Fatima El-Kalay

Changes

       She parks her car and walks down the broken pavement, afraid her heels will catch in the cracks. The restaurant is round the next corner, a small, nondescript place on a side road in Mohandisseen.  At the lamppost outside the entrance an old peasant man hums to himself, beside his warm batata cart, the waft of his roasted sweet potato fills the void of the chill night. 

       There’s a clock on the wall: 8:15; on time. The waiter smiles apologetically and asks her if she has a booking. None? There are no tables inside; there is a nice one here on the patio. Fine. It is cold though; could the waiter get a portable heater? Certainly. Would she like to order? Not now. She will wait. She is good at waiting. 

       The batata vendor is audible from the patio. He begins to sing an unfamiliar song. It sounds made up. 

Oh, the ship in the storm yearns the port, 
       but the port is not what it seems 
       when the ship returns, 
       It will not be safe 
       For it will drown in its dreams 

       His voice is like scratchy plastic. Why doesn’t the restaurant manager tell him to clear off? He can’t be good for business.  She wonders if she did the right thing coming. And why this vague place, an empty vessel, void of memories for them? 

       Finally he arrives, fifteen minutes later, a great chocolate trench coat carrying a man of purpose. He sweeps onto the patio with ease. He is not late, his footsteps say; he is never late. 

       He smiles and swoops down as if to kiss her, but instead only clutches her shoulder. He casts off his enormous coat and sits across from her, placing his many blinking, beeping phones on the table. He asks her if she has ordered. No, she was waiting for him. Ah, but she knows what he always ever eats, he reminds her. Well she thought he might like something different. He grimaces, like someone who has just tasted castor oil. Does he ever change his order? 

       The waiter comes. The man orders briskly for both of them: soup and crackers, salads and main course. Beverages later? They will only fill us up, won’t they, dear? 

       He links his fingers together and glances across at her. She looks lovely, he says. She gazes down at her reflection in a spoon. She did look very good, so ripe in beauty, the warmth of roast chestnuts on an open fire, stirring in her oval face.

       The peasant with the batata cart leans against the patio railings. “Akhenaten! Akhenaten!” he yells. “What was he thinking? He must be insane to imagine he could bring change!”  

       The man grits his teeth. What, did she not find a table inside? This peasant will give them no peace. Waiter, can you tell him to move? I’m sorry sir, he doesn’t listen, but he never stays long. Then tell him to keep it down. Certainly, sir. 

       What were they talking about? She tells him nothing yet, so he asks her how she is. It is such a vast question. An ocean. She feels helpless before it. El-hamdulilla she decides to say. And the children? Growing used to their new neighborhood? Making friends? She nods. He jabs at his meat and edges closer. He is proud of her for coming today. He is proud she is willing to start afresh. So this is a new beginning? Yes, yes. It is never too late, is it? No, she says, never too late, as long as people are ready to make it work. Was he prepared for lasting changes? He chews. Well he came here, didn’t he? That proves something. And the other women? Nothing worth mentioning, he assures her; they weren’t even real. So was she real? Of course she was, she was real and she was permanent. A safety net. A safety net? Is that all? To catch him when he fell? 

       The batata man begins to rant. “Thought he had created a new empire! Tel el-Amarna. Homage to the God Aten, but no! But no!” 

       He frowns. To be a safety net is a great thing. He would be her safety net, too. So, would he move to their neighborhood, for the children’s sake? Ah but work—she knows how it is! It’s hard in this sprawling city to commute, not convenient for the breadwinner. She ought to move back, she and the children must return to their haven. But how? The children— 

       —They must sacrifice for the bigger picture. 

       His phones blink red, and he picks one up to read a message. There’s a meeting in a hotel nearby. It was unexpectedly confirmed, so he needs to get going soon. He would have to sacrifice dessert, but he would pay the cheque before he left. It’s a good thing he chose a restaurant so close or he would be late for his appointment. 

        “Akhenaton! Dead! A great heritage gone, all disappeared, as if it never happened. The House of Aten torn down. The more things change, the more they stay the same!” 

       The man rises. He is sorry, he says; it is so important he doesn’t miss this meeting. She looks up at the clock again: 9:15 exactly; hands outstretched, straining across the clock face, like an embrace between parting lovers. 

       They would meet again soon, he smiled, swiveling away. 

       “It’s a lie, a lie! Short-lived rebellion! Back to old ways, Aten forgotten!” 

       She sees him through the railings, flashing an exasperated look at the batata man. What a strange, babbling fool. He presses a five-pound note into the peasant’s palm. The peasant recoils, indignant. “No charity! My sweet potatoes cost money, but I give you my wisdom for free!” 

