Ways of the mirror
Original by Alejandra Pizarnik
Translated, from the Spanish, by Max Schiewe-Weliky
I
And above all, look on with innocence. As if nothing happened, which is true.
II
But you I want to look at, until your face is faded from my fear like a bird along the fine edge of night.
III
Like a girl in pink chalk on a very old wall, suddenly erased by the rain.
IV
As when a flower opens to reveal the heart it does not have.
V
All the gestures of my body and my voice make me into an offering, a bouquet on the threshold left by the wind.
VI
Cover the memory of your face with the mask of who you will become, and frighten the girl you used to be.
VII
The night for them has dwindled with the fog. It is the season of food gone cold.
VIII
And thirst. My memory is thirst, me down below, in the depths, in the well. There I drank, I remember.
IX
To fall like a wounded animal in a place meant for revelations.
X
Like someone not wanting something. Not anything. Mouth sewn shut, eyelids sewn shut, I forgot myself. Inside the wind. Everything closed and the wind inside.
XI
Words gilded in the black sun of silence.
XII
But the silence is certain. That is why I write. I’m alone and I write. No, I’m not alone. There is someone here who trembles.
XIII
When I say sun or moon or star, I speak of things that happen to me. And what did I desire?
I desired a perfect silence.
That is why I speak.
XIV
The night takes shape as a crying wolf.
XV
Joy at getting lost in the present image. I rose from my body, went in search of who I am. Pilgrim of me, I have gone to the one who sleeps in the wind of her country.
XVI
My endless fall into my endless fall where no one waited for me since when I looked for who was waiting I didn’t see anything other than my self.
XVII
Something fell in the silence. My final word was I but in reference to the luminous dawn.
XVIII
Yellow flowers constellate in a circle around the blue earth. The water hums full of wind.
XIX
Dazzle of the day, yellow birds in the morning. One hand sweeps away the shadows, the other grabs the hair of a drowned woman crossing endlessly through the mirror. To return to the memory of the body, I must return to my mourning bones, I must grasp what it is my voice says.
*****
Caminos del Espejo
I
Y sobre todo mirar con inocencia. Como si no pasara nada, lo cual es cierto.
II
Pero a ti quiero mirarte hasta que tu rostro se aleje de mi miedo como un pájaro del borde filoso de la noche.
III
Como una niña de tiza rosada en un muro muy viejo súbitamente borrada por la lluvia.
IV
Como cuando se abre una flor y revela el corazón que no tiene.
V
Todos los gestos de mi cuerpo y de mi voz para hacer de mí la ofrenda, el ramo que abandona el viento
en el umbral.
VI
Cubre la memoria de tu cara con la máscara de la que serás y asusta la niña que fuiste.
VII
La noche de los dos se dispersó con la niebla. Es la estación de los alimentos fríos.
VIII
Y la sed, mi memoria es de la sed, yo abajo, en el fondo, en el pozo, yo bebía, recuerdo.
IX
Caer como un animal herido en el lugar que iba a ser de revelaciones.
X
Como quien no quiere la cosa. Ninguna cosa. Boca cosida. Párpados cosidos. Me olvidé. Adentro el viento. Todo cerrado y el viento adentro.
XI
Al negro sol del silencio las palabras se doraban.
XII
Pero el silencio es cierto. Por eso escribo. Estoy sola y escribo. No, no estoy sola. Hay alguien aquí que tiembla.
XIII
Aun si digo sol y luna y estrella me refiero a cosas que me suceden.
¿Y qué deseaba yo?
Deseaba un silencio perfecto.
Por eso hablo.
XIV
La noche tiene la forma de un grito de lobo.
XV
Delicia de perderse en la imagen presentida. Yo me levanté de mi cadáver, yo fui en busca de quien soy. Peregrina de mí, he ido hacia la que duerme en un país al viento.
XIV
Mi caída sin fin a mi caída sin fin en donde nadie me aguardó pues al mirar quién me aguardaba no vi otra cosa que a mí misma.
XVII
Algo caía en el silencio. Mi última palabra fue yo pero me refería al alba luminosa.
XVII
Flores amarillas constelan en un círculo de tierra azul. El agua tiembla llena de viento.
XIX
Deslumbramiento del día, pájaros amarillos en la mañana. Una mano desata tinieblas, una mano arrastra la cabellera de una ahogada que no cesa de pasar por el espejo. Volver a la memoria del cuerpo, he de volver a mis huesos en duelo, he de comprender lo que dice mi voz.
Alejandra Pizarnik was an Argentine writer who produced countless works of poetry and criticism. During her short life, she wrote over one hundred poems and works of criticism. She is known for her telegraphic and often visceral style, frequently dissecting the depths of the human psyche with a sharp and instinctive eye. She is best recognized for her poetry collection Diana’s Tree (1962), which she wrote during her years in Paris, while operating from the fringes of the Surrealism movement.
Max Schiewe-Weliky is a translator from the Spanish language, and studied at Oberlin College for Comparative Literature and Literary Translation. He frequently translates poetry, prose, and criticism from Argentina, Brazil, and Mexico. He is interested in the works of Alejandra Pizarnik, Clarice Lispector, and Silvina Ocampo.
Translator’s Note: Although this poem has already been published in another English translation, I thought it necessary to bring a new light to Pizarnik’s voice that takes into account her often difficult and reflective experiences in Paris, during the waning years of the Surrealism movement. Her diaries during this time show an often troublesome period of intense self reflection and discovery. She struggles to find her own voice among the chorus of literary giants writing from Paris at the time. As she continues further in her quest for knowledge, she experiences even more confusion about her capabilities and status as a writer. As a result, her poetry increases in its telegraphic, simplistic qualities. Her poetry acts as a sort of cure to these struggles, one that she constantly searches for. I wanted to work within the bounds of these parameters that she had set for herself (and subsequently, for me, as the translator), and try to maintain her elliptical voice while embodying the same, paradoxical struggle she encountered while writing. My priorities were to read her diaries alongside my translation, to uphold her simple yet cutting phrases, and most of all, not to let anything exceed the bounds that she imposed upon herself as a poet.