Amparo Arróspide
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)
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)
Half Past Eight. A Video Poem with Text by Guadalupe Grande. Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop y Amparo Arróspide
I
No lo comprendo.
No sé
por qué hay que ir tan deprisa.
No entiendo
por qué hay que caminar tan rápido
ni por qué es tan temprano
ni por qué la calle está tan enturbiada y húmeda.
No entiendo
qué dice este rumor en tránsito
(este siseo infatigablemente frágil)
ni sé
a dónde llevan tantos pasos
con la obstinada decisión de no perderse.
II
Estoy en la puerta de mi casa:
desde aquí puedo ver,
tras los cristales,
un copo de cielo,
un harapo azul sin horizonte,
un fragmento de distancia,
un tragaluz de lejanía.
Cierro la puerta
y no lo entiendo,
pero hago un gran esfuerzo en retener
ese jirón azul en la pupila
y pienso en la corona de espuma del ahogado
y en los clavos grises que me aguardan.
Sin embargo, ya sé que no hay coronas:
estamos muy lejos del mar
y yo llevo los ojos llenos de bruma y humo
como si los cubriera la sombra de una lágrima
que aún no he sabido llorar.
Digo que lo sé, pero no estoy segura:
tan solo
cierro la puerta de mi casa
como si cerrara la puerta de mi alma
o de algún alma
que se parece demasiado a la mía.
III
Parece temprano,
parece pronto,
quisiera decir: la ciudad se despierta
o nace el día
o empieza un día más.
Pero no lo entiendo,
no consigo entenderlo:
he bajado las escaleras
y he llegado a un lugar
que dice llamarse calle;
desde luego, no veo náufragos coronados
ni distingo a los viajeros de los comerciantes
ni a los habitantes de los ciudadanos
ni a los abogados de los turistas
ni a mí de mí.
En este momento,
tan solo reconozco mis zapatos
y su exuberante y urgente necesidad
por incorporarse al ajetreo de la vía.
IV
Es pronto:
no sé a dónde,
pero hemos llegado pronto.
Por lo demás, todo sigue.
Aunque yo no entienda lo que dice la palabra prisa
aunque no sepa lo que nombra la palabra ruido,
aunque no comprenda lo que calla la palabra calla,
los zapatos silenciosos,
en su obstinada decisión de no perderse,
lo entienden todo por mí.
HALF PAST EIGHT
I
I don´t understand.
I don´t know
why one has to go about in such a rush.
I don´t get
why one should walk so fast
nor why it´s so early
nor why the street is so muddy and wet.
I don´t see
what this transitory whisper in transit says
(this restlessly fragile hiss)
nor do I know
where all these steps are heading
in the obstinate decision not to lose themselves.
II
I stand in the doorway of my home:
from here I can see
a streak of sky behind the glass
a blue rag without horizon,
a fragment of distance,
a skylight of distance.
I close the door
and don´t understand
but I try with great effort to keep
that blue strip in my pupil
and I think of the foamy garland of the drowned
and the grey nails awaiting me.
Yet I know there are no garlands
and we´re far from the sea;
I lift my eyes and they´re full of fog and smoke
as if covered by the shadow of a tear
a tear I haven´t yet wept.
I say I know, but I´m not sure:
I just close the door of my house
as if I ´d closed the door of my soul
or someone else´s soul
too similar to mine.
III
It seems early,
apparently too soon,
I would like to say: the city awakens
or the day is born
or another day begins.
But I don´t see it,
I can´t understand:
I have gone downstairs
to a place supposed to be called street;
obviously I see no garlanded shipwrecks,
I do not distinguish travellers from merchants
nor inhabitants from citizens
nor lawyers from tourists
nor myself from myself.
At this moment
I recognize only my shoes
and their exuberant urgent need
to join the teeming throng.
IV
It´s soon:
I don´t know where,
but we have arrived soon.
Otherwise, everything goes on.
Even though I don´t understand what the word hurry means
even though I don´t know what the word noise names,
even though I don´t grasp what the word hush hushes,
my silent shoes
in their obstinate decision not to lose themselves
understand everything in my place
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)
Almost A Nocturne. A Poem by Noni Benegas Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arrospide and Robin Ouzman Hislop
Editor’s note: this poem is a lengthy text, the translation is given first & then the original follows & finally the relevant bio info.
