-How do
you feel about winning The Paz Poetry Prize with your book “2001-2011
Colaterales”?
I find it
very significant that a new literary award is given to a poetry book written by
a resident, not only for citizens of the United States. I
am referring to The Paz Poetry Prize. It helps me to feel as part of the
current movement of literary production in Spanish within the US. It means for
me that living in this country and to go about everyday speaking Spanish is
growing, in part because Spanish is
spreading and becoming more and more important throughout the world. I was telling a friend the other day
that sending my book for a competition, not coming from the mainstream and
without losing, for that matter, my optimism, was really a search for a sign
that my poetry had something to say to people. I wanted to
know if the work of this older person with a peripheral vision that I’ve
become, involuntarily but without losing a certain bit of happiness, can still
manage to have something to say. What
I wanted to avert and ward off was to not see my writing as a result of a
compulsive scribomania, who is unable to help herself from just keep writing
for the sake of it.
-You have
won many literary prizes and awards before, what is so special about this one?
I´ve never handled my writings efficiently, in the sense of sending them
to be considered for publication or to competitions. In such endeavors, to pass
the first round and get a judge to read your work is important. I did not win
as many awards as I would have liked to but with the ones I have won they
became a platform for me to touch base with reality, make new friends and enjoy
the moment.
-Is this a
book of poems or a narrative? What is “2001-2011 Colaterales” about?
The “texts” (as I refer to them) in 2001-2011 Colaterales are poems which were produced during
the period I was involved as a doctoral student in the Hispanic Studies Program
at the City University of New York since 2000. Pressured to maintain a legal
status in the US, I was leading a student life. A similar thing happened while
I was learning English in Texas; rather than being immersed on the subject
matter of the course I was taking, a book was fashioned along the way that
seemed more like a repository of ideas and impressions. Every day after class I
would shut myself in a huge library in Texas which was empty because in Texas
serious students owned their own books and read them where they liked. In that
immense desolate place surrounded only by a wealth of resources I was
fascinated to discover the latest literary trends and publications from all
over the world, and read, in the beginning, almost without stopping or
distraction, something I was not able to do in Venezuela in a long time. But I
was also expected to do school work. So I only took marginal notes of what I
was reading which in time were shaped into a book of poems; the poems in that
book are really a farewell to my life in Venezuela and the beginning of a new
life in Texas surrounded by solitude and silence. Once the book was completed,
I was ready to move on to the next stage of my life. In a similar fashion,
2001-2011 Colaterales reflects the last ten years of my
life in New York City. It
is in fact a synthesis of various manuscripts, the first of the lot being La Sorda which was edited by a friend in
Venezuela in 2011.
-How did
the moving episode “Sargento Jossana Jeffrey” come about in this book of poems?
Did it take you long to write?
Jossana Jeffrey was written in one seating as a result of an atrocious
story I heard from a female soldier who had just returned from Iraq. She got
wounded in the front lines. She had her kidneys severely damaged; she looked
like an old lady. However, she revealed to us in class that the worst obstacle
was not the battle wounds she suffered in combat but the challenges she faced
in trying to prevent the numerous rape attempts and assaults that came from the
members of her own unit.
-In your
publication of the poem in Escritoras Unidas, you refer to it as “This text...”
Why is this text and not a poem?
In the beginning I had some difficulties categorizing my writing. This
is because I was always obsessed with the form, the type of supporting
structure each book requires. There was an undefined element in my writing with
a tendency to linger on; I usually interpret this in my literary practice as a
lack of directiveness. And
to some extent I agree. Due to this I needed a clear input from an outside
reader but obviously that receptor wouldn’t be able to see as plainly as myself
what I am looking for. I understand that now. This is the reason why among
poets I am not considered a poet and among storytellers, I am not completely
regarded as a storyteller. I think it is important to feel, especially in the
beginning that you fit in or identify with a particular literary group. I am
not looking to experiment all the time; not at all. The search in my writing is
a world of voices in me that are seeking a form. In order to feel free, I try
not to think about other people’s opinion. Not so much out of disrespect but
because I needed to focus on my writing. Because of this ambiguity within, I
started to call my writing just “texts.” Nowadays I refer to them as “texts”
out of habit.
-This
seems to be a good year for you, because the lesbian anthology “Voces para
Lilith,” in which you appear along with Cristina Peri Rossi, was just launched
in Buenos Aires and the newspaper Página 12 wrote a really nice review of your
work there.