Fatima El-Kalay is a short fiction and poetry writer who was born in Birmingham, UK, to Egyptian parents, but grew up north of the border in idyllic Scotland. She has a Master’s degree in creative writing, and has had short fiction published in Passionfruit (US) and Rowayat (Egypt).  Her flash piece Snakepit was recently longlisted for the London Independent Story Prize (LISP).  A story anthology The Stains on Her Lips, her collaborative project with two other Egyptian authors, Mariam Shouman, and the late Aida Nasr, is due for publication in summer 2018. She is currently working on her first poetry collection. In the past Fatima wrote healthcare articles for a major parenting magazine in Cairo, over a span of 10 years. Fatima is also a self-taught artist and a self-help coach. She lives in Cairo, Egypt with her husband and children. 

Nashwa Gowanlock

The Egyptian

You poor tamed cat, what did
the Egyptians do to you,
castrating you and your hunting
impulse. So much so, that you,
our beloved pet, are scared of birds,
too afraid to go out into the garden.
We made you an object of our own,
brought you plastic toys
to mimic the life you were made for,
so we can cuddle up at night,
stroke your furry neck
as you stretch it out as far as it will go,
until it’s not fun anymore
and I’m tensing up and shifting my body
and you, annoyed, start biting me
in quick, sharp bursts before you leap off,
ears twitching, shaking off the humiliation.
My cousin once asked me why
we adopted a common tabby, an Egyptian
as they call it, instead
of a longhaired Persian. It’s good
to know where we come from, I said. 

REACQUAINTANCE

                                                 It is surreal being here with a husband and a baby.
                                   Coming back to the country I’ve returned to over the
                                   years, gazing into the mirrored Damietta dresser, the
                                   one that distorts the reflection so much it prompts
                                   my husband to ask if his head is too big for his body.
                                   Without even needing to look, I say no, of course not,
                                   because I immediately visualise my elongated, spotty
                                   teenage face staring back at me, from when I used to
                                   contemplate my own distorted shape in the miraya.  

       I line my eyes with kohl,
clearing the smudge on one lid as usual
and wonder how many minutes
of my life I’ve spent on these
corrections. I glance at myself
and decide I look pretty. 

TO ME BELONGS YESTERDAY, I KNOW TOMORROW

                     From the Egyptian Book Of The Dead 

Bake me a loaf
and since bread makes me thirsty,
pour me some wine
even though the smell is rancid.

I’ll open a window
as wide as it will go, watch
the man with a hoe
hacking at his front lawn.

Save me a slice
of your rye concoction.
I’ll butter it
when I come home. 

Nashwa Gowanlock is a writer, journalist and literary translator. She has translated numerous works of Arabic literature, including a co-translation with Ruth Ahmedzai Kemp of Samar Yazbek’s memoir, The Crossing: My Journey to the Shattered Heart of Syria. Nashwa holds an MFA in Writing from the Vermont College of Fine Arts.

Matthew Shenoda

Work

Chained to an ancient idea
she took the tool into her hand 
and began her meticulous labor. 

To shape a thing
according to the colors
in one’s head.

We give without asking 
for return.

The way a mother might
braid her child’s hair
thinking of vines,
of her childhood home,
the plant she can no longer name.

And like plow to earth
a mouth-full of singing
and the bird floating in the tree
eyes fixed on the pistil of the bloom.

She can see the way the bird
looks sharply
the way her own body
sinks into the earth 
with a certain kind of pain
as if the soil were made
from fragments of home.

To say that this is timeless
is not to understand
the way time is both fixed
and ever-present.

She is a mirror of herself
hunched in a furrow of forgetfulness
traded on the land by sweat and burn.

Forget me, she says,
forget that my body ever rose on this earth.
But the bird in the tree keeps peering,
keeps seeing,
keeps tipping its wings in a distant direction

As if there and here
were always the same,
as if one blanket could cover
the beds of millions.

Matthew Shenoda is a writer and professor whose poems and essays have appeared in a variety of newspapers, journals, radio programs and anthologies. He has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize and his work has been supported by the California Arts Council and the Lannan Foundation among others.

Kenji C. Liu

Descending, throttle early, savagely

frankenpo1 (for Prince)2

He’s a beautiful bird again. Desperately funk, tornado gorgeous, heart thick with furious glide,
and me his dessert. A conspiring body of heavy love, a whole dusk package. He sits and
moistens, a ripeness in him, black as sobs. Glisten he rises, a burning of bites and roses. A
flushed, trembling hollow across his lush. See his national pouty-lip, a skin-tight, slightly welling
back door swinging all piano wide. His bikini simmers, his cheeks jump, honey face staring
wickedly over lustrous flower shoulder. He crushes my diamonds, stains my quiver on the spot. I
muzzle his leopard face. The night furrows its savage, purple coat. Waters my sleeping
moonlight Cadillac. Drowning looks like light, a meaningless swim. Here, lustrous racked
chrome, passport of spandex lips. His pompadour bird, plunging into my wild Minnetonka.


