mudo el acecho de la mente por una esperanza húmeda
aguardo y escucho a la musa redundante lloviendo sobre el mar
llueves adentro mío como llueve afuera, con gotas gordas tibias como monedas
solo me queda el recuerdo de tu boca hablándome
en itálicas
al oído.
Sans Serif
Tus lágrimas hablan un idioma inmemorial.
La lengua del destierro y la clausura, del hombre deshabitado de pie frente al fuego.
Déjame hacer guardia ante tu sueño, ser tu testigo, confirmar que sí, que estuviste en este mundo, que hubo cielo en tus ojos y tus manos tocaron una piel sin línea, sin adornos.
No necesito entenderte para alcanzar tu verdad.
Tus lágrimas hablan el idioma tibio y conocido del propio dolor.
Afasia
Puedo verte parado en mi corteza, los ojos amarillos de un lémur asustado, el sol en tu barba. Tus dedos como helechos que crecen eternos entre mi pelo.
Ahí estás, puedo verte, pero no puedo nombrarte.
Cajones, armarios, estantes, frascos. Despeino los libros. Revuelvo las maletas.
Perdóname, no sé. Debo haberlas dejado en el taxi o cuando cambié de cartera. Tal vez se cayeron del balcón la última vez que las lavé.
Las he perdido.
Tendremos que buscar unas nuevas, inventarnos algo. No sé dónde he puesto las letras de tu nombre.
Y te tengo en la punta de la lengua.
La presente selección ha sido sacada del “Las letras de tu nombre” (2019).
You are missed
You leave And take My words with you
Silent The mind´s stalking For a wet hope
I wait for And listen to the muse Redundant Raining over the sea
You rain inside of me As it is raining outside, With fat drops, Lukewarm Like coins.
All I´m left with Is the memory of your mouth Talking to me
In italics To my ears.
Sans Serif
Your tears speak An immemorial language
The tongue Of exile And cloister, Of the deserted man Standing in front of the fire.
Let me Watch over As you sleep, Be your witness, Confirm that you were, You actually were in this world, That there was sky in your eyes, And your hands touched A skin, Without line, without ornaments.
I don´t need to understand you To reach your truth. Your tears speak The warm and known language Of the self-pain.
Aphasia
I can see you Standing on my bark, Your yellow eyes Of a scared lemur, The sun on your beard. Your fingers like fern, Eternal, Growing Among my hair.
There you are, I can see you, But I cannot name you.
Drawers, wardrobes, Bookcases, jars. I dishevel the books. I mess up the bags.
Forgive me, I don´t know. I should have let them in the taxi Or when I changed my wallet. Maybe they fell down the balcony The last time I washed them.
I have lost them.
We will have to look for new ones, Make something up. I don´t know where I have put The letters of your name.
And I have you In the tip Of my tongue.
The following poems have been selected from the book “The letters of your name” (2019).
Elección y traducción a inglés : Edilberto González Trejos. / Selection and translation to English: Edilberto González Trejos.
Esta elección está dedicada a nuestro amigo, poeta Vasco Franco (1960-2021). / This selection is dedicated to our friend poet Vasco Franco (1960 -2021).
Isabel Burgos, Ciudad de Panamá, 1970. Es Licenciada en Comunicación Social, actriz, directora y dramaturga, locutora comercial y entrenadora de actores y no-actores en técnicas teatrales. Ha publicado dos libros de microficciones: Segunda persona y letras minúsculas, así como el libro de poesía Las letras de tu nombre. Su obra ha sido incluida en diversas antologías literarias a nivel nacional e internacional. Sus cuentos han sido publicados en las revistas Maga, El Guayacán, Panorama de las Américas y La Balandra. En 2014 representó a Panamá en la Feria del Libro de Guadalajara. Ha ganado en dos ocasiones el Premio Literario Ricardo Miró, sección teatro, por sus obras Tránsito y Los inocentes.
Isabel Burgos, Panama City, 1970. She is a graduate in Social Communication, actress, director and playwright, commercial broadcaster, and coach in theatrical techniques for both actors and non- actors.She has published two books of minifiction: Segunda persona and letras minúsculas, as well as the poetry book Las letras de tu nombre. Her texts have been included in several literary anthologies, in Panama and abroad. Her short stories have been published in magazines such as Maga, El Guayacán, Panorama de las Américas and La Balandra in Argentina. In the year 2014 she represented Panama as an author in The Guadalajara International Book Fair, Mexico. She has won twice the National Prize of Literature “Ricardo Miró”, in theater for her works, “Tránsito” and “Los inocentes”.
La vida, y su excusa perfecta para la muerte, despierta, fluye a raudales, se ríe de su imagen. El mismo sol que vibra alegre sobre la hierba mojada, permite que la humedad pudra todo inevitablemente. La gente pasa con sus delirios cotidianos en una imitación permanente de la felicidad, asoma sus esperanzas para sobrevivir al caos. La vida se levanta y llora por primera vez tose, gime, susurra, sufre las cicatrices y calla; duerme con el semblante vacío de los exánimes. Tenazmente, en las estrellas, buscó respuestas eternas. En el cieno sembró las semillas que treparon soles. De lodo se llenaron sus mejillas en el estrépito de su caída. Soñó tanto la vida, se gastó tanto, amo tanto, hirió tanto, que un día será contemplada en su osamenta total, y para tantos será un ángel que habitó la tierra, sin culpas, sin odios, sin desventuras ni prejuicios, porque la grandeza pertenece a los muertos silentes. Después del cuerpo y la carne, ya no habrá más.
BOULEVARD 010621
I Así suelen acabar el día y la noche, como dos perros adormecidos por tanta lluvia, en un callejón de luces mortecinas quemadas y amarillas de alumbrar sin ganas. En madrugadas de torcidas pasarelas con mujeres con vestidos cortos y sensuales. Aves nocturnas con gafas oscuras, sin alas; a quienes el destino le enmarcó su silencio. El viento pasa con su armazón de tonada cómplice, deja agua y sal en las mejillas y un mar en el alma. Las canciones atraviesan las paredes de la ausencia, confabulan contra todos con un grito que supura soledad.
II Un hombre vestido como nadie, es público y es actor, cree que ríe, pero llora amargamente sin cesar. ¿Acaso solo le espera la muerte al solitario pierrot que desemboca las babas en el rincón de su sonrisa? Esa andanada de melodías llega para revivir los poemas, se estrellan por el suelo y en los húmedos balcones. Cabizbajo, el borracho trata de incorporar sus penurias y buscar el amor entre la sangre de sus manos vencidas, entre el sudor que ha quedado embarrado en el pavimento.
III Maquilladas de alegría las mujeres, ya sin fuerzas los ebrios, por las estaciones intermitentes, todos andan sin reloj ni luna. No se percatan de la llegada del sol. Tampoco les importa.
TESTAMENTO
Ora por mí, buen amor, porque se ciernen sobre mi cabeza todas las nostalgias que pensaba ya ocultas en los santuarios de la memoria.
Ora por mis horas lúcidas que se enganchaban a las nubes, por los cerros que trepa la hierba dorada, cuando el olor a libro me hizo evadir la muerte.
Ora al infinito por mi camino. Por el retorno a la matriz de la madre. Ya no soporto la vida colgada en carteles ni la vanidad que flota en las ciudades.
