“!Es mi mercado!”

Mercado Modelo de San Sebastian – Cusco

Because of the title of this week’s poem, I decided to hand it out in front of a market, instead of a library. The poem, ‘Mercado’, comes from July Solís’s debut collection, Leche Derramada (Paracaídas, 2015). July is a poet from Lima who you can watch reading another poem from the collection here

When I got to my local indoor market in San Sebastian I found a huge tent selling books right outside! So I sort of had my library too.

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I was met by lots of people happy to receive a poem, often struggling to take one because they were holding so many bags of groceries. One teenage girl with a big smile asked: “¿cuestan?” (“do they cost anything?”) and reached for her purse, but I reassured her they were free.

Then I met Marcosa, who came over to ask what I was giving out. When I gave her the poem she immediately folded it open and began to read aloud. She told me she liked poetry, and when I asked what she thought of this one, her answer was to read out some of her favourite lines out again, as if in reverence.

Though she said she couldn’t understand my English version of the poem, she seemed fascinated by the fact of translation. With her finger she followed from one Spanish line across the middle to the same line in English: “aquí el poema está en español, y aquí está otra vez, exactamente lo mismo…” (“here the poem is in Spanish, and here it is again, exactly the same…”).

It turned out Marcosa has her own stall in the market – that even sells fish! It was closed for the day, but she showed me where it was quickly before being told off by her son for not helping him to tidy up! When I asked if I could take a photo of her in front of the market, she replied: “si, es mi mercado!” (“yes, it’s my market!”). 

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Mercado

Y dar el pescado sin las branquias
cortar la cabeza
o quitar el espinazo donde sujetarnos
sería una pena más

El dolor descargándose en las alas muertas
y en la balanza tramposa
las patitas estiradas
alcanzando su última madrugada

Pagar un precio justo es el gran dilema:
todos los animales gritando en tu monedero
y ese sol cinquenta que regresa a casa
se avergüenza en sus dos caras de tu huida

Alguna vez alguien pagará esta voz que sobrevive?
este nervio mordido que tragaste
esta sangre estancada en tu mal aliento
o estos huesos que entierran los perros.

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Market

And give the fish without the gills
cut the head
or remove the spine which we deem
one more nuisance

Pain unloading itself in the dead wings
and crooked scales
little legs stretched
reaching towards its final dawn

Paying a fair price is the big dilemma:
all the animals screaming in your purse
and this loose change that returns home
ashamed with both its faces of your escape

Will anyone ever pay for this voice that survives?
this bitten nerve that you swallowed
this stagnant blood in your bad breath
or these bones that the dogs bury.

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“If you didn’t exist…”

La Librería Dragona, Cusco

I have been in Cusco for a month now, and have started working full-time for a charity called LAFF (Latin American Foundation for the Future).

So far the only library I’ve found is a bookshop, La Dragona – recently opened by a former LAFF volunteer, Rocio Diaz – where you can also get a subscription to take out books. They also run lots of events, like a poetry and music event for International Women’s Day, and reading groups. La Biblioteca Municipal is just around the corner, but is having refurbishment work done at the moment.

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I decided to stand somewhere between the two when handing out the poem ‘Rescate’ by Elvira Sastre from her book Baluarte (Valparaíso, 2014), and my translation, ‘Rescue’. Elvira is a poet and translator from Segovia, who also performs her poetry alongside musicians.

Strangely, being so close to the centre of Cusco, I didn’t see many tourists. There seemed to be lots of mothers with children on their way somewhere. I met Andy (a Peruvian with an English-sounding name) who works in a local coffee shop. He likes poetry but prefers writing it to reading it. But when I walked back past the shop I caught him reading this one intently!

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Rescate

Si no existieras tú,
si fueras, no sé,
un tirabuzón trenzado,
una dicotomía entre tu alma y tu cuerpo,
ganas que se quedan en ganas.
Si fueras, cómo decirlo,
alguien que se ajusta a los límites de los días,
una sospecha,
un intento.

Si no existieras tú,
si fueras otra cosa
con tu misma cara, voz y manos,
pero otra cosa,
en mi fin y en tu cabo,
te atravesaría entera,
te rompería las barreras,
te cruzaría de norte a sur pisando tu brújula
como el náufrago que traspasa los bosques para llegar al mar
y te habitaría con mis barcos
en la proa de tu esencia
esperando
sin ningún tipo de duda
ni tiempo
el rescate.

