Day of Adam

 

DAY OF ADAM

 

O great grandmother of Eden *

i don’t know

if the sun will rise tomorrow.

 

The body is a tomb

soma sema

the Orphics say.

 

Only the flow unfolds

folding

the enclosure of a turbulent dream

 

Where i wind the shuddering

spectres

of ephemeral yesterdays.

 

Bits of drift, flotsam

jetsam

on the sea of time transformed

 

To now where sea horses

leave the waves

only to see, only to see.

 

* Contentiously the first primate on the Savannah, arguably the original Australopithecus female Eve of Eden from which the Homo Sapient species descends.

 

From World at Large Part 2

Copyright © 2015. Robin Ouzman Hislop

Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved

 

Robin is editor of on line poetry journal Poetry Life and Times at www.artvilla.com/plt. He edits both Facebook Pages PoetryLifeTimes and Artvilla.com as extensions of the Artvilla site, which he also edits.

The Northern Powerhouse

 

THE NORTHERN POWERHOUSE

 

We’re still here as wind whips white powder

across aborted roads till our eyes sting.

It sticks in the throat like surrender

from the slumped union man, red tie flapping

in the coordinated attack from the dust

and the galeforce stink of chicken shit someone dumped

last night to keep the numbers down. They already cut

the cables on number 1, said the shaft was unsafe, couldn’t

leave it, oh Lordy, no, Health & Safety, gone

now but it was safe enough until the last three weeks

to send working men down to keep the lights on.

Now the brass band plays Abide with me

as the handmade banner fights the wind.

This is where we’re from. This is who we are.

 

We’re still here after Buyout: Closure,

Buyout: Closure, times two; last one gifted

to a rich man’s son. What’s wrong with an old Micra,

like that stolen one that just drifted

over the rubble on the roundabout?

Every time we kept the union alive.

80% ballots left no room for doubt,

just like in the war when they went on strike

for the right to have soap. They hated Hitler

and defended their country underground,

but they didn’t care much for Churchill either.

Record productions followed by shutdowns,

markets rigged by free market excuses.

This is where we’re from. This is who we are.

 

We’re still here, though they’re determined to wipe us out,

not just because it’s a pit, not because it’s coal,

not just because it’s where our past got its power,

but because we represent a vision, a whole

different world. No wonder we’re bitter with chasers

of ashes in Poundland, bought off with knock-off Prada bags.

It’s a bit late to say, Don’t be political

in top-down class warfare where that black stuff is taxed

to death so they can sob lies at her funeral.

As the band plays Jerusalem we will not cease

from mental fight, will never bow to urbane devils

of privilege who sell us War in the name of Peace,

and sneer hope lies dead after all we’ve gained through struggles.

This is where we’re from. This is who we are.

And we’re still here.

 

Copyright © 2015. Jimmy Andrex

Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved

Ask the government to intervene and Save Hatfield Main Colliery Headgear

Click here to sign the petition and make a difference!

The Marxist Dada Stool Club

 

THE MARXIST DADA STOOL CLUB

 

We lost our faith in democracy

Capitalism and markets,

So we decided to get creative

And chose some better targets.

 

Some things can’t be properly

Conveyed just using words,

So we decided to start the fightback

Swapping petrol bombs for turds.

 

Take it to the enemy,

Strike a dagger in their vampire hearts

On the 7th, 9th and 18th greens,

Being careful not to fart.

 

We’ve ten years of clean getaways,

They still think it’s just one man,

But they misjudged the power of artists

With our precision bombing plan.

 

Sneak in and squat on the target,

Though it might seem base and mean,

Bomb the symbols of elitism and privilege,

But wipe your arse: stay clean.

 

We’re the Marxist Dada Stool Club,

A dedicated crew.

We’re credible and we deliver,

Our policy is always to follow through.

 

It might look crude and simple,

But I don’t suggest you try it

Unless you’re thorough and committed

And on a high fibre diet.

 

We’re the Marxist Dada Stool Club,

We don’t need a pooper scooper.

