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POETRY PLANETARIAT

ISSUE 1, SUMMER 2019, ISTANBUL / MEDELLIN

POETS OF THE WORLD UNITE AGAINST INJUSTICE

World Poetry Movement

Istanbul / Medellin

Copyright 2019 World Poetry MovementPublisher: World Poetry [email protected]

Editor: Ataol Behramoğlu [email protected] Editor: Pelin [email protected]

Editorial Board: Mohammed Al-Nabhan (Kuwait), Ayo Ayoola-Amalae (Nigeria), Francis Combes (France), Jack Hirschman (USA), Jidi Majia (China), Fernando Rendón (Colombia), Rati Saxena (India), Keshab Sigdel (Nepal)

Design and layout by Erkal Yavi and Gülizar Ç. Çetinkaya [email protected]

Adress: Tekin Publishing House Ankara Cad.Konak Han,No:15 Cağaloğlu-İstanbul/TurkeyTel:+(0212)527 69 69 Faks:+(0212)511 11 12www.tekinyayinevi.come-mail:[email protected] XXXXXPoetry Planetariat is published four times a year in Istanbul by the World Poetry Movement in cooperation with

Ataol Behramoğlu-Pelin Batu and Tekin Publishing House

CONTENTS

IN THE BEGINNIG WAS POETRY/ATAOL BEHRAMOĞLU

A WORLD WITHOUT WALLS/JACK HIRSCHMAN

POETRYCHRIS ABANI (NIGERIA, 1966)

ADAM AITKEN(AUSTRALİA,1960) ALESSANDRO AGOSTINELLI (ITALY,1965)

HRANT ALEXANYAN (ARMENIA,1961)AYO AYOOLA-AMALE(GHANA,1970)

KOFI ANYIDOHO (GHANA, 1947)TAKAKO ARAI( JAPAN,1966)

MARGARİTE ATWOOD(CANADA,1939) ATAOL BEHRAMOĞLU(TURKEY, 1942)

HORACIO BENAVIDES (COLOMBİA, 1949)ROSA CHÁVEZ (NACIÓN MAYA, GUATEMALA,1980)

JOHN CURL(USA, 1940) ION DEOCONESCU(ROMANİA, 1947)

ASHUR ETWEBI (LIBYA,1952)R. J. GONZALES(USA)

QASSIM HADDAD (BAHRAIN, 1948)JACK HIRSCHMAN(USA, 1933)

GAO HONGBO (PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA,) ADAMOU IDE (NIGER, 1951)

LEGNA RODRÍGUEZ IGLESIAS (CUBA,1984)ANTJIE KROG (SOUTH AFRICA, 1952)

RAQUEL LANCEROS (SPAİN, 1973) BARNABÉ LAYE (BENIN, 1941)

JOSAPHAT-ROBERT LARGE (HAITÍ,1942)JIDI MAJIA (PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA ,1961)

W.C.MAHER (USA, 1950) BILL MANHIRE(NEW ZELAND, 1946)

JACK MAPANJE (MALAWI, 1944)JORGE MONTEALEGRE (CHILE,1954)

KATE NEWMANN(İRELAND,1965) JUAN GREGORIO REGINO (MÉXICO, NACIÓN MAZATECA,1960)

FERNANDO RENDON(COLOMBIA,1951)RATI SAXENA(INDIA)

DINOS SIOTIS (GREECE,1944) TAREK EL TAYEB (SUDAN,1959)

NGUYEN QUANG THIEU (VIETNAM,1957)

IN MEMORİAMAlexander Pushkin(1799-1836)

Walt Whitman(1819-1892)

ANNIVERSARY of…Lawrence Ferlingetti (USA, 1919)

MANİFESTOSPablo Neruda’s Toward a poetry Impure

POETRY PLANETARIAT | ISSUE 1, SUMMER 2019, ISTANBUL / MEDELLINPOETS OF THE WORLD UNITE AGAINST INJUSTICE

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IN THE BEGINNING WAS POETRY

Ataol Behramoğlu (Turkey)

If, in the beginning was the word, it should have been the poetical word.

Because the word that gives meaning to existence cannot only be a logical one- it is should also consist of an image and a musical timbre.

Thus we are describing poetry.

Because poetry is the unity of logic, image and melody.

If the conceptual word is an instrument of life’s logical explanation, the poetical word offers a more complete explanation of existence, and it does not exclude logic in doing so.

Poetical creation is the effort and capacity of explaining the whole of human existence based on conscience , subconscious, unconscious it pursues, saves and sways (guides) it...

Thereby to say “in the beginning was poetry” shouldn’t be read as a megalomaniacal statement of the poet. On the contrary it should be accepted as an aphorism for the explanation of the universe.

In the beginning was poetry and fortunately it continues to exist. The lack or the nonexistence of it means the lack or nonexistence of consciousness and feeling of life.

If we accept the fact that poetry seems to have lost its place in the contemporary society of human relations, if this is true it surely means that humanity is to lose the feeling of really being alive.

The way to prevent this sinister train of thought entails a serious rethinking of the essence and the function of poetry.

This essence and function is certainly based on its resistance against fascism, injustice and every kind of slavery with its defence of freedom, liberty and brotherhood.

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These principles and reflections are the essential reasons of founding the World Poetry Moevement(WPM), founded in Medelline-Colombia, between July 4-8th 2011, during the Medelline Poetry Festival by 37 poet-directors of International Poetry Festivals from all around the world.

From the very beginning, WPM has been calling to poets from all around the world and organizing poetry readings, festivals and numerous activities pertaining to poetry. Thus far thousands of poets from all continents have participated and defended these principles and ideals of a world without walls.

Poetry Planetariat is the online quarterly of the WPM that aims to unite in its pages the distinguished products of world poetry and every kind of essay, writing, manifesto and interview on the subject poetry from all over the globe.

We present you our first issue with joy, honour and confidence, expecting your contribution and constructive criticism too.


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A WORLD WITHOUT WALLS

Jack Hirschman, (USA)

The Call has gone out from the World Poetry Movement (WPM) through the grand Colombian poet Fernando Rendon that the month of February will be dedicated to world-wide events organized in as many countries that compose the planet, under the title A WORLD WITHOUT WALLS.

That title was conceived in Zigong, China, last Spring by Francis Combes of Paris, France, who was among many members of the WPM who’d come to read with Chinese poets at a grand Festival of Poetry, invited by the great Chinese poet and vice-director of the Chinese Writers Union, Jidi Majia.

A WORLD WITHOUT WALLS has both a physical and a metaphorical meaning. The former of course relates to situations like the building of a concrete, then, steel, then who-knows-what material’s insisted upon by the president of the United States, a criminal billionaire who attacks poor Guatemalans and Mexicans as criminals when all those people want is to be able to flee from the gangs and violence of their countries, which have to a great extent been created by the corporate violence of the United States itself in support of fascistic Latin American and Caribbean governments.

Or take the walls of human police which are now preventing migrants from entering Germany, after an openness for some years on the part of Angela Merkel. Or Italy, at first open to African and Albani- ans but now closing its frontiers. Or Hungary. Or any number of other countries

Why this insensitivity to brothers and sisters in this life? Is it simply the fear of being overrun by immigrants who will eventually overrun one’s particular nation?

Look, the time of the industrial proletariat is over. Electronics and robotization have created a new class of homeless, part-time and full-time workers. But ironically enough the billionaire globalized capi- talist class has created a situation where every day millions and more millions of people are learning and working with computers and smart- phones and androids, etc. In effect, the Planetariat has been born and is growing by millions in every


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continent every day. And this Planetariat’s demand is A WORLD WITHOUT WALLS because in fact its members—the people of the world—are ALREADY IN that world; they are in touch with friends in other countries with the push of a button. They are LIV- ING beyond Nations or Nationalisms, which today are nothing more than old decrepit formations controlled by corrupt governments based on corporate money.

The People of the Planetariat in fact, with events like A WORLD WITHOUT WALLS, will be on the way to fulfilling the essence of the dream of the original founders of the United Nations in San Francisco, an end to war world-wide, and the creation of a world government that shares and distrib- utes the wealth of the world generously and sensitively in the process of cre- ating an equality that is nothing but the word Love in the eyes of everyone because it also recognizes E V E R Y human being as a brother or sister. With no need of any wall separating an I from a You, a He from a She; and to that end it is hoped that all within eyeshot of these words, take up the call to do A WORLD WITHOUT WALLS event by organizing with other poets— brothers and sisters—throughout the month of February 2019, and let’s pass the organic word throughout the Planetariat so that this dream of the World Poetry Movement (WPM) is an international wake-up call to all the lovers of the humane in humanity everywhere.

POETRY


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CHRIS ABANI (NIGERIA, 1966)

THE NEW RELIGION

The body is a nation I have not known. The pure joy of air: the moment between leaping from a cliff into the wall of blue below. Like that. Or to feel the rub of tired lungs against skincovered bone, like a hand against the rough of bark. Like that. “The body is a savage,” I said. For years I said that: the body is a savage. As if this safety of the mind were virtue not cowardice. For years I have snubbed the dark rub of it, said, “I am better, Lord, I am better,”but sometimes, in an unguarded moment of sun, I remember the cowdung- ‐scent of my childhood skin thick with dirt and sweat and the screaming grass. But this distance I keep is not divine, for what was Christ if not God’s desire to smell his own armpit? And when I see him, I know he will smile, fingers glued to his nose, and say, “Next time I will send you down as a dogto taste this pure hunger.”


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LA NUEVA RELIGIÓN

El cuerpo es una nación que no he conocido.La pura alegría del aire: el momento en medio del saltar de un acantilado hacia la pared de azul que hay abajo. Algo así como eso.O sentir el frote de los pulmones cansados contra los huesos cubiertos por la piel,como la mano contra una áspera corteza. Algo así como eso. “El cuerpo es un salvaje”, dije. Durante años dije que el cuerpo es un salvaje. Como si esta seguridad de la mente fuera una virtud y no una cobardía.Durante años descuidé este oscuro problemay me decía, “Yo soy mejor, Señor, yo soy mejor”, pero a veces, en un soleado momento de descuido,recuerdo el olor a boñiga de la piel cuando era niñogruesa de mugre y sudor, y la hierba aullante.Pero esta distancia que guardo no es divina,pues ¿qué fue Cristo si no el deseo de Dios de oler su propia axila?Y cuando lo vea, sé que se va a sonreírcon un dedo pegado a su nariz, y que va a decir:“La próxima vez te envío a la tierra como perropara que sepas lo que es el hambre”.

Translated by Nicolás Suescún

Poet, novelist, jazz musician, university professor with studies in Nigeria, Great Britain and the United States.He was born to an English mother and an Ibo-Nigerian father, in the middle of the war in 1966, Afikpo, and began writing very early. His first novel Master of the board, in which he, at age 16, placed the Fourth Reich in Nigeria, had dire consequences for the young writer. Two years after its publication, he was sentenced to three years in prison for the revolutionary nature of his texts. Between the bars he suffered torture and complete isolation for periods, until he was released in 1991. Poetic work: Kalakuta Republic, 2001; Daphne’s Lot, 2003; Dog Woman, 2004; Hands Washing Water, 2006; There Are No Names for Red, 2010; Feed Me The Sun, 2010; Sanctificum, 2010. Narrative work: Masters of the Board, 1985; Grace Land, 2004; Becoming Abigail, 2006; Song for Night, 2007; The Virgin of Flames, 2007. He has received, among others, The United States Pen Club Award for Freedom to Write, the Prince Claus Award, the California Book Award and the Guggenheim Prize.


