YI LU
YI LU, nacida en el sur de China, en Fujian, en 1956. Escenógrafa de profesión, como poeta no está asociada a ningún grupo o escuela. De ella dijo la poeta norteamericana Melissa Kwasny: "Somos invitados, no a un mundo, sino a una relación con el mundo."
GRITO
algo debe andar mal con el teléfono
Madre de pronto no puede oírme
pero yo todavía la oigo
oyendo su pánico y gritándole mi nombre al teléfono
como gritando por mí en lo silvestre cuando yo era chica
pensando que me había perdido
y que nunca respondería
mis tímpanos sienten el impacto de un viento norte de muchas colinas
por fin un click
silencio del lado de Madre... ni un sonido
ahora es mi turno para gritar
Madre... Oh Madre...
CABRAS EN UNA ISLA DESIERTA
en una isla desierta
algunas cabras desatentidas
comen hierba silvestre... beben agua del cielo
duermen de noche en cuevas de piedra
cuándo aprenderé eso
el sol de otoño afuera se siente tan cálido
pero hace fresco adentro... me pregunto
si esas cabras están ahora en el sol de otoño
el sol de otoño las nutre como plantas
la felicidad de esas cabras... debe ser
felicidad más allá de lo representable
su paz... debe ser
paz más allá de lo descriptible
su inocencia... también debe ser
inocencia más allá de lo expresable
y me imagino
como son sopladas por el viento como crisantemos arremolinados
como corren hacia el mar y retroceden asustadas
como miran las olas blancas que se arrojan y revuelven
TIERRA ROJA
la arruinada montaña cuya piel está raspada
revela la fresca tierra roja
como una enorme herida
empapada en sangre
yo viví en el templo de la aldea un santuario
en mi infancia
en una montaña arruinada como esta
Madre le enseñaba a los niños de la montaña a leer
los recuerdos son todos acerca de tormentas y murciélagos
leyendas de fantasmas y espíritus extraños
la roja tierra que Madre labraba al anochecer
daba tanto miedo como el fuego del carbón
unido a mis frágiles emociones
la tierra roja ahora es extraída en dolor
nunca puedo unirme a otros en alabanza de la tierra roja
así como es difícil para mí hablar de mi tierra natal
FUENTE
Yi Lu. Sea Summit. Trad. por Fiona Sze-Lorrain. Milkweed Ed., 2015
http://inutilesmisterios.blogspot.com.es/ [Publicado por Robert Rivas]
Sea Summit
BY YI LU, FIONA SZE-LORRAIN
Yi Lu
Since the 1980s, Yi Lu has established herself as one of the most widely-read female poets in contemporary China. Born in 1956, she has authored four books of poetry, including the award-winning titles See (2004) and Using Two Seas (2009). Known for an elegant and distilled lyrical voice, her poems are at once meditative and vibrant. Recent national honors include the Hundred Flowers Award and the Distinguished Literary Prize from the Fujian Province. Serving as an active theatre design artist at the People’s Art Theatre in Fujian, Yi Lu is also ranked as China’s preeminent national scenographer and stage designer.
Poems by Yi Lu
Translated from the Chinese by Fiona Sze-Lorrain
Volcanic Stone
Black gray
densely pierced with holes…..very light
at first the stone also feels like having a body
when flames are hauled away
I pick one up
put it on the desk
seeing it I’ll think of the mountain
and its suppressed interior
think of those lava pouring from icy mountain peaks
how it irons out in an expanse of white
think of the submarine volcano
even if it erupts…..it’ll still suffer the weight of the ocean
its pain in flames will last specifically longer
Touch it
even if it is a body
it still feels so hard…..like paresthesia
Pit of a Stomach
You’re inlaid in the center of the world
like a rock buried in a mountain
fissures are concealed in the rock
corroded water meanders inside
A mountain’s hard flesh
may also loosen up
The pit of a stomach
will also collapse one day
Lake, Again
Water when bounded becomes lake
people don’t care about where it comes from…..how it comes about
nor about the converging…..smooth-running…..spring in the lake bottom
how its refluxes collide…..intertwine
like superimposed vinyl records
that weave out lingering sentiments…..the past and present
The world has many lakes
some frozen…..some boiling at a volcano’s peak
some saltier than seawater
most fresh and cool, green and pleasing
Stillness is self weighing on self
many things are kept unwittingly
Broken Water
If the knife isn’t pulled up
water will break
If still not pulled up
water will keep breaking
If tucked in deeper
water will break deeper
Tucked in all the way
the knife sinks into the hard riverbed
the hand gripping it can leave now
Surface water no longer bears movement
Rain Pours Harder
Rain splashes on the roof
like on a skull
Splash…..is refusal
has a hard face
Fire seals itself into smoke
cornelian blood strands turn icy
even the ocean can’t move ashore
Why can’t the sky
have a door that shuts itself
Rain pours harder
at last into my heart
at last I join the rain
soaring as rain
Birds Have Flown Away
Birds are calling around me again…..a call
my consciousness is called away
so I stop what I’m doing
Birds call —
like clusters of burgeoning flowers
like strings of pulsating bubbles
My heart turns into a flower tree…..a lake
for a long while it can’t calm down
But birds have already flown away
when birds fly away it seems like goodbye
Look at the Sunset
How large, how red the setting sun
blocked by a building, it shows only a rim
I run to the study window
to see its left half
I run to the kitchen window
to see its right half
I run to and fro in the room
thinking the sun also longs to peek at me
That Bouquet of White Flowers
that bouquet of white flowers
why so white
that bouquet of white flowers
isn't that white
just because at that instant
white was white's bottom line
white above black
Because There is Awakening
plainly for a few hours
the brain is empty
since when
even emptiness is gone
because there is awakening
I know that is sleep
insomnia was once
a small cache of weapons
wrestling in the edgeless dark
emptiness a fruit that life breeds painfully and finely
one after another
bridging together . . .
translated from the Chinese by Fiona Sze-Lorrain
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