LONG BEACH MORNING
May 8, 2011
A squirrel having fun alone
scurrying
then another
playing their
scurrilous game
Five sparrows
sitting under
a picknick table
pecking the dust
Over the water
a seagull
suddenly
dives into
rippling waves
Four blackbirds
of a black feather
hopping
one of them limps
Motionless
a heron
peers into the water
standing still
Only time flies
WAITING ~ HERE ~ GONE AGAIN
(HAIKU CYCLE)
longing for your voice
butterflies in my stomach
waiting for doorbell
mind in abeyance
to rise and fall with your words
sliding into love
smiles at the threshold
eyes hugging the horizon
you disappearing
ART LOVERS
Your embrace
o man at love,
turns me into an
avid seer
divining your paintings
playing at Paradise Now
swan lakes
the Blue Planet
a buoyant purple sail
yellow doves
some gold cakes
a bird stag
frilly pink waves
red salamander
under white cloud
and two glowing bodies
in a peekaboo
of mauve love
Spurned by
your hovering absence
o man not in love
your paintings dim out
haphazard curls
opaque overlays
pasty pastels
a miscast plaster slap
sundry splayed bones
a clotted blood curd
damp maroon swirls
the hissing colors
of a kitchen spewing mist
sandman I see
so many splotches
visual dust in my eyes
PS I ruefully conclude
I must have loved
your body sir
not your art
woe woe it hurts
COUPLES
whispers the little sharp woman
eyes rimmed in steel over there
she's the one working on the
surrealists and their mechanical brides
couplessss she lisps
Brilliant
all consent
such a timely idea
avuncular heads
raptly nod on frail shoulders
Great proposition Cartesian to a fault
if X man slept with Y woman
it ought to show in his work
and let's hear the latest
the scholar is going to trace it
even if the woman bride is
stripped bare to her words
by the bachelors
and nota bene the man paints
and the woman paints herself
as in makeup Max Factor
Ubi sunt where is
that verbal resurgence
the simulacrum (a recent favorite)
the cogent analog (a novice other)
the Flesh made Word
her thighs in his thoughts
his thoughts in her eyes
(never the other way around)
the rapt meshing of lips and tongues in
mouth-to-mouth resuscitation
myth of the cosmic couple myth
all of us need
Some surrealists
women and men
would have laughed
(let's hope so)
at us as they laughed at themselves
transpire and transsubstantiate
but they couldn’t
laugh nearly hard enough
BIRTHDAY POEM OR ‘THE OTHER LANDSCAPE’
(text to accompany a photo series)
So far and so foreign
my body and I
comma and so near
bust picture in the truest sense of the word
the ancestors shudder
Seldom I see myself
look like this
myself like this
the almost-birthday suit
this is what I look
like?
And don’t the nipples stand
like those of a twenty-year-old?
You must be kidding
Well, almost
I cheat in preparation for the photo
with duct tape, that’s what it’s called
con-ducting as it does to higher-destination nipples
in the direction of the throat
breasts on the the up and up
Ye who always valiantly strive
(let’s hope it applies)
That’s why la gorge, as in soutien-gorge
the bra-contained fantasy plant
hemmed in a forest of clothes
on Rivers of Babylon, clay feet
Already they are scared of themselves
the little ones in the mirror
it’s so light and airy here, they complain
(they-- always inside the bra always female)
But that’s what my body is like
on its new birthday
period
If you cannot stand to see this
comma man
I wouldn’t have anything
to do with you anyway
© 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.
Dimmi ti amo
Dimmi ti amo,
io che quasi non so più dirlo.
Dimmi ti amo,
perché questa casa, per una volta,
non me lo ricorda
perché l’ultimo tramonto
sembra un viaggio narrato
perchè “ti amo”
è qualcosa di immenso
in questo silenzio
che vibra così
dimmi ti amo
e giuro
che avrò contato piano
tutte le rondini
Tell me I love you…
Tell me I love you,
I who hardly can say it any longer.
Tell me I love you,
so that this house, for once,
will not remind me
because the last sunset
seems a story told
because “I love you”
is something immense
in this silence
that vibrates so much
tell me I love you
and I swear to you
that I will have slowly counted
all the swallows
Translation by Sibylla Greco
© Antonio Blunda
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);
CHAITANYA
Facing west -
on Marine Drive,
outstretched arms supporting
giant robes; you stand
there Oh Chaitanya,
keeping an eye on the horizon.
Stoically.
Waiting.
Prophecy of a new phenomena
to come.
No meandering river banks.
No wandering Bengal tigers.
No monsoon rain to wash your feet,
only white wet snow
to chill your soul.
In the dark -
rain drops
mimic fireflies,
fill the neon space,
exposing a stone heart
devoid of palpitation.
Can you see Oh Chaitanya,
the hurdles in your way ?
I think you know
what I strive to say.
Colossus.
More than words can say.
A stone commandment -
A new catechism:
Opaque yet apparent.
Banal yet complex.
Shallow or deep, give or keep,
dark or light, sorrow or delight,
fight or flight,
from single cell to
a mound of earth is
the journey of life.
Oh Chaitanya wake up.
your stone smile baffles.
Inappropriate.
Chaitanya, a highly revered saint of India was born in the Bengal state in
1486. There is a giant statue of Chaitanya installed on Marine Drive in
Burnaby, BC.
A SIGN...
Afternoon sun a ball
of fire skimming the horizon.
Inside the church hymns being sung,
filling the air with aphorism
about finding the way, home.
The fence separating
priest's podium from the
parishioners, illuminated
with kaleidoscopic
light filtering through
the stained glass,
created an image of
Jesus fallen off the cross,
stuck in the fence.
Awaken the gods,
mop up the ichor,
make room for the
homeless, destitute
and extra terrestrial
aliens because
it is a sign.
HERMIT
Quietly,
every day,
he paces the city block,
back and forth,
dawn to dusk,
from curve to curve
to seek a man
who could speak his mind
with the voice of his heart,
because even little means a lot
when spirit and flesh are one,
because you get back
whatever you give and
all that is not given is lost.
SOFT TOUCH
If you wish to love me
then accept me, as I am
and nothing else.
If you like to trust me
then believe in me
for no reason at all.
If you want to caress me
then touch me with your eyes
without asking why?
Because one day
my love will spring,
my passion will emerge,
my heart will blossom,
my zeal will grow
for you.
But if you cannot wait for me
then without hesitation,
leave me and go away.
Because I can create you
when I am ready.
YOU AND ME
The brooks mingle with the rivers.
The rivers mingle with the oceans.
The winds mingle with the fragrance of flowers.
The flowers mingle with lovers.
All things by nature meet and mingle.
Why not I with you?
CLAY PROPHET
Once I knead the finest clay into fragrant soft skin.
I made ears, lips, cheeks and nose from it.
And turned it into a beautiful toy.
I gave it a shiny forehead and silky hair.
I gave it my arteries and blood.
I gave it the power of my limbs.
I inserted my heart into it.
I gave it my eyes to see.
I filled its lungs with my breath.
I gave it everything, even my soul.
When it started to walk, talk and laugh,
I made it my angel, prophet, guru, messiah, savior.
Gradually others discovered him.
They liked him, loved him and worshipped him.
He got so absorbed in their compassion, he
left me alone – disappointed and hopeless.
After years, one day he came back to me
and demanded to be my God again.
I told him he could not be my savior any more.
When he was my savior,
His name was Krishna, Jesus Christ or Mohammed.
He could do miracles, make blind see and
lift a mountain on his small finger,
open it up like an umbrella to shield people
from the fury of pouring rains of monsoon.
I told him,
when he was my prophet,
His was mightier than Hercules and his face was
brighter than million of suns, moons and stars.
It was then
the mere mention of his name used to
eliminate my pains and sorrows.
I told him
when he was my angel,
a simple touch of his foot used to
turn the waters of mighty Ganges
into amrit – nectar
that would water my parched soul to life.
I told him
it was then that I wanted to stay with him.
It was then that I wanted to approximate him.
but
now I don’t need him,
because I know my true inner self.
© Ashok Bhargava
based in Vancouver, Canada. He has published 4 books of poetry.
Alone
when all is done and said
it says it is not enough
it says nothing is enough
it says...call me Job
when I lose everything
'lost' is an explosive word
a heartbreaking word
but the little that remains
is bigger,'remaining' is bigger
than all I can lose
it says hold on to it
just hold on,alone.
Ten Lines on Sight Seeing
the dogs often ran after us
and raced along us barking
but relented after smelling petrol
on our way to the lifeless temple
ten steps towards ten directions
we saw a vertical thunderbolt
and a tonsured monk sedated
walking towards a distant river
this is our origin and the end
we had a dream of that distance.
© Bishnupada Ray
is an Associate Professor of English at the University of North Bengal, India.
Jammu
Jammu,
Wooden shops,
Cobbled ways
Jammu,
Green ancestral alibis canopy concrete roads
Nodding to the whistles of winds
Jammu,
Embroided with green
Tanks and men
Men in green, agile, expressionless like mannequin
Transformed into robots
Vomiting bullets at someone who used to be a brother
Jammu,
Pink-faced, kissed by cold
With deep emerald eyes
Reflecting bottoms of their old waters
Jammu
Serpentine roads
Hospitable cabbies, who are
Google of the place
And no need to feed a word too
Because they read you
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© Vijaya Kandpal
is a poet, freelance journalist and translator from India.
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