Ora por mí, por mi alma. Hasta el sol se me ha hecho anónimo; es solo un agujero de fuego que se traga la luz y la vomita sobre nuestras miradas.
Ora por mí, buen amor, que hoy me reclama el universo y ya no entiendo el origen de tu voz solo tengo el filo de esta daga.
Esta selección pertenece al libro Cancionero de los suicidas. Tres canciones para cantar después de morir, Panamá, 2021.
POST MORTEM
Life and her perfect excuse for death, Awakens, flows in torrents, laughs at her image. The same sun that happily pulses upon the wet grass, Lets the moisture rot everything helplessly. People go by with their everyday delusions In a permanent imitation of happiness, Leaning out their hopes to survive chaos. Life stands up and cries for the first time Coughs, moans, whispers, suffers the scars and keeps silent; Sleeps with the empty countenance of the lifeless. Tenaciously, in the stars, she looked for eternal answers. In the mire she sown the seeds that climbed upon suns. Her cheeks were filled with mud in the fuss of her fall. Life dreamt so much, she spent so much, she loved so much, she hurt so much, That one day everyone will gaze at all of her bones, And then for many she will be an angel who dwelled on Earth, Without guilt, without hate, without misfortune or prejudice, Because greatness belongs to the silent dead men. After the body and the flesh, there will be nothing more.
BOULEVARD 010621
I This is how day and night use to end, Like two drowsy dogs, out of so much rain, In an alley of dim, burnt, yellow lights, Out of the lack of desire to illuminate. In small hours of twisted catwalks With women in short and sexy dresses. Wingless night birds, wearing sunglasses; Whom destiny defined their silence. The wind passes with his frame of accomplice tune, Leaving water and salt on the cheeks and a sea in the soul. The songs pierce the walls of the absence Collude against everyone with a scream festering loneliness.
II A man dressed like nobody, he is the audience and the actor, He believes that he smiles, but cries bitterly and unceasingly. Perhaps, is it only death waiting for lone pierrot, whose spittle flows into in the corner of his smile? This bashing of melodies comes to recall the poems, They crash against the ground and the humid balconies. Crestfallen, the drunkard tries to sit up his scarcities, Among the sweat that´s left spattered in the pavement.
III Women have put on themselves the makeup of happiness, The drunk men no longer with strength. Through disperse stations, They all walk by with no watch and no moon. They don´t notice the rise of the sun. They don´t care either.
TESTAMENT
Pray for me, good love, Because over my head are hanging All the nostalgias that I thought they were concealed In the Sanctuaries of the memory.
Pray for my lucid hours, Fastened to the clouds, Through the hills where the golden grass climbs, When the smell of books made me elude death.
Pray to the infinite for my path, For the return to the mother´s womb. I can´t stand life hanging on posters Nor vanity floating over the cities.
Pray for me, for my soul. Even the sun has become anonymous to me; It is only a pit of fire swallowing the light, Throwing it out over our looks.
Pray for me, good love, For today the universe demands for me And I no longer understand the source of your voice I only have the blade of this dagger.
This selection belongs to the book “The Suicidals´ Songbook. Three songs to sing after dying”. (Panama, 2021).
Elección y traducción a inglés : Edilberto González Trejos. / Selection and translation to English: Edilberto González Trejos.
Esta elección está dedicada a nuestro amigo, poeta Vasco Franco (1960-2021). / This selection is dedicated to our friend poet Vasco Franco (1960 -2021).
Alcides Fuentes, David, Chiriquí, República de Panamá, 1973. Miembro del Movimiento de Cantautores de Panamá, Tocando madera, la gira, con quienes graba el disco Tocando madera la gira volumen 1. Ha publicado, en poesía, “Los acertijos de Sofía”, ganador del Premios IPEL, 2017, y “Estuve antes”, 2018, Editorial La Chifurnia, El Salvador. En cuento “La dama teje un sol sobre el arado”, ganador de los Premios IPEL, 2019. Es un artista multidisciplinario que ha incursionado en las artes escénicas y plásticas.Coordinador del Departamento de Arte y Cultura, MEDUCA, Chiriquí. Presidente del Movimiento Literario “Furtivos, literatura, arte, cultura”.
Alcides Fuentes, David, Chiriquí, Republic of Panama, 1973. Member of the Singer-Songwriters´ Movement of Panama “Tocando Madera. La gira”, with whom he has recorded the album “Tocando madera la gira volumen 1” (2011).He has published the following books, in poetry: “Los acertijos de Sofía”, winner of the IPEL Awards, 2017, and “Estuve antes”, 2018, Editorial La Chifurnia, El Salvador; in short story:“La dama teje un sol sobre el arado”, winner of the IPEL Awards, 2019. He is a multidisciplinary artist who has ventured into both scenic and plastic arts. Coordinator of the Department of Arts and Culture of the Ministry of Education, MEDUCA, in the province of Chiriquí. He is also the President of the Literary Movement “Furtivos: literature, arts and culture.”
Camino a la ciudad, tu boca y la mía, lamentan ser parte del festín: venció el becerro de oro, la centuria ha sido del mundo, nuestra cadena se arrastra como sílaba dormida. Perdimos la paz boscosa, rompimos el pacto. Somos reyes sin trono en este paraíso de hojalata.
(del cuaderno “Espejos”)
Cotidianas en serie
Ser cauto, un ser pensante que sabe de sobra, una máquina para cerrarlos los ojos y acumular consideraciones. una máquina para acumular una casa, un auto, mostradores y vitrinas, un ser que va de un corral a otro contando almas como mercancía, un ser consagrado al hecho diario de catalogar la vida. Ser cauto, un ser pensante que sabe de sobra repetir su maquinal herencia.
(Del cuaderno “Desertores de alborada”)
Heredades del fuego
El suicidio de un jubilado por la crisis desata la ira en Grecia Diario El País, España
Un anciano se ha disparado en la sien. Adentro de su bolsillo guarda una nota que habla del patrimonio de un pueblo adueñado por dioses monstruosos.
Se escucha detonada la explosión. Se empieza a ser polvo antes que cólera, unos mueren antes que llegue la muerte.
Los viejos mueren por un tiro en la cabeza, allá o acá sin heredad, sumando la cifra de una guerra que en cualquier bolsillo incendia.
(Del cuaderno “Desertores de alborada”)
One hundred years
Heading for the city, your mouth and mine, They regret to be part of the feast: The gold calf won, The century has been of the world, Our chain is dragging Like a sleeping syllable. We lost the wooded peace, We broke the covenant. We are kings without throne In this paradise made of tinplate.
(from the notebook “Mirrors”)
Serial routines
To be cautious, A thinking being who knows full well, A machine for closing eyes and gathering considerations. A machine for gathering a house, a car, counters and shop windows, A being swaying between a pen to the other counting souls as merchandise, A being devoted to the daily fact of cataloguing life. To be cautious, A thinking being who knows full well How to repeat his mechanical legacy.
(From the notebook “The dawn deserters”)
The Fire´s estates
The suicide of a pensioner because of the crisis unleashes the rage in Greece Diario El País, Spain
An old man has shot himself in the temple. In his pocket he keeps a note About the heritage of a people Seized by monstruous gods.
Triggered, the explosion is heard. One begins to be dust before rage, Some die before death arrives.
Old men die of a shot in the head, Here or there without estate, Adding up to the numbers of a war That sets fire to any pocket.
