Video: Robin Ouzman Hislop
Spanish
Route Signs. Poems by Javier Gil Martin. Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arrospide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
FIRST TERRITORY
child eats crying
child cries eating
in animal concert
Blanca Varela
Lips that you have not used to kiss
little feet you haven't walked on yet
eyes which see just a foot from your face
hands you still don't know are yours
only
crying, hunger and sleep
and some furtive smile
but now comes life
beautiful Guille,
and kisses will come and your steps
and your eyes will see to the end of the horizon
you will know your hands, and how to handle them
but don't forget, my child,
that crying, hunger, sleep
were your first territory.
PRIMER TERRITORIO
- niño come llorando
llora comiendo niño
en animal concierto
Blanca Varela
Javier Gil Martin (Madrid, 1981). With a degree in Spanish Philology from the UAM, he is professionally dedicated to subtitling and literary proofreading and passionately to reading and editing, mainly poetry. He has coordinated, together with good friends, several literary collections. In 2020 he founded the publishing project “Cartonera del escorpión azul” and since 2006 he coordinates the “Versos para el adiós” section of Adiós Cultural magazine. As an author, he has published Poemas de la bancarrota (Ediciones del 4 de agosto, Logroño, 2015), Poemas de la bancarrota y otros poemas (Espacio Hudson, Argentina, 2018), Museo de la intemperie (Ejemplar Único, Alzira, 2020) & Museo de la intemperie [II] (Cartonera Island, Tenerife, 2022). His “Route Signs” is a section of the latter.
Amparo Arróspide (born in Buenos Aires) is an M.Phil. by the University of Salford. As well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines, she has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento. The latter is part of a trilogy together with Jacuzzi and Hormigas en diaspora, which are in the course of being published. In 2010 she acted as a co-editor of webzine Poetry Life Times, where many of her translations of Spanish poems have appeared, she has translated authors such as Margaret Atwood, Stevie Smith and James Stephens into Spanish, and others such as Guadalupe Grande, Ángel Minaya, Francisca Aguirre, Carmen Crespo, Javier Díaz Gil into English. She takes part in poetry festivals, recently Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) .
Video Poem Tesserae by Carmen Crespo Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amparo Arrospide Music Arrangement Sara L Russell
Editor’s Note:This YoubeTube Video is in the Public Domain. The length of this epic poem is 26 minutes & accompanied throughout in almost 100% synchronisation Subtitle Script, on the few occasions where there is slight overlap, i beg the reader’s indulgence.
Tesserae is a mysterious poem by Carmen Crespo It is about pieces of a Greek mosaic, and the epic visions they evoke in the poet’s imagination. This translation from the Spanish is by Robin Hislop and Amparo Arrospide , read by Robin Ouzman Hislop and with background music by me, Sara L. Russell.aka.PinkyAndrexa created in Garage Band, using various musicians’ “loops”. Listen with headphones and be transported to another place & time..
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; at Artvilla.com his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, & Moon selected Audio Textual Poems available at Amazon.com as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)
EL Cazador An Audio Poem by Amparo Arróspide with Piano Arrangement by D M Jackson
Dave M Jackson is the Admin at Artvilla.com where his works are featured extensively.
Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published seven poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar, Presencia en el Misterio, En el Oido del Viento, Hormigas en Diáspora and Jaccuzzi, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and in both national and foreign magazines.
She has received numerous awards. Editor’s Note: see also Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop Her latest work Valle Tiétar is published by El sastre de Apollinaire Poesía,32 www.elsastredeapollinaire.com
Can’t all poets? A poem by Amparo Arróspide Translated from Spanish, Audio Robin Ouzman Hislop
* A poem by Amparo Arróspide, from “En el oído del viento” (Baile del Sol, 2016). Hers and Robin Ouzman´s translation.
***
Can’t all poets
get a PhD in synesthesia
by the University of Columba in New York?
Can´t they harvest medallions under the moon?
Can´t they work as professors of Punic Sciences?
As kindergarten teachers, can´t they work?
Can´t they afford to pay for
their third self-published volume?
Can´t all poets live on air?
Can’t they rummage, deconstruct , snoop
build for themselves a submerged house
inhabit a crystal palace?
Can´t they repeat over and over the unsaid
incite questions of ethical and aesthetic weight
dismantle and fragment reality?
Can´t they translate their 14th century Chinese
concubine colleagues?
Can´t they receive writing
from a yearning and swift
void?
From a primordial nothingness?
Can´t they mortgage their crystal palace
their submerged house?
Can´t they rebelliously peddle little stars?
Can´t all poor poets steal books?
Can´t they read so
the complete works by Samuel and Ezra and John
by Juana Inés, Alejandra and Gabriela
by Anne and Margaret and Stevie
by Wallace and Edgar and Charles
by Arthur and Paul and Vladimir
by Dulce and Marina and Marosa?
And etcetera and etcetera and etcetera and etcetera?
Can´t all poets
add more beauty to beauty
and more horror to horror?
Can´t they draw maps and routes
of the invisible, futuristic city
foretold by their dreams?
Can´t they pursue the intangible
Move towards permanence
so that a poem
becomes a closed and completed vehicle
to treasure a present without behind or beyond?
Can’t they unfold and transmigrate
can’t they achieve mindfulness
Can´t they stammer forever
into everlasting silence?
**
¿Todos los poetas no pueden
obtener un doctorado en sinestesia
por la universidad de Columba en Nueva York?
¿Cosechar medallones bajo la luna?
¿Trabajar de catedráticos de ciencias púnicas
trabajar de maestras jardineras?
¿Trabajar?
¿No pueden costearse la tercera autoedición?
¿Vivir del aire?
¿No pueden hurgar, deconstruir, fisgonear
construirse una casa sumergida
habitar un palacio de cristal?
¿Reiterar una y otra vez lo no dicho
incitar preguntas de peso ético y estético
desarticular y fragmentar la realidad?
¿Traducir a concubinas chinas del siglo XIV?
¿No pueden recibir la escritura desde un vacío originario
anhelante y veloz?
¿Hipotecar palacio y casa sumergida,
traficar estrellitas, rebelarse?
¿Robar libros por pobres?
¿Leer así
a Samuel a Ezra a John
a Juana Inés a Alejandra a Gabriela
y a Joyce a Anne a Margaret
a Wallace a Edgar a Charles
a Arthur a Paul, Vladimir
a Marina a Dulce a Marosa?
¿Y a etcétera y etcétera y etcétera y etcétera?
¿No pueden
agregar más belleza a la belleza
y al horror, más horror?
¿Trazar mapas y rutas
de la ciudad invisible, futurista
que sus sueños predicen?
¿Acosar lo inapresable, moverse
en seguimiento de lo fijo, el poema
como vehículo cerrado y concluso
para atesorar un presente sin detrás ni más allá?
¿No pueden desdoblarse, transmutarse
no pueden extrañarse, balbucearse
y enmudecer al fin?
*
Amparo Arróspide (from En el oído del viento (Baile del Sol, 2016)
Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published seven poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar, Presencia en el Misterio, En el Oido del Viento, Hormigas en Diáspora and Jaccuzzi, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and in both national and foreign magazines.
She has received numerous awards. Editor’s Note: see also Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)
Excerpts from Series & other poems by Andres Fisher Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop
CASTILLA X
i.
Grandes segadoras trabajan en los campos mientras aviones cruzan el cielo, lentamente, sobre ellos.
ii.
Las mismas montañas se alzan en lontananza sin embargo otros vehículos ruedan por los caminos.
iii.
Donde antes fue la bestia, hoy es el motor mientras el hombre es el mismo que siembra, cosecha y muere.
CASTILE X
i.
Large harvesters crop the fields as aeroplanes slowly cross the skies above them.
ii.
The same mountains rise in the distance even though other vehicles run the roads.
iii.
Where it was the beast before, now it’s the engine, whereas man, who sows, reaps and dies, remains the same.
CASTILLA XI
i.
Campos de amapolas en los llanos de Castilla.
ii.
Como islas rojas en medio de la marea verde que los circunda.
iii.
Primavera muy lluviosa. Resplandece el llano en el trigo y los cultivos.
iv.
