Reproducimos a continuación, uno de los poemas de May Sarton, del blog http://el-placard.blogspot.com.ar/, cuya traductora es Sandra Toro.
"Cuando una mujer se sienta sola, cuando la sala
Esté llena de demonios," dice la tribu
Nootka, "ahí estará La Anciana."
Ella viene a mí atravesando miles de kilómetros
¿Y qué tiene para decirme, a mí, la atribulada
"Por los fantasmas de la noche"?
¿De veras está acá?
¿Cuál es la palabra que salva desde tan hondo en el pasado
Desde tan hondo como la raíz antigua de la secoya,
Desde tan hondo como el lecho primero del océano,
Desde tan hondo como un corazón de mujer de nuevo en flor
Después de un nacimiento o una muerte difícil?
Aquí bajo el impacto del amor, me abro
A vos, espíritu Primero, una con la ola y con la piedra,
Una con los sobrevivientes de la inundación y del fuego,
Que un millón de veces reconstruyeron su casa,
Que perdieron a sus hijos y los volvieron a dar a luz.
Las palabras que escucho son fuerza, risa, entereza.
Te encuentro, Anciana, en lo más hondo de mí.
Ahí, en las raíces de la fertilidad,
Mundo sin fin, como cuenta la leyenda.
Debajo de las palabras vos sos mi silencio.
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When a Woman Feels Alone
‘When a woman feels alone, when the room
is full of daemons,” the Nootka tribe
Tells us, ‘The Old Woman will be there.”
She has come to me over three thousand miles
And what does she have to tell me, troubled
“by phantoms in the night”?
Is she really here?
What is the saving word from so deep in the past.
From as deep as the ancient root of the redwood,
From as deep as the primal bed of the ocean,
From as deep as a woman’s heart sprung open
Again through a hard birth or a hard death?
Here under the shock of love, I am open
To you, Primal spirit, one with rock and wave,
One with survivors of flood and fire,
Who have rebuilt their homes a million times,
Who have lost their children and borne them again.
The words I hear are strength, laughter, endurance.
Old Woman I meet you deep inside myself.
There in the rootbed of fertility,
World without end, as the legend tells it.
Under the words you are my silence.
‘When a woman feels alone, when the room
is full of daemons,” the Nootka tribe
Tells us, ‘The Old Woman will be there.”
She has come to me over three thousand miles
And what does she have to tell me, troubled
“by phantoms in the night”?
Is she really here?
What is the saving word from so deep in the past.
From as deep as the ancient root of the redwood,
From as deep as the primal bed of the ocean,
From as deep as a woman’s heart sprung open
Again through a hard birth or a hard death?
Here under the shock of love, I am open
To you, Primal spirit, one with rock and wave,
One with survivors of flood and fire,
Who have rebuilt their homes a million times,
Who have lost their children and borne them again.
The words I hear are strength, laughter, endurance.
Old Woman I meet you deep inside myself.
There in the rootbed of fertility,
World without end, as the legend tells it.
Under the words you are my silence.
* May Sarton (Bélgica/ EE.UU., 1912-1995).
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