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We run away, we duck Arrogantly, helplessly, we refuse to move From our own lives. And we discover that death can be That luminous moment That happens after the black, long while That someone named life. Entonces tememos no ser rozados abrazados ya por nuestros hijos. Huimos, esquivamos nos plantamos arrogantes desvalidos ante nuestra propia vida. Poet, translator, musician and scholar. He attended Universidad Nacional de Colombia where he studied both music and literature. Carlos earned his PhD at the University of Arizona where he specialized in the study of film and literature.

Mi historia [Becoming]

Eunice took several courses in fashion design at Pratt Institute N. Secretos del faro is her first poetry book. Her poems appear on Mujeres de Palabra Poetic Anthology. Every race bows prostrate before the same courtesan with the loose-fitting crown under whose skirt lies concealed the rot of a mediocre world.

The same woman rises arrogant on the banks of the Seine, Mrs. From Rome the Great to the Restored One the peacocks of phonetics flock together and reply with images that play out behind our backs. Adulterous gods of noble stock with a shattering song and living quarters of which GOD does not partake. Mankind, meanwhile, saps the strength of silence with the wan joy of its feeling understood and flourishes to the ice bucket challenge in the garden of these lumpen gods.

I wonder: how many Decembers will we see naked before stirring underbrush and digging up roots? Let us cut the threads that pass through the eyes of the beads on our necklaces made of metal, living quarters and titles which, amid broken lives, keep us eagerly waiting! Cada raza se postra ante la misma cortesana de corona suelta, bajo cuya falda se esconde la fetidez de un mundo mediocre.

Mientras, el hombre le quita fuerza al silencio con su vago goce de creerse comprendido. Alex Lima is the author of two poetry collections, Inverano and Bilocaciones His poems have also appeared in literary magazines and anthologies home and abroad. He received his Ph. Despite our differences most of us in this room are less that ten generations apart Reach out! Her visual poetry is included in the anthology La palabra transfigurada. She is the publisher of miCielo ediciones.

I look at the horizon, I descend. A reddish sky blankets the city; so often hated-loved-hated, and fleeting yearning of one who has never walked it. Leave me with the beastiary that dwells in my dreams and my men and my women and my machine of forgetting and my family history and my laces in my shoes and my errors and my few good decisions and my voice cutting the air, when nothing is enough now and only the Blues console me.

Miro el horizonte, desciendo. She has lived in New York City since Widely published in Latin America and Spain, some of her books have been published in translation in Italy, Quebec, Romania, and England. She is the founding editor of Ediciones Pen Press www. Juan Armando Rojas Joo is a transborder poet, narrator and essayist. During the spring of Rojas was honored by the Universade de Coimbra, Portugal, as the resident poet. Rojas completed his Ph. I should say, that in this place, amongst other things I teach students grammar. When the course begins we review the present tense:.

Days later I teach my students the art of contrasting the preterit and the imperfect.

Política Fronteriza y Como Cambiarla

They practiced the language that was taught here:. Time runs by —like it tends to do—and life gets so complicated that it reaches the point of the subjunctive. The students are graded according to their oral ability:. Open the door! I should say that I am a Spanish professor and that amongst other things, of course, I teach Spanish.

Al iniciar el curso repasamos el tiempo presente:. El tiempo corre —como suele suceder— y las cosas en la vida se complican, hasta el subjuntivo.

CrimethInc. : “Designed to Kill” en Español : Política Fronteriza y Como Cambiarla

Los alumnos reciben notas de acuerdo a su destreza oral:. Tina Escaja is a Spanish author, digital artist and scholar based in Burlington, Vermont. As a literary critic, she has published extensively on gender and contemporary Latin American and Spanish poetry and technology. Her creative work transcends the traditional book form, leaping into digital art, video and multimedia projects exhibited in museums and galleries in Spain, Mexico and the United States.

Her poetry has been translated into six languages and has appeared in literary collections around the world. The end comes suctioned by the eye of a fleshless god, of a cruel and obsolete god that masturbates sea swells and smashes the world of the enormous city in two.

Devouring it. And you arrive as well, adventuress, with your pink belly and your clitoris to be made, with your tender marmalade of a body at conception. Liberated from wise men, from messiahs, from revelations. And the world succumbs its all to the declaration of god, of that god with no memory, with no more direction than a phallus sucked by masses that inherit him, with less itinerary than a crazy confused prophet perpetuated in dildos and charms. You arrive on time love,. Llega el fin succionado por el ojo de un dios sin carne, de un dios obsoleto y cruel que masturba oleajes y rompe el mundo en dos de la ciudad enorme.

