@ All Rights Reserved for all Poets

Tous droits réservés à tous les poètes


Algeria

كــن حبيبــي

 

في عينيك أرى نفسي

وأغرق في دمــوعك

كم أرغب أن تكــون

بقربــــي

حقك علي

في حاجة إلى حبك

ليستقبلنــي قلبــــك

كملكـة وملك

أريـد أن تصدقنـــي

أريـــد أن ترينــــي

إذا استعد

هــــذا مــن حقـــــي

آه كـم أحب صوتـك

وضحكتـــك بصـــدق

لا أعلم

لما أنت وحدك

 

Translation to French :

SOIS MON AMOUR

 

Dans tes yeux je me vois

Dans tes larmes je me noie

Je veux tant que tu sois

Près de moi

Ton pardon je te dois

Ton amour j’ai besoin

Que ton cœur me reçoit

Comme un reine et un roi

Je veux que tu me croies

Je veux que tu me voies

Alors prépare-toi

C’est mon droit

Oh combien j’aime ta voix

Et ton rire â ma foi

Je ne saurai pourquoi

Seulement toi.

 

Warda Zerguine

 

WARDA ZERGUINE was born in GUELMA ( ALGERIA)

She is poetess, writer and journalist.

 She writes poems in Arabic, French and English.

https://atunispoetry.com/2020/06/12/be-my-love-poem-by-warda-zerguine-algeria/


Armenia

In front of the ruins of Rome

 

You are breathless in front of the ruins,

your heartbeat deafens the world,

you hesitate an instant in front of the time,

perhaps this moment is  unreal...

 

It’s beauty, it's silence,  ruins and it's life:

the sadness strangles irrevocably

camera clicks and shutters fill the air

deafening the beating of the heart.

 

Well, let me get photographed, too:

here is a smile,

may be laughter, too?...

The ruins and I-

how similar we are!...

   

 

Armenuhi  Sisyan, Armenia

 

 

 

Sisyan, Armenuhi (Arménie) est une écrivaine et poète arménienne. Ses ouvrages ont été traduits en 11 langues. Auteure de 9 livres. A participé à différents festivals internationaux et lauréate de divers prix littéraires. Elle est membre de l’Union des Écrivains d’Arménie ainsi que membre de l’Association internationale des Écrivains de Bruxelles et membre de l’Association Universelle des poètes de Kyoto.

Poet, writer from Armenia, author of 9 books, translated into 11 languages, participant of different international literary programs and festivals.

 https://www.facebook.com/armenuhi.sisyan


Bangladesh

 

Another try

 

Sometime,

I am not afraid of life

nor afraid of death.

But I think,

what will happen

after our death.

Will there someone waiting for you

Someone else will be mine

or will we become dust

or a molecule with an endless life.

How far we will travel

how many galaxies

how many stars

will you read my poems

when I will be the universal traveler.

Shall I feel this loneliness while

traveling star after star.

I want this human life back

with another try.

You will sit with me

I will sit beside.

And that will be time for our divine love

without endless cry.

 

© Tareq Samin

 

 

Tareq Samin is a Bangladeshi Poet, Writer and Editor. He is author of six books. Nature, Love and humanism are central to his work.  https://atunispoetry.com/2019/01/28/tareq-samin-bangladesh/


Cameroun

1

 

Coronavirus -

Si le monde pouvait être contaminé

Par l'amour

 

2

 

L'ado gronde sa mère -

Je range soigneusement dans la poche de mon jeans

La photo de ma mère décédée

 

3

 

Echo de la mer

Au lointain une pirogue s’en va

Encore combien s’en vont mourir ?

 

 

 

Sylvain NANAD ( CAMEROUN )

 

 Sylvain NANAD est comptable de formation. Après quelques pas dans la musique en tant que parolier, slameur et chanteur, il se lance dans l'écriture de la poésie et participe à plusieurs Anthologies de haïkus, Tankas Et poésie contemporaine. '' La fragilité des sens'' et ''NAMI'' sont ses recueils publiés

 https://www.facebook.com/nanad.artiste           https://www.facebook.com/sylvain.nanadauteur 


Canada

 

SÉRÉNADE AUX ÉTOILES

 

Les blés d'or se sont couchés pour la nuit

et les étoiles n'ont pas bronché d'un rayon

ont préféré lire ce poème tout cru

à la lueur d'une lanterne le soir venu

au bout d'un chemin que les poètes

ont emprunté un soir d'été

 

les coeurs ivres ont répandu des mots

sur la voie craquelée d'indifférence

ont poursuivi leur ode aux étoiles

qui chaque nuit en point lumineux

ont l'audace de visiter les vers

du plus bas jusqu'au plus haut

sous un ciel capricieux

 

 

© Huguette Bertrand -

 

 

Poète et éditrice canadienne, Huguette Bertrand a publié de nombreux ouvrages de poésie dont plusieurs en collaboration avec des artistes en art visuel et photographie. Ses poèmes ont paru dans diverses revues et anthologies internationales imprimées et en ligne. Certains de ses poèmes ont été traduits en plusieurs langues. 

http://www.espacepoetique.com


China

 

 

 

An Empty Glass

 

The cup full of the spring was in sight

it a part of my body

I try to drink it

But when i tried to drink it

The glass was empty

Where did the water go

In no time?

Is the existence

no more than a glass of water?

It's a mystery, it's confusion

What happened?

Yesterday, I was here at the same time

and filled the glass

Would the water not have disappeared

if I had remained here?

Was my mind trapped in the glass

Or?

 

Anna Keiko, China

 

Translation: Germain Droogenbroodt

 

 

Anna Keiko is a Chinese poet, member of the Pudong Writers Association president of the Shanghai Huifeng Literature Association. Her poetry has been published in many national and international magazines. She participated at several prestigious international poetry festivals.

https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/3E28Jj_UIJCa3UooGuN9PA


The Next station

   

 A Little Petunias

in the evening light

More serene

 

High-speed trains go through

the mountain village

Don't roar

 

To wake  up

a dream

a pale purple dream

 

          Mei Fangzi (China)

    Translated by  Bai Shui ( New Zealand) 

  

 Mei Fangzi, formerly known as Sun Yunqing, Member of Shanghai Writers Association.

 He published more than 20 books. He is an editor and president of the Gown Poetry Club.


 

The Gale  

 

 

 strong wind carried the mountains and rivers, and the hometown not move

 The gale moves the night, the stars stay still

 The wind carrying the road and it is still in the distance

 The wind carrying the temple, the faith not changed

 The strong wind carried the dynasty, people did not move

 The wind is carrying the face, love-still

 

 The wind does not need a direction, nor need to arrive

 Blow, blow in all directions, bite your teeth, like scraping

 Scrape the sky with blood and blood, and scratch the ground

 But I couldn’t straighten my bowed waist

 Not to blow me into you, blow black into white

 Those who show their original shape in the wind are exposed by themselves

 

 The wind shadowless, even more speechless

 What can be seen is not the wind, but things that show their strength by the wind

 Or the shell the soul took off

 

 The wind can't take rooted things away

  the smallest grass, wings flying in the sky

 There are also flames rooted in people's hearts, no matter which direction the wind coming from

 Even typhoons, whirlwinds, and all winds can’t put it out

 And the greater the wind, the faster the flames grow

 

Li Li (China)

 

Translated by  Bai shui (New Zealand)

 

 

Li Li, his real name is Li Yusheng, poet and critic. Member of the Chinese Writers Association, vice president of the World Poetry Art Federation,deputy director and jury of the Jin Qingteng International Poetry Competition. Editor-in-Chief of "Shenzhen Poetry" magazine.

 


 

Tether

 

During the fetal period

My mother tied me up with an umbilical cord

In the baby time

She tied me with a cloth rope

Later

She tied me with cooking smoke air

After then

with her white hair

Today, I use 10 million infusion tapes

But can't catch her, my Mum

My Niang*

(Niang, it is the name of the mother in informal way.)

 

Feng Limin (China)

 

Translated by Bai shui (New Zealand)

 

 

( this poem describes the love between Mum and Son. When the son getting older and his mum was dying in the hospital with millions droppers on her body. But they could not save her life and finally she was gone.)

 

Feng Limin is a Chinese poet was born in 1970s, his poems were published in "Stars", "Poetry Monthly", "Selected Poems", "YanHe", "Flying Sky", "Years" and other magazines, he has been published 3 books.


The Word war

 

He saw the words of the gun and dagger flying in the crowd

The vortex of the lips is choppy

In the world of words, there are many flames in the world

He was suddenly in the suspended mirror of time

Saw his stupidity

For more than 20 years, he can see honey and can't see the sword

Can see the cotton, can't see the needle

Now finally got

A pair of fire eyes, kicked the alchemy furnace

He swallowed the sugar coating and threw the bomb back

Regained the dignified rivers and mountains

Standing above the solid city

Watching with a detached attitude

They are fighting so bloody

"Small" exposed under the leather robe

Seeing them like this

Exhausted limited life in the war of meaningless words

finally, he couldn't bear it anymore and shouted—

look, guys!

