Filling the Hollow

resonator grotto

pushing headline disinfectants

devised a renewed pastiche

liminal fury for taint collectors

brought a binge pot dilemma 

its crude invective 

untamed the clot’s brand name

ghost fangs mental vending

threshed spotless reverb egress

past sound regrets tangled dry

as a flattened root 

plying the sharpened tonic grab

contortion clangs against vibrato

trembling with a haunted verbatim

in search of a breaking tremolo

to gambol freely

against the chamber’s echo points

Below the Land’s Bottom

pealing at robotic speed

the stranger left a missing hieroglyph

sleeping under the sinkhole

swamping the mendicant 

sporting a bearded vantage boast

where street invention

gaped a landmark palpitation

                     2.

verbal carnage soaring

vigil haze fattened the coming 

joggle a rough descent

retread derision encased 

any sidewalk dream plots worn

to comfort the decimation

with a congregation of friction studios

                 3.

lout fight a slow obstacle 

included fans of glower problems

fighting apprehension daze

reprobate misses figurine

torpedo grieving well black ending

rapier predispositions stick

bygones target simulacrum remover

JUST

It’s just that I miss you …

A warm evening smells of lilac,

And invitingly meeting lovers,

A nightingale crooning gasps,

A May evening, spring without being embarrassed.

May evening and a branch of lilac,

We inhale the scents of flowers,

You lightly touched knees,

And a hot desire embraced,

There are shadows on the green grass.

Your touch is so welcome.

It’s just that I’m flying into the Water with my head,

Just, I can hear your breathing.

It turned out to be my fate,

Then, in love with me, your confession.

It’s just that I miss you,

Every hour without you is no joy to me,

I’m drawing our meeting in my dreams,

And I hide a careless weakness,

Letting go into the hustle and bustle of the city.

——

ПРОСТО

Просто, я по тебе скучаю…

Тёплый вечер сиренью пахнет,

И  призывно влюблённых встречая,

Соловьиным напевом ахнет,

Майский вечер, весны не смущаясь.

Майский вечер и ветка сирени,

Мы вдыхаем цветов ароматы,

Ты слегка прикоснулся к коленям,

И горячим желанием объяты,

На зелёной траве чьи-то тени.

Так желанны твои прикасания.

Просто, в омут лечу с головою,

Просто, слышу твоё дыханье.

Оказалось моею судьбою,

То, в любви мне, твоё признание.

Просто, я по тебе тоскую,

Каждый час без тебя мне не в радость,

Я в мечтах нашу встречу рисую,

И скрываю беспечную слабость,

Отпустив в суету городскую.

——————————————————————————————

Απλά μου λείπεις…

Απλά μου λείπεις…

Ένα ζεστό βράδυ μυρίζει λιλά,

Και προσκαλώντας τους εραστές,

Το άσμα του αηδονιού θα λαχανιάσει,

Μάιος βράδυ, άνοιξη χωρίς αμηχανία.

Το βράδυ του Μαΐου και ένα κλαδί λιλά,

Εισπνέουμε τις μυρωδιές των λουλουδιών,

Αγγίξατε  γόνατα,

Και μια καυτή επιθυμία αγκάλιασε,

Υπάρχουν σκιές στο πράσινο γρασίδι.

Το άγγιγμά σας είναι τόσο ευπρόσδεκτο.

Απλώς πετάω στην πισίνα με το κεφάλι μου,

Απλά, ακούω την αναπνοή σου.

Αποδείχθηκε ότι ήταν η μοίρα μου,

Τότε, ερωτευμένος μαζί μου, η ομολογία σου.

Απλά μου λείπεις.,

Κάθε ώρα χωρίς εσένα δεν είναι χαρά για μένα,

Ζωγραφίζω τη συνάντησή μας στα όνειρά μου,

Και κρύβω μια απρόσεκτη αδυναμία,

Αφήνοντας να πάει στη φασαρία της πόλης.

