Spanish

Homage to Francisca Aguirre – The Lullaby Poems (Translated from Spanish)

by 
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

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Sur Mama and other Poems by Luz Pichel Translated from Castellano and Gallego

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Editor’s Note: although we include the originals in this text, to introduce the poems of Luz Pichel, she is a Galician poet, a region in Spain with its own language (Gallego) which although bears similarities to Spanish (Castellano) is strikingly different. Luz Pichel mixes both languages in her work, but we as translators, have translated both into English, (apart from the little French ditty On The Bridge of Avignon in the first poem) hence the footnotes will often indicate the original Gallego scripts in the texts.

(1.)

the south mama maría

i did not take you to the south     nor to the southern station      so you could see     floor 0
floor 1    floor 2      the general view 1       prices maps tickets tours
southern pages      news      the such a pretty cross

I have to go one summer with you to the heavens to see the southern
cross mama
the south in all the languages of the world      your name
mother in all the stars      in all
the ways of milk
in our lovely rude tongue mother 2
south in french listen well        sur la table 3

a girl opened on the sacrificial table 4

sur le pont d’avignon
l’on y danse         l’on y danse

sur-face
what do they make?
who makes the south?
who builds the south?
who profits from the south?
who profits? 5

les beaux messieurs font comme ça
et puis encore comme ça
(bang bang bang
a piggy gesture)
sur le sable 6      the cobra of fear crawled
on the sand he left engraved his     SS

the general view mama        these will be the plots of memory
l’on y dance tous en rond

les militaires font comme ça
(bang, bang bang
a homicide     a child)
et puis comme ça
les beaux messieurs e les militaires

the building of the south mama patricia mare mâe 7
our south their south les belles dames

les belles dames dansent
elles font comme ça
et puis encore comme ça

the south mama eva mamá álvaro rafa         guadalupe        francisca
rosalía     alfonsina     federico   emily  luis
chámase mamá manuel
mamá manuela/
where your migrant shins       grew
skinny on the sacrificial table 8

one day we will go all together there to the south mamai
they still have to see us dance on the cobra’s SS
e puis encore 9    dance
we’re all going to be prima ballerinas mama
noelina

the musicians will do like this like this like this
and still again if it is the case like this another time / comme ça 10

**
vista xeral 1
na nosa lingua ruin bonita nai 2
on the table 3
sobre da mesa do sacrificio abríase a rapaza aquela 4
que fan?
quen fai o sur?
quen constrúe o sur? quen aproveita o sur?
quen se aproveita? 5
on the sand 6
mother mama 7
onde medraron as túas canelas migratorias
fracas na tabla do sacrificio 8
and then again 9
e os músicos farán así e así e así
e despois aínda si es caso outra vez así/ comme ça 10

(1.)

el sur     mamá maría

al sur no te he llevado     ni a la estación del sur      para que vieras     planta 0
planta 1         planta 2     vista xeral      los precios los mapas los tickets los recorridos las
páginas      del sur         las noticias         la cruz  tan guapa

he de ir un verano contigo al cielo a ver la cruz del sur mam
el sur en todas las linguas do mundo         tu nombre
de madre     en todas las estrellas     en todas
las vias de la leche     para que veas
na nosa lingua ruín bonita nai
sur en francés escucha bien         sur la table

sobre da mesa do sacrificio abríase a rapaza aquela

sur le pont d’avignon
l’on y danse         l’on y danse

sur–face
que fan?
quen fai o sur?
quen constrúe o sur? quen aproveita o sur?
quen se aproveita?

les beaux messieurs font comme ça
et puis encore comme ça
(bang bang bang
un gesto guarro)
sur le sable se arrastraba la cobra del miedo
sobre la arena dejaba grabadas     sus eses

vista general mama           estas serán las eras de la memoria
l’on y dance tous en rond

les militaires font comme ça
(bang, bang bang
un homicidio     un niño)
et puis comme ça
les beaux messieurs e les militaires

construcción del sur mamá patricia mare mâe
el nuestro el de ellas les belles dames

les belles dames dansent
elles font comme ça
et puis encore comme ça

o sur mamá eva mamá álvaro rafa         guadalupe        francisca
rosalía     alfonsina     federico   emily  luis
chámase mamá manuel
mamá manuela/
onde medraron as túas canelas          migratorias
fracas na  tabla do sacrificio

un día vamos a ir todas juntas allá hasta el sur   mamai   para que sepas
aún nos han de ver danzar sobre la ese de la cobra e puis encore danzar
vamos a ser todas unas bailarinas de primera mamá noelina

e os músicos farán así e así e así
e despois aínda si es caso outra vez así/ comme ça

(2.)

