Olga Orozco

(Santa Rosa de Toay, 1920 - Buenos Aires, 1999) Poet and storyteller Argentina
belonged to the Generation of 40.
He lived in his hometown in the province of La Pampa, to eight years; then he moved to Bahia
Blanca and in 1936 settled in Buenos Aires. He graduated as a teacher, a profession he never
practiced, and later graduated from the Faculty of Philosophy and Letters.
Multifaceted, Canto worked in magazines From scratch, South Parade and Annals of Buenos
Aires. He worked as a journalist and at one point came to be eight pseudonyms, each writing in a
different style; for years he drew up horoscopes daily Clarin. He also dabbled in radio drama
acting. In 1961 he obtained a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts; He won several
awards for poetry and in 1998 was awarded the Prix Eighth Latin American Literature and the
Caribbean Juan Rulfo, one of the most important distinctions in Hispanic language.
All of his work revolves around the theme of death and loneliness, which has managed to express a
great dramatic intensity. The most important of its production is in the poems. In general, the use of
verse allows you to deploy a sumptuous figures, serving a number of consistent themes visionary
imagination: the idealized evocation of the native landscape (the Pampas), childhood as paradise lost,
adolescence as age discoveries, poetic treasure the memory as where time can be recovered and
overcome the snares of death. Post-Surrealism French poetry and American poetry narrative worth it
to organize a very personal language and a closed, gloomy, sultry and voluptuous world
simultaneously.

Olga Orozco 
(1920/03/17 - 1999/08/15)
Olga Orozco 

Argentina writer 

He was born on March 17, 1920 in Toay in the province of La Pampa. 

He graduated from the Faculty of Philosophy and Letters of Buenos Aires. He

received a scholarship from the National Endowment for the Arts and the
government of Italy, studied in Europe. 

One of the most prominent Argentine poet with a prolific work that developed
between the decades of the 40's and 80's. In his poetry are: From far
away (1946), The Dead (1951),Dangerous Games (1962), Wild
Museum (1974), Song of Berenice (1977) and mutations of
reality (1979). Author of the novel Darkness is another sun (1968). 
Orozco was a member of the Argentine surrealist movement, also
represented by Enrique Molina ,Juan Jose Aldo Pellegrini and Caselli. His
poems and texts have been included in several anthologies and other
publications as well as being translated into French, English, Italian, German,
Romanian, Hindi, Portuguese and Japanese. 

In 1971, he was awarded the Grand Prize of Honor of the Argentina

Foundation for Poetry and in 1980, received the Grand Prize of the National
Endowment for the Arts. 

Olga Orozco died in Buenos Aires on August 15, 1999. 

Olga by Olga 

0410 - Olga Orozco was born on March 17, 1920 in Toay, La Pampa. Olga adopted
as a literary name of his mother; his father, Sicilian Capo d'Orlando, named
Carmelo Gugliotta; his mother was Cecilia Orozco, born in San Luis. 

The family atmosphere and the fields and forests that demonstrated his father kept
endearing memory. They were the paradise of childhood. His early years were spent
between that city and Buenos Aires. In 1928, the family moved to Bahia Blanca where the
girl is fond of the sea. In 1936 he settled in Buenos Aires and became a teacher here. In
the Faculty of Arts at the University of Buenos Aires he met Daniel Devoto, Eduardo Jorge
Bosco and, later, Alberto Girri, poets and dearest friends. He soon befriended Norah Lange
and Oliver Girondo, entertainers and a festive literary circle in which they lived and
cultivated surrealism. In 1940 he joined the group collaborated in Canto, one of the
journals of the generation of 40. At this time, Olga made comments on classical Spanish
and Argentine theater in Municipal Radio in a cycle intended for that type of work. He was
part of a group of radio drama, it becomes radially actress between 1947 and 1954 with the
character Monica Videla. Also he worked at Radio Splendid in the company of Nidia Hector
Reynal and Coire. 
In the 60s he worked as editor of the magazine Claudia. 

- "The poets who influenced me were he notes John of the Cross, Rimbaud, Nerval,
Baudelaire, Milosz, Rilke.- 
His first book, From afar (1946) Deaths (1952), Dangerous Games (1962), Darkness is
another sun (1962, wild Museum (1974), Songs Berenice (1977), mutations of reality (1979
), the night drifting (1984), On the reverse of Heaven (1987) With this mouth, in this world
(1994), splendid set of refined literary quality. 
At 90 her husband dies, the architect Valerio Peluffo (they were united for twenty
years). The November 17, 1995 presented in Toay and at home "also light is an abyss." 
The November 28, 1998 in Guadalajara receives the VIII Prize of Latin American Literature
and the Caribbean Juan Rulfo. 

"He traveled by countries of Hispanic America. A grant from the National Endowment for the
Arts allowed him, for nine months, touring Spain, Italy, France and Switzerland. 

