Translatorâs Introduction
What follows is a series of English translations of Juan Gelmanâs (1930â2014) Dibaxu, a bilingual collection of twenty-nine love poems written originally in Ladino, or Judeo-Spanish (âSefardĂâ in Gelmanâs terms), accompanied by translations into modern Spanish by the author himself. In other words, there are two translators present here: Gelman, the self-translator who moves from his adopted tongue, Ladino, back into his native Spanish, and me, the translator who carries his verses over from the Spanish translations into English.
Although not published until 1994, Gelman composed Dibaxu between 1983 and 1985, while exiled in Europe. A lifelong leftist political activist, the poet was banished from his native Argentina in 1975 due to his involvement with the Montoneros, a guerrilla, left-wing Peronist organization. The year 1976 ushered in a period of collective horror and pain for Gelman and his compatriots. Although Gelman managed to escape political persecution under General Jorge Rafael Videlaâs military dictatorship during the Guerra sucia (Dirty War, 1974â1983), Gelmanâs son, Marcelo Ariel, along with his pregnant wife, MarĂa Claudia Iruretagoyena, were disappeared and extrajudicially murdered by the militaryâs right-wing death squads.
The multilingualism present in Dibaxu as well as Gelmanâs deliberate choice to write in Ladino and then self-translate invites a reflection on language and, specifically, on the complex relationship between language and exile. For Gelman, Ladino, the language of the Sephardim, is a tongue that exists exclusively in exile. The diasporic language of Ladino carries histories of displacement, beginning with the Edict of Expulsion of Granada in 1492, which ordered the banishment of the Jews and Conversos from the kingdoms of Spainâs Catholic Monarchs. In his brief preface to Dibaxu, Gelman writes, âIt was as if the extreme solitude of exile had pushed me to search for roots in language, the deepest and most exiled ones of language.â This quest, spurred by the unbearable pain of his personal expulsion, follows a downward trajectory as captured by the title of the collection, Dibaxu, which is Ladino for âdebajoâ or âbeneath.â Gelman not only descends, plunging into the depths of sixteenth-century Spanish to uncover its substratum, Judeo-Spanish, but his self-translation into modern Spanish insists on a movement across as well, ultimately suturing the substrata through the common theme of exile. Gelman beseeches us to listen carefully to this dialogue, which defies geographical, temporal, spatial, and linguistic boundaries, traveling between âthe two soundsâ of displaced voices of the far past and of Gelmanâs more recent past. The slashes that complete each poem emphasize the dialogical aspect of Dibaxu, inviting the reader to trail the narrative voice full of longing as it weaves in and out of the bilingual verses. If we dive beneath the romantic surface of the poems, we discover allegories of exilic discourse below the ostensible sensual longing, where dreams of a distant native land and mother tongue, of loved ones disappeared, are encoded in the figure of the beloved. The true genius of Gelman resides in his ability to craft a poetics of estrangement in order to achieve a disalienation of the self. Through a number of stylistic techniques including the feminization of masculine nouns, intentional grammatical errors in verbal conjugations, and unconventional syntax, Gelman distorts language so that his poetry may begin to articulate the ineffable and estranging violence of his world. Exile is an extreme form of alienation. The dispossessed subject is brutally confronted with the startling absence of a motherland and deafening silence of a mother tongue. In the poems of Dibaxu, Gelman radically distances himself from his native Spanish, his typical playground for language experimentation and grammar tricks, embracing Ladino instead as the site for his idiosyncratic poetic expression. Before he self-translates back into Spanish, the poet begins with a linguistic self-banishment, opting for the exilic tongue par excellence in order to circumvent the discourse and material violence of Argentinaâs military dictatorship and regain control over the conditions of his own forced expropriation. Oddly, it is through his decision to write in Ladino, estranging himself further, that Gelman rediscovers the tenderness of language that speaks most immediately to the pain of his immense loss. Certain intrinsic aspects of Ladino such as the innate diminutives, the feminization of masculine words (âla calorâ in Ladino versus âel calorâ in Spanish in Poem VII), and the normalization of irregular verb constructions all reflect hallmarks of Gelmanâs poetic oeuvre. The naturalization of the poetâs most salient rhetorical tricks in Ladino highlights the extent of Gelmanâs estrangement from Spanish and his discovery of an adopted mother tongue in Ladino. This exilic language, which invites the natural expression of Gelmanâs previously âunnaturalâ rhetorical games in Spanish, becomes a repository for the most emblematic Gelmanian traits.
