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2017

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



Poetizer: Supporting Poets Worldwide

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

Poetizer is the place to write, share and discover new poems daily. Express yourself. And then share it with friends and the world. Discover a new community with the same passion and curiosity for the word.

garden of the Walt Whitman Birthplace in Huntington Long Island. The festival featured sixty poets representing twenty-two countries and five languages. Among the participants were Spanish poet José María Álvarez who is one of the legendary Nueve Novísimos; the Lithuanian poet Ilzė Butkutė; the Portuguese João Luís Barreto Guimarães; Carolina Zamudio from Argentina; The Chicano Beat

Featured Poets / Poetas Invitados Indian-American Immigrant Poet and Filmmaker Named Poet of the Year by

poet Christopher Carmona; Keisha-Gaye Anderson from Jamaica; Luis Fernando Macías from Colombia; Ana

The Americas Poetry Festival of New

Rüsche from Brazil; Scott Hightower from USA; and Rei Berroa from the Dominican Republic. The venues for

York

TAPFNY 2017 were The City College Center For Worker Education; Walt Whitman Birthplace State Historic

Keisha-Gaye Anderson -Jamaica/USA-

Site and Interpretive Center; Consulate of Argentina in New York; and Instituto Cervantes NY. As in previous editions, Artepoetica Press published a multilingual anthology celebrating the festival. The festival grows every year and is committed to cultural and literary inclusiveness.

Scott Hightower -USAMikael Awake -USAMatza Maranto Zepeda -MexicoEduardo Mitre -BoliviaMaria Helena Barrera-Agarwal -

About Michelle Yasmine Valladares

EcuadorAmado Láscar -Chile-

Immigrant poet and filmmaker, Michelle Yasmine Valladares is the author of Nortada, The North Wind. Her

Iván Oñate -Ecuador-

poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Publications include Aster(ix), Upstreet and Clockhouse,

João Luís Barreto Guimarães -Portugal-

the anthologies, Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia & Beyond, and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry by Indians. She co-produced the films, O Sertão das Memórias, directed by José Araújo, which won Best Latin American Film in the Sundance Festival and El

Isaac Chavarría -USAKeila Vall de la Ville -VenezuelaLinda Morales Caballero -PeruJuan Navidad -Spain-

Diablo Nunca Duerme directed by Lourdes Portillo which won IDA Best Producer award. She is the Director of

Manuel Becerra Salazar -Mexico-

the MFA Program in Creative Writing at The City College of New York.

Carlos Satizábal -ColombiaElizabeth Lara -USADarrel Alejandro Holnes -Panama/USASilvia Siller -MexicoAlex Lima -EcuadorJuan Matos -Dominican Rep.Kamikaze Kristo -Puerto RicoJuan Nicolás Tineo -Dominican RepublicMarisa Daniela Russo -ArgentinaMaría Farazdel (Palitachi) -Dominican Rep.Karla Coreas -El SalvadorElsa Batista Pimentel -Dominican Rep.Lizette Espinosa -CubaElizabeth Balaguer -Domincan Rep.Luis Fernando Macías -ColombiaManuel Adrián López -CubaEdgar Smith -Dominican RepublicMaureen H. Altman -Perú/USAChristos Tsiamis -GreeceMichelle Yasmine Valladares – India/USA– Carolina Zamudio -ArgentinaNelson López Rojas -El SalvadorAntonio D. Espejo -VenezuelaPedro Larrea -SpainRaquel Abend -VenezuelaAmeen-Storm Abo-Hamzy -

Photos by Ilaria Lilly D’Alessandro

USA/Lebanon-

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

Tomás Modesto Galán -Dominican Rep.Alejandro Aragón -CubaRosana Acquaroni -Spain-

El viernes pasado con un auditorio colmado en el Instituto Cervantes de Nueva York, los organizadores de

María Leguizamón -Argentina-

The Americas Poetry Festival of New York anunciaron que, la poeta, profesora y cineasta

Luis Antonio Rodríguez -Puerto

india/estadounidense, Michelle Yasmine Valladares había sido distinguida como Poeta del Año en este festival

Rico/DR-

de poesía multilingüe. Los organizadores, los poetas y profesores, Carlos Aguasaco, Yrene Santos & Carlos Velásquez Torres, decidieron otorgarle esta distinción “en reconocimiento por su carrera literaria y por su poesía que refleja el espíritu multicultural de las Américas”. Valladares se suma a Jorge Miguel Cocom Pech (Nación Maya de México) y Tomás Galán (R. Dominicana) que recibieron el mismo galardón en 2016 y 2015.

Ely Rosa Zamora -VenezuelaFredy Yezzed -Colombia/ArgentinaNatalia Chamorro -PeruAlmudena Vidorreta -SpainChristopher Carmona -USA-

Para conmemorar este reconocimiento, TPFNY hará que se ponga un ladrillo conmemorativo con su nombre

Luis Marcelo Pérez -Uruguay-

en el Círculo de la Poesía ubicado en la casa natal del poeta Walt Whitman en Huntington Long Island.

Rei Berroa -Dominican RepublicAna Rüsche -Brazil-

El festival presentó a sesenta poetas provenientes de veintidós países y que leyeron poemas en cinco lenguas diferentes. Dentro del grupo se destacaron el poeta español José María Álvarez, uno de míticos Nueve Novísimos, la poeta lituana Ilzė Butkutė, el portugués João Luís Barreto Guimarães, la argentina Carolina

Nuria Ruiz de Viñaspre -SpainIlzė Butkutė -LithuaniaUn poeta maya es nombrado poeta del año en Nueva York

Zamudio, el poeta Chicano Beat Christopher Carmona, la jamaiquina Keisha-Gaye Anderson, el colombiano

Emily Fragos -USA-

Luis Fernando Macías, la brasileña Ana Rüsche, el norteamericano Scott Hightower, y Rei Berroa de la

Ely Rosa Zamora -Venezuela-

República Dominicana. Las sedes TAPFNY 2017 son the City College of New York Center For Worker

Tomás Modesto Galán -Dominican

Education, la casa natal de Walt Whitman en Long Island, el Consulado de Argentina y el Instituto Cervantes de Nueva York. Al igual que en las ediciones anteriores, Artepoética Press publicó una antología multilingüe

Rep.Maryam Alikhani -Iran/USA-

que conmemora el festival. TAPFNY crece cada año y mantiene su compromiso con la diversidad literaria. Artepoética Press

Sobre Michelle Yasmine Valladares La poeta y cineasta inmigrante Michelle Yasmine Valladares es la autora de Nortada, The North Wind. Sus poemas han sido nominados al Pushcart Prize. Algunas de sus publicaciones incluyen Aster(ix), Upstreet y Clockhouse, y las antología Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia & Beyond, y The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry by Indians. Ha coproducido las películas O Sertão das

Escribana Books

Memórias, dirigida por José Araújo, merecedora de Best Latin American Film en el festival Sundance y El Diablo Nunca Duerme dirigida por Lourdes Portillo que ganó el premio IDA a mejor producción. Además es la directora de la maestría (MFA Program) en escritura creativa en The City College of New York.

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2017

Keisha-Gaye Anderson -Jamaica/USA-

August 2017

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September 2016

October 2016

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August 2016

Keisha-Gaye Anderson is a Jamaican-born poet, author,

July 2016

visual artist, and media professional living in Brooklyn, NY.

September 2015

Gathering the Waters (Jamii Publishing 2014) is her first

August 2015 July 2015

poetry collection. Her forthcoming collection, A Spell for

September 2014

Living, is the recipient of Editors’ Choice recognition for the

August 2014

2017 Numinous Orisons, Luminous Origin Literary Award and

July 2014

will be published by Agape Editions in the spring of

June 2014

2018. Keisha is a past participant of the VONA Voices and Callaloo writing workshops, and was short-listed for the Small

Categories

Axe Literary Competition. She is a graduate of the Syracuse

Poetry 2014

University Newhouse School and holds an M.F.A. in creative

Poetry 2015

writing from The City College, CUNY. Follow her

Poetry 2016

@KeishaGaye1 or visit her at keishagaye.ink.

Poetry 2017

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

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Sep

11

2017

Scott Hightower -USAPoetry 2017

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Scott Hightower is the author of four books of poetry in the U.S. and a bi-lingual collection published by Devenir, Madrid. Tartessos, his second bilingual, is forthcoming, also from Devenir. Hightower’s awards include the 2004 Hayden Carruth Award and a Barnstone Translation Prize. When not teaching at New York University’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study, he sojourns in Spain. My Father for Doris Schnabel was a cowboy. My father was a sugar man. My father was a teamster. My father was a Siberian tiger; an angel; a lamb, a yellow dog, a horse’s ass. My father had a triple bi-pass. My father was a rat but he bought me my first hat. My father believed in decency and fair play. My father drove the getaway. My father was a blue jay. My father drove the boys away. My father drove a Thunderbird, a Skylark, a Firebird, an old pickup truck with a rusty tool box, a Skybird, a Sunray. My father drove hard bargains ever day; he was a force. My father was mercurial. He was passive, a little moody: rock… paper….scissors. He loved me. He loved me not. He stomps and hurls lightning bolts. Has slipped away. Passed away. My father was passé. My father was a Texas Ranger. Taught me to pray. Because of him, I hoard things in an old shoe box. Because of him, I use botox. Because of him, I look to clocks. Because of my father, I know how to oil the gate; don’t own a map. Because of my father, I have no use for similes. Because of my father, I hunger for my own catalog of metaphors. Mi padre para Doris Schnabel era un vaquero. Mi padre era el patróne de la azucarera. Mi padre era un camionero. Mi padre era un tigre siberiano; un ángel; un cordero, un “perro amarillo,” de un caballo el trasero. Mi padre tenía tres baipases. Mi padre era un cicatero pero me compró mi primer sombrero. Mi padre creía en la decencia y en el juego limpio. Mi padre conducía el coche de la huida. Mi padre era un arrendajo azul. Mi padre se llevó a los muchachos. Mi padre conducía un “Thunderbird,” un “Skylark,” un “Firebird,” una vieja camioneta con una oxidada caja de herramientas, un “Skybird,” un “Sunray.” Mi padre conducía cada día tratos duros; era una fuerza. Mi padre era mercurial. Era pasivo, algo impredecible: piedra… papel… tijeras. Me quería. No me quería. Aporrea el suelo y lanza rayos. Ha desfilado. Ha pasado al otro lado. Mi padre es passé. Mi padre era un Ranger de Tejas. Me enseñó a rezar. Por él amontono mis tesoros en una vieja caja de zapatos. Por él uso botox. Por él miro los relojes. Por mi padre sé engrasar la verja; carezco de mapa. Por mi padre, no valgo para los símiles; por él, ansío mi propio catálogo de metáforas. Translated by Natalia Carbajosa

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Sep

10

2017

Mikael Awake -USAPoetry 2017

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Mikael Awake’s work has appeared in The Awl, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Callaloo, Tin House (blog), The Brooklyn Rail, The Common, Witness, and elsewhere. He is the founder and editor-in-chief of City College of New York’s online literary outlet, The Grate. His short story collection, The Haven of Distant Lands, is forthcoming. A Theory of Freshness Arthur Jafa has a theory of fresh An aesthetics of fresh What is fresh? Is this poem fresh yet? No. Nor am I as I write it. I am half asleep Awoken from a nightmare I have forgotten the nightmare Of my country Which has forgotten me And itself And the world And everything but the whiteness Of the house The plantation was not fresh The whip broke the air inside us And apologized for itself as it struck And drew blood that was fresh They know not what they do And that is not fresh I need to sleep I need to stop refreshing Twitter Neruda said political poems are not fresh Until you understand how fresh it is to love A lovers quarrel with my country Said Jimmie who was fresh I woke up with these words fresh in my inner ear The words themselves in English A language that is refreshed Every time my genius mom opens her mouth to use it Sonia says they never call us geniuses Max Roach Coltrane geniuses so fresh I need refreshment I need more sleep I need to take care of myself I remember the dream now Ah yes I remember it It was fucked up as an episode of Breaking Bad It starred Aaron Paul too But he had a pussy And I was crying nonstop And Solange was playing and I was bawling bawling just Bawling fresh tears from a bridge Fresh tears after the bridge I tried to drink it away I need a refreshment There is no light in this house I need to stop Refreshing twitter To see if the world has been refreshed Refreshed of me and my immigrant kin Cleansed of us who came fresh off the boat Don’t get fresh with the ICEman When will this page refresh We are waiting for the news to refresh in our favor Refresh its antifresh ways But the connection is slow It is still loading.

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Sep

10

2017

Matza Maranto Zepeda -MexicoPoetry 2017

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Matza Maranto Zepeda was born in Ocozocoautla de Espinosa; Chiapas, México. She is PhD student in Social and Humanistic Sciences at Center for Advanced Studies in Mexico and Central America (CESMECA). She makes the radio capsule “Ex libris” for the program walks, culture and its journey broadcast on Radio, Television and Cinematography system of Chiapas. She has published: Atajos para llegar a nadie (SE del Estado de Chiapas, 2011), Peldaños (UNISON, 2012) and Trozos de azogue (Nueva York, 2013), besides, her investigation has been included in the book Tomar la palabra (Juan Pablos Editores, 2016). She had a scholarship from the program Stimulus to Creation and Artistic Development in 2011 (PECDA), she won the state youth award in 2010 at poetry, nowadays she is part of the planning committee of Pecda Chiapas as representative of literature’s category. * Se ha apuntado el camino del mañana, la guía me deja en esta jaula de luz. Estas manos realizan el malabar inútil de afinar el grafito, de plasmar la última línea que busque el exilio. Tiembla. El pueblo se ve sumergido por el estruendo fatídico de los altavoces. Nadie se salva del recuerdo. Esta hora se ha quedado íntimamente guardada cual cicatriz es remarcada con el tiempo. * Aquí viví todas mis muertes. Moví las piezas hasta ahogar el tablero, la solución no es el final; quedarán los nubarrones, su voz por los altavoces, la enmohecida satisfacción de salir ileso, la memoria. Intercambié tiradas, y es así como sé que todas las bardas tienen las claves exactas para concluir: hemos vivido en el reflejo. * En el séptimo día empezó la destrucción. Por el altavoz confirmé: todo estaba vacío. Separé mi fe de la razón. Posdata: A espaldas del viajero he visto a la felicidad desplomarse como una paloma. — * Tomorrow´s path has been planned, the guide leaves me in this cage of Light. These hands betray, uselessly sharpening the pencil to write the last line that searches for exile. It trembles. The village can be seen submerged by the defeating commotion of the loudspeakers. Nobody is saved from the memory. This moment is intimately kept, and its scar is reopened with time. * I have lived all of my deaths here. I moved all the pieces until I drowned the chessboard, the solution is not final; they will remain in the clouds, their voice in the loudspeaker, the drenched satisfaction of escaping unharmed, memory. I exchanged moves, and that is how all the walls have a precise way of ending: we have lived in the reflection. * On the seventh day the destruction began. I confirmed it over the loudspeaker, everything was empty. I separated my faith from my reason. Postscript: behind the traveler I have seen happiness plucked like a dove. Translated by Alfonso Gustave

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Sep

10

2017

Eduardo Mitre -BoliviaPoetry 2017

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Born in Oruro, Bolivia in 1943, Eduardo Mitre earned his PhD in Latin American literature at the University of Pittsburgh. He has taught at Columbia University, Dartmouth College, and St. John’s University. Pre-Textos published his Obra poética (1963-1998) in 2012. He translated from French to Spanish an anthology of Belgian poets—Urnas y nupcias (1998). He is author of five books of criticism, most recently Las puertas del regreso. Nostalgia y reconciliación en la poesía hispanoamericana (2017). He is Member de la Academia Boliviana de la Lengua correspondiente de la Real Española. Sí Tendría cinco o seis años, iba de la mano de su madre por el gentío agobiante penosamente inclinado. En la manga derecha y corta de su camisa caqui cómo golpeaba al pasante la ausencia total de su brazo. Pero él caminaba alegre y, dando pequeños saltos, insistía en el juguete que debía comprarle. Y ella lo miraba sonriente, inmensamente feliz, diciéndole cien veces sí con los ojos y los labios. Yes He may have been five or six years old, holding his mother’s hand through the stifling crowd leaning shyly to the side. On the right short sleeve of his khaki shirt how struck passersby were by the total absence of his arm. Yet he walked cheerfully and, taking small leaps, insisted on the toy that she should buy him. And she watched him smilingly, immensely happy, telling him a hundred times yes with her eyes and her lips. Translated by Gabriel Mitre

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Sep

10

2017

Maria Helena Barrera-Agarwal -EcuadorPoetry 2017

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She is an attorney, a writer and a translator. Born in Ecuador, she has lived and travelled in Europe, Asia, and the Americas. She is a member of the Ecuadorian House of Culture, the National Academy of History (Ecuador), PEN America Center, the National Book Critics Circle (USA) and the India International Centre (India). In 2010, she received Ecuador’s most prestigious literary award, the Aurelio Espinosa Pólit National Prize. She is the author of eight books of essays and poetry, as well as of the first full translation of the Diwan-e-Ghalib into Spanish, soon to be published. Septiembre Llovía y no recuerdo si era viernes, Jueves o era domingo. Si, llovía. Las aceras borrosas se perdían Bajo un silencio agudo como un grito. Llovía y no recuerdo si era tarde. En el aire flameaban las querencias Disolviéndose apenas, suspendidas Remotos amuletos del pasado. Llovía y no recuerdo si era el frío Lo que nos sumergía. ¿Era la espera? En los andenes, huellas de miradas Eran hojas levísimas de un libro Apenas entrevisto, ya olvidado. September It rained. Was it Friday, Thursday or maybe Sunday? Yes, it rained. The blurred sidewalks were lost In a silence as sharp as a scream. It rained. Was it late? In the air flickered affections, Gradually melting, suspended, Remote amulets of the past. It rained. Were we drowning In the cold? Was it the wait? At the platforms, furtive looks Appeared as the light sheets of a book, Barely noticed, already forgotten.

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Sep

10

2017

Amado Láscar -ChilePoetry 2017

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Santiago de Chile, 1956. Member of the Collective of Young Writers (CEJ) (SECH) between 1983-86. Marked by the military dictatorship of September 11, 1973. The deep cultural effect of the 17 years of implementation of neoliberalism in Chile is incorporated in his writings. He lived in Sydney, Australia; Eugene, Oregon and currently in Athens, Ohio where he has been a professor of Latin American literature since 2002. He has a list of publications of articles, essays, short stories and poetry. In 2016 finished his first novel: The station of Mauritius. Soon it will be published The Same Rain By Different Hills 1983-2013, An Anthology Of Thirty Years Of Its Poetry. His poetic work is connected organically with his academic research and his essays and short stories. Nn La tumba del oprimido está en la mente de los que callan. En la conciencia de los bienaventurados que porfían En poner la otra mejilla, como Cristos bastardos. En la imaginación alambrada que sentencia a los niños. La tumba del oprimido no está en la voluntad de los que Oprime [allí solo se ejerce el halago o la tortura] Sino en la riqueza que es propietaria de la voluntad Y en las alucinaciones de justicia de los hambrientos. [En el silencio de los que hablan, en la verdad de los reclamos] la tumba del oprimido radica en la ley que también es el camposanto de la memoria. NN The grave of the oppressed is in the mind of those that shut up. Well-ventured in the conscious of the adventurous that wayward In turning the other cheek like the bastard Christs. in the fenced in imagination that the children are sentenced to. The grave of the oppressed isn’t in the will of those who oppress (there they only exercise compliment or torture) But in the riches, that is of the proprietary of their will and in the hallucinations of justice for the hungry. (In the silence of those who speak, in the levity of the claims) The grave of the oppressed should be in the law that also is the cemetery of their memory. Translated by Hannah Grace Morrison

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Sep

09

2017

Iván Oñate -EcuadorPoetry 2017

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Iván Oñate was born in Ambato, Ecuador, in 1948. Poet and narrator. He made college studies in Quito, Argentina and Spain where he was doctorated in Communication (Semiotics) from the Universidad Autónoma of Barcelona. Part of his work has been translated into German, French, English, Portuguese, Italian and Greek. He is currently professor of semiotics and Hispanic-American Literature at The School of Language Science and Literature of the Faculty of Philosophy and Literature of The Central University of Ecuador. Published works: Estadía Poética, 1968; En Casa del Ahorcado, 1977; El Ángel Ajeno, 1983; El hacha enterrada, 1987, Anatomía del Vacío, 1988; El Fulgor de los Desollados, 1992; La canción de mi compañero de celda, 1995 La nada sagrada, 1998; La frontera, Bogotá 2006; El país de las tinieblas, México 2008; Cuando morí México 2010. Tango Bendito seas tango, porque en mis noches de rabia y dolor me abracé a tí sin importarme quién ponía la música y quién el llanto, quién esta niebla de adiós, quién el reiterado argumento. Bendito seas, pendenciero ritual que en tiempos lejanos únicamente te profesaron los hombres. Ateridos rufianes que tras demostrar la profundidad de su amor con un cuchillo, se abrazaban para el baile y enrumbaban hacia las puertas del amanecer con la misma cadencia con que sus pasos medirían la larga soledad de la prisión día tras día, ida y vuelta. Taciturnos amantes que en algún giro del bandoneón, daban un salto y caían en la puntual cita con el destino, en la atroz partitura escrita desde siempre. Tango, crucifixión en smoking, curioso funeral donde los muertos de amor asisten a su propio velatorio, engominados, y con un corazón de plata disparado al pecho. Brusca melodía, en cuyos sótanos aún se percibe el relámpago de la espada o el de ese otro rayo, quizás más modesto, el puñal con que se escriben las épicas puertas adentro. Bendito seas porque en la nieve sucia de este amanecer, algún desesperado, algún muerto de amor, en este momento se engomina y te baila en llamas abrasado por su sombra. Tango Bless you, tango because in nights of rage and pain I took you in my arms without caring who provided the music the tears, this farewell fog, who the recurrent story. Bless you, scoundrel ritual only by men professed in faraway times. Freezing rogues who after showing the depth of their love with a knife, embraced for the dance and stepped towards the doors of dawn to the same cadence with which their steps would measure the long prison solitude day after day going and coming. Taciturn lovers who in a turn of the concertina took a leap and dropped upon the prompt rendezvous with destiny, on the dreadful score written before time. Tango, crucifixion in tuxedo, strange funeral where love’s dead attend their own wake, their hair greased, a silver heart shot into their chest. Rough melody, in its cellars you can still catch a glimpse of the sword or that other lightning bolt, perhaps more modest, the knife with which epics are written indoors. Bless you because on the soiled snow of this dawn, a desperate man, some man dead of love, greases his hair right now and dances you in flames burnt by his shadow. Translated by Leticia Damm

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Sep

09

2017

João Luís Barreto Guimarães -PortugalPoetry 2017

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João Luís Barreto Guimarães was born in Porto, Portugal (1967) where he graduated in Medicine. He is a Poet (as well as a Breast Reconstructive Surgeon). As a writer, he is the author of 9 poetry books since 1989, including his first 7 books in Collected Poetry (2011) and the subsequent You Are Here (2013) and Mediterranean (2016) chosen as National Award António Ramos Rosa for best poetry book edited in Portugal in 2016. His work is published in anthologies and literary magazines in Portugal, Spain, France, Belgium, Holland, Germany, Italy, United Kingdom, Croatia, Macedonia, Brazil, Mexico, Dominican Republic, United States (forthcoming in Montenegro and Bulgaria). He has read at literary Festivals in Spain, México, Croatia and USA. «Pode ser Pepsi?» ao Bernardo Pinto de Almeida Gosto de ver hieróglifos nas pegadas das gaivotas. Não gosto que os feriados calhem ao fim-de-semana. Gosto dos frescos de Pompeia em dias de mais calor. Não gosto nada que os gregos misturem água no vinho. Prefiro os heróis sem nome ao nome dos grandes heróis. Distingo a dor dos que perdem da total perda de dor. Gosto de sentir a música de volta à minha vida. Não gosto do Mediterrâneo transformado em cemitério. Prefiro o fundo da alma a fundos de investimento. Distingo liquidez dos bancos da liquidez de teus olhos. Gosto de uma salada César numa piazza de Roma. Não gosto de pedir Coca-Cola e ouvir: «Pode ser Pepsi?» “OK If it’s Pepsi?” to Bernardo Pinto de Almeida I like to see hieroglyphs in the footprints of seagulls. I don’t like it when holidays land on weekends. I like the frescoes of Pompei on really hot days. I don’t like it in the least that Greeks add water to wine. I prefer nameless héroes to the names of great heroes. I distinguish the pain of losers from the total loss of pain. I like to feel the music returning to my life. I don’t like the Mediterranean transformed into a cemetery. I prefer the depths of my soul to the depths of the stock market. I distinguish the liquidity of banks from the liquidity in your eyes. I like a Caesar salad in a piazza in Rome. I don’t like ordering a Coke and hearing: “OK if it’s Pepsi?” Translated by Calvin Olsen

Posted by admin at 12:15 pm

Sep

09

2017

Isaac Chavarría -USAPoetry 2017

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Isaac Chavarría is a pocho from deep south Tejas. His work assisting non-profit organizations has produced over 20 chapbook titles for workshop participants. His poems are in Label Me Latina/o, BorderSenses, and NewBorder: Contemporary Voices from the Texas/Mexico Border. His poetry book, Poxo, from Slough Press, received the inaugural 2014 NACCS-Tejas Poetry Award. His collaboration as a member of the Coalition of Nuevo [email protected] Artists developed into a co-edited book titled [email protected] Voces Poeticas: A Dialogue About New [email protected] Identities. He is the current Co-Editor of Interstice, the literary journal of South Texas College, and co-runs a mobile book store. La Llorona del valle la Llorona del valle begins her summer with two more the first she coaxed during a game of chicken, along the edge they sped until one quit or died. the second was gifted by a father drunk he believed she was la virgen and sacrificed la hija in fatal baptism. when our skin peels off from a summer burn el valle fills her with bodies from the barrio-colonias. she irrigates para nuestra comida for our lives and in return we provide our children.

Posted by admin at 11:57 am

Sep

09

2017

Keila Vall de la Ville -VenezuelaPoetry 2017

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Caracas, 1974. Author of the novel Los días animales (2016), the poetry book Viaje legado (2016), Antolín Sánchez, discurso en movimiento / Antolin Sanchez, Moving Discourse (2016) and the short stories books Ana no duerme y otros cuentos (2008, 2016);. Editor of the American bilingual anthology Entre el aliento y el precipicio. Poéticas sobre la belleza (In press), and co-editor of 102 Poetas en Jamming (2014). Founder and organizer of the Venezuelan movement “Jamming Poético”, with more than 40 readings since 2011. Writer of the columns “Nota al Margen”, Diario El Nacional, and “The Flash”, Viceversa. Her work is included in several American anthologies. Anthropologist (UCV), MA in Political Science (USB), MFA in Creative Writing (NYU), and MA in Hispanic Cultural Studies (Columbia University). Lázaro afirman los expertos que la muerte no es un evento. las personas se encaminan hacia ella poco a poco sus órganos en ese tránsito se van apagando así como un amor se ahoga poco a poco o una planta no se seca de un momento al que sigue. todo el que ha pasado por allí lo sabe. por eso, dicen los científicos a menos que estés abso luta mente cierta no debes certificar un deceso. las personas no tienen sólo dos opciones: estar vivas o estar muertas. hay quien economiza recursos y va medio viva o medio muerta hay la ondulación indecisa y la agonía hay el tránsito (seguramente las personas van notándose morir) y también hay la enmienda sólo el final evidencia la dirección del vector dicen los especialistas del fenómeno de Lázaro. por eso recomiendan observar atentamente a quien se apaga esperar no adjetivar el arco tan de prisa. Lazarus experts claim that death is not an event. people march towards it little by little. in that crossing, their organs begin shutting down just like love drowns little by little or a plant doesn’t dry up from one moment to the next. everyone who has experienced it knows this. that is why scientists say that unless you are abso lute ly certain you should not certify a passing. people not only have two options: to be alive or to be dead. there are those who spare resources and go about half alive or half dead, there is the indecisive ripple and the agony. there is the crossing (people surely notice their own slow dying) and there is also amendment only the end reveals the vector’s direction say the experts of the Lazarus phenomenon. that is why they recommend to observe carefully when someone is fading out to wait not to adjectivize the arch so quickly.

Posted by admin at 11:43 am

Sep

09

2017

Linda Morales Caballero -PeruPoetry 2017

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Linda Morales Caballero is an author, professor and journalist. Cofounder of LAIA’s Literary Contest and Anthology and the group: Fuego de Luna with poets: Siller and Altman. With Professor Russo coordinates a Reading Circle at Hunter College. In the Transatlantic Conference participated with: “Fictional Visions: Writer, Translator and Filmmaker Consolidate Storytelling” based on: Lipstick, with: Marko Miletich and Mauricio Zapata. The Spanish Bramante Company premiered in Madrid the play: Enigmas based on five of her stories, at the Multidisciplinary Arts festival: SANfest, 2017. She holds a Master’s Degree in Hispanic American Literature. Conjugando Me llaman a interrumpir las chipas que hacen mis manos sobre el teclado. Les parece que me hace daño conjugar nuestros maleficios. No saben que no nos alcanza el tiempo para devorar en el otro todos los peldaños, los recuerdos trocados, los disfraces, los títeres. Apenas hecha carne la materia nos bautizaron en el llanto. Y nuestra condición angelical -recién cuajando en lo humanoaprendió a conjugar encantamientos para salvarnos. Seguimos conjugando, al borde del abismo, inquietando a otros desde nuestra naturaleza infantil y eterna de tragafuegos itinerante. Conjugating Some summon me to interrupt the sparks created by my hands on the keyboard. They believe it hurts me to conjugate our witchcraft. They don’t know we lack enough time to devour in the other all the rungs, the exchanged memories, the costumes, the puppets. Hardly turned into flesh we were baptized with tears. And our angelical condition just crystallized into human form, learned to conjugate enchantments, in order to escape. We go on conjugating, at the edge of the abyss, distressing others with our infantile and eternal wandering fire-eater nature. Translated by Marko Miletich

Posted by admin at 11:10 am

Sep

09

2017

Juan Navidad -SpainPoetry 2017

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He writes poetry (Anónimo, 1991, Una pareja de tapas duras, 1999, Poesía para buscadores 2013), thoughts in English (Think About It, 2011), translated into Italian (Pensaci, 2011) and in Spanish (Frases para no dejar de pensar en el metro, 2008, Frases para crecer el positivo, 2014), short stories (¿Para qué sirve un libro? 2014). Included in magazines and anthologies, he created the Cálamo Magazine (1991-1994), the Association of Writers Pimera Obra (1997 ), the entrecomillas literary group (1998), Libel (1999), Costa Literaria, and in 2003 Fábrica de leyendas, in 2011 Laovejitaebooks.com, the ethical way to get published, translate and present books in their monthly events in New York all year long. He has been invited to events, fairs and meetings in Spain, Republic. Dominican, United States, Mexico, Colombia, Cuba and Egypt. Sé que podrás A Francisco Muñoz Soler Por supuesto, somos humanos, nuestra voz resulta afectada ante un momento inesperado, bajamos la mirada frente al espejo, no nos vemos capaces antes de cada salto a un nuevo planeta. Por supuesto, nunca sabemos lo que hay detrás Un día cualquiera, nos da dentera el viento, el frío, la oscuridad. Nos derriten el calor, los mareos, la ignorancia de los demás, pero nuestro peso, nuestras palabras, versos por centímetro cuadrado, nuestros pasos firmes, nuestros sueños, deseos, cariño auténtico, nuestro aspecto verdadero, nuestro certero afecto los besos de nuestra madre, los abrazos de nuestros amigos, toda nuestra vida Sirven de salvoconductos para saltar, volar, reunificarnos, borrar, vaciar, escalar, los mares, las montañas, los dolores y todas las fronteras… I Know You Will To Francisco Muñoz Soler, of course we are humans, Our voice can shaken Before an unexpected moment, We look down in front of the mirror, We do not see ourselves capable Before each jump To a new planet. Of course, We never know What’s behind Any particular day, We got the dent The wind, the cold, the darkness. We are melted by the heat, the fatigue, The ignorance of others, But our weight, Our words, Verses per square centimeter, Our firm steps, Our dreams, Wishes, our authentic affection, Our real look, Our true affection, Our mother kisses, Our friendly hugs, Our whole life They are infalible Safe-conducts to jump, to fly, To reassemble, Erase, empty, scale The seas, the mountains, The pains and all the borders…

Posted by admin at 10:24 am

Sep

09

2017

Manuel Becerra Salazar -MexicoPoetry 2017

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Manuel Becerra Salazar (Mexico City, 1983), poet. Author of the books: Cantata Castrati (Colibrí, Mexico, Colección As de oros, 2004), Los alumbrados (Estado de México, 2008); Canciones para adolescentes fumando en un claro del bosque (Universidad Autónoma de Zacatecas, 2011), Instrucciones para matar un caballo, (Conaculta / FONCA, 2013) and La escritura de los animales distintos. His work has been recognized with prestigious awards, such as the National Poetry Prize Enrique González Rojo 2008, the National Poetry Prize Ramón López Velarde 2011; the National Poetry Prize José Francisco Conde 2013 and the National Poetry Prize Enriqueta Ochoa 2014. He collaborates with several magazines in Mexico and has been invited to literature conferences in Cuba, Japan and Canada. His poems have been translated into English, Italian and French. Nota fechada en 1990 : de niño tuve un perro / siniestro y por la noche / a la luz de la luna / cambiaba el color de su pelo. / Yo lo miraba con rencor / respirar en un sueño maligno. / De niño tuve un perro criado por vagabundos. / Le acerqué la comida una mañana / y aquella mañana de una dentellada / me dejó enterrado en la palma de la mano / un pequeño maxilar sucio y maloliente. / Pensaba en apedrearlo y apedrear a mi padre / que pagó por su paladar oscuro / —supuesta indicación de buena raza— / una noche de borrachos. / Tuve un perro a los 6 años. / Pensaba en él cuando llovía: / su pequeña casa de madera bajo el trueno. / Una noche mi padre lo llevó en su automóvil / lejos, donde su olfato se perdiera / con los mercados y la sombra, / pero esa noche continuó corriendo / tras de nosotros, y aún continúa / —¿Verdad, padre?— / corriendo y se cansa y vuelve a perder / estatura en la distancia / hasta desaparecer de nuevo. Note dated in 1990 : as a child I had a dog / sinister and at nights / under the moonlight / his fur changed colors. / I looked at him with resentment / breathing in a mischievous sleep. / As a child I had a dog raised by homeless. / I approached his bowl one morning / and that morning with its sharp jaws / dug me in the palm of my hand / a small maxillary tooth dirty and smelly. / I thought about stoning him and my father as well / whom paid for his dark palate / — alleged indication of good breeding— / one drunken night. / When I was 6 I had a dog. / I thought of him when it rained: / his small wooden house under the clap of thunder. / One night my dad drove him on his car / far, where his sniffing could get lost / among the markets and shadows, / but that night he kept running / following us, and he’s still doing it / —right, father? — / running and getting tired and losing stature in the distance / till appearing again.

Posted by admin at 10:01 am

Sep

08

2017

Carlos Satizábal -ColombiaPoetry 2017

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Poet, actor, theater director. Activist for peace. Associate Professor National University of Colombia. National Prize Unpublished Poetry with the Inclined Flame. Dramaturgy City of Bogotá Award with Ellas and La Muerte: Dream of three poets. Ibero-American Prize Dramatic Texts -CELCIT 40 years- with Essay on the eternal feminine return. Ibero-American Prize Think A Countercurrent with Fragility and remoteness. He works in Colombian Theater Corporation in the Alternative Festival and Women in the Scene for Peace Festival, and with Tramaluna Theater. He has published theater, poetry, chronicle, essay. Los huyentes Fair is foul and foul is fair. William Shakespeare Caerá sobre los ojos sin lágrimas la sal del olvido y sobre los labios mudos del grito el barro de la locura. Huiremos por los campos arrasados, sin flores ni duelo a sepultar más hondo a nuestros muertos, con premura, espantando a las bestias carroñeras del cielo y a los perros hambrientos que devoran lo perdido y aúllan a la luna los huesos desolados de sus amos. Una lluvia de arena roja quemará nuestros oídos y el viejo olor de la muerte ahogará las huellas que pisamos. Ni el agua ni el viento ni la espuma de los venenos ni el trueno de las bombas, podrán detenernos. Lo bello es horrible y lo horrible es bello, a través de la niebla, por el aire impuro vagaremos. Haremos nuevos caminos sobre la selva que se puebla. Habrá otro suelo y buenas semillas qué cultivar. Otro azul será el cielo y una casa nueva habitaremos, haremos arepas frescas y pan de maíz frente al mar y beberemos en las mañanas el café recién colado. Somos los huyentes que jamás se han ido. Los que nunca se van. The Fleeing Fair is foul and foul is fair. William Shakespeare The salt of oblivion will fall over tearless eyes and the clay of madness over the outcry’s mute lips. We will flee through the burnt fields, without flowers or sorrow to bury our dead deeper, with haste, frightening away the carrion beasts of the sky and the hungry dogs that devour what is lost and howl to their owners’ moon of desolate bones. A rain of red sand will burn our ears and the old stench of death will drown in the tracks we tread upon. Neither water nor wind nor the venoms’ foam nor the thunder of the bombs, could stop us. Fair is foul and foul is fair, Hover through the fog and filth air. We will make new paths over the flooded jungle. There will be other fields and good seeds to plant. The sky will be another blue and we will live in a new house, we will make hot arepas and corn bread next to the sea and every morning we will drink freshly brewed coffee. We are the fleeing ones that have never left. The ones that never leave. Translated by Jennifer Rathbun

Posted by admin at 6:14 pm

Sep

08

2017

Elizabeth Lara -USAPoetry 2017

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Elizabeth Lara’s poems have appeared in numerous online and print journals, including The Mom Egg Review; Edna; Confluencia in the Valley: The First Five Years of Converging with Words; Truck; Ex Tempore; The Wide Shore: A Journal of Global Women’s Poetry; and Nasty Women Poets: An Unapologetic Anthology of Subversive Verse. In 2011 she was awarded a residency at the Millay Colony in Austerlitz, NY. She was a member of the Hot Poets Collective (New York, 2011-2012), and co-edited Happiness: The DelightTree – An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry (United Nations SRC Society of Writers, 2015 and 2017). Sacagawea The child not yet born he sings to me we are water / we are earth his hands will scoop up the stars I am far from my father’s house yet I dream the taste of ripe berries and salmon swimming upstream In winter I give birth wolf prowls the prairie the world is wind / is white In April we set out on the river by August we have crossed the mountains West of Lemhi Pass the Shoshone Chief rides with his warriors He is my brother Cameahwait I cry out as he dismounts and says You are alive / A fine son This morning I made new moccasins and added beads to my dress In my hair I placed an eagle feather a great bird soaring on pillars of air Sacagawea El niño aún no nacido me canta Somos agua / somos tierra sus manos atraparán las estrellas Estoy lejos de la casa de mi padre aun sueño con el sabor de las bayas maduras y el salmón nadando corriente arriba En el invierno doy a luz los lobos merodean en la pradera el mundo es viento / es blanco En abril nos lanzamos en el río en agosto cruzamos las montañas Al oeste del paso de Lemhi el Jefe de los Shoshone pasea en cabalgata con sus guerreros Llorando le digo, Eres mi hermano, Cameahwait el se desmonta, diciendo Estás viva / Que hermoso, tu hijo Esta mañana hice nuevos mocasines y adorné mi vestido con cuentas En mi pelo coloqué una pluma de águila una gran ave planeando sobre pilares de aire

Posted by admin at 5:53 pm

Sep

08

2017

Darrel Alejandro Holnes -Panama/USAPoetry 2017

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Darrel Alejandro Holnes is a poet and playwright. He is currently an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing and Dramatic Writing at the City University of New York’s Medgar Evers College and New York University’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study. He is the co-author of PRIME: Poetry & Conversations (Sibling Rivalry Press) and his poetry can be found in American Poetry Review, Poetry Magazine, Best American Experimental Writing, Callaloo, and elsewhere in print and online. He is the recipient of scholarships to Cave Canem, Canto Mundo, VCFA Postgraduate Writers Conference, and Bread Loaf Writers Conference. His poem “Praise Song for My Mutilated World” won the 2017 C.P. Cavafy Poetry Prize and he was a recent finalist for the Split This Rock! National Poetry Contest, the Gwendolyn Brooks Centennial Poetry Prize, the Discovery/Boston Review Poetry Prize, and the Pushcart Prize. Poder The difference between poetry and rhetoric is being ready to kill yourself instead of your children wrote Audre Lorde. I say this now to the mothers who sent their children north, risking their babies’ lives for a better living than chasing paper or running from lumberjacks on the streets. The difference between art and design is being ready to die for what you desire others to achieve through your work, hours of your life gone forever making a little, shiny, fragile thing, I write to the mothers who send their children north never knowing if they’ll make it but hoping that even if they don’t their creations might mean more than just the flesh and bone with which they’re made because they moved, because they desired. So many are quick to dismiss desire as too general a word or this language as too simple to power the constant thrust towards betterment we call life, but poetry is sometimes made of such things, words used so often we take them for granted and forget their power is in how they unite existence despite the distance of complex specificities between any two living beings. In Spanish the word for power is the same as the word for can, one simple word banging the drum rhythm children’s soles make against the earth, po-der, po-der, po-der, the power of doing in each disyllabic step of metric feet moving us further and further away from the word being just rhetoric, into the structure of its design where we find the power to turn suicide into sacrifice, the power to turn beasts into man, and man into martyr or miracle. This is how we’re different, a desire path stretching seventeen hundred miles through an armed border wall, through electric barbed-wire fence, a surge surmounting all odds to rise across the northern plain; knowing this too is poetry.

