From Kawiñtun üyelüwün mew / Ceremonia de los nombres / Ceremony of the Names
KAYU
We haven’t forgotten you, Huichapán,
sad wandering puma,
we haven’t forgotten you.
Do you still carry
jerkey and island water
in your flour sack
season after season?
And visions of mushrooms in your eyes
fatally wounded by the distance?
Puma warrior, do you still sing
your mother’s earthly songs
when you dream, drunk and alone,
before the river of dawn?
The wind is the traveler’s
only homeland, Huichapán,
and the night is the country
of the orphaned child
fragrant of the sea
under the dark waves of trees.
Inché kuñifal meu,
kiñe rümei nga ñi dungun,
küme huentru ngefuli
epu rumeafui nga ñi dungu.
I wander dejected over your lands, little sister,
I wander dejected.
But I have my word,
but I have my word,
the vagabond riches
I offer your heart.
REGLE
From Alto Huilío
passing through Freire,
came Margarita
the infidel warria.
Oh, body of oak,
Ancacoy of the forests,
house of the thrush,
nest of the light.
Will you now sweep
the countryside’s leaves,
the mud, the rain,
the dust of the south?
Will you cut firewood,
will you drink mate,
will you make fry bread
for the new sun?
Sad Margarita,
your mother sings to you,
your son dreams about you,
the laurel calls your name.
Sad Margarita,
Ancacoy of the meadow,
raulí tree turned green,
hidden flower.
PURRA
What will these lands say about me
now that I’m returning
with my face distorted
by the salty pampa winds?
Will you even remember my name,
sorcer’s stones of the hills,
when I pass before you
to plead for my fate?
Are the enemies of travelers aware
I carry potent talismans
under a gray makuñ tehuelche
unraveled by the snow?
As a young man I set out
for the eastern passes
carefree as the thrushes’ song
illuminated by dawn.
¡Kintupurrai inche pingey!
–I shouted to the heavens—
¡Kintupurrai inche pingey!
Seeker of flowers and waters,
a merchant and a pilgrim,
I got lost with my pouches of liquor
in the immense Land of Apples.
Through fields carpeted with Coirons
where my caciques reign
over sands and lakes,
alone I rode.
Paillacán, Foyel, Sayhueque,
Tereupán, Antuleguén
sat singing before the fire
to drink from my liquor.
Po alué, efkütuaimün, po alué.
Kümelkaimün pu fochüm, kümelkaimün.
Nekelepe kewan,
kuchiyu ñielafimün.
Dead souls,
join me in a toast.
Dead souls,
Let no brothers quarrel,
we beg you,
Let no knives gleam
in the fickle cup
of night.
AYLLA
We reached the edge of a river,
hot shade of Andean cacti.
The hills were sleeping like condors
beneath the sun’s fierce areolae
stricken with altitude sickness.
In the bread we carried our rituals
along with incessant whispering
of defunct tongues.
Hummingbirds bled in the air
sipping in circling flights
from sudden mountain blossoms.
In the light, stones were rolling
toward the Father of Waters.
They asked, Who is your grandfather?
Where is your chachay’s horse
in the dense afternoon fog?
Wallün feytüfa mongen zungu,
wallün feytüfa lan zungun
– wiñolzunguyiñ.
The word of life is circular,
the word of death is circular
–we responded–,
assembled like burnt birds
in the tallest, leafiest crown
of pain.
KAYU
No te hemos olvidado, Huichapán,
andariego puma triste,
no te hemos olvidado.
¿Llevas todavía en tu saco harinero
charqui y lluvia isleña
de estación en estación?
¿Y visiones de dihueñes en tus ojos
malheridos por la lejanía?
¿Cantas aún, puma guerrero,
las canciones terrenales de tu madre
cuando sueñas ebrio y solo
frente al río del amanecer?
Sólo el viento es la patria del viajero, Huichapán,
y la noche
el país del hijo huérfano
que huele a mar
bajo el oleaje oscuro de los árboles.
Inché kuñifal meu,
kiñe rümei nga ñi dungun,
küme huentru ngefuli
epu rumeafui nga ñi dungu.
Pobre ando por tus tierras, hermanita,
pobre ando.
Pero tengo mi palabra,
pero tengo mi palabra,
la riqueza vagabunda
que le ofrezco a tu corazón.
REGLE
Desde Alto Huilío
pasando por Freire,
vino Margarita
a la warria infiel.
Oh, Cuerpo de roble,
Ancacoy del bosque,
casa de zorzales,
nido de la luz.
¿Barrerás ahora
las hojas del campo,
el barro, la lluvia,
el polvo del sur?
¿Cortarás la leña,
tomarás el mate,
harás sopaipillas
para el nuevo sol?
Triste, Margarita,
te canta tu madre,
te sueña tu hijo,
te llama el laurel.
Triste Margarita,
Ancacoy del prado,
pellín verdecido,
escondida flor.
purra
¿Qué dirán estas tierras sobre mí
ahora que regreso
con el rostro trastornado
por los vientos salinos de la pampa?
