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jueves, 18 de febrero de 2021

Lady Lazarus de Sylvia Plath | Jueves Poético

 ¡Hola, lectores! Espero se encuentren bien. Hoy regreso con los "Jueves poéticos" en el blog y como he empezado hoy mismo a leer Ariel de Sylvia Plath les compartiré en esta ocasión este poema que gustó bastante y a la vez me impactó. 

ADVERTENCIA: Toca temas de depresión, suicidio, autolesión y opresión.


Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.   
One year in every ten   
I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin   
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,   
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine   
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin   
O my enemy.   
Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?   
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be   
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.   
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.   
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.   
The peanut-crunching crowd   
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.   
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands   
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.   
The first time it happened I was ten.   
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.   
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.   
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.   
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.   
It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute   
Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.   
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge   
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge   
For a word or a touch   
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.   
So, so, Herr Doktor.   
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,   
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.   
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,   
A wedding ring,   
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer   
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair   
And I eat men like air.

-Sylvia Plath

2 comentarios:

  1. ¡Hola Ale!🌻

    Qué alegría verte de nuevo y con esta sección tan linda. Para mí,leer a Sylvia es una navaja de doble filo, pero no voy a negar lo tanto que me gusta hacerlo, suena masoquista, ya que lo pienso jajaja.

    Cómo me retumbó esto (y toooodo en general)

    "Dying
    Is an art, like everything else.
    I do it exceptionally well."

    En otro hilo de pensamiento, te he nominado a un tag/iniciativa, espero que puedas responderlo

    https://mi-vida-de-papel.blogspot.com/2021/02/iniciativa-seamos-amigxs.html

    ResponderEliminar
  2. Hola, Pao, ¡qué gusto verte por acá! Omg, en definitiva, a mi esos versos también me llegan demasiado. Wow, muchas gracias, haré el tag en cuanto pueda :D
    Abrazos!!

    ResponderEliminar