It's to go deep into the endless universe of words and their aesthetic corners, where deliberate appearances are forged or sudden images emerge constructing texts, or allowing the author to expose metaphors, allegories, imaginary places myths and realities.
martes, 1 de febrero de 2011
What is literature for you?
viernes, 4 de junio de 2010
Second Gospel
I was born on the outskirts of Hades in the year when the plague spread
and in my earliest days I learned to curse in ancient language
to ignore the dark of the Almendral.
On the third day I ascended to Playa Ancha and they seated me
on the right hand of my father
in the days when calamities increased in the wharf.
Despite the abyss, I was to aspire to a perpetual penance
Packed into a hut on the highest wooded hills or sheltered
in a cave of coastal renegades
lifelike nights narrate my years of the Antichrist
descending desperate to the Chinese Quarter with its emptiness
and its depths like Faust and Mephistopheles.
I spoke an indecent criminal slang
in dealing patiently with scavengers,
birds of bad omen
and with other bald and prostrated bards
who wanted to accede to Paradise.
In my adventures with wicked individuals and whores
at Echaurren Square and Cajilla Street
ruffians soaked in vices and rudeness
I learned everything from charlatans and abased people.
I fell in love several times knowing from experience that age doesn’t matter
if mating fleetingly like lewd animals
kissing and consecrating them from their pubis
to their feet
Whole nights handling their slopes
without melancholic burden.
Sometimes I become lost in thought in my bay as in olden times
my shade narrating my years of the Antichrist.
Today it remains only an uncolored beard and my reflections
of sterile redemption in some place at the harbor in Valparaiso.
(Translated by Christine de Luca)
and in my earliest days I learned to curse in ancient language
to ignore the dark of the Almendral.
On the third day I ascended to Playa Ancha and they seated me
on the right hand of my father
in the days when calamities increased in the wharf.
Despite the abyss, I was to aspire to a perpetual penance
Packed into a hut on the highest wooded hills or sheltered
in a cave of coastal renegades
lifelike nights narrate my years of the Antichrist
descending desperate to the Chinese Quarter with its emptiness
and its depths like Faust and Mephistopheles.
I spoke an indecent criminal slang
in dealing patiently with scavengers,
birds of bad omen
and with other bald and prostrated bards
who wanted to accede to Paradise.
In my adventures with wicked individuals and whores
at Echaurren Square and Cajilla Street
ruffians soaked in vices and rudeness
I learned everything from charlatans and abased people.
I fell in love several times knowing from experience that age doesn’t matter
if mating fleetingly like lewd animals
kissing and consecrating them from their pubis
to their feet
Whole nights handling their slopes
without melancholic burden.
Sometimes I become lost in thought in my bay as in olden times
my shade narrating my years of the Antichrist.
Today it remains only an uncolored beard and my reflections
of sterile redemption in some place at the harbor in Valparaiso.
(Translated by Christine de Luca)
Confession on a street corner in Madrid close to O'Donell
Where is the little marchioness of Avila in all the length and breadth of Spain?
when the fire of the night escapes my hands
and in every corner of this green room, a secret loses its intimate words
because there is nobody with the desire to discover us here, inside
in this hotel in Calle O’Donell.
So here we are, my dear Santa Teresa,
with a reality that has driven us crazy for more than a week
and I awake me , and I awake you my marchioness, for telling you
that the city still exists beyond the tired dawn
with its faded petals in this interminable calm.
Madrid winks at us, hiding itself like we
In the autumnal foliage of El Retiro.
the Gate of Alcalá will let us pass like other lovers
before
and behind the Prado Museum I will tell you that you are only mine,
regardless the wasps that skilfully move and sting
or the peacocks in the neighbouring botanical garden
shouting their existence.
When the clock heralds the morning the suitcases will compel
departure
and you will accompany me as we turn our backs on the day
to avoid what will come,
you will smile nervously like respectful lady, with a faint tremble
in those my Spanish lips.
We will be happy, dear lady, I will say with a hint of sadness
even in the texture of many dreams,
in the endless happenings in so many other places,
perhaps in another hotel in Calle O’Donell.