En las flores silvestres, que siguen creciendo junto a los castillos.
CASTILE XI
i.
Poppy fields on the plains of Castile.
ii.
Like red islands surrounded by a green tide.
iii.
A very rainy spring. The plains glisten through the wheat and crops.
iv.
As well as the wild flowers, that still grow beside the castles.
CASTILLA XII (*)
i.
Aun se siembra el trigo en los márgenes de la gran ciudad.
ii.
Que refulge y palpita, confundiendo sus luces con las del ocaso.
iii.
Ya no es la mano del hombre la que siega el trigo.
iv.
Que sin embargo sigue creciendo, enhiesto, en dirección al cielo.
____
A José Viñals, in memoriam.
CASTILE XII (*)
i.
Wheat is still sown on the outskirts of the big city.
ii.
Gleaming and palpitating it mixes its lights with dusk’s.
iii.
Now it’s no longer the hand of man that harvests the wheat.
iv.
That nevertheless still grows straight towards the sky.
_________
(*) To José Viñals, in memoriam
***
CASTILLA XIV
i.
Día nublado en el verano de Castilla:
ii.
inusual como los aviones, de los que ahora solo existe el sonido.
iii.
Gentes van y vienen por las plazas de los pueblos:
iv.
que languidecen o reviven, según desde donde se los mire.
CASTILE XIV.
i.
A cloudy day in the summer of Castile:
ii.
as unusual as the aeroplanes, whose sounds now only exist.
iii.
People come and go through the squares in the small towns:
iv.
that wilt or revive according to the point they’re observed from.
CASTILLA XV
i.
Aun pastan ovejas en los prados de Castilla.
ii.
Y en los campos de rastrojos, ya en la meseta o circundados por colinas.
iii.
Suenan los mismos cencerros que los castillos han oído desde nacer.
iv.
Que oyeron antes las ruinas romanas, hoy circundadas por los nuevos molinos de metal.
CASTILE XV
i.
Sheep still graze on the pastures of Castile.
ii.
And in the bundle stacked fields, whether on the flatlands or the surrounding hills.
iii.
The same sheep-bells heard by the castles ever since their birth still sound.
iv.
Heard before the Romans and their ruins now surrounded by new steel mills.
CASTILLA XVI
i.
La disciplina del cereal y del olivo dotando de su rigor a los campos de Castilla.
ii.
Las sierras no formando mares sino alzándose como cuchillos que dividen las llanuras.
CASTILE XVI
i.
The discipline of the cereal and the olive tree endowing the fields of Castile, its rigour.
ii.
Ridges not forming seas but rising like knives dividing the plains.
***
CASTILLA XIX
i.
Es invierno y nieva en las sierras de Castilla.
ii.
El manto blanco, sin embargo, no llega a cubrir el pardo que domina en el paisaje.
iii.
En el llano, no obstante, las cepas son apenas vestigios en la superficie de una gruesa capa blanca.
iv.
Y en la autopista, los quitanieves trabajan a destajo para abrir un solo carril.
CASTILE XIX
i.
It’s winter and it snows on the sierras of Castile.
ii.
It’s white shroud, however, fails to cover the grey that dominates the landscape.
iii.
On the plains though, stumps of vine remain as vestiges capped in a thick white .
iv.
And on the motorway, snow ploughs work without respite merely to open a single lane.
LOS POEMAS DEL HIELO IV
i.
Aun existe el ocaso en los espejos retrovisores.
ii.
Delante, la luna se alza sobre un cielo azul oscuro.
iii.
Es el mismo vehículo el que rueda por la autopista y la carretera comarcal.
iv.
Y el que conduce, a bordo del coche y de sí mismo.
THE ICE POEMS IV
i.
Dusk still exists in the rear view mirrors.
ii.
Moon is rising on a dark blue sky ahead.
iii.
It’s the same vehicle that rides the motorway and the byway.
iv.
As is the driver who boards both car and himself.
VARIACIONES SOBRE UN POEMA SIN TITULO DE DAMSI FIGUEROA.
i.
Tres toros blancos corrían por tu sueño.
ii.
Golpeaban tu mejilla con arena.
iii.
Florecían cardos en una pradera amarilla que llegaba hasta el mar.
VARIATIONS ON AN UNTITLED POEM OF DAMSI FIGUEROA
i.
Three white bulls ran through your dream.
ii.
Beating your cheek with sand.
iii.
Thistle bloomed in a yellow prairie ending in the sea.
AEROPUERTO
i.
Se incendia el cielo en los ventanales del aeropuerto.
ii.
Mientras, aviones van y vienen apareciendo y desapareciendo entre las nubes.
iii.
Autobuses, furgonetas y pequeños tractores bullen en las pistas.
iv.
Mientras, los viajeros caminan y desaparecen al entrar en las pasarelas.
AIRPORT
i.
Sky burns in the airport windows.
ii.
Meanwhile, planes go back and forth appearing and disappearing amidst the clouds.
iii.
Buses, trucks and small tractors bustle in the tracks.
iv.
Meanwhile, travellers walk and disappear entering the ramps.
AEROPUERTO I
i.
Cae la noche en los ventanales del aeropuerto.
ii.
Ahora los aviones son puntos luminosos en un cielo negro y uniforme.
iii.
Gentes y vehículos mantienen su actividad cíclica e interminable.
iv.
Mientras, los altavoces emiten mensajes no siempre comprensibles.
AIRPORT I
i.
Night falls in the airport windows.
ii.
Planes now are luminous spots in a dark and motionless sky.
iii.
People and vehicles maintain their cyclical and endless routine.
iv.
Meanwhile, speakers deliver not always understandable messages.
***
THE PICKAXE AND THE WORM (*)
The pickaxe can cut the worm but chooses not to do it, putting him gently aside.
(*) Almost from William Blake
***
Escenas. Scenes.
i.
Un hombre solitario, camina en línea recta mientras un incendio, a sus espaldas, calcina su presente;
su presente que se elonga, calcinado, mientras los pasos se repiten, rítmicamente, ajenos a toda sensación térmica o corporal.
i.
A solitary man proceeds in a straight line whilst a fire behind him burns to ashes his present,
a present that as it stretches is burnt to ashes, whilst his steps rhythmically repeat themselves, detached from any thermal or corporal sensation.
ii.
Una mujer, a lo lejos, realiza el trayecto mas lento entre el horizonte y las nubes de sus ojos;
nubes a medio camino entre el horizonte y la bruma, cerebral, que impregna de amarillo el espacio entre el horizonte y sus propios ojos.
ii.
A woman in the distance travels a slower trajectory between the horizon and the clouds in her eyes,
clouds halfway between the horizon and the cerebral haze which impregnates yellow space between the horizon and her own eyes.
iii.
La visión de un gato, absorto, tenso en la potencia que lo habita:
que dibuja una ventana en cada muro; que convierte en hipotenusa cada movimiento del gato, tenso, absorto en la visión de su propio movimiento.
A Juan Luis Martínez.
iii.
The cat’s vision, absorbed, tense in the power that inhabits him:
a vision that draws a window on each wall; and that turns into hypotenuse each movement of the cat, tense, absorbed in the vision of its own movement.
To Juan Luis Martinez.
iv.
Un automóvil, abandonado, viaja sin pausa por una larga carretera;
una costanera interminable por la que el automóvil vaga, ensimismado, con dos soles sobre el horizonte como testigos oculares.
iv.
An automobile, abandoned, travels non stop the long motorway:
an endless esplanade, where the automobile roams engrossed with two suns on the horizon as ocular witnesses.
Escenas 1 Scenes 1
i.
Un hombre, a la distancia, pareciera caminar en círculos mientras a su espalda, las huellas dibujan un trazado ortogonal:
trazado que se extiende, circular, mientras sus pasos se alejan, ajenos a toda intención geométrica o lineal.
i.
A man, in the distance, would seem to walk in circles, whilst at his back his tracks draw an orthogonal sketch:
a sketch that extends circularly as his steps walk away, oblivious to any geometrical or linear intention.
ii.
Una mujer, entre la bruma, pareciera dibujar el horizonte con sus pasos sobre la arena:
trayecto lineal, hipnótico, donde los ojos son un recuerdo borroso que tiñe de amarillo cuanto existe en la memoria.
ii.
