viernes, 28 de octubre de 2016

Sylvia Plath / Fever 103°

Sylvia Plath nació un día como hoy. La dejamos leyendo su poema Fever 103. Una de las novelas más estremecedoras que haya leído en mi vida es La Campana de Cristal. Quedé tan estupefacto y empapado en su relato que, a no dudarlo, puedo decir que fui otra persona luego de culminada esa amorosa pesadilla en la que con ella me imbuí. Luego fue que vine a sumergirme en su poesía. Es palabra que estremece. Vibración permanente, sin descanso. Un ser vivo que en realidad no quería morir, no quería cercenar sus latidos:

“…Amor, amor, el humo a baja altura ondula
a mi alrededor como las bufandas de Isadora…”

Pero que no pudo evitarlo…
P. S. Hay varias versiones a nuestra lengua, pero deseo agregar una personal. Mas luego intento una…

Fever 103°

Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple

Tongues of dull, fat Cerberus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean

The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell

Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora’s scarves, I’m in a fright

One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel,
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,

But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak

Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,

Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.

Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.

Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher’s kiss.

Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.

I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern——

My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.

Does not my heat astound you! And my light!
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.

I think I am going up,
I think I may rise——
The beads of hot metal fly, and I love, I

Am a pure acetylene
Attended by roses,

By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean!
Not you, nor him

Nor him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats)——
To Paradise.

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