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GRACIELA ARÁOZ —ARGENTINA—



Born in San Luis. Argentina. She obtained a degree in Philology (Hispanic Section) and through a postgraduate course in Spain she got a teaching degree in Spanish language and literature. President of the Society of Writers of Argentina, (SEA.) and Director of FIP. International Poetry Festival of Buenos Aires.

She has published Equipaje de Silencio, Itinerario del fuego, Diabla, El protegido del ciervo, (poetry) and several essays on culture and education. She has been translated into several languages.

In Spain she was awarded the First Tiflos Prize, the Vicente Aleixandre Prize and the Second Carmen Conde Prize. She was honored with the Poesía en el Laurel prize for her career. The Argentine Foundation for Poetry awarded her the "Puma de Plata" Prize, and the "Gran Premio de Honor 2021" for her outstanding trajectory in Argentine literature.



UNA MUJER LLORA EN LA COCINA…

Una mujer llora en la cocina. Detrás del olor a locro. Macera la carne con limón y con su inefable tristeza.

Las lágrimas caen en la espuma de leche que se derrama hasta la indolencia. El aire se vuelve tan oleoso que debería irse y apagar el día.

En la cocina una mujer se parte viva, se corta los dedos, desangra. El dedo va a la boca.

El dolor está detrás del hilo dormido que se secó en el vientre, detrás de aquel humo que se llevó el después. Siempre y detrás de todo.

Cuando los olores se mezclan ella destapa las cacerolas. Es la única que se queda enjuagando el día hasta que vuelva a ser.

Una mujer en la cocina.




A WOMAN CRIES IN THE KITCHEN ...

A woman cries in the kitchen. Behind

the smell of locro. (*)

She maces beef with lemon

and her unspeakable sadness.


Tears fall into the milk foam

which spills until nothing can be felt.

The air becomes so oily that it should go

and turn the day off.


In the kitchen a woman shatters while alive,

she cuts her fingers, she bleeds.

She takes the injured finger to her mouth.


The pain is behind

the dormant thread that dried on the belly,

behind that smoke which took away the afterwards.

Always and behind everything.


When odors are mixed

she removes the lids of the pans.


She is the only one that remains rinsing the day

until it is on again.


A woman in the kitchen.


(*)Locro (from the Quechua ruqru), one of the national dishes of Argentina, is a hearty thick stew mainly made with white maize,beans, macerated beef / pork and yellow pumpkin.

from Diabla, Editorial Último Reino, third edition, Buenos Aires, 2016.

From the book The She Devil

Translator: Jorge Paolantonio



MI VECINO


Desde la ventana veo faisanes

proyecto el telescopio para llegar a otra,

la de mi vecino nuevo

Ese hombre viene y va

miro sus movimientos en la casa

Me inquieta este vecino

de mirada aviesa.


En su balcón pájaros extraños,

paraguas, rollos de pergamino

y una gata.


Habla por teléfono mientras se desnuda,

es alto, tiene la piel escrita.

Entra en un cuarto,

ya no veo.

Me inquieta espiar a este vecino.


Sale del cuarto y se apoya en el vidrio

es

aquel hombre de sombrero gris,

con quien hicimos el amor hasta el amanecer

un par de ocasos, un par de años


y nos fuimos

Nunca supe quien era

y ahora,

es

fue mi vecino



MY NEIGHBOR



From the window I see pheasants

I focus my telescope to reach another opening ,

my new neighbor's


That man comes and goes

I watch his movements in the house


I'm worried about this neighbor

with a naughty look.



On his balcony weird birds,

umbrellas, scrolls

and a cat.


He talks on the phone while getting naked,

He is tall, his skin is tattooed.

He gets into a room,

I can no longer see anymore

It bothers me to spy on this neighbor.


He leaves the room and leans on the window pane

He happens to be


that man in a gray hat,

with whom we made love until dawn

a couple of sunsets ago, a couple of years ago


and we split


I never learned who he was


and now, he

is

was my neighbor


Del libro El protegido del ciervo, Editorial Último Reino, Buenos Aires, 2012.

From the book Protected by the Deer


Translator: Jorge Paolantonio


LA VIOLINISTA DEL QUINTO

Ella se abraza y se queda quieta aprieta los dientes va y viene sintiendo el olor del pato que la vecina descuartizó.

Se abraza cada vez más largo desde su ventana ve la cabeza sangrante del pato cruza y la ceremonia se anuncia la cocina hierve, las especias tendidas mientras ella paladea el deseo: la boca se abre, se huele la comida, se abraza nuevamente, abre los ojos, la boca abre, la abraza, se besan hasta que el beso muerde el elixir de los vampiros …………………………………y ahí regresa

y vuelve a ser la violinista del quinto piso.

from Diabla, Editorial Último Reino, third edition, Buenos Aires, 2016.

From the book The She Devil


Translator: Jorge Paolantonio








THE VIOLINIST OF THE FIFTH


She hugs herself and stays still

clenches her teeth


comes and goes feeling the smell of the duck

that the neighbor quartered.


She hugs herself longer ach time

from her window she sees the bleeding

duck head

she moves across and the ceremony is announced

the cooker boils, spices spread about

while she tastes desire:

her mouth opens,

she smells the cooking, she hugs herself again,

she opens her eyes, her mouth opens,

she hugs her, they kiss each other

until the kiss bites

the elixir of vampires

....................................... and there she is back


and is again the violinist of the fifth floor.


Del libro Diabla. Editorial Último Reino, Buenos Aires, 2016.

From the book The She Devil


Traslator: Jorge Paolantonio






LA MUJER DE ROJO


The lady in red


The transparence of the dress

Reflects

The other transparence

The pang that in the body remains


Knots of a texture

Escrutinized to the bone

Wordless wound


Flashes


Trembling wishbones

In the hands

Tremors

Behind the lace, the brocade

The scene

Of a girl

The lady in red

Saddest girl wasn’t queen

Or emptress

She wasn’t the red little hood

She doesn’t strip to bare

She hasn’t shake her hips


She walks in barefoot steps

Behind the rift


She isn’t in the bridge

There’s only the river


Only nothingness is celebrated

Del libro “Altares en el río” (En imprenta)

From the book “Altars in the river” (in print).



Graveyard


To my father


To keep inside my father’s eyes

Read it his mind

I had being blind without

The lake of his eyes.

Quevedo said he can read

The dead’s eyes.

I touch the blue that crosses the word South.

And then I open the intuition that drive to infinite.

Death it reads with the body,

A phisical reading of death.

En aquellos trenes que llevaban

In those trains that bring birds

And in these unending nap

By the peach tree, my father is

I remember that my eyes crossed

From the river to the sky

The innocence of our gulls


When my father died

Words grew up Ander his tomb

And the graveyard became Word

Wast he more powerful I spelt

And I spell it now


It was a shout to the silence

My father is dead and i read his word

In my word

And in his eyes I see him

Father you’re dead without your nigthtingales

And your nightingales singa and whistles

The songs of love of your joy

Father i read it

Father I listen to you.



Del libro El protegido del ciervo, Editorial Último Reino, Buenos Aires, 2012.

From the book Protected by the Deer



They said I was alive

And I have wrtitten in the pasturelands


With nacre’s pieces of chalk


That I was a widow

And I brought quichua songs to the cemetery


That I didn’t cry, they said,

Just sing

With my mustang tongue


Moveless.



from Diabla, Editorial Último Reino, third edition, Buenos Aires, 2016.

From the book The She Devil









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