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