I have to know the wage of text

For a poet, silence is an acceptable, even flattering response, 
claimed Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette.

Another claimed 
that the calm that is the history of silence 
is the poet's revenge.

Look, I walk around with a quill 
between my teeth

Some people have their sensory hearing absorbed into in the most unexpected organs, and some will qualify in silence, accordingly I have to know the wage 
of 
text —

Surely, the initial reaction in humans 
in their early lives is the voice, after
which everything else is a charade.

I am new

They don’t know 
Where I came from
I must connect the- leg
With the waist 
And the pelvis to the spine

That’s the way when items
Are separated from bodies 
And an artificial 
Lens is implanted 
In the - eye.

Who said it’s possible to move 
Organs
Away from their 
Place?

Who said?

Tali Cohen Shabtai, born in Jerusalem, Israel, is a highly-esteemed international poet with works translated into many languages.

She has authored three bilingual volumes of poetry, “Purple Diluted in a Black’s Thick”(2007), “Protest” (2012) and “Nine Years From You”(2018). A fourth volume is forthcoming in 2022. 

Tali began writing poetry at the age of six. She lived for many years in Oslo, Norway, and the U.S.A. and her poems express both the spiritual and physical freedom paradox of exile. Her cosmopolitan vision is obvious in her writings.

Tali is known in her country as a prominent poet with a unique narrative. As one commentator wrote: “She doesn’t give herself easily, but is subject to her own rules.”

toast on the kitchen floor

the feeling that sulks in my bone marrow and weighs me down
melts into the air pockets of day old sourdough.

i didn't know that wanting to die was meltable.
i hoped it wasn't
now all i am left with is drips of oil and soot i never tracked in on my heel.
patches of raw feeling still keep their opaque huddling figures
but now it just looks like i have plain toast with molding clumps.
the crust is too hard for my crying jaws. i leave it on the cutting board.

a staler slice resides in the toaster that i have grown up with
so i get crumbs under my nails pulling it out.
fresher emotions that give the illusion of being gentle and friendly
are spread across the surface with the cchhh of 
butter knife on bread
i don’t close the feelings container because it's a pain in the ass 
and i always cut my fingertips just enough to feel the texture difference 
but not enough to hurt
i leave a smear of suicidality in the deli container.

of course its not enough for a whole slice of toast 
but thats too bad for whoever next finds themselves foolish enough to crave toast.

toast is dumb.

it takes the gentleness out of the fresh-baked bread and prods at over-chewed gums.
i only find myself seasoning a second toast because it's there 
and i need something to do.
i pull out a fresh plate and everything for my pretty little crunchy mean bread.
so many favors i've done.
i smeared my feelings out and stared them down 
like a single poppyseed on a fucking sesame bagel.
i also have mixed feelings about sesame seeds.
i’ll eat something that i didn't even know had sesame seeds but for some reason
i always wrestle with the tiny little flavor between my teeth for hours before i taste it.
sesame seeds are also dumb.

my stupid little toast is face down on the floor now and i'm not going to pick it up.

Retrograding

I sat by the backwaters of my imagination
and gazed at the stars melting in the mouth of the sky.
Her smile bright like a glazed ceramic
Illuminated the dark alleys of my soul.
The admonishing silence raving through the crevices of the moon
disintegrated the night's monochrome into pieces.
The wind blew it away to distant planets.
My attempt to pour the sea into the bell jar fell flat,
the brine water overflowed
drenching my mouth
that parched with fever.
The cuckoo's distant farewell song
pierced my ears
It is time to return now 
to the orb of nothingness.
I tried to tie her words with the windchime 
Tinkering with the winds from Bosnia.
The colors of summer inundated the city. 
 Its fragrance perched on my shoulders.
Far away is an abyss that cannot be crossed this evening.
The roaring wind mimicked my inner turmoil.
The paranoia sprouted like grass.
The earth's rotation rattled on my nerves.
My head felt dizzy with every solstice.
I tried hard to pour life out of an aluminum kettle
but it spilled from the sides 
and messed up my life's filigree.
The spectrum of rainbow signaled the dawn's arrival.
Another ordinary day was about to take its course.
I folded the sides of the night sky
and kept it safely inside my lavender purse 
till we meet again on the horizon's other end!

Regards
Debarati Sen

Bio

A published poet and a regular columnist in Youth Ki Awaz and Literoma. Freelancer at the International NGO JPS Medaid. Winner of the International Poetry Writing competition 2021 organized by the Elite Awards. Published debut poetry book 'Blurred Musings' in January 2022. I have contributed to more than 15 anthologies. Works as a Junior Assistant in Presidency University Kolkata.

