T. S. Eliot Workshop in Hispanic Poetry

Finally by Álvaro Solís

2010-01-17T14:16:00.000-08:00

FINALLY

Persists, not in the flame,
in the naked light but not warm.
Not in the torchlight
which burns the hand that wears it.
It's another light that is not covered with ashes
don’t transforms the solid or ethereal.
There remains, in the light of the candle that is far,
It can not go out with this breath.
Persists, not in the cup,
or the surly drop of rain,
not in the stream.
It is another water that fills these caches on the body.
Persists in the sea that is hidden from sight.

FINALMENTE

Persiste, no en la flama,
sino en la desnuda luz que no calienta.
No en la luz de las antorchas
que incendia la mano que la porta.
Es otra luz que no enceniza
ni transforma lo sólido en etéreo.
Persiste, en la luz de la vela que está lejos,
que no puede apagarse ya con el aliento.
Persiste, no en el vaso,
ni en la arisca gota de la lluvia,
no en el río.
Es otra el agua que llena estos depósitos ocultos en el cuerpo.
Persiste, en el mar que se oculta a la mirada.

By Álvaro Solís

From Y2K

2010-01-06T09:19:00.000-08:00

From Y2K

now you're lying face down on the bed
reading a Spanish novel
while your calves are raised on drawing sheets
there is something in your waist going on with the touch of elastic
and think

all think in a time of day
in the fire that burned us and look forward
back there on the edge of that fire
lose the line and read unread
and then you have trouble returning to the scene
spanish novelist who forged within hours of delirium
you are forced to go back and read carefully what no longer
understand and face up and you turn around you see the pictures
your bookshelf and you'll be hanging on those dreams
so dear

how close they've been and how far
oppressive atmosphere which has become the world wide
how I want to kick a religion one country, one language
and everything will breathe a lung rhythm

but none of that worries you now
you're worried about the future of tomorrow detonator
almond shell beyond the shiny nugget
filled with oil and you say that heat
and you know that cold air hits the windows

how I wish sometimes to reach out
and surrounds your waist pleasure
I can be me or anyone else that in its embrace
wrap your body burden lightened of the world
and take you far beyond the shores
offshore
where there is only the sound of blood
that runs on your beast rumor flowering

back to the room where you have not left
to tell you that it is better so that nothing matters
there will never be one where not a how to
perfect the exact radius
happiness

De Y2K

ahora estarás tirada bocabajo en la cama
leyendo una novela española
mientras tus pantorrillas se elevan sobre el dibujo de las sábanas
hay algo en tu cintura que se enciende con el roce del elástico
y piensas

todos pensamos en un momento del día
en aquel fuego que nos quemó y ansiamos
volver ahí al borde de ese incendio
pierdes la línea y lees sin leer
y luego te cuesta trabajo regresar a la escena
que el novelista español fraguó en horas de delirio
te obligas a volver y lees con cuidado lo que ya no
entiendes y te volteas bocarriba y ves las fotos
de tu librero y te quedas colgada de aquellos tus sueños
tan queridos

qué cerca has estado de ellos y qué lejos
qué opresiva atmósfera se ha vuelto el ancho mundo
qué ganas de patear una religión un país un idioma
y todo vuelva a respirarse a ritmo de pulmón

pero nada de eso te preocupa ahora
te preocupa el futuro el detonador del mañana
la almendra más allá de la cáscara la pepita brillante
y llena de aceite te dices que calor
y sabes que el aire frío golpea las ventanas

qué ganas a veces de extender la mano
y que el placer rodee tu cintura
puedo ser yo u otro nadie el que en su abrazo
envuelva tu cuerpo aligerado ya de la carga del mundo
y que te lleve lejos más allá de las costas
mar adentro
donde sólo exista el sonido de la sangre
que corre en su rumor de bestia florecida

vuelves al cuarto de donde no has salido
para decirte que es mejor así que nada importa
que nunca habrá ni un cómo un dónde para
la perfecta la redonda la exacta
felicidad

