MA WILL BE LATE
that I come back to you
tired and without memory
that the kitchen door is open
Thank you lil’ Mac at Pueyrredón Ave. and Juan Perón St.
for helping me
sarcophagus is not in Inferno
It is in a mausoleum in
MADE IN HONDURAS
antoine de kom
with the aid of vicks and vim we declared ourselves a panorama, we became arab a sea of light
In her womb she bears the constant sound of bees
That will be silenced only when a wave
Juan Cristóbal Romero
Five serious wounds befell me
and of them all, the smallest
It all started with stubborn Magan saying
MAGDALEN IN THE RIVER
In the Summer
After long days on the road
Looking for new waterways and herbs
How will I ever forget you, magic leaf
Tormented as I am by your taunts
When will this inner night – the universe – end
And I – my soul – have my day?
You cannot catch me in a fist
lock me in a room
transport me in tiny vehicles
Luiza Neto Jorge
Exaltation of the minimal
and the magnificent lightning
of the master event
restore to me
The world suggests.
I do not wait for the muse’s visit,
I go after her, I lead her by the
MAILBOX OF DEATH
Twilight tilts its salt
onto the glossy handrail
favorable to suicide
Vito Apüshana (Miguel Ángel López)
In Makalaipao, Alasina, the old woman, speaks to us around the coffee pot, with words that come
MAKE SOME TEA
In order to settle my appetite
I’ll have the chocolate chip
In order to stomach the
Vito Apüshana (Miguel Ángel López)
On the way to Maluayan fear caught up with us . . .
we received it: it was all silence,
10,000 beers ago I told my
wife: ‘I’m just off to stone
MAN IN THE WATER
An armless woman is standing by the lake
outside the saucer spaceship of a teahouse
MAN IS NOT A BIRD
I spin this story in my head about Siljan the Stork
Who is both here and there
José Luis Díaz Granados
Manuel José, your aunts and friends called you.
I am also going to call you that
I prefer to live near a river.
The sound of water is soothing
and the rustle of willow
Carlos de Oliveira
MAPPING THE COURSE
Those who didn’t give me Love, didn’t give me anything.
I find myself standing still . . .
The marbles lie under the benches
Of polished stone and possible dream.
The oranges lie
The birches have no leaves
in winter they emit their own light
MARGARET & PAOLO
now all those things you did not dare
to speak up about have tripped you up
removed her stockings
From her body came
voices of others
maria, maria, you have the most beautiful name in the world
you are of spanish blood, hot,
MARINA OF THE ROCKS
You have a taste of tempest on your lips—But where did you wander
All day long in the hard
Oh take a look
at the over-hyped, tarted-up
whose waxed skins
Kreek Daey Ouwens
Her head has become too small for her,
but she finds television fantastic!
The Pope is
released from the noise disturbance of this second smallest airport
this foreign soil also
Sapardi Djoko Damono
He loves crafting masks. He keeps skinning
his own face over and over again
Kanaka Ha. Ma.
I cannot laugh any more
My face is distorted when I do
I cannot bear the image glimpsed
We are the oarsmen with dew on our faces
who row into the morning without a sound.
You slept again with Mr. No Man
loved his empty glance
and hugged his absent body.
One’s fingers gravitate there endlessly,
Like rivers of milk.
A thousand times they
Frenzied but firm
The colt of day charges
Into the mouth of spring and the birds
I was six,
a knapsack on my back.
Every time I set out for school
Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh
You are not the time of birth
but of its opposite;
your rending winds,
MAY 24, 1980
I have braved, for want of wild beasts, steel cages,
carved my term and nickname on bunks and
The gray-headed waterbird who grew up eating garbage
has a pair of long crooked legs
Kanaka Ha. Ma.
