contemporary poetry
Si a stiut sa scrie viata / And he could spell Life
POSTED IN contemporary poetry July 16, 2015
Si a stiut sa scrie viata
Un baiat nu stia
Sa scrie decât propriul sau nume
Nu conteaza care
Era acel nume
Atunci se îndragosti de o fata.
O fata cu ochi adânci si frumosi,
Ochi care l-au învatat sa citeasca.
O fata vie si calda
Ca o vara.
El
Îi iubea miscarea plina de viata
Cu care îsi scutura parul plin de toate sclipirile soarelui
Si ochii care îl învatasera
sa citeasca.
Învata sa-i scrie numele, caci
O iubea.
Si începu sa-i scrie de multe, multe ori
Numele.
Si iata intr-o zi
Când îi tot scria numele
gândindu-se
La minunata ei gropita din barbie
Si la faptul ca
Întreaga ei fiinta aducea a zbor de ciocârlie
Simti ca trebuie sa scrie
Si alte cuvinte,
Cum ar fi soare, floare, viata,
Pentru ca fiinta
Ei
Înseamna viata, soare, floare.
Si a stiut sa scrie viata.***********************************************************
And He Could Spell Life
One boy knew
Only how to spell his name
It doesn’t matter what
Was that name
Then he fell in love with a girl.
A girl with deep and beautiful eyes,
Eyes that taught him to read.
O warm and alive girl
Like summer.
He
Loved her lively movement
Of shaking her hair full of all glowing of the sun
And the eyes that taught him how to read.
He learned to spell her name, for
He loved her.
And he began to write many, many times
Her name.
And then one day
When he was writing her name over and over again thinking of
Her adorable dimple in her chin
And of the fact that
Her entire being resembled a lark’s flight
He felt he had to write
Other words too,
Like sun, flower, life,
For
Her being
Meant life, sun, flower.
And he could spell life.IRINEL FRANCU
Ti è mai capitato?
POSTED IN contemporary poetry July 8, 2015
Ti è mai capitato?Ti è mai capitato di vedere una persona
e capire che in qualche modo ti appartiene?
Un appartenere di sensi, di labbra
quasi fosse una tua seconda pelle.
Ti è mai capitato di pensare a una persona
quando ti svegli e prima di addormentarti?
Vedertela lì, insieme a te
in un dialogo fatto di abbracci, di carezze
di bocche sfiorate e di brividi intensi?
Ti è mai capitato di pensarla ovunque ti trovi
e sentire il bisogno di un suo parere
in ogni cosa che guardi e che fai?
Avere attenzione in ogni suo gusto
in ogni sua parola, per gustarne i respiri,
fatti di pause e sorrisi.
Ti è mai capitato di sentirla chiudersi
e allontanarsi da te, quasi avesse paura?
… mentre tu sei tutto all’infuori di quella.
Desiderare di essere il suo scudo
la sua protezione, la sua arma vincente
ma soprattutto la sua libertà.
Ti è mai capitato di abbracciare ogni sua paura,
ogni sua forza, ogni suo rifiuto, ogni sua ostinazione
e amare di lei ogni cosa che fa, ogni cosa che tocca?
E mentre di lei non sai nulla, il tuo cuore sa tutto
perché sente che è lei, unica e sola.
Ti è mai capitato?Walter di Gemma
Ho posato la maschera
POSTED IN contemporary poetry July 8, 2015
Ho posato la maschera
Ho posato la maschera
Ho posato la maschera e mi sono visto allo specchio….
Ero il bambino di tanti anni fa….
Non ero cambiato per niente….
E’ questo il vantaggio di sapersi togliere la maschera
Si è sempre il bambino
il passato che resta,
il bambino.Ho posato la maschera e me la sono rimessa.
Così è meglio.
Così sono la maschera.E ritorno alla normalità come a un capolinea.
Fernando Pessoa
Irinel
POSTED IN contemporary poetry July 7, 2015
Irinel“…to remember many, many years from now the time when I was thirteen and when my most fervent wish was not to have passed away before I have lived Life.”
“The day when with a twitch
Happy and full of wonder
I sipped the air’s scent
Welcoming me sweet and bitter
Inciting me to the joyful and sublime thinness
Of life
The day when with thousands of crossed spinnings
I sliced the void with my arms
The day when through the misty eye
I saw bird flying
And teaching her hatchlings how
to lift themselves
When I understood from the first moment
That I was going to be hatchling,
Bird
And then hatchling again…
I felt you near me
I sensed your gentle nostril
And your lashes shaping a small grove around the eye
And I felt abundance
For clearly I could glimpse the ray
Playing in your eye,
And reaching through smile and glance and warmth into my eye
We had strange lights
And which resembled…
My ray was born from yours
I felt then that forever
The invisible and powerful thread
That shaped you
Was shaping me too
And that would shape
Many others like me and you
Was the same
The same
For you
For me and for many others like me and you
For (because of) the light.Irinel
……………………………………………………………………………..“…pentru a-mi aduce aminte pentru multa, multa vreme de timpul când aveam 13 ani si când dorinta mea cea mai fierbinte era de a nu muri înainte de a fi trait Viata.”
