Blind Date: An Anthology of Argentinian Poets
Prologue and Selection by Liliana Heer and Ana Arzoumanian

Translated by Michael Smith

Translator’s Preface

The map of Argentinian poetry of the last decades, presented in this version on line, has now been changed from the earlier Written Word Re-cited by the addition of other writers. A device beyond national markings allows us to translate Argentinian poets into a language located on the dissolute margins of the frontiers of language. A forthright language that traverses levels of consistency in which there is neither past nor future.

The notion of “local” has been transformed in “speed”, a concept that implies the rupture of a narrative truss like the construction of variables of diverse intensity in the borders of a style. As opposed to chronology, the time of poetic pulsations – beyond the regular and the periodical – imposes a gradient of acceleration that involves rhythmic displacements, redefines concepts of beauty and introduces new polyphonies. Breaking the authoritarianism of certified postures distorts the category of property. The legitimate becomes questionable; every fragmentary expansion appropriates the script.

The place of poetry as a practice of language exists in the utopian gesture of the poet whose semantic, syntactic and lexical space is a place full of feelings in constant circulation.

‘when I say delirium I say Rimbaud
when I say lucidity I say Rimbaud

………….

Glory and grief live in these subterranean mazes
One-way out burns in the distance
Sometimes my eyes fade
and sometimes the light blinds me’

Mario Trejo (‘La lucha personal’, Personal Struggle)

 

Lost from the beginning, without distinction of entry or exit, without return to any origin, beyond any ingenuity, silence and name are flàneurs.

‘If I stay long enough
I shall see the fisherman returning with his lamp,
if I stay long enough
and do not vanish in a hotel room
like a scared crab.’

(Paulina Vinderman, ‘Simbad en la taza’, Simbad in the cup)

 

 

The poetic process does not consist in reducing the object, whatever happens as an event is alien to its representation, it exceeds, rushes, appears when it is named.

‘orchids gardenias
they’ll run a shoeless race
under the foreign sky
they’ll laugh  
at their being banned
from the final scene                                                  
of an all-inclusive paradise’

(Jorge Paloantonio, ‘Paraíso levemente perdido’, Paradise slightly lost)

When the poet writes extension, the risk of touching – a nucleus of incessant fright – he prefixes the indiscernible of meaning. The inner side of what cannot be said is extracted: raw, not yet corporal, a preamble of some immunity.

‘My heart
is a shapeless mass
bleeding
                        obvious
and on top of everything red
surly muscle
                                    and nauseating
without a bird’s vocation’

(Reynaldo Sietecase, ‘En fin’, “At last”)

It is Achilles’ lance that heals wounds. They are the letters that bring the stamp of Sovereignty with commands of confinement or exile. Threat, scandal, lines of destruction, disorder.

‘The beard soaked between the legs of your savagery
shy
more audacious, or what more
like the chemical properties of your juices
and the cold metal of our swords.’

(Alejandro Pidello, ‘La Cour des Voraces’)

Making of the immeasurable a condition, a design: hybris in progress. Overcome the political cartography that divides countries, latitudes, surfaces.  Set up a way out of the battle between the singular and the plural.

‘crossing
months and years and seasons
deserts
of ice stone or sand
with a steady step
as undaunted
by change
of the temperature of light
to the harshness
of landscape
to acquire
the consistence of stone
of insects
or pachyderms
their elegance
recondite and mysterious…’

(Anahí Mallol, -9-)

A buzzing, the purring, the depth of the tongueless mouth. Air entering and exiting the sonorous cavity. Cavern, drum with its top of animal hide extremely taut. It is music, sound of absence.

‘gives me
a white
flower
that does not smell

I leave it
in the shade
of the water
of the vase’

(Susana Szwarc, ‘Vano’, Vain)

 

Place and senses dismembered, violence cauterized by fire invades. The One open, undefined. Solitude is not a theme, it is the image itself and its expression.

‘…will the substance of so many suspended bodies leave through this luminous hole? the body mangled, is that substance mangled too or are remnants left behind like lovers who seek each other after some catastrophe?...’

(Lila Zemborain, ‘11 de marzo 2002, de noche’, march 11 2002 (at night))

The rests, the ruins, the spoils of an eclipsed civilization pass at our side; a nature grimacing in a gentle, indefinite sketch. If the moral vehicle is transformed into the artistic, then the landscape is a gesture of itself.

‘So I tear up my notes,
deactivate the explosion,
and leave everything in place
while I continue my journey
satisfied to have left the world untouched,
a place no foot had ever trod.’

(Santiago Sylvester, ‘Libro de viaje’, Travel Book)

Ode to finite, not unlimited surface. Writing without interposed voice, without footnotes. There is a unique message and neither the earth nor wretchedness are capable of wrapping it up, the ambience and the context in permanent wandering.

‘He dreams of sacred objects, of sexual devices, of stones made damp by treachery, of the beginning of all deformation.’

(Mario Sampaolesi, ‘2’)

Precise, up to a certain uncontrollable point, a furtive manner of discovering all the swayings of the scene, including the damaged. The drama is unbound like detention. Voices observe the past devoid of epic.

‘the history of who
from his ruinous confinement
devoted to the pleasant vice of words
                                           finally awaits
eager
stripped
undone
with so many things to say.’

(Basilia Papastamatiu, ‘2’)

The poems of this endless Supplement shape a shadow where a certain hope of civic transmission ambushes: to inform something of the language of Argentinians. We would not simply like to distinguish the harmony of the unreconciled; this is the same as saying: it is the work that a language makes. In the resonance of the words, subjects and forms disappear to be converted into immediate actors.

 

______________________________________________________________

 

Blind Date: An Anthology of Argentinian Poets 

Mario Trejo, “il geniale poeta argentino” as Bernardo Bertolucci has said about him. He has published El uso de la palabra, Casa de las Américas Award (La Habana 1964, Barcelona 1979, Buenos Aires 1999 and Buenos Aires 2006); the theatre plays No hay piedad para Hamlet written together with Alberto Vanasco, and Libertad y otras intoxicaciones; the cinema script Desarraigo together with Fausto Canel, Cuba 1965,  with a mention at  San Sebastian Festival. He has written several song lyrics and Astor Piazzolla has put music to many of them, the most famous one is Los pàjaros perdidos.

 

Personal Struggle
Translations by James Randolph M.

When I say Germany
I say Schumann and Auschwitz
I say Benn I say Brecht
I say Marx and Gestapo

When I say death madness
I say Auschwitz and Stalin
I say Dallas Texas
I say the Bomb

When I say work ethic
future as a fixed idea
I say Lenin Far West
and at times I say Stalin

When I say made in USA
I say Hemmingway Lincoln
I say Jazz Miles Davis
KKK and the Bomb

When I say madness
I say Artaud Nerval Hölderlin
when I say delirium I say Rimbaud
when I say lucidity I say Rimbaud

When I say work ethic
future as a fixed idea
death madness lucidity delirium
I say Van Gogh Mayakovsky Essenine
and Hart Crane and Pavese and Crevel and
those who made the Bomb
but not  those who used it
those who crashed future against
the nucleus of an atom,
whom death does not kill
whom suicide does not postpone

Glory and grief live in these subterranean mazes
One-way out burns in the distance
Sometimes my eyes fade
and sometimes the light blinds me
It’s not easy it’s not easy

Oh semantic heroine
Even though cats bark
when I say all these men
I’m naming myself

 

La lucha personal

Cuando digo Alemania
digo Schumann y Auschwitz
digo Benn digo Brecht
digo Marx y Gestapo

Cuando digo muerte locura
digo Auschwitz y Stalin
digo Dallas en Texas
digo la Bomba

Cuando digo la fe en el trabajo
el porvenir como una idea fija
digo Lenin Far West
y a veces digo Stalin

 

Cuando digo made in USA
digo Hemingway Lincoln
digo Jazz y Miles Davis
KKK y la Bomba

Cuando digo locura
digo Artaud Nerval Hölderlin
cuando digo delirio digo Rimbaud
cuando digo lucidez digo Rimbaud

Cuando digo fe en el trabajo
el  porvenir como una idea fija
muerte locura lucidez delirio
digo Van Gogh Maiacovski Essenine
y Hart Crane y Pavese y Crevel y
los que hicieron la Bomba
y no los que la usaron
los que se estrellaron contra
el núcleo de un átomo de porvenir
que la muerte no mata
que el suicidio no aplaza

Gloria y dolor habitan estos laberintos subterráneos
Una sola salida arde a lo lejos
A veces mis ojos se apagan
y a veces la luz me traiciona
No es fácil no es fácil
Pero

 

Oh heroína semántica
aunque los gatos ladren
cuando digo todos los hombres
me estoy nombrando 

 

The Beautiful Error
or the Finesse of Being
Translations by James Randolph M.

I will talk about her whose legs are a gesture
She who plunges from the heights of her eyes
From the deepness of her body

She who loves me in lunacy
With scandals and silences

She who has talk for the others
And a hint for our secret

She who disposes of noon with just one minute
Arranges her life for always
And my life for eternity

She, with the weakness to wait for me
And the mania to love me

You, where errors become achievements or beauty
You, with the finesse of being
 

El bello error
o de la delicadeza de existir

Hablaré de aquella cuyas piernas se asemejan a un gesto
La que se arroja desde lo alto de sus ojos
Desde lo oscuro de su cuerpo

La que me quiere con delirios
Con escándalos y silencios

La que tiene palabras para los otros
Y una sonrisa
Para nuestro secreto

La que dispone de un minuto para el mediodía
De su vida para siempre
De mi amor para la eternidad

Ella, que tiene la debilidad de esperarme
Y la manía de quererme

Tú, donde el error se hace acierto o belleza
Tú, que tienes la delicadeza de existir

 

Rispetto Toscano for an unfinished
Sonnet to Borges
Translated by Mario Trehoe and Gary Allen

You will drink the desert grain by grain
and time will remain. The Universe
is a mirror that disappears
in the eye of another blind mirror.

Games solve hand to hand
their double solitude: verse and reverse
of a poem that resembles you.

Don’t play tricks, gentlemen, it’s just a game.
(“No tricks” is just a game.)

 

Rispetto toscano para un soneto
inacabado a Borges

Beberás el desierto grano a grano
y el tiempo sobrará. El Universo
es un espejo que desaparece
en la mirada de otro espejo ciego.

