Inner sea

the blood of sea stars
is the sea itself
the red sea
we carry on the earth
reminds us of the passion
that engendered us
from the sea
there's no place
that's not inside
the center of now
there are no deep unatainable waters
there's just here
inner sanctum

-- Lorena Wolfman (2013)

Multiplication

what does a sea star have in common
with a human being o a god?
the star's spine
is multiplied by five
like the digits of a finger
with an eye at the end of each ray
the sea sun senses light and shadow
when it senses danger
it easily lets go of a flame
this is multiplied at an unexpected rate
like shooting stars
the hands of god today
are dissolving in the sea
and with them 500 million years
each star
a handful of nothing
a ravaged dream

––Lorena Wolfman © 2013

communion

I breathe through my ribs
my sides have become gills
sweet soft oxygenated water
flows through me
each pore is an organ
of communion with the world
the breath of the sky
of the trees
of the bamboo in the garden
of my siamese house cat
of the lightning fast blue fin tuna
their inanimate bodies laid out
after being massacred
breath enters me
from all the lands and waters
and skies
where there is war and not
where there is hunger and not
from places I have seen and not
from that which is invisible and not
from the other side of the pacific
where uranium and plutonium
heat the sea
from everywhere breath enters me
from here in my house
communicated with all other houses
the same as bamboo
that flowers all over the world
at the same time
no one can protect themselves
from what will come
no one is alone

--Lorena Wolfman © 2013

everything is inside

for h.b. --

The inside of the stone is also the inside of the body.  The inside of the world is also our inside.  There is only one inside and it is inside all time.  It is the inside that is everyone's and also our inside.  Everything is inside.  What is outside is inside.  What is inside is inside another inside inside the same inside.  There is only one infinitely articulated inside.  The song we carry inside when it is made audible to another is still inside and free.  It still vibrates.  Everything is life's womb that keeps birthing inside and out, always inside...

--Lorena © 2013

SADAKO (Translation)

enola gay mother
you are alone
you gave your son
to the air
and his plane
bird of ill omen
knows no joy
--belly of steel
that cradled the atomic little boy
across the whole pacific ocean––
in an act of war
that holds the abomination
of a blind sky god
prince of the air
who violates the earth
uranus it is your offspring
usurper who goes by many names
hiroshima nagasaki
bikini fukushima
mayapuri enewetak
nevada novaya zemlya

(for each one

sadako folds 

a paper crane

and threads it

as in times of yore

in a chain of colors)
uranus blinded by the light
of his own reason
takes the life
of the chaste sadako
while her father
with infinite care
gives her rice with green tea
delicious sadako tells him
delicious
uranus takes her life
but sadako knows to forgive him
we are all
sadako
we all
fold our paper cranes
and we thread them in the face of death
and if still
we have yet to thread them
we will thread them still
our paper cranes

--Lorena Wolfman © 2013

it is the moon that watches over her

(with gratitude and all due thanks to Lorca)

the moon watches over her, tends to her,
the moon is tending to her
the chaste girl
in her white chrisantemum coffin
the moon is watching over her
tends to her
and kisses her closed eyelids
the moon lubricious and pure
watches over her and dances
here is my sepulture
sings the moon
here in my heart
sings the sun––


--Lorena Wolfman © 2013

Today

today everything we knew came to an end
it is the end of the world as we knew it

don't cry for the starfish
who released their arms
before dissolving

don't cry for the sea lion pups
whose frail bodies are starving
who eat their dead at the water's edge
obeying a final survival instinct

don't cry for the salmon
whose carmine meat has turned yellow

or for the humpback whale
who song is stilled 

nor for the sardines
whose blood stains the sea red

the giant sea serpents
are rising from the depths
leaving behind their inanimate bodies

through the algae's veins
suspended in the deeps
among the drowned souls
runs the sweat and tears
of the unleashed fury
of pluto and uranus

cry not
all the sea's creatures
return to the heart
of the infinite mother
all the creatures return
to the center



--Lorena Wolfman © 2013

Revelaciones - Alejandra Pizarnik (Argentina, 1936-1972)

Revelaciones

En la noche a tu lado
las palabras son claves, son llaves.
el deseo de morir es rey.

Que tu cuerpo sea siempre
un amado espacio de revelaciones.

-- Alejandra Pizarnik






Revelations

By your side at night
words are clues,  keys.
the desire to die is king.

May your body always be
a beloved place of revelation.

-- Alejandra Pizarnik

(Translation:  Lorena Wolfman)      





CUARTO SOLO

Si te atreves a sorprender
la verdad de esta vieja pared;
y sus fisuras, desgarraduras,
formando rostros, esfinges,
manos, clepsidras,
seguramente vendrá
una presencia para tu sed,
probablemente partirá
esta ausencia que te bebe. 

