Video Poem Tony Martin Woods & Robin Ouzman Hislop read Key of Mist by Guadalupe Grande

 

Life, Books and Songs

Life, Books and Songs

Dates and times

30 Mar 2017 6pm – 10pm

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Casa Colombiana

Grand Arcade, Leeds, West Yorkshire, LS1 6PG

Poet, editor and translator Robin Ouzman Hislop will recite poems from his volume “All the babble of the Souk” (2016, Aquillrelle) and from “La llave de niebla” (Litterae Calambur, 2003)-, a book by Spanish writer Guadalupe Grande translated into English by himself and Amparo Arróspide, “Key of mist” (2016, Aquillrelle).

Poet Antonio Martínez Arboleda will read Grande’s original poems in Spanish as well as his own poems in Spanish from “Los viajes de Diosa” -“The travels of Goddess”- (2015 Diego Marín) and from various publications in English.

After an interval, the Leeds band “The Blacksocks” will play a dozen of songs, including “Take us”, “Mañana”, “Lágrimas negras” and “Monsters of Pop”.  The Blacksocks are Dave Hall (vocals), Pete Denton (guitar), Deryk Isherwood (drums), Len Forbes (guitar) and Antonio Martínez Arboleda (bass).

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Editors note:This video was recorded at the Casa Colombiana Restaurant Leeds UK in May 2017 on its upstairs floor, unfortunately a little white noise permeates the backround from the diners below – but lets say it all adds to the joi de vive. it will also feature in the YouTube Poets TV Pilot project to be edited & published by Sara L Russell.


 
 

tony republic
 
Tony Martin-Woods started to write poetry in 2012, at the age of 43, driven by his political indignation. That same year he also set in motion Poesía Indignada (Transforming with Poetry), an online publication of political poetry that he edits. Tony is a political and artistic activist who explores the digital component of our lives as a means to support critical human empowerment. He is also known in the UK for his work as an academic and educator under his non-literary name. He writes in English and Spanish and has published his first volume of poetry Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess) 2016.
 

 
 

GUADALUPE GRANDE
Madrid, 1965.

 
She has written the following books of poetry: El libro de Lilit (1995), La llave de niebla (2003), Mapas de cera (2006) and Hotel para erizos (2010).
 
She has been translated into French in the book Métier de crhysalide (translation by Drothèe Suarez and Juliette Gheerbrant (2010) and into Italian, in the volume Mestiere senza crisalide (translation by Raffaella Marzano (2015). She made the selection and translation of La aldea de sal (2009), an anthology of Brazilian poet Lêdo Ivo, together with poet Juan Carlos Mestre.
 
Her creative work extends to the territory of photography and visual poetry.http://guadalupegrande.blogspot.com.es/

 
 
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
 
Amparo Arróspide (Argentina) has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines. She has translated authors such as Francisca Aguirre, Javier Díaz Gil, Luis Fores and José Antonio Pamies into English, together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, who she worked with for a period as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, a Webzine. Her translations into Spanish of Margaret Atwood (Morning in the Burned House), James Stephens (Irish Fairy Tales) and Mia Couto (Vinte e Zinco) are in the course of being published, as well as her two poetry collections Hormigas en diáspora and Jacuzzi. She takes part in festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
 
 
robin-portrait-july-sotillo-2016-by-amparo
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor Poetry Life & Times, his recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes, Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (an international anthology of sonnets) and The Honest Ulsterman. His last publications are a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk & Key of Mist, a translation from Spanish of the poems by the Spanish poetess Guadalupe Grande, both are published by Aquillrelle.com and available at all main online tributaries. For further information about these publications with reviews and comments see Author Robin..
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop

 

 

Poems from Laura Giordani translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop

Language is the territory of the common, of the community. Through my writing I try to make  visible not only what is not so due to our sensory handicap, but what has been made invisible: small daily holocausts, omissions, our most intimate violence.

Poetic language contains the seed of insubordination, of becoming disobedient to a way of  looking at the world and naming it; politics is the place where we situate ourselves to articulate as speakers, enlightened, subaltern, omniscient, decentered, etc.

It does not matter if we do it about a bird, a milk tooth or an intimate event. In my opinion, the political load of a poem is not dependent on certain topics, but on the insistence that invites us to breathe in a system that otherwise suffocates us, to resist so that we don’t let our eyelids drop in resignation.

Editor’s Note: extract from an interview with Laura Giordani. http://www.tendencias21.net/ Laura-Giordani-La-poesia- contiene-la-semilla-de-la- insumision_a13660.html

————————–

(i.)

[Qué te hicieron caballito, que las manos de tu amo

se hundan en tu carne abierta

hasta que llore polvo de ladrillo,

hasta que la fusta con que te azotaba

caiga con él de rodillas.

Con manos imantadas

Hundir los dedos en la tierra negrísima de la infancia, Cuando las yemas ardan, escarbar con manos imantadas por una ternura abandonada junto a los restos: el desguace nuestro.

Botones sueltos, fotografías de familia: los esposos en un muelle con cuatro hijos y dos baúles, un viejo de ojos claros junto a su silla de enea, escarpines de lana amarilleando sin término, el ajuar con las mismas iniciales de aquel ataúd chiquito y blanco.

Un mechoncito rubio en la mano, único consuelo.

Mujeres pariendo en camas de hierro, niños amamantados por cabras.

