Without shunning toponyms, a poetic persona speaks to us from a place called Cincinnati (or also Norman-Oklahoma), very far from Chile, to tell us, however, that sometimes he becomes Chilean, that the days become Sundays or that he feels in Spanish but lives in English. The language of these poems is one of dislocations, of displacements and hybridity. It is a quotidian language, at times strange, that yearns and longs for itself and even unsays itself when it says it cannot say.
Arturo Gutiérrez Plaza
Author Marcelo Rioseco
Translation Grady C. Wray
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Make an appointment for yourself, on the pages of books
like a typo and suddenly show up
like bad news and force others
to live with it, with all its defects, I mean,
so obvious, so expensive to fix.
Or make an appointment as an adverb
to modify, I think, so many loose adjectives
or nounless verbs that are always hanging around.
Pure superficiality and you’re always so poorly conjugated,
like the snow you see fall without understanding.