poesia estadounidense

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...

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...

BLANKET FORT Pandemic Poem, 2020 My son calls from his glassy high-rise on FaceTime to show me the blanket fort he and his girlfriend built the night before. Outside, the doors of the world had shut, orange tape crisscrossed playgrounds, and balconies spilled with singing. Inside apartment five was a fraying blue sheet for sky spread over couch cushions and Amazon boxes. He told me they propped pillows underneath to watch a movie online, talked about what to order for dinner, and where they were going to work out...

El poeta estadounidense George Wallace ha sido nombrado Poeta del Año en el 5º Festival Internacional de Poesía de Boao en China, que se celebrará en noviembre de 2022 en la isla de Hainan, China. Wallace, quien anteriormente ha ganado importantes premios y honores por parte de grupos culturales, asociaciones y festivales culturales internacionales, sigue los pasos de Gary Snyder (EE. UU.), Robert Aeon (Chile), Yasef Ananda (Cuba) y Vadim Tereshim (Rusia) al ganar este premio, convirtiéndose en el segundo estadounidense en ganar el reconocimiento desde Gary Snyder en...

ZEN TOWER VIEW desert hike reflection, our sun setting below tower view, lady walking along life’s mountain path, stop’s raises her hands to that space between our dream reality and where we find ourselves when nature’s truth becomes more important than our own, her thoughts a mirror Zen reflection, a painted idea on how the world changes from one place in time to another butterfly cloud echo, her voice sharing with me what is still to come, space between sky earth water blue canvas our search to find an...

‘El poeta’, un poema del importante autor estadounidense George Wallace, está viajando por el mundo gracias a los numerosos traductores que lo están llevando a sus lenguas nativas por considerarlo un hallazgo que, con la visión ingeniosa y perspicaz del autor, aporta a la historia y a la filosofía en la construcción de la identidad/es no sólo del poeta, sino de aquel que, hoy en día, ha consagrado su vida a la creación. En palabras de la traductora al hindi, Pankhuri Sinha: Este poema habla directamente a y sobre...

A TRAIN TO SOMEWHERE I remember my grandparent’s enclosed porch, their Boston Terriers nipping at my heels as I entered the yard. I enjoyed the reminiscences, repeated at each visit. I reveled in the laughter that ensued after each anecdote about my childhood was concluded. The story I remember most today is the one about my lone field trip, at the age of three, to the neighborhood railroad tracks. Little me, found by frantic people and returned home safely. In later years, my grandmother, Alzheimer ridden, was found wandering...