(From the notebook “The dawn deserters”)
Elección y traducción a inglés : Edilberto González Trejos. / Selection and translation to English: Edilberto González Trejos.
Esta elección está a nuestro amigo, poeta Vasco Franco (1960-2021). / This selection is dedicated to our friend poet Vasco Franco (1960 -2021).
Eyra Harbar, Almirante, provincia de Bocas del Toro, Panamá, 1972. Poeta, narradora y escritora de literatura infantil y juvenil. Su trabajo literario ha sido publicado en estudios y antologías nacionales e internacionales, así como ha sido reconocido en varios premios nacionales en poesía y de literatura infantil/juvenil. Licenciada en Derecho y Ciencias Políticas. Ha publicado los poemarios Paraíso quemado(2013), Espejos (2003), Donde habita el escarabajo (2002), el libro de minificción No está de más (2018) y Cuentos para el planeta (2020) en poesía infantil.
Eyra Harbar, Almirante, Bocas del Toro province, Panama, 1972. Poetess, storyteller and writer of Child and Adolescent Literature. Her literary work has been published in national and international studies and anthologies, as well as distinguished with several national prizes of poetry and child and adolescent literature. She is a Law and Political Sciences Graduate. She has published the following poetry books: Paraíso quemado(2013), Espejos(2003), Donde habita el escarabajo (2002), the minifiction books No está de más (2018) and Cuentos para el planeta (2020) in children´s poetry.
La escarcha de la aurora se perfila en tu velo de alabastro.
Fuiste lágrimas silvestres poblabas los caminos del otoño despertabas al ocaso y con hábil sutileza seducías mariposas, amantes en exilio–.
Sobre la hiedra se alzaban tus manos como espumas de una ola prematura lánguida dulce desnuda y fulgurante.
Y al final de tu historia olvidas tu pasado y transformas en pétalos tus párpados marchitos.
2.
Un navío hecho de hojas se despide hacia la vastedad de la laguna.
El sol aguarda.
3.
Resuelta caminas hacia el espacio donde se visten mis tinieblas: entras sin temor en la oscuridad.
Tus manos reconocen los senderos abatidos de mi viaje y descansan imitando al ocaso.
Tal vez recibas de mis manos un alba de azul y de azucena.
Tal vez mi pecho lacerado por el olvido encuentre tus brazos como ola y litoral.
Unpublished
1. The frost of the dawn Is outlined in your veil of alabaster.
You were tears in the wild Crowding the grey roads of autumn Awaking at dusk Seducing butterflies With your clever tenderness, Lovers in exile-.
Upon the ivy your hands did raise, Like sea foams of a premature wave, Feeble Sweet Nude and bright.
And at the end of your story, you forget your past Turning your withered eyelids Into petals.
2. A ship made of leaves bids farewell, Toward the vastness of the pond
The sun awaits.
3. Resolute You walk towards the space Where my darkness Is clothed: You enter fearless into the night.
Your hands recognise The downhearted paths of my journey And rest An imitation of sunset.
Perhaps you will receive From my hands a dawn Of blue, a dawn of white lily.
Perhaps my chest, Hurt by oblivion, Shall find your arms As wave and shore.
Elección y traducción a inglés : Edilberto González Trejos. / Selection and translation to English: Edilberto González Trejos.
Esta elección está dedicada a nuestro amigo, poeta Vasco Franco (1960-2021). / This selection is dedicated to our friend poet Vasco Franco (1960 -2021).
Samuel Robles, Ciudad de Panamá, 1974. Compositor, director de orquesta, educador y escritor panameño. Su música ha viajado por el mundo, siendo ejecutada o grabada por orquestas, grupos de cámara y solistas tales como la Orquesta Sinfónica de Guanajuato, la Sinfónica Venezuela, Dal Niente Ensemble, Violet Duo, Carmen Borregales, Eddy Marcano, Ana Catalina Ramírez, Marco Antonio Mazzini, Roberto Alonso Trillo, Laurel Zucker, Pacifica String Quartet o la Sejong Dream Tree Orchestra de Corea. Ha dirigido orquestas en Norte, Centro y Suramérica, trabajando principalmente con músicos jóvenes y programas de desarrollo social a través de la música. En 2018 obtuvo el Premio Roque Cordero de Composición en su versión inaugural por su obra Réquiem por los hijos del cañaveral para coro mixto y percusión – dos años más tarde repite con Cantata para un soldado, para soprano y ensamble mixto. Sus obras Sur para Banda Sinfónica, Veraguas para Orquesta Sinfónica y Danza de la Aurora para arpa han recibido mención de honor en dicho concurso. Sus composiciones son publicadas por Cayambis Music Press. Robles es profesor de la Universidad de Panamá, donde enseña en las áreas de Literatura Musical, Dirección Musical y Teoría Musical. Es pianista y acordeonistade Los Guayas y ha participado en álbumes como acordeonista, compositor, arreglista y director. Es doctor en composición musical (North West University) y posee maestrías en Musicología Histórica con concentración en música medieval y renacentista (University of Chicago) y en composición musical (University of Cincinnati-College Conservatory of Music). Es miembro investigador del Grupo Salamanca de Investigación en Museos y Patrimonio Iberoamericano (GSIM). Como escritor, ha publicado libros de cuentos y poesía, obteniendo en diversas ocasiones premios a nivel nacional. Ofrece talleres de escritura creativa, ha fungido como jurado de concursos nacionales de literatura y su obra ha sido seleccionada para diversas antologías, tales como “Cuentos de Panamá”, editado por la Universidad de Zaragoza. Robles ha sido publicado por el Instituto Nacional de Cultura, la Fundación Signos, Ediciones El Duende Gramático y por la Sociedad de Estudios Medievales y Renacentistas de Sudáfrica, entre otros.
Samuel Robles, Panama City, 1974. Composer, orchestra conductor, teacher and writer. His music has travelled around the world, performed or recorded by orchestras, chamber groups and solo artists such as the Symphonic Orchestra of Guanajuato, the Venezuela Symphonic, Dal Niente Ensemble, Violet Duo, Carmen Borregales, Eddy Marcano, Ana Catalina Ramírez, Marco Antonio Mazzini, Roberto Alonso Trillo, Laurel Zucker, Pacifica String Quartet, or the Sejong Dream Tree Orchestra of Korea. He has conducted orchestras in North, Central and South America, working mainly with young musicians and programs of social growth through music. In 2018 he received the Roque Cordero Award for Musical Composition for his work Réquiem por los hijos del cañaveral for mixed choir and percussion, two years later he is awarded again with Cantata para un soldado for soprano and mixed ensemble. His works Sur for symphonic band, Veraguas for symphonic orchestra and Danza de la Aurora for harp, have received honourable mention in the before mentioned contest. His compositions are published by Cayambis Music Press. Robles is professor at the Universidad de Panamá, teaching Musical Literature, Musical Conduction and Musical Theory. He is the pianist and accordionist of Los Guayas, participating in recordings as accordionist, composer, musical arrangement and direction. He has a Ph.D. in musical composition (North West University) and master degrees in Historical Musicology, stressing on medieval and renaissance music (University of Chicago) and musical composition (University of Cincinnati-College Conservatory of Music). He is member as researcher in the Grupo Salamanca de Investigaciónen Museos y Patrimonio Iberoamericano (GSIM). As a writer he has published short story and poetry books, receiving several nationwide awards in many occasions. He offers creative writing workshops, serving also as jury in several national literary contests. His texts have been selected for diverse anthologies, such as Cuentos de Panamá, published by the Universidad de Zaragoza. The author has been published by The Panamanian Instituto Nacional de Cultura, the Fundación Signos, Ediciones El Duende Gramático and by the Society of Medieval and Renaissance Studies in South Africa, among others.
