Sunday, October 31, 2010

It's only words, part 5

Sigo con mi colección de poemas. Espero que les estén gustando.

El clásico. El que me conquistó desde prepa. El que me influye aún. Del que no hice tesis pero sí ensayo. El que traduje. No podía faltar.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T.S. Eliot

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair -
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin -
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all -
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all -
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all -
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all" -
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all."
That is not it, at all.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor -
And this, and so much more? -
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous -
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


El que sigue es una curiosidad. Si yo diera clases a chavos de prepa, o incluso de secu, se los pondría. A ver, intenten pronunciar todo correctamente... work of genius!!

The Chaos
Gerard Nolst Trenité

Dearest creature in creation
Studying English pronunciation,
I will teach you in my verse
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;
Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;
Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet,
Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!
Just compare heart, hear and heard,
Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain
(Mind the latter how it's written).
Made has not the sound of bade,
Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as vague and ague,
But be careful how you speak,
Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via
Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;
Woven, oven, how and low,
Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery:
Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,
Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,
Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing,
Same, examining, but mining,
Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire",
Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,
Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,
Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.
Gertrude, German, wind and wind,
Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather,
Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.
This phonetic labyrinth
Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured
To pronounce revered and severed,
Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,
Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet;
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
Blood and flood are not like food,
Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet,
Which exactly rhymes with khaki.
Discount, viscount, load and broad,
Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet?
Right! Your pronunciation's OK.
Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher?
Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.
Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,
Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision,
Now: position and transition;
Would it tally with my rhyme
If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy,
But cease, crease, grease and greasy?
Cornice, nice, valise, revise,
Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous,
Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,
You'll envelop lists, I hope,
In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it!
Affidavit, David, davit.
To abjure, to perjure. Sheik
Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.
We say hallowed, but allowed,
People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover,
Between mover, plover, Dover.
Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
Petal, penal, and canal,
Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit
Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",
But it is not hard to tell
Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron,
Timber, climber, bullion, lion,
Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
Has the a of drachm and hammer.
Pussy, hussy and possess,
Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants
Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.
Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,
Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker",
Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",
Making, it is sad but true,
In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,
Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic,
Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.
Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,
Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle,
Make the latter rhyme with eagle.
Mind! Meandering but mean,
Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny,
You say mani-(fold) like many,
Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,
Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring
Rhyme with herring or with stirring?
Prison, bison, treasure trove,
Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald
Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.
Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,
Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it,
And distinguish buffet, buffet;
Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,
Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling
Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.
Evil, devil, mezzotint,
Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention
To such sounds as I don't mention,
Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,
Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included,
Though I often heard, as you did,
Funny rhymes to unicorn,
Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely,
I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.
No. Yet Froude compared with proud
Is no better than McLeod.

But mind trivial and vial,
Tripod, menial, denial,
Troll and trolley, realm and ream,
Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely
May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,
But you're not supposed to say
Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid
Worthless documents? How pallid,
How uncouth he, couchant, looked,
When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite,
Paramour, enamoured, flighty,
Episodes, antipodes,
Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser,
Don't peel 'taters with my razor,
Rather say in accents pure:
Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly,
Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,
Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,
Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you
More than r, ch or w.
Say then these phonetic gems:
Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham,
There are more but I forget 'em-
Wait! I've got it: Anthony,
Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit
Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;
With and forthwith, one has voice,
One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger;
Then say: singer, ginger, linger.
Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,
Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very,
Parry, tarry fury, bury,
Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,
Job, Job, blossom, bosom, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners,
Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners
Holm you know, but noes, canoes,
Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little,
We say actual, but victual,
Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,
Put, nut, granite, and unite.

Reefer does not rhyme with deafer,
Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,
Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific;
Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,
Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and vomit,
Next omit, which differs from it
Bona fide, alibi
Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,
Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion with battalion,
Rally with ally; yea, ye,
Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.
Never guess-it is not safe,
We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary,
Crevice, but device, and eyrie,
Face, but preface, then grimace,
Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.

Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;
Ear, but earn; and ere and tear
Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often
Which may be pronounced as orphan,
With the sound of saw and sauce;
Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting?
Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.
Respite, spite, consent, resent.
Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,
Monkey, donkey, clerk and jerk,
Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour,
S of news (compare newspaper),
G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,
I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers,
Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.
Once, but nonce, toll, doll, but roll,
Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!-
Is a paling, stout and spiky.
Won't it make you lose your wits
Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel
Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,
Islington, and Isle of Wight,
Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather,
Saying lather, bather, father?
Finally, which rhymes with enough,
Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup...
My advice is: GIVE IT UP!



Y en el que sigue... ME VOY A IRLANDA, DAMMIT!!!

Bagpipe Music
Louis MacNeice

It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,
All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.
Their knickers are made of crêpe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,
Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison.

John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,
Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,
Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,
Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty.

It's no go the Yogi-Man, it's no go Blavatsky,
All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.

Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,
Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.
It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,
All we want is a Dunlop tyre and the devil mend the puncture.

The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,
Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.
Mrs Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,
Said to the midwife 'Take it away; I'm through with overproduction'.

It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,
All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.

Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,
Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.
His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,
Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.

It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,
All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.

It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,
It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,
It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,
Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.

It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;
Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.
The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever,
But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.


Faltan los más largos. No sé si pegarlos completos. Bueno, con Huidobro no se puede... buscaré fragmentos. Mientras, enjoy!

