M O T H E R B L O O D
1995
This collection has been translated into German by Prof. Wolfgang Karrer of
the University of Osnabrück where it was approved recently by a university
committee for publication in the prestigious series
Osnabrück Bilingual
Editions of Marginalised Authors.
Life force
Find my heart, the rest is with you.
Watch the landscape in fire,
the sacred objects in a circle
of bread and wine.
they must remember your calling
and the first journey
of the ancient blood.
Find my heart in the golden day
tied like a secret
to the strings of fire.
this is the center of the fifth direction,
vanishing hunters of the magic deer.
The arrow opens to all seasons
connects with my heart,
binding with the smallest of us.
I see you in my pilgrim soul.
Growing old in the mirror
the world goes on.
*
Visit 1
The rare bird remarkably posed
in the shadows' relief.
Designs of You and I -
intermediaries
of precious remains
freestanding on sacred ground.
Cruising this stanza
phases of lifelike moon
in action, besieging a form
of need and fate
extremely loved.
*
Vaguely
Do you remember her?
She had a child, next to nothing.
And a fallen tree looking at the air
frozen treasure.
Its white circles as windows
to be split. Who is so evil?
My blood father, my mother's blood...
Offering her nipple to the one who is killed.
Their Christian daughter running in the fields.
The rain is still falling on many trees,
stroking sad music with its fingers,
drying out within the earth.
The fatherland.
My mother's breasts closing the door.
Please, wait for me. Pull me up.
I want to follow you to the hatred-torn,
enshrouded, pervasive, haunted,
stark,
timeless terror -
to briefly find each other
in the land we were born in.
No escape.
*
Sketching
Shining or dwelling in darkness
the Way detailed an etching, eccentric
image sought and dimmed,
tangled, tumultuous, retroactive.
Nocturnal senses, coveted as a name
taken from our dreams.
Densely listening, dissolving
at an early hour, come
the first versions of soft landscapes.
At the end, is the specter
of our figurations, depicting more
illuminations
with that sort of feeling.
Human feelings of the human existence,
worthy bucolic references
of obscure stories, prized elements
at the eerie twilight along the way.
*
Remembrance
Your skin like a melody
falling asleep.
The world
in the shape of your head,
a kiss, a tear, down your hair.
Don't be childish
be my friend blotched with desire,
somber cry on top of the hills,
knocking the door of night.
Would you die for me?
No. I have killed you,
but dance, dance.
It's only a set up. Once upon a time...
I'm sorry if the curtain falls,
quitting early. Who will lock up?
*
Mutis
Cannot even think,
close to the womb
doesn't know how to walk,
have nothing to lose.
Going away, quitting alone
quietly
in the common theater
being what we are.
Cannot walk,
not stand up anymore -
for so many roles
becoming,
floating downstream.
*
Floaters
Memories
breathing from the original source.
Vivid, heroic, poetic passions,
fables that have been
a major work thoroughly complete.
Master memories,
neglected memories.
Floating in the hourglass.
*
The one who died
young
Her fiberglass window
shows the face of a tragic woman
briefly
glowing in her chord
inside the circling grid.
Perforated, wrapped phases
of the journey within,
reworking her uneasy waning shadows,
her essential nature, the emphasis
on its light alternative frontiers.
Detached, she doesn't settle.
This witness of her life, her dissatisfaction
at zero degrees, weaving, threading,
knotting, tangling the long bloodlink,
stained prophetic sheets, stroked flags
of the neverland.
Sporadic couples move
amber elements, anxious lines,
conflicting, insidious demands.
So many things...for a sense of being,
a sense of self, our own compulsive pursuit.
A very difficult kind of connection.
As it were the last summer of life
hanging at the outset of dawn.
*
Dreaming
The use of poetry
can become a dry point
element
revolving
in the abrasive center.
Ever increasing
perceptions,
breaking apart, incorporating,
evoking, reinventing
a fire integrating
ashes, signaling
in alphabetical order
the open stage of time.
*
Dream in
gray
In a Lake of gelatin and silver,
in a darkroom, passion develops out,
framed
for subsequent models.
Drawn from the River
quicksilver painterly cropping its work.
A medium, like years of wool
in the darkroom
lies, an alchemist out of print.
Captivated
in subtle platinum surface,
absorbing its texture
with fascination.
The strong presence of Day's
fully perfected Return
intensified by fidelity
for the sake of
nothing else.
*
Rebecca
The old ship trunk opens its shell
over the frozen lakes of Europe.
You sled
expatriated by forza del destino.
Passion flower of the tropics
floating across the Atlantic,
leaving your heart in Lima.
