Mihaela Moscaliuc

Translation Portfolio: Nine Contemporary Latin American Poets
Translations by Frances Simán with Mihaela Moscaliuc

 

Frances Simán (Honduras, 1984) is a translator and editor. She is the founder of the publishing house Los Amorosos and a member of the editorial board of Cisne Negro in Honduras. She has translated the works of poets such as Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Najwan Darwish, Omar Sakr, Mihaela Moscaliuc, and Michael Waters. In 2023, she was awarded the Inca Garcilaso de la Vega Prize for her contributions to translation and publishing in Honduras, as well as the Equinoccial Prize at the Paralelo Cero Poetry Festival in Ecuador.

 

Mihaela Moscaliuc: You have introduced me, over the few years we’ve known each other, to so many exciting voices in contemporary poetry from Latin America. I have no doubt that selecting just a handful of poets for this portfolio was not particularly easy. Would you say a few words about your choices—why these poets and poems?

 

Frances Simán: My selection of poets reflects a broad spectrum of voices across Latin America, showcasing the diversity of perspectives, themes, and poetic styles in the region. Each poet was chosen for their unique contributions: Yhonais Lemus for her ability to interweave vivid imagery with themes of transformation and mortality; Florencia Lobo for her visceral connection to place and nature; Bibiana Bernal for her evocative storytelling capturing childhood memories and the bittersweet nature of remembrance. Federico Díaz-Granados and Xavier Oquendo bring profound reflections on human experiences, while Gabriel Chávez Casazola offers a compelling mix of humor and existential inquiry. Rolando Kattan for his meticulous attention to form, and an almost meditative rhythm that invites reflection, Guillermo Bianchi delves into raw emotional landscapes, and Jorge Boccanera reflects on Latin American experiences of political exile. Together, they hint at the richness and complexity of contemporary Latin American poetry, which I sought to amplify through translation.

 

Mihaela Moscaliuc: As someone who reads so widely and deeply poetry from both Latin America and the US, and who is versed in cross-cultural literary conversations, can you offer some thoughts on what you see as some distinguishing features or trends, aesthetics, sensibilities, in either or both poetic ‘traditions’? How do they diverge or overlap?  

 

Frances Simán: One of the most fascinating realizations is how these traditions reflect their particular cultural, historical, and social contexts while also intersecting in so many ways. Latin American poetry often carries a deep connection to collective memory, history, and identity. It tends to draw on themes of place, resistance, and the interplay between the personal and the political. Poets like Jorge Boccanera illustrate this blend of individual introspection with a larger sociopolitical consciousness. On the other hand, U.S. poetry, while equally diverse, often leans into experimentation with form and a focus on individualism. There’s a strong tradition of confessional and minimalist aesthetics, where poets like Frank O’Hara use personal experience as a lens for universal truths.

 

What’s striking, however, is how these traditions overlap. Both Latin American and U.S. poets grapple with questions of identity, belonging, and transformation, though their approaches differ. Both traditions highlight the human need to make sense of the world through language, offering unique but complementary perspectives on what it means to be alive in complex, often fragmented realities.

 

Mihaela Moscaliuc: You are always introducing me to new voices, and I love the excitement with which you direct my attention to the particularities of a poet’s voice. Who are some of other poets you would have liked to include in this portfolio?

 

Frances Simán: If space had allowed, I would have included Mexican poets Luis Armenta Malpica and Andrea Rivas and Bolivian poet Valeria Sandi.

 

Mihaela Moscaliuc: You have extensive expertise in translating prose and poetry from English to Spanish and the other way around. How do you approach the process of translation? Besides semantic accuracy, what are some other things you care deeply about in the process of bringing a poem from one language into another?

 

Frances Simán: For me, translation is as much an act of creation as it is of interpretation. While semantic accuracy provides a crucial foundation, my approach to translating poetry extends beyond literal meanings to capture the essence of the original text—the tone, rhythm, imagery, and emotional resonance that make each poem unique. My primary focus is always on the core of the poem: its intent and flow. Although fidelity to the original meaning is essential, it is equally important to honor the poem’s voice, ensuring its tone and texture feel genuine and natural in the target language.

 

I also delve deeply into the cultural and linguistic nuances embedded in the text, striving to convey metaphors, idioms, and historical references in ways that connect meaningfully with readers of the translated work. Structural elements such as line breaks, spacing, and punctuation are integral to the experience of the poem as well, so I pay close attention to these choices to preserve their emotional and aesthetic impact.

 

Additionally, I place great emphasis on understanding the poet’s intent and honoring their vision. This often involves collaboration when possible, as well as thorough research to grasp the context in which the poem was written. Ultimately, my goal is to create a translation that feels like a living, breathing poem in its own right while remaining faithful to the spirit of the original work.

 

Bibiana Bernal

Photo Credit: Olgalucía Jordán

Bibiana Bernal (1985) is a Colombian writer, editor, reading advocate, and cultural manager. Her poetry has been translated into Greek, Italian, English, French, Portuguese, Chinese, and Romanian. She is the founder and director of the Pundarika Foundation and the publishing house Cuadernos Negros, established 18 years ago. She is the author of two poetry books and several anthologies of short stories and microfiction. She received the Comfenalco Poetry Prize (2003) and the Quindío Governor’s Poetry Prize (2016), was a finalist for the National Poetry Prize from the Colombian Ministry of Culture (2017), and was named “Writer of the Year” at the Luis Vidales National Writers’ Gathering (2019).

 

Julieth and the Rain

 

If one day I die again,
I’ll make sure to do it under the rain,
for there’s so much compassion in every drop.

 

I’ll tell mom I’ll be playing
with the downpour on the sand court.
She’ll answer with the same no
and I’ll use the sound of the roof
to cover the sound of the door.

 

Julieth’s knowing smile
will be on the other side of the water curtain
that drops from the eaves of her house.

 

In the window, as always, her grandmother,
cigarette in her mouth, her gaze all nicotine,
turning smoke into fog.

 

If one day I die again
and death affords me the time,

 

I will tell Julieth I don’t forget her,
that in the end, all leaps land us into the same void;
that we will play office again
even when she no longer sees toys in books.
I will take her to ‘the pines,’
where we used to play and hide at night.

 

If one day I die again,
and the woman leaves
and the girl returns,
I will look for Julieth in the rain.
Let’s go, Julieth,
beneath the concrete court
lie our days and nights of play,
our memory of sand.

 

Julieth y la lluvia

 

Si algún día vuelvo a morir,
procuraré hacerlo bajo la lluvia,
hay tanta compasión en cada gota.

 

Le diré a mamá que voy a jugar
con el aguacero en la cancha de arena.
Ella pronunciará el mismo no
y yo aprovecharé el rumor del techo
para encubrir el sonido de la puerta.

 

La sonrisa cómplice de Julieth
estará al otro lado de la cortina de agua
del alero de su casa.

 

En la ventana, como siempre, su abuela,
con un cigarrillo en la boca y nicotina en la mirada,
convirtiendo el humo en niebla.

 

Si algún día vuelvo a morir
y la muerte me da tiempo,

 

le diré a Julieth que no la olvido, que al final,
todos los saltos nos arrojan al mismo vacío;
que podemos volver a jugar a la oficina
aunque ella no vea ya ni juguetes en los libros.
La llevaré a “los pinos”, donde jugábamos
y nos escondíamos en las noches.

 

Si algún día vuelvo a morir,
y se va la mujer
y regresa la niña,
buscaré a Julieth en la lluvia.
Vamos, Julieth,
debajo de la cancha de concreto están
nuestros días y noches de juego,
nuestra memoria de arena.

 

 

 

 

 

Guillermo Bianchi

 

Guillermo Bianchi (1970) was a finalist and first-prize winner in various contests in Argentina and abroad, including the 2021 Poetry Prize of the Madres de Plaza de Mayo Association. He has participated in poetry festivals in Argentina, Mexico, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, Chile, Colombia, and Ecuador. His poetry collections include La luz de los vencidos (Enigma Ediciones, 2012), Objetos varios (Editorial Casa de Poesía, Costa Rica, 2017), Callar los perros (Alción Editora, 2017), and Piedra de amarre (Editorial Cisne Negro, Honduras, 2022).

 

Raw Flesh

I write to let you out
let you fall into verses
pouring the moment into a word
is a way of always holding you
not giving you up
knowing you are near
I swear if I move I’ll stumble upon your image
entangled in the threads of the past
exiled just around the corner

 

what I know of you is what my blood tells me
when you wander through my veins as if through your own home
I know of you only what I’ve kept to myself
about this love that resists
and still clings to your name
which bites my tongue
as I breathe the air
you’ve freshly abandoned.
 

Carne viva

 

escribo como dejándote salir
caer al verso
sostener el instante en la palabra
es una forma de tenerte siempre
de no cederte
de saberte cerca
juro que si me muevo tropiezo con tu imagen
enredada en los hilos del pasado
desterrada a la vuelta de la esquina

 

yo sé de vos lo que mi sangre cuenta
cuando andás por mis venas como en tu propia casa
sé de vos cuanto callo de este amor que resiste
aferrado a tu nombre
que me muerde la lengua
respirando tu aire
recién abandonado.

