66 Mexican poets (Google translation)

66 Mexican poets (Part I)

Mario Urquiza Montemayor has built a sample of sixty-six contemporary Mexican poets. In this first installment we read texts by authors from different areas of the country born between 1996 and 2001. In this sample there are texts by Ariatna Gamez Soto, Paloma Sheherezade, Karen Odette Rodríguez Martínez, Mirna Coreliel, Michelle Gómez Álvarez, Melissa del Mar, Tanya Trejo Smith Mac Donald, Sandra Dolores Gómez Amador, Jatziri Carolina González Rivera, Mariana del Vergel, Melissa Nungaray, Renata García Rivera, Shantal Abrego, Nancy Marlene Ruiz Pacheco, Daniela González, Yosselin Islas, Zurisadaí Santos Pe, Citlalli Emiret Romero Aviles, Nadia Bernal and Carla Alfaro.


Part One (2001-1996)

Ariatna Gamez Soto
(State of Mexico, 2001)

Student of modern Italian letters at the UNAM FFyL. He has published in various media such as Ágora (COLMEX), Punto de Partida (UNAM), Círculo de Poesía, Plastic: Literary Magazine, Small Blue Library, among others. It appears in the digital anthology In the palm of your hand (Zompantle, 2021) and in Nest of poetry: third generation (Librobjeto Editorial, 2021).

Poetics of crying

I don’t like crying,
I’m afraid of dehydration

see my eyes about to

Crying is getting rid
and not going back to the river

drying the skin
until it explodes

the smell of iron
in the blood:
a coagulated spring

on a body
forgotten to take
2 liters of water to the day

I can’t imagine
working as a mourner
to cleanse the soul
of a person who died due to creation,
my tears are too salty
(almost stones that
break me )
to be able to give life to others

There are no seas only of salt,
you need water
contaminated by the lives of others
the crying that some
divine creature
is in charge
of spilling

To cry is to die little by little to
let the spirits escape
from a barren organism

            in two
with muscles turned to earth
and veins
without white or red blood cells
empty of all nostalgia

behind the crying
there are only two completely drained holes

a waterfall of

I do not like to cry
because I am afraid of turning to stone
in the salt that they will take from a lot of evaporated water
in that rain that never returns

To the Oxxo that always accompanies me

In an Oxxo
we are all the same

a no-place
because everywhere
you find it
yellow gray red

They say that in every corner of Mexico
you can come across one

I say they appear
after invoking them
when I’m drunk
or hungry

I can say that the island
where Melusina lived
is one of those stores

the fatal pyramid
that Sor Juana spoke of
was nothing more than the shadow
of a 24-hour Oxxo sign
          that lit up the world
          when she was awake

Safe behind its walls
is the solution to the string theory
Walt Disney’s frozen head
and the complete works of Cesárea Tinajero

Everything that is lost in this city
is in the basement of an Oxxo
and everything that the sea devours
an Oxxo spits out in their refrigerators

It is a space-time warp,
a hole from which everything comes out:
nothing but space junk

the best incantation in all history
          I ever heard
          that if you repeat the word Oxxo three times in
          front of a mirror at three in the morning
          your house will become a store

They say that the subway
has hidden tunnels
that connect a secret network of Oxxos
and where you find the occasional
cannibal girl
giant rats
the great innovation of poetry
that will define this century

because as long as the Oxxos exist the
poets of Mexico
will not starve

Paloma Sheherezade
(Huatulco, Oaxaca 2001)

Student of the degree in Spanish Letters at the University of Guanajuato. His poems have been shared in the magazines Página Salmón , Monolito , Small Blue Library and in the International Poetry Festival “Soñéis con un poeta” organized by Cardenal magazine .


I believe in the dorsal push
towards the mood of my breasts
like a somatic creed

and in the arching of the vertebra
until ending
in the curvature of the instep
as a single arch of bone

and a little
elastic lung.

I prefer to have the word balance stuck to my palate

to nail the anatomical lyric into the cleft
of the mouth itself

and in his Sunday cantata
consecrate the voice
to the pulsating architecture
of another body in balance

playing tango
between sleepy muscles
and returning
to mature the hours
with closed eyes.

Solar corona

 I believe in a thorn ring
more plasmatic than vegetal.
It appears to me as:
capricious edge conjugated
in multiplicity of spikes,
segments of the diaspora
still attached to the plexus.
I think of its perfect molding
of a liquefying
orange boiling star ,
almost pure lava
and a bit of unfinished matter
escaping to the chromospheric realms
through the peephole
slowly dislocating,
until part of itself is homologated
on its own obverse.

Karen Odette Rodríguez Martínez
(State of Mexico, 2000)

Student of Hispanic letters at the Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana and editor of the newspaper Modernidades .

Sous les mers

We are waiting for the blue ship in the dark.
Broken crystals, red
Broken crystals, red
soak the face.
The light of the lighthouse guides me tremblingly, the black white spark illuminates my

The sea drunk with its foam assimilates its deep
sadness, it
is repulsed by the ecstasy in which it messes, the
boatmen of your tenacious thirst already cry for you.

