Latest items:

poetry

Michel Galiana, 7 january 2015

Quelvénic Grove

1. - As I did rove Quelvénic Grove
My toil was well rewarded:
I saw a doe wearing a blue
Cover that two stags guarded.
Both of them clerks, I dare remark.
Get up, Lord, you must withstand!
Hunt them at least, none of these beasts
Should desecrate your woodland! -

2. The three poor beasts, as noise increased
Fled the grove early that day,
Took up abode near the highroad,
Till a baker came that way.
- Give us some bread. It will be paid.
For this young girl is hungry.
She followed us. 'Twas perilous
To leave her room, most surely.

3. No one allows that she follows
Her own heart. She escaped.
Her kith and kin will call it sin
That her own life she shaped.
And, the poor thing, she may now sing,
Tonight she will cry sadly;
When tears are shed and all is said,
She'll die tomorrow, early. -

Translated from the Breton

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B.Z. Niditch, 7 january 2015

"IDA," A POLISH FILM

Only if you had been
an adolescent Marxist
in a post revolutionary era
or a later day Christian
after a religious age
has passed you by
at a May Day march of time,
when only children
inspire your absence
from the lost crowd
by the river's edge
alone with your notebook
holding onto a birch branch
with your carved initials
waiting for your lover
or in the silence of a monastery
from a retreat by iron doors
could you expect "Ida"
to surprise you.

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B.Z. Niditch, 7 january 2015

POLISH NEW YEAR

Despairing of fathomless cold
birds wait on the fountain
for rain water over stones
by the war memorial,
two friends from the country
wrapped in leather jackets
sleep in turn after celebrations
of the new year's century's peace
one wakes with a poem
the other turns his back
and finds his lost motorcycle
by a church's stained window.

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B.Z. Niditch, 7 january 2015

POLISH WINTER

(in memory Stanislaw Baraczak
died December 27, 2014)

Old walls of Warsaw
joined in your silence
shadows disappear
over voiceless hours
in the blood of snows
writing a diary
to friends back home
staring from fallen words
of ink from my desk
at my proof-read letter
wanting to be dispersed
from our own reflections
of my film and poetry
twentieth century reviews
now translated.

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Renato N. Mascardo, 6 january 2015

life of quiet desperation

                                   gone by in time

               like a thieving nutmeg that spoils and spreads
                 the eldering crawls unentreatably in spurts
          the buon fresco of the past up in the ceiling of my mind
                    its plaster having brittled and flaked
                has let loose the painted fractals of what i was
                         down a swart and endless void

                 the tense pluriperfect no longer holds for me
                      even the simple past begins to go
     i hear the soundless brittle brattle of fragments of what had been
                    falling slowly and fast away

                          leaving the remnant of my self
                alone in the stark wilderness of my mind//

                                         renato
                               friday 02 january 2015

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Satish Verma, 5 january 2015

BURNS OF HATRED

You put up a price on all
the gifted items.
I was not ready to pay back in dreams.
Wanted to tell you
without telling.
Lips to lips we talk of a stillborn
space which does not crack.
Betraying the anger, words feel sick.

I was trying to decipher the moist
corners of eyes.
I will wait till sunset, when
I will call for the night and take off
my shadows and dropp petals
one by one and come out
in hot sun to receive the
burns of hatred.

It was not easy. Tulips were in full bloom
and my tracks were warm.
There were false shades
all around the garden.

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Gert Strydom, 4 january 2015

I tower almost to the clouds

I tower almost to the clouds
on the lookout to see you,
to be aware of your arrival

and at night I hang out bright lanterns
while I scout into the distance

are looking if I can see your star jumping
or somewhere can find a sign of your arrival
over the plains that lay far into the distance

and when you are far off at the horizon
then my heart is already flowering,

then great joy is present in the cathedral
of my eyes,
then the hall of welcome
is prepared for the banquet of our love

and as if I have consumed
too many bottles of champagne
you are already foaming in my veins
long before you are with me.

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Satish Verma, 4 january 2015

GENOCIDE

King of sex,
the third gender
or hermaphrodite,
half male, half female,
existing on margin,
beheads the creator
to propitiate the deity of destruction,
starts a genocide
to create a new model,
new world, sexless, moonless
sunless.

How could you remain normal
when you were being robbed of every myth,
every truth?
And you were walking under the guilty sky
unmindful of the pouncing, long legged tarentulas
to bite off your elements?
All of your tongue?
And the heat will give up the slaughtered spring
dried up in eternal shade?
Within the memory will lie the pain
of million years?

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Satish Verma, 3 january 2015

SHAME AND FEAR

Between the yellow moon
and black stones
pours the river of mourning
in maze of silent night.

At the top of the world –
blue eyes were buried live,
under the incense of palaces.
They stood, unmoved in the corridors of metal tracks.

Mowed down with concrete,
lights had gone from the windows.
Unlit walls returned the legends.
Dictators deferred the hanging -

Of truth. Decided to live in glass house
for sometime. Lilies were growing between the graves.
A green dagger was splitting open the wounds
of mirrors in shame and fear.

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Becky, 2 january 2015

Shadow Soulmate

Shall death follow thee
For it tis he
Who awaits amongst the mist
In the blackened abyss
For me to follow
His path of destruction
And undying love

I answer
His calling
With the voice
Of my soul
And follow him
Into the lake
Of fire
And world
Of darkness
Not caring
If it is my soul
He has stolen
For I can
No longer refuse
Or fight
Thy own
Destiny
For
I am the maiden
Who belongs to the beast

number of comments: 1 | rating: 4 | detail

10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

Quelvénic Grove

"IDA," A POLISH FILM

POLISH NEW YEAR

POLISH WINTER

life of quiet desperation

BURNS OF HATRED

I tower almost to the clouds

GENOCIDE

SHAME AND FEAR

Shadow Soulmate

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