La partida termina mano a mano
su doble soledad: verso y anverso
de un poema que se te parece.

No hagan trampas, señores, es un juego.
(Ahora valen las trampas en el juego.)

 

---

 

Tamara Kamenszain is a poet and a literary critic. She has published seven poetry books and four of essays, the most recent ones are Solos y solas (2005) and La boca del testimonio (2007). She has been awarded by the Guggenheim Foundation, the Konex Prize and the Honour Medal Pablo Neruda. She is in charge of the Latin American Poetry Chair at New York University in Buenos Aires.   

Transaltion by Cecilia Rossi published in Corresponding Voices, Syracuse University, 2005

Anne Frank (from the book El Ghetto

There is no darker cellar
than this one into which the soul descends
to hide with words
what should be spoken
                                    DEATH.
They hound us and that is why
we leave a trail
of outliving.
It is a homage to the ghetto
precocious incarceration
where a girl learns to exchange
twenty-four blank hours
per minute of writing.

Ana Frank (del libro El Ghetto)

No hay sótano más oscuro
que éste al que desciende el alma
para esconder con palabras
lo que debería decirse
                                    MUERTE.
Nos persiguen y por eso
dejamos constancia
de sobrevida.
Es un homenaje al ghetto
encierro precoz
donde la niña aprende a canjear
veinticuatro horas en blanco  
por segundo de escritura.

 

From the book Solos y solas

1.

A squatter in my own house
since ownership walked out on me
I no longer have the deeds and like in dreams
the front door waits for me on the outside
so that everything may start again
I cross hospitality on a slant
behind the pictures under the furniture
grows a new roof and where
the hearth glowed only stills remain
you he him the man with the double bed
pushed away by the room sent adrift
the living-room books crawling behind him
inside a briefcase that gives way and it’s in the bath-
room that the tank roars for one last time.
I’m speaking of a toilet that swallows us far
into other houses.

 

 

 

1.

Soy la okupa de mi propia casa
desde que la propiedad se fue de mí
ya no tengo escritura y como en los sueños
la puerta de entrada me espera afuera
para que todo empiece de nuevo
atravieso de canto esa hospitalidad
atrás de los cuadros debajo de los muebles
se aquerencia un techo nuevo
donde hubo hogar quedan fotogramas
vos tú él el hombre con la cama doble
mudado por el cuarto a la deriva paso a paso
los libros del living lo siguen arrastrados
en un maletín que se desfonda y es en el baño
donde  la mochila ruge por última vez.
Hablo de un inodoro que nos traga lejos
hasta otras casas.

 

3.

Without them I’m Cinderella in radio taxi
everyone by one is released from my dance
solitude takes a step that drags along with music
the echo of the echo of what lyricists can do:
write a song that says all that we are
our most intimate views
one or two plain simple words
the shortest way home
when the radio lights up company to the night shift.
The nape of his neck sees me: I am alone
my key not enough to make me feel I own
my double bed.

 

3.
Soy sin ellos la cenicienta en radiotaxi
todos en uno se libran de mi fiesta
la soledad da ese paso que arrastra con la música
el eco del eco de lo que pueden los letristas:
hacer una canción que diga lo que somos
nuestro sentir más íntimo
dos o tres palabras lisas y llanas
el camino más corto para llegar a casa
cuando la radio le enciende al del horario nocturno
una compañía. Su nuca me ve: estoy sola,
ni la llave me alcanza para sentirme dueña
de la cama doble.

 

---

 

Santiago Sylvester was born in the province of Salta, 1942. He has published twelve poetry books, one of short-stories and one of essays – published in Argentina and Spain. He has been awarded with Nacional de Poesía, Gran Premio Internacional Jorge Luis Borges and recently Municipal de la Ciudad de Buenos Aires. In Spain, he has been given Ignacio Aldecoa Award for short-stories and Jaime Gil de Biedma Award for poetry. He has published two anthologies of poetry from Northwest Argentina. He is the editor of Pez Náufrago, poetry collection by Ediciones del Dock.

 

Translation by Anthony Edkins


Travel Book

Travel is just a way of sitting down at a table,
a timely word
which to its regret decides a foreseeable change.
But a travel book is an invasion:
the separating eye,
the pointlessness of the particular,
an opinion on the subject of time,
a sham of prestigious vomit.
All this is too much for an ephemeral project.

So I tear up my notes,
deactivate the explosion,
and leave everything in place
while I continue my journey
satisfied to have left the world untouched,
a place no foot had ever trod.

 

Libro de Viaje

Un viaje no es más que una forma de sentarse a la mesa,
una palabra dicha a tiempo
que a su pesar decide un cambio previsible.
Pero un libro de viaje ya es una irrupción:
el ojo que separa, la vanidad
del detalle,
una sentencia sobre el tiempo
o la impostura del vómito notable.
Y esto ya es demasiado para un proyecto efímero.

Rompo, por lo tanto, las anotaciones,
desactivo el estallido,
y dejo a cada cosa en su lugar
mientras sigo de viaje
con la tranquilidad de haber dejado intacto al mundo,
como si nunca nadie hubiera andado por él.

 

The Sistine Chapel 

God stretches out his arm
and from his finger Adam’s born;
whit him, the history of man
and, attaching risk to fate,
metaphors of good and evil.

We look from one side to the other
awed by the presence of perfection
and thinking it’s lucky
we haven’t run into Michelangelo
because living so long on the scaffolding,
mixing colours and a restlessly moving his hand,
will have made him unsociable,
dirty, plagued by lice,
his nerves on edge because of the rats.

Beauty is unaware of our reflections
and takes root where it wants:
in lice and rats
in the lines of a hand consumed
by weariness and sweat.

 

Capilla Sixtina

Dios extiende su brazo
y de su dedo nace Adán,
y con él la historia del hombre,
las metáforas del bien y del mal
que agregan riesgos al destino.

Miramos a uno y otro lado
con el espanto de testimoniar la perfección
y pensando que es una suerte
no habernos encontrado con Miguel Ángel
porque tantos viviendo en los andamios,
mezclando colores y moviendo angustiosamente la mano,
lo habían puesto intratable, sucio,
asediado por los piojos
y con los nervios al borde por la proximidad de las ratas.

De tal manera la belleza,
que ignora nuestras consideraciones,
hace pie también en la miseria
–en piojos y ratas–
y en las líneas de una mano agotada
de cansancio y sudor.

 

We Were Strolling Around the Town
for Leonor

We bought some algae in the market
and they told us
its name means sea grass,
then we scanned the newspaper headlines,
we were strolling through the arcade
and in the Plaza de Armas
we watched a one-man band
playing his music and dancing –
he wasn’t doing it for us
but for his boy.

All afternoon
you strolled around the town with me.
Maybe you didn’t realize this
because you were a long way off
but you’ve covered the town
so thoroughly that
when all is scattered memory
they’ll still come across you
looking at a bookshop window
in the Calle San Diego,
and when he develops his photos on Sunday
the photographer in the square
will see among the orange trees
a woman he doesn’t know
smiling at him.

 

Caminamos Por la Ciudad
a Leonor

En un mercado compramos unas algas
y nos dijeron
su nombre quiere decir hierba del mar,
después leímos los titulares de los diarios,
caminamos por la recova
y en la Plaza de Armas
vimos cómo un hombre-orquesta
tocaba su música y bailaba,
pero no lo hacía para nosotros
sino para su hijo.

Toda la tarde
caminaste por la ciudad conmigo.
Tal vez no lo sabías
porque estabas demasiado lejos,
pero tan intensamente
has recorrido la ciudad
que cuando todo sea dispersión de la memoria
todavía te encontrarán
mirando los escaparates de una librería
en la calle San Diego,
y el fotógrafo borracho de la plaza
cuando revele sus fotografías del domingo
verá que entre los naranjos
una mujer que él no conoce
le sonríe.

 

-----

 

Alicia Genovese is a poet and an essay writer. She has published seven poetry books: El cielo posible (1977), El mundo encima (1982), Anónima (1992), El borde es un río (1997), Puentes (2000), Química diurna (2004) and La hybris (2007). There is an anthology of her poetry published in Canada: La ville des ponts/ La ciudad de los puentes (2001). She has written the essay La doble voz. Poetas argentinas contemporáneas (1998). She has been awarded by Fondo Nacional de las Artes in 1999 and in 2002 by John S. Guggenheim Foundation.

Tranlation by Kathy Dwyer Navajas

 

Translations (from the book Anónima)

She moves in a distant language
and writes letter in her own
asks
about the Spanish moss
               that hangs from the trees
               like hallucinations
about the cranes that migrate
               In October or November?
looks for words
                         reasons
dies of asphyxia
            in the humid air

in the letters
            she talks about acorns
                         about the tropics
                                    about the rains of Macondo
and the wild palm trees

she wants to write her reality
she rewrites fictions
                                    Florida, 1988

 

 

Traducciones (del libro Anónima)

 

                        se mueve en un lenguaje ajeno
                        y escribe cartas en el suyo
                        pregunta
                        por los musgos
                                        que cuelgan de los árboles
                                         como fantasmagorías
                        por las grullas que emigran
                                            ¿en octubre o noviembre?
                        busca palabras
                                                razones
                        se muere de asfixia
                                                en el aire húmedo

                        en las cartas
                              habla de bellotas
                                    del trópico
                                           de las lluvias de Macondo
                        y las palmeras salvajes

                        quiere escribir su realidad
                        reescribe ficciones

                                                            Florida, 1988

 

 

The Blockage (from the book Anónima)

later you will again
                         write
what you cross out now

you will stop struggling

perhaps forgetting the crossed out
but not that gesture
where memory
            pushes, blind

around the silence of the erased
it begins again
leaves sprout
            on the stem of the rosebush
the pruning left oblique cuts

the garden light magnifies
                         it doesn’t select
                         it  doesn’t discard

 

 

La obturación (del libro Anónima)

                        más tarde volverá
                                             a escribir
                        lo que ahora tacha

                        dejará de pelear

                        quizá olvide lo tachado
                        pero no aquel movimiento
                        donde la memoria
                                      empuja ciega

                        sobre el silencio de lo borrado
                        se reanuda
                        hojas retoñan
                                    en el tallo del rosal
                        la poda dejó cortes al sesgo

                        la luz del jardín amplifica
                                                    no selecciona
                                                    no descarta

