Daily Archives: February 11, 2020

Poezi nga Myrteza Mara

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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 →

Opening up against the light / Poem by Mar Thieriot 

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Poem by Mar Thieriot 

 

Opening up against the light

Secret,
Rain rain
In my sad hands,
A morning of tears,
Written forever.

The Red eyes,
They say cruelty
That day.

The Rose Despetalada and betrayed
You know the strength of dawn
And the quiet grail,
In the dark woods.

The Scent of the flower defies
The angry rivalries.

Persistent,
The reason of the rose,
Scream in the wind.
The wounded moon,
Blue of pain,
Get up,

How much the rose
– suddenly
Blooms,
The Counter-Light.

Poezi nga Behare Daja Kasa

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Poezi nga Behare Daja Kasa

 

***

ngricë janari.
më zgjoi avulli rozë
i dihatjes së shpirtit.
…u ngroha…

 

USHTIMË SHPIRTI

Po shteret deti i rinisë,
Janë zemëruar dallgët e saj,
Ushtimë e rëndë breg më breg
E skaj më skaj.

Ku venë vallë ëndrrat e saj?!
Në tjera dhera hedhur spirancën,
Kostume të çjerra veshur shpirtrave,
Me mallin çengel, mureve që i rritën.

Po ikin krahët e së ardhmes sonë,
Pjellat nga gjoksi ynë i ligsht,
Fluturojnë zogjtë nga nëna folé,
E ne, fosile të vjetra të kësaj historie.

Kaq shpejt u gangrenizuam vallë?!
Shekull i vështirë ky i yni,
Na t’bijt e shekullit të ri,
T’përulun zbrazëtisë në skamje shpirti!

 

ËNDRRA IME

E zbrita ëndrrën time nga e qiellit çati,
E mes krahësh e mbështolla lehtas,
Me zë gruaje më flet ëmbël në shpirt,
Është pjellë femërore kjo ëndërr,
Gjallon ethshëm.

E zbrita ëndrrën time nga të grijtat re,
Me aromë parfumi ia vesha çdo grimcë,
Me zë femre më flet,ma mbush këtë shpirt,
Është simbol finese kjo ëndërr,
Është ndjellëse.

E zbrita ëndrrën, në timen fytyrë,
E enda mes flokëve,syve,qerpikëve,
Me zë nëne, gruaje,pa ego më flet,
Ma ndrit shpirtin kjo ëndërr,
Është verbuese.

…është ëndrra ime pra,
shtraton mes buzëqeshjes…

 

Mbrëmë nuk më merrte gjumi / Poezi nga Altin Meçja

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Poezi nga Altin Meçja

 

Mbrëmë nuk më merrte gjumi

Mbrëmë nuk më merrte gjumi
nisa të lodroja orëve të mia në liri.
Rrugës u përplasa me tallavanë,
që çuditërisht u ndesh me pagjumësinë time.

Nata më pyeti çfarë është liria ?
Liria është orgazëm shpirt mendimi.
Pse e do Fishtën dhe At Zef Pllumin?
E dua, se aty gjej paqen e shpirtit të një shqiptarie ndryshe.

Pastaj, m’u kujtua Linda e Çehovit,
tek sodiste në stolat e parqeve të braktisur
dhe u shtriva në lëndinë, atje në fshatin tim.
Aty, pashë që isha plakur me mallin!

Nisa të dëgjoja meloditë e preferuara,
një pjesë e tyre do më shoqerojnë në përjetësi,
bashkë me poezitë e mia,
pjellë që nuk e mbars dot në jetë.

Pak më tej takova disa pijetarë,
që pinin konjak me lëng qershie.
Sahatet e tyre kishin ngecur,
në qoftet e fundit gjysmuar kafshimeve.

Në ballkon hëna ishte bërë gjyshe.
Dielli i djeshëm më mardhi emocionet.
Nisa me qesh,
ndërsa po qaja rrudhat e shpirtit tim.

Dhe një pyetje kishte nata,
kë do doje të vrisje një ditë dielli?
Mentalitetin otomano- komunist, para se të na vrasë të gjithëve…
Aty mora frymë lirisht
e ndërsa po flija me ëndrrat e mia,
i fika për t’i ndezur përsëri.

Ocean of Love / Poem by Narsing Bongu Rao

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Poem by Narsing Bongu Rao
 
 
Ocean of Love
 
I want to kiss you
on your forehead,
I will kiss your cheeks,
and on your eyelids,
then
deep, on your lips.
 
I just want to convey
my love and passion for you,
only to express how dear
you are to me;
a token of love…,
and caressing the world
with this small act.
 
What a music it is;
music of water and air,
that sprinkles wonderful rainbows,
it just displays,
the dazzle of dancing fire-flies,
and the fluttering movement
of millions of butterflies.

