La piel del camaleón (Narrativa) (Spanish Edition)

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Natalia is also a Ph. Now this blues drags you.

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The sounding body of the phantom under the table pushes against the line. Now the light presses crooked backs against the grim of earthy colors. The scenario sparks something in your head. Now the dazed aroma submerges you in a sweet sour chemical, unfair mixture of the third space. In the rustic frames of others, the images darken at the heat of plastic, of a crossing point-corner.

Ahora este blues te arrastra. El cuerpo sonoro del fantasma bajo las mesas empuja contra la fila. Ahora la luz presiona los cuerpos curvados contra la mugre de los colores tierra. El escenario chispea algo en la cabeza. Almudena Vidorreta Zaragoza, is the author of the following books of poetry: Animal Days Animal days, oxide on the eyelids; paint your nails with the blood left on me and let life come in, with its joy and lights, into the back of the room. Cockroaches mew in the corners of the bathroom but their music at midnight sounds classical to me.

He has three books of poetry: Currently, he is working on a series of bilingual YA novellas entitled El Rinche: The Ghost Ranger of the Rio Grande. Book One will be published in Poet, narrator, essayist, journalist, editor, cultural manager and social activist. He has published seven books of poetry, four books of essays and one of narrative.

Llueve y la noche se inunda de miseria techos naufragando sin casas en la profundidad de la nada interminable. El desconsuelo seca mi boca y Dios sigue de largo. Raining, the night floods with misery roofs without houses shipwrecked upon the depths of endless nothingness. Distress dries my mouth and God moves on. What would have happened to Odysseus Had the siren song seduced him?

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Would he have kept on wandering in the final Subway car of thought Devoid of dog and friends, Ithaca and wife? Translated by Tracy Lewis with the author. She has one published novel, Acordados Her poetry has been feature in international publications on Brazilian contemporary poetry, such as Rattapallax from New York, Litro Our generation was never allowed to see the ocean for the first time. It has always been within, sparkling, the great same as us all.

We were born already morbid whales poor devils drowned in this illuminated role And it is such a teeny miser, this desire. We just wanted to see the goddamned ocean please, for the first time. She has also published the following titles: She started writing rhymed poems when she was eight, and she rhymed even before she learned to write, in her early childhood.

Her poems have been translated into eleven languages. Currently, she works in the field of creative development. I am a woman—an open window, who buries a naked bastard crosswind every night in the garden. I quietly cut a clutch of hair. My love, give me that box with needle and thread—I want to sew up my hands with dreams. Actualmente es miembro del Sistema Nacional de Creadores de Arte Emily Fragos is an honored American poet.

Her poems have appeared in every major journal: She has served as guest poetry editor of the online journal, Guernica , and written numerous articles on music and dance. She has long volunteered to teach poetry to the disabled and the elderly and she has been honored for her volunteer work with abandoned and abused animals. Diariamente caen alfileres sobre su claridad, bombas de humo, Incienso. Una bicicleta rueda sobre la tarde en busca del amor.

Torture bandages the eyes of damned pleasure, the lovers provide clavicles, migraines, they do not keep track of time, the night unearths an orphanage, denounces the other face of emptiness. Pins fall daily over her clarity, bombs of smoke, incense. A bicycle circles the afternoon in search of love. Doors were lost, the sun stays too long, notebooks take moons, More stars return to summon the leap, the journey of hiding ourselves caresses a broken compass.

The determination to self-destruct incites torture, gives light to its chains, a surge of deaf bonfires returns a naked dog and the morning loosens canes in order to walk the round, circling through blind corridors, or children who surround an anxious river. It disappears devouring a piano, negotiated by an absurd freedom and that battle with the light that makes them ragged, rabidly useless.

Today they lost their feet, later on love will consume the liver, then it will chew the remains of a laughable lung, but they will not intimidate the distant beams of an unfortunate bicycle that has lost its way. She is teaching at CUNY and doing research on teaching of poetry, technical writing, and composition.

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In her poetry, she is in conversation with the world she lives in, and she bridges over the borders of languages, cultures, disciplines, genres, and forms. No matter where I go, I thrive, line by line like plane trees I am ancient and deep, root by root like baobab trees. I have plenty of uses, like three hundred and sixty I am a heritage, seed by seed like coconut trees. I beat the tallest species, by some five hundred feet And I am healing, leaf by leaf like eucalyptus trees. Cherish me as much as Al-Badawi in the West Bank I am a symbol for peace, branch by branch like olive trees.