 

 

The Shapes, The Voices (from the book El borde es un río)

Sudden voicelessness
to hear a silence
            of climbing vines
                        and alligators fleeing
                                    at the least murmur
There is not such silence
in the afternoon discussed
barely an imitated landscape:
a lizard turned into a twig
a spider metamorphosed into leaf veins
without being them; the peril
in going around innocently. Exterior
of a Buenos Aires café
become a tropical zone. Folly
the folding
the cultural fig leaf
covering the nude glimpsed
There are no transparent profiles
there are escapes
slight shadows
            towards the back of the neck
reticence of shoulders
and arms
decidedly limp
Not one explanation fills
not one word completes
the shape
of waiting
to let it happen. Contour run aground
the figures, the movement
half-empty wariness
without stain, isolation
cell
waiting for the hand that opens
the nude
To say would be to show
to touch would be to hear
Linear shapes
if no one touches us
empty, if no one intuits
voices
The river curves itself
the fantasy does not absolve
it explodes underwater
Is it a manatee?
premonition, an extinguished animal
if I close my eyes
it sinks
if I leaves them open, it will surface


Las formas, las voces (del libro El borde es un río)

                        Enmudecimientos repentinos
                        para oír un silencio
                                 de ramas trepadoras
                                          y caimanes huyentes
                                                   al menor rumor
                        No hay tal silencio
                        en la tarde conversada
                        apenas un paisaje mimetizado:
                        una lagartija convertida en ramita
                        una araña metamorfoseada nervadura
                        sin serlo; la zozobra
                        en andar inocente. Exterior
                        de café porteño
                        devenido zona subtropical. Necedad
                        el repliegue
                        la cultural hoja de parra
                        sobre el desnudo avisorado
                        No hay perfiles transparentes
                        sino fugas
                        leves sombreados
                                hacia atrás del cuello
                        reticencia de hombros
                        y de brazos
                        decididamente fláccidos
                        Ninguna explicación llena
                        ninguna palabra completa
                        la forma
                        de querer
                        dejar pasar. Contorno encallado
                        las figuras, el movimiento
                        precavido sin pleno
                        sin mancha, celda
                        de clausura
                        a la espera de la mano que abra
                        el desnudo
                        Decir sería mostrar
                        tocar sería oír
                        Lineales formas
                        si alguien no nos toca
                        vacíos, si no presiente
                        voces
                        El río se curva
                        la fantasía no absuelve
                        estalla bajo el agua
                        ¿es un manatí?
                        presentimiento, un extinguido animal
                        si cierro los ojos
                        se hunde
                        si los dejo abiertos emergerá

 

---

 

Paulina Vinderman was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1944. She has published nine books of poetry including Rojo junio, Escalera de incendio, Bulgaria and El muelle. Her honours include the First Prize Government City of Buenos Aires 2002-2003, National-Regional Prize 93-96 and Prize of Argentine Academy of Literature 2003-2006 for her career and for her latest book Hospital de veteranos.

 

Tortuga Isle
Translated by D. Hughes

I get up fierce this morning,
wishing love and a country breakfast.
I seize the city
abandoned to birds like a
coastal town after a storm,
and I think of what is left:
a headland,
one rough refuge visited
by a mailman with an empty bag
who plays dice in the penumbra of the kitchen.
I do not expect anything from summer.
I do not expect anything from poem.
That rusted door needs painting
and I have to tell myself some story of
when the pirates where serious, men of rough words
and a heart mellowed like a plum
inside a rum jar.

      


Isla Tortuga

Me despierto feroz esta mañana,
con ganas de amor y desayuno de campo.
Me apodero de la ciudad
abandonada a los pájaros como un
pueblo costero después de una tormenta,
y pienso en lo que queda:
un promontorio,
un refugio áspero al que visita
un cartero con la bolsa vacía
y juega a los dados en la penumbra de la cocina.
No espero nada del verano.
No espero nada del poema.
Hay que pintar esa puerta herrumbrada
y contarme algún cuento de cuando
los piratas eran serios, señores de palabra seca
y corazón ablandado como una ciruela
dentro del jarro de ron.

 

Simbad in the Cup
Translated by Matías Serra Bradford

There is something here, an unreal slant,
light conquers the objects completely.
I step on glittering shellfish
and the questions raise up to the sky, irreproachable
like palm trees.
There is something here, not a childhood place,
there are no dirty combs abandoned
to the sun,
no bathers, buckles, concessions.
If I stay long enough
I shall see the fisherman returning with his lamp,
if I stay long enough
and do not vanish in a hotel room
like a scared crab.
“My home-room
contains Grandma’s fan”,
I tell the fisherman’s wife, and after
dinner, as he smokes his leaf cigar,
I draw the fan in my sketchbook for them
until I make it struggle against the wind like
a palm leaf.

There is something here, it may be home.
Meanwhile my city awaits, tied
to the muffle of its piers
and surely against one of its walls
a couple makes love frantically.


Simbad en la Taza

Hay algo aquí, un sesgo irreal,
La luz vence por completo a los objetos.
Camino sobre conchillas resplandecientes
y las preguntas se alzan al cielo, irreprochables
como palmeras.
Hay algo aquí, no es un sitio de infancia,
No hay peines sucios abandonados
al sol,
no hay bañistas, hebillas, concesiones.
Si me quedo el tiempo suficiente
veré al pescador regresar con su lámpara,
si me quedo el tiempo suficiente
y no desaparezco en una pieza de hotel
como un cangrejo asustado.

“Mi casa-habitación
contiene el abanico de la abuela”,
cuento a la mujer del pescador, y después de
la cena, mientras él fuma su cigarro de hoja,
les dibujo en mi cuaderno el abanico
hasta hacerlo luchar contra el viento como
una hoja de palma.

Hay algo aquí, tal vez sea el hogar.
Mi ciudad espera mientras tanto, atada
a la sordina de sus muelles
y contra uno de sus muros, seguramente,
una pareja con furia hace el amor.


Fire Scape
Tanslated by John Oliver Simon

I peer out the window to write to you
like every afternoon.
This sky is so pale it’s scary to look at
(and the jacarandas are enough for Grandpa).
I know I’m alive, that is
I walk the streets and see the work of chance
in the foliage.
Nothing shines in the papers that surround me,
the neighbour boy plays the drum from six to seven
while his mother visits women friends
who have a recipe for letting go of love.
Anyway loneliness is what is shining
and sometimes dryness too,
I want to see the infinite
fluttering in those stupid drums:
a sign, the betrayal of a sign, the fiction of
a sign.
Nothing is certain, I won’t reveal myself
in a single word to make you happy.

 

Escalera de Incendio

Me asomo a la ventana como todas las tardes
para escribirte.
Este cielo es tan pálido que da miedo mirarlo
(y de los jacarandáes con el abuelo basta.
Sé que estoy viva, es decir
camino calles y veo el trabajo del azar
en la arboleda.
Nada resplandece en los papeles que rondo,
el muchacho de la batería toca de seis a siete
mientras su madre visita amigas
con alguna receta para dejar de amar.
En todo caso la soledad es la que resplandece
y a veces la sequía,
quiero ver al infinito revolotear
                                   en esa torpe batería:
una señal, la traición de una señal, la ficción
de una señal.
Nada es seguro, ya ni siquiera me desvelo
por una palabra para hacerte feliz.

 

---

 

Jorge Paolanton, internationally awarded Argentine author (1947). Peso Muerto (2007) includes his latest poems; Ceniza de Orquídeas (2003) -Ashes of Orchids (2008) - is his best known novel. He has published eight volumes of poetry, four novels and three plays. He hives in Buenos Aires.  

Translation by the author

la mesa                                                                     the table

cada vez el espacio es más de hiedra                 the ivy gradually overtakes the spare room

el jardín es una canción abierta                         the garden is now an open song
a la corona solar bajo la nube                            to the solar crown under the cloud

un pasaje conduce                                          a course leads
a la mesa a la que todos se sientan                     to a table everybody sits at

en una hora de tiempo incierto                          it’s the very hour of an unstable time
las manos se han fundido por las palmas              the hands are smelt palm into palm
para sentir que no pueden separarse                   only to feel they cannot grow apart

alguien ha puesto un plato                               someone has set on a plate
con un membrillo abierto en dos mitades             the two halves of a quince
                         
¿quién quiere el corazón del dulce?                    who wants the core of sweetness?
¿quién quiere el corazón?                                  who wants this heart?                              
 
una voz asevera que estarán siempre juntos       a voice claims they’ll always be together
las cabezas se inclinan                                      their heads lean down

leves criaturas han tejido risas que se alejan      slight creatures have knit those fleeting laughs

 

(de/from Peso Muerto, 2007)

 

sueño                                                           a dream

podrás resucitar                                             you’ll come  again to life
de nuevo levantarte                                        be again on your feet
ser el lomo de un caballo moro                          be a dapple horse’s back
andando a fusta                                             riding under whip
y olisquearás el pasto                                     and sniff the grass
lavandas pisoteadas                                        the trodden lavender
para caerte                                                   and  then  
definitivamente muerto                                    you’ll drop dead for good
al final de una línea de Kavafis                          at the end of a line by Kavafis

 

(de/from LenguaDevorada (2004)

 

paraíso levemente perdido                               paradise slightly lost

habrá una isla                                              there’ll be an island                  
 (¡oh Señora de los Destierros!)                         (O, Madonna of the Banned!)
aguacero de la jungla esmeralda                      summer shower in the emerald jungle
y la espera con techo                                    and this roofed wait 
en la tierras humeante                                   in the  steaming out soil

orquídeas gardenias                                      orchids gardenias
correrán  descalzos                                       they’ll run a shoeless race
bajo el cielo foráneo                                      under the foreign sky
reirán                                                          they’ll laugh  
de su destierro                                             at their being banned
en el cuadro final                                          from the final scene                                                   
de un paraíso comprado                                 of an all-inclusive paradise

 

(de/ from Lengua Devorada, 2004))

 

---

 

Reynaldo Sietecase was born in Rosario, Argentina,1961. He is a poet, a writer and a journalist. He was one of the founders of literary group El Poeta Manco. He works as a journalist in radio, newspapers and TV. He has published six poetry books: Y las cárceles vuelan (1986), Cierta curiosidad por las tetas (1989), Instrucciones para la noche de bodas (1992), Fiesta rara (1996), Pintura negra (2000) and Hay que besarse más (2005). He has also published two books of chronicles: El viajero que huye (1994) and Bares (1997); the novel Un crimen argentino (2002); and the short stories book Pendejos ( 2007).

