>> Suzanne Shadl:
Good afternoon,
thank you for being here today.
Welcome to the Library
of Congress.
My name is Susanne
Shadl, I am the chief
of the Hispanic Division.
I have the privilege of
working with a tremendous team
of librarians, including several
in the audience, thank you all
for your work, to improve access
to diverse publications written
in Spanish, Portuguese, English
and several indigenous
languages of the Americas.
Today we are fortunate
to partner internally
with the Poetry and Literature
Center, and externally
with the Uruguayan Embassy.
If you're here for
"Another voice sings,
celebrating Uruguayan
women poets" you're
in the right place.
If you came for something else,
we hope you'll stay [laughter].
For me and my division
it is an honor
to welcome a tremendous
panel comprised of writers,
translators, teachers,
professors, for a reading
that celebrates the
strong tradition
of Uruguayan women poets,
and recent publications
reflecting four generations
of Uruguayan poetry,
written by women.
That's an important
thing for me today.
In addition to hearing
the work of Silvia Guerra,
who's here with us today,
you will also hear work
from Amanda Berenger,
Marosa Di Giorgio,
Circe Maia and Melissa Machado.
I have to plug my division in
the work they do to some extent
at these events, so if you're
not familiar with the handbook
of Latin American studies,
and you searched the handbook
or Latin American studies on
our catalogue which is online
and anybody has access
to it, you will find all
of these authors and
connections to other authors
and to other work, so I would
invite you to check that out
and see where those
lengths take you.
And if you prefer the
book format, volume 66,
actually has a very
important entry on our guest
of honor today, Silvia Guerra.
Okay. One plug, there's
more coming, I'm sorry.
This event is inspired by part
by a previous event called
"Celebrating Idea
Vilariño's poetry".
An audio file of that event can
also be found in our catalogue
by searching "Idea Vilariño".
I'm going to spell that
because I there it spelled that,
then the web address where
you're going to find it, okay?
So, the name in quotation
marks will take you
where you need to go.
Idea, I-D-E-A, Vilariño,
V-I-L-A-R-I-Ñ --
that's the N with the
little stinging on top,
in case there's anybody here
that isn't Spanish
speaking, O, okay.
Today we welcome Uruguayan
poet as I said, Silvia Guerra.
You have this information
in your --
hopefully you all have
a program, but I'm going
to go ahead for the
purpose of the audio
and tell you a little bit
about each of our speakers.
Her books include "Un mar
enmadrugado", "Pulso",
"Estampas de un tapiz".
She's also the author of
"Todo comienza lugar",
coedited with Cuban poet José
Kozer, and "Fuera de regato".
From 2009 to 2011
she was coeditor
of the seminal Uruguayan poetry
press "La flauta mágica".
In 2012 she received
the Morosoli Prize
in poetry for her career.
Yesterday Catalina Gomez, who
works in the Hispanic division,
taped Silva Guerra for our
archive of Hispanic literature
on tape, and eventually that
recording will be available
to all of you, but in the
meantime I hope you check
out that archive and see
what other Uruguayan poets
and writers and other
Latin American poets
and writers are there and you
can get there by going to www --
I'm going to give you
the website this time,
loc.gov/RR/Hispanic/archive,
okay?
Also, today we have several
other esteemed guests,
Jesse Lee Kercheval is
a translator and author
of 14 books of poetry,
fiction, non-fiction.
She specializes in
Uruguayan poetry.
Her translations include
"The invisible bridge",
"Selected poems of
Circe Maia" and "Fable
of an inconsolable man",
by Javier Echeverra.
She's also editor of "America
Invertida, an anthology
of emerging Uruguayan poets"
and "Earth, Water, Sky",
a bilingual anthology
of environmental poetry.
She was a 2016 NEA
translation fellow.
She is the sonagale
[phonetic] professor of poetry
at the University of
Wisconsin, Madison,
and she directs a program
in creative writing,
and she might stand at this
podium more than I do today.
Also, we have in
attendance and participating
with us Jeannine
Pitas, a writer, teacher
and Spanish English
literary translator.
She's the author of two poetry
checkbooks, and the translator
of several Uruguayan poets
including Selva Casal
and Marosa di Giorgio.
She's published translations
of acclaimed Uruguayan writer
Marosa Di Giorgio's work.
I remember "Nightfall" and
"The history of violets".
She's an assistant professor
at the University of --
oh my gosh, Debuke,
that's what I thought,
and then I just flipped
at it and thought,
"that sounds strange".
I know. And then also we
have with us Seth Michelson,
who is a poet and
translator, whose collections
of poetry include
"Swimming through fire",
"Eyes like broken windows",
"Cottage for my unborn son"
and "Maestro of Brutal
splendor".
