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She was director of the onboard international magazine Join Us. They never thought that I was one of those who lets herself go in the mud to slurp her grief resigned; untamed grass trying staunchly to hide her rags. A woman that from time to time holds orgies with death and continues to defy its pupils. They thought that I never rose above the razor of absence, of heartbreak and its betrayals; and that mending myself in my cloisters — with some Renaissance-style scribbles — I would be able to dispel agony, gorge that tries to extinguish the weariness of my steps.

Nunca creyeron que yo fuera una de esas que se abandona en el fango para sorber resignada sus desconsuelos; hierba indómita tratando de esconder a ultranza sus harapos. Una mujer que de vez en vez hace orgías con la muerte y sigue desafiando sus pupilas. Pensaron que nunca me había levantado de la navaja de la ausencia, del desamor y sus traiciones; y que zurciéndome en mi claustro, -con algunos garabatos renacentistas- fuera capaz de ahuyentar la agonía, desfiladero que busca apagar el hastío de mis pasos.

No suelo escarbar mi corazón en las vitrinas, no quiero desplomarme ante esa hoguera. Es suficiente tener que morir anticipada entre el murmullo retorcido de los malditos maxilares que excorian con sus bocas de zarza el quicio de mi espalda. Claudia Prado was born in Argentina and currently lives in Jersey City. She is the author of El interior de la ballena , which received the 3er Prize from the Fondo nacional de las Artes; Aprendemos de los padres; and Viajar de noche.

At present, she facilitates Spanish-language creative writing workshops for numerous immigrant organizations in New York and is a current fellow at Culture Push.

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She says her sister gets furious if she hears that someone likes the country. So they like the country? Screw them! Screw them like that year the cows mooed from hunger all night like the chicken whose throat was slit before its time, like us like dad, Angel and me using sticks as levers to get the animals up screw them like those sticks like those sore arms, like the dry tongues of the cows and the dead grass like the mules lugging the water and those years of work that were lost.


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It was the night dying of thirst. Dice que su hermana se enfurece si escucha que a alguien le gusta el campo. Dice que entiende el enojo de su hermana pero que ella era muy chica. Le queda, sí, el silencio de la casa sin adultos, el golpe oscuro del propio corazón y una queja tan aguda, tan grave que no podía ser de una garganta.

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Era la noche que se moría de sed. Rocío Uchofen Lima, Her passion for Literature took her to maintain a webzine called Híbrido Literario, it has been online since Could you sit down and play the piano while I watch you and taste a Merlot of ? Time is unavoidable, it slides by those petroleum lined ceilings.

All night is a hidden highway a winding tunnel. Here the eyes and the hours drown. Last night a moon burst and its bright pieces filled with sounds these lost spaces between the carpet and the wet concrete. Play the piano… When you arrived you had a pencil between your fingers and the desire to fill pages and pages, and many more white, grid pages. You wanted a book full of metaphors, you dreamed your head against the Brooklyn Bridge and you loved a vision of Crane through the glass.

A heartbeat intoxicating your memory, discerning the intimate relationship between your steps and the phases of the moon, or the faded eyes of some woman hidden behind her veil made curtains. Kiss the finger that feeds on the hybrid tulips and remember me.

A monster beats, beats and twists its serpent body to the Hudson. El tiempo puede escurrirse por los intersticios de esta pared que se asemeja a mi piel y que respira los acordes de una melodía deshecha bajo el paso del tren. Si tocas, olvidaré los goteos de las cornisas.

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Ese deseo se llenó de noches para acallar todo lo que le fuera ajeno a tu sabor, el olor de tus frases o tu verbo. Besa el dedo que se nutre de los tulipanes híbridos y acuérdate de mí. Mi cuerpo también sangra y sufre, pero mi boca imita el susurro de las palomas harapientas para que calle el ladrillo manchado de piel. Un monstruo late, late y enrosca su cuerpo de sierpe hacia el Hudson.

Azahara Palomeque El Sur, is a Spanish poet. Palomeque holds a Ph. She lives in exile since Everyone so dead and with blushing faces reaching the shore, off to one side, looking at everything, waiting for the bus at the corner of their eye. Burial mounds so healthy like embroidered sheets, returning to cesareans, to the ripping, leafing part by part through the myth of petals, spring at the bus stop, motionless, for the angel to descend.