Almost a nocturne
– and out of dark of night,
One thing alone grows darker – our eyes.
Marina Tsvetaeva
“This Minister, in spite of his frivolous air and his polished manners,
was not blessed with a soul of the French type; he could not forget the
things that annoyed him. When there was a thorn in his pillow, he was
obliged to break it off and to blunt its point by repeated stabbings
of his throbbing limbs.”
Stendhal, The Charterhouse of Parma
Guilt is an argument
to feel alive...
Fear, another.
Defense, any improvised defense
is another;
being smarter than someone else
(and being told so)
is yet another.
To remember
how we had prepared everything
to write without guilt
instead of loafing about
is perhaps the best argument.
not to sleep a wink
and feel life slip by.
To worry about distant friends
who do not call, not knowing
if they' re still alive
yet another,
but the maximum argument
to feel alive is to feel
that you're wasting your time.
Any incentive that heals
the "malheur de vivre"
is a force driving the guilt
of being alive
but insufficiently.
To think that nobody cares,
that there is no friend
aware of you
makes us prone to guilt
which in turn lets us
experience being alive.
I refuse to speak in the first person
because I don't know
if I'm an individual
alive
outside language.
It's the time when wolves
go out to howl at inhospitable
nature …
I barely feel my toes
scratch the edge of the bed
rub each other
like sticks on distant drums.
Their percussion reverberates
through my body with waxed ears
of a mummy
but more alive,
than Clarice's clock
pounding at dawn.
Nothing makes sense,
Would it, if I'd lived with you,
X, H or J of my past, present, or future?
And here, I survive
without a dog or cat
or a clock.
But even so
even if
I waste time on this
my mental calculator
catches on
and condemns me
to experience
the guilt that makes me feel alive
in a bad way...
In this uncertain
existence, to the friend who feeds us
to reinforce their link
while feeding ours,
I reply with warmth
but no tea,
because it keeps you awake
and makes you think
which prevents
living
as something natural.
Living is natural …
Like this light coolness
on my back
and this slight discomfort
of a quilt too warm,
making you successively
put off and on
words with their doubts, meanderings:
live, living, surviving.
Little by little
an appetite is born.
I continue living
as I begin to wake up
turning in bed
-left , right-
wanting day to come
promising “ficar bonito”.
I begin to understand
St John Perse's list of posts ...
It must have been
at dawn,
scattered like a man's crumbs
through his long lined verse
whose sum make the poem.
And I'm already awake,
while tire wheels roll
like waves on the sidewalk,
behind a closed glass
with a drawn curtain
already standing
already rhetorical.
Haven't you ever thought of having children
friend ?
you wouldn't be able to sleep at night
for their screams.
But a part of you could do it
although another's life
isn't an argument
to lose sleep over
or recover it.
There are borders between us,
jagged boundaries as between
stamps.
I turn off
and on...
the coolness on my back persists...
as if after so much searching
my back was the dark side of the moon
my feet explore
at the bottom of galaxies
through black holes
tunnelling under the quilt
at the edge of the bed.
Between turning on and off
there is a photogenesis of night
that appears
at will.
Click, clack
René Daumal
click, clack
Lota Macedo
click, clack
Oscar Manesi
click, clack
Alejandra Pizarnik
click, clack
me you him
blasphemy
error.
An association is like placing a carriage on a track
to set it in motion...
Thus night rolls
with a click
like Clarice's clock;
the clock is a camera filming
passing time.
What a big animal
in the dark!
I don't know my limits ...
I turn on the light
for the shameful life
of that autonomous hand
filming
on paper, with pencil,
the poet´s task,
the one who writes
as a movie shot
in which I'm absent.
Only the coolness
and the instep of my right foot
as it molds my left leg's calf
gives me back my limits.
How disgusting life is
when you want to go to the toilet!
But it's just a plane traversing
your hollow belly over the Gulf of Mexico
before the storm
is unleashed.
Not disregarding
that being alive ...
is a way of being
harassed
by terrestrial functions.
Body drifting ...
But there is too much light
to say so.
Night fails
and is rhetorical.
Darkness
orders and disorders the world
at the same time.
