On Becoming a Poet | C.E. Chaffin

14 Jun, 2010 |

C.E. Chaffin hace una reconstrucción sobre los eventos que lo condujeron a ser un poeta

If a child is deprived of normal physical bonding prior to language acquisition, which increases exponentially somewhere around the age of two, I think language can become the chief means by which such a child seeks bonding. If true, it makes sense that poets spend the rest of their lives trying to express in words what they could not gain in touch and comfort.

Un anecdotario y ars poética, delicioso hasta el remate final: un poema que resume cómo llegó a ser publicado.

When I think of a fire I know what to grab
after my kids are safe: not my Stratocaster.
whose rosewood fingerboard is spooned
between the frets from loving use,
nor my irreplaceable pink paisley blazer
custom made in the 60s, but my poems
(…)

Sigue leyendo On Becoming a Poet: A Brief Memoir ~ by C.E. Chaffin | Pif Magazine.

Libro de Notas: Un día de gloria en la zona gris

13 Jun, 2010 |

Los sonderkommandos se encargaban básicamente de limpiar las cámaras de gas de cadáveres y de alimentar con ellos los hornos crematorios, pero no eran esas sus únicas tareas, además seleccionaban y almacenaban las ropas y bienes de los muertos, cortaban el pelo de las mujeres, arrancaban los dientes de oro; cuando los hornos no daban abasto eran los encargados de excavar las grandes fosas en las que se incinerarían los cadáveres sobrantes, o bien de desenterrar cadáveres de fosas comunes para incinerarlos y limpiar así las huellas del genocidio.

Sigue leyendo Libro de Notas: Un día de gloria en la zona gris.

The Way It Isn’t | Walter Cummins

12 Jun, 2010 |

Sobre las dificultades de intentar reconciliarte con tu esposa mientras amas a otra mujer:

Now Valerie was with Douglas, a man Carter couldn’t make himself like. He saw why Valerie was attracted to him – tall, athletic, thick graying curls, but with stooped shoulders and an irritating metallic laugh. Mainly, he suspected, she could manipulate Douglas, just as she did most of the men who hovered around her, seeming eager for their advice, pretending helplessness. He had told her that once, in bed in a strange motel, legs intertwined in a love-making lull. “You’re so wrong,” she had pleaded, but he could sense annoyance, even though she had urged him to reveal all his thoughts, to hold back nothing. She had promised to be just as honest. When it was over, as loudly as she had screamed his name in anonymous rooms, as much as she had murmured words of love, he came to understand that for her it was only an affair. But she hadn’t revealed that secret, and he hadn’t admitted he knew.

Sigue leyendo The Way It Isn’t, by Walter Cummins | Pif Magazine.