A Lantern, Radical Light || Linterna, luz radical
In collaboration with the Latin American Caribbean and Iberian Studies Program (LACIS) and the Community Altar Project at UW-Madison, the 4W Women in Translation (WIT) presents this bilingual collection of poems which gathers the voices of poets from different Latin American countries and the United States. These are poets who reflect on and share the experiences of care and loss during and beyond the present COVID 19 pandemic. Their voices evoke as well the rituals and reflections linked to mourning, hope, love, and the resilience of humanity and of the planet.
Poetry as an act of translation in itself makes our collective approach (to translation) a creative ritual of truth and joy as we gather to find together the layers of meaning and the lyrical transparencies expressed in each poem; that is, the reality that surrounds and connects us all. We must add that the 4W-WIT methodology for collective translation requires multiple perspectives, iterations, and review by the author, thus creating a circular approach to our creative process.
A Lantern, Radical Light / Linterna, luz radical: On Sorrow, Comfort and Consolation, our chosen title for this volume, echoes the luminous words of poet Jeannine M. Pitas and those gathered in the collection of international voices by translator Jan Baeque (Netherlands) in Poetry International. We proudly share the poem of the Argentine poet Luisa Futoransky, “Juana de Arco el Portal” / “Joan of Arc: The Gateway”; both the original and English versions have been also published by Poetry International thanks to our collaborator, the translator Philippa Page (UK) 2020.
In addition to the editors, the translation of the main section of this collection of poems was made possible with the collective collaboration of the following poets and translators: José Banuelos Montes (Mexico/USA), Enrique Bernales (Peru/USA), Beatriz Botero (Colombia/USA), Yarisa Colón (Puerto Rico, USA), Lori DiPrete Brown (USA), Carolina Espinosa Cartes (Chile/Spain), Silvia Goldman (Uruguay/USA), Reyna Marie Groff (USA), Clara Haeffner (USA), David Hildner (USA), Marj Hogan (USA), Clitlalli Ixchel (Mexico), Nadia López García (Mexico), Jorge Gutierrez Reyna (México), María Moreno (Dominican Republic/USA), Sally Perret (USA), Jeannine M. Pitas (USA), María Pulla France (Ecuador/USA), Erika Rosales (Mexico/USA), Sayuri Sánchez (Mexico), Sofía Sánchez (Mexico/Spain), Cole Robinson (USA) and Iván Vergara (Mexico/Spain). We would like to acknowledge Jennifer Rathbun and Mario Cancel-Bigay as well for their translations of the poems by poets Ivan Vergara and Yarisa Colon respectively.
Lastly, this anthology commemorates the life and work of the Mexican poet Ayari Lüders (1988-2019) whose poem “Mujer de tierra” / “Woman of Earth” gives closure to the volume.
With thanks to all our national and international collaborators (writers and translators), the UW-Madison Center for the Humanities and LACIS for their continued support.
The Living Poetry: Women In Translation
4W-WIT
Dr. Sarli E. Mercado, Editor
Vicente López Abad, Co-Editor
COVER Photo: Diario de Cuarentena /Quarantine Diary by Tamara Merino (Chile)
Published in Covid Latam (English)/ Covid Latam (Spanish)
Poet: Marj Hogan || Translator: Sarli E. Mercado
Marj Hogan (USA), MA in Linguistics, is a Spanish teacher living in Portland, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in various publications, including Bear Deluxe Magazine, High Shelf, Pretty Owl, 3elements, and VoiceCatcher.
Sarli E. Mercado, (Nicaragua/USA) PhD, is the co-Director of the 4W-International Women Collective Translation Project. As a literary critic, she has published and presented her work on contemporary Spanish-American poetry in the United States, Latin America, and Europe. She is the author of Cartografías del destierro: entorno a la poesía de Juan Gelman y Luisa Futoransky (Corregidor 2008). Her current research topics are related to contemporary Southern Cone women poets and literary practices of 21st century Spanish-American writers, as well as the poetic and visual art expressions that link urban and non-urban environments to ecological thinking. In the Department of Spanish and Portuguese, she teaches courses on Spanish American literature, culture and language through subjects such as cultural journalism, translation and urban cultural studies. She is also part of the ongoing collaborative interdisciplinary projects between UW-Madison and the Museum of Environmental Sciences (MCA) at the University of Guadalajara.
This poem is translated by Sarli E. Mercado in collaboration with the author.
Lexicography
I’m looking for the word that means:
the difference between our consonants.
I’m at a diner on Everett, on this continent, still
working on the definition of lullaby, but all I can do
is sing to the tune of “Rose of Sharon” all the names
of exits between Port of Tacoma and Longview.
“I’m Klamath,” says a man to the waitress, “and
something else.” He looks down at his fork:
suddenly he can’t remember where his blood
comes from. “Up there you know, there’s so
many tribes.” He’s talking about the tundra of his
mind. The cook calls out to his wife in Greek
from the kitchen, through more warm sounds: the ping
of the swinging door, fat frying, percolator.
He wants her to remind him a word from Cyprus for
a man who is estranged from his grandfather.
Outside, the plural folds of the mountain
hang heavy on lines of lumber. Even distant, we’re
two thieves, thick as thumbs. I look down at my fork.
I’m looking for the word that means, my soul
holds you in its fist. But the word never comes.
Lexicografía
Estoy buscando la palabra que diga:
la diferencia entre nuestras consonantes.
