Sobre Nicanor Parra

Un fracaso, una mariposa

Cuando Nicanor me invitó
a cenar ostiones y tomar
cabernet en su casa de madera
en la Reina conversamos

en aquel 1995 de su visita
a Nueva Delhi y su apego
a la idea hinduista
de dejar los lazos: familia,

bienes, sexo, y caminar,
un mendigo, por las calles
antes de llegar al bosque
para esperar el aleteo

de la mariposa, su luz
enceguecedera. Diez
años despues, otra visita
al poeta, esta vez

en Las Cruces,
ante el oceáno,
y me pidió que leyera
Antonin Artaud sobre

lo absurdo
en la vida moderna.
Otra vez nos acordamos
de la mariposa. Cuatro

años mas tarde, me dijo
que le acompañara a su estudio
en el jardin al lado de la casa,
mi unico camino ahora,

y viendo un poemario mio
en su estante me comentó
que le encantó el titulo
El infierno de los pájaros.

Llega ahora la noticia
que le ha otorgado
el premio Cervantes.
A sus 97 años pienso

si va romper con
su camino de
costumbre y tomar
el avión a Madrid.

Artaud debe tener
respuesta, o el mendigo
Hindu, o nadie.
Me dibujó

un regalo aquella
primera vez. Dice
el lema. Cada uno
fracasa a su manera.


Indran Amirthanayagam, el 9 de diciembre, 2011

Lectura en Casa de La Literatura en el Centro de Lima

POETAS DE

COLOMBIA, MÈXICO, EE.UU. y PERÚ




“volver a sus raíces, a reconocerse

en la mirada de los otros”



LUGAR:

Casa de la Literatura Peruana

Salón de Lecturas 1º piso


FECHA: Octubre 29 de 2011

HORA: De 5:00 p.m. a 6:00 p.m.



Exponentes:

María Elena Giraldo González de Colombia



Anna Francisca Rodas I. de Colombia

María Dolores Guadarrama de México

INVITADO DE HONOR

INDRAN AMIRTHANAYAGAM DE EE.UU.

PERÚ

MIRIAN CALORETTI




LILY CUADRA


JORGE URETA

EFER SOTO



.

DIPLOMATICA POESIA

Diplomática poesía

Diplomático de profesión y poeta por impulso personal, el ceilandés nacionalizado estadounidense Indran Amirthanayagam presentará mañana su poemario “Sol camuflado” en el Centro Cultural de la Cancillería.

Indran acaba de regresar del III Festival Internacional de Poesía “Luis Yáñez Pacheco”, desarrollado en la región Cajamarca (Cajamarca, Bambamarca, Chota), donde compartió días y noches de poesía, décima y Música con invitados peruanos y extranjeros.

Su reciente “Sol camuflado” es un poemario escrito en varios escenarios americanos, “bajo este sol cuya luz ha sido afectada, disimulada, mudada por quienes viven bajo ese sol, los seres humanos con todos sus aciertos y sus manías y sus deseos insatisfechos, a veces sobresatisfechos”, dice Indran, quien conoció a Nicanor Parra hace unos años. El poeta Chileno le regaló un dibujo que hizo frente a él, el de un hombre. “Me lo regaló y le puso un lema: ‘Cada uno fracasa a su manera’, y me parece genial, y siempre me gusta reír un poco del oficio al que pertenezco. Yo también he sufrido la enfermedad de la vanidad. Pero la vida nos golpea con justicia a los poetas. El poema es consuelo, desahogo, tiene un sentido terapéutico para el autor”. Amirthanayagam en Bambamarca (Cajamarca).


Es su tercer libro en español. Antes, publicó “El infierno de los pájaros” y “El hombre que recoge nidos”. Actualmente está preparando para su publicación una cuarta recopilación de poemas en español titulada “Sin adorno”, así como un nuevo manuscrito en inglés “Uncivil War”. Ha publicado “The Elephants of Reckoning” (1993), Premio Paterson en 1994; “Ceylon R.I.P” (2001) y “The Splintered Face: Tsunami Poems” (2008).

Indran Amirthanayagam nació en 1960, en Ceilán (Sri Lanka desde 1972); sin embargo es ciudadano estadounidense desde hace unos años y diplomático de carrera, por lo cual conoce distintos países e idiomas en el mundo. Escribe en portugués, español, inglés, francés, dependiendo del público y del tema.