Posted by admin at 5:31 pm

Sep

08

2017

Silvia Siller -MexicoPoetry 2017

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Silvia Siller, Mexican poet, MA in international affairs at Columbia U., and cultural promoter. Her books have been recognized in the International Latino Book Award 2015 and 2016. She received the 2015 Gabriela Mistral, Julia Burgos and Frida Kahlo Award from the Galo Plaza group in New York, for her contribution to Latin American culture. The poems in this anthology are part of the exhibit Manorar by the works of Mexican designer Luciana Corres in the Textile Museum of Oaxaca, Mexico (http://lucianacorres.com/manorar). Siller has participated in International festivals such as the International Poetry Festival of Granada in Nicaragua 2015 and 2016, the International Fair of Guadalajara 2016 and is a distinguished visitor of the city of Santa Ana in El Salvador. She has her communications business registered as MujerPrisma for content creation, poetry and translations. (Mujerprisma.com). Aire Procuro las esquinas del aire como brisa del retorno, vida entre ires y venires, como gesto que sacude los corpúsculos de la genealogía. El aire me recicla palabras: madre, mujer, mariposa, musa como aspira la larva regenerarse y exhalar vida en otros. El aire exige conservar el nombre, o renombrar el infinito, amando cada instante de libertad Las esquinas del aire me dicen YO, como se dice territorio. Air I seek out the corners of the air like a homecoming breeze, life amid comings and goings, like a gesture rattling the cosmic debris of bloodlines. The air recycles words at me: mother, woman, butterfly, muse the way a larva yearns for regeneration and breathe life out in others. The air demands the name be kept or the infinite renamed, loving freedom’s every instant. The corners of the air say “I” to me, the way we utter “territory.” Translated by Walter Krochmal

Posted by admin at 5:06 pm

Sep

08

2017

Alex Lima -EcuadorPoetry 2017

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Alex Lima (Guayaquil, Ecuador) is the author of four poetry collections, Inverano (2008), Bilocaciones (2011), Alba (2015), and Híbrida cíclica (2017). His poems have also appeared in literary magazines and anthologies in the U.S. and abroad. He currently resides on Long Island where he teaches as Adjunct Professor of Spanish at Suffolk County Community College. His new book, Juan Bautista Aguirre: Conciencia lírica de la nación ecuatoriana, will be published this fall. Híbrida ¿Por qué insistimos en regresar a Ítaca? Por qué no regresar a Huancayo o a Gonzanamá para volver a ser lo que siempre fuimos. Acaso es imprescindible invocar a Penélope con su cabello suelto al aire —imagen congelada en secuencia tipo manga con banda sonora amenazante— amago de semblanza petrarquista con su perfil sin rostro, con su cuerpo ultra-cosificado. Acaso los poetas de otras latitudes invocan a Mama Ocllo o a Sensemayá, la culebra. Lo dudo. ¿Por qué insistir en volver a una isla en la que nunca estuvimos? Regresemos acaso al lago, a la barra de oro, a captar el sonido de una lágrima que cae desde lo más alto del continente y aterriza en onda expansiva como un do-sostenido de John Coltrane que rompe el silencio de los siglos. Híbrida Why do we insist upon returning to Ithaca? Why not go back instead to Huancayo or Gonzanamá and become again who we always were. Is it essential to invoke Penelope all the time with her hair blowing in the wind— frozen image in manga fashion with a menacing soundtrack playing in the background. A failed attempt at sketching a faceless Petrarchan profile, with an ultra-objectified body. Is it possible that poets from other parts of the world invoke Mama Ocllo or Sensemayá, the snake. I doubt it. Why do we insist on returning to an island we never set foot on. We’d better return to the lake, to the gold bar, to capture the sound of a teardrop free-falling from the highest point in the continent and lands, making shock waves, like a John Coltrane C sharp that breaks centuries of silence.

Posted by admin at 4:36 pm

Sep

08

2017

Juan Matos -Dominican Rep.Poetry 2017

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Juan Matos (1955); Dominican educator residing in Worcester, MA, USA. Author of Crecer (1989); Amor de noche y mar (1996); De las parras (1997); De mi desidia (1991); Con pecado concebido (2001); Temblor de espejos (2011); Azúcar, cayo y puerto (2003) and Del milagro de la espera (2005). Founding member of the following literary groups and workshops: Word; Cultural Expression (PEC) in NYC; The Hostos Cultural Group in Worcester, MA; The Pedro Mir Writers’ Workshop in Lawrence, MA. His works have been featured in numerous anthologies and literary reviews. Currently he teaches Advanced Placement Spanish Literature and Culture classes at North High School Worcester, MA, and is a member of the Dominican Cultural House of Worcester. Memorándum No te quiero poeta. Te quiero de carne y hueso. Cerca. Así, a secas. No te quiero poeta. Te quiero sin palabras. Ellas surcan las sienes de mis sueños para encender mis mares. No las quiero. Quiero en cambio tu carne. Sudarte. Entiéndelo, poeta. Sonetos surcan la piel de las esperas. Versos me velan. Coplas por copa de tu vino diera en esta hora ciega. De tus estrofas mi vida brota, mordida al ritmo de tu cintura y un vendaval preñado de mis urgencias arremete tu rima insalvable, a no ser por las concavidades que sólo se repiten entretejiendo piernas. Anda, pirata de palabras… metaforiza, diseccióname, desentierra tesoros deliberadamente geografiados en lenguas de fuego desde mis ojos, cada vez que te desnudo, sin que tú lo presientas… Retruécate en mi cuello, repítete, que no hay academia ni academistas oteando el elixir de tu ortografía cavernaria. En cambio, papiro, piedra, arena de mil senderos soy para la eternidad del poema que has de escribir en mí. No mañana. No más tarde. Ahora mismo y aquí. ¡En medio del camino! Memorandum I don’t want you poet. I want you flesh and bone. Nearby. That’s it, straight out. I don’t want you poet. I want you without words. They harrow the temples of my dreams to ignite my seas. I don’t want them. What I do want is your flesh. To sweat you. Understand it, poet. Sonnets plow the skin of waiting. Verses watch me. I would give up stanza after stanza of your wine at this blind hor. My life is bursting with your strophes, bitten to the rhythm of your waist, and a storm pregnant with my urgencies would strike out against your insuperable rhyme, were it not for the concavities repeated only by the intertwining of legs. Go on, word-pirate… metaphorize, dissect me, disinter treasures deliberately geographized with tongues of fire from my eyes, each time I undress you without your knowledge…pun yourself on my throat, repeat yourself, since there’s no academy or academists sniffing at the elixir of your caveman handwriting. On the other hand, I am papyrus, stone, sand from a thousand roads, for the eternal life of the poem that you are to write on me. Not tomorrow. Not later. Right now, right here. In the middle of the road! Translated by Rhina P. Espaillat.

Posted by admin at 4:04 pm

Sep

08

2017

Kamikaze Kristo -Puerto RicoPoetry 2017

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Kamikaze Kristo was born in Bayamón, Puerto Rico. She studied at the Interamerican University of Puerto Rico, Metropolitan Campus, where she studied Popular Music. She began to write poetry at an early age. At 22 she left her hometown and moved to New York City, where she currently resides. Dicotomía is her first project, infused with eight years of hidden transparency. Dicotomía Dividida en dos como ola buscando romper en la orilla curiosa de ser lo que el miedo siempre ató. Hoy estoy aquí aguja e hilo cosiendo mi piel vacía dolorosos recuerdos dulce eternidad. Dicotomía narcisismo floreciendo en un invierno negro. Dichotomy Divided in two like a wave crashing on the shore curious to be what fear holds. Today I am here needle and thread stitching my skin empty sorrowful reminiscence of a sweet eternity. Dichotomy blooming narcissism in a black winter.

Posted by admin at 12:41 pm

Sep

08

2017

Juan Nicolás Tineo -Dominican RepublicPoetry 2017

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Juan Nicolás Tineo (Dominican Republic, 1965). He lives in New York City since 1992. He writes poetry, novel, short stories and essays. He also teaches Spanish in New York Public City School System. He is Co-founder of the Hispanic / Latino Cultural Center in New York a Non-for-Profit organization that promote Hispanic/Latino Culture through literature; also since 2007, organizes the Book Fair that carries the same name of the organization. In addition to his publications in anthologies and magazines, also he has published, The Three-Legged Cat and Other Stories/ El Gato de tres patas y otros cuentos (2017). Atrapado en la noche (poema/rio); El libro de Cuentos Temporario; los poemarios Pinitos y Versos en cautiverio; and the novel Perros Sueltos. XI ¿Duermes, son sordos tus oídos? cuando por horas mi boca se abre catapultando tiernas palabras a sabiendas, que con nada entaponas tus oídos, no tu alma. Si en silencio, duermes Galatea Mientras, mi voz trascienda tu sordera, Tu cuerpo sirva para hacerme vivo, erigir en esos momentos monumentos a los caídos, levantar banderas que ya no quedan, seguir el camino, motora a que me llevas, no me importa. Si en tu lecho, y en pocas horas me deshaces cuando te erizas camino al cielo Y tus manos hablan Desgarrándome como rapiña tu sordera no me importa, si asiéndote entierras profundamente tus garras desvaneciéndote a cenizas a polvo a nada. XI Are you sleeping, is it that you are dead of hearing? when for long hours my mouth opens catapulting tender words knowingly that with nothing you plug your ears, not your soul. If in silence, you sleep Galatea while my voice transcends your deafness, let your body make me come alive, in those moments erect monuments to the fallen ones, run up flags that are no longer there, follow the path, motorboat where you take me, I do not care. If on your bed, and in a few hours you melt me when you bristle on your way to heaven and your hands speak tearing me like a predator your deafness does not matter to me, if grasping you thrust deeply your claws fading you to ashes to dust to nothing. Translated by Karla Coreas

Posted by admin at 11:55 am

Sep

08

2017

Marisa Daniela Russo -ArgentinaPoetry 2017

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Marisa Daniela Russo (Argentina). Ph.D. candidate La Salle University, Costa Rica. M.A. and B.A. in Spanish and Latin American Literature, Hunter College, City University of New York. Adjunct Lecturer at the Department of Romance Languages, Hunter College (CUNY). Spanish Language and Literature Teacher NYC DOE. Founder and Cultural Affairs Manager of Turrialba Literaria, Costa Rica. She has organized the first and second Encounters Turrialba Literaria: Festival Tomados por el Arte in Costa Rica. Facilitator of creative writing workshops. Assistant Director of the V Festival Latinoamericano de Poesía Ciudad de Nueva York and Poetry Reading Coordinator of Latino Poets of New York. Member of the curator team and facilitator of literary learning tools of the Trilogy Voces de América Latina. Cultural Affairs Manager of the I Summit of Voces de América Latina, Costa Rica, 2017. Diatriba Todas las bancas de este parque Están ocupadas por tu banda Una guitarra acústica que desespera cada tarde Unas congas y bongós que desafinas religiosamente Un cajón peruano que no entiende que pitos toca Un bombo legüero que añora su patria Un teclado que sueña que lo acaricies Una zampoña colgada de penas Una flauta de pan que te besa más que yo Las bancas de este parque reclaman tu nombre. La que encuentro vacía Me cuelga un cartelito que dice: “ocupado” Mientras tu quena traza fronteras, el charango se instala. Yo emigro a otro parque con mi bandoneón. Diatribe All the benches in this park are taken by your band An acoustic guitar that despairs every afternoon Some congas and bongos religiously out of tune by you A Peruvian drum box that doesn’t understand his destiny An Argentine bass drum that yearns leagues for his homeland A keyboard that dreams of being caressed A zampoña hanging from sorrows A pan flute that kisses you more than I The benches of this park claim your name. The one I found empty swiftly hangs an ‘Occupied’ sign. While your quena draws borders, the Charango settles in. I migrate to another park with my Bandoneon.

Posted by admin at 11:30 am

Sep

08

2017

María Farazdel (Palitachi) -Dominican Rep.Poetry 2017

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María Farazdel (Palitachi). Dominican Republic. Award Winning Author. Poet and editor (BA) from Hunter College, CUNY. (MA). Fordham University. (PD) Long Island University (CWP). She is the author of the books: My Little Paradise; Amongst Voice and Spaces, Bodies and Cities, Las horas de aquel paisaje, Eleven Spotlight, Infraganti and The Trilogy: Voces de America Latina (I-III). Member of the Pen Club of America, AIPHE in Miami and the Dominican Poets USA. Some of her work appears in more than 22 anthologies. (XXXII) Aquí estoy perdida en la mitad de Roma colada sin uno de tus besos clandestinos para romper la monotonía Hay una fiesta esparcida en la distancia aunque nadie baile o escuche su melodía aparezco cada vez que me piensas en la esponja de amantes platónicos donde ayer extrañé no extrañarte Del espejo tu nombre y el mío cuelgan detrás de cada estrella tu mirada envuelve las esferas se aceleran donde nos negamos solo para ser Cuando se rinda el día de hoy iré por ti desde la otra mitad de Roma (XXXII) Here I am lost at the opposite side of Rome Crashing without one of your clandestine kisses In order to break the dreariness There’s a party scattered in the distance Even though no one dances or listens to its melody I show up every time you think of me In the sponge of Platonic lovers Where I missed yesterday not to have missed you Your name and mine are hanging from the mirror Behind each star your gaze swathes The spheres speed up Where we refuse to just be When the day is finally over I’ll go and fetch you From the other half of Rome.

