Twelve Spanish-Language Poets: Juana Bignozzi, Carmen Boullosa, Javier Bozalongo, Melbin Cervantes, Elsa Cross, Silvia Guerra, Claudia Lars, Sonia Manzano, Mayra Santos-Febres, Alcira Soust Scaffo, Carmen Váscones, and Idea Vilariño
Translated by Susan Ayres, Lisa Rose Bradford, Jesse Lee Kercheval, Alexis Levitin, Miles Liss, Brook McClurg, Seth Michelson, Philip Pardi, Jeannine M. Pita, Lawrence Schimel
INTRODUCTION
Each issue of Loch Raven Review devotes a Poetry Translation section to poets and translators working in the language selected by the Translations Editor. This issue showcases translations of twelve Spanish-language poets of Argentina, Ecuador, El Salvador, Mexico, Puerto Rico, Spain, and Uruguay. It presents poets not previously translated into English, such as Melbin Cervantes, who writes from and about the Yucatan, and Alcira Soust Scaffo, who was associated with Mexico’s Infra-realist poetry movement of the 1960s. It also contains poets associated with other literary movements, such as Idea Vilariño, member of the important literary movement in Uruguay, the Generation of ’45, and Juana Bignozzi, member of El Pan Duro. It features many award-winning poets, including Juana Bignozzi, Javier Bozalongo, Elsa Cross, Silvia Guerra, Sonia Manzano, Mayra Santos-Febres, and Carmen Váscones.
Perhaps the atmosphere of the times (coronavirus pandemic, protests across the world) influenced the compilation of this issue, or perhaps universal themes—of sickness, death, silence, and of the interior and exterior world—seem especially relevant now. Lines such as Silvia Guerra’s “To let air / out of the lung’s pink sacs pssst,” resonate with the coronavirus
pandemic, as does Claudia Lars’ lyrical description of a near-death experience, and Carmen Váscones’ poems pondering how insomnia must outwit death because “Each night is a tombstone.”
Other poems in this selection reflect the current contrast between protest and isolation and silence. For example, Mayra Santos-Febres acknowledges the travails and hopes of the black body, from rejection to mutual support. Other poets in this issue also allude to isolation and silence—such as Idea Vilariño, Melbin Cervantes, Elsa Cross, and the journal excerpt by Alcira Soust Scaffo, who hid in a university bathroom in Mexico for twelve days in 1968 when the Mexican army occupied the campus.
Finally, several poets in this issue of LRR emphasize memory and the perception of reality. As Elsa Cross remarks, “what’s real / cannot be distinguished / from its own invention.” Carmen Váscones concludes a poem about words with “And me, I’m just a metaphor.” Javier Bozalongo and Idea Vilariño write of love and loss. Juana Bignozzi draws a portrait of a past “universe conquered by my grandmothers,” whereas Sonia Manzano gives us a spunky feminist revision of prehistory with her sequence of Feminus erectus poems, and Carmen Boullosa writes with dark humor of an “enormous carrion fly” that keeps returning from the dead to pester the speaker’s rest.
In her 2010 book Nox, Anne Carson asserts, “over the years . . . I came to think of translating as a room, where one gropes for the light switch. I guess it never ends.” Many translators I have met agree that the work of translating never ends; it is almost an obsession. I am grateful to Poetry Translations Editor Danuta E. Kosk-Kosicka for inviting me to guest co-edit this feature for Loch Raven Review, and for her guidance in compiling the selection. We appreciate the translators, artists in their own right, who have contributed these timely, evocative poems. All translations are first time publications.
Susan Ayres, Guest Co-Editor
Juana Bignozzi
Translated by Lisa Rose Bradford
Interiors
lost the first sense of solidarity
lost horizontal solidarity
neighbor friend corner grocer
in private no one recounts his life story these days
where now are those Renaissance kitchens
the houses of the Carpathians
there will be no museum for our interiors
like a fundamentalist veil some women have salvaged
a universe conquered by my grandmothers
children flora men in permanent distraction or
literary fantasies
while grand women
water patio plants
Interiores
perdido el primer sentido de la solidaridad
perdida la solidaridad horizontal
vecino amigo almacenero de la esquina
de puertas adentro ya no se cuenta una vida
dónde han quedado cocinas renacentistas
casas de los Cárpatos
no habrá un museo de nuestros interiores
cual velo fundamentalista algunas mujeres han rescatado
un universo derrotado por mis abuelas
hijos plantas hombres en permanente distracción o
fantasías literarias
y ellas
regando las plantas del patio
.
Bye
Once there was an infallible world for writing meaty poems
the corniest myths were holy writs
farewells in ports, parks in the falling rain
the slow groping among the faithless
the fallacy of night
the magic of conversing in all but deserted bars
surrounded by chairs stacked on tables
little boys who never learned the answers
twilight girls
who proffered stony flowers among reputable drunks
never a thought for the beginning
endings like this sufficed
Chau
Había un mundo infalible para escribir poemas intensos
los mitos más cursis eran palabra santa
las despedidas en los puertos, los parques bajo la lluvia
el lento manoseo entre infidentes
la falacia de la noche
la magia de hablar en bares casi desiertos
rodeados de sillas apiladas sobre las mesas
niños que nunca aprendieron las respuestas
muchachas crepusculares
que repartían flores de piedra entre borrachos de prestigio
y nunca pensaban en el principio
les bastaban los finales como éste
.
.
Carmen Boullosa
Translated by Lawrence Schimel
The Carrion Fly
The enormous carrion fly
enters the fray.
Black, ravenous,
electric.
It crosses through the open window.
Stakes claim to the entire territory.
Virtuous buzz and flight in circles
dancing
on tip toe in the air.
Tireless, it interrupts
my planned siesta.
It pirouettes above the white sheets,
shooing away my rest.
I get out of bed,
defeated by its movement.
The fly returns to the window
and in its frame–
having earned the nickname Carrion
from flying over the corpses of humans and animal,
defying grief, funeral rites,
the hyena’s appetite
and its meal of rotting flesh
gorging on the meat right from its jaws in bloody banquets–
it collapses,
falls
feet up in the air.