En un diner de la Everett, en este continente, sigo
explorando la definición de canción de cuna, pero solo logro
entonar en la melodía de “Rosa de Sharon” todos los nombres
de las salidas entre el Puerto de Tacoma y Longview.
“Soy Klamath”, le dice el hombre a la mesera, “y
de alguna otra mezcla más”. Baja la mirada al tenedor:
de pronto no logra recordar dónde tiene origen
su sangre. “Allá ya sabes, hay tantas
tribus”. Él se refiere a la tundra de sus
memorias. El cocinero reta a su mujer en griego
desde la cocina, a través de sutiles sonidos: el vaivén
metálico de la puerta, el tocino y su freír, el percolar.
Él quiere que le recuerde la palabra en Chipre para
el hombre que se ha alejado de su abuelo.
Afuera, los múltiple doblajes de las montañas
cuelgan pesados en filas de madera. Distantes aún, somos
dos ladrones, uña y carne. Bajo la mirada al tenedor.
Estoy buscando la palabra que diga, mi alma
te abraza en su puño. Pero la palabra no llega nunca.
Poet: Marcos Neroy || Translator: Vicente López Abad
Marcos Neroy (Valencia, Spain, 1983) is a bilingual writer, translator and educator. He is currently completing his Ph.D. in Spanish literature—with a minor in Creative Writing—at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and is a teacher trainee at the PGCE in MFL at the University of Durham (UK). Among other distinctions, he is a Fulbright Alumnus, Kohler Alumnus at the Wisconsin Institute for Discovery and LACIS Fellow.
He writes poetry, theatre, short stories and dabbles in folk music composition. PEN International Magazine, Vulture Magazine, Mobius: Journal for Social Change, and Turia, among others, have been graceful hosts to his poems; and his work has been included in several anthologies (The Poetic Republic E-book, 2013; Poetics for the More-than-Human-World, Spuytenduyvil, 2020). His work as a songwriter has been been featured in Spanish National Radio (RNE5, RNE3), several artist festivals (Festival Intramurs, Valencia, 2015; Semana de la Poesía, Sevilla; 2014), and in collaborations with the Spanish theatre company, Companyia Hongaresa de Teatre.
Marcos Neroy Blog: cuadernoamericano.blogspot.com
Vicente López Abad LinkedIn: vicentemarcoslopezabad
The uses of contingency
To Jerónimo, Russel and Carla
Considering
|| Man and His World made hereof in despair: || that blind clockwork of daylight || its fooled moon in spousal || the truss of seasons that lend support to this emptiness we call time || the shit populating our guts, looming in translation || the plagiarism of faces || abjection || ages || things nondescript steeped in our imagined languages || considering their amorousness || how a language, a nation, a straight-jacket can soothe || how a book can crack open an almond || how an idea can play dead for centuries || how we strangle whom we love || how we die after a wise-tooth extraction. ||
Considering dispassionately
|| the aftermath of a nuclear bomb observed from a Japanese mountain top on a hiking trip || the minutiae of cupcake decorations || the controversy of power output vs. forward velocity in bird flight || the invention of love || the impossibility of writing || writing about love, unheeded, Petrarchan, hackneyed || the construction of gender || mops || particle accelerators || the aesthetics of resistance || chaotic enumeration || Whitman || Darío || Stein || Mistral || Neruda || Vallejo || considering the accretion of figments || the blah-blah that would bore both pastures and cows, if they could only understand || the possibility that a Wisconsin pasture may feel it is being ruminated upon || that art and pastures and cows have ways of knowing and feeling that we do not. ||
Considering as pure matter of fact
|| the uses of contingency || an aunt woken up at 6 am by her nephew and child to assemble the Playmobil Western Fort || a blonde twenty-year old serving macadamia nut ice-cream on a beach-stand || a Mormon tween showing his father’s 9 mm browning to his host-brothers || a young man pulling his back out lifting a chaise-longue || a young woman fainting while she drives to work || a young man relapsing, burning heroin with his college girlfriend on a steel spoon || a young man informed he has lung cancer || broccoli is a bouquet || a young woman informed she has brain cancer || pecans are flowers || a young man found dead from an overdose in his Las Vegas apartment || all fruits are ripened ovaries || why children love anything that glows in the dark and books of 1,000 questions and answers. ||
Los usos de la contingencia
A Jerónimo, Russel y Carla
Considerando
|| al Hombre y su Mundo, transfigurados aquí en desesperanza || esa ciega relojería de la luz del alba || la luna burlada, tomada por consorte || el haz de estaciones que dan soporte a este abismo que llamamos tiempo || la mierda que puebla nuestras tripas, que pespunta en traducción || el plagio de rostros || lo abyecto || épocas || objetos anodinos empapados en nuestras lenguas imaginadas || considerando la pasión || como una lengua, una nación, una camisa de fuerza dan alivio || como un libro puede cascar una almendra || como una idea puede hacerse la muerta durante siglos || como estrangulamos a quien amamos || como morimos tras sacarnos las muelas del juicio. ||
Considerando desapasionadamente
|| el resplandor de una bomba nuclear observado desde la cima de una montaña japonesa en una excursión al campo || la minuciosa decoración de cupcakes || la controversia sobre potencia de salida y velocidad de avance en el vuelo de un pájaro || la invención del amor || la imposibilidad de la escritura || la escritura amorosa, sorda a todo, petrarquiana, trillada || la construcción de género || las fregonas || los aceleradores de partículas || la estética de la resistencia || la enumeración caótica || Whitman || Darío || Stein || Mistral || Neruda || Vallejo || considerando la multiplicidad de figuras de nuestra imaginación || el blablablá que aburriría a prados y vacas, si tan sólo pudieran comprender || la posibilidad de que un prado de Wisconsin sienta que lo están rumiando || que el arte y los prados y las vacas tienen formas de conocer y sentir que escapan a nuestros sentidos. ||
