Hipólito Alvarado (Ecuador, 1929)

 

 

alrededor de los ojos de ella

 

 

hoy he vuelto a ver unos ojos         

desde nunca siempre vistos

desde tres esquinas de tiempo de trompo

desgirando hacia atrás su propia espiral

en otros ojos más pequeños

que atisban desde adentro

la tarde de niños y de pájaros

jugando en el portal las bolas oo   o   oo

bajando

            una

                        escalera

ojos vueltos en el aire para arriba

tragaluz

desde el fondo del cielo para abajo

las nubes

su cabeza el pelo

cascaditas negras en los hombros

y en el charco de agua al final de la escalera

su cabeza

mi cabeza encima de sus hombros

reflejadas contra el piso

interminable caracol de sus pies para abajo

de mis pies para arriba

sus ojos se topan disculpe

oh no mía es la culpa estaba en el cielo

contemplando unos ojos

ella apagó su sonrisa

escondió sus ojos

y se fueron de largos sus cascadas negras

remansadas en la espalda

y se acabaron para mí las gradas

hasta olvidé donde iba

sólo sentía que iba bajando lentamente en un túnel

al otro tiempo más abajo

ella desde las gradas del jol me esperaba

nos miramos un chispazo de luz

otro chispazo de más luz

y devolvió los ojos a sus amigas

conversa sonríe

habla voltea y mira

y yo espero en suspenso su mirada

descubro en silencio el fino vuelo del mensaje de sus ojosç

de sus manos y de sus dedos

de su anillo

desde entonces han volado

muchas tardes de soles abatidos

muchas noches de lunas desgastadas

cuántas cosas han pasado desde entonces

hasta lluvias y relámpagos

despistados del invierno

algunas veces la veía en el bar

o simplemente caminando

en la vereda del parque del tránsito aéreo

muy de su marido colgado del brazo

escondiendo en los repliegues de la blusa

sus tres meses de espiga para adentro

alguna vez en el parque centenario

muy de mamá inaugurando el cochecito

an gú

            an gú

                        an gú

mírale tiene los ojitos de ella

escamitas verdes en fondo de plata marina

profundos

alegres

inquietos y hoy la he vuelto a ver

desde una noche de verano temblorosa de frío

sol escondido detrás de sus ojos

delante del cristal oscuro

mirándome

mientras habla por teléfono

hola

yo estoy detrás de esa mole con figura de hombre

sentada delante de mis ojos

número equivocado señor

sabes te amo desde la escalera de entonces

número equivocado señor

sabes

oh dios están cruzadas las líneas

te amo desde el portal de la esquina

tú parada en las gradas mirándome

qué dice

que te amo desde la esquina de siempre

nunca

imposible soy casada

olvídelo

clip

y a mí que me importa carajo

yo sólo sé que te amo y eso basta

 

 

Pedro Lastra (Chile, 1932)

 

 

Relectura de Enrique Lihn

Porque escribí estoy vivo.
E. L.

Pero yo que no escribo,
yo que casi no tengo ya palabra,
Enrique Lihn, amigo de los mejores días
(esos que no llegaron)
qué puedo hacer por fin
para encontrar el reino que sólo el sueño crea
con la palabra que no estuvo en el sueño:
los pájaros de antaño
o una muchacha junto al jazminero
en el centro del patio, si es que hubo ese patio
y no lo inventa el otro que soy al regresar cada mañana
mi enemigo mortal, el que habita en mi casa,
el que niega y se burla
de mis pequeñas trampas de tahúr obstinado
o de aspirante al cetro de los justos,
si es que hay justicia y justos
y diluvios, con su inmortal paloma
y todo eso.

 

 

Antonio Santos Menor (España, 1943)

 

 

Vivir

 

 

Hay que gastar la vida

hasta dejarla rota,

colgarla de nosotros

como una simple prenda

y no aflojarla nunca,

aunque la moje el agua

de todas las tormentas

o las cuartee la furia

de todas las resacas.

 

Hay que gastar la vida

hasta volverla hilachas

y dance nuestro cuerpo

riéndole a la muerte.

Hay que gastar la vida

hasta dejarla quieta

como una leña ardida

que expira toda enclenque.

 

Hay que gastar la vida,

gastala a manos llenas

para que cuando llegue

la muerte a darnos guerra

no encuentre ni un resquicio

de nada para ella.

 

 

 

Ralph Nazareth (India, 1945)

 

 

Indio Puro

 

 

La pureza es lo que la pureza hace.

Por lo demás todo es mezcla

en los puertos en el cruce de los ríos.

Confusión de sinapsis

Enzimas mezcladas como saliva

son intercambiada entre lasrazas.

El esperma y el ovulo se mezclan

en el sueño amniótico sin importar los colores.

La pureza es lo que la muerte hace

mientras descansa en un estado sin división.

Hasta los enemigos jurados vienen

atraer coronas de flores

aunque algunos de los capullos dejen escapar

la sangre de tu clan.

Es con cierta dificultad

que digo estas palabras:

Soy indio

y deseo ser visto como tal

compuesto y descompuesto

en el encuentro y la partida de los mundos.

 

 

Juan Manuel Roca (Colombia, 1946)

 

 

Confesión de un solitario

 

 

Llevo años, buenos años, viviendo con Nadie.

Sin darme cuenta, sin hacer esfuerzos,

Me acostumbré a las costumbres de Nadie.

A punto de demandar mi atención

Ocurre que siempre se arrepiente. Quizá lo hace

Para no entrar de rondón en mis silencios.

De las lenguas de Babel

Nadie elige un habla cautelosa.

Ni siquiera cuando tropiezo y maldigo

Da muestras de sorpresa o de disgusto.

Que yo encienda la lámpara del desvelo

O entone una antigua canción en la alborada

No es motivo de molestias para Nadie.

No hace preguntas cuando regreso de viaje,

De una ciudad cuyas calles nunca desembocan

O de un crucero por las provincias del mangle.

Llevarle flores a Nadie es darle hojas al otoño,

Pues ha hecho del silencio su jardín.

 

 

Rémy Durand (Venezuela, 1946)

 

 

El hombre que llora

 

 

a G.R.

el hombre que lloraba

 

El hombre que llora

viste flores negras filigranas amargas

ya no tiene nombre

 

me llamo nadie dice

no sabe cómo se llama

no sé cómo me llamo

qué importa

olvidó quién es

¿quién  soy?dice

quizás el tío ese que cruza la calle

sin brazos sin mirada

 

El hombre que llora

ya no puede respirar

¡aire por favor aire!dice

ni caminar tampoco andar

en su camino yacen vasijas sucias

prendas tiradas y desgarradas

vestuarios arrugados  trajes sin baile

camisas manchadas con palabras vacías

un continente entero echado al suelo

floración sedientaesperanzas marchitadas

 

El hombre que llora

tiene ganas para nada

no quiere vestirse

¡ay! otra vez afeitarme mirarme los huesos en el espejo

los ojos sin niña mis ojos exánimes

otra vez vestirmequé putada la guerra y esos amores fantoches

qué jilipollada la San Valentín

 

sólo quiere vagabundear desnudo el hombre que llora

por los caminos del infierno

 

dices que me amas pero te vas

dices que me quieres  pero no vienes

anda  amor mío celestial amor bienaventurado

anda brindemos con champagne para homenajear

¡tú no te quedas y no te vas!

brindemos  con champagne en ese magno día de mi cesantía

litros de champagne amor mío gloriosa deliciosa

pues me jubilas me parasme invitas a reventar

sí mi damami señorita  mi señora

quédate no vengas quédate hermosa

lo sé todo eres la bella permanciente

y aquí yacen los pedazos

de tu flamante amante efímero

el que ambicionas miga de tus migajas

resíduoanda  

llámame Resíduo  me llamo Resíduo

un paso pa’lante dos pasos pa’trás

 

El hombre que llora

anda descalzo por el viento

ahí donde nadie le habla

ahí donde nadie le pregunta

¡ay! ¿cómo estás? ¿cómo andas? ¿qué te ha pasado?

pareces tristey atónito y pálido

donde nadie le habla

nadie le pregunta

¡ay! ¿cómo estás? ¿cómo andas? ¿qué te ha pasado?

