Topografia nord / 1: di Luka Stojnic

La manica di questa giacca è lunga. Il braccio si protrae verso un ramo di ciliegio come per indicare un fiore rosa. Consumata ai polsi, la stoffa, scura, svela le due lancette di una delle quattro. Quante volte ti sei accorto delle quattro? L’attenzione per un fiore rosa alle ore quattro. Petali fibrillano nella brezza dell’aria: un soffio che nulla vuol cambiare. Il rimedio per una manica troppo lunga.

Topography North/ 1

The sleeve of this jacket is long. The arm extends towards a cherry branch as if to indicate a pink flower. Consumed at the cuffs, the fabric, dark, reveals the two hands of the one of the four. How many times have you noticed the four? Attention to a pink flower at four o’clock. Petals quiver in the breeze: a sigh that would nothing change. The antidote for a sleeve that’s too long.

If you would like to read more of Luka’s poetry on this blog, click HERE.

Red String of Fate: by Brad Frederiksen

When heat huddles by white-hot horizons
and puddles black bitumen blue,
you don’t stop for water poured into a cup
to become cup before it is in you.

When white-hot horizons burn into the wind-
screen and ghost the glass over with ghost-skies,
you’re up to your nose in the end of a road
you’ve been driving so long you’ve gone cross-eyed.

When a breeze cold as glass can be cold in the heat,
and puddles of blue on black bitumen meet,
and plenty of dry leaves and dust are about,
and your eyes are on straight, and the ghosties are out,

the invisible Red String of Fate will rise up
like water still spinning is not yet the cup.

This work by Brad Frederiksen is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Australia License.

to find more work by Brad Frederiksen on this blog, click HERE.

To read more work and see more photographs by Brad Frederiksen, click HERE.

MATERNITA’: di Giacomo Gusmeroli

scroll down for English

Dunque, come scrivevo, questo infinito sgomento – non
della morte, affatto- le grandi ali dei suoni.
Giovanni, si era arrampicato
su una roccia strappando un ramoscello pieno di belle bacche.
Le ha date alla Gemma. Oh! – disse- Io stavo a guardare tutto.
Ancora una volta mi metto a immaginare quel fatto
ma di quanti anni prima? dopo quanti anni?…

MATERNITA’

prima

Io le sentivo allora dalla spaccatura, intanto di soppiatto
…..fissavo
le loro garze inzuppate e gli stracci
buttati nel catino, su cui sfolgorava lucentissima la luce
…..del sole
dal vetro della finestrella; – e mi sentivo così solo e sopraffatto
come se in quel momento mi fosse stato dato a sorte
il miracolo stupefacente della vita. Avevo anche
…..timore
che la balia uscisse all’improvviso e mi trovasse dietro
…..la spaccatura
a sbirciare quell’evento a me proibito – soprattutto
scoprisse che avevo sentito le loro parole, scoprisse
la mia bravata maldestra.

segùnda

Dopo l’ultimo parto era smagrita;
le palpebre sempre inarcate; i seni
avevano perso la forma – lei lo vedeva e lo nascondeva
…..e era smarrita, silenziosa,
quasi per conto suo.
…..A volte, invece, si sedeva
immutabile, per attimi e attimi,
nella stessa posa, e assorta,
nel piccolo sgabello di betulla; si passava le mani
con un pezzo di sapone sbeccato – io lo intuivo
dall’odore entrando in stanza sua –
e mi piaceva, perché il sapone era sempre destinato
al giorno della festa e della domenica; – e ancora, adoperava
varie erbe officinali, raccolte di fretta la sera al scendere del sole,
erbe che rinfrescavano la pelle e davano alla faccia un carnato
lucido e pallido. Un giorno
mi guardò che la guardavo nello specchietto
forse aveva sentito la mia presenza alle spalle,
e sobbalzò tutta: fece una mossa
come se fosse scesa di colpo da un salto.
“ Così, hai notato anche tu che sono sciupata?”

e all’istante ridivenne lieta, consolata, bella
come un tempo, prima del suo mutamento
e prima dei grandi mutamenti incontrollabili del tempo.

