{"id":5749,"date":"2017-02-12T14:26:30","date_gmt":"2017-02-12T14:26:30","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/?p=5749"},"modified":"2020-07-12T11:47:00","modified_gmt":"2020-07-12T11:47:00","slug":"poems-from-laura-giordani-translated-from-spanish-by-amparo-arrospide-robin-ouzman-hislop","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/poems-from-laura-giordani-translated-from-spanish-by-amparo-arrospide-robin-ouzman-hislop\/","title":{"rendered":"Poems from Laura Giordani translated from Spanish by Amparo Arr\u00f3spide & Robin Ouzman Hislop"},"content":{"rendered":"

Language is the territory of the common, of the community.<\/strong><\/span> Through my writing I try to make\u00a0 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.<\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

Poetic language contains the seed of insubordination, of becoming disobedient to a way of\u00a0 looking at the world and naming it;<\/span> politics is the place where we situate ourselves to articulate as speakers, enlightened, subaltern, omniscient, decentered, etc.
\n<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

It does not matter if we do it about a bird, a milk tooth or an intimate event.<\/span> 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.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

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<\/a><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

————————–<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

(i.)<\/strong><\/p>\n

[Qu\u00e9 te hicieron caballito, que las manos de tu amo<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

se hundan en tu carne abierta<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

hasta que llore polvo de ladrillo,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

hasta que la fusta con que te azotaba<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

caiga con \u00e9l de rodillas.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Con manos imantadas<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Hundir los dedos en la tierra negr\u00edsima de la infancia, Cuando las yemas ardan, escarbar con manos imantadas por una ternura abandonada junto a los restos: el desguace nuestro.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Botones sueltos, fotograf\u00edas de familia: los esposos en un muelle con cuatro hijos y dos ba\u00fales, un viejo de ojos claros junto a su silla de enea, escarpines de lana amarilleando sin t\u00e9rmino, el ajuar con las mismas iniciales de aquel ata\u00fad chiquito y blanco.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Un mechoncito rubio en la mano, \u00fanico consuelo.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Mujeres pariendo en camas de hierro, ni\u00f1os amamantados por cabras.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

[veni, sonnu, di la muntanedda<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

lu lupu si mangiau la picuredda<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

oi nin\u00ec<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

ninna v\u00f2 fa<\/i><\/span><\/span>1<\/sup><\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

A la infancia a trav\u00e9s de las manos, palpar el fondo de los cajones para conocer el rev\u00e9s nuestro, las costuras de un relato siempre en hilachas.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Ella se fue y algo se rompi\u00f3 dentro<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

[algo sordo, como llorando.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Escondimos las rodillas lastimadas por el pavimento.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Llegaron como una peste las palabras y las llevamos a la boca creyendo en su alimento.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Los contornos adquirieron relieve, los p\u00e9talos del coraz\u00f3n fueron cayendo \u2013uno a uno\u2014como en aquel juego.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Sobrevino la sintaxis, la separaci\u00f3n, el desastre.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

[La guardiana del tacto] <\/i><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

1<\/a>\u0002.<\/span><\/span><\/sup> Nota: Canci\u00f3n de cuna siciliana. Oh, ven, sue\u00f1o, de la monta\u00f1ita \/ El lobo se comi\u00f3 a la ovejita \/ Oh, el ni\u00f1o \/Quiere dormir.<\/span><\/span><\/i><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

(i.)<\/strong><\/p>\n

[What did they do you little horse that the hands of your master<\/strong><\/p>\n

should sink into your opened flesh<\/strong><\/p>\n

until it weeps brick dust<\/strong><\/p>\n

until the whip with which he lashes you<\/strong><\/p>\n

falls with him to his knees.<\/strong><\/p>\n

With magnetised hands <\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

To sink our fingers into the blackest earth of childhood, when fingertips burn, hands magnetised by a discarded tenderness that dig searching the remains \u2013 our scrap.<\/strong><\/p>\n

