By Edgar Rincón Luna
Translation by Anthony Seidman

At a certain moment
after having left home
you thought that you had forgotten something
an object
something uncertain
and that it was necessary to turn back

Once in particular
while in the middle of childish games and glee
a word took you by surprise
and you turned your gaze elsewhere in search of it

Then with undeniable fear
a voice surprised you while you spoke
another voice
simple another

And when the vast and
traversable night offered herself to you
you became aware how
between the dust and the city
for us
poetry was building an enclosure

Por Edgar Rincón Luna
En el español original

En algún momento
después de haber salido de casa
pensaste que algo se te había olvidado
un objeto
algo desconocido
y que era necesario regresar

Alguna vez
en medio del juego infantil y la risa
una palabra te tomó por sorpresa
y volviste tus ojos a otro sitio buscándola

Entonces entre el miedo innegable
una voz te soprendió mientras hablabas
simplemente otra

Y cuando la noche se te ofreció vasta
te diste cuenta
de cómo entre el polvo y la ciudad
la poesía se nos fue levantando un cerco

(Today’s poem is taken from the collection Aquí empieza la noche interminable (Tierra Adentro; Mexico City). Different versions of today’s poem appeared in Hunger Magazine (2003) and The Bitter Oleander (2010). “El Cerco” and this translation appear here today with permission from both the poet and the translator.)

Edgar Rincón Luna is a poet from Ciudad Juárez, Mexico. He is the author of several collections including Aquí empieza la noche interminable (Tierra Adentro) and Puño de Whiskey (Ediciones sin nombre). His poetry has appeared in dozens of journals in Mexico, Spain, and the United States, including Reverso, Beyond Baroque, Hunger, and The Bitter Oleander.

Editor’s Note: Inherent in the words, imagery, and meter of today’s poem, simplicity dances with vastness in a way that at once lulls me and keeps me alert. Simple, elegant, beautiful; culminating in a final stanza that is as lovely and evanescent as the dust it’s built upon.

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las afinidades electivas / las elecciones afectivas


By Anthony Seidman

A jungle, a small jungle, the size
of a hummingbird-heart or crab-nebula
witnessed through an Arizona telescope the girth
of a blue whale’s lungs; a jungle
only I can hear: its rustle of fronds, ant
mandibles scissoring leaves which
will raft phalanxes across the river
and into the bush, ox-carcasses scattered and
picked to the bone; a jungle with its thunder
as rain clatters on the canopy
covering this page; a jungle,
no larger than a toddler’s tooth,
yet teeming with beetles, rills,
spider-monkeys, irritable tarantulas, termites;
it is a jungle I taste in the manner
a boy extends his tongue in a snowfield,
and flake lands on tongue’s tip and
twilight is like voices reverberating
through amniotic fluid into an embryo’s sleep;
a jungle I savor as fruitful, fluvial, tang of lemon,
lifetimes of salt, a fountain of milk,
a tributary, the blossom of a wet dream;
this jungle which you too
apprehend, like a man smelling lust
in the pores of a female flushed with estrus,
the way a woman tastes the stiffened nerves
in a boy awakening to puberty like
fanged fish flitting through warm currents–
this, the jungle I bequeath you. It is the genius
jungle, the genus jungle, the shaman’s feather,
and the word’s ovulation. It is the only
jungle that matters. The emerald
flash between two immemorial nocturnes.

(“Transmissions” originally appeared in The Bitter Oleander, and appears here today with permission from the poet.)

Anthony Seidman is the author of six collections of poetry, including Where Thirsts Intersect (The Bitter Oleander Press), Black Neon (Pudding House Press), and the artist’s book The Motel Insomnia, created with French artist, Jean-Claude Loubieres, and published by AdeLeo Editions of Paris, France. His poetry, short fiction, essays and translations have appeared in such publications as Pearl, The Bitter Oleander, Nimrod, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Cider Press Review, Poetry International, and in Latin America in Newsweek en Español, La Jornada, Critica, La Prensa of Managua, Nicaragua, the University of Guadalajara’s Luvina.

Editor’s Note: Today’s poem is as thick as the jungle it shares with us. Words, hard consonants, alliteration, and images have to be cut through with the mind’s machete to trek along this rich track. Your reward? The Congo, the Amazon, the jungles of Papa New Guinea. A jungle that can only be seen under a microscope; a jungle that reaches the far corners of the universe. Be patient, be persistent, be adventurous. Seek, and you shall find.

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Out of Nothing
Big Bridge
White Print Inc.


By Martin Camps

Mosquitoes do not die of hunger.

There is always a leg for them

an arm or a deaf ear to their hungry voice.

You will never see the aged corpse of a gnat.

They only know about violent death:

of a body burst by a slap,

by a discharge of light or by air poisoning.

They will sink the day they find out they can

walk on the water.

(“Mosquitos” appears here today with permission from the poet.)

Martin Camps has published three books of poetry in Spanish: Desierto Sol (Desert Sun, 2003), La invencion del mundo (The Invention of the World, 2008), and La extincion de los atardeceres (The Extintion of Twilight, 2009). Has is the recipient of two poetry prizes from the Institute of Culture of Mexico and an Honorable Mention in the Bi-National Poetry Prize Pellicer-Frost in 1999. His poems have been published in The Bitter Oleander (Pemmican Press), Alforja, and Tierra Adentro, among others. He answers all email at

Editor’s Note: Martin Camps is among my all-time favorite poets. His work never ceases to be breathtaking in its form, its function, and–especially–its sound. The way Camps plays with language appears, in some ways, to stem more from his Spanish-speaking roots than from an experimental poetry slant, and the effects simply blow me away. And then, of course, in all his poetic brilliance, he concludes with an epic end-line.

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See an alternate version of today’s poem: Mosquitoes

Peticao a NASA
La Belleza de No Pensar