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 "Orphan," "The Landing," "The Food's Delicious, You're Not Welcome," "The Contrition Between US" excerpted from at the foot of the mountain by Tak Erzinger. Orphan When your mother decides to leave, do you tell the world? What if everyone thinks it’s your fault? You could pretend it didn’t happen, never talk about it and over-compensate with many things, become an awesome painter share your artwork full of hidden meaning. Maybe people will forget to ask. It will push you to develop in ways you never imagined, maybe ways she would’ve been proud of, if she’d been around. Like how you can really dance, the way she could always dance, the way you followed her steps to the beats of all the albums she bought you, holding hands, she’d swing you around and around, pulling you close and pushing you back, keeping you spinning, you’d hear, I’ll always be there for you. It’s not what she said though. She was only singing. The Landing When they tell you, you’ve had a nervous breakdown you become like an astronaut you find yourself drifting, pleading for someone to provide you with the right equipment. In the right space you can deploy like the Eagle confronting the “magnificent desolation” resolutely. To be able to sink your feet into the lunatic surface will be a revelation tip-toeing through craters formed long before you were born. If you run low on fuel at least you will have finally seen what those wounds look like up close and personal and like the dark side of the moon allow the parts unseen to be tucked back into the envelope of your universe. The discovery- every exploration takes time and patience. The Food’s Delicious, You’re Not Welcome Once adults become a certain age it’s a matter of time before they reminisce to talk of the past and say it was better Ethnic food piled high they’ll question Why, dear friend, aren’t you afraid? and lick their lips in satisfaction It requires a stranger, light-skinned without a funny surname to offer up dishes, exotic recipes on familiar ground This individual, welcomed like a pet loves the taste of cheeseburgers heats up the grill to fire up their lies The irony of being accepted the memory of a childhood chewing her up and spitting her out just a little taste garlic sautéed softens too much spice can ruin the meal adulting in measured cups does not guarantee the right flavour The common denominator loves the food but does that mean its balanced? I’ve learnt to share those dishes while I continue to get burned in places unseen and am left with scorched pans, unable to replace them. The Contrition Between Us We are like two cats circling, insecure, heated, fearful. Each one vying for his place, seeds that have scattered haphazardly breaking cracks in the cement, vulnerable and strong at the same time. It’s like we’ve forgotten what brought us to this place: the promises, like a wide and clear spring sky, its passing clouds, whispers tucked under our pillows. The scent of love lingers, over empty plates and glasses, still warm from the summer’s evening sun easing the tension, making us forget a moment about the family we will never have.  TAK Erzinger is an American/Swiss poet and artist with a Colombian background. Her poetry has been featured in Bien Acompañada from Cornell University, The Muse from McMaster University, River and South Review, Wilkes University and more. Her debut chapbook entitled, “Found: Between the Trees” was published by Grey Border Books, Canada 2019. Her then, unpublished poetry manuscript “At the Foot of the Mountain” was short-listed by the Eyelands Book Awards 2019 and Willow Run Book Awards 2020. It has now been published by Floricanto Press out of California, 2021. Her first audio drama Stella’s Constellation has been produced by Alt.Stories and Fake Realities Podcasts, out of the UK.
She lives in a Swiss valley with her husband and cats.
1 Comment
 Four poems of |
 | Karen Valencia is a first generation Mexican American poet born and raised on Chicago’s Southwest side. A Northwestern graduate, Karen has appeared in Huizache, The Magazine for Latino Literature (2014) and most recently in the Literary Issue of Southside Weekly (2019). Karen is also a fashion stylist, model, DJ and co-creator of DESMADRE, a Latinx fashion styling collective. To see more of her work you can visit her website (karenvalencia.com) and to check out her other projects, follow her on Instagram (@karennoid). |
Poema/Poem
by/por Rafael Jesús González
Consejo para el Equinoccio Otoñal
Andar en equilibrio no es fácil --
pisar tan ligeramente
que la hierba no se doble,
pisar tan firmemente
que nuestra huella señale
el camino por la maleza.