[veni, sonnu, di la muntanedda

lu lupu si mangiau la picuredda

oi ninì

ninna vò fa1

A la infancia a través de las manos, palpar el fondo de los cajones para conocer el revés nuestro, las costuras de un relato siempre en hilachas.

Ella se fue y algo se rompió dentro

[algo sordo, como llorando.

Escondimos las rodillas lastimadas por el pavimento.

Llegaron como una peste las palabras y las llevamos a la boca creyendo en su alimento.

Los contornos adquirieron relieve, los pétalos del corazón fueron cayendo –uno a uno—como en aquel juego.

Sobrevino la sintaxis, la separación, el desastre.

[La guardiana del tacto]

1. Nota: Canción de cuna siciliana. Oh, ven, sueño, de la montañita / El lobo se comió a la ovejita / Oh, el niño /Quiere dormir.

(i.)

[What did they do you little horse that the hands of your master

should sink into your opened flesh

until it weeps brick dust

until the whip with which he lashes you

falls with him to his knees.

With magnetised hands

To sink our fingers into the blackest earth of childhood, when fingertips burn, hands magnetised by a discarded tenderness that dig searching the remains – our scrap.

Loose buttons, family photographs: spouses on the quayside with four children, two trunks, an old man with clear eyes next to his wicker chair, woollen stockings forever fading, the trousseau with the same initials as that little white coffin, a little lock of blonde hair held in the hand their only consolation.

Women giving birth in iron beds, children suckled by goats.

[veni, sonnu, di la muntanedda

lu lupu si mangiau la picurredda

oi nini

ninna vó fa*

Childhood reached through our hands feeling the bottom of drawers

knowing our underside, the seams of a story always in rags.

She left and something broke inside.

[something deaf, as if weeping

We hid our knees scraped on the pavement.

Words came like a disease, we put them in our mouths believing in their nourishment.

Outlines became distinct, one by one, as in that childhood game, the petals of innocence fell.

Then syntax, separation, disaster.

[The Guardian of Touch]

* Sicilian Lullaby. Oh come, sleep, from the little mountain/The wolf ate the little lamb/Oh, the child/Wants to sleep.

(ii.)

Con guantes de goma anaranjada ella ahogaba los cachorros recién nacidos en el fuentón de lata: no son puros, seguro que fueron los perros de Moroni – sentenciaba y aguantando la respiración hundía a los perritos todavía ciegos, buscando el calor de la collie que aullaba junto a la puerta. Anegaba sus pulmones en el fondo hasta que flotaran y los metía en una bolsa de nylon que cerraba con nudos bien apretados. Luego se sacaba los guantes color naranja y con esas mismas manos cortaba el pan y trenzaba el pelo de mi amiga Alejandra.

[Todavía me persigue el llanto de aquella perra,

el frío mortal del lavadero.

Mi amiga creció, tuvo hijos, otra casa. Su madre siguió baldeando con desvelo la vereda cada mañana, ahogando – primavera tras primavera—perros sin raza.

[Extraño país]

(ii.)

With orange rubber gloves, she, my friend’s mother, drowned the new born pups, in a tin basin.

These are mongrels, sure from old Morini’s, she judged, as she held her breath to drown the still blind puppies as they searched the warmth of the collie, who howled beside the laundry door.

She flooded their lungs in the bottom until they floated putting them into a nylon bag that she tied in the tightest of knots.

Afterwards, she took off those orange rubber gloves and with the same hands cut bread and braided  my friend Alejandra’s hair.

[Now the howl still haunts me

deadly cold in the wash place.

My friend grew up, had children, another house. Her mother continued every morning to thoroughly wash the pavement down drowning spring after spring mixed breeds.

[ Strange Country]

(iii.)

El sobretodo azul que pusiste

sobre los hombros de la muchacha aquella

volvía empapada del interrogatorio

temblando

la mojaban la picaneaban*

cada noche

la dejaban junto a tu colchón

con un llanto parecido al de un cachorro

ese gesto a pesar del miedo

a pesar del miedo te sacaste el sobretodo azul

para abrigarla

no poder dejar de darle ese casi todo

en medio del sobretodo espanto

la dignidad puede resistir

azul

en apenas dos metros de tela

y en esos centímetros que tu mano

sorteó en la oscuridad hasta sus hombros

sobre todo

[El sobretodo azul]

(iii.)

The blue overcoat you put on
 over the shoulders of the girl
 soaked from interrogation
 shaking
 watered tortured with the picana1
 each night
 they´d left her next to your mattress
 with a puppylike whimper
 that gesture despite the fear
 over all the fear you took off your blue overcoat
 to warm her
unable to resist giving over all
over all the horror
in its midst
dignity can stand
blue
in just two meters of cloth
those centimeters your hand
covered in the dark over her shoulders
over all else.

[The blue overcoat]

1 The “picana” is a wand or prod that delivers a high voltage but low current electric shock to a torture victim.

 

laura

 

Laura Giordani (1964, Córdoba, Argentina)

Because of the Argentine military dictatorship, in the late 1970s she went into exile with her family in Spain, where she has lived almost half  her life.
She studied Psychology, Fine Arts and English language.
She participates in writers´meetings and gives poetic recitals in Argentina and Spain.
She has written the following poetry collections:
Apurando la copa (2001), Celebración del brote (2003), Cartografía de lo blando (2005), Noche sin clausura (2006), Sudestada (2009), Materia oscura (2010) and Antes de desaparecer (2016).
Her poems have been included in several anthologies, she has also collaborated in journals from Argentina, Brazil, Germany and Spain.

