Abandoned Church(Ballad of The Great War)Poem.Torre A. DeVito Translated from Iglesia Abandonada.Federico García Lorca

IGLESIA ABANDONADA
(BALADA DE LA GRAN GUERRA)

Yo tenía un hijo que se llamaba Juan.
Yo tenía un hijo.
Se perdió por los arcos un viernes de todos los muertos.
Lo vi jugar en las últimas escaleras de la misa
y echaba un cubito de hojalata en el corazón del sacerdote.
He golpeado los ataúdes. ¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi hijo!
Saqué una pata de gallina por detrás de la luna y luego
comprendí que mi niña era un pez
por donde se alejan las carretas.
Yo tenía una niña.
Yo tenía un pez muerto bajo la ceniza de los incensarios.
Yo tenía un mar. ¿De qué? ¡Dios mío! ¡Un mar!
Subí a tocar las campanas, pero las frutas tenían gusanos
y las cerillas apagadas
se comían los trigos de la primavera.
Yo vi la transparente cigüeña de alcohol
mondar las negras cabezas de los soldados agonizantes
y vi las cabañas de goma
donde giraban las copas llenas de lágrimas.
En las anémonas del ofertorio to encontraré, ¡corazón mío!,
cuando el sacerdote levante la mula y el buey con sus fuertes brazos
para espantar los sapos nocturnos que rondan los helados paisajes del cáliz.
Yo tenía un hijo que era un gigante,
pero los muertos son más fuertes y saben devorar pedazos de cielo.
Si mi niño hubiera sido un oso,
yo no temería el siglo de los caimanes,
ni hubiese visto el mar amarrado a los árboles
para ser fornicado y herido por el tropel de los regimientos.
¡Si mi niño hubiera sido un oso!
Me envolveré sobre esta lona dura para no sentir el frío de los musgos.
Sé muy bien que me darán una manga o la corbata;
pero en el centro de la misa yo rompere el timón y entonces
vendrá a la piedra la locura de pingüinos y gaviotas
que harán decir a los que duermen y a los que cantan por las esquinas:
él tenía un hijo.
¡Un hijo! ¡Un hijo! ¡Un hijo
que no era más que suyo. porque era su hijo!
¡Su hijo! ¡Su hijo! ¡Su híjo!

 ***

The Abandoned Church
(A Ballad of The Great War)

Translated and further interpreted by Torre DeVito
from “IGLESIA ABANDONADA” by Federico García Lorca

I had a son who was named John.
I lost a son whom I look for in
the ruins of the church one All-Hallows eve.
I see him playing on the steps during a mass long since ended,
Dipping his little tin pail into the well of the priest’s heart.
I beat the coffins for my son (My son!) and cast
chicken bones during a full moon to try and understand

I had a vision that my little child was a fish
left where they move the vendor’s carts away.
I had a little child, a fish that died
in the ashes of incense burners.
And in my vision I was the sea. What? My God! A vast sea!

During his funeral I rang the bells,
but the bells have decayed like wormy fruit.
and I lit the candles, now devoured:
eaten like the spring wheat.

And in the wine, I saw the invisible reaper which
plucks the black heads of anguished soldiers:
in those trays with rubber housings
in which they pass around cups filled with tears.

Amongst the holy flowers of the offertory you will find my heart
when the priest raises the host like one who lifts
a mule or an ox with his strong arms. He does this to
scare away the toads that come out at night to haunt
the frozen landscape of the chalice.

I had a son who was a giant,
but the dead are stronger than the living
and they know how to devour pieces of heaven.

If my child was a bear,
I would not be afraid of the alligator’s stealth,
nor would I have seen the sea tied to the trees
to be ravished and trampled by regiments.
If my child was a bear!

I wrap my child in stiff fabric to dispel the cold of the mosses.
I know very well that I will get a sleeve or an armband;
but in the middle of the funeral I will break the rudder
we will drift to a rock in the sea – full of the madness of
penguins and seagulls, and it will cause those who sleep and
those who sing from the street-corners to cry:
He had a son. A son! A son!