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ADAM AITKEN(AUSTRALIA,1960)

POL POT IN PARIS

Oh happy child, kindly teacher – were you a fake?Like you I’m taciturnbut when I give an order who’s to hear?Paris, I found it cold but didn’t read very much.No one knows what you thought of its weather,the river, the churches or the metro.You preferred a book on the Soviets to girls in Montmartre.I too would rather recite Verlainethan take notes on electronics.If I had a history and traditions, I don’t remember.Would you understand me?I too lived on an allowanceof uncomfortable epithetscobbled from Buddha and Marx:“Physical beauty is an obstacle to the will to struggle.”

Late nights drinking weren’t your thing.Sweet words of girls “mask evil hearts”.A fun holiday on a tractor in Belgrade.“The wheels of revolution never stop, roll onto crush all who dare to walk in its path.”We could have been lifetime friends, togetherrooting out evil, picking mushrooms,sipping coffee in the Latin Quarter,mediocre, polite, soft spokenmigrants meandering in overcoats.


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The others marry French girls, you join a work brigadedigging ditches in Zagreb.In the 15th arrondissement, Rue Latelliermid-winter, dog shit everywhere.On the river it’s 20 francsfor La Grande Revolution Française.We could’ve talked, taken notes for a memoir:did you join the party before or after the festivalin East Berlin? Did you buy that shirtbefore or after the coup d’état?

In Marseille you boarded the Jamaique.Your tiny shadow cast a conspiracyof epic dimensions, and there, in the oily backwashand the silver wake, a complete solution.I too went home, dreaming of a familyI would never have, and the one I would.

Her was born in London in 1960 to an Anglo-Australian father and a Thai mother. He spent his childhood in South-east Asia, before migrating to Australia where he graduated from the University of Sydney in 1982. He was a co-editor of the poetry magazine P76, named after a failed Leyland car model, and for a time was associate poetry editor for Heat magazine. He has traveled widely, visiting Thailand, Malaysia, and Cambodia; his experiences overseas continue to inform his poetry.


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ALESSANDRO AGOSTINELLI (ITALY,1965)

CLOSE TO AFTER

sittingin a starbucks coffee shopi see people coming inand a fleet of cabsslipping downtown.i’m on the cornerat this urban simple cornerbehind the clean windowsis the only way to keepin in and out out.a shape, a styleof that ancient new citythis postmodern middle-ageof contemporaryfence cultures.inside me i feel what i’ve heardinside meup to this exact momentand outside walking the joyof clothes on the street orthe burden of my soulin the eyes and overthe shoulders of peoplewho come back homefrom jobs and opportunities.i drink coffee andturn my head aroundlike a little bird that stoppedhis singingto listen from other trees.

He was born in Maremma in 1965 and lives in Florence. He graduated from Literature and is a research doctor in field of “history of visual arts and entertainment.”He directs the “Festival of Travel” and the series “Poesia” by alleo / edizioniEts with ManueleMasini. He writes for “L ‘Espresso”, Radio RAI, Radio 24 - Il Sole 24 Ore, Lonely Planet, and has directed some documentaries. Among his books are: the poetry collections Numeri e Parole (Campanotto, 1997), Agosto e Temporali (ETS, 2000), Poesiedellalinea Orange (ETS, 2009), Il Cristo deipoeti (ETS, 2010), En el rojo de Ocidente (Olifante, 2014). His novels are“The dry life” (Besa, 2002),“Honolulu Baby” (Vallecchi, 2011), and Benedetti da Parker (Cairo, 2017).


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HRANT ALEXANYAN (ARMENIA,1961)

THE HUNGRY WORLD’S CHANDELIERS ARE BEAUTIFUL

The hungry world’s chandeliers set brightlike the open eyes of dead men:in the dusk of grave tombs;and our hands close spontaneously everythingthat emphasizes the darknessas the last message.the spirit of previous pattern is masterful everywhere,the first emotion continues to sketchnew histories and a new communityin the form of a perished colony or a true motherland...

Lovers pine away faster than candlesin the dark and deserted entrancesan emotional man seals the minutes of public march, -the hollow hearts are likethe Soviet-Russian green grenades placed into the snow.And the nude body in the featherless sparrowsseems more immortality and not jealous.The town memories are getting frozen around the legendary unity.Pedestrians are the only couriers of good newswho strip off the fear from keen blink of the tireless cars.Who indeed has bread and wineis honored with sweet oblivion, -

No one gets lost as a cursed man -big and beautiful arethe hungry-stubborn world’s chandeliers.

Translatedby Christina KOCHARIAN


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LAS LÁMPARAS DEL MUNDO HAMBRIENTO SON HERMOSAS

Las lámparas del mundo hambriento permanecen brillantes como los ojos abiertos de los muertos:en el crepúsculo de las tumbas;y nuestras manos cierran espontáneamente todo lo que enfatiza la oscuridadcomo último mensaje.El espíritu de la forma anterior es magistral en todas partes,la primera emoción sigue esbozandonuevas historias y una nueva comunidaden forma de una colonia perecida o una patria verdadera...

Los amantes mueren de tristeza más rápido que las velasen las entradas oscuras y desiertas,un hombre emotivo sella los minutos de marcha pública,los corazones huecos son comolas granadas verdes de la Rusia Soviética puestas en la nieve.Y el cuerpo desnudo de los gorriones sin plumas,parece ser más inmortalidad y menos resentimiento.Los recuerdos de la aldea se están congelando alrededor de la legendaria solidaridad.Los peatones son los únicos mensajeros de buenas noticiasque despojan el temor de los deseosos parpadeos de los coches incansables.Quien de hecho tiene pan y vino, es honrado con dulce olvido.

Ningún hombre maldito se extravía

grandes y hermosas sonlas tercas y hambrientas lámparas del mundo.

Translated by León Blanco and G. Leogena, from English versión by Christina KOCHARIAN.

He was born in 1961 in Artsakh, Armenia. Has received the higher technical education in Yerevan. Since 1983 is occupied in exclusively literary and journalistic activity. Is the author of 1 scientific and 12 poetic books. His literary works were published in translation into the Russian, English, Persian, Serbian, French, German, Ukrainian, Chinese, Romanian, Polish, Bulgarian languages.Among his published books, are: Biological Field, 1989; Summer in Amaras (for children), 1990; Celebration (Feast), 1991; Rose Riot (Riot of a Rose),- 1994; Symmetry of Falling, 1996; Cubes (Bricks) for its Majesty, 1997; Marginal statements, 1998; Full Moon Sarcophagus, 2000; Conventional Words from haMInterbooks, 2003; Word Baritone. Universe Baritone, 2007; As a turning wordosaur, 2011;


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AYO AYOOLA AMALE(GHANA, 1970)

HERE’S EVERYONE

Here’s everyone, she whispered,rolling her eyesand pointing her fingereverywhere, like light,or the skythat knows all places.Here’s everyone, everywherein the warmth of the winterTo the most human she saideach time i am herethe deep sources move there,there!Moves the depth of my soulin a frozen heat,or penetrates me and entersas if it were bullets.That’s just a dumb mindin the marketplacefor an uncertain time,an uncertain timeyelling at meon a megaphoneor my feet find the roadsin a prison roamcrawling over uneven spacesto a yawning universebecoming fuller,rising out of the breath of tormentin a thousand black and white torrentsof chains in all places.


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Here’s everyone, everywherelike a limitless skyon rusty wheels.Here’s everyone, in little timedragging a transient abode orturning the pageloaded with empty verses, so empty, so empty.Here’s everyone, everywherea white shroud as fine as silk that sting a littlelike the rose flower or the cactusinto the wild

She was born in Jos, Nigeria May 23, 1970. Sheis a poet, lawyer, conflict-resolution professional, ombudsman, peace builder, and spoken-word performance artist whose voice is noted for its peace, harmony, humanity, political, surrealistic and dynamic innovations in lyricism and visceral sound. She is also the founding president of Ghana WILPF. Began Center for Nonviolent Communication (CNVC), Accra. She was the Vice President of Poets of the World and also the Legal Advisor at the Ghana Association of Writers. Ayo is a member of the International committee of the World Poetry Movement.


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KOFI ANYIDOHO (GHANA, 1947)

BAYONETS

BEFOREthe season of the Bayonetthere was the season of the Hoea season of the soul’s harvest: We grew wonder-eyed standinghumbled before the miracleof the giant Oak locked deepdown within the tinniest mystery seed.

In those seasons of our Soul’s Harvestthere were such fires in our eyes. Our spirits floered and petalledinto hues of faintest rainbowsoffering new and newer imagesof dreams we could with ten fingersmould into things and thoughts and hopes.

THEN they came with Bulldozers.And then the ArmouredCars dressed in camouflage.

NOW we plant grenades in backyard farms Harvesting Coffinsin showers of Bullets and FirePower.

They pick our flesh on Bayonets.

Across cold muzzles of Guns They break our sleep in two Give one half to CannonBlast Toss one half into silence deeper Than Volcano’s bleeding core.

There will be showers at SunRiseAnd storms at SunDrown.Bones shall sprout up tendrils more verdantThan the loveliest GreenMamba.

Rivulets of venom shall water our fieldsRestoring this soil to ancestral Fertile Time.


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BAYONETAS

Antes del tiempo de las bayonetasexistió el tiempo del azadónel tiempo de la cosecha del almaCrecimos con ojos asombradoscontemplando con humildad el milagrodel roble gigante enraizado profundamente al interiorDesde la minúscula semilla del misterio.

En aquellos tiempos de la cosecha de nuestras almasResidían tales fuegos en nuestros ojosNuestros espíritus florecían en pétaloshacia tintes de arco iris desmayadosofrendando nuevas y frescas imágenesde sueños que con diez dedos podríamos moldear en cosasY sueños y esperanzas.

LUEGO llegaron con bulldozersY luego los carros blindados revestidos de camuflajeAhora sembramos granadas en los traspatios de las granjasCosechando AtaúdesEn lluvia de balas y poder de fuego

Nuestra piel es recolectada en bayonetas

A través de las frías bocas de los fusilesNuestro sueño es desgarrado en dosUna mitad dásela al golpe de cañónArroja la otra a un silencio más profundoQue la boca sangrante del volcán

Habrá lluvias al amanecerY tormentas al ocasoHuesos habrán de brotar en pámpanos de mayor verdorQue la verde Mamba, la más hermosa

Riachuelos venenosos habrán de regar nuestros camposRestaurando este suelo a sus tiempos antiguos de fertilidad

Translated by Rafael PatiñoGóez

Kofi Anyidoho was born in Ghana. His books are: The Place We Call Home & Other Poems: Banbury, Oxfordshire, UK: Ayebia Clarke Publishers, 2011; Reclaiming the Human Sciences and the Humanities through African Perspectives; Africa, the Sad Tropical Continent-Selected Poems. Korean Translations by Lee Seok Ho. Kookhak Publishers, Seoul, 2012; The Promise of Hope: New and Selected Poems (1964-2013) by Kofi Awoonor. Edited and with an Introduction by Kofi Anyidoho. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2013.