Considerando los hechos reales
|| los usos de la contingencia || la tía a la que despiertan hijo y sobrino a las 6 am para montar el Fuerte del Oeste de Playmóbil || la rubia veinteañera que sirve helado de nuez de macadamia en un mostrador playero || el adolescente mormón que muestra una browning de 9mm a su estudiante de acogida || el joven con un tirón de espalda por levantar un chaise-longue || la joven que se desmaya mientras conduce al trabajo || el joven que recae y quema heroína con su novia en una cuchara de acero || el joven informado de que tiene cáncer de pulmón || el brócoli es un ramo de flores || la joven informada de que tiene cáncer en el cerebro || los anacardos son flores || el joven hallado muerto de una sobredosis en su apartamento de Las Vegas || todas las frutas son ovarios maduros || por qué los niños aman todo lo que brilla en la oscuridad y los libros de 1000 preguntas y respuestas. ||
Poet: Yarisa Colón Torres || Translator: Mario Cancel-Begay
Yarisa Colón Torres, born in Puerto Rico on March 1st, 1977, is a poet, handmade book creator and Adjunct Instructor at Bronx Community College, CUNY. For over fifteen years, Yarisa has been experimenting with the creation of unique handmade books and hand-cut collages. She also organizes bookmaking workshops for children and adults; publishes limited editions of poetry books; and collaborates with visual artists, performers, musicians, writers and artisans on multi-disciplinary projects. It brings her great joy to know that her handmade books have traveled to Ecuador, Spain, France and Italy, among other places around the world.
Mario Cancel-Begay: Ethnomusicologist, singer-songwriter and poet, Cancel-Bigay was born in Puerto Rico in 1982. He learned to play the Puerto Rican cuatro, the archipelago’s national guitar, at age twelve at public music school Libre de Música in San Juan. In 2005, he earned a B.A. in Modern Languages (Portuguese and French) from the University of Puerto Rico, and in 2014, an M.A. in Interdisciplinary Studies at New York University. Currently, he is a Ph.D. candidate in the ethnomusicology program at Columbia University where he researches anticolonialism, decoloniality and cross-cultural encounters as heard through Puerto Rican nueva canción, chanson québécoise and related sounds of resistance from Puerto Rico and Québec's 1960s and 70s. In 2018, he was awarded Columbia University's GSAS Mellon Humanities International Travel Fellowship, and the year before, the GSAS Alumni Association Fund for Underrepresented Minority Students Fellowship. He is happily married to his Haitian-American wife Edline Jacquet, and is the proud father of a Puerto Rican-Haitian girl named Gabriela.
*Este poema aparece en un libro hecho a mano titulado Viento Abajo: nombre y apellido del personaje ave que aparece en el poemario.
Así
Mi cuerpo
es un estado
en descomposición
algo debió haberse caído
desde lo alto para adueñarse
de mis muñecas
ahora lo despierto
no para de desenterrar
fosas y tumbas
¿qué habrá allá
tan cerca tocándome
así?
In This Way
My body
is in a state
of decomposition
something must have fallen
from above to take over
my wrists
I awaken it now
it does not cease to exhume
graves and tombs
what is out there
so nearby touching me
in this way?
(Photo by Enrique Bernales (Perú/USA)
Poet: Ivan Vergara || Translator: Jennifer Rathbun
Ivan Vergara is a poet, musician, editor, anthologist and cultural manager, who lives in Seville. Manager of Platform Artists Chilango Andalusians (PLACA), a broadcasting project that links Mexican culture. Vergara created, organized and coordinated the seven editions and publications of Recital Chilango Andaluz (RCA) in Seville, Mexico City and other Andalusian cities. He has participated in various kinds of art projects as an actor and theater director, director of short films, radio host, etc. He was a member of the folk-rock group Mañana (Tomorrow), with whom he released his first album A Ver Quién Llega Antes al Fin (Let’s See Who Comes Before), finally, in 2010.
Jennifer Rathbun has a Ph.D. from the University of Arizona in Contemporary Latin American Literature and is currently an Associate Professor of Spanish and Chair of the Department of Foreign Languages at Ashland University in Ohio. The Bitter Oleander Press published her translation of the poetry collection Afterglow/Tras el rayo by Mexican author Alberto Blanco in June 2011. In 2009, she published her translation of the poetry collection Río vertebral/Vertebral River by Mexican author Juan Armando Rojas Joo in Pecan Grove Press. Rathbun also translated Rojas Joo’s work Ceremonial de viento/Ceremonial of Wind (2006) and is coeditor of the anthology of poetry Canto a una ciudad en el desierto (2004). In addition, her poetry, translations and articles on Contemporary Latin American Literature appear in numerous international reviews and journals.
El acto
La piedra tiene aroma de piedra,
no huele a cincel, ni a puñalada
¿es inocente el mazo que le hiere?
en él la alevosía, lo premeditado,
un olor que imprime trascendencia
– agua fresca la tarde con Abel, mi abuela –
blanco es el néctar de sus campos, llana
la idea que impregnan, como la tinta; sílabas
que juegan en nieve laminada, vocales toscas,
sordas al quejido del trineo, y su huella,
un paso vertical que borra la brisa
en un acto más inocente que nacer
The Act
The rock has an aroma of rock,
it doesn’t smell like chisel, nor like a stab wound
Is the mallet that hurts it innocent?
