The Poem. Audio Textual by Robin Ouzman Hislop



Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Poetry Life & Times at His numerous appearances include Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Honest Ulsterman, Cratera No 3 and Aquillrelle’s Best. His publications are collected poems All the Babble of the Souk, Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals & Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems. A translation from Spanish of poems by Guadalupe Grande Key of Mist and Carmen Crespo Tesserae, the award winning (X111 Premio César Simón De Poesía), in November 2017 these works were presented in a live performance at The International Writer’s Conference hosted by the University of Leeds. UK. A forthcoming publication of collected poems Off the Menu is expected in 2020

You may visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)


      O lost and by the wind grieved,
      ghost, come back again.
      —Thomas Wolfe

    . . . so this is luck says Maxine
    you can take your freaking luck and shove it
    Mama says it was the aliens who helped us
    hundreds of flying saucers piloted by
    Elvises in sequined pod suits
    they lifted us off the cliff
    I told you they would I told you
    she’s nuts Buddy we’re dead right now
    dead and floating away Max dispersing smoke
    and just when I thought I was going to heaven
    to God’s bright musical castle
    where I could play the organ
    play Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland
    for all the heavenly days of my death
    O.K. Buddy but what in hell do you think
    I’m travelling for
    we left the other goddamned Disney place
    three thousand miles back
    I want to get away from it all
    that’s my heaven
    every place is the same Max
    every place is Disneyland
    now don’t you start sniveling Mama
    but home is where the heart is
    my heart is with Harry in Orlando
    poor old Alzheimer man
    I loved him so much
    for God’s sake we got all freaking bummed out
    I sent a card back home to tell
    how you’ve acted you son-of-a-bitch you killed us
    and I think you did it on purpose
    you think you can drive through space now Buddy
    still steering Max
    what Mama
    you children are enough to drive me out of my mind
    but the National Star
    and the Pod People keep me sane
    look at all that space
    can you fly this thing Buddy
    an American G.I. can do anything he has to do Mama
    Buddy sometimes you remind me of Harry
    why thanks Mama
    doughboys is what we called G.I.s in my day
    like you he came back full of holes
    but gassed in Belleau Wood
    beautiful name to be so horrible
    I know I don’t tell you very much
    but now that I know we are all going to
    heaven together or somewhere
    well wherever the pod people take us
    I love you both
    we love you too Mama
    don’t we Max
    O.K. so all us suckers love each other
    just keep this smoke floating
    Mama I think Maxine is blubbering up
    crocodile tears Buddy she’s hard as a rock
    no Mama you should see her up here
    shut up Buddy
    she’s had too much beer
    no I think the crash is just now sinking in on me
    but I’m not going to stop drinking my Lite
    I don’t care if I’m dead
    you are dead Max we’re all dead
    Buddy are you sure you can fly are you
    does smoke rise up from a fire
    and finally vanish in the sky
    I keep on truckin’ like I always done Max
    through war and peace Mama
    our flag must still wave
    through hell and high water Max
    I could go on flying this big beautiful
    Winnebago with the eagle wing span of an
    Enola Gay forever across America
    back and forth across this great big
    God bless America country

    E.M. Schorb’s Murderer’s Day, was awarded the Verna Emery Poetry Prize and published by Purdue University Press, and a subsequent collection, Time and Fevers, was the recipient of the Writer’s Digest International Self-Published Award for Poetry and also an Eric Hoffer Award.
    Other works include 50 Poems, Hill House New York; Words in Passing, The New Formalist Press; The Ideologues and Other Retrospec­tive Poems, Aldrich Press; Eclectica Americana, Hill House New York; Manhattan Spleen, Aldrich Press; Last Exit to East Hampton, Kelsay Books; and The Poor Boy, Dragon’s Teeth Press, Living Poets Series. The title poem, “The Poor Boy,” was awarded the International Keats Poetry Prize by London Literary Editions, Ltd., judged by Howard Sergeant.
    Schorb’s novel, Paradise Square, received the Grand Prize for Fiction from the International eBook Award Founda­tion at the Frankfurt Book Fair. A Portable Chaos was the First Prize Winner of the Eric Hoffer Award for Fiction. His latest novel, R&R, a Sex Comedy, has won the Beverly Hills Book Award for Humor. But Schorb maintains that he is first and foremost a poet, and his poetry has appeared in numerous publi­ca­tions, such as Agenda (UK), The American Scholar (US), Frank (FR), The Hudson Review (US), Stand (UK), Poetry Salzburg Review (AU), Queen’s Quarterly (CA), The Yale Review (US), and Oxford Poetry (UK), among others.

