Marvin Salvador Calero Molina (Juigalpa, Chontales, Nicaragua, December 28, 1983). He is a member of the Chontales Intellectual Clan. He belonged to the New Literary Generation of Chontales. Currently, he is a professor of Philosophy, and Language and Literature at the National Agrarian University, Juigalpa “Jofiel Acuña Cruz” university campus. He directs the literary creation workshops of the “Gregorio Aguilar Barea” Poetry, Art and History Movement.
His poetry and short stories have been published in anthologies, magazines, newspapers and electronic media in Romania, Spain, Holland, Costa Rica, Mexico, Peru, Bolivia and the United States. As is the case of the anthologies Voices of Wine and Voices of Coffee by the Dominican-American writer María Palitachi, and the Ibero-American Microstory Anthology by journalist Homero Carvhalo Oliva.
He has published the books:
I don't know your story (Juigalpa, 2000), Elegy to Rubén Darío and Canto a la muerte (Nicaraguan Society of Young Writers, 2016), Mining Stories (Crow's Nest, Nicaragua, 2017), One Hundred Ways to Cut the Horizon ( Between Lines, Miami, USA, 2019). Struggle of the gods in the forest of the nymphs (The Bow and the Arrow, Oregon, USA, 2023), A detail for Alfonso Cortes (Editorial, Fondo de Ediciones Espiral, Juigalpa, 2023).
Recognitions:
National Poetry Award from the Center for Education for Democracy (CED, Managua, 2001).
University Award from the NATIONAL AUTONOMOUS UNIVERSITY OF NICARAGUA, MANAGUA, FAREM-CHONTALES “Cornelio Silva Argüello” (2007)
International Narrative Award, El Parnaso Nuevo Mundo Magazine (Peru, 2016).
Estrella del Sur Award for literary career (Uruguay, 2019).
Honorable mention for the Alfonso Cortes National Award (2020)
Honorable mention from the Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz International Award (Mexico, 2022)
I National Award for Educational Publications, Nicaragua Index Magazine 2023
He has participated in national and international poetry festivals, including: Festival del Parque Chas Luis Luchi (Argentina), La Otra Fil (Guadalajara, Mexico), I Summit Voices of Latin America (Costa Rica), among others.
I
ANACHRONIC CONVERSATION BETWEEN ALFONSINA STORNI AND RUBEN DARIO
She would cry in my arms dressed in black,
Rubén Darío
We meet again, master Ruben. I am concerned if we are on the other side of the Acheron or if it is Lucifer watching us from hell, where we now dwell in the after hours of mankind.
We frequently seek to substantiate the antithesis of destruction.
It's me again, the boy turned man who was looking for someone to read to him near the ravine of grandma's house La Marcha triunfal (The Triumphal March).
The one who stood up for you in the early hours of drunkenness in the year 2000 crying out for mercy while the critics tore you apart 84 years after your death.
Coconut trees today seem to recite a poem of confinement. I can´t remember it well. Humanity is drifting towards destruction, my schoolteacher died intubated.
─ Could we irrigate a field of vegetables with the tears that daily overflow through hospitals and outside cemeteries? ─ Storni asks.
We could be locked up for life. But the resistance herd group breaks through the plague, makes its way through the tragedy, makes its way through to survive.
I go back to the same readings and try to stay balanced. But laziness breaks me and I lose my senses like the keys to the house or the graveyard of memories.
─Perhaps men should retake some time and leave the ego behind, leave everything that disunites them, that which makes them different," says Rubén Darío.
─We might as well recite The Triumphal March, says Storni, could we write a poem with the title Unfolding the Lyrical Self?
II
SOMETHING STIRS INSIDE ME LIKE A DOG LIVING IN THE POEM
My verse was a dove, a quarreling dove;
AMADO NERVO
The dog barks inside me, it is a poem that bears the name of an anonymous being, it startles at the sight of the empty streets, it lashes out at the pigeons in the square.
The pigeons in the square are always waiting for the elderly to throw them crumbs of bread or kisses, depending on the weather.
The same old people, who remain secluded in the back room, or isolated in the old people's orphanage.
The pigeons sometimes wonder, and as almost always they do not have the answers, because there are none. Then I wonder with them, with the usual questions, in the loneliness of life:
─Why didn’t grandpa come this morning? with his gray beret and his pipe of an elegant and eloquent avant-garde poet, with a stately air.
The pigeons in the square are frightened when they see me coming in a hurry, because the dog that barks inside me is the same dog that barks at grandfather's kisses or at the pigeons' questions.
barks at grandfather's kisses or at the pigeons' questions.
III
THE CRY OF A WOMAN
Behind the whitewashed wall
that does not let the breath pass through
and blinds me with its whiteness
GABRIELA MISTRAL
Late at night, with the makeup smeared on her face, like a watercolor painting, a face that from afar expresses the scars of the soul, of looking abandoned, alone, staring at the white walls of the hospital, in the corridors, the mythology of sleep assaults her and moans at her fragility as a woman, outside, once again the night seems like a horror movie, only the continuous wailing of the ambulance and the constant ringing of the emergency phone can be heard, nothing left but resignation, if anything, pretending that everything is fine and repeating it constantly as a mental gymnastics, at the end of the hall, the waiting line is towards the morgue or the psychoanalyst's room, both are full, the queue is a hollow of tears linked to each beating heart.
It does not matter who the woman is, only the cry that emerges from her loneliness.
IV
THE MACHINE OF FEAR
Tired of living, afraid of dying, similar to
the lost brick, a toy of ebb and flow,
my soul prepares for frightful shipwrecks
PAUL VERLAINE
The induced coma is an incense m where demons blaspheme against God’s creation.
The same demons of fear and anxiety, who lie on the chest of the convalescent, like a cat meowing in the shadows.
There’s a woman in the room who’s intubated into a breathing machine. Maybe a fear machine, I don't remember her well when I saw her, the panting sound was like a tired beast, after the chase of the greyhounds.
The sound of the monitor ticking ticks, like a clock telling the time when pain is approaching.
Outside, someone paces the corridors of the restricted area.
The doctors look like the Apollo 11 astronauts. With their lost eyes they claim to have seen a miracle. Perhaps, it is due to the dementia of late nights and sleeplessness.
The doctors have no names, only numbers 1,2 3. 1,2,3... their names are the exergues of a Greek elegy, where everything ends with collapsed lungs, few survive the misfortune, the respirator or the fear machine.
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