His translations include
the books "The ghetto"
by Tamara Kamenszain and
Uruguayan poets Victoria Estol,
Oro Lipodri [phonetic] and
Melissa Machado, "The red hour".
He currently teaches the
poetry of the Americas
at Washington and
Lee University.
Thank you all for being
here, and I look forward
to hearing everyone else speak.
[ Applause ]
>> Jesse Lee Kercheval:
Thank you so much for coming.
This is a great privilege
and honor.
I want to thank everyone at the
Hispanic division who has been
so supportive of my work,
and Rob Casper and people
in the Port Lloyd's office,
and the Uruguayan Embassy,
and all of Washington DC --
well, maybe not all of
Washington DC [laughter].
I wanted just to
say a little bit
about why this is a celebration
of Uruguayan women's
poetry and why --
I'm so obsessed with it.
It's a tradition that's
just amazing to me.
Uruguay is a country
of 3.3 million people,
the smallest Spanish speaking
country in Latin America.
It's a country full of poets.
My joke is they produce two
things in world class level
on super abundance, which is
the soccer players and poets,
but besides that, it has a
long tradition of poetry.
But it has this really amazing
tradition of poetry by women.
And this is important in
an era where, even now,
I'd buy a great,
big, fat anthology
of Latin American
poetry, edited by people
who they really know what
they're doing, and there are two
or three women poets
in the whole thing.
And there are many
more good women poets
and that just in Uruguay.
And the tradition specially
gets started at turn
of the 20th century, with poets
like Maria Eugenia Vaz
Ferreira and Ramiro Agustini.
And we don't start quite that
far back, but we're really going
to cover quite a run
almost up to the present,
and that is we're going
to have some poetry
by some of the poets.
There's something called
"The Generation of 45",
which was the great flowering
of literature in Uruguay.
And we have poems
by Amanda Berenger,
and there's a wonderful new
anthology of work coming out
and Ana Dini -- Ana -- who's
going to be reading some
of her translations, it'll
be in that anthology.
And [inaudible] by Idea
Vilariño, who is, again,
a really essential poet
that we had a reading just
of her work two years ago.
And then, that's the people born
in the 20s, and then you sort
of jump up to people who
are born in the 1930s,
we're going to have the work by
the amazing Morosa Di Giorgio
and Jeannine Pitas
is her translator,
and it's a wonderful new
book called, I remember,
"Nightfall" out of her work.
And the poet Selva
Casal who I adore.
Jeannine is just starting
to bring it to English.
It's really not been
available in English before.
And also born in the
30s is Cirse Maia,
the poet that I translated
for this book from Pittsburgh,
"The invisible bridge".
And so, that's starting out
so, that's the 20s and the 30s,
and then we move forward
to Silva, who is a --
you know, a several
decades ahead,
and right now we're just really
privileged to have her with us.
She's really one of the most
important living women poets
in Uruguay, especially
someone who is,
you know, of her generation.
I'd just have to say Ida
Vitale who is in the generation
of the 20s is still alive.
Uruguayan women poets,
they live forever.
But Silvia Guerra is really an
important Uruguayan women poet.
And she's really been
at the center of poetry,
which she works in poetry
foundation, she's worked
for presses, she's doing
interviewing poetry,
really works hard to move
forward this tradition.
And Jeannine Pitas -- and I will
be reading translations of hers.
We've just started
translating her work.
And then to close or sort,
the youngest person
will be Melissa Machado,
who is just in her 40s
and Michaels Seth
translated her book
which she was published
here last year.
Now, we won't be reading in
that order, we're reading
in the order that's in the
program, but I just wanted
to give you a sense of the
sweep, from people born
in the 1920s, to
people born, you know,
just at the end of
the last century.
And, really if we wanted
to and we have time,
we can go all the
way down to poets
who are publishing books now and
being discovered in anthologies
in Uruguay who are
in their 17, 18, 22.
It's just this constant
flowering
of Uruguayan women
poets, and this tradition
that makes each woman aware of
the possibility of being a poet.
And I'm talking about
being serious,
well-known public intellectual,
not someone, you know,
who writes secretly and it's
discovered after they're gone.
So, I really feel
this is something
that should be better
known outside of Uruguay,
and I hope you feel the same
way after you hear the poetry.
Thank you.
[ Applause ]
>> ¿Está bien?
>> Silvia Guerra: ¿Ahí sí?
Bueno, buenas tardes.
Estoy muy contenta
de estar acá.
Esto que voy a leer se llama
"Ese espacio que es mío".
Este libro es un libro que
salió en Buenos Aires.
Para nosotros es importante
decirlo porque el Río de la
Plata funciona un poco como
Río de la Plata entonces,
para el Uruguay Buenos
Aires es muy importante.
Somos como una especie
también de región, ¿no?
El Río de la Plata.
