martes, mayo 15, 2012

Carlos Fuentes

11 November 1928 – 15 May 2002 

miércoles, marzo 28, 2012

Adrienne Rich

16 May 1929 - 27 March 2012

jueves, junio 09, 2011

Gil Scott-Heron

1 April 1949 - 27 May 2011        

domingo, mayo 01, 2011

Ernesto Sabato

24 June 1911 – 30 April 2011

lunes, abril 25, 2011

Gonzalo Rojas

20 December 1917 – 25 April 2011

martes, enero 18, 2011

Five Poems From Andrea Kato

Mexico Is Underwater

We told you we'd make you brown rice
toast with a single green olive while you
sat outside a Burger King, on those

disgusting plastic chairs. You also
asked for hot sake. We forgot
both, I'm sorry. You played a game

with pomegranate seeds because
you had no dimes. They looked
like rubies before they broke.

Half underwater, I began
reading a green folder
with a secret message from

Mexico. He wrote that when
his enemy entered the room,
his particles blended with

those of his bed, and then the
floorboards, and then hell.
The tree in the picture

frame above the bed turned
orange, and caught fire.
I am always so jealous. I

knock at your door a bunch
of times, and no one answers.
I open the door and see half-

empty yellow beer bottles on
the table, and a broken wine
glass in the sink. The television

is on. I think it's Jeopardy! or
the nightly news. I assume you
are not home, but then I find you

in the back room on the computer,
and I notice a bowl full of chewed
gum stuck back in the wrappers,

making little balls. I had no idea
you chewed so much gum! and
wondered if there was something

worrying you. In horror, I watch
my mother tumble down the stairs.
You try to tell me about an under

water city that is slowly being forgot
ten, and how tragic it all is and I say
the preservation of history is like

wine, and I wish you would shut up.

And Anathema

You call me a 'Capitalist'
and I say -

What do you mean, you
beautiful, beautiful thing?

I say -

I want to see you
bleeding & broken
in my bathtub again

like the last time I loved you.

I want to knock on your locked door
and ask you if you are still alive.

I say -

Do you want me to leave.

You blow bubbles underwater
and cut your perfect wrists.

I ask god if he can look through
the walls for me and tell me what
color the water is. Please,

I need to know this.
She is already an angel,
he tells me.

I wonder about the asbestos
under your sink, and if you
will ever see me standing
naked on your green rug and
if we will ever wake up to
the light coming through
your cloud curtains.

But mostly I wonder if you
will need to stop loving me.

My head throbs
and I dream.

My temples pound
like church bells
and I dream.

You tell me you are glad that
they did not pull out your teeth.

I am feeling it all over again.
When they stuck needles in my gums
and pulled them out. Afterwards,
I would sit in the grass in the sun,
and leave my mouth open to let the
into my throat because I refused to
take antibiotics. I would administer
drops of green rotting meat to my
swollen mouth
and refuse to take even one tylenol.

I gave you a bottle of painkillers.
I gave you a bottle of painkillers.

I hear you in the mornings.
I hear you eating plastic.
I hear you eating cranberries and watermelon.
I hear you eating white & yellow
eggs &
green apples.

I groan and tell you to shut up.

I drink from a bottle of
your mother's gin from your
pajama drawer
and hate it.

I start crying uncontrollably
in your tree-branch arms
and tell you how lonely I am.

I never-ever wanted to leave your arms.

But you are rooted because you are a tree,
and I am not.

The Starbucks Poem

I am at a Starbucks. This Starbucks is downtown. This Starbucks is downtown and is located on Third and Santa Clara. This Starbucks is full of fat Mexicans, businessmen, and a few crazy fucks.

This Starbucks is where I live. This Starbucks has a good selection of tea. This Starbucks is a little cold.

This Starbucks has a code to its bathrooms. The code is 191415. This Starbucks has only one cute guy working here, and he is never working.

This Starbucks is a busy one, and there is a woman who might be pre-menstrual at the table in front of me. She is shopping for clothes online. I would be too embarrassed to shop for clothes online in public. In fact, I would be too embarrassed to shop for clothes online in front of myself. I would have to get myself drunk to do it probably.

I am watching a young white man and a young black woman on what appears to be a first date. I feel like I am watching some cheesy eHarmony commercial. Their names are Natalia and Lawrence. Natalia and Lawrence are fairly attractive, but boring people. I think Natalia and Lawrence will be very happy together. I think Natalia and Lawrence will have great sex. I think Natalia and Lawrence will eventually have one half-black daughter who has an inexplicable amount of self-esteem, probably just because she is half-black.

I am avoiding looking up from “Nutrition and Physical Degeneration” by Weston A. Price, who was a dentist, because there is a crazy fat guy who keeps talking to the customers, including himself. I am watching him apparently think he is a really funny guy. I am watching him jiggle in his striped polo t-shirt eating two opened bags of caramel-covered popcorn and drinking just ice-water.

I am avoiding him and putting on my mean Asian face,
in case I mess up in avoiding him.

