Woman at a Window

There’s nothing in my appearance except that I am disappearing

into the uncertain light; nothing that would make me certain

of any conviction, or if I’ve made the right decisions in my life.

At this point, with my skin drinking in the available light,

I find it impossible to remember if I am widow or wife,

if I’ve had a life of ease, a life of strife. In the darkening

afternoon, nothing has happened and nothing will soon.

I am sitting at the window, forgetting the day I was born,

watching people come and go, unseen, invisible.

My hands are calm, steady on my lap. I am lying low.

Whatever it was that…; I forget, the answer’s no.

There is something slow and pleasing about disappearing

into the dissolving light. Nothing now will come to light.

Secrets I might have had will go with me to my grave.

Lovers I might have loved walk ahead, or are already dead.

I am sitting here at my window emptying my head

of the past or the future perfect, or the conditional.

I already know what is impossible, what’s not been said.

In the room next to me, someone is playing a few bars

of an old piano; if ever I danced, I’ve forgotten

the steps; if I ever longed for change, I’ve lost

the path I meant to follow. Now, I am all shadow.

I sit at the window listening to the piano.

What was lost won’t now come back. I’ve let it go.

Óleo de Edgar Degas, poema de Jackie Kay

So will you never be my lover or my valentine 
Never be a friend of mine, never see my better side, 
Maybe you'd be terrified of all the secrets you were wishing you won't ever find is deep inside me.
And I don't wanna hide me.

Cause I know about my love

Yeah,pick it fast like a flight far away from here 
(Fly away)
Although I know I feel at home whenever you are near
Live my life you better cold cut to this 
(Just don't cut it, I want you near)
I wish you'd just hold me open just to see your vision clear
(I'm always here)

Cause I know about my love

Stop all the clocks,

..., cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden

"WAKING up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a 

while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefrom 

deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because 

here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what's called at home. 

 But now isn't simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than 

yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all 

past nows obsolete, until—later or sooner —perhaps—no, not perhaps—quite certainly: it 

will come. 

 Fear tweaks the vagus nerve. A sickish shrinking from what waits, somewhere out 

there, dead ahead. 

 But meanwhile the cortex, that grim disciplinarian, has taken its place at the central 

controls and has been testing them, one after another: the legs stretch, the lower back is 

arched, the fingers clench and relax. And now, over the entire intercommunication 

system, is issued the first general order of the day: UP. 

 Obediently the body levers itself out of bed—wincing from twinges in the arthritic 

thumbs and the left knee, mildly nauseated by the pylorus in a state of spasm—and 

shambles naked into the bathroom, where its bladder is emptied and it is weighed: still a 

bit over 150 pounds, in spite of all that toiling at the gym! Then to the mirror. 

 What it sees there isn't so much a face as the expression of a predicament. Here's 

what it has done to itself, here's the mess it has somehow managed to get itself into 

during its fifty-eight years; expressed in terms of a dull, harassed stare, a coarsened nose, 

a mouth dragged down by the corners into a grimace as if at the sourness of its own 

toxins, cheeks sagging from their anchors of muscle, a throat hanging limp in tiny 

wrinkled folds. The harassed look is that of a desperately tired swimmer or runner; yet 

there is no question of stopping. The creature we are watching will struggle on and on 

until it drops. Not because it is heroic. It can imagine no alternative. 

 Staring and staring into the mirror, it sees many faces within its face—the face of the 

child, the boy, the young man, the not-so-young man—all present still, preserved like 

fossils on superimposed layers, and, like fossils, dead. Their message to this live dying 

creature is: Look at us—we have died—what is there to be afraid of? 

 It answers them: But that happened so gradually, so easily. I'm afraid of being rushed. 

 It stares and stares. Its lips part. It starts to breathe through its mouth. Until the cortex 

orders it impatiently to wash, to shave, to brush its hair. Its nakedness has to be covered. 

It must be dressed up in clothes because it is going outside, into the world of the other  4

people; and these others must be able to identify it. Its behavior must be acceptable to 

them. 

 Obediently, it washes, shaves, brushes its hair, for it accepts its responsibilities to the 

others. It is even glad that it has its place among them. It knows what is expected of it. 

 It knows its name. It is called George."

A Single Man (1964) 

by Christopher Isherwood

The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

               So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

               And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

               And should I then presume?

               And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head

               Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

               That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

               “That is not it at all,

               That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

—T. S. Eliot

Cowboy Hat II

II

Aprieto los párpados contra el colchón de espuma y vuelvo a ver las curvas aceitunadas de las bailarinas agitar el aire almizclado con sus campanillas. El viento traía arena y espuma de mar. Lograste convencerme de que me gustaba.

Observo a las muchachas, sus figuras esbeltas, sus largas y onduladas cabelleras morenas rozando con caricias traviesas sus caderas, y me pregunto qué haces comprando cuscús para compartir conmigo. Conmigo, y no con cualquiera de esas bellezas moriscas.

Vuelves, me entregas el plato y un beso ligero en la frente. Te sientas a mi lado en el muro en el que te esperaba. Contemplas la danza mientras comes y charlas sobre la gente. Ríes, despreocupado y jovial; no sabes ser de otra manera.

