Poemas para el Día de la Independencia: perspectivas frescas sobre Malinalli / Doña Marina / Malintzin / La Malinche – de los poetas Rosario Castellanos y Claribel Alegría
Posted: September 15, 2012 Filed under: Claribel Alegría, English, Rosario Castellanos, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Poemas para el Día de la Independencia de México Comments Off on Poemas para el Día de la Independencia: perspectivas frescas sobre Malinalli / Doña Marina / Malintzin / La Malinche – de los poetas Rosario Castellanos y Claribel Alegría
Rosario Castellanos (1925-1974, México)
“La Malinche”
Desde el sillón del mando mi madre dijo: “Ha muerto”.
.
Ya se dejó caer, como abatida,
en los brazos del otro, usurpador, padrastro
que la sostuvo no con el respeto
que el siervo da a la majestad de reina
sino con ese abajamiento mutuo
en que se humillan ambos, los amantes, los cómplices.
.
Desde la Plaza de los Intercambios
mi madre anunció: “Ha muerto”.
.
La balanza
se sostuvo un instante sin moverse
y el grano de cacao quedó quieto en el arca
y el sol permanecía en la mitad del cielo
como aguardando un signo
que fue, cuando partió como una flecha,
el ay agudo de las plañideras.
.
“Se deshojó la flor de muchos pétalos,
se evaporó el perfume,
se consumió la llama de la antorcha.
.
Una niña regresa, escarbando, al lugar
en el que la partera depositó su ombligo.
.
Regresa al Sitio de los que Vivieron.
.
Reconoce a su padre asesinado,
ay, ay, ay, con veneno, con puñal,
con trampa ante sus pies, con lazo de horca.
.
Se toman de la mano y caminan, caminan
perdiéndose en la niebla.”
.
Tal era el llanto y las lamentaciones
sobre algún cuerpo anónimo; un cadáver
que no era el mío porque yo, vendida
a mercaderes, iba como esclava,
como nadie, al destierro.
.
Arrojada, expulsada
del reino, del palacio y de la entraña tibia
de la que me dio a luz en tálamo legítimo
y que me aborreció porque yo era su igual
en figura y rango
y se contempló en mí y odió su imagen
y destrozó el espejo contra el suelo.
.
Yo avanzo hacia el destino entre cadenas
y dejo atrás lo que todavía escucho:
los fúnebres rumores con los que se me entierra.
.
Y la voz de mi madre con lágrimas ¡con lágrimas!
que decreta mi muerte.
. . .
El poema “La Malinche” – del poemario Poesía no eres tú (1972) – es uno de varios textos de Castellanos que revisa y reinterpreta figuras famosas femeninas.
. . .
Rosario Castellanos (1925-1974, México)
“La Malinche”
From her royal throne my mother announced: “She is dead”.
.
And then she collapsed, humbled,
in the arms of the other, the usurper, my stepfather
who sustained her not with the respect
a servant owes to the majesty of a queen
but with the mutual submissiveness
with which lovers, accomplices, abase themselves.
.
From the Plaza de los Intercambios
my mother announced: “She is dead.”
.
The scale
remained immobile for an instant
the cacao bean reposed quietly in its chest
the sun stood still in the sky’s zenith
as if awaiting a sign
which was, when it shot out like an arrow,
the penetrating cry of the mourners.
.
“The many-petaled flower has withered
the perfume has evaporated
the torch’s flame extinguished.
.
A girl returns, scratching at
the spot where the midwife left her navel.
.
She returns to the Place of Those who have Lived.
.
She beholds her father, murdered,
ay, ay, ay, with poison, with a dagger,
with a trap set before his feet, with a hangman’s noose.
.
Taken by the hand, she and they walk, they walk,
losing themselves in the fog.”
.
Such was the weeping and lamentation
over an anonymous corpse; a cadaver
that was not mine, because I, sold to
the merchants, went forth to exile like a slave,
a pariah.
.
Expelled, cast out from
the kingdom, from the palace and warmth
of her who gave honest birth to me
and who despised me because I was her equal
in figure and rank
she who saw herself in me and hated her image
and dashed the mirror to the ground.
.
I go, in chains, toward my destiny
and am followed still by the sounds
of the mournful chants with which they bury me.
.
