EMILY BERRY
Poeta. Londres, 1981.
Tiene un máster en escritura creativa y biográfica por Goldsmith’s College y otro en Letras Inglesas por la Universidad de Leeds. En 2008 ganó el premio Eric Gregory. Su primer libro de poesía, Dear Boy (Faber & Faber, 2013), fue galardonado con los premios Hawthornden y Forward Prize para primer libro de poesía. Es coautora del libro The Breakfast Bible (Bloomsbury, 2013).
Traducción de Juana Adcock (Monterrey, 1982). Es poeta y traductora.
Breve manual de corsetería
Mi primero fue un cuarenta y cinco centímetros con listón negro
directo del anaquel. Lo escogió mi novio.
Quedamos en que las cinturas pequeñas eran más atractivas;
estábamos en una relación llena de amor y de apoyo.
Elegir a su entrenador es el último y más importante
acto de una corsetista. Busca un hombre de fe
y manos fuertes que te enseñe a entregarte. No le tengas miedo a la restricción.
El dolor es la columna vertebral de la vida. Te sostiene.
Yo uso corsé por estos motivos: el amor llegó
de lado, como cangrejo. Quería estar de acuerdo con
el amor; quería dejarme llevar en sus pinzas.
Mi entrenador me tiene encorsetada veintitrés
horas al día. Menos es perder el tiempo. Amo
sus brazos, gruesos como pitones. Cada mañana
aprieta los cordones hasta que le queman líneas en las palmas,
hasta que maldice en voz baja y se disculpa.
Yo me agarro del marco de la puerta. Esto es más difícil para él
que para mí. He visto cómo lucha por contenerse.
Esto nos duele a ambos. Eso es bueno.
Mi segundo fue un cuarenta centrímetros con tallo de cinco centrímetros.
Lo mandé a hacer a medida. Mi novio me sujetó
firmemente mientras el corsetero me enlazaba. Inhalé
mis últimos respiros hondos y me entregué ahí,
de pie entre ellos. Fue un gran alivio. Sí,
dijo el corsetero. Ajuste perfecto. Mis pechos espumaban
como champán vertido. Mis ojos estaban saltones.
Pino fino, susurró mi entrenador. Yo no podía inclinarme.
Una arruga me recorrió la espalda como costura. Ahora
que traigo un treinta y cinco centímetros uso sólo la mitad superior
de mis pulmones; hay espacio justo para respirar. Aún tengo
más que suficiente. Me he dado cuenta de lo poco que necesitamos.
A Short Guide to Corseting
My first was an eighteen-inch black ribbon,
straight off the rack; my boyfriend picked it out.
We agreed small waists were more attractive;
we were in a loving and supportive relationship.
Choosing her trainer is a tightlacer’s last and
most important act. Look for a man with faith
and hands strong enough to teach you how to
give yourself away. Don’t be afraid of restraint.
Pain is the spine of life. It holds you up.
I wear a corset for these reasons: love came
sideways, like a crab. I wanted to agree with
love; I wanted to be carried off in its claws.
My trainer keeps me corseted twenty-three
hours a day. Any less is a waste of time. I love
his arms, thick as pythons. Every morning he
tightens the laces till they burn lines in his palms,
till he swears under his breath and apologises.
I cling to the doorframe. This is harder for him
than for me. I’ve seen how he fights to contain
himself. This hurts us both. That’s good thing.
My second was a sixteen-inch with a two-inch stem.
I had it made to measure. My boyfriend held me
firm while the corsetier laced me in. I drew my
last deep breaths and I gave myself up then,
standing between them. It was such a relief. Yes,
the corsetier said. Perfect fit. My breasts frothed
like champagne from a bottle. My eyes bulged.
Little skittle, my trainer whispered. I couldn’t bend.
A wrinkle ran down my back like a seam. Now
that I wear a fourteen-inch I use only the tope half of
my lungs; there’s just room to breathe. I’ve still got
more than enough. I’ve realised how little we need.
La increíble historia de la paciente M.
Fui a nadar con el Doctor;
él traía su estetoscopio y escuchaba
la marea. Mala conexión, dijo.
Escondí las piedras en mis bolsillos.
Estoy en entrenamiento con el Doctor:
soy vigilada de cerca.
Él amarra la cinta de velcro a mi bíceps
y bombea hasta que se me va la respiración.
Necesitas respirar más, dice.
Los jueves me examina
a gatas. Usa una bata blanca
de mangas demasiado cortas.
No puede entender por qué peso tanto.
Sus muñecas son grandes trozos peludos,
y no usa reloj.
El tiempo no es nada, dice el Doctor.
Es poco convencional. El tiempo no es ningún lugar,
como un pájaro muerto en una cueva. Veamos qué hay dentro.
Yo nunca me había abierto antes. El Doctor
tiene un bisturí. ¡Y no temo usarlo!
Le dice su diente de tiburón.
El Doctor muerde y deja una marca
como el fósil de una mandíbula de resortes.
Me golpeó la cara con el pene.
Para ponerte en marcha, dijo. Mi corazón ahora está
en alerta roja, al parecer. Si se detiene,
me recuerda, estás muerta.
The Incredible History of Patient M.
I went swimming with the Doctor;
he wore his stethoscope and listened
to the ebb and flow. Bad line, he said.
I hid the stones in my pockets.
I’m in training with the Doctor –
I’m closely monitored.
He straps his velcro cuff to my bicep
and pumps it till I’m breathless.
You need to breathe more, he says.
On Thursdays he examines me
on all fours. He wears a white coat
with too-short sleeves.
He can’t work out why I’m so heavy.
His wrists are great hairy chunks,
and he wears no watch.
Time is nothing, says the Doctor.
He’s unconventional. Time is nowhere
like a dead bird in a cave. Let’s take a look inside.
