vandet løber: af Christian Stokbro Karlsen

vandet løber
ned over din

på husmu
ren overfor

de døde
dyr op

 Det kan findes i bogen af Christian Stokbro-Karlsen – “AFFALD”
at læse Christians blog på dansk, klik HER.

water runs
down your

nipple clean
across from us
on the wall

they hang
the dead
animals up

to hear more poetry by Christian Stokbro Karlsen in translation, click HERE.

to read Christian’s poetry in English, click HERE.
Christan Stokbro Karlsen
copyright 2010, all rights reserved

Jasmine : by Gilles-Marie Chenot

Le vent s’assoit
Sur un espar
Que le temps charge
De caresses
Sans qu’un instant
La nuit ne voile
Un zeste ému
Dans la respiration
Qui s’abandonne
Fragile et claire
Fleur d’ouragan
Larme tranquille

The wind sits upon
A spar, which
Weathers’ charge
With caresses
As not even for an instant
Does the night not veil
A touching zest
In the breath
Abandoning itself
Fragile and light
Hurricane’s flower
Tranquil drop

To read more work by GMC, click HERE.
To find other poems by GMC on this blog click HERE.

In Vocation of the Muse: by Bonnie McClellan

This poem has disappeared from this website. To hear a reading click on the audio player below:

To read more poetry by Bonnie McClellan, click HERE.

A petal from ‘California Notebooks’: by Anna Mosca

Trova questa poesia QUI.

The English version of this poem has disappeared from this website but it can now be found HERE.

A reading of the poem by the poet can be heard by clicking on the player below:

(translation by Bonnie McClellan)
You  can read more of Anna Mosca’s “California Notebooks” by clicking HERE.
Leggi più dei “quaderni californiani” di Anna Mosca QUI.

Ultimo cliente di Giacomo Gusmeroli

L’armonia nascosta è superiore alla manifesta


Ultimo cliente


Chiese di passargli il 41 delle Clark dallo scaffale.
Edith le fece ripetere il numero. Salii io sulla scala, sfilai
……………………………………………………………………………..[la scatola
e diedi il polacchino blu al cliente.
Erano le 19e30 sul mio orologio e dissi a Edith cosa provava.
accennò un sorriso e rifletté che era ora di chiudere. Dopo
…………………………………………………………………………     [aver tolto
la chiave dalla toppa gliela consegnai.
Mi abbracciò e disse:
“Non porti niente…”
“Non mi serve nulla”
“ In questo viaggio non voglio servire a due padroni”.


dapprima mi si levò

…un acro di terra abbandonato sotto
la rupe. Compivo trent’anni.

Ero come un giglio del campo
quando l’ho visto infestato

di arastre spinescenti e mi piaceva
lo squarcio al confine

con il carruggio
per il Par Impusibèl,

di ciliegi e rosmarino selvatico.
E lì, me ne stavo con braghe

da spaventapasseri, e ogni tanto
negli attimi spogli guardavo

il gran cielo notturno
come da ragazzo

la prima notte d’alpeggi
accosciato sulla specola.


Poi nei mesi della Verna restavo
nella mia preghiera austera e sola

volevo molto e chissà volevo
fossero veri davanti

a Lui i miei sogni. Ma niente
era già terminato

dinamico era ogni divenire
e nella lotta maturai. Solo

andare, dovevo, e nessuna
certezza era più lontana

e imparare dai fatti,
come bambino cominciare ancora,

e se fu doloroso per quell’allora;
ora è il presente ed è il quotidiano,

è il tempo,
il senso…


– E chi te lo ha fatto fare, a te, di mollare tutto?
Parecchi mi interrogavano così:
– E – aggiungono, poi all’istante
– è troppo complesso, per dire, –
risparmiandomi la risposta:

con gli amici, invece
dissotterro il dubbio, (che è dar braccio
al passo difficile) della verità.
Mentre al Gianmario, dopo mesi, vicino alla tomba
di Carlo Carretto, ho detto che cerco

la mia religiosità:
– E la mia arte.