A woman amidst the mist would seem to draw the horizon as if with her steps on the sand:
a hypnotic linear trajectory, where the eyes are a blurred memory tinting in a yellow haze all what can be remembered.
iii.
Un gato, absorto, se solaza con la visión de su propio movimiento.
desplazamiento lineal que elimina muros, obstáculos, oxidando en su fuerza cuanto se interpone entre el gato y su visión.
iii.
Absorbed, a cat takes pleasure in the vision of its own movements:
a linear displacement that eliminates walls and obstacles, oxidising in its strength,
all that stands between the cat and its vision.
iv.
Un barco, a la deriva, se deja adormecer por la trama rítmica de la marea:
secuencia de olas a medio camino entre la costanera y el horizonte, entre los que el barco agota sus posibilidades de existir.
iv.
Lulled by the rhythmic weavings of the tide, a boat drifts drowsily:
wave sequences, midway between the esplanade and the horizon, where the boat exhausts its possibilities to exist.
Escenas 2 Scenes. 2
i.
Un hombre, bajo la lluvia, camina sin detenerse hasta que el agua, gota a gota, moja su mirada:
mirada húmeda que ve cargado de amarillo el espeso cielo gris del centro del invierno
i.
In the rain a man walks non stop until the water drop by drop wets his gaze:
a wet gaze that sees charged by yellow the dense grey sky of the winter’s core.
ii.
Una mujer, bajo el cielo del invierno, no detiene sus pasos que la acercan a las nubes:
sucesión de nubes grises entre las que la mujer se detiene, con sus pies sobre la arena
ii.
A winter’s sky doesn’t stop a woman’s footsteps beneath bringing her closer to the clouds:
a succession of grey clouds that stay between the woman with her feet on the sand.
iii.
Un árbol, desnudo en el invierno, enseña al viento su estructura:
a un geómetra, que encuentra en ella el sentido de la vida.
iii.
Stripped by winter, a tree shows the wind its structure:
to a geometrician, who finds in it the meaning of life.
iv.
Las luces de su arboladura son los únicos puntos visibles de un barco, entre la niebla de la bahía:
luces que se confunden con las del tendido eléctrico de la ciudad, apenas unos metros mas arriba.
iv.
Rigging lights are the only visible points of a ship in the fog of a bay:
lights which get confused with a city’s electric lights suspended just a few meters above.
Escenas 3. Scenes. 3
i.
Un rostro, desvaneciéndose, aun conserva rasgos que lo vinculan a la especie:
pertenencia laxa, cuya disolución a la luz de la tarde pone en jaque a la especie, que lo ignora, embotada en su rutina.
A Foucault
i.
A fading face still retains traits that link it to its specie:
a lax belonging, whose late afternoon dissolution checkmates the specie, which, dulled by routine, it’s unaware of.
To Foucault
ii.
Los anos del hombre desintegrándose, espasmódicamente, mientras sus huellas se acercan a los dominios del arquetipo;
territorio geométrico, sin edad, que encanta la consciencia y troquela los anos del hombre.
ii.
The years of man disintegrate in spasms as his footsteps approach the domain of the archetype;
in an ageless geometrical territory delighting consciousness and indenting the years of man.
iii.
Una calle dando tumbos, ebria, entra en el vértigo de un viaje circular:
que desorienta a las puertas, psicoactivándolas, haciendo lineal el trayecto de pajeros y peces que deambulan por la calle, delirante, en el cenit del periplo
iii.
A street staggers along inebriated entering the vertigo of a circular journey:
disorientating, psychoactivating doorways, turning lineal the trajectories of birds and fish that roam the street deliriously in the zenith of the trip.
iv.
Un espejo, al fondo de un pasillo, es desbordado por los destellos de una imagen triangular;
triangulo equilátero, evanescente, que entrega su identidad al espejo aferrándose, difusamente, a un vago anhelo de eternidad.
A Borges
iv.
A mirror at the end of a corridor is overwhelmed by the glimmers of a triangular image;
an evanescent equilateral triangle surrendering its identity to the mirror clutching dimly a vague desire for eternity.
To Borges
LOS POEMAS DEL HIELO. THE ICE POEMS.
i.
El cielo solo existe en los espejos retrovisores. Delante, el asfalto se extiende sin fin aparente troquelado por el ritmo hipnótico del trazado discontinuo.
El sol es un detalle. Solo uno más para el que rueda por el asfalto mientras el cielo sigue existiendo únicamente en el cristal de los espejos.
i.
The sky only exists in the rear view mirrors. Ahead, the asphalt extends without apparent end indented by the hypnotic rhythm of the continual broken road lines.
The sun is a mere detail to he who rolls on the asphalt as the sky goes on existing only in the glass of the mirrors.
ii.
La carretera solo existe en la retina del viajero. Fuera, rueda y asfalto son una unidad que constituye en sí misma el movimiento.
El ojo reconoce apenas borrosas señales de ruta mientras la retina vaga por otros campos. Por otros áreas de la conciencia en movimiento.
ii.
The motorway only exists in the retina of the traveller; outside wheel and asphalt are a unit, which constitutes itself as the motion.
The eye recognises only blurred route signs, as the retina wanders in other fields, other areas of consciousness in motion.
iii.
El silencio sincopado del habitáculo de un coche define la existencia del conductor, cuya presencia otorga sentido a la maquina.
Un sentido que se entremezcla con el trazado discontinuo, con el sol que incide sobre el y con el conductor, definido entre el silencio y la sincopa.
iii.
The syncopated silence of the car’s compartment defines the existence of the driver, whose presence gives sense to the machine.
A sense that blends the continual broken road lines, the sun on them and the driver defined by silence and syncopation.
iv.
La mirada del conductor de un vehículo que rueda. Su extensión en un área delimitada por el horizonte y el trazado discontinuo.
Por el sol al fondo. Vórtice que define la existencia del conductor, de su mirada y la del vehículo que rueda.
iv.
The driver’s sight in a rolling vehicle, its range on the area marked by the horizon and the continual broken road lines;
by the sun, afar, a vortex that defines the driver’s existence, his sight and the rolling vehicle.
v.
El asfalto de la carretera como requisito necesario del movimiento. Su existencia
pétrea definiendo a un individuo.
Sujeto que viaja, insomne, consciente de deber su existencia al movimiento engendrado por la interacción del asfalto y de la rueda.
v.
The asphalt of a motorway being a necessary requirement for motion, whose stony surface defines an individual.
A sleepless subject, who travels aware it owes its existence to the motion engendered by the interaction of asphalt and wheel.
vi.
El movimiento de un vehículo solo existe entre el trazado discontinuo y el sol, que define la presencia de lo visible.
Movimiento materializado en la consciencia a través de la retina, en le que el sol troquela cuanto tiene posibilidad de existir.
vi.
The motion of a vehicle only exists between the continual broken lines and the sun defining the presence of what is visible.
A motion materialised in consciousness through the retina, in which the sun impresses all possibilities of existence.
vii.
La noción de un conductor y de una máquina. De su desplazamiento sobre el asfalto blando de una carretera.
Incisión de una marca en el asfalto. Huella que definirá la presencia de conductor, maquina, asfalto y carretera.
vii.
The concept of a driver and a machine. Their motion over the soft asphalt of the motorway.
Incision of a mark in the asphalt. A trace that will define the presence of the driver, machine, asphalt and motorway.
viii.
La mirada de un sujeto en movimiento sobre la luz, que materializa la presencia de lo real.
La conciencia del conductor que debe su existencia al movimiento y al sol: atravesado en el horizonte por el trazado discontinuo.
viii.
A subject’s sight in motion on light materialises the presence of the real.
The driver’s consciousness, which owes its existence to motion and the sun: crossed on the horizon by the continual broken road lines
VARIACIONES SOBRE FRAGMENTOS DE LA HISTORIA VERADERA DE LA CONQUISTA DE NUEVA ESPAñA, DE BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
VARIATIONS ON FRAGMENTS OF THE TRUE HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF NEW SPAIN BY BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO.
i.
Tanta vara y piedra y flecha nos arrojaban, señor, que todo el suelo estaba cubierto de ellas y aun el cielo oscurecían cuando peleábamos de día.