Posted by admin at 11:14 am

Sep

08

2017

Karla Coreas -El SalvadorPoetry 2017

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Karla Coreas (El Salvador, 1972) Poet, photographer, translator, cultural promoter. Coreas is the author of Tarde en Manhattan (2008 and 2012), Como dos perfectos extraños (2014) Péndulo (unpublished) and the translations of Milagro/Las Horas by Israeli poet, Amir Or and Performance para mí mismo by Czech poet, Martin Zet. She has been published in anthologies, magazines and newspapers in the United States and abroad. She is often participating at important international poetry festivals. She is the Director for Urpi Editores in New York; and the Director for the Festival Latinoamericano de Poesía Ciudad de Nueva York. Her poetry has been translated into English, Portuguese, Italian and Hebrew. En las noches de marzo a media noche donde la tristeza muestra su asfixia y el poema oculta su jadeo recuerdo el garfio de tus ojos y la orfandad de sus mentiras el sabor de las cartas mezclada con el abrazo de promesas en esas noches de marzo te llamo en silencio con la dulzura de un sarcófago y la amabilidad de una muerta. In the Nights of March at midnight where sadness shows its suffocation and the poem hides its gasp I remember your capturing eyes and the emptiness of its lies the delight of love letters mixed with the embrace of promises in those nights of March I call you in silence with the sweetness of a sarcophagus and the friendliness of a dead woman.

Posted by admin at 10:59 am

Sep

08

2017

Elsa Batista Pimentel -Dominican Rep.Poetry 2017

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Elsa Batista Pimentel, San José de Ocoa RD. She earned an Associate Degree in information and systems at Passaic County Community College and a Bachelor’s Degree in psychology at Kaplan University. She has published four books: Port of Desire (2004); Ashes of Absences (2007); Lasitud del Vuelo (2011) and Always Hate the Cats, (2014). She has also participated in the poetry anthologies Night of Wines and Roses; Nostalgias of Arenas and A viva Bosch, Hundred poets sing Juan Bosh and the anthology of short stories The hand in the word her poems have also been published by the magazine Trama, organ of the ministry of culture in the United States and by Trazarte Huellas creativas. One of her poems was musicalized for the CD From poem to song produced by the Center for the Development of Dominican Women in NY. Balada para cualquier final En alas de mariposas mutiladas la ciudad bate sus miedos recostada en su cansancio un final danza en los abismos en los rincones hay absurdos desempolvando viejos pudores esquirlas de ausencias hieren el mutismo de la noche en la espalda del tiempo se desliza húmeda la memoria salvando los momentos solo un Ángel subsiste colgado del silencio Ballad for Any Final On wings of mutilated butterflies the city beats its fears lying in his tiredness a final dance in the abysses in the corners there are absurdities dusting old puddles shrapnel of absences hurt the silence of the night in the back of time slips moisten the memory saving moments only one angel subsists hanging from silence

Posted by admin at 10:45 am

Sep

08

2017

Lizette Espinosa -CubaPoetry 2017

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Lizette Espinosa is a cuban poet born in Havana, (1969). She has four published poetry books: Pas de Deux (co-author) (Miami, 2012), winner of the International Latino Book Awards 2014 in the category of poetry written by several authors; Donde se quiebra la luz (Miami, 2015); Rituales (Co-author), (Miami, 2016) and Por la ruta del agua (Ecuador, 2017). She has been invited to participate in International Poetry Festivals; her work has been included in anthologies of Latin American poetry and literary magazines of the United States, Spain, Ecuador, Honduras and Cuba. Her professional life is dedicated to the field of technical design. She currently resides in Miami, Florida. La isla Mi padre flotaba sobre el mar como una isla para que yo saltara encima de su tierra y avistara el futuro. La orilla a dos brazadas nos mostraba sus dientes de roca atardecida. El agua sostenía nuestras vidas el peso inmensurable de los sueños como a dos cargas frágiles que un barco abandonara.

Posted by admin at 10:23 am

Sep

08

2017

Elizabeth Balaguer -Domincan Rep.Poetry 2017

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Elizabeth Balaguer: born April 10, in the city of Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic; the stories she was told as a child have been her source of inspiration for creating fairy tales, where anything can happen. She graduated has a BFA in Graphic Design from the State University of New York the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) and a MFA in Spanish Language and Literature at The City College of New York (CUNY). She had published: Trucando; Mi carnaval / My Carnival; El Cuco / The Boogeyman; El secreto de sonreir / The Secret of Smiling; Yo no estoy perdido; Vamos a buscarla; Mi oruga no quiere comer / My Caterpillar doesn’t want to eat; La Gallina de la abuela Catalina / Grandmother Catalina’s Hen. Soy como soy No trates de cambiar Mi tempestad huracán Marea alta Puedo convertirme en agua evanescente Amorosa Soy como soy alondra nuevos horizontes Soy como soy I am as I am Do no try to change My storm hurricane High tide I can become evanescent water Loving I am as I am Skylark New horizons I am as I am

Posted by admin at 10:00 am

Sep

07

2017

Luis Fernando Macías -ColombiaPoetry 2017

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Luis Fernando Macías is a professor in the Department of Literature at the Universidad de Antioquia, Medellín. He is currently the editorial director of the Palabras Rodantes series of the Metro de Medellín and COMFAMA. He has published forty books of prose, poetry and literary criticism, most recently the bilingual volume Todas las palabras reunidas consiguen el silencio / All the words together attain the silence (New York, 2017). As a literary critic, Macías is one of the top specialists on the work of León de Greiff. His academic and creative work has earned him numerous awards and accolades. El río ¿A quién engañas Heráclito? El río es el mismo el único Has ido tantas veces y siempre has dicho que el río en su fluir deviene es otro cada vez Y el pobre Borges inocente y asombrado en el espejo de sus aguas ve a otro Borges cada vez y repite de nuevo crédulo como un poeta puro tu sentencia falaz Pero el río es uno solo uno solo es el jardín y la cosa es una misma cosa The river Who are you trying to fool, Heraclitus? The river is the same the one and only You have gone so many times and you have always said that the river evolves as it flows away it is different every time And poor Borges innocent and amazed in the mirror of its waters sees another Borges every time and again repeats gullible as a pure poet your fallacious sentence But the river is one only one only is the garden and the thing is one and the same thing Translated by Valentina Macías

Posted by admin at 8:18 pm

Sep

07

2017

Manuel Adrián López -CubaPoetry 2017

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Manuel Adrián López was born in Morón, Cuba in 1969. He is a bilingual poet and writer. His work has been published in various literary journals and anthologies in Spain, United States and Latin America. His published books are: Yo, el arquero aquel (Editorial Velámenes, 2011), Room at the Top (Eriginal Books, 2013), Los poetas nunca pecan demasiado (Editorial Betania, 2013. Awarded Gold Medal by Florida Book Awards in 2013), El barro se subleva (Ediciones Baquiana, 2014) and Temporada para suicidios (Eriginal Books, 2015), Muestrario de un vidente (Proyecto Editorial La Chifurnia, 2016), Fragmentos de un deceso/El revés en el espejo, book in conjunction with Ecuadorian poet David Sánchez Santillán for the collection Dos Alas (El Ángel Editor, 2017), El arte de perder/The Art of Losing (Eriginal Books, 2017) and El hombre incompleto (Editorial Dos Orillas, 2017). Escribo en la oscuridad sin los malditos espejuelos. Intercalando palabras hurgando en la memoria como obras de arte en el muro de mis lamentos. Invade el cosquilleo una culebra se desliza por el interior de mis piernas ¿será que me están quemando? en papeles donde mi nombre se repite se repite se repite para luego tacharlo. Sobrevivo no porque sea más fuerte no porque tenga desbordados los bolsillos de razón. No soy héroe ni tan siquiera soy patriota. Si fuera capaz de adelantar el almanaque cambiar mi nombre quedarme sin ninguno estaría más cerca del nirvana. I write in the dark without these damn glasses inserting words rummaging through my memory like art pieces on my wailing wall. A tickling sensation invades a snake slithers up between my legs. Could it be that I am being burned? in papers where my name repeats itself over and over crossing it out afterwards. I survive not because I am stronger not because my pockets are full of reason. I am not a hero I am not even a patriot. If I could advance the calendar change my name or remain without one I would be much closer to Nirvana.

Posted by admin at 7:41 pm

Sep

07

2017

Edgar Smith -Dominican RepublicPoetry 2017

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Edgar Smith, Dominican Republic. Poet, writer, editor and translator; studied Marketing at The Autonomous University of Santo Domingo. He is currently CEO of Books&Smith, a publishing house based in New York. He has published the following books: El palabrador (Short stories, Spanish, 2013), Algunas tiernas imprecisiones (Poetry, Spanish, 2013), Island Boy (Poetry, Spanish, 2014), La inmortalidad del Cangrejo (Novel, Spanish, 2015), Cuentos raros (Short stories, Spanish, 2016), Randomly, A Poem (Poetry, English, 2016), Versenal (Poetry, Spanish, 2016), The Wordsmith (Short stories, English, 2017) and Gnuj & Alt (Novel, English, 2017). By the Jujube tree To all the victims of drowning and their families in Bangladesh Sumaiya smiles no more. Splash splash splash is the sound no one heard. Memory’s great flaw is its infatuation with oblivion. In a house where photos can’t be afforded, a little girl’s smile can fade too fast. The puddle was a dirty eye on the muddy ground. The fruits she’d picked lay scattered right at the foot of the Jujube tree. Silence lay there, too, terrified of the mother’s cry and the father’s rage, at all those gods too busy for the innocent. Sumaiya smiles no more; her tiny fingers lost all motion in a fistful of mud. Splash splash splash is the sound no one heard… Splash splash splash and another little girl was gone. A los pies del azufaifo A las víctimas de ahogamiento y sus familiars en Bangladesh Sumaiya no sonríe ya. Splash splash splash es el sonido que nadie oyó. La gran mácula de la memoria es su enamoramiento con el olvido. En una casa donde no hay ni para una foto, no perdurará la sonrisa de una niña. El charco era un ojo sucio en el fango. Los frutos que recogió quedaron regados al pie del azufaifo. También allí, el silencio, temeroso del grito inconsolable de la madre y la ira del padre, reclamando a los dioses, quienes yacen demasiado ocupados para velar por los inocentes. Sumaiya no sonríe ya; sus deditos perdieron el movimiento en un puñado de lodo… Splash splash splash es el sonido que nadie oyó Splash splash splash y otro niño más se ahogó.

Posted by admin at 1:39 pm

Sep

07

2017

Maureen H. Altman -Perú/USAPoetry 2017

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Maureen H. Altman is an artist, poet, writer and educator. She was invited to be part of different anthologies, book fairs and poetry festivals in the USA and Latin America. In New York, she published Encuentro, amor, vida, tiempo/ Meeting, love, life, time (2014) and Matices / Nuances (2017). Her book La Mitad y su Onda, pensamiento científico/The Middle Point and its Wave, scientific thought, will be released by La Ovejita Books in the fall of 2017. Altman was born in USA and grew up in Peru. She studied at The National School of Fine Arts in Lima, Peru and obtained her Bachelor Degree in Fine Arts at Pratt Institute, New York. Additionally, she graduated from Touro College, New York, with a Master of Science in Education and Special Education. Elevador En un elevador de Manhattan se agudizan sentidos, y un pensamiento entona el vértigo piso 31. No encuentro las voces conocidas, se figuran los sentimientos… Se dice que los encuentros tras el verano, pasan… La transparencia vertical en los planos horizontales me elevan de pronto. Mi destino está pisando la veracidad de un botón. Me parece que me abraza por la cintura, la altura de un movimiento que queda en la intención… No hay nadie detrás o al lado, estoy en lo alto de todo. Aseguro el botón de salida en un escalón piso finito, y me quedo con las ideas abriendo niveles, mientras tomo en serio el moverme. Será ahora que comenzaré a fluir desde lo alto de esta plataforma, y a volar hacia abajo y a todos mis lados… Los versos puntuales danzarán desde todos mis pisos, como en espiral o en carrusel, como se mueve el aire, la mente y un adiós. Estoy parada en el piso 1ro, mis alas crecieron… Otra vez, volveré a empezar. Elevator Inside an elevator in Manhattan, senses sharpen, and a thought intone a vertigo floor #31. I can not find the known voices, feelings are figuring out… It is said that reunions after the summer, pass… The vertical transparency on the horizontal planes suddenly raise me up. My destiny is stepping the truth of a lift button. It seems that a movement’s height standing in its intention, hugs me by the waist… There is no one behind or by my side, I am at the top of everything. The lift button is secured on a finite floor step. I stay within ideas opening levels, while I seriously consider moving. It will be now that I start to flow, from the highest of this platform, to my sides, all flying down… The punctual verses will dance from all of my floors, like an spiral or a carrousel, like the air, the mind, or a goodbye moves. I am standing on floor #1, my wings are grown… Once more, I will start again.

Posted by admin at 1:13 pm

Sep

07

2017

Christos Tsiamis -GreecePoetry 2017

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Christos Tsiamis was born and raised in Patras, Greece. He studied at City College and Columbia University in New York. He published the poetry collections Polytropo (Patras, 1979), Garden with Roots in the Moon (Athens, 1996), The Automobile of Love (Athens, 2000), A Long Walk in Patras (Athens, 2007), Little Hero (Athens, 2015), erotic heroic (Athens 2016) and the book of poetry and prose Magical Manhattan(Athens, 2013), short-listed for the 2014 book-critics award “Anagnostis”. His poems, translations, essays appear in Greece’s major literary magazines. He is founding member of the Circle of Poets of Greece. He lives in New York. µ . Δ µ. µ µ. µ, µ . A µ µ. µ µ . , µ. µµ µ, µ, µ , µ µ, µ µ . The Penalty Kick He stands alone under the goal posts. He does not look at the kicker or at the ball. There is an abyss of eyes across from him. The whistle tears the firmament in two; night falls on his side. He is in mid-air with wounded wings. The other side reverberates as the net shakes. Bravo to him who scored, History will bestow him with honors. In our memory, though, we will keep the body that went airborne, a heroic offering to that moment, even if it had judged wrong.

