{"id":7046,"date":"2019-07-21T21:16:19","date_gmt":"2019-07-21T21:16:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/?p=7046"},"modified":"2019-09-23T14:54:30","modified_gmt":"2019-09-23T14:54:30","slug":"almost-a-nocturne-a-poem-by-noni-benegas-translated-from-spanish-by-amparo-arrospide-and-robin-ouzman-hislop","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/almost-a-nocturne-a-poem-by-noni-benegas-translated-from-spanish-by-amparo-arrospide-and-robin-ouzman-hislop\/","title":{"rendered":"Almost A Nocturne. A Poem by Noni Benegas Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arrospide and Robin Ouzman Hislop"},"content":{"rendered":"

Editor’s note: this poem is a lengthy text, the translation is given first & then the original follows & finally the relevant bio info.
\n 
\nALMOST A NOCTURNE
\n 
\nGuilt is an argument
\nto feel alive, fear
\nanother;
\nany defense
\nimprovised from a threat,
\nis another;
\nbeing told you’re smarter
\nthan someone else
\nis another;
\nthe best argument is perhaps
\nto remember
\nhow we had prepared everything
\nto write without guilt
\ninstead of loafing about
\nnot to sleep a wink
\nand feel life slip by.
\nTo worry about distant friends
\nwho do not call, not knowing
\nif they’ re still alive
\nyet another.
\nBut the maximum argument
\nto feel alive is to feel
\nthat you’re wasting your time.
\nAny incentive,
\ndrug or dressing that heals
\nthe “malheur de vivre”
\nis, in short, a force driving the
\nguilt of being alive
\nbut insufficiently.
\nTo think that nobody cares,
\nthat there is no friend
\naware of you
\nmakes us prone
\nto experience guilt
\nwhich in turn lets us
\nexperience being alive.
\nI refuse to speak in the first person
\nbecause I don’t know
\nif I’m an individual
\nalive
\noutside language.
\n 
\nIt’s the time when wolves
\ngo out to howl at inhospitable
\nnature;
\nI barely feel my toes
\nscratch the edge of the bed
\nrub each other
\nlike sticks on distant drums;
\ntheir percussion reverberates
\nthrough my body with waxed ears
\nof a mummy
\nbut more alive,
\nthan Clarice’s clock
\npounding at dawn.
\n 
\nNothing makes sense,
\nWould it, if I’d lived with you,
\nX, H or J of my past, present, or future?
\nAnd here, I survive
\nwithout a dog or cat
\nor a clock.
\nBut even so
\neven so if
\nI waste time on this
\nmy mental calculator
\ncatches on
\nand condemns me
\nwith such lucid argument
\nto experience
\nthe guilt that makes me feel alive
\nin a bad way.
\n 
\nIn this uncertain
\nexistence, to the friend who feeds us
\nto reinforce their vitality
\nwhile feeding ours,
\nI reply with warmth
\nbut no tea,
\nbecause it keeps you awake
\nand makes you think
\nwhich prevents
\nliving
\nas something natural.
\n 
\nLiving is natural
\nlike this light coolness
\non my back
\nand this slight discomfort
\nof a quilt too warm
\nmaking you successively
\nput off and on
\nwords of life
\nwith their doubts, meanderings:
\nlive, living, surviving.
\n 
\nLittle by little
\nan appetite is born;
\nI continue living
\nas I begin to wake up
\nturning in bed
\n-left right-
\nwanting day to come
\npromising \u201cficar bonito\u201d.
\n 
\nI begin to understand
\nSt John Perse’s list of posts,
\nit must have been
\nat dawn,
\nscattered like a man’s crumbs
\nthrough his long lined verses
\nwhose sum: one over one
\nmake the poem.
\nAnd I’m already awake,
\nwhile tire wheels roll
\nout of my cotton filled ears
\nlike waves on the sidewalk,
\nbehind a closed glass
\nbehind my life
\nwith a drawn curtain
\nalready standing
\nalready rhetorical.
\n 
\nHaven’t you ever thought of having children
\nfriend ?
