tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51107345251238704232024-03-13T16:51:26.225-07:00Devrayativa: New Mexican PoetryDevrayativa is a poetry collective. The name comes from the slang term "devrayar" or "debrayar", meaning "to talk in an exaggerated or farfetched way". Currently there are 8 young poets in this group: Manuel Serrano Rojas, Eduardo de Gortari, Daniel Malpica, Aurelio Meza, Eliud Delgado, Ivan Ortega-López, Luis Arce, and Yaxkin Melchy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-87064119366417792532009-10-01T10:00:00.000-07:002009-10-01T10:00:05.118-07:00Three Poems by Eliud Delgado<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"></span></p><span><span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Those Things Staying Left</span><br /></div><div><br /></div></span></span><div><span><span>You wander the rooms, the empty house </span></span></div><div><span><span>tainting with verses </span></span></div><div><span><span>howl-chiseled on the walls. </span></span></div><div><span><span>Wordly cluster, it isn’t late </span></span></div><div><span><span>13ager’s angst </span></span></div><div><span><span>what rage-loads your voice after another 10 years</span></span></div><div><span><span> but the disenchantment, brought by their passing,</span></span></div><div><span><span>that stuffs with melancholy </span></span></div><div><span><span>the hollow which daily grows as every </span></span></div><div><span><span>heard speech gets you disappointed. </span></span></div><div><span><span>Among all of those things staying left, you find </span></span></div><div><span><span>lighthouses, which your childish hand used to build,</span></span></div><div><span><span> and remembrance under new light as</span></span></div><div><span><span> you wander the rooms, the empty house.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; ">Coffee & TV <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">(see Blur)</span></span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Tell me you also have seen too much tv.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Tell me you’re getting blind, just like me, </span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">And all nerve cells-dead virtually. </span></span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Tell me you don’t wanna face the abysses, neither I, </span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">so you would rather spend a whole Sunday tv-watching, </span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">and bringing me a coffee to drink in bed, instead, </span></span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">while we cast our minds away, </span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">floating adrift on cathode’s rays.</span></span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "></span></span></span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:ES-MX"></span></b></p><span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Sounds Like a Detuned Song</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span><span> at midnight,</span></span></div><div><span><span> it’s an echo in memory;</span></span></div><div><span><span> the jigsaw of ours</span></span></div><div><span><span> and it’s messed up fragments.</span></span></div><div><span><span> Two melodies</span></span></div><div><span><span> fit your image</span></span></div><div><span><span> as it’s obstinately evoked</span></span></div><div><span><span> by voices in the breeze</span></span></div><div><span><span> and whispers</span></span></div><div><span><span> repeating your name</span></span></div><div><span><span> from crushing leaves</span></span></div><div><span><span> under my steps, </span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>so weary of searching </span></span></div><div><span><span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>for pieces we lost. </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style=" ;font-size:12pt;"></span></div><div><br /></div><div>(trans. by Eliud Delgado)<br /><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Eliud Delgado (Mexico City, 1984) is part of Devrayativa. He studies English Literature at UNAM. His poems have been published in magazines such as </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Punto en línea</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Literal</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. Just as "What a Cat's Life" by Iván Ortega-López, these poems were translated by their own authors.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-12566696162504713842008-12-09T09:21:00.000-08:002008-12-09T09:41:01.592-08:00Swarming Thoughts of Yore by Tristan des Mers<span><span>…And I’m becoming old,<br />so irremediably old<br />as deadly it is to breathe.<br />*<br />O times of yore<br />In which my tongue was idle<br />And discontent…<br />*<br />Now I’m a swarming bunch of hypocrisy!<br />O shame on me!<br />I’m no beast no longer,<br />I’m no man anymore…<br />*<br />But why do I have to be so numb!?<br />And why do I have to go so low…?<br />O I’m irremediably old.<br />*<br />I have always nursed all cursed,<br />The people around me,<br />With a blanket of lies…<br />*<br />Acursèd I am to claim my weight<br />In all superior matter,<br />And to spot untamèd blunder<br />Until I become a bloody martyr…<br />*<br />Acursèd martyr…<br />Distorted anguish…<br />*<br />Am I to turn my face to all life’s wish?<br />Why do I have to be so stupid and so vain<br />That I cannot see but everybody’s pain?<br />*<br />I am soul and matter,<br />Bearing thorns and arrows<br />That once splattered<br />Sorrows from my chest…<br />*<br />Quite a deadman I’ve become…,<br />Quite a burden on my soul…<br />*<br />So I’m becoming old,<br />With growing power<br />To destroy all fate<br />From dreary face,<br />And to blow out my despair<br />And wake up dans l’enfer…<br />*<br />O soul, accursèd soul,<br />I am slumber and regret,<br />I am joy and I am pain,<br />I’m your sorrow and my hell…<br />My hell, for you that claimed me dead. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(Written originally in English)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Tristan des Mers is the pen-name for an English Literature student born in Mexico City in 1984. He is the lead singer of the Goth-Visual Metal band Nifelvein. You can check some of his work, both poetry and music, in <a href="http://tristandesmers.blogspot.com/">http://tristandesmers.blogspot.com</a> and in <a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=9198251">Nifelvein's myspace</a>. Tristan des Mers forms part of a growing tendency in Mexican yougn artists to write and sing in English. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-57629758673464886292008-12-02T10:25:00.000-08:002008-12-02T11:15:27.366-08:00Poetry on the Walls<div>A frecuent visitor of this blog and e-mail pal, Fred from Scotts Valley CA wrote down some poems in his backyard's wall with waterproof ink. One of those poems was "Water in June's Memory", which we published in this blog a while ago. Here are some pics, I hope you enjoy them as much as we did!</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>In English:</div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLdwHH8srcAz-AZtIdGiZEDoxH7wiqyawoCiGOqofiNSoauhXSHwUrAZJnixQDfSg_wzo0MZeUy9nAfAmv4exBqtb8XjWgXpEG-DW7ksUFhyphenhyphenYZThw2qP4ZN1SfBcUKFpMDMzkYx0m76q_2/s1600-h/VuelvasENG.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275269889823308706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLdwHH8srcAz-AZtIdGiZEDoxH7wiqyawoCiGOqofiNSoauhXSHwUrAZJnixQDfSg_wzo0MZeUy9nAfAmv4exBqtb8XjWgXpEG-DW7ksUFhyphenhyphenYZThw2qP4ZN1SfBcUKFpMDMzkYx0m76q_2/s400/VuelvasENG.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><div>In Spanish:</div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275270143303123634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJkGwzYaViGeSNZJv0EGWV2f1FzbqmHLbVjK_JNywTRckEasztGbslIo5vX8UqEcJNcz6VHJlE4nf6oTeaYkTtVPGsqCjkR0mVv78IvBXU26ldHaazKkg99vMTP23lOa5zVH_xqEw3PLa-/s400/VuelvasSPA.jpg" border="0" /></div></div></div><br /><p>Overall view:</p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275273371160795554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP4VvhMiMennj4fX-VS2BXsPqYihcfBSy9f5N5ekBtgTiosS-exZHBmTToElq1Kp9kjfwV-nzTd1vrNaLhHUIdo-Jalmcrz_25F2HDCQYOnZjcOpUuOFSiOPLKGDfRXMdYgvJ29P56KMvN/s400/OverallView.jpg" border="0" /><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-3362012586872890212008-09-18T13:27:00.000-07:002008-09-18T13:31:09.208-07:00Two Poems by Armanco Ayala Ochoa<span style="font-size:130%;">Fractal Phrase</span><br /><br />Why not saying dawn<br />and being born healthier<br />before memory<br />before losing sight<br />of the flowers<br />why not trying<br />to be a little less<br />sometimes<br />and floating on oil<br />light sorrows<br />earth<br />orange trees<br />That thorns would hurt us<br />and the daybreak would not find<br />any reason to give birth<br />to clouds<br />being less than less<br />if after all<br />on the route<br />our eyes<br />looked at<br />tons of marvels<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">One-thousandth Stare</span><br /><br />…and we are less naïve<br />than it looks like<br />before afternoon as those steps<br />that go back<br />as they walk more<br />a cloud<br />a stream of dead<br />tension climbing up<br />our muscles<br />what is the recipe?<br />It seems that the leaves<br />Walk with us<br />Entangled on the doors<br />That inhabited us<br />…and we are less naïve<br />And however<br />it hurts us more<br />and it stops us less<br />the staring of the streets<br />and we see ourselves passing by<br />and so it looks<br />as if time<br />gets undone<br />and it gets<br />bigger<br />as the world<br />that was born<br />when we were born.