A Poems by Federico Lotito


always I’ll continue to have you poetry.
if you’ll fall
to seem to others useless
or will drown
in the pond of anonymous, idle hearts,
you’ll keep alive my time
by many thought useless.

you’ll clang to clear this rampant superficiality
and certainty to go on,
to feel, to be
in you I’ll still find,
in you we’ll find.

(More poems by Federico Lotito)

A Eldar Akhadov


I tore all your photos.
But it did not help. I remembered you.
I went very far and never came back.
But it did not help I remembered you.
I met with others and was loved.
But it did not help. I remembered you.
I got drunk - like dead, like a shoemaker, like a tramp, like the last creature.
But it did not help. I remembered you.
I got married, had children, became home-grown.
But it did not help. I remembered you.
I'm getting old. Everything is eroding from memory.
Everything. Except you.

Translated by Sir Brian Tomlinson

(More Poems by Eldar Akhadov )

A Poem by  Philip Meersman

Red river

there is a river, you know
the water flows
to an ocean
life flows through it

there is a river, you know
trees on the banks
reeds wave on the rhythm
life flows through it

there is a river, you know
tides and rains feed it
watering fertile lands
life flows through it

there is a river, you know
too many times
the river turns red
life flows through it

there is a river, you know
banks, littered
aspirations, hopes, futures
life flows through it

there is a river, you know
a whole generation perished
trying to wade through it
life flows through it

there is a river, you know
life flows through it
the river turned red
the river turned red
life flows through it
there is a river, you know

every country has a river
every country has a generation
colouring rivers red
with their lives
washed away
within the reeds
between the trees
washed up on the other bank

(Poem in three parts by Philip Meersman )

 Poems by Sushma Naithani

1. Life

Life—a sweet fruit
hanging in a sight
along with
a pest
a parrot
and a parasite
I claim my bite.

2. Journey

Often, my heart plays
like a diddley bow
for a few days I become silent
I stay low, I search
I eat silence
and then suddenly
an underground river whispers
I make an exit
I regain my sight
I see the autumn leaves falling
I return to my home at the twilight.

(More poems by Sushma Naithani)


A Poem by  Meenakshi Patil

Does hunger have a religion?

When I am starved, I am religious.
when I am hungry, I am human.

Fingers crossed to cease the anger,
it needs not riches to meet your hunger.

when the cry ignites, in him, you and mine
who bothers which sex, what gender?

Visiting the church or the temple,
won't quench your thurst, your hunger.

The soul may plead, but the body bleeds.
All it needs is a bread, olives and ginger.

the singers beating hard on the bunger,
I see them all queued up for the lungar.

no language, no caste, no nationality
who shall explain the haunty jugglers.

the vigorous race can never match
the eager quiver of the flesh so tender.

( More poems by Meenakshi Patil)

A Poem by  Sharmila Ray

Dear Daddy,

I have lighted candles for your birthday and a hundred dreams burn subtly
in my bosom. Memory is embalming me with its feathery touch and you and I are like slow motion shots rolling one after another.

Shot 1: Your fair fingers picking a piece of an apple from a plate at breakfast, and I,like an eagle
swooping down on the apple.

Shot 2: Your chair standing still, polished by years, amber, old-your presence in abstract silence.

Shot 3: Empty hangers in the wardrobe speaking of shirts, checks, stripes, colour bold. Your smell now veiled from me by the scattered ash.

Shot 4: Da…ddy…

O daddy I’m glad that I never left you for some distant shore. I was never your Material Girl.
If I was then it would have been:

1. Skype-Hello, happy birthday. Did the care giver come? (Camera panning my room, my trophies and myself smiling wide, sipping tonic water…)

2. Money transfers.

3. E mails (that would have been rare.)

4. Maybe you would have visited me once a year or I, if I wasn’t busy.

5. Virtually I would have given you the world.

But I wouldn’t be there to light your nocturnal shadows nor hold your idle fingers, your sleep-languid eyes half closed in a humid afternoon. I would miss just talking about the day that has gone by.
The smell of Jasmine is everywhere .Nonexistence and time are nothing when you love someone.

Dear daddy, the wind is rising and muffling my reminiscences.
Years have created a filter and they are sepia-soft. Who knows I might see you tonight in the maze of sleep. I’m speaking to you, only to you in my quiet tongue-
Happy Birthday dear one.

(More poems by  Sharmila Ray )


from Floating Lanterns


The poem is the face in the mirror
more true than the face and mirror.
The poem is the flow of blood
beyond the body,
the rhythm of blood beyond blood
—its rigorous channels, its muffled and unitary beating.

The poem is the rhythm of the other in me
beyond me, always, beyond,
where my silence comes up against your rhythm
and reverberates in me, that I sol-fa in the poem
a numinous rhythm,
cipher that creates an echo in the echo
that is true body
—the numinous in you and me—
the cycle of the spheres touching and abandoning each other
—getting further away, yes, one from the other,
but also unbinding itself of itself
each one
in its golden, fecund negligence.

In its rhythm I unfold myself.
In its metronome
capricious and fleeting
the universe unfolds its hallucinations
—its truth.

There is no possible translation.
—or perhaps there is:
of the one to oneself,
of the one to what blindly searches and triumphs
of what it knows of itself
—its poor empire.

The poem, I say,
I say the music, I say the movement
of dance in the body, the one of sculpted stone…
And the music in the stroke and in the stone, I say,
and the poem’s steady and sinuous movement,
learned cadence, the happiest fall in the crossing
of all senses.


(More poems by MERCEDES ROFFÉ)

A Poem by Lina Zeron


Blessed are the women who protect the fruit of their womb
assuming the parable of their beauty under an apron;
those who clean their faces with the cloth of routine
and learn to raise their voices, although their voices is all they have left.

Blessed are the women who drag the cross of impurity
drenching their future with tears of absence,
who find purification in the water of any river
and weave scattered loves in the flow of time.

Blessed are the women who fall in love,
the sorcerers of the night,
the ones who share the fire of the body’s marriage
in the consecration of the skin.

Blessed are the ones who scream what the heart professes,
the ones who listen and the ones who make themselves heard,
also, those who silence their true passion
surviving like mournful, stagnant water.

Blessed are the women who face the empty nest
reliving every night the exodus since its origin.

Blessed are the ones who are storms, rivers bursting their banks;
who are labeled crazy, trouble-makers,
liberated, feminists,
able to wreck the wind with a gaze.

Blessed are the females with fractures and fragments
Blessed are all of us. Matrix of the universe.

( More poems of Lina Zeron )


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