En verdad nuestra naturaleza parece
ser sin balance,
un pie pisando tan ligeramente
el otro tan firme
que perdidos en el desierto
siempre caminamos en círculo.
Hay peores destinos; entonces
aprendamos a caminar el círculo en gozo.
Las estaciones voltean y vuelven
y no hay a donde ir;
la Tierra es hogar suficiente;
el camino, demasiado breve,
a nada nos lleva.
Para aprender a andar en balance
practica el baile.
Advice for the Fall Equinox
Walking in balance is not easy --
to step so lightly
the grasses are not bent,
to step so firmly
one’s track points
a way through the thicket.
Indeed it seems our nature to be
off balance,
one foot stepping so lightly
one so firmly
that lost in the desert
we always walk in a circle.
There are worse fates; let us then
learn to walk the circle in joy.
The seasons turn & return
one upon the other
& there is nowhere to go;
the Earth is Home enough;
the walk, all too brief,
leads Nowhere.
To learn to walk in balance
practice the dance.
pisar tan ligeramente
que la hierba no se doble,
pisar tan firmemente
que nuestra huella señale
el camino por la maleza.
En verdad nuestra naturaleza parece
ser sin balance,
un pie pisando tan ligeramente
el otro tan firme
que perdidos en el desierto
siempre caminamos en círculo.
Hay peores destinos; entonces
aprendamos a caminar el círculo en gozo.
Las estaciones voltean y vuelven
y no hay a donde ir;
la Tierra es hogar suficiente;
el camino, demasiado breve,
a nada nos lleva.
Para aprender a andar en balance
practica el baile.
Advice for the Fall Equinox
Walking in balance is not easy --
to step so lightly
the grasses are not bent,
to step so firmly
one’s track points
a way through the thicket.
Indeed it seems our nature to be
off balance,
one foot stepping so lightly
one so firmly
that lost in the desert
we always walk in a circle.
There are worse fates; let us then
learn to walk the circle in joy.
The seasons turn & return
one upon the other
& there is nowhere to go;
the Earth is Home enough;
the walk, all too brief,
leads Nowhere.
To learn to walk in balance
practice the dance.
Rafael Jesús González, named in 2018 the first poet laureate of Berkeley, California, where he resides, is an internationally known poet and social justice activist. (© Rafael Jesús González 2018. First printed /publicado primeramente in/en: Raven Chronicles, Vol. 25, 2017; author's copyrights/derechos reservados del autor.)
Un extracto de Hudson / An extract from Hudson
Por / By Xánath Caraza
Commentary/comentario por/by Lucha Corpi
9.
Es el dolor de un pueblo
el que se desliza en
la sangre de la tierra.
Acantilados bermejos
contienen la angustia
y las rítmicas palpitaciones.
La gente murmura en las
doradas esquinas de la ciudad,
se desliza la esperanza
con sutileza acuática.
¿dónde están los héroes del agua?
¿dónde las mujeres pez que cantan en la aurora?
¿dónde las ilusiones del nuevo amanecer?
Todo se inunda.
Escurre la lluvia
en los cristales,
de los acantilados
brota el agua densa.
Canta, mujer pez, canta.
9.
Es el dolor de un pueblo
el que se desliza en
la sangre de la tierra.
Acantilados bermejos
contienen la angustia
y las rítmicas palpitaciones.
La gente murmura en las
doradas esquinas de la ciudad,
se desliza la esperanza
con sutileza acuática.
¿dónde están los héroes del agua?
¿dónde las mujeres pez que cantan en la aurora?
¿dónde las ilusiones del nuevo amanecer?
Todo se inunda.
Escurre la lluvia
en los cristales,
de los acantilados
brota el agua densa.
Canta, mujer pez, canta.
9.
It is the people’s pain
sneaking into
the blood of the land.
Crimson cliffs
contain the anguish
and rhythmic palpitations.
People murmur in the
golden corners of the city,
hope slips away
with aquatic subtlety.
where are the heroes of the water?
where the fish women and their song of first light?
where the illusions of the new dawn?
Everything becomes flooded.
Rain drips
down window panes,
dense water sprouts
from cliffs.
