Silvia Plath -Fever 103º- |
Sunday, November 07, 2004 |
Fever 103° Silvia Plath (EEUU 1932-1963)
Pure? What does it mean? The tongues of hell Are dull, dull as the triple
Tongues of dull, fat Cerberus 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
Nor him, nor him (My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats)— To Paradise.
Fiebre 39,5º
¿Pura? ¿Qué significa eso? Las lenguas del infierno son torpes, torpes como las triples
lenguas del torpe y obeso Cancerbero que jadea en la entrada. Incapaz de eliminar de un lengüetazo
la crisis febril, el pecado, el pecado. La yesca clama. El olor indeleble
de una vela que se apaga! Amor, amor, el humo a baja altura ondula a mi alrededor como las bufandas de Isadora, y temo
que una de ellas se enganche y ancle la rueda. Esos taciturnos humos amarillos crean su propia atmósfera. No se elevan,
se arrastran en torno del globo sofocando a los ancianos y a los mansos, el débil
bebé del invernadero en su cuna, a la lúgubre orquídea que cuelga en el aire su jardín colgante,
demoníaco leopardo. La calefacción la tornó blanca y la mató en una hora.
Untando los cuerpos de los adúlteros como una ceniza de Hiroshima, y consumiéndolos. El pecado. El pecado.
Querido mío, toda la noche estuve fluctuando, encendiéndome, apagándome. Las sábanas llegan a pesar como el beso del libertino.
Tres días. Tres noches. Agua con limón, agua de pollo, el agua me da arcadas.
Versión de María Julia de Ruschi CrespoLabels: Silvia Plath |
posted by Alfil @ 5:15 PM |
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