The dead return, calm, to earth.
I fear the curses,
the damnations,
the litanies
that will be spat over this act
by the prophets and the fortune teller on the corner who reads fortunes for 10 pesos.
The silence is not golden: the fly is.
I see it, trembling like a dried leaf.
The fly twitches, gets up,
buzzes again,
the gravedigger once more.
Its body dances in a fearful swaying,
in miniature leaps and dizzy spirals.
It flies for a bit,
and falls again,
feet in the air.
It seems (once again) dead.
A double cadaver will weigh on my fate!
I close the window.
I leave the room,
and try to be deaf to the buzzing that (for a third time) begins anew.
Why,
fly?
Why are you doing this to me?
What do I have that attracts you?
Why did you choose this moment of my siesta,
my clean sheets, the recently-opened buds in the vase?
What do I have to give you?
Have you chosen me
to play your black Lazarus?
Is it for me you’ve come back to life?
Am I the flesh you’re looking for?
Am I your final resting place?
Or am I just a random witness,
a stumble, a mistake,
I the flesh for this ill-fated, black Lazarus?
La mosca panteonera
Entra rompiendo plaza
la enorme mosca panteonera.
Negra, voraz,
eléctrica.
Cruza por la ventana abierta.
Reclama todo el territorio.
Virtuosa zumba y vuela en círculos,
danzas
a pie de aire.
Incansable, interrumpe
mi prevista siesta.
Hace piruetas sobre las blancas sábanas,
me espanta el descanso.
Dejo la cama,
derrotada por su agitación.
Ella regresa a la ventana
y en su marco
–la que ganó el apodo de Panteonera
a punta de sobrevolar cadáveres humanos y animales,
desafiando al llanto, al rito del funeral,
al apetito de la hiena
y su manjar de carne corrupta
manducando fresca la carne del rastro en banquetes sangrientos–,
la mosca se desploma,
cae
patas arriba.
Los muertos regresan, tranquilos, a la tierra.
Temo las maldiciones,
los embrujos,
las letanías
que sobre este acto escupirán
los profetas y la adivinadora que en la esquina de casa lee la suerte, si le das diez pesos.
El silencio no es oro: es ella.
Veo la mosca, temblando como la hoja vieja.
La mosca se agita, se reincorpora,
zumba de nuevo,
otra vez la panteonera.
Su cuerpo danza en espantoso contoneo,
en diminutos saltos y volutas mareadas.
Vuela un tramito,
y cae otra vez,
patas arriba.
Parece (de nuevo) muerta.
¡Doble cadáver pesará en mi destino!
Cierro la ventana.
Dejo la habitación,
e intento hacer oídos sordos al zumbido que (por tercera vez) recomienza.
¿Por qué,
mosca?
¿Por qué motivo me haces esto?
¿Qué tengo yo que te atrae?
¿Por qué elegiste el momento de mi siesta,
mis sábanas limpias, los botones recién abiertos en el florero?
¿Qué tengo yo para darte?
¿Me has escogido a mí
para representarte Lázara negra?
¿Es por mí que resucitas?
¿Soy yo la carne que buscas?
¿Vienes en mí a morir?
¿O sólo soy un testigo azaroso,
un tropiezo, un error,
yo la carne para esta Lázara infausta, negra?
.
The Illusion of the Stone
Eternal are the stone and the tree
to our eyes.
Years pass,
men age,
but stone doesn’t change,
leaves, in an annual dance, are renewed.
Fragile and deaf is the hominid’s vision:
the chestnut tree will die and the stone become dust.
Only that which flees endures,
only the remembrance of the flight will remain.
Memory
(like mud)
…………………………….will endure.
La ilusión de la piedra
Eternas son la piedra y el árbol,
a nuestros ojos.
Los años pasan,
el hombre envejece,
la piedra no se altera,
las hojas, en un baile anual, se renuevan.
Frágil y sorda es la vista del homínido:
el castaño morirá y la piedra será polvo.
Sólo aquello que huye permanece,
sólo restará el recuerdo de la fuga.
La memoria
–como el barro–
…………………………….no se irá.
.
.
Javier Bozalongo
Translated by Lawrence Schimel
Ashes
A light remains at the end of the hallway,
music at the end of the hate,
a word at the end of the mouth,
an image at the end of the memory.
There also remains a plate in the kitchen;
an unopened book upon the table
with its ending already known;
a kiss in the air
afraid of crashing against the ground:
a stamp trembling
before unwritten letters;
a let me tell you, a sleep by my side;
an I won’t be home to eat, I have too much work;
an if you leave, don’t come back, a don’t ever leave.
Who provoked the blaze that left behind these ashes?
Cenizas
Queda una luz al fondo del pasillo,
una música al fondo del oído,
una palabra al fondo de la boca,
una imagen al fondo del recuerdo.
Queda también un plato en la cocina;
un libro sin abrir sobre la mesa
con su final ya conocido;
un beso por el aire
con miedo de estrellarse contra el suelo;
un sello tembloroso
ante cartas no escritas;
un déjame decirte, un duérmete a mi lado;
un no vengo a comer, tengo mucho trabajo;
un si te vas no vuelvas, un no te vayas nunca.
¿Quién provocó el incendio que dejó estas cenizas?
.
[Just like the child]
Just like the child who in closing his eyes
thinks that nobody can see him,
that’s how I’ve passed by,
like an invisible man.
Just like the mute using signs
to make himself understood,
that’s how I’ve passed by,
like a man in silence.
Just like the deaf man staring fixedly
at the lips and hands of whoever speaks,
that’s how I’ve passed by,
like an obliging man.
[Igual que el niño]
Igual que el niño que al cerrar los ojos
cree que nadie lo ve
así he pasado yo,
como un hombre invisible.
Igual que el mudo utiliza los signos
para hacerse entender
así he pasado yo,
como un hombre en silencio.
Igual que el sordo mira fijamente
los labios y las manos de quien habla
así he pasado yo,
como un hombre solícito.
.
.
Melbin Cervantes
Translated by Miles Liss
I Follow in the Footprints of Silence
I follow in the footprints of silence,
am enchanted by the voices of the sea
that burn amidst the Caribbean’s liquid fire.