Y derrocaban nuestras murallas, señor, y aunque arremetiéramos reciamente matando treinta o cuarenta de ellos en cada embestida, tan enteros y con mas vigor que al principio acometían.
i.
So many spears, rocks and arrows they hurled at us, my liege, that the ground was covered and even the sky darkened by them as we fought throughout the day.
They knocked down our walls, my liege and though we retaliated stoutly killing thirty or forty at each onslaught, yet as a whole they stormed us with even more vigour than before.
ii.
Sesentiseis de los nuestros nos tomaron en aquel desbarate, señor, y nos herían a todos, tanto a los de a caballo como a los de pie.
Y veíamos como los subían a lo alto del gran templo para sacrificarlos, señor, y los ponían sobre unas piedras delgadas y con grandes navajones de pedernal, les aserraban los pechos y le sacaban los corazones bullentes para ofrecerlos a sus dioses, que allí tenían
ii.
Sixty six of us, they took from that disaster, my liege, both those on horseback and those on foot.
And we saw how they climbed to the top of their great temple to slaughter them, my liege, to lay them on thin stone slabs and with great flint shards sever their breast to draw forth their pulsing hearts as an offering to the Gods they had there.
iii.
Desde lo alto del templo, señor, hacían sonar un gran tambor que se oía en dos leguas, que tenia el sonido mas triste, como instrumento de los demonios:
Y venían muchos escuadrones a echarnos mano y cerraban con nosotros tan reciamente que no aprovechaban estocadas ni cuchilladas; ballestas ni escopetas y daban en nosotros, señor, llenos de heridas y corriéndonos la sangre.
iii.
From the top of the temple, my liege they made a great drum roll you could hear from two leagues, it had a most sad sound, as though an instrument of demons:
they came in many squads closing us in at hand so that neither neither slash nor thrust, shotgun nor crossbow was of avail, and so they struck us, my liege, full of wounds and running in our own blood.
***
Andres Fisher was born in Washington DC in 1963. At an early age he moved to Chile where he was raised. In 1990 he moved to Madrid, Spain, where he got his PhD and started publishing poetry and related work. Since 2004 he’s back in the US where he teaches at Appalachian State University, Boone, NC, and he still spends 2 or 3 months a year in Madrid. His last book of poetry is Series, collected poetry 1995-2010 (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica, 2010). In 2009 appeared his bilingual anthology of Haroldo de Campo’s poetry, Hambre de Forma (Ed. 27 letras, Madrid) and in 2010 Caballo en el Umbral, anthology of Jose Viñals’ poetry done collaboratively with Benito del Pliego (Ed. Regional de Extremadura, Mérida). In 2013 appeared Entremilenios (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica), a translation into Spanish of Haroldo de Campo’s posthumous book. Also in 2013 was released Círculo de Hueso, translations into Spanish of the poetry of Lew Welch (Varasek eds.) done with Benito del Pliego and recently in 2014, they have published Objetos y Retratos. Geografía, translations into Spanish of a sample of Gertrude Stein’s poetry (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica)
***
Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Poetry Life & Times at Artvilla.com. His numerous appearances include Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Honest Ulsterman, Cratera No 3 and Aquillrelle’s Best. His publications are collected poems All the Babble of the Souk, Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals & Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems. A translation from Spanish of poems by Guadalupe Grande Key of Mist and Carmen Crespo Tesserae, the award winning (X111 Premio César Simón De Poesía), in November 2017 these works were presented in a live performance at The International Writer’s Conference hosted by the University of Leeds. UK. A forthcoming publication of collected poems Off the Menu is expected in 2020
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)
Poems by Luz Pichel Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
Editor’s Note: although we include the originals in this text, to introduce the poems of Luz Pichel, she is a Galician poet, a region in Spain with its own language (Gallego) which although bears similarities to Spanish (Castellano) is strikingly different. Luz Pichel mixes both languages in her work, but we as translators, have translated both into English, (apart from the little French ditty On The Bridge of Avignon in the first poem) hence the footnotes will often indicate the original Gallego scripts in the texts.
(1.) the south mama maría i did not take you to the south nor to the southern station so you could see floor 0 floor 1 floor 2 the general view 1 prices maps tickets tours southern pages news the such a pretty cross I have to go one summer with you to the heavens to see the southern cross mama the south in all the languages of the world your name mother in all the stars in all the ways of milk in our lovely rude tongue mother 2 south in french listen well sur la table 3 a girl opened on the sacrificial table 4 sur le pont d'avignon l'on y danse l'on y danse sur-face what do they make? who makes the south? who builds the south? who profits from the south? who profits? 5 les beaux messieurs font comme ça et puis encore comme ça (bang bang bang a piggy gesture) sur le sable 6 the cobra of fear crawled on the sand he left engraved his SS the general view mama these will be the plots of memory l'on y dance tous en rond les militaires font comme ça (bang, bang bang a homicide a child) et puis comme ça les beaux messieurs e les militaires the building of the south mama patricia mare mâe 7 our south their south les belles dames les belles dames dansent elles font comme ça et puis encore comme ça the south mama eva mamá álvaro rafa guadalupe francisca rosalía alfonsina federico emily luis chámase mamá manuel mamá manuela/ where your migrant shins grew skinny on the sacrificial table 8 one day we will go all together there to the south mamai they still have to see us dance on the cobra's SS e puis encore 9 dance we're all going to be prima ballerinas mama noelina the musicians will do like this like this like this and still again if it is the case like this another time / comme ça 10
**
vista xeral 1
na nosa lingua ruin bonita nai 2
on the table 3
sobre da mesa do sacrificio abríase a rapaza aquela 4
que fan?
quen fai o sur?
quen constrúe o sur? quen aproveita o sur?
quen se aproveita? 5
on the sand 6
mother mama 7
onde medraron as túas canelas migratorias
fracas na tabla do sacrificio 8
and then again 9
e os músicos farán así e así e así
e despois aínda si es caso outra vez así/ comme ça 10
(1.)
el sur mamá maría al sur no te he llevado ni a la estación del sur para que vieras planta 0 planta 1 planta 2 vista xeral los precios los mapas los tickets los recorridos las páginas del sur las noticias la cruz tan guapa he de ir un verano contigo al cielo a ver la cruz del sur mam el sur en todas las linguas do mundo tu nombre de madre en todas las estrellas en todas las vias de la leche para que veas na nosa lingua ruín bonita nai sur en francés escucha bien sur la table sobre da mesa do sacrificio abríase a rapaza aquela sur le pont d’avignon l'on y danse l'on y danse sur--face que fan? quen fai o sur? quen constrúe o sur? quen aproveita o sur? quen se aproveita? les beaux messieurs font comme ça et puis encore comme ça (bang bang bang un gesto guarro) sur le sable se arrastraba la cobra del miedo sobre la arena dejaba grabadas sus eses vista general mama estas serán las eras de la memoria l'on y dance tous en rond les militaires font comme ça (bang, bang bang un homicidio un niño) et puis comme ça les beaux messieurs e les militaires construcción del sur mamá patricia mare mâe el nuestro el de ellas les belles dames les belles dames dansent elles font comme ça et puis encore comme ça o sur mamá eva mamá álvaro rafa guadalupe francisca rosalía alfonsina federico emily luis chámase mamá manuel mamá manuela/ onde medraron as túas canelas migratorias fracas na tabla do sacrificio un día vamos a ir todas juntas allá hasta el sur mamai para que sepas aún nos han de ver danzar sobre la ese de la cobra e puis encore danzar vamos a ser todas unas bailarinas de primera mamá noelina e os músicos farán así e así e así e despois aínda si es caso outra vez así/ comme ça
(2.)
Now that you aren’ t here I want to tell you of my land from before Not the valleys you saw nor their so sweet accent. I want you to know the muddy trails that you never trod to seek the warm mares of the night. I want to strike you with a blow that tells of the slow grit of roads where a song wet and hoarse is cooking without bread for rocking cradles. I met a woman with a dozen sons who said she’d never loved anybody. Another who hid her voice in mailboxes and nailed her hope to the earth. Another who loved, gave birth and kissed the bread she made. And I met the man who loved her so much he lived in stables of straw. From a single cabbage he could get seven glasses of milk that tasted like cabbage. Children and cows shared all his songs and he never told them about the war. He will never die, because the land needs his voice. On winter nights he still bites a chestnut for each of the children who left.