 

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Rescue

If you didn’t exist,
if you were, I don’t know,
a plaited curl,
a dichotomy between your soul and your body,
better than the remnants of wishes.
If you were, how to say it,
someone who fits within the limits of days,
a suspicion,
an intent.

If you didn’t exist,
if you were something else
with your same face, voice and hands,
but something else,
when my all is said and yours is done,
I would pierce right through you,
I would break your barriers,
I would cross you from north to south trampling on your compass
like the castaway who crosses forests to reach the sea,
and I would inhabit you with my boats
in the prow of your essence
waiting
without doubt
of the imminent
rescue.

“Poesía es muy rico”

¡Feliz día del amor! 

For the last two weeks I have been travelling through the Central Andean Highlands of Peru. I managed to visit the library in Tarma – an impressive building on the central square with helpful staff and a big reading room to hide in on rainy days – and a much smaller one in Jauja – camouflaged on the high street and closed because the only librarian was on holiday. But I never managed to find one in Huancavelica, where I only stayed for 2 nights and it was too cold and rainy to persist in searching!

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Biblioteca Municipal Adolfo Vienrich, Tarma
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Biblioteca Municipal, Jauja

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Biblioteca Municipal Luis Carranza, Ayacucho

Now I am in Ayacucho, a bigger city with a bit less rain and slightly lower altitude, where I am staying for a week and have had time to translate a poem and hand it out today. I was surprised to find that inside the library – on the side of a local market in a bustling neighbourhood – is a small and tranquil reading room, with light green walls and white desks. It is fronted by Juanito, who told me about Luis Carranza who founded the library in 1843, and found me two anthologies of Ayacuchan poetry to peruse. When I asked if he liked poetry he said: “por su puesta, poesía es muy rico” (of course, poetry is very rich).

In each of the anthologies there was only one woman poet, so I translated one poem by each of them. I decided to give out the poem ‘Maestra de escuela’ by Serafina Chuchón Huamaní – and my translation ‘School Teacher’ – because it’s Valentine’s day and it seemed fitting to give out a love poem to good teachers everywhere.

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When I came back to show Juanito the poem he said “muy bien” and tucked it safely into his jacket pocket. While handing out the poem I received a lot of ¿por qué? and ¿para qué?‘s, but a lot of big smiles and gracias‘s as well. I met a man from Chile who asked if I had heard of Gabriela Mistral, and recited a Pablo Neruda poem to me. He said he had moved to Peru because he was looking for love, but walked off before telling me if he’d found it yet.

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Maestra de escuela

Maestra, nombre universal
luces místicas, tornasol
te ancló el vendaval
tu presencia festival
para niños, felicidad.

Toda la humanidad
de los continentes
de todas las épocas
te ofrendan gratitud
por siempre “Maestra”.

Maestra, los niños sueñan
paz, tranquilidad del aula
paredes encontradas
de bullicios y alegrías
espejo que no traiciona.

Maestra infatigable
paciencia hecha canción
carisma hecha bendición
comprensión angelical
soporte sin igual.

Maestra, sublime en valores
siempre de pie
forjaste Jefes de Estado
con dedicación y esmero.

Maestra
inculas patriotism a generaciones
el respeto mutuo
amor filial entre hermanos
y amor a los “padres”.

Maestra
hoy luces cabellos blancos
signo de años vividos
junto al futuro hombre
descanso ¡Misión cumplida!

 

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School Teacher

Teacher, universal name
mystical lights, shining
the gale anchored you
your festival presence
for children, happiness.

All of humanity
every continent
every era
we offer you gratitude
forever “Teacher”.

Teacher, the children dream
of peace, calm in the classroom
walls confused
by chaos and joy
mirror that never lies.

Untiring teacher
patience made song
charisma made blessing
angelic comprehension
support unequalled.

Teacher, sublimely secure
always on foot
you feign leadership
with dedication and care.

Teacher
you instil patriotism in generations
the mutual respect
love between siblings
and love of parents.

Teacher
today light white hairs
signal years well lived
beside the future generation
rest – mission complete!

 

“Before internet we used to read books”

Biblioteca Municipal Ricardo Palma, Miraflores – Lima

This week I gave out the poem ‘Secreto de Familia’ by Blanca Varela – and my translation ‘Family Secret’ – from her first collection Ese Puerto Existe (1959).