I give you a herb
you said
inside a letter

take this leaf grandma I found it
it has dust
her name is luz  1

a tiny green thread an oval drawing
and the moon rolling down a rock
smell of orange blossom

this is called orange he said it is something to eat
I bought it at the cattle fair for you

a chick being hatched is not easy either
if there is no ear of wheat
if there is no waiting
if there is no space

some when they are hatched their roost is spoiled
they go

luz      but the leaf       has nerves covered
in dust but
do not then get confused      but blow

the woman picked up an ear of wheat from the ground
an ear of wheat has little flour but
it will make sense

orange falls the moment you passed by
it rolls       smells

I wanted to make a simple thing to give you
to give them
to give you
to make an old age
a death even
a thing like the spiral peel of an orange
unspoiled
(unlike the pedros´ baby girl
who came badly)
sometimes the peel is torn

take      luz       an orange look I found it in the air
and luz is not luz either
neither is a leaf that falls
– hayu hayuná hayunaí there! (someone celebrates something)

a woman on the door step gazes out
to far far away
her name was orange         she peeled well        she came out unspoiled
she had been learning simply to fall
in a spiral       on herself

1. Light.

(2.)

te regalo una hierba
dijiste
dentro de una carta

toma esta hoja abuela la encontré
tiene polvo
se llama luz

un hilito verde un dibujo ovalado
y la luna rodando por una roca
olor a azahar

esto se llama naranja dijo es cosa de comer
en la feria la compré para ti

un pollito naciendo tampoco es fácil
si no hay espiga
si no hay espera
si no hay espacio

algunos cuando nacen se les rompe la casa
se van

luz pero      la hoja tiene los nervios       cubiertos
de polvo entonces
pero no confundirse           pero soplar

la mujer recogía del suelo una espiga de trigo
una espiga de trigo poquita harina tiene pero
tendrá sentido

naranja cae en el momento en que tú pasabas por allí
rueda          huele

yo quería hacer una cosa sencilla para darte
para darles
paro daros
hacer una vejez
una muerte incluso
una cosa así como la piel en espiral de una naranja
cuando se logra entera
(la niña de los de pedro no se logró tampoco
venía mal)
a veces se desgarra la piel

toma luz una naranja mira la encontré en el aire
y luz tampoco es luz
tampoco es una hoja que cae
— ¡hayú hayuná hayunaí allá! (alguien celebra algo)

una mujer en el umbral se asoma al otro lado
mira desde muy muy lejos
se llamaba naranja         pelaba bien          salía entera
había ido aprendiendo a caer sencillamente
en espiral           sobre sí misma

(3.)

Babe       take flowers to Chekhov´s grave
take        a little branch
if you go to russia one day       do that
you go and take flowers        but there
when you grow up
a seagull         at a beach       give her flight
so when you go to russia you ask
do you know where´s          Chekhov´s grave
it must have a painted         sea bird

he went cold

she was the apple of his        eye
she closed his eyes
wide open           like
portals of a house                 without people
like a hot cross bun she crossed his eyelids
and she said to herself        said      told herself
I´ll go dad      I´ll go             leave
in peace
I ´ll go
even if it rains

then        the little one put four
slices
of bread inside a bag
a small bottle of water        only four of bread only
´cos it would get hard         inside a bag
she started walking            into the hill
without anyone seeing her
´cos it was not proper         to wait to grow up
to go and put some flowers                over a
grave in russia

(3.)

