Dream Incubation in the Temple of Sleep

Incubation is perhaps most easily understood in contrast to the art of Theurgy or ‘Work of the Gods.’ Theurgy is a process of anabasis or magical ascent whereby practitioners, such as the early Neoplatonists, especially Iamblichus and Proclus, achieved henosis or mystical union with a deity or the demiurge. However, anabasis was not always of primary importance, or even of interest, to many of the ancient Greek philosophers and magicians. More than five hundred years before the Neoplatonists arrived on the scene, Presocratic poets and philosophers, including Pythagoras and Parmenides, were preoccupied instead with katabasis—a dreamy descent to the domain of the dead, and to the dark goddess who rules over that realm.

Mirror Gazing Ecdysis Mitchell Pluto 2022

For the Platonists, katabasis was understood as the descent of the soul into a body upon incarnation. Hades, additionally, was allegorized and viewed as the very world in which we, as incorporated beings, inhabit. Socrates says to Callicles in Plato’s Gorgias, for instance, “[perhaps] in reality we’re dead. Once I even heard one of the wise men say that we are now dead and that our bodies are our tombs.” Again, in the Phaedo, Plato has Socrates say to Simmias of Thebes, “[we], who dwell in the hollows of [the earth], are unaware of this and we think we live above.” And, later in the same dialogue, “Those who are deemed to have lived an extremely pious life are freed and released from the regions of the earth as from a prison; they make their way up to a pure dwelling place and live on the surface of the earth.” Therefore, the only way to go, for Plato and his successors, was up—in an anabatic flight to the demiurge, through the various planetary spheres that separate the divine nous and Monad from the sensible world below. Theurgy was the means by which such an anabasis was accomplished. The Presocratics, conversely, leaving Mount Olympus to the gods, for the most part, focused their energies instead upon katabasis; on transporting themselves to the netherworld.

Dream Mare Mitchell Pluto 2022

The means by which these iatromanteia or “healer-seers” directed this delirious drop was via the use of an ancient divination and healing technique known as incubation. In ancient Greece, this was generally done inside of sacred and secluded caves that were sacred to certain gods, daimons, nymphs, and other metaphysical entities. Eventually, the practice would be translated to special temples dedicated to the technique, and finally into a special incubation chamber, usually positioned adjacent to the temple itself.
The ancient Ionian Greek philosopher, recognized as the ‘Father of Western Philosophy,’ Pythagoras of Samos, for example, is said to have descended to Hades by entering an underground cave. While Pythagoras left no writings of his own, the late Neoplatonic philosopher, Algis Uždavinys, a past head of the Department of Humanities at the Vilnius Academy of Fine Arts, Kaunas, explains,

the subterranean tomb-like chamber represents Hades for Pythagoras. Hence, Pythagoras descended into Hades, that is, the subterranean holy chamber (like the Holy of Holies, entered by the Jewish High Priest on the occasion of Yom Kippur) that he had made himself, according to Diogenes Laertius (Vitae phil. 2). When he came up, withered and looking like a Shaiva ascetic, he said that “he had been down to Hades and even read out his experiences [aloud to the crowd].”

A similarly famous although obscure Presocratic philosopher, Parmenides of Elea, celebrated as both the ‘Father of Logic’ and the ‘Father of Metaphysics,’ wrote a dactylic hexametrical poem recounting his trip to Hades, and the underworld goddess whom he encountered. At the junction of three roads, the goddess instructed Parmenides as to the true nature of reality. His proem to “Peri Physeôs” begins,

The mares that carry me as far as longing can reach
rode on, once they had come and fetched me onto the legendary road of the divinity, the road that carries the man who knows through the vast and dark unknown.
[…]
And the goddess welcomed me kindly and took
my right hand in hers and spoke these words as she addressed me…

In his proem, the divinity proceeded to instruct Parmenides in the laws of logic that we know today. That is, it was a mysterious, underworld goddess from whom Parmenides received the very rules of reason, with which he returned to the land of the living for the inauguration a new era. To a world which turned on mythos—mythology—Parmenides introduced the novel pivot of logos—logic. Although, we must admit that the weird way in which the ‘Father of Logic’ acquired that understanding appears to contradict the very laws with which he was entrusted.
Moreover, Parmenides’ words may provide us with a subtle indication of just what incubation may have entailed for these heroes of Hades. The first thing the poet mentions are the mares that pull his chariot. The chariot is a token of the sun god, whose solar vehicle is pulled throughout the skies by a handsome team of heavenly horses. Indeed, ever since the time of the worship of Shammesh or Utu, the sun god of ancient Mesopotamia, the chariot has been the province of the Sol. But, the sun isn’t just about the light—for, the sun also journeys into the Underworld, like Osiris in the Dwat, through the dark, intuitive animations of Aidoneus’ alcazar. Every time we venture into sleep, we quietly and blindly slide into the Stables of Silence. Hence the false etymology suggested by the word nightmares, ‘horses of the dark.’ Like the Hunter’s three-legged horse in the fairytale of the Princess and the Tree, these ‘nightmares’ “know everything”—including the invisible way to the “legendary road” that leads to “the divinity.” The archaic techniques of dream incubation are akin to these mystical, Moiraic mares, and they alone are possessed of the potential to move us from the familiar to the fringe—down the alien road that carries the “man who knows” through the “vast and dark unknown.”

