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Issue 7 Cover
 
Issue 7
Sample Poem
Names with asterisks link to bios.
 

de Ficticia, II

Crees que afuera hay colinas de hielo.
Sueñas con el aire acondicionado del Hilton,
con la apariencia fugaz de un platillo de lujo
que alguien lleva a tu habitación mientras tú
escuchas al mar en la coladera.
A nadie necesitas.
Prefieres caminar por tu avenida
de rascacielos y palmeras.
Flota en el aire el sonido
de un trasmisor descompuesto.
Es un cangrejo.
En ese lado de la costa esperas ver mujeres
que vayan hacia a ti
en un momento de calma o de marea.
Escuchas el bullicio de muelles invisibles.
La carne de los marinos que se desprende cual corteza.
Alguien limpia por ti un poco de sudor en tu mejilla.
Un halo de voces inunda a las criaturas secretas.
Ya no quieres oírlas.
Son las argucias de tu corazón,
las líneas de tus manos
que imploran un poco de verdad a secas.
Resistes el anhelo de ser uno a uno con el tiempo.
Sabes que ha de llover un poco de justicia
en tu barrio de arena.
La plenitud es una campánula abierta
a los oficios del insecto,
el abrevadero de la verdad y la clemencia
donde nadie puede negar
el desperdicio de una vida que se agota.
Piedad, dices, piedad por la imprudencia.
Y te deleitas.


written 2006
María Baranda

María Baranda was born in Mexico City in 1962. She is the recipient of the Augascalientes National Poetry Prize and the FILIJ Children’s Story Prize, among many others. Baranda is the author of over a dozen books of poetry, most recently Ficticia, which was published in 2006 by Amigos de Editorial Calamus. More translations from Ficticia appeared or are forthcoming in Chicago Review, Northwest Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, turnrow, Action Yes, Washington Square, and Zoland Poetry.
 




from Ficticia, II

You think there are mounds of snow outside.
You dream of the Hilton’s controlled climate,
of the brief appearance of a golden platter
that someone brings to your room while you
listen to the sea in the drain.
You don’t need anybody.
You prefer to walk down your boulevard
of skyscrapers and palm trees.
A broken transmitter’s sound
hangs in the air.
It’s a crab.
On this side of the coast you wait to see women
moving toward you
during a moment of calm or of ebb and flow.
You listen to the commotion of invisible docks.
The flesh of sailors that peels off like bark.
Someone wipes a trace of sweat from your cheek.
A halo of voices floods in from secret creatures.
You’re tired of their sounds.
They are your heart’s chicanery,
your hands’ lines
begging for a morsel of truth and nothing more.
You resist the desire to look time in the face.
You know there must be a modicum of justice
drizzling on your neighborhood of sand.
Fullness is a bellflower open
to the insect’s occupations,
the trough of truth and mercy
where nobody can refuse
an exhausted life’s waste.
Pity, you say, pity for such negligence.
And you’re delighted.

translated from Spanish by
Joshua Edwards
Joshua Edwards grew up near Houston and lives in Shanghai. He co-edits Canarium Books with Robyn Schiff, Nick Twemlow, and Lynn Xu. His translations of María Baranda’s Ficticia were made possible thanks to a Fulbright-Garcia Robles grant and Amigos de Editorial Calamus.



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