    Now Even Now. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop

    now even now
    it’s like a ghost town now
    & O the distant hills

    are a more ghostly blue
    than before

    now even a few stray locals
    come & go stranger even now
    than they were before &

    O the dear police cars patrol
    with speakers are more ghostly too

    & through my bedroom window
    the gable ended stone house wall
    grows evermore iconic faces

    than before — even now
    as daily the days flock by
    more than before — now even now

    Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include

    All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, and the recently published Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.

    You may visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

    Spike. Poem excerpt from Cartoon Molecules by Robin Hislop

    A runaway on a Singularity slippery slope need not be a despairingly
    Sisyphean slide back but spike upward to an extremely great verticality
    allowing something relatively harmless today start a trend that results
    in something currently unthinkable a – Pandorean pandemonium
    still he didn’t want to kill himself and his crew so he hatched a plan
    that systems possessing the same patterns of causal organization will instantiate
    the same types of conscious states irrespective of whether the organization
    is implemented in neurons – silicon – plastic or any other substrate
    taken to its heart we would vanish into its stronger existence – do the angels
    really only take back what is theirs – what has streamed out of them – or is there
    sometimes – as if by oversight something of our being as well? – do we not see
    the swirling return to ourselves (how should we see it?) the world today being
    as it is a vast unsupervised laboratory – in which a multitude of experiments
    are simultaneously under way
    brain-computer interfaces have already left the laboratory which allows gamers
    to interact directly with their consoles – a high resolution neuro-signal
    acquisition and processing wireless neuroheadset uses a set of sensors to tune
    into electric signals produced by the brain to detect player thoughts feelings
    and expressions and connects wirelessly to most PCs’ — all this for only $299!
    partly this is because we cannot agree on what such purposes are – and even if
    we were to – suddenly he knew that when he heard the music he would be unable
    to resist steering toward the island’s rocks – the problem wasn’t the present
    rational Ulysses – but instead the future illogical Ulysses – the person he’d become
    when the Sirens came within earshot
    but that is the gods’ affair – if only we too could discover a pure contained – human
    place – a strip of fruitful land of our own – between river and stone!- for our own heart
    exceeds us – the curve of the graph grows exponentially steeper – until that spike is
    the Singularity – beyond the veil of the opaque wall – the unthinkable – the horizon
    of the final dawn looms – lanced on the spear of the terrible angel.

    After Rainer Maria Rilke. Duino Elegies
    Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) .


    Harriet Tubman was born Araminta Ross and other Poems by Luz Pichel translated by Amparo Arróspide and Robin Ouzman Hislop

    Editor’s Note: although we include the originals in this text, to introduce the poems of Luz Pichel, she is a Galician poet, a region in Spain with its own language (Gallego) which although bears similarities to Spanish (Castellano) is strikingly different. Luz Pichel mixes both languages in her work, but we as translators, have translated both into English, (apart from the little French ditty On The Bridge of Avignon in the first poem) hence the footnotes will often indicate the original Gallego scripts in the texts.


    the south mama maría

    i did not take you to the south nor to the southern station so you could see floor 0
    floor 1 floor 2 the general view 1 prices maps tickets tours
    southern pages news the such a pretty cross

    I have to go one summer with you to the heavens to see the southern
    cross mama
    the south in all the languages of the world your name
    mother in all the stars in all
    the ways of milk
    in our lovely rude tongue mother 2
    south in french listen well sur la table 3

    a girl opened on the sacrificial table 4

    sur le pont d’avignon
    l’on y danse l’on y danse

    what do they make?
    who makes the south?
    who builds the south?
    who profits from the south?
    who profits?