Leaning your beauty in October,
among its magenta flowers,
you lit the frankincense
clouding the colonial balconies.
The bullfighter running
through the fruity fields
of the haciendas , tientas of aspiring toreros.
Lord of Tremors,
marching on.
Woman of incredible treasures,
like in Hugo or
Vizconti.
All her life loving, like in a film.
yearning, crawling under
grandmother's table
one afternoon, your secret on her lap.
Bore all those
kids, handsome and gentle,
those who die young. In some season
I
remember your screams
like poisoned clouds,
your teenager's hysterical
love.
All in great silence yet
resounding in my
mind.
*
Gedicht
Enchantement no. 1, melodie
Poesie en
si bemol, en re bemol,
en re naturel pour touts pays.
Melodie sans texte.
Lied.
Una litografia
de Paris sin titulo, llena de nubes
y
jardines
de magicas mujeres puro fin de siglo,
los rostros en el
horizonte embrujados.
Oh, "Werther" wants to be read,
so you can rework
the opus magna,
start leaping with all your fingers
homeward, returning
to our words.
*
Visiting the
relatives
Picking up my cafe au lait
I rather taste some
afternoon
when you poured into my memory
among the orange trees.
You
were young, we were kids.
Your sister the artist, arranged
the
outdoors
with the strangest fruits.
I feel her lonely fingers
and the
shining A in filigree.
You all loved Segovia, Zabaleta,
Trotsky, Rivera,
and Frida,
Guayasamin, everybody -
even your revolutionary lovers,
who
owned you their lives.
You catered as 5:00. I was seduced
by the
general beauty.
In silence I felt this poem
forming in my heart.
I
fiercely tried to keep the feeling
of those shadowed eyes,
knowing that
some day
you would come back
for this moment of your life.
like today,
when your picture
looks at me like then,
under the cool air of the
mines,
smiling tender and familial
with all my dead relatives in
Peru.
*
Intersection
The eyes listen
cumulations of the
past,
ascending fiercely in the heart.
Light is heard
radiating from
its flame,
fusing memories and legends of desire,
drawing us to the
bottom,
speaking of miracles and the sun.
Centering laws of the
mind,
invincible reflection
of the heart narrowly escaping
the foreseen
intersection.
*
Stigmata
Against
the sky, against the wall,
somebody has broken my legs, somebody is
in
the isolated roads, beware. It happens fast.
Beneath Greco skies alarms
go off
in the Gates of Hell.
My senile psychopath teacher
bending on
the books
lies open, knowing nothing
but the history of the paving
stones.
Wouldn't be possible to hide
in these muddy streets
so the
flowers will go wild?
A voice is just asking something
when the sirens go
off, the fire bellowing
high.
Run, run. Let me into the burning
fire
of my fatherland. Bastards like leaves
are trembling, since your
mother died.
When is fall coming? It is only winter here.
Where would we
all go?
/
I'll tell you someday where I'm
going.
Remember. The bastards on the avant garde,
the rear garde,
shooting at our flanks.
What can one person do?
Break-in growing tall,
quivering, getting away,
crying? I wish I could help.
Stigmata in the
body of my land,
running down my final tears. Father, do not cry.
We
have no heart to. Don't.
*
Reparations
the sheep's
skin...
These are some of the things I never should
never ever
talk,
not even remember.
Secrets that come afloat with insomnia.
I hold
my son's sleeping hand,
his warm nothingness, safely dreaming
of the
moment when I conceived him
that I love so.
Memory releasing
associations.
I was with child, the other son that died.
Visiting a
church on Dwight Street,
there was a rapist from which I
learned
colloquial, double meaning of the word relief.
I cannot ever,
never forget words,
place, year, hour, the dress I wore
in the hay of
night,
whirling, ebbing, towards your old man -
his old slippery hand on
my breasts,
my howling soul trapped between
your lascivious
brother,
looking at my pregnant belly.
You offered me to your beloved
friend,
Eskimo woman, polar nights.
Your so many other pinpointing
ways
selectively addressing what, where, how to
better rape the dreams,
the mind in isolation.
/
"What do you want, do you
love,
do you like, where are your thoughts,
how is your skin so
transparent, why your eyes...?
I suspect what you are hiding,
evading
from my long hateful hate,
forbidden from you to learn who gave it to
me
to transfer, to transfer, force, force through...
Forgive my rage, my
violence, my desire.
I cannot find the moment of my birth,
you could well
be my mother, my father,
some beginning - my raping, void birth,
you well
could be one of the ways I must follow
to find myself. My...self.