He worked in journalism using numerous pseudonyms, responded to sentimental

consultations and astrological calculations, while they were accumulating awards and
honors: the First Municipal Poetry Prize, the Grand Prize of Honor of the Argentina
Foundation for Poetry, the Municipal Theatre Award for an original piece entitled The smoke
from your fire is rising; Grand Prix of the National Endowment for the Arts, Poetry Prize
Esteban Echeverria, the first National Poetry Prize, the Grand Prize of Honor of SADE, Poetry
Laurea University of Turin, the Gabriela Mistral Prize by the OAS, the Juan Rulfo Award. 
His poems many of them collected by The Nation lured poets of the younger generation,
often in tributes and concerts around Olga and cheered, attracted by his texts, no doubt,
but also by their seductive personality and up their very presence. Read excellently and
thanks to that virtue, his performances proved shows that ignited the public's
enthusiasm. Olga Orozco emanated from an irresistible force. 

He had a subtle intelligence and knew dwell with lyricism and tenderness. It was not his a
muddled and whimsical fantasy; wiping his intellect and imagination giving it ordered that
own exemplary harmony of art destined to endure.His work, translated into several
languages, Argentina is a beautiful achievement for all Hispanic literature. Is now closed,
but also to the many pleasures of opening future readers. "(1) 

He died on August 15, 1999 at age 79 because of a circulatory condition, his remains were
found in a private cemetery in Pilar, Buenos Aires. 

"Orozco died in hospital Anchorena, Capital Federal, where he had been admitted two
months earlier and subjected to various operations. As one of the leading exponents of Latin
American poetry, the writer always opted for a low profile, preferring not transcend their
health problems. A little known his death, numerous intellectuals recalled. So Horacio
Armani stressed his desire to "get away from the traditional verse." For her part, Cristina
Piña said his work "transcends influences." And Antonio Requeni referred to her not only as
the country's leading poet, but "the Spanish language." (2) 

(1), (2) - "La Nación" - author Jorge Cruz - date 17/08/1999 

Olga Olga - Olga Orozco 

Toay: a century of light 

Toay "I first saw the light," as is often said. A light at the end of a summer that would be
more than prodigious remember. But I would say twice as electricity came to this town
when I was tiny, brought by the progressive spirit of my father. Carmelo Gugliotta. who
was a pioneer of colonization that won huge desert and occupied territories, for many years,
the Municipality of this population, blurred and emerging at the time. My mother was
unconditional, intelligent and mutliple collaborator Cecilia Orozco, whose name adopted to
sign my first publications, because it seemed more harmonious and parental anonymous,
and so was definitively. From them I inherited the love for the people, love to be
documented for their actions, no doubt, in the annals of the past, and whose enumención
seem useless to have that stress. That legacy grew, my polished over the years, through
stubborn nostalgia, of presences and ausencias.En memoriosas these people learned to read
and write and to love my first friends, where the dunes changed places windborne when
Russian thistle circulated as ghostly intruders by some roads and houses, except around the
square, they had almost no neighbors. This was the magical place of my adventures and
explorations my childhood, of my amazement and my fears, the enigma that meant every
plant, every animal, every season, with frost, their ardor, their drought and migrations. I
have said many times that I received my first lessons here chasm and all. The sky gave me,
gave me the open plain and disproportionate. Bird learned to seek God, to keep him in
sight, I find it again, to feel his presence in flight. I remember many faces, many names,
playmates and discoveries, people are gone. Here they remained for ever three brothers
and a grandfather. Here they are still surviving buildings and places equal and others
rejuvenated the old and mysterious pyramid, which should be the focus of a great plan and
was dressed desplazada- now with a new wrapping, school and the church where maybe
sound the same bells, and beyond my home, the only surviving family I have left. It was
there when I was born and maybe be there when I'm gone. I always felt as a protection,
and if he thought at night in fantastic trips, traveling in the house like a ship, so sure that in
the morning I deposited in the usual place, by the same garden. When I left Toay, I found
in every house where I lived, sometimes reduced to a wall, a window, a secret perfume. It
is an enduring symbol for me. It is the world axis connecting the center of the sky. I said,
"when I left Toay" I was quite sometime? Toay is a door that was left open forever in my
memory and which could enter at will to find the party or tranquility. For her I now come
back to this town and in this Pampa, who then struggled to become province, and I see this
reality long ago accomplished, and Centennial celebration blissful Toay. Someone has said
that "the pampa is stopped distance, time without adventure, prison without bars". For me
it's moving space where everything happens simply, without barriers for heroic adventure
cruises and abroad who come and want to stay, for example. It is a rough area, but cozy,
where everything disappears and nothing stands out: bone, stone, fire, rider, walker,
acquired in solitude surround a relief that becomes the center of the world. Each has its
place, its service, its importance. Perhaps inspired by the horizon always in sight and
always unattainable, invited by the horizontally vertigo that leads to follow later in the
mission, always slightly beyond the purpose fulfilled, that was how Don Guillermo Brown,
the first hero of this village founded Toay, overcoming obstacles, delays and fainting. He
founded between sand, coarse grasses, lethargy and despair. There was a dream that was
not met, but many emerged with a tangible rescue hands. Other men came later to
continue the journey, plan more projects, complete paths, encouraging other works,
improve facilities and give new impetus given to each pulse. And thus we see today-and
blessed are the eyes that sell this neat village, cut, flowering, lovely, shining like a jewel in
the transparency of the distance. On this date happy twice, for the celebration of our
Independence and the Centennial of our Toay, I ask a memory that is like a flower on the
memory of Don Guillermo Brown and all those who continued to this day the way it
opened. 

