As a little
girl, Beatriz started to write poems with the same talent—also known as
genius—with which she writes today.Her theme was the same: Death.When she had
barely come out of adolescence, she started to publish and receive awards and
honorable mentions in her country - Argentina - and abroad.She soon became a
rising star dazzling everyone around her.Her talent, combined with her beauty,
brought the powerful literary circles to her feet.Beatriz was on the road to
become a famous poet and (having worked since she was 14 to help her mother) to
be able to live off her poetry.
But major publishers
were still reluctant when a strange disease put her at death's
door:lupus.Beatriz received the extreme unction, and when everyone was
expecting the poet's death, the poet revived.No one knows what was said at that
face-to-face encounter with death, but the poet moved away from literary
circles forever, and she stopped publishing and participating in contests,
though she never stopped writing.
The rising star
became a lonely warrior.She spent many years fighting against lupus, working in
dreadful places, suffering from the lack of money that would not allow her to
get better treatment, and living in rented apartments and, mostly, dark hostel
rooms.She went through many universities - Law, Arts, Philosophy, Psychology -
learning what she wanted in each of them and not staying in any.Disease was
always by her side depriving her of almost everything, from hair to sight, from
the possibility of having children to the ability to walk, from being under the
sun (a mortal enemy) to eating what she wanted, but she never gave up.And she
always gave love a chance, even though it caused her the same problems money
did: when she thought it was genuine, it turned out to be fake.Nonetheless,
Beatriz loved and was loved.She lived intensely in the midst of war to save her
life, which was her daily endeavor.
After a decade,
Beatriz won the fight against lupus and got cured from a disease that is
considered chronic.Beatriz won and remained unbroken, without any traces or
damages from her disease, perhaps because this had not been her first battle or
her first encounter with death.Death had been her companion since adolescence,
when she used to be her permanent guest, her loving shadow, which would not
abandon her no matter how many times the poet stood her up.Death tried to drag
her when she was 15, when she was 16, when she was 18… Death.
And the poet kept
writing with such genius that when she decided to publish once again some years
ago, in Europe and the USA they compared her to Sylvia Plath, Goethe,
Alejandra Pizarnik, Novalis.
Her native country
ignores her, and she does not care - she keeps staying away from literary
circles.
Let's hope Beatriz
Iriart does not suffer the same fate as Alejandra Pizarnik, who had to endure
the indifference of major publishers and work her heart out to survive.Once
dead, Alejandra became a big publishing success—she pays great dividends.
Let's hope publishers
do not do the same to Beatriz Iriart because they will end up losing: the poet
expects to live for at least 200 years. Publishing, of course.
DECREE
When you leave
cypresses
shall not weep
over your
grave
for there will
be no grave
only memories.
This year you changed your surname - you no longer bear the López
Osornio name by which you used to be known, and have adopted "Iriart"
instead. Why was that?
It's a late homage to
my mom, thanks to whom I was introduced into the world of art and culture,
taken by the hand as if it were a game, when I was just beginning to walk.
When did you begin to write?
In primary school.My
writing assignments always received congratulations and awards from my teachers
and the school.I wrote my first poem when I was about 10 years old and my mom
told me I behaved as badly as "Pepita La Pistolera".[1]I
didn't know who this character was but I wrote my first poem with that name as
a title.
Did you mother read it?
I don't remember, I
think she didn't, and the "poem" was lost.From that moment, without
being aware of it, writing poems became part of my daily life.
Were any of the poems we read today written during your childhood?
Did you show it to anyone?
No, it wasn't until
the end of my adolescence that I began to show my poems, after I got in contact
with the underground culture movement, in whose magazines I got published for the first time
when I was around 19 years old.
When did you publish your first book and what was it called?
Perspectivas (Perspectives), and I published it independently in 1977.It was a
short, very sober book that was well received by the literary circle.They made
me a cult poet in my town, because they said my poetry was like no one
else's.But although I was well received, publishers have always been reluctant:
I have published three books and all three of them are independent
publications.
Were you influenced by any other poet - man or woman?
No. When I was a
little girl I read the compulsory poetry books from school, but even though I
was a great reader of legends and short stories, I was not a great reader of
poetry.I admire two or three poets, but I don't feel I have been influenced by
them, and I've never wanted to write like them:Julio Cortázar - who
was more known for being a prose writer than a poet and whose complete work I love
-, Sylvia Plath, and Alejandra Pizarnik.
That's curious, because in the prologue of your last book, "La
Muerte Quiere" (Death Wants), the Chilean-American professor Sonia M. Martin compares you with both poets.