I had a son! Not that he was more than my son,
but because he belongs to us all now, they cry:
Our son, our son, our son…

***

( http://www.tdevito.com )

W.S.Sonnet 53.French Translation Richard Vallance

Tiré de = from:The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: 
Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium 
= Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : 
Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième millénaire.
Victoria, British Columbia: Friesen Press, © 2013 / 

Chapitre 2 : sonnets en français

Sonnet 53

daprès le Sonnet LIII (53) de William Shakespeare

Alexandrin

Laquelle serait lessentielle à te définir,
Des ténèbres innombrables qui te poursuivent ?
Parmi ces pénombres qui veulent se réunir
À toi, à qui est la mine plus inexpressive ?
Décrire Adonis, et son image dans la glace
Veut te contrefaire aussi bien quil taffaiblit ;
Les beaux-arts, auraient-ils, Hélène, autant de grâce,
Que la frise hellénique, elle qui tembellit ?
Lon voit au beau printemps sépanouir lannée,
Dont la foison est trop exquise et un atout,
Mais elle a moins dabondance que ta Beauté ;
Te voilà donc bénie et reconnue partout.
   Quelle soit prévisible, la grâce tappartient,
   Et la constance imprévisible aussi bien.

Richard Vallance

Le Sonnet 53 de Richard Vallance a été publié dans le vol. 7, numéro 3, été 2007, page 18 de Sonnetto Poesia ISSN1705-4524= was previously published in Sonnetto Poesia ISSN 1705-4524.Vol. 7 No. 3 summer 2007, page 18

Dit-il : Cette nouvelle version du sonnet que jai composé en français ne constitue 
pas du tout une simple traduction.  Cest en effet ma création originale du sonnet 53 
de William Shakespeare (1564-1616).  My version of  William Shakespeare's Sonnet 
53 is simply not to be construed as a running translation of the original. It is in fact 
my own original creation.

Sonnet LIII 

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helens cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring and foison of the year;
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
   In all external grace you have some part,
   But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Commentaires sur la recréation du sonnet 53 de William Shakespeare par Richard Vallance = 

Comments on Richard Vallances recreation of William Shakespeares Sonnet 53 into French:

Ta recréation du sonnet de Shakespeare, fort réussie, me touche dautant plus que... 
passim...  [j]e viens de comparer dun peu plus près ton sonnet 53 avec loriginal...
 passim... et les traductions dHenri Thomas et Armel Guerne. Si tu téloignes parfois 
délibérément de la lettre, tu saisis lesprit des Sonnets de Shakespeare, en particulier 
la musicalité et les antithèses, dont celle de la chute. (Thierry Guinhut, France.) 
http://www.thierry-guinhut-litteratures.com/)

Translated: Your recreation of Shakespeares sonnet, a success in itself, affects me all 
the more when I compare it with the translations of Henri Thomas and Armel Guerne.  
If you occasionally stray from the letter, you never stray from the spirit of Shakespeares 
sonnets.  Your French faithfully reflects the  musicality, the play on antithesis and the 
surprising twist of his rhyming couplet.

Had Richard Vallance only carried the images of Sonnet 53 safely across the pond to lay 
them down in new  Alexandrine accommodations, his achievement would have been notable; 
but he has done something rarer... by reminding us of the Sonnet’s intentions.  He has given 
us a love poem: one that no Dark Lady would easily resist.  (Becca Menon, Becca Books, NYC)

I read your translation/adaptation of sonnet 53 and enjoyed it  a strange effect of translations 
is sometimes one understands an aspect of the original better in the translation; Shakespeares 
already moderately remote from us, that is our use of the English. So your translation brings 
several aspects of the original to light which are perhaps a bit opaque in the original.  
(Howard Giskin, Department of Modern and Classical Languages, University of  Connecticut, Storrs)

Vraiment la traduction du sonnet 53 de W.S. est excellent. Je peux te dire qu’en français ça coule avec une douceur infinie. C’est de toute beauté. Gilles Le Chasseur (Rimouski, Québec, Canada)

Translated: Your translation of W.S.'s Sonnet 53 is excellent.  I can honestly say
 that it flows with infinite grace in French. It is a thing of beauty.

