While others bundle and bunch
under umbrellas, shrug
into pak-a-macs and hunch deep
into their collars, their faces
scrunched, gurning
against the elements, she
pokes tongues
at raindrops and laughs
glitter from her hair.
In the UK we are used to hearing that “April showers bring May flowers”, an expression that apparently can be traced to its earliest known form – Continue reading “april”
Ellen Datlow, the editor of the Best Horror of the Year anthology, has posted a list of “Honorable Mentions” – the unpublished runners up for the 2009 anthology – on her blog.
My name isn’t on the list, but in third place (it’s alphabetical by author) is Poe a poem by Alfredo Álamo that won Spain’s Ignotus Award for poetry in 2007. It was published in The Magazine of Speculative Poetry in spring 2009, along with a translation into English by Sue Burke and me.
I don’t recognise many names on the list, but the second part (again, alphabetical), is headed by “King, Stephen” for his story Morality, published in Esquire magazine in July 2009.
I’d like to thank Sue for inviting me to assist her with a translation that has led me, albeit vicariously, into such august company.
Now that the weather’s improved and the council workers have managed to get out to do some jobs around the village, they’ve finally put in new lamp posts down by the river. Proper wrought iron ones that cast soft yellow light quite unlike the unnaturally white blare from the UFO-type double-headed farolas they put along by the polideportivo during a lull in the storms a month or so back.
Set against the snow-pocked backdrop of the Sierra de Gredos, the new Narnia-style lamp posts make me think of the Pevensie children helping Aslan banish the White Witch and release Narnia from the long winter.
They’ve also brought to mind a poem from a few years back:
Continue reading “light and hope”
I had a dream a while back where I was telling someone that I earned my living from writing – “But not my own words.”
No, it wasn’t an admission of plagiarism. I think it was a subconscious recognition of the fact that I am too busy translating to do very much original writing.
Continue reading “not my own words”
with primaries taut, they finger-tip
the contoured air, screeching
a splay-tailed upward glide to peakthen tuck – dip – swoop –
and skim the puddled mud,
gape-mouthed and hungering.
It’s San José – St Joseph’s Day – which is Father’s Day in Spain, and a bank holiday in parts of the country. It’s also the day that the swallows return to Capistrano, which is why I’ve chosen to post this poem. (Or, perhaps, this ‘poem draft’.)
Continue reading “swallows”
don't confuse the narrator 