Carmen Leonor Ferro
Carment Leonor Ferro was born in Caracas, Venezuela. She is a poet and translator of Giuseppe Ungaretti, Antonia Pozzi, Sandro Penna, Claudio Damiani and Annalisa Manstretta. She has a degree in Chemistry from the Simón Bolívar University. She is the founder, with Nidia Hernández of The Nude Maja; she created the publishing house: Luna Nueva of the Universidad Metropolitana, in Caracas, where she worked as professor and Director of Culture. She has lived in Rome since 2004. There she directed the Spanish-American poetry collections of Ediciones Ponte Sisto and Raffaelli Editore, Carmen Leonor Ferro. She currently teaches Spanish at the University of Rome.
She has published “El viaje ”(Monte Avila Editors Award) for unpublished authors 2004), Acrobat (Raffaelli editore 2011), In the subjunctive, (Raffaelli editore 2016), Precarious (Edizioni Ensemble 2019), Temporary (LP5 editora 2022).
The box, 2023, is her most recent book, published in Caracas.
Askold Melnyczuk reads Carmen Leonor Ferro’s “It all came to an end” in English: translated by Livia Bellardini
It all came to an end
It all came to an end
the earth covers what is yet to bloom.
In other latitudes
Strindberg believed we were eternal
and that our ashes fed the soil
that feeds the birds.
So I thought before leaving the city
one scorching Sunday
the mountain before me
my hands carrying the clothes my sister wore
on her final crossing.
I looked for a tree
and laid her shirt on the ground, some worn-out pants
and the old unyielding boots
still revealing the hardship of the journey.
On that night, I took the plane that brought me home
where I now come to terms with words
that will restore some comfort to our history
like opening a window
in the middle of Summer
and let the wind’s breeze
scatter the last leaves of a coppery bougainvillea
or breathing deep and catching sight, afar,
of the clearing of a road that seemed endless.
Translated by Livia Bellardini
Todo ha terminado read by the poet Carmen Leonor Ferro
Todo ha terminado
Todo ha terminado
la tierra cubre lo que ha de florecer.
En otras latitudes
Strindberg creía que éramos eternos
y que nuestras cenizas abonan las raíces
que alimentan a los pájaros.
Algo así pensé antes de dejar la ciudad
un domingo caluroso
frente a la montaña
en mis manos la ropa que había acompañado
a mi hermana
durante su última travesía.
Busqué un árbol
y en la tierra apoyé su camisa,
unos pantalones raídos
y los viejos botines
que no ocultaban la dificultad del trayecto.
Aquella noche tomé el avión que me trajo a mi casa
donde ahora intento escribir frases
que me permitan devolverle
a la historia su holgura
como abrir una ventana
en medio del verano
y dejar que el viento esparza las últimas
hojas de una buganvilia cobriza
o respirar profundo y avistar a lo lejos
el claro de un camino que parecía sin final.