The house does not fall Even when she turns to dust and ash. Birds still sing from the tile roof, Eyes are still found in the windows.
The house does not fall even when they set fire on her. The neighbor`s dog still barks; The neighbor, the dog, the barks… Still there is life inside the house.
The house does not fall even when they blow her with mallets, Even when they throw down the already rotten wood Even when we are all cast out With barely two pennies for the road.
The house does not fall Because she has a soul, Because we are all here made of stone And made of sun; This is why the house does not fall Because we carry her in our chest, Here inside she burns us, she bites us, She does not fall.
The house does not fall Because there is a child playing with his spinning top made of bottle cap and nail, Because there is still memory for the grandfather and his stories, And because no one has surrendered, The house does not fall.
The house does not fall because no one has fallen here, Because the house has blood and walks on, Because still rice with coconut is eaten on Sundays, The Combos Nacionales are still listened to And more English than Spanish is spoken.
The house does not fall because we are strong Because the chomba struggles for her children Because at the first hour prayer is made And at the second hour work is made.
The house does not fall, It remains intact, Stoical the house, No water, no light.
The house does not fall because we have dignity And, even when the grass eats the memory, There is always some room left for nostalgia.
So small is the house that nobody gets lost, Full of people who place themselves the best they can. We sleep so close one to the other that even slumber is shared.
Here everything is very simple, We cheer up with so little, Everyday we shake fear off and get out to live; We hold our hands together And everyday we thank For living in a house That does not fall.
Translation from the spanish by: Edilberto González Trejos
Jaiko Aquilino Jiménez Caín (1994). Degree in Bilingual Executive Communication from the Universidad Tecnológica de Panamá. It appears in the anthologies “Emerging Poetry of Panama” 2017 and “Panamanian Poetry gathered” 2018. He obtained the first place in the 2016 University Poetry Contest, convened by the University of Panama, with his poems “Verses against forgetting”. With his poems “The Being and Nothing” receives Honorable Mention in the National Young Poetry Contest “Gustavo Batista Cedeño” 2015. Also in 2015 his works “Verses of the childhood house” and “Feeling of a common man” were awarded in the national poetry contest León. A. Soto. In 2017 he published his first book of poems called ‘’ Two ages in the biography of a common man”. In 2018, he published “Against forgetting” with the editorial support of the chifurnia, El Salvador. In 2019 he won the national young poetry contest Gustavo Batista Cedeño with his work “Wandering between dark mazes”. His texts have also been published in various digital and print media in the country.
Salmon are to be waylaid at the bottleneck of the river mouth, when they are scared, cramming the water; you have to let the net down where the surface ripples with fins, gills fumbling the desire that doubles the passage of new generations. That is the moment to shoot the net, to stretch tight the noose to the throat, the sharp spear. At the metro exit we are oblivious salmon to the slaughter
*
Surely I know the taste of the needle stinging the vein every two months I offer to that cyanotic beak the thick slothful liquid that inhabits me like a placid river flows in summer: if you look for a poet be aware that I do not like streams nor the floods that sweeps across the bed and leave slime on paper.
*
We are like cans filled of spices in the kitchen with carefully selected tisanes we are the nettle, the lime and the balm. It takes the vegetable patience that fills the labour of the balconies to be fine glass loving the dust, the indifferent scent of the essences. Brew your wombs boil like fish or potatoes and then strain the red juice that furs up the bottom of the mug.
*
I always mess up and I should be wearing a sign lit like a beacon in my flesh engraved in my hand, a cross an indecipherable letter from the alphabet of pain it will say that it is time for my mistakes: you know that, I get lost (or we both get lost – we all get lost) losing the path to the peacefulness that leads to the soft kiss of the way back.
