"HOW TIME HAS TICKED A HEAVEN ROUND THE STARS"

Courtesy of Hannah Ellis and Trefor Ellis 

DYLAN’S DAUGHTER

They want me at the party

I don’t know them

they don’t know me

because I’m Dylan’s daughter.

Why can’t my husband go

alone

they’re his friends

his party

but no

they want me there too.

Can’t you ring

I’m indisposed, awful cold

a bug

a severe allergy

to their kind invite.

No hope

no good prevaricating

got to bathe

prink and pother

choose an outfit

and worse

be ready on time.

“By six, did you say ?”

“The earlier we get there

the earlier we can leave”

he lies

knowing the return trek

will be cold,

late

lengthy.

While I’m celebrating with

Prosecco and delicious food

he’ll be singing his heart out

with Welsh friends

last to go

befuddled and sung out

with me in tow.

Ah, well

better get ready

pronto

because I’m Dylan’s daughter.

AERONWY  THOMAS

Aeronwy Bryn Thomas-Ellis (3 March 1943 – 27 July 2009) was a poet, writer and translator of Italian poetry and the second child and only daughter of the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas and his wife, Caitlin Macnamara.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aeronwy_Thomas

BY THE SEA

A wild wind is blowing under his pen

shaking words asleep on the seaside

of his mind watching the colors of lands

while the open sea and its fierce tides

are lapping the silence on the strip of sand

awakening his words and spelling the colors

of the river sides along the mountains

in the greenland of his dreams

Huguette Bertrand - Canada

(a response to Dylan Thomas' poem We Lying by Seasand)

French-Canadian poet and editor, Huguette Bertrand has published 38 poetry books. Her poems were published in printed and online international journals and anthologies and translated in many languages.

http://www.espacepoetique.com                                                                                  https://www.facebook.com/huguette.bertrand.9

Yellow Rose in winter

Shall I admire you from afar?

Shall I not bleed from your thorns,

nor be caressed by your soft petals?

Only to capture your beauty while you grow

tall and slender in the midst of frosty nature.

Shall I not touch you, to not suffer

the pain of watching you wither and fall?

Yes, I shall let you be, so you can cast 

your bright and true colors upon me.

A delight for the eyes to see.

Like in a dream.

 Antonia Petrone, Italy

(a response to Dylan Thomas' poem Clown in the moon)

My Son the Lawyer Quotes Dylan Thomas to Give Me Courage

After I lose my balance and fall,
smashing my nose against the hardwood floor,
I slip in a huge puddle of blood,
try to stand up but my feet keep sliding.

I have always loved mystery stories,
read about people stabbed to death,
but never thought about the blood,
how the murderer could break his neck sliding in it.

After the hospital,
after the x-rays,
the EKG,
the four-hour drive to Binghamton,
after I teach my class, looking battle-scarred,
I think of my son who used to tell me
I should cut back and give up poetry,
proving that he did not understand anything about me.

When I talk to him on the phone he is shocked
to hear defeat in my voice.
I am always optimistic about everything
even in the middle of calamity,
but today I am brought low
by the recognition of frailty.

My son, the lawyer, the practical pragmatic one,
says how many women your age have a life they love,
work they love doing?

Later, he sends me a quote from Dylan Thomas.
“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

I repeat the lines over and over to myself,
grateful to this son I was sure didn't understand anything about me.

Maria Mazziotti Gillan, USA

Maria Mazziotti Gillan, whose newest poetry collection is When the Stars Were Still Visible (2021) and more recent publication is What Blooms in Winter, is the 2008 recipient of the American Book Award for All That Lies Between Us. She is the founder and Executive Director of the Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College, Paterson, NJ. and editor of the Paterson Literary Review. She has been appointed a Bartle Professor and Professor Emerita of English and creative writing at Binghamton University-SUNY. 

https://www.patersonliteraryreview.com/

Désir d'ailleurs

Le temps a séché
Nos lèvres
Et crevassé nos chairs.
Le soleil rouille les jours.
Des cailloux
Écorchent la terre
Où nos empreintes
Se frôlent.

Sandrine Davin

Sandrine DAVIN est née à Grenoble (France) où elle réside toujours.

Elle est auteure de poésie contemporaine inspirée des tankas, elle a édité 12 recueils de poésie dont le dernier s’intitule « Rouillure » chez TheBookEdition.

Ses ouvrages sont étudiés par des classes de l’enseignement primaire et au collège où Sandrine intervient auprès de ces élèves.

Elle est également diplômée par la Société des Poètes Français pour son poème « Lettre d’un soldat ».

https://www.plume-de-poete.fr/profil-membre/sandrine/

SENZA VOCE

Adesso non ho più voce per dire

le parole d’incanto della vita,

prigioniero dei sogni naufragati,

ma un canto mi pare di sentire

segreto tra le foglie che invita

alla pace del cuore dissanguato,

una nenia soave che accarezza

la stanza, che invita alla certezza.

MARIO RONDI

Mario Rondi vive a Vertova (BG) dove è nato nel 1949.

Ha pubblicato 25 libri di poesia, 5 di racconti, due romanzi, 2 libri per ragazzi, 5 sulle tradizioni popolare, da anni partecipa a mostre di poesia visiva.

I am crying you,  morning

Behind the horizon the light is spraying.

The sky tremble’s like a tear.

The winged summer wilts.

Through the algae’s a lonesome dew slides.

Trees hold empty nests in their hands.

I quietly sing birds psalms.

In the empty night, empty star is falling.

Empty gaze of water is still cloudy.

I read an exclamation of silence

and drink the morning blood stream aloud.

The morning is taking deep breaths.

With its soft palms of the hands,

the haze crumbles poems.

Heart’s beating is not quieter.

Unbelievable sobs, like as if it was dead.

PAVOL JANIK

Translated into English by Smiljana Piksiades

This virtuoso of Slovak literature, Pavol Janik, is a poet, dramatist, prose writer, translator, publicist and copywriter. His literary activities focus mainly on poetry.  His works are translated in many languages and published in different countries.

http://thepoetsland.blogspot.com/p/pavol-janik-referencesit.html

Word Songs

I wander in the wonderland of words

where sounds can rhapsodize an inner flight

and seek to sing like skylark midst the birds.

To feel a lyric line is ringing right

that rose unknowingly from secret source

can send my senses soaring with delight.

What guides the reasoned rhyme’s creative course?

the urging of an enigmatic muse?

or might it be a fundamental force?

The words may dance or promenade in twos,

at times leap forth as in a lightning flash,

or shower phrases in prismatic hues…

When glimmers come but embers turn to ash,

there are no syllables with tongues of flame

nor tones that thunder like a cymbals’ clash.

Then I despair and falter in my aim

of catching rainbows in a verse’s net

and cry I should forsake the poet’s game.

Still oft before the dying sun has set

arises hint of inspiration’s spark

albeit faintest flickering, and yet

from out of what had seemed a moonless dark

is heard the distant music of a lark…

~ Harley White

Harley White (Spain/USA) is a born word-lover and has written works dealing in fairy tales, musical theater, many genres of poetry, and awakenings, as well as a book titled The Autobiography of a Granada Cat – As told to Harley White.  For many years, she has been a follower of the Buddhism of Nichiren Daishonin and its practice of Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.  http://www.dharmagateway.org/harley_poems.htm

 The observant

I don't have tongue,

I'm not deaf just dumb.

All I have is two dark eyes.

I don't speak, just gaze.

My existence is unnoticed.

Yet I know much about life.

The truth and lie.

I know you think

I'm just a stupid guy

Timid and shy.

Oh my dear, i don't care

What you think about me.

Someone else opinion

Doesn't change me.

Life is to be lived.

Enjoy the serenity of the ocean.

Play with moving wind,

Yet be aware of

Cunning humans.

 Afzal Sajjad Zafir

NOTE: I always felt that Dylan Thomas' poems are true reflection of life embedded in pleasant fragrance of nature. He was of Welsh origin and I feel close to him as I'm from a countryside, I can relate to his feelings connecting to a metropolitan life. His views about life and afterlife inspired me to write this poem.

■■ AsZ■■

Afzal Sajjad Zafir is from India. He's doing graduation in Accounting and Finance. He's a young poet , he started to write poems since class six.

https://www.facebook.com/Aszsrk786

Per un attimo almeno

( a Dylan Thomas )

Per un attimo almeno sentire

impetuosa la vita inzupparsi

di luce le dita per poi innalzare

all’azzurro un canto.

Per un attimo ancora far risalire

il cuore alla bocca tanto da percepire

la schiva bellezza delle viole come

del dolore innocente il pianto.