Mónica Miguel Franco (Photo Anhell Demelos – (c) Sanfiz Photography)
DE LA PIEL DEL DIABLO
De la piel del Diablo, se crearon los niños.
La alegría que desborda en un beso, la suavidad exquisita de la nata sobre la lengua.
De la piel del Diablo se creó el jade y del sudor que resbala sobre Él se cristalizan las esmeraldas.
De la piel del Diablo se fundieron las selvas, las orquídeas y las guacamayas.
De la piel del Diablo surgieron la obscuridad y la noche, el querer tocar, el miedo y el susurro.
De la piel del Diablo se hizo la música que te transporta y el silencio que te rodea.
La piel del Diablo huele como las lilas en primavera y tiene la belleza del primer carámbano del invierno, ese que en su brillo conjura heladas y cierzos.
De la piel del Diablo se desprenden las plumas de las águilas, de los mirlos, de las cornejas y de las lechuzas.
De la piel del Diablo se recortaron todos los mares llenos de vida, los ríos que te ahogan y los estanques burbujeantes de hadas.
De la piel del Diablo se crean todos los zapatos rojos y los sorbos de licor verde que se deslizan entre los dientes.
El calambre que los enamorados sienten al tocar al ser amado, las mariposas brillantes que rondan el estómago del que espera, esas son las sensaciones que te provoca la piel sedosa, tibia y tierna del Diablo.
La piel del Diablo te cubre como una manta de cuna, como una mortaja ligera, como un sudario amable, como el abrazo de tu madre antes de dormir.
La piel del Diablo, que se estira y rodea todo el universo en su despliegue de sorpresas y brillos, que se recoge y ondula en cada curva de la serpiente.
La piel del Diablo nos protege y nos aísla, nos envuelve como el saco que rompemos al nacer.
Al rasgar esa piel, llorando, detrás, encontramos al Diablo, riendo.
La belleza del Diablo que quema nuestros pulmones con el primer sorbo de sabiduría. Y nos condena eternamente.
(De la piel del Diablo, Panamá, 2012)
OF THE DEVIL´S SKIN
Out of the Devil´s skin, children were created.
The joy brimming over a kiss, the exquisite softness of the milk skin on the tongue.
Out of the Devil´s skin, jade was created and out of the sweat sliding on Him emeralds are crystalized.
Out of the Devil´s skin rainforests did merge, as well as orchids and macaws did.
Out of the Devil´s skin darkness and night emerged, the desire to touch, and fear and whispering.
Out of the Devil´s skin, the music that transports you was made and the silence surrounding you.
The Devil´s skin smells like lilacs in spring and has the beauty of the first icicle of winter, that one conjuring up in its brightness frosts and cold north winds.
Out of the Devil´s skin, the feathers of eagles, blackbirds, carrion crows and owls come off.
Out of the Devil´s skin all the seas full of life were outlined, as well as the rivers drowning you and the ponds bubbling with fairies.
Out of the Devil´s skin all the red shoes are created as well as the sips of green spirits sliding between the teeth.
The cramp that lovers feel when they touch their beloved one, the glowing butterflies circling the stomach of the waiting one, those are the sensations that the silky, warm and tender Devil´s skin arouse in you.
The Devil´s skin covers you like a cradle´s blanket, like a light shroud, like a kind gravecloth, like the mother´s embrace before sleeping.
The Devil´s skin, the one that stretches and surrounds all the universe in her unfolding of surprises and sparkles, folding and waving in every serpent´s curve.
The Devil´s skin protects us and isolates us, wraps us like the bag we break when we are born.
By tearing that skin, crying, we find the Devil, in the back, laughing.
The beauty of the Devil burning our lungs with the first sip of wisdom. And condemning us eternally.
(De la piel del Diablo, Panamá, 2012)
.:: LA DAMA BLANCA
En tu montaña soy el hada que te enreda y te pierde soy la que te hiere y te asusta… la Niña Blanca, la Santa Muerte… danzas conmigo en eterno son de besos no dados y promesas Soy yo, ¿me ves? morirás en mis brazos…y morirás alegre
(De la piel del Diablo, Panamá, 2012)
.:: THE WHITE LADY
In your mountain I am the fairy tangling you, getting you lost, I am the one who hurts you and scares you… the White Childe, the Holy Death… you dance with me in an eternal pace of ungiven kisses and promises It is me, Can you see me? You will die in my arms…and you will die happy.
(De la piel del Diablo, Panamá, 2012)
CORDIS
Quiero un corazón para llevar. Lo quiero grande. Donde quepan mis caprichos y mis rarezas. Mimosa, excéntrica y temperamental. Latirá en mis risas y mis llantos. Ronroneará en mis silencios y mis arrebatos. Lo quiero aún caliente, para acercar a él mis manos siempre heladas y poder sentir el vaho húmedo que desprende. En tu pecho no late, pero latirá por mí. Golpeará sin pausa, al ritmo de mis gemidos y mis susurros. Será el diapasón que marque el ritmo de mis mareas. Seré su norte y su este. Escucharé su llamada a puerto seguro. Marcará el baile y me hará danzar. Quiero un corazón para morderlo. Para saborearlo y esconderme en él. Jugaré al escondite en sus recovecos, los ventrículos serán mi lecho y las aurículas harán eco a mi llanto. A salvo en sus remansos, sus dolores serán para mí apenas pavesas que haré volar al soplo de mi aliento y sangre nueva lo llenará, y me deslizaré en un tobogán resbaladizo carmesí, brillante y blando. Quiero un corazón viejo. Lo quiero con cicatrices. Quiero pasar la lengua por ellas, lamer su dolor y sus aristas. No quiero nada tierno. Quiero la dureza del que ha latido contra el viento y ha sobrevivido. Quiero un corazón antiguo. Quiero oír en sus compases cuentos de penas y dolor. Quiero sentirlo latir contra mi mano. En mi puño recuperará el paso y la calma. Lo usaré de almohada y despertaré oliendo el óxido de la sangre en mis labios. Dame tu corazón, lo quiero para mí. Entrégamelo para usarlo como una pastilla de jabón, resbaladiza y húmeda, que borre con sus manchas las imágenes que no deseo tener en mi alma. Dame tu corazón. Mío es, tuyo no.
(20 poemas de amor y una canción alcoholizada, Panamá, 2014)
CORDIS
I want a take-out heart. I want it big. Where my cravings and my peculiarities fit. Affectionate, eccentric and temperamental. It will beat in my laughter and in my tears. It will purr in my silences and in my outbursts. I want it still hot, to put closer to it my hands, forever cold and being able to feel the humid steam it emits. In your chest it beats no more, but it will beat for me. It will beat without pause, to the rhythm of my moaning and whispering. It will be the tuning fork setting the beat of my tides. I will be its North and its East. I will hear its call to a safe port. It will set the dance beat and will make me dance. I want a heart to bite it. To savour it. and hinder in it. I will play hide-and-seek in its nooks, the ventricles will be my bed and the atriums will echo my cry. Safe in its havens, its pains will be for me barely ashes that I will make fly blowing away my breath and new blood will fill it and I will slide in a slippery crimson bright and tender toboggan. I want an old heart. I want it with scars. I want to pass my tongue through them, lick their pain and their ridges. I don´t want anything tender. I want the hardness of the one who has beaten against the wind and has survived. I want an ancient heart. I want to hear in its beats tales of grieving and pain. I want to feel it throb against my hand. In my fist it will recover the pace and the calm. I will use it as a pillow and will wake up smelling the rust of the blood in my lips. Give me your heart, I want it for me. Hand it to me to use it as a bar of soap, slippery and wet, erasing with its stains the images that I do not wish to have in my soul. Give me your heart. Mine it is, not yours.
(20 poemas de amor y una canción alcoholizada, Panamá, 2014)
Mónica Miguel Franco (León, España, 1971). Licenciada en Filosofía por la Universidad de Barcelona, doctoranda en Patrimonio Histórico y Natural por la Universidad de Huelva (España). Ha trabajado en un número plural de instituciones culturales y antropológicas en distintos países desde 1998, ha sido docente por más de 20 años y actualmente también dicta talleres on-line. Escribeal menos tres columnas semanales en revistas, periódicos y distintos medios de comunicación en Panamá.Ha publicado dos poemarios: De la piel del Diablo(2012) y 20 poemas de desamor y una canción alcoholizada (2014). Ha sido antologada tanto en libros de poesía como de cuentos en distintas publicaciones en Panamá y en el extranjero. Y sus poemas han sido traducidos al italiano y al inglés. Es productora y actriz de teatro y cine, con una larga trayectoria en las tablas. Como gestora cultural es fundadora del Festival Panamá Negro y del proyecto Jamming Poético en Panamá y de la Red Nacional de Festivales.
Mónica Miguel Franco (León, Spain, 1971). She has a grade in Philosophy by the University of Barcelona, doctoral student in Historical and Natural Heritage by the University of Huelva (Spain). She has worked in a plural number of cultural and anthropological institutions, including museums, in different countries since 1998, she has been a teacher for over 20 years and currently also gives on-line workshops and classes. She writes at least three weekly columns in magazines, newspapers and other media in Panama. She has published two Poetry Books: De la piel del Diablo (2012) y 20 poemas de desamor y una canción alcoholizada (2014). Her work has been included in several anthologies, in poetry and short fiction stories, both in Panama and abroad (Spain, Argentina, Italy, f.i.). And her poems have been translated into Italian and English. She is producer and actress for theater and cinema, with a long career on the stage. As a cultural enterpreneur and manager she is founder of Festival Panamá Negro and the Jamming Poético Panamá Project as well as the National Network of Festivals.
Could you single out one or several verses that could serve as a metaphor for Singapore, the way you perceive it?
My poem „To Go to S’pore“ is a good example – S’pore is a common short form for Singapore; „spore“ is also a seed. Singapore is a tiny island city-state but it contains remarkable potential to unfold multitudes.
You’ve attended festivals in the Balkans, you established connections in the world of literature of Macedonia, Croatia, Serbia. What are your impressions about the literary life in this region and the poetry that has been created here?
I have spent very little time in this area, and cannot claim to know it deeply, although I have made many close friends and I have had books published in Croatia and Macedonia in the local languages. That said, there are many currents here that are also present in the Asia-Pacific region: ancient societies with a long tradition of power, wealth, trade and cultural mingling – with a lot of pride — but there is also a history of conflict and decline. These are the societies that may have lost their leading place, but are trying to find their way back to the global community. Back to a place of dignity and hope. But we are not there yet. The writing reflects both the pride, the cultural confidence that is here but also the anxieties and resentments of the present and the recent past. At the same time there is a reaching for the new – there seems to be a desire not to stay too long in your father’s house. I believe the ability to forge real change and innovation can only come from such societies as these, and some of the recent writing shows it. There are exciting breaks with the past and with comfortable conventions. There is fresh blood.
I know you as a really curious, but at the same time deep observer of the places you visit, as well as the observer of the symbolic potential of seemingly small and not so important events you come across. To what extent do the travellings and meeting various people and cultures affect your writing?
Without curiosity there can be no new wisdoms. Travelings and and encounterings nourish growth – particularly for someone from such a comfortable but small country as Singapore. One cannot be too sheltered as a writer; one must expose oneself (both in the sense of open-mindedness but also in the sense of vulnerability) to the world. The diversity of human experience, which is so richly evident when one travels far from home, is a wonderful source of inspiration. So too are the constant reminders that we are after all one species, and the human spirit knows no distinction of colour, creed, gender or tongue. That gives me hope. My writing is a way of circling, marking out, what seems true to me, and the more I travel the more I find new ways to do so. I find fresh coordinates. New voices, new structures to learn from. The lens gets a little clearer, gains more focus. We teach each other how to be more human by embodying different ways of being human, and of speaking through life.
Where are the barbarians in the contemporary world? Are they within us or within what is being considered as Otherness?
I think the roots of barbarity have always been the same: ignorance, atavism, fear, tribalism, selfishness, anger, greed, resentment, insecurity… To me, barbarians are those in any time and any place who seek to divide or destroy, rather than nurture human connections and human variety. The barbarian is not the Other; Othering is barbarism.
At times you question emotion as a reaction to the current war and political events in your poetry. What is the power of words in the contemporary world?
I think emotion is a valid response. But it is one of many responses, and they all add up. I don’t believe poetry (or language) alone can save the world, or even move it directly. But it may, like how a line of music can change a song, subtly alter the terms of engagement, shift the tone, add to what is considered, reduce noise or nudge it so that it becomes something else. Satire is the most obvious example of this (turning something serious into something funny) but there are other subtle ways in which language may change the mood, if not for the whole world, then for the individuals that make up the world. It’s like the old Depeche Mode song: „You can’t change the world, but you can change the facts; when you change the facts, you change points of view“ and from there you may change the world. I think it is very important for individuals to feel like they have the ability to consider and change their own points of view; to think about what is and what could be in more ways than are often available. The ability to thoughtfully disagree is the basis of civilisation.
Some philosophers consider that we live in postemotional world. Is today’s poetry postemotional or is it dominated by new sensitivity?
I think it’s important however to remember that not everyone is at the same level of philosophical development – who is postemotional? Ego, self-interest have been with humanity since day one, but it has not crowded out altruism and compassion completely. Neither has Singapore’s state obsession with self-reliance and enforced harmony led to a colourless, clinical polity – quite the contrary in fact. Quite frankly I think boredom, if nothing else, eventuallys drives us to connection. The self can only sustain interest for so long before it begins to eat itself. The same goes for poetry – it will swing one way and eventually another. There is, at the moment, more than enough diversity, if one cares to look, to suit any taste.
It will be difficult to get rid of emotion and emotionality as long as we inhabit mortal, organic, mammal bodies. The terms of this emotionality may change, and should change – what, for example, will transhuman advancements mean for human feelings? If we become immortal cyborgs or uploaded consciousness, as some argue will happen within this century, will emotions even mean the same thing? What will society mean then?
What are your thoughts on the relation between poetry and popular culture, music, film, and other media?
A big awkward family gathering over the New Year. Some relatives arrive in large limousines and tailored suits; some in handmedown dresses. Some of them have not seen each other all year; others meet once a month for tea. There is this one cousin who is intense and always broke. The rest try to avoid talking to him, especially about politics and religion because a fight always starts. Everyone loves the dessert, but nobody is quite sure who made it.
