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Hector Canonge

HECTOR CANONGE is a Latinx artist and writer of Catalan and Bolivian descent. Born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, Canonge spent his childhood in Bolivia, and grew up in New York City where he studied Comparative Literature and Media Arts. His literary research focuses on gender narratives in Hispanic Literature. His essays have been included in journals and literary publications presented in the United States and Latin America. His book of poetry treating issues of human displacement, Veinte Jornadas Para Llegar A Vos was published by Complot Press while he lived in Bolivia in 2021. His creative work incorporates various forms of artistic expression: Performance Art, Experimental Dance Butoh practice, and Socially Engaged Art to explore and treat issues related to constructions of identity, gender roles, and migration politics.

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19 de abril, 23:00 h.

Del libro Veinte Poemas Para Llegar A Vos


notas numéricas estancadas en pantalla

una esperanza que no deja de timbrar

en la palma de una mano cansada

silenciando quejidos galopantes y sin rumbo

no relatar es ser valiente

callar y exclamar en suspiros entrecortados

para no revelar palpitaciones cortantes

en la espera de ese día

cambian los silencios roncos

y las miradas angustiadas

confunden los mensajes acongojados

con gemidos transitorios y obtusos

diez y nueve jornadas se escapan

confundidas entre el micrófono

y las teclas de un romance inestable

acentuado por la virtualidad mutante.

April 19th, 11:00 pm

From the book Veinte Poemas Para Llegar A Vos


numerical notes stuck on the screen
hope does not stop ringing
inside the palm of a tired hand
while muting the aimless galloping moans

not telling is to be brave
to silence and exclaim in ruffled sighs
is not to reveal cutting palpitations
just waiting for the day

the hoarse silence begins to change
and the anguished looks
confuse the messages
with transitory and obtuse groans

nineteen journeys have escaped
confused between the microphone
and the keyboard of an unstable romance
accentuated by the mutant virtuality.


Pink colored clouds

rest on your shoulders,

lady bugs timidly biting every inch of the future

transform my desires for the ghosts of love,

swallow my hopes to find the land of my dreams.

Wondering must I be for one hundred of a thousand moons,

galloping on sea horses to battle the fury of my angst,

breathing the acid air of my own imagination,

I wait for the clemency of your dark heart

while I drown in my own poisonous words.

The bluest of living amorphous corneas welcome my visit,

in turn, we face one another panting our foolishness

unable to assist our sinking souls

pink colored clouds have descended on our bodies.

ALMA pa’ que te quiero

Alma, I get lost in your ojos grises
crickets parade singing dissonant salsa melodies
la música can’t stop timid tears from shouting
while the ink of your heart spills my sobriety
leaving me inert below the eternal lights of la noche.
Alma, porqué - why?
must I confess the color of my thoughts,
the silence of my wrinkling skin,
the penitence of being Other, el otro,
and the desire to hide my immediate past?

The clock never stopped in front of la casa,
a house turned into tower of despair and misery,
no place to call our own, sin un hogar, no home.
Limping our future among forgotten gente,
people lost in their daily cruelling habits of being lost.

Alma, I called you twice, not three times or a thousand!
pero tres veces I whispered at the umbral of your fears,
to the depths of hope forever more unreachable.
Crimson winds threaten to burn my paper soul
“help is on the way” resonates inside my ears.
Alma, I get lost in your pale touch.
Colorless doves have blinded your welcome
“Bienvenido” spit their chirping voices to my sorrows.
Alma, pa’ que te quiero?
why do I want to lurk in you?

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