It’s Leviathan who desires to play in these waters,
delivering songs and tears.
The great serpent from the white walls of heaven
drops down and suffocates,
stirring the tide; in her stomach,
born of seafoam: white swallows.
I see faces in the agitated blood of crawfish with brownish fans
devoured by the white serpent.
I am just a glittering face that lasts an instant
in the blue belly discharged into the sea.
Amidst rocks and silence, black night returns,
hovering with a garment of marshes and wind;
the tide returns to me the sea’s charred remains.
I can go on searching for the defeated corpse of silence.
I can, and find it, waving, erasing the footprints
scattered in the marrow of the sand.
Sigo las huellas que dejo el silencio
Sigo las huellas que dejó el silencio
atiendo en suspenso las voces de la playa
que llamean entre el fuego líquido del Caribe.
Es Leviatán quien desea jugar en estas aguas,
trayendo cantos y sollozos.
La gran serpiente baja sofocada de los muros
blanquecinos del cielo,
conmoviendo la marea; en su vientre,
nacen de espuma: golondrinas blancas.
Veo caras en la linfa agitada de los cangrejos de pardo flabelo,
devorados por la clara serpiente.
Soy tan solo un rostro de brillo que dura un instante
en el vientre azul vertido en el mar.
Entre piedras y silencios, la oscura noche Vuelve,
paseando un vestido de marismas y vientos,
la marea me regresa a los restos calcinados de la playa.
Puedo seguir buscando, el cuerpo derrocado del silencio.
Puedo, lo encuentro, agitando, borrando las huellas,
repartidas en la medula de la arena.
.
Voice of an Insect
Voice of an insect, cry of fragile wings,
a tiny silhouette descending from night.
Worn-out, wilted, the firefly falls over stone.
The crickets transform devotion with their songs beneath the moon.
Dragonfly legs caress the firefly’s muted nape.
Around the statuary ants meet,
breathing in the graves.
A funeral drum in the wind
delivers relief to the blackbirds,
a rustle in the grass,
the stone’s smooth fruit of white flesh
that holds water from the rain,
whose warmth spreads over
autumn’s mournful passage.
Voz De Insecto
Voz de insecto, gritos de frágiles alas,
una pequeña silueta bajando de la noche.
Gastada, marchita, cae sobre la roca la luciérnaga.
Los grillos transfiguran la piedad con sus llantos bajo la luna.
Las patas de la libélula acarician la nuca apagada de la luciérnaga.
Alrededor de sus estatuas,
se reúnen las hormigas respirando cementerios.
El castañeo fúnebre del viento
atrae fugaces alivios hacia las calandrias,
se mueve la hierba,
la roca es un suave fruto de blanca carne,
que retiene el agua de la lluvia,
que con tibieza se esparce
sobre el mortuorio pasaje otoñal.
.
.
Elsa Cross
Translated by Susan Ayres
From Mirabeau Bridge
………….a river,
………….you know its name, the banks
………….loaded with the day, like the name
………….………….………….………….……………Paul Celan
1
The streaks of fire
in the semi-darkness
mirror
and blur
…………….the same question
in memory of a dawn that never came
……………..Those dreams
sliding
their satiny sheen
………….………….……over the skin
a smooth touch
as of distant surfaces
the darkness
opens
……………its uncertain path
towards the light
The water as green as the bridge
2
If it opened
if it opened at least
………….………….………..that passage
or vein
………….or water course
if it opened in its volume
of river
………………..tearing while passing
the lattices of memory
breaking the light
into overlapping
………….………….………….prisms—
probably nothing
a limpid meadow
a shadow so cool
so quiet
vibrating all around
3
The dream is hidden
Out in the open
the plaster of walls
the naked lucidity
………….……………..fed up with itself
the skeleton collapsing
……………—boat run aground
And something moves
………….………….……………ghostly
across invisible bridges
rails towards too short an abyss
festival decorations
shrinking
……………..under the enormity
of the eyes
4
The silence straining
………….………….…………the time to come
narrows in its angles
the gaze opening
………….………….…..in vanishing points
And you, drowned
in your sobs
silence
what is depleted
in those minimal fields
waiting for summer
to cover them in green
to fill their fragile surface
with its saps—
And what’s real
cannot be distinguished
………….………….…………from its own invention
that is sharply outlined
superimposing
………….…………….its illusory tinges
its firm strokes
on the corruptible skin
5
I would leave for you
the roses you did not leave
………….………….………….………in the tombs
there, where the wild
mimosas dry
and the yellow invades
………….………….……………..the eye’s ambit
where clusters of lilac
arrange the morning air
There, where random
………….………….………..forgetting
brings from sleep
the same faces—
and the furrow of the forehead
deepens into the same thoughts
the same wound
6
Your heart
………….…………….like a desert flower
with no spring
with no shade
The naked refraction
bringing its gifts to the skin—
………….////………….////……the petal turned to thorn
And the wind unable to carry
………….………….………….……….the memory
the dust
………….……..sorrowful and dry
the voices of impossible tones
the shattered faces
7
Sharp cuts
………….………….vast
without fissures
on the surface of reality
on the voracious stillness
casting lures
there
where the bite
sank
in the tender substance
………….………….………………..of sense
in nets of lichen
in breathing
in hazy waters—
depleting the divergent ciphers
Vast
…………..various
like leaves of lilies
……………………………..Paris
……………………………..March 2019
Desde el Puente Mirabeau
………….un río,
………….tú conoces su nombre, las orillas
………….cargadas del día, como el nombre
………….………….………….………….….Paul Celan
1
Las vetas del fuego
en la penumbra
duplican
y desdibujan
…………..el mismo interrogante
en recuerdo de un alba no alcanzada
………….…………….Esos sueños
deslizan
sus brillos satinados………….…………………..
………….……………………………sobre la piel
tactos lisos
como de superficies lejanas
la penumbra
abriendo………….……….
