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successor of the poetry magazine on kbin.social > this magazine is dedicated to poetry from all over the world: contributions from languages other than english are welcome! there is more to poetry than english only ...

this magazine could occasionally include essays on poetics, poetry films, links to poetry podcasts, or articles on real-life impacts of poetry

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100 Refutations: Day 73 | InTranslation (intranslation.brooklynrail.org)

submitted 7 months ago by testing to c/poetry@fedia.io

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José Solón Argüello Escobar (1879-1913) was born in León, Nicaragua. During his life he worked as a teacher, poet, and Mexican politician. In Nicaragua, he founded both a private school and a journal, El Heraldo. He was politically active in Mexico his entire life while continuing to publish numerous works of poetry. In 1913, the year his book Cruel Things was published, he actively campaigned for his friend Francisco I. Madero to end what he called “a tyranny in Mexico” and to “restore democracy.” After the assassination of Madero, Argüello fled to New York, but after a short while—disguised as a railroad worker—he snuck back into Mexico with the intention to “execute by his own hands the usurper Victoriano Huerta” (Poetas Modernistas de Nicaragua, 170). He was discovered in August 1913 and executed by firing squad just a few weeks later.

#100refutations #nicaragua #mexico

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[–] testing 1 points 7 months ago

from the article:

Witches

Tell me, oh! Old wise witches Saturday doctors, if awaits me good fortune or awaits me bad.

*******Seek for yourselves in nights of moon among the ugliest, among fistfuls of weeds, *******among the hidden *******who hide the strangest things: smoke rising from bats or terrifying toads, the dead-black wings of hapless owls, and undulating vipers: every bug that brings disgust *******Oh! Witches, Saturday doctors.

Let them growl in the pot, inside clay bowls pour in foul grease brought to you by dragons crawling out of the graves of the still-rotting dead, *******as howl hyenas in the fields.

And let them boil, let them roar after you’ve cast your conjurations after you’ve clad your faces with contortions demonic emulations, after the columns have begun to slither like snakes with fire and fatuous smoke *******that in the cavern speak predictions, *******Oh! Witches, Saturday doctors.

Stir in long shadows, with long fangs, *******and let frightful demons rise *******so that, in pale *******nocturnal assembly I can be told of the fortune reserved for fays, *******Oh! Witches, Saturday doctors. *******—Crac, crec, croc. Black cat, mewing. *******—Crac, crec, croc. Feeble dog, howling. *******croc, croc.

So that, in pale nocturnal assembly, I can be told of the fortune reserved for fays *******Oh! Witches Saturday doctors…

“What moon phase do you seek?” *******crac, crec, croc

The one shining over Cyprus amid the love of roses. Is there still one for me…? *******—Crac, crec, croc

“How long have you held life’s harm?”

Oh, I am an old man! Today I pressed my hand against the twenty eighth ledge…

“Oh! The horror!”

Smoke, rises, *******Croc, croc, croc Flees, the cloud. (And rose in flight the old women, *******the perverse doctors, like a famished flock of furies with sinister mocking and yelling, *******making a thousand twisted faces. Their long manes like ruffled feathers *******unfurled and black, like the long crest of long *******snaking smoke.)