Gloria Fuertes, Spain, 1917- 1998 (English Translations, Kaushalya Bannerji, 2023)

Gloria Fuertes, says Wikipedia, was a Spanish poet, author of children’s literature, and regular participant in children’s television shows. She was part of the post-war literary movement of postismo, and a member of the Generation of ’50. Her work focused on gender equality, pacifism, and environmentalism.

HAGO VERSOS, SENORES!

Hago versos señores, hago versos,
pero no me gusta que me llamen poetisa,
me gusta el vino como a los albañiles
y tengo una asistenta que habla sola.
Este mundo resulta divertido,
pasan cosas señores que no expongo,
se dan casos, aunque nunca se dan casas
a los pobres que no pueden dar traspaso.

Sigue habiendo solteras con su perro,
sigue habiendo casados con querida
a los déspotas duros nadie les dice nada,
y leemos que hay muertos y pasamos la hoja,
y nos pisan el cuello y nadie se levanta,
y nos odia la gente y decimos:¡la vida!
Esto pasa señores y yo debo decirlo.

I MAKE VERSES!

I make verses, gentlemen, I make verses,

but I don’t like being called a poetess,

I like wine just as bricklayers do

and I have an assistant who talks to herself.

This world is fun,

Things happen, gentlemen,  that I do not expose,

There are cases, although there are never houses.

For the poor who cannot resettle.

There are still single women with their dog,

There are those still married, with a mistress,

Nobody says anything to harsh despots,

and we read that there are dead people and we turn the page,

and they step on our necks and no one gets up,

and people hate us and we say: life!

This happens, gentlemen and I must say it.

LOS PÁJAROS ANIDAN

Los pájaros anidan en mis brazos,

en mis hombros, detrás de mis rodillas, entre los senos tengo codornices,

los pájaros se creen que soy un árbol.

Una fuente se creen que soy los cisnes, bajan y beben todos cuando hablo.

Las ovejas me pisan cuando pasan

y comen en mis dedos los gorriones,

se creen que soy tierra las hormigas

y los hombres se creen que no soy nada.

THE BIRDS NEST

The birds nest in my arms

In my shoulders, behind my knees, between the breasts I have

Pheasants,

The birds think I am a tree.

A fountain they think I am, the swans, fly down and all drink when

I speak.

The sheep step on me when they pass by

And swallows eat from my fingers

They think I am earth, the ants

And people think that I am nothing.

EN LAS NOCHES CLARAS

En las noches claras,

resuelvo el problema de la soledad del ser. Invito a la luna y con mi sombra somos tres.

ON CLEAR NIGHTS

On clear nights

I resolve the problem of loneliness of being. I invite the moon, and 

with my shadow, we are three.