Tra fuoco e sasso, per un attimo

ancora, tornare a essere corpi

impastati di sole e di tenerezza

bambina fino a flettersi lievi

verso l’incanto dell’altro.

DONATELLA NARDIN

Donatella Nardin è nata e risiede a Cavallino Treporti-Ve. Appassionata da sempre di scrittura, soprattutto poetica, ha ricevuto per questa sua attività numerosi riconoscimenti - circa 150 nelle varie graduatorie concorsuali - in diversi Premi Letterari. Sue poesie e racconti sono stati inseriti in raccolte collettanee di diverse Case editrici e in antologie di Concorsi Letterari, in alcune riviste di settore anche straniere, in siti web e in lit-blog dedicati. Alcune sue liriche infine sono state tradotte in inglese, in francese e in giapponese. In poesia ha pubblicato: per le Ed. Il Fiorino nel 2014 la silloge In attesa di cielo e nel 2015 la raccolta di haiku  Le ragioni dell’oro, per Fara Editore nel 2017 la silloge Terre d’acqua e nel 2020 Rosa del battito.   https://www.larecherche.it/biografia.asp?Utente=donatellanardin&Tabella=Biografie

Le quattro stagioni

Luce che avvolgi nella notte

la luna fredda e silenziosa

facendola del Sole sua sposa

Le stelle  son testimoni

che la notte non è più buia.

Loro l'attendono per poter brillare

di luce rifulsa 

come il giorno il Sole.

L' estate implora l' inverno 

domanda la pioggia 

che disseta la Terra

di pace e di amore.

L'autunno come terra fertile 

coltiva il seme

che in esso si schiude

Le sue spoglie mortali

humus vitale

Con sacrificio

il  seme feconda

inonda la terra

che di grano risplende.

L' inverno col vento l'accarezza

fischia tra i rami e fruscia il ruscello

ne esce un canto di pace

La primavera nasce felice

Nella culla terrena

le piante in fiore.

L' allodola, messaggero del mattino

annuncia la gioia delle quattro sorelle

figlie di madre natura.

Le stagioni  cuciono insieme

la catena della vita

la corona dell' amore 

Imma Schiena

Imma Schiena (Torino, Italia). Dopo aver terminato gli studi socio-econo­mi­ci, si dedica alla poesia e al teatro.  In­segna e vive a Torino.  È in­serita in diverse An­to­lo­gie tra cui I Grandi Classici del­la Poesia Italiana del 1900, Ali Penna d’Autore, 2013. È nella grande Raccolta di poesie e com­menti liberi Perché tu mi dici: Poeta, Hogwords, 2014. Premiata in diversi concorsi letterari e al Poetry Slam Na­zionale a Milano nel 2018. Dai testi si evince il suo impegno civico e sociale contro ogni forma di discri­mi­nazione.

http://www.genesi.org/autore-imma-schiena-392362.html

De diepten van de tijd

Als de zon de nacht verjaagt
en met licht en duister tekent een nieuwe dag
probeert hij de tekens te ontcijferen
die de wolken schilderen in de lucht

en als de nacht
van de dag de vermoeide ogen sluit
en van de sterren het licht aanmaakt
mediteert hij over wat kwam
en wat verdween
in de diepten van de tijd.

Germain Droogenbroodt

++++++

THE DEPTHS OF TIME

I move among the stars
Dylan Thomas  

When the sun chases away the night
and draws a new day with light and darkness
he tries to decipher the signs
which the clouds paint in the sky

And when the night
closes the tired eyes of the day
and lightens the stars
he meditates on what came
and what disappeared
in the depths of time.

Germain Droogenbroodt

Germain Droogenbroodt is an internationally appreciated poet, translator, publisher and promoter of modern international poetry. As founder and editor of POINT Editions (POetry INTernational) he has published more than eighty collections of mainly modern, international poetry.

Germain Droogenbroodt organised and co-organised several international poetry festivals in Spain.  http://www.alittlepoetry.com/droogen.html

Dylan Thomas, photo by Nora Summers

A quintessential star

 Responding to “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night ...”

by Welsh Poet Dylan Thomas

 

Life entangled and fragile, it’s just a snap, 

very short notice, please don’t face death.

If you accept death, you’ll be slithers feed.

Fight fiercely, bravely against death, for

I don’t want to mourn with your guilt.

 

Death is ultimately inevitable, your wasted

time, has blown by the wind. Do reconcile and

make peace with your loved ones. You need 

to keep on breathing while the clock tick. No

one is exempt, young, old, bid life not death. 

 

Stay afloat in the light and tell you’re sorry 

before your ashes become a floating dust in 

in the vast universe. Regrets..because of your

unfinished business. Rage, rage, rage, rage,

then go fight against the dying light.

 

Old age should fight as passionate as fire..

Rage, rage, fight against the dark to find light.

Don’t give up when soul on the edge of danger.

Do not go gentle into that goodnight, resist death,

if you can..we still have so much to catch up. 

 

Have you dump your other woman, I don’t want to

see her, when I’m mourning. Face death with dignity, 

you dirty old man. Dawn is approaching, your last 

chapter is ending. Fight back the light to start anew, 

a clean slate for your dear wife.

 

When confronted death, all folks differs in talks. 

Young men, just starting his family, never thought

but wild carefree men on facing death, grieve for 

his dear life. Regrets on frivolous time, if given the

chance, he’ll repent. 

 

Coming closer to the chamber of death, a strong 

wind blow, drown towards dark tunnel, where a 

brilliant rays of spirit, glint on the snow. No time to 

ponder, redefine what matters most. Life is worth 

fighting for, even death is a sure dispose.

 

AIDA G. ROQUE

@aroque

 

Aida G. Roque, a retired Sped Teacher in Maryland, moved in Delaware, USA.

A bilingual poet/ writer hailed from the Philippines. Her books are widely published in the USA.
An International Multi-Awarded bi-lingual poet/writer recipient of Order of Shakespeare Medal.

https://allpoetry.com/Idaroque

Life is a war

(to Dylan Thomas)

Hurry swallows novels
Dreams chewed by history
From a dry and anxious womb

Someone broke the vase
Before the roses wither
The liquid from the orbits
Feed the love

We are in a field of mined words
Music explodes rips out hope
Break the eyes

The leaves remain green
Greens of withered hope
Green without a red smell.

I'm at war with life
Experiences with broken hands
Grab my shoulders

Life is a war
And I am the Glory
Daughter of Vitória.

I believe Dylan Thomas 

 was always at war with life

and  "And death shall have no dominion"

Glória Sofia

Glória Sofia, is a dreamer as most poets.  Born and raised in the city of Praia in Cape Verde.

Her poetry has been translated into more than 15 languages, and in 2020 she won a  prize for UMPPL.

She collaborates with the online newspapers or magazines in the world. She represents Cape Verde in Immagine & Poesia  Movement.

Her works have been widely published.  https://gloriasvmonteiro.wixsite.com/gloriasofia

 Embracing The Light

 It was early one  winter morning
 when I first saw the The Light.
 Dancing on quiet waters
 in an old pond

 built by my father
 when I was a child.


 It was mid afternoon one summer
 when I again saw The Light.
 Carressing the top of a verdant canopy
of an age old tree
that stood over the grave of  my grandmother
who left us when I was  still a child.

 It was late one winter night
when I heard  beguiling whispers
 outside my window.
 Beckoning me into the darkness.

Against the deadly chill of the night,
 I ventured out of the front door,
 as if in a trance,
 just moving towards a direction unknown to me.

 The moon was asleeep
While silence  reigned in ebony stillness.

 Then I saw it.
 Piercing through the clouds
Like an arrow aimed at my heart.

 I raised my hands
 In awe
 In salutation
 In surrender

 I raised my hands
 to touch
 to stroke
 this blinding magnificence.

 It had finally come for me;
 my friend,
 my lover,
 The Light

GLORIA KEH

A response to Dylan Thomas' words  'Up your hand to stoke the light’ - from "Lift Up Your  Face"

Gloria Keh began painting since childhood. Her late father, an oil painter, Martin Fu was her first art teacher.  In 2008, Gloria founded a non profit charity outreach program using her art in the service of humanity. She enjoys writing poetry and lives in Singapore.
www.gloriakeh.com

Do not go gentle into that night…

Succumb not, fight

With rage,

With courage,

Delay inevitable death,

For every extra breath.

Your words Dylan,

In my mind I frame,

From these words

I sought and found

A truth profound:

Do not go gentle into the night,

Covid 19 sufferers of the pandemic,

With all your might, do this right,

Every single breath,

Fight, fight, fight!