(2.)
Ahora que no estás quiero contarte mi paisaje anterior. No los valles que viste ni el acento tan dulce. Quiero que sepas los senderos del barro que no pisaste nunca para buscar las yeguas templadas de la noche. Quiero a golpes contarte el lento pedregal de los caminos donde se cuece, húmeda y ronca, una canción sin pan para cunas de alambre. Conocí una mujer con doce hijos que decía no haber amado a nadie. Y otra que escondía su voz en los buzones y clavaba en la tierra la esperanza. Y otra mujer que amó y parió y besaba el pan que hacía. Y conocí al hombre que la quiso tanto, habitante de establos de paja. De una sola col podía sacar siete vasos de leche que sabían a col. Compartían los hijos y las vacas todas sus canciones y jamás les habló de la guerra. No morirá nunca, porque el paisaje necesita su voz. En las noches de invierno, todavía muerde una castaña por cada uno de los hijos que se fueron.
(3.)
I give you a herb you said inside a letter take this leaf grandma I found it it has dust her name is luz 1 a tiny green thread an oval drawing and the moon rolling down a rock smell of orange blossom this is called orange he said it is something to eat I bought it at the cattle fair for you a chick being hatched is not easy either if there is no ear of wheat if there is no waiting if there is no space some when they are hatched their roost is spoiled they go luz but the leaf has nerves covered in dust but do not then get confused but blow the woman picked up an ear of wheat from the ground an ear of wheat has little flour but it will make sense orange falls the moment you passed by it rolls smells I wanted to make a simple thing to give you to give them to give you to make an old age a death even a thing like the spiral peel of an orange unspoiled (unlike the pedros´ baby girl who came badly) sometimes the peel is torn take luz an orange look I found it in the air and luz is not luz either neither is a leaf that falls - hayu hayuná hayunaí there! (someone celebrates something) a woman on the door step gazes out to far far away her name was orange she peeled well she came out unspoiled she had been learning simply to fall in a spiral on herself
1. Light.
(3.)
te regalo una hierba dijiste dentro de una carta toma esta hoja abuela la encontré tiene polvo se llama luz un hilito verde un dibujo ovalado y la luna rodando por una roca olor a azahar esto se llama naranja dijo es cosa de comer en la feria la compré para ti un pollito naciendo tampoco es fácil si no hay espiga si no hay espera si no hay espacio algunos cuando nacen se les rompe la casa se van luz pero la hoja tiene los nervios cubiertos de polvo entonces pero no confundirse pero soplar la mujer recogía del suelo una espiga de trigo una espiga de trigo poquita harina tiene pero tendrá sentido naranja cae en el momento en que tú pasabas por allí rueda huele yo quería hacer una cosa sencilla para darte para darles paro daros hacer una vejez una muerte incluso una cosa así como la piel en espiral de una naranja cuando se logra entera (la niña de los de pedro no se logró tampoco venía mal) a veces se desgarra la piel toma luz una naranja mira la encontré en el aire y luz tampoco es luz tampoco es una hoja que cae -- ¡hayú hayuná hayunaí allá! (alguien celebra algo) una mujer en el umbral se asoma al otro lado mira desde muy muy lejos se llamaba naranja pelaba bien salía entera había ido aprendiendo a caer sencillamente en espiral sobre sí misma
(4.)
Babe take flowers to Chekhov´s grave take a little branch if you go to russia one day do that you go and take flowers but there when you grow up a seagull at a beach give her flight so when you go to russia you ask do you know where´s Chekhov´s grave it must have a painted sea bird he went cold she was the apple of his eye she closed his eyes wide open like portals of a house without people like a hot cross bun she crossed his eyelids and she said to herself said told herself I´ll go dad I´ll go leave in peace I ´ll go even if it rains then the little one put four slices of bread inside a bag a small bottle of water only four of bread only ´cos it would get hard inside a bag she started walking into the hill without anyone seeing her ´cos it was not proper to wait to grow up to go and put some flowers over a grave in russia
(4.)
nena llévale flores a la tumba de chejov llévale un ramito si vas a rusia un día tú lo haces vas y le llevas flores pero allá cuando seas grande una gaviota en una playa échala a volar después vas a rusia preguntas usted sabrá dónde la tumba de chejov debe de tener pintado un pájaro marino se quedó ella era la niña de los ojos de él le cerró los ojos que los tenía así portales de una casa sin gente le hizo la cruz del pan sobre los párpados y se dijo a sí misma dijo dijo para sí he de ir papá he de ir marcha tranquilo he de ir aunque llueva entonces la pequeña cuatro rebanadas de pan en una bolsa botellita de agua sólo cuatro de pan sólo que se iba a poner duro en una bolsa echó a andar monte adentro sin que la viera nadie pues no era del caso esperar a ser grande para ir a poner unas flores encima de una tumba en rusia
(5.)
harriet tubman was born araminta ross maria was born agnieszka norma was born conchita fernán was born cecilia pocahontas was born matoaka álvaro was born álvar raphaël was born rafita hypatia of alexandria was born a martyr annika was born anita rachael was born raquel andrzej naceu 1 andrés christine was born george carla was born carlos lucas naceu lilia mary shelley was born mary godwin dolly naceu dolly non saíu / she never left the roslin institute
1. was born
(5.)
harriet tubman nació araminta ross maría nació agnieszka norma nació conchita fernán nació cecilia pocahontas nació matoaka álvaro nació álvar raphaël nació rafita hypatia de alejandría nació mártir annika nació anita rachael nació raquel andrzej naceu andrés christine was born george carla nació carlos lucas naceu lilia mary shelley nació mary godwin dolly naceu dolly non saíu / no salió nunca del roslin institute
(6.)
harriet tubman rests her head lays it on the train track and sleeps she leads ahead because she knows languages understands the signs bears the beatings knows the underground rail ways and sees what cannot be seen and dreams what cannot be dreamt next to harriet all the others sleep over the track non return trips are long forests are very scary bugs and smugglers are very scary some countries are far too far they are so far away some mornings never reach a train station never never arrive they pass by in the darkness things look like bundles the ones who move carrying linen bags or with a little old lady on their shoulders they look like wolves mist on her palm a woman has written a verse in orange ink the train track is not a cosy pillow the cold doesn´t let you keep your ideas safe sleep and dream the message read the deeper the dream the farther it takes you little foreigner
(6.)
descansa a cabeza harriet tubman póusaa na vía do tren e dorme ela vai por diante porque sabe linguas entende os letreiros aguanta os paus / los palos coñece os camiños de ferro sub da terra e ve o que non se ve e soña o que non se soña a caronciño / a la vera de harriet as outras dormen todas sobre da vía as viaxes sen retorno fanse largas as fragas/ bosques meten moito medo meten medo os bichos e os estraperlistas algúns países están lonxe de máis/ quedan tan tan lejos algunhas mañás/mañanas non chegan nunca á estación dun tren/ no llegan nunca nunca pasan na escuridade as cousas semellan vultos os que se moven cargando con sacos de liño/ lino ou cunha velliña ao lombo/ una viejecita sobre los hombros semellan lobos néboa/ niebla na man aberta ten escrito a muller un verso con tinta de cor laranxa a vía do tren non é unha almofada xeitosa/ una almohada agradable no es la vía de un tren o frío non permite acomodar as ideas sen perigo/ peligro durme e soña dicía a mensaxe o soño canto máis fondo máis lonxe te leva/ más lejos te transporta extranxeiriña
Translations Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
Bio Photo. Luz Pichel & Amparo Arróspide. November 2017. Madrid.
Luz Pichel was born in 1947 in Alén (Lalín, Pontevedra), a tiny village in Galicia. Alén means “beyond” and also means “the beyond”. There she learned to speak in a language that could die but does not want to. Those who speak that language think that it is always others those who speak well.