Monday, October 18, 2010

The epic... #fail

No es sorpresa. Ya el amigo P. nos ha hecho bastantes de esas. Desde The Flying Frenchman, pasando por el Nacapulcazo, y... bueno, supongo que no tengo que explicar más porque esa entrada es famosa.
Por eso, cuando dijo que iba a celebrar su cumpleaños en un antro popular, el sábado, lo primero que yo dije que fue no. NONONONONO. A mí no me van a meter a otro de sus rollos, ¡y menos en un antro! Antes me da urticaria o diarrea crónica. No. No y no y no. Yo no voy a ese lugar.
Pero, finalmente, el cariño de amigos de años, y el hecho de que pasaron por un momento díficil, me convenció. Hay que ser solidaria, no hay que amargarse.
En fin. Llegamos, a las once de la noche, a la cita en el Pedregal. Mi hermano, el amigo Gorras y yo.
Había coo veinte cabrones formados, y no me refiero a todo el quorum. Esos éramos los invitados. ¿Cómo íbamos a pasar todos?
También, desde el inicio noté al amigo P. algo desatento, apurado, medio enojado. Pensé que todo se aclararía al entrar al lugar.
Bueno, el problema fue que yo, como nunca me agarro a empujones más que en conciertos, no reaccioné cuando el Gorras me dijo que "Me clavara". Así pues, entraron muchas chicas y la cadena se cerró en mi jeta. Nice. Supongo que me vieron cara de prófuga del Corona Capital, cara de "Yo quería ir a ver a Echo and the Bunnymen". O les llamó la atención el adorno de plumas en mi cabeza. Por cierto, a pesar de que el amigo Gorras se quedó conmigo, el amigo P. no salió a ver qué onda con nosotros. Muy sospechoso.
Pero al fin entramos. Todo el mundo estaba en el pasillo, y el amigo P. seguía sin verse por ningún lado. Al menos me reuní con mi hermano y de ahí entramos al lugar, con su decorado pseudo-gótico. No estaría tan mal si no fuera antro, I guess.
Aproveché para lanzar unas miradas a mi alrededor, dispuesta a hacerle caso a mi hermano y a sus consejos de chico de sociedad: en un antro se liga.
OK, pues... digamos que yo no le diría que no a un Mick Jagger a sus sesenta y tantos, o a un Steven Tyler... y si un David Bowie se presentara ante mí, yo no dudaría en caer a sus pies.
Claro está, porque son Jagger y Tyler y Bowie. Porque, la verdad, para los señores cara de "vengo aquí con mi amante mientras le digo a mi esposa que este viernes voy a trabajar tarde" no eran para que nadie los pelara. Completos con calvas definitivamente no prematuras (o canas a los lados), camisa de oficina que combinaron con jeans para verse cool, panza de ñor y algunos hasta lentes (uno que no sabía yo si era cómico o catedrático). No, bueno. Los jóvenes, juniors que respondían perfectamente a la definición de equis. Incluso uno que era la mutación de un hipster (con too y lentecitos) con un pandro (hoodie) con... pues supongo que con un fresa, ya que estaba en el antro. Sin embargo, el premio se lo llevó una mona que llevaba jeans, el pelo amarrado en una colita de caballo hecha al vapor como para hacer quehacer, y una playera de manga larga tipo térmica a la que ya se le había chorreado algo. El celular lo traía metido entre la panza y la waistband de los jeans. So much for elegance and exclusivity, Pedregal, huh?
La mesa supuestamente nos esperaba. Claro, supuestamente. Cuando llegamos no había mesa. Fueron fácil como hora y media parados sin hacer nada. Se veía movimiento, pero nada concluso... Mientras tanto, la novia del amigo P. decía que él ya hasta se había enojado con ella, y varios asistentes a la fiesta decían que partían en media hora a una fiesta del ITAM, incluyendo hombres. ¿Una hora en una fiesta? Será que yo siempre fui antisocial, pero puta, eso es neta tener muchas ganas de andar vagando en la noche. Además, qué desperdicio del pinche cover.
O bueno, eso pensaba yo. Porque precisamente empezaron a pasar cuentas para la botella. Un pinche vodka, 1700 pesos. En ciertas fiestas en ciertos bares la champagne estaba a mil, y miren que en ciertos bares yo merecía haber abierto una botella de champagne porque yo sí merecía festejar que al fin con unas copas encima había perdido la pena y al fin había besado a... but I digress!
Me enteré de lo que había pasado porque mi hermano se puso a vociferar. Que no mame, ya les dio las cortesías de cover a los cabrones que sólo se quedaron una hora, yo ya no tengo dinero y pues no voy a poner para la botella. Obviamente, el amigo Gorras también estaba pobre ya, y yo, aunque sí traía dinero, no quise poner porque la amiga F. y sus amigas son las que se toman todo y nunca me toca nada.
Total, que, en un ratito en el que mi hermano y Gorras se fueron a dar una vuelta (pobres, aún buscando una que no tuviera cuarenta) yo aproveché para preguntarle al amigo P. qué carajos pasaba.
-Nada, nada- me dijo, con actitud de galán de telenovela que sufre mucho.
-Pero, ¿estás bien?- le dije, con actitud de amiga preocupada.
-No, no estoy bien. Nada está bien- me respondió, con actitud exageradamente emo, antes de irse, jalando a su novia.
No, bueno. Ya para eso, mi hermano, el amigo Gorras y yo planeábamos nuestra huida, al menos por un jocho. Pero como el cover aún pesaba en sus bolsillos, mejor nos resignamos y bajamos a bailar "Hot n' Cold" de Katy Perry.
En ese momento, cortaron la rola porque abrieron pista. #fail. Sin embargo, en las pantallas se proyectó un video que yo conocía muy bien. Sería posible... ¿qué fueran a abrir pista con mi sagrada, mi divina, "Sweet Child O' Mine"?
Obvio no. Era demasiado bueno para ser verdad. Automáticamente, la remixearon con una rola de Lil' Jon. #epicfail.
Y de ahi, al baile, que para mí fue prueba de resistencia. Tacones + habes estado parda todo ese rato + estar bailando en cuadrito al ritmo repetitivo del beat de la electrónica = las piernas me estaban matando. Pero la pista estaba atascada, ni para donde hacerse, y ni un lugarcito donde sentarse, así que a aguantar. #fail. Creo que el único momento en donde cambió la tonadita y pude estirar más las piernas fue cuando el DJ puso, por un momento, "Paradise City". Sí, Guns otra vez. Hasta un amigo de mi hermano y yo nos emocionamos. Pero obvio, la rola fue cortada.
En una pared, mujeres bailaban tras vidrios, al estilo escaparate de distrito de putas holandesas. Enmedio del grupo, un veinti-casi-treintañero al que nadie había invitado se frotaba con la amiga F. El amigo P. había desaparecido.
Afortunadamente, sonó el celular. Salgamos de ahí. Yo traía las piernas en calidad de refugiada siberiana.
A la mañana siguiente, el amigo P. soltó un choro sobre lo decepcionado que estaba. Yo, por mi parte, espero que esto les enseñe a no hacer fiestas ni en antros, ni en Acapulco. De veras, de veras, que puras #fails. Ya lo había dicho Jakob Dylan, cuando pusieron "One Headlight" antes de abrir la pista: "It smells of cheap wine and cigarettes/This place is always such a mess/Sometimes I think I'd like to watch it burn."

