Fire Walking
still the world sits tight
on the numb shoulders
the solid metallic weight
flows through the varicose vein
crushing the muscles
to a hunchback mound
to a splintering explosion
singeing the whole body wet
with the terror of death
the drone is busy
looking through the shifting sand
between the battles
this awful truce
this uneasy calm
this stiffness of body and mind
on a sunny day the wind returns
to bury under dunes the stalled days
the stalled faces of the last heroes
and erase the memory
of puffed up pleasure sails
through the retribution canals
tons of TNT,plastic explosives
let them smoke,but freeze the fire
freeze the seeds so that they are
preserved for the next rain.
Symbol Picking
I wonder at the human energy
that goes into the making of a symbol
of our existence as human beings
most of the original traces of light
get lost in the twilight zone of memory
at the time of the creation of the symbol
so I comfort myself by doing a rag picker
with a difference,that I only pick symbols
from the barb-wired groves with thorns
every symbol picked by my rag picker
goes to the recycling plant of my heart.
© Bishnupada Ray
is an Associate Professor of English at the University of North Bengal.
This night there was a war
This night there was a war
My father dedicated to me a song
a long time message
My walking on a street
still I can’t see now
where it’ ll arrive
This night there was a war
piles of blankets in a room
I found obstacles on my land
two doctors were shot dead
and we remember them
as great men who are lost
World was played cards
suffering like I did not remember
This night there was a war
heaps of obstacles in my life
Then
I found a piano
and sat down to play
I reminded life
i remind it to me
in honor of your memory, father
i reminded
of yours.
Questa notte c'è stata una guerra
Questa notte c'è stata una guerra
Mio padre mi ha dedicato una canzone
un messaggio da molto tempo
Il mio camminare per strada
ancora non riesco a vedere ora
dove arriverò
Questa notte c'è stata una guerra
mucchi di coperte in una stanza
Ho trovato ostacoli sulla mia terra
due medici sono stati uccisi
e noi li ricordiamo
come i grandi uomini che sono perduti
Il mondo è stato giocato a carte
soffrendo, come io non mi ricordo
Questa notte c'è stata una guerra
cumuli di ostacoli nella mia vita
Poi
Ho trovato un pianoforte
e mi sedetti a suonare
Ho ricordato la vita
io la ricordo a me
in onore della tua memoria, padre,
Ho ricordato la tua.
© Antonio Blunda, Italy
Born in Erice (Tp) on 26/02/72.
Among the many passions, as well as poetry: guitar, jazz music, physics, philosophy. Graduated in law, he practices as lawyer in Palermo (Sicily).
Selected for the "Encyclopedia of the Italian poets emerging" 2002-2003, published by 'Aletti Editore; Selected "Author of the Month" for the month of February 2004 the monthly contest sponsored by the literary website http://www.ilfiloonline.it/; 1st place prize at the literary prize for peace "2004 sponsored by the Society and Culture Research Center of Turin; Author chosen for the Region of Sicily for the "Encyclopedia of poets emerging regional" published by the wing publisher; Finalist for the narrative section in the National Award Telethon 2004; 1st place at the Literary Prize "Giulio Palumbo" - Narrative Section - 4th Edition 2005 - City of Ficarazzi (Pa) Literary Award finalist in the "Calicantus" 2006, unpublished poetry section with a religious theme; Special Prize of the criticism of the tenth edition of the 2008 Award Groane98 "- unpublished poetry section - Garbagnate Milanese (Mi); Selected composer for the Encyclopedia of Contemporary Italian Poets - 2009, edited by Aletti Editore; Finalist for the "aphorisms"in the contest held by the site http://www.pensieriparole.it/ (2010); Finalist at the 1st International Prize for Literature Poetry and Painting Facebook users (2010); Finalist Award "Arenella" unpublished poetry section, organized by the Cultural Association "Palermo Cult - Pensiero"(2010);
MY HEART IS A TOWN
with streets slicing
furrow-like through a field
with lanes that burrow in
like veins through my own
flesh and blood
And quiet squares tick
along to the beat of hours
resonant drops plink
like from a clepsydra
sand grains slither like seconds
agitated by a wild breeze
The wind rose tumbles in the wind
SHOAH
in homage to Maria Savasta
never to forget
this impossible
that has to be learned
by heart
recited
under duress
like a difficult text
clutched to the heart
in a pitiful state
undecipherable
because it remains
incomprehensible
but must be
forever learned
NEW SONG OF SONGS
Beautiful
like a whisper
you enter my life
through my ears
trembling sounds
of birdsong
the foaming
waters of spring
Beautiful
like the gentle
roar of the sea
that girds our earth
with the same love
I hold for you
JUDAS OF CELAYA, MEXICO
Judas guy bloated scapegoat-style
how many will you see see you today
and count your eighteen brittle bones
now chafing in the errant sway
as they
ascend? Crowds mingle mill and fray
beneath your smile shy and stray
their smirks to burn against the sun