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So otherworldly that the future had passed. Babies so ashen collecting leaves, dryly contemplating mirrors with an idea of an offshoot — such scion — women and men like sprigs, fields of fossils. Tan otro mundo que ya fue futuro. Tan cenicientos bebés recogiendo las hojas, contemplando a secas los espejos con una idea de esqueje —tan injerto— mujeres y hombres como espigas, campos de fósiles.

Khédija Gadhoum is a poet and translator. Her poetry has been translated into six languages.

She has been invited to national and international poetry festivals and recitals. She is currently a Spanish senior academic professional in the Department of Romance Languages, at the University of Georgia. Yo supuse que algo sabía del paisaje porque un hilo rojo subrayaba lo del texto en miniatura. En la geografía del viento la cara de la gata regalona de mi madre era aquel flashback que caía en el piso y sus pelos volaban cuesta arriba o cuesta abajo.

En aquel tiempo indagaba sobre el azul y me preguntaba si alguien había osado desenmascarar las paredes de los cuartos de la ciudad con la insondable luz de las estrellas. Recuerdo que fue un día cuando intentaba reunir algunas palabras en un papel. Cuando me perdía en los pisos superiores de un edificio donde a duras penas el órgano urbano alcanzaba el oxígeno. Donde la noche era un poema que nunca imaginé escribir. Ese vuelo que llevaba tu cuerpo fragmentado a mi lecho en caída libre.

Esa loca sombra de tu costilla. Arqueología pura me digo y sostengo así la emoción de saber definitivamente que un poema puede esconder luciérnagas y que la noche espejea inmensa en el universo. Christina M. Her poetry has appeared on gallery walls in The Ekphrastic Poster Show, on car magnets for The Living Poetry Project, and in various literary journals.

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She also serves as Editor-in-chief for the international literary journal The Nassau Review at Nassau Community College where she teaches writing, and she is the founder of the Long Island poetry circuit Poets In Nassau. The little sigh living inside an eardrum. From every soft surface patchouli oil or PineSol.


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Wet leathery soles running uphill in rain. Calves still sore still burning after the incline. Fuzzy sweater no holes: the orange pink yarn strand-by-strand knitted into an itch-heavy-corded for winter snow; a dirt-snow mud-thinned caked into hems of denim. That frost bite scar waxy when light catches. Light from the lamp from the roadside sale from the long drive from the thumbtack on the map from the free weekend from the beginning when jobs and time and money and time and friends and time did not matter.

The quills have worked their way down to fascia muscle bone marrow cell. Ana Vidal Egea , is a published and an award winning author.

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She holds a Ph. Nosotros, los que hemos dicho adiós tantas veces, los que hemos masticado el silencio de los aeropuertos y nos hemos tragado la piedra de la duda; los que tenemos miedo a volar pero volamos a los que nos cabe todo en una maleta, los que hemos llegado de noche adonde nadie nos esperaba. Nosotros, los huérfanos funcionales, los que no recordamos las camas en las que hemos dormido, los que tenemos que confiar en desconocidos, los que seguimos buscando con un mapa en la mano porque no tenemos lugar de descanso; nosotros, apretamos los dientes, agudizamos la vista.

She currently works as a communications director for a large public college in New York City. Keisha regularly teaches English courses across The City University of New York, and also leads writing workshops for non-profits and other organizations. Born in He writes in Kurdish and Arabic. A selection of his poems have been published in more than an international poetic anthology. I rest my head on the rock of the oblivion! I do not care if I never wake up My Two children are whispering in joy and happiness as if they were two lovers and this is the most Important!

Sargon Bolus had passed away in Berlin alone as he always alone, Totter in the brink of death as if he was a drunken Angel he was sick! Ageel Ali had passed away in a sidewalk, as if he was formed to be the crown of all the homeless. Mahmoud Albreekan was killed by a knife of a thief, he was a lighthouse guiding the pirates to his penniless pocket. My two children are eating French fries with mayonnaise. And this is the most important. I do not care if I will be put to death in my birthday like my brother Delshad Meruwani the strange angel of Kurdistan!


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More importantly, my two babies are okay!

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