Empire strikes3

frankenpo1

Citizens of the civilized galaxy, on this day we mark a transition. Billions of helpless
factors wind us into blinding, black-gloved sparks. The pain constantly beautiful,
omnipotence ripped by a giant jedi abyss. Great ears of the people stolen, deathly half
governors, and bureaucracy, that unstoppable depletion. Nation of my gracious
physiognomy, once we prospered entire, every fiction time! Our last infrastructure
collapses black, we sink wicked, a feeble station, infused by a never-ending crawl. Our
regions are semi-darkness, with scarred and weak edges, groans along our peace
borders, ripped, scattered, dimly white. Against the reaped verdict, stormtroopers ignite,
my dark hood star attacks, lord I. Your unbearable boy emperor—my force fictitious
flashes out, unstoppable bleed. My carnage grown from exaggerated disrepair. Seven-
foot-tall in the well of a mob. Towards a cold room, our body staggers.

Letter to Chow Mo-­wan4

frankenpo1

Dear Mr. Chow,

Cherished seed. A sesame kiss, and you mend the distance between us. That deep
dissonance. When will our smoke overlap again なの? Together we are a pair of lonely
questions, differentiated, two who whisper open a category. Plural, argus-eyed. Divination is a
meaningful mesh. We call us home, multi-capillaried. We promise a beautiful object. A rare
orientation わね

Unthreatened can still be afraid. No injury is respectful. This is because the caress is not a
simple stroking; it is a shaping. I am obsessed with the feeling of a house on fire. Do you agree
なの? I’m never going to end in a field of reason. Truth can’t go in the gaps. We are fool things
わよ, precisely alive, mountainous.


1frankenpo [frangkuh n-poh]
noun
1. an invented poetic form

verb
to create a new poetic text by collecting, disaggregating, randomizing, rearranging, recombining, erasing, and
reanimating one or more chosen bodies of text, for the purpose of divining or revealing new meanings often at odds
with the original texts

2“Descending, throttle early, savagely” is a frankenpo of the screenplay of Purple Rain (1984).

“Letter to Chow Mo-wan” is a frankenpo of screenplay for In the Mood for Love + transcription of “Yumeji’s Theme” by Shigeru Umebayashi from the same film + Tony Leung Chiu-wai’s Greatest Hits (梁 朝偉精選) + a quote from Eve Kosofsky Sedgewick. Uses “feminine” gendered Japanese sentence endings.

3“Empire strikes” is a frankenpo of Emperor Palpatine’s speech to the Galactic Senate (Star Wars Ep 3 – Revenge of the Sith) + POTUS 45’s inaugural speech + selected dialogue involving the Emperor from Star Wars Ep 4-6.    

Frankenpo of screenplay for In the Mood for Love + transcription of “Yumeji’s Theme” by Shigeru Umebayashi from the same film + Tony Leung Chiu-wai’s Greatest Hits (梁朝偉精選) + a quotes from Eve Kosofsky Sedgewick. Uses “feminine” gendered Japanese sentence endings

June 26, 2015. Kundiman retreat at Fordham University, Bronx NY. Photoggraphy Margarita Corporan

Kenji C. Liu (劉謙司) is author of Map of an Onion, national winner of the 2015 Hillary Gravendyk Poetry Prize. His poetry is in American Poetry Review, Action Yes!, Split This Rock’s poem of the week series, several anthologies, and two chapbooks, Craters: A Field Guide (2017) and You Left Without Your Shoes (2009). A Kundiman fellow and an alumnus of VONA/Voices, the Djerassi Resident Artist Program, and the Community of Writers, he lives in Los Angeles. @kenjicliu.

M.L. Martin translates An Anonymous pre-10th c. Anglo-Saxon Feminist

WULF AND EADWACER

My people offer themselves as a gift.
They will devour him
who moves toward the army.
We are different.
Wulf is one island, I am the other.
The island is secure & surrounded by fen.
Bloodthirsty, the men on that island.
They will devour
if he comes toward this band of men.

We are different.
I think of Wulf’s long departures—
when it was dark skies & I sat sobbing—
when the battle-bold arms embraced me—
that which brought me joy also brought misery.

Wulf, my Wulf! The thought of you
between seldom comings has made me sick.
An anxious mind never goes hungry.
Listen now, Ead: the cowardly cub of “us”
lured this wolf from its woods:
A thing easily falls to threads
that never was entwined—
the tale of us together.

WULF AND EAD

the thought of you
never goes

we are
the cowardly cub

the woods will devour
what never was tied

I think of Ead—
the bloodthirsty island

the misery
that joy brings

Wulf! the dark skies
embraced me

wulf, draft

the forest
is moving

I am
the island

surrounded
by blood

the men
devour

long skies
when the battle

brought
joy / pain

Wulf, the cub
never was

WULF AND EAD


my ruler
as if one offers herself

We are different—
I, heavily-guarded

the other
slaughter-cruel

when the arms
embrace me
I think of wandering


those seldom
visits of joy

Listen now, : o
ur wretched c ub

Your fearful heart
drives a wolf from the woods

E., —

I am surrounded
bloodthirsty, sobbing—

when the battle
that whi ch
brought me joy.

