An unknown evening hour
Of a station with an age-old platform, sadness
By my side, I knew no direction.
I had left you up there, in the sky
Dark were the trees and the road
Dark were your white clothes.
The night, that treasure, foreign stone
Your window was above the trees
No voice or iron can save me now.
Here I am in the hours
The hours are nowhere, no
Not in this direction, not in that.
I had left you up there, in the sky.
translated by Şehnaz Tahir-Gürçağlar
Remember when birds made rain
And rain hit the sun
I came to you
Half the joy in my mouth
Mornings grew to lilies
Plains rode horses
When the sea streamed to its tower
In my pockets stars from the night before
With bees and honey in my blood
My heart turned into a palm, remember
Then it was a fountain too
In the month of sad returns
I came to you.
translated by Şehnaz Tahir-Gürçağlar
I undressed you with my own hands, like the spring
Laying the petals open
Your haste was all seeds like a pomegranate.
O the singing forest of sighs
The heart of kisses and glances
Questions in its fresh silence.
The roof of your desire floated in the sky
It was humming yellow butterflies
When every inch of you burst out.
I tied you down with my teeth
Like a greedy silkworm
Your redness was a crescent
Two petals of a tulip on the sheets.
translated by Şehnaz Tahir-Gürçağlar
I love unnoticed plants that grow beside a stream
orioles singing overhead somewhere in a tree
at dusk the current quickens fed by springtime rain
I pull myself across an unmanned country ferry
translated by Red Pine
the past comes calling
knocking on a virtual door
in unexpected searches
on google
names faces dates
a litany of information
that one had tried
so hard
to forget
there it is
a reminder of events
one did participate in
and words said
promises made
some kept
others broken
in black and white
on a computer screen
like it or not
one cannot disappear
from anyone
even one’s self
so we come
into each other’s lives
and memory
once triggered
is like Banquo’s ghost
there to imply the words
left unspoken
I walk down narrow streets
in my dream
passing strangers who resemble people
of my youth
the faces so familar
it is as if my uncles/aunts are here
huddled in conversation
politics and sports
though the talk here is of football
not the Brooklyn Dodgers
our hearts broken with each loss
our hearts bouyant with each win
and those damned Republicans
on the loose again
here the talk is of a loss of freedom
the high rate of taxes
what to eat for dinner
and time to drink one’s coffee in peace
the shrugs of shoulders
the helpless hand gestures
I know this world
so far from my own
and yet is my own
it is like looking
in a mirror
I have not felt so Italian
until I walked these streets
of Naples
my name not so musical
until I heard it here
I have not felt so at home
until I closed my eyes
and took in the scent from restaurants
in the air
of these streets
here
in my dreams
June is the month I feel the coldest
Perhaps because I was born in June
I fell in love at age four
At thirteen I wrote poems
I was a boarder deeply in love
In my eyes violet flowers
I memorized all the works of the night
I was a Phoenix of poetry
I rose from my ashes whenever consumed
I poisoned my roses and cried over them
For love I crossed a thousand mountains
I was Narcissus
From my reflection in the marigold I almost died
It was the year of solitude AD
I drowned between the land and sea
translated by Suat Karantay
Stay here. In the noon courtyard.
Settle down at the simple language of time.
Take an interest in horizon-watching.
Experiment with the blue, the white, and the day.
Appreciate the oleander! Surprise me
by murmuring “It’s poison is the ointment
I apply to my skin.”
Try to translate
those feverish insects of August
and their sweaty songs into Turkish.
Learn the rather rich
styles of
washing the courtyard, pruning the vine,
walking barefoot.
Stay here. With the enduring time.
In the noon courtyard.
Absolve from your body. Strip
until you are your own self.
Pour refreshing water over your head.
Sleep soundly.
translated by Suat Karantay
The two roles are completely unattached. When you are standing in the pulpit, you must sound as though you know what you’re talking about. When you’re writing, you’re trying to find out something that you don’t know. The whole language of writing for me is finding out what you don’t want to know, what you don’t want to find out. But something forces you to anyway.
You ask when I’ll be back–
I wish I knew!
night rain on Pa Mountain
overflows the autumn ponds
when will we trim the candle wick
under our own west window?
I’ll be telling you this story
night rain will be falling.
translated by David Young
Being Present for the Moment
Website storys
Illustration, Concept Art & Comics/Manga
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
An online activist from Bosnia and Herzegovina, based in Sarajevo, standing on the right side of the history - for free Palestine.
A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
Dennis Mantin is a Toronto-based writer, artist, and filmmaker.
Finding Inspiration
Off the wall, under the freeway, over the rainbow, nothin' but net.
Erm, what am I doing with my life?
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet by accident.
At Least Trying Too
A Journey of Spiritual Significance
Life in islamic point of view
Through the view point of camera...
L'essenziale è invisibile e agli occhi e al cuore. Beccarlo è pura questione di culo
In Kate's World
Leonard Durso 