\nyou wouldn’t be able to sleep at night
\nfor their screams,
\nbut a part of you can do it
\nbecause of it\u2026,
\nalthough another’s life
\nisn’t an argument
\nto lose sleep over
\nor recover it,
\nthere are borders between us,
\njagged boundaries as between
\nstamps.
\n 
\nI turn off
\nand on
\nthe coolness on my back persists
\nas if after so much searching
\nmy back was the dark side of the moon
\nmy feet explore
\nat the bottom of galaxies
\nthrough black holes
\ntunnelling under the quilt
\nat the edge of the bed.
\nBetween turning on and off
\nthere is a photogenesis of night
\nthat appears
\nat will.
\nClick, clack
\nRen\u00e9 Daumal
\nclick, clack
\nLota Macedo
\nclick, clack
\nOscar Manesi
\nclick, clack
\nA. Pizarnik
\nclick, clack
\nme you him
\nblasphemy
\nerror.
\n 
\nAn association is like placing a carriage on a track
\nto set in motion,
\nthus night rolls
\nwith a click
\nlike Clarice’s clock;
\nthe clock is a camera filming
\npassing time.
\n 
\nWhat a big animal
\nin the dark!
\nI don’t know my limits,
\nI turn on the light
\nfor the shameful life
\nof that autonomous hand
\nfilming outside myself
\non paper, with pencil,
\nthe pretensions of the poet writing
\nas a movie shot
\nin which I’m absent;
\nonly the coolness
\nand the instep of my right foot
\nas it molds my left leg’s calf
\ngives me back my limits.
\nHow disgusting life is
\nwhen you want to go to the toilet
\nbut it’s just a plane traversing
\nyour hollow belly over the Gulf of Mexico
\nbefore the storm
\nis unleashed,
\ntaking into account
\nthat being alive
\nis a way of being
\nharassed
\nby terrestrial functions.
\nBody drifting,
\nbut there is too much light
\nto say so
\nnight fails
\nand is rhetorical.
\nRhetorical, the warp and woof
\nof a gem illuminated tapestry
\nfrom another age.
\nDarkness
\norders and disorders the world
\nat the same time
\nand now everything
\nfeels like my back;
\nI want to be hungry
\nor pee to stand up again
\nnot this coolness without limits.
\n 
\nShe\/he lied to me
\nand now they pay the price
\nby losing the meaning
\nof their lie.
\nThe only reason
\nfor being alive
\nis to whisper these things
\nin my ear.
\n 
\nNight is a field
\nof phosphenes and barbed wire
\nthat starts in
\nthe frontal lobe;
\nas long as my mouth
\npours this fluidity
\nfrom above
\nI will believe in a soul,
\nclick, clack.
\nIn Madrid
\nI switch on
\nthe light
\nin my Paris room
\nknowing
\nthrough this motion
\nI exist
\nclick, clack,
\nat dawn.
\nI want to roll myself up in the quilt
\nin an interspatial rocket
\nriding the coolness of galaxies,
\nnot this earthly
\nred light
\nbut the dust of stars
\nprecipitated suddenly blue.
\n 
\nHow relative
\nlanguage is\u2026
\nLittle by little I recover
\nto form a notion of reality,
\nto breath for my frontal lobe
\nso it becomes night once more.
\nMy only privacy
\nis with myself,
\nat times I’m so far
\nI don’t recognize myself,
\nbut they talk to me, watch me
\nand there I am,
\nat times I’m so close
\nI can spare knowing me.
\nIn the morning I will recover
\nmy identity
\nlike one who puts her toes
\ninside the quilt’s capsule
\nso that they form a whole,
\nso that they complete a whole.
\n 
\nTo the traitor\/ess
\nI do not know you
\nas a person,
\nyou’re not on my path
\nor maybe yes, as one more mask.
\nThis I know now.
\nI don’t know if I’ll know later
\nwhen the various layers
\nof myself overlap
\nand I fly over the cosmos
\nin the space capsule
\nof my quilt.
\nI’m not me
\nbut my balance is so delicate
\nthat I can try to be me,
\nand some do try again
\n(psycho)
\nfor the pleasure of recognizing themselves.
