- Portugués:

En la Revista Mallamargens:
http://www.mallarmargens.com/2012/08/poemas-de-ana-perez-canamares.html

En el blog Rua das Pretas:
http://ruadaspretas.blogspot.com.es/search/label/Ana%20P%C3%A9rez%20Ca%C3%B1amares
​
En el blog Eu passarin:
http://eupassarin.wordpress.com/tag/ana-perez/

- En el blog Texto Al:
http://texto-al.blogspot.com.es/2009/05/um-poema-da-poetisa-espanhola-ana-perez.html​





​​- Húngaro:​
http://elalmadisponible.blogspot.com.es/2009/10/mis-cuentos-en-la-revista-hungara.html


- Inglés:

Renato Rosaldo tradujo La alambrada de mi boca al inglés, traducción que permanece inédita. Estos son tres de los poemas:

If at some moment, daughter,
while you’re busy growing up
--a big and demanding job—
you can look me in the eyes
do it.
Don’t save your questions
until the voice that asks
is the same one that answers.
You see in this family
we have the morbid habit
of knowing ourselves
best when we’re dead.



NOVEMBER TWENTIETH*

You went and died on the same date
as that guy who fucked up your life;
it was nothing personal:
you were one among many,
At the time it seemed a coincidence
a matter of spite more than anything:
a morbid irony
a skeleton’s guffaw.
But then I thought you’d get the last laugh
that November would be the month of the mother
for the keepers of tenderness and dignity
in a coffin surrounded by pines and streams;
not the month of those plugged into machines
as alien to death as they were to life
who lie unblemished admiring
the solidity of marble.
One last thing, mother:
I know there are ideas that afflict your heart.
In other words:
having a heart keeps you from those ideas.
And no other life
no other death
will convince me otherwise.

​
*Translator’s note: November 20 is the date of the death of Francisco Franco, the dictator of Spain (1939-1975).


GENERATIONS

Before her death, my mother said, Mom, come here
as she looked at me without seeing;
I said, Mom, stay here,
and embraced her miniscule body
wrapped in diapers and the smell of talcum;
my daughter said, Mom, don’t cry,
and, stroking my head, consoled me.
When Mom died, for a few moments
the ties that bound us blurred
we didn’t know who was gone
and who was here
nor in which moment of our lives
we were living
or dying.