TranslatingRitaSophie

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Stone and sand

The Whole is a circle

A stone

Shapeless and strong

And capable of crying

And each tear

breaks it

piece by piece

turns it into sand

scattered by the wind

that never knew

there was a stone to begin with.

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WOMAN

My heart is a dark, moist cave,

and there’s a woman there;

tall, dark-haired and

covered in blood.

She’s not talking

but her eyes are telling

the never-ending story

of my not giving

myself permission

to be a woman.

 

My womb is a Desert:

hot and dry and windy,

and there’s a woman there;

tall, light-headed

and losing herself in the dust.

She’s not talking either,

or maybe she is

but there’s so much noise

and light and oblivion –

I can’t hear her.

 

I visited them shortly

the night I was told

to be a mermaid

but I turned into a shark

the two women

would happily give permission

to eat them.

WWWBT 16 – H and the auto-irony

I have always liked to watch the sky. I remember tuning in with nameless constellations at night, when sleep was still far away and I was eight. Or nine. And I was a little closer to the sky.

I grew up in a small mountain town in the center of the country. I was crossing the street to buy bread and on the left, there they were! Compared to Everest, they are small dwarfs, but to a little girl crossing the street to buy bread they were the highest and the most beautiful mountains in the world. With their snow covered picks and their hiding behind thick clouds during unfortunate – weather-wise – days, they were exhaling a certain witticism that I was trying all my life to acquire… To no avail!

These days, chilly winter days in the Desert, the sky seemed closer than ever! Or someone really went up there, dusted a little all the warmth of the summer, and all of a sudden, as if indeed the sky was closer – but not because we were higher, I mean on a mountain or anything, but the sky had literally been dragged or pushed down closer to the ocean (that’s a nice image, don’t you think?), I could count almost ten stars if I squinted and tried really hard!

I was sitting on the balcony last night with H, and tried to put all this into words. I think I must have said something similar, though for sure I was not that fluent. If I don’t open my mouth, words are more colourful and phrases slither mischievously like a Basilisc on red wine. Unfortunately, until we evolve accordingly so we can communicate telepathically, I have to open my mouth and utter these words, which break loudly as the Magic Mirror would, if Ugly Betty had taken a glimpse in it. (see, I had to open my mouth to have another sip of red wine…. the last phrase makes no sense… but I like it!).

I haven’t written in a long time and obviously, you don’t know who H is.

Once upon a time, almost ten months ago, I met H. Lara had invited him at the last Christmas party. Tall, brunet, dreamy – both from a psychological (meaning a little introvert) and esthetical point of view, H had become a good friend. A very good friend. Obviously, at one point I got so infatuated with him that it hurt! Not because he had shown any interest in me. On the contrary! Mostly, because I was feeling very comfortable with him. Because I could be me, no dissimulations. No cheap games, no eyelashes battering, no lip gloss and not too many euphemisms. But then, after he had explained me, wordlessly, and very emotionlessly, that he had no romantic interest in me whatsoever, I concluded I needed him. As a friend I can always count on. Not for spooning me at night in bed, but for almost anything else. I had a faint recurrence when he started growing a beard, but one thing my father taught me (actually, the only one), is that you cannot force someone to love you. So, we continued meeting, watching movies together, had lunches or dinners, drinking wine or beer, talking about faith and agnosticism, erotic art and achromatopsia, depression and money, Star Wars and Swedish cinema, and many other things that either I don’t remember or they’re not worth being listed here.

That particular winter evening, besides counting invisible stars, and empty bottles of red wine, I would have liked to convince H I was Claudia Schiffer and invite him in my bedroom. For younger readers, Claudia Schiffer is/was a blonde German model; and no, I wouldn’t necessarily want to look like her, but at least have her body fat. Certain movements among the silky sheets require a specific body fat… otherwise the sheets may mimic indelible tsunamis… And the only indelible images I would like H to keep are those of my perfectly coordinating movements in the kitchen – throwing pancakes in the air, magically catching them on a plate, seasoning them with three kinds of jam and… You didn’t expect this, right? The truth is that I’m neither Claudia Schiffer, nor Martha Stewart. I’m just a slightly depressed introvert with a slightly increased BMI, not too much self-esteem and all this is the real reason I’ve been sleeping alone for the past many years. Agreeing that sleeping with the Tomcat doesn’t count.