\n 
\nNoni Benegas
\nTranslated by Robin Ouzman & Amparo Arrospide
\n <\/p>\n

CASI UN NOCTURNO
\n 
\nLa culpa es un argumento
\npara sentirse vivo, el miedo
\notro;
\nla defensa, cualquier defensa
\nimprovisada ante una amenaza,
\notro;
\nser m\u00e1s inteligente que alguien
\n(y que lo digan)
\notro;
\nrecordar c\u00f3mo hab\u00edamos preparado todo
\npara escribir sin culpa
\nen vez de haraganear,
\nel mejor, quiz\u00e1s,
\na fin de no pegar ojo
\ny sentir la vida pasar.
\nPreocuparse por los amigos lejanos
\nque no llaman y se ignora si a\u00fan viven
\notro,
\npero el argumento m\u00e1ximo
\npara sentirse vivo es sentir
\nque se est\u00e1 perdiendo el tiempo.
\nCualquier aliciente,
\ndroga o ap\u00f3sito que cure
\ndel \u201cmalheur de vivre\u201d
\nes, en definitiva, un
\npropulsor de la culpa
\ndel hecho de estar vivo
\nsin estarlo lo suficiente.
\nPensar que a nadie le importa
\ny no hay ninguna amistad
\nque se interese,
\nnos hace proclives
\na experimentar la culpa
\nque a su vez permite
\nexperimentar la sensaci\u00f3n
\nde estar vivos,
\ny me niego a hablar en singular
\nporque no se si yo,
\nfuera del lenguaje,
\nestoy viva
\nen particular.
\nEs la hora en que los lobos
\nsalen a aullar a la naturaleza
\ninh\u00f3spita;
\napenas percibo los dedos de mis pies
\nque ara\u00f1an el borde de la cama
\ny se frotan entre si,
\ncomo palillos sobre lejanos tambores;
\nsu percusi\u00f3n reverbera
\nen mi cuerpo con o\u00eddos encerados
\nde momia
\npero m\u00e1s vivo,
\nque el reloj de Clarice
\npalpitando en la madrugada.
\n 
\nNada tiene sentido,
\n\u00bflo tendr\u00eda si viviera contigo,
\nX, H o J de mi pasado, presente, o futuro?
\nY aqu\u00ed,
\nsin perro ni gato
\nni reloj alrededor
\nsobrevivo;
\npero a\u00fan as\u00ed,
\npero a\u00fan as\u00ed,
\nsi pierdo el tiempo en esta comprobaci\u00f3n,
\nla calculadora mental
\nbarrunta la falta
\ny me condena
\ncon ese argumento l\u00facido
\na experimentar la culpa que me hace sentir viva
\nde mala manera.
\n 
\nAl amigo que nos da de comer
\npara reforzar su vitalidad
\nmientras alimenta la nuestra,
\nle replico, en esta incertidumbre
\nde existir, con simpat\u00eda
\npero sin t\u00e9,
\nporque quita el sue\u00f1o
\ny te hace pensar,
\nlo cual impide
\nvivir
\ncomo algo natural.
\n 
\nVivir es natural
\ncomo este ligero frescor
\nen la espalda,
\ny la leve molestia
\ndel edred\u00f3n demasiado c\u00e1lido
\nque hace que te quites y pongas
\n-sucesivamente-
\nlas palabras de la vida
\ncon sus dudas y recovecos:
\nvivo, viviente, sobreviviente.
\n 
\nDe a poco nace
\nel apetito;
\nsigo viviendo
\na medida que despierto
\ny volteo sobre la cama
\n-izquierda, derecha-
\ncon ganas de que venga el d\u00eda
\ny pueda \u201cficar bonito\u201d.
\n 
\nEmpiezo a entender
\nla enumeraci\u00f3n de oficios en St John Perse;
\ntiene que haber sido
\nde madrugada,
\nmendrugos de hombre
\ndesparramados en el vers\u00edculo
\ncuya suma: uno m\u00e1s uno
\nhacen el poema.
