Poems for DylanDay 2023/9th part

 

 

MORNING IN COLORADO

 

Someone just raised the brightness of the sun,

into which I merged.

This solitude, long morning, 

rows of houses,

seems as if I have met them before,

making them friends of mine.

The light that your body pours into me,

the amount of feeling generated by

your dynamism, I soak myself 

into all this wholeness.

 

Light grows brighter and brighter.

Faster and faster my distance grows from darkness.

I am seated on a couch of experience softened by

my reading of books, I see time opening up,

I look at poetry as at a bud,

woman, a flowering fountain gyrating.

Rebounding from the mountain 

chasing itself as an echo

the song as the sun blazes

immeasurable degrees brighter.

 

 

Translated from the Bengali by Jyotirmoy Datta

 

Hassanal Abdullah, USA

 

#dylanday

 

Hassanal Abdullah is the author of more than 53 books in various genres including 20 collections of poetry, and the editor of Shabdaguchha, an international bilingual poetry magazine. He introduced Swatantra Sonnets, seven-seven stanza and abcdabc efgdefg rhyming scheme, and wrote an epic illustrating the relationship between human beings and the stars based on scientific findings.  Mr. Abdullah  is a multi awarded Poet. . His poetry has been translated into eleven languages and was published in various poetry anthologies throughout the world. Recently, Hassanal Abdullah has been invited to the international poetry festivals in China, Poland, Greece, Mexico, Canada, and India. Mr. Abdullah teaches math and computers in a New York City High School.

Il castello incantato

 

Nel castello incantato

è restata la data del sogno

ad attendere il fanciullo invecchiato

che parti’ in una sera d’estate.

C’era un cielo spietato.

Lui lascio la sua infanzia

nella stanza più ampia

liberato dal sogno

incapace di volgersi indietro

inizio’ il suo cammino di uomo.

E passarono gli anni

Giunse, infine, l’autunno

e la nebbia che dilata i confini

cancellando la strada.

Poche luci acciecate a sassate.

Poi l’odore d’inverno coi colori di neve

a sbiancare il presente

riscoprendo il passato.

Nel silenzio del tempo in letargo

torna il vecchio fanciullo al castello del sogno.

Nel castello incantato

c’è la fata che attende

e il camino è già pronto

nella stanza più ampia

a ridargli l’infanzia

 

Lilita Conrieri, Italy

 

#dylanday

 

Lilita Conrieri, Italy: Artista, scrittrice e curatrice della villa Il Meleto di Guido Gozzano ad Agliè (Torino). Nata a Torino, ha pubblicato libri di poesie e saggi su Guido Gozzano. Ha collaborato con testi e poesie alla mostra di Verona Abitare il tempo del 1997 e alla mostra di Dress Design di Walter Dang alla Fondazione Sandretto Rebaudengo di Torino nel luglio 2004.Ha partecipato a numerosi premi Letterari fra i quali il Premio Cesare Pavese (secondo posto nel 1987 per la poesia), il Premio Pannunzio (primo posto per la poesia nel 1992 e il Premio Letterario Penna d’Autore (quarto posto per l’edito nel 2007).Nel 2011 una sua produzione artistica Il Toretto è stata esposta alla Fusion Gallery Torino.

 

 

Miratges

 

Manyocs de nervis escampats

en camps de clarors esmorteïdes,

encisant llenguatges de colors

a escriure gosadies secretes.

 

Les llavors mil·lenàries desperten,

espellifant els manyocs

amb una paciència infinita,

fins a esclatar en milers d'horitzons.

 

On l'horitzó esdevé el present,

les paraules resisteixen a morir,

els crits es muten

en històries irresistibles.

 

T'espaordeixes.

Les teves mans no poden aturar,

un remolí de pors incertes,

caient a l'abisme de la depressió.

 

Les llambordes mullades

calmen el teu cos suat.

T'estintoles a l'envà,

encens una cigarreta màgica.

 

Nedes en un mar de roses.

El tacte del vellut dels pètals,

perfectes i aromàtics,

et desperten de la quimera.

 

Un raig de llum revela

un món d'objectes inerts,

de fantasies immòbils,

on els somnis estan atrapats

 

en la foscor del pensament...

