My Mondays are always incredibly busy, and always covered in the harshest grey. For instance, this morning I woke at seven to realise there was no hot water for a shower. I had a morning class where my mind was filled with cotton balls that not even the sweetest Japanese treats which our professor gave us could puncture a hole in. I finished a presentation in the next class. Then had a group meeting. And by then it was three in the afternoon, and my stomach was practically empty from a lack of a break.
So I went back and took an hour’s nap, managed to take a shower (where I rejoiced at the fact that the hot water was finally working) and then practically inhaled my dinner – a verb that I don’t particularly like to describe how someone eats very fast. Is there a way to say swallow everything in one go?
I’ve spent the past two hours reading just six pages – trying to multitask but evidently failing. And now my “all-over-the-place” brain has found myself writing this.
I realise that Mondays are too busy to write a post. But yet here I am making a silly attempt at it.
What my initial intention was was to share you this beautiful poem that I found along the ways of my reading.
TO JULIA DE BURGOS
by Julia de Burgos
Already the people murmur that I am your enemy
because they say that in verse I give the world your me.They lie, Julia de Burgos. They lie, Julia de Burgos.
Who rises in my verses is not your voice. It is my voice
because you are the dressing and the essence is me;
and the most profound abyss is spread between us.
You are the cold doll of social lies,
and me, the virile starburst of the human truth.
You, honey of courtesan hypocrisies; not me;
in all my poems I undress my heart.
You are like your world, selfish; not me
who gambles everything betting on what I am.
You are only the ponderous lady very lady;
not me; I am life, strength, woman.
You belong to your husband, your master; not me;
I belong to nobody, or all, because to all, to all
I give myself in my clean feeling and in my thought.
You curl your hair and paint yourself; not me;
the wind curls my hair, the sun paints me.
You are a housewife, resigned, submissive,
tied to the prejudices of men; not me;
unbridled, I am a runaway Rocinante
snorting horizons of God’s justice.
You in yourself have no say; everyone governs you;
your husband, your parents, your family,
the priest, the dressmaker, the theatre, the dance hall,
the auto, the fine furnishings, the feast, champagne,
heaven and hell, and the social, “what will they say.”
Not in me, in me only my heart governs,
only my thought; who governs in me is me.
You, flower of aristocracy; and me, flower of the people.
You in you have everything and you owe it to everyone,
while me, my nothing I owe to nobody.
You nailed to the static ancestral dividend,
and me, a one in the numerical social divider,
we are the duel to death who fatally approaches.
When the multitudes run rioting
leaving behind ashes of burned injustices,
and with the torch of the seven virtues,
the multitudes run after the seven sins,
against you and against everything unjust and inhuman,
I will be in their midst with the torch in my hand.
Copyright (c) 2005, Julia de Burgos. All rights reserved.
Translation (c) 2005, Jack Agüeros.
Initial source: jstheatre.blogspot.sg
Reminds me of back when I was reading poems by Fernando Pessoa (taking for instance, “Autopsychography“).
Maybe one day I’ll write a poem to myself about myself as well.
Till next time!