Larva

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Larva, the latest collection of poetry by the wonderful Mina Polen, is out now, in a dual language edition catering for both English and Spanish readers.

Many of the poems and prose poems in Larva comprise series of tweets (illustrating the author’s skills as a practitioner of Twitterature), and they all explore the theme of transformation, in Mina’s characteristically bold, taut style. Here, as in her previous book (Scylla & Charybdis) the reader encounters a surrealistic synthesis of the real and the imaginary, deftly delivered and free of arbitrariness; Mina’s juxtapositions, though outlandish, obey a playful logic that shows a delight in language, and always resonate deeply with the reader.

I’ll say no more: what follows are two poems from the book, in their English versions. If they whet your appetite, you can buy Larva here.

 

Transformations

His thoughts crystallized in drops, marbles and bubbles.
The room flooded with glass.
Self-absorbed, he kept thinking.

His sighs materialized in silk and a river was born from them.
There were meanders and wetlands.
Some of them -very deep- created canyons.

His concealed cries penetrated the earth.
Now they move beneath, direct heart quakes, coordinate erupting volcanoes.
They are fluid rock.

His nostalgia became fog.
It dripped down windows and walls, forming a dense bank below the ceiling. Above all, his nostalgia fogged his eyes.

His rancor became dark curtain, shining shadow.
Like oil it dripped, heavy, to the ocean floor.
From there, it went back to the night.

His sadness became a place in his chest where it was always raining.
A storm in his lungs when he cried.
An internal flooding.

His longings rose to the sky.
The vertical ones became cumulus, the wet ones nimbus and the cold ones
cirrus. They all reddened at dusk.

His desperation exploded.
Leaving behind sparkles, flame pieces, burnt traces.
His eyes gleam, the heart roasts and boils.

His will became a shadow: it grew, it shrank, disappeared.
Soft in the fog, intense under the sun light: viscous, ephemeral.
Inseparable.

His fear became not darkness but blinding light.
Gaseous light growing and blinding everything and everybody.
Some say it is still growing.

His love took all shapes.
Cloud, oil, marble, wave, fog, shadow, drop, fluid rock, rain and volcanic eruption.
It became everything.

 

Dust

The dust he releases contains minute skin fragments and DNA. A half dead, half alive dust that creates a map of his presence in the world.

The dust of tears is an infinitesimal diamantine that plagues the world. You can see it against the light: ephemeral sparkly sad clouds.

The dust of desire slides in zig zag over silky surfaces searching for a destiny and an orgasm. It produces very small spasmodic echoes.

The dust of sweat jumps and explodes in confetti of activity, fear and anxiety. It survives in small universes that expand and contract.

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