Friday, April 18, 2014



REACTION
                    
                        Para  Thomas Loomis

Hace algunos años
tuve unos zapatos
como esos,
del color del insomnio.
Estos zapatos
me esperaban
en el frío de la noche
como dos  cuervos.


Un día mi hermano
Miró la etiqueta
y me dijo:
“Estos zapatos
fueron hechos
en los talleres
del sudor y la sangre.”
Aun así estos
zapatos me llevaron
de un país a otro
de asalto a otro.

A veces a mis zapatos
les entró el odio
como el agua
de los charcos
que no pueden cerrar los ojos
les entraron
las ganas de caminar
y caminamos
hambrientos
por días, hasta
hasta llegar
a la casa de la razón.

A veces esos
zapatos hicieron
escándalo
y patearon
puertas
y  armarios
como los cascos
de un  caballo
enfermo de sí mismo
esos zapatos
patearon cajas
y libros,
todo lo que tuvo
las huellas
de los hombres.

En las noches
en las que no puedo
apagar las luces
de mis ojos
en las que sigo
hablando
y hablando
siento que todavía
tengo puestos
esos zapatos
tercos
insomnes
siento
que todavía tengo
puestos esos zapatos
y sigo caminando
y  caminando
como un incendio viejo
como árbol sin raíces
en el mundo.










REACTION 

                 For Thomas Loomis

Years ago
I had shoes
like these
with the colors
of insomnia.
These shoes
waited for me
in the night’s cold
like two crows.


One day my brother
look at their label
and said:
"These shoes
were made
in workshops of
sweat and blood. "
Yet these
shoes took me
from one country to another
from one storm to another.

Sometimes,
hate entered my shoes
like water from puddles
that cannot close their eyes.
The urgency
  to walk
and walk
entered my shoes,
hungry
for days
until we got
to the house of reason.
 
Sometimes those
shoes made
scandals
and kicked
doors
and cabinets
like hooves
of a horse sick of himself.
Those shoes
kicked boxes
and books,
and all things
that had
traces of man

On nights
when I cannot
turn off the lights
of my eyes,
and I talk
and I talk
in the dark,
I feel
that I still have
those shoes on,
stubborn,
sleepless
shoes.
I feel
that I still have
those shoes on,
and I walk,
and I walk,
like an old fire,
like a tree without roots
in the world.



Thursday, December 26, 2013





LEJOS DE LA GENTE QUE MUERE CON LAS ESTACIONES


                                      

                                        Para Megan Allen

 

Cansado,

me acuesto como un perro

a mirar las alfombras

que el otoño teje

entre las  ramas.

Cansado

me levanto

como el calor de la tierra

y  camino las avenidas

de autos y peateanos

que se transforman y aullan,

autos que pasan ocupando

el tiempo y la gloria

de la manaña que se abre

otra vez

como la herida

en  mis patas  de invierno.

 

Soy entonces ese perro

que te llama hermano

con mis ladridos

desde una calle

amada por mi cuerpo

que siente

el rencor y la infamia

en los pasos que brillan.

 

Hoy te abrazo

en el aire de esta mañana,

y juego contigo

dando saltos y ladridos

que saben

a horas solas

 

Sé que me a respiras

en el aire que te toca

el rostro y por un momento

te hace pensar

que hay otra salida,

otro tiempo

que no es como

un collar de espinas,

un collar serpiente

que se muerde la cola.

 

A veces tú encuentras

en la risa de las ramas

y los gorriones

el aire  y el vuelo

de otro tiempo

como polen

que se eleva hacia las nubes

rojas y húmedas

cargadas de una lluvia.

 

 
Soy entonces ese perro

que se acostumbró

a morir con el invierno

y a resucitar en los tobillos

de la muchacha

que busca luciérnagas

entre la hojarasca de la noche.

 

 

 


AWAY FROM PEOPLE

THAT DIE WITH THE SEASONS

                              

                                For Megan Allen

 

Tired  

I  lay down

like a dog

to observe the rugs

that autumn weaves

among the branches.

