EMILY SIPIORA [15.092] Poeta de Estados Unidos

Emily Sipiora 

Escritora de Rockford, Illinois, EE.UU. citada por la revista Forbes como la tercera ciudad más miserable del mundo; ella cree que contribuye en una cantidad excesiva de esa estadística. 

Emily publicó un librito titulado Grown Ass Men I Have Loved in 2013. Su trabajo ha sido presentado en Medium, Electric Cereal, and Thought Catalog. Disfruta de Twitter, que se toma muy en serio. La escritura de Emily ha sido descrita por The Le Sigh como "asombrosa", "preciosa", y "aterradora". Ella se sonrojó cuando leyó esto.

Los poemas seleccionados aparecieron originalmente en la web Electric Cereal.

http://emilysipiora.com/

La traducción es de José María Martínez

Clarice Starling / Lolita

Me creía Audrey Horne de Twin Peaks

cuando hacía un rollo con la cintura elástica de la falda, una y otra vez o                             cuando solté un billete de veinte arrugado por unos tacones pasados de moda.

Me creía Angela Hayes de American Beauty

cuando robé mi primera barra de MAC’S Russian Red

o cuando me rayé las lentillas con el rizador de pestañas.

Me creía Harley Quinn de Detective Comics

cuando me justificaba al atender sus caprichos

y lloraba cuando ellos no atendían los míos.

Me creía Tracy Flick de Election

cuando comencé a obtener la atención que creía que quería

y se la arrojaba directamente a la cara.

Y me creía Hayley Stark de Hard Candy

cuando fingía ser tímida, y luego fingía ser agresiva.

En realidad, me volví pasiva.

Me digo que no soy ni una conquista o un hobby

ni una respuesta a su maldad absoluta.

Sin embargo, es así.

“No puedo salir”, dijo Clarice Starling,

mirad qué maraña de espinas.

“No puedo salir”, dijo Clarice Starling,

mirada qué maraña de espinas.

No volverá a ser como octubre otra vez

“¿O sea que vosotros dos nunca salisteis juntos?”, le pregunté, asomando las manos por fuera de la ventanilla del coche e introduciendo los dedos

en el sitio en que se ocultan las ventanillas

dentro de las puertas del coche.

"¡Qué dices! Claro que no,” me respondió,

los faros de los coches de la I-90

proyectandose en su cara por unos intantes que pasaron como eternidades mientras

esperaba una explicación

que nunca llegó.

Y así como los coches que desaparecían unos dentro de los otros

una y otra vez

los días se fueron cruzando (¿fue un jueves o un domingo?) y a través de las horas

en que nos vimos, nos distanciamos

y a través de los años que comenzaron a caer,

muertos los días a nuestros pies,

tomamos la decisión de no hablar

Una disculpa para las ranas que masacré involuntariamente

El verano ya hace meses que acabó

pero yo sigo sin poder dormir hasta las 4 de la mañana

y no encuentro mis calcetines

Así que cuando salgo al buzón en busca

de paquetes que nunca llegan (gracias, Amazon)

la piel bajo mis pies barre la escarcha

que hay sobre la hierba marchita

y cuando entro, con las manos vacías,

dejo manchas húmedas en la moqueta

Qué diferente del verano que pasé con el mundo bajo mis pies desnudos

y el cajero del Walgreen’s me miró mal

cuando le dije: “Me olvidé de los zapatos”

Cuando era pequeña, mi madre me hacía lavar los pies

después de jugar con la tierra en el chalet de la abuela que lleva dos años en venta

Me gustaba ver las arañas trepar por mis pies enterrados

y cazar las ranas que vivían debajo del bote a pedales

Al hacerme mayor me dejó de gustar

y la única razón para acercarme a la orilla del lago fue pillar cobertura

en el móvil en un sitio más alto

Comencé a odiar la casa del lago porque no tenía wifi

Comencé a odiar la casa del lago porque mi iPhone no tenía señal

Comencé a odiar la casa del lago porque profané la casa de las ranas para cazarlas

y que murieran en cajas de plástico que compré en los saldos de la tienda de mascotas

Mi padre me dijo: “Este año te vienes a la casa del lago con nosotros, Emily”

Me provoqué el vómito para no tener que ir, porque el verano hace meses

que acabó

317

I stumbled onto the filthiest parts of this city

and I lied to my mother, and I stole from my father

and your family- your gallery, misfits, strung together

by bottles of Pinot noir (I liked the taste)

and a lack of discretion (I’ve been such a waste)

to me, being much more

It was a humble beginning

Rockford born and raised

I spent myself foolishly

instead of counting your days

My mother gave up on him:

“When did he fall apart?”

My aunt turned away

“You’ve always been smart.”

You gave breaks to wander, I blew smoke

I feel awful- you were the one who choked

Another girl foolish, your family soon shocked

a death too quiet,

a life quickly stopped

I know that I’ve told you

I’m sorry it wasn’t me

but it’s been three months

still, I think we’d agree—

If art is art, something taken to heart

its life cannot be wasted

and you should know you’re apart

(from all of this,

the filthy alley beside here

and the homeless beneath the bridge

this is too sentimental

and unhealthy, a smidge)

I’ve never thought of heaven, but for someone like you?

If you’re there, maybe I’ve really ought to

Animus Finch

My father told me to go to the DMV–

“I can’t drive you around anymore.

You need to grow up

& take some responsibility

for yourself.”

I can’t drive, or won’t

Any responsibility is terrifying

ask any lover of mine–

“Emily never blames herself

everything is everyone else’s fault.”

