Historial de las violetas

by Marosa Di Giorgio

Bilingual poetry book in Spanish and English. "Originally published in 1965, The History of Violets (Historial de las violetas) twists the familiar face of a family farm, populating the fields and grounds with gods, monsters, and a whole "foamy army" of extras. Di Giorgio—whom Kent Johnson hails as "one of the most spectacular and strange Latin American poets of the past fifty years"—locks the natural and supernatural in a perilous dance, balancing humor and violence, beauty and danger, simple childhood memory and complex domestic drama. With disarming grace, these poems leave the reader swirling about, among the flowers, where no one is safe."

Genres: Poetry

47 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1965

About the author

Marosa di Giorgio (1932–2004) was a Uruguayan poet and novelist.

Marosa di Giorgio is considered one of the most singular voices in Latin America. Critics tend to agree that her writing is greatly influenced by European surrealism, although her vocabulary, style, and imagery are uniquely her own. Her work deals predominately with the imaginary world of childhood and nature.

In the past few years, Latin American critics such as Hugo Achugar, Luis Bravo, Leonardo Garet, Sylvia Guerra, María Alejandra Minelli, and María Rosa Olivera-Williams have explored Marosa Di Giorgio's writing. Uruguayan poet Roberto Echavarren published in 1991 "Transplatinos", which offers an excellent introduction to Di Giorgio's writing. Selected poems from The March Hare have been translated into English by K.A. Kopple and published in the 1995 by Exact Change Yearbook. An article discussing gender politics, parody, and desire (as elaborated by Gilles Deleuze) also written by K.A. Kopple appeared in March 2000 in the Journal of Latin American Cultural Studies. In'Identity, Nation, Discourse: Latin American Women Writers and Artists, edited by Claire Taylor (Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2009), Soledad Montañez opens up a new discussion of Di Giorgio's erotic writing. Montañez shows how "Di Giorgio's erotic prose illustrates the representation and performance of patriarchal hierarchy as a perverse comedy, creating a genre that constructs gender narratives in order to undermine the patriarchal system from within."Montañez also affirms that "The effect achieved in Marosa's radicalised narrative is ultimately a mocking performance, a burlesque discourse that reveals and denounces domination and power. Through a perverse representation Marosa exposes the complicated matter of culturally constructed sexual norms and develops a writing that is at the same time disturbing and astonishing" (2009: 158).

In 1982 she received the Fraternity Award for literature

Reviews

[Bluro · Rating 5 out of 5]

Cuando leo a Marosa me translado a un mundo hermoso, me sumerjo en el jardín de las delicias del Bosco. Soy hiedra venenosa.
Los poemas siempre maravillosos, me inspiran mucho, me dan ganas de escribir, de comer frutas.

Luego hay algunos que me inquietan y me alucinan.
Me declaro fan de Marosa Di Giorgio ❤️

Poema 23

Hace mucho me persiguen esas varas espectrales. Por la noche cruzan la ventana; si estoy soñando se entran en mi sueño, si me despierto, están de pie junto a la cama.

[Carrie Etter]

Extraordinary collection of prose poems, extravagant, vivid, perhaps not so much surreal as a heightened reality that involves angels, God, a strong family presence, and many another living creature.

[Sebastián · Rating 3 out of 5]

«No puedo ordenar mis recuerdos / La luna me los desbarata cada vez»

Medio onírico, fluir-del-pensamientótico, selvático (quizás porque alguien en una exposición a la que fui la dibujó así), muy florístico, a veces era la flor, otras veces el animal. Nauseabundo incluso de tanto olor a flor y vegetación. Algo así se me venía a la mente. No me llegó tanto, no sabía a dónde iba pero lo encontré genial como lectura diferente a lo que generalmente leo en poesía.

Poemas o fragmentos o versos que me gustaron:

Poema XVII
«Soy siempre la misma niña a la sombra de los durazneros de mi padre. Los duraznos ya estan oscuros, ocres y rosados, ya muestran los finos dientecillos, la larga lengua de oro, las manzanas y las peras aún son verdes; en su follaje me refugio. Pero, espío hacia la casa, escucho las conversaciones, las fogatas, veo llegar de visita, los parientes, los vecinos; pasa de largo el humo arriba de los pinos; resuena la campana del té.

Y yo estoy allí oculta en medio de la fronda. Los duraznos son como siniestros pimpollos de rosa.»

Poema XX
«Las margaritas abarcaron todo el jardín; primero, fueron como un arroz dorado; luego, se abrían de verdad; eran como pájaros deformes, circu-lares, de muchas alas en torno a una sola cabeza de oro o de plata. Las margaritas doradas y plateadas quemaron todo el jardín. Su penetrante perfume a uvas nos inundó, el penetrante perfume a uvas, a higo, a miel, de las margari-tas, quemó toda la casa. Por ellas, nos volvíamos audaces, como locos, como ebrios. E íbamos a través de toda la noche, del alba, de la ma-ñana, por el día, cometiendo el más hermoso de los pecados, sin cesar.»