The mind
goes hungry

the cub
was whi ch

The wolf returns


mīn giedd
my song

the battle
that brought me
misfortune

the battle of lāð
and seldom comings
has ended

mīn renig weder
is over

The wolf
has returned

WULF OND EADWACER

Lēodum is mīnum swylce him mon lāc gife;
willað hȳ hine āþecgan gif hē on þrēat cymeð.
Ungelīc is ūs.
Wulf is on īege, ic on ōþerre.
Fæst is þæt ēglond, fenne biworpen.
Sindon wælrēowe weras þǣr on īge;
willað hȳ hine āþecgan gif hē on þrēat cymeð.
Ungelīce is ūs.
Wulfes ic mīnes wīdlāstum, wēnum hogode,
þonne hit wæs rēnig weder ond ic rēotugu sæt,
þonne mec se beaducāfa bōgum bilegde,
wæs mē wyn tō þon, wæs mē hwæþre ēac lāð.
Wulf, mīn Wulf! wēna mē þīne
sēoce gedydon, þīne seldcymas,
murnende mōd, nales metelīste.
Gehȳrest þū, Ēadwacer? Uncerne eargne hwelp
bireð wulf tō wuda.
Þæt mon ēaþe tōslīteð þætte nǣfre gesomnad wæs,
uncer giedd geador.

Translator’s Note:

We know the Old English poem “Wulf ond Eadwacer” due only to its survival in the Exeter Codex, the largest existing anthology of Anglo-Saxon poetry, which dates back to the 10th century. Since no original manuscript for the poem exists, the date of its composition, its provenance, and the identity of its composer are all unknown.

Even within the poem itself, ambiguities abound: the identity of the speaker is unknown, while the relationship of the speaker to both Eadwacer and Wulf, the poem’s setting, and its narrative content are all subject to conflicting interpretations. Most scholars think that the poem describes a love triangle in which the unnamed speaker (who is represented as “&” in my translation) is separated from her lover, Wulf, by threat of violence from Eadwacer, who is commonly viewed as either her husband and/or captor. It is also ambiguous if the ‘cub’ to which the speaker refers is her and Wulf’s lovechild or her and Eadwacer’s legitimate son. However, the poem has also been interpreted as a riddle, a ballad, a wen charm, an elegy, and a beast fable. As Peter S. Baker notes in “The Ambiguity of Wulf and Eadwacer,” half of the poem’s nineteen lines “pose lexical, syntactical, or interpretive problems.”[1]

But the challenge of interpreting the poem is only part of what makes “Wulf ond Eadwacer” an anomaly. The poem is also formally radical, both for its departures from Anglo-Saxon prosody, and for its inclusion of elements like repetition, and refrain, which were uncommon in Old English poetry. For this, and other reasons, some scholars even believe that this compellingly mysterious lyric poem might itself be a translation from the Old Norse.

As the act of translation cannot be divorced from interpretation, the mysteries of “Wulf ond Eadwacer” would seem to begird the translator, to restrict the strategies and outcomes available to her. Indeed, it seems sensible to decide what a thing is and what kind of effect it should have on the reader before translating it. But the reader should not have to pay for the translator’s convenience, and perhaps the least faithful translation of this enigmatic, polyvalent anomaly of an Old English poem that might have been born Scandinavian in the first place would be to present it in the absence of its complexity, to pin the poem down to a definitive interpretation, to lock it into a linear narrative that it never loved.

The poems at hand are part of a translation that aims to release the poem back into its radical complexity—to restore the lacunae, the indeterminacy, and the strangeness that make the Anglo Saxon version so haunting. Code-switching between the original Anglo-Saxon and Modern English, Wulf & Eadwacer embraces this proto-feminist, disjunctive voice so that its enigmatic plurality can fully be explored for the first time.

[1] Baker, Peter S. “The ambiguity of ‘Wulf and Eadwacer.’” Studies in Philology, Vol. 78, No. 5, Texts and Studies, 1981. “Eight Anglo-Saxon Studies.” University of North Carolina Press.

M.L. Martin is a prize-winning poet and translator whose experimental translations of Old English can be found in Waxwing and The Literary Review. Her poetry has appeared in Denver Quarterly, DIAGRAM, The Fiddlehead, The Massachusetts Review, PRISM international, and many other Canadian and American literary journals. She is the recipient of the Theresa A. Wilhoit Fellowship, the Bread Loaf Translators’ Fellowship, and the Inprint Verlaine Prize in Poetry. She currently lives in Tulsa, where she is a 2018 Literary Arts Fellow with Tulsa Artist Fellowship.


Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro

Translated by Raquel Salas Rivera

Diosa te salve, Yemayá

Diosa te salve, Yemayá
llena eres de ashé
la babalawo sea contigo
bendita tus hijas que toman la justicia en sus manos
y bendito es el fruto de tu océano-río Oshún

Santa Yemayá
madre de diosas
consentidora de todos los amores
de todas las lenguas y enjambres de labios
de toda hembra que ama a otra mujer

Ave Purísima Yemayá
santificada por criar a nuestras hijas e hijos
y enseñarles a devolver el golpe del marido borracho
maltratador
abusador
llena eres de balas
y cuchillas
prestas para el ajusticiamiento

rueguen por nosotras los orishas
Obatalá
Orula madre y padre
los dioses del santo hermafroditismo Eleguá y los ángeles transexuales
ahora y en la hora
de la libertad
de la desobediencia civil
de los defensores
de nuestra entrega por la patria
y nuestra bandera borincana
amén

Hail Yemayá

Hail Yemayá
full of ashé
the babalawo is with you
blessed are your daughters that take justice into their own hands
and blessed is the fruit of your river-ocean Oshún

Holy Yemayá
mother of gods
spoiling us with all the loves
all the languages and swarms of lips
of each woman who loves another woman

Our Yemayá, who art in heaven
hallowed be thy name for raising our daughters and sons
and teaching them to hit the drunk husband back
abuser
full of bullets
and knives
ready to enact justice

pray for us, orishas
Obatalá
Orula mother and father
the gods of the hermaphrodite saint Eleguá and the trans angels
now and in the hour
of our freedom
of our civil disobedience
of the defenders
of our complete surrender to our patria
and our borincana flag
amén

Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro (Guaynabo, 1970). Es escritora puertorriqueña. Ha sido elegida como una de las escritoras latinoamericanas más importantes menores de 39 años del Bogotá39 convocado por la UNESCO, el Hay Festival y la Secretaría de Cultura de Bogotá por motivo de celebrar a Bogotá como Capital Mundial del libro 2007. Fue premiada Escritora Puertorriqueña del Año 2016 en Literatura Queer por el Centro LGBT de Puerto Rico. Ha publicado libros que denuncian y visibilizan apasionados enfoques que promueven la discusión de la afroidentidad y la sexodiversidad. Es Directora del Departamento de Estudios Afropuer-torriqueños, un proyecto performático de Escritura Creativa con sede en la Casa Museo Ashford, en San Juan, PR y ha fundado la Cátedra de Mujeres Negras Ancestrales, jornada que responde a la convocatoria promulgada por la UNESCO de celebrar el Decenio Internacional de los Afrodescendientes. Ha sido invitada por la ONU al Programa “Remembering Slavery” para hablar de mujeres, esclavitud y creatividad en 2015. Su libro de cuentos Las negras, ganador del Premio Nacional de Cuento PEN Club de Puerto Rico en 2013, explora los límites del devenir de personajes femeninos que desafían las jerarquías de poder.Caparazones, Lesbofilias y Violeta son algunas de sus obras que exploran la transgresión desde el lesbianismo abiertamente visible. La autora ha ganado también el Premio del Instituto de Cultura Puertorriqueña en 2015 y 2012, y el Premio Nacional del Instituto de Literatura Puertorriqueña en 2008. Su libro Animales de apariencia inofensiva fue declarado Libro del año 2015 y su libro Ojos de luna fue declarado Libro del año 2007, ambos por el Periódico El nuevo día. Ha ofrecido conferencias en Ghana, Africa, FIL Guadalajara de México y Casa de las Américas en Madrid, España. También ha sido Escritora Invitada para NYU, Vermont University, Florida State University y la Universidad de Pennsylvania. Ha sido incluida en la plataforma TED Talk como conferenciante con la charla magistral “Y tu abuela, ¿a dónde está?” Su obra se ha traducido al alemán, francés, italiano, inglés, portugués y húngaro. http://narrativadeyolanda.blogspot.com/

Raquel Salas Rivera is a Puerto Rican poet who lives in Philadelphia. Their work has appeared in journals such as the Revista del Instituto de Cultura Puertorriqueña, Apogee, BOAAT, Círculo de Poesía, Cosmonauts Ave, Waxwing, Dreginald, and the Boston Review. They are the author of Caneca de anhelos turbios (Editora Educación Emergente), oropel/tinsel (Lark Books), and tierra intermitente (Ediciones Alayubia). Their book lo terciario/the tertiary is forthcoming in 2018 from Timeless, Infinite Light. Currently, they are Co-Editor of The Wanderer, and Co-Editor of Puerto Rico en mi corazón, a collection of bilingual broadsides of contemporary Puerto Rican poets. If for Roque Dalton there is no revolution without poetry, for Raquel, there is no poetry without Puerto Rico. https://raquelsalasrivera.com/

Vincent Toro

Traducción de Urayóan Noel

PROMESA (HR 4900)

      Song to ward off venture capitalists.

