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Ylonka Nacidit-Perdomo |
| Ylonka Nacidit-Perdomo is a poet, essayist, and
editor. She was born in Santo Domingo , Dominican
Republic and studied law and political sciences at the
Autonomous University of Santo Domingo (UASD). Her poems
have been published in Common Threads Afro-Hispanic,
Women’s Literature, Supplement 14 International Poetry,
Y vamos haciendo camino, Revista Mairena, and
Confluencia. In addition, she has published the poetry
books: Contacto de una mirada (1989), Arrebatos (1993),
Luna Barroca (1996), Papeles de la noche (1998), Octubre
(1998), Triángulo en trébol (1999), Triángulo en trébol
/Triangle in trefoil (2001, translation: Linda M.
Rodríguez Guglielmoni), and Hacia el sur (2001). Also,
she has published the following books on literary
criticism: Alfonsina Storni: A través de sus imágenes y
metáforas (1998), Altagracia Saviñon o la discontinuidad
del instante (1998), Sobreaviso, escritura de mujeres
(1998), La circularidad enigmática de la mirada (2000),
and Contrapunto, Desconcierto y Territorios Afectivos de
Mujeres (2001). For her book, Altagracia Saviñón o la
discontinuidad del instante, the International Writers
and Artists Association awarded her “Best Editor Essay
1998” . For various years she held the position of
Literary Research Center Director at the National
Library in Santo Domingo. She now holds the position of
president of the Association of Dominican Literary
Criticism of Hispanic American Women Writers (CDLEH),
and directs the collection entitled “Cotidianas de
Estival”. Moreover, she directs the Founding Committee
of Women’s Festivals and directs the collection
“Ventana” of the Solidarity Center for the Development
of Women (Ce-Mujer) in Santo Domingo . In 2002 she
directed the XIII Conferencia de la Asociación
Internacional de Literatura Femenina Hispánica (AILFH)
and in 2004 she directed the 9th International
Conference of Caribbean Women Writers and Scholars. |
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Poems by Ylonka Nacidit-Perdomo |
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Translated by Judith
Kerman |
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Now that I want
In six minutes this instant with the perplexity of a
tree surrounded by time. like a mountain within the open
river.
(I am touching the red air of the air) only the wind has
lifted itself like the fragile boat that breathes light
in the rumor of the sea. the silence I sense in the look
of you. rippling the multitude. the storm wind of fish
awake in the angles of the landscape of your face.
such is the landscape of your face: infinite amazement.
fugitive flight. curiosity in the parallels of language
(now that I want: the initials of your name. ignited in
tenderness. in the city that advances toward night
burdened by the calm of the naked grass.).
Love. floating love. naked love.
On a column in the park I breathe your deep breathing.
archetypes of twenty years that swiftly tear away the
roundness taken on by the moon. the cracks in the
passageway in the darkness. for awhile the garden now as
I breathe full of doubts in the barefoot time before
daybreak. distanced. reborn. followed by the gaze of a
discreet uproar.
I have come back in the hordes of the night. filling
pages with my touch. walking alone toward the door that
murmurs (without seeing you) a hasty corner in my
throat. in the swell of the surf of my love. in the
shirt with slowness of anger and caresses.
your body is warm water. scarlet and violet to the
rhythm of my hands. unto victory over your naked breast.
I know you tremble and force me to embrace you running
in circles. with neither calm nor solitude. only
attentive to your prison. to the desire that alleviates
my slackness. the caress that calls to the movement of
my hands. to the humid air roofed with your smell. of
the knowledge of the towers of your body in the bushes.
blossomings of light.
I smell of your diffuse skin. of your fingers in loose,
ruddy walls of earth. I smell of this herb garden of
sweet smiles. of hypnotic beauty. and I am surprised by
my absorbing love of your hands extended around a space
that moves toward the silence that asks to come back
between my legs joining an exhausted breath of stillness
in its continuous retreat. of a feverish walk like a
walnut tree awake on the motionless back of pleasure.
The night is a wedding bed of secret
yellow
The night is a wedding bed of secret yellow. customary
dissension. slight fluctuation. truce of furious thirst
(across the sea it seems to sleep, talking in the
smoothing whiteness of the moon.)
she has taken from me a sound that vacantly breaks lamps
of yellow in gray tile in the wind. movements in the
cracks of a high park looking at the impassible
curiosity of the window in the water.
the night is a flight in the vigil. an aquarium of
heavenly rending. a forest awake above the eternity of
time. invention of myself. papers in the pockets. some
hope of going toward love.
The night is a total castaway. to pin down the visions.
solitary thoughts. neutrality that attracts. cornices in
the harshness of the stones. together: the need to run
in the avenue. to touch two contiguous worlds. a boat
habitually distracted by the alphabet of the garden.
it’s strange to travel alone toward the night. to be
affirmed in its perennial agony. that is agony of
pleasure.
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