Ana Enriqueta Terán

Born 1918 in Valera, in the Andes; now resides in Trujillo.  Has contributed to Caracas newspapers, and represented Venezuela abroad. Was awarded the National Prize for Literature, for her poetry, in 1989.  Collections published: Al Norte de la Sangre, 1946; Bosque, 1970; Libro de los Oficios, 1975; Música con Pie de Salmo, 1985; the anthology Casa de Hablas, 1991, which includes all her poems up to that date and some new ones; Albatros, 1992.

Spanish Text

STONE OF SPEECH

The poetess fulfils the measure and risk of the stone of speech.
She conducts herself as if through other ages and other disputes.
She takes day's pulse and finds only night in Autumn's plumage.
She breaks into the assembly hall dressed in the simplest action.
She kneels with her riches in the lair of the iguana.
Once all's ready she returns to the place of origin. Place of insults.
Her sacred birds renege, her dimly lit cave, her means and rarity.
Cowardice and strange boldness at the age and its solid gold crests.
The poetess answers for each fire, each chimera, frown, apex
repeated in the same sadness, the same grappling for more shadow
for a little bit more sweetness for aged rank.
The poetess offers her eagles.  She glitters in her birds of the deep clouds.
She makes herself mistress of seasons, the four bitches of good and bad weather.
She makes herself mistress of rock-falls and dust-patches chosen on purpose.
She pitches a macaw where she's about to kneel down.
The poetess fulfils the measure and risk of the stone of speech.

 

PROPHECY TWO

She, the darkest in power and in levity
she who commanded dreams, her amendments, sweet means of complying,
will be able to save the weft, pet beasts of the dry land
stain song with new suns
using the year and its eyes of sombre gold,
the favor and new wound of continuity
for resonance and first flesh,
swaying and almost breathing of the future
in every woman's memory (even in October)
woman with the taste and smell of a flag bearer,
of a wife after the red dress in the STRONGHOLD OF MYTH.

 

CIRCULAR ANGER

I present to you the bitch of solid gold
slavering precious stones in the circle of anger,
alert to changes, subtleties and the maraudings of silence;
abyssal bitch rising from all that resists happiness,
whatever threatens and spreads sheets for the delicate vigil.
I present you a bitch of smoke in latitudes of Greek marble,
desiring final stature where breath has come and gone.
Bitch white to the bone of centered light.
White, with stripes of something whiter for the unprecedented ceremonial.

 


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