Sing, fish woman, sing.
12.
Hay corrientes
que llevan el silencio
entre sus densas aguas.
Hudson de caudales de azogue.
Afuera el ruido que dejan
las aves transitorias.
La luz rompe las nubes,
relámpago que se entierra
en las frondas.
Trueno apasionado,
el agua y el viento
escarifican la piel de la tierra.
Sangra el silencio,
el agua corre y la tierra
pulsa contenidos deseos.
It is the people’s pain
sneaking into
the blood of the land.
Crimson cliffs
contain the anguish
and rhythmic palpitations.
People murmur in the
golden corners of the city,
hope slips away
with aquatic subtlety.
where are the heroes of the water?
where the fish women and their song of first light?
where the illusions of the new dawn?
Everything becomes flooded.
Rain drips
down window panes,
dense water sprouts
from cliffs.
Sing, fish woman, sing.
12.
Hay corrientes
que llevan el silencio
entre sus densas aguas.
Hudson de caudales de azogue.
Afuera el ruido que dejan
las aves transitorias.
La luz rompe las nubes,
relámpago que se entierra
en las frondas.
Trueno apasionado,
el agua y el viento
escarifican la piel de la tierra.
Sangra el silencio,
el agua corre y la tierra
pulsa contenidos deseos.
12.
There are currents
that transport silence
amid their dense waters.
Hudson of quicksilver fluidity.
Outside the noise left by
transitory birds.
Light shatters the clouds,
lightning bolt buried
in the foliage.
Impassioned thunder,
water and wind
lacerate the flesh of the land.
Silence bleeds,
water flows and the land
pulsates restrained desires.
34.
Medita en este navegar mecánico.
No queda nada,
solo el angustiante ulular
del viento antes
de llegar al agua.
Tiemblan las suaves manos
al escribir, son las dueñas de
los pensamientos salvajes,
de la ira de los oprimidos.
Agua del Hudson:
despierta y desenraiza
el dolor: las pesadillas
de niñez que se hacen realidad.
34.
Meditate in this mechanical navigation.
Nothing remains,
only the agonized keening
of the wind before
it reaches the water.
Soft hands tremble
as they write, they possess
fierce thoughts,
the fury of the oppressed.
Water of the Hudson:
awake and uproot
the pain: the nightmares
of childhood that become reality.
There are currents
that transport silence
amid their dense waters.
Hudson of quicksilver fluidity.
Outside the noise left by
transitory birds.
Light shatters the clouds,
lightning bolt buried
in the foliage.
Impassioned thunder,
water and wind
lacerate the flesh of the land.
Silence bleeds,
water flows and the land
pulsates restrained desires.
34.
Medita en este navegar mecánico.
No queda nada,
solo el angustiante ulular
del viento antes
de llegar al agua.
Tiemblan las suaves manos
al escribir, son las dueñas de
los pensamientos salvajes,
de la ira de los oprimidos.
Agua del Hudson:
despierta y desenraiza
el dolor: las pesadillas
de niñez que se hacen realidad.
34.
Meditate in this mechanical navigation.
Nothing remains,
only the agonized keening
of the wind before
it reaches the water.
Soft hands tremble
as they write, they possess
fierce thoughts,
the fury of the oppressed.
Water of the Hudson:
awake and uproot
the pain: the nightmares
of childhood that become reality.
Xánath Caraza es viajera, educadora, poeta y narradora. Enseña en la Universidad de Missouri-Kansas City. Escribe para Seattle Escribe, La Bloga,Smithsonian Latino Center yRevista Literaria Monolito. Es laWriter-in-Residence en Westchester Community College, Nueva York desde 2016. En 2014 recibió la Beca Nebrija para Creadores del Instituto Franklin, Universidad de Alcalá de Henares en España. En 2013 fue nombrada número uno de los diez mejores autores latinos para leer por LatinoStories.com. Su poemarioSílabas de viento recibió el 2015 International Book Award de poesía. Sus poemarios Lágrima roja, Sin preámbulos, Donde la luz es violeta, Tinta negra, Ocelocíhuatl, Conjuro y su colección de relatos Lo que trae la marea han recibido reconocimientos nacionales e internacionales. Sus otros poemarios son Hudson, Le sillabe del vento, Noche de colibríes, Corazón pintado y su segunda colección de relatos, Metztli. Ha sido traducida al inglés, italiano y griego; y parcialmente traducida al portugués, hindi, turco, rumano y náhuatl.
Xánath Caraza is a traveler, educator, poet, and short story writer. She teaches at the University of Missouri-Kansas City. She writes for Seattle Ecribe, La Bloga, The Smithsonian Latino Center, and Revista Literaria Monolito. She is the Writer-in-Residence at Westchester Community College, New York since 2016. Caraza was the recipient of the 2014 Beca Nebrija para Creadores, Universidad de Alcalá de Henares in Spain. She was named number one of the 2013 Top Ten Latino Authors by LatinoStories.com. Her book of poetry Syllables of Wind / Sílabas de viento received the 2015 International Book Award for Poetry. It also received Honorable Mention for best book of Poetry in Spanish in the 2015 International Latino Book Awards. Her books of verse Lágrima roja, Without Preamble, Where the Light is Violet, Black Ink,Ocelocíhuatl, Conjuro and her book of short fiction What the Tide Brings have won national and international recognition. Her other books of poetry are Hudson, Le sillabe del vento, Noche de colibríes,Corazón pintado, and her second short story collection, Metztli. Caraza has been translated into English, Italian, and Greek; and partially translated into Portuguese, Hindi, Turkish, Rumanian and Nahuatl.
Hudson (Editorial Nazarí, 2018) por/by Xánath Caraza, traducido por/translated by Sandra Kingery
Comentario/Commentary
por/by Lucha Corpi
Xánath Caraza es y continuará siendo, sin duda, una de las voces poéticas más innovadoras en el idioma español. Hudson, su nueva colección de poesía, es más que un viaje por un río que fluye e inevitablemente vierte sus aguas en el mar. El río Hudson no es un río ordinario ya que sigue un curso doble. Por lo tanto nuestro viaje comienza en el punto de su origen, un estuario—un habitante en flujo constante—donde nace y también se vacía en el mar, donde cohabitan las faunas de agua fresca y salada. También fluye tierra adentro, provee rutas y caminos para la gente en las ciudades a lo largo de su cauce para también hacerlas prosperar. Le da vida a otro río en el camino. En el lecho del río Caraza escribe su “texto”—la historia del río, que es también la historia de la poeta. Las tumultuosas corrientes-salinas-frescas de agua se convierten en el tempo de su torrente sanguíneo. Guiados por los versos en negritas, incrustados en el texto, la poeta nos reta a buscar el espíritu del río—la belleza lírica. Una tercera lectura de los versos en itálicas nos lleva a un nivel más profundo, a los cuestionamientos filosóficos y búsqueda de vida que Caraza se hace y que todos nosotros cuestionamos en algún momento. He encontrado mucha riqueza en Hudson. Todo accesible, para lectores angloparlantes, a través de la bella traducción hecha por Sandra Kingery. Hudson es un libro que debe ser leído por poetas y amantes de la poesía—¡definitivamente por amantes de los ríos también! Bravo.
Xánath Caraza is and will no doubt continue to be one of the most innovative poetic voices in the Spanish language. Hudson, her new poetry collection, is much more than a journey down any river that flows onward and inevitably empties its waters into a sea. TheHudson River is no ordinary river as it follows a dual course. So, our journey begins at the point of its origin, a tidal estuary—a habitat in constant flux—where the river begins and also empties into the sea, where salty and fresh water fauna cohabit. It also flows inland, providing routes and ways for people in cities along its course to prosper as well. It gives birth to another river along the way. On its riverbed, Caraza writes her “text”—the river’s story, which is also her story. The saline-fresh-water, restless currents become the tempo of her bloodstream. Guided by the verses in bold lettering embedded in the text, the poet challenges us to seek the spirit of the river—the lyrical beauty. A third reading of verses in italics takes us deeper into the poet’s mind, into Caraza’s lifelong quest for answers to philosophical questions all of us ponder from time to time. So much more richness I have found in Hudson. All made accessible to an English-speaking readership by the beautifully crafted translations of Sandra Kingery. Hudson is a must-read for poets and lovers of poetry—most definitely for lovers of rivers, too! Bravo.
Lucha Corpi, poeta y narradora/poet and writer
Oakland, CA, July/Julio de 2018
Hudson (Editorial Nazarí, 2018) por/by Xánath Caraza, traducido por/translated by Sandra Kingery
Comentario/Commentary
por/by Lucha Corpi
Xánath Caraza es y continuará siendo, sin duda, una de las voces poéticas más innovadoras en el idioma español. Hudson, su nueva colección de poesía, es más que un viaje por un río que fluye e inevitablemente vierte sus aguas en el mar. El río Hudson no es un río ordinario ya que sigue un curso doble. Por lo tanto nuestro viaje comienza en el punto de su origen, un estuario—un habitante en flujo constante—donde nace y también se vacía en el mar, donde cohabitan las faunas de agua fresca y salada. También fluye tierra adentro, provee rutas y caminos para la gente en las ciudades a lo largo de su cauce para también hacerlas prosperar. Le da vida a otro río en el camino. En el lecho del río Caraza escribe su “texto”—la historia del río, que es también la historia de la poeta. Las tumultuosas corrientes-salinas-frescas de agua se convierten en el tempo de su torrente sanguíneo. Guiados por los versos en negritas, incrustados en el texto, la poeta nos reta a buscar el espíritu del río—la belleza lírica. Una tercera lectura de los versos en itálicas nos lleva a un nivel más profundo, a los cuestionamientos filosóficos y búsqueda de vida que Caraza se hace y que todos nosotros cuestionamos en algún momento. He encontrado mucha riqueza en Hudson. Todo accesible, para lectores angloparlantes, a través de la bella traducción hecha por Sandra Kingery. Hudson es un libro que debe ser leído por poetas y amantes de la poesía—¡definitivamente por amantes de los ríos también! Bravo.
Xánath Caraza is and will no doubt continue to be one of the most innovative poetic voices in the Spanish language. Hudson, her new poetry collection, is much more than a journey down any river that flows onward and inevitably empties its waters into a sea. TheHudson River is no ordinary river as it follows a dual course. So, our journey begins at the point of its origin, a tidal estuary—a habitat in constant flux—where the river begins and also empties into the sea, where salty and fresh water fauna cohabit. It also flows inland, providing routes and ways for people in cities along its course to prosper as well. It gives birth to another river along the way. On its riverbed, Caraza writes her “text”—the river’s story, which is also her story. The saline-fresh-water, restless currents become the tempo of her bloodstream. Guided by the verses in bold lettering embedded in the text, the poet challenges us to seek the spirit of the river—the lyrical beauty. A third reading of verses in italics takes us deeper into the poet’s mind, into Caraza’s lifelong quest for answers to philosophical questions all of us ponder from time to time. So much more richness I have found in Hudson. All made accessible to an English-speaking readership by the beautifully crafted translations of Sandra Kingery. Hudson is a must-read for poets and lovers of poetry—most definitely for lovers of rivers, too! Bravo.
Lucha Corpi, poeta y narradora/poet and writer
Oakland, CA, July/Julio de 2018
Girafa - Giraffe (Detail) Mixed Media, 12” X 28” Painting by Vanessa Garcia www.vanessagarcia.org
Two Poems/Dos Poemas
Por/By Carlota Caulfield
Inner chamber of the seashell (divine whisper)
And they will say: “A bit of smoke writhed in each drop of his blood.” -- Gilberto Owen
It would seem that I possess a religious bent;
a proof: a tongue sufficient
It would seem that I possess a religious bent;
to contain, direct, refined, and solid
has led me to the five points
of the universe: Quincunx.
Four rooms courtyard
that inclines its multiple forms
that resides in matter
that has vital layers
ceremonial passageways
of other architectures.