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TAKAKO ARAI( JAPAN,1966)

DOLLOGY

Oh! You’re even rounder than I expected. Cinched in by a skinny belt. Every spring you need a new red dress, so now you’re fat with layers, a bundled-up ball. Girl-doll1. What a stink when your hem’s picked up—as if those layers were stewed in soy for days. Layers, layers fraying, then more layers. Fresh layers every year. You put on new ones as the ones inside mature. And there inside you tend your many moulds. In spring they wriggle, teem, and like blossoms fall away. Well, it all makes sense—the silk threads are both the spit of the worms and their boiled-up flesh, so of course they stink. You’ve been to the silk mill, right? The stench burns your nostrils because the cocoons are peeled skin. And so these layers, rotten with damp, turn back to flesh.

Of course. Girl-dolls are the mummies of silk worms. Of course. Girl-dolls are the mummies of young girls.

Once there was a girl like a girl-doll pole—whack, whack!—standing, with arms chopped off. Human sacrifice, yes? The human pole offered to the mountain goddess. We give thanks for all the wood that we’re given, of course!

Standing, she can’t stop the flow of blood from her shoulders. Moon-blood. She’s cinched to the pole and it splashes, even from her womb. And can’t stop, even after her last breath is gone, even after the goddess has stripped her skin.

Girl-doll is standing in for you. Girl-doll is standing in for the mountain goddess.


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Every spring you need new skin, so now you’re plump with life. Goddess. Celebrating the breath-push. Blossoms, then more blossoms from within your mountain gorge. For hundreds of years, thousands of years

layering age—

Please, please make a corpse for me, slowly, slowly put the skins on

give me red ones

because I’ll dye them, because I can’t stop. Of course it stinks when you lift these layers.

That’s the moon.

Takako Arai was born in 1966 in Kiryū, a city in central Japan known for textile production. Her father managed a small, cottage-style weaving factory located on the family property, and at its height, the factory employed a few dozen workers—mostly women—to produce the high-quality, finely woven silks that the town is known for. Many of Arai’s poems have a strong narrative quality and recount episodes relating to the lives of the women workers she observed while growing up. She is the author of three books of poetry in Japanese, and her second book, TamashiiDansu (Soul Dance), won the Oguma Hideo Prize.


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MARGARİTE ATWOOD(CANADA,1939)

THE MOMENT

The moment when, after many years of hard work and a long voyage you stand in the centre of your room, house, half-acre, square mile, island, country, knowing at last how you got there, and say, I own this, is the same moment when the trees unloose their soft arms from around you, the birds take back their language, the cliffs fissure and collapse, the air moves back from you like a wave and you can’t breathe. No, they whisper. You own nothing. You were a visitor, time after time climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming. We never belonged to you. You never found us. It was always the other way round.

Margaret Atwood is a Canadian writer born on November 18, 1939 in Ottawa, Canada. The internationally-known author has written award-winning poetry, short-stories and novels, including The Circle Game (1966), The Handmaid’s Tale (1985), The Blind Assassin (2000), Oryx and Crake (2003) and The Tent (2006). Her works have been translated into an array of different languages and seen several screen adaptations, with both Handmaid’s Tale and Alias Grace becoming mini-series in 2017.


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ATAOL BEHRAMOĞLU(TURKEY, 1942)

BABIES DON’T HAVE NATIONSBabies don’t have nations I felt this for the first time far from my homeland Babies don’t have nations The way they hold their heads is the same They gaze with the same curiosity in their eyes When they cry, the tone of their voices is the same

Babies are the blossoms of humankind Of roses the most pure, most the buds of roses Some are fair fragments of light Some are dusky-dark grapes

Fathers, do not let them slip your minds Mothers, protect your babies Silence them, silence them, don’t let them speak Who would talk of war and destruction

Let us leave them to grow up with passion May they sprout and burgeon like saplings They are not yours, nor mine, nor anybody’s They belong to the whole world They are the apple of all humanity’s eye

I felt this for the first time far from my homeland Babies don’t have nations Babies are the blossoms of humankind And our future’s one and only hope

Translated by. W.G.Andrews

Ataol Behramoğlu was born in Çatalca near İstanbul. He graduated from the Department of Russian Language and Literature in the University of Ankara. His first two collections of poems, published in 1965 and 1970, were acclaimed as the manifesto of a new generation of contemporary Turkish poetry. Between 1970-1974 he lived in Paris, London and Moscow. In Paris he met Pablo Neruda and Louis Aragon. Fragments of his poem “One Day For Sure” were published in Les Letters Françaises edited by Aragon. Besides his widespread popularity as a poet and writer in his country, he is an eminent translator of the Pouchkine, Lermontov, Chekov and Gorky. His poetry has been translated into many languages and has been awarded a number of national and international prizes including the Lotus Prize(1982) Pouchkine Prize(2008), MihaiEminescu Prize(2016), European Homer Prize(2016) among others.


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HORACIO BENAVIDES (COLOMBİA, 1949)

MY SOUL draws close to the housewhile the dogs sleepIt goes to the kitchen and blows on the ashesIt wanders through the bedroomand lies down in the empty bedcloses its eyesbut cannot find sleepIt sits in the corridorand lets illusion loosein the smoke of its tobaccoIt sees the grass growingthe fog descending into the hollowthe gold chalice risingand the flowering on the wallMy soul fleeswith the rooster’s song

MI ALMA se acerca a la casamientras los perros duermenVa a la cocina y sopla las cenizasSe pasea por el dormitorioy se acuesta en la cama vacíacierra los ojospero no puede conciliar el sueñoSe sienta en el corredory echa a volar la ilusiónen el humo de su tabacoVe crecer la hierbabajar la niebla por la hondonadasubir la copa de oroy florecer sobre el muroMi alma huyecon el canto del gallo

Nació en 1949, en Bolívar,Cauca, lugar donde pasósu infancia, rodeado deanimales y seres inocentes,que modelaron su imaginarioy nutrieron su escriturapoética. Libros de poemaspublicados: Orígenes, 1979;Las cosas perdidas, 1986; Aguade la orilla, 1989; Sombrade agua, 1994; La aldeadesvelada, 1998; Sin razónflorecer (Premio Nacional dePoesía Instituto Distrital deCultura de Bogotá, 2001);Todo lugar para el desencuentro(Premio Nacional de PoesíaEduardo Cote Lamus, 2005);De una a otra montaña (Poesíareunida, 2008); La serenahierba, antología, 2011; Comoacabados de salir del diluvio,Antología, 2013.


25

ROSA CHÁVEZ (NACIÓN MAYA, GUATEMALA,1980)

Let my heart blossom when it stops pumping red ink, let small thorns and yellow flowers sprout from it, let it be painted with nij and animals and two-headed birds be drawn on it.

Let my heart crumble in the earth and grow into a pine tree, let it look through the eyes of an owl, let it walk on a coyote’s legs, let it speak in a dog’s bark, let it heal in the quartz of the caves, grow in the horns of a deer.

Let my hearts be tied up with a colored serpent so that they will not mistake their owner, to mark them, to find them again on the way from here to other worlds.

***

Que mi corazón florezca cuando deje de bombear tinta roja, que le salgan espinas pequeñas y flores amarillas, que lo pinten con nij y le hagan dibujos de animales y pájaros bicéfalos.

Que mi corazón se deshaga en la tierra y crezca en un árbol de pino, que mire por los ojos de un búho, que camine en las patas de un coyote, que hable en el ladrido de un perro, que sane en el cuarzo de las cuevas, que crezca en los cuernos de un venado.

Que mis corazones sean amarrados con una serpiente de colores para que no se confundan de dueña, para ponerles seña, para volver a encontrarlos en el camino de aquí a otros mundos.

Nació en Guatemala en 1980. Poeta Maya, gestora cultural, realizadora audiovisual. Ha publicado los poemarios Casa Solitaria (Editorial Oscar de León, Guatemala, 2005), Piedra Abaj’ (Editorial Cultura Guatemala, 2009),El corazón de la piedra (Editorial Monte Ávila Editores Latinoamericana,Venezuela, 2010), Quitapenas (Editorial Catafixia, Guatemala, 2010). Ha realizado de manera individual y colectiva distintas intervenciones de poesía escénica en centros culturales y espacios públicos. Su obra aparece en distintas revistas, obras de teatro, memorias y antologías de festivales de poesía en Latinoamérica, Europa y Estados Unidos. Ha sido parte de distintoscolectivos de arte urbano, así como de organizaciones y acciones por los derechos y las reivindicaciones del pueblo Maya.


26

JOHN CURL(USA, 1940)

THE LAKE OF OUR EMERGENCE

what is a word?A meaningful vibration.In the beginning was the word.And the word was creation.Rock, air, fire, water,oak leaves, ocean waves,tropical jungles, ocelots.Gasps of ecstasy, groans of love.We look into each other’s eyesas we pass in the street,we don’t say a word, but weunderstand the meaningful vibrationsbeyond words or before words,both before and beyond words at the same time.All living things, all nonliving things.Music. Waterfalls.On this planet and beyond.Flocks of small birds in the early morning.Crickets at dusk.The gurgle of a baby.The voicesWhat are words?Meaningful vibrations.In the beginning was the word.And the word was creation.


27

We walk these slippery banksalong the lake of our emergence,the center pole of our forest,our muddy port of entry into this world,our origin of place, our place of origin.We step from the lake into the place we belong.Only briefly do we walk here today,learning how to be indigenous,these restless streets we pacewhere our unborn great grandchildren play.Breezes blow wavelets rolling toward the far shore,while around us hushed fields of poppies grow,and beneath our feet rocks meltand caverns of magma flow.The uniforms, face shields, nightsticksseparating brother from daughter, sister from mother,do not separate illusion from delusion.All truth is recreated each morningwhen a small bird peeks out of a nesthidden in a lilac bush by the water’s edge.To be able to walk here since the world beganis a gift of inexpressible joy.Who gets to claimthis wild watery homeland as their own?Who gets to call it home?Every place is the center of the world,and everywhere is our place of origin.

Born September 10, 1940 he is an American poet, memoirist, translator, author, activist, and historian. Curl was born in New York City to a working class family. He attended CCNY, with a semester at the Sorbonne, and earned a bachelor’s degree in Comparative Literature. He has lived in Berkeley, California since 1971 and has worked as a professional woodworker at Heartwood Cooperative Woodshop since 1974. Involved in the cooperative movement in the Bay Area since the early 1970s, he was a founding member of the InterCollective and an editor of the Collective Directory (1981–85). His best known book is probably his history of the cooperative and communalist movements, For All The People: Uncovering the Hidden History of Cooperation, Cooperative Movements, and Communalism in America (PM Press, 2009), which historian Howard Zinn described as «inspiring.»


28

ION DEOCONESCU(ROMANİA, 1947)

SICKENED BY DREAMS

Between my skin and me,There are so many unmastered bones…There’s a type of words that betrayAnd eventually destroy themselves.Behold, the estranged flesh is bleeding,And only the shadow protects abundant wounds…What about the soul? It’s left unsolved, muzzled.

It resembles a beast; it goes huntingStriving to catch a whiffOf breeze, a hint of celebration,Or at least pick up a wing for the next flight.

Sickened by dreams, a pledge to happinessBreaks into pieces, drowns in sorrow.An owl hooting startles it,Extruding a tearFrom the shackled eyeOf reconciliation.

Somewhere between pain and joyThe lilies fall on their knees to pray.