“Sol camuflado” (Lustraeditores, 2011) será presentado mañana, a las 7 p.m., en el Centro Cultural Inca Garcilaso de la Cancillería, ubicado en Jr. Ucayali 391, Lima. El poemario será comentado por el poeta Renato Sandoval y la poeta Alessandra Tenorio. El ingreso es libre.



http://www.diariolaprimeraperu.com/online/cultura/diplomatica-poesia_97692.html

PRESENTACION DE SOL CAMUFLADO, LIMA, 26 DE OCTUBRE

Ven a celebrar la publicacion de mi nuevo poemario, Sol camuflado. Centro Cultural Inca Garcilaso, Jr Ucayali 391, 7 pm. 26 de Octubre.



Indran Amirthanayagam



Poeta, ensayista y traductor al inglés y al español. Ha publicado los poemarios The Elephants of Reckoning (1993), que recibió el Premio Paterson en 1994, Ceylon R.I.P (2001) y The Splintered Face: Tsunami Poems (2008), así como, en idioma español, El infierno de los pájaros, que fue prologado por José Emilo Pacheco, y El hombre que recoge nidos. Actualmente está preparando para su publicación una cuarta recopilación de poemas en español titulada Sin adorno, así como un nuevo manuscrito en ingles Uncivil War. Fue becario del New York Foundation for the Arts y del U.S.-Mexico Fund for Culture. Ganó los Juegos Florales 2006 de Guayamas, Sonora, por su poema Juárez.

Words After September 11

WORDS AFTER SEPTEMBER 11



We will not be quiet, Lord.

We will not hide in books,

Under our desks, Lord.

We will not whisper

In the rowdy street.





We will hop

On our “three-wheelers,”

On the Morning Express,

Wheel up the ramp

And fly beyond





The limits

Of our comforts.

We will explore again,

And find ourselves

Lost again. Yet,





We shall hold our hands.

Yet, we shall love

Our neighbor.

Yet, we shall stand

On our dad





And mum’s shoulders,

And we will play yet again.

Let us now honor our dead,

The Earth’s dead.

Let us not tremble.





Let us not be quiet.

Let us not stammer

Through a million

Emergency sessions.

Let us talk





To the bird in the tree,

The bird in the sky.

Let us sing as a flock,

In congregation.

We will





and shall

And can

and must not

Be overcome.

Let us walk out tonight,





Tomorrow, and sing

We will

and shall

And can

and must





Not be overcome.

Let us go to the films

On Saturday,

To worship any day

We wish.





Let not these burning towers

Be our metaphor.

Let us honor our dead, yes,

And let us build and rebuild

Our metaphors.







-- Indran Amirthanayagam c)2001 Chennai, India, September 27, 2001

El abolengo, un poema

El Abolengo

Borges nos mira,
soñador y joven,
desde la solapa
de su Obras completas,

Tagore
con cabello cano
está envuelto
en una bufanda,

Orwell,
su cara arrugada—
parece 1948,
varios grandes están

expuestos en fotos
y retratos. ˁCuántos
libros tienes, le pregunta
mi hijo a su abuelo?

“Elige uno,”

El reino al borde
del mar. Theroux escribió
el verso para bautizar

un viaje ingles.
Perteneció una vez
a Edgar Allen Poe
en ‘’Annabel Lee.”

Ahora, construiré
mi casa al borde
del mar con antiguous
y nuevos troncos,

madera flotante,
percebes enredados
en maleza, ancla,
proa y casco.

Neruda llenó
su hogar y su jardín
con el mar.
Ahora, me pertenece todo.


Indran Amirthanayagam, de El hombre que recoge nidos, Resistencia/CONARTE, 2005.

El chontaduro: fruta festiva

Chontaduro

Amarilla, naranja fruta
con textura de camote,
cortada y servida con sal

en un plato por una negra
de la costa con faldas
amplias, amarill-rojas,

su cabeza envuelta
en una bandana,
a 2000 mil pesos,

un dólar por porción,
para soñar de nuevo,
más bien bailar

embriagado
con una mujercita
en espera o no

en algún vericueto
de esta ciudad
de hombres
gigantescos y
tristes en la Plaza
de Botero.


Indran Amirthanayagam, el 12 de julio, 2010

The Destroyed Temple, A Poem

The house at the end of the road,
the giant multiple-walled house

at the end of the road without
a telephone, or internet,

without a satellite dish,
without rubbish—the residents

burned what they consumed—
certainly smoke can be traced,

and the courier’s story leaked
out of somebody else’s mouth

held incommunicado
in an East-European dungeon,

on leased land in the island
of Cuba, but that is another story,

the war found its target, today,
in helicopter to hand combat,

four aircraft once again, this time
choppers, and special forces—

not from Afghan camps
into Florida flight schools--but

Navy Seals, and the target
legitimate, not three thousand

ordinary civilians living
their American lives

until robbed by death,
rules for the rest of us

alive modified, and now
another death, tying

of the circle, a full spin
around the planet, what

Peru’s president said
was John Paul’s first miracle,

coincidence, his beatification
and death in combat

of Osama Bin Laden,
a bullet in the temple

of Evil, no longer
a Mastermind.