La devora. Jaime Manrique is a Colombian-born novelist, poet, essayist, and translator who has written both in English and Spanish, and whose work has been translated into fifteen languages. He has just completed Two Men , a new novel. In the engulfing darkness, I cut the stems and make a bouquet for you, dear friend, who died much too soon when so many other things take too long to die. Let the bees go and feed elsewhere— not on my porch, where I mourn you with rage. Who needs bees, I fume as I cut the sweet basil flowers to adorn my grief. En la oscuridad que me abraza corto los gajos y hago un ramillete para ti, amiga querida, muerta con demasiada premura cuando tantas otras cosas se demoran una eternidad para irse.

Nos las quiero en mi terraza, digo entre dientes. Me quejo con amargura mientras corto las dulces flores de albahaca para adornar mi pena. Koyu Abe, in a harsh black tunic, head high and shaved brow furrowed plants a sunflower seed in the gardens of the Temple of Genji. Unhurried, he buries the small shell full of hidden light of unfolding wonder in a bowl dug from the Earth.

A breeze runs through the gardens of the Temple of Genji Koyu Abe feels it on his hands sprayed with water. It is still morning and his task is to plant each of these seeds and to cover them and to water them with orange sprinkles. Monks, farmers, all must have hands dampened by the water that irrigates the growing yellow wonders of children: these pious lights for exhausted eyes. Koyu Abe does not know Van Gogh, but he paints sunflowers with his shovel.

Koyu Abe, whose gaze descries, in the distance, the grayish profiles of nuclear silos On the edge of Fukushima rise the gardens of the Temple of Genji and it is necessary to purify the heavens, purify the water, purify the soil, purify the suns, by the planting of sunflowers. It is not about aesthetic effect—Koyu Abe speaks in the silence of the image: the roots absorb the heavy metals and from the poison a flower is born.

Pasa la brisa sobre los jardines del templo de Genji la siente Koyu Abe en sus manos salpicadas por el agua. Koyu Abe no conoce a Van Gogh, mas pinta girasoles con su pala. A la vera de Fukushima se levantan los jardines del templo de Genji y es preciso purificar el cielo, purificar las aguas, purificar el suelo, purificar los soles sembrando girasoles. She is the Cultural editor of the newspapers El Emigrante and department director of the Casa de la Cultura Guayaquil.

She has received several literary awards in Ecuador and Argentina. Her work has been translated and included in anthologies around the world. How often does the Wednesday woman unfold her face wash her feet and walk again upon her words. How often does the Wednesday woman look for the mouth of her lover, tremble in this arms, and desperate cry out her love and sob her words in silence. How often does the Wednesday woman want to flee her passion forget her dreams and simply stay tied down how often does she laugh and sing how many tears of love.

Not his real name. I know his real name now.

Entre el Sueño y la Pesadilla La Frontera Cd. Juárez-El Paso

He was about 90 miles away, somewhere in New Jersey or Pennsylvania. He just wanted to chat. About being a cumslut. Alex had been a more or less normal gay man with a boyfriend. Then he started to crave cum. More than that, he started to crave HIV. He wanted to get infected. These bareback bottoms were called bug chasers The men who cooperated, exposed them to HIV, were called gift givers.

Sounds almost innocuous, like straight, no chaser, or like carelessly drinking from the same glass as somebody with a bad cold. It is so deep and dark and damaged, yet at the same time so completely comprehensible, normal even. Or so I say. I know the idea that I find this anything less than completely revolting will itself seem completely revolting to many people. Are any of these people reading this poem? I suppose some of them are. Her latest book, Cartas extraordinarias , has just been released by Alfaguara, Buenos Aires Negroni is a worldwide renowned translator and has received the Guggenheim and Rockefeller fellowships among others.

Her work has been translated to English, French, Italian and Swedish. Ahmad Al-Shahawy. Born in Damietta, Egypt, , Shahawy graduated from the Journalism Department, Sohag University, where he contributed to establishing a local newspaper. His poems have been translated into many languages including Turkish. Since he participated in many poetry festivals organized in many countries of the world. I shroud defeats, however, and corpses of memories I burn, too, for a very modest fee, in order that lovers may be oblivious, and steal their souls if they like it so. I shall not lend at interest, nor shall bargain, or overprice, even though we trade in blame as pure as rain and make an offer for owners of the Elephant so that they may not destroy the Cube of love, again.

I trade in dust of graves so that the dead may remember less. There is no room for mortgage in my shops, nor shelves for love, since the one who sells love in the marketplace His name is not Ahmad. Translated from Arabic by Bahaa-eddin M. He has participated in various anthologies, both in Argentina and in other parts of the world. He has been invited to National and International Festivals.