Del libro Cierta curiosidad por las tetas
From the book Cierta curiosidad por las tetas

Translation by Mariela Méndez and Daniel Coudriet

At Last

My heart
is a shapeless mass
bleeding
                        obvious
and on top of everything red
surly muscle
                                    and nauseating
without a bird’s vocation

my heart
doesn’t have a good flavor
or respectable rhythm
is a piece of gut
with a whim to live
a heroic wart
                                    no-solidarity
that can remove
its armor

My heart
is a wrinkly viscera
disgusting and lukewarm
under coward shelter
of emotions
                        or attacks

 

Why the hell
                        wrapped
in Sunday newspapers
does that woman
            hollow me out
and steal it
and I
            without knowing
if it is for the cat.


 

En fin

Mi corazón
es una masa informe
sanguinolenta
                     obvia
y para colmo roja
un músculo hosco
                           y nauseabundo
sin vocación de pájaro

 

mi corazón
no tiene buen sabor
ni ritmo respetable
es un pedazo de tripa
con veleidad de vida
una heroica verruga
                              insolidaria
que puede prescindir
de la coraza

 

Mi corazón
es una víscera rugosa
desagradable y tibia
a cobarde resguardo
de emociones
                     e infartos

Por qué carajo
                      envuelto
en diarios del domingo
esa mujer
              me ahueca
y se lo roba
y yo
      sin saber
si es para el gato.

 

Brief Goodbye

                        Sweet love
                        before dawn
who could
recognize your skin
beneath the moon
                        and thus
shield you
            your eyes
from its brightness
to save
                        the light
for when forgetfulness
arrives.

 

Breve adiós

                                                Dulce amor
                antes del alba

quien pudiera
reconocer tu piel
                          y así
abrigarte
             los ojos
de su brillo
para salvar
                 la luz
cuando el olvido
llegue.

 

 

Not Coveting the Wife of Another

Not coveting the wife
of another
                        or at least
not coveting with enough
strength
            so as to
pursue her
along the streets
                        of her neighborhood
with the stupid intention
of producing
casual encounters
waving from a distance
or other tricks
that can bring out
a smile

Not taking the same
                                    bus
on necessary days
so as to meet her
                        in the seat
in front
            and desolate
travel in silence
to nowhere
with her hair in my eyes
on my lips

Not inviting her for coffee
much less
            of course
some white wine
never thinking
                        of pressing
poems to her ear
                        or writing
her name
            in the bathroom stalls
Avoiding surprising her
                                    alone and near
especially on Sundays
                                                or holidays
on the dangerous boundary
of drinking her breath

Not leaving
            bits of heart
on her nipples
not falling inadvertantly
between her legs

Not coveting the wife
of another
                        or at least
not coveting with enough
strength.


No desear a la mujer del prójimo

No desear a la mujer
del prójimo
                 o por lo menos
no desearla con la fuerza
suficiente
              como
para perseguirla
por las calles
                    de su barrio
con la estúpida intención
de producir
encuentros casuales
saludos a lo lejos
u otras artimañas
que puedan forzarle
la sonrisa

 

No tomar el mismo
                              colectivo
los días necesarios
para encontrarla
                         en el asiento
de enfrente
                 y desolados
viajar en silencio
a ningún sitio
con su pelo en los ojos
y los labios

 

No invitarle un café
y menos
             por supuesto
un vino blanco
Jamás pensar
                    en empujarle
poemas al oído
                       o escribir
su nombre
                por los baños
Evitar sorprenderla
                              sola y cerca
en especial los domingos
                                       o feriados
al límite peligroso
de beber su aliento

 

No olvidar
                restos de corazón
en sus pezones
ni caer por descuido
entre sus piernas

 

No desear a la mujer
del prójimo
                 o por lo menos
no desearla con la fuerza
suficiente.

 

---

 

Alejandro Pidello was born in Rosario, Argentina,1947. He has published Los colores del salón de lectura (1973); El Diablo in albis (1997) and Estación de animales buenos (2007). His texts were published in several anthologies: De lagrimales y cachimbas (1972); Pájaro Anual (1974); La huella de los pájaros (1978); Juegos de Octubre (1981).

 

Translation by Terence X. Erbe

La Cour des Voraces

A flame burns in the window of the garden of the mint.The flesh burns
in the games from the time of kings.
The flesh speaks, from aureoles
auricals
The flesh rings, like a dress of gold.
Beyond, the game of the passages
with the honey of a thousand faces that shine
lightless, in the corridors of the histories of the silk weavers with eyes
like the smiles of the primal numbers.
The beard soaked between the legs of your savagery
shy
more audacious, or what more
like the chemical properties of your juices
and the cold metal of our swords.
Well we are
autumn’ s things make themselves, that is to say,
each leaf returns to place
in each tree.
It loves itself, or what is worse
It loves itself with a botanical, astronomical fervour
of certain angels.

 

La Cour des Voraces

La llama arde en la ventana del jardín de la menta.
La piel arde,
En los juegos de los tiempos de los reyes.
La piel habla, desde aureolas
áuricas
y la piel suena, como vestido de oro.
Más allá, el juego de los pasadizos
con la miel de mil caras que se iluminan
sin luz, en los corredores de las historias de los tejedores de la seda, con ojos
y como las sonrisas de los primeros números.
La barba remojada entre las piernas de tu barbarie
tímida
más audaz o tanto
como las propiedades químicas de tus líquidos
y el frío metal de nuestras espadas.
Para que estemos bien,
se hacen las cosas del otoño, es decir
se vuelve a poner cada hoja
en cada árbol.
Y se ama, o lo que es peor
se ama con el fervor botánico o astronómico de ciertos ángeles.

 

---

 

Anahí Mallol was born in La Plata, Argentina, 1968. She has published three poetry books: Postdata (1998), Polaroid (2001 Awarded in El Salvador -“Año 2000: Memoria histórica de la violencia en América Latina”), Óleo sobre lienzo (2004); she has also published an essay book El poema y su doble (2003 – Awarded by Fundación Antorchas). She is the co-founder of Sello Editorial Siesta and collaborates with several literary magazines.

From the book Zoo
Del libro Zoo

Translation by Andrew Graham-Yooll

1.-
A horse
standing
under the rain
as if it did not
rain

thus I wish to be
naked wholly
under the rain
as if nothing
as if nobody
had ever
touched me
making me more fragile

 

- 1 -

un caballo
parado
debajo de la lluvia
como si no
lloviera

así quiero estar
desnuda entera
debajo de la lluvia
como si nada
como si nadie
me hubiera
tocado nunca
haciéndome más frágil

 

9.
crossing
months and years and seasons
deserts
of ice stone or sand
with a steady step
as undaunted
by change
of the temperature of light
to the harshness
of landscape
to acquire
the consistence of stone
of insects
or pachyderms
their elegance
recondite and mysterious
building
laboriously
that shield
till it reaches
the quality
of gold or jade, or turquoise.


- 9 –

atravesar
por meses y años y estaciones
desiertos
de piedra hielo o arena
con paso firme
como impertérrito
a los cambios
de la luz de la temperatura
a la inclemencia
del paisaje
para adquirir
la consistencia casi pétrea
de los insectos
o los paquidermos
su elegancia
recóndita y misteriosa
construirse
trabajosamente
ese caparazón
hasta que alcance
la cualidad
del oro o el jade o la turquesa.

 

21.

the eye

on the top

is full of sky

and below

a sea

a wide sea

of golden sand

 

on the Sahara

in hunger and thirst

thus it walks

looking ahead always

and sees

just that: sky above

and a sea of sand

and there walks

to the end

the camel

the only real

inhabitant

of the desert



- 21 -

el ojo
en su superficie
todo lleno de cielo
por un lado y por el otro
un mar
un mar inmenso
de arena dorada

por el Sahara
con hambre y sed
camina
mira siempre hacia delante
y lo que ve
es eso: cielo
y mar de arena
y así camina
hasta el final
el camello
el único habitante
verdadero
del desierto

 

---

 

Susana Szwarc was born in Quitilipi, Chaco province, Argentina, 1954. She has published: El artista del sueño y otros cuento (1981); En lo separado (poetry, 1988); Trenzas (novel, 1991). Bailen las estepas (poetry, l999). Bárbara dice (poetry, 2004); El azar cruje (Short stories, 2006); Una Felicidad liviana (short stories, 2007). She has written the children’s book: Había una vez una gota (l996), Había una vez un circo (l996), Salirse del camino y otros cuentos (l997). Her theatre plays have been represented in Buenos Aires and other provinces. She has been awarded several times.

Translation by Brian Whitener

 

Barbara

This excessive body
even after the striptease
is as light as the best
“coming attraction” before my eyes.
The aesthetics of the poster
make me smile
and rock in the chair in my house
(to a foreign rhythm)
Ah! it’s the same as
when Barbara offers her flesh
—true, false—
for me.
Her name brings to mind
the poem by Prevert
although she insists “look, I also go by Sonia
and in my hands there’s neither crime nor punishment.”

But none of these memories
serve tonight
she is there, taking forever
her golden dress off, to make us forget
and her body is a perfect map,
a territory to embrace,
toss coins
turn back clocks.

Suddenly I don’t know what’s happening.
Next door there’s not the sound of bracelets
and the music from the radio,
that wakes the neighbors,
it affects my taste, clairvoyance.

A man, another man,
embraces Barbara.
Barbarous sadness that of the man
who embraces her and like this can’t
extinguish his tears of flesh.
But the cry is of both
and they worth our money.

 

Bárbara

Ese cuerpo excesivo
aún después del  strip-tease
es tan leve como el mejor
afiche ante mis ojos.
La estética del poster
me hace sonreír
y mecerme en la silla de mi casa
(al compás del ritmo ajeno).
¡Ah! es exactamente igual
que ofrezca Bárbara su carne
-de verdad, de mentira-
para mí.
Su  nombre acerca a mi memoria
el  poema de Prevert
aunque ella insista : “mirá, también me llamo Sonia
y no hay en mis manos ni crimen ni castigo”.

