Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop

Francisca Aguirre, Premio Nacional de las Letras 2018 El jurado la ha elegido 
“por estar su poesía (la más machadiana de la generación del medio siglo)
entre la desolación y la clarividencia, la lucidez y el dolor"

Francisca Aguirre, National Literature Prize 2018
The jury chose it "because its poetry is (the most Machadian* of the generation 
of the half century) between desolation and clairvoyance, lucidity and pain"

* In the tradition of Antonio Machado

https://elpais.com/cultura/2018/11/13

Francisca Aguirre was born in 1930 in Alicante, Spain, and fled with her family to France 
at the end of the Spanish Civil War, where they lived in political exile.  When the Germans 
invaded Paris in 1942, her family was forced to return to Spain, where her father, painter 
Lorenzo Aguirre, was subsequently murdered by Francisco Franco's regime.  
Aguirre published Ítaca (1972), currently available in English (Ithaca [2004]), when she was 
42 years old. Her work has garnered much critical success, winning the Leopoldo Panero, 
Premio Ciudad de Irún, and Premio Galliana, among other literary prizes.  
Aguirre is married to the poet Félix Grande and is the mother of poet Guadalupe Grande.



From "NANAS PARA DORMIR DESPERDICIOS"

LULLABIES TO LULL THROWN AWAYS

by FRANCISCA AGUIRRE

Translated by Amparo Arrospíde & Robin Ouzman Hislop ***

NANA DE LAS SOBRAS                                                                             A Esperanza y Manuel Rico Vaya

canción la de las sobras, eso sí
                      que era una nana para dormir el hambre.
Vaya canción aquella
                      que cantaba mi abuela con aquella voz
que era la voz de la misericordia
disfrazada de voz angelical.
                             Porque la voz de mi abuela
nos cantaba la canción de las sobras.
                             Y nosotras, que no conocíamos el pan,
cantábamos con ella que
                             las sobras de pan eran sagradas,
las sobras de pan nunca se tiran.

Siempre recordaré su hermosa voz
cantando aquella nana mientras el hambre nos dormía.
                                         **
LULLABY FOR LEFTOVERS                                                          To  Esperanza and Manuel Rico

Well, a leftovers song,
                    that truly was a lullaby to lull hunger to sleep.
Wow, that song 
                    my grandmother sang with a voice
that was the voice of mercy
disguised as the voice of an angel.
                              Because my grandmother´s voice
sang for us the leftovers song.
                              And we, who did not know bread,
sang together with her that
                              bread leftovers were holy,
bread leftovers shall never be thrown away.

I will always remember her beautiful voice
singing that lullaby while hunger lulled us to sleep.

                                                                                                       **

NANA DE LAS HOJAS CAÍDAS                                                                       
                                                                                                                       A Marián Hierro
Casi todo lo que se pierde tiene música,
                                                             una música oculta, inolvidable.
Pero las hojas, esas criaturas parlanchinas
que son la voz de nuestros árboles,
                    tienen, como la luz, el agua y las libélulas
una nana secreta y soñadora.
                    Lo que se pierde, siempre nos deja
                       un rastro misterioso y cantarín.

Las hojas verdes o doradas
              cantan su desamparo mientras juegan al corro.
Cantan mientras los árboles las llaman
como llaman las madres a sus hijos
sabiendo que es inútil, que han crecido
                     y que se han ido a recorrer el mundo.

                                                                                                      ****

LULLABY FOR FALLEN LEAVES
                                                                                                                     To Marián Hierro

Almost everything which is lost has a music,
                                                                     a hidden, unforgettable music.
But leaves, those chattering creatures
who are the voices of our trees
                       have -- like light, water and dragonflies --
a secret dreamy lullaby.
                                   That which is lost to us, always leaves
                                           the mysterious trace of its song.
Green or golden leaves
                        sing of their neglect as they dance their ring a ring of roses.
They sing while trees call to them
as mothers do calling their children
knowing it is futile, as they have grown up
                                     and left to travel the world over.
                                                                                          
                                                                                                                               **

NANA DE LAS CARTAS VIEJAS

Tienen el olor desvalido del abandono
y el tono macilento del silencio.
Son desperdicios de la memoria, residuos de dolor, 
                                                   y hay que cantarles muy bajito
para que no despierten de su letargo.
En ocasiones las manos se tropiezan con ellas
                                                  y el pulso se acelera
porque notamos que las palabras	
                                                 como si fueran mariposas
quieren bailar delante de nosotros
y volver a contarnos el secreto
                                                 que duerme entre sus páginas.
Son las abandonadas,
                                 los residuos de un tiempo de desdicha,
relatan pormenores de un combate
                                 y al rozarlas oímos el tristísimo andar
de los presos en los penales.

                                                                                                         **

LULLABY FOR OLD LETTERS

They give off the helpless smell of neglectfulness
and the emaciated tone of silence.
They are memory´s cast offs, residues of pain
                                                   and should be sung to in a low croon
so as not to awaken them from their lethargy.
Sometimes your hands chance upon them
                                                   and your pulse races
because we realize that words
                                                   wish to dance before us
as if they were butterflies
and tell us again the secret
                                                  sleeping inside their pages.
They are the neglected,
                                                  the remnants of unhappy times,
recounting the details of a struggle
                                                  and as we brush them we hear the saddest steps
of prisoners in jails.