___

Mirages

 

Bundles of nerves scattered

in fields of muffled brightness,

charming languages of colours

to write secret dares.

 

The millennial seeds wake up,

peeling the bundles

with infinite patience

to burst into thousands of horizons.

 

Where a horizon becomes the present,

words resist death,

the screams mutate

in irresistible stories.

 

You freak out.

Your hands cannot stop,

a whirlwind of uncertain fears,

falling into the depths of depression.

 

The wet flagstones

soothe your sweaty body.

You set your back against a wall,

you light a magic cigarette.

 

You swim in a sea of roses.

The touch of the velvet petals,

perfect and sweet-scented,

wake you up from the chimera.

 

A beam of light reveals:

a world of inert objects,

of motionless fantasies,

where dreams are trapped

 

in the darkness of thinking...

 

Xavier Panades I Blas, Catalunya

 

 

#dylanday 

 

 

Xavier Panadès i Blas (Catalunya) was born in Barcelona. He is a writer in Catalan, printmaker, musician and performer. He has produced numerous books of poetry and recordings of his music and has exhibited his artworks widely across the UK. He currently lives in Swansea. www.xpan.bandcamp.com

 

 

 

TO THE HOLY ISLAND

 

I found you 

In the rusting trees

In the clouds 

Where the grey shadows float between 

In the rustling rivers that wander

Trout 

Her arching lonely

Body

That seeks you

Where waterfalls 

Listen to lightning's touch

Where even minnow know 

Silver, is nothing but a coat

Where the Goldfinch sits above

In its feathered palette of sunset

A dust left over from 

Adam

Where water remembers

When I was a child 

That could not fit in

Like God 

Lonely in a tree

Warbling the aramaic songs of grief 

And you in a forest in Kielce

Picking what night has left behind 

So morning's emptiness 

Can bathe in a pond's openness 

Such is love to the great spotted 

Woodpecker 

Its pied black and white plumage

Echoing across the water

Where I remember you

You are the colour of dusk

My Love

A long sleeveless glorious 

Flesh

With eyes so softly woven

In a sky

That comes to me

When its wings remember 

The warmness 

Of my bones

Beneath its

Feathers

Where acorns dream 

On the forest floor

By night 

Where

The silent geese fly

 

To the Holy Island 

 

 Alan Patrick Traynor, Ireland

 

#dylanday

 

 

 

Alan Patrick Traynor is a Poet from Dublin Ireland. He is the author of SEVEN DAYS OF ASHES, EDIT NOT MY SOUL & his latest collection UNTIL THE BROKEN CLOUDS ANSWER that laments the world around the Irish Poet.

It has been said that his poetry is like the mystical galvanic paint that sets the fields of Provence on fire.

 

 

SOGNO DI LATTE

 

Sogno radiofonico

diventa lirico

di sicuro onirico

e conferisce spirito.

Ti tufferai in lettere d’amore,

che conoscono emozione,

l’impossibilità di vicinanza

segreta danza 

di veleni d’infedeltà

e antidoti di lealtà.

Confusi misteri,

sinceri e sospesi,

gocciolano dai rami dell’inconscio,

tracciano disegni reali

su orizzonti abissali,

succhiano miracoli

nel vischio della notte

nella poesia del tempo,

mentre il latte dell’innocenza

è buono di parvenza.

 

                           

 

DREAM’S MILK

 

Radio dream

becomes lyrical

perhaps more onirical

quite spiritual.

You will plunge in love letters

that know emotion verses,

the impossibility of closeness

secret dances

of poisons of infidelity

and antidotes of loyalty.

Confused mysteries,

authentic and suspended,

dripping from the branches of the unconscious

trace true drawing

on abyssal horizons,

suck miracles

in mistletoe of the night

in the poetry of time,

while the milk of innocence

is good in appearance.

                  

 

                                                     Barbara Rotta, Italy

 

#dylanday

 

 

 

Barbara Rotta (Italy) comes from Turin, she is an artist, art historian and curator of national exhibitions,

has collaborated with numerous Piedmonts’ Art Galleries and Cultural Associations. Her studies and

writings are published in catalogs, art magazines and anthologies. Bertoni, Aletti and Norton Press

publish her poems. She wrote the noir “Il colore dell’inganno” by Yumebook.

Literature and History of Art professor, she continues her journey of research and writing under the sign of passion for art.

 

 

 

Offrande pour un rêve

 

 

embué d’étonnements

éblouissant tu t’es détaché

de l’instant brulant

 

 

1. Prologue

 

entre la veille et le sommeil seigneur et semblable tu me portes

dans des pays brûlants gardés par des portes de mot  

et de signe

 

et tout est chant et tout est impulsion nous rompons des toiles  

de charme et de mythe dans les bois nous nous emmêlons dans les tentations

des montagnes cendréés

 

enivrés par le soleil le monde nous-mêmes les étonnements

nous courons éparpillant l’odeur de brûlé

et de cendre dans les chemins

 

 

2. Prière

 

toi,  lumière brûlante  par-dessus les bords de la pensée

c’est à toi que j’apporte en offrande  la terre que je peux porter  

entre les limites de mon corps

 

c’est à toi que je brûle en offrande

mon corps ébloui étourdi  lentement

éclosé parmi les épines des étonnements

et des questions  tranchantes

 

mon corps que j’ai élevé avec du mépris et de la gâterie mon corps

que j’apprends par coeur toujours plus difficilement

 

mon corps brûlé par des soirées avec des goulus silences

ayant le gout du sable  

mon corps trop souvent sans une forme et un visage qu’on peut comprendre

 

mais dont j’ai de la nostalgie quand

errante par la pensée

je l’écoute trop vite passant

 

qui me tient chaud quand  recroquevillée  de froid sur la limite des vues

ni crier je ne peux plus 

 

*

même ma vue je te donne car autre chose qu’est-ce que j’ai

appuyée contre mon corps comme contre une étroite fenêtre

quand j’écoute le froid instant tombant

 

ma vue pour laquelle j’ai payé mes longues journées et nuits

cent fois et mille fois

 

pour laquelle j’ai rompu et je romps encore  pour payer

de gros morceaux de ma chair

 

*         

même le mot si tu le veux  tu peux le prendre tu sais bien

ô mon mot comment pourrait-il m’aider sinon  pour

te convaincre sereine lumière du jour

 

prends donc mon mot avec lequel je me lie au temps et au peuple  

à la terre toute entière

 

mon mot auquel je m’appuie  pour me tenir droite quand

d’inattendues tempêtes contre ma poitrine  se jettent

 

le mot par lequel je regarde les vieux temps

bouillant d’étonnements à tant de questions ajustant

une  réponse  qu’on peut comprendre

 

le mot brûlant dans ma gorge trop souvent

échangé en sentier en geste ou en signe

 

le mot exhortation et le mot consolation le mot qui charrie  

tout mon avoir que j’ai

 

avec lequel je frappe aux portes dans un chemin inconnu

le mot douloureux  rejeté

 

le mot trop moisi de froid et de pluies ou

écaillé par les ardeurs et le désert

 

le mot vivant remplissant la maison à l’heure trop tardive

ou le mot fardeau que je porte

frissonnante tel un mort

 

le mot immense lumineux et entier avec lequel

même à lui brûlante je me lie

 

mon mot prends-le si tu veux mais laisse à nous en échange

 

l’ auréole de ce rêve 

 

____

 

 

Ofrandă pentru un vis

 

 

aburit de mirări

orbitor te-ai desprins

de minutul încins

 

 

1. Prolog

 

între veghe și somn domn și seamăn mă porți

pe tărâmuri în clocot păzite de porți de cuvânt

și de semn

 

și totul e cântec și totul e-ndemn rupem pânze

de vrajă și mit prin păduri ne’ncâlcim în ispitele

munților suri

 

beți de soare de lume de noi de mirări gonim

risipind iz de ars și de scrum pe cărări

 

 

2. Rugă

 

tu lumină arzând peste margini de gând ție

jertfă-ți aduc țărna cât pot s-o duc prinsă-n

țărmuri de trup

 

ție jertfă îți ard trupul orb și năuc pe-ndelete-

nflorit printre spini de mirări și tăioase-ntrebări

 

trupul ce l-am crescut cu dispreț și răsfăț trupul

ce mi-l învăț pe de rost tot mai greu

 

trupul meu ars de seri cu hulpave tăceri și cu

gust de nisip trupul meu prea ades fără formă

și chip pe-nțeles

 

dar de care mi-e dor când pribeagă prin gând

îl ascult prea trecând

 

care-mi ține de cald când chircită de frig pe

hotar de vederi nici nu pot să mai strig

 

*

chiar vederea-mi ți-o dau căci ce altceva am

rezemată de trup ca de-un cat strâmt de geam

când ascult clipa rece căzând

 

vederea mea pentru care-am plătit lungi zile și

nopți însutit și-nmiit

 

pentru care am rupt și chiar încă mai rup drept

plată bucăți mari de carne din trup

 

*         

și cuvântul de-l vrei poți să-l iei bine știi o

cuvântul meu cum mi-ar putea folosi dacă nu

să te-nduplec senină lumină de zi

 

ia-mi deci cuvântul cu care mă leg de timp și

de neam de pământul întreg

 

cuvântul de care mă țin să stau drept când

aiurea furtuni mi se-aruncă spre piept

 

cuvântul prin care privesc timpuri vechi

clocotind de mirări la atâtea-ntrebări potrivind

un răspuns pe-nțeles

 

cuvântul arzându-mi în gât prea ades și

schimbat în cărare în gest sau în semn

 

cuvântul îndemn și cuvântul balsam cuvântul

cărând tot avutul ce-l am

 

cu care la porți bat pe drum neștiut cuvântul

durut aruncat înapoi

 

cuvântul prea muced de frig și de ploi ori

scorojit de dogori și pustiu

 

cuvântul cel viu umplând casa în ceasul cu

mult prea târziu ori cuvântul povară ce-l port

cu fiori ca pe-un mort

 

cuvântul imens luminos și întreg cu care de el

chiar arzândă mă leg

 

mi-l ia dacă vrei însă lasă-ne-n schimb visul

 

 

acesta drept nimb

 

Elisabeta Bogățan, Romania

 

#dylanday

 

 

Elisabeta Bogățan, poet, essayist, literary critic, translator, editor, was born in Romania. She is a member of the Romanian Writers’ Union, of the French Poets Society from Paris, of the Royal Association of Writers and Artists of Wallonia-Brussels (AREAW), Belgium, of the Professional Journalists Union, as well as other unions, societies and associations of writers. Her work includes 15 volumes of poetry, 1 literary study, ethnographic studies, poems for children, and, as a translator, 13 volumes of Romanian poetry translated into French, and 11 volumes of French poetry translated into Romanian. She is an editor-in-chief of: International Literary Confluences; Ethnography, Anthropology and Folklore Magazine.

She was included in many anthologies, encyclopedias, dictionaries, in Romania, or in other countries. She received many prizes, diplomas, titles, in Romania, France, Germany, Russia, Lebanon.

 

 

MY TOMB

(to Dylan Thomas)

 

Tomb-death-peace; Death-tomb-peace.

Don't cry for me, you touch your hands for me-

Here's how I.

In the scent of grass in firefly water

I'm lying in my tomb.

 

In the kiss of the moon on the compassionate forehead

The body of the tomb.

In the heat of the sun, in the belief of the wind

I'm asleep in a sand pillow-

In my tomb.

 

One day the sand fade in the desert cry

Fall into oblivion; Yet fireflies is the light

kindles after my tomb.

 

Roni Adhikari, Bangladesh

 

#dylanday

 

 

Adhikari, Roni (Bangladesh):

Roni Adhikari is a poet, writer and Journalist. Besides the editor of two little magazines and assistant editor for the newspaper The Swadeshpratidin, Bangladesh. He has published six books : poetry short stories and research. https://www.facebook.com/roni.adhikari1.  

 

 

 

JUTIRINAKANXA

 

Kullaka, jutirinakanxa qulqis, quris, uthaskaniwa;

Jakañ wiraxayä utjstamxa.

Qulqis, quiris, jutaniwa qullu qhiphaxata, üma khukhatita.

 

Kullaka, jutirinakanxa qulqis, quris, uthaskaniwa;

kunatixa jamach’inakampi khuskhawa wat’jtastaxa.

Qulqis, quris, jutaniwa mundo qhiphaxata.

