hipnotizados nuestros huesos buenos
te siguen
repaso con el delineador tus ojos faraones
cierro el sarcófago muy suavemente
cuido tu sueño
ENTREVISTA DE LA MADONNA HODIGITRIA, LA DE LA FLECHA
en la vida antigua, llamados melancólicos, se han ido detrás de las antorchas
hablemos del camino
en un hueco de la tierra, contábamos historias
antes
cuando los suelos salinizados se parten y no hay raíces para la cena
o es la hora de volar por los aires, sólo pienso en contar historias
supongamos que tú y yo
recolectores de las tumoraciones de los árboles
para costosas tinturas venenosas
tú ocupado en los rosedales
que aún hay bibliotecas y burdeles para las insomnes que suenan
sus grillos caseros
que
las maderas y la piedra y el cadáver del bosque te encierran allí
lograda muerta
la eterna joven
que
un día estarás quieta sin drama
entre raspaduras de letras y cabellos vegetales egipcios
que resucitas los ojos la cadera el día
que te llamas la Virgen que hila las gotas la muchacha aquella
la garganta la boca la lengua
que lames también de la mano del aire
y dejas el refugio guiada por atentas ánimas
que liman
amorosamente
tus colmillos
de hija de Cioran el humorista y de Simone Buoé la que reía con Cioran
que tenía sin embargo piedad
de un poeta vampiro y su luz muerta
de ascetas encerrados en panteones heroicos como piedras caídas
de la luna
y subes
al mundo
Supongamos
que has dejado los vocablos del odio-amor
y pones
a la santa en su lugar
y sales
sin ser notada
del falso sosiego
EL TESTAMENTO DE NUESTRA SEÑORA
Tras la última pena de civiles
llegan los días de limpiar el aire
me ocupo de las restauraciones del huerto
elimino el barniz oxidado de las tablas de pino
alguna noche recuerdo a mi madre
detrás del verdaccio de las carnaciones desaparecidas
cuando trae sus dorados al agua sobre fondo rojo
y las láminas buriladas vuelven a la industria automotriz
el gesto de pergaminera de mi madre con su cuchillo
cuando elimina restos de carne y pelos de estas pieles
reescritas una y otra vez
el gesto de ikebana
doblegar el invierno en
ramas de forsitias
y limpio sus dedos lacerados con las listas de las Ostracas
punzadas las actas sobre moluscos
donde se inscriben los indeseables
los palimpsestos de las leyes borradas para los reescritos
fundacionales
delirios a la carta nuevas videncias variaciones
de dueños del mundo
mi madre señaladora de caminos me expulsa
a la vida eterna
Y repito el desgaste de las manos
en el trabajo de vivir
sus líneas secas
una monja momificada
para la consagración de turno
comiendo lo mejor del pescado
sus ojos
Los reyes de las cocinas salvan
el gusto de la especie
Santa Lucía o Teresa
detrás de máscaras plateadas
en un catafalco
ya han repartido sus pupilas en bandeja
La ciega del sarcófago de cristal veneciano
con el guía Orfeo
llega en medio de turistas de veinte años con sus botas de hule desafiando el
agua alta y susurra en mis oídos que está solo
que las fieras
cada vez más cerca
conozco su viejo cuento
hundo mi mano para traerte a la luz de la casa
me arrodillo entre tus piernas
Sólo el ojo del móvil vibrando
NO HABLO DE UNA VIDA JAPONESA, TE ESTOY HABLANDO DE MI MADRE
Mastico a mi madre
como un pájaro azul de las diez entrevisto en el follaje
de Inwood con Alina
picoteo sus ojos de horcada
no soy el cuervo de mi madre
mi mirada es oscura de bella terminación
y ya no soy el olor del buitre del zamuro del ruego de mi madre
Alina me lleva por el prado de asfódelos
por donde viene mi madre
déjala ahí,
criatura,
deja a tu madre que vaya a reinar
y sigue
sola.