“În ziua când cu o zvâcnire
Fericita si plina de mirare
Am sorbit mireasma aerului
Care m-a întâmpinat dulce si amar
Îndemnându-ma la fericita si sublima risipire
A vietii
În ziua când în mii de rasuciri
în cruce
Am taiat vidul cu bratele
În ziua când prin ochiul aburit
Am vazut pasare zburând
Si învatându-si puii
sa se înalte
Când am înteles din prima
clipa
Ca voi fi pe rând pui,
Pasare
Si iarasi pui…
Te-am simtit lânga mine
Ti-am simtit nara gingasa
Si genele formând o minuscula padurice în jurul ochiului
Si-am simtit bogatie
Caci limpede am zarit raza
Jucându-se cu ochiul tau,
Si ajungând prin zâmbet si privire si caldura în ochiul meu
Aveam lumini ciudate
Si care semanau…
Raza mea luase nastere din a ta
Am simtit atunci pentru totdeauna
Ca firul invizibil si puternic
Care te plamadise pe tine
Ma plamadea si pe mine
Si care va mai plamadi
Pe alti multi ca mine si ca tine
Era acelasi
Acelasi
Pentru tine
Pentru mine si pentru ceilalti multi ca mine si ca tine
Datorita luminii.
IRINEL
Sunday
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 8, 2015
SundayMy Sunday is a gorgeous sunny day (f-i-n-a-l-l-y the sun shines!). I’m sitting on my balcony, with finches and robins flying loops in the space between two big maples trees. I’m reading the June-July issue of American Poetry Review, there are 12 new poems by Elaine Equi, a fine poet, and there’s an essay, “Why Poets Translate” I’m reading next, unless I get too distracted watching the birds.
Did I tell you about the finches that built a nest just above my balcony door? I can see the top of the female’s head as she sits on the invisible eggs warming them into eventual birth.
The male finch perches on the balcony railing and chatters at me. I’m sure in his mind I am the intruder, not him.
This in miniature is the whole drama of life on earth as one generation replaces another. But we humans complicate the drama with our emotional and intellectual natures – it’s the glory of being human that NOTHING IS AS SIMPLE AS IT SEEMS.
And so as I sit here with my book face down on my lap, watching the male finch scold me, seeing the other birds swoop between trees, and squirrels chasing each other at unbelievable speeds, I’m content to have no thoughts for a change, and just let time pass and carry me along with it.The lawn below my balcony extends for about 45 feet, there’s a screen of trees and bushes that hides the drop-off, a cliff side that plummets down to an invisible golf course!
I can’t see the players, but I can occasionally hear them. But golf is not an intensely driven game and the players are sedate, so I’m undisturbed by their presence.
The loudest thing I hear are their golf carts! And what I can see of the golf course spread out far below me is so lovely: a diamond-shaped lake with an island in the centre, a sight always peaceful and charming, it reminds me of a Chinese painting.
This is a calming place. I’m lucky to have found it.
And to think just one mile away is ROBERT STREET, one of the longest streets in the Twin Cities that is packed with car dealerships, fast food joints, chain restaurants, Wal-Mart, Target, other retailers, computer companies, phone, etc. etc.
The urban blight of modern America – commerce, commercial, commercialism, on it goes,
B-U-T I don’t see or hear it, it’s another world from mine. I have finches and Chinese art, quiet and calm, poetry and nature. LIFE IS GOOD.You could say I’m philosophical today too. Mine is the real Epicurean philosophy of life as a measured pursuit of delight, not wanton pleasure but balanced pleasure. It’s in between Puritanism and Licentiousness; we avoid the extremes for the sakes of health, well-being and decency. This is all part of the philosophy of Humanism.
It’s always great communicating back and forth with you, but in my imagination, it’s as if we were sitting together in the same spot, just talking . . .
All my Finches!
Daniel Brick
The Muse
POSTED IN contemporary poetry May 31, 2015
The Muse
Far ahead of me, I see my Muse
dressed plainly in a tan skirt
and a white blouse, She is waving
a bright yellow scarf in her left hand.
Her right hand she holds open, palm
facing me, as if she were halting something.
. . . “Follow after, Poet”
I hear her words as speech arising
in the back of my mind . . . I read my poem
out loud. Then I read my silent heart.
Both are replete with what I have loved.
Daniel Brick
A field in Romania
POSTED IN contemporary poetry May 13, 2015
A field in Romania
In Spring, in a field stretching across Romania,
a man and a woman stand side by side,
their hands lightly clasped, on their faces
the suggestion of a smile. The man is attentive
to her needs, she is fascinated with his stories.
Their stance displays the goodness of the right
people. They are waiting for the arrival of
a special Word the wind will carry down the Windway.
