Poets For Ayotzinapa

On September 26th, 2014, a group of students (normalistas) traveling from the city of Iguala to the city of Ayotzinapa in northern Guerrero were ambushed, attacked and detained by a combination of local and federal authorities, then handed over to a criminal organization. Seventeen students were injured and another forty-three went missing.

Since the events, protests have shaken Mexico and the world. Mexico’s government cannot deny its complicity. On December 6th, a group of poets from Mexico City came together for Ni pena ni miedo, where they read poetry in response to Ayotzinapa.

¡Vivos se los llevaron! ¡Vivos los queremos!
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(Ana Marva Fernández Hall)

 

Manuel de J. Jimenez—Atrophied Law. Iguala. 09/26/14 (iuspoetic reform project for The End of the State)

Manuel de J. Jiménez (D.F., 1986) studied law and hispanic literature at the UNAM. The poet and essayists has published Iuspoética, El final del Estado, Interpretación celeste: la luz de otra estrella, and Interpretación celeste: azul trenzado. Current editor of project Literal.

 

(the naked power)
Power grew like a warm and harrowing aura From the Our Lade of Justice range the summits scalded in the fire In light a missile wrote the code of blood The cogwheels tumbled that same night Above the nails that fastened God broke off one by one Power stopped answering to any language The alligator was outside its skin like a monstrous deity Fish composed an abyssal cloud Laws stung each other with trunkfuls of words The sun gave in to power like a wounded prisoner Armors with bolts and clouds unfolded on the avenue An order was our spark A stone sang our convulsion The State dictated a quake of blood dislocating our jaws

(rupture of the Sentiments of the Nation)
The nation hushed in our ears Sweat burned the pores and their marks boiled in a steam oppressing lungs A spasm ran through the Central Nerve under the students’ hands The scales of a reptile sealed a crag where our wills would fall vertiginously The ardent voices placed a rope on top dividing us from one another A cry broke the ground and the letters of the law fell apart like putrid trees The Sentiments of the Nation flew into a spiral The ropes were broken and heads were spilled in caverns and pits The governors and the governed belonged to false qualities Evil erased what was left of that face Prayers writhed illegibly in agonizing death We heard our wills’ last sound become haphazard echo

(Hyperdictatorship)
From the symbolic side of terror an angel buffed his sword with our flags An angle in the river formed the “H” sign Coins slit the shoulders Skulls were wrapped in glitz at the day’s end A poet made an interpretation of her dreams and the murkiest nightmares were injected in the eyes of nations past We knew no scrawl was as strong as will We knew the reach of its hate wouldn’t get to a page like ours We knew they spoke of rights like rhetorical figures We knew of their attempt at counterstrike We knew of the ash and the missing We knew each political gesture of the body And when we fell we did not lack the courage to carry on

(death of tongue)
The disks that spun inside its head drew blood The night was a drinking fountain for bats The titan bore the columns keeping the earth parted from the heavens on his shoulders The weight of carrying horizons broke the place where the sun hides The west was filled with spikes Despite his brawn the giant moaned as he upheld the celestial dome He moaned when he upheld the rights of the Republic His stretch marks descended to the riverbanks The drawings on the maps no longer coincided with the cartographers’ souls Mexico denied its directions No one came above or below No one went left or right Now everyone could feel the death of tongue and there was no way to stop it

 

Yaxkin Melchy—A Grave Untraced

 

Yaxkin Melchy (México, 1985) is a poet and book artist. He wrote the book El Nuevo Mundo. www.destruccionmasiva.blogspot.mx

 

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I ACCOUNT FOR EACH AND EVERY MEXICAN

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GOD SAVE YOU BLACK EMPEROR

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ARMS SPLITTING INTO TIGERS, TIGERS AN EFFECT OF THE UNPUBLISHED

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THE BAKTUN RESTARTS ITS SPIRALS

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ELEGANT CHAOS, COARSE MATTER

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BRILLIANT MINDS THAT TURN ON AND OFF

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ADRENALINE FILLED THE TUMORS OF THE HEART

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NON-VERBAL EXTASY

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SPEED WITHOUT FURY, FURY OF MINERAL SLUGGISHNESS

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IS 43

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PLANKTON SINKS YOU IN A SKULL’S DARKNESS

