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Grenade in Mouth: Some Poems of Miyo Vestrini
Grenade in Mouth: Some Poems of Miyó Vestrini introduces to Anglophone readers the work of one of the vanguard voices of Venezuelan poetry with texts that cover three decades: from the year 1960 to 1990. The book offers a broader spectrum of her poems than ever previously compiled, including previously unpublished texts alongside her best known and most important works.
Critics have called Miyó Vestrini the poet of “militant death.” Vestrini is known, too, as the Sylvia Plath of Venezuela, but if she is a Plath, we think she is one who would have set Ted Hughes on fire. And if Vestrini is a confessional poet, what she is confessing is not a set of personal problems: it is a fatal disappointment with the world at large. Her work is less a self-exposure than a set of incantations. These poems are spells for a death that might live eternally, for what Vestrini offers readers is a fundamental paradox: how to create, through writing, an enduring extinction. Her poems are not soft or brooding laments. They are bricks hurled at empires, ex-lovers, and any saccharine-laced lie that parades itself as the only available truth.
Critics have called Miyó Vestrini the poet of “militant death.” Vestrini is known, too, as the Sylvia Plath of Venezuela, but if she is a Plath, we think she is one who would have set Ted Hughes on fire. And if Vestrini is a confessional poet, what she is confessing is not a set of personal problems: it is a fatal disappointment with the world at large. Her work is less a self-exposure than a set of incantations. These poems are spells for a death that might live eternally, for what Vestrini offers readers is a fundamental paradox: how to create, through writing, an enduring extinction. Her poems are not soft or brooding laments. They are bricks hurled at empires, ex-lovers, and any saccharine-laced lie that parades itself as the only available truth.
- GenresPoetry
120 pages, Paperback
Published March 15, 2019
5 people are currently reading
168 people want to read
About the author
Miyó Vestrini
15 books12 followersMiyó Vestrini (Marie-Jose Fauvelle Ripert) was born in France, emigrated to Venezuela at the age of 9, and at eighteen she joined Apocalipsis (Apocalypse), the only woman to do so in the then male-dominated scene of the Venezuelan avant-garde. She soon became a dedicated and prize-winning journalist, directing the arts section of the newspaper El Nacional. She published three books of poetry in her lifetime: 1971’s Las historias de Giovanna (The History of Giovanna), 1975’s El invierno próximo (The Next Winter), and Pocas virtudes (Little Virtues), published in 1986. Vestrini died by suicide on November 29, 1991, leaving behind two collections: a book of poems, Valiente Ciudadano (Brave Citizen) and a book of stories, Órdenes al corazón (Orders to the Heart).
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Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews
March 17, 2019
"Confess it: reading poetry is a boring duty most of the time" (91).
The Guilt
The object of my guilt is unfathomable
as the smell of mandarins in the garden of my father.
In the first instance
I wanted to be reasonable
to have honest feelings of regret
when cruelty began to take unusual frequency.
Snubbed
my mother condemned me to wander routinely
through irritating cities
where people are pushed against the edge of the sidewalk
and extract their veins to hang in the sun
and extract their eyes to turn into gemstones
and extract their guts to hang from the lampposts
The action was verified:
I was the one with infinite love for humankind
the living guilt of so many torments. (86)
The Walls of Spring
I will not teach my child to work the land
nor to smell the tang of the earth
nor to sing hymns.
He will know that there are no crystal streams
no clean drinking water
His world will be hellish downpours
and dark plains.
Of cries and groans.
Of dry eyes and throats.
Of tortured bodies that no longer will be able to see or hear him.
He will know that it is not good to hear the voices of those who exalt the
color of the sky.
I'll take him to Hiroshima. To Seveso. To Dachau.
His skin will fall piece by piece in front of the horror
and he will listen with sorrow to the bird's song.
the laughter of the soldiers
the death squads
the walls of spring.
He will have the memory that we never had
and will believe in the violence
of those who believe in nothing. (76)
The Guilt
The object of my guilt is unfathomable
as the smell of mandarins in the garden of my father.
In the first instance
I wanted to be reasonable
to have honest feelings of regret
when cruelty began to take unusual frequency.
Snubbed
my mother condemned me to wander routinely
through irritating cities
where people are pushed against the edge of the sidewalk
and extract their veins to hang in the sun
and extract their eyes to turn into gemstones
and extract their guts to hang from the lampposts
The action was verified:
I was the one with infinite love for humankind
the living guilt of so many torments. (86)
The Walls of Spring
I will not teach my child to work the land
nor to smell the tang of the earth
nor to sing hymns.
He will know that there are no crystal streams
no clean drinking water
His world will be hellish downpours
and dark plains.
Of cries and groans.
Of dry eyes and throats.
Of tortured bodies that no longer will be able to see or hear him.
He will know that it is not good to hear the voices of those who exalt the
color of the sky.
I'll take him to Hiroshima. To Seveso. To Dachau.
His skin will fall piece by piece in front of the horror
and he will listen with sorrow to the bird's song.
the laughter of the soldiers
the death squads
the walls of spring.
He will have the memory that we never had
and will believe in the violence
of those who believe in nothing. (76)
May 8, 2019
But we knew that no age would last forever
and so
life had passed
with her seventy-five beats
perfect frequency of sadness
and so
life had passed
with her seventy-five beats
perfect frequency of sadness
January 15, 2024
I rarely write reviews but this slim collection rocked my world. The title is apt. A must read.
