"You Can Start Right Here"

you can start right here
right this very spot 
it's as good as any other spot on earth 
and from here also all fates and flowings commence


 - Phil Milito
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"Oda al Olor de la Leña"

Tarde, con las estrellas
abiertas en el frío
abrí la puerta.
El mar
galopaba
en la noche.

Como una mano
de la casa oscura
saliò el aroma
intenso

Visable era el aroma
como
si el árbol
estuviera vivo.
Como si todavía palpitara.

Visible
como una vestidura.

Visible
como una rama rota.

Anduve
adentro
de la casa
rodeado
por aquella balsámica
oscuridad.
Afuera
las puntas
del cielo cintilaban
como piedras magnéticas
y el olor de la leña
me tocaba
el corazòn
como unos dedos,
como un jazmín,
como algunos recuerdos.

No era el olor agudo
de los pinos,
no,
no era
la ruptura en la piel
del eucaliptus,
no eran
tampoco
los perrumes verdes
de la viña,
sino
algo más secreto,
porque aquella fragancia
una sola,
una sola
vez existía,
y allí, de todo lo que vi en el
mundo,
en mi propia
casa, de noche, junto al mar
de invierno,
allí estaba esperándome
el olor
de la rosa más profunda,
el corazòn cortado de la
tierra,
algo
que me invadiò como una
ola
desprendida
del tiempo
y se perdiò en mí mismo
cuando yo abrí la puerta
de la noche.

"Ode to the Smell of Wood"

Late, with the stars
open in the cold
I open the door.
The sea
galloped
in the night.

Like a hand
from the dark house
came the intense
aroma
of firewood in the pile.

The aroma was visible
as
if the tree
were alive.
As if it still breathed.

Visible
like a garment.

Visible
like a broken branch.

I walked
into
the house
surrounded
by that balsam-flavored
darkenss.
Outside
the points
in the sky sparkled
like magnetic stones
and the smell of the wood

touched
my heart
like some fingers,
like jasmine,
like certain memories.

It wasn't the sharp smell
of the pines,
no,
it wasn't
the break in the skin
of the eucalyptus,
neither was it
the green perfumes
of the grapevine stalk,
but
something more secret,
because that fragrance
only one
only one
time existed,
and there, of all I have seen in the world
in my own house at night, next to the winter sea,
was waiting for me
the smell
of the deepest rose,
the heart cut from the earth,
something that invaded me like a wave
breaking loose
from time
and it lost itself in me
when I opened the door
of the night.

 - Pablo NerudaTranslated by Jodey Bateman

"No More Clichés"

 Beautiful face
That like a daisy opens its petals to the sun
So do you
Open your face to me as I turn the page.

Enchanting smile
Any man would be under your spell,
Oh, beauty of a magazine.

How many poems have been written to you?
How many Dantes have written to you, Beatrice?
To your obsessive illusion
To you manufacture fantasy.

But today I won't make one more Cliché
And write this poem to you.
No, no more clichés.

This poem is dedicated to those women
Whose beauty is in their charm,
In their intelligence,
In their character,
Not on their fabricated looks.

This poem is to you women,
That like a Shahrazade wake up
Everyday with a new story to tell,
A story that sings for change
That hopes for battles:
Battles for the love of the united flesh
Battles for passions aroused by a new day
Battle for the neglected rights
Or just battles to survive one more night.

Yes, to you women in a world of pain
To you, bright star in this ever-spending universe
To you, fighter of a thousand-and-one fights
To you, friend of my heart.
From now on, my head won't look down to a magazine
Rather, it will contemplate the night
And its bright stars,
And so, no more clichés.


 - Octavio Paz