by atosun

My Three Flowers Are Thirsty (and two other poems)

March 19, 2019 in Arabic, Poetry by atosun

Original by Sara Shagufta
Translated, from the Urdu, by Arshi Yaseen


My Three Flowers are Thirsty

Falling of the mother’s tears to the ground
Is mere a thing of fun for the folks around
I’ve only seven days left to meet the death
The farewell shouldn’t be something like that!
The motherly hand is going to rest,
The tales would be weaved by my clothing’s thread
Thou don’t wail, as so much depressed is my blood
Thou don’t need to shower petals over my gravestone
As, the departed eyes would continue to live somewhere around

Maniac I wasn’t but they’re
Who stepped into my blood
I wish I could gift thee, wrapping my eyes
The eyes, which have been the most spendthrift
I had shared out a plenty of smiles
That my lips were bereaved of their own

Somebody shares food on my soul’s behalf
And himself starves
Someone carries my bier on the shoulders
And then goes past

Three flowers of my garland are left thirsty
Before then I get soften into the mud
Please do justice with me ___
Pardon me for my wrong ways,
I’m like a rope wavering in the well
That could burn to ashes
But couldn’t quench its thirstiness
On thy palms, I wish to put my eyes
And to many, I don’t even want to say goodbye

The Bridewell

Our half a torso is virtue and the other half is evil
And that’s the true human who honestly owns the whole

A supreme man-eater is a word
Subject thou to the bridewell

My arguments were a thing of fun for the folks
But I pleased much my dummy pretences
I continued to pilfer fortunes from the life’s selvedge
I never spent and distributed the whole coinage
I had been filling my flagons for the price
And my thirst costed me very high-priced

Someone told!
“Who born out of your wombs,
Because of your forbearance they had died:”
And the generous maid had to be exiled

Since the ocean begin to flow nearby
The children of my neighbourhood don’t go far away
Their mothers say
The ball is more expensive than the play
The tellers tell
Your mother is coughing
And costs four-annas even the empty bottle of the medicine
Either I’m the cause of her torment
Or the grave placed at somewhere land

The birth of a serpent-stone is a celebration too
But I have become more venomous than that
I cannot dance around my bead like heart

The peacock is crying for his feet
I’m crying for my humans
Whose fields’ wages are fixed up to the starvation

One more nail is driven into, when the shoes are damaged
So a new journey may be invented

Someone’s imaginary art-pieces will be paid off
And somebody might not even come up to perfection

Before the sunrise,
Instantly, the name of neighbourhood is changed
And the baby’s age is engraved on the gravestone

I was too used to think like the wooden-bars
I’d congratulate the departing one
And say good-bye to the coming one
Sculpt the bars so that we may create a new meaning of this imprison


O’ My Magnanimous God

The complainers always
Embraced me half-heartedly

While a human has two births
Then what is the purpose of this
Prolonged evening-interlude?

Living under my own watch
Made me dwindling
When the dogs sighted the Moon
They forgot to keep their clothing

Remained firm, even when I was severely hurt
But too repressed now under thy command
Hunting me, the solitude
O’ my magnanimous God
I kept praying to you even in the autumn season
But thou sentence the killer to keep slaying the killed one

I couldn’t bring home the unseen wild creeper
Then I engraved on my eyes’ jute-floor
I always would depart my body through the eyes
Then would return to life by the treads.
















Sara Shagufta (1954-1984) was a Pakistani poet who wrote in Punjabi and Urdu.

Arshi Yaseen is a graduate in English Literature from Lahore, Pakistan. She loves to translate Urdu poetry into English. Her translations have appeared in Columbia Journal.

by atosun

The Ballad of Magnolia

March 19, 2019 in Chinese, Poetry by atosun

Translated, from the Chinese, by C.F. Helsinki, or:

Englished from the Chinese by that eminent Divine, Dr —–, using the admirable Gloss of Mr Rosenfelder

Ji-ji, ji-ji, Magnolia weaves the thread,
And sighs, so that the loom seems quieted.
“What’s on your mind?”––“I’m fine, Mom. Nothing’s wrong.”
“But you don’t usually weave this long…
Or weave that much at all. Or face the door,
Looking distraught, and sighing…”––“It’s the war.”
“Well, trust in Heaven, and trust the King’s command;
Our men will triumph.”––“No, you don’t understand.
When I went to the market yesternight,
I saw the young men gathered in the light,
Squinting intently at the notice pole,
And turning pale, or joking, ‘He’s in the scroll!’
I had to check…And Father’s name was in them all.”
“That can’t be true! He’s sixty, ill, grown slow,
The draft would be his death!”––“Yeah, Mom, I know.”
The two are quiet. At length Magnolia says,
“I heard an old song in my girlhood days…”

        Hold two rabbits in the air:
       The male will kick, the female just stare.
       But when they run on the grassy plain,
       He and she are just the same.

