who tells me what to do with my justifiable ire? where to put my anger, fear and disgust, the biting, corroding lust, the hatred, the discontentment? should i conserve them in jars, on the shelves of the larder in order to always have these impressions at hand? just in case. should i bottle them, have them patented and sell the cans on the internet as aphrodisiacs of a weary, jellified epoch? to endure gallantly, shut up, suppress, conceal the righteous anger. to bear, suffer and tolerate above all. it’s like thinking of topless old women in vermilion lacy stockings in a cheap, reek, stinky motel room with view on a desolate construction ground. let’s free the skies of the naughty boredom of disenchanted lives until it’s not too late. what is the answer to radicalism, new-age genocides, civil wars, nuclear armament and child prostitution? if you cannot be the laudation of something, be its ignominy. that’s what i’m thinking of while i’m in the elevator. i launch myself to an unknown floor as the humanly manifested form of institutionalized suspicion, wallowing in a sensual ventilation. i tried to run away from not having a father, but this doesn’t seem to make too much sense. there’s something of an exotical roughness and fierce brute force in the scenery of this country. a postmodern struggle, a constant bio-chemical hazard: that’s what comes after the numbersome millennia of whimpering human activity. i decided to devote my life to bleeding question marks as philosophical, religious and historical minefields tear and lancinate our flesh and our diminishing capitalist prosperity. how to come to terms with the street misery, the racial hatred, the bombs, the religious murders, the billions disappearing in the pockets of the few victorious, the mutilations and rapes? i vomit stars of a withered glory, trying to suck out the promised life of sagging breasts drained, scorched and desiccated by the myriad days of never ending wars, embargos and famines. we can’t do anything with death: we fall into decay like rotten, musty roses deceived by hairy, unkempt dictators smelling of impure and cheap molten iron.
HUMANITY CRUCIFIED
a poet sentenced to life. words that could have passed unnoticed gained thereby worldwide publicity. words read by tens of thousands. is this an unconscious penitence of a government, or an abortive effort to prevent the empowering of words? peoples expatriated, nations denationalized, living in refugee camps and miserable canvas towns, living off international aid and the commiseration of the powerless, incompetent and disinterested coalitions, political forces. on the way back home. an organically lamenting mind rages in the winter sun: a life sentence in this beautiful city, penetrating the wonderful spaces, tasting the luscious dunes and heaps. frantic erotic gazes were watching over me while i was asleep. waking up, i found a sulphurous cross suspended in front of me, bloodily glittering on the scabrous skies: humanity crucified.
LOVE PROSTITUTE
it’s a hermaphrodite winter with long, disheveled hair, rumbling in our pores, scandalously creeping in under our clothes and underwear. it quivers, trembles and wriggles in moans, like a decapitated roasted goose trying to make a getaway from the dropped baking pan. we cannot live just a little, make a scandal just a little, have ringworm only a little bit, be just a little sickening, step just a little on a mine and live afterwards just a little bit with a stump bruised badly and ripped off in shreds. i’m prostituted for love, my rusty soul has accidentally been sold to humid, lustful passions and the words of apocalypse. i’m the dubbed voice of rupture and schism. to accept and cherish myself, i’m by no means loved by everyone, and this will only get worse. moreover, we must take the risks, destroy, hazard, delexicalize, make dramas, and never make a compromise. even if there will never be a parade march or a glorious procession, but only a rust-eaten, putrefied, trashy car-body to make my way so that i can roll magnificently as a humiliated celestial body, like a colourless, unbalanced, self-destructive hurricane. this is how it turned out and this will pretty much stay the same. in an insincere posture, unconsciously, i’m radiating in the shower. emitting purple, mauve and lilac rays in this shower of verbal vinegar and of mental camphor. in retreating and blenching gestures, i long to sing of the bends and valleys of a woman’s groin. under the violet stars are crawling, creeping in countless rows the outlawed, mentally eviscerated people reduced to impelled approval: they are the prophets of these new ages.
BURNING DOCTORS:
A REQUIEM FOR SYRIA
a man’s face, covered with deep cuts, eyes fixed at an invisible, rosin-shaded future seeming unviable. a bleeding man almost kicked and beaten to death, a man of sorrow and agony: a tortured jesus of these days of inveterate hatred. these weeks and months of blood pools never running dry. he’s condemned and sentenced to death by the evil cog-wheels of autocratic judgement, by the despotic death crew. he’s been saving lives: this is one of the unforgivable sins in this upheaval, in this deadly, pestilent turmoil. an even greater, utterly inexpiable vice is having been trained to think, to examine and change the structures of reality, the tissues of existence. be it physiological or historico-political, god forbid ideological. hospitals are bombed. enfeebled, dust-covered, tragically forgotten faces take shelter on street corners, in dead-end streets, in drain-pipes. saving lives, having and independent, cultivated and critical mind: two times a death-sentence. being a potential actor of change, an agent of human love and empathy, being a saviour or a last resort of the dying: this is a life-threatening life. to resect splinters and bullets of the flesh, to cure and to save lives is a strength, a creative power and a changing force. the power cannot tolerate such an atrocious outrage. it’s time for a new kind of history written by the victims. apartments equipped and transformed into theatres and surgical facilities, mental, emotional, medicative, healing resistance: medication has become a weapon of war. throats cut, death follows everyone to their house, creeps in under the door. thousands of refugees, trampling in mud, begging for drinking water. many of them without shoes, staggering on their ulcerous feet, falling down in stale puddles: an endless hunger march, this is mothy, rotten glory of a regime. children are waving among the shells and corpses entombed by the crumbling houses. worn faces of children hardened by war, their future has been sold by politicized arrogance. craters on the head and body of the wounded, on the tissue of history and of worthless future. they burn doctors in syria. children without legs, arms. operating 24 hours a day without water, electricity, telephone, instruments and devices. being a doctor in syria is a death warrant. heroes and saviours are tortured and killed today.
RECYCLED KARMA
culture is dying. she’s raped, stabbed, the fat, paunchy potbellies of great power jump upon and try to strangle her. she trembles and bleeds to death. can you hear her rattling agony? we’re living the final days of culture. she falls prey to a masterly planned, far-reaching conspiracy. culture croaks. my blood goes out in a amber-shaded, febrile revolt, the nourishing energy bursts out of me. life is petrified, the vital throbbing is benumbed with cold and terror. thousands turned into gray in a fortnight. we’re driven to roar and to go on a rampage by our disgruntled anger, by our aspirations aiming at bringing salvation, suppressed and butchered. they’re keeping us back. we’re treated as a generational trash needing to be chopped off. who needs our work? who wants our dreams? for whom and how should we bring change if we’re all drowning in the drains? how to play the piano with our fingers cut off? how to run with our legs amputated? how to make a stay in the raging typhoons of cross wind? generational trash, a degenerate, forlorn group. we’re agonizing with a pr smile on our face, as we’re trying to infuse hope into each other. violence gains ground after the disobedience. who will be our prophet causing to spring forth even on our parched meadows? will there be a new Moses leading us into salvation? will there be someone who, among the massacred souls and the lives cut into blood, will find a way and set us free? or will we only be a litmus paper eroded by acids, staking out the course for the coming ages at the cost of our lives? are we going to be a fallen, burnt guide-post, the wreck and remains of humanity to serve as a foundation of a new civilization? is our generation meant to be a fostering soil and nothing more than a warning example like easter islands? our generation is a contemporary rapa nui.
© Károly Sándor Pallai
SONNETS OF THE FOUR ELEMENTS
EARTH...
You bore witness to the time of my birth,
Cradled by your bosom from where I learned
The first steps I took as a mere fledgling,
With uncertain strides I took them miles wide;
You, who gave me solid ground to walk on,
Even as I fall and stumble upon
Uneven roads, never parted and left:
You formed the foundation of my being,
The soil from where all matters take roots;
Thus when I get tired from all these walking,
Your arms is the shelter I come home to.
For the clay is soft for a restful sleep,
To mold the embrace of companionship,
None else could separate me from my Earth
No one so powerful, not even Death...
WATER...
I have always wondered why the Sea is
Deep and encompassing in her purpose,
Conveyed, with the emotions of her waves,
Or with the tranquility of her depths;
The conduits of this undertaking
Are never far away, a tiny drop,
A small thought surging from a little spring
Rushing as it pushes through rocks and grief
Flowing forth to swell a mighty river,
To quench the thirst of the night's lonely sleep
Tears add volume to her fluidity,
Painfully shed from the sighs of the sky
To seek solace in the womb of the Sea,
My dream... is the water I share with her...
AIR...
IT's no longer a gasp, a flute breathing
A symphony, a serenade of winds
Infusing a cure for the sorrowful,
Resonating as the night's overture.
It's a forgotten song, like the lullabies
Recalled by a child already all grown;
A sonata pacifying the soul
Trapped within its void, soundless and hollow
Under the firmament of the endless skies.
It is the breeze awakening the dawn,
A calming stroll by the memory shores;
A wish now fulfilled with this answered prayer:
The heaven must have known, I needed Air,
For the vacuum has now been filled by thee...
FIRE...
She comes in the night when sleeplessness wakes
A man listless from his blank wanderings,
A firefly lost in the darkest evenings
Aimless in his thoughts, wondering, where to...
She lights up the lamp in the sullen room,
A beacon of life to a sinking ship,
A lantern above a deserted street,
Guiding a grieving heart broken in two.
