{"id":143234,"date":"2020-03-09T11:33:50","date_gmt":"2020-03-09T15:33:50","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=143234"},"modified":"2020-03-09T12:55:12","modified_gmt":"2020-03-09T16:55:12","slug":"little-fires-for-the-one-who-was-lost","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/03\/09\/little-fires-for-the-one-who-was-lost\/","title":{"rendered":"Little Fires for the One Who Was Lost"},"content":{"rendered":"

Alejandra Pizarnik\u2019s work has long served as a touchstone for Latin American writers. The late Argentine poet has been cited as an influence by everyone from Roberto Bola\u00f1o and Julio Cort\u00e1zar to Octavio Paz, who described her writing as exuding \u201ca luminous heat that could burn, smelt, or even vaporize its skeptics.\u201d But this fervor didn\u2019t reach the English-speaking world until some four decades after her death, with the publication of her collection <\/em>A Musical Hell in 2013<\/em>. Since then, translations of five more collections of her poetry have appeared to near universal acclaim, and several of her poems have been published<\/a> in<\/em> The Paris Review. Ugly Duckling Presse has recently published <\/em>A Tradition in Rupture<\/a>, which presents Pizarnik\u2019s critical writings in English for the first time. In the excerpt below, she ponders the nature of poetry and the pain of revisiting past work.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Alejandra Pizarnik.<\/p><\/div>\n

Poetry is where everything happens. Like love, humor, suicide, and every fundamentally subversive act, poetry ignores everything but its own freedom and its own truth. To say \u201cfreedom\u201d and \u201ctruth\u201d in reference to the world in which we live (or don\u2019t live) is to tell a lie. It is not a lie when you attribute those words to poetry: the place where everything is possible.<\/p>\n

In opposition to the feeling of exile, the feeling of perpetual longing, stands the poem\u2014promised land. Every day my poems get shorter: little fires for the one who was lost in a strange land. Within a few lines, I usually find the eyes of someone I know waiting for me; reconciled things, hostile things, things that ceaselessly produce the unknown; and my perpetual thirst, my hunger, my horror. From there the invocation comes, the evocation, the conjuring forth. In terms of inspiration, my belief is completely orthodox, but this in no way restricts me. On the contrary, it allows me to focus on a single poem for a long time. And I do it in a way that recalls, perhaps, the gesture of a painter: I fix the piece of paper to the wall and contemplate<\/em> it; I change words, delete lines. Sometimes, when I delete a word, I imagine another one in its place, but without even knowing its name. Then, while I\u2019m waiting for the one I want, I make a drawing in the empty space that alludes to it. And this drawing is like a summoning ritual. (I would add that my attraction to silence allows me to unite, in spirit, poetry with painting; in that sense, what others might call the privileged moment, I speak of as privileged space.)<\/p>\n

They\u2019ve been warning us, since time immemorial, that poetry is a mystery. Yet we recognize it: we know where it lies. I believe the question \u201cWhat does poetry mean to you?\u201d deserves one of two responses: either silence or a book that relates a terrible adventure\u2014the adventure of someone who sets off to question the poem, poetry, the poetic; to embrace the body of the poem; to ascertain its incantatory, electrifying, revolutionary, and consoling power. Some have already told us of this marvelous journey. For myself, at present, it remains a study<\/em>. <\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

If they ask me who do you write for<\/em>, they\u2019re asking about the poem\u2019s addressee. The question tacitly assumes such a character exists.<\/p>\n

That makes three of us: myself; the poem; the addressee. This accusative triangle demands a bit of examination.<\/p>\n

When I finish a poem, I haven\u2019t finished it. In truth, I abandon it and the poem is no longer mine or, more accurately, it barely exists.<\/p>\n

After that moment, the ideal triangle depends on the addressee or reader. Only the reader can finish the incomplete poem, recover its multiple meanings, add new ones. To finish<\/em> is the equivalent, here, of giving new meaning, of re-creating.<\/p>\n

When I write, I never imagine a reader. Nor does it ever occur to me to consider the fate of what I\u2019m writing. I have never searched for a reader, neither before, nor during, nor after writing the poem. It\u2019s because of this, I think, that I\u2019ve had unforeseen encounters with truly unexpected readers, those who gave me the joy and excitement of knowing I was profoundly understood. To which I\u2019ll add a propitious line by Gaston Bachelard:<\/p>\n

The poet must create his reader and in no way express common ideas.<\/em><\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Nothing in sum. Absolutely nothing. Nothing that doesn\u2019t diverge from the everyday track. Life doesn\u2019t flow endlessly or uniformly: I don\u2019t sleep, I don\u2019t work, I don\u2019t go for walks, I don\u2019t leaf through some new book at random, I write badly or well\u2014badly, I\u2019m sure\u2014driven and faltering. From time to time I lie down on a sofa so I don\u2019t look at the sky: indigo or ashen. And why shouldn\u2019t the unthinkable\u2014I mean the poem\u2014suddenly emerge? I work night after night. What falls outside my work are golden dispensations, the only ones of any worth. Pen in hand, pen on paper, I write so I don\u2019t commit suicide. And our dream of the absolute? Diluted in the daily toil. Or perhaps, through the work, we make that dissolution more refined.<\/p>\n

Time passes on. Or, more accurately, we pass on. In the distance, closer every moment, the idea of a sinister task I have to complete: editing my old poems. Focusing my attention on them is the equivalent of returning to a wrong turn when I\u2019m already walking in another direction, no better but certainly different. I try to concentrate on a shapeless book. I don\u2019t know if this book of mine actually belongs to me. Forced to read its pages, it seems I\u2019m reading something I wrote without realizing I was another. Could I write the same way now? I\u2019m disappointed, always, when I read one of my old pages. The feeling I experience can\u2019t be precisely defined. Fifteen years writing! A pen in my hand since I was fifteen years old. Devotion, passion, fidelity, dedication, certainty that this is the path to salvation (from what?). The years weigh on my shoulders. I couldn\u2019t write that way now. Did that poetry contain today\u2019s silent, awestruck desperation? It hardly matters. All I want is to be reunited with the ones I was before; the rest I leave to chance.<\/p>\n

So many images of death and birth have disappeared. These writings have a curious fate: born from disgrace, they serve, now, as a way to entertain (or not) and to move (or not) other people. Perhaps, after reading them, someone I know will love me a little more. And that would be enough, which is to say a lot.<\/p>\n

\u2014Translated from the Spanish by Cole Heinowitz<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Alejandra Pizarnik (1936\u20131972) was a leading voice in twentieth-century Latin American poetry. Six books of her poetry have been translated into English: <\/em>Diana\u2019s Tree, <\/em>The Most Foreign Country, <\/em>The Last Innocence\u2009\/\u2009The Lost Adventures, <\/em>A Musical Hell, <\/em>Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962\u20131972, and <\/em>The Galloping Hour: French Poems. She died in Buenos Aires, of an apparent drug overdose, at the age of thirty-six.<\/em><\/p>\n

Cole Heinowitz is a poet, translator, and scholar based in New York. Her books of poetry include <\/em>The Rubicon, <\/em>Stunning in Muscle Hospital, and <\/em>Daily Chimera. She is the translator of Mario Santiago Papasquiaro\u2019s <\/em>Advice from 1 Disciple of Marx to 1 Heidegger Fanatic and <\/em>Beauty Is Our Spiritual Guernica\u00a0and the cotranslator of <\/em>The Selected Late Letters of Antonin Artaud. She is the director of the literature program at Bard College.<\/em><\/p>\n

From\u00a0<\/em>A Tradition in Rupture: Selected Critical Writings<\/a>, by Alejandra Pizarnik, translated from the Spanish by Cole Heinowitz, published in December 2019 by Ugly Duckling Presse.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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