You say there's always gonna be this thing
Between us days are filled with dreams
Scorpions crawl across my screen
Make their home beneath my skin
Underneath my dress stick their tongues
Bite through the flesh down to the bone
And I have been so fuckin' alone
Since those three days
Did you only want me for those three days?
Did you only need me for those three days?
Did you love me forever
just for those three days?
You built a nest inside my soul
You rest your head on leaves of gold
You managed to crawl inside my brain
You found a hole and in you came
You sleep like a baby breathing
Comfortably between truth and pain
But the truth is nothing's been the same
Since those three days
Did you only want me for those three days?
Did you only need me for those three days?
Did you love me forever
just for those three days?
You say there's always gonna be this thing
Between us days are filled with dreams
Scorpions crawl across my screen
Make their home beneath my skin
Underneath my dress stick their tongues
Bite through the flesh down to the bone
And I have been so fuckin' alone
You built a nest inside my soul
You rest your head on leaves of gold
You managed to crawl inside my brain
You found a hole and in you came
You sleep like a baby breathing
Comfortably between truth and pain
But the truth is nothing's been the same
Since those three days
Did you only want me for those three days?
Did you only need me for those three days?
Did you love me forever
just for those three days, baby?
Did you only want me for those three days?
Did you only need me for those three days?
Did you love me forever
just for those three days?
For those three days
Lucinda Williams (cantautora)
martes, agosto 22, 2006
sábado, agosto 19, 2006
In Spite of All the Damage
If I wanted to say to you
That I wanted to see your face again
That I want to hear you laughing
In spite of all the damage I've done
If I wanted to hear you talkin'
Or to hear your sense of things
Or to call you up on a Sunday morning
In spite of all the damage I've done
Well I broke our home and left you nowhere to run
Yes I broke our home and left you nowhere to run
But I never knock my days away
I think you understand that I could not stay
But I like to hear you laughing
In spite of all the damage I've done
In spite of all the damage I've done
Well I broke our home and left you nowhere to run
Yes I broke our home and left you nowhere to run
The Be Good Tanyas (from Chinatown)
That I wanted to see your face again
That I want to hear you laughing
In spite of all the damage I've done
If I wanted to hear you talkin'
Or to hear your sense of things
Or to call you up on a Sunday morning
In spite of all the damage I've done
Well I broke our home and left you nowhere to run
Yes I broke our home and left you nowhere to run
But I never knock my days away
I think you understand that I could not stay
But I like to hear you laughing
In spite of all the damage I've done
In spite of all the damage I've done
Well I broke our home and left you nowhere to run
Yes I broke our home and left you nowhere to run
The Be Good Tanyas (from Chinatown)
sábado, agosto 12, 2006
Para vivir no quiero...
Para vivir no quiero...
Para vivir no quiero
islas, palacios, torres.
¡Qué alegría más alta:
vivir en los pronombres!
Quítate ya los trajes,
las señas, los retratos;
yo no te quiero así,
disfrazada de otra,
hija siempre de algo.
Te quiero pura, libre,
irreductible: tú.
Sé que cuando te llame
entre todas las gentes
del mundo,
sólo tú serás tú.
Y cuando me preguntes
quién es el que te llama,
el que te quiere suya,
enterraré los nombres,
los rótulos, la historia.
Iré rompiendo todo
lo que encima me echaron
desde antes de nacer.
Y vuelto ya al anónimo
eterno del desnudo,
de la piedra, del mundo,
te diré:
«Yo te quiero, soy yo».
Pedro Salinas
Para vivir no quiero
islas, palacios, torres.
¡Qué alegría más alta:
vivir en los pronombres!
Quítate ya los trajes,
las señas, los retratos;
yo no te quiero así,
disfrazada de otra,
hija siempre de algo.
Te quiero pura, libre,
irreductible: tú.
Sé que cuando te llame
entre todas las gentes
del mundo,
sólo tú serás tú.
Y cuando me preguntes
quién es el que te llama,
el que te quiere suya,
enterraré los nombres,
los rótulos, la historia.
