Hoje apetece-me continuar a mostrar o que de melhor se faz em termos de poesia por esse mundo fora. E quero dar a conhecer outra escritora que me parece interessante: Sharon Olds. Também me interessa mostrar poetas que possam eventualmente ser desconhecidos, ou pelo menos mais "exóticos", no sentido em que pouco se fala deles.
THAT YEAR (em Satan Says)
The year of the mask of blood, my father
hammering on the glass door to get in
was the year they found her body in the hills,
in a shallow grave, naked, white as
mushroom, partially decomposed,
raped, murdered, the girl from the class.
That was the year my mother took us
and hid us so we would not be there
when she told him to leave; so there wasn't another
tying by the wrist to the chair,
or denial of food, not another
forcing of food, the head held back,
down the throat at the restaurant,
the shame of vomited buttermilk
down the sweater with its shame of new breasts.
That was the year
I started to bleed,
crossing over that border in the night,
and in Social Studies, we came at last
to Auschwitz, in my ignorance
I felt as if I recognized it
like my father's face, the face of a guard
turning away - or worse yet
turning toward me.
The symmetrical piles of white bodies,
the round, white breast-shapes of the heaps,
the smell of the smoke, the dogs the wires the
rope the hunger. This had happened to people,
just a few years ago,
in Germany, the guards were Protestants
like my father and me, but in my dreams,
every night, I was one of those
about to be killed. It had happened to six million
Jews, to Jesus's family
I was not in - and not everyone
had died, and there was a word for them
I wanted, in my ignorance,
to share part of, the word survivor.