Category: Engleski / English / Ingles

MÓNICA MIGUEL FRANCO: DE LA PIEL DEL DIABLO / OF THE DEVIL'S SKIN

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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)

Translation / Traducción: Edilberto González Trejos






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.

	





			
				


	

		
OTHERING IS BARBARISM: INTERVIEW WITH ALVIN PANG
	


		

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Alvin Pang (photo by Jared Ho)









Interview by Nadija Rebronja









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.










Prethodni tekstovi autora: Kada barbari dođu , Prepoznavanje drugosti je barbarizam

	





			
				


	

		
JAIKO JIMENEZ: THE HOUSE DOES NOT FALL
	


		

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Jaiko Jimenez









THE HOUSE DOES NOT FALL





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.

	





			
				


	

		
LUCA BENASSI: THE TASTE OD THE NEEDLE
	


		

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Luca Benassi









*





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].

	





			
				


	

		
NADIA MIFSUD MUTSCHLER:     THIS WORLD'S NOT ROUND / NO, NO ES REDONDO EL MUNDO
	


		

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Nadia Mifsud Mutschler









autumn (1) (à nu)





(translated from the Maltese by Albert Gatt)





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. 

	





			
				


	

		
MARIA PALITACHI: INSIDE OF YOU / DENTRO DE TI
	


		

		Posted on 		Posted in Engleski / English / Ingles, Španski / Spanish / Español	

	
	

		

Maria Palitachi









(i)





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. 

	





			
				


	

		
GORKA LASA: SAL/SALT
	


		

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Gorka Lasa









Sal





He vuelto en el horizonte 

de un antiguo silencio,

a su playa olvidada

en la esfera mortal.





He vuelto en el viento

como un astro rebelde,

sembrando en la arena

mi reclamo de sal.









Salt






 I’ve returned to the horizon,
 the ancient silence,
 the forgotten shores
 the mortal sphere.





I’ve returned in the wind,

like a rebel sun,

burying in the sand

my sin of salt.









Cósmicamente exhausto





Exhausto de vagar la ruta de la noche cíclica

horizonte que se expande en infinitas espirales

eternidad que aguarda conteniendo el yo supuesto.





Dualidad imposible

vacío generador de tempestades de fuego

viento solar que desgasta las barreras del alma.





Exhausto de la visión que se disipa lentamente

densa neblina de muerte sobre la forma y su esfera.





Lágrimas de sangre fecundan mis manos de poemas eternos

destinados a perderse en el abismo humano de la indiferencia.





Profundamente exhausto

en mis pensamientos se desdibuja el contorno de la esencia

camino ya sin vida hacia el recuerdo inexistente

otra vez, errante sobre el eje de la nada.





Recurrente, taciturno, voluble

ya no volveré de la antigua manera

latente, cósmicamente exhausto.









Cosmically exhausted






 Exhausted of wandering the route of the cyclic night,
 horizon which expands in endless swirls,
 eternity which waits holding the supposed myself.





Impossible duality,

empty generator of fire storms,

solar wind which wears off the barriers of my soul.





Exhausted of the vision which slowly fades away,

dense fog of death over the shape and its sphere.





Tears of blood germinate eternal poems in my hands,

destined to get lost in the human abyss of indifference.





Deeply exhausted,

my thoughts draw the shape of the essence,

I walk lifelessly to the non-existent memory,

again, wandering on the axis of the nothing.





Recurrent, sullen, moody.

I won't come back in the old dormant way,

Cosmically exhausted.










 Gorka Lasa  (Panamá 1972). Escritor, poeta y artista visual. Ha publicado seis libros; El espasmo y la quietud (2019), Aldebarán (2017), El equilibrio de los hemisferios (2013), La Claridad (2011), Cantos de la legión arcana (2010), Viaje a la lejanía (2007) y forma parte de numerosas antologías y volúmenes colectivos. Es director y socio fundador del Grupo Editorial 9Signos. Miembro de la Sociedad de editores y autores para la gestión de derechos intelectuales SEA Panamá. Miembro de la Asociación de Escritores de Panamá y de diversos colectivos internacionales de escritores y poetas. Estudió humanidades y ciencias del comportamiento humano en el Panamá Canal College. Es egresado de Creación y Teoría Literaria de la Universidad Tecnológica de Panamá. En 2016-2018 cursa estudios de Simbología en el campus virtual de la Universidad de Barcelona. Paralelamente ha realizado estudios de antropología, mitología y psicología transpersonal. Su trabajo figura en publicaciones literarias y páginas especializadas de Internet de Panamá, Argentina, España, Marruecos, Portugal, Alemania, Perú, México, Nicaragua, El Salvador y Chile entre otros. Su obra ha sido traducida al inglés, francés, portugués, rumano y ruso. Ha sido jurado en certámenes poéticos como el Premio Nacional de Poesía Stella Sierra, el Premio Nacional de Poesía Esther Maria Osses y el Premio Nacional de Poesía Gustavo Batista Cedeño. Ha recibido premios, reconocimientos e invitado a representar a Panamá en festivales poéticos y congresos literarios internacionales.









Gorka Lasa  (Panamá 1972). Poet, writer and visual artist with over six published books – poetry, essays and short stories – among them: The spasm and the silence (poetry 2019), Aldebarán, The edge of eternity (Poetry 2017), The equilibrium of the hemispheres (poetry 2013), The clarity, tales, dreams and memories of the awakening (narrative 2011), among others. His literary work has been included in numerous anthologies and collective poetry books of Latin America and Europe, published in specialized international magazines, internet pages, and translated to English, French, Portuguese, Rumanian and Russian. Mr. Lasa studied humanistic and behavioral sciences, with ongoing studies of literature, symbolism and philosophy. Also has been selected as jury in literary and poetry contests and received awards and honorific mentions for his work. As a result of his distinctive and critically acclaimedpoetry, he has been invited to show his work in many international literary forums, congresses and festivals. To learn more about Gorka Lasa and his work, please visit his personal page: www.gorkalasa.com. 

	





			
				


	

		
ENVER MURATOVIĆ: HAIKU
	


		

		Posted on 		Posted in Engleski / English / Ingles, Poezija	

	
	

		

Enver Muratović









1.
 Niz zaleđenu
 Rijeku klizaju se
Djeca i – vjetar!





Down a frozen river
They are skating
The children and – the wind!





2.
Ostanu prazne,
Poslije duge zime,
Dječje rukavice.





They remain empty,
After a long winter,
The children's gloves.





3.

U bisagama

Sijedi starac nosi

Cijelu jesen.





In the saddlebags
A grayhaired oldie carrying
The whoe autumn.





4.
Zimska tišina: 
nekoliko stopa do 
štale i – natrag.   





Winter stillness.
Only a few footsteps to
To the stable and back.





5.
Ona ode
Svojim putem, ja svojim.
Zmija.





It left on
Its way, I take mine.
The snake.





Prevela na engleski: Đurđa Vukelić Rožić










Muratović Enver je rođen 1978. godine u Rožajama, Crna Gora. Objavio sljedeće zbirke pjesama: Za suncem zavičaja, Sunce u čaši (haiku), Uzmi i ostatak mene, Druga obala, Naopako, Iza mene (izbor iz poezije). Zastupljen u antologiji Bijel Behar (poezija pjesnika Bošnjaka kosova i Sandžaka), u antologiji Trešnjev cvet – jugoslovensko haiku pesništvo koju je, u saradnji sa Centrom za Istočnu Aziju, 2002. godine izdao beogradski Filološki fakultet; poeziju  objavljuje u mnogim časopisima u regionu. Haiku objavljuje u časopisima: Odzivi, Osvit, Svitak, Haiku novine, Diogen… Zbornici haiku poezije: Odžaci, Kloštarski haiku usreti, 2012; Diogenova mala antologija o konju, Einhorn, Švajcarska (sabrala i uredila Đurđa Vukelić Rožić) 2013. Živi i radi u Rožajama.





