March 27-April 1, 2000: Esteban Moore and Amber Cartwright

week of March 27-April 1, 2000

Esteban Moore and Amber Cartwright

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Esteban Moore

Bio (auto)

Esteban Moore (Buenos Aires, 1952) Has published La noche en llamas (1982), Providencia terrenal (1983), con Bogey en Casablanca (1987), Poemas 1982-87 (1988), Tiempos que van (1994), Instantaneas de fin de siglo (Uruguay,1999) Partes Minimas (Mar del Plata,1999)

His last published work in translation is Viajes por America desierta (Ediciones Unesco, Paris/Graffiti, Montevideo, 1996) a selection of poems by Lawrence Ferlinghetti translated into Spanish He has also translated poems by Allen Ginsberg, Anne Waldman, Jack Collom, Anselm Hollo, Andrei Codrescu, Heather Thomas, Jack Kerouac, Raymond Carver, Tess Gallagher, Charles Bukowski, Wallace Stevens, Craig Czury and Seamus Heaney
His work is included in several anthologies; Años de cenizas y escombros (1988), Nueva poesia argentina durante la dictadura (1989), Poetas argentinos de hoy(1991), /o poetas argentinos (1994), La erotica argentina (1994), El textonauta 1 (1994), Antologia del festival de Medellin (1995), Poesia argentina de fin de siglo (1997), Hacer el verso (1999)
Was invited to the poetry festivals in Medellin, Colombia,– Montevideo, Uruguay in 1990 was invited on a translation project to the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied poetics, Naropa Institute, Boulder Colorado, in 1995 to the Schule fur Dichtung in Wien, and in 1998 he participate to the Homage to Allen Ginsberg in Central Park, New York.

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Esteban Moore and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


in chile sarmiento’s whole body’s ablaze
while he decides what’s good on either side

in santa ana do livramento with his guitar josé hernandez
entertains the sad gauchos gathered to drink
some lines come to him he can’t quite figure out

beneath the sun in misiones quiroga pens a letter
begs martinez estrada to join him in his solitude

lugones at his ease like a tiger
observing the delta’s tranquil waters
resolves he’ll compose his final poem

and in buenos aires borges begins his blindness
in a public library perusing the desolate shelves

(Translation Dave Oliphant)

Homage to memory

we were a happy trooper in a childhood spent in the countryside
a soldier awaiting in silence the last attack
a fighter pilot in defence of english skies
a spy hidden in the darkened movie house
a lone explorer defeated by desert sands
a daring sailor at the boundless tips of capes
all this we were and too, the blind poet smiling
.before the smallnes
.of the writing
.that we are
(Translation Dave Oliphant)

(For A.G )

Oh father
you gave us the light
earth’s burning sun
the reptilian jaws of night
theatening skies
acid rain
toxic waste
bodies full of corrupt cells
evil-smelling sewers
the plague of chemical clouds
decaying sphincters
air chained to smoke
skin covered with boils
the landscape floating in city mist
Oh father
and desire with its metal teeth
greed and its visions of the universe
and these bloody tastebuds absorbing
.the virus from your mouth
Oh father
you gave us the celebration of your name
Why? Tell me
does an apple in the mouth of a naked woman
justify the state of things?
Our father
(Translation Steven White)

urban journeys

we who travel
every day in this city
in the packed metro
of the public transit system often compare the unavoidable routine
to the odyssey of tasty canned sardines

this is how
we move through this life on earth
imagining, perhaps
the real fate of the sardines
in their tranquil tin mansions

the sardines
those marvelous creatures from the depths
GOD’S brilliant objects

(Translation Steven White)

with bogie in casablanca

bogie silently drinks
the sour bourbon of oblivion
his eyes, lost in the african night
mask the deep scars lefover from love

from his table bogie observes
the piano player’s bright ebony hands
cuddling emotionlessly
a dilapidated piano’s keyboard

at the rear of the poorly illuminated
saloon with the background of an old guitar
the french girl, skinny and sad
holds the tepid ‘maté’ of longing

bogie looks at her through the dense smoke
and slowly comments
in the way only he is able to do
with an accent appropiate for a bum
who is used to hanging out by the ‘abasto’
“boys someday she will understand it Gardel has left us forever”