I
pray, I command, let me rape your everything!
It is me who is at stake.
Me...mee...meeee
Meeeee...eee.
Meeeeee."
*
Paperwork
Revealing
the whole life
somebody was born
to write preludes interruptus,
hanging
installations
displayed in the Garden -
eyes, identities,
and book
covers in a trance.
*
Deja
vu
There is something about you...
I knew it always,
you'd do me
good.
Warm and warmth,
not a thing was heard,
but undressed
black.
Don't you want to be a smile,
the sound of unrequited
love?
Come through the screen of a cadenza,
come along!
Who are you,
someone I know?
Striving and enduring such language,
I wonder if you're
coming
in such power as
to accept being loved.
Entanglement in
trust
and landscapes of mystery,
wait, wait, wait just a
while.
*
Some logic
Seduction is what
seduces
our elementary dynamic.
Not opposing, but challenging
without
desire.
A response beyond reality.
You are not, you don't oppose
the
double presence,
the lighting flash
of your cosmogony
confessing the
nature of the other,
founded on these relations
of
playfulness.
*
Chromatic
S
pace and sound
patterns of melodic light
poured in the caustic cup
of
deconstruction,
electrified pieces surfacing
from mirror
textures.
*
Scene
In
the lounge she is dying young,
seducing the fright,
narrowing the end of
life,
a long drag of everything
coming too late.
Summer is an exotic
time
as is the rest of the seasons.
With intensity Spring plans
the
work done and undone,
wondering who will watch over her.
The play cries
out for a stage
less dazzling, more compelling
design.
*
Missing link
No
lifetime can compass
the hostile, precocious decay
of energies
diverted
in the play of arts and mind,
blood breeding
its mortal
brevity.
And the lore of the tribe?
hand it down, gather up
our
heritage, alien ways
to the Naked Nation
of the Leaves of
Grass.
*
Assumed
identity
Reflections
monochromic subject
expanding its
limits
in a field of poppies
forcing form and balance -
some aleatory
chance
in the air.
Resistance and revelation
blind of
subjectivity
multiply names
in the artist's mirror,
in the quiet
flow
of the twilight.
*
Hibakusha
I
haven't seen Little Boy's replica
nor the paper money signed by the
crew.
An ostensible lack of education:
didn't visit museums on the atomic
bomb,
haven't seen the nuclear things...
Only the human proclivity to
disintegrate,
to scatter and leave its glassy green
radiating
forever.
I revisited Hiroshima Mon Amour,
retracted the gleaming
secrets,
its unwavering intensity,
fusion of dream and terror-
at the
edge of the abyss
flies the Enola
Gay.
*
Faces and figures
Seated
figure in the goldfish bowl,
the blowing enamel of her face
cooling in a
white insistent day.
Brilliant dead bone hanging on the wall
among the
accumulation of plexiglas,
some shores, reclining figures
remembering
untitled poems. The ink,
the canvas, the baroque disorder
of a portrait,
an image of a tender body,
her red nipples, the black hair of the
pubis.
She sits under the sun, a blind stamp
with full
margins,
unframed against the
sky.
*
Piece for Man and
Woman
Delirious interpretations of the rose,
grow in a text. A song
of virtues,
a song of vices. Centaure Phallique
shines against black.
His arrow
spelling polymorphic dances.
Melting lacquer in the wind,
spirits
of the paper, the breasts of mountains -
calling, yearning for
the sea.
Life Death is in human nature,
all the rivers empty in la
mar.
Pieces of aural silence,
portraits of angels go around
opening
and closing a book
perforated by a blue monochrome.
Life and Death
surviving in the pages.
*
Variety
story
Individuals can be detected,
their lines chartered,
its
implications are pervasive,
symbols of widespread necessity
leaving a
disengaged trace,
coherent failures, prosaic,
can pose as blind
faith
in the simple chart.
Sometimes they culminate
some utopian
view,
or swept by adulteration,
they drown in raptures,
dissonances,
reversing from its lines
in a continuous
dream.
*
Agent provocateur
The troubled
life of the artistes maudites
its romantic emphasis,
fascinating
fiction
with its vices and virtues,
a psychic event.
The natural
perversity
of some reluctant nymph
remains
reckless in the
night,
ardent albeit her veils.
Her extravagant
palpability
grows
distorting the muse it
touches.
*
The knife from Valencia
The
knife from Valencia
has disappeared
after being with me for so
long,
daily in remembrances
its razor beats.
It's gone,
one
instrument less,
steel bladed weapon
persistently going over my
wounds
in search for peace. Taking pleasure
in the warm blood of
life,
the summers, winters, and oblivion.
Good bye to the shores of
Valencia,
holding hands with my children
all/nothing they willed.
Under
the sun a poem congeals.
But Monet doesn't lend me a parasol,
her other
life in sandy beaches
where another fire brands the skin.
Minute knives
opening spots
so the voice of blood can be heard.
This desire to arrive
in Valencia
comes from my mother and her songs:
get to see las mujeres
mas hermosas
the wind, the willow, the market place,
the bullfights
ring.
Like a ghost, its white handle
has gone off - such a
dancer
attached to my life
hoping to find some artery
to swiftly
exorcise
the weighty binding,
its alien blood in the air,
the staining
myth of its
sorcery.
*
Confidence
A letter in the month of January
screams naked
in contralto with
the past.
The slow seed mechanic flutters
in the unlikely shadow I
curtail.
Who could guess its ardent augury
at the core of
secrecy!
Enclosed in its stealthy lines
evasion is its real
seal.
*
Est
Go
ld, silver, lead, lie,
insect brooding its scales
into the exact
river
of melancholy.
Blinded and feeble
shines the soul of a star
in
its gilded aura.
The rain rains
silverplating the air. Life
riddle us
with its heavy bullet,
howling, licking,
forms of
love.
*
The two metals
To steal a few
crumbs
to the morning sun.
To rob or be robbed,
indifferent
to the
vast plundering
of a slight atom first -
as Becquer used to say.
Little
by little
the heavy elements come
until their bones are
shining.
Moon, moon of Federico Garcia...
The lovers are lost in misty
seas
with fowls, felines, bipeds,
getting bare
of great part of the
soul,
life here, life there,
and who can live
bleeding to
death.
Even the air is taken away,
all the water has been
swallowed,
the water of the thirsty -
as Bretch used to
say.
/
To be dying is a refinement,
decanted
delicacy. Give time
to time. Someone should hold
a banner to life
announcing
that body and soul
are to be robbed at slow fire.
The yin
and yang contending
its two
metals.
*
Spider on the
Bed
Since when
do you spin your web,
how long
does her filigree
increase
through the entanglement of days...
Who knows for how
long
from your secret hiding place
invisible and sudden
you saturate
us
with prophetic venom.
Who knows for how long
your arabesque ambushes
us
in the purring singsong
of sleep.
Metaphorical -
trickle of
volatile dust.
Who knows for how long
her busting next,
her creeping
brood
crosses over my warm sheets...
*
Variations
To
Garcia Lorca
Today. Inhuman day
spare me your chalice,
the constant
desire,
while I visit
the acid woods
perforated by the moon.
I come
across this pebble
heavy with sorcery
pretending to be the elusive
rose
modulating frequencies of death.
Why your fluttering,
your
cry?
Satined petals trim
the somber river
of such romance,
the
uneasy shadow
that rain is drinking up.
Mint ripe in your teeth
and a
sinister soot
through the white eye of night.
The beautiful gift
humming
with melancholy blinded.
Zigzagging to die, like you,
briny day
graphicating
fragrances with versed strategy
and then to feel desire
to
sleep, "sleep for a while,
a while, a minute, a
century"
*
Moonlight
Moon-moon,
dissolve the
night,
the seasons.
With your fate of being
a cold star.
Venus has
become a dove
of soot, one perfect desire,
one form, a simple
letter
that the birds devour.
Hidden
in the deep sea, the
sky.
*
Dead on night
Falcon's
head
Luciferian star
is a riddle,
ambergris enigma
cumulating tiny
silicones
resisting the solar wind
the pressure of fire.
Secrets
said
at the risk of death.
The deep vein is bleeding
consuming
ephemeral moss
archaic realms vertebrating
its gleam, oviform,.
growing
ancient shields,
in desirable azures
blastodermic seas
knit
in light membranes
illuminating nuclei in love,
veins of lateral
whiteness
on anonymous pelvis,
there it lives
the winged eye
insatiable,
where unsavory beings
detain their nuptial
feathers.
*
A glance
Lines of force
reaching the
stars,
they are real and hidden,
scalped irrelevant.
Its worth
comparable
to the phasing of the moon,
some center of
distribution
closing gaps, spreading variations
of recognizable
music
of the
spheres.
*
Rains
Thereafter,
only retrospection
lost in a composition trouvee.
This miserable rainy
day I write
of the grand pyramid of distress.
Descending other entrances,
a line
inflicts an automatic wound.
Shuttled from the vaults of
deep,
bathing in words of blood,
a dim light, a link to the structure
-
hazardously soaring its bladed wings.
*