Muratović Enver was born in 1978 in Rožaje, Montenegro. So far he published the following poetry collections: After the sunshine of my Homeland, Sun in the Glass, haiku, Take the Rest of Me, The Other Bank, Upside Down. He is represented in the anthology White Fruit Blossoms, poetry of Bosniak poets from Kosovo and Sandžak, as well in an anthology The Cherry Blossoms – Yugoslav haiku poetry, which has been published by the faculty of Arts in Belgrade in cooperation with the Centre for East Asia, 2002. He publishes poetry in many magazines. His haiku has been published in the Odzivi, Osvit, Diogen pro cultura and joint haiku collection Kloštar haiku zbornik 2012. Also, his haiku is presented in Diogen's A Little World Anthology of Haiku Poetry about a Horse (2013), edited by Dj. V. Rozic, Einhorn Verlag, Switzerland. He lives and works Rožaje.

	





			
				


	

		
Edilberto González Trejos: Escena del crimen / Crime Scene
	


		

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Edilberto González Trejos









Escena del crimen





                        A Margarita Carballeda





Las huellas dactilares
de una conciencia híbrida
cuelgan en el vacío, maculadas
de sangre.





Crime Scene





                        A Margarita Carballeda





The fingerprints
of a hybrid conscience
hang in the void, stained
in blood.









Nirmanakaya





Siete días en el infierno. 
Siete años en el purgatorio.
Nirvana renunciable.
Amor infinito:





me abrasa el Fuego.





Nirmanakaya





Seven days in hell.
Seven years in purgatory.
A quittable Nirvana.    
Endless Love:





Fire embraces me.









guerreros de dios





Diluvio de fuego
ciudades bajo el asedio
no queda Iglesia
desierto sobre desierto
sequía infinita
habita la Desolación.





god warriors





Deluge of fire
Cities under siege
No church left remaining
Only a desert
Endless drought
Where desolation dwells.









Ocaso de la Raza





           A Gorka Lasa Tribaldos





Tus sueños nadan
en agua pesada,
la lluvia ácida
fecunda tu estirpe.





Convoco al fuego
 y su ritual
liberando al tiempo
del secuestro.





Así termina un día
y se asoma
el germen
del Continuum.





Twilight of Race





Dedicated to Gorka Lasa





Your dreams swim 
into heavy water
Acid rain
Fertilizes your stock.





I summon for
The Fire
And its Ritual
Cutting Time Free
From its kidnapping.





Thus a day ends
And the germ
Of Continuum
Peeps out…










Edilberto González Trejos (Santiago de Veraguas, Panamá, 24 de Diciembre de 1971). Abogado, traductor, docente, poeta y gestor cultural panameño. Miembro Fundador de la Asociación de Escritores de Panamá (2004-2010). Socio activo de la Alianza Francesa de Panamá, de cuyo Comité de Administración fue Presidente (2012-2016). Co-Fundador y Director del Festival San Francisco de la Montaña (desde el 2010) y el Festival Panamá Negro (desde el 2016). Autor de los poemarios Balanceo (Panamá, 2003), dioses de bolsillo (Panamá, 2011) y Aprendiz de Saturno (Panamá, 2015). Su obra aparece en antologías y revistas varias, en inglés, español, catalán y rumano.  Como editor ha sido responsable de las antologías: Me Vibra Brevísima y Arbitraria Antología Poética Chile Panamá (Paracaídas Editores, Perú, 2012) y Cuentos de Panamá, antología de narrativa panameña contemporánea (Prensas Universitarias de Zaragoza, España, 2019). Como abogado es socio fundador de la firma González-Trejos & Asociados (desde el 2007).





Edilberto González Trejos, Born in Santiago de Veraguas, Republic of Panama, 1971. Attorney, translator, teacher, poet and cultural enterpreneur and manager. Founder Member of the Writer´s Association of Panama (2004-2010). Currently Member of the Alianza Francesa de Panamá of which Administration Committee he was President (2012-2016). Co-Founder and Director of the Festival San Francisco de la Montaña (since 2010) and the Festival Panamá Negro (since 2016). Author of the following Poetry Books, Balanceo (Panamá, 2003), dioses de bolsillo (Panamá, 2011) and Aprendiz de Saturno (Panamá, 2015). His works have been published in several magazines and anthologies in English, Spanish, Catalan, Romanian. As an Editor he has published the following anthologies: Me Vibra Brevísima y Arbitraria Antología Poética Chile Panamá (Paracaídas Editores, Perú, 2012) and Cuentos de Panamá, antología de narrativa panameña contemporánea (Prensas Universitarias de Zaragoza, España, 2019). As an Attorney he is Co-Founder and partner of the Law Firm González-Trejos y Asociados (since 2007).

	





			
				


	

		
Javier Alvarado: Guía para turistas de Escocia / A guide for tourists in Scotland
	


		

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Javier Alvarado









GUÍA PARA TURISTAS DE ESCOCIA





Habría que huir de las alocadas imágenes

Amar al Papa y al Protestantismo

Y no ser acusado de herejía

Sonreír a los señores que llevan otras vidas, otras palomas

En el sombrero, creer en las traducciones

De los amigos y meditar largamente sobre el muelle

Donde se posan las gaviotas con los recados 

De los que antes vinieron a habitar este coloquio

Entre los guijarros, las remolachas, 

El viento y el astro en la ceniza.





No me quedará más remedio que asistirme solo

En estas ciudades enormes que devoran

Como plantas carnívoras a sus más pequeños habitantes.

Yo con mi diminuta figura pretendo sumergirme

En la noche de Glasgow y en la mañana abismada 

De Edimburgo, donde plantar una sonrisa

En un rostro que conserve del trópico

Algún rasgo de calor, algo medianamente hermoso

Como hallar a estas mujeres rubias y a estos pelirrojos

Con sus abrigos de hielo, ¡aquí están los escaparates!

Ven y entra y no necesitaras de guía.

Ésta es Escocia, la de la gaita

Y la del Imperio del gran Jorge.

¿Vio usted alguna vez Corazón Valiente?

Pues aquí están sus sangres rebotando de coraje

No se han marchado las rabias de estos antiguos

Guerreros.  Ven y conoce y palpa todas las piedras

Del muro de Adriano, de segura alguna te servirá

Para darle a alguien en la cabeza o para majar las nueces.





Ven, te invito a esta tierra del salmón 

Y en alguna isla

Que trazó Robert Louis Stevenson

De seguro 

Te estará esperando un tesoro.





Cuidado que al abordar el tren te aguarden

Dr. Jeckyll y Mr. Hyde.





Venga y móntese en el lomo del monstruo del lago Ness.





Ven y toma el té puntualmente.





See you later!










A GUIDE FOR TOURISTS IN SCOTLAND





One had to run away from the franctic images

Loving the Papa or Protestantism

And to not be acussed of heresy

Smile at the gentlemen who carry on another lifestyle or other doves

In their hats; believe in the sunsets

On Sundays and deeply meditate on the dock

Where seagulls perch with the messages

From those who came to inhabit this talk before

Among pebbles, beets, the wind and the star in the ash.





I have no choice but to assist myself

In these huge cities that devour

Its most humble inhabitants like carnivore plants





I and my tiny figure intend to plunge myself

In Glasgow´s night and the sunk Edinburg’s morning

Where to sow a smile

In a face that I treasure from tropical lands

Some trace of heat, something vaguely beautiful

Like finding these blonde women and these red-haired men

With their coats of ice, and here they are the display windows 

Come, get in and you will not need a guide.

This is Scotland, the one of the pipe

The one from the empire of King George.

Have you ever watched Brave Heart?

Well, here is his blood bouncing from anger

The anger of these ancient warriors has not stained

Come, know and feel all these stones

From Adriano´s wall, surely one will help you

Hit someone´s head or mash nuts.





Come, I invite you to this land of salmon

And in some island

That  Robert Louis Stevenson stroke

Surely

A treasure will be awaiting you.





Beware that Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hide await you

When you board a train.





Come and ride on the back of the Loch Ness monster





Come and drink tea punctually.





See you later!









  Traduction / Translation Isabel Revollón 










Javier Alvarado (Santiago de Veraguas, 1982).  Los premios / Awards: Mención de Honor del Premio Literario Casa de las Américas de Cuba 2010, Premio Internacional de poesía Rubén Darío de Nicaragua, Premio Nacional de Literatura Ricardo Miró de Panamá en poesía en el 2015.