nena       llévale flores a la tumba de chejov
llévale      un ramito
si vas a rusia un día tú        lo haces
vas y le llevas flores            pero allá
cuando seas grande
una gaviota         en una playa         échala a volar
después vas a rusia            preguntas
usted sabrá dónde             la tumba de chejov
debe de tener pintado un                pájaro marino

se quedó

ella era la niña de los ojos               de él
le cerró los ojos
que los tenía                      así
portales de una casa                      sin gente
le hizo la cruz del pan                    sobre los párpados
y se dijo a sí misma          dijo       dijo para sí
he de ir papá                    he de ir                 marcha tranquilo
he de ir
aunque llueva

entonces                        la pequeña              cuatro rebanadas
de pan en una bolsa
botellita de agua           sólo cuatro de pan sólo
que se iba a poner duro                                 en una bolsa
echó a andar                 monte adentro
sin que la viera nadie
pues no era del caso                                      esperar a ser grande
para ir a poner unas flores                             encima de una
tumba en rusia

(4.)

harriet tubman was born araminta ross
maria was born agnieszka
norma was born conchita
fernán was born cecilia
pocahontas was born matoaka
álvaro was born álvar
raphaël was born rafita
hypatia of alexandria was born a martyr
annika was born anita
rachael was born raquel
andrzej naceu 1 andrés
christine was born george
carla was born carlos
lucas naceu lilia
mary shelley was born mary godwin
dolly naceu dolly non saíu / she never left
the roslin institute

1. was born

(4.)

harriet tubman nació araminta ross
maría nació agnieszka
norma nació conchita
fernán nació cecilia
pocahontas nació matoaka
álvaro nació álvar
raphaël nació rafita
hypatia de alejandría nació mártir
annika nació anita
rachael nació raquel
andrzej naceu andrés
christine was born george
carla nació carlos
lucas naceu lilia
mary shelley nació mary godwin
dolly naceu dolly non saíu / no salió nunca
del roslin institute

(5.)

harriet tubman       rests her head        lays it

on the train track       and sleeps      she leads ahead      because she knows languages ​​understands the signs     bears the beatings      knows the underground rail ways and sees what cannot be seen      and dreams what cannot be dreamt     next to harriet       all the others sleep      over the track     non return trips are long    forests are very scary bugs and smugglers are very scary    some countries are far too far they are so far away      some mornings never reach a train    station    never never arrive     they pass by    in the darkness things look like bundles      the ones who move carrying linen bags or with a little old lady on their  shoulders      they look like wolves     mist     on her palm a woman has written a verse in orange ink       the train track is not a cosy pillow       the cold doesn´t let you keep your ideas safe      sleep and dream      the message read      the deeper the dream     the farther it takes you     little foreigner

(5.)

descansa a cabeza harriet tubman póusaa

na vía do tren     e dorme     ela vai por diante     porque sabe linguas     entende os letreiros     aguanta os paus / los palos     coñece os camiños de ferro sub da terra     e ve o que non se ve   e soña o que non se soña     a caronciño / a la vera de harriet     as outras dormen todas     sobre da vía     as viaxes sen retorno fanse largas     as fragas / bosques meten moito medo meten medo os bichos e os estraperlistas     algúns países están lonxe de máis /  quedan tan tan lejos       algunhas mañás / mañanas non chegan nunca á estación dun tren /  no llegan nunca nunca   pasan na escuridade as cousas semellan vultos     os que se moven cargando con sacos de liño / lino ou cunha velliña ao lombo / una viejecita sobre los hombros       semellan lobos      néboa /  niebla        na man aberta ten escrito a muller un verso con tinta de cor laranxa      a vía do tren non é unha almofada xeitosa / una almohada agradable no es la vía de un tren      o frío non permite acomodar as ideas sen perigo / peligro      durme e soña  dicía a mensaxe      o soño canto máis fondo máis lonxe te leva / más lejos te transporta         extranxeiriña
 
 
Translations Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
 
Bio Photo. Luz Pichel & Amparo Arróspide. November 2017. Madrid.
 
 

 
 
Luz Pichel was born in 1947 in Alén (Lalín, Pontevedra), a tiny village in Galicia. Alén means “beyond” and also means “the beyond”. There she learned to speak in a language that could die but does not want to. Those who speak that language think that it is always others those who speak well.

