a swallow, my last token,
nomad I don’t know what I write when I’m writing
Let me have a sheet of drawing paper
Please use the white pastel
to draw a vast snowy
night, agave, gulls, kontador.
in its burning hot puddle, slowly, towards the bottom,
at 10 in the morning I go off to the Yanfeng Plaza and buy myself five jin radishes back home I
rage: at that instant, I was seething with rage,
but rage was pointless
I sat in the car,
when nothing else is going on
rain is a big event but when some event
In the sky of a town that turned so decrepit
When I put up my umbrella
I arrive at those
RAIN AND SUN
Torgeir Rebolledo Pedersen
we are weeping over sons we lost
tears are griefs that are
All my chilhood it rained.
The tall women in the family
fluttered between the wires
When he appears
All grows visibly darker
Suddenly the air takes on dampness
it happens like this
a calm counting of syllables
You will pay for everything.
Just being born is the highest price.
A flock of mocking
It’s noon, you’re sitting behind the wheel
in an empty country road, a couple of Polish
RAPPING IN AMSTERDAM
Among the grass of Rembrandtpark
a flash of colour shone in the sun
and caught my
Enter the inside of the sunny morning, and it seems as if the scream can always be heard. It’s so
the star eyes at daybreak.
The ambrosial part of the night face,
RAVEN IN HYDE PARK (1989)
With its beak it lifts September’s leaves
in intervals it listens to the music of the birds
This sleepy little town was once the empire’s center.
This baker was Caesar’s baker.
is an emergence
stuck fast in the
As Raymond Carver wrote. I vaguely remember his lines,
go right, not left. Take that road and
READ ME YOUR POEMS
Udaya Narayana Singh
You led me, your old lover,
to your new house,
down the valley,
in an empty
READING OF HISTORY
As plum flowers revolt, the hostile dews
Safeguard the darkness engraved by the midday sword
This is gentleness, not the rhetoric of gentleness
This is tedium, the sheer fact of
1. Don't start doubting reason,
reason, reason, reason.
A fly walks from the
A nail in mourning, the last native
‘Poetry,’ I am in the middle of declaring
to a bunch of unbelieving assholes
Don’t become a poet.
It’s hard to live like that –
Mother will sit at the table
in the cold white kitchen,
waiting for me to bring her
When in a fit of anger my father killed the cat,
Bartolo my cat
because it put its tail in
I look for sweets in his pockets
and find nails.
My mother bandages the wounds in his
Red flowers grow in the sky, there’s a shadow in the garden.
The light penetrates,
of come and see
our home is a home
of tears and bitterness
why would I want to rip holes in your skin like red lace
why would I want to touch your
A part of an arm and half a head
with one eye closed
stick out under a gray raincoat
beside that woman walking out of the gynecologist’s office is an old woman holding an
Antero de Quental
Voices of trees, the wind, the sea!
When, in certain sorrowful dreams,
I’m lulled by
opposite me: roads, buildings, housing estates, a few houses
opposite me: grass plots, trees,
REGRET AND CONVINCE
fall in love with a stone and not regret it
fall in love with a she-devil and not regret
Sonja vom Brocke
What did he slip out of. An egg hologram? A precisely removed
chip-cyst? The New Bones Man is
Remember when we on the tips of our toes on the edge
Of a mountain it seemed, that time that
Nothing in eternity, a wandering ring,
nothing in time, circle, pretence and vertigo,
Because a dream beheld at me I am here today.
You walked down the lane to the deer park and
Despair wraps itself around your name.
For a moment I am alarmed, cannot reconstruct
We carried a part of your life outside.
Piling up on the platform all you’d gathered
Consigned to a shallow river
are father’s mortal remains,
mother keeps appearing
REPORT ON HUNGER
Hunger dwells in me. And everyone tells me so.
It is not fear nor is it doubt
it is just
Ask how it happened that the summer lost its way in the man, couldn’t find its way out
I implore my memory to reach back, to seize all doubts
and despairs, all hopes and passions, all
The birds are switched off
but the lamps are still awake.
REQUIEM FOR A HAIRDRESSER
he always rested on mondays. now monday's here to stay.
so cover the mirrors, make blunt
REQUIEM WITHOUT TEARS
Your death began a month ago
and from the first day
children played in the park like
Nachoem M. Wijnberg
I talk to doctors who have won the lottery: immediately after they have heard the news and then
RESISTANCE TO THEORY
I’ll be waiting for the grapes
of my vineyards
in the luminousness of
The fish stocks dictate no monkfish
so I choose an ostrich steak instead.
Slashed along the full length of the belly
with the scalpel of a medical student
My leg has fallen asleep in the hotel
like it’s on pins and needles
Gonzalo Márquez Cristo
I pretend that everything lost becomes a poem.
Wounds like hurricanes have a name. And
Because the djaga poured out kettles of tea because I couldn’t untangle myself from a
RESTORATION OF THE WORD
Why write small verses
when the world is so vast
and the uproar of cities drowns out
amongst the people from Zagreb are numerous witnesses
claiming that retired seas
Chaim Nachman Bialik
Once more. Look: a spent old scarecrow
I wonder if it really was a wink.