Translated from the Romanian by Oliver Friggieri and Diana Maria Nicolaescu

He was born in TirguLogresti in the Gorj County, Romania. He has been teaching literature at the universities of Bucharest, Craiova, Belgrade, Novi Sad and Skopje. Having made his debut as a poet in 1968, he is the author of many poetry collections including The Grace of Memories (2016), as well as of books of essays. He won multiple international poetry awards. His poems have also appeared in book form in translation to Italian, Hungarian, Turkish, Macedonian and Serbian, and his collection titled Sand Tapestries was published by Honeycomb Press in English translation.


29

ASHUR ETWEBI (LIBYA,1952)

THE DRUNKEN IBEX

Every morning the ibex with its golden wings and black beak stands at the mouth of the forest silently listening: the female gazelle’s complaint at the desert’s heat and howling stones, the sunflowers’ complaint at the approaching dark clouds,the complaint of delicate young creeping plants against the mountain spiders, the chameleon’s complaint against the water drops wearing it down, the wild thyme’s complaint that wolves piss on it,and the complaint of scarabs laying their eggs under the open sky in fear.

Every morning the ibex strikes the solid boulder with its foot and rushes to the heights screeching:No use, No use.

Translated by Tahseen Al-Khateeb


30

EL IBIS BORRACHO

Cada mañana el ibis con sus alas doradas y pico negro se paraen la boca de la floresta escuchando en silencio:la queja de la gacela por el calor del desierto y las piedras aullantes,la queja del girasol por la proximidad de las nubes negras,la queja de las delicadas y jóvenes plantas trepadoras contra las arañas de montaña,la queja del camaleón contra las gotas de agua que lo enervan,la queja del timo silvestre por que los lobos se orinan sobre él,y la queja de los escarabajos que ponen, con miedo, sus huevos a cielo abierto.

Cada mañana el ibis golpea la sólida peña con su pata Y corre a las alturas chillando:De nada sirve, De nada sirve.

Translated by Omar Pérez

He was born in Libya in 1952. He received his medical degree from Tripoli School of Medicine and his Doctorate degree from University College Galway, Irland, in 1991. Etwebi works as a consultant physician, and is a renowned writer, poet and translator. His first collection of poetry “Qsaed Al-Shorfa” (tr.: Balcony poems) appeared in 1993. Since then, Etwebi has published seven more books of poetry and five volumes of translations and a novel. Several of his works have been translated into English and have been included in several international collections and magazines.


31

R.J.GONZALES(USA,1935)

RESILIENCE

It is what the reed, the cane,the grass show before the storm—they bend but do not break.It is what we do when the hurricanehas taken the house or the firehas left it in ashes,it is what the migrant doeswhen he can no longer live in his land.It has to do with hope&strength& above all love of life.It is the ability to laugh after crying,to sing as we sweat the fat drop, to dancein the protest against outrage. It is morethan anything loving, to break the doors,bring down the walls between us,take each other by the hand & create a newworld that is just & adjusts to the earth.it is to live with & from the heart.

He was born in El Paso, Texas, attended the University of Texas, Universidad Nacionalautónoma de México and the University of Oregon. Professor of creative writing & literature, he taught at the University of Oregon, Western Sate University of Colorado, Central Washington State University, the University of Texas at El Paso, and Laney College for thirty years. His poetry and scholarly articles are widely published in reviews and anthologies in the US, Mexico & abroad. He is also a visual artist, his work has been exhibited at the Oakland Museum; the Mexican museum of san francisco among others.


32

QASSIM HADDAD (BAHRAIN, 1948)

LIKE THE WHITE

From blue sky birds comebearing bright kerchiefs in their beaks

From lilac sky moon yawnsweary from not sleeping washing her face in the water of wakefulness then sets to work

From azure sky the dreams of strong nations stirharnessing alert steeds to assert themselves

From the rose unfold the desiresthat fold the banners of modestyunfurling the red flagthat breaks all established rule

From the joy I see in your eyesI begin like a myth Looking behind me I find only swords that wave like thickets of branches in the storm

When your cry assaults methe current sweeps me away where neither ship nor shore can gather me in

I desire youas the white does all colors.

Translated by Sharif Elmusa and Charles Doria


33

COMO EL BLANCO

Del azul salen innumerables gorrionestransportando en sus picos pañuelos hilarantesDel lila brotan lunasque bostezan de insomniolavando sus mejillas con agua del despertary se entregan al trabajoDesde el lapislázuli se precipitan los sueñosde pueblos activosque ensillan los caballos del sobresaltoe inician el cumplimiento de la obraDesde el rosa se pavonea el deseodoblando las banderas de la vergüenza Extendiendo las oriflamas del rojoImponiendo la reglaY yode la alegría de tus ojosnazcocomo la leyenda

Doy vueltay no hallo más que arenas palpitantescomo un bosque de ramas entre la tempestadY cuando me asaltan tus llantosme arrastra la crecienteni los bajeles ni las costasme contienenme desvanezco por ticomo el blanco desvanece por los colores


Qassim Haddad, born in 1970 in Bahrain, is a writer as well as the head and a founding member of the “Bahrain Writers Association” which was founded in 1969. He is regarded as the most famous Bahraini poet. Qassim Haddad already published 15 collections of poetry as well as some novels. His numerous publications include: The Heart of Love, Bahrain (1980); Walking Guarded with Ibexes, Bahrain (1986); Qassim’s Grave, Bahrain (1997); Not by this Way nor by the Other (1997); Theatre in Bahrain, Experience and Horizon, Bahrain (1980).


34

JACK HİRSCHMAN(USA, 1933)

ALL THAT’S LEFT

All that’s Leftin the world—whether in Cuba, Venezuela, Boliviaas well as in China, Japan, the United States, Europe, the Middle East, Africa—all of them cannot,despite their resistance,despite their refusal,stop this march of deathbecause they, as well as all that’s Right in the world,despite their refusal,despite their resistance,already are counted among thosein this last parade.Communists and progressives,nazis, fascists and reactionaries,zionists and anarchists of every stripe—none are excluded, none can evade the march.

This one’s not coming with hammer and sickles or swastikasor flags of any land.

This one’s the march all wars surrender to.

But when?!comes the unanimous cry.When will it really happen?If death is peace,when can I truly die?


35

You will never know, and yet you do,because you may already have,and this life is your wayof paying homage to the powerthat loves you enough to have taken your life awayand left you with the tasteof immortality on your lips.

Nothing mystical: no Christ,Allah, Jahweh or Buddha in the wings.Even lying on your back you’re marching.

This is not a cynical or pessimistor nihilist poem. Join death to your life and you will liveas if there were no drum to march to.

There is no march at all.

You’re done. All will be well for all.

An outstanding activist for human rights and an eminent poet, he was born in 1933 in New York City and grew up in the Bronx. He earned degrees from City College of New York and Indiana University, where he studied comparative literature. He was a popular and innovative professor at UCLA in the 1970s, before he was fired for his anti-war activities. Hirchman has written more than 50 volumes of poetry and essays. He is one of the founders of the World Poetry Movement.


36

GAO HONGBO (PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA,1951)

THE PINE NEEDLE’S STORIES

Don’t look down on us as silver needles,We can derive warmth for the tree.A needle can shoulder a drop of dew,And make the pine forceful and vigorous.

This way, the trunk will be thick,And the root will be in earth deeply!Then draw circles of growth ringOn the earth of times.

We are light-green needles,We are happy and diligent.The pine is clothed in the green,Because of your sewing…


37

HISTORIAS DE LAS AGUJAS DE PINO

No nos mires como a agujas de plata,Podemos extraer calor del árbol.Una aguja puede cargar una gota de rocío,Y hacer al pino fuerte y vigoroso.

Así, el tronco será ancho,¡Y la raíz irá profundo en la tierra!Traza entonces círculos de crecimientoSobre la tierra de los tiempos.

Somos agujas verdes claro,Somos felices y diligentes.El pino se viste de verde,Gracias a nuestro tejido…

Translation by Omar Pére

Also writing under the pen-name Xiang Chuan, he is a poet and author of children’s literature. In addition to his writing he has served as editor or head editor of many literary publications including China Writer and Poetry magazines. Since he began writing in 1971, he has published more than a dozen collections of children’s poetry, more than thirty collections of essays, and four volumes of criticism. He is the recipient of numerous domestic awards for children’s literature, as well as the National Book Prize, the Bing Xin award, and the China Children’s Press “Golden Author” award.


38

ADAMOU IDE (NIGER, 1951)

HUNGER

Hunger... you knowThat is the belly that is no more painBecause yearningly expecting for inaccessible mouthfulHunger...no food since three daysFor how many other days?Hunger...that are these eyesWith dark red colorHunger...these are rusted jawsNo more power to stretch out the handHunger...you knowThat is the wife fleeing alone across the fieldsAlone terribly alone To rescue the childrenHunger...that are these resigned animalsHelplessly waiting in the mudExpecting for deathTo set them free from the yoke


39

HAMBRE

Hambre…tú sabesEse es el estómago que no duele másDe esperar anhelantemente el inaccesible bocadoHambre…tres días sin comida¿Por cuántos días más?Hambre… son estos ojosDe color rojo oscuroHambre… son estas fauces oxidadasNo tener fuerza para estirar la manoHambre…tú sabesEsa es la esposa huyendo sola por los camposSola terriblemente solitariaA rescatar los niñosHambre… Son estos resignados animalesEsperando indefensos en el fangoEsperando la muerteQue los libere del yugo

Traducción de Rafael Patiño

Adamou Ide was born in Niamey, Niger on November 22, 1951. Poet and novelist, president of the Societé des Gens du Lettres du Níger, Society of writers and men of culture. He received the National Poetry Prize in 1981. He has published the books of poetry: Unfinished Cry (1984) and On the Land of Silence (1994); and collectively Ay Ne Han (2004). His published prose is: Straw Camisole, 1987; Talibo, A Child of the District, 1996 and WaSappé Ay Se! (Vote for Me!), 2003; He he will soon publish Mother’s Song for a Sick Son, poetry.


40

LEGNA RODRÍGUEZ IGLESIAS (CUBA,1984)

KNOT

The spirit and the bodywill marry under the macraméI am the spiritI saw twelve birds playing the xylophonein the seait was a sea with a false ceilingand I am sure the birds brought me agatesI have defecated agates so that I might never marryVivaldi will confirm his joyous interpretationVivaldi is a sweetI should listen to himthe spirit will wear a veil and have a bridal trainthough the body will also wear a veil and have a bridal trainfrom the transparency I will see twelve birds playing the xylophonein the seanonetheless there will be a slab of iron on my tonguemy tongue weighs on memy spirit weighs on mein his pocket Vivaldi has my soulxylophone and poetry are the same thingbird and xylophone are the same thingto play poetry with an iron slabis something really differentbut I play it.


41

NUDO

El espíritu y el cuerpose casarán bajo un macraméyo soy el espírituvi doce pájaros tocando el xilófonoen el marera un mar con falso techoy estoy segura de que los pájaros traían para mí ágatashe defecado ágatas para no casarme nuncaVivaldi confirmará su alegre interpretaciónVivaldi es un dulcedebo escucharloel espíritu llevará velo y colaaunque el cuerpo también llevará velo y coladesde la transparencia veré doce pájaros tocando el xilófonoen el marsin embargo, sobre mi lengua hay una plancha de hierrola lengua me pesami espíritu me pesaadentro de su bolsillo Vivaldi tiene mi almaxilófono y poesía son la misma cosapájaro y xilófono son la misma cosatocar la poesía con una plancha de hierroes algo bien diferentepero la toco.