But do not go gentle into the night…

Amita Sanghavi

Verses  inspired by Dylan Thomas’s Do Not Go Gentle into the Night.

Amita Sanghavi teaches English at Sultan Qaboos University, Muscat, Oman. She loves poetry and believes Poetry and Art heal the heart and connect readers.

Youtube:

https://youtube.com/channel/UCTMONJJ4sJvV4zXbatD5-Qw

FB:

https://m.facebook.com/home.php?_rdr

THE HUNT FOR BEAUTY

Dylan Thomas lives with us

Time hangs from

the clock’s bent hand

the man with the keys locks the grille

he cuts strips from the light

beauty flows out from the gaps

and the image comes together

on the retina

Attila F. Balázs

As the author of more than a dozen collections of poetry and the translator of more than thirty books of poetry and fiction, Attila F. Balázs has received numerous awards and prizes in acknowledgement of his various literary activities. His works have been translated in 23 languages. As an invited poet, he is a regular participant of diverse literary festivals all around the world.  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Attila_F._Bal%C3%A1zs

Responding to:

Do not go gentle into that good night - Dylan Thomas

Այդքան արագ մի՛ հեռացիր,

թույլ տուր հրաժեշտ տալ քեզ,

գիշերն առնում է քեզ իր մեջ,

մութն է պատում մեր ուղին…

Այդքան արագ մի՛ հեռացիր,

թույլ տուր փնտրեմ քեզ բարձրում,

հեշտ է լույս դառնալը ձեր,

դժվար՝ մեր ապրելը առանց ձեզ...

Ցավ ու մորմոք, դառն ու ցուրտ

ամեն մի նոր անվան հետ

սառչում է արյունս երակներում…

Զանգեր անտես, ղողանջ ցավի,

ո՞նց վճարենք մեր պարտքը ձեզ,

ու  լինենք ձեզ արժանի…

Այդքան արագ մի՛ հեռացիր,

թույլ տուր հրաժեշտ տալ քեզ...

Armenuhi  Sisyan- writer, poet, dramaturge from Armenia. Author of 10 books, translated into 14 languages. Participant of various international literary festivals and programs, winner of several literary prizes, member of different International Writers Associations. 

https://www.setumag.com/2019/10/armenuhi-sisyan-armenia.html

http://www.iwabogdani.org/2018/03/16/armenuhi-sisyan-armenia/

‘Why do men think you can pick love up and relight it like a candle? Women know when love is over’ – Dylan Thomas

Relight it like a candle

Those times we flared so bright

we were afraid to lean in close

in case the whole world should suddenly catch,

the sparks that flew invisibly across tables

at touch of fingertip to palm,

that one slight breath should be enough

to sear through forests and foment new suns

Smoulder of exquisite spark,

stoking embers into flames

thorough light, ripped through

consuming until we tumbled,

spent, into welcomed dark

Those frozen nights we warmed ourselves

on one another, limbs coiled tight

to muffle out the cold, and just ourselves,

enwrapped, against the world

Lately, though, this flame dwindles,

and coals upon the grate lie still,

unkindled, as a thousand other selves

come crowding in to steal our warmth,

as merely ‘making do’ and ‘getting by’

replace the blaze that once made us dance.

We strive to reignite,

Pressing at ashes of regret,

A single spark leaps out from the dark,

flickers and blisters in the pale daylight,

No breath or touch can bring it back – and yet

the memory of that tender burn lives on.

Rebecca Lowe is a poet and organiser of spoken word events, based in Swansea, Wales. Her work has been published in many anthologies, both nationally and internationally, and featured on radio, podcasts and festivals in the UK, US and India. Her first poetry collection Blood and Water was published in November 2020 by The Seventh Quarry (https://seventhquarrypress.com) A further collection ‘Our Father Eclipse’ is due to be published by Culture Matters in April 2021.

EL POETA LÍQUIDO

Homenaje a Dylan Thomas

Quién fuiste tú,

que naciste sediento del borde

dónde habitan las quimeras?

Y todavía estás aquí.

Tu profunda voz  fluye

 de la fuente al océano.

Tus palabras desbordan

las orillas mansas

y  penetran las escarpadas.

En tu alma estaba grabado el deseo de un mar

que irrumpiera en la carne y el hueso.

Luces y sombras, vivos y espectros

viajaron derretidos en la savia

que corrió por  tus venas.

La sed del poeta es lenta y persistente,

implacable como la marea.

Criatura salvaje de soles y lunas intensos, breves…

tu destrucción fue necesaria y vital.

Alejandra Miranda (2021)

Miranda, Alejandra (Argentina) Alejandra Miranda is a visual artist, writer and curator born in 1953 in Argentina. Director of Culture of La Paz, Argentina where she lives. https://www.facebook.com/alejandramiranda.artelatinoamericano?fref=ts

. . .

Sur les viscères

J’accroche mon ballotin.

Les syllabes de pas

Dans les mains.

Sur les marches de la cathédrale

Un orphelin évidé,

La seule flaque dans les alentours.

Les trilles de fils électriques

Hérissent ma peau.

Les épaules rentrées dans

Ma tête,

Une poule sans sa chair

Grillant le destin d’un pied.

Une fuite de tout sens,

Quelques tremblements

Et puis le ventre

Se serre contre la colonne vertébrale.

Le sac de mes os a chanté.

Viktoria Laurent-Skrabalova

 Viktoria Laurent-Skrabalova est une artiste-poétesse franco-slovaque. Ses livres sont publiés en Slovaquie, en France et en Belgique. Elle participe à plusieurs revues littéraires (Florilège, Ce qui reste, Poésie Première...).

www.viktoria-lask.net/artiste

Digital collage by Valeria Sangiorgi from an original photo by Nora Summers

Here in this spring, stars float along the void...

Dylan Thomas

NOTTURNO CON ASFALTO

Silente è questa notte, sotto la rada pioggia, la piazza del mercato

Sull’asfalto bagnato i lampioni esplodono in stelle raggianti

Dalle zone d’ombra guardingo occhieggia uno spacciatore

Lieve un profumo nell’aria la primavera si sta annunciando

                                                   NOCTURNAL ASPHALT

The market square is quiet tonight, under a light rain

On the wet asphalt, street lights explode in starry beams

From the shadows a drug dealer cautiously peeps out

A scent in the air gently announces the coming spring

VALERIA SANGIORGI

Responding to Dylan Thomas' poem "Here in this spring"

Valeria Sangiorgi ha realizzato numerosi lavori fotografici esposti in Italia ed all’estero.

La sua attività è rivolta sia all’autoanalisi ironica (Nudi di donna)  presentazione a cura di Franco Vaccari 1995  Modena - che alle contaminazioni tra fotografia ed azione ( Living life in peace  e  Prima non ti conoscevo) incontri e abbracci con sconosciuti.

 Dal 1994 in poi  ha realizzato numerosi  archivi fotografici  tra questi: quello  del  primo Gruppo teatrale multietnico  in Europa  “Almateatro”.  https://www.exibart.com/evento-arte/valeria-sangiorgi-narrazioni-nudi-di-donna/

TO DYLAN THOMAS

A drop of water
Dripping day after day
The creek became the sea

A ray of light
Shines year after year
A small seedling becomes a big tree

An encounter
A white sheet alike meets a coloured pen
Drawing a spring full of love.

Anna  Keiko

Keiko, Anna (China), a Chinese poet, is editor of Shanghai Huifeng Literature Association and director of the cultural foundation ITHACA in China. Some of her poems were translated into 20 languages, published in more than 70 newspapers and literary magazines. She participated at several international poetry festivals. http://ourpoetryarchive.blogspot.com/2020/02/anna-keiko.htm

HALF-LIGHT – WITHIN THE WIND

Where leaves burn fire-green

and death disintegrates, 

dispersed into the sea – 

a soul I see.

Into the half-light

where the seas meet the shore

and holy streams

touch gently,

a breath between the nakedness

where light bends to show – light

– ‘a candle between two hills’,

that speak… where love – exists;

where driftwood turns 

in the age of existence

– floating by, steadily –

into the wind – 

in rememberance of what was

lost and found in the zephyr – 

re-imagining rebirth

from oceanic forces from within the wind.

Misty S. Milwee

 Mysti S. Milwee is native american Cherokee Indian from Southside, AL USA. She is an international award-winner. She published poetess, translator, writer, screenwriter, and synesthesia artist (paints to music). She is the editor and publisher of Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal. 

   www.mystismilwee.wordpress.com

 www.sequoyahcherokeeriverjournal.wordpress.com/about

The sunset glow above the forest

Leads me onward to my rest,

The sounds of merriment and love

Resonate from a family's nest.

