poetry vanguard - surrealism
Gladys Sica
Italo-Argentine contemporary visual artist and poet

 

Motherhearth (n° 189)


A deaf echo falls – who knows from where –
on harvests that stain with obscure
the lost landscape with dark,
and on gigantic urban skeletons.

fire lightnings don’t hear
humans extempore prays,
last moment regret
doesn’t modify the view, neither in the sky, nor in hearth.

exoduses of people, animals and goods together,
feet, paws and wheels raise up an invisible dust.
plants, buildings and stones
are the forced witnesses of the confused migration.

open with its thirsty mouth fury
in the no time frame,
cut the milky way uncontaminated silence
our great Motherheart cry.

from "Vento atlantico" Quaderni di Controcorrente, Milan, Italy, 2009.

Istituto Italiano di Cultura di Napoli
via Bernardo Cavallino, 89 (“la Cittadella”); 80131 Napoli (Italia)
tel. 081 / 546 16 62 - fax 081 / 220 30 22 - tel. mobile 339 / 285 82 43
ici@istitalianodicultura.org; sito www.istitalianodicultura.org


la Segreteria

Napoli, 20 settembre 2010

 

L’Istituto Italiano di Cultura di Napoli e la rivista internazionale di poesia e letteratura “Nuove Lettere” hanno il piacere di comunicarLe che ha vinto la XXV edizione (2010) del Premio Internazionale di Poesia e Letteratura “Nuove Lettere”, con la raccolta edita di poesia “Vento Atlantico”.

La cerimonia di premiazione si terrà sabato 9 ottobre, alle ore 17, nella sala “Gabriele D’Annunzio” dell’Istituto Italiano di Cultura di Napoli, in via Bernardo Cavallino, 89 (“la Cittadella”); Napoli (nella zona collinare della città, quartiere Arenella; fermata Metropolitana linea 1 Rione Alto; autobus OF, C39, C41; citofono n. 1014).

In attesa di sentirLa quanto prima, ci cumplimentiamo con Lei per il prestigioso riconoscimento tributatoLe dalla Giuria –formata dai redattori di “Nuove Lettere” è presieduta da Roberto Pasanisi (Professore di Lingua e Letteratura italiana, Università Statale per le Relazioni Internazionali MGIMO, Mosca; Direttore dell’ Istituto Italiano di Cultura di Napoli; Scrittore) ottenuto fra i numerosi partecipanti al Premio

Madretierra (n° 189)

un eco sordo cae –no se sabe de dónde-
sobre las cosechas que manchan de oscuro
el paisaje abandonado en la noche
y sobre los gigantescos esqueletos urbanos.

relámpagos de fuego no escuchan
las plegarias improvisadas de los humanos,
el arrepentimiento al último momento
no modifica la escena, ni en cielo ni en tierra.

éxodos de personas, animales y cosas juntos;
pies, patas y ruedas alzan un invisible polvo.
son las plantas, las construcciones y las piedras
testimonios forzados de la confusa migración.

abre con furia su boca sedienta
en el fotograma del tiempo cero,
corta el silencio incontaminado de la vía láctea
el grito de nuestra grande Madretierra.

dal libro "Vento atlantico" Quaderni di Controcorrente, Milano, 2009.

 

Quaderni di Controcorrenti - E. 12.00
1° Premio 11° Edizione Concorso Poesia
"Controcorrenti" - Milano - 2009


The war that submerges


a war that, is not ours,
everywhere will submerge our feet.
a pain, at first, covered
by shiny shadows.
a wind with unknown names
in eyes without innocence.
lost tribes and concepts,
distant men with hard stories,
in front of gardens, in the confused dawn.
a war that, even if we don’t want,
a little at a time, will submerge our hands.
only a real love at our side,
is not enough, and is no more possible, to escape.
a daily thinking or stupid games
are not enough: coming back or leave is useless.
this unrecognized fate has many parents,
the gestation that nobody reminds,
the memory rituals that confine ourselves.
a war that, without knowing it,
will submerge, slowly, our heads…

Prefazione

La guerra che sommerge

 

una guerra che, non è nostra,
ovunque, ci sommergerà i piedi.

un dolore, all'inizio, coperto
dalle ombre brillanti.
un vento con nomi sconosciuti
negli occhi senza innocenza.
tribù e concetti scomparsi,
uomini lontani con storie difficili,
davanti ai giardini, nell'alba confusa.

una guerra che, anche se non vogliamo,
un pò per volta, ci sommergerà le mani.

un solo vero amore al nostro fianco,
non basta, e non è più possibile, la fuga.
un pensiero quotidiano o gli stupidi giochi
non bastano: inutile è tornare o partire.
ha molti genitori questo destino non riconosciuto,
la gestazione che nessuno ricorda,
i rituali della memoria che ci rinchiudono.

una guerra che, senza saperlo,
sommergerà, lentamente, le nostre teste...

Erich Auerbach, il grande filologo e storico della letteratura tedesca, nella sua opera fondamentale: " Mimesis ", che da Omero si spinge via via sino a Virginia Wolf, utilizza un metodo di straordinaria efficacia analitica: isola un testo, talvolta un frammento che reputa tipico nell'opera di un poeta o di uno scrittore, per ricostruirne il tessuto connotativo la tematica di fondo.
Dal microcosmo al macrocosmo, pertanto, in una disamina sempre più perspicua e compiuta.
" La guerra che sommerge " fa parte della raccolta poetica " Vento atlantico " che Gladys Sica ha elaborato in questi ultimi anni di intensa quanto sofferta macerazione interiore.
E' una lirica-cardine poichè contiene e sussume taluni elementi topici della problematica dell'autrice.
Assunto tematico sostenuto da una ramificazione versificatoria ad ampio spettro stilistico, in cui l'afflato lirico - preminente per l'uso di una terminologia accesa e nervosa - si fonde felicemente ad un dettato discorsivo, come per instaurare un rapporto dialogico con il lettore e coinvolgerlo nei tanti quanto dicotomici viaggi dell'anima e della coscienza.
In prima istanza, al quinto verso leggiamo: " un vento con nomi sconosciuti ".
Dobbiamo, in tal senso, sottolineare la parola " vento ", che diviene prolifico seme semantico del più vasto processo compositivo.
In Pablo Neruda è il termine " pioggia " a rendere peculiarmente uggiosa e sonora la scansione delle immagini del poeta cileno, nella Sica - i cui testi sono in origine quasi tutti scritti in lingua spagnola - le sinfoniche voci del vento,che assumono, in diversi contesti, molteplici valenze contenutistiche.
Ora dense di " nomi sconosciuti " dalle " memorie lesionate ", ora agitate in una sorta di sommovimento tellurico che trascina e disperde " le parole, i colori, i ritmi, le forme, i movimenti ", le " opere amate ".
Ma ritorniamo nel solco della poesia-guida.
" una guerra che, non è nostra / ovunque, ci sommergerà i piedi / un dolore, all'inizio, coperto dalle ombre brillanti ".
Questa metaforica guerra è una prerogativa inoppugnabile dell'habitat o è determinata dagli aspri e spesso disumani conflitti tra gli uomini in perenne lotta per il potere e/o la sopravvivenza?
E' comunque evidente l'ambivalenza : " un vento con nomi sconosciuti / negli occhi senza innocenza. / tribù e concetti scomparsi, / uomini lontani con storie difficili, / davanti ai giardini, nell'alba confusa ".
Sembra che la poetessa voglia tuffarsi nello sconfinato mare della Storia, facendo riemergere in una specie di ondeggiante tela, dalle tonalità delicate e violente al tempo stesso, intere generazioni di individui come cancellati e confusi dall'usura di uno spazio-tempo ineluttabile.
Di nuovo esplode il turbine della guerra : " una guerra che, anche se non vogliamo, / un pò per volta, / ci sommergerà le mani " .
L'opera di devastazione continua il suo inesorabile corso : dapprima i " piedi " rimangono sommersi ed avviluppati in una sorta di boue rimbaudiana, ora le " mani ".
L'essere umano resta così impedito nel suo naturale cammino e, di conseguenza, tarpato nelle sue inderogabili funzioni quotidiane.
Dalla dimensione pubblica, la Sica ci riporta con un ardito passaggio poetico nella sfera privata: " un solo vero amore al nostro fianco, / non basta, e non è più possibile, la fuga. / un pensiero quotidiano o gli stupidi giochi / non bastano: inutile è tornare o partire ".
Pur stigmatizzando l'importanza dell'amore a due, la poetessa prende atto che non è possibile sfuggire alla sorte che pare coinvolgere ogni cosa, ogni specie in un' infinita voragine cosmica, in quanto : " ha molti genitori questo destino non riconosciuto, / la gestazione che nessuno ricorda, / i rituali della memoria che ci rinchiudono ". " una guerra che, senza saperlo, / sommergerà, lentamente, le nostre teste... ".
Piedi, mani, teste risucchiati nel buco nero della morte?
Tale tragica atmosfera protesa in una visione apocalittica, che risuona nei versi polposi, sanguigni e tesi de " La guerra che sommerge ", non la dobbiamo vedere però, simile ad un pessimismo senza appelli, né redenzioni, bensì come un doloroso, accorato ammonimento nei confronti di un'umanità che, in una comune e solidale lotta contro i soprusi dell'uomo sull'uomo e sulla Natura, potrebbe salvare il destino planetario di tutti e della nostra " Madre Terra ".


E’opportuno, infine, sottolineare che l’assegnazione del primo premio assoluto non è dovuto a questa o un'altra singola poesia, bensì alla pregnante quanto stigmatizzante validità della pluriennale attività letteraria della poetessa.

Gianni Pre

 

"Dove va tutto l'amore non dato?"
olio su tela cm 100x120 2009

Non si può non fare un accenno alla pittura di Gladys Sica che oscilla tra figurazione dai toni espressionisti a immagini più tenere e moderne, alcune delle quali si possono ammirare in questo libro. Con le sue opere costruisce soggetti visionari, proiezioni del fantastico che si nutrono di luci, forme astratte o leggibili, ma spesso dirette al cuore del trascendente, per l’impellente bisogno del suo spirito o per un’urgenza interiore. C’è anche una dimensione arcana nella sua arte, che sprigiona emozioni attraverso opere che paiono bloccate in un silenzio irreale, assoluto, il quale avvolge il tutto in un’inconfondibile aura di magia e di mistero.

 

Giuseppe Possa

Gladys Sica con il critico Gianni Pre, Centro "San Pietro", Milano, 2010.

Prizes winners texts:
- 1st prize "Nuove lettere", Napoli, Italy (2010).
- 1st prize "Controcorrente", Milan, Italy (2009).
- Reward, Poem, "David Maria Turoldo" Prize 6th edition, Sondrio (2009).
- Merit Reward, “Massa città di mare e di marmo”, literary Prize (2008).
- Finalist, short novel, “Ibiskos Contest”, Empoli (2008).
- Mention with encomium, Poetry, Cultural Association “Versilia Club”, Massa (2007).
- Jury Special Prize, “Gino Recchiuti”, Poetry contest Teramo (2007).
- 1st Prize, Poetry, 2nd Edition, “Perrone Publisher”, Rome (2007).
- Honour Mention, edited work, “Lorenzo Montano XXth Prize Poetry”, Verona (2006).
- Finalist, Anthology “Logos” Perrone Publisher, Rome (2006).
- 2nd Prize, Anthology “Ad Novam”, Nova Milanese Municipality (2005).
- Merit Reward, "Aspera Contest ", Pavia (2005).
- 1st Prize, poetic Anthology, “Antonia Pozzi“ Contest Milan (2004).
- Reward, "Controcorrente” Magazine Contest, Milan (2004).
- Reward, "Aspera Contest ", Pavia (2001).
- Reward, “Il giunco” Association Contest Brugherio (2000).
- Special Reward, "A. Alessandri" Contest, Azul, Argentina (1999).
- Finalist, Anthology "Laboratorio delle arti", Milan (1998-1999-2001).
- Finalist, poetic Anthology Contest “Ramón Plaza”, Bs. As. (1996).
- Prized Work, "Umberto Casu" Prize Contest, Milan (1994).
- Finalist, Anthology "Cinque Terre" Prize, La Spezia (1993-1994-1995).
- Finalist, Anthology "Anna Kuliscioff “Centre, Turin (1991).


from the book "Atlantic wind"

 

The fate

the atlantic wind –like an hybrid prelude-
among prophetic uncertain skies,
on towns with that dreamed language.
words still burn,
the old fragments clung
to a body that breaths into silences,
in a without bright stars way.
damaged memories, damaged heart:
through ambiguous tragedies the red past change,
weakened light and shadow throb.
advancing hardly
advancing face to face with universe
to tear from its womb
our own destiny with our teeth
the unsuspected sweet treasure
in the atlantic wind
like an hybrid prelude
among prophetic uncertain skies
on towns with that dreamed language
on this unsuspected town
the hidden sweet treasure
of the fate.

Ed. Quaderni di Controcorrenti - Milano - 2009

 

El destino


el viento atlántico –como un preludio híbrido-
entre los proféticos cielos inciertos,
sobre las ciudades con esa lengua soñada.

queman todavía las palabras,
aferrados los antiguos fragmentos
al cuerpo que respira dentro de silencios,
dentro de un camino sin estrellas claras.

memorias lesionadas, corazón lesionado:
con las ambiguas tragedias muta el rojo pasado,
laten luz y sombra debilitadas.

a duras penas avanzando
avanzando con el universo cara a cara
para arrancar de su vientre
el propio destino con nuestros dientes
el dulce tesoro insospechado
en el viento atlántico
como un preludio híbrido
entre los proféticos cielos inciertos
sobre las ciudades con la lengua soñada
sobre esta ciudad insospechada
el dulce tesoro celado
del destino
.

Little Flowers

there are answers that doesn’t spring from questions,
rise in the morning womb
like little spontaneous flowers.

Pequeñas flores


hay respuestas que no nacen de preguntas,
crecen en el vientre de la mañana
como pequeñas flores espontáneas.

NighNight without moon, day without shadow

 


selected wordNight without moon, day without shadow
selected words are not enough,
refuge or hoard in the great
night without moon or,
images obsessively cut
from the blinding day without shadow.
looking at the sea absently is not enough,
folding at home clothes without rips,
without sweat or soil,
storing neurotic pictures in the memory
of ego, and immediately saying
“I travelled a lot”.
or, the same, opening the book
book lived by others with sounds and ideas
of recycled news, stolen sensations,
refuge or hoard in the great
great night without moon,
blinding day without shadow.
totem conferences are not enough,
pasting occasional noises against
distant wars or all through mighty guilty
in the heterogeneous mosaic of author post,
planning, quickly answering to emails
and immediately say “I made a lot”
always running and calculating most.

what’s up, fear of loss
what
in the careful waiting?
what’s up, fear of discovering
what
in the vivid silence?
this mechanic way of doing to get out is not enough,
to rebuild life, our town or this world.
night without moon, day without shadow
refuge or blinding hoard.


Noche sin luna, día sin sombras

 


no bastan las palabras escogidas,
refugio o escondite en la gran
noche sin luna o,
las imágenes obsesivamente recortadas
del enceguecedor día sin sombras.
no basta mirar el mar distraídamente,
doblar en casa los vestidos sin desgarros,
sin sudor ni tierra,
acumular arrebatos neuróticos en la memoria
del yo, y enseguida decir
“yo he viajado tanto”.
o, lo mismo, abrir el libro
libro vivido por otros con sonidos o ideas
de novedades recicladas, sensaciones robadas,
refugio o escondite en la gran
noche sin luna,
enceguecedor día sin sombras.
no bastan las conferencias totémicas,
pegar ruidos ocasionales en contra de
guerras lejanas o los poderosos culpables de todo
en el mosaico abigarrado de autor pos,
programar, responder rápido los email,
y enseguida decir “yo he hecho tanto”
corriendo siempre e calculando más.

qué hay, miedo de perder
qué cosa
en la espera atenta?
qué es lo que hay, miedo de descubrir
qué
en el silencio vivo?

no basta este mecánico hacer para salir de aquí,
para reconstruir la vida, nuestra ciudad o este mundo.

noche sin luna, día sin sombras
refugio o escondite enceguecedor.

The time (n° 160)

the time that far moves
Jesus eyes when have seen
the dark sunset burning.
Camille Claudel red solitude
with her hand devoid of clay.
Dino Campana soul
crossing the dark skies.

the time that far moves
the last word that smashes itself
in Alejandra Pizarnik* yellow
“El Che” poems in battles wind
the assassins’ stones and voices
in Virginia Woolf dresses and mind.

the time that far moves
the necessary mysteries
the sand empires ambition
a god or a terrible race justice or injustice
the intense destinies effort and joy.

the time that far moves
our memory, our friends
our hometown nooks
and many thing that we will not see.

the time that far moves us, definitively

*Alejandra Pizarnik (1939-1972) Argentine Poetess.

gladys sica, 2003.

from “Nel fuoco del silenzio –il viaggio”
(In the fire of silence –the travel)

“Nottetempo” (night-time) Edizioni Di Latta Publisher, Milan, 2007.

Notes on the anthology

"The basic theme of relation with night-time, night intended not as an external rhythm that comes only from outside. Rather the relation with our own night, night that is inside us, with our shadow or dark side.
An ambiguous relation, this, that exercises appeal on us with unmentionable secrets and, in the mean time, an overwhelming wish to escape at any cost in the front of fear of what is uncontrollable.
Why do we fell the wish to run in the front of this no-limit immensity? Why do we perceive intimately that it can reabsorb us in the threatening and endless voracity of primitive chaos?
And then, above all, what we have to do? Must we continue to run? Or must we stop to understand, look around and became a friend of our shadow?

Poetry and creativity then as meditative states that, in some manner, tend to nullify the mind restless activity –that machine that is not under our control and makes us live among contradictory shadows.
State of consciousness that locate themselves in a pre verbal, pre conscious layer, in touch with reality of the whole, not with an abstract representation. States where we locate ourselves as much as possible neat from calculated inferences on naturalness of things, from concerns that bottle up the flow of life, from fears that move us away from everything.
From this deep water can originate something that can be truly useful for us and, maybe, also to the other people, something as a primitive stupor that gives a meaning, unexpectedly, not only to our ancestral night, but rather to all our life"

by Gladys Sica

Teatrino del Parco Trotter –Milan - 2008

L. R. C.
3. Which poets did have ascendancy in your poetry?

G. S.
With surrealist group –none was more than eighteen years old, we read the Surrealist Manifesto, we made automatic writing- I knew the French surrealists Andrè Breton, Paul Eluard, Antonin Artaud, the Symbolists etc.
In those years the surrealism in Argentina had an enormous attraction among youth people.
In reality the first poet that had in me a visceral ascendancy was Arthur Rimbaud. I felt so close that always I read him having the fear that his words drove too much into my head and I were not able to distinguish their paternity.
Another great poet fundamental for me was the Argentine Enrique Molina, a perennial traveller, whose poetry was born from the depth. Someone that always was walking at my side and that I should have liked a lot to meet, to speak with him and to embrace him.
Alejandra Pizarnik came to me later, something special: the word vibrates in her poetry beneath a tension that produces silence.
In Italy, without any doubt the obsessive Dino Campana poetry was the most revealing discovery, In Argentina I never knew him: a life ended in a mental hospital, a wild poetry explosion, uncontaminated.
I always understood poetry and art like a way of living, a not blindly acceptance of what is used to do, thinking, making, a consciousness raising.
My poetry train left pregnant of oneiric images, instinctive visions. During the years a more spoil environment became predominant, with a deeper reflective synthesis, a more circular rhythm.

Interview to Gladys Sica "Poetry and art, the same passion, the same fire" by Luis Raul Calvo published on argentine magazine "Generación abierta" n° 49 and 50 (2008)


“Nel fuoco del silenzio –il viaggio”
(In the fire of silence –the travel)


1st Prize National poetry contest "Antonia Pozzi" Archivi del '900 Publisher Milan 2005 E. 10,00

 

Pr ized book presentation, Archivi del '900 Bookshop,
Gladys Sica with Luigi Olivetti, Milan, 2006.

 

 

 

Recommended Bookshops: Info: cell. +39 349.8056987

Archivi del '900 - 9, Montevideo Street - Milan - tel. +39 02.89423050

Libreria Rizzoli - Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, 79 - Milano - tel. 02.8052277

Odradek la Libreria - 57, Banchi Vecchi Street - Rome - tel. +039 06.6861967

Presentation by Sergio Spadaro (in italian) (2010)

Review by Giuseppe Possa (in italian) (2009)


Review by Sergio Spadaro (in Spanish) (2006)

Preface by Franco De Faveri (in Spanish) (2005)

Presentation by Fortuna Della Porta (2005)

 

The prime doesn’t last

Make me know your tenderness,
it doesn’t matter if now is a little bit late,
if the wind is gruff and it’s very cold
Let my soul gets lost in yours,
it doesn’t matter that this prime doesn’t last,
that the summer soon wipes out.
Let me you love as I can, in these days,
as the only important thing to do,
with my burning and dark river, before you leave.

gladys sica, 1997.

from “Nel fuoco del silenzio –il viaggio”
(In the fire of silence –the travel)

Interview published on web site www.i-racconti.com Italy (2007).

Interview to Gladys Sica by Edith Checa published on spanish magazine “Jirones de Azul” 2006 (in English)

Afterword of “In the fire of silence –the travel”
what is beneath or behind or inside the work.

“In the fire of silence –the travel” is my second published book, this time winner of first prize of “Antonia Pozzi” contest that, fortunately, the publisher “Archivi del ‘900” edited bilingual.

The book is written in three different geographic places, or, it could be said, in three long very different “consciousness” periods: at first in Argentina, then during the travel in Italy and finally coming back in Italy after a very short confirmatory further travel in Argentina.

So few is been explained on my poems and on the contrary it was a surprise discovering the meanings, the images or the emotions awakened from my book, maybe so far away from the original intentions, that added themselves and nourished my compositions.

The work of my material is nourished with intense and real experiences, a starting point along the poetic and artistic pursuit: surrealism, expressionism and materialistic painting, informal, cubism - futurism, etc. or along the philosophic or spiritualistic route : yoga, meditation and prayer, not ordinary experiences, oneiric states, etc.

The trinomial: real life experience, artistic and poetry pursuit, spiritual route or consciousness march together inside me.

Gladys Sica Prized book presentation, "Antonia Pozzi" Contest, Milan 30.05.2005.

For example: the poem “Alle mie spalle” (Behind my back) deals with the situation –social and moral- in which I found my country after an absence of six years coming back from a previous travel. It corresponds to travel preparation starting phase, when I made my choice and the doubts raised; moreover the composition describes the place that I left and the calling for adventure, for what is unknown, without the certainties or the supports of what is well-known

Also the poem "Una patria per la sua opera" (A country for his work) belongs to the first phase, to the moment when I understood the real need to accept the travel challenge; in this case, the challenge was finding the situation or the place where it could be possible living through art –giving up the my job as a teacher and so many things and relations- to pursue my dream in the ancestors Italian land.

The poem “Cosa sanno loro” (What do they know) belongs to the second phase, where, as always happens, there is a key proof, in this case, a life or death proof. It shows the very difficult daily situation faced alone in the new town –due to a dangerous illness- that forced me to a long and so heavy treatment that finally was positive for me, but it requested a not ordinary moral strength to run along.

The poem
“C’è” (There is) deals with complementary opposites equilibrium that are beneath the appearances and with the awareness found in the life order.

So, to know the deep motivations we need to have a work vision as a whole, time to enter deeply and a route synchrony.
But even if all this is lacking… the true masterpiece, could continue to live finally because all, simply, is included, and, at the same time, offered by art mystery.

gladys sica, 2006.


from “Nel fuoco del silenzio –il viaggio”
(In the fire of silence –the travel)

La guerra

pero quién quienes o qué cosa
detrás
desencadena la furia de las sombras
la ley del secreto que se pierde
con la muerte
lo que acariciábamos entre el sueño y la vigilia
se va
llega lo que nunca
nunca hubiéramos querido

pero quién quienes o qué cosa
empuja
altera el paso del indefenso astro
abajo
un brillo negro negro helado
cierra los párpados del alma
arriba
un silencio blanco blanco ensordecedor
un mar muerto en los ojos de dios

pero quién quienes o qué cosa
allí o aquí ahora dentro o fuera
congela el antiguo grito humano
rompe el delicado milagro
quién qué cosa
cómo cómo y por qué ?

 

Archivi del '900 Publisher Milan 2005

The war

but who who or what
behind
unleashes the fury of shades
the law of the secret that disappears
in the death
what we caressed between sleeping and waking
goes away
arrives what we never
never would have wanted

but who who or what
pushes
alters the pace of the defenceless planet
below
a black black frozen brightness
closes the eyelids of the soul
above
a white white deafening silence
a death sea in god’s eyes

but who who or what
here or there inside or outside
freezes the ancient human cry
breaks the delicate miracle
who who or what
how how and why?

gladys sica, 2002.


 

Hay

Hay un obsceno resplandor
dentro de esos ilusorios meses.
Agrega misterio al misterio
un eco de inaccesibles mares.

Es el mayor deber vivir.
Hay una zona de luz en el dolor,
en la noche de nuestras noches.
Regresan a mi alma
las aguas rojas del cuadro
con una fuerza que no es sólo mía.

Hay una pregunta que pregunta siempre
en este errante universo
hecho de dioses y astros,
de corazones, manos y pájaros.
Hay una espera que nos aguarda
y hay una posibilidad imposible.

Hay una zona de sombra en la alegría,
en la mañana de nuestras mañanas.
Hay.

 

There is

There is an obscene brightness
Inside these illusory months.
It adds mystery to mystery
an echo of inaccessible seas.

Living is the biggest duty.
There is a light zone in the sorrow,
in the night of our nights
Return to my soul
the red waters of my painting
with an energy that is not only mine

There is a question that always asks
in this wandering universe
made of gods and planets,
hearts, hands and birds.
There is a wait that waits us
and there is an impossible possibility.

There is a shade zone in the happiness
in the morning of our mornings.
There is.

gladys sica, 2002.


A mis espaldas

A mis espaldas, el lugar que fue azul,
un insignificante lugar terrestre,
ahora todo revuelto en llamas.
Hombres poco veraces
colaboran en la enmarañada pesadilla.
Oradores sin corazón
construyen solapadamente el temporal.
Nadie que aguarde el justo plazo.
Una luna roja y prematura
es descuartizada en los suburbios amarillos
de las dislocadas mentes.
Dónde estuviste todo este tiempo?
y Ilegas ahora? ellos, ellas, me dicen.
Los arduos afanes infatigables:
tal vez, algo no concuerda con los cielos.
El predestinado persevera como un loco
mirando todo alrededor, solo en la cerrazón
contra el desfavor de los tiempos.
Las posibilidades se empantanan en la noche;
un viento irreconocible, idiota, se roba
el abrazo inaprensible de Dios.