To write a ten acre poem I will have to summon all the fish, the magician who wanders through the nights, the smell of freshly baked bread the foam in the sea. I will have to revive those who have left me, bring back ships stranded in the breeze, sapphires and emeralds, the child that dreamed of being a scarecrow, the old bell tower, the train platform in that village. From the tiniest herb its fragrance, from the jigsaw puzzle its enigmas and from the eyes of the departed his prayers.

A ten acre poem means feeling cold, letting yourself go like a weathervane, awakening in the tango that strips us bare, being a kite, a mailbox, an archer. Being dazzled by the stories of salt, the flight of the humming bird, and the statues in its cage. That our country is wounded I must not forget, that there are grandmothers still waiting and an island full of gravestones and voices in the mist. That the Crucified is still being crucified, that so many wings are broken every day, that we who spend our nights in the south are laughed at in the north,.

And when I fail to find words for those ten acres I will turn to your name, your elfin feet, your kiss, your sex erect, your green gaze, your doubts and certainties, your enchanted valley, your insomnia, your alcohol. Only there will the poem be born, extended cry true immortality. Translation by Irene Marks. De novo nada was adapted to theatre in and translated into Spanish in with editions in Mexico and Ecuador. The translated poetry books are entitled: Puede pasar cualquier cosa Buenos Aires, , La noche en que los escarabajos surgieron de la tierra Madrid, , and Anything could happen New York, In numerous countries around the world Europe, Russia, South America she appeared on poetry festivals.

No matter how carefully you cut into the belly of this wonderful silver fish and clean the entrails, wipe the dust from the shelves, and place fragile objects somewhere high, safety will not save you from fear. The closeness of death only makes you more alone. Filled with joy, like an aquarium with spawning fish, we watch the ducks follow one another with their shovel-like feet, one two one two in a line.

There is an order in everything, some feathery lightness. Beda ne zagotavlja dobre pesmi. Neki red je v vsem skupaj.

Critical Essays

Neka peresna lahkost. La miseria no garantiza que un poema sea bueno. Hay un orden en todo esto. Una ligereza de pluma. She participates in international literature events and publishes in the Americas, Europe and Asia. En la vieja ciudad, Ariadna pasa entre sus muslos el hilo antes de entregarlo como un mapa. That labyrinth licks its cobblestones. It discovers the hymen and the mirrors of some laces. He studied Philosophy and Literature at Universidad de Cantabria. He is the coeditor of Espacio Hierro. His poetry has been included in anthologies such as Campo abierto.

Es coeditor de Espacio Hierro. La ola pesa y es tiempo y movimiento y desemboca en huida, en un bautismo sostenido por el fugaz destello de su predecible e incansable ruina. Y ahora que hablamos de la muerte, es en la playa donde la ola espera el anuncio inalterable de nuestro reino que llega con voz ahogada, con el mirar acuoso que busca su lenguaje arriba, en un cielo de silencio moteado por la sombra.

Somos olas cuando llegan a la playa. Angelo Verga USA is the author of six poetry collections. Angelo organiza lecturas y eventos literarios en lugares tan importantes como Cornelia Street Cafe. High-ceilinged shower, white tiles two-thirds up its walls And gaping drains to wallow dirty hair High narrow slits to control the sun.

No way to look out, all day, as tedious as steerage Unseen warships, sloops crisscrossing the gray bay Massive wash basins and clanging sleep chambers Men and women separated, different jails. And strong blood wardens along parapet parade 14 desks summon butchered last names Chalk marks: demerits for limping, talking to your self Being with child, anarchist, unruly, or infirm. VERGA: la pared de metal dice mi nombre 13 veces.

Camille vive en Nueva York. I should have told the truth, but the truth is incomplete. I seek the missing pieces and my eyes go lazy. I get off easy. I let myself go. I hide the faces of the dying, wrap what remains in lace and tuck it in the bottom drawer. I never learned. I engulf with an affection from a chasm in my gut, a sweet trap door, a heart-shaped hole, a pretty well that threatens to swallow me up.

This is a brief malfunction. When you shift out of the frame, the feeling shorts and dissipates in sparks. Ricardo works for the 92Y Unterberg Poetry Center. He was born and raised in Puerto Rico. Trabaja para el 92Y Unterberg Poetry Center. He resides in New York City where he published his poetic work, Guadalupe This book brought him a lot of satisfaction. Este libro le trajo grandes satisfacciones.

