Ana C Blum - Poems


She walks other streets. She succumbs to another tongue.

Far from her home, escorted by anonymity, with a bag empty of country and heritage she makes herself present at the wake of the mirage.

Among the monuments of death she has forgotten what sap makes up her blood? what craft makes her bones rise?

She didn't want to go back when she could, now it is too late to reach the vessels.

Whatever she left was eaten by the appetite of absence.

To return to the same sea is to return to a strange sea.


Nothing is ours, even the shadow that is made of oneself with its infinite mute verbs.

Neither the poem that we write or the ink that writes it.

Neither the soil from which we were borne or the soil in wich we'll die.

Without offering a trace we dilute to become just a cold day's steam freed by the space.


That man demands a miracle from the night while he carries his home in a little supermarket cart.

Tall, disheveled, dirty, with the same green sweater from a century ago, faded green, broken green, sad green.

From here I smell him he reeks of anguish of streets up and down, of coins dropped on the floor, of night without shelter of old garbage from a rich country.

Curses a bottle, then he kisses it.

Strangled laughter, then a cry.



Camina en otras calles. Sucumbe en otra lengua.

Lejos de su casa, escoltada por el anonimato, con la alforja vacía de país y herencia asiste al velatorio del espejismo.

Entre los monumentos de la muerte ha olvidado: de qué savia está hecha su sangre, de qué oficio se yerguen sus huesos.

No quiso retornar cuando pudo, es tarde para alcanzar las carabelas.

Lo que dejó se lo comió el apetito de la ausencia.

Volver al mismo mar es volver al desencuentro.


Nada es nuestro, siquiera la sombra que se hace de uno mismo con sus infinitos verbos mudos.

No son nuestros ni el poema ni la tinta que lo escribe, tampoco la tierra en que se nace en la que se morirá.

Sin ofrendar la huella nos vamos diluyendo hasta convertirnos en vapor de día frío libado por el espacio.


Aquel hombre le exige un milagro a la noche mientras lleva su casa a cuestas en un carrito de supermercado.

Largo, descuidado, sucio, con el mismo suéter verde desde hace un siglo, verde-desteñido, verde-quebrado, verde-triste.

Hasta acá puedo olerlo. Hiede a desconsuelo, a calle pa' arriba y pa' abajo, a centavo tirado en el piso, a noche sin techo, a basura vieja de país rico.

Maldice una botella, luego la besa. Se escucha una carcajada, después un gemido.

Ana C Blum (Ecuador, 1972). Poet and essayist. She is the author of six books of poetry. Widely published in Latin America and Spain, her writings have been translated into Italian, Portuguese, French, German, Arabic and English. She is the editor of the literary newsletter Metaforología, and the editor of Poeticus Press a digital imprint dedicated to the publication of contemporary poets in Spanish language. Among other distinctions she has been invited to read from her work at the Library of Congress of the United States, and participated in several literary festivals in America and Europe. She studied Political Science in Ecuador and Hispanic Literature in the USA. She has taught Spanish, lectured on poetry written by Ecuadorian women and coordinated creative writing workshops. She is the founder of the Poetry Fund for the Americas (a small private fund dedicated to spreading poetry). She is a Polio Survivor.

Some of her publications are: Descanso sobre mi sombra (Poesía, 1995); Donde duerme el sueño (Poesía, 2005); La que se fue (Poesía, 2008); La voz habitada (Co-autora, Poesía, 2008); Libre de espanto (Poesía y Prosa, 2012); Todos los éxodos (Antología Personal, 2012); Poetas de la Mitad del Mundo, Antología de Poesía escrita por Mujeres Ecuatorianas (Co-Antóloga), 2013; Áncoras (Poesía, 2015); Modelo 72 (Co-autora, Poesía, 2016); Rituales (Poesía, 2016) y Absurdities (Ficción Breve, 2013).

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