#Ida Vitale
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Ida Vitale by Joaquín Del Castello
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Che sia breve o lunga la vita, tutto
ciò che viviamo si riduce
a un residuo grigio nella memoria.
Dei vecchi viaggi rimangono
monete enigmatiche
che rivendicano falsi valori.
Dalla memoria si alza solo
un’impalpabile polvere e un profumo.
Che sia poesia?
(Ida Vitale)
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Pero después del
fuego
es la ceniza,
la durable ceniza
la que gana.
Ida Vitale.
#ida vitale#Poesía#Poeta#frases libros#frases literatura#frases literarias#libros#literatura#leo autoras#fuego#cenizas
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Hoy el viento es poderoso, pero no es él quien lo dice sino las ramas de la encina. Aprender de esa discreción, de esa lección muda del viento...
Ida Vitale
Ida Vitale (2 de noviembre de 1923) es una poeta, traductora, ensayista, profesora y crítica literaria uruguaya. Forma parte del movimiento artístico denominado "Generación del 45". Esta semana cumplió un siglo de vida.
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Recopilación de textos fotografiados. "Fortuna". Ida Vitale
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23 April 2019 | King Felipe VI of Spain, Queen Letizia of Spain and Uruguayan writer Ida Vitale attend the 'Miguel de Cervantes 2018' Award, given to Ida Vitale at Alcala de Henares University in Alcala de Henares, Spain. (c) Carlos Alvarez/Getty Images
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Por años, disfrutar del error
y de su enmienda,
haber podido hablar, caminar libre,
no existir mutilada,
no entrar o sí en iglesias,
leer, oír la música querida,
ser en la noche un ser como en el día.
No ser casada en un negocio,
medida en cabras,
sufrir gobierno de parientes
o legal lapidación.
No desfilar ya nunca
y no admitir palabras
que pongan en la sangre
limaduras de hierro.
Descubrir por ti misma
otro ser no previsto
en el puente de la mirada.
Ser humano y mujer, ni más ni menos.
Fortuna, Ida Vitale
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(...) Pero los itinerarios inseguros
se diseminan sin sentido preciso.
Nos hemos vuelto nómades,
sin esplendores en la travesía,
ni dirección adentro del poema.
Ida Vitale
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Ida Vitale poeta uruguaiana
Ida Vitale, poeta, saggista, traduttrice e critica letteraria uruguaiana è un’importante protagonista della tradizione delle avanguardie storiche latinoamericane.
È la più longeva esponente del movimento Generación del 45 che condivideva una apertura verso le novità dell’arte e della cultura che provenivano dall’Europa, con una matrice comune politico-culturale di sinistra e un’attenzione particolare alle tematiche legate alla città moderna.
Insignita di prestigiosi premi letterari, fra cui, nel 2018 svetta il Premio Cervantes, considerato il Nobel della letteratura in lingua spagnola, con la seguente motivazione: “il suo linguaggio è uno dei più conosciuti nella poesia spagnola contemporanea… Esso è al contempo intellettuale e popolare, universale e personale, superficiale e profondo“.
La sua scrittura è caratterizzata da un’attenzione per il mondo naturale e da un simbolismo volto all’indagine delle “alchimie del linguaggio”, la sua poesia essenzialista, mira alla concretezza delle parole.
Nei suoi brevi versi l’ironia rappresenta una componente fondamentale.
Il suo nome completo è Ida Ofelia Vitale Povigna ed è nata a Montevideo, il 2 novembre 1923. Appartiene alla quarta generazione di immigrati italiani provenienti dalla Sicilia. È cresciuta in una famiglia colta e cosmopolita.
Laureata in Lettere all’Università dell’Uruguay dove, successivamente, ha insegnato, ha collaborato e diretto diverse riviste letterarie e culturali.
Le sue prime opere rilevanti sono state “La luz de esta memoria“del 1949, “Palabra dada” (1953), “Cada uno su noche” (1960) e “Paso a paso” (1963).
Dura oppositrice della dittatura militare dell’Uruguay, nel 1974 è fuggita in Messico, dove ha conosciuto lo scrittore Premio Nobel Octavio Paz entrando a far parte dello staff editoriale della rivista Vuelta che lui dirigeva. In seguito, ha partecipato alla fondazione del giornale Uno más Uno, è stata insegnante e ha tradotto libri per il Fondo de Cultura Económica, curando conferenze e lettorati, senza trascurare la partecipazione a giurie e giornali.
Rientrata nel Paese nativo, scriveva sulla pagina culturale del settimanale Jaque, prima di andare a vivere in Texas, negli Stati Uniti, dove è rimasta per trent’anni. Nel 2016 è tornata a Montevideo dove risiede stabilmente.