Poema XXVII
«Y ella accede a amarlo. Y yo le grito, dándole un nombre de flor o de mucha-cha: —¡Margarita, es pecado!

Y ella vuelve hacia mí, el rostro casi de oro, los altos pétalos de la frente y me dice —¿Y qué?»

[actuallymynamesssantiago · Rating 2 out of 5]

Ay, no sé. Me compré sus poemas reunidos hace unos meses y recién los agarro. Es demasiado gratuita, like nombrar cosas lindas porque sí no te hace ni femenina ni poeta ni quirky. Siento que es el proyecto de una escritura sobre flores y mariposas, que se termina reduciendo a solo mencionar flores y mariposas, sin crear ningún tipo de encanto hacia el interior de los versos. De Louise Glück uno lee dos líneas y ya está encadenadísimo a su pluma. Me duele quedarme afuera porque Juana Molina tiene una canción sobre el poema de los hongos. A mi mejor amiga que es florista, naif y palermitana tal vez le guste (Matilda te amo).


"Los hongos nacen en silencio; algunos nacen en silencio; otros con un breve alarido, un leve trueno. Unos son blancos, otros rosados, ése es gris y parece una paloma, la estatua a una paloma; otros son dorados o morados. Cada uno trae —y eso es lo terrible— la inicial del muerto de donde procede. Yo no me atrevo a devorarlos; esa carne levísima es pariente nuestra.
Pero, aparece en la tarde el comprador de hongos y empieza la siega. Mi madre da permiso. Él elige como un águila. Ése blanco como el azúcar, uno rosado, uno gris.
Mamá no se da cuenta de que vende a su raza". Umm,,, "Los hongos nacen en silencio"/"algunos nacen en silencio" girlie make up your mind; "—y eso es lo terrible—" otra que Godard resumiendo para los que llegan tarde; "parece una paloma" ni pincha ni corta; "Él elige como un águila", comparación sacada de la galera. Las palabras hay que ganárselas, sino es vagancia.

[Jaqueline Franco · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5 ☆
Emotivo, Diferente

[Lu Monteblanco · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Los hongos nacen en silencio; algunos nacen en silencio; otros, con un breve alarido, un leve trueno. Unos son blancos, otros rosados, ese es gris y parece una paloma; otros son dorados o morados. Cada uno trae - y eso es lo terrible - la inicial del muerto de donde procede. Yo no me atrevo a demorarlos; esa carne levísima es pariente nuestra.

Pero, aparece en la tarde el comprador de hongos y empieza la siega. Mi madre da permiso. El elige como un águila. Ese blanco como el azúcar, uno rosado, uno gris.

Mamá no se da cuenta de que vende a su raza."

Me quedé como en un bucle, atrapada aquí.

[Damián Lima · Rating 4 out of 5]

La pregunta no es si a uno le gusta o no la escritura poética de Marosa; la verdadera cuestión es si uno logra acceder, penetrar e ingresar al jardín mágico y fantástico creado por Marosa. Un jardín de las delicias (¡grande, Bosco!) de vegetales y frutales, de animalejos subterráneos, de ángeles juguetones y deidades paganas, de faunos y hadas, de hongos que brotan de los cuerpos muertos de los familiares, de cazadores que cuidan los huertos y asesinan a las liebres, de una niña narradora que se transforma y metamorfosea (cual Gregor Samsa) en animalitos, en presas, en liebres de marzo. Marosa crea en cada uno de sus libros un universo propio, un mundo imaginario personal al que nos deja ingresar por un ratito, pero en el que ella habitó sinceramente durante toda su vida, como una Alicia alucinada que se quedó viviendo del otro lado del espejo.

[nayaraq · Rating 5 out of 5]

aquí entre nos es perfecto. no es solo bonito (y eso que estoy en el campo y en una casa con almas penando) sino que tiene esa gracia de relacionar los objetos, de soltar las palabras, de crear escenarios silvestres y salvajes donde sobresale la violencia y la sexualidad. es como vomitar huevos de mariposa en el buen sentido de la expresión.

[Benjamin Niespodziany · Rating 5 out of 5]

A beautiful book, inside and out. Dreamy prose poems.

[Genaro Longo · Rating 4 out of 5]

Tan rara Marosa y tan imaginativa, tan creativa con su universo creado sobre el universo creado por dios, que tiene tan baja la saturación y es tan ordinario.


