once we traveled
where autumn winds
took us –
many Octobers later
I miss my mother
late fall
yet all this
sunshine –
maybe things will turn out
better than planned
at the turn
of winter the last leaf
falls –
I know you would have stayed
if only you could
I've not been
back since her
death ---
flock of geese
minus one
previously published in White Lotus
© Aurora Antonovic
Aurora Antonovic is a Canadian editor, writer, and visual artist whose work has appeared over four thousand times in publications spanning twelve countries and five continents. She is a recent Pushcart Prize nominee, and haiga editor of Simply Haiku. She is also editor of A Little Archive of Poetry, a publication that seeks to promote the love of verse in all forms. Aurora recently illustrated Marie Lecrivain's chapbook, The Painter, available through Lummox Press -- http://www.lummoxpress.com/newlp.htm
STORIES OF GYPSIES
To keep us
from wandering
they told us
stories of gypsies,
who would take us
away, blind our eyes,
make us beg or
sell gum in far away
cities.
They told us
of El Cu Cuy,
the boogeyman
of Mexico,
who would get us
for sure
if we stayed out late.
They frightened us
with stories of ghosts,
an La Llorona,
who wept for her
drowned children,
dressed in black
and moaning.
Now I
worry
of unemployment,
taxes,
losing those
who told me stories
of gypsies,
now in poor health.
LAND OF MY YOUTH
Those dusty roads
of sugarcane dreams,
where I ran wild and free,
picking green mangos
from the trees.
The soccer team
gone away.
My old friends,
distant and without names.
I left nearly
thirty years ago,
speaking no English,
but "thank you."
I drive on crowded
streets now,
speaking mostly English,
hearing Rock n' Roll or Jazz.
Miles Davis, the Beatles,
or Camper Van Beethoven.
I think of my grandparents,
who died in the land
of my youth.
MISMATCH
Looking for teeth
where the horse-kick-like punch
landed square.
Hands and knees on
the ground searching, going
in circles.
Feeling like a
blind man with eyes punched shut
and swollen.
Taking on more
than a man could handle.
Lesson learned.
© Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
West Covina, CA
MAY PATAY TAYONG INIIYAKAN
Tuwing mabubuo ang ating angkan
kulang na tayo ng isa; at ang kaanak na nagtipon
hindi na natin nakakaumpukan.
Ligtas na ang kanyang balikat sa bigat ng puyat,
hindi na rin lalatay sa kanyang palad ang hagupit
ng pananagutang bitbit ng lamay at libing.
Oo, pinagtatagpo tayo ng mga patay:
ni lolo, ni lola, ni kuya, ni uncle, ni auntie, ni insan.
Sa bawat pagtitipon, umiiyak ang ating mga pitaka at bituka.
Kailangan pa bang ungkatin?
Likaw-likaw ang listahan ng utang ng bawat isa,
lalo na’t bumabawi tayo sa mga hindi natin naibigay
noong buhay pa ang kaanak na pinaglalamayan –
Disente dapat ang kabaong. Kailangang walang patid
ang daloy ng kape, sigarilyo, butong-pakwan, kendi, at biskwit.
Magdamag na tutugtog ang arkiladong banda sa bisperas ng libing.
Kailangan pa bang ungkatin?
Lumuluha tayo pero hindi na gaano sa pagkawala ng kadugo.
Sanay na tayo sa ganito. Mas nakakaiyak ang kawalang
kanya-kanya nating ibubuno sa ating paghihiwa-hiwalay.
Mabuti na lamang at hindi nakakahiyang umiyak.
Mangilid man o tuluyang umagos ang ating luha
dahil sa santambak na gastusin, sinong makakahalata
sa tunay na bukal ng ating pagluluksa?
May patay tayong iniiyakan.
SUMPAIN AKO NG MGA BULAKLAK
Nakabarikada kami nang matanggap ko ang balita:
Tuluyan nang iginupo ng pagkayod at pagtitipid
ang uugod-ugod mong tuhod at hukot na likod.
Buwan ngayon ng bulaklak; hindi mo na makikita
ang bahag-haring dadantay sa mga halamang-bakod
na isa-isa mong itinudling. Makakasalag din sana
sa mga kanti ng kamatayan ang samyo ng Kamia
at Kampupot; ang ngiti ng Gumamela at Santan;
ang tamis-pakla ng paborito mong Patak-Dugo .
Sumpain nawa ako ng tanim mong mga bulaklak!
Hanggang sa huli hindi ko tinupad ang aking pangako:
Dalawin ka, kahit minsan man lamang isang taon, Inang.
SA LAMAY NI MANONG
Tumatagaktak ang ulan sa atip na lona,
walang masulingan
ang mga inumaga sa piling ng baraha.
Parang mga pusang takot sa tulo at ampyas
nagkikiskisan, nagsisiksikan sa pag-iwas.
Ngalay na ang aking braso at balikat
sa pagtusok sa lonang pabigat nang pabigat.
Sa tarangkahan, nakasabit ang abuhing pantalon,
Inarbor ni Manong sa akin noong nakaraang taon.
Sabi ng lolo ko sa tuhod na abala sa pagbalasa:
Pangontra sa ulan.
Halos bumagsak na ang lumulundong lona.
© Emmanuel V. Dumlao
Lamay
Ako'y tanod na
tampok sa iyong
nagtatagisang
umaga't gabi.
Alon
Saang dako ka
man pumaroon,
ika'y pulandit--
dumadagundong!
© Dennis Espada
Brought up and educated in Laguna, Philippines, Dennis has written over 300 articles for various print and online publications. He has also received honors in campus journalism while in college.
URL: http://iyolo.blogspot.com
Verde cristallo
Scrivere e sputare
veleno come le
seppie.
Scrivere e mitragliare
con raffiche d'inchiostro.
Scrivere e dirigere
accuse e
domande.
Scrivere e versare
ciò che è sacro nel foglio
senza che ne resti in me
neanche una goccia, nemmeno una.
Green crystal
To write and to spit
poison as the
cuttlefishes.
To write and to fire
with gusts of ink.
To write and to direct
accusations and
questions.
To write and to pour
what is sacred in the sheet
without leaving in me
not even a drop, not even one.
Tempesta tropicale
Le gocce
come perle effimere
si staccano dal parapetto;
trascinati dall’acqua
piovono anche fiori,
chiodi di pioggia
trafiggono il prato
che non ha rimedio alla tormenta
e si gonfia di fango.
Gli uccelli non cantano,
solo le nubi gridano.
Carpire al diluvio
solo la sua esattezza
e la sete delle radici.
Tropical storm
The drops
like ephemeral pearls
they detach from the parapet;
dragged by the water
also flowers rain,
nails of rain
pierce through the lawn
that doesn't have any remedy to the storm
and fills with mud.
The birds don't sing,
only the clouds shout.
To snatch to the downpour
only its exactness
and the thirst of the roots.
Coccige
Le lacrime cadono silenziose
come pioggia sul mare.
Piangevi sotto la tormenta,
nudo, immerso fino ai fianchi
nell’oceano.
La spiaggia del Cocito era grigia,
il mare un'immensa bottiglia di vetro verde
sotto le nuvole blu.
La tempesta che sentivi dentro
era la tempesta che c'era fuori.
Lì mi raccogliesti,
io
sirena sciolta nel sale,
tu
statua d’eroe di carne.
Mi aggrappai a te come a una fune che mi traesse in salvo.
Tu mi abbracciasti come un suicida si stringe alla zavorra
che lo fa' affondare.
Mi amavi,
e io ti chiesi di mutilarmi la coda
con il pugnale di Teseo:
gocce di sciroppo blu
uscirono dalla ferita.
