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Cuerpo (Body) 1981“Such a penetration of black crows in the fibers of her inner tree,” as Artaud says, who seemed to have pushed her toward those zones of the great gap of the flesh, “her bones on the outside,” María Auxiliadora ?lvarez went along working out, jotting down her writings of a woman exposed to vexation, in some manuscripts she hoarded with excessive zeal or perhaps with terror of being surprised in her solitary labor of dismantling essence. There, every Thursday, in the meetings of the Rómulo Gallegos Center poetry workshop, gazing at us with eyes of a startled sheep, while we attempted collective reading of poetry and took the risk of deciphering it like one daring to interpret the constellations by the light of our gaze and in cosmic shadows.Days later, the young lady began to feel some confidence. She began to understand that she could reveal to us her singular experience, and she began to dare read us some of her texts, interred in her notebook, as if she stripped in front of us, to show us the inner gashes of her body. Those of us who had frequented the poetry of Antonin Artaud listened to those poems with the same fervor that we had granted to that great flayed one, but this time it was a woman who hurled the cry, it was a feminine voice which offered its bones to the outside, its body of an Artaudian “drooling mother,” her red and black flesh, speaking to us of abjection and of the answer to that abjection, making use of it against her own human condition: María Auxiliadora ?lvarez proposing to denounce herself as desired object, as animal vulnerable to the butchery of birthing. Loss of consciousness of self had never before been proffered in our poetry with that gasping intonation, that stammering voice of someone who surges up from grief and shame, a voice changed into a thing, into a body.María Auxiliadora ?lvarez’s book is the form of that opened body. Writing imitates and prolongs the flaying that was and is her experience. Each phrase calls up in us union with what is bitter or cannot be remedied, inviting us to experience with her that white and antiseptic room, between the gauze and the forceps, the recital of sanitary counsel, in that mute space in which the wound, the bloody wound lies. María Auxiliadora ?lvarez could only choose such writing, writing that makes her the shadow of her voice, that stretches her own voice along the blank page of text as if along an empty wall to adjust it to her terrible testimony, not of being and her consciousness but rather of a feeling matter, of an “I” wounded by the aggression of giving birth. “Body” is, then, a poetic structure that, by its dislocation of words and images, announces a content that traces that semantic breakage. Few times have the essence and the form of a book maintained such a correspondence in Venezuelan poetry.Death in life, that Artaudian prayer, moral death, we mean, is, definitively, the revelatory fact of “Body:” giving birth faces a being with its [her] own annihilation, leads to anéantissement, to that absurd situation that consists of giving life in dying, in destroying oneself and continuing to throb in the other. I don’t know why, in reading this book, I think about the image of that Chinese lady that Georges Bataille chose to illustrate one of his memorable books,1 subjected to an atrocious execution, cut down right in the public square, while the victim transmuted pain into peacefulness, into erotic and mystical pleasure. Except that in María Auxiliadora ?lvarez the peacefulness and the pleasure of the torture invert themselves into ire and sarcasm, and her irreverence resides in that refusal to accept herself as just a creature that gives life, as just a breeder. This is her confrontation with the world. The poem comes forth from the human degradation that is the clinical spectacle, lived as a Dantesque act, livened by a series of grating images, carved in flesh, heard like the moan of an animal ready for sacrifice.I dare to pronounce that Venezuelan women’s poetry had not given testimony of any similar experience of limits. Not, in any case, by means of this force of language and this lived experience.Once upon a time its author sent the book to a literary competition. Someone there severely censured her writing. They adduced happy reasons, common to the rhetoric school cranny, in order to disqualify exactly her substantial quality: attempting a poetry that refuses itself, that judges poetry from its very roots and refuses to listen to the dictates of any sacrosanct pseudosurrealist rhetoric, the forget-me-nots of a tedious aestheticism. In this way, she gives preference to voice, to an everyday and common speech that, disciplined to a deliberately chaotic poetic form, manages to elevate to the level of beauty what is unbearable, founding an aesthetic of the difficult, of the unspeakable. Perhaps an easy verbalism, some strange ghost of surrealism, and an insignificant imagery will