I wouldn’t even give my ex-girlfriend

the gas money she deserved.

“Isn’t my love enough?” I shouted,

as she swung around the cul-de-sac

and abandoned me so quickly

that it should’ve been a warning.

My father works every day

In and out of retail, wasting forever

a boring job, since the age of 22

All day and night, a way of saying:

“I didn’t really want you.

I never have rides to parties

but don’t worry– I can walk

I don’t want the responsibility

of veering off and getting into

the car crash that I deserve

I’ll wait until someone else gets drunk enough

to ruin me, and then maybe you will care.

I noticed you, my only friend

of course, I take you with me

wherever I go, wherever she drives

I’ll take each piece of you

the worst parts that you left

to me, absolutely bereft.

I never thought that someone could deserve death

but when she sped off of the street I lived on

escaping each “I love you” and “this isn’t goodbye”

I felt this feeling of disgusting, one-sided loving

that lonely feeling in my chest was unbearable

I began to think that I could deserve it.

I have never had a worthy shadow until I met yours.

The reflection of your smirk on the car window–

“I know something you don’t and I won’t ever tell you.”

but you left, and took all of my love with you.

***

For Cyril

If anyone bothers to ask, I want you to know

I was afraid, at first: nervous, all doubts

Intimidated, infatuated, with the moribund professor

every cautious action to please, from here on out

crying, a tiny voice inside of your phone

absolutely the last thing you could care about

I look for you everywhere

but I don’t think you’ve been looking for me:

every kind look, every helping hand

my affection could not withstand

from this cold shoulder

the cruelest gesture

always turned away

I discovered the price for this affection:

this hell existed only for me to pay.

I think about you everywhere

but I don’t think you’ve thought about me:

at least, not now

I’m barely a memory

that sulks at the back of your head

whining incessantly

moping, such dread

yet, you lack remorse

over and over, with your trite discourse

I ask this of you, my half-hearted misanthropist

have I ever meant anything to you,

have I ever been more than this?

The cynical comic, the cruelest lover

forever so far away from here

You remained yielding, so discreet (with me)

always so desperate in your petty scene

you threw your heavy rocks

right through this house, you mocked:

"Men with hearts made of granite

have no business with paper dolls”—

you left no guilt, no shame

no explanation as to why you threw me away

was I ever anything more than an easy lay to you?

too young, too dull, too foolish to teach anew?

So here lies your despair, that you so graciously bereft

I don’t know if I miss you anymore

but I know you won’t miss this loathing you left

I bore this mistake in loving you,

and this is the only revelation I had:

You were egocentric, in spades

for my cruelest lover— adieu

***

I’ve read every tawdry tribute,

each composed ballad of despair

You left a lonely lore for everyone

of your deterministic affair.

I’d like to consider myself apart

from everyone that buys this act

despite everything they’ve mentioned

I never believed you cracked

If you reached the worst of yourself

with this passive drive of not to be

It leaves this drama up to interpretation

and I don’t know what it is to me.

I’ve realized that you’re correct now

regardless of the closeness we lack

I feel like I know your secret now:

it’s less painful to go to black.

That constant transition you mention

this kind moment, falling back

Each time, I descend downwards

an eternal return to what I lack.

With each time you pass, I grow closer to you every day

Not a portrait any more, just a mirror for me to display

I immerse myself in you, each loose end left to rot

If anybody asks, I will take whatever it is he’s got.

With each of these portraits, I grow more betrayed

Each story sheds new light, new tears –

I ask, why are we this way?

As time passed, I grew

failing to appease you

I wish I would’ve stood still there

to stop the thing that freed you.

These people all paint portraits of you,

composing stories to meet their needs

and it breaks my heart every day

when this means that you still bleed.

For this, I have no greater morals

I have no tidied twelve step advice

if there were already two chest wounds–

well, you’ve already hurt me thrice.

***

Uncanny Hall

I saw a shitty, indulgent portrait

on this television, on indie cable

It’s classic, the bildungsroman—

every 20 year old’s fable

Play it backwards, and you’ll see

every vapid, dime a dozen fool

that doesn’t care for me

They treat me as an asset,

a gift in myself and thereof

with something darker, not love

any integrity, it’s devoid of

I serve as an extension to your ego

because I know your life is so hard

I let you shush me and own me

because I let down my guard

Your affection is flimsy, a fictional feat

I wondered why you had been so discreet.

Abuse of power comes of no surprise

but I’ve only realized that it is wrong

now I can say for a fact that I loathe your pathetic swan song.

You have it the worst, obviously

The modern Casanova in spades

sensitive, but opinionated

revered for getting laid.

this is filthy, immoral– but it pales to your despair

it remains vapid and trite, to other stories I compare

but you’ve made your mess

and you’ve made your money

but you’ve left me in pieces

but you believe this is funny

so I will heal each wound just to spite you

and you can’t stop me from getting better

I believe in a hell for people like you

because this abuse should not be a scarlet letter.

Ian Curtis

I have felt stuffy, stale, dull

and I feel myself rotting

I’ll complain, again

about how I will miss out on all of my friend’s lives and how I will never see anyone again

I will have said too many goodbyes

and told too many people

a terrible excuse:

“I’m sorry that I can’t go to homecoming with you,

I have to find another resident for the vacancy inside of me”

and as my actions elude my own reasoning,

I’ll give more one-sided apologies

and when I get home, I’ll be at the kitchen stool

I was the only one home

the house is vacant