El cuadrado de la distancia
No importa que estés
en el escenario del Verano
en el centro de sus desafíos.
Distante de sus fuegos
vas caminando a solas,
entre estatuas nevadas
por las piedras del puente
de Alejandro,
infinito.
Te miras caminar,
te ves mirando cómo el hielo cuaja
en islas efímeras,
corre río abajo,
se unce en un punto
lejos de aquí
—¿qué aquí?
entre nuevas orillas.
El relámpago es indecible.
Regresa entonces en sentido contrario,
recupera usos y costumbres,
el mar,
la arena muerta,
esta claridad,
mientras puedas.
Pero guarda en la sangre
como un pez,
el dulce fragor de lo distante.
The Square of the Distance
It doesn’t matter if you’re
on the stage of Summer
at the center of its challenges.
Far from its fires
you walk alone,
among snowed statues
along the stones of the
Alexander bridge,
infinite.
You look at yourself walk,
you see yourself looking at how the ice sets
in ephemeral isles,
runs downstream,
and comes together at a place
far from here
—what here?—
among new shores.
The bolt of lightning is unsayable.
Return then in the opposite direction,
recuperate habits and traditions,
the sea,
the dead sand,
this clarity,
while you can
But hold in your blood
like a fish
the sweet din of the distant.
Verano
Todo es azul,
lo que no es verde
y arde,
I.N.R.I.
—igne natura renovatur integra—
en este aceite grave del verano;
cae el que pesa el vuelo de los pájaros
y blasfema del pájaro sin vuelo,
cae la excrecencia verbal =
la agorería = el trofeo,
la joya sobre la vieja piel de siempre.
Quien se sienta a la orilla de las cosas
resplandece de cosas sin orillas.
Summer
All is blue
what’s not verdant
and burns,
I.N.R.I
—igne natura renovatur integra—
in this grave oil of summer;
the one who weighs the flight of birds falls
and curses the bird with no flight,
the verbal excrescence falls =
the prophesying = the prize,
the gem on the same old skin.
Who feels at the shore of things
shines of things with no shores.
Arqueologias
Ciega como culebra ciega,
nostalgia por el tiempo
del indefenso ser que fuimos.
Cuando nadie tensó lo frágil,
podó lo inútil,
guardó caricias para cuando no haya.
Alrededores fríos,
claraboya de cruda luz cruel
y abajo gestos de los solos
entre las aspidistras funerarias.
Afuera, nubes y nubes
se incendiaban espléndidas,
impías,
en otra historia.
¿Logré guardar un punto de ese sol
contra el deshielo de la nada,
contra todo?
Archaeologies
Blind as the blind snake,
nostalgia for the time
of the defenseless being we were.
When no one stretched the fragile,
cut back the useless,
kept caresses for when there would be no more.
Cold surroundings,
skylight of crude cruel light
and below gestures of the alone
among the funerary aspidistras.
Outside, clouds and clouds
ignited so splendid,
ungodly,
in another history.
Did I manage to hold on to a piece of that sun
against the thaw of nothingness,
against all?
Contra el tiempo
Allí, en lo indeciso que llevaba
al cuarto póstumo de la difunta
colocaron la nieve del muguete.
Esperé silenciosa
para ver si se daba a cantar significados,
un laúd que en lo desnudo de la infancia
iba a decir cuentos sin precauciones,
ofrecer la trepidación de un presagio.
Pero era gota del silencio,
para que nos calláramos,
simple
suntuosamente.
Su música,
constelación del blanco,
diamante,
campana de plata plácida,
aún toca a transparencias,
arriba, contra el tiempo, entre las luces.
Against Time
There, in the vagueness that led
to the posthumous room of the defunct
they placed the lily of the valley’s snow.
I waited silently
to see if it would lend itself to sing meanings,
a lute that in the nudeness of infancy
would tell stories without caveats,
offer the apprehension of an omen.
But it was a droplet of silence,
so that we would hush,
simple,
sumptuously.
Its music,
constellation of whiteness
diamond,
bell of still silver,
even now touches transparencies,
above, against time,
among the lights.
