The Ofi Press Magazine

International Poetry and Fiction from Mexico City

Young Poets Network/ Ofi Press Collaboration

 

Young Poets Network, from the UK’s Poetry Society, is for international poets up to 25, offering workshop challenges, features on reading, writing and performing poetry, new writing, and a list of opportunities for young poets. This collaboration with The Ofi Press led to over 40 submissions on the theme of "connection" from writers aged between 16 and 25. All poems have been translated into Spanish by Karenina Osnaya and we hope that you enjoy them!

http://www.youngpoetsnetwork.org.uk/2013/06/07/poetry-overseas-writing-across-borders/

Published in The Ofi Press, Issue 31 (August 2013).

Éadaoín Lynch (22) in Translation

Between Glass and Hawthorns

 

The train moves through bare-boned trees.

Hedge and brush slide into view,

mapping out brown fields and bogland.

I look through glass to turlough pools –

 

Five hours away, he is reading

far too much into snow

and roses. I wish less for drought

than for his closeness.

 

Ink is no good across

all that water, and the turloughs

might be gone tomorrow.

 

Later, I yawn while he is

smiling, apologising

for his tardiness. As he speaks,

I reach out to him,

but there is more than glass between us.

 

 

Mean Time

Every day, a red ball drops

to mark one o'clock in Greenwich.

The Octagon Room echoes

and the camera obscura darkens.

Time and distance were long since

taken in hours from this, the prime meridian –

with one notable exception:

that which separates us

from icebergs and rainforests

and marks us upon the belly of the globe.

It is the sun or Pole star above the horizon,

measured by an invisible line.

But modernity brings scientific method

and our records are much more complex and correct

than the heavens;

Trust your eyes with the setting of the sun

and rising of the moon

and nothing else on earth.

Entre Vidrio y Hawthorn

 

El tren se mueve entre árboles huesudos.

Arbusto y seto se asoman a la vista,

haciendo un mapa de cafés campos y turbera.

Yo veo por el cristal hacia lagos de caliza –

 

Cinco horas más tarde, él esta leyendo

por mucho entre la nieve

y rosas. Yo deseo menos por la sequía

que por su proximidad.

 

Tinta no es buena a través

de toda esa agua, y los lagos

podrían irse mañana.

 

Después, bostezo mientras él

sonriendose, disculpándose

por su tardanza. Mientras él habla,

yo me estiro hacia él,

pero hay más que vidrio entre nosotros.

 

 

Tiempo Malo

 

Cada día, una bola roja cae

para marcar la una en punto en Greenwich.

El cuarto Octagonal hace eco

y la cámara obscura se hace más oscura.

Tiempo y distancia eran largos desde que

fueron tomados de esto, el meridiano primero—

con una notable excepción:

la que nos separa de icebergs y lluvias tropicales

y nos marca sobre la panza del globo.

Es el sol o estrella Polar en el horizonte,

medida por una invisible línea.

Pero la modernidad nos trae método científico

y nuestros récords son mucho más complejos y correctos

que los de los cielos;

Confíen sus ojos con la puesta del sol

y la luna naciente

y nada más sobre la tierra.

 

 

 

 

About the Poet

Éadaoín Lynch grew up in Kilfenora, Co.Clare, before moving to Dublin to study for a BA in English Studies, and then London for the Globe. She has been published in the Trinity literary magazine Icarus and also performs at London open mic nights and poetry events such as Bang Said the Gun, Poet in the City and The Poetry Cafe. This September 2013, she will will be commencing an MA at St. Andrew’s University, but until then she'll be accessible on her website: eadaoinlynch.wordpress.com

Celia Watson (18) in Translation

My Grandmother

 

My Grandmother's skin

Is stitched like old quilts

Soft and sewn like

Husks of golden corn

 

A Midwestern sunset

Glimmers in her eye

As her teeth bite down on

Kernels of frugality

 

Swallowing two wars

And an open plain sky

She presses her lips

To the biblical air

 

She will forever stand as

A product of resilience

Raised on

Grains of Truth

Mi Abuela

 

La piel de mi abuela

Esta cosida como una colcha vieja

Suave y zurcida como

Cáscaras de maíz

 

Una puesta de sol del Medio oeste

Brilla en su ojo

Mientras su diente muerde fuerte en

Granos de frugalidad

Tragando dos guerras

Y un cielo abierto y simple

Ella presiona sus labios

Al bíblico aire

 

Ella siempre presentarse como

Un producto de la resiliencia

Criado en

Granos de la Verdad

About the Poet

Celia Watson is a high school and International Baccalaureate diploma graduate based outside London. She plans to study both English with creative writing and Theatre at university. She has received numerous awards for her writing from the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers (USA) from 2011-2013 for her work covering poetry, flash fiction, dramatic scripts, and humour pieces.

Jerrold Yam (21) in Translation

 Hotel

In the mornings, sick from starry velvet, the walls

command a costume party, blush of coral

accelerating to bisque-pink, champagne-mist,

a ruddy teenage glow. And from under the sheets

I hear fingers like pearls of rain, footsteps unstrung

across carpets, blinds still drawn, before anyone else

my father is at his computer, dim, acrid cobalt

spilling like sun on a soldier’s helmet. I think

of each subconscious pin-pressure, the race

with his fingers, like a mating dance of digits in

a greater equation. When I come to dirt flecks

cruising its ridges, microscopic heroes

in a giant’s mythology, I remember how he pays

with the same initials, ingots of letters

that are my inheritance, a J lowering

its labyrinthine oath beyond limits, then

swerving to avoid greater promise; a Y

bearing two prodigal fingers the size of us.

 

Hotel

En las mañanas, enfermo de terciopelo estrellado, las paredes

ordenan una fiesta de disfraces, sonrojo o coral

acelerando a rosa bisque, neblina de champaña,

un brillo adolescente. Y debajo de las sábanas

escucho dedos como perlas de lluvia, pasos sin cuerdas

a través de alfombras, persianas aun cerradas, antes que nadie

mi padre está en sus computadora, tenue, agrio cobalto

derramándose como sol en un casco de soldado. Yo creo

en cada piquete del subconsciente, la carrera

con sus dedos, como un baile de apareamiento de dígitos en

una gran ecuación. Cuando llego a salpicadas de tierra

conduciendo sus ranuras, héroes microscópicos

en mitología de gigantes, recuerdo cómo paga

con las mismas iniciales, lingotes de letras

que son mi herencia, una J descendiendo

en su laberíntica promesa más allá de los límites; una Y

que lleva dos dedos pródigos del tamaño de nosotros.

About the Poet

Jerrold Yam (b. 1991) is a law undergraduate at University College London and the author of Scattered Vertebrae (Math Paper Press, 2013) and Chasing Curtained Suns (Math Paper Press, 2012). His poems have been published worldwide in more than sixty literary journals. He is the winner of the National University of Singapore’s Creative Writing Competition 2011 and the youngest Singaporean to be nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

Troy Cabida (17) in Translation

Blurry Eyes

 

"I hate you but I need you

I love you but I can’t tell you

because I can’t see you properly."

  Ojos Borrosos

 

“Te odio pero te necesito

Te amo pero no puedo decírtelo

porque no puedo verte bien.”

About the Poet

Troy Cabida is a seventeen year old writer working for publication and artistic fulfillment. He is based in central London, but his roots are in the Philippines. He enjoys writing prose but poetry has always been his most enjoyable form of writing. He likes to use literature as a way to express his emotions, store memories and connect to people in a way traditional communication cannot give him. He is also been given opportunities to be a columnist in various e-zines.