Are the losers in the war of words the real losers?

Are the winners in the war of words the real winners?

Then, he smiled like a Kaye holding the flowers

 

Tian Yun (China)

 

Translated by  Bai shui (New Zealand)

 

This poem describes all the human words  standing for some meanings. when the man turned into a mature age he found  that it is helpless and useless to use the words for  arguments.   Its really waste our life. So we should be a person as Buda expected which is  "Open the blind eyes , hear nothing,  get  argument stopped! " 

He saw only fighting in the world of words,  using  those weapons: knife, sword , gun….

20 years later, he got into middle age and he realised that he didn’t totally understand the world as he only accepted the words with good sound before.

Now he knows how to make  the good choice by listening to words from different people with different  attitude as when you stand on the mountain you can see all the things are small including the humans.

 So why do we keep arguing by using the words instead of  praising the life itself by using them ?

 

Tian Yun is a member of the Chinese Writers Association, Master of Philosophy, has won 11 Chinese national poetry awards including the National Silver Award and the National Best Poetry Award. She has authored China’s first urban epic "A long song of Shijiazhuang"


The tutor

 

Oh mentor

Our land owes a rain

So the sky heavy cloud

Whose luck written on the face

Like countless white ants crawling across the sky

Your words make me shamed

Where there are so many philosophies

Otherwise no beggars everywhere

Oh mentor

His Twitter is less thoughtful

The space full of mob

There was no news about the rain

The sound of Didi Dodi is tortured by woodpeckers

Petrified sky

He wrote the wrong password again

Oh mentor

 

 Wang Fa (China)

Translated by  Bai Shui (New Zealand)

 

 This is a criticism (intervention poem). The poem is about:

 The tutor that stands as the leader.

Basically, we rely on the sky to have a harvest season. Rain doesn't come down when we need, it's just as unrealistic as ants climbing up to the sky.

Leaders always talk too much about ideas (philosophy), but they do not solve practical problems, that’s why cause poverty for many people.

The blue sky turned into lead grey due to air pollution.,The sky is sick and  looks like an iron plate. The woodpecker is a doctor of nature. They keep beating the iron like (petrified) sky and give human a warning.

  “the password is wrong again”

But our leaders are still making  mistakes.

 

 

Wang Fa is a Chinese poet, was born on March 21, 1946 in Fuxing Village, Tangyuan. His poems and novels books were published from 1972. He is an Editor-in-chief of "Genre"and "Sun Pavilion" poetry magazine. Published a book titled "The Tiger in the Northeast".


India

 

My love is for you only

 

My love is for you only

It's as strong as stainless steel

Capacitated to bear rough weather remaining in still

It's as pious as Ganges water

Drench in it to feel the effects that you literally matter

My love is for you only

You are my life's perennial fountain

I know you feel me , wish me every now and then

You sing song of our yester years in glee

Kept you me in your cozy heart preventing to flee

My love is for you only

Ethereal is it, prohibiting others to inhale

You are the person who knows it's sap and subtle

My love is for you only

It's silhouette centres around you day long

You are it's only recipient God knows till aeons all along

My love is for you only 

Not surreal it is, zephyr  whispers it's name in profundity

Birds chirping to greet it disdaining calm and serenity

My love is for you only

I reminisce it's trickling effect that made you insane

You became a maniac fan  to allure me , instance of  love so mundane!

 

©® Dr.Alok Kumar Ray

Jajpur. 11.02.20

 

 Dr.Alok Kumar Ray teaches political science to undergraduate and postgraduate students.He is a bi- lingual poet(writes in Odia and English) who frequently writes for a number of national and international journals, periodicals and newspapers.He now resides at the district headquarters of Jajpur in Odisha state, India.


 

9831756339

 

 A mobile no, rings nowhere

but a peculiar space called mind—

faded memories of its own existence

propagating this, a contact number

like an inward perception of Beethoven’s ‘Moon Light’

ringing cycle after cycle, unceasing…

now reached a stretch, where nothing exists

but a man, alone with his music

and sitting on the benches from a park where

only an expressinistic sketch persists,

always an evening stays,                                        

forever, unfathomable, dark-blue-ash-violet

S T R E A M I N G…

hope he is there still—an unknown radio station

in the suburbs of Ballygaunge

9   Endless

  8   perpetual

   3   everlasting

1   absolute

 7   ceaseless

 5   perennial

   6   continuous

  3   unbroken

3   infinite

    9   immutable

putting aside of everything in this world

 

except only

The

E

S

S

E

N

C

E

OF

M E L O D Y.

