I invented time to say your name. Because my voice wanted it, there were violets in summer and wisteria in autumn. I was the one who shaped the space to make room for your shadow. And because my eyes asked for it the sky changed its tone. Undoubtedly, I am the owner of everything.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 70th birthday.
Am I that woman in the dance raising inexperience like light addressing herself like a feather to her most elusive whereness? Strange flower growing soft out of the frame of language trying on sandals and flinging into writing unscathed by writing.
Winding the body’s lexicon it hit me in the takeaway shown my treasure in nothing I wavered: submit or escape it’s a question of what is lost in the beat of a voluptuous skirt what battle is evaded what dire endearing enemy abandoned.
Strange as if lit from within with the indicative expounding from neckline to poem curve I learned to conjugate affairs but for what if the nitty-gritty of nothing like eternity consisted in leaving me naked doubtlessly an odd privilege.
What if time were lawless? Where do you keep what wasn’t? They go on like this and that you never know what kills you and January sun and you just came just like a breath and worked me to confine my body’s surrounds to the exacting beauty of lack.
And I who’d thought to interject geography as flamboyant sun retrace my past in slip-ups sweet-talking myself tough and even pin on you a trinket clinched knees sissy feet which you’ll interpret as expertise but is just a pretense for hurt.
If together where the belly bends if I contracted and opened for you if something like a sky disclosed to what encloses inside blue if you drew me so disposed if I existed where you lost me if a spasm and other orphandoms if imperfection is a gift.
Contrary to the clock hands too long in two voices unreleased you walk me through my legs to tumult with no predicate while I angle for the occasional avails of female cunning tattooing the flipside of language digits an animal won’t give up.
Night is a house to wander with Spanish moss poison I mean, to look for looseness beyond your foremost failure maybe that was the attraction out of all you gave me and got how you tossed me into boleos heart antsy the secret clear.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 130th birthday.
I play I play pores cables keys coves I play on subjects of nerves wharves weavings that play upon me scars cinders tropical bowels I play only only undertows hangovers heavy breathing I play and moreplay and nothing
Prefigures of absence inconsistent tropes what a you what a what what a flute what loot what hollows what masks what empty lonely reaches what a yes what a no what a yesno fate putting me out of tune what reflexes reflect what deeps what wizard material what keys what nocturnal ingredients what frozen shutters that do not open what a nothing I play wholely
We present this work in honor of the 25th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Over the wide cold leaves of time you arrive, stained by the fleeting sun of the rainy seasons on the plains. You come lukewarm in color and shivering, and my heart feels the bliss, holds it, from a word unspoken, and the murmuring steps on the grass cover the ennui, the glow, of an essence withheld, drowned and remote. You gather a robe around you—proper, singular—, folding it around you around you, curved to fit the bone. How much of the soul, what depths of the soul you want to enter you, to touch you lightly in passing! Yes: even as air enters the mouth, claustral and flaring. You go with the ocean tides and the watery brilliance of the slow, final skies, which go veiled toward the south where the great red bustard flies and nests, and the night turns back and calls full of anguish under the flowering darknesses, nostalgic and scattered.
Did a tender bush grow On the banks of a gentle river, And its dark branches Very proud he spread; But in the bitter winter The river rose like a torrent, And in its tumid stream The tender bush led.
Reflecting snow and scarlet, She was born garrida and pompous In the desert a rose, Gala del prado and love; But he launched with insane fury His breath inflamed the wind, And it took away in a moment Its vain pomp and freshness.
So everything lasts well… So sweet loves, Like the lush flowers, They fade in their dawn; And in the uncertain sway From fickle fortune, Born and dies in an instant The hope of love.
In honor of the Argentine holiday, National Flag Day, we present this work by one of the country’s most representative poets.
lost the first sense of solidarity lost horizontal solidarity neighbor friend corner grocer in private no one recounts his life story these days where now are those Renaissance kitchens the houses of the Carpathians there will be no museum for our interiors like a fundamentalist veil some women have salvaged a universe conquered by my grandmothers children flora men in permanent distraction or literary fantasies while grand women water patio plants
In reality my loves are the strange box of a Polish doll The blonde’s eyes appearing fixed to her hips long after midnight the garret always singular to loosen a massive mane across her back, its strands thick and fine draping her otter-like chin Deliberately she’d peer out from the wall and nothing could be seen but the shadow of her breasts hidden beneath marmots of hair And lovely was her skin’s radiance at that unusual hour Her waist’s digressions easily discerned as bees through grass the window neither open nor closed What I saw, yellow like crystal, rose from sleepy thighs amassed in unseemly tourniquets Everything before me, a pale shimmer of hairs fanning delicately to reveal the pink or green skin I no longer know of hips a million centimeters from my gaze.