The summer your husband was ill, when your days consisted of driving a half-hour each way to work, your evenings of driving an hour each way to the hospital, you developed a story in which you and the younger dog drove west. You planned a meandering route across the country for you and the younger dog, visiting friends or staying in Holiday Inns, because they took dogs and had swimming pools.
You would proceed slowly because you would, finally, have no appointments, no obligations. You would drive right to the Pacific and stand at the water. The dog would bat at things in puddles while you gazed out at the horizon. After a few minutes, you and the dog would look at each other, and you would ask her, What shall we do next? A friend took you out to lunch during that horrible summer and you told her this story.
Your husband died in August. You needed your job. You moved to the walkable city. Your summer lunch friend died a few years later. Driving around recently, you thought, Maybe I should live somewhere where I have no memories. The day after you turned seventy, you realized that with any luck, you had about fifteen years left, and with real luck, maybe twelve of those would be good years. But you love palm trees too. And because really, all my life has been leading up to this moment. Atiende el rumor de las cosas, ellas siguen hablando, guardan historias, actos, fechas.
Su nombre es Mita. Como decir Mitad, pero sin d. Es, como quien dice, una diva contra la sal del tiempo y la desmemoria. Los parientes lejanos a veces vienen a casa. Todo es culpa de Alz Jaimer —le bromean. They came to sing, to dance the spirits, to cage the birds, capture the monkeys and to hunt the deer more swift than lightning I come to rest and watch the canyon wrens gather winter seed.
Birds too can hardly wait for warmer weather: at the earliest ice-out down by the storm-drain, some mallards have reappeared. How clever — where had they been? How did they know? My elderly neighbour says they winter on a man-warmed pond near the Mayo. Had they been sending out daily — like Noah's dove — a solitary duck to reconnoiter the land?
But now all species reemerge: nuthatch, junco, purple finch, and yes, cardinals, newly volant princes of the high perch, come to reanimate my world, in celebration, two by two. Mi vecino, el anciano, dice que pasan el invierno en un estanque de clima artificial cerca del Mayo.
Thank you for catching our bags out the hotel window, quiet as corpses. And yes we got it, you hated communism. And yes we laughed at your el roofoh and la furnitoorah Spanish. Though you were past your Oorah-Oorah Marine prime god knows we salivated at that picture of you in uniform decades later I might have accepted your furry bearnakedness, incursions in our cots, the shower.
Your hands a night tide. Tus manos una marea nocturna. Citizens Two guys walk into a bar. Two gay guys. Into a straight bar. With enough money for a beer each. Over a shared hot dog the younger one had proposed: We gotta meet women! And out they went in their innocently foreign sandals. Sorry to bother you, the older partner addresses the bartender, but do you have any friends who might want to marry us, um, for the papers?
The bartender draws back, her torso a bridge pulling away from a tall ship in flames.
She looks up, closes her eyes. As waves roll in the distance. As birds notarize with their footprints a brown document of sand, citizens suited for flight. The bartender shakes her head No. Queen of her island of shot glasses that turn throats into tiny volcanoes. Where rings left by bottles on coasters fade faster than a crazy marriage proposal. Stamps on passports with overstayed visas. Punchlines no one laughs at beneath palm trees dangling green cards. Ciudadanos Dos muchachos entran a un bar. Dos chicos gay. En un bar hetero.
Con plata para una cerveza cada uno. La barman retrocede, su torso un puente que se aleja de una fragata en llamas. Mira hacia arriba, cierra los ojos. Mientras las olas fluyen en la distancia. La barman dice NO con la cabeza. Reina de su isla de copitas que vuelven gargantas en volcanes diminutos. Sellos en pasaportes con visas vencidas. Remates de chistes que no causan gracia bajo palmeras de las que cuelgan green cards. Vendors selling twelve shades of dyed fur, seventeen colors of woven jaguar motif. Indigo plant, cochineal, the purple dye of sea mollusks.
Harvest of the living by the living. A hurricane is coming. All is now specific and small as the eight-inch water lily spirit with an azure bird riding its head. In Nahuatl the word means shut into the palace with war. Fighting scarlet horsemen. Within the plumed soldiers, wet red tanks beating, waiting to fire. Without a face. Without a blood. A detailed account would be endless. We have been delirious, been desired, been battered. Of ships crossing the horizon, who invited you?
Tell me, asks the skin of one who lies on the beach watching. Tell me, flower moving across water. Will you be gentle or harsh against me? Suitcase of uncertainty. Like conquistador. Doors closed on all sides. No one gets out. Then more warriors surround the city. Like moat. Like wall. Ever separate. Symmetrical and always evening. Le cuenta todo lo que pueda acercarlo a ella. Lola Underneath the tall brass bed covered up with the knitted quilt that provided checkered clarity, she felt safe. That early hour was the best part of the day. The cousins taking French lessons with the teacher, Charito, in the library, the grandmother in the office arranging the daily tasks with the foremen, the mealtime nowhere near.
She pushes the enormous chamber pot to the furthest corner, arranges the heap of soft, perfumed sheets of paper from the Netherlands, carefully checks the tips of the quills, and, after finishing the ritual, begins to write to her beloved. She tells him all she has seen, the color of water at sunset when it looks as if the horizon and the sea were burning in a large flare, the firmament at night where not one more star could fit, and how the cocuyos, glowing in the long, shady hallways resemble tiny fluorescent fish in a lake of dark water. When the girls catch some, they place them under their thin muslin skirts and, as they turn off the oil lamps, they start to dance, like ghosts inside the shadows of the enormous living room, surrounded with mirrors and life-sized saints.
A mixture of fragrances bombards her senses, the recently toasted coffee along with the aroma of the nearby trapiche filtering through the windows, mixing with the smoke of the cane fields burning in the distance. She tells him everything that might bring him closer to her. He, who lives in such a far and cold country, Scotland, with beautifulsounding names: Moray, Perth, more like the titles of poems than the names of cities, she thinks. Scotland, where all men are blonde, bearded and blue-eyed.
She writes a letter full of love and ends shyly beseeching his presence: If you were here with me, you would see how the magnolia is throwing its petals, covering the patio with a perfumed pink carpet. It is a letter from a girl to a man; she writes the address on the envelope: Entonces vagaran como sucias gaviotas sobre la blanca arena. They will then wander like dirty seagulls on the white sand. Now comes the part that makes the day worthwhile.
Thank you for that. They were buried, Armenians, Kurds Arabs, other peoples But how many others were buried Without a witness. For newest news you have to visit world-wide-web and on internet I found this website as a most excellent website for newest updates. Have a very happy New Year! The chaos is magic The blade of leaf reflects existence And you are here Touching my soul What else do you want to know? Whom will you tell… whom?
My loved one, she writes, from the cold mists of the highlands, I send you these letters to tell you how much I love you. I dream of the moment of meeting you in that blue sea that you have told me so much about. She writes filled with passion, inhabiting his character completely: she writes to herself.
The quill is flying without control. It is a river that runs by the cliffs of passion, becomes a swamp, and at last emerges triumphant in the sunshine of hope. Soon, my love, the day will come when we will walk together on your sugar beaches. She ends exhausted bathed in an orgasmic sweat. She folds the letter and tucks it inside the envelope with the postage stamps she bought in Veracruz and which no one in the house has seen. She writes the name and the address with her left hand: Mlle. She leaves on the birlocho heading to town and discreetly places the letter inside the mail packet.
She knows from experience that next Saturday the letter will be back in her hands, stamped in Veracruz, which renders it real and legitimate. Joven, prieto, grandote, pelos parados. Le rebaten asombradas las otras. La lucha con los agraristas era despiadada. This practice had preserved the fortune and the blood of the families coming from the Madre Patria.
The Llagunes had come a few centuries earlier, with the conquerors. For their fine services to the King, they were named encomenderos. Lola, the eldest of the six cousins now living there, haunted everyone with her fantasies. That Saturday, an unknown man disembarked from the train. Young, prieto, big, pelos parados. From the freight car carrying livestock, he picks up a sorrel horse. He walks in front of the birlocho and, after seeing the girls, circles around them with the horse and calls out compliments that make them blush.
The birlocho shakes. Sarita, the one who is going to be my mother, asks surprised: What is happening to you, Lolita? Calm down!
The horse is going to get crazy! Aunt Lola, with cheeks like cherries, is choking. Her hormones have met their match in that cubbish and sassy macho and are slyly betraying her. That one is David Squerr! By evening everyone in the house knows that the newly-arrived man is an ill-fated agrarista who calls himself an engineer and has come to lead a group of surveyors with a government order to measure the lands in order to partition the hacienda in accordance with the new Agrarian Law.
The fight with the field workers had been ruthless. Besides Governor Tejeda had decreed new laws against Llega la Semana Mayor. Yo me imagino que era viernes. Vuelve a explotar la carcajada. Who the hell cared about the indios knowing how to read and write? And the pernada law had existed since God created the world, so you had the right to buy and sell those bastards. They knew their world, a world without any law except the law they dictated at their whim, was falling apart, that the indiada was taking off and whether or not they joined, soon they would have to abandon what had belonged to them for centuries.
Everyone who had good aim and a mercenary soul was welcome. Passion Week arrived. I imagine it was the Friday. Everyone was at the procession. That sassy man appeared in front of my mother. Embarrassed but always well-mannered, she asks: Excuse me sir, is it true that you are David Squerr? Laughter explodes again.
Translation: Paulina de Graaf. Freya Kate born hungry among those who eat heartily suckled with gusto catapulting me besotted and confused tracing a line longer my mother's name honours her where I could not—not a repair but relief like a stent not quite effective, not quite necessary serving a line longer It's complicated Nothing like it has ever been seen before.
Have you ever watched the Moon rise? Oak supermoon moons our sphere spinning Earth's white clouds illuminate people in the streets in Barcelona blue oceans visible from all of Earth sunset to sunrise straddle borders nameless Rohingya named my sphere small next to Earth where no other most spectacular separation glided past into home world trajectory ruptures into orbit No hay ecos ni espejos.
Los espejos mienten descaradamente. Soy Bach. Memory: A Tour In this corner there are corners. In this circle, circles. There are no echoes. Nor are there mirrors. Echoes diminish, fade away. Mirrors are bold-faced liars. I am Bach. Bach, come into the circle.
This way, please. Circles seem closed, but, actually, they permit exit and entry through their centers. They allow for illumination as well as mystery. And corners— they are triangles with open doors. I spend a lot of time remembering. I am surrounded with things that take me back as I see them, wear them, use them: a brown rectangular ceramic bowl given me by my close friend, East German co-lecturer, Ilse, at Manchester Metropolitan Landscape Architecture Program, I visited her several times in Weimar after she left us to teach there, she has now died of breast cancer ; or a scarf bought on a trip to Rome where I stayed with Flavia from my International Institute for Art and Environment days.
Virtually everything I have has a provenance. It is time for me to downsize, but how can I Garage Sale, or otherwise discard all these intimate parts of my life? So I remember and ponder, ponder my life, its meaning - if it has one: my parents, my childhood, my children and the routes taken since. Earlier generations have not had to suffer this ever-escalating speed of change. When she was growing up, local travel was by horse cart and cross-country travel was by ox wagon with stops overnight, the oxen and ox wagons drawn up into a laager for safety.
Then came the early train. Ouma Sophie told us stories of journeys from Bloemfontein to family in Port Elizabeth, when the train would suddenly stop in the middle of the endless veld. Each stop was for a farmer who had hailed the train because he had laid a new dung floor in his homestead. On her long farm dining room table, the farmer's wife would lay out an incredible feast of traditional Dutch farm food: potato and bacon soup,. Paso mucho tiempo recordando. Todo lo que tengo tiene una historia. Para mi abuela Sophie, el cambio era bienvenido, significaba el progreso. Then everybody would amble heavily across the veld and heave themselves back into the train.
As change speeded up, there was electricity and the automobile.
Ouma Sophie was excited, not fearful, on her first and only plane journey to Johannesburg taken when she was I am shaped by my early immersion in the natural world of South Africa, a world of infinite time and space, of plants and planting, of the repetition of the yearly cycles.
I grew up freely, before I transitioned to the cultural world of Europe and later, the United States, and I find, I am not suited, like many of my peers, to the incredible forces of change in the world I now inhabit. Former Location of the C. I just remembered there is a little time travel gizmo that a super smart dog invented for his son, a human boy, so he could have fun without breaking things around the house. Such matters make us tremble with emotion before the possibilities of going back to the ever longed-for Golden Age and verify that dubious hypothesis about the song and everything else.
Hay tantos salvadores de la patria pero. I wanted to be conciliatory to an excessive degree but this is too much, my brothers. I know Texas is big. Round dark glasses stare at your skull: come shave in my mirror. I know Texas is big but I will soil every little nook when my liver explodes. There are so many saviors of the fatherland but. Security No harm you mean. Only stowaways, your furies. Their stone-turning dirty looks only metaphor.
