Indian-American Immigrant Poet and Filmmaker Named Poet of the Year by The Americas Poetry Festival of New York

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Indian-American Immigrant Poet and Filmmaker Named Poet of the Year by The Americas Poetry Festival of New York
Oct 102017

Carlos Aguasaco and Michelle Yasmine Valladares.  Photo by Ilaria Lilly D’Alessandro.

Last Friday, with a full house at Instituto Cervantes in New York, the organizers of The Americas Poetry Festival 2017 announced that Indian-American poet, filmmaker and professor, Michelle Yasmine Valladares had been distinguished with the Poet of the Year Award by this multilingual poetry festival. The organizers, poets and professors Carlos Aguasaco, Yrene Santos & Carlos Velasquez Torres, decided to grant her this distinction “In recognition for her lifelong literary achievements and for her poetry that reflects the rich multicultural spirit of The Americas.” Valladares joins Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech (Maya Nation in Mexico) and Tomás Galán (Dominican R.) who received the award in 2016 and 2015 respectively. To memorialize the award, TAPFNY will place a commemorative brick engraved with her name at the Poetry Circle located in the garden of the Walt Whitman Birthplace in Huntington Long Island.

The festival featured sixty poets representing twenty-two countries and five languages. Among the participants were Spanish poet José María Álvarez who is one of the legendary Nueve Novísimos; the Lithuanian poet Ilzė Butkutė; the Portuguese João Luís Barreto Guimarães; Carolina Zamudio from Argentina; The Chicano Beat poet Christopher Carmona; Keisha-Gaye Anderson from Jamaica;  Luis Fernando Macías from Colombia; Ana Rüsche from Brazil; Scott Hightower from USA; and Rei Berroa from the Dominican Republic. The venues for TAPFNY 2017 were The City College Center For Worker Education; Walt Whitman Birthplace State Historic Site and Interpretive Center; Consulate of Argentina in New York; and Instituto Cervantes NY. As in previous editions, Artepoetica Press published a multilingual anthology celebrating the festival. The festival grows every year and is committed to cultural and literary inclusiveness.

About Michelle Yasmine Valladares

Immigrant poet and filmmaker, Michelle Yasmine Valladares is the author of Nortada, The North Wind.  Her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  Publications include Aster(ix), Upstreet and Clockhouse, the anthologies, Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia & Beyond, and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry by Indians.  She co-produced the films, O Sertão das Memórias, directed by José Araújo, which won Best Latin American Film in the Sundance Festival and El Diablo Nunca Duerme directed by Lourdes Portillo which won IDA Best Producer award.  She is the Director of the MFA Program in Creative Writing at The City College of New York.

Photos by Ilaria Lilly D’Alessandro

Una poeta y cineasta inmigrante de la India a USA fue nombrada “Poeta del año” en The Americas Poetry Festival of New York 2017

El viernes pasado con un auditorio colmado en el Instituto Cervantes de Nueva York, los organizadores de The Americas Poetry Festival of New York anunciaron que, la poeta, profesora y cineasta india/estadounidense, Michelle Yasmine Valladares había sido distinguida como Poeta del Año en este festival de poesía multilingüe. Los organizadores, los poetas y profesores, Carlos Aguasaco, Yrene Santos & Carlos Velásquez Torres, decidieron otorgarle esta distinción “en reconocimiento por su carrera literaria y por su poesía que refleja el espíritu multicultural de las Américas”. Valladares se suma a Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech (Nación Maya de México) y Tomás Galán (R. Dominicana) que recibieron el mismo galardón en 2016 y 2015. Para conmemorar este reconocimiento, TPFNY hará que se ponga un ladrillo conmemorativo con su nombre en el Círculo de la Poesía ubicado en la casa natal del poeta Walt Whitman en Huntington Long Island.

El festival presentó a sesenta poetas provenientes de veintidós países y que leyeron poemas en cinco lenguas diferentes. Dentro del grupo se destacaron el poeta español José María Álvarez, uno de míticos Nueve Novísimos, la poeta lituana Ilzė Butkutė, el portugués João Luís Barreto Guimarães, la argentina Carolina Zamudio, el poeta Chicano Beat Christopher Carmona, la jamaiquina Keisha-Gaye Anderson, el colombiano Luis Fernando Macías, la brasileña Ana Rüsche, el norteamericano Scott Hightower, y Rei Berroa de la República Dominicana. Las sedes TAPFNY 2017 son the City College of New York Center For Worker Education, la casa natal de Walt Whitman en Long Island, el Consulado de Argentina y el Instituto Cervantes de Nueva York. Al igual que en las ediciones anteriores, Artepoética Press publicó una antología multilingüe que conmemora el festival. TAPFNY crece cada año y mantiene su compromiso con la diversidad literaria.

Sobre Michelle Yasmine Valladares

La poeta y cineasta inmigrante Michelle Yasmine Valladares es la autora de Nortada, The North Wind.  Sus poemas han sido nominados al Pushcart Prize.  Algunas de sus publicaciones incluyen Aster(ix), Upstreet y Clockhouse, y las antología Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia & Beyond, y The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry by Indians.  Ha coproducido las películas O Sertão das Memórias, dirigida por José Araújo, merecedora de Best Latin American Film en el festival Sundance y El Diablo Nunca Duerme dirigida por Lourdes Portillo que ganó el premio IDA a mejor producción. Además es la directora de la maestría (MFA Program) en escritura creativa en The City College of New York.

 Posted by at 5:19 pm

Keisha-Gaye Anderson -Jamaica/USA-

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Sep 112017

Keisha-Gaye Anderson is a Jamaican-born poet, author, visual artist, and media professional living in Brooklyn, NY. Gathering the Waters (Jamii Publishing 2014) is her first poetry collection. Her forthcoming collection, A Spell for Living, is the recipient of Editors’ Choice recognition for the 2017 Numinous Orisons, Luminous Origin Literary Award and will be published by Agape Editions in the spring of 2018. Keisha is a past participant of the VONA Voices and Callaloo writing workshops, and was short-listed for the Small Axe Literary Competition. She is a graduate of the Syracuse University Newhouse School and holds an M.F.A. in creative writing from The City College, CUNY. Follow her @KeishaGaye1 or visit her at


This somnambulism
this life in objects
this riding the rapids of currency
gorging on a daily glut of screens
that train sight to shrink
see in 2D
scatters me,
severed from
the cause
now, so distant,
I can’t recall
the descent into this bramble
this circuit of drills
for a war
drawn into my skin
I need a different kind
of being
above the rainbow
under the well spring
within every drop of
warm ocean mist
I miss the knowing
that can see through
any shape
and still remember its way
back home
fold effortlessly into the music
that makes mountains
and orchids
holds the fullness
of black night
in place
so that we may
at once
wake up
go in
feel the grandeur
of whole
of stillness
of being
of the the point
of performance
that moves across
the grid
through years
and voices
just to find a mirror
and remember
I am everything
and I am

 Posted by at 12:00 pm

Scott Hightower -USA-

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Sep 112017

Scott Hightower is the author of four books of poetry in the U.S. and a bi-lingual collection published by Devenir, Madrid. Tartessos, his second bilingual, is forthcoming, also from Devenir. Hightower’s awards include the 2004 Hayden Carruth Award and a Barnstone Translation Prize. When not teaching at New York University’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study, he sojourns in Spain.

My Father

for Doris Schnabel

was a cowboy.
My father was a sugar man.
My father was a teamster.

My father was a Siberian
tiger; an angel; a lamb,
a yellow dog, a horse’s ass.

My father had a triple bi-pass.
My father was a rat
but he bought me my first hat.

My father believed in decency
and fair play. My father drove
the getaway. My father was a blue jay.

My father drove the boys away.
My father drove a Thunderbird,
a Skylark, a Firebird, an old pickup truck

with a rusty tool box, a Skybird,
a Sunray. My father drove hard bargains
ever day; he was a force. My father

was mercurial. He was passive,
a little moody: rock… paper….scissors.
He loved me. He loved me not.
He stomps and hurls lightning bolts.
Has slipped away. Passed away.
My father was passé. My father

was a Texas Ranger. Taught me
to pray. Because of him, I hoard things
in an old shoe box. Because of him, I use

botox. Because of him, I look to clocks.
Because of my father, I know how
to oil the gate; don’t own a map.

Because of my father, I have no use for
similes. Because of my father, I hunger
for my own catalog of metaphors.

Mi padre

para Doris Schnabel

era un vaquero. Mi padre
era el patróne de la azucarera.
Mi padre era un camionero.

Mi padre era un tigre
siberiano; un ángel; un cordero,
un “perro amarillo,” de un caballo el trasero.

Mi padre tenía tres baipases.
Mi padre era un cicatero
pero me compró mi primer sombrero.

Mi padre creía en la decencia y en el juego limpio.
Mi padre conducía el coche de la huida.
Mi padre era un arrendajo azul.

Mi padre se llevó a los muchachos.
Mi padre conducía un “Thunderbird,”
un “Skylark,” un “Firebird,” una vieja camioneta

con una oxidada caja de herramientas, un “Skybird,”
un “Sunray.” Mi padre conducía cada día
tratos duros; era una fuerza. Mi padre

era mercurial. Era pasivo,
algo impredecible: piedra… papel… tijeras.
Me quería. No me quería.

Aporrea el suelo y lanza rayos.
Ha desfilado. Ha pasado al otro lado.
Mi padre es passé. Mi padre

era un Ranger de Tejas. Me enseñó
a rezar. Por él amontono mis tesoros
en una vieja caja de zapatos. Por él uso

botox. Por él miro los relojes.
Por mi padre sé
engrasar la verja; carezco de mapa.

Por mi padre, no valgo para
los símiles; por él, ansío
mi propio catálogo de metáforas.

Translated by Natalia Carbajosa

 Posted by at 11:28 am

Mikael Awake -USA-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Mikael Awake -USA-
Sep 102017

Mikael Awake’s work has appeared in The Awl, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Callaloo, Tin House (blog), The Brooklyn Rail, The Common, Witness, and elsewhere. He is the founder and editor-in-chief of City College of New York’s online literary outlet, The Grate. His short story collection, The Haven of Distant Lands, is forthcoming.

A Theory of Freshness

Arthur Jafa has a theory of fresh
An aesthetics of fresh
What is fresh?
Is this poem fresh yet?
No. Nor am I as I write it.
I am half asleep
Awoken from a nightmare
I have forgotten the nightmare
Of my country
Which has forgotten me
And itself
And the world
And everything but the whiteness
Of the house
The plantation was not fresh
The whip broke the air inside us
And apologized for itself as it struck
And drew blood that was fresh
They know not what they do
And that is not fresh
I need to sleep
I need to stop refreshing Twitter
Neruda said political poems are not fresh
Until you understand how fresh it is to love

A lovers quarrel with my country
Said Jimmie who was fresh

I woke up with these words
fresh in my inner ear
The words themselves in English
A language that is refreshed
Every time my genius mom
opens her mouth to use it
Sonia says they never call us geniuses
Max Roach Coltrane geniuses so fresh
I need refreshment
I need more sleep
I need to take care of myself
I remember the dream now
Ah yes I remember it
It was fucked up as
an episode of Breaking Bad
It starred Aaron Paul too
But he had a pussy
And I was crying nonstop
And Solange was playing
and I was bawling bawling just
Bawling fresh tears from a bridge
Fresh tears after the bridge
I tried to drink it away
I need a refreshment
There is no light in this house
I need to stop
Refreshing twitter
To see if the world has been refreshed
Refreshed of me and my immigrant kin
Cleansed of us who came
fresh off the boat
Don’t get fresh with the ICEman
When will this page refresh
We are waiting for the news
to refresh in our favor
Refresh its antifresh ways
But the connection is slow
It is still loading.

 Posted by at 10:22 am

Matza Maranto Zepeda -Mexico-

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Sep 102017

Matza Maranto Zepeda was born in Ocozocoautla de Espinosa; Chiapas, México. She is PhD student in Social and Humanistic Sciences at Center for Advanced Studies in Mexico and Central America (CESMECA). She makes the radio capsule “Ex libris” for the program walks, culture and its journey broadcast on Radio, Television and Cinematography system of Chiapas.  She has published: Atajos para llegar a nadie (SE del Estado de Chiapas, 2011), Peldaños (UNISON, 2012) and Trozos de azogue (Nueva York, 2013), besides, her investigation has been included in the book Tomar la palabra (Juan Pablos Editores, 2016). She had a scholarship from the program Stimulus to Creation and Artistic Development in 2011 (PECDA), she won the state youth award in 2010 at poetry, nowadays she is part of the planning committee of Pecda Chiapas as representative of literature’s category.


Se ha apuntado el camino del mañana, la guía me deja en esta jaula de luz. Estas manos realizan el malabar inútil de afinar el grafito, de plasmar la última línea que busque el exilio. Tiembla. El pueblo se ve sumergido por el estruendo fatídico de los altavoces. Nadie se salva del recuerdo. Esta hora se ha quedado íntimamente guardada cual cicatriz es remarcada con el tiempo.


Aquí viví todas mis muertes. Moví las piezas hasta ahogar el tablero, la solución no es el final; quedarán los nubarrones, su voz por los altavoces, la enmohecida satisfacción de salir ileso, la memoria. Intercambié tiradas, y es así como sé que todas las bardas tienen las claves exactas para concluir: hemos vivido en el reflejo.


En el séptimo día empezó la destrucción. Por el altavoz confirmé: todo estaba vacío. Separé mi fe de la razón.


A espaldas del viajero he visto a la felicidad desplomarse como una paloma.


Tomorrow´s path has been planned, the guide leaves me in this cage of Light. These hands betray, uselessly sharpening the pencil to write the last line that searches for exile. It trembles. The village can be seen submerged by the defeating commotion of the loudspeakers. Nobody is saved from the memory. This moment is intimately kept, and its scar is reopened with time.


I have lived all of my deaths here. I moved all the pieces until I drowned the chessboard, the solution is not final; they will remain in the clouds, their voice in the loudspeaker, the drenched satisfaction of escaping unharmed, memory. I exchanged moves, and that is how all the walls have a precise way of ending: we have lived in the reflection.


On the seventh day the destruction began. I confirmed it over the loudspeaker, everything was empty. I separated my faith from my reason.


behind the traveler I have seen happiness plucked like a dove.

Translated by Alfonso Gustave

 Posted by at 9:59 am

Eduardo Mitre -Bolivia-

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Sep 102017

Born in Oruro, Bolivia in 1943, Eduardo Mitre earned his PhD in Latin American literature at the University of Pittsburgh. He has taught at Columbia University, Dartmouth College, and St. John’s University. Pre-Textos published his Obra poética (1963-1998) in 2012. He translated from French to Spanish an anthology of Belgian poets—Urnas y nupcias (1998). He is author of five books of criticism, most recently Las puertas del regreso. Nostalgia y reconciliación en la poesía hispanoamericana (2017). He is Member de la Academia Boliviana  de la Lengua   correspondiente de la Real Española.

Tendría cinco o seis años,
iba de la mano de su madre
por el gentío agobiante
penosamente inclinado.

En la manga derecha y corta
de su camisa caqui
cómo golpeaba al pasante
la ausencia total de su brazo.

Pero él caminaba alegre
y, dando pequeños saltos,
insistía en el juguete
que debía comprarle.

Y ella lo miraba sonriente,
inmensamente feliz,
diciéndole cien veces sí
con los ojos y los labios.


He may have been five or six years old,
holding his mother’s hand
through the stifling crowd
leaning shyly to the side.

On the right short sleeve
of his khaki shirt
how struck passersby were
by the total absence of his arm.

Yet he walked cheerfully
and, taking small leaps,
insisted on the toy
that she should buy him.