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GARDEN OF CELESTIAL HAPPENINGS

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I TRACE

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AND DON’T TRACE

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FASTEN YOUR SEATBELTS, THAT IS, YOUR RIB BONES

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FILLING HOLLOWS WITH THE SAME

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LINES GOING EVERYWHERE

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LET THE COUNTRY DIE, NOT ME

 

Mariana Rodríguez Espinoza—Wrested from an M

 

Mariana Rodríguez Espinoza (Cuernavaca, 1988) studied Hispano-American Language and Literature. She authored the book Kill your Idols (UANL, 2013) and has been published in several magazines, fanzines, and anthologies. She participates and leads creative writing and Cartonera book workshops. mgilmourimbaud.blogspot.com

 

Mexico
it’s years now that they taught you to lie
you told us you were alive
that we could go riding
over streets and bushes
without fear
without any dread
but you lied

now you’re just a corpse
abandoned on the sand
neither the vultures
nor the hyenas
hunger for you

your body rotting
you lied to us
to all of us who lived
on your slurry skin
and you went on with the torture
of our bones

I observed you from the sky
I was
a sick swollen angel
and you
some kid lost
in the big city

mexico
now you’re
scabs
grime
you’re nightmare
no more than a mute
shadow

among the rubble
I’m telling you
the insects
the memories
all those worlds
that lived in you
today
have died

jackal land
from your belly have been born
inhabitants
sick with rage
with red fists
little scorpions
who’ll end up tearing
off your skin

terror land
today I write to you
with exhausted bitterness
tongue suffused with honey
the certainty of knowing
that you have already seen born
the murderers of your flesh
saints
who are not afraid
of the inferno
you gave birth to

wounded land
you’re already dead
and the children
open windows
mount new horses
strap on invisible armour
to fight
to plunder
the rust
that coats your
exhausted
bones

this was not written in any apocalypse
no one foresaw it
there were no
earthquakes
nor black butterflies
without prior notice
these days came
on which
we all got drunk
despite you
sleeping beast
mouth full of blood
sleeping beast
body broken
sleeping beast
lean forward
sleeping beast
burn
sleeping beast
tremble
sleeping beast
save yourself
sleeping beast
don’t wake up
sleeping beast
don’t come back
liar
land
today you no longer exist

Your road finishes here
I am abandoning you.

 

Luis Bugarini—Exceptions

 

Luis Bugarini (Mexico City, 1978) is a writer and literary critic. He has authored Hermenáutica and Cuaderno de Hanói, among other books. He regularly contributes to Excelsior, Nexos, Revista Crítica, and Círculo de Poesía. www.asidero.nexos.com.mx

 

the pause
does not
stop
here

*

we’re founded
by the border
of that oblique
word

*

overcome
oblivion
the palpitating
thickness

*

the drifting
voyage
culminates
in the center
its perplexity
showering us

*

the string
collects us
and from it
we jump

*

if you wish to help
explain to me
the color red

*

the tear
that flows
no longer exists

*

the blush
declares
when the cicada
smiles

*

chess:
a board of rhombi,
circles and spheres
hexagons and touching

*

roasted
in a fire
that doesn’t burn

*

loneliness
biting
with no teeth

*

acidic sun,
link
with sprains
surrounded people
borderless

*

the secret order
of words
shuns us

*

the last canvas
painted
is a metaphor
of open sea

*

everything collapses
even the base
when we err
in form and substance

 

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(Ana Marva Fernández Hall)

 

Jocelyn Pantoja—The Emptinesses

 

Jocelyn Pantoja (México, 1978) is a poet, editor, and cultural manager. She studied the Classics at the UNAM and later specialized in editing (Centro Editorial Versal SC) and cultural political management (OEI-CENART-UAM). She directs Proyecto Literal, Limón Partido, víboradelamar, and Pico de Gallo. She has published the poetry books Geografías y Fronteras (2007) and Amor X (2009). She presides the Mexican Writers Association and is editor in chief of La verdadera historia de las kitties (Tenerife, 2012).

 

The empty spaces are 43
From the love withheld
to the irreplaceable spaces of friends
who today are not there, beside you:
little built-up gaps of non-being
spaces stolen from the dreams of being.

From here night falls once again
on thousands of ranches and voices calling you
they’re lights that don’t name you in the emptiness

The emptiness is the uncertainty whether you are alive

Faced with the absolute reality of the world
available wholesale, with its circus games,
races, and football.
Who’ll give me the most? Shout the sellers of lives at the auction
Who’ll give me the most? We’ve got it all, only buy or sell
Who can give me the most? We need to cover the costs of a failure.

There’s 43 of us we say pinioned by rage
43 are missing – numbers, gaps, names or emptinesses?
¿Ayotzinapa VIVE!

 

Audomaro Hidalgo—Ancient Fire

 

Audomaro Hidalgo (Villahermosa) studied Hispano-American literature at the National University of Littoral, Argentina. He authored El fuego de las noches (Juana de Asbaje Prize) and Dos copas (José Carlos Becerra Prize) and was a FONCA and Mexican Literature Foundation scholar.

 

I want you to give me your children,
I want you to give me your progeny!
The Fifth Sun
Sacred Epic Poem
(Ángel María Garibay Version)

 

We’ve met under the sky
Facing the star’s infinitesimal glow
Empty signs on a celestial board
The night’s edges cleared out and the moon fell into the water
Floating like the ice statue of a goddess slighted by her own people
The birds an errancy of syllables, alphabet of broken wings
Days are long like the enemy’s parade of arms on the plain
And the garden flower’s still-soft honey
Waits for the sun-messenger, a hummingbird, to visit
The sun has lain down to sleep among the stones
The stone today is our only mirror
The jade mirror shattered in our hands again
Shards sleeplessly wander through our squares, streets, markets
Like fog falling on a lake to dry quickly
Coming together at the Temple’s esplanade
Under the valley night folding its great coal wings
We call the mothers while we verify
The flight of Vile Life Hunters
The Legion of Lumberjacks commanding the public from a Pulpit
Has flayed the skin of silence
Deep down they examine their own organs
All their organs boil in their dreams of blood broth
Spiced with ground hair, which also serves to lift their wives’ scant breasts
Our ribs are their spoons
The earth’s open furrows are sown with nails and molars
Today we’re reaping claws and fangs
The fruit, a round phlegm of fury we eat but don’t digest
Will we see, tomorrow, a light dwelling in the tree?
On the horizon, a wind in cloud canoes arriving?
Can the rain come back and bathe our fields?
Will the water be again transparency?
Is the song yet a bridge? Will we still hear the song tying this life to the next?
We inhabit this country of bitter roots
That grow under the city
In the womb, in the shadows of this world,
Over in that initial darkness, in the ground’s intestines,
There’s a buried fire
We rewoke
We don’t know what to do with it.
Our children are the cobs burning in that stove of yesterday
Of today.

 

Martha Rodríguez Mega—Shame in Stillness

 

Martha Rodríguez Mega (Mexico City, 1991) studied dramatic literature and theater at the UNAM. She is an actress, dramaturge and director at the independent theater company Sí o Sí Teatro. limbomental.wordpress.com

 

did you see, God, what they did to me?

 

i should not be welcomed so up there

i look another

picked apart

i am another spur on my mother’s side

 

God, you’ll say i’ve not taken proper care

of this, which was only

mine

 

there was no one

to fix my hair up a tad

sew up my pride

darn my entrails

 

who knows if anyone here will pass

to throw a rag

over the hips

before the pictures

someone to whom i’d yell

 

i am the smell of broken glass that woke you up last night

the stone where your son will step today

 

how they’ve left me, God,

these sons of yours

with blades between their legs

 

snakes

scorpions

fingers made of thistle

cascades of dry sand

under their eyes

 

because nothing can be heard

who knows if any god here will pass

to whom i’d yell

 

i am another cry torn off your throat

another shameful landscape of your hand

 

look at me, God,

if you still have the eyes

and strength

to see it

 

Alejandro Ortiz González—Postcards From a Shadowless Man

 

Alejandro Ortiz González (México, 1969) is a poet, editor, and cook. He has published some books, written others, and read many more. He is part of the La Sensacional Inoperante collective for reflection and poetic action. His published books include Verbolario (UAM, 1994), Sal Picadura (Libros del Dragón, 1997), Gimnotos (Ediciones El Camaleón, 1998), Elogio de la Transparencia (Chichicastle Art Press, 2006), La Música de las Piedras (Taller Raíz, 2007), Desde las cenizas (Taller Raíz, 2008) and El acopio (O Pocket Books, 2010). Speed, a collection of poems to be read out loud, full speed, while running down the stairs, will be published soon.