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(Trans. by Aurelio Meza)</span><br /><br />Armando Ayala Ochoa (1972) Won the 36 Punto de Partida Award.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-51556518484712370672008-09-10T10:00:00.000-07:002008-09-10T10:00:00.938-07:00Blue in Green by Daniel MalpicaThere was an evening<br />─I think I remember─<br />when we were together<br /><br />Perhaps you were an encounter<br /><span style="color:#000000;">.....................................</span>with the dregs<br />or the lonely afternoon<br />─like your own name─<br />where maple hairs<br />─long looped curtains<br /><span style="color:#000000;">.........................</span>on a cloudy day─<br />wet the asphalt<br /><br />On that crust<br />evening<br />I put a sad record on<br />─incense voice reproducing your look─<br />Kind of Blue – Miles Davis<br /><br />On that evening<br />there was a lot of rain<br />─yes<br />I think I remember─<br />I was alone<br /><span style="color:#000000;">............</span>just me<br /><span style="color:#000000;">............</span>─trumpet solo like a sip on the rim─<br /><span style="color:#000000;">............</span>and an almost empty little cup of coffeeUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-40417799655612017172008-09-03T11:59:00.000-07:002008-09-03T12:24:43.965-07:00Three Poems by MardukTHE CITY is boiling,<br />beasts aggrieve with water mist,<br />they lurk,<br />they lie in wait for the mob’s shadows.<br /><br />Then I set the table,<br />we sit down<br />and we get along as if this was the last time.<br /><br />The nightly swipe doesn’t forgive anyone<br />neither in the wagons,<br />nor in the cupboard,<br />nor among high, gray sentinels,<br /><br />We are not safe anywhere anymore.<br /><br />……………………………………………………………<br /><br />THE ASPHALT'S smell between my temples<br />the journey’s slithering through the vertebrae,<br />a roar<br />like the one statues make when they crush<br />are<br />a wasted reflection<br />of which won’t happen again.<br /><br />……………………………………………………………<br /><br />I WILL not wait for a firefly’s pulse,<br />like the streets of this map<br />in which things are packed and scattered in comets,<br />neither will I look for a sign of repudiation among the tracks<br />for every image of the past is tricky.<br /><br />I will not talk,<br />I won’t say anything,<br />and my silence will be a protest,<br />it will wash itself black up to the celestial page,<br />it will get your ankles-whirlpool wet<br />it will say about frontiers:<br />ship’s traces<br />in cartographic plan.<br /><br />(trans. by Aurelio Meza)<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We don't know who Marduk is. We just know it is a pseudonym for a young Mexican poet, who has published his texts in some literary blogs, but that's it. Any useful information will be rewarded. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-82913397627513802302008-07-08T13:36:00.000-07:002008-07-10T10:22:22.603-07:00"Flowers" by Yaxkin MelchyEverything in the same poem<br /><br />Everything in the same, abandoned poem<br /><br />Algae grow on it, and flowering animals.<br /><br /><br />A stripe―a coiled-up reading<br /><br />A plaited snake,<br /><br />It is the reading that reads the braids<br /><br />Like black thunders.<br /><br /><br />Prose runs from the wagons<br /><br />The thighs of the poem get ready,<br /><br />The poem is to lily the field<br /><br />And our lives, repeated themselves on the flowers.<br /><br /><br />You stroll about a field<br /><br />Wrapping yourself with dry ink,<br /><br /><br />I don’t understand but night is a flower already in bloom<br /><br />And far in the horizon<br /><br />The bud of its death leans out.<br /><br /><br />An orange-beamed flower<br /><br />And finally you see it, the same poem lying down,<br /><br />With the letter of another day:<br /><br />Omnia iam vulgata<br /><br /><br />Virgil said it two thousand years ago: everything’s already said.<br /><br /><br />And I planted 2 000 new flowers for the years<br /><br />And 730 000 flowers for the days<br /><br />That it cost me to write this poem.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Yaxkin Melchy Ramos (Mexico City, 1985) studies Hispanic Literatura and Industrial Design. He recently won the second prize in the Punto de Partida Poetry Award. He manages the blogs </span><a href="http://destruccionmasiva.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;">http://destruccionmasiva.blogspot.com/</span></a> and <a href="http://lacasadeyaxkin.blogspot.com/">http://lacasadeyaxkin.blogspot.com</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-77559457440877941332008-06-05T09:39:00.000-07:002008-06-05T09:59:11.101-07:00Own Goal by Ricardo CastilloI was born in Guadalajara.<br />My first parents where Mum Lupe and Dad Guille.<br />I grew up like a clover in the garden,<br />like a five-cent coin, like a tortilla.