October 28, 2019
"Well, William Blake isn't convincing either. Nor Dylan Thomas.
Confess it: reading poetry is a boring duty most of the time.
You get tired."
I haven't been reading a lot of poetry lately. It comes and goes. Vestrini gets it. This collection feels like a tide coming in.
"Last night you decided:
if I cannot sleep,
I'll choose death.
But you could not have expected the leg of lamb to melt in your mouth"
Confess it: reading poetry is a boring duty most of the time.
You get tired."
I haven't been reading a lot of poetry lately. It comes and goes. Vestrini gets it. This collection feels like a tide coming in.
"Last night you decided:
if I cannot sleep,
I'll choose death.
But you could not have expected the leg of lamb to melt in your mouth"
April 16, 2020
As a Venezuelan-American, I am very happy this book is in the world.
“Of the splendors
of the fervent and pure desires
of secret explosions in our mouths
of sweet body curvature awakening
only you will speak
my friend.”
“Of the splendors
of the fervent and pure desires
of secret explosions in our mouths
of sweet body curvature awakening
only you will speak
my friend.”
March 16, 2022
Poetry at its bombastic, bilious best.
August 26, 2022
miyó is explosive in any language. very pleased that this deftly selected and capably translated edition exists
September 5, 2021
"Morcov ras
Primul suicid e unic
Întotdeauna ești întrebat dacă a fost un accident
sau o încercare serioasă de a muri.
Îți vâră un tub prin nas,
cu forță,
ca să te doară
și să înveți să nu mai deranjezi altă dată.
Când începi să explici că
moartea-în-realitate-ți-se-părea-singura-scăpare
sau că o faci
ca-să-ți-dai-dracului-soțul-și-familia,
deja ți-au întors spatele
și privesc tubul transparent
prin care defilează ultima ta cină.
Pariază dacă e fidea sau orez chinezesc.
Medicul de gardă se arată intransigent:
e morcov ras.
[...]Lumea nu se ocupă de moarte din prea multă iubire.
Treburi de copii,
zic ei,
ca și cum copiii s-ar sinucide zilnic.
L-am căutat pe Hammett la pagina precisă:
niciodată n-am să spun o vorbă despre viața ta
în nicio carte,
dacă o pot evita.
Primul suicid e unic
Întotdeauna ești întrebat dacă a fost un accident
sau o încercare serioasă de a muri.
Îți vâră un tub prin nas,
cu forță,
ca să te doară
și să înveți să nu mai deranjezi altă dată.
Când începi să explici că
moartea-în-realitate-ți-se-părea-singura-scăpare
sau că o faci
ca-să-ți-dai-dracului-soțul-și-familia,
deja ți-au întors spatele
și privesc tubul transparent
prin care defilează ultima ta cină.
Pariază dacă e fidea sau orez chinezesc.
Medicul de gardă se arată intransigent:
e morcov ras.
[...]Lumea nu se ocupă de moarte din prea multă iubire.
Treburi de copii,
zic ei,
ca și cum copiii s-ar sinucide zilnic.
L-am căutat pe Hammett la pagina precisă:
niciodată n-am să spun o vorbă despre viața ta
în nicio carte,
dacă o pot evita.
August 5, 2024
Día 1: 02/08/2024: 52 páginas.
Día 2: 03/08/2024: 36 páginas.
Día 3: 04/08/2024: 18 páginas.
.
I loved discovering this author. I’m Venezuelan and anything by a Venezuelan author, I’m going to read it. The thing is, I read this in English and hated the fact that I was reading a writer from my country in another language but, I downloaded a collection of her poems and did like a read in English and Spanish thing (with the poems that were in the other collection of course) and really enjoyed it. Not only the poetry is amazing and devastating but the article about translation is very very good. It’s a great way to read poetry that’s dark, gloomy and hopeless. Very beautiful collection. (4.5 of 5)
Día 2: 03/08/2024: 36 páginas.
Día 3: 04/08/2024: 18 páginas.
.
I loved discovering this author. I’m Venezuelan and anything by a Venezuelan author, I’m going to read it. The thing is, I read this in English and hated the fact that I was reading a writer from my country in another language but, I downloaded a collection of her poems and did like a read in English and Spanish thing (with the poems that were in the other collection of course) and really enjoyed it. Not only the poetry is amazing and devastating but the article about translation is very very good. It’s a great way to read poetry that’s dark, gloomy and hopeless. Very beautiful collection. (4.5 of 5)
Read
June 3, 2021Poetry can be a medicine or a salve, or even an open wound in its own right, but this book is poison—necessary poison for a dying world, a world that still runs on inertia and the fumes of contempt. But after all, the death of this world must begin at home.
“Allow me, lord / to see me as I am: / rifle in hand / grenade in mouth / gutting the people I love.”
Measure your dosage carefully.
“Allow me, lord / to see me as I am: / rifle in hand / grenade in mouth / gutting the people I love.”
Measure your dosage carefully.
March 25, 2020
Very good
Read
January 23, 2024I am a solitary fate
in this space of twilight and rituals.
in this space of twilight and rituals.
Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews