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advaitam poetry movement, Advaitam Speaks Literary, contemporary poetry from Uruguay, hengul haitaal advaitam, Indian Literary Journal, Indian Literature Today, liberoamerican poetry in advaitam, poetry in translation, Spanish Poetry in Advaitam, world literature, world poetry today
Myriam Bianchi Hernández (Montevideo, Uruguay) is a poet, storyteller and cultural manager. She is a Member of the House of Writers of Uruguay, Emprende Cultura and the Maciel Hospital Culture Commission. She has published the books titled Males celestiales (2004), Trazos místicos (2009) and Arabescos Marinos (2011). Her work has been included in several anthologies, including: Polifonía , Letras Americanas , Voces en las manos, Tales with a frame, and Je lis un Livre de Poésie, among others. Myriam has received several distinctions among which the following stand out: Victoria Award-Recognition in the arts and Diffusion of Culture, Illustrious Visitor-San Lorenzo Municipality- and Dorado Municipality- Puerto Rico, La Ourensana (Zamora, Mexico) El hombre de los Bosques– Dissemination of the Works of Federico García Lorca-Tertulias Lorquianas (Granada, Spain).
Roots
When it gets dark
the buds of the orange tree
talk
in dead languages
with germinated particles.
In Aramaic
they count
the secret that keeps
hidden;
infertility
cover the earth
With the mystic root
of the mandrágora.
(Translation by Esteban Charpentier.)
Saint Teresa of Calcutta
You took it further than the usual vows
when you learnt
to love fearlessly.
Immaculate, you moved around
the streets of Calcutta
caressing without fear
the eager faces of the sick,
of those who knew
that they were being blessed
by seeing your celestial aura
before all others.
You could have lived
surrounded by luxury, you chose
to barter the bourgeoisie
and preach in Mahatma Gandhi’s
India of non-violence.
The India of eternal love,
majestic gardens
and the dark reflex
of the Taj Mahal,
of the dead’s and laundresses’
sacred Ganges.
That India plagued
by mystical poetry,
smelling of incense
and Rabindranath Tagore’s
myrrh.
The one you chose,
the one that cradled
your Franciscan
dispossession.
(Translation by Zingonia Zingone, Italy)