Estoy viajando en calles, trenes, llego a estaciones colmadas de gente que no espero, ni me esperan. Viajo por mis andamios. Dominican writer, professor and cultural activist, who has lived in New York since Galan has been a Spanish Professor and others courses at the U. Currently, he teaches at York College. His most recent publication is Los cuentos de Mount Hope, 2nd ed. He writes novels, essays, critiques, poetry and has an unpublished memoir. Escritor dominicano que reside en Nueva York, desde el Actualmente en York College.

Sergio Andruccioli was born in Buenos Aires Argentina. In he moved to Miami. Sergio lives in New York since He wrote for the literary section of Hora Hispana-Daily News. His first poetry collection will be published this fall. Desde el reside en Nueva York. Mi poeta dijo que no duerme nadie No se puede dormir Con tanta sensibilidad a cuestas No se puede dormir Mientras todo esto sucede. No duerme nadie. Currently, Claribel works as psychotherapist at a mental health center in New York City where she resides since D en Rueda el tiempo por la calle y se lastiman sus rodillas en la acera.

Regresas y me encuentro a la deriva, descalza sobre los mismos pasos. Poet, Teacher and Cultural Activist. He has resided in New York for many years. He has several collections of Poetry: 04 Todavia Queda , , 02 Los soles del Ex , unpublished, , Pasajero , poetry-unpublished, , Tamor , Poemas, , Mis Trece Cuerdos, unpublished stories, y Abril soneteando Un canto, Poeta, maestro y gestor cultural.

Rumbo a Juárez

Reside en Nueva York hace nueve anos. Co-editor de la revista literaria Trazarte. Her first poetry collection entitled This Beloved Chaos , published in , includes poems in English and Spanish. She also enjoys translating poetry from Spanish into English. He lives in the US since In collaboration with John Burns he translated a major anthology of Beat poetry into Spanish: Una pandilla de salvajes improvisando a las puertas del infierno Aldus, Recently he edited Perros habitados por las voces del desierto. He received a NEA award fellowship in poetry in Ha vivido en Estados Unidos desde You grew up on the highways, Following a triangle that stubbornly Connected California, the Midwest And the Mexican tableland.

On the road you learned to read books, Your hands stooped being clumsy, You wrote your first poems, And your eyes kept discovering What was behind the mountains.

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I always assumed that at eighteen Sons or daughters should leave the house and family as I did at that same age. With the passing of years I have changed My mind. Between freedom, resignation and selfishness Life passes on. For twenty years Ana teaches in the Public Education System of the City of New York and is the author of two publications of Poetry: Del sentir y del ser and Despierten las aves Es la autora de Del sentir y del ser y Despierten Las Aves Alexis lives in New Jersey in the Company of his wife, his son, his dogs and several books. Vive en Nueva Jersey, con su esposa, su hijo, sus perros y varios libros.

His most recent literary distinction by Revista Libre in Some of his works appear in several Dominican and international Poetry anthologies. He has published collections of poetry, translations and prose. He has also published the volumes Vuela un cuervo sobre la luna. La voz deudora. I am writing because of the girl I saw jogging this morning in the cemetery, the one who floated against the dead. She ran and her body was a feather that swayed against death. Yvelisse Fanith was born in the Dominican Republic whe she completed her basic education.

Her poetry has been included in several national and international anthologies. Cuando la vida hiere y te muere la muerte y sientes que el cielo se recoge en siniestra estocada lo mismo que a las cinco de la tarde… Casi es hora. He earned a Ph. William Watkins. In the beginning was the flesh, and the flesh became word, and the word became memory, and our memory became electric. Then in a puff of smoke, gone was the age of the Ancestors, gone was the age of History. The exteriors all changed. The desert, the artic, And everything in between disappeared- or more accurately, reappeared as something other.

Something few of us had ever seen; a brave new world, born of a bloodless womb. Some of us —the brave ones— got on our vehicles and set out to explore the new world: hoping to find the promised signs of a new life. But when we got there, there was nothing. A deception, a lie: the interior had not changed at all. Disappointed, Some of us returned blinded by artificial stars, and worse, some of us did not return at all: trapped in a web, impossible to escape. And yet most of the inhabitants here believe that this is the best of all possible worlds: safe, clean, secure, and ethical.

But where is the blood? Where is the body? Anyone who has studied philosophy knows that a virtual substance is a contradiction in terms. Thus our dreams, our nightmares, our longings, and our desires have become electric, subtle, even transparent. The cloak of madness on the shoulders of old age makes existence a living hell. It adds a tragic touch of darkness to a dead-end alley. The results of the serum electrolytes test revealed no alteration in the level of sodium, potassium, magnesium or calcium, abnormal levels of which are the usual cause of delirious thoughts.