INTRODUCTION
The poetry of Venezuelan author Dinapiera Di Donato exhibits a tremendous control of language, an inviting sense of Eros in the sweep of history, presenting a version of love that is lost to the agency of myth until it reaches the body. It sets us in the past, but wait, we are here in our bed, which is always a river; all dreams are perceived with great clarity. Coming across a line like “the weight of the grass fits on the tip of a stone,” I am reminded of Lorca, when he compares a lizard to a “drop of a crocodile,” and that Andalusian verse form still prevalent in Latin America. Her poetry as prayer pleads for the full disclosure of a mystery, and her minimalist work breathes life into the obvious and the occult. We are fascinated when we encounter Arabic in her verse and when she references the seminal work of Ibn Al Àrabi, the most significant Moorish Sufi poet of Medieval Spain; her reading of Oriental forms as background for Latino culture is incisive, especially in content and with her magisterial control of language. At times, her poems oscillate between history and geography: “you are dark you are a heaven for kings/queen of Baghdad my lover from the Bronx.” Her work takes us to the linguistic/anthropological/cultural lookout that is the Spanish language. We become aware of its shifts, but we enjoy them, in the same way that we enjoy how her verse allows us to become aware of the roots of Spanish grammar in the Arabic and Hebrew forms known as kharja. We are intimate, and part of a whole; we are removed, but that distance also brings us to the immediate. Her poetry is a tapestry of cultures, eras, sexuality, and desire. Her spirit is at once ancient and modern.
Intelligent and exacting, Dinapiera Di Donato is a vital poet for our times, and worthy of the memory of Octavio Paz.
Victor Hernández Cruz
Aguas Buenas, Puerto Rico
May 2013
ONE
INSIDE THE CAVERN
The days are not long, night will fall soon,
writing in shadows is an arduous task.
—Gonzalo de Berceo,
from the Prologue to “Poem of Saint Aurea Virgin” (thirteenth century)
DAY
During the day we would meet as demonstrators, at night we would be cast
as extras in the Meatpacking
coupling inside freezers
with any girl
because we would plot our ambush.
I won’t complain about my displacement
in the days of our country
what else would we bring to our mouths if not these women, transient soldiers
queen ants in the bitter juice of Catara?
among the streets cities beds
quickly abandoned
what else would we leave behind?
artists load our fragile bundles
we all play the skin flute
our throats love once again
geometry
forever
the golden form that once could have been a tale of a Virgin
song and melody
by Berceo calming the troops
Oria or Aurea from Rioja, who would rather be blind than see herself wed
set out, a pilgrim, neurotic or young, to the Benedictine monastery
from the top of the minaret
naming Winehouse her holy redhead for the eternal thirst
Valerie oh Valerie
when you cross the waters on your own
displaced, willing crusader
join the demonstration, come down from your cross
help me with my body
to address her wishes, the bricklayers carve a hole into the temple walls
in San Millán of Suso, the one on higher ground
—where they also buried Lara’s seven infantes—
in front of the high altar and the choir where monks would chant,
that’s where they bury her behind walls
she began to have visions
—not always steered by holy guides—
and dies, ill and aged, at 27, in the 11th century
my days in transit, my return
to nowhere
my nights at the shelter
all of us imagining the fragrance we lack
the shores you keep to yourself
NIGHT
SCRIPT WRITTEN ON OUR SKIN
There is snow covering the valleys of the Cárdenas River
I got a table
I got it
simple notes from hunters
now they got them
I read in the mirror’s neck of a woman reclining on David’s scroll
the frozen beaks of a slow bird
there was no snow for some time there was no table
but always bonfires
more messages come in
the museum guards become helpless at this hour
contorted between the frame and the screen of the iridescent vibrator
in her cell phone
the copyist’s Hebrew broken by bedroom Spanish
semen on the white hyenas embroidered on your panties
I read over her shoulder
the words losing consonants this time
no one guessed she would manage
to drain her glands
over Marina Abramović
the guards stirring our shame
one after the other and another
at the bottom of our bags
a devout procession urges me forward, toward the psalm and
on the illuminated D of Fra Angelico, she begins to sing each note
her companions admire her Jewish erudition and doubt
the validity of a mystic novices’ workshop
and guard her
with Fate’s scissors
whoever dares indulge an ounce of intimacy
The crowd and I behind it
caught in an area without reception
where cell phones go silent just before
the triptych of the Nativity
she stumbles steps back trips over me
flashing cell phones curse at me
and I, who bring with me from the previous canvas, the violent light
Saint Jerome tested with friendly fire
the figure who always flees from patristic tales
as if a diamond stripped of rotten shell
could show life
and now they got them