continue to predominate in the Venezuelan poetry institutionalized by some literary competitions, but María Auxiliadora ?lvarez’s book will occupy – I am quite certain – an exceptional place among the most outstanding voices of the newest national poetry. Without really intending to, its author has opened the path of renewal: she was merely looking to express an Artaudian state of soul, exposing her body in the poem without its writing changing that connection with the only thing that was and is for her the human voice: a cry.The experience of motherhood in María Auxiliadora ?lvarez translated itself into the diary of a recluse and someone condemned to be a body. Writing her book is the fleshing out of that agony and that rebellion. The “antipoetic” – a phrase often used as a carry-all to justify so much creative flatness, so much expressive poverty – had never been communicated with as high an intensity as in this book. But to unwrite poetry demands a thorough and careful knowledge of poetic language. I know, because am aware of her readings, about the attention that María Auxiliadora ?lvarez gives to contemporary poetry, especially new Brazilian poetry. This reference and a startling intuition and a blind fidelity to herself, all these have certainly contributed to converting her terrible lived experience into poetry, a poetry that is unique among us.Luis Alberto Crespo, 1985(Translated by Linde M. Brocato)a / to Nayla ChehadeAuscultando la respiración o tomando el pulso a un enfermo,aplicando el oído, ante los campos de concentración de esos cuerpos racionados de la miseria,a las palpitaciones de pies, de troncos y de sexosdel inmenso y reprimido campo de acciónde ciertos microbios terriblesque sonotros tantos cuerpos humanos.Sounding a patient’s breathing or taking their pulse,applying one’s ear, before the concentration camps of these bodies rationed with misery,to the trembling of feet, torsos, sexesof the immense and repressed field of actionof certain terrible microbesthat areso many other human bodies.ANTONIN ARTAUDThe Theatre of Cruelty1I would have been able to get togetherthe money lady doctorbitter castrated cow who attacks mein order to have better helpyour very thorough eyeif the pregnancy lasted a few yearsall the while I would have gone along inflamingeach retcheach hair that felleach grooveI would have gone along guardingrememberingits spittlebloody white robebecause I work a lotcow spittle corrosive white robe who attacks meI would have gone along getting it togetherfrom the time I was a girlif I had had some tiny inflammationthat would indicateall the while you were studying I would becountingbelowin the middle of my squatright where you’re now looking for ityour spittle white castratedI wouldn’t have dirtied youwith my watery fragmentsbutcher child breeding organI would have been able to get it togetherthe money lady doctorbecause I work a lotbitter spittle white cow2SEVEN-TWELVE-FIVEis your numberyour nauseathe listthe localization of your abdomensagging navelsthat pass in linedead fliesmasses of fleshdog eyes on each sidethe hour of controldoctorcardinallieutenant coloneltwo p.m.: alcoholurinecolostrumpregnant stenchin turn they change the white knivesavoid transpiration and fecesSEVEN-TWELVE-FIVE turn yourself overa needle for each blood containerthenyou must keep the syringes and probes of thestudents among your joints for the nextvisitbend oversqueezetrim your toe nailsthose of you who know how to writedo not mark on the wallsnor on the sheetsnor slash the pillows with razorsto hide foodit rotslater it fills with wormsthe fingers and genitals of the doctorcardinallieutenant colonel.3daily attitudeof an intelligent femalein the birth positionthat I maintainI attend toreptile belly upI respond toall the bellshospital recordingsthat they require of me: doors telephonesdumbwaiters of sanitary vesselsrigorous loyalty of their callsbefore themas is dueI take care of my natural woundsI eat and I defecate cotton pads and membranesearsnavels open in a womanly wayever living orificesand the door continuesthe hospital recordingsatisfied, it contemplates melike the vagina that I amlike an intelligent wound4you, sir, have never given birthyou do not know the edge of the machetesyou have not feltthe snakes of the riveryou have never dancedin a pool of beloved blooddoctordo not put your hand so deepthere I have the machetesthere I have a sleeping girl childand you, sir, have never passeda night in the snakeyou don’t know the river.5birthing roomMOSAICS STEERSKNIVESkitchen that flays without anesthesia because itsowner washes himself with it the tepid organ just incase cauterizes his lacteal conduct laughs cere-bral rinses his sensitive nerves sleepsfarfrom the plastic pillowsamnioticbloodyfrom the rowbelly bonnet book clot slice take out the fillingput the mosaics in ordersew6the doctor said: APTthroats for the surgerysinging hallexpense of blades and pianosscalpel on highhe directsbloody chic women attemptSLEEP NIGHTINGALELI--TTLEPIECE