How to end an auto-ironic text – irony supposedly being the intelligent prelude of eroticism? Maybe it’s better to stick to star gazing, platonic friendship with very interesting men who are not interested in me, day dreaming about Victoria’s Secret catwalk parading bodies and struggling to finish a book about cyber paraphilia (Mary Aiken – The Cyber Effect).

 

THE KISS

First

I tasted your upper lip.

And no one ever told me

bitter cherries could recite

love poems

so graciously.

 

The lower lip

would not stop narrating

cheesy chansonnettes.

So I told it a riddle

and I kiss it minutiously.

 

As for your tongue…

Well…

That is a too complicated story –

Something like

Schrödinger’s cat:

maybe there’s love there,

maybe there isn’t.

 

 

THE RHETORICAL MERMAID

When suddenly there’s no Sun

And your eyes disappear like the Cheshire cat

I feel like a mermaid –

And no, not the one everyone knows about.

This mermaid remembers the embrace of men

As clearly as the snow on the Kilimanjaro some bearded man

Wrote about sometime before I knew your eyes.

 

And why a mermaid would write poems

Is as rhetorical as why the Cheshire cat

Would play chess with Hemingway!

 

THE BUTTERFLY 2

I lit a timid candle

Just to see your eyes.

I knew they shone stronger than my thoughts,

my dreams,

my everyday resurrection.

 

I smoked a cherry cigarette

just to remember your sweet lips

on my butterfly shoulder,

on my always questioning eyes,

on my ever doubting mouth.

 

I sipped the last drop of solitude

It tasted bitter and addictive

Like a butterfly that lost its left wing

Just to hope the right one will hold you… soon.

THE BUTTERFLY

My guts are full of butterflies.

Dormant, waiting,

Knowing You will come.

My butterflies,

lost in the confusion

of old infatuations…

Afraid to ever spread their wings

Relinquished their crown

Fallen into oblivion…

One of them, though,

one flicker of hope

emerged on my right shoulder

from there it seems to be calling

silently

imperceptibly

the call only You can hear.

HEART AND WINGS

 

“… after years of sitting he decided to walk again

and look for his wings

That is when he started to fly

wingless with heart.” (Bahareh Amidi)

 

And my White Angel from far away had said to me

‘Home is where your heart is’

She had said.

And I checked behind the sternum

And It wasn’t there!

And I don’t know where

I left it

on a corner of a bedside table

near a bed we made love in

once

I really don’t know where my heart is

I am confident it knows the way

back home to me

Like a bored tomcat

Following a crescent.

Message in a bottle

Thank you!

Thank you for having been there for me that day!

Thank you!

That was all. I looked. I turned the page. I searched for more pages. I even looked for more bottles.

I looked at my sand castles hoping to find an answer there. Stupid, right? I hadn’t built sand castles in ages. But John’s kid had insisted and eventually it had been fun til the waves brought the bottle right to my feet. As if I was the consignee. As if the sender had known it would reach me. Exactly today, on this God foresaken beach.

What if it was me who wrote this? That day, when you came and saved my soul from restless roaming. When you looked into my eyes and told me that everything would be ok. And everything eventually was, because you saved me. And I could never thank you.

Because of that, I wrote this message, put it in a bottle, threw it into the ocean, hoping to reach you some day. Hoping it will cross all the oceans of time and oblivion.

And because it came back to me, does this mean it never reached you? That would be sad, indeed…

Or it is maybe for the best. I should really call you some day and tell you. Loud and clear.

Thank you!

I MISS YOU

I miss you.

I miss the mole on your right thigh

I called Perfection

for it spoke to me in that indelible language of ‘I know you’!

I miss you.

I miss the continent of your left knee

which sang to me

the mermaid song of ‘I will never forget you’!

‘I miss you’,

wispers ceaselessly my right ventricle

like a constant whistle

redefining  your silhouette on my sheets…

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