Este libro salió en Buenos
Aires en una editorial que la
llevan adelante tres poetas
mujeres que se llaman Dolores
Echecopar, María Mascheroni
y María del Carmen Colombo.
Y me gusta nombrarlas porque
me parece que está bien.
Siempre le tengo que agradecer
a Jesse todo lo que ha hecho con
la traducción y bueno,
a Jeannine, pero digo,
Jesse es como la persona que ha
ido al Uruguay y ha traído a
los uruguayos para acá.
Este poema se llama "Ese
espacio que es mío".
"Ese espacio de cielo, ese
que es mío, en la palma,
pedazo de arena, salvia, viento.
¿Qué puede demostrar al
mundo uno o dos dientes,
de sombrero ladeado,
de aguafiestas?
Todo es un torbellino.
El silbido del viento,
la claridad previa del
trueno detrás de la isla,
los postibones verdes.
Ese espacio de cielo, las rocas
justas que entran en la ventana,
Javier por la bajada,
el chorro de agua.
¿Qué son ahora
uno o dos dientes?
¿El hincapié?
¿La angustia?
¿Qué son ahora los dientes de
Drácula de plástico olvidados
en el lavabo de un
baño que no es mío?
¿Quién va a decirme
a mí lo que era mío?
¿Quién va a explicarme
a mí lo que me resta?
Me aguarda un paraíso de
ramas extendidas que para en
la caída.
Me aguarda una arboleda,
muchedumbre de árboles
juntados esperándome.
Ese espacio de cielo
reservado, salvia, viento.
Ese espacio de cielo,
estoy segura."
>> Jesse Lee Kercheval: Silvia
was saying this was a book
of verses that was published
in Argentina last year.
There's a sort of
culture that Argentina
and Uruguay share
Rioplatense culture.
And it's an anthology all
selected of her books.
"That space is mine, that
space of sky is mine,
in the palm, a bit of sand.
Sage, wind, what can
I show the world?
One or two teeth like a
tilted hat, a squeal sport.
Everything is a whirlwind.
The whistling wind,
the early clarity
of thunder behind the
island, the green shutters.
That space of sky, the precise
rocks fitting into the window.
Javier going down,
the jet of water.
What are they now?
One, two teeth?
The stress, the anguish?
What are the plastic Dracula
teeth now, forgotten in the sink
of a bathroom that is not mine.
Who is going to explain
to me what is mine?
Who is going to tell
me what remains for me?
I await a paradise of
outstretched branches that fall.
I wait a grove, a stack of
trees together, waiting for me.
That space of private
sky, sage and wind.
That space of sky,
I am certain".
>> Silvia Guerra: Esto se
llama "La copa de alabastro",
y es un conjunto
de varios poemas.
Este es el número uno.
"Una fisura se tiñe con la
niebla que inicia en la llanura.
Verde del jade oblicuo que da
la transparencia que es medada.
Hojas de espeso tinte,
aroma que desciende.
Fragor de ese principio
como vacuo,
condena desde el tinte al
aroma, durazno que recubre.
Sonrosa la línea
y va sonriendo.
Pide de su dulzor
al cardenal azul.
Cardenalicio moretón de celo.
Rosa en la ventana del espanto
el azul tinte, de morada medusa.
No mora donde acusa
y va de luto.
Golpeando la cabeza
contra el vidrio,
el roto cardenal abre de
rosas la cumbre del brazo.
La curva que la dicha
no quisiera.
Es tarde. Deben abandonarlo todo
con sangre entre los dientes.
Con el espeso aroma de las
hojas humeantes de la niebla.
Batirse en retirada a duelo,
sobre las alas de ese inmenso
albatros disecado colgando desde
el techo del sepulcro.
Dorada bóveda de brillos,
blandir en el trasluz del
fuego la mano echada en aguas,
soñar de crisantemos.
Al levantar el mando
que es la niebla,
está la espejada de
luz con manantial,
el fruto de la aurora.
Tajo en la frente
mórbida, sombría,
eje de evanescencia,
distraído."
>> Jeannine Pitas: This is
called "The alabaster cup",
and it's a series of a few
poems, this is the first one.
"A crack is stained with fog
that begins on the flat plane.
Green from the oblique jade,
that gives transparency,
also negates it.
Leaves of thick dye,
aroma that falls,
clamoring at the
somewhat empty start.
Condemnation from the dye to
the aroma, peach that covers.
The line blushes and smiles,
asks for its sweetness
of the blue bruise,
bruise of jealousy.
Rose in the window of fear, the
blue dye of purple jellyfish.
Doesn't live where he
accuses and mourns.
Banging his head
against the glass,
the broken bruise opens the
roses, the curve of the arm,
the curve that happiness
wouldn't want.
It is late, they
must leave everything
with blood between their teeth.
With the thick aroma of
leaves damp from the fog.