The body is a walking home with a mind
Within it live my
MAYBE HE'LL COME BACK
Maybe he’ll come back, he’ll
grasp me by the shoulder
just like yesterday, when I
MAZE – YOU ARE HERE (1)
tracks, trips, rumble rimmed
in steel rails and grey, ties
continuous course of
MAZE – YOU ARE HERE (10)
danger of wear and tear, leave stranger
thanks to sudden favor, irruption
MAZE – YOU ARE HERE (2)
where from a train ready to depart
arrives laminar crossing stretched
MAZE – YOU ARE HERE (3)
on the map, town’s flattening
you are here, in the empty circle
encircled, red and
MAZE – YOU ARE HERE (4)
from map where this place disappears
first vertically with dimensions
by pieces bringing
MAZE – YOU ARE HERE (5)
according to the line of a parcelling
axe around which to the east the west
MAZE – YOU ARE HERE (6)
here, you are here, votive site
temporary in desemboweled town
undesirable in the closed
MAZE – YOU ARE HERE (7)
at the pedestal of lustre, bronze
and pediments, headline
the commemoration page,
MAZE – YOU ARE HERE (8)
we would like to escape, to detach
to look backlit, anonymous
behind their anatomic
MAZE – YOU ARE HERE (9)
as soon as surviving the open sky
of day, night opposing light
though precarious, the
Pash lives here in the orchards
plums apples grapes
Hassan El Ouazzani
I’m just shorter than Niagara Falls
So I can’t quite touch the sun
If it weren’t
In 1964 there was a man called Jotamario who used to wear a
ME AND YOU
me and you: we met, fell in love, lived together
me and you: we lived apart, for a
Noon sitting beneath the treetops where the great pines
open wide their
From my world, where you used to be a miracle …
I don’t know exactly what my father
died of in the end, but he had every
Pigeons have come to nest again. Untidily,
as they usually do. Peacefully here
MEDITATION ON RUINS
He disembarked in a living room without chairs or gilt mouldings:
just rotting beams, vases
Above the plinth’s a phosphorescent glow.
A silent square. Some distant breaking glass.
MEETING AT AN AIRPORT
Taha Muhammad Ali
You asked me once,
on our way back
from the midmorning
trip to the spring:
Rodaan Al Galidi
Where is the Dutchman going?
To a meeting.
Where is he coming from?
MELANCHOLIA, SMART DUST
tiny magic-machine sprayed
ever smaller in components
almost invisible with the
A fool or a genius I wanted to be
Now I’m something in between.
Hence the eternal
when I was a child all alone in the country
and the gaping sky fell on my head
pollen of certain trees, let it be oak, or are they flakes
of snow from the poplars, at one
MELANCHOLY (THE CRISIS)
Machines for measuring things have all gone bad.
The emotions go out to find a better one.
What should be
Does not go without saying
What cannot be said . . .
Write it down quickly
before I forget
in the car with D. and N.
How could it be?
Originally I had hoped
to go through the house unnoticed,
Doesn't your flesh remember
That we worshipped fire
That we danced wearing bones
Human memory is like water
murmuring in a culvert.
It goes on flowing until death
Back then, young girls were the world.
Breasts had names. As did mouths.
MEMORY OF ANDRITSENA
Especially that night-time barking from the valley
stayed with you, the night was warm
MEMORY OF ONE TREE
One day in the future
I’ll remember this tree
I’ll see that its branches
The Kaneko Gym on the Odakyû Railway Line is
I think of the man I loved
Do I love him?
How many fears does that make?
One day in the future
the Earth will be peopled only by peasants.
They will drive around in
There is in my blood an ancestral conflict
Reproduced in my children’s eyebrow arc
Miss, under your window a gentleman Joao stands
black is his heart, his home distant and
“What is it that you mean, mother,
Eye lit in a moist tunnel of dark –
What is it that
METAL'S PERFIDIOUS SONG
Man snaps like a reed in the
scrape of a rusty swing.
While the tube closes into its
Out of Ovid’s book I seek a lover’s rendezvous after my wild childhood
She turns her back
Sapardi Djoko Damono
a stranger is taking off your clothes layer by layer,
The problem is that Madan has not been speaking since
This morning. Absolutely silent.
METAMORPHOSIS OF BODY
I was born
with a body
but immediately upon being born
it slipped out of my
Juan Cristóbal Romero
Already I’m thirty-eight and in the race
against time, I’ve left far behind the
METRICS AND ETHICS
a philosophical question
as eventide falls
lukewarm whisky sloshing
Everything’s miniature, like microfilm.