Bare our backsides at austerity,

It makes more sense than Yvette Cooper.

 

Copyright © 2015. Jimmy Andrex

Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved

Activismo 2.0

ACTIVISMO 2.0

Por las tardes,
cuando llego
hecho polvo
del gimnasio,
me gusta
cagarme en la leche,
por internet.

Mens sana
in corpore sano

Facebook nuestro
que estás en los dedos

¡Tuit
Tuit, Tuit
The number of the beast!

¡Como mola Fort Apache
y la alcaldesa de Madrid!

Por las noches
me gusta
arreglar España
desde casa,
en mi sofá,
siguiendo la hoja de ruta,
tal y como se acordó…

Y ya de madrugada,
en la cama,
como de pequeño,
me gusta
encomendarme al altísimo
antes de soñar
con un mundo mejor:

…por Pablo,
con él y en él,
a ti, dios padre todopoderoso,
en la unidad popular de la gente,
todo honor y toda gloria
por la sociedad civil
y los medios.

Amén

(Ale, a dormir)

En el nombre de Laclau
y de Errejón
y de Juan Carlos Monedero.

Amén

Copyright © 2012-2015. Angustias Manzanera (A.M.A)
Del libro “Los viajes de Diosa”. Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved

Healthy Advice to an Adolescent

 

HEALTHY ADVICE TO AN ADOLESCENT

 

Listen boy from my village

Boy, son of a friend, a woman from long ago

When someone likes an older man

(Particularly a poet like me)   Don’t do dumb things

like showing him the new family car

without taking him somewhere dark and beautiful

Don’t speak to him about the price of the new china

bought in some supermarket in the big city.

Without proposing to smash it.

 

Slyly show him instead your woolly navel

And share with him those drunken glances and drowned sighs

Which choke you when you masturbate in the rain

On the patio at home.

 

Speak of what you were or what you will be

Of the tantrums of your rich uncle’s old musket

when you steal the counterfeit dollars from him

Of the kicking you gave your enemy

 

You have eyes like a little donkey   Dreamy and half closed

You have arms to wrestle with between the sheets

to find out who goes first   Here under your skin

You have a crazy anguish to be tenderly fucked

 

Translated by Mike Baynham from a poem in Spanish by Raúl Gómez Jattín. La hamaca nuestra/Our hammock. Raúl Gómez Jattín: a queer Colombian poet in translation

 

Original text in Spanish

 

SANOS CONSEJOS A UN ADOLESCENTE

 

Oye muchacho de mi pueblo

Muchacho hijo de una amiga de otros tiempos

Cuando a uno le gusta un hombre mayor

(Y más si es poeta como yo) No hace tonterías

tales como mostrarle el nuevo carro de la familia

sin llevarlo a un lugar oscuro y bello

Ni le habla del precio de la nueva porcelana comprada

en cualquier supermercado de la gran ciudad

sin proponer romperla

 

Muestra más bien con disimulo el vellón de tu ombligo

y entrega esas miradas borrachas y suspiros de ahogado

que te matan cuando te masturbas bajo la lluvia

en el patio de tu casa

 

Habla de lo que fuiste o serás

De las rabietas del viejo carramplón

de tu tío rico cuando le robas los dólares falsos

De las patadas que le diste a tu enemigo

 

Tienes ojos de burro chiquito Diáfanos y entornados

Tienes unos brazos como para forcejear bajo las sábanas

en busca de quien va primero Tienes ahí bajo la piel

una loca angustia de ser violado con dulzura

 

Poema de Raúl Gómez Jattín

Copyright © Rubén Gómez Jattín

 

Erotic Imaginary

 

EROTIC IMAGINARY

 

The garden is quiet bearing the weight of the evening

of a March that will announce itself as windy

 

So fleeting it is more like January

 

Penetrated at night through lemon trees and acacias

Distantly opaline on the forehead of the sky

The garden shudders from within

 