The following link reviews her latest work  Antes de desaparecer ( Before disappearing) from which the above poems are extracts  http://www.tendencias21.net/Antes-de-desaparecer–de-Laura-Giordani-una-manera-de-ampararse_a32021.html

 

  OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Amparo Arróspide (Argentina) has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines. She has translated authors such as Francisca Aguirre, Javier Díaz Gil, Luis Fores and José Antonio Pamies into English, together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, who she worked with for a period as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, a Webzine. Her translations into Spanish of Margaret Atwood (Morning in the Burned House), James Stephens (Irish Fairy Tales) and Mia Couto (Vinte e Zinco) are in the course of being published, as well as her two poetry collections Hormigas en diáspora and Jacuzzi. She takes part in festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).

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

Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor Poetry Life & Times, his recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes, Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (an international anthology of sonnets) and The Honest Ulsterman. His last publications are a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk & Key of Mist, a translation from Spanish of the poems by the Spanish poetess Guadalupe Grande, both are published by Aquillrelle.com and available at all main online tributaries. For further information about these publications with reviews and comments see Author Robin..

www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop

goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop

En el Oído del Viento. Collected Poems. Amparo Arrospide. Reviewed by Jose Antonio Pamies

 
Su antigua música el desdecir diciéndose
el vértice del miedo y su pregunta
al filo de un abismo
como si de prestado no viviésemos miedo
 
Ah no lo desconoces alguna vez de niño lo sentiste
bajo sábanas amargas o dichosas
de pronto alargar su dedo oscuro
 
el miedo amigo el miedo cómplice
restregando los flancos de otro día
barrenando certezas preguntándose aquí
cómo decirles nada cómo decir si aprietan
 
Otros imponen establecen recaudan
otros castigan evalúan deciden
otros deciden miedo
 
o nadie en absoluto ni una sola persona
y sin embargo sabes
frente al espejo sabes
callar lo sabes lo has aprendido al fin
 
Di qué pronto la costumbre nos arropa
qué pronto está debajo el escondite
y las vasijas frías del llorar
 
y el miedo nos sonríe tiritando
entrechocando dientes
cubiertos para un ya mudo comensal
tan yerto como tú que le prometes
vivir, seguir viviendo en miedo como siempre.
 
Amparo Arróspide, a poem from En el oído del viento (Baile del Sol, 2016)
 
 
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Amparo Arróspide (Argentina) has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines. She has translated authors such as Francisca Aguirre, Javier Díaz Gil, Luis Fores and José Antonio Pamies into English, together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, who she worked with for a period as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, a Webzine. Her translations into Spanish of Margaret Atwood (Morning in the Burned House), James Stephens (Irish Fairy Tales) and Mia Couto (Vinte e Zinco) are in the course of being published, as well as her two poetry collections Hormigas en diáspora and Jacuzzi. She takes part in festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
 
 

(EN EL OÍDO DEL VIENTO, Baile del Sol, 2016)
Amparo Arróspide
 
 
En el oído del viento es el último libro de poemas publicado por Amparo Arróspide, filóloga, traductora y poeta nacida en Argentina y radicada desde hace años en Europa. En esta colección de poemas nos ofrece un trabajo singular, innovador, sorprendente, coloreado por diversos registros y voces corales, sin perder el hilo conductor de una voz afianzada: “Y a salvo yo, lectora de la vida, esto que se mueve y me sucede, donde sucedo y no hay respuestas, ni siquiera búsqueda de respuestas, un afán inútil, donde presto mi oído atento al runrún de lo que pasa y va pasando.”
 
La realidad resuena en este oído y se nos ofrece traducida con distorsión, juegos del lenguaje y toques de ironía, quizá una de las mejores formas de poner de manifiesto la situación social que atravesamos sin caer en la queja panfletaria o el lamento repetitivo.
 
Y es que lo cierto y verdad es que “Hemos descreído del género mayor, ese rumiante ante la caja de los panegíricos con olor a violeta y forma de billete bancario.”
 
El libro está dividido en tres partes: “en el oído del viento”, “el mundo en fuga” y una tercera parte “a modo de epílogo”. Encontramos en muchos de estos poemas una poesía crítica con esa realidad exterior que sutilmente nos ha ido imponiendo su dictadura de lo políticamente correcto. Es tarea de la poesía desvelar los resortes de esas trampas para acceder a la verdad, a la esencia de una realidad que a menudo difiere bastante de las apariencias: “¿Ustedes nunca fueron vendidas compradas construídas/ paseadas por los medios de incomunicación?”
 
Los poemas se enfrentan a esa labor a través de ingeniosos mecanismos que denotan un buen trabajo con el lenguaje y con la semántica, dejando apreciar el valor textual de los poemas, a la vez que encuentran diversos tipos de paralelismos con la realidad exterior a la que refieren. En esa relación de contexto los versos se abren paso significando distorsionadamente, tratando con divertimento crítico acontecimientos que nos conciernen a todos los ciudadanos.
 