INTERVIEW OLGA OROZCO, by Anahí Mallol. National Library July 1998.

Anahí Mallol
This interview was conducted for the GHOST program, Channel A, led by Silvia
Hopenhayn. In that program, a young poet, "the ghost", interviewing a poet
consecrated. This was the last interview he gave in Argentina the poet Olga Orozco.
Olga Orozco. He born in Toay, Province of La Pampa, Argentina, in 1920, and died
in 1999. He published the poems from afar (1946) Deaths (1952) Games
Dangerous (1962), Wild Museum (1974), Songs Berenice (1977), mutations
Reality (1979), The night drifting (1984), On the reverse of Heaven (1987) With this
mouth,
in this world (1994) and two collections of short stories: The darkness is another
sun (1967) and also the
Light is an abyss (1995).
Anahí Mallol he born in La Plata, Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 1968. He is
poet and essayist. He published Postscript (1998) and Polaroid (2001), which won the
First Prize
in the competition "Year 2000 Historical Memory of Women in Latin America and
the
Caribbean ". His writings have been translated into English and German. In 2003 he
published a book
essays on Argentine poets, poem and his double, who received a Creation Award
Artistic Foundation Torches.
AM: 'By the way of Juan Rulfo Prize was recently awarded it occurred to me
think that there is a closeness between his writing and the narrator Mexican
located gesture like getting up to speak from the dead, that populate
Desert ghosts.
OO: Well, I find a certain closeness between the wasteland that is the area almost
intermediate between the living and the dead and the place where I was born. A I was
impressed

Page 2
always much Pedro Paramo, I reread the text many times, and when I met Juan
Rulfo continued to impress me very much. I could not converse much with him
because he was a
very shy, very reserved man, not expatiated; I got to tell me very little
things bothered him praise, but he told me that after all that Pedro Paramo
He wrote or tried to write what seemed scarce. He spoke of a cemetery that had
in the vicinity of where he lived and also told me that he heard those people who
up at night. He heard their voices.
My childhood was full of ghosts and at home all believed in ghosts so
you would have accepted gladly family.
AM: Sometimes a little separates the poet Olga Orozco narrator, however there
interesting points in common between the two.
OO: From Darkness is another sun was much talk that several critics found in that
many key text of my poetry. This book contains stories that are much more
variations that the second book, more leads, more perhaps ravings. The second
book, also light is an abyss, are more closed, more explicitly accounts.
AM: I find it interesting counterpoint established with poems because
it seems that the poem arises when it is not possible to reconstruct the story, marked
by a
fragmentary, as if it were shreds of memory. I think that in this
the difference between story and poem focuses its aesthetic feature.
OO: I think there is a given mainly by the linear difference. The story, though
includes permanent transgressions in time (usually any) is always horizontal
Somehow, it is going step by step but violate the times. Instead poetry ventures
in other areas or are abysmal, much darker, or intends to pursue
dig or move into a higher realities, as a search for God, right? Yes
I had to choose a definition of poetry, even though all definitions are
rare and all are missing something, choose one of Howard Nemeroff, poet
American, who says that poetry is the attempt of forcing God to speak.

Page 3
I always try, but of course, God does not answer me, answer me in the prayers but
not poems.
AM:. We are lucky that you have not reached the revelation or the key
last of the kingdom because that could keep writing those poems that always defined
as attempts to find the perfect word.
OO: All are attempts, all are approximations. One calculates that if you open the
doors of what I would see Revelation, but who tolerates revelation. Rilke
He says every angel is terrible. The disclosure should be more terrible still an
angel. Would
insupportable. What it is like a glimpse, as if you opened and closed a door
and you will reach to see lightning.
AM: I like the idea of having received the award for a poem that defines itself
always as an attempt, as always achieved and also as a question.
OO: For me poetry is that it is an ongoing question, though it responds to something,
that
response, which has the form of a statement, is a question that goes a little further.
There is always an attempt to go a little further, but when it comes to the past
questions, one wonders, what's next? The last questions refer you to
Vedado, you can not question, that of which you can not expect a response
this side of the world. So what do you have ?. You is silence, or go back and
again start to turn around a center that you think it'll never touch.
That is, for me poetry is a hopeful and hopeless while bet. The
I return hoping to reach that center but there is a certain hopelessness background.
AM: It is in relation to what Kierkegaard said: man, from his finitude, tends
to infinity. This tension is a gamble, and the risk of that bet is on the one hand
the possibility of living with passion, to have a passion in life, and the other of
approach, approximatively, to a truth. To me I seemed to see something of this
conception
in his poems.

