Mad Girl's Love Song, Poem By Sylvia Plath

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

 

«Canción de amor de la joven loca»

Cierro los ojos y el mundo muere;
Levanto los párpados y nace todo nuevamente.
(Creo que te inventé en mi mente).

Las estrellas salen valseando en azul y rojo,
Y arbitraria ingresa galopando la negrura:
Cierro los ojos y el mundo muere.

Soñé que me hechizabas en la cama
Cantabas el sonido de la luna, me besabas locamente.
(Creo que te inventé en mi mente).

Dios cae del cielo, las llamas del infierno se evaporan:
Escapan serafines y soldados de Satán:
Cierro los ojos y el mundo muere.

Imaginé que volverías como dijiste,
Pero envejezco y olvidé tu nombre.
(Creo que te inventé en mi mente).

Debí haber amado al pájaro de trueno, no a ti;
Al menos cuando llega la primavera ruge otra vez.
Cierro los ojos y el mundo muere.
(Creo que te inventé en mi mente).

 

Los domingos (On Sundays) song by Arelis Uribe

En esta calle en este barrio
en esta villa que está acá
Vive mi madre vive mi hermano
vive toda mi familia

Y nos juntamos y conversamos
y comemos lo que hay
Y nos peleamos y nos reímos
y compartimos pa' fumar

Y siempre vengo acá los domingos
Me vengo en tren a veces en micro
Acá en el sur hay verde y hay frío
La periferia es hambre y abrigo

En esta calle en esta plaza
salen las niñas a jugar
Veo a mi abuela a mis sobrinos
veo a toda mi familia

Por la ventana miro el camino
se mezclan pasto y basura
Casas de fierro techitos grises
palafitos de ciudad

Siempre vengo acá los domingos
Me voy en tren a veces en micro
Acá en el sur hay verde y hay frío
La periferia es hambre y abrigo

La periferia es hambre y abrigo x3

En esta calle en este barrio
en esta villa que está acá
Vive mi madre vive mi hermano
vive toda mi familia

Y nos juntamos y conversamos
y comemos lo que hay
Y nos peleamos y nos reímos
y compartimos pa' fumar

Siempre vengo acá los domingos
Me voy en tren a veces en micro
Acá en el sur hay verde y hay frío
La periferia es hambre y abrigo X2

La periferia es hambre y abrigo X2

Esquicio del vuelo, poem by José Mármol

Voy a dibujar un pájaro que es su mismo vuelo. Y un vuelo que aun no tiene pájaro, vuelo que se crea con su pájaro. Pájaro agotado en los tonos de su vuelo. No voy a dibujar un pájaro volando sino al mismo vuelo dibujándose. Y en mi turno de sentirme dios. Voy a crear un himno para el viento y la memoria.

Poem by Jon Walker (King of Kodak) translated by Arelis Uribe

 

 

 

donde el yo caes
y tú es poco importante

en secuencia temporal
o espacio o impresión

viste cómo estuve a punto
de menearme como un imposible
valle de girasoles
en el sentir de ti
y tu mirada

quizá comenzando por ahí
pero prefiero pensar que no

(mis girasoles y tu mirada)
una inmediación entre ambos
llamada impacientemente al momento

he esperado todo este tiempo para

reunir solo una vez (no hay suficientes)
esa silenciosa catedral de verano adorablemente

en una pieza y frotar el polen
entre mis dedos que algún

día podría del todo desaparecer
(mis girasoles, tu mirada) algo
sabría

tan intimamente como para olvidarlo jamás

Congratulations, you have been awarded $5,000 from the City Artists Corps Grants!

Proposed creative public engagement outline*

My creative public engagement proposal is an art-making workshop, called "Creative Writing Picnic!". It will be a 120 minutes in-person meeting on DIY culture, poetry, and zines for up to 20 people at Prospect Park.

Based on my experience as Founder & Publisher at "Editorial Negra"—a Latin American poetry press based in New York—, I will offer a space for attendees to gather, talk, write, and listen.

The session will be divided into two sections: First, I will present Editorial Negra’s literary press project to the public. I’ll do this by giving its whole collection of six zines to attendees at no cost. Furtherly, I will offer a poetry concert to collectively read some of the zine's poems.

For the second stage, I will host a creative writing workshop. I am a published author of three books of narrative (fiction and nonfiction), and I’ve been holding literary workshops and book clubs for a wide range of audiences since 2014. So, I will invite assistants to draft short poetry passages, prose, or storytelling, based on their own experiences during the pandemic or their current concerns on politics, environment, arts, etc. Then, they will have time to voluntarily read and share their pieces within the group. Finally, I will show them how to succinct their creative writing work into a one-page zine—the simplest do-it-yourself book that has ever existed.


How do you plan to promote your creative public engagement?*

The first promotional space I count on is social media. Editorial Negra and I are on Instagram (@editorialnegra, and @uribearelis, respectively), and together both accounts sum +13,000 followers. This community is integrated mainly by literary art lovers and Spanglish speakers living in New York City. Thus, I will design digital ads to promote the Creative Writing Picnic, and I will use the power of my social media influence to spread the invitation to join the event. I also contemplate paying for online ads if needed.  Finally, I will trust the power of word-of-mouth.

Thank you for visiting the MCA: Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago

 

Christina Quarles, When It'll Dawn on Us, Then Will It Dawn on Us, 2018. Acrylic on canvas; 77 1/4 x 96 x 2 in. (196.2 x 243.8 x 5.1 cm). © Christina Quarles. Courtesy of the artist, Regen Projects, Los Angeles, and Pilar Corrias Gallery, London.

Artist statement (for the Tusen Takk Foundation)

I am a writer, a person that catches thoughts into printed words. I started to pen when little—I was a shy kid, and writing was the only manner I found to bond intimately and confidently with others. Besides, my mother was an eager reader, and even though we were a working-class family, there were books at home. I loved reading as well, I always encountered fun and company in novels. Thus, writing was a natural step for me to take.

I studied Journalism, which made me fall in love with nonfiction storytelling. However, at 29, I published a fiction short stories book: "Quiltras." This name is a feminine plural word I borrowed from Mapudungun (the Mapuche indigenous people's language) used in Chilean slang to name stray, mixed-race dogs. I am a halfbreed brown-skinned woman, raised in a proletarian neighborhood. I was ardent to create stories defying the white, European, and male canon literature. I did so, and still do.

My debut was a seed that germinated me into an author—I published two subsequent books, held creative writing workshops, was a literature professor at universities, founded a poetry press, and addressed talks regarding my work across Chile and abroad.

Art and creative disciplines are chains of generations, an hourglass where previous authors feed new ones. I follow Roberto Bolaño, Patti Smith, Svetlana Aliexevich, Toni Morrison, Violeta Parra, and Pedro Lemebel as if they were my best friends. I've promised myself to be honest when writing Journalism, and lie like the worst villain while telling fiction. And I am accepting that every time I try to pen a poem I write up prose.

What I've learned, so far, I’ve tried to share it. I would like to say to those who dream of being an author: write using the words you talk, avoid pretentious prose, let the text rest, read yourself aloud, edit and delete without compassion, and tell stories above all.

And finally: literature, poetry, and writing are about connection. You are, over there, far away from me, and can feel me anyhow. When you read my words, you hear my voice in your head, as if I were right next to you. As if we were together, because thanks to writing, we are.