3 Poemas de Banira Giri

Canto de Libertad

Templo, libérame
de los sonidos de la campana y el caracol
cielo, libérame
de la electricidad de los rayos
árbol, libérame
de las ramas retorcidas
palma, libérame
de las líneas enredadas del destino
calle, libérame
de las huellas equivocadas
amor, libérame
de la necesidad de copular
río, libérame
de la violencia y los sonidos
murmullo, libérame
de la innecesaria murmuración
guerra, libérame
de las reclamaciones del machismo
paz, libérame
del sacrificio necesario
whisky, libérame
de toda irritación
propiedad, libérame
del tesoro almacenado de las parejas sin hijos
día, libérame
del galope ungulado del sol
noche, libérame
de las estatuas del tirano
mundo, libérame
de las estacas de puntas envenenadas de tus fronteras
vida, libérame
del aceleramiento de siempre
muerte, libérame
del vacío interminable
mi querido poema, libérame
de las letras sin sentido.
Oye, palabra que lleva por nombre "Libertad",
libérame de la honestidad y de lo más hondo de tus letras, 
palabras y significados.a

Kathmandu (Kathmandu)

Kathmandu is a heater inflamed
by one hundred thousand volts;
this capital’s orphan girls sit waiting,
like Sita on her pyre of fire,

ready to brand their bodies of gold,
snared by the noose of its love.

Snow-white doves fly the endless blue sky,
there’s a prison in each citizen’s eye,
as Rani Pokhari floods with color,
there come dark smugglers and sneaks,
fat hypocrites and backbiters,
and all are made pure.
Pipal trees, comb trees, mimosa,
kalki and juniper in rows wave their fans
at inhabitants pure and foul,
but Kathmandu is not just cool calm,
Kathmandu is hocus-pocus, too.

And isn’t it also that white-wheeled Toyota
which gulps down its petrol,
never satisfied?
And isn’t it also Nanicha’s wine store
where young men come in swarms each day:
Gunjamans, Ram Bahadurs, heads held high,
who go home to beat their wives?
A Toyota’s tire marks deep on the street,
green bruises covering women:
samples perhaps of each Kathmandu day.

Kathmandu makes my poor, dear son
cry out in his dreams every night;
half I understand, half I do not,
but still I wish to hear,
hemmed in and oppressed
by past attractions, repulsions,
I find that many will curse me,
I find there are few who like me:
I have come to live in Kathmandu,
but Kathmandu does not live in me.

The countless processions of these city streets
pour forth each night in my dreams,
my nights are weighed down by uproar,
they belong to Kathmandu,
covered entirely by mist.
How silent my cold mornings,
as if the city’s dead have waited all night,
and are rotted completely away.

It is an interesting epic, beloved Kathmandu,
full of stories, sweet and bitter:

the opening verses of tremendous speeches,
the communal song of wants and needs;
wages—the happy chance of increase,
prices—the miserable rise,
an unremitting struggle of loss and gain:
oil for the lamp, and sugar,
everything is here.

Wretched Kathmandu,
dear to everyone, abused by all,
its people narrators of Satyanarayan , forever repeating the ancient tales,
of Lilavati and Kalavati, always singing the same forest creeper,
always walking the same back streets,
always keeping the same feasts,
always observing the same holidays,
always celebrating the same occasions;
ceaselessly they chant, like kakakul birds,
Kathmandu, Kathmandu,
Kathmandu, Kathmandu.

Woman (Aimai)

Unclothed, unrestricted,
undoubting, unhesitant,
a woman stands at the crossroad
in her pure primordial form.

A crowd of blind men are eager
to discover the nature of woman;
the first strokes her smooth, flowing hair
and mutters, “Woman is a waterfall, she is the Ganga,
flowing down from Shiva’s head.”

A second feels her arm, her fingers,
and happily declares,
“Woman is the lotus of Saraswati’s hand.”A third grasps her shapely thigh and jabbers,
“Woman is the soft bamboo of the marriage pavilion.”
A fourth feels her lips,

which hum the sweet song of Creation:
“Woman is a ripened raspberry.”
A fifth strokes her breasts,
motherhood’s undying boon:
“Woman is a pot filled with Lakshmi’s gifts.” The sixth discovers the half-secret
of the inaccessible place of Creation:
he leaps up and cries out,
“Woman is just a contemptible hole!”

Her eyes grow wet
at the blind man’s revelation;
a seventh feels her tear-filled eyes:
“You evil fools! Woman is not just a hole!
She is also Gosainkunda,
She is also Manasarovar!”

Banira Giri ( Kurseong, Nepal, 11 de abril 1946- 24 de mayo de 2021, Katmandú, Nepal) Es una de las escritoras más importantes de Nepal. Se convirtió en la primera mujer nepalí en recibir un doctorado de la Universidad de Tribhuvan con su tesis sobre la poesía de Gopal Prasad Rímal. Ha publicado tres libros de poemas, tres novelas y un guión. 

Nota- Esta entrada fue modificada el 25 de mayo de 2021 debido al fallecimiento de la poeta.

¡Vuela alto Banira Giri!

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