Yes, I was really
surprised when I read that, because I'd never felt my poetry was similar to
theirs... They are sublime!So I was very grateful to Professor Martin for her
appreciation, which I received as a great recognition that I must honor.
The poems you wrote when you were a teenager have a depth that only
comes after living for a long time.Where did you get that depth from?
From life, from a
life that never showed me her brightest side.My childhood and my youth were a
nightmare from which I still cannot wake up.
Why?
I've had a very hard
life since I was a little girl; my mother gave us a lot of love but little joy,
as contradictory as it may sound.By when I was 10, I was an old woman already.Writing
poetry was a way of transmuting that pain.And if my poetry is as painful today
as it was then, it's because my pain has been so loyal that, by life decree, it
will not abandon me.
Do you write because your life is hard?
No. I believe my path
had already been set.I simply write because poetry emerges, arises; I never
stop to wonder why.
Were you not influenced by the 70's, when poets with a tragic life,
suicidal poets, were deified?
No, not at all.I read
Cortázar, and not only was he alive, but he was also far from being a "damned
poet".And when I got in contact with the underground cultural movement I
found that theirs was a hymn to life, not death.
It's striking that your poetry does not reflect your life at all.
It doesn't, my poetry
is independent from my life - don't ask me why because I don't know.When I
write I feel like a bridge between life and death.
Do you feel that poetry saved you from all that pain?
Yes, now I feel it
saved me, and saves me, from pain, but I didn't use to feel like that.
Why did you move away from literary circles?
I abandoned them
because I felt like those horses that are very well taken care of, but which
are locked up, and I needed to come out to an open field.I felt I needed to be
alone, and I looked for the company of other lonely poets, that is, not
belonging to any literary group, like me.
Were you not affected by the fact that you lost your early "fame"?
Well, I've learned
through the years that this is the hand I've been dealt.
Does it not bother you that publishers from your country don't publish
your work?
No. I simply wait.I
know there will come a day when Zephyrus will grant me the fleeting kiss of
recognition.
Besides "waiting", are you knocking on any publishers' doors?
No.
Aren't you interested in publishing?
No. I believe in
destiny, and I believe there will come a day when my poems will come to light
in many places... I may not be there to see it, but I know it will happen.
Don't you mind not being there to see it?
No. Because I don't
write to get joy or be recognized.I write because I can't stop doing it.I know
my poetry is destined to be known, the "when" is irrelevant.
Don't you think destiny may need a little help sometimes?
No.
Is your recognition abroad a consolation for the indifference you get in
Argentina?
The fact that my
poetry has traveled across boundaries is something I take in, celebrate, and
thank the gods for.
Do you live off your poetry?
No. I work since I
was 14, because even though my mom worked more than 12 hours a day, the money
she earned was not enough to pay the house rent and raise my two sisters and
me.Making a living has always been a very hard task. I went from being a
salesclerk to a civil servant, a secretary for a district attorney and a
clinic, and finally a caregiver of terminally ill patients.I've never been able
to live off poetry, but I'm only alive because I write.
Did you work and study at the same time?
No. I attended
classes for one year and had to quit.Finishing high school was a personal goal
I needed to achieve, and I felt really bad because society was very cruel, it
alienated me, but at the age of 30, by studying at night and having two jobs, I
graduated with honors.And the greatest honor was having graduated despite the
fact that I got lupus and nearly died several times.
Is it still hard for you to "get your daily bread"?
(Laughs) Yes.I live very, very austerely.I retired before 40 because of my
illness, and my pension is minimal.But I've got used to it.Lack of money does
not prevent me from fully enjoying each day as if I were a millionaire.
What do you expect from life now?
I'm still watchful for the mandates of Thanatos,
Gnomes, Sylphs, Anubis, Salamanders, Dryads, and Undines, who mark the path I
tread.
Beatriz, thank you so much for this interview.I hope a great publisher
discovers you soon, and you get all the recognition, and money, that you
deserve.
Thank you very much,
I hope so too.
Buenos Aires,
December, 2010
Translation from Spanish by Luciana Valente
[1]"Pepita the Gunfighter",
an affectionate nickname mothers would tell naughty daughters, in reference to the
comic strip character Little Lulu.
BIOGRAPHY OF BEATRIZ IRIART
She was born in autumn (May 12,) in La Plata,
Argentina.
She is a member of the “Latin American Writers
Association of California and International Chapter on the Internet” (whose
acronyms in Spanish are SELC and CII), California, USA. Prizes: S.A.D.E, S.E.P.
Books published:
“Collage of Five” (1981)
“Strange Lineage”(1984)
Her literary work is published in English and
Portuguese in several countries and in different anthologies in her native
country and around the world.
She has studied pottery and art.
She took part in the Underground Movement in the 70’s,
collaborating with the literary magazine “Machu Picchu”.
Nowadays, she publishes in digital magazines in the
United States, Canada, Spain, Brazil, Venezuela, Uruguay, Argentina, Alemania, among others.
The renowned
Venezuelan composer Diana Arismendi wrote in 2015 the work "In
memoriam" to commemorate the HOLOCAUST; the second movement of the work was
inspired in the poem “Yo estuve en Auschwitz” (I was in Auschwitz) by poet
Beatriz Iriart.The concert was organized by Espacio Anna Frank from Caracas
with the participation of Venezuela's Symphony Orchestra directed by maestro
Alfredo Rugeles.
POEMS IN VIDEO:
Blog:
POEMS ABOUT THE HOLOCAUST by Beatriz Iriart
Poems
and story dedicated to the victims of the Holocaust
“Dear Beatriz,
Your texts are very touching and truly poetic about a
subject which is not easy to write about. And it is not only a Jewish
pain but also a human tragedy.
Thanks for sharing those texts with me."
Warmly
Eliahu Toker
www.eliahutoker.com.ar
YEARNING
To the survivors of the Holocaust.
I’ve dreamt about you so much
These days
Of potage and bread
I’ve dreamt about you so much
With the frost and the famine
With chains lacerating the ankles
With terror
settled in the shack
I’ve dreamt about you so much
FREEDOM.
© Beatriz
Iriart
I WAS IN
AUSCHWITZ.
To the memory of Primo Levi (1919-1987)
January 27th, 2006
I was in Auschwitz.
I gave birth to children
Of bitterness, pain and horror
I walked barefoot
in the mud of a field with mown flowers
like the fresh seeds
of our flocks
And today after 61 years
Of the camp liberation
I’m a shadow
A woman without face
Desolation and hunger
I…
I Was in Auschwitz.
© Beatriz
Iriart
THE SCULPTOR
To the memory of Anna Frank
To possess a spoon-knife
is to become an avid sculptor.
You shall locate
A piece of brass and let it rise
Not to waste
A drop of potage
And with the knife
We cut the bread
To trade it
For more useful things
Indeed, to possess a spoon-knife
These days
Is certainly an art.
© Beatriz
Iriart
NUMBERS
To the memory of Itsjok Katzenelson
Don’t ask, don’t wait for an answer
Before the “beasts” we are a thing
A burden
That is hated and justified.
The shack is cold
Like winter out there.
Only the memory of homeland
Is warm and good to snooze
With that ancient flavour.
There’s no way out
Of these fields
But you can wait a “selection”
To metamorphose into a bird
Or simply wait
A shot
At random.
© Beatriz
Iriart
THE EXPOSITION
“Only work will set you free”
(Legend about the concentration camp on Auschwitz)
They got a ticket to the following station. The driver
treated them kindly.
They exchanged opinions, memories and a near
future. They arrived. The melancholic notes enveloped the morning fog.
Soon, the tasks in the atelier would get started. The
music was sliding smoothly. They undressed; the hygiene was the fundamental
discipline for that face of art. The showers would help too.
They were accompanied until the vast exposition,
before the immense collage where there were dreams, bones, illusions, fears,
but no faces.
©
Beatriz Iriart
POLAND
The "Wolf" promulgates
“To design" meticulously
the Treblinka camp
and the Stangl Nazi answers.
Countless souls
Lie at the end of the “deliveries”
The curtain fell.
The work is not the same
But the atavism is still valid
at other times
other areas
other stigmatas
other essences ...
which throughout the centuries are
the enduring panacea of Simon:
"I will never forget you".
© Beatriz
Iriart
THE
NIGHT OF BROKEN GLASS
They dreamt that life was flowing.
They woke up surrounded by pogroms
Frost, glass, barbed fences
and torment.
Their names already swelled
the list of stiff beings.
Translation
from Spanish by D.H
OTHERS POEMS
REAP FRUIT
I give to you
My true sunflowers
You give me
A song
With your killing hands
Both of us create
The cruel and devastating melody
Of a premature exile.
© Beatriz Iriart
THE ORCHARD
To Raul Zeleniuk's memory
At the orchard
Have bloomed seven
Of your "incipient ladies of the night"
Seven were their screams
Seven are the memories
Seven your deaths
And your "incipient ladies of the night"
Bring seven lives
When the sun goes down,
And I
Await.
© Beatriz Iriart
INSOMNIA
I am a wandering nightmare
An aborted dream
A day break blues
A foreseen mourning
On the frozen nights of
The incoming Autumn
© Beatriz Iriart
Translation
from Spanish by Olga Y. Mancinelli