                                                                                                          **

NANA DEL HUMO

La nana del humo tiene muchos detractores,
casi nadie quiere cantarla.
                                            Muchos dicen que el humo los ahoga,
otros piensan que eso de dormir al humo
                                            no les da buena espina,
que tiene algo de gafe.
                                   El humo no resulta de fiar:
en cuanto asoma su perfil oscuro
todo son malas conjeturas:
                                             se nos está quemando el bosque,
aquella casa debe de estar ardiendo.
El humo es un extraño desperdicio,
                                             tiene muy mala prensa.
Es un abandonado,
                                   es un incomprendido;
casi nadie recuerda que el humo es un vocero,
un triste avisador de lo que se nos avecina.
Y por eso, cuando lo escucho vocear con impotencia
yo le canto la nana del silencio
                                   para que no se sienta solo.
                                                                                                            

                                                                                                                       **

LULLABY FOR SMOKE

The lullaby for smoke doesn´t get many supporters,
almost nobody wants to sing its song.
                                               Many say smoke stifles them,
others think to lull smoke to sleep
                                               makes them queasy, 
that it´s a bit of a jinx.
                                  Smoke is not trustworthy:
as soon as it rears its dark head
it conjures up conjectures
                                                        -- a forest fire,
a house burning down.
Smoke is a weird remain,
                                             it´s got bad reports.
It´s a reject,
                                  it´s a misunderstood thing;
almost nobody remembers smoke is a herald,
a sad forwarner of what looms over us.
That´s why, when I hear it calling out helplessly,
I sing to it the lullaby for silence
                                             so that it doesn´t feel so lonely.


                                                                                                     ***
Translators:

Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published 
seven poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos 
poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar, Presencia en el Misterio, En el Oido del Viento, 
Hormigas en Diáspora and Jaccuzzi, as well as poems, short stories and articles on 
literary and film criticism in anthologies and in both national and foreign magazines. 
She has received numerous awards. 

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include 
All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist 
the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande 
and Carmen Crespo visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. 
See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest 
Collected Poems Volume at  Next-Arrivals 

For Darcy by Jim Dunlap | Poem

My heart aches when I think of you;
neither my lover, nor girlfriend, nor wife,
just a good friend, exceptional and true.
I’d never set eyes on you once in my life.
If there’s a God, I’m sure we’ll meet someday;
those mischievous eyes will sparkle and dance.
We’ll laugh, cry, sing and talk the night away.
We’ll not be distracted by circumstance;
Life is too short, but we struggle along.
There must be a reason we’re stranded here
Bob Dylan could likely say it in song.
The boat of dreams drifts though I steer.
It’s as though Fate’s strong inclination
Brings us at last to the same destination,

http://allpoetry.com/onerios13

Phlox at Flat Rock Painting by Justyna Kostkowska

Phlox at Flat Rock Painting
Phlox at Flat Rock Painting by Justyna Kostkowska
2018 Pastel on Paper
by Justyna Kostkowska

“Phlox at Flat Rock” cedar glade just outside of Murfreesboro, Tennessee

Pastel Art, Landscapes by Justyna Kostkowska

He’s Dreaming Poem

Late at night again

He’s dreaming on the screen

He’s dreaming waterfalls and

bumblebees flying impossibly.

He’s dreaming flowers waving in

the spring breeze like

children.

He’s dreaming the wind blowing in

her hair again.

Kidney. A Poem by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

 
1.
In the Bessarabian night
I got knocked on the head
and my left kidney was stolen
but there was charity there—
the thugs could have taken both kidneys
They could have harvested all my organs
I wonder why they didn’t
 
2.
My grandfather hid in a basement
on the Bessarabian night in 1903
when the gentiles went mad
and killed Jews
 
3.
The thieves didn’t know that I’ve suffered terribly from kidney stones
mostly on the left side
I wonder if their doctor will discover
the many chunks of calcium oxalate lurking inside
and if he will clean them out
before he installs the kidney
in a new person
 
Perhaps the recipient will consequently suffer from kidney disease
and will curse the son of a bitch who donated that organ
not knowing that it was taken from him
involuntarily
after he was struck in the head with a blunt object
I’ve suffered blinding headaches ever since
I have terrible ringing in my ears
 
4.
My grandfather escaped Bessarabia
also known as Moldova
He escaped with all his organs
and what little money he could scrape together
and what little intelligence he had
His sons thought he was a stupid man
and hated him
hated him also because he was cruel to them
 
He was cruel because he was frightened
and depressed
but how could he ever explain those things
to his newly American sons
whose future was so bright
despite Anti-Semitism
which, fortunately for them, was waning?
 
 


 
 
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad, including quite a few in POETRY LIFE AND TIMES. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a Print Edition . To see more of his work, google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (Leeds University) .

