Heptagrama 2010 poetry contest

In the 2010, Heptagrama called for submissions for its second poetry contest. The call ended on January 31st, 2010. 124 poets took part of the same.

The jury gave granted the prize to the poem "Paridad" by Daniel Rojas. Honourable mentions were also given to "Adagio", "Another dream", "Tryptich", "Ruins", "Solitude", "From the flower, the alive watercourse gets renamed", "Urban education", "Mental note", and "Celestino".

The jury was composed by Blanca Barojiana, Elisabet Cincotta, Ana I. Hernández Guimerá, Ana Lucía Montoya Rendón, and Liliana Varela.

Heptagrama thanks the jury and all the poets taking part of the contest.



"What's the good of Mercator's North Poles and Equators
Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?"
So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply
"They are merely conventional signs!"
Lewis Carroll —The hunting of the snark

There are still undersides to go through

Forgotten by that habit

To look into the everyday abyss...

And awake,

We dream

That negligent hope

Like the forgiveness of a Mannerist god without eyelids

Watching over the electric night of those born lunatics

"You have stopped growing, son; now you start to die"

Open the curtains

And it lets that retina

In its most ferocious point

Thrust through wide-open the sacred heart of your shadow...

There isn't more beautiful reflection

Than that which translates to the wall of oblivion

And she...

Crossed to the other side.

© Daniel Rojas Pachas, from Chile

Honourable mentions

Another dream

In the never-ending spiral
which has imposed to itself a blue name
with aroma of lavender

the lost laughter and a hollow dream
go through the two centimetres which wet the smile
and I search with muddy shoes

I walk

always to the centre of the nothing
which melts among words

past, feathers of black angel
trapped in caramel crystals

ethylic sugar, defeat of desire
relish the memories
the flow of a life

I breathe

a spark which embraces
the pyre of dried trunk

enlightening the never-ending night
of forging the silhouette of dream

the black feathers are falling in spiral
dance the shadows over its reflection
and I wake up away from me


caught among rebel herbs of a city
tearing my pupils with desert sand

© Claudia Islas Coronel, from Mexico



you walk under the rain
castaway from your own dreams
defeated of hopes
enduring the weight
of an unsolicited failure
without knowing where you are going
you just get carried away
like a cork in the water

in this inclement and savage world
in this confusing and tough world

with your illusions mashed by the cruel weight
of the implacable reality which falls over you

you go aware to an abyss
of dust and defeat

you go knowing these are the last steps
your tired-of-bustle feet give.


from here the city looks
like a live mass which comes to smash me
the eyes start
to drop their rain

from this immense bridge
I see life go by
like a confusing crystal before my eyes

from this immense bridge
you see from faraway
the land which will receive me
the dust which will be my dwelling


josé, you will not go to run in the streets
through the green prairie between mangos and guava apples any more
nor you will play topao nor cops and robbers
nor you will fail to assist to the lessons to go do acrobatic leap in the riverbed and go swim and play in the open air like a fish in the water

your clock interrupted
and your life stopped

and you might be wondering, josé, what this cold wind which is, that pulls out tears from you?

why do they pluck you out from your games and laughters?

why is it your fault that the grown-ups don't understand?

you don't know anything, you just feel that crying
which opens cuts in your small face
while you defy the air
in an involuntary flight

you know nothing, josé, and you will never know.

© Luis Reynaldo Pérez, from Dominican Republic


Among the pure works, nothing to do.
Neither among the Souls or the Ruins.
—César Dávila Andrade

And I will burn
With the edge of the night
Inappropriate, there
Rest would not even get close
Deprived from the silicon of god.

Food hurts the throat
Daily-added torment
to the drunk alcohols.

My hands grow in the air
They do small edible shapes.
They draw in the rain
Complete universes
With false nails.

And cuts
The night.

