December 2023 – Poetry Life and Times

The Triumph of the Left Hemisphere (i) cobwebbed her face spun the spell of lechery a garden of forked paths day and night tremble on the morning and evening star morning brings the gull’s squall surreal beyond the curtained windows the trees are ivy clad in a laurel bay like ship mast & rigging sunk to the bottom of the sea a filament of silver stabs the heart a slumbering breast cloud blooded in night’s music on no breath of breeze & flesh on flame trembles beneath naked branches churlish fetching as though milk maids were wenching like little red riding hoods nor no kiss can seal our wound to heal not her him, him her not I nor mine Godlike creation must be seen as producing monsters in the gilt mirror of crooked butterflies where paper boats float with gondeliers beneath its arches and children drown in innocence of the first reflected face new ice age melts into soft ultra violet great maws devouring fleece ascend the statues of the sky towards melting blue a sky in chains Atlantic winds mast banners wave musk of weed overgrown graves paper castles on glass tables doll house tombs golden curls & dimples from ghost houses screams the jackal down the long white hall down the long white mall city of bleach close to the wind's white corners ballerina in a champagne glass cherry lips sparkling eyes golden hair delicate toes in bubbling foam until the last sips disappear in ripples a pink & white cloud mattress washed to pillows of bleached stone crepe clouds plume a three cornered hat pistols bloom back roses The Triumph of the Left Hemisphere (ii) the first line on the page thought to escape its life sentence like an errant angel falling into the breach a heavenly ape descended & disappeared into the waters transfixed the statue wears the same mask as the crowd transfixed heaven & hell are on the spin of a coin blue whales' melodies turned to shrieks are the ocean's voice & the iceman cometh to explain the glory of a name by which he would be forgotten write thin rice words to the roll of rice drums give alms to blindness papyrus on a brain stem in a ventilation shaft rivers of red ink we scratch fears of the trembling vertebrate the long field shrew fleeing the hill to frozen waste rice burning the paper sky small bones in the stubble frail nib at the edge forlorn the streets we drift we drift on waste on waste no fiesta for the poet no poem for the feast walk down walk down the western lane take heed the locusts come take heed the rice fields are burning on west on west as string tautens bow stretches arrow pivots arcs the long day crane drops its breaking neck everyone imprisons in the telescope a bleached pine branch floats its sodden joint wrenched first came fresh in sweet pods & green mush splitting on black lips black omnipotent tongue heart’s red blood trickling to feed gorilla sky rains cockroaches singing in the rain all the milk white spilt heaven coquette ruffles & coiffed wigette wrought in cream meringue ostrich plumes & the newsman comes on measure of all things who rose from the glaciers first dialectician of interlocution to a third person in hypothetical argumentation of an imaginary plot fallen man in a museum in narrow straights in the gallery on the knoll moulds without holds different helmets in the battle black out at the shoot out banquets in display of poison bouquets thaws to time's articulated perception a line with no other representation but its manifold variation the mirror is all fur through trees convoluted branches whose littered scales spangle down wind their voices The Triumph of the Left Hemisphere (iii) mother of god in the death pen she's dancing on a string a marionette at the gallows she sings as she swings one big world yes on everbody’s lips her mouth stains the mirror with a kiss after the eightfold city of light the morning hymn on high where the dragon fly pays homage to the lotus to fame with Mozart in another room from another room with another name on the radio made in china drift like a broken antler in the soft silt quick on the swivel still unslacking raging silent till torn aloft close your eyes on your borders for now it’s safe to dream & awake from a parallel dream of unknown separation where you reach out before bandaged banisters spiral as a monstrous thorax throttled on each gargantuan gargoyle floor a white electric cell stormed in the head of a whale that flounders crashes onto the street of harlot shouts to become a reed at dawn kept by the river of day & night kept by the sea in a window where the raven shrieks dressed like a black flamenco & every one spills in the shapeless sky shedding rags in pirouettes dark shards piercing the sunset in proportion to gravitation yet they whispered she knew not she only her beloved called on lonely raven ridges still her icy wails flail on bitter winds not freedom from your rags raised to riches by the coolies amongst those dark satanic mills a shadow slithers crankily down funicular stairs onto trap door landings & narrow long doors through high thin halls like a crooked shank pin out in black satin gold buckles on Nantacas seven seas Rip Van Winkle’s away to hoods on the wharves manacled bicycles in interminable rows implore the shore’s deserted canals a town’s tier walls stained in moss fungi lichen grime belies their fragrance drain pipes in rainwild weed corners dandelion leaf red bramble in black warts rain runs as blood into shadows its speechless phantoms amazed after so long still misunderstood in shadowy strands thin bands like the oneness of ant waves or piranhas long gone dance in the womb of incubation a well of gravity that spawns the ocean’s unleashed shoal still trembling from the deeps where you hover in suspense

i.

La foto de mi abuela el día de su casamiento

Sé que no lo deseabas
pero lo hiciste.
El buen chico judío asignado
no resultó
tan buen chico.

Pasé tu edad
no me casé con el mío.
Lo deje ir lejos
una noche de luna
en la terraza
tomó mi mano y dijo

no me gustan las chicas
con las uñas pintadas.

Las mías
eran rojas
y dejaban marcas
en las paredes de su intestino.

A veces recuerdo al goy
de la fábrica de máquinas de coser
gritaba tu nombre
en la cueva privada de su boca.

Alegre
soprano de interiores
fósforo
en una caja húmeda
durante un corte de luz

vos empezás a irte
yo recién estoy llegando. 

i.

The photo of my grandmother on her wedding day

I know you didn't want to
but you still did.
The assigned good Jewish boy
did not turn out to be
such a good boy.

