PEARL OF THE ORIENT
In my mind is always the memory
Of the golden frangipani, then
Her sensuous Manila mouth
There on the far side of this is Paradise
And here the abiding mantra is always
Bonjour Tristesse
And the fabled immemorial phrase
As the dancing-girls came and went
Manila, Pearl of the Orient
Strange yet consoling it is to know
That she is always there, and here
The silent afternoons are spent
In sunless shaded rooms
Then memory returns of her shining
Hair of jet, her dark eyes
Two jewels in the midnight skies
Golden skin, and as lifetimes came and went
She still remains the Pearl of the Orient
The flaming scent of her Pinoy charms
Exotic paradise-bird, perfect Schadenfreude
The silent fires of the past
How they haunt still, and yet
To guard and shield and treasure
The pearl of her memory
Bonjour Tristesse
And she came and went in a shimmering dress
Then shall ever be synonymous with
Manila, The Pearl of The Orient
© 2011 John Roberts
I am in my late 40s and I was born and educated in England. I studied at Oxford University and I have a PhD from there in Asian History and Literature. I have been writing poetry since I was very young and I also write novels and short stories. I have also translated poetry from French and German. I have travelled throughout Southeast Asia and the Far East and have visited the Philippines several times.
LORD BYRON’S STAR
I asked the dust
whose were
these burning words
that inspired my heart.
Fate opened
my hand
and the wind carried away
the voice of those grains
into the silence of an uncertain tomorrow.
Then I looked at the marine waters,
to them I spoke
of ending my torment,
many were the waves,
so high and
thunderous that
my cry
was spent
and imploded unheard.
Tired from now on
with worn-out limbs
I raised my eyes,
my hands in prayer
to a cold sky
on this grim evening.
I saw a strange star
of serious light
shine trembling in the blue,
a dart dominating the firmament
like a pirate soul in torment.
Suddenly
I felt a shudder,
a gleaming shot
pierced me,
I fainted and fell down.
A sudden ellipse
illuminates my heart
basking in the warmth
of sublime Hymns.
© 2011 Alessandro Pinto
Translated by Ute Margaret Saine
L’ASTRO DI LORD BYRON
Ho chiesto alla polvere
di chi fosse
l’ardere di parole
ispirate al mio cuore.
Il fato apri’
la mia mano
e il vento porto’via
la voce di quei grani
nel silenzio dell’incerto domani.
Allora guardai le acque marine,
a loro parlai
di porre fine al mio tormento,
assai erano le onde,
cosi’ alte e
fragorose che
il mio grido
fu messo a lato
e implose inascoltato.
Oramai stanco
sfinite le mie membra
alzai lo sguardo,
le mani in preghiera
al cielo freddo
della tetra sera.
Vidi un astro raro
che nel blu fremeva
di luce seria,
il dardo dominava il firmamento
con l’anima inquieta d’un corsaro.
D’improvviso
sentii un fremito,
un lucente sparo
mi trafisse e a terra svenni.
Una ellisse brilla
intorno al mio cuore
che si scalda
al tepore di sublimi Inni.
Transcendental alteration
In the frozen shadows, shining beams
draw on my polluted canvas
the gospel gold of the sublime, sequel
of the sacred garden of the one gnosis
so that light dawns in the mind
gently angry winds subside
and a strange and far away well-being
surrounds me with a sweet gracious touch
in my desert she sprinkles holy waters
everywhere her sweet purity clears
every dark shade of mine hurting her
making me a butterfly in her arduous
blessed hands, I forget death
and of the lost illusory appearance
I become lines of light in a transparence
inherent with my immortal fate.
© 2011 Alessandro Pinto
Traduttore Peppino Riso
TRASCENDENTALE ALTERAZIONE
Nelle gelate ombre, fasci luminosi
stilano sulla mia contaminata tela
l'oro vangelo del sublime,sequela
del sacro giardino della sola gnosi
cosi' che albeggi luce nella mente
dolcemente irosi venti si placano
e un benessere strano e lontano
mi cinge dolce con tocco clemente
nel mio deserto irrora sante acque
ovunque la sua dolce purezza schiara
ogni mia scura tinta che l' addolora
rendendomi farfalla tra le sue ardue
mani benedette, dimentico la morte
e della perduta illusoria apparenza
divengo linee di luci in trasparenza
con inerenza all 'immortal mia sorte.
© 2011 Alessandro Pinto
VERITAS
When the mind draws a blank...
do you start with a clean slate?
is it an unfathomable darkness?
are traces left to be solved?
are details kept
in the deepest recesses
of your soul?
do you continue to look?
do you brave the darkness?
do you solve the puzzle?
do you dig
through, thoroughly,
your own self?
And yet why seek reason?
Truth maybe changed,
twisted, erased
in the hands of Man.
Real Truth is what
is indelibly written
by God's hands.
souls
bared souls
intertwine –
yet never touch
does she dare tell
the secrets of her own?
***
small talks
small souls
I turn away
***
he knows not
or perhaps
he wishes, too
for a kindred soul
but she knows not
***
two souls,
ancient,
stare at
an empty
horizon
that i
refuse to see
***
the thin line
SNAPS!
oh dear!
poor soul
hanging
by the thread
of sanity
...or what’s left of it.
***
here in limbo
the soul dies
more and more
each and every day
and every day
every day
every
ev
e
.
all that’s left is a period
deemed insignificant
The Witch’s Brew
Coffee and cream
mixed together,
make a wonder;
add sugar
along the way.
Which is which?
Which is real?
Can you segregate
by what, by how
you feel?
The witch
and her brew –
stirring
tasting
swirling
in this little cup
that’s you.
© J.Gi Federizo
A writer by passion, J.Gi Federizo is a self-proclaimed fictionist and poetess. As a writer by profession, she has written articles for a health-and-lifestyle magazine and for the web, and wrote for/produced several institutional videos for a tertiary school for a time. Gi appreciates the creative and performing arts, by the way, and like billions of people, she's become a willing slave to the Internet. Find her at her new abode, http://jgifederizo.wordpress.com
Baring
It rains. Autumn Rain with cold fingers undresses the trees.
Naked nature. But false and gloomy.
Spurious images, reflections in puddles.
Undressed bodies from newspaper dazzle me not to see their true nakedness. Dress up, baby! To save in our body the warmth to the other. And that nice, but not shown that we carry deep within ourselves. Weather to bare it ...
Better to keep it from the gaze, the gaze colder than autumn rain jets. To avoid, looking for a little heat, the freezing point.
© Dacho Gospodinov
translated by Rositza Pironska
Дачо Господинов|Разголване
Вали. Есенен дъжд с нетоплещи пръсти досъблича дървесата.
Оголена природа. Но неистинска и мрачна.
Несъщински образи-отражения в локвите.
Разсъблечени тела от вестника ме заслепяват, за да не видя истинската им голота.
Облечи се, мила. Да спасим в телата си топлината на другия. И онова хубаво, но непоказано, което носим дълбоко в себе си.
Дали да го разголим...
По-добре да го запазим от погледи, Погледи, по-студени от есенни дъждовни струи.
За да избегнем, търсейки малко топлина, точката на замръзване.
The day went backwards
as for Friday the 13th,
not bode dramas
nor action,
just met me
with a gypsy-
obscenely beautiful
that told me
that God has left me
on your way to be able,
when he is absent
to protecte me
with your presence.
still her believe,
as far as I
can think of you.
© Dimitrina Toncheva
translated by Rositza Pironska
Денят тръгна наопаки
като за петък 13-ти,
не предвещаваше драми
нито пък екшън,
просто ме срещна
с една циганка-
неприлично красива,
която ми каза
че Бог ме е оставил
на пътя ти ,за да може,
когато отсъства
да ме закриляш
с присъствието си.
Още й вярвам,
доколкото ми е възможно
да те мисля.
Art
yet another dive
into the abyss
from a height
depersonalization
dehumanization
from man to mice
closer to truth
closer to the pit
where we fall
and wriggle to rise
like a cloudy hill
caught in a cage
of deep structures
we thrive to fill
an empty circuit
with deep images
squeezing the soul
into a cosmic hole
we create mountains
of fire and froth
from where by magic
fountains of love
thrown by abysmal force
take the form of a god.