La sua opera è caratterizzata da brevi poemi, da un’attenta ricerca del senso delle parole e un carattere metaletterario.
La sua poesia è pervasa dalla grande empatia per gli animali, in contrasto con la delusione per la moderna mediocrità degli esseri umani vittime del capitalismo culturale.
Precorritrice di una sensibilità ecologica, ha scritto romanzi, saggi, poesie e ha tradotto, dall’italiano e dal francese opere di Simone de Beauvoir, Luigi Pirandello, Benjamin Péret, Mario Praz, per citare qualche nome.
Nella sua scrittura c’è la rinuncia alla perfezione formale in cambio di un certo enigma, un punto di stimolo e di mistero. Con maestria spoglia le sue parole di ogni elemento ritenuto superfluo, fino a lasciare soltanto l’essenza del testo.ù
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Mira, sin olvidar fatalidades,
la creciente, mas disminuida, especie.
Ánclate en lo que tantos desdeñan,
discreta ignora lo que el mundo busca,
para así transitar, ya sin enfado,
tu bandera sin viento que desciende."
Ida Vitale, Programa.
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Time Without Keys by Ida Vitale, translated by Sarah Pollack
Iceland, 2000
Ceibos, ceibas, only one letter
marks their clear distinction.
Red ceibos and green ceibas reign,
also elderberries, willows, and cypresses,
in the blessed incandescence
common in the south awash with songs and colors.
In Iceland, the blue and white island,
there are no songbirds, only seabirds,
no music, except that of hands,
hands moving stones, but not every stone,
so moss can grow and the green
can begin singing, ever softly.
*Author's note: "Not every stone," because those that could be a home to an elf, which many believe in, are respected.
***
Nostalgia for the Dodo
I'm nostalgic for the dodo.
What I miss isn't fictional, almost a myth,
even if dictionaries do forget it.
It appeared as real as old age and death,
in a display case at the Victoria
and Albert, astonishing me with its existence
beyond my childhood readings,
the immense and innocent companion
of the waistcoated rabbit and his haste.
Akin to a goose, its aggressive beak
was of no use to save its sympathetic
race from extinction during a time
of savagery, maybe worse,
when I wouldn't have wished to live.
I imagined its feathers swan
white, now the yellowed ivory
of abandoned pianos or lace
from a venerable wedding. I imagined
its strange tarsal gait,
the deserted guardian of a truth
transformed into dim fantasy.
Yes, I'm nostalgic for the dodo, and more,
for the countless extinctions it condenses,
for the time of crossing the looking-glass
to discover that evil could be
vanquished, being nothing but an absurd
figure escaped from a deck of cards.
***
Between Yeses and Noes
In the beginning I was sweet, obedient.
I later discovered a surfeit of motives for No.
Then later, much, much later,
Yes was possible, when harnessed to love,
to trust earned within faithful walls.
But, unhappy arc, alone now, Yes decays.
Outside the windows and from a distance,
No bares its sharpened teeth
at the world's obtuseness and its conspiracies.
***
Fortune
For years, to relish errors
and their amends,
to be able to speak, walk freely,
not endure mutilation,
to not enter churches, or enter,
to read, listen to beloved music,
by night be a being as well as by day.
To not be married off in a transaction,
valued in goats,
to not suffer the dominion of relatives
or legal lapidation.
To not parade ever again
or allow words
that inject iron filings
in your blood.
To discover for yourself
another unforeseen being
on the bridge formed by a gaze.
To be human and woman, no more no less.
***
To Translate
Someone overflows
at the center of the night.
Facing the order of another's words,
subjugated rebel,
she offers the song of her whole memory,
she sheathes them in new skin
and lovingly
puts them to sleep in a new tongue.
Lights off,
the wind trumpets in the trees
and there's a chill close to the window
and the certainty that every landscape
is disrupted within
like a sentence that reaches the lair
of formidable meaning.
There is no
benevolent guide
waiting in the wasteland.
Steps are taken blindly,
starless the sky.
And thought anticipates wild beasts.
***
Starling
As if the starling
left nothing to wonder
but his name.
For in whom but him
is the auric at work?
First it's his beak,
in proximity to everything.
And those flecks of gold in his feathers?
Even dressed this way he bustles
about the grasses of the earth.
Like a medieval knight,
he's ready for a tournament or a siege
or the dust from the road
in his clothes of a noble vagabond.
Experienced and aloof, with him
there's no room for dialogue or oblation.
Perhaps the eye of Ahura Mazda
contemplating in Persepolis
the dark satin of his regalia
left him spangled with brilliance
and of that he is not unaware.