Just as the divine spark engenders in the earth Guillermo Marín, Mitla, City of the Dead
life in all its richness, thus the Quincunx, seed
of a revealed cosmology, flowers in a dazzling
system of images and architectural designs that,
by being part of the universe of forms, suffers
frequently from a deceptively elemental logic.
What completes this text
are monumental stones
there where a hand learned how
to move, sculpt and assemble.
Eduardo's voice traces a map of Mexico on the earth
while he tells of how “the colonial chroniclers never
referred to the architecture of Mitla without combined aversion
and admiration… Thus to speak of Mictlán (place of the dead)
we must detach ourselves from the Western concept of death…”
My absurd dizziness no longer rocks in the branches of the tule tree;
now, in the land of the spirits, it is content with a puff of wind
and a bold guffaw that perforates my eardrums. Yes, the church bells
have begun to set loose a timely splendor and murmurs:
Think of it this way, that amid the rubble of my energy suddenly looms
a presence, like that of a hallowed place, door of musical allusions.
I detach myself from the group.
I am content to see.
It matters. Several bolts of air
swerve around my
unfailing audacity
and city of voices
there where the wind
does not sound unfamiliar to the ear
nor is seeing spirits
an act of inner shadows.
What could be loved is erased
and eyes and lips, light and humidity
are stripped bare.
The enigma of flavors
is also resolved.
The night before kisses
Crossed two linguistic points.
Now there is no dialogue.
From the four cardinal points
will soon rise a cold and
ungenerous gust of wind. You will dissolve.
My death is associated with the earth,
but the other dead man in question
will have to cross a long and mighty river.
Techichi the little dog will guide him:
naked he will cross spiky peaks
and drink terrible storms.
The wind will slice his skin
like an orange.
More than any heartbreak, worse than death Albius Tibullus, Book I, Poem VIII
itself, “What hurts is touching the body,
long kisses, and pressing thigh to thigh.”
With transfigured vision,
Friar Bernardo of Alburquerque
ordered built between 1535 and 1580
the façade of the north side
of the Oaxaca cathedral in the image…
From the four room courtyard flow moving friezes of water.
I read: the gods' anger with those who are ungenerous in spirit
was not placated by sacrifices of armadillos, rabbits, birds
and deer. Misers were condemned
to a subterranean palace to hoist dark shadows.
Once again Eduardo's voice blends with my mental torrent
that encircles the marvelous mountains, copulates with the stone
And drinks milk droplets from the tree that used to nourish dead children.
Inhabitants of the clouds. Branches from which I hang.
Schumann lieder that fuse with my own visions.
Copious tongues of rock: to listen, to recognize,
to descend to the interior of a jacaranda:
to design the interior patio
“was to get back onto the trail of my poem Propertius, Book I, Poem IV
after biting my hands unreasonably
and stamping my feet in doubt and anger.”
Some elegiac distiches pound me with excessive skill.
What am I doing in the center of the city of the dead
humming a thousand popular tunes and with all those
poems breaking over me?
What is my skin doing turned into a spongy substance
enjoying each voicemark and stroke,
each perforation, each drop of blood that seeps from my pores?
Blessed recollection,
there where a scornful grimace
offers me landscapes.
Blessed misery of broken borders
that turns the heart into a semi prophet.
that “das harts iz a halber novi”
that is completed and heard
by a system of images:
it hits and turns with skill
for I was born in a city by the sea
with excessively white sands
and I never made a pact
with its hot winds
or its salts projected in my shadows.
If the sea breeze took my breath away,
I drowned and was resuscitated. And my mother
who couldn't hear the voices that filled
the whole house and went with me,
spoke alone with nanny Blasa.
Later they put an amulet on my chest,
There where no one could see presences or memories.
I think only of all the courage I've lacked
to go back to hearing the voices,
raised now, loud, without any semblance of
restraint, flowery battle of my own soul.
a proof: a tongue sufficient
It would seem that I possess a religious bent;
to contain, direct, refined, and solid
has led me to the five points
of the universe: Quincunx.
Four rooms courtyard
that inclines its multiple forms
that resides in matter
that has vital layers
ceremonial passageways
of other architectures.