It’s too late for an appointment.

 

 Niladri Mahajan

 

NOTE:

 

(This poem is written remembering Kishore Chatterjee, a painter, writer and renowned connoisseur of Western Classical music whom I wish to meet for longtime, but he died before we fix our appointment. 9831756339—This was his mobile number.)

 

Niladri Mahajan is an international award winning bilingual poet, author of Poetry books- "A Diffused Room" and “Aura of Light”

He is a counselling psychologist,  living in Kolkata, India. His poems are translated into French, Arabic, Bengali, Japanese, Greek, Mandarin, Soha, Uzbek, Swedish, Romanian, Russian, Spanish, Urdu, Macedonian, and Italian. He is also a PhD student in Bioinformatics of Calcutta University. He is trained in Eastern and Western Classical music, and also participated in three group painting and photography exhibitions in recent past, and he is active as a street photographer and a watercolour artist.


Mauritius


Golden Blue Mauritius

 

Soft sandy beaches bask in the sunrays
The tropical blue sky’s infinity
reflects its destined union in expands of sea

Beneath the feet rejecting
skin -colour discrimination
and cherishing overall personality as
acceptable definition of beauty,
I welcome you – travellers of all continents
to plunge into the tanning experience
amidst the  long-lasting tranquility
of  mystic   golden blue Mauritius.

Vatsala Radhakeesoon

 



 Vatsala Radhakeesoon  was  born in Mauritius in 1977. Her 9th poetry book will soon be published  and she is currently working on the 10th one. She also devotes much of her time painting and experimenting in the field of visual art


Morocco

 

 

La vie et la mort

 

Ces poussières de beaucoup de choses essentielles dans nos vies !

Pour certains, la vie a pris du retard par rapport à leur destin.

Pour cet artiste authentique, dont la vie est légère,

Comme une feuille encore jaune de citronnier,

La mort semble fantaisiste, comme un saltimbanque sérieux.

Souvent, avec très peu de mots, nous nous voyons beaucoup, ma vie et moi !

Il y a des jours où il faut se taire pour laisser parler toute seule la vie, sa vie.

Cet homme-moi ?- n’est plus ni moins aimable avec la vie/la sienne propre !

La vie n’est que l’une des très nombreuses lieutenantes, fidèles, de la mort !

Cette virgule de lumière absolue entre la vie et la mort ! 

Cette virgule de danse absolue entre la vie et la mort !

Cette virgule de bonheur absolu entre la vie et la mort !

Bonjour, mon amie la NDE !

La différence de potentiel entre la vie et la mort,

Vous étonnerait beaucoup, si elle vous était révélée.

La mort et la vie face à face, sympathisent !

L’incompatibilité absolue entre la vie et la mort, est désormais trop lasse !

La vie, on lui trouve une nécessairement une remplaçante dans l’au-delà !

Il existe un code de l’honneur entre la vie et la mort !

La vie et la mort en assemblée plénière.

La mort est debout et la vie assis, côte à côte.

Une étoile filante visible à la fois de la vie et de la mort !

Vie/mort/et tout le tralala/le sort que l’on fait à la mort, est impitoyable !

Et pourtant l’on ne sait rien, de ce qui se passe, après elle,

Ne dit-on pas ‘dans le doute, abstiens-toi ?’.

Mourir en trompant, encore et une ultime fois, la vie !

La mort ? Une simple objection à la vie.

La mort ? Tout d’abord une destination au silence fondamental.

Eh, la mort, prends ma vie, puisque cela te tente tant,

Et laisse-moi enfin en paix !

 

Abdelmajid Benjelloun

 

Abdelmajid Benjelloun, né le 17.11.1944, à Fès au Maroc, a publié plus de 250 livres, dans les domaines de la poésie,

de l’aphorisme poétique, du roman, de la nouvelle et de l’histoire.

Est peintre. Fut Président du Centre marocain de Pen International-Londres, de 2009 à fin 2013.


Nepal

Some Zen Poems

 

1.     

The mountain appears much better

Without any garb

For, as you can see well

It doesn’t have a spot

That exposes its honor.

 

2.     

I won’t even want to remember

That flowers are sleeping atop you

In the final episode of time.

 

3.     

What worth is a position of prominence

Like the salty ocean of water?

The lions always drink from freshwater ponds

Bowing the whole of their heads down.

 

4.     

A tree that fell

After enduring innumerable blows

Never knew

That the handle of the axe that felled it

Was made from one of its own branches.

 

5.     

I would rather sit on the floor

For, if I do so

I don’t ever run the risk of falling.

 

6.     

