NADIJA REBRONJA: STRAH OD HISTORIJE

Amina Bulić, Podrhtavanja, Planjax, 2021.

Podrhtavanja Amine Bulić nesvakidašnje su zreo i ujednačen rukopis za prvu knjigu mladog autora. Knjiga je organizovana u osam simboličkih ciklusa: Jalovanja, Zviždanje, Stid, Pad u svijet, Neporaznost, Samice, Hram, Oslobođenje. U ovoj knjizi poezije sreću se široko poznavanje svjetske književnosti, historija, mit, poslijeratno iskustvo i tegoba savremenog svijeta. Ono što dominira ovom poezijom moglo bi se nazvati strahom od historije, suočavanje sa njenim najmračnijim prolazima i zastrašujuća, ledeno tamna mogućnost da se u njih ponovo može zaći.

Iako je motiv barbarstva mnogo puta pomenut u literaturi, ova poezija se usuđuje da sagleda ono postbarbarsko u savremenom svijetu, otvarajući stvarnost savremenog čovjeka kao onoga ko živi u razrušenom svijetu i ko je iznutra i sam razrušen od strane Barbara:

“U ruinama viševjekovnog grada

urušenog u sebe sama

lebde čestice prašine i baruta

i prebivaju slomljeni

duhovi onih koji su

vajali lik

tog zapretanog života.” (Odlazak Barbara)

Ono što čovjeka iznutra urušava moglo bi biti barbarsko u njemu samom. Poezijom iz knjige Podrhtavanje preovladava apokaliptična atmosfera, ali tako da se apokaliptično gradi kao konstanta. Ova poezija je zatočena između predapokaliptičnog i postapokaliptičnog, između dva simbolička rata, u stalnosti stradanja, mučnine i izvjesnosti strahote i tegobe u ljudskom i historijskom. Progovaranje istine propituje se kao nepostojeće:

“Proročišta su zamrla

Tiresijina usta

mauzolej su okopnjelih istina.” (Rađanje smrti)

Poezijom Amine Bulić preispituje se jalovost savremenog svijeta, stvarnost je jalovanje a svijet presahla zemlja. Jedan aspekt knjige predočava žensko iskustvo, što je vidljivo u ciklusu Samice ili pjesmi Jalovanja. Poezija koja bira ovakav poetski postupak, još od generacije južnoslovenskih autora okupljene oko Vaska Pope, na balkanskom prostoru rijetko se piše te najviše nalikuje nekim neosimbolističkim tendencijama i donekle poetici Hamze Hume. Kao takva, potpuno je nesvakidašnja za trenutne tendencije u bošnjačkoj i bosanskohercegovačkoj poeziji te su sve prilike da će ova knjiga krčiti neki novi, zaseban put.





Prethodni tekstovi autorice: Bijela dirka

ALEKSANDRA MILISAVLJEVIĆ: KRALJEVSTVO NESTAJE

Aleksandra Milisavljević

*

Čak i prilikom najbezazlenije svađe
govorio je samo da ona ne čuje.

Svaki put
čak i tokom najglasnijeg vrištanja u sebi
trudila se samo da oni ne primate.

Majke uvek u obzir uzimaju svu decu
Očevi su skloni favoritima.

Ili ipak ne? –
Jer
Oni od ćerki prave kraljice
kraljice od sinova grade kraljeve.

Iz hodnika naših oronulih dvorova
prinčevi i princeze čuju sve

i čude se

kako to pred njihovim očima
kraljevstvo
nestaje.





Aleksandra Milisavljević, rođena 1986. u Aleksandrovcu. Profesor i koordinator nastave za srpski jezik u Institutu za strane jezike u Beogradu, gde organizuje predavanja i radionice na razne lingvističke teme.

AMELA MUSTAFIĆ: PUTANJA

Amela Mustafić

PUTANJA

Nikneš iz svoga ništa
u bašti svega nečijeg.

Ukrotiš vode
do putova natopljenih grla,
a ne znaš,
pluća su šira
što su usta manja.

Suh je zalogaj
kratkih ruku
i dugih koraka.

Zaboraviš,
tuđi med je gorak
onoliko koliko je u tvojim ustima sladak.

Očisti brazde
da iz svega svoga
stvoriš ništa
i pustiš sjeme.

VRIJEME NARA

Ulica Ferhadija
prema kraju zapada
i početku istoka.

Zrak hladnoće
stvara puteve do mjesta
na kojem je Ciceron govorio.

Vijekovima poslije
u u’orano zemljište
usijana je sjemenka
iz kojeg će izrasti biljka.

Priroda se obnavlja.
Prodavači soka od nara
pozivaju,
na dublje čitanje
ruku sa kojih curi krvno crvenilo
rađajući djecu.

Sebe spoznaš
kad sve što jesi
u gutljaju jednom popiješ.

Savršeni krug.

MOSTOVI

Izbaci te daljine
iz sebe
od sebe.

Razastri nebu krovove
ispuši težinu,
pusti dušu da se
razdvaja
od kože.

Pojedi mrak kad ti guta
bistrine.

Ne traži izvan sebe
sebi mostove,

premoštavaj

sebe u sebi
sa sobom u masi.
Jednom se zatvaraju oči.





Rođena je u Srebrenici 1994. godine. Diplomirala i magistrirala na Filozofskom fakultetu u Sarajevu, Odsjek za književnosti naroda Bosne i Hercegovine i bosanski, hrvatski i srpski jezik. Objavila je knjige poezije “Umiranje djetinjstva” i “Umiranje imena”.
Poezija joj je prevođena na engleski, italijanski, makedonski i romski jezik, a stihovi su joj prisutni u dokumentarnom filmu „Oživjeli“, te u Pravopisu bosanskoga jezika. Zastupljena je u književnim časopisima, zbornicima i antologijama.

ERNAD DEDOVIĆ: PARADIGMA

Ernad Dedović

PARADIGMA

Žena za voljenje
nosi ceger
u cegeru rasuti snovi
dugi prsti u džepovima
sviraju Handela dok
vrhovi noktiju grebu
po mislima
U očima dišu ruže,
kad joj se ćefne
čita Garciu i pleše.
Staložena, ukotvljena u zenu,
ne lupeta gluposti,
i duboko posađena u svoja
posla.

HAK

Živimo u strahovima zbog onih koji će doći,
znamo da su to oni
koji se vraćaju
po svoje.

RAŠIVANJE

Sve se više vezujem za sebe
I čekam savršen trenutak
da se napustim.

SLIJEPA DJECA

sjene su slijepe
pa nas prate
držeći se za našu dušu

a izgube se kao dijete
kada pogled načas
sa njih skloniš





Ernad Dedović rođen je 1996. godine u Bietigheim-Bissingenu u Njemačkoj. Živi u Brčkom. Autor je knjiga poezije “Savršenstvo tame”, “Beskonačna misao” i “Kult ljubavi”.

HARIS ZEKIĆ: ABOMINACIJA

Haris Zekić

Abominacija

U crnim hronikama hronično oboljela slova
i kaputi drumskih razbojnika kašlju
na potrošena rebra

I ti me pitaš zašto sam mrzovoljan
i zašto mi smetaju šećerasti oblaci
u grudima kurvi koje bih najradije zagrlio
kako to da ljudske oči vide sve
osim očiglednog

Na ulici razulareni kišobrani pod njima fašisti
Opelo moralu i mrlja na licu Božijem
Ubjeđuju svjetinu u tog istog Boga
Zvona zvone
nož silazi niz grkljan
kao rudar u zamagljeno okno

I ti me pitaš zašto bezbožno psujem
i uši ti punim odjecima guščijeg kričanja
Pitaš me zašto raspamećeno preturam
po svojoj utrobi i pitam se kako sam sve to svario
umrijeću od ovako lagodnog života

Zemlja se razboljela od grobova
Povraća iznova
Brda i planine pjevaju pjesme o dolinama
sisate djevice sjedaju vrhovnom svješteniku
U krilo
A ti me pitaš zašto volim rakiju
Zašto punim revolver
Zašto mi se vratne žile napinju
Kao prepuno kravlje vime

Gradovi hladni kao januar
Bezdušno logoruju u mom dušniku
Ne prepoznajem lice moje prelijepe domovine
Prijatelje vidim tek probuđene u mom snu
Koji se zapetljava kao sunce u vinovu lozu

Kuda sam nestao
Znaće daktilografi i hroničari
i rubrika kao portret
kao san
kao mir

Gangsterska

Nemoj da me crniš
u bijelo platno Hristovo tijelo
umotano
odmotava moj moral i svijetli ko zvijezda
Ako mniješ ostat živ
nemoj o običnim ljudima i fudbalu
ko s kijem liježe i ko iz groba ustaje
da dovrši flašu pelinkovca

Nemoj da moram slušat o običnim stvarima
formalucijama koje postaju formule
povraća mi se od stvari koje ljudi gutaju.

Ako misliš da si pametan
zato što ponešto znaš o Velikom prasku
reci mi je li skuplja kanta baruta ili litar tišine
univerzalne mjere su Jeste i Nije.

Ako misliš ostat živ
ne zbori o zborovima i saborima
mudrost je dijete samoće i loš prijatelj ljudi
i ne mogu da ocijenim od kojeg mi je više muka
Zapali cigaru i izuj cipele
čovjeku lakne kad se izuje
umorni su puti i neputi
a koračat se mora sve dok se ne legne.

Jesi li ikad zamislio svijet o kojem je govorio Lajbnic
Najbolji od svih mogućih svjetova?
Uzmeš li doslovno najebo si
a i u suprotnom bi se napatio
ali bi bilo lijepo da ga ima i da to ovaj svijet jeste
Ako nisi voljeo izbjegavaj da pričaš o ljubavi
računam da je tako logično
Ako misliš ostat živ
misli da bi ostao živ.

Deficitarna

Sve je manje vremena
Za ideje i ostvarenja
Puteve i mostove
Drvorede i klupe
U vazduhu
Postalo je iscrpljujuće
Čekati na pravu stvar
Planeta rotira
A vrijeme je vezano
Za propadljivu materiju
Sve je manje vremena
Za pokajanje
Prave Drine su besmislene
Sve je manje vremena
Za čekanje sa lijepim ishodom
Što više ideš naprijed
Više se okrećeš ka unazad
Sve je manje vremena
Za oreol Spasitelja
Kad spas dođe neće imati ko
Da ga dočeka
Sve je manje vremena da shvatimo
Da je sve manje vremena





Haris Zekić rođen je 1990 u Rožajama, u Crnoj Gori. Autor je nekoliko zbirki pjesama i romana Mrtvi čvorovi. Završio je Filozofski fakultet u Tuzli. Objavljuje poeziju u časopisima u Crnoj Gori i inostranstvu; zastupljen je u antologijama.

GORICA RADMILOVIĆ: POČETAK ROĐENOG DANA

Gorica Radmilović

Jutarnje naravoučenije

Razmisli šta to znači da si
uz dobru nameru ustala iz kreveta
prošlosti
rutinski uradila naravoučenije
išla sa jutrom obešenim o kuk
kao malo dete koje traži, i traži,
ne nađe, ali dobije.

Malo si sela na ivicu sunca
topla tečnost ti klizi preko uboda.

Novo postavljanje stola.
Ništa na svom mestu
pa opet posluži
polako se navikavaš na još jedan isti ručak
morske igle ti se zabadaju
i poput visokih potpetica nose te dalje, lepše.

More je negde, ali ne daleko i
misliš kako je njemu teže kako je drugom lakše.

Tamo, stari prozori gledaju u biljke koje
se osećaju samo usred leta,
a ti si tada odavno na drugom mestu –
u kosi pronalaziš
značenje jutra.

Početak rođenog dana

Danas je bio dan za zapaliti sveće
odgristi fitilj,
oguliti kamen (umesto kolena)
popiti more – ovako ili onako.
Ali danas se seli
u stare konobe ili
na more gde svetle ribe.

Danas je duša ostavljena u temelju
između drugog i trećeg sprata gde
Točimo.

Ritualno.

Sutra se mreža drži oko vrata
a ne oko nogu.
Pliva se između rebara, ključno, prsno.
Sutra se krvna slika razlaže na talase
u mračnim komorama.

Danas je dan za posaditi cveće i sveće
da se prime u kamenu
i plamen, i koren i
život.

Na jednoj maloj čudnoj uvali mora

leži
ono što smo bili,
dok drugi gledaju
ono što jesmo.
I jedno i drugo pere more.

A ima i jedna mala čudna ravnica
gde se dolazi bez pitanja
gde raste korov kojim se hrane
i neko čudno bilje koje
miriše na leto i
male bele ptice.
I jedno i drugo pere znoj.

Ima jedna mala čudna neravnina
odakle potičemo.
Tu voda kruni kamen
pa se on oblikuje kako vodi prija.
To je ta različitost u moći:
neko udara, neko (se) oblikuje.

Ima jedna mala čudna uvala
gde se sastaju more i (ne)ravnice
gde mladost glođe svoju kosu
i ispljune potomke.
Na kamenu raste cvet preko kojeg
neko pređe
i okonča.





RADMILOVIĆ, Gorica (1992). Diplomirala i masterilala na Filozofskom fakultetu u Novom Sadu, na Odseku za srpsku književnost i jezik. Zaposlena kao stručni saradnik na projektu Leksikon pisaca srpske književnosti u Matici srpskoj. Piše poeziju, prozu, pozorišnu kritiku i naučne radove. Objavila knjigu poezije pod naslovom Striži masku, konak nemaš (2017). Priredila: Pavle Solarić, Ulog uma čelovečeskoga (1808) (sa Milenom Zorić), Novi Sad 2019; Jovan Ljuštanović, Pozorište kroz zečje uši, Novi Sad 2021.

POESÍA PERUANA / POETS FROM PERU: JULIA WONG KCOMT 

Julia Wong Kcomt

THE RED ROOSTER

For Wata, in memoriam

Peru dies.
Like garlic bulbs
this whim of blouses
cut so masterfully.
The iron windows.
Baroque.
Relentless.
The paint staining my ovaries.

Sushi is now the language
of the people
and my mighty noodles
wait in a forgotten pot.

Papá told me to detest the Japanese
like everyone says to hate Chileans.
But with so much love,
I find no difference
between the cherry tree, the sakura, the lotus flower, and the olive bush:
In the Atacama, Christ sifts
through red grape seeds.

Peru dies, Wata,
and all I remember is what you said about my aunt:
“She was hot, your aunt Carmen,
she didn’t look Chinese.”
I smiled unoffended, because in Peru nobody
looks like anything.

There was a chifa restaurant.

You ate wonton soup
with your Chinese friends,
and as we searched for an emblem
to overcome the centimeter and a half of
difference in our eyelids,
a red rooster
loosed a sound louder than nothingness.

Our Peru is dying.
The rooster will sing again when the stone flies.