Una innovadora fusión de poéticas se nos revela aquí. Por un lado, encontramos preocupaciones y motivos de fondo que podrían resumirse en estas palabras de Enrique Falcón: “Mi verdadero conflicto: que me muerden mis versos, que no tengo país.” Y por otro lado, el magnífico trabajo con el lenguaje se acerca formalmente a una poesía conceptual, cercana a los concretistas y a algunas obras de Martín Gubbins o Ignacio Miranda en su tratamiento del lenguaje administrativo y burocrático, convertido en obra de arte mediante el talento poético.
 
Esta labor a que nos referimos se aprecia en una serie de poemas que ofrecen variaciones a referencias legislativas como en “Real Decreto 624/2014” o a discursos políticos como en “Investidura MMXI” donde se alude al discurso de investidura del presidente de Gobierno actual en España. Hay en ellos un contraste de la estructura opaca, propia de ese tipo de discursos políticos, con esa magia poética que nace de los nuevos sentidos que ofrece el texto distorsionado. Ecos surrealistas de una voz que se distancia de la realidad para denunciarla mejor mediante la deformación de los significantes, el realismo de ese lenguaje político resulta tan grisáceo que en su temerario engaño no es capaz de ofrecer ni siquiera un vocabulario seductor. Esta poesía seduce y divierte, pero a su vez contiene el poso amargo de la verdad ineludible, de la corrupción, del paro, de los recortes, de las mentiras que duelen:
 
“Habrá pañoles, todos punibles, todos fungibles, todos cocodrilos,/ dignos de esputo, todos capaces de trincar en la estafeta común.”
 
Los recursos del lenguaje poético son mucho más bellos y entretenidos que ese lenguaje de los burócratas, pero desvelan también una verdad más cruda. El esperpento se hace necesario para poder afrontar el tratamiento de cuestiones que tanto nos afectan: apela a la función lúdica de la literatura a la vez que despierta el pensamiento crítico, señalándonos la realidad que tenemos que afrontar cada día.
 
“Esta es mi puesta, Luñorías./ Es una oferta de bergamota porque se sustenta en la micción/ de que contamos con miedos, meigas y vergas para salir adelante.”
 
En En el oído del viento también hay ráfagas de un registro más íntimo con poemas que apuntan a preocupaciones esenciales como el paso del tiempo, la naturaleza o el amor con ecos de César Vallejo y referencias a otras tradiciones culturales. Y también a la utilidad de la poesía, al lugar del poeta en este mundo, si es que tiene cabida más allá de infinitos interrogantes: “¿Todos los poetas no pueden…/ obtener un doctorado en sinestesia/ por la universidad de Columbia en Nueva York? /¿Trabajar de catedráticos de ciencias púnicas/ trabajar de maestras jardineras,/ trabajar?” “¿No pueden desdoblarse transmutarse / no pueden extrañarse balbucearse / y enmudecer al fin?”
 
En el contexto actual no podemos permitirnos el lujo de que este tipo de obras pasen de puntillas por las estanterías, estamos ante una apuesta innovadora y vitalista que tiende puentes y abre caminos en el marco de la poesía contemporánea. A pesar de tantas necesarias cuestiones, esta poesía no enmudecerá.
 
Cerrando el libro, a modo de epílogo, encontramos un magnífico diálogo que no podría ser más necesario: “Por su bien y por el mío, ciudadano paciente, lo engranaré en la maquinaria de la rutina social. Afortunado usted: de haberlo atendido otro (hay dos escuelas, la dura y la inflexible), dada su mórbida atracción por Sogas y Vigas ya estaría colgando. Podría hacer otro chiste fácil con los empalmes del ahorcamiento pero no lo haré. Alégrese, hombre, tiene usted permiso. ¡Pero hable, calle, alégrese!”
 
Por su bien y por el mío, ciudadano paciente, le recomiendo que se acerque a la poesía que Amparo Arróspide nos ofrece en esta obra.
 
José Antonio Pamies
 
En el oído del viento is only sold at http://www.latiendadebailedelsol.org/ Amparo Arróspide En el Oído del Viento.html

 
 
jose pamies
 
 

José Antonio Pamies (Alicante, 1981) Finalista del III Premio internacional de poesía 
Andrés Salom 2005 y del II Premio de la editorial poesia Eres Tu 2010 con Las Ruinas 
de la Aurora. Ha publicado Campos de hielo (Babilonia, Pliegos de la palabra nº 3, 2012) 
y Afonías (finalista del XXVI Premio Gerardo Diego de Poesía), así como poemas en revistas 
y numerosas antologías. Reside en Madrid, donde realiza estudia Teoría de la Literatura y 
Literatura Comparada.
 
 

José Antonio Pamies (Alicante, 1981) His early poetry collection Las Ruinas de la Aurora was a runner up at the III Andres Salom International Poetry Award in 2005 and the II poesia Eres Tu Publisher Award in 2010. He has published Campos de hielo (Babilonia, Pliegos de la palabra nº 3) and Afonías a runner up at the XXVI Gerardo Diego Poetry Award. He currently lives in Madrid, pursuing studies in Theory of Literature and Comparative Literature.

 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All the Babble of the Souk

Nominated for the Push Cart Prize. Key of Mist. A Poem by Guadalupe Grande. Translated from Spanish.

