Juego # 11 cuento lùgubre

Escribir un cuento corto, que no exceda las 150 palabras que narre una experiencia lùgubre.

Recomendaciones literarias

“Era de noche y sin embargo llovía…” “No me jodas” pensó a la vez que lanzaba el best seller acabado de comprar, por recomendación expresa de una amiga, a la mesita. No atinó. El libro acabó tumbando la lámpara al suelo. Se levantó de la cama con pereza. Con cada vidrio recogido a tientas fabulaba un insulto para la experta. “Maldita loca; pero quien merece una azotaina soy yo, por hacerle caso,” farfulló con un cristal incrustado en un talón. Se lo despegó de la piel y no vio ninguna herida. “Venirme con vampiros a mí.” Volvió a acostarse y se hubiera dormido de una vez a no ser por la humedad repentina que sintió en el pie. Palpó, olió: sangre. Le manaba abundantemente de dos orificios como de colmillos. Se acurrucó y tuvo la necesidad imperiosa de protegerse el cuello con la sábana. Afuera caían las primeras gotas del aguacero.

Yaz

(Lúgubre enough??????)

In Memoriam

Two of my teenage icons have passed away: Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson. This poem is dedicated to Michael.

For MJ
“We didn’t start the fire” Billy Joel


The fire has dwindled.
The king is dead.

In the past remain
dreams of whiteness and
lollipops forever.

Peter Pan welcomes
his tainted brethren to
the unknowing stillness of nevermore.
Pats him on the back,
showers his disconcerted playmate with love, and
invites him on an endless tour of Neverland.

A Benedetti

Mario Benedetti acaba de fallecer a los 88 años de edad. He leído dos novelas de Benedetti (La Tregua y Primavera con una esquina rota) y por supuesto sus poemas. En La Tregua el autor uruguayo narra la historia de un hombre quien descubre el amor días antes de retirarse de un empleo que hasta ese momento sólo le producía hastío. Primavera es una denuncia a la opresión. Narra la vida de un hombre desarraigado que aun de vuelta al hogar y a su familia nunca logra realmente "volver".

Aquí un poema de Benedetti para celebrarlo;
Chau número tres

Te dejo con tu vida
tu trabajo
tu gente
con tus puestas de sol
y tus amaneceres.

Sembrando tu confianza
te dejo junto al mundo
derrotando imposibles
segura sin seguro.

Te dejo frente al mar
descifrándote sola
sin mi pregunta a ciegas
sin mi respuesta rota.

Te dejo sin mis dudas
pobres y malheridas
sin mis inmadureces
sin mi veteranía.

Pero tampoco creas
a pie juntillas todo
no creas nunca creas
este falso abandono.

Estaré donde menos
lo esperes
por ejemplo
en un árbol añoso
de oscuros cabeceos.

Estaré en un lejano
horizonte sin horas
en la huella del tacto
en tu sombra y mi sombra.

Estaré repartido
en cuatro o cinco pibes
de esos que vos mirás
y enseguida te siguen.

Y ojalá pueda estar
de tu sueño en la red
esperando tus ojos
y mirándote.

Not a game, but could be

This poem from Britan's first female poet laureate was just removed from the GCSE (CEEB equivalent) syllabus of Britain's biggest exam board .

Education for Leisure

Today I am going to kill something. Anything.

I have had enough of being ignored and today

I am going to play God. It is an ordinary day,

a sort of grey with boredom stirring in the streets

I squash a fly against the window with my thumb.

We did that at school. Shakespeare. It was in

another language and now the fly is in another language.

I breathe out talent on the glass to write my name.

I am a genius. I could be anything at all, with half

the chance. But today I am going to change the world.

Something's world. The cat avoids me. The cat

knows I am a genius, and has hidden itself.

I pour the goldfish down the bog. I pull the chain.

I see that it is good. The budgie is panicking.

Once a fortnight, I walk the two miles into town

For signing on. They don't appreciate my autograph.

There is nothing left to kill. I dial the radio

and tell the man he's talking to a superstar.

He cuts me off. I get our bread-knife and go out.

The pavements glitter suddenly. I touch your arm.

Carol Ann Duffy

Neighborhood

Write about your street or neighborhood. It could be from your past or your present.


Mortal
(33 Chestnut Street, Binghamton, NY)

The house slides on itself, slow, and curls
like a newborn's hair. During sleep or sex, it
creaks out strange wooden complaints.