Three Poems

Written by Yuan Hongri

Translated by Yuanbing Zhang

 

I Was Originally The God of the Gods

 

I shall change seawater into honey，

smelt the stone into the gold，

the bitter is namely sweet，

the sun is born from the womb of the night.

 

Oh, my God！No matter what if you are really the God

Oh, the devil! No matter how many tricks you have

today, I am neither living nor dying

I want to put you all into the golden tripod of time.

 

I am originally outside of the earth

I will leave one day

although I have forgotten many years

but I woke up finally today

 

From a little drop of water

the world came into being

It was originally a tear of mine

I was originally the God of the Gods .

4.30.2011

 

我本是上帝的上帝

 

我要把海水酿成蜜

把石头熔炼成金

这苦涩就是香甜

这太阳从黑夜的子宫诞生

 

上帝啊 无论你是不是真的上帝

魔鬼啊 无论你还有多少伎俩

今天 我不生也不死

我要把你们统统装进时光的金鼎

 

我本在这个尘世之外

有一天还将归去

尽管我遗忘了许多年

可今天终于醒来

 

这小小的一滴水

诞生了这个天地

它本是我的一颗泪珠

我本是上帝的上帝

2011.4.30

 

 

The World Is in a Box


 

The world is in a box

the little timeworn world

the countries of Lilliput

the President of the king's prime minister

those kings, premiers and presidents

those dwarfs in the scroll of time’s picture

 

They do not believe the additional sun

both like a diamond and like gold

make you warm in winter

make you cool in summer

 

Neither have they seen the sweet ocean

nor have they known heaven outside time

forgotten those gods who like mountains

are the ones the former ancients owned

9.1.2012

 

世界在一只盒子里

 

世界在一只盒子里

这个小小陈旧的世界

一座座小人国

那些国王 首相 总统

那些时光画卷里的侏儒

 

他们不相信另外的太阳

既像钻石 又像黄金

在冬天时让你温暖

在夏天时让你凉爽

 

他们没见过甜蜜的海洋

也不知时光之外的天国

忘了那些山岳般的众神

是古老的曾经的自己

2012.9.1

 

The King of The Diamonds

 

The sun was rising in my breast

I woke up finally

said goodbye to the night's nightmare

the world was lit up by me

this is actually the real me

 

There is no longer day and night

there are no longer newborns and death

I got myself back

before there was no earth and heaven

I have existed from the beginning

 

The world is just my works：

a picture, a poem

a symphony.

Give me a stone

I will turn it into the king of the diamonds.

9.3.2012

 

钻石之王

 

太阳在我胸膛里升起

我终于醒来

告别黑夜的梦魇

世界被我照亮

这才是真实的我

 

不再有白昼与黑夜

不再有新生与死亡

我找回了自已

在没有天地之前

我就早已经存在

 

世界只是我的作品

一幅画 一首诗

一部交响曲

给我一枚石头

我让它变成钻石之王

2012.9.3

Bio: Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet's Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization. Its content is to show the solemnity, sacredness and greatness of human soul through the exploration of soul.



Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), is Mr. Yuan Hongri’s assistant and translator. He himself is a Chinese poet and translator, and works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District, Jining City, Shandong Province China. He can be contacted through his email-3112362909@qq.com.

 

#1 Poem Title: "Kweeju" (Abandon Child)

I am kweeju,
Born with a black skin, 
Abandoned by a woman and raised by a hunter
Bright, Brilliant, articulate strong and bold;
I’m filled with hatred,
Skillful enough to attack my enemies. 
 
I am kweeju,
Often the target is sorrow
My future is not confined to charity
Give me the gift of a lifetime,
Give me a dream,
A door of opportunity;
I will thrive.
 
I am Kweeju
Do not hide my fault
Show me my wrong
I am like any other,
Teach me to dream,
And I will become one.
 
I am Kweeju
I am the son; son of the soil,
Rich in texture and content,
Full of potential for a better tomorrow,
Lack of motherly discipline and character,
But filled with hard work,
Teach me to think like the star within me
I am Kweeju.




#2 Poem Title: Weeping/Moaning

We were four in numbers,
When we heard the sound of death’s call,
Calling our mother under cover,
We were shocked and rolled like an ocean,
A mighty man of nature, one who gives and takes,
But time was not appropriate. 
Weeping has turned to our morning meal,
An early dream has come to an end. 
She was our sleeves, woman full of thoughts and emotions,
One who lighten our world,
One who gives us hope for the future has passed on.
She left tears in our eyes,
Memories in our hearts,
Searching for remedy,
And finding none.
 