As I pass by unseen, and unheard

Apart from, by a hidden bird,

An owl watching from his chosen tree,

There's little that he does not see.

Tom Higgins

Higgins, Thomas (U.K.)  started to write poetry at the age of fifty five when he felt he had an urge to say something. He has written several hundred poems since then. He is an artist too. He lives in the far North West of England in what is called the Lake District.https://www.facebook.com/tom.higgins.90

The Force that Drives the Flower

(for Dylan Thomas and Peter Thabit Jones)

Into the wind

I recite a Dylan Thomas line:

“The Force that through

the green fuse drives the flower…”

and nearby, a petaled audience

of white lilies nod.

When I stop, they stop–

or is it my poetic imagination?

I repeat:

“The Force that through

the green fuse drives the flower…”

And their petaled nodding persists.

What are they trying to say, I wonder?

This time as I recite,

the hoots of owls ride the breeze

and the froth tossed from waves

blends with a nomad mist.

“The force that through

the green fuse drives the flower…”

I repeat in the wind

to the nods of my captive audience.

Copyright 2021 by Carolyn Mary Kleefeld

Big Sur, California artist, poet, and prose-writer Carolyn Mary Kleefeld studied art and psychology at UCLA and is the author of twenty books. Her writing has been translated into over 15 languages. Three of her books are available in bilingual and trilingual editions and her books have been used at universities and healing centers internationally. Her art appears worldwide in galleries, museums, and private collections. www.carolynmarykleefeld.com www.alchemyoracle.com

NAYMAN

Let me say nay

to all patterns

linking birth to death,

sleep to a thousandth life.

Let me say nay

to the scissors of the clock

cutting to sunder

at a second’s stroke.

Let me say nay

to her who’d mark me

in her book of hours,

unman me in some fashioned place

without grass,

without the blinding sun

to burn my loins

alive.

Let me say nay

to the return of comets,

the fixed turn of sky;

hold back the waving

flurry of the spray,

the cyclic fall of leaves

and burst of seeds.

Let me say nay

to my old foe

I wrestle with

from cock’s crow

to knell of bell

clappering at the croak

of sun

and quartering
of the madman moon.

Let me say nay

to the scythy

slicing of the days,

take his grinning skull

and split him up a tree,

duel with the guarding sword,

walk through the fire unscorched

and over the ice stretch

from Eden to the end of days

and blast the phoenix 

back to flight.

STANLEY H. BARKAN

First published in The Blacklines Scawl (1976)

 Stanley H. Barkan (U.S.A) Poet and Publisher, Stanley H. Barkan’s latest books include, Crossings, translated into Russian by Aleksey Dayen; Brooklyn Poems and Sutter & Snediker (2016); and Gambling in Macáu and No Cats on the Yangtze, both translated into Chinese by Zhao Si (2017).  In 2017, he was awarded the Homer European Medal of Poetry & Art.  American Representative of the art-literary Movement Immagine& Poesia.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stanley_H._Barkan

HOMENAJE A DYLAN THOMAS

En las anotaciones:

el suelo sembrado de hojas nuevas,

muchachas amapolas con ropa ligera caminando por la calle,

el césped silencioso de una casa vecina,

mientras el sol abre puertas y ventanas. Todo eso

deja la interrogante de mis amigos muertos

que partieron igual como finaliza el resplandor de la luna

                en la copa de los árboles.

Francisco Véjar 

Francisco Véjar nació en Viña del Mar, en 1967. Es poeta, crítico, antólogo y ensayista chileno. Incluido en diversas antologías, tanto en Chile como en el extranjero, sus textos han sido traducidos al inglés, italiano, portugués, croata, y catalán. En 2006 la revista Poesía, dirigida por Nicola Crocetti en Milán, Italia, abordó su trabajo poético, desde Fluvial (1988) en adelante. La exégesis y traducción fueron hechas por Cristina Sparagana. Es así como ha publicado los siguientes libros de poemas: Música para un álbum personal (1992), Canciones imposibles (1998), País Insomnio (2000) y El Emboscado (2003).  En 2008, publica La fiesta y la ceniza, Editorial Universitaria, Colección: El Poliedro y el Mar. En tanto, el 2009, da a conocer su libro de crónicas Los Inesperados, donde da cuenta de la vida y obra de Nicanor Parra, Jorge Teillier, Raúl Ruiz, Efraín Barquero, Pedro Lastra y Claudio Giaconi. En 2015, es seleccionado en la antología GIOVANI POESIA LATINOAMERICANA, traducida por el poeta italiano, Gianni Darconza (Raffaelli Editores, Roma, Italia).  Un año más tarde, publica en España, Cicatrices y Estrellas (Huerga & Fierro Editores). Y en 2019, publica la antología “Poemas de la realidad secreta”, en la Editorial Visor, con selección y prólogo de su autoría. En la actualidad, es crítico de poesía de la Revista de Libros del diario El Mercurio.

http://www.letras.mysite.com/fv060405.htm

Rooks

 (to Dylan Thomas)

It is rookery time again.

The birds collect in the beech trees,

clatter in and out of sober branches,

dash and crash

where the wind from the west

searches for their half done nests,

and hurls them,

mud, moss, old leaves,

all the winter debris

to the ground.

Thirsting to build

the rooks twist and soar into mad March skies,

a ratchet of raw, corvus caw,

linking them all.

Scatter black, ragged black, scrapped black,

latched black

on to twigs, snatched sticks

in a crowded chorus,

restless

in the rebuilding.

When the evening sky darkens

they quieten,

loiter round chimney-stacks,

flop onto the backs

of beech limbs to roost.

They wait for the fledgelings

they can urge

to branch

from nests they’ve restored,   

give rackety tongue to a roof-fall of stars.

Carole Jacobs

Carole Jacobs and her husband, Allen, have lived on a small farm in West Wales, UK, for over 40 years.
In between looking after animals, gardens and family she has written short stories and poems.
“Journey Coat” a collection of poems about the Welsh heroine, Nest, written as part of Carole’s MA in Creative Writing, was published, as was her collection of Christmas poems, “Twelve Narratives”.
She continues to be inspired by the Welsh countryside around her.

Sei tornato

Di musica

che trafigge le viscere e il cervello   

avvolge in un cartoccio,

di religione

che di dolore nutre e non-violenza  

le anime tormentate,

di marziani

che affollano le secche dell’inconscio

mascherati da incubi…  

mi parlavi entusiasta  

e io scocciato allontanavo da me  

quella molestia rigonfia di stravaganza.

Un fascio di luce bianca 

uno scialle di raso rosso

un canestro di testimoni foschi, 

suoni il violino

e t’inchini

e respiri americano.

Eppure giurerei che stasera,

 tuoi il mento

il fervore l’essenza,  

sei tornato

solo per farti gioco di me.

Marco Scalabrino

 ________________

You’ve returned

(translated by Tony Di Pietro)

Of music 

that pierces the guts and the brain 

it wraps in a cone,

of religions 

that nourishes of pain

and non-violence

tormented souls, 

of martians 

that crowd

the shallows of the unconscious 

masked by nightmares… 

you spoke to me enthusiastically 

and I scornful distanced

from me 

that nuisance filled with extravagance.

 A beam

of white light 

a red satin shawl 

a handful of shady witnesses, 

you play the violin 

and you bow 

and you breathe american. 

I would swear that tonight, 

yours the face the fervor

the essence, 

you’ve returned 

only to make fun of me.

Marco Scalabrino ha pubblicato: PALORI; TEMPU palori aschi e maravigghi; CANZUNA di vita di morti d’amuri; LA CASA VIOLA; La puisia di  / The Poetry of Marco Scalabrino. Ha scritto tre commedie: LU CARRUBBU DI TITTA, L’AFFARI BUSILLIS, B. B. & B. PARADISU.

Dans un poème pour une nymphe éméchée

La mémoire de tout mot est béante

Gagnant beaucoup à perpétuer

Une émeute dans la signification de toute chose.

D’ailleurs les mots ne sont pas du tout sûrs

De leurs sens respectifs.

De toute manière, chaque mot a son histoire héroïque propre,

Mais atteignant tous le nirvana.

Une fée distraite dira que les plus beaux poèmes

Sont destinés aux anges seuls.

Un autre jour, les mots ne feront pas d’histoire.

Bientôt un ruisseau fera son apparition

Il serpentera naturellement insensiblement.

La Beauté refuse d’apparaître

Avant la lente arrivée de la Substance.

Certes, ma religion ne sera jamais ma poésie

Mais si je pratique le mot comme un rite véritable,

Je n’en sacrifie pas moins à l’adoration de la femme,

Justement par des mots initiatiques. 

Et l’amour est déjà sur terre une friandise de Paradis.

ABDELMAJID BENJELLOUN

ABDELMAJID BENJELLOUN

Né le 17 novembre 1944, à Fès (Maroc).

Doctorat d'Etat en droit public-sciences politiques-relations internationales, 3 décembre 1983, Professeur d'enseignement supérieur à la Faculté de Droit de Rabat, (Agdal), de 1985-1er août 2005.

A publié près de 200 livres, dont :

-Mama, Paris, Editions du Rocher,

-L’éternité ne penche que du côté de l’amour suivi de Dogme et friandise ou la pulsion du sourire et de Une femme à aimer comme on aimerait revivre après la mort, recueil d’aphorismes poétiques, Bordeaux, Editions William Blake and Co, 2002.

-Rûmi ou une saveur à sauver du savoir, recueil d’aphorismes poétiques, Bordeaux, W. Blake and Co,2009, 97 pages.

-Est peintre.

-ex-Président du Centre marocain de Pen International-Londres de 2009 à 2013.

PER ISPEZIONARE L’ERBA

PIENA DI CALCI E RITMI

DI ALTRI TEMPI

Manca all’appello

quella poesia del prato d’erba

ti prego leggila

perché io possa continuare

a trascinarmi dietro quelle parole esauste

a cercarne un ritmo

a sillabarle

petto contro petto

piede contro piede

vivi la mia vita

quando sono gioia

tu sii gioia

e assieme danzeremo il mare

Lella Borghesi 

Lella Borghesi Godard è nata a Villanova di Bagnacavallo (RA).

Vissuta quasi trent’anni a Parigi, è ora tornata al paese natale dove scrive e disegna

Moglie del fotografo francese Maxime Godard.

Ha fatto alcune mostre e pubblicato dei testi in riviste letterarie cartacee.

Soy Medusa

Yo soy Medusa:

bella, antigua sacerdotisa del templo de Palas Atenea,

aquella quien tiempo después se tornó

el monstruo más fiero de tierras helénicas.

Tengo, al mismo tiempo, un tipo de sangre que dará vida

al hermoso Pegaso y al gigante Crisaor

Soy grande

Soy Medusa

Mi única falta hacia la divinidad fue haber nacido mujer

Mis cabellos ondulados, del color del oro

fueron la envidia de otras chicas

Muchos eran, además, mis pretendientes

Soy Medusa

Cuando ingenua ordené los preparativos

para las libaciones

fui violada, de forma salvaje,

por Poseidón, señor de los mares y las tormentas:

el más cobarde de los dioses

Poseidón justificó su vileza argumentando

no resistir el color de mis bucles

el aroma de lo virgen.

Soy Medusa. Había tenido noticia de los ultrajes de Zeus

hacia otras doncellas

ataques que el Olimpo encubrió

bajo la leyenda de capacidades seductoras, galantes

No pensé ser una víctima

de aquella misoginia que se transforma en mito.

Herida en el cuerpo y las entrañas

esperé venganza, una gota de justicia

Atenea, en cambio, coludida con los machos,

alegó la profanación de su casa

y maldijo mi supuesto descuido

Me obligó a llevar esta cabellera de sierpes

a volver inservible (cómo lo disfruto)

a cualquiera que se atreve a mirarme.

Me alegra:

ningún varón volverá a posar una mano sobre mi sexo

He jurado a muerte, la muerte del macho cabrío

Soy Medusa:

la condena tras el silencio bajo el silencio

la furia que se estudia con desdén en las aulas de escuela

la víctima y, tras la violencia, el fenómeno violento

Deambulo, discreta, bajo la humillación

de las cámaras y las estatuas de un palacio oscuro

Yo soy Medusa:

un día fui inocente

un día fui ultrajada

otro más me convertí en una revancha negra

Tuve una vida difícil

No hubo sosiego

Fui el mar y las rocas donde se estrellan las olas

No contento con ello, el destino permitió que una jornada

cuando contemplaba el exterior de una ventana del palacio

otro hombre, un cobarde de nombre Perseo

sacase una espada a mis espaldas

para cercenarme la cabeza

Soy Medusa

Teme si eres hombre

Despierta, si mujer eres

Estremécete Caos, agítate Gea:

Soy la sangre de la verdad

Y es posible que estos versos que ahora lees con ligereza

sean capaces de convertir en piedra tus viejos pensamientos.

_________________

Ocultamiento y des-ocultamiento

Cada mañana, después de preparar una taza de café

pienso en el ocultamiento y des-ocultamiento de las cosas

Pienso, inútilmente, mientras la taza humea

Las cosas parecen lo que son

pero son más de lo que muestran

Pongo una cucharada de azúcar, por ejemplo

mientras alejo una mosca del borde de la taza

Camino por una madalena proustiana

la sumerjo con anticipada delicia

(no en el té, pero igual funciona)

Me siento ante la mesa

Respiro: uno, dos, tres, dos millones…

La vida es demasiado seria:

nos queda el humor como recurso

Respiro: tres, nueve, tres millones…

El juego de béisbol de ayer llegó a las 18 entradas

Hay partidos que se extienden, así, en la vida

Respiro: uno, dos, cinco millones…

uno, dos, ocultamiento ad infinitum…

El secreto de los días, me digo

reside en extrañar a alguien, algo, sin necesitarlo

El secreto está en tomar la taza de café

sin perder el tiempo en la madalena

Respiro: uno, dos, uno, número capicúa

Reflexiono

Reflexiono

Detrás de este poema

se oculta algo importante

No soy quién para revelarlo.

Ulises Paniagua (México)

Narrador, poeta, videasta y dramaturgo. Ganador del Concurso Internacional de Cuento de la Fundación Gabriel García Márquez, en Colombia (2019). Ha sido considerado en una antología, en Rusia, como uno de los más interesantes poetas contemporáneos de Latinoamérica. Su obra literaria ha sido traducida al inglés, checo, griego, ruso e italiano. Ha sido divulgado en antologías, revistas y diarios nacionales e internacionales. Sus obras han recibido numerosos premios.

https://www.revistaaltazor.cl/ulises-paniagua/

RISATO

Viento, viento mío

Llévate estas hojas secas

Límpiame la vista

Sopla mi alma

Y si el cuerpo se resiste

Muéveme el suelo

Y si los ojos se me cierran

Arrójame espinas

Y si mi palabra es desafiante

Cállame con tus silbidos

Disculpa mi vocabulario

Disculpa mis pecados

Sólo soy una hojas más

En tus invisibles brazos.

Franco Barbato

Franco Barbato (1983-Santiago de Chile) es el fundador del Irrealismo Poético, movimiento ético-creativo que promueve el habitar poético del mundo, mediante el traspaso de la emoción contenida en el proceso creativo a la vida misma en su cotidianidad.

Ha participado en los festivales de poesía Poestate (Suiza-2019) y en el Sufi Festival (Bangladesh-2020) y actualmente es jurado en el Sahitto Internacional Award (Bangladesh). Además participa en poesía performativa en el Ticino Poetry Slam, donde ha ganado 2 veces.

Barbato ha colaborado con pintores, escultores, músicos, fotógrafos, artistas visuales de Perú, Italia, Rumanía, Suiza, Chile. Actualmente trabaja en la Casa de la Literatura para la Suiza Italiana. 

Ros Bairneach

níl éinne anseo ag spréachadh

in aghaidh éag an tsolais

Rosbarnagh

no one here to rage

against the dying of the light

GABRIEL ROSENSTOCK 

Abitudine

a Dylan Thomas

È strano, alla fine ti abitui.

Mi sono abituato a non vederti.

Mi sono abituato a non parlarti.

E ora? È buffo, lo so.

Mi sono abituato a non pensarti.

Mah l’anima no, lei non si abitua,

continua a cercare

i suoi frammenti d’amore,

li anela e li attende smemorata

per l’eternità.

