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Mauricio Arcila Arango was born in Medellín in 1985. He has been the Director and founding member of the Innombrable Magazine since 2009. His publications include: Las Flores del Caos, (H) onda Nómada Ediciones, Pase de Abordar Collection, México D.F, 2013; Anthology of Poetry “II International Nadaísta”, Transdisciplinary Center Poetry and Journey A.C, México D.F, 2015; and “Shipwreck of the Necromancer”, Aquelarre Editoras, México D.F, 2015. Mauricio is a Professor at the Department of Philosophy of the Libero-American University of Mexico City. He is also a Doctoral scholar, a Master of Knowledge on Subjectivity and Violence, and Historian associated with the National University of Colombia. He has been invited to participate in different festivals and poetry events, among which the 29th International Poetry Festival of Medellín (Colombia), 1st International Festival Digital Magazine La Ventana (Peru), and Trueque Poético (Bolivia) stand out. He has participated as a speaker and director of different congresses, colloquia and events of arts and humanities.

Mauricio reciting his poem at the 29th Festival Internacional de Poesía de Medellín (International Poetry Festival of Medellin)

La Caverna

Dicen que estamos dentro, con las vendas en los ojos, la memoria en las cadenas del instante fulguroso, como el día que nuestros ancestros, llegados de otras partes, fueron dispuestos para el festín. Abajo, en el fondo, lugar de las representaciones, están los nadies, las sombras tras las sombras, los sin nombre, olvidados porque ya no tienen rostro.

Ni niños, ni animales, sus figuras se disponen, pronuncian las palabras olvidadas de otros tiempos, de otras dimensiones inaccesibles para los cuerpos objetivados, las cabezas y las manos sobrepuestas en formas disonantes, indescriptibles, aquí ya nadie habita, más es morada obligada, la ausencia de luz es la luz, entre las penumbras conjuntas.

Allá arriba, donde no alcanza nuestra mirada, es el lugar de la claridad y el canto, donde el titiritero realiza su obra, para el espectáculo de los prisioneros, dicen que las herramientas habitan en estos cuartos, donde la piedra y la madera se disponen, los libreros y las cartas, signan los pasos que se han se seguir, para que la obra continúe su marcha.

Aquí entre nosotros, no hay diferencia entre ser y el estar, si la agonía pudiera categorizarse, empero, somos un montón, carne dispuesta al espectáculo, de la eterna alba, esa sombra danzante que dispone el fuego e ilumina, aquí el tiempo no transcurre como el tiempo de los hombres, lo eterno, si es que existe, es la disposición continua de la tortura enumerada.

Dicen, los que conocen el lenguaje, que en otras épocas, algunos pudieron marchar de esta morada, no obstante, regresaron, profesando gritos incomprensibles, hablaban de la vida en la vida, y de la libertad de la verdad, con su actitud desenfrenada, y su extraña apariencia, se expusieron sin remedio a la purificación del sacrificio, ahora eran libres.

The Cavern

They say we’re in, eyes bandaged memory in the chains of the shining Instant, like the day our ancestors, coming from elsewhere, were arranged for the banquet. Way below, at the bottom, site of representations, you find the nobodies, shadows behind shadows, those with no name, forgotten for they no longer have a face.

Neither children nor animals, their figures are arranged, pronounce forgotten words from other times, other dimensions inaccessible to objectify bodies, heads and hands overlapping in discordant, indescribable forms, no one dwells here anymore, yet it is a mandatory dwelling, light is its own absence, in between contiguous penumbrae.

Up there, where our eyes cannot reach, it is the place of clarity and chanting, where the puppeteer carries out his work, for the entertainment of prisoners, they say that tools inhabit these rooms, where stone and wood are arranged, the bookshelves and the cards, determine the steps to follow, so that the play moves on.

Here, amongst us, there is no difference between being and being there, if agony could be categorized, however, we are a pile, flesh arranged for the shadow, of the eternal dawn, that dancing shadow setting the illuminating fire, here time does not run like human time, the eternal, if such a thing exist, is the continuous arrangement of torture by the numbers.

They say, those who know the language, that in other epochs, a few were able to leave the dwelling however, they came back, uttering incomprehensible shouts, talked about life in the life, and freedom of truth, with their reckless attitude and extravagant appearance, they were helplessly exposed to purification by sacrifice, now they were free.