……………………….hacia la luz
su vía incierta
El agua tan verde como el puente
2
Si se abriera
si se abriera al menos
………….………….……………..ese pasaje
o veta
………….o curso de agua
si se abriera en su volumen
de río
………….rompiendo al paso
los celajes de la memoria
descomponiendo la luz
en prismas
……………………….superpuestos—
nada tal vez
un prado límpido
una sombra tan fresca
tan callada
vibrando en torno
3
Se oculta el sueño
Al descubierto
el yeso de los muros
la descarnada lucidez ………….………….
………………,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,……harta de sí
el esqueleto que se vence
………..—barco encallado
Y algo va ………….………
……………………fantasmal
por puentes invisibles
barandales hacia un abismo muy corto
ornatos de feria
encogiéndose
………….…………...bajo la desmesura
de los ojos
4
El silencio tensando ………….………..
………………………………el tiempo por venir
estrecha en sus ángulos
la mirada abierta
………….……………..en sus puntos de fuga
Y tú, ahogado
en tus sollozos
callas
lo que se agota
en esos campos mínimos
a la espera del estío
que los cubra de verde
que llene de sus savias
las epidermis frágiles—
Y no puede distinguirse
lo real
………….de su propia ficción
que se recorta nítida
superponiendo ………….………….
……………………….sus tintes ilusorios
sus trazos fijos
a la piel corruptible
5
Dejaría por ti
las rosas que no pusiste ………….………….………….
…………………………………….en los sepulcros
allí donde se secan
las mimosas silvestres
y el amarillo invade ………….………….
………………………el alcance del ojo
donde racimos de lilas
ordenan el aire de la mañana
Allí donde el olvido ………….………….
……………………….intermitente
hace venir del sueño
los mismos rostros—
y el surco de la frente
ahonda en los mismos pensamientos
la misma herida
6
Tu corazón ………….………….
………………………..como una flor del desierto
sin una fuente
sin una sombra
La refracción desnuda
trayendo a la piel sus dones—
………….………….……………el pétalo vuelto espina
Y el viento sin alcanzar a llevarse
………….………….………….……………la memoria
el polvo
………….////seco y doliente
las voces de timbres imposibles
las caras rotas
7
Cortes nítidos ………….………….
…………./……….///extensos
sin fisuras
en la superficie de lo real
en la quietud voraz
tendiendo señuelos
allí
donde la mordedura
se hincó
en la substancia blanda………….………….
………………………………..////del sentido
en las redes de liquen
en la respiración
en las aguas desdibujadas—
agotando las cifras divergentes
Extensos ………….
…………///diversos
como hojas de lirios
………….////………….////París
………….////………….////Marzo de 2019
.
.
Silvia Guerra
Translated by Jesse Lee Kercheval and Jeannine Pitas
[A crowded garden]
A crowded garden after being watered
Grows. Someone slips by the plants, leaves
the smell that rises from the earth Someone yellow-eyed,
beyond cunning the word the thought.
Watch the green grow irresistible, the smell of sap
Striking, striking
There is always a garden that precedes us
And another, toward which we are going, Green
Striking us, growing.
[Un populoso jardín]
Un populoso jardín después del agua
Crece. Alguien resbala por las plantas, las hojas
el olor que sube de la tierra Alguien de ojo amarillo,
más allá de la astucia la palabra el pensamiento.
Mira el verde crecer irresistible, el olor de la savia
Golpeándose, golpeándose
Siempre hay un jardín que nos precede
Y otro, hacia el que vamos, Verde
Golpeándonos, creciendo.
.
Anima Mundi
Like a border, to embroider this pattern. Every day
a little more drizzle, another shoot emerges from the branch. Nest
tangles over the thread extending not suturing.
But no, it comes from outside. From inside comes complex
Weave. We must understand that it floods strikes the walls
resists. We must understand that it moans tears at itself
how heroic it is to make of the soul a brocade that grows
and leave the rest aside Like Oblivion
Like distance, between the possible and the essential.
Ánima mundi
Como borde, bordar este tramado. Todos los días
un poco, un poco más gotea arma la rama, Nido
entrama sobre el hilado que se extiende no sutura.
Pero no, viene de fuera. De dentro viene enrevesando
Trama. Hay que entender que inunda que golpea las paredes
que resiste. Hay que entender que gime que se rompe
que heroico es hacer del ánima brocado que se expanda
y lo demás dejarlo Como Olvido
Como distancia, entre lo posible y lo inherente.
.
.
Claudia Lars
Translated by Philip Pardi
One Fine Dawn (Excerpt)
VI.
Evening brought clouds and showers.
Cold winds howled.
From across the sea, raptors came ashore, seeking woodlands,
while the ill-omened owl
sang in a eucalyptus.
Hot coals and needles coursed through my veins,
yet still, such icy blood!
Why, I wondered, do our bones
tire at times
of bearing both weight
and soul?
Fountains above:
falling, pulsing,
flooding the hours.
Beneath a soft, warm comforter,
feverish and tired,
I decided: air is water.
Then I was completely awake
and heavy night
revealed all:
a steady drip drip drip,
an embattled almond tree,
a strange sensation of fear,
and only a small light
to guide me.
That’s when death arrived.
It cannot be denied!
Death came for my shallow breath,
settled into my room,
was still.
I thought of meadows,
a maiden in blue,
a line of herons.
I had nearly reached the cave of echoes.
An icy insect
was nibbling my hands.
I knew this intruder well… It’s impossible
to describe the moment,
brimming with unspoken questions.
Yet I’ll say this: it’s as beautiful as the world,
and in its lap
lies the seedbed of life.
What happened next? Behold the wind
bearing leaves
across an ample loneliness.
A dark whirlwind unspooled
my youth, my name,
and the familiar haven of home.
Able to fly, I believe I rose
to a high place
where I found memories,
the light’s nest,
untapped songs.
This ecstasy provided the proof of love:
an eternity couldn’t contain it,
yet it fit in my wonder
like a small, enclosed flame.
Faceless, unforgetting,
I reveled in the joy
of my innumerable I…
Friend Death came near, bearing
a trilling nightingale
that knew my lips.
And as everything turned to dawn,
complete certainty
of being in the eternal and in the nothing,
a fierce moan, a human cry,
all this returned me to my sickly body….
And once again I heard the sound
of rain in the trees.
Del Fino Amanecer
VI.