 

Kullaka, jutirinakanxa qulqis, quris, uthaskaniwa

Jan llakisimti, ch’amakt’añapkama.

 

EN LAS PRÓXIMAS

 

Hermana, en las próximas dinero, oro, habrá;

porque tienes vida.

Dinero, oro, vendrá detrás del cerro, de otro frente del agua.

 

Hermana, en las próximas dinero, oro, habrá,

porque te levantas a la hora que despiertan los pájaros.

Dinero, oro, llegará del otro lado del mundo.

 

Hermana, en las próximas dinero, oro, habrá

deja de penar hasta que anochezca.

 

SUYASKTÄ

 

Jumaxä suyaktaxä

 ch’axwañasa jani wilanispatï

 qamaskta ukachaqana

¿kunamsä lup’isktaxä unxtañatakï?

 

Jumaxä sasktaxä

Jilir marka irpirinakakaxa

chuyma unxt’asipxaspä

¿kamsaskisä chuymamaxä?

 

Jumaxä uñjasktaxä

llint’aqisiñanaka,

t’ijnaqasiñanaka,

jakasiwimana

¿janikiti mawk’a kamacht’añjakisä?.

Taqiniwa aka uraqin jarphipanktäna mawk’a pacha.

 

ESPERANDO

 

 

Estas esperando

que pase el pleito sin sangre

donde moras

¿Meditas cómo cambiar?

 

Tu dices:

los altos dirigentes

que se conmuevan sus entrañas

¿Qué dice tu corazón?

 

Tu miras

Mal querencias

Persecuciones

donde habitas

¿Es posible un pequeño cambio?

Todos nos hallamos en el regazo de esta tierra poco tiempo.

 

Calixta Choque Churata, Bolivia

 

#dylanday

 

 

Calixta Choque Churata boliviana, Licenciada en Comunicación Social. Escribió “Culto a los uywiris comunicación ritual en Anchallani” (2009). Compiladora y traductora de “Ukham siway cuentos de Luribay”(2007), traductora en la revista https://inmediaciones.org/  comunicación y periodismo.   

 

 

 

SUEÑO

 

“Mi mundo es pirámide.

La sigilosa máscara llora

sobre el ocre desierto

y el verano agresivo de sal.”

 

Dylan Thomas

 

 

 

 

Escalo una pirámide hecha de cristal.

Rueda ella cual esfera perfecta

pero hiere cual cuarzo afilado.

 

En cada pisada delicada y sutil,

dada por mis pies descalzos

pero quebrantados

de tanta herida abierta y destirpada

pero a voluntad ignorada

tras la raspadura en cada pisada

que deja huella sangrienta

en la superficie quebradiza,

llego a distinguir tan solo

mi reflejo mutilado.

 

Cada roce de mi piel

con el vidrio chasqueante

rescata del olvido un acorde

de la sinfonía que una vez sonaba

al toque de un dedo húmedo

acariciando suavemente

las resbaladizas copas de cristal.

 

Huellas cruentas solamente quedan

en las caras de la pirámide triangular.

Huellas indecentes de latigazos restallantes

a la propia autoestima acallada.

 

Tu fantasma ya no yace intacto y perfecto

en la base y corazón de la pirámide de cristal

desde que por tu lastre

un día empezó a resquebrajar.

 

Hastiada estoy de

pretender amarme por los dos,

mientras en tus manos

agua acopias sin freno.

Fuego no soy para que me apagues

con el agua hacinada entre tus dedos.

 

¿Jamás mi chimenea vislumbraste?

 

Magma fui en ascenso lento

hacia el ápice de mi pirámide.

Lava soy hoy en erupción,

porque la cúspide alcancé.

La lava de mi fluido activo incinera

Y de ti ya ni ceniza queda.

 

Jamás fui domos de lava,

sino río y cascada

que tubos excava,

y lo mismo montañas escala

que se precipita y desciende

en coladas varias por la tierra.

 

En mi caldera un lago arde

Y toda huella sucia incrustada

de sentir emponzoñado

en el cristal fragmentado

se diluye con la roca humeante

se funden en movimiento ágil

pero calcinante.

 

Solo soñar te queda.

