Elsa Cross

Elsa Cross, ( born March 6, 1946 in Mexico City), is a contemporary Spanish-language Mexican writer perhaps best known for her poetry. She has also published translations, philosophical essays and is known as an authority on Indian philosophy.

She has a doctorate in Philosophy and Letters from Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM) and is currently a professor in that Faculty.

In 1990, she was awarded the Premio Nacional de Poesía Aguascalientes for her book of poems El diván de Antar. She is also the recipient of the Premio Nacional de Poesía Jaime Sabines (in 1992).

According to Octavio Paz, Elsa Cross is one of the most personal voices in recent Latin-American poetry. Her work, already considerable, includes some of the most perfect poems of the last generation of Mexican writers. I say voice and not poetic writing since poetry, although written, must always be spoken. Two opposing notes reconcile harmoniously in Elsa Cross: the complexity of her thought and the clarity of her diction.

Contents

Published works

Her poetry

Speaking of her poetry, she said it is the bond of the internal with the external. In one direction or another, for me poetry always bridges that inside with that of the outside, is the way of passing from one to the other of these spaces, but which unites them. The internal only can expressed when reflected in that outside -that necessary knot-, the outside can be a mirror or vice versa.

Extract from Triptico, 1998

II. Reflejo en una esfera

Desde su centro,
la esfera de una lámpara
invierte las formas,
punto de fuga:
se comban los bordes metálicos,
el contorno de la ventana,
el árbol de la rosa morada
resbalan hacia el vacío.
Noche acumulada en las paredes.
Sin mediar palabras,
hundidos de golpe en esos cálices–
zumos de hierba
en la abrasión oscura,
clima intemperado.
Oh largos besos,
mano que recorre el muslo
como una playa,
el rizo en la ingle–
(oh cuerpo del verano).
Y detenidos en esa floración
como insectos,
los pensamientos.
Al alba el lugar desconocido,
flores moradas.
La lámpara quiebra sus reflejos,
como afuera el sol ya se refracta
sobre las superficies.
Los objetos pasan como un río:
voces que piden ser oídas,
irrumpen en la mente.
Intocada en lo que la desborda,
la conciencia es un espejo:
filo de escama,
aspa que roza un ala en movimiento.
Ellos se dejan
sin volver la vista atrás,
sin preguntarse sus nombres.
Y la zona de nadie,
el entrecielo recorrido en el delirio
inexistente ahora,
ya poblado del tráfago innoble
de la calle.

External links