Posted by admin at 11:48 am

Sep

07

2017

Michelle Yasmine Valladares –India/USA– Poetry 2017

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Immigrant poet and filmmaker, Michelle Yasmine Valladares is the author of Nortada, The North Wind. Her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Publications include Aster(ix), Upstreet and Clockhouse, the anthologies, Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia & Beyond, and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry by Indians. She co-produced the films, O Sertão das Memórias, directed by José Araújo, which won Best Latin American Film in the Sundance Festival and El Diablo Nunca Duerme directed by Lourdes Portillo which won IDA Best Producer award. She is the Director of the MFA Program in Creative Writing at The City College of New York. The first time I think about Death Kuwait. Nine years old. The afternoon is hot and my flip flops smack against the pavement, suck the tar road as we walk single file to the Gulf, Beach towels tied around our waists. When we reach the stone pier my father throws an inner tube out to sea, tethers the rope around a boulder. He dives and his thin arms enter the water with a silent swoosh. He disappears under white ripples and dark blue. My brother and I scramble backwards down the rocks. Jump in. The sun bakes us a darker brown. Salt forms white silt on skin. Oil tankers line the horizon. How far will my father swim out before he turns back? We pull against the tide, like sea otters we dip and dive, catch my father’s back for a ride. That night in the upper bunk, I imagine I am dead. No mother. No father. No brother. I squeeze my eyes until the black hurts. Dead. Dead. Dead. My mind turns the puzzle around – Where do I go after Earth? Does a world exist – if I’m not in it?

Posted by admin at 11:20 am

Sep

07

2017

Carolina Zamudio -ArgentinaPoetry 2017

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Curuzú Cuatiá, Argentina, 1973. Poet and essayist. Master in Communication and Public Affairs. Journalist. Member of the Editorial Board at Literariedad Magazine, Colombia. She published Seguir al viento (Argentina); La oscuridad de lo que brilla/The Darkness of What Shines Spanish/English, (United States), Rituels du hazard/Rituales del azar, Spanish/French (France), and the plaquettes Teoría sobre la belleza and Las certezas son del sol, (Argentina). As an anthologist, she assembled the poetic work of Luis Fernando Macías, under the tittle Todas las palabras reunidas consiguen el silencio/All The Words Together Attain The Silence (United States). She lived in the United Arab Emirates, Switzerland, Colombia and Uruguay. Letanía del regreso Aquí vive un sauce llorón que ha inventado un río el jardín quiere renacer a las seis de la tarde cuando los nuevos habitantes pisan la casa vacía. Aquí abunda el abrigo de un vergel rosas, madreselvas y un tero que inaugura en paso y duda nuevo comienzo. Partido en tres colores vibrante late el cielo aroma de abuelos evoca el jazmín estoicas las tunas rompen la perfección del agua. Aquí el mundo es perfecto tiene la dulzura curva de las pestañas de una niña la enredadera ya no vive enamorada del muro la quietud el silencio bailan melodía antigua las almas temblorosas de las plantas secas recuerdan caricias del agua la huerta otras manos sueñan y esperan. Aquí algo es tenue y corre marejada y redil es de tarde lo saben los relojes las ramas los recién llegados salen renacidos podría decirse en ronda a celebrar la caída del día van camino de la corriente ellos mismos son el río. Litany of Return Here lives a weeping willow that has invented a river the garden wants to be reborn at six o’clock in the afternoon when the new inhabitants tread the empty house. Here teems the shelter of a garden roses, honeysuckles and a southern lapwing that inaugurates in step and doubt a new beginning. Broken in three colors vibrantly the sky pulses the jasmine evokes the aroma of grandparents stoical the cacti break the perfection of the water. Here the world is perfect has the curved sweetness of a girl’s eyelashes the vine no longer lives in love with the wall the quietness the silence dance an old melody the trembling souls of dry plants remember caress of water the orchard other hands dream and hope. Here something is tenuous and runs rough tides and corral it is in the afternoon they know the watches the branches the newcomers come out reborn it could be said in a circle dance to celebrate the fall of the day they go towards the current they are themselves the river. Translated by Al-Shar Zalligan

Posted by admin at 10:56 am

Sep

07

2017

Nelson López Rojas -El SalvadorPoetry 2017

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Nelson was born in San Salvador, but now resides in Milwaukee, Wisconsin where he is a professor of Latin American studies at UWM and an active participant in Ex Fabula. He has a doctoral degree in translation from Binghamton University, and translated the complete version of Cuentos de barro by Salarrué, which has received praise by the L.A. Times. Other Translations include Brazilian Machado de Assis, Florencio Valey, and Roque Dalton’s Poem of Love. His last poetry collections, Juegos de la memoria/Mindgames and H2O: Aguacero – Downpour – Carga d’água – Acquazzone have been well-received. To maintain his sanity (and health), Nelson teaches indoor cycling classes, and enjoys long distance cycling, gardening and going to the Walker Square Farmer’s Markets. Paper or plastic? El olor a café recién exprimido pasa y queda Mientras hago fila en el supermercado. “¡Pero cuánto extranjero!” –me dije sorprendido “Have a nice day!” –me dijo la cajera con intensa sinceridad Veo a mi alrededor y exclamo en mi cabeza “¡Pero cuánta rubia!” Y la sombra de algún peregrino Me hizo recapacitar Y a la mitad de la fila Me doy cuenta en silencio, –en absoluto silencio– que el extranjero soy yo. Paper or plastic? The smell of just pressed coffee goes by and stays While I am in line at the supermarket. “So many foreigners!” –I tell myself surprisingly “Have a nice day!” –the cashier told me with intense sincerity I look around and in my head I exclaim “So many blondes!” And the shadow of some traveler Makes me reconsider And at the middle of the line I realize in silence, –in absolute silence – that the foreigner is me.

Posted by admin at 10:34 am

Sep

07

2017

Antonio D. Espejo -VenezuelaPoetry 2017

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Antonio D. Espejo (1974). Venezuelan journalist graduated from the Central University of Venezuela (UCV). He has been a reporter for cultural, city and political sources in some of the most important newspapers in Venezuela such as El Mundo, El Nuevo País and Últimas Noticias, as well as Radio Anchor for KYS FM 101.5 in Caracas with his own radio shows 180 Grados y Las Coordenadas de un País. One of his non-fiction stories “Pensión La Soledad” was published in the most complete anthology of the genre published in Venezuela in 2014 in the book 70 years of Chronicles in Venezuela. Since 2016 he is the Editor of his own platform to tell stories of nonfiction and poetry at www.elviandante.com whose slogan is “Se hace camino al contar” (The way is made telling). He defines himself as a Radio’s Animal, Haunter and Storyteller. Since 2014 he pursues clouds in New York to paint them with poetry and chronicles. La encrucijada de tu posibilidad Mi posibilidad está a la vuelta de tu encrucijada. Si cruzo a la derecha de tu prejuicio, me evades. Si cruzo a la izquierda de tu mirada, gozas. Si sigo derecho hacia tu instinto, se prende el Stop. Mi posibilidad frente a tu vértigo, me tienta. Mi posibilidad frente a tu mirada, me traiciona. Mi posibilidad, esa vaga ilusión para llegar a ti. Es el cruce a la derecha de tu sexto sentido. Es el cruce a la izquierda de tu insinuación, el Stop inesperado a mi pulsión. Pero tu encrucijada también insinúa mi posibilidad. El cruce a tu derecha, el cruce a tu izquierda. Un latido permanente. O ese Stop, STOP, en el inesperado frenazo de tu luz de emergencia cuando quiero avanzar de largo a ti. The crossroads of your possibility My possibility is just around to your crossroads. If I cross to the right of your prejudice, you evading me. If I cross to the left of your eyes, you enjoy. If I go straight to your instinct, you turn on stop. My possibility in front of your vertigo, tempting me. My possibility in front of your glance, betrays me. My possibility: The fugitive illusion to reach you. It is the crossing to the right of your sixth sense. It is the crossing to the left of your suggestion, the unexpected stop to my pulsion. But your crossroads also insinuated my possibility. The crossing to your right, The crossing to your left. The permanent heartbeat. Or the unexpected slowdown in your emergency light when I want to move towards you.

Posted by admin at 10:16 am

Sep

07

2017

Pedro Larrea -SpainPoetry 2017

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Pedro Larrea (b. 1981, Madrid, Spain) is the author of three books of poems: La orilla libre (The Free Shore, Madrid: Ártese quien pueda, 2013); La tribu y la llama (The Tribe and the Flame, Madrid: Amargord, 2015); and Manuscrito del hechicero (The Wizard’s Manuscript, Granada: Valparaíso, 2016). He has published poems in, among others, Revista de Occidente. As an essayist, he has published the study Federico García Lorca en Buenos Aires (Federico Garcia Lorca in Buenos Aires, Sevilla: Renacimiento, 2015). Larrea graduated in literary theory and comparative literature from the Complutense University of Madrid and received his M.A. and Ph.D. in Hispanic literature from the University of Virginia. Currently he teaches at Lynchburg College in Virginia. 5 Soy más viejo que mi cuerpo como el cedro es más viejo que sus hojas actuales. Hiberno como el cedro, y despierto cuando la batuta de las horas golpea el atril del espacio. Por mí han pasado corcheas como por el cedro macillos de colibríes. Soy el que fui con la corteza de lo que seré sin estrenar. Soy más joven que mi espíritu. Mi casa es un cráter que creó una roca extraterrestre antes del invierno nuclear y de la primera glaciación. No comprendo que ninguna pirámide sea más antigua que el más joven de mis olivos, ni entiendo la trompeta frigia y el arpa persa que a veces toco por intuición. Me confunde ser testigo del nacimiento de una galaxia. Cómo puedo ser viejo cuando soy joven y joven cuando soy viejo. Cómo puede no existir una edad única que me dé sentido, que justifique mi presencia en el pasado y el presente y que imponga paz al bramido bélico del estar siendo y del ser estando. Cuándo poseeré un rostro definitivo para todos los espejos. Cuándo podré decir este soy yo sin equivocarme demasiado. Soy joven pero conozco los secretos de la cartografía. Soy viejo pero tengo agilidad para boxear contra mí mismo. Soy lo que falta antes de ser y lo que queda después de estar. A quién odiaré más que al palimpsesto de mi carne. A quién tendré por cómplice en el soborno de mi espíritu. A quién daré los labios de quien me habita sucesivamente en soledad. 5 I am older than my body, like the cedar is older than any of its current leaves. I hibernate like the cedar, and I wake when the baton of the hours strikes the music-stand of space. Through me have passed quaverings as, through the cedar, the little hammerings of hummingbirds. I am what-I-was, with the bark of what-I-will-be, without trying it on. I am younger than my spirit. My house is a crater created by a rock not of this world before nuclear winter and the first glaciation. I do not comprehend how any pyramid is older than the youngest of my olive trees, nor understand the Phrygian trumpet or the Persian harp, which, sometimes, I play by intuition. I am confused at being witness to a galaxy’s birth. How can I be old when I am young and young when I am old. How can there not exist a unique age which lets me feel, which justifies my presence in the past and in the present, and which imposes peace upon the warlike roaring of sensate being and existing. When will I have a definitive face for every mirror. When will I be able to say I am this without being too wrong. I am young but I recognize the secrets of cartography. I am old but I have the agility to box against myself. I am what lacks before being and what remains after existing. Whom will I hate more than the palimpsest of my flesh. Whom will I take as an accomplice in the bribery of my spirit. Whom will I touch with the lips of whoever inhabits me successively, in solitude.

Posted by admin at 9:59 am

Sep

06

2017

Raquel Abend -VenezuelaPoetry 2017

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Raquel Abend is the author of three poetry books: Creo que soy una trinitaria encendida, Sobre las fábricas and Lengua Mundana. She also has published two novels: Cuarto azul and Andor, and is the co-author of the book Los días pasan y las formas regresan. She is the editor of two anthologies: La cajita cabrona and Topos mecánicos. She received her MFA in Creative Writing in Spanish from NYU. She teaches at the Borough of Manhattan Community College (CUNY). In Memory of Brancusi The lines are still worth something when they can sustain themselves by themselves or at least by sinking their nails into the earth. We believe that the dead are lines that pass in time lifting us up from an absence that no longer sins, no longer inflicts vulgar damage. They breathe from the cracks, at that exact time of night, maybe a few seconds before sunrise when everyone is sleeping off the ruins of the previous day. They speak to us, they ask that we do not stop memorizing the moist shadows of so much replication and undue blame. From all the work that is born more of a greater loss than that of birth itself. The lines are still worth something when they can hold us up without tightening the rope. – En memoria de Brancusi De algo sirven las líneas que saben sostenerse por sí mismas o al menos con las uñas clavadas en la tierra. Creemos que los muertos son líneas que pasan el tiempo recogiéndonos desde una ausencia que ya no peca, que ya no hace un daño vulgar. Ellos respiran desde las grietas, a esa hora precisa de la noche, quizás unos segundos antes del amanecer, cuando todos duermen las ruinas del día anterior. Nos hablan, nos piden que no dejemos de memorizar las sombras aún húmedas de tanta repetición y condena gratuita. De tanta obra nacida por un quebranto mayor que el mismo nacimiento. De algo sirven las líneas que todavía pueden levantarnos sin apretar la soga.