It holds malice, premeditation,
a scent that imprints transcendence
– fresh water the afternoon with Abel, my grandmother –
the nectar of its fields is white, shallow
the idea that permeates, like ink, syllables
that play in the laminated snow, crude vowels,
deaf to the sled’s moans, and its tracks,
a vertical path that erases the breeze
in an act more innocent than birth
Ayari Lüders
(México)
Ayari Lüders Monsiváis (Ciudad de México, 1988 – 2019). Fue actriz para la compañía César Bálcazar Producciones y participó en el Centro de Arte Dramático y la Escuela Nacional de Arte Teatral. Estudió Licenciatura en Ciencias de la Comunicación en la Universidad del Valle de México y un Máster en Escritura Creativa en la Universidad de Sevilla. Impartió talleres de teatro y redacción, además de destacar como gran gestora de proyectos culturales y colaboradora de la Plataforma de Artistas Chilango-Andaluces (PLACA). En 2018 publicó su libro de poesía Mujer de tierra por Editorial Ultramarina, con ilustraciones de Clara Bérgamo; participó además en el Festival de Poesía Mesoamericano de Poesía. Su obra poética ha sido publicada en diversas revistas y antologías.
Mujer de tierra
Me duelen las cicatrices del silencio
las armas de pantalón y bofetadas,
los siglos a obscuras,
de hogueras sin juicios,
el sacrificio impuesto,
la culpa del temor
Fuimos curanderas
y sanamos
a otras manos
a otras pieles.
Fuimos parteras
Y abuelas
de otros niños
de otras niñas
Yo también soy
la tarde de marzo,
cada nombre en Juárez,
la agonía en Palmira,
Homs y todas
las casas féretro.
Aquí también me duelen
los ecos del tiempo
que no pudieron alzar la voz
las noches apagadas
con cerrojo.
Estoy en ti, Neera,
Vicario, Antígona,
en la egipcia dorada
en la piel de tierra.
Estoy en el llanto
ahogado de todas
las madres.
En el grito desnudo
de noches de whisky
y luz neón.
Estoy en el grito cincelado
de mis calles negras funeral
negras tormento.
En ti Laurencia
ultrajada
sin pueblo que te defienda.
Estoy en la calle —oculta—
tela-reja
color-veto
sin ver mi cuerpo
me reconozco mujer
y me veo en todas.
Soy el salón y el coro
la clave de sol
y la suma impuesta
la fórmula física.
También soy
falda de lana que es abrigo
comal ardiente
mano de maíz
y de pozol.
En el color vibrante
del faldón bordado.
En la tenue monarquía
en los collares
oro y plata
alambre e hilo
Soy la espuma de hilo
en la niña que nace
y que nada se le promete
porque nada se tiene.
Soy mujer que es amante
de sierra descalza
de palabra firme
Soy mujer de violeta
y pensamientos
Alfonsina sin mar
mujer sin noche
Y a ti te escucho y te libero
sin saber tu nombre
te conozco.
Te conozco
en la magia abuela
que te arropa de estrellas.
Mujer de café
crucé la frontera
y te esperé sin lunas
porque la luna le faltó
a nuestro pacto
de luz y nuevas buenas.
A ti te espero
mujer de botas
y desnudez de rostro
niña enlodada
guerrera.
Niña de aserrín
y perfume-selva.
A mí me duelen
tus hijos desaparecidos
y tus dolores los tengo.
Yo también estuve de pie
sin que me vieran.
Por eso te espero
al borde de la tierra
donde no hay eclipses
ni lunas traicioneras.
Te espero
en la roca alta que construimos
en la montaña blanca
Mujer Dormida.
Te espero en la gota de rocío
que acaricia la rosa sosegada,
en la laguna de estrellas canosas
que nos vieron nacer
y que escuchando deseos
iluminaron las noches
cuando no hubo luna.
A ti te espero
en la profundidad de nuestra tierra
pues eres agua
y eres fuego
y tierra,
y el aire que quebranta
la vida toda.
Mujer:
a ti te espero.
Te espero libre.
Te espero viva.
Women of Earth
The scars of silence pain me
the weapons of pants and slaps
the centuries in obscurity,
burning stakes without trials,
the imposed sacrifice,
the guilt from fear
We were “curanderas”
and cured
other hands
other skins.
We were midwives
and grandmothers to
other boys
other girls
I am also
an afternoon in March
every name in Juárez,
agony in Palmira,
Homs and all
coffin houses.
The echoes of time
also pain me
those that could not raise their voice
dead nights
bolted shut.
I am you, Neera,
Vicario, Antigone,
the golden Egyptian
the skin of the Earth.
I am the stifled
sobs of all
Mothers.
The naked cry
of nights with whiskey
and neon lights.
I am in the etched cry
of my dark streets, in funeral black,
black torment.
I am you Laurencia
defiled
with no pueblo to defend you.
I am in the street —concealed—
iron curtains
color vetoed
without seeing my body
I recognize myself as woman
I see myself in all of them.
I am the hall and the chorus
the treble clef
the math facts
the physics formula.
I am also
the wool skirt that warms
burning “comal”
fist of maize
and pozol.
In the vibrant color
of the embroidered skirt.
In the pale monarchy
in the necklaces
of gold and silver
wire and thread
I am the confetti
for the baby girl born
and promised nothing
because nothing is owned.