OF THE MOONSLE--EP MYHE--ARTTuesday Thursday from two until three VISITING HOURwe go out into the hallwaybreasts still uselesstranquil sowswe sitvaricose vein with varicose veinarmpit with forearmarmpitwith forearmveinwithserumand we sing7hefelt nauseousreason death 23b on the leftbristling buttockquiet gray footthe rest of us women quit moaningour mouthswere going flatwe were manyI shouldn’t come back: Hospitalinsects and analgesics soundingin the cookie tinthat my family brought mekhaki sheetwith black number notedhow ordered isthe queen nurse slipping on mucusin vertical ditchesthat evacuatedsuch natural thingsthe bristly buttock up against my ownthe Doctor leaning with loathingI kicked himhe tangled with me in snotI shouldn’t go backto kick doctors and tinswith my leg and my girl child bloodiedbecause he felt nauseousreason of deathtwenty three btwenty four btwenty five8surgeon detains the hallsinterceptswombsslowgrayhis groin shows uswith a directive eyewe the copiousculpablewe open ourselveswe feed the octopusesof his elbowssurgeon loves ushe ejaculatesantiseptic ocularhormoneswe the copiousreclaim ourselveswith a son of a surgeon9mama is a black animaltamelongshe smellsof stagnant watergrowssweet amphibiansin her gumsshe doesn’t eatdoesn’t sleepdoesn’t laughis a dark spacethat I traverse with my tongueand to me it tastes like semenlike blood like water of tadpolesmama is a quiet animaltetheredswollenhabitualdead10I procreatein a safe placeI segregateadequate liquidI awaitlarvaebetween cartilagesof the tepid bullsI deposit its tendonsin the mouth of my daughterevery day at noonyou digestvertebra and veinand you laughyou love only mebecause you like this smelland this temperaturethat I maintain each cycleas it ought to beI watch youlong throatdirectingthe momentand you laughyou pull my hairand the bones of my faceseeking socketsof medullar fluidI renewquietof femurin the tepid cavitiescarry onin cartilagethe rite of extractionemergeauthenticand awaitsonorous visceral noon11I knowthe time for properly cooking vegetablesthe warts on ratsthe importance of the female being the tacit part of procreationI stayin the genital and foodeach dayand receive from them a lifeand a deathboth renewableand go along developingan approachlike the snake’s jawand go along developinga psychopathic tasteon my tonguewhile I play with the garbageand the excrementof my daughterher I showaffective proprietyof the dementedand daily mammalsdead in the kitchen12she opens my legsfrom the floortries to climbI don’t let herup there there’s nothingthe door got closedthe house got finishedshe wants to go back thereafternoonsshe stops between my legsbald and hotand she doesn’t understandwhen I push her awaythat door got finishedno one cango in or go out nownor decide itfor enough already of surgeon and headthrough loving and bloody afternoonsand she’s afraidand wants to sink herselfagain in the wombin night and foodin her sticky roombetween my legsI don’t let herup there there’s nothingthe afternoon got closed for the headthere’s no bloodnor knifeto lead hernor dog’s mouth to defend here13refrigeratorsurnsmetal drawersthey arrivedwe got out of bedstumps still warmbetween our legsthe moisture of the placentaCEE AICH EYE ELL DEEon the glass of the reserves we bleed ourselves whitecut sewn up rigidsegregating milkthrough eyesearsshoulderscut sewn up ladiesstanding up in the hallway foreverCEE AICH EYE ELL DEE14and who are they how oddif this is not a hospital not a morgueI open the doorrigorous they await mecroppedbeatenand the houseand the woundhave filled with fliesI open the bathroomhow oddif he hadn’t seen a buzzardand the fridgeand the oven whose are these membersthat danglethat are themselvesthat regenerate themselves rigorousin order to apprehend meon the buzzard wallthat awaits me how oddif it was neither a hospital nor a morgueand who are those beaten onesexposeddisposedordered for my painso that I believe that the house is goingthat even nowTHERE IS NO HOUSE.15mouth hurtstonguebloody conduitssaturated hurtgroin thighs spine hip mouthto be with youhurtsinflamesone fills with waterconvulsescontractsrends oneselfexpels it blue slimystuck carries away the liver from onepancreasthoracic cavitycalciumoxygenone lovesremains quietwith dislocated jawfor evereye breaking outvigilantinsomniac for evermouthtonguenerve cellssuture closes everything openjoins leg to leglength to length fingerwithfingerarmwith trunkone remains quietquiet16the entire afternoonthe rattling snortingI sought youamong the bodiesamong the spasmodic lumpsand there was nobodyexemptfrom the abdomen huge and dark from vaginafrom bloody and slow bare feetfrom fearful eyesuch a relative companionthere was nobody full of scrutinyof dead fatherand of abrupt motherMediterranean red observing thusraw-boned rigorouswith mouth turned inwardas if you had no teethwith that naturalnessfor someone else’s sufferingthe entire afternoon was latewith needles and tubesand everywhere the deadand One deformed and