 

El hombre que llora

piensa   

llevo viento mudo

cargo nieves infieles

transbordo arenas mentirosas

me engalano con huellas y surcos

reliquiasde amores rotos¿y qué?

¿Y qué?

El hombre que llora

ya no come ya no bebe

ya no escribe sino el poema

el poema del hombre que llora

el poema del hombre que llora

 

y esta jodida carta de amor.

 

 

Fernando Rendón (Colombia, 1951)

 

 

Sueño que estoy soñando

Tú estás en mi sueño con tus ojos llenos de amor

Este sueño es persistente y denso

Y lo envuelve todo ondulando como el mar

Sueño que estamos abrazados al mar y que decimos disparates

Este sueño tiene propiedades específicas

Puede estirarse y no debe terminar

De los soñadores depende que sueñen los muchos que no sueñan

Sólo puede uno despertar y amar en un día abierto sin dejar de soñar

Vivir contra la muerte y luchar en duermevela

Atrayendo como un imán al tiempo que vendrá

En mi sueño la serena existencia es más real

Es preciso dar nervio a este sueño en borbotones

Porque un sueño frágil no merece soñarse

Es preciso que nos desvelemos muchas noches soñando

Mejor un sueño sin orillas en que el mundo cambia y se libera

Cada segundo una oleada del sueño

Que encara a la  realidad y derriba a la muerte

Y nos vemos a nosotros mismos viviendo por primera vez

 

 

Fernando J. Elizondo-Garza (México, 1954)

 

 

    Trágatelo

 

 

Trágate toda esta vida

disfruta el exterminar

probabilidades de ser

en un destino no escrito

pero que ha pasado

de generación en generación

entre privacidades

y felicidades.

 

Traga sin aspavientos

que no te den asco

esos registros genéticos,

que aunque fugazmente

te llenarán, pasarán

pues nada queda

más que el recuerdo.

 

Trágate las esperanzas

improbables de existir

en esa liberación

lúdica y gozosa

que exprimiste

de tu señor

tómate todo el flujo

y cierra el rito.

 

 

Mercedes Roffé (Argentina, 1954)

 

 

El encuentro

                                                          

 

                       

si  me esperas

                        te diré

quién eres

 

 

                        —ábreme

 

 

no estoy del todo

                        muerta

 

soy tú

 

 

 

 

 Cely Herrán (Colombia, 1957)

 

Escribiente

 

 

En el amanecer está el poema,

en tus ojos y risa, va la rima,

en las gotas de lluvia desgarradas,

las metáforas mojan mis premuras.

En el cielo y el mar vuelan las prisas,

en el sol y en el árbol, las medidas,

en el atardecer fluyen los días

y los versos se escapan de la lira.

Respiro versos mientras canta el orbe

y mi sangre se vuelve melodía.

Soy un ave maltrecha y bendecida,

un pequeño escribiente de la vida.

 

 

 

Rafael Courtoisie (Uruguay 1958)

 

 

El amor de los locos

 

 

Un loco es alguien que está desnudo de la mente. Se ha despojado de sus ropas invisibles, de esas que hacen que la realidad se vele y se desvíe. Los locos tienen esa impudicia que deviene fragilidad y, en ocasiones, belleza. Andan solos, como cualquier desnudo, y con frecuencia también hablan solos ("Quien habla solo espera hablar con Dios un día").

Más difícil que abrigar un cuerpo desnudo es abrigar un pensamiento. Los locos tienen pensamientos que tiritan, pensamientos óseos, duros como la piedra en torno a la que dan vueltas, como si se mantuvieran atados a ella por una cadena de hierro de ideas.

El cerebro de un pájaro no pesa más que algunos gramos, y la parte que modula el canto es de un tamaño mucho menor que una cabeza de alfiler, un infinitésimo trocillo de tejido, de materia biológica que, con cierto aburrimiento, los sabios escrutan al microscopio para descifrar de qué manera, en tan exiguo retazo, está escrita la partitura.

Pero desde mucho antes, y sin necesidad de microscopio ni de tinciones, el loco sabe que el canto del pájaro es inmenso y pesado, plomo puro que taladra huesos, que se mete en el sueño, que desfonda cualquier techo y no hay cemento ni viga que pueda sostener su hartura, su tamaño posible. Por eso algunos locos  despiertan antes de que amanezca y se tapan los oídos con su propia voz, con voces que sudan de adentro, de la cabeza.

Los pensamientos del loco son carne viva, carne sin piel. En el desierto del pensamiento del loco el pájaro es un sol implacable. El canto cae como una luz y un calor que le picara al loco en la carne misma de la desnudez.

Pero la desnudez del loco es íntima: de tanto exhibirla queda dentro. Es  condición interior, pasa desapercibida a las legiones de cuerdos cuya ánima está cubierta por completo de  tela basta, gruesa, trenzada por hilos de la costumbre.

El único instrumento posible para el loco, para defender su desnudez, es el amor. El amor de los locos es una vestimenta transparente. Esos ojos vidriosos, ese hilo ambarino que orinan por las noches, ese fragor y ese sentimiento copioso y múltiple que no alteran las benzodiazepinas, que no disminuye el Valium, permanecen intactos en el loco por arte del amor.

Es un martillo, y una cuchara, y un punzón. Es todo menos un vestido, no cubre sino que atraviesa, no mitiga sino que exalta. El amor de los locos tiene una textura, un porte y una sustancia.

La sustancia se parece al vidrio, pero es el vidrio de una botella rota.

 

 

Galo Guerrero Jiménez (Loja, 1959)

 

 

Esperando a alguien

 

 

Desde la profunda oquedad del tiempo

me consumen tus noches de miel

en cada estación de la vida.

 

Yrene Santos (República Dominicana, 1963)

 

Rejuego

 

 

Un rejuego

una reacción

muere tu lengua al tocarme

se dilata la tinta del deseo

calcinando los cinco puntos de tu cara

Risas

silencios

resuenan en el oído izquierdo de la alcoba.

 

 

Ramiro Caiza (Machachi, 1963)

 

 

Despertar

 

 

Desplomado yace el pensamiento

entre pasajes deshabitados que dilatan

la conjunción de las voces que den vida

 al timonel de palabras emergentes

irradia el engendro en mil formas

parpadean vestigios de vocablos rotos

que musitan configurar la lengua

en un compendio de trasnochadas voces

un fino susurro golpea en la mente

perfora las barreras con sigilo menguante

suelta las severas riendas a tiempo

la lectura del día se levanta temprano.

 

 

 

Marianela Medrano (República Dominicana, 1964)

 

 

De Brujas y Mariposas

 

 

Está bien

Sentémonos a definir

Pitágoras creía en la reencarnación

-yo creo en él-

Entonces él es el gusano azul de las calladas tardes

que se enreda en mi falda

muerde la pulpa suave

Créanmelo es el que viene a mi convertido en gusano

 

¿Y yo?

Soy la voz de donde comienzan a salir los pájaros

-antes fui callada mariposa deformada en las paredes-

Posterior a eso fui dragón que sorbió su propio fuego

Cómo me gocé las llamas

En el espejo de las brasas encontré la clave

la que olvidó Dios cuando hizo el mundo

(debo decir cuando el mundo lo hizo a él)

Pobrecito anda ciego buscándose el rostro

 

No nos perdamos  Volvamos a la rueda

En otro punto

Cabizbaja asintiendo

Ocupé una silla en la conferencia de los apóstoles

Aves de presagios comenzaron a revolotear en el techo

Ciérrense ojos

ábranse piernas

el silencio se derrama entre las bocas

salpicando almohadas de piedra

 

Dije mujer

y todos los rostros se volvieron

las espadas se hundieron hasta quebrar mi cerviz

Bajaron en trocitos las hijas del amor

las hermanas

-las hermosas calaveras de las novias con ramos de azahares-

Vuelvo el rostro hacia esta parte

Los clavos comienzan a salir

Ah…porque soy Cristo

¿Entienden ahora el misterio de su ruego en la cruz?

 

¿Padre por qué me has abandonado?