(Translated by Elise Neil)
when the fire of the night escapes my hands
and in every corner of this green room, a secret loses its intimate words
because there is nobody with the desire to discover us here, inside
in this hotel in Calle O’Donell.
So here we are, my dear Santa Teresa,
with a reality that has driven us crazy for more than a week
and I awake me , and I awake you my marchioness, for telling you
that the city still exists beyond the tired dawn
with its faded petals in this interminable calm.
Madrid winks at us, hiding itself like we
In the autumnal foliage of El Retiro.
the Gate of Alcalá will let us pass like other lovers
before
and behind the Prado Museum I will tell you that you are only mine,
regardless the wasps that skilfully move and sting
or the peacocks in the neighbouring botanical garden
shouting their existence.
When the clock heralds the morning the suitcases will compel
departure
and you will accompany me as we turn our backs on the day
to avoid what will come,
you will smile nervously like respectful lady, with a faint tremble
in those my Spanish lips.
We will be happy, dear lady, I will say with a hint of sadness
even in the texture of many dreams,
in the endless happenings in so many other places,
perhaps in another hotel in Calle O’Donell.
(Translated by Elise Neil)
Thinking on Kandinsky and Gabrielle Münster
My nickname startles in this bohemian quarter of Munich
surrounded by orthodox Jews and immigrants from the East.
In the inns of Rialto two painters
drink gin with beer and two redheaded whores.
The night is clear in the hideaways where the moon suggests itself.
What music was Kandinsky listening to
drunk in his studio?: Was it Moskva or Kubanskaya vodka
that unfastened his madness?
In Cairo Nina wakes up from a nightmare
about a lonely boy playing in the lonely snow.
Vassily longs for the delineated breasts
of Gabrielle there in his rickety old bed
for his drunken paintbrush,
her thighs taut like a delicate Valkyrie.
She cries because Vassily cries in Moscow for her:
A damsel dressed in pink / ducks in flight /
a baroness’ portrait
What does it matter! The piano and the cello are still in the same house.
I lose sight of him and surprise him in Neully sur Seine
with Paul Klee (drinking a Pernod next to the river).
The chiaroscuros and the grays capture the terrible souls
and Moholy-Nagy immobilizes their expressions
/ with his virtuous camera / when he paints a triangle
that seems to be motionless.
The paintbrush softens the time and clarity of shades
and Vassily is obsessive because he is a melancholy genius
before whom God’ mouth is silent in night’s total darkness.
(Translated by Deborah Moore)
surrounded by orthodox Jews and immigrants from the East.
In the inns of Rialto two painters
drink gin with beer and two redheaded whores.
The night is clear in the hideaways where the moon suggests itself.
What music was Kandinsky listening to
drunk in his studio?: Was it Moskva or Kubanskaya vodka
that unfastened his madness?
In Cairo Nina wakes up from a nightmare
about a lonely boy playing in the lonely snow.
Vassily longs for the delineated breasts
of Gabrielle there in his rickety old bed
for his drunken paintbrush,
her thighs taut like a delicate Valkyrie.
She cries because Vassily cries in Moscow for her:
A damsel dressed in pink / ducks in flight /
a baroness’ portrait
What does it matter! The piano and the cello are still in the same house.
I lose sight of him and surprise him in Neully sur Seine
with Paul Klee (drinking a Pernod next to the river).
The chiaroscuros and the grays capture the terrible souls
and Moholy-Nagy immobilizes their expressions
/ with his virtuous camera / when he paints a triangle
that seems to be motionless.
The paintbrush softens the time and clarity of shades
and Vassily is obsessive because he is a melancholy genius
before whom God’ mouth is silent in night’s total darkness.
(Translated by Deborah Moore)
The beloved and the sea
Beloved do not look at the sea
the swell drags a despoliation of shipwrecks
when the seagulls try themselves against the high OR
blinded storm waves.