Death troubles everyone

But the rich ones make much fun of it

And say—

He died because he was poor. 

 

7.     

No one met anyone else

Before walking a few steps.

I met my own shadow as well

Only after coming out of home into sunshine.

 

8.     

No matter how old it is

A currency note is seldom disposed

Into a dustbin

 

Poet: Krishna Prasai

 

English Translation: Mahesh Paudyal

 

 

Krishna Prasai is a Nepali poet, essayist and storywriter. He chairs Jara Foundation, a literary and cultural organization of high repute in Nepali. He is also the pioneer of Zen Poetry in Nepal, and his Zen poems have been translated into several international languages including Thai, Sinhala, Bangla, Hindi, Korean, English, German etc.


New Zealand/China

 The remembrance of snow

 

A few snowflakes moved ahead towards JiangCheng*

Gently touched down on the shore, Until end of the year

They were kidnaped by the cruel cold wind

Recruited frantically the soldiers

And prepared horses to raid the city.

Everything was targeted

And no one was to escape

Now each object is covered with pale-whiteness

All faces, even doors and windows are masked

The lockdowns have locked the towns

Horror prevailed over plains and plateaus

From the Yangtze to the farthest end of the globe

Across the four oceans

From one season to another, there is a dance of death.

At the daytime snow seem soft and sporadic

But at night it is as hard as an iron block

I hear squeaking sounds of the branches and eaves being crushed

I hear some noises of avalanches at the distance.

Are they still those elegant elves?

Sobering at midnight, counting the Sheep, stars and days in silence

Peaceful holy moonlight

Shines on the white sheets and walls

with unlimited mercy and grace

People in sleepless plight struggle to pray

Long for the sooner

“The rooster crow louder at dawn… "*

(JiangCheng*: A nick name for Wuhan of China.

“The rooster crow louder at dawn… "*

This sentence was quoted from poem titled "To the Wine" by Lihe who was a poet of Tang Dynasty of China, He describes that when dawn comes, the night ends, all the truth will come out. From the beginning of Coronavirus in Wuhan, it spread to all over the world, People are eager to know the truth where it came from to avoid it happening again in the future.

Sue Zhu, New Zealand

 

 

《雪祭》

文/淑文(新西

奔赴江城*的几枚雪花

起初轻轻盈盈,岁毕

寒流虐风的加紧裹挟

开始疯狂地招兵买马,突袭人

们面面俱到,用白刷新一切色

从扇扇门窗到封城的口

从平川到高原

长江到四大

从一个季节到另一个季节

白昼的雪花,零星而柔

晚却听到它们压断枝条,屋

以及远处雪

这还是那些飘逸的雪吗

子夜清醒,沉默地数羊数星星数日子

白月光停留在白色的床单,墙面

怀有极大的慈

无眠人祈祷苦盼,那声

鸡一唱*.....”

江城:中国武汉的别称

鸡一唱引自中国唐朝时期李贺的《致酒行》,形容东方破晓,长夜宣告结束,一切真相大白。从武汉的Coronavirus 开始到传播,到它漫延至各地,世界民众最渴望知道的就是它出现的真相,以避免人类重蹈覆辙

淑文(Sue Zhu),新西兰籍华裔诗人, 绘画者, 业家。中国诗歌学会会员, 新西兰国学诗词艺术协会理事, 美中文化艺术中心荣誉理事, 多家中文诗社荣誉顾问, 编辑, 中国诗歌比赛中获多种奖项, 诗作被翻译成英, , 马其顿等语言在美国, 新加坡, 日本等国发表

 

 

 

Sue Zhu, New Zealand Chinese poet, painter, entrepreneur. She is a member of the poetry institute of China, director of NZ Poem Art Association, honorary director of the US-China Cultural Association, advisor of some Chinese poetry clubs, a multi award winner in Chinese national poetry competitions.


Pakistan

AUTUMN'S CALLING

 

O Man!

The so called rational being 

On this planet of life 

Though I am gifted to Nature;

Too balance the Nature,

And its presence 

Among the Seasons,

And to bestow nature beauty and diversity 

But O Man!

Of reasons and imaginations;

There are many lessons

Hidden in presence for   you;

O Man  --- I teach you

Many diverse and unique lessons; 

There is end  to every beginning, 

There is light following dark,

There is darkness to suffocate light,

There are mysteries following miracles,

There is a life after death,

There is a Death after every life,

There is a beginning of every End,

There is an End to every beginning,

There is a pleasure after suffering, 

There is a suffering after every pleasure,

And there blackholes for every presence;

Opening Windows of  unknown to every known,

As There is a Spring following my(Autumn) deadness

 

And there is an Me(Autumn) waiting for every spring

 

MUHAMMAD AZRAM

 

 

Muhammad Azram Poet and Author hails from Pakistan. He is Professionally a IT Pogrammer and Web Developer. His literary work and books continue to be published widely and his poems reside in numerous international anthologies and magazines. His work has been translated into many international languages. He is member of numerous literary organizations and representing Pakistan. He is conferred with many international Awards and literary honors by various International Literary Organizations.