Monday, October 11, 2010

It's only words, part 4

Sigo con el conteo de poemas, poemas que cada vez se hacen más largos, pero que espero sigan disfrutando.


Parental advisory: Explicit Content. ¿Me proyecto, me proyecto, me proyecto? Me vale. Que levante la mano el afortunado que no.

Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator
Anne Sexton

The end of the affair is always death.
She's my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Finger to finger, now she's mine.
She's not too far. She's my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute's speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

She took you the way a women takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today's paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.



Pero siempre me puedo poner más salvaje. Dedicada a esos extranjeros, que rondan en mi memoria, a los que nos les hablé pero pude haberles hablado, a los que les hablé y me fui soñando con ellos, a los que me rondan en Facebook...

You Bring Out the Mexican in Me
Sandra Cisneros

You bring out the Mexican in me.
The hunkered thick dark spiral.
The core of a heart howl.
The bitter bile.
The tequila lágrimas on Saturday all
through next weekend Sunday.
You are the one I'd let go the other loves for,
surrender my one-woman house.
Allow you red wine in bed,
even with my vintage lace linens.
Maybe. Maybe.

For you.

You bring out the Dolores del Río in me.
The Mexican spitfire in me.
The raw navajas, glint and passion in me.
The raise Cain and dance with the rooster-footed devil in me.
The spangled sequin in me.
The eagle and serpent in me.
The mariachi trumpets of the blood in me.
The Aztec love of war in me.
The fierce obsidian of the tongue in me.
The berrinchuda, bien-cabrona in me.
The Pandora's curiosity in me.
The pre-Columbian death and destruction in me.
The rainforest disaster, nuclear threat in me.
The fear of fascists in me.
Yes, you do. Yes, you do.

You bring out the colonizer in me.
The holocaust of desire in me.
The Mexico City '85 earthquake in me.
The Popocatepetl/Ixtaccíhuatl in me.
The tidal wave of recession in me.
The Agustín Lara hopeless romantic in me.
The barbacoa taquitos on Sunday in me.
The cover the mirrors with cloth in me.

Sweet twin. My wicked other,
I am the memory that circles your bed nights,
that tugs you taut as moon tugs ocean.
I claim you all mine,
arrogant as Manifest Destiny.
I want to rattle and rent you in two.
I want to defile you and raise hell.
I want to pull out the kitchen knives,
dull and sharp, and whisk the air with crosses.
Me sacas lo mexicana en mi,
like it or not, honey.

