Clare Shaffer is a human simulation specialist and freelance theatre director. She spends her days teaching communication skills to future doctors at the Texas Christian University and University of North Texas Health Science CenterSchool of Medicine through her work with standardized patients (actors who portray patients in simulated office visits) and her nights directing musicals and plays in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. She studied dramatic arts and communication at UNC Chapel Hill, and is currently enrolled in the Master of Liberal Arts program at TCU.
poetry
The Other: A Translation
Clare Shaffer, Texas Christian University
The Other
translated from Spanish
I killed a woman in me—
one I did not love.
She was the flaming flower
of the mountain cactus;
she was drought and fire;
she never cooled.
Stone grounded her,
Sky surrounded her,
and she never bent
to search for water.
Where she slept
the grass was scorched
from the heat of her breath
and the embers of her face.
Her speech hardened
like quick-setting resin,
never letting slip
tender words.
She did not know how to bend—
this cactus flower—
but beside her,
I bent and bent…
I let her die,
robbed her of my heart.
She ended like an eagle
left to starve.
Her wings stilled;
she bent, spent,
and her last spark
fell into my hand…
Still, her sisters mourn her,
accuse me—
with their fiery words
they tear me apart.
Passing, I tell them:
“Look in the creeks
and craft from the clay
another burning eagle.
“If you can’t—
oh, forget it.
I killed her. You all
should kill her, too!”
La Otra
by Gabriela Mistral
Una en mí maté:
yo no la amaba.
Era la flor llameando
del cactus de montaña;
era aridez y fuego;
nunca se refrescaba.
Piedra y cielo tenía
a pies y a espadas
y no bajaba nunca
a buscar ojos de agua.
Donde hacía su siesta,
las hierbas se enroscaban
de aliento de su boca
y brasa de su cara.
En rápidas resinas
se endurecía su habla,
por no caer en linda
presa soltada.
Doblarse no sabía
la planta de montaña,
y al costado de ella,
yo me doblaba…
La dejé que muriese,
robándole mi entraña.
Se acabó como el águila
que no es alimentada.
Sosegó el aletazo,
se dobló, lacia,
y me cayó a la mano
su pavesa acabada...
Por ella todavía
me gimen sus hermanas,
y las gredas de fuego
al pasar me desgarran.
Cruzando yo les digo:
“Buscad por las quebradas
y haced con las arcillas
otra águila abrasada.
“Si no podéis, entonces,
¡ay!, olvidadla.
Yo la maté. ¡Vosotras
también matadla!
Translator’s Reflection
When I first set out to translate this well-regarded work by Nobel prize-winning Chilean poet Gabriela Mistral, I was daunted by the task. Although I have studied and written poetry for many years, this was my first attempt at translating one from Spanish to English. What you are reading is a result of many drafts and peer group workshops—hours spent agonizing over the difference between “fire” and “flame,” and the implication of “bowed” versus “bent.” As I spent time with “La Otra,” I found myself fascinated by its violent beauty. The language indicates a deep respect—if not love—for “the other”: an uncompromising part of one’s self. Mistral likens this other self to an “eagle,” a “flower,” a seemingly unstoppable force even as she argues for its destruction. There are many possible interpretations of this work, but to me this poem captures the pain of personal growth—the rueful destruction of one part of yourself for the good of the whole. — C.S.
Copyright © 2020 by Association of Graduate Liberal Studies Programs