Posted by admin at 7:33 pm

Sep

06

2017

Ameen-Storm Abo-Hamzy -USA/LebanonPoetry 2017

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Ameen-Storm Abo-Hamzy has spent his life on the road toward peace. Born in Torrington, Connecticut. He attended Norwich University, (The Military College of Vermont), graduating cum laude in 1987. Whereupon he was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant of Infantry in the United States Army (Airborne) and served until he was injured in the line of duty and honorably discharged. In 2003 he graduated with his Masters from Wesleyan University. His award-winning poetry has been published in The Voice, The Day Keeper Journal, The Lakeville Journal, The Vietnam Veterans’ Journal, The Underwood Review, The Chameleon, and Our Heritage. He has been featured in articles in The New York Times, The Litchfield County Times, The Lakeville Journal, The Voice, and The Republican- American. He has appeared on, MTV in the United States, Europe and the Middle East, as well as on radio, and has performed his poetry throughout the continental United States, in London, Madrid, Paris, Lebanon and the Canary Islands. A Poet’s Recipe One needs, A moment at birth. 1/2 a cup of metaphors 1 cup of rhythm A dash of spices, a little All Known A lifetime or more of really great teachers. A gallon of infinite possibility. 1/2 a cup of grammar 2tblsp of ideas 3 tblsp of thought 5 cups of passion 2 tps of insight 1 cup of ambition 1/2 a cup of knowledge 7 cups of courage. Truth. A moment of enlightenment. Inspire as long as possible. Travel. Mix together for up to eighteen years. Inspire. Send off to college. Travel. Inspire. Attend graduate school. Travel. Inspire. Get published. Travel. Inspire. Teach. Inspire. Retire. Inspire. Travel. Inspire. Expire. Inspire. Inspire. Inspire. Inspire. Inspire. Inspire. Inspire. Inspire….

Posted by admin at 7:22 pm

Sep

06

2017

Tomás Modesto Galán -Dominican Rep.Poetry 2017

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Tomás Modesto Galán. Dominican writer, professor and cultural activist. He has lived in New York since 1986. In 2015 he was named poet of the year by The Americas Poetry Festival of New York. Galán holds a Master’s degree from Universidad Autónoma de Santo Domingo and has been a Professor of Spanish and others subjects at the U.A.S.D. In New York, he works at CUNY and Pace University. Currently, he teaches at York College. His poetry collection Amor en bicileta earned him the X Premio Letras de Ultramar in 2015. Some of his published books are: Los niños del Monte Edén (short stories, 1998), Diario de Caverna (poetry, 1988), Subway (poetry, 2008), and Los cuentos de Mount Hope (2nd ed. 2014). Retirada sorpresa Estoy haciendo los preparativos para otra retirada triunfal, dichosa y anónima. Al final el mar siempre me gana esta batalla Nadaré por muchos días en busca de mares que nos han desahuciado del dulzor de un hueso A veces uno se distancia para ver mejor tres letras Y los peces aguardan en el pozo de una lágrima Y la caña de azúcar ya no vive en tus ojos. Ya es el recuerdo de los mismos colonos Y luego te acercas para engañar los sentidos. Y alimentarlos de otra vida menos terrenal. Yo prefiero engañar los sentidos con tu cuerpo. Y volver a ser un perro infiel y realengo Que huele tus oídos bajo la claridad de un apagón Y lame sin querer la explosión de un recuerdo Para saborear la distancia entre el ombligo y el seno que mis ojos no entendieron.

Posted by admin at 5:50 pm

Sep

06

2017

Alejandro Aragón -CubaPoetry 2017

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Alejandro Aragón (Havana, Cuba, 1970) is a graduate of the University of Havana. He lives in Brooklyn, New York. He teaches Spanish and is a freelance scriptwriter and playwright. His plays have been produced in Venezuela, Mexico, Puerto Rico, and USA. His poetry and his stories have been published in Spain, Cuba, Venezuela, and the United States. He is co-writer of the Venezuelan film Dauna, Gone With The River, released in 2015 at the Berlin International Film Festival in Germany. This film has received several awards. Tomada por la fantasía Las noticias son ciertas, abusada por el tedio, vives tomada por la fantasía. Cruzaría la bahía caminando y llegaría a ti. Iría llorando. Si pudiera llorar, si pudiera llegar, si mi abrazo antiguo pudiera estrangular el gusano que te roe la calma. No hay anestésico posible. El dolor que antes te abría huecos es ahora los huecos. Te salva quien apague una bombilla a soplos. Eres un perro que se muerde la cola. Mejor amordazar al perro, impedir que nos llene la noche de sus alaridos lastimeros. Mejor hacer morir al perro. A solas. Muere a solas. Es justo. Los demás. Te queremos. Tanto. Duele verte. Así. Así no nos convienes. No sospechas que ya te dejo ir sin regreso. Vivirte sin noticias es más dulce. Repetir de memoria tu voz de pozo fresco, el brillito de tus ojos. No sospecho que ya me dejaste ir sin regreso, que prefieres vivirme sin noticias. Te duele menos dejarme morir en mi rincón sin quejas sin dolientes, sin que te importe, abusado por el tedio, tomado por la fantasía. Taken by Fantasy The news is true, abused by boredom, you live taken by fantasy. I would cross the bay walking and it would come to you. I would cry. If I could cry, if I could get there, if my old embrace could strangle the worm that eats into your calm. There is no anesthetic possible. The pain that once opened holes is now the holes. It’d save you, she who can turn off a light bulb with blows. You are a dog that bites its tail. It’s better to gag the dog, to keep her from filling out the night with her pitiful howls. Better kill the dog. Alone. Die alone. It’s fair. The others. We love you. So much. It hurts to see you. Like that. You are not convenient. You do not suspect that I am letting you go without return. Living without news is sweeter. Repeating from memory your voice of fresh well, the little shine of your eyes. I do not suspect that you already let me go without return, that you prefer to live without my news. It hurts you less to let me die in my corner without complaint, without mourners, without your care, abused by boredom, taken by fantasy.

Posted by admin at 5:39 pm

Sep

06

2017

Rosana Acquaroni -SpainPoetry 2017

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Rosana Acquaroni (Spain, Madrid, 1964). Poet, visual artist and educator. She earned a doctorate in applied linguistics at Universidad Complutense de Madrid. She has published five poetry collections: Del mar bajo los puentes (1988); El jardín navegable (1990); Cartografía sin mundo (1995) & Lámparas de arena (2000) & Discordia de los dóciles (2011). Her poems have been translated to several languages and received literary awards. El niño amaestrado Miraba sus piececitos tapiados como tallados litorales. Huir de la tiranía de sus pasos le haría bien. Palabras Descalzándose Sin tiempo. The Broken-In Child He looked over his tiny feet surrounded like sculpted riverbanks. Running away from the tyranny of their steps would do him good. Words Untying themselves From time. Translated by Samantha Saly. Posted by admin at 4:26 pm

Sep

05

2017

María Leguizamón -ArgentinaPoetry 2017



María Leguizamón is a film editor, BA in Arts Education and

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María Leguizamón #TAPFNY2017

writer. She received the 2003 Unión Latine scholarship for film editing studies. In Birckbeck College (London University) she studied documentary filmmaking. She has directed and produced film festivals in Thailand and Buenos Aires (20102012). Since 2005, she teaches at Univesidad Nacional de las Artes (UNA), where she conducts the research project: The two imaginations of Ricardo Piglia: fiction in literature and film. She taught film language in Padang, West Sumatra, Indonesia. In 2017, she attended the Escritura y Ciudad creative writing seminar at City College of New York with María Negroni and Guillermo Martínez. Her work was included in the anthology of young Argentinean poets: Cómo decir (Ruinas Circulares, 2017). She is the author of Portrait of the invisible man, a film editors choir (2017).

Insecurities Naufragio de la piel negra veo sus caras pixeladas viajan como fósforos cuerpo con cuerpo con el creer en tierra firme alguien que nació también de su madre sostiene un paraguas y un resto de sombras humanas flota, deriva la huida quiso ser barco tres palos y alambres se hunden seis cabezas le sobran al mar leyes trampas mar policía van a tragarse sus pelos los sueños la piel en la inmensidad esmeralda su mirada sin morir ¿obtendrá alguna costa? la precariedad fue nunca embarcación

Posted by admin at 5:25 pm

Sep

05

2017

Luis Antonio Rodríguez -Puerto Rico/DRPoetry 2017



Luis Antonio Rodríguez (Laro), is a Puerto Rican-Dominican

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Luis Antonio Rodríguez #TAPFNY2017

environmental scientist, photographer and writer. Winner of the second place, Community Category, in Laudo XXI Literary Poetry Contest of the Polytechnic University of Puerto Rico, 2016. He has published three poetry collections: Between the shadow and the albedo (1996), Clandestine Verses (2001) and Love of superhero (2016). In his new literary work, Rush Hour and other stories to read on the train (2017), he visits for the first time the world of prose. Caoutchouc* de Esperança “Si un mensajero llegara del cielo y me garantizara que mi muerte fortalecería nuestra lucha, valdría la pena. Pero la experiencia nos enseña lo opuesto. Las manifestaciones y los funerales sin fin no salvarán a Amazonia. Yo quiero vivir, yo quiero vivir”. Chico Mendes, diciembre 9, 1988. Dedicado a Raúl Juliá Hoy los guacamayos cantan tu canción, canción de esperanza y lucha, canción de ladrido de corazón, canción de la Tierra que se escucha. El cielo se viste de emoción, gritos de guerra por el futuro emanan de la selva hacia el mundo con un gran mensaje en los puños; luchar por la tierra, por el agua, por el cielo, luchar por la vida que es lo que más quiero; “yo quiero vivir, yo quiero vivir”. Así gritaste Chico, y yo te oí, así volaste y te sentí entre los árboles que salvaste en Brasil, aquella selva del mundo y de mí. Ahora hay cantos en tu Xapuri, y en Cachoeira retumban las almas de los inolvidables, de los desaparecidos, ya no hay más quema sólo calma. Tu caucho de esperanza se desliza como un ardiente espíritu y permanecerá como nuestra sangre, porque tú eres de todos, eres nuestro Chico… * Caoutchouc: Nombre indígena del árbol del caucho. *Caoutchouc of Hope “If a messenger came from heaven and would guarantee that my death would strengthen our fight, it would be worthwhile. But experience teaches us the opposite. Demonstrations and endless funerals will not save Amazonia. I want to live, I want to live.” Chico Mendes, December 9, 1988. Dedicated to Raul Julia; Today macaws sing your song, a song of hope and struggle, a song of the barkings of the heart a song of the Earth that is heard. The sky dressed with excitement war cries for the future emanating from the jungle to the world with a great message at the fists; fight for land, for water, by heaven, fighting for life which is what I want most; “I want to live, I want to live.” So you screamed Chico, and I heard you, so you flew and I felt you between the trees you saved in Brazil, that jungle belonging to the world and to me. Now there are songs on your *Xapuri, and Cachoeira resound in the souls the unforgettable, the missing, there is no more burning just calm. Your caucho tree of hope slides as an ardent spirit and will remain as our blood, for you belong to us all, you’re our Chico. * Caoutchouc: Indigenous name for the caucho (rubber) tree.

Posted by admin at 3:15 pm

Sep

05

2017

Ely Rosa Zamora -VenezuelaPoetry 2017

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Ely Rosa Zamora is the author of the poetry collections La nitidez del embudo, (2015), Unspecific Object, (2015), Sin lengua y otras imposibilidades dramáticas, (2013), Sin lengua/No Tongue, (2011), Detrito Olvidado/Forgotten Detritus, (2009). Her poetry is included in the Anthology Voces para Lilith Literatura contemporánea de temática lésbica en Sudamérica, (Lima: Estruendomudo, 2011), and in the anthology of The Americas Poetry Festival of New York, (New York: Artepoética Press, 2014). She is the director of the bilingual poetry reading series “Voces de la ciudad/ Voices of the City” in New York City. Bobinas de hilo La lluvia cae en esta selva de cordones Enredadera del crepúsculo infinito chorreando agua dentro Mi sed es verde y la lluvia acaricia mis raíces Hay alimañas en este paraíso sin nombre Cuando se cierra una ventana ¿qué queda? Quizá un silencio parado en la esquina esperando un poco más de lluvia y menos sed. Sewing Bobbins Rain falls in this jungle of vines Creeper of the infinite twilight dripping water inside My thirst is green and rain caresses my roots There are vermin in this nameless paradise   When a window closes what remains? Perhaps a silence standing in the corner expecting a little more rain and less thirst.

Posted by admin at 2:49 pm

Sep

05

2017

Fredy Yezzed -Colombia/ArgentinaPoetry 2017

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(Bogotá, 1979). Writer, poet and Human Rights advocate. After traveling throughout Latin America for six months, he settled in Buenos Aires, Argentina. His books of poetry are La sal de la locura, (Macedonio Fernández National Poetry Prize, Buenos Aires, 2010), El diario inédito del filósofo vienés Ludwig Wittgenstein (Buenos Aires, 2012) and Carta de las mujeres de este país, (Mention of Poetry in the Literary Prize House of the Americas 2017, La Habana, Cuba). As a literary critic he has compiled and introduced the following books, Párrafos de aire: Primera antología del poema en prosa colombiano (Editorial de la Universidad de Antioquia, Medellín, 2010) and La risa del ahorcado: Antología poética de Henry Luque Muñoz (Editorial de la Universidad Javeriana, Bogotá, 2015). The Unpublished Diary of the Viennese Philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein (Fragments) 1. Reality is limited by the totality of poetry. Poetry does not have limits. 1.1 Poetry is a garden: a garden that speaks of other gardens. 1.11 Poetry, in a word, Mr. Interviewer, is requiem. 1.12 But the best definition of poetry is the following proposition: Poetry is neither one thing nor the other; perhaps it is not the third thing, either. 1.13 Language is the flower, says Mallarmé. If that is so, then, poetry is its flowering: enchantment of the flower. 1.2 Under the Winter: perhaps its warmest, most productive den. 1.21 The only enemy of poetry is the poet: there, it is he against himself. 1.22 & that silence… ( ) is language reclaiming its own poetry. 1.3 The world has always been a collection of walls, & language is nothing more than one of those inquisitions from heaven. Poetry alone has the daring to leap over it. 1.31 Poetry is like the almond tree: its flowers are sweet-smelling and its fruits bitter. 1.32 To knot one word to another, with the hope of joining men together. 1.33 Poetry that does not open its arms is a mutilated poetry. 1.4 The meta-poetic are the spiders that eat their mother. Translated by Richard Gwyn El diario inédito del filósofo vienés Ludwig Wittgenstein (Fragmentos) 1. La realidad está limitada por la totalidad de la poesía. La poesía no tiene límites. 1.1 La poesía es un jardín: un jardín que habla de otros jardines. 1.11 Poesía, en una palabra, señor entrevistador, es requiem. 1.12 Pero la mejor definición de poesía es la siguiente proposición: Poesía no es ni lo uno ni lo otro; quizá tampoco lo tercero. 1.13 El lenguaje es la flor, dijo Mallarmé. Si esto es así, entonces, la poesía es la floración: encantamiento de la flor. 1.2 Under the Winter: quizá su madriguera más cálida, más productiva. 1.21 El único enemigo de la poesía es el poeta: allí, es él contra él mismo. 1.22 & ese silencio… ( ) Es el lenguaje que reclama su propia poesía. 1.3 El mundo siempre ha sido una colección de murallas, & el lenguaje no es más que una de esas inquisiciones del cielo. La poesía solo comete la osadía de saltarla. 1.31 La poesía es como el almendro: sus flores son perfumadas y sus frutos amargos. 1.32 Anudar una palabra a otra, con la esperanza de unir un hombre a otro. 1.33 La poesía que no extiende los brazos es una poesía mutilada. 1.4 Lo meta-poético son las arañas que se comen a su madre.

