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GRACIELA SHVARTZMAN (TOVA) es Licenciada en Sociología por la Universidad de Buenos Aires y Licenciada en Historia Judía por el Instituto de Ciencias Judías de Buenos Aires. Ha sido profesora universitaria en Psicoanálisis en la Universidad de Buenos Aires, y otras Universidades, Ha ocupado cargos de dirección en la comunidad judía en Argentina, así como en programas nacionales y de Naciones Unidas (PNUD). Ha colaborado activamente en el tratamiento de las víctimas del atentado a la Embajada de Israel en Argentina, y de las víctimas del atentado de Amia en Buenos Aires y ha formado parte de la Comisión de Investigación de la DAIA sobre los judíos desaparecidos durante la dictadura. Ha impartido conferencias en Madrid, Jerusalén, Tel Aviv, etc. y ha escrito artículos sobre cultura y mitos judíos. Ha publicado “De Grietas y Entretantos” (libro de poesía). Ha realizado libros de artista (“En cualquier aquí”, “Evanescencia”) y aún investiga este campo. Ha sido parte de LABA BA desde el principio, enseñando fuentes judías.
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GRACIELA SHVARTZMAN (TOVA) has a degree in Sociology from the University of Buenos Aires, and a degree in Jewish History from the Institute of Jewish Sciences of Buenos Aires. She has been a university teacher in Psychoanalysis in the University of Buenos Aires, and others Universities, She has held positions of direction in the Jewish community in Argentina, as well as in national programs and the United Nations (UNDP). She has actively collaborated in the treatment of the victims of the attack on the Israeli Embassy in Argentina, and of the victims of the Amia attack in Buenos Aires and has been part of the DAIA Commission of Investigation on the disappeared Jews during the dictatorship. She has given conferences in Madrid, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, etc. and has written articles on Jewish culture and myths. She has published “De Grietas y Entretantos” (poetry book). She has made artist´s books (“En cualquier aquí”, “Evanescencia”) and still investigates this field. She has been part of LABA BA from the beginning, teaching Jewish sources.
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De Grietas y Entretantos/ Of Fissures and Meanwhiles
To My Father
I copy you without knowing it
in my eyes raw
with dampness.
In your painful chest
In your silence.
You see,
that there I copy you poorly.
I let you be alone.
I note down in the calendar
the days for grieving.
So that you can understand me
I write you words
without letters.
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Shiva
I grief for you,
papa,
in the covered mirrors
of my eyes.
In each of the seven days
and the seven nights
of still to come.
I miss you,
papa,
in the echo of your last word
In my daughters.
I grief for you
seated under the warm ashes.
There in Gan Eden
I grieve for you,
papa.
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a
When they gave me birth.
it was carnaval season in Buenos Aires.
They named me first,
And my father
gave my mother
a camelia.
They softly bound me.
The cloth still kept me rigid.
At times I stuck out an arm,
rebelled with a foot.
I raise my head
but the knot stays there
without untying.
My father told me that
in the carnival season in Buenos Aires
there were marionettes
when they gave me birth.
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b
What did I do with the fire?
I taught it to behave itself
around people,
to conceal the slights,
to sit up straight
I spoke into its ear
quieting it.
I told it:
“Quiet, it’s dangerous.”
Later. After a while.
not now,
slowly.
And the fire paid attention to me.
I domesticated its flames
and I restrained my hands.
What did I do with the fire
when the others lit their torches,
they were experts in fires?
I kept it the same,
small,
with the necessary coal.
And I lost the flames
the true sparks
of love and hate.
Now, with the years
I’m extinguishing myself.
Let the fire do what it wants.
I no longer want to educate it.
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I Walk Home
I walk home
I knew my mother’s moods
and my father’s silences.
I glimpsed hats of rabbis,
neighbor ladies on the block
and shadows of the fig tree.
I walk home
I come upon the agonies of others
and the half open light the of the sexes.
I walk home
I walked
old friends
in piled up letters.
And arriving home
I stumbled over myself.
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Prophet’s scent in the room.
Little kids, sons and daughters, patriarchs.