I enlighten you as Siddhartha. Come, live in my shade Then take me to your after life, twig by twig like fig trees. No one has ever heard of my death neither have you; for I live tall, mighty, proud, trunk by trunk like sequoia trees. Write me like ancient Persians, or modern, like Maryam Read me; remember me, word by word like evergreen trees.

Born in Ecuador, she has lived and travelled in Europe, Asia, and the Americas. Her work has appeared in numerous Latin American magazines and newspapers. She is the author of eight books, published in the United States, Ecuador and Bangladesh. Yet, the world is uncertain Only the edge Of a sword, worn. Bajadur is your name, You reign over Delhi, A scholar lost Among rituals and fear, Suffering your lineage, Shut like a fist, Transparent, made of crystal, Unfinished.

In his cold lap, In his red compound, One day, without mystery They will come For you. Bajadur es tu nombre, Bajadur, el poeta, emperador de Delhi emperador del mundo, pero el mundo es incierto es apenas el filo de una espada, gastada. Esta es la Vena Cava que no acaba de yugular tu pecho en mi pecho. Tambor Este es mi cuerpo libre. Estos son los altares. Mis graves ojos nevados.

Escritura de rosas y ciervos y jazmines. Este es mi cuerpo libre. Mi pan de otros cuerpos. Tendones que se dicen en hilos de Luna y de Sol. He is a founding member of the Research Seminar in Contemporary Mexican Poetry, which was coordinator during the period Articles and his poems have appeared in various books and magazines published in Mexico and Latin America.

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Escribes como quien recibe un soplo de luna en las mejillas. Escribes para jugar a las adivinanzas, escribes acerca de falsedades y apariencias porque no hay verdad que valga en tus palabras. On the next decade he was in charge of Letras del Ecuador , literary magazine edited by Casa de la Cultura Ecuatoriana. El tiempo esa pluma, y, Textos y Pretextos Quito Nosotros los de entonces-anthology Quito Since he is on his third presidency of Casa de la Cultura Ecuatoriana. Me han cortado la cabeza y la han arrojado a la olla de fuego han roto todos mis huesos he dormido azul durante nueve meses han bebido mi sangre en copas de cristal frizado me han descuartizado y han vaciado las cuencas de mis ojos.

She is also a poet, translator and editor of the multidisciplinary magazine Furman Her poems have been included in anthologies and other online magazines. Muerto feliz junto a las flores resentidas que ya no responden al llamado del espejo. Milton Fernando Romero Obando, Ecuador.

Writer, painter, and professor. International Consultant at St. Terra, poemas terrenos y terrenales Milton has participated in poetry festivals in USA and Ecuador. Asdrubal Hernandez Caracas, Publisher, writer and photographer. He has worked for several print and digital media in Venezuela and U. On he founded Sudaquia Editores, a publishing house of books in Spanish for the U. He is a promoter of Latin American culture and literature, and loves to live in New York City with his wife, son and cat. Muchas risas, muchos gritos. La agarran, la rompen y su relleno reparten, mientras debajo de ella aqueos y troyanos por los juguetes se enfrenta.

Elizabeth Lara has worked as a language teacher and editor. Holnes, she edited Happiness: In she was a resident at the Millay Colony. Riddles are fire in the mind— words rubbing one against the other until at last— a spark.

Las adivinanzas no son entretenimientos de viejos sabios ni son las historias que te cuenta la abuela a la hora de dormir. Patricio Lerzundi is a Chilean writer and journalist who has made his home in New York since the late sixties, where he earned a Ph. To date he has published six books of poetry. He has also published six academic books, including four critical annotated editions of Spanish plays dealing with the Colonial Conquest of Chile. La historia es como sigue: For the past eleven years he has been a volunteer teacher of creative writing at maximum security prisons in New York State.

Nazareth has participated in poetry festivals in U. His poetry and prose have appeared in books, magazines, and journals in the US and abroad, including most recently in the award-winning collection Indivisible: Cristal He visto sopladores de cristal estrecharle de poquito. A teenage boy with blue green eyes lies still. He sips warm brackish water. He pisses into a milk bottle during the long hours. He eats dry bread from a cracked blue ceramic bowl. The sun sears all below. In the broken street a father edges forward gripping the hand of his young daughter.

She tries to keep pace on her spindly legs, tripping from fatigue. Fires burn in the east. On the northern hills smoke blossoms from concealed artillery. The lonesome sharp clap of sniper rifles fills the beautiful dead city. He moves the rifle slightly to be perfectly positioned. It makes a faint metal-against-concrete scrape.

The father pauses, crouches, pulls the girl down. In mid step she falls awkwardly. He puts his hand over her mouth. They watch — they wait.