I am glad that the fat black man left, and also glad that the Nigerian man, who looks more like an Egyptian or Moroccan man, and who made an almost inappropriate comment about my physical attractiveness did not make any further attempt to “get to know me”.

The Nigerian man comes inside, introduces himself, sits down across from me, and further attempts to “get to know me”. I am unwillingly smelling his armpits. I am unwillingly noticing that he probably has not brushed his teeth in a few weeks. They are caked in gunk. I am grossed out. I am trying to turn him off by telling him about the exciting dietary studies and adventures of Weston Price, the super dentist.

I am watching myself watching him ramble and ramble the fuck on about life and positivity and the mind and negativity and living in the now and how to be happy, which is stuff I already know about. I am watching myself realize he is crazy. I am watching myself stop smiling. I am watching myself not respond. I am watching myself subtly say: I am not interested, now please get out of my face so I can read my book.

I am having a competition with the man with the paperwork, and the old Asian man with the cell phone that rings too loudly probably because he is going deaf, and the woman on the laptop, and all the employees. I am beating their asses at who can stay at Starbucks the longest. I am beating their asses at who can write the best Starbucks poem. I am beating their asses at life.


You are talking to me
like I am a dead person.
It makes me feel strange,
and inoperable.

When you pull apart
my incised skin
pluck out my ribs
like fruit
you get too close
to my heart.

I get scared
and bleed on you.

The wind is blowing
dust and exhaust
straight through me.
I sit here wondering
what you would discuss
with someone on
their death bed.

I want to blow smoke
in your drunk face.
I want to pull on your hair
and get closer to your brain.
I want no one else
to have your love.
It is too special to share.

She has a devastating mouth.
A light shines through your teeth.
Your lace fingers weave over me
at night, but I can't find your hands
in the daylight. I feel dead and wasted
like bloody flowers in a trash can.

Mixing Chemicals

I am writing right here and there
is a lightning bolt
that I want to make
into so many other shapes
I want to take your arms
and make them into a heart
that wraps around my body as the sun
crawls out of my stomach, drool falls onto
your pillow.

Andrea Jane Kato was born in the great state of California and was raised Buddhist by a gypsy-like artist mother (deceased) and a Japanese farmer who currently grows pineapples in Hawaii. She is a Capricorn, Dragon, INTJ, HSP, Atheist, singer/songwriter, abstract painter/artist, iPhone photographer who likes yoga, fasting, and smoking. She has been published in magazines such as The Blue Jew Yorker, My Favorite Bullet, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Beat, Ditch, Pomegranate, ReadThis Magazine, and Alternativereel.

miércoles, septiembre 29, 2010

Four Poems From Lâle Müldür

From  The Cyclamen (Mary-Incense)


“the apricot blossoms are blowing
from east to west,
i’ve tried to keep them from falling.”

summer’s passed quickly with its tanbur lutes
a raspberry rain is falling now
grandfather’s sleeping inside
in that wet raspberry land
the elegy of the Virgins of Jerusalem begins.

summer’s passed quickly with its downpours
the woman’s still sleeping on her prayer rug
she is a raspberry land now
in her heart an angry and frightening
song begins.

did i want to return
did i want to return
to no you,
to that pagan land

to return with rock and roll records
to return in Venetian outfits
sassy and decadent
to return to a bunch of boys who had waited for me

and to say “I, Lazarus
                have come from the land of the Dead
                Forgive me”

forgive me for the terrible things I’ve seen
                among you
because i walked away from you with violets in my hand
                forgive me

i want to join the Virgins of Jerusalem
in that wet raspberry land
i want to give birth to a son and
                and forget you.


Memorabilia! …

“the Angel wanted to remain a while longer …
But the storm breaking out from Heaven
catches his wings with such violence
that he cannot close them again.”

the angel of History,
his face turned to the past,
helpless in the storm,
is dragged toward the future …

Like Eurydice
attaining an identical new maidenhood,

“And suddenly,
taking the god’s hand, uttering
with a painful scream these words: ‘Looked back!’—
not understanding something, softly said, ‘Who?’


irhâç: the light on the brows of the grandfathers (the blush)

a watchword written
on the brows of Mary’s grandfathers: MHMD

They are a race that come from one another!

Mary’s pearl birth
The oyster, it is said, at times rises to the surface
to draw the rain into itself like a heavenly seed
Pearl, it is said, is good for melancholy
Unperforated, virgin pearls …


Maryam al-Basri
was in the service of Rabia al-Adawiyya:
Whenever she heard knowledge of the love of God
she would faint

In a session of dhikr (the remembrance of God)
she died suddenly of love …

God has servants who are like rain,
Falling on earth they become corn, falling on the sea, pearls.


the universe is a compound of four elements.
whichever you choose you’re nipped in the bud.

Rose:   burns in fire
        withers without water
        suffocates in airlessness
        freezes in marble.