P.D. Newman October 16, 2022

P.D. Newman

P.D. Newman is an independent researcher located in the southern US, specializing in the history of the use of entheogenic substances in religious rituals and initiatory rites. He is the author of the books, Alchemically Stoned: The Psychedelic Secret of Freemasonry, Angels in Vermilion: The Philosophers’ Stone from Dee to DMT, and the forthcoming title, Day Trips and Night Flights: Anabasis, Katabasis, and Entheogenic Ekstasis in Myth and Rite. The Secret Teachings of All Ages (TV Series documentary) 2023

The Hug
Acrylic on canvas 60x80cm
Hoda Hussein 2022

14 September 2022 7:17 pm Earth Greenwich time zone

A letter from Oranous to Pluto on the Sleep Temple

Who believed their bed was a four-legged bear taking them on their back for a night sky ride as their own bear cub? I did. And I always woke up in the morning and kept my eyes shut till I hear family voices in the house so I am sure my parent bear landed me in the right place to start another day acting like a human. It takes practice to master acting like a human this is why we have to do it every day. But we must also not forget who we are this is why parent Bear kept their legs and body in the human house but with their tail and head on their own and took me as their child on journeys and trips at night where I can be in awareness of all that is. No wonder it was very difficult to pretend I am afraid of the scarab that landed on my hand in the nursery! I was not. The teachers were. And that was weird to me. I suppose I also was weird for them. However, I kept that memory of the friend scarab insect that tickle my palm and I still smile at that. Who would think I had an oil well in my salon where I bathed in whenever exhausted and opened my veins to it renewing my blood completely in sessions where Hathor was standing at my back massaging me? Okay well, I had a Native American tribe settling their tipi in my living room so… Let’s say this is normal in my life. So what is a sleep temple or a dream temple? I am! Well, I guess we all are in a way. Always just believed in a sacred temple where the blood circulates around the heart like pilgrims around the sacred cube of “Ka’ba” hence ka and ba. But as I can move and I am not still at all I prefer to see myself as a Mer-ka-ba “boat in Arabic”. Oh, how I loved this when I knew that Mer meant beloved in the ancient Egyptian language! Yes I know I am loved and visited but all types of loving beings. This is so beautiful! Still, I don’t think I learned yet to act humanely perfectly and instead I look for my equals who also could not really perfect the like human acting. There is something beautiful in our imperfections. Kind of childish and more related to the womb than birth. A whole multiverse moving changing developing evolving in action inside the womb of space. A multiverse that is in fact one single child in process of becoming. Did I tell you I once dreamed of having surgery on my lungs and my heart? Well, I did. And the woman doctor gave me a prescription. That I followed! I would not be that committed following a prescription of a daily life touchable doctor, so-called “real” anyway.

Hugs Bye for now

Hoda Hussein

Hoda Hussein

Egyptian creative writer poetess and novelist, artist painter and translator. Published many poetry books and novels in Arabic language. Represented Egypt in poetry and novels festivals and encounters in several countries like Yemen, Spain, India, France, Cuba, and Chile. Made creative writing workshops for kids in many schools in Cairo Egypt. Received rewards for poetry, novels and for translations in Chile, Macedonia and Egypt
Was entitled as a universal ambassador for peace by the peace ambassadors circle that works under the UNESCO

The Inhabitant of the Dream Temple
Verónica Cabanillas Samaniego

The temple of dreams is located in principle in an unlimited place, it is not exactly an island, it is the sky itself in immense melancholy, surrounded by the sea and in the absence of farewells. Towards all directions a path towards you, and I discover each treasure at the bottom of the word. In the absence and presence of everything, I hear bordering a harmonious song flowing like an infinite abyss around us.

The Temple of Sleep in self.
Verónica Cabanillas Samaniego

The paradise that we have penetrated and invented is resolved like the design of a luminous dream, which we glimpsed to see a long time ago, until we rediscover the trace, shake off the dust and build the raft that takes us from me to you and vice versa, yes, on this side the sleep is deep, in this temple of gods we are simple people, trying to take forever a piece of heaven and looking for a dignified death, where our names are heard and pronounced only by hallucinated insects and dogs on the last day of the humanity, we only dream that on the last day of the world we will not forget to feed them, and the last poem we wrote and the last brush stroke on the white we gave, undermine my pain to the depths, and be reborn in a beautiful pack of dogs, in another time, another planet, another galaxy as far as we can see in the temple of dreams. Because only the measure of the vision is equal to the measure of what is imagined and because everything that one builds is the measure of what he managed to imagine. In the temple of dreams I realized that, and why I was already here

Verónica Cabanillas Samaniego.
Algarrobo, Chile, Octubre 2022.

Verónica Cabanillas Samaniego

Verónica Cabanillas Samaniego (Lima, 1981), is a poet and visual artist. She has exhibited individually in Lima and collectively in Europe and Latin America: El asombro del colmillo, Le Petit Canibaal, Valencia (2014); Ludwig Zeller, composing the illusion, Taller de Rokha Gallery, Santiago de Chile (2017); One hundred years of Surrealism, Espacio Matta Cultural Center, Santiago de Chile (2019-2020), International exhibition of surrealism, Kudak Gallery, Cairo-Egypt (2022), Echo of contemporary surrealism, French Institute of Alexandria, Egypt (2022). She published in 2014 TUyYO by desktop publishing and participates in various poetry anthologies: IXQUIC. International Anthology of Feminist Poetry (Editorial Verbum, Madrid, 2018); Wagered deep on the run of six rats to see which would catch the first fire / Surrealist and Outsiders (RW Spryszak, Chicago, 2018); Liberoamericanas, 80 contemporary poets (Liberoamerica, Spain / Argentina / Uruguay, 2018); Narrow doors in wide green fields / Surrealists and Outsiders (RW Spryszak, Chicago, 2019). She has participated in the V Lima Poetry Festival (2014); IV Antifil Alternative Book Fair, Lima (2019). Her visual work is published in Derrame magazine (Chile), Canibaal (Spain), La vertèbre et le rossignol N ° 5, Vies de Saint-Artaud (Canada), Vol (France), The Room (Egypt). She is part of the book 120 nights of Eros, a compendium of surrealist women made by Floriano Martins, ARC editions, Brazil (2021). She currently co-directs with Magdalena Benavente the magazine Honidi Magazine, in Algarrobo, Chile.