I would like to be hungry
or pee to stand up again
not this coolness without limits.
She/he lied to me
and now they pay the price
by losing the meaning
of their lie.
The only reason
for being alive
is to whisper these things
in my ear.
Night is a field
of phosphenes and barbed wire
that starts in the frontal lobe.
As long as my mouth
pours this fluidity
from above
I will believe in a soul,
click, clack,
and in Madrid
I switch on
the light
in my Paris room
knowing
through this touch
I exist
click, clack,
at dawn.
I want to roll myself up in the quilt
in an interspatial rocket
riding the coolness of galaxies ...
Not this earthly
red light
but the dust of stars
precipitated suddenly blue.
How relative
language is…
Little by little I recover
to form a notion of reality,
to breath for my frontal lobe
so it becomes night once more.
My only privacy
is with myself.
At times I'm so far
I don't recognize myself,
but they talk to me, watch me
and there I am,
at times I'm so close
I can spare knowing me.
In the morning I will recover
myself
like one who puts her toes
inside the quilt's capsule
so that they form a whole,
so that they complete a whole.
To the traitor/ess
I do not recognize you
as a person,
you're not on my path
or maybe yes, as one more mask.
This I know now.
I don't know if I'll know later
when the various layers
of myself
overlap
and I fly over the cosmos
in the space capsule
of my quilt.
But my balance is so delicate
that I can try to be me
again:
some do try again
for the pleasure of recognizing ourselves...
By Noni Benegas. Original: CASI UN NOCTURNO
Translated by Robin Ouzman & Amparo Arrospide
Casi un nocturno
y en la noche oscura
nada se cierne más oscuro sobre nosotros
que nuestros propios ojos
Marina Tsvetaeva
"Ese ministro, a pesar de sus modales ligeros y brillantes, no tenía
el alma a la francesa; no sabía olvidar las penas. Cuando en su almohada
había una espina, tenía por fuerza que romperla y gastarla a fuerza de
herir con ella su cuerpo palpitante"
Stendhal, La cartuja de Parma.
La culpa es un argumento
para sentirse vivo…
El miedo, otro.
La defensa, cualquier defensa improvisada
otro;
ser más inteligente que alguien
(y que lo digan)
también.
Recordar cómo habíamos preparado todo
para escribir sin culpa
en vez de haraganear,
el mejor, quizás.
a fin de no pegar ojo
y sentir la vida pasar.
Preocuparse por los amigos lejanos
que no llaman y se ignora si aún viven
también sirve,
pero el argumento máximo
para sentirse vivo es sentir
que se está perdiendo el tiempo.
Cualquier aliciente que cure
del malheur de vivre
es un propulsor de la culpa
del hecho de estar vivo
sin estarlo lo suficiente.
Pensar que a nadie le importa
y no hay amistad
que se interese,
nos hace proclives a la culpa
que a su vez permite
la sensación de estar vivos.
Y me niego a hablar en singular
porque no sé si yo,
fuera del lenguaje,
estoy viva
en particular.
Es la hora en que los lobos
salen a aullar a la naturaleza
inhóspita…
Apenas percibo los dedos de mis pies
que arañan el borde de la cama
y se frotan entre si
como palillos sobre lejanos tambores.
Su percusión reverbera
en mi cuerpo con oídos encerados de momia
más vivo,
sin embargo,
que el reloj de Clarice
palpitando en la madrugada.
Nada tiene sentido.
¿Lo tendría si viviera contigo,
X, H o J de mi pasado, presente, o futuro?
Y aquí
sin un perro ni un gato
ni un reloj a mi alrededor
sobrevivo.
Aún así,
si pierdo el tiempo
la máquina calculadora de mi cerebro
barrunta la falta
y me condena
a la culpa que me hace sentir viva
de mala manera…
Al amigo que nos da de comer
para reafirmar su vínculo
y alimentar el nuestro
le replico, en esta incertidumbre
de existir, con simpatía
pero sin té,
porque quita el sueño
y te hace pensar,
lo cual impide vivir como algo natural.
Vivir es natural…
Como este ligero frescor
en la espalda
y la leve molestia
del edredón demasiado cálido,
que hace que te quites y pongas,
sucesivamente,
las palabras con sus dudas y recovecos:
vivo, viviente, sobreviviente.
De a poco nace
el apetito.
Sigo viviendo
a medida que despierto
y volteo sobre la cama
-izquierda, derecha-
con ganas de que venga el día
y pueda
ficar bonito.
Empiezo a entender
la enumeración de oficios en Saint John Perse…
Tiene que haber sido
de madrugada,
mendrugos de hombre
desparramados en el versículo
cuya suma hace el poema.
Amago levantarme
mientras ruedan neumáticos
como olas en la vereda,
tras el cristal cerrado
con la cortina echada,
ya de pie
y ya retórica.
¿No has pensado tener hijos
amiga ?
no podrías dormir de noche
por sus gritos.
Pero una parte tuya sí podría hacerlo;
aunque no es argumento
la vida ajena
para perder el sueño
o recuperarlo.
Hay bordes entre nosotros,
límites dentados como entre
las estampillas.
Apago
y enciendo…
y sigue el frescor en la espalda…
como si después de tanto buscar
fuese el lado oscuro de la luna,
que los pies investigan
al fondo de las galaxias
por los agujeros negros,
túneles bajo el edredón,
hacia el borde de la cama.
Y entre encender y apagar
hay una fotogénesis de la noche
que aparece
a voluntad.
Clic, clac
René Daumal
clic, clac
Lota Macedo
clic, clac
Oscar Manesi
clic, clac
Alejandra Pizarnik
clic, clac
yo, tú, él
blasfemia
error.
Y una asociación es como poner un vagón en una vía
y echarlo a andar…
Así la noche con el clic
rueda
como el reloj de Clarice;
el reloj es la cámara que filma
el tiempo que pasa.
¡Qué animal tan grande
en la oscuridad…!
No conozco mis límites…
Enciendo
para la vergüenza de vivir
de esa mano autónoma filmando
sobre papel, con lápiz,
la tarea del poeta,
del que escribe como una toma de película
en la que no estoy.
Sólo el frescor
me devuelve mis límites,
y el empeine del pie derecho
cuando moldea la pantorrilla
de la pierna izquierda.
Qué asco vivir
cuando tienes ganas de ir al baño!
Pero es sólo un avión que atraviesa
la oquedad de tu vientre como el golfo de México
antes de desencadenarse
una tormenta.
Sin perder de vista
que estar vivo…
es una manera de estar
acosado
por las funciones terrestres.
Cuerpo a la deriva…
Pero hay demasiada luz
para decirlo.
Falla la noche y es
retórico.
La oscuridad
desordena el mundo a la vez
que lo ordena.
Quisiera tener hambre
o pis para reincorporarme
y no este frescor sin límites.
Me mintió
y ahora paga su mentira
con la desaparición del objeto
de su mentira.
La única razón
de estar viva
es poder dictarme estas cosas
al oído.
La noche es un campo
de fosfenos y alambradas
que empieza en el lóbulo frontal.
Mientras la boca esté derramando
ésta liquidez de arriba
creeré en el alma,
clic, clac,
y aprieto el interruptor
de mi cuarto en París
en otra lámpara
en Madrid,
y sé que existo
por este tacto
clic, clac,
en la madrugada.
Me quiero arrollar en el edredón
con forma de cohete interespacial
para surcar el frescor de las galaxias…
No esta luz colorada
de la tierra
sino el polvo de estrellas,
precipitado súbitamente azul.
Cómo relativiza
el lenguaje…
De a poco me recupero
y cobro noción de lo real;
respiro para mi lóbulo,
para que sea de noche otra vez.
No tengo intimidad
más que conmigo misma.
Y a veces estoy tan lejos
que no me reconozco,
pero me hablan, y miran,
y ahí me encuentro.
Aunque a veces estoy tan cerca
que me eximo de conocerme.
Por la mañana me recuperaré
como quien mete los dedos de los pies
en la cápsula del edredón
para que formen un todo,
para que completen el todo.
Al traidor/ra
No te reconozco
como persona,
no estás en mi camino
o tal vez sí, una máscara más.
Esto que sé ahora
no sé si lo sabré luego
cuando diversas capas de mi
se superpongan,
y en la cápsula espacial
de mi edredón conmigo
sobrevuele el cosmos.