To be beat the retreat
from a duel, on the wings
of that immense stuffed
albatross,
handing from the
sealing of the tomb.
Gilded vault of shackles,
brandishing in the
hand the light
of the fire made of petty coats.
Dreaming of chrysanthemums
by lifting the cloak
that is the fog.
There's the translucency
of light with spring.
The fruit of the dawn, a cut
on the morbid forehead, somber,
axis of evanescence,
distracted".
>> Silvia Guerra:
Esto se llama "Cloto".
"Afuera, en el cóncavo
espejo que es ahora,
un fino entretejido se suspende.
Alguien habla de dos,
otros de cifras que son
inmensas cantidades.
La ascendencia se pierde
en estratos que no tienen
demasiada importancia.
Se nombran los caminos, los
pasos, los pequeños jilgueros.
Se camina sonriendo por la
empinada cuesta con las botas
sucias del barro del camino.
Se llenan los carrillos,
los rojos, los sonrientes,
de un aire que allá arriba
se dice que es purísimo.
Y se habla de la guerra,
del color de la guerra,
y aparecen los muertos en
fila con el plato vacío.
Me preguntan algo
que no entiendo.
No entiendo qué me dicen,
no entiendo qué hago
ahí, por qué me siguen.
Yo no sé qué hacer
y ellos tampoco".
>> Jesse Lee Kercheval:
This poem is titled "Cloto".
It's one of the great figures
who measures out the thread,
gives you the length
of your life.
"Cloto. Outside in the
concave mirror that is now,
a fine interweaving
is suspended.
Someone speaks of two, other
figures of immense quantities.
The lineage gets lost on layers
that don't hold much importance.
Paths, country houses, little
gold finches are named.
He walks smiling down the
steep slope with boots dirty
from the mud of the road.
The cheeks, the red, the smiling
are filled with the air that way
up there they say is so pure.
And they talk of war,
of the color of war,
and the dead appear in line
with their empty plates.
They ask me for something
I don't understand.
I don't understand what
they're saying to me,
I don't understand
what I'm doing here,
why they are following me.
And I don't know what to do,
and they don't know either".
>> Silvia Guerra:
"La esperanza".
"Siempre, como un punto
blanco y arrasante.
Una luz de pura esencia
necesaria, incandescente.
Cegada por la luz,
la boca abierta,
palpita algo en el
valle, ruido de agua,
hojas de eucalipto perfumado.
Algo de paz se recoge
sobre el oro esparcido.
Algo parecido a la
misericordia queda"
>> Jeannine Pitas: "Hope".
"Always, like a white and
devastating point of light,
of pure essential
essence, incandescent.
Blinded by light, open mouth,
something throbs in the valley.
Noise of water, leaves
of perfumed eucalyptus.
Some peace gathers on
the scattered gold,
something similar
to mercy remains".
>> Silvia Guerra: Bueno,
esta es la última.
Bueno, les agradezco de vuelta.
Le agradezco mucho a Jesse
y a todos los traductores,
porque yo creo que así
es como se hace la vida.
Esto tiene un número
que es el número 32.
"En la otra punta de la línea
se balancea la impotencia,
pero en medio está todo.
Pugnando por su forma imposible,
acumulándose en el
producimiento interminable.
Se huele, se oye un ruido de
fondo que acelera su pulso.
Emerge de los sueños mezclada
con la niebla en jirones,
crujiendo de asombro
en la penumbra.
Acunada, y el diálogo
amoroso que descansa en la paz
del laurel.
Preferís el mes de tierra
removida como marca el recuerdo,
y esa voz que se escucha en
los andenes de alta velocidad
repite, 'no te creas',
'no te creas',
'no te creas', 'no te creas'.
Se sostiene porque la sola vida,
la sola manera de estar
vivo ha dictado esa cifra,
que gotea en la especificidad
del tramo.
Aparece en los ojos la
perdición justo cuando la
enfermedad daba la vuelta.
La proyección tira del
halo más allá, que jala.
Ya nadie sabrá nada.
Solamente retumba en los
andenes al compás del zumbido,
y parece que dice 'chajá',
'chajá', 'chajá'".
>> Jesse Lee Kercheval:
A note for the word
at the end of this poem.
"Chajá", which is the name of
a bird, a large bird indigenous
to Uruguay, it has
a very loud sound.
If you want to know what
it really sounds like,
you have to Google the words
"screaming chicken" [laughter].
"On the other end of the line
balances the helplessness,
in the middle is everything.
Fighting for its
impossible form, accumulating
in ceaseless production,
you smell,
you hear the background noise
which quickens its pulse.
It emerges from dreams
mixed with tatters of fog,
squeaking with astonishment
in the half life.
Rocking and loving dialogue
rests on peace laurels.
You prefer the month of plowed
earth as marked by memory
and that voice that's
heard on the high speed
of platforms repeating, 'don't
believe it', 'don't believe it',
'don't believe it',
'don't believe'.
It holds because the
only life, the only way
of being alive has
dictated that number,
that drips into the
specificity of the stretch.
Perdition appears in the eyes,
just when the illness
is taking a turn.
The projection pulls
the halo further away.
That tug, no one will
know anything anymore.
Only the voice booming on the
platform to the beat of the hum
and it seems to say,
'chajá, chajá, chajá".
>> Gracias.
[ Applause ]
>> Suzanne Schadl: Thank you.
I omitted one person when I
was introducing the others so,
if our other translators
could come up,
I'd like to introduce
another one.
Anna Deeny Morales,
is with us also today.
She's translated
several collections
of Raul Zurita's poetry,
including "Purgatory"
and "Sky bellow".
Other translations
include "Floating lanterns"
by Mercedes Roffe [phonetic],
as well has her translations
of Alejandra Pizarnik,
which are included
in "Pinholes in the night".
Enter translations of the
Uruguayan poet Amanda Berenger.
She's a translator and
adjunct professor at the Center
for Latin American Studies
at Georgetown University
just down the road.
So, thank you, Ana.
[ Applause ]
>> Anna Deeny: Thank
you so much to Suzanne
for receiving us here
today, Catalina Gomez,
Jesse first of all for
organizing this beautiful event,
the Hispanic division and the
people of poetry and literature.
And thanks to all of you
for taking the time to come
out here today, it's
great to see you all.
So, I'm going to read four
poems by Amanda Berenger
and one poem by Idea Vilariño.
Amanda Berenger was born in
1921 and she died in 2020.
She was a prolific poet of
the "Generación del 45",
and like many of
her contemporaries,
Berenger's poetry often
represents meaning under siege.
She wrote this book
that I'll read
from during the Uruguayan
dictatorship,
which was from 1973 to 1985.
So, this is from the
identity of certain fruits,
"la identidad de
ciertas frutas",
which was published in 1982.
"Uno, la manzana.
Con las manzanas
deliciosamente conozco el deseo,
descubro la salud, y esa larva
de muerte que se lleva en medio
del esplendor.
Ser como la manzana
implica todas las culpas,
pero es excitante la propuesta.
La manzana es brillante
y peligrosa.
Una sola puede incendiar
un huerto.
Ser como la manzana es estar
en la alta fiesta del día,
toda de lazo rojo y diamantes,
y llevar en el índice
enguantado un anillo de sombra".
"One, the apple.
By way of apples deliciously
I come upon desire.
Discover, wellbeing, and
that larva of death folded
in the midst of splendor.
To be as the apple involves all
fault, but the proposal thrills.
The apple is brilliant
and dangerous.
One alone can flame an orchard.
To be as the apple is to be
at the high dance of day,
all red satin and diamonds
and on a gloved finger
wear, a ring of dusk".
"Nine -- nueve, los higos.
Tiene sangre el fruto
de la higuera,
y destila su néctar tenaz, su
culposo jarabe, sigilosamente.
Ha habido un crimen,
una violación bajo
las grandes hojas.
Yo observaba, embebida
a través de las ramas.
Los higos cuelgan maduros,
amoratados, remordimientos.
Los higos cuelgan del árbol
como murciélagos de melaza,
como ahorcados por robar
un manojo de lujuria".
"Nine, the figs.
The fig trees' fruit
holds blood,
and distills its
tenacious nectar,
its guilty syrup
surreptitiously.
A crime was committed, a
violation under the wide leaves.
I watched, drunk
through the branches.
The ripe figs hang black
and blue of regrets.
Figs hang from the tree,
like molasses bats,
like people hanged for
robbing a fistful of lust".
"18, las guindas".
A Marosa Di Giorgio.
"De las guindas guardo su
retrato, su pintura ardiente,
el rincón vivo de
una naturaleza muerta.
Su vibrante vocación
de licoristas.
Guardo su retrato
protegido por el vidrio.
Desde los frascos labrados,
desde las sombreadas alas,
desde los aparadores
con cristales,
custodian sus pequeños senos
de púrpura prisionera en recato
y arrogamiento.
Las visitas no beben
ya guindado,
las visitas no son visitas.
Las tías y las amigas de las
tías tienen en la mano una
copita vacía".
"18, the cherries"
for Marosa Di Giorgio.
"Of cherries I keep her
image, her fervent paint,
the living alcove
of a still life.
The vibrant call of distillers.
I keep her image
safeguarded by the glass.
From ornamented jars,
from shaded halls,
for the credenza cabinet
displays they look
after her small breasts
purple prisoner
in restraint and rapture.
Guests no longer
drink cherry liquor.
Guests are not who
they used to be.
The aunts and the friends
of the aunts each hold a
cordial, and it's empty".