Pero ninguno de estos recuerdos
sirve esta noche,
ella está allí, quitándose siempre
su ropa dorada, justamente para llevarnos al olvido
y su cuerpo es un mapa perfecto,
un territorio para abrazar,
arrojar monedas,
atrasar relojes.

De pronto ya no sé  qué sucede.
No hay ruido de pulseras en la habitación de al lado
y la música que sale de la radio,
que despierta a los vecinos,
me afecta el sentido del gusto, la clarividencia.

Un hombre, otro hombre,
abraza a Bárbara.
Bárbara tristeza  la del hombre
que la abraza y no apaga así
sus lágrimas de carne.
Pero el llanto es de los dos
y valen nuestras monedas.

 

Vain

gives me
a white
flower
that does not smell

 

i leave it
in the shade
of the water
of the vase


Vano

me da
una blanca
flor
que no huele

 

la dejo
en la sombra
del agua
del jarro

                                              

--

 

Lila Zemborain, Argentinian poet, has been living in New York since 1985. She is the author of the poetry collections, Abrete sésamo debajo del agua (1993), Usted (1998), Guardianes del secreto (2002) / Guardians of the Secret (2008), Malvas orquídeas del mar (2004) /Mauve-Sea Orchids (New York: Belladonna Books, 2007), and Rasgado (2006). She has authored the book-length essay Gabriela Mistral. Una muje sin rostro. From 2000 to 2006, she was the director and editor of the Rebel Road Series, and since 2003 she curates the KJCC Poetry Series at New York University, where she teaches at the MFA in Creative Writing in Spanish. In 2007 she was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship for poetry.

 

From the book Rasgado
Del libro Rasgado
Translation by Hanya Wozniak

march 11 2002 (at night)

they illuminate the space left empty with two towers of light, a
poltergeist emerging from the earth toward the darkness, a road,
an exit door, will their course be like this? will the substance of
so many suspended bodies leave through this luminous hole?
the body mangled, is that substance mangled too or are
remnants left behind like lovers who seek each other after some
catastrophe? can I imagine anything less limited?  the splendor
whips my throat, the harshness of all this vital material
wandering surprised through streets phantasmal in its wake;
what happens to all that floats?  is there a symmetry that can
contain so much waste, that can channel so much stupor, so
much skewed destiny? the vibrations of death are nearby, there
is much left to chance, nine men convinced that paradise
reverberates before their eyes drift about with the others in a
confusion still tangled, one substance glued to the other, all of it
one ligament; it is no longer matter that hurts, it is this whole
embroilment of energy that does not know whether up, or down,
where or what; ojalá, we all say, god-willing, with invisible levels
of sadness for lives we never celebrated

 

11 de marzo 2002 (de noche)

encienden dos torres de luz en el espacio de la
falta, poltergeist brotando de la tierra hacia lo
oscuro, un camino, una puerta de salida ¿serán así
sus derroteros? ¿saldrá por ese hueco iluminado la
sustancia de tantos cuerpos en suspenso?
destrozado el cuerpo ¿se destroza también esa
sustancia o quedan jirones dando vueltas como
amantes que se buscan después de una catástrofe?
¿puedo imaginar algo menos limitado? el
resplandor me azota la garganta, la aspereza de
toda esta materia vital vagabundeando sorprendida
por las calles que son así fantasmales por su causa
¿qué pasa con todo lo que flota? ¿hay una simetría
que pueda contener tanto derroche, que pueda
encauzar tanto estupor, tanto destino atravesado?
las vibraciones de la muerte están cercanas, hay
mucha suerte no resuelta, nueve hombres
convencidos de que el paraíso resuena ante sus
ojos deambulan con los otros en una confusión
que todavía no se desenreda, una sustancia pegada
a la otra, todo un ligamento; ya no es la materia lo
que duele, es toda esa maraña de energía que no
 sabe si hacia arriba, hacia abajo, hacia dónde
o hacia qué; ojalá, decimos todos, ojalá,
con niveles no visibles de tristeza por vidas
que nunca celebramos

 

 

june 15 2002

the explosion like an uprising against the fate of violence, the
blueprint against the linear, as if the structure of written language
were a line that encountered in the system the moment of crisis,
the movement toward the word that does not exist, because that
which is permanent within nature is there only to be destroyed in
the metric of change, the iteration of an element that conditions
the unpredictable progression, like climate or endorphins, or the
hexagonal tower that grows and contains at the same time a
space of air that should be respected, because the idea of the
tower is its possible collapse

 

15 de junio 2002

la explosión como un sometimiento al azar
de la violencia, el plan en contra de lo lineal,
como si la estructura del lenguaje escrito fuera una
línea que encontrara en el sistema el momento de
crisis, el movimiento hacia la palabra que no
existe, porque lo fijo en la naturaleza sólo está
para ser destruido en la métrica del cambio, la
iteración de un elemento que condiciona la
progresión impredecible, como el clima o las
endorfinas, o la torre hexagonal que crece y
contiene a la vez un espacio de aire que debe
ser respetado, porque la idea de la torre
es su posible derrumbe

 

----

 

Mario Sampaolesi was born in Buenos Aires, 1955. Since 1993, he has been the editor of Barataria poetry magazine. He has published the poetry books Cielo Primitivo (1981); La Belleza de lo Lejano (1986); La Lluvia sin Sombra (1992); El Honor es Mío (1992); Puntos de Colapso (1999); Miniaturas Eróticas (2003); A la hora del té (2007). He published the novel La vida es perfecta in 2005. He has translated from French Un golpe de dados... by S. Mallarmé (2006) and El cementerio marino by P. Valery (2007). mariosampaolesi@yahoo.com.ar


From the book Puntos de Colapso
Del libro Puntos de Colapso

Translation by Ian Taylor

 

1

Scattered objects, leftovers, nylon, polythene sachets full of blood,
hypodermic needles: the vestal, sculpturally virgin and young, rubs
herself against the apple tree in bloom. She ignores the naked man
resting beneath the foliage. She ignores the serpent and the idea that a
serpent could exist.
Pieces of burnt paper, the sound of a train passing over bridges, red
light bulbs, bits of wood and iron, the hypocrisy of a suffocating,
perverted civilisation.
I love you Eve.
….
The day breaks against the mountain.
I hear the hardness of the blow, imagine the splash of its clarity, its
geometrical particles, luminous, sharp, cutting.

How to find light in shadow?
How to find shadow in light?
For shadow is completely shadow and light completely light.
For it is dark in the depths of darkness and luminous in the depths of
light.

Yet there still exists a darkness in light, a luminosity in shadow.

 

1

Objetos esparcidos, desperdicios, nylon, sachets de polietileno llenos de sangre,
hipodérmicas: la vestal, esculturalmente virgen y joven frota su cuerpo contra el
manzano en flor. Ignora al hombre desnudo descansando bajo la fronda. Ignora a la
serpiente e incluso a la idea de existencia de una serpiente.
Papeles quemados, el ruido del paso del tren sobre los puentes, lamparitas rotas,
maderas, hierros, cementerios de computadoras, la hipocresía de la civilización
asfixiante y perversa.

Te amo Eva.
..............................

El día se rompe contra la montaña.
Oigo la dureza del golpe, imagino la salpicadura de su claridad, sus partículas
geométricas, luminosas, filosas, cortantes.

¿Cómo hallar luz en la sombra?
¿Cómo hallar sombra en la luz?
Porque la sombra es completamente sombra y la luz completamente luz.
Porque es oscuro en lo profundo de la oscuridad y luminoso en lo profundo de la luz.

 

Sin embargo, existe una oscuridad en la luz, una luminosidad en la sombra.

 

 

2

Crypt confessions; sealed mysteries, locks, ciphers of a key that would
reveal will reveal the meaning of life, monoliths: he disfigures his face
with a blade worked from marble.
He wounds himself in order not to think, not to dream.
The irritated veneer of his solitude moves in the dark like sails, with a
texture like silk, like purple, getting soaked by the rain.
He dreams of sacred objects, of sexual devices, of stones made damp
by treachery, of the beginning of all deformation.
                  ………………….

A storm is coming. I can feel it.
Nothing else could account for the different sound of the wind, the flight
of certain animals.

I am alone in the cave in front of the fire.
At night in the mountain there is only the cold and the wind.
I hear the sound of the snow as it breaks against the walls.
I perceive and do not perceive the void.

 

2

Confesiones de criptas; misterios sellados, cerraduras, cifras de una clave que
develaría develará el sentido de la vida, monolitos: él desfigura su rostro con una
punta de marfil labrada.
Se hiere para no pensar, para no soñar.
La irritada veladura de su soledad se mueve en la tiniebla como un velamen, casi una
textura de seda, de púrpura, mojándose bajo la lluvia.
Sueña con objetos sagrados, con aparatos sexuales, con piedras humedecidas por la
perfidia, con el comienzo de toda deformación.

...........

Habrá tormenta. Lo presiento.
Debe ser por el sonido diferente del viento, por el correr de algunos animales.
Estoy solo en la cueva frente al fuego.
De noche en la montaña sólo existen el frío y el viento.
Oigo el ruido de la nieve al romperse contra las piedras.
Percibo y no percibo el vacío.

 

 

3

Something strays from the mind: a thought or just the sensation of
having thought. That impression of reliving certain events would
maintain its connection with oblivion (the final mercy would be memory,
memory as a secret refuge against loss.)
(This type of accumulation that is memory, if it lasts it would disrupt it
disrupts an order, would destroy it destroys all organisation.)
How is it possible to love the vision of the corpse eaten by worms? How
love the vision of diseases coagulating all movements? How love the
contemplation of that which is falling apart?

Someone will kiss our pain.
….
I go on small expeditions. I explore.
I take photographs.

Little by little the weather improves.
I have been here for many days.
Perfumes
                    sounds
                             colours I never noticed before begin to invade me.
It’s strange.
I always thought that I myself was the invader.
But the mountain keeps on growing, grows larger and larger inside me.
I take photographs.

 

 3

Algo se extravía de la mente: un pensamiento o apenas la sensación de haber tenido
un pensamiento. Esa impresión de revivir ciertos sucesos, guardaría su conexión con
el olvido (la última piedad sería el recuerdo, el recuerdo como secreto refugio  contra la
pérdida.)
(Esta acumulación que es la memoria si perdurara quebraría quiebra un orden,
destruiría destruye toda organización.)
¿Cómo amar la visión del cadáver comido por los gusanos? ¿Cómo amar la visión de
la enfermedad coagulando los movimientos? ¿Cómo amar la contemplación de aquello
que se destruye?