Poetry Life and Times
  Key of Mist is an excerpt from the collected poems Key of Mist
 
key-of-mist-thumb

                                                                  KEY of MIST

I

Behind the fence there´s a ditch
and behind the ditch
there´s a chest devastated by the journey.
Who arrives here and how
and after perhaps?
Who arrives and says and names
and leaves their hands stuck to this fence
as stamps are stuck to envelopes,
to return where 
to return to then
to return to later, never again?
       The compass rose rolls amongst the rubble,
       rolls on the banks of gravel,
       on the edge of ash,
       and leaves its petals of distance,
       its shipwreck of durum-wheat and pollen,
       beneath the wheels of the car which has just passed.
Time for the word time
         amidst the rubble of the tower of babel.

II

But now there´s the ditches:
       water ditches
       light ditches
       gas ditches
       ditches for words.
I am spelling
while telling myself
that it can´t be today,
that there is too much rush,
that life´s a disaster
or nonsense
or a useless disquiet,
and due to that, today there´s no time:
                                                             time for nothing, time for what.

III

I open the door, switch on the light,
turn on the tap:
I´d like to know whom to call.
The sound of traffic enters through the window;
I hear the rumours of travellers
I listen to the sound of the inhabitants
         and builders
                           of this language without words.

IV

I speak in gurgles
as if a key of mist
were laid across my throat,
a key fogged up by noise,
a key flooded by light,
      a gas key
      a water key
      a doorless key,
      a definitely shadowy key
buried inside my throat,
in the ditch of my bewildered throat.

V

Behind each fence there is a ditch,
behind each ditch there is a journey.

         The compass rose crosses
         the city tunnels:
         from its smoky petals it brings
         forth mossy farewells,
         the empire of forget-me-nots,
         paper for unwritten letters,
         humiliated stamps
         and a devastated chest in the building 
         of music
                       or language
                                           or city noise.

Under the asphalt of these roads
the tower of babel grows
sad and useful.

VI

I turn on the tap in the kitchen
and while water runs through the sink
I wonder which words 
this thread of order and cleanliness is spelling,
which key I should switch to, to understand
the language of fences, the language
of ditches,
the underground sound
of migrating birds
opening without any key this city´s gates,
           without a key,
           at last, 
                                      at last.

LA LLAVE DE NIEBLA

I

Detrás de la valla hay una zanja
y detrás de esa zanja
hay un pecho desolado en el viaje.
¿Quién llega hasta aquí y cómo
y luego tal vez?
¿Quién llega y dice y nombra
y deja sus manos pegadas a esta valla,
como se pegan los sellos a las cartas,
para volver a dónde
para volver a entonces
para volver a luego nunca más?

Rueda la rosa de los vientos por los escombros,
rueda a la orilla de la grava,
al borde de la ceniza,
y deja sus pétalos de distancia,
su polen náufrago y candeal,
bajo las ruedas del coche que acaba de pasar.

Tiempo para la palabra tiempo
        entre los escombros de la torre de babel.

II

Pero ahora están las zanjas:
        zanjas de agua,
        zanjas de luz,
        zanjas de gas,
        zanjas para las palabras
que pronuncio
mientras me digo
que hoy no puede ser,
que hace mucha prisa,
que la vida es un desastre
o un disparate
o un desasosiego inútil,
debido a lo cual hoy no hay tiempo:
         tiempo para nada, tiempo para qué.

III

Abro la puerta, enciendo la luz,
abro el grifo:
quisiera saber a quién llamar.
Entra el sonido del tráfico por la ventana;
oigo el rumor de los viajeros,
escucho el sonido de los habitantes
           y de los constructores
                    de este idioma sin palabras.

IV

Hablo a borbotones,
como si tuviera una llave de niebla
atravesada en la garganta,
una llave empañada por el ruido,
una llave anegada por la luz,
         una llave de gas,
         una llave de agua,
         una llave sin puerta,
         una llave definitivamente umbría,
enterrada en mi garganta,
en la zanja de mi desconcertada garganta.

V

Detrás de cada valla hay una zanja,
detrás de cada zanja hay un viaje.
         La rosa de los vientos cruza
         los túneles de la ciudad:
         trae entre sus pétalos de humo
         el musgo de las despedidas,
         el imperio de los nomeolvides,
         papel para cartas no escritas,
         humillados sellos
         y un pecho desolado en la construcción
         de la música

                           o el lenguaje
                                             o el ruido de la ciudad.
Bajo el asfalto de estas calles
crece la torre de babel
triste y útil.

VI

Abro el grifo en la cocina
y mientras corre el agua por el fregadero
me pregunto qué palabras pronuncia
este hilo de orden y limpieza,
qué llave debo abrir para entender
el lenguaje de las vallas, el idioma
de las zanjas,
el sonido subterráneo
de las aves migratorias
que abren sin llave alguna las puertas de esta ciudad,
         sin llave,
         por fin,
                                por fin.

 
 

guadalupe-grande-2001
 
 
GUADALUPE GRANDE
Madrid, 1965.

 
 
She has written the following books of poetry: El libro de Lilit (1995), La llave de niebla (2003), Mapas de cera (2006) and Hotel para erizos (2010).
 
 
She has been translated into French in the book Métier de crhysalide (translation by Drothèe Suarez and Juliette Gheerbrant (2010) and into Italian, in the volume Mestiere senza crisalide (translation by Raffaella Marzano (2015). She made the selection and translation of La aldea de sal (2009), an anthology of Brazilian poet Lêdo Ivo, together with poet Juan Carlos Mestre.
 