Beloved afternoon moves the horizon away
the wind climbs the rigging as a wild phantom
the square-rig entangles the mermaids dance at Antonio’s bar
a ship ululates at high sea
the masts whitened the mizzen the fore-mast
the bell sounds blunt with a sad muted noise
the surge is the frothy ocean like champagne
just served
gannets on the warpath with unfolded wings
a woman cries on the rocks
seaweed from Polynesia wood from Madagascar
the clouds are shipwrecked sail without course
Beloved do not look at the sea
gathering your hair as if it were a net loaded with fishes
steep birds dolphins going around
barrels with fresh water spice casks
of diverse provenance the fog
blurs your forsaken glance a gust of wind
nourishes your brackish skin in the dark
Beloved in this boat, confused, I weighed anchor one morning
the luggage the uncertain trip
the rats the ship they skillfully evaded it as if nothing had happened
in the forearm sank munched the tattoo
Beloved do not look at the sea
let your body be penetrated by the wind your lips become damp
clumsily sailing my coast in your tempest
Beloved close your clear eyes
kiss me on the cheeks mightily make tighter the air
do not let me sleep
the night to me is an early calumny
a dark epos an obscene falseness
that death snatches eagerly.
(Tranl. Christine de Luca)
the swell drags a despoliation of shipwrecks
when the seagulls try themselves against the high OR
blinded storm waves.
Beloved afternoon moves the horizon away
the wind climbs the rigging as a wild phantom
the square-rig entangles the mermaids dance at Antonio’s bar
a ship ululates at high sea
the masts whitened the mizzen the fore-mast
the bell sounds blunt with a sad muted noise
the surge is the frothy ocean like champagne
just served
gannets on the warpath with unfolded wings
a woman cries on the rocks
seaweed from Polynesia wood from Madagascar
the clouds are shipwrecked sail without course
Beloved do not look at the sea
gathering your hair as if it were a net loaded with fishes
steep birds dolphins going around
barrels with fresh water spice casks
of diverse provenance the fog
blurs your forsaken glance a gust of wind
nourishes your brackish skin in the dark
Beloved in this boat, confused, I weighed anchor one morning
the luggage the uncertain trip
the rats the ship they skillfully evaded it as if nothing had happened
in the forearm sank munched the tattoo
Beloved do not look at the sea
let your body be penetrated by the wind your lips become damp
clumsily sailing my coast in your tempest
Beloved close your clear eyes
kiss me on the cheeks mightily make tighter the air
do not let me sleep
the night to me is an early calumny
a dark epos an obscene falseness
that death snatches eagerly.
(Tranl. Christine de Luca)
St. Petersburg
I have seen Joseph Brodsky on a corner of old Leningrad
looking with faded eyes the numbed Neva dejectedand shabby as if he wanted to return to a distant boundary
beneath a pale winter sun.
A group of youngsters pass by his side with a portable radio
at full volume
under his feet - moving - creak the drains obstructed by a cover of hard snow
A gust of wind bends the masts of a concealed brigantine.
It moves unsteadily among the ice fragments
The straits of the Eastern Baltic are frozen between the islands
and the fog baffles and mars the wanderer’s memory without a
fixed domicile
The sailors after a long voyage celebrate their deeds with vodka and beer
The homes chimney lets off a dense cloud of smoke
Only the fire melt the arrogance of this winter!
The girls of the bar laugh and raise their brimful glasses of anise
A young argonaut loses his temper and roams drunk past the tables.
He fantasizes the women as naked nymphs in the middle of the forest
A dark room expects me tonight:
In long hours of insomnia
your blond locks I will be missing
in the enemy’s land which I once loved with innocence.
I have seen Joseph Brodsky once again this morning
on a corner of old Leningrad
melancholic and dirty as if he wanted to return to a distant certainty
beneath a pale winter sun
(Translation: Emma Seljeflot)
looking with faded eyes the numbed Neva dejectedand shabby as if he wanted to return to a distant boundary
beneath a pale winter sun.
A group of youngsters pass by his side with a portable radio
at full volume
under his feet - moving - creak the drains obstructed by a cover of hard snow
A gust of wind bends the masts of a concealed brigantine.