Indran Amirthanayagam, May 2, 2011 c)2011. Reprinting only with author's permission.

Sobre el Susurro de Yoshi Sotomayor

El miércoles 27 de abril, en una tarde limeña fresca y clara, llegué al Centro Cultural CAFAE-SE. Fui invitado por la poeta Yoshi Sotomayor para presentar su primer poemario El susurro de la colibrí. Oriunda de Huari, en Ancash, Yoshi nos regaló un encuentro entre montaña y ciudad, selva y corazón, nostalgia por la tierra originaria y un delicado reconocimiento de haber hecho la migración, el traslado armonioso a la gran metrópoli, mas con el susurro de la colibrí de cerca, al oído.

No pretendo cumplir en este espacio con la tarea del cronista. Espero que algún otro escritor cuente de esa tarde de maravillas musicales, de los ritmos de los poemas hasta la voz de la cantante que nos acompañó, el violín de otro amigo, y con creces en la voz apasionada del poeta y director de la Casa del Poeta Peruano, José Guillermo Vargas Rodríguez.

Aquí reproduzco mi prólogo para el libro. Espero que acudan a leer este poemario tan delicado como el roce de la mano de un amor que no se quiere borrar de la piel. Está editado por “Ventana Andina”, Fondo Editorial de la Municipalidad Provincial de Huari.

Prólogo

La poesía de Yoshi Sotomayor me pica como el susurro del colibrí que alguna vez llevó al poeta a ese estado de memoria y añoranza que es fundamental para poder escribir poesía. Sotomayor es joven y muestra la temeridad del joven en este primer poemario. Ella no reniega de invocar a Vallejo y a las montañas de su tierra Huari, pero, aunque logrados, estos textos no reflejan las voces indelebles de esta colección. Para escuchar a ellas hay que leer y releer los poemas breves y misteriosos como Lumbre, Esa Rosa, Gris. Lumbre ofrece una excelente muestra de lo que el lector va a gozar. “Átame las manos”, dice la protagonista del poema, con un gesto que agarra al lector y le obliga a sentarse para ver el mundo del fuego, “si no quieres que dañe tus cabellos / aleja de mí este torrente”. Este es un poema caudal, una expresión franca de deseo, pero en fin seco, insatisfecho: “bebo del néctar que no moja siquiera / la punta de mi lengua”. El poema termina con una de las imágenes más tristes del libro: “y dejo escapar tu voz / como viento en mi oreja”.
El mismo viento nos trae el susurro del colibrí, y su ausencia nos deja “este humor a nada / narcótico hasta la idiotez”. Es un susurro protector, y la poeta y su lector van a sobrevivir los “rostros extraños / escupiendo sus vilezas / restregándomelas / en la cara”. ¿Por qué tengo tanta confianza en su supervivencia? Finalmente, la raíz del poema es el encuentro de la imaginación con la fe, lo irracional y lo vivencial. Hay que reconciliar a veces experiencias tremendamente difíciles: la muerte de los seres queridos, las decepciones políticas, amorosas, las discapacidades. Pero la misma vida que parece a veces perjudicarnos, nos da herramientas para renovarnos. El poema es un utensilio flexible y duradero y un alimento básico para la mesa, como lo es la papa, que forma la base de la alimentación peruana. Y si encontramos a Yoshi Sotomayor en nuestro camino, como el lector suertudo que abrirá este libro, nos sentaremos a comer bien y con buena compañía. Así que, no te preocupe Yoshi, si te vemos “caminando sola / en la noche / sobre el mar”, te hablaremos, fortalecidos por tus versos.

--Indran Amirthanayagam, Lima, 3 de mayo, 2011

Criança, Um Poema

Criança

Estamos assistindo
o nascimento
de uma criança,
banhada do sangue
de sua mãe,
com seu cordão
umbilical para cortar.

Somos as
amas de leite,
lhe ajudando
com diversos
aspectos da
cerimônia,
principalmente

a gramática,
porque as idéias
originais
formam-se
só. Bem-vindo
o poeta e
o poema.
dr) Indran Amirthanayagam 4 de fevereiro, 2011

A espera

A espera


Não sei o nome deste pássaro
que me canta agora e me
acompanhará ao crepúsculo
até a noite quando encontrarei
as horas apartadas para lhe
escrever seu testamento.