Between dry branches and rotting leaves

doze beetles Dragonflies   Lizards

A lazy malicious cat hunts a butterfly

 

Suddenly an almost invisible mist descends

and rests its shadows on the leaves

caressing the knot of our bodies

in the same infinitely slow delight

with which I half strength half fear

kiss your neck and your black crystal beard

The garden is scented with masculine sweat

with the saliva of deep kisses which long

to unleash the torrent of desire at its height

so that saps may flow and bodies relax

 

Translated by Mike Baynham from a poem in Spanish by Raúl Gómez Jattín. La hamaca nuestra/Our hammock. Raúl Gómez Jattín: a queer Colombian poet in translation

 

Original text in Spanish

 

ERÓTICO IMAGINARIO

 

Está quieto el jardín soportando la tarde

De un marzo que se anunciará ventoso

 

Tan fugaz que parece un enero

 

Penetrado de noche en limoneros y acacias

Opalino a lo lejos en la frente del cielo

El jardín se estremece por dentro

 

Entre ramas secas y hojas podridas

dormitan escarabajos   Libélulas   Lagartos

Un gato de ocio y maldad acecha una mariposa

 

De repente una casi invisible neblina desciende

y posa su penumbra en la fronda

acariciando el nudo de nuestros cuerpos

con la misma dulzura lentísima

con que yo mitad fuerza mitad miedo

beso tu cuello y tu barba de negro cristal

Está el jardín oloroso a sudor masculino

a saliva de besos profundos que anhelan

desatar el torrente del deseo a su cima

y que fluyan las savias y descansen los cuerpos

Poema de Raúl Gómez Jattín

Copyright © Rubén Gómez Jattín

Between Cousins

 

BETWEEN COUSINS

 

An acrid smell of butterflies in the air

like a perfume flying from childhood to this moment

miraculously brings back that lunar garden

of childhood slyly showing each other our penises

and with that irresistible surrender we feel

to the first naked body we adore

You mending the kite dismembered by the wind

Me writing to our shared girlfriend

Those urgent love letters full of lies

So she would lend us her bicycle.

 

There’s a sadness in that perfume that wounds me

As if you my scarlet gentleman   Might have forgotten me

As if you my loving and tender boy cousin

Might suddenly have decided wherever you are to abandon

All that was felt and hidden

(Such as one heart within another)

Under the lemon tree which one winter destroyed

And which I remember as vividly as your kisses.

Translated by Mike Baynham from a poem in Spanish by Raúl Gómez Jattín. La hamaca nuestra/Our hammock. Raúl Gómez Jattín: a queer Colombian poet in translation

 

Original text in Spanish

 

ENTRE PRIMOS

 

En el aire un acre olor de mariposas

como un perfume que vuela de la infancia a este instante

atrae milagrosamente aquel jardín de luna

donde nuestra niñez se mostraba el sexo con malicia

y con ese sometimiento irresistible que sentimos

por el primer cuerpo desnudo que adoramos

Tú remendando la cometa destrozada por la brisa

Yo escribiéndole a la novia compartida

aquellas urgentes cartas de amor mentido

para que nos prestara su bicicleta

 

Hay una tristeza en el perfume que me hiere

como si tú caballero escarlata Me hubieras olvidado

Como si tú primo enamorado y tierno

de repente hayas decidido abandonar donde te encuentres

todo aquello sentido y ocultado

[Tal un corazón dentro de otro]

bajo el limonero que aniquiló un invierno

y que recuerdo tan vívido como tus besos

 

Poema de Raúl Gómez Jattín

Copyright © Rubén Gómez Jattín

Gerónimo Miranda Mestre

 

GERÓNIMO MIRANDA MESTRE

 

He’s a man like me     Come from the river

Fleeing from that marvellous emotion whose

Immensity and movement are our brothers

Like him   Hammered deep into my chest

In the most sacred life experience of men

Of landscapes   Of animals flowers and trees

Of summer     Above all of summer   He is a man

who came into my life at the very best moment

I will tell him of my tired dealings with art

With madness   and with death

I will leave him in the house of my spirit as if his own

Let him rest in it      Let him if he wants lie down

in the hammock       He can look at where my words

come from         And if possible he can comfort me a little

He’s a man you can trust with the keys

Of the house and the cat which graces it

You can trust him with all the grass you have

He’s a man who is always better than you are.