    les beaux messieurs font comme ça
    et puis encore comme ça

    (bang bang bang
    a piggy gesture)
    sur le sable 6 the cobra of fear crawled
    on the sand he left engraved his SS

    the general view mama these will be the plots of memory
    l’on y dance tous en rond

    les militaires font comme ça
    (bang, bang bang
    a homicide a child)
    et puis comme ça
    les beaux messieurs e les militaires

    the building of the south mama patricia mare mâe 7
    our south their south les belles dames

    les belles dames dansent
    elles font comme ça
    et puis encore comme ça

    the south mama eva mamá álvaro rafa guadalupe francisca
    rosalía alfonsina federico emily luis
    chámase mamá manuel
    mamá manuela/
    where your migrant shins grew
    skinny on the sacrificial table

    one day we will go all together there to the south mamai
    they still have to see us dance on the cobra’s SS
    e puis encore 9 dance
    we’re all going to be prima ballerinas mama

    the musicians will do like this like this like this
    and still again if it is the case like this another time / comme ça

    vista xeral 1
    na nosa lingua ruin bonita nai 2
    on the table 3
    sobre da mesa do sacrificio abríase a rapaza aquela 4
    que fan?
    quen fai o sur?
    quen constrúe o sur? quen aproveita o sur?
    quen se aproveita? 5
    on the sand 6
    mother mama 7
    onde medraron as túas canelas migratorias
    fracas na tabla do sacrificio 8
    and then again 9
    e os músicos farán así e así e así
    e despois aínda si es caso outra vez así/ comme ça 10


    el sur mamá maría

    al sur no te he llevado ni a la estación del sur para que vieras planta 0
    planta 1 planta 2 vista xeral los precios los mapas los tickets los recorridos las
    páginas del sur las noticias la cruz tan guapa

    he de ir un verano contigo al cielo a ver la cruz del sur mam
    el sur en todas las linguas do mundo tu nombre
    de madre en todas las estrellas en todas
    las vias de la leche para que veas
    na nosa lingua ruín bonita nai
    sur en francés escucha bien sur la table

    sobre da mesa do sacrificio abríase a rapaza aquela

    sur le pont d’avignon
    l’on y danse l’on y danse

    que fan?
    quen fai o sur?
    quen constrúe o sur? quen aproveita o sur?
    quen se aproveita?

    les beaux messieurs font comme ça
    et puis encore comme ça

    (bang bang bang
    un gesto guarro)
    sur le sable se arrastraba la cobra del miedo
    sobre la arena dejaba grabadas sus eses

    vista general mama estas serán las eras de la memoria
    l’on y dance tous en rond

    les militaires font comme ça
    (bang, bang bang
    un homicidio un niño)
    et puis comme ça
    les beaux messieurs e les militaires

    construcción del sur mamá patricia mare mâe
    el nuestro el de ellas les belles dames

    les belles dames dansent
    elles font comme ça
    et puis encore comme ça

    o sur mamá eva mamá álvaro rafa guadalupe francisca
    rosalía alfonsina federico emily luis
    chámase mamá manuel
    mamá manuela/
    onde medraron as túas canelas migratorias
    fracas na tabla do sacrificio

    un día vamos a ir todas juntas allá hasta el sur mamai para que sepas
    aún nos han de ver danzar sobre la ese de la cobra e puis encore danzar
    vamos a ser todas unas bailarinas de primera mamá noelina

    e os músicos farán así e así e así
    e despois aínda si es caso outra vez así/ comme ça


    I give you a herb
    you said
    inside a letter

    take this leaf grandma I found it
    it has dust
    her name is luz 1

    a tiny green thread an oval drawing
    and the moon rolling down a rock
    smell of orange blossom

    this is called orange he said it is something to eat
    I bought it at the cattle fair for you

    a chick being hatched is not easy either
    if there is no ear of wheat
    if there is no waiting
    if there is no space

    some when they are hatched their roost is spoiled
    they go

    luz but the leaf has nerves covered
    in dust but
    do not then get confused but blow

    the woman picked up an ear of wheat from the ground
    an ear of wheat has little flour but
    it will make sense

    orange falls the moment you passed by
    it rolls smells

    I wanted to make a simple thing to give you
    to give them
    to give you
    to make an old age
    a death even
    a thing like the spiral peel of an orange
    (unlike the pedros´ baby girl
    who came badly)
    sometimes the peel is torn

    take luz an orange look I found it in the air
    and luz is not luz either
    neither is a leaf that falls
    – hayu hayuná hayunaí there! (someone celebrates something)

    a woman on the door step gazes out
    to far far away
    her name was orange she peeled well she came out unspoiled
    she had been learning simply to fall
    in a spiral on herself