Rene Fernando Ortega Villarroel

FROM THE SOUL.

The melody of silence.
I search endlessly for labyrinths across the fields I will find.
Plants have eyes and they see me.
I spill my blood of color pigments.
With the wind I always seek to know infinite mountains wrinkled by time.
That golden light lets me dominate, with veiled rain and magical scents from my hidden memories of a man of the land.
Luminous nature with an open belly shows me a trace of the sun.
Conscientious without desolation, living nature, the plants have begun to love me.

DESDE EL ALMA.

La melodía del silencio.
Yo busco laberintos sin cesar a campo traviesa voy a encontrar.
Las plantas tienen ojos y me ven.
Derramo mi sangre de pigmentos de color.
Con el viento siempre busco conocer infinitas montañas arrugadas por el tiempo.
Esa luz dorada me deja dominar, con lluvias veladas y olores mágicos de mis recuerdos ocultos de un hombre de tierra.
Naturaleza lumínica y de vientre abierto me muestra un trazo del sol.
De conciencia sin desolación, naturaleza viva las plantas han comenzado a quererme.

Rene Fernando Ortega Villarroel Santiago, Chile, Octubre 2022

Rene Fernando Ortega Villarroel

René Ortega, was one of the winners in the international biennial of contemporary art October 3, 2022. Rene has exhibited work in Chile and Argentina. He is involved in many cultural art programs that have related to hospitals, children and teaching art professionally. His most recent show was Mental Labyrinths at the Til Til Cultural Center Art gallery on June 18, 2022

“My concern is the human figure as a feeling of primitive and irrational states, whose main point are the heads, universal thought of the creation of man and center of the universe. All this led to a mutation of the plastic and pictorial language”.

Featured art photo Rene Fernando Ortega Villarroel

Angel of the Paths Claudia Vila Molina

Texts extracted from the unpublished collection of poems “Ciénaga”

5
21 seconds they play your name
Like a shooting star I count the spaces
To lose myself in the water.

6
We are stopped by the claws of the wind
It’s time to sleep they tell us
we are asleep
Like fugitive silhouettes
We have gone astray.

7
The angel of the paths leads
our light
his hands lengthen the stems of the day
stretch contours.

8
My cloud brings pieces of time closer
I’m gloomy like these worm-eaten plants
Someone else will come from the night
To collect some forgotten landscape.

9
Unexpectedly I open my eyes towards you
I like to hear whispers from the outside line
Your eyes open other doors
And they stay sheltered from the shade.

10
Since that time I remember you
You slowly invade my landscapes
Cold voices bring the threads of that web closer
They surround the absent body.

11
I will open my eyes once more
When the stars dwell in our bodies
And a drop slipped through the skin
Suspend all reefs high.

12
Violet petals fall successively on us
The wind is gone, but the shadow remains
Water slides streams into the night
And the last fire extinguishes my stars.

Poems extracted from the book “Poemas de sur”

House and Plum IV

Stealth remains attentive to all caresses
My kisses keep looking for their route
And I remember the first home, the smells tremble with their laughter
Your look weighs on the eyelids of the imagination
The smells will come to dream of the intimate past
So long without looking back
Memory takes so long
It’s something illusory like the blue roses in the garden
The bridge where I whisper a name
a silhouette arrives tired to tell me
that figure sits in the memories
And I can no longer hide
in the holes of the old walls
but if the shadow is your name
I will continue whispering inside the empty space
and the walls will see their signs in the passing of things
beyond we will continue drawing in the rooms
and they will continue to walk through those passages
where the smoke today flies calmly.

House and plum V

We remember the fog visits us through the window
The green eyes returned to tour our nights
And an old walker passed through the house
We return to the site of the visits
The lamps lulled the traveling sound
Only God listens to us on this winter Friday
And I whisper to you not to repeat things
Our gestures turn off the lights
Fall memories unwrap
That house creaked in the front room
Eyes flickered subject to the crackle
A voice speaks words
I don’t know them anymore, the voice is barely heard
Between the trees you fly to contemplate the past
And the tree held by the foreign night
We are silent to hear each other in this stillness
Sleeping trees glow in the dark
They stretch their arms towards the house in the silence
The wind returns
And we as relic-weary passengers
We take care of the necessary gestures
Things twinkle distrustful of destiny
And only tonight can they blink in regret
Because the trees examine our deep voices
And no one will be able to descend from the passageway
And listen to the unknown song.

written by ©Claudia Vila Molina

Claudia Vila Molina

Writer born in Viña del Mar, Chile. Professor of language and communication at PUCV, poet and literary critic. In 2012, she published her first book, The Invisible Eyes of the Wind. She has published in renowned Chilean and foreign digital media: Babelia (Spain), Letras de Chile (Chile), Triplov and Athena de Portugal, among others. During the year 2017 she participates in the Xaleshem group with poetic texts for the surrealist anthologies: “Composing the illusion” in honor of Ludwig Zeller and “Full Moon”, in honor of Susana Wald. In 2018, she integrates the feminist anthology IXQUIC released both in Europe and in Latin America. In 2020 she participates reviewing the conversation book “Shuffle poetry, Surrealism in Latin America” ​​by Alfonso Peña (Costa Rica), also writes a poetic prose text for the book “Arcano 16, La torre“, by the same author. Likewise, she participates in the book “120 notes of Eros. Written portraits of surrealist women” by Floriano Martins (Brazilian surrealist poet, writer, visual artist and cultural manager). In this year (2021) she publishes her second poetry book Poética de la eroticaamores y desamores by Marciano editores, Santiago.

Featured art photo Peppermint Patty girl Oil, collage Mitchell Pluto 2022

Riding the Beast with Delphine Cadoré

Delphine Cadoré French Outsider Artist born in Paris 1972

Immerse yourself in a universe where, under the gaze of the painter, the shapes come undone, round off and blend together. Guessing a fish that reminds us of the softness, the slowness, the fluidity of water.