"20, las castañas dos".
"En otras ramas del árbol
renacen otras castañas.
Estamos en Montevideo.
Verano u otoño quizás.
Miro una evanescente
bombonería,
miro las hojas de espejo
con iniciales detrás,
en su caja maleada de festón y
puntillas, están los capullos,
los cofres, bajo un
blanco pétalo glaseado.
La bella durmiente del bosque,
la princesa extranjera
Majón Glasé,
serenísimas y lujosas
crisálidas.
Entonces, vuela una extraviada
imagen, las castañas desnudas,
cubiertas de plata
resplandecen imposibles".
"20, the chestnuts two.
On other branches of the tree
other chestnuts are born again.
We're in Montevideo.
Maybe summer or fall.
I see an evanescent candy store.
I see the initial
mirrored leaves.
Behind in her box lined with
festoon and point lace, there,
the bugs, the treasures.
Below a white glassed petal.
The sleeping beauty
of the woods,
the foreign princess
Majón Glasé, such serene
and luxuriant chrysalises.
Then a lost image glides through
the air, the naked chestnuts,
covered in silver, they
resplend impossibly".
And this poem is
by Idea Vilariño
who was born a year before
Amanda Berenger in 1920,
and died a year before
Amanda Berenger in 2009,
also from la "Generación del
45", the generation of 45.
This was published
in an anthology
of Latin American poetry
selected by Raul Zurita,
edited by Forest Gander and it's
called "Pinholes in the night",
published by Copper Cannon.
"Ya no. Ya no será.
Ya no, no viviremos juntos,
no criaré a tu hijo.
No coseré tu ropa, no
te tendré de noche,
no te besaré al irme,
nunca sabrás quién fui,
por qué me amaron otros.
No llegaré a saber por
qué ni cómo nunca,
ni si era verdad lo que dijiste
que era ni quién fuiste ni
quién fui para ti, ni cómo
hubiera sido vivir juntos.
Querernos, esperarnos, estar.
Ya no soy más que yo para
siempre y tú ya no serás para
mí más que tú.
Ya no estás en un día futuro.
No sabré dónde vives, con
quién ni si te acuerdas.
No me abrazarás nunca
como esa noche, nunca.
No volveré a tocarte.
No te veré morir".
"Not any more.
This won't be, not anymore.
We won't live together,
I won't raise your son.
I won't sew your clothes,
I won't have you at night.
I won't kiss you as I leave.
You'll never know who I
was, why others loved me.
I will never know
why or how ever,
or if it was even true what you
said it was or who you were,
or who I was for you, or
how it might have been
to live together.
To love one another, to
wait for each other, to be.
I no longer more than I forever,
and you won't be any
more than you for me.
You're no longer
in a future day.
I won't know where you live with
who, or if you even remember.
You'll never hold me
like that night, never.
I will never touch you again.
I won't see you die".
Gracias.
[ Applause ]
>> Seth Michelson: Hello
everybody, I'm Seth Michelson.
Great to be here,
thank you for coming.
Thank you to Rob Casper,
thank you to the Spanish
Division, Susanne.
Thank you very much, Catalina
Gomez for all your help.
It's an honor and
pleasure to be with you.
Thank you, Jesse Lee
Kercheval, for all that you do.
Thank you, Cilia, for your long
journey, and it's great to be
with Amandine Morales,
a fabulous translator.
And Jeanine Pitas, it's
wonderful to be with you too.
I'm going to read first from
a book called "The red song",
that it's translated by a
relatively young, in the context
of what we've been
discussing, poet,
Melissa Machado, born in 1961.
She's an Uruguayan poet.
Her imagery can be surreal,
the language can be difficult,
the syntax wonderfully vibrant
in its innovative creativity.
So, you're going to
have to listen close
and I hope you're not too tired.
So, here we go.
Maybe a test of the cycles
that she works through.
This is from "The red song"
put up by action books
under Johana Sorenson's
visionary direction
of the press.
Preamble. "I am lighter, before
strangers I sing [inaudible].
The prosperity of my tongue,
white animals, black animals,
poison liquids, clear water,
the resurrection of the flesh,
resurrection in all its forms,
sin, extreme unction, my scars.
The Sinai song that hospital,
love, white sheets, barbed wire,
poems that look like this.
Illicit love, the
size of my hope.
Licit love, the vacancy of some.
Twilight of my life, my face in
the mirror after, clean scent.
Urine scent of the
old and sick".
"Cats, descent, dampness
in all its forms,
imperfection, iron, truth.
The delicate skin of
eyelids, canvas, closet,
the word 'purity', yellow
benches, clarity, forgetting".
"The black song", one.
"I've seen you, brother combing
my hair like you'd pet a dog.
Night flowers gesturing,
the body as stem.
Hands extended to tongue.
And the scanction of my
head, bread of beatitudes".
Two, "I sleep now
with folded wings,
lying in a wordless groove.
I chew the dark fruit,
bittersweet like bread.
Frozen honey, godless mask,
all the coupled black animals".
Three, "perfection is this
ice, water startling the feet.
Eyes licked by fever, taste of
the name dissolve in the mouth".
Four, "at the end of
hands, darkness is as soft
as your tongue, trailing
across my brain".
Five, "vertigo curdles
in your eyes,
an anguish of fish swallows
the stone of your tongue.
Lucid birds at the
edge of clavicles".
Six, "your ear bones cut
flowers hidden from rain.
Your silence is perfect, like
a wineskin that won't drip.
Nothing is left of me, just
the light shooting through".
Seven, "the packs of
dogs maws cresses,
shreds the anguish
of your breath.
Octopus hair tangled in
fingers, legs pure as luces.
There's no higher power
than these, my clavicles".
Eight, "give me a glass of
water from your icy lap.
Keep my teeth from freezing,
shred this flower
sprouting under my tongue".
Nine, "take my flesh
unbound, this weak pulse,
protect me from wrinkles
of gawl.
The acrid verb.
I, who breaded my dead into
my hair, who sprayed myself
with their scent, want to
go back to sowing my heart".
So, that's some of Melissa.
A beautiful poet, and I'm just
going to throw in a bonus poet,
who's very young, born in 1983.
Victoria Estol, and this is
book put out by "Toad" Press
under Genevieve Kaplan's
direction, out in Los Angeles.
And it's just one
poem by Victoria,
from a book called
"Rolley Polley".
It's titled in Spanish
"Bicho bola", from Yaguaru,
the wonderful press
town in Montevideo.
And this is Victoria Estol.
"The bees use their stingers to
carve poems intro tree trunks,
and the grasshoppers
are beautiful
with their sad, attentive eyes.
And all that we didn't
see during winter,
because we believed it
frozen, begins to whisper,
and suddenly we realize
we're surrounded by beauty.
Pure, quiet beauty, which
is the most glorious kind,
because its musicality
is almost inaudible.
But if one listens hard
enough, it can be heard
like a termite working
on a violin".
Not one of those
[inaudible] hopefully.
"It can be heard like a
termite working on a violin,
that no one has touched
in years,
but that the bug makes
sing while destroying it
or not, who knows?"
Thank you very much.
[ Applause ]
>> Jeannine Pitas:
"I remember nightfall
and the varooms open door
through which neighbors
and angels came in,
and the clouds,
November evening clouds drifting
in circles over the land.
The little trees burden
with jasmine, with doves
and droplets of water.
That joyous pealing,
that endless chirping,
every evening the same.
And then, the next morning,
with its tiny dead angles thrown
everywhere like paper birds,
or the most exquisite
of eggshells.
Your dazzling death".
This is Marosa Di Giorgio
who lived from 1932 to 2004.
All of these poems were
published in the 1960s and 1970s
in Spanish originally.
"That summer the
grapes were blue.
Each one big, smooth,
without facets.
They were totally
strange, fabulous,
shining with an awful
blue brilliance.
On the paths through the
vines you could hear them,
growing with the deep,
outrageous murmur.
And in the air there was
always the perfume of violets.
Even the plants which were not
grapevines produced grapes.
Butterflies came
from all directions,
the most absurd,
the most unusual.
From the four cardinal points
came the forest roosters
with their wide wings,
their heads of pure gold.
My father dared to kill a
few of them and got rich.
But grapes were bursting
out from everywhere.
A big, rough, blue bunch even
emerged from the wardrobe,
ancient wood, and lasted
forever like a poet.
The gladiolas it's a spear, its
edge loaded with carnations,
a knife of carnations.
It jumps through the
window, kneels on the table.
It's a vagrant flame, burning
up our papers, our dresses.
Mama swears that a
dead man has risen.
She mentions her father and
mother and starts to cry.
The pink gladiolas
opened up in our house,
but scare it off, tell it to go.
That crazy lily is
going to kill us.
Last night it came
back again, the shadow.
Even though 100 years
had passed,
we recognized it immediately.
It floated past the
guardian of violets,
the bedroom, the kitchen.
It circled around the syrup
jars, the plates white as bones,
the syrup jars that
smelled like roses.
It went back to the bedroom,
interrupted lovemaking,
embraces.
Those who were awake
lay with fixed eyes,
those who were sleeping,
still saw it.
The mirror in which
it either saw itself,
or didn't see itself,
collapsed and shattered.
It seemed like it
wanted to kill someone,
but then it floated
out to the garden.
It was spinning,
digging in the same spot,
as if there were a
corpse buried beneath.
The poor cow grazing close
to the violets went crazy.
She groaned like a
woman or like a wolf.
But the shadow took off
flying, off towards the south.
