The great Argentine poet, Juan Gelman (d. 2014) was born in Buenos Aires on May 3, 1930. On August 26, 1976, his children, Nora Eva, 19 years old, and Marcelo Ariel, 20, were kidnapped by the security forces, along with their daughter-in-law María Claudia Iruretagoyena, 19 years old, who was seven months pregnant. On January 7, 1990, the Argentine Forensic Anthropology Team identified the remains of his son Marcelo, found in a river in San Fernando (Greater Buenos Aires), inside an oil drum filled with sand and cement. The poem translated below describe the plight of individuals on the run during Argentina’s so-called Dirty War (1976-1983). «Ignorances»
dark/luminous times/the sun shrouds in sunshine the city rent by sudden sirens/the police on the hunt/night falls and we we will make love under this roof/the eighth
in a month/they know almost everything about us/except for this plaster ceiling under which we will make love/and neither do they know the old pine furniture under the previous ceiling/nor
the window that the night pounded while it shone like the sun/nor the beds or the floor where we made love this month/surrounded by faces like the sun that shrouds the city in sunshine
Juan Gelman, from Hechos (1974-1978) Translated by John Lyons
«Ignorancias» tiempos oscuros/luminosos/el sol cubre de sol la ciudad partida por súbitas sirenas/la policía busca/cae la noche y nosotros haremos el amor bajo este techo/el octavo en un mes/conocen casi todo de nosotros/menos este techo de yeso bajo el cual haremos el amor/y tampoco conocen los viejos muebles de pino bajo el techo anterior/ni la ventana que la noche golpeaba mientras brillaba como el sol/ni las camas o el suelo donde hicimos el amor este mes/rodeados de rostros como el sol que cubre de sol la ciudad
it’s raining on the Río de la Plata and it’s almost 36 years since they killed Federico García Lorca but what’s the relationship between that outer reality and this inner unreality? or what’s the relationship between that outer unreality and this inner reality? I don’t know the river’s gray line looks like the knife with which they slit the sky looks like the knife with which they slit childhoods in Azul slit childhoods in Santa Fe and other places in the republic sometimes forever or always forever it’s one of the country’s great agonies that’s for sure in the west the sunsets are not inflamed by the sun here children’s blood inflames the republic’s sunsets children from Salta children from Tucumán little angels blood evaporated or fallen swept away by the sunset each and every each and every day and what’s that got to do the death of Federico García Lorca with the execution of Federico García Lorca in Granada in 1936? or the sunset in the west of Spain that is inflamed not by the sun but from the blood of Federico García Lorca poet each and every each and every day I don’t know I don’t know “child, you’re going to fall into the river!” said Federico García Lorca “when he was lost in the water I understood” said Federico García Lorca “within the rose there’s another river” said Federico García Lorca but why does his blood inflame Granada each and every day every day? and the children of Azul Santa Fe Tucumán Salta why do they inflame the sky of the republic beneath which they have forgotten them or pretend to forget? why did they fall into the river were lost in the water went to the river of another rose from ugly poverty? what’s the relationship between that outer reality and this inner unreality? or what’s the relationship between that outer unreality and this inner reality? when did they kill Federico García Lorca in Tucumán? when was he shot in Azul Santa Fe Salta?
Juan Gelman
(Translated by John Lyons)
In this poem, Juan Gelman – of Ukrainian origin and one of Argentina’s greatest poet – draws a parallel between the murder of the poet Federico García Lorca by Franco’s fascist troops at the start of the Spanish Civil War and the slaughter of innocents in Argentina during the so-called Dirty War (the name used for the period of United States-backed state terrorism in Argentina from 1976 to 1983). Azul, Santa Fe, Salta and Tucumán are representative provinces of Argentina, though the military dictatorship spread terror throughout the country.
Those hands on the cave wall in Santa Cruz Argentina waving to us from 9000 years ago
Silhouettes created by blowing paint through bone-made pipes : and such warmth in these gestures as if to say we’re here and in our art we salute you our friends to come
Those hands on the wall of the cave in Santa Cruz Argentina waving to us from 9000 years ago The silhouettes created by blowing paint through bone-made pipes The warmth of these gestures as if to say we were here and we salute you those of you who are to come
The poet Juan Gelman was born in Buenos Aires in 1930. The third son of Ukrainian immigrants, his father, José Gelman, had been a social revolutionary who participated in the 1905 revolution in Russia before finally settling in Argentina.
Gelman himself was an ardent political activist and in 1975 briefly became involved with the Montoneros, later distancing himself from the group. Following the 1976 military coup, Gelman was forced into exile. In 1976, his son Marcelo and his pregnant daughter-in-law, Maria Claudia, aged 20 and 19, were kidnapped from their home. They became two of the 30,000 disappeared, the people who vanished during the period of the military junta and the so-called Dirty War.