“Una camminata fatto in quei
giorni che il freddo accorcia la pioggia… io
e lei, la Gemma, mia madre, di 95 anni”.

tèersa

Portami a camminare con te
appena lì avanti, fino al muro della contrada,
fin dove la valle si apre e appare
il campanile peraria e di sasso, calcinato dallo sprazzo
…..di luna,
così peraria e immateriale
così distaccato, quasi etereo
che puoi anche credere che non esiste
il vuoto con le sue lontananze.

Portami a camminare con te.

Ci abbandoneremo un momento sul sasso,
sul dosso,
e inumidendoci fra serti di brina
forse crederemo persino di volare,
perché a volte, come adesso, sento lo stropiccìo
…..dei miei panni
che sembra il fremito di due ali grandi,
e quando ti accosti a questo battito del volo
senti alleggerirsi le braccia, il corpo, la tua figura,
e così avvolto nella cornice di una brina azzurra,
negli tratti liberi dell’anima
non ha importanza che tu salpa o ritorni,
né importa che i nostri capelli siano imbiancati,
(è questo che mi dà tenerezza – e mi dà tenerezza
che s’imbianca anche lo sterrato).

Portami a camminare con te.

peraria: cavato su dal dialetto vecchio

Trovate QUI più informazioni su Giacomo Gusmeroli, il suo ultimo libro, “Quattro mesi e venti giorni” è uscito per LietoColle.

*     *     *     *     *

An English translation of this poem can be found below:

 

So, as I wrote, this infinite dismay – not
of death, at all – the broad wings of sounds.
Giovanni, had climbed
up on a rock tearing off a small twig full of beautiful berries.
He gave them to Gemma. Oh! –she said– I was watching everything.
Once again I re-immagine that moment
but how many years before? after how many years?…

MATERNITY

first

I could hear her then through the fissure, meanwhile furtively
…..I stared at
their sopping gauze and the rags
thrown into the basin, on which the polished sunlight
…..blazed
from the window’s glass; – and I felt so alone and overwhelmed
as if in that moment I had been given at random
the stupefying miracle of life. I was also
…..afraid
that the nurse would come out suddenly and find me behind
…..the fissure
peering in at that event forbidden to me – especially
discover that I had heard their words, discover
my clumsy escapade.

second

After the last birth she was gaunt;
eyelids always sagging; her breasts
had lost their shape – she saw it and hid it
…..she was lost, silent,
almost of her own accord.
…..Sometimes, instead, she would sit
unchangeable, for moments and moments,
in the same position, and lost in thought,
on the small birch stool; she passed a chipped
bar of soap over her hands – I intuited that
from the smell upon entering her room –
and it pleased me, because soap was always used
on holidays and Sundays; – and still, she employed
various medicinal herbs, quickly gathered in the evening when the sun went down,
herbs that refreshed the skin and gave the face a pale and glowing
flesh. One day
she saw that I saw her looking in the mirror
perhaps she felt my presence at her shoulder,
and she started: with a movement
as if suddenly landing hard from a jump.
“So, have you also noticed that I’m falling apart?”

and instantly she became happy again, consoled, beautiful
as she once was, before her change
and before the great, uncontrollable changes of time.

“A walk taken in those
days when the cold cut short the rain… She
and I, Gemma, my mother, 95 years old”.

third

Take me walking with you
just there ahead, up to the wall of the contrada,
up to where the valley opens up and it appears
the unearthly bell tower of stone, whitewashed by the flash
…..of moonlight,
so unearthly and immaterial
so detached, almost ethereal
that you can even believe it doesn’t exist
the void with its remoteness.

Take me walking with you.

We let ourselves go for a moment on the rock,
…..on our backs,
and dampened among garlands of hoarfrost
perhaps we believe we can even fly
because sometimes, like right now, I hear the rustling
…..of my clothes
that seems like the flapping of two broad wings,
and when this beat of flight accosts you
you feel your arms, your body, your features, lighten
and so wrapped up in the frame of azure hoarfrost,
in the liberated lines of the soul
it doesn’t matter if you’re taking off or returning,
nor does it matter that our hair has turned white,
(it’s this that moves me – and it moves me
to see that the path has also turned white).

