Richard Blanco, Stacie CassarinoDe Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Richard Blanco werd geboren op 15 februari 1968 in Madrid. Zie ook alle tags voor Richard Blanco op dit blog.
Mexican Almuerzo In New England
for M.G.
Word is praise for Marina, up past 3: 00 a.m. the night before her flight, preparing and packing the platos tradicionales she’s now heating up in the oven while the tortillas steam like full moons on the stovetop. Dish by dish she tries to recreate Mexico in her son’s New England kitchen, taste-testing el mole from the pot, stirring everything: el chorizo-con-papas, el picadillo, el guacamole. The spirals of her stirs match the spirals in her eyes, the scented steam coils around her like incense, suffusing the air with her folklore. She loves Alfredo, as she loves all her sons, as she loves all things: seashells, cacti, plumes, artichokes. Her hand waves us to circle around the kitchen island, where she demonstrates how to fold tacos for the gringo guests, explaining what is hot and what is not, trying to describe tastes with English words she cannot savor. As we eat, she apologizes: not as good as at home, pero bueno… It is the best she can do in this strange kitchen which Sele has tried to disguise with papel picado banners of colored tissue paper displaying our names in piñata pink, maíz yellow, and Guadalupe green- strung across the lintels of the patio filled with talk of an early spring and do you remembers that leave an after-taste even the flan and café negro don’t cleanse. Marina has finished. She sleeps in the guest room while Alfredo’s paintings confess in the living room, while the papier-mâché skeletons giggle on the shelves, and shadows lean on the porch with rain about to fall. Tomorrow our names will be taken down and Marina will leave with her empty clay pots, feeling as she feels all things: velvet, branches, honey, stones. Feeling what we all feel: home is a forgotten recipe, a spice we can find nowhere, a taste we can never reproduce, exactly.
We’Re Not Going To Malta
because the winds are too strong, our Captain announces, his voice like an oracle coming through the loudspeakers of every lounge and hall, as if the ship itself were speaking. We’re not going to Malta- an enchanting island country fifty miles from Sicily, according to the brochure of the tour we’re not taking. But what if we did go to Malta? What if, as we are escorted on foot through the walled ‘Silent City’ of Mdina, the walls begin speaking to me; and after we stop a few minutes to admire the impressive architecture, I feel Malta could be the place for me. What if, as we stroll the bastions to admire the panoramic harbor and stunning countryside, I dream of buying a little Maltese farm, raising Maltese horses in the green Maltese hills. What if, after we see the cathedral in Mosta saved by a miracle, I believe that Malta itself is a miracle; and before I’m transported back to the pier with a complimentary beverage, I’m struck with Malta fever, discover I am very Maltese indeed, and decide I must return to Malta, learn to speak Maltese with an English (or Spanish) accent, work as a Maltese professor of English at the University of Malta, and teach a course on The Maltese Falcon. Or, what if when we stop at a factory to shop for famous Malteseware, I discover that making Maltese crosses is my true passion. Yes, I’d get a Maltese cat and a Maltese dog, make Maltese friends, drink Malted milk, join the Knights of Malta, and be happy for the rest of my Maltesian life. But we’re not going to Malta. Malta is drifting past us, or we are drifting past it- an amorphous hump of green and brown bobbing in the portholes with the horizon as the ship heaves over whitecaps wisping into rainbows for a moment, then dissolving back into the sea.
Richard Blanco (Madrid, 15 februari 1968)
De Amerkiaanse dichteres en schrijfster Stacie Cassarino werd geboren op 15 februari 1975 in Hartford, Connecticut. Zie ook alle tags voor Stacie Cassarino op dit blog.
In de keuken
Het is net voordat je wegrijdt:
onze ledematen nog warm van de slaap,
koffie die pruttelt, de noordenwind, je heupen die me
hard tegen de tafel drukken. Ik vind hard leuk
omdat ik dit moet onthouden.
Ik wil harder zeggen. Hoe we
moeten kijken naar de weg die verdwenen is,
naar de uitgespreide ochtend van koude
boter en onverbeterlijke hebzucht.
Licht komt en gaat in het veld.
Sinaasappels in een kom, knoflook, radio.
In het verhaal van ons wint niemand.
Isolatie is een nieuw thema
zegt iemand. Inmiddels
heb ik je uitgevonden. De meeste mensen
houden er niet van dode dingen aan te raken.
Dat is wat mijn vriend me vertelt
als ik mijn vis op de grond vind.
Hij moet eruit hebben gewild.
Soms maakt mijn verlangen me bang.
Soms kijk ik naar voetbal
en denk: vier kansen
is genoeg om er te komen. Maar
we hebben geen helmen.
Ik wil harder zeggen,
ik kan er tegen, maar
er is geen bewijs dat ik het kan.
Vertaald door Frans Roumen
Stacie Cassarino (Hartford, 15 februari 1975)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 15e februari ook mijn blog van 15 februari 2019 en ook mijn blog van 15 februari 2015 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2.