Just as the divine spark engenders in the earth Guillermo Marín, Mitla, City of the Dead
life in all its richness, thus the Quincunx, seed
of a revealed cosmology, flowers in a dazzling
system of images and architectural designs that,
by being part of the universe of forms, suffers
frequently from a deceptively elemental logic.
What completes this text
are monumental stones
there where a hand learned how
to move, sculpt and assemble.
Eduardo's voice traces a map of Mexico on the earth
while he tells of how “the colonial chroniclers never
referred to the architecture of Mitla without combined aversion
and admiration… Thus to speak of Mictlán (place of the dead)
we must detach ourselves from the Western concept of death…”
My absurd dizziness no longer rocks in the branches of the tule tree;
now, in the land of the spirits, it is content with a puff of wind
and a bold guffaw that perforates my eardrums. Yes, the church bells
have begun to set loose a timely splendor and murmurs:
Think of it this way, that amid the rubble of my energy suddenly looms
a presence, like that of a hallowed place, door of musical allusions.
I detach myself from the group.
I am content to see.
It matters. Several bolts of air
swerve around my
unfailing audacity
and city of voices
there where the wind
does not sound unfamiliar to the ear
nor is seeing spirits
an act of inner shadows.
What could be loved is erased
and eyes and lips, light and humidity
are stripped bare.
The enigma of flavors
is also resolved.
The night before kisses
Crossed two linguistic points.
Now there is no dialogue.
From the four cardinal points
will soon rise a cold and
ungenerous gust of wind. You will dissolve.
My death is associated with the earth,
but the other dead man in question
will have to cross a long and mighty river.
Techichi the little dog will guide him:
naked he will cross spiky peaks
and drink terrible storms.
The wind will slice his skin
like an orange.
More than any heartbreak, worse than death Albius Tibullus, Book I, Poem VIII
itself, “What hurts is touching the body,
long kisses, and pressing thigh to thigh.”
With transfigured vision,
Friar Bernardo of Alburquerque
ordered built between 1535 and 1580
the façade of the north side
of the Oaxaca cathedral in the image…
From the four room courtyard flow moving friezes of water.
I read: the gods' anger with those who are ungenerous in spirit
was not placated by sacrifices of armadillos, rabbits, birds
and deer. Misers were condemned
to a subterranean palace to hoist dark shadows.
Once again Eduardo's voice blends with my mental torrent
that encircles the marvelous mountains, copulates with the stone
And drinks milk droplets from the tree that used to nourish dead children.
Inhabitants of the clouds. Branches from which I hang.
Schumann lieder that fuse with my own visions.
Copious tongues of rock: to listen, to recognize,
to descend to the interior of a jacaranda:
to design the interior patio
“was to get back onto the trail of my poem Propertius, Book I, Poem IV
after biting my hands unreasonably
and stamping my feet in doubt and anger.”
Some elegiac distiches pound me with excessive skill.
What am I doing in the center of the city of the dead
humming a thousand popular tunes and with all those
poems breaking over me?
What is my skin doing turned into a spongy substance
enjoying each voicemark and stroke,
each perforation, each drop of blood that seeps from my pores?
Blessed recollection,
there where a scornful grimace
offers me landscapes.
Blessed misery of broken borders
that turns the heart into a semi prophet.
that “das harts iz a halber novi”
that is completed and heard
by a system of images:
it hits and turns with skill
for I was born in a city by the sea
with excessively white sands
and I never made a pact
with its hot winds
or its salts projected in my shadows.
If the sea breeze took my breath away,
I drowned and was resuscitated. And my mother
who couldn't hear the voices that filled
the whole house and went with me,
spoke alone with nanny Blasa.
Later they put an amulet on my chest,
There where no one could see presences or memories.
I think only of all the courage I've lacked
to go back to hearing the voices,
raised now, loud, without any semblance of
restraint, flowery battle of my own soul.
POEMA BILINGÜE/BILINGUAL POEM
From Quincunce / Quincunx. Translated by Mary G. Berg and Carlota Caulfield.
