Orión - ezine de divulgación literaria
Cecilia Bustamante, poeta Peruana

Cecilia Bustamante (1932 - 2007)
Poeta peruano-norteamericana, publica una docena de libros de poesía en español. En 1965 gana el Premio Nacional de Poesía en el Perú. Hasta esa fecha fue la única mujer en haber obtenido ese premio. En una conferencia sobre poesía en México, ella dice "Mi texto es Perú"  La poesía de Cecilia Bustamante se caracteriza por la nostalgia que en ella trasunta, especialmente en su producción estando ya fuera del Perú. Ella es feminista en sus ensayos, lea uno de ellos en esta misma página:
Mujeres Intelectuales.


EL PERFUME DE LOS CAMPOS DE MI PATRIA

Poema I

El perfume de los campos de mi patria
dista, pero no se pierde.
Los cielos que me cubren
poseen la estrella de mis padres
y los ríos que llegan de las altas lagunas
acarician la simiente,
que colma las retamas florecidas.

Estos hombres que saludan
son los hombres de mi patria,
acallados y lejanos junto al río,
anidando en la noche hasta que brote el día.

Yo les ofrezco la inquietud de mi corazón
y la calma de mi mano vacía.



INTERNADO

Una fruta seca un pan una partida
de casino español
qué nostalgia
Delia nació el mismo día que yo
y en las barajas nos confundía
un viejo silencio.

Un pan una partida
de casino español
al centro el cielo
los tréboles sensuales
minúsculas tiesas deliciosas flores
en el invierno opaco
qué temor
los niños de a uno
las mujercitas de a dos
hasta la mesa larga
para comer lo que padre mandó.
Más allá la nostalgia
y los niños para siempre
de a uno
nunca más de a dos.

En su trono las barajas
abren en sombra
una partida.



LEYENDA

Desnuda
la rosa subrepticia
guarda silencio
secreto
entre los dioses.
Su quietud asedia
la copa del día.

Tiñamos de sangre
sus espinas.
Que nos hieran.
Quebremos la rosa
escondida,
libre
en algún corazón.

Silencio.
Es el dios del silencio.
La rosa es silencio
y siempre será
la única rosa.
Ella misma
será el fuego
siempre en la memoria.

Los dioses compasivos
persiguen con sus flechas.
Amor - acaso ya
en eterno silencio

¿Quién es
el guardián de la rosa?



SABADO DE GLORIA

Allí sobre el césped
Está titilando
El corazón del tigre
Y el hijo de la reina
Fornica en la nieve
De país que no le pertenece.

Negros insectos crocantes
Extraen sus ojos,
guijarro sobre guijarro
en una montaña que rumia
barboteando.

El corazón del tigre entibia
El hielo bajo la hierba.
Nos dice de la otra fiera nacida
Con su tambor secreto,
Su otro corazón y su coágulo,
De su furiosa materia
Afelinándose entre las moscas.
Cómo se fabrica todo aquello
Que esclaviza cuando está naciendo
Y agotada la fuerza se destiñe -
Ni piel de tigre, ni de leopardo.

Pero yo volio, volio fuertemente
Piel de tigre, las garras
Antes que se seque la humedad del pincel.

Porque es hermoso un corazón de tigre
A la luz del sol y a la desluz de la luna,
Una gacela blanca disparada
En la grisura. Tantas cosas cuando abro
La puerta hacia la calle en vaciedad
Y silencio y veo cosas escapadas
De algùn bolsillo
Con sigiloso resplandor.




VIENTO TRISTE

"...el guardián que en la noche de mi tránsito
prohibiera en absoluto la entrada a la luna..."
Federico García Lorca

Presagio -
Tu hilo adverso
Restañando
El ávido bosque
De la noche.

Conjuro,
Venenos, nitratos,
El plomo, la mentira.
No pretendas ser
Rosa sin ceniza
Modulando la insidia
De la muerte.

Tu aleteo
Y el hollín siniestro
Desmembrando
El blanco cernícalo de la luna.
Los duraznillos se mecen
Ribeteando el río solitario.
El viento triste
De cualquier romance
Se lo bebe el aguacero.

Presagio -
Menta madura entre los dientes,
El bello don
Ciego de melancolía.
Suavidad salobre graficando
Aromas duplos como tù,
Sagitante animalito
Imposible de morir.



Selected Free Verse

by Cecilia Bustamante,
she received a National Prize Award Poet
in her native Country: Peru

STIGMATA

somebody has broken my legs, somebody is
in the isolated roads, beware. It happens fast.
Beneath Greco skies alarms go off
in the Gates of Hell.

My senile psychopath teacher
bending on the books
lies open, knowing nothing
but the history of the paving stones.
Wouldn't be possible to hide
in these muddy streets
so the flowers will go wild?
A voice is just asking something
when the sirens go off, the fire bellowing high.

Run, run. Let me into the burning fire
of my fatherland. Bastards like leaves
are trembling, since your mother died.
When is fall coming? It is only winter here.
Where would we all go?

I'll tell you someday where I'm going.
Remember. The bastards on the avant garde,
the rear garde, shooting at our flanks.
What can one person do?
Breaking, growing tall, quivering, getting away,
crying? I wish I could help.

Stigmata in the body of my land,
running down my final tears. Father, do not cry.
We have no heart to. Don't.


VAGUELY

Do you remember her?
She had a child, next to nothing.
And a fallen tree looking at the air
frozen treasure.
Its white circles as windows
to be split. Who is so evil?

My blood father, my mother's blood...
Offering her nipple to the one who is killed.
Their Christian daughter running in the fields.
The rain is still falling on many trees,
stroking sad music with its fingers,
drying out within the earth.

The fatherland.
My mother's breasts closing the door.
Please, wait for me. Pull me up.
I want to follow you to the hatred-torn,
enshrouded, pervasive, haunted,
stark, timeless terror -
to briefly find each other
in the land we were born in.
No escape.


REMEMBRANCE

Your skin like a melody
falling asleep.
The world
in the shape of your head,
a kiss, a tear, down your hair.
Don't be childish
be my friend blotched with desire,
somber cry on top of the hills,
knocking the door of night.

Would you die for me?
No. I have killed you,
but dance, dance.
It's only a set up. Once upon a time...

I'm sorry if the curtain falls,
quitting early. Who will lock up?


REBECCA

The old ship trunk opens its shell
over the frozen lakes of Europe.
You sled
expatriated by forza del destino.
Passion flower of the tropics
floating across the Atlantic,
leaving your heart in Lima.
Leaning your beauty in October,
among its magenta flowers,
you lit the frankincense
clouding the colonial balconies.

The bullfighter running
through the fruity fields
of the haciendas , tientas of aspiring toreros.
Lord of Tremors, marching on.
Woman of incredible treasures,
like in Hugo or Vizconti.
All her life loving, like in a film.
yearning, crawling under grandmother's table
one afternoon, your secret on her lap.
Bore all those kids, handsome and gentle,
those who die young. In some season
I remember your screams
like poisoned clouds,
your teenager's hysterical love.
All in great silence yet
resounding in my mind.

VISITING THE RELATIVES

Picking up my cafe au lait
I rather taste some afternoon
when you poured into my memory
among the orange trees.
You were young, we were kids.
Your sister the artist, arranged
the outdoors
with the strangest fruits.
I feel her lonely fingers
and the shining A in filigree.
You all loved Segovia, Zabaleta,
Trotsky, Rivera, and Frida,
Guayasamin, everybody -
even your revolutionary lovers,
who owned you their lives.

You catered at 5:00. I was seduced
by the general beauty.
In silence I felt this poem
forming in my heart.
I fiercely tried to keep the feeling
of those shadowed eyes,
knowing that some day
you would come back
for this moment of your life.
like today, when your picture
looks at me like then,
under the cool air of the mines,
smiling tender and familial
with all my dead relatives in Peru.

PIECE FOR A MAN AND A WOMAN

Delirious interpretations of the rose,
grow in a text. A song of virtues,
a song of vices. Centaure Phallique
shines against black. His arrow
spelling polymorphic dances.

Melting lacquer in the wind, spirits
of the paper, the breasts of mountains -
calling, yearning for the sea.
Life Death is in human nature,
all the rivers empty in la mar.

Pieces of aural silence,
portraits of angels go around
opening and closing a book
perforated by a blue monochrome.
Life and Death surviving in the pages.


About the Author

Cecilia Bustamante (1932 - 2007) was a Peruvian-American writer, journalist and professor. Her poetry has appeared in book form, ink and paper magazines and lately on e-zines in English as well as in Spanish throughout the world. She has been a visiting professor at the University of Texas in Austin since 1973. At present she is writing her memoirs.
Here we present five pieces from her book Mother's Blood. In these mature poems, rich in evocative images that fills our senses, she expresses some of her nostalgia as often happens with people living far away from their homeland. An exemption to this, is Piece for a Man and a Woman. Here the poet distances herself, to better express her feeling of life. She believes in human race and accepts life as we accept the fact that rivers come down to the sea with no options to make them return inland.