    1. Light.


    te regalo una hierba
    dentro de una carta

    toma esta hoja abuela la encontré
    tiene polvo
    se llama luz

    un hilito verde un dibujo ovalado
    y la luna rodando por una roca
    olor a azahar

    esto se llama naranja dijo es cosa de comer
    en la feria la compré para ti

    un pollito naciendo tampoco es fácil
    si no hay espiga
    si no hay espera
    si no hay espacio

    algunos cuando nacen se les rompe la casa
    se van

    luz pero la hoja tiene los nervios cubiertos
    de polvo entonces
    pero no confundirse pero soplar

    la mujer recogía del suelo una espiga de trigo
    una espiga de trigo poquita harina tiene pero
    tendrá sentido

    naranja cae en el momento en que tú pasabas por allí
    rueda huele

    yo quería hacer una cosa sencilla para darte
    para darles
    paro daros
    hacer una vejez
    una muerte incluso
    una cosa así como la piel en espiral de una naranja
    cuando se logra entera
    (la niña de los de pedro no se logró tampoco
    venía mal)
    a veces se desgarra la piel

    toma luz una naranja mira la encontré en el aire
    y luz tampoco es luz
    tampoco es una hoja que cae
    — ¡hayú hayuná hayunaí allá! (alguien celebra algo)

    una mujer en el umbral se asoma al otro lado
    mira desde muy muy lejos
    se llamaba naranja pelaba bien salía entera
    había ido aprendiendo a caer sencillamente
    en espiral sobre sí misma


    Babe take flowers to Chekhov´s grave
    take a little branch
    if you go to russia one day do that
    you go and take flowers but there
    when you grow up
    a seagull at a beach give her flight
    so when you go to russia you ask
    do you know where´s Chekhov´s grave
    it must have a painted sea bird

    he went cold

    she was the apple of his eye
    she closed his eyes
    wide open like
    portals of a house without people
    like a hot cross bun she crossed his eyelids
    and she said to herself said told herself
    I´ll go dad I´ll go leave
    in peace
    I ´ll go
    even if it rains

    then the little one put four
    of bread inside a bag
    a small bottle of water only four of bread only
    ´cos it would get hard inside a bag
    she started walking into the hill
    without anyone seeing her
    ´cos it was not proper to wait to grow up
    to go and put some flowers over a
    grave in russia


    nena llévale flores a la tumba de chejov
    llévale un ramito
    si vas a rusia un día tú lo haces
    vas y le llevas flores pero allá
    cuando seas grande
    una gaviota en una playa échala a volar
    después vas a rusia preguntas
    usted sabrá dónde la tumba de chejov
    debe de tener pintado un pájaro marino

    se quedó

    ella era la niña de los ojos de él
    le cerró los ojos
    que los tenía así
    portales de una casa sin gente
    le hizo la cruz del pan sobre los párpados
    y se dijo a sí misma dijo dijo para sí
    he de ir papá he de ir marcha tranquilo
    he de ir
    aunque llueva

    entonces la pequeña cuatro rebanadas
    de pan en una bolsa
    botellita de agua sólo cuatro de pan sólo
    que se iba a poner duro en una bolsa
    echó a andar monte adentro
    sin que la viera nadie
    pues no era del caso esperar a ser grande
    para ir a poner unas flores encima de una
    tumba en rusia


    harriet tubman was born araminta ross
    maria was born agnieszka
    norma was born conchita
    fernán was born cecilia
    pocahontas was born matoaka
    álvaro was born álvar
    raphaël was born rafita
    hypatia of alexandria was born a martyr
    annika was born anita
    rachael was born raquel
    andrzej naceu 1 andrés
    christine was born george
    carla was born carlos
    lucas naceu lilia
    mary shelley was born mary godwin
    dolly naceu dolly non saíu / she never left
    the roslin institute