 

 

 

Jorge Boccanera

 

Jorge Boccanera (1952) is an Argentine poet, critic, and journalist. His most recent collections are Los ojos del pájaro quemado, Polvo para morder, Sordomuda, Bestias en un hotel de paso, Palma Real, and Monólogo del necio, as well as personal anthologies translated into French, Italian, and Greek. In 2019, the compilation Tráfico / Estiba was published, bringing together his collected works. He has received, among other distinctions, the Camaiore International Prize (Italy), the Casa de América Award (Spain), the José Lezama Lima Honorary Prize (Cuba), and the Ramón López Velarde Ibero-American Award (Mexico). In Buenos Aires, he coordinated the Open Chair of Latin American Poetry at the Universidad Nacional de San Martín.

 

Exile

Expelled from the jungle in southern Sumatra
by the men who came to populate it, 130
elephants embarked today on a long march
of 35 days to the new city that was assigned to them.

AFP. 18/11/82

 

There is no place for elephants.
Yesterday they were expelled from the jungle in Sumatra,
tomorrow someone will prevent them from entering the Union Bar.
I am part of that herd going to Lebong Hitam.
I follow the leading female, carrying the hump of my luggage
on the four legs of hell.

 

They will reach their destination, said a Jakarta newspaper.
The tusks charge through webs of fog.
They will reach their destination,
old palisades that succumb under tides of
flesh.
They will arrive, said the newspaper.

 

But the stampede crosses swampy lands and
this homeland of mine is only this herd of elephants
that has lost its way.

 

May the impenetrable jungle safeguard the wail
of beasts!
May drums and fireworks accompany it.
Some of the dust they raise is mine.

 

Exilio

 

Expulsados de la selva del sur de Sumatra
por los hombres que vienen a poblarla, 130
elefantes emprendieron hoy una larga marcha
de 35 días hacia la nueva ciudad que les fue
asignada.

AFP 18/11/82

 

 

No hay sitio para los elefantes.
Ayer los expulsaron de la selva en Sumatra,
mañana alguien les impedirá la entrada al Unión Bar.
Yo integro esa manada hacia Lebong Hitam,
yo sigo a la hembra guía,
cargo con la joroba de todas mis valijas sobre las
cuatro patas del infierno.

 

Llegarán a destino – dijo un diario de Yakarta.
los colmillos embisten telarañas de niebla.
Llegarán a destino,
viejas empalizadas que sucumben bajo mareas de
carne.
Llegarán, dijo el diario.

 

Mas la estampida cruza por suelos pantanosos
y mi patria-la mía-es sólo esta manada de elefantes
que ha extraviado su rumbo.

 

¡Guarde celosamente la selva impenetrable este ulular
de bestias!
Tambores y petardos, acompañan.
Algo del polvo que levantan, es mío.

 

Delicacies

For Tomás Saraví

“The men who cook.”
“The men who cook,” says Professor Tauro,
not in encyclopedias. On the street,
to anyone who will listen: brave fritters, thick wine, pearl chocolate.
Seated at a table in El Lobo Púrpura bar, near the Puente Negro, he murmurs:
turkey mole, patience tamales.
And there, in a moment of suspense, he spreads a small checkered tablecloth.
Partridges stewed in cartoon balloons.
His mouth begins to water.

His life’s obsession? A feathered beast.
The apple of his eye? Marinated wild boar.
A fine gentleman. On the street, he offers the verb “to season.”
Where yesterday there were stones, now there’s cranberry jam.
Lamb salad where cold once reigned.
Where hatred once stood, a roast is now raised.
Candied fruits under gentle lamplight,
and for anyone who will listen: mutton in jelly,
vinaigrette, black grapes.

 

I entrust you with my soul: suckling pig, ginger.
He smacks his lips (osso buco), his mouth waters (sauce).
Large golden potatoes like kisses,
pheasants au gratin, stews, savory dishes.

 

Caviar of thought and motifs from the chili tree.
“The men who cook
have found a way to stave off suicide.”

 

Manjares

A Tomás Saraví

“Los hombres que cocinan”.
“Los hombres que cocinan”, dice el profesor Tauro,
no en las enciclopedias. En la calle,
a quien quiera escucharlo: fritangas de coraje, vino espeso,

chocolate de perlas.