Nadia Loiaconi

Nadia Loiaconi è nata a Torino il 1971, è laureata in Economia e Commercio. Docente di Economia, imprenditrice, manager di successo ha svolto per un ventennio l’Amministratore pubblico nelle maggiori Istituzioni locali. Esperta di analisi economiche e sociali, è autrice di diverse opere letterarie e poetiche, presenti al Salone Internazionale del Libro di Torino. Socia del Circolo degli Artisti di Torino ha collaborato con diverse Case Editrici, tra cui Edizioni Accademiche Italiane, Aletti Editore, I Libri della Nostra Terra, Lo Spettatore Libri. Al VII Concorso CET con Presidente di Giuria l’autore Mogol è stata insignita con il Diploma di Merito.

https://it-it.facebook.com/nadia.loiaconi

We watch the show of shadows kiss or kill

Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie.

From: Our eunuch dreams,  Dylan Thomas

This is the world, my Poet

now as once.

We are gathered behind the scenes

in an empty square at the keyboard tip.

Is it true our Life?

Is really red the poppy ?

I'm looking for the meaning

of this virtual love 

that dyed white our hair.

Lost is the dialogue for dreamers

in perfumed nests of pilgrim souls.

Is this a journey in the time machine

or maybe a show with no happy end?

Claudia Piccinno

Guardiamo lo spettacolo dell'ombre baciarsi o uccidere.

In un gusto di celluloide rendere tutto l'amore una menzogna

Da: I nostri sogni eunuchi, Dylan Thomas

 Questo è il mondo, mio Poeta

ora come allora

Siamo radunati dietro le quinte

in una piazza vuota in punta di tastiera.

È vera questa nostra vita?

È realmente rosso il papavero?

Cerco il senso dell'amor virtuale

imbiancante chiome.

Perso è il dialogo dei sognatori

in odorosi nidi di anime pellegrine.

Viaggiamo forse nella macchina del tempo?

O siamo in uno spettacolo senza lieto fine?

Claudia Piccinno è presente in oltre cento raccolte antologiche, già membro di giuria in vari premi letterari a carattere nazionale e internazionale. Ha ottenuto premi di rilievo in concorsi di poesia nazionale e internazionale,(tra cui una menzione d’onore a Parigi al 1st Word Literary Prize); il suo componimento “Nel blu” è riprodotto su stele in maiolica affissa sul lungomare di Santa Caterina di Nardò (Le) e su mille cartoline per il primo premio al concorso fotografico Pensalento. Sue poesie scritte in inglese e tradotte in spagnolo, cinese, arabo, azero, francese, turco, rumeno, polacco, serbo, sono state pubblicate su riviste cartacee nei paesi di pertinenza.  

http://claudiapiccinno.weebly.com/

L' universo è selvaggio e colmo di meraviglie

  Dylan Thomas

 Le porte dell’Universo

Ho aperto le porte dell’Universo,

vagato tra le stelle

e ho riso come un folle

prima di cadere nell’abisso.

Ho errato,

seguendo le scie perverse

dei tuoi passi nell’oscurità

e ho trovato il pianeta anelato

senza acqua,

senza sale,

senza vita.

Ho visto montagne

e fiumi di sangue.

Mi chiedo, allora,

dov’è l’Impero che mi hai promesso?

Dov’è la luna della salvezza?

Il mio corpo è sfigurato, ormai,

non si può tornare a ieri.

 Elisabetta Bagli

__________

The universe is wild and full of wonders

Dylan Thomas

The Gates of the Universe

I have opened the gates of the Universe,

Wandered among the stars

And I have laughed like a madman

Before falling into the abyss.

I have erred,

Following the perverse trail

Of your footsteps in the dark

And I have found the yearned-for planet

Without water,

Without salt,

Lifeless.

I have seen mountains

And rivers of blood.

I therefore wonder

Where is the Empire that you promised me?

Where, the moon of salvation?

My body is disfigured now,

You cannot return to yesterday.

Elisabetta Bagli è nata a Roma, vive a Madrid dal 2002. Laureata in economia e commercio presso l'Universitá degli Studi "La Sapienza di Roma. È la segretaria nazionale di AIM per la Spagna. Scrive racconti, fiabe e poesie.  Le sue poesie sono state tradotte in undici lingue: spagnolo, greco, inglese, albanese, francese, serbo, rumeno, catalano, uzbeko, turco, bulgaro. Collabora con riviste digitali di tutto il mondo. È Presidente e membro della giuria di numerosi premi letterari italiani e internazionali. L’Ambasciatore italiano Stefano Sannino le ha conferito il Premio all’Italianità 2019 per la Cultura il 12 dicembre 2019 presso il Consolato italiano di Madrid.

https://www.elisabettabagli.com/

TIHOVANJE

  (za Dylana Thomasa Daya)

I pustićeš na sebe ljepljive poglede prezira i zavida od nemoći nevida

i očaje skupljene u grbače i zborane ruke

Pustićeš nevolje i muke

i svoje i tuđe.

Uprtićeš i što moraš i što ti drugi natovare na samare

jednako ođe ka svuđe

na svijet bijeli

jedan svima isti život cip cijeli.

Otimaćeš i mnogi će tebi

samljeveni u istome mlinu

do boga na istinu

do samoga kraja

pa kome karta do pakla a kome do raja.

Pustićeš sve niz vodu

kad sve i svi naposlijetku isteku i odu

i motika i kuka.

Al' zapamtićeš samo one tihe dane

kad sve ovo prođe

u kojima si imao sreće da nađeš neko svoje meče

ušuškaš se pod pokrivače.

I kad ti sve odjednom zastane i stane,

Postane besmislena buka

Katarina Sarić 

_________

Rumore senza senso

(per il Dylan Thomas Day)

E permetterai alle immagini contagiose del disprezzo e dell'invidia

di lasciarsi trasportare dalla cecità difettosa

e la disperazione accumulata nella spina dorsale e nelle braccia rugose.

Consentirai le disgrazie e i tormenti

tuoi e quelle degli altri

porterai sulle spalle quello che devi,

ma anche quello che gli altri caricano nella tue bisacca

ugualmente qui come ovunque

in questo mondo vasto

la stessa vita per tutti, in tutto e per tutto.

Afferrerai la vita dagli altri e gli altri la prenderanno da te

macinati nello stesso mulino

finché non incontriamo il nostro creatore

fino alla fine

e qualcuno riceve il biglietto per l'inferno qualcuno per il paradiso.

Consentirai a tutto di cadere nell'acqua

quando tutto e tutti scorrono via e se ne vanno

ogni Tom, Dick e Harry,

ma ricorderai solo quei giorni silenziosi

quando tutto questo sarà finito

in cui sei stato fortunato a trovare il tuo orsacchiotto

da coccolare sotto le coperte

e tutto all'improvviso si ferma e si blocca

Diventando un rumore senza senso.

Translation: Juljana Mehmeti

_____________________

Katarina Sarić lives and creates between her native Budva and Belgrade.

She writes socially-engaged poetry, prose and essays. She is a writer, poetic provocateur and performance artist.

She is the author of 13 independent editions, represented in numerous co-authors, anthologies, collections, on all major regional portals.

Scientific works have been written about her poetry and prose. Her works were awarded, translated and published in the region but also on the global literary scene.

She's an activist of the Cultural Base Kunst, Podgorica and Alia Mundi, associations for cultural diversity, Belgrade. Artistic director of the community Vavilonska biblioteka/Library of Babel.

https://www.facebook.com/Vavilonskabiblioteka2020/

I SLEEP TO DREAM OF THE SUN

“I have longed to move away

From the hissing of the spent lie”

                               —Dylan Thomas

I sleep to move away

from the world of lies and wars -

the world of indifferent thoughts,

politics, and biological warfare.

I sleep to move away

from snake lairs and nightmares.

I sleep to dream of a happy day.

I sleep to dream of the sun, sea,

shore, and tranquility in the air.

The sun is in the middle of the sky,

the waves are caressing the shore,

and the sea is smooth and calm.

My father is placing me

on a big black rubber tube,

and I am moving up and down

with the gentle rhythm of the waves.

What a memorable and happy day,

if only it were possible

to make happiness, like sadness,

permanent by repetition.

What a day that I thought

had no intention of coming to an end.

However, it did, and I woke up

into endless nightmares.

Sepideh Zamani

Sepideh Zamani (born in 1973 in Iran) graduated from law school in 1999 before moving to the United States. Her work focuses on immigration, and the lives of ethnic and religious minorities under cultural cleansing.  https://www.sepideh-zamani.com/en/home

The Spring Blown Freedom

 (for Dylan Thomas Day)

In the appearance of spring

Mother nature like a pythie appeared to me

(She  )Blows within the flowers her softly whispered secretely well guarded words

Flowers are blossoming all around and so are the most exquisite perfumed scenting roses and the cherry trees too

In the alleys of our magnificent Garden of Love

Here in between Cypress trees and rhodendrons flowers

I happened to seal  my heart to yours and yours to mine forever until eternal life

In this very moment of eternity

I made the wish that Love would be sovereign

That Freedom will spread its wings finally

Here in between the dancing butterflies and the singing birds

A persistent cheerful nightingale and his partridge are chirping for (both) you and me

In Allegria

I feel the light caressing breeze surrounding us

Like the promise of a beautiful tomorrow…a Shining tomorrow...

