NATASHA TINIACOS TRADUCIDA AL INGLÉS POR GUILLERMO PARRA:
Transgenics (Aria)
This is the time of glow-in-the-dark dogs,
time in which sea monsters
are fiber optic cables,
time in which it’s common to see
a woman crying or vomiting on TV.
No reality is insignificant,
we’ve pressed the pedal of the instant
knocking over fugitive time.
#thethoughtofthelineage
#thatwantsitall
#oftheprimitivetongue
We’re taken by the anxiety for the explosion
we’re a tube of tempera
on the bed in white
just about to swarm the new antiquity,
the polaroid era not of upright man
but of the one who weaves
sustained to his elbows
immediacy and closeness.
I touch the screen/skin
with the tip of the fingers more intelligent
than all the fingertips that came before.
Fingerprints have evolved:
I touch the cold plastic and I feel you,
#Ifeelyou
The conversation hall speaks in composed time:
“You have signed on.”
You are a sustained action.
We are born without chordals or a notion of second place
in a world punctual with the now.
Whoever I might want to be blurs
in the unmasked, the fellow
with you, an ectoplasm, shadow 2.0
I don’t wantto contemplate my shoes anymore.
I write to you, I type, I bring you, I need you so much in
the time of glow-in-the-dark dogs,
time in which sea monsters
are fiber optic cables,
time in which it’s common to see
a woman crying or vomiting on TV.
No reality is insignificant,
we’ve pressed the pedal of the instant
holding fugitive time.
{ Natasha Tiniacos, Historia privada de un etcétera, Caracas: La Cámara Escrita, 2011 }
This is the time of glow-in-the-dark dogs,
time in which sea monsters
are fiber optic cables,
time in which it’s common to see
a woman crying or vomiting on TV.
No reality is insignificant,
we’ve pressed the pedal of the instant
knocking over fugitive time.
#thethoughtofthelineage
#thatwantsitall
#oftheprimitivetongue
We’re taken by the anxiety for the explosion
we’re a tube of tempera
on the bed in white
just about to swarm the new antiquity,
the polaroid era not of upright man
but of the one who weaves
sustained to his elbows
immediacy and closeness.
I touch the screen/skin
with the tip of the fingers more intelligent
than all the fingertips that came before.
Fingerprints have evolved:
I touch the cold plastic and I feel you,
#Ifeelyou
The conversation hall speaks in composed time:
“You have signed on.”
You are a sustained action.
We are born without chordals or a notion of second place
in a world punctual with the now.
Whoever I might want to be blurs
in the unmasked, the fellow
with you, an ectoplasm, shadow 2.0
I don’t want
I write to you, I type, I bring you, I need you so much in
the time of glow-in-the-dark dogs,
time in which sea monsters
are fiber optic cables,
time in which it’s common to see
a woman crying or vomiting on TV.
No reality is insignificant,
we’ve pressed the pedal of the instant
holding fugitive time.
{ Natasha Tiniacos, Historia privada de un etcétera, Caracas: La Cámara Escrita, 2011 }
Meditation On A Rising Escalator
I watch every step I don’t take
on the corrugated invoice of the years
that contracts and dilates
like the chest of an exhausted bird.
I won’t look away from the zenith
since the emptiness weaves laboriously toward my body
to take me to false paradise
and its rushed nakedness behind fitting rooms.
Everything can wait: the labyrinthine night
that yesterday dug its task in my eyes
like a lover the scratches
on my back,
in its own time.
I will distinguish the silver cantos
and I will see in my face the fissures
of this mechanical here and now
and I will be the bird
who from the last branch
finally
sighs for what has come and gone.
{ Natasha Tiniacos, Historia privada de un etcétera, Caracas: La Cámara Escrita, 2011 }
I watch every step I don’t take
on the corrugated invoice of the years
that contracts and dilates
like the chest of an exhausted bird.
I won’t look away from the zenith
since the emptiness weaves laboriously toward my body
to take me to false paradise
and its rushed nakedness behind fitting rooms.
Everything can wait: the labyrinthine night
that yesterday dug its task in my eyes
like a lover the scratches
on my back,
in its own time.
I will distinguish the silver cantos
and I will see in my face the fissures
of this mechanical here and now
and I will be the bird
who from the last branch
finally
sighs for what has come and gone.
{ Natasha Tiniacos, Historia privada de un etcétera, Caracas: La Cámara Escrita, 2011 }
Response to Paul Claudel
If the dog jumps in front of the mango tree incessantly
and can’t open the door
it’s my defeat.
If the caterpillar doesn’t find the window,
my ignorance
and if the elephant doesn’t talk,
my defeat
though unlike me
he’s baptized
with water of paradise.
{ Natasha Tiniacos, Historia privada de un etcétera, Caracas: La Cámara Escrita, 2011 }
If the dog jumps in front of the mango tree incessantly
and can’t open the door
it’s my defeat.
If the caterpillar doesn’t find the window,
my ignorance
and if the elephant doesn’t talk,
my defeat
though unlike me
he’s baptized
with water of paradise.
{ Natasha Tiniacos, Historia privada de un etcétera, Caracas: La Cámara Escrita, 2011 }
Natasha
My guilty secret
is to want a hurricane
baptized under my name
and I’d like
it to be destructive
so that
for many years
old cardboard men
will speak
tirelessly amazed
about my savagery
and while they drink
alone
their malt whiskey
they’ll remember how
I shook their homes
and threw all
their belongings
out the bathroom window.
{ Natasha Tiniacos, Historia privada de un etcétera, Caracas: La Cámara Escrita, 2011 }
My guilty secret
is to want a hurricane
baptized under my name
and I’d like
it to be destructive
so that
for many years
old cardboard men
will speak
tirelessly amazed
about my savagery
and while they drink
alone
their malt whiskey
they’ll remember how
I shook their homes
and threw all
their belongings
out the bathroom window.
{ Natasha Tiniacos, Historia privada de un etcétera, Caracas: La Cámara Escrita, 2011 }
Poem To Be Read During An Electric Outage
Silence.
We’ll let silence describe things
and our hands lead the way
because everything’s naked in front of them.
Let’s speak the language of the secret
in this invitation to stop
in the friction of matches and crickets.
Let’s rebaptize ourselves with aromas
so that I can smell of guayaba whenever I need you.
Let’s dream
in this improvised century of lights
where we are
newly
primitive.
{ Natasha Tiniacos, Historia privada de un etcétera, Caracas: La Cámara Escrita, 2011 }
Silence.
We’ll let silence describe things
and our hands lead the way
because everything’s naked in front of them.
Let’s speak the language of the secret
in this invitation to stop
in the friction of matches and crickets.
Let’s rebaptize ourselves with aromas
so that I can smell of guayaba whenever I need you.
Let’s dream
in this improvised century of lights
where we are
newly
primitive.
{ Natasha Tiniacos, Historia privada de un etcétera, Caracas: La Cámara Escrita, 2011 }
TODOS LOS TEXTOS HAN SIDO TOMADOS DEL BLOG VENEPOETICS, TRABAJOS PUBLICADOS DESDE EL 23/03/2013 AL 27/03/13 . REALIZADO POR GUILLERMO PARRA Translator of José Antonio Ramos Sucre http://venepoetics.blogspot.com/
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