What is more, Gelman employs his self-translations as a method to further alienate himself from Spanish, in that his translations are virtually devoid of the idiosyncratic qualities typical of his poetry. The nondescript nature of the Spanish of his translations vacillates between the Argentine vos and standard tĂș forms of the secondperson singular. Furthermore, Gelman observes correct verbal forms in instances where he would normally toss out the grammatical rulebook, such as in Poem XVI, where he translates âmuriduâ as âmuertoâ instead of âmorido,â the latter sounding both closer to the Ladino but also constituting an intentional error found frequently throughout Gelmanâs previous work. His self-translations, therefore, do not represent a full return or assimilation into his native Spanish. By denying the Spanish the intimacy and new expressive horizons he discovers in Ladino, the poet displaces Spanish as the privileged terrain for his poetic voice, converting it into the mirror of the Other.
Only by descending into the substrata of these Spanishes, toward the most exiled roots of language, can Gelman recover the tenderness of his motherland and his mother tongue and reject the discourse commandeered by the military junta. Through this adopted language of exile, the poet finds a type of confirmation rather than a realization regarding the power of estrangement as a return to the self.
From Dibaxu
ESCOLIO | SCHOLIUM |
---|---|
EscribĂ los poemas de dibaxu en sefardĂ, de 1983 a 1985. Soy de origen judĂo, pero no sefardĂ, y supongo que eso algo tuvo que ver con el asunto. Pienso, sin embargo, que estos poemas sobre todo son la culminaciĂłn o mĂĄs bien el desemboque de Citas y Comentarios, dos libros que compuse en pleno exilio, en 1978 y 1979, y cuyos textos dialogan con el castellano del siglo XVI. Como si buscar el sus- trato de ese castellano, sustrato a su vez del nuestro, hubiera sido mi obsesiĂłn. Como si la soledad extrema del exilio me empujara a buscar raĂces en la lengua, las mĂĄs profundas y exiliadas de la lengua. Yo tampoco me lo explico. El acceso a poemas como los de Clarisse NikoĂŻdski, novelista en francĂ©s y poeta en sefardĂ, desvelaron esa necesidad que en mĂ dormĂa, sorda, dispuesta a despertar. ÂżQuĂ© necesidad? ÂżPor quĂ© dormĂa? ÂżPor quĂ© sorda? En cambio, sĂ© que la sintaxis sefardĂ me devolviĂł un candor perdido y sus diminutivos, una ternura de otros tiempos que estĂĄ viva y, por eso, llena de consuelo. QuizĂĄs este libro apenas sea una reflexiĂłn sobre el lenguaje desde su lugar mĂĄs calcinado, la poesĂa. Acompaño los textos en castellano actual no por desconfianza en la inteligencia del lector. A quien ruego que los lea en voz alta en un castellano y en el otro para escuchar, tal vez, entre los dos sonidos, algo del tiempo que tiembla y que nos da pasado desde el Cid. |
I wrote the poems of dibaxu in Sephardi, between 1983 and 1985. I am of Jewish origin, but not Sephardic, and I suppose that this had something to do with it. I think, however, that these poems are above all the culmination, or rather the confluence, of Citas and Comentarios, two books that I composed in full exile, between 1978 and 1979, and whose texts are in dialogue with the Spanish of the sixteenth century. It was as if search- ing for the substratum of that Spanish, substratum at the same time of our own, had been my