Nació en Cuba en 1984. Poeta y cuentista. Es miembro de la UNEAC (Unión Nacional de Escritores y Artistas Cubanos) y de la AHS (Asociación Hermanos Saís). Ha recibido los siguientes reonocimientos: Premio Calendario de Poesía 2012, Premio Iberoamericano de Cuento Julio Cortázar 2011, Premio Fundación de La Ciudad de Matanzas, Poesía y Novela, 2011. Premio Calendario de Cuento con el libro Ne me quittepas, 2007, Premio Alcorta (LiteraturaInfantil) y el Premio de la Ciudad de Camagüey (Poesía), 2007. Finalista del Premio Casa de Las Américas (Literatura Infantil), 2007. Premio Eliseo Diego (Literatura Infantil), 2006, Premio Poesía de Primavera (Poesía) y el Premio de Camagüey (Literatura Infantil). En el año 2001 obtuvo el Premio Emilio Ballagas (Literatura Infantil). Ha publicado los libros de poesía: Arroz con mango, 2002; Querida lluvia, 2002; Zapatos para no volver, 2004; Instalando me, 2005; Ciudad de pobres corazones, 2008.


42

ANTJIE KROG (SOUTH AFRICA, 1952)

SINCE WE

since we started walkingthis road the irisesfinished blooming the stillabandoned eyeballs ofthe light blue ones the plushfolded bats of the purple row since

we started this road thegrass now gasps away seedthe buttercups have droppedtheir leaves like nail clippingsthe camelia’s bathrobeamong the cedars withered from the

branches since we startedthe road the tough pony-tails of the wisteriafell in disrepute thebanksia waterfallfinished her fatal plunge since we have

started walking this roadthe swallows came back wecan smell the jasmine fromits jugular the snowmelted from the mountainssince we started a man tumbled back-

wards into all this airwhat we breathe is the airof whole this world the skyoverwhelmed in writingsof grief at dusk we dobecome dark of tongue as we translate

disintegration ourankles reek mortal butgod how strong our thighs havebecome since we walked thisroad how fierce how savageour filigree as the heart bangs in terror


43

DESDE QUE NOSOTROS

desde que empezamos a andar por este camino los lirios florecieron del todo los globos ocularesquietos y abandonados de los azules claros las afelpadaspaletas dobladas de la fila púrpura desde

que empezamos a andar por este caminola hierba ahora jadeaba semillaslos ranúnculos han dejado caer sus hojas como uñas cortadasla bata de baño de la camelia entre los cedros se secó y cayó

de las ramas desde que empezamos a andar por este camino las duras colas de caballo de las glicinasse desprestigiaron la caída de agua de las banksias terminó su salto mortal desde

que empezamos a andar por este caminovolvieron las golondrinas y podemosoler el jazmín desde su yugular la nieve de las montañas se derritiódesde que empezamos un hombre cayó

hacia atrás en todo este aire que respiramos es el aire de todo este mundo el cielo abrumado en escritos sobre el dolor al atardecer nos volvemososcuros de habla al traducir

la desintegración nuestrostalones huelen a algo mortal pero dios qué fuertes se han vuelto nuestrosmuslos desde que empezamos a andarpor este camino qué feroz qué salvajenuestra filigrana al batir de terror el corazón

Translated by de NicolásSuescún

Poet, philosopher, journalist, teacher, lecturer and editor, hewas born in South Africa, 1952. During the 80s he worked actively in the anti-Apartheid movement. He has published eight volumes of poetry in Afrikaans. Other works of poetry, in Afrikaans, Dogter van Jefta, 1970; Januarie Suite, 1972; Mannin, 1974; BemindeAntarktika, 1974; Otter in Bronslaai, 1981; Jerusalemgangers, 1985; Mankepank in ander Monsters, 1989; Lady Anne, 1989; Voëls van anderstervere, 1992; Gedigte, 1989-1995; Down to my Last Skin, 2000; Kleurkomnooitalleennie, 2000; Met woordesoos met kerse, 2002. Novels: Account of a Morder, 1997; Lang Pad na Vryheid (translation of The long road to freedom by Nelson Mandela), 2000.


44

RAQUEL LANCEROS (SPAİN, 1973)

INVOCATION

May that apparent calm called scepticismnever riddle my heart.Let me escape from the numbness of cynicism from the impartiality of shrugged shoulders.Let me believe always in lifelet me believe alwaysin infinite possibilities.Deceive me, song of the sirensconfer a gleam of naivety!Epidermis, never resemblea frozen implacable hide.Let me always cry for impossible dreams for forbidden loves for girlish fantasiestorn into pieces.Let me escape from straight-jacketed realism.Safeguard these songs on my lips,may they be numerous, noisyand replete with chords.

To sing away the threat of silent times.


45

INVOCACIÓN

Que no crezca jamás en mis entrañas esa calma aparente llamada escepticismo. Huya yo del resabio, del cinismo, de la imparcialidad de hombros encogidos. Crea yo siempre en la vida crea yo siempre en las mil infinitas posibilidades. Engáñenme los cantos de sirenas, tenga mi alma siempre un pellizco de ingenua. Que nunca se parezca mi epidermis a la piel de un paquidermo inconmovible, helado.

Llore yo todavía por sueños imposibles por amores prohibidos por fantasías de niña hechas añicos. Huya yo del realismo encorsetado. Consérvense en mis labios las canciones, muchas y muy ruidosas y con muchos acordes.

Por si vinieran tiempos de silencio.

A notable figure in contemporary Spanish poetry, she studied French and English literature. She has published six books of poetry by some of the most noteworthy publishing houses of her country. Some of her books were published in Colombia, Argentina, Mexico, Italy and France. Expressing herself in seven languages, she in turn has been translated to English, French, Italian, Hindi, Dutch and Portuguese. She has translated the works of Poe, Lewis Carroll and Louis Aragon into Spanish. She completed her phD in literature. She continues to write critiques and articles in numerous journals.


46

BARNABÉ LAYE (BENIN, 1941)

I speak to you of a countryClothed in the skin of antique wordswrapped in ancestors’ wordsthat advances at a tranquilpaceat the center of squallsin the heart of stormsthat advances despite crosswinds

Men repeatThe antique wordsIn children’s ears

Distrust disputes that do not concern youIf two rocks quarrelThe egg is notThe one to separate them

Distrust appearancesThe black cowalso giveswhite milk

Distrust fireThe rat should not pull the tiger’s whiskers

Les hablo de un paísVestido de la piel de palabras antiguasenvuelto de palabras de antepasadosque avanza a pasotranquiloen medio de las borrascasen el corazón de las tempestadesque avanza pese a los vientos contrarios


47

Los hombres repitenAl oído de los niñosLas palabras antiguas

Desconfía de las disputas que no te conciernenSi dos piedras se querellanNo es el huevoquien las debe separar

Desconfía de las aparienciasLa vaca negratambién da lecheblancaDesconfía del fuegoLa rata no debe tirar los bigotes del tigre

Translated by Luisa Futoransky

Poet, novelist, essayist and doctor he was born in Porto-Novo, Benin, on June 11, 1941. His work, imbued with rhythm and musicality, has been recognized as one of the most important of the current generation of French-speaking black writers.He has published the books of poetry: Nostalgia of the passing days, 1981; The Paths of Freedom, 1986; As a Sign in the Night, 1986; Requiem for a Murdered Country, 1999; Poems to the Absent, 2010; A Wait So Long, 2010; For Times of Doubt and Immobile Silence (Nominated for the Fetkann Prize, 2013). For the whole of his poetic work he won the ÉmileNelligan 2010 Prize. Some of his books have been poured into English, Spanish and Portuguese.


48

JOSAPHAT-ROBERT LARGE (HAITÍ,1942)

BEHOLD MINE ISLAND

Behold mine islandAnd waves breaking against its cross pathsIts blood sucked by the leeches of the sunBehold my boat of shadowsWrecked at midday and downedAnd my torn-down plainsLeaning against the swings of the dawnMy wet-heart country under vertigo rainAnd the street of childhood suspendedFrom vertical walls nailed to the voidMy shattered-rainbow countryA spider’s web illuminated with painsBehold my pierced cityAnd my mourning historyO my History that was once full of glorious stories! BeholdMine island that corresponds with my heartThrough its submarine drum linesThrough its ringlets of memories flying insideMy memoryBehold my History surrounded by flamesBy heart powder under the vaults of dayBehold my island packed packagedBetween the mesh of my sorrowsMy land surrounded by tearsHeld up by the rigging of existenceThis is my own however on the blackboards of planetsDisplayed in the projection of captionsIn waves of images pushed amidst the airsMy history is deep down a history of voidsOf deceitful visions with murderers of the ruinsA small number of hopes lit up at dawnBehold my cityRadiant wholly beauteous and surrounded by wind


49

HE AQUÍ LA ISLA MÍA

He aquí la isla míaY unas olas rompiendo contra sus caminos de cruzSu sangre chupada por las sanguijuelas del sol He aquí mi barca de sombrasNaufragada a medio día y abatidaY mis planicies derribadasApoyadas en los columpios del albaMi país de corazón mojado bajo lluvia de vértigoY la calle de la infancia suspendidaEn los muros verticales clavados en el vacíoSus pilares electrificados cañoneando a la lunaMi país de arco iris derrumbadosUna telaraña iluminada con doloresHe aquí mi ciudad agujereadaY mi historia en duelo¡Oh mi Historia que fuera historias de gloria! He aquíMi isla que tiene correspondencia con mi corazónA través de sus líneas de tambores submarinosA través de sus bucles de recuerdos volando entreMi memoriaHe aquí mi Historia rodeada de llamasDe corazones en polvo bajo las bóvedas del díaHe aquí mi isla embalada, empaquetadaEntre las mallas de mis malesMi tierra rodeada de lágrimasLevantada por los aparejos de la existenciaEsta es la mía sin embargo en las pizarras de los planetasExhibida en proyecciones de leyendasEn olas de imágenes empujadas entre los airesMi historia es en el fondo una historia de vacíosDe visiones engañosas con asesinos de las ruinasPequeña cantidad de esperanzas iluminada al amanecerHe aquí mi ciudadRadiante completamente bella y rodeada de viento

Nació en Jérémie, Haití, el 15 de noviembre de 1942. Poeta, dramaturgo, novelista, traductor, crítico de arte y ensayista en lenguacreol, francesa e inglesa. Su novela Les terresentourées de larmes (l’Harmattan, París 2002) obtuvo el Premio Literario del Caribe, en 2003. Algunos de sus libros publicados de poesía: Nerfs du Vent, 1975; Chute de Mots, 1990; PèSèt, 1994; KeepOnKeeping’On, 2003; Échos en Fuite, 2010; IstwaNanmMwen, 2011; Le Domic’île, 2012. Algunas de sus novelas publicadas son: Le Roman de Mississippi Blues; Les terresentourees de larmes y Partir sur un coursier de nuages. Forzado a abandonar su tierra natal por la dictadura de Duvalier, ha mantenido una fructífera relación con los artistas e intelectuales de su país, desde el exilio en Nueva York, a partir de los años 60s, ciudad donde estudió inglés y fotografía.