And at the hour of need – enlarged.
MICROPHONE IN THE WALL
We are finally alone
you and I,
but (don't even think
of taking it easy or
Nobody has got so scared as I, for some reason,
Nobody can have caught sight of
Fiama Hasse Pais Brandão
The house’s inside and outside
are easier to distinguish today
than when a single wave
Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen
Midday. A corner of the deserted beach.
The huge, deep, open sun on high
Has chased all the
The midnight moon climbs down
to pause on the bamboo span
Smearing itself with the
October went by; no, I didn’t go mad
the fog at the window rolls like a baby
we need our worries to see ghosts
in order to see repeatedly the white
A blue sheen
radiates from my clothes.
Jangling tambourines of ice.
Hubert van Herreweghen
The summer that has cheated us;
the gloomy lesson autumn brings.
Beneath the slow, high
light pours through the cracks
objects bend in the morning breeze
cold stream of night
From the shapes and lines
one notes on butterfly wings
and in diverse other
Sometimes at night it comes back, that one day in Rome,
When the snowstorm in the centre of
Put your arms around me and I’ll let you imagine me naked.
from this day on I’m a
Minibus 9 stops at Thousand Willows Development
and Workers Alpha, Beta, and Gamma get on.
Sky clouds over.
MINUS ANOTHER YEAR
I stood in avenues of autumn
watching the swirling dead leaves
MIRACLE OF SLEEP
After a few moments he perceives
his mouth is wide open.
The son of the natural
I go into the dark kitchen
and press the switch.
I sit on the sofa
A pool of earth billows and steams in the summer sun.
Tombstones, flat slow barges,
A man leans over me
as over water.
He wishes to see his face
in my water mirror
You’re reading your face
in your palms
In the mirror of your palms
Mirrors deceive so they may gaze upon themselves again
in our eyes
The mirror is always slightly taller than I
It laughs a moment after I laugh
You think I’ve finally arrived, but these
are only the first heavy footsteps of rain.
MISTRESS OF CHANCE
New words spring up you know
said the mistress
in the cracks between the old
The barking of dogs
echoes between the wooden houses
in the highlands
MO MHÍLE STÓR
Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill
I was under your spell from the start:
I was young, I was soft,
and you well knew you
No confines for me, no confines
a closed fist is my boundary wall
I can go wherever
One had thought to tame the tiger with
Shachar Mario Mordechai
I am Mohammed Bouazizi
and even though I died
and lived in Tunisia where I
This is my wife. She is my thousand-and-one.
Broader men have similar by the thousands,
My money is beautiful.
Like having a flower, a tree, the sky,
I, a rhapsodist, am full of the charm of the abyss
given fortuitous birth to by you. earth and
Handgun, knife, axe,
weapons of any kind are lying there, anywhere.
You can take
It stands atop
the heavy rock
and higher still
the unlikely sign:
a mouse in motion
as if it isn’t welcome
in certain places
Elly de Waard
The shimmering city;
down in the shade of trees
rustling the sycamore leaves
MONUMENT OF AIR
Out of all the things they do not tell and maybe / even those which never happen are structures
today I want to say a few words about my mood it’s no good and this is no longer a secret for the
Vasant Abaji Dahake
Like a wild bull the moon
through green unearthly thickets.
An old sight too has its moment of birth.
A birdless sky
Strange and set apart.
In the country of Constant Night
sky is a black sheet
and world a bed.
Or bed is a
MOONLIGHT AT MIDNIGHT
Sapardi Djoko Damono
I awake on the chair as moonlight falls on my face through a glass roof-tile
did the rain stop
A spring evening. A large room in an old house. A woman of a certain age, dressed in
MOONLIT NIGHT - 5
Thi Mar Win
Bar this song
Bar this light
The way the red leaf exudes fragrance,
The way the
MOONLIT NIGHT - 9
Thi Mar Win
The moonlight snatched and ran away with
The little jasmine in front of my house;
keep my grandchildren and children safe,”
prayed the grandmother
The moonstone woman combs her hair
Blind even before birth
She lives only within her own
When we returned home after John’s funeral
there was no one who asked: did John
Dead man in the fire
his stretched skin
a burnt out pink
like dead paper,
A girl is running towards me
In the morning
Her supple hair
The chill, called morning, lies calmly on the burnt land.