Aún no termino de comprender por qué pensaste que me gustaría Marruecos. La ropa se me pega a la piel como la cáscara húmeda de una cebolla, me siento envasada al vacío y cocinada al vapor. La comida es picante, demasiado agresiva para mi estado, por no hablar de ese tufillo intenso a especias que me encuentra allá donde vaya, recordándome las nauseas. Ah, y la arena, los malditos granos de arena que se me cuelan en los lagrimales, en la lengua, en los pulmones y me azotan la piel cuando el levante sopla con fuerza.

Y mientras tú, radiante como nunca, te sacudes el polvo dorado del pelo castaño y brillas con tu sonrisa infantil. Curioseas por el mercado con exultante devoción, hueles el sol en el aire y hablas de llevarme a Egipto en la próxima caravana. Sólo tú puedes ser tan inconsciente.

Las sombras del crepúsculo tiñen las murallas de arcilla de sangre. Desde aquí, las siluetas de las jóvenes y sus sedas etéreas contra el espectáculo rosa y naranja deja una huella imborrable en mi memoria.

Te deshaces de los platos en cualquier parte y me tomas de la mano. Vamos —me dices—, antes de que enciendan las luces del puerto. Me arrastras precipitadamente por unas tortuosas escaleras semiderruidas que conducen a la playa (en las que me habría abierto la cabeza de no ser por tus reflejos). Desde la orilla me señalas con entusiasmo los barcos pesqueros en la distancia, me pides que espere y observe con atención. Tu misterioso fenómeno se hace de rogar, así que te enarco una ceja incrédula. Te ofendes con gracia e insistes. Me rodeas la espalda con un brazo y apoyas la cara en mi pelo, forzándome, a tu gentil manera, a hacer lo que me pides.

Uno a uno, los barcos encienden hileras de farolillos rojos y amarillos que cuelgan de sus mástiles. El horizonte se inflama de luces. Me asalta el síndrome de Florencia, siento la presión de la belleza envolviendo mis pulmones. Tu abrazo se hace más fuerte. Inclino la cabeza hacia tu mandíbula áspera con un nudo en la garganta.

Me dejas disfrutar en silencio de las caricias de tu respiración pausada. Poco a poco, el ocaso perece, y el agua se convierte en un espejo de ébano ondeante.

Jugamos con la espuma de las olas. No sé como, me empujas poco a poco mar adentro, te abalanzas sobre mí y me sumerges con una facilidad insultante. Compartimos besos de sal y risas. Me sostienes sobre las olas, floto en tus brazos en círculos lentos. Le das un beso largo a mi ombligo. Tras mi piel, Jackie te lo devuelve.

Cowboy Hat I

From the dusty, old weary feet of the desert,

Let me stroke your hair like Tunisian winds did back in the days.

I

Mi mente languidece en círculos sobre el filo de mi copa. Se me pegan los codos a la barra en lodazales secos de whisky y ceniza. Aún siento la pólvora picarme en la nariz.

Cuántas veces. Cuántas más.

Un gruñido me llama. Vuelvo a ser consciente de las carcajadas de los brutos de taberna, pero aún me llegan amortiguadas. Que alguien le diga a este novato que me deje en paz. El hielo se derrite y se hace uno con el vodka; oh, ojalá se derritiese en mi cerebro y me matase un poco. Frío. Necesito frío. Este calor me adormece los músculos. Y este gilipollas me sigue gruñendo en el oído.

¿Es que nadie va a decirle que se largue? Oh, ya veo, las risas contenidas. Expectantes, ¿eh, hijos de puta? No voy a dar espectáculo. No esta noche. Dejadme tranquila. Hoy es de estas veces que necesito hielo en los labios y ascuas en el esófago. Marvin, hazme el favor, dile a este tipo que se pierda.

Por favor.

El tipo me pone una manaza en el hombro. La mesa de los Busters estalla en carcajadas de nuevo. Marvin le mira por encima de mi hombro desde detrás de la barra. Haz algo con ese paño seco y limpia un poco en vez de quedarte ahí como un idiota. Ese peso en mi hombro... No me hagas mover un sólo músculo. Yo sólo quería hielo.

Pero no, tu penetrante pestazo a colonia me está arrancando de mi confortable entumecimiento. Cállate. Mis dedos se crispan contra el cristal del vaso, no lo pueden evitar.

—¿N-... -as... -rminarte... -odka?

Cállate.

—...-ya un... -sperdicio.

¿Por qué te empeñas?

—Camarero, ponle otra a mi cuenta, ésta se le ha aguado.

A la mierda. ¿Contentos todos? Me habéis terminado de joder el día.

—Ni caso, Marvin —me veo obligada a espetar.

Termino la copa de un trago y los pequeños trozos de hielo atraviesan mi garganta limpiamente. Escapo de las risotadas de los Busters, la colonia de macho mejicano y esa trampa para moscas a la que Marvin llama 'saloon'. El aleteo de las portezuelas es lo único que me despide con los modales adecuados.

Fuera, la noche es limpia; la luna, creciente y rechoncha, como una novia adolescente preñada: hermosa y estúpida. Ojos grises, plateados, como una luna sucia. Maldita sea. Me falta tiempo para encerrarme en casa y perderla de vista.

Jackie. Dentro de seis horas te veré.

Jackie, ojalá me dejase a mí misma abrazarte...