past sins like Christ's demise
turned into color lively fun
shooting the lonely loony moon
by dint of fire squad your grin
bursts, mangled, forcibly erased
into a raucous tattered smoke
then sky
or heaven
takes you in
~***~
FALSE ALLARM
Not one
but two
from two faraway places
run more and more
towards each other
unstoppable
Fast
they approach
they touch
they burn
in a kiss
~~
FALSO ALLARME
Non uno
ma due fuochi
da due posti lontani
corrono sempre più
l’uno verso l’altro
inarrestibili
Veloci
s’avvicinano
si toccano
si bruciano
in un bacio
~~
FALSCHER ALARM
Nicht ein Feuer
sondern zwei
von zwei entfernten Orten
laufen immer weiter
auf einander zu
unaufhaltsam
Schnell
nähern sie sich
berühren sich
verbrennen
in einem Kuss
~***~
BE WITH ME
(with thanks to Georg Simmel)
Be with me
in a tickle and an itch
a fragrance a taste
be with me
in pleasure and pain
hunger and thirst
Share with me
the joy of suffering
the pain of joy
our commingled
intoxications
Be with me
simply be with me
in this
this is
life
A ROSE OR TWO
When
I come to you
I’ll be wearing
slinky black nylons
shiny ones too
when
I come to you
I’ll be wearing
a red red red
lacy bra
just for you
with cat-like
pleasure
I’ll growl
and purr
for you
behind my ears
I’ll wear
a rose
or two
And I’ll put a skirt
into my kit
of disguises
for you
© Ute Margaret Saine
is a poet who grew up in postwar Germany. After a PhD from Yale in French and Spanish, she moved to California, where she has been teaching as well as writing poetry, criticism and translating other poets. She is the past president of PEN Orange County and has written many letters for writers harassed or jailed worldwide. She is an editor of the “California Poetry Quarterly.” Her books are “Bodyscapes” (1995); “Words of Art” (2005); “Ungeschicktes Kind” (Awkward Child, to be published), and “The Five Senses: 100 Love Poems in Alphabetical Order” (tbp), as well as four chapbooks of haiku in four languages. She is now working on a novel and short stories, and as always, writing and translating poetry.
Snare of the rat race
Rat race is a way of life in which people
are caught up in a fiercely competitive
struggle for wealth or power.
- The Oxford Pocket Dictionary of Current English
through Encyclopedia.com
The sun is up, again
you join morning rush
of mundane dreams
and how it all seems
to end so cheesy.
Moonlight stalks, again
you try to catch sleep
and wake up to begin
the whole damn thing
over to stay alive.
Uptime shift, you are
an answering machine
enclosed without skies
along with robot mice
in an inflated bubble.
Downtime shift, you are
deaf-mute to conscience,
as numb as a swine,
a system going offline
to the downtrodden.
July 2007
Overlooking from the railway
Express trains passed me by, but not this one
that rolled into the station,
this rather empty one that said: Quit waiting!
So I hopped in, paying
homage to lost embraces, holding a single
journey ticket to access
a platform that knows where I'm going to
when I die, which pole to let go and why.
Beside me a friend beams a plethora of smiles:
What else I should know?
Behind me an enemy leaks an amalgam of hurts:
Don't you know me at all?
Facing me a stranger's detachment, if not awe:
Don't I know you?
While taking a nap longer than my stop, they
switch places abruptly at the count of five.
The slaying of superficiality awakens me: Once
upon a time, a friend was a stranger,
an enemy was a friend, and a stranger could turn
into one or the other.
We all have two-headed beasts to escape from
who have as much right
as me to wear faces with strong connectivity
between riding trains and trainers of life.
MRT-2 Recto Station, Manila
12 June 2009
The man Pia wants to forget
is the same man
she'd wish she never met
at Conspiracy Cafe
on December night
where they talked
and sparked up a light
so luminous, more
than the brain could get
to remember how
flux and flurry sprout.
Let us go back when the
pages were ripped out
and written like first entry
of a journal to the next:
their hands clasped―
a surreal twist of fate!
Pia treads Commonwealth
Avenue with him, from
Saint Peter Parish to
overpass to someplace dim.
She presses her lips
to his left cheek,
driving up dopamine
level to its peak.
Pia in turn gets
a hormone-loaded kiss,
hears him say
“I like you” she so miss.
A part of her head
sniffs for chemistry
in staring eyes with
strong connectivity.
She asks “Why did you
come just now?”
over and over again
as if renewing a vow.
Hundreds of years
have passed and
are soon to come
prior or after the dawn's
hour of three.
Will the waves stop
kissing the shores?
Will the sun stop
rising above the fields?
How far can Pia
remember they have
straightening out to do?
Just beyond Batasan Hills,
certain forces are all
set to uncover her
heart's long lost cure.
Why is elation a target
of memory erasure?
Amazingly, the
man she wants to forget
is embedded to her
than anyone has done,
who will die one day and
reincarnate as her son.
31 December 2009
Trapiche, Oton, Iloilo
© Dennis Espada
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