It moves unsteadily among the ice fragments
The straits of the Eastern Baltic are frozen between the islands
and the fog baffles and mars the wanderer’s memory without a
fixed domicile
The sailors after a long voyage celebrate their deeds with vodka and beer
The homes chimney lets off a dense cloud of smoke
Only the fire melt the arrogance of this winter!
The girls of the bar laugh and raise their brimful glasses of anise
A young argonaut loses his temper and roams drunk past the tables.
He fantasizes the women as naked nymphs in the middle of the forest
A dark room expects me tonight:
In long hours of insomnia
your blond locks I will be missing
in the enemy’s land which I once loved with innocence.
I have seen Joseph Brodsky once again this morning
on a corner of old Leningrad
melancholic and dirty as if he wanted to return to a distant certainty
beneath a pale winter sun
(Translation: Emma Seljeflot)
jueves, 3 de junio de 2010
Sergio Badilla Castillo (born November 30, 1947 in Valparaiso, Chile) is a Chilean poet and the founder of poetic transrealism in contemporary poetry. He is considered the Latin American poet with the broadest Nordic influence, from the Finnish poets, Edith Södergran, Elmer Diktonius, Paavo Haavikko, Pentti Saarikoski and the Swedes Gunnar Ekelöf, Tomas Tranströmer and Lars Gustafsson.
Contents
1 Life
2 Work
3 Bibliography
4 References
//
Life
Badilla Castillo graduated in journalism from the University of Chile in 1972. He graduated also in Methodology of Social Anthropology,in the Stockholm University.
Badilla Castillo worked almost thirteen years at The Swedish Radio Broadcasting Co, as culture journalist, a concern that would lead later, to his work as a translator of Swedish and Scandinavian poetry, British and American poetry.
Badilla Castillo's father was a sailor from whom he got his nomadic motivation. Badilla Castillo travelled throughout Europe, North Africa and the Middle East during the twenty years he spent in Scandinavia. He settled for a while also in Romania in 1975, interested in ancient Wallachian and Transylvanian mythology.
Badilla Castillo made his living for several years working as a journalist and teacher when he returned to Chile in 1993.
Work
In 1973 Badilla's first book of poetry, Amid the Cement and the Grass, was published in Valparaiso. Later, in 1980 he published his second book, Lower from my Branch, a collection of short stories, in Borås, Sweden, which received very good critical reviews.
Between 1981 and 1987 he published three of his Scandinavian influenced books: The Dwelling of the Sign, Oniric Song and Reverberations of Aquatic Stones. As well being a productive poet during this period he was also a respected translator of Swedish, Finnish, English, French and some Latin poetry. Badilla's initial topics were often tied to mythological or fabled subjects, while many of the poems featured legends. In Sweden, his poems were included in the first anthology of Chilean Poetry published by Bonnier in 1991.
His return from exile to Chile in 1993 marked a change for Badilla Castillo, in that he started to write in a much more autobiographical and manner. In his book Nordic Saga he changed his language completely. It was a period of awkward and challenging experimentation, with many legendary subjects derived from the mythological Viking’s Sagas. Badilla Castillo established contact with Rudy Rucker’s transrealism.
In Badilla Castillo's later volumes, such as The Fearful Gaze of the Bastard (2003), and Transreal Poems and Some Gospels (2005)), he confronts reality, creating an almost illusory world, where words, time and dimensional changes play a cardinal role in the lyrical frame. His latest poetry is solidly imaginary, using in many respects time dislocations and immediate perceptions of a certain described reality, and filled with admiration for the ordinary world. He now lives in Santiago, and one catches a glimpse of the effect of this South Pacific landscape everywhere in his latest poems, though the environment remains symbolic and individual.