 

Catalogued

 

I dreamt seeing you under the rain,

the water never having touched you –

that’s how you came to me, dry

and fresh – the amalgamation of

a leafless tree under summer rain.

I smelled luck on your skin

and became addicted, for rains

drenched me with their decrees;

your un-wet destiny was enchanting.

I used your luck like a secret name,

held it between a book as a fallen leaf

imbibing scriptures for resuscitation.

 

             previously published in Awen (Atlantean Publishing)

Sheikha A.

 

 

Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. She is the co-author of a digital poetry chapbook entitled Nyctophiliac Confessions available through Praxis Magazine. More about her published works can be found at sheikha82.wordpress.com 


Peru

 

 

 

TUS OJOS SE PERDIERON

en las arenas del pasado

lejos de ti

vi luz

renaciendo en oscuridad

 

I TUOI OCCHI SI SONO PERSI

nelle sabbie del passato

lontano da te

ho visto la luce

rinascere nell'oscurità


Yessyca Ortiz

  Lima - Perú

 

________________________

 

Lascio la porta aperta
  Lascerò passare il sole
  Lascio la porta aperta
  Orientata all'amore

 

  Yessyca Ortiz
Derechos reservados

 

Yessyca Ortiz è una poetessa peruviana, libera pensatrice, scrive poesie fin dalla giovane età.

Ha anche l’hobby della fotografia e del disegno: la natura nei suoi vari aspetti è il suo soggetto preferito.

https://www.facebook.com/yessyca.ortiz.9

 

 


Poland

Recepta na  wiersz

 

Nie jest łatwo napisać wiersz

Trzeba  skwapliwie pozbierać myśli

Wirujące szybko jak płatki śniegu w czasie zamieci

Złapać je zanim się roztopią i znikną w niepamięci

Do zdań dodać gorączkę uczuć i siłę emocji

Przyozdobić marzeniami zebranymi

ze srebrnego pyłu spadających gwiazd.

 

Można jeszcze

 wyłowić z dna jeziora  melancholijną tęsknotę

i zawiesić na rzęsach by zabłyszczała łzami

następnie zebrać wilgotną mgiełkę smutku

połyskującą jak krople rosy na tatarakach

dodać szarość listopadowego krajobrazu

doprawić odrobiną goryczy i żalu

 

Albo

Przechwycić śmiech zawieszony przez echo

Pomiędzy wysokimi górskimi szczytami

Złapać w siatkę na motyle wesołe słowa

niesione przez ciepły oddech wiatru

Odwrócić tęczę żeby uśmiechnęło się niebo

Przyprawić  szczyptą humoru i radości

 

Na końcu trzeba uwolnić szalone metafory

Pozwolić im zaczerpnąć kolorów z wyobraźni

Aby wiersz nabrał przezroczystej lekkości

I jak bańka mydlana wzniósł się ponad codzienność

Odleciał w nieznanym kierunku

 

 Alicja Maria Kuberska (Polonia)

 

Istruzioni per una poesia

 

Non è facile scrivere una poesia.
Devi rapidamente raccogliere i tuoi pensieri,
che vorticano velocemente

come fiocchi  di neve durante una bufera,
prenderli prima che si sciolgano

 e scompaiano nel dimenticatoio.

Aggiungere sensazioni di febbre

e di emozioni alle tue frasi.
Arredare con i tuoi sogni
dalla polvere d'argento delle stelle cadenti.

 

Si può ancora
pescare un desiderio malinconico dal fondo del lago
e appendere alle ciglia le lacrime luccicanti,
poi raccogliere la foschia umida della tristezza
brillante come gocce di rugiada sul calamo,
aggiungere il grigio del paesaggio di novembre,
condire con un po' di amarezza e di rimpianti.

 

Oppure
Catturare le risate sospese da un'eco
tra le vette alte delle montagne.
Imprigionare nella rete per le farfalle le parole allegre
portate dal respiro caldo del vento,
girare l'arcobaleno in modo che il cielo sorrida,
insaporire con un tocco di umorismo e gioia.

Infine, devono essere rilasciate le metafore folli.