Page 4
OO: It is true.
AM: There is something else that particularly interests me ask. In the book in which
his conversations with Gloria Alcorta you published. It's a bit distanced
feminism and said that creation has no sex. Maybe we are the readers who
put the sex / gender, but I think that this way of understanding poetry, thus
so original you. I proposed, she was followed by many Argentine poets identifying it
generically as women's poetry. I wonder what you think. In this way
tradition of women poets is armandoa From there, this gesture (you.
says very clearly here) is not asking anyone's permission to speak, and get
face to face with the big issues.
OO: I think so, I put me face to face with the big issues. But I
fought against it from the beginning they call a female poetry; I even think
who at sixteen I was imposed here the poet is no call to women. A
poetess was a kind of literary genre: the genre of lace, of
fainting, lack of rigor. And that's not the idea that can be awarded to a woman
She takes poetry as a very serious mission in life, right ?, who make it something
sacred I believe that when men talk about "women's poetry" refer undoubtedly
the poetry of other centuries where few women who take poetry there was really
as a mission, they are taking as an immediate catharsis or as an escape, as a
entertainment, but they went no further.
AM: Currently when women talk about "women's poetry" they want empty
that sense and put a new one in its place.
OO: But what is that sense ?. Men poetry is poetry to dry, poetry
women's women's poetry, why make such discrimination ?, is how it is done
with black or another kind of racism. Women's poetry is already in the same
place: it is poetry and nothing else. I think maybe women have a handling things

Page 5
domestic, such as cloth or topics that relate to child care and other a
most appropriate language to these issues than men, that manage the field of
finance, and so little land that fall in the field of poetry, moreover.
AM: But as a reader I think that in his poetry and in his texts
narrative, a place where a woman can be recognized as, for example, is built
that sentiment towards the dolls become sinister, the voice of the grandmother, or that
invocation in the poem "Mother, retells my life" ... I think that in their texts
It is very important the voice of women.
OO: Do you think that men do not feel these things? Terror wrists should it
they feel more than women. They got up when they announce they will be parents.
AM: Maybe. I recognized in these texts from my childhood.
OO: You may also be able to recognize some of your childhood if you read the
Notebooks of Malte
Laurids Brigge, Rilke.
AM: Yes, but not in the same way. Perhaps this may be due printing
partly to the use of colloquial language and those voices as provincial displayed
in the stories.
OO: There is a different place, of course, but perhaps not so much for childhood itself.
AM: I always saw her as a brave poet who dares with the big issues with
a metric of very long lines, hymnic verses or rituals, and an original voice.
OO: Women are also very brave. That's what sometimes does just that
I say as a compliment "that poetry does not seem feminine", which annoys me.

Page 6
AM: Alfonsina Storni, for example, is still as asking permission to speak. You.
not asking permission to speak.
OO: This is another time too. Then machismo was much stronger and
discrimination against women was much greater; especially with respect to a
woman was as free as Alfonsina Storni.
AM:. So you always felt comfortable ...
OO: Yes, I always felt comfortable. Neither men felt discriminated against me. By
So when I am invited to collaborate in an exclusively female anthology, almost
always
I refuse, because I have not felt discriminated against by men.
AM: How do you see the world in new poets there in Argentina?
OO: I see it as a very good time. Some say that is not a good
time, there is a decline. I feel that youth are doing many things
and that there is a lot of excitement. In addition you can see all these cycles of
readings
There are in different places, and the rooms are full and are filled mostly with young
people.
AM: Alejandra Pizarnik also produced binds generation of poets that followed.
OO: Well, she had followers almost verbatim. He even broke a time
almost could not read the books submitted to a competition, because they were all
derivations
its aesthetics. Always they consisted of two descriptive of such and such verses, and
then
came the third, as a verse-surprise.
AM: There is something very interesting that arises in you in conversation and in the
stories and.
It is not in the poems: humor.
OO: No, of course, I think that humor kills poetry. Humor is most important in life

BIOGRAPHY. 
Toay, La Pampa (Argentina), 1919 - Buenos Aires, 1999.Civil Name: Olga Giuliotta Naomi; He took
the surname of his mother. Essayist, journalist, prose writer, translator.Poems: From Away (1946)
Deaths (1951), Dangerous Games(1962), Darkness is another sun (1967), Wild Museum(1974), 29
Poems (1975), Songs Berenice (1977) Mutations of reality (1979), Poetic Work (1979), The night
drifting(1984), Pages Olga Orozco (Antol. 1984), Poetic Anthology(1985), On the reverse of
Heaven (1987) With this mouth in this world (1994). Awards: Municipal (1962), Argentina Foundation
for Poetry (1972), National (1988), Juan Rulfo (work) (1998) (Grand Prix) National Endowment for the
Arts, Esteban Echevarria (. Assoc People of Letters) ( 1981), Gabriela Mistral.  Poetry: The sacred and
the occult in modern poetry. About his work: Gomez Paz, Julieta: Four poetic attitudes. Olga Orozco,
A. Pizarnik, A. Biagioni, ME Walsh (1977). 

