Poems by Carlota Caulfield from her book Los juguetes de Bertrand / Bertrand’s ToysReconocimiento Hacía bocetos. Aquí y allá una palabra. Después todo fue simple, un fuego interior que lo consumió de golpe. Al poco tiempo, un exilio impuesto. Después un cambio de fotografías y un borrón en la fecha de nacimiento. Bordes geográficos desvaneciéndose y confundidos en garabatos infantiles, y voces, voces infinitas en asedio. Esperas. Reconstruyes tu perfil y tu acento, vuelves a entrar en tu pasado, permaneces en uno de sus rincones, recorres los barrios de sus excesos, y nunca eres un huésped inoportuno, eso nunca te lo perdonarías. Recognition He made sketches. Here and there a word. Later on it was all-simple: an inner fire gobbled him up. A little later, an imposed exile, Later on, different photographs and a blotch over his birthdate. Geographic lines faded and interchanged over infantile scribbles, and voices, infinite voices laying siege. You wait. You redesign your profile and your accent, you reach the past, you settle into one of its corners, you stroll the neighborhood of your excesses, and you're not an inopportune guest, you'd never forgive yourself that. El oratorio de Aurelia La primera mirada es una mano en movimiento. Una gaveta se abre, otra se cierra, y así combinaciones imposibles del cuerpo. Un trapecio de lo familiar, del perchero y la colcha de la abuela. Cortinas donde se esconde la niñez, esas cortinas rojas del teatro, y el show del circo imaginario para mayores de ocho años. Sabiduría del acróbata y del pintor en su gotear de rojos y esos verdes y esos amarillos. Casi se pueden tocar. Entonces, los waltzes pirotécnicos, los abrigos y vestidos con vida propia, la música de acordeón, tangojazz, y trombón, eso parece. Y cuando todo se ha vuelto un Magritte, el timbre de un móvil desata una pelea violenta entre los otros, audiencia de marionetas crueles. Fin de la primera parte. Aurelia's Oratorio At first glance, it's a hand in motion. A drawer opens, another closes, and thereby impossible body combinations. A trapeze of the familiar, of the hanger and Grandma's bedspread. Curtains where childhood hides, those red curtains of the theater, and the show of the imaginary circus for those over eight. Wisdom of the acrobat and the painter in his splashing of reds and those greens and those yellows. You can almost touch them. Then the pyrotechnic waltzes, the coats and dresses coming to life, accordion music, tangojazz and trombone, that's what it's like. And when everything has turned into a Magritte, the ring of a cellphone unleashes a violent fight among the others, audience of cruel marionettes. End of part one. The poem “Aurélia’s Oratorio” alludes to the theater piece of the same name, a combination of a magic surreal show and acrobatics created and directed by Victoria Thierrée Chaplin that her daughter Aurélia Thierrée performs with extraordinary mastery and grace in theaters around the world. Nueve poemas para Charlotte 1. Agrietadas de pasión, las manos del titiritero descansan. Sólo en un pestañear, las marionetas se mueven y se confunden, y se enredan en sus cuerdas. Conmoción de un instante. 2. Dentro del armario, la sombra de un antiguo Pinocchio es una marca perenne. Así se hace la memoria y eso es lo mejor de todo, dejar que el corazón se fragmente con el tacto. Lo inexistente ha dejado un recuento. 3. Sus labios en una taza de té. Un sabor verde de Himalayas se confunde con la vasija terracota curtida por el uso. Capas y capas de residuos, testigos impregnados en el barro. Pone a un lado su diario. Mapa Mundi. 4. Su nombre reaparece en diferentes formas. En caligrafía es trazo llamado Tao. Su efímera inscripción lleva la espiritualidad de los sentidos. Digo y cuento, aunque raras veces es también toque de inscripción propia. 5. Puertas hinchadas de aguas a destiempo, como si la torrencial lluvia se hubiese vuelto un dulce y pegajozo delirio mientras observas las vestiduras extraviadas de la madera. En la ventana, una silente figura vacila. Y de pronto, el espacio de sonidos se confunde con grises, blancos y verdes. Lo de afuera entra y roza tus manos. 6. Ella, la que eres tú en ciertos días, deja un rastro de bruma y se reclina sobre varios senderos. Atrapar lo inasible se vuelve aquí furor y apatía. 7. Pasas bordeando voces. No quieres quedarte en la orilla de la muerte. Como un animal ebrio de miedo te enroscas hasta que la lluvia cese. Palabras en desorden. Trabalenguas. 8. Tú misma eres una abstracción. Todos los remedios disolviéndose. Noches de insomnio cercanas a la locura. Así tu cuerpo. Las treguas conjuradas. La parálisis un abismo de telas. La corrugada pesantez de tu espalda mancillada por bloques terapeúticos. 