Posted by admin at 2:08 pm

Sep

05

2017

Natalia Chamorro -PeruPoetry 2017

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Natalia Chamorro (1982): Poet and academic. Natalia is from Lima, Perú. She is currently a student at the MFA in Creative Writing in Spanish at NYU. She is working on her book of poems, Canales vacíos or Empty Channels, where she deepens into experiences, feelings and dreams that surpass the channels of communication. Natalia is also a Ph.D. candidate at Stony Brook University, and she received her M.A. degree in Spanish from The University of Connecticut. She has published poems in different literary and creative magazines in New York and Lima, such as Los Bárbaros, Pró-Logo, and Insula Barataria. Starbucks Now this blues drags you. The sounding body of the phantom under the table pushes against the line. It’s the purgatorial wave of a prostitute home, with hot, worn out sofas. Now the light presses crooked backs against the grim of earthy colors. I don’t want to hate you. The scenario sparks something in your head. Now the dazed aroma submerges you in a sweet sour chemical, unfair mixture of the third space. In the rustic frames of others, the images darken at the heat of plastic, of a crossing point-corner. Starbucks Ahora este blues te arrastra. El cuerpo sonoro del fantasma bajo las mesas empuja contra la fila. Es la ola purgatoria de un hogar prostituto, con sofás calientes, roídos. Ahora la luz presiona los cuerpos curvados contra la mugre de los colores tierra. I don’t want to hate you. El escenario chispea algo en la cabeza. Ahora este aroma mareado te sumerge en un dulce agrio químico, mezclas injustas del tercer espacio. En el rústico cuadro de las paredes de otros, las imágenes se negrean al calor de plástico, de una esquina de paso.

Posted by admin at 1:43 pm

Sep

05

2017

Almudena Vidorreta -SpainPoetry 2017

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Almudena Vidorreta (Zaragoza, 1986) is the author of the following books of poetry: Tintación (2007), Algunos hombres insaciables (awarded by the Poetry Prize “Delegación del Gobierno en Aragón”, 2009), Lengua de mapa (XXII Poetry Prize “Universidad de Zaragoza”, 2010), Días animales (2013) and Nueva York sin querer (La Bella Varsovia, 2017). In 2014, she earned her PhD in Hispanic Philology from the University of Zaragoza (Spain) with a dissertation on Early Modern Poetry. She is currently working on a second PhD in Latin American Literature at the City University of New York, where she teaches since 2013. Animal Days Animal days, oxide on the eyelids; paint your nails with the blood left on me and let life come in, with its joy and lights, into the back of the room. Cockroaches mew in the corners of the bathroom but their music at midnight sounds classical to me. Animal days: a beast in the darkness and early in the morning an insect on the lamp. A dead butterfly. Días animales Días animales, óxido en los párpados; pintarte las uñas con la sangre que me sobra y dejar que la vida pase, con su alegría y sus luces, hasta el fondo de la habitación. Maúllan cucarachas en los rincones del baño pero su música en la noche me parece clásica. Días animales: una bestia a oscuras y a la mañana siguiente, un insecto en la lámpara. Mariposa muerta.

Posted by admin at 1:11 pm

Sep

05

2017

Christopher Carmona -USAPoetry 2017

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Christopher Carmona is the author of The Road to Llorona Park, which won the 2016 NACCS Tejas Best Fiction Award and was listed as one of the top 8 Latinx books in 2016 by NBCNews. He has three books of poetry: 140 Twitter Poems, I Have Always Been Here and beat. Currently, he is working on a series of bilingual YA novellas entitled El Rinche: The Ghost Ranger of the Rio Grande. Book One will be published in 2018. The Modern Struggle: The Affluent, The Poor, and The Storytellers The Affluent time and time again. light is brightest. to those close. to the fire. flames are warmer. everyone else. fights for what’s left. The Poor give me a little water please. give me a little something. before I die. let me feel. the coolness quench. get me some justice. it won’t be long. The Storytellers how many books have been written on backs of others? how many stories have been taken? is it our job to do so? can we tell our own story?

Posted by admin at 12:01 pm

Aug

30

2017

Luis Marcelo Pérez -UruguayPoetry 2017



Uruguay, 1971. Poet, narrator, essayist, journalist, editor,

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Luis Marcelo Pérez #TAPFNY2017-01

cultural manager and social activist. His work has been published in the Americas, Europe and Asia and translated into Portuguese, Italian, English, Japanese and Chinese. Writers like Ruben Bareiro Saguier, Volodia Teitelboim, Jaime Quezada, Carlos German Belli, Miguel Barnet, Antonio Gamoneda and Mario Benedetti have praised and prologued his work. He has published seven books of poetry, four books of essays and one of narrative. – – – Un bosque de palabras quiero ser, por un instante ser, en mi desnudez, poesía. Longing to be a forest of words I am, for an instant in my nakedness, poetry. Translated by Katherine Quittner – – – Llueve y la noche se inunda de miseria techos naufragando sin casas en la profundidad de la nada interminable. El desconsuelo seca mi boca y Dios sigue de largo. Raining, the night floods with misery roofs without houses shipwrecked upon the depths of endless nothingness. Distress dries my mouth and God moves on. Translated by Katherine Quittner

Posted by admin at 12:16 pm

Aug

29

2017

Rei Berroa -Dominican RepublicPoetry 2017

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

Ciego en el metro Por más que palpes con el dedo Y apliques tu sueño A la visión del movimiento No me verás. Quizá por un azar De olvido, noche y agonía No te veré. Por más que aprietes el tacto en el papel Deslizando el ojo de tu índice Como serpiente contra el pasto No me verás. Aunque le eches al cerebro Toda tu ración de pulpo y de pupila. No te veré. Pasado el día Hurgaremos en alguna página del tiempo, ¿Qué podría haber sido de Odiseo Seducido por el canto de sirenas? ¿Hubiera continuado vagando en el último Vagón del metro de la idea Sin perro, sin Ítaca, sin amigos ni mujer?

Blind Man in the Subway However much your finger gropes And you apply your dreams To the sight of motion You won’t see me. And maybe by a whim Of night and agony and oblivion I won’t see you. However much you press your touch to paper Sliding the eye of your index finger over it Like a serpent in the meadow You won’t see me. And even if you stock your brain With all your repertoire of tentacles and retinas, I won’t see you. When day’s done We’ll scratch Some pages of time to ask: What would have happened to Odysseus Had the siren song seduced him? Would he have kept on wandering in the final Subway car of thought Devoid of dog and friends, Ithaca and wife?

Translated by Tracy Lewis with the author

Posted by admin at 11:13 am

Aug

28

2017

Ana Rüsche -BrazilPoetry 2017

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(São Paulo, 1979) She has four published poetry books: Rasgada (2005), translated and published in Mexico (Limón Partido, 2008), Sarabanda (Demônio Negro, 2007), later republished by Patuá (2013), Nós que Adoramos um Documentário (2010) and Furiosa (2016), part selected and translated into English (2017). She has one published novel, Acordados (2007). Her poetry has been feature in international publications on Brazilian contemporary poetry, such as Rattapallax from New York, Litro #129: Brazil from London and the Mexican anthologies Caos Portátil (Bilar de Lucrecia, 2007) and ¿Qué será de ti? Como vai você? (Vaso Roto, 2014). www.anarusche.com. O Grande Plugue À nossa geração nunca nos foi permitido ver o mar pela primeira vez. Ele sempre esteve adentro, reluzente, o grande igual que nós mesmos Rogamos tanto às noites que se faça novamente o escuro mas quando as preces são atendidas é só uma ilusão dos trouxas, uma ardentia nos olhos e o mar esbraveja aqui dentro, monstro comedor de rocha Já nascemos umas baleias mórbidas pobres diabas afogadas neste papel de luz E é tão mesquinho de pequeno o desejo A gente só queria ver o maldito mar por favor, pela primeira vez. The Great Plug Our generation was never allowed to see the ocean for the first time. It has always been within, sparkling, the great same as us all We pleaded much with the nights for a new making of darkness but when prayers are heard it’s just an illusion of idiots, a burnishing of the eyes and the ocean jerks inside, monster that feeds on rocks We were born already morbid whales poor devils drowned in this illuminated role And it is such a teeny miser, this desire We just wanted to see the goddamned ocean please, for the first time. Translated by Maíra Mendes Galvão

Posted by admin at 12:50 pm

Aug

27

2017

Nuria Ruiz de Viñaspre -SpainPoetry 2017



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Nuria Ruiz de Viñaspre TAPFNY2017 Poet and publisher. She works as editor in the Anaya Group and directs the Eme Collection (Writing for Women in Spanish), by La Palma Publishing. In 2004 she won the XX Prize of Poetry City of Tudela (Navarra) and in 2014 was awarded with the Cluster Award 2014 of Literature. In 2015 she won the XII César Simón Poetry Prize with her latest work, La zanja (The Ditch.) She has also published the following titles: El mar de los suicidas (The Sea of the Suicides), Desvaríos subterráneos (Underground Ravings), El campo de tus sueños rojos (The Field of Your Red Dreams), Ahora que el amor se me instala (Now that love settles me), La geometría del vientre (The Geometry of the Belly), El pez místico (The Mystic Fish), Tablas de carnicero (Butcher Boards), Órbita cementerio (Cemetery Orbit), Tabula Rasa (Tabula Rasa), and Pensatorium (Pensatorium). I el amor es ortopédico porque es susceptible de ser desmontado I love is orthopedic because it can be dismantled II definición de melancolía siempre hay algo que quieres a tu lado y que no está hagas lo que hagas decidas lo que decidas siempre hay ese algo revoloteando con su ausencia como si todos esos algo fueran una bandada de pájaros que ya no están en aquel quieto mundo en el que anidaron II definition of melancholy there is always something you want to have at your side yet it is never there whatever you do whatever you decide always that something fluttering around in its absence it is as if all those somethings were a flock of birds no longer part of that still world in which they made their nests III Poema de amor o Ley de Talión habría que escribir libros blancos ya no sirven las palabras o por el contrario escribir libros como bombas y salir a bombardear el mundo. III Love poem or lex talionis write blank books words are no longer any use or on the contrary write books like bombs and go out and bomb the world Translations by Tim Chapman.

Posted by admin at 10:31 am

Aug

26

2017

Ilzė Butkutė -LithuaniaPoetry 2017



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Ilzė Butkutė -Lithuania- TAPFNY 2017 Ilzė Butkutė (b. 1984) is a poet born in the crumbling USSR, but who grew up in an independent Lithuania. She started writing rhymed poems when she was eight, and she rhymed even before she learned to write, in her early childhood. Her first book of poetry, Karavanų lopšinės (Caravan Lullabies, 2011) won the prize for most significant debut and it was listed among the twelve most creative books of the year. She wrote (and published in 2013) a practical guide for workers oppressed by their employers, Atleisk savo šefa (Fire Your Boss). In 2014, her second book of poetry was published, Karnavalų mėnuo (Carnival Moon). Her selected poetry book in English, Caravan Lullabies, was published by A Midsummer’s Night Press (USA, 2016). Her poems have been translated into eleven languages. Ilzė studied photojournalism, and worked seven years in advertising. Currently, she works in the field of creative development.

Embroidery in the Garden of Knives I am a woman—an open window, who buries a naked bastard crosswind every night in the garden. I quietly cut a clutch of hair soaked with the scent of hands that would not touch— my braids grow shorter with each trimming. In my stables, great steeds rear as they feel the approach of armed sleep, driven by a man without a face— he is not forbidden—nor is he given to me, or to others. Let him be. My friend, please button my corset, so that I won’t lean out the window to watch how my crosswind knives sprout inch by inch in the garden— how blades rise from the soil and slice the full moon into wane. And dogs—even they don’t feel how sleep begins its assault. My love, give me that box with needle and thread—I want to sew up my hands with dreams. Translated by Rimas Uzgiris

Siuvinėjimas peilių sode Aš moteris – praviras langas, po benkartą skersvėjį nuogą kas naktį čia pakasu tyliai sode, ir nusikerpu sruogą plaukų, prisigėrusių kvapo tų rankų, kurios ir neliestų, ir kasos trumpėja kas kartą. O mano arklidėse piestu žirgai pasistoja, pajutę, kad miegas artėja ginkluotas ir vedinas vyru be veido – neuždraustas jis, ir neduotas nei man, nei kitoms. Ir nereikia. Bičiule, užsek man korsetą, kad aš nesilenkčiau pro langą žiūrėti, kaip auga iš lėto sode mano skersvėjų peiliai, kaip ašmenys kyla iš grunto ir pilnatį skelia į delčią. Net šunys – ir tie nepajunta, kad miegas jau pradeda šturmą. Mieloji, paduok man dėžutę su siūlais ir adata – noriu rankas prie sapnų prisisiūti.

Posted by admin at 11:46 am

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