You bring out the Uled-Nayl in me.
The stand-back-white-bitch-in me.
The switchblade in the boot in me.
The Acapulco cliff diver in me.
The Flecha Roja mountain disaster in me.
The dengue fever in me.
The ¡Alarma! murderess in me.
I could kill in the name of you and think
it worth it. Brandish a fork and terrorize rivals,
female and male, who loiter and look at you,
languid in you light. Oh,

I am evil. I am the filth goddess Tlazoltotl.
I am the swallower of sins.
The lust goddess without guilt.
The delicious debauchery. You bring out
the primordial exquisiteness in me.
The nasty obsession in me.
The corporal and venial sin in me.
The original transgression in me.

Red ocher. Yellow ocher. Indigo. Cochineal.
Piñón. Copal. Sweetgrass. Myrrh.
All you saints, blessed and terrible,
Virgen de Guadalupe, diosa Coatlicue,
I invoke you.

Quiero ser tuya. Only yours. Only you.
Quiero amarte. Atarte. Amarrarte.
Love the way a Mexican woman loves. Let
me show you. Love the only way I know how.


Y termino este trío de mujeres locas con...migo...

The Lady of Shalott
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Part I

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veiled,
Slide the heavy barges trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

Part II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
Goes by to towered Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glittered free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;
On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flowed
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over towered Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse,
Like some bold seër in a trance
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Through the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to towered Camelot.
For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

Sunday, October 03, 2010

You wanted the best... you got the best!!

