Rise in Power, Luis Sepúlveda!
Chilean, Communist, & Author, wrote a beautiful poem about his compañeras in the struggle.
The Women of My Generation
"The women of my generation opened their rebel petals
Not of roses, camellias, orchids, or other plants
Of sad salons, bourgeois houses, age-old customs
But of yuyos wandering in the breeze.
Because the women of my generation flowered on the sidewalks,
In the factories they became the seamstresses of dreams,
In the union they organized love according to their wise criteria.
That is to say, said the women of my generation,
To each one according to her need and capacity for response:
As in the struggle we give knock for knock, in love we give kiss for kiss.
And in the Chilean, Argentine, or Uruguayan classrooms
They discovered the required knowledge for that glorious wisdom
Of the women of my generation.
Miniskirters in the flower of the seventies,
The women of my generation didn't hide even the shadows
Of their muscles, which were those of Tania,
Brought their high-caliber eroticism
To the hard paths of the date with death.
Because the women of my generation
Singing Summertime gave their breasts.
They drank heartily the wine of the living,
They answered every call
And they were dignity in defeat.
In the prisons they were called whores and weren't offended
Because they came from a forest of happy synonyms:
Minas, Grelas, Percantas, Cabritas, Minones, Gurisas, Garotas, Jevas,
Zipotas, Viejas, Chavalas, Señoritas
Until they themselves wrote the word Compañera
On every back and on the walls of all the hotels.
Because the women of my generation
Marked us with the indelible fire of their nails,
The universal truth of their rights.
They knew the prison and the beatings.
They inhabited a thousand countries and none.
They mourned their own dead and mine as if their own.
They gave heat to cold and desire to fatigue,
Taste to water and certain path to flame.
The women of my generation gave birth to eternal children.
Singing Summertime they gave their breasts.
They smoked marijuana when they rested.
They danced the best wine and drank the best melodies.
Because the women of my generation
Taught us that life does not offer itself in sips, compañeros,
But in gulps and to the bottom of consequences.
They were students, miners, union workers, laborers,
Artisans, actresses, guerillas, even mothers and lovers
In the free moments of the Resistance.
Because the women of my generation only respected the limits
That overcame every boundary.
Internationalists of affection, brigadiers of love,
commissioners of saying I love you, militants of caresses.
Between battles, the women of my generation gave everything
And said that it was hardly sufficient.
They were declared widows in Córdova and in Tlatelolco.
They were dressed in black at Puerto Montt and Sao Paulo,
And in Santiago, Buenos Aires, or Montevideo,
They were the only stars of the long clandestine night.
Their gray hairs are not gray hairs
But a way of being for the duty that awaits them.
The wrinkles that creep into their faces are saying,
I have laughed and I have wept and I would do it again.
The women of my generation
Have gained some kilos of reasons that stick to their bodies.
They move a bit more slowly, tired of waiting for us at the goal.
They write letters that inflame memories.
They remember banished aromas and they sing them.
Every day they invent words and with them they push us.
They name things and furnish the world for us.
They write truths in the sand and offer them to the sea.
They gather us and they stop us over the set table.
They say bread, work, justice, liberty
And prudence becomes shame.
The women of my generation are like the barricades:
They protect and inspire, give confidence and soften the edge of anger.
The women of my generation are like a closed fist
That protect with violence the tenderness of the world.
The women of my generation don't scream
Because they have defeated silence.
They are what marks us.
They are the identity of the century.
They: the rejected faith, the hidden lesson in a pamphlet,
The clandestine kiss, the return of all rights,
A tango in the serene loneliness of an airport,
A Gelman poem written on a napkin,
Benedetti shared in the planet of an umbrella,
The names of friends kept with sprigs of lavender,
Letters that make one kiss the postman,
The hands that hold portraits of my dead,
The simple elements of the days that terrify the tyrant,
The complex architecture of the dreams of your grandchildren.
They are everything and sustain everything,
Because everything comes on their step and arrives and surprises us.
There is no loneliness where they look
Nor forgetting while they sing.
They are intellectuals of instinct, instinct of reason,
Proof of strength for the strong and a loving vitamin for the weak.
They are this way, only they, unrepeatable, indispensable,
Suffering, battered, denied but unbeaten,
The women of my generation."
