Guadalupe Grande
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
Video Poetry Recital Featuring Arboleda, Arróspide, Crespo, Grande, Hislop. International Writers. Leeds.UK.
This video recording was made at University of Leeds on October 10th. 2017, it was introduced and presented by Antonio_Martínez_Arboleda Principal Teaching Fellow in Spanish and poet.
The initial image can be enlarged to full screen size. The texts and accompanying images can be easily toggled to place according to requirements.
Below the video also is a link that gives a report and interpretation of the performance by students who attended.
The report is live at http://www.leeds.ac.uk/arts/news/article/5108/2nd_cts_professionalisation_talk_2017-18_international_writers_at_leeds
Key of Mist. The Book & Poem by Guadalupe Grande.
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/
Key of Mist is an excerpt from the collected poems Key of Mist
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.
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 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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