And the voice of my mother in tears – in tears! –
that decries my death.
Translation from Spanish into English: © Julian Palley, 1988
_____
Claribel Alegría (nace 1924, Nicaragua/El Salvador)
“La Malinche”
Estoy aquí
en el banquillo de los acusados
dicen que soy traidora
¿a quién he traicionado?
era una niña aún
cuando mi padre
es decir
mi padrastro
temiendo que su hijo
no heredara las tierras
que a mí correspondían
me condujo hacia el sur
y me entregó a extraños
que no hablaban mi lengua.
Terminé de crecer en esa tribu
les servía de esclava
y llegaron los blancos
y me entregaron a los blancos.
¿Qué significa para ustedes
la palabra traición?
¿Acaso no fui yo la traicionada?
¿Quién de los míos vino a mi defensa
cuando el primer blanco me violó
cuando fui obligada
a besar su falo
de rodillas
cuando sentí mi cuerpo desgarrarse
y junto a él mi alma?
Fidelidad me exigen
ni siquiera conmigo
he podido ser fiel.
Antes de florecer
se me secó el amor
es un niño en mi vientre
que nunca vio la luz
¿Qué traicioné a mi patria?
Mi patria son los míos
y me entregaron ellos.
¿A quién rendirle cuentas?
¿A quién?
decidme
¿a quién?
.
Claribel Alegría (born 1924, Nicaragua/El Salvador)
“La Malinche”
Here I am
In “the dock”…
They say I’m a traitor,
Who have I betrayed?
I was just a little girl
When my father
(that is, my stepfather)
Fearing that his son
Would not inherit his lands
– lands to which I was entitled –
led me away to the south
And handed me over to strangers
Who didn’t speak my language.
I stopped growing in that tribe,
I served as slave.
And white people arrived
And I was handed over to them.
What does the word betrayal mean to all of you?
Wasn’t I the betrayed one?
Who of my people came to my defence
When the first white man violated me,
When I was made to kiss his phallus,
Down on my knees,
When I felt my body torn
And my soul right next to him?
Loyalty you demand of me
When I have not even been able to be true to myself.
Before blooming
I was already dessicated by Love.
There’s a child in my womb
who never saw the light.
In what way did I betray my homeland?
My country is my people
– and they abandoned me.
Who will account for that?
Who?
All of you, tell me – who?
Alegría translation from Spanish into English: Alexander Best
_____
La Malinche – born Malinalli, of Nahua parentage, in 1496 – was sold as a teenager by her mother and step-father to slave-traders – from whom she learned the Mayan language. She ended up as one of many “gifts” to recently-arrived “conquistador” Hernán Cortés, in 1519. She proved invaluable to him; her knowledge of both Náhuatl (the language of the Aztecs’ Empire) and of the neighbouring Maya meant that she could interpret for Cortés in his dealings with officials of both Peoples, thereby gaining the upper hand for Spain. Her fluency in Spanish soon followed, and in 1522, Doña Marina (her Christian baptism name, with the word “Lady” (Doña) before it) or Malintzin (as she was called respectfully by the Nahuas) bore a son by Cortés. His name was Martín, and he is said to symbolize the first true Mexican, being “mestizo” (“mixed race” of white/amerindian). Historians are in disagreement over the date of Malintzin’s death – 1529 or 1551. At any rate, Cortés was an ambitious and greedy man-in-a-hurry and he did not remain with Malintzin; yet she had been supremely useful to him – and to “el Imperio español”/The Spanish Empire, which was then in its initial surges of power.
Like The Virgin of Guadalupe La Malinche is a cultural icon in México – but unlike “Our Lady” she is also viewed negatively.
While she is seen as the “womb” of Mestizaje – the on-going union of different races and cultures – she is also, unfairly many contemporary scholars believe – a symbol of the “betrayal” of Indigenous Peoples – the Mexicas, the Tlaxcalans, the Totonacs, the Chichimecas – the lot.
The flashpoint is her multilinguality: ¡Traductora, traidora! Translator — Traitor!
This is a great deal for one woman to bear. And poets Rosario Castellanos and Claribel Alegría understand such a fact – so they have allowed Malintzin to “speak” in our era instead of only “interpreting” for others in centuries past…
Zócalo Poets 