 
Weeping/moaning

Mother is gone,
I could hear the voice of a new mother calling from the other side,
The little one with such an instigating look. 
My blood boiled to hear the voice of my younger sister crying,
The tears rained down her cheek as a sign of misery. 
The tree has waved its branches, and the dry leaves have fallen. 
We work more and play less,
The one who holds the dream of an entire family has crashed,
Clear waters ran through that fertile land,
By the light of dawn,
We called it home,
We shared a dream,
But now it’s gone. 
We could not change,
Or bring back the days,
But feel her presence around,
And we weep all day.




Who Is A Woman?


The backbone to a man in time of difficulties;

One who lighten the affairs of the family,

And the attention she gives,

Seeking the treasure of satisfaction,

A light in the night of man's trouble.

The bridge of every man's dream,

The apple in the eyes,

The representation of man's life.

 

Who is a woman

One that is quiet,

millions of things are running through her mind

as she stares at you,

she is wondering why she loves you so much,

despite being taken for granted.

She stands by you like a solid rock. 

Never hurt and taken for granted.

 

Who is a woman

Mother to our future leaders

One who has the unique character like salt,

But her presence is never remembered,

Her absence makes all the things tasteless. 

But,

Her smile and commitment,

Make a man realize a woman's worth.





Author Bio
 
Jelvin Stephen Gibson remains the name. He was born in Montserrado County, precisely ELWA Hospital, on Friday, 8th August 1995, as the first son of four children. Father's name is Stephen T. Gibson, and mother's name is Etta B. Sulonkpala (late), while his stepmother's name is Benetta Jones Gibson. He is from Bong County by origin.
  
He holds certifications in Acting for Stage, Acting for Radio, Artist Management, and Acting for Camera. 
He is a classroom Teacher; he holds an Associate Degree in Education (AA) (Language Arts) from the Licosess Mobile Teacher Training College. He looks forward to having a B.Sc as soon as possible.
 
His hobbies are writing, reading, teaching, and caring for others. Because of his writing, he gained popularity in the Liberian Movie Industry. He wrote and starred in the movie "Greed" and also wrote the script of the story "Kweeju" (Abandon Child), which was a zone project. 
 

His father is his inspiration. He always gives him some direction to face something, gives him the story ahead, and is always optimistic about realizing his dreams. He always says that he is the best and that his family is his spirit.

*****


all my darkness waxing moon



***


same shit different day cicadas



****


in the name of the lord wolfsbane


***


mayflies—
my fantasy of
someone else


***


orchid seeds
the dig of his nails
into my waist

Lori A Minor (she/they) is a queer, neurodivergent poet and activist. Recipient of more than 15 haikai awards, they are proud to be included in A New Resonance 12 and to have given presentations at Haiku North America (2019, 2021). Lori’s sixth book, Hot Girl Haiku, is now available.

SALVATION IN THE EYES OF THE SUN

Somewhere, a boy is digging a tomb of
memory and ends up having his head
hung between this poem. I don't want to
start this poem with memories, with lines
that bring me more closer to extinction. 

So when about to sleep, I'll close the
windows to not have a taste of the airs
that scents more like my brother, still, they
sneaked in and romance me with their

roughened edges. I dreamt of salvation
in the eyes of the sun, the sun came &
pour me her rays; they doesn't taste 
like scented flowers, like vine ripe mangoes.

I ran to the moon, the moon placed in my
palms, darkened images. I don't know know
where else to search for light, I returned to 
this poem; I saw the dreams of my sister

withered in a flower betwixt the lines. I saw
with my korokoro eyes the nakedness of
her dreams choking my breath. Tell me
how more to starts a day than to wake up

in the garden of lilies, everything here 
pop me up to an emissary of tears.
I mean to say, here; I am a portrait of
a boy hung on the walls of fate

THRENODY

To the souls the ground swallowed
To the dreams that got ruptured
To the  faces been robbed of smiles
To — afternoons of collapsed skeletons

To the moments that ticks in the chest
To the days lived in fear—  yesterdays of wailings
To the  fruits that got plucked off unripened
To every kin yanked and slewed at Burma

To the dirges— The threnodies
To the victims of faulty policies— 
To the Yobe, the Zamfara— where my brothers and sisters await their death.

To the everyday mourning news of the television
To the widowed, the orphaned 
To every blood shed— broken promises
To the days, where the goats no longer feed on greens

To every agony
To every pain
To every story that falls blood
To every dreams shattered

I say, let's put our heads and brains together
In spite of our homes been war-torned 
Let's keep our hope alive— fate like a citadel
And our bright steps will once again spring love