She is the author of the poetry books El pájaro mudo (1990, City of Santa Cruz de la Palma Award), La marca de los potros (2004, XXIV Latin American poetry prize Juan Ramón Jiménez), Casa pechada (2006, Esquío Poetry Award ), El pájaro mudo y otros poemas (2004), Cativa en su lughar / Casa pechada (2013), Tra (n) shumancias (2015) and Co Co Co Ú (2017).
Part of her work Casa pechada was translated into English and Irish in the anthological book To the winds our sails: Irish writers translate Galician poetry, Salmonpoetry, 2010, ed. Mary O’Donnell & Manuela Palacios.
Neil Anderson translated into English Casa pechada. Several poems appeared in his blog (re) voltas; July, 2014.
Several poems from Casa pechada appeared in the American magazines SALAMANDER, No. 41, year 2015, and PLEIADES, vol. 36, Issue 2, p. 117, year 2016, in English translation by Neil Anderson.
Amparo Arróspide (born in Buenos Aires) is an M.Phil. by the University of Salford. As well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines, she has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento. The latter is part of a trilogy together with Jacuzzi and Hormigas en diaspora, which are in the course of being published. In 2010 she acted as a co-editor of webzine Poetry Life Times, where many of her translations of Spanish poems have appeared, she has translated authors such as Margaret Atwood, Stevie Smith and James Stephens into Spanish, and others such as Guadalupe Grande, Ángel Minaya, Francisca Aguirre, Carmen Crespo, Javier Díaz Gil into English. She takes part in poetry festivals, recently Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) .
For Olga. An Audio Textual Poem by Blanca Andreu. Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arrospide
This work comprises in an excerpt from the anthology on contemporary Spanish female poets entitled Las Diosas Blancas. Madrid, 1985. Copyright Ed. Ramon Buenaventura. Hiperion. This is an original and unpublished English version of the original poem written in Spanish. Translators Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arrospide would like to thank Casa del Traductor, in Tarazona and the British Literary Translation Association, East Anglia University Campus.
From this Spanish anthology –compiled by the well-known scholar and translator Mr. Ramón Buenaventura, whom we contacted earlier– a few selected authors were chosen for our joint translation work: Amalia Iglesias: Te buscare para decirte (I Will Find You To Tell You) , Ana Rossetti: Triunfo de Artemis sobre Volupta (Triumph Of Artemis Over Volupta) and Isolda (Isolda) , Blanca Andreu: Para Olga (For Olga) , Isla Correyero: Los Pajaros (Small Birds), Amparo Amoros: Midas (Midas) and Criaturas del gozo (Creatures Of Joy) , Rosalia Vallejo: Horno en llamarada (A Furnace In Flames) , Maria del Carmen Pallares: Sisargas (Sisargas), Margarita Arroyo: Era el mar lejos del mar ( It Was Sea Away From Sea).
We would like to thank Mr. Ramón Buenaventura and the above name poets, in advance, and let them rest assured that their work is protected by a legal Creative Commons Licence, by virtue of which the above named translators are willing to provide excerpts from their original translation work, provided that readers agree to use it under the terms of such licence. We strongly recommend reading the entire work and the poets’, who have continued evolving during these decades.
For Olga
Girl of delicately golden tresses,
girl obsession of the virgin stork
with tufts of damask feathers
that splashed death,
of the crazy stork with wings
of golden strychnine
which flew off leaving you with a corporeal perfume,
a neat smell of lilacs, already golden and rude dreams.
Girl who obeyed the apostle scops owl
and the murky look of real eyes,
with puerile drawings of Selene and the rest.
Girl of non-existent concert,
girl of cruel sonatines and malevolent books by Tom Wolfe,
or witch lace to bandage wounded deer ulcers,
of fallow deer gazing from mystical knolls,
or places like that.
Pluperfect girl, girl we never were,
tell it now,
tell it now, you, now that it’s so late,
spell out the sombre tempo,
spell me the tear
the purple silhouette of the mare,
the foal that lay at your feet waking up foam.
Abandoned recite the words of yesteryear,
shadow of Juan Ramón: Solitude, I am true to you.
Scornful recite the words of yesteryear,
but not that courtly verse,
don’t talk of queens white as a lily,
snow and Joan burning
and interwoven melancholy
of dear Villon,
speak clear verbs where you can drink the saddest liquid,
jars of sea and relief, now that it is already so late,
raise your tiny voice and summon up the song:
tell life that I remember her,
I remember her.
This small death is definitely lost in a nascent forest,
the shoot of an arrested comet,
that nobody saves
young volcano of novice gust and bones
made of bird, eyelid and thinking wave
that no stella book
no book painted with Italien solar gold,
no book of lava
will seal for me.
And so death so many times written
becomes radiant,
and i can talk
of desire and the unseeing beam of the lighthouse,
of the chimerical corpse of the crew.
And so death
becomes the story
of that mute girl who hanged herself
with boreal harp’s strings
because of nuptial poison on her tongue.
I definitely get lost cradling litters of rare epitaphs,
girl of golden tresses,
I will tell life that you remember her,
I will tell death that you remember her
that you remember their lines conjuring your shadow,
that you remember their habits and tempo solo,
bitter laurel, deep bramble, brazen error and sorrowful hordes,
while Ephesian cats are crying at my feet,
while lost silver cats
go curdling their ancestry in genealogical cypress and poplar,
I will tell life to remember you,
to remember me
now,
when I rise with loops and hair strings
up to the disaster of my head
up to the disaster of my twenty years,
up to the disaster, lammergeier light.
De una niña de provincias que se vino a vivir en un Chagall, 1980
Para Olga
Niña de greyes delicadamente doradas,
niña obsesión de la cigüeña virgen
con mechones de plumas de damasco
que salpicaban muerte,
de la cigüeña loca con alones
de estricnina dorada
que viajaba dejándote un corpóreo perfume,
un pulcro olor a lilas, ya dorados y rudos sueños.
Niña que obedeció al autillo apóstol
y a la mirada turbia de los ojos reales,
con pueriles dibujos de Selene y demás.
Niña de inexistente concierto,
niña de crueles sonatinas y malévolos libros de Tom Wolfe,
o de encajes de brujas para vendar las llagas de los corzos heridos,
de ciervos vulnerados asomados en los oteros místicos,
en los sitios así.
Niña pluscuamperfecta, niña que nunca fuimos,
dilo ahora,
dilo ahora tú, ahora que es tan tarde,
pronuncia el torvo adagio,
pronúnciame la lágrima,
la silueta morada de la yegua,
la del potro que se tendió a tus pies despertando la espuma.
Declama abandonada las palabras de antaño,
sombra de Juan Ramón: Soledad, te soy fiel.
Declama desdeñosa las palabras de antaño,
pero no aquella estrofa cortesana,
no hables de reinas blancas como un lirio,
nieves y Juana ardiendo,
y la melancolía entretejida
del querido Villon,
sino los verbos claros donde poder beber el líquido más triste,
jarros de mar y alivio, ahora que ya es tarde,
alza párvula voz y eco albacea y canta:
Dile a la vida que la recuerdo,
que la recuerdo.
Definitivamente se extravía en un bosque naciente esta muerte pequeña,
el brote del cometa detenido,
esto que nadie salva,
joven volcán de huesos y ráfaga novicia
hecha de pájaro y de párpado y de ola pensante
que ningún libro estela,
ningún libro estofado de oro solar de Italia,
ningún libro de lava
viene a sellar por mí.
Y así la muerte tantas veces escrita
se me vuelve radiante,
y puedo hablar
del deseo y del lacre rubio y ciego en los faros,
del cadáver quimera de la tripulación.
Y así la muerte
se convierte en historia
de aquella niña muda que se ahorcó
con las cuerdas boreales del arpa
porque tenía en la lengua un veneno nupcial.
Definitivamente me extravío acunando camadas de raros epitafios,
niña de grey dorada,
diré a la vida que la recuerdas,
diré a la muerte que la recuerdas,
que recuerdas sus líneas conjurando tu sombra,
que recuerdas sus hábitos y su carácter solo,
su laurel ácido, su profunda zarza, su descarado error y sus hordas dolidas,
mientras gatos efesios van llorando a mis pies,
mientras gatas perdidas plateadas
van cuajando su alcurnia en ciprés genealógico y en álamo,
diré a la vida que te recuerde,
que me recuerde,
ahora,
cuando me alzo con cuerdas capilares y bucles
hasta el desastre de mi cabeza,
hasta el desastre de mis veinte años,
hasta el desastre, luz quebrantahuesos.