Luca Benassi was born in 1976 in Rome. He is poet, writer, essayist, journalist and translator. He published the following collections of poems: “Nei Margini della Storia” [In the Sidelines of History] in 2000, “I Fasti del Grigio” [The Glories of the Grey] in 2005, “L’Onore della Polvere” [The Honor of Dust] in 2009, “Di me diranno” [I Will Be Told] in 2011 and “il guado della neve” [the snow ford]. In 2018, he published the Italian- Spanish anthology “La schiena del cielo – La espalda del cielo” [the sky’s back]. He also published the e-book “Duet of Lines Sen no Nijuso” (poems in Italian, English, Japanese, Junpa edition 2016, together with the poet Maki Starfield). In 2019, he published “ЗБОРОТ НА НЕПРИЈАТЕЛОТ – la parola del nemico”, (PNV Publishing, Skopje, Macedonia) and “Очи и звезда – Gli occhi e la stella” (Alma edition, Beograd, Serbia). His poems have been translated into English, Spanish, Macedonian, Japanese, Romanian, Turkish, Mongolian, Chinese, Korean. As translator, he translated into Italian the work of the Dutch poet Germain Droogenbroodt “De Weg” [Il Cammino- The Path] published by I Quaderni della Valle in 2002. As journalist and critic, he published a book of essays on Italian contemporary poetry “Rivi Strozzati – Poeti Italiani negli anni Duemila” [Throttled Streams – Italian poets in the third millennium] in 2010. He edited the anthologies “Magnificat. Poesia 1969 – 2009” (2009) [Magnificat – Poetry 1969 – 2009] of Cristina Annino, “Percorsi nella poesia di Achille Serrao” (2013) [paths through the poetry of Achille Serrao] of Achille Serrao and “La casa dei Falconi, poesia 1974-2014” [hawks house, poetry 1974 – 2014] of the prominent Italian poet Dante Maffìa. He is editor of “Punto Almanacco di poesia contemporanea” [Punto Almanac of contemporary poetry].
the tree across from ours relaxed its arms last night it struck me as I drew the curtains this morning naked, staring blankly at me – a crucifix black and rigid planted in violation of its rights against the backdrop of a dull grey sky and tall melancholy buildings I thought how can this be … ? where have I been… ? until the wildly swirling leaves a loud impudent yellow in the middle of this mournful street caught my thoughts and dragged them elsewhere… the kids have slept and woken up again and grown some more they’ve slept and dreamed and woken up with questions that irk me, that I’d like to bury
in their eyes, too there is no mercy left
otoño (1) (à nu)
(translated from the Maltese by Antoine Cassar)
esta noche se soltó los brazos el árbol de enfrente me sorprendió al correr las cortinas esta mañana fijándose en mí, desnuda – un crucifijo negro, tundido plantado contra su voluntad sobre un fondo grisáceo de cielo y hormigón me dije ¿será posible … ? ¿y yo dónde estaba … ? hasta que las hojas en remolino un grito amarillo en medio de esta calle de luto me atrapó los pensamientos y los arrastró a otro lado… los niños durmieron y se levantaron y crecieron un poco más durmieron y soñaron y se despertaron llenos de preguntas que me fastidian y quisiera enterrarlas
ni siquiera en sus ojos queda algo de piedad
this world’s not round (for S.)
(translated from the Maltese by the author)
no, this world’s not round
it has sharp edges that hurt
just like the whetted words
your dad would hurl
at your mum’s face
those words would crash into the walls
then land onto your lap
and you’d plait them with your doll’s hair
thinking you’d get rid of them
you learnt your colours
chin resting on the kitchen table
your mum’s hand feverishly scattering
a fistful of pills
on a flowered plate
you thought
they might crackle like fireworks
in the furthest corners of her head
or melt rainbow-like
in the bitter black of her eyes
you learnt by heart all the once upon a time’s and the happily ever after’s you’d clasp the tales tight in the sad stillness of your room you’d savour them suck on every word then tuck them beneath your blanket you thought they might soften the narrowness of the paltry world that grew in you with your mother’s sobs and the roughness of your dad
you believed in those words
even when you were no longer little
you held on to them as to dear life
carrying them around
as you would a pastel-coloured talisman
and you never understood
why it was that
in this tangled world of yours
where everything always seems
upside down and inside out
the princes ended up as frogs
and not the other way round
your hand shakes
as you spread a fistful of pills
white as death
you reckon they’ll detonate in your mind
like a colourful grand finale
you let your hair down
turn out the lights
take off your clothes
lie on the floor
rot away some more
no, no es redondo el mundo (para S.)
(translated from the Maltese by Antoine Cassar)
no, no es redondo el mundo
tiene filos agudos que hieren
como las palabras punzantes
que tu padre lanzaba a ciegas
en el rostro de tu madre
palabras que rebotaban en la pared
para terminar en tu regazo
y que tú ibas recogiendo
y las trenzabas en el cabello de la muñeca
como para deshacerte de ellas
aprendiste los colores
con el mentón apoyado
en la encimera de la cocina
mientras la mano trémula de tu madre
esparcía un puñado de píldoras
en un plato floreado
tú las imaginabas
estallar cual fuegos de artificio
en las más lejanas esquinas de su mente
o bien derretir cual caleidoscopio
en el negro amargo de sus ojos
te aprendiste de memoria todos los érase una vez y todos los y comieron perdices los abrazabas fuerte en la triste quietud de tu cuarto los masticabas, te chupabas hasta la última palabra los escondías bajo la frasada creías que suavizarían la estrechez de este mundo ceñido que creció contigo entre los sollozos de tu madre y la rudeza de tu padre
creías en esas palabras
también cuando creciste
te seguías agarrando a ellas
las llevabas contigo a todas partes
cual talismán
cual almendras confitadas
mas nunca entendiste
por qué, en la maraña de tu mundo,
donde todo te parecía
boca abajo y al revés,
los príncipes terminaban siendo ranas
u no al contrario
tu mano trémula
esparce un puñado de píldoras
blancas como la muerte
te las imaginas estallar en tu mente
todos los colores
cual fuegos de artificio
te desatas el pelo
apagas la luz
te quitas la ropa
te tumbas en el suelo
y te pudres un poco más
his hand between my thighs / Viva la Vida
(translated from the Maltese by Albert Gatt)
there is his hand between my thighs searching for answers other women may have denied – keep still – he said his other hand creeps up beneath my top, a little tight – keep still – he said his lips ingratiate themselves a little more lisping cigarette-stained nothings in my ear there’s a white tree printed above my navel that I don’t want him to find my breasts get squeezed some more (I think he might be trying to milk me) and my mind retreats trying to piece together a wholly different world
there’s a handsome young lad waiting for me behind the church the full moon dozing in the pupils of his eyes while a silver sea dances with the stars I know him well, he’s my own age I can recall the pair of little mites we were squatting in conspiracy on the warm tiles in the yard whispering secret after secret watching his grandmother rinsing prickly pears in buckets made of zinc laughing, sputtering, nearly choking on the chunks of watermelon that his mother liked to serve Viva la Vida tonight I want him to see my breasts I’ll whisper his name in his ear let him kiss me, touch me anywhere he wants – I want to feel his long hair on my skin his hands on my breasts his tongue teasing my navel his lips propagating the white tree printed on my belly I want him to gorge himself on me and splutter on my juices only to start again Viva la Vida
there’s this man’s obstinate chin prowling beneath her top, a little tight there’s a sickening taste of cigarettes like a beam stuck in her throat there are his rough hands on her hips wanting to part her thighs – keep still – he said there is her hand a sticky crush around his cock and fear mingling with the quease – go on – he said I’m sure you think it’s fun
su mano entre mis muslos / Viva la vida
(translated from the Maltese by Antoine Cassar)
tengo su mano entre mis muslos va buscando respuestas que otras mujeres tal vez no le dieron – calla – me dice con la otra mano que sigue husmeando bajo mi camiseta algo tiesa – calla – me dice sus labios se cuelan un poco más me susurra sandeces con sabor a cigarrillo sobre el ombligo tengo un arbolito blanco y no quiero que lo encuentre mis senos se estrujan un poco más (tal vez quiere ordeñarme) mi mente se repliega y procura ensartar otro mundo
hay un joven muy hermoso que me espera detrás de la iglesia la luna llena se mece en sus pupilas y el mar de plata baila con los astros lo conozco bien, somos del mismo año recuerdo cómo éramos, dos renacuajos a cuclillas sobre las baldosas del patio cálidas como un baño así cuchicheábamos secreto tras otro observábamos al abuelo que zambullía los chumbos en los cubos de zinc nos reíamos, nos ahogábamos, casi casi nos atragantamos en las sandías que nos daba su madre Viva la vida esta noche pienso revelarle mi pecho pienso susurrarle su nombre en los oídos dejarle besarme, tocarme donde quiera – quiero sentir su cabello sobre mi carne sus manos en mi pecho tierno su lengua cosquillearme el ombligo sus labios fecundar el arbolito blanco estampado en mi barriga quiero que se revuelque en mí que se ahogue en mi jugo y que vuelva a comenzar Viva la vida
tiene el mentón de este tipo que va husmeando empecinado bajo su camiseta algo tiesa tiene su sabor repugnante a cigarrillo pegado como una viga en la garganta tiene sus toscas manos en las caderas quiere partirle los muslos – calla – le dice tiene la mano espachurrada y rociada alrededor de su polla el temor se mezcla aún con el mareo – sigue – le dice sé que te está gustando
Born in Malta in 1976, Nadia Mifsud moved to France twenty years ago. She currently lives
in Lyon. To date, she has published two books of poetry, żugraga (2009) and Kantuniera
’l bogħod (Edizzjoni Skarta, 2015), winner of the 2016 National Book Prize
(poetry section). Her debut novel, Ir-rota
daret dawra (kważi) sħiħa (Merlin Publishers) was released in 2017 and was
shortlisted for the 2018 National Book Prize. Her short stories have been
published in several anthologies, both in Malta and abroad. Mifsud has also
translated into French some of the strongest voices in Maltese contemporary literature.
As an active member of Inizjamed, she is involved in the organization of the
Malta Mediterranean Literature Festival that takes place annually at the end of
August.
Nacida en Malta en 1976, Nadia
Mifsud se mudó a Francia hace veinte años, y hoy vive en Lyon. Żugraga
(Peonza), su primera colección de verso en maltés, fue publicado en
diciembre 2009. En 2016, recibió el Premio Nacional de literatura de Malta para
su segunda colección de poemas. En 2017 se publicó su primera novela en maltés,
que fue finalista del Premio Nacional en 2018. Sus relatos cortos han sido
publicados en Malta y en el extranjero en varias antologías. Traductora literaria
profesional, Mifsud ha traducido en francés las obras de algunos de los poetas
y prosistas más celebrados de la literatura maltesa contemporánea. Es miembro
activo de Inizjamed, asociación cultural y literaria que organiza el
Festival de la Literatura Mediterránea de Malta todos los años.
What will be the time on Venus when you finish stroking my hair
The cat meows, the drunkard is thrown out of the bar
The neighbor turns on the light, and my bones’ loneliness
Leaves without you
Without the gaze that you leave behind in the ambush of my Olympus
Of every night I live your trousers, dressed up with the Udri love
In the heartbreaking insomnia?
What will be the time on Venus when the Jamaican sorrel boils
The bells dance in the Vatican
The Maya lights hide the red wine
And the poets obliterate Troy
And you tearing apart craters to rescue Helen?
Venus hasn’t slept in centuries
That the Acheron River swallowed your kisses
And the dust of my bones is without you.
(i)
Qué hora será en Venus cuando acaricies mi pelo
el gato maúlle al borracho lo echen del bar
el vecino encienda la luz y la soledad de mis huesos
parta sin ti
sin la mirada que dejas en la emboscada de mi Olimpo
cada noche que vivo tus pantalones vestida de amor Udrí
en el insomnio desgarrador
Qué hora será en Venus cuando hierva la flor de jamaica
las campanas bailen en el vaticano
las luces Mayas escondan el vino tinto
los poetas borren Troya
Y tú rasgando cráteres para rescatar a Helena
Hace siglos que Venus no duerme que el Aqueronte se tragó tus besos y el polvo de mis huesos sin ti.
(XXXII)
Here I am lost at the opposite side of Rome
Crashing without one of your clandestine kisses
In order to break the dreariness
There’s a party scattered in the distance
Even though no one dances or listens to its melody
I show up every time you think of me
In the sponge of Platonic lovers
Where I missed yesterday not to have missed you
Your name and mine are hanging from the mirror
Behind each star your gaze swathes
The spheres speed up where we refuse to
Just be
When the day is finally over
I’ll go and fetch you
From the other half of Rome.
(XXXII)
Aquí estoy perdida en la mitad de Roma
colada sin uno de tus besos clandestinos
para romper la monotonía
Hay una fiesta esparcida en la distancia
aunque nadie baile o escuche su melodía
aparezco cada vez que me piensas
en la esponja de amantes platónicos
donde ayer extrañé no extrañarte
Del espejo tu nombre y el mío cuelgan
detrás de cada estrella tu mirada envuelve
las esferas se aceleran donde nos negamos
solo para ser
Cuando se rinda el día de hoy iré por ti desde la otra mitad de Roma.
Inside of you
When wake I feel that I miss you. When I sleep I also dream of you. Sandoka
I
Perhaps tomorrow you won’t open the email,
Or answer my calls,
I won’t smell your cologne:
Perhaps your scent
Will die in the bed sheets
II
Perhaps
I’ll burn your clothes to ashes
The red bra that sheltered my breasts
The one you’d snatch at every encounter
Perhaps
This woman,
Drowned out,
Will wake up
At another port, perhaps
She won’t deny the stars
III
I’m leaving this stern
Of ashes
Rolling around without your breath
The night dies out
Breaking into a new day
And if you happen to wake up, remember That I am more inside you Than you yourself are.
