Poema traducido de Xanath Caraza – Poesía México-Americana



*After La flor de guayaba by Israel Nazario*


In the garden’s mist

lapis lazuli beats it wings.

Pint-size fluttering spans out

Pearly, dawn light

White, seductive flower

beckons for a taste of her honey, offering herself

with morning dew

Perfume entwined with moisture

Thick, blue atmosphere

Guardian guava tree of malachite

Shimmer of light smolders

from the hummingbird’s wings

Soft music drenches

the flower’s pistil

with first contact, then

delicately draws up the honey





*Para La flor de guayaba de Israel Nazario*


En la brisa del jardín

agita sus alas el lapislázuli.

Diminuto sonsonete esparce

la nacarada luz del amanecer.

Blanca flor seductora,

invita a probar su miel, se dilata

con el rocío de la mañana.

Perfume entretejido con la humedad.

Densa atmósfera azul

custodia al guayabo de malaquita.

Destellos de luz emanan

de las alas del colibrí.

Música suave se impregna

en el pistilo de la flor

con el primer contacto, entonces

chupa delicadamente la miel.


(Poema incluido en Noche de colibríes, Pandora Lobo estepario Productions Press, 2014)


Flor de guayaba – Israel Nazario

Seattle in Flames



the city feeds,

it grows with its concrete arms


primordial virtue,

creating ecosystems of opulence,

of fantasy, of misery,

of utopia versus reality.

The city

keeps growing


cold, humid, impatient

with its steel, long-necked beasts

devouring forests, lakes

history, martyrs

stories and memories,

washing away faults

and fortunes,

creating magnificent infrastructure

in pursuit

of modernity.


The city flickers and shines


it knows it is powerful

it dresses in light every night

seducing the court

of a nebulous imperial palace.

And it lies


in its cradle of mountains,


in an almost eerie verdure,

its towers

rise up defiantly,


it expands into boulevards,

bridges and streets,



museums, houses, and businesses,

plazas like temples,


more mansions

and more businesses

dealing in moments that satisfy lives,

in truths that taste of lies

and general prostitution.


The port opens


with its giant, threatening iron crows

waiting to disembark,

fat floating fish

from Asia, Oceania

Latin America, and Canada

they arrive, they make offerings

and they leave.

To the south,

the airport

flowing with history, desires

with its thousands of currencies and passports

nourishing the city.


The monorail moves forward rapidly

from Seatac to the exorbitant university,

the cars, the taxis, trucks

rush headlong in a stampede down the grand highway

from north to south and from south to north

like a spinal cord.

Don’t you hear it?

They scream

the inhabitants scream


some living and others dead

the innocent

and the indecent of unspeakable notoriety,

listen to them scream

in the glaring stadiums,




and streets, hospitals,

in pain, with jubilation, out of hunger,

for justice

or on the corners

dressed in fictitious poverty,

starving for pity,

for heroin

victims of a system that is never discussed,

dozing off in a toxic breeze

called reality.

They also scream

Oh sacred and exemplary democracy!

in their marches

marked by ambiguous propaganda

by indifference, by short-lived truths

or truths that burn,

the anarchists,



those from the reclaiming and bleeding right,

the first-world left,

the hipster bourgeoisie,

the nonconformists,

refugees, activists,

absolutists, hypocrites,

the politically incorrect,

the whites, the blacks

and the whites against blacks,

those against everyone,

those who passed by here,

and… ah! the immigrants,

Asians, Africans, Latin Americans

trying to live a dream that does not exist

in the land of miserly freedom.

But they keep screaming


in the gardens of Mercer Island,

Medina, and Madison Park,

in kitchens,


construction sites

with their deformed lexicon

cultivating nine-digit dreams

that taste like social security.

It purrs,

the city purrs

like a drunken cat,

dizzy with prosperity,

in its alleys and under its bridges

with its indigents,

on Aurora Avenue like a seductive street-walker

or on the Hill with its bars and cantinas

or on any corner

of Pioneer Square.

And it laughs;

The city laughs shamelessly

don’t you see it?

because she knows she is worshipped

by the religious,


liberals and nationalists,

by those worth nothing and those worth everything

the city feeds


for the wise and the ignorant

it seduces the audacious,

dividing them

into ethnicities, genders, languages

into races, like dogs!

many prisoners

of their fears and misfortunes

of a blind, limbless, and mute government

and cities that look like prisms

incapable of bearing the weight of such diversity.


The city sings, the city cries,

the city lives, creates, destroys

and transforms itself,

it vibrates!

in each moment,

with each immigrant

with every laugh, at every station,

with each death and with each birth,

with every march and every scream of truth,

with every investor,

with every orgasm,

with every praise,

with every tree,

with every wave of the sea.

Long live the city!


Translated by Marie Garcia


My Body of Water

My body of water

Evaporates in the breeze

Condenses, accumulates

Falls from the sky in little tears.

Runs free through the rivers

Waterfalls and rapids

Sleeps among the lakes

And plays in hot springs.

Weary of its travels now

Impatient in the low lands

It slips out discreetly

To sleep in calmer waters.


Translated by… Martin Boyd

I Am My Own Labyrinth

my landscapes were conceived,
and haughty
my hillsides rose up,
my ideas suddenly flowed
and my hairs
were a thousand serpents.
I was borne out of the ancient
bonfires of my demons
without the weighty vesture of my body,
then covered in alabaster was
my system,
in cosmic dust my core,
in marble and stone, gold and blasphemy,
and in ceremonial rite
my sacrament.
I am…
the shipwrecked eyes
of my father
and of my mother, her fragile spine,
my hands are from Aquarius,
my science inexact
and delicate
my silhouette hazy,
ancient is my blood
as ancient are my words
they are always written taciturnly,
time and again
my wandering words
time and again
are written, again
under the light of the moon.
I am my own labyrinth,
changeable, deep,
covered in mirrors, some broken
I am a thunderous voice
that pronounces curses,
I am destruction!
a smoldering footprint,
the eternal flame,
my labyrinth gobbles me up
wholly and verse-by-verse,
at times it spits me out and I escape in silences
but then I return
my labyrinth calls me
singing falsehoods
and I enter
into its boreal bosom.
are my landscapes and haughty
are my hillsides,
Castilian my ideas are born
and my hairs… a thousand serpents.


Translated by  Marie Garcia

My Roots…


slowly and slowly they spread,


and, timid, they feed but do not cease, they devour everything and everything is never enough, they want more.

From my mouth they flow sonorous, they change everything like prose gilded in glinting letters, but pay them no mind… run! hide! they lie, a structureless world cannot be real.

Through my feet they split the concrete, leaving steaming, seething tracks. Through my blood, black and starry like the night, the myths of my existence move densely, written in cosmic ink… my legends. And through my eyes they die, poisoned by nostalgia, drowned by so much reality.

But then…

like spontaneous combustion,

my hands revive them with their boiling touch and through sex they seep out as scalding fluids and my skin becomes drunk on their salt.

They grow, slowly, they continue growing inside and out, they expand furious and furious they burn me, they distance themselves from me, they drink up everything, everything, thirsty and fat, rotund they return.

They burn me, slowly, they burn me,

tangled around my body they penetrate me, my roots

inside and out in a

mortal flame.


Translated by  Marie Garcia


Astral personage – Remedios Varo

Before the First Kiss

For me… for me speaks my voice, my nervous fingers, my short memory that needs to think more than once about how to describe this feeling to you, what is and what you cannot understand, that which escapes from my sad eyes in its frustrated attempt at being, even if just for a moment, understood. For me speak my lips, which I bite with every deep sigh, my impatient feet, my lost but attentive gaze, my smile, freely given and honest, and wishing to be reciprocated. For me speak these restless hands to tell you, even through silly gestures, how much I like your eyes, and how much it scares me that I like them so, and my own, my eyes, want to tell you that it doesn’t matter that there are no articulate words, that I don’t need any because my scalding mouth will learn your language with every touch, in every breath there will be a story, and in each kiss… my secrets.

I want you to know, with the clarity of my stilted words, more because of nerves than anything else, that I will give this night to you completely, from the first kiss to the farewell sun, for you to see in every stutter, in every misspoken word, that I am enchanted by your scent, your infinite nose, your crooked eyebrows and the shape of your neck, for my madness about you, about this night, about the rain that won’t let you leave and which I don’t want to end, to last forever, like your gaze that traverses me. You must realize once and for all that I am weakened by you, by your breathing, vulnerable to your hands that deliberately caress mine and by your strange accent that confuses me and interlaces clumsily with my own, that like this, so close, without saying anything, I tell you everything.

For me speaks my native language, my breath, this beating heart that I hand over to you, my foreign past and my present now with you, my uttered lies, my hidden truths, my reason for being right here on this night, and in short, and before stealing the first kiss … my desire.


Translated by  Marie Garcia

My Harvest Moons

Sometimes, my eyes become huge like two moons and want to absorb everything, and everything seems to fit inside them. Their lashes scrape against the wind with every blink and my eyebrows raise disdainfully like the legs of a ballerina, my nose wrinkles up mystically, the volcanoes beneath my cheekbones explode and I bite my lips, thirsty for honey, hungry for warmth and another’s lips. Now and again, I forget about the imagined monsters and the ghosts of faraway houses, then my back straightens, arching ambitiously, my hips become promiscuous dancers and my defiant alabaster legs break through fears with every step. Some nights, I do not recognize myself and prefer not to, I only want to let myself be carried away by the sudden bubbling impulse that inebriates me. At times my moons become so restless that they, like lighthouses, curiously scan the streets, bars, and seas of other moons for mutual desire. Nothing troubles me but everything seduces me, corrupts me, and reduces me to the ultimate puzzle seeking to be solved, only between another’s sheets.

That’s why, when you see my moons light up like this, like comets, sparkling and rotund with secrets, as if it were October in the middle of May and all of my vernal skin could be contained in a dry autumn leaf, do not avert your gaze for an instant, hold it firm, challenging me, bite your lips and take me away with you, because this will be the only night that I… belong to you. 


Translated by  Marie Garcia