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I was born and raised in Buenos Aires. The end of my childhood was marked by the military dictatorship, which also constituted the background of my entire adolescence. After that ended, the public university was a party, a burst of color and ideas, of mixing, of hopes.
Strictly speaking, I already knew a lot about mixtures, although less politically and socially than religiously, because of the double family imprint: Judeo-Christian. To those two traditions I dedicated sensitive studies and experiences during my entire life, until today.
At the Universidad de Buenos Aires, I oriented myself towards classical philology and Latin American literature, and in particular Argentina. Thus I prepared myself as a philologist, specialist in rhetoric, literary criticism and studies of women and gender. Always surrounded by the music, I was inclined to poetry since childhood. I am also a narrator (and less frequently, playwright).
Idealistic, even to when it is painful, I think humor often saves or revives us. And the language shelters a privileged place for it – the other is the image. I feel classical and modern in my tastes, and somewhat anachronistic in several aspects. I am amazed at the scientific and technological leaps forward, which I respect and use with joy, although I take my distance.
I will not talk here now about my published books or other activities or acknowledgments received. My life and my practices are modest, I rescue the sunsets every day, I walk. I need a lot of silence, and that greater homeland that is nature, of which I am a constantly admiring and grateful daughter.
Like others, I recognize that reading is essential for me, not only as a source of work, but as an unalterable passion and breath of subsistence. Almost six thousand years is a lot to not be tired but, while we do not know how many more we have left, we must try to continue repairing the world and smiling. Personally, among other things, I intend to continue writing.
María Gabriela Mizraje
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“Y veo camellos” en forma de canción. “And I See Camels” in song form.
Música y voz de Narciso Saúl/Music and Voice by Narciso Saúl
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Y veo camellos
Y veo camellos
cargan cera bálsamo y mirra
y veo camellos
el cielo ha puesto un cíngulo en sus ojos
Yo descorro los velos y camino
senderos de gueulá de redenciones
múltiples como arena
como nidos
donde florece el ala cenicienta
donde todo fulgor es venidero
y los camellos
cruzan
la ruta milenaria el precipicio
tornasol de los pasos adosados
pasos adivinados pasos vivos
los camellos
que beben de mis sueños
y prometen mis horas
y arrastran mi memoria
Y veo camellos
como estrellas flotantes en la noche infinita
brazos de las arenas
del desierto
ruedas en que la música más quieta
se abre a eterno murmullo
y veo camellos
descansa caravana el vasto sueño
un perfume dorado ciñe el vientre
del viento que es después antes ahora
y dispersa los días
y concentra las manos
Se echan sobre la arena
mis camellos
y veo bajo la arena
más camellos
brillan sus osamentas como lunas
que ha vertido la tierra hacia los cielos
miran junto a los rollos enterrados
el futuro del mundo
que no cesa
pulsan con viejos signos lo que existe
y en su latir constante me despiertan
El tiempo llegará de ser sus hijos
y una octava gramática despacio
ha de juntar las hojas del silencio
ha de reunir sus puntas y sus pautas
sus puntos y sus picos sus misterios
Los camellos están
(nunca se han ido)
la carga ha de volver
bálsamo y mirra
y una cera
que alumbra y crea universo
Para ver un Youtube de este poema, vaya a los finales de esta entrada.
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And I See Camels
And I see camels
Carrying wax balsam and myrrh
and I see camels
the sky has blinkered their eyes.
I draw back the veils and walk
paths of gueulá of multiple
redemptions as sand
as nests
where the ashy wing flourishes
where all brilliance is in the future
and the camels
cross
the thousand-year route the precipice
sunflower of connected steps
steps foreseen living steps
the camels
drinking my dreams
and promising my hours
and dragging my memory
And I see camels
like stars floating in the infinite night
forelegs in the sands
of the desert
wheels in which the quietest music
turns into an eternal murmur
and I see camels
rest in caravan the vast dream
a golden perfume clings to the belly
of the wind that is later before now
and scatters the days
and gathers the hands
My camels
throw themselves on the sand
and I see more camels
under the sand
their bones shine like moons
that have turned the land toward the heavens
they watch together at the buried scrolls
the future of the world
that will not end
they pulsate with old signs of what exists
and their constant heartbeats wake me
The time to be their children will come
And a grammatical octave slowly
It’s meant to bring together the leaves of silence
Is meant to reunite its points and its rules
ts points and its peaks its mysteries
The camels exist
(they have never left)
What they carry is meant to return
balsam and myrrh
and a wax
that illuminates and creates universe
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Lo que mis ojos vieron y oyeron mis oídos,
Lo que la vida trajo o el viento desparrama;
Lo que vive en el aire, lo que la piel ignora,
Lo que sueña en el tiempo, lo que la luz olvida.
Lo que sigue la gloria, lo que el niño despierta,
Lo que cae de los cielos, lo que llevan las aguas;
Lo que mis manos dictan, lo que mis pasos abren,
Lo que calla mi boca, lo que dicen mis labios,
Esas cosas
Llegan esta mañana
Con la lluvia vencida,
Con la huella de nombres,
Con el ruedo del miedo,
Llegan esta mañana y el pozo de mi alma
Se hace agua de campo, se hace aliento en la sombra.
