this post was submitted on 24 Nov 2024
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poetry

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successor of the poetry magazine on kbin.social > this magazine is dedicated to poetry from all over the world: contributions from languages other than english are welcome! there is more to poetry than english only ...

this magazine could occasionally include essays on poetics, poetry films, links to poetry podcasts, or articles on real-life impacts of poetry

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María Teresa Ogliastri was born in Los Teques, Venezuela, and lives in Caracas. She is the author of five collections of poetry: Del diario de la señora Mao (From the Diary of Madame Mao, 2011); Polo Sur (South Pole, 2008); Brotes de Alfalfa (Alfalfa Sprouts, 2007); Nosotros los inmortales (We, the Immortals, 1997); and Cola de Plata (Silver Tail, 1994). She has been featured at poetry festivals throughout Latin America, and her poems appear in several anthologies of contemporary Venezuelan poetry. She is a professor of philosophy at the Central University of Venezuela.

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[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 3 months ago

from the article:

Return to the Countryside

Women pounded the grain for a vegetable stew

night was imminent they had to hurry because lanterns were forbidden

when the gong called for dinner the soldiers did not share the meal with the peasants

the next morning half of them had denounced their parents the other half wore posters on their bodies condemned to certain death

the order was to climb the mountain to live up in the heights among the lowliest but the sky answered with floods

so they returned to the cities looking for carrion

that was my army ravenous crows


Rationing

In the line a woman shouts there’s flour

I think of warm biscuits

Soon I hear only rice is left but my happiness is futile

They’re bringing sugar Oh! miracle I will wait I hear words ricochet the sugar is gone

The line begins to disperse

I persist eventually they will bring something finally a hand offers me a chicken I leave with my treasure

In a bookstore nearby a friend has the nerve to read me a long poem the poet doesn’t know why I flee such an ordinary goodbye fills me with guilt

You must live in a country with hunger to understand how a poem’s symmetry can be broken by the slow drip of guts and blood