The one where we all bathed, in the hollow of our mothers’ bellies. Meet the wolf, in all its guises: nurturer, progenitor, and also the least tender who ate the grandmother. A wolf, disturbing and comforting, like the passage of time; it swallows, digests and ends up carrying within itself lives and entire cities.

Discover, here and there, the bird, bearer of poetry. Light and soft, it soothes and lifts your head into the clouds. Then meet a woman who bathes in these waters, in this atmosphere of dream and creation. In this atmosphere where life explodes, the children clinging to the breast, and the vaginas still open from childbirth.

Delphine Cadoré offers us to discover her universe where metaphors rub shoulders with life, the real, the most visceral.

She paints in a powerful energy in which she embeds supports and techniques. She draws, inks, paints, coats, scratches, cuts… for the magic to work. And the magic works: we are caught up in the movement, and each canvas lifts us a little more into this universe of raw poetry.

written by © Charline Rack

I don’t consider myself an artist, I think that each of us is, but some have forgotten that, children are artists in their own right because they have retained this spontaneity that we later lack.

I have no real artistic influence, I like Francis Bacon as well as Paul Gauguin and many others, it’s quite heterogeneous in fact and I discover great artists every day via social networks. As a child, I had the chance to rub shoulders with many artists, illustrators, photographers, musicians, we lived in a community, so I think I always drew.

I am the mother of 4 children, two of whom are already adults and on their own, but I still have two little ones! it’s not always easy to reconcile my work and everyday life! I would say that what I miss the most is the time and above all a studio, a real studio!

written by ©Delphine Cadoré

René Ortega Space Map

Inner space, mathematical entities, organic architecture and time doors from the liminal mind of artist René Ortega

From TvoTiltil October 3, 2022

El artista plástico y vecino de Huertos Familiares, René Ortega, resultó uno de los ganadores en la bienal internacional de arte contemporáneo que se desarrolló la semana pasada en Cali Colombia. En el encuentro participaron más de 3000 pinturas y representantes de 15 países y fue trinfador en la categoría de arte abstracto.
La premiación se llevó a cabo en la Universidad Santiago de Cali. Sin duda es el logro y reconocimiento más importante en mi carrera hasta la fecha nos indicó el artista hace instantes.

The plastic artist and neighbor of Huertos Familiares, René Ortega, was one of the winners in the international biennial of contemporary art that took place last week in Cali, Colombia. More than 3,000 paintings and representatives from 15 countries participated in the meeting and it was the winner in the category of abstract art.
The award ceremony was held at the Santiago de Cali University. Without a doubt, it is the most important achievement and recognition in my career to date, the artist told us moments ago.

Rene Fernando Ortega Villarroel

Feature art photo was selected as the award-winning work.

Be a Poem by Lorena Rioseco-Palacios

EVE LIGHT

Life
Death
The sense
What are they worth?
Ties to Life the illusion of being special
unique
That everything hidden will be revealed and bring peace
The fall
God
Crying
The vacuum
the tear
The torture of ignorance.
The worst of wheat
the howling of the cattle
The bark of the stubborn
The silence of the wise
(To whom God gave a name and assigned a Path)
Fall and worry our fate
Our truth the poppy has bloomed
The morphine has deadened the pain
But the power of God gives us the strength to continue… to continue
WHERE?

TWO NOISES

There are only two noises left
In the relaxed silences after the bloodless waters of the cold
There are only two noises left
Between the waking dream
Field where all the faded desires lie
While in his fury the candid blood
born in his look at the dawn
In your breathing relief
After the suns of August and the snows of July

There are only two noises left
My body knows its moment in the soul
Half bite and half die

There are only two noises left

Kisses and debauchery

What will become of so much love?
What will become of so much thirst?

I WILL GET LOST

I will lose myself as those sleepless nights are lost.
As the swallows fly uncertainly in their freedom.
Thus, like the breath drowned in a puddle of muddy tears
between slopes whipped by a harsh winter.
I’ll get lost on those dead end streets
in the midst of a time without stay.
Suffering soul
Deep sorrow of the soul.
I will write her name in crystals in the catacombs where lost loves lie
in each fragment deposited on a paper evicted from oblivion
between puddles of muddy tears on slopes whipped by a harsh winter.

SEPIA

As I watched the roll
roll of your wheels
I rolled off the ledges of cement buildings
There is no time…
Just muzzled birds
who observe my mourning of fluorescent colors
I’m looking for a bloody drink
Lower the face to the bottom
Bottomless background.
soul of lockdowns
absence of soul
there are no greens
SEPIA only…

LONELY

Lonely my autumn sighs pass by
Lonely the night of stars without wicks

Of loves in transit to the corridor of oblivion
Presence of leaves dancing as our love faded
In the middle of our world
always unfinished
Present as the cold through my careless open windows

I live and die
I smile and agonize
I dance and fall on cement floors
in dark spaces
in adornment people

I wonder-

In what unknown wind do I find you?
In what shade of September?
In what square of yesteryear do you walk your nostalgia
your unlived times
your life in my absence
my presence not available
or our words always so petty?