 

Translated by Mike Baynham from a poem in Spanish by Raúl Gómez Jattín. La hamaca nuestra/Our hammock. Raúl Gómez Jattín: a queer Colombian poet in translation

 

Original text in Spanish

 

GERÓNIMO MIRANDA MESTRE

 

Es un hombre como yo Venido del río

Huyendo de esa emoción maravillosa de que

su inmensidad y movimiento son hermanos

nuestros Como él Hincado en lo profundo de mi pecho

Es más sagrada vivencia de hombres

De paisajes De animales flores y árboles

Del verano Sobre todo del verano Es un hombre

llegado a mi vida en su mejor momento

Le diré de mi comercio fatigado con el arte

La locura Y la muerte

Lo dejaré en la casa de mi espíritu como propia

Que descanse en ella Que se acueste si quiere

en la hamaca Que mire de dónde vienen

mis palabras Y si es posible me consuele un poco

Es un hombre en quien se pueden confiar

las llaves de la casa y el gato que la adorna

Se le puede confiar toda la yerba que tenga uno

Es un hombre que siempre es mejor que uno

 

Poema de Raúl Gómez Jattín

Copyright © Rubén Gómez Jattín

Brave Greece

BRAVE GREECE

Daedalus and Icarus by Charles P. Landon

Daedalus and Icarus by Charles P. Landon

Daedalus and Icarus

On the verge of the abyss

Take a leap of faith,

Against the odds of their myth,

Against the advice of the raptors,

And jump onto paradise

To save their enslaved

Mother and wife.

They proudly left behind

Their burdens and blames

And now they glide light

Through winds of disdain,

Through purgatory’s clouds

Amongst Europe’s cheers,

As they escape from their funeral,

As they escape from their fears.

Copyright © 2015. Tony Martin-Woods (A.M.A.)

Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved

Grecia valiente

 

GRECIA VALIENTE

 

Dédalo e Ícaro, de Charles P. Landon

Dédalo e Ícaro, de Charles P. Landon

Ícaro y Dédalo

al borde del abismo

saltan sin lastre

en busca del paraíso.

 

Ya planean majestuosos

por nubes de purgatorios,

ya planean sin miedo

para escapar del tanatorio.

 

Europa les jalea.

Alea jacta est.

 

Copyright © 2015. Tony Martin-Woods (A.M.A.)

Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved

 

Our Hammock

 

OUR HAMMOCK

 

Come over to the hammock where I wrote

the book dedicated to your sacred presence

It brings back to me all the loneliness

Which I slept there   All those gestures of my soul

hunting those words in their flight

to record in a less fragile time

the rain of your tears     The dreamed of sleep

on your chest       That morning always to be remembered

with our hands entwined in amongst all

the turmoil

 

In the belly of that hammock I laid down

my tiredness with life     I cradled my sorrows

I shielded myself from the summer heat     And dreamed:

You were coming in the middle of the night to comfort me

and I said this     I was writing a poem that would preserve

your memory and this I did       Unfold my sad wings

and cried

 

Stretch out and I will mix you a drink to cool you

sleep if you can       For I will keep watch

 

Translated by Mike Baynham from a poem in Spanish by Raúl Gómez Jattín. La hamaca nuestra/Our Hammock. Raúl Gómez Jattín: a queer Colombian poet in translation

 

Original text in Spanish

 

LA HAMACA NUESTRA

 

Ven hasta la hamaca donde escribí

el libro dedicado a tu sagrada presencia

Ella me recuerda toda esa soledad

que dormí en ella     Todos esos gestos de mi alma

persiguiéndole el vuelo a las palabras

que grabaran en un tiempo menos frágil

la lluvia de tus lágrimas     El reposo soñado

en tu pecho     La mañana eternamente memorable

de nuestras manos enlazadas en medio del tumulto

 

