it is just an empty page calling me
and poetry is born from this mistake.

i feel i need to desorganize my insides
to give birth to a new part of me but
there's no hope because
life has no sense when there's nothing
written, when there are no lines
to be completed.
it is the predicable logic of poetry.

some may think there's no beauty
in a blank page but i see a world
hidden beneath it.
a heart pulses, a petal falls,
an egg breaks and poetry is there:
so fragile and intense.

it comforts me to see it waiting
to be wrapped up in sugar and salt.
it is the predicable logic of poetry:
to be lost and found,
to die in us as we live in doubt
but pure.

oh enchantment! let me sink
in your multiple voices,
in your illusion and faith
because this page is part of my uthopy
and it needs me to be perplexing
and infinite.

karla bardanza

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2020

The poet is against himself,

in constant struggle for air

as his wor(l)ds rust.

Recycling his anticorrosive eyes

and indelicate thoughts,

he tries to find immortality

but fate always arrives

before air can get in and out 

of his lungs again.

Karla Bardanza

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2013

Daniel Catalano

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ten abandoned poems printed and scattered on the floor,
some cold coffee sleeping on a stained table,
four cigarettes in a crumpled packet,
a lot of ashes on a bumpy carpet,
old books on brown messy dusty shelves,
a picture of Che Guevara on the wall,
a thousand love affairs that went wrong,
shattered dreams in a cardboard box
and a suicidal note under a bed barely covered.



Karla Bardanza



"If you tremble indignation at every injustice then you are a comrade of mine."
Ernesto 'Che' Guevara

 

 

 

 

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012

Ricardo Fernandez Ortega

 

 

 

A flower is not a flower.

It is an illusion floating toward the mirror,

flooding my astigmatic eyes with hyper-surrealism

as my timid mind travels in hope

to the unreachable shelves of my hours.

 

It has been silent for a long time

and I can only listen to the murmur

of my poems on the screen as if

they were trying to save me from

my immortal insignificance

every single day.

 

But they are tired of my blindness,

my complexes and paradoxes.

They know my poetic mind won’t

resist much longer the tasteless duty

of being a poetess, a poet, whatever.

 

Poetry will never make the evening news.

 

A flower is not a flower,

a poem is not a poem

and I am neither a poet nor a poetess.

 

 

Karla Bardanza

 

 

 

 

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012