middle-class London swinger, or whatever. They had all heard about it, and they didn't know it was different from pot or pills, and they gave us it. He said, 'I advise you not to leave,' and we thought he was trying to keep us for an orgy in his house, and we didn't want to know, and we went to Ad Lib and these discotheques, and there were these incredible things going on.
It was insane, going around London. When we went to the club we thought it was on fire, (...). We thought, 'Shit, what's going on here?' We were cackling in the streets, and people were shouting, 'Let's break a window,' you know; it was just insane. We were just out of our heads. When we finally got on the lift, we all thought it was on fire, but there was just a little red light. We were all screaming like that, and we were all hot and hysterical, (...).
God, it was just terrifying, but it was fantastic. I did some drawings at the time, I've got them somewhere, of four faces saying, 'We agree with you!' (...). And then George's house seemed to be just like a big submarine. I was driving it, they all went to bed, I was carrying on in it, it seemed to float above his wall which was eighteen foot, and I was driving it.
(...) The second time we had it was in LA. We were on tour in one of those houses, Doris Day's house or wherever it was we used to stay, and the three of us took it, Ringo, George and I. (...).
Peter Fonda came, and that was another thing. He kept saying [in a whisper], 'I know what it's like to be dead,' and we said, 'What?' and he kept saying it. We were saying, 'For Christ's sake, shut up, we don't want to know,' and he kept going on about it (...).



John Lennon interviewed by Jann S. Wanner for Rolling Stone Magazine, January 21, 1971.

give spring a chance

i'm going to see the folks i dig

i'm coming home to california

para variar

fargo

a pedido del público

mi sono innamorato di te perché non avevo niente da fare

punk is never dead

persepolis

más de las aventuras de nasho y bala

bala: che, basho... ¿vos te vas a comer todo eso?

nasho: sí.

bala: pero la dra. angie dijo que tenías un poco de sobrepeso, ¿estás seguro de que te lo querés comer todo?

nasho: te dije que sí.

bala: dale, dejáme un poquito... ¡estas bolitas que compra bigotes no me llenan!

nasho: tomáte el palo, nena.

bala: ufa, no se puede ni hablar con vos... (ahora mientras
comés eso, me voy al sillón y vení a sacarme si podés, gordo)

nasho: ¿qué dijiste?

bala: nada, nada.

this is major tom to ground control

ésta es de cuando estuvimos en otro planeta

sit in for your rights

'we would like to be served here'

the other way about

STARTING FROM SAN FRANCISCO

Here I go again
crossing the country in coach trains
(back to my old
lone wandering)
All night Eastward... Upward
over the Great Divide and on
into Utah
over Great Salt Plain
and onward, rocking,
the white dawn burst
across mesas,
table-lands,
all flat, all laid away.
Great glary sun-
wood bridge over water...
Later in still light, we still reel onward-
Onward?
Back and forth, across the Continent,
bang bang
by any wheel or horse,
any rail,
by car
by buggy
by stagecoach,
walking,
riding,
hooves pounding the Great Plains,
caravans into the night. Forever.
Into Wyoming.
All that day and night, rocking through it,
snow steppes and plains of November,
roads lost in it -or never existent-
back in the beginning again, no People yet,
no ruts Westward yer
under the snow...
Still more huge spaces we bowl through,
still untouched dark land-
Indomitable.
Horizons of mesas
like plains of Spain high up
in Don Quixote country-
sharp eroded towers of bluffs
like windmills tilted,
"los molinos" of earth, abandoned-
Great long rectangular stone islands
sticking up on far plains, like forts
or immense light cargo ships
high on plains of water,
becalmed and rudderless,
props thrashing wheat,
stranded forever,

no one on those bridges...

Later again, much later,

one small halfass town,

followed by one telephone wire

and one single iron road

hung to the tracks as by magnets

attached to a single endless fence,

past solitary pumping stations,

each with a tank, a car, a small house, a dog,

no people anywhere-

All hiding?

White man gone home?

Must be a cowboy someplace...
Birds flap from fences, trestles,
caw and caw their nothingness.
Stone church sticks up
quote Out of Nowhere unquote
This must be Interzone
between Heaven and Brooklyn.
Do they have a Classified Section
as in phonebooks
in the back of the Bibles here?
Otherwise they'd never find Anything.
Try Instant Zen...
Still later again,
sunset and starnge clouds like udders
rayed with light from below-
some God's hand sticks through,
black trees stand out.
The world is a winter farm-
Cradle we rocked out of-
prairie schooners into Pullmans-
their bright saloons sheeted in oblivion-
Wagon-lits - bedwagon over the prairies,
bodies nested in them,
hurtled through night,
inscrutable...
Onward still... or Backward...
huge snow fields still, on and on,
still no one,
Indians all gone to Florida
or Cuba!
Train hoots at something
in the nowhere we still rock through,
Dingding crossroads flicker by,
Mining towns, once roaring,
now shrunk to the railhead,
streetlights stoned with loneliness
or lit with leftover sun
they drank too much of during the day...
And at long last
this world shrunk
to one lone brakeman´s face
stuck out of darkness-
long white forehead
like bleached skull of cow-
huge black sad eyes-
high.peaked cloth cap, grey-striped-
swings his railroad lantern high, close up,
as our window whizzes by-
his figure splashed upon it,
slanted, muezzin-like,
very grave, very tall,
strange skeleton-
Who stole America?

Myself I saw in the window reflected.

LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI

para la versión en español, visite esta misma página prontamente.

tenés dos opciones

o...

deseos psicomágicos

gracias a malala