Silvia Padrón Jomet
Silvia Padrón Jomet
Cuba, 1968. Escritora e Investigadora. Participa activamente en proyectos y temas relacionados con la mujer.
Embedded Files
4-7-2020
4-7-2020
Coronavirus: silence space«Redeeming the time, because the days are evil» Ephesians 5:16Anoche soñé con La Madre y me dijo-It’s time to grow up. Unconsciousme levanto como zombie y marcho a Publixdonde trabajole cuento a la cajerauna robusta campesina de Winter Havenestilo 1930que me sonríe burlonalos clientes entran como ganadoel manager temeroso-I wanna it..-I need it..-I’m looking for..-I wish this..Respiro hondo y me pongo la máscaraentonces soy AsheráPateo el suelo mientras gritoTime out to everybody-¡Taimau!
How I can do...? 9-20-2018
How I can do...? 9-20-2018
I feel you frightenedwith a Victorian tower at your backAnd you tell me: I am bleeding! Save me!How can I save you?I'm just a girl lost in timea sad poeta magiciana sleeping birdie on the plum tree.
I apologize. You don't know!I don't have gunsor keysor ladderMy mountain of verbs does not do justice to my fateNow I do know that I can see you die of dreamsand I just ecstatic, without a melody to solace youWhen ever I knew to earn my bread with old fashioned verses,exchanging fake coinswild flowers.How can I save you?If I am just a poor girlwho was born on an islanda sad poeta magicianI try to pretend with my colonial giftscarrying the woundsof my ancestorsLook, I ́ll tell you, there is a lot of waves in the tropicsto not always bring too much painto not always be too afraid
It has not served the weeping, the prayer, the vigil.How can I save you?If I am just a longing girlfriendhallucinating on the grassmy compass towards the seaa sad poeta magician.
Lone Palm Golf, Lakeland, FL,
Lone Palm Golf, Lakeland, FL, 9-28-2019
Lone Palm Golf, Lakeland, FL, 9-28-2019
While I clean the Club mirrorsI see a mockingbird dying on the floor.There were many waitresses thereBut I only saw it.I'm running down the stairsand pick up the terrified little animal.I show it to the crowd of golfers.—It can’t fly? –I say shaking.—Let it go.George Jenkins answers from his golf cart with a hussy smile.—Is it a baby? It can’t fly –I repeat innocently.—Yes. Let it go.This time is the voice of Louise Hay’s ghost.And I cried for that scared birdie that I was.I cried for my flame too.I cried for my lost babiesFor all the lost babies in the world.
Tres días recordando a mi madre
Tres días recordando a mi madre
2-19-20Hoy he sentido a mi madre tan cercala he amado como nunca antes.
Preparé una sopa a su estiloy me teñí de rojo el cabello.Hoy me tomo una selfie mientras barro las hojas del patioy la envío a mi madre por whatsappEstoy en paz conmigo —piensoCon todas las mujeres de mi estirpe.Es suficiente para mí.
2-20-20Qué locura la míaAyer lloré de risas con mi madrey hoy he reído su rabia.La misma rabia con la que alguna vez también me desprecié.Ahora comprendo cuan fácil te enojabasY culpabas al mundoY a Dios.
2-21-20Un ángel me ha dicho:—Agáchate y toca la tierra.—¿Por qué sientes miedo?—¿Por qué huyes?Es por mi madre —Aúllo.Era salvaje ella y quemaba hojas en el patio.Yo la miraba todo el día queriendo ir al cielo.Oh, Silvia —me dice—Sé libre y perdona(te).Acepta tu destino con la Madre-Tierra.
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse