mykristeva

[mykristeva]

“Suppose, lord, / that you are the big-bang. That no territory escapes your vigilance. / That hot dogs are the subject of your predilections. / That your desire for me is an obscene part / of your personality.”

On Miyó Vestrini and her translators.

[mykristeva]

GRENADE IN MOUTH: SOME POEMS OF MIYÓ VESTRINI introduces to Anglophone readers the work of one of the vanguard voices of Venezuelan poetry with texts that cover three decades: from the year 1960 to 1990. Critics have called Miyó Vestrini the poet of "militant death." Vestrini is known, too, as the Sylvia Plath of Venezuela, but if she is a Plath, we think she is one who would have set Ted Hughes on fire. Her poems are not soft or brooding laments. They are bricks hurled at empires, ex-lovers, and any saccharine-laced lie that parades itself as the only available truth.

The book is divided into two sections: “You Would Not Catch Me Alive” and “It’s a Good Machine” (a translation of Es una buena maquina, an artbook edition of Vestrini’s writing edited and published by Mereb at Letra Muerta). The translators (the poets Anne Boyer & Cassandra Gillig) describe Grenade in Mouth: Some Poems as an “imagined book,” one the poet did not put together. In 1991, Vestrini killed herself.

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Chico Buarque en español (1982).

[mykristeva]

Permíteme, señor,

Contemplarme como soy:

el rifle en la mano

la granada en la boca

destripando a la gente que amo.

~ Miyó Vestrini

[mykristeva]

Zanahoria rallada

Miyó Vestrini

El primer suicidio es único. Siempre te preguntan si fue un accidente o un firme propósito de morir. Te pasan un tubo por la nariz, con fuerza, para que duela y aprendas a no perturbar al prójimo. Cuando comienzas a explicar que la-muerte-en-realidad-te parecía-la-única-salida o que lo haces para-joder-a-tu-marido-y-a-tu-familia, ya te han dado la espalda y están mirando el tubo transparente por el que desfila tu última cena. Apuestan si son fideos o arroz chino. El médico de guardia se muestra intransigente: es zanahoria rallada. Asco, dice la enfermera bembona. Me despacharon furiosos, porque ninguno ganó la apuesta. El suero bajó aprisa y en diez minutos, ya estaba de vuelta a casa. No hubo espacio donde llorar, ni tiempo para sentir frío y temor. La gente no se ocupa de la muerte por exceso de amor. Cosas de niños, dicen, como si los niños se suicidaran a diario. Busqué a Hammett en la página precisa: nunca diré una palabra sobre tu vida en ningún libro, si puedo evitarlo.

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Milho Verde, Gal Costa.

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Miyó Vestrini

XII (from NEXT WINTER) for Luis Camilo 

I get up I do not get up They hate me I tie my tubes  I hit a motorcyclist with malice aforethought I surrender to the Oedipus complex I wander I carefully study the differences between dysrhythmia – psychosis – schizophrenia – neurosis – depression – syndrome – panic and I’m pissed  left alone in the house when everyone is asleep I buy a magazine that costs six dollars they steal my best friend’s purse  they grab me I push him I murder him I remember the umbrella of Amsterdam and the rain and the angry gesture I dedicate myself to drinking to prevent heart attacks I chew the food fifty times and I’m bored and I’m bored losing weight gaining weight losing weight I give in I’m don’t give in I sit still and cry someone takes me in his arms and tells me “Be calm I’m still here“ I stop crying I hear the wind that blows near the sea, only near the sea I accept that flying cockroaches exist I find that all my friends treated by psychoanalysts have become totally sad totally idiotic they read my I Ching and predict I’ll have a long life life of shit, I say I join the bandwagon I throw myself under the bandwagon I understand for a single trip how much gas is in the tank they tell me to turn off the light I turn it off they ask me, “You done yet?“ I play stupid I plead for peace they fuck me up I fall asleep up against the bar I hear the Spaniard’s voice whenever he shits on god someone cries beside me again they hit me they hit me hard there’s a full moon I race down the mountain road I do the math it doesn’t add up my chest hurts, the day is done, the Red wins rien ne va plus

Translation by Anne Boyer & Cassandra Gillig

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Gal, 1973, show "Índia". Foto Nilton Ricardo.

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Blanca Andreu, la poeta que triunfó a los 20 años y prefirió desaparecer: “Me halaga que me crean muerta”.

Poemas de Blanca: aqui.

APOLOGIA DO RECATO #3

«[...] hoy vive en una pequeña casita junto al mar, en Orihuela, retirada de cualquier vida pública: “Hace muchos años me llamó una periodista catalana y me confesó que sus amigos creían que estaba muerta. Me sentí halagadísima. Creo que no hay mayor elogio para un poeta”.»

— De uma entrevista a Blanca Andreu.

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Rainer-Fetting N.Y. Cab, 1992 Oil on Canvas

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Diga a teus amigos influentes que espero que uma espinha de peixe os estrangule.

Cesare Pavese

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Keiko desu kedo (I am Keiko), de Sion Sono, 1997, Japão. Para mim, uma obra-prima.

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Cerridwen, Celtic Goddess of rebirth and transformation, Christopher Williams, 1910

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mantra