Alguien besará nuestro dolor.
..........
 

Hago pequeñas expediciones. Exploro.
Tomo fotografías.
Poco a poco el tiempo mejora.
Hace muchos días que estoy aquí.
Perfumes
             sonidos
                        colores que antes no percibía comienzan a invadirme.
Es extraño.
Siempre pensé que era yo el invasor.
Sin embargo, la montaña crece, es muy grande dentro de mí.

Tomo fotografías.

 

-----

 

Basilia Papastamatíu was born in Buenos Aires, 1940, but she lives in La Habana. She is a poet, a translator and a literary critic. She has founded the literature magazine Airón and she is nowadays the sub editor of La Letra del escriba magazine, La Habana. Basilia coordinates the Premio Iberoamericano de Cuento Julio Cortázar (Julio Cortázar Short Story Awards, Cuba). She has Publisher the poetry books El pensamiento común (1966), Qué ensueños los envuelven (1984), Paisaje habitual (1986), Allí donde (1996), Dónde estábamos entonces (1998) and Espectáculo privado (2003). She is now working on her text Cuando ya el paisaje es otro.      

From the unpublished book Cuando ya el paisaje es otro
Del libro inédito Cuando ya el paisaje es otro
Translation by Magda Moyano

1
 
this is the sorrowful story of
a dreamer
not engraved for immortality on everlasting stones
but ephemeral like a drop of water
on the desert
It is the story of someone confined
to a golden cage who,
for not having achieved the hero’s fate
and not having known how
to be in tune with the motherland’s
triumphal hymn, collapsed
like
an inert bird
 

1
esta es la dolorosa historia de un soñador
no grabada sobre perdurables piedras para la inmortalidad
sino efímera como una gota de agua en el desierto
es la historia de quien
confinado en jaula dorada
al no cumplir su destino de héroe y no haber sabido entonar el
       /himno triunfal de la patria
                              Como frágil e inerme ave
                                                               Se desplomó


2
 
It is a people’s history unlike any other
(when memory becomes the incarnation
of knowledge and the dreams of the outcast
are so innocuous in an alien land)
the history of who
from his ruinous confinement
devoted to the pleasant vice of words
                                     finally awaits
eager
stripped
undone 
with so many things to say


2

Es una historia popular como ninguna
    (cuando la memoria se vuelve la encarnación del saber
    y los sueños del desterrado son tan inocuos en tierra ajena)
la historia de quien
desde su ruinoso confín
entregado al placentero vicio de la palabra
                                                       espera finalmente
deseoso
despojado
deshecho
y con tantas cosas por decir


 ----


Alejandra Correa was born in Argentina, 1965, and she lives in Buenos Aires city. She is a poet, a journalist and works in Cultural Management. She founded the Buenos Aires Audiovideoteca -an audiovisual archive of the Argentine Culture History- in 2004 and since then she has been one of its Directors. She has published the poetry books
Río partido (1998), El grito (2002) y Donde olvido mi nombre (2005). She has created the following poetry blog: www.antesdequeanochezca.blogspot.com

 

From the book Donde olvido mi nombre
Del libro Donde olvido mi nombre

Translation by Silvia Vegierski

 

Nobody will tell which
is the last second
of this weak
balance

of this fragile remain
on the surface
of things

Nadie dirá cuál
es el último segundo
de este equilibrio
endeble

 

de este frágil permanecer
sobre la superficie
de las cosas

 

Outside me
everything is darkness

my body
holds
the only language

I am a passenger
of fragments

I walk
over mutilated bodies
over toys
of aged children

yesterday
the pedal
of a sewing machine
today
a yo-yo
without string

if I spent
my wandering time
on these leavings
I would finally get
the cans with fishhooks
the orange umbrella
the calligraphic letters

nothing never
could has died so much time

Fuera de mí
todo es tiniebla

mi cuerpo
contiene
el único lenguaje

soy pasajera
de fragmentos

camino
sobre cuerpos mutilados
sobre juguetes
de niños envejecidos

ayer
el pedal de una máquina
de costura
hoy
un yoyo
sin cuerda

si dedicara
mi tiempo errante
a estas sobras
extraería al fin
las latas con anzuelos
el paraguas anaranjado
las letras caligráficas

nunca nada
logró morir tanto tiempo

 

From the book El grito
Del libro El grito

The cry
is a bird that sleeps
in your throat

and gives away with a stroke
in the middle of a bridge
where time gets broken

and the sky
the ships
the hands
and the faces
turn liquid

horizontal
stripes of water

crossed by obscurity
and the drowned space
that opens
the cry

El grito
es un pájaro que duerme
en tu garganta

y se desprende con un trazo
en medio de un puente
donde el tiempo se parte

y el cielo
los barcos
las manos
y los rostros
se hacen líquidos

horizontales
rayas de agua

atravesadas por la oscuridad
y el espacio ahogado
que abre
el grito

 

----

 

Nicolás Peyceré was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina.  He is a doctor and a writer. He has published the poetry books Almotamid, Sísara y Juan, and Poemas elegidos;   the novels Evangelio Apócrifo de Hadattah, La explicación, (poem novel). Las muchachas sudamericanas and Los días sentimentales. He wrote the semantic-philosophic essay Additamenta.  He has also published articles in several literary magazines: La redundancia, La novela de la mirada, Encuentro, and Las doce reinas. 

 

De la novela inédita Annette Adele
From unpublished novel Annette Adele

These texts were originally written in English and translated into Spanish by the author especially for this anthology.

 

If I gave an offering

If I gave an offering
in the Celtic way
on a woman’s pure words,
as an Orkney’s girl.

Oh, thou, photographer lieutenant
or that one, hunter lieutenant.

Hear my dispatches,
have no silly doubt
on my net drawing
on my alluring breasts
my long legs and pleated skirt
the darkness amongst groins.

In an active nightfall
in the vague ochre room.

Photographer adrift through the bazaar. The jars with
monogram are rested. The jars, polished, are hung around.
There is faint ochre. I go tripping, sublime. Scarcely clothed.
Conventional one part, another dyes, prospectus. Thoughtful
extravagance. To cause to mesmerize.

Epitome I will be,
in the Celtic way
of a woman’s pure words,
of an Orkney’s girl.

 

Si hiciera un ofrecimiento

Si hiciera un ofrecimiento
en el modo Céltico
de palabras puras de mujer,
como una muchacha de las Orcadas.

Oh, tú, teniente fotógrafo
o ese, teniente cazador.

Oye mis despachos,
no tengas idiota duda
de mi dibujo neto
de mis pechos atractivos
mis piernas largas y la falda plisada
la oscuridad entre las ingles.

En un anochecer activo
en el cuarto vagamente ocre.

Fotógrafo a la deriva a través del bazar.  Los tarros con
monogramas, están descansados. Los tarros, pulidos, están
colgados alrededor. Hay un ocre leve. Voy tropezando,
sublime. Escasamente vestida. Convencional, de una parte,
de otras tintas, prospecto.  Considerada extravagancia.
Para causar cautivar.

Seré vivo ejemplo,

en el modo Céltico
de palabras puras de mujer,
de una muchacha de las Orcadas.

 

Annette Adele says:
Bombardment in woods

Howitzers disrupt, shill in trenches,
Sunday a noble oak was uprooted,
Monday holm oaks have fallen
as stones and thick glasses
as disputed smithereens,
Tuesday there was a long silence
with smoke, obscure
and sad and acrid.

Here my dress was red
and grey and trembling,
I had fearsome diverse images
the Return of Persephone
the Tartar, hellish.

Here the trees moved their necks
the boys were hidden in trenches
and howitzers shifted their howl,
more holm oaks came to fall
birds and black birds were fallen.

 

The rugged ruin
she gazes awhile.

 

Annette Adele dice:
Bombardeo en bosques

Los Howitzer alteran, estridentes en trincheras,
el domingo un roble noble fue arrancado,
el lunes encinas han caído
como piedras y gruesos vidrios
como disputados añicos,
el martes hubo un silencio largo
de humo, oscuro
y triste y acre.

Aquí mi vestido fue rojo
y gris y tembloroso,
tuve imágenes temidas diversas
el Retorno de Perséfone
el Tártaro, infernal.

Aquí los árboles movieron sus gargantas
los muchachos quedaron ocultos en trincheras
y los howitzer cambiaban su aullido,
más encinas volvieron a caer
pájaros y pájaros negros están caídos.

 

La áspera ruina
ella mira fija un rato.

 

------

 

Sandra Cornejo was born in La Plata, Province of Buenos Aires 1962. She is a journalist, Lic. in Social Communication specialised in Culture Management. She has published Borradores (1989, Honoured by Sociedad Argentina de Escritores), Ildikó (1998), Sin suelo (2001) y Partes del Mundo (2005).

 

Translation Jorge Goyeneche

 

Grandmother with a cane (from the book Ildikó)

Always in first presence her Person
Her person from away,
Her oranges.

Always a chest of remains and an absence
Premonition of another dream’s end,
A swarm of pieces during April.

Always the side that appears in the memory
Tears the memories and splints

In this heart, this bells

Of grandma with a cane, of little lonely girl
Of little girl with a cane, of grandma alone

That are waiting for the little boy
while they are singing.

 

Abuela con bastón (del libro Ildikó)

Siempre en primera presencia su Persona
su persona de lejos,
sus naranjas.

Siempre un cofre de restos y una ausencia
un  presagio de fines de otro sueño,
un enjambre de trozos en abril.

Siempre el perfil que asoma en la memoria
rasguña los recuerdos y se astilla

en este corazón, estas campanas

de abuela con bastón, de niña sola
de niña con bastón, de abuela sola

que aguardan al pequeño mientras cantan.

 

All what you were looking for (from the book Sin Suelo)

All what you were looking for 
Was a footstep in the snow

You couldn’t imagine that crossing the frontier
The trigger would shoot your animal
Like a wild cat
Like a hare

Someone had a feeling
With a lighting candle
In a closed room,
When you were going out
Those persons astonished you,
They were neither your father
Nor your mother
No one who took a place
In your body

¿What did you want,
din or smoothness?
You would not go to the port of deep waters
by the melt waters
you would go to the reservoir
cloudy hollow, deep
whisper asking you to fall

Unarmed animal
You were looking for a body in the open
Its footstep
In hunting season.

