jueves, marzo 09, 2006

(De or. inc.).

1. f. coloq. Antigua moneda de plata.

2. f. coloq. p. us. Moneda corriente.

somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff

Ntozake Shange

somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff
not my poems or a dance i gave up in the street
but somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff
like a kleptomaniac workin hard & forgettin while stealin
this is mine/this aint yr stuff/
now why don't you put me back & let me hang out in my own self
somebody almost walked off wit alla my stuff
& didn't care enuf to send a note home sayin
i was late for my solo conversation
or two sizes to small for my own tacky skirts
what can anybody do wit somethin of no value on
a open market/ did you getta dime for my things/
hey man/ where are you goin wid alla my stuff/
to ohh & ahh abt/ daddy/ i gotta mainline number
from my own shit/ now wontcha put me back/ & let
me play this duet/ wit silver ring in my nose/
honest to god/ somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff/
& i didnt bring anythin but the kick & sway of it
the perfect ass for my man & none of it is theirs
this is mine/ ntozake 'her own things'/ that's my name
now give me my stuff/ i see ya hidin my laugh/ & how i
sit wif my legs open sometimes/ to give my crotch
some sunlight/ & there goes my love my toes my chewed
up finger nails/ niggah/ wif the curls in yr hair/
mr. louisiana hot link/ i want my stuff back/
my rhytums & my voice/ open my mouth/ & let me talk ya
outta/ throwin my shit in the sewar/ this is some delicate
leg & whimsical kiss/ i gotta have to give to my choice/
without you runnin off wit alla my shit/
now you cant have me less i give me away/ & i waz
doin all that/ til ya run off on a good thing/
who is this you left me wit/ some simple bitch
widda bad attitude/ i wants my things/
i want my arm wit the hot iron scar/ & my leg wit the
flea bite/ i want my calloused feet & quik language back
in my mouth/ fried plantains/ pineapple pear juice/
sun-ra & joseph & jules/ i want my own things/ how i lived them/
& give me my memories/ how i waz when i waz there/
you cant have them or do nothin wit them/
stealin my shit from me/ dont make it yrs/ makes it stolen/
somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff/ & i waz standin
there/ lookin at myself/ the whole time
& it waznt a spirit took my stuff/ waz a man whose
ego walked round like Rodan's shadow/ waz a man faster
n my innocence/ waz a lover/ i made too much
room for/ almost run off wit alla my stuff/
& i didnt know i'd give it up so quik/ & the one runnin wit it/
don't know he got it/ & i'm shoutin this is mine/ & he dont
know he got it/ my stuff is the anonymous rip[ped off treasure
of the year/ did you know somebody almost got away wit me/
me in a plastic bag under their arm/ me
danglin on a string of personal carelessness/ i'm spattered wit
mud & city rain/ & no i didnt get a chance to take a douche/
hey man/ this is not your perogative/ i gotta have me in my
pocket/ to get round like a good woman shd/ & make the poem
in the pot or the chicken in the dance/ what i got to do/
i gotta get my stuff to do it to/
why dont ya find yr own things/ & leave this package
of me for my destiny/ what ya got to get from me/
i'll give it to ya/ yeh/ i'll give it to ya/
round 5:00 in the winter/ when the sky is blue-red/
& Dew City is gettin pressed/ if it's really my stuff/
ya gotta give it to me/ if ya really want it/ i'm
the only one/ can handle it

En for colored girls who have considered suicide/ when the rainbow is enuf. Scribner Poetry, New York, NY, 1st ed, 1975; 4th ed 1997: 49-50.
De "Los gemidos"

Pablo de Rokha

Hombres de los ojos quemados y las oscuras carnes carbonizadas, carbonizadas, vuestro corazón es grande grande grande como las tragedias, -las llamas eternas lo encienden-,y vuestra pasiones atrabiliarias, contradictorias, inusitadas, muerden, braman, crujen, braman, muerden, aúllan lomismo que serpientes o tigres preñadas o mares idiotas u hombres siniestros; y sin embargo, sin embargo sois íntegros
espíritu, espíritu que arde, espíritu que gime, espíritu al cual resta de la tierra, al cual resta de la tierra la apariciencia de la apariencia y las formas exíguas.

En Oda a los solitarios

...una vez había un hombre, un hombre como todos los hombres, mejor quizá. Cuando vino al mundo llovió tres, cuatro, cinco , seis días. En su casa tenía unos cuantos libros, en un rincón, en un rincón unos cuantos papeles. Su traje amargo y su facha, su facha, su facha le dieron una notoriedad, una notoriedad provinciana en el barrio. Y, vuando pasaba, los vecinos decían: pobre!, es un tío, es un tío!..Solía estarse sentado tardes enteras, años enteros, tardes enteras. Era un poco triste, sombrío a veces, muy sombrío a veces, era un poco triste, un poco simple, modesto también. Algunos días hablaba, otros días no, otros días no. Sus parientes, compadecidos, sonreían, él sonreía, sonreía, sonreía y, sin embargo, pasaba inadvertido, inadvertido, completamente inadvertido. (-Esqueleto: te duelen las heridas?..las palabras?..las ideas?..te duelen las apariencias del entendimiento?..)

En Yo

De Los Gemidos. Lom ediciones. Santiago de Chile, 1era edición 1922, 2nda 1994: 249, 323