She is the sunrise in the dusk of love,
The nudge to keep moving on, come what may,
The warmth of embrace on a rainy day,
Steaming hot with a cup of coffee brew.
She is the Muse behind my every line,
The Fire of my inspiration and drive.
© 2013 Miguel Rogali
Kariktan
at matapos kong lakbayin
ang iyong kariktan
nais kong managinip ka
sa aking piling,
nang sa gayon,
ikaw ay aking makakasama
ng dalawang pagkakataon
sa iisang panahon.
ikaw ang bukas sa gabi.
at ang gabi sa bawat bukas.
at sa muling pagdadampi
ng ating mga labi,
paghihiwalayin ko
ang iyong katauhan -
isang mortal
sa mundo ng aking kaharian
at isang diyosa
sa harden ng aking pag-ibig.
Splendor
and after my odyssey
within your splendor
i want you to dream with me
so you will be with me
in two instances
at the same moment.
you are the day in the night
and the night in each day.
and when our lips again touch
i will separate your feminacy -
a mortal in the world of my kingdom
and a goddess
in the garden of my love.
Isang Liham
Paano ko igugupo
Ang saya na hatid
Ng iyong mga ngiti?
Paano ko yayakapin
Ang lambing
Ng iyong mga tinig?
Paano ko iduduyan
Ang iyong mga mata
Sa uyayi
Ng aking paghinga?
Igugupo kita
Sa mga musika
Sa pagitan
Ng hangin;
Yayakapin kita
Sa oda ng mga huni
At anino
Ng mga lilim;
At iduduyan kita
Ng walang hanggang pagsuyo
Sa piling
Ng mga arkana.
Sarong Surat
Pano ko madadakop
An ugma na dara
Kan saimong mga ngirit?
Pano ko makukugos
An karinyo
Kan saimong boses?
Pano ko iduduyan
An saimong mga mata
Sa uyayi
Kan sakong paghangos?
Dadakupon taka
Sa mga kansyon
Sa tahaw kan duros.
Kukuguson taka
Sa oda kan mga huni
Asin anino
Sa mga sirong.
Asin iduduyan taka
Nin daing kasagkurang pagsuyo
Sa piling
Kan mga arkana.
© 2013 Jaypee Belarmino
It is not much if I kept you
that one time.
It was the winter
and sitting behind you
almost to keep you warm
and to keep the head,
It was strange to think
as you were a child, and how, the child.
in the mechanical immersed silence
i dressed you by my hands
with the most beautiful white shirt,
from arm to arm
without the strength of the beloved caress.
It is not too much, maybe
But no one knows
that day
we spoke together.
© Antonio Blunda
ومضات
للشاعر الفليبيني سانتياغو فيلافانيا
ترجمة نزار سرطاوي
1.
يسمتها
نسيم الصباح الذي تزهر له
ألف زنبقة
2.
أتمنى لو كان بوسعي أن أرسمك بكلمات
عارية لا يقدر أحد على النطق بها
ذلك هو نقاؤك!
3.
حجرتي الخاوية
فضائي الخاص
كَم هُما ممتلآن بكِ!
مع أنّكِ لستِ هنا
4.
حاجّانِ – أنت وأنا
قبّرةٌ وبلبل في
سماءٍ سارقة
قَبّلي النهارَ أيتها الشفاهُ الوحشية
وسوف احتضنُ الليل
5.
ابتسامتكِ
لمسةُ الشمس الدافئة
على خديّ
قُبْلَةُ النسيم
على شفتيّ
تتمنى لي نوماً هنيئاً
6.
حرارةُ نوقمبر –
ذكرى المطر
على بشرتي
نسيمُ الصباح –
إذ يتوق إلى عناقكِ الدافئ
في يوم كهذا
7.
هذه الليلة يا حبيبتي
سوف أنام وحدي
وأتذكر ضحكات
صوتك
المفعم بالفتنة
حتى أنّه يشي بهندسة
قلبي
والبرج السماوي
لروحي
Epigrams
Santíago Víllafanía
1.
her smile
the morning breeze to blossom
a thousand tulips
2.
if i could paint you with words
too naked to be spoken
that’s your immaculacy!
3.
my empty room
my private space
so full of you
you’re not even here
4.
pilgrims − you and i
skylark and nightingale in
a stealing heaven
kiss the day O wanton lips
and i will embrace the night
5.
your smile
the warm touch of the sun
on my cheeks
the goodnight kiss
of the breeze
on my lips
6.
november heat
the memory of rain
on my skin
morning breeze−
longing for your warm embrace
on a day like this
7.
tonight beloved
i will sleep alone
remembering the laughter
of your voice
so inveigling
that it betrays the geometry
of my heart
and the constellation
of my soul
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