7 poems from «The Alphabets of Latin America» (2020), by Abhay K.


Por Abhay K.*

Crédito de la foto (izq.) Bloomsbury Ed. /

(der.) www.journals.flinders.edu.au



7 poems from The Alphabets of Latin America (2020),

by Abhay K.





I, Atahualpa, the last Inca emperor,

born a sovereign, died a prisoner


mercilessly strangled by a garrote

under the cunning friar’s watch


then burnt without a dignified

Inca burial, to prevent my rebirth.


Spaniards brought a strange disease

to the Andes, that killed my father


his successor died soon, plunging

the Inca empire into a succession war


Huascar and I fought for years,

subduing him, I emerged victorious


soon armed intruders entered my empire

with sixty-nine horses and a hundred more men


being ingenuous and benign, I called them

for a dialogue falling into their trap


the deceitful friar offered me a breviary

asking me to convert to Christianity


disgusted I threw it down in rage

Pizarro ordered his men to charge


a handful of them, heavily armed

butchered my army of five thousand


none of them was wounded or killed

they captured me alive in the battlefield


to be set free, I offered to fill

my cell with silver and gold


but Pizarro conducted a mock trial

and sentenced me to death by fire.


Huascar: half-brother of Atahualpa




Botero’s Women



bare colossal delights

exaggerated flaunting

gentle hypnotic

inflated jumbos





out of proportion

political at times

quetzal like resplen-

-dent rotund satirical

towering urgent






but not fat.


El Poeta estadounidense Forrest Gander con Abhay K. en el Festival de Literatura de Jaipur (2020)


Carlos Fuentes


The old man rose

from his deathbed

one last time

with good conscience

searching for the place

where air was clear

for humanity

to breathe free

from genocides,

mass murders

and the ever hanging

Damocles’ sword

of war.


he closed his eyes





César Vallejo

After Mass


The corpse

who was already dead

died again this Thursday

in Paris

all men, women, and children

on the earth

could not save him

from dying again,

he wished to get up slowly

at least once

to embrace the last human

before dying again.






Time changes everything.

The skilled, agile runners

who kept the Inca empire running

carrying quipu – talking knots in one hand

and pututu – conch shells in another

balancing themselves on rope bridges

over gorges and valleys

transporting presents on their backs

running over two hundred miles a day,

now rest at the Larco Museum

with a long nose like Pinnochio

wearing a sun shaped crown

and a garland, all made of gold.





What are you

waiting for Moai?


Your eyes always open

without blinking


what’s so urgent

in this world,


whose arrival

do you await?


If you are looking

for a saviour


there is none,

no one will come


this far to save you

even by chance


you’re on your own

we’re all on our own


close your eyes,

go home and sleep.




Ruben Dario

After Lo Fatal


Man is happy for he is alive

like a Quetzal full of colours—flying

no greater joy than to live and thrive

no deeper despair than dying


to be, to know, to find one’s way

the bliss of having lived and to hope

that tomorrow will be better than today

why worry about what we don’t know


to live every moment, laugh, travel

to indulge in the pleasures of flesh, revel

for death is certain for everyone who is born

from void we emerge, to void we return.






*(Bihar-India, 1980). Poet, editor, diplomatic & Ambassador. He published in poetry Enigmatic Love: Love poems from Moscow (2009), Fallen Leaves of Autumn (2010), Candling the Light (2011), Remains (2012), The Seduction of Delhi (2014), The Eight-eyed Lord of Kathmandu (2018), The Prophecy of Brasilia (2018), The Alphabets of Latin America: A Carnival of Poems (2020), between others.



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