Tag Archives: poetry

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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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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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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Wet Egret | Poem


Michael Dickel

Head hunkered down into shoulders,
an egret scurries across a muddy road—
desire for a different wilderness.

Wet and Cold
digital art from photo
©2017 Michael Dickel

Digital art posted on Instagram, FaceBook, and Twitter (via Instagram).


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Hiding Under Desks — Two Poems

Mike Stone and I regularly share our work with each other on social media. Often it seems, one of us will write a poem and the other will pull up a poem with a connection. As though we grew up in the same time period, similar context, with similar life events. Which I suspect is true. With pleasure, I share these two—Mike posted his recently, and I pulled mine out of my archives.


Hiding Under My Desk

Mike Stone
Raanana, September 20, 2016

I remember back in fifty-six
When we were kids in school
Being taught to hide underneath my desk
During civil defense drills
To protect us from nuclear attack
Although I wondered why they’d attack a school
But our teacher told us we had a depot in town
And that kind of made sense
Although I didn’t know what a depot was
But I had my desk and I was good at hiding
So I was all set.
We didn’t know we were preparing for Death
But what did we know of Death then
Til I saw a documentary on television
About a small mushroom cloud far away
And a few minutes later there was a huge wind
That blew down houses and the skin off people.
I heard about the Rapture from our housekeeper
Which sounded like a nuclear attack.
My uncle moved to Australia that year
Probably thought it was another planet
Safe from A-bombs
It’s a wonder I survived.


Carousel

Michael Dickel
from the series, Touching the Dead

i
When he was four years old
his brothers told him
about bomb drills
Climb under the desk and Kiss Your Ass goodbye
He nearly wet his pants.

At five years old
he rode his first carousel
Terrified
of falling off the wood steed he hung on
for dear life
with no place to hide.

By his sixth birthday
schools discontinued bomb drills—
not because
the big A would not drop.

No. Because the desk
would melt away
leaving
no place to run.

ii
Now
he walks down a hospital corridor
turned art gallery.
Paintings on the wall
reveal

frozen rabbits
stopped tigers
captive flowers
farm and snow scenes
lined up.

Gathered at one end,
distorted and angry
carousel horses throw
their heads up
on white rag
paper.

iii
The last horse shrieks,
pulls reins
from unsteady hands—
desperately gallops from its stall
away
from the merry-go-round

away
from the orange fire glow
away
from the quiet moments
away
from so much death and illness

that come right after—


 

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Sunday brunch Tuesday | Kinga Fabó

Kinga Fabó presented in three languages—her own Hungarian, English, and Galego. Enjoy.

Kinga Fabó

Dracula Orchid


Kinga-Dracula-1-WEB
We didn’t choose each other.
We were locked together.
Watching his ugly face.

He looks back: I see myself.
Who is in which end of the cable
who is it that places me at his will?

This isn’t a game between the two of us,
this tug of war.
Someone’s pulling my strings from above:

once he pulls me, next he leaves me.
Smells the blood. Nosing around me.
The heat of the body. Steaming.

Can’t take it anymore. This distillate is too raw for me.
The beast wins out of beauty.
The scale goes off balance.

Two derelict puppets. Deteriorated.
Event in the greenhouse: behold.
The heart’s been stubbed.

(Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics)

 

A Drakula-orchidea


Mi nem választottuk egymást.
Bennünket összezártak.
Bámulom a rusnya képét.

Visszanéz: látom magam.
Ki van a drót melyik végén,
s ki az, aki oda-vissza rak?

Ez nem csupán kettőnk között játszma,
ez a meghúz-elereszt.
Valaki föntről is rángat:

hol meghúz, hol elereszt.
Vért szimatol. Szaglászik utánam.
Tüzel a test. Gőzölög.

Nem bírom már. Nyers nekem a párlat.
Szépségből győz a szörnyeteg.
Megbillen a súly.

Két gazdátlan báb. Elfajul.
Esemény az üvegházban: ím.
S átdöfve a szív.



Kinga-Lovers-1

Kinga Fabó

Lovers


You are free, said the stranger.
Before I arrived there.
Costume. I had a costume on though.
I was curious: what his reaction might be?

He closed his other eyes.
I’ll send an ego instead of you.
Getting softer, I feel it, he feels it too. Hardly moves. He chokes himself inside me.
Now I must live with another dead man.

It’s not even hopeless.
Not vicious.
Serves the absence.
Delivers the unnecessary.

(Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics)

 

Szeretők


Szabad vagy, mondta idegen.
Még mielőtt odaértem.
Jelmez. Jelmez volt pedig rajtam.
Kíváncsi voltam: erre mit tesz?

Behunyta a másik szemét.
Egy ént küldött maga helyett.
Puhul, már érzem, ő is. Alig mocorog. Belém fojtja magát.
Egy újabb halottal kell élnem.

Még csak nem is reménytelen.
Nem rosszindulatú.
Szolgálja a hiányt.
Szállítja a fölösleget.


 

Amantes


És livre, dixo o desconhecido.
Antes de eu chegar ali.
Disfarce. No entanto eu levava posto um disfarce.
Tinha curiosidade: qual poderia ser a sua reaçom?