 

1
between two syllables, the soft scent of the night,
a long wandering with no goal, spontaneous drift,
the swan looking on from afar,
feeling of totality between my hands,
and in an instant, barely a bolt of lightning, the loss,
the forced disappearance of my shadow,
the rampant growth of anguish…

I lost my shadow one March Sunday
– I hardly remember it – about ten years ago,
absence left its mark between two ash stains,
emptiness became habit, the walls stopped calling it by name
2
there’s no more light here, ours is a stroll in the darkness,
loss as a concept hardens,
soaking the ears, elbows, wrists,
blurring faces,
the windows overlooking the street slam shut
something pierces them without pity
and fear makes the glass stand on end
3
the few kids who still play in the street
lift their gaze and instinctively direct it to the horizon,
as if they were scanning a storm’s proximity,
let fall balls and toys and run to hide,
leaving their laughter revolving in the absolute solitude of the patio
4
the light has begun to change,
the tone veers towards a violet blue,
almost purple, a deeper purple that loses itself among the shadows,
night arrives and with its mantle
something of anguish and unease takes control of the space
5
the world begins to slip in pieces
6
the concepts with which we grew harden at great speed,
what they taught us cracks open,
the words that give us meaning and permanence break open one by one
leaving behind them only letters and one or two scratches on the door
7
on the kitchen table,
an apple slowly dies
waiting for a hand to shatter its inertia
8
my name is pedro, evaristo, manuel…
my name is yesterday, my name is still, my name is day at times and at times night,
and I pick up the apple dying on the table and I bite it,
and its life slips away like light between my hands,
and I begin to doubt the solidity of the wood,
the lightness of the air, and pain and rage and the words
9
i am sergio, i am rogelio, i am mariana
I am myself when I wake and I am myself also when I disappear,
I am pablo, miranda, yesterday I was still among us, between today and tomorrow
10
tell them not to kill me justina, even if it’s out of pity…
that’s what rulfo said when he dreamt about us 60 years ago
11
it wasn’t necessary to flick the switch on reality
to work out that everything is in shadow
12
I am maría, karla, casimiro…
I’m 20, I’m a plumber, I work in a café, I go to night school
I want to set up my own workshop and I think I am in love…
13
at 20 past 1 xalik my son was born,
in the month of the scorpion, in the year of the dragon,
I like to think that the planet’s destiny is in his hands;
he studies magic, he wants to be a footballer, he plays piano…
he understands some of the concepts of quantum mechanics
but does not understand where the sadness that surrounds us lately came from,
we intuit that it is gravity
14
a few days ago I began to think about suicide,
it came to me naturally, like an idea without adjectives,
as if someone had planted this thought in my mind
while my back was turned…
I begin to doubt everything that surrounds me
15
I am pepe, lourdes, toño,
I am air, I am days without sleeping, I am built-up dust,
I am rocks plummeting into a river in the rainy season
16
I was a prisoner, I lived fourteen months a prisoner in a tijuana jail,
after that nothing’s the same, the light loses its shine, hope disappears,
there you get to know fear and later lose even that,
pain becomes a dependable companion, something you can trust in,
life like luck leaves you behind, you vanish like your shadow,
you get older at great speed
17
I am alan, carmina, víctor, guadalupe,
I am all the girlfriends of my sister sandra before turning 15,
their new dresses, their patent leather shoes, their dreams,
I am what I was before I came back to the city
18
the tactician measures his words,
he weighs them as if with this operation he were to win part of the battle,
and then he falls silent, he knows that everything will be defined in the final instant…
he awaits, huddled down, the ambush,
represses each of his shadow’s movements, hardly breathes…
19
with his hands spread andrés casts his fishing net and counts to 10,
letting the net settle on the bottom,
then yanks it up with all his strength,
as if with his lungs he were dragging up a dozen casks…
andrés knows the danger is real, the fish knows it too
but life is a decision deep down
20
I am jimena, alfredo, nadia,
they call me time, sometimes they call me by my name
sometimes they only call me hey you,
I seek out my origin,
to return to the seed
21
there is neither a creator nor a center nor an us,
all is silence on this shadowless moorside, all is emptiness and circles
22
where will the children play
before they sign up to the schools of the resistance
and prepare their Yucatecan Molotovs of petrol and poems,
in the midst of delirium and pillage?
23
I’m talking shit,
I’m miriam, saúl, eréndira,
I am everyone and I am bones and I am free and boat and roof and I am,
sometimes I am, sometimes…
24
it was 10 when I closed the car door,
before I let death take me for a stroll,
he wanted to show me something,
I hardly remember it…
25
who am I? where am I? how long have I been here?
26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32…
I’m alone and that’s fine, I have in my hand a torch of black light…
I am on foot in front of the river
that runs ceaselessly, I am alone and that’s fine
33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 40…
in the country of tragedies that are hard to count, I put on my shoes
and I snap in one tug my shoelaces,
pain and rage fuse in the longing to kill
41, 42…
the birds escape
in their arabesques life too escapes
the world doesn’t fit in words
just as the light does not fit in my hand…
this time lacks a clock,
we are alone and that’s fine,
until the contrary be proven…
43
between one syllable and another I lost my shadow,
the way you lose your hair, almost without noticing…