Take me walking with you.

(translated by Bonnie McClellan)

for more poems by Giacomo Gusmeroli on this blog, click HERE.

Poiesis, The Art of Poetry: by Anna Mosca

Poiesis, The Art of Poetry

*

If I arrange myself
coherently

between white spaces

give me a rhythm
suspended
between bodies and souls

that will transfer
transfigure
that will transcribe

light on the soft
curve of waves
a second before

dark

(From the collection: Summer Colors).

To hear the poet’s reading of this poem, click on the player below:

Poiesis,L’arte di fare poesia

*

se mi dispongo
coerentemente

tra gli spazi bianchi

dammi un ritmo
che sia
tra i corpi e le anime

che trasporti
trasfiguri
che trascriva

la luce sulla curva
morbida delle onde
un attimo prima

buia

(dalla collezione: Colori estivi)

Clicca qui sotto per ascoltare l’audio:

You  can read more of Anna Mosca’s poetry by clicking HERE.
Leggi più delle poesie di Anna Mosca QUI.
 
Anna Mosca’s 2015 collection of poetry “California Notebooks 01” is available HERE.

shared emotion: by Ken Gierke

thought, emotion
in a relay race
through body and mind
each lap igniting sparks
firing across synapses
instantaneous
love
spoken, unspoken

thought, emotion
facing a tsunami of
words
inundating
slowly seeping away
leaving behind
sodden ash
heartbreak

thought, emotion
in a dull glow
re-firing to
recover
bridge a gap
reconnect
commune with
the outside world

To hear the poet’s reading of the poem, click on the player below:

Ken Gierke is a retired truck driver who started writing poetry at 40 as a way to sort through his thoughts. He’s been honing his writing skills over the last 3 years at his Wordpress blog and you can find more of his work HERE.

Halting Novena

I struggle to abandon apollonian mind to faith:
To leave aside the compass given me to read, arrange
And bend the spinning chaos to the rhythm of my breath.

My path

Is that of reason. Yet relieved to find the passing strange
Truth which flouts my measured doubt: I can scarce allow
Myself the grace that we are twin and have so been forever.

A fact

Which grounds all other house-of-cards truths i pretend to know.
And what of that? The world spins on indifferent to whether
My conjectures stand to reason. We know each other.

And laugh

 

This poem is an anonymous submission received for IPM 2017

In Jane Austen’s House: by John Looker

This was her writing table, this her chair
(‘Please Do Not Sit’): two bijou items placed
here by the window where the light fell square
on her page from the horse-drawn world she faced.
In a cramped corner the public (that’s me
and you) peer through glass at her neat handwriting;
or we squeeze into the bedroom which she
and her sister shared – until she was dying.
We visitors are whispering, withdrawing
from each other. We feel too tall, too loud,
navigating all this china, imploring
children to be careful. We’re quite a crowd.
……We open a door (she would have opened it too,
……her skirts brushing the frame) and we pass through.

 

John Looker’s poetry collection, The Human Hive, was selected by the Poetry Library for the UK’s national collection. His poems have appeared in print and in online journals and will be included in three anthologies for publication in 2017. A selection of John’s poetry can also be found HERE.

Topografia nord / 3: di Luka Stojnic

Con un gesto lui cambiò il vento. Aprì il suo cuore al passante che l’accolse con gioia. L’occhio sinistro sbirciava tra le macerie di una casa abbandonata con la forza. L’altro invece rimaneva vigile, per salutare con grazia. Educazione. Pacato e fermo, il volto nel parlare una lingua lontana; suoni complessi, gutturali. Descriveva le cose attorno com’esse realmente sono; nella loro immobilità: in solitudine. Vuoto. Ogni singolo chiodo di queste travi sgretola dentro gli spazi. Chiuso. L’aria inumidisce l’iride verde di un occhio poco attento ai passanti, di sfuggita manifestano il sorriso. Una smorfia preziosa. E tutto sta nel cemento taciturno della casa diroccata, da una guerra che non c’è mai stata. Il fluire dell’umidità viva, s’infiltra nella calce bianca delle fughe, tra i mattoni. Rosso. La polvere colma lo spazio, pulviscolo oltre il quale altre stanze proseguono. Sono immagini o parole? Uno sguardo oppure un organo? Tra le imposte, una luce bianca trova il suo passaggio; attraverso una polvere densa va a trasformarsi di tono e muta. Volume. Fa respirare con pesantezza, si contraggono i polmoni golosi di quella luce. “Prendi una boccata d’aria, là fuori. Non all’interno ma fuori!” Un quotidiano sul tavolino di marmo coi piedi in ghisa non ti offre salvezza. Leggi le parole dello straniero attento ai movimenti, a un gesto che, per sua insolenza, trasforma questo vento. Con il tuo vigile occhio costruisci il suo cordiale sorriso, impresso su labbra scorticate da quel vento. Calore. In un tempo. In un luogo. Lontano ma … che ne conosci ormai i dettagli.