En el vientre de esa hamaca recosté

mi cansancio de la vida       Acuné dolores

Me defendí de la canícula       Y soñé:

Tú venías en medio de la noche a consolarme

y eso dije           Escribía un poema que preservara

tu memoria y eso hice       Desatar mis alas tristes y lloré

 

Tiéndete que yo te meceré para refrescarte

si te es posible duerme       Que yo velaré

 

Poema de Raúl Gómez Jattín

Copyright © Rubén Gómez Jattín

Smoke in the Air

 

SMOKE IN THE AIR

 

My brother Michael who I never knew

has come to lie down in my hammock

Light honey coloured eyes and carnivorous smile

Thickset body fit for debauchery

Like all of us he smokes to deaden his hands

and the smoke makes shapes in the air

something like a distress signal

My mother didn’t cry the night he died

I think   Before he drifts off with the smoke

that maybe I would have loved him

 

Translated by Mike Baynham from a poem in Spanish by Raúl Gómez Jattín. La hamaca nuestra/Our Hammock. Raúl Gómez Jattín: a queer Colombian poet in translation

 

Original text in Spanish

 

EL HUMO SOBRE EL AIRE

 

Mi hermano Miguel a quien no conocí

ha venido a acostarse en mi hamaca

Ojos claros de miel y sonrisa carnívora

Ancho cuerpo para el abandono

Como todos nosotros fuma para matar las manos

y el humo describe sobre el aire

algo así como una señal de desventura

Mi madre no lloró la noche de su muerte

Pienso   Antes de que se marche con el humo

que quizá lo hubiera amado

 

Poema de Raúl Gómez Jattín

Copyright © Rubén Gómez Jattín

The God who Worships

 

THE GOD WHO WORSHIPS

 

I am a god among my people, in my valley

Not because they worship me     But because I worship them

Because I bow my head before anyone who gifts me

some passion fruit or a smile from his smallholding

Or because I go among its sturdy inhabitants

to beg for a coin or a shirt and they give it to me

Because I scan the sky with the eyes of a sparrow hawk

and name it in my verses     Because I am alone

Because I slept for six months in a rocking chair

and for five on the pavements of a city

Because I look at riches sideways

but not with hatred   Because I love anyone who loves

Because I know how to grow oranges and vegetables

even in the dog days of summer   Because I have a mate

and I baptised all his children and even blessed his marriage

Because I am not good in any accepted way

Because I didn’t defend capital as a lawyer

Because I love birds and rain and its blustery weather

which washes my soul   Because I was born in May

Because I can throw a punch at a thieving friend

Because my mother abandoned me at the very moment

that I needed her most   Because when I am sick

I go to the public hospital     Because above all

I only respect someone who does the same to me   Who works

each day a bitter lonely and divided bread

like these poems of mine which I steal from death.

 

Translated by Mike Baynham from a poem in Spanish by Raúl Gómez Jattín. La hamaca nuestra/Our Hammock. Raúl Gómez Jattín: a queer Colombian poet in translation

 

Original text in Spanish

 

EL DIOS QUE ADORA

 

Soy un dios en mi pueblo y mi valle

No porque me adoren   Sino porque yo lo hago

Porque me inclino ante quien me regala

unas granadillas o una sonrisa de su heredad

O porque voy donde sus habitantes recios

a mendigar una moneda o una camisa y me la dan

Porque vigilo el cielo con ojos de gavilán

y lo nombro en mis versos   Porque soy solo

Porque dormí siete meses en una mecedora

y cinco en las aceras de una ciudad

Porque a la riqueza miro de perfil

mas no con odio   Porque amo a quien ama

Porque sé cultivar naranjos y vegetales

aún en la canícula   Porque tengo un compadre

a quien le bauticé todos los hijos y el matrimonio

Porque no soy bueno de una manera conocida

Porque no defendí al capital siendo abogado

Porque amo los pájaros y la lluvia y su intemperie

que me lava el alma   Porque nací en mayo

Porque sé dar una trompada al amigo ladrón

Porque mi madre me abandonó cuando precisamente

más la necesitaba   Porque cuando estoy enfermo

voy al hospital de caridad   Porque sobre todo

respeto solo al que lo hace conmigo   Al que trabaja

cada día un pan amargo y solitario y disputado

como estos versos míos que le robo a la muerte.

 

Poema de Raúl Gómez Jattín

Copyright © Rubén Gómez Jattín

Reunion of the Broken Parts

 

REUNION OF THE BROKEN PARTS

(definition of the Arabic word al-jebr, The Times, 9 January, 2015. The quotation from Omar Khayyàm is from verse 51 of his Rubaiyàt)

 

Social media shifts political correctness.

One minute je suis Charlie swamps the screens,

then someone tweets that Ahmed

was gunned down defending the right

of atheists to ridicule his God.

Does he get seventy-two virgins, too?

 

Facebook is flooded with homage cartoons:

a snapped pencil sharpens itself, twice.

The moving finger writes, and having writ

Moves on; now, je suis juif

and holocaust memorial day

raises its grizzled head one more.

 

Meanwhile, in Saudi Arabia

a blasphemer receives fifty

of his allocated thousand lashes.

Who can find one deity to hold it all together

while his flayed back begins to knit,

and someone posts je suis Bartholemew.

 

Copyright © 2015. Hannah Stone

Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.

Overtime

 

OVERTIME

 

Pulling the trigger’s the easy part, because

you never know if it’s actually you

or one of the other Brimob officers

who’s firing live rounds. It might be

that I’ve never fired a fatal shot!

 

We work in a team, five of us to fetch

the prisoner from his isolation cell.

They don’t protest much, though –

they’ve been on death row long enough.

It takes place in the middle of the night.

If it were light enough, maybe you’d see

more than the whites of their eyes.

They can choose to cover their face

before we tie them up.

 

That’s the worst bit; touching

men who are about to die,

lacing their hands and feet and limbs

to the cross, using thick rope. God has decreed

whether or not they sin. I say to them:

I’m sorry, just doing my job.

 

It’s extra cash, you see – we’re police officers by day.

We get $100 a time for this, by way of bonus, earn it

for those few moments of brutal intimacy –

the sweaty palms and rapid breathing. We escort them

to a clearing in the jungle.

 

In the darkness, a torch is shone

onto a target drawn over their hearts.

You could cover it with the palm of your hand.

 

In my nightmares I am dazzled

by that beam, but stare into it

for as long as I can because when it drops

below my gaze, I know my brothers are taking aim.

 

Note: Brimob – term given to teams of executioners appointed to carry out the death penalty on drugs-related convicts on the prison island of Nusa Kambangan, Indonesia (Guardian, 7 March 2015)

Copyright © 2015. Hannah Stone

Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.

Exploring the Feminine and the Divine

EXPLORANDO LO FEMENINO Y LO DIVINO


Spanish poets Inma Pelegrín and Katy Parra join their voices with Irish poet Siobhan Mac Mahon and London poet Hannah Stone in this International Writers at Leeds event. The artists celebrate life and light alongside their exploration, through poetic dialogue, of how the feminine consciousness is embodied and expressed in relation to divinity.

Music by Irish guitarist Sabrina Piggott. Translations and final poetic collage (using exclusively verses by the 4 poets) by Antonio Martínez-Arboleda (University of Leeds).

The video contains original poems in English and Spanish as well as some translations. The event took place at Leeds Central Library on 3 February 2015.

With thanks to Leeds Trinity University, Instituto Cervantes of Leeds and Manchester, Leeds Central Library, School of Modern Languages and Cultures (University of Leeds) and Transforming with Poetry at Inkwell.

cc by nc sa

Piel de toro, piel de becerro

PIEL DE TORO, PIEL DE BECERRO

 

Hablamos de mortalidades por infartos.
Discutimos sobre los virus y las bacterias.
Peleamos por votos, contratas y correveidiles.