Pero mi equilibrio es tan delicado
que yo puedo volver a ser yo:
algunos volvemos a repetirnos
por el placer de reconocernos…
Noni Benegas, born in Buenos Aires and resident in Spain since 1977, is the author of seven books of poetry; a selection is collected in El Ángel de lo súbito, Ed. Fondo de Cultura Económica, (Madrid, 2014). Burning Cartography, Ed. Host, (Austin TX, 2007 and 2011) is a selection of these poems in English, and Animaux Sacrés, Ed. Al Manar (Séte 2013) in French. She has won the Platero Prize from the UN in Geneva; the Miguel Hernández National Prize for Poetry, as well as Vila de Martorell award, the Rubén Darío Prize from Palma in Mallorca, the Esquío Prize in Galicia. She is the author of the influential anthology of contemporary Spanish women poets Ellas tienen la palabra, Ed. Hiperión (Madrid, 2008, 4th edition) whose introductory essay, with a new prologue, articles, interviews and an epilogue has been recently collected by Ed. Fondo de Cultura Economica in 2017 with the same title. Ellas Resisten. Mujeres poetas y artistas (1994-2019) is a selection of her essays on women writers and artists published by Ed. Huerga & Fierro
Editor’s Note: see also Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & 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)
Poems from Angel Minaya’s Collected Poems TEOREMA DE LOS LUGARES RAROS (Theorem of rare places) Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouman Hislop & Amparo Arróspide
1.
lugar es una casa para poner un codo no deja de dañar la mesa también sobre los
huesos un palo sus balances
lugar es una puerta para esconder la carga perdura en la cabeza aislada el rastrillo de la
deuda tatúa las membranas
lugar es una ventana para poner un caballo un libro alguna cosa
(i)
place is a house to place an elbow the table never leaves off hurting it´s also a stick
on the bones balance sheets
place is a door to hide the burden on an isolated head the rake of debt lingers
tattooing membranes
place is a window to place a horse a book some thing
2.
un niño pasea por las orillas del légamo se parece a mi sombra tiene miedo pero no corre
tal vez sus pies han oído el acre perfume de la ova animales suaves se agitan en el cañizal
un ciervo tendido va confundiéndose con las hojas caídas su cuello muestra linfas secretas el
sol cruje con la intensidad de la corteza columpios oxidados anticipan la ruina de los juegos
juegos solitarios donde el niño me imagina soñando con orillas recordando carroñas sin volumen
el agua verdinegra que el verano va cociendo ambos somos un sueño compartido por el otro
observados bajo las cañas por los ojos feroces de nuestra madre
a child passes silted shores seeming like my shadow he’s afraid but doesn’t run perhaps his
feet have heard the acrid perfume of the ulva soft animals tremble in reed banks a deer
lying down mingles with fallen leaves his neck revealing a secret lymph sun crackles through
intensity of bark rusty swings herald a ruination of games solitary games where I’m imagined
by the child to be dreaming of these shores a massless memory of carrion the summer’s
blackgreenish water is baking we are both a dream shared by the other watched under the
reeds by the fierce eyes of our mother
3.
Conferencia austro-húngara [apuntes]
antes de comenzar imaginemos
pensar en húngaro o escribir en alemán
alguien recoge lo que ama y lo corrige
alguien hubiera preferido someter a reconstrucción una pared escarpada
y ahora yo llevo bajo el brazo
el vínculo entre la fuerza y la risa
el caso es
de dónde procede este placer
después de qué aniquilación maduran los conceptos
por qué admiramos los átomos o la madrugada
queridos colegas
por) un agresor ha sido devorado
como) la frialdad de las madres es comparable a las máquinas zapadoras
en) lo que permanece dentro siempre resulta victorioso
en fin por) como) y en) prueban que una idea es lo más parecido a una cicatriz
o a un sueño que dura ya 51 años
en alemán los ahogados
beben hasta que les llega la muerte
en húngaro los mensajes indirectos acaban alojándose
en órganos e inervaciones habituales
buenas tardes y gracias a todos
por su aflicción
Austro-Hungarian Conference [Notes]
before we begin let us imagine
thinking in Hungarian or writing in German
someone picks up what they love and corrects it
someone would have preferred to rebuild a steep wall
and now I’m carrying under my arm
the link between strength and laughter
the case is
where does this pleasure come from
after what annihilation do concepts mature
why do we admire atoms or the dawn
dear colleagues
by) a foe has been devoured
as) the coldness of mothers is comparable to trenching machines
in) what remains inside is always victorious
hence by) as) and in) prove that an idea is the closest thing to a scar
or a dream that has already lasted for 51 years
in German the drowned
drink themselves to death
in Hungarian indirect messages end up occupying
the usual organs and innervations
good evening thank you all for listening
and thank you all for your suffering
4.