Estudio cromático
Te gustaría lentamente tatuarte con las notas del trombón.
Decir, no tengo más que esto, lo que abre la epidermis
y hace brotar sangre,
lo que queda cuando la muerte lo arrasa todo,
menos los sonidos del cuerpo.
Y así las uñas guardarán su color rosáceo,
los senos su firmeza,
el cuello su tersidad.
Reconocerás el privilegio enorme que se aloja
en las venas y podrás descender a un centro de quietud
sin aferrarte a nada.
Entonces la respiración empezará una vez más,
y con ella una salivación anfibia repugnante
hasta que tu mano se mueva con rapidez
y el sudor pierda su pestilencia.
Pero no sufrirás vértigo.
La avalancha caerá sobre ti como bendición.
Tu boca vibrará y escupirá hilos imperceptibles.
Después llegará el viento loco y comenzará el concierto.
Chromatic Study
You'd like to tattoo yourself slowly with the trombone's notes.
Saying: I only have this, this that rips my skin open
and makes blood gush out,
this that remains when death wipes out everything,
except the sounds of the body.
And thus fingernails will keep their rosy hue,
breasts stay firm,
neck smooth.
You will recognize the enormous privilege lodged
in your veins and be able to descend to a center of quietude,
breaking all ties.
Then breathing will begin yet again,
and with it, a repugnant amphibious salivation
until your hand moves rapidly
and sweat loses its pestilence.
But you will not suffer from vertigo.
The avalanche will sweep over you in benediction.
Your mouth will vibrate and spit out imperceptible threads.
Later the mad wind will blow and the concert will begin.
Decir, no tengo más que esto, lo que abre la epidermis
y hace brotar sangre,
lo que queda cuando la muerte lo arrasa todo,
menos los sonidos del cuerpo.
Y así las uñas guardarán su color rosáceo,
los senos su firmeza,
el cuello su tersidad.
Reconocerás el privilegio enorme que se aloja
en las venas y podrás descender a un centro de quietud
sin aferrarte a nada.
Entonces la respiración empezará una vez más,
y con ella una salivación anfibia repugnante
hasta que tu mano se mueva con rapidez
y el sudor pierda su pestilencia.
Pero no sufrirás vértigo.
La avalancha caerá sobre ti como bendición.
Tu boca vibrará y escupirá hilos imperceptibles.
Después llegará el viento loco y comenzará el concierto.
Chromatic Study
You'd like to tattoo yourself slowly with the trombone's notes.
Saying: I only have this, this that rips my skin open
and makes blood gush out,
this that remains when death wipes out everything,
except the sounds of the body.
And thus fingernails will keep their rosy hue,
breasts stay firm,
neck smooth.
You will recognize the enormous privilege lodged
in your veins and be able to descend to a center of quietude,
breaking all ties.
Then breathing will begin yet again,
and with it, a repugnant amphibious salivation
until your hand moves rapidly
and sweat loses its pestilence.
But you will not suffer from vertigo.
The avalanche will sweep over you in benediction.
Your mouth will vibrate and spit out imperceptible threads.
Later the mad wind will blow and the concert will begin.
Carlota Caulfield, a poet, writer, translator and literary critic, has published extensively in English and Spanish in the United States, Latin America and Europe. Her most recent poetry books are JJ/CC and Cuaderno Neumeister / The Neumeister Notebook. The recipient of several awards, Caulfield is the W. M. Keck Professor in Creative Writing and head of the Spanish and Latin American Studies Program at Mills College, Oakland, California. Her webpage is www.carlotacaulfield.org.
Mary G. Berg, a Resident Scholar at the Women’s Studies Research Center at Brandeis University, Boston, Massachusetts, has translated poetry by Juan Ramón Jiménez, Clara Roderos, Marjorie Agosín and Carlota Caulfield and novels by Martha Rivera (I’ve Forgotten Your Name), Laura Riesco (Ximena at the Crossroads), Libertad Demitropulos (River of Sorrows). Her most recent translations are of collections of stories by Olga Orozco and Laidi Fernández de Juan.
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