              The tinto shipped
from our ancestors in Galicia
       flirts unabashedly with giggling hens
on the veranda. Tio Frank
              is praying to his pipe, the smoke
                     cradles his bajo sexto
       as he croons, conjuring the flota

              that dislocated us from the last
century. Junior rocks the ricochet
       like a sorcerer of Brownian
motion. He is a garrison perched
              across the ping pong table
                     like an eight limbed
       colossus. In the kitchen, cards

              are slapped like sinvergüenzas
round after round in an endless
       game of Texas Hold ‘Em that holds
the cousins hostage. The winner
              is never the sucker
                     with the ace, the winner
       is he who talks shit with Fidel’s

              fuerza bruta, an eight hour
fusillade of slick digs and relentless
       boasts. Beside them abuelita
plays Zatoichi with the lechon
              asado, ropa vieja is swallowed
                     by vagrant cangrejo
       and bored nieces running

              on fumes from chasing
the dog around the chicken coops.
       This party was supposed to evanesce
long before sun up, but the coquito
              is still spilling, the tias
                     still stalking the counter-
       rhythms of the timbale like Bolivar

across the Andes. The road
at the end of the driveway is shrapnel,
       the privatized water too steep
for our pockets, but we got tariffs
              on this tanned euphoria
                     so no vulture
       funds can raid and strip

              the assets from our
digames, our ‘chachos, our
       oyes, our claros, our
manos, our oites, our carajos,
              our negritos, our vayas,
our banditos,
       our pa que tu lo sepas!

PROMESA (HR 4900)

     Canto para protegerse de los capitalistas de riesgo.

              El tinto que enviaron
nuestros ancestros en Galicia
       coquetea descarado con gallinas que se ríen nerviosas
en el balcón. Tío Frank
              le está orando a su pipa, el humo
                     arropa a su bajo sexto
       mientras canturrea, conjurando a la flota

              que nos dislocó del siglo
pasado. Junior le mete al rebote
       como un mago del movimiento
browniano. Él es un centinela velando
              la mesa de ping-pong
                     como un coloso con
       ocho brazos. En la cocina, las barajas

              son golpeadas como sinvergüenzas
ronda tras ronda en un eterno
       juego de Texas Hold ‘Em que mantiene
a los primos secuestrados. El ganador
              nunca es el pendejo
                     con el as, el ganador
       es el que habla mierda con la fuerza bruta

              de Fidel, ocho horas
descargando indirectas mañosas y alardes
       sin fin. A su lado abuelita
hace de Zatoichi con el lechón
              asado, la ropa vieja se la tragan
                     cangrejos vagabundos
       y sobrinas aburridas corriendo hasta morir

              de cansancio de tanto perseguir
al perro por los gallineros.
       Se supone que esta fiesta se disipara
mucho antes del amanecer, pero el coquito
              sigue fluyendo, las tías
       siguen acechando los contra-
                     ritmos del timbal como Bolívar

              cruzando los Andes. La carretera
al final de la entrada es metralla,
       el agua privatizada demasiado cara
para nuestros bolsillos, pero le hemos puesto tarifas
              a esta euforia bronceada
       para que ningún fondo
                     buitre nos ataque y nos arranque

              los valores de nuestros
dígames, nuestros ‘chachos, nuestros
       oyes, nuestros claros, nuestros
manos, nuestros oítes, nuestros carajos,
              nuestros negritos, nuestros vayas,
                     nuestros benditos,
       nuestros pa’ que tú lo sepas!

Vincent Toro is the author of Stereo.Island.Mosaic., which won the Sawtooth Poetry Prize and The Poetry Society of America’s Norma Farber First Book Award. He has an MFA in poetry from Rutgers University and is a contributing editor for Kweli Literary Journal. He is recipient of a Poet’s House Emerging Poets Fellowship, a NYFA Fellowship in Poetry, and the Metlife Nuestras Voces Playwriting Award. A two time Pushcart Prize nominee and a finalist for the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Prize, the Alice James Book Award, the Andres Montoya Poetry Prize, and the Cecile De Jongh Literary Prize, Vincent’s poems have been published in The Buenos Aires Review, Codex, Duende, The Acentos Review, The Caribbean Writer, Rattle, The Cortland Review, Vinyl, Saul Williams’ CHORUS, and Best American Experimental Writing 2015. Vincent was an artist in residence at the Atlantic Center for the Arts in Florida and at Can Serrat in Spain. He is a Macondo Foundation writer and a board member for GlobalWrites, a nonprofit dedicated to promoting literacy through technology. Vincent teaches at Bronx Community College, is Writing Liaison at Cooper Union’s Saturday Program, and is a poet in the schools for The Dreamyard Project and the Dodge Poetry Foundation.

