Emily Fragos -USA-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Emily Fragos -USA-
Sep 262016

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 2:54 pm

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

Maryam Alikhani -Iran/USA-

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Sep 262016

Maryam Alikhani TAPFNY 2016Maryam Alikhani, M.A., M.F.A., doctoral candidate of English Education at Teachers College Columbia University is a poet, writing instructor, educator, teacher trainer, researcher, and translator. She is teaching at CUNY and doing research on teaching of poetry, technical writing, and composition. In her poetry, she is in conversation with the world she lives in, and she bridges over the borders of languages, cultures, disciplines, genres, and forms.

Trees – a Ghazal

No matter where I go, I thrive, line by line like plane trees
I am ancient and deep, root by root like baobab trees

I have plenty of uses, like three hundred and sixty
I am a heritage, seed by seed like coconut trees

I am honorable though some say “a tree is a tree”
I live honest and modest, bark by bark like redwood trees

I beat the tallest species, by some five hundred feet
And I am healing, leaf by leaf like eucalyptus trees

Cherish me as much as Al-Badawi in the West Bank
I am a symbol for peace, branch by branch like olive trees

I enlighten you as Siddhartha. Come, live in my shade
Then take me to your after life, twig by twig like fig trees

No one has ever heard of my death neither have you; for
I live tall, mighty, proud, trunk by trunk like sequoia trees

Write me like ancient Persians, or modern, like Maryam
Read me; remember me, word by word like evergreen trees

 Posted by at 12:44 pm

María Helena Barrera-Agarwal -Ecuador-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on María Helena Barrera-Agarwal -Ecuador-
Sep 252016

María Helena Barrera-Agarwal TAPFNT 2016María Helena Barrera-Agarwal 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). Her work has appeared in numerous Latin American magazines and newspapers. She is the author of eight books, published in the United States, Ecuador and Bangladesh. In 2010, she received Ecuador’s most prestigious literary award, the Aurelio Espinosa Pólit National Prize.


Bajadur is your name,
The poet, Bajadur,
The emperor of Delhi,
Emperor of the world.
Yet, the world is uncertain
Only the edge
Of a sword,

Bajadur is your name,
You reign over Delhi,
A scholar lost
Among rituals and fear,
Suffering your lineage,
Shut like a fist,
Transparent, made
of crystal,

Bajadur is your name,
Your terminus, the tomb
Of Humayun the Great,
Lord of war.
In his cold lap,
In his red compound,
One day, without mystery
They will come
For you.


Bajadur es tu nombre,
Bajadur, el poeta,
emperador de Delhi
emperador del mundo,
pero el mundo es incierto
es apenas el filo
de una espada,

Bajadur es tu nombre
tu reinas sobre Delhi,
erudito perdido
entre fastos y miedo,
sufriendo tu linaje
cerrado como un puño,
un puño trasparente
de cristal,

Bajadur es tu nombre,
tu destino, la tumba
de Jumayun el grande,
el señor de la guerra.
En su regazo frío,
en su rojo complejo,
un día, sin misterio
vendrán luego
a por ti.

 Posted by at 10:25 am

Sophia Yánez -USA/Peru/Ecuador-

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Sep 252016

Sophia Yánez TAPFNY 2016Sophia Yánez (1967) was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, the State of 10,000 lakes. She was educated in the countries of Perú and Ecuador and has published 5 poetry books. The Sunflower Line (2000), Tingshas (2014), Mutual birds of Shanghai (2014), Poems of Peruvian Step (2015) and Port of Hayu Marka (2016). This year, she has travelled to Peru, Bolivia and New York for different literary events, such as the Literary Congress held by Antonio Cornejo Polar Foundation and Jalla 2016 (Jornadas Andinas de Literatura Latinoamericana). Sophía is interested in research of sacredness related to latinamerican literary tradition. At present, she is ending her doctoral studies at UASB in Quito, Ecuador and teaches Creative Writing at Facso UCE (Communication Faculty at Universidad Central del Ecuador).

Cuerpo Libre

Este es mi Cuerpo Libre
extensión de otros cuerpos.
Esta es la Vena Cava
que no acaba de yugular
tu pecho en mi pecho.
(Tambor. Tambor)
Este es mi cuerpo libre.
Estos son los altares.
Mis graves ojos nevados.
Vuelo Blando. Búho níveo.
Escritura de rosas
y ciervos y jazmines.

Este es mi cuerpo libre.
Mi pan de otros cuerpos.
Tendones que se dicen en hilos de Luna y de Sol.
(Tambor. Tambor)

Vamos en desnudez de palabras
tejiendo cada día
esta piel de palabras
voz que galopa
hacia fuera de mi cuello.

Yo decreto mi Cuerpo Libre
Hálito de Aire que se rebasa a si mismo
vestido por el canto de todos.

 Posted by at 10:09 am

Jorge Aguilera López -Mexico-

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Sep 252016

Jorge Aguilera López(México, 1979). Master in Mexican Letters and full time professor at UNAM. He was awarded the medal “Alfonso Caso” the university credit for their graduate studies. He is a founding member of the Research Seminar in Contemporary Mexican Poetry, which was coordinator during the period 2012-2014. He was a collaborator of Periódico de poesía UNAM from 2010 to 2014. Articles and his poems have appeared in various books and magazines published in Mexico and Latin America. He is author of  Glosar Rupestre (Mexico, Versodestierro, 2014).

Escribes como quien recibe un soplo de luna en las mejillas.
No es eso a lo que llaman inspiración, es cierto,
es apenas la ley de gravedad que hace caer las palabras en su centro.

Escribes y yo reparo cacharros, pienso que siempre he sido útil
para las cosas que no sirven.

Escribes para jugar a las adivinanzas, escribes acerca de falsedades y apariencias
porque no hay verdad que valga en tus palabras.

Escribes y yo sigo el paso gastado de los cables rotos,
creo que mi talento no alcanzó nunca para reparar lo inservible.

Escribes de la nada, de la insignificancia, del absurdo.

Escribes y encuentro la vocación de mis puños.

 Posted by at 9:52 am

Raúl Pérez Torres -Ecuador-

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Sep 252016

Raúl Pérez Torres TAPFNY 2016Raúl Pérez Torres is a writer, poet and journalist. During the seventies, Pérez Torres started as a writer with Da llevando, and he was also member of the editorial board of the literary magazine La bufanda del sol (The sun’s scarf). On the next decade he was in charge of Letras del Ecuador, literary magazine edited by Casa de la Cultura Ecuatoriana. Among his main works are Teoría del Desencanto (Disenchantment Theory); (Quito, 1985) Musiquero joven, musiquero viejo which was awarded the National Prize “José de la Cuadra”- (Guayaquil, 1977); En la noche y en la niebla eaned him the prestigious Premio Casa de las Américas, La Habana, 1979- (Quito, 1980); Ana la pelota humana (Ana the human ball) (Quito, 1978) awarded as the best book edited in Quito with the José Mejía Prize, given by the Mayor’s office. Cuentos Escogidos -anthology- (Quito, 1991); Solo cenizas hallarás– (Only ashes you will find), the Juan Rulfo (France), and the Julio Cortazar Award. El tiempo esa pluma, y, Textos y Pretextos (Quito 2007). Nosotros los de entonces-anthology (Quito 2012). Since 2016 he is on his third presidency of Casa de la Cultura Ecuatoriana.

El otro

Tengo en mi cabeza cien espíritus
drogados de insomnio
cada uno me lanza sus dardos venenosos
su baba de espuma.

Me han cortado la cabeza
y la han arrojado a la olla de fuego
han roto todos mis huesos
he dormido azul durante nueve meses
han bebido mi sangre
en copas de cristal frizado
me han descuartizado
y han vaciado las cuencas
de mis ojos.

He viajado al infierno
como un ritual de iniciación
donde Beatriz me esperaba
musgo de eternidad

He muerto
durante treinta y seis meses sagrados
y he resucitado y he vagado
dos primaveras como un bebé lunático;

Ahora curo el desasosiego
y la incertidumbre,
aquellas fallas
que el griego desmintió.

Soy un Shamán.

 Posted by at 9:38 am

Kadiri J. Vaquer Fernández -Puerto Rico-

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Sep 252016

Kadiri J. Vaquer Fernández TAPFNY 2016 Kadiri J. Vaquer Fernández (Puerto Rico, 1987) Holds a BA in Interdisciplinary Studies from the University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras, a MFA in Creative Writing in Spanish from NYU (New York University) and is currently a PhD Candidate in the Department of Spanish and Portuguese at Vanderbilt University where she is working on her dissertation that explores the aesthetic of provocation in contemporary Puerto Rican cultural production. She is also a poet, translator and editor of the multidisciplinary magazine Furman 217. In 2012 she received an honorary mention by Ediciones Callejón which published her collection of poetry titled Andamiaje in 2013. Her poems have been included in anthologies and other online magazines.


en esta cueva
de mareas tempranas,
en este escondite
de anhelos recurrentes,

me detengo a mirar
el reguero de espuma
que irá marcando la distancia,
aquella distancia
a la que quisiera darle otro nombre

y que un día será
como un largo bostezo,
como una cadena de pueblos
desplegándose por el camino.

y ese día,
el olor que solía encaracolarse
en la curva perfecta entre tu hombro
y tu aliento, será otro,
y tú serás otro,
en una cama
al otro lado del mar.

 Posted by at 9:19 am

Vicente Robalino -Ecuador-

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Sep 252016

Vicente Robalino TAPFNY 2016Vicente Robalino, Ecuador. Professor at Pontificia Universidad Católica del Ecuador. He has published: Póngase de una vez en desacuerdo (1990), Sobre la hierba el día (2001), Cuando el cuerpo se desprende del alba (2007), La invención del cielo (2008), El animal de la costumbre (2010) and  Para empezar el olvido (2013).

Ya no responden al llamado del espejo

El lunes apenas se sostiene de un clavo enmohecido
como un traje que envejece en solemne soltería.
No hay quién reclame ese burdo maniquí
intolerable aún en la ventana.
Muerto feliz junto a las flores resentidas
que ya no responden al llamado del espejo.

A esta hora incipiente
uno olvida en el jardín la confianza peregrina
de que dios aún soporta la bóveda celeste
con su deplorable bondad que más huele a sacrificio.

 Posted by at 9:07 am

Milton Fernando Romero Obando -Ecuador-

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Sep 252016

Milton Fernando Romero Obando TAPFNY 2016Milton Fernando Romero Obando, Ecuador. Writer, painter, and professor. International Consultant at St. John´s University (NY). Milton teaches at Universidad Católica del Ecuador. He has had numerous poems, essays, and collections of paintings published in the literary journal Entre Rascacielos  (NY). He has published:  Terra, poemas terrenos y terrenales (1997). Milton has participated in poetry festivals in USA and Ecuador.

Elegía a Ingapirca.

Una piedra robada
De los suelos sacros de Ingapirca,
Gramo de un instante terminal.

Me pesan décadas en el bolsillo,
Sobras de una memoria dorada,
Relicario de una semblanza.

Veo en mis manos sal,
Lágrimas asfixiadas de Nibiru
Millones en el campo de Ingapirca.

Me pesan gritos ahogados en mi bolsillo,
La lágrima me muestra la desventura,
Lágrima estéril.

Alfombra malditamente gris,
Una a una, cada lágrima fue forjada,
Rosario infinito de amarguras.

Esos ojos que siguen allí,
Perturban una noche maligna,
Maternal instinto de difunto.

En mi bolsillo me pesan golpes de pecho
Petrificada melancolía,
Sombras de santos capulí.

¡Maldito! Sacarle una lágrima a la madre,
¡No puedo más! El bolsillo se me rompe,
Y caen los niños,
Queriendo abrazar a su madre,
Millones de lágrimas,
Secretos de sombras agoreras,
Inmutables espinas de fe.

 Posted by at 8:39 am

Asdrubal Hernandez -Venezuela-

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Sep 232016

Asdrubal Hernandez TAPFNY 2016

Asdrubal Hernandez (Caracas, 1977). Publisher, writer and photographer. He has worked for several print and digital media in Venezuela and U.S.A. On 2011 he founded Sudaquia Editores, a publishing house of books in Spanish for the U.S. market. He is a promoter of Latin American culture and literature, and loves to live in New York City with his wife, son and cat.

La Piñata

La ilusión de un niño,
el esfuerzo de unos padres.

El trabajo de un artesano
hasta lograr la figura acordada.

Las sorpresas que rellenan
el interior de la piñata.

Una soga que atan,
unos niños que gritan
y otro, que apaleándola
se divierte.

Claramente se percibe
la euforia desbordada,
la alegría que en sus ojos brilla.
Muchas risas, muchos gritos.

La pobre piñata
no soporta un palazo más.

La agarran, la rompen
y su relleno reparten,
mientras debajo de ella
aqueos y troyanos
por los juguetes se enfrenta.

Una cuerda floja,
pedazos de cartón regado,
un suelo sucio.

 Posted by at 5:06 pm

Elizabeth Lara -USA-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Elizabeth Lara -USA-
Sep 232016

Elizabeth Lara  TAPFNYElizabeth Lara has worked as a language teacher and editor. Her poems have appeared in print and online, including The Mom Egg Review, Edna, Confluencia in the Valley: The First Five Years of Converging with  Words, Ex Tempore, Truck, and The Wide Shore: A Journal of Global Women’s Poetry. With B. Weisbrot and D. A. Holnes, she edited Happiness: The Delight-Tree – An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry (United Nations SRC Society of Writers, 2015). In 2011 she was a resident at the Millay Colony.


Riddles aren’t
the musings of
old wise men.
They aren’t the stories
your grandmother tells
at bedtime.
Riddles are fire
in the mind—
words rubbing one
against the other
until at last—
a spark.


Las adivinanzas no son
de viejos sabios
ni son las historias
que te cuenta la abuela
a la hora de dormir.
Las adivinanzas
son un fuego
en la mente—
palabras frotándose
una contra la otra
hasta que finalmente—
sale la chispa.

 Posted by at 4:01 pm

Patricio Lerzundi –Chile–

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Patricio Lerzundi –Chile–
Sep 222016

Patricio Lerzundi TAPFNY 2016Patricio Lerzundi is a Chilean writer and journalist who has made his home in New York since the late sixties, where he earned a Ph.D. in Golden Age Spanish Literature. To date he has published six books of poetry. One of them Nuestro Señor Queupulicán received the 1985 Linden Lane Magazine First Prize in Poetry. He has also published six academic books, including four critical annotated editions of Spanish plays dealing with the Colonial Conquest of Chile. As a journalist Lerzundi has worked for UPI and two Spanish language newspapers. Today he is a host of the CUNY-TV “Nueva York” Program, for which he has received five NY Emmys, two Emmy nominations and one Communicator Award. At Lehman College, CUNY, he first served as Chair of the Department of Languages and Literatures. There he created the Multilingual Journalism Program (the only one in the country) the Bronx Journal, a multilingual newspaper now online and “Inside Lehman” a half-hour student/faculty video production which has received 33 industry awards. Currently Lerzundi serves as Chair Lehman’s Department of Journalism, Communication and Theatre Department.

José a secas


Todo el mundo sabe de memoria
las últimas palabras que pronunció mi niño en la cruz
pero de las mías no se acuerda nadie
eso no debe extrañar sin embargo
tratándose de quien soy yo
un pobre carpintero ignorante
que al escuchar la palabra escatología
no sabe si hablar de la vida de ultratumba
o de la mierda


De mí hay poco que contar
me conocen más por mi mujer
y por mi hijo adoptivo

Lucas y Mateo afirman
que soy descendiente directo del rey David
pero yo no le doy mucho crédito a estos chismes
por bien intencionados que sean

La historia es como sigue:
me casé por seguir la corriente
y cumplir con tres deberes sagrados
– plantar un árbol
– escribir un libro
– concebir un hijo
no le achunté a ninguno

Plain Joe


Everybody knows by heart
the last words my son said on the cross
but nobody remembers mine
However, that shouldn’t surprise anyone
taking into consideration who I am:
a poor ignorant carpenter
who upon listening to the word scatology
does not know if it relates to afterlife
or to shit *
* both meanings in Spanish


There’s not much to tell about me
I am better known for my wife
and for my adopted son.

