Third Heptagrama poetry contest
The jury of the third Heptagrama poetry contest, after reviewing the quality of the artwork taking part of the contest, has allowed itself to give, in addition to the first prize, second and third prizes, and six honorary mentions.
Because of its rhythm, beauty and the lyricism in which it transmit emotions in the writing, the first prize unanimously belongs to the poem:
Today I understand it
+ The delicate doom of days
+ And how would that be
+ In the westernmost harbour
+ Pretend to be a word
In turn, we wanted to thank and congratulate any and all of the contestants for their dedication and abnegation, and for making this world a more habitable place through and for poetry, which is the art of life, wrapped up.
June 17th, 2011
Blanca Barojiana, Elisabet Cincotta, Ana I. Hernández Guimerá, Ana Lucía Montoya Rendón, Liliana Varela
How to confess to the world?
Shouting? Articulating? Imagining?
Leaving the task to others?
Mine are the exhumed veins
which burned with the trot of other blood.
Mine are the voices
which turned golden the yellow of the dunes.
Mine, the fierce fingers
and the insane letters
which emerge in the fog.
It hurts to see the intestine
drying off in the sunshine among the stones.
I am sad of the world,
of the questions which get drowned under hammers,
of the outcast who sleep on the grass,
of crying mothers.
Both hurt me, the mermaid who swallowed the desert,
the filament of a match which lit a fire in the jungle.
I hear the flight of the mockingbird:
it has also lost the spine.
What hit of sullen dice awakes me
to tell away the tomb of the ear?
I am not alien to myself,
or to the eyeballs which listen to the silence.
I am not alien to the moss growing in my memories.
I want to barge in a duel,
crawl in the rock boulders,
tear the skin of the infamous with my lips,
swallow the thorns like nuts
and take the swarm into my mouth
to the uppish eyes of other men.
We will have to mend the world from its corners,
with thread, needle, and more tears.
Today I understand it
The water birds bring distant faces,
the house, hurt by lilies, sings it liturgy.
Through the marks the rain has left on the windows,
the garden has turned into a strange polychrome.
My soul has been in the bedroom for hours,
looking for suns in the old letters
the crate of my life has been keeping.
When, as a passenger of the smile, I ran by the universes of childhood
and I looked for the footprints of the nap,
my name enlightened by day dreams and words.
When, full of motherly kisses,
my face grew old, and I thought of my mother as eternal with her magic.
When rain would, for days, knit a grey mantle over souls,
she wrote on white silks, miraculous words.
She never let me read them, she said —they are
for when you are old, for the time in the mirror and the stone.
So I grew old... fearful summer butterfly
shaken by the winds of reason
before the incomprehensible death of years,
which, triumphant, went through my skin, with their tyrant carousel.
Later, I learnt to flourish among songs and stars
and, forgetting myself, I took other dreams in my arms,
which, one day —the law of life— searched for other skies.
Then I mashed bread of tears for my kisses,
and I gave in openly to the fog in my chest.
It were my mother's words, written,
the ones which enlightened the new path,
which every day tell me that life is just
a seed of purification for the eternal.
Every time I meditate them, it's like hearing say,
—they are for times of the stone and the mirror...
Today I understand it.
Beatriz Teresa Bustos
Time does not pass in the bell towers
in the small-town squares
in the red outer wall with lizards
in the clocks of the dead ones.
The moon keeps its eternal circuit
but it stops when I see it.
Just the city runs and runs
like the madmen
who stare at nothing.
Rodrigo Inostroza Bidart
I will not talk about thirst or prisons
To death thunders the silence of the late hour
—Obscurity depth creature—
After the afternoon the core tears apart.
Be anxiousness green thorn in the cold flesh.
A core hardened in thorns
—That thorn... my soul dies in that thorn—
Look at me in the silences nearby
and tell me whether the outcry in the battle
does not shake your sky
Mercy for this body earth!
On the nomenclature where I tear myself apart petal
I will stop being myself.
To cling to the Invisible
I will be who I am
The delicate curse of the days
I have from you nothing but
The picture travelling at time speed
The contact taking long
In turning darkness again
After so many tears
And I say contact as if I was saying God
In the final hours of blood in a gush
Imagine what hands are letting themselves being seen
The body divested of life-saver passwords
Separated lips trying to love the air
But the cold legs on the floor
And the hair on the face
And the staccato cry
Now and then for a huge hit in the heart
And of fury
I take your face between my eyelids
Like a map
Which bears my name and my trees
My known stars
And you become a spell in the prolonged early morning
Like a giant arm
Which squeezes my neck
And tells me "you will live"
María Gisella Aramburu
And how would that be
And how would that be
walking the river
not on barefoot
of having rows
come out and enter life
So much the weathering
so close the foam
and a bolt in the hands
to any dock
and how would it be
something of god
whether it be forgiveness or punishment
sown to the shoulders
which leads me
Alejandra Leonor Parra
Our look did not survive the mist of sleep.
The face which awakes us is unknown again
and the place could be again anywhere.
The depth which kept us close to death
now motivates us to long the arms
and brings us the urge of a yawn.
The silence is still enough
to hold the traces of night:
any voice would just be a useless warning.
We stop to grope for an instant the distances
that suddenly become the usual ones.
Nothing we smell out,
and we continue tidying up the memory
because we feel the certainty of light before our eyes.
We do not wonder whether it is possible
to conquer the future again
at the moment we verify befor the mirror
In the western harbour
Did you not have a rug
of line blessed?
Did the best wizards not
come to your table?
Did the wandered singers
not come up and sing?
A fish hovers heavens
over the western harbour.
Sit down in the dust,
try this wine,
tell me how many times
you chased your phantom.
In the foggy park
the masters live,
but you know they have lied,
they have always lied.
Did the towers of the palace
not fall one after the other?
And they pretended
to flourish at midnight.
Sit down in the smoke,
try this vice,
tell how many heroes
you lost in the mountain.
Don't be afraid of the fires
which can tell your name,
throw the pennon
very high, until the clouds.
Five legions will come
to fight for this reign.
A fish dances its triumph
over the western harbour.
Arts and expression + Poetry