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Articles tagged "Prose Poetry"

Room

In that town there was a room I kept circling. It was near my girlfriend’s. She didn’t know I sometimes climbed those stairs. On the wall there were photos from before the war. I talked to an old Frisian writer about it. He said, “I know that room. I should actually go in there, but I’m afraid I’ve left it too late.” He was right. He died during the Games. The room is still there—up the steps and left down the corridor. Everyone knows more or less...

from “Tales of the Autumn in Gerona”

A woman—I should say a stranger—who caresses you, jokes with you, is sweet with you and brings you to the edge of the abyss. There, the character cries ah or pales. As though he were within a kaleidoscope and saw the eye that sees him. Colors that order themselves in an alien geometry beyond all that you are prepared to accept as good. So begins the autumn, between the Oñar River and the hill of Las Pedreras. * The stranger is sprawled on the bed. Between loveless...

from “Límites de Alcanía”

Should I say that I take pleasure from treaties? Should I say that I take pleasure, rather, from false treaties? false treatises? * She presumes to know me. Or pretends. Very simple. Flashy, at the exit of a restroom at the cinema (when she collided with me she dropped a tube of lipstick and, underneath my foot, a tube of lipstick?) she says (adopts an aggressive tone) immediately: "Hey, you, ojihondo." She presumes—or rather I presume—that later... but no. The testimony?...

I Had a Brindled Cow

I had a brindled cow, sheltered in the byre. What became of the brindled cow? I traded her for money. What became of the money? The river swept it away. What became of the river? Black bulls lapped it up. What became of the black bulls? They vanished down a long road. What became of the road? It was overgrown by madder. What became of the madder? Maidens picked the yellow flowers. What became of the maidens? They rode away with young men. What became of the men? They built manors beyond...

Halls of the National Museum

I lost sight of my child in the Yi dynasty hall: Like a forgotten royal concubine, I had been staring at the king's rice bowl, goblet and spoon. I dash back at once to the Goryeo dynasty hall, shedding the lotus petals from the white porcelain ink-water container. I scamper amid the jade-green vases. It is as if the vases are falling to one side, collapsing. A dainty crane leaping up, a young pine tree, fresh-water fish falling on the floor and I, helter-skelter. I call out my...

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