***
Snail
The snail moves with expedition
though people don't believe it
and think he only transits
the wall in search of warm sun.
On the contrary, if you happen on
his chalky bubbles in the umbra,
know: he neither mates nor slumbers.
Desiring better days to come,
he's resolved to swap his home.
It's not a skyscraper he eyes
with iron and mortar overblown
but the nest where the ovenbird abides.
Soon you'll find him crossing ice
in search of an igloo just his size.
***
Tiny Kingdom
1
Words:
vacant palaces,
city half-asleep.
Before what knife
will the thunder arrive
—the flood follows—
that awakens them?
2
Vocabularies,
errant vocations,
stars that irradiate light
before their birth,
or debris from distant marvels.
Their eternal dust floats.
How to become their mother liquor,
even a wound
on which to pause,
how to go from arid
to arable field
with their celestial mulch?
3
Sometimes words
form a chord,
the waterfalls ascend,
break the law of gravity.
Poetry, a powerful moon,
gathers desolate tides
and lifts them up where they can
hazard the skies.
4
Field of fault lines,
halo without a center:
words,
promises, portion, prize.
The past dissolved,
no support for the present,
crumbled
the inconceivable future.
5
Prose under pressure
used
as deadwood
prose without live coals,
face down on
the page,
no longer wind,
barely breeze.
Fear its turbulence
like one who can't swim
fears a reckless boat.
***
Dark
Like this bird
that waits until the light dies
to begin singing,
I write in darkness,
when nothing shines
and calls out from the earth.
I commence in the dark,
l observe, I burrow within myself,
as I am the darkness,
toward
what's darkest of all,
down the well
of time
of being-almost-nonbeing,
after the seed, gem,
origin, birth
of myself,
of mother, grandmothers,
unattainable ocean
of time
and lost, swallowed-up creatures.
Patinir, magical
and depraved,
his otherworldly cave.
The rower in the background
thinks he's making headway.
***
From Tiger the Leap
From tiger the leap,
from tiger, the ambushed hideout.
Life lightning fast
leaves,
after claws swipe,
the gash from which perseverance
drips.
Then come the reasons to forget;
tamed,
we lick the new, dark scar
when it aches
and oblivious to the forest,
we cross it again
for our daily minimum.
***
The Word
Expectant words,
fabulous in themselves,
promises of possible meanings,
artful,
aerial,
irate,
Ariadnes.
A slight error
makes them ornamental.
Their indescribable exactitude
erases us.
***
Step by Step
All at once wind will come
and it will be autumn.
Summer leaves
and a memory falls
and life descends another rung
without being noticed,
from one yellow to another.
Farewell, behind,
the step I haven't taken,
friendship uncertain,
barely a dream.
All at once it will be autumn.
There is no more time.
I lost a magic double
of my name,
a passing sign
that could render a more exact world.
I lost the peace,
the war.
Perhaps I lost my life
and haven't yet earned
my own death.
In the empty space
someone plucks a string,
little by little.
It is autumn already, so soon.
There is no more time.
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Quiero dar a este
viento lo que
arrastro
dormido y harto en
las espaldas,
y despertar y estar
de veras viva,
y ser parte y amor
en la mañana
Ida Vitale.
#ida vitale#Poesía#Poeta#frases libros#frases literatura#frases literarias#libros#literatura#leo autoras
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IDA VITALE CUMPLE CIEN AÑOS
EUFEMÉRIDES
La poeta Ida Vitale, Premio Cervantes en 2018, cumple un siglo de vida en plenas facultades
Francisco R. Pastoriza
El abuelo paterno de Ida Vitale, Félix Vitale D’Amico, llegó a Uruguay desde Sicilia después de un viaje terrible en un barco destartalado. Había participado en las guerras de unificación de Italia formando parte de las brigadas de Garibaldi, y llegó…
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#Ángel Rama#Enrique Fierro#Gabriela Mistral#Ida Vitale#Jorge Ibargüengoitia#José Bergamín#Juan Carlos Onetti#Juan Ramón Jiménez#León Felipe#Manuel Scorza#María Inés Arrillaga#Mario Benedetti#Marta Traba#Octavio Paz
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Colección de citas literarias. XCIII
Entre el pensamiento y la palabra hablada existe una fisura en la que puede penetrar la intención, el símbolo puede ser abstraído y la mentira admitida en la existencia.
Ursula K. Le Guin
Tener el valor, sabiendo previamente que vas a ser derrotado, y salir a pelear: eso es la literatura.
Roberto Bolaño
Adquirir el hábito de la lectura y rodearnos de buenos libros es construirnos un refugio…
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