50

JIDI MAJIA (PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA,1961)

DISCOVERY OF WATER AND LIFE

Forgive me, water of the natural worldWater that I live byPerhaps because we are busy with mundane lifeOr because our memories of rivers have dried upI ask forgiveness, water, for this long periodIn a jumble of dreams and reality I forgot youMy hollow thinking is like a dried-up wellIn these dark depths I have waited so longWater! I am grateful to you this very momentMy life is roused by the miracle of your callBy grace of water, mankind’ pen has inditedA civilizing tale beyond time and spaceLikewise because of water, on this blue planetWe can humbly offer, on behalf of all beingsOur praise for water and for lifeLet us hold a drop of water in awe,just as we hold life in aweBecause for humankind, for every living thingA water drop’ fate foretells our world’ future!

Translated by Denis Mair

He is an Yi-Nuosu poet born in 1961 in Sichuan. He was mentored by the renowned poet Ai Qing and gained national attention when his collection Song of Love won the Third China National Poetry Prize in 1986. His work has been translated into many European languages and has been awarded numerous international prizes, including the Sholokhov Memorial Medal for Literature in 2006 from the Russian Writers’ Association, and a Certificate for Outstanding Contributions in Poetry from the Bulgarian Writers’ Association that same year.


51

W.C.MAHER (USA, 1950)

INTERNATIONAL WATERS

I wanted to run away to a countryWhere people weren’t running to get outI arrived at one countryI was greeted by a soldier out of uniformBut well armedIn another countryA doctor offered me what medicine he had leftIn another countryA priest was hurriedly packing away a crossThree wise men and a few lambs in strawAnother countryLooked good from a distanceBut when I got up closeI couldn’t bear to lookIn another countryA man was fighting for his life at a badRate of exchangeIn another countryDust was being kicked up to cover the dirtIn another countryA document was collecting signatures at an agreed upon priceWhile another countryFought back its tearsWith the gasAnother countryWas cleaning out its cageWhen I stepped in by mistakeAnother countryWas advertising the country next to it at reduced ratesWhile another countryWas putting sand in its pockets to soak up the bloodAnother country


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Was in the middle of a transaction under a hoodAnother countryHad its blinds down so I couldn’t see inWhile another countryKept seeing thingsThat still weren’t thereAnother countryWas putting itself back togetherFrom two rotten halvesWhile another countrySpoke eloquently about what kind of a countryIt had dreamed it would be one dayAnother countryExcused itself and continued to fight off fliesWhile another countryCarried a womanOver a thresholdInto a dark holeAnother countryWas rolling out the red carpetAs heads rolled behind the scenesI waited in international waters to be rescued.

Writer and performance artist he was born in 1950 in San Francisco. He lived in Berlin between 1987 and 1998, performing with various artists such as the poet DimitriPrigov and the musician Natalia Pschenitschnikowa and received a scholarship from the Berlin Senate. Between 2001 and 2008 he worked as a performance artist and copywriter with dancer Tony Rizzi in the shows “Judy Was Angry” and “Being Human Being”. In 2010, he traveled with photographer Signe Mähler to the South of the US to film the documentary “Down Southern Roads,” a road movie about America’s long-suffering South. From the collaboration with the musician JochenSeiterle in 2016, the CD “Blind Date With Love”, released by Fixcel Records. Today, William Cody Maher lives in Berlin.


53

BILL MANHIRE(NEW ZEALAND, 1946)

SURVEILLANCE NOTES

In Sweden, they whispered all winter,counting the frozen minutes.In France, they branched out. Tips of experience.In England, they dreamed of Ireland.In Ireland they seemed to be lonely. Germany was Belgium then was Spain.Italy was something else again.Portugal, Portugal, Portugal:they said that a lot because they never went back.Later in Hungary, he lay on his backand watched the clouds — so few of thembut each one big and fluffy. In the first dreamthe angel was having a dream; in the next dreamthe angel still clung to his story.

Poet, short story writer and professor he was born in Invercargill in 1946. He was his country’s inaugural Poet Laureate and has won the New Zealand Book Award for Poetry four times. He holds a personal chair at the Victoria University of Wellington, where he directs the celebrated creative writing program and the International Institute of Modern Letters.


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JACK MAPANJE (MALAWI, 1944)

THIS HEAD THAT STILL SPLITS

The head That really aches isThe wife, children, Relatives and friendsNot allowed,The dearth Of breathing spaceAnd reading matter, The noise Of rustling paperAnd pen Denied.


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ESTA CABEZA QUE AÚN SE RESQUEBRAJA

La cabezaQue realmente duele esLa esposa, los niños,Parientes y amigosNo admitidos,La escasezDe espacio para respirarY la materia legible,El ruidoDel papel crepitanteY la plumaImpugnada.


He is a poet, linguist and human rights activist. He has published about five poetry books and has poems in three anthologies of poetry from Africa. These include Of Chameleons and Gods (1981), The Chattering Wagtails of Mikuyu Prison (1993), Skipping Without Ropes (1998) The Last of the Sweet Bananas: New and Selected Poems (2004), and the recent Beasts of Nalunga (2007), which was recently shortlisted for the Forward Prize. He co-edited Oral Poetry from Africa: an anthology (1983), Summer Fires: New Poetry of Africa (1983) and The African Writers’ Handbook (1999). He also edited Gathering Seaweed: African Prison Writing (2002). Mapanje is the recipient of the Fonlon-Nichols Award for ‘his contribution to poetry and human rights’ and also received the Rotterdam Poetry International Award for his first book of poems. After political detention in 1987, while he was Department Head of English Studies at the University of Malawi, he was subsequently released in 1991. He has since lived outside Malawi with his family and currently teaches at the University of Newcastle upon Tyne in England.


56

JORGE MONTEALEGRE (CHILE,1954)

CHILDREN FROM THE END OF THE CENTURY

In the long-awaited Year 2000 after Christwe will be the young and the old from the previous centuryExcept for the children of Somaliawho are not included in the plans for the new millenniumbecause the children of Somalia will be gone by next weekThe children of Somalia are less than orphans in their desertThey are the children of hunger, cradled by wantAnd no one will adopt a creature born of humansWho plays with its own corpseThe children of Somalia are the children of Rwanda, Biafra,EthiopiaStaring at each other in the mirage of their Africanmerry-go-roundThe children of Somalia cannot escape, like the children ofSarajevoAnd children are children, in famine as in warThe children of Somalia are skeletons walking to nowhereJust birthed to dieThey no longer ask for anythingThey were born only to send us their staresVia satelliteA silent stare lasting the length of a close-upEyes that hold up their lids in an feat of strengthAt dinner timeWhen we switch channels and millenniums by moving oureyelashesBy the remote controlTime to blindfold ourselvesWith the last sinThat divides the main family of the United KingdomBlessed are the children of SomaliaBecause they will never beThe dirty old men of the coming century.


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NIÑOS DE FIN DE SIGLO

En el famoso año dos mil después de Cristoseremos niños y viejos del siglo pasadoSalvo los niños de Somaliaque no están en los planes del milenio que vieneporque los niños de Somalia no conocerán la próxima semanaLos niños de Somalia son menos que huérfanos en el desiertoSon hijos del hambre que los acunay nadie adoptará un cachorro de hombreque juega con su propio cadáverLos niños de Somalia son los niños de Ruanda, de Biafra, de Etiopíamirándose en el espejismo de una ronda africanaLos niños de Somalia no pueden escapar como los niños de Sarajevo103y los niños son niños así en el hambre como en la guerraLos niños de Somalia son esqueletos caminando hacia ninguna parterecién paridos a la muerteYa nada tienen que pedirNacieron sólo para enviarnos su miradavía satéliteUn silencio que dura un close-up eternoojitos que sostienen los párpados en una proeza irrepetiblea la hora de comidacuando cambiamos de canal y de milenio moviendo las pestañasa control remotoLa hora de vendarnos la miradacon el último pecadoque divide a la familia principal del Reino UnidoBienaventurados los niños de Somaliaporque nunca seránlos viejos de mierda del siglo venidero

Nació en Santiago de Chile en 1954. Es poeta, periodista, ensayista y guionista de humor. Ha realizado estudios de Cine. Tras el golpe militar de Pinochet, fue encarcelado a sus 19 años, en 1973. Tiempo después fue liberado y escribió en su exilio en Roma su primer libro Chacabuco, 1974, donde describe sus experiencias en prisión. Ha obtenido, entre otros reconocimientos, el Premio Altazor, Premio Municipal de Literatura y Premio del Consejo Nacional del Libro. También ha publicado los libros de poemas: Huiros, 1979; Lógica en zoo, 1981; Astillas, 1982; Exilios, 1983; Título de dominio, 1986; Bien común, 1995; El tren en la poesía chilena, 1996; Rostros y rastros de un canto, 1997; Wurlitzer, 1998; Prehistorieta de Chile, 2003 y Huesos, 2003.


58

KATE NEWMANN (IRELAND,1965)

IN PERE LACHAISE CEMETERY, PARIS

Why did we choose to come here –this crowded arrondissement of the deadbreathing with the soil?

We drank dark Cahors from the bottle,our voices thick in the mossed acoustic,our heavy flesh displacing light.

The dead accommodated each other like old neighbours.We were strangers, blackening the airlike winter acacias aching for lost yellow.

We walked their hushed streets,lichen peeling like distemper,the dead waiting for us to leave,

dull to our silent revelationthat we had lost each otherback before we met.


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EN EL CEMENTERIO PERE-LACHAISE, PARIS

¿Por quéelegimosveniraquí –a este abarrotado distrito de muertosque respiran con la tierra?

Tomábamos oscuro vino de Cahors de la botella,nuestras voces gruesas con la acústica musgosa,nuestra carne pesada desplazaba la luz.

Los muertos se hacían campo unos a otros como viejos vecinos.Nosotros éramos extraños, oscureciendo el airecomo acacias invernales añorando el amarillo perdido.

Caminamos por sus calladas calles,liquen pelándose como moquillo,los muertos esperando a que nos fuéramos,

indiferentes frente a nuestra revelación silenciosaque nos habíamos perdido uno al otroantes de habernos conocido siquiera.

Translated by George Mario Angel Quintero

Before reading English at King’s College, Cambridge, Kate Newmann worked at the Museum of Cretan Ethnology. She was Junior Fellow at the Institute of Irish Studies, Queen’s University, Belfast, where she compiled and published the Dictionary of Ulster Biography. She has published five collections of poetry, the most recent, Ask me Next Saturday.. She lives in Ireland and her sixth collection is due by the end of 2019.


60

JUAN GREGORIO REGINO (MÉXICO, NACIÓN MAZATECA,1960)

I KNOW THE WORLD’S TONGUE

The world now turns with me.it now opens its doors.I can hear those who talk,those who laugh, those who cry.I am discovering the world’s mystery as I go.The world now turns with me,it teaches me and it speaks to me.Because I know the world’s tongue.Because I know the peak’s tongue,that of thunder, of the tree and of the day.Because I know the sun’s tongue.Because I know the stone’s tongue,that of the earth, of the flower and of the night.Because I know the star’s tongue.Because I know the moon’s tongue,that of the cloud, of the sea, and of death.Now let the flowers come.Now let the birds come.Now let the roosters come.Let them sing with me.Now let the resin arrive.Now let the tobacco arrive.Now let the cocoa arrive,let them listen.They will be my guardians.They will be the keysthat open doors for me.They will watch over me,in clarity, in the visible,in the darkness and the shadows.They will be my guardians.