I am past your age
I didn't marry mine.
I let him get away
a moonlit night
on the terrace
he took my hand and said

I don't like girls
with painted nails.

Mine
were red
and left marks
on the walls of his intestine.

Sometimes I remember the goi*
from the sewing machine factory
he screamed your name
in the private cave of his mouth.

Cheerful
indoor soprano
a match
in a wet match box
when there is a fuse

you begin to depart
I'm just arriving.


* Goi (non Jewish boy)

ii.

Palimpsesto

Me tiré ácido
me raspé la piel
y me escribí encima.

Abajo quedaron huellas
los textos que no llegaron
al canon de mi existencia.

Que vengan los cabalistas
los estudiantes de Talmud
voy a desplegarme sobre la mesa,
una escritura sagrada.

Desnúdenme con cuidado
rastreen los indicios
discutan el estado original
de esta mujer borrada.

ii.

Palimpsest

I threw acid on myself
scraped my skin
and wrote on it.

Traces were left below
the texts that did not make it
to the canon of my existence.

Let the Cabalists come
students of the Talmud
I'm going to spread myself on a table,
a sacred script

Undress me with care
track the signs
discuss the original state
of this erased woman.

iii.

Las copas están hechas para romperse

Lo sé
desde que mi abuela guardaba la vajilla
de su abuela, en un aparador especial
que nunca se abría
por lo delicadas que eran
esas copitas verdes de tallos finos como lirios
capacidad mínima, brillantes.

Nada ameritaba
perturbarlas
de su estado decorativo
los nietos no le habíamos dado
una jupá, un compromiso, un nacimiento.
No le habíamos dado nada.

Pero mi abuela sabía mejor que nadie
que las copas
están hechas
para romperse:

van a quebrarse
mientras lavás los platos
o estallar contra el piso cuando levantás la mesa
un día que estás sobrepasada
o se le van a caer a tu nieta, dentro de veinte años,
cuando se mude sola a su primer departamento.

Van a resistir
como las personas viejas resisten
hasta quebrarse
un día cualquiera de sol.

iii.

GLASSWARE  ARE  MADE TO BE BROKEN

I know
since my grandmother put away the crockery
of her grandmother, in a special sideboard
she never opened
because of how delicate they were
those little green glasses with thin stems like lilies
bright in miniature capacity 

Nothing was worth
disturbing them
from their ornamental state     
grandchildren hadn´t give her
a chuppah*, an engagement, a birth. 
We hadn't given her anything.

But my grandmother knew better than anyone
that glassware
are made to be broken

they are going to break
while you wash the dishes
or explode on the floor when you ´re clearing the table
stressed out
or your granddaughter will drop them in twenty years´ time
when she moves into her first apartment alone.

They will resist
as old people resist
until breaking
any sunny day.

* chuppah: a Jewish wedding

iv.

                Cuando venga el Mesías van a curarse todos los enfermos
                     pero el tonto va a seguir siendo tonto.
                      Refrán Idish

Cuando venga el Mesías

y reconstruyan el Tercer Templo
no quiero estar arriba
mirando a los hombres rezar
en círculos que cantan y bailan
mientras mujeres charlan
y chicos gritan.

Cuando venga el Mesías
no quiero estar arriba
con el humo de los sacrificios
abajo los sacerdotes entran
y salen como amantes
pronunciando
el nombre sagrado.

Cuando venga el Mesías
y todos retornemos a la tierra
quiero estar en la tierra de este mundo.

iv.

                   When the Messiah comes, all the sick will be cured.
                        but the fool will remain a fool.
                         Yiddish saying

When the Messiah comes

and they rebuild the Third Temple
I don't want to be above
watching men pray
in circles singing and dancing
while women chat
and children shout

When the Messiah comes
I don't want to be above
with the smoke of sacrifices
the priests entering below
and exiting like lovers
pronouncing
the sacred name.

When the Messiah comes
and we all return to earth
I want to be on the earth of this world.

v.

Teléfono fijo

Mis papás me dieron un teléfono fijo
la línea está incluída dijeron
tenelo por las dudas
y quedó en el piso

cuando suena, rara vez
sé que son ellos
(nadie más tiene el número)
me siento en el sillón
espero tres tonos y atiendo

a veces una noticia terrible otras
una invitación para almorzar
lo único fijo este teléfono.

v.

Landline

My parents gave me a landline
the line is paid for they said
keep it just in case
and it stayed on  the floor

when it rings, rarely
I know it's them
(no one else has its number)
I sit on the couch
I wait three rings and answer

sometimes terrible news other times
an invitation for lunch

The only fixed thing this phone.

Daniela Ema Aguinsky (Buenos Aires, 1993) is a writer and filmmaker based in Argentina. She Directed the shorts Virtual Guard, Hurricane Berta, 7 Tinder Dates, and several others. She published Amante japonés, Aieka (2023) and Terapia con animales (2022) in Argentina, Mexico and Spain, book that won The National Poetry Prize Storni in 2021. She is also the spanish translator to the California based poet Ellen Bass; Todos los platos del menú (Gog & Magog, 2021). Twitter: laglu Instagram: laglus

Amparo Arróspide (born in Buenos Aires) is an M.Phil. by the University of Salford. As well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines, she has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento. The latter is part of a trilogy together with Jacuzzi and Hormigas en diaspora, which are in the course of being published. In 2010 she acted as a co-editor of webzine Poetry Life Times, where many of her translations of Spanish poems have appeared, she has translated authors such as Margaret Atwood, Stevie Smith and James Stephens into Spanish, and others such as Guadalupe Grande, Ángel Minaya, Francisca Aguirre, Carmen Crespo, Javier Díaz Gil into English. She takes part in poetry festivals, recently Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; at Artvilla.com
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)