obsession. It was as if the extreme solitude of exile had pushed me to search for roots in language, the deepest and most exiled ones of language. I donât even understand it myself. Access to poems such as those by Clarisse NikoĂŻdski, novelist in French and poet in Sephardi, unveiled a necessity that lay dormant in me, deaf, ready to be awakened. What necessity? Why did it lay dormant? Why deaf? Nevertheless, I know that the syntax of Sephardi returned a lost candor to me and its diminutives, a tenderness of other times that lives on and, therefore, is full of solace. Perhaps this book is merely a reflection on language from its most scorched location, poetry. I pair the texts with the contemporary Spanish translations not out of any lack of faith in the readerâs intelligence. I beseech whoever reads these poems read them aloud in one Spanish and then in the other in order to hear, perhaps, between the two sounds, something of a time that trembles and gives us a past since The Cid.1 |
J.G. | J.G. |
V | V | V |
---|---|---|
quĂ lindus tus ojus/ il mirar di tus ojus mĂĄs/ y mĂĄs il airi di tu mirar londji/ nil airi stuvi buscandu: |
qué lindos tus ojos/ y mås la mirada de tus ojos/ y mås el aire de tus ojos cuando lejos mirås/ en el aire estuve buscando: |
how lovely your eyes/ and more so the gaze of your eyes/ and more so the air of your eyes when you gaze into the distance/ in the air I was searching for: |
la lampa di tu sangri/ sangri di tu solombra/ tu solombra sovri mi curasĂłn/ |
la lĂĄmpara de tu sangre/ sangre de tu sombra/ tu sombra sobre mi corazĂłn/ |
the lamp of your blood/ blood of your shadow/ your shadow over my heart/ |
VII | VII | VII |
---|---|---|
la calor qui distruyi al pinser si distruyi pinsendu/ la luz timbla in tus bezus/y |
el calor que destruye al pensar se destruye pensando/ la luz tiembla en tus besos/y |
the heat that destroys thought destroys itself thinking/ the light trembles in your kisses/and |
queda al caminu/queda al tiempu/londji/avri lus bezus/dexa yerva nil curasĂłn quimadu/ |
detiene al camino/detiene al tiempo/lejos/abre los besos/deja hierba en el corazĂłn quemado/ |
halts the path/halts time/far away/opens the kisses/leaves grass in the burnt heart/ |
si dispartara la yuvia di un pĂĄxaru qui aspira al mar nil mar/ |
se despertĂł la lluvia de un pĂĄjaro que espera al mar en el mar/ |
the rain awoke from a bird that awaits the sea in the sea/ |
VIII | VIII | VIII |
---|---|---|
nil âamaniana aviarta n tus ojus abagan lus animalis qui ti quimaran adientru dil sueniu/ |
en la mañana abierta lentamente por tus ojos pasan los animales que te quemaron adentro del sueño/ |
in the open morning through your eyes slowly pass the animals that burned you within the dream/ |
nunca dizin nada/ mi dexan sinizas/y solu cun il sol/ |
nunca dicen nada/ me dejan cenizas/y solo con el sol/ |
they never say anything/ they leave me ashes/and alone with the sun/ |
IX | IX | IX |
---|---|---|
tu piede pisa la nochi/suavi/ avri la yuvia/ avri il dĂa/ |
tu pie pisa la noche/leve/ abre la lluvia/ abre el dĂa/ |
your foot treads on the night/light/ it opens the rain/ it opens the day/ |
la muerte no savi nada di vos/ tu piede teni yerva dibaxu y una solombra ondi scrivi il mar del vazĂo/ |
la muerte nada sabe de vos/ u pie tiene hierba debajo y una sombra donde escribe el mar del vacĂo/ |