Iré rompiendo todo
lo que encima me echaron
desde antes de nacer.
Y vuelto ya al anónimo
eterno del desnudo,
de la piedra, del mundo,
te diré:
«Yo te quiero, soy yo».
Pedro Salinas
sábado, agosto 05, 2006
L’Esca del Retorn
De tota espera, amor, visc en exili,
reptant el desdesig. Tindrà retorn
aquest tirany que enfila, lent, els dies,
i el vol de corbs, tibant, que estreny el coll
de l’alegria? Veus? La primavera
d’hivern s’ha fet mestressa de l’agenda.
Cerco en les fulles mortes de l’agenda
les vedrunes que m’han dut a l’exili.
Els teus ulls han vençut la primavera:
fins que li donis porta de return
duc el pes mort del meu desig a coll
i el colgo on moren, sense tu, els meus dies.
Deso el mirall on fan l’ullet els dies
que em disfressaven de festa l’agenda.
Vaig caminant amb la set fins al coll
cap on l’aigua emmiralla el meu exili.
Tot és no res: l’anada i el retorn
i se’m fa un nus al cor la primavera.
Nego les deus que adollen primavera
i els daus que glaça el trasmudar dels dies.
Refaig, tenaç, el cercle del retorn
al punt del meu amor, que no té agenda
ni rellotge i que s’arma –a cor d’exili-
sense oferir a cap destral el coll.
“Travessaré la carena pel coll
del teu desig cofat de primavera”,
afirmo a contrallum del meu exili
quan només tinc sorra al davant, i dies...,
quan giro cada plana de l’agenda
esborrant bé la tinta del retorn.
No pot callar, no, l’esca del retorn:
duc el senyal del seu ullal al coll.
He tancat bé les portes i l’agenda,
però ho clivella tot la primavera.
Amor, les hores estalonen els dies
i triomfen exsangües de l’exili.
Amb sang d’exili signo el meu retorn,
quan, dejuna de dies, em ve al coll
la primavera, perforant l’agenda.
Maria Merce Marçal (de Terra de Mai)
reptant el desdesig. Tindrà retorn
aquest tirany que enfila, lent, els dies,
i el vol de corbs, tibant, que estreny el coll
de l’alegria? Veus? La primavera
d’hivern s’ha fet mestressa de l’agenda.
Cerco en les fulles mortes de l’agenda
les vedrunes que m’han dut a l’exili.
Els teus ulls han vençut la primavera:
fins que li donis porta de return
duc el pes mort del meu desig a coll
i el colgo on moren, sense tu, els meus dies.
Deso el mirall on fan l’ullet els dies
que em disfressaven de festa l’agenda.
Vaig caminant amb la set fins al coll
cap on l’aigua emmiralla el meu exili.
Tot és no res: l’anada i el retorn
i se’m fa un nus al cor la primavera.
Nego les deus que adollen primavera
i els daus que glaça el trasmudar dels dies.
Refaig, tenaç, el cercle del retorn
al punt del meu amor, que no té agenda
ni rellotge i que s’arma –a cor d’exili-
sense oferir a cap destral el coll.
“Travessaré la carena pel coll
del teu desig cofat de primavera”,
afirmo a contrallum del meu exili
quan només tinc sorra al davant, i dies...,
quan giro cada plana de l’agenda
esborrant bé la tinta del retorn.
No pot callar, no, l’esca del retorn:
duc el senyal del seu ullal al coll.
He tancat bé les portes i l’agenda,
però ho clivella tot la primavera.
Amor, les hores estalonen els dies
i triomfen exsangües de l’exili.
Amb sang d’exili signo el meu retorn,
quan, dejuna de dies, em ve al coll
la primavera, perforant l’agenda.
Maria Merce Marçal (de Terra de Mai)
viernes, agosto 04, 2006
The Roofwalker
Aquest poema es suprem:
Over the half-finished houses
night comes. The builders
stand on the roof. It is
quiet after the hammers,
the pulleys hang slack.