Topography north / 3

With a gesture he changed the wind. He opened his heart to the passerby joyously welcomed. His left eye peered through the rubble of a forcibly abandoned house. The other remained vigilant, ready to greet with grace. Manners. Calm and still his face, in speaking a distant language – complex, guttural sounds. He described the surrounding things as they really are; in their immobility: in solitude. Empty. Every single nail of these beams is crumbling away within the spaces. Closed. The air moistens the green iris of an eye that takes little note of passersby; fleetingly they embody a smile. A precious grimace. And everything is held within the taciturn cement of the house ruined, by a war that never was. The flow of living moisture, infiltrates the white lime of the junctures, between the bricks. Red. Dust overfills the space, particulate matter beyond which other rooms follow. Are they images or words? A glance or rather an organ of vision? Between the shutters, a white light finds the way; through dense dust it goes, transforming itself tone and mute. Volume. It makes you breathe heavily, lungs – greedy for that light – contract. “Get some fresh air, out there. Not in here but out there!” A newspaper on the marble side table with cast iron legs offers you no salvation. Read the words of the stranger attentive to movements, a gesture that, for its insolence, transforms this wind. With your vigilant eye build his cordial smile, impressed on lips flayed by that wind. Heat. In a time. In a place. Long ago but … of which you know already the details.

Being: by Liliane Richman

Instead of Giordano Bruno
Who chose flames
Rather than compromise
I elect sage Galileo
Who recanted and saw
The light of another day
And still knew for a fact
Indeed the earth moves

It is not death we fear
Rather the kind of death we get
And if we can
We deny mortality,
For beyond pain
In the helpless body, begging
More than death, the horror
Is no longer
Being

 

To hear a reading of this poem, click on the player below:

To find more poetry by Liliane Richman on this blog, click HERE.

Liliane Richman’s recently published memoir, “The Bones of Time” can be found HERE.

The Ultimate Train Crash…: by Edward M. Stanton

A kaleidoscope
of life collisions.
One by one
precision laser
happenstances,
unexpectedly bombard
without hesitation
and no remorse.
We endure a journey
sometimes peaceful
sometimes tumultuous
but always,
evolving.
Late night candelabras
flicker seemingly
out of control,
all the while staying
closely guarding the wick.
Seashores parade
personalities awash
with character,
yet ever-changing
her psychological landscape.
Whatever happened
to the predictable??
It blew away in the wind,
just as sand scatters
like a herd of cats.
The wonder of life comes
in little packages,
always keeping
us pondering,
and never betraying
her secrets.
Celestial illusions
mislead our common sense,
polluting our dreams
with impossible realities,
never to occur,
banished from becoming.
A harsh reality awaits
those who genuinely
understand,
our lives are
really just molecules
in an existence,
that we can only
pretend to imagine,
amongst galaxies
of the unfamiliar,
and an infinity
truly beyond comprehension.
What a glorious
misconception,
a return to
the unfathomable,
just beyond reach,
yet never further
than our next
fleeting thought,
or our next warm Guiness
full of wallowing sorrows,
and a million spilt suds,
waiting for us nervously
at the corner pub…

To listen to a reading of the poem by the poet, click on the player below:

 

Copyright Edward M. Stanton 2017

To hear a readings of other poems by Edward M. Stanton, click HERE.