WORLD POETS MAGAZINE

Drawings From the Air   Calmly to learn the drawings of the air The images rescued from our dreams  The  secret dictates of music The flight of the bird   To flow with the water And simple in the fig tree leaves And in the water divine the circlings of the sun   Crowned with silences the afternoon Descends and hides   Bird returning, project your divinity Awaken me to morning Give me the message of this forbidden world Decypher in your plumage the colours of this life   To learn from your sacred lineage Union with heaven and every season   To learn with your song another language And with your flight the essence Which in silence waits within me   (Translated into English by Jonathan Boulting) (From “Un Duro Rival”, book “La torre sumergida” Barcelona, March Editor, 2009)   Litany of Dread   I'm frightened and I shouldn't be I know the ladder to the heavens The clouds the birds are strung along by The lau...

  Let Me Know   If I ever offended you Discuss it with me, dear love Don’t keep it in the heart for too long Let me know of the mistake I have made, dear love That makes you pale, mute If I once shouted at you And you were flustered, dear love It is because I cared, or so I thought Let us talk with open minds Of the flaws, the pitfalls And mend the broken fences Bring to an end this silence And hear your voice again, dear love As it always came to me.     In The Blues                       (For her)   You are in the cauldrons In the blues The hour of the long shadow Your heart sits on your chest As heavy as a stone Words from your mouth come out Like uncooked lumps of porridge You wrinkle your forehead with temperament, irritable and sullen See for yourself The damage caused by irrational Behavior, the result of A drop of a red mood On your mo...

                                   Absences   Suddenly came to my mind the whole storm of absences: death, the crackling ember, the shadow with its guitar of ghosts. It came to my mind the padded ring of the mourning with all the dying seeds. (In the shutter of sigh a blues, the broken wing of tiredness, the glaucoma in my stifled body.) Each time the grille of the calendar was late: indigence and incredulities grew; I had in return the tore tailoring of the chest and the implausible. Somewhere, echoes of utopia dance. I know it when drama  became already tragedy and in the mistral I just see the excoriation of my esclerosis. In the pilgrimage of fog, my awkward blind hands: everything became impossible, I walk making a deal with the soot, but every distance is remoteness. In the vestiges of ginger, I gaze at the earth...   ( Translated into English by Grace Castro )     ...

Autobiography   Someone else will write your autobiography Someone who will simulate being you He will enter your consciousness get under your skin run into the zone of intimacy and oops, one day he will manage to assemble what you have broken to rewrite what you have erased to dig up what you have repressed deep inside you, with a mad mind like an avalanche to discover what you have forbidden for public use he will untangle and tangle again the knot-signs of your personal and Macedonian syndrome he will play with the transformations from past to future from personal to collective he will turn sophisticated statements and poetic evocations into existential images to eloquently capture the juiciness of your primordial mores of your childhood raptures of your fateful deviations perhaps he will surpass you with his innate sense to act to play the role of the other to lose himself in the other as if swallowed by nothingness   The boundary between the alien and personal world fade...

  L ost Objects Lost objects. Bring your tickets choose between forgetting                      or happiness.   Do not stop visiting us if in this hour you feel that the wait is like a stylet.   We never close, decide for yourself, life is what is to follow. Bring your body although your soul hurts, we have a gift of a song by Benedetti and in the goodbyes you will feel a lagoon of new gazes.   This is an answering machine, but do not doubt, in this office you will find that which a day had lost, perhaps the voice of your memory, the certainty of the unexpected, the key to your existence.   (Translated by Alice Sun-Cua, Philippines)     We Learn the Beginning   We inhabit the offering, where did the ray of shadow fall?   Forgetting has masks, face to face with woods and mountains to scorn the light of a time where happiness inscribed our names....

  What are you waiting for? The next day? Or nay The year thereafter?   The sky above you is torn, The waters have come upon you, The earth has opened up To engulf you—   And you are still there. What are you waiting for? The coming of the Holy Spirit or nay The trumpet call of Judgement Day?   You could rise and cast the first stone Or at least gather up your bones And proclaim a new religion— What are you waiting for?   (Translated from German by Hans-Christian Oeser) (from “Meisenfrei. 99 Gedichte”. Hoffmann und Campe Verlag, 2025)     My mother (III)   When I saw her laid out like that, she was far more beautiful than I remembered her, quite noble and refined, almost like an Indian Maharani who had just taken off her headdress to have a few minutes’ rest between two receptions.   Then I understood what I had failed to see, acknowledge and appreciate for sixty years. I bowed und begged her forgiveness.   (Translated from German by Han...

  Rose Falling Into Night   The miracle begins with touching the strings of night streams find their way through narrow crevasses falling stars twinkle in our eyes   Nested in each other we watch the rose falling into night as if reuniting with a childhood garden   On the carousel of our dance we whirl two angels in an embrace with clouds   I, the night’s star-lighter you, the city’s thief of hearts   What a miracle it is as if we were born on the first morning of the world   As if we did not before exist rivers have flowed to our bed.     Skeleton Man   Eventually the skeleton of the man was hidden in the well would moan in the soul of the night   The man was unable to feel the moment Walking with his own ghost committing little crimes to be able to forget the time   Over there in the land of the seals on that shore in love where the raft of Odisseus hit the land At the morning hour when Naufsika washed him and scrubbed with...

  Eternal Return   poetry blossoms without an appointment without time commitment poetry sometimes delays even if it´s planted with a shovel, with a hoe   poetry doesn´t always sprout even if it´s watered with too much water or wine   poetry however always returns and it fills me with joy   (Translated by the author)     Outcrops   current leakage? who knows? my heart has no voltmeter   sudden? who knows? my trapeze has no tarp   will it rain? who knows? my wish has no rehearsal   rave? who knows? my sidewalk has no curb   (Translated by the author)     Nectary   I make my abundant sap move around – just like a parenchyma grove (chromoplasts memories) and from my stem apex I give birth to the phloem, to the xylem and to the poem   (Translated by the author)     In The Coming Afternoon   Let's be eternal, my dear, even in the fullness of our wrath. Enough of our ready-made speeches, we can´t s...

  Modernity Organ   The contemporary: Sometimes, she lives in the temporary. Modernity means Greenwich Mean Time locked in its tracks, anxiety, tea nipping at cup walls. Sometimes, she demolishes fabricated Modernity, lives in the ​​self-immolation of the thought of the contemporary: black smoke pouring toward Russia, progress awaiting dead things beyond demolition.           (2011/7/3 Shanghai)   (Translated by David Perry) (From “China Eastern Railway”)     Red Army Street   Harbin: crowds boil with commotion, fat boils white in daylight. Russian trains rendering White to Red, students of Russia devoured, more night than ever, electrified, hand-in-hand neon and Stalin forging students of Russia.   Eating nothing all day broke poets await white daylight,waiting, waiting for a juan bing , rail-thin country mother tightly bundled in from who-knows-where, embittered cursing fathers, neon and Stalin forging boilin...