Peru dies. Like garlic bulbs this whim of blouses cut so masterfully. The iron windows. Baroque. Relentless. The paint staining my ovaries.
Sushi is now the language of the people and my mighty noodles wait in a forgotten pot.
Papá told me to detest the Japanese like everyone says to hate Chileans. But with so much love, I find no difference between the cherry tree, the sakura, the lotus flower, and the olive bush: In the Atacama, Christ sifts through red grape seeds.
Peru dies, Wata, and all I remember is what you said about my aunt: “She was hot, your aunt Carmen, she didn’t look Chinese.” I smiled unoffended, because in Peru nobody looks like anything.
There was a chifa restaurant.
You ate wonton soup with your Chinese friends, and as we searched for an emblem to overcome the centimeter and a half of difference in our eyelids, a red rooster loosed a sound louder than nothingness.
Our Peru is dying. The rooster will sing again when the stone flies.
BEHIND MOUNT FRIGHT
I was waiting for our strange love, for you to tuck scales in your pockets, and slit my indigos with scalpels. A surgeon of doubt is a good man, I’ve lied: I never wanted a family, or a house. I longed, a little, for a dialogue with the unknown, I would like for you to perform amputations on the corner of desperation, for you to slay the faun spying on us, here between rooted moons and salads of hypnotized radishes. The bottle of Cusqueña is unchilled and will not inebriate. Fear in every step draws me toward your voice. Yes, your voice exists, here, in the damp garden of wireless valleys. I bump into clouds, couches, the Chinese chest that survived shipwreck and the invasion of Nanjing. No embroidered skirts, or limes that bleed. Argentine masks hide their devotion to the black spirits of the sea. 00000The moth-eaten blouse of a father opening and closing his mouth like a frog, old now, blind now, and thus loving… His finger pointing. An ear of corn brought from Cajamarca, desiccated. What neverending vice makes you master of our fear? Turn the lever and descend till you take pity on my fright. Do not attempt to shuck the absurd flower of my doubts about the Fatherland. We’ll celebrate over the graves, you’ll see, that death brings sadness is another lie. It’s just a matter of adjusting. Spectating, a task that goes hand in hand with your eloquence The rectangular voice of a TV reporter bakes petals and sprigs into stone, to seduce children with no serpents or bumper cars. You are a gilded man full of fear. We crank the gramophone and pay to watch you cry.
OPHELIA
“And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire. The chariest maid is prodigal enough, If she unmask her beauty to the moon”
(Laertes to Ophelia)
THE WIDOWER
There, dead, lie I beneath the wheels/ no one could clench a doubt against you. Me, poor, brown, coal for your skin/ You, the kingdom’s raptor. Me daughter of the commoners’ ossuary, on Calle Guadalupe, wa-dal-hupe. River of Emotion I have been/ You, mighty Eagle, king of North America. You cry for me, you say? Who’s to believe your bald calumny? You love all the precious false doves that plunge down at your feet. Me: black lily of the desert. We had a daughter. Remember?
You knew, when you reached the throne you’d need to invent ghosts. Circus of and for jackal gods. Suicide, madness, a shove brittling in appearance… I’ve come undone and why matters to no one. The king seeks his crown on the asphalt. Me, I ought to go down to the bottom of the sun. Without my shadow/ you, denuded of me, decorated in shields and poisoned swords. Red wine with notes of expiration. You, my immortal victim, my bona fide galaxy, kingly tear. Me, beneath the wheels.
Translated by Jennifer Shyue
Selected and edited by Eli Urbina Montenegro
JULIA WONG KCOMT was born into a tusán (Chinese Peruvian) family in Chepén, Peru, in 1965. She traveled from an early age, and her perceptions of country borders, different cultures, and diversity in ethnicity and religion became a strong motivation to write. She is the author of 16 volumes of poetry, including Un salmón ciego (Borrador Editores) and 18 poemas de fake love para Keanu Reeves (Cascada de Palabras); five books of fiction; and two collections of hybrid prose. She currently lives between Lima and Lisbon.