Fechou os seus outros olhos.
Enviarei um ego em vez de ti.
Ao amolecermos, vou-no sentindo, tamém el o sente. Quase nom se move. El afoga dentro de mim.
Agora hei de viver com mais um cadáver.

É algo que nem sequer chega a ser desesperado.
Nem vicioso.
Serve a ausência.
Entrega o desnecessário.

(Translated into Galego by Suso Moinhos)


Kinga-wind-1-WEB

Kinga Fabó

Blow Wind, Blow


You sit me down. Make my bed. For me. For you.
For her. The way she swings around. Sways. Bows.
Let’s say: I’ll tell you. Let’s say: You’ll listen.

My dearest!
You congregant!
How should I use you?
I’m sitting right here and murmur.
I am sweet, you are sweet.

It was beautiful. Congregated. Used.
I should have done something to him.
There were many other
things. Things? Many?
It was winter, Hard. Un-
breakable.
There was a woman. A man. Insignificant.

(Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics)

Szél fúj. Fújdogál


Leültetsz. Megágyazol. Nekem. Neked.
Neki. Ahogy átlendül. Hajlik. Hajlong.
Mondjuk: elmondom. Mondjuk: meghallgatod.

Gyönyörűm!
Te tömörítő!
Hogyan használjalak?
Itt ülök és duruzsolok.
Édes vagyok, édes vagy.

Gyönyörű volt. Tömör. Használt.
Valamit csinálnom kellett volna vele.
És még volt sok
minden. Minden?
Tél volt. Kemény. Fel-
töretlen.
Nő volt. Férfi. Kis-semmilyen.



Kinga Fabó’s bio (below) ends with this: “In everything she’s done, Fabó has always been between the verges, on the verge, and in the extreme.” I begin with it, in discussing her work. She and I have been published in at least one anthology together (The Significant Anthology). However, we mostly know each other through the virtual world of Facebook. Our friendship began with a discussion of one of her poems, where I commented about just that sense of the poem, of being between, liminal. As I recall, the sea and its waves splashed through the poem.

The poems she’s shared here on my blog provide that same sense, of being on the verge of connecting and understanding that connections really do not connect us. The sense of the orchid as a lover, of a lover as a strangled ego, and the emptiness of a winter love affair all also convey something more—of our inability to understand the world, of our constantly standing on the edge, between what we feel and what we can articulate, what we sense and what is—on the verge.

I find her poems haunting, the themes philosophical (perhaps epistemological, or is that my projection?), the words spare but beautiful. It is a pleasure to (try) to read them here in Hungarian, one in Galego (Galician), a language I only vaguely had heard of before. The pleasure of the sounds, the pleasure of the poems, the pleasure of sensing the thinking and feeling person behind the poems—these all spark in me a desire to respond, to write, and, paradoxically, to listen quietly on the verge…


Fabó-TwitterKinga Fabó is a Hungarian poet (linguist, essayist). Her latest book, a bilingual Indonesian-English poetry collection RACUN/POISON was published in 2015 in Jakarta, Indonesia.

Fabó’s poetry has been published in various international lit mags including Osiris, Taos Journal of International Poetry (Mexico), Basho International Haiku Forum (India), Sastra Digital (Indonesia), MeArteka (Albania), ATUNIS (Albania), Eastern World (Uzbekistan), Knot Magazine, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Screech Owl, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear, Numéro Cinq as well as in anthologies like Beletra Almanako, The Significant Anthology, Resonance, Women in War, The Colours of Refuge, Poetry in Action, Poetry Against Racism, World Poetry Yearbook 2015, etc.

Some of her poems are often anthologized (e.g., Isadora Duncan Dancing). Others have been picked up at random from here and there and happened to be translated into Persian, Albanian, Tamil or Galego. One of her poems, The Ears, has among others six different Indonesian translations by six different authors.

She has also written on Sylvia Plath. In everything she’s done, Fabó has always been between the verges, on the verge, and in the extreme.


Kinga Fabó on Twitter
Kinga Fabó on FaceBook
Kinga Fabó’s Author’s Page
Download Racun / Poison for free from this Hungarian online library
The English translations of these poems originally appeared in Numéro Cinq

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coffee brews Wednesday


Michael Dickel

As he wrote Musée des Beaux Arts

Auden danced with Isherwood. He asked about a young man
who had caught their attention long ago in Berlin.
Brecht approved of their love; Gypsy Rose Lee kissed
their cheeks when she visited them on Fire Island.
Auden loved his suffering, embraced it in his bed
each night and held it close, making love with it
before he dreamt of flying toward the sun,
the smell of molten wax, the splash of water.
Just as the blue waves engulfed him
he glimpsed the amazing flashes of color—
yellow, red, orange, blue, green, purple—
of reef fish darting toward a bit of shelter,
smooth dark caves amid the sharp coral reef.

XIR3675

Pieter Brueghel, the Elder, Landscape with the Fall of Icarus
Oil-tempera, 29 inches x 44 inches. Museum of Fine Arts, Brussels.

 


W. H. Auden, 1907–1973

Musee des Beaux Arts

About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

 


William Carlos Williams, 1883–1963

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings’ wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning


 

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