Sombra de los Días a Venir
A Ivonne A. Bordelois
Mañana
me vestirán cenizas al alba,
me llenarán la boca de flores.
Aprenderé a dormir
en la memoria de un muro,
en la respiración
de un animal que sueña.
Alejandra Pizarnik
Tomorrow/they'll dress me in ash for the sunrise,/they'll fill my mouth with flowers./I'll learn to sleep/inside the memory of a wall,/on the breath/of a dreaming animal.
Translation by Yvette Siegert.
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Like You // Roque Dalton
Like you I
love love, life, the sweet smell
of things, the sky-blue
landscape of January days.
And my blood boils up
and I laugh through eyes
that have known the buds of tears.
I believe the world is beautiful
and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone.
And that my veins don’t end in me
but in the unanimous blood
of those who struggle for life,
love,
little things,
landscape and bread,
the poetry of everyone.
translated from the Spanish by Jack Hirschman
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Porque la nada que está en todo
igual que los siglos en los siglos
se ocultaba incluso en aquellos encuentros en los que nunca estuviste
y en los que habrías estado si las cosas fueran reales
si no desaparecieras a cada momento
preso de aquello que hay entre la noche y el tiempo
gran desierto de tu oscura inexistencia.
Translation:
because the nothingness that is in everything
the same as centuries within centuries
hides itself even in those encounters in which you never were
and in which you would have been if things were real
if you did not disappear at every moment
prisoner of that which exists between night and time
great desert of your dark non-existence.
— Rodrigo Arriagada-Zubieta, 'Extrañeza'
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These bones shining in the night,
these words like precious stones
in the living throat of a petrified bird,
this well-loved green,
this hot lilac,
this mysterious heart.
Alejandra Pizarnik, fragment 9 from Diana's Tree
Estos huesos brillando en la
noche,
estas palabras como piedras
preciosas
en la garganta viva de un pájaro
petrificado,
este verde muy amado,
este lila caliente,
este corazón misterioso.
Alejandra Pizarnik, 9, Árbol de Diana
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Voces y formas para Chile. Poemas ilustrados para el pueblo chileno, Centro de Arte y Comunicación (CAyC), Buenos Aires, 1973 [The CAyC Files, International Center for the Arts of the Americas (ICAA) at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, TX + Institute for Studies on Latin American Art (ISLAA), New York, NY]
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latino and spanish people, could you guys comment or reblog with names of authors/poets that are most popular/significant in your countries (or like, ones that you studied abt in high school) ?? im doing a slideshow abt literature for spanish class and id really appreciate it if someone would help me out !!!!
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I was filled with countless love letters that I wanted you to read from me, secrets that I never got to tell you, and myriads of nonsense that I wish to have whispered in your ears so that you could laugh.
I longed for a time when we basked under the sun's warmth and had summer picnics, and I called you darling. I longed to love you. Have a kitchen wrecked with love and a table overflowing with baked goodies.
They say grief is just love with no place to go.
And I'm just a hopeless romantic,
but I still cry over you even though I've already lost you.
—o.r
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What it means to be "Americano"
White privilege like I can trace my mother's grandfather's line down to Captain James Cook but don't speak a lick of Tagalog
White privilege like I speak English fluently, with minimal accent
White privilege that meant jack shit to my schoolyard bullies
Your eyes look Chinese! Whatever Julio Mongolio, you're just a know-it-all
Brown skin I hid from the sun because I was ashamed
Morena like I spoke spanish as an adult and un nina muy pequena pero no permiso hablar con nadie porque
"You're in America now, Speak English! None of that beaner talk!"
Morena like aprender una lengua primero but being buried alive under spelling bees and failed attempts at fitting in
Julie of the Wolves! Why do you blurt everything out? You're so annoying!
Cubana as in, I haven't held my Abuelita in my arms ever in my whole twenty-seven years
veinte-siete años y no veo mi familia en la isla porque no estas permisos
My father, tells me half truths as un abogado y mi mama, spills lies from her mouth like water from a fountain
Mestiza as in I don't speak Tagalog outside of Mahal kita Lolo
and it gets blended with mi español porque my mouth is this
plane hopping, floatation device riding, Ellis Island
full of trauma, words I never learned
supposedly to protect me from hate crimes,
and cultures I never got to claim
Oh but don't worry.
Being American comes with all this baggage and more.
Why did my ancestors leave the islands? I may never know,
but it hurts worse to know that if they all had a ghost party,
I could never speak to them in our collective mother tongues.
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New Podcast in Spanish with the best poems en Español!!!!
https://open.spotify.com/episode/57cFhWnJW5SFxpCPZjo8hp?si=V_Bvm3EwTGqhhBbzKj3s-Q
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