We urge readers of these sonnets in Poetry Life & Times pre-published 
from The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendes. 
Victoria, B.C., Canada, Friesen Press, © June 2013  300 sonnets in English, 
French, German, Chinese & Farsi, http://vallance22.hpage.com/, to visit the
site. Readers may also contact Richard  Vallance, Editor-in-Chief, at:
vallance22@gmx.com for further information. 

			

Doors. Sonnet.Poem. Ma Li. Translated Chinese Tang Yao. Howard Giskin

门与门

 

我一直注视着一个人,一个陌生人

我在楼梯口遇见过他,他打开了一道门

正是冬天,我正在浴盆中洗澡的时刻

这个人从某一个方向朝我走来,破门而入

这个人的眼睛在一开始的时候就装满了

关于门的故事,医院的门,公墓的门

这个人走遍了黑夜,站在一个小镇安静的门外

这个人左手藏着一把西班牙小牛角刀

右手握着一卷爱伦坡式的恐怖小说

身上有酒,还有心爱女人的照片

我与这个人匆匆一瞥,他招呼我开

我不慌不忙地去开门,门被推开了

但我醒了,门把我从现实推向幽蔽的梦境

门又把我从梦境扯回现实的一个角落

 

Doors

 

I have been watching a man, a stranger

I met him at the stair-head, he opened a door

In wintertime when I was in the tub

He came to me from somewhere entering

Eyes filled with doors; hospital doors, cemetery doors

Passing the night standing outside the

Quiet door of a small town, hiding a Spanish

Horn knife in his left hand, horror story in the right

Bottle of wine in his pocket and a photo of a beloved woman

I caught a glimpse of this man who asked

Me to open the door; in no hurry, door

Pushed open from reality I woke into

Dreamland confined when again a door pulled

Me from dreamland to a corner of reality.

 

***

Ma Li is a contemporary poet, painter and essayist. She is also the chief editor of the writing column of South Weekend, the most famous and widely issued weekly newspaper in China. She was born in the seaside town Zhanjiang in 1960. She began to write poems in the 1980’s, and essays in 1990’s. She is a member in the Chinese Writers Association. She has published several poetry collections, like “Ma Li Poetry Collection,” and “Ma Li’s Golden Sonnet,” the latter which won first prize in the “Chinese New Classic Poem Award” competition in 2007. In addition, she has published several essay collections and held her own art exhibition.

 

Tang Yao comes from Xuzhou, China. At present she lives in Nanjing. Her area of specialization is foreign and applied linguistics. She focuses on translation both from Chinese to English and from English to Chinese, and has co-translated two books from English to Chinese. She has also done research on the translation of ancient Chinese poems.

 

Howard Giskin has taught in the Department of English at Appalachian State University since 1989. He works mainly in the area of World Literature, with particular interest in Asian culture, literature and philosophy, as well as Latin American literature. He has co-edited An Introduction to Chinese Culture through the Family (SUNY Press, 2001), and has edited a volume of Chinese folktales (NTC / Contemporary, 1997), as well as written articles on Argentinean writer Jorge Luis Borges, and published poetry. His interests also include the intersection of the sciences and humanities. He has taught in Asia, Africa, Europe and Latin America, and lives with his wife Vicki in Millers Creek, North Carolina.

 
Phoenix  Book Image
 
Ma li’s Sonnet Doors in its original Chinese text together with its translation by Tang Yao and Howard Giskin appear in The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium= Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième millénaireat Friesen Press. ISBN: Hardcover: 978-1-4602-1700-9 Paperback: 978-1-4602-1701-6 eBook: 978-1-4602-1702-3.
http://vallance22.hpage.com

 

 

 

 

The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of Sonnets. Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets. Poetry. Richard Vallance.

Phoenix  Book Image

The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium
= Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième millénaire.
Vallance, Richard, Ed-in-Chief. Victoria, British Columbia: Friesen Press, ©
 
Some 300 sonnets and ghazals in English,
French, Spanish, German and Farsi published at
Friesen Press, and now available.
 
 
Friesen Press will do all the marketing and distribution.
 
