A Sampler

from THE SOLITUDE OF FORMS

By Ana Gorría

 

 

 

 There is always a fold within a fold.

Gilles Deleuze

 

 

Your Proximity as Utopia

As you hold your breath, like a watchman waiting for sunrise. Let’s replace immediacy with a swift cataclysm, replace the chasm with morning fires. Is this all that can be known? Is this why this void of the body to a body, why the voice not whispered, why the pairs of eyes inside a tunnel will never meet?

 

 

 

Bending

The searching hand is sliding along like a cold mollusk. To find. And not to find. Everything that this undoes. Something else, against time: shapes rising like bones from a common grave. But still we reappear, fast and beautiful as a new epoch. The blessed and the mournful. All our faces without names. Our bodies carving out paths that are imperceptible, like gradual bends in a road. But all around us, all that had appeared is disappearing now.

 

 

 

In the Distance

 

The gesture: no one expected it, so swift was the body. Swifter than a shadow racing against midnight. The unforeseen tremor. Taking us with it, turning our steps into wreckage as it fled. It made of our solitude first a kind of wharf, suspended and with a single shore, but then more of a terse, turbulent and arid space of thirst, like an escape from the north. The rhythm breaking down. Also like a spin giving out, the torsion escaping the flesh like a lance. And all of it wincing like a salted wound. But no one gets to hear the pulse of our saliva, or hear how we slip through labyrinths, slow skin, like ever so many vanishing points.

 

 

 

Disorders

 

A game that is being played beneath life. Things appear. This rumor that feels like a body. What it has pushed with its fragility. Every step it drags from us, from the labyrinths to the door. Its impatient tyranny. We open up the distance and the hasty thing: the tongue (its babble, the uneasy speech) is a castaway of language. And everything here is distance. The sounds are small that constitute reality. Treacherous and slow and undefined, too flimsy for knotting or the raging blows—the mouth only has room for the impatient places.

 

 

 

Soaking

 

Almost drops of water, until the distance breaks down. It happens with a tremor beneath the voice, damp and neutral. Here it is possible to think of death. What we do not see does in fact exist. The landscape that is a body that is a landscape. To breathe like a river against all that disappears. Soon the grasses will catch fire. The horizon is beginning to curve already. And any other pleasure may no longer do.

 

 

 

Monadology 

 

The doors have always been open and closed. A heat that oppresses us and makes it impossible to breathe, here along the borders of this imperfect labyrinth, a place as unreal and true as the utopian afternoon that was sketched out once on the other side of destiny. We find ourselves inside; we find ourselves outside, suspended. Others are resting, still tied to the rhythm we feel bound to our own ribs. Rarely discrete in that trembling mathematics, but almost continuous, I see my reflection when I cross at the corner. Wombs turning back up ahead. Contretemps. 

 

 

 

ORIGINAL TEXTS

 

 

 

De LA SOLEDAD DE LAS FORMAS

Siempre hay un pliegue en el pliegue.

Deleuze

 

 

 

La utopía de tu proximidad

 

Al suspenderse la respiración, igual que el centinela al esperar la aurora. Sustituyamos  lo inmediato, por el ligero cataclismo. El hueco, por el incendio en alba ¿Es esto lo que  se puede comprender?, ¿Por eso así el vacío del cuerpo al cuerpo, la voz no murmurada, los ojos que en el túnel no se encuentran?

 

 

 

Curvas

 

La mano que busca se desliza como un caracol frío. Encontrar. No encontrar. Todo lo que deshace. Algo más, contra el tiempo las formas aparecen como huesos alzados de una fosa común. Sin embargo, volvemos a aparecer tan rápidos y hermosos como una nueva era: los dichosos y tristes. Todos rostros sin nombre. Los cuerpos marcan minúsculos caminos como lentos meandros. Alrededor, sin embargo, lo que aparece ha
desparecido.

 

 

 

 

 

A lo lejos

 

El gesto: tan veloz era el cuerpo que nadie lo esperaba. Más veloz que la sombra contra la medianoche. El temblor imprevisto. Andándonos también, al huir transformando los pasos en naufragios, haciendo de la soledad un puerto suspendido con una sola orilla, aunque próximo, terco, turbulento, árido espacio de la sed como fugas del norte. El ritmo se deshace. Aunque también un giro que se pierde, el escorzo extraviado de lacarne como una lanza. Todo, como si fuera una herida en la sal, se estremece. Nadie, por el contrario, llega a escuchar el golpe de saliva. Y cómo, al esquivarnos entre los laberintos, lenta piel, somos puntos de fuga.

 

 

 

Desórdenes

 

Un juego por debajo de la vida. Las cosas aparecen. Este rumor que hemos sentido cuerpo. Lo que ha empujado con fragilidad. Cada paso que arrastra, de nosotros, entre los laberintos y la puerta. La tiranía impaciente, abrimos la distancia y lo precipitado: la lengua –balbuceos, incómodo lenguaje- Naufraga del idioma, todo es distancia aquí. Son pequeños los ruidos que hacen la realidad. Atravesada y lenta, indefinida, tan rota para el nudo como un golpe voraz. La boca aguarda solo lugares impacientes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mojada

 

Casi gotas de agua, hasta que la distancia se interrumpe. Sucede al tiritar bajo la voz, húmeda y neutra. Es posible pensar aquí en la muerte. Lo que no vemos es. El paisaje que es cuerpo que es paisaje. Respirar como un río contra todo lo que desaparece. Pronto se incendiará la hierba seca, ya el horizonte es curvo y el resto del placer tal vez no baste.

 

 

 

Monadología

 

Las puertas siempre han estado abiertas y cerradas. El calor que ha azotado y ha hecho irrespirable los contornos de este impreciso laberinto que es tan irreal y cierto como la tarde utópica que es dibujada más allá del destino. Nos encontramos dentro, nos encontramos fuera suspendidos. Otros descansan y sin embargo están, también, hilados a este ritmo que sentimos pegado, también, a la costilla. Pocas veces discreta entre la matemática que tiembla. Aunque, casi continua, encuentro mi reflejo al cruzar una esquina. Vientres que retroceden adelante. Contratiempos.

 

 

 

Ana Gorría is the author of Nostalgia en su acción (Saltadera, 2016, with drawings by Marta Azparren), Araña, and several chapbooks, including Clepsidra and La soledad de las formas. Her work has been translated into French, German, and other languages, and has been featured in several anthologies, most recently in Panic Cure: Poetry from Spain for the 21st Century (Shearsman Books, 2013. Sky under Construction, a full-length selection translated by Yvette Siegert, is forthcoming from Alice James Books. An educator, translator and scholar, Gorría has a doctorate in Hispanic philology from the Complutense University. She lives in Madrid.

 

Yvette Siegert, a CantoMundo fellow, is a poet and translator whose work has been featured in Aufgabe, Boston Review, Stonecutter, St. Petersburg Review, The Literary Review, 6×6 and newyorker.com. She has received support from the Mellon Foundation, PEN Heim/NYSCA, DAAD, Programa SUR, and the National Endowment for the Arts, and her translation of Alejandra Pizarnik’s Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972 (New Directions) won the 2017 Best Translated Book Award. She is a graduate student at the University of Geneva and lives on the French-Swiss border.

 

 

 

 

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