President of the International Literary Association “Creative Tribune”(ILACT),
Head of the German Branch of the Writers’ Union NA,

Dr. Hc Natalie Bisso

Президент Международной Литературной Ассоциации “Творческая Трибуна”(МЛАТТ), Руководитель Германского Отделения СПСА, Академик,

Dr. Hc Натали Биссо

His Mercy in my Depressed State 

In His shadow of warmth 

I take solace 

when my bouts of despair 

seem to set in.

When I get exhausted by 

the realities of my own 

trials and adversities.

I look to the hills from whence

my teary eyes get their arid relief.

There are moments I find myself sunken deep in my own melancholy.

When I seethe with frustration at the slightest provocation of my own depression.

At such unpleasant moments, I find myself diving instantly into His Ocean of grace and infinite mercy,

only to emerge later from my baptism of succour.

Bermuda Triangle 

I’m a soldier who has lined his face to the cold wall of the trench 

My bullets are words …

Place your eyes on mine!

We all are wounded in this war.

We’re all exiled in our land…

Place your eyes on mine!

Your eyes are like Bermuda Triangle

The gone never come back …

If you’re asked, respond: 

The poet never came back! 

*** 

The snow

The nights that I miss

Your voice is like a song that Lord recites 

Comes like snow to my morning. 

Silently…

White …

*** 

Tragic Poem 

A piece of me has stayed far away

Under the rain

Those are gone from me, don’t have a “return” ticket

The storm is the nightmare of the trees on old nights 

The fingerprint of a woman is shivering in the fancy of windows 

A prisoner with hands like an elm leaf 

Whose voice as light 

In the name of the freedom 

She may write this poem on the wall of his cell

May give birth by the voice of pigeons instead of the sun this spring 

Instead of the bullet wound of the girl in this war

May shot this poem into her heart …

“May”s are birds of pain in the sky of wishes 

Fly … fly … and disappear. 

The past of my hands are Greek Gods 

Has been forgotten 

Buried in the cemetery of history 

My eyes were buried in your far beautifulness 

Bury me with my loneliness in autumn colors 

It’s autumn … 

Leaves are bulletin of elections 

The trees elect the death 

*** 

The cemetery of letter 

I kissed the darkness of the night …

I entered into the sun pages of the morning. 

My hands bear the greenness of leaves, 

Spring is my hands …

Looked into the world to find my eyes.

The legs of men pain, 

Scarf blows on the head of the woman, 

The scarf 

Blows like the flag of the country, 

Blows …

The hands are opened to the poem in my mind, 

Catches the skirt of twilight, 

The opened hands for the poem in my mind are shackled, 

Drowned in the sweat 

It’s a long time, the mirrors don’t show the poets 

Poets have been buried in the cemetery of letters 

Here, the sun sets down with the time of women 

Here, the wind blows from darkness 

*** 

The love beast 

Nothing remained for trust 

Nothing remained for waiting 

The last train left empty 

The people of memories didn’t catch the train …

This season passed very hard 

Like a year without spring 

Nothing remained for cheering glasses 

No kneed to rest our heads …

The color of my voice is autumn 

Falls from the boughs of love 

The lips are closed …

The window is covered by steam …

The beast of my love lives in a glass 

Breaks by a word 

I can die by a word …

Umid Najjari was born on 15th of April 1989 in Tabriz (Iran). After graduating from Islamic Azad University of Tabriz in 2016, he entered Baku Aurasia University to continue his studies in Philology in Republic of Azerbaijan. “The land of the birds” and “Beyond the walls” are among his published works in addition to some translations. His poems have been published in USA, Canada, Spain, Italy, India, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Iraq, Kazakhstan, Georgia, Chile and Iranian media. He was awarded the International LIFFT festival diploma in 2019. He achieved “IWA Bogdani” Award in 2021. He was awarded the “Mihai Eminescu” Award in 2022. He was awarded the International Prize “Medal Alexandre The Great” in 2022. He is  Vice-President of the BOGDANI international writers’ association, with headquarters in Brussels and Pristina. and Turkic World Young Authors Association.

