In This Life

I only have a face,

I have no arms or legs,

I am like a baobab tree,

I have already sold my heart and organs in the swamp,

Now only a shadow remains,

Even the shadows are blurred in the dust.

I am dust floating in the air,

I am hanging in the air like a baobab tree,

I have been looking for myself upside down for a thousand years,

I store the language of water in my thick stem,

I only speak the language of water in the air.

I am looking for someone,

Everyone is lost somewhere,

We are lost in the deepest sea,

In a corner of the universe that no one knows,

In the darkest forest of conscience,

I am a cursed creature wandering lost.

My head has switched to a silent movie-like dead mode,

Not even a spark remains,

Now my brain does not send signals of emotion.

The world is filled with pictures of blood everywhere,

The world is filled with screams everywhere,

My vision is dry,

They are also looking for someone with empty eyes like me,

In this life,

I only own the face.

————-

이번 생에서

— 한성례

나는 얼굴만 소유했다

나는 팔도 없고 다리도 없다

나는 바오밥나무 같다

습지에서 이미 심장과 장기를 팔아버렸다

이젠 그림자만 남았다

그림자조차 먼지 속에서 흐물흐물하다

나는 공중을 떠도는 먼지다

나는 바오밥나무처럼 허공에 매달려 있다

천년동안 거꾸로 처박혀 나를 찾고 있다

굵은 줄기에 물로 된 언어를 저장하여

허공에서 물 같은 언어만 구사한다

나는 누군가를 찾고 있다

다들 어딘가에서 길을 잃었다

우리는 가장 깊은 바다에서

아무도 모르는 우주의 한 모퉁이에서

양심의 가장 어두운 숲에서 길을 잃었다

길을 잃고 헤매는 저주받은 생물이다

머릿속이 무성영화처럼 먹통 모드로 전환되었다

불꽃 하나 남아 있지 않아

이제 뇌는 감동의 신호를 보내지 않는다

세상은 도처에 피 흘리는 사진들로 가득하다

세상은 도처에 비명소리로 가득하다

내 시야는 메말랐다

그들도 나처럼 텅 빈 눈으로 누군가를 찾고 있다

이번 생에서 

나는 얼굴만 소유했다

Fraught

‎

‎If this heart expands into another heart

‎A poem will be born

‎A unique mystery will arise in line by line

‎Every word will be multidimensional

‎A bud will grow in a disoriented, directionless vocabulary

‎Dumb, black, senseless feelings will find the color of a butterfly

‎

‎Poetry will entwine its throat with intoxicating melodies

‎Light will be woven into the map of darkness

‎Time will reach its final conclusion

‎The poet’s tongue will be a rose in the gap of his fingers.

‎Everything that needs to be known will be known.

‎The landscape will change without hesitation.

‎Some artist will paint the estuary of love.

‎The horizon will expand.

‎The spring dreams will freeze in the raindrops.

‎Love letters will be written in all the orbits of the solar system

‎Excellent figure or indomitable form

‎Swimming in the lotus pond

‎Distorted imaginary reflections will converge at one point

‎

Here Do the Ceremonies

Here do the ceremonies.
Here comes my messenger.
He is a kind of chameleon.
He has some meaning in his mad attire.
Here in this island we arrived and here –
Here is a box. I had it from the queen.
Here is a ring. I had it from the king.
Here, where you are, they are coming to perform it.
Herbwoman. Linguist. Soldieress.
Here come the clusters.
Here do the ceremonies.

This poem is from Shakespeare Okuni’s new poetry collection A Twist of Rotten Silk, available here.

Nocturnal Winter Rain Resounding 

What does it mean? Then. At night. Suddenly. Upon. Upon what? The boulevards and asphalt and holiday lights blue green, yellow, red, and the coyote den somewhere impossibly distant and camouflaged by the wondrous and strange woodlands. On rooftops that are hats for houses and on the good drivers and the bad ones, on the snow laden meadow where the fox goes by and I have memories of summer days when the praying mantis flew, and the birds crooned and the azure sky hovered like an angel itself. 

Rain. Rainy. Rains. Nocturnal storms. Winds. I must have once looked out my window decades ago by hardwood floors with that oval carpet and my toys and books and posters, yes looked out at the winter ravine. Orphan psychically gifted, double crown and crown chakra open. In the house alone, guided by soft yellow lights and night light and spirit singing rueful songs. Evergreens across the way atop the hill. Knowing myself I would have stood and watched the drops against the glass, drops like tears upon the windows and sills. Nobody is listening but I am. Always. All this by paving stones and kidney shaped pool with black cover and blue water bags with red openings where you put the water after summer, all long gone. And the hills where the deer travel past sometimes at dawn. 

Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet and photographer. His most recent work, Book of Love and Mourning is the third compilation of prose poems and landscape pictures. 

Overcast

overcast winter day, not much of a day but the sun tried to peak out here and there, if faintly, from the otherwise opaque firmament. walk and walk though. bushes and trees, many branches barren for the season, paired down to their essence. life a bit like some part of a dream. ridge and hill. ah bleak winter one must shrug and sigh and smile against your saturnine countenance. 

Patience

The fig tree truly blooms — though people never see,

Its tender signs appear, yet hearts still fail to see.

Like feelings locked inside where no one else may be,

It whispers softly secrets days can never see.

Both peace and joy stand waiting — patient as they wait,

Dark eyes in tears hold love — silent as they wait.

A broken heart believes the fig will never meet its fate,

Yet all things bloom in time — everything must wait.

Xasanova Aziza Kumushbek qizi student at Tashkent economics and pedagogy university

A new life of the season

That haunts the Mayflower gardens

I keep my vigil high

No one is nearer than death

Alaska rides and sky high buildings

The topmost is nearer to me

My garden is full of sweet marvel

As I gazed upon the peonies high

The merry go round of life is at my hand

To know that dream like state

Where pansies grew upon the hedgehog smile.