 
Her creative work extends to the territory of photography and visual poetry.http://guadalupegrande.blogspot.com.es/
 
 
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Amparo Arróspide (Argentina) has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines. She has translated authors such as Francisca Aguirre, Javier Díaz Gil, Luis Fores and José Antonio Pamies into English, together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, who she worked with for a period as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, a Webzine. Her translations into Spanish of Margaret Atwood (Morning in the Burned House), James Stephens (Irish Fairy Tales) and Mia Couto (Vinte e Zinco) are in the course of being published, as well as her two poetry collections Hormigas en diáspora and Jacuzzi. She takes part in festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
 
 
Robin Portrait July Sotillo 2016 by Amparo
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Motherbird.com, Artvilla.com & Poetry Life & Times, his recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes, Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (an international anthology of sonnets) and The Honest Ulsterman. His last publications are a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk & Key of Mist, a translation from Spanish of the poems by the Spanish poetess Guadalupe Grande, both are published by Aquillrelle.com and available at all main online tributaries. For further information about these publications with reviews and comments see Author Robin..
 
 
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Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of
 
 

Announcement. Collected Poems. Key of Mist. Translated from Spanish

guadalupe-grande-2001

GUADALUPE GRANDE
Madrid, 1965.

She has written the following books of poetry: El libro de Lilit (1995), La llave de niebla (2003), Mapas de cera (2006) and Hotel para erizos (2010).

She has been translated into French in the book Métier de crhysalide (translation by Drothèe Suarez and Juliette Gheerbrant (2010) and into Italian, in the volume Mestiere senza crisalide (translation by Raffaella Marzano (2015). She made the selection and translation of La aldea de sal (2009), an anthology of Brazilian poet Lêdo Ivo, together with poet Juan Carlos Mestre.

Her creative work extends to the territory of photography and visual poetry.http://guadalupegrande.blogspot.com.es/

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Amparo Arróspide (Argentina) has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines. She has translated authors such as Francisca Aguirre, Javier Díaz Gil, Luis Fores and José Antonio Pamies into English, together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, who she worked with for a period as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, a Webzine. Her translations into Spanish of Margaret Atwood (Morning in the Burned House), James Stephens (Irish Fairy Tales) and Mia Couto (Vinte e Zinco) are in the course of being published, as well as her two poetry collections Hormigas en diáspora and Jacuzzi. She takes part in festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).

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

Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Motherbird.com, Artvilla.com & Poetry Life & Times, his recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes, Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (an international anthology of sonnets) and The Honest Ulsterman. His last publications are a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk & Key of Mist, a translation from Spanish of the poems by the Spanish poetess Guadalupe Grande, both are published by Aquillrelle.com and available at all main online tributaries. For further information about these publications with reviews and comments see Author Robin..

www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop

goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All the Babble of the Souk

In a corner of the Multiverse. A Poem by Amparo Arrospide


 
 

I leapt through a window of this room in Nijar
To fall into another room in Brussels
Where I was deciding
Whether to jump or not
into the room in Nijar
Where I am still deciding.

 
 
Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish writer and translator. She has published four poetry collections Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and Presencia en el Misterio as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and both national and foreign magazines, such as Cuadernos del Matemático, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, Linden Lane Magazine, Espéculo, Piedra del Molino, Nayagua. She has received awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, when it was a monthly webzine 2008-10, and coordinated in the Spanish sonnets section for the international anthology The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (ed. Richard Vallance, 2014).
 
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robin@artvilla & http://www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop

The God of Biomechanics Won’t Let You In Heaven, Roy. A Poem by Amparo Arrospide

Roy, Aubrey Beardsly
The God Of Biomechanics Won’t Let You In Heaven, Roy

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on
fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the
darkness at Tan Hauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time
like tears in rain. Time to die.

//and so Roy breathed out his ghost

Nothing particularly interesting about ourselves.
Nothing particularly interesting about this here and now.
Nothing particularly interesting around the solar system //globular clusters
of meaning not centered here, no place significantly different

Then all of a sudden
When data corruption is the only generator of modern Physics
Not being significantly different to be discovered
                        By the scientific community

Not only where you are is not any more special than any other
But indeed whom you are is not any more special than whom you are not.

From the mediocrity principle // it follows
That no intelligent beings are particularly more beings than any other
Or more intelligent // life, it follows, 
Centers around conditional line of clusters
Through the evolution of any given universe
                        A process that can only happen at certain times!

See? The God Of Biomechanics Won’t Let You In Heaven, Roy
 
* Italics. Tears in Rain Monologue. Blade Runner(1982)
 

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Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish writer and translator. She has published four poetry collections Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and Presencia en el Misterio as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and both national and foreign magazines, such as Cuadernos del Matemático, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, Linden Lane Magazine, Espéculo, Piedra del Molino, Nayagua. She has received awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, when it was a monthly webzine 2008-10, and coordinated in the Spanish sonnets section for the international anthology The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (ed. Richard Vallance, 2014).

 
robin@artvilla & http://www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

I SHALL FIND YOU TO TELL YOU. A Poem by AMALIA IGLESIAS. Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amparo Arrospide.

 
 
This work comprises in an excerpt from the anthology on contemporary Spanish female poets entitled Las Diosas Blancas. Madrid, 1985. Copyright Ed. Ramon Buenaventura. Hiperion. This is an original and unpublished English version of the original poem written in Spanish. Translators Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arrospide would like to thank Casa del Traductor, in Tarazona and the British Literary Translation Association, East Anglia University Campus.
 