By Mario Bojórquez

The poor in the bus station by Lêdo Ivo

2009-12-28T13:08:00.000-08:00

THE POOR IN THE BUS STATION

The poor travel. In the bus station
raise their necks to watch as geese
bus signs. Their eyes
who are afraid of losing something:
the radio suitcase a battery that keeps and a jacket
that is the color of cold in a day without sleep,
bologna sandwich at the bottom of the bag,
and the sun and dust suburbs beyond the viaduct.
From the sound of loud-speakers and the rattle of buses
fear losing their own travel
hidden in the mist of times.
Those who awaken slumbering in the pews scared
but the nightmares are a privilege
supplying the ear and the tedium of psychoanalysts
in aseptic surgeries such as cotton cap
the nose of the dead.
In the rows the poor bear a grave
linking fear, impatience and submission.
What a grotesque are the poor! And how annoying their odors
even from a distance!
They have no concept of appropriate
do not know how to behave in public.
The nicotine dirty finger rubbing the eye irritated
retained the dream that just the rheum.
Fallen breast and swollen a trickle milk
running into the small mouth used to the whining.
On the platforms come and go, jump and
ensure luggage and parcels,
impertinent questions asked at the counters,
whispered mysterious words
and provide for the covers of magazines startled air
who does not know the way of living life.
Why is this coming and going? And those fancy clothes,
those yellow dende oil that hurt the delicate eye
Traveler's forced to endure many unpleasant smells,
and those garish red fairground and amusement park?
The poor do not know how to travel and know how to dress.
Neither know how to live: have no sense of comfort
although some of them have even television.
Truly the poor can not even die.
(They almost always an ugly death in bad taste)
And anywhere in the world bother,
unwelcome passengers who occupy our places
even when we sit and ride them standing

OS POBRES NA ESTAÇÃO RODOVIÁRIA

Os pobres viajam, Na estação rodoviária
eles alteiam os pescoços como gansos para olhar
os letreiros dos ônibus. E seus olhares
são de quem teme perder alguma coisa:
a mala que guarda um rádio de pilha e um casaco
que tem a cor do frio num dia sem sonhos,
o sanduíche de mortadela no fundo da sacola,
e o sol de subúrbio e poeira além dos viadutos.
Entre o rumor dos alto-falantes e o arquejo dos ônibus
eles temem perder a própria viagem
escondida no névoa dos horários.
Os que dormitam nos bancos acordam assustados,
embora os pesadelos sejam um privilégio
dos que abastecem os ouvidos e o tédio dos psicanalistas
em consultórios assépticos como o algodão que
tapa o nariz dos mortos.
Nas filas os pobres assumem um ar grave
que une temor, impaciência e submissão.
Como os pobres são grotescos! E como os seus odores
nos incomodam mesmo à distância!
E não têm a noção das conveniências, não sabem
portar-se em público.
O dedo sujo de nicotina esfrega o olho irritado
que do sonho reteve apenas a remela.
Do seio caído e túrgido um filete de leite
escorre para a pequena boca habituada ao choro.
Na plataforma eles vão o vêm, saltam e seguram
malas e embrulhos,
fazem perguntas descabidos nos guichês, sussurram
palavras misteriosas
e contemplam os capas das revistas com o ar espantado
de quem não sabe o caminho do salão da vida.
Por que esse ir e vir? E essas roupas espalhafatosas,
esses amarelos de azeite de dendê que doem
na vista delicada
do viajante obrigado a suportar tantos cheiros incômodos,
e esses vermelhos contundentes de feira e mafuá?
Os pobres não sabem viajar nem sabem vestir-se.
Tampouco sabem morar: não têm noção do conforto
embora alguns deles possuam até televisão.
Na verdade os pobres não sabem nem morrer.
(Têm quase sempre uma morte feia e deselegante.)
E em qualquer lugar do mundo eles incomodam,
viajantes importunos que ocupam os nossos
lugares mesmo quando estamos sentados e eles viajam de pé.