It will return within
a century".
I'm still happy to hear
some of you laughing.
Di Giorgio's meant to be funny.
And I mean, if you
heard her read it --
I mean, yes, I would read one
in Spanish but in the interest
of time I will just read one
more poem by another poet
from her generation, Selva
Casal, who was born possibly
in 1929, possibly in the 1930s,
different sources
say different things.
She's still living
and she won't tell me.
So, she is a former penal lawyer
and professor of sociology
who wrote this book during
the time of the dictatorship,
and lost her job before it.
So, you know, some people paid
with more than that for standing
up for what they believed,
but she still paid a price
for standing up for
what she believes
and that's what I
admire about her so much.
"There's no sea anymore,
there are bullets.
You come back from the
wave and move forward.
The bullet hisses, it
hisses on the golden foam.
Foam, blood, sea.
Today an absurd man in
growing in your eyes.
He has neither sea nor house.
He's the everyday world,
violent to the point of delirium
that grabs you by the
feet, snatches you,
climbs up your feet
and devours you.
Lays you out naked
and alone over death,
over a landscape of flies.
There's no sea anymore,
there are bullets.
There's this world, awarded
blood, parades, assaults.
Later, they put on
statistician's voices and speak
of a democratic system".
Thank you so much.
[ Applause ]
>> Jesse Lee Kercheval:
Thanks again.
I'm going to close with
two poems by Cirse Maya,
was born in the 1930s.
And actually, the poem Jeannine
read set up this one very well,
which is that in Uruguay
the poem are written
at certain period
during the dictatorship,
and if you read them
knowing that,
you think differently
of the poem.
And so, Cirse Maia's
husband, who was a doctor,
was sent to prison
during the dictatorship
and she didn't really know
whether she would ever see
him again.
This poem is called "Treason".
"The last son did not say
to him 'I am the last son'.
Nothing prepared him.
The water spilt over his body
and you didn't know
this was the way
that the water said 'goodbye'.
He did not know.
No one told him anything.
When night came, it came to
stay, and he never knew".
And then we're going to read
the last poem in the book,
and it's called "Invitation".
And it's pretty
self-explanatory,
but it also has a
backstory for me and that is
when you go visit Cirse Maia,
in Uruguay, which is a country
of 3.3 million people,
1.5 million live
in the capital, Montevideo.
Nearly all the poets
live in the capital,
even if they were
born somewhere else.
It has that kind of
Paris attraction.
But Cirse Maia lives
in Tacuarembó,
which is a five-hour bus
trip, I can tell you,
having made it many times
upwards the Brazilian boarder.
But when you go to visit
her, when I go to visit her,
Silvia and I went to a
wonderful visit this last spring
to interview her.
When young poets make this
trip to her door, she takes you
through the house and out
to her back-wall garden
to sit under her lemon tree.
So, if you think of that when
you have a poet address you
in this palm, that would
be the right vision.
And Cirse, I have to say,
is the most lovely
person I've ever met.
"Invitation".
"I would like you to hear my
voice, wish I could hear yours.
Yes, yes, I'm talking to you,
silent case that runs
over these lines.
You disapprove, perhaps,
of this impossible desire
to escape paper and ink.
What would we say to each other?
I don't know, but it has to be
better that when I was talking
to myself, turning
phrases, sounds, placing
and removing parenthesis
and putting them in again.
If your voice interrupts and
breaks this very line, come in.
I was waiting for you, this way.
Let's go into the garden,
there are fruit trees,
you will see, come".
Thank you.
[ Applause ]
>> Rob Casper: Thank you, Jesse
Lee, thank you Silvia and thanks
to all of our translators.
Thank you all for coming up, my
name is Rob Casper, I'm the head
of the Poetry and Literature
Center, and I'm just going
to finish things up today by
saying a couple of things.
One, you should all have
an event survey next
to you, near you.
Please do fill it out.
You can leave it on the
chair, you can hand it to me,
you can hand it to anyone
else involved in this program.
It's very useful for us to find
out what you think
about this program.
Secondly, we have an exciting
event coming up on Saturday
if you happen to be here in DC.
Please come back here 1:30p.m
upstairs in the room LG119
for the road back, "Bets
in literary writing".
We'll have acclaimed,
veteran poet Bruce Waggle,
and some cowboy poets,
Bill Jones, West Quinland
and Dave Richmond, there with
their favorite rural one writers
in connection with the
exhibit that we have,
and then they'll show us
lectures of their work.
You can also find out more about
literary events at the library
at www.loc.gov/poetry
and you can check
out the Hispanic division's
reading room page to find
out more about Hispanic
division events.
Thanks for coming out -- and
there are also books for sale
in the back so, go
get some books,
maybe you get some signatures
and hope to see you again soon.
Thank you.
[ Applause ]
.