because I fed you with this undercooked reality because of so many and so poor flowers of evil because of this absurd flight skimming the marsh ego absolve you from me labyrinth son of mine
it isn’t your fault or mine poor child of mine of whom I made this impeccable portrait forcing the darkness of the day eyelids of honey and the starry cheek closed to any touch and the magnificent distance of your body your nausea is mine you have inherited it as fish inherit asphyxiation and the colour of your eyes is also the colour of my blindness under which shadows weave shadows and temptations and it’s also mine the footprint of your narrow heel like an archangel’s barely passed through the half-open window and ours forever the foreign music of the skies beating now little lion incarnation of my love you play with my bones and hide out among your beauty blind deaf unredeemed almost satisfied and free with your blood that leaves no room for anything or anybody
here I am as always ready for the surprise of your steps for all the springs you invent and destroy to lie—not infinite— over the world grass ash plague fire for whatever you want for a glance of you that lights up my remains because this is a love that understands nothing and can do nothing you drink the filter and fall asleep in that abyss full of you music you don’t see said colours explained at length to the silence mixed as dreams are mixed until that ungainly grey that is waking up in the great palm of god bald empty without end and there you are lonely and lost in your soul with no other obstacle but your body with no other door but your body such a love the only one and the same with so many names that doesn’t answer to any and you looking at me as you don’t know me leaving as the light goes away from the world without promises and again this meadow this meadow of abandoned black fire again this empty house that is my body where you don’t have to return
Casa de cuervos
porque te alimenté con esta realidad mal cocida por tantas y tan pobres flores del mal por este absurdo vuelo a ras de pantano ego te absolvo de mí laberinto hijo mío
no es tuya la culpa ni mía pobre pequeño mío del que hice este impecable retrato forzando la oscuridad del día párpados de miel y la mejilla constelada cerrada a cualquier roce y la hermosísima distancia de tu cuerpo tu náusea es mía la heredaste como heredan los peces la asfixia y el color de tus ojos es también el color de mi ceguera bajo el que sombras tejen sombras y tentaciones y es mía también la huella de tu talón estrecho de arcángel apenas pasado en la entreabierta ventana y nuestra para siempre la música extranjera de los cielos batientes ahora leoncillo encarnación de mi amor juegas con mis huesos y te ocultas entre tu belleza ciego sordo irredento casi saciado y libre con tu sangre que ya no deja lugar para nada ni nadie
aquí me tienes como siempre dispuesta a la sorpresa de tus pasos a todas las primaveras que inventas y destruyes a tenderme —nada infinita— sobre el mundo hierba ceniza peste fuego a lo que quieras por una mirada tuya que ilumine mis restos porque así es este amor que nada comprende y nada puede bebes el filtro y te duermes en ese abismo lleno de ti música que no ves colores dichos largamente explicados al silencio mezclados como se mezclan los sueños hasta ese torpe gris que es despertar en la gran palma de dios calva vacía sin extremos y allí te encuentras sola y perdida en tu alma sin más obstáculo que tu cuerpo sin más puerta que tu cuerpo así este amor uno solo y el mismo con tantos nombres que a ninguno responde y tú mirándome como si no me conocieras marchándote como se va la luz del mundo sin promesas y otra vez este prado este prado de negro fuego abandonado otra vez esta casa vacía que es mi cuerpo a donde no has de volver
Blanca Varela (1926 - 2009) was a poet, translator and journalist. In 1947, she began collaborating with the magazine Las Moradas, edited by Westphalen, and in 1949 she arrived in Paris, where she came into contact with the artistic and literary scene of the time, guided by Octavio Paz, who connected her with the circle of Spanish-speaking intellectuals living in France. After her long stay in Paris, Varela lived in Florence and then Washington, where she devoted herself to translations and journalistic work. In 1962, she returned to Lima to settle permanently. In 1959, she published her first book, Ese puerto existe ; in 1963 Luz de día ; and in 1971 Valses y otras confesiones . Later, in 1978, she produced the first major compilation of her writings in Canto villano . Finally, her anthology, covering the period from 1949 to 1998, appeared under the title Como Dios en la nada. She won the Octavio Paz Prize for Poetry and Essay in 2001, the City of Granada Prize in 2006, and, in 2007, both the García Lorca and Reina Sofía Ibero-American Poetry awards. She's among the great poets of the 20th century.
Laura Rodríguez Díaz (Seville, 1998) studied Language and Literature at the University of Seville, has edited the poetry magazine Caracol nocturno and leads literary workshops at libraries and community centers. She is also the author of the poetry collections San Lázaro (Cántico, 2021) and Anuncio (Ultramarinos, 2023).