The rest was SILENCE 

I expected the issuance of silence; 

lurking in the shadows the amazing flight of chance, a spark of the sun,  
and who see the sands in the White Desert. 
He did not answer me, stubbornly absorbed in the opaque distance,  
its icy excess. 
He figured maybe if I do talk to dust was column was golden glow 
It was not to raise twice the power of death, 
or lurking name enigmas and visions that lead to other skies  
It was not found twice as unlikely, as in life itself.  
Perhaps it follows the dice game that never end of fall,  
rotating as worlds lost in the vast emptiness.  
I ventured voices calling in the mist, 
syllables returning as flood dove returned first  
Once the Ark, 
uninhabited babbling to anyone until I leave. 
The growing between both my expense and at the expense of history,  
while gagging, crumb by crumb devouring creation. 
It was all names and was the tiger, 
the color of the sunset, the sea, the temple of Segesta, storms.  
Dense as night, silent night against harassing me. 
And there was nothing. We were, me and him. 
Was not it then strange that suddenly saw him almost as the Scribe,  
remote, self-absorbed, compared to bare paper, 
with open eyes to his own smothered fire 
and ear lying to the sermon of wind and snow psalm? 
There was a judgment blank page, 
issued a harsh fallen from above into his hand: 
"And may only silence is his word." 

(From On the underside of the sky) 

Pavane for a Dead Princess 

Small sentry 
fall again for the night slot 
armed only with open eyes and terror 
insoluble against invaders in the paper. 
They were legion. 
Legion was fierce and they multiplied your name as you destejías until the last basting,  
arrinconándote against voracious cobwebs out of nowhere.  
Whoever closes his eyes becomes abode of the entire universe.  
Which traces the border opens and remains in the open.  
He who treads the line does not find its place. 
Insomnia as tunnels to prove the inconsistency of all reality;
nights and pierced by a single bullet nights that you embed in the dark,  
and recognize the same test to awaken the memory of death:  
that perverse temptation, 
this adorable angel with pig snout. 
Who spoke of spells to counter the wound of birth itself?  
Who spoke of bribes to the emissaries of the future itself?  
There was only a garden: everything in the background is a garden  
where the blue dream flower opens Novalis. 
Cruel flower, flower vampire, 
More treacherous trap hidden in the plush wall  
and never reached while the head or the rest of the blood at the threshold.  
But you like to cut you leaned where you did not walk,  
abysses inside. 
You were trying to barter for the hungry creature deshabitaba you.  
You demanded small eaters castles in his honor; 
you dressed feather detached from the bonfire of all possible paradise;  
Amaestrabas dangerous animals to gnaw bridges of salvation;  
you missed like the beggar in the delirium of wolves; 
you probabas languages such as acids, like tentacles, 
as bonds held choke. 
Ah the ravages of poetry cutting your wrists with the edge of dawn,  
and those pale lips sipping poisons in the inanity of the word!  
And suddenly no more. 
The bottles were broken. 
Lights and splintered pencils. 
Paper with tear slides you tore another maze. 
All doors are to exit. 
Now everything is the opposite of the mirrors. 
Small passenger, 
alone with your piggy visions 
and the same unbearable helplessness underfoot: 
no doubt you're clamoring for spending with your voices drowned  
certainly you back your own immense shadow still hovers you looking for another,  
or tremble against an insect with its membranes covering all the chaos,  
or sea that frightens you be from your side on this tear.  
But again I say, 
now that silence envelops you twice in his wings like a cloak:  
at the bottom of everything there is a garden. 
There's your garden, 
Talita cumi. 

REVIEW 
`Fully open to all calls beyond, invaded by voices, faces, signs that emerge and vanish in the fleeting
eternity of time and memory, the poetry of Olga Orozco expands beat world of reality and their
reflections infidels. Tense, sparkling, powerful breath, her writing reveals a relentless inner
movement, the dizzying multiplicity of hallucinated and lucid consciousness, continually on the brink
and flight.Immersed in the open, exiled from their ancestral abodes, it has not stopped at every step
"end faces of horror, of extreme beauty." And suffer the wound of origin, no less profound is its
nostalgia for paradise and the first distant suns, no less great longing to rediscover, in the solitude of
the poem, the essential unity, the sacred and ineffable center, perhaps the last answer .  (Ana Maria
Del Re) 

The poetry of Olga Orozco Argentina remains forever in the memory of true poetry aficionados for its
unique syntactic verbal thrust and power. Verse usually choose to channel their appalling litany, its
cosmic enumerations, their anaphora. We do not find it daring or semantic associative arbitrary,
because Orozco uses poetry to communicate first, and while the cast is great, and what he says is
often transcendent, he makes his voice sound small thanks to his modesty and his sincerity.  It often
uses descriptive massive accumulation to build their poems, and manages to maintain a constant
tension because they resonate in it echoes of the tremendous verb Cassandra.  The Germans, to refer
to the poets use the word Dichter, who says.  Orozco certainly belongs to the egregious race-dichter
poets, poets have said something. (Alvaro Fierro) 

OLGA OROZCO (Toay, La Pampa, March 17, 1920 - Buenos Aires, August 15, 1999).  His full name was
Naomi Gugliotta Olga Orozco. Poet, writer and journalist. One of the greatest voices of opera in
Spanish. It relates to the generation of forty (to which it belongs) and surrealism (but clarified that she
had never done free association and automatic writing, quoted Manuel Ruano).
Some awards: Grand Prix, Esteban Echeverría Prize for Poetry, First National Poetry Prize, Grand
Prize of Honor of SADE, Poetry Laurea University of Turin, Gabriela Mistral Prize, awarded by the OAS
National Endowment for the Arts, Juan Rulfo Prize.
His poems have been translated into French, English, Italian, German, Romanian, Hindi, Portuguese
and Japanese.

