Juan Carlos Galeano

          JUAN CARLOS GALEANO was born in the Amazon region of Colombia. He is the author of Baraja Inicial (poetry, 1986), Pollen and Rifles (1997) a book on the poetry of violence, and Amazonia (poetry, 2003), Sobre las cosas (poetry, 2010), and Amazonia y otros poemas (poetry, 2011), and Historias del viento (poetry, 2013). He teaches Latin American poetry and cultures of …

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“She would guide my little fingers but I, / I think now, could never get the hang of it. “| by John Briscoe, finalist 2021 PI Prize


by Fayad Jamís: Fruits ripen in the rain / Horses neigh in the barnyard

A Man And A Woman

by Roberto Fernández Retamar: If a man and a woman happen down the streets that no one else notices,


by Pablo Neruda: I’m going to wrinkle this word, / I’m going to twist it,

The Pilgrim 

“As I say these words I see a bicycle leaning against a wall, / I see a bridge / And the official car disappearing between buildings” | by Nicanor Parra

Godzilla in Mexico

by Roberto Bolaño: Hear me, my son: bombs were falling / over Mexico City

Wind, Water, Rock

by Octavio Paz: The water drills the rock, / the wind disperses the water, / the rock detains the wind.

The Girl In The Forest

by Eliseo Diego: My soul’s Red Riding Hood, the wolf / lurks in the shadows where no one expects him

Farewell to the Führer

Farewell to the Führer, farewell to all Führers who have been or who will be. Farewell to all Führers true or false, good night, I say, good night, With an intimate reactionary sadness Farewell to the Führer who gobbled Black Forest Cake while his tanks fed upon the roads of Europe. Farewell to all Führers …

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Prayer to a Farm Worker

Rise up and look at the mountain, from where the wind, the sun, the water arrive. Thou, who determines the course of rivers, thou who scatters the flight of your soul. Rise up. Look at your hands. Join hands with your brothers, together in blood we go. Now is the time that can be tomorrow. …

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To See Him Again

And never, never again? Not on nights packed with a few stars, or in mornings’ first slender sun or afternoons sacrificed to afternoons? Or at the edge of a pale road that surrounds the farm fields, or a rim of a trembling fountain, whitened by a moon? Or beneath the forest’s lush poplars where, yelling …

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“Copper from my land / black ceramics / from Pomaire / and Oaxaca / Pieces of the day / picked up / on passing / through the roads” |
by Renato Martinez

The Chair

“a favorite book a dirty shirt/a glass full of noise and thirst” | by Fayad Jamís


by Roberto Bolaño: When Lisa told me she had made love / with another, in the eternal / telephone booth of life / in the market in Tepeyac, I thought the world / ended.

The Heavenly Poets 

by Pablo Neruda: What have you done / you intellectualists? Rilkistas? / you fucked up mystifiers, fake witches?

The Tablets 

by Nicanor Parra: I dreamed I was in a desert I was sick of myself