Poezi nga Myrteza Mara

Poezi nga Myrteza Mara   AH, KJO NATË! Ah, kjo natë, si arkivol i hapur, ka gëlltitur gjysmën e hënës. Mallkimi zvarritet drejt gropës së zezë, yjet pikojnë klithma. Natë, natë, natë!… Eeeeeeejjj, njerëz! Zgjohuni, po varrosin ditën! Ah, nata!… … Continue reading

Daniel Pixiades: “Putnici na jug (Viajeros hacia el Sur” ) / Traducción al Español:  Alicija Minjarez Ramirez

Danijel Piksijades / Daniel Pixiades: “Putnici na jug / Viajeros hacia el Sur” https://banatskikulturnicentar.blogspot.com/…/danijel-piksi… 124 str, broš. povez, 21 cm, 2020. god. ISBN 978-86-6029-458-8 Cena: 800 din Knjigu možete poručiti pouzećem na mejl: banatskikulturnicentar@gmail.com ______________________________ Edicija PREVODI Edición TRADUCCIONES Prevod … Continue reading

Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Afternoon Interior
She sits across the room from me reading a book.
Her legs tucked up under her sideways
with that unnatural curve of the spine.
I hear her shift uncomfortably every so often,
open my eyes and look over.
She smiles, before returning to her book.
I am laid out on this aging blue couch.
Perhaps the first thing I ever truly owned.
Listening to the rain against the far window.
The way everything pools, even life.
Standing Outside Theo van Gogh’s Place
You know, the one where Vincent lived
and painted when in Paris.
Arguing in the Montmartre bars just down the street.
Theo going around to all the galleries
trying in vain to push the work of
the impressionists.
And we are right outside that large blue door.
135 years later, waiting on a tour group to leave
so we can snap a few pictures and soak it in.
This is what I love about Paris,
what no other city on earth can duplicate.
I am here for the dead, not the living.
On that sharp bend in the road
that leads downhill to towards
Sacré-Coeur and all those steps
to the top.
The racket from the boys and girls private schools
on opposite sides of the street.
Just a few streets from our hotel
and the Moulin Rouge
which still has a dress code.
You can’t match the history here,
so don’t even try.
The Punishment of Marsyas
Never challenge anyone to a music contest,
least of all those petty gods,
and Titian’s punishment for hubris is just like Ovid’s,
the Satyr flayed alive by Apollo while a tiny dog
walks around under the body eating up the fallen bits of meat
and that bigger dog at the side of a child who really seems
to be enjoying the festivities, that old man watching closely
as if contemplating a similar fate for himself
as the jug is passed around and the music
of the gods plays.
By globs good face
for achy marching band feet
here in mind snapping milquetoast body
to the snotty child-wet of distant ravines,
pilot license overhead,
Marcel Proust selling freezer orders of beef
over the phone, what a gallant Arthurian charmer,
lips stuck to a tailpipe named Martha or Marta
or some other ungodly insect name crawling out
from under rocks, the pincers sinking their hooks in
so the weight station guy can get lost in cagey fudged manifests;
in here, the world is a canker sore,
for some of the hearts and none of the minds
by high water hells
to infant jewel boxes and back…
the truly betrayed remain silent in the slick dumb misery
of no hope.
Tunisian Kebab
It smells so good.
We pass three competing Kebab places
within forty feet of each other.
All with those spinning meats that make
a hungry man salivate.
We try not to make eye contact.
That is what starts the hustle.
But I tell my wife I have a hankering
even though I am allergic to peppers
and Mr. Bland when it comes to eating.
we pass the first two because the men are young
with shifty eyes.
I don’t trust them.
The third is a much older man.
Seems like he’s been around longer than the Pyramids.
So we sit down at the first of two tables.
There are only four chairs.
And we both order the kabab and chips.
After making sure there are no peppers
and all the exotic sauces in mine are
replaced with mayonnaise.
The old gentlemen running the joint is a straight hustler.
Jumping between languages and foot traffic.
You have to admire his tenacity.
He says he’s been making kabab there for 28 years,
though it could easily be a lie.
That he is Tunisian and has a place back home
as well as here.
Apparently, he loves to ski and wants to go to Canada
even those the Alps are right there.
He is the man preparing our food, so we don’t question him.
A lot is lost when broken English is paired with butchered French.
Tunisian kebab the best!
he says.
I show you.
Soon, we just smile and nod.
And it is absolutely delicious.
17 Euros and fills you up for the entire day.
He tells us to come back and we do
a few days later.
To admire an artist at work.
In a city of artists.
Shaving that spinning spiced meat down
off an idol every hard working carnivore can worship
from Marseilles to Dunkirk.

To Touch You … / Multilanguage poem by Rajashree Mohapatra

Poem by Rajashree Mohapatra   ତୁମକୁ ଛୁଇଁବା ପାଇଁ … ତୁମକୁ ଛୁଇଁବା ପାଇଁ ମନ ତଳେ ଇଚ୍ଛାଟିଏ ଅହରହ ଉଙ୍କିମାରେ । ତୁମକୁ ଦେଖିବା ପାଇଁ ମନ ଗମ୍ଭୀରାରେ ଗୋପନରେ ଦୀପଟିଏ ଜାଳି ନିଜେ ଜଳୁଥାଏ । ତୁମ ପାଇଁ ସଖା ! ହୃଦୟ ହ୍ରଦରେ ଉଠେ ଯେତେସବୁ ଉତ୍ତାଳ ତରଙ୍ଗ , … Continue reading