Esos cuerpos, con desconsiderado desenfreno,
guardan antiguas cicatrices.
Esta luz no basta
para diferenciar ayudantes de intrusos,
bestias humosas de hombres saludables.
Las almas no logran remontarse:
demasiado es el peso en la barca.
Hay que renunciar -primero, en las arenas-
a esos logros para nada propicios.
Hay que arrodillarse -cuanto antes, desnudo-
a besar estas benditas aguas.
Hay que...

Todo revuelto en llamas,
un insignificante lugar terrestre,
el lugar que fue azul, ahora, a mis espaldas.

 

Behind my shoulders

Behind my shoulders, the place that was blue,
an insignificant earth’s place,
now, all in a mess of flames.
Not much truthful men
collaborate in the tangling nightmare.
Heartless orators
stealthily build the storm.
Nobody is waiting for the right deadline.
A red and premature moon
is quartered in the yellow suburbs
of the sprained minds.
Where have you been all this time?
do you come only now?, they, say to me.
The arduous tireless efforts:
something, maybe, doesn’t agree with the skies.
The predestined perseveres as a madman
looking at everywhere, alone, in the haze
against the times disfavour.
The possibilities sink in the night;
an unrecognisable wind, idiotic, steals
the ungraspable embrace of God.

Those bodies, with inconsiderate debauchery
look at ancient scars.
This light is not enough
to distinguish helpers from intruders,
smoky beasts from beneficial men.
Souls are not able to soar:
the burden in the boat is too much.
We ought to forego –at first- in the sand-
to those not at all propitious victories.
We ought to kneel down –as much as possible, nude-
to kiss these blessed waters.
We ought to…

All in a mess of flames,
an insignificant earth’s place,
the place that was blue, now, behind my shoulders.

gladys sica, 1997.


Una patria para su obra

El inmotivado empeño en la pasión estival
se vuelca, con prisa en la emergencia,
sobre el resentimiento por los crímenes de la vida,
impulsado por herméticas culpas
que sobreviven -pese a todo-
en los depósitos de la memoria prehistórica.

El oleaje frenético encandila,
sacude una, otra y otra vez,
el cada vez más descentrado corazón.
Resulta -al final- que el hombre y la mujer
no reconocen sus manos y sus hijos,
los verdaderos hermanos;
la propia tierra se vuelve extraña.

La posición es inadecuada e insólita;
favorece los contradictorios contrastes,
hace visible la invisible desintegración.
En soledad y sin auxilio
-el viajero que la noche no retuvo-
atraviesa en silencio el río,
no abjura de su visión
y busca con ahínco infatigable
una patria para su obra.

A land for his work


The unmotivated care in the summer passion
overturns, with haste in the emergency
on resentment for life crimes,
pushed by hermetic faults
that survive –in spite of everything-
in the prehistoric memory depositories.

The frenetic waving dazzles
shakes one, another, and another time,
every time more the off-centre heart.
It results –finally- that the man and the woman
don’t recognize their hands and children,
their true, authentic brothers;
their land becomes extraneous.

The position is inadequate and unusual;
favors the contradictory contrasts,
turns visible the invisible disintegration.
Without help and in solitude
-the traveler that the night didn’t detain-
in silence crosses the river,
doesn’t abjure his vision
and purses with indefatigable will
a land for his work.

gladys sica, 1997


Gladys Sica and Luis Raúl Calvo, Poems reading, Buenos Aires,september 2003.

from "Tenerezza animale" by Gladys Sica

presentation by Luis Raúl Calvo, "San Martìn" Theatre, Argentina, 1997.

In what way contemporary man is conditioned from this convulsive century end? What are his fluctuations, his anguishes, his fears? How he put himself in face of love? In what manner that existential route touch the most intimate springs of his identity?
These are some of the questions that come out from "Animal tenderness” written by the poet and artist Gladys Sica that comprehends two periods: from 1987 to 1997 and from 1976 to 1984.

One element that characterizes this Book is the stress put on “fugacity” of things, on ties permeability, that lets catch a glimpse of the danger of a soon loss of identification, because of lack of sedimentation solid bases.
“From now on going away will be always coming back”, Sica reminds us, but “I didn’t know that coming back would have been also going away” an apparent countersense that reveals the most ambiguous sensations experimented by human being in face of year 2000.


“If life is the most undefended dream ever lives”, “miracles ripen near faith”, but in what can we trust in the middle of so much perplexity? Maybe in poetry because “after having broken poems nothing could rescue us”.
One the resources that Gladys Sica utilizes better in this first published Book, is the sentence, for it is not employed in a deterministic way, so much as closing the circle, on the contrary, it raises to open other variables that allow to get free from a reality that stifles and paralyzes, since if “in the place where, all should have been, there was nothing”, only "the absence of its absence allowed me later to survive”.

