Verónica Aranda - Poems

Power Cuts

Night after night the same grim nothingness before poems before power cuts. Ropes swing from the ceiling fan of the suicides, bedrooms leak the smell of tamarinds and clay pots. The sparklers, a furtive lock of plaited hair; at midnight the cats, spreading diphtheria, slip between prison corridors and the soliloquy of the dying.

The Language of the nomad

The language of the nomad is simple, it gestates in unbaked clay bowls, no word wasted. Such a lucid form of devotion. Audacity and that flight of the kites along the walls of Old Delhi.

Rajasthan

Under the boj tree in a hidden private patio, I observe the lame dog and the young woman oiling her hair on the indigo terrace with that leisure that stalls my writing sometimes, and I linger forever on the city edges, as the midday copper craftsmen pound their hapless milk jugs. Why wonder? Why look for meaning in those paths? Leave it to the fate of the unyoked buffalo. As for the nomadic itch, the risks of exploration and exhaustion in the dawn of the caravans only make sense inland, on the shell of the tortoise

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Cortes de luz

Cada noche la misma vacuidad austera que precede a los poemas y a los cortes de luz. Giran las sogas en el ventilador de los suicidas, de las alcobas llega olor a tamarindos y a pucheros de barro. Las bengalas, una trenza furtiva; a medianoche los gatos transmisores de difteria entre los corredores del presidio y el soliloquio de los desahuciados.

El lenguaje del nómada El lenguaje del nómada es sencillo, se gesta en las vasijas de barro sin cocer, no malgasta palabras. Era lúcida esta forma de entrega. La audacia y aquel vuelo de milanos por las murallas de la vieja Delhi.

Rajastán

Bajo el árbol de boj de un recóndito patio familiar, observo al perro cojo y a la muchacha que se aceita el pelo en la azotea añil, con ese ocio con el que aplazo, a veces, la escritura y me detengo siempre a las afueras, donde los artesanos de cobre y mediodía martillean las lecheras precarias. No pensar ni buscar el sentido en los caminos, al azar de los búfalos sin yunta. Cualquier impulso nómada, los riesgos de las exploraciones y el cansancio en la alborada de las caravanas sólo puede explicarse tierra adentro sobre el caparazón de la tortuga.

Verónica Aranda (Madrid, 1982) is a multi-lingual poet and translator with an international presence. Not only has her own work appeared in several languages, she has also translated contemporary poetry from Portugal, Brazil, France and Nepal into Spanish. Her professional efforts extend from creative and critical journal contributions and collaboration to participation in international literary events around the world. She has degrees M.A in Hispanic Studies (Universidad Complutense, Madrid) and Cultural Managment (Universidad Carlos III, Madrid) and she completed her M.Phil in Jawarharlal Nehru University of New Delhi, India. She has lived in Italy, Belgium, Portugal, India and Morocco.

Poetry Awards: Joaquín Benito de Lucas, Antonio Carvajal de Poesía Joven, José Agustín Goytisolo, Arte Joven de la Comunidad de Madrid, Margarita Hierro, Fernando Quiñones, Antonio Oliver Belmás, Adonáis accésit and Miguel Hernández.


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