La libertà, per me, era terrestre.
COCCYX
Tears fall silently
As rain into the sea.
You were crying under the storm,
naked, submerged till the sides
into the ocean.
The beach of Cocito was grey,
the sea an immense sway of green glass
under the blue clouds.
The blizzard you felt inside
Was the blizzard exploding outside.
There you picked me up,
me
mermaid dissolved in salt,
you
flesh statue of a hero.
I clutched at you as to a rope
That could save me.
You hugged me as a suicide grabs
A ballast that makes him sink.
You loved me
And I asked you to mutilate my fishtail
With Theseus’ dagger:
drops of blue syrup
came out of the wound:
freedom, to me, was earthy.
Melusine
L'ultima notte di nozze,
leccai una lacrima del mio sposo
e il mattino seguente
mi svegliai con quest'acquamarina sulla lingua.
(Immersa nell’acqua
la mia carne commossa sente
che non c'è confine tra
quello che ho dentro e
quello che ho fuori).
Porto la gemma appesa al collo,
mi ricorda quello che sono
e quello che ho perso.
La catena è lunga e
la pietra mi poggia sul cuore.
Attraverso la trasparenza della gemma,
nelle sue sfaccettature,
si può scorgere la reale consistenza
della mia pelle: squame, di sirena o di serpente.
Sulla carne calda, nell’incavo del seno,
scintilla la pietra e brilla la catena
(d'oro bianco e nostalgia)
che la sostiene,
come una sottile cicatrice
che scende trasversale sul collo e sul petto,
tale e quale a quella che trovarono
quel mattino
sul corpo del mio sposo.
MELUSINE
The last wedding night
I licked away a tear of my bridegroom,
and the following morning
I woke up with this aquamarine on my tongue.
(submerged in water
my fondled flesh feels
that there is no borderline
between what I have inside
and what I have outside).
I carry the gem hanging from my neck,
it reminds me of what I am
and what I have lost.
The chain is long and the stone
rests on my heart.
Through transparency out,
in the facets,
it is possible to perceive the real consistence
of my skin: scales, of a mermaid or of a snake.
On the warm flesh, in the cavity of breast,
the stone sparkles and enlivens the chain
(of white gold and nostalgia)
that sustains it,
as a thin scar,
descending crosscutting on the neck and on the bosom
such as the one that they found
that morning
on the body of my bridegroom.
LAME DI RESPIRO
Lame di respiro tagliano
il raso silenzio
di un grigio pomeriggio d’estate.
Sarà
di acciaio e di cera
la mia supplica.
Dallo spioncino del tuo ombelico
osservo
cadaveri di sogni
e origlio sul tuo petto
il consueto singhiozzo
del cuore.
Vorrei che
schiavi di un solo battito
fossimo entrambi
e che il sottile velluto della tua pelle
rivestisse interamente
le mie speranze deluse.
E che
oltre ogni camaleontico equivoco
le pozze delle nostre pupille
si inquinassero:
catrame in celesti laghi.
Se solo baciandoti le unghie
potessi inghiottire i graffi,
le cicatrici degli inganni.
Il tango del tuo abbandono
mi preme sulle tempie
ma non ho più forza per ballare:
la tua libertà mutila la mia danza.
BLADES OF BREATH
Blades of breath cut
the satin silence
of a grey summer afternoon.
My plea
will be
of steel and wax.
From the spyhole of your navel
I observe
corpses of dreams
and in your chest
as behind a door I listen
to the usual sobbing
of the heart.
I wish
we two would be
slaves to a unique heartbeat
and the thin velvet veil of your skin
would cover completely
my disillusioned hopes
and beyond every chameleon-like misunderstanding
The pools of our pupils
would polluted:
tar in limpid lakes.
If only, kissing your nails,
I could swallow the scratches,
the scars of deceptions.
The tango of your desertion
pressures my temples
but I don’t have the strenght
to spin anymore:
your freedom mutilates my dance.