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CONOZCO LA LENGUA DEL MUNDO

El mundo ya gira conmigo,ya me va abriendo sus puertas.Puedo escuchar a quienes hablan,a quienes ríen, a quienes lloran.Voy descubriendo el misterio del mundo.El mundo ya gira conmigo,me enseña y me habla.Porque yo conozco la lengua del mundo.Porque yo conozco la lengua del cerro,del trueno, del árbol y del día.Porque yo conozco la lengua del sol.Porque yo conozco la lengua de la piedra,de la tierra, de la flor y de la noche.Porque yo conozco la lengua de la estrella.Porque yo conozco la lengua de la luna,de la nube, del mar y de la muerte.Que vengan ahora las flores.Que vengan ahora los pájaros.Que vengan ahora los gallos.Que canten conmigo.Que llegue ahora el copal.Que llegue ahora el tabaco.Que llegue ahora el cacao,que me escuchen.Ellos serán mis guardias.Ellos serán las llavesque me abrirán las puertas.Ellos me vigilaránen lo nítido, en lo visible,en lo oscuro y las sombras.Ellos serán mis guardias.

Nació en México, Nación Mazateca, en 1960. Su poesía está arraigadaen la tradición oral de la cultura mazateca, en su memoria, que abrenuevos caminos a la expresión literaria y poética. Ha publicado doslibros de poesía: Tatsjejinngakjaboya (No es eterna la muerte) y Ngata’araStsehe (Que siga lloviendo). Una parte de su producción poética ha sidotraducida al castellano, inglés, francés, italiano, serbio y catalán. Espromotor del Premio María Sabina para reconocer a los creadoresdestacados en la escritura mazateca.Su poesía se ha difundido en diversos países como: España, Francia,Italia, Serbia, Cuba, Argentina y Estados Unidos. En 1996 obtuvoel Premio Nezahualcóyotl de Literatura en Lenguas Mexicanas,otorgado por el Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes.


62

FERNANDO RENDON(COLOMBIA,1951)

DESTINYConsider the song of a wounded bird.

Its fair plumage –sky-blue, gold and blood– level with the grass.

Consider the flight of the falcon, coming down in circles after sighting its victim.

As the life-oozing wound comes nearer to the claws, beauty seeks death, hope seeks the ordeal decreed by chance, and they remain in suspense.

However, even at the risk of the chain of cause and effect’s breaking, consider also that the hand of poetry will touch the bird of prey in its fall, bringing death down, for love too has arrived at the rendezvous heralded by fate.


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DESTINO

Considerad el canto de un pájaro herido.

Su bello plumaje celeste, oro y sangre a ras de la hierba.

Considerad el vuelo del halcón que en círculos desciende después de avistar a su víctima.

A medida que se acerca la herida que mana vida a las garras, la belleza busca a la muerte, la esperanza al suplicio que el azar le ha decretado, y se mantienen en vilo.

No obstante, aún a riesgo de que se rompa el eslabón de causas y efectos, tened también en cuenta que la mano de la poesía tocará al ave rapaz en su caída, derribando a la muerte, pues también el amor ha llegado a la cita que pregona la fatalidad.

Fernando Rendón was born in Medellín (Colombia), in 1951. He gained his first experiences writing poetry and having it published in journals as a teenager. His debut work Contrahistoria (Editorial Coopiss, Colombia, 1986), a visionary idea of the future in complete opposition to the realities of apocalyptic excess in his country, was published in the 1980s. His poetry was translated and published in many foreign languages. He is cofounder and the General Coordinator of World Poetry Movement (WPM) and member of Circle Poets (Greece).


64

RATİ SAXENA (INDIA)

REFUGEE

They came to this land as if by sea, the way wind clings to spar, like the dew on a humid morning somewhere near the equator, or the way moths on rainy nights fly towards the light,

they took shelter in this place the way wasps nest in the holes of old wooden doors, or a letter wrongly addressed in its post office box,or unwanted email in an inbox,

they settled in this land the way ice floats in a glass of juice,like kites holding tight to the ruins of buildings,

and each night they returnby marshy paths where footprints stipple the land likegoosebumps, their hungerstubborn as the blackened ashstuck to the bottom of a pan,

one step backwardto lurch one forwardthey disappear into the landthat is not theirs.

Translated by Seth Michelson

Poet, translator, editor, director of poetry festivals and Vedic scholar. She has 6 collections of poetry in Hindi and two in English (Translated by poet) and numerous languages. She has two travelogues, a memoir and a criticism on the work of famous Malayalam Poet Balamaniyamma’s. Her study on the Atharvaveda has been published as “The Seeds of the Mind- a fresh approach to the study of Atharvaveda” under the fellowship of the Indira Gandhi National Center for Arts. Her Awards-Fellowship by Indira Gandhi National Centre for Arts in 2004–5, SahityaAkademi Award for Translation 2000, Sate Bank of Travancore Award for poetry 2001, NajiNaaman’s Literary Prizes for 2016.


65

DINOS SIOTIS (GREECE,1944)

DREAMS OF A SLEEPLESS NIGHT He awakened from a sleepless nightdreaming he had been fast asleepand in his sleep had dreamed a dreambut it was frayed about the edgeswhere it left off he could not tell,could not remember distinctly.He only knew that his dream sleepwas rich with landscapes beyond imagination.He passed the timecutting his life into sliceswhich, transfixed, he later reassembledof an afternoon, awake while all around himslept the sleep of bygone days.Before his eyes he watched days file bydays that waved to himfrom a downhill path to the sea.He had stood motionless on the sand,feeling not a twinge of boredom,only the joy of dreaming a dreamof an evening, of a nightas he lay wide awakelooking on from the depths of calmat a dream where he had played a walk-on role. Such were the dreams he dreamedon his many sleepless nights. Translated by Fred A. Reed

Hewas born in Tinos, Greece in 1944 and studied Law at Athens University and Creative Writing at San Francisco State University. A poet, novelist and literary critic, he lived in California, New York, Boston and Canada for 27 years where he edited and published eight literary and/or political magazines in English and Greek.He has published twenty books of poetry and fiction in English, French and Greek. His poems have been translated into nine European languages and in Chinese. In 2007 he received in Athens the State Prize for Poetry for his book “Autobiography of a Target”.


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TAREK EL TAYEB (SUDAN,1959)

[20]

It is no sinto despise the invaderswho plundered the windreplaced it with dust and smokeconfiscated the rain trampling on itand ravaged souls of humanswith leaden feetin search of a sacred oxwith no signs

It is no sinfor me to hate the petrified headsand cruel heartsthat don’t see where they step onthe head-blows hangingin the fireworks skyHead-blows with fierce mouths with no souldevouring bags of popcorn and cotton candyand laughing loud

the sin isto raise bulls for the tyrantsand sell them popcorn and cotton candy bags


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[20]

No es pecadoque desprecie a los invasores.que saquearon el vientolo reemplazaron con el polvo y el humoconfiscaron la lluvia pisoteándola y arrasaron almas de seres humanoscon pies de plomoen busca de un buey sagradosin señales

No es pecadoque odie las cabezas petrificadasy los corazones cruelesque no ven dónde pisanlos cabezazos colgadosen el cielo de los fuegos artificialesCabezazos con bocas feroces sin almadevorando bolsas de palomitas de maíz y algodones de azúcar y carcajeando

El pecado escriar toros para los tiranosy venderles bolsas de palomitas de maíz y algodones de azúcar

Translated by Khalid Rassouni

Poet, novelist, storyteller, playwright and university professorhe was born in Egypt in 1959. His books have been published in German, English, Italian, French, Spanish, Macedonian, Romanian and Serbian. He has received, among others, the Elías Canetti Prize, the Grand Prix of Vienna and the Grand Prize of Poetry of Romania. He published the poetry books: A suitcase full of pigeons and zureo; Depuraciones (The terror of the white eye), (sensation); The market of God; Any doubts; The dust of the shadow; We sold the land and rejoiced in the dust; It is not sin; Stations of autobiography; The flight 797 towards Vienna; The days of Vienna; and Walking naked.


68

NGUYEN QUANG THIEU (VIETNAM,1957)

DAYBREAK

Darkness moves like a black cat toward morning;Its tail nudges me out of sleep.I stir like a leaf coming out of its bud,And my thoughts, clear and smiling, face me day.

Sounds of life slide through rising vaporsAnd echo from the distant misty fields.A buffalo cart rolls quietly through the nightAnd carries the smell of fresh grass toward morning.

Hey heyhey… the little roads are my lover’s fingersSliding down to the roots of my hair,Who is calling? Who is laughing? I slipThrough the crack of the door hey heyhey.

Now the farmer lifts me into his cart.From under his wide hat his bass voice sings,Like rice flowing into a bamboo bin,Or soil rising behind a flashing plowshare.

Half of a wheel moves out of the night,Half of the cart is still in darkness.Prodded by the farmer’s voice, like someone waking up,The winds of the new day lift their young bodies.

Translated by Martha Collins & Nguyen Quang Thieu


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EL ALBA

La oscuridad avanza como un gato negro hacia la mañana;me despierta el roce de su cola.Me muevo como una hoja saliendo de su brote,y mis pensamientos, claros y sonrientes, se enfrentan al día.

Los sonidos de la vida se deslizan a lo largo de vapores crecientesy hacen eco desde distantes campos brumosos.Una carreta de búfalos rueda silenciosamente en la nochey carga olor a hierba fresca hacia la mañana.

Heyheyhey… los pequeños caminos son los dedos de mi amanteque bajan deslizándose hasta las raíces de mi cabello.¿Quién llama? ¿Quién ríe? Me resbalopor la hendija de la puerta heyheyhey.

Ahora el granjero me sube a su carreta.Debajo de su amplio sombrero su voz gruesa canta,como arroz cayendo en una olla de bambúo el suelo levantándose detrás de la centelleante reja del arado.

Media rueda sale de la noche,media carreta está aún en la oscuridad.Instigados por la voz del granjero, como alguien despertándose,los vientos del nuevo día impulsan sus cuerpos jóvenes.

Translated by León Blanco from English version by Martha Collins & Nguyen Quang Thieu

Born in 1957 in Ha Tay province (now Hanoi) he is the member of The Association of Vietnamese Writers, Member of the Poetry Council of theAssociation of Vietnamese Writers. Thieu had been working as poetry editor of Van Nghe Weekly (the Weekly Journal of Arts and Literature of theAssociation of Vietnamese Writers. In 1995, He published his first poetry book in 1990. In 1993, Thieu was given Award of Association of the Vietnamese Writers with his poems collection: The Insomnia of Fire (it is the most important Award of Literature in Vietnam). In 1998, Thieu received Award for the Final by The National Leterary Translators Association of America for The Women Carry River Water Thieu also received over 20 other Awards and Prizes for poetry, prose, play and filmscript. Thieu also paints. His first oil paintings exhibition was held in The National Museum of Art in Hanoi 2005.