Toda criação insiste
que não se deve apurá-lo
sem cair na angústia
de viver na carreira
ao volante sem os freios,
sem tuas mãos

no meu rosto para
deter-me um pouco mais
do poema, em um ídilio
fora do tempo que
anunciava o pássaro, uma
intimação da eternidade.

Indran Amirthanayagam, 25 de fevereiro, 2011

Letter to Galle, for the festival

Letter to Galle --for the festival


I sent a poem
but have not yet
had a reply.
I believe the editors

are travelling
or perhaps
they have landed
in the free state

of Galle
for the festival;
I don’t know
if to go or stay,

afternoon teas
with poetry seem
the right way to set
mood and wet palate

before celebratory
readings
by prose stars
in the evenings

and then a few
drinks and to bed,
waking up in morning
panel discussions

where the unpleasant
but necessary
subject of domestic
rights will be aired

with no restrictions,
even for the cameras;
how could I miss
the sea breeze

and hot prawns,
imbibe that rare air
blown by special
bellows during

the few days
when Galle
becomes Berlin
after the Wall

fell down, at least
for ticketed
customers
and scholarship

students. In the end,
even freedom of
expression must be
paid for by somebody.

Yet, I digress.
There are journalists
in hiding and
/or dead.

Indran Amirthanayagam, January 27, 2011

SIEGE, a Poem

Siege

I can't recall the links at the Golf Hotel
but I don't believe the government

of Alassane Ouattara is contemplating
a chip shot or a putt. I read there are only

800 Peacekeepers between his team
and Gbagbo's army. Betting men say

that ethnic ties are paramount and nobody
ever doubted a Bete man's will to fight,

and as for logistics, how long will
an African Union army take to arrive

in Cote d’ Ivoire? Needless to say they will
not be greeted with attieke and grilled fish.

But wedging Gbagbo, freezing World Bank
loans, his bank accounts in Europe, coco

exports have come to port but have not
been able to leave, how long can this last?

More will die including some principals.
Perhaps there will be a palace coup.

Perhaps the will of people written
in the urns will be respected

but only after unnecessary, uncivil
bloodshed, 200 dead thus far.


Indran Amirthanayagam, December 22, 2010

Ivory Contemporary, Poem

Ivory Contemporary

Named for ivory, later stripped clean,
the country began to sprout cocoa,
though in copses by a few rivers
the forest elephant drooped still its tiny
frame and trunk through the bulrushes.

I recall the fine tarmac and dirt
paths we drove to meet Headman
and Elders, to bring books and receive
a rooster, a hen. Agriculture, land
husbandry, how can I forget

the moutons with their Djula herders,
and Dozos, hunters with amulets
that can deflect bullets?
Yet what are these few memories
worth at market in Cocody

or Treichville, now that the Army
has blocked nearby streets
and prepares to lay siege
to the Golf Hotel where Ouattara
and his government have registered

guarded by Peackeepers
waiting for the current
occupant of the Presidential Palace
Laurent Gbagbo, to accept defeat,
go into exile, or continue

to order the Army and his gangs
to fight; what price shall we place
on power? His foreign homes
are under threat, the squeeze
has begun, when will the Man

come out of the palace
to face the people
who denied him at the polls?
What value suffrage?
Whose army is stronger?

Sad to recall that Gbagbo
was once a legend, a philosopher
and hero of the Left, the chief
opponent to the sometime
benign dictatorship of Houphouet-Boigny.

Go with dignity. Hold your head high.
Don’t forget the family, the assets,
the invitation to be an elder statesman
to the continent, not reviled in history
as Mobutu, Charles Taylor, Idi Amin Dada.


Indran Amirthanayagam, le 20 de Decembre 2010

On Anthems and the State of the Union

I posted the following on www.groundviews.org


I have been stirred and moved even to tears by both the Tamil and Sinhala versions of the Ceylon, now Sri Lanka, anthem. I think I owe this emotional tie to birth on the island, to school on the island, to my first toffees and cricket matches on the island. I wonder now how a boy born today in this same, yet- not- the same, Sri Lanka will feel, denied the comfort of hearing his mother tongue at the award ceremony, the annual Shakespeare recital, the spelling bee. I find myself a bit blase contradicting the noted historical wisdom of the ministers who passed the recent decree. They said there are no countries which sing their anthems in more than one language. Of course, that is not true. Canada, Switzerland, New Zealand, South Africa, even the United Kingdom which brings together different nations with their particular anthems, come to mind.