DIO PARTE II
Sdraiato su pezzi di stelle
come un fachiro,
c’è un dio adolescente
che aspetta un tempo
per le sue risposte
(se solo gli uomini avessero
voglia di ascoltare, e non solo
di chiedere...).
GOD PART II
Outstretched over bits of stars
as a fakir,
there is an adolescent God
that waits for a time to give his answers
(if only men would want to listen,
and not just ask for…)
PELLE
Se questa specie di pelle
che mi divide dal mondo
non fosse così sottile,
potrei anche sopportare
il peso della tua vicinanza,
il freddo dell’inverno e
il mio muto destino di poeta.
SKIN
If this kind of skin
that separates me from the world
wouldn’t be so thin,
I could maybe tolerate
the weight of your nearness,
the coldness of winter, and
my dumb destiny as a poet.
© Silvia Favaretto
Silvia Favaretto, poetess and narrator, has received various literary prizes at the end of the nineties (Avis La Torre, Inves, Valle Senio) and she has participated to some international festivals of poetry as the festival of Poetry of Medellín (Colombia) and those of Guatemala, El Salvador and Argentina. She has published the book of bilingual poems "La carne del tiempo" (Artificios, Bogotá, 2002), the fable "La farfalla Rossella" (Pordenone, 2003), the book of poems "Parole d'acqua - Palabras de agua" (Empoli, 2007), winning Ibiskos Prize of Antonietta Risolo. With Christian Panebianco she has published "La tetra santità e il variopinto orrore"(2004). She has also directed the essay "Narrative femminili cubane tra mito e realtà" (Venice, 2003). She Works as teacher and as Italian/Spanish translator.
Sites: www.silviafavaretto.altervista.org | www.elativo.com/silviafavaretto
Not a Suicide Poem
"let them not weep
let them know that Im glad to go"
--from Rezső Seress' Gloomy Sunday
Sunday is gloomy
and your guess is right, I'm
sleepless. How could I ever sleep,
when all of you are shouting out
my name? I know. I'm with you
in countless struggles, I know
how you feel that I am now but
a name you inscribe in the placards,
you print in your shirts. Please, stop
searching. It will only further your
pain. Wait for the news instead.
Wait until a fellow spots my rotting
corpse wrapped in newspapers like
tinapa. Wait for Gus Abelgas, he will
give you the first nationwide broadcast
of the autopsy: it could be death by
strangulation. But I doubt that they'll
end me that easy. They know grander
ways to kill of course; these people are
trained, under a vicious regime that prides
to the world its counterterror efforts and
counterterror laws, to wreak the most
unimaginable terror.They shall delight
in the shrillest of my appeals to die much
sooner than the pain. But no such appeals
will ever escape this kissless lips.
Honestly, I sometimes quiver at the
thought that I might be the next
headline news; the next headless,
limbless meat on some murky meadow
in the nape of a mountain. But, when you
have suffered enough from the motherless
years in a locked-up isolation, from the
songless moons on nightly nightmares,
you can't help but think about how death
can be a friend. Not that I give up on
life, I just give in to death. Verily, this is
my fate, and the fate of other young
lovers of this country who chew the
bitter consequences of their passion.
Farewell, I say. I can already smell
the sulfur of gunfire and the metallic
stench of blood. I can already hear
the ominous bellows of the wind as if
singing a sad requiem. I can already
taste the breath of God. So stop
searching. Death has found me.
In time, you will have my body;
weep all you can, though you know
that I'm glad to have died for our cause.
Just remember to sing my favorite song
as you shower the last petals of your love
and prayers into my proud, smiling grave.
© Lolito Go
“Barkeep! Barkeep! Open the door!”
All night I cry, a brazen whore,
lusting for the wine of the Friend
and all day I pound and roar.
The blood of inner life
is this wine forbidden;
these turbans! how ignorant they are --
drinking from a muddy cistern.
