Miguel Falquez-Certain (Barranquilla, Colombia) has been living in New York City for more than three decades, where he works as a multilingual translator and writer. He is the author of six volumes of poetry: Reflejos de una máscara, Habitación en la palabra, Proemas en cámara ardiente, Doble corona, Usurpaciones y deicidios, and Palimpsestos; of a short novel, Bajo el adoquín, la playa; of six plays: La pasión, Moves Meet Metes Move: A Tragic Farce, “Castillos de arena,” “Allá en el club hay un runrún,” “Una angustia se abre paso entre los huesos,” and Quemar las naves, as well as of short stories and essays. Book Press–New York published Triacas (short fiction) and Mañanayer (poetry) in 2010. Mañanayer received the only honorable mention in The 2011 International Latino Book Awards in the category of Best Poetry Book — Spanish or Bilingual.
When: May 7, 2013
Where: Terraza 7 Cafe, 40-19 Gleane Street, Elmhurst, NY 11373
Time: 7:00 - 9:00 PM (open-mic sign up at 6:45)
Other: $5 suggested donation. For more information contact Richard Jeffrey Newman.
Here’s one of Miguel’s poems:
And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking onto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.
―First Samuel, 18:1
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth ― for thy love is better than wine.
―The Song of Songs, 1:2
Nevertheless, I never offered a thorough report of your absolute surrender. After all, I was the one who had gone searching for your scent of moss, until I found you distracted at the bar in the opal-tinged lights of the afternoon. Sycophants, preventing me from coming closer, were surrounding you; our eyes met patiently. While leaning over, I noticed the dark-blond down that made furrows on the back of your neck; I felt the swell of your breath and foresaw a capitulation. Our lips showed us the path.
A recent break-up had made me vulnerable. I lusted after your kisses; I longed for your young body sweet as sugar cane; I breathed in the fascinating insolence of your unsophisticated loquacity. I relinquished everything for your lips. While the summer’s scorching sun was hitting the walls, I nibbled on your buttons, until I pulled them out and found you, strong and flawless, in the intoxicating sweat of your thighs, in the inner perspiration of your navel: We sat up in the midst of the bed sheets impelled by the obstinate onslaught of a deferred lust, rising up in the umbra tree of that irreparable afternoon.
Habits make us despicable. Ordinary and fainthearted, preferring security instead of the chance of reaching for the sublime, I went back to the winding, although familiar, path, to the compliant arthritis of forgetfulness.
Even though you offered me everything, I chose the comforts of an insipid bonding. Long ago, I lusted after the kisses of your mouth. You are no more. You exist in the hypothesis of a dream.
To Magdalena Araque