Your bone suit, Turin relic, all veil. Their names just the word revenge in the dead language. Easily hidden, duty free. Minor grudges, canceled apologies, ordinary venom, no workers, no brood cells, skybridge, the bird, a sun in honey. The furies bite their tongues. Their explosions only fiction. Removes smiles and rings so Security lets you through like brutal angels, a shoeless limbo Worse, your suitcase the usual shadow, your myth only a statistic.
From earth to earth, gate to terminal, good girls, you carry them. Ligeros rencores, disculpas canceladas, veneno ordinario, no hay obreros, no hay celdas de prole, pasadizo elevado, el ave, un sol metido en miel. Las furias se muerden la lengua. Casi siempre. They love movies, having seen them all, made them. Your movie.
Pero nunca quieren echar a perder el final, aunque preguntes y preguntes, y les digas que no te molestan los spoilers. Lo he preguntado durante mi vida. La eterna batalla de adaptarse sin herramientas. Gran pregunta. It is not that the stones are mute, rather that they choose silence.
Perhaps he remembers a Sunday afternoon in the distant past when his father spit in his face. Aside, almost outside the plans, the man wavers from the sky recalling a crystal lamp: crushed in the electric dissection: his blood springs in trickles from his very close mouth.
Later the acolytes appear with their vacuum cleaners, bottles of formalin, bristle brushes and their wide array of disinfectants. Now in the streets he lights up a Marlboro: notices how each reflection of dawn always traverses the same faucets, bells, plazas, the neon of Pepsi-Cola, the huge skim milk billboards graffiti against The Order that silently emerges from within the walls. Poet and professor of Literature at Universidad de Salamanca. A new anthology of her work is currently being published in La Habana. Long skeletons, figureheads the sea and Pleistocene cast to sleep, washed by the water until they become sheets of light, they are an open and silent wound that the great mammals raise ever so gently, with their tusks in their arabesque and melancholy.
Since elephants, a woman, lift the bones of their own and they cradle them with their great teeth, they rock them with passion and with distress. A woman, like elephants, covers her skin with sand and termites, casts to her side, her back the earth of her dead, she recovers from her dry brusqueness, gust of wind or burst of incinerated time and she slowly sings a melody whose low frequencies are only heard by distant, primordial sisters.
When she paints her teeth with ivory, rhomboidal opaque white dentin that enhances her mouth and her happiness, woman carves her pain in them precious, hardened like the slate that crosses and subdues the light. Manuel Iris Mexico, Recently, two personal anthologies of his poetry have been published in Venezuela and El Salvador. You never thought about us? I feel guilty of the silence that my face, before myself, kept. I was going to say! She hugs me with relief, as if this conversation between us was over. But it will happen, as usual, The next time we see each other.
Lola Koundakjian enjoys her verse diplomacy, touring the world to read at poetry festivals while maintaining deep roots in New York City and her Armenian community. In she began the Armenian Poetry Project — a resource for poetry and translations. Her poems have appeared in print anthologies on four continents, online and in Armenian diaspora publications.
They were killed, father, mother and children And the neighbors witnessed it But how many others were killed Alone. They were burned, sister and brother And the parents saw it But how many sisters and brothers Were burnt, alone. They were buried, Armenians, Kurds Arabs, other peoples But how many others were buried Without a witness. Keiselim A. The shittiest apples in the world, which are pretty darn great!
Those who have apples would know that I have the shittiest apples in the world; but for those who have none, my apples might look pretty good. And since I never had apples before, for I grew up amongst guava, mango and avocado trees, these apples I have now are not bad at all. This morning around 10, the grass was wet, the leaves were falling, the trees were yellowish, some even red. Between a fine rain and a light mist, bucket in hand, in my mud boots up to the knees, I walked around and under my apple trees. The leaves were wet and poured on me. I have picked them.
I have washed them, and I keep them for their smell: on my desk, at the office; on my writing table, at home; on the night stand, by my bed; and all over my book, between shelves. My apples, I keep them all over the place. I know, I have been told: I have the shittiest apples in the world. But, this morning I picked my own apples, and for one who never had any before, my apples are pretty darn great!
October 3, Lebanon, NH. Kary Cerda is a Mexican poet and photographer. More than 40 books have been illustrated with her photographs. She has appeared in Mexican and International poetry anthologies. Her poems have been translated into French, English, Italian and Mayan. The Earth has names I love Eyes of a perpetual look Brave Ruckus celebrating the heart of the volcanoes. The names of the Earth are states of the inner sunlight Some concrete yet inexpressible like the voyage of the monarch butterfly or the trunk of the millennial ceiba.