From this Spanish anthology –compiled by the well-known scholar and translator Mr. Ramón Buenaventura, whom we contacted earlier– a few selected authors were chosen for our joint translation work: Amalia Iglesias: Te buscare para decirte (I Will Find You To Tell You), Ana Rossetti: Triunfo de Artemis sobre Volupta (Triumph Of Artemis Over Volupta) and Isolda (Isolda) , Blanca Andreu: Para Olga (For Olga) , Isla Correyero: Los Pajaros (Small Birds), Amparo Amoros: Midas (Midas) and Criaturas del gozo (Creatures Of Joy), Rosalia Vallejo: Horno en llamarada (A Furnace In Flames) , Maria del Carmen Pallares: Sisargas (Sisargas), Margarita Arroyo: Era el mar lejos del mar ( It Was Sea Away From Sea).
 
We would like to thank Mr. Ramón Buenaventura and the above name poets, in advance, and let them rest assured that their work is protected by a legal Creative Commons Licence, by virtue of which the above named translators are willing to provide excerpts from their original translation work, provided that readers agree to use it under the terms of such licence. We strongly recommend reading the entire work and the poets’, who have continued evolving during these decades.

 
 
I will find you to tell you
that I am in love with life,
that I love in the agony
its lip that ignores me,
aimlessly I seek its sweet guillotine,
its blade of a thousand edges cutting my surf.
 
I love life
which grieves, keeps me late
in the night with bitter waking liquor
like a thread of morning fog amidst willows,
 
that I love its torn cyst of mandragora,
the glass lagoon which wrecks the years,
I love the uncertainty of moss and autumn,
the tenderness and sourness which flow.
 
In spite of this blinded fear of slopes
where I seek you
because I too evade death
and dawn.
 
All the fowls of the air drink glycine in your eyes,
all the fowls of the air love your body unsheltered,
all the fowls of the air inhabit your organs of alcohol without aqueducts,
all the wings burn in your combustible mind…
 
All the fowls of the air
leave the ruins
to search weeping that lives North of your breast,
to search the scorching fire that inhabits it,
now that they know you as a first person singular,
verb to be, time present , mode indicative.
 
In another violet sky, I show
that pleated girl, her bags
blue and empty.
 
UNTIL the sea you are the condition of the geyser
and the flaming arpeggio.
Here awaits you the subjective couch of memory which oscillates.
It now pronounces the malediction,
reconstructs that psalm
I write in beacons.
 
Decode the fire:
lie down on water,
whisper to the breeze your memorable eyes,
tell it that tenderness is a fleeting blow in each wave,
tell it that the undercurrent
only reaches the waistline.
why the wind remains in its penultimate looks.
 
WHEN this song
is no more a sign in the imagination of an ambiguous wind.
When the streets play with a seditious jungle
with you your legs in mist
in the tortured embrace of an estuary.
Or when on another day you gaze at the Mediterranean
wishing no longer to return and begin
no longer to be a wave,
nor a propitious coast,
nor a sailor’s orphanage without a dawn.
 
The wind, only the wind
sheltering the madness of birds,
those, others,
which die from the light beneath the willows,
those that lived because of you under a Romanesque sky,
those that pass by now
and die in the sea,
in the water fermenting an abundance of names.
When this song is only
spectre and mirage,
searched unremembered,
my heart
as a bridge between times
resting on the twilight will await you.
 
MY steps search lethal passports,
white lethargies for the flame which comes
and without pity burns my pupils out.
 
I write letters and split moons
believing in Hadrian’s serenity to await death.
 
I have seen how the night opens an abyss curtain
and returns me to the blows of space.
I appear at the profound birth
that intoxicates the bonfire’s sensitive latitudes
— grass playing fatuous fire
the glass lip eclipsed towards the Orient.
 
I have seen the tenderness inside Aries
fulfil the equinox,
border madness tracing a periphrasis, crossing the flank
when the moon lies in wait
and the north wind tames bridges’ eyes.
I have left myself, naked, to the rain
to the algid gleam of glass streets.
 
Through the candle you burn in the retina of the night,
in the hidden abodes
where on another day we stole with open hands.
 
Behind the empty volume and the vulnerable hollow
inhabited by frost trembling among nettles
another multiple bird
turns into unlikely alchemy.
 
SINCE never I love you and always,
from everything, perhaps, forever,
from the emphatic lightning which climbs hours’ ditch
towards the rising whip in my setting pupils,
my prompt voice, my wind:
a final vertigo —
and the most ungrateful delta to finish the journey.
 
Until nothingness I wait,
until remoteness of useless memory and crater without a sunset,
until doubt intoxicated by heavenly signs,
in fever and an August magnetized moon.
 
 
AUTOR:
TÍTULO: TE BUSCARÉ PARA DECIRTE
 
Te buscaré para decirte
que estoy enamorada de la vida,
que amo en la angustia
su labio que me ignora,
busco sin cauce su dulce guillotina,
su espada de mil filos tajando mi oleaje.
 
Amo la vida
que me pesa y me trasnocha,
con el licor amargo que despierta
como un hilo de bruma entre los sauces,
 
que amo su quiste roto de mandrágora,
la laguna de vidrio que naufraga los años,
amo la incertidumbre del musgo y del otoño,
la ternura y el ácido que fluyen.
 