Las cosas se apresuran
Contra tanto silencio,
Rompen filas al aire,
Lloran gotas de vivos
Las cosas, las hermanas,
Esas desprevenidas,
Esas cadenas rotas,
Esas polleras mudas.
Lo que rezan mis ansias, lo que tocan mis palmas,
Lo que antaño supieron, lo que ya no más besan,
Esas crepitaciones,
Esos surcos del hambre,
Esa fuga del verso
Es la derrota hendida.
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What my eyes saw and my ears heard,
What life brought or the wind scatters;
What lives in the air, what the skin ignores,
What dreams in time, what light forgets.
What follows glory, what the child awakens,
What falls from the skies, what carries the waters;
What my hands dictate, what my steps open up,
What quiets my mouth, what my lips say.
Those things
Arrive this morning
With vanquished rain,
With the trace of names,
With the wheel of fear,
They arrive this morning and the well of my soul
Becomes water of the fields, it becomes breath in the shadow.
Things quicken
Against so much silence,
They break lines in the air,
They weep teardrops of the living
Things, sisters,
Those who are not ready,
Those broken chains,
Those skirts that cannot speak.
What my longings pray for, what my palms touch,
What these once knew, what they no longer kiss.
Those crackling sounds,
Those furrows of hunger,
That flight of verse.
It is defeat split open.
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Junturas
Afuera están los nombres los paisajes
(las lunas los senderos el mar siempre)
el rostro que quisimos hace un tiempo
los niños parpadeantes azorados
todas las bibliotecas alineadas
todas las partituras zigzagueando
los presentes las sombras los chillidos
Adentro están los nombres los paisajes
(las lunas los senderos el mar siempre)
el rostro que tuvimos hace un tiempo
la infancia la memoria lo soñado
los libros uno a uno y apiñándose
la música los gritos el silencio
las ausencias las sombras lo perdido
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Junctions
Outside are the names the landscapes
(the moons the path always the sea)
the face we loved some time ago
the children blinking with astonishment
all the libraries one after another
all the musical scores zigzagging
the presents the shadows the keening
Inside are the names the landscapes
(the moons the path always the sea)
the face that was ours some time ago
infancy memory what was dreamed
the books one by one crowded together
the music the shouts the silence
the absences the shadows the lost
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Noctilucas
Caminan noctilucas por mi mano más quieta
cuando no giran brillan
cuando no brillan zumban
un silbido distante iluminado
Son nostalgias de estrellas que perdimos
memorias de horizontes que alguna vez veremos
promesas de otros tiempos de otras vidas
Levantan noctilucas el polvo de mis manos
se esparcen como arena
se enharinan los panes
Hay luces aprontadas en el fondo del beso
cuando la boca toca
cuando los labios buscan
la faz del alimento
El trigo es una espiga solitaria
que nadie olvida más junto a la puerta
sus granos generosos son colinas
de resplandores altos paladares
para los cielos campos que andaremos
Descansan noctilucas por mi mano más tibia
es la primera horneada del estío
las bandejas lustrosas las miradas pendientes
los panes bien servidos
y en el centro del pan una luciérnaga
que los dientes no raspan ni imaginan
alumbrará tu boca en mi sonrisa
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The Glowworms
The glowworms walk on my motionless hand
when they don’t turn about, they shine
when they don’t shine, they buzz
a distant bright whistle
They are nostalgic for the stars that we lost
memories of horizons that we once saw
promises of other times of other lives
glowworms raise dust from my hands
they spread it like sand
they flour the bread
there are quick lights in the depth of a kiss
when the mouth touches
when the lips seek
the face of the food
The wheat is a solitary spike
that nobody forgets near the door
its generous grains are hills of
resplendent high palates
for the skies fields where we will walk
The fireflies rest on my warmest hand
it is the first baking of summer
the illustrious trays the pending gazes
the bread well-served
and in the center of the bread glowworms
whose teeth don’t scrape nor imagine
will light up your mouth with my smile.
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Trenos
Trenos de Jeremías desolado
(a solas con su Dios —ya era bastante)
una piedra lo surca muchas piedras
pero él cruza sus manos y nos lanza
la vasta profecía el lacio gesto
de saberse llorado
por toda la elocuencia de poetas
por las altas visiones de los místicos
por cada forma de verdad que atreve
su fugaz resplandor
hasta el fin de las eras
y el silencio
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Lamentations
Lamentations of desolate Jeremiah
(alone with his God — that was already enough)
a stone cuts into him many stones
but he folds his hands and hurls at us
the immense prophecy, the ineffective gesture
knowing himself wept over
by all the eloquence of the poets
by all the vaulted visions of the mystics
by every form of truth that risks
his fleeting splendor
until the end of eons
and silence.
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Paisaje
la gente viene y va
con su langosta
debajo de los ojos
y su boca
la piedra del estómago
y su yuyo
la palma de las manos
y su oveja
en el medio del pecho acribillada
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Landscape
people come and go
with their lobster
under their eyes
and under their mouth
the stone of the stomach
and their nettles
the palms of their hands
and their sheep
in the middle of their punctured chest
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Poetry translations by Stephen A. Sadow and J. Kates