Verses (by Teresa Wilms Montt)
Diary Pages
This is my diary.
In its pages becomes fluffier the wide flower of death, dissolving in underground sap and opening the love lotus, with the magic of a strange clear pupil on the horizon.
Its my diary. I’m abruptly naked, rebel against all that it’s stablished, great among the little, little in front of the infinity…
It’s me.
Sentimental Restlessness
I.
The light of the lamp, dimmed by the violet shade, faints upon the table.
Objects take a somnambulistc tone of sickened dream; like if a consumptive hand would have caressed the environment, leaving in it its aristocratic listless.
An ungodly bell repeats the hours and makes me understand that I live, and reminds me also, that I suffer.
I suffer from a rare disease that hurts by doping; heartaches, misenderstood greatness, infinite ideals.
Disease that incites me to live in a different heart, to rest of the rough task of feeling alive inside myself.
Like the thirsty want water, I yearn for my ear listens a voice promising dazzling sweetness to me; I yearn for a children’s hand lays on my eyelits, tired of staying awake, and calms my rebel adventurous spirit.
That’s how I wish to die, like the light of the lamp upon objects, spread in soft and trembly shadows.
XXXI.
Hats give me the impression of chopped and mummified heads, and those colored bridled, seem to me like heads ripped by a brutal hand, which still has a bloody vein attached.
I can never spot a pair of gloves without imagining they are skinf from disecated hands and, on those that are yellow, I see something disgusting that starts to rotten.
I hate the garments left forgotten upon the bed, there are many analogies among then and the dead.
I saw once, in an institution, a crazy dead girl; and it was the same as watching a violet rag threw into a coffin.
***
Even when in my soul I shelter petty sorrows
my face lights up when I smile…
I curse and it is in such armonic way the gesture of my arms in its painful manner, that we might say they lift from a strange strength…
Oh agonizing century of human vanity! I’ve sown a piece of fertile soil, where you can spread
the first seed destined to the Promised Land.
***
…you know my tragic devotion to legends
of enchanted princes…
You know that a melodic tune and a soft song made me cry,
and that a word of affection made me slave of another soul, and you know, also,
that all that I’ve dreamt had a heart-rending reality.
***
Nothing I posses, nothing I leave, nothing I ask.
Naked as I was born, I leave now,
so ignorant of what in the world inhabits.
I suffered, and that’s the only luggage admited by the boat that leads me to oblivion.
***
I want that in wise escence, Peace descends over me
and floods kindly in freshness my undermined true self.
————————-
Ok, that was intense.
I hope you like it!
Teresa Wilms Montt, my favorite writer
TERESA WILMS MONTT (Viña del Mar, 1893 – París 1921): She was born in a wealthy family, daughter of Federico Guillermo Wilms Montt and Brieba, and his wife Luz Victoria Montt and Montt. Given the social context of that time, her primary instruction was given to her by governesses and particular teachers. When Teresa turned 17, she got married with Gustavo Balmaceda Valdés. In the following years (1911 y 1913) she gave birht to her daughters, Elisa and Silvia Luz. Almost ritght after the wedding, the problems between Gustavo and Teresa started, mainly due to how much the husband felt agravated by his wife’s personality, who frequently attended to literary gatherings, and followed the anarchist ideals, and freemasonery. Gustavo reacted sheltering himself in the gambling and alcohol; Teresa, on her side, sheltered herself in her friend and Gustavo’s cousin, Vicente Balmaceda Zañartu (whom she will refer on the future at her diaries as Jean). After numerous marital conflicts, moving from one city to another and letters from Vicente Balmaceda addressed to Teresa, Gustavo Balmaceda convened a family trial, which dictaminated her confinement in the convent of Preciosa Sangre, which she entered on October 18th of 1915, and escaped from it on June of 1916 setting off for Buenos Aires, helped by Vicente Huidobro. During her stay in the convent, she started a journal, in which she wrote her feelings about the loss of her daughters, being separated from Vicente Balmaceda and the motivations to her first suicide attempt on March 29th, 1916. In Buenos Aires, she contributed to Nosotros magazines, in which also did contributed Gabriela Mistral and Ángel Cruchaga Santa María, among others. She also published her first work “Inquietudes Sentimentales”, a collection of fifty poems with surrealistic threads, that enojyed an amazing success among the intelectual circles of Buenos Aires society. the same happened to “Los Tres Cantos”, work that explored erotism and spirituality. Two years after this work and after travelling to Barcelona and New York, she came back to Buenos Aires and published “Cuentos para Hombres que Todavía son Niños”. In it she evoked her childhood and some vital experiences, in tales of great originality and fantasy. “En la Inquietud del Mármol” was published in Barcelona and constituted a lyric toned elegy, made of 35 fragments, which central leitmotif was death. Written on first person, she focused her interest on the mediating role of love between life and death. She continued travelling accross Europe, visiting London and Paris, but always being a resident of Madrid. In 1920 she was reunited with her daughters in Paris; but after they were separated she become gravely ill. In these crisis, she consumed a large dose of Veronal, and died on December 24th of 1921. In the last pages of her diary, she wrote: “To die, after feeling everything and being nothing…”.
Adrian & I (Short Story)
With Adrian we lived in downtown. He really makes me laugh. He’s totally convinced he’s a serial killer. “I’m a soul taker” he says, while he swims from one side to the other side on the little goldfish bowl I bought for him. He has been quiet lately, I’ve tried to pet him, but he keeps jumping acrobatically out of water, trying to bite one of my fingertips (he thinks he’s a piranha). Last Sunday I saw him depressed, so I dissolved a Zoloft pill in his water, and I took another two pills myself. We were watching the whole afternoon through the windowpane, humming songs in a different language. The thing is we get very lonely just the both of us, you know.
...::: Count Of The Moon :::... 