Esta era la otra entrada. Mi experiencia con la banda más llena de mercadotecnia de todo el mundo, la que aún no comprendo cómo es que no está en el Salón de la Fama del rock. Aunque no lo crean, yo nunca los había visto en vivo, y por eso no podía dejar pasar la oportunidad... ¡KISS!
Aunque los rumores hablaban de un abridor tan terrible como Ruido Rosa, afortunadamente las cosas cambiaron. Señoras y señores, conozcan a The Envy. Les diré, a pesar de que el grupo sonaba un poco menos rockero de lo que es Kiss, lograron su cometido a pesar de los abucheos, y me gustaron. O quizá eso fue porque estaban guapos...
Pero, tras un rato de espera, a las diez en punto, el sonido ambiental tocó a Led Zeppelin, con el salvaje grito de batalla de "Immigrant Song". Los presentes, sin pensarlo, lo empezamos a corear, aunque nuestros gritos no llegaban a los decibeles de los de Robert Plant (ni estaban tan afinados), pero las luces se apagaron... y los sobrepasamos.
Porque, en una explosión de luces, pirotecnia y... maquillaje, Kiss saltaron al escenario, con su nuevo sencillo, "Modern Day Delilah", para empezar con fuerza, con un concierto que prometía...
Y vaya que sí. Bueno, para empezar, la conexión con el público fue inigualable. Paul nunca dejó de hablar, de dirigirnos gritos, de pedirnos que cantáramos. Se le veía muy a gusto y feliz de estar aquí.
Siguieron con una rola del primer disco, "Cold Gin", y luego con "Let Me Go, Rock n' Roll", donde Gene empezó a presumir su lengua célebre, pasándola por la barba de Tommy Thayer, el nuevo Space Ace... ¿gay? ¿Ridículo? Digan lo que sea, yo digo Genial.
Después de "Firehouse" (que tuvo exceso de la máquina de humo, sirena de bomberos y a Gene tragando fuego) Paul nos puso a gritar "Yeah" y "Boom", para, claro está, "Say Yeah", de su disco más reciente, Sonic Boom. Definitivamente himno de estadios... aunque la siguiente nos hizo vibrar aún más: "Deuce", clasicazo.
Tras aventarse un pedacito de "Guantanamera" y otro de "Cucurrucucú Paloma"... "Ayer estuvimos en Monterrey..." nos empezó a contar Paul, lo que le acarreó una rechifla, "pero esta noche, en la Ciudad de México, es aún más especial! It's a Crazy, crazy night!"
Efectivamente. "Crazy, Crazy Nights", una de mis canciones favoritas EVER, me puso a saltar. Sí, soy rockera de gustos chafas, ¿y qué? "This is my music, I don't need more... and nobody's gonna change me, because that's who I am!" Magnífica.
"Creo que es hora de llamar al doctor!" anunción Gene. Claro, "Calling Dr. Love", tambien coreadísima.
De ahí, la siguiente fue "Shock Me", canción reconocida por el gran solo del ex-guitarrista Ace Frehley. ¿Podría acaso Tommy Thayer hacer lo propio? ¿Podría... bueno, la pregunta se resolvió cuando Tommy se aventó un excelente solo que terminó con su guitarra volando (bueno, colgada de un arnés, pero, hey, es Kiss, con ellos todo es posible) y le dio la entrada al baterista, Eric Singer, quien ha llevado muy bien (incluso mejorado) la antorcha que encendió Peter Criss y que también sostuvo el finado Eric Carr. Su solo de batería (con todo y plataformas voladoras) fue explosivo, vibrante. El numerito terminó en un mano a mano entre Tommy y Eric, y el baterista disparando con una "bazooka". Flaming hot!
La nueva "I'm an Animal", a pesar de que es buena, sirvió casi casi como intermedio, antes de lanzarnos con, directita del célebre Alive (Paul preguntó cuántos teníamos ese disco, sonriendo al ver que todos levantamos la mano. Claro, ese disco es de los esenciales en vivo, junto con... Peter Frampton), el rolón "100,000 Years".
El escenario se oscurece. De pronto, en la pantalla se ve la cara de Gene, viéndose, ya dirán si en trance o como paloma asustada. De cualquier manera, sabemos lo que viene. Sangre falsa escurriendo de lengua legendaria que aún así aplaudimos como locos. Después de ese performance, el demonio vuela y se posa en las luces que están hasta arriba y desde ahí nos pone a cantar: "I Love it Loud". YEAH! ¡ASÍ NOS GUSTA!
"Love Gun" es una fiesta de pirotecnia, peor que nuestras celebraciones de Independencia. Fuegos artificiales hacen la vez de sonidos de metralleta, con explosiones al final y todo. Riesgos de sordera.
"Black Diamond" es interrumpida por un gritón, pero disfrutadísimo cover que Paul le hace a la clásica de Led Zeppelin "Whole Lotta Love" (estaba haciendo tiempo para que Gene se bajara del techo), y, una vez que empieza, es grande... pero la derrota la siguiente. La más grande declaración de amor a una banda, con la historia del cuate que choca por llegar al show. La emoción de un concierto, narrada en esta rola. "Detroit Rock City". No se diga más.
Tras otras mil explosiones, Kiss desaparecen... pero sólo por un momento. Paul se vuelve a dirigir a nosotros.
"¿Cuántas canciones más quieren?" pregunta, y empieza a levantar dedos. Por cada dedo que levanta, todos nos ponemos a gritar, ni sí ni no, sólo gritos. Finalmente, sus manos se detienen. "¿Seis? Les daremos seis..."
Y se aleja, formando un pequeño trío detrás, mientras Eric Singer se encarga del micrófono. "Beth", baladón, versión acústica, sublime.
Tras coverear la "Bamba" de Ritchie Valens de manera deliciosa (que el respetable cantamos) el rugido "Don't wanna wait till you know me better" nos enloqueció. "Lick it Up", que, como bonus, tuvo enmedio un pequeño homenaje a "We Won't Get Fooled Again" de The Who. Y si a eso le agregamos "Shout it Out Loud"... nononono. Sin palabras.
Una vez más, Paul se puso a platicar con nosotros. "Saben... ustedes son como mi familia, son como mis hermanos y hermanas... y, pues yo quiero estar con mi familia. Quiero ir a verlos, enmedio". Gritos. ¿Qué era el plan? "Griten mi nombre muy fuerte, y yo iría a verlos". Veinte mil almas llamamos a Paul. "Así, así," respondió, refiriéndose a que lo habíamos hecho más o menos. Otro alarido, ahora casi desesperado. PAUL!
"You know what... I'm coming." INCREÍBLE. Paul voló a una plataforma justo en el centro, mientras sonaba "I Was Made for Loving You". Apoteosis en el Domo del Bote.
Cuando todo volvió a la normalidad, fuimos felices. El himno de la iglesia del rock. "God Gave Rock n' Roll To You". Juro que soy creyente, con esta rola juro que soy creyente, porque cuando la vida se dificulta, tenemos ese regalo, ROCK! Y, de fondo, imágenes maravillosas, de los verdaderos grandes, regalos del cielo: The Beatles, Zeppelin, The Who, Hendrix, Janis...
"Rock n' Roll All Nite". Amén. Queríamos lo mejor, lo tuvimos. Qué bandota, qué conciertazo... rock y fiesta... Kiss, Kiss, por favor, sigan siendo banda, franquicia, lo que sea, pero nunca nos dejen. Nunca.

