PEDRO LASTRA (Quillota, Chile, 1932)

Rereading of Enrique Lihn

Because I wrote I am alive.
THE

But I do not write,
I hardly have a word anymore,
Enrique Lihn, friend of the best days
(those who did not arrive)
what can i do at last
To find the kingdom that only dreams create
with the word that was not in the dream:
the birds of yesteryear
or a girl next to the jasmine tree
in the center of the patio, if there was that patio
And it is not invented by the other one that I am when I return every morning
my mortal enemy, the one who lives in my house,
the one who denies and mocks
of my little stubborn gambler traps
or aspiring to the scepter of the just,
if there is justice and just
and floods, with his immortal dove
and all that.

FERNANDO CELY HERRÁN (Bogotá, Colombia, 1957)

Directions

I dont know

how can you

walk around,

with my look

tangled

in your body.

FERNANDO VARGAS VALENCIA (Bogotá, Colombia, 1984)

YOU FELL ASLEEP WITHOUT NOTICE, JUST.

I hope when you wake up

the sapphic blink

from the stones scratched from the outside,

do not be scared.

Hope you remember me

When something lets you go back

I hope the trains return to this haunted city

and with them,

your so particular shape

to make me want to devour you whole.

You won everything with that dissipation of your ashes:

You've earned yourself a place in my false promises.

I hardly understand the magnitude of my defeat:

I am the heart that behind your upright body gives you away.

I will no longer believe in your useless love affairs.

I will no longer believe in the release of your orgasm

that hangs vile and weak at all ends of my body.

I will no longer believe in my body:

I have plenty of limbs for these days of intense drunkenness,

I have plenty in this city of laconic bellows

where I look for you and you don't appear,

where the streets smell of your radical moods,

where the library wants to collapse with envy,

where women make me angry and afraid,

where women are an apology to death,

where women are unbearable and arrogant.

You locked yourself in the cave and left me outside.

You locked it and you swallowed it.

I will forgive you.

Don't do it again, constellation postponed;

repress your desire not to be:

here, in my poor student bag,

there will always be room for your exaggerated sleep.

FELIPE LÓPEZ (Manizales, Colombia, 1985)

Someone had delusions about the Chimborazo, and I celebrate it with flowers that limit

the mountain ranges of warrior souls

I accompany the delusional who dare to pulverize themselves, the wise men, the taitas, the

potatoes, cassava, tubers that found their home in these lands

Delirious with every speck of dust that enters the windows, because they are the vestiges

From the mountain ranges, from the dead skin of jaguars, to the blood of the sad Night

A courage, and delirium before the beauty, delirium before the horror, for the lands that deify

Bachué, they have chosen the ruffian, the pirate, and the chains

But every cell makes me proud, even my canine teeth, molars, are rinsed

of the cane that raves in the tropics, the liquid that is born of the moors puffs up,

the longboat that sets sail in the confines of the Amazon, the poppy that shakes the subsoil

You have to be in the prisons of the jungle and say that this is true

Delirium against America, because crazy people climb the ceibas, we apnea in

the Rio de la Plata, we go beyond the dimension and divinity in the flavor of ayahuasca,

rave about pillows that dream of springs in Lost City

Refuge from delusions who believe in the impossible

YENNY LEÓN (Medellín, Colombia, 1987)

From Between Trees and Stones (2013)

Yeti, not all words

sentenced to death.

Wislawa Szymborska

the girl sinks

in the fourth longest silence on earth

spend the day

locked in a bubble of fire

the yeti shakes

to the tiny circle

leaves traces of rust

the stone is silent

against the rain.

when the days are over

and the blade

no longer incubate its root

immersed in the reverse of the stones

will lie the maddened void of light

the big losses

they will make the mountain

its center

like ports of no return

they will embrace the memory

just to shape the past

will be so old in our eyes

like the fate of water.

IRINA HENRÍQUEZ (Bolívar, Colombia, 1988)

Finding

My way of waiting for something to happen is obsessive. Let the beast that hides behind the undergrowth of the day's events jump on me. But I do not wait for more than a few seconds: I wish to be found while searching or celebrating a wrong finding.

And the best way to find it is by being immobile while everything rotates or the bells ring: the world is then all the things that sooner or later are camouflaged under the appearance of the everyday. I desire the tide of images that remain after each movement in the finest meshes of the air. I wish to possess what you look at without knowing, all the things that in the name of chance have remained consigned in the nothingness of abandonment. Because you didn't realize it, because the hawk is the owner of his complaint but he does not know that it has reached me, because it is in the world and it is my find.

