When great prose turns into poesy: 'Toco tu boca' by Julio Cortázar

Julio Cortázar

Julio Cortázar

The Pare Street Poetry gatherings at the Social Room, too as the Verse Outloud nights at the Fringe, are very much part of a Midweek evening routine I tin inappreciably do without now. The fact that a group of people manages to find regular time to gather and read, recite and perform poetry in a city like Hong Kong, where everyone runs around, decorated with long working hours, endless concern meetings, appointments, lunches and dinners, is already in itself quite admirable. What impresses me almost is the sense of community, of belonging, and the strong desire to share the same passion, elevating the spirit and enriching it through this noble class of literary art that is poetry.

I am always impressed past the quality of what is being performed at these gatherings. The majority of poems have been composed by the readers themselves, but others belong to famous or less famous authors. Some poems are read, others are recited, and others are spoken or performed. Every time – among the many stars of the milky way – in that location are some that shine so vivid that their lite lingers and persist well beyond the darkest hours. I have them (the stars turned into poems) dwelling house with me, try to recollect parts of them, and I ponder upon their meanings. If they had been written past some famous poets, I go lucky plenty to be able to retrace them and read them once again and over again.

Last nighttime, my attention was caught by a young lady from Madrid, who read in Spanish with corking emphasis what seemed to be a poem but supposedly was non. Information technology was non, I would say, only because not classified as such in terms of 'form', being function of a novel. But it was, in all due respects. The combination of words created a sensual music that, together with the vivid descriptions, draw united states of america into an temper of passionate love and intimacy. I searched on my phone for the prose-poem that sounded quite familiar, and finally, during the 'open mic' session, I read the English version of information technology, so that we could all connect with the Spanish one. Information technology was part of something I read ii years before, but never aloud, and now - while listening to their sounds - those words took a life on their ain.

The piece of prose turned into poetry was 'Toco tu boca', 'I touch your oral fissure', Chapter 7 of the novel 'Rayuela' ('Hopscotch', in English) past Julio Cortázar. (If you'd like to get to know more, read my review hither )

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I am of the opinion that beauty should always be shared. Therefore – while thanking the Spanish young lady who went up on stage and reignited my memory of Rayuela giving united states of america a moment of bliss – I complete this post with the original Spanish version of 'Toco tu Boca', followed by the English Translation 'I touch your mouth', and with the video of Cortazár'south own reading of this beautiful chapter.

Unexpected pleasant encounters, I call these special moments of reunion with written words that deserve remembrance.

I bear upon your mouth, with one finger I touch the border of your mouth, drawing information technology equally if it came out of my hand, equally if for the first fourth dimension your mouth would half open, and it's enough to shut my optics to undo it all and start over, I brand the oral fissure I yearn reborn each time, the mouth my paw chooses and draws onto your face, a mouth chosen among all, chosen past me with sovereign freedom to draw information technology with my paw across your face up, and past which any adventure I do non seek to understand accurately matches with your mouth that smiles from under the i my hand draws onto y'all.

You wait at me, you look at me from upwardly close, closer each time then we play cyclops, nosotros look at each other closer each time and our eyes overstate, come closer to each other, they overlap and the cyclops await at each other, animate dislocated, the mouths find each other and struggle warmly, biting each other's lips, simply leaning the tongue upon the teeth, playing in their premises where a heavy wind comes and goes with an onetime perfume and a silence. Only then my hands seek to sink into your hair, to slowly caress the deepness of your hair while we buss as if our mouths where full of flowers or fish, of lively movements, of dark fragrance. And if we seize with teeth the pain is sweet, and if nosotros drown with a brief and terrible simultaneous jiff gulp, that immediate death is beautiful. And in that location is ane single saliva and one single sense of taste of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble confronting me like a moon in the water.