--Alejandra Pizarnik



EMPTY ROOM

If you dare to sneak up on
the truth of this old wall;
and its cracks, rips,
forming faces, sphinxes, 
hands, clepsydras,
surely a presence
will come for your thirsting,
this absence that drinks you
will probably go away.

--Alejandra Pizarnik

(Translation:  Lorena Wolfman)


Nota biográfica

Alejandra Pizarnik nació en Buenos Aires, el 29 de Abril de 1936, en una familia de inmigrantes de europa oriental. Estudió filosofía y letras en la Universidad de Buenos Aires y, mas tarde, pintura con Juan Batlle Planas. Entre 1960 y 1964, Pizarnik vivió en París donde trabajó para la revista "Cuadernos" y algunas editoriales francesas, publicó poemas y críticas en varios diarios, tradujo a Antonin Artaud, Henri Michaux, Aimé Cesairé, e Yves Bonnefoy, y estudió historia de la religión y literatura francesa en la Sorbona. Luego de su retorno a Buenos Aires, Pizarnik publicó tres de sus principales volúmenes, "Los trabajos y las noches", "Extracción de la piedra de locura" y "El infierno musical", así como su trabajo en prosa "La condesa sangrienta". En 1969 recibió una beca Guggenheim, y en 1971 una Fullbright. El 25 de septiembre de 1972, mientras pasaba un fin de semana fuera de la clínica siquiátrica donde estaba internada, Pizarnik murió de una sobredosis intencional de seconal.  (Fuente: http://www.los-poetas.com/e/biopizarnik.htm)


  

Agua nocturna - Octavio Paz (México, 1914-1998)

La noche de ojos de caballo que tiemblan en la noche,
La noche de ojos de agua en el campo dormido,
Está en tus ojos de caballo que tiembla,
Está en tus ojos de agua secreta.

Ojos de agua de sombra,
Ojos de agua de pozo,
Ojos de agua de sueño.

El silencio y la soledad,
Como dos pequeños animales a quienes guía la luna,
Beben en esos ojos,
Beben en esas aguas.

Si abres los ojos,
Se abre la noche de puertas de musgo,
Se abre el reino secreto del agua
Que mana del centro de la noche.

Y si los cierras,
Un río, una corriente dulce y silenciosa,
Te inunda por dentro, avanza, te hace oscura:
La noche moja riberas en tu alma.

 --Octavio Paz

 

Nocturnal waters


The night of equine eyes trembling in the night
The night of aqueous eyes in the sleeping field
Is in your trembling equine eyes
Is in your secret aqueous eyes.

Aqueous eyes of shadow,
Aqueous eyes of wells,
Aqueous eyes of dream.

Silence and solitude,
Like two small animals guided by moonlight,
Drink from those eyes,
Drink from those waters.

If you open your eyes,
The night of moss doors opens,
The secret reign of water opens
welling up from the center of the night.

And if you close it,
A river, a sweet and silent current,
Fills you form within, advances, darkens you:
The night drenches the shores of your soul.
 

--Octavio Paz

(Translation: Lorena Wolfman)


OCTAVIO PAZ
(1914-1998)

Ensayista y poeta mexicano. Es uno de los grandes poetas hispanos de todos los tiempos. Escritor fecundo. Su obra abarca varios géneros, entre los que sobresalen textos poéticos, el ensayo y traducciones. Colaboró activa y constantemente en el impulso de la cultura a través de la fundación y participación en innumerables revistas, como Taller, Plural y Vuelta. También fungió de profesor, conferencista, periodista y diplomático.

No cabe duda que, a través de los años, Paz fue una personalidad polémica. Desde muy temprano dejó las formas poéticas tradicionales para lanzarse a la modernidad. Su obra poética pretende "liberar a la palabra de reglas o propósitos utilitarios" para devolverle su esencia mágica, haciendo uso casi exclusivo del pensamiento y de una rima interna y sutil, algunas veces difícil de captar.

En cuanto a sus ensayos, nos encontramos ante una variedad impresionante de temas, sobresaliendo los de asunto antropológico, en particular en lo referente al mexicano, como lo atestigua su obra clásica El laberinto de la soledad. Pero también abundan, especialmente en su poesía, los temas del amor, del erotismo, de la poesía, de lo religioso y de la metafísica del ser.

