That young woman wrote poems; she put them near the niches, near
the cups. It was when the clouds were going from one room to the other, and a crane
or an eagle always came to have tea with my mother.
That young woman wrote unnerving, sweet poems that tasted of
peaches and bones and bird blood. It was during the house's old summers, or in
the fall, with mists and kings. Sometimes a druid, a monk from the middle of
the woods would come and stretch his skeletal hand, and my mother would pour
him tea and pretend to pray. That young woman wrote poems; she put them near
the niches, near the lamps. Sometimes clouds would come in, the April wind, and
take them away; and far away in the air they would shine. Then butterflies and
saints would pile up joyfully to read them.
From Magnolia, Lírica Hispana, No 266.
The Lions Circled
the House...
The lions circled
the house.
The lions always
circled.
It was always
said that lions circled always.
They seemed to
come out of the silver berries and the rose bush.
The lions were
dirty and golden.
They were very
beautiful;
eyes like pearls,
and a sparkling brooch on their chest
amid that burnished
hair.
The lions came
into the house.
We rushed to hide
the salt and sugar vases, the
Halley
comet, the beloved snowy sheets, the
stamp
collection. And bring
the shrouds.
The lions were
both present and invisible, both
visible and
invisible.
One could hear
the rumble of the milk they were stealing, the clamor of the honey
and meat they were
cutting.
They took the
dark grandmother outside, the one who had
a guide of tiny
roses round her heart
and they ate her
coldly; as in a simulation.
And - as if it
had been a simulation! - she returned to the
house and said:
- The lions circled always. They're in front of the
silver berries
and the rose bush. She said: - The lions are here.
From Mesa de esmeralda, Arca.
Two books by Marosa di Giorgio have been published in English: The History of Violets (Historial de las violetas), Ugly Duckling Presse, and an anthology of her poetry under the title Diadem: Selected Poems, BOA Press.
Aquella muchacha escribía poemas; los colocaba cerca de las
hornacinas, de las tazas. Era cuando iban las nubes por las habitaciones, y
siempre venía una grulla o un águila a tomar el té con mi madre.
Aquella muchacha escribía poemas enervantes y dulces, con
gusto a durazno y a hueso y sangre de ave. Era en los viejos veranos de la
casa, o en el otoño con las neblinas y los reyes. A veces, llegaba un druida,
un monje de la mitad del bosque y tendía la mano esquelética, y mi madre le
daba té y fingía rezar. Aquella muchacha escribía poemas; los colocaba cerca de
las hornacinas, de las lámparas. A veces, entraban las nubes, el viento de
abril, y se los llevaban; y allá en el aire ellos resplandecían; entonces, se
amontonaban gozosos a leerlos, las mariposas y los santos.
De Magnolia, Lírica Hispana, No 266
Los leones
rondaban la casa...
Los leones
rondaban la casa. / Los leones siempre rondaron. / Siempre se dijo que los
leones rondaron siempre. / Parecían salir de los paraísos y el rosal. / Los
leones eran sucios y dorados. / Ellos eran muy bellos. / Los ojos como perlas.
Y un broche brillante en el pecho / entre aquel pelo áureo. / Los leones
entraron a la casa. / Corrimos a esconder los floreros de sal, de azúcar, el
cometa
Halley, las queridísimas sábanas nevadas, la
colección
estampillas. Y a
traer los sudarios. / Los leones eran al mismo tiempo, presentes e invisibles,
al / mismo tiempo, visibles e invisibles. / Se oía el rumor de la leche que
robaban, el clamor de la miel / y la carne que cortaban. / Llevaron hacia
afuera a la abuela oscura, la que tenía una / guía de rositas alrededor del
corazón. / Y la comieron fríamente. Como en un simulacro. / Y -como si hubiese
sido un simulacro!- ella tornó a la /
casa y dijo:
-Los leones rondaron siempre. Están delante / de los paraísos y el rosal. Dijo:
-Los leones están acá.
De Mesa de esmeralda, Arca
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