POETIC WORKS
From afar (Buenos Aires, Losada, 1946)
Deaths (Buenos Aires, Losada, 1951).
Dangerous games (Buenos Aires, Losada, 1962).
Wild Museum (Buenos Aires, Losada, 1974).
Berenice Cantos (Buenos Aires, Sudamericana, 1977).
Mutations of reality (Buenos Aires, Sudamericana, 1979).
Night drifting (Buenos Aires, Sudamericana, 1984).
On the reverse of the sky (Buenos Aires, Sudamericana, 1987).
With this mouth, in this world (Buenos Aires, Sudamericana, 1994).
Lightning invisible (Buenos Aires, Fondo de Cultura Economica, 1997).
Narrative (stories)
Darkness is another sun (Buenos Aires, South American, 1967)
Also light is an abyss (Buenos Aires, Emecé, 1995).
Orozco said that the literary work that was more appreciated In Search of Lost Time Marcel Proust
because "in a drop of water was a maze." The same applies to the poetry of Olga own. Since his first
book (1946), the poet chooses to lengthy lines without regular meter or rhyme, of subordinate
phrases where each word opens a bundle of associations that unfold into a new phrase that great.  At
the same time, explore its verses and follow them in all its richness is a training for the
reader. Moreover, he notices that the picture is far from surprising game (although we know that
sometimes made exquisite corpse). The abundant literature that has gone through the eyes of Olga
Orozco, even philosophers and epistemologists, far from hindering, constitute an opening in the work
of this writer who is also an attentive listening to the world of the occult.  "I think more about what
they do not see what I see," he told us. However, in this postmodern era in which the world of the
occult is something so useful, these elements are not in its texts commonplace, but another way to
bring the questions to a greater depth.
Time, childhood, the evocation of a lost paradise, a time of mystical union persists throughout his
work with elements of open religiosity. Literature also belongs to the subject, as in his book The
deaths, in which literary characters written his own epitaph.  Says in the poem that names the
volume With this mouth, in this world. "I've already said what I loved and lost, / every syllable
struck up with the goods and evils most feared losing / Our long struggle was also a struggle death,
poetry. / We won. We lost. "
Olga Orozco, in an interview he did Cristina Piña, talks about his writing a poem.  He says he goes
through moments of happiness and distress. Than   knows something of the beginning and end but not
so far in the middle, wild way, unknown, where the poet "is like a hunter who goes in pursuit of the
picture on the right word," you have to choose each step doubt "have hit the center pointing to the
poem." Distinguishes two moments: one "in that there may be as a gesture of waiting voice, that
voice with another dimension, but then the work begins."  He composed poems slowly, over several
days.
We chose three poems not as extensive or as disproportionate as the verses that characterize it,
dealing with the issue of separation in different circumstances.It is one of the most recurrent, with
time (otherwise away), memory and temptation, the error ("the labyrinth of error").  Perhaps the fall
mentioned Patricia Calabrese.
In no doors, long poem, in his almost constant achievements, appears an image that reminds us of
the surrealist painting. The poetic, after the abandonment, says he has seen the loneliness: "deploy
in the middle of a room / rain that falls / seaside / far elsewhere." This is an example of this
contextualization between an inner and an outer, that occur in the plastic.  There the poet
agramaticalidades syntactic ruptures and resolve on the poetry reading and analysis.
In the poem book Cantos 13 Berenice, written after the death of the black cat with whom he lived
for over fifteen years, a tribute to Edgar Allan Poe, which comes from the name, is another case in
which the intertextual and mythical feline throughout history are interwoven with daily personal
relationship between the poetic and the cat.
In Woman at her window, after the death of his partner, Olga makes another balanced and intense
expression of the greater number of instances that can contemplate such a situation.
Olga Orozco has two books of short stories in prose made with a material he wrote in his
psychoanalyst's office, about childhood memories: Darkness is another sun and light is an abyss. In
 the first, says Telma Luzzani Bystrowitz, are the keys to his work.
Olga Orozco 

The door did not open 

By: By Myriam Moscona 

Olga Orozco issues touch the inscrutable: the time, the destination, the absence, the loss of
the kingdom, the word or love as paradise regained.Death, which terrified him, is also
present throughout his work. Located in Argentina forty generation, also known as neo-
romantic, which also included Enrique Molina, the poetry of Olga Orozco it shares with the
concerns of their time and place, but seems to agree more with the look and Rilke search in
the Duino Elegies or the unmistakable voice of Luis Cernuda. Olga Orozco died in Buenos
Aires on Sunday August 15 at age 79, and into one of the forms of "painful clarity '' so often
sought to reveal in his poems. 

Rather than talk about a specific memory I'd like us to talk of the phenomenon itself, as
embodied in its opposite: oblivion. Both streams come from the hand at the time of writing. 

-The Memory and misrepresentation of time have served me well to reverse the death and
the harshness of reality. I am a memorious and I think I've forgotten a few important
things. The memory runs parallel to all the facts of my life. It has grown barely retouched,
but it has influenced my poetry as time. Cioran says that one of the main adventure of man
is to misrepresent the time violentarlo. That I managed to do in all directions. As Eliot, I
have made the future influences the past and each time another incident on his way. 