death knows nothing of you/ your foot has grass beneath it and a shadow where it writes the sea of emptiness/ |
X | X | X |
---|---|---|
dizis avlas cun ĂĄrvulis/ tenin folyas qui cantan y pĂĄxarus qui djuntan sol/ |
dices palabras con ĂĄrboles/ tienen hojas que cantan y pĂĄjaros que juntan sol/ |
you speak words with trees/ they have leaves that sing and birds that gather sun/ |
tu silenziu disparta lus gritus il mundu/ |
tu silencio despierta los gritos del mundo/ |
your silence awakens the cries of the world/ |
XV | XV | XV |
---|---|---|
tu boz sta escura di bezus qui a mĂ no dieras/ di bezus qui a mĂ no das/ la nochi es polvu destâixiliu/ |
tu voz estĂĄ oscura de besos que no me diste/ de besos que no me das/ la noche es polvo de este exilio/ |
your voice is dark from kisses you didnât give me/ from kisses you donât give me/ the night is dust of this exile/ |
tus bezus inculgan lunas qui yelan mi caminu/y timblu dibaxu dil sol/ |
tus besos cuelgan lunas que hielan mi camino/y tiemblo debajo del sol/ |
your kisses hang up moons that freeze my path/and I tremble beneath the sun/ |
XVI | XVI | XVI |
---|---|---|
cuando mi aya muridu sintirĂ© entudavĂa il batideru di tu saia nil vienti/ |
cuando estĂ© muerto oirĂ© todavĂa el temblor de tu saya en el viento/ |
when Iâm dead Iâll still hear the trembling of your skirt in the wind/ |
uno qui liyera istus versus prieguntara: âÂżcĂłmu ansĂ?/ ÂżquĂ sintirĂĄs? ÂżquĂ batideru?/ ÂżquĂ saia?/ ÂżquĂ vienti?â/ |
alguien que leyĂł estos versos preguntĂł: âÂżcĂłmo asĂ?/ ÂżquĂ© oirĂĄs? ÂżquĂ© temblor?/ ÂżquĂ© saya?/ ÂżquĂ© viento?â/ |
someone who read these verses asked: âhowâs that?/ what will you hear? what trembling?/ what skirt? what wind?â/ |
li dixĂ qui cayara/ qui si sintara a la mesa cun mĂ/ qui viviera mi vinu/ qui scriviera istus versus: |
le dije que callara/ que se sentara a mi mesa/ que bebiera mi vino/ que escribiera estos versos: |
I told him to hush/ to sit at my table/ to drink my wine/ to write these verses: |
âcuando mi aya muridu sintirĂ© entudavĂa il batideru di tu saia nil vientiâ/ |
âcuando estĂ© muerto oirĂ© todavĂa el temblor de tu saya en el vientoâ/ |
âwhen Iâm dead Iâll still hear the trembling of your skirt in the windâ/ |
âPoem XVI.â Composed in Ladino and taken from the first original manuscript of Dibaxu, dated August 5, 1983. This manuscript, containing Gelmanâs hand-written revisions, is the first of three original drafts of Dibaxu housed in Princetonâs special collection.
Source: Juan Gelman Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library.
XVII | XVII | XVII |
---|---|---|
un vienti di separadus/ di bezus qui no mus diéramus/ acama il trigu di tu ventre/ sus asusenas cun sol/ |
un viento de separados/ de besos que no nos dimos/ doblega al trigo de tu vientre/ sus azucenas con sol/ |
a wind of the separated/ of kisses we didnât exchange/ breaks the wheat of your stomach/ its lilies with sun/ |
veni/ o querré no aver nasidu/ trayi tu agua clara/ las ramas floreserån/ |
ven/ o querré no haber nacido/ trae tu agua clara/ las ramas florecerån/ |
come/ or Iâll wish I was never born/ bring your clear water/ the branches will bloom/ |
mira istu: soy un niniu rompidu/ timblu nila nochi qui cayi di mĂ/ |
mira esto: soy un niño roto/ tiemblo en la noche que cae de mĂ/ |
look at this: I am a broken boy/ I tremble in the night that falls from me/ |
XXIV | XXIV | XXIV |