Gladys Sica One-person art exhibition "Pitture, disegni, sculture, poesie".

Gladys Sica with painter Osvaldo Argento and poet Luis Benítez, ,Burnos Aires, 1998.

 

Gladys Sica One-person art exhibition "Le invisibili forze" with poems reading, Cascina Grande, Rozzano, 2005.

Gladys Sica One-person art exhibition "El viaje" with poems reading, Bs. Aires, 1998.

If this reality is unusable, we look for, now, its reverse, what we still don’t know but that remains latent somewhere, as Roberto Juarroz said “We look for the back of things, that finally is the sense of the search.”
Poetry and art give us this possibility: going further on the appearance in order to try to dissect the reality, what lays in the deepest stratum, similar to a put aside desire in the dream anteroom.
In one “Animal tenderness” section we perceive the amorous dialogue with the loved person: is a desperate request to keep the identity, but also to look for a new access route through that love lost in knowledge, in spite of the cult for the sacred that lover professes succumbs in her poetry. “I should be rock and distance, on the contrary I curse the night that illuminates your empty place in the bed”, maybe, as Roland Barthes tells to us, lovers melt in one being beyond the absence.

If the fact to include in one book the material of different periods represents a risk, we can say that Gladys Sica succeeded in this purpose.
“Animal tenderness” keeps unity and equilibrium that allowed Gladys Sica to be one of the finalists of 3rd National Poetry Contest “Ramòn Plaza" of “Living Poets Society”. An important incentive to continue to work the word, a maybe definitive challenge to carry on –here, in Italy or anywhere- this perhaps useless but not replaceable adventure that, without a doubt, the poetry is.

Luis Calvo

Gladys Sica One-person art exhibition "Complejo Bmbalinas" , Bs. As. 1998.

 


from "Ternura animal" (Animal tenderness )
Finalist
" Ramòn Plaza" Contest , "La sociedad de los poetas vivos" Publisher, 1997, Buenos Aires.


......................art, an union bridge of this world with another one, a blessing that makes free, an unexpected rain that all destroys and transforms............................................................... ...................................................................poem like paintings and sculptures: intense ideas, images, sensations, perceptions and intuitions concentrations

.........................................................................catching the meanings through contrasts and opposites tension .............................................................. originally there is an obsessing, wild will to pursue, to feel, to create, to see and to be free........................................................................................
..............................................................................in art and poetry is not important the message clarity otherwise the transfer of a genuine, instinctive, heart reflection that allows the others to settle it and so they can enter it in their inward universe............................................................

gladys sica, 1996.


Gladys Sica One-person art exhibition with poems reading,"Teatro S. Martìn" , Buenos Aires, 1997


dal libro "Ternura animal"

n° 76

Mi cabellera seca.
Las últimas convulsiones del sol, interceptadas.
Qué distinto es lo mismo, ahora.
El ritual impotente.
Recuerdos que se anticipan.
Debe ser el invierno, esta vez.

El privilegio rebosante de la paciencia necesaria.
La fuerza fundamental. La dulzura acogedora.
Un suave compañero para salir del exilio.
Vamos alma mía, sólo un poco más.
Mira allá: la aurora como una reina dormida.
Iremos primero hasta el azul de atrás.
Y será una fiesta incluso en el cielo.
El pecho húmedo, los ojos palpitantes,
las manos en el viento, la piel dorada y libre,
el alma que estalla como los astros en las noches claras...

La debilidad física le había mojado el corazón,
y ella continuaba exactamente ahí: hambrienta
de la más simple, primitiva y húmeda
ternura animal.

From the book "Ternura animal" (Animal tenderness)

n° 76

My dry long hair.
The last sun convulsions, intercepted.
How much the same is different, now.
The impotent ritual.
Memories that anticipate themselves.
It must be the winter, this time.

The healthy privilege of necessary patience.
The
fundamental strength. The welcoming tenderness .
A gentle fellow to issue forth the exile.
Let’s go, my soul, it lasts just a little.
Look there: the dawn like a sleeping queen.
We will go at first until the blue of the deep.
And will be a feast even in the sky.
The eyes palpitating, the breast humid,
the hands in the wind, the skin golden and free,
the soul that bursts like the stars in the clear nights…

The physical weakness wet her heart,
and she continued exactly there: famished
of simplest, most primitive and humid
animal tenderness.

gladys sica, 1984.

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All rights reserved. Unauthorised copying, reproduction, printing and/or circulation are prohibited without author’s authorization or quotation.
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