Que amo la vida,
a pesar de ese miedo cegado de vertientes
donde te busco,
porque aún esquivo la muerte
y amanece.
 
TODAS las aves beben glicinas en tus ojos,
todas las aves aman tu cuerpo a la intemperie,
todas las aves habitan tus órganos de alcohol sin acueducto,
todas las alas incendian tu mente combustible.
 
Todas las aves
salen de las ruinas
para buscar el llanto al norte de tu pecho,
para buscar el fuego caliente que lo habita,
ahora que te saben primera persona singular,
verbo ser y presente indicativo.
 
Aquella niña plegada a otro cielo violeta
me enseña sus bolsillos
azules y vacíos.
HASTA el mar tu condición de géyser
y de arpegio incendiado.
Aquí te espera el lecho subjetivo de memoria que oscila.
Pronuncia ahora la maldición,
reconstruye el salmo aquel
escrito en las antorchas.
Descodifica el fuego:
acuéstate en el agua,
susúrrale a la brisa sus ojos memorables,
dile que la ternura es un golpe fugaz en cada ola,
dile por qué la marejada
sólo sabe trepar a su cintura,
por qué se queda el viento en sus penúltimas miradas.
 
CUANDO esta canción
ya no sea un signo en la imaginación ambigua del viento.
Cuando las calles jueguen a selvas sediciosas
y tú te pierdas en la niebla,
en los tortuosos brazos de la ría.
 
O cuando otro día mires el Mediterráneo
y ya no quieras volver a empezar
y ya no quieras ser ola
ni costa propicia
ni asilo marítimo de niños sin aurora.
 
El viento, sólo el viento
acogiendo la locura de los pájaros,
aquellos, otros,
que morían por la luz bajo los sauces
aquellos que vivían por ti en la frente románica del cielo,
los que ahora pasan
y mueren en el mar,
en el agua donde fermenta la espesura de los nombres.
Cuando esta canción ya sólo sea
espectro y espejismo,
buscado desrecuerdo,
mi corazón,
como un puente entre los tiempos,
te esperará sentado en el crepúsculo.
 
MIS pasos buscan pasaportes letales,
letargos blancos para la llama que viene
y sin piedad me abrasa las pupilas.
 
Escribo cartas y lunas demediadas
mientras creo en la serenidad de Adriano para esperar a la muerte.
 
He visto cómo la noche abre una cortina de abismo
y me regresa de golpe a los espacios.
Me he asomado a la eclosión profunda
que embriaga las latitudes sensibles de la hoguera
y al pairo el césped jugando a fuego fatuo,
el labio de vidrio eclipsado hacia Oriente.
 
He visto entrar la ternura en Aries,
cumplirse el equinoccio,
bordear la locura trazando una perífrasis, cruzando de costado
cuando la luna acecha
y la tramontana domestica los ojos de los puentes.
Me he dejado a la lluvia desnuda y permeable,
al álgido destello de las calles en vidrio.
 
A través de la vela que tú enciendes en la retina de la noche,
en los ocultos ámbitos
en que otro día robamos con las manos abiertas.
 
Detrás del volumen vacío y el hueco vulnerable
donde habita la escarcha tiritando entre ortigas
y otro pájaro múltiple
se hace alquimia improbable.
 
DESDE nunca te quiero y para siempre,
desde todo y quizá y para siempre,
desde el rotundo rayo que sube por la acequia de las horas
al látigo crecido en mis pupilas ponientes
veloz mi voz, mi viento:
vértigo de desembocadura –
y el más ingrato delta para acabar el viaje.
 
Hasta la nada espero,
hasta lo lejos de la memoria inútil y el cráter sin crepúsculo,
hasta la duda embriagada de rótulos celestes,
en la fiebre y la luna imantada de agosto.
 
 

 
amalia2
 
Amalia Iglesias was born in Menaza, in the province of Palencia, in 1962. She won the prestigious Adonais prize in 1985 for Un lugar para el fuego and has published several other books of poetry. She lives in Madrid, where she edits Revista de Libros and La Alegría de los Naufragios. Her work has been widely anthologized amediavoz.com/iglesias.htm
 
 
Poeta española nacida en Menaza, Palencia, en 1962.Desde 1970 se trasladó con su familia a Bilbao donde se licenció en Filología Hispánica por la Universidad de Deusto.Actualmente vive en Madrid donde ha sido coordinadora del suplemento Culturas de «Diario 16». Dirige desde su creación,en 1996, de Revista de Libros, de la Fundación «Caja Madrid» y además colabora en la revista de poesía La alegría de los naufragios y en la sección Contemporáneos del suplemento cultural del periódico «ABC». Su obra poética está compuesta por «Un lugar para el fuego» 1984, «Memorial de Amauta» 1988, «Mar en sombra» 1989,«Dados y dudas» 1996, «Tótem espantapájaros», «La sed del río» y «Lázaro se sacude las ortigas» 2006. Ha sido galardonada con los premios de poesía Adonáis en 1984, Alonso de Ercilla del gobierno Vasco 1995, con el accésit del Jaime Gil de Biedma en 1996 y el Premio Francisco Quevedo de poesía 2006.

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Robin Ouzman Hislop Editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at Poetry Life and Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, his recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at The Poetic Bond and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.
 
 
 
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Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published four poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and Presencia en el Misterio as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, an E-zine from 2008-2012

robin@artvilla.com
PoetryLifeTimes
Poetry Life & Times

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