The tomography revealed a brain free of tumors or hematoma. If I understood correctly, the origin of delirium is unknown. It can be sparked off by a heart condition, an attack of bronchitis or an episode of pain which plunges the sufferer into an endless dream.

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Tucked within the folds of each delirium wait fleeting moments of happiness and sorrow, pure fantasy and the red-hot iron of reality, a sweet memory or an unbearable nightmare. This was the dream prison that my father had entered to serve the sentence of his ninety years of age. The doctor drew on a battery of chemicals to save him from the shadows: Risperdal, Rivotril, Remeron. This antidepressant, antipsychotic, and anxiolytic front defeated the assault of anxiety but sunk him into a cloud of lethargy.

Whenever he woke from the chemical lethargy caused by the medicine, my father shooed away imaginary cats and confused the windows with doors. In one of his waking moments he told me:. This morning I was at the plaza de toros in Mexico City. There are some character traits which never leave us, not even on our deathbeds. I went for the money. The shadow of bankruptcy was hovering over me, which was why I agreed to take on this and other undesirable commitments. Whenever there are children, old people, or invalids in the house, money will never stretch far enough.

I ended up working twice as hard and earning half as much. I missed deadlines handing in texts on subjects I cared nothing about. We always do the opposite of what we once wanted. I made a living telling extraordinary stories collected from the press.

Anyone will happily take their place in front of a camera or microphone and talk like a river flowing nowhere in particular. Fame is a corrosive poison. I packed a bag and left for the airport. The global drug trade generated billion dollars annually, almost two thirds of which came from cocaine. The central photograph on the front page showed the deck of The Oceania in Vigo, where police had seized 1, kilograms of cocaine.

The copy of the newspaper in my hands was printed several days after the delirious drama which had seen my father arrested at Barajas airport. I thought to myself that the dreams of madmen come true every day somewhere in the world; we are all the realization of a delirious dream taking place on the other side of the planet. On entering, the desert sun reveals the dazzling glare of a midget town stretching across northern Chihuahua on the border with the United States. For many years, this village won first prize in a macabre lottery: organized crime, lawlessness, police corruption, unpunished violence.

The hotel we were put up in was part of an American chain. It was horrific. They laughed in my face when I asked the way to the town center. There are no central streets in Juarez, as if the funnel of the frontier had sucked them all toward the American dream on the other side of the border. Under clouds scattered by hot summer winds, the Franklin Mountains lie across the border that separates the two countries. This small mountain range houses a strategic military kingdom for the United States: Fort Bliss. Here, in the desert landscape of this mountainous labyrinth of caves, US marines trained to invade Iraq.

North American soldiers break out of this prison of discipline to get high and let go in Mexican brothels. The closest thing to a town center is an old train station where Francisco Villa once got trigger happy and murdered innocent people during some military episode or other. Instead, I was pointed toward a street full of bars, also called Juarez, on the way to the oldest bridge across the border.

Everything in this town is named after that hero of independence from Oaxaca and everything taints his name with the antithesis of Juarist values. I walked under the desert sun among images of the end of the world: poverty, drugs, prostitution. Wherever I looked on the street I saw ruined houses. I later found out that these were crack houses, dens of drugs and prostitution where heroin is the common currency.

The state government razed them to the ground. After they had closed them time and time again and arrested the owners, the houses were taken over once more by the mafia and heroin addicts. The only solution found by the municipal government to put an end to these centers of madness and delinquency was to destroy them. Sometimes the only remedy is to add rubble to rubble. I went into the Kentucky, a shadowy bar where the wail of northern redova music could be heard in the background, singing a tale of drug trafficking.

That high noon of relentless sunshine had brought together uncomplicated American soldiers out for a good time, men who had crossed half the country looking for work at the assembly plants, and young people dressed in washed-out denim who embroidered the skin of their faces with rings, pins, and knives. In the sordid shadows of the bar I asked myself: Is this where Mexico begins or ends? Any moment now it will all come to light. You have to come and get me, go to the embassy if you have to. I told the nurse to give him two more drops of Risperdal to reduce his anxiety. However, in the Kentucky bar the message sounded not only real but urgent: any moment now it will all come to light.

The shadows of the bar were filled with an air of imminent attack. Every street corner in Juarez harbors the story of a murder. Everybody bears a story like a strange medal of merit: tales of crimes that went unpunished, women thrown out into the desert, and the pathological brutality of the soldiers of the drug war.