    1. was born


    harriet tubman nació araminta ross
    maría nació agnieszka
    norma nació conchita
    fernán nació cecilia
    pocahontas nació matoaka
    álvaro nació álvar
    raphaël nació rafita
    hypatia de alejandría nació mártir
    annika nació anita
    rachael nació raquel
    andrzej naceu andrés
    christine was born george
    carla nació carlos
    lucas naceu lilia
    mary shelley nació mary godwin
    dolly naceu dolly non saíu / no salió nunca
    del roslin institute


    harriet tubman rests her head lays it

    on the train track and sleeps she leads ahead because she knows languages ​​understands the signs bears the beatings knows the underground rail ways and sees what cannot be seen and dreams what cannot be dreamt next to harriet all the others sleep over the track non return trips are long forests are very scary bugs and smugglers are very scary some countries are far too far they are so far away some mornings never reach a train station never never arrive they pass by in the darkness things look like bundles the ones who move carrying linen bags or with a little old lady on their shoulders they look like wolves mist on her palm a woman has written a verse in orange ink the train track is not a cosy pillow the cold doesn´t let you keep your ideas safe sleep and dream the message read the deeper the dream the farther it takes you little foreigner


    descansa a cabeza harriet tubman póusaa

    na vía do tren e dorme ela vai por diante porque sabe linguas entende os letreiros aguanta os paus / los palos coñece os camiños de ferro sub da terra e ve o que non se ve e soña o que non se soña a caronciño / a la vera de harriet as outras dormen todas sobre da vía as viaxes sen retorno fanse largas as fragas / bosques meten moito medo meten medo os bichos e os estraperlistas algúns países están lonxe de máis / quedan tan tan lejos algunhas mañás / mañanas non chegan nunca á estación dun tren / no llegan nunca nunca pasan na escuridade as cousas semellan vultos os que se moven cargando con sacos de liño / lino ou cunha velliña ao lombo / una viejecita sobre los hombros semellan lobos néboa / niebla na man aberta ten escrito a muller un verso con tinta de cor laranxa a vía do tren non é unha almofada xeitosa / una almohada agradable no es la vía de un tren o frío non permite acomodar as ideas sen perigo / peligro durme e soña dicía a mensaxe o soño canto máis fondo máis lonxe te leva / más lejos te transporta extranxeiriña
    Translations Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
    Bio Photo. Luz Pichel & Amparo Arróspide. November 2017. Madrid.

    Luz Pichel was born in 1947 in Alén (Lalín, Pontevedra), a tiny village in Galicia. Alén means “beyond” and also means “the beyond”. There she learned to speak in a language that could die but does not want to. Those who speak that language think that it is always others those who speak well.

    She is the author of the poetry books El pájaro mudo (1990, City of Santa Cruz de la Palma Award), La marca de los potros (2004, XXIV Latin American poetry prize Juan Ramón Jiménez), Casa pechada (2006, Esquío Poetry Award ), El pájaro mudo y otros poemas (2004), Cativa en su lughar / Casa pechada (2013), Tra (n) shumancias (2015) and Co Co Co Ú (2017).
    Part of her work Casa pechada was translated into English and Irish in the anthological book To the winds our sails: Irish writers translate Galician poetry, Salmonpoetry, 2010, ed. Mary O’Donnell & Manuela Palacios.

    Neil Anderson translated into English Casa pechada. Several poems appeared in his blog (re) voltas; July, 2014.

    Several poems from Casa pechada appeared in the American magazines SALAMANDER, No. 41, year 2015, and PLEIADES, vol. 36, Issue 2, p. 117, year 2016, in English translation by Neil Anderson.
    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 his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) .


    Next Arrival. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop

    we invent them to serve us      
    controlling our existence
    to create virtual worlds
    with hells and heavens
    myths domesticate science fiction and reality blur shaping our reality an assembly of biochemical algorithms
    flash fade flash fade
    spinning epidemic is business economy grows human experience
    as any other item

    in the supermarket
    a designable product

    intelligence mandatory
    consciousness optional
    individuals = dividuals in carbon or silicon owned by imaginary gods
    who what you are
    how to turn you on and off
    beyond control beyond the opaque wall algorithms can command empire
    or an upper class ruling the planet

