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[ezcol_1half]el corazón muerto
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Después de escribir esto, un amigo garabateó en la página, “Sí”.
Y dije, sólo para mí misma, “Ojalá pudiera ser por un arrebato
diferente, como con Molly Bloom con su «y dije sí quiero sí Sí.”
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No es una tortuga,
escondida en su pequeña concha verde.
No es una piedra
que puedas coger y poner debajo de tu ala negra.
No es un vagón de metro obsoleto.
No es un pedazo de carbón que puedas encender.
Es un corazón muerto.
Está dentro de mí.
Es un extraño
y sin embargo una vez fue agradable,
como un molusco que se abría y se cerraba.
Lo que me ha costado no lo podéis imaginar,
psiquiatras, sacerdotes, amantes, niños, esposos,
amigos y todo el lote.
Era una cosa cara mantenerlo funcionando.
Pero también devolvía.
¡No lo niegues!
Me pregunto si abril podría traerlo de nuevo a la vida.
¿Un tulipán? ¿El primer brote?
Pero esto son sólo reflexiones de mi parte,
la compasión que uno tiene cuando mira un cadáver.
¿Cómo murió?
Lo llamé MAL.
Le dije: tus poemas apestan como vómito.
No me quedé para escuchar la última frase.
Murió en la palabra MAL.
Lo hice con mi lengua.
La lengua, dicen los chinos,es como un cuchillo afilado:
mata
sin que corra la sangre.
the dead heart
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After I wrote this, a friend scrawled on this page, ‘Yes».
And I said, merely to myself, «I wish it could be for a
After I wrote this, a friend scrawled on this page, ‘Yes».
And I said, merely to myself, «I wish it could be for a
different seizure – as with Molly Bloom and her ‘and yes
I said yes I will Yes».
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It is not a turtle
It is not a turtle
hiding in its little green shell.
It is not a stone
to pick up and put under your black wing.
It is not a subway car that is obsolete.
It is not a lump of coal that you could light.
It is a dead heart.
It is inside of me.
It is a stranger
yet once it was agreeable,
opening and closing like a clam.
What it has cost me you can’t imagine, shrinks, priests,
It is not a lump of coal that you could light.
It is a dead heart.
It is inside of me.
It is a stranger
yet once it was agreeable,
opening and closing like a clam.
What it has cost me you can’t imagine, shrinks, priests,
lovers, children, husbands, friends and all the lot.
An expensive thing it was to keep going.
It gave back too.
Don’t deny it!
I half wonder if April would bring it back to life? A tulip? The first bud?
But those are just musings on my part, the pity one has when
An expensive thing it was to keep going.
It gave back too.
Don’t deny it!
I half wonder if April would bring it back to life? A tulip? The first bud?
But those are just musings on my part, the pity one has when
one looks at a cadaver.
How did it die?
I called it EVIL.
I said to it, your poems stink like vomit.
I didn’t stay to hear the last sentence.
It died on the word EVIL.
It did it with my tongue.
The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills
without drawing blood.
How did it die?
I called it EVIL.
I said to it, your poems stink like vomit.
I didn’t stay to hear the last sentence.
It died on the word EVIL.
It did it with my tongue.
The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills
without drawing blood.
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Anne Sexton
El horrible remar hacia Dios
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