¿Recordarán mi nombre acaso,
piedras brujas de los cerros,
cuando pase frente a ustedes
a pedir por mi destino?
¿Sabrán los enemigos del viajero
que llevo poderosos talismanes
bajo un gris makuñ tehuelche
destejido por la nieve?
Joven fui hacia los pasos del oriente,
alegre como canto de wilquiles
iluminados por el amanecer.
¡Kintupurrai inche pingey!
-grité a los cielos-
¡Kintupurrai inche pingey!
Yo, buscador de flores y agua,
comerciante y peregrino,
me perdí con mis garrafas de aguardiente
en el inmenso País de las Manzanas.
Por los campos alfombrados de coirones
donde reinan mis caciques
sobre arenas y lagunas,
solitario cabalgué.
Paillacán, Foyel, Sayhueque,
Tereupán, Antuleguén
se sentaron cantando frente al fuego
a beber de mi licor.
Po alué, efkütuaimün, po alué.
Kümelkaimün pu fochüm, kümelkaimün.
Nekelepe kewan,
kuchiyu ñielafimün.
Almas muertas,
ayúdenme a brindar.
Almas muertas,
haced bien a los hijos.
Que no haya pelea entre hermanos,
les pedimos.
Que no brillen los cuchillos
en la copa veleidosa
de la noche.
AYLLA
Llegamos al borde de un río,
a la sombra caliente
de los cactus andinos.
Los cerros dormían como cóndores
bajo las apunadas y violentas
areolas del sol.
Trajimos nuestros ritos en el pan
y el susurro incesante
de las lenguas occisas.
Pu pinza müpüyngün traf kürüfmew
iyefingün ta ñi wallünmew
ta chi tripachi rayen mawiza mew.
Colibríes sangraban contra el aire
comiéndose en sus giros
las abruptas flores de montaña.
Piedras hubo que rodaron en la luz,
sigilosas hacia el Padre de las Aguas.
¿Quién es tu abuela?- preguntaron-.
¿Dónde va el caballo que monta tu chachay
en plena y densa niebla vespertina?
Wallün feytüfa mongen zungu,
wallün feytüfa lan zungun
– wiñolzunguyiñ.
Circular es la palabra de la vida,
circular es la palabra de la muerte
-respondimos-,
reunidos como pájaros quemados
en la copa más alta y más frondosa
del dolor.
Translator’s Note:
These poems are drawn from the book Kawiñtun üyelüwün mew / Ceremonia de los nombres / Ceremony of the Names, which forms part of Jaime Huenún Villa’s project to orchestrate a chorus of popular voices derived from anonymous people within the Huilliche-Mapuche communities of southern Chile and of urban migrant neighborhoods in Santiago and other cities. In his earlier prize-winning book Reducciones (2013), Huenún interrogated the cycles of conquest and colonization that have laid siege to Mapuche lands and culture, whether in the form of military or religious campaigns, first by Spaniards, then by Chileans, or of economic servitude and social marginalization. Even as the Mapuches have been relegated first to “reductions” (similar to U.S. reservations), and then to the poorest shantytowns of Chile’s cities, they have struggled to maintain a sense of their genealogical and cultural integrity, including command of their native language, Mapudungun. While Huenún writes primarily in Spanish, he also interweaves verses in Mapudungun into his poems, in such a way that they are comprehensible to speakers of either language (and now, with these translations, to speakers of English). The unsung heroes of the poems in Kawiñtun üyelüwün mew / Ceremonia de los nombres / Ceremony of the Names tell us the stories of their families, their work history, their travels, their religious experiences and revelations, their loves and conflicts, even of their deaths. Above all these are stories of resilience and celebration, incorporating the musicality and rhythms of popular song.
Cynthia Steele is Professor Emerita of Comparative Literature at the University of Washington, Seattle. Her translations include Inés Arredondo, Underground Rivers (Nebraska, 1996), José Emilio Pacheco, City of Memory (City Lights, 2001, with David Lauer), and María Gudín, Open Sea (Amazon Crossings, 2018). They have also appeared in The Chicago Review, TriQuarterly, The Seattle Review, Gulf Coast, Lunch Ticket, Trinity Journal of Literary Translation, Southern Review, Exchanges, Latin American Literary Review, and other journals. Photo by Carolyn Cullen.
Jaime Luis Huenún is a Chilean Mapuche-Huilliche poet, born in 1967, who has received numerous awards, including the Pablo Neruda Prize (2003), a Guggenheim Fellowship (2005), and the Chilean National Council on Arts and Culture’s Literature Award in 2013. Two of his books are available in English: Port Trakl (Diálogos, 2008) and Fanon City Meu (Action Books, 2018). Translations of his poems have also appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Washington Square Review, and other journals. Huenún lives in Santiago, where he works for the Chilean Ministry of Culture. Photo by Alvaro de la Fuente Farré.
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