martes, 5 de mayo de 2015


Fatimah Asghar 

Poeta nacida en Bosnia-Herzegovina, fotógrafa y artista. Creó en Bosnia el grupo Spoken Word Poetry group. Ha actuado en muchos escenarios, incluyendo el Festival de Poesía de Dodge, el Proyecto de Nantucket y TEDx. Su trabajo ha aparecido en POETRY Magazine, The Paris-American, Drunken Boat, and Word Riot.
Es miembro de the Dark Noise Collective and is a Teaching Artist for Young Chicago Authors. 

Su primer libro, Medusa, They Would Sing está a apunto de aparecer bajo el sello de YesYes Books. Actualmente vive en Chicago.

Plutón se caga en el universo

El 7 de febrero de 1979, Plutón cruzó la órbita de Neptuno y se convirtió en el octavo planeta del sol durante veinte años. Un estudio realizado en 1988 determinó que la ruta de la órbita de Plutón nunca podrá predecirse con exactitud. En 2006, etiquetado como “caótico”, Plutón fue destituido de su estatus de planeta.

Hoy quebré tu sistema solar. ¡Chin!
La cagué. Las predicciones dijeron que se suponía
que yo haría un infinito caminito alrededor del sol.
Yo caoseo de putamadre. Nadie me puede seguir.
Los otros planetas piensan que estoy bien pinche loco.
Piensan que soy una luna prófuga
que corre en libertad.
A la chingada con tu luna. A la chingada con tu sistema solar.
A la chingada con tu tiempo. ¿Tu año? Tu año de mierda
es un día para mí. Podría pasar todas las estaciones
de tu año en mi cama.
Pensando en anillos, en la vagina de júpiter
sobre mí en nuestra boda. ¿Tu día?
Es un pedo.  Un esturnudo. Tu día entero
es apenas el primer rayo de sol que se asoma en mi madrugada.
Mi nombre es Infierno, perra. Yo soy el infierno, perra. Todo el frío
que aún no sientes. Caos de resuputamadre.
Y tú intentando darme orden. Me llamaste el noveno.
En algún lugar, en el desmadre de los gráficos y las matemáticas y el compás,
intentaron hacer que siguiera reglas. ¿Reglas? A la verga tus reglas.
Neptuno alias la puta lenta. Me merezco toda la luz
que he acumulado, y todo el cielo azul-oro que me plazca.
Es el 7 de febrero de 1979 y mi piel es más
cobre que cualquier cielo lo será jamás. Más metal.
Neptuno alias la perra-chillona en mi retrovisor,
mis tenis para correr están listos y todo este cielo que es todo mío.
A la chingada tu orden. A la chingada tu tiempo. Yo realineé el cosmos.
Elijo todo el infierno que todavía tiene que sentir. Ahora todos tus hijos
en la escuela, se confunden. Todos sus relojes:
inservibles. Ellos ni siquiera saben qué chingaos hacer.
Tienen que memorizar nuevas canciones y nueva mierda.
Y de los otros planetas, me culeo a sus órbitas. Dejé como pendejo al cielo.
Caos de su resuputamadre.
Es el 7 de febrero de 1979. El cielo es azul-oro:
la libertad de la posibilidad
Hoy quebré tu sistema solar. ¡Chin! La cagué.

Pluto Shits on the Universe

On February 7, 1979, Pluto crossed over Neptune’s orbit and became the eighth planet from the sun for twenty years. A study in 1988 determined that Pluto’s path of orbit could never be accurately predicted. Labeled as “chaotic,” Pluto was later discredited from planet status in 2006.

Today, I broke your solar system. Oops.
My bad. Your graph said I was supposed
to make a nice little loop around the sun.
I chaos like a motherfucker. Ain’t no one can
chart me. All the other planets, they think
I’m annoying. They think I’m an escaped
moon, running free.
Fuck your moon. Fuck your solar system.
Fuck your time. Your year? Your year ain’t
shit but a day to me. I could spend your
whole year turning the winds in my bed. Thinking
about rings and how Jupiter should just pussy
on up and marry me by now. Your day?
That’s an asswipe. A sniffle. Your whole day
is barely the start of my sunset.
My name means hell, bitch. I am hell, bitch. All the cold
you have yet to feel. Chaos like a motherfucker.
And you tried to order me. Called me ninth.
Somewhere in the mess of graphs and math and compass
you tried to make me follow rules. Rules? Fuck your
rules. Neptune, that bitch slow. And I deserve all the sun
I can get, and all the blue-gold sky I want around me.
It is February 7th, 1979 and my skin is more
copper than any sky will ever be. More metal.
Neptune is bitch-sobbing in my rearview,
and I got my running shoes on and all this sky that’s all mine.
Fuck your order. Fuck your time. I realigned the cosmos.
I chaosed all the hell you have yet to feel. Now all your kids
in the classrooms, they confused. All their clocks:
wrong. They don’t even know what the fuck to do.
They gotta memorize new songs and shit. And the other
planets, I fucked their orbits. I shook the sky. Chaos like
a motherfucker.
It is February 7th, 1979. The sky is blue-gold:
the freedom of possibility.
Today, I broke your solar system. Oops. My bad.


after Sherman Alexie


They arrived gently on my desk one morning. Encased in a Christmas tree ornament: the two diamond studs, blossoms of chandelier and metal. The boy with the scars on his back who I called boyfriend nicked them from his grandmother’s dresser, brought them away from the blood and whip of his household, hand-delivered to my classroom as early as the school day allowed.

Everyday he checked my ears for them, but like a good secret, they were hiding too deeply in the folds of my clothes to be heard. Instead, I bought fake ones from the dollar store down the street and wore those, watched the boy with the scars on his back and the kids of my childhood—too poor and broken to tell the difference between costume and jewelry—marveled at the glitter. The boy with the scars on his back was beginning to grow talons, afraid of the no ready on my lips. They reached towards all the parts of my body that were not shiny and his, as he sharpened them enough to be able to cut diamonds himself.



As told by Allah

I made you a memory of hay.
No redwood or bricks. No

cement lock down to place.
Look at the way it collapses

when blown down. Look
at the twigs that scatter,

how your whole house swirls
like pollen, dusting everyone’s

nose. Look, how you become a hay
strand flying in a typhoon

of a breeze. Look how you are made
of nothing

more than breath.



On the 62nd day, God made poverty,
and made you—a rattling knapsack
of bones, a pillar of salt and young river
of water to swallow and swallow. Dumpster
girl, always hunting leftovers. Your feet
are minefields, or better, rotten jack-o’-lanterns

the way they threaten to crumble anytime you stand.
Look at the way you disappear before yourself.
Even the hairs on your toe are starving. Look
at the way the poor sucks your cheekbones
to mountain tops. Look at the way your hip bones
are surgeon’s knives. You are finally woman enough
to be sold. 

it is the year , someone's dead again family

wakes up to nightmares of america nightmares 
of pakistan nightmares of kashmir it is the year , 
war again ? wrong question genocide ? wrong answer 
bloody footprints a different kind of meadow 
field of bones black ash on the snow 
marble graves when there is no stone

it is the year , black ash on snow 
a marble grave when there is no stone whats 
a body smell like when it burns ? no 
that's not the way the story goes it is the year , 
black ash on snow story goes field of bones 
spine of bullets field of bones 
a different kind of meadow

parking lot of bones spine of bullets family 
reunion: name how many brothers left ? wrong 
answer, name how many sisters left ? wrong

whats a body smell like when it burns ? wrong 
question, whats a body smell like when its shot ? 
wrong question, whats a body smell like when the cells 
attack the rot ? blood clot blood clot blood clot

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