To be available
in major bookstores & through all major online order channels
such as Amazon.com, Alibris.com,
Smithsbook's, Ebay and Barnes & Noble:
For more information on the anthology, please visit our site.
The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres

Near and Far.The Teratogen Sonnet Series. Poem. Video. Norman Ball

 

“The death camps were not built in the Gobi Desert. And when barbarism challenged, the humanities, the arts, philosophic thought proved not only largely impotent but often collaborative with despotism and massacre,”

–George Steiner, from ‘A New Literacy’, The Kenyon Review, 24:1, Winter 2007, 10-24

 

Teratogen 1: Sex on the Brain

 

“Thy nakedness shall be uncovered,

yea, thy shame shall be seen…”—Isaiah 47:3

 

This mission is a sin. What kind of spaz-

tic draws vigor from pornographic veins

or penis-headed parodies of ass?

 

But you’re no baby, Baby. Holy weans

alive, I could not diaper your fine mess.

You soil all metaphor. I’ll author blame:

My labs, my country tis of thee. My shame

is writ uncovered on your face. No less

you’d scare Sears’ portrait guy.

 

And yet I’m drawn

to parse the prick that promenades your head.

They told us, Horus, Set, the Golden Dawn:

 

a Third Eye—neither naked, neither dead

of shameless form would, near the end, arrive

commending those whose fear brought it alive.

 

Teratogen 2: Cabbage Patch Moll

 

“Hence world picture, when understood

essentially, does not mean a picture of the

world but the world conceived and grasped

as picture.” –Martin Heidegger

 

You vandalize distress at no small cost

through nylon skein and cabbage patch

disguise. This manhunt though is long since lost.

All have been found. First paparazzi snatched

 

unguarded moments. Then we watched gray puffs

televise precision. Your face

is pixelated aftermath that stuffs

everything in the close-up. Common place

 

covers all bases. Where’s the intimate

to hide? The convict is a partial judge

on all subjects of visual merit. Split

my screen and your forehead suggests a smudge-

print. We share the mounting headcount’s ripe bruise.

For I no longer feel eyewitness news.

 

Teratogen 3: Thumbelina, Dance

 

“…advanced forms of biological warfare that can ‘target’ specific genotypes may transform biological warfare from the realm of terror to a politically useful tool.” –from Project for a New American Century (PNAC) Manifesto, 2000

 

We vet foot bills. Are pissed-on borders worth

a mongrel birth? doG gone us Pentagon.

Hotdog Girl rolls so we might rule the earth?

 

Our barking men of outrage are all gone.

Lassie’s come home to her unleashing hour.

Stream? I cannot stream out into the streets.

Fluoride neutered all my upright power.

I’ll litter no more dog-days in these sheets.

 

Poor pup, you play dead well. No, we’ll not lift

you up. One burp and you could well explode

across complicit shoulders. To the swift

life opens up. As for an honest road

with cars to chase, let’s first define your legs.

Right now you are a thumb. How motion begs.

 

Teratogen 4: Waterboy

 

“No, you people are drinkin’ the wrong water.”

–from The Water Boy, the movie (1998)

 

 Suffer this baby floating on the earth

amphibious. Grace alone can mend

fluidic pustules. Please make haste. No berth

so wide of God, nor time-belabored End-

 

time should deflate ascent. Prospects look grim

for god-speed. Though we tire of boils and sore

feet.

 

Oh procrastinating seraphim,

whitewash no more. These mutants wash ashore.

Our amniotic seas now euthanize.

 

Please hear, oh Lord, water-boy’s gurgled cries.

His isotopic lungs cannot advance

beyond collapse. How does he stand a chance

of reaching Heaven, waterlogged on Earth?

The New Disorder liquefies at birth.

 

Teratogen 5: Burpee Girl

 

“Satan said: ‘I am not the one to prostrate

myself to a human being, whom You created

from sounding clay of altered black smooth

mud.” –Quran 15:30-35

 

Christian soldier, you battle your mortgage

with Abd al-Chuckee puppet-strings away,

sculpted like a Mujaheedin porridge

from amber waves of O, so gamma ray.

 

Our acronym-cadavers cyphered this.

The Pentagon got wind of ill-wind skies.

Re-baseline victory. All vectors miss

these eyesores too contained to leak out cries.

 

Children, don’t play! The cradle robs the grave

before the grave has time to rob your wild

unripened stares. Uranium defiled

His altered mud. God’s breath we, breathless, waive.

