viernes, mayo 27

gil scott-heron (1 de abril de 1949 – 27 de mayo de 2011)

domingo, septiembre 12

steve biko | september [12] '77

steve biko in police room 619

the most potent weapon in the hands of the oppressor
is the mind of the oppressed.

miércoles, septiembre 8

a poem for sarah baartman

I’ve come to take you home –
home, remember the veld?

the lush green grass beneath the big oak trees

the air is cool there and the sun does not burn.
I have made your bed at the foot of the hill,

your blankets are covered in buchu and mint,

the proteas stand in yellow and white

and the water in the stream chuckle sing-songs

as it hobbles along over little stones.

I have come to wretch you away –

away from the poking eyes

of the man-made monster

who lives in the dark

with his clutches of imperialism

who dissects your body bit by bit

who likens your soul to that of Satan

and declares himself the ultimate god!

I have come to soothe your heavy heart

I offer my bosom to your weary soul

I will cover your face with the palms of my hands

I will run my lips over lines in your neck

I will feast my eyes on the beauty of you

and I will sing for you

for I have come to bring you peace.

I have come to take you home

where the ancient mountains shout your name.

I have made your bed at the foot of the hill,

your blankets are covered in buchu and mint,

the proteas stand in yellow and white –

I have come to take you home

where I will sing for you

for you have brought me peace.

diana ferrus

martes, mayo 4

away we go

BURT: Do you promise to let our daughter be fat or skinny or any weight at all? Because we want her to be happy, no matter what. Being obsessed with weight is just too cliché for our daughter.

RONA: Yes, I do. Do you promise, when she talks, you’ll listen? Like, really listen, especially when she’s scared? And that her fights will be your fights?

BURT: I do. And do you promise that if I die some embarrassing and boring death that you’re gonna tell our daughter that her father was killed by Russian soldiers in this intense hand-to-hand combat in an attempt to save the lives of 850 Chechnyan orphans?

RONA: I do. Chechnyan orphans. I do. I do.

martes, abril 20

the splendor

What if...
What if no soul on earth is allowed to remain innocent forever?
What if all souls on earth will be broken? Open.
What if somewhere in life we become like an earth
that once yielded to anything that touched it,
but now, through some sudden twist of fate,
we are closed over and become hardened by grief’s hammer?
What if we are now considered wasteland, even by our own sights?

And what if soul was buried beneath that hard chitin?
What if all was not lost,
but only seemed so...
and was somehow meant to seem so for a time?
What if we all walk dead,
but the time of Return is coming?
What if incubation can only occur in darkness?
What if hope and new life that truly endure
are not born from airy happiness,
but from black dirt grief?
What if we are in the eternal cycle of life/death/life,
‘a night between two days,’ that teaches us?
What if we either learn this and die in order
to lean against the cheek of something, someone Greater,
or else refuse to learn from this season in hell
and thereby die to life forever whilst we are still alive?

And if no one comes to break the earth open again?
What if no one misses the soul in all things,
or else pretends life can exist without the creative twin
born into each of us?
What if thereby the soul could never rise again,
because no one came seeking it,
because none gave themselves
to the hard work of hauling, lifting, heaving,
the dragging, shaping and best guessing
about what might be needed next--
without ever knowing for certain beforehand--
but often enough, trusting spirit,
and being en puente, exactly right
about what is needed exactly right now.

What if even one person remembered
how to open the earth again?
And what if even one person remembered the soul by name?
And what if even one person came seeking
that which all others had given up on...?
What if even one person remembered
that under the hard earth in the darkest time,
new life is ever growing its hands, its feet, its eyes, its voice,
readying to be born again,
needing only one thing...

To be named.
To be called by name,
to be looked for,
cared for with infinite tenderness.
To be protected with the strength of everything
that is wild of mind and deep of courage bones.

You’d like to know the name, the exact name
to call true life back again?
What is the one thing within your soul that can never die?
That is the name.

clarissa pinkola estés, del poema “the splendor”