Category Archives: poems

the blue is drifting | 3 poems from Kinga Fabó

I’m not a city


Kinga Fabó

I’m not a city: I have neither light, nor
window display. I look good.
I feel good. You didn’t
invite me though. How
did I get here?

You’d do anything for me; right?
Let’s do it! An attack.
A simple toy-
wife? I dress, dress, dress
myself.

The dressing remains.
I operate, because I’m operated.
All I can do is operate.
(I don’t mean anything to anyone.)
What is missing then?

Yet both are men separately.
Ongoing magic. Broad topsy-turviness.
Slow, merciless.
A new one is coming: almost perfect.
I swallow it.

I swallow him too.
He is too precious to
waste himself such ways.
I’d choose him: if he knew,
that I’d choose him.

But he doesn’t. My dearest is lunatic.
In vain he is full: He is useless
without the Moon, he can’t change,
he won’t change,
the way the steel bullets spin: drifting,

the blue is drifting.
He tolerates violence on himself, I was afraid
he’d pull himself together and
asks for violence.
I watched myself

born anew with indifference:
(if I melt him!)
stubborn, dense, yowls. They worked on him well.
Right now he is in transition.
He is a lake: looking for its shore.

 

“I’m not a city: I have neither light, nor
window display. I look good.”


Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics



False Thread


Kinga Fabó

Seasons jam up.
Drill through the spring.
Winter, summer start attacking.

The flood makes a run.
Surging again and again
stalls and then throngs ahead.

Under the sea, the land is shaking.
(The unhoped front comes with such commotion.
While the other is dragging a heatwave.)

The shipwrecks of the lips: pilling of syllables.
Slurs and stutters.
Breaks and floods the words with anger.

It hits. Or gets hit by a syllable
culminating above on it.
Gives no time to get resentful.

There is its double if it bales out.
None holds a grudge against none.
It hits. Or let others beat it.

The client is the same man.
Hiding in my shadow.
Matters not what I say or do.

There is no love: Spring’s been postponed.
It might be hiding in my shadow.
Snip. I’ll cut you up, you false thread.

(An iceberg broke of fin Greenland.
The woods are on fire around Moscow.
The air is poisonous above Moscow.)

 


Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics



 Old Bitch of a Summer


Kinga Fabó

(For her Sake:) furioso

Her revenge is a long wrench. Her
blood-drenched sword will not deter
her drummed up horde to pester me.
A stabbing tour: a feast to see!

She flaunts her lust to hurl me blind,
wanting to carry me beyond.
The old bitch pants away. Behind
the panting horde, with her up front.

She out-pants it. As she does me.
Plays pathetic spells ne’er to be.
The banner proudly swells on
preparing a vengeful affront,

for what? For her earsplitting squall?
No one for her lust to clutch?
Abundant is her bitter gall.
Bitches hate bitches this much.

The watch prods a conceited cusp.
If only for fair play – just once!
Hysterically howls the wind.
In her throat the dust.

The watch for revenge is tough.
It breaks up the goal-event; bluff!
The match is called off.

She hurls down. Enraged beast!
Matter is thin, swig is short.
Thirst for revenge is her gloat.

Her revenge has more to see.
She has had it to a tee.
Breaks down and lets it be.

Sharpening her caustic sting,
its poison spills on my skin.
Sap for revenge flows,

penetrates deeply, as summer into fall.
Illicitly lodges where no one should stall.

Hangs on my neck: not for her path.
Her tongue daggers itself to death.

Drags it in circles. Lassoes me
’round. – Drums up her clan.

Ticking away, the old bitch is.
Catch me she will, where’er I am.


Translated by Katarina Peters, finishing touches by Kinga Fabó



Kinga Fabó

Hungarian poet Kinga Fabó‘s latest book, a bilingual Indonesian-English poetry collection titled Racun/Poison was published in 2015 in Jakarta, Indonesia.

Fabó’s poetry has been published in various international literary journals and poetry magazines including Osiris, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Screech Owl, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear, Numéro Cinq, Deep Water Literary Journal, Fixpoetry, lyrikline.org and elsewhere, as well as in anthologies like The Significant Anthology, Women in War, The Colours of Refuge, Poetry Against Racism, World Poetry Yearbook 2015, and others.

Two of her poems have been translated into English by George Szirtes and are forthcoming in Modern Poetry in Translation Spring Issue with an introduction by Szirtes.

Some of her individual poems have been translated into 17 languages altogether: Albanian, Arab, Bulgarian, English, Esperanto, French, Galego, German, Greek, Indonesian, Italian, Persian, Romanian, Serbian, Slovenian, Spanish, Tamil.

One of her poems (The Ears) has, among others, six different Indonesian translations by six different authors.

