jueves, 28 de julio de 2016

SAMANTHA REYNOLDS [18.987]


Samantha Reynolds 

(Vancouver, Canadá). Poeta. Presidente y fundadora de ECHOSTORIES



NO SOY VIEJA

Yo no soy vieja, me dijo.
Yo soy rara

yo soy la gran ovación
al final de la obra.

Soy la retrospectiva
de mi vida,
como arte.

Soy las horas
conectándose como puntos
en el sentido correcto.

Yo soy la plenitud
de existir.

Tú crees que estoy esperando a la muerte:
pero yo estoy esperando a ser encontrada.

Yo soy un tesoro.
Un mapa.

Estas arrugas son huellas
de mi viaje.

Pregúntame
cualquier cosa.

Traducción al castellano de Carmen Callejo




I AM NOT OLD

I am not old, she said
I am rare

I am the standing ovation
at the end of the play

I am the retrospective
of my life
as art

I am the hours
connected like dots
into good sense

I am the fullness
of existing

you think I am waiting to die
but I am waiting to be found

I am a treasure
I am a map
these wrinkles are imprints
of my journey

ask me
anything.



My why muscle

I remember parents saying
all the whys
will drive you mad
but it’s not the frequency
of the demand
or the upturned pitch
it’s the humility
of how rarely
I have the answer
and the absence
of my wonder at all
like today
when you asked me
why you can’t smile
in a passport photo
I was struck by the fatigue
of my own obedience
my why muscle all dusty and limp
so while we waited for your turn
to have your passport photo taken
and I looked over to see you
grinning defiantly
not understanding
that you’re allowed to smile
in the camera store
just not when the photo is taken
I should have whispered
a reminder about the serious face
we had practiced in the car
but I didn’t say anything
out of a gust of respect
for the way you stood in line
a happy warrior
still full of spirit
for protest.



London Bridges

I am alone with my limbs
and my mind is my own
to leash to anything
like what kinds of rituals I want
and what kinds of shoes
and how to start that letter
I’ve wanted to write to her
for so long
but in this rare moment
of adult quiet
I sit in the café with nothing
but London Bridges Falling Down
playing in my head
like a lunatic
there are more verses
than I ever knew
which my son sings in his sleep
he is that obsessed
making versions of the bridge all day
out of books and forks and post-it notes
and here I am
infected with the melody
unable to take advantage
of this loop of time
to plunge into the crispness of thought
so I sit staring
at the bridge across the water
cars strung up high as birds
and if you think about it
it’s really quite a feat
which suddenly makes me shiver
like my son does
whenever we cross one
as he asks
like he always does
if this will be the time
it falls down.




Maybe it’s not presence but absence 
that we need
  
Traffic was light
and I arrive at the yoga studio
earlier than expected
the island of time
lands on my chest
like a child that wants to play
insistent
joyful
making it hard
for me to breathe
it exists
and erodes
simultaneously
my mind twitches
with the urgency to relax
and savour this rare wedge
of unmarked day
I am aware of the irony
but my synapses continue
to clamor over each other
vying for the right answer
should I daydream
or meditate
write lists
or a letter
to my unborn child
I look up at the clock and slump with the understanding
that I have lost this moment
to the tornado of indecision
that motherhood has made me
a maven of crisis
but my gift for opportunity
has gone flaccid
I file into the yoga class
I am hollow
of anything but breath
waxy cheerless breath
which I climb inside
vacantly
only later realizing
how sweet it was to unmoor from myself for an hour
not with presence
but with abandon
to some absent foggy place.



Sirens

I have forgotten what it feels like
to be so sure
like how you tell me
that zebras like figs
but only for breakfast
and how you will be
one of these zebras
when you grow up
or how one stick can be your granny
but when I pick another stick
and suggest it could be your aunt
you look at me
with pity
these days I am always
asking you questions
just to watch your face
as you sort the possibilities
and announce the winner
but when the ambulance drove past us
and I did my quick ritual
that I always do
to ward off grief
you dropped a rare question
into the air
mama, why do the sirens
take them away
and I thought later how easy
it should have been to answer
if not for my shadow of fear.



A conversation with my housecoat

One day I should take you to work
you have no idea
that I have high heels
and employees
you see me only in the morning
and as I write my poem
before bed
and those first few weeks after I gave birth
after the midwife parted your old pink fleece and said to me
you can push now
do you remember
his little body
you stretched around us both
I never told you this
I bought a new one
planned to get rid of you
it’s been over ten years
and you’re pilly
and so
pink
the truth is
the new one was sexier
but not as warm
and I missed the way I played
with your floppy collar
as I read
and ate my cereal
all of it
nothing much
and at the same time
such a rare
perfect thing.



Charles Dickens would have been 
a smashing blogger

I’m with Henry James
who called Charles Dickens
sentimental
although it’s worth noting
that Henry
never married.
As for Dickens
it’s his productivity
I admire.
Not inclined to revise
he pushed his pen fast
and released the need
to be perfect.
He loved his audience
more than his ideas
he was all in favour
of quantity.
My son sits next to me on the stairs
and we share a few dried plums
his hand is warm
on my leg.
The stillness is so rare
with a toddler
I ache for the tenderness to last
but it is me who disrupts it
without even moving
an irrepressible urge
to go back upstairs
call someone
write something
conquer the world.
I want to know
were you kind to your ten children
Mr. Dickens
or did you give it all
to us.



You fall asleep beside me

You fall asleep beside me
that trick you do
the book stays open
your elbow holding your body up
who knows how long you’ve been away
I only notice because it’s been ages
since you turned the page
but now’s my chance
I love these moments
so rare
when I get to look at you this way
slowly
quietly
not to examine you
just to settle into the recognition
of my remarkable good luck.



It makes the scars go away

When I was eight
my neighbour
wore ponchos and drank
loose leaf tea.
She had long grey hair and bunions
and a Croatian name
that I couldn’t pronounce.
One afternoon
a crank call
a pervert
breathing ugly things
into our ears.
My friend and I tossed the phone
back and forth
giggling how gross
but my stomach was thick
with fear.
Afterwards, we asked if we could jump
on my neighbour’s little trampoline
that she said was good
for her lymphs.
I assumed her lymphs
were her pets
but I was secretly scared
of what kind of animal
she would keep
so I never asked to see them.
She must have sensed something
because she lay us down
cracked the leg
of one of her octopus plants
rubbed it on our temples.
Aloe
she said
it makes the scars
go away.
When I was in university
I heard she’d left a note:
cancer.
A list of rare herbs
a hike deep into the local mountains
a final sleep
please don’t come looking
you’ll never find me
smile for me
I am already
gone.
I did try
but a part of me wished
someone had been there
for her
to rub her temples
as she left.







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