What do you read these days? Can you recommend one European, one American and one Singaporean poet to our readers?
I am trying to read much more broadly – particularly writers from the middle east and asia in translation but also writers from central and eastern europe: the younger and less famous the better, because I am looking for what is new, not what is respected. Instead of looking to Europe or America, I’d instead to recommend the Burmese poet Zeyar Lynn; the Japanese poet Hiromi Ito; the Chinese poet Xi Chuan; the Australian poet John Kinsella, and the Singaporean poet Johar Buang (although there are not many good translations of his work), or Yeow Kai Chai (who writes experimental verse in English). I’d recommend reading poetry that makes you uncomfortable in fresh ways, because that shows you what you don’t already know how to deal with. Which means it’s a place to learn and grow from.
The house does not fall Even when she turns to dust and ash. Birds still sing from the tile roof, Eyes are still found in the windows.
The house does not fall even when they set fire on her. The neighbor`s dog still barks; The neighbor, the dog, the barks… Still there is life inside the house.
The house does not fall even when they blow her with mallets, Even when they throw down the already rotten wood Even when we are all cast out With barely two pennies for the road.
The house does not fall Because she has a soul, Because we are all here made of stone And made of sun; This is why the house does not fall Because we carry her in our chest, Here inside she burns us, she bites us, She does not fall.
The house does not fall Because there is a child playing with his spinning top made of bottle cap and nail, Because there is still memory for the grandfather and his stories, And because no one has surrendered, The house does not fall.
The house does not fall because no one has fallen here, Because the house has blood and walks on, Because still rice with coconut is eaten on Sundays, The Combos Nacionales are still listened to And more English than Spanish is spoken.
The house does not fall because we are strong Because the chomba struggles for her children Because at the first hour prayer is made And at the second hour work is made.
The house does not fall, It remains intact, Stoical the house, No water, no light.
The house does not fall because we have dignity And, even when the grass eats the memory, There is always some room left for nostalgia.
So small is the house that nobody gets lost, Full of people who place themselves the best they can. We sleep so close one to the other that even slumber is shared.
Here everything is very simple, We cheer up with so little, Everyday we shake fear off and get out to live; We hold our hands together And everyday we thank For living in a house That does not fall.
Translation from the spanish by: Edilberto González Trejos
Jaiko Aquilino Jiménez Caín (1994). Degree in Bilingual Executive Communication from the Universidad Tecnológica de Panamá. It appears in the anthologies “Emerging Poetry of Panama” 2017 and “Panamanian Poetry gathered” 2018. He obtained the first place in the 2016 University Poetry Contest, convened by the University of Panama, with his poems “Verses against forgetting”. With his poems “The Being and Nothing” receives Honorable Mention in the National Young Poetry Contest “Gustavo Batista Cedeño” 2015. Also in 2015 his works “Verses of the childhood house” and “Feeling of a common man” were awarded in the national poetry contest León. A. Soto. In 2017 he published his first book of poems called ‘’ Two ages in the biography of a common man”. In 2018, he published “Against forgetting” with the editorial support of the chifurnia, El Salvador. In 2019 he won the national young poetry contest Gustavo Batista Cedeño with his work “Wandering between dark mazes”. His texts have also been published in various digital and print media in the country.
Salmon are to be waylaid at the bottleneck of the river mouth, when they are scared, cramming the water; you have to let the net down where the surface ripples with fins, gills fumbling the desire that doubles the passage of new generations. That is the moment to shoot the net, to stretch tight the noose to the throat, the sharp spear. At the metro exit we are oblivious salmon to the slaughter
*
Surely I know the taste of the needle stinging the vein every two months I offer to that cyanotic beak the thick slothful liquid that inhabits me like a placid river flows in summer: if you look for a poet be aware that I do not like streams nor the floods that sweeps across the bed and leave slime on paper.
*
We are like cans filled of spices in the kitchen with carefully selected tisanes we are the nettle, the lime and the balm. It takes the vegetable patience that fills the labour of the balconies to be fine glass loving the dust, the indifferent scent of the essences. Brew your wombs boil like fish or potatoes and then strain the red juice that furs up the bottom of the mug.
*
I always mess up and I should be wearing a sign lit like a beacon in my flesh engraved in my hand, a cross an indecipherable letter from the alphabet of pain it will say that it is time for my mistakes: you know that, I get lost (or we both get lost – we all get lost) losing the path to the peacefulness that leads to the soft kiss of the way back.
Luca Benassi was born in 1976 in Rome. He is poet, writer, essayist, journalist and translator. He published the following collections of poems: “Nei Margini della Storia” [In the Sidelines of History] in 2000, “I Fasti del Grigio” [The Glories of the Grey] in 2005, “L’Onore della Polvere” [The Honor of Dust] in 2009, “Di me diranno” [I Will Be Told] in 2011 and “il guado della neve” [the snow ford]. In 2018, he published the Italian- Spanish anthology “La schiena del cielo – La espalda del cielo” [the sky’s back]. He also published the e-book “Duet of Lines Sen no Nijuso” (poems in Italian, English, Japanese, Junpa edition 2016, together with the poet Maki Starfield). In 2019, he published “ЗБОРОТ НА НЕПРИЈАТЕЛОТ – la parola del nemico”, (PNV Publishing, Skopje, Macedonia) and “Очи и звезда – Gli occhi e la stella” (Alma edition, Beograd, Serbia). His poems have been translated into English, Spanish, Macedonian, Japanese, Romanian, Turkish, Mongolian, Chinese, Korean. As translator, he translated into Italian the work of the Dutch poet Germain Droogenbroodt “De Weg” [Il Cammino- The Path] published by I Quaderni della Valle in 2002. As journalist and critic, he published a book of essays on Italian contemporary poetry “Rivi Strozzati – Poeti Italiani negli anni Duemila” [Throttled Streams – Italian poets in the third millennium] in 2010. He edited the anthologies “Magnificat. Poesia 1969 – 2009” (2009) [Magnificat – Poetry 1969 – 2009] of Cristina Annino, “Percorsi nella poesia di Achille Serrao” (2013) [paths through the poetry of Achille Serrao] of Achille Serrao and “La casa dei Falconi, poesia 1974-2014” [hawks house, poetry 1974 – 2014] of the prominent Italian poet Dante Maffìa. He is editor of “Punto Almanacco di poesia contemporanea” [Punto Almanac of contemporary poetry].
the tree across from ours relaxed its arms last night it struck me as I drew the curtains this morning naked, staring blankly at me – a crucifix black and rigid planted in violation of its rights against the backdrop of a dull grey sky and tall melancholy buildings I thought how can this be … ? where have I been… ? until the wildly swirling leaves a loud impudent yellow in the middle of this mournful street caught my thoughts and dragged them elsewhere… the kids have slept and woken up again and grown some more they’ve slept and dreamed and woken up with questions that irk me, that I’d like to bury
in their eyes, too there is no mercy left
otoño (1) (à nu)
(translated from the Maltese by Antoine Cassar)
esta noche se soltó los brazos el árbol de enfrente me sorprendió al correr las cortinas esta mañana fijándose en mí, desnuda – un crucifijo negro, tundido plantado contra su voluntad sobre un fondo grisáceo de cielo y hormigón me dije ¿será posible … ? ¿y yo dónde estaba … ? hasta que las hojas en remolino un grito amarillo en medio de esta calle de luto me atrapó los pensamientos y los arrastró a otro lado… los niños durmieron y se levantaron y crecieron un poco más durmieron y soñaron y se despertaron llenos de preguntas que me fastidian y quisiera enterrarlas
ni siquiera en sus ojos queda algo de piedad
this world’s not round (for S.)