Lasciare che traggano i colori dall'immaginazione
per dare alla poesia una trasparente leggerezza.
Come una bolla di sapone,

 può salire sopra la vita di tutti i giorni
Volando via in una direzione sconosciuta.

 

Translation Joanna Kalinowska

 

 

Bio

Alicja Maria Kuberska – born 1960 in Poland, awarded Polish poetess, novelist, journalist, editor.

 

 

 


Romania

  The aroma of yesterday

 

You left me

The aroma of yesterday

gone.

I am very sad.

I stare ,at the walls

and in the silence of my empty room.

You left me

The aroma of yesterday

gone.

I cry silently.

You left me

The aroma of yesterday

gone.

I am disappointment.

I write.

Not for you.

For me.

You left me

The aroma of yesterday

gone.

I am unhappy.

I write ,not for you.

For those who want to read.

Chains.

That
was your love

 

Mónika Tóth 

 

 

Mónika Tóth was born in in Covasna on 14th April,1980, graduated high-school in Humanities at Körösi Csoma Sándor in Covasna. She is interested in culture and fond of reading, painting, philosophy and photography.She likes Romanian,Turkish , Russian, South-American and Norwegian literature. She writes Hungarian,Romanian,Turkish and English language.


Singapore




The Painter

And the woman said
to the stranger:
Paint me a sunset sky,
and I will show you
a midnight rainbow.

Upon which,
we will ride
locked
in a fiery embrace
into the heavens
and beyond.

To a secret place
where pain is no more.
To dance
across the galaxy
with shooting stars
for company.

Oh paint me
paint me,
she implored.

 

Gloria Keh, Singapore


Born in 1952, Gloria Keh is an award winning writer.
She founded Circles of Love in 2008, a non profit charity outreach programme.
Besides writing, Gloria paints and writes poetry.


Slovakia/France

Tourniquet

 

Tous nos malheurs,

Toutes nos douleurs,

Ne sont qu'un tourniquet.

N'aie pas peur,

Ne les rejette pas.

Tu y laisseras tes empreintes,

Il arrachera quelques pellicules

De ton âme.

Mais ce n'est que pour

Passer du côté lumineux.

Les larmes seront perdues,

Essuyées par le souffle

D’êtres chers.

Asséchées par les coussinets

De la brise.

Les armes seront fondues,

Transformées en étoiles d'acier,

Pour illuminer le silence.

Le calme reviendra

Car nous ne sommes pas

Humains à tort.

Nous sommes humains

Par défaut.

 

 

Viktoria Laurent-Skrabalova

 

 

 Viktoria Laurent-Skrabalova est une artiste-poétesse franco-slovaque. Ses livres sont publiés en Slovaquie, en France et en Belgique. Elle participe à plusieurs revues littéraires (Florilège, Ce qui reste, Poésie Première...).


Sweden

 

 

THE DRAGONFLY

 

A shining dragonfly suddenly landed
On my newly written poem
It gazed at me with astonished eyes
And asked somewhat confused

Why am I not in your new poem?
I – who am so beautiful
You paint the summer with such joyful words
With lovely flowers and butterflies

You fill with love each corner of your poems
A new striped dress-coat for the bumble-bee
The nightingale and his evening aria
The fragrance of the apple tree
You write of fabulous summer nights
With the fullest of a full moon

But what about me then? Who am so pretty
With magic colors in all its shades
Who makes pirouettes on the water surface
Like a master of the ballet

 

You have not yet put me on paper
But if you do you will clearly see
The words you paint with will be enchanted
Just like the loveliest summer myth!

 

Joanna Svensson

 

Joanna Svensson Swedish writer, poet and novelist since her early teens. 5 books of poetry, 2 fiction novels and several international anthologies. Member of Swedish Author Ass.  and Polish Writers Living Abroad. 1:st prize in prose in Bucharest 2019. Very active in cultural society. Participates in many festivals around the world.


Tunisia

LUMIERES DE TA SOIF

                                                                                           A la mémoire de Dylan Thomas

 Frêle amant des abysses

Tu n’eus jamais peur de danser

Ni chanter au bord des précipices

Pour recueillir dans le sang de ton encre

Les étoiles blessées

Qui avaient besoin des lumières de  ta soif

Pour libérer leurs ancres

Pour t’offrir leurs verres

Pour leur offrir tes vers

Se riant des dards de Chronos

Et ses voraces horloges

Mariant vos titubantes nuits

En jardins de miroirs

D’où naissaient chaque jour

Les nouveaux visages des fleurs

Loin des leurres peurs et pleurs

En ivres flammes de papillons

Sur les ailes libres des chemins

De cette magique mer du cygne

Chaussé de vent

Avec ton cœur pour boussole de retour

Vers ton intarissable

Inoubliable chant de phénix

Toi l’éternel enfant

 