<br />I grew up with denied reality in the kidneys,<br />with corny words in love’s cabin.<br />My mother cried between the chinks<br />with her anger in the dark, with groping violence.<br />My father died looking at me in the eyes,<br />dying in the slow bed of years,<br />demanding to life.<br />And then my grandfather’s blindness, the brothers,<br />my cousins’ sexual helplessness,<br />the barrio among the shadows<br />and then myself, so prying, so melodramatic.<br />I have always been a good for nothing.<br />I have not done anything but to count the anihilation.<br />As someone once said to me: What a Fucker.<br /><br />(trans. by Aurelio Meza)<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Ricardo Castillo was born in 1954. I know he is not that young now, but I just couldn't help it. This poem has got me. I read it for the first time in the bilingual anthology<em> Connecting Lines/Líneas conectadas</em>, which gathers American and Mexican poets born after 1945. I don't remember the name of the translator (and I don't have the book right now), but I do remember his excellent choice for the last two words: "Valgo Madre." I don't think my translation is better than that of <em>Connecting Lines</em>. This is just an excercise for the sake of poetry.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-26221932045313926822008-05-07T17:35:00.000-07:002008-09-05T12:00:10.765-07:00What a cat´s life by Greta & Iván Ortega-López<span style="font-family:arial;">I look at my<br />Cat lying on the livingroom´s carpet<br />In a disastrous afternoon<br />Saying meow to the door looking for<br />His own things<br />Jumping to the table laughing about the<br />Rain an the mice:<br />Little vans loaded with weapons<br />Packed and ready to go<br />Chew chew chew chewing gum & smoking<br />Lit a thin green cigarettes<br />Other and other cigarette til’<br />The flip-top pack is empty<br />And once again says meow<br />Meowing as a cat who mews<br />Lit a thin the afternoon and says<br />Hey man<br />Slow down<br />And don’t care anymore about the mortality of the night<br />Night same as ever:<br />Master hand taking away the giant shell<br />That is Oblivion: THE SKY OF THE NIGHT<br />Switch on his car<br />And drives home listening to the radio radio<br />(Live transmission)<br />and he hears the word: Abbys<br />the hole-word that doesn´t scare my cat<br />he hears Abbys when drives his chocolate<br />Rolls Royce and drive thru the hill<br />Abbys word that scares my cat<br />But just a little<br />As little as the wage he gets on a xis-days-a-week-job<br />In a warehouse near to the town´s<br />Favorite shopping center<br />The center is<br />My cat´s favorite part of the bubbaloos<br />And what about another center?<br />The middle of the shooting target<br />Ready<br />steady<br />shoot!<br />Bullseye<br />even thought a blind guy turns off the bright lights<br />turns off his spotlight<br />as he turns off his despair<br />never run away when the gangsters shoot<br />but<br />later<br />he put some Talking Heads records and get in his own<br />with the music<br />he stays and<br />hum hum<br />humming<br />til’ the song<br />turns into a chewing hum<br />and since there are two radio radios<br />on the living<br />I turn off one<br />Cause I’m a cheap guy.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;">(trans. by Iván Ortega López)</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;">Iván Ortega-López (Mexico City, 1990) is t he youngest member in Devrayativa. His poems had been published in <em>Punto en línea</em>, <em>Trifulca</em>, <em>Literal, </em>among others. He is also a painter.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-50651797729205511962008-03-13T10:35:00.000-07:002008-03-13T11:02:20.638-07:00Three Poems by Luigi Amara<span style="font-size:85%;">From <em>Las aventuras de Max y su ojo submarino [The Adventures of Max and his Submarine Eye]</em>, 2007, FCE. </span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>From</em> A Quite Restless Eye</span></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>A Quite Restless Eye<br /></strong><br />Max’s eyes ached so badly<br />due to smog and foul air;<br />he scratched them constantly<br />as if a worm was there.<br /><br />By mistake he took out<br />his right eye with a blow;<br />it didn’t hurt, he didn’t scream,<br />just said: “What have I done?”<br /><br />It rolled down on the floor<br />just like a strange marble<br />and it hit the corner--<br />there it scared a spider.<br /><br />But the eye got scared too<br />when it saw the insect,<br />like saying: “I can see!”<br />and it laid quietly.<br /><br />It spun on its own axis<br />towards Max, who was crying:<br />“In that child’s empty hole<br />is where I used to be!”<br /><br />Max touched his face and saw<br />his eye looking at him.<br />That was a strange surprise!<br />How could he forget it!