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A Poem by Pat Hogan King

Mistaken Identity


Because he's forgotten how a child's
Body feels when you hit it, he smiles
At my graduation. I learn to ravage
Myself. Wild horse and wild dogs.
(This is me thinking.)


The cloth of my life's
So ragged, I wear it underneath
A wool coat and a stiff smile.
What is softest should be hidden.


I've long forgotten the emerald
In my throat. I no longer sing.


skin wild dogs wild horse and other dreams


If I tear myself
Apart, I might find
A sapphire instead of a heart.
I do, and I donít.


Survival isn't merely
Outliving those who hurt us.


One day I paint a self-portrait
Of someone else. I say to her,
'You live this life.' I walk away
Singing the red-winged
Blackbirdís song for dawn.

(More Poems by Pat Hogan King

A Poem by VishvaNath prasad Tiwari

After all Something will remain there

After all something will remain there
Pyre is ablaze
And cemetery is burning

But I tell you
After all something will remain there .

I don't know
What'll remain there
Guess yourself
Up to what extent -
Something will remain there .
A meaningless question
Why something will remain there.

Do you believe
Survival instinct will die
Faith will fade away
Dream will perish
Words will go in vain .

Do you believe
Fire can burnout everything
Wind can dry out everything
Water can melt down everything
Brahmashtra - a supreme weapon
Can destroy everything .

No , something will remain there.
Where , in what form and how much
Only a person can say
Whoíll remain there .

( More poems by VishvaNath prasad Tiwari)

One  Poem  by H.K. Hummel


Moment to moment it shape-shifts,
moving like the night skies above Europe
filled with northward aiming songbirds;

the sea, surrounding and sucking outward;
an inhale, an exhale, contradictory--
it is meditative, distracting;

tastes of marmalade,
feels like water dripping,
like a tornado that hasn't touched down;

it is all the sweet peas, one by one--
what I'd sacrifice to make time resolve itself.
Each day, this waiting is a different chimera.

(More poems by H.K. Hummel)

 A  Poem by Constance Stadler


Cornflower blue



as pomegranate lips



...and unavailed of lies...

I witnessed

I watched...

                 as your circumcised heart

                           softly ceased


round a cornflower blue


trailing petals

tracing tendrils

                   in the whispering kiss


                 my name.


( One more poem by Constance Stadler )

A Poem by Kamal Kumar Tanti


A Night with Old Man

I dememorize him,

At that moment of the night.

I was in my olive-colored uniform,

Searching for a narrative

I am young and

He an old man,

With a tradition of colonized people

And on that cool, breezy night

I unarmed him, asked the old man

For becoming an Old spirit

The Old Spirit was hanging by

The Old Pond,

At that moment of the night.

Once I caught out fire over the

Old pond

The Old man transformed to an Old spirit

The day, I met the old man,

He became an old spirit,

And still following me,

As I am in my olive-colored uniform.

(More poems by Kamal Kumar Tanti)

A poem by Neha Misra


Each winter
A redness
Appears on my palms..
I wish I could stalk
The melancholy
Buried beneath
The frozen
Criss-crossed lines..
They betray the
being in me.
Still I know
most unwillingly
I am known
in this colossal world
of anonymity.
A few jaws
Gape at me
standing abreast
Looking astounded and palely
the redness of my palms!!!

(More Poems by Neha Misra)

A poem by Margaret Boles


Correct me once
For one mistake
And I will hear
Correct me twice
And I will hear you, too
But I cannot help
But close my ear
If you correct me
Ten times for
Each single

( More poems by Margaret Boles)

A Poem by Jeffrey Spahr-Summers

octopus's garden

no one has seen the octopus
in some time and
the garden is unkempt
peering through the murky
brewing underworld
of mud and poison and oil
we see the old bone yard
skeletal remains of old feasts
and bloated half-eaten fish
that nothing will touch

it looks like there may
have been a struggle

( More poems by Jeffrey Spahr-Summers )

A Poem by Farideh Hassanzadeh-Mostafavi


Love poem for Mahmoud Darwish

Until morning

I stood by the wall ,chest to chest,

leaning my head on your shoulders

and crying.

No, I canít believe that youíve left me,

after all those years, Darwish !