A distant, grey murmur can be
That’s how the morning is, a name
for the world, opening one’s eyes like
someone who is
It’s morning or any time, it’s morning.
You dream of waking up, you're afraid
MORNING AND EVENING
In the morning
you see death
looking through the window
at the garden
MORNING AND EVENING SONG
Nachoem M. Wijnberg
It is silent above my head,
below my feet,
the dark’s not cold, the light’s not warm;
I waken the car
whose windscreen is coated with pollen.
I put on my sunglasses.
I had a strange dream.
An airplane –
it doesn’t fall straight down
Don’t take it out of the world.
Leave it in the world for me.
Leave her gentle
Don’t give a bouquet to the woman.
Repairing the subway escalator, her fingertips clear
MOSQUITO NETS OF NEPTUNE
A breeze flows across the seaside town
and a crush in the northwest
herds the grazing
MOST OF THE TIME, I TOO
stood facing the world
with my hands up.
I was thirsty, I was hungry,
it was cold or
there are too many places one is powerless to reach, the feet ache, mother, you never
My mother at times came alive
Was granted the gift of the gab –
She gabbled on fixed
Maria van Daalen
Your heart was not affected.
Your love for me had saved it for a lucid death.
Come let’s wash in the inner shower
halos of olive oil hovering about
our blonde heads
Far from the Indians in the camp,
from people smelling of oil,
the pencil behind the
MOTHER AND SON
There is a pond somewhere, Ovid writes,
that once was a mother
“she melted away in
MOTHER ME OUT!
The alley ended in the night
You were going too fast
And the child his words couldn’t
(Ewes, ewes, are you
This summer I went to Kamikochi,
The towering mountains were huge
I was small
She holds the tray like the rim of a languishing
world and slowly steps into the light
Mothers need not be as beautiful as flowers.
Flowers blossom so magnificently
Nyk de Vries
He rode around on his motorbike and I never knew what was going on in his head. One day I followed
When I awoke then in my own childhood,
the sparrows in their dozens chirped on the estate,
Whenever I look at you, you are magnificent
and when I gaze at your peak from nearby
Ran out of cooking gas or something
who remembers why
I went up to the roof
this endless range of mountains holds all of our music:
a resplendent and motionless tree
José Manuel Arango
With a glass in my hand, looking at the mountains,
I caress the back of my dog.
Where it says house it should say ruins,
where it says milk, it should say clay.
you, little uninvited pest
made your stronghold in my room
sneaking in, creeping
two weeks of rain
washed away all the flower
Winter afternoon, mice skate around
I pretend to move out
I hammer here and there,
Nothing changes really
on changing a city
neither the empty noise of the day
The boxes for chips and bananas
are packed with the bric-à-brac
of human memory:
Mr Wilde has said that sunsets are out of fashion. This defect could undoubtedly be covered
For me to be struck with wonder at
Keep on standing
If moving on seems impossible, then choose one single
moving on, one splendidly
MOVING THE JAR
today I moved a big jar
the kind they use for pickling vegetables
into my study from the
who am I or ask, since he left, there remained
In Vienna we followed the feverish musician
around for three days.
These are the steps
MR. NOBODY’S ALLERGIES
Mr. Nobody, no longer young, develops an allergy to tuna;
he discovers this by accident
MUCOUS MEMBRANES SKIN
women detours basements
progeny objects men
broken ropes orange fires
so dusky and sweet was their juice that over
the stream the bats arced skyward, curvature
Rain is falling on the dykes:
a great day for the nation
the pale young body
a lotus flower
is buried five
Run your pointless schemes by me again.