Apuntes catastróficos
contraimagen en el observador nace un estado de malestar o acantilado
contradicción la luz sobre el terraplén se degrada en movimiento
estímulos la vida es una erosión subterránea equivalente al plano inclinado de la
angustia
contragolpe un árbol despliega la tierra rota en dirección al sol blanco de la
analogía
contrapunto los dominios zoológicos se ramifican y expanden como nudos que se
persiguen
impresiones la caza y los territorios acumulan conglomerados de mapas y
desprendimientos
contrasentido un cono o pirámide de escombros pasa de la regularidad a la máxima
turbulencia
contraataque el observador es una trampa para frecuencias de lenta degradación
reducto un germen de catástrofe en favor de la excitación y el desorden
Catastrophic Notes
counter image a cliff state or discomfort is born in the observer
contradiction the light on the embankment degrades in movement
stimuli life is an underground erosion equivalent to the inclined plane of anguish
countercoup a tree displays broken earth towards the white sun of analogy
counterpoint zoological domains ramify their expansions pursued as knots
impressions hunting and territories accumulate clusters of maps and landslides
countermeaning the debris of a cone or pyramid goes from regularity to maximum turbulence
counterassault the observer is a trap for frequencies of slow degradation
stronghold a germ of catastrophe in favor of excitement and disorder
5.
Equivalencia en hueco
[nada] evento de la palabra que lo pronuncia [nunca] agujero o gusano de tiempo oscuro [nadie]
impensada extensión de una antinomia que se fue [nulo] valor absoluto del abandono [pérdida]
extravío en la dirección apropiada [mudez] propósito semántico del niño en silencio [se]
impersonal atavismo del aullido [cero] punto lógico del número a su saco [no] jaque a la
tercera persona oblicua [yo] identidad imaginaria de la cópula y la disyunción [negro] color
automático de las orillas en materia de movimiento [vacío] mensaje contracto del negativo de
los objetos [incógnita] conjunto dispar de soluciones y raíces antes del árbol [significado]
liquidar el poema de materia oscura
del doble tan raro
decirse no expresarse
aunque [yo] estuviera allí
GAP-IN EQUIVALENCE
[nothing] an event from the word that articulates it [never] a dark time or worm hole [nobody]
an unthought extension of a vanished antinomy [null] the absolute value of abandonment [loss]
a misplacement in the proper direction [muteness] the semantic intention of a child’s silence
[self] an impersonal atavistic howl [zero] the number’s logical point in its sac [not] the
oblique third person placed in check [i] imaginary identity of conjunction and disjunction
[black] the automatic color of edges in the materialisation of motion [vacuum] a message shrunk from the
negatives of photographic objects [unknown] a disparate set of solutions and roots preceding
their tree [meaning] to wipe dark matter out of the poem
by such a rare double
to tell oneself not to express oneself
even though as if [i] was there
6.
WCW 1963
amo las cosas esas cizañas que no dejan ver el mar el sabor oculto de las fresas perceptible
solo en su consumación el zorzal una danza leve en la luz amarilla
hoy una mano escribe y la otra me hace viva la muerte
en otro tiempo el día era el ascenso mis manos ayudaban a nacer palpaban el dolor y la noche
el descenso la medida variable de los huesos quebrados por la música
ahora el perro y la fiebre la oscuridad extensa donde nada tiene cura
van cayendo los ciegos los aros giran la espalda del desierto es la tortuga que sostiene el
mundo
WCW 1963
i love things those ryegrasses not letting you see the sea hidden taste of strawberries
perceptible only in their consummation a thrush a light dance in the yellow light
today one hand is writing and the other is making death alive for me
in another time a day was the ascent my hands helped to give birth they touched pain and night
the descent the variable measure of bones broken by music
Now the dog and the fever a vast darkness where nothing can be cured
the blind are falling rings are turning round the spine of the desert is the turtle supporting
the world
***
Translations from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
***
ANGEL MINAYA (Madrid, 1964), a Bachelor in Hispanic Philology by the Complutense University of
Madrid, was also awarded in PhD in Linguistics by the Autonomous University of Madrid.