Lost Illusion
dead soul again
all over the place
complete silence
in the background
frozen lake of still water
and not a soul stirred
lost illusion
depression
until the new wind
the rustle and murmur
in the forest
listen to what the wind says
possibility of a great future
wrapped between white sheets
of unplanned growth
slippage,wastage
lost focus
and lost vision
the knotted old tree
forked in the middle
almost divided against itself.
© Bishnupada Ray
Bishnupada Ray is an Associate Professor of English at the University of North Bengal,India.
A Letter to You
No, not onomatopoeia of the metal
Or ruffles of the papers
to die for.
Neither to get awestruck
by carved, sculpted looks.
No, not the company of highlights of the nation,
Or be with the fame-powdered faces.
Don’t write a verse on my skin
Don’t say in scriptures about my deepest twin ponds.
But yes, I would be loved to get pierced till the inner most room
of my heart by your eyes. Would like a day with the child
who still lives within your diplomat face
By your small letters on my palm
I would live thousand lives
Smiling.
Senyru
Hold Geeta
closest
my cuticles feel yours
He emerges
with crimson numbers
on facebook
I call
he says, 'hello'
I live for one more day
Eyes
in tears
with you in heart
Your mother, I am
My mother, you
I need your embrace
even after you hurt me
He holds a book
I kiss it
Kiss him
Immersed in
your embrace
my chaste heart
Long conversation
with you
You, on my mobile
© 2011 Vijaya Kandpal
HAPPIER LANE
You brought me near
the sun the never sets
You left me here
In this river that never flows
I was dreaming for a fairy tale
What I got is a tragic end
I was longing for heaven
You gave me hell
In time, my miseries would come to halt
My heart would be in a better lot
In time, my agonies would soon wane
I would be heading to a happier lane
You pushed me down
In this messy pit
You crushed my soul
Turned me mad
No way to live
© 2011 Joseph Reylan Viray
Суши по скалата на Рихтер
Сайонара
ще кажа на разбърканите водни улици,
пълни с корабокруширали кораби и къщи,
които отплават без пътници на борда.
Само с телевизора, включен на брейкинг нюз,
с пералнята – малко цунами в големите вълни на океана,
с всички онези вещи, неподходящи за взимане при бягство...
Вълна след вълна
градовете стават нови венеции -
скръбни и скърцащи, с огън под ноктите
Всички световни медии са изплезели езици от въодушевление.
Оттук нататък денонощието ще става все по-кратко.
Домо аригато гозаиматса, Япония сан,
че ни научи на достойно страдание.
В розовия цвят на вишните
едно земетресение разбужда пчелите.
Плуват автомобилите - причудливи яхти,
а слънцето е червено още преди да изгрее.
© 2011 Станислава Станоева
Stanislava Stanoeva is born in Plovdiv, Bulgaria. She is author of the 3 poetry book - “The Death of the Hangman” (1999), “A Flight in the Stone” (2003) and “Cities and other Islands” (2009). Her poetry is published in two poetry anthologies - “Different Water” and “6 + 6”. Her poetry is also published in such Bulgarian and foreign periodicals, in the newspapers and magazines. She is a member of the Poetry academy of Plovdiv and the Association of the poets.
Sushi on the Richter Scale
“Sayonara,”
I will tell the streets stirred up by water
full of wrecked ships and houses
that sail away without passengers on board
with only the TV tuned to breaking news,
with a whirring washer – a small tsunami in the big ocean waves
with all those items unsuitable for lugging in the midst of an escape ...
Wave after a wave
The cities become new Venices -
Grieving and squeaking, fire under the nails.
All world media have protruded tongues with excitement.
Henceforth, the day will become shorter.
Domo arigato gozaimatsa, Japan san,
for teaching us how to suffer with dignity.
In the pink color of the cherries,
an earthquake rouses the bees.
The cars swim - whimsical yachts,
and the sun is red before it rises.
translated by Stanislava Stanoeva
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