-Luis Sepúlveda, passed 16 April 2020
Translation by Adam Rossemblat
Chilean, Communist, & Author, wrote a beautiful poem about his compañeras in the struggle.
The Women of My Generation
"The women of my generation opened their rebel petals
Not of roses, camellias, orchids, or other plants
Of sad salons, bourgeois houses, age-old customs
But of yuyos wandering in the breeze.
Because the women of my generation flowered on the sidewalks,
In the factories they became the seamstresses of dreams,
In the union they organized love according to their wise criteria.
That is to say, said the women of my generation,
To each one according to her need and capacity for response:
As in the struggle we give knock for knock, in love we give kiss for kiss.
And in the Chilean, Argentine, or Uruguayan classrooms
They discovered the required knowledge for that glorious wisdom
Of the women of my generation.
Miniskirters in the flower of the seventies,
The women of my generation didn't hide even the shadows
Of their muscles, which were those of Tania,
Brought their high-caliber eroticism
To the hard paths of the date with death.
Because the women of my generation
Singing Summertime gave their breasts.
They drank heartily the wine of the living,
They answered every call
And they were dignity in defeat.
In the prisons they were called whores and weren't offended
Because they came from a forest of happy synonyms:
Minas, Grelas, Percantas, Cabritas, Minones, Gurisas, Garotas, Jevas,
Zipotas, Viejas, Chavalas, Señoritas
Until they themselves wrote the word Compañera
On every back and on the walls of all the hotels.
Because the women of my generation
Marked us with the indelible fire of their nails,
The universal truth of their rights.
They knew the prison and the beatings.
They inhabited a thousand countries and none.
They mourned their own dead and mine as if their own.
They gave heat to cold and desire to fatigue,
Taste to water and certain path to flame.
The women of my generation gave birth to eternal children.
Singing Summertime they gave their breasts.
They smoked marijuana when they rested.
They danced the best wine and drank the best melodies.
Because the women of my generation
Taught us that life does not offer itself in sips, compañeros,
But in gulps and to the bottom of consequences.
They were students, miners, union workers, laborers,
Artisans, actresses, guerillas, even mothers and lovers
In the free moments of the Resistance.
Because the women of my generation only respected the limits
That overcame every boundary.
Internationalists of affection, brigadiers of love,
commissioners of saying I love you, militants of caresses.
Between battles, the women of my generation gave everything
And said that it was hardly sufficient.
They were declared widows in Córdova and in Tlatelolco.
They were dressed in black at Puerto Montt and Sao Paulo,
And in Santiago, Buenos Aires, or Montevideo,
They were the only stars of the long clandestine night.
Their gray hairs are not gray hairs
But a way of being for the duty that awaits them.
The wrinkles that creep into their faces are saying,
I have laughed and I have wept and I would do it again.
The women of my generation
Have gained some kilos of reasons that stick to their bodies.
They move a bit more slowly, tired of waiting for us at the goal.
They write letters that inflame memories.
They remember banished aromas and they sing them.
Every day they invent words and with them they push us.
They name things and furnish the world for us.
They write truths in the sand and offer them to the sea.
They gather us and they stop us over the set table.
They say bread, work, justice, liberty
And prudence becomes shame.
The women of my generation are like the barricades:
They protect and inspire, give confidence and soften the edge of anger.
The women of my generation are like a closed fist
That protect with violence the tenderness of the world.
The women of my generation don't scream
Because they have defeated silence.
They are what marks us.
They are the identity of the century.
They: the rejected faith, the hidden lesson in a pamphlet,
The clandestine kiss, the return of all rights,
A tango in the serene loneliness of an airport,
A Gelman poem written on a napkin,
Benedetti shared in the planet of an umbrella,
The names of friends kept with sprigs of lavender,
Letters that make one kiss the postman,
The hands that hold portraits of my dead,
The simple elements of the days that terrify the tyrant,
The complex architecture of the dreams of your grandchildren.
They are everything and sustain everything,
Because everything comes on their step and arrives and surprises us.
There is no loneliness where they look
Nor forgetting while they sing.
They are intellectuals of instinct, instinct of reason,
Proof of strength for the strong and a loving vitamin for the weak.
They are this way, only they, unrepeatable, indispensable,
Suffering, battered, denied but unbeaten,
The women of my generation."
-Luis Sepúlveda, passed 16 April 2020
Translation by Adam Rossemblat
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