“Perhaps this is the authenticity that distinguishes me, going as far as possible from the comfort zone, trying to be ironic, because the highest form of brutality is irony. “~ Piergiorgio Viti

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

Piergiorgio Viti lives in Italy, where he is a middle school teacher. His poems are translated into Spanish (Jorge Aulicino and Antonio Nazzaro for Centro Culturale Tina Modotti in Caracas), Greek (Stavros Girgenis) and Romanian (Geo Vasile and George Nina Elian). In 2011 he published the first poetic collection, “Accorgimenti”, while in 2015, for Italic publishing house, “Se le cose stanno così” was released.  He also wrote for the theater : “The fable of Virginio and Virgilio”, with famous singer Tosca as protagonist and “Ray’s dreams” (dedicated to Ray Charles) with an important actor as Carlo Di Maio. He went on stage in the theater as author and acting voice for “The voice of man”, a tribute to the songwriter Sergio Endrigo. He also translated “The Preludes” by Alphonse de Lamartine with a reading by Ugo Pagliai and Paola Gassmann for “Armonie della Sera” festival. In 2016 he was part, together with other poets and writers, of the photographic-editorial project “Memory Card” (Hacca Edizioni), created by the photographer Rita Vitali Rosati. In 2019, for Pequod publishing house, he published “Aperto per inventario”, the third poetic book, which is also presented at the Salone del Libro (Turin Book Fair), with the cover by Ilario Fioravanti.  In 2020, he was the only Italian to participate in the international project “Infusions poétiques” by the artist Cécile A. Holdban, with 173 other poets from around the world.  Viti’s texts are also present and reviewed in blogs, literary sites and magazines (La Lettura, Atelier, Poesia, Zeusi, Segn, Poetarum Silva, Italian Poetry Center, Rai news etc.). He collaborates with  Poesia and Atelier magazines and he is the creator of Versus, a festival of poetic comparisons held in Recanati, which was attended by poets of national and international fame. Viti’s fourth poetic book is about to be published. In this Interview with Eleftheria Thanoglu, which was originally published by Grafeion Poiisis and Culturebook.gr, Piergiorgio shares his views on poetry and art.

1) Suppose you are face to face with yourself when you were a child and you have to introduce it to others. What would you say? Has something changed since then? 

P : This is Piergiorgio, the child who loves poetry, comics, Sampdoria football team and parmigiana di melanzane (a typical Italian dish). He speaks little and is afraid of the washing machine’s spin. 

No, not much has changed since then. Maybe I have fewer passions and more fears… 

2) How do you listen your poetic voice when you read some verses of yours? 

P : It is difficult to read your own texts. When you look for the right diction, the correct pronunciation of the words, the emotion, the experience that led you to write, seem to vanish. Conversely, when you let yourself go to the memory, you are always afraid of mumbling the words as if you had a chewing gum in your mouth. 

3) Which poet has influenced you the most? 

P : Many poets have influenced me and very different from each other. I mention three: Amelia Rosselli, who opened the doors to the poetry of the twentieth century, Raffello Baldini, dialect poet, probably the one closest to my chords, and Raymond Carver, because it made me understand how, even in poetry, a narrative dimension is possible, a dimension that Italian poets often lack. 

4) Poetry is unfair to the poet because it cannot nourish him. How do you face life, professionally speaking? 

P : Well, I did several jobs: tour guide, waiter, museum guide, promoter in shopping centers. Then, after university, I became a professor of Italian, history and geo at middle school and this is currently my job for 15 years. I wouldn’t mind living only with poetry, but after all, without school, without real life, perhaps my poetry would sound empty, false. The constraint of having to get up early and being, in some way, productive, reminds me of the beauty and gratuitousness of art. 

5) How do the stories you write about visit you? 

P : Normally I write early in the morning. Writing is my breakfast. The morning is the ideal time for reckoning with my past, with my present, with who I am, with whom I have been, with whom I have disappointed, with whom I have loved, etc. 

6) Where does your art differ from other poets’ art? 

P : Alessandro Ceni, who is a great Italian poet I admire, spoke of authenticity about my texts. I think it’s the right word. I don’t like frills, crochet, lace, but I go by sword, by foil. Poetry is a punch in the stomach, not a caress, I tell myself while I’m writing, trying to avoid rhetoric. 

Perhaps this is the authenticity that distinguishes me, going as far as possible from the comfort zone, trying to be ironic, because the highest form of brutality is irony. 

7) The fields of poetry and literature become often objects of dispute. How do you experience it? 

P : I don’t care. I set myself the goal of collaborating with those I respect and with those who respect me, the rest does not concern me. 

8)  Poetry is characterized of duration and a long route. How have you planned your own poetic route? 

P : The only things I plan are bill payments, where I have to be quite precise. I don’t plan anything. “Nothing is sure, but write” Franco Fortini wrote in a beautiful text. The same goes for me. 

9) In the future, where do you think you would find the portrait that you have been making? 

P : I will find this portrait translated in some specialized poetry magazine in Cambodia or South Africa, because also in Cambodia and South Africa I will be known as the poet who cheers for Sampdoria and loves parmigiana di melanzane. 

10) How do you define the poem that is durable in time? 

P : The poetry that lasts over time is the poetry that, after reading it, makes you look at the world in a different way, with different eyes. It is poetry that changes your perception of reality and sometimes turns it upside down. 

*********************************************************************

Original Credits :

Selection of poets for interviews by Sotirios Pastakas, a prominent Greek ; Preparation of Interview Script by Eleftheria Thanoglu, poet and journalist; and publication by Anthonis D. Skiathas, editor of the column for Grafeion Poiisis and Culturebook.gr

SOTIRIOS PASTAKAS – BIOGRAPHY 

Sotirios Pastakas was born in 1954 in Larissa, wherever he returned in 2013. He studied medicine in Rome and Psychiatry at Athens (Mental State Psychiatric Clinic). For thirty years he worked as a Psychiatrist in Athens. He published seventeen collections of poetry, a theatrical monologue, a book of essays and translations of Italian poets. In 2001 he co-founded the World Poetry Academy in the city of Verona, and in September of the same year received a scholarship from Hawthornden Castle, International Retreat for writers, near Edinburgh.  

He read poems in various International Poetic Festival (Sarajevo 2006 and 2011, San Francisco 2007, Rome 2010, Izmir 2012, Cairo 2013, Istanbul 2014, etc.) is a member of the Greek Writers Society from 1994 and has set up various print and electronic journals. Beyond editor but is a radio producer and teacher experiential writing. He has been translated into fifteen languages and the “Trilogy” book (ed. Presence, 2012) was released in the US in 2015, entitled “Food Line”, translated by Jack Hirschman and Angelos Sakis. His first book of short stories “Dr Ψ and his patients,” released in 2015 by publishing Ink. In December 2015 he was awarded the Annibale Ruccello Award for Poetry in the Third Festival of Teatro Stabia.  

On February 5, 2016 was declared the winner in the competition Ritratti di Poesia.140 (poesia tweet), the Fondazione Roma. In the spring of 2016 released a personal anthology of poems (1986-2016) in Italian “corpo a corpo” from Multimedia publications “Casa della Poesia”, that win the NordSud International Prize for Poetry/Pescarabbruzzo foundation in 2016. Others books publishing in Italy: Jorge, i Quaderni del Bardo Edizioni (2018), Monte Egaleo (art book), designer Marco Vecchio, Multimedia (2019). 

ELEFTERIA THANOGLU – BIOGRAPHY 

Eleftheria Thanoglou lives in Thessaloniki. Shehas published two poetic books. Poems of her have been included in Greek and international anthologies. She has written theatrical monologues for musical performances. Her poems have been translated in four languages. 

ANTHONIS D. SKIATAS – BIOGRAPHY 

Antonis D. Skiathas was born in Athens in 1960 and nowadays he lives in Patra. He studied Chemical Engineering with postgraduate studies in Art Restoration. He is a poet, anthologist of poems and literary critic. Antonis Skiathas has published 12 poetic books. Poems of him have been included in Greek and international anthologies, and have been translated into 15 languages. His articles and essays on poetry and history have been published in journals and newspapers. He is a member of the Greek Society of Writers and the Poets’ Circle. He was co–director of the literary journal Ελί–τροχος during the ’90s. He founded and is the administrator of the cultural action “Grafeíon Poiíseos”, Poetry Awards “Jean Moreas”, https://www.culturebook.gr/  and he is president of Greek Library of London. 

In 2020 he was selected depart med of culture in the European Union EUNIC, in order to represent Greece as a poet in the UK. He teaches poetry in the postgraduate program “Creative Writing” ( University of Western Macedonia – Aristotle University of Thessaloniki), he also teached poetry in the postgraduate program “Creative Writing” ( University of Western Macedonia – Open University of Greece). 

Poems by Gili Haimovich (Israel) ~ Poet, Translator and Visual Artist ~ Hebrew/ English

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

Gili Haimovich is a prizewinning bilingual poet and translator in Hebrew and English. She won the international Italian poetry competition Ossi di Seppia for best foreign poet (2019) and awarded as an outstanding artist by the Ministry of Culture, (Israel, 2015) among other prizes. Both of her last books in Hebrew Landing Lights, (2017) and Baby Girl, (2014) won grants from The Acum Association of Authors and her second book Reflected Like Joy, (2002) won The Pais Grant for Culture. She is the author of three poetry books in English: Promised Lands (2020), Sideways Roots (2017), and Living on a Blank Page (2008), six volumes of poetry in Hebrew and a multilingual book, Note (2019). 

Her poems are translated into 30 languages including full length books in French and Serbian. Her poetry is featured in anthologies, festivals and journals worldwide such as World Literature Today, Poetry International, International Poetry Review, LRC – The Literary Review of Canada, Asymptote, Tok – Writing the New Toronto, New Voices – Contemporary Writers Confronting the Holocaust and 101 Jewish Poems for the Third Millennium as well as in major journals and anthologies in Israel such as The Most Beautiful Poems in Hebrew – A Hundred Years of Israeli Poetry and A Naked Queen – An Anthology of Israeli Social Protest Poetry. Gili also a visual artist, writing focuses arts therapist and a teacher  of creative writing in Israel and abroad.  

*********************************************************************

רַק חוּט הַקַּו עַל הַנְּיָר מַחְזִיק אוֹתִי 

אִם אֶשְׁמֹט אֶת הָעֵט אֶפֹּל אֶל מָה שֶׁכָּתוּב עָלָיו 

כִּמְעַט כְּמוֹ גִּבּוֹר בְּסֶרֶט פְּעֻלָּה 

הַנִּתְלֶה בְּיָדָיו הַחֲסוֹנוֹת עַל צוּק גָּבוֹהַּ מֵעַל תְּהוֹם. 

אֲנִי אֲבָל לֹא שְׁרִירִית. 

 מַתְחִילָה לְהַחְלִיק. 

****

Only the thread of the line holds me on the page. 

If I drop the pen I’ll fall on what’s written here. 

Almost like an action movie hero, 

who hangs with his mighty hands on a cliff over an abyss. 

I, though, am not brawny. 

Starting to slide 

(Translated into English by Dara Barnat and the author )

************************************************************

קווים (או: ערב שירה עברית-יידית-צרפתית) 

גַּם כְּשֶׁאַתְּ כְּבָר זוֹכָה לִשְׁמֹעַ נֵבֶל 

זֶה מֵהַצַּד הַמְּסֹרָג, 

כָּכָה לָמַדְתְּ לֶאֱהֹב, 

אֲפִלּוּ אֶת הַצֶּבַע הַיָּרֹק, 

דֶּרֶךְ עַמּוּדֵי הַגְּשָׁרִים עַל נְהַר הַסֵּין. 

לִהְיוֹת כָּכָה, פְּשׁוּטָה 

גַּם בִּזְרוֹעוֹת, 

מַחְבֶּרֶת 

שׁוּרָה אַחַת 

****

Lines (or: Hebrew-Yiddish-French Poetry Reading) 

Even when you get to listen to a harp 

it’s on the grated side. 

This is how you learned to love 

even the color green, 

through the bridges’ columns on the Seine River. 

To be simply stretched like that, 

arms too, bridged from one side to the other, 

like one line 

in a notebook, 

although a ruled one. 

***************************************************************

חומוס ושמפניה 

אָהַבְתִּי כְּמִי שֶׁנֶחְנֶקֶת.  

נֶאֱהַבְתִּי כְּמוֹ הָיְתָה לִי זְכוּת. 

נִשֵּׂאנוּ בְּשָׂפָה שֶׁאֵינָהּ שֶׁלָּנוּ, 

בְּחָצֵר אֲחוֹרִית שֶׁשָּׁאַלְנוּ 

מֵאֲנָשִׁים שֶׁלֹּא בֶּאֱמֶת הִכַּרְנוּ. 

הָיוּ לָנוּ אוֹרְחִים שֶׁהִגִּיעוּ  

רַק מִתּוֹךְ הַסַּקְרָנוּת. וְעִם זֹאת,  

שִׁכְנַעְנוּ עַצְמֵנוּ שֶׁזֹּאת מִשְׁאַלְתֵּנוּ. 

אֶת שְׁאָר הַשִּׁכְנוּעִים הִשְׁאַרְנוּ לַחוּמוּס וְלַשַּׁמְפַּנְיָה.  

מָתְקָה אַהֲבָתְךָ אֵלַי, 

כְּמוֹ זוֹ שֶׁל דְּבַשׁ לְדֻבְשָׁנִית, 

אַךְ טַעֲמָהּ הָיָה כְּשֶׁל חוּמוּס מַתְסִיס. 

תָּרָה אַחֲרֵי מָתוֹק, 

הוֹתַרְתִּי לָנוּ  

לְהִסָּחֵף לְיֶרַח דְּבַשׁ סְפּוֹנְטָנִי. 

אָז כְּבָר מוּכָנָה הָיִיתִי לְהִסְתַּפֵּק 

רַק בִּדְבַשׁ 

גַּם אִם לֹא לְאוֹר יָרֵחַ. 

לַמְרוֹת הַפְּשָׁרָה,  

הַחֻפְשָׁה לֹא שָׂרְדָה, 

יוֹתֵר מִיְּמָמָה.  

נִדְרַשְׁתִּי לְיוֹתֵר מֵעִדָּן כְּדֵי לָדַעַת, 

יֶרַח הַדְּבַשׁ מְזֻיָּף הָיָה. 

כְּשֶׁלַּיְלָה קַר עָלָה 

טַעַמְךָ הִבְשִׁיל כְּמוֹ מַמְתָּק מָלוּחַ. 

וּכְשֶׁשָּׁנִים רַבּוּ, 

נִסִּיתִי טַעַמְךָ לַחְקֹק בִּי, 

טַעַם שֶׁל חוּמוּס וְשַׁמְפַּנְיָה. 

****

Champagne and Hummus 

I’ve loved like I’m strangled 

and been loved like I’m entitled. 

We got married in a language that is not our own 

in a backyard on loan 

from people we’re unfamiliar with. 

We had guests that came only 

out of curiosity. And yet, 

we convinced ourselves 

that this is what we want. 

We left the rest of the convincing 

to the champagne and hummus. 

Though you did love me, 

as the honey 

loves his honey bun, 

it tasted more like sparkling hummus. 

Seeking sweet, 

I did allow us 

to cast away 

to a spontaneous honeymoon. 

By then I was willing to reach 

just the honey without the moon. 

But even so, it lasted less than a day. 

It took me more than era 

to realize the honeymoon was fake. 

As night grew cold 

you tasted like a savory desert. 

As I grow old 

I will try to recall 

the taste of you, 

of champagne and hummus. 

********************************************************************

מבעד לעינינו המאוגרפות   

“הַחַיִּים שֶׁלָּנוּ פֹּה הֵם אַשְׁלָיָה”, 

אוֹמֵר הַחַלּוֹן בַּחֲדַר הַשֵּׁנָה, עֵינוֹ פְּקוּחָה תָּמִיד. 

מְסָרֶבֶת לְהֵעָצֵם, 

אֲנַחְנוּ יְשֵׁנִים בְּתוֹכָהּ. 

מִבַּעַד לְעֵינֵינוּ הַמְּאֻגְרָפוֹת 

אוֹר הַשֶּׁמֶשׁ מְסַמֵּא. 

פַּעַם הָיִיתִי הַזֹּהַר שֶׁלְּךָ, 

וַאֲנִי דּוֹהָה עַכְשָׁו  

בַּחֲדַר הַשֵּׁנָה שֶׁלָּנוּ 

(שֶׁהוּא בְּעֶצֶם לֹא שֶׁלָּנוּ. 

גַּם לֹא הַשֵּׁנָה). 

****

Through Our Clenched Eyes 

“Our life here is an illusion,” 

says the bedroom window, its eye always open, 

refusing to shut, 

so we sleep inside it. 

Through our clenched eyes 

the sunlight is glaring. 

Once I was your glowing light; 

now I’m dimmed  

in our bedroom 

(that’s not really ours. 

Nor is the sleep.) 

**************************************************************

כל המאוֹרות 

אֲנִי נִטְעֶנֶת מֵאֶנֶרְגְּיָה סוֹלָרִית 

אֲבָל עַכְשָׁו יֵשׁ לִי אוֹתְךָ וְאֶת הַיַּלְדָּה. 

אֲנִי מֻכְרָחָה לִמְשֹׁךְ אֶת כֻּלְּכֶם 

הַחוּצָה, עַל גַּבִּי 

רַק כְּדֵי שֶׁאוּכַל לְהִטָּעֵן. 

וְהַיַּלְדָּה הִיא שֶׁמֶשׁ קְטַנָּה, 

אֲנִי שֶׁמֶשׁ מְעַט יוֹתֵר גְּדוֹלָה, 

וְאַתָּה הַיָּרֵחַ. 

אֵלּוּ כָּל הַמְּאוֹרוֹת. 

אֵין מִלְּבַדָּם אֶלָּא חֲשֵׁכָה? 

אֲנִי צְרִיכָה לַחֲצֹב דַּרְכִּי הַחוּצָה, 

מִבַּעַד לְמַחְשַׁכֵּי הַבַּיִת, מְבוֹכֵי הַכְּבִיסָה, מַפְּלֵי הֶחָלָב וְהַבֶּכִי, 

לְהִטָּעֵן מֵאֶנֶרְגְּיָה סוֹלָרִית 

שֶׁתַּחְדֹּר אוֹתִי, 

תַּעֲבֹר לַיַּלְדָּה 

אוּלָם לֹא תַּחְרֹךְ אוֹתְךָ. 

אֵלּוּ כָּל הַמְּאוֹרוֹת, 

אֵין מִלְּבַדֵּנוּ אֶלָּא חֲשֵׁכָה

****

What Lights Up the Sky 

I am solar powered, 

but now I have you and our baby girl. 

I have to pull you all 

outside, on my back, 

just to be charged. 

And our baby girl, she is a small sun, 

I am a slightly larger sun, 

and you are the moon. 

These alone light up the sky. 

None other than them but darkness? 

I need to carve my way outside, 

through the dark corners of the house, 

labyrinths of laundry, 

waterfalls of milk and tears, 

to be charged by solar power 

that will go through me, 

to our baby girl, 

but not scorch you. 

These alone light up the sky, 

none other than us but darkness. 

****

The poems are written and translated by Gili Haimovich other than: Untitled (“Only the thread…”), Through Our Clenched Eyes, “What Lights Up the Sky that are translated by Dara Barnat with the author.  

Advaitam Speaks Literary | Contemporary Turkish Poetry and Visual Arts | Vol. 4 – Issue 2

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

This Special Collaborative Issue of Advaitam Speaks Literary features some of the most prominent voices of Contemporary Turkish Poetry and Visual Arts.

Advaitam Speaks Literary has carved a niche in world literature in a short span of time with its high literary value, illustrious contributors, uncompromising quality and visually aesthetic appeal . With deep roots in the Indian subcontinent’s core aesthetic values, the journal welcomes the world to India. Please read this wonderful collaborative issue of ASL Journal featuring Contemporary Turkish Poetry and Visual Arts to explore how India reads the world.

Hope you have a great time reading this issue of ASL journal !

Thank You,

Debasish Parashar

Editor-in-chief,

Advaitam Speaks Literary journal.

Poems by Shakhawat Tipu (Bangladesh) ~ Poet, Editor and Translator ~ Bengali/ English

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

Shakhawat Tipu, born in 1971, lives in Dhaka. He is a distinguished bilingual poet, editor, translator and critical thinker from Bangladesh. The prominent figure of the new Bengali poetic language movement, Tipu established himself as the leading poet in his generation. His poems translated in Spanish, Italian, Greek, Serbian, Slovenian, and English. He published seven poetry books and an art critics book. Recently he published a Bengali poetry book ‘Razar Kangkal’ [The skeleton of prince (2020)] and a bilingual poetry book ‘Absence of Eye’ (2019). As an editor, Tipu edited Jatiya Shahittya (2008), a magazine of linguistics and philosophy and Charalnama (2011), a collection of street people’s interviews with a subaltern dictionary. He is the former acting editor literary magazine in Notundhara and former editorial consultant an art magazine Depart. His poems appeared in Lugar Poema, Iris News, Exitirion, Poiesis, The Scriblerus, The Symptom, Rigorous, Rialta A.C., Poesia Inverso, Atunis, La Libelula Vaga, L’Altrove, Poesie Sull’Albero and so many Bengali magazines and anthologies.  

*********************************************************************

Around the Love  

Who you are at the point 

dances in the world? 

Same line or equal pain 

is awakening in the circles! 

Perimeter after a point 

diameter or radius 

the shadow goes away 

as far away! 

Look at that like falling in love 

at numerous dust turning around! 

Those sacrifices of love 

that is also a point equal to the mind

On the old wind  

looking at day and night 

looking at year after year 

How’s the turn and turning around?

You are gravity, I’m a dust particle 

Love is as round as the earth else! 

****************************************************

Alone Sex  

I’ve never seen a peacock’s leg 

in the rainy season, the flock has blossomed 

You didn’t understand what a pain 

every turn was made jargon!   

Alone x in the forest, alone sex!  

Before the confluence I saw a peacock 

and she is dancing alone in the rain 

with unbearable happiness! 

As though calling peacocks now! 

Feeling know, the organ dances out of touch 

and like rain are chewing sweat and   

You are lonely in the rain somewhere alone.  

**************************************************

The Soul Sleeps 

The moon is like a lightning rod 

has been awake for centuries 

waiting for your sleep. 

People never sleep! 

Sleeps only the soul 

as alone as a tomb. 

Some signs of sleep 

frozen eyes stick to 

overnight like a dream! 

Sleep is like a prehistoric habit  

and the eyes are colored of orbits! 

Poems by Geraldine Mac Burney Jones (Argentina/North Wales) ~ Poet and Lawyer ~ Spanish/ English

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , ,

Geraldine Mac Burney Jones  was born in Gaiman, Chubut, in 1984. She is a poet and a lawyer graduated from the Catholic University of Córdoba. She published Vestal de luna (2012), Cancion para un alma en vilo( 2018) and Garmon o esa vieja musica de nieve (2019). Her poems were selected for the anthologies: Patagonia Literaria VI. Poetry anthology of southern Argentina (San Juan Bosco University of Patagonia and Friedrich Schiller University, Jena, Germany) and R. S. Thomas Poetry Festival, Wales (2019). Her work has been presented in numerous literature magazines of Latin America and Wales. She resides in Llanrwst, North Wales from where she collaborates with La Ninfa Eco, an online cultural magazine. 

***********************************************************************

Stay green. 
Never mind the machine, 
Whose fuel is human souls. 
Live large, man, and dream small. 

‘Lore’, R. S. Thomas 

Believe me. 
The colour of desire is like a blood shell 
and its beat is a necklace  
where men write their days  
with mercury wings. 

Go, messenger, to the cities 
where the flocks awake weary 
and the stars chew oil smoke. 
Can you see the sky blacked out? 

But you are unable  
to look into what 
you have been lent 
and destiny 
seems a melted dream 
spouting from a looking glass. 

Come to the shadows, 
look at the flowers betraying the machines, 
laud the trees leaking leaves 
and embroider your scars with dew. 
Listen. 
Listen to God speaking silently 
while he makes us of night and dreams and terror. 

*********************************************************************

I lean far out from the bone’s bough 

knowing the hand I extend 

can save nothing of you but your love. 

‘Seventieth Birthday’, R. S. Thomas 

Home 

I think of you 

going through blue woods, 

surprised to find you 

                                         silent, 

wearing your legs out 

while the sun leans its head 

on the grey green mountains. 

Now the dusk 

is a mongrel dust 

of fact and fiction. 

It does not matter. 

By now you will be watching 

the insects, 

hovering like a freak 

under a new skin. 

Your mauve wings 

may be sailing into the night 

like bird needles. 

Do they call these things stars, 

glazed pebbles suspended from the sky 

but I prefer to think that it is you, 

the steep sunlight of the mountains, 

a steamed song breathing through the chestnuts, 

a crumbled space to rest and cease. 

Poems by Lidice Megla (Cuba / Canada) ~ Poet, Translator and Educator ~ Spanish/ English

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

Lidice Megla (1968) was born in Cuba.  Lidice is an Author, Poet, Translator and Educator who has been residing in Canada since 1999. 

She was the winner of the international poetry contest “El mundo lleva alas”, 2018 Voces de hoy Publishing House and the winner of the poetry contest, “Arte con palabras” Art Emporium, Miami, Fl. 2020. 

She appears in several anthologies and literary magazines worldwide. Among her publications are the books of poetry “Tú la bestia” “Totémica Insular” and Mujer sin paredes”. Lidice lives with her husband in Vancouver Island. 

*****************************************************

Substance 


Blowing bubbles 
walk- in- the park; 
life as it may 
browning the march 
silken pajamas 
clearly worn 
two candle sticks 
two daffodils; 
life as it may 
browning the march 
blowing some bubbles 
eat a little dark chocolate 
close your eyes after 
inspect the trees 
interview the birds 
ask for the winds 
tell them to lift you 
-respect the rituals- 
-follow the prompts- 
silken pajamas 
the bird in the tree 
two candle sticks 
my moisten rose 
the sun is a nipple 
my mouth is the rain 
two silken daffodils 
so evocative their substance 
one purple 
one white 
in the depth of desire 
the substances rise. 

******************************************************************

“I am not cruel, only truthful. The eye of a little god.” ~ From Mirror, by Sylvia Plath

Mirage in the Mirror *

(To Sylvia Plath)


And now You, 
Hulled-Face/  
Lance/ 
Epitaph: 
Bring forth the truth. 
Now we know 
no little man lives in the exacting moon.  
Non -Judgmental: 
Come! ,  
Narrate!  
Reveal the onslaught side  
in the Lake.  
Name the Comet.  
Hoist the flock of bottle battleships 
carrying the grey rats. 
The shining gulls adrift Ariel, 
the clouds above Ulises’ island. 
Name the knife’s cut 
The image of Time 
The below of Age 
The sound of Truth 
The breath of God 
The euphoria in Pain. 
Ambivalent Elephant.  
Dancing Essence,  
House of Signals, 
come forth to the bright, 
impending departure. 

**********************************************************

Down at the Seawall 


I took my feet for a walk today 
the seagulls were cracking oysters against the rocks 
My feet liked it. 

I took my eyes for a walk today, 
the seals were surrounding the tugboat 
they had salmon blood in their mouths. 
My eyes understood but did not like it. 

I took my ears for a walk today, 
they heard whispers of the air, 
like an explosion, 
like rising rain just before the lightning comes. 
My ears understood this language and smiled.  

I took my mouth for a walk today, 
It wanted to take a bite off the rose hip bush 
the crows laughed at me.  

I took my fingers for a walk today, 
They got tired of typing on a cold white page. 

I took myself for a walk today 
and the self said, 
“ let’s not do what the screen says” 
“ there’s a screen telling what to do.  
Who pleasure is, when is, and why…” 


The seawall felt sad and ashamed  

for the people with thinking screens,  

and three crows cried.  
The seals rinsed the blood off. 

My soul took me for a walk today.  
Like a bow of light across the ether we went… 

Poems by Jana Orlová (Prague, Czech Republic) ~ Poet, Editor and Performance Artist ~ Czech/ English

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Jana Orlová (1986) is a poet and performance artist. She published “Čichat oheň” („Sniff the Fire“) with her own illustrations at Pavel Mervart publisher in 2012 and “Újedě” her second book of poetry at Větrné Mlýny publisher at 2017. Her works appeared in “Nejlepší české básně” (Best Czech Poems) at HOST publisher. Her poems were translated into Romanian, Ukrainian, Belarusian, Polish, Hungarian, English and Arabic. She gained the “Objev roku” (Breakthrough Act ) Award at Next Wave Festival for “crossing the boundaries of literature, fine art and theatre naturally and with ease”. She is earning her Phd. degree at The Academy of Fine Arts in Prague under the guidance of PhDr. Pavlína Morganová, Phd. She is the chief editor of art and culture column of Polipet.cz.

Performance for her is living poetry and also an of invocation of a particular principle or archetype. Her poetic work is characterized by a combination of minimalistic form and raw statement.

Her work is to be seen at  www.janaorlova.cz .

*** 

Zvolila jsem si Vás  
jako se tahá los 
v nevětraném bytě 
Vyvléknu se od Vás 

Odpověď mrdá se 
jako se polykají hvězdy 
Toužím znova všechno 
co jsem předtím odmítla 

Vy se díváte, představuju si 

*** 

I have chosen you 

like one draws lots 

in an unaired apartment 

I’ll slip away from you 

The answer fucks itself 

like stars swallowing themselves 

Once again I desire everything 

I previously refused 

You are looking, I am imagining 

*** 

Mistři samoty 
drží se za ruku 
na opačné 
straně kavárny 

*** 

Masters of solitude 

are holding hands 

on the opposite 

side of the café 

*** 

V křehkosti Fausta 
zvoní zlosti, zvoní kosti 
Fauste, otoč se 
Ponoř se 
Jsi jizva v mojí hlavě 

*** 

In the fragility of Faust 

sins ring, bones ring 

Faust, turn around 

Sink 

You are a scar in my head 

*** 

Nasedneš na smrt 
je horká a létá 
sám si strhneš kůži 
cejchu vstříc 

*** 

You sit down on death 

it’s hot and aloft 

you’ll tear your own skin off 

to meet a branding 

*** 

Všechno je dočasné, 
jistě i to, že jsi jmenovatelem 
všech mých myšlenek 
V sentimentu je cosi 
dětinského, a přece 
je lepší být kacíř než svatý 

*** 

Everything is temporary, 

certainly even that you are the denominator 

of all my thoughts 

In sentiment there is something 

childish, and still 

it’s better to be a heretic than a saint 

A Poem by Nafia Akdeniz (Nicosia, Cyprus) ~ Poet, Researcher and a Senior Instructor of English at the Eastern Mediterranean University ~ Turkish / English

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

Nafia Akdeniz was born in Nicosia, Cyprus. She studied English Literature and Humanities at the Eastern Mediterranean University.  Her poems, translations and articles have been published in various literary and academic journals. She published her first collection of poetry ‘Yok/Absence’ in 2013 (second edition, 2016). Her poems have been translated into English, Greek, German and Persian. 

She has been working as a senior instructor of English at the Eastern Mediterranean University since 2000. She is now a PhD candidate in the Faculty of Communication and Media Studies doing an ethnographic study of narrative communication on place, displacement and place attachment. Among her research interests are literary communication, contemporary ethnographies, creative writing.  

delivering the dead 

once more she opens her caesarean wound 

with her father’s penknife he boned meat to eat.  

she sits naked on grandmother’s sofa 

eyes closed she touches her cut 

with wise and feminine fingers  

from belly she divides life apart. 

delivering the dead stinks moldy mouth 

rotten water she vomits into her palms  

she dries with her hair standing up  

holding her split belly she wakes up. 

once more she stitches her caesarean wound 

with her mother’s thimble on her middle finger.  

Poems by Katja Gorečan (Slovenia) ~ Poet ~ Slovenian / English

Tags

, , , , , , , ,


Photography Credit : Lea Remic Valenti and Robi Valenti

Katja Gorečan was born in 1989 in Celje, Slovenia.  

She received a Bachelor degree in Comparative Literature and Literary Theory at the University of Ljubljana, and finished her Masters studies in Dramaturgy at the Academy for Theatre, Direction, Film and Television, also in Ljubljana. Gorečan took part in a creative writing course, specializing in dramatics. This resulted in the realisation of her one-act drama “Seven girl’s questions”. In 2012 her second poetry collection “The Sorrows of Young Hana”, which was nominated for Jenko Award, the highest poetry award in Slovenia and was selected into the Biennale of Young Artists from Mediterranean Europe. She is not only artistically, but also socially engaged. She worked with patients suffering from dementia in a nursing home, and lead creative workshops with female refugees and their children, as well as has worked with youth with ID.  

 In 2017, her third book  In some night some girls somewhere are dying was published by the Poetikon House of Poetry. 

Longnight Dreaming in the Forest / Dolganoč v gozdu sanja 

grandma always cries at family celebrations 

grandma cries 

are those memories / somebody says 

are those dreams / says somebody else / 

grandma cries and says / 

it was terrible / me and mother were left alone / me and your great grandma longnight / 

my brother was killed in the forest for slaughtering livestock / 

the dwarf’s company / my father was dragged over the ground 

to the cart and taken away / it was terrible / 

grandma says / nobody dared approach our house / 

my father was imprisoned in the old jail / beaten / interrogated / 

longnight would go look at him in the field / 

like a madman / 

a non-human / 

like trash / 

grandma cries so very deeply / 

many years have passed / 

and now that she’s losing her memory / all she remembers is loss 

Choir: longnight dreaming in the forest 

a long night of a dead death behind your neck 

in a long night I’m pursuing a black shadow that won’t let me sleep 

in nightmares I walk the hospital looking for empty bodies 

bodies of people that had not been buried 

Choir: the forests are weeping / say the spirits / 

the forests are weeping 

and grandma hugs me 

as we’re picking lavender in front of her house 

I’m wandering the forests 

where they had been lost 

nothing left on the map 

the black shadow bigger and bigger 

I ran / 

breathless 

so that I’d catch her / 

angrily 

so that I’d kill her / 

fuming 

so that I’d slaughter her / 

in madness 

choke her / 

calmly 

and that’s when it starts to rain in the forest 

the rain is falling softly, extremely softly 

there was nothing left there 

I fell asleep peacefully 

by the fallen tree 

GRANDMA IS STILL CRYING 

Choir:LONGNIGHT DREAMING IN THE FOREST 

A BLACK SHADOW BEHIND YOUR NECK 

LIKE WOMEN WHO RUN WITH THE SPIRITS 

LONGNIGHT SEES HIM WATCHING 

Somebody’s eyes peeking through the world 

THROUGH THE WINDOW OF THE PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL 

AND THEN HE VANISHES 

(From a published cycle of choreo-poems One Night Some Girls Somewhere Are Dying )

************************************************************************

The Birth of a Stillborn  

on that night she gave birth to a stillborn girl in her dreams 

like all her mothers before her 

she was in labour with the stillborn for a while 

on her bed in her bedroom 

there was nobody beside her 

she was in labour and she was wordless 

she didn’t yell 

she didn’t scream 

she was totally silent 

when she’d released the child from her body 

the child 

that wasn’t breathing 

wasn’t screaming, 

wasn’t moving 

she covered it with a white sheet 

so that nobody may see 

her stillborn child 

that’s when her bed began to bleed 

and in an instant she found herself in a white hospital 

she’s lying facing away from us 

the man approaches her to touch her 

IN THIS MOMENT WE MUST REALIZE 

she doesn’t feel anything anymore 

SHE DOESN’T FEEL ANYTHING / SHE FEELS NOTHING 

empty 

she lies on the bed 

calm 

for a few minutes 

rocking 

for a few hours 

in weightlessness 

for a few days 

nothing’s left anywhere 

for a few months 

where is the life that I’d given birth to 

for a few years 

for a part of her life 

she covered her dead baby 

so that nobody may see 

she covered her dead 

daughter with a white sheet 

so that nobody may see 

collapses with all her weight 

her heart bleed 

(From a published cycle of choreo-poems One Night Some Girls Somewhere Are Dying )

Poems by LUDWIG SAAVEDRA (Lima, Perú) ~ Poet and Editor ~ Spanish / English

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

LUDWIG SAAVEDRA studied Literature in National University of San Marcos. He has published poetry collections such as: ‘Bloom’ (2009) and ‘The Vinil Sea’ (2015), both under the Parachute Publishing imprint. Includes poetry anthologies such as ‘The Reefs’, cardboard edition in charge of Amaru Cartonera; ‘Sick of Sounds’ and ‘Standing up the Explosion’ in 2017 and 2018 respectively. He has participated in different poetry festivals and Book Festivals in Peru, Ecuador, Chile, Bolivia and the north of Argentina. He is a Reciter of street poetry, Literature Teacher, Book Seller, and Editor of ‘Huachumera Publishing imprint’ and the ‘Obayareti’ Latin Poetry Magazine. He is currently working on two new books and is waiting for The Mind Revolution and “burn everything down”. 

PRIMER POEMA 

Si tu dolor ha crecido como árbol frondoso 

(sin el prestigio de los álamos en las noches de luna llena)  

Si el sonido que me tiendes no es cuerda para mi charango y no me salva 

A pesar que te he otorgado los colores del amor 

embadurnada de limo fino   

Desnuda nube o rosal  

Si las palabras resuenan   encallan lejos en playas perdidas 

Y la muerte es esa ola que las dispersa 

borrando sus huellas 

 Nos desvanecemos con harta fe  

alas de cormorán  

sin temor al que dirán 

Sin dolernos de tu gloria Malaquita mía  

Sin creernos ya lo que tus ojos bailaron en la oscuridad aterciopelada  

dos cometas  

dos zarpazos de primavera 

Mientras un poema desvirga la estación veraniega 

sincopadamente 

Saborea este blues secreto 

hará nítido el dolor 

Pero si el vacío es  

todo lo que lleva el río de sonidos a cuestas  

Las palabras se suicidan prendiéndose fuego  

Las notas se suicidan tan puras como son 

Con solo aguantar la respiración. 

