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poesia dominical [de otros]

Llevo dos semanas intentando salir del agujero en el que me he ido colocando tímidamente para no tener que estar de cuerpo presente. He perdido muchas cosas por el camino, y no es una frase que se deba al contexto de ahora sino que... por extraño que parezca, creo que  con ella resumo gran parte de estos 4 últimos años. A veces no consigo ni tan siquiera establecer el principio del debate al que me debería estar ciñendo constantemente. Porque este debate gira en torno a mi misma y conmigo misma. Y se establecen fronteras y bandos que son irreconcilliables.
De mientras hago pasar las horas
De mientras desgarro los motivos de mi frente y abro los boquetes de mi nuca
Y prefiero sentirme, así: de camino y sorda y ciega, totalmente mareada con un pie más débil que los 99 restantes y agrandar mis ojos con lentejas y puntos rojos debajo el lagrimal... porque me declaro inútil y vencida por todas las moscas de este mundo, por muy acerada que llevara la coraza antes. Los rosario de madera de casa se han enmohecido y han perdido su utilidad bajo mis manos de carpa.
Y?
Porque prefiero no escuchar las posiciones que después dispongo libremente sobre la mesa cuando lo hablamos con alguien más. que no somos tampoco nosotros, aunque en el fondo solo y siempre estemos en un diálogo unilateral que va de la boca a la pared y rebota en las esquinas de la mesa para impregnarse de trozos de croissant y dejar a su paso algo de azaleas; rastros de voces mucho más enceradas que la mia. Suele pasar que prefiero incluso olvidar que tengo pendiente esta sesion plenaria en el congreso, olvidar incluso que deberia firmar las actas.

Por el contrario, la cama se me hace enorme y cuelgan los pies por los lados y la pared de zarzamora está tan fria que consuela.

JOSIP OSTI es uno de los mejores poetas en lengua checa del pasado y desmembrado siglo XX.
Si alguna vez no os habia dicho cuánto adoro la poesía del este de europa ahora es un buen momento para decirlo una vez más
Y así desviar el tema de antes
JOSIP OSTI


~JOSIP OSTI~

IN MY POCKET I STILL KEEP THE KEY
TO MY FORMER HOME


In my pocket I still keep the key to my former
home, which, since the last war in my
home town, has been lived in by strangers
who have changed the lock on the main door
a long time ago ... I know that a key without a lock
no longer has a reason for being, but
this key means something higher to me, just like
many other generally useless
objects ... The dry chestnut I picked up
on a tree-lined avenue leading to the source
of the river Bosna ... A saucer for the beer mug from
the Golden Tiger Inn in Prague, where I
met Hrabal ... The napkin on which
the English poet Adrian Mitchell
drew me an elephant ... The dust of a lemon
flower whose unforgettable smell reminds
me of our walks along the seashore
between Podaca and Brist ... Objects which
warm the palm, like the egg my neighbor
brought me as soon as it was laid,
and which stir the memory ... In my pocket
I still keep the key to my former home ...
I don't know if this key dreams its own memory,
its other half, as I dream my
beloved wife, equally dark and
mysterious, to whom for years in my dreams, although she
sleeps next to me, I have been writing poems
instead of love letters. All I know is that,
inexplicably, she shows me the way to the darkroom
of language, in which alone I feel perfectly
free.

BUILDING A HOUSE AFTER THE WAR


After the war we're building a house ... After yet another war,
during which many people have remained without a roof over
their heads, we're building a house and arranging the garden
around it. We're building it on the scale of a snail's house,
small and beautiful, but for two. We learn from
the sparrows. We ask the wind for advice, and
the rain. We build it with hands that smell
of soil into which everything that comes from it
always returns. With hands that gently
touch and, exhausted, laugh loudly like
an elder-tree in bloom. We're helped by stone and water,
which we unite with the smell of lavender and
images from a dream ... After the war we're building a house ...
For two bodies that will lie in bed as if
under a blooming apple-tree, and for two souls that will
silently wander around it like the soul
of an old woman who had lived and
died among its walls ... We're building little walls
that will cut us off from cruel reality,
and stairs that will lead us beyond
the known, to where only two who love
each other ever get ... After the war we're building a house ... Day
and night, although we're only too aware that we are
building tomorrow's ruins.

WITH A RUSTY BAYONET FROM WORLD WAR ONE

With a rusty bayonet from World
War One I weed the garden. Thrusting
it deeply into the soil as it might have been thrust
into hard bread or soft human flesh in the times
long cleansed from its
memory. When its former shine
mirrored the fear and uncertainty
of the beautiful young man who,
at the war cemetery, has for decades
been feeding flowers and weeds
as nameless as himself ... With a rusty bayonet
from World War One I weed the garden ...
Pulling out nettles, dandelion ... When the bayonet
touches a brass cartridge in the soil
I blow in it the way I learned as a child.
The silence of the Karst is broken by an unusual sound
to which a wood-owl responds. A wood-owl
whose measured, ominous voice
fills the air all night long.



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