“De una niña de provincias que se vino a vivir en un Chagall”1980
AUTHOR: BLANCA ANDREU (1959)
Bibliography:
– De una niña de provincias que se vino a vivir en un Chagall (awarded the 1980 Adonais International Poetry Prize) (Ediciones Rialp, Madrid, 1981).
– Báculo de Babel (awarded the Fernando Rielo International Poetry Prize) (Hiperión, Madrid, 1983).
– Elphistone (Visor Libros, Madrid, 1988)
– El sueño oscuro: (poesía reunida, 1980-1989) (Hiperión, Madrid, 1994).
Blanca Andreu (born 1959 A Coruña) is a Spanish poet. She grew up in Orihuela, where her family still resides, and attended El Colegio de Jesus-Maria de San Agustin, followed by studies in philology in Murcia. At age 20, she moved to Madrid without formally completing her education. Here, she met Francisco Umbral, who introduced her to the literati of the city.
In 1980, she was awarded the Premio Adonáis de Poesía for her work entitled, De una niña de provincias que se vino a vivir en un Chagall. Her use of surrealism is considered the beginning of the Post-Modern Generation. Her later work has tried to shy away from the surrealist tendencies of her early pieces.[2]
In 1985, she married novelist Juan Benet. After he died in 1993, she returned to La Coruña where she now lives a semi-reclusive life.
Awards
1980: Premio Adonáis de Poesía
1981: Premio de Cuentos Gabriel Miró
1982: Premio Mundial de Poesía Mística, Fernando Rielo
1982: Premio Ícaro de Literatura
2001: Premio Internacional de Poesía Laureà Mela
Translators:
Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a poet and translator. She has published seven poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar, Presencia en el Misterio, En el Oido del Viento, Hormigas en Diáspora , Jaccuzzi, and Valle Tiétar, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and in both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)
Editor’s Note: see also Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
Madrid 1973. A Video Poem with Text by Guadalupe Grande. Translated by Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arróspide
¿Y si fuera otra la ciudad,
“apenas vaho sobre el cristal”,
apenas un puñado de azogue sobre el vidrio?
Pero entender es extranjero;
tienes que dar un paso a tu costado,
abandonar el familiar aliento:
ese que teje con su alma de humo
el calendario absorto de los días;
el que hilvana en la sombra del horizonte
la pupila del tiempo;
el que sostiene,
con alfileres de arena entre los dedos,
los muros de la infancia,
las calles que ya no son, las horas
que ya se fueron,
los escombrados descampados que ahora son penumbra en el mostrador
Sin embargo, tú sigues viendo
el horizonte con su sombra
allí donde hoy hay un garaje.
Entre llaves y llantas,
entre motores y carrocerías
entre este mono azul y el suelo gris
aún huyen por las piedras los lagartos,
aún deja el caracol su rastro en la escombrera.
Florecen los almendros,
los trigales se elevan:
regresas con un olor a cardo y cicatriz,
vaho de miel,
apenas fragmentos de un azogue
ardidos en la hoguera.
La puerta del garaje se ha quedado abierta:
te asomas absorta a tu costado,
te quedas ahí, quieta, “respirando el verano”,
recordando,
respirando, recordando
la canícula secreta,
olvidando, mirando, quieta:
resbala una libélula
entre manos grasientas,
cae una tuerca,
cantan
¿quién canta?
llaves, llantas, ruedas
y unos niños que saltan
al estupor de piedra en piedra.
Correr sin caerse entre los escombros.
Correr deprisa, muy deprisa,
saltar, correr, cantar,
correr
antes de que todo desaparezca,
antes de que se acabe el verano,
antes de que ya solo quede
este garaje,
este vaho, este cristal,
este hombre rodeado de llaves,
aceites, llantas, tuercas,
piezas del velatorio de tu infancia.
Qué tarde se ha hecho:
aunque hemos sorteado los escombros,
cruzado los almendros, atravesado el trigal,
aunque estamos sudorosos y sin aliento,
la ciudad ha llegado antes,
ha llegado más lejos,
más deprisa, más dónde:
apenas un hilo sobre el cristal,
un puñado de azogue sobre el vidrio.
Es otra la ciudad
y entender es extranjero.
***
Madrid, 1973
And if the city was otherwise,
“just haze on crystal”.
just a handful of quicksilver on the glass?
But understanding is alien;
you need to step beside your side,
abandon the familiar breath:
the one that with its soul of smoke
knits the absorbed calendar days;
the one that threads the horizon´s shadow
through the pupil of time;
the one that holds
with pin heads of sand between its fingers
the walls of childhood,
the streets that are no more, the hours
already gone,
the dumping tips that are now twilight on the countertop.
Yet still you continue to see
the horizon with its shadow
where today a garage stands.
Between spanners and tyres,
between motors and bodyworks,
between a blue boiler suit and a grey floor
where lizards still dart amongst the stones,
where a snail still leaves its trail on the dump.
Almond trees flourish,
wheat fields rise up:
you return with a smell of thistle and scratches,
honey dew,
just fragments of quicksilver
burnt at the bonfire.
The garage door has remained open:
absorbed you peer into your side,
you remain there, still, “breathing the summer”,
remembering,
breathing, remembering
the secret midsummer heat
Forgetting, looking, still:
a dragonfly glides
between greasy hands,
a screw drops,
they sing,
who sings?
spanners, tyres, wheels
and children hop scotching
amazement from stone to stone.
Run without stumbling over the rubble.
Run fast, very fast,
skip, run, sing,
run
before everything vanishes,
before summer is over,
before only
this garage
this haze, this glass
remain,
this man surrounded by spanners,
oils, tyres, screws,
pieces of your childhood´s wake.
How late it´s grown:
even though we´ve avoided the dump,
crossed by the almond trees, passed through the wheat field,
even though we are sweaty and breathless,
the city has arrived before,
has arrived more far,
more quick, more where:
just a thread on the crystal,
a handful of quicksilver on the glass.
The city is otherwise
and understanding is alien.
Guadalupe Grande was born in Madrid in 1965. She has a Bachelor degree in Social Anthropology. Published poetry books: El libro de Lilit, (Renacimiento, awarded the 1995 Rafael Alberti Award, 1995), La llave de niebla (Calambur, 2003), Mapas de cera (Poesía Circulante, Málaga, 2006 and La torre degli Arabeschi, Milán, 2009), Hotel para erizos (Calambur, 2010) and Métier de crhysalide (an anthology, translated by Drothèe Suarez y Juliette Gheerbrant, Alidades, Évian-les-Bains, 2010).
As a literary critic, she has published in cultural journals and magazines, such as El Mundo, El Independiente, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, El Urogallo, Reseña and others.
In 2008 she was awarded the Valle Inclán grant for literary creation in the Academia de España in Rome.
In the publishing and cultural management areas, she has worked in institutions such as the Complutense University of Madrid Summer Courses, Casa de América and Teatro Real. Currently she manages poetical activities in the José Hierro Popular University at San Sebastian de los Reyes, Madrid.
The poems “Ocho y media” (Half past eight) and “Madrid, 1973” belong to La llave de niebla, (Key of Mist) which has been translated into English by Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arróspide.
***
Guadalupe Grande nació en Madrid en 1965. Es licenciada en Antropología Social.
Ha publicado los libros de poesía El libro de Lilit, (Renacimiento, Premio Rafael Alberti 1995), La llave de niebla (Calambur, 2003), Mapas de cera (Poesía Circulante, Málaga, 2006 y La torre degli rabeschi, Milán, 2009), Hotel para erizos (Calambur, 2010) y Métier de crhysalide (antología en traducción de Drothèe Suarez y Juliette Gheerbrant, Alidades, Évian-les-Bains, 2010).
Como crítico literario, ha colaborado en diversos diarios y revistas culturales, como El Mundo, El Independiente, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, El Urogallo, Reseña, etcétera.