She is the author of the poetry books El pájaro mudo (1990, City of Santa Cruz de la Palma Award), La marca de los potros (2004, XXIV Latin American poetry prize Juan Ramón Jiménez), Casa pechada (2006, Esquío Poetry Award ), El pájaro mudo y otros poemas (2004), Cativa en su lughar / Casa pechada (2013), Tra (n) shumancias (2015) and Co Co Co Ú (2017).
Part of her work Casa pechada was translated into English and Irish in the anthological book To the winds our sails: Irish writers translate Galician poetry, Salmonpoetry, 2010, ed. Mary O’Donnell & Manuela Palacios.

Neil Anderson translated into English Casa pechada. Several poems appeared in his blog (re) voltas; July, 2014.

Several poems from Casa pechada appeared in the American magazines SALAMANDER, No. 41, year 2015, and PLEIADES, vol. 36, Issue 2, p. 117, year 2016, in English translation by Neil Anderson.
 
 
Amparo Arróspide (born in Buenos Aires) is an M.Phil. by the University of Salford. As well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines, she 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. The latter is part of a trilogy together with Jacuzzi and Hormigas en diaspora, which are in the course of being published. In 2010 she acted as a co-editor of webzine Poetry Life Times, where many of her translations of Spanish poems have appeared, she has translated authors such as Margaret Atwood, Stevie Smith and James Stephens into Spanish, and others such as Guadalupe Grande, Ángel Minaya, Francisca Aguirre, Carmen Crespo, Javier Díaz Gil into English. She takes part in poetry festivals, recently Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo  visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author.  See Robin performing his work Performance (Leeds University) .

 

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Robin Hislop Reads at University of Leeds His Poetry and Translations. Video Performance.

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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

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International Writers University of Leeds October 10th 2017

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Robin Ouzman Hislop is a poet and translator who edits Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com. At this event, he will be interviewed by Antonio Martínez Arboleda focusing on key aspects in his works exploring poetic themes. This will be followed by readings in Spanish and English of works by Guadalupe Grande (Key of Mist) and Carmen Crespo (Tesserae) with Martínez Arboleda and Hislop, translated into English by Hislop and Spanish poet Amparo Arróspide. He will read poems from his recently published collections All the Babble of the Souk & Cartoon Molecules (Amazon, 2016/17) various translated into Spanish by Martínez-Arboleda for (Crátera, Autumn 2017). There will be an opportunity for questions regarding the translations. Languages of the event: English and Spanish.
 
 
http://www.leeds.ac.uk/arts/people/20059/spanish_portuguese_and_latin_american_studies/person/1009/antonio_martinez_arboleda
 
 

 
 
Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amazon.com Author Robin Ouzman Hislop

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Press Release Tesserae Collected Poems by Carmen Crespo

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Translators Bios of Tesserae
 
 
Amparo Arróspide (born in Buenos Aires) is an M.Phil. by the University of Salford. As well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologiesand international magazines, she has published five poetry collections:Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos yalgunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento. Another two – Jacuzzi and Hormigas en diaspora- are in the course of being published. A coeditor of webzine Poetry Life Times, she has translated authors such as Margaret Atwood, Stevie Smith and James Stephens into Spanish, and others such as Guadalupe Grande, Ángel Minaya, José Antonio Pamies, Francisca Aguirre, Javier Díaz Gil and Luis Fores into English. She takes part in poetry festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Poetry Life & Times, appearances of his works 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) The Honest Ulsterman and translations into Spanish for CRÁTERA (Autumn 2017). His recent publications are two volumes of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk (2015) Cartoon Molecules (2017) & Key of Mist (2016) a translation from Spanish of poetess Guadalupe Grande all published by Aquillrelle.com available at main online tributaries. Further information about these publications with reviews and comments see Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amazon.com Author Robin Ouzman Hislop

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Poems from Angel Minaya’s Collected Poems TEOREMA DE LOS LUGARES RAROS (Theorem of rare places)

by 
1.
lugar es una casa para poner un codo    no deja de dañar la mesa    también sobre los huesos un 
palo    sus balances

lugar es una puerta para esconder la carga   perdura en la cabeza aislada el rastrillo de la 
deuda    tatúa las membranas

lugar es una ventana para poner un caballo un libro alguna cosa


place is a house to place an elbow   the table never leaves off hurting    it´s also a stick on
the bones   balance sheets

place is a door to hide the burden   on an isolated head the rake of debt lingers    tattooing 
membranes

place is a window to place a horse a book some thing

2.