 

Arturo Loera—Tongue That Says Nothing

 

Arturo Loera (Chihuahua, 1987) has written the books El poema vacío (ICM/Conaculta 2013), Cámara de Gesell (Praxis 2013) and La retórica del llanto (Tierra Adentro 2014). He is a Mexican Literature Foundation scholar.
http://carneasadayseca.blogspot.mx/

Black your tongue black your midday black your hope

Vasko Popa

Now I am writing my tongue
turns black. The cows
in the meadows’ tongues
now are black

the children in the street
playing with black tongues,

the lovers in their cowardice
shield with terror their black tongue,

black from shame, black
like my eyes’ tomb, black
like my aunt Blackie, black
fewer parties, less flashy, but black.

The wolves hiding in the bathroom
have black tongues,

your mother as she cooks the black
tongue of the cows in the meadow,
tastes the dish
with her black tongue,

the wind ruffles the hair of the dogs
with their black tongue,

now in all the vomit my tongue
sports the proclaimed mourning of the black death,
like the storm over the city, black
as the windows’ blind song, black
without any other companion than blackness, black
as the marbles of the black-tongued children, black
as the mercurial lights of the street, black
as the apples in the field, black
and black serpents with black tongues, black
as the eyelashes of the black clouds.

The cats cough up black balls
off their black tongues,

the cows lick with their black tongues
the putrid smirks of the corpses,

Margarete’s hair has turned black
your golden hair Margarete.

The concierge who lets loose the wolves
Lets loose the wolves with his black tongue.

On the meadow the night’s black tongue falls
like the tongue of the old ladies outside the church,
like nostalgia for a light that doesn’t come,
like nostalgia for a light that won’t come.

 

César Cortés Vega—Fatherland

 

César Cortés Vega is a producer who combines literature, visual arts, and editing to exhibit unusual situations in social inclusion routines. He has published the books Abandon Silicia and Espejo-ojepse as well as essay collection Periferias y mentiras. He has been included in numerous anthologies and magazines in Mexico and abroad. He runs the CINOCÉFALO publishing project and Ágora Speed, postliteraturas. http://agoraspeed.org

 

the backbone stretches for the final time
row of bones from a time that writhes and plunges
the soul that drops from all the bridges
the soul of the earth that returns us to the center
flowers sprout all around its skull
the bones writhe settle the dried-out eyes
they swell into the signs
into the bellowings of somnolence
the lines the strips the fragments
that plunge translated into imaginary reality
limit in the mouth of the wolf in the mouth and its stink
the cliff that at the foot of the secondhand
counts down the minimal error in the flesh that has eaten
the spine set at the foot of the ravine
in this countdown that bone by bone time must repeat
the underside of the days in the idiot psalm of the end of things
in the idiocy and its guffaws
in the idiocy and its implacable process
tongue of shards that has set me on the border
image of a vanishing reality
fakes this state when it is nothing but recomposition
faced with the dissenting side of the monarch
his licenses his trivial logic
in the seasoning of the teeth in the wolf’s mouth
his tongue of patriotic breadcrumbs
his tongue city of coal
growls departure fatherland a decomposed language
mine in all its decomposition
mine too in its outbursts
its longuage detritus of clumsy processes
simple simplícimus

