dora malech

esta es una gran entrevista que encontré a una poeta americana que se llama dora malech, a quien también encontré hoy por casualidad pero me parece que es muy buena, realmente buena

"Maybe I’ll save myself all of this trouble the next time around and just write a third collection that consists entirely of pantoums about Heidegger from the point of view of my Chihuahua. Now that’s cohesive."

Love Poem

If by truth you mean hand then yes
I hold to be self-evident and hold you in the highest—
ko to my ot and bait to my switch, I crown
you one-trick pony to my one-horse town,
dub you my one-stop shopping, my space heater,
juke joint, tourist trap, my peep show, my meter reader,
you best batteries-not-included baring all or
nothing. Let me begin by saying if he hollers,
end with goes the weasel. In between,
cream filling. Get over it, meaning, the moon.
Tell me you’ll dismember this night forever,
you my punch-drunking bag, tar to my feather.
More than the sum of our private parts, we are some
peekaboo, some peak and valley, some
bright equation (if and then but, if er then uh).
My fruit bat, my gewgaw. You had me at no duh.

correo

Hoy llegaron por correo los libros de mi queridísimo Pedro Casusol;
las dedicatorias de ambos libros son lo mejor
pero me las reservo.

(escucho dylan y te leo)

¿qué tienen en común dylan y joanna newsom? (2)

el slam callejero de Dylan. sugiero leerlo como lo voy a separar abajo



Once upon a time /
you dressed so fine /
You threw the bums a dime /
in your prime, /
didn't you ? /

People'd call, say, /
"Beware doll, /
you're bound to fall" /
You thought they were all /
kiddin' you /

You used to /
laugh about /
Everybody that was /
hangin' out /

Now you don't /
talk so loud /
Now you don't /
seem so proud /

About having to be scrounging /
for your next /
meal /

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone ?

You've gone to the finest school /
all right, Miss Lonely /
But you know you only /
used to get /
juiced in it /

And nobody has ever taught you /
how to live on the street /
And now you're gonna /
have to get /
used to it /

You said you'd never /
compromise /
With the mystery tramp, but know you /
realize /

He's not selling any /
alibis /
As you stare into the vacuum /
of his eyes /

And say /
do you want to /
make a deal? /

You never turned around /
to see the frowns /
on the jugglers and the clowns /
When they all come down and did /
tricks for you /

You never understood /
that it ain't no good /
You shouldn't let other people /
get your /
kicks for you /

You used to ride on the chrome horse with your /
diplomat /
Who carried on his shoulder a /
Siamese cat /

Ain't it hard /
when you discover that /
He really wasn't /
where it's at /

After he took from you everything /
he could /
steal /

Princess on the steeple /
and all the pretty people /
They're drinkin', thinkin' /
that they /
got it made

Exchanging all precious gifts/
But you'd better /
take your diamond ring, /
you'd better /
pawn it babe /

You used to be /
so amused /
At Napoleon in rags /
and the language that he used /

Go to him now, he calls you, /
you can't refuse /
When you got nothing, /
you got nothing to lose /

You're invisible now, /
you got no secrets /
to conceal. /

¿qué tienen en común dylan y joanna newsom? (1)

Oh, where is your inflammatory writ?
Your text that would incite a light,
"Be lit"?
Our music deserving devotion unswerving -
cry "Do I deserve her?" with unflagging fervor.
(Well, no you do not, if you cannot get over it)

And what's it mean when suddenly we're spent?
Ambition came and reared its head, and went.
Even mollusks have weddings, though solemn and leaden
but you dirge for the dead, take no jam on your bread
- just a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bed.

And all at once it came to me,
and i wrote and hunched 'till four-thirty
But that vestal light, it burns out with the night
in spite of all the time that we spent on it:
one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet!
While outside, the wild boars root
without bending a bough underfoot-
O it breaks my heart; I don't know how they do't.

And as for my inflammatory writ?
Well, I wrote it and I was not inflamed one bit.
Advice from the master derailed that disaster;
he said "Hand that pen over to ME, poetaster!"
While across the great plains, keening lovely & awful,
ululate the last Great American Novels -
An unlawful lot, left to stutter and freeze, floodlit.
(But at least they didn't run, to their undying credit.)