others drip between puny fears most demand accommodations in life
we end up embracing the saving tricks
as handouts wrapped in hope
there are aches that pair up
with blasphemies or remorse
there are those that urge us to lift
a fist and howl along canals and byroads
against those who will always win
there are those that convince us
that mouth heart elbow soul
go on fighting against nothingness
on golden blankets of silence
XXI
FOR ME gods are signs
of our own naked power
but to realize that is no liberation
it is now useless to bray against them
need brings about its own cure
all remedy becomes tradition
nothing is left but to show fake wounds
pouts whimpers contrition
there is no taking back what has been given
to blaspheme is to cover up truth and awe
better to encourage supplications to a savior
even though they are not worth it
XXIV
LOOK brother
my songs are bones hung
on the string of my time they peer
between hopes rejections and afflictions
let them hear me in the silence of their hours
let them suck my marrow when they walk
lost in their own shadows
I hope they don’t celebrate life by remembering death
better that they hang up their own bones
on the string of their own time
let them lick their own elbows
let them knock their brains out
on their own desert
what do you think?
Selected and edited by Eli Urbina Montenegro
BRAULIO MUÑOZ was born in Chimbote, Peru. There he was a student and labor organizer and a radio and print journalist. He immigrated to the USA in 1968. He earned a PhD in sociology at the University of Pennsylvania. He is Centennial Professor Emeritus of Swarthmore College where he taught social theory and Latin American Culture. Among Professor Muñoz’s works related to literature are Sons of the Wind and Storyteller: Mario Vargas Llosa Between Civilization and Barbarism. In fiction he has written Alejandro y los Pescadores de Tancay, which was translated into English and received the International Book Award at the New York Book Fair in 2009. The novel has also been translated into Italian. His other works of fiction include The Peruvian Notebooks (also translated into Italian), Los Apuntes de Alejandro, El Misha, the poem-novella Plaza mayor, a book of stories, El Hombre Que Sabía Morir y Otros Relatos, and Yaraví, a book of poems. He and his wife Nancy live in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania.
The Sybillas of this town speak to me in the mirror. One and zero, they type desolate like a bridge between unstoppable words and the dark abyss Beautiful this omnipresent silence!
The stars don’t forget. The mind, yes. So the oblivion is a city where nothingness cracks the space, distort the light and makes everyone blind.
Sweet Revenge. Oblivion is also people's clothes that hides his memories and neither God, like a pearl in the sky, avoid the veil of its inhabitants.
The mind is a reflection of nothing. With nothing, ghosts appear like electrical pulses in machines or the numbers on the phones.
(Jardín Mecánico, 2020)
0
Today the midnight it's a clear Dark. Its emptiness It feels like a machine As a memory like a wall, and with that tone he paints the whole existence, laughs at his work, look at your flaws and play everything Surely: Innocence
Wait It is a maternal virtue, embrace these sands of time when the children they become fire in memory, a sacrifice
Sit down, sleep on the right side and that the dream how to be watery, evaporate in the memory.
But this sea can more, gets into the wall gain ground in bed, And when, Midnight and I looked at each other, there is melted snow on every question that is silent in his dark answers, and in my shakes of light.
Today the midnight it's a sea Sure Dark
(La Música del Hielo, 2015)
Far Away
Mother says, today´s a special day (The Bolshoi)
Happy moments, happy losses. Voices fall down like rain In the midst of the abandoned house
There's a yellow photo album on the table, and in the cupboard a black cat looks at us we hold gazes and felt there´s no hope.
Tomorrow will be another day, the ship will wait as usual Every day is like Sunday
Heroes have died on the eve that's all I know, Neither, I want to read your diary to find out about more death or feel thorns in my ribs.
The body that’s far away it remains as the great mystery the hidden path the faith that moves a mountain the reason why stars are read in thedistance.
(Hombre Fractal, 2018)
Selected and edited by Eli Urbina Montenegro
LUIS ALONSO CRUZ ALVAREZ. Lima, Peru 1981. Industrial Engineer from the University of Lima, with a doctorate in pedagogy from UNINI Mexico. Former member of Renato Sandoval's poetry workshop at the University of Lima (2000-2003) He published the books Tetrameron (Lima University Fund, 2003), Lumen, Trilogy of the Spirit (Nido de Cuervos, 2007); Radio Futura, within the “Piedra y Sangre” Collection (Lustra Editores, 2008); Ossuary of Perplexed Creatures (MiCieloEdiciones, 2014), La Música del Hielo (Bird on Cables Editors, 2015) Fractal Man (Bisonte Editorial, 2018) and Mechanical Garden (Editorial Primigenios, 2020. E-book format). He has been honorably mentioned in the poetry contests “Julio Garrido Malaver” (Peru, 2017) and “Parallel Zero” (Ecuador, 2020). He was nominated for the National Poetry Award with the book Fractal Man (Perú, 2019) His poems appear in “Versolibrismo, Current Poetry and Art” (Rio Negro, 2013), “Cuatro PoetasPeruanos” (El QuirófanoEditores, Guayaquil 2013), “Plexo Perú Poesía y Gráfica Perú-Chile” (Editorial Quimantú and Casa Azul, Valparaíso, 2014), “Looking over the Hay. Current Poetry Show ”(Vallejo & Company Ediciones, Lima 2014), Current Ibero-American Poetry Anthology (Ex Libric editions, Málaga, 2018), Lienzo Magazine N ° 40 (Editorial Fund of the University of Lima, 2019) and“ Isolated, dose of poetry for uncertain times ”(DendroEdiciones, 2020). Likewise, part of his poetry has been translated into English, Italian, Bengali and Uzbek. He was invited to different festivals and literary fairs such as the Bogotá Poetry Festival (2016, 2020), the Miches Beach Poetry Festival (Dominican Republic, 2020), I Pack of Words (Santa Cruz, 2019), the January Poetry Festival in the Word (Cusco, 2018, 2016, 2014, 2013), Havana Book Fair (Cuba, 2014) among others. He is the administrator of the cultural and miscellaneous blog “Fundador de Supernovas” ((http://luiscruzalvarez.blogspot.pe/ )
I remember those girls ––the few who came back––, they returned already grown women. Their eyes no longer sparkled when they looked at the white sand. They were denied the thrill of painting their hands with hay; their souls seemed infused by soot. Their beauty was erased, their tenderness devoured by tongues of fire.
Anguish was an immense, black, carnivore flower that grew inside us. For a long time our bodies were harbors for our trembling.
It was getting late… Some of us managed to climb over the wall, the others were tied up and taken away, of their childhood there remained only fleeting shadows projected on the walls.
ORPHANHOOD
He has gone silent. I have seen him drift away as when I found him abandoned on the beach… Where did he leave his thoughts? his words? his smile? And, despite all that, it is this little one who has saved me. Not these residency papers, not this compassion.
My fingernails have turned grimy for digging into the pain. My skin has dried up like a Sahara cypress. My skin, but not my trunk, he is that: my son.
We have become two beings traveling amidst barks and fowl smells, beings who awaken without knowing why under the patient gaze of crickets and doves.
TRIBULATION
I saw him floating, I saw him sinking until his little body slept in the ocean’s eternity. My arms opened paths between the waves, and my head struggled to stay above water. I cried. I cried for that little child who wanted to escape first from the shots, and then from death.
Where was his home? somewhere in the ocean perhaps? And I am here, standing up but torn apart, lost to myself in this stinking skin. A skin that should have died, but lives on in the muck…
This is war! Rots our souls, makes us beings drenched in anger and bitterness.
Translated by Braulio Muñoz
Selected and edited by Eli Urbina Montenegro
PATRICIA COLCHADO(Peru, 1981). Writer and poet, she lives in Munich (Germany). Colchado published the plate of poems Hypercubus (2000), the poetry books Blumen (2005), Las pieles del edén (2007), Ciudad ajena (2015), LyrischerKalender / Calendariolírico. Poetic selection, bilingual (2017) and Ningunlado/ Nirgendland. Bilingual edition (2021). In 2011 she received the honorable mention in the award organized by the International Association La Porte des Poétes de France. In 2020 she won the poetry contest organized by the Stadtlesen International Literature Festival (Austria), representing the city of Munich, with her poem “Un árbol dentro de mí“. In 2011 she published the novel La danza del narciso. She is the author of several children's books.
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.
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