Giants, the roofwalkers,
on a listing deck, the wave
of darkness about to break
on their heads. The sky
is a torn sail where figures
pass magnified, shadows
on a burning deck.
I feel like them up there:
exposed, larger than life,
and due to break my neck.
Was it worth while to lay--
with infinite exertion--
a roof I can't live under?
--All those blueprints,
closings of gaps
measurings, calculations?
A life I didn't choose
chose me: even
my tools are the wrong ones
for what I have to do.
I'm naked, ignorant,
a naked man fleeing
across the roofs
who could with a shade of difference
be sitting in the lamplight
against the cream wallpaper
reading--not with indifference--
about a naked man
fleeing across the roofs.
Adrienne Rich (1961)
Over the half-finished houses
night comes. The builders
stand on the roof. It is
quiet after the hammers,
the pulleys hang slack.
Giants, the roofwalkers,
on a listing deck, the wave
of darkness about to break
on their heads. The sky
is a torn sail where figures
pass magnified, shadows
on a burning deck.
I feel like them up there:
exposed, larger than life,
and due to break my neck.
Was it worth while to lay--
with infinite exertion--
a roof I can't live under?
--All those blueprints,
closings of gaps
measurings, calculations?
A life I didn't choose
chose me: even
my tools are the wrong ones
for what I have to do.
I'm naked, ignorant,
a naked man fleeing
across the roofs
who could with a shade of difference
be sitting in the lamplight
against the cream wallpaper
reading--not with indifference--
about a naked man
fleeing across the roofs.
Adrienne Rich (1961)
Burning Onself Out
We can look into the stove tonight
as into a mirror, yes,
the serrated log, the yellow-blue gaseous core
the crimson-flittered grey ash, yes.
I know inside my eyelids
and underneath my skin
Time takes hold of us like a draft
upward, drawing at the heats
in the belly, in the brain
You told me of setting your hand
into the print of a long-dead Indian
and for a moment, I knew that hand,
that print, that rock,
the sun producing powerful dreams
A word can do this
or, as tonight, the mirror of the fire
of my mind, burning as if it could go on
burning itself, burning down
feeding on everything
till there is nothing in life
that has not fed that fire
Adrienne Rich
as into a mirror, yes,
the serrated log, the yellow-blue gaseous core
the crimson-flittered grey ash, yes.
I know inside my eyelids
and underneath my skin
Time takes hold of us like a draft
upward, drawing at the heats
in the belly, in the brain
You told me of setting your hand
into the print of a long-dead Indian
and for a moment, I knew that hand,
that print, that rock,
the sun producing powerful dreams
A word can do this
or, as tonight, the mirror of the fire
of my mind, burning as if it could go on
burning itself, burning down
feeding on everything
till there is nothing in life
that has not fed that fire
Adrienne Rich
My mouth hovers across your breasts
My mouth hovers across your breasts
in the short grey winter afternoon
in this bed we are delicate
and touch so hot with joy we amaze ourselves
tough and delicate we play rings
around each other our daytime candle burns
with its peculiar light and if the snow
begins to fall outside filling the branches
and if the night falls without announcement
there are the pleasures of winter
sudden, wild and delicate your fingers
exact my tongue exact at the same moment
stopping to laugh at a joke
my love hot on your scent on the cusp of winter
Adrienne Rich
in the short grey winter afternoon
in this bed we are delicate
and touch so hot with joy we amaze ourselves
tough and delicate we play rings
around each other our daytime candle burns
with its peculiar light and if the snow
begins to fall outside filling the branches
and if the night falls without announcement
there are the pleasures of winter
sudden, wild and delicate your fingers
exact my tongue exact at the same moment
stopping to laugh at a joke
my love hot on your scent on the cusp of winter
Adrienne Rich
miércoles, agosto 02, 2006
martes, agosto 01, 2006
La Isla
Yo soñé Formentera como una isla de infinitos puentes extendidos, de infinitas escalas hacia el cielo. Quiero dormir sin nadie al lado que me vele el sueño, morir dormido... En Formentera todos los caminos llevan al mar.
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