Translation

Half Past Eight. A Video Poem with Text by Guadalupe Grande. Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop y Amparo Arróspide

by

 

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).

 

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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

by

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

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

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).

robin-portrait-july-sotillo-2016-by-amparo

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

by

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
 
 

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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).

robin-portrait-july-sotillo-2016-by-amparo

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
		

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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


 


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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).


robin-portrait-july-sotillo-2016-by-amparo


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)




			


					
			





	

					

				
Poem by EVA MARÍA CHINCHILLA on a homage supplement published in “Cuadernos del Matemático” Nº 56-58, dedicated to Leonard Cohen,Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amparo Arróspide
		

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We are the lesser  who will never be able to write
          
a good love poem than those of us who will never
          
             be able to write a love poem in time.
      

    




 

 

I love your temperature. That’s what I love,

not you

 


Gentle, gallant, it keeps the milky warmth of a blade of wheat

offering itself at dawn

breaking earlier than myself, heralding

— from its delta-

 

the descent of dreams

 

I love your eyes. For their sea, for their fairy

for their

id

 

and whilst each time i shatter the image of blue cliches

you invade that which has no colour, each time leaving it within

that which i’ll never

discover

 

not you

 

I love your caligraphy. Remains of eternity, my inheritance

that you pretend   as yet yours

 

voice that sweetly swathes me

and tungsten. Impossible firefly, there

I love your caligraphy because it cleanses  each time the wound of having thought i knew you

 

 (and the treasure of the hidden note in the third stanza, when  id

shipwrecks

where we read

because it cleanses  each time the wound of having thought i knew you

 

to read again now

 

because it gently opens the wound whether i knew

how to love

despite not knowing

 

I love your caligraphy   because it lets me recognise you

a balm which you prepare for me, it  says

 

to recognise has been to know

 

so

 

there exists the possibility that i have

you, that´s what your caligraphy says, it says my

my love for you

that i have not yet known,

 

it extends before my eyes and on my skin bares – a code so familiar as to be indeciph–

sunsets and a bond of views without other qualification than their

certainty

 

this breeze that rustles my skin, carouses my blood, tempers

and forgives me

me, you, me

 

 

 

 


    

      

        

          
Somos menos quienes nunca lograremos escribir
          
un buen poema de amor que quienes nunca
          
lograremos escribir a tiempo un poema de amor
      

    




 

 

Amo tu temperatura. Es lo que amo,

y no a ti

 

Suave, donosa, guarda el calor lácteo de la espiga. Se entrega de madrugada, antes

que yo amanece y anuncia

–desde su delta—

 

la bajada de los sueños

 

Amo tus ojos. Por su mar, por su hada

por su

id

 

y mientras yo destrozo cada vez la pantalla de los tópicos

del azul, invades lo que no tiene color, lo dejas dentro cada vez jamás

encontraré

 

no a ti

 

Amo tu caligrafía. Restos de eternidad, herencia mía

que simulas tuya aún

 

voz de tela que me arropa

y wolframio. Luciérnaga imposible, ahí

 

amo tu caligrafía, porque desinfecta, cada vez, la herida de haber creído conocerte

 

(y la nota del tesoro escondido de la tercera estrofa, cuando naufrague

id

donde hemos leído

porque desinfecta, cada vez, la herida de haber creído conocerte

para ahora leer

 

porque abre con suavidad la herida de si supe amar

lo que conocía

a pesar de no sabr que lo

 

amo tu caligrafía porque me deja reconocerte

un bálsamo que tú preparas para mí, dice

 

reconocer ha sido conocer

 

entonces

 

existe la posibilidad de que te haya

a ti eso dice tu caligrafía, dice mi

te amo a ti

que yo no he sabido saber,

 

extiende ante mis ojos y en mi piel expone –en un código tan familiar como indesci—

amaneceres y miradas en unidad, sin otro calificativo que el de

 

indudables

 

esa brisa se extiende por mi piel, navega por mi sangre, me templa

y me perdona

 

a mí, a ti, a mí

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eva Chinchilla, evachin. Poet. Author of Años Abisinios (2011), Verbo rea (2003), and a third poetry book  currently in production. Participant in anthologies such as La noche y sus etcéteras. 24 voces alrededor de San Juan de la Cruz (2017), Hilanderas (2006) o Estruendomudo (2003).  She is also a board member of poetry magazine Nayagua, which is a publication by the José Hierro Poetry Foundation, where she was a teacher from 2007 to 2016. Member of the Genialogías Association and the 8que80 collective of female poets; co-editor of Diminutos Salvamentos poetry collection. She walks along the haiku and flamenco lyrics paths. A philologist (hispanist), with a degree free master in continuous training and questioning. Born in Madrid (1971).

 

 

Eva Chinchilla, evachin. Poeta. Autora de Años abisinios (2011), Verbo rea (2003), y un tercer poemario en prensa; incluida en antologías como La noche y sus etcéteras. 24 voces alrededor de San Juan dela Cruz (2017), Hilanderas (2006) o Estruendomudo (2003). Forma parte del consejo de la revista de poesía Nayagua, que se edita desde la Fundación Centro de Poesía José Hierro de Getafe, donde fue profesora desde 2007 hasta 2016. Integrante de la Asociación Genialogías y el colectivo 8que80 de mujeres poetas; coeditora de la colección diminutos salvamentos; andariega del camino del haiku y de las letrillas flamencas. Filóloga (hispanista), con master sin titulación en formación y cuestionamiento continuos. Nació en Madrid (1971).

 

 

 

 

 

 

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)