Born in Lima in 1926, Varela is a Peruvian national treasure. Here is a child reading out her poem ‘Fútbol’ (in spanish):

The poem I chose to give out, ‘Secreto de Familia’ (a bit darker than the football one…), was a difficult one to translate because, like the poem last week, it doesn’t have any punctuation. Varela also cleverly uses phrases that could be interpreted in different ways. The last line was especially difficult – I looked at what some other translators of the poem had done, but it didn’t seem right to me. In the end I decided to imagine what I would say if it was my poem.

I also learned some fun new words like ‘legaña’, which means rheum aka sleep/sleepy dust/eye-goo (I found a forum where people discuss what it is called in lots of different languages).

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While handing out the poem I met Rocío, who was on her way back from a job interview as an english teacher. She told me all about falling in love with her English teacher when she was in her 20s (but then he had to go back to Scotland).

She had vaguely heard of Blanca Varela, and when I asked if she liked poetry she said: “yes, I love books. You know, before internet we used to read books”

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Blanca Varela and Fernando de Szyszlo.
(Paris, 1949)

 

Secreto de Familia

soñé con un perro
con un perro desollado
cantaba su cuerpo su cuerpo rojo silbaba
pregunté al otro
al que apaga la luz al carnicero
qué ha sucedido
por qué estamos a oscuras

es un sueño estás sola
no hay otro
la luz no existe
tú eres el perro tú eres la flor que ladra
afila dulcemente tu lengua
tu dulce negra lengua de cuatro patas

la piel del hombre se quema con el sueño
arde desaparece la piel humana
sólo la roja pulpa del can es limpia
la verdadera luz habita su legaña
tú eres el perro
tú eres el desollado can de cada noche
sueño contigo misma y basta.

 

(Listen to Blanca Varela read out her own poem here)

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Family Secret

I dreamed about a dog
a dog with no skin
its body was singing its red body whistling
I asked the other
the one who turns off the light the butcher
what’s happened
why are we in the dark

it is a dream you are alone
there is no other
the light doesn’t exist
you are the dog you are the barking flower
sweetly sharpen your tongue
your sweet black four-legged tongue

the man’s skin burns in the dream
the burnt human skin disappears
only the red pulp of the canine is clean
the real light lives in the sleep of its eyes
you are the dog
you are the skinned dog of every night
I dream the same as you and that’s enough.

 

 

“¿un regalo?”

Casa de la Literatura Peruana – Lima

Today I gave out the poem ‘Devenir del río’, from María Belén Milla’s Amplitud del mito (ALASTOR EDITORES, 2018), alongside my translation ‘Future of the river’. I bought the book at Librería Inestable in Miraflores, after asking for a “moderna poeta limeñia” (modern female Liman poet), and I am very pleased with it.

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The Casa de Literature used to be a train station, and now it’s a very grand building with a tiny library inside. It also has a museum and an outdoor study space next to the railway line where you can, occasionally, see trains going past as you work.

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I gave a poem to one of the security guards, who said he liked poetry a lot and recited one from memory. He asked me “¿quien financia esto?” (who finances this?) I told him I do: “es divertido” (it’s fun!) I said, but he didn’t look convinced – “¿sí?”

One man looked very happy when I gave him a poem: “¡un regalo!” (a gift!), and when a woman came back a few minutes after taking one asking if I wanted any money for it, I echoed the man, saying it was just “un regalo”.

I also met Anna María, who spoke very fast and asked if the poem was “como un canción” (like a song)? She told me all about her son who is the same age as me, who waited a few meters away looking impatient.

A woman asked if she could take a photo of me with her daughter, and I got one of them in return.

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Devenir del río

Tú milagroso
y cierto como el día
de tu cabeza amarilla se arrojan los patios
las sábanas los cipreses mojados cada uno de nuestros perros
la música sin nombre que habla del sol de los carros
que existen en la primavera como llamativas
cajas de fierro y estrellas
y luego me arrojo yo
porque todo el mundo sabe
que la cima es un lugar perfecto
y nada habita en lo perfecto nada
pero apenas desparece tu cabeza amarilla
y ya creces como cíclope o talismán
y provocas el movimiento de los animales
del rio que rota con tu pulso
tú como el único planeta huérfano y visible
mi obelisco mi barca
inclinado anunciando vuelo
llevándome como un insecto lleva su alimento
y quizás yo sea ruta sea campanario
sístoles doradas que escapan de mí
como caballos y palabras
o este poema que no entiendes
pero que es bello
te juro
es bello.