Abrió la tarde nubes de aguacero;
soplaron vientos fríos;
azacuanes del mar buscaban selvas
y el búho-mal presagio
cantó en el eucalipto.
Iban brasas y agujas por mis venas
y sin embargo… ¡hielo era la sangre!
Me pregunté: ¿por qué los huesos sienten
en ciertas ocasiones la fatiga
de cargar nuestro peso
y también nuestras almas?
¡Nacían manantiales allá arriba!…
Inundaban las horas
al caer, palpitando.
Bajo edredones de blandura tibia
con cansancio afiebrado
pensaba: es agua el aire.
De pronto desperté completamente
y la noche—tan densa—
me dio sus realidades:
una gotera de tic tac preciso,
batallas del almendro,
la inexplicable sensación del miedo
y apenas el auxilio
de mi pequeña lámpara.
Entonces fue cuando llegó la muerte.
– ¡Nadie puede negarlo! –
Vino buscando mi delgado aliento
y haciéndose quietud
se refugió en el cuarto.
Pasaron por mi mente las praderas,
una doncella azul,
línea de garzas…
Casi bajé a la cueva de los ecos
y un insecto de nieve
me mordía las manos.
Bien conocí a la intrusa… No es posible
describir el momento
colmado de preguntas,
que no se pronunciaban.
Tan sólo digo: ¡es bella como el mundo
y tiene semillero
de vida en su regazo!
¿Qué sucedió después?… ¡Mirad el viento
llevándose las hojas
por anchas soledades!
Oscuro torbellino deshacía
mi juventud, mi nombre
y el conocido amparo de la casa.
Creo que—voladora—
subí a lugar altísimo
donde encontré recuerdos
el nido de la luz
y canciones intactas.
Evidencia de amor me dio su éxtasis:
no cabía en lo eterno,
pero estaba en mi asombro
como fuego encerrado.
Sin rostro, sin olvidos,
fui contando los goces
de mi yo innumerable…
La muerte-amiga se acercó trayendo
el ruiseñor vibrante
que conoció mis labios.
Y cuando todo se volvía aurora,
completa certidumbre
de estar en lo infinito y en la nada,
un gemido tenaz, un grito humano
me hicieron regresar al cuerpo enfermo…
¡Y oí de nuevo el ruido
de la lluvia en los árboles!
.
.
Sonia Manzano
Translated by Alexis Levitin
Feminus erectus -1
Night has come
I take refuge in my cave
rub my heels against each other
invent fire
Ha llegado la noche
me refugio en mi cueva
froto mis talones entre sí
invento el fuego
.
Feminus erectus -2
A distant howl
like that of an animal in fear
lifts its snout to the moon
and nuzzles its purulent nipple
it is raining flour mixed with moans
Un aullido distante
como el de un animal con miedo
eleva su hocico hacia la luna
y roza su pezón más purulento
llueve harina mezclada con gemidos
.
Feminus erectus -6
On the edges of the lake
creatures more erect than I
and with a head more prominent than mine
have begun to stroll about
Creatures that already use their hands
to pick fruit
dangling from the void
Creatures who slash a channel
with obsidian knives
for their victims’ palpitating tears
A female of that strange species
seduced by something glistening among the leaves
moves away from the group
and approaches too close to the dark undergrowth
where my fingers boil
Suddenly
I unroll my tongue
and catch her
I have invented the perfect crime
Por los alruedos del lago
han empezado a desambular
criaturas más erguidas que yo
y con una cabeza más prominente que la mía
Criaturas que ya utilizan sus manos
para desprender los frutos
que cuelgan del vacío
Criaturas que rajan en canal
con sus cuchillos de obsidiana
el llanto palpitante de sus víctimas
Una hembra de esa especie extraña
subyugada por algo que brilla entre las hojas
se separa del grupo
y se acerca demasiado hacia la mata oscura
donde hierven mis dedos
Sorpresivamente
desenrollo mi lengua
y la atrapo
invento el crimen perfecto
.
.
Mayra Santos-Febres
Translated by Seth Michelson
1.
They told you “jump in, it’s safe”
and you jumped
created a scaffold of paper
summoned the rest of your species
but then came the silence
the return to the closet of words
not saying the name or address
not saying I too am one who loves.
The black body that provokes
remains alone.
I get it.
I know what you’re going through.
They’ve done it to me too.
1.
Te dijeron “tírate que está llanito”
y te tiraste
armaste un andamio de papel
convocaste a las demás de tu especie
y luego fue el silencio
fue encerrarse de nuevo en un armario de palabras
no decir el nombre ni la dirección
no decir soy yo también la que ama.
El cuerpo negro de la provocación
permanece solitario.
Entiendo.
Sé por lo que pasas.
A mi también me lo han hecho.
.
2.
(Two elephants balanced/on a thread of spiderweb)
People say
here she comes to take over
to be the other, the dethroner
they don’t notice, can’t sense
don’t see
that for the first time in history
two literary black women
inhabit the same island
share the same ink;
suddenly we’re many
each walking her path
that supports the other like a bridge
2.
(Dos elefantas se balanceaban/sobre la tela de una araña)
La gente dice
acá viene esa a suceder
a ser la otra, la destronadora
no lo notan, ni siquiera lo presienten
no ven
que por primera vez en esta historia
dos negras letradas
en la misma isla habitan
comparten una tinta;
de repente somos tantas
cada una camina por su senda
que sostiene la de otra como un puente.
.
.
Alcira Soust Scaffo
Translated by Brook McClung
The Metaphysical Cough
While Maüe records the songs
And Chachi laughs
And Kuki sleeps
And Tini went out to buy cheese to make a pizza
And the neighbors’ children play
And Shidarta trills (like a kindergartner)
And Yolanda is taking a bath upstairs
And the clock strikes the small hours
And Adriana is called by her mother (the neighbor)
And there is (ay!) so much sun
And we’re going to miss Chonita, who is good as bread
……………………………………………………at the poor table
……………………………………………………on a winter night
……………………………………………………a song
………………………………………………………………………..Meanwhile… ………….in the mean
………………………………………………………………………..time ….…I work to name what we live
…………………………………………………………………………in ………other times
In the truck through University City I heard the 20th century version of
………….“Look, it’s Little Red Riding Hood’s forest!”