un niño pasea por las orillas del légamo    se parece a mi sombra    tiene miedo pero no corre
tal vez sus pies han oído el acre perfume de la ova    animales suaves se agitan en el cañizal
un ciervo tendido va confundiéndose con las hojas caídas su cuello muestra linfas secretas  el 
sol cruje con la intensidad de la corteza   columpios oxidados anticipan la ruina de los juegos 
juegos solitarios donde el niño me imagina soñando con orillas  recordando carroñas sin volumen
el agua verdinegra que el verano va cociendo    ambos somos un sueño compartido por el otro 
observados bajo las cañas por los ojos feroces de nuestra madre


a child passes silted shores   seeming like my shadow   he's afraid but doesn't run perhaps his
feet have heard the acrid perfume of the ulva   soft animals tremble in reed banks    a deer 
lying down mingles with fallen leaves his neck revealing a secret lymph    sun crackles through
intensity of bark   rusty swings herald a ruination of games solitary games where I'm imagined
by the child to be dreaming of these shores    a massless memory of carrion   the summer's 
blackgreenish water is baking   we are both a dream shared by the other   watched under the 
reeds by the fierce eyes of our mother

3.

                          Conferencia austro-húngara [apuntes]

antes de comenzar imaginemos
pensar en húngaro o escribir en alemán

alguien recoge lo que ama y lo corrige
alguien hubiera preferido someter a reconstrucción una pared escarpada
y ahora yo llevo bajo el brazo
el vínculo entre la fuerza y la risa

el caso es
        de dónde procede este placer
        después de qué aniquilación maduran los conceptos
        por qué admiramos los átomos o la madrugada

queridos colegas
       por) un agresor ha sido devorado
       como) la frialdad de las madres es comparable a las máquinas zapadoras
       en) lo que permanece dentro siempre resulta victorioso

en fin por) como) y en) prueban que una idea es lo más parecido a una cicatriz
o a un sueño que dura ya 51 años

en alemán los ahogados
beben hasta que les llega la muerte
en húngaro los mensajes indirectos acaban alojándose
en órganos e inervaciones habituales

buenas tardes y gracias a todos
por su aflicción


                             Austro-Hungarian Conference [Notes]


before we begin let us imagine
thinking in Hungarian or writing in German

someone picks up what they love and corrects it
someone would have preferred to rebuild a steep wall
and now I'm carrying under my arm
the link between strength and laughter

the case is
         where does this pleasure come from
         after what annihilation do concepts mature
         why do we admire atoms or the dawn

dear colleagues
     by)       a foe has been devoured
     as)       the coldness of mothers is comparable to trenching machines
     in)       what remains inside is always victorious

hence by) as) and in) prove that an idea is the closest thing to a scar
or a dream that has already lasted for 51 years

in German the drowned
drink themselves to death
in Hungarian indirect messages end up occupying
the usual organs and innervations

good evening thank you all for listening
and thank you all for your suffering

4.

                                    Apuntes catastróficos


contraimagen         en el observador nace un estado de malestar o acantilado 

contradicción        la luz sobre el terraplén se degrada en movimiento

estímulos            la vida es una erosión subterránea equivalente al plano inclinado de la 
                     angustia

contragolpe          un árbol despliega la tierra rota en dirección al sol blanco de la 
                     analogía

contrapunto          los dominios zoológicos se ramifican y expanden como nudos que se 
                     persiguen

impresiones          la caza y los territorios acumulan conglomerados de mapas y 
                     desprendimientos

contrasentido        un cono o pirámide de escombros pasa de la regularidad a la máxima 
                     turbulencia

contraataque         el observador es una trampa para frecuencias de lenta degradación

reducto              un germen de catástrofe en favor de la excitación y el desorden


                                      Catastrophic Notes



counter image        a cliff state or discomfort is born in the observer

contradiction        the light on the embankment degrades in movement

stimuli              life is an underground erosion equivalent to the inclined plane of anguish

countercoup          a tree displays broken earth towards the white sun of analogy

counterpoint         zoological domains ramify their expansions pursued as knots 

impressions          hunting and territories accumulate clusters of maps and landslides

countermeaning       the debris of a cone or pyramid goes from regularity to maximum turbulence

counterassault       the observer is a trap for frequencies of slow degradation

stronghold           a germ of catastrophe in favor of excitement and disorder


5.