BEHIND MOUNT FRIGHT

I was waiting for our strange love, for you to tuck scales in your pockets,
and slit my indigos with scalpels.
A surgeon of doubt is a good man, I’ve lied:
I never wanted a family, or a house.
I longed, a little, for a dialogue with the unknown,
I would like for you to perform amputations
on the corner of desperation,
for you to slay the faun spying on us, here
between rooted moons and salads of hypnotized
radishes.
The bottle of Cusqueña is unchilled and will not inebriate.
Fear in every step draws me toward your voice.
Yes,
your voice exists, here,
in the damp garden of wireless valleys.
I bump into clouds, couches, the Chinese chest that survived shipwreck
and the invasion of Nanjing.
No embroidered skirts, or limes that bleed.
Argentine masks hide their devotion to the black spirits of the sea.
00000The moth-eaten blouse of a father opening and closing his mouth like a frog,
old now, blind now, and thus loving…
His finger pointing.
An ear of corn brought from Cajamarca, desiccated.
What neverending vice makes you master of our fear?
Turn the lever and descend till you take pity on my fright.
Do not attempt to shuck the absurd flower of my doubts about the Fatherland.
We’ll celebrate over the graves, you’ll see,
that death brings sadness is another lie.
It’s just a matter of adjusting.
Spectating, a task that goes hand in hand with your eloquence
The rectangular voice of a TV reporter bakes petals and sprigs into stone,
to seduce children with no serpents or bumper cars.
You are a gilded man full of fear.
We crank the gramophone and pay to watch you cry.

OPHELIA


“And keep you in the rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger of desire.
The chariest maid is prodigal enough,
If she unmask her beauty to the moon”

(Laertes to Ophelia)

THE WIDOWER

There, dead, lie I beneath the wheels/ no one could clench a doubt against you.
Me, poor, brown, coal for your skin/ You, the kingdom’s raptor.
Me daughter of the commoners’ ossuary, on Calle Guadalupe,
wa-dal-hupe.
River of Emotion I have been/ You, mighty Eagle, king of North America.
You cry for me, you say?
Who’s to believe your bald calumny?
You love all the precious false doves that plunge down at your feet.
Me: black lily of the desert.
We had a daughter.
Remember?

You knew, when you reached the throne
you’d need to invent ghosts.
Circus of and for jackal gods.
Suicide, madness,
a shove brittling in appearance…
I’ve come undone and why matters to no one.
The king seeks his crown on the asphalt. Me,
I ought to go down to the bottom of the sun.
Without my shadow/ you, denuded of me,
decorated in shields and poisoned swords.
Red wine with notes of expiration.
You, my immortal victim, my bona fide galaxy, kingly tear.
Me, beneath the wheels.

Translated by Jennifer Shyue

Selected and edited by Eli Urbina Montenegro





JULIA WONG KCOMT was born into a tusán (Chinese Peruvian) family in Chepén, Peru, in 1965. She traveled from an early age, and her perceptions of country borders, different cultures, and diversity in ethnicity and religion became a strong motivation to write. She is the author of 16 volumes of poetry, including Un salmón ciego (Borrador Editores) and 18 poemas de fake love para Keanu Reeves (Cascada de Palabras); five books of fiction; and two collections of hybrid prose. She currently lives between Lima and Lisbon.

POESÍA PERUANA / POETS FROM PERU: BRAULIO MUÑOZ

Braulio Munoz (photography: Laurence Kesterson )

XX

MY SOUL aches brother

something not in your nature perhaps

inescapable experience in cracked

clay vessels like me

there are aches that only pain

others drip between puny fears
most demand accommodations in life

we end up embracing the saving tricks

as handouts wrapped in hope

there are aches that pair up

with blasphemies or remorse

there are those that urge us to lift

a fist and howl along canals and byroads

against those who will always win

            there are those that convince us

            that mouth heart elbow soul

            go on fighting against nothingness

            on golden blankets of silence

XXI

FOR ME gods are signs

of our own naked power

but to realize that is no liberation

            it is now useless to bray against them

            need brings about its own cure

            all remedy becomes tradition

nothing is left but to show fake wounds

pouts whimpers contrition

there is no taking back what has been given

            to blaspheme is to cover up truth and awe

            better to encourage supplications to a savior

            even though they are not worth it

XXIV

LOOK brother

            my songs are bones hung

            on the string of my time they peer

            between hopes rejections and afflictions

let them hear me in the silence of their hours

let them suck my marrow when they walk

lost in their own shadows

            I hope they don’t celebrate life by remembering death

            better that they hang up their own bones

            on the string of their own time

let them lick their own elbows

let them knock their brains out

on their own desert

            what do you think?