Recibió varios premios literarios, como el del Príncipe de Asturias, el Premio Cervantes y el de Tocqueville. Pero el mayor de todos fue el Premio Nobel, en 1990, otorgado como reconocimiento universal a su obra. Fue el primer escritor mexicano en recibirlo, y uno entre los varios concedidos a los autores de la literatura hispánica.  (Fuente: http://www.los-poetas.com/h/biopaz.htm )

 

 

 

 

come eat

(with thanks to Simón and Pablo)

like children
we must invent words
to be able to say
what we want to say
though we don't know yet
what they mean

interpreting
the scrawled symbols
of the soul
the heart's handwriting
is the work
of a life time
if not more

meanwhile
the table is served

come eat

--Lorena Wolfman © 2012

travelers

we navigate through the universe
through the imagination
to all the continents
in a little boat
we navigate
like Bolívar
even through those life long
romantic aventures
which at times would seem to sink
or burn the boat up
many times our mouthes 
have tasted of ash
but here we are
travelers of the soul
rowing rowing
and when we arrive 
at calm waters
everything is present
on earth
as it is in heaven

-- Lorena  © 2012

winter

we will walk
amidst the blades
of cold

our desire
will refuse to settle
amidst the fallen leaves

the wind will sound
its uneven music
admidst the naked branches

we will carry with us
the unsheathed swords
of memory

absorbing the heat
of a far off sun
will require patience

but it will still burn


 --Lorena © 2012

packing my bags

today I'm packing my bags for a new life
they are almost empty
I don’t need titles nor adjectives nor adverbs
at most    an apple

a serpent follows me
belly to the earth

the pulse of my steps
abandons my feminine heritage

the marrow of the road
blooms before me

perhaps I have already died
from a past that was not even mine

who was she who died
of whom were her desires of gender
of whom were her fears

well today asking no one’s permission
I prepare for a new life



-- Lorena Wolfman © 2012

hand dance

hands
ready to fly
possessed by dance

dance of the fairy sisters
who thought they were hummingbird
but were born butterfly

butterfly making the sign of the cross
in the cathedral
of the mortal forest

forest where they open
doors of being
in the body

body that needs the contact
of the tender twins
dragonfly messengers
longing to touch

touch
skin
pulse
rivers
breath
stars

stars found
by sharp needled compass
of sensibility

life's dual blade
of need and desire

dual flames
briefly dancing
on the face of the earth

--Lorena Wolfman © 2012

no name

a lie like a magnet
like thunder that doesn’t clap
persists still
after a precise felling

ever since then
death froze lying in wait
til the colors of the rainbow could resolve
the colors I see reflected in these streets
in the night of your pupils
that look without being seen
in the middle of this insomoniac city
where the impenetant wound of the void remains
like a breach in the middle
of history
of the two towers
of the recently become old world
of this immigrant peninsula
breach that separates us
from the torch of liberty
like a gash that doesn’t heal
or a trench
or open vein
or  river

we have crossed the river Styx
without noticing

death is incurable

here the rain shines by night on the asphalt
and meets up with ghosts
who call us by our name
without naming us

in a park nearby
young people gather
in vigel or protest

and our feet keep getting wet...

--Lorena © 2012

poem to be read from the last word to the first:

always

her to faithful

be to needs


live to order in who


me it is

or

was I that



girl

old-year five the to


faithful be to me

needs

she

her know to 

--Lorena © 2012

marrow

marrow

with your caress you invite

tranquility / marrow

sea / desire

always

in the middle

of life

silent

-- Lorena © 2012

today I pack my valise

today I pack my valise for a new life
it is almost empty
I don’t need titles nor adjectives nor adverbs
at most an apple

a serpent follows me
belly to the earth

the pulse of my steps
abandons my feminine inheritance
the marrow of the road blooms

perhaps I have died already
from a past that was not even mine

who was she who died
of whom were her desires of gender
of whom were her fears

well today asking no one’s permission
I prepare for a new life



-- Lorena © 2012

blades of winter

the days are short

of pale light

reflected

on the surface

of the blades

of winter

the leaves

make their beds

on the ground

cleaving to one another

the wind

entones a different music

among the nude branches

we walk

through the flames

of memory

its swords

unsheathed

‘neath tenuous skies

absorbing the colors

of the distant sun

requires patience

when I notice

its nature

edge and cavern

I find the point

of  equilibrium

--Lorena © 2011

Tree

I am your tree, she said.

Your arms fly through the sky, I said, like butterflies above this ocean of city, of car horns, of motors, of sorrow and wind. You live among the multitude.

I am our tree, she said. I extend my arms made of butterfly wings, sea feathers, silk hands, oceans of sorrow-- I reach out to you, grow within you. Call me by all my names: Selma, Silvia, Alda, light of day. You may touch my leaves that heal the pain of time so you may always live by the rivers' edge.

--Lorena Wolfman © 2011