Blanca Valera. Anniversary of his death. Poems

White Varela was a Peruvian poet born in Lima in 1926 where she also died on a day like today in 2009. In her the memory and to remember it goes this selection of poems Of his work. To reread it or discover it.

White Varela

Study Literature and Education at the University of San Marcos. It was established in Paris in 1949 and there he met Octavio Paz, an author who greatly influenced his literary work. Paz connected her with other Latin American and Spanish intellectuals. Later he lived in Florence and Washington, where she worked as a translator and journalist.

That port exists was his first book that he published in 1959. Later they continued Daylight y Waltzes and other confessions. In 1978 the first compilation of his work in Villain song. And finally his anthology from 1949 to 1998 in Like god in nothing.

Blanca Valera won awards such as Octavio Paz of Poetry and Essay, the Granada city or the García Lorca and Reina Sofía of Ibero-American Poetry.

poems

To half voice

Slowness is beauty
I copy these foreign lines
respite
I accept the light
under the thin November air
under the grass
colorless
under the broken sky
and gray
I accept the duel and the party
I do not arrive
I will never arrive
in the center of everything
is the poem intact
inescapable sun
night without turning my head
I prowl your light
his animal shadow
of words
I sniff its splendor
His mark
his rests
everything to say
That sometime
I was attentive
disarmed

almost alone
in death
almost on fire

Curriculum vitae

let's say you won the race
and that the award
it was another race
that you did not drink the victory wine
but your own salt
that you never heard cheers
but barking dogs
and that your shadow
your own shadow
it was your only
and unfair competitor.

Love is like music ...

Love is like music
returns me empty-handed,
with time it turns on suddenly
out of paradise.
I know an island
my memories,
and a future music,
the promise.

And I go towards the death that does not exist,
which is called horizon in my chest.
Always eternity out of time.

Source

Next to the well I arrived,
my sad little eye
went deep, inside.

I was next to me
full of me, ascending and deep,
my soul against me,
hitting my skin,
sinking it in the air,
until the end.

History

you can tell me anything
believe is not important
what matters is that you move your lips in the air
or that your lips move the air
fable your story your body
at all hours without truce
like a flame that looks nothing like
but to a flame

Maybe in spring

Maybe in spring.
Let this dirty season of soot and tears pass
hypocrites.
Make yourself strong Keep crumb over crumb. Make a fortress
From all the corruption and pain
Eventually you will have wings and a strong bull's tail or
elephant to clear all doubts, all
flies, all the misfortunes.
Come down from the tree.
Look at yourself in the water. Learn to hate yourself as yourself.
Are you. Rough, bare, first on all fours, then on
two, then none.
Crawl up to the wall, listen to the music between
pebbles.
Call them centuries, bones, onions.
It does not matter.
The words, the names, they don't matter.
Listen to the music. Just the music.

Death is written alone

Death is written alone
a black stripe is a white stripe
the sun is a hole in the sky
the fullness of the eye
weary goat
learn to see in the fold
thinning threshing threshing
star house alga
mother wood sea
they write themselves
in the soot on the pillow

piece of bread in the hall
open the door
down the stairs
the heart is shedding
the poor girl is still locked up
in the hail tower
the gold the violet the blue
trellises
they are not erased
they are not erased
they are not erased