Y me volvió a nacer a este dolor de vida

a esta hambre  a esta sed que no se sacia

Esta vez con un armazón de piano

El circulo del piano  el anillo de la música

-la orgía mayor de los ángeles entre mis piernas-

Sentadita en las sombras brindé

con el néctar de mi propia sangre

sangre de madera ésta que duele

 

Pasado un tiempo el teclado tomó mudez de estatua

Entonces fue preciso hacerme yo

El circulo hecho por mi

el del timón el de las batallas crudas

y los oleajes que matan

Ay la batalla de los campos fríos

la lucha del sol y de la luna

A esta ceremonia vinieron los jueces

Con risitas de medio lado

Ya saben  los sabios  los triunfadores

Me negué a ser el astro y escupí sus caras

-Fue como pasar la caricia sobre jardín de espinas-

Desnuda me echaron de nuevo al fuego

 

Vengan a la fiesta de la bruja

la que come lagartos para asustar imbéciles

fermenta astros de visión para gozarse

relamiéndose los labios

La de la boca de fresas y saliva agria

que conocer el arte de la muerte

La que a pincelazos de insomnio abre una ruta

Animando con canciones el aquelarre

Fiesta de lluvias truenos y relámpagos

Radiografiando su praxis

-reinvención del mundo   mundo

mundo de ojos que no se cierran

de brazos abarrotando calles

Es posible una generación de locos

que coman mariposas  silabeen ruiseñores

inventando el modo de engendrar el sol y la luna

La reestructuración integral del universo

en ella la semilla del nuevo ser que sobreviva a la luz.

 

Mariana Vacs (Argentina, 1967)

 

 

Sirena

 

Dentro del cenote,

tu cuerpo es sirena y canta. 

Escucho tus melodías de infancia,

no es desaire mi mudez,

es que el aire hace rondas en la memoria

y me estaca

 

 

 

Tergel Khulganai (Mongolia, 1971)

 

 

Naturaleza humana

 

Enfocarte solo en tu propia imagen

En una foto en companía

Amarla solo, cuando tu propia imagen parece perfecta

No importa si los otros parecen bizcos

La imagen es perfectamientras tu propia imagen lo sea

 

Así es la naturaleza humana

 

Haces un brindis y la pasas bien

Tu amigo a tu lado paga la cuenta

Tú disfrutas en silencio esa alegría aquel momento

Secretamente tocando

Tus bolsillos con billetes sin pagar

Feliz más alla de ti mismo por

Tener fiesta gratuita

 

La naturaleza universal

de nosotros los humanos…

 

Alguien es miserable, violentado y herido

Busca de ti como consuelo solo tenerte para

Dejar un consejo sin importancia para ignorarlo todo

Pero, cuando llega a casa

Todos tus cabellos de  punta

Aparentemente porque tus problemas son lo peor

 

Es extrana la naturaleza humana

 

Oh, negro; gris, blanco y rojo

Tantos notables colores de la naturaleza humana

Algo que no puede ser tocado, tomado o suavizado

Tal es la naturaleza humana…

oh, la naturaleza de los hombres.

 

 

 

Diana Araujo Pereira (Brasil, 1972)

 

 

De Otras palabras/Outras palavras (RJ: 7Letras, 2008)

 

Extenderse a otros cuerpos, a otras almas, a otros corazones.  En la completud añorada de formar mapas humanos, geografías armónicas, complicidad renombrada.  Nombrarse al nombrar al otro, éste que tanta falta nos hace en la escala estrepitosa de vivir en el aire.  Estirarse en otros para completar la frase, para hacerse sentido y sintaxis humana.  Lo humano es salirse para los nombres ajenos, para configurarse un poco más a cada paso.  Embeberse en otras letras y sonidos. 

Tocar al otro, olerlo, vaciarse y volver a llenarse en la amistad o el odio.  Signos contrarios de la misma e intrínseca necesidad angustiante.  Odiar al otro es odiarse a si mismo por la incapacidad de ser entero. 

Sonreír la sonrisa ajena, llorar sus mismas lágrimas: grados de composición de un poema común.

Amar al otro es la máxima poesía.

 

                                                    

 

Carolina Zamudio (Argentina, 1973)

 

Mis muertos

Llevo mis muertos vivos en mí.

Vienen de mañana a extasiarse en mi mano

cuando acarician luminosos

las frentes de mis hijas. Uno mira al espejo

en mis ojos

de un pardo más ocre que verdoso

asomando enigmático por los párpados caídos

de otro muerto que vive en mí

hasta que la muerte nos separe.

 

 

Mayda Colón (Puerto Rico, 1975)

 

 

 

Madre:  

voy en el tren y parece una forma ideal  

para abrigarse contra el rencor del invierno.

 

Escribo porque me proporciona la certeza 

del movimiento en los cartílagos de las manos

como si para morir la historia redundara en el retorno de la afrenta

en el enumeramiento en singular de esas cosas sencillas 

que nos obligan a los gestos débiles,

a la certeza de la sombra bajo la sombra 

o al coloquio del espejo prohibido

que se cuece en los años bisiestos.

 

Voy muriendo

y presiento que me requedo en las caras

en los recuentos de los tantos nombres incomprensibles 

entre las páginas huérfanas que se teje el aguacero para inmolarse finalmente

en la certeza de los charcos.

 

Muero de mí

muero de este suicidio lento de voz que me arrastra a la dulzura absoluta del compendio

muero de las voces en la conciencia de tantos poetas escasos ya de brazos

hambrientos como lobos feroces de la siniestra transfusión de la tinta.

 

Muero rabiando de vida y descalza

muero lento, pero todo está en orden y dispuesto para esos monólogos meninos 

que dicen que calman, pero infestan como a los lienzos las pinturas.

 

Ando la ciudad;  Madre,  como a la hierba,

con los ojos

ando y mientras muero 

la inmensidad del cielo no descansa en su labor de trastocar azules para pintar el mar.

 

El mar habla tanto, Madre.

Yo escribo.

 

 

 

María Solís Munuera (España, 1976)

 

 

Un hombre que huye

 

Quiero un lugar benévolo: el mercado de pescado de Oslo. Quiero llegar de noche, de la madera, el traje, la piel negra, con la tripulación desaparecida y el capitán atado a los timones. En las mesas, las lámparas recubren con tungsteno la falsa melancolía de los peces. Los noruegos, proteínicos, se elevan. Los niños llevan los sombreros de paja y los anillos. Compraré la botella de pelo rubio. Como ellos, quiero dejar vivir a las abejas. Como ellas, quiero

 

el círculo amarillo con el círculo negro. La celda cuando se acaba el día. Cansarme de matar habiéndolo probado. La protección monárquica e inclinar la botella y derramar la miel sobre la falsa melancolía de los peces. El lujo y la vejez tienen tonos dorados. En el cabello, el amarillo es el siguiente paso de lo blanco. Él

 

dice lo que hay: asilo político. Canastas de mimbre para los refugiados. Cereales.  Cajones para peces en venta con el precio. Botellas con forma de balanza. Hay pelotas de tenis. Hay cítricos. Hay sopa. Optimismo. Gente de teatro. Luz. Granos de mostaza. Hay un nivel de vida. Hay mujeres que paren como reinas. Casi el récord de muertes por maltrato. Dice.

 

 

 

La mesa del almuerzo

 

Tiene algo de autopsia

la mesa del almuerzo

donde los hombres juegan

a tener importancia.

 

La precisión del corte, de la hora, del castigo

a la hija,

a la pornografía de la masticación.

La urbanidad, silencio

de tres.

 

Impolutos los dedos y el mantel,

su función es cubrir los genitales.

Los labios no rozan la comida,

en la boca no pueden quedar restos.

 

La piel no se arranca con las manos.

Se interpone el metal.

Rafael Méndez Meneses (Ecuador, 1976)

Misstep


I am the wrong step
whom you did not love
hurry up
the fever that did not subside
the wound that began to ooze
but it doesn't hurt anymore
by sheer inertia
because deep down one day
you hope to show me scar
trout medal
memorable battle

Incidental observation error
I almost see you in the crowd
I almost forgot
It is almost worth me mothers to go back to zero pages
I almost regret it
of wanting to arrive
undead to devour you
You almost won me
I almost relapsed
almost
but it wasn't you

Siomara Spain (Ecuador, 1976)

Mother

I who learned the love of armchairs

and I skipped the alphabet between a hundred names

I who learned to count among the stones

and I tamed the language on the covers.