And she watched him smilingly,
immensely happy,
telling him a hundred times yes
with her eyes and her lips.

Translated by Gabriel Mitre

 Posted by at 9:44 am

Maria Helena Barrera-Agarwal -Ecuador-

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Sep 102017

She is an attorney, a writer and a translator. Born in Ecuador, she has lived and travelled in Europe, Asia, and the Americas. She is a member of the Ecuadorian House of Culture, the National Academy of History (Ecuador), PEN America Center, the National Book Critics Circle (USA) and the India International Centre (India). In 2010, she received Ecuador’s most prestigious literary award, the Aurelio Espinosa Pólit National Prize. She is the author of eight books of essays and poetry, as well as of the first full translation of the Diwan-e-Ghalib into Spanish, soon to be published.

Llovía y no recuerdo si era viernes,
Jueves o era domingo. Si, llovía.
Las aceras borrosas se perdían
Bajo un silencio agudo como un grito.

Llovía y no recuerdo si era tarde.
En el aire flameaban las querencias
Disolviéndose apenas, suspendidas
Remotos amuletos del pasado.

Llovía y no recuerdo si era el frío
Lo que nos sumergía. ¿Era la espera?
En los andenes, huellas de miradas
Eran hojas levísimas de un libro
Apenas entrevisto, ya olvidado.


It rained.  Was it Friday,
Thursday or maybe Sunday? Yes, it rained.
The blurred sidewalks were lost
In a silence as sharp as a scream.

It rained. Was it late?
In the air flickered affections,
Gradually melting, suspended,
Remote amulets of the past.

It rained. Were we drowning
In the cold? Was it the wait?
At the platforms, furtive looks
Appeared as the light sheets of a book,
Barely noticed, already forgotten.

 Posted by at 9:30 am

Amado Láscar -Chile-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Amado Láscar -Chile-
Sep 102017

Santiago de Chile, 1956. Member of the Collective of Young Writers (CEJ) (SECH) between 1983-86. Marked by the military dictatorship of September 11, 1973. The deep cultural effect of the 17 years of implementation of neoliberalism in Chile is incorporated in his writings. He lived in Sydney, Australia; Eugene, Oregon and currently in Athens, Ohio where he has been a professor of Latin American literature since 2002. He has a list of publications of articles, essays, short stories and poetry. In 2016 finished his first novel: The station of Mauritius. Soon it will be published The Same Rain By Different Hills 1983-2013, An Anthology Of Thirty Years Of Its Poetry. His poetic work is connected organically with his academic research and his essays and short stories.


La tumba del oprimido está en la mente de los que callan.
En la conciencia de los bienaventurados que porfían
En poner la otra mejilla, como Cristos bastardos.
En la imaginación alambrada que sentencia a los niños.
La tumba del oprimido no está en la voluntad de los que
Oprime [allí solo se ejerce el halago o la tortura]
Sino en la riqueza que es propietaria de la voluntad
Y en las alucinaciones de justicia de los hambrientos.
[En el silencio de los que hablan, en la verdad de los
la tumba del oprimido radica en la ley
que también es el camposanto de la memoria.


The grave of the oppressed is in the mind of those that shut up.
Well-ventured in the conscious of the adventurous that wayward
In turning the other cheek like the bastard Christs.
in the fenced in imagination
that the children are sentenced to.
The grave of the oppressed isn’t in the will of those who oppress
(there they only exercise compliment or torture)
But in the riches, that is of the proprietary of their will
and in the hallucinations of justice for the hungry.
(In the silence of those who speak, in the levity of the claims)
The grave of the oppressed should be in the law that also is the cemetery of their memory.

Translated by Hannah Grace Morrison

 Posted by at 8:45 am

Iván Oñate -Ecuador-

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Sep 092017

Iván Oñate was born in Ambato, Ecuador, in 1948. Poet and narrator. He made college studies in Quito, Argentina and Spain where he was doctorated in Communication (Semiotics) from the Universidad Autónoma of Barcelona. Part of his work has been translated into German, French, English, Portuguese, Italian and Greek. He is currently professor of semiotics and Hispanic-American Literature at The School of Language Science and Literature of the Faculty of Philosophy and Literature of The Central University of Ecuador. Published works: Estadía Poética, 1968; En Casa del Ahorcado, 1977; El Ángel Ajeno, 1983; El hacha enterrada, 1987, Anatomía del Vacío, 1988; El Fulgor de los Desollados, 1992; La canción de mi compañero de celda, 1995  La nada sagrada, 1998; La frontera, Bogotá 2006; El país de las tinieblas, México 2008; Cuando morí México 2010.


Bendito seas tango,
porque en mis noches de rabia y dolor
me abracé a tí
sin importarme quién ponía la música
y quién el llanto,
quién esta niebla de adiós, quién
el reiterado argumento.

Bendito seas, pendenciero ritual
que en tiempos lejanos
te profesaron los hombres. Ateridos rufianes
que tras demostrar la profundidad de su amor
con un cuchillo,
se abrazaban para el baile
y enrumbaban hacia las puertas del amanecer
con la misma cadencia
con que sus pasos
medirían la larga soledad de la prisión
día tras día,
ida y vuelta.

Taciturnos amantes
que en algún giro del bandoneón,
daban un salto
y caían
en la puntual cita con el destino,
en la atroz partitura
escrita desde siempre.

crucifixión en smoking, curioso funeral
donde los muertos de amor
asisten a su propio velatorio,
y con un corazón de plata
disparado al pecho.

Brusca melodía, en cuyos sótanos
aún se percibe el relámpago de la espada
o el de ese otro rayo,
más modesto,
el puñal con que se escriben
las épicas puertas adentro.

Bendito seas
porque en la nieve sucia de este amanecer,
algún desesperado,
algún muerto de amor,
en este momento se engomina
y te baila en llamas
abrasado por su sombra.


Bless you, tango
because in nights of rage and pain
I took you in my arms
without caring who provided the music
the tears,
this farewell fog, who
the recurrent story.

Bless you, scoundrel ritual
by men professed
in faraway times. Freezing rogues
who after showing the depth of their love
with a knife,
embraced for the dance
and stepped towards the doors of dawn
to the same cadence
with  which their steps
would measure the long prison solitude
day after day
going and coming.

Taciturn lovers
who in a turn of the concertina
took a leap
and dropped
upon the prompt rendezvous with destiny,
on the dreadful score
written before time.

crucifixion in tuxedo, strange funeral
where love’s dead
attend their own wake,
their hair greased,
a silver heart
shot into their chest.

Rough melody, in its cellars
you can still catch a glimpse of the sword
or that other lightning bolt,
more modest,
the knife with which
epics are written indoors.

Bless you
because on the soiled snow of this dawn,
a desperate man,
some man dead of love,
greases his hair right now
and dances you in flames
burnt by his shadow.

Translated by Leticia Damm

 Posted by at 12:33 pm

João Luís Barreto Guimarães -Portugal-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on João Luís Barreto Guimarães -Portugal-
Sep 092017

João Luís Barreto Guimarães was born in Porto, Portugal (1967) where he graduated in Medicine. He is a Poet (as well as a Breast Reconstructive Surgeon). As a writer, he is the author of 9 poetry books since 1989, including his first 7 books in Collected Poetry (2011) and the subsequent You Are Here (2013) and Mediterranean (2016) chosen as National Award António Ramos Rosa for best poetry book edited in Portugal in 2016. His work is published in anthologies and literary magazines in Portugal, Spain, France, Belgium, Holland, Germany, Italy, United Kingdom, Croatia, Macedonia, Brazil, Mexico, Dominican Republic, United States (forthcoming in Montenegro and Bulgaria). He has read at literary Festivals in Spain, México, Croatia and USA.

«Pode ser Pepsi?»

ao Bernardo Pinto de Almeida
Gosto de ver
hieróglifos nas pegadas das gaivotas.
Não gosto que os feriados calhem ao
fim-de-semana. Gosto dos frescos de Pompeia
em dias de mais calor. Não gosto
nada que os gregos misturem água no vinho.
Prefiro os heróis sem nome ao
nome dos grandes heróis. Distingo a dor
dos que perdem da total perda de dor. Gosto
de sentir a música de volta à minha vida.
Não gosto do Mediterrâneo
transformado em cemitério.
Prefiro o fundo da alma a fundos de
investimento. Distingo liquidez dos bancos
da liquidez de teus olhos. Gosto de
uma salada César numa piazza de Roma.
Não gosto de pedir Coca-Cola e ouvir:
«Pode ser Pepsi?»

“OK If it’s Pepsi?”

to Bernardo Pinto de Almeida
I like to see
hieroglyphs in the footprints of seagulls.
I don’t like it when holidays land on
weekends. I like the frescoes of Pompei
on really hot days. I don’t like it
in the least that Greeks add water to wine.
I prefer nameless héroes to
the names of great heroes. I distinguish the pain
of losers from the total loss of pain. I like
to feel the music returning to my life.
I don’t like the Mediterranean
transformed into a cemetery.
I prefer the depths of my soul to the depths of
the stock market. I distinguish the liquidity of banks
from the liquidity in your eyes. I like
a Caesar salad in a piazza in Rome.
I don’t like ordering a Coke and hearing:
“OK if it’s Pepsi?”

Translated by Calvin Olsen

 Posted by at 12:15 pm

Isaac Chavarría -USA-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Isaac Chavarría -USA-
Sep 092017

Isaac Chavarría is a pocho from deep south Tejas. His work assisting non-profit organizations has produced over 20 chapbook titles for workshop participants. His poems are in Label Me Latina/o, BorderSenses, and NewBorder: Contemporary Voices from the Texas/Mexico Border. His poetry book, Poxo, from Slough Press, received the inaugural 2014 NACCS-Tejas Poetry Award. His collaboration as a member of the Coalition of Nuevo Chican@ Artists developed into a co-edited book titled Nuev@s Voces Poeticas: A Dialogue About New Chican@ Identities. He is the current Co-Editor of Interstice, the literary journal of South Texas College, and co-runs a mobile book store.

La Llorona del valle

la Llorona del valle
begins her summer
with two more

the first she coaxed
during a game
of chicken,
along the edge
they sped until
one quit or died.

the second was gifted
by a father
drunk he believed
she was la virgen
and sacrificed la hija
in fatal baptism.

when our skin
peels off
from a summer burn
el valle fills her
with bodies
from the barrio-colonias.

she irrigates
para nuestra comida
for our lives
and in return
we provide
our children.

 Posted by at 11:57 am

Keila Vall de la Ville -Venezuela-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Keila Vall de la Ville -Venezuela-
Sep 092017

Caracas, 1974. Author of the novel Los días animales (2016), the poetry book Viaje legado (2016), Antolín Sánchez, discurso en movimiento / Antolin Sanchez, Moving Discourse (2016) and the short stories books Ana no duerme y otros cuentos (2008, 2016);. Editor of the American bilingual anthology Entre el aliento y el precipicio. Poéticas sobre la belleza (In press), and co-editor of 102 Poetas en Jamming (2014). Founder and organizer of the Venezuelan movement “Jamming Poético”, with more than 40 readings since 2011. Writer of the columns “Nota al Margen”, Diario El Nacional, and “The Flash”, Viceversa. Her work is included in several American anthologies. Anthropologist (UCV), MA in Political Science (USB), MFA in Creative Writing (NYU), and MA in Hispanic Cultural Studies (Columbia University).


afirman los expertos
que la muerte
no es un evento.
las personas se encaminan
hacia ella
poco a poco
sus órganos en ese tránsito
se van apagando
así como un amor
se ahoga
o una planta no se seca
de un momento
al que sigue.

todo el que ha pasado por allí
lo sabe.

por eso, dicen los científicos
a menos que estés abso
no debes
certificar un deceso.

las personas no tienen sólo dos
estar vivas
hay quien economiza recursos
y va medio viva
o medio muerta

hay la ondulación indecisa
y la agonía
hay el tránsito

(seguramente las personas van notándose morir)

y también hay la enmienda
sólo el final evidencia
la dirección del vector
dicen los especialistas
del fenómeno de Lázaro.

por eso recomiendan observar
a quien se apaga
no adjetivar el arco
de prisa.


experts claim
that death
is not an event.
people march
towards it
little by little.
in that crossing, their organs
begin shutting down
just like love
or a plant doesn’t dry up
from one moment
to the next.

everyone who has experienced it
knows this.

that is why scientists say
that unless you are abso
you should not
certify a passing.

people not only have two
to be alive
to be
there are those who spare resources
and go about half alive
or half dead,
there is the indecisive ripple
and the agony.
there is the crossing

(people surely notice their own slow dying)

and there is also amendment
only the end reveals
the vector’s direction
say the experts
of the Lazarus phenomenon.

that is why they recommend to observe
when someone is fading out
to wait
not to adjectivize
the arch

 Posted by at 11:43 am

Linda Morales Caballero -Peru-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Linda Morales Caballero -Peru-
Sep 092017

Linda Morales Caballero is an author, professor and journalist. Cofounder of LAIA’s Literary Contest and Anthology and the group: Fuego de Luna with poets: Siller and Altman. With Professor Russo coordinates a Reading Circle at Hunter College. In the Transatlantic Conference participated with: “Fictional Visions: Writer, Translator and Filmmaker Consolidate Storytelling” based on: Lipstick, with: Marko Miletich and Mauricio Zapata. The Spanish Bramante Company premiered in Madrid the play: Enigmas based on five of her stories, at the Multidisciplinary Arts festival: SANfest, 2017. She holds a Master’s Degree in Hispanic American Literature.


Me llaman a interrumpir
las chipas que hacen mis manos
sobre el teclado.
Les parece que me hace daño
conjugar nuestros maleficios.

No saben
que no nos alcanza el tiempo
para devorar en el otro
todos los peldaños,
los recuerdos trocados,
los disfraces,
los títeres.

Apenas hecha carne la materia
nos bautizaron en el llanto.

Y nuestra condición angelical
-recién cuajando en lo humano-
aprendió a conjugar
encantamientos para salvarnos.

Seguimos conjugando,
al borde del abismo,
inquietando a otros
desde nuestra naturaleza
infantil y eterna
de tragafuegos itinerante.


Some summon me to
interrupt the sparks created by my hands
on the keyboard.
They believe it hurts me
to conjugate our witchcraft.

They don’t know we lack enough time
to devour in the other
all the rungs,
the exchanged memories,
the costumes,
the puppets.

Hardly turned into flesh
we were baptized with tears.

And our angelical condition
just crystallized into human form,
learned to conjugate enchantments,
in order to escape.

We go on conjugating,
at the edge of the abyss,
distressing others
with our infantile
and eternal
wandering fire-eater nature.

Translated by Marko Miletich

 Posted by at 11:10 am

Juan Navidad -Spain-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Juan Navidad -Spain-
Sep 092017

He writes poetry (Anónimo, 1991, Una pareja de tapas duras, 1999, Poesía para buscadores 2013), thoughts in English (Think About It, 2011), translated into Italian (Pensaci, 2011) and in Spanish (Frases para no dejar de pensar en el metro, 2008, Frases para crecer el positivo, 2014), short stories (¿Para qué sirve un libro? 2014). Included in magazines and anthologies, he created the Cálamo Magazine (1991-1994), the Association of Writers Pimera Obra (1997 ), the entrecomillas literary group (1998), Libel (1999), Costa Literaria, and in 2003 Fábrica de leyendas, in 2011, the ethical way to get published, translate and present books in their monthly events in New York all year long. He has been invited to events, fairs and meetings in Spain, Republic. Dominican, United States, Mexico, Colombia, Cuba and Egypt.