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.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Women giving birth in iron beds, children suckled by goats.<\/strong><\/p>\n

[veni, sonnu, di la muntanedda<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

lu lupu si mangiau la picurredda<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

oi nini<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

ninna v\u00f3 <\/span>fa*<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

Childhood reached through our hands feeling the bottom of drawers<\/strong><\/p>\n

knowing our underside, the seams of a story always in rags.<\/strong><\/p>\n

She left and something broke inside.<\/strong><\/p>\n

[something deaf, as if weeping<\/strong><\/p>\n

We hid our knees scraped on the pavement.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Words came like a disease, we put them in our mouths believing in their nourishment.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Outlines became distinct, one by one, as in that childhood game, the petals of innocence fell.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Then syntax, separation, disaster.<\/strong><\/p>\n

[The Guardian of Touch]<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

* <\/i>Sicilian Lullaby. Oh come, sleep, from the little mountain\/The wolf ate the little lamb\/Oh, the child\/Wants to sleep.<\/strong><\/p>\n

(ii.)<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Con guantes de goma anaranjada ella ahogaba los cachorros reci\u00e9n nacidos en el fuent\u00f3n de lata: no son puros, seguro que fueron los perros de Moroni \u2013 sentenciaba y aguantando la respiraci\u00f3n hund\u00eda a los perritos todav\u00eda ciegos, buscando el calor de la collie que aullaba junto a la puerta. Anegaba sus pulmones en el fondo hasta que flotaran y los met\u00eda 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.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

[Todav\u00eda me persigue el llanto de aquella perra,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

el fr\u00edo mortal del lavadero.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Mi amiga creci\u00f3, tuvo hijos, otra casa. Su madre sigui\u00f3 baldeando con desvelo la vereda cada ma\u00f1ana, ahogando \u2013 primavera tras primavera\u2014perros sin raza.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

[Extra\u00f1o pa\u00eds]<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

(ii.)<\/strong><\/p>\n

With orange rubber gloves, she, my friend’s mother, drowned the new born pups, in a tin basin.<\/strong><\/p>\n

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.<\/strong><\/p>\n

She flooded their lungs in the bottom until they floated putting them into a nylon bag that she tied in the tightest of knots.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Afterwards, she took off those orange rubber gloves and with the same hands cut bread and braided\u00a0 my friend Alejandra’s hair.<\/strong><\/p>\n

[Now the howl still haunts me<\/strong><\/p>\n

deadly cold in the wash place.<\/strong><\/p>\n

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.<\/strong><\/p>\n

[ Strange Country]<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

(iii.)<\/strong><\/p>\n

El sobretodo azul que pusiste<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

sobre los hombros de la muchacha aquella<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

volv\u00eda empapada del interrogatorio<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

temblando<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

la mojaban la picaneaban*<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

cada noche<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

la dejaban junto a tu colch\u00f3n<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

con un llanto parecido al de un cachorro<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

ese gesto a pesar del miedo<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

a pesar del miedo te sacaste el sobretodo azul<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

para abrigarla<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

no poder dejar de darle ese casi todo<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

en medio del sobretodo espanto<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

la dignidad puede resistir<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

azul<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

en apenas dos metros de tela<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

y en esos cent\u00edmetros que tu mano<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

sorte\u00f3 en la oscuridad hasta sus hombros<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