Sentado en una mesa del bar El Lobo Púrpura, cerca del

Puente Negro, desliza pensativo:
mole de guajolote, tamales de paciencia.
Y tiende en el suspenso un mantelito a cuadros.
Perdices estofadas en globos de historieta.
Se le hace agua la boca.

 

¿La obsesión de su vida? Una bestia emplumada.
¿La niña de sus ojos? El jabalí adobado.
Gentilhombre. En la calle da el verbo «aderezar».
Donde ayer hubo piedras, confitura de arándano.
Salpicón de cordero donde ayer hubo frío.
Donde una vez el odio se levanta un asado.

Frutas cristalizadas bajo lámparas suaves
y al que quiera escucharlo: carnero a la jalea,

vinagreta, uvas negras.
Te encomiendo mi alma: lechoncillo, jengibre.
Se relame (osobuco), se le hace agua (salsita).
Grandes papas doradas como besos,
faisanes gratinados, caldereta, potajes.

 

Caviar del pensamiento y motivos del árbol del ají.
«Los hombres que cocinan,
encontraron el modo de evitar el suicidio.»

 

 

Gabriel Chávez Casazola

 

Gabriel Chávez Casazola (1972) is a highly regarded Bolivian poet, essayist, and journalist whose poems have been translated into ten languages and published in 15 countries across the Americas and Europe. His works include El agua iluminada (2010), La mañana se llenará de jardineros (2013), Multiplicación del sol (2018), and several volumes of selected poems, including Aviones de papel bajo la lluvia (Spain), Il canto dei cortili (Italy), La vitesse des fantômes (France), Persistence of tattoos (United States). He has received the Medalla al Mérito Cultural from Bolivia. A Creative Writing professor at the Universidad Privada de Santa Cruz, he is also curator of the “Ciudad de los Anillos” International Poetry Festival and directs the Agua Ardiente international series for Plural Editores.

 

Harry & Sally

I think of that fifty-year-old inflated with botox who once met Sally.
I think of Sally.
I think of the Sallys I found and lost in my life.
I think of Harry when he was Harry. I think of botox.
I think of that refreshing comedy.
I think of the imminence of being fifty.
I think of encounters.
I think of comedies.
I think of the last sips of water I drank, I mean, the last sips I drank of Sally.
I think of Billy Crystal.
I think of the freshness of age, of laughter, of encounters.
I think of the terrible freshness of the botox syringe.
I think of Meg Ryan, whose laugh resembled Billy’s last name.
I think of the Sally that comes to mind when I think of those sips of Sally.
I think how once Billy, Harry, Meg, Sally, me and my Sallys, we each held our twenty years like fresh water between our lips.
I think of Luis Eduardo Aute and a song a friend listened to at 20: I don’t think of you, I think of you, of you.
I think again, more sadly, of that fifty-year-old inflated with botox who doesn’t even get to hand out Oscars anymore.
I think of that scene where Harry met Sally, where I met Sally, where I said goodbye to my Sally.
I think that Sally means being twenty years old.
I think she was just around the corner.
I think the movie is almost over.
I think that today I will see the movie for the first time as it really is.
I think Harry never met Sally, that it was all a lie. I think they were strangers, that the Sallys were and still are strangers and I, an almost a fifty-year-old man bloated with the botox of melancholy, fresh needle in my neck, writing without thinking about what I think, am also just a stranger
who’s gifting this poem to Meg Ryan
as paper planes take off – I think – under the rain.

 

Harry & Sally

Pienso en aquel cincuentón inflado por el bótox que alguna vez encontró a Sally.
Pienso en Sally.
Pienso en las Sallys que encontré y perdí en mi vida.
Pienso en Harry cuando era Harry.
Pienso en el bótox.
Pienso en esa comedia de agua fresca.
Pienso en la inminencia de los cincuenta años.
Pienso en los encuentros.
Pienso en las comedias.
Pienso en los últimos sorbos que bebí de agua, digo, en los últimos sorbos que bebí de Sally.
Pienso en Billy Cristal.
Pienso en el frescor de la edad, de la risa, de los encuentros.
Pienso en el terrible frescor de la jeringa de bótox.
Pienso en Meg Ryan, cuya risa se parecía al apellido de Billy.
Pienso en la Sally que se me viene a la cabeza cuando pienso en aquello de los sorbos de Sally.
Pienso que alguna vez tuvimos todos, Billy, Harry, Meg, Sally, yo y mis Sallys, veinte años como agua fresca entre los labios.
Pienso en Luis Eduardo Aute y una canción que un amigo escuchaba a los 20: No pienso en ti, pienso en ti, en ti.
Pienso otra vez, con más tristeza, en aquel cincuentón inflado de bótox que ya ni siquiera reparte premios Óscar.
Pienso en la escena aquella en la que Harry encontró a Sally, en la que yo encontré a Sally, en la que yo dije adiós a mi Sally.
Pienso que Sally quiere decir los veinte años.
Pienso que ella estaba al doblar la esquina.
Pienso que la película está casi terminada.
Pienso que hoy veré la película por primera vez como realmente es.
Pienso que Harry nunca encontró a Sally, que todo fue mentira.
Pienso que eran dos desconocidos, que las Sallys eran y siguen siendo unas desconocidas