Sé que podrás

A Francisco Muñoz Soler Por supuesto,

somos humanos,
nuestra voz resulta afectada
ante un momento inesperado,
bajamos la mirada
frente al espejo,
no nos vemos capaces
antes de cada salto
a un nuevo planeta.

Por supuesto,
nunca sabemos
lo que hay detrás
Un día cualquiera,
nos da dentera
el viento, el frío,
la oscuridad.

Nos derriten el calor,
los mareos,
la ignorancia de los demás,
pero nuestro peso,
nuestras palabras,
versos por centímetro cuadrado,
nuestros pasos firmes,
nuestros sueños,
deseos, cariño auténtico,
nuestro aspecto verdadero,
nuestro certero afecto
los besos de nuestra madre,
los abrazos de nuestros amigos,
toda nuestra vida
Sirven de salvoconductos
para saltar,
borrar, vaciar, escalar,
los mares, las montañas,
los dolores y todas las fronteras…

I Know You Will

To Francisco Muñoz Soler, of course

we are humans,
Our voice can shaken
Before an unexpected moment,
We look down
in front of the mirror,
We do not see ourselves capable
Before each jump
To a new planet.

Of course,
We never know
What’s behind
Any particular day,
We got the dent
The wind, the cold,
the darkness.

We are melted by the heat,
the fatigue,
The ignorance of others,
But our weight,
Our words,
Verses per square centimeter,
Our firm steps,
Our dreams,
Wishes, our authentic affection,
Our real look,
Our true affection,
Our mother kisses,
Our friendly hugs,
Our whole life
They are infalible
to jump,
to fly,
To reassemble,
Erase, empty, scale
The seas, the mountains,
The pains and all the borders…

 Posted by at 10:24 am

Manuel Becerra Salazar -Mexico-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Manuel Becerra Salazar -Mexico-
Sep 092017

Manuel Becerra Salazar (Mexico City, 1983), poet. Author of the books: Cantata Castrati (Colibrí, Mexico, Colección As de oros, 2004), Los alumbrados (Estado de México, 2008); Canciones para adolescentes fumando en un claro del bosque (Universidad Autónoma de Zacatecas, 2011), Instrucciones para matar un caballo, (Conaculta / FONCA, 2013) and La escritura de los animales distintos.  His work has been recognized with prestigious awards, such as the National Poetry Prize Enrique González Rojo 2008, the National Poetry Prize Ramón López Velarde 2011; the National Poetry Prize José Francisco Conde 2013 and the National Poetry Prize Enriqueta Ochoa 2014. He collaborates with several magazines in Mexico and has been invited to literature conferences in Cuba, Japan and Canada. His poems have been translated into English, Italian and French.

Nota fechada en 1990

: de niño tuve un perro / siniestro y por la noche / a la luz de la luna / cambiaba el color de su pelo. / Yo lo miraba con rencor / respirar en un sueño maligno. / De niño tuve un perro criado por vagabundos. / Le acerqué la comida una mañana / y aquella mañana de una dentellada / me dejó enterrado en la palma de la mano / un pequeño maxilar sucio y maloliente. / Pensaba en apedrearlo y apedrear a mi padre / que pagó por su paladar oscuro / —supuesta indicación de buena raza— / una noche de borrachos. / Tuve un perro a los 6 años. / Pensaba en él cuando llovía: / su pequeña casa de madera bajo el trueno. / Una noche mi padre lo llevó en su automóvil / lejos, donde su olfato se perdiera / con los mercados y la sombra, / pero esa noche continuó corriendo / tras de nosotros, y aún continúa / —¿Verdad, padre?— / corriendo y se cansa y vuelve a perder / estatura en la distancia / hasta desaparecer de nuevo.

Note dated in 1990

: as a child I had a dog / sinister and at nights / under the moonlight / his fur changed colors. / I looked at him with resentment / breathing in a mischievous sleep. / As a child I had a dog raised by homeless. / I approached his bowl one morning / and that morning with its sharp jaws / dug me in the palm of my hand / a small maxillary tooth dirty and smelly. / I thought about stoning him and my father as well / whom paid for his dark palate / —alleged indication of good breeding— / one drunken night. / When I was 6 I had a dog. / I thought of him when it rained: / his small wooden house under the clap of thunder. / One night my dad drove him on his car / far, where his sniffing could get lost / among the markets and shadows, / but that night he kept running / following us, and he’s still doing it / —right, father? — / running and getting tired and losing stature in the distance / till appearing again.

 Posted by at 10:01 am

Carlos Satizábal -Colombia-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Carlos Satizábal -Colombia-
Sep 082017

Poet, actor, theater director. Activist for peace. Associate Professor National University of Colombia. National Prize Unpublished Poetry with the Inclined Flame. Dramaturgy City of Bogotá Award with Ellas and La Muerte: Dream of three poets. Ibero-American Prize Dramatic Texts -CELCIT 40 years- with Essay on the eternal feminine return. Ibero-American Prize Think A Countercurrent with Fragility and remoteness. He works in Colombian Theater Corporation in the Alternative Festival and Women in the Scene for Peace Festival, and with Tramaluna Theater. He has published theater, poetry, chronicle, essay.

Los huyentes

Fair is foul and foul is fair.
William Shakespeare

Caerá sobre los ojos sin lágrimas la sal del olvido
y sobre los labios mudos del grito el barro de la locura.
Huiremos por los campos arrasados, sin flores ni duelo
a sepultar más hondo a nuestros muertos, con premura,
espantando a las bestias carroñeras del cielo
y a los perros hambrientos que devoran lo perdido
y aúllan a la luna los huesos desolados de sus amos.
Una lluvia de arena roja quemará nuestros oídos
y el viejo olor de la muerte ahogará las huellas que pisamos.
Ni el agua ni el viento ni la espuma de los venenos
ni el trueno de las bombas, podrán detenernos.
Lo bello es horrible y lo horrible es bello,
a través de la niebla, por el aire impuro vagaremos.
Haremos nuevos caminos sobre la selva que se puebla.
Habrá otro suelo y buenas semillas qué cultivar.
Otro azul será el cielo y una casa nueva habitaremos,
haremos arepas frescas y pan de maíz frente al mar
y beberemos en las mañanas el café recién colado.
Somos los huyentes que jamás se han ido. Los que nunca se van.

The Fleeing

Fair is foul and foul is fair.
William Shakespeare

The salt of oblivion will fall over tearless eyes
and the clay of madness over the outcry’s mute lips.
We will flee through the burnt fields, without flowers or sorrow
to bury our dead deeper, with haste,
frightening away the carrion beasts of the sky
and the hungry dogs that devour what is lost
and howl to their owners’ moon of desolate bones.
A rain of red sand will burn our ears
and the old stench of death will drown in the tracks we tread upon.
Neither water nor wind nor the venoms’ foam
nor the thunder of the bombs, could stop us.
Fair is foul and foul is fair,
Hover through the fog and filth air.
We will make new paths over the flooded jungle.
There will be other fields and good seeds to plant.
The sky will be another blue and we will live in a new house,
we will make hot arepas and corn bread next to the sea
and every morning we will drink freshly brewed coffee.
We are the fleeing ones that have never left. The ones that never leave.

Translated by Jennifer Rathbun

 Posted by at 6:14 pm

Elizabeth Lara -USA-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Elizabeth Lara -USA-
Sep 082017

Elizabeth Lara’s poems have appeared in numerous online and print journals, including The Mom Egg Review; Edna; Confluencia in the Valley: The First Five Years of Converging with Words; Truck; Ex Tempore; The Wide Shore: A Journal of Global Women’s Poetry; and Nasty Women Poets: An Unapologetic Anthology of Subversive Verse. In 2011 she was awarded a residency at the Millay Colony in Austerlitz, NY. She was a member of the Hot Poets Collective (New York, 2011-2012), and co-edited Happiness: The Delight-Tree – An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry (United Nations SRC Society of Writers, 2015 and 2017).


The child not yet born he sings to me
we are water / we are earth
his hands will scoop up the stars

I am far from my father’s house
yet I dream the taste of ripe berries
and salmon swimming upstream

In winter I give birth
wolf prowls the prairie
the world is wind / is white

In April we set out on the river
by August we have crossed
the mountains

West of Lemhi Pass
the Shoshone Chief
rides with his warriors

He is my brother Cameahwait
I cry out as he dismounts and says
You are alive / A fine son

This morning I made
new moccasins
and added beads to my dress

In my hair I placed
an eagle feather
a great bird soaring
on pillars of air


El niño aún no nacido me canta
Somos agua / somos tierra
sus manos atraparán las estrellas

Estoy lejos de la casa de mi padre
aun sueño con el sabor de las bayas maduras
y el salmón nadando corriente arriba

En el invierno doy a luz
los lobos merodean en la pradera
el mundo es viento / es blanco

En abril nos lanzamos en el río
en agosto cruzamos
las montañas

Al oeste del paso de Lemhi
el Jefe de los Shoshone
pasea en cabalgata con sus guerreros

Llorando le digo, Eres mi hermano, Cameahwait
el se desmonta, diciendo
Estás viva / Que hermoso, tu hijo

Esta mañana hice
nuevos mocasines
y adorné mi vestido con cuentas

En mi pelo coloqué
una pluma de águila
una gran ave planeando
sobre pilares de aire

 Posted by at 5:53 pm

Darrel Alejandro Holnes -Panama/USA-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Darrel Alejandro Holnes -Panama/USA-
Sep 082017

Darrel Alejandro Holnes is a poet and playwright. He is currently an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing and Dramatic Writing at the City University of New York’s Medgar Evers College and New York University’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study. He is the co-author of PRIME: Poetry & Conversations (Sibling Rivalry Press) and his poetry can be found in American Poetry Review, Poetry Magazine, Best American Experimental Writing, Callaloo, and elsewhere in print and online. He is the recipient of scholarships to Cave Canem, Canto Mundo, VCFA Postgraduate Writers Conference, and Bread Loaf Writers Conference. His poem “Praise Song for My Mutilated World” won the 2017 C.P. Cavafy Poetry Prize and he was a recent finalist for the Split This Rock! National Poetry Contest, the Gwendolyn Brooks Centennial Poetry Prize, the Discovery/Boston Review Poetry Prize, and the Pushcart Prize.


The difference between poetry and rhetoric
is being ready to kill
instead of your children
wrote Audre Lorde.
I say this now to the mothers who sent
their children north,
risking their babies’ lives
for a better living
than chasing paper or running
from lumberjacks
on the streets. The difference
between art and design
is being ready to die
for what you desire
others to achieve
through your work,
hours of your life gone forever
making a little, shiny, fragile thing,
I write to the mothers who send
their children north
never knowing if they’ll make it
but hoping that even if they don’t
their creations might mean more than just
the flesh and bone with which they’re made
because they moved, because they desired.
So many are quick to dismiss
desire as too general a word
or this language as too simple
to power the constant thrust
towards betterment we call life,
but poetry is sometimes made of such things,
words used so often we take them for granted
and forget their power is in how they unite
existence despite the distance of complex specificities
between any two living beings. In Spanish the word
for power is the same as the word for can,
one simple word banging the drum rhythm
children’s soles make against the earth,
po-der, po-der, po-der, the power of doing
in each disyllabic step of metric feet
moving us further and further
away from the word being just rhetoric,
into the structure of its design
where we find the power to turn suicide
into sacrifice, the power to turn beasts
into man, and man into martyr or miracle.
This is how we’re different, a desire path
stretching seventeen hundred miles
through an armed border wall, through electric
barbed-wire fence, a surge surmounting
all odds to rise across the northern plain;
knowing this too is poetry.

 Posted by at 5:31 pm

Silvia Siller -Mexico-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Silvia Siller -Mexico-
Sep 082017

Silvia Siller, Mexican poet, MA in international affairs at Columbia U., and cultural promoter. Her books have been recognized in the International Latino Book Award 2015 and 2016. She received the 2015 Gabriela Mistral, Julia Burgos and Frida Kahlo Award from the Galo Plaza group in New York, for her contribution to Latin American culture. The poems in this anthology are part of the exhibit Manorar by the works of Mexican designer Luciana Corres in the Textile Museum of Oaxaca, Mexico ( Siller has participated in International festivals such as the International Poetry Festival of Granada in Nicaragua 2015 and 2016, the International Fair of Guadalajara 2016 and is a distinguished visitor of the city of Santa Ana in El Salvador. She has her communications business registered as MujerPrisma for content creation, poetry and translations. (


Procuro las esquinas del aire
como brisa del retorno,
entre ires y venires,
como gesto que sacude los corpúsculos
de la genealogía.
El aire me recicla palabras:
como aspira la larva regenerarse
y exhalar vida en otros.

El aire exige conservar el nombre,
o renombrar el infinito,
amando cada instante de libertad

Las esquinas del aire
me dicen YO,
como se dice territorio.


I seek out the corners of the air
like a homecoming breeze,
amid comings and goings,
like a gesture rattling the cosmic debris
of bloodlines.
The air recycles words at me:
the way a larva yearns for regeneration
and breathe life out in others.

The air demands the name be kept
or the infinite renamed,
loving freedom’s every instant.

The corners of the air
say “I” to me,
the way we utter “territory.”

Translated by Walter Krochmal

 Posted by at 5:06 pm

Alex Lima -Ecuador-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Alex Lima -Ecuador-
Sep 082017

Alex Lima (Guayaquil, Ecuador) is the author of four poetry collections, Inverano (2008), Bilocaciones (2011), Alba (2015), and Híbrida cíclica (2017). His poems have also appeared in literary magazines and anthologies in the U.S. and abroad. He currently resides on Long Island where he teaches as Adjunct Professor of Spanish at Suffolk County Community College. His new book, Juan Bautista Aguirre: Conciencia lírica de la nación ecuatoriana, will be published this fall.


¿Por qué insistimos en regresar a Ítaca?
Por qué no regresar a Huancayo o a Gonzanamá
para volver a ser lo que siempre fuimos.
Acaso es imprescindible invocar a Penélope
con su cabello suelto al aire —imagen congelada
en secuencia tipo manga con banda sonora amenazante—
amago de semblanza petrarquista con su perfil sin rostro,
con su cuerpo ultra-cosificado.
Acaso los poetas de otras latitudes invocan a
Mama Ocllo o a Sensemayá, la culebra.
Lo dudo.
¿Por qué insistir en volver a una isla en la que
nunca estuvimos?
Regresemos acaso al lago, a la barra de oro,
a captar el sonido de una lágrima que cae
desde lo más alto del continente
y aterriza en onda expansiva como un do-sostenido de John
Coltrane que rompe el silencio de los siglos.


Why do we insist upon returning to Ithaca?
Why not go back instead to Huancayo or Gonzanamá
and become again who we always were.
Is it essential to invoke Penelope all the time
with her hair blowing in the wind— frozen image
in manga fashion with a menacing soundtrack
playing in the background. A failed attempt at
sketching a faceless Petrarchan profile,
with an ultra-objectified body. Is it possible that
poets from other parts of the world invoke
Mama Ocllo or Sensemayá, the snake.
I doubt it.
Why do we insist on returning to an island
we never set foot on.
We’d better return to the lake, to the gold bar,
to capture the sound of a teardrop free-falling
from the highest point in the continent
and lands, making shock waves, like a John Coltrane
C sharp that breaks centuries of silence.

 Posted by at 4:36 pm

Juan Matos -Dominican Rep.-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Juan Matos -Dominican Rep.-
Sep 082017

Juan Matos (1955); Dominican educator residing in Worcester, MA, USA. Author of Crecer (1989); Amor de noche y mar (1996); De las parras (1997); De mi desidia (1991); Con pecado concebido (2001); Temblor de espejos (2011); Azúcar, cayo y puerto (2003) and Del milagro de la espera (2005). Founding member of the following literary groups and workshops:  Word; Cultural Expression (PEC) in NYC; The Hostos Cultural Group in Worcester, MA; The Pedro Mir Writers’ Workshop in Lawrence, MA. His works have been featured in numerous anthologies and literary reviews. Currently he teaches Advanced Placement Spanish Literature and Culture classes at North High School Worcester, MA, and is a member of the Dominican Cultural House of Worcester.


No te quiero poeta. Te quiero de carne y hueso. Cerca. Así, a secas. No te quiero poeta. Te quiero sin palabras. Ellas surcan las sienes de mis sueños para encender mis mares. No las quiero. Quiero en cambio tu carne. Sudarte. Entiéndelo, poeta. Sonetos surcan la piel de las esperas. Versos me velan. Coplas por copa de tu vino diera en esta hora ciega. De tus estrofas mi vida brota, mordida al ritmo de tu cintura y un vendaval preñado de mis urgencias arremete tu rima insalvable, a no ser por las concavidades que sólo se repiten entretejiendo piernas.

Anda, pirata de palabras… metaforiza, diseccióname, desentierra tesoros deliberadamente geografiados en lenguas de fuego desde mis ojos, cada vez que te desnudo, sin que tú lo presientas… Retruécate en mi cuello, repítete, que no hay academia ni academistas oteando el elixir de tu ortografía cavernaria. En cambio, papiro, piedra, arena de mil senderos soy para la eternidad del poema que has de escribir en mí. No mañana. No más tarde. Ahora mismo y aquí. ¡En medio del camino!


I don’t want you poet. I want you flesh and bone. Nearby. That’s it, straight out. I don’t want you poet. I want you without words. They harrow the temples of my dreams to ignite my seas. I don’t want them. What I do want is your flesh. To sweat you. Understand it, poet. Sonnets plow the skin of waiting. Verses watch me. I would give up stanza after stanza of your wine at this blind hor. My life is bursting with your strophes, bitten to the rhythm of your waist, and a storm pregnant with my urgencies would strike out against your insuperable rhyme, were it not for the concavities repeated only by the intertwining of legs.

Go on, word-pirate… metaphorize, dissect me, disinter treasures deliberately geographized with tongues of fire from my eyes, each time I undress you without your knowledge…pun yourself on my throat, repeat yourself, since there’s no academy or academists sniffing at the elixir of your caveman handwriting. On the other hand, I am papyrus, stone, sand from a thousand roads, for the eternal life of the poem that you are to write on me. Not tomorrow. Not later. Right now, right here. In the middle of the road!

Translated by Rhina P. Espaillat.

 Posted by at 4:04 pm

Kamikaze Kristo -Puerto Rico-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Kamikaze Kristo -Puerto Rico-
Sep 082017

Kamikaze Kristo was born in Bayamón, Puerto Rico. She studied at the Interamerican University of Puerto Rico, Metropolitan Campus, where she studied Popular Music. She began to write poetry at an early age. At 22 she left her hometown and moved to New York City, where she currently resides. Dicotomía is her first project, infused with eight years of hidden transparency.


Dividida en dos
como ola buscando
romper en la orilla
curiosa de ser
lo que el miedo siempre ató.

Hoy estoy aquí
aguja e hilo
cosiendo mi piel
dolorosos recuerdos
dulce eternidad.

narcisismo floreciendo
en un invierno negro.


Divided in two
like a wave
crashing on the shore
curious to be
what fear holds.

Today I am here
needle and thread
stitching my skin
sorrowful reminiscence
of a sweet eternity.

blooming narcissism
in a black winter.

 Posted by at 12:41 pm

Juan Nicolás Tineo -Dominican Republic-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Juan Nicolás Tineo -Dominican Republic-
Sep 082017

Juan Nicolás Tineo (Dominican Republic, 1965). He lives in New York City since 1992. He writes poetry, novel, short stories and essays. He also teaches Spanish in New York Public City School System. He is Co-founder of the Hispanic / Latino Cultural Center in New York a Non-for-Profit organization that promote Hispanic/Latino Culture through literature; also since 2007, organizes the Book Fair that carries the same name of the organization. In addition to his publications in anthologies and magazines, also he has published, The Three-Legged Cat and Other Stories/ El Gato de tres patas y otros cuentos (2017). Atrapado en la noche (poema/rio); El libro de Cuentos Temporario; los poemarios Pinitos y Versos en cautiverio; and the novel Perros Sueltos.


¿Duermes, son sordos tus oídos?
cuando por horas mi boca se abre
catapultando tiernas palabras
a sabiendas, que con nada
entaponas tus oídos,
no tu alma.

Si en silencio, duermes Galatea
Mientras, mi voz trascienda tu sordera,
Tu cuerpo sirva para hacerme vivo,
erigir en esos momentos
monumentos a los caídos,
levantar banderas que ya no quedan,
seguir el camino, motora
a que me llevas,
no me importa.

Si en tu lecho, y en pocas horas
me deshaces cuando te erizas camino al cielo
Y tus manos hablan
Desgarrándome como rapiña
tu sordera no me importa, si asiéndote
entierras profundamente tus garras
a cenizas
a polvo
a nada.

Are you sleeping, is it that you are dead of hearing?
when for long hours my mouth opens
catapulting tender words
knowingly that with nothing
you plug your ears,
not your soul.

If in silence, you sleep Galatea
while my voice transcends your deafness,
let your body make me come alive,
in those moments
erect monuments to the fallen ones,
run up flags that are no longer there,
follow the path, motorboat
where you take me,
I do not care.

If on your bed, and in a few hours
you melt me when you bristle on your way to heaven
and your hands speak
tearing me like a predator
your deafness does not matter to me, if grasping
you thrust deeply your claws
fading you
to ashes
to dust
to nothing.
Translated by Karla Coreas

 Posted by at 11:55 am

Marisa Daniela Russo -Argentina-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Marisa Daniela Russo -Argentina-
Sep 082017

Marisa Daniela Russo (Argentina). Ph.D. candidate La Salle University, Costa Rica. M.A. and B.A. in Spanish and Latin American Literature, Hunter College, City University of New York. Adjunct Lecturer at the Department of Romance Languages, Hunter College (CUNY). Spanish Language and Literature Teacher NYC DOE. Founder and Cultural Affairs Manager of Turrialba Literaria, Costa Rica. She has organized the first and second Encounters Turrialba Literaria: Festival Tomados por el Arte in Costa Rica. Facilitator of creative writing workshops. Assistant Director of the V Festival Latinoamericano de Poesía Ciudad de Nueva York and Poetry Reading Coordinator of Latino Poets of New York. Member of the curator team and facilitator of literary learning tools of the Trilogy Voces de América Latina. Cultural Affairs Manager of the I Summit of Voces de América Latina, Costa Rica, 2017.


Todas las bancas de este parque
Están ocupadas por tu banda
Una guitarra acústica que desespera cada tarde
Unas congas y bongós que desafinas religiosamente
Un cajón peruano que no entiende que pitos toca

Un bombo legüero que añora su patria
Un teclado que sueña que lo acaricies
Una zampoña colgada de penas
Una flauta de pan que te besa más que yo

Las bancas de este parque
reclaman tu nombre.
La que encuentro vacía
Me cuelga un cartelito que dice:
Mientras tu quena traza fronteras,
el charango se instala.
Yo emigro a otro parque
con mi bandoneón.


All the benches in this park
are taken by your band
An acoustic guitar that despairs every afternoon
Some congas and bongos religiously out of tune by you
A Peruvian drum box that doesn’t understand his destiny

An Argentine bass drum that yearns leagues for his homeland
A keyboard that dreams of being caressed
A zampoña hanging from sorrows
A pan flute that kisses you more than I

The benches of this park
claim your name.
The one I found empty
swiftly hangs an ‘Occupied’ sign.
While your quena draws borders,
the Charango settles in.
I migrate to another park
with my Bandoneon.

 Posted by at 11:30 am

María Farazdel (Palitachi) -Dominican Rep.-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on María Farazdel (Palitachi) -Dominican Rep.-
Sep 082017

María Farazdel (Palitachi). Dominican Republic. Award Winning Author. Poet and editor (BA) from Hunter College, CUNY. (MA). Fordham University. (PD) Long Island University (CWP). She is the author of the books: My Little Paradise; Amongst Voice and Spaces, Bodies and Cities, Las horas de aquel paisaje, Eleven Spotlight, Infraganti and The Trilogy: Voces de America Latina (I-III). Member of the Pen Club of America, AIPHE in Miami and the Dominican Poets USA. Some of her work appears in more than 22 anthologies.


Aquí estoy perdida en la mitad de Roma
colada sin uno de tus besos clandestinos
para romper la monotonía

Hay una fiesta esparcida en la distancia
aunque nadie baile o escuche su melodía
aparezco cada vez que me piensas
en la esponja de amantes platónicos
donde ayer extrañé no extrañarte

Del espejo tu nombre y el mío cuelgan
detrás de cada estrella tu mirada envuelve
las esferas se aceleran donde nos negamos
solo para ser

Cuando se rinda el día de hoy
iré por ti
desde la otra mitad de Roma

Here I am lost at the opposite side of Rome
Crashing without one of your clandestine kisses
In order to break the dreariness

There’s a party scattered in the distance
Even though no one dances or listens to its melody
I show up every time you think of me
In the sponge of Platonic lovers
Where I missed yesterday not to have missed you

Your name and mine are hanging from the mirror
Behind each star your gaze swathes
The spheres speed up
Where we refuse to just be

When the day is finally over
I’ll go and fetch you
From the other half of Rome.

 Posted by at 11:14 am

Karla Coreas -El Salvador-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Karla Coreas -El Salvador-
Sep 082017

Karla Coreas (El Salvador, 1972) Poet, photographer, translator, cultural promoter.  Coreas is the author of Tarde en Manhattan (2008 and 2012), Como dos perfectos extraños (2014) Péndulo (unpublished) and the translations of Milagro/Las Horas by Israeli poet, Amir Or and Performance para mí mismo by  Czech poet, Martin Zet. She has been published in anthologies, magazines and newspapers in the United States and abroad. She is often participating at important international poetry festivals. She is the Director for Urpi Editores in New York; and the Director for the Festival Latinoamericano de Poesía Ciudad de Nueva York. Her poetry has been translated into English, Portuguese, Italian and Hebrew.

En las noches de marzo

a media noche
donde la tristeza muestra su asfixia
y el poema oculta su jadeo
recuerdo el garfio de tus ojos
y la orfandad de sus mentiras
el sabor de las cartas
mezclada con el abrazo de promesas
en esas noches de marzo
te llamo en silencio
con la dulzura de un sarcófago
y la amabilidad de una muerta.

In the Nights of March
at midnight
where sadness shows its suffocation
and the poem hides its gasp
I remember your capturing eyes
and the emptiness of its lies
the delight of love letters
mixed with the embrace of promises
in those nights of March
I call you in silence
with the sweetness of a sarcophagus
and the friendliness of a dead woman.

 Posted by at 10:59 am

Elsa Batista Pimentel -Dominican Rep.-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Elsa Batista Pimentel -Dominican Rep.-
Sep 082017

Elsa Batista Pimentel, San José de Ocoa RD. She earned an Associate Degree in information and systems at Passaic County Community College and a Bachelor’s Degree in psychology at Kaplan University. She has published four books: Port of Desire (2004); Ashes of Absences (2007); Lasitud del Vuelo (2011) and Always Hate the Cats, (2014). She has also participated in the poetry anthologies Night of Wines and Roses; Nostalgias of Arenas and A viva Bosch, Hundred poets sing Juan Bosh and the anthology of short stories The hand in the word her poems have also been published by the magazine Trama, organ of the ministry of culture in the United States and by Trazarte Huellas creativas. One of her poems was musicalized for the CD From poem to song produced by the Center for the Development of Dominican Women in NY.

Balada para cualquier final

En alas de mariposas mutiladas
la ciudad bate sus miedos
recostada en su cansancio
un final danza en los
en los rincones hay absurdos
desempolvando viejos pudores
esquirlas de ausencias
hieren el mutismo de la noche
en la espalda del tiempo se desliza
húmeda la memoria
salvando los momentos
solo un Ángel  subsiste
colgado del silencio

Ballad for Any Final

On wings of mutilated butterflies
the city beats its fears
lying in his tiredness
a final dance in the
in the corners there are absurdities
dusting old puddles
shrapnel of absences
hurt the silence of the night
in the back of time slips
moisten the memory
saving moments
only one angel subsists
hanging from silence

 Posted by at 10:45 am

Lizette Espinosa -Cuba-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Lizette Espinosa -Cuba-
Sep 082017

Lizette Espinosa is a cuban poet born in Havana, (1969). She has four published poetry books: Pas de Deux (co-author) (Miami, 2012), winner of the International Latino Book Awards 2014 in the category of poetry written by several authors; Donde se quiebra la luz (Miami, 2015); Rituales (Co-author), (Miami, 2016) and Por la ruta del agua (Ecuador, 2017). She has been invited to participate in International Poetry Festivals; her work has been included in anthologies of Latin American poetry and literary magazines of the United States, Spain, Ecuador, Honduras and Cuba. Her professional life is dedicated to the field of technical design. She currently resides in Miami, Florida.

La isla

Mi padre flotaba sobre el mar
como una isla
para que yo saltara encima
de su tierra y avistara el futuro.

La orilla a dos brazadas
nos mostraba sus dientes
de roca atardecida.

El agua sostenía nuestras vidas
el peso inmensurable de los sueños
como a dos cargas frágiles
que un barco abandonara.

 Posted by at 10:23 am

Elizabeth Balaguer -Domincan Rep.-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Elizabeth Balaguer -Domincan Rep.-
Sep 082017

Elizabeth Balaguer: born April 10, in the city of Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic; the stories she was told as a child have been her source of inspiration for creating fairy tales, where anything can happen. She graduated has a BFA in Graphic Design from the State University of New York the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) and a MFA in Spanish Language and Literature at The City College of New York (CUNY). She had published: Trucando; Mi carnaval / My Carnival; El Cuco / The Boogeyman; El secreto de sonreir / The Secret of Smiling; Yo no estoy perdido; Vamos a buscarla; Mi oruga no quiere comer / My Caterpillar doesn’t want to eat; La Gallina de la abuela Catalina / Grandmother Catalina’s Hen.

Soy como soy

No trates de cambiar
Mi tempestad         huracán
Marea alta
Puedo convertirme en agua evanescente


Soy como soy
nuevos horizontes

Soy como soy

I am as I am

Do no try to change
My storm         hurricane
High tide
I can become evanescent water


I am as I am
New horizons

I am as I am

 Posted by at 10:00 am

Luis Fernando Macías -Colombia-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Luis Fernando Macías -Colombia-
Sep 072017

Luis Fernando Macías is a professor in the Department of Literature at the Universidad de Antioquia, Medellín. He is currently the editorial director of the Palabras Rodantes series of the Metro de Medellín and COMFAMA. He has published forty books of prose, poetry and literary criticism, most recently the bilingual volume Todas las palabras reunidas consiguen el silencio / All the words together attain the silence (New York, 2017). As a literary critic, Macías is one of the top specialists on the work of León de Greiff. His academic and creative work has earned him numerous awards and accolades.

El río

¿A quién engañas Heráclito?
El río es el mismo
el único

Has ido tantas veces
y siempre has dicho que el río
en su fluir deviene
es otro cada vez

Y el pobre Borges
inocente y asombrado
en el espejo de sus aguas
ve a otro Borges cada vez

y repite de nuevo
crédulo como un poeta puro
tu sentencia falaz

Pero el río es uno solo
uno solo es el jardín y
la cosa es una misma cosa

The river
Who are you trying to fool, Heraclitus?
The river is the same
the one and only

You have gone so many times
and you have always said that the river
evolves as it flows away
it is different every time

And poor Borges
innocent and amazed
in the mirror of its waters
sees another Borges every time

and again repeats
gullible as a pure poet
your fallacious sentence

But the river is one only
one only is the garden and
the thing is one and the same thing

Translated by Valentina Macías

 Posted by at 8:18 pm

Manuel Adrián López -Cuba-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Manuel Adrián López -Cuba-
Sep 072017

Manuel Adrián López was born in Morón, Cuba in 1969. He is a bilingual poet and writer. His work has been published in various literary journals and anthologies in Spain, United States and Latin America. His published books are: Yo, el arquero aquel (Editorial Velámenes, 2011), Room at the Top (Eriginal Books, 2013), Los poetas nunca pecan demasiado (Editorial Betania, 2013. Awarded Gold Medal by Florida Book Awards in 2013), El barro se subleva (Ediciones Baquiana, 2014) and Temporada para suicidios (Eriginal Books, 2015), Muestrario de un vidente (Proyecto Editorial La Chifurnia, 2016), Fragmentos de un deceso/El revés en el espejo, book in conjunction with Ecuadorian poet David Sánchez Santillán for the collection Dos Alas (El Ángel Editor, 2017), El arte de perder/The Art of Losing (Eriginal Books, 2017) and El hombre incompleto (Editorial Dos Orillas, 2017).

Escribo en la oscuridad
sin los malditos espejuelos.
Intercalando palabras
hurgando en la memoria
como obras de arte
en el muro de mis lamentos.
Invade el cosquilleo
una culebra se desliza
por el interior de mis piernas
¿será que me están quemando?
en papeles donde mi nombre
se repite
se repite
se repite
para luego tacharlo.
no porque sea más fuerte
no porque tenga desbordados
los bolsillos de razón.
No soy héroe
ni tan siquiera soy patriota.
Si fuera capaz
de adelantar el almanaque
cambiar mi nombre
quedarme sin ninguno
estaría más cerca del nirvana.

I write in the dark
without these damn glasses
inserting words
rummaging through my memory
like art pieces
on my wailing wall.
A tickling sensation invades
a snake slithers up
between my legs.
Could it be that I am being burned?
in papers where my name
repeats itself
over and over
crossing it out afterwards.
I survive
not because I am stronger
not because my pockets are
full of reason.
I am not a hero
I am not even a patriot.
If I could
advance the calendar
change my name
or remain without one
I would be much closer
to Nirvana.

 Posted by at 7:41 pm

Edgar Smith -Dominican Republic-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Edgar Smith -Dominican Republic-
Sep 072017

Edgar Smith, Dominican Republic. Poet, writer, editor and translator; studied Marketing at The Autonomous University of Santo Domingo. He is currently CEO of Books&Smith, a publishing house based in New York. He has published the following books: El palabrador (Short stories, Spanish, 2013), Algunas tiernas imprecisiones (Poetry, Spanish, 2013), Island Boy (Poetry, Spanish, 2014), La inmortalidad del Cangrejo (Novel, Spanish, 2015), Cuentos raros (Short stories, Spanish, 2016), Randomly, A Poem (Poetry, English, 2016), Versenal (Poetry, Spanish, 2016), The Wordsmith (Short stories, English, 2017) and Gnuj & Alt (Novel, English, 2017).

By the Jujube tree

To all the victims of drowning and their families in Bangladesh

Sumaiya smiles no more.
Splash splash splash is the sound no one heard.
Memory’s great flaw is its infatuation with oblivion.
In a house where photos can’t be afforded,
a little girl’s smile can fade too fast.
The puddle was a dirty eye on the muddy ground.
The fruits she’d picked lay scattered right
at the foot of the Jujube tree.
Silence lay there, too, terrified of the mother’s cry
and the father’s rage,
at all those gods too busy for the innocent.
Sumaiya smiles no more;
her tiny fingers lost all motion in a fistful of mud.
Splash splash splash is the sound no one heard…
Splash splash splash
and another little girl was gone.

A los pies del azufaifo
A las víctimas de ahogamiento y sus familiars en Bangladesh

Sumaiya no sonríe ya.
Splash splash splash es el sonido que nadie oyó.
La gran mácula de la memoria es su enamoramiento con el olvido.
En una casa donde no hay ni para una foto, no perdurará la sonrisa de una niña.
El charco era un ojo sucio en el fango.
Los frutos que recogió quedaron regados al pie del azufaifo.
También allí, el silencio, temeroso del grito inconsolable de la madre y la ira del padre,
reclamando a los dioses, quienes yacen demasiado ocupados para velar por los inocentes.
Sumaiya no sonríe ya;
sus deditos perdieron el movimiento en un puñado
de lodo…
Splash splash splash es el sonido que nadie oyó
Splash splash splash
y otro niño más se ahogó.

 Posted by at 1:39 pm

Maureen H. Altman -Perú/USA-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Maureen H. Altman -Perú/USA-
Sep 072017

Maureen H. Altman is an artist, poet, writer and educator. She was invited to be part of different anthologies, book fairs and poetry festivals in the USA and Latin America. In New York, she published Encuentro, amor, vida, tiempo/ Meeting, love, life, time (2014) and Matices / Nuances (2017). Her book La Mitad y su Onda, pensamiento científico/The Middle Point and its Wave, scientific thought, will be released by La Ovejita Books in the fall of 2017. Altman was born in USA and grew up in Peru. She studied at The National School of Fine Arts in Lima, Peru and obtained her Bachelor Degree in Fine Arts at Pratt Institute, New York. Additionally, she graduated from Touro College, New York, with a Master of Science in Education and Special Education.


En un elevador de Manhattan
se agudizan sentidos,
y un pensamiento
entona el vértigo
piso 31.

No encuentro
las voces conocidas,
se figuran los sentimientos…
Se dice que los encuentros
tras el verano,

La transparencia vertical
en los planos horizontales
me elevan de pronto.
Mi destino
está pisando la veracidad
de un botón.

Me parece
que me abraza por la cintura,
la altura de un movimiento
que queda en la intención…
No hay nadie detrás o al lado,
estoy en lo alto de todo.
Aseguro el botón de salida
en un escalón piso finito,
y me quedo con las ideas
abriendo niveles,
tomo en serio el moverme.

Será ahora
que comenzaré a fluir
desde lo alto de esta plataforma,
y a volar hacia abajo
y a todos mis lados…

Los versos puntuales danzarán
desde todos mis pisos,
como en espiral o en carrusel,
como se mueve el aire,
la mente y un adiós.

Estoy parada en el piso 1ro,
mis alas crecieron…
Otra vez,
a empezar.


Inside an elevator
in Manhattan,
senses sharpen,
and a thought
intone a vertigo
floor #31.

I can not find
the known voices,
feelings are figuring out…
It is said that reunions
after the summer,

The vertical transparency
on the horizontal planes
suddenly raise me up.
My destiny is stepping
the truth of a lift button.

It seems
that a movement’s height
standing in its intention,
hugs me by the waist…
There is no one behind
or by my side,
I am at the top of everything.
The lift button is secured
on a finite floor step.
I stay within ideas
opening levels,
while I seriously consider

It will be now
that I start to flow,
from the highest of this platform,
to my sides,
all flying down…

The punctual verses
will dance
from all of my floors,
like an spiral or a carrousel,
like the air, the mind,
or a goodbye moves.

I am standing on floor #1,
my wings are grown…
Once more,
I will start

 Posted by at 1:13 pm

Christos Tsiamis -Greece-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Christos Tsiamis -Greece-
Sep 072017

Christos Tsiamis was born and raised in Patras, Greece. He studied at City College and Columbia University in New York. He published the poetry collections Polytropo (Patras, 1979), Garden with Roots in the Moon (Athens, 1996), The Automobile of Love (Athens, 2000), A Long Walk in Patras (Athens, 2007), Little Hero (Athens, 2015), erotic heroic (Athens 2016) and the book of poetry and prose Magical Manhattan(Athens, 2013), short-listed for the 2014 book-critics award “Anagnostis”. His poems, translations, essays appear in Greece’s major literary magazines. He is founding member of the Circle of Poets of Greece. He lives in New York.

Το Πεναλτυ

Στέκεται μοναχός κάτω από τα δοκάρια.
Δεν αντικρίζει τον εκτελεστή ή την μπάλα.
Απέναντί του είναι μια άβυσσος από μάτια.

Η σφυρίχτρα σκίζει στα δυο το στερέωμα, πέφτει νύχτα
στη μεριά του. Aυτός στον αέρα με φτερά πληγωμένα.
Και η μεριά που πάλλεται από το τράνταγμα στα δίχτυα.

Μπράβο στον που έβαλε το γκολ, η Ιστορία θα τον τιμήσει.
Η μνήμη μας, όμως, θα κρατήσει το σώμα εκείνο σε πτήση,
ηρωικά δοσμένο στη στιγμή, ακόμα και με λάθος την κρίση.

The Penalty Kick

He stands alone under the goal posts.
He does not look at the kicker or at the ball.
There is an abyss of eyes across from him.

The whistle tears the firmament in two; night falls
on his side.  He is in mid-air with wounded wings.
The other side reverberates as the net shakes.

Bravo to him who scored, History will bestow him with honors.
In our memory, though, we will keep the body that went airborne,
a heroic offering to that moment, even if it had judged wrong.

 Posted by at 11:48 am

Michelle Yasmine Valladares –India/USA–

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Michelle Yasmine Valladares –India/USA–
Sep 072017

Immigrant poet and filmmaker, Michelle Yasmine Valladares is the author of Nortada, The North Wind.  Her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  Publications include Aster(ix), Upstreet and Clockhouse, the anthologies, Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia & Beyond, and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry by Indians.  She co-produced the films, O Sertão das Memórias, directed by José Araújo, which won Best Latin American Film in the Sundance Festival and El Diablo Nunca Duerme directed by Lourdes Portillo which won IDA Best Producer award.  She is the Director of the MFA Program in Creative Writing at The City College of New York.

The first time I think about Death

Kuwait.  Nine years old.
The afternoon is hot and my flip flops smack
against the pavement, suck the tar road
as we walk single file to the Gulf,
Beach towels tied around our waists.
When we reach the stone pier
my father throws an inner tube out to sea,
tethers the rope around a boulder.
He dives and his thin arms enter the water
with a silent swoosh.  He disappears
under white ripples and dark blue.
My brother and I scramble backwards
down the rocks. Jump in.
The sun bakes us a darker brown.
Salt forms white silt on skin.
Oil tankers line the horizon.
            How far will my father swim out before he turns back?
We pull against the tide,
like sea otters we dip and dive,
catch my father’s back for a ride.

That night in the upper bunk,
I imagine I am dead.
No mother.
No father.
No brother.
I squeeze my eyes until the black hurts.
Dead.      Dead.       Dead.

My mind turns the puzzle around –
Where do I go after Earth?
Does a world exist – if I’m not in it?

 Posted by at 11:20 am

Carolina Zamudio -Argentina-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Carolina Zamudio -Argentina-
Sep 072017

Curuzú Cuatiá, Argentina, 1973. Poet and essayist. Master in Communication and Public Affairs. Journalist. Member of the Editorial Board at Literariedad Magazine, Colombia. She published Seguir al viento (Argentina); La oscuridad de lo que brilla/The Darkness of What Shines Spanish/English, (United States), Rituels du hazard/Rituales del azar, Spanish/French (France), and the plaquettes Teoría sobre la belleza and Las certezas son del sol, (Argentina). As an anthologist, she assembled the poetic work of Luis Fernando Macías, under the tittle Todas las palabras reunidas consiguen el silencio/All The Words Together Attain The Silence (United States). She lived in the United Arab Emirates, Switzerland, Colombia and Uruguay.

Letanía del regreso

Aquí vive un sauce llorón
que ha inventado un río
el jardín quiere renacer
a las seis de la tarde
cuando los nuevos habitantes
pisan la casa vacía.

Aquí abunda el abrigo de un vergel
rosas, madreselvas y un tero
que inaugura en paso y duda
nuevo comienzo.
Partido en tres colores
vibrante late el cielo
aroma de abuelos evoca el jazmín
estoicas las tunas rompen
la perfección del agua.

Aquí el mundo es perfecto
tiene la dulzura curva
de las pestañas de una niña
la enredadera ya no vive
enamorada del muro
la quietud el silencio
bailan melodía antigua
las almas temblorosas
de las plantas secas
caricias del agua la huerta
otras manos sueñan y esperan.

Aquí algo es tenue y corre
marejada y redil
es de tarde lo saben
los relojes las ramas
los recién llegados salen
renacidos podría decirse
en ronda a celebrar
la caída del día
van camino de la corriente
ellos mismos son el río.

Litany of Return

Here lives a weeping willow
that has invented a river
the garden wants to be reborn
at six o’clock in the afternoon
when the new inhabitants
tread the empty house.

Here teems the shelter of a garden
roses, honeysuckles and a southern lapwing
that inaugurates in step and doubt
a new beginning.
Broken in three colors
vibrantly the sky pulses
the jasmine evokes the aroma of grandparents
stoical the cacti break
the perfection of the water.

Here the world is perfect
has the curved sweetness
of a girl’s eyelashes
the vine no longer lives
in love with the wall
the quietness the silence
dance an old melody
the trembling souls
of dry plants
caress of water the orchard
other hands dream and hope.

Here something is tenuous and runs
rough tides and corral
it is in the afternoon they know
the watches the branches
the newcomers come out
reborn it could be said
in a circle dance to celebrate
the fall of the day
they go towards the current
they are themselves the river.

Translated by Al-Shar Zalligan

 Posted by at 10:56 am

Nelson López Rojas -El Salvador-

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Sep 072017

Nelson was born in San Salvador, but now resides in Milwaukee, Wisconsin where he is a professor of Latin American studies at UWM and an active participant in Ex Fabula. He has a doctoral degree in translation from Binghamton University, and translated the complete version of Cuentos de barro by Salarrué, which has received praise by the L.A. Times. Other Translations include Brazilian Machado de Assis, Florencio Valey, and Roque Dalton’s Poem of Love. His last poetry collections, Juegos de la memoria/Mindgames and H2O: Aguacero – Downpour – Carga d’água – Acquazzone have been well-received. To maintain his sanity (and health), Nelson teaches indoor cycling classes, and enjoys long distance cycling, gardening and going to the Walker Square Farmer’s Markets.

Paper or plastic?

El olor a café recién exprimido pasa y queda
Mientras hago fila en el supermercado.

“¡Pero cuánto extranjero!”
–me dije sorprendido

“Have a nice day!”
–me dijo la cajera con intensa sinceridad

Veo a mi alrededor y exclamo en mi cabeza
“¡Pero cuánta rubia!”

Y la sombra de algún peregrino
Me hizo recapacitar
Y a la mitad de la fila
Me doy cuenta en silencio,
–en absoluto silencio–
que el extranjero soy yo.

Paper or plastic?

The smell of just pressed coffee goes by and stays
While I am in line at the supermarket.

“So many foreigners!”
–I tell myself surprisingly

“Have a nice day!”
–the cashier told me with intense sincerity

I look around and in my head I exclaim
“So many blondes!”

And the shadow of some traveler
Makes me reconsider
And at the middle of the line
I realize in silence,
–in absolute silence –
that the foreigner is me.

 Posted by at 10:34 am

Antonio D. Espejo -Venezuela-

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Sep 072017

Antonio D. Espejo (1974). Venezuelan journalist graduated from the Central University of Venezuela (UCV). He has been a reporter for cultural, city and political sources in some of the most important newspapers in Venezuela such as El Mundo, El Nuevo País and Últimas Noticias, as well as Radio Anchor for KYS FM 101.5 in Caracas with his own radio shows 180 Grados y Las Coordenadas de un País. One of his non-fiction stories “Pensión La Soledad” was published in the most complete anthology of the genre published in Venezuela in 2014 in the book 70 years of Chronicles in Venezuela. Since 2016 he is the Editor of his own platform to tell stories of nonfiction and poetry at whose slogan is “Se hace camino al contar” (The way is made telling). He defines himself as a Radio’s Animal, Haunter and Storyteller. Since 2014 he pursues clouds in New York to paint them with poetry and chronicles.

La encrucijada de tu posibilidad

Mi posibilidad está a la vuelta de tu encrucijada. Si cruzo a la derecha de tu prejuicio, me evades.
Si cruzo a la izquierda de tu mirada, gozas.
Si sigo derecho hacia tu instinto, se prende el Stop. Mi posibilidad frente a tu vértigo, me tienta.

Mi posibilidad frente a tu mirada, me traiciona.
Mi posibilidad, esa vaga ilusión para llegar a ti.
Es el cruce a la derecha de tu sexto sentido.
Es el cruce a la izquierda de tu insinuación, el Stop inesperado a mi pulsión. Pero tu encrucijada también insinúa mi posibilidad.
El cruce a tu derecha, el cruce a tu izquierda. Un latido permanente.
O ese Stop, STOP, en el inesperado frenazo de tu luz de emergencia cuando quiero avanzar de largo a ti.

The crossroads of your possibility

My possibility is just around to your crossroads.
If I cross to the right of your prejudice, you evading me. If I cross to the left of your eyes, you enjoy.
If I go straight to your instinct, you turn on stop.

My possibility in front of your vertigo, tempting me. My possibility in front of your glance, betrays me. My possibility: The fugitive illusion to reach you.
It is the crossing to the right of your sixth sense.

It is the crossing to the left of your suggestion, the unexpected stop to my pulsion. But your crossroads also insinuated my possibility.
The crossing to your right, The crossing to your left.
The permanent heartbeat.

Or the unexpected slowdown in your emergency light when I want to move towards you.

 Posted by at 10:16 am

Pedro Larrea -Spain-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Pedro Larrea -Spain-
Sep 072017

Pedro Larrea (b. 1981, Madrid, Spain) is the author of three books of poems: La orilla libre (The Free Shore, Madrid: Ártese quien pueda, 2013); La tribu y la llama (The Tribe and the Flame, Madrid: Amargord, 2015); and Manuscrito del hechicero (The Wizard’s Manuscript, Granada: Valparaíso, 2016). He has published poems in, among others, Revista de Occidente. As an essayist, he has published the study Federico García Lorca en Buenos Aires (Federico Garcia Lorca in Buenos Aires, Sevilla: Renacimiento, 2015). Larrea graduated in literary theory and comparative literature from the Complutense University of Madrid and received his M.A. and Ph.D. in Hispanic literature from the University of Virginia. Currently he teaches at Lynchburg College in Virginia.


Soy más viejo que mi cuerpo
como el cedro es más viejo que sus hojas actuales.
Hiberno como el cedro, y despierto cuando la batuta de las horas
golpea el atril del espacio. Por mí han pasado corcheas
como por el cedro macillos de colibríes.
Soy el que fui con la corteza de lo que seré sin estrenar.

Soy más joven que mi espíritu.
Mi casa es un cráter que creó una roca extraterrestre
antes del invierno nuclear y de la primera glaciación.
No comprendo que ninguna pirámide sea más antigua que el más joven de mis olivos,
ni entiendo la trompeta frigia y el arpa persa que a veces toco por intuición.
Me confunde ser testigo del nacimiento de una galaxia.

Cómo puedo ser viejo cuando soy joven y joven cuando soy viejo.
Cómo puede no existir una edad única que me dé sentido,
que justifique mi presencia en el pasado y el presente
y que imponga paz al bramido bélico del estar siendo y del ser estando.
Cuándo poseeré un rostro definitivo para todos los espejos.
Cuándo podré decir este soy yo sin equivocarme demasiado.

Soy joven pero conozco los secretos de la cartografía.
Soy viejo pero tengo agilidad para boxear contra mí mismo.
Soy lo que falta antes de ser y lo que queda después de estar.
A quién odiaré más que al palimpsesto de mi carne.
A quién tendré por cómplice en el soborno de mi espíritu.
A quién daré los labios de quien me habita sucesivamente en soledad.


I am older than my body,
like the cedar is older than any of its current leaves.
I hibernate like the cedar, and I wake when the baton of the hours
strikes the music-stand of space. Through me have passed quaverings
as, through the cedar, the little hammerings of hummingbirds.
I am what-I-was, with the bark of what-I-will-be, without trying it on.

I am younger than my spirit.
My house is a crater created by a rock not of this world
before nuclear winter and the first glaciation.
I do not comprehend how any pyramid is older than the youngest of my olive trees,
nor understand the Phrygian trumpet or the Persian harp, which, sometimes, I play by intuition.
I am confused at being witness to a galaxy’s birth.

How can I be old when I am young and young when I am old.
How can there not exist a unique age which lets me feel,
which justifies my presence in the past and in the present,
and which imposes peace upon the warlike roaring of sensate being and existing.
When will I have a definitive face for every mirror.
When will I be able to say I am this without being too wrong.

I am young but I recognize the secrets of cartography.
I am old but I have the agility to box against myself.
I am what lacks before being and what remains after existing.
Whom will I hate more than the palimpsest of my flesh.
Whom will I take as an accomplice in the bribery of my spirit.
Whom will I touch with the lips of whoever inhabits me successively, in solitude.

 Posted by at 9:59 am

Raquel Abend -Venezuela-

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Sep 062017

Raquel Abend is the author of three poetry books: Creo que soy una trinitaria encendida, Sobre las fábricas and Lengua Mundana. She also has published two novels: Cuarto azul and Andor, and is the co-author of the book Los días pasan y las formas regresan. She is the editor of two anthologies: La cajita cabrona and Topos mecánicos. She received her MFA in Creative Writing in Spanish from NYU. She teaches at the Borough of Manhattan Community College (CUNY).

In Memory of Brancusi

The lines are still worth something when they can sustain themselves by themselves or at least by sinking their nails into the earth.

We believe that the dead
are lines that pass in time
lifting us up
from an absence that no longer sins, no longer inflicts vulgar damage.

They breathe from the cracks,
at that exact time of night,
maybe a few seconds before sunrise when everyone is sleeping off

the ruins
of the previous day.

They speak to us, they ask
that we do not stop memorizing
the moist shadows
of so much replication and undue blame.

From all the work that is born more of a greater loss
than that of birth itself.

The lines are still worth something when they can hold us up
without tightening the rope.

En memoria de Brancusi

De algo sirven las líneas
que saben sostenerse
por sí mismas o al menos con las uñas clavadas en la tierra.

Creemos que los muertos
son líneas que pasan el tiempo recogiéndonos
desde una ausencia que ya no peca, que ya no hace un daño vulgar.

Ellos respiran desde las grietas,
a esa hora precisa de la noche,
quizás unos segundos antes del amanecer, cuando todos duermen
las ruinas
del día anterior.

Nos hablan, nos piden
que no dejemos de memorizar
las sombras aún húmedas
de tanta repetición y condena gratuita.

De tanta obra nacida
por un quebranto mayor que el mismo nacimiento.

De algo sirven las líneas
que todavía pueden levantarnos sin apretar la soga.

 Posted by at 7:33 pm

Ameen-Storm Abo-Hamzy -USA/Lebanon-

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Sep 062017

Ameen-Storm Abo-Hamzy has spent his life on the road toward peace. Born in Torrington, Connecticut. He attended Norwich University, (The Military College of Vermont), graduating cum laude in 1987. Whereupon he was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant of Infantry in the United States Army (Airborne) and served until he was injured in the line of duty and honorably discharged. In 2003 he graduated with his Masters from Wesleyan University. His award-winning poetry has been published in The Voice, The Day Keeper Journal, The Lakeville Journal, The Vietnam Veterans’ Journal, The Underwood Review, The Chameleon, and Our Heritage. He has been featured in articles in The New York Times, The Litchfield County Times, The Lakeville Journal, The Voice, and The Republican- American. He has appeared on, MTV in the United States, Europe and the Middle East, as well as on radio, and has performed his poetry throughout the continental United States, in London, Madrid, Paris, Lebanon and the Canary Islands.

A Poet’s Recipe

One needs,
A moment at birth.

1/2 a cup of metaphors
1 cup of rhythm
A dash of spices, a little All Known
A lifetime or more of really great teachers. A gallon of infinite possibility.
1/2 a cup of grammar
2tblsp of ideas
3 tblsp of thought
5 cups of passion
2 tps of insight
1 cup of ambition
1/2 a cup of knowledge
7 cups of courage.

A moment of enlightenment.

Inspire as long as possible. Travel.
Mix together for up to eighteen years. Inspire.
Send off to college. Travel. Inspire. Attend graduate school. Travel. Inspire. Get published. Travel. Inspire.
Teach. Inspire. Retire. Inspire. Travel. Inspire.

Inspire. Inspire. Inspire. Inspire. Inspire. Inspire. Inspire. Inspire….

 Posted by at 7:22 pm

Tomás Modesto Galán -Dominican Rep.-

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Sep 062017

Tomás Modesto Galán. Dominican writer, professor and cultural activist. He has lived in New York since 1986. In 2015 he was named poet of the year by The Americas Poetry Festival of New York. Galán holds a Master’s degree from Universidad Autónoma de Santo Domingo and has been a Professor of Spanish and others subjects at the U.A.S.D. In New York, he works at CUNY and Pace University. Currently, he teaches at York College. His poetry collection Amor en bicileta earned him the X Premio Letras de Ultramar in 2015. Some of his published books are: Los niños del Monte Edén (short stories, 1998), Diario de Caverna (poetry, 1988), Subway (poetry, 2008), and Los cuentos de Mount Hope (2nd ed. 2014).

Retirada sorpresa


Estoy haciendo los preparativos
para otra retirada triunfal, dichosa y anónima.
Al final el mar siempre me gana esta batalla
Nadaré por muchos días en busca de mares
que nos han desahuciado del dulzor de un hueso
A veces uno se distancia para ver mejor tres letras
Y los peces aguardan en el pozo de una lágrima
Y la caña de azúcar ya no vive en tus ojos.
Ya es el recuerdo de los mismos colonos
Y luego te acercas para engañar los sentidos.
Y alimentarlos de otra vida  menos terrenal.
Yo prefiero engañar los sentidos con tu cuerpo.
Y volver a ser un perro infiel y realengo
Que huele tus oídos bajo la claridad de un apagón
Y lame sin querer la explosión de un recuerdo
Para saborear la distancia entre el ombligo
y el seno que mis ojos no entendieron.

 Posted by at 5:50 pm

Alejandro Aragón -Cuba-

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Sep 062017

Alejandro Aragón (Havana, Cuba, 1970) is a graduate of the University of Havana. He lives in Brooklyn, New York. He teaches Spanish and is a freelance scriptwriter and playwright. His plays have been produced in Venezuela, Mexico, Puerto Rico, and USA. His poetry and his stories have been published in Spain, Cuba, Venezuela, and the United States. He is co-writer of the Venezuelan film Dauna, Gone With The River, released in 2015 at the Berlin International Film Festival in Germany. This film has received several awards.

Tomada por la fantasía

Las noticias son ciertas,
abusada por el tedio, vives
tomada por la fantasía.
Cruzaría la bahía caminando
y llegaría a ti.
Iría llorando.
Si pudiera llorar,
si pudiera llegar,
si mi abrazo antiguo pudiera estrangular el gusano que te roe
la calma.
No hay anestésico posible.
El dolor que antes te abría huecos
es ahora los huecos.
Te salva quien apague una bombilla
a soplos.
Eres un perro que se muerde la cola.
Mejor amordazar al perro,
impedir que nos llene la noche
de sus alaridos lastimeros.
Mejor hacer morir al perro.
A solas.
Muere a solas.
Es justo.
Los demás.
Te queremos.
Duele verte.
Así no nos convienes.
No sospechas
que ya te dejo ir sin regreso.
Vivirte sin noticias es más dulce. Repetir de memoria
tu voz de pozo fresco,
el brillito de tus ojos.
No sospecho
que ya me dejaste ir sin regreso,
que prefieres vivirme sin noticias.
Te duele menos
dejarme morir en mi rincón
sin quejas
sin dolientes,
sin que te importe,
abusado por el tedio,
tomado por la fantasía.

Taken by Fantasy

The news is true,
abused by boredom, you live
taken by fantasy.
I would cross the bay walking
and it would come to you.
I would cry.
If I could cry,
if I could get there,
if my old embrace could strangle the worm that eats into
your calm.
There is no anesthetic possible.
The pain that once opened holes
is now the holes.
It’d save you,  she who can turn off a light bulb
with blows.
You are a dog that bites its tail.
It’s better to gag the dog,
to keep her from filling out the night
with her pitiful howls.
Better kill the dog.
Die alone.
It’s fair.
The others.
We love you.
So much.
It hurts to see you.
Like that.
You are not convenient.
You do not suspect
that I am letting you go without return.
Living without news is sweeter.
Repeating from memory
your voice of fresh well,
the little shine of your eyes.
I do not suspect
that you already let me go without return,
that you prefer to live without my news.
It hurts you less
to let me die in my corner
without complaint,
without mourners,
without your care,
abused by boredom,
taken by fantasy.

 Posted by at 5:39 pm

Rosana Acquaroni -Spain-

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Sep 062017

Rosana Acquaroni #TAPFNY2017Rosana Acquaroni (Spain, Madrid, 1964). Poet, visual artist and educator. She earned a doctorate in applied linguistics at Universidad Complutense de Madrid. She has published five poetry collections: Del mar bajo los puentes (1988); El jardín navegable (1990); Cartografía sin mundo (1995) & Lámparas de arena (2000) & Discordia de los dóciles (2011). Her poems have been translated to several languages and received literary awards.

El niño amaestrado

Miraba sus piececitos tapiados

como tallados litorales.

Huir de la tiranía de sus pasos

le haría bien.



Sin tiempo.

The Broken-In Child
He looked over his tiny feet surrounded
like sculpted riverbanks.
Running away from the tyranny of their steps
would do him good.
Untying themselves
From time.

Translated by Samantha Saly.
 Posted by at 4:26 pm

María Leguizamón -Argentina-

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Sep 052017

María Leguizamón #TAPFNY2017María Leguizamón is a film editor, BA in Arts Education and writer. She received the 2003 Unión Latine scholarship for film editing studies. In Birckbeck College (London University) she studied documentary filmmaking. She has directed and produced film festivals in Thailand and Buenos Aires (2010-2012). Since 2005, she teaches at Univesidad Nacional de las Artes (UNA), where she conducts the research project: The two imaginations of Ricardo Piglia: fiction in literature and film. She taught film language in Padang, West Sumatra, Indonesia. In 2017, she attended the Escritura y Ciudad creative writing seminar at City College of New York with María Negroni and Guillermo Martínez. Her work was included in the anthology of young Argentinean poets: Cómo decir (Ruinas Circulares, 2017). She is the author of Portrait of the invisible man, a film editors choir (2017).


Naufragio de la piel negra
veo sus caras pixeladas
viajan como fósforos
cuerpo con cuerpo con el creer en tierra firme

alguien que nació también de su madre
sostiene un paraguas
y un resto de sombras humanas
flota, deriva

la huida quiso ser barco
tres palos y alambres se hunden
seis cabezas le sobran al mar

leyes trampas
mar policía
van a tragarse sus pelos los sueños
la piel

en la inmensidad esmeralda
su mirada sin morir
¿obtendrá alguna costa?

la precariedad fue nunca embarcación

 Posted by at 5:25 pm

Luis Antonio Rodríguez -Puerto Rico/DR-

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Sep 052017

Luis Antonio Rodríguez #TAPFNY2017Luis Antonio Rodríguez (Laro), is a Puerto Rican-Dominican environmental scientist, photographer and writer. Winner of the second place, Community Category, in Laudo XXI Literary Poetry Contest of the Polytechnic University of Puerto Rico, 2016. He has published three poetry collections: Between the shadow and the albedo (1996), Clandestine Verses (2001) and Love of superhero (2016). In his new literary work, Rush Hour and other stories to read on the train (2017), he visits for the first time the world of prose.

Caoutchouc* de Esperança

“Si un mensajero llegara del cielo y me garantizara que mi muerte fortalecería nuestra lucha, valdría la pena.  Pero la experiencia nos enseña lo opuesto.  Las manifestaciones y los funerales sin fin no salvarán a Amazonia.  Yo quiero vivir, yo quiero vivir”.

Chico Mendes, diciembre 9, 1988.

Dedicado a Raúl Juliá

Hoy los guacamayos cantan tu canción,
canción de esperanza y lucha,
canción de ladrido de corazón,
canción de la Tierra que se escucha.
El cielo se viste de emoción,
gritos de guerra por el futuro
emanan de la selva hacia el mundo
con un gran mensaje en los puños;
luchar por la tierra, por el agua,
por el cielo, luchar por la vida
que es lo que más quiero;
“yo quiero vivir, yo quiero vivir”.

Así gritaste Chico, y yo te oí,
así volaste y te sentí entre los árboles
que salvaste en Brasil,
aquella selva del mundo y de mí.

Ahora hay cantos en tu Xapuri,
y en Cachoeira retumban las almas
de los inolvidables, de los desaparecidos,
ya no hay más quema sólo calma.
Tu caucho de esperanza
se desliza como un ardiente espíritu
y permanecerá como nuestra sangre,
porque tú eres de todos, eres nuestro Chico…

* Caoutchouc: Nombre indígena del árbol del caucho.

*Caoutchouc of Hope

“If a messenger came from heaven and would guarantee that my death would strengthen our fight, it would be worthwhile. But experience teaches us the opposite. Demonstrations and endless funerals will not save Amazonia. I want to live, I want to live.”

Chico Mendes, December 9, 1988.


Dedicated to Raul Julia;

Today macaws sing your song,
a song of hope and struggle,
a song of the barkings of the heart
a song of the Earth that is heard.

The sky dressed with excitement
war cries for the future
emanating from the jungle to the world
with a great message at the fists;
fight for land, for water,
by heaven, fighting for life
which is what I want most;
“I want to live, I want to live.”

So you screamed Chico, and I heard you,
so you flew and I felt you between the trees
you saved in Brazil,
that jungle belonging to the world and to me.

Now there are songs on your *Xapuri,
and Cachoeira resound in the souls
the unforgettable, the missing,
there is no more burning just calm.
Your caucho tree of hope
slides as an ardent spirit
and will remain as our blood,
for you belong to us all, you’re our Chico.

* Caoutchouc: Indigenous name for the caucho (rubber) tree.

 Posted by at 3:15 pm

Ely Rosa Zamora -Venezuela-

 Poetry 2017  Comments Off on Ely Rosa Zamora -Venezuela-
Sep 052017

Ely Rosa Zamora #TAPFNY2017-01Ely Rosa Zamora is the author of the poetry collections La nitidez del embudo, (2015), Unspecific Object, (2015), Sin lengua y otras imposibilidades dramáticas, (2013), Sin lengua/No Tongue, (2011), Detrito Olvidado/Forgotten Detritus, (2009). Her poetry is included in the Anthology Voces para Lilith Literatura contemporánea de temática lésbica en Sudamérica, (Lima: Estruendomudo, 2011), and in the anthology of The Americas Poetry Festival of New York, (New York: Artepoética Press, 2014). She is the director of the bilingual poetry reading series “Voces de la ciudad/ Voices of the City” in New York City.

Bobinas de hilo

La lluvia cae
en esta selva de cordones

del crepúsculo infinito
chorreando agua

Mi sed es verde
y la lluvia acaricia mis raíces
Hay alimañas en este paraíso
sin nombre

Cuando se cierra una ventana
¿qué queda?

Quizá un silencio parado en la
esperando un poco más de lluvia
y menos sed.

Sewing Bobbins

Rain falls
in this jungle of vines

of the infinite twilight
dripping water

My thirst is green
and rain caresses my roots
There are vermin in this nameless
When a window closes
what remains?

Perhaps a silence standing
in the corner
expecting a little more rain
and less thirst.

 Posted by at 2:49 pm

Fredy Yezzed -Colombia/Argentina-

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Sep 052017

Fredy Yezzed #TAPFNY2017(Bogotá, 1979). Writer, poet and Human Rights advocate. After traveling throughout Latin America for six months, he settled in Buenos Aires, Argentina. His books of poetry are La sal de la locura, (Macedonio Fernández National Poetry Prize, Buenos Aires, 2010), El diario inédito del filósofo vienés Ludwig Wittgenstein (Buenos Aires, 2012) and Carta de las mujeres de este país, (Mention of Poetry in the Literary Prize House of the Americas 2017, La Habana, Cuba). As a literary critic he has compiled and introduced the following books, Párrafos de aire: Primera antología del poema en prosa colombiano (Editorial de la Universidad de Antioquia, Medellín, 2010) and La risa del ahorcado: Antología poética de Henry Luque Muñoz (Editorial de la Universidad Javeriana, Bogotá, 2015).

The Unpublished Diary of the Viennese

Philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein




1.       Reality is limited by the totality of poetry. Poetry does not have limits.
1.1      Poetry is a garden: a garden that speaks of other gardens.
1.11     Poetry, in a word, Mr. Interviewer, is requiem.
1.12     But the best definition of poetry is the following proposition: Poetry is neither one thing nor the other; perhaps it is not the third thing, either.
1.13     Language is the flower, says Mallarmé. If that is so, then, poetry is its flowering: enchantment of the flower.
1.2       Under the Winter: perhaps its warmest, most productive den.
1.21     The only enemy of poetry is the poet: there, it is he against himself.
1.22     & that silence… (               ) is language reclaiming its own poetry.
1.3      The world has always been a collection of walls, & language is nothing more than one of those inquisitions from heaven. Poetry alone has the daring to leap over it.
1.31     Poetry is like the almond tree: its flowers are sweet-smelling and its fruits bitter.
1.32     To knot one word to another, with the hope of joining men together.
1.33     Poetry that does not open its arms is a mutilated poetry.
1.4      The meta-poetic are the spiders that eat their mother.

Translated by Richard Gwyn


El diario inédito del filósofo vienés Ludwig Wittgenstein



1.       La realidad está limitada por la totalidad de la poesía. La poesía no tiene límites.
1.1      La poesía es un jardín: un jardín que habla de otros jardines.
1.11     Poesía, en una palabra, señor entrevistador, es requiem.
1.12     Pero la mejor definición de poesía es la siguiente proposición: Poesía no es ni lo uno ni lo otro; quizá tampoco lo tercero.
1.13     El lenguaje es la flor, dijo Mallarmé. Si esto es así, entonces, la poesía es la floración: encantamiento de la flor.
1.2       Under the Winter: quizá su madriguera más cálida, más productiva.
1.21     El único enemigo de la poesía es el poeta: allí, es él contra él mismo.
1.22     & ese silencio… (                ) Es el lenguaje que reclama su propia poesía.
1.3      El mundo siempre ha sido una colección de murallas, & el lenguaje no es más que una de esas inquisiciones del cielo. La poesía solo comete la osadía de saltarla.
1.31     La poesía es como el almendro: sus flores son perfumadas y sus frutos amargos.
1.32     Anudar una palabra a otra, con la esperanza de unir un hombre a otro.
1.33     La poesía que no extiende los brazos es una poesía mutilada.
1.4       Lo meta-poético son las arañas que se comen a su madre.


 Posted by at 2:08 pm

Natalia Chamorro -Peru-

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Sep 052017

Natalia Chamorro #TAPFNY2017-01Natalia Chamorro (1982): Poet and academic. Natalia is from Lima, Perú. She is currently a student at the MFA in Creative Writing in Spanish at NYU. She is working on her book of poems, Canales vacíos or Empty Channels, where she deepens into experiences, feelings and dreams that surpass the channels of communication. Natalia is also a Ph.D. candidate at Stony Brook University, and she received her M.A. degree in Spanish from The University of Connecticut. She has published poems in different literary and creative magazines in New York and Lima, such as Los Bárbaros, Pró-Logo, and Insula Barataria.


Now this blues drags you. The sounding body of the phantom under the table pushes against the line. It’s the purgatorial wave of a prostitute home, with hot, worn out sofas. Now the light presses crooked backs against the grim of earthy colors. I don’t want to hate you. The scenario sparks something in your head. Now the dazed aroma submerges you in a sweet sour chemical, unfair mixture of the third space. In the rustic frames of others, the images darken at the heat of plastic, of a crossing point-corner.


Ahora este blues te arrastra. El cuerpo sonoro del fantasma bajo las mesas empuja contra la fila. Es la ola purgatoria de un hogar prostituto, con sofás calientes, roídos. Ahora la luz presiona los cuerpos curvados contra la mugre de los colores tierra. I don’t want to hate you. El escenario chispea algo en la cabeza. Ahora este aroma mareado te sumerge en un dulce agrio químico, mezclas injustas del tercer espacio. En el rústico cuadro de las paredes de otros, las imágenes se negrean al calor de plástico, de una esquina de paso.

 Posted by at 1:43 pm

Almudena Vidorreta -Spain-

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Sep 052017

Almudena Vidorreta #TAPFNY2017-01Almudena Vidorreta (Zaragoza, 1986) is the author of the following books of poetry: Tintación (2007), Algunos hombres insaciables (awarded by the Poetry Prize “Delegación del Gobierno en Aragón”, 2009), Lengua de mapa (XXII Poetry Prize “Universidad de Zaragoza”, 2010), Días animales (2013) and Nueva York sin querer (La Bella Varsovia, 2017). In 2014, she earned her PhD in Hispanic Philology from the University of Zaragoza (Spain) with a dissertation on Early Modern Poetry. She is currently working on a second PhD in Latin American Literature at the City University of New York, where she teaches since 2013.

Animal Days

Animal days,
oxide on the eyelids;
paint your nails
with the blood left on me
and let life come in,
with its joy and lights,
into the back of the room.
Cockroaches mew
in the corners of the bathroom
but their music at midnight
sounds classical to me.
Animal days:
a beast in the darkness
and early in the morning
an insect on the lamp.
A dead butterfly.

Días animales

Días animales,
óxido en los párpados;
pintarte las uñas
con la sangre que me sobra
y dejar que la vida pase,
con su alegría y sus luces,
hasta el fondo de la habitación.
Maúllan cucarachas
en los rincones del baño
pero su música en la noche
me parece clásica.
Días animales:
una bestia a oscuras
y a la mañana siguiente,
un insecto en la lámpara.
Mariposa muerta.

 Posted by at 1:11 pm

Christopher Carmona -USA-

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Sep 052017

Christopher Carmona #TAPFNY2017Christopher Carmona is the author of The Road to Llorona Park, which won the 2016 NACCS Tejas Best Fiction Award and was listed as one of the top 8 Latinx books in 2016 by NBCNews. He has three books of poetry: 140 Twitter Poems, I Have Always Been Here and beat. Currently, he is working on a series of bilingual YA novellas entitled El Rinche: The Ghost Ranger of the Rio Grande. Book One will be published in 2018.

The Modern Struggle: The Affluent, The Poor, and The Storytellers

The Affluent

time and time again.
light is brightest.
to those close.
to the fire.
flames are warmer.
everyone else.
fights for what’s left.

The Poor

give me a little water please.
give me a little something.
before I die.
let me feel.
the coolness quench.
get me some justice.
it won’t be long.

The Storytellers

how many books
have been written
on backs of others?
how many stories
have been taken?

is it our job to do so?

can we tell our own story?

 Posted by at 12:01 pm

Luis Marcelo Pérez -Uruguay-

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Aug 302017

Luis Marcelo Pérez #TAPFNY2017-01Uruguay, 1971. Poet, narrator, essayist, journalist, editor, cultural manager and social activist. His work has been published in the Americas, Europe and Asia and translated into Portuguese, Italian, English, Japanese and Chinese. Writers like Ruben Bareiro Saguier, Volodia Teitelboim, Jaime Quezada, Carlos German Belli, Miguel Barnet, Antonio Gamoneda and Mario Benedetti have praised and prologued his work. He has published seven books of poetry, four books of essays and one of narrative.

– – –

Un bosque de palabras
quiero ser, por un instante
ser, en mi desnudez, poesía.

Longing to be
a forest of words
I am, for an instant
in my nakedness, poetry.

Translated by Katherine Quittner

– – –

Llueve y la noche se inunda de miseria
techos naufragando sin casas
en la profundidad de la nada
El desconsuelo seca mi boca
y Dios sigue de largo.
Raining, the night floods with misery
roofs without houses shipwrecked
upon the depths of endless nothingness.
Distress dries my mouth
and God moves on.

Translated by Katherine Quittner

 Posted by at 12:16 pm

Rei Berroa -Dominican Republic-

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Aug 292017

Rei Berrora #TAPFNY2017-01Rei Berroa (Dominican Republic) teaches at George Mason University. He has published more than 45 books of poetry, literary criticism, and poetry anthologies in Argentina, Brazil, Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Guatemala, India, Mexico, Spain, the United States, and Venezuela. He coordinates Teatro de la Luna’s Poetry Marathon. In 2009 he was awarded the “Medaille de Vermeil” by the French Academy of Arts, Sciences and Letters, in 2011 received the Trieste International Poetry Award for lifetime achievement in poetry, and in 2012 the Mihai Eminescu Award in Romania. The 2014 Dominican Book Fair of New York was dedicated to his work.

Ciego en el metro

Por más que palpes con el dedo
Y apliques tu sueño
A la visión del movimiento
No me verás.
Quizá por un azar
De olvido, noche y agonía
No te veré.

Por más que aprietes el tacto en el papel
Deslizando el ojo de tu índice
Como serpiente contra el pasto
No me verás.
Aunque le eches al cerebro
Toda tu ración de pulpo y de pupila.
No te veré.

Pasado el día
Hurgaremos en alguna página del tiempo,
¿Qué podría haber sido de Odiseo
Seducido por el canto de sirenas?
¿Hubiera continuado vagando en el último
Vagón del metro de la idea
Sin perro, sin Ítaca, sin amigos ni mujer?

Blind Man in the Subway

However much your finger gropes
And you apply your dreams
To the sight of motion
You won’t see me.
And maybe by a whim
Of night and agony and oblivion
I won’t see you.

However much you press your touch to paper
Sliding the eye of your index finger over it
Like a serpent in the meadow
You won’t see me.
And even if you stock your brain
With all your repertoire of tentacles and retinas,
I won’t see you.

When day’s done
We’ll scratch
Some pages of time to ask:
What would have happened to Odysseus
Had the siren song seduced him?
Would he have kept on wandering in the final
Subway car of thought
Devoid of dog and friends, Ithaca and wife?

Translated by Tracy Lewis with the author

 Posted by at 11:13 am

Ana Rüsche -Brazil-

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Aug 282017

Ana Rüsche TAPFNY2017(São Paulo, 1979) She has four published poetry books: Rasgada (2005), translated and published in Mexico (Limón Partido, 2008), Sarabanda (Demônio Negro, 2007), later re-published by Patuá (2013), Nós que Adoramos um Documentário (2010) and Furiosa (2016), part selected and translated into English (2017). She has one published novel, Acordados (2007). Her poetry has been feature in international publications on Brazilian contemporary poetry, such as Rattapallax from New York, Litro #129: Brazil from London and the Mexican anthologies Caos Portátil (Bilar de Lucrecia, 2007) and ¿Qué será de ti? Como vai você? (Vaso Roto, 2014).

O Grande Plugue

À nossa geração nunca nos foi permitido ver o mar pela primeira vez.
Ele sempre esteve adentro, reluzente, o grande igual que nós mesmos

Rogamos tanto às noites que se faça novamente o escuro
mas quando as preces são atendidas
é só uma ilusão dos trouxas, uma ardentia nos olhos e
o mar esbraveja aqui dentro, monstro comedor de rocha

Já nascemos umas baleias mórbidas
pobres diabas afogadas neste papel de luz
E é tão mesquinho de pequeno o desejo

A gente só queria ver o maldito mar
por favor,
pela primeira vez.

The Great Plug

Our generation was never allowed to see the ocean for the first time.
It has always been within, sparkling, the great same as us all

We pleaded much with the nights for a new making of darkness
but when prayers are heard
it’s just an illusion of idiots, a burnishing of the eyes and
the ocean jerks inside, monster that feeds on rocks

We were born already morbid whales
poor devils drowned in this illuminated role
And it is such a teeny miser, this desire

We just wanted to see the goddamned ocean
for the first time.

Translated by Maíra Mendes Galvão

 Posted by at 12:50 pm

Nuria Ruiz de Viñaspre -Spain-

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Aug 272017

Nuria Ruiz de Viñaspre TAPFNY2017

Poet and publisher. She works as editor in the Anaya Group and directs the Eme Collection (Writing for Women in Spanish), by La Palma Publishing. In 2004 she won the XX Prize of Poetry City of Tudela (Navarra) and in 2014 was awarded with the Cluster Award 2014 of Literature. In 2015 she won the XII César Simón Poetry Prize with her latest work, La zanja (The Ditch.) She has also published the following titles: El mar de los suicidas (The Sea of the Suicides), Desvaríos subterráneos (Underground Ravings), El campo de tus sueños rojos (The Field of Your Red Dreams), Ahora que el amor se me instala (Now that love settles me), La geometría del vientre (The Geometry of the Belly), El pez místico (The Mystic Fish), Tablas de carnicero (Butcher Boards), Órbita cementerio (Cemetery Orbit), Tabula Rasa (Tabula Rasa), and Pensatorium (Pensatorium).

el amor es ortopédico
porque es susceptible de ser desmontado

love is orthopedic
because it can be dismantled


definición de melancolía

siempre hay algo que quieres a tu lado y que no está
hagas lo que hagas
decidas lo que decidas
siempre hay ese algo revoloteando con su ausencia
como si todos esos algo fueran una bandada de pájaros
que ya no están en aquel quieto mundo en el que anidaron


definition of melancholy

there is always something you want to have at your side yet it is never there
whatever you do
whatever you decide
always that something fluttering around in its absence
it is as if all those somethings were a flock of birds
no longer part of that still world in which they made their nests

Poema de amor o Ley de Talión
habría que escribir libros blancos
ya no sirven las palabras
o por el contrario
libros como bombas
y salir a bombardear el mundo.


Love poem or lex talionis
write blank books
words are no longer any use
or on the contrary
write books like bombs
and go out and bomb the world

Translations by Tim Chapman.

 Posted by at 10:31 am

Ilzė Butkutė -Lithuania-

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Aug 262017

Ilzė Butkutė -Lithuania- TAPFNY 2017

Ilzė Butkutė (b. 1984) is a poet born in the crumbling USSR, but who grew up in an independent Lithuania. She started writing rhymed poems when she was eight, and she rhymed even before she learned to write, in her early childhood. Her first book of poetry, Karavanų lopšinės (Caravan Lullabies, 2011) won the prize for most significant debut and it was listed among the twelve most creative books of the year. She wrote (and published in 2013) a practical guide for workers oppressed by their employers, Atleisk savo šefa (Fire Your Boss). In 2014, her second book of poetry was published, Karnavalų mėnuo (Carnival Moon). Her selected poetry book in English, Caravan Lullabies, was published by A Midsummer’s Night Press (USA, 2016). Her poems have been translated into eleven languages. Ilzė studied photojournalism, and worked seven years in advertising. Currently, she works in the field of creative development.

Embroidery in the Garden of Knives

I am a woman—an open window,
who buries a naked bastard
crosswind every night in the garden.
I quietly cut a clutch of hair

soaked with the scent of hands
that would not touch—
my braids grow shorter with
each trimming. In my stables,

great steeds rear as they feel
the approach of armed sleep,
driven by a man without a face—
he is not forbidden—nor is he given

to me, or to others. Let him be.
My friend, please button my corset,
so that I won’t lean out the window
to watch how my crosswind knives

sprout inch by inch in the garden—
how blades rise from the soil
and slice the full moon into wane.
And dogs—even they don’t feel

how sleep begins its assault.
My love, give me that box
with needle and thread—I want
to sew up my hands with dreams.

Translated by Rimas Uzgiris

Siuvinėjimas peilių sode

Aš moteris – praviras langas,
po benkartą skersvėjį nuogą
kas naktį čia pakasu tyliai sode,
ir nusikerpu sruogą

plaukų, prisigėrusių kvapo
tų rankų, kurios ir neliestų,
ir kasos trumpėja kas kartą.
O mano arklidėse piestu

žirgai pasistoja, pajutę,
kad miegas artėja ginkluotas
ir vedinas vyru be veido –
neuždraustas jis, ir neduotas

nei man, nei kitoms. Ir nereikia.
Bičiule, užsek man korsetą,
kad aš nesilenkčiau pro langą
žiūrėti, kaip auga iš lėto

sode mano skersvėjų peiliai,
kaip ašmenys kyla iš grunto
ir pilnatį skelia į delčią.
Net šunys – ir tie nepajunta,

kad miegas jau pradeda šturmą.
Mieloji, paduok man dėžutę
su siūlais ir adata – noriu
rankas prie sapnų prisisiūti.

 Posted by at 11:46 am

Un poeta maya es nombrado poeta del año en Nueva York

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Un poeta maya es nombrado poeta del año en Nueva York
Oct 182016

Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech TAPFNY Nueva York, Oct. 18 de 2016.

Un poeta maya es nombrado poeta del año en Nueva York

El poeta maya Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech recibió el pasado 14 de octubre en el Instituto Cervantes de Nueva York el reconocimiento como Poeta del Año en The Americas Poetry Festival of New York 2016. Los organizadores del festival, los escritores y profesores Carlos Aguasaco (CCNY), Yrene Santos (CCNY) y Carlos Velásquez Torres (NMHU), seleccionaron a Cocom Pech entre poetas representantes de 22 países reunidos en el Nueva York para participar en uno de los eventos literarios más importantes del continente por su calidad literaria, diversidad y vocación multicultural.

El poeta y profesor Carlos Aguasaco resaltó al entregar el premio que el galardón se le otorga a Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech en “reconocimiento a sus logros en su carrera literaria y a su trabajo pionero en favor de la literatura escrita en lenguas indígenas de las Américas”. Al aceptar la distinción, Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech dijo en lengua maya y luego en español, “Gracias, acepto pero no soy yo quien recibe este premio sino el pueblo del que heredé la lengua y su visión literaria”. Dentro del festival, el poeta galardonado leyó apartes de su obra en versión trilingüe (maya, español e inglés) en The City College of New York, la casa natal del poeta Walt Whitman en Long Island y el Instituto Cervantes de Nueva York.  El festival celebrará el nombramiento de Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech con un ladrillo conmemorativo en el círculo poético ubicado en la casa natal de Walt Whitman (Walt Whitman Birthplace  State Historic Site West Hills, New York).

Sobre Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech:

Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech maya originario de Calkiní, Campeche, México, es profesor normalista e ingeniero agrónomo en la especialidad de sociología rural, egresado de la Universidad Autónoma Chapingo. Actualmente es miembro del Sistema Nacional de Creadores de Arte (2015-2017). Escribe poesía y narrativa. Autor de Muk’ult’an in nool, Secretos del abuelo, J-nool Gregorioe’ juntúul miats’il maya, El abuelo Gregorio un sabio maya, Las nueve preguntas y K’aank’an ya’il icho’ob: wayé, ¡ma’ a t’aan ich maya! Lágrimas de oro: aquí, ¡no hables maya!, U yaajal pi’sáastal, El despertar del alba (poemario inédito). Sus poemas y relatos han sido traducidos a varias lenguas extranjeras e indígenas de México. Entre otras distinciones, en 2005 recibió el Gran Premio Internacional de Poesía en Curtea de Arges, Rumania. En 2016, el maestro fue distinguido con el Premio Internacional de Literaturas Indígenas de América (PLIA) y nombrado Poeta del Año en The Americas Poetry Festival of New York.


Carlos Aguasaco


Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech TAPFNY Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech TAPFNY 2016

 Posted by at 10:55 am

Emily Fragos -USA-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Emily Fragos -USA-
Oct 042016

Emily Fragos TAPFNY 2016Emily Fragos is an honored American poet. She is the recipient of the prestigious Guggenheim Fellowship in Poetry, the Literature Award from the American Academy of Arts & Letters, and the national Witter Bynner Poetry Prize from the Library of Congress. She has published two books of poetry, Hostage and Little Savage, and she has selected and edited six poetry anthologies for the Everyman’s Pocket Library, including the Letters of Emily Dickinson. Her poems have appeared in every major journal: The New Yorker, The Paris Review, The American Poetry Review, Poetry, The New Republic, and her new work has been chosen for Best American Poetry, 2016. She has served as guest poetry editor of the online journal, Guernica, and written numerous articles on music and dance. She has long volunteered to teach poetry to the disabled and the elderly and she has been honored for her volunteer work with abandoned and abused animals. Emily Fragos has taught at Yale University and currently teaches at New York University and Columbia University.


for W.S. Merwin

God is in the dogs
The one who turns in circles, the one
With scabs, the one who wears the collar
Who stares and stares
And tries in spite of it to smell the dirt and grass
In the abandonment, torrential muteness
My knees loosened, my glassy eyes of crystals warmed
And it was given
Even should we sleep
Turn weep recite, screaming, “the city is conquered and the little king
Will have to go,” insane and unreachable
We are still here


para W.S. Merwin

Dios está en los perros
ese que se mueve en círculos, ese
lleno de costras, aquel que lleva collar
que observa y observa
y a pesar de todo trata de olfatear la tierra y la hierba
en el desamparo y el silencio torrencial
flaquearon mis piernas, se calentaron mis ojos de vidrio
y nos fue dado
que incluso dormidos
nos volvamos, lloremos, recitemos a gritos: “la ciudad ha sido conquistada y el pequeño rey
tendrá que marcharse,” dementes e inalcanzables
aún seguimos así

Translated by Natalia Carbajosa

 Posted by at 8:50 am

Ely Rosa Zamora -Venezuela-

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Oct 042016

Ely Rosa Zamora TAPFNY 2016

Ely Rosa Zamora is the author of the poetry collections La nitidez del embudo, (2015), Unspecific Object, (2015), Sin lengua y otras imposibilidades dramáticas, (2013), Sin lengua/No Tongue, (2011), Detrito Olvidado/Forgotten Detritus, (2009). Her poetry is included in the Anthology Voces para Lilith Literatura contemporánea de temática lésbica en Sudamérica, (Lima: Estruendomudo, 2011), and in the anthology of The Americas Poetry Festival of New York, (New York: Artepoética Press, 2014). She is the director of the bilingual poetry reading series “Voces de la ciudad/ Voices of the City” in New York City, and she teaches Spanish at Rutgers University-Newark and Middlesex County College.


There is a drowned car
in the flooded street

The whole town has disappeared
leaving desolation

Hell is an airplane
full of money and red lights

The petrified queen
rests in her castle

In the newspaper photo
five men in suits
walk together
organizing the future
of the world’s economies

Among ruins
where I once


Hay un carro ahogado
en la inundación de la calle

Todo el pueblo ha desaparecido
y solo hay desolación

El infierno es un avión
repleto de dinero y luces rojas

La reina petrificada
reposa en su castillo

En la foto del periódico
cinco hombres bien vestidos
caminan juntos a organizar
el futuro de las economías
del mundo

En medio de una ruina
que algún día fue
mi calle.

 Posted by at 8:47 am

Tomás Modesto Galán -Dominican Rep.-

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Sep 262016

Tomás Modesto Galán TAPFNY 2016Tomás Modesto Galán. Dominican writer, professor and cultural activist. He has lived in New York since 1986. In 2015 he was named poet of the year by The Americas Poetry Festival of New York. Galán holds a Master’s degree from Universidad Autónoma de Santo Domingo and has been a Professor of Spanish and others subjects at the U.A.S.D. In New York, he works at CUNY and Pace University. Currently, he teaches at York College. His poetry collection Amor en bicileta earned him the X Premio Letras de Ultramar in 2015. Some of his published books are: Los niños del Monte Edén (short stories, 1998), Diario de Caverna (poetry, 1988), Subway (poetry, 2008), and Los cuentos de Mount Hope (2nd ed. 2014).

Amor en bicicleta

El suplicio le venda ojos al condenado del placer,
los amantes proveen clavículas, migrañas, no administran el tiempo,
la noche desentierra un orfelinato, incrimina la otra cara del vacío.

Diariamente caen alfileres sobre su claridad, bombas de humo,
Incienso. Una bicicleta rueda sobre la tarde en busca del amor.

Se perdieron puertas, dura demasiado el sol, tardan lunas los cuadernos,
vuelven más estrellas a convocar el salto, la jornada de escondernos
acaricia una brújula descompuesta.

El empeño en destruirnos inaugura suplicios, alumbra sus cadenas,
un surgimiento de hogueras sordas devuelve un perro desnudo
y la mañana desenrosca bastones para caminar a la redonda,
rodar entre corredores ciegos, o niños que bordean un río irrespirable.

A mitad de la razón alguien dinamita el silencio.

Desaparece devorando un piano, sorteados por una libertad absurda
y esa lucha con la luz que los vuelve harapientos, rabiosamente inútiles.

Hoy perdieron los pies, más tarde el amor consumirá el hígado,
después masticará los restos de un pulmón risible pero no amedrentarán
los rayos taciturnos de una bicicleta desventurada que ha perdido el rumbo.

Love on a bicycle

Torture bandages the eyes of damned pleasure,
the lovers provide clavicles, migraines, they do not keep track of time,
the night unearths an orphanage, denounces the other face of emptiness.

Pins fall daily over her clarity, bombs of smoke,
incense. A bicycle circles the afternoon in search of love.

Doors were lost, the sun stays too long, notebooks take moons,
More stars return to summon the leap, the journey of hiding ourselves
caresses a broken compass.

The determination to self-destruct incites torture, gives light to its chains,
a surge of deaf bonfires returns a naked dog
and the morning loosens canes in order to walk the round,
circling through blind corridors, or children who surround an anxious river.

In the middle of reason, someone explodes the silence.

It disappears devouring a piano, negotiated by an absurd freedom
and that battle with the light that makes them ragged, rabidly useless.

Today they lost their feet, later on love will consume the liver,
then it will chew the remains of a laughable lung, but they will not intimidate
the distant beams of an unfortunate bicycle that has lost its way.

Translated by Pilar González

 Posted by at 1:50 pm