But I wonder why a country that has celebrated its rich mixes-- that have produced outstanding talent in literature (Ondaatje), cricket (Murali), and that sprinter, Susanthika Jayasinghe, who won a silver at the Sydney Olympics in 2000, and Duncan White who started the trend at the White City Games in 1948-- has changed its law. I speak too much of sport. What about antropology, which has rewarded the world with Gnanath Obeysekere and Valentin Daniel, political analysis, with Jayadeva Uyangoda, diplomacy with Jayantha Dhanapala? We have many heroes in our country and we were all once, boys or girls, moved, choked-up, listening to our mother tongue on the loudspeakers.

Liu Xiabo, Updated

Updated

Liu Xiabo sits in jail
for writing in favour
of free speech
and thus seeking
to “subvert”
the state, an old
crime against
the emperor
modernized
for our times.


Indran Amirthanayagam, December 8, 2010

Injustice in Cote d'Ivoire

Alassane Ouattara just won the second round of the long delayed elections in Cote d'Ivoire by 54 percent to 46 percent for the losing candiate Laurent Gbagbo. Despite this loss Gbagbo has seized power in the country through his influence over the country's Constitutionsl Court. President Obama, UN Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon and other leaders from throughout the world have recognized Alassane Ouattara's victory. We cannot remain silent before another injustice committed against the democratic values we cherish and celebrate. Speak to your representatives. Write poems. Work with the African Union to isolate this usurper, this recalcitrant power boss and his government that will not accept the will of his people and the wishes of democrats everywhere.

To My Autistic Son, Revantha: Poem by Guy Amirthanayagam

On this birthday I publish here one of my father's great poems written to my brother Revantha. The imaage of the undetow of sadness has grounded and consoled me ever since I first read the poem. With love, Indran


To My Autistic Son, Revantha

Old soul in a young body, they said.
‘Twere better he was born dead!”
Sins of the fathers, the Christians said.
Ill conjunction of planets, the palmist read;
Fetters of the flesh, cycles of suffering
The Buddhists complacently proposed,
Allah be praised, Kismet in swing,
The fierce Moslems savagely disposed.

Slow motor reactions, my neurologist reckoned.
Early childhood autism, my psychologist beckoned.
Heredity’s the problem, the maid-servant proclaimed:
The servant was vile, his mother declaimed.

I reck not his ruin in his toothsome smile
His speechless grimace, so free from guile;
His dour determination to opt out of life
When all around him are mired in strife.
Lucky and prescient, my miraculous boy,
You will spend your life with spendthrift joy.
I am proud that you have so early seen
That there is in life an undertow of sadness
Which rocks what fleeting gladness
There is today, or may once have been.
I will love you steadfastly as long as I dare
But is there nothing that you can share?
Will you leave me with this nagging regret
That even to me you will never bare
Your awesome secret?


--Guy Amirthanayagam

Nazreen Sansoni Poems

These poems by Nazreen Sansoni break the heart and evoke bittersweet humours in this reader. I have known Nazreen for years but only in moments during short visits I have made back to the mother island. Her work goes beyond poetry, making of Barefoot, the principal free space for art, dance, theater and music in the capital city of that bittersweet and heartbroken country of Sri Lanka slowly healing now from the cruelties of the thirty year civil war.

These poems will be registered in the hearts of readers who believe that honesty in lyric expression, the image delineated clearly and stated boldly, is the ingredient of fine poetry.



A noble guest

I know you know
where love lies
not in hearts that are heavy
with depression
or some malaise
but in the soul underneath
waiting
to be released
if only for a moment
to kiss your face.

NS July 2009


A Lie

Jealousy, fear and insecurity
Manifest at the most unlikely time
As I am about to step into my bath
Smell a perfume
That I know does not belong to me
So – I smoke a cigarette
Enjoy the deep satisfaction
Of the inhalation

When my husband comes home
The smell of smoke still lingers
‘Honey, have you been smoking?’
‘I don’t smoke.’ I reply, quietly.
Unplug the bath, watch the water drain
After all, one lie deserves another


NS




Loss

Thursday, April 2, 2009 at 11:21pm

Every morning
when I wake
my first thought
is of civilians
dying
In the vanni
Women children
Babies
no chance
at life
Because
She might?
Is a terrorist?
For god’s sake
She could have
been a scientist
Our loss
Our unimaginable loss



NS

Lectura en Medellin, el 13 de Julio, con Bob Holman

Este martes presentare mis poemas sobre el Mundial en el Centro Cultural Colombo Americano junto con mi amigo y colega Bob Holman. La direccion en Medellin es Carrera 45 # 53-24, La cita es a las 18.30 y forma parte del Festival Internacional de Poesia de Medellin.