Monthly Archives: November 2014

See all the days & insights wheel across this point.

See all the days & insights wheel across this point.

Nouveau riche, I'd cycle on my way.

Nouveau riche, I’d cycle on my way.

 

 

 

Lo dice el medio, el lenguaje. Pero

no solo el lenguaje. Menos

lenguaje del medio: este

jueves 13, a las 18.30 hrs.

el fundador del grupo de los

LANGUAGE poets, Charles

Bernstein, realizará la conferencia

“El campo expandido del

L=A=N=G=U=A=J=E” [sic]. Previa

a cargo del traductor Enrique

Winter. (Azar de fronteras des-

tinaciones suscribe, subraya, inter-

viene mismo día, misma hora, bailando

Waylla Wisa en ferias libres de Arica).

 

El campo expandido del L=A=N=G=U=A=J=E

traduce como intraduce (ex-

pande) The Expanded Field of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E,

arqueo donde Bernstein se las ha

con el ¿inesquivable? fantasma

de la deconstrucción in itself – fuera

lo que fuera. L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E,

parche antes de la herida, previendo

a la susodicha, deniega a ratos y estratos, en-

simisma. À la lettre: L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E

not        deconstruction as

and end in itself [¿…?] but

reconstruction, emplacement, ex-

p-a-n-s-i-o-n & Ach die Kunst. Sino

e indicio, dicha, cómo (como) no, de Erín

Moure, de lo inmemncioable (G. O’Brien):

 

yseopoenen, demasiado otodo o nuda

sconstrucció de            mucho mayor
que formasespecifi9s de la instalacde
à suivre

 

Cuanto a Waylla Wisa, piedradiente lengua

mengua en Arica: imaynatataq watusun-

chik ¿cómo vamos a traslucir)(kay watuy

lo imposible (mana atinata) de traslucir?

 

 

[ Arica, 10.11]

 

That’s a good idea I’d say and you’d reply

of course it is, it was mine

and we’d laugh and I’d nestle further

into your abode and forget I hated cigarette smoke

and the steely grey of ash that seemed to grow

all over you towards the end like some kind of mould

 

You were a fixed point that anchored my sail

made it firm against the gusts when needs must

and now you’re dead

chards of you mirror-flash into my mind

as if it’s all a practical joke and you’re not dead at all

 

I see your face, and hear your voice

admonishing any hint of sentimentality.

 

We’d drink tea from Russian china perfectly brewed

and share, putting it all out there, laying bare

and making sense where sense was needed

to bear existence.

 

Nouveau riche, I’d cycle on my way, or walk

It never seemed right then to travel except under my own steam.

 

The photo triggers a skirmish.

The photo triggers a skirmish.

 

He is dead then, Cicero receive

the last testament of action

for you and the believers to give warrant,

leave the horses to stand in dreaming sleep

no carriage is wanted.

All receive the burning remembrance

touch the jet stream –

behind doors for each in mourning

lingers some small joy

at the sight of that sheening arrow,

straight the unbroken truth.

In each hand lay a little dust now,

house to house in lament

carry this with you good citizen

wreathe the specks in family doings,

let children see what purpose floats

in the sunlight directing.

Place the remains in brick and mortar

so the shadow in the works of all

will always catch a glance

of one who once walked so tall

 

 

 

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