                                         Equivalencia en hueco

[nada] evento de la palabra que lo pronuncia [nunca] agujero o gusano de tiempo oscuro [nadie]
impensada extensión de una antinomia que se fue [nulo] valor absoluto del abandono [pérdida] 
extravío en la dirección apropiada [mudez] propósito semántico del niño en silencio [se] 
impersonal atavismo del aullido [cero] punto lógico del número a su saco [no] jaque a la 
tercera persona oblicua [yo] identidad imaginaria de la cópula y la disyunción [negro] color 
automático de las orillas en materia de movimiento [vacío] mensaje contracto del negativo de 
los objetos [incógnita] conjunto dispar de soluciones y raíces antes del árbol [significado] 
liquidar el poema de materia oscura
                  
                   del doble tan raro
                                   decirse no expresarse
                                                    aunque [yo] estuviera allí



                                           GAP-IN EQUIVALENCE

[nothing] an event from the word that articulates it [never] a dark time or worm hole [nobody]
an unthought extension of a vanished antinomy [null] the absolute value of abandonment [loss]
a misplacement in the proper direction [muteness] the semantic intention of a child's silence
[self] an impersonal atavistic howl [zero] the number's logical point in its sac [not] the 
oblique third person placed in check [i] imaginary identity of conjunction and disjunction 
[black] the automatic color of edges in the materialisation of motion [vacuum] a message shrunk from the 
negatives of photographic objects [unknown] a disparate set of solutions and roots preceding 
their tree [meaning] to wipe dark matter out of the poem

                   by such a rare double
                                  to tell oneself not to express oneself
                                                         even though as if [i] was there
 
6.

                                          WCW 1963 

amo las cosas esas cizañas que no dejan ver el mar el sabor oculto de las fresas perceptible 
solo en su consumación el zorzal una danza leve en la luz amarilla

hoy una mano escribe y la otra me hace viva la muerte

en otro tiempo el día era el ascenso mis manos ayudaban a nacer palpaban el dolor y la noche 
el descenso la medida variable de los huesos quebrados por la música

ahora el perro y la fiebre la oscuridad extensa donde nada tiene cura

van cayendo los ciegos los aros giran la espalda del desierto es la tortuga que sostiene el 
mundo


                                         WCW 1963


i love things those ryegrasses not letting you see the sea hidden taste of strawberries 
perceptible only in their consummation a thrush a light dance in the yellow light

today one hand is writing and the other is making death alive for me

in another time a day was the ascent my hands helped to give birth they touched pain and  night
the descent the variable measure of bones broken by music

Now the dog and the fever a vast darkness where nothing can be cured

the blind are falling rings are turning round the spine of the desert is the turtle supporting
the world
                                          ***

Translations from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop

                                          ***





ANGEL MINAYA (Madrid, 1964), a Bachelor in Hispanic Philology by the Complutense University of
Madrid, was also awarded in PhD in Linguistics by the Autonomous University of Madrid. 
A teacher of Literature and Language at a high school in that same Community, some of his poems
and critical reviews have been published by Nayagua literary e-zine. A few have also been 
included in the anthology Voces del extremo: Poesía y desobediencia (Madrid, 2014). 
Teorema de los lugares raros (Theorem of rare places) is his first published poetry collection
(El sastre de Apollinaire, Madrid, 2017).
http://www.elsastredeapollinaire.com/producto/teorema-de-los-lugares-raros/
https://www.facebook.com/angel.minayaechevarrena



Cartoon-Molecules/paperback/Robin Ouzman Hislop
  
 www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
  
 robin@artvilla.com


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

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Life, Books and Songs




Life, Books and Songs




Dates and times


30 Mar 2017 6pm – 10pm






Show Map


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).






Visit Website


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/

 

 

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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 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




 


 




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

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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


 


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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 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




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