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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 Pana 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

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.