© Juan Secaira Velástegui, from Ecuador


...And the hand
notices everything it sees; so does my spirit.
The hand grabs the pen which traces lines
which reveal words with erect as verses
which build my story. The word transits
both deserted and crowded paths. It confronts me.
She is not acquiescent. It only expresses what it manages to understand
or what moves it. (She understands so little
about me, and that impulses me to move to her secret.)
The paper expands like a brain
with memory, sister of mine, tormented.
That paper which moans with a livid face
for the ink which enchains my anguish, it tries
to shout, to ask for help, but it cannot.
Nothing can be seen. There are not windows nor ways out.
Just the darkness and the labyrinth. Without void.
With a floor which sustains what still fights in me
against the only thing forged next to me which doesn't run away:
me. There are not partners in my abyss of walls.
In the total darkness, does my shadow come with me?

© Musa Ammar Majad, from Venezuela

From the flower, the alive watercourse gets renamed

From the flower, in an instant a open bird
shakes out in the summer,
a burst of wings, a sigh,
the solemn cartography of the one which departs.
The demons which are avoided
just by opening the corolla are audacious.
Migrate with the pollen to another cant,
get contained in the word which renames you.

There is an unread postal card
in the courier of an non-existent way.

From the flower, a lonely doubt gets expelled,
a nocturnal never known.
They are clocks of pistils which melt
in the time without a time of departure,
perfect erections of storm,
of rays which cross over the torrents,
of sun which heat-treats the absences.

From the flower, the alive watercourse gets renamed
of a morning which was previously a night,
any season arises,
any emptiness, as eternal glow,

...and a thorn gets stuck in the column.

© Magdalena Ruiz Jimenez, from Argentina

Urban education

The street awakens bloated of memories,
It knows about itself and it doesn't know why.

They open it the path while summer goes by,
They do say to chase away the wrinkles,
They do say to let it grow during fall.

It knows sky is untouchable
And it wishes to be it,
Aerial, grated on by the roars of insects,
Chasing away the life that arises in the earth,
Away from the food which intercedes to become a slit,
From a sky which knows that tonight
It will be reached by the avenues
And it will be tangible, tactile
Like the slits of goddesses
When they love a man.

© Ivan Vergara García, from Mexico

Mental note

(to Jorge Díaz Martínez)

because of love
we will have to wash the sheets again
—Pablo García Casado

spread the legs,
kiss without energy,
pose the eyes on
the candle at the corner;
repeat your name
in my innermost thoughts
an average of every
three seconds and a half,
keep silence
—or moan what's due—
feel the heavy body
and without willingness to dance,
convince me,
almost reach,
lie to myself,
ignore your photo
which looks at me
from the small table,
change position,
force a slight short laboured breath,
turn around, turn over,
turn the look and find myself
with the spots
  you left
    a few weeks ago.

while I caress with pretended interest
the face of someone who looks a lot like you,
I think
  I will need to wash the sheets again.

© Anna-Lisa Marí Pegrum, from Spain


"The more the years go by
the best memories taste"
—Alberto Cortez

I speak for the lost days

and for their afternoons
  and their nights
when the aroma of ink
drew by fire
the mute stories of my dreams.

When it blinds completely
—omitting the offences
of your inalienable heart—
it was tearing off shamelessly
one by one my phony letters.

When taking maximum advantage
of the semantic ambiguity
I used the mask of poets
  irreverent —daring—
making love to words.

I speak because, if it is about love
there is not separation of goods
  —separation of memories—
there is not anyone who may claim for himself
the drops of rain
of an afternoon stolen to the time
the unprecedented sleeplessness
  occasioned to alien nights.

I speak
  because this voice is mine.
Because memories
  —like good wine—
mature deliciously in the entrails
at a walking pace of a permissive


© Mónica Morales Rocha, from Mexico



Notes which fly as transparent doves,
Melody which opens the afternoon in sixty sections,
Two strings over the world,
And a draft of air.
Uncertainty of time
Which we ought to live in the adagio.
Sun of wings and yellow feathering,
Flower of light, ocean ballad,
snowy and black amber piano,
Wind which dishevels trees when it rains.


Oh adagio, how your notes
Buzz in enlightened darts
Buttoning up and down this sadness
Which knocks over in the insomnia.
A string whistling a question,
Sap of abysses next to my bed.


You march after the dawn
And the violin plays the memory
Of your hands in my temple.
Bewildered heart which unsettles.
Final note and a sentence:
A door which closes to the mistrust.

© Lady López Zepeda, from Mexico

Arts and expression + Poetry