they got them
as though there could be saints
without the blessed Vulgate and the heavy drug
of Christ’s love when Our Lady Inanna tames
and women poets graze on the greenest branches
move over a little let me pass
turn yourself into
a score by Von Bingen with the voice of Uxia
at the bottom of your glass
see the falling flakes
in the landscape I made for you simply because you pretend
to be alive, just for me, near a park
indignant
restive
and not at your morning appointment
which flew in the air
UNLAWFUL MOMENT
when everything that pursued me was petrified light
thus robed I step in with my darkness
into canvases
a pentimento spilling over the nape of the woman in the next painting
while she studies the lingering angels
Madonnas like illuminated vulvas
tongues pressed on Saint Lucia’s altarpiece
a dark woman who reclines with her age-old blindness and a fair one who is
blinded by sight
watching desires fitted with wings
to the teeth
with deft fingers you press on with a lens and alter the terms of the Fates
smoked palate
there lying beside me
gold and nauseated with honey and drink
retched and loved in my mouth
you are no longer your own experiment
testing yourself
on foreign missions
you return the diamond to the ears of Africa and water flows back
and recedes in time
bright branches that mark the Virgin’s return
from distant shores
a choir of Ani de Franco and Kerrianne Cox, of Cesarea and Joplin awakens you
a visitor and her angel have been served at my table
the computer set aside
her bones and the shadow of her bones in a workshop study
skins read by a beautiful Jewish woman last night in Manhattan
while on another shore
her lover’s hands caressed the snow in daylight foam
with the same oversight
she figured you’d show, emerging from hangover
with tribal dreams of hyenas standing straight
with the posture of a sober woman
a girl immured in Silense Cavern
white butterflies in a field
like snow dusting the monastery of San Millán
CLAVICLE
Fra Angelico draws his comic strips with gold
Even the Trust had yet to secure rights to the visions
before Catherine of Siena states her terms
to be cast as the invisible woman
A single wheel will appear and unsettle the composition
soon after the brethren confer to discuss if stigmata would heal if Our Lord
Jesus Christ
would give up his airs of a red dove from outer space
And also demons like Chinese horoscopes
we tremble
Catherine is a loving emptiness
one could see it
because her wheel, hovering like a spacecraft, takes flight
it’s Plato’s androgyne in its monstrous turning
a cheap drug out of a porn film
How much more to parse in Fra Angelico’s script
in the history of the gaze
the missing segment
DESICCATED WOUND
She said she walked among vampires in the left of the frame
at the spot I couldn’t dare look at you oh black girl
hidden in the thick light of the purple eyelet
dissolved in the black blood of a tumorous discharge
in this sacred story
One leftover bone scraped clean for the broth of the world
Blessed Angelico in his radiologist’s cloak
hands you his scalpel
OCCUPIED TERRITORY
In Saint Jerome’s recurring dream
—as transcribed by the Servants of the Pierced Hearts of Jesus
and Mary, SCTJM—
a girl dressed in thorns sets out
from Sabana de Maturin
using her lips to whistle
a tune in harmony with the inverted sky
a sky saturated with glass for sleeping
in tune with her heavy rusted lips
the girl flowered over her cactus
burying scars in patios
for the greenery’s sake
like a loving serpent wrapped at the murderous foot of her Virgin
praying, her eye always open
as the sea
And she dreamed of the Renaissance painting
Christ’s face with his skin of a glorious lion
dark circles that persist under the eye
circles tinted then softened
the bluish hue of angel excrement
sassi, my lamb, the saint whispers, sassi
for the precise carving of the face, we’ll make use of the best skinner
I knead a drying whiteness and the saint spits out the Illyrian words
of his mother tongue
a whistling you heed as with a game of scorpions
The girl hides by the ribs
setting fire to the herd
IN A FIELD OF SAFFRON LOVING THEIR ROOTS WITH A LILAC COLOR BRIMMING IN THE BASKET
She was neither for hire
Nor of the ranks of the mystical doors
Nor was she custodion, or versed in other dimensions, nor was she a Marian
fundamentalist
Nor an assasin
She avoids Innana, or the novice Sarasa, hides from the camera in processions
like a village’s Oriundina who opens the alcove doors
She burned from within, aimless
to bring comfort to the conflicts of the fatally dispossessed
THE LUNGS OF THE DISPOSESSED EXPAND IN HER WILD GARDEN
And the Vulgate misleads with regard to the long stalks of the saffron’s lilac
that you hear the crushing of her ribs and the forest is rid of your meat
and arrays your neck with rings of low-grade tripes
Don’t you spit out
Hang up your skin
Each night glowing on her own
no longer active on her blog
without henna on her summer profile
withholding her sutra, her esteem, not knowing the cult
of personality
She is a girl with her thorns riding the train
grass spreading with each step, making room for a desert
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