Enriqueta Carrington

April 21, 2008 at 1:15 pm (Uncategorized) ()


(read with Carlos Hernández Peña)

Remedio Orgiástico

Ofrecerles un festín a nuestros espíritus
presentar a su mesa
cordero de Dios a la tanduri
huachinango al incesto veracruzano

ensalada de jitomate, lechuga, sueños y pecados
con aderezo al aceite de oliva de Chipre
y vinagre de Borgoña,
con harta sabiduría de salvia pero sin arrepentimiento

pato zambullido en salsa
de naranja con el ombligo robado a Adán
cada cual al gusto de su media naranja

pavo a la navidad de la infancia
báquicos racimos de uvas gordas
champaña Veuve Cliquot para Musas y Musos Mayores
tequila de Jalisco para los muy machos y las muy hembras
la mejor mota de Oaxaca

y para los Musitos jugo de manzana del paraíso
o de manzana de la discordia (darles a escoger)

pastel de chocolate sodomogomórrico
petits fours y galletas de loto
té de Ceilán y café de Coatepec

volvernos pasto para su rocío
para que escuchen nuestra invocación
y sonrían sobre nuestros laudes

para poder decir como Dickens,
qué bloque de escritor, ni qué ocho cuartos.

Orgiastic Remedy

To offer up a feast to our spirits
to present at their table
tandoori lamb of God
red snapper à la Veracruzan incest,

salad of tomato, lettuce, dreams and sins
in a dressing of olive oil from Cyprus
and vinegar from Burgundy
spiced with the wisdom of sage but no repentance

duck dunked in sauce
from oranges with the navel stolen from Adam
we’ll each use the zest of our better half-orange

turkey à la childhood Christmas
Bacchic bunches of fat grapes
Champagne Veuve Cliquot for Grown-Up Muses
tequila from Jalisco for the very macho and the very female
the best pot from Oaxaca

and for Child Muses, juice from the apple of Paradise
or the apple of discord (give them a choice)

Sodomogomorrhic chocolate cake
petits fours and lotus cookies
tea from Ceylon and coffee from Coatepec

to become grass for their dew
that they may hear our invocation
and smile upon our Lauds

that we may say like Dickens,
what do you mean, writer’s block?

NOCTURNO DE LA ALCOBA
por Xavier Villaurrutia

La muerte toma siempre la forma de la alcoba
que nos contiene.

Es cóncava y oscura y tibia y silenciosa,
se pliega en las cortinas en que anida la sombra,
es dura en el espejo y tensa y congelada,
profunda en las almohadas y, en las sábanas, blanca.

Los dos sabemos que la muerte toma
la forma de la alcoba, y que en la alcoba
es el espacio frío que levanta
entre los dos un muro, un cristal, un silencio.

Entonces sólo yo sé que la muerte
es el hueco que dejas en el lecho
cuando de pronto y sin razón alguna
te incorporas o te pones de pie.

Y es el ruido de hojas calcinadas
que hacen tus pies desnudos al hundirse en la alfombra.

Y es el sudor que moja nuestros muslos
que se abrazan y luchan y que, luego, se rinden.

Y es la frase que dejas caer, interrumpida.
Y la pregunta mía que no oyes,
que no comprendes o que no respondes.

Y el silencio que cae y te sepulta
cuando velo tu sueño y lo interrogo.

Y solo, sólo, yo sé que la muerte
es tu palabra trunca, tus gemidos ajenos
y tus involuntarios movimientos oscuros
cuando en el sueño luchas con el ángel del sueño.

La muerte es todo esto y más que nos circunda,
y nos une y separa alternativamente,
que nos deja confusos, atónitos, suspensos,
con una herida que no mana sangre.

Entonces, sólo entonces, los dos solos, sabemos
que no el amor sino la oscura muerte
nos precipita a vernos cara a los ojos,
y a unirnos y a estrecharnos, más que solos y náufragos,
todavía más, y cada vez más, todavía.

NOCTURNE OF THE BEDROOM
By Xavier Villaurrutia (translated by Enriqueta Carrington)

Death always takes the shape of the bedroom
enclosing us.

It is concave and dark and warm and silent,
it coils in the curtains where shadows nest,
in the mirror it is hard and tense and frozen,
it is deep in the pillows and white in the sheets.

Both of us know that death takes
the shape of the bedroom, and that in the bedroom
it is the cold space rising
between us as wall, crystal, silence.

Then only I know that death
is the hollow you leave in bed
when suddenly, for no reason,
you sit or stand up.

And it is the scorched-leaf sound
your bare feet make as they sink into the rug.

And it is the sweat that wets our thighs
as they embrace and struggle and, soon after, surrender.

And it is the phrase you drop, interrupted.
And my question, which you do not hear,
which you do not understand or do not answer.

And the silence which falls and buries you
when I watch over your sleep and question it.

And only I, alone, know that death
is your choked words, your estranged moans
and your involuntary dark movements
when in your dream you wrestle the angel of dreams.

Death is all of this and other things surrounding us,
and it unites and separates us by turns,
leaving us confused, amazed, hanging
with a wound that does not bleed.

Then, only then, the two of us, alone, know
that it is not love but dark death
that compels us to face each other eye to eye,
to join and cling to each other, more than alone,
more than shipwrecked,
still more, and always more, still.

Enriqueta Carrington is a Mexican-English writer-mathematician, transplanted by fate or happenstance to the US. Her poetry in Spanish and English has appeared in Pedestal Magazine, Carnelian, WAH, and the US1 Worksheets, among other publications, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her poetry translations have appeared in Rattapallax 13 and A Gathering of the Tribes. She is the editor and translator of the bilingual book Treasury of Mexican Love Poems, Quotations & Proverbs (Hippocrene Books). Some of her stories have appeared in SHOTS, the Magazine of Crime and Mystery, and The Plum Ruby Review. She teaches mathematics at Rutgers University.

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