Tired I get up

like steam from the earth.

Tired I walk avenues of cars

and pedestrians

that transform and howl.

Cars that pass occupying

The time and the glory

of the morning

that opens again

Like my wound

in my winter legs.

 

I am then

that dog

that calls  you brother

when I bark

in a street

loved by my body,

my body that  feels

the infamy  and the resentment

in steps that shine.

 

Today,

I embrace you

like the  morning air.

and I play with with you

jumping and barking.

My barks know about

lonely hours.

I know that you breath me

in the air that touches

your  face and for a moment

makes you think

that there is other solution

another time,

a time that is not like

a necklace of thorns,

a snake- necklace,

bitting its tale.

 

Sometimes you find

in the laughter of  branches

and sparrows

the air and flight

of another time

as pollen

that rises into the clouds

wet and red.

Clouds charged with rain.

 

I am then that dog used

to die in the winter,

and a rise up again

in the ankles

of the girl

seeking fireflies
between the leaves of the night .

 

 

 

 

 


 

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

 Aquí esta el enlace para uno de mis poemas en YouTube, Razones en el Invierno
 Here is the link to one of my poems in YouTube, Reasons in the Winter.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iBAfv-Zg9tY

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

Luz de Todos Los Tiempos / Light of All Times now available!!

 My new collection of poetry is now available. Please support my work and the work of Cowfeather Press, a small amazing publisher in Madison, Wisconsin. You can purchase Luz de Todos los Tiempos from the Cowfeather Press website or contact me directly at moisesvillavicencio (at) gmail (dot) com.

Advance Praise

I have known this marvelous poet, Moisés Villavicencio Barras, for many years. It is a pleasure to finally see his work published in a bi-lingual edition. His poety reflects devotion to Mexico, to his native Oaxaca, and to his family. The histories here, and the mysteries, come from the hand of a poet who should be read, whomust be heard. One finds here a mind focused on the beauty of language and the deep song of loveliness and love.—Neeli Cherkovski, author of Leaning Against Time

Read Moisés Villavicencio Barras's poems in Light of All Times and enter a dark, familiar theater of heartfelt longing. A theater skillfully built of forceful words and raw beauty. Do not trust the coyote at the crossing; trust the power of the eye, the ear, and the heart of this poet. —Bruce Dethlefsen, Wisconsin Poet Laureate 2011-2012

Moisés Villavicencio Barras's second collection of poetry offers us in lush, sensual language his childhood in Oaxaca and his Mazatec ancestors, his family life both there and in the U. S., and the experience of belonging to both far and near. In these poems, his
self-reflective vision of living at once in the North and South
awakens us to what is near, just outside the window, and to what is far, the jaguar in the ravine. He is a poet of such imaginative grace that, even after I've closed the book, I want to listen and be vulnerable enough to hear a voice speak this way again. In this bravely envisioned collection of poems, we read and feel transformed in its light, having grown closer to one another and to the earth, the source of song and beauty. —Roberta Hill, University of Wisconsin-Madison

Unexpected Shiny Things cover

Saturday, March 2, 2013

ESTA ES MI VERSION DE LO QUE PASA CON LAS BICICLETAS ABANDONADAS/THIS IS MY VERSION ABOUT THE BICYCLES THAT WERE ABANDONED