y yo casi un cincuentón hinchado por el bótox de la melancolía, su fresca aguja en el cuello, escribiendo sin pensar en lo que pienso, también apenas un desconocido

que le regala este poema a Meg Ryan
como se lanzan –pienso– los aviones de papel bajo la lluvia.

 

 

Federico Díaz-Granados

A Colombian poet and journalist, Federico Díaz-Granados (1974) received the Simón Bolívar National Journalism Award in 2021. He has published Las voces del fuego (1995), La casa del viento (2000), Hospedaje de paso (2003), Las prisas del instante (2015), and Grietas de la luz (2024) and curated, among others, the anthologies Resistencia en la tierra (Anthology of social and political poetry by new poets from Spain and the Americas) and Cien años de poesía hispanoamericana (A Hundred Years of Hispano-American Poetry). In 2021, he was appointed Distinguished Visiting Professor in the Department of Spanish at the University of Virginia. He is a regular contributor to El Tiempo and El Espectador, and a weekly columnist for Revista Cambio in Colombia.

 

Emergency Exit

We exit love
as if a crashed plane
Cristina Peri Rossi
You exit love as if a cinema,
sometimes in a rush
or ready to replay certain images or soundtracks,
or just eager for a bus or a coffee
to erase that last scene imprinted on the retina.
Sometimes you leave before the end,
bewildered or annoyed,
the tickets always torn.

 

Sometimes you exit love as if a train or plane,
in a hurry and silent, thinking of packages and pointless errands,
headed for the baggage claim,
then to look for a taxi or a familiar face to welcome you,
or an agent searching through the crowd
carrying a sign with your name scribbled in haste.

 

So this is how I’ll leave this poem—
without words and with a dry heart,
full of secret anniversaries and lost treasures,
drafts of some losses, hoarse voices, unfinished episodes.

 

That’s why love is like the world, the cinema, the train, the plane, the poem:
you exit the same way and through the same door:
with torn tickets, tripping over luggage and clumsy travelers,
looking back in a hurry, with urgency.

 

Salida de emergencia
 Salimos del amor
 como de una catástrofe aérea

Cristina Peri Rossi

Se sale del amor como de cine
a veces presuroso
o listo a repetir imágenes o bandas sonoras memorables
o apenas presto a tomar un bus o un café
que borre esa última escena grabada en la retina.
A veces se sale antes del final,
desconcertado o molesto
siempre con los tiquetes rotos.

 

A veces se sale del amor como de un tren o un avión,
de afán y silenciosos, llenos de paquetes y de inútiles encargos
rumbo a esperar equipajes de colores repetidos
y a buscar un taxi o un rostro familiar que nos acoja
o a un agente que nos busca entre la muchedumbre
con un letrero que lleva nuestro nombre en afanados trazos.

 

Así también salgo del poema
sin palabras y con el corazón seco
lleno de secretos aniversarios y tesoros perdidos
borradores de algunas pérdidas, roncas voces y episodios inconclusos.

 

Por eso el amor es como el mundo, el cine, el tren, el avión o el poema:
se sale de la misma forma y por la misma puerta:
con los tiquetes rotos
tropezando con equipajes y torpes viajeros
y mirando hacia atrás entre prisas y urgencias.

 

 

 

Rolando Kattan

 

Rolando Kattan (Tegucigalpa, Honduras) is a corresponding member of the Royal Spanish Academy and a full member of the Honduran Academy of Language. He has been honored with the XV Claudio Rodríguez Poetry Prize, the XX Casa de América Prize for American Poetry, the Ramón Rosa National Literature Prize, and the Bucovina Poetry Prize awarded by the Romanian Academy. His most recent collections are El árbol de la piña (Cisne Negro, 2016), Luciérnaga de otoño (Cisne Negro, 2018), Un país en la fronda (Raffaelli Editore, 2018), Gabinete de curiosidades (La Garúa, 2020), Los cisnes negros (Visor Libros, 2021), Donde volver deseo (Cisne Negro, 2023), and Errar en la montaña (El Ángel Editor, 2024). His poetry has been featured in more than forty countries and translated into seventeen languages.

