Being a Galician poet, you’re almost automatically in the position of being bilingual. You translate your own books into Spanish; more or less all of them were published in both languages. Is the context of a much bigger language a burden or sort of a saving grace for a minor language author? Or is it something in-between?
I write my books first and originally in Galician (one of the four official languages within Spain and with an old and very rich literary tradition, from the Middle Ages onward), and I publish them first in Galician editions that are only distributed in Galicia (situated on the North West coast of Spain, with around 3 million inhabitants). Immediately after that, my publisher in Madrid releases bilingual, Galician-Spanish editions for the rest of Spain and Latin America.
When I write my poetry – at that intimate, concentrated moment, struggling to make something new, trying to be creatively ambitious, to take some risks as a writer and be the best poet that I can humbly be – I don’t think one really cares about numbers. Numbers are quite meaningless in poetry, and that also holds true for the number of readers. When I write in Galician (even if that can connect me with the huge Portuguese-speaking world, since we basically speak the same language) I never feel like I’m being marginal, provincial, secondary or subsidiary to something bigger. I write in Galician with my head held high, as if it were the first and best language in the world! It is useful and expressively worthwhile for me, and that’s all that I care for. I am also very interested in Galician literary tradition and the language itself; I find it to be so inspiring!
That being said, and starting from that point, of course it is always interesting to find bigger audiences, to translate as much as possible and to increase your potential readership. And it’s true that my full command of Spanish (as a Spaniard) brings that possibility closer. How could I refuse it? It is just an ‘extra’, a nice chance, an optional bridge. It is never a condition or a need, always just a positive opportunity.
Five years ago you started a well-known poetry translating workshop on a small Galician island. What’s behind the idea, and how does it work?
I’ll be very honest: we just copied a model that I had the honour and pleasure to experience in Slovenia in 2010, previously implemented in some other places too. I just fell in love with the system, the dynamics and the experience. I found it so enriching, so productive, stimulating, so rewarding and inspiring, that I immediately dreamt of organizing something similar in Galicia, where we have so many suitable places for this kind of a project. In fact, a tiny island in the Atlantic seemed to be the perfect location for a relatively isolated and concentrated teamwork. And, indeed, it turned out it was.
The networks, funds and opportunities to promote poetry translation of contemporary authors are always insufficient; they usually depend on accidental, fortuitous and very personal chances. This kind of a project can contribute to filling that gap. Our poetry translation workshop gathers seven poets/translators from all over the world during the course of one week in Galicia. During this intensive, collective, reciprocal, face-to-face workshop, they translate each other through English, which works as a lingua franca. We enrich the morning workshops (readings, explanation of references or contexts…) with a parallel program of public readings around Southern Galicia. Each poet must spread his/her results once back home. This can be used as an entry card for bigger translation projects: for the author, as well as for the translator. Sharing worries or goals, in addition to strengthening the ties between colleagues, are also among our objectives too. It is also provides a nice opportunity for foreign authors to explore the culture and identity of Galicia and perform in front of the curious, keen and warm Galician readers.
Your literature is often intertwined with other media – music, film, dance… Is that purely an artistic preference, or does it also derive from an urge to step out from the “old-fashioned” framework, to reach a wider audience?
I never think about these experiences as something “new” or “modern”. I think poetry has always been doing the same thing, really. We can’t forget that poetry was never born to be read, but to be sung. From that moment on, it has always searched for the suitable dispositions of the epoch. Sung from one village to another, later handwritten, repeated on the incunabula, spread through the mass media, accompanied by music… so it’s now once again doing the same: slipping into the images, the nets, technologies, alternative creative languages, screens, stages…
I still deeply believe in the sovereign power of the text. That is the root, the basis. The text, of course, must work in a silent, intimate reading. But, that being said, and as some kind of ‘an extra’, we can play with it; we can try dialogues between poetry and other languages. And these dialogues can even create new interesting hybrids, can even be expressively productive, artistically interesting, and yes, they can perhaps attract new audiences as well. If new readers can access poetry through video, through music or through performances, they will be very welcome indeed. Anyway, for me personally, all this is quite natural since I don’t consider poetry as being secluded, apart from other manifestations of arts, apart from life and the world. I experience poetry in connection with many other fields because I can truly connect it with everything that I love or find interesting.
You live as a professional, freelance author. Besides poetry, you edit, translate, write for children, and much more. How does making a living from literature look like today? Is the time for writing becoming a luxury?
I feel absolutely privileged to make a living from poetry, something that is really quite rare these days… But I deeply believe that when the times get rough and we lose our way, we have to just start walking and we’ll find it again. Poetry is the origin of everything that I do, as you mentioned, and there are many things that we can do with poetry: write it, perform it, film it, translate it, promote it, spread it, teach it, edit it… Living from poetry goes much further than copyrights/royalties, as making a living in music means more than selling records. In addition, this lifestyle, environment, arrangements, contexts, people and encounters nurture my own literature.
And since the poetry market is small, the secret is to multiply your options, activities and tasks. It is really worth it for those who love this job, but isn’t a very easy one. Then, the time and chance to write reduces, and that can be a serious threat, a true risk. But we must concentrate all our efforts in protecting those moments; we must resist the rush and the worries, duties and daily urgencies to fight for the only important thing, the real heart and motor of our work, without which nothing would make sense. You can reserve one month in a year only for writing; any kind of retreat can help too, residencies can be also really helpful. Or you can adapt your creative process to your lifestyle, taking notes here and there during those moments of silence amidst all the noise; but you must always find the time and your own way or you will forever remain a dead writer, a fake and an absurd writer, an imposter.
You’re a traveling poet – on the road more or less non-stop. What were the last stops, and what comes next? How does the traveling contribute to what you do? How does the Versopolis platform fit in?
Well, combining traveling and literary work is a privilege for me since I love getting to know new landscapes, cultures, people, poetry panoramas, dynamics, systems, audiences, traditions… It is a joy to be able to travel around the world with my verses, but I never forget that my first ‘poetry travel’ was from 3.A to 3.B (in primary school, from one class to the other, to read my poetry in front of other students). This spring has been quite busy, visiting Argentina, Croatia, Germany, Andalucía, but also traveling a lot around Galicia with many book readings, meetings and festivals. In a couple of weeks, I’ll be going to China, and then Catalonia, Macedonia, Scotland, Colombia and India. That’s it for the moment!
As I’ve said before, being shifted to all those new and strange realities can stimulate my writing perhaps more than working in an office (even if this is just a personal preference and not a necessity, of course). All those new realities, interesting people that I meet here and there, nurture my own work. Besides this, being on the road means to get out of your comfort zone, and that’s precisely one of the best starting points for a writer. Traveling is like living twice, like intensively gathering new experiences; and this is what really provides the raw material for literature. I always learn how to improve things when I meet other colleagues abroad, when I see how they organize their literary events, how they approach new audiences. I can gain access to the most recent literary trends right there on the spot, I get acquainted with other national poetry tendencies and works that often affect and enrich my own writing. I even learn more about my work or my literary tradition when I put it in contrast with the others. I also find the chance to sign up new good poets for the festivals, readings and workshops that I manage at my place. And, at the same time, I get the chance to show something about Galicia, our tradition, our culture and our identity, while these opportunities are never enough for us!
I trust Versopolis could fit right in all of this, since it looks like an interesting platform for networking and sharing resources, goals, experiences. I just haven’t had the time to properly experience it yet. So I’m still curious, full of high expectations and interest until I get to know it better.
