by Ivana Rogar

Poems are souls on paper,
Covering pages like snow,
Mile after mile.
Reading them we walk the poet’s paths
And the paths become ours for a while.

We are journeying into unknown,
Reaching deep into the field of grain
To pick grapes of versatility and knowledge
(which after us still remain
For others to come and delight
In their welcome of the heart)
Until we go back, putting the book away
And the paths close down and fall apart.

by Blanca Castellón

In the midst of today’s death
a poem was born

alone
so alone

its cactus body

stores water
for days of thirst.

Translated by Roger Hickin

by Blanca Castellón

( When I lose myself )

Dear Blanca
I haven’t seen you of late

you’ve been
insubstantial
ethereal
transparent
and all those things
that prevent
our meeting

I guess you’ve used
your wings
and risen
to the clouds
you like so much

I say this because yesterday
when I looked up at the sky
one seemed to have
your exact profile

I thought out loud:
Blanca come down
I need you
and a sudden breeze
brought tears
to my eyes.

Translated by Roger Hickin

by Blanca Castellón

     “To be, or not to be: that is the question” — W. S.

To be a poet
the main thing is to be a poet

no matter if you wear
a moth–eaten overcoat
a beret
an earring
or tails

if your subject
is flies
or sailors
who kiss and depart

to be a poet
the main thing is to be a poet

to know by heart
the best route to take
to the great beyond
and back

no matter if you wear sandals
catch a bus
ride in a taxi
or a limo

be it of dust in love
you breathe
or Marilyn Monroe you invoke

to be a poet
in Paris in a shower of rain
or under the sun in Granada
before and above all else
you’ve got to be a poet.

Translated by Roger Hickin