Alone
Alone in the midst of eclipsing clouds
And suns that don’t kill

Alone in the siesta of the day
While the good runs adrift
In that ocean that I never get to cross

What’s up?-that nothing in me is enough
that my passing is the passing of a deaf bird in a night cloak of mirrors?

devoid of me
devoid of all
abandoned by my lyrics
Unable to happen in life
All that I no longer say

FOR A SHIRAZ

ruby meteorites
Imitate God’s Sediment

meaning to the air
that the air I lack

That I need one last sip of a great Syrah
To say, what my lyrics hide

The costume without forgetting
Your body smells like grapes and my body smells like you…

written by ©Lorena Rioseco Palacios

Lorena Rioseco Palacios

10.29.1969, Viña del Mar, Chile

Poet, narrator and reciter of the soul. Social Communicator, law graduate. At the end of 2015 she published her first book of poetry, stories and haiku “Ecos errantes” In 2016 together with 18 Chilean women poets she published her poetic work in the anthology “Mujeres al fin del mundo” (poetic voice of Chilean women), awarded by the Chilean Society of Writers with the “National Reading Fund”, with presence in all National Libraries. In 2017, together with outstanding national poets, he presents his work in the Anthology “Underworld¨ “Blood brother”, “Without borders” (Society of Writers “Without borders”. 2018), “ After poetry, in 2019 and “After Poetry: the festival of poetry”, in 2020 he publishes his work in the International Poetic Anthologies “Palabras Necessarios”, 2021, among others . The artist vigorously participates in literary, poetic, cultural and environmental dissemination activities. She also participates in different poetry forums, where she maintains a constant literary and poetic activism in social networks and groups of poets in America and Europe. In 2021, she publishes her second bilingual poetry book “Sé un poeta (be a poem)”. Since 2017 she is a member of the cultural corporation of writers and artists “Les enfants terribles” and of the Society of Chilean Writers (SECH). Poet invited to the II National Poetry Meeting, 2021.

Featured art photo Scyphomancy Oil on 9inx12in coldpress Mitchell Pluto 2022

Poems from Crazy Pupils by Victoria Morrison

NEW MOON

The
He is more poet than me
He provokes in me the excitement of lucifer
I wish to flee from the three nails of the crucifixion
My wrists don’t hurt so much anymore.
like sore ankles
I don’t limp anymore
The sky turns to water in your presence
I know how to float in flooded graves
mercury nights
Enigma of the writer with hair on his face
Under the moon
Howl with foreign voices

OBEY ME

From afar he looked like a man
It was a shadow in the form of a man
From afar he looked like a poet
It was a form of man
with the voice of a poet
In the light he looked like an angel
In the dark
Repugnant
smelly
I liked
Come! Come my love!
You will see that the reflection of my water is salty
Obey me

MARRIAGE OF THE DEAD

To not blame the men
We got married in the presence of a dead man
reflection
echo
We got married in the presence of a dead man
With my heart in my hand
fevers
cramps
Friend of my heart drowned in poetry
We got married in the presence of a dead man
They dug a grave
We were put
Next to each other
in the wet mud
The crying comes from the empty graves
We got married in the presence of a dead man
The earth has forgiven us

INSOMNIA

We look more beautiful in black
More beautiful than the widows of our enemies
I reversed your death with a love spell
I pierced your flesh
blood stakes
I descended into madness to rescue you
Men
In angel I returned you
You festered like a poem under insomnia
nobody’s Geometry
geometry of gods
We look more beautiful in black
More beautiful than the widows of our enemies.
crazy pupils
Kiss Me!
as if you don’t know me
impregnate me again and again
Throw the stone and hide
I will murder our children in the name of love
bite me
howls

SPECTRAL SILHOUETTE

spectral silhouette
I got tangled up in your hair
It rains in a city full of leaves
yellow autumn
I visit you in the asylum
where reason is lost
I see you insanely talking with the virgin
she doesn’t listen to you
My joints creak like an old door
I dry myself
I am your light you tell me
Cocoon light when I take you in hugs
Under the cold light of fluorescent tubes
We are the closest thing to Michelangelo’s Pietá
I cleanse your drugged body
They have cooked your mouth
I give you to drink the rain
You have aged more than me
One by one I have seen your teeth fall
Even so
I still consider you handsome my sick poet
Smoker
Created in the image and likeness of your mother
We make a blood pact
Crying
Of the wall
The shadow
The smoke from your big hands
Touching me
You hypnotize the voices
The time stops
naked
I walk in the rain
I collect flowers.

The poet Leopoldo María Panero, died last night at 65 years old at the Juan Carlos I Psychiatric Hospital in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria, where he lived as a boarder in open regime. Panero will be cremated tomorrow at the San Miguel Funeral Home of Las Palmas de Gran Canaria, where his body will be veiled starting at 2:00 p.m. today. The Corpse of the Poet he will remain in the funeral home for a little over 24 hours, until proceed to incinerate him, something that is scheduled for 4:30 p.m. tomorrow.
Source: ABC.es Culture, July 7, 2014

CRAZY PUPILS

The most ruthless of all souls
She is moved by the song of night crickets
The most brutal of all souls
Talk to the stars on a waning moon
the most despised
Sing with the voice of a nightingale
stays there
hours and hours and hours
hearing the wind
the most ungrateful soul
wash the feet of tramps
Heals hand wounds
Feed the pigeons in the squares
Smile at the children on the street
tour the cemetery
Read verses about the graves
Searching abandoned tombstones
Rest in sealed sepulchers.
Accompanies the silence that passes forgetting
and she gets tired
falls off
she turns off
sleep
Until the dandelions touch her fingers
She can’t open her tired eyelids
crazy’s pupils get bigger
hands are filled with oblivion.

LOST LANGUAGE

Speak
Write poetry
miss the word
Language that bewitches the impure in spirit
Verses saved from the waters
Illegitimate child
Where does my tongue come from?
stumbles on the palate
I inject sounds
speeches
rumors
Where do my eyes come from?
Observe the bubbles of the fish mating
Fertilize under the water of the river.

MOON WOMAN

Moonlit woman
windy sunrise
Fall from the placenta to the volcano
burn the soul
Germinate in root
mutate into bird
poet’s whisper
I belong to the wind
to the reflection of the sea

written by ©Victoria Morrison

Portada de Pupilas de Loco

Controversial, transgressive, provocative, direct, loving, desolate This is the poetry of Victoria Morrison in this
new book: “Crazy Pupils”. the forty four poems that the collection of poems brings together come from the limits
most extreme humans; tenderness and cruelty in hands of the disturbed beauty of some verses that bother
and move, as the voice should be, when you are in the center of the tragedy. Love, madness, death, oblivion, govern the order of this collection of poems. In this scheme, the poetry of Victoria Morrison is a way of exhibiting the torture to which existence subjects us just by breathing.

