dimecres, 5 de juny de 2013

SENSE PARAULA

Em moc per casa a poc a poc i en silenci, encara trasbalsat i admirat per la lectura de La hora violeta de Sergio del Molino, aquest "diccionario de una sola entrada", a la recerca (elegant, crua, digníssima recerca) d'una paraula que ni el castellà ni el català no tenen: la que hauríem de fer servir per referir-nos als pares d'un fill mort. Hi ha vidus i orfes, però no tenim un mot específic per referir-nos a aquests, com diu l'autor, pares per sempre, "padres de un fantasma que no crece, al que nunca vamos a recoger al colegio, que no conocerá jamás a una chica, que no irá a la universidad y no se marchará de casa". Tinc el llibre a sobre d'una taula i hi passo distret la mà. La mà que avui la Bet no deu haver entès per què li premia la seva una mica més fort de l'habitual, a la porta de l'escola.














MÉS
"La importancia de lo urgente" (hasta elena, 28-V-13)

2 comentaris:

  1. com a trauma crec que perdre un fill s'emporta el premi més gros

    ResponElimina
  2. Ahir llegia aquest poema, que té una sonoritat de batec a dins del ventre:

    the mother
    BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS

    Abortions will not let you forget.
    You remember the children you got that you did not get,
    The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,
    The singers and workers that never handled the air.
    You will never neglect or beat
    Them, or silence or buy with a sweet.
    You will never wind up the sucking-thumb
    Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
    You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,
    Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.

    I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed children.
    I have contracted. I have eased
    My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.
    I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized
    Your luck
    And your lives from your unfinished reach,
    If I stole your births and your names,
    Your straight baby tears and your games,
    Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches, and your deaths,
    If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,
    Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.
    Though why should I whine,
    Whine that the crime was other than mine?—
    Since anyhow you are dead.
    Or rather, or instead,
    You were never made.
    But that too, I am afraid,
    Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?
    You were born, you had body, you died.
    It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.

    Believe me, I loved you all.
    Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you
    All.

    ResponElimina

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