sobre todo<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

[El sobretodo azul]<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

(iii.)<\/strong><\/p>\n

The blue overcoat you put on\r\n over the shoulders of the girl\r\n soaked from interrogation\r\n shaking\r\n watered tortured with the picana<\/span>1<\/sup><\/a>\r\n each night\r\n they\u00b4d left her next to your mattress\r\n with a puppylike whimper\r\n that gesture despite the fear\r\n over all the fear you took off your blue overcoat\r\n to warm her\r\nunable to resist giving over all\r\n<\/span><\/span><\/strong>over all the horror\r\nin its midst\r\ndignity can stand\r\nblue\r\nin just two meters of cloth\r\nthose centimeters your hand\r\ncovered in the dark over her shoulders\r\nover all else.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/pre>\n
[The blue overcoat]<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n
\n
1<\/a>\u0002<\/sup> The \u201cpicana\u201d is a wand or prod that delivers a high voltage but low current electric shock to a torture victim.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n<\/div>\n
 <\/p>\n
\"laura\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n
 <\/p>\n
Laura Giordani (1964, C\u00f3rdoba, Argentina)<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n
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\u00a0 her life.
\nShe studied Psychology, Fine Arts and English language.
\nShe participates in writers\u00b4meetings and gives poetic recitals in Argentina and Spain.
\nShe has written the following poetry collections: <\/span><\/span>Apurando la copa<\/i><\/span><\/span> (2001), <\/span><\/span>Celebraci\u00f3n del brote<\/i><\/span><\/span> (2003), <\/span><\/span>Cartograf\u00eda de lo blando<\/i><\/span><\/span> (2005), <\/span><\/span>Noche sin clausura<\/i><\/span><\/span> (2006), <\/span><\/span>Sudestada<\/i><\/span><\/span> (2009), <\/span><\/span>Materia oscura<\/i><\/span><\/span> (2010) and <\/span><\/span>Antes de desaparecer<\/i><\/span><\/span> (2016).
\nHer poems have been included in several anthologies, she has also collaborated in journals from Argentina, Brazil, Germany and Spain.
\n<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n
The following link reviews her latest work\u00a0 Antes de desaparecer<\/em> ( Before disappearing) from which the above poems are extracts\u00a0 http:\/\/www.tendencias21.net\/Antes-de-desaparecer–de-Laura-Giordani-una-manera-de-ampararse_a32021.html<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n
 <\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\"OLYMPUS<\/p>\n
Amparo Arr\u00f3spide (Argentina) has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinaci\u00f3n en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pa\u00f1uelos de usar y tirar and En el o\u00eddo del viento<\/em>, 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 D\u00edaz Gil, Luis Fores and Jos\u00e9 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<\/em>), James Stephens (Irish Fairy Tales<\/em>) and Mia Couto (Vinte e Zinco<\/em>) are in the course of being published, as well as her two poetry collections Hormigas en di\u00e1spora<\/em> and Jacuzzi<\/em>. She takes part in festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poes\u00eda Jos\u00e9 Hierro (Getafe).<\/strong><\/p>\n
\"robin-portrait-july-sotillo-2016-by-amparo\"<\/p>\n
Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor Poetry Life & Times, his recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume<\/em> 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review <\/em>(Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes<\/em>, Phoenix Rising from the Ashes<\/em> (an international anthology of sonnets) and The Honest Ulsterman<\/em>. His last publications are a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk<\/em> & Key of Mist<\/em>, 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 <\/strong>Author Robin.<\/a><\/strong>.<\/p>\n
www.facebook.com\/PoetryLifeTimes<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n
robin@artvilla.com<\/a><\/strong>
\n editor@artvilla.com<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n
Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arr\u00f3spide.Robin Ouzman Hislop<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n
 goodreads.com\/author\/show\/Robin Ouzman Hislop<\/a><\/strong>
\nhttp:\/\/www.aquillrelle.com\/authorrobin.htm<\/a><\/strong>
\nhttp:\/\/www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop<\/a>
\nwww.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop <\/a>
\nhttps:\/\/www.amazon.com\/author\/robinouzmanhislop<\/a>
\n<\/strong><\/p>\n
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Language is the territory of the common, of the community. Through my writing I try to make\u00a0 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 … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[50,1,717,736,366,401,43,52,388],"tags":[18,136,3,95,127],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5749"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5749"}],"version-history":[{"count":14,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5749\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7375,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5749\/revisions\/7375"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5749"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5749"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5749"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}