IN MEMORIAM


71

Alexander Pushkin (1799-1836)

This current year has been deemed the “Year of Pushkin” in Russia. The literary genius Alexander Pushkin who universalized Russian poetry is celebrating his 220th birthday is once again brought to the forefront in his country’s cultural agenda. We are commemorating this great poet of freedom with a poem he dedicated to the philosopher P. Y. Chaadayev; a poem on freedom that he wrote in his youth.

TO CHAADEYEVNot long did youth’s vain hopes delude us, Its dreams of love and prideful fame. They briefly, fleetingly pursued us, Then passed like mist and no more came. But still we chafe, our hearts afire, Under the yoke of tyranny, And, heedful of our country’s plea, Her true deliverance desire. We freedom wait with all the fever, The hidden ache and eagerness That ‘fore the hour of promised bliss Consume the yong and ardent lover. While freedom’s flame within us lives, While we by honour’s voice are guided, To Russia, comrade, let us give Our spirits whole and undivided. Dear friend, have faith: the wakeful skies Presage a dawn of wonder - Russia Shall from her age-old sleep arise, And despotism impatient crushing, Upon its ruins our names incise!

Translated by I.Zheleznova.


72

Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

It has been 200 years since his birth and a150 years after the publication of his pioneering poem, “Leaves of Grass” in 1855.Both the poet and his poetry are as fresh as the first Spring day.He wrote as if he was having a conversation about people, life, his love of freedom, his system of belief, with an open heart and courage. He was the poet of great and wide-ranging poetry.The poet who declares, “Because all I see and know, I believe to have purportin what will yet be supplied.”

We sing on the 200th year of his birth, commemorating him with his “Thoughts.”

1. OF the visages of things—And of piercing through to the accepted hells beneath; Of ugliness—To me there is just as much in it as there is in beauty—And now the ugliness of human beings is acceptable to me; Of detected persons—To me, detected persons are not, in any respect, worse than undetected persons—and are not in any respect worse than I am myself; Of criminals—To me, any judge, or any juror, is equally criminal—and any reputable person is also—and the President is also.

ANNIVERSARY


74

Lawrence Ferlinghetti (1919-)

Poet of cities and lights, witness and chronicler, philosopher and defier of isms and movements, Lawrence Monsanto Ferlinghetti (1919-) has become his own river, fertile with all that jazz. Refusing to be categorized (he has for instance refused to be branded as a “Beat Poet” ) he prefers Pablo Neruda’s term “wide-open” for himself. And wide open he is. He has opened up wide and wild vistas and streets before us. He wanted to found a place where poets and readers, swimmers and dreamers could hang in the comfy presence of their books, an abode where like spirits could meet as if an ancient Athenian bath, enjoying the silence of hypnotizing waters or discussing the ins and outs of life. Thus started his bookshop and publishing house adventure, catapulting what is now called the “San Francisco Renaissance.”

Of course each rebirth brings with it death- with Ferlinghetti this meant a doing away with a high-browed pedantic poetics. He seemed to enjoy breaking open the closed world of the old masters by carrying into his verse dogs and humans that were all too human. He reveled in his insurgence, defining himself as a philosophical anarchist. I would also call him a painter for when you enter his world, you can smell his boulevards and trees. You can taste his desires and nausea. And his vivid colours tint a brave new world that is full of screams and songs. If a poetic archeologist were to dig up his work, s/he would find that beneath the sparkling surface is a depth that leaves one at once full of fruit and darkness. He is at once a sociologist mirroring the speed and cutting barbed wires of our times. At a hundred, he has managed to stay fresh and young by remaining wide open to all fields of sound and life. “Poets, come out of your closets,/ Open your windows, open your doors,/ You have been holed-up too long/ in your closed worlds.” he has said in his Populist Manifesto No. 1. Today we are doing just that. We celebrate you, Mr. Ferlinghetti, and all the space you have unfurled for us.


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Populist Manifesto No.1Poets, come out of your closets, Open your windows, open your doors, You have been holed-up too long in your closed worlds. Come down, come down from your Russian Hills and Telegraph Hills, your Beacon Hills and your Chapel Hills, your Mount Analogues and Montparnasses, down from your foothills and mountains, out of your teepees and domes. The trees are still falling and we’ll to the woods no more. No time now for sitting in them As man burns down his own house to roast his pig No more chanting Hare Krishna while Rome burns. San Francisco’s burning, Mayakovsky’s Moscow’s burning the fossil-fuels of life. Night & the Horse approaches eating light, heat & power, and the clouds have trousers. No time now for the artist to hide above, beyond, behind the scenes, indifferent, paring his fingernails, refining himself out of existence. No time now for our little literary games, no time now for our paranoias & hypochondrias, no time now for fear & loathing, time now only for light & love. We have seen the best minds of our generation destroyed by boredom at poetry readings. Poetry isn’t a secret society, It isn’t a temple either. Secret words & chants won’t do any longer. The hour of oming is over, the time of keening come, a time for keening & rejoicing over the coming end of industrial civilization which is bad for earth & Man. Time now to face outward in the full lotus position with eyes wide open,


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Time now to open your mouths with a new open speech, time now to communicate with all sentient beings, All you ‘Poets of the Cities’ hung in museums including myself, All you poet’s poets writing poetry about poetry, All you poetry workshop poets in the boondock heart of America, All you housebroken Ezra Pounds, All you far-out freaked-out cut-up poets, All you pre-stressed Concrete poets, All you cunnilingual poets, All you pay-toilet poets groaning with graffiti, All you A-train swingers who never swing on birches, All you masters of the sawmill haiku in the Siberias of America, All you eyeless unrealists, All you self-occulting supersurrealists, All you bedroom visionaries and closet agitpropagators, All you Groucho Marxist poets and leisure-class Comrades who lie around all day and talk about the workingclass proletariat, All you Catholic anarchists of poetry, All you Black Mountaineers of poetry, All you Boston Brahims and Bolinas bucolics, All you den mothers of poetry, All you zen brothers of poetry, All you suicide lovers of poetry, All you hairy professors of poesie, All you poetry reviewers drinking the blood of the poet, All you Poetry Police - Where are Whitman’s wild children, where the great voices speaking out with a sense of sweetness and sublimity, where the great’new vision, the great world-view, the high prophetic song of the immense earth and all that sings in it And our relations to it - Poets, descend to the street of the world once more And open your minds & eyes with the old visual delight, Clear your throat and speak up, Poetry is dead, long live poetry


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with terrible eyes and buffalo strength. Don’t wait for the Revolution or it’ll happen without you, Stop mumbling and speak out with a new wide-open poetry with a new commonsensual ‘public surface’ with other subjective levels or other subversive levels, a tuning fork in the inner ear to strike below the surface. Of your own sweet Self still sing yet utter ‘the word en-masse - Poetry the common carrier for the transportation of the public to higher places than other wheels can carry it. Poetry still falls from the skies into our streets still open. They haven’t put up the barricades, yet, the streets still alive with faces, lovely men & women still walking there, still lovely creatures everywhere, in the eyes of all the secret of all still buried there, Whitman’s wild children still sleeping there, Awake and walk in the open air.

MANIFESTOS


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Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

SOBRE UNA POESÍA SIN PUREZAEs muy conveniente, en ciertas horas del día o de la noche, observar profundamente los objetos en

descanso: las ruedas que han recorrido largas, polvorientas distancias, soportando grandes cargas vegetales o minerales, los sacos de las carbonerías, los barriles, las cestas, los mangos y asas de los instrumentos del carpintero. De ello se desprende el contacto del hombre y de la tierra como una lección para el torturado poeta lírico. Las superficies usadas, el gasto que las manos han infligido a Ias cosas, la atmósfera a menudo trágica y siempre patética de estos objetos, infunde una especie de atracción no despreciable hacia la realidad del mundo.

La confusa impureza de los seres humanos se percibe en ellos, la agrupación, uso y desuso de los materiales, las huellas del pie y los dedos, la constancia de una atmósfera inundando las cosas desde lo interno y lo externo.

Así sea la poesía que buscamos, gastada como por un ácido por los deberes de la mano, penetrada por el sudor y el humo, oliente a orina y a azucena, salpicada por las diversas profesiones que se ejercen dentro y fuera de la ley.

Una poesía impura como un traje, como un cuerpo, con manchas de nutrición, y actitudes vergonzosas, con arrugas, observaciones, sueños, vigilia, profecías, declaraciones de amor y de odio, bestias, sacudidas, idilios, creencias políticas, negaciones, dudas, afirmaciones, impuestos.

La sagrada ley del madrigal y los decretos del tacto, olfato, gusto, vista, oído, el deseo de justicia, el deseo sexual, el ruido del océano, sin excluir deliberadamente nada, sin aceptar deliberadamente nada, la entrada en la profundidad de las cosas en un acto de arrebatado amor, y el producto poesía manchado de palomas digitales, con huellas de dientes y hielo, roído tal vez levemente por el sudor y el uso. Hasta alcanzar esa dulce superficie del instrumento tocado sin descanso, esa suavidad durísima de la madera manejada, del orgulloso hierro. La flor, el trigo, el agua tienen también esa consistencia especial, ese recuerdo de un magnífico tacto.

Y no olvidemos nunca la melancolía, el gastado sentimentalismo, perfectos frutos impuros de maravillosa calidad olvidada, dejados atrás por el frenético libresco: la luz de la luna, el cisne en el anochecer, «corazón mío» son sin duda lo poético elemental e imprescindible. Quien huye del mal gusto cae en el hielo.

Pablo Neruda


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TOWARD A POETRY IMPUREIt is good, at certain hours of the day and night, to look closely at the world of objects at rest. Wheels

that have crossed long, dusty distances with their mineral and vegetable burdens, sacks from the coal bins, barrels, and baskets, handles and hafts for the carpenter’s tool chest. From them flow the contacts of man with the earth, like a text for all troubled lyricists. The used surfaces of things, the wear that the hands give to things, the air, tragic at times, pathetic at others, of such things—all lend a curious attractiveness to the reality of the world that should not be underprized.

In them one sees the confused impurity of the human condition, the massing of things, the use and disuse of substance, footprints and fingerprints, the abiding presence of the human engulfing all artifacts, inside and out.

Let that be the poetry we search for: worn with the hand’s obligations, as by acids, steeped in sweat and in smoke, smelling of the lilies and urine, spattered diversely by the trades that we live by, inside the law or beyond it.

A poetry impure as the clothing we wear, or our bodies, soup-stained, soiled with our shameful behavior, our wrinkles and vigils and dreams, observations and prophecies, declarations of loathing and love, idylls and beasts, the shocks of encounter, political loyalties, denials and doubts, affirmations and taxes.

The holy canons of madrigal, the mandates of touch, smell, taste, sight, hearing, the passion for justice, sexual desire, the sea sounding—willfully rejecting and accepting nothing: the deep penetraion of things in the transports of love, a consummate poetry soiled by the pigeon’s claw, ice-marked and tooh-marked, bitten delicately with our sweatdrops and usage, perhaps. Till the instrument so restlessly played yields us the comfort of its surfaces, and the woods show the knottiest suavities shaped by the pride of the tool. Blossom and water and wheat kernel share one precious consistency: the sumptuous appeal of the tactile.

Let no one forget them. Melancholy, old mawkishness impure and unflawed, fruits of a fabulous species lost to the memory, cast away in a frenzy’s abandonment—moonlight, the swan in the gathering darkness, all hackneyed endearments: surely that is the poet’s concern, essential and absolute.

Those who shun the “bad taste” of things will fall flat on the ice.

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