 

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Future of the river

You miraculous
and certain as day
patios throw themselves from your yellow head
the sheets the cypresses soaking every one of our dogs
unnamed music that speaks of the sun from the cars
that exist in spring like booming
boxes of iron and stars
and later I throw myself
because everyone knows
that the top is a perfect place
and nothing lives in it perfect nothing
but your yellow head just disappears
and you rise like a cyclops or talisman
and provoke movement from the animals
of the river that rotates with your pulse
you     like the only planet orphaned and visible
my obelisk my rowing boat
inclined announcing flight
carrying me away like an insect carries its food
and maybe I am route I am bell tower
golden contractions that escape from me
like horses and words
or this poem that you don’t understand
but that is beautiful
I swear to you
it is beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

¡Tiempo para un poema!

Biblioteca Municipal Carlos Tinning – Magdalena del Mar, Lima

Happy new year everyone! As you may have noticed, I am in Peru. I’m staying in Magdalena del Mar, a really great area full of markets and restaurants and parks, and a five minute walk from the pacific ocean.

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Today I gave out two Quechuan poems which I have translated into English using some Spanish translations I found in a book called Literature Quechua Classica, by Francisco Carrillo Espejo (EDITORIAL HORIZONTE, 1986). The translations were done by Edmundo Bendezú, and the book credits the original texts to Guamán Poma de Ayala.

The introduction suggests that Quechuan poetry was often connected with music, singing and dancing. It describes all the different types of Quechuan poetry, for example ‘Quilla Mama’ is probably a Wawaki – an offering to the moon – and ‘La Cancion de la Sombra’ could be a Huayñu – a poem that uses music and dance to interpret nature.

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I handed out the poems outside Carlos Tinning Municipal Library. I haven’t actually been inside the library because it’s closed for the summer holidays and is instead running lots of workshops for children and adults.

I met Jaasiel, a twelve year old (nearly 13) girl who was walking her dog around the park next to the library. She said it was a “muy bien idea” (very good idea) to hand out poems, and that she writes poems too, mostly about nature. She stood with me while I gave out all the poems, and when I commented that not a single person had refused a poem, which was unusual based on my experience in England, she seemed shocked: why would someone say no to something that was free?

On my way back I met Flavio, who’s had his kiosk on Avenida Brazil for five years: ¿esta poesía? (is this poetry?). When I asked if he liked poetry he nodded and said cheekily: “puedo leer” (I can read).

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Quilla Mama

Reina madre luna:

el agua que creas
el líquido que das.
¡Ayayay qué llanto!’
¡Ayayay cómo corre!
Tu criatura tierna
como las yerbas,
por alimento te llora,
por agua te llora.

 

La Cancion de la Sombra

Sombra secreta,
secreta sombra,
sombra que oculta.
¿Dónde está?
Aquí está la flor del rosal.
¿Dónde está?
Aquí está la flor amarilla
y roja del chihuanhuay
¿Dónde está?
Aquí está el lirio
¡ay! del amancay.

 

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Moon Mother

The moon mother reigns:
the water you create
the liquid you give.
Look how it cries!
Look how it runs!
Your creature – soothing
as herbs,
it cries to you for food,
it cries to you for water.

 

The Shadow Song

Shadow secret,

secret shadow,
shadow that hides.
Where is it?
Here it falls on a rosebush.
Where is it?
Here it’s a yellow flower
now the red of the fire lilies –
Where is it?
Here it is, the iris –
Ah! the amancay.


 

 

 

“What?”

Last show on ALL FM

I’ve had lots and lots of fun doing my weekly shows but unfortunately I have to start working full time because I’m saving up to go to South America! Last week sound artist Eye Suriyanon was the 33rd and last guest on my show for ALL FM.

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She showed me some traditional Thai dance moves, taught me all about the poet Sunthorn Phu, and read some of his poems in the original Thai.

We also talked about the poem ‘Echo’ by Raymond Antrobus, from his brand new book The Perseverance (Penned in the Margins, 2018). The poem led us into conversations about vibrations, loneliness and autobiography.

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Read the poem in full and hear Raymond reading it out here.