Selected and edited by Eli Urbina Montenegro





BRAULIO MUÑOZ was born in Chimbote, Peru. There he was a student and labor organizer and a radio and print journalist. He immi­grated to the USA in 1968. He earned a PhD in sociology at the University of Pennsylvania. He is Centennial Professor Emeritus of Swarthmore College where he taught social theory and Latin American Culture. Among Professor Muñoz’s works related to literature are Sons of the Wind and Storyteller: Mario Vargas Llosa Between Civilization and Barbarism. In fiction he has written Alejan­dro y los Pescadores de Tancay, which was translated into English and received the International Book Award at the New York Book Fair in 2009. The novel has also been translated into Italian. His other works of fiction include The Peruvian Notebooks (also translated into Italian), Los Apuntes de Alejandro, El Misha, the poem-novella Plaza mayor, a book of stories, El Hombre Que Sabía Morir y Otros Relatos, and Yaraví, a book of poems. He and his wife Nancy live in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania.

POESÍA PERUANA / POETS FROM PERU: LUIS ALONSO CRUZ ALVAREZ

Luis Alonso Cruz Alvarez

I

The Sybillas of this town
speak to me in the mirror.
One and zero,
they type desolate
like a bridge between unstoppable words
and the dark abyss
Beautiful this omnipresent silence!

The stars
don’t forget.
The mind, yes.
So the oblivion is a city
where nothingness
cracks the space,
distort the light
and makes everyone blind.

Sweet Revenge.
Oblivion is also people's clothes
that hides his memories
and neither God,
like a pearl in the sky,
avoid the veil of its inhabitants.

The mind is a reflection of nothing.
With nothing,
ghosts appear
like electrical pulses in machines
or the numbers on the phones.

(Jardín Mecánico, 2020)

0

Today
the midnight
it's a clear
Dark.
Its emptiness
It feels like a machine
As a memory
like a wall,
and with that tone he paints the whole existence,
laughs at his work,
look at your flaws
and play everything
Surely:
Innocence

Wait
It is a maternal virtue,
embrace these sands of time
when the children
they become fire in memory,
a sacrifice

Sit down,
sleep on the right side
and that the dream
how to be watery,
evaporate in the memory.

But this sea can more,
gets into the wall
gain ground in bed,
And when,
Midnight and I looked at each other,
there is melted snow on every question that is silent
in his dark answers,
and in my shakes of light.

Today
the midnight
it's a sea
Sure
Dark

(La Música del Hielo, 2015)

Far Away

Mother says, today´s a special day
(The Bolshoi)

Happy moments,
happy losses.
Voices fall down like rain
In the midst of the abandoned house

There's a yellow photo album on the table,
and in the cupboard a black cat looks at us
we hold gazes
and felt there´s no hope.

Tomorrow will be another day,
the ship will wait as usual
Every day is like Sunday

Heroes have died on the eve
that's all I know,
Neither, I want to read your diary to find out about more death
or feel thorns in my ribs.

The body that’s far away
it remains as the great mystery
the hidden path
the faith that moves a mountain
the reason why stars are read
in thedistance.

(Hombre Fractal, 2018)