RÉMY DURAND (Carácas, Venezuela, 1946). French.

The man who cries

to GR

the man who cried

The man who cries

wears bitter filigree black flowers

no longer has a name

my name is nobody says

he does not know what his name is

I don't know what my name is

does matters

forgot who he is

who I am? He says

maybe the guy who crosses the street

no arms no gaze

The man who cries

can no longer breathe

Air please air! He says

nor walk nor walk

dirty vessels lie in his path

thrown and torn garments

wrinkled costumes no dance costumes

shirts stained with empty words

an entire continent thrown to the ground

thirsty bloom withered hopes

The man who cries

you feel like nothing

does not want to dress

Oh! again shave look at my bones in the mirror

the eyes without a girl my lifeless eyes

dress again what a fucking war and those puppet loves

what an asshole Valentine's Day

the man who cries only wants to roam naked

down the roads of hell

you say you love me but you leave

you say you love me but you don't come

go my heavenly love, blessed love

Let's toast with champagne to honor

You don't stay and you don't go!

Let's toast with champagne on that great day of my unemployment

liters of champagne my love glorious delicious

Well you retire me, you stop me, you invite me to burst

yes my lady my lady my lady

stay don't come stay beautiful

I know everything, you are the permanent beauty

and here the pieces lie

of your new ephemeral lover

the one you want, crumb of your crumbs

waste walks

Call me Waste, my name is Waste

one step forward two steps back

The man who cries

walk barefoot in the wind

there where nobody talks to him

there where nobody asks

Oh! how are you? how are you? what happened to you?

you look sad and stunned and pale

where nobody talks to him

nobody asks him

Oh! how are you? how are you? what happened to you?

The man who cries

think

I have a dumb wind

unfaithful snow charge

transshipment lying sands

I decked myself with footprints and grooves

relics of broken loves so what?

And that?

The man who cries

he no longer eats, he no longer drinks

he no longer writes but the poem

the poem of the man who cries

the poem of the man who cries

And this fucking love letter

FERNANDO J. ELIZONDO-GARZA (Monterrey, Mexico, 1954).

Swallow it

Swallow all this life

enjoy exterminating

likely to be

in an unwritten destination

but what happened

from generation to generation

between privacy

and congratulation's.

Swallow without fuss

don't be disgusted

those genetic records,

that although fleetingly

they will fill you, they will pass

well nothing remains

more than the memory.

Swallow your hopes

unlikely to exist

in that release

playful and joyful

what did you squeeze

of your lord

take all the flow

and closes the rite.

RUBÉN MEDINA (Mexico City, Mexico, 1955).

Little dance

You look me in the eye

and I shudder.

I look at your lips

and you blush.

You look at my chest

and jump.

I look at your neck

and sigh.

Then we close our eyes

and we go for these

small towns

midwestern

North American

living

groping,

to 35 fires

per hour.

IVÁN TREJO (Tampico, Tamaulipas, Mexico, 1978).

7

they buried

standing / didn't know until

then / they wanted their weight to fall on their feet

unmade / collapsing

and end up sitting as if resting

something / nobody warned / no questions

did / my father had

crooked feet and on them

they buried him / he didn't like to wait

and I was buried standing up.

ESTHER M. GARCÍA (Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, 1987).

Lonely woman caring for her mother

Christina Rico Gonzalez

(Saltillo, Coah. 1980 - Zacatecas, Zac. (-))

They say her mother went crazy when she was born

that his father disappeared into a black cloud of uncertainty

I went to the store for cigarettes

"Now I'm coming, I won't be long!" He said and 25 years passed

and never came back

It is still the date that she expects it

dressed as a girl behind the door

behind the reflection of his mother

of all its bitterness

Madness is a silent weapon

Play at not wanting to hurt anyone

more than the sick

but it's a lie

It is a bullet penetrating flesh, opening wounds

leaving unnoticeable traces of blood

about

A gun full of ammunition is his mother

and she for defending love

or by obligation

let his life pass always tied to the same string

mom's madness

that brutalizes her beautifully in the eyes of the neighbors

of relatives

of those who have ever stalked her with passion

and then they were stains on the memory

imprecise blots

Every night his crazy mother howls at the moon

and she kisses the button between her lips

with the fingers of his right hand

Every night is the same thing

the same tune

the same ritual

One howls madness and another marries the pillow

between the sweat of "what if the neighbors and uncles find out?"

And the "What would mom think of me?"

But his mother is no longer

but the abyss of something else

that at the end of a day any one will end up consuming it

also her

MERCEDES ROFFÉ (Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1954).

The meeting

                                                                                               

If you wait for me

I'll tell you

who are you

-open me

I'm not quite

dead

I am your

MARIANA VACS (Rosario, Argentina, 1967).

Siren

Inside the cenote,

your body is a mermaid and sings.

I listen to your childhood melodies

my muteness is not snub,

is that the air makes rounds in memory

and stake me.

CAROLINA ZAMUDIO (Curuzú Cuatiá, Argentina, 1973).

My dead

I carry my living dead in me.

They come in the morning to be ecstatic in my hand

when they caress luminous

the foreheads of my daughters. You look in the mirror

in my eyes

of a brown more ocher than greenish

peeking enigmatic from the drooping eyelids

of another dead that lives in me

until death do us part.

RODOLFO HÄSLER (Santiago de Cuba, Cuba, 1958).

Page one: Monday. The lucid magpie

I have a magpie that looks at everything.

Although elusive, there it is, perhaps a chance,

pulls the strand, a slip when falling

on a mound of Ibirapuera grass.

In wild territory, far from keeping calm

the magpie manifests itself, insists on a flight without a labyrinth,

crosses the ether and cancels the desire by going to the side,

he vanishes for the best place, his judgment in the foliage.

Repeat a jump that is a line, and covers more,

he dupes his handler early.

They celebrate both at the same time, border the saying

always on the verge of losing the chance,

rummaging in soft earth, on damp leaves,

a deep feeling of abandonment.

                                                  

Page Two: Tuesday

The word magpie: I read it in the mirror.

A smooth cut in the glass, what do you propose?

The image goes through the quicksilver slot

and runs to a subway station, Jabaquara destination.

The statuary shadow of the estates fills the crystalline,

he discovers nothing, only strangeness and pain.

The squawk of a bird,

and one day, maybe today, maybe tomorrow, cloudy,

his intention ceases before the rhythm of the universe.

YOSIE CRESPO (Pinar del Río, Cuba, 1979).

Jessica, 1715

My mother tells me that everything looks alike

to a movie from the seventies

where am i

dressed like olivia newton

in her capacity as daughter lightened and in full light

but in the frame of some wild place

and the most extraordinary thing: fast asleep

and where i'm dancing in images of a revolution

in Egypt

and with a list in my hand of everything that I could love with anger

and where thistooshallpass -like in a dream-

where the poem does not always enter the poem

and where God is not always the perfect creator

but nobody believes that -only me- according to my mother

because somewhere in the brain I refuse to die

and because I have not come here because of my patience

nor through a reset that I can't remember

If I only had a stone or fell suddenly

or as Jessica would say on July 10, seventeen hundred

fifteen: it's time to go back, but where

so let's treat the said thing

like the moan of a log

or like a cloud in a Kardinsky painting

where I the inhabitant -human figure made

Of various materials - now I'm rotting

when there was still a rope left to swing on

and piecemeal or like coming out of death

but higher and without origin

I refuse to be a piece of bone from that one

no rain or at least a drop today

not calm from that calm

not distance from your own body

no shame surrounding your already bare arteries

if at least we knew then that we lived

I would realize and I could believe in -all this-

to at least warn

how to get to that instant of light in space

that lives in your eyes and at night.

YRENE SANTOS (Villa Tapia, Dominican Republic, 1963).

Replay

A game

a reaction

your tongue dies when you touch me

the ink of desire expands

calcining the five points of your face

Laughs

silences

they resonate in the left ear of the bedroom.

MARIANELA MEDRANO (Copey, Dominican Republic, 1964).

Of Witches and Butterflies

It's okay

Let's sit down to define

Pythagoras believed in reincarnation

-I believe in him-

So he's the blue worm of the quiet afternoons

that gets tangled in my skirt

bite into the soft pulp

Believe me, he is the one who comes to me turned into a worm

And me?

I am the voice where the birds start to come from

-Before I was quiet a deformed butterfly on the walls-

After that I was a dragon that sipped its own fire

How I enjoyed the flames

In the mirror of the embers I found the key

the one that God forgot when he made the world

(I must say when the world made it to him)

Poor thing is blind looking for his face

Let's not get lost Let's go back to the wheel

In another point

Head down nodding

I took a chair at the apostles' conference

Birds of omens began to flutter on the ceiling

Close your eyes

spread your legs

silence spills between mouths

splashing stone pillows

I said woman

and all the faces turned

the swords sank until I broke my neck

The daughters of love fell into pieces

the sisters

-the beautiful skulls of the brides with bouquets of orange blossoms-

I turn my face towards this part

The nails start to come out

Ah ... because I am Christ

Do you now understand the mystery of your prayer on the cross?

Father why did you left me?

And I was reborn to this pain of life

to this hunger to this thirst that is not satisfied

This time with a piano frame

The piano circle the music ring

-the greatest orgy of the angels between my legs-

Sitting in the shadows I toasted

with the nectar of my own blood

wood blood this one that hurts

After a while the keyboard became silent as a statue

Then it was necessary to make me

The circle made by me

the one at the helm the one with the raw battles

and the waves that kill

Oh the battle of the cold fields

the fight of the sun and the moon

The judges came to this ceremony

With giggles on the side

The sages already know the winners

I refused to be the star and spat their faces

-It was like passing the caress over a garden of thorns-

Naked they threw me back into the fire

Come to the witch's party

the one who eats lizards to scare idiots

ferment stars of vision to enjoy

licking lips

The one with the mouth of strawberries and sour saliva

than to know the art of death

The one that opens a route with the brush of insomnia

Cheering the coven with songs

Feast of rains thunder and lightning

X-raying your praxis

-reinvention of the world world

world of eyes that do not close

of arms cramming the streets

A crazy generation is possible

let them eat butterflies silabeen nightingales

inventing the way to engender the sun and the moon

The comprehensive restructuring of the universe

in it the seed of the new being that survives the light.

DIANA ARAUJO PEREIRA (Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 1972).

Of Other words / Outras palavras (RJ: 7Letras, 2008)

Spread to other bodies, to other souls, to other hearts. In the longed-for completeness of forming human maps, harmonic geographies, renowned complicity. Naming oneself when naming the other, this one that we so much need on the noisy scale of living in the air. Stretch out on others to complete the sentence, to make sense and human syntax. The human thing is to go out for other people's names, to configure a little more at each step. Soak up other letters and sounds.

Touching the other, smelling him, emptying himself and filling himself up again in friendship or hatred. Opposite signs of the same intrinsic distressing need. To hate the other is to hate oneself for the inability to be whole.

Smiling the smile of others, crying their own tears: degrees of composition of a common poem.

Loving the other is the ultimate poetry.

CLARISSA MACEDO (Salvador Bahía, Brazil, 1988).

Seven abysses

The soul neighs

in the stable.

Horse male

that gallops trovas

of thought,

swallow the waters

of grass and hay.

There is terror in the winds

of the bruised horse,

that lost breaks,

winged, trenches

and falls like an angel

of torment.

There are mares around

oblivion dishes.

There are wheels and straps

in the violent carriage.

In that mane

of black horseshoes

a horse

sparse-legged:

The seven abysses of life.

MAYDA COLÓN (San Juan, Puerto Rico, 1975).

Mother:

I go on the train and it seems an ideal way

to keep warm against the bitterness of winter.

I write because it gives me the certainty

of movement in the cartilages of the hands

as if to die history resulted in the return of the affront

in the singular enumeration of those simple things

that force us to weak gestures,

to the certainty of the shadow under the shadow

or to the colloquium of the forbidden mirror

that is cooked in leap years.

I'm dying

and I feel that I ask myself in the faces

in the counts of the many incomprehensible names

between the orphan pages that the downpour is woven to finally immolate itself

in the certainty of the puddles.

Die of me

I die of this slow suicide of voice that drags me to the absolute sweetness of the compendium

I die of the voices in the conscience of so many scarce poets already in arms

hungry like ferocious wolves from the sinister transfusion of ink.

I die raging with life and barefoot

I die slow, but everything is in order and ready for those little monologues

They say they calm, but they infest paintings like canvases.

I walk the city; Mother, like grass,

with the eyes

I walk and while I die

the immensity of the sky does not rest in its work of disrupting blues to paint the sea.

The sea talks so much, Mother.

I write.