IPM 2015: Where do we go from here?

Before the Simplon pass at the Italian-Swiss border, is a Roman bridge over the Diveria River. It's called the "new" bridge, because it was built in 1300 c.e. to replace the previous bridge built in the reign of Emperor Augustus that was destroyed by a flood.
Before the Simplon pass at the Italian-Swiss border, is a Roman bridge over the Diveria River. It’s called the “new” bridge, because it was built in 1300 c.e. to replace the previous bridge built in the reign of Emperor Augustus that was destroyed by a flood.

 

“Poetry gives us the opportunity to offer our observations to present and future readers, be they from the perspective of one standing on the bridge watching events or of one standing below and taking on the current. I’m looking forward to a month of editing and I know that my IPM readers are standing on the bridge waiting for the flow of poems to begin…”

So began International Poetry Month 2015 and the flow of poems was fascinating for me to edit and I hope that both Readers and Poets enjoyed getting their feet wet. I offer my most sincere thanks to the participating poets and to the more than 1000 readers who came from the United States, England, Australia, Brazil, Italy, Pakistan, Canada, Denmark, France, India, Luxembourg, Singapore, the UAE, New Zealand, Trinidad & Tobago, Japan, Germany, the Netherlands, Nigeria, Switzerland, Israel, Ghana, the Philippines, Belgium, Peru, Romania, Serbia and Portugal to read their work.

Today is the fourth of March and Spring seems only a few days away here in Northern Italy while I know those in other places are still slogging through the snow. Regardless of the temperature, here the snows have begun to melt and these poems will begin to erode away, disappearing a few at a time and leaving only the voices behind. Some you will still be able to find on the web, or in a book. Some will be gone for good. Where do we go from here? Why across the bridge and in search of new images, new experiences and new poetry. Following is an alphabetical list of the participating poets; each name is also a link to the poet’s work posted at IPM where you will find additional links to individual blogs or published works:

Window Open, Closed: by Robert Okaji

 

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The written version of this poem has disappeared. To listen to the poet’s reading of the poem, click on the player below:

You can find more poetry by Robert Okaji on his blog HERE on in his new chapbook “If Your Matter Could Reform” which will be published in April of this year as the first book in the National Poetry Month series by Dink Press 

Sempé: A cartoon – by Liliane Richman

A cyclist
lady bug in black and red jersey
on an early Spring day
zipping across Brooklyn Bridge
under massive pillars
and lacy girders

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

Interpretation of Bullies at the Train Station: by Edward M. Stanton

 

Copyright 2015 Edward M. Stanton. All rights reserved.

The written version of this poem has disappeared, to hear the poet’s reading of this poem click on the audio player below:

To hear a reading of another poem by Edward M. Stanton, click HERE.

At the Fountain: by Adina Richman

Land of gladiators and Michelangelo
Roman ruins, streets of water, pasta putenesca
History, mystery, beauty and romance

Under fragrant wisteria
In a rose trellised park corner off the piazza
Is a pond, with a fountain, dappled gold and green

Too perfect to exist, it must be a movie
A woman with a lion’s mane made of raven wings
That spills gracefully, playfully, over bare, marble shoulders
Tempts her Marcello, or Antonio, or Giuseppe
To kiss in waters carpeted by tourists’ copper wishes
Glowing warmly under a technicolor moon

Different scene at high noon:
Boys play cowboy in the park, kicking up dust
Pretending to drown Indians while ducks quack,
Church bells ring,
Happy daffodils sway
Smiling young mothers shoo bumble bees from
sleeping babies in prams
Under a canopy of wisteria
I saw three boys beat another almost to death

Blood arcing from his face
Graceful as the water in the fountain
Dancing in the sky
Ruby droplets spinning in the sun
Crashing, splashing, exploding bombs
On ancient stone, silent and indifferent as the day they were set,
All those years ago

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copyright 2009 Adina Richman, all rights reserved

To hear more poems by Adina Richman, click HERE.

a part: by anonymous 20th century poet

this weather,
which feels like spring,
though i remind myself it is not,
lures me from my smoky car,
turned inward,
to my plastic garden chair,
turned outward.
with this simple exchange,
i become part of the neighborhood again.
ray apologizes for his cussing
in the midst of a watery crisis,
rodney and michael work
on a livery of cars,
kerry argues by cell phone,
and the children play
on christmas-born scooters.
my winter lair
has sequestered me
from these goings on.
bare feet propped,
sap bubbling in my bones
i dare the winter long promising
to roust me again
from my comfortable perch.

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

Lost At Sea: by Anna Mosca

*

I had the feeling

I had been lost at sea

just for a few weeks

.

if weeks count as

years having no sweet

food or drink just

.

overcoming the waves

withstand the wind patience

unfolded under the sun

.

one morning  – passing by

a mirror – not able to

recognize myself

.