I’d never opened up before. The Doctor
has a scalpel. And I’m not afraid to use it!
He calls it his shark’s tooth.
The Doctor bites and leaves a mark
like the fossil of a sprung jaw.
He slapped my face with his penis.
To get you going, he said. My heart is now
on red alert, apparently. If it stops,
he reminds me, you’re dead.
La ensalada de tomate
estaba impresionante. En algún momento al final de los 90
el sol de California maduró una cosecha de tomates
a un tono tal que podías escucharlos gritar.
¿Mencioné que esto fue en California? Había
maíz en mazorca. Ella era inglesa y su corazón
casi se detuvo cuando su tía le sirvió un plato
de tomates rojos y amarillos tan espectaculares que jamás
volvería a ser la misma. Ya me imagino las semillas
perfectamente suspendidas, las cosas que un tomate partido sabe
sobre la luz, o con qué voz fresca de lluvia y acerbo
hablaron esos tomates cuando le dijeron a mi amiga
más querida, “Yosçi, yosçi lom boca sá tutty foo twa
tamata,” en el idioma de todas las frutas maduradas por el sol.
(para Lois Lee)
The Tomato Salad
was breathtaking. Sometime in the late 1990s
the Californian sun ripened a crop of tomatoes
to such a pitch you could hear them screaming.
Did I mention this was in California? There was
corn on the cob. She was English and her heart
almost stopped when her aunt served her a bowl
of red and yellow tomatoes so spectacular she would
never get over them. I can only imagine the perfectly
suspended seeds, the things a cut tomato knows
about light, or in what fresh voice of sweet and tart
those tomatoes spoke when they told my dearest
friend, ‘Yosçi yosçi lom boca sá tutty foo twa
tamata,’ in the language of all sun-ripened fruits.
(for Lois Lee)
Poemas publicados originalmente en: Dear Boy (Faber & Faber, 2013).
SIGN OF THE ANCHOR
I stood at the dangerous shore.
Sleeves rolled up to my shoulders.
My fringe lifted in the wind in a long salute and I pushed it back.
Live your wish, Live your wish, said the sea.
I wanted to be like the shells on the beach, rubbed smooth and cracked open.
And I held my arms out, tipped my head back, pictured my protective symbols.
I opened my eyes and saw the sign of the anchor burning.
I had to go.
I shouted some words but they were lost when the waves crashed.
And ash rained from the sky.
I was far out, in wet denim, and the shore was a jolt when I looked back.
Arlene and Esme
In our house we live with Arlene. My little sister has a plan.
She has what they call a beginner’s mind. She sees everything
from an un-given-up perspective. I’m frightened; I know
Arlene better than anyone; she knows me better. Esme says
if I’m scared we can’t win. But I am scared. Arlene drags me
over to the window where the black mould has made
a map of Australia. Australia gives me trouble breathing,
it’s so far away. Arlene points it out and I get the feeling
in my chest, my whole life in there twisted up like a snake.
It could bite me or her. She puts a hand on my breastbone.
You’re not strong. I want to tell her we can look after ourselves.
I want to tell her I’m in charge now, but I can still see the dark
blur at the edges. I don’t sleep anymore, my head is full
of this insomniac light. I lie awake watching over my sisters
and I listen to them breathe. Esme whispers that I should
wake her if I need to. I say I will, but I never do. Even when
I sleep I dream I can’t sleep and I’m standing there looking
down at them, the night pouring from my hands. Esme has
a future in mind. She’s always laughing. She gets up early
and makes buttermilk pancakes using normal milk soured
with lemon juice. She tries things out. Arlene tells us
to stay away from sharp things or we’ll cut ourselves. Esme
does what she likes. She grates apple for a new recipe and
cuts her knuckle and laughs. I don’t know if I can live my life.
I don’t know if I can look after someone as unafraid as Esme.
I don’t know how to change what I do, the way someone
eating soup will, out of habit, bite down. Esme laughs; she’s
serving up apple pancakes with banana and maple syrup
and she says, You are a whole person. A row of mornings fan out.
And the pancakes are sweet and slightly gummy with a salt edge.
Freud’s Beautiful Things
A cento
I have some sad news for you
I am but a symbol, a shadow cast on paper
If only you knew how things look within me at the moment
Trees covered in white blossom
The remains of my physical self
Do you really find my appearance so attractive?
Darling, I have been telling an awful lot of lies lately
If only I knew what you are doing now?
Standing in the garden and gazing out into the deserted street?
Not a mermaid, but a lovely human being
The whole thing reminds me of the man trying to rescue a birdcage from the burning house
(I feel compelled to express myself poetically)
I am not normally a hunter of relics, but ...
It was this childhood scene ...
(My mother ... )
All the while I kept thinking: her face has such a wild look
... as though she had never existed
The fact is I have not yet seen her in daylight
Distance must remain distance
A few proud buildings; your lovely photograph
I find this loss very hard to bear
The bells are ringing, I don’t quite know why
What makes all autobiographies worthless is, after all, their mendacity
Yesterday and today have been bad days
This oceanic feeling, continuous inner monologues
I said, “All the beautiful things I still have to say will have to remain unsaid,” and the writing table flooded
Freud’s War
A cento
I became a therapist against my will
A strange feeling of forlornness, a feeling I could not have stood
Painful isolation, quite steep and slanting
A beautiful forest which had the one drawback of seeming never to end
I have had to struggle so long
I have always been frank with you, haven’t I?
I wanted to explain the reason for my inaccessibility
I am lying here on a short leash in this filthy hole
So far I haven’t been locked up
Several people point to gaps in my face where the little girl has been cut out
She screams and screams without any self-control
Ravaged by the heat and the blood-&-thunder melodrama
Neither describable nor bearable
I felt I had known her all my life
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