 

Dead verse tomatoes horror. Who’ll baptize

the Burpee Girl with ovulating eyes?

 

Teratogen 6: Improvised Existential Denouement (IED)

 

Up close you could be anybody’s child-

care scandal. Hamburger Hill limps beside

your fresh pink meat. While no one looked, life filed

your backstroke down to blisters. They will hide

your books in study hall. Who will arrest

 

this mutant form now terrorizing cells?

Without a clear and sewn-up threat the West

cannot hold the line. Deformity spells

 

doom. No tight-knit group of key advisors

props up your bloated puppet-string regime.

Sit up. Exude malevolence. Your sores

must find themselves else war will lose its steam

 

pressed irony. Don’t make us make Big Macs.

Cater our events. Weather our attacks.

 

Teratogen 7: Baby Skeletor (Brought to You by ‘Masters of the Universe’)

 

“Skeletor’s face accidentally got splashed with acid and he sacrificed his face to

survive.” –from ‘Masters of the Universe’, a Mattel media franchise

 

Before ill-winds impinged on faultless weather,

I had a barrow glazed with rain for you.

I’d wheel you to the bus-stop, but why lever

a father’s guilt atop your unhinged glue?

 

I’m loath to hold you up for God to see,

nor shower you with blue comforts. Why not flee

my too-short arms, your wails so out of key?

You scream small monster none the least at me.

 

I’ll prop you up at school if you insist.

But stand-up kids are cruel. They will resist

the womb’s last weapon, shrunken in their midst.

The universe won’t stoop. You are the grist

for chemistry swept under bazaar rug,

a Hazmat spill, the morning-after drug.
 
This series first appeared in The New Formalist, then Cinemension. Teratogen sonnets 5 and 7 will appear in ‘The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium Friesen Press, Victoria, B.C., Canada, 2013.
 
normgarage2
 
NORMAN BALL (BA Political Science/Econ, Washington & Lee University; MBA, George Washington University) is a well-travelled Scots-American businessman, author and poet whose essays have appeared in Counterpunch, The Western Muslim and elsewhere. His new book “Between River and Rock: How I Resolved Television in Six Easy Payments” is available here. Two essay collections, “How Can We Make Your Power More Comfortable?” and “The Frantic Force” are spoken of here and here. His recent collection of poetry “Serpentrope” is published from White Violet Press. He can be reached at returntoone@hotmail.com.
 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop

Coral Reveries (3).Poem. Audio. Ian Irvine (Hobson)

Tree of Life

Image: ‘Darwin’s Tree of Life’ [from public domain image, drawn by Darwin]

 

ThreePoems:CoralReveries.

Ian Irvine Hobson. Audio Version.

Poems: (3.)

 

(i.) Their Massive God

(ii.)The Noble Love of Freedom

(iii.) To Inhabit the Fields of Time

 

Poems by Ian Irvine (Hobson), copyright all rights reserved.

 

Please Note: many of these poems meditate upon or, in some cases rework/recombine, random phrases appearing in the 2nd edition of Charles Darwin’s The Voyage of the Beagle. The first edition of the work appeared in 1839. I hope I have done some justice to the natural lyricism evident in Darwin’s relaxed prose style.

 

 

Their Massive God

 

Whether I killed their God,

one and massive.

book-tombed, with chiselled words

on granite—his puny reign,

mere millennia—

was not the issue.

 

Mine was the gambler’s fear, for

the mist-wrapped hull of the new

drifts only slowly into view

contrasts with the rotting hulk of God

(as slowly sinking).

How will they endure

this unbearable in-between?

 

 

The Noble Love of Freedom

 

In the forest,

with huge butterflies

that float

among horses and men

such brilliant colours!

– they flit

from shade

to sunshine

I find it dreamy

to think of her

and ignore the granite hills

steep and bare

 

They tell a story

steep and bare

of runaway slaves

and the moon was dim

(a few fireflies)

and we came upon a desert

followed by a wasteland

of marshes and lagoons

heard the sea’s sullen roar

off in the distance.

 

We tethered the horses

but they refused to settle.

 

We tethered the horses

on a sandy plain

next morning, more salt lagoons

and a few stunted trees.

The nights grew hot, and

a dim moon on white sand.

 

Became aware

(the exact moment is not recorded)

of a problem with the horses.

 

We bathed in lakes and lagoons

traversed pastures ruined by ants’ nests

passed forests with lofty trees.

 

Every morning more horses

bitten and infected

until one evening

I saw it in the gloom

suctioned to a horse’s back

a large vampire bat.

 

I found it dream-like

blatant in the gloom

(How could I ignore the granite hills?)

 

But then I saw it

suctioned to a horse’s back

 

a large vampire bat.

 

 

To Inhabit the Fields of Time

 

The more I observe

‘mother nature’, the less

God I see,

the more in need of a God

(or gods)

I become. Even as I

refuse to believe their

broadcast baloney.

 

The idea gnaws.

 

I came upon a parasite

in some distant jungle—

it gives me wild ideas, and though

the doctors work their alchemy

I still feel ‘inhabited’. Besides

my son in a coffin.

 

So many blind millennia—

and still they refuse to see.

But is my vision true—

unencumbered by faith

(my daughter, my daughter)?

 

The clear and terrible beauty

of aeons of methodical suffering.

He never did intervene. If

he exists, he’s a patient sadist

or useless as the carnivores

of all ages, thrive and

evolve.

***

Ian Irvine Photo

Ian Irvine is an Australian-based poet/lyricist, fiction writer and non-fiction writer. His work has featured in many Australian and international publications, including Fire (UK) ‘Anthology of 20th Century and Contemporary Poets,’ (2008) which contained the work of poets from over 60 nations.His work has also appeared in a number of Australian national poetry anthologies, and he is the author of three books and co-editor of many more (including Scintillae 2012, an anthology of work by over 50 Victorian and international writers and poets). He currently teaches writing and literature at Bendigo TAFE and Victoria University (Melbourne) and lives with fellow writer Sue King-Smith and their children on a 5 acre block near Bendigo, Australia.
 
Links related to his work are as follows:

 
http://authorsden.com/ianirvine

http://www.scribd.com/IanHobson

 
 

robin@artvilla.com
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

 


			

There is only love.Poem. Bhuwan Thapaliya

Grasping her hands closely,
I halt my heart
at the edge of her lips
and stare deeper inside
the lava of passion
ejecting shimmering
volcanoes of love.
I let myself slide
through her hand,
easing myself
deeper into her core.
With each cuddle,
the air shakes with joy;
the clouds of passion
grow thicker
– waves of mountain air
rumble past my soul.
A whisper
from beneath her core
– a rumbling moan –
fills my ear
and rolls across
my soul and beyond.
And in the tender
air of love
– destiny, direction,
and time seems to
waft away.
There is only love,
– two tectonic lips
colliding as one.
The earth shakes,
She pulls a flower
from my heart
and lifts it to the sky.

 

 

Bhuwan Thapaliya works as an economist, and is the author of four poetry collections. Thapaliya’s books include the recently released Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected (Nirala Publication, New Delhi), and Our Nepal, Our Pride (Cyberwit.net). Poetry by Thapaliya has been included in The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry and Tonight: An Anthology of World Love Poetry, as well as in literary journals such as Urhalpool, MahMag, Kritya, FOLLY, The Vallance Review, Nuvein Magazine, Foundling Review, Poetry Life and Times, Poets Against the War, Voices in Wartime, Taj Mahal Review, and more.
 
 
Bhuwanthapaliya picture
Author
Our Nepal, Our Pride

http://www.amazon.com/Our-Nepal-Pride-Bhuwan-Thapaliya/dp/8182531152

 
 

robin@artvilla.com
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

 

Griefs Home. Poem. Amparo Arrospide

 

Perhaps grief is a home
with a haughty ceiling and a bolted door
where you feel so comfortable, sometimes,
that you do not hear the steel s edge
slashing the tapestries,
suspended on the scented air:
it is heliotrope blended with brimstone,
seeking to settle in the corners;

only the window stands
between the limit and you.

Arduous walk, in silence you listen to the ancient voices,
firewood for this grief
always starved of you,
as demanding as a newborn child
whom you already love.

The door opens ajar and you close it:
There is nothing to be afraid of.

***

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Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published four poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and Presencia en el Misterio as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, an E-zine.