Posts Tagged ‘ desire ’

Tilsa Otta – Palabras Errantes

TILSA OTTA

Translated by K.T. Billey.

 

today for the first time I was offended by god
having met you as a woman
without a penis
you who likes them so much
you say pricks
speaking of sizes
I have one
but it’s for personal use
it’s not really mine
I couldn’t use it with you
it’s not permanent, either
I see it about three times a week
I really like it
I’m waiting for it to say I love you
in the end I suppose I’m like all the girls
without a penis
I don’t believe in god but that’s not why
I’m not bothered by him
the truth is I’m happy and grateful to have met you
I write this so that you know
if I had a prick
you’d be the first to know it

 

Source: Palabras Errantes » Archive Tilsa Otta – Palabras Errantes

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Palabras Errantes » Archive My Neighbour without Men – Palabras Errantes

MY NEIGHBOUR WITHOUT MEN

By Dinapiera Di Donato. Translated by Fionn Petch.

 

a fence made of cactus
marked the home of the sting ray’s harpoon
her black veils rippled
no one talks to her

not the breeze, not the dried-up well

the girls from Madeira
sell lace from a white bundle
they feel like pigeons beneath her gaze
avoid her

my grandmother takes pails of water for her
an offering placed before the shut door
while teaching us courtesy
forcing on us ladylike manners
comb our hair say thank you bid farewell
and catch stones
in mid-flight

the vengeful sayona gathers up her
Diogenes syndrome and spills
yards of smooth filaments
around her neck
I do the same
in the ceremony of the waters

hers silver with tortoiseshell
mine dark
an eternity taming
my thatch
an eternity she
brushes hers to a shine
between us
the water
my grandmother knew.

we were good demons
taking care of each other

her barbed wire fence attracts hummingbirds
to the cactus flowers

the sweet fruits allowed us

her threadbare cloak washed for us
my four-year-old war cloak
her ninety-year-old solitude

my own
my grandmother knew

that we could
pluck up the courage
murder
if we were to carve
a pathway through
the house
polish gooseberries
as a gift

not me
I didn’t know

my grandmother crosses the threshold
because Gema Orta is dying
I clear a path through the midden
with a junior witch’s
spell
because I am a soldier and
never a princess
and
her remains are carried off
in suitcases full of wind that
I choose

my grandmother knows

it was the wrong choice:
wrong to pack oneself up
fold oneself up inside with fear and
grey cacti with their fuchsia flowers
a shotgun a silence
to protect oneself
alone
and the unfailing love of another old woman
who understands

it was a place of encounters
but I got lost
mixed up the customs

my stubborn grandmother would not succumb to a bribe
for an ID card that lawfully belongs to her
Gema Orta the vampire the weird forlorn one
the only one on our street
without running water
let the stones fall
my grandmother wraps her in Madeira lace

these are different times
a village of unploughed, fog-wrapped hills
golden dust choking the streets
at the bottom of the last water pail I perceive
the future and the starting point:
this shady place of entwined leaves
will be good
the oasis for parched mining caravans
but not yet

a fence of spiky plants
dry tracks of the great river

a suitcase of bones as strong as jasmine flowers
the word canarí
arrives on the breeze

 

 

Source: Palabras Errantes » Archive My Neighbour without Men – Palabras Errantes

Eleni Vakalo | found in translation

“Listening to the foreign language I was deeply speaking our own, and came to understand how difficult it is to name things truly…” says the Greek poet, Eleni Vakalo (1921-2001). …

Source: Eleni Vakalo | found in translation

Anti-capitalism as the creation of desire: From Eukariot | Autonomies

What is important right now is to twirl in a cheerful danse macabre on the grave of bourgeois enjoyment.

Source: Posts | Autonomies

‘My body shall be all yours’: the startling sex letters of Joyce, Kahlo and O’Keeffe | Stage | The Guardian

Georgia O’Keeffe photographed by Alfred Stieglitz. Photograph: The J Paul Getty Museum/Alfred Stieglitz

“The form of sexting is so immediate,” says Mars. “I am nostalgic for letters. There’s a craft that’s been lost in expressing some kind of desire or passion or bodily experience for someone else.”  – Rachel Mars

An eye-wateringly explicit new stage show celebrates erotic correspondence sent by famous figures through the ages

Source: ‘My body shall be all yours’: the startling sex letters of Joyce, Kahlo and O’Keeffe | Stage | The Guardian

Your Own Worst Enemy | Boston Review

Photo: Romi Chiorean

Your Own Worst Enemy | Boston Review.

THE SEAM – a Poem by Lisa Robertson ‹ Literary Hub

THE SEAM ‹ Literary Hub.

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