Earlier in her career Fabó was also a linguist dealing with theoretical issues, like logics or the philosophy of language, and an essayist, too, interested in issues from the periphery, from the verge. She has also written an essay on Sylvia Plath.

In everything she’s done, Fabó has always been between the verges, on the verge, in the extreme.

She lives in Budapest, Hungary.

Read more of Kinga Fabó’s poetry on Meta/Phor(e)/Play and in the April issue of The BeZine, Celebrating International Poetry Month

Poems ©2017 Kinga Fabó, digital art ©2017 Michael Dickel.


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falling innocently | Toni García Arias

The Last Summer


Toni García Arias

from the book Fallen Angels

I went for you, but you were nowhere
They told me that you
would not come back
till the following summer.
But I was fragile with arguments
and I did not understand my clumsiness and the cycle of things.
Every day I came back to your house
like a hopeful carrousel
that repeats its craziness.
It always awaited the same answer.
Fifteen years have passed since then
My memories of you
are chilling.



 

You


Toni García Arias

from the book Fallen Angels

You came like the rain
with wet hair and your eyes
tangled in dreams.
On your wet face,
there was a lock of curled hair
falling innocently.
Those little imperceptible details
that you do not provoke
thrill the world. And that is the beauty.
The cadence of your walking
stopped for a moment
the rhythm of the things
and there was nothing happening
in my eyes
that it was not you.
In this brief space
where your eyes and my eyes met
we recovered the story of love
that we couldn’t in other time.
Then you walked towards me
and wrapped me with your arms in a hug
Since then without your lips
I get frozen.



 

Working Days


Toni García Arias

from the book Fallen Angels

Portraits of blurred cartoons
that try a shapeless smile
of a new day. Picked Bodies
along the corridors of incomplete lights
incomplete shadows, half lives,
sleepy eyes. There is a yawn
that enlarges the scenery.
I melt my life in this place
eight hours a day.
How many ways are there
of earning death?



 

Toni García Arias is a a Spanish writer. He publishes articles in the newspapers La Opinión de Murcia, Periodista Digital and Viceversa Magazine of New York. He has five books of poems in Spanish: Distancias, Sobre la Arena, Todos los Puertos, Diccionario de Derrotas, and Ángeles Caídos. His poems have been translated into Italian, Portuguese and English. In English, he has two books of poems: Dictionary of Defeats and Fallen Angels.

In 2010 he received the first Culture Prize of Concello de Cabanas, in Coruña. In 2016 he was a finalist of the award “Gabriel García Marquez“ of Ojos Verdes Editions.

Visit Toni García Arias’ website to read more of his work.  He is on Twitter and he is on Facebook.


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unpublished poems 2016 | Donatella D’Angelo

Per quella luce sospesa
tra le ciglia degli angeli
morirei infinite volte

e infinite volte tornerei
corona di spine.

For that light suspended
between angels’ eyelashes
I would die a thousand times

and a thousand times
come back crown of thorns.

*

Nel cavo della mano la verità
e le sofferenze colte appena
nell’indulgenza dei silenzi
di abiti dismessi:

Donatella D’Angelo

eppure

risorgeranno verticali i draghi.

In the hollow of the hand, the truth
and sufferings just picked
in the indulgence of silences
of clothing put off:

and yet

rise again vertically the dragons.

*

Spiegami il profumo del basilico
il passo invisibile della tigre.

Nell’antro salvifico della vita
separo la notte e i suoni scordati
il muto cadere dei corpi celesti.

Perché fa tanto freddo qui?

Explain to me the scent of basil
the unseen step of the tiger.

In the salvific den of life
I separate night and clashing sounds
the mute fall of celestial bodies.

Why is it so cold here?


Donatella D’Angelo (Milan, Italy 1966) has been working in the visual arts since the 1980’s. A curator of cultural events, she teaches photography in high school and university courses. She is one of the artists selected for the anthology about self-portrait in photography by Giorgio Bonomi Il corpo solitario, Rubbettino Editore (2017). Her photos have been exhibited in Europe and in the US and have appeared in various online and print publications. She received the first-place prize at the national contest LABirintiFOTOgrafia 2015. As a writer, some of her short stories and poems have been published in anthologies, magazines and various blogs. In 2016 she published her first poetry and photography book, Memento vivere, edizioni del Foglio Clandestino.

Poems © 2016 Donatella D’Angelo; English translations by Dennis Formento with the poet.

These poems also appear in the April issue of The BeZine, Celebrating interNational Poetry Month. The BeZine also publisher Three Poems (Italian and English) in 2015 and Michael Dickel’s poems accompany her photography in White Angel Feathers, also in The BeZine in 2015. You can see her photography on her website.


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Barricades and Beds | Aditi Angiras

Abandon


Aditi Angiras

1.
try to abandon everything everyday
barricades and beds
bar stools and bridges
break out of things
that are more prison
than places
2.
try to abandon everything everyday
promises and/in politics
pornographic power drinks
rip into pieces
things more disgusting
than dollar bills
3.
try to abandon everything everyday
mothers and memories
murder(o)us in black streets
pull bullets instead
in your own chest
your own skins
4.
try to abandon everything everyday
toxic shock tampons
trip trigger tessellate
chemicals crazy
crying over bodies
of born deads
5.
try to abandon everything everyday
religions like reading
red lights and rolling paper
turn on pages
with your fingers
and fuck poems
like rock stars
and then
abandon them
like everybody abandons
everything every time anyways


Geography


Aditi Angiras

Aditi Angiras

I always got
good grades
in geography
lessons, drawing
topographic maps
I would read
contour lines
study them well
but wonder
why do we need
to read them
when will I ever
need this
in real life
Years later,
lying here
next to you,
reading
contour lines,
neck to navel
I realise


Planchette


Aditi Angiras

it’s no coincidence
that a planchette
is shaped like a
heart or a shield
when you play
with my love
like it’s your Ouija board
where yes or no
hello or goodbye
sound like sounds
haunting all
the four chambers


Aditi Angiras is a poet and activist based in Delhi, India. Her writing deals with politics, desire, modern love and all things queer and feminist. Her poems have appeared in various anthologies and journals, including Dilli—An Anthology of Women Poets of Delhi, Muse India and Glitterwolf Magazine. She recently edited a collection of spoken word poetry by women from Asia for Big Bridge.

She is also the founder of Bring Back The Poets, a spoken word poetry initiative that deals with politics, sexuality and activism through poetry in public spaces. Her work here is informed by art activism with a focus on art education, community development and cultural exchange. She believes that art cuts across boundaries and disciplines, and so should ways of experiencing it.

This poem © 2017 Aditi Angiras. It also appears in the April 2017 issue of The BeZine, along with many other fine poems and poets from all over the world.


 

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Two Spring Poems | Jamie Dedes

January is on the Wane


Jamie Dedes

after Sor Juan Inez de la Cruz’ Rosa divina

January is on the wane leaving behind early dark
and champagne hopes for the genus Rosa.

Garden roses want pruning now, solicitous cultivation.
Layer shorter under taller, drape on trellises
and over pergolas, the promise of color and scent,
climbers retelling their stories in a ballet up stone walls,
an heirloom lace of tea roses, a voluptuous panorama
rhymed with shrubs and rockroses in poetic repetition.
Feminine pulchritude: their majesties in royal reds
or sometimes subdued in pink or purple gentility,
a cadmium-yellow civil sensibility, their haute couture.

Is it the thorny rose we love or the way it mirrors us
in our own beauty and barbarism, our flow into decrepitude?
They remind of our mortality with blooms, ebbs, and bows
to destiny. A noble life, by fate transformed in season.
Divinely fulsome, that genus Rosa, sun-lighted, reflexed.

And January? January is ever on the wane.

©2017 Jamie Dedes



One Lifetime After Another


Jamie Dedes

one day, you’ll see, i’ll come back to hobnob
with ravens, to fly with the crows at the moment
of apple blossoms and the scent of magnolia ~
look for me winging among the white geese
in their practical formation, migrating to be here,
to keep house for you by the river…

i’ll be home in time for the bees in their slow heavy
search for nectar, when the grass unfurls, nib tipped ~
you’ll sense me as soft and fresh as a rose,
as gentle as a breeze of butterfly wings . . .

i’ll return to honor daisies in the depths of innocence,
i’ll be the raindrops rising dew-like on your brow ~
you’ll see me sliding happy down a comely jacaranda,
as feral as the wind circling the crape myrtle, you’ll
find me waiting, a small gray dove in the dovecot,
loving you, one lifetime after another.

©2017 Jamie Dedes



 

Jamie—FullSizeRender.jpg


Jamie Dedes: Freelance: poetry, short stories and feature articles. Blogger: “Poetry champion” at The Poet by Day featuring underrepresented voices, poetry initiatives for peace, sustainability and social justice and poetry news, events and publication opportunities. Debut coming: Coffee, Tea and Poetry, which you can bookmark now. Founded: The Bardo Group (virtual) in 2011, founding/managing editor of The BeZine and, in 2012, began an annual September virtual event, The BeZine 100,000 Poets for Change. Former writing gigs include associate editor to the California Job Journal and newspaper columnist, On the Job Front, for six years.


The BeZine April 15th, 2017, Issue will be dedicated to (Inter)National Poetry Month—I am a Contributing Editor and serve as the lead editor for this issue. Please check it out! —Michael


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words refuse to unfix themselves | poems

silver lines the bottom of the fish pond.


gary lundy

where two men gather their equated absences into palpable congruence. exquisite bare shoulder camera eyed.

whatever to say when a truth bars entrance. a stomach muscle eye. solitary entitlements. rules expanse of introspect thought.

affair of deciduous longing. the want to corrupt what remains out of control. to glide easily into familiar narrative.

where you once stood. i seek conclusion. not particularly of the absent love. but the more which equates freedom with left lost.



you absorb his words. lie among hidden articles.


gary lundy

substitute want for desire. enormous spring sunlight. tulips slow blooming.

he wanders alone with his dream of happiness. a fiction to be sure. but enough of one to provide glimmer hope.

a young invisible child. say three. plays among dandelions. a field not far from home. what does life account for after all. a brush stroke here. there. a few words follow. memorable or not.

in a dream you envision a growing misstep. your body swelled. cold damp tears. woman plays guitar. sings into probable future. i would follow were i able. yet words refuse to unfix themselves from each heavy laden page.

right now this only works. if they don’t line up. two lips the child repeats. unoriginal although for the first time. new. to no one in particular.



introducing an unexpected narrative.


gary lundy

so that when i read it’s you who springs from the page.

yet the i remains remote and inaccessible. no matter how hard he tries. buds near their blooming moment. movement even though it snowed yesterday.

you tell me you follow a thread throughout my writing which is definitely my life. wherever we find ourselves. nor even when in japan. and in love with a precious man. his left wrist is in a cast. fingers thus protrude.

you recognize that he will in all likelihood die first. wrapped as you are in coat and pajama bottoms. why might you not be able to look at me that way. a synthesis of denial.

people sound out their displaced need to tell a truth. like left over love.

wipe your lips clean. it burns when the steam rushes onto the floor. light blisters the retinal display. remove all possible enormity.

try as he might he never quite recovers.

i hear my mothers voice as i speak with you. a singular morning with coffee. a heartfelt pain close enough to attach paper clips.

when he would begin with gentle skin touch. i would roll my minds body full of grace.

a lost seagull lands in a bowl and bathes. outside. while a dog watches perplexed.



As I wrote the last time I published some of his poems heregary lundy and I have known each other for decades, which is almost forever. We met at a philosophy and poetry conference in Canada and have been inseparable since, mostly online. Through those decades, we have continued to converse  poetically and philosophically through the personal.

His first book, When Voices Detach Themselves (Is a Rose Press), delves deep into personal space and comes out with cultural revelations. His most recent book, Heartbreak Elopes into a Kind of Forgiving (Is a Rose Press), dives even further, if possible, into the heart of matters, uncovering the space for forgiveness and a desire for continued connection—even from deep within introspection. We feel the power of pausing in order to understand how the outer world shapes us, especially through the ideas of relation/ship and loss.

gary headshotThe three poems that appeared last time played on memory, nostalgia, and longing—the delusions of what we take as granted and the cracks and splatter of a glass of wine shattering on the ground of that false sense of knowing. Here, in the three poems above, we have some of the same mood, but accompanied by a sense of narrative connecting loss to longing. In the last of these poems, the voice of the poem addresses another: “you tell me you follow a thread throughout my writing which is definitely my life.” The other person, a friend in a cafe, perhaps, has been talking about the speaker’s writing—and we also sense this thread in the three poems, a sense of his life. The sense is fragmentary, which fits the poet’s view, as expressed in the second poem: “what does life account for after all. a brush stroke here. there. a few words follow. memorable or not.”

The brush strokes of these three poems provide a sketch, suggestive and powerful in its expression. And these strokes, memorable as they are, give us, as readers, a view of the human condition. It is not “joyful,” but it has room for the “fiction” of “happiness” and, in the end, room for the brush strokes of connection that appear throughout gary’s poetry. It is, in the end, the most human of connections—not romanticized, but, as reflected succinctly in the first line of the first poem above, a connection “…where two men gather their equated absences into palpable congruence.” (The specificity of that poem requires “two men,” but gary’s poetry taken as a whole implicitly says “two people” with full gender inclusiveness.)


Shop Indie Bookstores
gary lundy’s poetry books can be found at Independent book sellers through Indiebound.


Photo of gary lundy from his book Heartbreak Elopes into a Kind of Forgiving @2016
Digital artwork ©2017 Michael Dickel

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that other night when


Michael Dickel

dark crunches down
behind some planet
waiting to jump water
puddles seize land masses
swallow rivers flatten
mountains freeze lava
until we surrender willingly
to its subversive seduction
embrace folds contours
planes of existence
dimensions of imagination
suppressed memories
and skip over
an impossible sea
to an unknown continent
over remote tributaries and
beyond shadow peaks
until we burn with cold

that other night when
Digital art
©2017 Michael Dickel

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