*

ho avuto la sensazione

d’esser stata naufraga persa

nel mare qualche settimana

 .

se le settimane contano

come anni senza cibo

o acqua dolce solo

 .

le onde da superare

sopportando il vento la pazienza

spiegata sotto il sole

.

una mattina – passando

davanti a uno specchio –

incapace di riconoscermi

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To listen to the poet’s reading of this poem in English click on the audio below:
 
You  can read more of Anna Mosca’s “California Notebooks” by clicking HERE.
Leggi più dei “quaderni californiani” di Anna Mosca QUI.

rushing with the river: by Hán Ruì Yǎ

it is a dark starry night
he holds my hand so tight
splashing river is so bright
as ripples of diamonds in sight.

we run over the crunchy leaves
flop plop in the mud to reach
a boat at the bank of river
fastened but floating with fervor.

he jumps in the boat so quick
and pulls me with such brisk
so waves swoosh and swirl
and whispering breeze to trees
who rustle with joy and zeal.

he paddles the boat with struggle
some pebbles I pick as treasure
blue moon beholds us and smiles
our endless journey now begins.

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To hear the poet’s reading of this work, click on the arrow of the audio player below:

To read more poetry by Hán Ruì Yǎ, you can find her here at All Poetry or find both poetry and prose at her wordpress blog Becoming Confucius.

“Mia piccola nonna, Maria”: di Giacomo Gusmeroli

La notte si ingrandiva spessa di neve alla Biurca de Gàvet, tutta luminosa di spilli di ghiaccio e di luna. Dal ponte arrivava una donna giovane vestita di pannolenci.

………………………………………………………………………………………

“Mia piccola nonna, Maria”

Quando ti ha chiuso gli occhi intorno
c’era solo suléugul
e il fumo di una piccola lucerna

pulizia e dignità come nel candore
dei muri di calcina e nel lenzuolo
di canapa e quanto c’è di unico

e di compiuto nell’essere.
…………………………….

Al funerale una foglia avvizzita si librò sul fiume e scomparve. Ogni cosa era avvolta dal freddo. Solo delle pecore erano sperse sulla stretta, flemme, andavano aldilà. Di ritorno, c’era odor di polenta, patate e biancheria lavata. Mangiammo con fame quel che il nonno ci metteva davanti.

suléugul, un mesto senso di abbandono (dial.).

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Trovate QUI più informazioni su Giacomo Gusmeroli, incluso il suo ultimo libro LA BILANCIA IN EQUILIBRIO

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An English translation of this poem can be found below:

The night expanded thick with snow at Biurca de Gàvet, all bright pins of ice and moon. A young woman dressed in thin felt came from the bridge.
……………………………………………………………………………

“My little grandmother, Maria”

When you’d closed your eyes around
there was only forlornness
and the smoke of a small oil lamp

cleanliness and dignity as in the white
of the lime-washed walls and in the hempen
sheets and how much there is of the inimitable

and of completeness in being.
……………………………

At the funeral a withered leaf drifted on the river’s surface and disappeared. Everything was enveloped by the cold. Only the sheep were scattered along the narrow way, phlegmatically, they moved along. Returning, there was the smell of polenta, potatoes and freshly-washed laundry. We ate with hunger what Grandfather set before us.

(translated by Bonnie McClellan)

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

senza titolo: by Giacomo Gusmeroli

Mai e poi mai dimenticalo – ribadì- quel bene affidato, quel
sentir giusto. Ricordali quei nomi scalpellati
sulle nostre soglie di pietra – le date di nascita e le
……..impronte,
e insieme i canti, quel libro, quell’eco, la conca, le lune;

iöiumé!, e di pre-sera quando il nonno, guadagnato il pane,
tira via dai piedi i calzerotti, mette a posto gli arnesi
………a piano a piano
nel sua rastrelliera; poi, alla fontana, si lava
i piedi, il collo, le mani temprate e i capelli ricciuti.

E, benevolo e straniato, beve a sazietà , portandosi
alla bocca la ciotola di legno – opera delle sue
………opere
povere, fragili, e utili; – beve a testa alta,
più distinto degli altri, il nonno statuario,
il nonno vacillante.

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Trovate QUI più informazioni su Giacomo Gusmeroli, incluso il suo ultimo libro LA BILANCIA IN EQUILIBRIO

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An English translation of this poem can be found below:

Never and then never to be forgotten – resounded – that entrusted good, that
feeling of rightness. Remember them, those names chiseled
on our stone thresholds – the dates of birth and the
imprints,…….
and together the songs, that book, that echo, the basin, the moons;

iöiumé!, and in early evening grandfather, having earned his daily bread,
pulls heavy socks from his feet, puts his tools in their place
row by row…….
in the rack; then, at the pump, he washes
his feet, his neck, his tempered hands and curly hair.

And, benevolent and apart, drinks his fill, carrying
to his mouth the wooden bowl – work of his
working…….
poor, fragile, and useful; – head high he drinks,
more distinct than the others, the statuary grandfather,
the vacillating grandfather.

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(translated by Bonnie McClellan)

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