<br /><br />His left eye on his face,<br />the right one on the floor,<br />each of them looking at<br />each other, in a spell…<br /><br />when he picked up his eye<br />it was pretty dusty;<br />he put it on a fishbowl<br />to clean it among fish.<br /><br />He wants to sleep that way:<br />an eye dreams about seas,<br />the other beneath it,<br />away from every pain.<br /><br />But sleep would never come,<br />he could not close his eye!<br />He used a pirate patch<br />Anc locked up his lost eye.<br /><br />Only thus he could sleep;<br />two eyelids as black holes,<br />an eye inside a chest,<br />a big smile on his mouth.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>From </em>Family Portrait</span><br /><br /><strong>Bald Grampa’s Inverted World<br /></strong><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(The only one who believes Max’s adventures to the other side of the world)<br /></span><br />Hanging from his feet like a vampire,<br />Grampa spends the whole day having a nap.<br />Beholding everything from upside down<br />is the way he wants his last sigh to come.<br /><br />“If the world’s upside down, you have to spin”,<br />says Grampa as if laughing from inside;<br />with the feet up high, is his grin naught but<br />the display of his grief that holds his breath?<br /><br />He always went the other way around,<br />some say; others say it’s an old man’s craze<br />but only he knows the cause of all this:<br /><br />he lost his hair and recalls through the years,<br />and now he thinks that, flowing inversely,<br />perhaps his blood will mend the damage done.<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>From </em>The Eye Poems<br /></span></strong><br /><strong>The motionless Whale<br /></strong><br />The whale with his immense wide-open mouth,<br />makes the way in te sea for a false cave.<br /><br />White, motionless like a deserted isle,<br />it throws its watery palm-tre etowards the sky .<br /><br />It does not even blink, it lets itself<br />floating on the pleasure of its leisure.<br /><br />It doesn’t get upset, nor moves; it just dreams.<br />Food will get to its lips somehow.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(trans. by Aurelio Meza)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Luigi Amara (Mexico City, 1971). MA in Philosophy of Science at UNAM. In 1994 he got the Young Writers Scholarship from INBA, in the area of poetry. In 1996 he was awarded the Manuel Acuña Competition by his poetry book <em>La habitación vacía</em>. His first published book, <em>El decir y la mancha</em>, won the I Poetry and Painting Biennale from UAM-X. <em>La aventuras de Max y su ojo submarino </em>won the 2006 Latin American Children's Poetry Award. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-74555414371555397492007-12-04T10:06:00.000-08:002007-12-04T10:13:34.373-08:00Water in June's Memory (fragment) by Carlos Ramírez VuelvasII<br />Let fantasy inhabit the world’s skin again.<br />Let it be filled once more with ghostly figures,<br />along with the arrogant beauty of the terrible<br />sweet hand of nature.<br />Let there be nightly music over the road<br />for the primitive is sacred.<br />Do not let the future’s glance matter<br />nor the memory under crystals be named.<br />That in the essence of each thing a God name us,<br />that every instant be one.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Carlos Ramírez Vuelvas (Colima, 1981). Graduated from the Bachelor degree of Arts and Journalism at the University of Colima and the Masters degree of Arts at UNAM. He has published the poetry plaquette <em>Calíope </em>(SCC, 2001) and <em>Brazo de sol </em>(SCC, 2002). With this book he received the State Poetry Award and one year later the honors for the 35th National Poetry Award <em>Punto de partida</em>. Hhe has also been honored with the State Youth Award 2003 and the fellowship the State Fund for Culture and Arts 1999-2000. Some of his poems are included in the anthologies <em>Los estremos que se tocan</em>(SCC, 2004) and <em>Un orbe más ancho</em>(UNAM, 2005). </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-37699091182634615122007-11-08T10:49:00.001-08:002007-11-08T10:53:06.348-08:00Nasciturus cittá (rara avis) by Ivan Ortega-López(Sorry about the delay, won't happen again)<br /><br /><strong>a)abrasions mount the timpani<br /></strong><br /><strong>I.- Pnyx’s Hill<br /></strong>Know-it-all ambystoma heads melt in my hands loaded with a scalpel<br />I only serve the heavy solar sentence to which the defendant is subdued<br />―the Greeks called this democracy―<br />heads falling on the washed blood puddle are still alive and go on breathing,<br />they look at the public with lost eyes and in them there is not a sign of plea<br /><br /><strong>II.-Deus ex machina </strong><br />Every head has coagulated oxygen with the shape of divine neurons<br />every head is a machine talking non-stop till its last dream agonizes<br />its dream on the beach where imagination itself is a divine being<br />who now condemns them all<br /><br /><strong>III.-Aquarum quae influut in urben Roman </strong><br />Every blood river out of the amputated ambystoma’s head<br />secretes all its lymphocytes on the stream to create canals<br />that nurture the city red<br /><br />(trans. by Aurelio Meza)<br /><br />Iván Ortega-López (Mexico City, 1990), the youngest member in Devrayativa. He attends Junior Highscool in CCH Sur.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-63566448112124540722007-09-21T16:30:00.000-07:002007-10-04T10:37:05.115-07:00Natural Legions by Luis ArceThe day has got a pause with a proper name<br />with a flavour to joy<br />an every day summer<br />sulfur painfully<br />set in the lungs<br />splinters?<br /><span style="color:#330099;">.................</span>trees?<br /><span style="color:#330099;">............................</span>woods?<br />Oblong skies that are splinters<br />and that are bread, that are a world coming back<br />and that can be<br /><br />(trans. by Aurelio Meza)<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Luis Arce (Mexico City, 1989) studies Spanish Literature at UNAM. That's all I know about him for now.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-9024486452007637122007-08-24T11:41:00.000-07:002007-08-24T19:38:42.147-07:00Two poems by Luis Felipe Fabre<span style="font-size:85%;">I came across a translation of some of Fabre's poems in the <a href="http://www.actionyes.org/issue5/fabre/fabre1.html">ACTION YES </a>online quaterly. They come from his latest book, <em>Cabaret Provenza</em>. I find it great that there are currently translations of such a good poet available for a non-spanish speaking audience. Mostly they are good, but they could be improved. I translated "Investigación de mercado" once again, without trying to look at Stumpf's version, but he obviously made some good choices which are considered. It would be fruitful to make a comparis0n between both versions.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><strong>Market Research</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />A coin, for God's sake, a coin,<br />for money is the beggar's theme and the beggar<br />is the theme of this research: had the beggar that money<br />would he speak of less worldly matters? But here's<br />a tinkling inside a tin<br />of sardines without sardines. And sardines?<br />Cheap and nutritious: rich in iron, vitamin A and phosphorus.<br />A gourmet would say the sardine has a light flavour to:<br />a) Dented metal. b) Rancid money. c) A beggar's breakfast.<br />Is a beggar basically a coin bank?<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Both poems translated here come from one of the best series in the book, also entitled "Cabaret Provenza".</span><br /><br /><strong>The Virgin and the Stone</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />That woman holding a stone could mean something like this:<br />the Virgin and the Stone: the weight of the world has been announced to her.<br />She bears a stone like others bear a cross. A cross:<br />esp. the youngest tree in the landscape: artificial tree<br />whose fruit is a natural carcass. The stone is heavy like an announced child:<br />the stone is heavy like pregnancy: stones are not dead<br />stones have never been alive: stones are something to be borne. Stones will be borne, but meanwhile<br />let us rebuild the temple word by word. A stone:<br />a stone falling: a broken stone is not two stones.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Luis Felipe Fabre was born in Mexico City (1974). His latest book <em>Cabaret Provenza </em>has been recently published (2007) in one of the most important publishing houses in México, Fondo de Cultura Económica. It is a response to the poetic movements that look for a metapoetic and largely pretentious way of writing poetry.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-30450018164157934802007-08-11T09:35:00.000-07:002007-08-11T09:58:36.933-07:00"Cardiogram to an Unknown Girl" by Eduardo de Gortari<span style="color:#000066;">……….</span>I take the bus and I seat by your side<br />I steal a glance at you <span style="color:#000066;">...</span> without knowing your gestures<br /><span style="color:#000066;">……….</span>You look like Melpomene<br />You look like the main character<br /><span style="color:#000066;">……….</span>of a novel I haven’t written<br />And I wonder whether it’s beautiful this coincidence<br /><span style="color:#000066;">……….</span>Being here by your side without you taking notice<br />What would happen if the world was different?<br /><span style="color:#000066;">……….</span>Would I touch your back at night?<br />Would we buy flowers in Xochimilco?<br /><span style="color:#000066;">……….</span>Would we drink tea at the Café de Nadie?<br />Would we stay about in a park on Sundays?<br /><span style="color:#000066;">……….</span>That doesn’t matter now<br />if I won’t even be able to try it<br /><span style="color:#003333;">……….