nakedwith open legswith open armsproducing all the bloodand all the childof which one is capablethat cannot come forthbecause one has the aperturelike a closuresuch a relative companionred upright rigorousexempt17alone with himbody that bleeds outthe Pigthat tramplesslowof our childrenof our gelatinous parentsout of fearout of a scruple of blood that you ought not to have gone during the Pigand left mewith this greasy eyethat tramplesslowfrom infancyand toward death18 white mare open I drag myselftorso transitingand tongueof a size with waterdailyservileI pour myself out a long boilingfamiliar drooler in the foodfootchair that inhabits meodor that I openof dead mareboiledwhitehorizontal19staycover the lightwhile I CLOSE MYSELFbecause Light wounds the white of the eyebullseye of more nothing20they we were1 short malformedadvancing2 short malformedreticentin an angle of the neckin a progressionneutral of discoveryI saw us21the mutilated spouses areseated at a tablethe assassins are thereweeping women, we serve themwe compensatewe assentone hundred years after the warthey sit at the tablethe salutary spouseshistorical women, we mutilatecompensatedecorate with honor22it is unjustthat you sleepwhile we womenseek by touchclothingdark nipple wet hollowit is unjustthat in your bodyyou don’t contain foodthat you don’t havevaricose veins in your legsblack branchesthat you go outand we women remainthat you shut up that you hide that you dieat nightdry deathyou are unjustwithout a mouth that bites youwithout a tree that climbs youit is unjusttesticle of nightwhen there is a childit retractsknows nothing of mouthtactile liquid furiousknows nothing of shoulder bladesthat sagshoulder bladesclothingtrashground to dredgelizards that besiege uslizards that protect us it is unjustthat you go awayserene dry completeand we remainand we remainand we remain23we exchangeaureolasthat rollthrough the jawsbetween the pelviseslubricate the kneecapswe batheon groundwith obstruction of muckwithout breathingthe remains of childanteriorposteriorwe want ourselveswe exchangehemorrhagesthat rollthe aureolasmaxillaries through the necks down to the groundwhere we bathehemophiliacwith obstruction of jawsin the muck24in a drawer with rustin a bag of brown paper: breaddarkened fruitflies you know tumors husbands clots parents hairs membrane sister analgesic you know things of a sick woman that stir themselves up at night bread fruits darkened flies you know tumors husbands25loved usliked the herniasbeautiful and wide in our groinsliked exactitudetethering all the cattlewith one solitary cordthat you, sir, led alongand us we likedto advance fastenedhumiddarkand our spikeswith their hot extremesthe savor of burned leatherlimeliked loyaltybranded our shoulderswith his initialstethered our childrenliked the odor of blood on the cordin the exactitude of cattle26why that riverof dried bloodfor the eye of the cursed womanlet it always be so roundround and fullwhy odorwhy fungus in the darkswhy that white fishto weep for herbetween her legsand laugh so bitingly27bone that observesquiet at tablewhere we open our bodiesimmediate we stir upwith that viscous eyethat struggling respirationwe urge the veinour palates splitonly I don’t pardon youthe inordinate earwhen you approachoccipitalarand under the tablescrutiny that bitesthat slashesto incise the bonewith that viscositythat odorthat surgeon’s mode slowtablequiet28Eye of Feverit grewduring the nightit wastes the bodiesthe dangling veinlet nobody cometo know usBurned Eyelaid outthe distance29I approach from the dogsI fill the house with waterwiresheads baths arms dangling beams legschairsand I go awayonly with the trunkSTERNUM for a nighttoward the dogs to wheelcilindricalabsolvedmy own restored30perhaps the uprootingof teeth and razorsof scabs and bruisesomits the Place of the erosionthe crack no longer flows white nor redall the splitall the swollen returnsI reduce myselfinto the organ of injuryand I can serve as something else perhaps31she’s goingalready they’re carrying her offto detain the custom of the vestigeto interrupt the resinif she liked the muzzleif she allowed the animals to lower her from their heads to put her through their eyesshe never complainedinflamed genitallyalready they’re carrying her offlet them open her in the lightsince she has her arm stuck to her thighher tongue to her palateshe doesn’t cryasks nothingbut let them give her the horse’s waterso she knows thirstthe dog’s water water from mewoodso she gnawssince she likes to get out the resinat the edgehuge animals so she eatslet them give her Animalso she throws herself against the floorso she screamssince she must like screamingher mouth goes muzzled already they’re carrying her offlet them kick her in the ribssine she’ll be afraidand peculiarsince she’s never been openedwith dog’s watershe doesn’t cryasks nothingsince she’s had the habitof animal in the eye come from the headof vestige ................
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