Strike! Strike this disobedient lover.
There’s no time to waste on leniency!
The night of love fast fades to dawning,
the day approaches when love’s night’s no more.
You are gone and this bed is cold;
all night I look out the window
staring at these lights of the city,
but their light is not your light.
O Friend, I am but a toddler;
take my hand, lead me in the way;
strip me of these garments and wrap
me in a robe that is threadbare.
© C.W. Hawes
C W Hawes is a human services worker who divides his time between Minneapolis, Minnesota and rural northeast Iowa. His muses are Whitman, Millay, Basho, Issa, the Imagists, Takuboku, and Rumi. He holds a bachelor’s degree in history and political science and a Masters of Divinity degree. His work has appeared in Carnelian, Lynx, Simply Haiku, Lilliput Review, Amaze, Makata, and The Ghazal Page, among others.
Ornithology For Beginners
The green-feathered Macaw is chained to silence
Its great gobbling tongue is loath to fall on deaf ears
The white-bellied Sea Eagle is slave to shellfish
It screams when there is tide at sea
The Cenderawasih yearns to see Paradise
So many of its kind have been made to go there
The Malay Eagle-Owl's eyes a stony brown pool
Vacant and distant, its transcendant wisdom
The Cenderawasih male quivers flank plumes
To be met with female indifference
Lorries are soft delicate vehicles
The Duyvenbode and Rainbows flit away
The Electrus Parrots sit far apart
Its male and female are of a different species
There is a sky but it is made of barb-wire
Where do they go to when it rains?
The Uncrowned Warrior
Silent warrior
that beautiful gaze
held, like in a cup
by that abstract fresco
of pureness radiating
from the derelict building.
Nothing is written
except in your hands.
The castles couldn’t keep you behind.
It is as though
you were alive just today
speaking from the chiaroscuro.
You were a raft
between the fair and the bronzed.
© Rachel Chan Suet Kay
Rachel Chan Suet Kay likes art, drawing comics, travel, photography, writing, and poetry. Visit her site here: http://thusspakethethorn.blogspot.com
LINGGO NG PAGKABUHAY 1998. MACAU
Nagbabaga ang tag-init
dito sa Guangdong.
Ang agitit ng mga bentilador sa Simbahan ng San Agustin
ay walang pinagkaiba sa tunog
ng sira-sirang piyano na galing sa Portugal :
subali't walang anumang dahilan
para magambala
sa pagawit ang mga nagsisimba.
(“Linggo ng Pagkabuhay 1998, Macau” ay hango mula sa Ingles na “Easter 1998, Macau ” na lumabas sa Snow Monkey noong taong 2004)
NAG-IISA SA MACAU
Hindi ako Intsik
subalit ako ay dilaw dahil sa buwan.
Ganito kung magsinungaling ang kalikasan
at ganito rin ito kung mang-aliw.
Nakatitig sa akin ang mga bituin
akala ng mga ito ako rin ay isang bituin.
Ngayong gabi ako ay kumikislap: ikinukubli
ng aking kislap ang aking pagkakakilanlan at hinagpis.
(“Nag-iisa sa Macao ” ay hango mula sa Ingles na “Alone in Macau ” na lumabas sa The Write Side Up noong 2006)
NAG-IISA SA HONG KONG
Ano ba ako sa dagat na ito ng mga mukha?
Bula. Isa akong munsik na bula.
Hindi ako alintana ng mundo
at may iilang mausisa ang nakatangin sa akin
marahil nagtataka
kung bakit hindi singkit ang aking mga mata
at ang aking kulay ay hindi dilaw.
Sa dagat na ito nga mga mukha
ako ay isa lamang bula
na puno ng iyong alaala,
puno ng luha,
puno ng mga gabing hinahanap natin ang isa’t isa.
(“Nag-iisa sa Hong Kong” ay hango mula sa Ingles na “Alone in Hong Kong ” na lumabas sa The Write Side Up noong 2006)
PAGGUHO NG PAYATAS
News item: At least 46 people were killed and more than 90 injured yesterday when a huge rain-soaked rubbish dump collapsed and buried shanties near the capital (Manila , Philippines ).
Dozens of people were missing, buried under the mountain of rubbish that caved in after days of heavy rain dumped by Typhoon Kai Tak..—the South China Morning Post July 11, 2000 issue, from Agencies in Manila.
Pinagninilay-nilayan namin ang mga patak ng ulan
at ang maasim na hapdi sa aming mga gutom na sikmura
nang gumuho bigla ang dingding ng aming maputik na Jeriko.
Ang mga bata at matandan ay agad-agad yumao;
sinubukan nilang sumigaw ngunit nakabara
ang maitim na putik sa kanilang lalamunan.
May iilan na dumalit ng panalangin at litanya
subali’t nakalanghap lamang sila ng uod at langaw.
Isang naghihingalong mama, matanda na at di makapagsalita,
ang lumitaw mula sa guhong masangsang
at iniaabot sa akin ang kanyang nanginginig na mga kamay.
Ang kanyang mga kamay ay punung-puno ng sigaw, ng galit,
ng ngitngit, ng pagtutol, ng salita, kaya nang aking hawakan
naramdaman kong sumabog ang mga tinik mula sa aking puso.
(“Pagguho ng Payatas” ay hango mula sa Ingles na “News: “Avalanche” of Rubbish Kills 46 in Shanties” na lumabas sa Burning Leaf, ng William Paterson University sa New Jersey , noong 2006)
© Papa Osmubal
Macau
BATONG HIYAS AT BUHANGIN
Kabi-kabila ang mga pagdura sa kanyang mukha
nang ihambing ni Malu Fernandez
sa mga lumot sa dalampasigan ng Boracay
ang mga OFW
na nakasakay niya sa isang eroplano sa Dubai.
Kabi-kabila ang mga pagtutol --
bumuhos
bumagyo
kaybilis bumaha.
Kung ito at ito lamang ang pagbabatayan ng hatol,
maaari tapikin natin
ang sariling mga balikat:
maipagmamalaki natin,
"A, ating ipinagtanggol ang dapat ipagtanggol!"
Subalit sana, naging gayundin kabilis
ang ating pagpapaulan ng pagtutol
nang magyabang, magyabang si Kristina Cojuangco Aquino
na ang mga batong hiyas sa kanyang leeg at galanggalangan
ay "katas ng Hacienda Luisita,"
at hindi mga butil ng pawis ng mga manggagawang-bukid
na ang inaaning kapalit ng pagbabali ng gulugod
ay kamatayan.
Ngunit hindi, hindi. At bakit?
Dahil ba sa batong hiyas si Kristina Cojuangco Aquino
at isang butil ng buhangin lamang si Malu Fernandez?
© Alexander Martin Remollino
Fetus
Flimsy right foot
pressed over the left.
Legs crossed.
Frail back
hunched tightly.
Delicate crimped fingers
closed to a fist.
Eyes shut tight.
Dry skin
drained of color.
Like that of the plastic bag under the sun.
Street Vagabond
Bent over a puddle.
Washed out pinkish chuck taylors soaked
The bottom of a ripped Levi's wet
His discolored Giordano shirt damped with sweat
The underside of his faded Lacoste sling bag dipped
Tips of his Rockstar hair dunked
An empty Ballantine bottle being filled
A jeepney passes by him.
His thirst was quenched.
© Silvana Zapanta
Silvana 'Kyo' Zapanta is a professor at ABE International College of Business and Accountancy in Cainta, Rizal. In her spare time, she enjoys writing poems and songs. This is her escape from the realities of life's responsibilities. For more of her work, you may visit http://www.postpoems.com/members/kyoksil
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