Mom furrows her brow, then gasps. “You don’t intend…
Oh, no, no, no, how awful! Heaven forfend!”
“Mom,” says Magnolia, “don’t think I’m unfilial,
Or un-Confucian. That would just be silly. I’ll
Marry someday, bring a fine dowry home,
And spend my life thenceforth hunched over a loom.
But in the meanwhile, it is no disgrace
If I buy saddle and horse, and take my father’s place.”

Magnolia rises early, with the dawn,
Scrubs off her makeup, cuts her hair, is gone,
Searches the market for a horse to buy;
A dealer claps his hands, catches her eye:
“My soldier-lad! I’ve just the mount you need,
A fair, a swift, a strong, a loyal steed!”
She takes the horse and saddles him. “Gee up, gee!
We’re off to join the imperial soldiery!”
She’d left at dawn; by twilight, she can hear
The camp––the dice, the cups; each curse, each cheer––
And over all, the Yellow River’s dyen-dyen.
She doesn’t think she’ll hear her parents again….
The soldiers’ sleep is fitful; and at dawn
They’re in the saddle, full tilt toward Mount Yan.

Now flying, flying swiftly as a hawk,
Over a thousand miles of sky-seared ice and rock.
The icy wind that carries the watchman’s word,
The icy moon that burns on the trembling sword,
The wait for the command––“Advance!”––“Retreat!”––
The rattling tattoo that the horse-hooves beat,
The shaking foot that holds the stirrup close…
The characters of war, that no outsider knows.
Drums roar and pound, and rattle mountain and sky,
And trumpets mock the yells of agony:
Soldiers and generals alike stand, fight, and die.

“Your Majesty is too munificent.
Far less would make Magnolia content.”
“For seven years,” the King says, “you went forth
To guard the bloody borders of the North,
With valor such as nine of ten men lack,
Nine generals of ten, in point of fact….”
“A horse to take her home to her old father––
That’s what reward she asks. She needs no other.”

“They’re coming home,” the elder sister hears;
She rouges her face, perfumes under her ears,
While Mother and Father stagger through the street,
Swaying arthritically in summer heat,
Holding each other up––but moving apace––
They reach the wall, they scan round for her face––
Magnolia runs to smother them in an embrace.

“It’s good to sleep at home, not in a yurt,”
She thinks, “to doff my armor for a skirt,
To rouge my face with disproportionate care,
To put a yellow blossom in my hair.”
Her buddies from the unit have come back;
They’re milling by the wall. “Check out the rack,”
One says, “on that broad over there…hey, wait.”
Magnolia grins, and runs toward the gate.
“Hey there,” she says. “I’m sorry I’m so late.”
“Well, fuckin’ heaven!” they shout. “For seven year
You fought, swore, diced, drank crappy nomad beer,
Like you were any ordinary Zhou––
But you’re a chick!”––“Well, there’s a song I know…”

       Hold two rabbits in the air:
       The male will kick, the female just stare.
       But when they run on the grassy plain,
       He and she are just the same.




































by loe001

“Ode to Oranges”

June 12, 2018 in Poetry by loe001

Original poem by Joel G. Burke

Ode to “Oranges”

The first time I walked

with a girl, I was fifteen.

November. Her hair shivered

crisply, her breath, a circling

hummingbird that cannot land

on a flower

trapped under snow. But

she kept warm,

so weighed down under

her jacket, my own.

Both of us ruddy

from cold, each suppressing

our own trilling


Her hand felt unreachable

behind that warm and fuzzy

gauntlet, but mine was bare

and finally getting cold,

so I took hold anyway

and stuck them both in

my left pocket.

In that moment she

was a splendor, like the

flowers that only bloom once

a year. It was no

difficult task to imagine



Translated by Joel G. Burke

Oda a “Oranges”

La primera vez que caminé

con una chica, tenía quince.

Noviembre. Su pelo temblaba

con frescura, su aliento, un colibrí

dando vueltas que no puede posarse

en una flor

enterrada con nieve. Pero

ella se quedaba calientita,

pesada adentro de

su chamarra, la mía.

Los dos colorados

del frío, cada uno suprimiendo

el trino en el pecho,

los latidos.

Su mano pareció inalcanzable

detrás de ese suave

guante tibio, pero la mía estaba desnuda

y por fin me dio frío,

entonces así su mano

y puse las dos en

el bolsillo izquierdo.

En ese momento ella

era un esplendor, como las

flores que solo nacen una vez

al año. No era

nada difícil pensar en

la primavera.



Joel G. Burke 

Joel G. Burke is a third-year Literature/Writing student at the University of California, San Diego. He began working with Alchemy during the Fall 2017 quarter and quickly grew fond of everything about the journal. He began his writing career in high school and has developed much upon his writing since then because of the various courses and mentors which have helped him to improve and prepared him for working with Alchemy. In his free time, he mostly enjoys playing, listening to, and writing music; but also hangs out with his friends and family.”

by loe001

“You and Thou”

June 3, 2018 in Poetry by loe001

Translation by Azura FairChild

You and Thou

How sweet thou art

How empty you are

She slipped, and made a substitution

And all the happy dreams

In the soul that is in love, were aroused

Before her I stand pensively

I couldn’t look her in the eye

And she says: How endearing thou art!

And I think: How I love thee




Original by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

Ты и Вы

Пустое вы сердечным ты

Она, обмолвясь, заменила

И все счастливые мечты

В душе влюбленной возбудила.

Пред ней задумчиво стою,

Свести очей с нее нет силы;

И говорю ей: как вы милы!

И мыслю: как тебя люблю!



Azura FairChild

Azura FairChild (Азура Фэйрчайлд) is a student in the Linguistics Language Studies and Russian, East European, and Eurasian Studies Program. Always surrounded by languages growing up, she has studied Japanese, Russian, American Sign Language, Hebrew, and Russian Sign Language. She currently translates both Russian and American Sign Language into English, but is working on translating into other languages as well. Set to study abroad in Russia for the 2018-2019 school year, FairChild will continue to learn and perfect the languages she already knows.


Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin 

Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin (Алекса́ндр Серге́евич Пу́шкин), was a Russian Poet during the Romantic era in Russia from 1799 to 1837. He is considered to be the founder of modern Russian Literature. Born to nobility in Moscow, Pushkin published his first poem at the age of 15. Focusing on romanticism and realism, his literature went on to become extremely well known in Russia and countries throughout the world continue to cite his work. Fatally wounded in a duel with his brother in law in 1837, Pushkin continues to be remembered in all aspects of literature.

by jgburke

“A Daily Verse”

June 2, 2018 in Poetry, Spanish by jgburke

Translation by Maria Bartlett

A Daily Verse

Washing my hair

I am one with the water


Drying my hair

I am one with the air


Combing my hair

I am one with the comb



I am one with all



Original by Blanco

Poema cotidiano

Me lavo la cabeza

soy uno con el agua

Me seco la cabeza

soy uno con el aire

Me peino

soy uno con el peine


Me río

soy uno con todo



Maria Bartlett




Blanco is one of the most prolific poets working in Latin America today. Medio Cine contains forty poems in conversation with well-known film directors. These directors are listed in italics after the title of each poem. The poems were translated into English for the first time by Dr. Ron Friis and myself in collaboration with the poet, who has given us explicit permission to submit and publish them.

by jgburke

“A Dog Has Died

June 2, 2018 in Poetry, Spanish by jgburke

Translation by Lorena Espinoza

A Dog Has Died

My dog has died.

I buried him in the garden

next to an old, oxidized machine.


Someday he will join me

Right here in this spot.

Now he has gone with his fur,

His bad etiquette, and his cool nose


and I, the materialist that does not believe

in the heavenly sky promised

to no human,

Not to this dog, nor for all dog kind.

I believe in paradise, yes, I believe in a paradise,

One I will never enter, but where

he will be waiting for me

rotating his propeller-like tail,

so that I, upon arriving, will have a friend.


Oh I will not tell of my sadness,

for not having my companion anymore,

because he was never my servant.


His friendship towards me was reminiscent of a hedgehog

that protects his autonomy,

It was the friendship of an independent star


without more intimacy than was appropriate,

without exaggerations:

he did not climb up on my clothes

leaving his fur nor germs on me,

he did not rub up against my leg

like other sex-obsessed dogs.