(translated from the Maltese by the author)
no, this world’s not round
it has sharp edges that hurt
just like the whetted words
your dad would hurl
at your mum’s face
those words would crash into the walls
then land onto your lap
and you’d plait them with your doll’s hair
thinking you’d get rid of them
you learnt your colours
chin resting on the kitchen table
your mum’s hand feverishly scattering
a fistful of pills
on a flowered plate
you thought
they might crackle like fireworks
in the furthest corners of her head
or melt rainbow-like
in the bitter black of her eyes
you learnt by heart all the once upon a time’s and the happily ever after’s you’d clasp the tales tight in the sad stillness of your room you’d savour them suck on every word then tuck them beneath your blanket you thought they might soften the narrowness of the paltry world that grew in you with your mother’s sobs and the roughness of your dad
you believed in those words
even when you were no longer little
you held on to them as to dear life
carrying them around
as you would a pastel-coloured talisman
and you never understood
why it was that
in this tangled world of yours
where everything always seems
upside down and inside out
the princes ended up as frogs
and not the other way round
your hand shakes
as you spread a fistful of pills
white as death
you reckon they’ll detonate in your mind
like a colourful grand finale
you let your hair down
turn out the lights
take off your clothes
lie on the floor
rot away some more
no, no es redondo el mundo (para S.)
(translated from the Maltese by Antoine Cassar)
no, no es redondo el mundo
tiene filos agudos que hieren
como las palabras punzantes
que tu padre lanzaba a ciegas
en el rostro de tu madre
palabras que rebotaban en la pared
para terminar en tu regazo
y que tú ibas recogiendo
y las trenzabas en el cabello de la muñeca
como para deshacerte de ellas
aprendiste los colores
con el mentón apoyado
en la encimera de la cocina
mientras la mano trémula de tu madre
esparcía un puñado de píldoras
en un plato floreado
tú las imaginabas
estallar cual fuegos de artificio
en las más lejanas esquinas de su mente
o bien derretir cual caleidoscopio
en el negro amargo de sus ojos
te aprendiste de memoria todos los érase una vez y todos los y comieron perdices los abrazabas fuerte en la triste quietud de tu cuarto los masticabas, te chupabas hasta la última palabra los escondías bajo la frasada creías que suavizarían la estrechez de este mundo ceñido que creció contigo entre los sollozos de tu madre y la rudeza de tu padre
creías en esas palabras
también cuando creciste
te seguías agarrando a ellas
las llevabas contigo a todas partes
cual talismán
cual almendras confitadas
mas nunca entendiste
por qué, en la maraña de tu mundo,
donde todo te parecía
boca abajo y al revés,
los príncipes terminaban siendo ranas
u no al contrario
tu mano trémula
esparce un puñado de píldoras
blancas como la muerte
te las imaginas estallar en tu mente
todos los colores
cual fuegos de artificio
te desatas el pelo
apagas la luz
te quitas la ropa
te tumbas en el suelo
y te pudres un poco más
his hand between my thighs / Viva la Vida
(translated from the Maltese by Albert Gatt)
there is his hand between my thighs searching for answers other women may have denied – keep still – he said his other hand creeps up beneath my top, a little tight – keep still – he said his lips ingratiate themselves a little more lisping cigarette-stained nothings in my ear there’s a white tree printed above my navel that I don’t want him to find my breasts get squeezed some more (I think he might be trying to milk me) and my mind retreats trying to piece together a wholly different world
there’s a handsome young lad waiting for me behind the church the full moon dozing in the pupils of his eyes while a silver sea dances with the stars I know him well, he’s my own age I can recall the pair of little mites we were squatting in conspiracy on the warm tiles in the yard whispering secret after secret watching his grandmother rinsing prickly pears in buckets made of zinc laughing, sputtering, nearly choking on the chunks of watermelon that his mother liked to serve Viva la Vida tonight I want him to see my breasts I’ll whisper his name in his ear let him kiss me, touch me anywhere he wants – I want to feel his long hair on my skin his hands on my breasts his tongue teasing my navel his lips propagating the white tree printed on my belly I want him to gorge himself on me and splutter on my juices only to start again Viva la Vida
there’s this man’s obstinate chin prowling beneath her top, a little tight there’s a sickening taste of cigarettes like a beam stuck in her throat there are his rough hands on her hips wanting to part her thighs – keep still – he said there is her hand a sticky crush around his cock and fear mingling with the quease – go on – he said I’m sure you think it’s fun
su mano entre mis muslos / Viva la vida
(translated from the Maltese by Antoine Cassar)
tengo su mano entre mis muslos va buscando respuestas que otras mujeres tal vez no le dieron – calla – me dice con la otra mano que sigue husmeando bajo mi camiseta algo tiesa – calla – me dice sus labios se cuelan un poco más me susurra sandeces con sabor a cigarrillo sobre el ombligo tengo un arbolito blanco y no quiero que lo encuentre mis senos se estrujan un poco más (tal vez quiere ordeñarme) mi mente se repliega y procura ensartar otro mundo
hay un joven muy hermoso que me espera detrás de la iglesia la luna llena se mece en sus pupilas y el mar de plata baila con los astros lo conozco bien, somos del mismo año recuerdo cómo éramos, dos renacuajos a cuclillas sobre las baldosas del patio cálidas como un baño así cuchicheábamos secreto tras otro observábamos al abuelo que zambullía los chumbos en los cubos de zinc nos reíamos, nos ahogábamos, casi casi nos atragantamos en las sandías que nos daba su madre Viva la vida esta noche pienso revelarle mi pecho pienso susurrarle su nombre en los oídos dejarle besarme, tocarme donde quiera – quiero sentir su cabello sobre mi carne sus manos en mi pecho tierno su lengua cosquillearme el ombligo sus labios fecundar el arbolito blanco estampado en mi barriga quiero que se revuelque en mí que se ahogue en mi jugo y que vuelva a comenzar Viva la vida
tiene el mentón de este tipo que va husmeando empecinado bajo su camiseta algo tiesa tiene su sabor repugnante a cigarrillo pegado como una viga en la garganta tiene sus toscas manos en las caderas quiere partirle los muslos – calla – le dice tiene la mano espachurrada y rociada alrededor de su polla el temor se mezcla aún con el mareo – sigue – le dice sé que te está gustando
Born in Malta in 1976, Nadia Mifsud moved to France twenty years ago. She currently lives
in Lyon. To date, she has published two books of poetry, żugraga (2009) and Kantuniera
’l bogħod (Edizzjoni Skarta, 2015), winner of the 2016 National Book Prize
(poetry section). Her debut novel, Ir-rota
daret dawra (kważi) sħiħa (Merlin Publishers) was released in 2017 and was
shortlisted for the 2018 National Book Prize. Her short stories have been
published in several anthologies, both in Malta and abroad. Mifsud has also
translated into French some of the strongest voices in Maltese contemporary literature.
As an active member of Inizjamed, she is involved in the organization of the
Malta Mediterranean Literature Festival that takes place annually at the end of
August.
