Silvia Siller

Silvia Siller Mexican poet, communications consultant and translator. Finalist of the Entreversos contest (2017) in Venezuela with her poetry collection Danza de 4 brazos published by New York Poetry Press. She has six poetry collections; Mariposas y Mantis (2014), Early Morning No. 5 (2015), Tandava with poet Edgar Smith (2018), Danza de cuatro Brazos (2019), La Granada Ebria (2019) and a recently published political memoir "El día que el cortés dejó de florecer" . Her books have been recognized at the International Latino Book Award 2015 and 2016. She received the G. Mistral, J. Burgos and F. Kahlo Award from the Galo Plaza group in New York for her contribution to Latin American culture in New York in 2015. Recently featured as Mexican author of the month by CUNY last may 2022. She has a Masters in International Relations from Columbia U. and a Certificate in Latin -America Contemporary Literature. She has produced theater-flamenco- poetry. Her poetry accompanied the exhibition Man(o)rar by Luciana Corres at the Franz Mayer Museum (2018) in Mexico City and at the Textile Museum of Oaxaca (2017). Participant of multiple international festivals: Nicaragua, FIL Guadalajara, Colombia, Chile, New York, Spain, El Salvador and Costa Rica.

FROM POETRY COLLECTION: MADRUGADA NO. 5/EARLY MORINNG NO. 5 (2015)

I. DE PLUMAS A PLUMAS

Pluma, liviana letra en sonrisa de cielo que te caíste de algún ala, de algún ángel, de aves sostenidas en el horizonte de su vuelo.

Bajas silenciosa en los vaivenes de brisas como canto de hadas solamente escuchadas por las niñas, en su mundo de la inocencia, y conforme vas cayendo, diseñas la paulatina frontera del umbral, ahí, entre el cielo y la tierra.

Pluma, instrumento del soplo de alguien, que te convierte en verbo, palabra, cuanto más sagrada, destilada sangre azul, como de universo, la que corrió por una sola de tus venas.

Tinta y pluma en manos del poeta que habrá de interpretar los mensajes de espías, esos depurados destellos mientras el aterrizaje es lento, o forzado,

o perfecto.

La gravedad reposa en el bombeo de su mano, palpitando renovados suspensos.

Hoy las letras quieren ser notas de palomas posadas en pentagrama de salmos, alabanzas que encuentran el camino de regreso, exhumándose de lo divino,

para sonreírse en la voluntad del Maestro.

Creo en ti palabra, no importa cuán prisionera,

siempre eres gota de ola, de un océano que guarda todo tipo de colores del espectro, el claroscuro del misterio, entre el sol y su reflejo, en el agua, o en las perlas arrinconadas, que en su concha, rebasan con su luz las grietas del silencio.

FROM FEATHERS TO QUILLS

Feather, light letter in a heavenly smile, off some wing you fell, off some angel, off birds suspended on the horizon of their flight

You glide down silently in the shifting wind like a fairies’ song only the girls hear in their world of innocence and as you fall,

you craft the threshold’s gradual border, there between heaven and earth.

Feather, instrument of someone’s breath, which makes you into a verb, word so much more sacred, blueblood distilled like the universe’s, which coursed a single vein of yours.

Ink and quill in the hands of the poet who shall decrypt the messages from spies, those pure glimmers when the landing is slow or forced

or perfect.

Gravity rests in its throbbing hands beating with renewed suspense

Today the letters would be dove notes perched on a psalm and praises staff praises that find their way back, that exhume the divine within to smile in the Master’s will.

I believe in you, word prisoner as you may be you are always a drop in a wave, in an ocean that holds the

spectrum’s every shade, mystery’s chiaroscuro, between the sun and its reflection in water or in the pearls secreted within their shell that pass through the cracks of silence with their light.

II. VERDAD

Aguarda, que la luz no llega antes de tiempo, Aguarda como la madrugada, sin acelerar el cascabel que rompe su propia noche. Luz, Verdad, Idea juegan al equilibrio de su propio peso, caen calzando perfectas, en su justo momento.

Pocas veces, partícipes de ligerezas, de la levedad que habrá de envidiar el aire, engendran sus dualidades y mutuamente se sospechan en una quietud testaruda, ¿Qué es la verdad sino la controversial esencia de la tregua?

Ayer izamos una bandera negra en algún balcón sin nombre, Mañana, su escudo se desdibuja hasta quedarse transparente.

Pero en el mientras, la verdad bordada en el durante, no logra concebirse, y las multitudes fieles la gritan con la esperanza encima,

pasan mil generaciones y el universo engulle eternamente la sabiduría, quedándose la verdad ahí... en el limbo de su pregunta.

TRUTH

Wait, for the light doesn’t come before its time, Wait like the early morning, not tamping the rattle’s speed, which breaks its own night. Light, Idea, Truth, they play seesaw with their own weight, they land for a perfect fit in their appointed time.

Seldom, knowing of lighthearted matters of buoyancy the air would envy do they spawn their dualities and they suspect each other in a stubborn stillness; What is truth but the disputed essence of the truce?

Yesterday we raised a black flag on some nameless balcony. Tomorrow its coat of arms fades to see-through.

In the meanwhile, however, the truth embroidered in the during cannot be conceived, and the faithful multitudes bellow at it as hope looms;

a thousand generations pass and the universe devours wisdom as it always has, leaving the truth there in the limbo of its query.

DE UNA MANERA O DE OTRA

De una manera o de otra nos alcanza el tiempo ciego sin medida en las yemas de los dedos se queda colgando en alguna parte del cuerpo se agrieta en la frente

se rasga en los ojos se congela en la comisura de los labios que a menudo, desfallecen, sonreídos a la fuerza, y al tiempo resienten se cuelga en el mismo vientre que se despojó de darse y hoy está sin hambre

De una manera o de otra el tiempo es piel y su metamorfosis toma forma de perro callejero buscando algún hueso sin carne

ONE WAY OR ANOTHER

One way or another time catches up to us blind no measure in its fingertips it stays, hanging off some body part it cracks in the forehead

it rends in the eyes it freezes at the corners of the mouth which often turn crestfallen, forcing their smile, and in time turn resentful, It hangs from the selfsame belly which gave until stripped of all giving and today no longer wants

One way or another time is skin and its metamorphosis takes the shape of a street dog hunting some flesh-dry bone

III. MI VIENTRE HABLA

El vientre habita su memoria sólo sus huéspedes recuerdan y algunos,

ni siquiera entraña que araña

nido de retoños con pataditas de misterio

mi vientre habla como ladrillo caído que fue casa mi vientre ya no crepita chisporroteando caricias ya dejó de estar sediento a veces el vientre habla

y se ve en un espejo de ayer, mientras refleja un esfuerzo

MY WOMB SPEAKS

The womb dwells in its memory; only its guests remember and some,

not even Flailing entrail,

nest of blossoms with tiny mystery kicks

my womb speaks like a fallen brick that was once a home my womb no longer sputters crackling with caresses

it no longer thirsts sometimes the womb speaks and sees itself in yesterday’s mirror as it casts the reflection of an effort.

IV. ME EXTRAŇO

Me extraño, con todo lo que quise ser cuando encajaba en otro sueño cuando transgredía mapas que nos vendió la vida

por un ramo de cerezos, tan temporales, como los suspiros, tan mariposas de vida corta que en su vuelo vive intensa y no se entera que aletea

su propio polvo

I MISS MYSELF

I miss myself with all I wanted to be when I fit in another dream when I overstepped boundaries that life sold us

for a cherry bough, short-lived as a sigh, as the brief life of a butterfly that lives intensely in her flight not grasping how her wings stir up their own dust