Sueño vítreo siquiera

de un recuerdo compartido,

porque yo ni una

ni dieciocho copas tengo para ti,

Ni una gota ,ni un átomo de aire,

ni siquiera un fragmento roto

de la pirámide triangular

por ofrecerte queda.

 

 

___

 

DREAM

 

 

"My world is a pyramid. The stealthy mask cries

over the ochre desert and the aggressive summer of salt."

Dylan Thomas

 

I climb a pyramid made of glass.

It rolls like a perfect sphere

but wounds like sharp quartz.

 

In each delicate and subtle footstep,

given by my bare but broken feet

from so many open and torn wounds

at will ignored behind the scrape

in each step that leaves a bloody footprint

on the brittle surface

I come to distinguish only my mutilated glance.

 

Each brush of my skin with the cracking glass

rescues from oblivion a chord of the symphony that once

sounded at the touch of a wet finger

gently caressing the slippery crystal glasses.

 

Cruel traces remain only on the faces

of the triangular pyramid, indecent traces

of the whiplashes of the shining whips

to one's own silenced self-esteem.

 

Your phantom no longer lies intact and perfect

at the base and heart of the crystal pyramid

since your ballast one day began to crack.

 

Sick and tired of pretending to love me for both of us,

while in your hands water you stockpile without restraint.

But I am not a fire for you to extinguish me

with the water crammed between your fingers.

 

Did you ever glimpse my chimney?

 

Magma I was in slow ascent towards the apex of my pyramid.

Lava I am today in eruption, because I reached the peak.

The lava of my active fluid incinerates

and of you not even ashes remain.

 

I was never a lava dome, but river and waterfall

that tubes excavate, and the same mountains scale

that rushes and descends in various flows through the earth.

 

In my caldera a lake burns and every dirty footprint encrusted

of poisoned feeling in the fragmented crystal dilutes

with the smoking rock melt in agile but calcining movement.

.

Only dreaming is left to you.

Even a vitreous dream of a shared memory,

because I don't have a glass nor eighteen glasses for you.

Not a drop, not an atom of air, not even a broken fragment

of the triangular pyramid to offer you.

 

VELI BOGOEVA, Bulgaria

 

#dylanday

 

 

VELI BOGOEVA

(SOFÍA, BULGARIA)

Licenciada en Filología Hispánica en 2013 por la U.N.E.D (España), terminó su Máster con la especialidad de Lengua Castellana y Literatura en 2014 por la misma Universidad.

Miembro del Colectivo Internacional de Prosa, Música y Poesía y deL Nodo Internacional de REMART; Embajadora Cultural para KULTURA PROJECT. Escribe para la editorial colombiana Papel y Lápiz. Participa activamente con sus letras en las exposiciones pictórico-poéticos de la Galería CUCBA y el Consiorcio Universal de la Ciencia y las Bellas Artes (Venezuela).

Escribe poesía, relatos cortos, narrativa más extensa, reseñas y artículos de opinión.

 

 

Dreams of Love, or Sensation of Reality?

 

Have you ever loved so endearingly that everything seemed to coalesce in a pointed origin?

Have you felt the boiling foam of milk,

or just chosen to be the cool fleeting white clouds?

I've seen you as white as milk and sometimes,

I guess you've turned into a dream now,

a dream that turned into a rogue cloud,

running away from one place to another.

I've experienced your feathery touch

while you were busy to soothe my mind

and vanish like a train with so many destinations to cover.

There're so many facts you have encircled me with,

and one of them is 'me' losing myself at times

only to find my soul immersed into you.

All the dreams are now telling me to dream of love,

and to love for a lifetime, transforming into a devotee;

a devotee to complete its pilgrimage named 'benevolence'!

All the smithereens of my dreams are adjoined,

standing stronger like a pillar of 'sacred love',

camouflaging my inner assertions of happiness.

My dreams are looking so real now,

as if they are seen with eyes widely opened!

Did I only dream of you, or did all of these collide like a reality linked to a portal of the parallel universe?

 

~© storytellersuchismita

 

Suchismita Ghoshal, India

 

#dylanday

 

 

 

Author Suchismita Ghoshal, West Bengal, India. Apart from her academics, she has widely achieved so many accolades, rewards and felicitation in the area of literature, arts, culture and research. She aspires to become a human being with high moral values, good spiritual qualities and ethics.