Originally from San Juan, Puerto Rico, Urayoán Noel lives in the Bronx, teaches at NYU, and is a 2016-2017 Howard Foundation fellow in literary studies, as well as the author, most recently, of Buzzing Hemisphere/Rumor Hemisférico (Arizona) and In Visible Movement: Nuyorican Poetry from the Sixties to Slam (Iowa). Learn more at urayoannoel.comurayoannoel.bandcamp.com, and wokitokiteki.com, a bilingual, improvisational poetry vlog.

Urayoán Noel

ijla kontinente      aksilaj i kueroj     kueroj i aksilaj     anunsioj de deteljente     fantajmaj mochileroj     ke peldieron suj mochilaj    dokumentando suj biajej     pol la amérika nuejtra     komo selajej de otra     ijkielda siniejtra     ke suplanta y sekuejtra     a la anteriol     i otro gobielno en flol     se malchita     i otro potro de derecha kabesea i se enkabrita     asumiendo la mueka maltrecha     de laj masaj de ejtrasa     i ai filaj en todoj loj beltederoj      bajo el sol de la mañana     i ya se siente ke van dejpeltando     i de kuando en kuando     se abre una bentana     i ej ke akí todo sana     lentamente

fonetikanto

áilan’ kóntinen’     pit an’ jaid      jaid an’ pit     ditéryen’ komérchols     bákpaker gousts     ju lost dear bákpaks    dókumentin’ dear bóyech     akrós aur amérika     laik kláudskeips of anódel     lef’-bijáind lef’     dat suplants an’ jáiyaks     de príbius wan     an’ anódel góbelmen’ in blum     wíders awei     an’ anódel ráitwing koult chímis and cheiks     wéring de báterd grímes     of de braun-péiper máses     an’ dear ar lon’ lains in ol de dómpin’ graunds     óndel de mólnin’ son     an’ wan kan fil dem awéikenin’     an’ ébri wans in a wail     a wíndou óupens     an’ so yu si ébrisin biguins tu jíal     ibéntuali

Originally from San Juan, Puerto Rico, Urayoán Noel lives in the Bronx, teaches at NYU, and is a 2016-2017 Howard Foundation fellow in literary studies, as well as the author, most recently, of Buzzing Hemisphere/Rumor Hemisférico (Arizona) and In Visible Movement: Nuyorican Poetry from the Sixties to Slam (Iowa). Learn more at urayoannoel.comurayoannoel.bandcamp.com, and wokitokiteki.com, a bilingual, improvisational poetry vlog.

Pó Rodil

Translated by Raquel Salas Rivera

Cuir de extraño

Extraño
para la doña del tren,
para tu mamá,
tu papá,
tu abuela,
tu ex,
tú,
un extraño para ti,
solo para ti.

Un día decidí tragarme la duda,
respirar profundo,
abrazarme
un poco
o un mucho.

El mundo está hecho para ser cuir,
pa’ uno mirar su reflejo,
decidir quién vas a ser hoy.
No nací mujer.
Nunca lo fuí,
andando sin camisa en la casa,
escuchando regaños,
pechos pre-pubertos
negándose a crecer.

No hay miedo en sobresalir,
en ser.
No hay miedo en querer ser una pluma más en una boa,
Rosada.

Odiando mi nombre,
queriendo orinar de pie,
queriendo los tacones más altos que me pudiera poner.

Qué alternativa:
LA VIDA
////Queer////
alternativa a extrañar
////queer////

La alternativa:
asumir una identidad
extra.
Bien extra.

Otra vez, en el reflejo
voy a preguntarme, “¿Quién soy?”
o mejor:
“¿Qué soy?”

Una cosa
e x t r a ñ o,
gigante,
llamando la atención.
¿Qué soy?
¿Qué soy?
¿Qué soy?

Nada.
“SOY NADA.
NO PEDÍ ESTE CUERPO.
NO LO QUIERO.”
Miro al reflejo.

Salir.
Hay que salir.
Una identidad tengo que asumir,
un nombre muerto.
Eso.
Solo soy un nombre muerto,
las tripas desilusionadas,
revolcadas
se revuelcan.
No entienden que no les toca ser.
No les toca la tranquilidad.

No.

No.

Me niego.
Me niego a vivir así,
a tener que rogar respeto,
a tener que salir,
a ser alguien que no soy.

Quiero llenarme de escarcha,
llenarme de amor,
llenarme de querer ser yo,
llenarme de hacer,
ser cuir,
no un extraño.

Queer as in Strange

Strange
for the old lady on the train,
for your mamá,
your papá,
your abuela,
your ex,
you,
a stranger to you,
only to you.

One day I decided to swallow doubt,
breathe deeply,
hug myself
a little
or a lot.

The world is made for queerness,
to look at one’s reflection,
to decide who you are going to be today.
I wasn’t born a woman.
I was never a woman,
roaming the house shirtless,
receiving scoldings,
with prepubescent breasts
that refused to grow.

There is no fear in standing out,
in being.
There is no fear in wanting to be another feather in the pink
boa.

Hating my name,
wanting to piss while standing,
wanting the highest heels.