 

Dress Code

This is not the Garden of Eden,
here you have to wear windows on your chest
so that bullets may pass freely.

 

Disguise yourself as an open door, a wall.
Keep your heart in your pocket
and outwit that stray bullet.

 

Hide in the pages of a book,
behind the words, and memorize the eye
that adjusts, narrows, and winks.

 

Borrow a top hat
so you may dodge a premature death.
Wear the tail of a peacock

and do not watch the bullet that follows you…

 

And only undress
in the square meter of the shower.

 

Dress Code

Este no es el jardín del paraíso,
hay que llevar ventanas en el pecho
para que pasen libres los disparos.

 

Disfrazarse de puerta abierta o muro.
Guardarse el corazón en el bolsillo
y despistar esa bala perdida.

 

Esconderse en las páginas de un libro,
detrás de la palabra, y memorizar el ojo
que se acomoda, se entrecierra y guiña.

 

Pedir prestado un sombrero de copa
y así burlar la muerte prematura.
Vestir la cola de un pavo real
y no mirar la bala que te sigue…

 

Y solo desnudarse
en el metro cuadrado de la ducha.

 

Otherness

Deep in the plains of Botswana
lions feast on a giraffe.
Its sprawled corpse looks like
the desert’s mutilated organs.
A lioness buries the entrails
to conceal the stench of predation.
Still ashen even in death, the giraffe
with a heart buried in the savannah
will feed the beasts for a while.

 

When I turn off the shower
my humanity becomes that giraffe.

 

Is there no other way?

 

 

Otredad

En la profundidad del paisaje de Botsuana
hacen festín los leones con una jirafa.
Su cadáver tendido pareciera
órgano mutilado del desierto.
Una leona sotierra las vísceras
y disimula el husmo de la rapacería.
Parda también de muerta, la jirafa,
con todo el corazón enterrado en la sabana,
alimenta a las fieras por un tiempo.

 

Cuando cierro la llave de la ducha,
mi humanidad se vuelve esa jirafa.

 

¿No hay otro desenlace?

 

 

Yhonais Lemus

Venezuelan poet Yhonais Lemus (1988) has published La trascendencia de los insectos (El perro y la rana, 2008), Hilos celestes (Editorial Torino, 2013), Entre el rostro/rastro de Clarice Lispector (Editorial Académica Española, 2018), Destellos acuosos (Halley Ediciones, 2019), Memorias de la piel (Halley Ediciones, 2020), and Antología en pocas palabras. Microrrelatos de la infancia (Niña Pez Ediciones, 2021). In 2022, she was awarded the Metafórica Revista Prize for Nagapushpa / bestiario marino, published by Vuelo de Quimera (Argentina). She is a professor at Simón Bolívar University, conducts creative writing workshops, and collaborates on publishing projects.

 

to Graciela Iturbide^[1]

eyes to fly   I want two     two
dead little birds^[2], they no longer belong to you “my life
entwines with my dream”^[3]       dark and cracked       it emanates like an offering
I tell you this with great urgency          I tell you with the sealed mouth of a fish        I show you
how the skin exceeds its boundaries
It     expands        from the realm of lines       into ritual

 

I return to dust
there is no passage without a shadow
nor a body without death

 

extract a mystery        a secret      a revelation from each listening
from seeing the soft noise that
falls from the sky
all these, manifestations that use us at their whim

 

and so I’m an instrument perfectly attuned
I am an angel woman^[4]
my black feathers     sprung from each eye like arrows
pierce all they encounter
shaping          the desert

 

 

a Graciela Iturbide^[5]
ojos para volar  quiero dos     dos
pajaritos muertos^[6] ya no te pertenecen «mi vida
tiene que ver con mi sueño»^[7]      oscuro y agrietado        sale de mí como una ofrenda
te digo con tal dramatismo            te digo con boca de pez sellada      te muestro
cómo la piel excede sus bordes
se    esparce   del dominio de las líneas         al rito

 

vuelvo al polvo
no hay pasaje sin sombra
ni cuerpo sin muerte

 

toma un misterio   un secreto    una revelación después de escuchar
de ver el ruido blando que
cae del cielo
son todas estas  manifestaciones las que nos usan a su antojo

 

acá parezco  un instrumento bien atento
soy una mujer ángel^[8]
y estas son mis plumas negras saliendo de cada ojo como flechas
atravesando todo
dando forma            al desierto

 

 

 

 

 

Florencia Lobo

Florencia Lobo (1984) was born in Tucumán and raised in Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina. She published the poetry collections El lento deambular de las tormentas (El Suri Porfiado, 2018) and Los bosques bajo el agua (Tanta Ceniza, 2024). Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies, including Patagonia lee of the National Reading Plan (Plan Nacional de Lecturas, 2021), Antología de poetas argentinas (1981-2000), (Ediciones del Dock, 2023), and Tu deriva a la que obedezco (Llantén, 2024). In 2018, she received a creativity grant from the National Fund for the Arts (Fondo Nacional de las Artes).