Who knows, it could have been a fateful omen.
Father sits on other side of the table. Two moons shine in the courtyard — one red and the other
Return to classical
Because of what is ‘frozen’ in
RETURN OF THE BIRD OF EXILE
Our regiment haunched heavily on the pure sands of the sea
Watching without a murmur waves and
Dusty roads, a voice that rises from a throat
and dissolves in the desert, the smell of a
Jorge Bustamante García
The journey has been long and hazardous.
There is still a handful of mountains
I want to go back to what once upon
a time we all called our house,
to go up the old
In winter, flakes come down
like the feathers
of some shy bird.
Woman at the black
Lies Van Gasse
That’s still young.
That rolls over roofs
Lies Van Gasse
This afternoon when, in full sun,
I found myself a body,
Lies Van Gasse
This evening, when the air sings like blood
and tears the sheet, she sits bald on the
Lies Van Gasse
This morning when, after years, I emerged,
my hair was wet,
scales grew beneath
Celia de Fréine
My Clan Mother is the great she-devil
of the forest. She stands twenty feet
over fields of
Juan Cristóbal Romero
What harm could there be in following
the hidden rhythm of things.
What harm in tapping
mama’s little darling
the way she is lazy
My grandmother didn’t let us leave rice on the plate.
Instead of telling us about hunger in
A white cloud with a travel bag on its back
has just missed the gust of wind
Omar Pérez López
Son of love, son of misunderstanding
Positively no(n) selfdenying nor
What holds on is inedible.
The oldest houses are exchanged for newer rubble,
and smooth stone
I rise from under the ruins
Climb my pride
And reach to the surface . . .
Gert Vlok Nel
River, o river you’re the deepest word that I know
I could navigate by you to the sea & to
there are many rivers in the mountains where I grew up
in deep gorges they flow
That was the same strange word
that I searched for in a dream
and was unable to
ROAD: TWO SCENES
I have been
watching that boy
ever since we came here
As soon as dusk falls
Vasant Abaji Dahake
Now I’ve filled my lungs with cold darkness
and my eyes are unpeopled roads.
In the forgetting of tree and tree
Is the dog’s lyric assault
At the pointless journey’s
I heard about them by chance in our humble country
I asked who they really are
A robin that taps against the window.
Not against the window but against the egg in which it
I carve game on stone, my quarry,
So they become beasts in fur coats, mastered by me.
Marlene van Niekerk
Whoever set you upright here, little quagga foal,
alone on your first legs, a birth moment
What they once called youth is gone and nothing has taken its place When it’s raining
Behind the waterfall, roaming across rustling fields,
crouched above liverwort, springing
Don’t read me if you haven’t
attended the funerals of strangers
or at least memorial
I’m hanging on, a stranger to this land,
Caught up by love that drives me beyond the bounds
León de Greiff
Music, music from afar,
music, exotic music
Music that harms the soul
In Japanese homes the roofs are low,
The poorer the home the lower the roof,
sitting alone on our rooftop we feel as if we are sitting huddled in some crowded basement
Nyk de Vries
In that town there was a room I kept circling. It was near my girlfriend’s. She didn’t know I
No one rings
and email’s full of ads
London is not London either
and this room is
perhaps it lacks objectivity
on the terrace of the Excelsior Hotel he said I
My mother’s near kaput. She’s got a hutch,
not quite a box, and sits the same day
Sunday, I sit on an iron bench with a missing leg in a quiet corner
of the park to enjoy the
His long white neck will be your prize;
If I may peck his bright blue
My lips tell the lament of your distant voice,
a medal I wear on my chest, not forgotten
It’s time to pack your bag and go.
You don’t know what to take – something
In the Lufthansa flight on her way home from Milan
seven thousand metres above the Alps
So fast you flowered!
No one discovered you before
you had unfolded.
First we saw
Nazih Abou Afach
Never, I don’t want to die
And it doesn’t cheer me to see you dead.
Now, since we
It was a Thursday
(a special nothing)
and I missed the train.
Rain in Rotterdam. Dusk. Environment.
Opening the hood, I raise the gate.
Open the door of the poem.
The house is empty.
The furniture you’ll need to make
when the light goes out, darkness falls
when things settle, I see a patch of
ROZA AND THE MOON
The moon is a boy and yet he’s cute
he peeps from under the clouds
but I sleep under the
Ruby Gupta’s underwear had not dried out
on the day the Jallianwala Bagh massacre took
I walk past the ruins
the roof has flown off
the me on the roof
is gone with them
RUINS OF A SAGE
they were perhaps doing no more than discussing goats
RULES OF THUMB
If the house is unclean, they said
in my grandparents’ village
shut a pig up in it all
RUM AND SNOW
I used to run barefoot on the deck,
sit on the mast all day behind a tattered flag
RUMBA IN THE SUN
Oh, sun of dishevelled curls!
(your biting old golds
stab the swollen feet
RUSH OF AIR
O days! those were the most unyielding,
fluid at first, then quivering
there was no way
I dreamed: when I came over the heath
in the setting sun: my cold hand
had snatched a
If I were a rye field not a daughter and you were a
man on a walk.
Was I sown so early