#Miyó Vestrini

[majestativa]

The rumors of my heart, scandalous, disturbing, no longer disquiet me.

— Miyó Vestrini, Grenade in Mouth: Some Poems of Miyó Vestrini, transl by Anne Boyer and Cassandra Gillig, (2019)

[poesiamaira]

"Cenoura Ralada" - Miyó Vestrini (1938-1991)

.

(tradução Maira Parula)

[poesiayotrasletras]

MIYÓ VESTRINI | Nimes 1938 - Caracas 1991

Miyó Vestrini indicaba en sus textos la existencia de una devastación social y del sentido de la realidad que solo podía expresar por medio de su indignación y su furia.

Créditos: Recorte hemerográfico. Archivo familiar. https://letramuertaed.com Estamos presenciando un proceso de destrucción planificada del sentido de la historia de la civilización Occidental que, hasta no hace mucho, se pensaba fuese el modelo de todos los demás. Lo que acaso sea posible decir a partir de ahora, o bien lo que debemos tratar de indicar a partir de este momento, es en qué…

[herederosdelkaos]

"Poesía desde el abismo: Doce ejemplos finales"

En la historia literaria, emergen escritores cuyas plumas forjaron obras profundas y conmovedoras. A medida que exploramos sus vidas, nos adentramos en un mundo marcado por la tristeza y la tragedia. Figuras como Miyó Vestrini, Marina Tsvetáeva, Hanni Ossott, Martha Kromblith, Andrés Caicedo, Cesare Pavese, José Agustín Goytisolo, Gabriel Ferrater, Amelia Rossell, Antonieta Rivas Mercado, Pedro Casariego y Ana Cristina Cesar, encontraron en la escritura un refugio. Un lugar donde las palabras retumban con una intensidad sombría, una reflexión desgarradora de sus luchas personales que culminaron en finales insondablemente trágicos. Leer post completo»

[lasfloresrotasblog]

Selección de poesía venezolana

-Rafael Cadenas

-Hanni Ossott

-Miyó Vestrini

-Caneo Arguinzones

&

[linsaad]

El país, decíamos,

lo poníamos en las mesas,

lo cargábamos a todas partes,

el país necesita,

el país espera,

el país tortura,

el país será,

al país lo ejecutan,

y estábamos allí por las tardes

a la espera de algún doliente

para decirle

no seas idiota

piensa en el país.

#Miyó Vestrini

[oswlld]

KINNPORSCHE (2022), dir. Khom Kongkiat — contempt of death, m.v. [src.]

[kitchen-light]

You could not choose. Because if you choose you live. And if you live you enjoy. But joy is the horrific part of the dream: sleep will be forever.

Miyó Vestrini, from her poem ‘One Day of the Week I’, translated by Cassandra Gillig & Anne Boyer, published in Granta Magazine, January 31, 2019

[mybarricades]

Miyó Vestrini | Brave Citizen                 to Maria Inmaculada Barrios

            Die in thought       every morning and you will not             be afraid to die.                           —The Hagakure Guide

Give me, lord, an angry death. A death as offensive as those I’ve offended. A death that stands for the rains of Santiago de Compostela, a death that kills all who have offended me. Give me, lord, a death from the elements, one that stuns and petrifies. Wastes snot and tears pleading for mercy and wishing death on anyone else. Make sure, lord, that the man with unknown skin recognize in me an animal of the olive groves. Let your body weigh down mine and sweeten the entrance to the fire. I swear I have seen it all. The same guilt with which I was born, the same fury. Make sure, lord, that I am listening to Vinicius de Moraes and Maria Bethania and promising that tomorrow, Monday, I will enroll in a course to learn Brazilian. Let death come when you find in me some hidden intention of power and when you know, from your informants, of my conspiracy to go down in history. When they say, lord, that I have exhausted all the resources of fatigue without asking for clemency, then, lord, give it to me hard. Make this knot on my forehead from opening doors with headbutts turn red, pounding, painful. 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. Then, lord, Examine my bulging stomach             for the spaghetti of Portofino             for the favadas of Guernica             for my mother’s cauliflower casserole             for the long drinks of beer and rum. Observe, lord, the faces of my mirror in the mirror,             I, the astute pusillanimous             finger in the air             fanning the boring crowd. You could come to the movies, lord. We would see Brazil, La vaquilla, Partie de Campagne Il Postino and Gatsby. You would listen to me trembling with laughter and fear. Allow me, lord, to see me as I am:             rifle in hand             grenade in mouth             gutting the people I love. Lie with me at dawn, lord, when my breath is a boulder in the stream. And you will see that nothing              not even the milk of your palms, can give me a death that enrages me. ____________________________________________ Grenade in Mouth | Some Poems of Miyó Vestrini Translation by Anne Boyer & Cassandra Gillig Kenning Editions 2019

[lifeinpoetry]

The first suicide is unique. They always ask you if it was an accident or a sincere proposition of death. They shove a tube up your nose, it hurts, and you learn that next time, you must do it quietly, not disturb the neighbors.

— Miyó Vestrini, from "Grated Carrot,” Grenade in Mouth: Some Poems of Miyo Vestrini

[majestativa]

For poetry, cursed and hated, there is always a day that follows: death. What can be taught from an atomic explosion but the agony of those most dispossessed and the infernal laugh of the idiot prophets? The fire is no surprise to the poets. The fire is part of those who, day by day, gamble their lives on the horror of solitude.

— Miyó Vestrini, Grenade in Mouth: Some Poems of Miyó Vestrini, transl by Anne Boyer and Cassandra Gillig, (2019)

[smallpressdistribution]

“Life does not form part of the universe’s great laws: I am a solitary fate in this space of twilight and rituals. I now escape the perspective of those who board a bus or piss behind a tree.”

[alcyoneeta25tauri]

Poca cosa en verdad

No es muy largo lo que debo decirte:

             tiemblo cuando hablo de ello.

             Poca cosa,

                      en verdad.

[herederosdelkaos]

Permíteme, señor,

Contemplarme como soy:

el rifle en la mano

la granada en la boca

destripando a la gente que amo.

~ Miyó Vestrini

[lasfloresrotasblog]

Grated Carrot

The first suicide is unique.

They always ask you if it was an accident

or a sincere proposition of death.

They shove a tube up your nose,

hard,

so it hurts

and you learn to not disturb the neighbors.

When you begin to explain that

death-actually-seemed-like-the-only-way-out

or that you did it

to-fuck-up-your-husband-and-your-family

they have all turned their backs

and are watching the transparent tube

retrieving the parade of your last supper.

Betting on whether its noodles or fried rice.

The doctor on duty coldly tells them:

it’s grated carrot.

“Disgusting”, say the nurse with big lips.

They disposed of me furiously,

because no one won the bet.

The saline dispersed quickly

and ten minutes later,

I was back at my house.

No space to mourn

nor time to feel cold and tremble.

People are unconcerned with death that comes from loving too much.

Child’s play,

they say,

as if children killed themselves every day.

I looked in Hammett for this exact page:

never tell a word about your life

in any book,

if you can help it.

Miyó Vestrini

[poiesisajena]

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.