By Lêdo Ivo

Definitely thursday by Waldo Leyva

2009-12-28T12:47:00.000-08:00

DEFINITELY THURSDAY

I want the twenty of August
of two thousand and ten,
at six in the evening, as it is today,
passes across the room nude
and ask for me.
If I am, asked, and if I dont exist,
or if I've lost somewhere in the house,
in the city, in the world,
same question, someone will respond.
The first of January of two thousand and one will be Monday
but the twenty of August of the date indicated
definitely has to be Thursday,
and heat, as today, will exhaust the will to live.
The streets are the same then,
the coral trees of eff and thirteen will continue to flourish,
many friends will not be
and time will have passed through the history of the house,
of the city, my country, the world.
I want the twenty of August, on waking,
prepare the skin
the heart
the will to live.

DEFINITIVAMENTE JUEVES

Quiero que el veintiuno de agosto
del año dos mil diez,
a las seis de la tarde como es hoy,
pases desnuda atravesando el cuarto
y preguntes por mí.
Si estoy, pregunta, y si no existo,
o si me he extraviado en algún lugar de la casa,
de la ciudad, del mundo,
pregunta igual, alguien responderá.
El primero de enero del año dos mil uno será lunes
pero el veintiuno de agosto de la fecha indicada
tiene que ser definitivamente jueves
y el calor, como hoy, agotará las ganas de vivir.
Las calles serán las mismas para entonces,
los flamboyanes de efe y trece seguirán floreciendo,
muchos amigos no estarán
y el tiempo habrá pasado por la historia de la casa,
de la ciudad, de mi país, del mundo.
Quiero que el veintiuno de agosto, al despertar,
prepares la piel
el corazón
las ganas de vivir.

By Waldo Leyva

Manifesto by Mijail Lamas

2009-12-28T12:22:00.000-08:00

MANIFESTO

I'm vulgar, I am full of feelings that are vulgar, I like television, comics, pornography -porn oh beautiful-, popular songs and ballads
that mix in the turntable of the habitational compounds, all excesses are satisfied. I say this with conviction.
I live in a vulgar age, once dull and vulgar expressions.
The art is in magazines, in the spectacular screen that stop traffic, candy wrappers and cigarettes of striking designs.
Graphic designers are the emblem of the modern artist.
Summit of all avant-garde, are the highest form of vulgarity.
The poets are silent.
This is just his repeated gestures, their spontaneous screaming.
All news is happening or left as the snapshot of the future that already feel nostalgy when reading science fiction.
What is new is a hoax.
The original is just a consistent look to the past.
Elegant patterns imposed by fashion and media are commonplace.
Vulgarity is a perfect condition of socialism we're all ordinary, regardless of our class.
Race has nothing to do with being vulgar. In this all races are equal.
Never vulgar enough to be admired by the masses.
Be absolutely modern is to be quite vulgar.
Be absolutely modern is to be oldfashion.

MANIFIESTO

Soy vulgar, estoy lleno de sentimientos vulgares, gusto de la televisión, el cómic, la pornografía —oh hermosa pornografía—, canciones populares y corridos
que se mezclan en la tornamesa de los complejos habitacionales, todos los excesos están saciados. Lo digo por convicción.
Vivo en una época vulgar, en un tiempo sin brillo, de expresiones vulgares.
El arte está en las revistas, en los espectaculares que detienen el tráfico, en las envolturas de golosinas y cigarros de diseños sorprendentes.
Los diseñadores gráficos son el emblema del artista moderno.
Cumbre de todas las vanguardias, son la forma más sublime de la vulgaridad.
Los poetas callan.
Quedan sólo sus repetidos ademanes, sus espontáneos berridos.
Toda novedad está pasando o queda como la instantánea del futuro del que ya sentimos nostalgia al leer ciencia ficción.
Lo nuevo es un engaño.
Lo original es sólo una mirada constante al pasado.
Los patrones de elegancia impuestos por la moda y los medios son vulgares.
La vulgaridad es una condición perfecta del socialismo; aquí todos somos vulgares, sin importar nuestra clase social.
La raza nada tiene que ver con ser vulgar. En esto todas las razas se igualan.
Nunca se es lo suficientemente vulgar para ser admirado por el vulgo.
Ser absolutamente moderno es ser absolutamente vulgar.
Ser absolutamente moderno es estar pasado de moda.

By Mijail Lamas