absorzed delartrem sónica flatulence

proshitute of languid occurrences

deepsea calash of delirium
burn your planer of woven movements
falls dances in all that shit
the girl in the mud the boy in the rust
face to face with the man with the gilded profile
the branches in the skull that grow out and give new form
origin without movement
the servants dancing the masters’ dance
elevating the farce of time in the reiteration of the adjective
the same old dumb story repeated so many times
words to the disproportionate chord

longuage dimeletrax desiderata

cerberus of torture destroys the forehead idea
laughs falls scratches its head
harmonious sepulcher of repetition
acquires at last something that makes it feel alive
like in those first steps
emulating everything that sponsors it
educated in appearances
the comprehension of the details of supremacy
mouth wolf’s mouth and food
dance of the end of time
mouth of simple rivalry dance
the sacrifice postponed dignity’s reasons in particles
the stink of its military mouth the saliva nerve that flies off
that will fall we will have to eat its meat
time of the virgin sum
time of the recondite mineral
mollusk in the reefs’ depths
slides over its body of ancient monarch
boring through the ignoring of its heart
the itself in the offering of its replete words
wolf wolf’s mouth feast mirror
full mouth black mouth idiot mouth
in the poisoned mouth of a song of putrid fatherland
let it stretch out its bones one must do so oneself
the lines that force me to abandon myself
and go on being the sword that will laugh at the moment
that will be its flesh and rename it in the shaking
on the underside of time
a labor of centuries that cut by cut
cleans its spine each one of its remains
forgets to chew the gold
the idiot everlasting wisdom
makes it stay like that
wolf’s mouth
without moving
without saying
even half a word more

 

Víctor Argüelles—Empty Emblem

 

Víctor Argüelles (Tuxpan, Veracruz, 1973) is an artist and poet. He has a diploma in creative writing from the Claustro de Sor Juana University. His poems have been included in El mar de las luciérnagas, (Kodama cartonera/Tegus cartonera, 2013); Poesía para el fin del mundo (Kodama cartonera, 2012); Sublevación y delirio (Unión Latinoamérica de Escritores, 2011); Carruaje de pájaros, (Secretaría de Educación, 2010); and Animales en su tinta (Coneculta, 2007), among others. Organizer and participant in the 3rd and 4th Writers’ Conferences for Ciudad Juárez in Ecatepec, he has been translated into Dutch and Portuguese. ruidorojo-menteenblanco.blogspot.com. Twitter: @poetarojo

 

eagle.jpg

(Based on an illustration by Demián Flores)

The emblem is rupture… it corrupts us…
it should be a refuge
in the land of the almost living
reiterated fatherland of prurient crime reports
without wind to lift it into provisional flight
The colored emblem emigrated to other colors
and what was red is now funeral of dappled stains
It would be just to explain
how so many bodies were misplaced
and see flecked with blood the fabric that flutters in the center
on the scorched griddle where the shout becomes shriek
It would be just to compensate
the artful blood we stake on each one of the missing
on each one of the dead, on each mouth in the earth
that hosts unknown bones

Horror is the true countenance
that the shield represents
horror and fear the devouring beak

Eagle, our eagle, you sought to move away from your center
take flight
and scour from above the ruins
that which has become ash
that which is sinister in our footsteps
that which is lost in our footsteps

Eagle, our mother, you are shattering our air
and particles blind instantaneously
the radiation that moves from one eye to the other in order to make out
the route, at least. Where are we headed, if not even the air is with us?

My last name woke mutilated, like a memorial to the dead
who lost theirs.