Del no saber
Muerte parecida a la vida parecida
a un jirón
que viento y lluvia
llevan.
Muerte-vida: ¿laberinto
en el fondo de un pozo
o estrellas lácteas?
Trampean las hermanas.
¿Es trompeta o carcoma?
On Not Knowing
Death looking like life looking
like a street
that wind and rain
take.
Death-life: labyrinth
in the depths of a well
or milky stars?
They trick the sisters.
Is it trumpet or woodworm?
Respuesta del derviche
Quizás
la sabiduría consista
en alejarse si algo vibra
a nuestro movimiento
(porque la horrible araña
cae sobre la víctima)
para ver,
refleja como una estrella,
la realidad distante.
De ese modo
la situación florece a nuestros ojos
—pierde
uno a uno
sus pétalos—
como una especie vista
por primera vez.
Y juzgaremos triste,
vano zurcido
que nada repara,
el dibujo trivial de nuestro gesto,
improbable amuleto
contra la emigración de las certezas.
(De Jardin de silice, 1980)
Reply of the Dervish
Maybe
wisdom consists in
retreating if something quivers
to our movement
(because the awful spider
falls on the victim)
to see,
like a star it reflects,
the distant reality.
In that way
the situation blossoms to our eyes
—it loses
one by one
its petals—
like a species seen
for the first time.
And we will judge sad,
vane mending
that nothing repairs,
the trivial drawing of our gesture,
doubtful amulet
against the migration of certainties.
(From Silica Garden, 1980)
Ida Vitale was born in 1923 in Montevideo, Uruguay. As a student of literature, she was inspired by the poetry of Gabriela Mistral, a fascination for nature, and the works of José Bergamín. During the Uruguayan military dictatorship, she lived in exile in Mexico from 1974 to 1984 with her second husband, Enrique Fierro, a poet and professor. They returned to Uruguay for a few years and eventually settled in Austin, Texas. In 2018, Vitale returned to the city of her birth. Vitale was a centripetal force of the Uruguayan literary and artistic movement known as the “Generación del ’45” [Generation of ‘45]. She has written numerous volumes of poetry and prose, including La luz de esta memoria (1949); Palabra dada (1953); Cada uno en su noche, poesía (1960); Oidor andante (1972); Fieles (1982); Sueños de la constancia (1988); Léxico de afinidades (1994); Procura de lo imposible (1998); Un invierno equivocado (1999); Reducción del infinito (2002); De plantas y animales (2003); El abc de byobu (2004); Trema (2005), and in 2017, Poesía reunida, a volume of complete works.
Vitale was conferred a doctor honoris causa by the Universidad de la República Oriental de Uruguay in 2010. She has received various awards, including the Octavio Paz Prize (2009); the Carlos Monsiváis Medal for Cultural Merit (2010); the Alfonso Reyes Prize (2014); the Reina Sofía Poetry Prize (2015); the Federico García Lorca Poetry Prize (2016); in France, the Max Jacob Prize (2017); in Guadalajara, the Romance Languages and Literature Prize; and, in Spain, the Cervantes Prize (2018).
Anna Deeny Morales is a dramatist, translator of poetry, and literary critic. Original works for contemporary dance, theater, and opera include La straniera (1997); Tela di Ragno (1999–2002); Cecilia Valdés (2018); and La Paloma at the Wall (2019). Her one-act opera libretto, ¡ZAVALA-ZAVALA!: an opera in v cuts, recently commissioned by the University of North Carolina, Charlotte, and composer Brian Arreola, will debut in 2021. A 2018 National Endowment for the Arts recipient for the translation of Tala by Gabriela Mistral, Deeny Morales has translated works by Raúl Zurita, Mercedes Roffé, Alejandra Pizarnik, Nicanor Parra, Amanda Berenguer, Malú Urriola, and Marosa di Giorgio, among others. She received a PhD from the University of California, Berkeley, and has taught at Harvard University and Dartmouth College. She currently teaches at Georgetown University, and her book manuscript, Other Solitudes, considers transamerican dialogues on consciousness and poetry throughout the last century.