Why do I swap myself verse by verse?

Why, mother, didn't you give me the first litany

ordinary syllables?

And suckled stanzas that stab like daggers

why did you instruct me in repertoires

and you did not fill with rosaries, this body on fire.

Because you gave me the dementia between the lines

and you sprinkled the first laughs with stories

why mother don't you kiss me

and we barter with hugs

so much nothing.

Return to Freud

There is nothing more beautiful or more fertile than anguish

nothing is more beautiful than staging the anguish

between two bodies that break

between two cities

grief holds

between the face bruised by the cold

and the sun that dazzles and everything burns.

Nothing is more beautiful or more fertile than anguish

hand outstretched in the corners

from the cold in the portals

of the women who sell

between gloomy bedrooms

their bruised bodies,

and the other ones

those of the daily bread in the recalcitrant sweat of grief

those in skirts dragging the dust from the streets like tongues,

those of the load on the shoulder

and instant meals

invented for crying.

Those of the impalpable coturn,

the light and neat office

old women in pain

for being the shadow of another shadow.

There is nothing more beautiful or more fertile than anguish

because in any theater

beauty is measured by tables,

by the three quarters of light

scattered on the chest of the one who dies

because the theater and the applause

daily they light the bonfire of being,

the uchrony as an eternal possibility of the one who waits

and the entelechy of not being

as the only possibility of life or death.

Xavier Hidalgo Cedeño (Ecuador, 1977)

Devoured ribs

Welcome

Misfits

Fear not

We just don't belong

They point out:

Their hell devours them

While we live our paradise

We are the disorder that upset its perfection.

We vibrate inside the bell

we cannot contain ourselves

Iván Trejo (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.

María Auxiliadora Balladares (Ecuador, 1980)

Hospital

The scales on the skin

They will disappear with lasers

I'll polish the fangs

Until giving them the shape

Which corresponds

With a human jaw

We'll cut the nails

With pliers if necessary

The spine will straighten

With a corset

Of metal rods

I will wash the body

And again

Until every vestige of animality

Has disappeared

We will detangle the hair

With aggressive treatments

That remove lice and nits

Crabs and parasites will disappear

I will control the digestion

With diets

Laxatives

Or enemas

We will repeat to infinity

The procedures

Get used to white

From the walls

From the sheets

Will embrace hygiene in the long run

You will learn to like the silence

Electroshocks will do their job

With thoughtful stimuli

I will fine-tune his clumsy gestures

I will teach you to always look straight ahead

Verónica Aranda (Spain, 1982)

Maps

I consulted the maps

with a rain forest on the retina,

and left his mark

on the shutters.

If the compasses failed,

if in a burning of lime the light blinded him,

she took the risk of getting trapped

in a foreign city.

Felipe López (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 delirious who dare to pulverize themselves, the wise men, the taitas, the potato, the cassava, the 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, 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 before America, because we crazy climbs in the ceibas, we apnea in the Rio de la Plata, we go beyond the dimension and divinity in the taste of ayahuasca, delirious before pillows that dream of springs in Lost City

Refuge from delusions who believe in the impossible

Yenny León (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.

Irina Henríquez (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.

.

Antonio Preciado Bedoya (Ecuador, 1941)

.

Neptune

.

I'm here
to defend my snail
that, for any slightest oversight
(after huddled
next to him in his shell
all those millennia,
all the themes,
all the languages;
and behind all the seas
and all the hangovers
and all the tides
And everything else
that with him in the seas it was),
the terrifying moment takes place
in which, among all the certainties
and everything inside
that all the time the snail has said,
somehow,
finally,
let all the silences invade it.
Know well that, for him,
I go from wave to wave
flying a fierce seaweed in the winds;
so no diver
and no captain
will tie my tongue
in which I have engraved my wishes.
Leave it as it is, I'm always awake!
And know that if the sea,
the same sea,
on the contrary, it covers me
the endearing truth of the snail
with its rumblings,
I will do in my own palms, with my teeth,
two gentle seas
and I will make them tell me
to the ear,
stay, the word I want.

Jean Portante (Luxembourg, 1950)

.

I speak of a time when IN THE KITCHEN

less flour was made than powder.

of the whiteness of before they were only

the broken cups and the coffee pot of time:

I mean: living there was an incessant

swaying from one spider web to another.

when the call came it took the form

of a mermaid.

in the factory of memories it was enough

unhitch or hitch some wagons.

the rest: I mean: what was done was not

far from there he counted neither the dead nor the living when

after the soldiers passed they were missing in the

drawers forks and knives: I mean:

what was eaten then had passed through the mirror

and he never gave us the sign to join him.

Ibsen Manzano (Ecuador, 1951)

Death was frustrated

(To my beloved sister Elina)

She has not died

she just fell asleep

between his multiple daily chores.

She didn't leave

they took her,

they put the coins in his eyes

and they pushed their canoe to shore.

She did not go to infinity,

because it was eternal like time,

because time was eternal like her.

They took her out of my sight

without foam or coral paths,

without nurses to raise their lamps,

without telling me that he's gone.

She was the generous laugh,

the most fixed point of support,

the sound of solidarity without distinction,

victory renewed.

Today I feel it between my fingers,

between the yellow pages of the texts

or the breeze that hits my senses.

She has not died

she just fell asleep.

Rubén Medina (Mexico, 1955)

Case in point

In a congress

of Mexican feminists

and chicanas in Mexico City,

Cherríe Moraga, author of

Loving in the war years:

what never passed your lips

and The last generation,

stated:

"If my grandparents had not

gone from Mexico ago

fifty years,

I would now be one of his

maids ”

There was silence

furtive glances,

momentary regret

for having invited her,

short conversations

on other topics

practical and

more or less related

with the meeting,

but for the next few days

the real dialogue

would go on now

inside.

Keijiro Suga (Japan, 1958)

two

On the other coast, the western one, an ancient forest is buried,

Since the last ice age, the flood, oblivion and the peat stratum.

Now, everything is exposed on the cliffs on this shore.

Having witnessed the sun for twenty thousand years,

And for twenty thousand years, the wind and meteor falls,

The roots of the trees, keeping their shape,

Sleep and waking alternate vaguely.

The water oozes from the cliffs,

That from time to time becomes a stream and shakes my heart.

“Besides, what do we know? How far can we progress? "

I never imagined that I thought of this lament of Goethe,

In this thing where the letters in Hangeul and Russian are scattered.

With the transparent salty water of the waves of the sea,

I wash a wounded apple and bite into it.

In the shadows of the white foamy waves

They reflect a serene smile of love.

Alvaro Inostroza Bidart (Chile, 1960)

in memoriam

I was not lucky

to meet Bolaño

but I did meet Armando Rubio

to Rodrigo Lira

to Juan Luis Martínez

to Enrique Lihn

to Jorge Teillier

to Rolando Cárdenas

it's not bad to cry sometimes

you have to be good little man

in the sixties

-the prodigious decade-

we grew up under the sky of utopia

history led us by the hand

in the seventies

we sat at the table

we daydream

we woke up to a nightmare

in the eighties

the best was poetry

friendship action

we share the streets

the bars we talk

of the return of life

in the nineties

music entered air

we had the last children

we keep crying sometimes

we launched fireworks

in the new millennium

we went back to the perimeter

we distance ourselves from power

we look for our own center

enthusiasm launches its last rockets

death stops being romantic

our children take off

we hate speeches

friends return

work is synonymous with will

yearning to retire

of public ambitions

I was not lucky enough to meet Bolaño

but we are still here drifting away

of the lights of the crowd

negotiating accountability

the limits of the lands

the safe conduct the visa

but never the word

the memory

.

Elizabeth Cazessús (Mexico, 1960)

Angel / light

Gravity is not earth-kissing torture.

Lezama Lima

Angel / light I

In a few moments, the nature of things

it will record its echo in the shells,

the mountains will lose their shape,

the river will melt into the shade.

They will wander like you and me without the harassment of uncertainty.

Planets will wake up dead in light years,

we will argue to be image and likeness,

revelation of dust,

suppressed attempt at survival.

We will be a walk of reflections that do not touch.

Javier Bozalongo (Spain, 1961)

Donor card

I have donated my body

to a medical school.

I wish there are still many years to go

until a student's scalpel

may know more about me than myself,

and just in case one of my organs works

I leave here some clues

of what they will find inside me.

The tips of my fingers will keep the memory

of who wanted to be caressed;

the palms of my hands never got tired

to applaud a new dawn every day;

elbows were not seriously injured

Except for the sweet pain of picking up the books;

my shoulders always bore their just burden.

In my head everything I learned fit,

in my eyes the light of their glances

and on my tongue the taste of some kisses.

When darkness reigns when I open my chest

it will be for two reasons:

by the countless smoke of the wounded smoker

and by small clots grown in my veins

when the enemies shot,

but they will also see a heart

who loved how much they can be hospitable.

And not a trace of the soul.

On my legs rests a world map

for which I go and return.

My feet better leave them,

I will need them to run away

of the gloomy autopsy hospital.

Fool me, give my body to science

when I have always wanted to give it to the fire!

César Rodríguez Diez (Mexico, 1967)

(OF PHENOMENA)

Tearing the flower

I

I leave this flower for you to do with it what you like.

Smother it, caress it.

It is everything that I could not be.

Useless homeland.

Hollowed out marrow.

Your hand is holding it with suspicious intent.

Everything else is stem

Thorn

shroud.

II

Leafless flower without communion possible

bursts at every step

like a narrow street

under the enigma.

III

I plucked your petals.

I wanted to feel what burst fragile.

An eye for an eye I poked at your pallor.

Deflowered groan.

Curiosity of a monster in rough night.

IV

Irreparable lack embedded deep within

where something shakes us. A name.

Kingdom numb in the look I crush.

Ely Rosa Zamora (Venezuela, 1967)

I'm here. In this room, no view

A hand comes in to steal my guts

On the train, a woman slaps a child

There are ropes coming through the window to strangle me

They are not bushes

I touch my belly frayed in syrup

Blood gushing from the side of my eye

The incomprehensible has turned into a smile

what is calling me

I'm no more what I can't shake over time

I have closed the doors to take care of my garden

I spit a long snake, which I pull from my mouth

My mother stayed in the dream fanning a rose

dead

Like colored fruits

I listen to the silence when I chew the sore of boredom in my mouth

A ballerina without legs takes the stage

Ireland's lost giant hands over his prosthetics

Sometimes I don't remember how I got to this place

A two-headed King holds crosses aloft

Let's get the monsters out of the sore mouth!

These goblins of the tongue are not eternal

I have no more protection

this numb hangover

in my battered lilies.

Scarecrow from my garden

Jump!

From the book, The Sharpness of the Funnel, Newmark Press, New York, 2015

Faiza Sultan (Iraq, 1971)

Poems:

Let's give war a chance

1

Love can walk

Barefoot, calling out

The doors of the ditches.

two

Butterflies can use

chest armor

At the door of every rose.

3

The sun can undress

his teeth

And the night can burn.

.

Mónica González Velázquez (Mexico, 1973)

THE PERSISTENCE OF THE LOOK

Everything that does not have a goal to achieve,

a result to be conquered, an enigma to be solved,

a mystery to penetrate, I am not interested.

Pablo Picasso

0.1

Vincent sunflowers-vertigo

dawn-magenta in Arles.

Starry Night Blue Dynamo:

shines in the sky.

0.2

His fists curled with anger.

Portrait with a stylized neck and topped with a bonnet.

In all Jeanne fabrics, the crystalline eyes of cloudy blue.

Caryatids surround the mausoleum.

0.3

"But one day they gave me a pencil and with my arm outstretched, I began to measure reality."

Santiago, the canvases with ocher veins and shades of subtle gold.

The gaze bifurcates on the horizon: all fair proportion.

0.4

In chiaroscuro the foreshortenings are outlined.

Long Dark Mane Maja

a leeward steed.

Goya, from the firmament a ceiling.

0.5

Kandinsky spiritual in art,

the point on the plane and the line:

the color palette towards the abstract universe.

0.6

Pollock splatter hard face

and of abstract brilliance in free space:

that stain comes to life.

0.7

Bosco-forest of delights

(the ugly, the sublime, the grotesque).

Nightmares, sublimation of the beautiful: landscapes.

0.8

Critical-paranoid method, secretes irony.

"Perverse polymorphous, lagging and anarchist", or "soft, weak and repulsive."

Amalgam of obsessions: Eugenio Salvador Dalí.

.

John Burns (United States, 1977)

Literary basketball

William Blake pulls an orange out of a Cézanne still life and tosses it across midfield, on a scoring pass to Allen Ginsberg. Leonard Cohen's throw-in for Aristophanes, who hangs a bulky fake phallus from his shorts to distract the other team, but turns out to distract his teammate Erica Jong more. Pass from Aristophanes to Jong, but Sappho, who doesn't care about her, steals the ball. Anne Sexton teaches him a little leg from the wing and Dante manages to steal the ball from Sappho, and immediately hits a triple. He remains praising the grace of his feat, noting that the arc of the ball's trajectory is only lower than the curve of Beatriz's chest, so that the player who defended him, Matsuo Basho, goes from coast to coast, although He breaks the three-second rule, comparing the area of ​​the area with his cabin in Edo. Sitting on the bench, WH Auden frowns and wonders "Where the hell is Edo?" Robert Graves jumps off the opposite bench and yells at him, "You won't find it on a map today, you idiot, it's what they called Tokyo before 1868." They confront and exchange insults such as "pygmy", "ogre" and "egocentric word player". As they argue, the coaches, Homer and Enheduanna, make a few substitutions so that some of the already weary performers can drink some wine from the Gatorade jug. The game starts again and there is a jump between Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, Tolstoy wins the ball. Tolstoy's side pass to Czeslaw Milosz who returns it to Leon, who in turn feints to Dostoevsky before passing it to Fredy Nietzsche, who watches Yeats intentionally foul Whitman. The German is left traumatized and gives him for raving, throws the ball into the air and runs off without any direction. William Stafford, the pacifist poet, takes the ball and stays with it in midfield, declaring that he will not participate in any act of violence, before entering a deep state of meditation. Hemingway rips one eye out of the portrait of Gertrude Stein painted by Picasso and the game is on again ...

.

Marco Antonio Gabriel (Mexico, 1977)

Trapeze artist

The times that I have been wrong

trying to vary the course of the river

have been the most.

Now i bring a ghost

hanging from the left arm

all the rains I have put into it.

A little dying

like an aerialist,

spreads its dragonfly arms,

looks at me from the side

and knows that the fall is imminent.

He is a young river wolf,

knows about the game

that devours and maintains life.

Like a suicide without a vocation

abyss clown:

I have put all the rains in it.

Elsye Suquilanda (Ecuador, 1979)


A Shabbat with Lemed

You feel the energy flowing freely

you get entangled in a crystal sheet,

You run, you go up, you go down,

Picturesque beings adorn your head with flowers.

From a curtain down the steps of history and charm that come together in a space as if you were a gnome in a fairy tale; from the window I see the Indonesian puppets when she smiles with her eyes pure like the hair of a tender carnation,

while sipping a bite of vodka from a glass adorned with Illinizas stones and blue-eyed snails.

Friday is no longer just any day ... it is a Shabbat with her, the one that begins when the sun goes down. An aura of mystery brings us to Lemed, a letter of the Hebrew alphabet that means “to learn”; For me, it is learning to paint sunsets and flashes of absolute permanence in a space caged in destruction, learning to love.

Tin roofs shake before you

the ants,

the goddesses bees,

the malignant tumors of society kneel for you, the sun dries up, the tears lighting up your room, your refuge full of abstract and concrete paintings like the pieces of that ogre's chess when he got them so as not to die.

Night lights,

complete pieces of your harmony,

now you play with the smoke,

you give your breast to your children in the gallery of perfect concretization.

When the sun goes back to hide another night is blurred between your beloved illusions

(You …… .The queen of an abstract world)

Isabel Dunas (Colombia, 1982)

WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE!

Match the nature of change

live in the immediacy.

No mysteries, no speculation,

let me go like a river.

This is how life should be.

Knowing how to leave behind,

know how to be everything

to be unknown without pain,

no regrets.

And let's not say more than time will tell,

time says nothing.

It is ours to say, it is ours to enumerate.

Now,

I just want to see the bird go by

feel the sun that warms me,

the water that wets me,

my daughter's kiss.

Andrea Crespo Granda (Ecuador, 1983)

ROOM 2 REGISTRATION

But if this is so, the ravens hallucinate in the wastelands, and the pincers of a specter embrace the enclosure;

but if this is so,

it is due to a distortion of breath,

so we will take a drug, a platinum ideology that can rub our hypoglossal nerve.

(HERE GET UP AND CRY, CRY WOODS AND REMEMBER 8 YEARS OLD SMELLS)

The bones piled up in the dock, the testicle of the merchant ship shaking the nightmare of the aguaje and its crests of glances. God sinks his gospel in our breasts, sinks his grace in each No, in each fraudulent failure and that is how your hair is imposed on the tragedy of the flame, the silence of the cave where you persist, millions of ages, until you are the predator of the galaxy.

(HERE TO GET TOGETHER AND SMOKE YOUR WOODS AND REMEMBER SMELLS OF THE FIRST SEXUAL INTERCOURSE)

The moth-corroded quicial. The logic of Turing uncorking parallel universes, the dimensions of all our years are condensed in a stain on the ceiling of the family home. And in an accident (geological?) Your youth murders your parents, cuts their lungs and plugs their legs in inquisitive punishment.

Your youth, girl, bleeds your mother's spleen, suffocates your uncles' pancreas; it compresses the photo of the ancestors, leaves the buried ones in a state of syncope.

(HERE TO APLAUD AND CRY AND SMOKE THE MEMORY OF THE UNNEWABLE GAMES, THE TORTURES TO THE FIRST FRIENDS OF CHILDHOOD)

Now you remember those spears that you sent against the souls of other children,

the women you left waiting at the cinematheque or the summer bookstore.

Now shame is your cellmate and you owe her the tally for each year.

But there's no way you're warm

and yet this day you will be kept in the glory of every river.

.

what you won't have,

pricks your breath in the mornings /

what you won't have,

sleep on the sign of your blood.

Tamara Mejía Molina (Ecuador, 1987)

I am a broken doll

With warm sex, thinking of that almost friend, almost lover. How prevalent is the company, the nights of triumphs are nothing without a good ass to hug at dawn.

Locked in time. It's true, I cling to the past, not to forget this and that; Sometimes, like now, I go with anyone that I didn't get to know, I spit on them and tied me to their sex for a few hours. Then I punish myself.

I would like to see your sad, dull eyes and love them for the seconds leading up to our ataraxia.

I want to fly among liquids, I want to swim among its most secret scents, I want to be the owner and queen of its laments and tears. Let him learn in a strong way what it is to know that he is desired.

Men underestimate desire. The woman underestimates sex. Desire is everything, move legs, soak gonads and spray pride.

We only get pleasure from humiliating those who really matter to us.

Then make perverted love to her.

Monica Ojeda Franco (Ecuador, 1988)

FIRST EXPERIENCE OF THE CREATURE WITHOUT A FACE

  1. The broken world

Like when an ocean with the blood of my brothers rained on my broad spine and I raised my consciousness towards the center of the mirror. This is how I learned to breathe spring under the open skin of those who once loved me, and I said that no image or smell or articulated sound could ever make me feel what it was like to break on top of something alive | no word could communicate the sense of fragility falling on the force and bathing it with that which makes it strong: the weakness of the petals burning the sky, the roots of the lightning embodying the tree. All the brutality was in the life that was tenderness impounded in violence, that is why the world was splitting like the teeth of a house buried in the wound of a child.

Leira Araújo (Ecuador, 1990)

.

I'll call you blue

I'll call you blue

by the calm sea that you carry behind your eyes

for the sand that covered your childhood

for the desolation you miss on a black plank

One day you will see my river

I have filled it with fish and stakes

that run to your mouth

I have drunk the water so that they can, at last, pronounce themselves

Thanks to the promise

to the pact to take care of the night

for the rest of the days

when time empties us

we can still live

kissing under the cement.

Alexandra Espinosa (Colombia, 1995)

I just need the right reason, and I will

Like when I turned twenty I thought my brain had started to die

stop speaking clearly,

now everything that I can't communicate to my parents

and what I can not communicate to my friends

and what I cannot communicate to the idiotsavants who hear me from their seats

in the stalls with their hungry ears

and what I can't say to my old classmates

who listen from their constructive silence

while they think of an important phrase to say

to kill anything stupid I explain

because they don't feel like their brain stops

but they believe that it continues

and they don't look for proof every day

and they don't get up like I get up and look at their feet dangling from the huge lonely bed

while wondering how many cells die at that precise moment.

All the things I had to say to the person I am interested in loving

all the things I had to say in a long line at customs

and all the things I had to write in a white box

all the things I had to talk about

all the garbage accumulated and rearranged

And all the conspiracy theories I had to make public in front of a friend or two

since I no longer have any of that,

because now all the time I think my IQ drops

and my brain prefers to be stunned and the light no longer collides inside

then i come here,

and i wish you could see my face while i say i'm not cut out for this

and that I must understand quickly

that the path I chose was not the one

and I must do it today because time seems to move too violently

always forward,

and i must

I SHOULD!

reconfigure all the uncertainty and make it seem like a single dream,

much more correct than the previous one,

But I really don't want to, I really prefer my old dream

Madeline Durango (Ecuador, 1995)

The raw truth is not found in what you see

Is under your skin

Beyond the bones

And your blood

It is in the intimacy of the intention

The truth revealed by your mouth

Or embodied in ink on paper

The raw truth is you

And my mind does not resign, nor lives, nor dies,

Nor does it rest,

He stands in nowhere, waiting for you to rescue me.

Virna Teixeira (Fortaleza, Brazil, 1971)

.

MEMORY LOST

Thirtieth Floor: See the city at night. Deletion of files, memories. Some were twisted in thought like the building, with Gothic windows. Captivity. Cinema Voltaire.

On the windowsill, an orchid. Isolated against twilight, violet. The erased outline of the buildings.

A sunny day. Couples stroll in the park. They walk among geese. Children play in the sandy pond.

Hippocampus, strangeness of images. Corners, forks. As if I had never, so many times, walked there.

Translation: Jair Cortés and Berenice Huerta

.

.

Valeria Meiller (Argentina, 1985)

.

.

WATERY

*

During a flood, the strongest

they meet up in a tree.

With water everywhere, the family on the roof.

Make a boat out of the bed leg. A sheet candle.

The first solution is to climb. Transparent,

parents, grandparents and pregnancies.

The kids on the roof sucking

their ration of bone they ask

Where will the sun be? And they phosphoresce.

Others flourish as well. Transparent children are born in the rain.

The midwife swimming

assists mothers without providing. A dog follows her.

The youngest stick out their tongues and drink the rain.

Many drops is male, so they choose a name.

*

After a week of rain, a head

it is yellow rennet. Twenty heads, a sulfur mine.

Sour milk sadness makes you cry

not even swallowing a bone is going to save the shine.

.

.

.

Luis Aguilar (Mexico, 1969)

.

.

TOUCH

.

Glare that goes astray, barely

Gone among the gone, a man

it's a hesitant second

Absorbed in the little touch:

Eyes on yours

Any life that goes on forever

even if it fails to register memory

.

Liyanis González Padrón (Cuba, 1971)

.

KONSTANTIN KAVAFIS

Spectral poet

.

You sink into my dream

drawing a circle on the page

Rodrigo Morales (Chile, 1980)

.

.

THE DIVER

.

.

