[ultimate_heading main_heading=”Poems by Marialuz Albuja Bayas – Issue.XXVII : April 2017 ” main_heading_color=”#1e73be” sub_heading_color=”#8224e3″ spacer=”line_with_icon” spacer_position=”bottom” line_style=”dotted” line_height=”1″ line_color=”#1e73be” icon_type=”custom” icon_img=”id^48|url^http://ashvamegh.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Ashvamegh-ICO.jpg|caption^null|alt^Ashvamegh Journal Icon|title^Ashvamegh ICO|description^null” img_width=”48″ main_heading_style=”font-weight:bold;” main_heading_font_size=”desktop:34px;” line_width=”3″ margin_design_tab_text=””]art without boundaries…[/ultimate_heading]

About the Poet:

Marialuz Albuja BayasMarialuz Albuja Bayas  (Quito, 1972) Her published poetry works include:  Las naranjas y el mar (1997), Llevo de la luna un rayo (1999), Paisaje de sal (2004), La pendiente imposible (2008), published and awarded by  the Ministry of Culture of Ecuador, Detrás de la brisa (2013), honorable mention by the Cesar Devila Andrade Award committee and Cristales invisibles (personal anthology, Popayan, Colombia, 2013). Her works have been partially translated into English, Portuguese, Italian, French and Basque, and have been published in anthologies within Ecuador, Latin America and Europe. She has also published the poetry books for children Cuando cierro mis ojos and Cuando duerme el sol, and is co-founder of the Pubishing House Rascacielos.

* below the translated versions, you will find the original poems 

* Gina is the translator of all other Ecuadorian poets in this series unless otherwise specified



This thing of not sleeping

of breaking down

of getting up at three in the morning

to ruminate I don’t remember what.


This thing of seeing my hands as if they were not mine

because some blue veins, thick and serpentine, now cleave them.


This desire to flee

toward the humid fog of the coastland

and never going back to the desk, to the street, to the closet.


This eagerness to give, in loud voice, advice aimed at no one in particular

at my grandfather when he was a beginner

at the whore that I discovered in a street of Santo Domingo

at the Dappled Hen Bird, who yesterday lost her peace…


Could all this perhaps be Lost Love?




Esto de no dormir

de quebrarme

de alzar la cabeza a las tres de la mañana

para rumiar no me acuerdo qué cosas.


Esto de verme las manos como si no fueran mías

porque unas venas azules, gruesas y serpenteadas ahora las surcan.


Este deseo de huir

tras la niebla húmeda de la costa

y no volver más al escritorio, a la calle, al ropero.


Esto de dar, en voz alta, consejos que van para nadie

para mi abuelo cuando era novato

para la puta que descubrí en una calle de Santo Domingo

para la Pájara Pinta, que ayer extravió su quietud…


¿Acaso todo esto será El Desamor?




Fear pierced me with delight

when the black cat came to pronounce all my names


when he stalked me from behind

to uproot me.


How to go back

if the birds already cleared the path

and the fireflies erased their reflections on the landscape?


If doubts were not chasing after me

I would not even try to remember


but the unscrupulous girl I used to be

leaves her footprints on the mud

she spits

she cries

she rolls around


while the other,

the grandparents’ girl

keeps coming back to look for me amidst the shadows.




El miedo me traspasaba con deleite

cuando venía el gato negro a pronunciar todos mis nombres


cuando asechaba tras de mí

para arrancarme.


Cómo volver

si ya los pájaros limpiaron el sendero

y las luciérnagas borraron su reflejo en el paisaje.


Si no ocurriese que la duda me persigue

ya ni siquiera intentaría recordar


pero  la niña sin escrúpulos que fui

deja sus huellas en el fango



se revuelca


mientras aquella

la de los abuelos

viene a buscarme entre las sombras


(Translated by Francisco Larios, Nicaragua-EEUU, poet)

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