 

Turbulence Zone

Riders on the storm
into this house we’re born
The Doors

 

And now that we have left
the earth to launch ourselves into the heights,
the sky closes, the eye
of the storm opens.

 

People turn restless,
grab each other’s hands, cross themselves.
I also tense up,
wash away the days, distill memories.

 

I leave behind the land of my winds,
and below remains my mother’s house
with its worn-out furniture and willows
and the light and thunder caught in branches.

 

I don’t know where I’m going, where I’m already heading.
I am a question rising among clouds,
a silence that listens to its empty half,
its mirror turned toward nothingness.

 

I am singing myself lullabies
that color the sky like a winter light.
I kiss my heart so that it grows.

 

Once glacial, I now
laugh in the light of the storm.
In the winged machine about to fall,
it’s another rain and another cloudburst
that shake me.

 

In the end, the plane always stabilizes,
and the gold of the horizon appears far away.
People applaud, cry, shout,
we are more mortal
because we kissed death.

 

I remain silent.
This is my land,
the downpour doesn’t scare me
nor the humped wind that licks the windows.
This is the sky of my rains,
nothing can harm me,
the night and the storm are with me.

 

Zona de turbulencia

Riders on the storm
into this house we’re born
The Doors

Y ahora que dejamos
la tierra y nos lanzamos sin más hacia la altura,
se cierra el cielo, se abre el ojo
de la tormenta.

 

La gente se inquieta, se agarra
de las manos, se persigna.
Yo también tenso los músculos
lavo los días, destilo recuerdos.

 

Estoy dejando atrás la tierra de mis vientos,
abajo queda la casa materna
con sus muebles ajados y sus sauces
y la luz y el trueno entre las ramas.

 

No sé adónde voy, adónde ya estoy yendo,
soy una pregunta que se eleva entre las nubes
un silencio que escucha su mitad vacía,
su espejo hacia la nada.

 

Estoy cantándome canciones de cuna
que tiñen el cielo como una luz de invierno.
Beso mi corazón para que crezca.

 

Yo, álgida de qué,
ahora río a contraluz de la tormenta.
En la máquina alada a punto de caer,
es otra la lluvia y otro el nubarrón
que me sacuden.

 

Al final el avión se estabiliza,
y aparece el oro del horizonte siempre lejos.
La gente aplaude, llora, grita,
somos más mortales
porque besamos la muerte.

 

Yo callo,
esta es mi tierra
no me espanta el aguacero
ni el corcovado viento que lame las ventanas,
este es el cielo de mis lluvias
nada puede dañarme,
conmigo van la noche y la tormenta.

 

 

 

Xavier Oquendo

Photo Credit: Micaela Cáceres

Xavier Oquendo Troncoso (1972) is a journalist and the author of twelve poetry collections, including Esto fuimos en la felicidad (finalist for the Jorge Carrera Andrade Prize, 2009), Solos (2011), Lo que aire es (2014), Manual para el que espera (2015), Compañías limitadas (finalist for the 2018 Pilar Fernández Labrador Prize and winner of the 2020 Central University of Ecuador Prize), and Tiempo abierto (2022). Twenty collections of his poetry have appeared in various Latin American and European countries. He directs the “Poesía en Paralelo Cero” International Poetry Festival—one of the most important poetry festivals in Latin America—as well as the publishing house El Ángel Editor, which published about 500 poetry books by Ecuadorian and international authors.

 

Love more constant than my own constancy

I once had a book by Jardiel Poncela. An American adventure tale. One with drawings in two colors. Another without a cover, its spine exposed. I had a book by Faulkner that I never read. One with crayon marks, my childhood signs of clumsy motor skills.