Soloist (on the soft glass edge). Poem by Richard Lloyd Cederberg

 
 
Ekphrasis
.
Calmly focused, attentive,
Poised, her flute gracefully held,
Nimble fingers begin to dance on
The soft glass edge of a player’s heart…
.
Adagio…
.
An elegant cavatina,
With airy passages building
Towards the larger exposition,
A pause – a breath…
.
Andante…
.
A stir of nuanced phrases
Ineffable, rife of melancholy,
An impromptu interlude wooing the
Listener into an atmosphere of longing…
.
Allegro….
.
In a crescendo of harmonic strings
The orchestra bursts forth…
In soaring synchronies
The exhaled notes
(Of a solo flute)
Begin to flow
Like a silver
Stream of dulcet pearls,
Gossamer harmonies enlaced,
Aureate lines transforming pinnacles,
The scherzo – an exaltation – penetrating – diffusing –
Vanishing – then, a short pause – a breath…
.
And when an
Empty Flute fills again
Subtle notes begin to stir…
Patiently centered,
Attentive,
Poised,
Her flute devotedly held,
The conductor cues the soloist, and
Nimble fingers (again) begin to dance
On the soft glass edge of a player’s heart…

.
© richard lloyd cederberg 2018
 
 

______________________________________________________________________________

BIOGRAPHY

Richard is the progeny of Swedish and Norwegian immigrants. He was born in Chicago Illinois. Richard began his journey into the arts at age six. For twelve years he played classical trumpet. The British incursion of music, however, influenced him to put down the trumpet and take-up acoustic and electric guitar, and, to write songs and lyrics. He toured professionally for ten years. In 1995 Richard was privileged to design and build his own Midi-centered Recording Studio ~ Taylor & Grace ~ where he worked diligently until 2002. During that time he composed, and multi-track recorded, over 500 compositions and has two CD’s (‘WHAT LOVE HAS DONE’ and ‘THE PATH’) to his personal credit.
.
Richard’s interest in writing continues. His poetic invention is integrative and employs various elements: nature, history, relationships (past and present), parlance, alliteration, metaphor, characterization, spirituality, faith, eschatology, art, and subtext. Avoiding the middle-road; he enjoys the challenge of poetic stylization: Rhythmical, Poetic/Prose, Triolets, Syllable formats, Story-Poems, Freeform, Haiku, Tanka, Haibun, and Acrostic. Richard’s work has been (and is) featured in a wide variety of anthologies, compendiums, and e-zines including: Poetry Life and Times, Artvilla, Motherbird, and The Path. Richard was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.
.
Books include: 1. A MONUMENTAL JOURNEY… 2. IN SEARCH OF THE FIRST TRIBE… 3. THE UNDERGROUND RIVER… 4. BEYOND UNDERSTANDING. The Monumental Journey Series is a confluence of adventure, mystery, and historical fiction. A new adventure/thriller, BETWEEN THE CRACKS has been published. Also, a new eschatological drama – AFTER WE WERE HUMAN – is being written. Follow the lives of several friends as a race of ageless multi-dimensional humans comes back to Earth with their Creator to rule and reign for 1000 years.

 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest Collected Poems Volume at Next-Arrivals

Janet Kuypers’ “This Just In” 8/22/17 poetry feature @ Chicago’s Gallery Cabaret

    Chicago poet and Austin resident Janet Kuypers returned to Chicago for a week in August to coincide with the August 21st total eclipse of the sun (where she traveled to southern Illinois to photograph the event). During her stay she was honored with the opportunity to guest host the open mic she rand for over half of a decade in Chicago (then titled “the Café” at the Gallery Cabaret) as well as perform her feature show “This Just In” for Poetry at The Gallery Cabaret (2020 N. Oakley Ave. in Chicago – one block east of Western Avenue and one block north of Armitage) Tuesday, August 22nd 2017.


https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLYa-AZK78_hqh33uPFPKr9OzmeYVO-XNp

    Because Janet Kuypers knew she was coming back to Chicago the week of the total eclipse of the sun (and because she had no book releases of her poetry for years, ever since she moved TO Austin), Janet Kuypers was thrilled that Scars Publications was able to release the first printing (from a U.S. printer) of two new books of hers, of poetry she had written while living in Austin, “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 poems” and “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 show poems” (the second book of poems she wrote for features she has had in Austin). Since her return from this trip, Scars Publications has also released the second printing of “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 poems” and “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 show poems” (from an Amazon affiliated printer, with sales from printers in the U.S., the U.K., all of Europe, and also Japan). Everything she read in her show was from these two books, and she also sold proof copies to audience members after the show.

Read the poems from the feature “This Just In” (as well as poems performed during the open mic before the feature):

Protecting Peace can Put you in Prison
Original Snowbirds
Ultimate Connectivity: a bird in the hand
erasure poem: A Poetic History
Just One Book
Newspaper Ink’s the Blood of a Dying Species
Elusive Imaginary Creature
Your Imaginary Soul Weighs 21 Grams
Yearning to Break Free
Just By Holding His Hand (extreme 2016 sestina variation)

Knew I Had to be Ready
Ultimate Connectivity: Getting Naked with Nature
X-rays and Broken Hearts