---|---|---|
amarti es istu: un avla qui va a dizer/ un arvulicu sin folyas qui da solombra/ |
amarte es esto: una palabra que estĂĄ por decir/ un arbolito sin hojas que da sombra/ |
loving you is this: a word thatâs yet to be said/ a small leafless tree that gives shade/ |
XXV | XXV | XXV |
---|---|---|
ista yuvia di vos dexa cayer pidazus di tiempu/ pidazus dâinfinitu/ pidazus di nus mesmos/ |
tu lluvia deja caer pedazos de tiempo/ pedazos de infinito/ pedazos de nosotros/ |
your rain lets pieces of time fall/ pieces of infinity/ pieces of us/ |
Âżes por isu qui stamus sin caza ni memoria?/ Âżdjuntus nil pinser?/ Âżcomu cuerpos al sol?/ |
Âżpor eso estamos sin casa ni memoria?/ Âżjuntos en el pensar?/ ÂżcĂłmo cuerpos al sol?/ |
is that why weâre without house or memory?/ together in thought?/ like bodies in the sun?/ |
XXVI | XVI | XXVI |
---|---|---|
il diseu es un animal todu vistidu di fuegu/ teni patas atan largas qui yegan al sulvidu/ |
el deseo es un animal todo vestido de fuego/ tiene patas tan largas que llegan al olvido/ |
desire is an animal all dressed in fire/ it has legs so long they reach oblivion/ |
agora pinsu qui un paxaricu in tu boz arrastra la caza dil otonio/ |
ahora pienso que un pajarito en tu voz arrastra la casa del otoño/ |
now I think that a little bird in your voice drags the house of autumn/ |
XXVIII | XXVIII | XXVIII |
---|---|---|
¿cómu ti yamas?/ soy un siegu sintadu nil atriu di mi diseu/ méndigu tiempu/ |
ÂżcĂłmo te llamas?/ soy un ciego sentado en el atrio de mi deseo/ mendigo tiempo/ |
whatâs your name?/ I am a blind man seated at the atrium of my desire/ I beg time/ |
rĂo di pena/ yoro dâaligrĂa/ ÂżquĂ avla ti dezirĂĄ?/ ÂżquĂ nombri ti nombrarĂĄ?/ |
rĂo de pena/ lloro de alegrĂa/ ÂżquĂ© palabra te dirĂĄ?/ ÂżquĂ© nombre te nombrarĂĄ?/ |
I laugh from sorrow/ I cry of joy/ what word will speak you?/ what name will name you?/ |
XXIX | XXIX | XXIX |
---|---|---|
no stan muridus lus pĂĄxarus di nuestrus bezus/ stan muridus lus bezus/ lus pĂĄxarus volan nil verdi sulvidar/ |
no estĂĄn muertos los pĂĄjaros de nuestros besos/ estĂĄn muertos los besos/ los pĂĄjaros vuelan en el verde olvidar/ |
the birds of our kisses are not dead/ dead are the kisses/ the birds fly in the green forgetting/ |
pondrĂ mi spantu londji/ dibaxu dil pasadu/ qui arde cayadu comâil sol/ |
pondré mi espanto lejos/ debajo del pasado/ que arde callado como el sol/ |
Iâll put my fright far away/ beneath the past/ that burns silent like the sun/ |
Newspaper clipping requesting information regarding the whereabouts of Sylvia Estela Pettigrew, a disappeared person. The words beneath Gelmanâs poem read, âWe who survive still need answers. Your daughter, Karina Casanova Pettigrew.â Source: Fondo Luis Mangieri, Centro de DocumentaciĂłn e InvestigaciĂłn de la Cultura de Izquierdas, CeDInCI.
Notes
- Given the poetic context here, Gelmanâs reference to The Cid (El Cid) most likely concerns El Cantar de mio Cid (The Song of My Cid or The Poem of My Cid), the oldest preserved Castillian epic poem. Based on a true story, it recounts the deeds and adventures of the Castillian hero Rodrigo DĂaz de Vivarâcommonly known as âEl Cidââand takes place during the period of the Reconquista, or the Reconquest of Spain. However, âel Cidâ is left unitalicized, suggesting that Gelman could also be referring to the historical figure of The Cid himself. âź