It also has horrendous names like the wrath of God -as Vallejo would say- that repel life and darken the luminous center of soul. Dark names of barbarian empires, filled with stubborn cowardice ill-fated marking with their tarred fingerprints the silent green of the vegetables the lifeless seagull the defenseless wheat. His work has been included in magazines and anthologies. Navidad has been invited to events, fairs and meetings in Spain, Republic. Dominican, United States and Mexico. By merging texts and images Jacqueline explores process of fictionalization of memory. He did his undergraduate and graduate studies in New York, Colorado and Cincinnati.
Some of his work and translations of poets like Walt Whitman and Wallace Stevens have been published in different magazines in Mexico and the United States. In , Elitro Editorial published his first book of poems, En sus pupilas una luna a punto de madurar. In was awarded with the Antonio Machado poetry prize in Madrid Spain. Her poems have been translated to Arabic, English and Italian. She lives in Washington DC. Your eyes full of surprise will see snow sculptures of women in their glacial wait sleeping without dreaming or resting.
You too will feel like a waterfall tumbling through your four seasons your body going back and forth you will travel through your summer. You too will cascade down but without repeating monotonously forever you will fall in this tempestuous infinity. You will become smoother, with no shelter, limitless and one day you will surely evaporate like the gray mist that rises above the parade of vintages carried on your breath. The Texas Observer recognized him as being one of the top five writers in Christos Tsiamis was born and raised in Patras, Greece.
He is founding member of the Circle of Poets of Greece. He lives in New York. Outside it was raining. Loads of stuff! In vain K waited in bed To look them deep in the eye When they came to take him to trial Even if he was unaware of the charge. Only in the sea you find depths. Outside it was raining, raining incessantly. And the beetles entered the house. Madly he trod on them, crushed them. The floor was covered with bodies. Till one day he suddenly got bored. He quietly closed the door and left. Tantas cosas! Alexandra Botto.
Monterrey, N. Poet, anthologist. Director of Homo Scriptum Editions. Her poems have also been translated to Rumanian, French, and English in a variety of art magazines. She received an honorable mention in poetry from the Foundation for the Arts, Tepic, Nayarit Second place in the tales contest organized for the cultural newspaper La Rocka, Monterrey, N. Botto has participated in poetry festivals around the world. En medio de la gente tu silueta se propaga de ojo en ojo y ya nadie puede distinguirte del bien y el mal. Death will be that sister on your empty dates, with the door open and the window staring at you.
Farther away perhaps a pleiad, a galaxy tinted red that you will call God, until you smell your own blood. In the crowd your silhouette spreads from eye to eye and no one can tell you apart from good or evil. He has also published two books of essays: Habitada ausencia , La diminuta flecha envenenada Gracias, cuerpo ausente, huesos pelados, carne reseca, postreros nutrientes del gusano, por la libertad de no tener esperanza y por ello no deber al misterio el sentido de mi vida.
I remember that being the only moment that the King, our bloody father, did not forgive you for having been born stubborn, an idiot, for having been born much more beautiful than he.
That night of revelry, dear Yorick, was your final function in the Danish court. The following day, your body hung lifeless and swollen from the barbed wire outside the Tower of Hopelessness. Do you know how many of its seven hundred eighty-three thousand one hundred thirty-seven words are about death, and how many of them console us with resurrection? Could it be that the lost poets from all of the distant seas are the same way? Small perverts who teach virgins to laugh at themselves and to find, in between their legs or their breasts, the degrading condition of passing on death to those who are loved most, to those who are furthest from illness, to children?
Let those who write for the common people and for the illiterate who will never read condemn us. Let those who write for the bourgeois, those for whom poetry is pungent, also condemn us. Let us keep writing, skull, for the rest of the skeletons in this beautiful cemetery. From now on, I will care much less about the amount of just bailiffs that will prosecute me for evading their questions with my words.
Keep on, as dead as you are now, Yorick. Since she lives in Madrid. Her latest book GenES was published only in Spanish. Her poems have been included in anthologies of contemporary Bulgarian, European and Universal poetry. He has participated in Latin American poetry festivals in Colombia and Ecuador. Go and leam more about its ghosts! Ask it to give its cornelian voice, implore its cheek and its kiss! Prime its pathways of masks, of jugglers, dances and laughter, of perfumes too! Do not forget its face, limpid, shimmering with tenderness.
I am entitled to love it, mercilessly, in pure silence. My hands as well, known to clay.