No, my dog looked at me

giving me the attention I need,

the necessary attention

to make a vain man comprehend,

that his existence as a dog,

with eyes purer than mine,

was losing my time, yet he looked at me

with a gaze reserved only for me

all of his sweet, furry life,

his silent life,

Always by my side, without ever bothering me,

without expectations of me.


Oh, how many times I wished I, too, had a tail,

While walking with him by the seashore,

in the Isla Negra winter,

in the grand solitude: the winter birds

Taking over the sky above us,

and my fluffy dog jumping, his wavering fur

Full of marine voltage

My dog, the wanderer, sniffing away

While flying his golden tail like a kite

Face to face with the Ocean and its foam.


Chipper, chipper, chipper.

Happy like only a dog knows how to be,

with only the absolutism of their shameless nature.


There are no goodbyes for my dog that has died,

and there is not, nor was there ever, a single lie between us.


Now my dog has gone, and I buried him, and that was all.


Original poem by Pablo Neruda

Un Perro Ha Muerto

Mi perro ha muerto.  

Lo enterré en el jardín

junto a una vieja máquina oxidada.  

Allí, no más abajo,  

ni más arriba,

se juntará conmigo alguna vez.

Ahora él ya se fue con su pelaje,  

su mala educación, su nariz fría.  

Y yo, materialista que no cree  

en el celeste cielo prometido

para ningún humano,  

para este perro o para todo perro  

creo en el cielo, sí, creo en un cielo  

donde yo no entraré, pero él me espera  

ondulando su cola de abanico  

para que yo al llegar tenga amistades.  


Ay no diré la tristeza en la tierra  

de no tenerlo más por compañero,  

que para mí jamás fue un servidor.  

Tuvo hacia mí la amistad de un erizo

que conservaba su soberanía,  

la amistad de una estrella independiente

sin más intimidad que la precisa,  

sin exageraciones:

no se trepaba sobre mi vestuario

llenándome de pelos o de sarna,  

no se frotaba contra mi rodilla  

como otros perros obsesos sexuales.  

No, mi perro me miraba  

dándome la atención que necesito,  

la atención necesaria  

para hacer comprender a un vanidoso

que siendo perro él,

con esos ojos, más puros que los míos,  

perdía el tiempo, pero me miraba  

con la mirada que me reservó  

toda su dulce, su peluda vida,  

su silenciosa vida,

cerca de mí, sin molestarme nunca,  

y sin pedirme nada.


Ay cuántas veces quise tener cola

andando junto a él por las orillas

del mar, en el invierno de Isla Negra,  

en la gran soledad: arriba el aire

traspasado de pájaros glaciales,

y mi perro brincando, hirsuto, lleno  

de voltaje marino en movimiento:  

mi perro vagabundo y olfatorio  

enarbolando su cola dorada

frente a frente al Océano y su espuma.  


Alegre, alegre, alegre  

como los perros saben ser felices,

sin nada más, con el absolutismo  

de la naturaleza descarada.


No hay adiós a mi perro que se ha muerto.

Y no hay ni hubo mentira entre nosotros.

Ya se fue y lo enterré, y eso era todo.


Lorena Espinoza

Lorena Espinoza is a second year student at UC San Diego majoring in Literature/Writing. When she is not writing for her coursework, she is writing for own enjoyment. She hopes to work in publishing and/or editing after college.


Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda, the winner of a Nobel Prize for Literature, was a Chilean poet who actively wrote works of literature since the young age of thirteen. Neruda is recognized for many famous works such as his collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.

by jgburke

“The Dream”

June 2, 2018 in Poetry, Spanish by jgburke

Translation by E. Rose

The Dream

The Dream VII

Every time I leave you I keep the splendor of your last Gaze is my eyes. And, then, I run to lock

myself up, I turn off the lights, I evade all sound so that nothing robs an atom from me of the

ethereal substance of your Gaze, its infinite sweetness, its limpid diffidence, its delicate rapture.

All night long, with the rosy tips of my fingers, I caress the eyes that gazed upon you.

The Dream XIII

Ringing of the bells, rude ringing of the bells:

At this hour you pierce my soul and startle my delicate thoughts of love.

The Dream XV

I put my hands across my heart and feel how it beats in despair. “Who are you?” And it answers

me: “Tear open your chest, sprout wings, pierce through the walls, traverse the houses, fly, wild,

across the city, find her, hollow out her chest and join me to her heart.”



Original by Alfonsina Storni

El Ensueño

El ensueño VI

Cada vez que te dejo retengo en mis ojos el resplandor de tu última Mirada. Y, entonces, corro a

encerrarme, apago las luces, evito todo ruido para que nada me robe un átomo de la substancia

etérea de tu Mirada, su infinita dulzura, su límpida timidez, su fino arrobamiento. Toda la noche,

con la yema rosada de los dedos, acaricio los ojos que te miraron.

El ensueño XIII

Tañido de campanas, grosero tañido de campanas: Herís mi alma y asustáis en esta hora mis finos

pensamientos de amor.

El ensueño XV

Pongo las manos sobre mi corazón y siento que late desesperado.

– ¿Quién eres tú?

Y me contesta: -Romper tu pecho, echar alas, agujerear las paredes, atravesar las casas, volar, loco,

a través de la ciudad, econtrarle, ahuecar su pecho y juntarme al suyo.



E. Rose

E. Rose is a student in the M.A. program in Translation Studies at the University of Illinois, with a focus in literary translation. She is also a language teacher and translator, working from German and Spanish. She loves poetry and is particularly interested in exploring expressions of gender socialization and queer experiences in literature.


Alfonsina Storni 

Alfonsina Storni (1892-1938) was born in Switzerland and spent most of her life in Argentina. Her book Languidez was awarded the First Municipal Poetry Prize and the second National Literature Prize. During her time, her writing did not fit into any genre, and she was criticized for her atypical style, which is often now labeled postmodern. Poemas de amor, one of her lesser known collections of poetry, was created in the Porter Hermanos workshops in Buenos Aires in 1926. It is considered her only prose poetry work. The work is presented in four parts: El ensueño, Plenitud, Agonía, and Noche.

by loe001

“To Two Beautiful Eyes”

June 2, 2018 in Poetry by loe001

translated by Nolan Dannels

“To Two Beautiful Eyes”

You have a singular and charming look;

Like the moon at the bottom of the lake which reflects it,

Your pupil, where a damp speck gleams,

Rolls languidly in the corner of your sweet eyes;


They seem to have taken its diamond blaze;

They are a perfect pearl of the first water,

And your long eyelashes, filled with emotion, with their worried wing,

Only half-veil their brilliant radiance.


A thousand little loves, in their mirror of flame,

Come to look and find themselves more beautiful there,

And desires shall relight their torches there.


They are so transparent that they let your soul be seen,

Like a pale-blue flower with a perfect calyx

That we would glimpse through a crystal.


original poem  by Théophile Gautier

“À deux beaux yeux” 

Vous avez un regard singulier et charmant ;

Comme la lune au fond du lac qui la reflète,

Votre prunelle, où brille une humide paillette,

Au coin de vos doux yeux roule languissamment ;


Ils semblent avoir pris ses feux au diamant ;

Ils sont de plus belle eau qu’une perle parfaite,

Et vos grands cils émus, de leur aile inquiète,

Ne voilent qu’à demi leur vif rayonnement.


Mille petits amours, à leur miroir de flamme,

Se viennent regarder et s’y trouvent plus beaux,

Et les désirs y vont rallumer leurs flambeaux.


Ils sont si transparents, qu’ils laissent voir votre âme,

Comme une fleur céleste au calice idéal

Que l’on apercevrait à travers un cristal.


Nolan Dannels

“Nolan Dannels is currently a PhD student at the University of California, San Diego, studying Literatures in English.  His research interests lie in the realms of contemporary poetry and reader-response criticism. He received his Master’s degree in English Language and Literature at the University of Edinburgh.  He also self-published a book of poetry, entitled March of the Unreal.”


