Six Questions to Miguel-Ángel Zapata, author of El florero amenaza con hablar (The Vase Threatens to Speak)
Interview by Natalia Chamorro
NATALIA CHAMORRO: First of all, congratulations on receiving the José María Eguren Medal. Given Eguren’s significance in Peruvian literary history, what does this recognition mean to you personally?
MIGUEL-ANGEL ZAPATA: When I heard the news, I was truly delighted. I sense that José María Eguren (Lima, 1874–1942) is a rare poet because his poetry contains the magic of the image-maker. The poet cultivates strange and unusual images that dismantle any modernism, adhering more to the Mallarméan symbol or the image of infinity sought by Lautréamont. In Eguren, the word is pain and fascination. José María Eguren represents the first fracture in Peruvian poetry at the beginning of the century. That is to say, Peruvian poetry begins the era of modernity in poetry, which would later become radicalized with the poetry of César Vallejo, especially "Trilce" (1922), and his European poems, written between 1923 and 1938.
CHAMORRO: I know you’ve just published El florero amenaza con hablar with Máquina Purísima Editores, marking your return to publishing after five years. Could you tell us how this collection converses with your previous works, such as A Tree Crossing the City (New York Poetry Press, 2019) and La iguana de Casandra. Poesía selecta (Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2021)?
ZAPATA: I write because I need poetry to speak to me, to make me feel alive. I write poems very frequently, but not every day. I waited until the poems told me they were ready to fly through the air and continue living in a new book like El florero amenaza con hablar. The word spreads across the page, making circles in my head. If there's one thing that always prevails in my writing, it's the presence of nature. I feel closer to trees than to streets, closer to the sea and forests than to tall skyscrapers. Even when the city is overwhelming, and I love walking through it, nature awaits contact with words to create a seemingly impossible fusion. In A Tree Crosses the City (2019), I tried to establish a connection between the tree (a delusional patient in today's world), the streets, and the horror of the world's craziest urban centers. Music (of any kind) is always present in my work because I'm a music lover par excellence. This book features poems inspired by paintings I admire, such as those of Edvard Munch, among others. Now, in this new publication, there are poems dedicated to painters, musicians, and poets who are my inspirations. Here, the vase speaks to the piano, and Arvo Pärt is my special guest.
CHAMORRO: How would you define your own poetics?
ZAPATA: A poetics is a way of being in the poem. That is, it's how I am in the poem. My poetry tries to strike a balance between complexity and transparency. I always want to pierce a syllable, peel away the unnecessary scabs of language, find the exact balance of words, just like in a short Mozart sonata. Mozart's Symphony Concertante for Violin and Viola, to cite one example, has given me more than twenty novels. I don't know if being so lyrical helps the construction of the poem, but it is necessary that the heart be the musical instrument that ultimately defines hearing and feelings. Exactly, it is the heart of the night, the heart of pain, the heart of love and language that tunes the poem. Without a heart, the sky doesn't clear up. The night remains black. The world is always reborn in the forest.
CHAMORRO: Why do you believe the most powerful poetry often arises outside of literary schools or movements?
ZAPATA: High-flying poetry has existed and will continue to exist individually. The only literary movement that attracts me is the great poem, the unattainable one. Great poetry has always been characterized by its individuality. Consider Paul Celan, Góngora, Dickinson, Vallejo, William Carlos Williams, or Charles Wright. Within a "literary group," not all poets could write similarly. Great poetry will always be free and independent, like the poetry of Rimbaud, Pound, or Vallejo.
MIGUEL-ANGEL ZAPATA: When I heard the news, I was truly delighted. I sense that José María Eguren (Lima, 1874–1942) is a rare poet because his poetry contains the magic of the image-maker. The poet cultivates strange and unusual images that dismantle any modernism, adhering more to the Mallarméan symbol or the image of infinity sought by Lautréamont. In Eguren, the word is pain and fascination. José María Eguren represents the first fracture in Peruvian poetry at the beginning of the century. That is to say, Peruvian poetry begins the era of modernity in poetry, which would later become radicalized with the poetry of César Vallejo, especially "Trilce" (1922), and his European poems, written between 1923 and 1938.
