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domingo, 18 de marzo de 2012

6385.- TAL NITZAN



Tal Nitzan (Israel)
Publicado por Festival en PoetasInvitadosVIII, VIII Festival el feb 2nd, 2012 | sin comentarios
Es poeta, editora y destacada traductora de literatura hispánica al hebreo. Ha publicado cuatro libros de poesía – “Doméstica”, “Una tarde ordinaria”, “Café Soleil Bleu” y “La primera en olvidar” – y traducido más de 70 obras en prosa y en poesía, la mayoría de Español. Entre sus traducciones de poesía figuran obras de Cervantes, Machado, García Lorca, Neruda, Paz, Borges, Vallejo y Pizarnik, y en prosa, de Cervantes, García Márquez, Vargas Llosa, Cortázar, Monterroso y Bolaño. Ha compilado y traducido dos antologías de poesía latinoamericana, y siendo activista del movimiento para la paz, ha compilado la antología “Con una pluma de hierro”, una colección de poemas hebreos de protesta.

Fue galardonada, entre otros, con el Premio a Escritoras, el Premio del Ministerio de Cultura para Poetas Principiantes, el Premio al Primer Poemario, el premio del Ministerio de Cultura para Traductores, una medalla del Presidente de Chile por su traducción de Pablo Neruda.

Su obra ha sido traducida a varios idiomas, y antologías de sus poemas se han publicado en Italia, en Francia y en Lituania.
Bibliography

Poetry

Lishkoakh rishona (The First to Forget), Am Oved, Tel Aviv, 2009
Café hashemesh hakahola (Café Soleil Bleu), Rananna, Even Hoshen, 2007
Erev regeel (An Ordinary Evening), Am Oved, Tel Aviv, 2006
Doméstica, Am Oved, Tel Aviv, 2002

Poetry translations (from Spanish to Hebrew)

El oro de no tener nada (anthology of Latin-American poetry of the 20th century), 1992
Cervantes, Don Quijote, (poetry), 1994
Octavio Paz, El fuego de cada día, (anthology), 1998
César Vallejo, La rueda del hambriento, (anthology), 1999
La campana furiosa (anthology of Latin-American poetry of the 20th century), 2000
Antonio Machado, Palabra en el tiempo, (anthology), 2001
Pablo Neruda, Poemas, (anthology) 2002
José Hierro, Cuaderno de Nueva York, 2002
Alejandra Pizarnik, En esta noche, en este mundo, (anthology), 2005
César Vallejo, Trilce, 2006
Pablo Neruda, Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada, 2009
César Vallejo, Los nueve monstruos, (anthology) 2010






Aquí reside la ternura.


Aquí reside la ternura.
Aun si al corazón, en su mutismo,
se lo tragó la urbe como a piedra;
debes saber: éste es el punto de la ternura.


Dame tu mano en el mundo.


Vi a una madre hablar a su hijo odios,
asolar con palabras,
vi plegarse un edificio hasta el polvo,


con lentitud, un piso dentro de otro.Cuánto debemos apiadarnos,
cuánto apaciguar.
Cuando se cierra la noche
sobre una nuca que no fue besada
ya no hay remedio:
a todo ahogo,
en cada garganta,
hay una sola cura.


Mira, sencillamente, éste es el punto.


Traducción: Gerardo Lewin








Por ejemplo


Hubiera atrapado mi rostro entre los pechos
del luchador de sumo.


Me hubiera escondido
entre sus elevaciones y sus valles.


Él me hubiera recogido sin amor y por lo tanto
sin causar dolor. Sin comprensión y sin
lo opuesto de la comprensión.


No hubiera bebido palabras de mi boca
ni replicado mi respiración
ni hubiera visto en mí tal o cual rostro -


A duras penas hubiera sentido que di
contra sus carnes.


Traducción: Gerardo Lewin







La primera en olvidar



Todo será borrado en retroceso. En el final,
inclinando tu cuerpo su estatura hacia el piano,
tu cabeza ladeada, tu tercio de sonrisa-
demasiado cortos para tus medidas dinteles, camas.
En el camino quedarán almacenes y grúas
a lo largo del río, óxido y esculturas taurinas,
aquellas calles, vacías hasta el desconcierto.


Lo que los empujó a todos a sus casas,
nos incitó, quizás, el uno hacia el otro.
Denso era el tiempo
y salinoso, nos exigía ser veloces -
permíteme ser la primera en olvidar:
dondequiera que huyamos,
causaremos dolor.
Mi retirada se prolongará más allá de la tuya,
en el hotel barato la almohada sintética me expulsará
del sueño. ¿Morderé tu nombre


o golpearé mi cabeza contra otro sueño? Inclinado
hacia mí, hacia el piano - no hace falta
que escribas, permíteme cerrar, ser la primera-
quién creerá, a fin de cuentas,
bajo este duro sol,
en las palabras que emitían nuestras bocas
en el aire congelado, como nubes.


Traducción: Gerardo Lewin










POEMS FROM THE FIRST TO FORGET (2009), AND NEW WORK


Der Weg






From The First to Forget (2009)





The wounded forms appear:
The loss, the full extent
- Leonard Cohen


In the narrow boat we are two.
One woman upright as a raven
and a boy in white. With us, the boatman
his face anyone’s.
The sky is viscous iron,
the water the hue of a sardine’s belly,
the boat’s reflection a blue blade.
Europe’s rot in our nostrils.