\nYa estoy de pie,
\nmientras ruedan
\nfuera de mis o\u00eddos algodonados,
\nruedas de neum\u00e1ticos
\ncomo olas en la vereda,
\ntras el cristal cerrado
\ntras mi vida con la cortina
\nechada, ya de pie
\ny ya ret\u00f3rica.
\n\u00bfNo has pensado tener hijos
\namiga ?
\nno podr\u00e1s dormir de noche
\npor sus gritos,
\npero una parte tuya s\u00ed podr\u00e1 hacerlo
\na causa de esto\u2026,
\naunque no es argumento
\nla vida ajena
\npara perder el sue\u00f1o
\no recuperarlo,
\nhay bordes entre nosotros,
\nl\u00edmites dentados como entre
\nestampillas.
\n 
\nApago,
\ny enciendo,
\ny sigue el frescor en la espalda
\ncomo si despu\u00e9s de tanto buscar
\nfuera ese el lado oscuro de la luna,
\nque los pies investigan
\nal fondo de las galaxias
\npor los agujeros negros,
\n-t\u00faneles bajo el edred\u00f3n-
\nhacia el borde de la cama,
\ny entre encender y apagar
\nhay una fotog\u00e9nesis de la noche
\nque aparece
\na voluntad.
\nClic, clac
\nRen\u00e9 Daumal
\nclic, clac
\nLota Macedo
\nclic, clac
\nOscar Manesi
\nclic, clac
\nA. Pizarnik
\nclic, clac
\nyo, t\u00fa, \u00e9l
\nblasfemia
\nerror.
\n 
\nY una asociaci\u00f3n es como poner un vag\u00f3n en una v\u00eda
\npara echarlo a andar,
\nas\u00ed la noche con el clic
\nrueda
\ncomo el reloj de Clarice;
\nel reloj es la c\u00e1mara que filma
\nel tiempo que pasa.
\n 
\n\u00a1Qu\u00e9 animal tan grande
\nen la oscuridad!
\nNo conozco mis l\u00edmites,
\nenciendo
\npara la verg\u00fcenza de vivir
\nde esa mano aut\u00f3noma
\nafuera de mi filmando
\nsobre papel, con l\u00e1piz,
\nel parip\u00e9 del poeta que escribe
\ncomo una toma de pel\u00edcula
\nen la cual no estoy yo;
\ns\u00f3lo el frescor
\nme devuelve mis l\u00edmites
\ny el empeine del pie derecho
\ncuando moldea la pantorrilla de la pierna izquierda.
\nQu\u00e9 asco vivir
\ncuando tienes ganas de ir al ba\u00f1o
\npero es s\u00f3lo un avi\u00f3n que atraviesa
\nla oquedad de tu vientre como el golfo de M\u00e9xico
\nantes de desencadenarse
\nuna tormenta,
\nsin perder de vista
\nque estar vivo
\nes una manera de estar
\nacosado
\npor las funciones terrestres.
\nCuerpo a la deriva,
\npero hay demasiada luz
\npara decirlo
\nfalla la noche y es
\nret\u00f3rico.
\nRet\u00f3rico es un retor luminoso
\nde carbunclos de otra \u00e9poca.
\nLa oscuridad \u2013y ahora todo
\nes una espalda-
\ndesordena el mundo a la vez
\nque lo ordena;
\nquisiera tener hambre
\no pis para reincorporarme
\ny no este frescor sin l\u00edmites.
\n 
\nMe minti\u00f3
\ny ahora paga su mentira
\ncon la desaparici\u00f3n del objeto
\nde su mentira.
\nLa \u00fanica raz\u00f3n
\nde estar vivo
\nes poder dictarme estas cosas
\nal o\u00eddo.
\n 
\nLa noche es un campo
\nde fosfenos y alambradas
\nque empieza a partir
\ndel l\u00f3bulo frontal.
\nMientras la boca
\nsiga derramando
\n\u00e9sta liquidez de arriba
\ncreer\u00e9 en el alma,
\nclic, clac,
\ny aprieto el interruptor
\nde mi cuarto en Par\u00eds
\nen otra l\u00e1mpara
\nen Madrid,
\ny s\u00e9 que existo
\npor este tacto
\nclic, clac,
\nen la madrugada.
