From her home in Seville, ahead of her first visit to Malta for the Mediterranean Literature Festival, Carmen Camacho talks to Jean Paul Borg on the power of poetry to inhabit other tongues, the unbreakable bond between writing and living, and the quiet yet radical act of listening to what language wants to reveal. The following is an interview that has been conducted in Spanish and translated to English.
- Carmen, you have been translated into several languages – languages spoken by many such as German, English and French – and also into other languages not spoken by so many such as Macedonian and Albanian (now even Maltese). As a poet who writes and speaks one of the most widely spoken languages in the world – Spanish – how does it feel to have your work translated into a language spoken by only a few thousand people?
For me, every language is a priceless treasure, regardless of how many people speak or write it. My reverence for languages is immense. Each language is a perfect machine given to us freely. The sound of that machine makes poetry possible. Being translated into Maltese by yourself is an opportunity to open my expressiveness to many others. The key that opens your door is granted to me by the translator. In that sense, I understand that my poems translated into Maltese are not only mine, but also the translator’s, who enables the rhythm and psychic root of my words in Spanish to be carried into your perfect machine – the Maltese language. I can’t wait to hear how what I write sounds in Maltese. Translating poetry means translating the untranslatable. Yet there are those who manage to make that exchange, that “linguistic coin” swap. Every time this happens, I feel immense gratitude.
- In some of your bionotes, you describe yourself as “Vivescribe en Sevilla” (I live/write in Seville). How much are living and writing interconnected for you?
In my case, I cannot separate writing from life. Writing the way I do is the most coherent consequence of living the way I live. I’m among those who believe poets write with words of honour. We try to speak the truth (though the truth, as Antonio Machado would say, is also invented). Or, better said, we write so that truth might reveal itself to us. In my particular case, I am exactly as I write – my poems reveal me not only in content but also in tone and form. Any progress in my writing is tied to progress in my life. And so are my setbacks. Neglecting my writing, as Ingeborg Bachmann said, is neglecting myself.
- You seem to have a deep interest in the dialogue between poetry and arts and have collaborated with different artists – from photographers to painters to musicians. However, what is your usual starting point – the poem or the other form of art?
Poetry and the other arts (I consider poetry a way of making art with words as the raw material) are, as my friend Esther Ramón always says, a house without walls. I’m very interested in joining other artists to play, to explore together. My tools and those of a painter, a composer, or a dancer can generate works of a completely different quality than what we might create in solitude. When playing and creating with other artists, there’s mutual feedback, a shared inspiration, where the starting point can vary each time. For example, when the musician Bronquio sends me sound textures, it is from them that I come up with ideas. Other times, my text can inspire the artist Luis Guardiola to paint.. And at times, we don’t even know whether the text or the artistic creation came first, because everything seems to stem from a shared source and an intimate connection. This often happens with the flamenco singer Rocío Márquez. Our collaborations have led to a close friendship.
- In a time when poetry isn’t always considered marketable, do you see dialogue with other art forms as a necessity for reaching wider audiences – or is it rewarding in its own right?
Weaving words with other forms of art is rewarding in itself. I don’t write to be commercially successful – if that were my aim, I’d choose a different literary genre – but rather with a much more ambitious goal: to live fully, expansively. What’s wonderful is that when I come together with other artists to create, we end up reaching more people. That encounter with readers or audiences helps me pay my bills (which, by the way, I believe should be a guaranteed right for all artists). Yet the true fruits of such encounters lie with reaching people who we don’t normally reach and end up reading or listening to us, which is broader in scope and of far greater significance.
- While translating your poetry, I got the feeling that your poetic voice was constantly trying to draw a line from its past, wanting to start anew. How conscious were you of this tension between past and renewal?
That’s a deep observation. In my case, I allow everything that happens within my poetry to happen without needing my permission. Otherwise, rational control over the idea would prevent me from saying things I don’t know. And I write in order to say the things I don’t yet know, to discover them. I also write, so that those who read me might discover themselves. Of course, my mind plays a role in the process, but “me dejo decir” (“I allow myself to be spoken”), not only through reason, but also through intuition, emotion, and lived experience. Your observation strikes me as very accurate, and it’s the first time anyone has pointed it out. Thank you for helping me learn something more about what my own words are trying to tell me.
- And maybe at times such as in “El Mal Poema” you take a dig at the old poetry, that maybe at times we revere so much?
A bad poem is one that repeats what has already been done in good poems. That kind of repetition doesn’t interest me. Knowing language and poetic tradition should honestly serve what one truly needs to say. In any case, the text El mal poema defends the usefulness of all poetry, even bad poetry – that is, poetry full of clichés. Just a few true words (no matter how few they are, and no matter how little truth they contain) can save our day.
- In “Kansas City, Sevilla,” you touch on the issue of colonialism. Coming from a country with a long colonial history, and with your upcoming visit to a formerly colonised island – do you ever reflect on how your experience as a woman parallels the dynamics of colonisation? Do you ever feel, in a metaphorical sense, colonised yourself?
That’s another thought-provoking and profound question. “Kansas City, Sevilla” is one of the texts I hold dearest. It speaks precisely of colonisation on a deeply symbolic level. My city, Seville, is twinned with Kansas City, whose history of forced displacement and indigenous genocide is well known. On Kansas City Avenue (in Seville), there’s a statue of a Sioux on horseback. Every time I look at it, I think of the “Sioux of Seville,” meaning all those people who, despite being displaced to ghettos like Las Tres Mil Viviendas, have not lost their identity. It is a tribute to those who are “in defeat, never in submission” (as Claudio Rodríguez said). In the text itself, there’s a reflection on the “colonisation” or subjugation – under capitalism, increasingly subtle and sophisticated, yet just as effective as other patriarchal systems – of women. My poetic work and my opinion articles in the Spanish press are infused with this complex feminist reflection. My condition as a woman is deeply marked by that very experience.
- Finally, how do you feel about coming to Malta (probably for the first time) for the Malta Mediterranean Literature Festival?
Yes, it’s my first time in Malta, and I’m coming, as I always like to go to any place I’m invited: open, without preconceptions, ready. I will come to offer the most precious thing I have, which is my words. And I know that I will return to Spain in debt, because everything the Malta Mediterranean Literature Festival is going to give me will far surpass what I can offer in return. I know this experience will echo in what I write from then on. That makes me feel very fortunate. I’m really looking forward to being there, to being there.
Carmen Camacho will be a panellist at An Archaeology of Words: Literary Genres as Sites of Excavation, joining Maltese authors Omar N’Shea and Michael Zammit, with Glen Calleja as host on 25 August 2026 at 8pm at Vincent’s Eco Farm in Mġarr.
She will also perform a reading of her poetry. The panel and readings will be followed by a performance by Kym Pepe and Jimmy Bartolo supported by the National Book Council. Attendees will receive a complimentary chapbook of her work, featuring translations by Jean Paul Borg.
Tickets are available at showshappening.com. Follow Inizjamed on Facebook and Instagram for more details about the Festival. Inizjamed, the organiser of the Festival, is an NGO and can be found at www.inizjamed.org.