Théophile Gautier

Théophile Gautier was a 19th-century French writer and critic who was responsible for influencing writers like Marcel Proust, Honoré de Balzac, Charles Baudelaire, T. S. Eliot, Oscar Wilde, and Ezra Pound with his work, which is often classified as belonging to Romanticism and Parnassianism, among other literary movements.  His most well-regarded work of poetry is his collection, Émaux et Camées, which is marked by its emphasis on poetic form over content.

by loe001

“Hummingbird Love … (dedicated to you)”

May 29, 2018 in Poetry by loe001

Translated by Janie N. Paz

Hummingbird Love… (dedicated to you)

In the dark night from my window

I dream of your arrival hummingbird of the dawn


Embraced to the flight that is born from your wings

I want to be wind that combs your grace

A thousand sighs I place on the silent flower

that lives in the kisses upon the window

In the dark night of this love that bleeds

I am perfume and leprechaun of your dawn

I am the texture, a caress in fervor

Tenderness of a fire that gilds the soul

If when reading me you notice that I sleep in oblivion

turn off your moon and light up my desire…


Original poem by Ricardo Martell

Amor de Colibrí… (dedicado a ti)

En la noche oscura desde mi ventana,​
sueño que tu llegas colibrí del alba​

Abrazado al vuelo que nace en tus alas​
yo quiero ser viento que peine tu gracia​
Mil suspiros pongo en la flor callada​
que habita en los besos sobre la ventana​

En la noche oscura de este amor que sangra​
soy perfume y duende de tu madrugada​
Yo soy la textura, la caricia en llama​
ternura de un fuego que te dora el alma​
Si al leerme adviertes que duermo en la nada​
apaga tu luna y enciende mis ganas…


Janie N. Paz 

Janie N. Paz is a third-year Wildlife Conservation Biology major who will be transferring to the University of California, Davis for Fall Quarter of 2018. She was born in Baja California, Mexico and is a first-generation college student. Her passion started when she was a young child, bound with curiosity about biological sciences, she read atlases of science and watched National Geographic. Janie is ambitious and passionate about environmental sustainability and will conduct her own research on tropical forests this summer at Biosphere 2. Whenever she is not studying biology she likes to spend time with her fiancé at UCSD, play mariachi on violin, make pottery, lift weights, and read about mesoamerican languages and cultures.”


Ricardo Martell Caminos 

Ricardo Martell Caminos was born in Verapaz, El Salvador, on September 1, 1919. He died in San Salvador on March 8, 1989. He devoted himself to teaching in educational centers of the country after studying Humanities. In 1939, he began to publish his literary works in the main newspapers of the country, and since then he has won various awards for his works.


March 1, 2018 in Poetry by aogunmok

Viento del Sur,
moreno, ardiente,
llegas sobre mi carne,
trayéndome semilla
de brillantes
miradas, empapado
de azahares.
Pones roja la luna
y sollozantes
los álamos cautivos, pero vienes
¡demasiado tarde!
¡Ya he enrollado la noche de mi cuento
en el estante!
Sin ningún viento,
¡hazme caso!,
gira, corazón;
gira, corazón.
Aire del Norte,
¡oso blanco del viento!
Llegas sobre mi carne
tembloroso de auroras
con tu capa de espectros
y riyéndote a gritos
del Dante.
¡Oh pulidor de estrellas!
Pero vienes
demasiado tarde.
Mi almario está musgoso
y he perdido la llave.
Sin ningún viento,
¡hazme caso!,
gira, corazón;
gira, corazón.
Brisas, gnomos y vientos
de ninguna parte.
Mosquitos de la rosa
de pétalos pirámides.
Alisios destetados
entre los rudos árboles,
flautas en la tormenta,
Tiene recias cadenas
mi recuerdo,
y está cautiva el ave
que dibuja con trinos
la tarde.
Las cosas que se van no vuelven nunca,
todo el mundo lo sabe,
y entre el claro gentío de los vientos
es inútil quejarse.
¿Verdad, chopo, maestro de la brisa?
¡Es inútil quejarse!
Sin ningún viento.
¡hazme caso!
gira, corazón;
gira, corazón.


 Joel G. Burke

“Joel G. Burke is a Mexican-American third-year Literature/Writing student at the University of
California, San Diego. He began working with Alchemy during the Fall 2017 quarter and
quickly grew fond of everything about the journal. He began his writing career in high
school creating pieces of short fiction and poetry and has developed much upon his
writing since then because of the various courses and mentors which have helped him
to improve and prepared him for working with Alchemy. In his free time, he mostly
enjoys playing, listening to, and writing music; but also spends time with his friends,
brother, and fiancée when he can do so.”

Federico García Lorca

Federico García Lorca is one of the most important Spanish poets and dramatists of the twentieth century. He was born June 5, 1898, in Fuente Vaqueros, a small town a few miles from Granada. His father, Federico García Rodríguez, was a landowner, and his mother, Vicenta Lorca Romero, was a teacher.