
Rua da Graça, 91 ' LISBOA
verde seco, azul húmedo como la lengua. Rojo quemado, negro cerrado, blanco mortaja, blanco perla como la cuerda seca. Negro visión, negro pino, negro brillante como la laca.

Fever 103°
Sylvia Plath
Fever 103°
Sylvia Plath
poem
The Collected Poems
1962
Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple
Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean
The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell
Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright
One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,
But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak
Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,
Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.
Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.
Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.
Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.
I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern ----
My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.
Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.
I think I am going up,
I think I may rise ----
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I
Am a pure acetylene
Virgin
Attended by roses,
By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him.
Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats) ----
To Paradise.
es el padre quien reconoce la oscuridad
es la oscuridad la que conduce al relámpago de los clásicos
la puerta de los sollozos se cierra de un portazo
los ecos persiguen sus gritos
es la pluma quien florece en la desesperación
es la flor la que resiste el viaje inevitable
es la luz del amor que se despierta
iluminando el paisaje sobre cero
Bei-Dao, Paisaje sobre cero
Traducción de Luisa Chang, Colección Visor de Poesía
I walk out of a room
like a shadow from a music box
the rump of the sun sways
stopping dead at noon
empty empty swivel chair
in the funnel of writing
someone filters through the white paper:
wrinkled face
sinister words
in regard to enduring freedom
in regard to can I have a light
the heart, as if illuminating
even more of the blind
shuttles between day and night