A Purple Jukebox: Sylvia Plath – The Munich Mannequins

Iniciamos A Purple Jukebox, un humilde ciclo de poetas y escritoras releídas (=revividas).
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Hoy, Crossthevoid lee The Munich Mannequins, de Sylvia Plath

Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb

Where the yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of life and the tree of life

Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood is the flood of love,

The absolute sacrifice.
It means: no more idols but me,

Me and you.
So, in their sulfur loveliness, in their smiles

These mannequins lean tonight
In Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome,

Naked and bald in their furs,
Orange lollies on silver sticks,

Intolerable, without minds.
The snow drops its pieces of darkness,

Nobody’s about. In the hotels
Hands will be opening doors and setting

Down shoes for a polish of carbon
Into which broad toes will go tomorrow.

O the domesticity of these windows,
The baby lace, the green-leaved confectionery,

The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stolz.
And the black phones on hooks

Glittering
Glittering and digesting

Voicelessness. The snow has no voice.

Aunque no es el poema más conocido de su colección póstuma Ariel, es un favorito personal. El juego entre fecundidad y esterilidad (más mental que biológica) forman un entramado sólido y frío como el granito en invierno. Los maniquís sonríen de una punta de Europa a la otra con dientes blancos, perfectos, inexistentes. Porque para ser inmaculado como la nieve recién caída hay que renunciar a tener voz alguna.

Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

 

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