-Somehow, life begins with a chance. His father, Italian, went for a walk to Argentina, he
met his mother and stayed there. In that event they begin strokes his destination. The
random words and destination are repeated continuously in his poetry as two big questions. 

They're words that I always carry with me a legacy of that meeting. My poetry the alluded
repeatedly. Orozco is the name of my mother, my father is Gugliota. My father had come
from Europe and the Mediterranean left behind. My mother met him in a flywheel coming
from San Luis. I have a stone in each of these places and they feel a particular vibration. I
often write in turn to one or another stone. I think in our lives is permanent and random
fate opens like a fan because it in life what you did as what he did not do. 

'That is present in his poem "Behind that door' ':" Somewhere in the great wall is the door, /
the one that did not open / and casts its shadow of implacable guardian on the back of all
your destination (.. .) '' 

'Sometimes I think that if you open the doors did not open, maybe we would see behind all
that remained closed. 

Her grandmother was of Celtic origin. How do you see the influence of his character in you
and in your choice of poetry? 
My grandmother was a great influence in my life. It was a magical person of my
childhood. Even my twenty-eight years used to tell a story every day, always, never
repeated. Stories I've ever found in books, except for one eye, two eyes, three eyes, the
Brothers Grimm. I do not know if others were mergers of several stories, inventions and
inspirations. It was an exceptional human being. I prepared different teas for each
breakdown. As a child I used to climbing trees to eat green fruit that often sickened me.So
she chose a number of herbs that helped me to heal specific areas of the body. Only if she
gave me the prepared result. I remember, and that is another story, which in the twenties,
when I was very small, had become fashionable by the discovery of Tutankhamun's
tomb. Chanel printed that image in his paintings and scarves. The village where I was born
was usually pretty bleak at one o'clock. The lights went out and had to resort to candles. I
loved watching the handkerchief against the light near the flame.One night I burned the
handkerchief and grandmother came to my rescue knowing that my mother was going to
infuriate me. `` Do not grieve, my child, this is hopeless: we will fold in all its parts and
every day at seven in the afternoon we will say a prayer that I'm going to teach and in
twenty days the tissue will be rebuilt. '' We will not say anything to my mom. We pray
fervently and twenty days to open the chest, the handkerchief was intact. Of course I never
wanted to think she had ordered another like ... 

-A Eight years you know the sea when he moved from La Pampa to Bahia Blanca. How was
the meeting? 

-First Was monstrous. I am Piscean and there was my own sign that began bewitch; I began
to get used to the sea and venerate with these recurring waves. I thought maybe this wave
is that Homer saw, that other which saw Virgil and beyond, that is tragic, that drowned my
buddy Augustine. It was a form of recognition because in my fantasy every wave was the
representation of someone who would populate the world through the incessant movement. 

Olga Orozco and poetry 

It was teenager when you already attending literary meetings with writers who were much
bigger. How were these talks and what purpose did they have? 

-From The fifteen years I attended these literary meetings in Buenos Aires.We met to plot a
magazine and, above all, to bed at night. We permanently disolvíamos at dawn and talked
of poetry and poetic very wisely and especially very wrong, putting the San Benito to great
writers like Lugones, cosaÊde regretting that we went slowly. We did a magazine that had
bonded us was called Canto and the name stuck as a way to call: Canto generation. We
were very different. Some came from the French literature, some English, some German
and some even ultraism. Our ages were very different and I was the youngest. Vicente
Barbieri, for example, was forty years old, Castañeira God was nineteen and had other
poets who were then very well known, as Enrique Molina. 

'Is the time Oliveiro Girondo met? 

Exactly, just before the magazine Canto appear. Oliveiro belonged to Martin Fierro
group. Girondo Fierro had instituted the Prize for young writers.Wilcock had won and was
celebrated with a meal. I was very young, was not yet eighteen. She was sitting in front of
Girondo, who ate polenta with birds. He was an aristocrat of very refined manners, but then
had some Faustian rudeness. He could be rude. To me I began to feel sorry for these birds
that he was chewing and teeth rattled. Those birds produced me some uncontrollable sighs,
perhaps some sob. He threw his plate and said very convinced that you can not eat when a
nymph cries. He was married to Norah Langue, excellent prose writer unjustly forgotten. He
took a paper and asked me to write something for his wife. `` You '' he said, `` are going
to make good friends. '' I wrote him a little letter and the next day I called Norah. Girondo
was right. From the first meeting we made a friend for life through these little birds with
polenta. 

-The Girondo poetry is very different from yours and I know you appreciate, believe in the
truth of Girondo. 

I believe deeply in its truth. It was an absolutely ethical person and his poetry was always
likely, because poetry does not have to have real things but you do have to have a sense of
verisimilitude. So I hate those images where a tab rises to an elephant. I love the poetry of
Girondo and I was fascinated by him, was an extraordinary youth and I think it used to be
better understood with the poets of my generation with his contemporaries.Especially his
latest book, The masmédula, had a very strong resonance misunderstanding and strange in
his generation. Girondo was a master merge two words which in turn created another: it
was not simply the union of an adjective to a noun. By phonetics did fire a third image
appear. To his contemporaries it seemed nonsense; us, a finding. 