I am woman who is lover
to barefoot mountains
to the unwavering word
I am woman of Violeta
and “Pensamientos”
Alfonsina without the sea
woman without night
And I listen to you and free you
without knowing your name
I know you.
I know you
in the magic of the abuelas
that swaddles you in stars.
Woman of coffee
I crossed the border
and waited for you without the moon
because the moon was missing
from our pact
of light and good tidings.
I wait for you
women of boots
and bare face
muddy girl
warring girl.
Sawdust girl
with rainforest scent.
It pains me
your “hijos desaparecidos”
and your pain I carry.
I also waited standing
unseen.
I wait for you thus
at the edge of Earth
where there are no eclipses
nor the treachery of moons.
I wait for you
in the high rock we built
in the white mountain
“Mujer Dormida”.
I wait for you in the dew drops
that caress the peaceful rose,
in the lake of grey-haired stars
that witnessed our birth
listening to our wishes
illuminated the nights
when there was no moon.
I wait for you
in the depths of our Earth
since you are water
and fire
and earth,
and the air that tears
life apart.
Woman:
I am waiting for you.
I want you free.
I want you alive.
Citlalli Ixchel
(Mexico)
Citlalli Ixchel (Guadalajara, México) es bióloga y comunicadora de la ciencia. Ha participado con poemas en diversas revistas y antologías. Tiene una colección de arañas llamada ochojos. Actualmente trabaja para un museo que no existe. El poema proviene de su su libro Ninfulario (Editorial Ojo de Pez, 2018)
Visitar el cementerio
Visitar el cementerio / dibujar tu inicial en las ventanas empañadas / escuchar el mar de las hojas secas / los ojos llenos de insectos // arranco un pétalo con la uña / mientras pienso en tu cara que se cae al suelo // cada corola es un recuerdo / somos la misma hierba / verticilos despiertos // seducir tu pellejo / tus costras / tus partículas evaporadas // crecer como el pelo / azul cielo en una caja de Petri // tiembla el tallo / el alma no existe / no existe // respeto cada pausa de mis lágrimas // tu voz arenosa / cables eléctricos / flores descargables // el epitafio de las cosas / el desvelo / el escurrimiento nasal // tus dientes blancos injustos / tus ojeras / porque siempre voy a volver a tus ojeras // me robo uno de tus huesos / el hueso y yo nos sentamos en el pasto / te hago píldoras de calcio // mi flor ya no es flor / se incinera el núcleo / el fragmento de tu verso / la cerveza con jabón // la espuma sale de las raíces / sí sabes / tu sangre / la que sabe a fresa // mosaico marchito / amuleto de oxígeno / tu figura es una epidemia expansiva / cae la tarde / busca el espíritu / no creas / cree // siento que me ves desde los arbustos //
Visiting the Cemetery
Visiting the cemetery / writing your initials on the foggy windows / listening to the sea of dry leaves / eyes full of insects // I snatch a petal with my fingernails / while I think of your face falling in the dirt // each corolla is a memory/ we are the same grass / woke whorls // seducing your loose skin/ your scabs / your evaporated particles // growing like hair / blue sky in a Petri dish / the trembling stem / your soul does not exist / does not exist // I respect each pause between my tears // your earthy voice / electric cables / downloadable flowers/ the epitaph of all things / sleeplessness / runny nose // your unfair white teeth/ the bags under your eyes / because I am always going to come back to the bags under your eyes // I steal one of your bones for myself / the bone and I sit down together on the grass / I make calcium pills out of you // my flower is no longer a flower / the incinerated nucleus / a fragment of your verse / soapy beer // foam leaving the roots / yes you know / your blood / that smells like strawberries // withering mosaic / an amulet of oxygen / your figure is an expansive epidemic / night falls / looking for your spirit / don’t believe it / believe it // I feel you watching me from the bushes //
Enrique Bernales Albites
(Perú/USA)
Dr. Enrique Bernales Albites is from Lima, Peru. He completed his Ph.D. in Spanish at Boston University and specializes in contemporary Latin American literature and cultural production. He was part of the Peruvian Poetry Group Immanence in the nineties. He has published the poetry books: Immanence (1998), Immanence: Return to Ouroborea (1999), 21 poems: Cerridwen (2004), the novel The Occupied Territories (2008), the Anthology of Peruvian Poetry: The clocks are broken (2005), and Regreso a Big Sur/On the Way Back to Big Sur (Bardoborde Poesía, Lima, 2019). The Spanish version of this poem comes from this last collection of poems.
Poema inspirado en by Los Amantes de Pont-Neuf de Leos Carax
Poem inspired by Les Amants du Pont-Neuf
República Copular 37
La vertical de los pies desnudos
sucios, asquerosos, malolientes
acaricia los labios extranjeros
uno, dos, tres veces
Afuera la lluvia, los charcos
la calle, los ladridos de los perros
un delincuente revienta sin miramientos
la ventana de un Opel Kadett C
La inmensidad de la ciudad panóptico
despiadada con los vagamundos
que no creen en su orden
que son puro
amor nocturno
de barricadas
de comunas y boulevares improvisados
Copular 37 Republic
The straight line of bare feet
Dirty, revolting, stinky
Lovingly presses on stranger lips
One, two, three times
Outside, the rain, the puddles
the street, dogs barking
without thinking, a delinquent shatters
the window of an Opel Kadett C
The vastness of the panoptic city
cruel to the homeless
who won’t follow its order
who are pure
nighttime love
in barricades
in communes and improvised boulevards.
Silvia Goldman
(Uruguay/USA)
Silvia Goldman es poeta, docente e investigadora. Poemas y artículos académicos suyos han sido publicados en revistas literarias de Latinoamérica, Estados Unidos y Europa. En el 2008 publicó su primer libro de poemas Cinco movimientos del llanto (Ediciones de Hermes Criollo). En el 2016, la editorial Cardboardhouse Press publicó la selección de poemas No-one Rises Indifferent to Sorrow, traducida al inglés por Charlotte Whittle, y De los peces la sed, publicado por Pandora Lobo Estepario Productions (2018). Su poemario Miedo (2020) ha obtenido un accésit en el Premio de Poesía FILLT 2020. Asimismo, ha sido finalista del VI Premio Internacional de poesía “Pilar Fernández Labrador” y del Premio Internacional de Poesía “Paralelo Cero 2020”. Es doctora en Estudios Hispánicos por la Universidad de Brown y enseña en la Universidad de DePaul en Chicago.
Si digo agua ¿beberé?/
Si digo pan ¿comeré?
Mis muertos siguen sufriendo
el dolor de la vida en mí.
If I say water, will I drink?/
If I say bread, will I eat?
My dead continue to suffer
life’s pain in me.
– Alejandra Pizarnik
– Antonio Porchia
Se hundió en tu cuerpo la tarde
Se hundió en tu cuerpo la tarde
y no supe si era un suelo despierto de cenizas
o una luna abierta que bordeaba la calle.
Te fuiste ahogando en la tarde
mientras intentabas
desde el útero azul donde nacen tus ojos
quitarle al aire el peso de las horas
quitarle a la vida el peso de tus muertos
Son tantos muertos los que miran por tus ojos
que los míos se sienten menos solos
son tantos muertos los que sufren el dolor de la vida en ti
que los míos se sienten menos muertos
No te sigas muerta
deja que las palabras sufran el dolor de la vida por ti
porque tú crees en las palabras
en las palabras cargadas de afecto
yo creo en las palabras livianas
en la levedad de un afecto sin palabras
Tú crees que si digo vida, viviré
si digo lluvia, lloveré, me estaré lloviendo
hasta lloverme fatalmente en la tarde.
Yo creo que nadie llueve una lluvia acústica evocada
que la lluvia que tú sientes no conoce a la que escribo
que si digo lluvia, digo silencio
pero no viene el silencio.
Yo creo en una visión invisible
desde tus ojos azules
en que yo veré, me estaré yo viendo
hasta yo verme lejos de la muerte
cuando te bebas toda la tarde en tu cuerpo
y no te sigas muerta
y te reclames viva
y me salves a mí con tu palabra
tan cargada de afecto
tan por ti viva
para mí.
The afternoon sank into your body
The afternoon sank into your body
And I couldn’t tell if the ground was awakening in ashes
or an open moon was outlining the street.
You drowned and drowned in the afternoon
while you tried
out of the womb of blue where your eyes are born
to wrest the weight of the hours from the air
to wrest the weight of your dead from life.
So many are the dead that see through your eyes
that mine are less lonely
so many are the dead that suffer the pain of life in you
that mine are less dead
Don’t you stay dead
let the words suffer the pain of life instead of you
because you believe in words
in the words charged with tenderness
I believe in the lightness of words
in the lightness of tenderness without words
You that, if I say life, I’ll live
if I say rain, I’ll rain, I’ll keep on raining
until I rain relentlessly in the afternoon.
I believe no one rains a conjured acoustic rain,
that the rain you feel doesn’t know the one I am writing to
that if I say “rain”, I say “silence”
but silence does not come.
I believe in an invisible vision
out of your blue eyes
in which I’ll see, and I’ll see myself raining
until I see myself far from death
when you drink up the whole afternoon in
your body
and don’t keep yourself dead
and proclaim yourself alive
and save me with your word
so loaded with tenderness
alive as much for you
as for me.
Jeannine Marie Pitas
(USA)
Jeannine M. Pitas is a writer, translator, and professor of English and Spanish at University of Dubuque. Her translation of poetry by Uruguayan writer Marosa di Giorgio,I Remember Nightfall (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2017), was shortlisted for the National Translation Award. She has also published Materia Prima (2019, Ugly Duckling Presse) by Uruguayan poet Amanda Berenguer, translated collaboratively with seven other translators, Echo of the Park (2019, Eulalia Books) by Argentine poet Romina Freschi, and Carnation and Tenebrae Candle (2019, Cardboard House) by Marosa di Giorgio.
Salvation’s name was Carmen
my uncle became an architect
moved to California in the 1960’s
and married Carmen from Mexico City
she changed her last name to his: Mrówka
the Polish word for “ant”
that takes love
she met me just a few times
on their trips to the East Coast
“we have a picture of you on our wall”
she told me, then twelve years old,
greasy-haired and gangly
what could she possibly see
in a gawky white girl from the suburbs
a girl who looked down
and covered her face with her hands
when she talked
a girl who didn’t make eye contact
“learn Spanish,” she said
“you can do it”
more than that —
“you need it”
What did she think I was missing?
I wasn’t an “at risk youth”
I said no to sex and drugs
my grades were impeccable
but somehow she knew
my own language
wasn’t enough
for everything I needed to say
salvation’s name was Carmen
with her thick accent, her chiles
rellenos recipe, her evangelical
Christian music
but the only proselytizing she did
was to insist I repeat
those words I struggled
to hear on her tongue —
maybe everyone needs
a redemptive handrail
a lantern, radical light
maybe everyone needs
a Carmen
to tell them they don’t yet know
how to speak
salvación, tu nombre era Carmen
mi tío se hizo arquitecto
se mudó a California en los sesenta
y se casó con Carmen de la Ciudad de México
ella se cambió el apellido por el suyo: Mrówka
que en polaco es “hormiga”
eso es amor
nos encontramos solo unas veces
durante sus viajes a la Costa Este
“tenemos una foto tuya en la pared”
me dijo, cuando tenía 12 años,
desgarbada y de pelo grasiento
qué podría ver ella
en una chica gringa larguirucha de los suburbios
una chica que miraba hacia abajo
y se cubría la cara con las manos
cuando ella hablaba
una chica que no hacía contacto visual
“aprende el español”, dijo.
“puedes hacerlo”
más aún–
“necesitas hacerlo”
¿Qué pensaba que me faltaba?
no era una joven “problemática”
renunciaba a las drogas y al sexo
mis notas eran impecables
pero de alguna manera ella sabía
que mi propio lenguaje
no era suficiente
para todo lo que necesitaba decir
la salvación se llamaba Carmen
con su acento grueso, su receta
de chiles rellenos,
su música evangélica
pero su único proselitismo
fue insistir que repitiera
esas palabras que me eran
difíciles de escuchar en su lengua
tal vez todos necesitamos
una baranda redentora
una linterna, luz radical
tal vez todos necesitamos
una Carmen
para recordarnos que todavía no sabemos
cómo hablar
María Isabel Lara Millapan
(Chile)
María Isabel Lara Millapan is a Mapuche poet. She was born in 1979 in Chihuimpilli, a Mapuche community located in Freire, Araucanía Region, Chile. She is professor of Didactics of Language and Literature at the Universidad Autónoma de Barcelona and an academic at Campus Villarrica of the Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile. She is also an associate researcher of the Centro de Estudios Interculturales e Indígenas CIIR. In 2016, she was awarded the Asát’ap award for her contribution to education. She is the coauthor of two books, one educational: Kimün. Aprendiendo mapudungun a través de poesías y relatos (2014)—and another testimonial: “Zomo Newen”. Relatos de vida de mujeres mapuche en su lucha por los derechos indígenas (2017). Her work has been included in several anthologies. She has published three verse collections, all bilingual: Puliwen ñi pewma. Sueños de un amanecer (2002), Ale. Luz de la luna (2012), and Trekan Antü (2018), along with the audio poetry album Aukiñko (2014).
The Mapuche and Spanish versión of this poem is part of the poetic anthology Ilando la memoria 7 mujeres mapuche/poesía, Ed. Falabella Soleda, et al. Editorial Cuarto Propio, 2006.
Pewküleayu
Amutuiñ nga lamgen kiñe antü
Fey eltuiñ küme mawida
Ka mapu ñi wurwur
Kiñe puliwen antü
Rupachi mawun mew
Ka püllay ko
Chew ñi ilkauken kürüf üñüm.
Pifuy nga ñi piwke
Tañi amual waiwen engo
Inaafiel rüpü
Elu tumu ko püle.
Fewla fewla amatuy taiñ pu füchake che
Fewla wenu mapu ngetuyngün
Taiñ llellipun, taiñ rakiduam
Fewla fewla lamgen
Kidu taiñ dungun ngey.
Pewküleayu
(Spanish version by the poet)
Hubo que partir un día hermano
Y dejar el bosque perfumado
El vapor en la tierra
En una mañana de sol
Después de la lluvia
Y las lagunas donde suelen esconderse las aves del viento.
Cuánto habría dado mi corazón
Por cabalgar
Entre la brisa,
Y seguir las huellas
Que los frutos del temo
Van dejando en el camino hasta el estero.
Ahora ahora los ancianos de mi tierra se están yendo
Ahora van sus ojos al wenu mapu
Van sus ruegos, sus sentimientos,
Ahora ahora hermano
Los encargados somos de llevar estos sueños.
Pewküleayu
(translated by the 4W-WIT)
One day we had to leave, my brother
To leave the scented forest;
The dew of the earth
In the morning sun
After the rain
And the lagoons where birds hide from the wind at times.
What my heart would have given
To gallop
Through the breeze,
And follow the trail
That the fruit of the temo tree
Leaves behind on the path to the brook
Now, now the elders of my land are leaving
Now their eyes go to the wenu mapu
To their prayers, to their feelings,
Now now brother
We are the ones carrying these dreams.
Beatriz Botero
(Colombia/USA)
Beatriz L. Botero received a Summa cum laude from the Psychology Department at Universidad Autónoma de Madrid Spain, for her dissertation on the psychoanalytic concept of Original Seduction and the literature of the Mexican writer Carlos Fuentes. She also earned a PH. D in Spanish literature at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. She specializes in contemporary Latin American Literature, psychoanalysis, and cultural studies. She is the author of Identidad Imaginada: Novelística Colombiana del Siglo XXI. (Pliegos Editores, 2020) as well editor of Women in Contemporary Latin American Novels: Psychoanalysis and Gendered Violence (Palgrave Macmillan, 2018). Botero’s research is oriented primarily towards topics in narrative and psychoanalysis, with special emphasis on identity, body and social conflict. She has also worked these topics in relation to contemporary visual art.
Cuando murió nuestra madre, mi hermano quien hace cine, le pidió a nuestro padre que llevara un poco de la cenizas de ella para esparcirlas en el Parque Nacional Natural de Chingaza en Colombia.