I am finally catching up with the wonders of the digital world. Thanks
to the web I was able to get in touch with Escritoras Unidas and lately my writing has been finding
its way to a range of anthologies in paperback editions and in literary blogs;
all thanks to the internet, including writings posted in internet sites without
my knowing. In Voces para Lilith the most interesting thing was to have
appeared next to women writers ranging from low to high notoriety whose
literary works reflect women’s experiences that are talked about only in low
voices in Latin-America. I feel fortunate to be among such female authors
because they produce excellent literary work.
-From here
on, how do you envisage your next literary project?
You
know, just like everyone else, I try to manage my life the best way I can and
make some accomplishments. However, I find, especially as an author, the only
thing I can really look for is to find that focus when writing, and more than
anything attempt to fulfill the various writing projects I promised myself.
-Are
you writing right now?
Yes.
I am always engaged in some form of writing: notes, observations, and
meditations.
-What
does writing mean for you?
I feel connected to myself when I write. I write for a number of reasons
but mostly to organize my thoughts. Writing helps me to connect, not only with
myself but, as any author, with other people. For me it bridges the gap between
people of different epochs under the rubric of humanity. This is actually a
hope I have, to understand life fixating on a particular version, in a concrete
expository form like in a literary narration or fiction because what takes
flight in imagination can end up with multiple versions which are not possible
in reality.
-Why do
you write?
As a spiritual reflection, for entertainment, as an escape from
desperation; writing also calms me but it also shakes me; it makes me stay
alert about life.
-Do
you consider it worthwhile?
For
me, it is worthwhile as much as being aware of life.
-If
you could alter the past, would you still become a writer?
I am not so sure if I chose to be a writer. I think it just happened. It
was very physical. As a child I was always listening and watching everything
around me as if I was a sort of rolling camera with sound. Perhaps I would like
to leave myself and live another person’s life; not as a consequence of death
but really being in another person’s shoes.
-Do you
consider yourself a poet, a prose writer or a story teller?
I consider myself just a writer; this can be contrasted with a
professional writer, someone who makes a living out of writing. I would have
also loved that though I never learned the process to become one, I would have
really enjoyed writing for living, writing and reading other people’s works as
part of an editorial commission. I
owe everything to other people’s books.
-When
did you first begin to write? and Why?
First I heard voices. I heard words that fascinated me; they captivated
me. Soon I began to tell stories and to draw. I think I became more serious
about writing at the age of eight. To a certain extent I owe to art the fact
that I did not become completely insane.
-Are you a
person who leaves places behind after a certain period open and ready for the
next destination: Ciudad Bolívar, Caracas, Paris... Why did you leave each of
these places? What were you doing in each place?
I always leave a place motivated by my imagination that I would find a
freer and more peaceful spot somewhere else. I was born in a small town that;
by the time I was growing up, it had lost interest and appreciation for art.
Then art was a risky business and to be sexually open was considered an
ailment. I never had enough courage to be in Bolivar and exercise myself as a
female artist who is sufficiently shrewd to negotiate my way to stay and bring
influence to the place I grew up. I left Paris because I fell in love with a
person that did not want to settle in Paris. That person wanted to return to
Venezuela to help shape culture as a form of retribution to the State. I knew
well where that person was coming from, a revolutionary environment where such
intellectuals were brought up. I left Caracas also because I did not know how
to manage my daily life which was divided between my work and the hours stuck
in traffic. On the other hand, I left the heavenly Cumaná because I got sick
and I realized that I was only going to get worse. At that time the university
where I worked for helped me to get away. I consider myself very fortunate to
have been able to go places I wanted to go.
-The
Uruguayan writer Onetti once said that writing for him was not like a wife but
like a lover: he used to write only when he felt like it and never under any
obligation.
I am a constant explorer: A traveler with a suitcase and a destination.
But more precisely it should be defined as a space of transit.
-How
long have you been in New York? What do you do there?
I’ve been living in New York since 1999. In general, I lead almost an
idyllic life, too good to be true: I walk about my neighborhood near the Hudson
River, I read, I write, I visit museums and I listen to music, as well as
exchange correspondence with friends; I also teach Spanish and French to pay
the bills. I don’t live in a house boat in Seattle or Venice, but I feel like I
do; since childhood I wanted sense a calm motion over the water.
-Your
poems and “texts” are bold but you say that you are shy, what does a timid
female like yourself has to do in order to dare write on the subject of sex and
partake in an anthology of lesbian writers?
Well, I am not so sure if the majority of the writers in the anthology
would accept the nowadays label “lesbian writers.” In a way we generally agree
that such an attachment says little about the individual writer; rather it
reveals more about the period that perceives and defines us as such. As for me,
I never impose in my writings any boundaries on lesbian themes; indeed, my
obstacle was always to surpass my limitations as a writer. When I had to
identify myself as a lesbian, as part of a political classification, I did it
without hesitation. But that was easier than to overcome all the internalized
homophobia inculcated through tradition. When I had to declare myself as a
lesbian I had done so. My shyness is part of my intimate personality. I consider
myself fortunate that I am not a public figure with an interest in portraying a
favorable self image. I agreed to be part of this and other anthologies with
lesbian themes because most of my writings revolve and evolve on the subject
matter of love and loathing among women but most of all because I realized that
literary works should circulate in good company.
-What
project do you have next? Do you have any immediate future projects?
I have some unfinished research, another book of poems and short
stories. I also need to take care of finding a way to publish some scattered
texts and to publish new editions of all those that have disappeared for lack
of proper distribution.
-What would
you like happen to you as a writer?
To be able to write books that I have been thinking a lot about lately.
-Do you
miss Venezuela? Are you going to return some day?
I long for Venezuela with the same enthusiasm as the books that are
published over there from new and already known Venezuelan authors. But I would
not be able to manage to live in Venezuela, primarily due to health issues. I
miss my family and friends. It has become already customary to quote the
nostalgic foliage and the Guyanese evenings.
November 3rd 2012
City Bell, Argentina
Translated by© Hyon K. Kim
Hyon
K. Kim was born in South Korea, raised in Paraguay and resided in England
before coming to New York in 1989. He holds a Ph.D. in Hispanic and
Luso-Brazilian Literatures and Languages from the Graduate Center, City
University of New York. He currently teaches Spanish at John Jay College.
SERGEANT JOSANNA JEFFREY by Dinapiera Di Donato
(as told to meby a student in my
college Spanish class
who came back from the front)
Howls in the furnace
is it not Janis Joplin?
these are not concerts for
suicidal dolls
save yourself
come over
A year in Iraq is not a long time
myJosanna, my breath, its
fragrance of bamboo
I would seize Josanna Jeffrey
for more time in your arms
the narrow wetlands of
Mesopotamia
Josanna Jeffrey with her silken
legs
luxurious black mittens
a sacred Ibis, she remains
in my sight
My fear of a tattoo’s venom
in the mind of the Stormfront
cavalry
lying in wait
Josanna Jeffrey my keeper with
glittering braids
more beautiful than Central Park
in winter
tattooed with saffron
by Christo
Nineveh’s night under her helmet
you’ll need the nail clippings
you leave on my bed
may the sky of Iraq protect you
the sky of Iraq to spring from
your branch
just in time
in friendly fire
an armed Klansman on the Internet
cares for the chamomile of his
Aryan scalp
when unnoticed
the gutted dead with dark hair
flee from his account
I sense the venom of her rite
burn by low flame
She turns
Leaps
Josanna Jeffrey
You are dark you are a heaven for
kings
queen of Baghdad my lover from
the Bronx
rustling of reeds eyes flaring as
light breaks
Josanna Jeffrey fires first
come over
I love her priceless kidneys
lost
to the Basra experiment
hot days my tongue thrashing
between your legs
by a screen saver
frigid
like Mosul’s burn
Bamboo cracked open on the air
your breath of violets of
menstruation
Josanna Jeffrey
lost interest in pharmaceuticals
Your kidneys for thirty thousand
dollars
your violets
nothing
bound to the screen saver
as in a womb
rests in me
I lick the inked arrow at my
heart
I let you suck
all the pornography we have made
to bring all the fragile heavens
to safety
loved flesh now decaying
scattered over the dust of 10,000
archeological sites
violet essence
used just once
to draw
three drops of oil
that animal
set loose in the novice’s book
one of my toes
in your slit of bamboo
how you liked it
she said she’d come back and give
birth to a daughter
Nasiriya
the birds never flew back either
to keep you I play
my hand Josanna Jeffrey:
once upon a time the lovers
were lost
to friendly fire in
each other’s war
the survivors the blissful
wretched girls
devastated sent back by kings
dead a year later
howls in the furnace
you withdraw your head
like a golden turkey
that has yet to be
pricked
with neither shame nor glory
you do not come
the last match
is saved for the darkness
© Dinapiera Di Donato
COLATERALES/COLLATERAL.
Akashic Books, New York, 2013. (pp:
45-51)