BIOS
Poet and novelist of the Argentine avant-garde NORAH LANGE published frequently and participated actively in Prisma, Proa, Martín Fierro, and la Revista Oral. Known as much for her striking red hair as her audacity to break into literary milieus hitherto reserved for men, Lange famously defied a tradition in which it was thought women should not write prose.
Jorge Luis Borges authored the preface to her first book, La calle de la tarde (1925), from which these poems are drawn. In 1926, Lange published Los días y las noches, her second collection of poems, followed by a novel, Voz de vida (1927). Her last book of poetry, The Rumbo de la Rosa (1930) was followed by several works in prose: 45 días y 30 marineros (1933), Cuadernos de Infancia (1937), Discursos (1942), later extended and published under the name Estimados Congéneres (1968), in addition to Antes que mueran (1944), a memoir, and Personas en la sala (1950), y Los dos retratos (1956).
Cuadernos de Infancia received the first-ever Municipal Prize and was also granted the second National Prize in Literature.
In 1948, she married the Argentine writer Oliverio Girondo.
Langes Complete Works, including the posthumous novel El cuarto de Vidrio, appear in a two-volume set (2005 and 2006) printed by Beatriz Viterbo Editora, the same publishers as her most recent Papeles Dispersos (2012).
She was born October 23, 1905 and died August 4, 1972.
WHITNEY DEVOS is a PhD candidate in Literature at UC Santa Cruz, where she focuses on 20th and 21st century experimental poetry and poetics of the Americas. The co-translator of A Year in the Sky (2019, with Valeria Meiller), and author of the chapbook On Being Blonde (2017), she currently lives and writes from Mexico City.
Soledad
A lo lejos
la ciudad rojiza
con su jardín a obscuras.
En mi sonambulismo eterno
sueño con países rojos
jardines llorando
piedad de luz en los caminos.
Sola
mi corazón sin rieles
se aleja
como un tren, agonizando…
Solitude
In the distance,
the reddish city
with its dark garden.
In my endless sleepwalking
dream of red countries
weeping gardens
piety of light in the roads.
Alone
my heart without tracks
moves away
like a train, passing violently on…
EL deseo se anida a mis dedos
ágil como la música
de un organito ingenuo.
El recuerdo dolorido
se incrusta en el pecho.
La voz llega de ti
diminuta
como mirada de niño.
Sobre la tarde abatida de invierno
un pájaro se agita con ansias de cielo.
Lentamente
tu recuerdo enmudece
como una mano que retiene su dádiva.
DESIRE makes its nest in my fingers
agile like the music
of a simple organ.
Memory, sore,
lodges in the chest.
The voice arrives from you
diminished
like the glance of a child.
Above the evening, cast down in winter,
a bird stirs with cravings for the sky.
Slowly,
your memory falls mute
like a hand, holding back a gift.
TODO el dolor derramado
sobre el paisaje.
La tarde trasparente
como un agua
se ha mirado en tus ojos.
Lejos
la noche arrodillado
trenza tinieblas
ante su espejo
Mi corazón es un plenilunio de tristeza.
ALL the pain spilled
out across the landscape.
The transparent evening
like water
has glanced into your eyes.
Far off
the night on its knees
braids darkness
before its mirror.
My heart is a fullmoon of sorrow.
MIS primaveras náufragas
sobre el puente de tus canciones.
La luna titubea junto al Poniente.
La noche tarda
presintiendo ausencias.
La luz amarilla
gira alrededor de lo que era.
Toda la tarde poblada
de penumbras rojas.
Multitudes de hojas
navegando sobre el camino viejo.
La noche traicionera
oculta los paisajes a tus ojos…
MY springtimes shipwrecked
over the bridge of your songs.
The moon wavers along the West.
Foreseeing absence
night tarries.
The yellow light
revolves around what it once was.
The whole evening populated
with red shadows.
Multitudes of leaves
sailing across the old road.
Treacherous night
harbors landscapes within your eyes…