9. Mientras intocable hasta en la palabra, la presión de dedos y el aire denso de lugar a lugar, a tus labios coarteados les frotas unas gotas de miel y los pules como si fueran un desgarrón purpúreo. Así tus huesos, nervaduras de sombras chinescas lanzadas al piso. Tú. Nine Poems for Charlotte 1. Cracked by passion, the puppeteer’s hands rest. With only a blink, the marionettes move and are baffled, and get tangled in their cords. The commotion of an instant. 2. Inside the wardrobe, the shadow of an ancient Pinocchio is a perennial imprint. This is how memory is made and that’s the best of it all, to allow the heart into pieces if touched. The non-existent has left a trace. 3. Her lips sipping a cup of tea. A Himalayas’ green flavor is fused with the terracotta cup stained by use. Residual layers and layers, witnesses impregnated in the clay. She puts aside her diary. Mapa Mundi. 4. Her name reappears in different ways. In calligraphy it’s a pen stroke called Tao. Its ephemeral inscription carries the spirituality of the senses. I say and tell, although rarely it’s also a touch of self-inscription. 5. Doors swollen by untimely waters, as if the torrential rain had become a sweet and clinging frenzy while you observes the lost garments of the wood. In the window, a silent figure hesitates. And suddenly, the space of sounds blends with grays, whites and greens. The outside comes in and grazes your hands. 6. She, the one you are on certain days, leaves a trace of mist and bends, over several paths. Here to grasp the unreachable is fury and apathy. 7. You stroll around voices. Not wanting to remain on the verge of death. Like an animal drunk with fear you huddle until the rain stops. Words in disorder. Tongue Twisters. 8. You are yourself an abstraction. All solutions are dissolving. Nights of insomnia close to madness. So is your body. Conjured ceasefires. Paralysis, an abyss of cloths. The corrugated and heaviness of your back sullied by therapeutic blocks. 9. While untouchable even by words, the pressure of fingers and the misty air from place to place, onto your cracked lips you rub some drops of honey and you polish them like a purplish tear. And your bones, too, Chinese shadows nervures tossed on the floor. You. Bosques de Bélgica Voz suelta. Pura respiración. Labios de breves heridas. Después, un tañido. Boca sobre el metal. Voz hueca y los labios un pico abierto de pájaro. El aire es murmullos, rumores, silbidos, y marca permanente en la cámara interio. Rapidez del movimiento de la vara, privilegio de una mano. La mano tiene forma de U. Es una U. En el cielo de Berkeley hay pocas nubes, decías lentamente. Cierto, el aerófono es latón ligero, tríptico en un cuadro donde un trombón de vara parece pájaro en vuelo y alas de ángel. ¿Quién recuerda el nombre del cuadro? ¿Cómo se llamaba el pintor? Belgian Forests Voice unleashed. Pure breathing. Lips of brief wounds. Then, a note. Mouth to metal. Hollow voice and lips a bird's open beak. The air murmurs, whispers, whistles, and permanently marks the inner chamber. Rapidity of the valve's movement privilege of a hand. The hand is U shaped. It’s a U. In the Berkeley sky, here are few clouds, you were saying slowly. True, the aerophone is a light brass triptych in a painting where a valved trombone looks like a bird in flight, and angel wings. Who remembers what the painting is called? What was the painter's name? ![]() Carlota Caulfield is a Cuban-born American poet, writer, translator and literary critic. She has published extensively in English and Spanish in the United States, Latin America and Europe. Her most recent poetry books are Cuaderno Neumeister / The Neumeister Notebook (2016) and Los juguetes de Bertrand / Bertrand’s Toys (2019). She is the recipient of several awards, among them The International Poetry Prize Dulce María Loynaz and The Ultimo Novecento, Poets of the World. Caulfield has also published widely on Argentine poet Alejandra Pizarnik, as well as on other Latin American and Latinx poets, including Magali Alabau and Juana Rosa Pita. She is the co-editor of A Companion to US Latino Literatures (2012 &2014) and Barcelona, Visual Culture, Space & Power (2012 & 2014). She is Professor of Spanish and Spanish American Studies at Mills College, Oakland, California. 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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New Poems by Ivan ArgüellesTAMAZUNCHALE antes de abrir la demencia para descubrir palabra tras palabra que no tiene sentido diccionario de pulmones ! pulgas y rascacielos ! para mejor comprender lo que pasa dentro del ladrillo rojo al margen de la calle que nos lleva al sur donde los muertos tratan de olvidar lo que pasó ayer cuando la gran máquina de nubes y sonidos se acostó al lado del mar que sufre tantas camas inexplicables y sin eco y ahora dime que quieres con tus ojos apagados y tu mente como sirena de ulises llamando a todos los náufragos que la ambulancia está lista a partir ! ya me voy hacia la mejor tortillera que hay para besarla en su coma de vidas paralelas y entonces con una tristeza mundial seguiré caminando un brazo mas famoso que el otro una oreja de piedra y otra en ninguna parte para qué poner en dos el uno ? multiplicar significa morir ! 