FROM THE COUNTRY OF SORROW
I
will show you fear in a handful of dust.
-T.S.
Eliot
Who am
I? … “The light that falls on this gate, on this ground?”
Am I the
trees and the plants? Maybe the sea?
I am hills,
shorelines, water bathed in light
I am a
body tired of so much wandering
a body
and a soul tired of fear
I am fear.
From the
depths and the dark I listen and tremble
I hear
the depths, the dark, the difficulty
the contradictions,
all the opposite poles
the blackness,
the whiteness, the exchanges
as if
the white gathered the black
as if
the black gathered the white.
Who am
I?
First
a sorrow, then the endurance.
I see
ships, multiple ships that touch my shore.
The ships
glow in the night
—I see their flags
they are
the arrival, the end
though
not the cure for the most ancient wound.
I see
sick, ancient, grieving ships
and inside crutches, disability, anxiety.
Who am
I?
The sun
burns me, lights my skin on fire, illuminates my eyes
I begin
to burn, I am burning
I respond with love to the midday sun.
I have
sought you out to know who I am,
and I
don’t know who I am
The leaf
storm has dragged me
Maybe
to save me
My body is covered by a vegetable carpet
the leaves’ down caresses me
I have sunk into the green
I sleep, sleep, sleep
so everything will pass, so everything will finish passing.
Now I’m
the bird I buried in the garden
I sleep under the earth so everything will pass
I want to avoid the pain and horror. Oblivion, oblivion…
I think,
it’s no longer time for the undertow
each wave dictates a continuity to me
it dictates to us
my continuity
is a subtle station, imperceptible
to those who hurry.
You arrived
from the country of sorrow. Going where, where?
The sea
opens in me, vast
to wash me, water me
little by little I go to it
with
respect.
And far
off I see the ships
ships
freighted with weeping, with contained indignation
magdalen ships.
“Did you
write the poem, did you do it well?
I ask you.”
Who am
I? I went looking for you
But it was in Venice that I saw you
Your things
were over there
table cloths, jewelry, a garnet, topazes
Venice:
rest for melancholy.
I suffer
Me, who
am I?
I want
to go to the beach, I want to look at the sea
I want
to look at the earth trembling from the sea’s love
I will
adore beauty, the splendors
The city
forces me to work
and meanwhile I sigh
sigh.
After
so much pain I think things will accommodate themselves
a mending here, another over there
I’m exhausted
—three
and a half is old enough
to understand everything
life, death, abandonment, distances.
I’m not
a daughter of war, I sigh…
I’m a granddaughter
I’m going
to take this past slowly, with delays
(my husband’s
a humorist and he laughs, he laughs at me and he’s right)
My father
would also say: “You have to laugh”
but he
couldn’t laugh, from so much sorrow.
Who am
I? I think I’m a lit-up pansy
a fuchsia pansy
hanging over the wall.
I have
placed my flowering over the wall
so it will be more beautiful
so it will soften
maybe
I want to hide or forget about
such a rough stone. The wall.
The Berlin wall.
I don’t
want horror I want tolerance
the house, friends, books,
the garnet of love, siblings.
I want
the sea and the fallen leaves to be resolved in me.
Where
are you? Tell me, who am I?
The trees
are silent, there are no crickets
only the metallic makes noise
machines and money make themselves felt
I hear cars and in the distance a strike
nothing’s happening here!
but the lights are on
and the heart is in flames.
I’m a
witness to this. And to that
I’m a witness.
It doesn’t
matter. There’s the apamate blossom
You said it was the apamate blossom
I have seen the cherry blossom
it was so beautiful. Doctor, it was so beautiful.
Ah, so
much pressure, I sometimes lack the strength.
Everything
we have to care for: ourselves, the earth, the soul
let us
suppose poetry as well
and children, the child within
the kitchen, lucidity in the kitchen
the list
is too long
and it’s too much for us women
will men be able to help us?
hear us?
too much
weight; yes, too much weight
too much pressure.
Venice,
Venezuela
I sigh, tremble, burn
My husband
works and it’s nighttime. The cats scream.
I hear
the sea, the conch informs me
Not everything
is resolution, but something should be resolved
something like a payment
but what?, I don’t know…
What am
I? I listen to something within me, a voice, maybe
something that wants to come out
something clear
that I don’t understand now, that murmurs.
Am I from
the Middle Ages?
my dead are left behind
behind and nearby
they, the mourners
the ones who didn’t understand absurdity
their own absurdity
the ones who still couldn’t see themselves
they, the adolescents
the ones who suffered, who were in pain.