If I am the boy I have a sailor cap
and three pearls of tears from my round cheek
freeze towards my open collar.
If I am the woman swaying above him
my eyes gaze at no shore.
My clothes are neither wool nor silk
but brushstrokes of black
and the banknotes in my purse
are letters penned in invisible ink:
In the blink of an eye truth becomes nothing.


If I am the boy I know only this:
My toes are petrified with fear,
the water has a big mouth.


If I am the woman, under the flowers
bloated like jellyfish on my hat
is the voice that tells me, confident,
inside the black veil: Know,
you will have no rest.
The cloth will be torn from the wound slowly
again
and again.




Translated from Hebrew by Vivian Eden




Possibilities


- Suppose you are lying on your side, a long time, it's almost November and you are still on the same side, your cheek already hurts, your ear hurts too, your neck is twisted, your ribs are smashed and your whole body is screaming 'enough'.
- I'll turn to the other side.
- Suppose you don't have another side.


Translated from Hebrew by the author




A Short History


No-one among us recalls anymore
how long we've been waiting
for a blind white wave to expunge that whose
mere resurrected memory
could clench the chest in the morning,
and the trachea at night


for, the ant swarms which were driven away
return to blacken our homes, and boiling water
from the porcelein cups leaps into our faces,
and knives which have grown weary by berry flesh
are seeking fingers.


When will the scraps of paper flying about subside,
the shreds of a futile spell
sink into dust?


What sounded like rain was just building waste
piled up to a mound.
What sounded like wailing was wailing.
For some time now we've been in need of a new disaster
to destroy the remains of our disaster.


Translated by Aliza Raz




The point of tenderness


…at the hour when we are
trembling with tenderness
lips that would kiss
form prayers to broken stone. - T.S. Eliot


This is where tenderness resides.
Even if the heart in its silence
sinks within the city like stone –
know that this is the tender point.


Hold my hand in this world.
I saw a mother talking hatred to her child,
exterminating with words,
I saw a building collapse into dust,
slowly, floor by floor –
how we need mercy,
how we need so to soothe.


When the night closes on an unkissed nape
it is beyond healing: each choking
of every throat has but one cure,
see, it's so simple,
it's the point.


Translated from Hebrew by Aliza Raz


• (From: What country)


I sit by the edge of a swimming pool, dipping my feet in the deep water. Someone pushes me in. Perhaps he wouldn't have done it, had he known I can't swim, I think on the way down. I sink till my toes touch the bottom and then I rise. I pull my head out of the water and know that now I should be screaming "Help!" before I go under again, but I forgot what country I'm in and what language I'm supposed to shout in.


Translated from Hebrew by Aliza Raz




Mountain high


Ran out of cooking gas or something
who remembers why
I went up to the roof
one day in May
a day that spread upon the sky a sheet
the shade of mustard of an orange of an H-bomb
and the long arduous craving for rain
rose as a howl from the parking lots
to the satellite plates
there lofty dwellings did surround me
there castles of the lords did besiege me
Summit Towers Tel Aviv Towers
Sheraton City Towers
Gindi Hights and Yoo Citadels and that little phallus of a building
and in the shade of the towers
looking like a forest of taut $ $ $
their claws thrust in the receding earth
and their flat foreheads in the yellow skies
I reflected upon the apartment eighteen steps below
upon the grace revived year after year
conditionally with no renewal option against a security deposit
upon the tirelessly self-refining setting
that one day
with a swift, proficient tug
will be pulled like a rug
from under my feet.


Translated from Hebrew by the author


New poems


Behind the Eyelids


We’ve been trapped in the land of sleep.
Between my exile and yours,
on a street whose name rots in the rain
in a setting of child bicycle thieves
and baffling bedraggled women,
there one room is reserved for us,
twenty-four hours.
I immediately forgot the map you drew –
if you close your eyes all is lost,
lost if you open them too.
And what is the lullaby
one voice will sing to us both
A carousel of shadows
goes round and round.
Don't hold on, don't remember
get back to the ground


There is no place for us in the waking hours.
Here, where summer’s hand
reluctantly releases the throat and bats
hurl themselves high above the pavement
and are swallowed up in daylight,
only behind my eyelids can I see
the color of your whisky, of your snow.
And you fall asleep while my body is terribly awake,
and leave as I sleep with my face towards the window.
What is the consolation
and what is the lullaby
that will awaken us both at once
Night train
striving towards the light,
board it and leave
your body behind


What I am not:
playing at has been or hasn't
wondering if you were real or imagined –
as though I could invent
the two different halves of your face,
as though my own two halves were true.
And like a guttering light bulb
your name is erased, recalled, erased,
sixty flickers per minute,
match to match, silence in silence
and what is the lullaby
that will cover us both in one single instant,
with eyes open wide
in the hush that will dawn
dwindling away,
going, gone.


Translated by Vivian Eden and the author




MAIMED LULLABY


The baby who bears my name is a month and two days old.
Unaware she has been born into hell, she wrinkles her tiny nose
and balls her hands into fists like babies everywhere.


Her four kilos and the cake her grandpa didn’t bake
weigh on my heart.
If I send her a teddy bear, it will sink like a stone.


The sharp fin traces its circles. I climb up,
my foot on the deck, shame and alarm on my face.
My baby has been left behind.


To Tal Ashraf Abu Khattab, born in Gaza on May 1, 2010