Dante Cajales Meneses
Cau Cau, Puchuncavi, Chile,
February 2020

Feature art photo Eyes series. Óscar César Mata, Latex and watercolor pencil. Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Poetics of Erotica, Loves and Heartbreaks by Claudia Vila Molina

Crossing

be you
the stray who returns
into the mist
of our bodies.

Ignition

I wonder if you’re touching the sky now
as I extend my sight to these mountains
what part of space
will be created with your presence?
What ocean will I cross
to incinerate you slowly?

Prophecy

Your body dissolves things
to announce a moan
or remote end of the night
that no longer hides anything
not even a new way
of shivering

Estrangement

You look at me as if I were your fetish
you touch me when we’re alone
I am nothing of that
nor the shadow of our own steps.

Secrets

The mirror projects two lovers at the edge of the night
the itinerary of its own history is broken
They don’t sleep because they know how to distinguish whispers
that fly by and saturate the air
of people looking through the keyhole
and are suddenly reflected in a pool
It is not true to say that these bodies look at each other
it would be better to sketch the moment
when they intersect with the dark
but aligned as they were they knew how to possess themselves
and stood out against the background of shadows
of a white that was dreamed at night
and he did not even stop to contemplate the stars
but if he looked at himself naked
except when she unbuttoned her dress.

written by ©Claudia Vila Molina

Claudia Vila Molina

Writer born in Viña del Mar, Chile. Professor of language and communication at PUCV, poet and literary critic. In 2012, she published her first book, The Invisible Eyes of the Wind. She has published in renowned Chilean and foreign digital media: Babelia (Spain), Letras de Chile (Chile), Triplov and Athena de Portugal, among others. During the year 2017 she participates in the Xaleshem group with poetic texts for the surrealist anthologies: “Composing the illusion” in honor of Ludwig Zeller and “Full Moon”, in honor of Susana Wald. In 2018, she integrates the feminist anthology IXQUIC released both in Europe and in Latin America. In 2020 she participates reviewing the conversation book “Shuffle poetry, Surrealism in Latin America” ​​by Alfonso Peña (Costa Rica), also writes a poetic prose text for the book “Arcano 16, La torre“, by the same author. Likewise, she participates in the book “120 notes of Eros. Written portraits of surrealist women” by Floriano Martins (Brazilian surrealist poet, writer, visual artist and cultural manager). In this year (2021) she publishes her second poetry book Poética de la eroticaamores y desamores by Marciano editores, Santiago.

Feature art photo Sun Set Women Oil, collage by Mitchell Pluto 2022

Inheritance of the Sleepless Rodrigo Verdugo

INHERITANCE OF THE SLEEPLESS 61

under the jasmine,
there are beautiful sentences.

I search with hands of fog,
something in my bones.

And to my aid comes,
the girl who knows
read backwards.

TENIA

She had the profile of a raven
and she covered her navel
with a lotus

she in dreams
she drank beer
with Alejandra Pizarnik.

She wanted to rent a small apartment
in Latin American Union neighborhood
only to have parties or orgies.

An apartment where beer
will fly like a raven
and the girls in full frenzy
they will remove the lotus from the navel
and the men will arrive like castaways
and burst in at sunset.

then someone comes back
to rent that apartment
and before putting the furniture and inhabiting it
read aloud to Alejandra Pizarnik
and a lotus enters through the window
pushed by the evening air.

INHERITANCE OF THE SLEEPLESS 82

I
lightning strikes
the blood bans
the eyelids of a son confuse the stone,
he has spilled on his knees
that burning milk,
which they throw in the face of the lamb.

II
I was spawned
in full abyssal torture.
and I have shields
about all my children.

III
You have petrified aspirations
and you say that you will become
in wolf at noon,
and you will bite a blue breast.

IV
You moan from the preacher’s throat
and thorns appear,
you want to be and not be at the same time
under any sky
pleasure shatters the night
and your bones watch over you in the hunter’s house,
and he ash in orgy with lightning
it’s just the picture
of that mother that she said
please open the door for me
welcome me, my house is burning down
she will burn me
and all my children.

V
I forgive him, but he repeats
I forgive him and he tells me
I want all my children together
forming a tragic link.

VI
I’m the father,
I drag bags with abundant fruits,
vegetables and goat cheese
I visit all the markets
all vegas and slaughterhouses
at five in the morning,
he wore a marbled coat,
a split in the middle of the forehead,
the sea spends angels and demons
and I spend the gold
with what should I cover
the mouth of all the unearthed.

VII
And who wants to sit at my table
he can talk to me at sunset
about my old gold digger aspirations
while we bite fruits,
and goat cheeses.

VIII
my children say
I have minotaur feet
and that I’m crazy.

IX
They were distributed.
The first met lightning envelope
and he finished as server in fifths of recreation.
The second was tempted by alabaster prostitutes
and he ended up ripping the bones out of all the fish with his mouth.
The third was suckled by a mule
and he ended up inspecting faucets.
The fourth was confined in a monastery
and ended up transcribing dictations from a blind nun.
Suddenly I wanted to have them all with me
forming a tragic link
on the precipices of the species.

X
And the mother in the hunter’s house
hid in the meantime
she said: “for now I am safe here,
although everyone outside
see the ash in orgy with lightning
and that is the image that remains of me in them”.
I will put my children to shelter
I’ll get them up at dawn
they will have the plague of a wolf that bit a blue breast
and they will fall one after another
and I will put compresses on the body
and I will invade my mother’s house
and the living room will be enabled as a sanatorium
and I will wake up at dawn to serve them
like a blind nun
and I will fear that a few steps of minotaur
are getting closer.

