viernes, 17 de diciembre de 2010

Malditos retos

de Facebook que hacen que en vez de estudiar gramática, me ponga a hacerme fotos como ésta:
Carmen de Mairena style.
Esto no es que sea triste, es que hay para llorar xD
¡AY MAMÁ!


Al final ni alcohol, ni acetona ni salfumán, una simple toallita (unbelievable) ha hecho que todo eso se fuese... Bien por mí!
Y eso es todo por hoy (creo que necesito más acción en mi vida, o empezaré a escribir sobre el tiempo). Me voy a dormir, a ver si puedo...
G-nite!

lunes, 13 de diciembre de 2010

En una noche...

Bebemos, fumamos.
Hablamos, jugamos.
Te miro, me rozas.
Te toco y me tocas.

Te beso, me miras.
Me besas, te giras.
Abrazos,
despacio.

Me muerdes, te araño.
Te sientes extraño.
Te apartas, te acercas,
todo da vueltas (todo da vueltas).

Vienes, te vas.
Ahora estás detrás.
Y te veo jugar,
y hablando de hablar...
(suspiro)
...yo también me voy.

Me visto, me ves.
Sé que mi lencería
te pone del revés.
Bueno pues...
Me desvisto otra vez.

Todo da vueltas,
deja que fluya.
Toma tu tiempo
la sensación es tuya.

Fumamos, jugamos,
Nos falta saliva.
Escalofríos y cosquillas
en una nueva tentativa.

Acción, fusión,
otra nueva sensación.
Tengo sed de nuevo,
puta deshidratación.

Licencia Creative Commons
Este obra de Sara Peralta Feltrer está bajo una licencia Creative Commons Reconocimiento-NoComercial-SinObraDerivada 3.0 Unported.

jueves, 2 de diciembre de 2010

Su olor

Olía a furia y pasión.
A dolor y amor.
Al aire de la montaña.

Ella olía a fuerza, a tensión, a actos de amor.
Su pelo, a violeta africana.

Sus manos olían a pólvora y marihuana.
A sexo por la mañana.
Ella olía a perfume caro y humo de cigarrillo.
Y también a burbon en fin de semana.

Ella olía como deberían oler los ángeles si cuando muera voy al cielo.

Licencia Creative Commons
Este obra de Sara Peralta Feltrer está bajo una licencia Creative Commons Reconocimiento-NoComercial-SinObraDerivada 3.0 Unported.

Clase de poesía inglesa (III)

Hoy como en la última clase -que pasó de ser de 2 horas a 3 cuartos, y hubo incluso tiempo para hablar de el partido de los chistes.-, tampoco hemos hecho mucho, pero el profesor nos ha puesto un vídeo de esos que se sienten en la piel, que le había pasado su cuñada.




Y eso es todo.

miércoles, 1 de diciembre de 2010

Me arde el pecho.

Me arde el pecho.
Siento algo, como un puñetazo,

Constante, en la boca del estómago.
Duele, me duele, me retuerzo.
Por qué lo habré hecho?
 
Se me va la cordura por momentos
Y vuelvo a sentir el calor en mis adentros.
Un calor intenso.
Un nudo que deshacer, aunque sea a la fuerza,
aunque como siempre, me ponga en evidencia.

La curiosidad,
la muy puta, no deja de hurgar en mi cabeza.
Sin necesidad,
la muy puta. Por tenerme presa.
Por hacer que le de vueltas a todo,
Por ponerme tensa.
Por no dejarme tranquila.
Por que esté inquieta.
Por tenerme en cábala.
Por su existencia.



Mierdas de nuevo... lo siento. Pero si no me desahogo en el blog, terminaré gritando en el bus. O en el metro, o en clase, o en el cole... Ojalá un sitio insonorizado donde poder gritar a saco. Donde poder chillar. Y de paso, aprovecharlo para cantar...

Licencia Creative Commons
Este obra de Sara Peralta Feltrer está bajo una licencia Creative Commons Reconocimiento-NoComercial-SinObraDerivada 3.0 Unported.

"I am half sick of shadows"



 And so was The Lady of Shalott.

 Ayer, el profesor de Poesía  hizo un análisis y una interpretación del poema de Tenysson, que choca bastante con mi visión de éste.
¿Qué hacer en estos casos? Cualquier cosa menos analizar ese poema mientras él sea tu profesor... Por si las moscas. Y porque no quiero que vuelvan a suspenderme por mis opiniones personales.

Aquí os dejo el susodicho.
No puedo ser la única a quien esto le huela a Platón, la caverna y su mito.
___

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."