No sé si las cosas que dice son mentiras o son adornos, o si son muy por distinto constitutivas, si son consustanciales, materia y no forma: si cuando habla de ángeles refiriéndose a mariposas es simplemente fantasía o si hablar de ángeles refiriéndose a las mariposas es poético en el sentido manido de poiesis es decir de creación.

Siempre desprecié la fantasía —la infantil—, como quien desprecia el milagro que no es evidente o la presencia presunta de lo divino o de los muertos. No: ni los muertos están, ni dios está, ni el atardecer es fuego, ni los árboles saludan al pasar: los muertos ya no existen, dios es una historia, el atardecer es un efecto triste y a los árboles los mueve el viento involuntario.


¿O tal vez sí algo de todo eso es cierto? O tal vez sí todo es cierto: el mensaje, lo invisible, la magia, el amor, la fantasía. Tal vez Marosa diciéndome de ángeles no miente: sube la saturación de unos colores que sí existen.


En cualquier caso, el libro es muy bueno y su actitud [¿de haberlo escrito?] es loable. Tampoco lo demás existe ni interesa.

[C. de L. · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Aquel verano la uva era azul (…).
Hasta las plantas que no eran de vid daban uvas.
(…) Pero salía uva desde todos lados. Hasta del ropero –antigua madera– surgió un racimo grande, áspero, azul, que duró por siempre, como un poeta”.


“…se le enamora. Y ella accede a amarlo. Y yo le grito, dándole un nombre de flor o de muchacha:
–Margarita, ¡es pecado!
Y ella vuelve hacia mí, el rostro casi de oro, los altos pétalos de la frente y me dice: –¿Y qué?”.

[Reader · Rating 5 out of 5]

作者以自己生活中的花园为创作灵感，将日常见到的蔬果、动物与人类的形态动作拼接在一起，令人联想到卡林顿的画作。不同的是，Marosa di Giorgio的诗更贴近现实，自然界仿佛变成了有感知的存在，成为叙事中活跃的“角色”。这些意象在现实与梦境间若隐若现，呈现生命与死亡、爱欲与消逝的舞蹈。诗中有怪异和死亡的暗示，但孩童的视角穿梭于纯真与恐惧之间，消解了本该有的阴冷。时间和记忆如碎片般跳跃，像氤氲的水汽一样侵蚀了真实与虚幻的边界

[Juli Anna · Rating 4 out of 5]

A dreamy and searing collection by a poet that ought to be better known. This little book is out of print now, but it's a wonderful introduction to Di Giorgio's work.

[Rommel Manosalvas · Rating 5 out of 5]

La poesía de Marosa es un jardín precioso.

[Carmen · Rating 5 out of 5]

Poesía rara, bella, inquitante, única.

[Macarena Arruza · Rating 2 out of 5]

No sé si estoy juzgando equivocadamente la inquietud que me dejó su prosa.

[Dylan Harbison · Rating 5 out of 5]

I cannot put my memories in order / the moon just wrecks them every time <3

[Valentina Paolini · Rating 5 out of 5]

De un “No puedo ordenar mis recuerdos. / La luna me los desbarata cada vez” a un “Me acuerdo de la eternidad” !! No sé si quiero habitar o huir de los mundos fantásticos de Marosa

[Joseph · Rating 3 out of 5]

This is the second book of translations I've read of Marosa di Giorgio's work, the first being Diadem: Selected Poems, translated by Adam Giannelli. Had I not read Giannelli's versions I might have assigned this book a higher rating. This is not to say that translator Jeannine Marie Pitas somehow failed the original work. In fact, she went out of her way in her attempt to bring The History of Violets into English, going so far as to move to Salto, Uruguay, di Giorgio's home town, in order to develop a deeper understanding of the poet. Unfortunately, Pitas's efforts aren't always successful. She seems to lack Giannelli's ear for English, and as a result her translations are a bit stiff. Here is an example, the 15th poem from The History of Violets, the Pitas version first, followed by Gianelli's:

The mushrooms are born in silence; some of them are born in silence, others with a brief shriek, a soft thunder. Some are white, others pink; that one is gray and looks like a dove, the statue of a dove; still others are gold or purple. Each one bears—and this is what's awful—the initials of the corpse it comes from. I do not dare to eat them; that most tender meat is our relative.

But, come afternoon the mushroom buyer arrives and starts picking. My mother gives him permission. He chooses like an eagle. This one white as sugar, a pink one, a gray one.

My mother does not realize that she is selling her race.

*

The mushrooms are born in silence; some are born in silence; others, with a brief shriek, a bit of thunder. Some are white, others pink, that one's gray and looks like a dove, the statue of a dove; some are gold or purple. Each one bears—and this is the horrible part—the initials of the dead person from which it springs. I don't dare devour them; that tender flesh is our relative.

But in the afternoon the mushroom buyer comes and starts to pick them. My mother lets him. He chooses like an eagle. That one, white as sugar, a pink one, a gray one.

Mama doesn't realize she's selling her own kind.

The differences here are small; many phrases are exactly the same. The differences, though, are typical of the two translators. Both translate "mi madre" correctly as "my mother"; but in the last line, where di Giorgio shifts to the more intimate "mamá," Pitas sticks with "my mother," losing the original's shift in tone. Earlier, in writing about the mushrooms themselves, Pitas translates "el muerto" as "the corpse," which takes the poem in a Poe-ish direction; we can see she means to do this because she translates "carne" as "meat". But surely di Giorgio's "el muerto" means "the dead person," as Giannelli has it, and her "carne" is (à la Giannelli) "flesh," as we normally speak of the flesh of fruits and vegetables. Pitas simply loses the subtlety of the original.

Finally, there's nothing "wrong" with Pitas's phrase "she is selling her race"; "vende a su raza" can mean this. But I think Giannelli is right in choosing "her own kind" for "su raza," because di Giorgio is talking about her kin—the dead whose graves are on the family farm where the poet grew up.

The above carping aside, I have to say we're lucky that Pitas chose to translate a complete, single book of di Giorgio's poems. Giannelli, with a different aim in mind, selected poems from the nearly 700 pages of the collected poetry (The Wild Papers); it seems that he took only one poem from The History of Violets, so Pitas's volume fills a real gap.

[Rowan · Rating 3 out of 5]

This book reminds me a lot of "La ultima niebla" with it's strange feminine voice, shifting point of view, the threatening trappings of domesticity, the deadening of routine, the strict social constraints and burden of expectations on the feminine. The shifting voice inhabits the fantastic world she constructs, full of magic and the erotic, haunted by the dead and angles, and slippery with the failures of memory. I think it's interesting work, and love the hints of narrative, and the horrific empathy with hunted beings. It has elements of nightmare helplessness, loss of orientation, lack of reason and order. But it is still a beautiful world.

Ther work is abstracted quite a bit, which may be an element of the translation of articles and pronouns. There also seems to be a reluctance on the translator's part to allow vagueness, and this detracts from the nebulous atmosphere being constructed. It is the strangeness of the images that works strongest here, and I'm not entirely convinced that the translation is doing any great service in the hypnotic and repetitively melodic rhythms constructed.

[Jim Elkins · Rating 3 out of 5]

A short book of thirty-five romantic, metaphysical, and surrealist prose poems about flowers, animals, and the author's family. The their best they're intense, and di Giorgio has a real talent for finding surprising and strong last lines, which work like the last line of "Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota" -- with the crucial difference that the images leading to those last lines belong more with Neruda or even Merwin than to North American realism. Occasionally di Giorgio's last lines are aphoristic, and those are the best pages in the book. Number 9 is a three-paragraph prose poem about a revelation that seemed to be promised by a chest of drawers:[return][return]"But then, everything burst into flames and disappeared. God stows his things away safely."[return][return](In Spanish, "Dios tiene sus cosas bien guardados.") [return][return]The first and last of the thirty-five have wonderful last lines. The weaker entries depend on ecstatic nature poetry, which can be wonderful (a tomato is described as "a kidney of rubies") but also slack and aimless. But who would begrudge a collection of thirty-five poems when at least three are genuinely good?

[Elizabeth · Rating 5 out of 5]

This strange little book creates its own world. Di Giorgio's sense of image has a surrealist quality, but somehow differs from a surrealist sensibility (the material here was first published in Spanish in 1965). There's also a strange undulation between poetry and narrative here. The narrative, however, is oblique, often mystical, alternately gorgeous and violent. Though Di Giorgio has a rather obsessive vocabulary (rice, pearls, and angels, for example, recur frequently), it's hard to resist the odd and exuberant beauty of her imagination in which onions are iridescent and snails are pearly yo-yos.

[Melissa · Rating 4 out of 5]

Andy and Esme read this book aloud and were both super into it. It's full of spirits, magic, angels good and bad, and seems to come from the sort of knowledge engendered by belonging to a certain place, a specificity, a deep connection to and awareness of the history and life of a landscape -- which I really liked, always like.

"Sometimes, in the stretch of garden that goes from the hearth to the bedroom, angels appeared to me.
One stood upright in the air like a white rooster -- oh, that crowing -- like a blaze of white lilies, like snow or the color of roses."

"I cannot put my memories in order.
The moon just wrecks them every time."

[Tania · Rating 5 out of 5]

Haunting, lyrical, and dreamlike. Each page is a gem. Some of Di Giorgio's prose-poems are beautiful and some are terrifying, but each of them left an impression on me. I only wish more of her work was available in English!

[Brianne · Rating 5 out of 5]

So beautiful. Can't wait to travel to this world again in Diadem.