Severin’s Choice: Natalia Litvinova’s Poetry

Natalia Litvinova

As a juror of the 1st international art contest organized by the Italian art&design magazine, IT’S LIQUID, I had the privilege to share some moving moments as an art lover.
One of them was the work of video-art signed by Pablo Gimenez Zapiola, entitled ”Meaning in Motion”. Especially the poems used by the the artist, to enrich his artwork, captivated my attention and my vote, the fluid verses were full of ardent and touching images, but also of strange and complex, reverberating meanings, meanings in motion…
The poems were signed by NATALIA LITVINOVA, a very young and gifted Russian poet, born in Belarus, who lives now in Buenos Aires, the city of Borges and Sabato, and writes both in Spanish and Russian.
Natalia Litvinova’s poetry is a complex and thrilling fusion between the imagery of the hidden face of nature and the strange architecture of human soul.
In her limpid and contemplative poems, Natalia is watching/writing the world with the eyes of the child: ”language takes me/through the turbulent rivers/of childhood.” She always succeeds, in a natural manner, to build with usual words an unusual state of being and pure moments of reverie, where paradox and surreal images are present in a moving metamorphosis.

In my opinion, she is one of the best new world poets, an expressive and fresh voice in contemporary poetry.

Natalia’s blog:[caption id=”attachment_934″ align=”alignleft” width=”300″

Los ojos

En realidad los días no pasan.
Nadie envejece.
Solo los ojos,
sirvientes de otro cielo,
trazan arrugas en los rostros,
empañan los espejos,
le dan peso a las piedras.
En realidad los días no pasan.
Las hojas no se queman.
No marchitan los jardines.
Los pájaros no abandonan continentes.
Son los ojos,
visten diminutas muertes
sin que nadie vea.

The eyes

Actually, the days don’t pass.
No one ages.
Only the eyes,
servants of another sky,
trace wrinkles on faces,
steam up mirrors,
make stones heavy.
Actually, the days don’t pass.
Leaves aren’t burnt.
Gardens don’t wither.
Birds don’t abandon countries.
It’s the eyes,
they put tiny deaths
that nobody sees.

Caras del viento

cuando no sé decir, dibujo.
si el árbol no se mueve en la hoja
pronuncio su temblor.

a veces tengo que temblar
para tener un árbol, una hoja
y decir como el viento.

Wind faces

when I don’t know how to speak, I draw.
if the tree doesn’t move on the leave
I pronounce its tremble.

sometimes I have to tremble
in order to have a tree, one leaf
and speak as the wind.

no crezcas

vuelvo a tener la edad que nunca tuve.
mi padre se acomoda sobre mi regazo
y me susurra al oído su regalo de navidad.
acaricio sus cabellos.
no crezcas
eso no hace falta para que exista.
él insiste y crece.
ahora un cuerpo sobra.

don’t grow up

I go back to the age I never had.
my father sits comfortably on my lap
and whispers in my ear his Christmas gift.
I caress his hair.
don’t grow up
that is not necessary for me to exist.
he insists and grows up.
now there is no place for his body.

leteo del decir

revolotear mi caída junto al pichón que cae.
estrellar mi rostro de pájaro contra el suelo.
no sé volar padre no sé
y respiro mal padre, tengo escamas,
intención de polilla siendo cuerpo
quemé las tripas de mi madre
para nacer con aleteo del decir sagrado,
pero denuncié lo que no fue sonoro
y caí junto al pichón
nacido en mi rostro de pájaro extranjero.
mi padre me dijo que tenía alas
y yo nadé

the flapping of saying

to flutter my fall next to the little pigeon that falls.
to crush my bird’s face against the ground.
I don’t know how to fly father I don’t
and I breathe wrongly father, I have scales,
a moth’s intention being a body
I burnt the guts of my mother
to be born with the flutter of the holy speech
but I denounced that which wasn’t making any sound
and I fell next to the little pigeon
born in my foreign bird’s face.
my father told me I had wings
and I swam


language takes me
through the turbulent rivers
of childhood.
my childhood didn’t see me grow up,
I built myself with the leftovers
of the high tide.


la lengua me lleva
por los ríos turbulentos
de la infancia.
la infancia no me vio crecer,
me construí con las sobras
de la marea alta

From Esteparia (Ediciones del Dock, Argentina, 2010)
English version by Tom Maver

About Constantin Severin

Constantin Severin ( is a Romanian writer and, as a visual artist, the founder and promoter of the award-winning concept known as archetypal expressionism. He is the author of eight books of poetry, essays, and novels, and his poems have been published by major Romanian and international literary magazines. He is one of the editors of the French cultural magazine Levure littéraire.
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