A teacher of Literature and Language at a high school in that same Community, some of his poems
and critical reviews have been published by Nayagua literary e-zine. A few have also been
included in the anthology Voces del extremo: Poesía y desobediencia (Madrid, 2014).
Teorema de los lugares raros (Theorem of rare places) is his first published poetry collection
(El sastre de Apollinaire, Madrid, 2017).
http://www.elsastredeapollinaire.com/producto/teorema-de-los-lugares-raros/
https://www.facebook.com/angel.minayaechevarrena
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)
Poems from Laura Giordani translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
Language is the territory of the common, of the community. Through my writing I try to make visible not only what is not so due to our sensory handicap, but what has been made invisible: small daily holocausts, omissions, our most intimate violence.
Poetic language contains the seed of insubordination, of becoming disobedient to a way of looking at the world and naming it; politics is the place where we situate ourselves to articulate as speakers, enlightened, subaltern, omniscient, decentered, etc.
It does not matter if we do it about a bird, a milk tooth or an intimate event. In my opinion, the political load of a poem is not dependent on certain topics, but on the insistence that invites us to breathe in a system that otherwise suffocates us, to resist so that we don’t let our eyelids drop in resignation.
Editor’s Note: extract from an interview with Laura Giordani. http://www.tendencias21.net/ Laura-Giordani-La-poesia- contiene-la-semilla-de-la- insumision_a13660.html
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(i.)
[Qué te hicieron caballito, que las manos de tu amo
se hundan en tu carne abierta
hasta que llore polvo de ladrillo,
hasta que la fusta con que te azotaba
caiga con él de rodillas.
Con manos imantadas
Hundir los dedos en la tierra negrísima de la infancia, Cuando las yemas ardan, escarbar con manos imantadas por una ternura abandonada junto a los restos: el desguace nuestro.
Botones sueltos, fotografías de familia: los esposos en un muelle con cuatro hijos y dos baúles, un viejo de ojos claros junto a su silla de enea, escarpines de lana amarilleando sin término, el ajuar con las mismas iniciales de aquel ataúd chiquito y blanco.
Un mechoncito rubio en la mano, único consuelo.
Mujeres pariendo en camas de hierro, niños amamantados por cabras.
[veni, sonnu, di la muntanedda
lu lupu si mangiau la picuredda
oi ninì
ninna vò fa1
A la infancia a través de las manos, palpar el fondo de los cajones para conocer el revés nuestro, las costuras de un relato siempre en hilachas.
Ella se fue y algo se rompió dentro
[algo sordo, como llorando.
Escondimos las rodillas lastimadas por el pavimento.
Llegaron como una peste las palabras y las llevamos a la boca creyendo en su alimento.
Los contornos adquirieron relieve, los pétalos del corazón fueron cayendo –uno a uno—como en aquel juego.
Sobrevino la sintaxis, la separación, el desastre.
[La guardiana del tacto]
1. Nota: Canción de cuna siciliana. Oh, ven, sueño, de la montañita / El lobo se comió a la ovejita / Oh, el niño /Quiere dormir.
(i.)
[What did they do you little horse that the hands of your master
should sink into your opened flesh
until it weeps brick dust
until the whip with which he lashes you
falls with him to his knees.
With magnetised hands
To sink our fingers into the blackest earth of childhood, when fingertips burn, hands magnetised by a discarded tenderness that dig searching the remains – our scrap.
Loose buttons, family photographs: spouses on the quayside with four children, two trunks, an old man with clear eyes next to his wicker chair, woollen stockings forever fading, the trousseau with the same initials as that little white coffin, a little lock of blonde hair held in the hand their only consolation.
Women giving birth in iron beds, children suckled by goats.