07-21-20 TEOCALLI for Joe who appeared yesterday morning for a fraction of an instant in the doorway standing in the light of the morning sun confused with radiance and dazzling the stanzas of an unwritten poem shift in the monumental distances of air crane-feathered shafts rotate like minds ablaze in the pyramidal distances of sky stone built on stone stepping to heaven solar flares like tongues speaking loud the destructions of cloud and thunder and ever deeper the effects of amnesia rain drowning cities of fine dust citadels of bone and tumult havoc of wheels spun out of control bringing down all ten directions and mountains reared overnight to mark off the western margin where the archaic sea darkens rushing to mirror itself in a dream of feathers and the twins up and down they go tracing each periphery of rock and grass measuring how far it is to the lunar aleph fading like dissolved aspirin at dawn what fills the ear at such an early hour if not the Sanskrit parrot reciting chronologies and adamantine dynasties names none can rightly recall inscribed on the reverse of coins or obliterated by a mere thumb on porous sandstone libraries ! the tomb of words and to speak the labyrinthine dialects communing with deities of the Unseen and Unheard pages torn at random from the codex depicting the origins of divine Chaos night ! splendors of ink in canyons where the dead revive use of their hands such a morning atop the great Teocalli converting sums of air into breathless voice hail all the heights and renown of fire ! we have come down the Panamerican visiting each of the summers of 1953 and talking backwards to mummified relatives wrapped in serapes of liquid gold we will never reach tomorrow for sure the Nymph death will take one of us before the prophesy can be fulfilled every day is this single bright moment standing like phantom pharaohs immobile in the pellucid movie film of memory you are me and I am you ! there is grass and maps strewn all over the lawn and avenues that stretch as far back as the first city carved out of the womb ten minutes apart the matching Teocallis that cast no shadow only black light ! 06-11-20 canción del parque chapultepec cronología del aire ! arquitectura de las nubes ! soy de poco valor que lástima ! las abejas en sus columnas verticales de azul incendiado chupando chupando los huesos de la hierba dormida soy azteca soy caldeo soy de mucho valor sierras de sueño blanco que veo nomás cuando estoy nadando en mi césped de memorias todo verde desde el hombro izquierdo de césar vallejo hasta la rodilla derecha de garcía lorca acumulando los dos las muchas muertes de la luz aunque vivimos como momias en Tenochtitlan apenas sufriendo el tránsito de los motores de las plumas yo lo único que soy es la luna chafada y transparente como aspirina a mediodía y hay mares invisibles que suben los pirámides de la frontera pistolas con ojos ! ahi viene la bala ! dame mi caballo corrompido yo soy peruano el último dios soy el mero dios de la basura hieroglífica de chapultepec fumando como nunca las chispas baratas de las olas que han venido a ahogar el estado de california poco a poco y a menudo con sus pronombres y hierro de lenguas mas muertas que el sol negro tapadera y tumba del fuego silencioso de mis pasos en el jardín unitario de la duda y por eso digo yo soy 06-17-20 ![]() Ivan Argüelles is an American innovative poet whose work moves from early Beat and surrealist-influenced forms to later epic-length poems. He received the Poetry Society of America’s William Carlos Williams Award in 1989 as well as the Before Columbus Foundation’s American Book Award in 2010. In 2013, Argüelles received the Before Columbus Foundation’s Lifetime Achievement Award. For Argüelles the turning point came with his discovery of the poetry of Philip Lamantia. Argüelles writes, “Lamantia’s mad, Beat-tinged American idiom surrealism had a very strong impact on me. Both intellectual and uninhibited, this was the dose for me.” While Argüelles’s early writings were rooted in neo-Beat bohemianism, surrealism, and Chicano culture, in the nineties he developed longer, epic-length forms rooted in Pound’s Cantos and Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. He eventually returned, after the first decade of the new millennium, to shorter, often elegiac works exemplary of Romantic Modernism. Ars Poetica is a sequence of exquisitely-honed short poems that range widely, though many mourn the death of the poet’s celebrated brother, José. Two Poems: |
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). |
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