He scans the windows and balconies of shattered apartment blocks. He listens to the acute silence of the carved out streets. He slowly stands up. The girl gets to her feet. She licks her parched lips. The boy pulls the trigger. The loud report always surprises him. He watches the girl somersault back against the bullet pocked wall. The father kneels, grabs her, holds her. Her blood cascades onto him and the ground. The rubble dust eats it up. The boy tracks the father far below. The boy does not fire. He is fine tuned to inflicting full pain.

He crawls back into the ruined cave of the high rise pushing his rifle before him. The turtle crosses a walking path to her nesting ground. My dog attacks her own shadow. But our burning world in your thin arms is the same one we choose to practice love in. Pedro Arturo Estrada Is a Colombian poet, story teller and essayist. He has published the following books: His work has been included in anthologies around the world. As Cioran Goes Silent In the summits of despair also silence, the drunkenness of silence. He is the author of numerous publications on the Neo-Baroque, and the relation between literature, the visual arts, and philosophy.

Nuevas perspectivas , co-edited with Nuria Morgado and Agorapoetics: Poetics After Postmodernism , book of essays by various critics and philosophers. La llamo por su nombre. La invito a compartir mi desierto. La invito a que se quede. Desaparece y se convierte en otra persona, no desea estar contaminada por una tierra que no es tierra, ni por un desierto que no es desierto.

Existe incluso la historia de un hombre en particular que, vestido de uniforme, se propuso encontrarla. Plateau 25 Aurelia She moves. There is no one like Aurelia. Whenever I try to touch her, to possess her, she disappears behind the world. I call her name. I invite her to share my desert. I invite her to stay. But she escapes, she defies gravity, she defies space. And there are those who have died following her; for having confused her with someone else they have hanged themselves in the name of an Egyptian Queen. She is lighter than air.

She disappears and becomes someone else, not wishing to be contaminated by an earth which is not an earth, and by a desert which is not a desert. And she wanders endlessly, looking for some lost city the old city of the Pharaoh , looking for some identity, looking for something which like herself is unnameable. There is even the story of one particular man who, dressed in uniform, set out to find her. And then one day as he was walking something got caught between his teeth.

Margarita Drago is an Argentinean professor, poet and narrator who has lived in the USA since she was released from prison. Fragments from Prison ; the poetry collection Con la memoria al ras de la garganta ; co-author with Juana M. Ramos of Tomamos la palabra: Me hacen falta mis hermanos. Who would say it, I, who saw death very smug pacing through the hallways of Villa Devoto, in the pavilions of the mayoralty, behind bars and in front of them. I find myself here, in this decadent metropolis, bound hand and foot, unraveling the past, searching for a starting point, and a port where to drop anchor.

Coming back to the origin? I have at my disposal many windows that allow me to see the world from many angles, but I have no hands to open them or eyes to look through them. I need the children, the young, the women of my neighborhoods.

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I need my siblings. Ramos was born in Santa Ana, El Salvador. She has been living in New York since She is a writer, poet and educator. Her poetry book Palabras al borde de mis labios was published in Mexico by miCieloediciones. She is coauthor of the book of testimonies Tomamos la palabra: Her poems have also appeared in anthologies, digital journals and blogs and literary magazines in Latin America, Spain, and the United States. Llego a ti y me tiras un bocado de esperanza que me mantiene viva, me da un poco de calma.

Con la palabra avergonzada retorno a tu boca que se abre y me repite una promesa. Ciudad que me urge a contarlo todo a observarlo todo: I arrive to you and you throw me a bite of hope That keeps me alive, gives me a bit of calm. With the ashamed word I return to your mouth That opens and repeats a promise to me. City that urges me to tell it all To observe it all: Siren city, unending chant, compels me to stop, I tie myself to the memories; I die each night in your night, But it is not my time and I return to the voice of your chaotic beat, Banquet city inhabited by many Tantalus, stone over which I build my hell each day; I carry you on my back, I push you to the summit, entire city that plunges over me.

Translated by Iara Cardo. Mariana Vacs was born in Rosario, Argentina. She is a poet and cultural activist. She has published the books Infimo Infinito and Espina de Maguey Vos, el vuelo de un aguilucho, un puntito en la tarde. I opened one of your books, as I begin it is you the one who speaks. I hear you elongating words, you are there fragile like water.

I like your voice as it appears while I open the book, it is as if you were seated next to me looking at the sky together. I, a plane wake tracing furrows with air. You, the flight of an eaglet, a little dot in the afternoon. Regina Jamison is a writer and educator who lives in Brooklyn, New York.