[veni, sonnu, di la muntanedda
lu lupu si mangiau la picurredda
oi nini
ninna vó fa*
Childhood reached through our hands feeling the bottom of drawers
knowing our underside, the seams of a story always in rags.
She left and something broke inside.
[something deaf, as if weeping
We hid our knees scraped on the pavement.
Words came like a disease, we put them in our mouths believing in their nourishment.
Outlines became distinct, one by one, as in that childhood game, the petals of innocence fell.
Then syntax, separation, disaster.
[The Guardian of Touch]
* Sicilian Lullaby. Oh come, sleep, from the little mountain/The wolf ate the little lamb/Oh, the child/Wants to sleep.
(ii.)
Con guantes de goma anaranjada ella ahogaba los cachorros recién nacidos en el fuentón de lata: no son puros, seguro que fueron los perros de Moroni – sentenciaba y aguantando la respiración hundía a los perritos todavía ciegos, buscando el calor de la collie que aullaba junto a la puerta. Anegaba sus pulmones en el fondo hasta que flotaran y los metía en una bolsa de nylon que cerraba con nudos bien apretados. Luego se sacaba los guantes color naranja y con esas mismas manos cortaba el pan y trenzaba el pelo de mi amiga Alejandra.
[Todavía me persigue el llanto de aquella perra,
el frío mortal del lavadero.
Mi amiga creció, tuvo hijos, otra casa. Su madre siguió baldeando con desvelo la vereda cada mañana, ahogando – primavera tras primavera—perros sin raza.
[Extraño país]
(ii.)
With orange rubber gloves, she, my friend’s mother, drowned the new born pups, in a tin basin.
These are mongrels, sure from old Morini’s, she judged, as she held her breath to drown the still blind puppies as they searched the warmth of the collie, who howled beside the laundry door.
She flooded their lungs in the bottom until they floated putting them into a nylon bag that she tied in the tightest of knots.
Afterwards, she took off those orange rubber gloves and with the same hands cut bread and braided my friend Alejandra’s hair.
[Now the howl still haunts me
deadly cold in the wash place.
My friend grew up, had children, another house. Her mother continued every morning to thoroughly wash the pavement down drowning spring after spring mixed breeds.
[ Strange Country]
(iii.)
El sobretodo azul que pusiste
sobre los hombros de la muchacha aquella
volvía empapada del interrogatorio
temblando
la mojaban la picaneaban*
cada noche
la dejaban junto a tu colchón
con un llanto parecido al de un cachorro
ese gesto a pesar del miedo
a pesar del miedo te sacaste el sobretodo azul
para abrigarla
no poder dejar de darle ese casi todo
en medio del sobretodo espanto
la dignidad puede resistir
azul
en apenas dos metros de tela
y en esos centímetros que tu mano
sorteó en la oscuridad hasta sus hombros
sobre todo
[El sobretodo azul]
(iii.)
The blue overcoat you put on over the shoulders of the girl soaked from interrogation shaking watered tortured with the picana1 each night they´d left her next to your mattress with a puppylike whimper that gesture despite the fear over all the fear you took off your blue overcoat to warm her unable to resist giving over all over all the horror in its midst dignity can stand blue in just two meters of cloth those centimeters your hand covered in the dark over her shoulders over all else.
[The blue overcoat]
1 The “picana” is a wand or prod that delivers a high voltage but low current electric shock to a torture victim.
Laura Giordani (1964, Córdoba, Argentina)
Because of the Argentine military dictatorship, in the late 1970s she went into exile with her family in Spain, where she has lived almost half her life.
She studied Psychology, Fine Arts and English language.
She participates in writers´meetings and gives poetic recitals in Argentina and Spain.
She has written the following poetry collections: Apurando la copa (2001), Celebración del brote (2003), Cartografía de lo blando (2005), Noche sin clausura (2006), Sudestada (2009), Materia oscura (2010) and Antes de desaparecer (2016).
Her poems have been included in several anthologies, she has also collaborated in journals from Argentina, Brazil, Germany and Spain.
The following link reviews her latest work Antes de desaparecer ( Before disappearing) from which the above poems are extracts http://www.tendencias21.net/Antes-de-desaparecer–de-Laura-Giordani-una-manera-de-ampararse_a32021.html
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 and 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)