María Del Castillo Sucerquia

EL MAL POETA Hago a veces libros malos Los libros buenos ya no me gustan o tienen Demasiados seguidores A mí me gustan los libros solitarios Como una larga cuerda floja de vacío a vacío Que se pierde entre las nubes Hago a veces malabares La silueta se recorta Sobre el cielo azul sin sombra Todos por supuesto Incluso yo Me olvido “Vengo del país donde los corderos Visten piel de lobos” “Vengo del país de las citas apócrifas” Mis fantasmas son de utilería Y solo a mí por...

THE HORSESHOE CRABS IN THE INDIAN RIVER OWE ME AN APOLOGY The serration of an afternoon spent chucking mullet into the wind and coming up empty. If the fish aren’t biting, maybe it’s because the kids are playing in the water. Stepping without looking, planting their pioneer bodies right where they don’t belong. LOS CANGREJOS HERRADURA DEL RÍO INDIO ME DEBEN UNA DISCULPA El borde serrado de una tarde consagrado a arrojar salmonetes al viento y seguir con las manos vacías. Si los peces no han mordido, tal vez...

AUTUMN SETS In the paleness of my den ere I fix to light, muted on bricks and dusty curtains, a window faces upward bound, yet nothing in its recess but a cold absence, skeletal leaves left broken from summer. She left me. So I turn away to nothing but stairs leading to bent door, from some foundation swing until a jam never to open again. Her scent lingers. Trapped am I without a word spoken for my reprieve from darkness where I sleep. So I claw and hammer vibrations...

NIGHTWALKING BETWEEN CENTURIES Somewhere between ends and beginnings alert to the scuff of a shoe in the shadows a block away, I walk the night streets of this city midway through self-demolition − half-metamorphosed half-decayed − passing shadows of my former self on streets where storefronts have shifted, signs altered, brick facades from another century caught in a bank tower’s funhouse mirrors. And turning a corner I sometimes glimpse the virtual, the becoming city as near in time as this red brick though barely imagined here at street level...

PASTORE DI SILLABE Quando le giornate si fanno buio l’ombra diserta i confini fa voce d’eguale mette i raggi al cielo perché pedali più in fretta Così tu dici quante parole restano sospese a lacrimare di solitudine come nuvole da ultimo si dissolvono se non fanno gregge Mi spingi a diventare pastore a riunire le sillabe disperse a farne corpo per assecondare la luce salvare con la bellezza il mondo PASTOR DE SÍLABAS Cuando los días se oscurecen la sombra abandona las fronteras hace una voz de lo mismo...

DOORS AND WINDOWS We’d given up the cat for dead, but a neighbor reported, a cavity beneath the porch of an empty house across the street had drawn cats before, her own once for ten days. On my knees I peered, heard mewing, coaxed her out musty and thin, carried her back; homecoming or capture. As I lay here tonight another leaf falls from the struggling avocado tree, root-bound in a bucket by the window, sucking in water the radiator robs relentlessly from her leaves. The cat cries at...

WASP IN A TRAP What trick is this room with no escape, this plastic cone hung from a branch? The wasp followed the sweet scent through the air’s various tripwires, and believed it found a heart, a host body? Attraction is as natural as repulsion, but what force keeps it crawling here, an instinctual scent, or a trapdoor, a way out? Because I haven’t found my way out of a body since birth, because you’ve taught me to see all the world as a trap, I now understand I...

TRASH AND TREASURE When I was kid there were large fires in front yards with junk cars, broken refrigerators and rusty tractor parts women that were not pretty and fat in dingy dresses ‘n mussed up hair walked into the yard carrying trash to dump piles by men with poking sticks yelling “git!” at kids zooming in to steal a prize anything they could find that’d be held up high and claimed as “Mine!” To Throw in the Fire I wanted to play there where fire wasn’t dangerous But...

ΤΑ ΠΟΙΗΜΑΤΑ ΒΡΙΣΚΟΥΝ ΜΟΝΑΧΑ ΤΟΥΣ ΦΑΡΟΦΥΛΑΚΕΣ. Τα ποιήματα γράφονται στη ρωγμή του μετώπου ανθρώπων που γεννήθηκαν λειψοί μα δεν το ξέραν γιατί τους βρήκε η συμφορά στη μήτρα και βάζαν τα χέρια ασπίδα στον κύκλο που τους βάραινε το στέρνο. Τα ποιήματα βρίσκουν μοναχά τους φαροφύλακες. Στέκουν στα ραγισμένα δωμάτια με τα δάχτυλα σκάφτουν τους τοίχους τα πόδια καρφώνουν στη σχισμή του δαπέδου και γίνονται ρίζες. LOS POEMAS ENCUENTRAN SÓLO A LOS FAREROS Los poemas están escritos en las grietas de las frentes de quienes nacieron desaparecidos sin saberlo...

Tenemos el honor de compartir los 10 poemas ganadores del I Concurso de Poesía Día Internacional de la Paz (I International Day of Peace Poetry Contest, 2022), en su versión original y traducidos al español por María Del Castillo Sucerquia. Ganadores Lidia Chiarelli – Italia Christos Dikbasanis- Grecia Giuseppe Iannarelli – Italia Ewith Bahar – Indonesia Magdalena Kapuścińska – Polonia Roberto Marzano – Italia Miroslava Panayotova – Bulgaria Maria Errico – Italia Ioana R. Dumitru – Rumanía Miltiadis Dovas – Grecia Poemas y reseñas de los autores Lidia Chiarelli....