And in the cup of wine
A delay…
The door is opened
and a vision enters.
(It’s not the same invisible being
which is nothing.)
Let’s see, a place,
a little place!
The visitor is so light
and his burden so heavy.
(It’s not the same to be invisible
as to be nothing.)
Poor Elijah
He becomes undone.
There is someone who doesn’t
believe in prayers.
There is a grandchild
ready for adventure
and a grandfather’ voice
holds him back.
Elijah makes himself comfortable
and arrives in time for the glass of wine.
A breeze in the eyes.
an aroma in the soul.
And for the incredulous,
nothing…
To Jordana
My daughter springs forth from her hair
like an almond-colored
siren.
She gives me a kiss
and I become cotton
to wrap her up in.
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To Lara
A bell to the air.
She is music in my mouth
though I may not call her so.
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c
She spins around,
crouches down to hide.
She places her smile among my fingers;
dances,
complains about her hair
and draws whirlwinds
with her voice.
While I write nonsense,
she invents what is important:
a very serious song,
a question,
a glossy paper
that is lost.
On the rug,
she plays with photos
and laughs about the past
… .still.
Little Lara,
my fruit that didn’t fall from the tree.
… I fear life.
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a
Once I was yours.
You possessed me among the threads
of your spidersweb,
You were a man
dressed in secrets,
that was lost.
who taught me the skin’s wine
that doesn’t deceive.
I could have died
but I didn’t do it.
Life needed me.
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That Mann Moses
I looked for him in Rome
San Pietro in Víncoli empty.
I kneeled down,
Christianly alone.
The furrow of the Law
reached for an instant
a draw with death.
Shemah
I pronounced,
fettered to the cold stone
of the desert.
But he,
looked in another direction.
And then,
I got up and walked
denying miracles.
I don’t know who abandoned whom.
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We Women, Those of Us Now,
Are No Longer the Same
Since December
of nineteen seventy-seven,
the river has carried away
the broken docks,
some of our fathers
and all our adolescences,
The river has brought children
to the new docks,
that, fortunately,
come reaching
the banks.
Our men are those who
built the village.
And the fire is, almost always,
our task,
At times we can predict the storms.
And when they pass,
we count up damages and wounds,
we look over every palmful of earth.
The town doesn’t yet
have a cemetery.
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Ex-Nihilo
July 18, 1994
December 18, 1991
In the end,
those who believe themselves
to be gods
destroyed the heavens
and the earth.
The land was
like the men,
in a reasonable disorder;
And the spirit rested
covering the Eternal Darkness.
And those who believed themselves to be gods said:
That it be Evil,
And it was Evil.
And the night profaned the second day.
And they said:
“Let the abysms rise to the surface
and life die buried.”
And night prepared the altar
on the second day.
And they said:
“That those who see solace
find only remains
among the rubble.”
And night officiated
on the third day.
And they said:
“Let the exhorbitent men
go crazy while waiting.”
And the night
cursed the forth day.
And they continued saying:
“That the name of God
be unpronounceable
among the dead and the ruins.”
And the night
sacrificed the fifth day.
And those who believed themselves to be gods
celebrated the destruction
that they created with their own hands.
And it was the emptiness
the night
the sixth day.
On the seventh day
those who believed themselves to be gods
called the satanic angels to be silent,
And the men
covered the mirrors of their houses
and went out to seek the Day.
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Because the Years Turn
Because the years turn.
In the beginning.
they are ony
drums and noise.
Later on, some soldiers
on foot,
nothing serious.
Later, a cloud of galloping
dust.
Death, with a general’s cap,
There, yes,
one realizes
that they are coming on the attack.
You can stay in the fort
and let panic kill you.
Or go out to mix it up with them.
It’s all an art.
The years don’t come alone.
They are laden with loves,
children,
quick-moving stones.
If one leaves the fort
and is able to hold onto
to what the years bring,
it seems they are destroyed.
Death, with a general’s cap,
then.
He sleeps a little.
And doesn’t go to battle.
One,
only has a life
like a weapon.
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Translations by Stephen A. Sadow
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