Álvaro Mata Guillé

As a Child

As a child
I asked myself about the fog blending in it, letting 
myself go in the lethargy that
the dust embraced,
it was a time without time:

what is alien, the nostalgia, 
me reappearing in the distance, on the hill 
that would erase the caves of the
witch, in the arms of the trees that 
pointed toward the hillocks,
diluted in the haze,
in the void;

there were a few streets
perambulated by the sun and the murmur of the ghosts,
voices of shadows that came out of the houses,
a before of a before immerse in the twilight, 
confused in the silence,
which I perceived while I sought for 
(among the welter of things, 
the dust, the rain, the wind)
which was my face,
which was my voice
a shadow;

I was born in a place with no name,
the country of the absent, Jorge Arturo would say,
the pueblón, Eunice Odio would call it,
a place that wasn’t a place, I would say.


During the nights, I would imagine distant places,
trails,
alleys,
sounds that stayed in the sidewalks overnight,
escaping amid the forests,
a letting oneself go discerning in the distance,
a getting lost;

the same nostalgia sensation reappeared when 
contemplating the shinning that 
blinked in the mountains,
in the houses next to the haze that masked the furrows
between the trees,
the exile,
the distance;

submerged in the drizzle
I searched for something of the something,
being there I was here,
everything was everything:

foreignness, dream,
minutes transformed in the uncertain,
the mutism that went to the past in search of answers,
but the answers are not answers,
they are opals that get lost without shine in the abyss,
diluting like the rain on the hills,
awaiting the coming of the dead,
what they say in us,
while the fog arrives.

At almost dawn,
with some stars still remaining, with the 
wind at stillness and the rain as well,
I continued to wander through the barrios 
of my quarter:
the desert would reappear,
some sleeping hills,
the murmur of singing I barely could hear,
rites walking toward the void;

the yonder was the here,
it came and it went it was the other:

the shadow, the fog,
the absent,
the past returning at the distance,
the everything in the everything,
the shadow, the fog,
the absent.

The mutism would submerge in the indifference,
without happening, things happened:

a bird, a cloud,
the sun again between the streets aging,
a dog dragging the chains,
a shout, a bird,
a cloud,

would chase the first light,
would look for a ghost,
the strangeness,
the origin of the origin in the dust,
but there was nothing.


Translated from the Spanish by Daniela Negrete


Maxico



Kalina Izabela Zioła


The Marathon
 
The old man is running away from time
faster and faster
 
he loves younger and younger women
to find in their eyes
the shadows of past emotions
to see his own youth
 
he has got fairer and fairer hair
shorter and shorter breath
and uncertain step
he often jousts  
 
I tried to stop him sometime
in the present time
to soften the pain of the fall
but he was too deep in the past
and too far in the future
 
the old man is running faster and faster 
along the way  
parallel forever to mine 


Mosaic

low and high tides 
rhythmic breath of the sea
uneven breath of life

the waves embrace
deserted sandy beach
and hide the shining tears of the sun 
in amber crumbs

sometimes a lost jellyfish
is washed on the sand
to die in pink sorrow

minutes are running
minutes are washed away

One more day and night
crumble
into changeable mosaic of colors

hair like the touch of the moon
hair like a black verse
hair like the bitterness of tea

life choked in
uneven breathing

the sea awaits calmly
for one more tide


When You are with Another 

when you are with another 
be kind to her
say words she is waiting for
seal your promises with a gold ring

write poems for her that
you didn't have time to write for me
on the walls of your house
draw fiery butterflies

caress her gently in the evening
bypassing starfish feet
fall asleep next to her white shoulders
and don't think of my body
immersed in your darkness nor
kisses
when I kissed you at night

in the morning with a cheerful face
bring her coffee to bed
and plan another day together

be her angel and demon
the past and the promise of tomorrow

and I will stop visiting
even in your dreams


Translated from the Polish by the poet


Poland




Slava Konoval

Kudos to the Miami Cops
 
Beyond the blue-eyed seas,
behind the stormy oceans,
where Miami cops keep the city on the keys,
photos from Ukrainian towns brought them emotions.
 
The Buchanskyi policeman held the girl in his arms,
a nearby wall collapsed,
deep gullies, destruction of buildings and farms.
 
Worn black uniform, number plate covered in blood,
head cut by shrapnel, but he goes, performs
the debt to the community, to his nation.
 
Colleagues handed over weapons from Miami,
that Ukrainians protect their cities,
repulsed the Russian army,
Miami cops, you are my heros!


Oleniv Martyrs
 
Clothes smelling of metallurgical soot,
a torn strap curls on the shoulder,
a machine gun near my chest,
I see the enemy's foot.
 
The soldier heard the command of the headquarters,
laid down his arms and surrendered
scornfully, glancing at the Russian, beastly murders.
 
The patriots came out of the siege,
they thought about the exchange
but in captivity they are cattle,
UN? Red Cross? Hey, where are You, Mr., Ms, Liege?
 
Cut, chopped, tattered soldiers,
enemies keep you hungry and cold,
torture chamber in the steppe,
the Armed Forces are getting closer,
I am almost 32 years old.


When Do You Hear Burevy?

Oh, the tire is trampling the track,
she is surrounded by greenery,
large barrel, anti-aircraft gun (flak)
the falsity has disappeared,
as well as the scenery.
 
Slowly raises the back
sleeping handsome
yellow eyes blink,
a green camouflage on the color black.
 
Start one, start two, fire,
the captain of the car will shout,
the first volley, the rocket went ahead
to polish skills, they acquire.


Ukraine