The glass fabrics hang from the sky and it is as if hunger does not exist on top of this boat you are left looking at me as if I were a provincial cinema luminary or a small accordion abandoned in a corridor I know it hurts to lick the winter when I tell you take care I do not want you to give up like those birds that only seek a temperate place those schizophrenic birds with psychotic song in the word heaven I walk through the little sea house making gestures that I will forget in a couple of minutes while you braid a girl the clouds indicate a certain type of tragedy such as slamming a window or breaking a wave near those girls in paradise sea lilies sail cramped eyes that are drawn barefoot among the algae while I dance in a small raft that nails its rosary in the seas of the air but life is nothing more than a puppet show that is later left abandoned in a fourth an amancay adorns the blouse of a girl about to speak while the cholgas are heard opening in the fire someone declares himself to one side of the garden here there are no gardens but the words are heard passing mute through the desert I think of simple things a butterfly black perched on a fox's ear butterflies that go to the sea and then die behind the waves the sun is disfigured in the mouth of a purple fish among the rocks the cacti small christs of the place they see the dead fish pass towards the town I wake up under water crucified in the desert when there in the dim light of the distance a man like me cries out for defeat and presents himself.

Roy Dávatoc (Peru, 1981)

.

.

Denials

.

.

I've never received a love letter

completed a crossword,

or made rings with cigarette smoke

I have never understood questions of optics

neither pastry nor navigation

But I imagine there is a point where the water loses

its unnatural consistency and becomes a torrent

In black space I mean: I could have a coffee right now

and die moderately.

Fernando Vargas Valencia (Colombia, 1984)

.

WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD

.

.

You know by heart

that anguish is a prize.

Too bad that sometimes we get lost

the lottery ticket.

You know that every chair promises absences,

that no absence promises chairs.

And you rage like the city is to blame.

As if the chairs and absences were to blame.

As if you were to blame.

You know, and not from memory,

more for stubbornness,

for wanting to be an invented animal,

that pain becomes destiny

when you want to make the sky

a break up.

Edel Morales (Cuba, 1961)

.

.

STREET G. 1982

.

One night we were splitting almonds on G.

It was after 12 and you and that skirt with white flowers

they seemed like eternity.

I stopped for a moment to contemplate the light

and the passage of cars through Havana in 1982.

Everything was so simple.

The old blessed sea in front of the statue of Calixto García.

Your face advancing in the semiclarity of the pines.

The stroke with which my hand searched the red intimacy of the almond.

Everything was so simple

like the life of the water that slips through the fingers.

No one was to come.

We weren't expecting anyone.

I stopped for a moment to contemplate the light

and the passage of cars through Havana in 1982.

You and that skirt with white flowers

they seemed like eternity.

Cinzia Marulli (Italy, 1965)

.

REGARDS

Do you remember mom
coffee at four in the morning
when the darkness still penetrated
in the bones?
Some rags on top
the old black coat and shawl
around the head
and then dad and you
down the street of the triton walking
in silence, side by side
lower your head and sleep in your eyes
the usual office
the same things to clean
with your knees on the polished floorboards
and holy hands in the toilets
I, on the other hand, still at home
with the books on my knees
and then to school to destroy the dirty rags of misery.

Salvatore Ritrovato (Italy, 1967)

YES

September 11 came five years later.

Sitting in an armchair, in front of the television.

Sitting listening to the words

of the last witnesses who have returned

to look for the angel who has saved them.

Sitting alone, waiting. No evidence.

Today it seems that there are no planes falling on the houses.

The maid looks dumbfounded at the two returning towers

five years later to shine in the picture

and they fall again, it's not a mistake

I explain, it is not an American movie,

it has not happened today. I did not know anything.

The afternoon, the day that the world had changed

I collapse on the couch out of breath.

Late perhaps, but I only understood

five years later.

It was a tremendous western question

the hardest day for everyone:

convince yourself that something would change

later. Being afraid of him, for example,

to the world, every day.

And tell it on television.

Believe in capillary controls,

in peace, in the waiting rooms.

In a hidden and distant god.

Wait for the din.

One month after that September 11

I said yes.

Get married in February. An ideal month,

cold and short. Would pass

unnoticed in Venice without carnival.

Yes. Have a welcoming family.

Children, mortgage, single account.

Life insurance. A slight

rush every morning, hoarse voice.

And then the sermons of the pedagogues

and from pediatricians, the prescription from dentists.

And one day I'll have a lighter urn.

Now it's easy to end up in ash and rubble.

I tremble at the thought of going down stairs

and stairs before I dissolve that day

like that September 11

at work or on vacation.

Staying in the crack of a building

of glass and papier-mâché that crumbles,

burned, pulverized.

Like an air gap, hungry rust.

In front of a tiny city.

looking for another higher wall

protected, and spurs, and flies

Where planes can't fall

Should not. But it is not easy.

Gabriela Cantú Westendarp (Mexico, 1972)

.

.

As if I don't speak enough during the day they say

that I talk while I sleep, and I think they tell the truth.
Last night my own voice woke me up as if it were that of
someone else. It seems that some of my nightly phrases
have to do with dates and names, but sometimes
I also curse, that is, I say high-sounding words, words
that said in broad daylight and in full consciousness
they would worry. They claim that only 5% of adults suffer from
of somniloquia - scientific word that refers to speaking
while sleeping. They also ensure that in those recitations
real and fantastic elements are mixed. It is true that I suffer
certain sleep disorders and that sometimes I wish I could sleep
three or four days in a row without any interruption; and although I am
certain that this is far from happening I do not lose hope.

Gabriel Chávez Casazola (Bolivia, 1972)

.

.

NIGHT FLIGHT / POETIC ART 1

That light that goes out

it is not an empire

not a firefly.

Antoine knew it, he knew it flying over Patagonia.

That light that goes out is a house that stops making its gesture

to the rest of the world,

a mansion

—A humble mansion if anything fits: all the houses of man

they are a mansion, all the mansions of man a cabin—

a mansion, said Antoine, that closes on his love. Or about his boredom.

A flickering light to which

-Cold to heat-

some peasants gathered

they hold on

castaways balancing a match

before the immensity

from a desert island.

.

Raúl Hernández (Chile, 1980)

.

DRIZZLE

There is a shadow chased away by the dogs.
There are fish dying in the deserted basket.

And nothing suggests that this morning
the faces of the sidewalks will continue to be illuminated.

You exist like leafless fog of public squares
you warm the air with your hidden transit.

From the windows of the schools
they see you appear like the stranger who interrupts the class
between a student and thought
between the clear word and destiny
through the layer of torpor and desire.

There is a shadow chased away by the dogs
nothing simplifies the eyes of the drizzle
and without looking back
the walker wanders swearing illusion.

A limited meaning of winter
from a corner of the road.

Carolina Dávila (Colombia, 1982)

.

.

NO OTHER WATERS PENETRATE WITH THE RAIN

.

I would love that woman who wanders

through a desert of frozen nights

while rumors of some port reach him

but they don't break their silence

nor do they soften the grooves

that the pain traced on his face

I would love her because she does not bend

because other waters do not penetrate with the rain

because his body opens there

where spring is not enough

.

Angela Suarez T. (Colombia, 1982)

.

.

BEDROOMS

.

I list wrappers

of clandestine sweets.

I order superfluous papers,

picturesque.

Conspiracy

against the fractal collection of your silences,

Against your strange fear of knotting yourself

Against your little abstract window

and unfinished.

István Turczi (Hungary, 1957)

.

.

SIX VERSE POEM ON HISTORY

.

(Hatsoros will see történelemről)

Christs, kings, ideologues

and tyrants transfigured in other battles,

like corroded plastic jars

they fly together towards the Great Exit,

until eternal peace comes,

even worse than any war.

Balázs F. Attlila (Romania, 1954)

.

BIRTH OF CASANOVA

.

.

"Handsome boy" observed the midwives, placing the baby on his mother's chest as he struggled to free his throat from the pain of the universe.

So he continued after a short sleep when, drawn from the red marble sink, he was vigorously deposited in the dressing room. And much later, after passing into the arms of his father.

"My son" - lifted him up in the air; then, not calming down, he handed him over to an attractive aunt. What a miracle: the little boy stopped crying in the woman's soft arms.

"Look at this!" his father muttered under the mustache, uncorking and pouring the champagne. "For young Casanova!"

The newborn did not seem to share the family joy. The party held in his honor took place without his participation

On the way to church, before putting his son in the arms of his godparents, old Casanova prayed to God. He asked that his son be filled with all the repressed dreams and desires that he could not achieve: to love women with the courage, determination and opportunity that he had never had.

And the Lord, who was in a good mood, heard her prayer. The adolescent Casanova stroked shy but provocative girls without limitation; From his hiding place, he saw his parents make love, bathe his aunt and his cousins ​​together. He trained his cock so that it was almost always proudly straight. She quickly learned the secrets of the bed from her maid, who knew all the resources. Then they came, one after another: the governess, the butcher's widows and the coachman, the housekeeper's daughter, the grocer's granddaughter, and after them hundreds and hundreds more.

He fornicated until the end of his days, enjoying the arms and breasts of beautiful girls and women, just as his father had invoked.

But when his child was born, Casanova asked God to bless him with a boring marriage and a mediocre life.

And the good Lord heeded her request.

Adnan Al-Sayegh (Iraq, 1955)

.

.

POEMS OF THE RAIN

.

* *

.

Oh! Rain…
stay in the streets rebelling
like cats and children
stay in the crystals shining
gliding like the goats of light
and do not enter the coats of the rich
nor in the stores
fearing to contaminate your white hands
with the money.

* *

Oh rain!
Oh! The letters that go from the sky to the fields
show me how the flower of the poem opens
of the speech stones.

* *

When the rain dies
the fields will fire their coffin
just the tiny cactus
will laugh in the deserts
disappointed in the weeping of the trees.

Translated by:

Muhisin Al - Ramly

Azucena del Rio

Mohammad Hudaib (Palestine, 1965)

.

.

EIGHT FIFTEEN

.

Love for this morning

is finding your shaving brush

next to the machine

and realize for a moment

that you are opening the window all the way.

Love is a battle of sheets

during which you realize for a moment

that you are captivated by a stain

on a woman's hip.

Divine drawing of the flower of fire, it is the stain.

.

Paulo Ferraz (Brazil, 1974)

.

ONLY THE IMPOSSIBLE IS IMPOSSIBLE

Let me read your luck. Barely me

I realized and I already had the hand of

the old woman clinging to mine. Hand

beautiful, old, less gypsy

that begs. fine skin,

but those lines. What me

he said later he was lost

in pollution; my mind

stirred, to save

his palmistry, the garbage can;

later, done the chore,

deciphered: good fortune

of your there are superimposed

a shrill siren sounds

cia, your uniqueness

maybe it's in your destiny

(I think the correct translation

would be: your fatality).

Eat this ream, eat

This ream, this ream feeds

your belly and fill the intestines,

you may be indigestible.

Will be. Then choose how

the letters will come out of your body

written on every page.

Until recently I was mute,

happy and dumb, ignorant and

dumb, why dumb my

way of living in the world?

It would be better to be still

in a corner, be one of those

Carlos Aguasaco (Colombia, 1975)

.

.

NEW YORK

.

.

This world is by definition contempt and arrogance.

Gesture of disgust and the disgust of men shoulder to shoulder

Sitting on the train.

Fixed gaze that crosses over you at the midpoint

And in you it dissipates into a turban-shaped arabesque.

This world is not your world and it is.

The city is there to be taken

The city is there to splurge

To give contempt, to be a reflection of man and man

To remember that always, no matter where you look,

The heat of a lens shelters you with obscene discretion

Of who without looking at you observes you.

It would be necessary to kill John Lenon and face sarcasm

To smile at the camera so that she denounces you

In the headlines for ten continuous years without paying you a penny.

Laugh like crazy and stink of money

Stink like crazy and laugh at money.

New York, it's not me you greet

With your torch lit in the Atlantic.

Najman Darwish (Palestine, 1978)

.

.

JERUSALEM

.

.

If I abandon you around in stone

if I return to you I turn a stone

I call you Medusa

I call you older sister of Sodom and Gomorrah

your baptismal font that made Rome burn

The rumor of the murdered his poems in the hills

the rebels censor their chroniclers

meanwhile I leave the sea and come back

I come back to you

through this stream where your despair runs

I listen to the reciters of the Koran the shrouds the corpses

I hear the dust of those who grieve

I'm not thirty yet but you've buried me time and time again

and again because of you

I emerge from the ground

let those who pray for you go to hell

who sell souvenirs of your pain

those who are standing with me in the photographs

I call you Medusa

I call you older sister of Sodom and Gomorrah

your baptismal font that still burns

Fakhri Ratrout (Palestine, 1972)

.

THINGS I MISS

.

.

Tonight I miss many things:

That I hold the perfume that I lost

from a woman long ago

May god be my friend

That sadness does not attack me

Let it be me this afternoon

That I never think again that I am the hell of God

with which the disobeyed world punishes

That crazy people fall asleep in their cells inside me

Let no one die at the end of the night

May the mirror show me my false face

That I hear the whistle of a cricket

That my brain is not the dinner of the world

That the world does not undress in front of me

That the moon does not see blood shed at night

That my scared curtains fall asleep

That I do not die this afternoon

Don't let the blue elephant crush me

Let no one ask me:

What is the blue elephant?

Ahmed Al-Shahawi (Egypt, 1960)

.

THIS IS MY TOMB

هكذا قبري

I want to be buried alone.

No one before, no one after me.

That they wrap me in a linen shroud

Like an old egyptian sage

And let my face look up to the sky

I want to take my perfumes with me

And my toothbrush

And the poems that he hadn't recited yet

And the books that I didn't read

So as not to go out naked in the city

Give me papers and pencils

So that the grave does not strangle my dreams

Let two mulberry trees appear over my name

I would like to choose from the book of Allah the azora "Lee"

And the verse: "We have not taught him poetry"

For the two to be witnesses

And let them write my name in Persian calligraphy

And with Arabic characters.

Just as Allah likes to see a poet like me.

There would be no such thing as what prohibits fruits and women

Because paradise may not be under my feet.

Fernando Cazón Vera (Ecuador, 1935)

.

THE OBESE COW

.

The obese cow

does not contemplate the rose

nor cry in the storm.

When the field matures

look at the loneliness of your land

and on the distant moon

believe find the horns

of his archangelic bull.

The obese cow

he has to die one day for us.

.

Sonia Manzano (Ecuador, 1948)

.

THE PROMISE

.

If one day both of my hands are seized,
if they seize the goldfinches from my tongue,
if they raid my garlic garden
the flocks of pecking crows.

If they break the glass in my eyes
to accept the crystal of resignations,
if they tie me to the leg of silence
to scratch my soul:
bound, gagged, stripped of the neck,
with no other option in hope,
it would bruise the anguish,
hit me with the punching wind
until leaving with the most eternal arms
through the open seams of the night.

.

Maritza Cino Alvear (Ecuador, 1957)

.

.

UNFAITHFUL IN THE SHADOW

.

At that time

I got involved with nothing

I put off the words

I divorced my sex.

God was waiting for me

in a place on your skin.

Hidden in his tunic,

with earthly mysticism

I rewrote the gospel.

.

.

Siomara Spain (Ecuador, 1976)

.

.

THE WOMAN WHO LOVED MEN

.

I love men

He said

beings without forgiveness

no tongue or sign

I love the stubbornness of their banal indecencies

his hands that twist sanity

and drag the spoils of their forbidden love into the abyss

those who praise each other in the night of hymen

as they lie in the clutches of doubt

and in the high tangle of desire

erect and violent

they drag their exquisite fury to the den of feasts

while wrapping

how you throw

like braids

his paleolithic fingers

in the waves of the last body

He said

But I love the cleverly androgynous more

I love his slim hands of a writer or artist

unable to wield their own name

because they dream of being called

Paris, Alejandro, Lucifer or Antonio

He said

I also love the straightened voice

that rides the harmony of my name

He said

and I bow a hundred times like an indecipherable fool

before the most sinister of men

that with a reversed and gleaming tongue

take me to the ear

ordinary and wicked

holy stupid things that I believe