CHAMORRO: I know you’ve just published El florero amenaza con hablar with Máquina Purísima Editores, marking your return to publishing after five years. Could you tell us how this collection converses with your previous works, such as A Tree Crossing the City (New York Poetry Press, 2019) and La iguana de Casandra. Poesía selecta (Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2021)?
ZAPATA: I write because I need poetry to speak to me, to make me feel alive. I write poems very frequently, but not every day. I waited until the poems told me they were ready to fly through the air and continue living in a new book like El florero amenaza con hablar. The word spreads across the page, making circles in my head. If there's one thing that always prevails in my writing, it's the presence of nature. I feel closer to trees than to streets, closer to the sea and forests than to tall skyscrapers. Even when the city is overwhelming, and I love walking through it, nature awaits contact with words to create a seemingly impossible fusion. In A Tree Crosses the City (2019), I tried to establish a connection between the tree (a delusional patient in today's world), the streets, and the horror of the world's craziest urban centers. Music (of any kind) is always present in my work because I'm a music lover par excellence. This book features poems inspired by paintings I admire, such as those of Edvard Munch, among others. Now, in this new publication, there are poems dedicated to painters, musicians, and poets who are my inspirations. Here, the vase speaks to the piano, and Arvo Pärt is my special guest.
CHAMORRO: How would you define your own poetics?
ZAPATA: A poetics is a way of being in the poem. That is, it's how I am in the poem. My poetry tries to strike a balance between complexity and transparency. I always want to pierce a syllable, peel away the unnecessary scabs of language, find the exact balance of words, just like in a short Mozart sonata. Mozart's Symphony Concertante for Violin and Viola, to cite one example, has given me more than twenty novels. I don't know if being so lyrical helps the construction of the poem, but it is necessary that the heart be the musical instrument that ultimately defines hearing and feelings. Exactly, it is the heart of the night, the heart of pain, the heart of love and language that tunes the poem. Without a heart, the sky doesn't clear up. The night remains black. The world is always reborn in the forest.
CHAMORRO: Why do you believe the most powerful poetry often arises outside of literary schools or movements?
ZAPATA: High-flying poetry has existed and will continue to exist individually. The only literary movement that attracts me is the great poem, the unattainable one. Great poetry has always been characterized by its individuality. Consider Paul Celan, Góngora, Dickinson, Vallejo, William Carlos Williams, or Charles Wright. Within a "literary group," not all poets could write similarly. Great poetry will always be free and independent, like the poetry of Rimbaud, Pound, or Vallejo.
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CHAMORRO: You’ve lived in New York for many years while writing poetry in Spanish. How has living in this city influenced your work? How do you view poetry written in Spanish in the United States?
Big cities are always a vital influence in the lives of artists and poets. New York is a metallic siren that gnaws at your bones, sometimes with sweetness, sometimes with horror. It's inevitable, therefore, not to write about New York. I've written several poems about certain places that drew me to this immense metropolis. There are poets who still insist on writing in Spanish, because that's what our hearts and our inner music dictate. I hope it continues forever, especially now that we're living in dark times. CHAMORRO: I understand you're working on an anthology. Could you tell us about the process? I'm preparing a personal anthology of my poetry, which will soon be published in Spain. When I reread my old poems, I don't recognize myself. Each poet advances as they acquire greater culture and read valuable new poets. For me, the new poets are always the classics. I reread those who, for me personally, are classics, and they always silently bear fruit and teach me. Rereading Paul Celan has taught me to smooth out the rough edges of the poem, that murky air that disrupts the syllabic rhythm, or the tempest of a vain emotion. Vallejo is always a reference because he provides precision in poetic language. |
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Miguel-Angel Zapata is a Professor of Latin American Literature at Hofstra University. He has recently published El Florero amenaza con hablar (Lima: Máquina Purísima, 2024); Usted no sabe cuánto pesa un corazón solitario. Ensayos sobre poesía (Lima: Universidad Ricardo Palma, 2023); Trilce. Ensayos (México: Universidad de Querétaro-Ed. El Tucán de Virginia, 2023); and La Iguana de Casandra. Poesía selecta (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2021). He is the founding director of Códice- Revista de Poesía. In 2023 he won the Enrique Anderson Award, which is given by the North American Academy of the Spanish Language (ANLE), and in 2025 he has been awarded the prestigious José María Eguren Medal. This honor recognizes Miguel-Ángel Zapata as a leading voice in contemporary Spanish-American poetry; granted by the Ibero-American Foundation for the Arts, in coordination with the Municipality of Lima, and the National University of San Marcos.
3 POEMS BY MIGUEL-ANGEL ZAPATA
Translations by Sarah Pollack
Translations by Sarah Pollack
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Visitors
No visitors accepted/ unless they bring a drop/ of pure absinthe or a handle/ to open the poem of a/ dark heart.// Let only François Villon come/ with more wine and warm bread./ Let him approach with his pale heart/ and silk cloak encircled by an angel/ with a crown of stars.// Misguided by so many syllables,/ I now turn to the empty bottle of the poem.// Let no one drain it drop by drop/ when love grows before heaven’s/ purifying horde. |
Visitas
No se aceptan visitas/ a no ser que traigan una gota/ de ajenjo puro o una manija/ para abrir el poema de corazón/ oscuro.// Que venga solo François Villon/ con más vino y pan caliente./ Que se acerque con su corazón pálido/ y su capa de seda rodeado de un ángel/ con diadema de estrellas.// Ahora errado de tantas sílabas/ recurro a la botella vacía del poema.// Que nadie la escurra gota a gota/ cuando el amor crece ante la horda/ purificadora del cielo. |
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Egon Schiele
I only wanted to savor dark waters,/ paint crackling trees and wild winds./ Irrationally, the brush wrestled with misery/ and loneliness. It led me to paradises forbidden/ by the morality of a procession of ignorant sages.// I sought the opaque tangle of a stifled moan./ I couldn’t die without caressing your crimson rose first,/ that fragrant flower nestled between your thighs.// I painted four trees and a withered sunflower,/ the sun’s gold touched my wolf’s heart./ My eyes burst from the angel of sweetness,/ mad reason smoldered beneath my eyelids,/ and a red cloud cast shadows on all bodies. |
Egon Schiele
Yo solo quería saborear aguas oscuras,/ pintar árboles crepitantes y vientos salvajes./ Irracional el pincel forcejeaba con la miseria/ y la soledad. Me llevaba a paraísos prohibidos/ por la moral de un cortejo de sabios ignorantes.// Buscaba ese ovillo opaco del gemido truncado./ No quise morir sin antes tocar tu rosa bermellón,/ aquella flor olorosa entre las piernas.// Pinté cuatro árboles y un girasol marchito,/ y el oro del sol tocó mi corazón de lobo./ Explotaban mis ojos por el ángel de la dulzura,/ la razón insana ardía bajo mis párpados,/ una nube roja sombreaba todos los cuerpos. |
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Selfie with Allen Ginsberg
Allen read his poems out loud one cold, snowy night/ in Saint Louis. Banjos rang out on the other side of the Mississippi./ Allen had a beard and thinning hair, smoke-colored glasses and a/ voice bordering on a madmen’s Parnassus.// He read his howls and courtesans applauded him like/ a king of California.// On the dais his angel voice repeated/ Holy my mother in the insane asylum, holy New York and San Francisco.// Allen had visited Peru, and exalted he recited verses/ by Carlos Oquendo de Amat. He dreamed about returning to Nazca and / savoring new Lima at twilight.// We took a selfie in the sands of the Pachacamac. |
Selfi con Allen Ginsberg
Allen leía sus poemas en voz alta una noche de frío y nieve/ en Saint Louis. Los banyos sonaban al otro lado del Mississippi./ Allen tenía barba y poco cabello, gafas ahumadas y una voz/ adyacente al parnaso de los locos.// Leyó́ sus aullidos y los cortesanos lo aplaudieron como un/ rey de California.// Mientras en el estrado su voz de ángel repetía/ Santa la madre mía en el manicomio, santo Nueva York y San Francisco.// Allen había visitado el Perú, exaltado recitaba unos versos/ de Carlos Oquendo de Amat. Soñaba con volver a Nazca y/ saborear la Lima nueva en el crepúsculo.// Nos tomamos una selfi desde las arenas de Pachacamac. |
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