FIRST POEM 

If your pain has flourished as a lush tree 

(without the standing of the aspens on moonlight nights) 

If sound that you give me is not string for my charango and doesn’t save me 

Although I’ve gifted you the colors of love 

Daubed in exquisite clay 

Naked cloud or rosebush 

If words resonate, running aground far on lost beaches 

And Death is that wave that disperses them 

Erasing their traces 

We will fade with abroad faith 

Cormorant wings 

Without fear of the sayings 

Without paining on your glory Malaquite of mine 

Without believing anymore in your eyes dancing on velvety darkness 

Two comets 

Two spring maulings 

While a poem deflowers the summery time 

Syncopatedly 

Savor this secret blues 

Makes clear the pain 

But if the void is 

All what the river of sounds takes in tow 

The words kill themselves igniting/burning on fire 

The notes kill themselves as pure as they are 

By only holding their breath. 

 Note: The word Charango is the name of a Small string Andean  instrument, similar to a guitar. 

****Translation for Celeste María Fe Izaguirre 

SEGUNDO POEMA  

Quiero escribir un poema que tenga el sabor imperecedero de la soledad  

Porque sé de soledad y se de ritmo 

Y sé también como consumir un detalle hasta hacerlo brillante como una estrella 

Y entonces solo entonces suspirar corteza de árbol uña de gato   labrado y silente 

Acomedido de ángeles de aluminio  

Esas balas que esquivas entre las ruinas  

Sabemos que he jugado a la paleta de Eguren  

Que he embadurnado hasta el final de miel todo el oído del monstruo  

Que tu ni nadie se atrevía  a ponerle cascabel al gato ni nombre tan siquiera  

Pero si le llamaban como Vallejo gato gato 

Acaso entre nosotros solo queda el rencor y la sonrisa de hojarasca  

Para otros incendios que dancen  

Para que otras altas columnas de humo sostengan templos 

Pleno de la voracidad de la estrellas  

Y calido como los bandoneones y sierpe como los girasoles ocultos  

En la mano de Blake y la pluma inserta en la iluminación de Basho 

Bosones y miradas furtivas  

La cabeza que explotará como coche bomba 

Ante el edificio de la solemne poesía de oro y pan de oro y tostada de oro  

Y todas esas orillas donde de rodillas horas de horas acarician sin pudor la carne del río 

Y el tiempo que alarga su sombra y saborea mi poema 

Me apura 

Porque la muerte sabe también sabe tan bien    

Tocar su solo de batería 

Su invocación a todos nuestros pulsos 

Tengo una estrella en el pecho  

Tengo una estrella de sílex y corta en pedazos la fibra de la noche  

Y sangra la noche con tus ojos y sangran mis ojos con tu noche 

Y tu roche es breve pero intenso  

Podrías morir de roche  

Si te preguntaran por las aves que anidan en tus manos  

En tus cálidas manos hermano Verastegui por tus palabras que son como manos que  

Prenden puchos y agarran hembras en la árida meseta que es Lima  

Cuando todos se van a soñar 

O morir la orquesta que sube la cuesta  

Esa orquesta de obsidiana de sílex decolorado y altísono y perpetuo el bajo y grave y señero el oboe y aquí no hay oboes solo quenas y zampoñas y zapateos 

Harto zapateo y chispas entonces 

Chispas para que sueñes y sigas soñando y riendo y trabajando tus poemas 

Como quien perdona al tiempo todo lo imperdonable que esta vida nos ha hecho  

Amontonando nuestros recuerdos junto con los muertos y las flores y todas las luciérnagas del vino éter.  

SECOND POEM 

I want to write a poem that has an enduring flavor of loneliness 

Because I know about loneliness and rhythm 

And I too know about consume a detail till make it shine like a star 

And then, just then sigh tree bark Cat’s claw tilled and silent 

Indulgence of aluminum angels 

Those bullets that you dodge in between the ruins 

We know I’ve played with Eguren’s palette 

That I’ve daubed until the end with honey the entire monster ear 

Not you nor anyone has dared set a rattle on the cat nor a name even 

But if they called like Vallejo kitty kitty 

Perhaps between us us only left bitterness and litterfall smile 

So other fires dance 

So other high smoke columns support temples 

Full of voracity of the stars 

And warm as bandoneon players and rod as hidden sunflowers 

In Blake’s hand and the feather inputs in Basho’s Enlightenment 

Bosons and furtive glances 

The head that explodes like a car-bomb 

In presence of the building the solemn golden poetry and golden bread and golden toast 

And all those shores where kneeled hours of hours shamelessly caresses the flesh of the river 

And the time that prolongs its shadow and savors my poem 

Rushes me 

Cause Death tastes too, tastes so good 

Play its drum solo 

Its summoning of all our heartbeats 

I have a star in my chest 

I have flint star and slices in shards the filament of the night 

And bleeds the night with your eyes and bleed my eyes with your night 

And your embarrassment is brief but intense 

You could die of embarrassment 

If you were asked for the birds that nested on your hards 

On your warm hands brother Verastegui for your words that are likes hands that 

lights cigs and grab lasses in the arid plateau that Lima is 

When everybody goes to dream 

Or die the orchesta that climbs the slope 

That orchesta made of obsidian of flint colorless and high-flown and perpetual bass and heavy 

and the outstanding oboe 

And here aren’t oboes just quenas and zampoñas and zapateos 

Lots of zapateos and sparks then 

Sparks for you to dream and keep dreaming and laughing and working on your poems 

Just like who forgives Time all those unforgivable things Life has done to us 

Stocking our memory among the dead and the flowers and the fireflies of ether wine. 

NOTES: 

Quenas: Wind Andean instrument, Traditional Andean Flute made of wood. 

Zampoñas: Also known as panpipes. Wind instrument composed from bamboo stems with    a variety of lengths tied up together. 

Zapateos:  Stomps, typically made on traditional Andean dances and rituals. 

****Translation for : Celeste Maria Fe Izaguirre