Marcela Villar M. was born in Chile but has lived most of her life in the United States. She writes in both English and Castilian.
Villar began writing at a very early age and in her youth published her poetry in underground antifascist manifestations against the Pinochet regime during the late 1970’s and the 1980’s. Later, she published her work in university journals, art councils, and other sources in the United States. She has published several books and anthologies of poetry of her own, in addition to collaborative projects with other writers and poets including prologues, forewords and introductions.
What Do You Want Me To Say?
I saw a man sitting in that park―he seemed old, like the bench and its boards. Like that street and its people. A foul odor infected the streets, and I felt my clothes fill up with it saturating more than just my senses, but inside my body. And it wouldn’t come out.
But my mother insisted on her usual rite of visits to the homeopath and the emporiums.
The streets and its cobblestones were hard, my feet hurt even through the soles of my fine shoes. They hurt like they wanted to remind you that when you passed by you were left with the pain of those who have passed by before. And you kept walking with sore feet carrying the fetid smell on your clothes, on your skin, leaving those streets and traveling home like you had been in another world that no longer exists.
But it does exist. It lives in you.
There Is Always A Tree
You walk through a forest and, like a tree,
your feet press, there, always firm.
It feels, as they move forward, that they take root and expand
underground shaking hands,
chatting. Looking at neighboring branches.
See, I write not because the branches of a curious tree inspire me.
Given that whether I exist, or not,
the tree will remain there, severe, and resistant,
pretending that the wind and the rain do not affect it.
Poetry is born from the core of its seeds,
it’s that simple. It grows colossal from within,
as if the Universe were projected billions of times
every time a verse begets itself, like a god.
Like thousands of gods in a council of words and silence.
It is not me, or you, writing and correcting whatever we want:
it is Creation speaking through the roots of its words.
It’s difficult to explain what a mirror reflects.
On the one hand, it’s half of oneself,
and on the other, an enemy.
But it doesn’t look the same,
it looks different, uneven,