Blanca Varela

Blanca Varela was born in Peru in 1926. Considered to be one of the most important poets in Latin America, she studied Humanities and Education. In 1949, she and her husband, the painter Fernando de Szyszlo, travelled to Paris where she met Octavio Paz. He introduced her to artists and intellectuals such as André Bretón, Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Henri Michaux, and Fernand Léger. At the insistence of Paz, she published her first book, Ese Puerto Existe, at the age of 33. In the prologue he wrote, "Blanca Varela is neither pleased with her discoveries nor drunk with her songs. With the instinct of the true poet, she knows when to be silent.” She was awarded the Gabriela Mistral Medal in 1996, the Octavio Paz Prize for a first edition of Poetry in 2001, the Federico García Lorca international Poetry Prize in 2006, and the Reina Sofía Prize for Ibero-American Poetry in 2007. Blanca Varela died in Peru in 2009.

Monsieur Monod Cannot Sing

my darling
I remember you like the best song
what divinity of roosters and stars you once were
the way I am no longer and you and I will never be again
yet doubtless we both know
that I speak with a mouth painted over
in silence, with the wretchedness of a fly
at summer’s end
and still there are doors left ajar
purging or bewailing the shifty wind of memory
a record scratched before it was ever used
tinted with the humor of the times
and their old maladies
of red
of black
like a disgraced king standing before a mirror
at the moment of evensong
and tomorrow and in the past and forever

night that ruined you
(now here comes the song)
filled with augury
insatiable bitch (un peu fort)
splendid mother (plus doux)
ever fecund and shoeless
so as not to be heard by the fool who believes in you
so as to better crush the heart
of the sensitive one
who dares to hear the miserable step
of life
and of death

pit in the thigh, storm of feathers
a gale in a glass of wine
a tango

the order alters the product
a machinist’s error
poor technology that allows you to keep living your story
but backwards like in a movie
a dream thick
and mysterious, thinning
el final es la entrada
hope’s timid little lamp
like the white of an egg
with a smell like fish or old milk
from Cluny and the Parque Salazar
a treadmill so dark and speeding
that you never know
if you are or you are making a life
or a death
and yes an iron flower
like the last little bite to devour you
twisted and dirty and slow

my darling
I love everything that is not mine
you for example
with that jackass skin covering your soul
and those wax wings I gave you
that you never dared use
you don’t know how I regret my virtues
I don’t know what to do with my collection of keys

and lies
with my child’s obscenity and I must
finish a story that’s already too late to tell
because memory is like a song
worse if you want the one and only
and can’t resist another blank page
and it doesn’t make sense that I am here
destroying
what does not exist

my darling
in spite of that
everything stays the same
the philosophical tickle after a shower
the cold coffee the bitter cigarette
Green Slimeat the Montecarlo
all of it continues well-suited for life everlasting
intact: the idiocy of the clouds
intact: the obscenity of geraniums
intact: the garlic’s shame
the little sparrows shitting divinely
in April’s open sky
Mandrake raising rabbits in some
circle of hell
and always the crab leg snared
in the trap of being
or not being
or I don’t want this or that
you know
these things that happen to us
and should be forgotten so they can exist
for instance a hand with wings
but without hands

a kangaroo history— that of the sack or the life—
or of the captain trapped in a bottle
that’s always empty
an empty belly with wings
and without a belly
you know
the passion      the obsession
the poetry      the prose
the sex      the exit
or visa-versa
the congenital vacuum
the little speckled egg
among the millions and millions of speckled eggs
you and I
tú y yo
toi et moi
tea for two in the immensity of silence
in the timeless sea
on the horizon of history
because ribonucleic acid we are
but ribonucleic acid in love
forever.

    — Translation by Lisa Allen Ortíz 

Second Translation:

Monsieur Monod Does Not Know How To Sing

my dear one
I remember you like the best song
that apotheosis in the coming together of roosters and stars
that you no longer are that I no longer am
that we no longer will be
and nonetheless we both know very well
that I speak from the painted mouth of silence
with the fly’s agony
at summer’s end
and for all the badly closed doors
conjuring or calling that nefarious wind of memory
that record scratched before use
tainted according to the mood of the time
and its old sicknesses
of red
or of black
as a king standing in disgrace before the mirror
as the day of the viper
which is tomorrow and the past and always
night what do you precipitate
(that is how the song must speak)
charged with forethoughts
insatiable female dog (un peu fort)
splendid mother (plus doux)
child-bearer, and always barefoot
to not be heard by the fool in you who believes
it is better to mash up the heart
of the unveiled
that dares to hear the dragged step
of life
of death
a mosquito’s pit* a torrent of feathers
a tempest in a glass of wine
a tango
the order alters the product
engineer’s error
what a rotten tactic it is,
to keep living one’s own story
like in a movie backwards-rolled
a thick and mysterious
dream with slimming effect
the end is the beginning*
a tiny light oscillates like hope
clear color of eggs
with the smell of fish and spoiled milk*
darkens the mouth of the wolf that will take you
from Cluny to Salazar Park
rolling carpet so speedy and so black
you can no longer tell
if you live or if you are playing at being alive
or playing dead
as a flower of steel
like a very last morsel, twisted and filthy and slow
the better to devour you with
My dear one
I adore all that is not mine
you, for example, I adore,
with your skin, like hide of a jackass covering the soul
and those waxwings I gave you as a present
the ones you never dared to put on
you have no idea how ashamed I am of my virtues
I no longer know where to put this collection of keys
and lies
with my indecency of the child who must hear out the story’s ending
it is already too late now
for the memory, like the songs
is the worst one
the one you want
the only one
it does not resist ruining another blank page
my being here makes no sense
destroying
what does not even exist
my dear one
in spite of it all
all remains the same
the philosophical tickle after the shower
the cold coffee the bitter cigarette
the Green River-slime
of Monte Carlo
everlasting life continues to be good for everyone
intact is the stupidity of the clouds
intact the obscenity of geraniums
intact the shame of garlic
the little mockingbirds shit themselves divinely in mid-heaven
in april
Mandrake is breeding rabbits in some circle
of hell
always a little leg of a crab is trapped
in the trap of to be
or of not to be
of I don’t want this or the other thing
you know,
those things that befall us
and which have to be forgotten so that they may exist
only in verb-grace of the hand with wings
winged hand without a hand
the history of the kangaroo — meaning the one of the handbag, or the one from life, both —
or of the captain who is sealed inside a bottle
that is forever empty
and the womb, empty too, but winged
and wombless
you know
passion, obsession
poetry prose
sex success
or viceversa
the congenital void
the ovum with a mote in it
among millions and millions of little eggs
with motes in them
you and me
toi et moi
tea for two in the immensity of silence
in the atemporal sea
on the historical horizon
for ribonucleic acid is all we are
but I mean only the ribonucleic acid that is always in love

    — Translation by Arturo Desimone

Monsieur Monod no sabe cantar

Querido mío
te recuerdo como la mejor canción
esa apoteosis de gallos y estrellas que ya no eres
que ya no soy que ya no seremos
y sin embargo muy bien sabemos ambos
que hablo por la boca pintada del silencio
con agonía de mosca
al final del verano
y por todas las puertas mal cerradas
conjurando o llamando ese viento alevoso de la memoria
ese disco rayado antes de usarse
teñido según el humor del tiempo
y sus viejas enfermedades
o de rojo
o de negro
como un rey en desgracia frente al espejo
el día de la víspera
y mañana y pasado y siempre

noche que te precipitas
(así debe decir la canción)
cargada de presagios
perra insaciable (un peu fort)
madre espléndida (plus doux)
paridora y descalza siempre
para no ser oída por el necio que en ti cree
para mejor aplastar el corazón
del desvelado
que se atreve a oír el arrastrado paso
de la vida
a la muerte
un cuesco de zancudo un torrente de plumas
una tempestad en un vaso de vino
un tango

el orden altera el producto
error del maquinista
podrida técnica seguir viviendo tu historia
al revés como en el cine
un sueño grueso
y misterioso que se adelgaza
the end is the beginning
una lucecita vacilante como la esperanza
color clara de huevo
con olor a pescado y mala leche
oscura boca de lobo que te lleva
de Cluny al Parque Salazar
tapiz rodante tan veloz y tan negro
que ya no sabes
si eres o te haces el vivo
o el muerto
y sí una flor de hierro
como un último bocado torcido y sucio y lento
para mejor devorarte

querido mío
adoro todo lo que no es mío
tú por ejemplo
con tu piel de asno sobre el alma
y esas alas de cera que te regalé
y que jamás te atreviste a usar
no sabes cómo me arrepiento de mis virtudes
ya no sé qué hacer con mi colección de ganzúas
y mentiras
con mi indecencia de niño que debe terminar este cuento
ahora ya es tarde
porque el recuerdo como las canciones
la peor la que quieras la única
no resiste otra página en blanco
y no tiene sentido que yo esté aquí
destruyendo
lo que no existe

querido mío
a pesar de eso
todo sigue igual
el cosquilleo filosófico después de la ducha
el café frío el cigarrillo amargo el Cieno Verde
en el Montecarlo
sigue apta para todos la vida perdurable
intacta la estupidez de las nubes
intacta la obscenidad de los geranios
intacta la vergüenza del ajo
los gorrioncitos cagándose divinamente en pleno cielo
de abril
Mandrake criando conejos en algún círculo
del infierno
y siempre la patita de cangrejo atrapada
en la trampa del ser
o del no ser
o de no quiero esto sino lo otro
tú sabes
esas cosas que nos suceden
y que deben olvidarse para que existan
verbigracia la mano con alas
y sin mano
la historia del canguro –aquella de la bolsa o la vida–
o la del capitán encerrado en la botella
para siempre vacía
y el vientre vacío pero con alas
y sin vientre
tú sabes
la pasión la obsesión
la poesía la prosa
el sexo el éxito
o viceversa
el vacío congénito
el huevecillo moteado
entre millones y millones de huevecillos moteados
tú y yo
you and me
toi et moi
tea for two en la inmensidad del silencio
en el mar intemporal
en el horizonte de la historia
porque ácido ribonucleico somos
pero ácido ribonucleico enamorado siempre

    — Blanca Varela