 

( Miedos, gargantas y guerras rituales )

 

Alabamos a malabaristas de balones.
Gozamos con fantasías virtuales o prestadas.
Adoramos a los vencedores con banderas.

 

( Éxtasis que los futuros amasarán en silencios )

 

Ahorcamos a los galgos por lentos.
Apuntillamos a los toros por nobles.
Armamos a los feroces por pingües maleficios.

 

( ¡ Sonreíd, dos mil años de misas os contemplan ! )

 

Solo olvidamos… las infancias torturadas.
Y las morgues, repletas de tiernos sueños
o estadísticas de maltratos infantiles.

 

( Puntas de icebergs, miradas vidriosas )

 

Solo… ignoramos las verdades dolorosas:
esos quistes incrustados en pieles curtidas
por hielos y fuegos, por burlas y golpes.

 

( Hay espíritus errantes y hay poesías inocentes )

 

Copyright © 2014. Adolfo Escat
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved

En un lado del mundo

EN UN LADO DEL MUNDO

 

En un lado del mundo
la miseria es inimaginable;
también hay hombres,
niños, madres,
lugares infinitos
de pobreza exuberante;
hambruna,
guerra,
peste,
muerte incontable.
En un rincón perdido
donde los relojes
marcan las horas infames,
un niño se marcha
al paraíso sagrado de los infantes;
tras él ira su madre
que también ha muerto de tristeza,
dolor y hambre.
Pero no hemos visto nada
siempre estamos mirando
hacia otra parte,
atrincherados en un sofá,
haciendo una lista de la compra
interminable.

 

Copyright © 2014. Ana Tomás García
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved

 

Die Linke

DIE LINKE

 

Hoy son las elecciones.
En Alemania.
Yo vivo en Alemania.
Hace más de diez años que vine a vivir aquí.
Parece ser que el centro derecha volverá a ganar.
Hay una página de internet,
donde puedes contestar un cuestionario
sobre los temas claves de la campaña
y te dice qué partido es el que se acerca más a tus ideas.
A mí me salió Die Linke,
La Izquierda Unida alemana.
Qué más da.
No puedo votar.
Tendré que asociarme.
Tendré que buscar otra manera de hacer política.
Qué pereza me da.
Los anarquistas nunca me tuvieron aprecio.
Siempre me menospreciaron.
Por mi aspecto supongo.
O por mi aparente buen humor.
No se puede sonreír en un mundo tan cruel.
Me lo apuntaré en una de mis listas de tareas:
“Buscar una modesta manera de ayudar a cambiar el mundo”
Sí.
Tengo que lograr sacar tiempo de algún lado,
para salvar el universo.
Me tendré que informar.

 

Copyright © 2014. Pedro Deltell Colomer
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved

Asylum

ASYLUM

 

Send them back, we say,
those refugees,
the nameless millions seeking sanctuary.
The faceless hoards. Like pigs
we herd them in a pen.
What need have we to lie awake
in the laundered linen of our beds
and think or feel or give a dam.
You cannot sell humanity.
You cannot buy their pain.

 

For it isn’t you or you or even I
must leave the place we once called home –
the charred and smoky remnants of our lives –
surrounded by the brute hostility,
the naked hatred in our neighbours’ eyes.
For it isn’t you or you or even I
that terror hounds within the night
and stalks its fearful prey.

 

We do not lie alone in empty beds
where once our gentle lover laid his head.
It’s not our children that we hold
and rock and rock throughout the long,
long night.
Not us must fail to find the words,
not us who have no answer for,
not us who cannot fill
their dark eyed holes of broken trust
that plead with us to find redemption
for a loss too soon
to even know its name.

 

So send them back, we say,
our hearts are closed.
We have no room.

 

Copyright © 2014. Siobhan Mac Mahon
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved