We present this work in honor of the 85th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Leopoldo Lugones
1874 – 1938


Your slow desolation, you coal
of delirium, puts my soul
into mourning. Yet a phrase
of black notes transforms my sigh
into a heavenly butterfly.

The taste of fresh rose petals
intoxicates my arid tongue,
and moistens my song unsung:
my naïve happiness in the loss above
only to find the lips of my love.

Themes of love, my humble flute
will sing in praise.
I am pale yet happy all my days,
and in the evening, as the piragua sails,
marking the water with childlike nails,
my sweetheart will sing the same salute.

Translation by John H. Reid

Life is Fleeting

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 125th birthday.

Maria Luisa Carnelli
1898 – 1987


Life is fleeting,
is fleeting and will never return.
Listen to my advice:
if a rich man promises you a good life,
you must accept it.
Life is fleeting, fleeting,
and not even God will stop it.
The best you can do
is to enjoy life and forget your sorrows and pains.
The days and the years elapse
and happiness is elusive.
You must not think
either of suffering or of virtue:
you must fully live your youth.

In Vain

We present this work in honor of the 55th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Arturo Capdevila
1889 – 1967


How many poems of love, sung in vain!
Oh, how old becomes my soul
when I recall the ancient
absurd story of yesterday.

How many poems of love, moaned in vain!
First you were a flower, I, the Bee.
Then my heart found in your window
the bitter snow that drove me old.

How many poems of love, lost in vain!
Today, my windows are wide open,
there is sunshine… many flowers, and it’s summer…

But it’s sad to see by my doorstep,
among so many dead butterflies,
so many poems of love cried in vain!…

Translation by Octavio Corvalán

Yesterday, As You Were Reading

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 140th birthday.

Vicenta Castro Cambón
1882 – 1928

“Are you feeling cold?” you asked me.
I couldn’t deny that I was:
you’d detected it in my countenance
and possibly even my voice.

You were also feeling cold.
I could tell, though not by your face;
it’s as if your soul were kept on display
to mine in a crystal vase.
“Close the door!” you commanded.
I thought: what we ought to close
instead is that book of yours…
That book was the source of the cold.

Translation by Brittany Hause


We present this work in honor of the 50th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Alejandra Pizarnik
1936 – 1972


The night splintered into stars
watching me dazzled
the air hurls hate
its face embellished with music.

We will go soon

Secret dream
ancestor of my smile
the world is emaciated
and there is a lock but no keys
and there is terror but not tears.

What will I do with myself?

Because to You I owe what I am

But I have no tomorrow

Because to You I…

The night suffers.

Translation by Frank Graziano and Maria Rosa Fort

Etherial Material

We present this work in honor of Argentine Independence Day.

Mirta Rosenberg
1951 – 2019


My children are by far my greatest revolution.

Twice I orbited complete
like a gravid planet
around the sun. I wrote new names
in the celestial script, with disquiet,
alarm, sedition.

I toasted them with other women,
with whisky and with beer,
in the planet where we women drink a toast
to things that grow, and despite them.

Happy and ill-fated, I made of my revolution
a conquest, and an open wound
of those times when I orbited complete.

I keep it fresh to let enter me
a certain unrecognisable family air
that now my children exhale
as naturally as can be.


Translation by Julie Wark

I Cannot Complain

In honor of Argentina’s National Flag Day, we present this work by one of the most cutting-edge Argentine poets.

06-20 Urondo
Francisco Urondo
1930 – 1976


I am left with only a few friends and those here
are usually far and I am left
an aftertaste I keep within close reach
as if a firearm. I will use it for noble things:
for defeating the enemy—God
willing—, for speaking modestly
about threatening possibilities.

I hope bitterness won’t intercept
forgiveness, that distant wind
of affections I am trying to describe: I hope the rigor of this
will not convert into the thick glass
of the dead, though I am curious to know the things
they’ll have to say of me, after my death:
to know which were your versions of love,
of those tangential meetings,
because my friends tend to be signals
of my life, by tragic luck, giving me all
that isn’t here. Prematurely, with one foot
on each lip of the crevice that opens
before me, at the feet of glory, I salute you all,
hold my nose and let the abyss surround me.


Translation by Julia Leverone


We present this work in honor of the 35th anniversary of the poet’s death.

06-07 Costantini
Humberto Costantini
1924 – 1987

It simply happens I have become immortal.
The city buses respect me,
they bow before me,
like lap dogs they lick my shoes.

It simply happens I am no longer dying.
There’s no angina worth anything,
no typhus, cornice, war, or cannon,
cancer, knife, or flood,
no Junín fever, no vigilantes.
I’m on the other side,
Simply, I’m on the other side,
from this side,
fully immortal.

I move among Olympus, gods, ambrosias,
I laugh, or sneeze, or tell a joke
And time expands, expands like a crazy foam.
How marvelous existing
like this, immortal
celebrating birth every five minutes,
being a million birds,
an atrocious leavening.
What a scandal, caramba!
this swarm of life, this plague called by my
name, excessive, increasing,
fully immortal.

I used to suffer, sure, from flus, fears,
Idiot bosses, indigestion,
homesickness, solitude,
bad luck…
But that was a century ago,
twenty centuries,
when I was mortal.
When I was
so mortal, so stupid and so mortal,
that I didn’t even love you,
you have to understand.

Lighthouse in the Night

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 130th birthday.

Alfonsina Storni
1892 – 1938


The sky a black sphere,
the sea a black disk.

The lighthouse opens
its solar fan on the coast.

Spinning endlessly at night,
whom is it searching for

when the mortal heart
looks for me in the chest?

Look at the black rock
where it is nailed down.

A crow digs endlessly
but no longer bleeds.

Bandoneon of the Slum

We present this work in honor of the 90th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Pascual Contursi
1888 – 1932


Bandoneon of the slum,
old deflated bellow
I found you like a baby
that a mother abandoned,
at the door of a convent
without plaster on the walls,
under the light of a little lamp
that at night it illuminated you.

because you see that I am sad
and I can no longer sing,
you know
that I carry in the soul
branded a pain.

I took you to my room,
I cuddled you against my cold chest,
I was also left abandoned
in my digs.
You have wanted to console me
with your rasping voice
and your painful note
increased my illusion.


Translation by Alberto Paz