The poet Ida Vitale (Uruguay, 1923) has been the winner of the Cervantes Prize, the most prestigious of Spanish letters, delivered once again on Book Day. It is another year in a row that the award crosses the ocean and goes to the hands of an author with a very long career. I pick up 6 of his poems most prominent.
Ida Vitale
Born in Montevideo, Ida Vitale is poet, translator, essayist and literary critic, and is part of the call 45 Generation, where writers such as Mario Benedetti, Juan Carlos Onetti o Idea Vilariño. His poetry carries the adjectives of intellectual, But also popular, universal and also personal, and so transparent as deep.
He has received several other awards such as the Octavio Paz Award, Alfonso Reyes Award, Reina Sofía Award or the Federico García Lorca International Poetry Prize. The Cervantes is without a doubt the finishing touch to so many years and career. He currently resides in the United States.
Among his work, the titles of The light of this memory, Dreams of constancy, Where the chameleon flies, imaginary gardens o Infinity reduction.
7 poems
To get down to earth
You put on your rain boots,
the eyes of the rain
and the pessimism of possible hail,
accept the dazzling morning cup,
the mud guesses,
the cold against the limestone skin,
concocts contrary plans,
apostrophe and dismay,
supposes the purr of the poem
sheltered in bed, like a cat.
But give in little by little
come down, and enter the field of the radar of death,
Like every day,
naturally, tautologically.
The word
Expectant words,
fabulous in itself,
promises of possible meanings,
graceful,
aerial,
angry,
ariadnes.
A brief mistake
makes them ornamental.
Its indescribable accuracy
erases us.
Meeting
Once upon a forest of words
an ambush rain of words,
a vociferous or unspoken
word convention,
a whispering delicious moss,
a faint rumble, a rainbow oral
of possible oh slight slight slight dissent,
there were the pros and cons,
the yes and the no,
multiplied trees
with a voice in each of its leaves.
Never again, it would be said,
the silence.
This world
I just accept this enlightened world
true, fickle, mine.
I only exalt its eternal labyrinth
and its safe light, even if it is hidden.
Wake up or between dreams,
his grave ground floor
and it's your patience on me
the one that flourishes.
It has a deaf circle,
limbo perhaps,
where I wait blindly
the rain, the fire
unchained.
Sometimes its light changes
it is hell;
sometimes rarely
from paradise.
Someone may maybe
half open doors,
To see beyond
promises, successions.
I only live in him,
I hope from him,
and there is enough wonder.
I am in it,
I stayed,
reborn.
Daily obligations
Remember the bread,
don't forget that dark wax
that you have to lay in the woods,
nor the garnish cinnamon,
no other necessary spices.
Run, correct, sail,
check every domestic rite.
Attended to salt, to honey,
to flour, to useless wine,
step on the idle inclination without further ado,
the burning scream of your body.
Pass, through this same threader needle,
evening after evening,
between one fabric and another,
the bittersweet dream,
the pieces of shattered sky.
And that a ball of yarn is always in hand
endlessly rambles
as in the turns of another maze.
But don't think
do not try,
weaves.
It is of little use to remember,
seek favor among the myths.
Ariadna you are without rescue
and without a constellation to crown you.
Being alone
A hapless being alone,
a lucky man on the edge of oneself.
What less? What else do you suffer?
What rose do you ask, just smell and rose,
only subtle touch, color and pink,
without a hard thorn?
In Quevedo
One day
he climbs from the pole to the equator
its going down
of the feathers of paradise
to the trough of blood where it falls
the most accurate account
for staying digging in Quevedo
cherub of sharp hatreds
Luciferian spirits
comfortable in the last four of man
death judgment hell glory.