WIDZENIA

Dwa lemury na drzewie… 
Rozumiemy, rozumiemy. Podłoże 
psychosomatyczne, 
czyli zespół 
wyjątkowo niespokojnych 
paznokci. 

A swoją drogą, czy ma pan jeszcze 
widzenia? 
Gdzie pan właściwie był, 
jak pana wśród nas 
przez tydzień 
nie było? 

Jak to gdzie? Odebrał sobie życie 
i po powrocie 
pije, 
stał się oszczędny i unika 
filetów z atlantyckiego dorsza. A jednak 
smażenie! 

Proszę podawać trzy tabletki 
na dobę. 
(Dwa lemury na drzewie…) 
I ma nagle negatywny stosunek 
do służby 
wojskowej. 

W takim razie cztery. 
Trzy po posiłkach, 
a czwartą jak znowu zacznie sikać 
po żywopłotach. 
Jeśli już raz odebrał sobie życie,
nie pozwólmy mu teraz żyć.

Sight

Two lemurs sat in a tree and chatted.

“We understand, we understand.

The subsoil is psychosomatic—

filled with a team of nervous nail-biters.”

“By-the-way, do you still have your sight?

Where were you? We didn’t see you

for a week.”

“How so?” He had taken his own life

and after reincarnating he drank heavily,

became unusually frugal, and avoided

eating filets of Atlantic cod

(even the fried ones).

A doctor advised him: “Please take three pills

each day.”

He returned to the tree; suddenly

developed a negative view

of military service;

so, the doctor upped it to four—

three after a meal and another

after urinating on the hedges.

“If he already killed himself once,

let’s not really let him have a life.”

NAD STAWEM

Psy zaczynają na siebie
polować.

Jak padnie ostatni,

nie będzie już kogo
jeść.

By the Pond

Dogs have begun hunting

each other.

When the last falls,

there won’t be anyone left

to eat.

NA DRUGIM PIĘTRZE

Mieszka mięso.

Ciepłe, tłuste
mięso.

Zwabimy je psiną
i wysuszymy

na haku.

On the Second Floor

lives a piece of meat—

warm, fatty

meat.

We’ll lure the doggies in

and dry them

on a hook. 

ŚWIEŻE MIĘSO

Jest lepsze 
od solonego.

Przyszłość 
nie ma smaku.

Fresh Meat

is better 

than cured meat.

The future holds no

flavor.

Please send books here with an enclosed note on how and why these titles were meaningful to you. Thank you very much.

Iyad Muna 
16 Mevo Hamatmeed

Mobile. 054.6500620
9459307

Jerusalem 
Israel

Anna Keiko (China)

Anna Keiko, a distinguished poetess and essayist from Shanghai, China, has made a profound impact on contemporary literature. A graduate of Shanghai East China University with a Bachelor’s degree in Law, she has achieved global recognition for her poetry, which has been translated into more than 30 languages and published in over 500 journals, magazines, and media outlets across 40 countries. Keiko is the founder and chief editor of the ACC Shanghai Huifeng Literature Association and serves as a Chinese representative and director of the International Cultural Foundation Ithaca. Her affiliations extend to Immagine & Poesia in Italy and the Canadian-Cuban Literary Union, reflecting her commitment to fostering cross-cultural literary exchanges.

Her poetic oeuvre spans six collections, including “Lonely in the Blood and Absurd Language”, showcasing her exploration of human emotions, environmental concerns, and existential themes. Her innovative style and evocative imagery have earned her numerous accolades, such as the 30th International Poetry Award in Italy and the World Peace Ambassador Certificate in 2024. Notably, she was the first Chinese recipient of the Cross-Cultural Exchange Medal for Significant Contribution to World Poetry, awarded in the United States in 2023.

Her works, including “Octopus Bones” and other acclaimed poems, have resonated with readers worldwide, garnering invitations to prominent international poetry festivals and conferences. Her dedication to the arts extends beyond poetry, encompassing prose, essays, lyrics, and drama, underscoring her versatility as a writer. Nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2020, Anna Keiko continues to break barriers, bringing Chinese literature to the global stage.