 
ROLANDO’S BICYCLE
By Moises Villavicencio Barras

The bicycle waited there, underneath the oak tree, hoping. Throughout the summer saw other bicycles, and sometimes, the bicycle counted the other bicycles to forget the long hours under the sun and her absent owner. She listened, pleased, to the commentaries of passers-by.
-That is not an ugly bicycle!
-Classic!
-A little heavy!
-Perfect tires for the winter!
-What a shame!
Rain and dust did their work: her chain yellowed, yellow like one of the leaves between her spokes. The bicycle recognized each dog that approached. Unknown hands took to her horn and rear view mirror.
- I like her color! Blue, like my earrings.
-The seat is leather!
Although the wind tried to pedal her, it was not sufficient. The oxide little by little began to grow in the teeth of her chain and all over her body.
-Is it the bicycle of Rolando? –
-Yes! Yes it has his name scratched into the handlebar.
-Have you seen Rolando? 
-It has been several months since I have seen him. You know, since the fight in the bar when he got kicked out.
The snow began to fall, in great flakes. Two children appeared next to the bicycle, one of them took off the seat, the other the front rim. A crow settled in what was left of her, after the children went away. The snow continued falling, but the crow remained, immovable there on the handlebar. The children returned with screwdrivers and clamps. Whenever the children tried to approach, the crow pecked and squawked loudly. As it was parking, a small truck struck the bicycle mortally. It doubled the bike in on herself, bringing the front rim to the back wheel.
…Weather forecast from the crashed truck radio… Snow will continue until to fall until tomorrow. The temperature will drop below zero, a snow fall between 15 and 20 inches is expected. It is advised to not travel by highway, and stay indoors unless necessary.
Scared by the impact, the crow jumped to the highest branches of the oak. The children continued to try and disassemble the bicycle. Once again the crow return to the handlebar. The thin voice of the children’s mother called to them:
-Miguel and Ricardo, time to come in!
The snow and the night slowly covered the rest of the bicycle, and the crow, paralyzed on her handlebar. Before falling asleep, and after their Mother read three stories to them, the children saw from their bedroom’s window the crow and the bicycle disappear into the sky.









LA BICICLETA DE ROLANDO

La bicicleta estuvo ahí, debajo del roble esperando. Durante todo el verano vio pasar a otras bicicletas. Algunas veces las contó para olvidarse de las largas horas bajo el sol y la ausencia de su dueño. Ella escuchaba complacida los comentarios de los transeúntes.

--¡No es una bicleta fea!
--¡Clásica!
--¡ Un poco pesada!
--¡ Llantas perfectas para el invierno!
--¡ Que lástima!

La lluvia y el polvo hicieron su trabajo, la cadena estaba amarilla, un amarillo como el de las hojas entre sus rayos. La bicicleta reconocía a cada perro que se acercaba. Unas  manos desconocidas se llevaron su corneta y el espejo retrovisor.

--¡Me gusta su color! Azul, como mis aretes.
--El asiento, ¡es de cuero!

Aunque el viento trató de pedalearla, no fue suficiente, el óxido poco a poco empezó a  crecer en los dientes de su cadena y en todo su cuerpo.

--¿Es está la bicicleta de Rolando?
--Sí, sí, tiene su nombre grabado en el manubrio.
--¿Lo has visto?,
-- Tiene varios meses que no lo he visto desde el zafarrancho en la cantina donde lo sacaron a patadas.

La nieve empezó a caer, eran copos grandes. Dos niños pasaron junto a la bicicleta, uno de ellos le desprendió el asiento, el otro la llanta delantera. Un cuervo vino a posarse en lo que quedaba de ella después de que los niños se fueron. La nieve siguió cayendo, pero el cuervo siguió ahí, inmóvil sobre el manubrio. Los niños regresaron con desarmadores y pinzas. Cada vez que los niños trataron de acercarse, el cuervo lanzó picotazos y fuertes graznidos. Al estacionarse,  una camioneta golpeó mortalmente a la bicicleta. Le dobló el cuadro y la llanta trasera.

Pronóstico del tiempo: la nevada continuará hasta el día de mañana, la temperatura descenderá a 20 bajo cero, se espera una capa de nieve entre 15 y 20  pulgadas. Se aconseja no viajar por carretera, no salir si no se está bien abrigado...

