Two Poems

Venezuelan poet Luis Eduardo Barraza.

The day twists on me
the word, I must not say

the myopic arrhythmia of my poor lengths
that erode

of the corrupt syllable
the sepia street of personal dog days
degrades me

and of the intimate woman        she tries
and hopes to arrange
she tends to cook, to accommodate that

                    reason of hers within me

of a certain ochre color
my day another, that    appears to continue
whether to tend, she
of Marian sheets doesn’t twist,
                    secret,
her visceral texture, of her, woman, in my other morning,

distant,

of rough matter
her red hand
full of word-feather-red

lets itself be dyed

                her (my) resonance of guilt now, as mudic

slides

 

She says, she says
she heard tell that juan doesn’t talk anymore

or say hello

that his eyes
tend to walk
between cages, also slow from the cage

the morning
of sun, pulled out his tongue
and of many one, his erosion and the height of his chair are now
before one

and of juan,
just a little bit,
hardly anything remains of juan
poet

(I begin to understand)

and his wife,
happy, she, of juan, shows him us walking
full of color()s, now

because not even the smell of shit
is noticed in the gaze
and there is no more to sweep
no more shit
she
says in the morning without juan’s tongue

and mariana
she, my wife

            pities her from the window

and sometimes

                    I do too.

(from Los días arqueados [The arched days], 2017)

Translated by Arthur Dixon

Languages

LALT No. 6
Number 6

LALT No. 6 goes from the gripping true stories of literary journalism to the strange worlds of fantastic short stories and graphic literature. We highlight chronicles by Colombian journalist Alberto Salcedo Ramos, speculative fiction in a dossier curated by Mexican writer Alberto Chimal, and Yucatec Maya poetry and prose in our ongoing Indigenous Literature series. 

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