Gloria Gervitz (Mexico, 1943–2022)
from MIGRATIONS: POEM, 1976–2020, two excerpts with commentary
Translated from Spanish by Mark Schafer
[In the wake of her recent death and in celebration of her great masterwork, Migrations, the following is an extended and modified version of her entry in the forthcoming historical anthology of North and South American poetry (“from origins to present”) coedited by me and Javier Taboada and scheduled for publication next year by University of California Press. The latest full version of Mark Schafer’s translation, Migrations: Poem 1976–2020 (with amended title and cover), was published last year by New York Review Books. (j.r.)]
SELECTION 1
beneath the summer-drenched willow only restlessness lingers
docile clouds descend into silence
the day dissolves in the hot air
green erupts within green
I spread my legs beneath the bathtub faucet
gushing water falls
the water enters me
the words of the Zohar spread open
the same questions as always
and I sink deeper and deeper
in the vertigo of Kol Nidre
before the start of the great fast
in the blue haze of the synagogues
after and before Rosh Hashanah
in the whiteness of the rain
my grandmother prays the rosary
and in the background plummeting
the echo of the shofar opens the year
into the gulf of absences to the northeast pour words saliva
insomnias
and farther to the east
I masturbate thinking of you
the screech of seagulls the break of day
the froth in the dazzle of the wing
the color and the season of bougainvilleas are for you
the pollen still on my fingers
your scent of violets sour and feverish from the dust
words that are nothing but a drawn-out prayer
a form of madness after the madness
the cages where the perfumes are shut away
the endless delights
the voluptuousness of being born again and again
static ecstasy
move
more even more
don’t be afraid
and the photographs fading in the fermentation of silence
the unscreened porches
fever growing red in other skies
the gleaming verandas darkening with the acacias
and in the kitchen the newly washed dishes
fruit and syrups
in the swell of rivers
in the night of willows
in the washbasins of dreams
in that steam of female viscera
rising unmistakable and expansive
I leave you my death entire complete
my whole death for you
to whom does one speak before dying?
where are you?
where in me can I invent you?
SELECTION 2
I’m in the pleasure within the pleasure of pleasuring myself
and my nanny sound asleep in the hammock nearby
and the house submerging in drowsiness
and in the plaza the market starts to bustle with activity
there’s orange juice and grapefruit juice
and rice milk and hibiscus tea and tamarind water
and strawberry atole and hot chocolate champurrado
and sweet tamales and Oaxacan tamales
and papayas and plums and Manila mangoes
and purple bananas and plantains
bunches of dominicos and tabascos
watermelons redder than blood
soursopslike vaginas on display
bright red capulin berries
pomegranates dribbling juice
black zapotes spilling over
mameys split open like vulvas
fat juicy pineapples
the passion fruit growing hard
and the heat entering the palm mats
entering the palm baskets
entering the sea bream
and the red buckets of shrimp
entering the lobsters
and the red rock crab legs
the bundles of freshwater crabs the mackerel for ceviche
and the clams partly opened and altogether stunned
the flaccid octopuses fainting in their ink
the oysters dreaming they’re at the bottom of the sea
the tiny oysterssmall as pebbles from the river
the white pompanos from Michoacán
the fresh and saltwater trout
the translucent jack fish and the sea bass
and the carp from Morelos and the scallops
and the charales their heads smashed
the large red snappers
and the shark fins
and the heat wings crashing
smashing them in the bougainvilleas
smashing the squash blossoms and goosefoot leaves
and lovagefor the birds and the radishes
and clusters of loquats and ears of corn
unraveling in burlap coffee sacks
and the canary seed and amaranth
and sacks of millet and beans
and baskets brimming with chili peppers
the jalapeño morita ancho cascabel
guajillo manzano chile de árbol chilaca
and the pequin so tiny and hot and the habaneros
and mole paste green red black yellow
and poblano and sesame seeds for every kind of mole
and Oaxacan string cheese wound like balls of yarn
and ash-ripened goat cheese and farmer’s cheese and aged cotija
and manchego for quesadillas
and corn tlayudas and tlacoyos and mortars and metates for grinding
and braziers and palm leaf fans
and shawls from Santa María hanging in the stone arcades
guayaberas and blouses made of linen from the maguey tree
openwork embroidery from the nuns in Aguascalientes
magical drawings from the Mayan weaver women
t-shirts that say Viva Méxicowith the eagle perched on the cactus
feverish and delirious alebrijes
and sandals soled with rope or tire tread and combs made of wood and plastic
and necklaces made of crystal and tourmaline and amber and tiger’s eye
and butterflies and angels and agate and onyx and ebony
and periwinkles and ornamental combs of mother-of-pearl and tortoiseshell
and Nivea hand cream and Tío Nacho’s shampoo
cross-stitched embroidered hearts
and soaps made of almonds and rose petals and oatmeal
and coconut and chamomile
and the overheated heat blazing with Celsius
plunging into the sweet breads the conchas and cuernos
and the cookies with clotted cream slathered with honey and María cookies
and myrtle candies and quince and guava jellies
sweet potatoes from Puebla and pine nuts and chickpeas and pumpkin seeds
and rolling tobacco and vanilla from Papantla and cinnamon sticks
and swallows swinging on strands of light
and filaments of heat dangling
and roots dangling from God knows where to God knows where
and arnica and rue and aloe leaves
and etherium capsules and bunches of eucalyptus leaves
and basil and myrtle and white lágrimas
and gloriasfor the altars
and votive candles and altar candles and cards printed with images of saints
and miraculous medallions and scapulars
and amulets to ward off the evil eye
and sticks of incense and crystalized copal
and a riot of voices
and birds full of cages
and cages of parakeets with clipped wings
and foulmouthed green parrots cursing blue streaks
and the church bells calling the faithful to mass
and music here and music there
and flocks of lorikeets
and mockingbirds from other landscapes and other memories
and the protracted trill of yellow canaries
and the organ grinder cranking the handle around and around
and cranking out the same old hurdy-gurdy tune
and a violin sad and lean
and a daydreaming guitar
and an out-of-tune trio singing:
tú me acostumbraste a todas esas cosas
y tu me enseñaste que son maravillosas.
COMMENTARY
(1)
Worked on from 1976 and up to 2020, Gloria Gervitz’s masterwork Migrations is an epic of the migratory self. Like Zukofsky’s “A” or Pound’s Cantos, hers is the work of a lifetime: a life’s work including not only autobiography and familial memories as a kind of history but rife with sexual, religious, and mystical imagery taken from different sources: from Jewish kabbala to Mexican folk Catholicism and beyond.
(2)
Writes Mark Schlafer, translator, after her death: “At the beginning of Gloria Gervitz’s 261-page poem, which she composed over 44 years, she writes: ‘I leave you my death entire complete / my whole death for you / to whom does one speak before dying?’ In the context of the poem, Gervitz seems to be addressing a version of her mother or grandmother. But given her death on April 19, she now also addresses us, her readers. Except that — paradoxically, ironically, or both — we must now intervene as reader-writers of the text, replacing ‘death’ with ‘life.’ Death and life, the possibilities of the present and memories of the past, stasis and ecstasy, silence and song, the blank page and the printed word are all in a constant dance in Migrations. But now, at last, the author is silent and her song is done. And still, every time we open Migrations and begin to read, whether in the original Spanish or in one of more than a dozen translations into as many languages, we, her readers, lower the needle of our eyes to the record groove of her poem, and her music once again begins to play: ‘music here and music there / and flocks of lorikeets / and mockingbirds from other landscapes and other memories.’”
Poems and poetics