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About the Image

Lucila Quieto, a member of the Argentinian organization "Children for the Identity, Justice, and Against the Silence of the Forgotten," looks at photographs of her missing father.

+ (photo: Patrick Zachmann)

Laying the Dead to Rest: Meeting Forensic Anthropologist Mercedes Doretti

Read more on the show's main page.

"How many times…" by Marjorie Agosín

Here again is Alicia Partnoy, this time reading from the work of the Chilean poet Marjorie Agosin, who escaped General Pinochet’s regime. Agosin has written poetry about the mothers of Argentina’s disappeared; and about the human anguish in the city of Juarez in Mexico, where Mercedes Doretti has worked on some of the unsolved disappearances and murders of over 400 young women. Here you can listen to Alicia Partnoy read Marjorie Agosín's poem "How many times…" and follow along in both English and Spanish.


» Download
(mp3, 1:39)
How many times do I talk with my dead?
And their hands are rough and wrinkled, and I ask them
things and their faces are a memory of sorrows, and the night
threatens us in its tempestuous fall, but I talk with
my dead which perhaps are yours, and I cover them, saturate
them with my silent sorrow and with my tear-drenched eyes.
I always bid farewell to that body,
to those eyes that seem like a river
of silence.
And this is how I learn to tell them things,
to promise them a blossoming, flowery garden,
a history, a beginning, a promise,
and it is so incredible how I love this dead one, who is not mine,
who is not a cadaver either, but a waterfall, a dialogue,
a shore to be crossed.

» Download
(mp3, 1:12)
¿Cuantás veces yo converso con mis muertos
y sus manos, son una textura hundida, y les pregunto cosas
y sus rostros son una memoria de llagas, y la noche
amenazándonos en su caída intempestuosa, pero yo converso con
mis muertos que a lo mejor son tuyos, y los cubro, los empapo
de mi sentir callado y de mis ojos parecidos a los alambres de la
sombra. Siempre me despido de ese cuerpo, de esos ojos que me parecen
un río
de silencio.
Y así aprendo a decirles cosas,
a prometerles un jardín floreciente, florido,
una historia, un nacimiento, una promesa,
y es tan increíble como yo amo a este muetro, que no es mi
muerto,
que tampoco es un cadáver. Es un salto de agua, un diálogo,
una costa para cruzar.

(Copyright 1998 by Marjorie Agosín. Reprinted from "An Absence of Shadows," published by White Pine Press, with permission from Marjorie Agosín. Translated by Celeste Kostopulos-Cooperman.)

Find more poetry from Speaking of Faith on the Poetry Radio Project page.