In 1990 Gelman was taken to identify his son’s remains (he had been executed and buried in a barrel filled with sand and cement). Later still, in 2000, Gelman managed to trace his granddaughter, who was born in a clandestine hospital before Maria Claudia was murdered. The baby had been adopted by a family that supported the military government. Maria Claudia’s remains have not been recovered. The poem below was published in 1991. In 2007 Gelman was awarded the prestigious Miguel de Cervantes Spanish language prize. He died in 2014.
Noises
those footsteps are they looking for him ? that car is it stopping at his door ? those men in the street are they lying in wait ? there are all sorts of noises at night
in the midst of those noises day breaks nobody can stop the sun nobody can stop the cock crowing nobody can stop the day
there’ll be nights and days he might not see nobody can stop the revolution nothing can stop the revolution there are all sorts of noises at night
those footsteps are they looking for him ? that car is it stopping at his door ? those men in the street are they lying in wait ? there are all sorts of noises at night
in the midst of those noises day breaks nobody can stop the day nobody can stop the sun nobody can stop the cock crowing
During the ten years I lived in Brazil, I visited Argentina on five occasions, spending at least two weeks in Buenos Aires each time. I loved the city, and I loved the people, the long-suffering people of Argentina, who had endured the most savage and macabre of military dictatorships of all the dictatorships of South America.
Within a few years of returning to democracy in 1983, the country was yet to suffer further at the hands of the dictatorship of international capital, which led ultimately to a virtual overnight devaluation of the country’s currency in 2002 and stripped the value of millions of people’s savings. Despite the terrible years of political and economic attrition, the population remained dignified and proud of its cultural heritage, proud of the tango and of its immensely rich artistic culture and its love affair with books. While it was rare in Brazil to see people on the public transport system reading a book, in Argentina the opposite was true, and in Buenos Aires, at least, there was a bookshop on every street corner.
I wrote the poem below in my hotel room one afternoon and it was inspired more by the crisis in my relationship at the time than by the problems of the Argentinean economy. The hotel, ironically, was called Casa calma (the calm house) but for me it was anything but calm. I knew that that particular visit to the country was going to be my last, certainly, my last with that particular partner.
As to the form of the poem, inspiration came from two sources. The concept of ‘the first of the last times’ I borrowed from a poem by an elderly Nicaraguan poet, José Coronel Urtecho, whom I had met some years previously in his home, a few months before his death. The poem was called Panels of Hell, and my translation of that text was commissioned and published by Harold Pinter. The second source was from the catechism lesson I was taught as a child in primary school:
Q. Which are the four last things to be always remembered?
A. The four last things to be always remembered are: Death, Judgment, Hell, and Heaven.
The Last Waltz
What will be the first of the last things The first word of the last words The first day of the last days The first kiss of the last kisses; What will be the first breath Of the last breaths, the first sigh And the first of the long goodbyes? Here in Buenos Aires the streets Are haunted by those who have Gone before, by those who have walked These noble streets that fell in recent years Upon such hard times, a sad dreary elegance Now clinging to so many crumbling façades. This clear blue sky and crisp ocean air Known to Borges, known to Cortázar, Which weathers the skin in the daily bounty Of those who survive. This may be the first Of the last memories, the first taste Of the last tastes to tantalize my palate The first of the last loves to be made In the first of the last beds. And as I wake And dress in the first of the last clothes Put on the shoes that may be blessed To take the first of the last steps, I recall the sibilance of Emily’s valley-licking train, A vector of sound in the long speechless distance A vector of thought, a rugged nugget of words Condensed around an ecstasy of emotion: From distance, the sensation of intimacy, From a silence broken, the tactile meaning of words Of love, the first of the last words of love, The first of the last brushes of skin against skin, Of lip against lip. This is, and always was a merry Macabre dance, whether upon a lush city stage, A retarded Calvary or in the empty heart of the pampas: Our steps are numbered, even as the band is poised To strike up the very first chords of our very last waltz.
The great Argentine poet, Juan Gelman (d. 2014) was born in Buenos Aires on May 3, 1930. On August 26, 1976, his children, Nora Eva, 19 years old, and Marcelo Ariel, 20, were kidnapped by the security forces, along with their daughter-in-law María Claudia Iruretagoyena, 19 years old, who was seven months pregnant. On January 7, 1990, the Argentine Forensic Anthropology Team identified the remains of his son Marcelo, found in a river in San Fernando (Greater Buenos Aires), inside an oil drum filled with sand and cement. The poem translated below describe the plight of individuals on the run during Argentina’s so-called Dirty War (1976-1983).
johnjosephlyons 