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#argentine poetry
feral-ballad · 3 months ago
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Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, from Extracting The Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972
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sinistr · 6 days ago
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Alejandra Pizarnik from Exile / Poems 1962-1972
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fawnaura · 9 months ago
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And at night, always, a tribe of mutilated words looks for refuge in my throat,
Alejandra Pizarnik, from “Rings of ash” in Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972, tr. Yvette Siegert
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ssmhhh · 4 months ago
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—Alejandra Pizarnik, Extracting the Stone of Madness
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con-alas-de-angeles · a year ago
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My most beautiful hiding places are solitary sites where no one goes, and where there are shadows that only come to life when I am the magician.”
Olga Orozco, Ballad of Forgotten Places
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enthymesis · a year ago
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I no longer exist and know it; what I don’t know is what lives in my place.
Alejandra Pizarnik, from Selected Poems; “The Posessed Among Lilacs”
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forsoothsayer · a year ago
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Simplicity by Jorge Luis Borges
It opens, the gate to the garden with the docility of a page that frequent devotion questions and inside, my gaze has no need to fix on objects that already exist, exact, in memory. I know the customs and souls and that dialect of allusions that every human gathering goes weaving. I've no need to speak nor claim false privilege; they know me well who surround me here, know well my afflictions and weakness. This is to reach the highest thing, that Heaven perhaps will grant us: not admiration or victory but simply to be accepted as part of an undeniable Reality, like stones and trees.
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carnageandculture · a year ago
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Tall in the evening, arrogant, aloof, she crosses the chaste garden and is caught in the shutter of that pure and fleeting instant which gives to us this garden and this vision, unspeaking, deep. I see her here and now, but simultaneously I also see her haunting an ancient, twilit Ur of the Chaldees or coming slowly down the shallow steps, a temple, which was once proud stone but now has turned to an infinity of dust, or winkling out the magic alphabet locked in the stars of other latitudes, or breathing in a rose’s scent, in England. She is where music is, and in the gentle blue of the sky, in Greek hexameters, and in our solitudes, which seek her out. She is mirrored in the water of the fountain, in time’s memorial marble, in a sword, in the serene air of a patio, looking out on sunsets and on gardens. And underneath the myths and the masks, her soul, always alone.
Susana Bombal by Jorge Luis Borges, translated by Alastair Reid, 1979
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silentsiren · 2 years ago
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“abrazando tu sombra en un sueño mis huesos se arqueaban como flores” / “embracing your shadow in a dream, my bones arched like flowers”
Alejandra Pizarnik, Aproximaciones
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wildpetals · a year ago
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“My soul is made of light and darkness. It doesn't know about mists. ”
— Victoria Ocampo
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finita--la--commedia · 2 years ago
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Hour when grass grows in the horse’s memory.  The wind makes candid speeches in the lilacs’ honor, and someone enters death with eyes open like Alice in the land of déjà vu
Alejandra Pizarnik, from “Childhood” as quoted and translated by Susan Pensak in “Dense with Ancestral Music”: Sayings / Ethics of Pizarnik
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feral-ballad · 15 days ago
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Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, from Extracting The Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972
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sinistr · 5 days ago
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Alejandra Pizarnik from Exile / Poems 1962-1972
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virgin-martyr · 2 years ago
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Beneath my dress a field of flowers, bright as midnight children, burned.
Alejandra Pizarnik, excerpt from “Les Chants de Maldoror” (trans. Lynne Alvarez)
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ssmhhh · 4 months ago
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—Alejandra Pizarnik, Extracting the Stone of Madness
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boomvagynamite · 3 years ago
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Parásitos Jamás pensé que Dios tuviera alguna forma. Absoluta su vida; y absoluta su norma. Ojos no tuvo nunca: mira con las estrellas. Manos no tuvo nunca: golpea con los mares. Lengua no tuvo nunca: habla con los centellas. Te diré, no te asombres; Sé que tiene parásitos: las cosas y los hombres.
‘Parásitos’ - Alfonsina Storni
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enthymesis · a year ago
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I rose from my corpse, went in search of who I am.
Alejandra Pizarnik from Selected Poems; “The Roads of The Mirror, XV”
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forsoothsayer · a year ago
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Remorse by Jorge Luis Borges
I have committed the worst of sins One can commit. I have not been Happy. Let the glaciers of oblivion Take and engulf me, mercilessly. My parents bore me for the risky And the beautiful game of life, For earth, water, air and fire. I failed them, I was not happy. Their youthful hope for me unfulfilled. I applied my mind to the symmetric Arguments of art, its web of trivia. They willed me bravery. I was not brave. It never leaves me. Always at my side, That shadow of a melancholy man.
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carnageandculture · a year ago
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Cosmogonía
Ni tiniebla ni caos. La tiniebla requiere ojos que ven, como el sonido y el silencio requieren el oído, y el espejo, la forma que lo puebla. Ni el espacio ni el tiempo. Ni siquiera una divinidad que premedita el silencio anterior a la primera noche del tiempo, que será infinita. El gran río de Heráclito el Oscuro su irrevocable curso no ha emprendido, que del pasado fluye hacia el futuro, que del olvido fluye hacia el olvido. Algo que ya padece. Algo que implora. Después la historia universal. Ahora.
 Jorge Luis Borges
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soracities · 21 days ago
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This isn’t what I wanted to say. To speak, and speak of the self like this, is hardly pleasant.
Alejandra Pizarnik, from “Cornerstone”, Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972 (trans. Yvette Siegert)
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