Asustado por el impacto, el cuervo subió a las ramas más altas del roble. Los niños trataron de seguir desarmando la bicicleta. Una vez más el cuervo regreso al manubrio. La voz delgada de la mamá llamó a los niños: ¡ Miguel y Ricardo,es hora de entrar a la casa!
La nieve y la noche cubrieron lentamente los restos de la bicicleta y el cuervo paralizado sobre el manubrio. Antes de dormirse, y después de que su Mamá les leyó tres cuentos,  los niños vieron desde su ventana al cuervo y a la bicicleta desaparecer en el cielo.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

My publisher Cowfeather says this about my forcoming collection of poetry, Luz de Todos los Tiempos/Ligth of All Times, and to celebrate I am posting a new poem, Nieva también ceniza

Moisés Villavicencio Barras, who hails originally from Mexico, teaches in the Madison Public
Schools. While widely known in Mexico as a poet and translator, and with a previous
book to his credit, he is still relatively unknown in the United States. “We’re excited to
help his work gain an audience,” said Busse. And Dethlefsen, as senior Cowfeather
author, adds that Villavicencio Barras makes poems “skillfully built of forceful words
and raw beauty.” The poems in Luz de Todos los Tiempos/Light of All Times, which
appear in Spanish and English together on the page, alternate between Madison and
Mexico, between family and the natural world, between grief and celebration. “It’s
appropriate that we’re announcing this collection just as we begin to celebrate Dia de los
Muertos, the Day of the Dead,” adds Busse. “Villavicencio Barras memorializes his
family, with tenderness and joy, but he does not flinch from honesty in these poems.” Luz
de Todos los Tiempos/Light of All Times will come out early summer 2013.



NIEVA TAMBIÉN CENIZA

Nieva también ceniza
desde las manos
de los que se cansaron
de esperarnos.
Como mi casa antigua
nieva cuando recuerda.
Nieva desde tus ojos sangre y piedras.
Nieva dolores la tarde.
Nieva con ganas de decir basta
a las cosas de los hombres.
Nieva en el cuarto de las manecillas
en las aulas oscuras
en los pasillos
donde se prohibe la vida.
Desde el punto
más alto y profundo
de la materia sola, nieva.
Nieva con los puños,
cabeza y codos.  
A todos nos cae
esta mezcla de ceniza
con la violencia y la ternura
de la nieve real y húmeda.

IT ALSO SNOWS ASHES

It is snowing ashes
from the hands
of those who got tired
of waiting.
Like my ancient house
it is snowing memories.
From your eyes
it is snowing blood and stones.
The evening snows pain.
It is snowing with the desire
to say ‘no more’ to man’s things.
It is snowing in the clock room.
It is snowing in dark classrooms,
in hallways
where life is prohibited.
From the highest and deepest
point of lonely matter it is snowing ,
like when we fight
with our heads, fist and elbows.
Everybody is covered
with this wet and real blend
of violence and tenderness.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Originally writen in English A Puddle's Geometry is a poem that came to my mind while running and passing a unique puddle in my way back home. I tried to translate it in to Spanish, but it does not work. Is Octuber and is a rainy morning. This is a good poem for this kind of day.


Sunday, October 7, 2012

This poem is part of my new book Light of All Times,son to be publish by http://cowfeatherpress.org/index.htmlEste poema forma parte de mi nuevo libro de poesía, Luz de Todos los Tiempos.

-->
HUELLAS DEL PAN


El sol conversa conmigo
Todos los días es el mismo
En mi casa tengo los adobes perfectos
y las tejas de musgo en su camino
los geranios, las abejas
las manos de María
cuando los platos cumplen su oficio
En mi casa tengo el árbol de granadas
que maduran en silencio
Los científicos han escrito
en los periódicos del mundo
que un día el sol se hará pedazos
como una granada contra el piso
Mientras esperamos
miles de hormigas en el tamarindo
marchan tras las huellas del húmedo pan
que el perico carcome




BREAD TRACKS


The sun talks to me
he is always the same
In my house I have the perfect adobe
and tiles of moss for his path
In my house I have bees, geraniums,
and Maria’s hands
when plates do their work
In my house I have pomegranates
that ripen in silence
The scientists have written
in the world’s newspapers
that one day the sun will break into pieces
like a pomegranate against the floor
While we wait
thousands of ants on the tamarind tree
march after the bread tracks
that the parakeet gnaws