The land itself awaits this Word. Those of us at home,
or at work, or in a journey, or in the cemetery or a church
await the Word. Most especially, the crowd,
silent and calm, almost motionless, the Witnesses wait,
assembled on a grassy expanse below the knoll
on which the man and the woman search each other faces
for reassurance. People shape this Word silently
with their lips, then bow their heads, knowing it is
only a few deep breaths away . . .The Word itself is part of the wind which carries it
on the Windway, the part that it leaves behind,
its mysterious trace no one has seen but everyone
feels. Soon they will carry the Word . . . This is now
the quietest place on earth . . . And, with no drama
of any kind, the Word spreads without speech
through the crowd, and continues its country-wide trek.
This event is no more special than watching a cloud
form, disperse, and reform, but by then we are looking
elsewhere. It is no more special than lovers making
promises to each other. sealing each one with a kiss.
Or a man and a woman teaching their youngest daughter
the oldest dance, steadying her legs, counting out
the rhythms with her, until her child’s grace takes over,
and the three of them trace the ancient pattern of footsteps
in the afternoon light. I tell you again, it is no more
special than watching grains grow, or a river flow,
or the sky darken with rain. What must happen
will happen, and we live our lives in the Meanwhile
between such momentous events —The birds, there! The birds have arrived! They circle
about us, then swoop down and gently graze
the woman’s unprotected hair. They hover over
the man’s head, or settle briefly on his shoulders.
We all turn our heads upward when they suddenly
climb back into the sky. Our unison gesture is a kind
of prayer. They careen in a wide circle around us,
they glide inside the circle their flight has traced,
then shoot upward again, straight into a cone
of light they fill with caws, and calls, and shrieks.It is no different from yesterday’s sight, it’ just
much bigger. Tomorrow, fewer birds will do
the same aerial dances, and not everyone will
watch. But that does not concern the rest of us.
We love the repetition of beauty . . . Some people
have begun to leave the field, when in an eerie
silence, riding and twirling around sun-shafts,
the birds come racing down, into our human crowd
once again, swooping upward at the last second.
Some burst through the tree canopy so headlong is
their speed! We are amazed. Cheers and clapping
resound throughout the field. Then we join hands,
and a general dance begins. Awkward at first,
with unsteady steps and botched rhythms,
gradually the better dancers assert control.
and pull the rest of us along. We hug our neighbours
tighter, lovers leading the way, and amid cascades
of laughter and row upon row of kicking feet,
swaying bodies, smiling faces, we become what
we are meant to be – one body becoming one soul.
And long into the night the dance prevails,
in a field in Romania. Overhead, the birds circle
us again and again, calling in voices that
sound almost human . . . .
Daniel J. Brick
with thanks to Magdalena for her inspiration!
Approaching Spring
POSTED IN contemporary poetry February 27, 2015
Approaching Spring
To the sound of a deep melody
like the circuit of the sea
wise CHILD with summer’s blood in your veins
here, in this cold northern country,
help me to remember what has been loved
and to dream what will be loved.To the sound of talk and tears
like the softest tones of Chopin’s piano,
quiet GIRL hidden within the lilac bushes
now, in this season of soil and rain,
come forth suffused in purple fragrance
and we will wander over marshes of moon grass.To the sound of dawns and nightfalls
like the boisterous orchestra of March.
sweet WOMAN whose hands open the sun’s doors
always, during the flights of deer and owls,
guide me into the gold light of June
along a free-flowing stream pressed against familiar shores.
Daniel Brick
4 Metaphors About The Moon
POSTED IN contemporary poetry February 9, 2015
4 Metaphors About The Moon
I.
My heart is a well within, where clear waters raise if it rains,
mixed with mud.The moon inside it grows and dwindles continuously.
She breaks for me her bread, I share with her my water.
The more dreams I carry on my back, the more she shines brighter.II.
Because of too many shadows my road is darker
and I hid in the hollow of an old tree. Tomorrow it will be cut down.
The bloody knife is on the ground, covered with dust.
I feel like a woman who has never had a shadow,
either sunshine or moonlight.III.
Right before dawn, when dreams knock loudly at my conscience gate,
a gray orchid grows under my eyelids.
A night butterfly asleep on the white sugar bowl.
What if the moon itself was nothing but the imprint of a dry flower
on the iris of a child’s eye?IV.
If you dare to pass by the corner of a poet’s house in Venice,
a black gate towards the old attic will open.
There the moon turns on a gramophone record.
Always the same tune, over waters and rice fields, beyond dams and oceans,
beyond white birds migrations in any season.
copyright
Cristina Monica Moldoveanu
Let Us Be Poetry
POSTED IN contemporary poetry February 7, 2015
Let Us Be PoetryI think that in this shattered World,
As cruel and cold as it may be,
We’ll find the softness of a bird,
In some great piece of poetry.A Poem that will read your heart,
Give it the love that makes it start,
Surrounds you with musical scales,
Hoists up, imaginary sails.I think that thanks to Poetry,
Feelings come forth more naturally,
Words do describe the inner soul,
Poetry’s mother to us All.
Sandra Feldman