What an alternative:
LIFE
///Queer///
alternative to missing the estranged
///queer///
The alternative:
to assume an identity
that is extra.
So extra.

Once again, in the reflection
I’m going to ask myself, “Who am I?”
or better yet:
“What am I?”

A huge,
shiny,
s t r a n g e
thing.
What am I?
What am I?
What am I?

Nothing.
“I AM NOTHING.
I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS BODY.
I DON’T WANT IT.”
I look into my reflection.

Go out.
You have to go out.
I have to assume an identity,
a dead name.
That.
I am only a dead name,
the disillusioned guts,
tousled,
are tousling.
They don’t understand that they can’t exist.
They don’t get peace.

No.

No.

I refuse.
I refuse to live like this,
to have to beg for respect
to have to go out,
to be someone I am not.

I want to fill myself with glitter,
fill myself with love,
fill myself with wanting to be myself,
fill myself with doing,
with being queer,
not a stranger.

Pó Rodil is a very queer caribbean trans/multi-diciplinary performance artist, anti-drag performer who loves to shine a light on the mind and body otherness.




Raquel Salas Rivera is a Puerto Rican poet who lives in Philadelphia. Their work has appeared in journals such as the Revista del Instituto de Cultura Puertorriqueña, Apogee, BOAAT, Círculo de Poesía, Cosmonauts Ave, Waxwing, Dreginald, and the Boston Review. They are the author of Caneca de anhelos turbios (Editora Educación Emergente), oropel/tinsel (Lark Books), and tierra intermitente (Ediciones Alayubia). Their book lo terciario/the tertiary is forthcoming in 2018 from Timeless, Infinite Light. Currently, they are Co-Editor of The Wanderer, and Co-Editor of Puerto Rico en mi corazón, a collection of bilingual broadsides of contemporary Puerto Rican poets. If for Roque Dalton there is no revolution without poetry, for Raquel, there is no poetry without Puerto Rico. https://raquelsalasrivera.com/

Nicole Sealey

Traducción de Mara Pastor

Hysterical Strength

When I hear news of a hitchhiker
struck by lightning yet living,
or a child lifting a two-ton sedan
to free his father pinned underneath,
or a camper fighting off a grizzly
with her bare hands until someone,
a hunter perhaps, can shoot it dead,
my thoughts turn to black people—
the hysterical strength we must
possess to survive our very existence,
which I fear many believe is, and
treat as, itself a freak occurrence.

Fortaleza histérica

Cuando oigo noticias de un mochilero
al que le cae un rayo, pero sobrevive,
o del niño cargando un sedán de dos toneladas
para salvar a su padre atrapado debajo,
o de un campista peleando contra un oso
solo con sus manos hasta que alguien,
tal vez un cazador, le dispara y lo mata,
pienso en la gente negra—
la fortaleza histérica que debemos
poseer para sobrevivir nuestra existencia
que me temo muchos creen es, y
tratan como, otro suceso insólito.

Born in St. Thomas, U.S.V.I. and raised in Apopka, Florida, Nicole Sealey is the author of Ordinary Beast and The Animal After Whom Other Animals Are Named, winner of the 2015 Drinking Gourd Chapbook Poetry Prize. Her other honors include an Elizabeth George Foundation Grant, the Stanley Kunitz Memorial Prize from The American Poetry Review, a Daniel Varoujan Award and the Poetry International Prize, as well as fellowships from CantoMundo, Cave Canem, MacDowell Colony and the Poetry Project. Her work has appeared in The New Yorker, The New York Times and elsewhere. Nicole holds an MLA in Africana Studies from the University of South Florida and an MFA in creative writing from New York University. She is the executive director at Cave Canem Foundation, Inc.

Mara Pastor is a Puerto Rican poet, editor, and translator. She lives in Ponce, Puerto Rico, where she teaches literature and collaborates as a writer with a number of publications and magazines in Puerto Rico and abroad. Her works include the chapbooks As Though the Wound Had Heard (Card Board House Press, 2017) and Children of Another Hour (Argos Books, 2013). She is also the author of several books in Spanish, including Sal de magnesio (2015), Arcadian Boutique (2014), Poemas para fomentar el turismo (2011), Candada por error (2009) and Alabalacera (2006). Her poems have been partially translated into English and, recently, to German. Her dexterity as a live performer of poetry out loud has given her a place in renowned festivals such as Festival de Poesía de Rosario, Argentina; Latinale, Berlin (2016); Festival de la Palabra, San Juan (2015); Festival de la Lira, Ecuador (2015); La Habana International Book Fair, Cuba (2014) and Festival del Caracol, Tijuana (2013). Her poetry is included in several anthologies and her work has appeared at the Boston Review, 80 grados, Clarín, El País, and elsewhere. She is the co-editor of the anthology of Puerto Rican contemporary poetry Vientos Alisios, that was originally published in Mexico City, followed by revised editions in Spain and Cuba.