………….“I’m Little Red Riding Hood” the girl said.
………….“And I am the wolf!” the boy replied.
………….“Such a good Little Red Riding Hood” and then she got run over by a car
…………..………….……………………..…………..n……………….
This is the reality
and you have to live it (hay ay!)
………….………….…………..vi. vívívívívívívívíví if llllaaaaaan!lan!lan!lan!lan!
at the most primal rhythm river. listen. river. river.
with the music you choose (a chorus. joy)
with the love you reinvent (there is love – hay!ay!amor )
with the dream
………………………..and the vigil
La tos metafísica
Mientras Maüe graba canciones
Y Chachi ríe
Y Kuki duerme
Y Tini salió a comprar queso para hacer una pizza
Y los niños de los vecinos juegan
Y Shidarta trina (como de kinder)
Y Yolanda se está bahando arriba.
Y el reloj marca las lo menos lo
Y Adriana es yAmada por su mamá (la vecina).
Y hay ay!mucho sol!
Y vamos a extrañar a Chonita que es buena como pan
en mesa de pobre
en noche de invierno
un canto
mientra…tantos…mientras
tanto…Alcira nombre lo que viVímos
en otros tiempos
En el camión por la Ciudad Universitaria oí la version siglo XX de…
Una niña-Mira! el bosque de Caperucita!
—Yo soy Caperucita!
Un niño—Y yo soy el lobo!
La niña—Tan buena Caperucita y la machucó un carro!
………….………….………….……………..…………..n………………………………
esta es la realidad
y hay ay! que vivirla…
………….……………vi. vívívívívívívívíví if llllaaaaaan!lan!lan!lan!lan!
al ritmo más primario:::::::::rio::::::::oir::::::rio::::::rio!
con la m’ usica que elijas…(a coros….La Alegría!!!!!
con el amor que reinventes!!!hay!ay!amor)
con el—sueno (i- la viglia)
.
Sunday March 30, 1969
(from Scaffo’s Journal)
Sunday today —a rainy day.
And also the sun and moon — almost round.
And friends, children’s games and expressions.
I give you a mirage.
On an endless journey without a boat shipless
singing.
I also give you
………………………………..—which becomes a silence in—
spiral
to get to you
Today on March 30th.
it has been 6 months since I left
That is to say that it has been months since I came down
from the flying saucer. Where one day—
two three four
until 12.
while turning the top
(in silence).
Silence all the time
not looking
but the light
is earned
from hell
says León Felipe!
and from a certain silence
in a certain city I called
Le dimanche – le 30 mars 1969
Aujourd’hui, le dimanche — un jour de pluie
et de soleil aussi et aussi de lune – presque
ronde et d’amis et de joeus(x) — dos enfants! et de regards —
je vous donne mirage
en voyage éternel sans bateau sans barque
enchantant. je vous donne (aussi)
…qui devienne un silence en
espiral… pour arrivée jusqu’a toi!
Aujourd’hui — le 30 mars … il fait 6
mois que j’ai sortie c’est a dire que j’ai mois que j’ai
Plateau volant
descendue d’un Platiyo Volador a pres
jous, deux, t rois. quatre… jusqu’à être 12 jours
en tournant là-haut!
(en silence) tout le temp(s) le silence… pas
cherche… … …. … pero….se gana la luz
desde el infierno! dice Leon Felipe! y
desde un cierto silencio -. llamado
en una cierta ciudad (llamada).
.
.
Carmen Váscones
Translated by Alexis Levitin
The lighthouse stupefied
The lighthouse stupefied
between the ocean’s thighs
utter surrender
between silence and motion a shadow
the gaze returns to nowhere
complicity of its beam
the spell remains till dawn.
And the sea beyond all reach.
El faro se detiene
entre las piernas del mar
la entrega es absoluta
la tiniebla entre el silencio y el movimiento
la mirada vuelve a su punto
la complicidad su luz
el encanto dura hasta el amanecer.
El mar no espera.
.
Words have too many mirrors
Words have too many mirrors
to find a place of rest
doubt sucks up too much space
for the clock to enter
death demands too much
for letting us control insomnia.
She cannot reach the journey’s end
she cannot cast a stone at space
she cannot give the story shape.
And me, I’m just a metaphor.
Demasiados espejos tienen las palabras
para encontrar un descanso
demasiado lugar aspira la duda
para entrar al reloj
demasiada razón pide la muerte
para dirigir la vigilia
No puede concluir el recorrido
no puede lapidar el espacio
no puede ordenar la historia
Sólo soy de mí una metáfora.
.
Match
When I die I don’t want them to close the lid on my coffin. I’ve always been afraid of being locked in. I fear my fear. I can’t bear the dark. Why go to sleep. That’s what death is. An eternal prison.
One has to live fully awake, twenty-four hours a day. My cousin lived that way. He died young. He didn’t want to lose anything of life. He gave me some advice about all that. For example: don’t ever fall asleep, that way no one can ever catch you off guard.
When I find myself growing drowsy, I’m thrown into a panic. I lose all control within.
Each night is a tombstone. The last time, he said to me: “don’t forget, take care, you know what it’s all about”. And here I am, taking precautions, protecting myself, lest when my eyelids drop I find I am banished within myself.
She gets up, moonlight floods the room, she looks in the mirror, comes back to the table where we’re seated, sits down. In her hand she has a pack of cigarettes and matches. She waits. She says “Don’t go.” She crosses her legs. She looks right at me.
“Listen, you don’t know what this is all about.”
It is decided. Better light a cigarette. That little flame is amusing. This telling and not telling burns away. I screw my tongue free.
She smokes till she confounds herself with her exhaustion.
The light at the tip of her cigarette—that’s me.
Fósforo
Cuando muera no quiero que bajen la tapa del ataúd. Siempre he tenido miedo al encierro. Tengo miedo de mi miedo. No soporto la oscuridad. Para qué dormir. La muerte es eso. Una eterna cárcel.
Hay que vivir despierto las veinticuatro horas. Mi primo vivió así. Murió joven. No quería perderse nada de la vida. Me dio algunos consejos sobre esto. Como este, no te duermas nunca para que nadie te coja desprevenido.
Cuando me quedo amodorrada, me acosa el pánico. Dentro pierdo el control.
Cada noche es una lápida. La última vez me dijo, no olvides, cuídate, ya sabes. Y aquí estoy, aguardándome, resguardándome; no sea que cuando baje los párpados me quede excluida en mí misma.
Se levanta, la luna entra al cuarto, mira al espejo, regresa a la mesa donde estamos, se sienta. Trae en la mano cajetilla y fósforos. Demora. Me dice –no te vayas- Cruza la pierna. Me mira de frente.
-Escucha, no sabes lo que es esto-
Se decide.
Mejor prendo un cigarrillo. Esa llamita entretiene. Quema este contar y descontar. Destornillo la lengua.
Fuma hasta confundirse con el cansancio.
La luz de la punta del cigarrillo soy yo.
.
.
Idea Vilariño
Translated by Jesse Lee Kercheval
Keeping Quiet
What can I say
now
that I have not said
what can I write
now
I have not written
what can anyone say
that has not been said by singing writing
before.
Be quiet.
Keep quiet.
A callarse
Qué puedo decir
ya
que no haya dicho
qué puedo escribir
ya
que no haya escrito
qué no puede decir nadie
que no haya sido dicho cantando escrito
antes.
A callar.
A callarse.
.
Last Night
Last night in my dreams
handful of ashes
I made love with you
serene and exquisite
with you who have been dead
so long, so long.
Anoche
Anoche entre mis sueños
puñado de cenizas
hice el amor contigo
sereno y exquisito
contigo que hace tanto
hace tanto estás muerto.
© Juana Bignozzi, Carmen Boullosa, Javier Bozalongo, Melbin Cervantes, Elsa Cross, Silvia Guerra, Claudia Lars, Sonia Manzano, Mayra Santos-Febres, Alcira Soust Scaffo, Carmen Váscones, Idea Vilariño, Susan Ayres, Lisa Rose Bradford, Jesse Lee Kercheval, Alexis Levitin, Miles Liss, Brook McClurg, Seth Michelson, Philip Pardi, Jeannine M. Pita, Lawrence Schimel
POETS
Juana Bignozzi (Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1937-2015) is considered one of the leading poets of the generation of the 1960s. During her life she published ten books of poetry, including La ley tu ley, the collected poetry of Bignozzi (Adriana Hidalgo Editora, 2000). In 2000 she received the Premio Municipal de Poesía for her book Partida de las grandes líneas (Libros de Tierra Firme, 1997), and in 2004 she returned to Argentina after living in Spain for several decades, and received the Premio Konex Diploma al Mérito for poetry. The featured Spanish originals are from La ley tu ley.
Carmen Boullosa (Mexico City, 1954) is the author of eighteen novels, two books of essays, eighteen collections of poetry, and ten plays. Various of her novels have been published in English, including Texas: The Great Theft (Deep Vellum) and The Book of Anna (Coffee House), both translated by Samantha Schnee, and Before (Deep Vellum) translated by Peter Bush. Her first poetry collection to appear in English will be Hatchet (White Pine Press) translated by Lawrence Schimel. The featured Spanish originals are from Hamarita.
Javier Bozalongo’s books include poetry collections, Líquida nostalgia (2001), Hasta llegar aquí (2005), Viaje improbable (2008; winner of the Surcos de poesía Prize), La casa a oscuras (2009; finalist for the Jaime Gil de Biedma International Poetry Prize), and Todas las lluvias son la misma tormenta (2018; winner of the Blas de Otero Poetry Prize); short story collection, Todos estaban vivos (2016; finalist for the Premio Andalucía de la Crítica); and the book of aphorisms Prismáticos (2017). He lives in Granada, Spain. The featured Spanish originals are from Viaje improbable.
Melbin Cervantes (Cancun, 1991). Melbin Cervantes has collaborated on such online journals as Sak-ha de la Escuela de Escritores de Yucatan (Sak-ha, the School of Yucatan Writers), Bistro Magazine, and Valvula Magazine. In 2015, Melbin received an honorable mention in the Flores a Cozumel poetry competition. In 2016, he took 2nd place for Narrativa Memorias de Una Isla (Narrative Memories of an Island). He lives in Cozumel. The featured Spanish originals are from Las huellas que dejo el silencio.
Elsa Cross (Mexico City, 1946). Elsa Cross is a poet, critic, and professor of philosophy. She has been awarded the National Prize of Arts and Literature, the highest literary prize in Mexico. She has received many other poetry prizes in Mexico and in other countries including Canada, France, and Switzerland. Collections of her poetry have been translated into English, French, Italian, and other languages. Many of her books have been inspired by her stays in India and Greece, and by travels throughout her own country. The featured Spanish original is from Nadir.
Silvia Guerra (1961, Maldonado, Uruguay) is a Uruguayan poet, critic and editor whose books include Un mar en madrugado; Pulso, and Fuera del relato (2007), a fictionalized biography of Lautréamont. She is a member of the executive board of the Mario Benedetti Foundation. In 2012 she was awarded the Morosoli Prize in Poetry for her career.
Claudia Lars (pen name for Carmon Brannon) is one of El Salvador’s most treasured and beloved poets. Born in 1899 to a Salvadoran mother and an Irish-American father, her work offers a fascinating mix of influences, perspectives, and longings. Lars published 14 books of poems and a volume of short stories. Since her death in 1974, two separate editions of selected poems and a two-volume set of her complete poems have been published in San Salvador.
Sonia Manzano has won awards for both her poetry and fiction and is considered one of the major feminist voices in Ecuadorian literature. Her work examines with aggressive irony the limits of machismo, while deconstructing from a feminist perspective fundamental western myths. She has published eleven collections of poetry, including Último regreso a Edén (2007), which included “feminus erectus,” and Espalda mordida por el humo (2014). She also has published four novels and two collections of short stories.