XI
those were my kids
and they were my gold digger pride
Of that gold that I will ever find
to cover once and for all
the mouths of all the unearthed.

XII
Come and let’s continue biting fruits
and goat meats and cheeses
That’s why I’m at five in the morning
with a marbled jacket,
and a split in the middle of the forehead,
in all vega, slaughterhouse and market.
That’s what lightning goes for
against all the prohibitions of the blood,
That’s why I choose alabaster prostitutes for my children
and with ashes I increase the abyssal torture of generation,
and with shepherd’s throats, I increase the desire
of those who want to be wolves at noon,
and bite a blue breast,
and have petrified aspirations,
or pluck fish bones with their mouths
and from the confused stone I make a shield
under which the wolf will drink burning milk
in the snout of the lamb.

written by © Rodrigo Verdugo

Rodrigo Verdugo Pizarro: Santiago, Chile, 1977. Poet and collagist. He was secretary of the Pen Chile and formed part of the Surrealist Derrame Group. His work has been published in national and foreign journals and anthologies being partially translated into: English, French, Italian, Portuguese, Polish, Arabic, Uzbek, Romanian, Bulgarian, Catalan, Dutch Albanian and Greek. He has participated in collective exhibitions in: Spain, Portugal, Czech Republic, Costa Rica and Egypt. He is author of: “Veiled Knots”, Ed Derrame, 2002, “Broken Windows”, Olga Cartonera, 2014, “Advertisement”, Rumbos Editors, 2017 and “3 Anuncios, 3 Annonces”, Plaquette, Coedition Mago Publishers, Home Notebooks Bermeja, and Hesperides Publishing House (Argentina), Hispanic Academy of Fine Letters (Spain),2019

Feature art photo Mercenaries at the neural pipelines Oil, collage 9inx12in Mitchell Pluto 2022

Five Poem Wounds Emilio Barraza Durán

RESURRECTION

They all ran away from him
and it was not strange
never in Jerusalem
they saw a dead man walking
even his friends
they reacted with fear
when he showed up
by the door frame
everyone looked at him suspiciously
people walked away
swiftly on your side
it was
a condemned ghost
for transgressing
the immutable laws of the grave.
the last time they saw him
I drank a glass of wine
to the health of his friend Lázaro
the only one who understood
the terrible loneliness of the resurrected…

BAR PEOPLE

a distilled wine
with gender grapes
baste slowly
the broken pieces
of my heart without a country.
Time
take a nap
at the exact point
where Christ
lost the nails of it.
Between the glass and the bottle
a forgotten cigarette
it makes me cry
tears of smoke
at the bar
alcoholic corpses
remember times gone by
they cry for their lost tombstones
They cry for their rusty dead.
outside it rains
Suspensive points
that fall from the sky
They are knives that stick
in exact and precise geometry
from the heart…

CHRIST THE ELECTOR

they will lower you
a few moments from the cross
and they will give you
a Pandora’s box
the Pharisees will say
that you are a good person
the sadducees will express
your good intentions
mark a + on the paper
they will say
and you can go back to your work
having said that
they will put you on the cross again
and they will keep hitting you
For ever and ever, amen…

PLASTER LOVES

Now
that I am a harlequin
wire and plaster
lying on a bed
now
that I am a sparrow
with concrete wings
I can still tell
I want to love
despite the irons
that cross my hips
despite
of streptomycin
that makes me vomit
I am the only statue
who looks with love
to the wax masks
that cross the corridors
in this hospital…

FABLE OF ASSES

The donkeys
they were losing power
they were not elected
for no public office
all
their political strategies
They inevitably failed.
Then
at an important party meeting
decided to paint stripes and make
a strong communication campaign.
Since then
the whole country votes for a zebra
that from time to time brays
the same broken promises
of their asshole co-religionists…