</span>if desire hasn’t been born yet and already dies<br />for you say ‘Excuse me’<br /><span style="color:#000066;">……….</span>stand up push the botton<br />and get down the bus <span style="color:#000066;">...</span> There everything is over<br /><span style="color:#000066;">……….</span>Now I will never know if I should be with you<br /><br />(trans. by Aurelio Meza)<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><strong>Eduardo de Gortari </strong>(Mexico City, 1988) Poet and musician. He plays the guitar in <em><a href="http://www.myspace.com/yesterdaypop">Yesterday Pop</a></em>. He is about to publish his first poetry book <em>Sputnik/Cardiograma</em> in Tierra Adentro, in which this poem is included. He is one of the founders of <em>Devrayativa</em>.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-54568907702798634352007-08-03T18:56:00.000-07:002007-08-11T09:15:46.972-07:00"Blessed be, God" by Iván CruzBlessed be, God, with your desolate eyes,<br />for passing again through yesterday's ruins,<br />for taking notice of today's horrors.<br />Blessed be, God,<br />who foretells the things to come,<br />and can keep keep himself at home, on time,<br />to <em>see how it rains.</em><br /><br />(trans. by Aurelio Meza)<br /><em></em><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><strong>Iván Cruz Osorio </strong>(Mexico City, 1980). He studied at the Writers' College at SOGEM, and is currently studying English literature at UNAM. He has published in several poetry magazines, as well as the journals <em>La jornada</em> and <em>Excélsior</em>. This poem is taken from his first book, <em>Tiempo de Guernica</em> (2005), and is part of a series inspired by Pablo Picasso's famous masterwork.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5110734525123870423.post-33831602939225632202007-07-22T11:22:00.000-07:002007-07-22T12:47:05.910-07:00"Anecdotes" by Daniel Malpica<span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br />let us tell our sorrows to the l<br /><span style="color:#000066;">............................................</span>e<br /><span style="color:#000066;">..............................................</span>a<br /><span style="color:#000066;">................................................</span>v<br /><span style="color:#000066;">..................................................</span>e<br /><span style="color:#000066;">....................................................</span>s<br /><span style="color:#000066;">.................</span>once in a while it is<br /><span style="color:#000066;">...........</span>nice to talk to someone<br /><span style="color:#000066;">........................</span>who listens to you<br /><br /><span style="color:#000066;">..............</span>let us tell him about you<br /><span style="color:#000066;">.......................</span>and how you are now<br /><span style="color:#000066;">....................</span>without any doubt<br /><span style="color:#000066;">.......................</span>painting your boredom<br /><span style="color:#000066;">.........................</span>at home<br /><span style="color:#000066;">...........................</span>or playing<br /><span style="color:#000066;">.............</span>to whisper words to silence<br /><br /><span style="color:#000066;">...................</span>let us tell him about when<br /><span style="color:#000066;">.................</span>i<br /><span style="color:#000066;">...................</span>bit<br /><span style="color:#000066;">........................</span>my fingernails<br />or when<br /><span style="color:#000066;">................</span>i <em>couldn’t</em> play with the ball in a cup<br /><br /><span style="color:#000066;">..................................</span>let us tell him too<br /><span style="color:#000066;">....................................</span>how i told<br /><span style="color:#000066;">......................................</span>my sorrows to the leaves<br /><span style="color:#000066;">..</span>how I told them about you<br /><span style="color:#000066;">...............</span>and what you said about my fingernails and balls in a cup<br /><br /><span style="color:#000066;">................</span>and how i told<br /><span style="color:#000066;">................................</span>that i told<br /><span style="color:#000066;">...................................................</span>we should tell<br /><span style="color:#000066;">.........................................</span>our sorrows to the <em>leaves</em>…<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(trans. Aurelio Meza)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><strong>Daniel Malpica</strong> was born in Mexico City in 1988. He took part of the <em>Poesía en voz alta '06</em> festival, along with Amiri Baraka. He recently won the UNAM <em>Postal de la muerte</em> contest. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5