Cansada de rodar - Carmen Martin Gaite

 

Cansada de rodar,
de soñar apariencias,
de debatirse en vano
ensayando posturas de defensa o de ataque,
de convertise en otra,
esa mujer perdida por Manhattan
se ha escondido en un cuadro de Edward Hopper,
se ha sentado en la cama de una pensión anónima
y ya no espera nada.

Sin abrir tan siquiera la maleta,
acaba de quitarse los zapatos
porque los pies le duelen,
y se ha quedado sola entre cuatro paredes,
condenada a aguantar a palo seco
esa luz de la tarde ya en declive
que se filtra en la estancia
veteada de brillos engañosos,
con los brazos caídos y la mirada estática,
clavada eternamente de cara a una ventana
que de tan bien pintada parece de verdad.

Surprise quarter by ergosum

Incredulidad
No eres
posible,
no es posible
que todo el calor del mundo
haya cobrado la forma de tu cuerpo
tendido e irradiante junto al mío,
no es posible tu cuello
girando sobre la almohada lentamente
como fanal de dicha,
tanta fructificación no es
posible, tan alta primavera
desbordando tus pechos y tus manos
hasta inundar todas las alcobas de mi vida,
no es posible el latido de tu sueño
cuando convoca
paisajes como caricias, dédalos susurrados
de fraternidad y auxilio y maravilla,
no es posible la paz de tu vientre rubio
si te busco debajo de las sábanas.
Desnuda no eres posible. Junto a mi, no es posible.
Eres lo más real y no es posible.

Jorge Reichmann (*)

'Fall Apart' A Poem by Terry Collett

All things fall apart,
Said Pricilla, the black

Dog moods bite off my
Light, the train shoves

Me side to side like
Some love fuck ride.

All his words have
Stung and pierced my

Tender skin, his wounding
Slaps and punches blacken

Me without and in. I sit
And brood and simmer

Thoughts of suicide, the
Train moves on like

Brandon at his pitch,
Kissing, loving, hitting,

Saying, come on you
Loveless bitch. I am the

Death princess, the one
Of wounded heart and

Flesh; I sit and think of
Better days, the hopes

And dreams I entertained
Before the kiss of Brandon’s

Lips, his red-hot touches
And his icy terror reigned.

La grande migration "New York Times"

Les changements climatiques dont ont été victimes les Européens ce dernier hiver risquent d’avoir des conséquences énormes pour la faune mondiale. En effet, les ours polaires et les phoques qui trouvent leurs eaux de plus en plus chaudes au fil des ans seraient en train de préparer leur migration selon des zoologistes. Leur destination? Le lac Léman.

Lali

"It'll Be Fine"

I’ve been bored for a while today, and I just got the urge to write something incredibly and meticulously detailed. So, I looked up a random painting online, and just like in English class, wrote a short story on it. Here’s the painting:
My eyes flashed open at the feeling of foamy, wet, cold hand wrapping itself around my unsuspecting ankle. Quickly recoiling, I moved further away from the surf and pulled my poncho tighter around me, the cold quickly setting in now that I was awake and well aware of it. I tried to get comfortable, but instead was pushed aside, the victim of a prank pulled by a cruel wind spirit. Trying to stop myself, my hands were caught in the red folds of plastic that was my poncho, and I caught the ground with the side of my face. I sat up. I tried to get the grains of sand out of my mouth by spitting and running my tongue over my lips, but that only resulted in more sand in my mouth. Giving up on the sand in my mouth, I tried to get the rest of the sand on my face off. I immediately stopped when I felt the sharp pain of a single granule being dragged across my eyeball. My eye watered. Then the tears started falling. Now from both eyes. As my throat got choked up, I realized that the tears where not only from the sand. I tried to stop, but it just kept coming. The memories of the past few weeks washed over me like the waves now crashing on shore. I couldn’t believe how this whole situation had occurred. I mean, the money was mine! She took it from me – all of it! The house, the cars…everything. It was all gone, now in the grasp of that evil woman whom I used to love so dearly. And now look at me. In this sorry state. Sleeping on a beach in the dead of winter, no shelter, no money, no possessions to my name any longer save the clothes on my back and the few provisions in my torn blue backpack. I looked at my garments, the only things separating me from the nasty bite of the winter wind. The red poncho I wore was no longer really red, more of a pinkish color, faded by the endless days in the sun, hung on the rack on the lanai that used to be mine. Ours. My jeans were comfortable, but didn’t do much of anything against the weather this time of year. I got up, suddenly spurred by anger, then realization. Why sit there and feel sorry for myself? What was the point? That wouldn’t do a thing. I began to walk down the beach, feeling the sand between my toes. I smiled at the irony. The thing that had been the object of pain for me a few minutes ago now was the object of my pleasure. The sun began to rise, and I looked out at the sparkling ocean, and mixture of different hues of greens and blues. I looked at the horizon, at the half-circle of reddish light rising from behind the ocean. Today was a new day. And it was time I claimed something for my own. Carpe diem.

That's Me Ben

Anecdotes de libraire 57 "The Book Buyer"

Certaines personnes aiment lire des histoires vraies. Des histoires tristes, où un malheur n’attend pas l’autre. Enfants battus, femmes violées, épouse d’un tueur à gages, travestis, et j’en passe, tous ont ce besoin un jour ou l’autre d’étaler leur passé au grand jour. Pour se libérer de tout ça ou parce qu’ils voient là une façon de faire de l’argent, quitte à mettre deux trois couches de plus pour faire pleurer dans les chaumières?
Qui des deux est le pire, celui qui décide de publiciser sa vie difficile ou celui qui s’en délecte? Je n’ai pas la réponse, mais je sais que nombre de gens ne lisent que ces histoires vraies dont parlent abondamment tous ces magazines qu’on trouve dans les salons de coiffure. Pour se convaincre que leur vie n’a pas été si difficile que ça? Va savoir.
Moi, je sais que quand une de mes voisines m’a raconté jeudi dernier que le père de ses deux plus jeunes était en prison parce qu’il avait abusé de son aînée (âgée de 12 ans), il me fallait en rentrant me plonger dans bien autre chose qu’une histoire vraie.

Lali