I am not the only one to go beyond the inexplicable, glimpse the ribless future
And attend, sightless, the streets where we hammer up slogans
because they are disappearing us, they want to see dead
the precise articulation of the only thing we have their word on
They want to tell us their tales
they want to disguise their lies
they want… as they have always wanted
to cover up ineptitude
with acts of dubious goodwill

They are cutting us short, as they are you in your flight
They are disappearing us, as they are you in your flight

It happened as it always happened, as it has always happened
like other names cut short, become dust in justiceless archives

It is the eagle-emblem that shatters us
drags off our brother by his head

What is one able to think, if someone is detained?
Yet another one who never made it
to this meeting

And he of the shallow ditch scratched in the dirt,
the ‘nameless one’
will remain destinationless
waiting for someone or something
a march, a slogan
maybe the remotest of longings
to turn his remains
into temples of TRUTH

 

Miguel Santos—Forensic Meter

 

Miguel Santos (Mexico City, 1978) studied the Classics at the UNAM. He writes, writes, writes, and sometimes is published.
www.rojosiena.com/poesiacutea/miguel-santos
issuu.com/opalinacartonera/docs/librillo_de_poes__a._miguel_santos_

 

There are times when verse collapses
because the syllable
the inspiration’s mystery
is broken
Because the night freezes
and doesn’t fade into morning

Today I wanted to push verse
to its limits
a syllabic scale
keeping the rhythm up
to Forty and Three
and when I’m about to get there
something happens and the numbers
outrun me

Another woman
does not come home
Another youth
wounded on street blossoms
Another dream
strewn back into the earth

To write this poem
fingers won’t suffice
to count
the syllables
that crowd upon the paper
as if bodies
clamoring life

Today I wanted to write
a verse of Forty and Three
and words act defiantly
like graves hidden
a long time back
when the sun still stood
for the word: Tomorrow.

 

Zazil Alaíde Collins—The War Maintains

 

Zazil Alaíde Collins (México, 1984) has written the poetry books Junkie de nada (Lenguaraz, 2009), No todas las islas (Conaculta-ISC, 2012—winner of the Ciudad de La Paz Prize), and El corazón tan cerca de la boca (Abismos-Mantarraya, 2014). Her work was selected for Cultural Charge UNAM and for the General Anthology of Mexican Poetry: Second half of the 20th Century to the Third Millennium (Océano, 2014). http://momalina.blogspot.mx/ https://twitter.com/momalina

 

Tell me who wants your blinded eyes
Saúl Fimbres

 

The war maintains it’s Saturday
that in Ayotzinapa the barbarians prevailed
with your accomplice grin,
that we will not glimpse the face of Julio César Mondragón,
student.

The war maintains that it shields itself under the night
that in Las Choapas the barbarians prevailed
because you acquiesced to a murder, a ‘crime of passion’,
that we will not hear the voice of Gregorio Jiménez,
journalist.

The war maintains that the zone is a lost cause
that in San Fernando the barbarians prevailed
because you mutilated and robbed the migrant,
that 72 families will not embrace their brother again.

The war maintains that the world is filth,
that in Mexico the barbarians already prevailed
because you turned your back on the gang,
that we will not get our dignity back.

The war maintains that the barbarians humiliated us,
that right now everything hurts
because you schemed
rapacious
the plundering;

you dug the ditch
you buried on the hillside
the ‘hitman’
the ‘squealer’
at the head of which you were pierced
by an ‘undetermined’ amount of bodies.

The war maintains that the barbarians
chant over the dead body,
offer $1,000,000 to find it
a house to forget it
a commission
from Cadereyta to Iguala
from Santiago Papasquiaro to Temixco.

The war maintains that this night
howls morning
you maintain the ruins.

 

all-700x700

(Ana Marva Fernández Hall)

 

(Selection curated and translated by María Cristina Fernández Hall. Supplementary translation by John Z. Komurki.)

 

María Cristina Fernández Hall (NYC, 1991) is a Mexican-American poet, editor, and translator. She studied creative writing and political science at Columbia University and has a master’s in translation studies from Pompeu Fabra University. She translates Catalan poetry and critiques Mexican cinema /// cinemexxicano.tumblr.com /// mcristinafernandez.net ///

Ana Marva Fernández is a Mexican-American artist. She creates installations that include found objects, photographs, and rapid prototype works, exploring the implications of art in society as we move towards the future. Her work tends to reference tensions of the Mexican political landscape, intertwined with playful use of mystical characters. She received her B.F.A. and M.A. from NYU /// anamarva.com