Dentro de ti
Cuando estoy despierto, te extraño. Cuando duermo sueño que haces falta. Sandoka
I
Tal vez mañana no abrirás el mail,
no responderás mis llamadas,
no oleré tu perfume:
tal vez tu esencia
muera en las sábanas
II
Tal vez
convierta en cenizas tu ropa,
el sostén rojo que cobijaba mis senos,
el que arrebatabas en cada encuentro
Quizás,
esta mujer,
ahogada
despierte
en otro puerto, quizás
no niegue las estrellas
III
Dejo esta popa
de cenizas
rodar sin tu aliento
La noche pasa,
comienza el nuevo día
Y si llegas a despertar recuerda que estoy más dentro de ti, que tú de ti mismo.
Maria
Farazdel (Palitachi). Four time Award Winner 2017, 2018 and 2019
AWA, She is a native of the Dominican Republic who live and work in Queens NY
since 1985. She received her B.A. from Hunter College, M.A. in education from
Fordham University and P.D. in School District Administration from Long Island
University. Member of the PEN America.
Ambassador of Culture by UNESCO 2014 in Bolivia. In Miami she was named: ‘Ambassador
honorífic,
by S.I.P.E.A. and Mi Libro Hispano 2017 in Miami.
The Academy of American Poets and The Academy of North American Modern
Literature NY Chapter named her the International Ambassador of culture. In Granada,
Nicaragua 2019 she was named Ambassador International for the Non Profit Poetry
Foundation. Some of her work appears in more than 40 anthologies. Her work is
translated in French, Italian, Arabic, French, Portuguese and Hindi. She also
appeared in Cultural Magazines and Newspapers of Latin America Europe and
India. She is the author of ten poetry books and five Anthologies: My Little
Paradise, Amongst Voice and Spaces, Bodies and Cities, Las horas de aquel
paisaje,Infraganti, Eleven
Spotlight, Bitacora del insomnio Vagón de ida, #@nicaraguita convocada and
Escamas. The anthologies Voces de America Latina I, II and III, 2016 and the
anthology: Voices of the Wine, 2017 and Voices of the Coffee 2018.
María
Farazdel (Palitachi). República Dominicana. Poeta,
conferencista, reportera y editora. (AWA) cuatro veces galardonada en el Latino Book Award, 2017,
2018 y 2019. (PD) Long Island University (CWP), (MA) Fordham University,
(BA) Hunter College, City University of New York. En
Bolivia recibió la condecoración de ‘Embajadora universal de la cultura’
avalada por la UNESCO, 2014. Embajadora cultural internacional de la Academia
Norteamericana de la Literatura Moderna International del capitulo de N Y
2019. En Miami ‘Embajadora honorífica’
por S.I.P.E.A. 2017 y Embajadora de milibrohispano. En el 2019 nombrada
Embajadora Internacional en Granada, Nicaragua. Reconocimiento por difundir la
literatura latinoamericana, Proclamada por la alcaldía de Nueva Jersey, 2017.
Traducida al inglés, francés, italiano, serbio, árabe, portugués y turco.
Miembro del PEN Club of America, de la Academy of American Poets y de la
Academia Norteamerica de Literatura Moderna. Libros: My Little Paradise, Entre voces y espacios,
De cuerpos y ciudades, Las horas de aquel paisaje, Once puntos de luz,
Infraganti, Bitácora del insomnio, Vagón de ida, #@nicaragüita convocada, Escamas yla pentalogía: Voces de América
Latina (I-III) 2016. Voces del vino
2017 y Voces del café 2018. Figura en más de 40 antologías.
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.
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.
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).
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.
Mother I dream a strange dream Do you remember it my child I remember it and I hear Whom my son The caravans And a black horse And a whip that enrages them Oh Mother And unsaddled Runs through the desert And when a Bedouin stops To drink water from The well Light as a feather I sneak up on the chest And open the presents What do you see my son A word Mother
Translated by Dijana Taylor
Rebeka Čilović (Berane,1988), published a collection of short stories Freedom in a Letter, collections of poetry Bells of Boldness and Album for the Displaced. Her works have been published in a anthologies, literary journals, and portals. Her poems are part of the anthology The Poetesses of Montenegro which recently appeared in the edition by Bijelopolje Ratković's Nights of Poetry. Rebeka Čilović is a graduated lawyer, living and creating in Berane.
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