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  1. Carlota Caulfield Curriculum Vitae
  2. Similar authors to follow
  3. Manual Los espejos del domingo: y otras lecturas en poesía (Spanish Edition)

As if I knew how to handle a prepubescent boy And his prepubescent curiosities. I shrugged my shoulders and kissed him I was bold back then, quick, a lo que vinimos. I knew only how to play tongue tag, had yet to master the technique of the French kiss. Mami told me I should keep my body parts private I was miles away so… I let him touch whatever he wanted. He smiled; his mouth smeared with my innocence. Not knowing that he had taken it in his pockets on his walk home.

Subimos a la cima de concreto donde jugaban los lagartos.

Carlota Caulfield Curriculum Vitae

Rock in the middle of the ocean carved out by ebb and flow. Slippery and rough, pronounced and sieged like the dreams of scarecrows in an alley of tornados surrounded by soy fields, without shelter, at risk of losing both hat and nose. What survives the assault of winds and waves? Shivering figurehead, rock doll, remains of unmapped wrecks surrounded by fields of water, at the mercy of the storms of time, I seek the answer.

Roca en medio del oceano tallada por el flujo y reflujo. La luna no se refleja en ella, solo la reviste levemente de plata. And after she did just as he said he left he left her empty he erased her smile took away her happiness. Now she is broken Feeling powerless Devastated Blaming herself Feeling ashamed.

Now there is a voice inside her Screaming how stupid she is Reminding her how she ruins everything. Khalid Raissouni is a Moroccan poet and translator born in Casablanca, La luna del llanto alcanza tu amor y tu palabra y los susurros de la brisa ahogan los secretos de tu alma. Gemidos que sacuden el inmenso silencio de las ruinas borrando un incesante anhelo de nuestra soledad sin ti.


The moon of tears encounters your love and your words and the breeze whispers to drown out the secrets of your soul. The clamor of death is extinguished, the sleepless universe turns into stone that is bathed in your eternal state of inebriation, and the poet creates heavens of metaphors with words. The poet strolls along the Milky Way free of this world, free from an appointment with a paradise at times distant and often impossible. Cries that disturb the immense silence of the ruins, ending the ceaseless yearning of solitude without you.

And while the air illuminates the abyssal views that aggravate the eternal tremor of your burnt-out dream. Your absence shall drag us towards the stars of memory spreading out another limitless sky and desire immersed in color, as the musical splendor overflows in our hands only, your words, our words, with infinite soul and countenance behold the circular dawn, distracted by the swallows returning this fall, and strip the umbra of death and its rancor, with a rain of dark and dazzling palpitating lights that will continue sparkling forever like a shooting star in the precipice of darkness, only to fade away along with our melodies and tears, and echoes crashing in the mirror of our badly wounded soul.

She earned a Ph. She has written short stories, poetry, and essays, and her work has been published in various anthologies and journals. Catarsis ficcionales de humores sin exalto. Promesas de cobardes kamikazes, son luces de bengala infantiles. Humaredas de cohetes calcinados, de impulsos destemplados y caudales en reposo. Al aire, las cuelgo y estoica hago tiempo mientras llegan a tus cantos. A solas, me figuro que inhalas sus palabras, que te llegan una a una cual alivios de suspiros. There are letters that are written never to be read Fictional catharsis of moods without exaltation.

Promises of cowardly kamikazes, they are infantile fireworks. Smoke from burnt-out rockets of intemperate impulses and flowing streams at rest. I hang them up in the air and stoically pass the time until they reach your songs. Who cares if a few light winds read them in the meantime? All alone I imagine you inhaling their words, that reach you one by one like sighs of relief. And that then, while you decipher the message of its lines, one after another, painfully, your breaths call for me. It has been translated into English, French, Italian,. German, Romanian, Arabic, Assamese and Bengali.

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His work is also included in Anthologies and in more than a hundred literary magazines. He is the organizer of the Plenilunio Poetic Cycle of Malaga. He has published the essay collections El deseo es una pregunta , La diminuta flecha envenada and Habitada ausencia Only because I wished it, a butterfly instantly appeared Marosa di Giorgio. To see your birth I was born, I thought, and I was just born with this new day.

And you arrived without me, without my name, my voice or my hands that tremble and write. To see your birth I was born, I believed, because before I saw you my ear and my tongue Lived far away, because they were of a sea and because they were of a wind and because they were of a fire That only coexisted in dreams, where the god is more ferocious than your silence. Now I have your sound embossed upon the womb of your mother, who never would have birthed you. Let the Virgen conceive, who needed no male to give History millions of dead.

Let the Blind conceive, who have no need for sight and forsake the life of the soul and the body. Let the beasts conceive, who howl, bray and enjoy being in heat. Not of the Heavens nor the Earth, I found you like a god when he said: I wish to see myself in the eyes of another, an other… And thus, he came upon himself. To see your birth I was born, I hoped, my child, and I was just born with the day on which you arrive. And I have arrived to watch you bloom: I am a dying bee poisoned by another flower, So different from the honey in the honeycomb where it grew up and which it served with its vegetable psychosis.

My hive disintegrates: The time to migrate and to melt other waxes in other hands has arrived. You are a sun-named fairy and your burning wings create the wind that dries this ink, Material like my blood. And it is your name that my veins shall first see Upon my skin, like a fistula running from my tongue to my hands.

Manual Los espejos del domingo: y otras lecturas en poesía (Spanish Edition)

This poem is a tattoo that freezes my joy, because it dictates that I cannot blink. Because I hold this terror that you may go when I take gaze from you and dawn will not arrive. And I must wait for you once more through another night of thousands of dark and icy stars. Was I born to see your birth? I wished to believe so! And I was just born with the fading day. Because I was born to see how you alight upon the stone of my name… And you take flight.

Que conciban las Ciegas que no necesitan de vista y destejen la vida del alma y el cuerpo. Que conciban las bestias que gimen, rebuznan y gozan del celo. Mi colmena se deshace: Llega el tiempo de migrar y de fundir en otras manos otras ceras. Eres hada de nombre solar y tus alas ardientes inventan el viento que seca estas tintas, Materiales similares a mi sangre.

Porque tengo este terror de que te vayas cuando deje de mirarte y no amanezca.

Y deba esperarte de nuevo otra noche de miles de estrellas oscuras y heladas. She studied journalism and early childhood education. She worked in the national newspaper La Republica as a writer an editor where she published articles and columns about multiple topics. She collaborated with articles in the cultural supplement of said newspaper.

She also worked in different alternative newspapers and magazines. She was director of the onboard international magazine Join Us. They never thought that I was one of those who lets herself go in the mud to slurp her grief resigned; untamed grass trying staunchly to hide her rags. A woman that from time to time holds orgies with death and continues to defy its pupils. They thought that I never rose above the razor of absence, of heartbreak and its betrayals; and that mending myself in my cloisters — with some Renaissance-style scribbles — I would be able to dispel agony, gorge that tries to extinguish the weariness of my steps.

Es suficiente tener que morir anticipada entre el murmullo retorcido de los malditos maxilares que excorian con sus bocas de zarza el quicio de mi espalda. Claudia Prado was born in Argentina and currently lives in Jersey City. She is the author of El interior de la ballena , which received the 3er Prize from the Fondo nacional de las Artes; Aprendemos de los padres; and Viajar de noche.

At present, she facilitates Spanish-language creative writing workshops for numerous immigrant organizations in New York and is a current fellow at Culture Push. She says her sister gets furious if she hears that someone likes the country. So they like the country?