Here and now a flamboyant rainbow

Appears to only augure the (coming ) light of freedom, Love

and Peace…

Nova Kerkeb

 Kerkeb Nova (Algérie) Nova Kerkeb est née à Alger et a débuté l'écriture à l'âge de 7 ans, âge durant lequel elle écrit ses  premières poésies. Elle a participé à des publications de documentaires à caractère économique.  Elle est également auteure de deux recueils de poésies intitulés:  « In souffrances tues»  i.e Untold sufferings in 2015 et « …De rêves et de chimères de paix »   i.e Dreams and chimera of peace in 2016.

https://fr-fr.facebook.com/novachka007/

JEDNA NOĆ U GRADU KOJEG SU ČUVALI PSI

Za dan Dylana Thomasa

Na raskrsnici

blato i polomljen putokaz

magla koja pokušava da iskopa oči

noć koja halapljivo pije krv

u daljini lavež pasa

kojeg prekidaju pucnjevi

kamenje koje je podrlo nogavice

polako se gnezdi u kolenima

počinje kiša

mirišu trešnje

još malo i moj je red

na mome potiljku više neće biti

samo rođeni dlanovi

_________

Una notte in una città sorvegliata dai cani

All'incrocio

fango e segnali stradali rotti

nebbia che cerca di scavare gli occhi

notte che beve il sangue

in lontananza abbaiare dei cani

interrotto da colpi di pistola

le pietre che hanno minato le gambe

lentamente nidificando nelle ginocchia

Sta iniziando a piovere

Si sente l'odore di ciliegie

E' quasi  il mio turno

Non ci saranno più dietro il mio collo

Solo palme nate

Dušica Mrđenović è nata nel 1990 a Sombor (Serbia). Scrive e traduce poesie. Ha partecipato a diversi Festivals di Poesia, ed è presente in molte riviste letterarie di poesia. Finora ha pubblicato due libri di poesia: Solo in noi (2015, editore Gramatik, Belgrado, Serbia) e La fine di un atto drammatico (2020, editore Anoa, Belgrado, Serbia). La sua poesia è stata tradotta in lingua russa e macedone.

Editore: https://nigdine.com/

Niko više ne piše pisma

Za Dylana Thomasa Daya

Niko više ne piše pisma

i uopšte, ne vjeruje u stvari pisane rukom.

Ja ne mogu da se sjetim kad je to počelo

i kad smo počeli da se hranimo bukom,

ali koverte sam rasula po sobi

i evo već sedmi dan kako pišem,

često zaboravim da spavam,

ponekad da pričam i dišem,

ali pisaću uvijek bez straha,

bez velikih očekivanja,

živjeti se može i s ove strane,

bez bespotrepnih skrivanja.

Puls mi je takav da mogu da preskočim

i večeru, hladnu večeru za jednu osobu,

mogu i da se na ljuljašci sjećanja zavrtim,

sve za jednu malu generalnu probu -

ali ne mogu da odustanem

od pisama, onih pisanih rukom,

i neću da prestanem

da borim se s hordom i bukom.

A niko više

ne piše

pisma,

i uopšte

ne vjeruje

u stvari bez smisla,

kao da one nijesu spasile svijet.

________

Nessuno più scrive le lettere

Nessuno più scrive le lettere

E in generale, non crede nella scrittura a mano.

Non ricordo quando questo è iniziato

E quando abbiamo iniziato a nutrirci di rumore,

Ma ho sparso buste in tutta la stanza

Ed ecco il settimo giorno che scrivo,

Spesso mi dimentico di dormire,

A volte di parlare e respirare,

Ma scriverò sempre senza paura,

senza grandi aspettative,

Si può vivere da questa parte,

senza inutile nascondiglio.

Il mio polso è tale che posso saltare

la cena,

una cena fredda per una persona,

Posso anche girare sull' altalena del mio ricordo,

tutto per una piccola prova generale –

Ma non posso arrendermi,

non posso senza lettere scritte a mano.

E non mi fermerò

Per combattere l'orda e il rumore.

E nessuno più

Scrive le lettere

e in generale

non crede

nelle cose senza significato

È come se non avessero

salvato il mondo.

Aleksandra Lekić Vujisić e nata nel 1979 in Podgorica, Montenegro. Aleksandra è professoressa di lingua inglese, a scrive poesie e prose per bambini e adulti. E’ stata pubblicata e ha vinto premi a concorsi letterari in Montenegro e all’estero.

  Chew your bread and taste your wine

一一inspired by  Dylan Thomas's poem "The Bread I Cut"

In the bread that you have cut

There were oats that improve blood circulation

Heavy fruit

Strong wine

A man's blood was boiling

．

In the bread that you have cut

The oats drifted in the wind

There was a burst of enthusiasm

The undulating imagery

 Rich nutrients and live examples

．

In the bread that you have cut

There is "light shining where there is no sun"

The taste was to die for

I chew your bread, I taste your wine

I have a desire to...

  Jinquan Hu（China）

Hu Jinquan, he is a famous artist of poetry and calligraphy, the vice-chairman of the China Master Calligraphy and Painter association, the vice-chairman of Hong Kong Federation of Literary and Art Circles, and the honorary chairman of China Qi Bai Shi Art Research Association.

The song of the bottle

----- To Dylan Thomas

All gifts in your body as god made

were hollowed out, evacuated by golden fingers of time

Before the sea gale to reach the shore

Barley, corn, grains and oak

return to mountains, forests and fields

Air, rain and snow

sucked into the clay pot of sky

The warm rich wort melts

embrace the soil like bubbles

Rhetorical marks and ink

erased to make paper empty white

From abyss an echo

the waves rolling in to greet you

On the love bed of water grass

covered by half moonlight

Fell a deep slumber with weightlessness

in "that good night " eve

 " The heart is sensual, though five eyes break."  

All things were written in the stars，So you obey -----

The rain pouring

drowning your dreamland

The strong sound of a falling star

hits the ground

Pushing you into another scene

the new journey starts

drifting silently, and

everlasting.......

 Sue Zhu (New Zealand)

*According to the records, Dylan Thomas died suddenly on November 9, 1953 after drinking 18 glasses of whiskey. He was only thirty-nine years old when he died.

Sue Zhu, New Zealand Chinese poet, artist and organizer of international cultural exchanges, she is a director of the NZ Poetry and Art Association, honorary director of US-China Culture and Art Centre, an international award-winner.       https://atunispoetry.com/2019/11/21/sue-zhu-new-zealand/

Leggendo Dylan Thomas in treno

      a Sue

Ore in treno per attraversare quest’isola

che si ripete nella sua straordinaria normalità

e quasi non mi accorgo di una madonna:

ne veglia oltre tetti e alberi la pristina identità.

La conta di ogni pecora e di ogni agnello

ridesta in me il bisogno di sfrondare ambiguità

che senza tregua invadono e sul più bello

sfibrano la forza che guida l’acqua in rocciosità.

Seguo sterile questa rimonta ferrosa

e muto non so dire alla rosa avvizzita la verità

che respinge ogni ipotesi pericolosa.

Arriva rallentando il treno nel cuore della città.

La luce fissa della torre taglia il buio,

sfilano davanti a me artefatti di un’altra età:

l’ora che traduce il rantolo in rosario

cerca il binario morto della mia tracciabilità.

 Marco Sonzogni ( New Zealand )

Marco Sonzogni (OMRI) is a widely-published and award-winning scholar, literary translator, poet and editor based in Wellington, New Zealand. He is a Reader in Translation Studies with the School of Languages and Cultures at Victoria University of Wellington. He is a deputy director of the All Souls Poetry club.

http://lericipea.com/premio-alla-carriera-2018/

The Gothic Arch

A Gothic arch within a limestone wall

enclosed a door. It opened from the lane

on mornings that unfolded, tapering

away as I set foot inside to stare

at the benevolence of bush and tree.

The ever-rolling hills made me feel small;

I longed for winter flakes to fall again

so I could tumble with them, spiralling

in snowball-fashion, landing in my lair

with baubles made of ice all over me.

As bracken fronds unfurled, a yaffle call

swept through the hollows of the park’s terrain.

I caught its echo from my oak-branch swing

as I bobbed up and down on waves of air

above the ripples of a bluebell sea.

I sought out herds of deer. The stags were tall,

with pointed antlers for inflicting pain.

I huddled in the long grass, wondering

if there were does with offspring nestling there,

within this dappled land of reverie.

The wind brought shiny conkers as each squall

released another airborne paperchain

of rainbow leaves. Jays started burying

their acorns; beetles scuttled, unaware

that they were part of childhood’s harmony.

That Gothic arch within a limestone wall

still frames the door that led me from the lane

to golden mornings when a dream took wing.

Night adds a strand of silver to my hair

as moonlight shines a beam on memory.

© Caroline Gill 2021

Caroline’s poem, ‘The Gothic Arch’, was sparked by this short phrase from Dylan Thomas in ‘Poem in October’:

               ... a child’s

Forgotten mornings   © The Dylan Thomas Trust

Caroline Gill is due to have a first full-collection of poems published by The Seventh Quarry Press (Wales) in 2021. Her 2012 chapbook, The Holy Place, shared with John Dotson, was published by the same press in conjunction with Cross-Cultural Communications (New York), and launched at the Dylan Thomas Birthplace in Swansea. Website: www.carolinegillpoetry.com

E mi lascio attraversare
dai luoghi e dalla luce
in un angolo nel mondo...

Resto immobile
per qualche istante
faccia al sole
spalle al muro
mentre l'ombra avanza inesorabile...
Ma resisto, m'inondo di sole
come se fosse miele
come se volessi bere la luce...

Sono un corpo,
materia nel vuoto dell'aria.
Cerco un angolo nel mondo
dove essere viva...

Per sentire la vita
resto in ascolto
tese le corde dell'anima
in attesa silente...

Daniela Feltrinelli

Daniela Feltrinelli è nata a La Spezia  dove vive e lavora.

A Maggio 2018 ha pubblicato il libro di poesie Isole vicine, Agorà&co, dedicato al paesaggio marino del Golfo dei Poeti, nel 2020 pubblica L'Incanto dell’onda. Partecipa assiduamente a concorsi letterari e reading di poesia.

https://www.unilibro.it/libri/f/autore/feltrinelli_daniela

Has the sun set already?

responding to Do not go gentle into that good night

Has the sun set already?

Just over my garden?

On my grounds or all around?

On top of the newly built sky scraping

Apartment complexes? Which call upon

Announce the evening, so early

Way earlier than before! An evening suddenly

Upon the blazing day! Scorching day!

Its just the beginning of May!

No twilight in sight!

No magic of golden-pink-red sky?

Has the sun set already?

Past the guava tree

Where the parrot hallabaloo used to be!

Into the endless row of houses!

Has the light disappeared and the night descended

And its going to be night

For a long time!

Thankfully, bewitchingly

Nights have their own dark magic!

Darkness casts its own night time spell!

Just last night, past mid night

The cloud cover, thick blanket

Tore apart revealing supernatural dance

Of light with dark! Hand in hand

Cloud and moon! Entwined in spectacular dance!

Awakens my soul, like steppenwolf

looking for the prairies, for savannah

wild howl! Strange embrace!

Magic glimmer! White shimmer!

Visible only after the sunset!

But has the sun set already?

Over my part of the world

Where my heart is and thoughts stuck?

What a weird world we live in?

A circle of dreams

Destiny and hope!

Is it sunrise time?

The daily spectacle

Around which life is tied

Politely asks us to be clock bound!

Dear Galileo, they did not believe you

When you said, how punctual

Is mother earth!

How steadfast on her orbit!

And I am always late!

But has the sunset already?

-------------------Pankhuri Sinha 

Pankhuri Sinha is a bilingual young poet and story writer from India, who has lived in North America for 14 years. Two books of poems published in English, two collections of stories published in Hindi, five collections of poetries published in Hindi, and many more are lined up. She has won many prestigious, national-international awards, has been translated in over twenty two languages. Her writing is dominated by themes of exile and immigration, gender equality and environmental concerns.

 https://www.facebook.com/pankhuri.sinha.56/

sweettalking the fairy

  (for Dylan Thomas Day)

o, fairy who makes that master write poems

my call is clear, no ceremony,

having sharpened your wings just drop in,

even if you’re wet from the rains

your tea is made, coffee if you wish

and if you’re cold, your wings frozen from the snow

my wine is warm, so is my home

we could even make it springtime

my window is open

my room fragrant with roses

or come in summertime if you wish

let it be scorching hot

let’s share an ice cold water melon

spread your hair across my room

o, fairy whomakes that master write poems

come with your sharpest wings

my secrets are sacred

ı wont tell anyone that you’ve been here.

yeşim ağaoğlu

Ağaoğlu, Yeşim (Turkey) Yeşim Ağaoğlu is a poet and artist born in Istanbul. Her poems have appeared in various anthologies, and her published books of poetry have been translated into many languages. She frequently participates in international literary and poetry festivals, as well as gaining recognition internationally as a contemporary artist.

yesimpoetry.blogspot.com

yesimart.blogspot.com 

 致狄兰·托马斯

          @ 海 岸

遥远的城市远去一种声音

遥远的诗人害怕亲近，除了酒

害怕颅内每一根理性的神经

带着进程奔跑的诗人

撕开太阳与月亮交替的子宫

催动花朵，穿越生命的茎管

你一再播撒被诅咒的种子

吮吸时辰的每一秒骨髓

点燃昏昏欲睡的城区

泪水越过一再升腾的陆土

握紧你眼眶里的黑暗

沉入气候饱受血汗的漂泊

雾天的伦敦，忙碌的纽约

整整一个季节

守护一位可歌可泣的孤魂

我进入你残忍的天堂

替换你的形体

我，一次不经意的反反复复

孤单所有温暖的光线

【简介】

海岸，诗人，翻译家，浙江台州人，现供职于复旦大学外文学院。著有诗评译评集《狄兰•托马斯诗歌批评本》（2021），诗集《蝴蝶•蜻蜓》（欧洲，2020）《挽歌》（长诗，台湾，2012），译有《狄兰•托马斯诗歌合集》（2021）《贝克特全集：诗集》（合译，2016），编有《中西诗歌翻译百年论集》（2007）等。

 To Dylan Thomas

@ Hai An

A voice fades from a far-away city

A poet fears for closeness, except when drinking whisky

Fear for every rational nerve in his skull

The poet charges ahead

Tears open the sun and moon’s shifting womb

Waking flowers to the stem of life

Again and again, you sow the cursed seed

Sucking marrow out of every second of every hour

You light up the delirious city

Your tears rising with the earth

The rim of your eyes clenching darkness

Into an exile air of sweat and blood

A foggy London, a bustling New York

A whole season watches over

A tearful and touching soul

I enter the threshold of your cruel heaven

Replace your form

With I, repeatedly

Separating warmth from light

   (tr. by Jinjin with the author)

Hai An, pseudonym for Dingjun LI, born in Taizhou of Zhejiang province, PRC., now serves as a Chinese poet and translator in Fudan University, publishing his poetry books including Butterfly & Dragonfly (Europe, 2020) and Dylan Thomas: A Critical Reader (2021), Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas (2021),

OH DYLAN DYLAN

Oh Dylan, Dylan boy

oh Dylan Dylan,

non ti conoscevo

ti ho letto e riletto

imparato a memoria

mi hai fatto paura

gonfio di alcool com’eri :

diciotto whisky 18 ti vantavi,

ma sono tanti, ma sono troppi

e tu ne sei morto

Maxime Godard

Maxime Godard né en 1949 - Photographe

TOWARDS A NEW LIGHT (to Dylan Thomas)

Like you I too walk in a strange scorching noon.

The two of us walk towards a life, dreambound!

Give me a cup of wine, let my soul be filled.

Let our souls be filled and we will stand still-

Beside the summer field only to feel. 

Our thirst for rain remains unquenched...

If you come back, come back to me again.

You will see drops of rain start falling...

Let rain reign us with her soft touch.

Let the soil be prolific in grain like a woman-

Let the light of desire be fascinated with new sight,

Let sorrows vanish and let pages of a new diary open for us.

Thus a new world be born out of destruction.    

Poem by Roni Adhikari (Bangladesh)

Adhikari, Roni (Bangladesh)

Roni Adhikari is a poet, Journalist and the editor of two little magazines and a sub-editor for the newspaper The Daily Kalbela, Bangladesh. He has published three books : poetry and short stories.

https://www.facebook.com/roni.adhikari1.