Once I
said: The sea within me doesn’t let me sleep
Now I know,
I know what the vigil means
I’m paying attention
I’m wearing seaweed stuck to my body.
Who am
I? A path? A road?
A highway between city and city?
Am I an interval, a lapse?
Not conciliation,
no. But something more
Let’s
see, I should clarify myself, or maybe not.
I see
a line of palm trees, a fog
There are two or three there
a man, a woman
two men
far off, children
I know
what that means
Sandstone, sad dust amid the light
points I intercept
My heart
is in flames, beat by beat
there is no forge
I am calm.
The house
is here, here the fires and the waters
here the hearth
“But you,
you suffered so much, for all this”
Ah… my
passion. Ah… my pardons
Clarity,
divine light, come to me.
The sun
burns and scalds, consecrates itself facing my autumn
The sun
speaks to me, against autumn, against ruin
—but I am also the autumn.
Ah quick
fruit so close to sadness
everything
beautiful in you, peach fuzz
is given away to be a fig
as if it were an exchange
between the difficult and the fresh.
My boundary,
such clarity!
Oh earth,
I must do so much to understand you
I have to be so meticulous.
Now I
live in the detail, in fragments, in strokes
on the line of a face.
Who am
I?
I don’t
have a face, surely, I’m sure, I don’t have a face
my eyes fly further away
my cheekbones are blunt
my hair flutters or becomes docile
the light makes it brilliant, shrinks it
fires burn inside me
and now
I want something like peace
something like the everyday
I tremble lit up with so much passion
(My husband
is sleeping… finally; that way he won’t hear me
my husband
knows when I think , when I feel,
my resonance
reaches him and it’s strong.)
I’m in
my room, in my “own room”
There’s the German squirrel
the dolls: the English one, the one from Mérida
the Venezuelan one, the Italian one
there’s the primitive bird
the wood carving
there’s the photo of the balcony into nowhere
Greece,
Germany, Venezuela, London, Venice, Egypt.
The cares.
It’s too much. Enough. Enough.
I lack strength
I have left the poem, the word
I have spoken too much.
There’s
hardly any guilt
only the
dying shadow of what we are
shelter
we want
shelter
the barges
with their lights
the flags
the canons, the bullets, the invisible bullets
no longer enter me
I only
hear the voice of the crickets
the voice of the earth
the voice of nature
remains, almost bellowing
like an imploration
who listens?
who’s there?
who’s speaking?
I knock on the doors
It’s not
the one inside who asks
It’s the
one outside
the demolished one
the tired one
the exhausted one
And my
voice draws itself out, extends itself
Who’s there?
The ray
of light has been cut short
I should sleep, it’s nighttime
the angels will cover us
like a couple in love
sheltered
My solitary
soul pulses and I see the reflections
over there’s
a notebook, over there’s a pencil
a coffee grinder
and Steinberg’s signature, whom I don’t know
The cricket
jumps and jumps —full of freedom in itself
I activate, activate and don’t understand
I try to understand, slowly
my childhood
and my old age make it impossible
I’m forty years old.
God, what
do I mean… who am I?
There’s a dawn, yes
and a midnight
there’s an undulating body
there are women with a scarf tied around their head
and that means something, a mourning perhaps
black scarves to hold desperation
I think
everything has meaning
I know about everything with meaning
Who am
I? Do I have a meaning?
Am I a word, a wind, a plant?
My heart aflame. I cry, I burn…
There I go, like the shade of destinies
The feather
of my feather is burning
fluttering, following the breeze
Sea, I
trust you to provide others their limit
like the beach
I’m absorbed
facing you, almost frightened
all my risks are retracted
Care.
Care. Care. We’ll have to move with more care.
What else?
The stars are right there. Silent.
And
there is work. Heart.
If all
this has been bad… then what?
Then there will be no correction.
Who am
I? The miracle of an error?
The window opens
Guilt is ventilated
The sun radiates
On the
coast lies a sailor
the woman cries
distress,
distress, distress
There’s
no end to this war
this horrible war
this destruction
my soul
has been split in two
pity for my angels
Holy cross
I’ve cried.
The earth sublimates me. Vegetables.
Flesh
Man sublimates me
and because
of him I am beyond him
between junk and sighs
That’s
why I clean the house
And that solitary scream… what might it be?
Enough.
It is
the light of the Moon that illuminates me today.
November, 1985
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