 

Todo lo que buscabas (del libro Sin Suelo)

Todo lo que buscabas
era una huella en la nieve

no imaginaste que al cruzar la frontera
el percutor gatillaría a tu animal
como a un gato montés
o una liebre

alguien lo había intuido
con una vela encendida
en una habitación cerrada,
al salir
te asombraron esos seres,
no eran tu padre
ni tu madre
ni quien ocupara un lugar
en tu cuerpo

¿Qué querías,
fragor o tersura?
Al puerto de aguas profundas
no irías por las aguas del deshielo
irías al embalse
cuenco turbio, hondo
susurro pidiéndote que caigas

Animal desarmado
buscabas un cuerpo a la intemperie
su huella
en época de caza

 

Lineage (from the book Partes del mundo)

                                                to Mateo

The breeze brings winds from different tribes
To your forehead,
I look at them
While they make a place
In your smile of Creole skin
Tracked by centuries, behind the Andes
And the Karpaty.

Lineages
Depths that I tried to support on the palm
Of my hand,
As if someone could support something,
As if that diving in the infinite sea
Were foreseeable.

Mutant, full, on the esplanade
A kite turns its fringes in the air,
Absolutely without me. Like a gazelle
Like a goose flock
Like a journey.

Men and women with barbarian dialect
Come in your blood and are
Your weave. May be they carry confusion
But I have seen them falling
Without fierceness.

I receive the stories of your book
So you can rest
In it:
Your Arthur
Your inescapable Shariar
Your Gandalf
Brighting
Like the green
Star
We glued
On the glass

And shines

Every night

Against the light.

 

Linaje (del libro Partes del mundo)

                                                  para mateo

La brisa trae vientos de otras tribus
a tu frente,
las miro
haciéndose lugar
en tu risa de piel creole
surcada por siglos, detrás de los Andes
y los Cárpatos.

Linajes
honduras que intenté sostener en la palma
de mi mano,
como si algo se pudiera sostener,
como si ese zambullirte en el  infinito mar
fuese previsible.

Mutante, pleno, en la rambla,
gira un barrilete sus flecos al aire,
absolutamente sin mí. Como una gacela
como una bandada de gansos
como un viaje.

Hombres y mujeres de bárbaro dialecto
vienen en tu sangre y son
tu trama. Puede que arrastren confusión
pero les he visto derrumbarse
sin fiereza alguna.

Recibo las historias de tu libro
para que descanses
en él:
tu Arturo
tu ineludible Shariar
tu Gándalf
radiantes
como la estrella
verde
que pegamos
en el vidrio

y brilla

cada noche

al trasluz.

 

-----

 

Leonardo Martínez was born in the province of Catamarca, 1937, but he has lived in Buenos Aires city since 1989. He is a musician and a poet. He has published the poetry books  Tacana o los linajes del tiempo (1989), Ojo de brasa (1991), El señor de Autigasta (1994), Asuntos de familia y otras imposturas (1997), Rápido pasaje (1999), Jaula viva (2004), Estricta ceniza (2005), Jardín volátil (anthology, 2007), Las tierras naturales (2007), Resumen de espejos (anthology, 2008).

Translation by Jorge Paloantonio

 

 SIN RESTA                                                NOTHING TO SUBTRACT                     

Atardezco                                        I’m becoming dusk     
Pronto me alcanzará la noche              Soon I’ll be caught by night             
y la oscuridad será mi madre               and darkness my mother will be
recibiendo en brazos al expósito           her arms holding the foundling
Infierno y cielo                                  hell and heaven                   
izquierda y derecha                            right and left     
nada atrás nada delante                     nothing behind nothing ahead
un solo río hacia el mar                       just one river  towards the sea
una sola voz en la sombra                   just one voice in the shadow
Madre no me hieras                            Mother don’t hurt me
Pero la madre hiere y danza                 but the mother hurts and dances
en la cornamenta de la luna                 on the horns of the moon
Antes y ahora igual                            then and now just the same
corre el día por el amor de la noche       the day flows for its love of night
mientras la barca oscura                     while the dark barge
navega en el copioso abismo                sails the profuse chasm

 

EL RECUERDO                                               A REMEMBRANCE

Liebre escondida entre las altas hierbas     Hare hidden among tallest weeds
dispuesta a huir                                    ready to flee          
no reptil ave o pez                                no reptile bird or fish 
en su agujero cielo o agua                      in hole air or water   
sino liebre a todo lo que da                     but hare rushed to death  
cabalgando en ancas                             riding on the back 
de horas felices o color de nada               of happy hours or empty of colour
liebre                                                  hare    
arrastrándose en las zanjas                     creeping along the ditches
incapaz de mí                                       helpless without me 
sola de mí en su sangrar                         lonely without me in its bleeding
ahogada en las entretelas de mi corazón   drowned in the innermost self of my heart

 

VUELTA  A LA NOCHE                                  A RETURN TO NIGHT  

Antes fue la noche                                Night was first                                    
Es hora de regresar a ella                       It’s high time to go back to her       
El bosque está en penumbra                   The forest is nearly dark      
La arboleda guarda en su ramaje             The grove holds in its branches      
el vapor de todos los alientos                  the steam of all breathing    
y la grieta de donde emergimos                and the crack from which we sprang up
se abre a la sombra del padre /                opens to the shadow of the sitting father                    
                                       que cuida 
En la hojarasca nos dejamos caer            We willingly fall on the dead leaves 
y con la oreja pegada a la tierra              and with our ear stuck to the soil
sentimos el largo latido de años que /       we listen to the long beat of those years/ 
                                      se esfuman    that vanish     

 

-----

                

 

María Victoria Suárez was born in Buenos Aires. She is a writer, a journalist and a translator. She has published six poetry books Intención de verde, La casa de Heráclito, Con un disfraz de merodeo, Jardín paterno, Vida de viuda, Línea crónica; an essay book Existencia y lógica poética; and the compilation Fuego del Aire.

Translation by the author

Piel de vidrio (from the book Vida de viuda)

Thin is the air
in this kingdom
and syllables
sharp tuning run

non-swallow-nests
either remembrances
or names/or thirsty lips
after another’s lips,
the breath of Muse
in the panes
mists
and dismists

fractal
rid of evil.

                                              

               
Curtain walls  (del libro Vida de viuda)          

Delgado es el aire
de este reino
y sílabas
se cortan en el filo

sin nido
donde golondrinas
ni memoria/ ni nombres/
ni de una boca ávida
otra boca,
la musa
al respirar empaña
los vidrios
desempaña

fractal
libre del mal.

 

Xyz (from the book Línea crónica)

New version of the plain:
a virtual plane where memory
may lodge.

My old Euclid
so many years
the lesser distance between us two
I’ll tell you: once grey haired I let
the forehead clear
                     as you wished,
laughing victories of a small girl
in rocking chair.

Unexpected,
with a cigarette
you cut across thick smoke
in the end;
how good to see you printed
without noise
or reproach,
just cevicitis
illness of the screen                                                               

 

xyz (del libro Línea crónica)

Nueva versión de la llanura;
plano virtual donde alojar
una memoria.

Mi viejo Euclides
tantos años
la distancia menor entre los dos
te cuento: las canas me dejé la frente
despejada como vos querías;
risa de niña esta victoria
en rocking-chair.

Inesperado
cruzás con el cigarrillo
entre denso humo final;
es bueno verte impreso
sin ruido
ni reproche de conciencia,
apenas mal de cervicales
la pantalla.

 

---

 

Hebe Solves was born in Vicente López, province of Buenos Aires, 1935. She has published poetry books, children’s literature, pedagogy and narrative books too. Since 1975, she has coordinated literary workshops and distance courses too. She has recently published El fantasma de la belleza (2002, short-stories), El caracol  mochilero - CDR multimedia (2002, poetry for children), Pentagrama (2005, poetry), Antología Personal. Poemas 1966-2006. (2007).

 

Translation by Marta Merajver-Kurlat

 

Its Name is Whiteness

Who has seen the white bird?
it hasn't got any other name
but the white joy of its light on the sand.
Perhaps it’s waiting, aloof from night,
different from darkness, motionless
and yet not one with the silent beach.

Perhaps it’s lurking by the sound of the water,
silent and moved. Yet it’s not at rest.
The forgetfulness of hot blood stirs
under its wings.

Because of it the water's thirst is salted.
And as the fluttering wings respond,
the water, where the white_bird_plunges
for the brief instant of a drifting cloud,
turns white, winged, other.
Above all, different from night.

 

Su Nombre es la Blancura

¿Quién ha visto al pájaro blanco?
No tiene otro nombre
que la blanca alegría de su luz en la arena. 
Tal vez espera, ajeno de la noche,
diferente de la oscuridad, inmóvil, pero distinto
de la playa quieta.

Tal vez acecha por el ruido del agua
callado y conmovido. Pero no descansa. 
Tiene el móvil olvido de la sangre caliente
debajo de las alas.

Por él, el agua siente sed salada.
Y cuando el aleteo de las alas responde,
el agua, donde el pájaro blanco hunde su cuerpo
por apenas el tiempo de una nube que pasa, se vuelve blanca,
voladora, diferente. Sobre todo, distinta de la noche.

 

The Voice of Summer

In us men there is a changeless season
that every year welcomes spring,
winter and autumn.
But the newness of summers is never exhausted.
Seasons go round. Years
elapse under their various names.
Like years, summers possess a death of their own,
and a memory, to be lived differently by different people’s.
All things go by two different names.
So does summer. That is why the name I offer
Is not mine. Neither could I offer my memory:
It is the wind of the things I cherish.
I shall say, it is true; summer does not exist.
Or else every summer shall die with me.
And this that I praise, these burning fruits,
are cold in other people's memories.

 

La Voz del Verano

Por algo hay en nosotros una estación sin cambio
que recibe cada año a la primavera,
al invierno y al otoño. Pero nunca se agota
la novedad de los veranos.

Las estaciones giran. Son los años
los que transcurren con sus nombres distintos. 
Así como ellos tienen los veranos su muerte
y una memoria que a cada uno, diferente, ha de vivirlo.

Todas las cosas tienen dos palabras por nombre.
Y también el verano. Por eso el nombre que te doy
no es el mío. Tampoco podría darse mi memoria:
ella es el viento de las cosas que guardo.