Drunk, the sea vomits, fidgets, or blushes;
Refined women are imitated by finite drunken stars

Fight not to sink, like the trembling light
Deflected by the force of darkness:
in our bodies the shadow of the wind penetrates us,
we bring the dead sea inside!

To North, South and East the rose, the petal fanning by
the furious wind
full moon now hides.
We lost the nautical in the strange pavement
mirror reflection night
The stars cry the mixture of my sweet sea.
He has undressed us in the stormy and turbulent
lullabies of hungry tides.

The sweet sea bathes us with its salty waters. We
confuse them with the oils that run through the skin and mouth,
suffocation and certainty.
It is the ordinary sea that once crossed with its bull
which today claims us as its own

The little boat levitates on the waves, but it tempers
When the plaster finger calls you.
The little boat rocks on the waves, it
reminds us of the cradle, God and the concrete figures
that already claim us.

Virtue XXI

Dead men undress, they
resemble falls from shadows. In their eagerness,
instant glances acclaim them:

Desperate Dust, Mixes of
living earth, collapsing voices and dead earth

Living offerings of death adorn
funereal layers of desert lands.

Araceli Amador Vázquez
(Mexico City, 2000)

His poems appear in magazines; Verso Exile, Ablucionistas, Poetic Screen, Cultural Mood Magazine, Small Blue Library, Hiedra, Kametsa (Peru) and in the newspapers Paréntesisplus, Exilio and La Razón. He is currently a member of the workshops “Poetry to fly” taught by Cultura UNAM and “The feather grows in the palm of the hand” of the Futurama Cultural Center. He has collaborated in the anthologies Campanas del Hezo, Editorial Ave Azul and Viejas Brujas III; Future Memories , Coven Editoras (2021). His poems have been translated into Italian. She is the author of the book Quartz Sirens; the privileged place , Editorial Verso Destierro (2021). He is currently studying at the UNAM Law School.

Platinum sunrise

For Adriana Tafoya

As if it were a sweet orange, the donkey brings its snout to the sun and eats it in segments. Every morning he remembers the road towards sunset, he stops to look for more oranges on the hill. What a naughty donkey; he has taken the day between his teeth. It eats it, until the night has a bite and when it devours the moon comes out. Then the branches become ropes and the night walks this donkey. What a beautiful woman accompanies him; black waves are her hair. He moves at the trot of the tender animal, he carries a silver globe in his hand.

What a beautiful woman; so white in the dark, with her long fingers she searches the donkey’s fur, then she finds words and weaves them, one by one, into a necklace; He says that his profession is that of a poet. In his duties he does not realize that he breathes in the sun slowly, a yellow gas seeps into the whiteness, but it is so concentrated that it is not contaminated.

The first birds upholstered the helium, now they are black as poetry. The rooster that is crowing is now jet black and round black notes come out of its song. The woman continues to make necklaces with determination, as if the desirable silver day depended on her fingers. Finally !, it no longer smells of loneliness, now the lilies emerge from the earth.


 Do not ramble,
that your wings
do not surrender to passions
because the eagle
stalks your flight.

Do not ramble, skin
three- skinned face
with the pores
of indifference.

Do not ramble,
fill your holes with yarn,
unite the three skins with light.

Do not ramble,
that in your chest there are no quail
or graveyard of winged beings;
a chicken slaughterhouse.

Do not ramble,
because from so much flying towards God
your life can catch fire.

Don’t ramble, girl.
Don’t indulge in the red road,
where pigeons crawl
and tigers fly.
Because in the center
of a bed
all the intrigues                                                   of the universe are interwoven

In the pigeon cage
there is always a last song;
the lament of the innocent
who squeezes like the sadness
of a dog.

It is the egg that rots
                                          in his cry.

Mirna Coreliel
(Puebla, Mexico, 2000)

Student of the degree in Linguistics and Hispanic Literature from the Benemérita Universidad Autónoma de Puebla. She collaborates as editor and columnist in the cultural blog Lector, Hazme Llorar. He is interested in the theoretical studies of eroticism in literature, photography and dance, as well as poetic and narrative creation.


The sweetest couplets
so eloquent
when tasting my lips
have not even been written.

I do not act as I want, I do
not speak what I think,
I do not understand what they say.
I’m stupid, I’ve already accepted it,
for better and for worse.
Quickly forget,
my birthday,
our anniversary
and feeding the canaries.
That is why
it is not a miracle
that she is still alive,
that she forgot to
kill me

That I am silly and cool breeze
that I am silly and cold marble.
I am a woman of few letters
, a sterile crying woman , half dead:
an illiterate girl
caressing your silhouette
with her stuttering mouth.
Helpless to the nerves
the one who drowns, like an idiot
with her own tongue.


My honey is territory,
it eats me fresh,
it rots in my entrails.

Tiny and overcrowded island
sad house for those
who have run out of breath.

There is no more water
than the saliva of dogs,
corroded drops and storms of blood
to keep us dry, life.

tiny fish
that are drowning.

Read the rest in the original Spanish:


About 诗东西 Poetry East West

Chinese-English bilingual magazine (will include more languages), published in Los Angeles USA, printed in Beijing China. ISSN 2159-2772

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