Trovate QUI più informazioni su Giacomo Gusmeroli, incluso il suo ultimo libro LA BILANCIA IN EQUILIBRIO
An Engliah translation of this poem, from Giacomo Gusmeroli’s most recent book  LA BILANCIA IN EQUILIBRIO can be found below:

“The harmony hidden is superior to that manifest”

Last customer


She asked that I pass her the Clark’s in a 9-1/2 from the shelf
Edith asked her to repeat the size. I went up the ladder, slid out
[the box

and gave the blue ankle boots to the client.
It was 7:30 pm by my watch and I asked Edith what she thought.
[And she
with a slight smile agreed that it was time to close. After
[having taken
the key from the lock, I gave it to her.
She hugged me and said:
“You won’t take anything…”
“I won’t need anything”
I replied.
“On this voyage I don’t want to serve two masters”.


at first arose
before me…

…an acre of abandoned land below
the scarp. I was thirty.

I was as a lily of the field
when I saw it overrun

with briars and I liked
the opening where it bordered

the beaten path
to the Seemingly Impossible,

wild cherries and rosemary.
And there, I stayed with scarecrow

trousers, and every so often
in bare moments I looked

at the broad night sky
as when as a boy I passed

my first night in the high alps
hunkered in the observatory.


Then in the Vernal months I stayed
alone within my austere prayers

I wanted much and who knows I wanted
that they were true before

Him, my dreams. But nothing
was already done

everything yet to become in motion
and in the battle I matured. Only

to go, I had to, and no
certainty was more distant

and learning through doing,
beginning again as a child,

and if it were a painful then,
now it is a daily present,

it is time,


– And who made you do it, you, let it all go?
Many have interrogated me so:
– And – then they add, at the moment
– it is too complex, to say, –
sparing me my response:

with my friends
I unearth instead my doubt, (which is to offer a hand
through a difficult pass) of the truth.
While to Gianmario, months later, near the grave
of Carlo Carretto, I said I was in search of

my devotion:
–And my art.

(translated by Bonnie McClellan)

There I was…: by Tom McClellan (1941 – 2013)

This poem will remain posted as a memorial to poet Tom McClellan who passed away in August of 2013. A reading of the poem can be heard by clicking on the player below:


There I was in the madhouse again,
That summer you remember as the one it didn’t rain
So long the paper ran front page ads for the record-breaking

Drought. Every morning I’d stare into the hard hot sunrise through
Brown tinted shatterproof ––
Your brain finally tells you the crepe myrtle blooms
Eight stories down are really pink despite your eyes.
One day the clouds at last

Gathered low and dark and spat spare droplets on that mirrored barrier ––
Then summer’s fever broke, and I watched my tears
Land and gather thick and run down what kept me from feeling


Copyright Tom McClellan 2001 ~ all rights reserved
To read more poetry and prose by Tom McClellan, visit his blog HERE.

born to the precipice: by anonymous 20th century poet

This poem has disappeared from this website, it can now be found here. Listen to a reading of this poem by clicking on the player below:

To hear more poems by anonymous 20th century poet, click HERE.
To read more poetry by anonymous 20th century poet, click HERE.

Autumn Leaves by Adina Richman

This poem has disappeared from this website. To hear a reading of the poem, click on the player below:

copyright 2013 Adina Richman, all rights reserved

To hear more poems by Adina Richman, click HERE.

Once more into the breach…IPM 2014 is open for submissions!

International Poetry Month 2014

once more into the breach…or fill the gap with poetry

I had been casting about for a theme for International Poetry Month 2014 for almost a year when my husband, Matthew Broussard, made a series of paintings on the theme of ambiguous and iconic gestures in December. As soon as I saw the painting “Leap” the phrase in the heading above came to mind.

After a year of listing to news packed with war and disaster, perhaps the unaltered quote from Shakespeare’s Henry V would be more apt – although a quick recap of the years news will tell us that the gap was filled with dead of every nationality: the building collapse in Dar es Salaam, the Fertilizer plant in West, Texas, the Boston Marathon bombing, the constant undercurrent of the financial and employment crisis in Europe, a devastating typhoon in the Philippines, drowning of migrants off of Lampedusa, the wars in South Sudan, Syria…does your heart feel like lead yet, are you about to click on a link to something else, anything else?

Poets are charged with throwing their works into the breach, paving the unseeable future with words that transform the painful, the splendid and the ordinary of where we are now and where we have been, into where we are going…making the leap, perhaps of faith or perhaps of desperation or even of joy. The future is there: blindingly dark, spattered with patches of dense brightness. We’re on the precipice, hanging above the clouds, now….LEAP