Lina Zeron linazeron@yahoo.com

México

 

 

Lina Zerón

 

Born and raised in México City in 1959, in the district of Tlalnepantla, Lina Zerón holds a bachelor’s degree in International Relations from the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México.  She was director and editor of a literary e-magazine “Entre Amigos”. She also writes for the cultural section of the daily EL FINANCIERO, and is editor-in chief-of the Linajes Editores small press.  Her poetry has been translated into English, French, German, Swedish, Portuguese, Arab, Serbian, Italian and Slovene.

 

Zerón is the author of a trilogy Luna en Abril (Moon in April) (poems) (1996),  Luna en Abril sueños (Moon in April, dreams) (1997),and  Luna en Abril, cartas (Moon in April, letters) (prose) (1998), Publisher by CIEN Editors. La spirale du feu (La Espiral de Fuego) (Fire’s Spiral) (poems), bilingual edition, tr. Philippe Burin de Roziers (Paris:Ediciones L’Harmattan, 1999); Rosas Negras para un ataúd sin cuerpo (Black Roses for a Bodyless Coffin) (poems) (Barcelona: Editorial Estel Blau, 2000), Moradas Mariposas (Purple Butterflies) (Havana: Editorial Abril, Colección Sur, 2002) Translated into Portuguese, Vino Rojo (Red Wine) translated into French by Claude Couffon, (Havana: Editorial Unión and UNEAC), (2003), Novela: Postada para Ana, (Novel: Postdate to Ana) (Havana: Editorial Unión and UNEAC) (2003), Un cielo crece en el fondo de tus ojos,  (An sky grow up in the deep of your eyes) bilngual Edition, tr. to frensh Pierre Claviler, (Lyon, Ediciones La Barbacana) (Francia), (2004), Nostalgia de Vida (Nostalgy of life) (Havana, Editorial Unión and UNEAC) (2005).

 

Zeron was awarded second place in the II certámen Poética, Spain, 1998, second place in the Certamen Internacional de Poesía Melilla, Spain, 2002. In 2002, she was honored with the Woman of Year Award by her hometown municipality of Tlalnepantla, México, in recognition of her outstanding career as a poet and her work in the field of cultural promotion, also with the Award “Guerrero Águila” 2005 (Eagle worrier) by the circle of orators of México. She has been invited to give readings in several countries and his poetry is in important anthologies and magazines of the word.

 

Zerón teaches poetry and creative writing to children in the Mixtec region of Oaxaca, México. She is coordinator of the International Comimitee of the Encuentro de Mujeres Poetas en el País de las Nubes in Oaxaca, México, and a member of the International Organizing Commitee

 

 

 www.linazeron.com

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NOT DEAD

 

Not everything is adrift

  at the end of a dream,

your everlasting memory

  will always lie beside me

exhausted over my bed.

 

Not everything is dead between you and me,

  we’re still a thought

in a dark autumn afternoon

or the breath of a winter’s night.

 

You are not yet buried

  while you still beat

                         in my skin,

           under my skirt,

between my thighs,

  tracing your being in me

    at the edge of my blue lips.

 

I can’t be dead 

  when every day I think of you,

memory of memories

   my legs wrapped around your body.

 

             Your shadow loves its reflection

on my body overcome

               by your name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PURPLE BUTTERFLIES

 

I was a sun seed planted in the earth,

born of a water tornado,

amid star dust and a howl of colors.

 

I wanted to be born a butterfly,

an eagle

and to grow golden feathers,

but I was born a Fig tree with enormous roots

and I sprouted branches

and from the branches, leaves

and on the bark I grew eyes.

 

From the leaves emerged doves

and my red fingers cradled moans

and my hands fanned the darkness

and I tasted the apple of Eden.

 

I came to know the taste of blood

and my bones ached

and I learned to weep with my shadow

and to carry the cross of Mary’s fruit

but I also tasted the sacred nectar of the rose

and the lamb’s flesh

and I had virgin blood in my veins

and Adam’s fluid seeped between my legs.

 

My womb gave birth to purple butterflies

which I nourished with pure bee sap

and I became an Elm

to protect the fruits

and neither droughts

nor storms

tore my trunk from the earth.

 

Many springs sung with their winters,

the figs ripened and fell towards life

and this tree was forgotten

and bare were my branches.

 

I was no longer Fig tree and Elm,

I grew wings

and in the feathers, colors

and in the colors, water

and I became swallow-fish.

 

My scales are wet with tears

and my wings are lifted by sighs

when I contemplate the fruits of my seeds.

 

I am happy to have been born a Fig tree,

to have become an Elm

and now to be swallow-fish

with no particular nest and without chains.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WATERCOLOR OF A PEOPLE

 

What remains of history,

            the green landscape,

the wisdom of the cosmos,

            our blood of millennia?

 

The Pre-Columbian memory,

      then…

        emptiness

           nothingness.

 

Building castles

on a culture’s ruins,

    indifferent memory

       of our centuries,

customs,

  religion.

 

Painful truth of a people

           hopelessly searching

for a face,

   a justified truth.

 

No more pieces to the puzzle,

   we're ghosts,

a jumble of someone else’s letters,

   shards of history gathered from a pile of stones,

told by other mouths,

   a lineage of ashes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DESOLATION

 

God, where are you?

Perhaps in the gentle wing of a butterfly,

or the humdrum buzzing of a bee

or the seagull vaguely skimming the beach.

 

I look for you

in winter’s empty dawn,

in the light without borders of my eyes,

in the melancholy shadow of the cypress.

 

I feel the reflections of dawn beating in my chest

and you’re not here.

Neither in the tatooed avalanche of pain,

nor the brief shudder of my blue eyelids,

or the internal marimba of my body.

 

Perhaps my prayers arrived too late,

perhaps you are a golden pedestal out of reach,

a hook without bait in the depths

and I a hungry fish in the ocean’s night.

 

Perhaps you are omnipotent field and I am red ant.

 

Perhaps you are a flame split off from the sun

and I a blind mirror unable to reflect you.

 

 

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