According to Luke and Mathew
I am a direct descendant of King David
but I don’t give much credence to these gossips
-as well intentioned as they may be-
The truth is like this:
I got married like anybody else
to comply with three sacred duties
– plant a tree
– write a book
– conceive a child
I didn’t achieve any of them

 Posted by at 10:42 pm

Ralph Nazareth –India–

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Ralph Nazareth –India–
Sep 222016

Ralph Nazareth TAPFNY 2016Ralph Nazareth, retired Professor of English at Nassau Community College on Long Island, is the president of Grace Works Inc., a charitable foundation engaged in outreach in the developing world. He is also Managing Editor of Yuganta Press in Stamford. For the past eleven years he has been a volunteer teacher of creative writing at maximum security prisons in New York State. Nazareth has participated in poetry festivals in U.S., India, the Middle East, and in Latin America. His poetry and prose have appeared in books, magazines, and journals in the US and abroad, including most recently in the award-winning collection Indivisible: An Anthology of Contemporary South Asian American Poetry and Multilingual Anthology: The Americas Poetry Festival of New York 2014 & 2015. His collection of poems Ferrying Secrets was published in 2005 in Hyderabad, India and Cristal: Poemas Selectos was released by El Quirofano Ediciones in Ecuador in 2015.


I’ve seen
glass blowers
stretch little

into much.
Such is my hope
for words—

blowing syllables up
to hold a world
close to breaking.


He visto
sopladores de cristal
estrecharle de poquito

a mucho.
Tal es mi esperanza
con las palabras—

soplo sílabas
para aguantar un mundo
pronto a romperse.

 Posted by at 9:54 pm

Seamus Scanlon –Ireland–

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Seamus Scanlon –Ireland–
Sep 222016

Seamus Scanlon TAPFNY 2016Seamus Scanlon is a Galway (Ireland) born author based in New York. His flash fiction and poetry have appeared in Mondays Are Murder (Akashic Books), The Fish Anthologies and The Americas Poetry Festival of New York anthologies. His award winning play The McGowan Trilogy (Arlen House) was produced by the Cell Theater Company in New York in September 2014 as part of Origin’s 1st Irish Theater festival. His first story collection As Close As You’ll Ever Be was published by Cairn Press (2012). He is a resident artist at the Cell Theater and a Fellow of The McDowell Colony, La Mus, Dora Maar House and The Center For Fiction. He is the librarian at City College’s Center for Worker Education.

Fine Tuned

A teenage boy with blue green eyes lies still.
Waits all day.
The rifle’s long barrel is brushed with cement dust to dull the bright gleam from the August sun. He sips warm brackish water.
He pisses into a milk bottle during the long hours.
He eats dry bread from a cracked blue ceramic bowl.
The sun sears all below.
In the broken street a father edges forward gripping the hand of his young daughter.
She tries to keep pace on her spindly legs, tripping from fatigue.
Fires burn in the east.
On the northern hills smoke blossoms from concealed artillery.
The lonesome sharp clap of sniper rifles fills the beautiful dead city.
The boy adjusts the scope – watches – waits – he uses a bandana to wipe sweat from his forehead so it doesn’t bleed into his eyes.
He moves the rifle slightly to be perfectly positioned.
It makes a faint metal-against-concrete scrape.
The father pauses, crouches, pulls the girl down.
In mid step she falls awkwardly.
Cries out.
He puts his hand over her mouth.
They watch – they wait.
He scans the windows and balconies of shattered apartment blocks.
He listens to the acute silence of the carved out streets.
He slowly stands up.
The girl gets to her feet. She licks her parched lips.
The boy pulls the trigger.
The loud report always surprises him.
He watches the girl somersault back against the bullet pocked wall.
The father kneels, grabs her, holds her.
Her blood cascades onto him and the ground.
The rubble dust eats it up.
The boy tracks the father far below.
The telescopic sight he holds steady on the man’s left temple.
The boy does not fire.
He is fine tuned to inflicting full pain.
He crawls back into the ruined cave of the high rise pushing his rifle before him.

 Posted by at 9:25 pm

Michelle Yasmine Valladares –India/Kuwait/USA–

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Michelle Yasmine Valladares –India/Kuwait/USA–
Sep 222016

Michelle Yasmine Valladares  TAPFNY 2016Poet and filmmaker, Michelle Yasmine Valladares was born in India and lives in Brooklyn.  She is the author of Nortada, The North Wind  (Global City Press) Her poem “CUNY Writers Reading Against Austerity” was published in Clarion.  Her poem “Papers and Pearls” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  Her publications include Clockhouse, The Literary Review and the anthologies, Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia & Beyond, and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry by Indians.  Her award winning films include,  Co-Producer, O Sertão das Memórias, directed by José Araújo, Brazil, Best Latin American Film, 1997 Sundance Festival, Co-producer, El Diablo Nunca Duerme directed by Lourdes Portillo. Mexico/US; Associate producer,  Imagining Indians with Hopi filmmaker, Victor Masayesva, JrShe is the Director of the MFA Program in Creative Writing at The City College of New York.

the world we choose, the world we love

for Nicole Kaltz

Pears ripen. The turtle crosses
a walking path to her nesting ground.
My dog attacks her own shadow.

Lily pads cover the lake,
rise from the muck
of fallen trunks and storm

debris. Green algae thick
on the pond. Early
summer and it is cool.

In San Miguel my sweet
girl is dying of cancer.
The wall built between Tijuana

and San Diego extends into
the Pacific. Deported
mothers kept from their babies

by finger-thick slats, use
fingers, Kissing fingers
for te amo— te echo de menos.

A sparrow has a dirt bath
and the bottlebrush buckeye
blossoms stand upright

like drill sergeants
instructing the clouds
and sun. Monarchs

appear among the white
and yellow butterflies
in the rain garden.

A praying mantis wavers
on a blade of grass. The cornelian
cherry drops its fruit

in the small palms
of children as offerings.
Aspen branches rustle

in the wind, remind
us of a heaven
we stopped believing.

But our burning world
in your thin arms
is the same one we choose
to practice love in.

 Posted by at 8:23 pm

Pedro Arturo Estrada -Colombia-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Pedro Arturo Estrada -Colombia-
Sep 222016

Pedro Arturo Estrada TAPFNY 2016Pedro Arturo Estrada (1956) Is a Colombian poet, story teller and essayist. He has published the following books: Poems en blanco y negro (1994); Fatum (2000); Oscura edad (2006); Suma del tiempo (2009); Des/historias (2012); Poemas de Otraparte (2012); Locus Solus (2013); Blanco y negro (2014); Monodia (2015). Among others, he received the Ciro Mendía and Casa Silva awards in 2004 and 2013 respectivily. His work has been included in anthologies around the world.

Mientras Cioran enmudece

En las cimas de la desesperación
también el silencio,
la ebriedad del silencio.

En las cimas de la lucidez
también la alegría
de no ser nada.

En las cimas de la soledad
también la risa,
la máscara de la risa.

En las cimas del vacío
la rotundidad de un cuerpo,
el deseo.

En las cimas del deseo
también la rotundidad
de su vacío.

As Cioran Goes Silent

In the summits of despair
also silence,
the drunkenness of silence.

In the summits of lucidity
also the joy
of being nothing.

In the summits of loneliness
also laughter,
the mask of laughter.

In the summits of the void
the rotundity of a body,

In the summits of desire
also the rotundity
of its void.

Translated by Laura Chalar

 Posted by at 1:36 pm

Rolando Pérez -Cuba-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Rolando Pérez -Cuba-
Sep 222016

Rolando Perez TAPFNY 2016Rolando Pérez is professor of Spanish and Latin American literature and philosophy at the Romance Languages Department of Hunter College—CUNY. He is the author of numerous publications on the Neo-Baroque, and the relation between literature, the visual arts, and philosophy. He has written on Severo Sarduy, César Vallejo, Alejandra Pizarnik, Octavio Paz, as well as on Bartolomé de Las Casas, Enrique Dussel, Gilles Deleuze & Félix Guattari, Emmanuel Lévinas, and Alain Badiou. Pérez is also the author of a number of literary works, some which have been anthologized in The Norton Anthology of Latino Literature (2012). His most recent publications is Severo Sarduy and the Neo-Baroque Image of Thought in the Visual Arts (2011).  Forthcoming in late 2016 are Filosofia y culturas hispánicas: Nuevas perspectivas, co-edited with Nuria Morgado and Agorapoetics: Poetics After Postmodernism, book of essays by various critics and philosophers.

Meseta 25

Se mueve
Se escapa
No hay nadie como Aurelia. Siempre que intento tocarla, para poseerla, desaparece detrás del mundo.
La llamo por su nombre.
La invito a compartir mi desierto.
La invito a que se quede.
Pero ella se escapa, desafía la gravedad, desafía el espacio. Y hay quienes han muerto persiguiéndola; por haberla confundido por alguien más se han ahorcado en el nombre de una reina egipcia.
Es más ligera que el aire.
Desaparece y se convierte en otra persona, no desea estar contaminada por una tierra que no es tierra, ni por un desierto que no es desierto. Y deambula sin cesar, en busca de una ciudad perdida (la antigua ciudad del Faraón), en busca de una identidad, en busca de algo que, como ella, es innombrable.
Existe incluso la historia de un hombre en particular que, vestido de uniforme, se propuso encontrarla. Y entonces, un día mientras caminaba, algo quedó atrapado entre sus dientes.

Plateau 25

She moves.
She dances.
She escapes.
There is no one like Aurelia. Whenever I try to touch her, to possess her, she disappears behind the world.
I call her name.
I invite her to share my desert.
I invite her to stay.
But she escapes, she defies gravity, she defies space. And there are those who have died following her; for having confused her with someone else they have hanged themselves in the name of an Egyptian Queen.
She is lighter than air.
She disappears and becomes someone else, not wishing to be contaminated by an earth which is not an earth, and by a desert which is not a desert. And she wanders endlessly, looking for some lost city (the old city of the Pharaoh), looking for some identity, looking for something which like herself is unnameable.
There is even the story of one particular man who, dressed in uniform, set out to find her. And then one day as he was walking something got caught between his teeth.

Traducción/Translation por/by Nuria Morgado

 Posted by at 1:06 pm

Margarita Drago -Argentina-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Margarita Drago -Argentina-
Sep 222016

Margarita Drago TAPFNY 2016Margarita Drago is an Argentinean professor, poet and narrator who has lived in the USA since she was released from prison. As former political prisoner, poet  and writer she has participated in conferences, colloquia, book fairs and poetry festivals in the USA, Argentina, Peru, Brazil, Mexico,  Honduras, El Salvador, Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Cuba, Canada, Spain and France. She is the author of   the memoir Fragmentos de la memoria. Recuerdos de una experiencia carcelaria (1975-1980)/ Memory Tracks. Fragments from Prison (1975-1980); the poetry collection Con la memoria al ras de la garganta; co-author with Juana M. Ramos of Tomamos la palabra: mujeres en la guerra civil de El Salvador (1980-1992); and the poetry collection Hijas de los vuelos (Argentina, in press). Her work has appeared in literary, educational and human rights journals in the USA, Latin America and Spain.

Atada de pies y manos

Quién diría, yo que vi a la muerte pasearse muy oronda en los pasillos de Villa
Devoto, en los pabellones de la vieja alcaidía, tras las rejas y frente a ellas. Yo que he visto tantas veces su ojo amenazante apuntarme con certeza detrás de la mirilla de la celdas, me encuentro aquí, en la cuna del imperio, al que combatí con palos de escoba y jarros de aluminio, con lapicitos de punta fina y con el arma más certera: la palabra. Me encuentro aquí, en esta urbe decadente, atada de pies y manos, desovillando el pasado, buscando el punto de partida y un puerto donde anclar. ¿Volver al origen? No sé si pueda, he mudado tantas pieles, he caminado tantas ciudades, he aprendido a distinguir tantas lenguas y tantas variedades de la mía, que no sé si logre encajar en la vida pueblerina y ver el mundo desde la única ventana que lo vieron mis ancestros. Lo cierto es que aquí tampoco quepo. Tengo a mi disposición muchas ventanas que me permiten ver el mundo desde múltiples ángulos; pero me faltan manos que las abran y ojos que miren a través de ellas. Me faltan los pobrecitos de mis pueblos, los sin techo, los malhablados que no fueron a la escuela, los sin dientes, los sin ropa, los que ven el pan de cada día en la mesa de los ricos. Me hacen falta los niños, los jóvenes, las mujeres de mis barrios.
Me hacen falta mis hermanos.

Bound hand and foot

Who would say it, I, who saw death very smug pacing through the hallways of Villa Devoto, in the pavilions of the mayoralty, behind bars and in front of them. I, who have seen so many times its threatening eye take aim at me with certainty behind the cells’ peephole, I find myself here, in the empire’s cradle, which I fought with broomsticks and aluminum jugs, with little pencils with sharp points and with the most accurate weapon: the word. I find myself here, in this decadent metropolis, bound hand and foot, unraveling the past, searching for a starting point, and a port where to drop anchor. Coming back to the origin? I don’t know if I can, I have shed so many skins, I have walked so many cities, I have learned to distinguish so many languages and so many varieties of my own, that I don’t know if I will manage to fit in a small-town life and to see the world from the only window that my ancestors saw it from. The truth is that I don’t fit here either. I have at my disposal many windows that allow me to see the world from many angles, but I have no hands to open them or eyes to look through them. I need the poor ones from my towns, the ones without a roof, the foulmouthed who didn’t go to school, the toothless, the ones with no clothes, the ones who see their daily bread in the tables of the wealthy. I need the children, the young, the women of my neighborhoods.
I need my siblings.

Translated by Iara Cardo

 Posted by at 12:27 pm

Juana M. Ramos -El Salvador-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Juana M. Ramos -El Salvador-
Sep 222016

Juana M. Ramos TAPFNY 2016Juana M. Ramos was born in Santa Ana, El Salvador. She has been living in New York since 1990. She is a writer, poet and educator. As a poet she has participated and represented her country in different poetry conferences and cultural activities in New York City, México, El Salvador, Spain, Dominican Republic, Colombia, Honduras, Cuba, Argentina, and Puerto Rico. In June 2010 she published her first poetry book Multiplicada en mí and in 2014 a second edition revised and extended was published.  Her poetry book Palabras al borde de mis labios was published in Mexico by miCieloediciones. She is coauthor of the book of testimonies Tomamos la palabra: mujeres en la guerra civil de El Salvador (1980-1992) published by UCA Editores in 2016. Her poems have also appeared in anthologies, digital journals and blogs and literary magazines in Latin America, Spain, and the United States.

Ciudad de Nueva York – Segunda parte

De vuelta a tus entrañas
a tu vientre que me recibe,
estoica me abro paso entre la multitud.
Llego a ti y me tiras un bocado de esperanza
que me mantiene viva, me da un poco de calma.
Con la palabra avergonzada retorno a tu boca
que se abre y me repite una promesa.
Ciudad que me urge a contarlo todo
a observarlo todo: una noticia pregonada en
su momento bajo la banca de una estación cualquiera,
una mujer mayor vestida de blanco que predica
el apocalipsis con la histeria de aquel al que abandonan.
Ciudad sirena, canto sin cesar, me obliga a detenerme,
me amarro a los recuerdos; muero cada noche en tu noche,
pero no es mi tiempo y me devuelvo a la voz de tu latido caótico,
ciudad banquete poblada de Tántalos, piedra sobre la que
a diario edifico mi infierno, a cuestas te llevo, te empujo a
la cima, ciudad completa que se me precipita.

New York City – Second Part

Again into your guts
Into your belly that receives me,
Stoic I make my way through the crowd.
I arrive to you and you throw me a bite of hope
That keeps me alive, gives me a bit of calm.
With the ashamed word I return to your mouth
That opens and repeats a promise to me.
City that urges me to tell it all
To observe it all: news proclaimed in
Its moment under the bench of a random station,
An older woman dressed in white who preaches
The apocalypse with the hysteria of the abandoned.
Siren city, unending chant, compels me to stop,
I tie myself to the memories; I die each night in your night,
But it is not my time and I return to the voice of your chaotic beat,
Banquet city inhabited by many Tantalus, stone over which
I build my hell each day; I carry you on my back,
I push you to the summit, entire city that plunges over me.

Translated by Iara Cardo

 Posted by at 12:01 pm

Mariana Vacs -Argentina-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Mariana Vacs -Argentina-
Sep 192016

Mariana Vacs TAPFNY 2016Mariana Vacs was born in Rosario, Argentina. She is a poet and cultural activist. Mariana has participated in poetry festivals in Mexico, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, Ecuador and Argentina. Her work has been included in anthologies in Latin America and USA. She has published the books Infimo Infinito (2006) and Espina de Maguey (2012). Her book Nadie muere en su sueño is about to be released in Mexico.


Abrí un libro tuyo,
cuando empiezo sos vos
la que habla.
Te escucho alargar las palabras,
estás ahí frágil como el agua.

Me gusta tu voz
cuando se aparece al abrir el libro,
es como si te sentaras a mi lado
y miráramos el cielo.
Yo, la estela de un avión
que hace surcos del aire.
Vos, el vuelo de un aguilucho,
un puntito en la tarde.


I opened one of your books,
as I begin it is you
the one who speaks.
I hear you elongating words,
you are there fragile like water.

I like your voice
as it appears while I open the book,
it is as if you were seated next to me
looking at the sky together.
I, a plane wake
tracing furrows with air.
You, the flight of an eaglet,
a little dot in the afternoon.

Translated by Carlos Aguasaco

 Posted by at 7:43 pm

Regina Jamison -USA-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Regina Jamison -USA-
Sep 192016

Regina Jamison TAPFNY 2016Regina Jamison is a writer and educator who lives in Brooklyn, New York.  Her poetry has appeared in print in Promethean Literary Journal, Off the Rocks: An Anthology of GLBT Writing Vols. 14 & 15, and Poetry in Performance Journal Vol. 43.  Online her poetry has appeared on Indolent Press HIV Here & Now Series, Silver Birch Press – Me as a Child Series, and Promethean eZine.  Her erotic short stories have appeared in Girls Who Bite: Vampire Lesbian Anthology and Purple Panties: Anthology of Black Lesbian Erotica. She is a 2014 Fellow of the Lambda Literary Emerging Writer’s Retreat and an excerpt from her upcoming novel Lurleen appears in the Lambda Literary Emerging Writers AnthologyGaslight.  She attends City College in New York where she is working on completing her MFA in Creative Writing.

Butterfly King –Heroic Ballad –

Weightless, through monsoon rains gale winds you fly
persistent, valiant, you personify
the hero. Milkweed, Common Tiger, names you
are called, but Monarch fits you best of all.
Butterfly King, high and free, the view to
you all blues and greens, this life you love falls
on your wings, orange and black catch the eye
you, catch the current then way up you fly
East of the Rockies, south to Mexico
no memory no map but off you go
fat in your belly, cold air burns your wings
late summer comes, time to pack up your things
each struggles alone ’til the very end
three thousand miles just to hook up with friends
down in Mexico, time to celebrate
el Diá de los Muertos don’t be late
smiles on faces watch as you darken the sky
too many to count so don’t even try
souls of warriors, children – their spirits anew
we flower their graves, chant blessings for you
who give us this honor but once a year
then journey back north, how you persevere
Butterfly King, you’re a hero to me.

 Posted by at 6:45 pm

Elsa Batista Pimentel -Dominican Rep.-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Elsa Batista Pimentel -Dominican Rep.-
Sep 192016

Elsa Elsa Batista Pimentel TAPFNY 2016Elsa Elsa Batista Pimentel, was born in San José de Ocoa, Dominican Republic. She graduated from Passaic County Community College and Kaplan University. Batista Pimentel has published the books Puerto del Deseo (2004), Cenizas de Ausencias (2007), Lasitud del Vuelo (2011) and Siempre Odie los gatos (2014). Her work was included in the anthology Noche de Vinos y RosasNostalgias de Arenas, y A viva Bosh, Cien poetas cantan a Juan Bosh. One of her poems was made into a song and included in the CD Del poema a la canción  produced by Centro para el Desarrollo de la Mujer Dominicana en NY. Elsa Batista is the current director of La casa de la Cultura Dominicana de New Jersey and is also the executive director of Rumbo Dominicano magazine.

Cada noche muere un pájaro

Cada noche muere un pájaro en mis ojos
en la desolación cansada de mis sábanas
cada pájaro es un relicario
donde se guardan celosamente los tormentos
esperando el segundo determinante y preciso
Cada noche es pájaro muerto
mi almohada,
víctima de mi verdad, vieja y recién descubierta
albores falsos
de tantos despertares imprecisos.
Las alas de la frialdad envuelven mi pesadumbre
sembrando pájaros muertos en mis parpados
para multiplicarse luego
en la realidad de las cenizas
Desfile de cadáveres penígeros
dejan su estela acuosa
en cada intersticio de la nocturnidad
cada noche hay un pájaro menos en la risa
una sonrisa que se ausenta de la ventana
donde hecha polvo el alma nigromante
no es mentira de lo eterno.

Each Night a Bird Dies

Each night a bird dies in my eyes
in the tired desolation of my sheets
Each bird is a reliquary
where are jealously kept the torments
waiting for the critical and precise second
Each night my pillow is dead bird
victim of my old and recently uncovered truth
false dawns
of so many inaccurate awakenings
Wings of the coldness, wrap my sorrow
planting dead birds in my eyelids
to multiply then
in the realty of the ashes
Parade of winged corpses
leaves its watery trail
in each gap of the nocturnality
Each night there is a less bird in the laugh
An smile is missing in the window
where done dust, the necromantic soul
it is not lie of the eternal.

 Posted by at 6:05 pm

William Marín Osorio -Colombia-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on William Marín Osorio -Colombia-
Sep 192016

William Marín Osorio TAPFNY 2016William Marín Osorio was born in 1966 in Pereira, Colombia. Poet, essayist and narrator. He is a professor at Universidad Tecnológica de Pereira. Marín Osorio earned a Master in Spanish-American Literature from Instituto Caro y Cuervo.  He is currently a PhD candidate at Universidad de Buenos Aires. He has published articles in specialized national and international magazines and is the author of the books of poems: Los incendios de la soledad. Poemas de amor y homenaje (2016), La rosa de los vientos (2005).  He  has also published the book of short stories Una cita en la ciudad al final de la tarde (2008, 2010) and books of essays: Análisis sociosemiótico de la novela Del amor y otros demonios. Una perspectiva sociocrítica (2003), Hacia una didáctica de la lengua y la literatura (2003). His poems have been translated into English and Portuguese.

Vallejo, el poeta de la herejía

Tus Poemas humanos
tu España, aparta de mí este cáliz
tu Trilce y su música del agua
tus Heraldos negros que cabalgan en la noche fugitiva
y tus Marías tiernas que se van
tu canto a los seres ensombrecidos por la guerra
tu palabra como siembra prodigiosa
restituyó la vida del hombre caído
y su barco que naufraga
sombra en las manos del tiempo
en medio de mares tempestuosos y oscuros
arco de plata que iniciará de nuevo su viaje
la siembra y el ciclo de rosas sin espinas
que se estremecen de placer al sentir tu piel de poeta
en la diáspora de un París con aguacero.

Vallejo, Poet of the Heresy

Your Human Poems
Your Spain Take This Chalice From Me 
your Trilce and its water music
your Black Heralds who ride at night runaway
and your tender Marias that go away
your song to the beings overshadowed by the war
your Word as prodigious sowing
restored the life of fallen man
and his ship sinking
Shadow on the hands of the time
in the middle of stormy and dark seas
Silver Bow that it will start again its journey
sowing and the cycle of roses without thorns
that shudder of pleasure to feel your skin of poet
in the diaspora of a Paris with downpour.

 Posted by at 4:38 pm

Pilar Gonzalez Santos -USA-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Pilar Gonzalez Santos -USA-
Sep 192016

Pilar Gonzalez TAPFNY 2016Pilar Gonzalez Santos is a New York-based actress, writer, and translator. She is an alumni of the City College of New York where she earned her Bachelor’s degree in theatre and creative writing. Acting credits include Scheherezade in The Arabian Nights (Aaron Davis Hall) and Isabel on The Hunt with John Walsh (CNN). She recently co-directed Legally Blonde, Jr. with students at St. Brigid School in Manhattan, and directed her devised work entitled I Celebrate Myself: A Conversation with Walt Whitman at the Davenport Theatre. Her translation work includes the poetry of writers such as Tomas Modesto Galan and Eduardo Lantigua.

Haikus for the Solstices


Open windows sing.
Hands reach for frío frío –
“Ma, tienes un dólar?”


Bears dream of April.
Children dance with the snowflakes.
The trees are lonely.

 Posted by at 11:49 am

Pedro Serrano -Mexico-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Pedro Serrano -Mexico-
Sep 192016

Pedro Serrano TAPFNY 2016Pedro Serrano (Montreal 1957) is Director of the Banff International Literary Translation Centre and Editor of Periódico de Poesía at UNAM, where he also teaches. He recently published DefenßaS, a book on poetry and wanderings, and Cuentas claras, a collection of poems. He was granted the Guggenheim fellowship in 2007. He was granted the Guggenheim fellowship in 2007 and in 2016 received the Prix Internationale de Poésie Antonio Viccaro. Peatlands, translated by Anna Crowe and introduced by W.N. Herbert, was published in 2014, by Arc Publications in Great Britain.


Encerrada en el círculo lento de sus actos
se desenrosca azul y colorada y amarilla,
una hilera de anillos estropeados,
güichi, güichi, la tierra raspa, duele,
se incrusta granulenta en la morosidad del cuerpo.
Se arrastra, güichi, güichi.
Apenas mueve alguna rama,
hace correr un ras de polvo,
una línea del suelo.
Alzada queda del esplendor plano por un impulso cervical,
por una continuidad de mil argollas que avanzan,
por un esfuerzo contráctil y apretado.
Al mismo tiempo la punta de la cola,
el latigazo alerta,
la lengua como perro agazapada al piso.
Toda la fuerza y el enojo se untan al suelo,
se adentran,
se achatan tensos a su presa.
Güichi, güichi.

(De Nueces)



Locked in the slow circle of its actions
it uncoils blue and red and yellow,
damaged rings all gathered in a necklace,
güichi, güichi, the ground is scraping, hurting,
lodging grittily in the body’s slowness.
Creeping forward, güichi, güichi.
Barely a blade of grass it flusters,
making dust run on the level,
a line upon the horizontal.
It stays reared above splendid groundwork through an
impulse in the neck,
through a continuing of a thousand coils advancing,
through a tightened and contractile effort.
At the same time too the tail’s tip,
whip-lash watchful,
tongue out flat like a dog, afraid of being trampled.
All that strength and anger chafe the ground beneath it,
going inwards,
flattening and tensing for its prey.
Güichi, güichi.

(Peatlands. Translated by Anna Crowe, Arc Publications, 2014.)

 Posted by at 11:12 am

Marianela Medrano -Dominican Rep.-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Marianela Medrano -Dominican Rep.-
Sep 192016

Marianela Medrano TAPFNY 2016Marianela Medrano is a Dominican writer and poet, with a PhD in psychology living in Connecticut since 1990.  Her individual publications include: Oficio de Vivir (Buho,1986), Los Alegres Ojos de la Tristeza (Buho,1987), Regando Esencias/ The Scent of Waiting (Alcance,1998), Curada de Espantos (Torremozas, 2002), Diosas de la Yuca, (Torremozas, 2011), Prietica (Alfaguara, 2013). Medrano’s work also appears in literary magazines and academic journals such as Brooklyn Review (1995), Punto 7 Review (1996) Sisters of Caliban (1996) Callaloo (2000), Tertuliando/Hanging Out (1997), Letras Femeninas (2005), Kacike (2009) Trivia Voices of Feminism ( 2009), Journal of Poetry Therapy (2010), Sandplay Therapy Journal (2010), The Afro-Latin@ Reader (2010), Letralia (2011), Phatitude (2012),  Mujeres Como Islas II (2012), among others.


Shibboleth was born
where one people breaks into the other
where the lost souls breathe under the river
She is not a dream
nor is she an invention of my tongue
streams down patiently—as any fluid being does—
A river when it makes a sea is more than a river
I have learned her depth
She is blood
No matter what side of the river your are on
sorrow speaks only one language
Shibboleth needs no pebbles under her tongue
You know she is real when I speak
When I fade away
Shibboleth breathes her parsley breath into me
She is the rite that brings me back
Almost at my dying moment
she spits her green concoction on the ground
Taking it she builds her house on the Western front
We flow downstream sealed in one image
We are the twin mirrors in which shame is reflected
The hateful lover splits us in three through the years
An infernal trinity of perejil

From the other side
a sun bigger than the island blinds us
Shibboleth sees the fire tongue
waving like the flag of war
she knows is only the beginning
Far beyond death we find each other again
sealed in the same chamber
living because the other breathes
We are garden and earth seed and flower
gun and bullet corpse and death
The past breaks and holds us
I know Shibboleth is real when my tongue stumbles
on the block of history.

*The 1937 massacre of Haitians in the Dominican Republic came from the shibboleth instituted by dictator Rafael L. Trujillo. He instructed his soldiers to ask the people to pronounce the word perejil. The Haitians who could not roll their “rs” reveal themselves thus sealing their own fate.


Shibboleth nació
donde un pueblo se desploma sobre el otro
donde las almas perdidas respiran bajo el río
Ella no es un sueño
Tampoco una invención de mi lengua
Fluye pacientemente—como toda criatura del agua-
Un río cuando hace un mar es más que un río
He aprendido su profundidad
Ella es sangre de nuestra sangre
Sin importar de que lado del río te encuentres
La pena habla un solo idioma
Shibboleth no necesita piedrecillas bajo su lengua
Sabes que ella es real cuando hablo
Cuando me desvanesco
Shibboleth respira su aliento de perejil sobre mí
Ella es el rito que me trae de nuevo
Casi al momento de mi muerte
Ella escupe su mixtura verde en la tierra
Tomando del terreno construye su casa en el Oeste
Flotamos corriente abajo encerradas en una sola imagen
Somos los espejos gemelos donde la verguenza se refleja
El amante lleno de odio nos parte en tres
Una trinidad infernal de perejil
Al otro lado
Un sol más grande que la isla nos ciega
Shibboleth mira la lengua de fuego
que hondea como una bandera de guerra
Sabe es solo el comienzo
Más allá de la muerte nos encontramos de nuevo
encerradas en una misma cámara
existiendo porque la otra respira
Somos jardin y tierra semilla y flor
Pistola y bala cadaver y muerte
El pasado nos divide y nos junta
Sé que Shibboleth es real
cuando mi lengua se tropieza
con la piedra gigante de la historia.

*La masacre del 1937 devino como resultado de un shibboleth instituído por el dictador Rafael L.Trujillo. El ordenó a sus soldados exigir que la gente pronunciara la palabra perejil. Los haitianos que no podían pronunciar la “r” revelaban su identidad y por lo tanto sellaban su propia muerte.

 Posted by at 10:50 am

Attila F. Balázs -Hungary-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Attila F. Balázs -Hungary-
Sep 192016

Attila F. Balázs TAPFNY 2016 Attila F. Balázs, Hungarian writer, poet, literary translator, publisher was born in Targu Mures / Marosvásárhely (Transylvania) on January 15th, 1954. He studied at the Theological College in Alba Iulia / Gyulafehérvár between 1973-1976, and from 1977 he studied librarian specialisation and literary translation in Bucharest, where he graduated in 1982. Between 1978-1989 he was Chief librarian of the County Library in Miercurea Ciuc / Csíkszereda. Since 1990 he lives in Slovakia. He was the editor of the newspapers Nap (1990-1991), Új Szó (1991) and Szabad Újság (1992) in Bratislava / Pozsony, as well as the reporter of the Slovak Radio (1990-1995) and the manager of the Madách Publishing House (1993). In 1994 he established the publishing house AB-ART, since then he is the company’s managing director. Attila F. Balázs is the chief editor of the literary journal Szőrös Kő. He has received several literary awards (Madách, Lucian Blaga, Arghezi, Eminescu). He is a member of Slovakian, Hungarian and Romanian writers’ federations and Vice President of the Hungarian PEN Club. Many of his poems and short stories were translated into English, Romanian, Czech, Slovakian, Slovenian, Turkish, Serbian, Macedonian, Albanian, Spanish, Portuguese, Hindi, Swedish and French.


at a signal
like the deepest pulsation
spheres of mind
in hot waves walk through cells
the eyes pop out
lung dilates and the face’s muscles rigid
through half-open lips weakened
smashing onto walls
to the edge rolled down
onto the never-ending hallway
and it spreads like the wolf’s howl
fallen in traps of deaf tree trunks
I look around me:
the chorus

with wonderment on your parched lips
watching the throat’s void
gliding of the voice
it could have been anyone’s
anyone’s it could have been
then it vanished
on his closed limbs
behind curtains
spread out
carefully on the folded world
that an unseen hand
shoved in his pocket

A kórus

egy intésre amely mint
lüktetés az agy legmélyebb szféráiból
forró hullámokban futott végig a sejteken
kidülledt a szem
a kitágult tüdő s a megfeszült arcizmok
kipréselték a megnyílt ajkak között a hangot
végiggörgött a végtelen folyosón
a falaknak csapódva
s széthullt mint verembe esett farkas vonítása
süket fatörzsek között
s akkor körülnéztem: a kórus
összeszorított ajkakkal döbbenten
nézte a semmi gégéjén lecsusszanó hangot
mely lehetett volna bárkié
mely bármelyiké lehetett volna
majd bezárkózott tagjaira bomlott
akik a behúzott függöny mögött
a gondosan összehajtogatott világban
melyet egy láthatatlan kéz zsebre tett

 Posted by at 10:27 am

Allia Abdullah-Matta -USA-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Allia Abdullah-Matta -USA-
Sep 192016

Allia Abdullah-Matta TAPFNY 2016Allia Abdullah-Matta is an Assistant Professor at CUNY LaGuardia Community College. Her scholarly and creative interests merge in her study of the poetry and art of Africana and Women of Color. As an educator and writer, she strives to address the power and the politics of creative expression and voice as essential instruments of social justice practice and transformation. She is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at CUNY-The City College of New York.

“The People Say”

The people say go with wide open mind
At the rim where head meets hair,
to read subtle bondage takes reel-time.

They called us Pinckneys in historical rewind.
Said we property, but I refuse this despair.
The people say Go, with wide open mind!

Leave us to work alone in hot air,
damp, wet, heat, and sun, feet wrapped in twine.
To read subtle bondage takes real time.

Other Pinckneys moved north and moved mind(s)
West African blood stays; our bodies repair
The people say go with wide open mind!

We feel, eat, and breathe better, share love in-kind,
build AME churches, Geechie communities, literacy inclined.
To read subtle bondage takes reel-time.

Reconstruction, jim crow, civil-rights and post-race opined
greed, madness, restitution declined, it is time!
The people say go with wide open mind.
To read subtle bondage takes real time.

 Posted by at 9:56 am

Alex Lima -Ecuador-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Alex Lima -Ecuador-
Sep 192016

Alex Lima TAPFNY 2016Alex Lima is the author of three poetry collections, Inverano (2008), Bilocaciones (2011), and Alba (Artepoética Press 2015). His poems have also appeared in literary magazines and anthologies home and abroad. He currently resides on Long Island where he teaches as Adjunct Associate Professor of Spanish at Farmingdale State College (SUNY). Mr. Lima is an active member of the art collective We Are You Project International and cofounder of the Latino Arts Council of Long Island. His new book, Juan Bautista Aguirre: Conciencia lírica de la nación ecuatoriana, will be published this fall.


hoy parece

un simulacro

del ayer:

el mismo sol

la misma lluvia

a la misma hora

del mismo viento

al pasar de un azulejo

y servirse el café

pero esta vez

sin magdalena…


hoy parece

un simulacro

del ayer:

el mismo sol

la misma lluvia

a la misma hora

del mismo viento

al pasar de otro azulejo

y servirse el café

pero esta vez

con mermelada…


hoy parece

un simulacro

del ayer:

el mismo sol

la misma lluvia

a la misma hora

del mismo viento

al pasar del azulejo

y servirse el café

pero esta vez

sin mantequilla…


la vida

      es acaso también

   una proyección continua

una readaptación constante

de la vida

que habíamos pensado






today seems like

a remake

of yesterday:

same sun

same rain

at the same time

of the same wind

as the blue jay flies by

as I have a cup of coffee

but this time

with madeleines…


today seems like

a remake

of yesterday:

same sun

same rain

at the same time

of the same wind

as another blue jay flies by

as I have a cup of coffee

but this time

no marmalade…


today seems like

a remake

of yesterday:

same sun

same rain

at the same time

of the same wind

as the blue jay flies by

as I have a cup of coffee

but this time

with mantequilla


life too is perhaps

an ongoing simulacrum

a continuous remake

of the life

we had planned

to live…


 Posted by at 9:31 am

Linda Morales Caballero -Peru-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Linda Morales Caballero -Peru-
Sep 182016

Linda Morales Caballero TAPFNY 2016 Linda Morales Caballero was born in Peru but has lived in several countries. She is the author of several poetry and short fiction books and has participated in multiple anthologies in the US, Spain and Latin America such as: Desde el umbral (1989), Circunferencia de la palabra (1989), The Edge of Twilight (1993), Miradas de Nueva York (2000), Poemas vivos: el Hombre adivinado, Poemas tuyos (2005), Encantamiento (2013), Collage (2014), El libro de los enigmas (2014),  El hilo de la memoria (2015). She received a Bachelor of Arts in Media Communications and Spanish Literature and a Master’s Degree from Hunter College. In 2014 she founded www.fuegodeluna.org with two other poets. Website: www.lindamoralescaballero.com




Palpo un pino en la calle
y me abandono a hojas,
estrellas y ramas…
una guerra con el viento
me barre urbanas batallas.
El árbol vivo
como mis ojos
me sabe a alga, a Navidad
a gozo.
Bajo la luna creciente
de Elmhurst Ave.
sueño poesías sobre telarañas.
En Whitney,
un grafiti turbulento,
enrejado entre sombras,
ya no me causa los escalofríos
de hace unos pocos milenios.
Tu abrazo
limpió la noche de la turbia
humareda. Tus versos
escritos en mi pecho
de cúpulas y ángeles
elevan mis costillas
hacia azules cielos.




I touch a pine tree in the street
and abandon myself to leaves,
stars and branches…
a war against the wind
sweeps for me urban battles.

The tree, as alive as my eyes,
tastes like seaweed, like Christmas
like joy.
Under the crescent moon
of Elmhurst Ave.
I dream spider web poetry.

On Whitney
a turbulent graffiti,
grilled among shades
no longer gives me the chills
from a few thousand years ago.

Your embrace cleansed the night
from the turbid haze.
Your verses of angels and domes,
written on my chest,
push my ribs
towards blue skies.

Translated by Marko Miletich

 Posted by at 6:14 pm

Akram Alkatreb -Syria –

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Akram Alkatreb -Syria –
Sep 182016

Akram Alkatreb TAPFNY 2016

Akram Alkatreb was born and raised in Salamiah, Syria; a city renowned for its poets. He attended the University of Damascus, graduating with a degree in law. Alkatreb has worked as an art critic and journalist since 1996 contributing to many major Arabic speaking newspapers in Lebanon, London and Syria. He has six collections of poetry in Arabic, and one of his collections was translated to Spanish and published by the poetry house foundation in San José – Costa Rica in 2014. He lives in USA since 2001.



The Only Hand

The only hand is not yet dry,
it turns on the lamp, trembling,
throws the shirt on the side of the bed,
and wrings tears from satin.

The only hand falls upon the cheek
Like a cart tumbling in to a ditch.
Then, after half an hour, it forgives
like a childhood friend breathing on your shoulder,
or sleeping.

It holds the rose in the midday heat.
It shells the peanut,
or stabs someone between ribs.
The only hand is not dry.
It’s the same hand, flattened
under the bulldozer.

Translated from Arabic by Sally Urang


The Tree on which the birds of earth sought refuge,
the tree under which I laughed to death, set traps,
and put my school books to dry,
the tree that was my home in the wild,
I saw it from far away being loaded on a truck.

Translated from Arabic by Osama Isber
Edited by Samantha Kostmayer Sulaiman

 Posted by at 5:30 pm

Zulema Moret -Argentina-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Zulema Moret -Argentina-
Sep 182016

Zulema Moret TAPFNY 2016Dr. Zulema Moret (Argentina). As a poet she has published Cuaderno de viaje solitario (Poetry, Venezuela: Edit. Contrapunto, 1985), Cazadora de Sueños (Poetry, Madrid: Edit. Torremozas, 2003) Un ángel al borde del volcán ardiendo (Poetry, Buenos Aires: Ed. Vox,  2007), Lo gris (Poetry, Buenos Aires: Ed. Vox, 2012), and  Poesía reunida. (Anthology Poetry, Nueva York: ArtePoética Press, 2014), Poemas del desastre (Poems of Disaster, Madrid: Ediciones Torremozas, 2015). Her poems were translated into English, German, French and Italian. She has read her literary work at national and international Conferences and Festivals, in Wien, Budapest, India, Spain, Mexico, France, Venezuela, Chile, etc. She is Professor of Latin American Literature in Grand Valley State University, Michigan, USA.




El ciego espía de algún país extinguido
se encierra en los baños públicos
de una estación desvencijada
las fiestas infantiles que alguna vez animó
como un mago ciego espía
saca los pins de los bolsillos y no se da cuenta
que estamos en extremo peligro
avanzan las manifestaciones
alaridos gritos
contra las multitudes
enfrentamientos históricos que huelen a sangre
Cuerpos de color adusto
Para callarlas/ Para siempre


El ciego espía mago se queda encerradito
en ese baño oloroso a orines
a abyectos desfiles puntuales
mientras la gran horda humana se enfrenta a reclamos

Porque lo que se sembró algún día
no morirá.


Mientras tanto te tomo entre mis brazos rendidos
eres un cuerpo pequeño
te beso toda entera
los pies las manos el cuello la piel llena de arruguitas
previas a la muerte
te beso y te repito te quiero te quiero
te acurrucas entre mis brazos
tierna y cansada
entregada a este paso final
no elegido.

Empiezan a morir
todas ellas
mis amigas mis siempre amigas
pegadas a mi memoria
como las enredaderas que también
se llaman siemprevivas.


The blind spy from an extinct country
locks himself in the public restroom
of a rundown train station
he remembers
the children’s parties he once entertained
as a blind spy magician
he takes the pins from his pockets and doesn’t realize
we’re in extreme danger
protestors advance
shouts and cries
against the crowds
historic confrontations that smell of blood.
Dull-colored bodies
to silence them/ forever.


The blind spy magician stays locked
in that restroom that reeks of everyday
of abject military parades
while the great human horde confronts
unperishing complaints

Because what was sown one day
will not die.


In the meantime I take you into my exhausted arms
you’re a small body
I kiss you all over
feet hands neck skin full of little wrinkles
preceding death
I kiss you and repeat I love you I love you
you nestle into my arms
tender and tired
accepting this final
unchosen step .


(From Poemas del desastre)

Translated by Seth Michelson


 Posted by at 5:08 pm

Raymond Collazo -USA-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Raymond Collazo -USA-
Sep 162016

Raymond Collazo TAPFNY 2016 Raymond Collazo is a DominiRiqueño born in New York City. He enlisted in the United States Army Military Police Corps for eight years and is currently a student at CUNY City College pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing. Raymond is tri-cultural, tri-lingual, lived in Germany and Italy while in the Army, and served as a Paratrooper in Afghanistan. He is the Co-founder of Filmlinkup, a tech start-up for students pursuing careers in the art of filmmaking.



After Ruth Stone – 1941

I wore an innocent bowl cut
like boys in Pull-Up ads.
Yo era gordo: chubby cheeked,
back in fish smelling Providence.
You had a pomp cut
gold digi Seiko watch
white croc polocher
dark blue denim
shiny sepia wingtips
a lined up ‘stache
the role played right;
un pariguayo echándola
at a hood party
ready to jolt under a pop fly.
Lavoe was jamming,
las congas, timbales y claves
had everyone moving
and you were
cortando la pista con blanquitas
in dim lit corners
exposing thick white long legs
craving to be sniffed – licked.
You attracted a beautiful crowd
full of praise, glory
while your brown self
looked like a God
all powerful and knowing.
I felt the love too,
their whiteness called me
to trace them with my fingers
and suck them like you did.
I was transfixed on becoming
something more than a kid
by your side
while you lied to Mami.
First stab at white ladies
birthed a fiend with a numb tongue.
That cracked world is dust.

 Posted by at 6:47 pm

Kianny N. Antigua -Dominican Rep.-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Kianny N. Antigua -Dominican Rep.-
Sep 162016

Kianny N. Antigua Kianny N. Antigua. The Dominican Republic, 1979. Lives in New Hampshire, USA. Spanish Lecturer and coordinator of the Spanish Play Group for kids at Howe Library. She has published: Elementos (Premio Letras De Ultramar, Children and Youth Lit., Editora Nacional 2016); Al revés / Upside Down (Children’s Lit., Loqueleo 2016); Extracto (Micro-fiction, Ed. Nacional 2015); Detrás del latido / Behind the Heartbeat & El canto de la lechuza / The Owl’s Song (Children’s Lit., Alfaguara 2015); Kianny N. Antigua: Short Fiction 2014 (Short Stories, Asterix 2014); Mía, Esteban y las nuevas palabras / Mía, Esteban and the New Words (Children’s Lit., Alfaguara 2014); El tragaluz del sótano (Short Stories, Artepoética Press 2014); Cuando el resto se apaga (Poetry, Proyecto Zompopos 2013); 9 Iris y otros malditos cuentos (Narrative, Editora Nacional 2010) & El expreso (Short Stories, Argos 2004). «Downtown», one of her short stories, won the Second Prize in Premio de cuento Juan Bosch, Funglode 2011, and eight other short stories have won honorary mentions in this and other literary contests. kiannyantigua.blogspot.com


Los de atrás

A estas alturas de la materia
soy el coagulo,
el frío desecho que estorba,
atrofias diminutas
que interrumpieron su carrera para
malograse mutuamente.
Soy desecho,
futuro quebrado,
desagrado al tacto, al olfato y a la moral.
para quien un segundo
se convirtió en caída.
Soy, no, no soy
lo que pudo haber sido.

The Ones Behind

Being this far into it,
I am the blood clot,
the cold waste that hinders,
tiny atrophies
that stopped their race to
decay each other.
I’m waste,
broken future,
discuss to the touch, at the smell and at morality.
I am
for whom one second
became the fall.
I am, no, I’m not
what could have been.

 Posted by at 5:36 pm

Daniel Shapiro -USA-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Daniel Shapiro -USA-
Sep 162016

Daniel Shapiro TAPFNY 2016Daniel Shapiro is the author of three poetry collections as well as a translator of Latin American literature; his translation of Tomás Harris’s Cipango received a starred review in Library Journal.  He received grants from PEN and the National Endowment for the Arts to translate Roberto Ransom’s Desaparecidos, animales, y artistas.  Shapiro is a Distinguished Lecturer and the Editor of Review:  Literature and Arts of the Americas in the Department of Classical and Modern Languages & Literatures at The City College of New York, CUNY. The following poems are from his recently published Woman at the Cusp of Twilight (2016), a collection inspired by his maternal family.



The Anatomy Cat


“C’mon, doll,” whispered Mimi
as she bundled its cadaver
in her mouton coat, “no one will notice,
we’ll pass the course and no harm done.”
She couldn’t suppress a growing giggle,
it was infectious so you laughed, too.
You followed her out the swinging door
across Washington Square,
up the steps of the Queens express,
everyone parted for the young pretty mother
carrying her baby in her arms.
A silver-haired gentleman took off
his fedora and offered his seat.
She lowered her head with grateful eyes
but lost her grip and the tail slipped out—
unfurled and hung. A whiff of formaldehyde
cut through perfume, a collective
gasp from all the women on the bus.

The two of you laid the dead cat out
on Etta Mandel’s marble table.
Mimi sliced it open, examined its parts,
sewed it closed again. The tabby lay
sprawled as if stretching after a long nap.
You’d return it the next day,
poor thing with glassy eyes,
a missing heart, its soul detached
by a stroke of a scalpel,
organs classified in jars on a dusty shelf.
But that evening, before that surgery,
was less than anatomy, was something more,
was two young women
blushing and giggling
as you dashed off the bus.

Gato para una anatomía


Vamos muñeca, susurró Mimi
al arropar el cadáver
en su abrigo de mutón, nadie se dará cuenta,
pasaremos el curso sin perjudicar a alma alguna.
No pudo contener una risita que iba creciendo,
tan efervescente que te la contagió.
La seguiste por las puertas giratorias
a través de Washington Square, subiendo los escalones
del expreso de Queens, todos abrieron paso
para la joven y linda mamá
cargando a su bebé en brazos.
Un caballero de pelo encanecido se quitó
el sombrero fedora y ofreció su asiento.
Ella bajó la cabeza con mirada agradecida
pero perdió su soporte y se asomó la cola—
floja y desenvuelta. Un hedor a formol
cortó a través del perfume, y luego
el grito ahogado de todas las mujeres.

Las dos tendieron al gato muerto
sobre la mesa de mármol de Etta Mandel.
Mimi lo abrió de una tajada, inspeccionó sus partes,
y lo cosió de nuevo. Tú registraste los datos.
El tabby yacía a sus anchas
como si se estirara después de una larga siesta.
Lo devolverías al día siguiente,
pobrecito, con los ojos vidriosos,
un corazón faltante, su alma desprendida
a golpe de escalpelo,
órganos clasificados en frascos sobre una repisa polvorienta.
Pero ese atardecer, antes de la cirugía,
fue menos que anatomía, fue algo más,
fue dos mujeres jóvenes
sonrojadas y con la risa apenas contenida
al descender de prisa del camión urbano.
Traducido por Roberto Ransom

 Posted by at 11:43 am

Fior E. Plasencia -Domican Rep./USA-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Fior E. Plasencia -Domican Rep./USA-
Sep 162016

Fior Plasencia TAPFNY 2016

Fior E. Plasencia (Mujer con Voz), a lover of merengue and guava marmalade, was born in Jarabacoa, Dominican Republic. An artist and poet who studied History and Education at the City University of New York, Brooklyn College, Fior moved to New York City at the age of 12 and began writing short poems often using what she was learning in her bilingual class. Her work has appeared in The Acentos Review, New York Dreaming, La Galería Magazine, and Sand Canyon Review. She has also been featured in different independent magazines such as; Brown Loud and Proud Zine, Homegirlz Zine, St. Sucia, and others. She is also the author of the poetry book Para Cenar Habrá Nostalgia (DWA Press). The author now resides in Connecticut, United States. You can find her work at: http://www.mujerconvoz.com


Morena en exilio

Si los pasaportes hablaran…

Mano prieta
Mal hablá’
Llena de tierra
Abierta por la palma
Culto mis ojos
Amarga mi lengua
Estas manos serán
mi punto de partida
cuando el nudo
suelte sus plumas
sucias del exilio
Hazlo ahora
Hazlo sin pena
Hunde bien mis venas
Ponle abrigo al viento
para que no convierta
mi añoranza en ceniza
entierra bien mis pesares
antes de que caduque el
pasaporte entre la espera.

Dark Skinned Woman In Exile

If passports could talk…

Brown hands
Filled with soil
Opened by the palm
My eyes, intelligent
My tongue, bitter
These hands will
be my starting point
when the knot
releases its dirty feathers
from exile
Do it!
Do it now
Do it painlessly
Sink into my veins
Shelter the wind
So that you won’t convert
my longing to ash
Bury well my sorrows
before they expire
with the passport
while I wait.

 Posted by at 11:18 am

Amado Láscar -Chile-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Amado Láscar -Chile-
Sep 162016

Amado Láscar TAPFNY 2016Amado Láscar, Santiago de Chile, 1956. Between 1983 and 1986, he was a member of Colectivo de Escritores Jóvenes (CEJ) (SECH). He was deeply marked by the coup d’etat of September 11, 1973. The profound cultural effects of the dictatorship and the 17 years of neoliberalism in Chile is reflected in his works. He has lived in Sidney (Australia), Eugene (Oregon), and Athens (Ohio) where he currently teaches Latin American literature since 2002. He has just finished a novel La estación de Mauricio. An anthology of his poetry is about to be released La misma lluvia por distintos cerros 1983-2013.


Igual Cero

De punta en blanco, el sacerdote secular
alisa su nuca apelmazada,
seca sus cuernos con un pañuelo de seda
(cuando por sus hombros se enredan
las hebras de su fotográfico futuro)

no puede pensar

(Tal vez lejanamente recuerda
una tarde de domingo
cuando su padre le escupió la cara)

Aparte, semi afuera de los planes,
el hombre se balancea del cielo raso
recordándonos una sucia lámpara de cristal
molido en la disección eléctrica.
Su sangre brota en hilillos,
de su boca bien cerrada.

El sacerdote, en tanto, observa apoyado
en la baranda
que separa la vida de la muerte:
no encuentra nada anómalo en el grosor de sus cutículas,
se ordena el pelo, apaga la luz:

el sagrado rito termina allí.

(Luego aparecerán los acólitos con sus
máquinas de vacío, sus botellas de formalina,
sus escobillas de cerda y sus grandes cadenas
de desinfección.)

Ya en la calle enciende un Marlboro:
recorre como cada reflejo de amanecer
siempre recorre
los mismos grifos, campanas, plazas,
el neón de Pepsicola, el enorme anuncio
de leche descremada,
los grafitis contra la Orden
que emergen en silencio de las murallas.

Mira su reloj: 7:00 AM
Ella también lo mira.

Debes vestirte ahora, le murmura
viene en camino
(la puerta se abre desde adentro)

la llave entra

(la puerta se abre desde afuera)

Me voy de compras, ella dice ahora:
el desayuno está servido

y él, sonriéndose desde un comercial
se enrolla en las sábanas llenas
de olor a ellos.


Touching the Void

Dressed to the nines, the secular priest
smoothens his matted hair against the back of his neck,
wipes his brow with a silk handkerchief
(when fibers of his photographic future
entangle upon his shoulders)

he thinks of nothing

(Perhaps he remembers a Sunday afternoon
in the distant past when his father
spit in his face)

Aside, almost outside the plans,
the man wavers from the sky
recalling a crystal lamp:
crushed in the electric dissection:
his blood springs in trickles
from his very close mouth.

The priest, meanwhile, leaning on the railing,
observes what separates life from death:
he doesn’t find anything anomalous in his cuticles,
he arranges his hair, turns out
the light: the sacred rite ends there.

(Later the acolytes appear with their vacuum
cleaners, bottles of formalin, bristle brushes
and their wide array of disinfectants.)

Now in the streets he lights up a Marlboro:
notices how each reflection of dawn
always traverses the same faucets, bells, plazas,
the neon of Pepsi-Cola, the huge skim milk billboards
graffiti against The Order
that silently emerges from within the walls.

He looks at his watch: 7:00 A.M.
She too looks at it.

You must get dressed now, she whispers to him,
he is in his way.

(the door closes and opens.)

I’m going shopping, she sais now:
breakfast is served,

and he
smiling at us from a commercial

buries himself in the sheets
filled with their smell.

 Posted by at 10:40 am

María Ángeles Pérez López -Spain-

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Sep 162016

María Ángeles Pérez López TAPFNY 2016

María Ángeles Pérez López, Valladolid (Spain), 1967. Poet and professor of Literature at Universidad de Salamanca. She has published six poetry collections: Tratado sobre la geografía del desastre (1997), La sola materia (1998), Carnalidad del frío (2000), La ausente (2004), Atavío y puñal (2012) and Fiebre y compasión de los metales (2016). Several anthologies of her work have been published in Caracas, Mexico City, Quito, New York, Monterrey and Bogotá. A new anthology of her work is currently being published in La Habana.



Como los elefantes, la mujer
se inquieta ante los huesos de su especie,
mueve nerviosamente la cabeza,
se extravía y tropieza en su dolor.
Los esqueletos largos, mascarones
que arrojaron el mar y el pleistoceno
para dormir, lavados por el agua
hasta volverse láminas de luz,
son una herida abierta y silenciosa
que los grandes mamíferos levantan
con tal delicadeza, con colmillos
en su arabesco y su melancolía.
Porque los elefantes, la mujer,
elevan la osamenta de los suyos
y los acunan con sus grandes dientes,
los mecen con pasión y con trastorno.
Como los elefantes, la mujer
cubre su piel de arena y de termitas,
arroja a sus costillas, su espaldar
la tierra de sus muertos, se recubre
de su aspereza seca, ventolera
o ráfaga de tiempo calcinado
y canta lentamente una canción
que en su baja frecuencia, solo escuchan
congéneres lejanos, primordiales.
Cuando pinta sus dientes de marfil,
dentina opaca y blanca, romboidal
que prestigia su boca y su alegría,
la mujer talla en ellos la aflicción
preciosa, endurecida como laja
que atraviesa la luz y la somete.
(de Atavío y puñal, 2012)

A woman, like elephants,
is unsettled by the bones of her species,
nervously shaking her head,
she wanders and stumbles over her pain.
Long skeletons, figureheads
the sea and Pleistocene cast
to sleep, washed by the water
until they become sheets of light,
they are an open and silent wound
that the great mammals raise
ever so gently, with their tusks
in their arabesque and melancholy.
Since elephants, a woman,
lift the bones of their own
and they cradle them with their great teeth,
they rock them with passion and with distress.
A woman, like elephants,
covers her skin with sand and termites,
casts to her side, her back
the earth of her dead, she recovers
from her dry brusqueness, gust of wind
or burst of incinerated time
and she slowly sings a melody
whose low frequencies are only heard
by distant, primordial sisters.
When she paints her teeth with ivory,
rhomboidal opaque white dentin
that enhances her mouth and her happiness,
woman carves her pain in them
precious, hardened like the slate
that crosses and subdues the light.
(from  Atavío y puñal, 2012)
(Translated by Jennifer Rathbun)

 Posted by at 9:44 am

Manuel Iris -Mexico-

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Sep 162016

Manuel Iris TAPFNY 2016

Manuel Iris (Mexico, 1983). Poet, winner of the “Merida” National Poetry Award for the book Notebook of dreams (2010), and of the Rodulfo Figueroa Regional Award of Poetry for the book The disguises of fire (2014). Iris is the co-author, along with the Brazilian poet Floriano Martins, of Overnight Medley (Brazil, 2014). His work has been included in national and international anthologies of poetry, including Postal del oleage, anthology of Mexican and Colombian poets born in the 80s, published in both countries. Recently, two personal anthologies of his poetry have been published in Venezuela and El Salvador. Iris holds a PhD in Romance Languages from the University of Cincinnati.



Mordida por su edad
mi abuela le habla al anterior
que la vio por mis ojos:
 ¿No te dolió jamás
dejarme así, con cinco niños?
¿No nos pensabas nunca?
Me siento culpable del silencio
que mi rostro, antes de mí, guardó
pero le aclaro: amor, yo soy tu nieto,
el primer hijo de tu hijo menor,
soy el que vive lejos.
Ya decía yo, me dice, que no tenía sentido
que yo fuera una vieja
y tú siguieras igual.
Me abraza con alivio,
como si esa conversación
entre nosotros
pero sucederá, como es costumbre,
la siguiente vez que nos veamos.


Bitten by her age
my grandmother speaks to the previous one
that saw her through my eyes:
Did it ever hurt you
to leave me like this,
with five children?
You never thought about us?
I feel guilty of the silence
that my face, before myself, kept.
but I clarify: my love, I am your grandson,
the first child of your youngest son,
I ‘m the one who lives far away.
I was going to say! she tells me,
that it didn’t make sense
that I was so old
and you were still the same.
She hugs me with relief,
as if this conversation
between us
was over.
But it will happen, as usual,
The next time we see each other.

 Posted by at 9:06 am

Lola Koundakjian -Armenia/USA-

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Sep 152016


Lola Koundakjian TAPFNY 2016

Lola Koundakjian enjoys her verse diplomacy, touring the world to read at poetry festivals while maintaining deep roots in New York City and her Armenian community. In 2006 she began the Armenian Poetry Project – a resource for poetry and translations. She is the author of The Accidental Observer (2011 USA) and Advice to a Poet (Consejo a un poeta, Edición trilingüe, 2014 Amotape Libros Peru; 2015 USA). Her poems have appeared in print anthologies on four continents, online and in Armenian diaspora publications. www.lolakoundakjian.com


Անոնք մեռան
Անոնք մեռան, հայր մայր ու դուստր
Ու թերթերը գրեցին
Բայց քանի քանի՜ ուրիշներ մեռան
Զանոնք սպաննեցին, հայր մայր որդիններ
ու դրացիները տեսան
Բայց քանի քանի՜ ուրիշներ սպաննուեցան
Զանոնք այրեցին, քոյր եւ եղբայր
Ու ծնողները տեսան
Բայց քանի քանի՜քոյրեր ու եղբայրներ
Այրեցան առանձին…
Զանոնք թաղեցին, հայեր, քիւրտեր,
Արաբներ, ուրիշ ազգեր
Բայց քանի քանի՜ուրիշներ թաղուեցան
Առանց վկայի։
They died
They died, father, mother and daughter
And the newspapers reported it
But  how many others died

They were killed, father, mother and children
And the neighbors witnessed it
But how many others were killed

They were burned, sister and brother
And the parents saw it
But how many sisters and brothers
Were burnt, alone.

They were buried, Armenians, Kurds
Arabs, other peoples
But how many others were buried
Without a witness.

(Translated from Western Armenian to English by the author)

Murieron, padre, madre e hija
Y los periódicos lo reportaron
Pero cuántos más murieron

Fueron asesinados, padre, madre e hijos
Y los vecinos lo atestiguaron
Pero cuántos más fueron asesinados

Fueron quemados hermana y hermano
Y los padres lo vieron
Pero cuántos más
hermanas y hermanos
Fueron quemados, solos

Fueron enterrados, armenios, kurdos
Árabes, otras gentes
Pero cuántos más fueron enterrados
Sin testigo.

Traducción de Pamela Ospina.

 Posted by at 12:05 pm

Keiselim A. Montás (Keysi) -Dominican Rep.-

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Sep 152016

Keiselim A. Montás (Keysi) TAPFNY 2016 Keiselim A. Montás (Keysi) was born in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic in 1968; in 1985 immigrated to the US, where he finished high school, completed a BA in Spanish and Secondary Education at Queens College of the City University of New York and a MA in Spanish Literatures at the University of Cincinnati. He has published: Pequeños Poemas Diurnos, (poems, 1992 y 2005); Amor de ciudad grande (poems, 2006); Reminiscencias (short stories, Santo Domingo, 2007); Allá (diario del transtierro) (poems, 2012; e-book 2013); De la emigración al transtierro (essay, 2015); Como el agua (colección de Haikus) (poems-haiku-, 2016). Included in: Viajeros del rocío 25 narradores dominicanos de la diáspora (anthology, 2008); Nostalgias de Arena escritores de las comunidades dominicanas en EE.UU. (anthology, 2011); Shortstop microrrelatos de béisbol dominicano (anthology, 2014); The Americas Poetry Festival of New York 2014 (multilingal anthology, 2014). He has beed awarded the follwing literary prizes: Third Prize “27th Annual Chicano/Latino Literary Prize, 2001 (poetry); Premio Letras de Ultramar 2006 (short-story) and 2015 (essay); Primer Lugar XIX Concurso de Cuentos Radio Santa María, 2012; Segundo Lugar, 2014 y Mención de Honor 2015, Premio de Cuento Juan Bosch.

His blog:  http://keiselimamontas.blogspot.com/


The shittiest apples in the world, which are pretty darn great!
Those who have apples would know that I have the shittiest apples in the world;
but for those who have none,
my apples might look pretty good.
And since I never had apples before,
for I grew up amongst guava, mango and avocado trees,
these apples I have now are not bad at all.

This morning around 10, the grass was wet,
the leaves were falling,
the trees were yellowish, some even red.
Between a fine rain and a light mist,
bucket in hand, in my mud boots up to the knees,
I walked around and under my apple trees.

The leaves were wet and poured on me.
And my apples really don’t look that great;
but, for someone who has no apples, my apples,
these apples might just be the best!

I don’t care that they are bitter,
that some even might have no taste.
I have picked them. I have washed them,
and I keep them for their smell: on my desk, at the office;
on my writing table, at home;
on the night stand, by my bed;
and all over my book, between shelves.
My apples, I keep them all over the place.

I know, I have been told: I have the shittiest apples in the world.
this morning I picked my own apples,
and for one who never had any before,
my apples are pretty darn great!
11:18 a.m.
October 3, 2009
Lebanon, NH

 Posted by at 11:06 am

Kary Cerda -Mexico-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Kary Cerda -Mexico-
Sep 152016

Kary Cerda TAPFNY 2016Kary Cerda is a Mexican poet and photographer. She has participated in International Poetry Festivals in Mexico, USA, Puerto Rico, Costa Rica, Cuba, El Salvador and Honduras. More than 40 books have been illustrated with her photographs. She has appeared in Mexican and International poetry anthologies. Her poems have been translated into French, English, Italian and Mayan. Poetry works published: Por la Vida Una (1971 and 1991); Soirs de Vigne (1975); Caracol Aventurero (1992); Usumacintamente  (2004 and 2012); Usumacintamente, las canciones (2008); De tu Piel a mi Universo (2008); and Tres Cuentos y una Niña (2012).

Los nombres de la Tierra

La Tierra tiene nombres que yo amo
Ojos de Mirada Perpetua
Algarabía de Valiente
celebrando el Corazón de los Volcanes

Los nombres de la Tierra
son estados del sol de los adentros

Algunos sólidos e impronunciables
como la travesía de la Monarca
o el tronco centenario de la Ceiba

otros frágiles y delicados como
el amanecer de la luz sobre el Caribe

También tiene nombres horrendos
terribles como el odio de Dios
-diría Vallejo-
que repelen la vida
y obscurecen el centro luminoso de las almas

Hambre desmembrada
recrudecida en el sinsabor extremo de la vigilia

Son nombres que dañan lo más dulce
el agua clara
las mañanas

Nombres oscuros de bárbaros imperios
llenos de obsesiva cobardía
sembrando sus huellas de chapopote
sobre el verde silencio de las hortalizas
sobre la gaviota inerte
sobre el trigo indefenso

The Names of the Earth

The Earth has names I love
Eyes of a perpetual look
Brave Ruckus
celebrating the heart of the volcanoes

The names of the Earth
are states of the inner sunlight
Some concrete
yet inexpressible
like the voyage of the monarch butterfly
or the trunk of the millennial ceiba

Others fragile and delicate
like the light that dawns over the Caribbean

It also has horrendous names
like the wrath of God
-as Vallejo would say-
that repel life
and darken the luminous center of soul

Hunger omnipresent
in the extreme distaste of Lent

Names that spoil the sweetest
the clear water
the mornings

Dark names of barbarian empires,
filled with stubborn cowardice
marking with their tarred fingerprints
the silent green of the vegetables
the lifeless seagull
the defenseless wheat

Translated by Alejandro Corona.

 Posted by at 10:40 am

Juan Navidad -Spain-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Juan Navidad -Spain-
Sep 152016


Juan Navidad TAPFNY 2016Juan Navidad has published 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). His work has been included in magazines and anthologies. He is the creator of 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 he founded Laovejitaebooks.com, the ethical way to get published. Navidad has been invited to events, fairs and meetings in Spain, Republic. Dominican, United States and Mexico.

En toda casa hay…

una silla en la que nadie se sentó
una vajilla que no se usa y que demuestra
la existencia de otra vida,
aspirinas que tardaremos siglos
en tomar o usaremos
para alargar la vida de las rosas
cubiertos para ir de picnic
cuando tengamos tiempo
camisas para ocasiones especiales
que no nos gustan
frascos con olores
que nos echan para atrás
pero ahí están, esperando
un nuevo error
hay una flor que se secó
de desidia y de desidia espera
un funeral que no llega,
un licor que nos regaló alguien
y no probaremos porque no nos cae bien,
libros que odiamos
que muestran al mundo
nuestro amor por la lectura sincera,
velas que no encendimos
para que no se queme nada,
vasos que no usamos porque son
demasiado bellos
o una pastilla para un dolor
que tuvimos y se quedó
travestida en forma de miedo
todo ello
esperando que sigamos como somos,
gente corriente consciente
de que todo pasa
y todo queda…

In every house there is…

a chair in which no one sat
crockery that is not used and that shows
the existence of another life,
aspirins it will take us centuries
to finish
to extend the life of roses
cutlery for picnicking
when we have time
shirts for special occasions
we do not like
bottles with scents
that kick us back
but they are there, waiting
a new error
there is a flower dried
of idleness and indolence that expects
a funeral that fails to arrive,
a liquor someone gave us
and we won’t test because we do not like it,
books we hate
that show the world
our love for sincere reading,
candles not lit yet
so nothing is burnt,
glasses we do not use because they are
too beautiful
or a pain pill
we had and stayed
disguised as a new fear
all this
hoping that we continue as we are,
ordinary people aware
that everything happens
and everything remains…

 Posted by at 10:04 am

Jacqueline Herranz-Brooks -Cuba-

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Sep 152016


Jacqueline Herranz-Brooks  TAPFNY 2016Jacqueline Herranz-Brooks was born in Cuba and educated in Cuba and the U.S. She is best known as a published novelist in Spanish and is currently working on her PhD dissertation on Autofiction at the Graduate Center (CUNY). Jacqueline, a graduate of Escuela Provincial de Fotografía, Havana, has been making photographs for over two decades. She is the author of Liquid Days (Argentina, 1997), Escenas Para Turistas (NY, 2003), Mujeres Sin Trama (NY, 2011) and Viaje en Almendrón (Installation book for Gallery Miller, 2015). By merging texts and images Jacqueline explores process of fictionalization of memory. She is currently working on her ongoing projects “Lyrics of the Streets”, where she pastes texts onto walls or abandoned objects around NYC, and “Vicious Reading”, where she photographs texts anonymously placed on urban spaces where minority communities are being displaced due to gentrification.





Poema de la mesa by Jacqueline Herranz-Brooks

 Posted by at 9:31 am

José Gustavo Melara -El Salvador-

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Sep 142016

José Gustavo Melara TAPFNY 2016

José Gustavo Melara (Usulután, El Salvador, 1969) has lived in the United States since 1983. He did his undergraduate and graduate studies in New York, Colorado and Cincinnati. He lives in Boulder, Colorado, where, since 1995, he teaches Spanish and Humanities at Front Range Community College. Some of his work and translations of poets like Walt Whitman and Wallace Stevens have been published in different magazines in Mexico and the United States. In 2015, Elitro Editorial published his first book of poems, En sus pupilas una luna a punto de madurar.


Cinco segundos del Siglo XX
Se respira un lirio sin lluvia, disuelto y a la sombra
de la máquina de escribir,                               buscando
la mano derecha de Roque.  Oculto.
Viene (ellos) sobre rizomas y vanos líquidos; aspas de geranios crecen en el rumor de
un verbo mientras disimulan la expresión de ligeros rotos,
variaciones sobre un tema (en) gris
que en estos días llega mientras nos zambullimos en la suerte de unos cuchillos,
o agarramos maromas de sal con sudario,
o nos zambullimos en unas soledades de bolígrafos,
o en ciertas armonías de aura que topan con cuerpo rígido, disperso entre los secretos
de un caimito:
cómo no, y tengo (tienen) hambre (desde antes y luego);
y giran alrededor hojas de periódicos, acertando en la concupiscencia no realizada, dejando
[apenitas en el último soplo los acontecimientos,
ah, cómo disfrutábamos después de haber cavado este barbecho, pleno de esperanzas amarillas,
ensimismado, solitario si llovía, y que aún ve crecer su imagen en la arena:
porque sucede que el polvo se rompió en mil pedazos y acecha,
y la noche quedó herida a mitad del camino,
y el libro que leía se ahogó en sus palabras,
y la rosa dejó de ser infinita,
y el cielo se afeitó la barba,
y la pluma no se corrió por conjugarse en papiros gastados,
y el viento se marchó a unas estalactitas que lo someten a su antojo,
y la lámpara nos ayuda a descubrir cierzos con cara de viernes,
y la inmensa y tibia luz de esta mañana –pecho azul- ha empezado a iluminarse a sí misma,
y las sábanas que habían dejado dudas comenzaron a hincharse de solitarios cuerpos,
y las manos, tuyas y mías, se volvieron calculadoras y mensajeras del olvido,
y el olvido comenzó a deformarse y ya no lo recordamos,
y el libro que sostenía en las manos se quedó sin memoria,
y el café que nos regalaba horas demás se volvió tortugas sin patas,
y la masa que entraba al horno se volvió niño, niño, niño, y salió
niño de ceniza inolvidable, tuyo o mío, ni rey ni infinito, encogiéndose y apretándonos el corazón,
y nuestros niños gritan con alfileres en la garganta,
y se retuercen y quedan bajos como sombras de hormiga,
y hieren al sueño y a la soledad y a la mirada,
aunque sean muy pocos los ojos que ven más allá de su propia luz;
y una madre se coloca un chal verde sobre los hombros y las orejas,
y las mariposas todavía se hunden en una tierra voluptuosa en omisiones,
y los apellidos Markowitz o Trejo o Ntaryamira apenas alimentan la memoria,
y esa mujer dispuso alquilar sus escrúpulos para el bien de todos,
y esos niños otra vez, en franca humareda, nos confrontan con voz de cabello abrasado,
y a las madres no les alcanzan las lágrimas que, antes de caer entre los huesillos de los girasoles,
[ya son vaho,
y una boca llena de balas concede una entrevista en que se construyen visiones de tumba,
y los sueños –mármol rojo- de acordeónico padre ceden paso a las arañas con patas de horno,
y el silencio queda alborotado, sin saber qué hacer, como lámpara sin libro ni habitación,
y la calle no se conmueve ante los retazos de estrellas que al dar en la piel se cuajan de escarcha,
y el caballo verde se oculta entregándose a la meditación de unas raíces que se hunden en el cielo,
o en un campo sembrado de escleróticas,
o en una casa con mesa, cuarto y corazón desocupados:
el metal y la pólvora y el humo van levantando estalagmitas.


Five Seconds in the 20th Century


You may smell a withered lily, broken and under the shade
of a typewriter,                                               searching
for Roque Dalton’s right hand.  Hidden.
He comes (they) stepping on rhizomes and liquid interstices; geranium-blades grow in the rumor
of a verb that pretends to hide slight ruptures,
variations on a (gray) theme
which these days arrive while we dive into the fate of knives,
or grab tight ropes made of salt and shrouds,
or dive into the solitudes of pens,
or into some harmonies which come across a rigid body,
dispersed among the implosions of a blueberry:
yeah, and I am (are) hungry (then and later);
and the pages of several newspapers go round and round, alerting on
the concupiscence that hasn’t been realized, leaving (hardly) the events for later;
alas, how we used to enjoy ourselves after having dug a fallow,
full of yellow hopes, losing itself, solitary if it rained,
seeing its image grow in the sand:
Because it happens that the dust was shattered into a thousand pieces and now it lies in wait,
and the night remained wounded in the middle of a road,
and the book I was reading drowned in its own words,
and the rose is no longer infinite,
and the sky shaved its beard,
and the quill has not flown since it began writing on worn papyruses,
and the wind went away to die around stalactites that subjugated it as they pleased,
and the lamp has helped us discover north winds with a Friday face,
and this morning’s dim and immense light –blue chest- has begun to illuminate itself,
and the blankets, which had many doubts left under them, started to swell up with solitary
and some hands, yours and mine, feel cold and have become messengers of oblivion,
and our oblivion has been disfigured and we don’t remember it any longer,
and the book which I hold in my hands has no memory,
and the cup of coffee which gave us extra hours became a turtle with no legs,
and the dough going in the oven was transformed into a child, child, child,
and it came out as an ash-child, shrunk, unforgettable, yours and mine, neither a king nor infinite, crumpling the heart,
and our children cry, cry, cry with needles in their throats,
and they writhe in pain and remain low like shadows of an ant,
and they wound our sleep and our loneliness and our eyes
even if there are very few eyes that see beyond their own light;
and a mother places a shawl over her shoulders and ears,
and butterflies still drown in a land voluptuous in omissions,
and the last names Markowitz or Trejo or Ntaryamira  hardly mean anything,
and that woman decided to rent her scruples for the good of everyone she knew,
and the children again, going up in smoke, confront us with their-burnt-hair voices,
and mothers don’t have enough tears, which, before falling on the little bones of a sunflower,
[are already steam,
and a mouth full of bullets concedes an interview in which visions of a tomb are constructed,
and the dreams –red marble- of an accordion-like father lets spiders with oven-legs come in,
and our silence remains agitated, not knowing what to do, like a lamp with neither a book nor a
and the street is not moved before the remnants of a star become frost upon reaching the skin,
and the green horse hides and surrenders the roots sinking in the sky,
or in a field planted with retinas,
or in a house with an empty table, bedroom and heart:
metal and gunpowder and smoke are rising stalagmites.

 Posted by at 8:32 am

Consuelo Hernández -Colombia/USA-

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Sep 132016

Consuelo Hernández TAPFNY 2016

Consuelo Hernández: Colombia / USA. She is the author of six poetry collections included: Mi reino sin orillas (2016), Polifonía sobre rieles (2011), Poemas de escombros y cenizas, and Manual de peregrina. She has also published numerous articles on Latin American studies, and two scholarly books on poetry: Álvaro Mutis: Una estética del deterioro, and Voces y perspectivas en la poesía latinoamericana del siglo XX. In 2011 was awarded with the Antonio Machado poetry prize in Madrid Spain. Other honors include: Finalist of the Letras de Oro contest at the University of Miami, finalist of the Ciudad de Melilla International Poetry Contest in Spain, Diploma for her Poetic Work, awarded by the Salvadorian Consulate in New York, being recorded for the Library of Congress. Her poems have been translated to Arabic, English and Italian. She lives in Washington DC.


Catarata somos

Tus ojos plenos de sorpresa verán
mujeres esculpidas por la nieve
en su glacial espera
soñando sin fantasías ni reposo.

Tú también te sentirás catarata
pasando por tus cuatro estaciones
con tu cuerpo trajinado ya
irás atravesando tu verano.

Tú también te despeñarás
pero sin repetir monotonías
permanentemente caerás
en ese infinito borrascoso.

Te pulirás sin amparo ni límites
y un día te evaporarás definitivamente
como la bruma gris que se levanta
sobre el desfile de vendimias que se llevará tu aliento.

We Are a Waterfall

Your eyes full of surprise will see
snow sculptures of women
in their glacial wait
sleeping without dreaming or resting.

You too will feel like a waterfall
tumbling through your four seasons
your body going back and forth
you will travel through your summer.

You too will cascade down
but without repeating monotonously
forever you will fall
in this tempestuous infinity.

You will become smoother, with no shelter, limitless
and one day you will surely evaporate
like the gray mist that rises
above the parade of vintages carried on your breath.

Translated by Maureen Contreni

 Posted by at 9:25 am

Christopher Carmona -USA-

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Sep 122016

Christopher Carmona -USA- TAPFNY 2016

Christopher Carmona was the inaugural writer-in-residence for the Langdon Review Writers Residency Program in 2015. The Texas Observer recognized him as being one of the top five writers in 2014. He has two books of poetry, beat and I Have Always Been Here and one book of short fiction, The Road to Llorona Park.  He edited The Beatest State In The Union: An Anthology of Beat Texas Writings with Chuck Taylor and Rob Johnson and Outrage: A Protest Anthology about Injustice in a Post 9/11 World with Rossy Evelin Lima by Slough Press. He has also co-written a conversation book, Nuev@s Voces Poeticas: A Dialogue about New Chican@ Poetics.

The American Alphabet

a is for anger.
b is for brutality.
c is for culture not represented.
d is for disruption.
e is for empathy not felt.
f is for fire not set.
g is for greed not grace.
h is for history buried deep.
i is for ignorance not isis.
j is just cause.
k is for KKKan’t.
l is not for love.
m is for mentiras we believe.
n is for nigger.
o is for oppression.
p is for peace we’ve never known.
q is for quiet when the rinches come.
r is for revolution never achieved.
s is for survival in stories we sing.
t is for truth in those songs.
u is for us coloring their history.
v is for vanity in both its meanings.
w is wetback.
x is for xenophobia, America’s white state
y is for you because z might not be last

 Posted by at 12:06 pm

Christos Tsiamis -Greece-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Christos Tsiamis -Greece-
Sep 112016

Christos Tsiamis TAPFNY 2016

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) and the book of poetry and prose Magical Manhattan (Athens, 2013), which was short-listed for the 2014 book-critics award “Anagnostis”. His poems, translations and essays appear in Greece’s major literary magazines. He is founding member of the Circle of Poets of Greece. He lives in New York.



Απέξω έβρεχε
Κι έτσι περίμενε, και περίμενε ο Κάππα
διαβάζοντας τον Φρόϋντ, τού Λένιν τα Απαντα,
και του δεκάτου εννάτου αιώνα ιστορίες
Τού Μπαλζάκ, τού Τολστόϋ, και τού Ντίκενς –
γιά να γεμίζουν οι ώρες του.  Μπόλικο πράγμα!

