The Ofi Press Magazine
International Poetry and Literature from Mexico City
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).
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.
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.
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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
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 |
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.
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.
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 |
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.