This is work for incorrigible posers,
There is no place
for the restless. Art
will not come home again,
MUSEUM DAY IN SOFIA
The holiest parts of the poet float
in two jars in a dusty case,
Turning ears to the dead ones
Relayed the news of the day:
The number of
The things I name in poetry are not noble:
they lie under the palate, watchful, aware only of
MUSICAL NOTES IN JUNE
Notes fall from the staff
roll off the score
escape through the window, dancing in the
If you see an old man sitting alone
at the bus stop and wonder who he is
I can tell
MY ANCESTRAL HOUSE-1
Of its identity,
My ancestral house,
Where I used to live,
MY APOLOGIES, SONA
My apologies, Sona.
Journeying through the terrain of my verse
in these rains,
MY BODY, A CITY
My body, a city,
my eyes, its cantonments.
In them the eternal vigilance
MY BURNING CHEST
Vasant Abaji Dahake
On my burning chest I suffer the monsoon’s first showers,
across the film of blood on my eyes
MY CHEMISTRY PUPILS
The one with the beautiful straight and hemp-yellow mane of hair
(“The Thrush of Llanadas”)
I too was present when my childhood disappeared. With a fat cluster of prayers the hissing whip cut
What kind of a person am I really
When I do not know my citizenry
When I do not know my
My daughter, my sweet
we would be so well
among the shucked shells
“Only the dead don’t die”
Only they are
MY DEAR CERAMIC ARTIST
Thank you, my dear,
for offering the 49th day memorial service for me today.
At last I
Fathers are in bondage. Market women are locked in cages. Students are maimed at their educational
I had occupied my place in this century for just a few days
When I met him.
He said he was
Every day he changed his suit
his shirt, underwear, socks, shoes, everything.
About us he
MY FATHER AND GOD
My father and God
would line us up on Friday night
for the series of prayers
MY FEROCIOUS CONTINUITY
When the void of my fugue is void
I will live for three successive centuries
Grazing on as
he's standing on the edge of a precipice,
but he doesn't
Gustavo Adolfo Garcés
I had a happy
thinking about my friends
MY GRANDFATHER’S CLOAK
With a gentle hand, the storm grasps
the handle of the door of the world;
like a hesitant
The Portuguese language is not my home.
No language is a home.
My home is the soft and
MY INVENTED LAND
My native soil was created from tiny sparks
that clung to grandmother’s earthen pot
It wasn’t easy to preserve my language
amid languages that tried to devour it
but I went on
MY MOTHER, 56 YEARS LATER
The years fall off her,
as in another poem, tougher,
and there, on the tree-lined
MY MOTHER'S EYES
In the evening
when I open my eyes
I think of my mother in my hometown far away,
MY MOTHER'S SARI
There, in the wooden box
my mother’s sari, enveloped in white muslin,
José Miguel Silva
She’s chaste compared to me
and drinks only mineral water.
Furtive, cheeky and fickle,
MY NAME IS APFEL
My name is Apfel like the head of the neo-Nazis in Saxony
I’ve been criticized in
MY OLD LADY SAID
my old lady in her bed
too clearly for delirium,
Tomás Argüello Sandoval, the president’s cousin
looks like an ancient Greek:
MY PARENTS AND I
I never got to visit Puri with my father and mother
Nor Shimla or
MY RIVAL WAS 'DEATH'
Your visage is now in ripples
my water surface does not calm down
My mind was at peace
MY SISTER'S BIBLE
This is what my sister’s Bible has:
a ration-book come loose,
a loan application form,
You are every moment of the day
The land and the shore
A celestial reflection
MY THIGHS ARE COLD
Nuala Ní Chonchúir
My thighs are cold.
As is the pucked sag of my belly,
a cool appendage hanging
I will saddle a cloud
to ride above my mountains,
if they want rain, I will drench
MY WAY OF SAYING FAREWELL
There’s ocean there’s woman
and both of them reach me in amiable bays
opening up for example
MY WORDS ARE DRIVEN
Solomon Ibn Gabirol
My words are driven by worry,
my joy in sighing’s put out –
when I see others
I am planted in the earth
Happily, like a cabbage
Carefully peel away the layers of
Bongekile Joyce Mbanjwa
You have done your best, mysterious ship
You have rescued slaves
Slaves who never got a
They found him.
His outstretched hand was blue and flat
like space beneath a
Paul van Ostaijen
A tall hand protrudes in the night
and it protrudes before the night
for the night is alone