written by ©Emilio Barraza Durán

Emilio Barraza Durán, Viña del Mar, Chile, February 28, 1955. He completed his secondary studies at the Industrial School of Ciudad Jardín, and his university studies at the Catholic University of Valparaíso, graduating as a Professor of Spanish in 1983.
In 1998 he obtained the first prize for his play “Las tristes primaveras del humo” and the publication of his poems in the Anthology “Versos de viento y desamor” published by the Department of Culture of Secreduc Valparaíso.
In 2000 he completed his internship “A creative approach to the Chilean Educational Reform” at the University of Alcalá de Henares, Spain.
In 2013 he published “El Callejón de los Corderos” (Editorial Magoeditores), a critical and anti-systemic book.
In 2014 he obtained the following distinctions:
Publication of his poems in two editions of the literary magazine The Word of the Arizona State University, USA.
-Publication of his work “The transgressed flag: a vision of the patriotic symbols in dictatorship” in the book “Memory and perspective: 40 years after the military coup” edited by the Editorial University of Playa Ancha de Valparaíso.
-Publication of her finalist work “Good night, Rossana” in the “Anthology L.AI.A V Ensueños” edited in New York by the Latin American Intercultural Alliance and Editorial Muse & Pen.
Anthology Verses from the Heart, Editorial Diversidad Literaria Madrid, Spain.
-Winner of the first national poetry prize in a contest organized by the Chilean publisher Verbo(des)nudo with the book “Sueño ecuacional” in January 2015.
2015, appears in the Latin American Poets Anthology of Editorial Imaginante, Argentina 2016
Anthology Do not invite me to heaven if there is no wine, Editorial La Gorra de Valparaíso.
September 2016, selected in Anthology Peace as Care of Creation with El Sueño de Nezahualcoyolt, Editorial United Peace Federation, Buenos Aires, Argentina.
October 2016, winner of the Life Lines contest of Editorial San Pablo. His work Only You appears in Anthology Los Tesoros del Alma 2016.
January 2017, selected and edited by Furman Magazine 217, Vanderbilt University, Nashville, USA.
2017: Anthology “Poetics of the Underworld” anthologized by Eduardo Embry Castro and Teresa Calderón in Editorial de La Gorra Valparaíso
2017: Anthology “Convergences” edited by the poet and editor Gino Ginoris, Editorial Verbo(des)nudo.
2018: Anthology “Without Borders” Editorial of the Valparaíso Cap.
2018: poet selected for Solideo Gloria act of adoration organized by the Pastoral Catholic University of Santiago de Chile.
2019: “Writing and Scarring: the poetry of Marcela Cortés Moyano”, prologue to the book Sangra Etérea Piel, presented at the Viña del Mar Book Fair.
2019: Anthology After Poetry The Barbones, Valparaíso, Juan Antonio Huesbe, editor and compiler.
2019: Review of the book Totemica Insular by the Cuban-Canadian poet Lídice Megla published by Amazon, Canada.
2020: Review of the book Dialogue with the Mirror by Julianita Cisne, Editorial Letras al Viento, Miami USA.
2020: Anthology of Light, Nedazka Pika and Entre Paréntesis editors, Santiago.
2020: Fragua de Preces, Ibero-American Poets Anthology, Alisios Cultural and Grupo Abra, Canary Islands, Spain.
2021: After Poetry II, Anthology, Juan Antonio Huesbe editor and compiler, Valparaíso.
2021: Necessary Words, Poetic Humanity International Anthology, Viajero Ediciones, Ramón Lizana editor
Valparaiso.
2021: Flight of Dreams Anthology, Dora Miranda and Regional Literary Association Editors.
2022: Reading of Poems at the Viña del Mar Book Fair.
2022: Reading of poems Tribute to Gabriela Mistral, Gam Museum, Vicuña.
2022: Newenke Kura, Anthology of Living Stones, Nedazka Pika and Entreparentesis Editores, Santiago, Chile.

Feature photo art Banner of power and hierarchy 9inx12in oil, collage Mitchell Pluto 2022

Poems by Claudia Vila Molina We Return to the Earth

(Unpublished texts from the Poemas de sur)

Oath

The flowers will throb in my silence
The eyes will hear the flames of the river
We’ll whisper at night
And nothing will be necessary
This accumulation of absences today fills our chest
And there are no more traces on the dry Sunday afternoon
Although the smoke witnesses some ordeals
The eyes release their huge blocks
But none of this will be necessary
Nothing will be noticed at the bottom of the lakes
Not even in the thickening of the clouds.

We Return to Earth

The sound of the night falls towards the earth
The pastures surround us with their white moans
Again we walk the bare earth
And we keep the secret
A word wrapped in unreality
My lost sunflowers are from autumn
When they wither in the shadow of the cliffs.

(Unpublished poems taken from the book Escritos para Beatriz)

Strange Certainty

The water rises to the hives
The brightness of the air stops my desertion
And the precipice of the birds is deep
But the route digs a new image
Where did we forget the road?
What drill did you lose my name in?

The moon is your own emaciated conscience
Climb towards the light the wormy face
They fill it with sounds in the jungle of the world
An image is that you in pain
That serpent coiled in the maelstrom of the waves

Who can love you from silence?

The flora of time cradles sad animals
And disintegrates in the ropes of the river
That temple opens their bodies towards the solitudes
And send us four different kingdoms

Your flight is a mirror in the mask of the world
Eyes conceive other authentic materials
We like to dye ourselves from nothing
Succumb to the harassment of existence

After the light has departed we only have
distance
And the objects thrown on the floor
But your being unexpectedly illuminates this corner
and flee to cold countries
where the last sailors go

That silence is part of our ancient voice
And bring down the places
Draw an island in the middle of everything
The moon rests in my female arms
And unwind four seasons

A sign disconnects my primitive bursts
And he starts to sing
The wave once again throws its homicides
The certainty of that shadow strangles us
That figure stopped at dawn.

(Poems taken from the unpublished book Ciénaga)

9
Unexpectedly I open my eyes towards you
I like to hear whispers from the outside line
Your eyes open other doors
And they stay sheltered from the shade.

10
Since that time I remember you
You slowly invade my landscapes
Cold voices bring the threads of that web closer
They surround the absent body.

11
I will open my eyes once more
When the stars dwell in our bodies
And a drop slipped through the skin
Suspend all reefs high.

12
Violet petals fall successively on us
The wind is gone, but the shadow remains
Water slides streams into the night
And the last fire extinguishes my stars.

written by © Claudia Vila Molina

Claudia Vila Molina

09-22-1969

Writer born in Viña del Mar, Chile. Professor of language and communication at PUCV, poet and literary critic. In 2012, she published her first book, The Invisible Eyes of the Wind. She has published in renowned Chilean and foreign digital media: Babelia (Spain), Letras de Chile (Chile), Triplov and Athena de Portugal, among others. During the year 2017 she participates in the Xaleshem group with poetic texts for the surrealist anthologies: “Composing the illusion” in honor of Ludwig Zeller and “Full Moon”, in honor of Susana Wald. In 2018, she integrates the feminist anthology IXQUIC released both in Europe and in Latin America. In 2020 she participates reviewing the conversation book “Shuffle poetry, Surrealism in Latin America” ​​by Alfonso Peña (Costa Rica), also writes a poetic prose text for the book “Arcano 16, La torre“, by the same author. Likewise, she participates in the book “120 notes of Eros. Written portraits of surrealist women” by Floriano Martins (Brazilian surrealist poet, writer, visual artist and cultural manager). In this year (2021) she publishes her second poetry book Poética de la erotica, amores y desamores by Marciano editores, Santiago.

Feature photo art by Enrique De Santiago