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.
In honor of Malvinas Day, we present this work by one of Argentina’s great modern poets.
A request from the sun. Its understanding of this difference the label that speaks among things lamp or star keeping watch over the area that separates us and lets us illuminate ourselves with the color of distance.
Again I take from the air the slight awareness that hides the balance of a flower. Nevertheless we have watched the same bird we have seized its import, its situation at night and the place our hearts dominate is the same.
If I must go down through other times I will have this embrace tied to my memory like a stone from the sea or a rupture of algae. They are the night’s circuits where we have held each other or the uncertain manners of a morning in flight.
Then distance has already stopped digging into the soul the astrolabe is intent on encountered water although the smoke of the forest announces nostalgia that can devour the heart of a blackbird.
The trees carve on wood the name of the earth like twin flames we have purchased the air for growing to save with our laughter another corner of the world.
It may be everything that happens is the food of a distant life silently teaching the language of water giving love its place among the confusion of birds.
We present this work in honor of the Argentine holiday, Dia de la Memoria.
i got married
i got married to myself
i said yes
a yes that took years to arrive
years of unspeakable suffering
crying with the rain
locking myself up in my room
because i—the great love of my existence—
was not calling myself up
was not writing to myself
was not visiting myself
when i dared call myself
to say: hello, am i OK?
I would deny myself
i even managed to write my name in a list of bores
i did not really want to join
because they babbled too much
because they’d not leave me alone
because they’d fence me in
because i could not stand them
at the end I did not even pretend
when I needed myself
i intimated to myself
that i was fed up
and once i stopped calling myself
and stopped calling myself
and so much time went by that I missed myself
so i said
how long has it been since my last call?
must have been ages
and i called myself up and i answered and could not believe it
because even if it seems incredible
i had not healed
i had only shed blood
then i told myself: hello, is it me?
it’s me, i told myself, and added:
such a long time no see
me from myself myself from me
do i want to come home?
yes, i said
and we got together again
i felt good together with myself
just like me
i felt good together with myself
from one day to the next
i got married and i got married
and am together
and not even death can separate me
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 75th birthday.
Infinite mirror the waters of the night.
I listen to the call
of the first siriri-duck
migrating from the south.
Lilies in the still air intoxicate.
leaf has fallen and floats on the river.
Might it be the one
that ha T’sui-p-‘in, prisoner in the women’s quarters,
wrote her poem on?
Sent forth to risk the river
in hopes someone in the world of men
may take it from the water.