His first book began writing in the 41. He had you not twenty years. It was published in 46
Editorial Losada. Remember that process? 

I remember with how lucky I was to be published. I've never been too prolific, so it was a
book written slowly, with many personal demands. I think from afar contains others. They
are there, somehow, outlined the issues that bothered me, all that came later. It was the
time when the Spaniards began arriving refugees, Alberti, for example, with his wife Maria
Teresa. He had appeared Canto, little magazine of eight pages, and had organized a cocktail
to celebrate its second issue. Alberti went to the side and after reading it said, `` the best
poets are these two '' and pointed to Enrique Molina and me; then Gonzalo Losada, was
present, looked at me and said: `` I publish your first book I ''. When it was ready I took
it.Losada was a true lover of poetry, was interested little in the publishing trade off. Each
book of poetry that he was interested in becoming a flower for his buttonhole. After he
published my second, third and cuartoÊlibros. So I was fortunate to do vestibules to publish,
which is unfortunately a rather extraordinary event. 

-d Printing, when one knows his first book and continues reading the post, you've dug for
years in the same hole. Maybe it was changing instruments but there is revealed his world
and expanded upward and sides in the books that followed. 

'I always thought, with Bachelard, that poetry was vertical and horizontal prose. The prose
is for the everyday, the linear; poetry is for the extraordinary, going upwards, towards
prayer, but also tries to transcend the world toward the bottom, toward the depths and the
darkest areas trying to glimpse the invisible man. I also believe that all men are in some
invisible point, we are to the other a shell that does not reveal everything hidden. In my
first book it is in germ what came later, perhaps with greater wealth and refinement of
language resources. Actually, everything could be a lengthy poem interrupted by fatigue, by
laziness or the insurmountable obstacle. 

There poems write themselves; others, with great difficulty, even with pain.And not
necessarily some are better than others ... 

I think I've ever written too easily or to put it another way, have had enormous distrust of
the things I've written with ease: they never earned me too. Writing has been for me like
opening a door that I felt a call that can come from the same song, an image or even a
passing heard and what I see is a dark corridor sentence. Toward the back there is another
puertaÊdonde the conclusion of the poem appears. It is as if one had to cross a river
without relief elements, surrounded by countless signs in rotation, those same concerns
Octavio Paz when he talks about the poetry of Mallarme. One chooses and discards those
signs. Suddenly it feels as if they had been left dead on the road and sometimes you come
back to resurrect when worthwhile. If that happens, there will always involve a working
watch. 

There's a saying that goes: mouth kissing does not sing. Have you written in times of
plenty? 

Yes, but curiously no poems about love. I believe in that saying. Love alone is true and
needs no derivation or word or writing. All words and writing are all within love, right? I
have written to love when love happened. I have written to the failure of love. 

You have said that his second book, Deaths, has wanted to be a book of modern
myths. How was the period of conception of that work and what was the motive for
exploration of these myths? 

Those characters in novels that I chose were as mythological beings who had met a perfect
life. When I say perfect, I mean ethics or having had a beginning, a middle and an end that
makes them untouchable beings who no longer can be added to them all. That induced me
to see them as modern myths, characters, almost all, of novels that had a remarkable
effect. There are some exceptions, as the poem where I talk about my own death. 

That poem that begins: `` I, Olga Orozco, from your heart tell everyone that I die ... '' I've
heard that that text has been cited too. There are poems that come to overeat to whom he
wrote, as perhaps happened to Neruda with his famous poem `` twenty ''. 

Yes, they ask me to repeat it constantly. I, I do not know any other memory of my poems, I
have come to learn it by dint of repeating both. He has created confusion in some critics say
the fact that die in someone's heart. Taken in a literal sense, they have asked how you can
die back and forth, how can die upside down. Death has no contrary, I rather what I believe
is that `` death is not entitled, '' ever. 

-In `` The card reading '' poem appearing in his third book, is the testimony of someone
who is no stranger to the world of letters, predictions, dangerous games. 
-Games Dangerous as the death of the opponent, trying to kill the enemy in a certain way,
repeated dreams that are quite disturbing, fortune-telling, palmistry and other games after I
left because they stopped privileges for me. The only thing I have left is in poetry. The
others are bastards games that give you a false image of power. I did not call down dark
forces. I think that both poetry and prayer are acts of asceticism leading to the elevation of
the spirit and not its collapse. 

-in Many times his poetry speaks through a religious doctrine but a practice alien voice. 

No, not a dogmatic poetry. 

'I find that there is a notable difference between his poetry and Enrique Molina, with which
it has been compared to both. Molina's poetry is a poetry of the earth, of the senses ... 

Even lustful. 

His poetry, like Molina, is full of pictures, but I find that theirs is more reflective. 

-the Poetry of Enrique is totally sensory and resigned to stay in this world.He was a great
poet. I met him when I was fourteen, so we were close friends and not difficult we had a
similar language, but I think with different backgrounds. My poetry is more pensive and
meditative. I had a vision of the world made of elements that exceed this dream here with
the limits of cause and effect. I wanted to look at other realities that are not only
compressing us.