About a long unrequited life, it sighs, of plywood, siding, century glass
shaped from a city's demise. It taps its foot
impatiently in parlor rooms built for embalming.

It wears the cold. It breathes nonsense about empty pockets.
Though a furnace tries to laugh, the house chokes on its own
inside joke. This house is made of old.

It chatters of For Sale signs. Doilies. Splinters. Of scerrosis. Of clocks.
Whispers. rot. Plaster. Rat holes. regret. Of midnight
knocks. And bread. Of rising heating costs.

What does it say now, in prayer?
or shout? or mumble through sleep? What words used for bullet bursts,
and siren calls and 98 blood shots over the Susquehanna.

What does the house say to this? Hailstorm?
Punched out dreams, 13? Hangman?
Armor around a heart?

Still made of old, it says nothing.

Jane
____________

Juego # 10 Haiku

Create a haiku on any topic (I was feeling blue and decided to channel my negative energy--is it energy when it's negative???)


On loss

An empty wine glass
on a white, tawdry runner
crimson drops spreading


A vacant doorway
A frigid breeze through your thighs
Endless silence rings

Elf

_____________

Two Haiku on Love and Chinese Food

Six minutes of blood
and blossom, love less, hungry
for more than take out.

Kiss wishes Kung Pao
lips sweet, but they are sour
like bitter melon

Jane

Juego # 9 Bestiary

Cyclop Jerk

She didn't always want to kill him; Nah, her hubbykins, her sweetums, God knows what else she called him. I don't know - I say she had every reason to do what she did. I'd had smothered him while he slept. I wouldn't had needed to hire any body, like those rich women do - can't bother to get their hands dirty. Not my girl - nah - she could pretty much do it herself. Do what, you ask? Or maybe you didn't ask. Anyway, he had this thing - this weird eye thing. Like the old man in Tell-Tale Heart? No, not really. Her husband - -- her husband had one roving eye. I'm not talking about a medical condition; I'm talking about the kind that can get your bed set on fire, like that Patsy Kline song, you know the one, about how a wife leaves her husband and before she does it she reminds him to not smoke in bed, like that's the first and last thing he's gonna do. Whatz it called? Smoking in Bed? Whatever. Point is, his eye creeped me out; nine out ten times, I couldn't look at the man. It was like it was, well, how do I put this? It was like it was doing me. Made me real uncomfortable. She's sitting right there! And he's looking at me like I'm the last Hershey kiss in the bag. I don't know how he did it. One eye could look you straight in the face; the other had a life all its own, moving down my neck, to my breasts, then all the sudden, that one eye is staring at you, there. Down there. And then he, it, his eye starts to roll and blink fast, like a tv that's gone berserk. And all you can do is sit still. I mean, I didn't know if she knew, if she could tell, him having that one straight-arrow, good-guy eye. Howd he do that, calm and all, like she wasn't there? Men. So, one day, I'm reading the paper, and there he is, on the front page, holding a bloody hand over the bastard, I mean the right one, the jerk eye. Turns out she had a horrible lawyer. She didn't have a chance. The guy kept looking at her husband the whole time, probably thinking about his own wife, his own pair of eyes, you know?

Jane

Denuncia

No era una bestia cualquiera. Era un híbrido. Un poco hombre, con algo de chivo y mucho de cerdo. Fue esa cualidad de hombre la que me agarraba por el cabello y me hacía vibrar. Hebras revueltas, cuerdas de violín en sus manos que amaestraban y acariciaban.

Y era chivo, juguetón y persistente. Sus barbas ásperas y punzantes. Su empeño en masticar y descartar, de desdeñar lo ya conocido. Afanoso por conocer hierba ajena.

Dicen que los cerdos son los más inteligentes del reino animal. De surgir una bestia que pueda evolucionar, no ha de ser el hermano simio, sino el cachito fornido y macizo.

Y era un marrano astuto y cruel. Usaba su elocuencia y perfidia para prenderme de su cuerpo, para subyugar mi voluntad, para demolerme el ego, para reducirme a cenizas.

Y así hombre, chivo, cerdo me enloquece y enternece, me masca y me tira, me destruye y me humilla.

Y aquí en esta sala de hospital en la que lamo y relamo mis heridas, me pregunto si llegará el que desprendiéndose de sus múltiples pieles pueda ver las multitudes en mí.

elf