fame y hambre and hunger

El fin de semana pasado me desplacé a Gijón para presentar 'Fame Poétika', un libro en el que colaboramos varios poetas jóvenes con obras en castellano y asturiano. Tuvimos la oportunidad de recitar algunos poemas, así como de promocionar nuestro libro y firmar algunos ejemplares!

El acto se celebró en La Manzorga (c/Carmen,20), un espacio cultural situado en el centro de Gijón en el que se venden libros, se sirven bebidas y se organizan numerosos eventos culturales. La Manzorga se convirtió hace ya unos meses en un punto de encuentro clave para mis compañeros de Fame Poétika y yo. Solemos reunirnos allí y recitar nuestros poemas, interpretarlos y escuchar nuevas voces y estilos que difieren de los nuestros. Es de esta diversidad y de este amor incondicional al arte de la poesía lo que nos unió en un primer momento, y la colección 'Fame Poétika' es solo uno de sus primeros frutos de nuestro trabajo.

El poemario puede adquirirse por 7€ en La Manzorga. Si no vais mucho a Gijón y os interesa conseguir uno podéis poneros en contacto conmigo.

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Last weekend I went to Gijon to present 'Fame Poetika ' (which means 'Poetic Hunger' in Asturian language). It is a poetry collection which features some of my verses, as well as those of other young poets. In the act, held at La Manzorga (a space for Literature and drinks in the center of Gijón), we had the opportunity to perform some of our poems ,as well as to promote our book and sign some copies !

'FAME POÉTIKA' can be purchased for € 7 at La Manzorga . If you are too far away from Gijon and you are interested in buying a copy, don't hesitate in contacting me!

Mi copia de 'Fame Poétika' / My copy of 'Fame Poétika'

¡El índice! Como véis, la mayoría somos de los noventa. Podéis encontrarme en la página 33 (la edad de Jesucristo) / Here you have the index! As you can see, most of us are 90s kids. You can find me in page 33 (Jesus Christ's age)

ajar

She's resting on the counter. I approach her and ask 'what is in your veins this time?', almost consciously ignoring that I barely know her. It's my last night in town so I dare to inquire about her filthy ways and her amber long-sleeved shirt in Brighton's stickiest summer ever. All this wild child aureole makes her face bony and when I look at her I can only see a big drought, youth has biten her good. In a calm husky voice she confesses to me that she cannot have children and that she's haunted by that, as if she were less of a woman only because of her incapability to give birth. 'I can only bear hefty dry bloodstains in my sapless womb', she mutters. And I like the way she talks and the words she carefully picks. She's got so-called manly vices but her body is the rare victory of all that is elegant. I comfort her by telling her that her arid blood is as sacred as the one spilled over the battlefields and in the midst of her jittery wobbliness she lifts her forefinger and draws an invisible laurel crown over my head. The previous month her cat's paunch had got swollen and her plants had got new branches and her sister's belly had got bigger with the tiny bodies of two green-eyed babies. And she said that when the kittens died and the new flowers shrivelled up she feared for her sister, however she didn't take the time to narrate to me how she intervened. Everyone has secret gardens and weed wears them all away. 

She wags her jejune hips, I wonder if she lets men squeeze her purple wrists and if mornings feel repetitive to her. It dawns on me that maybe her story has a moral, a life-changing blaze, a message directly addressed to me. But I fail to embroider it in my memory because over and over again I keep piercing myself with the knitting needles.

©Text: Victoria Bardot, 2014

Image: portrait of Biritsh model Kate Moss