Friday, October 01, 2010

...A terrible beauty is born

(Les debía dos entradas, pero he tenido una semana increíblemente pesada... así que aquí les dejo la primera de dos: The Cranberries en México).

Mi fascinación por Irlanda no sólo se limita a la literatura. Ni a U2. Tampoco la de mi jefa. Por eso, el martes enfilamos rumbo al Auditorio Nacional a ver a The Cranberries y deleitarnos con O'Riordan y compañía.
Y fue un aciertazo. El concierto, super puntual, abrió con "Analyze", e inmediatamente la voz de la vocalista nos envolvió. Junto a sus partners in crime originales, Dolores se apareció, como mujer-niño, mezcla de inocencia y belleza, vestida en minidress con Converse brillosos, su cabello cortísimo, su voz enorme... y sus ganas de poner a México a cantar imparables. Desde el principio nos pidió que coreáramos.
"How" fue la segunda y de ahí le siguió "Animal Instinct", que hizo las delicias de todos los presentes. Le siguió "Ordinary Day", sencillo de cuando O'Riordan fue solista.
"Linger" fue coreadísima, ¡qué baladón! Y junto a ella, "Ode to My Family". De verdad que para morirse de gusto. Y por si eso fuera poco, la siguiente fue "Just My Imagination", y ahí, O'Riordan, absolutamente niña, pateó una pelota de colores hacia el respetable, quienes jugaron con ella. Claro que cuando terminó la rola nadie supo qué pasó con la bola.
Tras "Desperate Andy" y "Wanted" precedieron a la tierna "You and Me" y a "I Can't Be With You". De ahí, la atmósfera del concierto se inclinó un poco más hacia la oscuridad, sobre todo con la sentidísima "Electric Blue". Un respiro fue la maravilla "Free to Decide", pero después las guitarras dominaron el escenario: en "Salvation", Dolores salió a bailar y a correr, luciendo un penacho en la cabeza que amenazaba con volar a cada rato, tanto como en la siguiente: "Ridiculous Thoughts".
Pero fue en "Zombie" cuando se soltó el metalero que vive en todos. Las cabelleras de las fans volaban por doquier en un headbanging que cualquier concierto de metal envidiaría, todos coreando el agónico grito de "In your head/Zombie..."
De ahí, los Cranberries desaparecieron por primera vez, pero, claro está, aún no podían irse. De hecho, no faltó mucho antes de que Dolores reapareciera, ahora luciendo un vestido de noche, que contrastaba con los tatuajes en sus brazos, dotándola de, como diría Yeats, a terrible beauty...
El concierto regresó con "Shattered", y, de ahí, nos presentaron la canción nueva: "Astral Projection". Pero definitivamente el momento culminante llegó con las dos siguientes, la despedida: "Promises" y "Dreams", que hasta mi jefa cantó con ganas...
La bella Madre Irlanda en pleno. Qué maravilla.