3 Poems

Nacho Oliden

While Someone Played "Zamba Del Grillo"

At that time of the afternoon when things wear out,
The labyrinths of six strings were drawn by the fire.
Feathers, tin, dust, a butterfly, a kiss,  
All was squeezed by the night like a poppy,
And saved inside the guitar
Like another match in its box.

A Certain 5 O'Clock Tea

The hanging kettle,
The braided water,
The green tea.

Cup clouds grow.

A green stone on a ring
That appears in the mist,
And disappears in the mist.

She Sleeping

Her cheeks:

Minted silver
In gloom unbounded.

But even the moon is only poetical because there is a man in the moon. (CHESTERTON: The man who was Thursday)

Buenos Aires, 2021.

Nacho Oliden

In charge, with Facundo, of the translation column Paraphrasis, I share hidden or forgotten treasures with the literary world. I find LPB an extraordinary point of encounter for cultures and arts, for discovering new authors, and for enjoying life in its poetic form, whether it be reading the submissions, or talking with the editing crew.

Issue 34
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