Nacida en Malta en 1976, Nadia
Mifsud se mudó a Francia hace veinte años, y hoy vive en Lyon. Żugraga
(Peonza), su primera colección de verso en maltés, fue publicado en
diciembre 2009. En 2016, recibió el Premio Nacional de literatura de Malta para
su segunda colección de poemas. En 2017 se publicó su primera novela en maltés,
que fue finalista del Premio Nacional en 2018. Sus relatos cortos han sido
publicados en Malta y en el extranjero en varias antologías. Traductora literaria
profesional, Mifsud ha traducido en francés las obras de algunos de los poetas
y prosistas más celebrados de la literatura maltesa contemporánea. Es miembro
activo de Inizjamed, asociación cultural y literaria que organiza el
Festival de la Literatura Mediterránea de Malta todos los años.
What will be the time on Venus when you finish stroking my hair
The cat meows, the drunkard is thrown out of the bar
The neighbor turns on the light, and my bones’ loneliness
Leaves without you
Without the gaze that you leave behind in the ambush of my Olympus
Of every night I live your trousers, dressed up with the Udri love
In the heartbreaking insomnia?
What will be the time on Venus when the Jamaican sorrel boils
The bells dance in the Vatican
The Maya lights hide the red wine
And the poets obliterate Troy
And you tearing apart craters to rescue Helen?
Venus hasn’t slept in centuries
That the Acheron River swallowed your kisses
And the dust of my bones is without you.
(i)
Qué hora será en Venus cuando acaricies mi pelo
el gato maúlle al borracho lo echen del bar
el vecino encienda la luz y la soledad de mis huesos
parta sin ti
sin la mirada que dejas en la emboscada de mi Olimpo
cada noche que vivo tus pantalones vestida de amor Udrí
en el insomnio desgarrador
Qué hora será en Venus cuando hierva la flor de jamaica
las campanas bailen en el vaticano
las luces Mayas escondan el vino tinto
los poetas borren Troya
Y tú rasgando cráteres para rescatar a Helena
Hace siglos que Venus no duerme que el Aqueronte se tragó tus besos y el polvo de mis huesos sin ti.
(XXXII)
Here I am lost at the opposite side of Rome
Crashing without one of your clandestine kisses
In order to break the dreariness
There’s a party scattered in the distance
Even though no one dances or listens to its melody
I show up every time you think of me
In the sponge of Platonic lovers
Where I missed yesterday not to have missed you
Your name and mine are hanging from the mirror
Behind each star your gaze swathes
The spheres speed up where we refuse to
Just be
When the day is finally over
I’ll go and fetch you
From the other half of Rome.
(XXXII)
Aquí estoy perdida en la mitad de Roma
colada sin uno de tus besos clandestinos
para romper la monotonía
Hay una fiesta esparcida en la distancia
aunque nadie baile o escuche su melodía
aparezco cada vez que me piensas
en la esponja de amantes platónicos
donde ayer extrañé no extrañarte
Del espejo tu nombre y el mío cuelgan
detrás de cada estrella tu mirada envuelve
las esferas se aceleran donde nos negamos
solo para ser
Cuando se rinda el día de hoy iré por ti desde la otra mitad de Roma.
Inside of you
When wake I feel that I miss you. When I sleep I also dream of you. Sandoka
I
Perhaps tomorrow you won’t open the email,
Or answer my calls,
I won’t smell your cologne:
Perhaps your scent
Will die in the bed sheets
II
Perhaps
I’ll burn your clothes to ashes
The red bra that sheltered my breasts
The one you’d snatch at every encounter
Perhaps
This woman,
Drowned out,
Will wake up
At another port, perhaps
She won’t deny the stars
III
I’m leaving this stern
Of ashes
Rolling around without your breath
The night dies out
Breaking into a new day
And if you happen to wake up, remember That I am more inside you Than you yourself are.
Dentro de ti
Cuando estoy despierto, te extraño. Cuando duermo sueño que haces falta. Sandoka
I
Tal vez mañana no abrirás el mail,
no responderás mis llamadas,
no oleré tu perfume:
tal vez tu esencia
muera en las sábanas
II
Tal vez
convierta en cenizas tu ropa,
el sostén rojo que cobijaba mis senos,
el que arrebatabas en cada encuentro
Quizás,
esta mujer,
ahogada
despierte
en otro puerto, quizás
no niegue las estrellas
III
Dejo esta popa
de cenizas
rodar sin tu aliento
La noche pasa,
comienza el nuevo día
Y si llegas a despertar recuerda que estoy más dentro de ti, que tú de ti mismo.
Maria
Farazdel (Palitachi). Four time Award Winner 2017, 2018 and 2019
AWA, She is a native of the Dominican Republic who live and work in Queens NY
since 1985. She received her B.A. from Hunter College, M.A. in education from
Fordham University and P.D. in School District Administration from Long Island
University. Member of the PEN America.
Ambassador of Culture by UNESCO 2014 in Bolivia. In Miami she was named: ‘Ambassador
honorífic,
by S.I.P.E.A. and Mi Libro Hispano 2017 in Miami.
The Academy of American Poets and The Academy of North American Modern
Literature NY Chapter named her the International Ambassador of culture. In Granada,
Nicaragua 2019 she was named Ambassador International for the Non Profit Poetry
Foundation. Some of her work appears in more than 40 anthologies. Her work is
translated in French, Italian, Arabic, French, Portuguese and Hindi. She also
appeared in Cultural Magazines and Newspapers of Latin America Europe and
India. She is the author of ten poetry books and five Anthologies: My Little
Paradise, Amongst Voice and Spaces, Bodies and Cities, Las horas de aquel
paisaje,Infraganti, Eleven
Spotlight, Bitacora del insomnio Vagón de ida, #@nicaraguita convocada and
Escamas. The anthologies Voces de America Latina I, II and III, 2016 and the
anthology: Voices of the Wine, 2017 and Voices of the Coffee 2018.
María
Farazdel (Palitachi). República Dominicana. Poeta,
conferencista, reportera y editora. (AWA) cuatro veces galardonada en el Latino Book Award, 2017,
2018 y 2019. (PD) Long Island University (CWP), (MA) Fordham University,
(BA) Hunter College, City University of New York. En
Bolivia recibió la condecoración de ‘Embajadora universal de la cultura’
avalada por la UNESCO, 2014. Embajadora cultural internacional de la Academia
Norteamericana de la Literatura Moderna International del capitulo de N Y
2019. En Miami ‘Embajadora honorífica’
por S.I.P.E.A. 2017 y Embajadora de milibrohispano. En el 2019 nombrada
Embajadora Internacional en Granada, Nicaragua. Reconocimiento por difundir la
literatura latinoamericana, Proclamada por la alcaldía de Nueva Jersey, 2017.
Traducida al inglés, francés, italiano, serbio, árabe, portugués y turco.
Miembro del PEN Club of America, de la Academy of American Poets y de la
Academia Norteamerica de Literatura Moderna. Libros: My Little Paradise, Entre voces y espacios,
De cuerpos y ciudades, Las horas de aquel paisaje, Once puntos de luz,
Infraganti, Bitácora del insomnio, Vagón de ida, #@nicaragüita convocada, Escamas yla pentalogía: Voces de América
Latina (I-III) 2016. Voces del vino
2017 y Voces del café 2018. Figura en más de 40 antologías.