Maté: Argentina’s national beverage Abasto: a neighbourhood in Buenos Aires
(Translation Susan Luckstone and Juan Amador)

in vitro

what to make
of that man who in life wants it all
.including the grace of god
of that woman whose desire is no longer
.a hard stone
.growing in each one of her breasts
of the leaves that fly twisted and dragged
.by head-strong winds
of that other one who one morning
.in front of the mirror
.liverspots all over his body
of the ignored woman who under bridges
.or under the circular domes of night
.caresses with a surgical knife her veins
& remembers her entire crummy life
of simon the magician proposing a deal
.to saint peter
/.and saint paul
.the sale of their healing powers
.of the damp shadows of venice
.that still conceal
.the outright fear of a man
.named pietro aretino
& of those neutrons -those atoms
.over palestine’s own sky
of that artist’s brush that traces volumes
.from your naked body
& of the gentle defenseless citizen who
.at the landfill
.checks out everything
.sees pigs of an oversized herd
.eating hospital waste
.chewing bloody tampons
& of those who in this country of thick wine
.of tender beef
.read the sky
the precise time to sow their fields
.to expand their herds
masters of reading the future
from their gut feelings and market reports
.of the young and worn out
.who still show the insolence of the ones who couldn’t
make it
.and the arrogance of those that live exploiting
other people’s money
of the mounds of earth recently removed
.in the cemetery
.on which well-kept grass will grow
.from previous well kept grass
of that radiant woman
.who when sunday comes around
.waits in the doorway smiling
.the table filled
.with home-cooked dishes
of the flashy qualities of that hand on the naked skin
.stimulating with her fingers
.back and forth
.raising the sound of magnetized vowels
of that one who painfully waits in silence
.seeks words of encouragement
.from the doctor
what of the furious unraveling of the elements
.that are faraway
.dark music
what of ramakrishna
.in the reddish penumbra
of a dressing room
.dressed as a woman
.having in mind krishna kindness
what of the homeless children
.and mothers
those unknown
.living on the streets
weeping with no one to hold them
of the tough cotton fiber
.mechanically spun
.that swells with luster
.piercing the eye of the needle
of borges one sunday morning
.with sun shining through rain
.in buenos aires
who praises the magical quality
of the runic inscriptions
.imagines the colours of the light
what to make
of the tireless breeze that carves-out
.one by one
the faces of the people
.whittling the bodies
.those bodies
that time eats away with lucidity
.what to make what to make
.of the filament
.of the electric bulb
.when it goes out
leaving us in total darkness
.afraid of not waking up

(Translation Craig Czury)

Amber Cartwright

Bio (auto)

I am blissfully happy in Northern California where I divide my time between the crowded chaos of San Francisco and the beauty of Sonoma County’s wine region.I live in the town of Guerneville where I work full time on my internet and part time as a bartender in the quirky, yet charming little town of Occidental I also create collage art pieces from natural materials found in this area and they will be available for viewing on my website soon As Sark says: “live a bodaciously succulent life!”

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Amber Cartwright and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Long Ride Home

I reach for a warm but stillborn hand,
using the countryside
to distract thoughts:
vineyards of creeping old “T” trellis,
fields of glowing wild mustard and black gnarled oak,
winter mosses
redefining color of green Useless tears
recall pink naked ladies leaning
toward the roadside, leering
summer’s decadence
The bridge returns to the city,
crossing the bay but not the chasm Ripples on windows on
multicolored victorians
indicate original glass
no rock has made it through,
boasting solidarity
like a good marriage
Gazing at cafes passing, I realize
the most perfect watercolor:
the lone coffee cup ring
on a clean white paper

Bus Stop

We were all waiting for the bus
then I heard the drunk burp
as he reached
down toward his shoe
unzipped a pocket at ankle level
and pulled out an empty gin bottle

He blew musically
into the top
then tipped it to his lips
just to make sure

He stumbled
toward a trash can
and as he drops the bottle in, he says,
“put the evidence in the evidence bag,
they’ll never think to look there”

at the corner of the intersection,
he yells at the passing motorists,
“sometimes you’re a windshield,
you’re a bug “


eluding me

year upon

to jar
you loose

the memory
that took virulent hold

not time
not another

could drown
or suffocate

these embers
of an abandoned fire

they wait

God, I need
just your

to fan

the flame.

Lover’s Crimson

The colour of my passion
cannot be limited to a single hue
visible in the standard spectrum

it is the luxuriant purple cloth
that folds beneath your sable skin
the raven hair that my fingers grasp
the candle’s gold reflection in your eye
the paled knuckles of a lover’s clasp
the hard ivory of a teeth clashing kiss
silvered beads of heat forming along a lip

all, always blending and leading
to that culmination of colour
that paints the sound that I live for,
the symphony of your pleasure.



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