Mayra Santos-Febres (Carolina, Puerto Rico, 1966) is one of Puerto Rico’s leading writers. Her prizes include the prestigious Letras de Oro, the Premio Juan Rulfo, a Guggenheim, and the National Prize in Literature from the National Academy of France. Her books include Anamú y manigua (poetry), Sirena Selena vestida de pena (novel), and Pez de vidrio (short stories). She currently teaches at the University of Puerto Rico in Río Piedras and is Director of Community and Cultural Relations for the university’s International and Multidisciplinary Institute. The featured Spanish originals are from Negras.
Alcira Soust Scaffo (1924-1997) is an Uruguyan poet most often known for her relation to the Infra-realist poetry movement of 1960s Mexico City, and as the woman whose life was fictionalized in the Roberto Bolaño novels, The Savage Detectives and Amulet. She lived and worked in Mexico for thirty-six years, informally linked to UNAM, as a translator of French poetry and poet-provocateur. She is a long unsung influence on the Latin American diaspora that congregated in Mexico City in this period.
Carmen Váscones has published six collections of poetry in her native Ecuador. Her work has appeared in anthologies around the world and has been translated into English, French, Italian, German, Polish and Portuguese. Her poems and prose poems, translated by Alexis Levitin, have appeared in fifteen magazines in the United States: Birmingham Poetry Review, Bitter Oleander, Blue Lyra Review, Ezra, Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, International Poetry Review, Mandorla, Metamorphoses, Mid-American Review, Moon City Review, Osiris, Per Contra, Seedings, Spoon River Poetry Review and Talisman.
Idea Vilariño (Montevideo, Uruguay, 1920–2009) was a Uruguayan poet, essayist, translator and literary critic. Her books of poetry include Poemas de amor (1957) and Poesía completa (2009). She was a member of the important literary movement, the Generation of ’45, which also included Ida Vitale and Amanda Berenguer. From 1952 until the military dictatorship in 1973 she taught high school literature. After the restoration of democracy until her death, she was a professor of Uruguayan Literature at the Universidad de la República in Montevideo. The featured Spanish originals are from Poemas de amor.
TRANSLATORS
Susan Ayres is a poet, lawyer, and translator. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing with a Concentration in Translation from Vermont College of Fine Arts and a PhD in Literature from Texas Christian University. Her work has appeared in Sycamore Review, Cimarron Review, Valparaiso Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Fort Worth and teaches at Texas A&M University School of Law.
Lisa Rose Bradford—poet, translator, songwriter, and rancher—teaches Comparative Literature at the Universidad Nacional de Mar del Plata, Argentina. Recipient of the National Translation Award, she recently published her fifth bilingual collection of Juan Gelman’s poetry, Today/Hoy and is presently working on a sixth, In Foreign Rain. Her latest work as translator and editor, along with Curtis Bauer and Jesse Lee Kercheval, Voz feroz. An Anthology of Argentine and Uruguayan Women Poets will soon be published by University of New Mexico Press.
Jesse Lee Kercheval is a poet, writer and translator specializing in Uruguayan poets including Silvia Guerra, Circe Maia, Tatiana Oroño and Idea Vilariño. She is also the editor of América invertida: An Anthology of Emerging Uruguayan Poets. She is the Zona Gale Professor of Poetry at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.
Alexis Levitin, translator, works primarily with poetry from Portugal, Brazil, and Ecuador. He has published forty-five books, including Clarice Lispector’s Soulstorm, Eugenio de Andrade’s Forbidden Words (both from New Directions), and Salgado Maranhão’s Blood of the Sun (Milkweed Editions). He has published four collections of Ecuadorian poetry, most recently Carmen Váscones’ Outrage (White Dwarf Editions, 2018). His work has appeared in well over two hundred magazines, including American Poetry Review, Grand Street, Kenyon Review, Massachusetts Review, New Letters, Partisan Review, and Prairie Schooner.
Miles Liss was born in Boston, but his family soon moved to Israel, where he lived on Moshav Avihael. Upon its return, the family settled in Miami Beach. Miles has also lived in England, India and the Virgin Islands. Miles teaches high school English and special education in the DC area. He holds an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Growing up near seascapes attracted him to the poetry of Melbin Cervantes, who uses ocean imagery to great effect.
Brook McClurg received a B.A. in Creative Writing from Columbia University (Fiction) and an MFA from Rutgers University-Camden (Nonfiction). Originally from Southern California, he is currently pursuing a PhD at Texas Tech, where his research interests focus on Hybrid nonfiction, Lyric narratives, LatinX Literature, and translation. His work has appeared in Exposition Review, Pidgeonholes, HeartWood Literary Magazine, & others.
Seth Michelson has published sixteen books of original poetry and poetry in translation, including the bilingual-Spanish poetry anthology Dreaming America: Voices of Undocumented Youth in Maximum-Security Detention. He teaches the poetry of the hemispheric Americas for Washington and Lee University, where he founded and directs the Center for Poetic Research.
Philip Pardi is the author of Meditations on Rising and Falling (University of Wisconsin Press). His poems, essays, and translations appear in Gettysburg Review, American Poetry Review, Hotel Amerika, Seneca Review, Translation Review, Best New Poets, and An Introduction to the Prose Poem. His most recent project, completed with the support of the National Endowment for the Arts, is a volume of translations, A Better Language: Selected Poems of Claudia Lars (forthcoming). He teaches at Bard College.
Jeannine M. Pitas’s translations include I Remember Nightfall by Marosa di Giorgio published by Ugly Duckling Presse and Echo of the Park by the Argentinian poet Romina Freschi from Eulalia Books.
Lawrence Schimel is a bilingual writer & literary translator. Recent poetry book translations into English include: Destruction of the Lover by Luis Panini (Pleiades Press, 2019), Bomarzo by Elsa Cross (Shearsman, 2019), Impure Acts by Ángelo Néstore (Indolent Books, 2019), I Offer My Heart as a Target by Johanny Vazquez Paz (Akashic, 2019; winner of the Paz Prize), Itinerary of Forgetting by Nelson Simón (Skull & Wind, 2020) and Hatchet by Carmen Boullosa (White Pine, forthcoming). He has lived in Madrid, Spain since 1999.
The Loch Raven Review 