From “The Divan of the Dictionarie of the Turk”

Shaman! “your secrets, who will ex-
pound them to the crowds?” a message
goes out from your head, that you stay
in your forest place. who could you
love? even for just a while, who will
you love? the Shaman spirit waits for
the founding of “our own city,” open
to dangerous winds. among the Turks
at the entrance of the year of the croc-
odile, much rain falls and in the cycle
of years remains an unforgettable
memento. a pearl there caught in a
spider’s web, your secret, who will
expound it to the crowds?

the woman was trying to be nothing. names
they shouted her. the woman became a
sensitive flower. she made her escape. her
housepole she set up herself. she became a
sensitive flower.

                   “My foot was caught in the snare, not seeing
                   the secret snare, I suffered thus
                   long sickness. Be the remedy my beloved.”

waterjug was chilled under the star Bakırsokum
(copperbite). skin of wild rabbit could be made
into raincoat and the Sword Xan observed it.
he made himself secret, from everyone. they said
“This man drives his horse, always to the fore”
but like that very Woman he was trying to be
nothing. “thirst-making sun was overcast;
hoped-for friend made jealousy.” he pulled down
his tentpole. observing nothing he made his

among the Turks the highest jumper becomes
king. he has two wives, one the daughter of the
summer, the other of the winter god. the first of
the children changes into a white stork. and
there are Turkish forefathers who have slept
with a sea goddess, ones sprung from wolves as
well. to spring from she-deer and he-wolf is also
seen among the Mongols. the Genghis line
springs from the marriage of Börte Chino
(göksel heavenly wolf) and Qo Maral (she-
deer). the wolf is blue, the deer is dark. on the
barren steppe the legends are counted true.
prince of hearth and fire …
in the Book of Dede Korkut to say “annihilate
your clan and kin” they say “extinguish
your hearth.” while in the north of Mongolia
fire is deemed female and its priest
is a woman, in the south fire is male
and its priest is a man.
“The thirteenth tribe” … the Khazars
… double kingship … religions are
debated. jews come from Baghdad and
Byzantium to Khazar. Khanate is
established. Gabriel becomes first
khan. shamanist before, the reason the
Khazar khan accepts judaism is this:
because all religions to come after
judaism accept it. German jewish
traveler Petachia, Rabbi of Ratisbon,
who in 12th century passed through
Khazar land, finds jewish Khazars
primitive and says his ears heard
always “wailing of woman and howl-
ing of dog” in his journey of eight days
in Khazar land … wailing of woman
… howling of dog …

The Melodies of Forest and Light
to Ömer

For it is written of them, they will not believe
       even a voice from out of the grave
“I, Lazarus, have come from the dead.”
The Holy Prophets Adam, Noah, Abraham, and Jesus
As a race that comes from one another!
Those who did not see Elijah in John the Baptist
How could they ever see Muhammed, Moses, Jesus, each Holy Prophet,
A wretch whose every journey begins from the desert
One who suffers, one who is always about to be killed!
Pitiful human being!
Who does not hear the melodies of forest and light
Whose eyes are veiled by arrogance
Who mutters delusions of infinity
Who builds castles and houses,
        as though to dwell there to infinity
Even the disciples
Wanting to build a tabernacle of leaves
For Moses, Elijah, and Jesus
meeting on the mountaintop
They were nothing but uncomprehending servants
O those who take themselves seriously!
Integrals of arrogance!
For it is written, they will not
believe even a voice from out of the grave

“I, Lazarus, have come from the dead”
And the disciples saw
       Jesus turn to light
His garments transfigure in a weird whiteness.
Jezebel’s hatred and Elijah
Herodias’ hatred and John
The Jews’ hatred and Jesus
Rough drafts of one another!
Melodies of forest and light!
Behold a swan,
        For you,
     Splitting into particles of light!

From A Solar Regression


because melancholy should just breathe in and out in silence
and i should be dressed in white like a tree of ice

now get out,
hope, suggestive whore


i made a tree of my body
no one can touch me again
mimosa pudica
wound that remains beautiful
dark and hopeless the trees are demigods
where countless voices and dark green death take shelter

you killed the living things
like a light emitted by pansies
i only broke the branch of a mourning plant
and made a tree of my body
a tree that takes breath in Silurian seas


i forget my body
       and a tree forgets its motion
i forget that i have lived
       and the sea forgets its anemones

Translated by Donny Smith

Widely considered one of the most important contemporary Turkish poets writing today, Lâle Müldür is the author of ten books of poetry, including Ultra-zone'da Ultrason (2006), which was awarded the Altın Portakal Poetry Award. Two collections of English translations of her poems have been published: Water Music (Dublin 1998) and I Too Went to the Hunt of the Deer (Istanbul 2008). A volume of Müldür’s poems in French translations Ainsi parle la fille de pluie (Istanbul 2002) has also appeared.

Donny Smith teaches at a high school in Istanbul. His collection of Lâle Müldür translations, I Too Went to the Hunt of a Deer, was published in 2008. His own collection of poetry, Was Gone and Has Gone and Was Gone, also appeared in 2008. His translations of Wenceslao Maldonado’s Si cortarle la cabeza a la Gorgona and Cemal Süreya's Üvercinka are to be published soon.