Μάταια περίμενε στο κρεβάτι ο Κάππα
Να τους κοιτάξει βαθειά μές στα μάτια
Σαν έρθουν να τον πάρουν γι’ απολογία
Και ας τού ήταν άγνωστη η κατηγορία.
Εδώ δεν συμβαίνουν τέτοια πράγματα.
Τα βάθη είναι μονάχα γιά τη θάλασσα.

Απέξω έβρεχε, έβρεχε ασταμάτητα.
Και έμπαιναν στο σπίτι τα σκαθάρια.
Τα πατούσε με μανία, τα συνέθλιβε
Είχε γεμίσει πτώματα το πάτωμα.
Ωσπου μιά μέρα ξαφνικά βαρέθηκε.
Εκλεισε αθόρυβα την πόρτα κι έφυγε.

Kafka In Patra
                                 To Panos Sigma

Outside it was raining.
And so K waited, and waited
reading Freud, Lenin’s Complete Works,
and nineteenth-century stories
by Dickens, Tolstoy, and Balzac
to pass his time.  Loads of stuff!

In vain K waited in bed
To look them deep in the eye
When they came to take him to trial
Even if he was unaware of the charge.
Here such things don’t happen.
Only in the sea you find depths.

Outside it was raining, raining incessantly.
And the beetles entered the house.
Madly he trod on them, crushed them.
The floor was covered with bodies.
Till one day he suddenly got bored.
He quietly closed the door and left.

Translated by David Connolly

Kafka en Patra
A Panos Sigma

Afuera llovía
mientras K esperaba y esperaba
leyendo a Freud, las obras completas de Lenin
y cuentos decimonónicos
de Dickens, Tolstoy y Balzac
para matar el tiempo. !Tantas cosas!

En vano K esperaba en cama
para mirarlos a los ojos hondamente
cuando llegaron para llevarlo a juicio
aunque desconociera de qué se le acusaba.

Aquí esas cosas no pasan,
las profundidades son sólo para el mar.

Afuera llovía, llovía sin cesar
y los escarabajos entraron a la casa.
Los aplastó, los trituró con demencia
y el piso se forró de cadáveres
Hasta que un día de repente se aburrió,
cerró la puerta pasitito y se marchó.

Traducción de Kattia Chico

 Posted by at 12:47 pm

Alexandra Botto -Mexico/USA-

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Sep 092016

Alexandra Botto TAPFNY 2016

Alexandra Botto. Monterrey, N.L. México.1964. Poet, anthologist. Director of Homo Scriptum Editions. Her poems have been published in magazines, newspapers, webs specialized in literature and included in anthologies published in Spain, Argentina, United States and México. Her poems have also been translated to Rumanian, French, and English in a variety of art magazines. She received an honorable mention in poetry from the Foundation for the Arts, Tepic, Nayarit (1992). Second place in the tales contest organized for the cultural newspaper La Rocka, Monterrey, N.L. (2005). Botto has participated in poetry festivals around the world. Poetry collections: Días de viento (2007) and Todos mis héroes (2012).


Manzanas muertas para Eva

Descubrirás esto algún día arañando dentro de ti la luz, la sed padecida por todos y los otros que no se olvidan.

Será la muerte aquélla hermana de tus citas vacías, con la puerta abierta y la ventana mirándote. Más allá quizá una pléyade, una galaxia enrojecida que llamarás Dios hasta oler tu propia sangre.

En la desgracia sólo hay un árbol en llamas, la procesión de una serpiente enterrando el perdón entre tus carnes. Ante las ruinas de la cruz verás a un ángel encender la tempestad en cada cirio y a los demonios abandonar la hora en que te parió tu madre.

Y sin embargo, pareces tan dichosa.

En medio de la gente tu silueta se propaga de ojo en ojo y ya nadie puede distinguirte del bien y el mal.

A quién vas a decírselo, … ¿a quién?


Dead apples for Eve

You’ll realize this someday scratching the light within you, the thirst that everybody feels and others we can’t forget.

Death will be that sister on your empty dates, with the door open and the window staring at you. Farther away perhaps a pleiad, a galaxy tinted red that you will call God, until you smell your own blood.

In misery there’s only one tree in flames, the procession of a serpent burying forgiveness in your flesh. Facing the ruins of the cross you’ll see an angel ignite the tempest in every candle and demons fleeing the moment your mother gave birth to you.

Nevertheless, you seem so happy.

In the crowd your silhouette spreads from eye to eye and no one can tell you apart from good or evil.

Whom will you tell… whom?

 Posted by at 6:04 pm

César Eduardo Carrión -Ecuador-

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Aug 122016

Cesar Eduardo Carrión face and logo 2016

César Eduardo Carrión (Quito, 1976) is Doctor in Latin American Literature (Simon Bolivar Andean University, 2012-2017), and Master in Literature (Pontifical Catholic University of Ecuador-PUCE, 2006). He has published five books of poetry: Cinco maneras de armar un travesti (2011), Poemas en una Jaula de Faraday (2010), Limalla babélica (2009), Pirografías (2008), Revés de luz (2006). He has also published two books of essays: Habitada ausencia (2008), La diminuta flecha envenenada (2007). César Eduardo has been Director of the School of Spanish Language and Literature and is currently the Dean of the Communication, Linguistics and Literature at PUCE.

A la calavera de Yorick

Recuerdo que alguna vez, borracho, vomitaste en las faldas del Rey, nuestro padre,
como un demonio que paría por la boca a los ángeles exterminadores del Apocalipsis.
Recuerdo que aquella vez fue la única que el Rey, nuestro puto padre, no te perdonó
por haber nacido necio, por haber nacido tonto, por haber nacido mucho más hermoso que él.
Aquella noche de juerga intensa, amado Yorick, fue tu última función en la corte danesa.
Al día siguiente tu cuerpo pendía hinchado y sin vida de una almena de la Torre del Desahucio.
“¿Sabes cuántas veces aparece la palabra Amén en la Biblia del Rey Jorge?
¿Sabes cuántas de sus setecientas ochenta y tres mil ciento treinta y siete palabras
hablan de la muerte y cuántas de ellas nos consuelan con la resurrección?”:
Estas letanías, bufón de la infancia fugaz, no son mías, recuerda que tú las pronunciabas
como un trabalenguas infinito que nos ponía a todos a dudar de tu aspecto de duende idiota.
“Los enanos tenemos la verga más grande que el dueño del circo”, decías al vernos así,
boquiabiertos, babeando, pensando en esa cifra imposible de la Biblia del inglés enemigo.
A pesar de tu estatura, siempre fuiste, tú, el gran Yorick, el payaso, el que amó a su verdugo,
como un perro de caza que aprendió a dormir en la cama de su amo y atrofió el olfato.
¿Será que así mismo son los poetas de todos los reinos perdidos, de todos los mares lejanos,
menudos pervertidos que enseñan a las vírgenes de las asambleas a reírse de sí mismas
y a encontrar entre sus piernas o sus senos la condición degradante de heredar la muerte
a quienes más se llega a amar, a quienes más se aparta de dolencias, a los hijos?
Porque los hermanos diminutos de los parlamentarios, los poetas, los ilustres inicuos,
como tú, como yo, mi difunto mellizo, somos cebo de políticos que dicen que debemos
ordenar este mundo y lustrarlo con palabras que discutan de justicia social y morales
intachables, que se puedan vender en las calles, como anuncios de humana integridad:
“Compre cerveza nacional, apoye a la patria; consuma cigarrillo local, respire nación;
lea versos y novelas que reintegren al sirviente y al esclavo a los Estados de confort;
oiga, poeta; oiga, pintor; óigame, señor artista de nuestro ilustre país, se lo advierto:
Si no talla el rostro del poder o la miseria que produce no le erigiré ningún monumento”.
Sigamos riendo, lúdico animal de pene enorme, de risa estentórea y temeraria,
que nos condenen los que escriben para el vulgo, para el analfabeta que nunca lo leerá;
que nos repudien también quienes escriben para el burgués, a quien la poesía le apesta.
Sigamos escribiendo, Calavera, para los demás esqueletos de este bello cementerio.
¿Sabes cuántas veces aparece la palabra Amén en la Biblia del Rey Jorge?
¿Sabes cuántas de sus setecientas ochenta y tres mil ciento treinta y siete palabras
hablan de la muerte y cuántas de ellas nos consuelan con la resurrección?
A mí, ya no me importa cuántas veces gimió el evangelista o fornicaron los predicadores.
Mucho menos me importará, de aquí en adelante, cuántos alguaciles de la verdadera,
de la absoluta necesidad, me increparán por evadir con mis palabras sus preguntas.
Gracias, cuerpo ausente, huesos pelados, carne reseca, postreros nutrientes del gusano,
por la libertad de no tener esperanza y por ello no deber al misterio el sentido de mi vida.
Sigue así, tan muerto como ahora, hermano Yorick. Mañana vendrán otros príncipes locos
a vengar la memoria de su padre infame, liquidado por la Matria puta, por la Ley del Hombre.

Del libro Poemas en una jaula de Faraday, 2010.

To Yorick’s Skull



I remember that one day, while drunk, you vomitted on the King’s—our father’s—robe like a demon giving birth to the merciless angels of the apocalypse. I remember that being the only moment that the King, our bloody father, did not forgive you for having been born stubborn, an idiot, for having been born much more beautiful than he. That night of revelry, dear Yorick, was your final function in the Danish court. The following day, your body hung lifeless and swollen from the barbed wire outside the Tower of Hopelessness. “Do you know how many times the word “Amen” appears in King George’s bible? Do you know how many of its seven hundred eighty-three thousand one hundred thirty-seven words are about death, and how many of them console us with resurrection?”:
These litanies, fools of fleeting infancy, are not mine—remember that you used to recite them like endless tongue-twisters that made us all doubt your stupid and impish appearance. “We dwarves have bigger penises than the owner of the circus,” you would say upon observing us, gaping, drooling, thinking about that impossible verse in the Bible of the English enemy. Despite your stature, you were always you, great Yorick, the clown, the one who loved his executioner like a house dog trained to sleep on his owner’s bed and weakened the smell. Could it be that the lost poets from all of the distant seas are the same way? Small perverts who teach virgins to laugh at themselves and to find, in between their legs or their breasts, the degrading condition of passing on death to those who are loved most, to those who are furthest from illness, to children?
This is because the diminutive brothers of the members of Parliament, the poets, the wicked, illustrious, like you, like me, my dead twin, we are bait for politicians who say that we should have order in the world and polish it with words that discuss social justice and impeccable morals, that we should be able to sell on the streets, like announcements of human integrity:
“Buy national beer, support the motherland, smoke local cigarettes, breathe the country’s air;
read verses and novels that will reintroduce maids and slaves to the states of comfort; listen, poet; listen, painter; listen to me, mister artist of our illustrios country, I warn you: If you do not have the face of power or misery, I will not build you any monuments.” Let us laugh, playful, well-endowed creature of bold laughter. Let those who write for the common people and for the illiterate who will never read condemn us. Let those who write for the bourgeois, those for whom poetry is pungent, also condemn us.
Let us keep writing, skull, for the rest of the skeletons in this beautiful cemetery.
Do you know how many times the word “Amen” appears in King George’s bible?
Do you know how many of its seven hundred eighty-three thousand one hundred thirty-seven words are about death, and how many of them console us with resurrection?
I don’t care how many times the Evangelist moaned or the preachers slept around. From now
on, I will care much less about the amount of just bailiffs that will prosecute me for evading their questions with my words.
Thank you, absent body, stripped bones, dry flesh, worm’s last nutrients, for the liberty of hopelessness, and consequently not owing the meaning of my life to mystery.
Keep on, as dead as you are now, Yorick. Other crazed princes will arrive tomorrow to avenge their infamous father’s memory, settled by the fucking motherland, by the law of man.

Translated by Pilar Gonzalez

 Posted by at 10:50 am

Zhivka Baltadzhieva -Bulgaria-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Zhivka Baltadzhieva -Bulgaria-
Aug 102016

Zhivka Baltadzhieva face and logo 2016Zhivka Baltadzhieva is a bilingual poet (Spanish and Bulgarian) born in 1947 in Sofia, Bulgaria. Since 1990 she lives in Madrid. She is a Doctor in Slavic Philology and Indo-European Linguistic. Zhivka is author of the books Solar Plexus, Day-Light, Alien Poem, Stateless Mythologies, Never, the bilingual Sun and Fugue to the Real. Her latest book GenES was published only in Spanish. Her poems have been included in anthologies of contemporary Bulgarian, European and Universal poetry. Zhivka’s recent awards are Poetas de Otros Mundos, from the International Poetry Foundation and The Best Poet International Award by The Chinese Poetry International.


In my sleep I was brought to Ithaca’s shore,
a motionless body alone.

At first
nobody knew me.
And then nobody asked

I killed the suitors.
I no longer

Have to sail through storms.

No longer to invent myself.
To invent anything. To be someone

I don’t have to be.

Not even I dream
about Ulysses.

My escape
into reality

is completed.

English translation by Eva Davidova


A  la playa de Ítaca
me trajeron dormido,
un cuerpo inerte sólo.

no me reconocieron
y después nadie me preguntó

He matado a los pretendientes.
Y más

no tengo que navegar.

No tengo que inventar.
No tengo que inventarme.
No tengo que ser

No tengo que ser.

Ni siquiera yo
sueño con Odisseo.

Mi fuga
a lo real

se ha cumplido.


Спящ ме довлякоха
на брега на Итака,
само тяло инертно.

не ме познаха.
И после никой не ме попита

Убих претендентите.

не трябва да плувам през бурите.

Не е нужно повече да измислям.
Да се измислям.
Да бъда

Да бъда.

Ни дори аз сънувам

Сбъдна се
моето бягство

в реалността.


* * *

 Posted by at 10:58 am

Rémy Durand -France-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Rémy Durand -France-
Aug 082016

Remy Durand TAPFNY 2016Poet, editor and translator, Rémy Durand was born in Caracas, Venezuela, and the Latin American culture has profoundly influenced his writings. He has participated in Latin American poetry festivals in Colombia and Ecuador. He recently published a French translation of an anthology of 33 Ecuadorian poets entitled Séparer le blanc de la lumière 33 poètes Équatoriens du XXIème siècle. He has also translated works by poets such as Alejandro Cortés González,  Fadir Delgado Acosta, Ileana Diaz, Maitalea Fé, Sergio Laignelet (Colombia),  Siomara España, Ramiro Oviedo, Aleyda Quevedo Rojas Augusto Rodríguez, Pedro Rosa Balda, (Ecuador); Verónica Aranda, María Solís Munuera (Spain), Rafael Courtoisie (Uruguay). Rémy organizes with the french poet Gilbert Renouf monthly poetry readings in Toulon – France, known as Mercredis du Carré in a bookstore called Le Carré des mots. He recently published a poetry book La Vertu des ombres (L’une & l’autre publishers, Paris 2015).

Caresse de pierre.
Partez vous renseigner sur ses fantômes !
Demandez-lui d’offrir sa voix de cornaline,
implorez sa joue et son baiser !
Apprêtez ses sentiers de masques,
de jongleurs, de danses et de rires,
de parfums aussi !
N’oubliez pas son visage,
où chatoie la tendresse.


Caress of stone.
Go and leam more about its ghosts!
Ask it to give its cornelian voice,
implore its cheek and its kiss!
Prime its pathways of masks,
of jugglers, dances and laughter,
of perfumes too!
Do not forget its face,
shimmering with tenderness.

Seule l’implosion de la pierre nous rejoindra dans ses demeures
J’ai le droit de l’aimer, sans rémission,
d’un pur silence.

The stone’s implosion alone will join us in its mansions.
I am entitled to love it, mercilessly,
in pure silence.

Mes mains aussi,
familières des argiles.
Elles mûrissent à l’appel du présage,
orgueilleuses d’avoir su
qu’elles appartenaient à la même pierre.

My hands as well,
known to clay.
They ripen at the omen’s call,
proud of having known
that they belong to the same stone.

Et la pierre s’avance,
dans la crue de ses pépites,
sous les vivats des tempêtes !

And the stone moves forward
in the flood of its nuggets,
amid the cheers of tempests!

Atlantes du temps,
tissu rouge du jaspe…
Je les épie, je les guette…
Comme ils sentent le poivre et le basilic !