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

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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

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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.
 
 
 
QGWJRH
 
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.

Poems, about poet and images of Gobs(holding guitar) and poet / Poems by Manab Manik

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Poems by Manab Manik
 
Manab Manik is a bilingual poet and short story writer whose poems and stories have been published in India, Australia, Canada, USA, Belgium both online and print. His poetry books ‘Dreams Shattered and Other Poems’ and ‘My Poetic Offering’ published in 2019 have got great critical responses in India and beyond. He also writes haikus which are receiving popularity among the readers. His stories like Wilde’s and Tagore’s draw tears of the readers. Recently Manab is teaching English literature at Mugbasan Hakkania High School about 70 miles away from Kolkata in India.
 
 
Aching Song
 
Of the year Winter is the cruellest season,
She joins hands with Death in cospiration and treason.
It’s she who helps Death in turning his hands cold,
Coward Death! You put your icy hands on a heart and gold?
Dear Gobs! Thou were a flower in this earthly bower,
Fie Death! You reaped him in disguise of a cruel mower?
Who can count those tear-drops in the flowery bower?
Who can turn the salty soil into fertile soil earlier?
Each January one brings tears in many a heart loving,
How painful when people say Happy New Year smiling!
Oh God! Had this day been torn from time’s calendar,
Dear hearts would never sigh, lament with tear.
Oh how long this day is! Cruel day! Go away fast!
Dear Gobs! Wait for us until we return to dust.
 
 
 
Returning Home
 
When the bell of thy returning Home didst ring,
All stood with heavy hearts and tears and moaning.
How joyous when on earth at midnight hour began thy play!
How grimly gay to thee it was when thou left thy clay!
Thou remained on earth for a brief span of time,
Thou travelled towards Home to sing thy painfully pleasant rhyme.
Coming and going, coming and going go on forever,
Soul leaves its body after life’s fitful fever.
Soul is like a snake that leaves its scale,
It renews itself roaming in a holy vale.
After playing thy role thou took adieu from earth,
How happy thy soul is to meet Him with mirth!
To thee adieu is not of sadness but of joy,
Thou went Home breaking thy bond with the mundane toy.
 
 
 
The Glory of Thy Morning Life
 
Oh Shahbaaz ! In the holy hours of dawn thou came into be,
How happy the August Sun to welcome thee !
How strong thy heavenly connection with thy Creator !
He Himself was taken aback seeing His creation dear.
Like a new born babe washed and fondled by a loving nurse,
Thy morning life I sing in my rhyming verse.
The August showers ‘re blessings to thy life new,
Thy cradle’s illuminated with the Sun’s hue.
Of a sunny day all thought feeling thy life’s morning,
Who knew by chance thou ‘d fall like a tear-drop rolling?
Thy sportive image in my eternal lines does still lie,
Like a shadow to the dear hearts thou art always seen nigh.
Thy frail pot fell down and mixed with dust,
In countless memory-leaves thy life’s morn live must.
 
 
 
 
Thy Guitar, Gilded
 
Who can forget thee holding thy guitar in thy hand?
Who can forget thy playing music in thy schooling land?
What Alexander’s queer horse to him, thy guitar’s to thee,
Thy lovely playing everybody would watch with glee.
Thy guitar on mortal world is untameable, queer,
With leaving thy clay it’s become a broken lyre.
It groans and shakes at the touches of musicians renowned,
Like the slain Duncan’s horses it becomes terrible, unbound.
Like a soulless body thy guitar still remains,
To get thy running fingers it still sighs in pains.
Like thy life’s untold tale thy guitar bears a tale,
That’s known to the true player who in heaven does ne’er fail.
Oh musician! Thou ‘ll hold thy guitar in celestial city,
Thou and thy guitar ‘ll be gilded by the Almighty.
 
 
 
The Sunny Son, Ne’er Sunken
 
Like the Sun in the sky thou have ne’er sunk,
Who can thy eternal glow and halo debunk?
No dark cloud can hide and darken thy fair face,
No haughty Icarus can belittle thy glorious rays.
That angelic light thou still spread and scatter,
With a fond gaze to the Sun finds thy fair face thy father,
Whose day passes in musing and dreaming thee,
Mistaking the Sun for son he extends his arms with glee.
Gazing at the Sun his eyes ‘re filled with tear,
With joy endless he wants to meet COLONEL and son there.
In a trance he cries out and calls his son,
“Dear Gobs! How dost thou smile like the Sun?”
All of a sudden his pet dog embraces him,
He wakes up and gives his dog a smiling beam.
 
 
 
Poems, about poet and images of Gobs(holding guitar) and poet

To Touch You … / Multilanguage poem by Rajashree Mohapatra

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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 →