© Mokhtar El Amraoui Le 1er mai 2020

 

Mokhtar El Amraoui. C’est un poète d’expression française né à Mateur, en Tunisie. Il a  enseigné la littérature et la civilisation françaises pendant plus de trois décennies, dans diverses villes de la Tunisie. Passionné de Poésie, depuis son enfance, il a publié quatre recueils. Le premier, en 2010, s'intitule "Arpèges sur les ailes de mes ans", le second, en 2014, "Le souffle des ressacs" et les troisième et quatrième en 2019, successivement   « Chante, aube, que dansent tes plumes ! » et « Dans le tumulte du labyrinthe ».

 Mon blog poétique http://mokhtarives.blogspot.com/


USA

 

 

 

The Gift They Leave Us  

                with a Fibonacci sequence* 

 

we 

see 

aloft

two lovebirds

after the wedding

nuzzling in an evergreen tree

with the breeze they take to the sky

circle and depart 

one feather 

spirals

to 

Earth

 

Neal Whitman

 

 

12th century mathematician Leonardo Pisano, also known as Fibonacci, introduced Europe to the Arabic sequence of numbers in which the first two numbers are 0 and 1. Each subsequent number is the sum of the previous two. Fibonacci poems use those numbers for syllable count per line; ergo,  1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8 ad infinitum. Think of the 0 as the pause before starting to read the poem. Many natural formations, such as nautilus marine mollusks and sunflowers, are shaped in this manner.

 

 

 

Neal Whitman resides in Pacific Grove, California. His poetry is inspired by his wife, Elaine's visual-images, and her photography likewise by his word-pictures. Living on the Monterey Peninsula, their life together is nourished every day with a diet of creativity.

USA/China


The magical Sanbao Mountain”

   -----Malaysia at a glance

 

 

  The magical San bao Mountain

  Raise the arm of the soul

  Like a heavy mast

  Towering over the Strait of Malacca

  The magical wind from the sea

  keep singing softly

  Dark clouds lead to a journey to the peace

  Also guide me magically

  San Bao well of San Bao Tai

  Fed those sailors who crossed western ocean

  So far, it still pure and sweet

  Give a hearty hospitality to the visitors

  Stranded joyfulness

 

  Cai Kelin (USA/China)

 

 Translated by Bai Shui (New Zealand)

 

 

 

 Cai Kelin is a Chinese poet, original from Suqian, Jiangsu.  He has been published six books of poems.  Currently living in the United States, editor-in-chief of “Houston Poetry Garden”.


Vietnam


NEW SPRING

 

Spring comes, spring goes, and here spring comes again
Many things have passed, and some things remain
In winter cold that is sharp as a knife
As quiet, noisy as the flow of life

 

Men, you’re burning down what you once worshipped
Worshipping what you burned - nobody tipped
Is this the way you choose - without pity
Followers with no creativity

 

I wished to be a painter of colours
But I was born under black, cold covers
So I couldn't trace joy into my art
Which left me with no place with which to start

 

I seek greeneries of harmonious chime
To take with me into purple spacetime
Our lives are as deep as the seas are cold
Like black holes - enormous matter they hold

 

 

Đặng Thân 

 

NUOVA PRIMAVERA

 

La primavera arriva, la primavera va, e qui la primavera arriva di nuovo.
Molte cose sono passate, e alcune cose sono rimaste.
In inverno il freddo è affilato come un coltello
Silenzioso e rumoroso come il flusso della vita.

 

Uomini, state bruciando quello che un tempo adoravate.
Adorando quello che avete bruciato – nessuno è ripagato
È così che scegliete - senza pietà
Seguaci senza creatività

 

Volevo essere un pittore di colori
Ma sono nato sotto coperte nere e fredde.
Quindi non ho potuto trovare la gioia nella mia arte.
che mi ha lasciato senza un punto di partenza.

 

Cerco il verde di un armonico suono di campanelli
Da portare con me in uno spazio tempo viola
Le nostre vite sono profonde quanto i mari sono freddi.
Come i buchi neri – una enorme massa contengono

(Translated from English by poet Lidia Chiarelli)

 

Đặng Thân is a notable bilingual poet, fiction writer and essayist of Vietnam. As "the typical figure of Post-Doi Moi Literature", he is also "the best humourist ever". His officially-printed works in various genres have created the utmost important turning-point in writing style of Vietnamese literature.