The Poetry of Noni Benegas Read by Robin Ouzman Hislop Translated from Spanish by Noël Valis

The Poetry of Noni Benegas
Translated by Noël Valis

Another Light
For Paul Virilio

Groping through the house, blind steps
of chalk
with the light of dreams
suddenly opaque or radiant
Who shimmers that screen
in the darkened brain?
Like skin withering on the inside
the mystery of that glow persists

Otra luz
A Paul Virilio

A tientas por la casa con pasos
de tiza
con la luz de los sueños
tan pronto opaca o radiante
¿Quién alumbra esa pantalla
en el cerebro a oscuras?
Como la piel se aja desde dentro
el misterio de ese fulgor persiste


A Flower
For Ana Basualdo

The camellia sliver in the wake
of the boat at night
when the petal draws back
a trembling universe
like the line of flotation


Una flor
Ana Basualdo

La tenue camelia en la estela
del barco nocturno
cuando el pétalo descorre
un universo trémulo
como la línea de flotación



Travelers who reach Medina de Raj-Kasar
are surprised to see its image repeated
–for instance—in the guide’s
topaz ring or in the pool-encircled moat
or even in the festive fountain’s inner courtyard
Travelers who reach Medina de Raj-Kasar
after crossing between two moons
the desert of Al-Ahmir
sigh before the delicate towers and dream
of filigreed chambers and soothful hookahs
Do travelers reach Medina
or someone reach Raj-Kasar at a precise moment
dusty curious indolent?
Medina de Raj-Kasar traveling toward the Atlas
of travelers
is pleasantly surprised before the fresh-faced passenger
standing intrepid in the middle
of the glittering oasis



Los viajeros que llegan a la Medina de Raj-Kasar
se sorprenden al divisar su imagen repetida
–pongamos por caso—en el anillo de topacio
del guía o en la acequia que rodea el foso
o aun en la fuente que acoge el patio interior
Los viajeros que arriban a la Medina de Raj-Kasar
luego de atravesar entre dos lunas
el desierto de Al-Ahmir
suspiran ante las finas torres y sueñan
con el salón filigranado y el narguile conciliador
¿Llegan los viajeros a la Medina
alguien arriba en un momento preciso a Raj-Kasar
polvoriento curioso indolente?
La Medina de Raj-Kasar viajando hacia los viajeros
del Atlas
se sorprende gratamente ante el rubicundo pasajero
que se alza impávido en medio
del iridiscente oasis


Frida Kahlo
For Jan Lumas

Was it a work of art or her desire? a column
like harvested steel then fangs like jade
careening steeply
It beat with the bold haste
of temples foretold: the wind adrift
in teeth the eyebrows a buffalo bower
the stamp of the sphinx on asphalt
Was it a work of art or her desire? a column
of damp chalk posed day after day beneath the
agile pupil forever flowering


Frida Kahlo
A Jan Lumas

¿Era una obra de arte o su deseo ? una columna
de símil de acero segada más una alta carena
de colmillos de jade
Latía con la prisa impávida
de los templos futuros: el viento entornado
entre los dientes las cejas de dosel de búfalo
la impronta de esfinge sobre el asfalto
¿Era una obra de arte o su deseo ? una columna
de tiza húmeda posada día tras día bajo la
ágil pupila en floración perenne



Is it true her face keeps the impressions
of wakefulness,
the landscape seen through the train window
fleetingly deciphered;
is it true her face is interrupted?

Seated across from me
was the sacred icon
of an old Hollywood actress
old age stamped in her features,
not definitively decayed,
but very close.

In improbable transit
those features;
an abandoned aerodrome
with grass on the runway and wind
from the ends of the world.

But there is a canal
that boats go up, of liquid
crystal, oars and noises and houses
alive on its banks,

Her face swarms
swirling with malice.
Could she only have seen what she saw?
As if something were suspended
between two canals
in the stagnant waters of her cheek . . .

Is it true her face is interrupted,
what if the interruption isn’t a landscape or a sound
but simply me?



¿Hasta qué punto su rostro guarda las impresiones
de la vigilia,
el paisaje visto a través de la ventanilla
descifrado por momentos;
hasta qué punto su rostro tiene interrupciones?

Sentada frente a mí
era un Buey Apis que era
una vieja actriz de Hollywood
pues anunciaba la vejez en sus rasgos,
no definitivamente añeja,
pero ya próxima.

De tránsito improbable
esos rasgos;
cerrado un aeródromo en desuso
con hierbas en la pista y viento
de techo del mundo.

Mas hay un canal
que las barcas remontan de cristal
fluido, remos y ruidos y casas
vivas en las orillas,

hay un hormigueo en su rostro
hecho de malicia y remolinos.
¿Sólo habrá visto lo que vio?
Si algo quedara en suspenso
entre dos canales
en el remanso de la mejilla . . .

¿Hasta qué punto su rostro tiene interrupciones,
si la interrupción no fuera paisaje o sonido
sino simplemente yo?



Noni Benegas, born in Buenos Aires and resident in Spain since 1977, is the author of seven books of poetry; a selection is collected in El Ángel de lo súbito, Ed. Fondo de Cultura Económica, (Madrid, 2014). Burning Cartography, Ed. Host, (Austin TX, 2007 and 2011) is a selection of these poems in English, and Animaux Sacrés, Ed. Al Manar (Séte 2013) in French. She has won the Platero Prize from the UN in Geneva; the Miguel Hernández National Prize for Poetry, as well as Vila de Martorell award, the Rubén Darío Prize from Palma in Mallorca, the Esquío Prize in Galicia. She is the author of the influential anthology of contemporary Spanish women poets Ellas tienen la palabra, Ed. Hiperión (Madrid, 2008, 4th edition) whose introductory essay, with a new prologue, articles, interviews and an epilogue has been recently collected by Ed. Fondo de Cultura Economica in 2017 with the same title. Ellas Resisten. Mujeres poetas y artistas (1994-2019) is a selection of her essays on women writers and artists published by Ed. Huerga & Fierro
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; at
You may visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

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) .