Diré que es cierto, que el verano no existe.
0 todos los veranos han de morir conmigo.
Y esto que aplaudo como frutos ardientes
en la memoria de los otros es lo frío.

                                       
---

 

Bea Lunazzi was born in 1966 in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She wrote and directed the children’s theatre play: El episodio jamás contado del clásico bosque encantado. She published the poetry book Paisaje en el paisaje (2005). She collaborates with Posdata, a Mexican magazine fromMonterrey city.

Translation by Gustavo Lunazzi
                                                                                    
It was night and we were fishing under the rain. We believed –blindly – that the storm
would disorientate the fish and then we would be able to take advantage.
We did not understand, so enthusiastic we were that the flow has its own rules
independent from the surface.
Stuck to one another, we held the elementary rods with our hands numbed by the cold.
Bewitched by the patterns in the water, our eyes could not abandon the evidence of the
impossible repetition.
Many hours we were like that.
We did not protect ourselves. We did not know how.

                                                                           
Era de noche y  pescábamos bajo la lluvia. Creíamos -ciegamente- que la tormenta
desorientaría a los peces y así nosotros sacaríamos provecho.
No entendimos, tan entusiasmados estábamos, que la corriente tiene sus propias
leyes independientes de la superficie.
Pegados el uno al otro, sosteníamos con las manos entumecidas por el frío, las elementales
cañas. Hechizados por las formas del agua, los ojos no podían abandonar la prueba de la
imposible repetición.
Muchas horas estuvimos así, a la intemperie.
No nos protegimos. No supimos cómo.

.....

 

The boy /the girl takes a clock apart; introduces a small stone taken from the river.
The stone scratches the clock: it does not matter; an obsolete object.
The landscape penetrates through a rounded shape in the precise structure of the
machinery.
The device becomes a gift, a misunderstanding exposed to the value someone decides
to grant.
The girl/the child is unaware of the extent of its act: the oyster does not see the pearl
that carries inside. Had it suspected it was there, it would be frightened
.
Another eye looks with love; the same eye will look at the pearl and will not know
whether it is within the water or swims in plain light.

She/He introduces this jewel in the river. Will time turn it in a precious object?
Is the wound a leak through which the memory of the water and the memory of light
converge?
Is this scratch, this wound, as slim as deep, what it expels?
Intensity can not contain any shining; irradiates in all directions and, at the same time,  
captures.

 

El chico/la niña desarma un reloj; introduce una piedrita extraída del lecho del río.
La piedra raspa el reloj: no tiene importancia; un objeto en desuso.
El paisaje penetra a través de esa forma redondeada en la estructura precisa de la
máquina. El artificio se convierte en un don, un equívoco expuesto al valor que alguien
decida dar.
La chica/el niño desconoce el alcance de su acto: la ostra no ve la perla que lleva
dentro. Si sospechara que está allí, sentiría miedo
. Otro ojo, mira amorosamente; el
mismo ojo mirará la perla y no sabrá si está en el agua o si nada en plena luz.
Ella/Él introduce esa alhaja en el río ¿Lo convertirá el tiempo en un objeto precioso?
¿es la herida una fisura por donde se cruzan la memoria del agua y la memoria de la
luz?¿ es este raspón, esta lastimadura, tan fina como profunda
lo que expulsa?
La intensidad no puede contener ningún brillo; irradia en toda dirección y a la vez,
acapara.
 

 

-------

 

Romina Freschi, 1974, Bs.As. MA and Literature professor (UBA) She published the books Redondel, Estremezcales, Petróleo, eL- pE- Yo, and the chapbbooks Soleros, Incrustaciones en confite, Villa Ventana , 3/3/3 and Solaris. She was part of group ZR, space Cabaret Voltaire and she published the collection Arte Plegable. Now she carries the project “Living de la Poesía”, publishes the review Plebella, coordinates literary workshops and the site pajaroslocos.blogspot.com

Translation by the author

A brilliant and corrugated paper
is inside
it wrinkles and stretches as bellows
a cheviot, a worm
I open the chest, extend my skin as a mollusk
I produce heat, friction
paper turns on, phosphoresces 
slowly goes black, carbonic, translucent
this is something that happens
light, lightly
to watch the stars and tell for a moment what moment we are in
that’s the way to advance in the sea
calm also exists
why then to invent the storm
to invent fear and adventure also
invent, invent the wind
only in some night, some moment
the star, compass rose of winds, coral
animal flower of the ocean, you sway in water
you fatten
you support the quiet underneath the storm
a fair support, a fair canvas
over the ice, the oil
invents, invents the wind
some moment
to see the star, the only thing that matters
the star
looks like a medulla, breaths
it has a centre of meat that pumps
closes and opens the lungs
under water.

un papel corrugado y brillante
está adentro
se arruga y se estira como fuelle
un cheviot, un gusano
abro el pecho, extiendo mi piel como un molusco
produzco calor, fricción
el papel se enciende, fosforece
ennegrece despacio, carbónico, translúcido
eso es algo que pasa
ligero, ligeramente
mirar las estrellas y deducir por un momento en qué momento estamos
se avanza así en el mar
también existe la calma
por qué se inventa la tormenta
se inventa el temor y la aventura también
se inventa, inventa el viento
solo en alguna noche, algún momento
la estrella, rosa de los vientos, coral,
flor animal del océano, te mecés en el agua
engordás,
soportás la quietud bajo la tormenta
un buen soporte, un buen canvas
sobre el hielo, el óleo
inventa, inventa el viento
algún momento
para ver la estrella, lo único que importa
la estrella
parece una médula, respira
tiene un centro de carne que bombea
cierra y abre los pulmones
bajo el agua

 

Pure babbling that of love
silly cherry
affected goddess of tenterhooks
with no cereal, the hollow mantle
thousands of sounds I sense
a resounding hummingbird
and certain cremation
sweet or acrid
poisonous word lucubrate with lubricant
enters the link
assumes the apparent violence
the vertex, mucus, fungus
the infarctionary malice of the moss, withered and whining
grass, giant birth
dream of  the broidery
I think of matter
and the mortal prelude resounds
“I lied to you, always”

pura palabrería ésa del amor
cereza boba
melindrosa diosa de las ascuas
sin cereal, el manto hueco
cientos de sonidos siento
un colibrí, sonante
y cierta cremación
dulce o acre
venenosa palabra elucubrada con lubricante
penetra el vínculo
asume la aparente violencia
el vértice, el moco, el hongo
la malicia infartante del musgo, mustio y quejumbroso
pasto, parto gigante
sueño del broderie
pienso la materia
y resuena el mortal preludio:
"yo te mentía, siempre"

 

 

mimoid                                                          

I woke up only in distress
I repeated step by step the stories
the step of cohabitations
expired dates                                                 
and the itinerary

there’s an oblong ground for the arising        
it rises up oblong, flabby
the daffodil
its weighty description
obscene, however
image has arisen just like that
the spring when I took care
of a garden
and the careless loved one

a new life
however, the swindle
the oblong daffodil
as a weighty and curved dick
about to deflate
rest never comes without a rest
does not form and results in nonsense
gift, preliminary pulse
synthesis of malformation
misunderstanding

 

mimoide

amanecí sólo en el desasosiego
repetí paso por paso las historias
el paso de las convivencias
fechas del vencimiento
y el itinerario

hay un terreno oblongo de la leva
se eleva oblongo, blando
el narciso
pesada su descripción
obscena, sin embargo,
la imagen se ha formado como tal
la primavera en la que he cuidado
un jardín
y el ser amado descuidado

una nueva vida
y sin embargo, el embauco
el narciso oblongo
como una pija pesada y curva
a punto de desinflarse,
el descanso nunca aparece sin descanso
no se forma y da sinsentido
obsequio, pulso preliminar
síntesis de la malformación
el malentendido

 

----

 


Liliana Heer was born in Esperanza, province of Santa Fe, Argentina. She is a writer and a psychoanalyst - member of Escuela de la Orientación Lacaniana and Asociación Mundial de Psicoanálisis. She has participated in several national and international literary events (France, Germany, Cuba, Ecuador, United States, Holland, Ireland, Italy, Mexico, Puerto Rico and Serbia). She has published Dejarse llevar, (short-stories, 1980), Bloyd (novel, Boris Vian Award,  1984), La tercera mitad (novel, 1988), Giacomo- El texto secreto de Joyce, (critical fiction together with J.C. Martini Real,1992), Frescos de amor  (novel 1995), Verano Rojo (nouvelle, 1997), Ángeles de vidrio (novel, 1998), Repetir la cacería (nouvelle, 2003), Pretexto Mozart (novel, 2004), Ex-crituras profanas (personal anthology, 2007) and Neón (novel, 2007).

Ana Arzoumanian was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She is a lawyer that works in the academic fields, especially on Holocaust and Genocide. She has done a course on Holocaust and its transmission in Jerusalem in 2008. She has published Labios (1993), Debajo de la piedra (1998), La mujer de ellos (2001), El ahogadero (2002), La granada (2003), Mía (2004), Juana I (2006), Cuando todo acabe todo acabará (2008). She has translated The Long and the Short of Holocaust Verse by Susan Gubar (2007), and Sade et l’ecriture de l’orgie by Lucienne Frappier Mazur (2006).

Michael Smith was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1942. He is a poet. translator, critic and publisher. He has translated the poetry of Antonio Machado, Federico García Lorca, Miguel Hernández. Gerardo Diego, Pablo Neruda, Quevedo and Góngora amongst many others. In 1967 he established New Writers' Press which has published more than almost a hundred titles, between books and magazines. In 2001 he received the Medal of the European Academy Poetry for his translations of some of the most important poets of Spain and Latin America. Among his latest work, in three volumes, is the complete poems of the Peruvian poet, César Vallejo, translated with the Peruvian scholar, Valentino Gianuzzi. His translation of Selected Poems of Rosalía de Castro was published in September, 2007), along with the Complete Poems of Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer. At present he is working on a Selected Poems of Claudio Rodríguez with Luis Ingelmo, and also a Selected Poems of Juan Antonio Villacañas with Beatriz White. He was a member of the Arts Council of Ireland (1984‑1989). He is a member of the Aosdána, the Irish National Academy of Artists. His poetry has been translated into Spanish, French, German and Polish.