Selected and edited by Eli Urbina Montenegro





LUIS ALONSO CRUZ ALVAREZ. Lima, Peru 1981. Industrial Engineer from the University of Lima, with a doctorate in pedagogy from UNINI Mexico. Former member of Renato Sandoval's poetry workshop at the University of Lima (2000-2003) He published the books Tetrameron (Lima University Fund, 2003), Lumen, Trilogy of the Spirit (Nido de Cuervos, 2007); Radio Futura, within the “Piedra y Sangre” Collection (Lustra Editores, 2008); Ossuary of Perplexed Creatures (MiCieloEdiciones, 2014), La Música del Hielo (Bird on Cables Editors, 2015) Fractal Man (Bisonte Editorial, 2018) and Mechanical Garden (Editorial Primigenios, 2020. E-book format). He has been honorably mentioned in the poetry contests “Julio Garrido Malaver” (Peru, 2017) and “Parallel Zero” (Ecuador, 2020). He was nominated for the National Poetry Award with the book Fractal Man (Perú, 2019) His poems appear in “Versolibrismo, Current Poetry and Art” (Rio Negro, 2013), “Cuatro PoetasPeruanos” (El QuirófanoEditores, Guayaquil 2013), “Plexo Perú Poesía y Gráfica Perú-Chile” (Editorial Quimantú and Casa Azul, Valparaíso, 2014), “Looking over the Hay. Current Poetry Show ”(Vallejo & Company Ediciones, Lima 2014), Current Ibero-American Poetry Anthology (Ex Libric editions, Málaga, 2018), Lienzo Magazine N ° 40 (Editorial Fund of the University of Lima, 2019) and“ Isolated, dose of poetry for uncertain times ”(DendroEdiciones, 2020). Likewise, part of his poetry has been translated into English, Italian, Bengali and Uzbek. He was invited to different festivals and literary fairs such as the Bogotá Poetry Festival (2016, 2020), the Miches Beach Poetry Festival (Dominican Republic, 2020), I Pack of Words (Santa Cruz, 2019), the January Poetry Festival in the Word (Cusco, 2018, 2016, 2014, 2013), Havana Book Fair (Cuba, 2014) among others. He is the administrator of the cultural and miscellaneous blog “Fundador de Supernovas” ((http://luiscruzalvarez.blogspot.pe/ )

POESÍA PERUANA / POETS FROM PERU: PATRICIA COLCHADO

Patricia Colchado

SOOT

I remember those girls
––the few who came back––,
they returned already grown women.
Their eyes no longer sparkled
when they looked at the white sand.
They were denied the thrill of painting their hands
with hay;
their souls seemed infused by soot.
Their beauty was erased,
their tenderness
devoured by tongues of fire.

Anguish was an immense, black, carnivore
flower
that grew inside us.
For a long time our bodies were
harbors for our trembling.

It was getting late…
Some of us managed to climb over the wall, the others
were tied up and taken away,
of their childhood there remained only fleeting
shadows projected on the walls.

ORPHANHOOD

He has gone silent.
I have seen him drift away
as when I found him
abandoned on the beach…
Where did he leave his thoughts?
his words? his smile?
And, despite all that, it is this little one
who has saved me.
Not these residency papers,
not this compassion.

My fingernails have turned grimy
for digging into the pain.
My skin has dried up
like a Sahara cypress. My skin,
but not my trunk, he is that: my son.

We have become
two beings traveling
amidst barks and fowl smells,
beings who awaken without knowing why
under the patient gaze of crickets and doves.

TRIBULATION

I saw him floating,
I saw him sinking
until his little body slept
in the ocean’s eternity.
My arms opened paths
between the waves,
and my head
struggled to stay above water.
I cried.
I cried for that little child
who wanted to escape
first from the shots, and then from death.

Where was his home?
somewhere in the ocean perhaps?
And I am here,
standing up but torn apart,
lost to myself in this stinking skin.
A skin that should have died,
but lives on in the muck…

This is war!
Rots our souls,
makes us beings drenched
in anger and bitterness.

Translated by Braulio Muñoz

Selected and edited by Eli Urbina Montenegro





PATRICIA COLCHADO (Peru, 1981). Writer and poet, she lives in Munich (Germany). Colchado published the plate of poems Hypercubus (2000), the poetry books Blumen (2005), Las pieles del edén (2007), Ciudad ajena (2015), LyrischerKalender / Calendariolírico. Poetic selection,  bilingual (2017) and Ningunlado/ Nirgendland. Bilingual edition (2021). In 2011 she received the honorable mention in the award organized by the International Association La Porte des Poétes de France. In 2020 she won the poetry contest organized by the Stadtlesen International Literature Festival (Austria), representing the city of Munich, with her poem “Un árbol dentro de mí“. In 2011 she published the novel La danza del narciso. She is the author of several children's books.