Born to Argentine parents in Sala Capriasca in 1892, Alfonsina Storni received part of her education in Switzerland, while spending her working years in her country’s capital of Buenos Aires. Storni was familiar, if not a part, of early 20th century modernism, though she has often been characterized as uniquely postmodern. Early influences include cubism, most readily apparent in a poem titled “Squares and Angles,” in which “People […] have square souls, / ideas in a row / and angles on their backs. / I myself shed a tear yesterday, / my god, it was square.” As a young girl, she joined a theatre troupe and travelled around the country, while later she studied to become a schoolteacher. In 1912, at the age of 19, she became pregnant and moved to Buenos Aires as a single mother. There, she befriended the Uruguayan writer Horacio Quiroga and was well immersed in the literary community of Buenos Aires. Inspired by writers like Federico Garcia Lorca, Storni became famous for being one of the first feminist poets to make a living in an otherwise male-dominated environment. Diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 43, Storni, believing herself to be terminally ill, drowned herself in the sea.
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The son of Mexican parents, Ulyses Razo is a recent graduate from the University of Washington, Seattle. He writes poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, film criticism, and is a translator of Spanish language prose and poetry. His work can be found in Voices, Capillaries, Bricolage, and Phi. He currently resides in the state of Washington.
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(Translated from the original Spanish)
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March Moon Over the Sea
Little one,
newborn chick,
lukewarm and golden fleeced,
no, don’t run.
The sky’s blue meat
grows gay
with your small yolk,
faded over the sea.
You hurt yourself, marching
behind a star
between forests of dawning clouds,
and you don’t see my body
standing over a dark
ship,
which seeks
the black ray of the earth.
You would fit in my palms,
luminous chick;
in the palms
already dead
to human touch.
Only for you
would my fingers unfurl
smooth
over your tepid fleece,
moonyellow…
No, don’t run.
Vine shoot my body
dun & gray
fixed in the cold
flower of the sea
whose frozen emerald
bed
it wants.
No, don’t run…
You could dance
across my heart
the last dance
and turn off with me,
oh March, yellow moon…
(1935)
*****
Luna de marzo sobre el mar
Pequeña,
recién nacido polluelo,
tibia de vellón dorado,
no, no corras.
De tu pequeñez amarilla,
desteñida sobre el mar,
se alegra la carne
azul del cielo.
Te lastimas, marchando
detrás de una estrella,
entre bosques de nubes albas,
y no miras mi cuerpo
parado sobre un buque
negro,
que busca
la raya negra de la tierra.
Me cabrías en las manos,
luminoso polluelo;
en las manos
ya muertas
para las caricias humanas.
Sólo para tí
mis dedos se abrirían,
suaves,
sobre tu vellón tiblo,
luna amarilla..
¡No, no corras!
Sarmiento es mi cuerpo,
pardo y seco,
clavado en la fría
flor del mar
cuyo fondo de hielo
esmeralda,
desea.
No, no corras…
Sobre mi corazón
podrías bailar
la última danza
y apagarte conmigo,
luna de marzo…
(1935)
*****
Sierra
(From the Spanish sierra, meaning saw)
An invisible hand
quietly caressed
the sad pulp
of elliptical worlds…
Someone I don’t understand
rocks my heart
sweet.
In the fall snow
the sun cracks
—precocious smile of spring—
the flower of a peach tree.
Hanging from the ocher teeth
of the sierra
a frozen
granite woman
howls to the wind
the dolor of her deserted heart:
By night,
lunar
butterflies
suck
their frozen
chests.
And in my eyes
a tear, older
than flesh,
grows.
(1935)
*****
Sierra
Una mano invisible
acaricia calladamente
la pulpa triste
de los mundos rodantes.
Alguien, a quien no comprendo,
me macera el corazón
de dulzura.
En la nieve de agosto
se abre el sol
—sonrisa precoz de la primavera—
la flor del duraznero.
Tendida en el filo ocre
de la sierra,
una helada
mujer de granito
aúlla al viento
el dolor de su seno desierto:
Marlposas
de luna
liban
de noche
sus pechos
helados.
Y en mis párpados,
Una lágrima más antigua
que mi cuerpo,
crece.
*****
Beach
Leaning against the balustrade,
standing on his feet,
the old man in the yellow hat
ceases to exist.
The masses of green water
wet my feet
and sing him prayers
in tedious waves.
Distant horizon:
I cannot feel you.
The seagulls above my head
love each other
nevertheless.
In truth, then,
the living love each other
nevertheless;
with wings,
with feet,
with gills,
they love each other
nevertheless…
In the dining hall,
a blonde boy
with the small voice
of a washed cellist
says: “Mama:
may I eat this mango?”
His words
have opened, with broken branches,
my heart.
Through them I’ve seen
the man who died on his feet
and the flight of the seagulls
and the horizon, which flees.
(1935)
******
Playa
Parado contra la balaustrada,
de espaldas,
el anciano de sombrero amarillo
está ya muerto.
Le cantan responsos
en ondas monótonas
las masas de agua verde
que me mojan los pies.
Horizonte lejano:
no puedo tocarte.
Las gaviotas sobre mi cabeza
se aman todavía…
En verdad, pues;
seres vivos se aman todavía;
con alas,
con pies,
con pezuñas,
se aman todavía…
Un niño rubio
ha dicho hoy
en el comedor
con una vocecita
de violoncelo recién regado:
“Mami:
¿puedo comer este durazno?”
Sus palabras
han abierto en gajos
mi corazón.
Por ellas he visto
al hombre muerto de pie,
y el vuelo de las gaviotas,
y el horizonte huidizo…
(1935)
*****
The Stare
Tomorrow, below the weight of the years
The good people will see me pass.
But under the dark cloth and the checkmate skin
Something from the dead fire will peek…
And I’ll hear it said: who is that now
Who passes? And a voice will reply:
—Back in her day, she wrote verses
Something crazy. But that was long ago.
And I’ll have my white head of hair,
My eyes clean, and in my mouth will be
A great calm. My smile,
Upon hearing them, will not die out.
I’ll follow my path, slowly,
My stare will watch the eyes,
My stare will go a long way,
And someone in the crowd will comprehend.
(1920)
*****
La mirada
Mañana, bajo el peso de los años,
Las buenas gentes me verán pasar,
Mas bajo el peño oscuro y la piel mate
Algo del muerto fuego asomará.
Y oiré decir: ¿quién es esa que ahora
Pasa? Y alguna voz contestará:
-Allá en sus buenos tiempos
Hacía versos. Hace mucho ya.
Y yo tendré mi cabellera blanca,
Los ojos limpios, y en mi boca habrá
Una gran placidez y mi sonrisa
Oyendo aquéllo no se apagará.
Seguiré mi camino lentamente,
Mi mirada a los ojos mirará,
Irá muy hondo la mirada mía,
Y alguien, en el montón, comprenderá.
(1920)
*****