Así lo hicieron. Poco tiempo después, en marzo del 2020 mi hermano presentaría su película: "Después de Norma" en festivales y salas de cine nacionales e internacionales. Mi padre lo pudo acompañar en la premier y en algunas funciones. En julio, nuestro padre falleció de un ataque al corazón. Me dijo mi hermano: "se fue cuando nuestra relación estaba en el mejor momento". La película, el arte, les ayudó a superar las dificultades. Ahora, para mi, las imágenes de la película, me traen de nuevo a mis padres a la vida, se vuelven imágenes poderosas, más reales que la propia realidad que vivimos juntos. Hay ausencias que están presentes en forma eterna.
Traducción de video por Cassidy Reis.
||
When our mother died, my brother who makes movies, asked our father to take some of her ashes to spread in the Chingaza National Natural Park in Colombia.
They did so. A short time later, in March 2020, my brother would present his film, "After Norma," in festivals and national and international cinemas. My father was able to accompany him at the premiere and to some functions. In July, our father passed away from a heart attack. My brother told me: "he left when our relationship was at its best." The film, the art, helped them overcome difficulties. Now, for me, the images in the film bring my parents back to life, they become powerful images, more real than the reality that we lived together. There are absences that are eternally present.
Video translation by Cassidy Reis.
Andrea Cote Botero
(Colombia/USA)
Andrea Cote Botero (Barrancabermeja, Colombia, 1981) is the prize-winning author of the poetry collections Puerto Calcinado (2013), La ruina que nombro (2015), and Chinatown a toda hora (2017). Recognized as one of the most relevant new voices in contemporary Spanish American poetry, her work has appeared in numerous anthologies and she has been invited to read her work at a wide-range of poetry events in Asia, Europe, and the Americas. Her poems have been translated into many languages, including Arabic, Catalan, Chinese, English, French, German, Italian, and Macedonian. Cote Botero is also a translator of poetry from English into Spanish and currently holds the position of Assistant Professor of Creative Writing in the Bilingual MFA program at the University of Texas, El Paso.
See Andrea Cote Botero read her poem in an April, 2020 WIT Workshop organized by Dr. Beatriz Botero.
Puerto quebrado
Si supieras que afuera de la casa,
atado a la orilla del puerto quebrado,
hay un río quemante
como las aceras.
Que cuando toca la tierra
es como un desierto al derrumbarse
y trae hierba encendida
para que ascienda por las paredes,
aunque te des a creer
que el muro perturbado por las enredaderas
es milagro de la humedad
y no de la ceniza del agua.
Si supieras
que el río no es de agua
y no trae barcos
ni maderos,
sólo pequeñas algas
crecidas en el pecho
de hombres dormidos.
Si supieras que ese río corre
y que es como nosotros
o como todo lo que tarde o temprano
tiene que hundirse en la tierra.
Tú no sabes,
pero yo alguna vez lo he visto
hace parte de las cosas
que cuando se están yendo
parece que se quedan.
Broken Bridge
If you only knew that outside the house,
tethered to the edge of the broken harbor,
there is a burning river
of sidewalks.
That when it reaches the land
like a desert as it collapses
it carries flaming grass
to climb on the walls,
even if you come to believe
that the facade disturbed by vines
is a miracle of humidity
and not of the water’s ashes.
If you knew
that the river is not made of water
it does not bring boats
nor timber
only small algae
growing in the chest
of sleeping men.
If you knew that such river runs
and it is like us
or like everything that sooner or later
has to sink into the earth
You don’t know,
yet I have seen it sometimes
becoming all things
that in departing
seem to remain.
Luisa Futoransky
(Argentina/France)
Guggenheim Fellow and Chevalier in the French Ordre des Arts, Luisa Futoransky is an Argentine writer, poet, scholar and journalist living in France. With keen insight and humor, Luisa writes about love, voyage, exile and womanhood as central motifs of both our contemporary life as well as her identity as a Jewish intellectual. For more information please visit her site lfutoransky.org
Luisa's poem below, Juana de Arco: El Portal, is also published on PoetryInternational.org.
Juana de Arco: el Portal
un principiante repite malamente su lección de saxofón
si sopla quiere decir que anda bien, me digo
largas, continuadas filas de ciudadanos tristes
asoman en torno de los súper
cada tanto por el elevado los vagones del metro,
vacíos ayuda memoria de que estamos en una metrópoli
donde hoy por hoy la razón
no rige
la parte de sueño:
y sin embargo las palmeras de waikiki beach existen
Joan of Arc: The Gateway
a beginner practices the saxophone badly over and over
if it makes a sound that means he’s doing well, I tell myself
long endless lines of sad city dwellers
wind around supermarkets
every so often the metro runs by on the rails
empty cars help us remember that we are in a metropolis
where day by day reason
does not rule
the dream sequence:
that despite all this the palms of Waikiki Beach still exist
Check back weekly for new poems, starting in November 2020
Acknowledgements
Prof. Carolyn Kallenborn and Betsy J. Parker of the School of Human Ecology offered invaluable support in the format and weekly publications of each poem. Prof. Beatriz Botero at the Integrated Liberal Arts Studies organized and led the workshop with Colombian poet Andrea Cote, she also inspired and co-led with Dr. Mercado our Summer 2020 workshops. Lori DiPrete Brown, Director of 4W and Associate Director of the Global Health Institute, her vision, and leadership have made possible the Women In Translation Project. The Borghesi-Mellon Workshops Grant (2019-2020) from the UW-Madison Center for the Humanities supported the project.
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