William Hurtado de Mendoza (Peru / writes in Quechua) 1946

William Hurtado de Mendoza (Peru / writes in Quechua)

1946

Born in 1946 in Cuzco, Peru, the historical capital of the Inca Empire, and now a World Heritage site, William Hurtado de Mendoza is a bilingual poet, writing in both his native Quechua and Spanish.

     During the military regime of Juan Velazco (1968-1975), Hurtado de Mendoza was editor of Cronicawan, a Quechua-language newspaper, at a time when the dictator declared Quechua the official language of Peru and ordered its teaching in the schools.

     Among his early books are Yanapaq jailli (Lima: Ediciones Martíez, 1971); Yachaynakipaq taki / Canción para que aprednas (Lima: Perugraph Editores, 1977); Mateo Llaqta (Lima: Lluvia Editores, 1987); and an anthology for children, Poesía quechua: selección para niños(Lima: Lluvia Editores, 1990). He has also translated several Quechua writers into Spanish, and has written extensively on Quechua culture and mythology.

      He was for many years professor of literature at the Universidad Agraria de La Molina in Lima.

BOOKS OF POETRY

Yanapaq jailli (Lima: Ediciones Martíez, 1971); Yachaynakipaq taki / Canción para que aprednas (Lima: Perugraph Editores, 1977); Mateo Llaqta (Lima: Lluvia Editores, 1987)

ENGLISH LANGUAGE TRANSLATIONS

a small selection of his work appears in Julio Noriega, ed. Pichka Harawikuna: Five Quechua Poets, trans. by Maureen Ahern (Pittsburgh: Americas Society/Latin American Literary Review Press, 1998)

A Letter

I

I'm writing to you

before the sun

dozes in its ashes.

Before fire

becomes blackest charcoal.

Before day

loses its way behind the night.

Before the rainbow

casts cold into drizzle.

Before lightning

starts snowing among the clouds.

Before hail

wails through the winds.

And long before

cold aches in your heart.

I'm writing to you urgently

without the wind's knowing,

so no one will be humbled.

II

I'm writing to you

Before my quena

sings clotted blood.

Before this song

casts a shadow upon anguish.

Before the hymn

becomes a dying ghost.

Before my tendons

lose their tension.

Before my eyes

turn to stone from sobbing.

Even before my height

seeks a staff.

I'm writing to you urgently

without the wind's knowing

so no one will be humbled.

III

I'm writing you

so death will

not be born of hope.

So the scars

on stones won't fade.

So blood

is not tainted by sorrow.

So pain

is not overcome in its ache.

I'm writing to you urgently

so the wind doesn't know

so on one will be humbled.

IV

I'm writing to you urgently

along the starry roadway.

So tomorrow reaches your heart

in its garment of clouds.

So your hands loosen

the know the wind tied.

So your embers warm

whatever frost covers.

So your flames caress

the fabric of snowy peaks.

So your hands darn

what winters have torn.

So your songs gather

the grief of the poor.

V

And if somebody asks you

about me.

only this

responds for us:

Tell them that I'm the one

who wrote to you on the wind

so no one will be humbled.

—Translated from the Quechua by Maureen Ahern

_____________

English language translation ©1998 by Maureen Ahern Latin American Literary Review Press. Reprinted from Julio Noriega, ed., Pichka Harawikuna: Five Quechua Poets (Pittsburgh: Americas Society/Latin American Literary Review Press, 1998).