Her erotic short stories have appeared in Girls Who Bite: Vampire Lesbian Anthology and Purple Panties: Anthology of Black Lesbian Erotica.

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Weightless, through monsoon rains gale winds you fly persistent, valiant, you personify the hero. Milkweed, Common Tiger, names you are called, but Monarch fits you best of all. Elsa Batista is the current director of La casa de la Cultura Dominicana de New Jersey and is also the executive director of Rumbo Dominicano magazine. Each night a bird dies in my eyes in the tired desolation of my sheets Each bird is a reliquary where are jealously kept the torments waiting for the critical and precise second Each night my pillow is dead bird victim of my old and recently uncovered truth false dawns of so many inaccurate awakenings Wings of the coldness, wrap my sorrow planting dead birds in my eyelids to multiply then in the realty of the ashes Parade of winged corpses leaves its watery trail in each gap of the nocturnality Each night there is a less bird in the laugh An smile is missing in the window where done dust, the necromantic soul it is not lie of the eternal.

Poet, essayist and narrator. He has published articles in specialized national and international magazines and is the author of the books of poems: Los incendios de la soledad. Poemas de amor y homenaje , La rosa de los vientos His poems have been translated into English and Portuguese. Pilar Gonzalez Santos is a New York-based actress, writer, and translator. She recently co-directed Legally Blonde, Jr.

Her translation work includes the poetry of writers such as Tomas Modesto Galan and Eduardo Lantigua. He was granted the Guggenheim fellowship in Peatlands , translated by Anna Crowe and introduced by W. Herbert, was published in , by Arc Publications in Great Britain. Al mismo tiempo la punta de la cola, el latigazo alerta, la lengua como perro agazapada al piso. Toda la fuerza y el enojo se untan al suelo, se adentran, se achatan tensos a su presa. Barely a blade of grass it flusters, making dust run on the level, a line upon the horizontal.

It stays reared above splendid groundwork through an impulse in the neck, through a continuing of a thousand coils advancing, through a tightened and contractile effort. All that strength and anger chafe the ground beneath it, going inwards, flattening and tensing for its prey. Marianela Medrano is a Dominican writer and poet, with a PhD in psychology living in Connecticut since Her individual publications include: Shibboleth was born where one people breaks into the other where the lost souls breathe under the river She is not a dream nor is she an invention of my tongue Shibboleth streams down patiently—as any fluid being does— A river when it makes a sea is more than a river I have learned her depth She is blood No matter what side of the river your are on sorrow speaks only one language Shibboleth needs no pebbles under her tongue You know she is real when I speak When I fade away Shibboleth breathes her parsley breath into me She is the rite that brings me back Almost at my dying moment she spits her green concoction on the ground Taking it she builds her house on the Western front We flow downstream sealed in one image We are the twin mirrors in which shame is reflected The hateful lover splits us in three through the years An infernal trinity of perejil.

From the other side a sun bigger than the island blinds us Shibboleth sees the fire tongue waving like the flag of war she knows is only the beginning Far beyond death we find each other again sealed in the same chamber living because the other breathes We are garden and earth seed and flower gun and bullet corpse and death The past breaks and holds us I know Shibboleth is real when my tongue stumbles on the block of history. He instructed his soldiers to ask the people to pronounce the word perejil. Since he lives in Slovakia.

Her scholarly and creative interests merge in her study of the poetry and art of Africana and Women of Color. As an educator and writer, she strives to address the power and the politics of creative expression and voice as essential instruments of social justice practice and transformation. The people say go with wide open mind At the rim where head meets hair, to read subtle bondage takes reel-time.

They called us Pinckneys in historical rewind. Said we property, but I refuse this despair. The people say Go, with wide open mind! Leave us to work alone in hot air, damp, wet, heat, and sun, feet wrapped in twine. To read subtle bondage takes real time. Other Pinckneys moved north and moved mind s West African blood stays; our bodies repair The people say go with wide open mind!

We feel, eat, and breathe better, share love in-kind, build AME churches, Geechie communities, literacy inclined. To read subtle bondage takes reel-time. Reconstruction, jim crow, civil-rights and post-race opined greed, madness, restitution declined, it is time! The people say go with wide open mind. His poems have also appeared in literary magazines and anthologies home and abroad.

His new book, Juan Bautista Aguirre: Linda Morales Caballero was born in Peru but has lived in several countries. She is the author of several poetry and short fiction books and has participated in multiple anthologies in the US, Spain and Latin America such as: In she founded www.

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