Por fin

 

Subo.

Voy saliendo a pulmón

de las profundidades del mar negro.

Me desprendo tentáculos y algas.

Poco de luz se filtra,

voy saliendo.

Primero la cabeza

las dos manos abiertas,

los brazos

medio cuerpo,

respiro a bocanadas

semiahogada,

macerada la piel

y el alma macerada.

Penosamente salgo, por fin.

 

 Ya no te amo.

 

Escrito por la poeta argentina; Inés Barrio

 

···•••••···•••••···•••••···•••••···•••••···•••••···•••••···•••••···•••••···

 

At Last

 

I rise.

I come up fighting

from the depths of the black sea.

I peel off tentacles and algae.

A little light filters through,

I am coming up.

First my head

both of my hands, open,

my arms

my torso,

I gulp mouthfuls of air

half drowned,

my skin waterlogged

and my soul waterlogged.

With great effort I come out, at last.

 

I do not love you anymore.

 

-Inés Barrio, translated by Marie Garcia. 

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My Body of Water

My body of water

Evaporates in the breeze

Condenses, accumulates

Falls from the sky in little tears.

Runs free through the rivers

Waterfalls and rapids

Sleeps among the lakes

And plays in hot springs.

Weary of its travels now

Impatient in the low lands

It slips out discreetly

To sleep in calmer waters.

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Translated by… Martin Boyd

I Am My Own Labyrinth

Brown
my landscapes were conceived,
and haughty
my hillsides rose up,
Castilian
my ideas suddenly flowed
and my hairs
were a thousand serpents.
I was borne out of the ancient
bonfires of my demons
without the weighty vesture of my body,
then covered in alabaster was
my system,
in cosmic dust my core,
in marble and stone, gold and blasphemy,
and in ceremonial rite
my sacrament.
I am…
the shipwrecked eyes
of my father
and of my mother, her fragile spine,
my hands are from Aquarius,
my science inexact
and delicate
my silhouette hazy,
ancient is my blood
as ancient are my words
they are always written taciturnly,
time and again
my wandering words
time and again
are written, again
inebriated
under the light of the moon.
I am my own labyrinth,
changeable, deep,
covered in mirrors, some broken
I am a thunderous voice
that pronounces curses,
I am destruction!
splendor!
cataclysm!
a smoldering footprint,
the eternal flame,
my labyrinth gobbles me up
wholly and verse-by-verse,
at times it spits me out and I escape in silences
but then I return
frightened,
lost,
my labyrinth calls me
singing falsehoods
and I enter
unconscious
into its boreal bosom.
Brown
are my landscapes and haughty
are my hillsides,
Castilian my ideas are born
and my hairs… a thousand serpents.

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Translated by  Marie Garcia

The Woman inside

I sing to the girl who sleeps
between my eyebrows,
and between dreams of utopian cities
and hellish fears
she lies awake.
The torchlight woman
of my beaming eyes,
the one who grins, plays
in my unbridled hair,
the one in my arms,
the one in my legs,
the one who weaves gold and silver huipils
with my veins.

The crazy poet
who dances in my hands,
the barefoot warrior
who directs my footsteps,
the one who is born when I laugh,
the one who dies between my sobs,
the one who, running, escapes
in my desperate
screams.

I am a woman of linen,
woman of stone,
woman of mystic philosophy
and ethereal,
crazy woman!
perverse!
deranged!
the roaming wanderer
among frenzied words,
silhouette of dark rites,
illuminated.

I sing to the woman who lives
in my skin,
in my lips,
the sigh that fulminates
in every orgasm,
the erotic woman, naked
hidden within my sexes,
and blended into every moist kiss,
she becomes verse.

Fire does not burn her,
the moon idolizes her,
I sing to the woman inside who,
incarnate
in an eternal verse of love,
dances, dances, and dances,
passionate.

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Translated by  Marie Garcia