\nMe quiero enrollar en el edred\u00f3n
\ncon forma de cohete interespacial
\npara surcar el frescor de las galaxias,
\nno esta luz colorada
\nde la tierra
\nsino el polvo de estrellas,
\nprecipitado s\u00fabitamente azul.
\n 
\nC\u00f3mo relativiza
\nel lenguaje\u2026
\nDe a poco me recupero
\ny cobro noci\u00f3n de lo real,
\nrespiro para mi l\u00f3bulo,
\npara que sea de noche otra vez;
\nno tengo intimidad
\nm\u00e1s que conmigo misma,
\ny a veces estoy tan lejos
\nque no me reconozco,
\npero me hablan y miran
\ny ah\u00ed me encuentro,
\naunque a veces estoy tan cerca
\nque me eximo de conocerme.
\nPor la ma\u00f1ana recuperar\u00e9
\nmi identidad
\ncomo quien mete los dedos de los pies
\ndentro de la c\u00e1psula del edred\u00f3n
\npara que formen un todo,
\npara que completen el todo.
\n 
\nAl traidor\/ra
\nNo te reconozco
\ncomo persona,
\nno est\u00e1s en mi camino
\no tal vez s\u00ed, una m\u00e1scara m\u00e1s.
\nEsto que s\u00e9 ahora
\nno s\u00e9 si lo sabr\u00e9 luego
\ncuando diversas capas de mi
\nse superpongan
\ny en la c\u00e1psula espacial
\nde mi edred\u00f3n conmigo
\nsobrevuele el cosmos.
\nYo no soy yo
\npero mi equilibrio es tan delicado
\nque yo puedo ser yo,
\ny algunos vuelven a intentarlo
\n(psico)
\npor el placer de reconocerse a s\u00ed mismos.
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\nNoni Benegas, born in Buenos Aires and resident in Spain since 1977, is the author of seven books of poetry; a selection is collected in El \u00c1ngel de lo s\u00fabito<\/em>, Ed. Fondo de Cultura Econ\u00f3mica, (Madrid, 2014). Burning Cartography<\/em>, Ed. Host, (Austin TX, 2007 and 2011) is a selection of these poems in English, and Animaux Sacr\u00e9s<\/em>, Ed. Al Manar (S\u00e9te 2013) in French. She has won the Platero Prize from the UN in Geneva; the Miguel Hern\u00e1ndez National Prize for Poetry, as well as Vila de Martorell award, the Rub\u00e9n Dar\u00edo Prize from Palma in Mallorca, the Esqu\u00edo Prize in Galicia. She is the author of the influential anthology of contemporary Spanish women poets Ellas tienen la palabra<\/em>, Ed. Hiperi\u00f3n (Madrid, 2008, 4th edition) whose introductory essay, with a new prologue, articles, interviews and an epilogue has been recently collected by Ed. Fondo de Cultura Economica in 2017 with the same title. Ellas Resisten. Mujeres poetas y artistas<\/em> (1994-2019) is a selection of her essays on women writers and artists published by Ed. Huerga & Fierro
\n 
\nEditor’s Note: see also Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arr\u00f3spide & Robin Ouzman Hislop<\/a>
\n 
\nRobin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times<\/a> ; his publications include
\n 
\nAll the Babble of the Souk<\/em> <\/a>, Cartoon Molecules<\/em> and Next Arrivals<\/em>, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande\u00b4s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist<\/em> <\/a> and the recently published Tesserae<\/em> <\/a> <\/u>, a translation of Carmen Crespo\u00b4s Teselas.
\n 
\nYou may visit Aquillrelle.com\/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop <\/a>about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)<\/a><\/p>\n

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Editor’s note: this poem is a lengthy text, the translation is given first & then the original follows & finally the relevant bio info.   ALMOST A NOCTURNE   Guilt is an argument to feel alive, fear another; any defense improvised from a threat, is another; being told you’re smarter than someone else is another; … 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":[50,770,803,863,808,796,366,754,401,43,52,388],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7046"}],"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=7046"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7046\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7112,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7046\/revisions\/7112"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7046"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7046"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7046"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}