I thought youíd stay,

just like your picture in this old frame,

waiting for my kisses

with each new poem you wrote.

You were not supposed to die,

leaving me alone to write for you.

It was always you who wrote

for the wounds of love,

for the lilac flowers,

for the lost homeland:

Poems that crossed frontiers

In a caravan ladden with words

To reach my solitude at nights.

Even death does not make you a stranger to me Darwish!

I kiss your frameless image again and again;

I kiss your eyes, lips and fragrant foerhead

and I remember my grandmother's words

whenever she was praying in my room:

"what is this picture of a stranger doing in your room?"

No one in this world was as familiar to me as you Darwish!

different from other men in my life.

Your mission was not to darken or brighten my memories.

You were like a messenger from the mountain heights

who revealed to me the hidden meaning of words

with each new poem.

Miraculously you made blind the eyes

of the spider weaving sorrow and absurdity

in the sticky corners of my mind.

With you

I became another "I"

much different than my dark and tired "I"s.

With you

I became a nation with shining open eyes.

Bless the memories of those far days Darwish!

When I found your first poetry book

my mirror had not even one single white hair

how proud I was of my beauty !

not aware of the yellow leaves gone with the wind.

In those far days I wanted poetry

only for warming up my nights

only for giving wings to my dreams

I thought that the domain of words

was above the clouds, even higher.

Then suddenly in my first encounter

with your poetry,

you filled my room with the rubble of ruined cities,

with the sound of a boyís footsteps

running in exile

lighting lamps from house to house,

with the magic of words.

Without homeland,

with a suitcase of eternal wanderings,

you were the only poet, Darwish,

who taught me

the meaning of motherland.

Your melodious wounds taught me

this is blood which illuminates the world,

and the sun is nothing but burning memory

around which the Earth moves

in the redolent silence of merry Martyrs

in tombs more unknown now than ever before.

Do you remember, Darwish,

in those far days, in the gloomy compartments

of the train passing through dark tunnels?

I was nursing hope for a job, a future

to reach the vague share of my heart

from fate and mate,

with your poetry book lying on my lap

watching over me when I was asleep.

I canít believe you have left me, Darwish.

No one believed you died, not even the thousands

who carried your coffin.

You bore the weight of the tombstone

as does a flower the weight of the dew,

while your voice went on to read

through the loudspeakers, warm, lively and inspiring.

But the flowers your enemies strew on your grave

tormented you Darwish!

as if you were offered hell at the first night of the tomb.

Three days public mourning

for you who were not a general,

or a president,

not even the voice of refugees any more.

Breaking away from the crowd

you devoted your songs to the bleak birds of Al-Jalil.

Three days public mourning

for you who vested power in the words

without coup d'etat,

without massacre

and without usurping the lands of people.

Three days public mourning

for you who had no legacy but

the thirsty whiteness of paper,

so satisfied with living

in the frame of old friendships,

to adorn the walls of lethal loneliness;

a sanctuary for your survivors

to lean on your generous shoulders and cry

unable to accept your death Darwish !

Note by the Poet

I did not intend to write an elegy on Mahmoud Darwish. I only tried to express my admiration for an exceptional poet. Sometimes a poet produces a much deeper effect on our lives than our parents and our family members. A true poet points to a window which opens to an undiscovered world in us and thus releases us from spiritual confusion. In the words of Samuel Hazo , poems bring us face to face with our true nature where our feelings gain as much significance as our ideas. We are cut off from our true selves when we lose contact with our basic nature and thus lose our souls.

Darwish was the guardian of the soul of a nation.

Translated by:H.S.Zahedi,chief editor of Irannews ' art section

Edited by : George Trialonis , Greek poet and translator.

This poem in Farsi appears here: http://www.firooze.com/article-fa-629.html


A poem by Pavol Janik  (Slovak Poems)


I stretch out the water
in which you are reflected.
With a shout to stop
all possible outflows.

I address you by breath
such release of speech.
Until you are glassy with ice before me
as before a draught.

Tirelessly you quiver under the numb surface
and on the bottom for a moment gleam
so that I glimpse the day,
which will only light up in you.

(translated by James Sutherland Smith)

(More poems Pavol Janik )

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