Atlases of time,
red cloth of jasper…
I watch and listen…
How they smell of pepper and basil!
Translated by Roger Little

 Posted by at 12:13 pm

Verónica Aranda -Spain-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Verónica Aranda -Spain-
Aug 012016

Veronica Aranda TAPFNY 2016

Verónica Aranda (Madrid, 1982) is a multi-lingual poet and translator with an international presence. Not only has her own work appeared in several languages, she has also translated contemporary poetry from Portugal, Brazil, France and Nepal into Spanish. Her professional efforts extend from creative and critical journal contributions to participation in international literary events around the world. She has degrees from the University Complutense of Madrid and the Jawaharlal Nehru University of New Delhi. She has received in Spain poetry awards such as: Premio Internacional Miguel Hernández and the Adonáis accésit. Poetry Collections: Poeta en India, Tatuaje, Alfama, Postal de olvido, Cortes de luz, Senda de sauces, Café Hafa, Lluvias Continuas. Ciento un haikus, La mirada de Ulises, Inside the shell of the tortoise, a bilingual anthology Spanish-English.




Una mujer está asando batatas
con los rescoldos de la lumbre.
Por su pelo aceitado caen acordes de sitar.
Cada pliegue del sari con que cubre su vientre
anuncia la matriz, la reclusión.

Se puede confundir el tintineo de ajorcas
con el de la llovizna.
Canta y en cada nota la quietud
converge en la tahona que olía a albaricoques.
Canta y fragmenta vértice o frontera.

La noche es una herida de colmillos de mono
y empieza a supurar.



A woman is roasting sweet potatoes
in the embers of the fire.
Sounds of the sitar fall through her oiled hair.
Each fold of the sari covering her belly
announces her womb, her confinement.

How easy to confuse a tinkling anklet
with the dripping rain.
With every note she sings serenity,
an echo to the apricot smells of the bakery.
She sings and cracks vertex and boundary.

The night is a gnawed gash from a monkey maw,
and it festers.
Translated by Claudia Routon

Feria del camello (Pushkar)

Aquella soledad de los niños acróbatas,
que doblaban su cuerpo en el instante
que doblaban la infancia,
descalzos por caminos polvorientos
con los titirimundi y los tratantes,
de feria en feria; el vértigo, el trapecio,
unos frágiles miembros desnutridos
girados en posturas imposibles;
sostener en el aire, entre poleas,
un porvenir hostil donde se rompe
la magia de los circos.

The Camel Fair (Pushkar)

How lonely the child acrobats
who buckled their body the instant
they buckled their childhood,
no shoes on those dusty roads
with the puppeteers and the dealers,
from fair to fair; vertigo, trapeze,
fragile malnourished limbs
twisted in impossible positions;
suspending in the air, between pulleys,
a hostile future ready to break
the magic of the circus.

Translated by Claudia Routon

 Posted by at 11:23 am

Kätlin Kaldmaa -Estonia-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Kätlin Kaldmaa -Estonia-
Jul 252016

Kätlin Kaldmaa TAPFNY 2016Kätlin Kaldmaa is an Estonian poet, writer, translator and literary critic. She has published four collections of poetry – Larii-laree, One is None, Worlds, Unseen and The Alphabet of Love –, two children’s books, a novel No Butterflies in Iceland, and a short story collection The little sharp knife. In 2014 her first poetry collection in English, One is None, was published. She has written extensively on literature and translated around 50 works of world’s best literature. In 2012 she won the annual Friedebert Tuglas short story award. Kätlin Kaldmaa is the President of Estonian PEN. She is currently working on her fifth collection of poetry and on her second novel.


Darkness and light

You dip your foot into darkness like water,
you take it out,
no foot to be seen,
your foot is black to the brink of darkness.

You dip your hand into light like water,
you take it out,
no hand to be seen,
your hand is white to the limits of light.

Darkness, light
unseen alike.


Translated by the author and Miriam McIlfatrick-Ksenofontov

My Bosnian lover

My Bosnian lover
is of the blue wolf brotherhood.
At birth he bore
a blue mark on his back,
a gemstone ingrown on his spine;
his mother ate moonstone mash
to make her child human.
And it did.

My Bosnian lover
longs for his kin
and is always up at night.
When he walks his footfalls fit
into those of his forerunners.

My Bosnian lover
has outlived his siblings.
His brother burnt in his home.
His sister fled from
looters and outlaws to be
snared in the forest by soldiers.
She served as their war wife,
one for all.
In a year she was ousted from the gloom:
too ugly
and too combustible.
My Bosnian lover now raises
his sister’s son.

My Bosnian lover has a bullet hole
in his forearm.
“It’s a good place,”
he laughs,
“to keep a fag
when out for a walk.”

My Bosnian lover has
a history of love.
As far as I know
he has loved
a girl in a yellow skirt,
a boy in seventh grade
who sketched inconceivable spaces,
a dog with no name
(that’s why it was loved),
a woman who knew
how to sink into armchairs,
and a country
that blushed in a tongue of living fire.

My Bosnian lover has
a history of war.
Every day at dark
he returns to the past
to search for his people.
He comes back with a start,
a ribbon for his daughter
a bone for the dog,
or a skirt for his sister’s wedding.

My Bosnian lover
is good with his hands.
He carved his own bed
where sleep never comes,
only love, whispers and blood.
He takes me with a howl
and with force
and I, lacking moonstone in my spine,
at every full moon
turn werewolf.

My Bosnian lover
offers me bread from a knife tip.
It’s one of those things that I,
in between worlds, can teach him.
He vowed that for me
he would always keep
a knife and bread.
I believe him.


Translated by the author and Miriam McIlfatrick-Ksenofontov

 Posted by at 11:36 am

Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech -Maya Nation, Mexico-

 Poetry 2016  Comments Off on Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech -Maya Nation, Mexico-
Jul 152016

Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech TAPFNY 2016

Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech is a Mayan writer born in Calkiní, Campeche, Mexico. He is an Agricultural Engineer specialized in rural sociology from Universidad Autónoma Chapingo. Currently, Cocom Pech is a member of the prestigious Mexican Sistema Nacional de Creadores de Arte (2015-2017). He writes poetry and narrative and has authored the books 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. In 2005 he received, in Rumania, the Grand Prize from the International Curtea de Arges Poetry Nights.

Naajil a pixan

A t’aane’ un naajil a pixan,
tumen ti’ kuxa’an a laats’ilo’ob.
Ti’e úuchben xa’anilnaj,
ti’ tu’ux ku k’a’ajsaj a kajtalil,
ti’ ku p’aatal t’aan.

Le béetike’
ma’ a wok’ol u kiimil a wíinklil,
mix a wok’ol  a kiimil a pixan;
a wíinklile’,
máantats’ ku p’aatal ich u yich a páalal;
a pixane’
máantats’ ku léembal ti’ u yich xuxil eek’ob.

La casa de tu alma

Tu idioma es la casa de tu alma.
Ahí viven tus padres y tus abuelos.
En esa casa milenaria,
hogar de tus recuerdos,
permanece tu palabra.

Por eso,
no llores la muerte de tu cuerpo,
ni llores la muerte de tu alma;
tu cuerpo,
permanece en el rostro de tus hijos,
tu alma,
eternece en el fulgor de las estrellas.

The house of your soul

Your language is the house of your soul.
Your parents and grandparents live there.
In that ancient house,
home of your memories,
your words remain.

do not mourn the death of your body,
nor the death of your soul;
your body,
remains in the faces of your children,
your soul,
is immortalized in the glow of the stars.

Translated to English by Pilar González

Áak’il kaane’

Áak’il káane’
ken u na’akal u chun kululche’,
u k’áat u chuk u pixanil.

Chen ba’a ale’, áak’ile kaane’ ma’ u yóojelí;
u pixan kululché,
ma’ tia’an ich u chunil:
tia’an, tia’an ichil u k’aay ch’i’ich’obe’.

La serpiente vegetal

La enredadera
cuando escala el tronco de un árbol,
pretende atrapar su alma.

Lo que ignora esta serpiente vegetal;
es que el alma de un árbol,
no está al interior de su tronco,
sino en el canto de los pájaros.
The vegetable serpent

When a vine
scales the trunk of a tree,
it appears to trap its soul.

What this vegetable serpent ignores
is that the soul of a tree
is not inside its trunk,
but in the bird’s song.

Translated to English by Pilar González

Muk’ult’aan ch’i’ich’o’ob 

Maax u k’áat u kí kí yuubik u k’aay ch’i’ich’o’ob
ma’ k’áabet u beetik  núup’o’ob,
chéen yaan u paak’ik’ kululche’o’ob

U k’aay ch’i’icho’ob, k-tia’al;
mix maak
mix maak, kex yanak u núup’o’ob, u yumil.

El secreto de los pájaros

El que quiera disfrutar del canto de los pájaros,
no necesita construir jaulas,
sino sembrar árboles.

El canto de lo pájaros, pertenece a todos;
nadie, a pesar de las jaulas, es su propietario.

The secret of the birds

He who wants to enjoy the bird’s song
does not need to a build cage,
he must plant trees.

The song of the birds belongs to us all;
no one,
no one, other than a cage, is its owner.

Translated to English by Pilar González

 Posted by at 12:38 pm

Isabel Espinal -USA/Dominican Republic-

 Poetry 2015  Comments Off on Isabel Espinal -USA/Dominican Republic-
Sep 182015

Isabel Espinal face and logo 2015Isabel Espinal was born in New York City in 1964, two years after her parents immigrated from the Cibao countryside in the Dominican Republic. She attended MIT and graduated from Princeton University with a degree in Romance Languages and Literature. She earned a Masters degree in Library and Information Studies from UC Berkeley in 1991 and has been a librarian ever since. She also gave birth to a raised three children, now 21, 19 and 17 years old. In 1993, inspired by feelings of life and mortality inherent in being the mother, Isabel started writing down poetry. She published a chapbook of poetry, Clean Sheets, in 1996, as part of a series edited by poet Lourdes Vazquez, and in anthologies such as Tertuliando / Hanging Out and an issue of the journal Callaloo dedicated to Dominican Literature. Isabel currently works fulltime as a librarian while pursuing a PhD in American Studies with a dissertation on contemporary Dominican women writers in the United States. She grew up in Sunset Park Brooklyn, a short subway ride away from the main venue of the Americas Poetry Festival of New York. Her father had worked as a busboy at Windows on The World, decades before it came down on September 11. Isabel had worked at the Statue of Liberty when she was in high school, taking the ferry from Battery Park. So when she first came to the Americas Poetry Festival in 2014, she reconnected with the spirits that she and her family members had left behind over the years. In 2013-2014 she was President of REFORMA: The National Association to Promote Library and Information Services to Latinos and the Spanish Speaking.


I’m sitting here outside of time right now
waiting for you

Inside of time it got very stuffy

I had to get out

I don’t  know if I’ve been waiting an hour
or a year

I don’t know if I just got here or I have to leave already

I don’t want to wait any more but I don’t want to leave

Now I’m flying outside of time
I’m jumping
I’m swimming

But I can’t change anything out here

I want to change things!

For that I have to go back inside
back inside of time.


Aquí estoy sentada, afuera del tiempo,

Dentro del tiempo no había aire

Tuve que salirme de ahí

No sé si he estado esperando una ahora
o un año

No sé si acabo de llegar o si ya me tengo que ir.

No quiero esperar más pero no me quiero ir

Ahora estoy volando fuera del tiempo
Estoy saltando
Estoy nadando

Pero aquí afuera no puedo cambiar nada

¡Quiero hacer cambios!

Para eso tendré que volver adentro
volver adentro del tiempo

 Posted by at 6:31 pm

Maryam Alikhani -Iran/USA-

 Poetry 2015  Comments Off on Maryam Alikhani -Iran/USA-
Sep 172015

Maryam Alikhani face and logo 2015Maryam Alikhani is an Iranian-American poet, a translator, and an adjunct instructor of English Composition and Technical Writing at CUNY. She graduated with the degree of MFA in Creative Writing from the City College of NY, and currently is working on her doctoral research in Teaching of English at Columbia University. She writes her poems in English, Farsi, and Spanish and sometimes with a mixture of words in Turkish, Kurdish, and Arabic which are her passive languages. Her poetry has appeared in Esque Mag, Poetry in Performance, Promethean, The Poetry of Yoga as well as several periodicals in Tehran.


My poems do not promise anything
I only compose my world as it happens.
Kiss me word by word
Touch me line by line
I do not need to mean, but to be, like a poem.

Read me in every context that melts on your tongue.
I speak the language of the moment.
Track me; I have no past.
Trust me, there is no future.
Do not disturb my imagery of the universe.

My red planet is a rolling stone
That does not revolve around any sun.
It crosses your system once in a blue moon
And does not obey the laws of your physic–
Not denying the chemistry between us!

Join me in my oval orbit
Ovulating stars that have no gravity
Galaxies that have no memories of big bang.
Do not try to swallow me like a black hole
Or you will always remain dark.

We can destroy the old world in six days
Take a rest on the seventh day
Then order a new genesis for two infinite gods
Absolutely guilt free.

My cosmology has no chronology
It just happens at this moment.
I am not playing Emily Dickinson
Or Forough Farokhzad
I am just trying to recompose myself.

 Posted by at 9:49 pm

Juliet P. Howard -USA-

 Poetry 2015  Comments Off on Juliet P. Howard -USA-
Sep 162015

Juliet P. Howard facebook and logo2JP Howard aka Juliet P. Howard is a NY-based poet and Cave Canem graduate fellow. She is the author of SAY/MIRROR, a debut poetry collection published by The Operating System (2015) and a chaplet “bury your love poems here” (Belladonna Collaborative*, 2015). JP curates and nurtures Women Writers in Bloom Poetry Salon and Blog (WWBPS), a forum offering women writers at all levels a venue to come together in a positive and supportive space. WWBPS hosts monthly literary Salons throughout NY. JP is an Alum of the VONA/Voices Workshop. She is a Lambda Literary Foundation Emerging LGBT Voices Fellow, as well as a Cave Canem Fellow in Residence at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. She was a finalist in The Feminist Wire’s 2014 1st Poetry Contest and in the poetry category for the Lesbian Writer’s Fund of Astraea Lesbian Foundation for Justice. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Feminist Wire, Split this Rock, Nepantla: A Journal for Queer Poets of Color, Muzzle Magazine, Adrienne: A Poetry Journal of Queer Women, The Best American Poetry Blog, MiPOesias, The Mom Egg, Talking Writing and Connotation Press.


I am self portrait

“I paint self portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best.” Frida Kahlo
I am alone.
Often I paint portraits of self.
I am the person I paint.
I am self portrait because I know best.

Often I paint portraits of self.
I paint often because
I know self best.
I paint alone.

I am the person I paint.
I know,
I am alone
because I am self portrait.

I am self portrait because I know best.
I know I paint,
because I am alone.
Alone, I am often best.

 Posted by at 1:13 pm

Luis Reynaldo Pérez -Dominican Republic-

 Poetry 2015  Comments Off on Luis Reynaldo Pérez -Dominican Republic-
Sep 142015

Luis Reynaldo Pérez face and logo 2015Luis Reynaldo Pérez (Santo Domingo, 1980) poet, editor and cultural activist. He has published Temblor de lunas (Santo Domingo: Ediciones de Cultura, 2012, bilingual edition Spanish-Japanese) and Urbania (Santo Domingo: Editorial Funglode, 2013). The ebook Toda la luz (Santo Domingo: Luna Insomne Editores, 2013,) and the children’s book Lunario (Santo Domingo: Alfaguara, 2014). He has received, among others, the following awards: Premio único del Premio Funglode de Poesía Pedro Mir 2012 and Premio único del I Concurso Nacional de Haikú 2011.



Minúscula constelación de huesos

Soy el niño que dejó junto al fuego sus dedos tibios. Atardecido bajo sombra de pájaros. Navego en un vaso de estrellas hasta la penumbra enverdecida y herrumbrosa. Desnochecido. ¿Cómo voy a regatear un trozo de luz a esta noche bruta que se cierne en mis huesos? ¿Y esta lluvia escupiendo cuchillos sobre mi cabeza? ¿Y la acuosa mano del silencio desmigajando cada esperanza que pasta en mis ojos? Una tristeza hermosa se arrebola en mis mejillas y sigo despierto en la terrible oscurecencia del insomnio, escuchando la insistencia de una gota de viento en la pared, murmullando una melodía que florece en la luminosa esquina de la memoria. Aquí estoy, cosido a este desamparado de párpados abiertos que me succiona.

 Posted by at 6:24 pm