En el año 2008 obtuvo la Beca Valle Inclán para la creación literaria en la Academia de España en Roma.
En el ámbito de la edición y la gestión cultural ha trabajado en diversas instituciones como los Cursos de Verano de la Universidad Complutense de Madrid, la Casa de América y el Teatro Real. En la actualidad es responsable de la actividad poética de la Universidad Popular José Hierro, San Sebastián de los Reyes, Madrid.
Los poemas “Ocho y media” y “Madrid, 1973” pertenecen a La llave de niebla y han sido traducidos al inglés por Robin Ouzman Hislop y Amparo Arróspide.
Translators:
Amparo Arróspide (Argentina) has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines. She has translated authors such as Francisca Aguirre, Javier Díaz Gil, Luis Fores and José Antonio Pamies into English, together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, who she worked with for a period as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, at Artvilla.com a Webzine. Her translations into Spanish of Margaret Atwood (Morning in the Burned House), James Stephens (Irish Fairy Tales) and Mia Couto (Vinte e Zinco) are in the course of being published, as well as her two poetry collections Hormigas en diáspora and Jacuzzi. She takes part in festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
https://www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
https://www.twitter.com/PoetryLifeTimes
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; at Artvilla.com his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals, Collected Poems, and the recently published Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)
Francisca Aguirre, National Literature Prize 2018, Poetry, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
Francisca Aguirre, Premio Nacional de las Letras 2018 El jurado la ha elegido “por estar su poesía (la más machadiana de la generación del medio siglo) entre la desolación y la clarividencia, la lucidez y el dolor”
Francisca Aguirre, National Literature Prize 2018. The jury chose it “because its poetry is (the most Machadian* of the generation of the half century) between desolation and clairvoyance, lucidity and pain”
* In the tradition of Antonio Machado
https://elpais.com/cultura/2018/11/13
Francisca Aguirre was born in 1930 in Alicante, Spain and died in Madrid in 2019, she had fled with her family to France at the end of the Spanish Civil War, where they lived in political exile. When the Germans invaded Paris in 1942, her family was forced to return to Spain, where her father, painter Lorenzo Aguirre, was subsequently murdered by Francisco Franco’s regime.
Aguirre published Ítaca (1972), currently available in English (Ithaca [2004]), when she was 42 years old. Her work has garnered much critical success, winning the Leopoldo Panero, Premio Ciudad de Irún, and Premio Galliana, among other literary prizes. Aguirre was married to the poet Félix Grande and is the mother of poet Guadalupe Grande.
Excerpts from “NANAS PARA DORMIR DESPERDICIOS”
LULLABIES TO LULL THROWN AWAYS
by FRANCISCA AGUIRRE
NANA DE LAS SOBRAS A Esperanza y Manuel Rico Vaya
canción la de las sobras, eso sí
que era una nana para dormir el hambre.
Vaya canción aquella
que cantaba mi abuela con aquella voz
que era la voz de la misericordia
disfrazada de voz angelical.
Porque la voz de mi abuela
nos cantaba la canción de las sobras.
Y nosotras, que no conocíamos el pan,
cantábamos con ella que
las sobras de pan eran sagradas,
las sobras de pan nunca se tiran.
Siempre recordaré su hermosa voz
cantando aquella nana mientras el hambre nos dormía.
**
LULLABY FOR LEFTOVERS To Esperanza and Manuel Rico
Well, a leftovers song, that truly was a lullaby to lull hunger to sleep. Wow, that song my grandmother sang with a voice that was the voice of mercy disguised as the voice of an angel. Because my grandmother´s voice sang for us the leftovers song. And we, who did not know bread, sang together with her that bread leftovers were holy, bread leftovers shall never be thrown away.
I will always remember her beautiful voice singing that lullaby while hunger lulled us to sleep.
**
NANA DE LAS HOJAS CAÍDAS
A Marián Hierro
Casi todo lo que se pierde tiene música,
una música oculta, inolvidable.
Pero las hojas, esas criaturas parlanchinas
que son la voz de nuestros árboles,
tienen, como la luz, el agua y las libélulas
una nana secreta y soñadora.
Lo que se pierde, siempre nos deja
un rastro misterioso y cantarín.
Las hojas verdes o doradas
cantan su desamparo mientras juegan al corro.
Cantan mientras los árboles las llaman
como llaman las madres a sus hijos
sabiendo que es inútil, que han crecido
y que se han ido a recorrer el mundo.
****
LULLABY FOR FALLEN LEAVES
To Marián Hierro
Almost everything which is lost has a music,
a hidden, unforgettable music.
But leaves, those chattering creatures
who are the voices of our trees
have — like light, water and dragonflies —
a secret dreamy lullaby.
That which is lost to us, always leaves
the mysterious trace of its song.
Green or golden leaves
sing of their neglect as they dance their ring a ring of roses.
They sing while trees call to them
as mothers do calling their children
knowing it is futile, as they have grown up
and left to travel the world over.
**
NANA DE LAS CARTAS VIEJAS
Tienen el olor desvalido del abandono
y el tono macilento del silencio.
Son desperdicios de la memoria, residuos de dolor,
y hay que cantarles muy bajito
para que no despierten de su letargo.
En ocasiones las manos se tropiezan con ellas
y el pulso se acelera
porque notamos que las palabras
como si fueran mariposas
quieren bailar delante de nosotros
y volver a contarnos el secreto
que duerme entre sus páginas.
Son las abandonadas,
los residuos de un tiempo de desdicha,
relatan pormenores de un combate
y al rozarlas oímos el tristísimo andar
de los presos en los penales.
**
LULLABY FOR OLD LETTERS
They give off the helpless smell of neglectfulness
and the emaciated tone of silence.
They are memory´s cast offs, residues of pain
and should be sung to in a low croon
so as not to awaken them from their lethargy.
Sometimes your hands chance upon them
and your pulse races
because we realize that words
wish to dance before us
as if they were butterflies
and tell us again the secret
sleeping inside their pages.
They are the neglected,
the remnants of unhappy times,
recounting the details of a struggle
and as we brush them we hear the saddest steps
of prisoners in jails.
**
NANA DEL HUMO
La nana del humo tiene muchos detractores,
casi nadie quiere cantarla.
Muchos dicen que el humo los ahoga,
otros piensan que eso de dormir al humo
no les da buena espina,
que tiene algo de gafe.
El humo no resulta de fiar:
en cuanto asoma su perfil oscuro
todo son malas conjeturas:
se nos está quemando el bosque,
aquella casa debe de estar ardiendo.
El humo es un extraño desperdicio,
tiene muy mala prensa.
Es un abandonado,
es un incomprendido;
casi nadie recuerda que el humo es un vocero,
un triste avisador de lo que se nos avecina.
Y por eso, cuando lo escucho vocear con impotencia
yo le canto la nana del silencio
para que no se sienta solo.
**
LULLABY FOR SMOKE
The lullaby for smoke doesn´t get many supporters,
almost nobody wants to sing its song.
Many say smoke stifles them,
others think to lull smoke to sleep
makes them queasy,
that it´s a bit of a jinx.
Smoke is not trustworthy:
as soon as it rears its dark head
it conjures up conjectures
— a forest fire,
a house burning down.
Smoke is a weird remain,
it´s got bad reports.
It´s a reject,
it´s a misunderstood thing;
almost nobody remembers smoke is a herald,
a sad forwarner of what looms over us.
That´s why, when I hear it calling out helplessly,
I sing to it the lullaby for silence
so that it doesn´t feel so lonely.
***
Translated by Amparo Arrospíde & Robin Ouzman Hislop
Amparo Arróspide (Argentina) has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines. She has translated authors such as Francisca Aguirre, Javier Díaz Gil, Luis Fores and José Antonio Pamies into English, together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, who she worked with for a period as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, at Artvilla.com a Webzine. Her translations into Spanish of Margaret Atwood (Morning in the Burned House), James Stephens (Irish Fairy Tales) and Mia Couto (Vinte e Zinco) are in the course of being published, as well as her two poetry collections Hormigas en diáspora and Jacuzzi. She takes part in festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
https://www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
https://www.twitter.com/PoetryLifeTimes
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; at Artvilla.com his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals, Collected Poems, and the recently published Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)