WORLD POETS MAGAZINE

  Contro - Ruolo                                                                         “Blessed are those who mourn ,                                                                           for they shall be comforted” .                                                                                             ( Matthew 5:4)   The bee swarm is buzzing over its harvest apiarists and oppo...

  Far or Near (The Rhythms of Being)   I have crossed beyond silence, not as one who departs, but as silence itself learning how to walk.   I have crossed dimensions unknown to mathematics, yet known to the trembling of the soul when time beats like a weary heart in the chest of the universe.   One step – was life, one pause – was death, one breath – resurrection.   Thus I walked, from distance to closeness, from closeness to loss, until I understood that the path leads nowhere else but to the self.   Distances I drew near not with steps, but with meaning; I held them within my mind like stars that cannot be touched, yet guide with love.   Some closeness I let drift away those that beat outside my rhythm, those whose bodies were near but whose absence lived within.   My true friends are far in space, yet close in the rhythm of living: our hearts beat within the same interval of time, even when the universe separates us by c...

  Murrel   A monsoon afternoon. I was coming back home shouldering hunger and my bag.   Beside the road the sun glimmered in the open drain and there bloomed a dream in a flash of lightning. Unfazed by the rain or sun with head high a slick arrow alone in its trajectory darted with its tail against the current.   Never had I seen such frenzied motions to claim a mate. No shooting star could outshine its charm. No warship could boast such feral grace. Swift and agile, gills throbbing with lust, a finger of the night dropped into the heart of noon, the rhythm of water, an ecstasy.   I never encountered anyone like him, ever again.   But after the rains, in the field I saw with a constellation of a thousand spawns a radiant she-murrel.       Habitat   A friend gifted an indoor plant when a PhD was awarded in our family.   Pretending to be a tree the plant stood tall on our dining table spreading its roots into our appetites.   Aft...

  These three poems trace an arc of connection between Vietnam and Greece moving from distant, almost mythical exchange in "Silk". History dances through trade and imagination, to the deeply human story in "The Man Who Chose a Homeland", identity, love, and belonging transcend origin. The final poem, "We Rise in Meeting" turns gently toward the present, affirming a living connection formed by openness, trust, and shared becoming. Together, they reflect a journey from indirect encounter to chosen kinship, and finally, to a hopeful, conscious meeting of worlds.     Silk   no ship bore a Greek name into the mouths of Mekong tides and then silk arrived as soft as rumour   Funan glittered in foreign memory gems lifted like fragments of sunrise into distant hands   they never touched not truly only through roads and oceans, through spices and bird’s nests through wood painted with soft rain   a city is called Cattigara half-myth, half-map drawn in ink by tho...

    Attention Readers! In contrast to conventional poetry this poem contains no preservatives   In the fridge you can keep it up to three days in the ice compartment up to one week and in the deep freezer for up to a year   But it’s best to read it right away Then you already have one worry off your mind     How it Goes   Poems are doing considerably better and worse these days. They are clearly read by more or fewer people. Most passers-by don’t care about poems; teachers, editors and booksellers care even less. Publishers don’t care at all. Those who write poetry are allowed, but not obliged, although this is strongly recommended, to call themselves poets without being laughed at, as was common in the past, and are showered with prizes of all kinds, unless they are not. The young are old, the old are young, the dead are the most alive. Everything rhymes with Berlin. What doesn't rhyme with Berlin doesn't rhyme. Quite a bit rhymes that doesn't rhyme. ...

    The Rush of an Instant Time was right in its eagerness in settling in at its convenience and in having its rituals and hostilities.   Now I understand its lateness and stammers and its promptness for wise choices, that obstinance for fixing a few words in one extreme of infancy and some others in a corner of this hoarse street that so strongly resembles life, full of surprises and silences.   So forgive me for so many late hours. for summoning you during nights of resentment and omens for heaping together ruins and everyday problems in the same drawer between the exhaustion of the day and the stubborn music of silence.   Time was right in its rhythm and life in having its enthusiasm to stay here with all the rush of an instant.   So forgive me for my haste for not knowing the grammar and the words of a forgotten language for having lost notebooks, keys and the ol...