Skip to content

{P.L.O.T.S.} – Creatives Magazine


Creativity Is Humanities Algorithm

🌹✒POETRYS – Sylvia Ortiz Flores

Silvia Ortiz Flores was born in Arequipa, Peru. He holds doctoral studies in business administration and a master’s degree in education management. In 1996, she coordinated the presentation of the book Trinos y Aleteos in Lambayeque, Peru and at that event, she was sworn in as Director of Foreign Affairs of the National Poet’s House, Chiclayo. That same year, he introduced his first platelet The Empty House. In 2011, he was declared An Illustrious Visitor in Cajamarca. In 2012, she was recognized and named Illustrious Guest at the VI Open Sky Poetry Festival, Barranca. That same year, he was awarded the Diploma of Merit for his cultural contribution at the First Meeting of Writers in Ica. In 2013, she was nominated As an Illustrious Guest in Cajamarca and received a Diploma of Honor for her valuable literary participation in the IV International Poetry Festival, Cajamarca, and in the same year she presented her poem Los Nudos de la Noche at the V Zona Huancayo Book Fair. In 2014, he obtained the Diploma of Honor at the International Poetry Festival for Peace, Lima and participated in the Poetic Meeting of the Fiftyth of the Creation of the Raúl Porras Barrenechea Institute, Lima. In 2015, he participated in the First Meeting of Peruvian Writers in the United States in Washington, D.C. His works are published in the following anthologies in Peru: De Quenas y Bandoneones (2011), Ontolírica del Viento (2011), Fiesta del Amor (2013), the VIII International Festival of Poetry for Peace (2014), Humanipoetimente (2014), Beyond the Word (2015). Internationally, his poems were included in anthologies such as the I Encuentro Internacional de Poetas in Valencia, Spain (2015) and Miradas sin tintes de Piel, Mexico (2016). Journey of Hispanic Poets to the Arab World, Jordan, (2016). Latin American Poets in the Eyes of India, India (2016). In 2014, his poems were published in Peruvian literary magazines Delirium Tremens, Abrazomar Poetierizado and Palabra en Libertad. In 2016, in Colombia’s Azahar Magazine and Galaktika Poetiké ADUNIS International Magazine, Albania. She is the author of the poems Los Nudos de la Noche, 1st edition (2013), La Ceniza de Otro Dios (2014), Ojo de Pez I (2014), La Fresa de Tu Boca (2015), Los Nudos de la Noche, 2nd edition (2015) and Ojo de Pez II – Humanity Arañada (2015). The House of Silence (2019), Hostage of Voices, (2020). He won the World Prize for Literary Excellence for outstanding literary work in the world INTERNATIONAL PRESS AGENCY APREINT, Barcelona, (2019). 2020 CÉSAR VALLEJO World Award for LITERARY Excellence (2020), PERU. International AMBASSADOR OF PEACE Certificate of Honor, WORLD LITERARY FORUM FOR PEACE AND HUMAN RIGHTS, USA. (2021). Won the World Prize for Literary Excellence at the SECOND World Writers Congress “MIGUEL DE CERVANTES”, Orlando, Florida (2016). He received Tribute in Letrare ATUNIS Magazine (2017). Some of his poems were translated into English, French, Italian and Bengali.


Before your scarce skin nothingness, before

the hustle and bustle in which I write

verses for delirium I touch the spirit

exhausted from the streets in makeup

blind of your lips, and there is not a single

reproach, there is not a single emptiness a single moan

because of thirst the river dies if it doesn’t flow

that flow in condemnation.

I play the beloved walk in the steps of the road

there is no dawn that is worth no more hours

in the insecure tick tock clock, no more

the uncertainty of a kiss by fire

that we carry inside.

The celestial spirits in the morning angel

of the days and I observe you as eyes of the mirror,

and the rage of tonight… I must be crazy

tonight in redouble of sentences

on the fake move

from your eyes another elusive.

Let me fly in the intoxicated balm

that you try to stone, tonight leave the hours

of insomnia join the late lust

to count with caution the times when

you call my name in the shadows

depopulated from my belly.

In the sealed corner of my bedroom enter

Stripped of rags, enter the genesis

historical night in which she must be crazy tonight,

and in the shadows of insomnia, I must sleep very lightly

flashing my songs, drawing destiny

in order to see you serene embraced by my memories

and me in a light coat.


Now I sleep in the square of the neighborhoods

far from my bones

Now I am the reddish and unstable blood

I am my own blood infected by attachments that pull

I am the brave courage of my calm.

Now I am what there is in the afternoon or at night

I am finally the very grave of the rain

I am the enthusiastic descent of the winds

I am the extreme unconsciousness of Calvary.

Now I run between stores that kick me out

To the stinking pavement of my bones.

I am the chalky reflection of regret

I am the sleeper of the parks

When the cold squeezes you.

I am the camera of smiles

When hunger devours us

I’m the libertine hideout

Between caged wolves in the alien of your eyes

I am the unbearable temple of blows to the chest.

Now I’m the one with the meows

of the cats that I kidnap

now I’m hungry that closes my rib

light from so many clothes… I have hidden cravings…

freedoms that deny me

now I look at myself and I look at myself

in the unconscious of the air

in the subconscious of the books that cover me

and that inexplicably I fall into the game of myself

Now I’m like the tale of the old

I am the one who cleans… the wounds of oblivion…

in the parks,

in the streets…I am…


Oh, serpent of the low meekness,

Oh, skirmishing investiture of columns,

Oh, my night, unapproachable with rumblings,

pitiful rotten of the things that remain to me,

uncertain amalgamation of the streets,

bloodless testimony of the valleys,

sequin of shadows that obsess.

Oh I could cry at the window,

Oh, time devoid of your anarchist wings,

come and crush this lemon tree a little in his audacity,

metaphysical song of birth and death,

binder coating of this crippled moan,

vestige of the orchards that intimidate the alluring sleeping pill.

you cool insurgents under the dying canvas.

Oh, miserable traitor who poisons the purest of my soul,

here I am and I have not left in the march of posters of the stigma,

I am here and I await you when the pits of misfortune bite,

and in this hunger the wheat field offered the other day is explored bone by bone,

absent the sun on the pale face each humerus is held,

Every dagger on this body at the mention of him, I’m not gone

I only wait for the ranger of my eyes,

I do not break and this and another exodus does not hurt me,

the martyrdom camp hurts me,

I am hurt by the pain of those who suffer,

oh, the smell of the fallen! the silent torment,

the grotesque thing to call you humanity between the nails

that you slightly managed the other day

oh, wonder to call me the sting

…and I haven’t left.

Silvia Ortiz Writer-poet, 2022

Leave a Reply