Bibliography
Lower from my Branch Invandrarförlaget. 1980. Borås. Sweden. (Short stories)
Sign’s Dwelling. Bikupa Editions. 1982. Stockholm. (Poetry)
Cantoniric. LAR Editions. 1983. Madrid. (Poetry)
Reverberations Of Aquatic Stones. Bikupa. 1985. Stockholm. (Poetry)
Terrenalis. Bikupa Editions. 1989. Stockholm. (Poetry)
Nordic Saga. Monteverdi Editions. 1996, Santiago de Chile. (Poetry)
The Fearful Gaze of the Bastard. 2003. Regional Council of Valparaiso. (Poetry)
Transrealistic Poems and Some Gospels. 2005. Aura Latina. Santiago/Stockholm. (Poetry).
References
XV International Poetry Festival of Medellin
Lyrikwelt
Lahti International Writers Union
Biography on the Online Poetry Classroom of the Academy of American Poets
International Poetry Days in Malmö, Sweden
Literati-Magazine
Persondata
Contents
1 Life
2 Work
3 Bibliography
4 References
//
Life
Badilla Castillo graduated in journalism from the University of Chile in 1972. He graduated also in Methodology of Social Anthropology,in the Stockholm University.
Badilla Castillo worked almost thirteen years at The Swedish Radio Broadcasting Co, as culture journalist, a concern that would lead later, to his work as a translator of Swedish and Scandinavian poetry, British and American poetry.
Badilla Castillo's father was a sailor from whom he got his nomadic motivation. Badilla Castillo travelled throughout Europe, North Africa and the Middle East during the twenty years he spent in Scandinavia. He settled for a while also in Romania in 1975, interested in ancient Wallachian and Transylvanian mythology.
Badilla Castillo made his living for several years working as a journalist and teacher when he returned to Chile in 1993.
Work
In 1973 Badilla's first book of poetry, Amid the Cement and the Grass, was published in Valparaiso. Later, in 1980 he published his second book, Lower from my Branch, a collection of short stories, in Borås, Sweden, which received very good critical reviews.
Between 1981 and 1987 he published three of his Scandinavian influenced books: The Dwelling of the Sign, Oniric Song and Reverberations of Aquatic Stones. As well being a productive poet during this period he was also a respected translator of Swedish, Finnish, English, French and some Latin poetry. Badilla's initial topics were often tied to mythological or fabled subjects, while many of the poems featured legends. In Sweden, his poems were included in the first anthology of Chilean Poetry published by Bonnier in 1991.
His return from exile to Chile in 1993 marked a change for Badilla Castillo, in that he started to write in a much more autobiographical and manner. In his book Nordic Saga he changed his language completely. It was a period of awkward and challenging experimentation, with many legendary subjects derived from the mythological Viking’s Sagas. Badilla Castillo established contact with Rudy Rucker’s transrealism.
In Badilla Castillo's later volumes, such as The Fearful Gaze of the Bastard (2003), and Transreal Poems and Some Gospels (2005)), he confronts reality, creating an almost illusory world, where words, time and dimensional changes play a cardinal role in the lyrical frame. His latest poetry is solidly imaginary, using in many respects time dislocations and immediate perceptions of a certain described reality, and filled with admiration for the ordinary world. He now lives in Santiago, and one catches a glimpse of the effect of this South Pacific landscape everywhere in his latest poems, though the environment remains symbolic and individual.
Bibliography
Lower from my Branch Invandrarförlaget. 1980. Borås. Sweden. (Short stories)
Sign’s Dwelling. Bikupa Editions. 1982. Stockholm. (Poetry)
Cantoniric. LAR Editions. 1983. Madrid. (Poetry)
Reverberations Of Aquatic Stones. Bikupa. 1985. Stockholm. (Poetry)
Terrenalis. Bikupa Editions. 1989. Stockholm. (Poetry)
Nordic Saga. Monteverdi Editions. 1996, Santiago de Chile. (Poetry)
The Fearful Gaze of the Bastard. 2003. Regional Council of Valparaiso. (Poetry)
Transrealistic Poems and Some Gospels. 2005. Aura Latina. Santiago/Stockholm. (Poetry).
References
XV International Poetry Festival of Medellin
Lyrikwelt
Lahti International Writers Union
Biography on the Online Poetry Classroom of the Academy of American Poets
International Poetry Days in Malmö, Sweden
Literati-Magazine
Persondata
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