A cookbook that smelled of dampness. A phone book that made me happy. A library with Borges’ “Ficciones.” I had books by Ecuadorian poets, all of whom they killed themselves. Christmases filled with books. A Three Kings Day exchange, choosing between clothes or books. I bought books and records from friends who bought more books and records from other friends. I never stole books due to my lack of fine and gross motor skills.  I made a table out of old books given to me by a priest. I improvised a staircase for my children to climb to the sky, with sewn spines and glued covers. I decorated a room with books, and then the volumes kept moving from shelf to shelf. I gathered them as decorations in solemn places. I gave books as birthday gifts, and people said they would read them – I even know someone who did. I arranged my books as a backdrop for a photo. I used my books as weapons to kill medieval mosquitoes. I stood taller over my books and happily combed my hair in an Elvis pose. I balanced books on my head. I carried books in backpacks, and my biceps grew stronger.

I used books on my legs and pretended to be a robot. I have books as dark circles under my eyes. I quote books by numbers. I spew books, not rabbits. I smell the books and then rub them against my cheek to see if they are soft. I have kissed books. I have slept with books. I have let myself be seduced by them. I have torn books apart because of the cold, because of poor heart advisors, because of soul pain. I want to be buried like my future great-grandchildren, nestled within a heavy book, at the bottom of some speech, in the proximity of some universe that has pages, pleasures, demons, and editorial flaws, and let my tomb be a paperback book with 75-gram bond paper in A5 format. And let that not be freedom, but rather some eternal divine and bibliographic punishment.

 

Amor constante más allá de mi constancia

Yo tuve un libro de Jardiel Poncela. Un libro de aventuras norteamericanas. Uno con dibujos en dos colores. Otro sin pasta y con el hilo al aire. Tuve un libro de Faulkner que no leí. Uno con rayas de crayón que eran mis marcas de niñez con motricidad atrofiada.

Un libro de recetas que olía a humedad. Una guía telefónica que me hizo feliz. Una biblioteca con el libro Ficciones de Borges. Tuve unos libros de poetas ecuatorianos que todos se mataron. Unas Navidades de libros. Un intercambio de día de Reyes entre ropa o libros. Compré libros y discos a amigos que compraron más libros y discos a otros amigos. No robé libros por falta de motricidad gruesa y fina. Hice una mesa con libros viejos que me obsequió un sacerdote. Improvisé una escalera para que mis hijos suban al cielo con lomos cosidos y pastas encoladas. Decoré una habitación con libros y luego los tomos se iban cambiando de estantería. Coloqué a mis discos y a mis libros sobre los espejos y los cristos. Adapté a mis libros para arrimar las paredes. Los junté como adornos en los sitios solemnes. Llevé libros de regalo de cumpleaños y la gente dijo que los leería -e incluso sé de alguien que los leyó-. Adapté mis libros como escenario para tomarme una foto. Usé mis libros como arma para matar mosquitos medievales. Me puse más alto sobre mis libros y me peiné feliz con posición de Elvis. Hice equilibrio con los libros en mi cabeza. Alcé libros en mochilas y mis bíceps crecieron.

Usé libros en mis piernas y jugué a ser un robot. Tengo libros por ojeras. Cito libros por números. Vomito libros y no conejos. Huelo los libros y luego los paso por mi cachete y veo si son suaves. He besado libros. He dormido con libros. Me he dejado seducir por ellos. He roto libros por frío, por malos asesores de corazón, por dolor de alma. Yo quiero que a mí me entierren como a mis futuros bisnietos, en la mitad de un pesado libro, en el fondo de algún discurso, en la cercania de algún universo que tenga páginas, placeres, demonios y lacras editoriales, y que sea mi tumba un libro de pasta blanda y bond de 75 gramos y formato A5. Y que no sea eso la libertad, sino algún eterno castigo divino y bibliográfico.

 

 

[1] Graciela Iturbide (Mexico City, 1942) is considered the doña or señora of Mexican photography and one of the most prominent photographers in Latin America.

[2] I draw inspiration from her portrait “Eyes to Fly?”/ “¿Ojos para volar?”

[3] The dream becomes a real image in the work of the Latin American artist: ‘My dreams have a lot to do with my life, just as my life has to do with my dreams’ (Iturbide).

[4] Iturbide ventured into the Sonoran Desert to photograph the “Angel Woman/Mujer Ángel.

[5] Es  una de las más destacadas fotógrafas de América Latina. Graciela Iturbide (Ciudad de México, 1942.  Es

considerada la doña o señora de la fotografía mexicana).

[6] Me inspiro en su retrato Ojos para volar.

[7] El sueño se convierte en una imagen real en la obra de la artista latinoamericana: «Mis sueños tienen mucho que

ver con mi vida, así como mi vida tiene que ver con mis sueños»; dice.

[8] Iturbide se adentró en el desierto de Sonora y tomó la foto Mujer ángel. Confiesa que ha sido su preferida.