poesía norteamericana

UNATTAINABLE BODIES after the surrealist, Hans Bellmer He cross-dresses to merge with his creations, a language that savors desire’s aggressive fingers, hangs a doll from a tree, dumps a doll on stairs, arranges a meat-rack doll from his real-life lover’s form. Experimental poetry, he names it: wood, flax, and plaster. He adds nuts and rods, molds mask-like faces to build life-sized monster dolls with breasts, genitals. Oscar Kokoschka’s obsession, lurid murders, and the cold shadow of his fascist father’s harshness inspire him. Each imperfect body is an abused, dismembered...
  • junio 24, 2020
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Snapshot of a lump I imagine Nice and topless beaches, women smoking and reading novels in the sun. I pretend I am comfortable undressing in front of men who go home to their wives, in front of women who have seen twenty pairs of breasts today, in front of silent ghosts who walked through these same doors before me, who hoped doctors would find it soon enough, that surgery, pills and chemo could save them. Today, they target my lump with a small round sticker, a metal capsule embedded...
  • junio 15, 2020
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Risk by And then the day came, when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to Blossom. Angela Anaïs Juana Antolina Rosa Edelmira Nin y Culmell (February 21, 1903 – January 14, 1977), known professionally as Anaïs Nin, was a French-Cuban American diarist, essayist, novelist, and writer of short stories and erotica. Born to Cuban parents in France, Nin was the daughter of composer Joaquín Nin and Rosa Culmell, a classically trained singer. Nin spent her early years in Spain...
  • junio 15, 2020
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New York at ninght A near horizon whose sharp jags Cut brutally into a sky Of leaden heaviness, and crags Of houses lift their masonry Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie And snort, outlined against the gray Of lowhung cloud. I hear the sigh The goaded city gives, not day Nor night can ease her heart, her anguished labours stay. Below, straight streets, monotonous, From north and south, from east and west, Stretch glittering; and luminous Above, one tower tops the rest And holds aloft man’s constant quest: Time!...
  • junio 15, 2020
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There is a morn by men unseen There is a morn by men unseen — Whose maids upon remoter green Keep their Seraphic May — And all day long, with dance and game, And gambol I may never name — Employ their holiday. Here to light measure, move the feet Which walk no more the village street — Nor by the wood are found — Here are the birds that sought the sun When last year’s distaff idle hung And summer’s brows were bound. Ne’er saw I such a...
  • junio 13, 2020
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EL DESCREÍDO Duerme en la punta de un mástil Bunyan Duerme en la punta de un mástil con los ojos firmemente cerrados. Debajo de él, cuelgan las velas como sábanas que cayeran de su lecho exponiendo al aire de la noche la cabeza del durmiente. Lo transportaron allí dormido y se ovilló, dormido, como dorada esfera en la punta del mástil o ascendió dentro de un pájaro dorado, o ciegamente se instaló a horcajadas. “Me apoyo en columnas de mármol”, dijo una nube. “No me muevo nunca. ¿Ves allí...
  • junio 2, 2020
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Apostol 13 Mateo 26:17-35 Ningún perro fue bendito como yo echado ante tus pies en lo que fue tu última cena. Te lamí las sandalias y luego tú rascaste mi barriga con la tira de cuero detrás de tu talón, mientras me dabas trozos de pan y carne. Mas nadie me recuerda en ningún libro: ni Marcos ni Mateo ni Lucas. No me menciona ni siquiera Juan. Pero allí estuve y, es más, pude olfatear la culpa en los pies de Judas. Incluso le ladré para advertirte y entendiste...
  • mayo 23, 2020
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