A Poem by Triin Soomets

Only darkness and shadows,
my eye nerves twitch
in fear of some strange shock.

Countries and numbers change,
colours and tones fade,
my finger rots, my ring grows dull.

Morning slices into the horizon,
everything is frozen and jealous,
as if awating sleep or mercy.

The years slip by like hours,
not a single trace is left in the sand,
not a single shape casts a shadow.

(More Poems by Triin Soomets )

Poem by Eeva Park

Formica rufa

An ant,
which I drained out of a birch juice jar
didn't die
nor was it dead,
though I killed it already for the fifth time,
I pressed him to bits between my right hand thumb and
drowned him with tap water
pressed him with a spoon,
but he climbed out of the sink,
dark brown and straight antennas
moving quickly on six legs
still in that one direction
a quick thought,
to grant him amnesty
I could toss him in the yard,
let him live,
if I could recognize his gait out of all
the other ants in this group
I could be the god of the ants
But I don't.

(More poems by Eeva Park)

A Poem by Yeshim Agaoglu

the room at the end of the corridor

she lives in hotel rooms
her room at the corridor's end
ı think of her walking out of the door.
suitcase in hand
every corner spic and span
never a trace left behind when she leaves
then in another hotel room
a new beginning

ı think of her sitting at her desk
her lamp on
shoulders slightly humped
pen in hand.
reading something or writing
whichever hotel it is
ıts her at the corridor’s end
suitcase on the floor
ready for the next move

( More poems by Yeshim Agaoglu)

A  Poem  by  Osvaldo Sauma



of what use to you is a poet

he only has words

solitude and words

a kind phrase

a many paper illusions

of what use to you is a man

who is unaware of his limits

who builds a wall of shadows

where he hides the sparkle of his dreams

the poet knows little of happiness

he is more a merchant of misfortune

an ill-omened bird in desolate territory

he trades with the blind distant stars

he sells to the sleepwalkers dreams of nocturnal forces

voyages to those who suffer from insomnia

he brings flowers to the trees

casts light upon the hearts of the fish

rubies to the fireflies

he distills clouds beneath an entranced sun



give up

even Plato did not want him in his Republic

he is the first they harass for being a fox

the first they seize for being a bird

the first they kill for being smart

and what is worse

they always charge

an extra tax on his electricity

ignore him

he could never give you security

he celebrates his poverty

under the green sun of his idleness

and like a child

he is astonished by all he sees

I warn you


Don t become involved

He can only offer you

The gray land of free ways

/ translated by John Diviney.

(More poems by Osvaldo Sauma)

A poem by Zingonia Zingone

Leather suitcase, no wheels

Sheltered, sitting in a dark trunk.
Where do you take me, so packed with you?

You kidnap me,
a lover hidden in your wardrobe,
covered up for months, motionless time
my skin unbroken
under an old mothball-smelling cloth,
alone in my loneliness.

But today you take me with you
and the hours light up,
the minutes, the seconds.

Wide open, on your bed

garment after garment, I feel you loading me
as I embrace all your belongings:
I incorporate each one of your needs

and you become entrails, blood
you, who puts life into my life

and my womb guards
stray embryos of your wandering.

Exhausted, you bend my body
caressing scars,
you press hard and fasten clasps, braces,

you secure me with a padlock
chastity belt with no combination

and I know that you will send me off
amongst the others
your name stamped on me
proving I belong to you.

In the anxiety of the trunk I dream
that you'll take me far away
and that I'll get lost.

Then you'll become distraught
because I enclose it all:
a wife, not just a lover.

(More poems by  zingonia zingone)

A  Poem by  Maryam_Ala_Amjadi


I am a "woe-man"
And the man
Puts out his cigarette of passion
Into my whole
I am a "woe-man"
And the man plants his heritage in me
I am a "woe-man"
And the man stands on my chest
And breathes deeply

I am a "woe-man"
And my name is Maryam
And I am green
So so ever green

Things grow out of me
Love a baby a family
And a graveyard of serene doubts
And a blue blue silence

We are women
And the 'you" in us
Could make such a fuss
For getting on the bus
That drives on the trails of Rights
And seizes the moments of might
In a siege of fright

We are women
And the "I" in you
Must see it through
The dark dark history tunnels
The light of injustice
That sounds so pathetic
So so tragic

We are women
We longed hair
Short brained low intellect high heeled
We who share the "you" in "I"
And scratch out the "I" in "you"
We are the bad bad ones
In every every good
The women without a double "you"

I am a woman!

More poems  by Maryam_Ala_Amjadi )

A Poem by Mary Krane Derr

What Is Your Personal Connection to the Ocean?

Question posed by the Ocean Conservancy 

Birthed out my mother's small
upside-down chalice of it,
I ran down and down to the Sea
to keep on hearing it wavingsss
without fail, through selfsame
saltwater, the Great Great
Original Heartbeat, a pregnant woman's
drummed to some billionth power.

-Originally appeared in Canary: Literary Journal of the Environmental Crisis, Autumn 2009; featured by Poets for Living Waters, July 2010.

(More Poems by Mary Krane Derr)

A Poem by Anna Lombardo

You speak alone

- who understands your language
in this part of the west?
Sometimes you speak with eyes
lit by the fine gold dust
that you beat and bang - and your hips swing

as in the dances long forgotten by your feet -
quickly now at windows or balconies
encircled by pretty little curtains - but who
from this part of the west understands your language?

Your hands are drawn to objects
scattered around the house you don't have
and the tea is passed around the kitchen, warms the guests
and the hostess with mouth so red - red that opens
an empty half circle in the emptiness that returns
like the boomerang of our hospitality.

What is done, seen, and said among the waves
or while packed in train compartments
you wrap it around a blanket while
you conjugate the word of the day before sleep.

There was the confusion of the torment - after.
There was the escape from the horror - also.
It was the tragedy of love - thus. You - always a woman - you alone remained
with your mother's colored shawl to cover the bodies
again just barely along the plain's level ground
as treacherous as a mountain.

You speak alone - now - who from this side of the moon
understands your language? Is your idiom sweet?
Is your song like velvet?

The other morning I saw your lips moving
at the market you were following like a dog
the woman with mouth so red - red that opens
and your tongue was the same as that of the bird
that curses its cage
the same as the tree that curses the house
the same as my tongue that curses
the time of man with hatred
ready in his pocket and his heart.

(More Poems by Anna Lombardo )

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