Tag Archives: (Inter)National Poetry Month

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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Teaching that (in)famous “Poetry”


Michael Dickel

(apologies to Marianne Moore)

Her (dis)like of poetry showed through
her pure contempt while reading it. She thought
high interpretation of the unintelligible half poets
elevated an autopsy to a false revery for birth, and
that all the academics criticize what they understand
would be detrimental to their careers. She wanted
a genuine toad, not a prince, an imaginary secret
garden, no flowers, a raw poem eaten, savored,
complete with a belch after gulping beer.

Abstract amphibious poetry
Digital art from photos
©2017 Michael Dickel

My students hate the image of an autopsy,
don’t like to consider births except in the abstract,
think if someone says “poetry,” then, poetry.
What use definitions, declinations, nuance
or inflections? Metaphors just hide the truth,
what matters comes out straight and clear.
Who cares about red wheelbarrows,
blackbirds, or pigeons, for that matter?

And certainly, they argue, we don’t dislike
all that we don’t understand.


Poetry Month begins, meaning we have arrived at

…the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain. (T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland)

To begin the month-long poetry celebration here, I decided to post this poem, both about teaching poetry and about one of the most famous poems “about” poetry, Marianne Moore‘s poem, “Poetry.” Follow the links above to learn more about Marianne Moore, to read what others say about her poem, or to read poems I have alluded to here. During the upcoming (Inter)National Poetry Month, I will post more of my poems, poetry written by others, some reviews, and whatever else poetry-related comes along. I will also be lead for The BeZine‘s (Inter)National Poetry Month issue, coming out April 15. I’m a contributing editor, so I will be both editor and contributor.

What do you think of poetry? Do you (dis)like it? Can you live without it? What was your experience with poetry as a student? Did it help or hinder your appreciation of poetry? Do you read poetry? Write poetry? Leave a comment… (Yes, I know the image has a frog in it, not a toad.)


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The BeZine April 2016 — Celebrating Poetry Month

A tidal wave of poetry, perhaps.

Michael Dickel, Contributing Editor to The BeZine

While Eliot declares the cruelty of April, April also happens to be National Poetry Month in the United States and Canada. In our online, social media world, it has become an international celebration of poetry as well. To join in this celebration, we in the Bardo Group Beguines dedicate the April issue each year to poetry. Many of us who write regularly for The BeZine are poets, and we usually include poetry. So, for us, it is a happy celebration—nothing cruel about it!

And what a wide-ranging celebration we offer in the 2016 National Poetry Month The BeZine issue!


Continue reading—>The BeZine
Celebrating Poetry Month!
April 2016, II:7


Almonds — digital art showing flowering almonds, from photographs, ©2009 Michael Dickel, artist and poet. Image accompanies The BeZine April 2016 issue celebrating Poetry Month, a post on Fragments of Michael Dickel


Poetry Month 2016 | Fragments of Michael Dickel

Water Poems (a poem)
Flowstone Time (a poem)
SNR—Hybrid Word Dance
Veiled Lady (a poem)
My Brand Here (Hybrid Flash)
Rosy Morn | Poem | Essay | Photographs
Blue Notes (collage | poem)
The BeZine April 2016 — Celebrating Poetry Month
Circumstances

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