    if words could make dreams come true

    a simultaneous instant in the brain of seven billion

    emerges the beautiful
    androgynous face of the serial
    wheat eater bread winner & the deluge of data
    millions of nano-robots
    coursing humankind's veins
    an Orwellian police state splits into the chosen hi-tech Noah’s Ark
    a new religion information flow
    datism to merge or not to merge
    the human genome as a digital processor
    where overwhelming data
    garbles the message in dystopian double talk
    will the defeaters prevail
    or cometh utopia from outer space
    our post human descendants
    do as you would be done by datism

    as we condemned the mammoth to oblivion
    your every action
    but where no human
    can follow or need to understand

    in the matrix the inter net
    of all things
    where has the power has gone
    the cosmic data God draweth nigh
    the great flow
    to maximise to plug you in
    voters of the world unite
    a colossus astride this narrow world free market big brother watches over every breath you take invisible hand that flies in the night between laboratory & museum voice of a million ancestors a ripple in the cosmic data flow
    shifts homo centric view
    to data centric view

    knowing us better than we know ourselves
    scavenger of carrion
    follower in fear & flight
    big brained Neanderthal Denisovan Sapiens what drove you for 2 million years a big bum? what bound
    small divergent groups of differing
    tongue & taboo
    into the framework of humankind but fiction collective myths woven into our reality from money to the nation state imprisoned by the archetypes
    we've identified them with

    a virtual reality of cartoon molecules
    after Yuvah Noah Harari Sapiens & Homo Deus

    Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo  visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author.  See Robin performing his work Performance (Leeds University) .


    Video Poetry Recital Featuring Arboleda, Arróspide, Crespo, Grande, Hislop. International Writers. Leeds.UK.

    This video recording was made at University of Leeds on October 10th. 2017, it was introduced and presented by Antonio_Martínez_Arboleda Principal Teaching Fellow in Spanish and poet.
    The initial image can be enlarged to full screen size. The texts and accompanying images can be easily toggled to place according to requirements.
    Below the video also is a link that gives a report and interpretation of the performance by students who attended.

    The report is live at

    Key of Mist. The Book & Poem by Guadalupe Grande.

    Madrid, 1965.
    She has written the following books of poetry: El libro de Lilit (1995), La llave de niebla (2003), Mapas de cera (2006) and Hotel para erizos (2010).
    She has been translated into French in the book Métier de crhysalide (translation by Drothèe Suarez and Juliette Gheerbrant (2010) and into Italian, in the volume Mestiere senza crisalide (translation by Raffaella Marzano (2015). She made the selection and translation of La aldea de sal (2009), an anthology of Brazilian poet Lêdo Ivo, together with poet Juan Carlos Mestre.
    Her creative work extends to the territory of photography and visual poetry.


      Key of Mist is an excerpt from the collected poems Key of Mist
                                                                      KEY of MIST


    Behind the fence there´s a ditch
    and behind the ditch
    there´s a chest devastated by the journey.
    Who arrives here and how
    and after perhaps?
    Who arrives and says and names
    and leaves their hands stuck to this fence
    as stamps are stuck to envelopes,
    to return where 
    to return to then
    to return to later, never again?
           The compass rose rolls amongst the rubble,
           rolls on the banks of gravel,
           on the edge of ash,
           and leaves its petals of distance,
           its shipwreck of durum-wheat and pollen,
           beneath the wheels of the car which has just passed.
    Time for the word time
             amidst the rubble of the tower of babel.


    But now there´s the ditches:
           water ditches
           light ditches
           gas ditches
           ditches for words.
    I am spelling
    while telling myself
    that it can´t be today,
    that there is too much rush,
    that life´s a disaster
    or nonsense
    or a useless disquiet,
    and due to that, today there´s no time:
                                                                 time for nothing, time for what.


    I open the door, switch on the light,
    turn on the tap:
    I´d like to know whom to call.
    The sound of traffic enters through the window;
    I hear the rumours of travellers
    I listen to the sound of the inhabitants
             and builders
                               of this language without words.


    I speak in gurgles
    as if a key of mist
    were laid across my throat,
    a key fogged up by noise,
    a key flooded by light,
          a gas key
          a water key
          a doorless key,
          a definitely shadowy key
    buried inside my throat,
    in the ditch of my bewildered throat.


    Behind each fence there is a ditch,
    behind each ditch there is a journey.
             The compass rose crosses
             the city tunnels:
             from its smoky petals it brings
             forth mossy farewells,
             the empire of forget-me-nots,
             paper for unwritten letters,
             humiliated stamps
             and a devastated chest in the building 
             of music
                           or language
                                               or city noise.
    Under the asphalt of these roads
    the tower of babel grows
    sad and useful.


    I turn on the tap in the kitchen
    and while water runs through the sink
    I wonder which words 
    this thread of order and cleanliness is spelling,
    which key I should switch to, to understand
    the language of fences, the language
    of ditches,
    the underground sound
    of migrating birds
    opening without any key this city´s gates,
               without a key,
               at last, 
                                          at last.



    Detrás de la valla hay una zanja
    y detrás de esa zanja
    hay un pecho desolado en el viaje.
    ¿Quién llega hasta aquí y cómo
    y luego tal vez?
    ¿Quién llega y dice y nombra
    y deja sus manos pegadas a esta valla,
    como se pegan los sellos a las cartas,
    para volver a dónde
    para volver a entonces
    para volver a luego nunca más?
    Rueda la rosa de los vientos por los escombros,
    rueda a la orilla de la grava,
    al borde de la ceniza,
    y deja sus pétalos de distancia,
    su polen náufrago y candeal,
    bajo las ruedas del coche que acaba de pasar.
    Tiempo para la palabra tiempo
            entre los escombros de la torre de babel.


    Pero ahora están las zanjas:
            zanjas de agua,
            zanjas de luz,
            zanjas de gas,
            zanjas para las palabras
    que pronuncio
    mientras me digo
    que hoy no puede ser,
    que hace mucha prisa,
    que la vida es un desastre
    o un disparate
    o un desasosiego inútil,
    debido a lo cual hoy no hay tiempo:
             tiempo para nada, tiempo para qué.


    Abro la puerta, enciendo la luz,
    abro el grifo:
    quisiera saber a quién llamar.
    Entra el sonido del tráfico por la ventana;
    oigo el rumor de los viajeros,
    escucho el sonido de los habitantes
               y de los constructores
                        de este idioma sin palabras.


    Hablo a borbotones,
    como si tuviera una llave de niebla
    atravesada en la garganta,
    una llave empañada por el ruido,
    una llave anegada por la luz,
             una llave de gas,
             una llave de agua,
             una llave sin puerta,
             una llave definitivamente umbría,
    enterrada en mi garganta,
    en la zanja de mi desconcertada garganta.


    Detrás de cada valla hay una zanja,
    detrás de cada zanja hay un viaje.
             La rosa de los vientos cruza
             los túneles de la ciudad:
             trae entre sus pétalos de humo
             el musgo de las despedidas,
             el imperio de los nomeolvides,
             papel para cartas no escritas,
             humillados sellos
             y un pecho desolado en la construcción
             de la música
                               o el lenguaje
                                                 o el ruido de la ciudad.
    Bajo el asfalto de estas calles
    crece la torre de babel
    triste y útil.


    Abro el grifo en la cocina
    y mientras corre el agua por el fregadero
    me pregunto qué palabras pronuncia
    este hilo de orden y limpieza,
    qué llave debo abrir para entender
    el lenguaje de las vallas, el idioma
    de las zanjas,
    el sonido subterráneo
    de las aves migratorias
    que abren sin llave alguna las puertas de esta ciudad,
             sin llave,
             por fin,
                                    por fin.


    Amparo Arróspide (Argentina) 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, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines. She has translated authors such as Francisca Aguirre, Javier Díaz Gil, Luis Fores and José Antonio Pamies into English, together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, who she worked with for a period as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, a Webzine. Her translations into Spanish of Margaret Atwood (Morning in the Burned House), James Stephens (Irish Fairy Tales) and Mia Couto (Vinte e Zinco) are in the course of being published, as well as her two poetry collections Hormigas en diáspora and Jacuzzi. She takes part in festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
    Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at, & Poetry Life & Times, his recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes, Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (an international anthology of sonnets) and The Honest Ulsterman. His last publications are a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk & Key of Mist, a translation from Spanish of the poems by the Spanish poetess Guadalupe Grande, both are published by and available at all main online tributaries. For further information about these publications with reviews and comments see Author Robin..

    Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
 Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk