Ode to Olivia
Oh, Olivia, during
what disingenuous dialogue,
getting closer and closer,
you told me
in that bar by the seashore
"pretty good-time girl
comes once, comes often,"
eyelashes shyly lowered,
thick and lustrous,
lowered time and again
to hide the hard eyes
I knew were there.
I was surprised by
your interest;
vital with intent,
your lithe body
tilted towards me,
white teeth showing
in a smile, breasts
firm and unfettered
in your summer blouse.
Delirious with your fancy magic
I nearly fell off the bar stool,
fell like a fairy-tale frog
clear down to the bottom
of the mossy well, my member
swelling in your favor,
transported to
to your body's joyful openings,
anticipating
hot and wet,
those ports of entry,
those sweet breasts,
that sweet tongue
flicking between your lips;
promises of things to come.
O ye spermy nights of the gods!
The rune on our canoe's tail
says "enter here, ye of little haste"
and willows brush our arms
as we paddle down the river
of ardor and fulfillment
and coming together and
whatever else
we can muster up
from a time of dreams,
from the manna
of this earthly paradise.
Olivia, you were brown as a nut
from a summer of sun;
a glamorous summer goddess
there for the taking and still
it came to nothing.
A change of heart,
a parting glance,
and off you went.
Your naked this I never saw,
your curly that I never pawed;
alone in the majestic garden
of self I sit stiff and cold
as a block of ice;
a lonesome soldier in a sentry box
waiting for the gate to open;
it never does.
Olivia, you left me
as you found me
and just as well
for the both of us.
There we were
in that bar,
and there we are forever,
enshrined, inscribed
like Keats’ Grecian urn,
graceful outlines,
a frieze of some long past event,
at rest in that luminous
wasted moment forever;
no future, no past,
no time at all and
what never happened,
what is not there
just as real
as what is there.
Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Typishly Literary Magazine, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and elsewhere. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies.
The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired.
KEYS IN A ROW
Perhaps someone
will play a melancholy
keyboard piece as I am
leaving, and, stopping
to listen, I’ll have a vision
of what is to come if I
linger, if I walk up
to the player, wait,
then ask some pertinent
question with an eager
mien, the seconds gone
when I would have been
outdoors in the clear,
the moment interrupted
with a careless insufficiency,
the scattered patterns
of my life converging
into a broken string,
a clappered wheel
on which the hours
tick and dance to
their inoperable end
***
to be released from a long
slow slough, much of it
impenetrable like the circle
of a dream manifest as reality,
frightful and avoidable,
a bag in a corridor laced
with shadows and squalor,
which the mere eye of me
is afraid to undo
***
moving through
the veins, a fire-
ball with dim
obbligatos and
dark copper
bangs, like old
radiator pipes
when the steam
hammers at high
velocity into their
joints, warming
the room and
almost waking
the sleeper from
his sleep
***
here in this morning’s morning
self-forgotten sullen twang
comes a star gilded and silver,
climbing still like the pine
branches tipped with needle-
frantic green, yes, caught
like a tiny chip on the great
waist of some spectre surface
emerging into the dissolving dark.
LANDSCAPE IN FALLEN LIGHT, WITH CHILDREN
Just an unimportant place,
radiant and ordinary,
deserving the utmost scriptory,
with golden quags
up to the knees,
the sun blotting the lough
like streaks of silver haze
settling in a quay.
No need for a raveled sky
of quizzical significance,
the wrangling heads
foundering in the streets,
questing the unending sop
of memory and imprecation
to put life into the big words,
immiserating the ivory dungeon,
as one antinomian calls it,
reduced to bah, to babbling ooze,
slightly ecstatic now and then,
what is preserved
when meaning is deflated,
page after page, of invisibility,
of pity for hope lost
in hell’s sunken bolgias,
or the faces strapped
to the skullbones
of the starving young.
NOW THEN, THE OPEN EYE
August’s close
but I already feel
the solitary cold,
a sleepless place
and zero of the night,
like an infinitive
without an end
and half reluctant
to begin. But solitude
is just a postlude
to the now where all
the wrongs set in,
a moment’s atom
out of kilter,
out of being true,
where finally the heart
may intermit its beat
with careless equanimity
or grave abandonment
like a nimbus
with its watery crystals
of deep ice,
washing the sorrows
from your face,
from all the lineaments
of being you.
VERISIMILITUDE After a passage from a novel by Virginia Woolf
Somewhere in the middle
I recall a brewer’s cart
and the genial narrator
describing the gray horses
that had upright bristles
of straw stuck in their tails
like sprouting plumes
above the small brown daisies
peeping from their haunches’ clefts.
And a woman, seeing
this slipstream brook
of burblings through her mind,
immediately brightens,
and sorrow drops away
like a feathered colander
sifting the prismatic richness
of her life, kindling with equine
pleasure an infinite hubble-bubble
of mysterious commotion
out of the pernicious flurries
of gone time, a lollop on horsetail
streams with straw-thatched coronets,
whimsical and vagulous,
like sea-green sprites,
bedraggled by happiness
and blessed with silly dreams.
PROBLEM, SOLUTION, ETC.
Her academic pedigree
was impressive--Swarthmore,
Columbia and the Sorbonne.
But toward her hundredth year
she confronted her biggest source
of perplexity and vexation,
the state of being weary
and restless through lack of interest,
and began her day
with crossword puzzles,
then the game shows on TV.
Did she return to these
as the day continued to impair
itself by attrition?
Ramakrishna used to rebuke
card-playing oldsters—
Had they nothing better to do
on the verge of their greatest change
of outward form or appearance?
Are crosswords any better?
Should Kurtz have done puzzles
in the dark, filling words into a pattern
of numbered squares in answer
to correspondingly numbered clues
to prevent facing the abyss
before him, the memories in him?
What is a six-letter word
for a painful emotion
compounded of loathing and fear?
Bio: Originally from Ukraine, Askold Skalsky has published poems in over 300 online and print periodicals in the United States, Canada, England, Ireland, mainland Europe, Turkey, Australia, and India. He is the recipient of two Individual Artist Awards in Poetry from the Maryland State Arts Council, and is the founding editor of the literary magazine Hedge Apple. A first book of poems, The Ponies of Chuang Tzu, was published in 2011 by Horizon Tracts in New York City. He is currently at work on several poetry projects, including a poetry cycle based on Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons. A book of poetry, Shapeless Works of Partial Contemplation, is due to be published by Ephemeral Arts Press in November.
Muñoz Sanjúan Cantos : & : Ucronías
Collages de Miguel Ángel Muñoz Sanjuán a partir de su libro Cantos : & : Ucronías (Calambur 2013). Animación, Guadalupe Grande. Dirección: Juan Carlos Mestre.
EXODUS & CIA
Dibujos de Miguel Ángel Muñoz Sanjuán a partir de su libro :Memorical-Fractal (Calambur, 2017). Realización y animación, Guadalupe Grande
Luz Pichel, Tra{n}shumancias
Video poema de Guadalupe Grande a partir del libro Tran{n}shumancias, de Luz Pichel.
«Poemas del Mediterráneo» con Guadalupe Grande
Sanse, ‘La Ciudad de la Poesía’, llora la muerte de Guadalupe Grande
I HAVE A DREAM
Videopoema de Guadalupe Grande sobre fotografías y texto de la autora.
JARRÓN Y TEMPESTAD
Poemas visuales y texto de Guadaupe Grande.
“Hotel para erizos” de Guadalupe Grande 23 May 2016 Guadalupe Grande presenta dos poemas inéditos.
Guadalupe Grande was born in Madrid in 1965. She has a Bachelor degree in Social Anthropology. Published poetry books: El libro de Lilit, (Renacimiento, awarded the 1995 Rafael Alberti Award, 1995), La llave de niebla (Calambur, 2003), Mapas de cera (Poesía Circulante, Málaga, 2006 and La torre degli Arabeschi, Milán, 2009), Hotel para erizos (Calambur, 2010) and Métier de crhysalide (an anthology, translated by Drothèe Suarez y Juliette Gheerbrant, Alidades, Évian-les-Bains, 2010).
As a literary critic, she has published in cultural journals and magazines, such as El Mundo, El Independiente, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, El Urogallo, Reseña and others.
In 2008 she was awarded the Valle Inclán grant for literary creation in the Academia de España in Rome.
In the publishing and cultural management areas, she has worked in institutions such as the Complutense University of Madrid Summer Courses, Casa de América and Teatro Real. Currently she manages poetical activities in the José Hierro Popular University at San Sebastian de los Reyes, Madrid.
***
Guadalupe Grande nació en Madrid en 1965. Es licenciada en Antropología Social.
Ha publicado los libros de poesía El libro de Lilit, (Renacimiento, Premio Rafael Alberti 1995), La llave de niebla (Calambur, 2003), Mapas de cera (Poesía Circulante, Málaga, 2006 y La torre degli Arabeschi, Milán, 2009), Hotel para erizos (Calambur, 2010) y Métier de crhysalide (antología en traducción de Drothèe Suarez y Juliette Gheerbrant, Alidades, Évian-les-Bains, 2010).
Como crítico literario, ha colaborado en diversos diarios y revistas culturales, como El Mundo, El Independiente, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, El Urogallo, Reseña, etcétera.
En el año 2008 obtuvo la Beca Valle Inclán para la creación literaria en la Academia de España en Roma.
En el ámbito de la edición y la gestión cultural ha trabajado en diversas instituciones como los Cursos de Verano de la Universidad Complutense de Madrid, la Casa de América y el Teatro Real. En la actualidad es responsable de la actividad poética de la Universidad Popular José Hierro, San Sebastián de los Reyes, Madrid.
No hubo tiempo para hacerle el homenaje que merecía y que hubo que posponer a 2021 por las medidas sanitarias. Ayer, de forma repentina, fallecía la poeta madrileña Guadalupe Grande, directora del Centro de Estudios de la Poesía José Hierro de San Sebastián de los Reyes, una tragedia inesperada que el municipio lamenta profundamente.
Pinceladas biográficas
Nacida en Madrid en 1965, hija de los poetas Francisca Aguirre y Félix Grande, y nieta del pintor Lorenzo Aguirre, Guadalupe Grande creció entre versos y pinturas que marcarían su trayectoria.
Licenciada en Antropología Social, comenzó su andadura como poetisa, ensayista y crítica literaria, publicando los poemarios “El libro de Lilit” (Premio Rafael Alberti, 1995), “La llave de niebla” (2003), “Mapas de cera” (2006) y “Hotel para erizos” (2010); además de antologías, traducciones, ensayos y reseñas literarias.
En el ámbito de la edición y la gestión cultural trabajó en diversas instituciones, mientras, desde los primeros años 2000, se mantenía al frente del Centro de Estudios de la Poesía (CEP) José Hierro de Sanse.
Defensora de la educación en las artes y humanidades, desde el CEP hizo todo lo que estuvo en su mano para volver a situar la poesía en primer plano: con actividades y talleres abiertos a toda la población y especialmente a la gente joven, dando continuidad al programa televisivo Tertulias Poéticas en Canal Norte, con la promoción de los Premios Nacionales de Poesía José Hierro y de Poesía Joven Félix Grande, y con nuevos proyectos, algunos de los cuales germinaron digitalmente durante el confinamiento y esperaba relanzar en los próximos meses.
La reinvención del CEP
El pasado mes de marzo, con la entrada en vigor del confinamiento, Guadalupe Grande tuvo que reinventar la actividad del CEP para dar continuidad a la labor de divulgación de la poesía que se hace desde él.
Así, el presente curso arrancó con el lanzamiento online de varios talleres que se han mantenido hasta entrado el mes de diciembre. Y en otoño también se empezó a consolidar la iniciativa #PoesíaEnCasa, un espacio surgido durante el confinamiento y que ella misma editaba -recuperando poemas recitados por sus autores del archivo de CNTv-, para el que proyectaba la grabación de nuevas entregas con poetas de varias generaciones, iniciativa en la que la acompañarían los poetas Óscar Martín Centeno y Pepe Ramos; contenidos para revitalizar “La ciudad de la poesía” en la que nunca dejó de creer.
También la poesía visual, de la que Guadalupe Grande era un magnífico exponente, figuraba entre sus planes para el próximo curso. Y con ella, el homenaje a su vida y obra que no pudimos llegar a hacer y que dejamos pendiente.
Go Forward
The book I got for the first time was the Bible
"In the beginning was the word..."
I was attracted to this word
Adam and Eve met in this world and the human world began
Even if the stories of those two people are over, our life will not end
From yesterday to today
Connected like a horizon
I will move from today to tomorrow
Upon this heaviness…
O wind, go forward!
In the heart,
Let's change the darkness of the Bible
Into sparkling stars
Endlessly flowing, spreading
My words before it
Elephant Riding
I experienced elephant riding in Thailand for the first time
Raising his nose, the elephant opened the sweaty nose widely
Just before I was about to leave
I put the money in the nostrils at once.
The elephant took it and handed it to his master.
Obeying him, the elephant just carried the next customer
and started walking out
Held by the reins by his master
The elephant doesn’t think about running away from him
Goodbye
This is the first time I met him, and I should think I will not meet him again
But I don’t need any kiss from him
Goodbye
Maki Starfield
Poet, painter and translator.Born in Ehime, Japan, 1972. MA from Sophia University, studying International business management and TESOL in Canada. She recently has published in the second poetry collection, In Love A Sound. https://immaginepoesia.jimdofree.com
King Kong vs. the Green Witch
Shuttered in that arched ceiling house with oversized window eyes,
fear frozen as ten foot high Green Witch and King Kong square off
neath crabapple tree beside the scotch heavy station wagon.
Flared feminine nostrils bull out white choking smoke
as accented witch hurls broomstick spears at Brooklyn's hairy ape.
Uncertain who to root for
I cower neath my cottony get,
and pray for peace.
Even now
some nights that five-year-old boy revives
ever cowering neath warm get
as warbled voices of the long dead king and Green Witch,
throw rock centered snowballs
down from sad rooftops of this life.
Amplified through sterile echo chambers,
their cold white straitjackets bind me to safer letters,
as pained hourglass grains drift relentlessly south.
So I wake and puke up vanilla conformity
echoing art house dramas or MGM movie plots,
neutering unknown verses
till they sound like every mediocre show on thin air.
Whispering,
"Picture this... it's easier,"
in hope that peace will come to this mental house divided
if only I write as they want.
Bio:
Richard L Weissman has written fiction since 1987.
In 2000, his theatrical play, “The Healing” was selected by Abdingdon Theatre for a staged reading Off-Broadway.
Richard is the author of two Wiley Trading titles. His second book, Trade Like a Casino was selected as a Finalist for the 2012 Technical Analyst Book of the Year Award.
In 2016, Mr. Weissman completed his historical novel in the tradition of magical realism, “Generations”.
In 2020 his poem, “Mountain Bird and Loquat” was selected as the grand prize winner of the Florida Loquat Literary Festival.
In addition to hosting, “In Our Craft or Sullen Art” – a biweekly poetry radio talk show, Richard participates in live spoken word events throughout the U.S. https://richard-weissman.com/
on Facebook: @magicalrealismnovels
Unexpected Disturbances
Damn, what the hell?
I shuffle upstream, rod
in hand, just outside the
rhododendron line, and
am struck by flying needles
forearm, ankle and neck.
effing yellow jackets.
Mother drove poorly
always fiddling,
cigarettes or radio.
until her ‘65
Karmann Ghia vaulted
a 30 foot embankment
on the road cleaving
the sage-shrouded hills
between Tecate and
Tijuana – DOA—
this story is true, not
artistic license. I
was orphaned at eighteen,
no sibs, no dad.
And so life is an
erupting Krakatoa,
a Hurricane Katrina,
an unexpected disturbance,
COVID-19, recession
cancer, bipolarity
and yellow jackets,
till the chips are cashed.
Rhododendrons Blooming in the Smokies
In Summer’s rumpled heat, the blue
Scent of hemlocks slides upwards,
Spreading comfort across the ridgetops.
Stooped shoulders the ridges, remainders
Of pinnacles, scoured by centuries
Then slowly cloaked in oak and maple.
Just below the ridgetops, an emerald
Sea, sharp pines weaving winds
That unfurl through the hollers.
From the top of a ridge I can almost
Touch them, reach down through wet air,
To green-bedded pink blossoms.
The fluttering hearts of a slow-rolling valley.
Gary Grossman is Professor Emeritus of Animal Ecology at University of Georgia. His poetry is published or forthcoming in 30 reviews including: Verse-Virtual, Your Daily Poem, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Poetry Superhighway, and Delta Poetry Review. Short fiction in MacQueen’s Quinterly and creative non-fiction in Tamarind Literary Magazine. For 10 years he wrote the “Ask Dr. Trout” column for American Angler. Gary’s first book of poems, Lyrical Years is forthcoming in 2023 from Kelsay Press, and his graphic novel My Life in Fish: One Scientist’s Journey is forthcoming. Hobbies include running, music, fishing, and gardening. Website: https://www.garygrossman.net/ Writing: Blog: https://garydavidgrossman.medium.com/ .
Antichi suoni d’amore
L’istante di un sospiro
si aggrappa all’anima
allagando gli occhi
di segreti.
É il cuore
che salta in cielo
a pochi passi dall’eterno.
Percorre lunghi sentieri
di felicità
e si ferma a sciogliere
le pelli sotto gli echi
della sera.
Mentre il tramonto
resta una mano tremante
d’emozione,
le labbra danzano tra loro
e s’inebriano,
di vertebre tese
a trovare quel cielo lontano
che ha strappato i silenzi
per rievocare antichi suoni d’amore.
E continuano a correre
le voci
risorgendo sole al mattino.
Ancient Sounds of Love
The instant of a sigh
grasps onto the soul
flooding the eyes
with secrets.
It is the heart
which jumps in the sky
to a few steps from eternity.
It travels long paths
of happiness
and stops to melt
the skins underneath the echoes
of the evening.
While the sunset
stays a trembling hand
of emotion,
the lips dance between themselves
and inebriate themselves
of tense vertebrae
to locate that faraway sky
that has torn silences
in order to recall ancient sounds of love.
And they continue to run
the voices
resurrecting sun to the morning.
Mongolfiere
Una lacrima cresce tra le mani,
diventa fiume in corsa nelle vene
appena ti allontani.
Non vivo senza il chiaro dei tuoi risvegli,
quando mi baci prima di partire
e stringi il cuscino per annusare l’odore
che ci ha unito nell’infinito.
Ho ascoltato il canto delle serrature
fingendo che fosse solo musica,
ho visto il tuo sorriso svanire
dietro gli angoli d’uno sbadiglio.
Dormo ancora.
Appari dentro i colori d’un arcobaleno
voli nelle mongolfiere dell’anima,
spargi coriandoli di vita dalle sponde del cielo,
accompagni un bimbo al parco della giovinezza,
un uomo abbracciato alla propria immagine
che gioca con palloni di luce
nelle strade bianche della libertà.
Il sogno respira la mia mente.
Trovo una pagina di terra da riempire,
scrivo col fiato qualche domanda,
chiudo gli occhi
e parlo di te alla solitudine.
Hot-Air Balloons
A tear grows between the hands,
it becomes a stream in motion in the veins
as you separate yourself.
I do not live without the bright of your awakening,
when you kiss me before leaving
and you cling to the pillow for the smell
that has joined us in the infinite.
I heard the song of the locks,
imagining that it was only music,
I saw your smile vanish
behind the angles of a yawn.
I sleep yet.
You appear inside the colors of a rainbow,
you fly in hot-air balloons of the spirit,
you scatter confetti of life from the banks of heaven,
you accompany a child to the gardens of youth,
a man nestled to the typical image
that plays with balls of light
in the white streets of freedom.
The dream inhales my intellect.
I find a page of ground to fill,
I write with the breath some question,
I shut the eyes
and I speak of you to the solitude.
Arcobaleni e rugiade
Dove il fiato mi consente
pettino i giorni con un sorriso.
Assorta ad inseguire sogni
come una vita,
con il silenzio dell’anima
provo a fermare I binari
del tempo,
fino a fingermi fioca luce
nel grembo dell’eternità.
Solo un fischio di luna
srotola il mio vagare tra i cieli
e mi riporta
tra le geometrie di terra,
stanca, ad incontrare la realtà.
Sfoglio I grigiori di città
tra arie incattivite da nebbie sporche
ed esistenze ammuffite
nel chiasso e nella velocità.
Mentre i fiumi esplodono
ed I ghiacci si consumano,
con gli occhi infangati di rabbia
cerco un po’ di calma
nel mio mondo ancora immacolato.
Arcobaleni e rugiade
hanno la mia voce.
Rainbows and Dew
Where the breath allows me
I comb the days with a smile.
Absorbed by chasing dreams
as a life,
with silence of the soul
I try to stop the tracks
of time,
I will put an end to pretending to be feeble light
in the lap of eternity.
Only a whistle of the moon
unrolls my wanderings among the heavens
and brings back to me
between the geometries of the earth,
stagnant, to meeting the reality.
I browse the grayness of the city
through songs in captivity of filthy hazes
and molded existences
in noise and in speed.
While rivers burst forth
and ices are consumed,
with eyes stained by anger
I look for a bit of calm
in my world still immaculate.
Rainbows and dew:
they have my voice.
Calde piume
Sintesi di luci imprigionate
nel lento tintinnio d’ormeggi.
Manovre costanti di vento
spingono le vele verso un podio
azzurro
in fusione perfetta col mare.
Gruppi di gabbiani
giocano tra cerchi di sabbia,
sfidando le mutevoli forme
capricciose del sole.
Ali di paradiso,
giganti messaggeri del silenzio
indispettiti dal vocio parallelo
d’altri esploratori d’acque,
lanciano grida convulse
alla conquista di terre lontane.
Trionfa il volo verso l’ignoto.
Oltre le nuvole
tramonti scelti,
destini conclusi,
amori protetti
da calde piume di neve.
Hot Plumes
Synthesis of imprisoned lights
in the slow jingling of moorings.
Steady drives of wind
they push the sails toward
an azure podium
in perfect fusion with the sea.
Packs of seagulls
playing among circles of sand,
challenging fickle forms,
whimsical of the sun.
Wings of paradise,
giant messengers of silence
you get annoyed by a parallel bawl
of the next explorers of waters,
they throw cries unrestrained
to the conquest of distant lands.
Triumph, the flight direction unknown.
Beyond the clouds
sunsets chosen
destinies concluded
loves protected
in the hot plumes of snow.
Come una Venere
Mi apparve muta la sera
in una carezza scura di attimi.
Le sue braccia mi raccolsero
dal profumo del giorno
e mi condussero in una terra
che spiava i sogni e le nuvole.
Sguardi d’angelo
cercavano il mio respiro
per spingere lontano cuori spenti
e lacrime mascherate di gioia.
Indossai la luce
e mi lasciai tuffare tra I rami
ed il grano.
Cantai in coro lodi alla vita
tra il pullulare di polline
e resine.
Mi feci amare dal cielo
come una venere aggrappata
ai venti.
Somigliavo ad una nave
d’argento scalza
pronta a pescare al fondo
le lucciole e gli amori.
Erano bianche le mie impronte
tra i tramonti,
come l’onda trascorsa a
ritornare bagliore.
As a Venus
It seemed to me silent, the night
in a caress dark of moments.
His arms gathered me up
out of the perfume of the day
and they led me into a ground
that spied the dreams and the clouds.
The angel’s glances,
they desired my breath
in order to incite distant hearts extinguished
and masked tears of joy.
I put on the light
and I let go of myself to dip among the branches
and the wheat.
I sang in choir hymns to life
among the swarming of pollens
and resins.
I made the sky love me
as a Venus clinging
to the winds.
I was compared to a silver barefoot ship
ready to fish from the deep
fireflies and romances.
They were white, my imprints
among sunsets,
as a wave passed to
returning shine.
Michela Zanarella was born in Cittadella (PD) in 1980. Since 2007 she lives and works in Rome. She published the following collections of poetry: Credo (2006), Risvegli (2008), Vita, infinito, paradisi (2009), Sensualità (2011), Meditazioni al femminile (2012), L’estetica dell’oltre (2013), Le identità del cielo (2013), Tragicamente rosso (2015), Le parole accanto (2017), L’esigenza del silenzio (2018), L’istinto altrove (2019). In Romania the collection Imensele coincidenţe (2015) was published in a bilingual edition. In the United States, the collection translated in english by Leanne Hoppe “Meditations in the Feminine”, was published by Bordighera Press (2018). Author of fiction books and texts for the theater, she is a journalist of Periodico italiano Magazine and Laici.it. She is one of the eight coauthors of Federico Moccia’s novel “La ragazza di Roma Nord” published by SEM. Her poems have been translated into English, French, Arabic, Spanish, Romanian, Serbian, Greek, Portuguese, Hindi and Japanese. She won the Creativity Prize at the Naji Naaman’s 2016 International Award. She is an ambassador for culture and represents Italy in Lebanon for the Naji Naaman Foundation. She is speaker of Radio Double Zero. Corresponding member of the Cosentina Academy, founded in 1511 by Aulo Giano Parrasio. She has worked with EMUI_ EuroMed University, a European inter-university platform, and deals with international relations. She is President of the Italian Network for the Euro-Mediterranean Dialogue (RIDE-APS), Italian leader of the Anna Lindh Foundation (ALF). Honorary President of the WikiPoesia Poetic Encyclopedia. https://www.facebook.com/MichelaZanarellaOfficialhttps://twitter.com/michelazanar
“The future belongs
to those who believe
in the beauty of their dreams”
cried the politician,
to the excited crowd
of tender eyes
hit by a trembling sunset
Roaring Applause
It was an evening
of sweat, joy, hope,
cheers, banners,
drinks, hot dogs,
mobile pics,
flags and burgers,
accidental rubbing
of bodily parts,
human communion,
siblings in arms,
shoulder to shoulder,
etcetera, etcetera
and vice versa
all over again
They go home
now, the event
has been consumed,
empty all around
plastic
tall walls
plastic
cheap stands
enclosure
formerly green
ground of pride
covered
with dead litter
No burial
or cremation
in this funeral
of dusk.
Sigh
The happy cleaner
in charge
of clearing
single-handedly
all the mess
went on to the silent stage
and shouted
husky non-binary
vocal chords
eyes cast on the sky:
Sigh
I am the only owner
of my sexual fantasies
with any of you
My brain is mine,
perhaps a glorified gut,
who knows
Every shot
or scene
that I project inside my head
with my genitalia-powered
camera
with my solo heart-pumped
streaming
belongs solely to me
No intellectual property!
No performance rights!
No subscription fees!
Bring your own clothes,
or make use
of any
of my free
unlimited costumes
in my free
exclusive
staff
undressing room
I solemnly promise
I will not broadcast
nor disseminate
any footage whatsoever,
so, please,
don’t worry about pain
or shame,
or the pertinence
or aesthetics
of our postures:
We all shall be healed
in my dreams
lonely
we love each other,
deep,
in full,
as one
Fair play
Meanwhile,
high up,
neutron stars
thinking themselves
as discreet hunters
fall prey
of inverse matter
of no colour
unthought of
For our light
through darkness
comes
Quote at the beginning of the poem: apparently first made, literally, by Eleanor Roosevelt, but it could have been said, and will be said in the future, by many other people.
Antonio Martínez Arboleda:
Antonio (Tony Martin-Woods) started to write poetry for the public in 2012, at the age of 43, driven by his political indignation. That same year he also set in motion Poesía Indignada, an online publication of political poetry. He runs the poetry evening Transforming with Poetry at Inkwell, in Leeds, and collaborates with 100 Thousands Poets for Change 100tpc.org/. Tony is also known in the UK for his work as an academic and educator under his real-life name, Antonio Martínez Arboleda at the University of Leeds. His project of digitisation of poetry, Ártemis, compiles more than 100 high quality videos of Spanish poets and other Open Educational Resources. http://www.artemispoesia.com/ .
He is the delegate in the UK of Crátera Revista de Crítica y Poesía Contemporánea , where he also publishes his work as translator from English into Spanish. He published his first volume of poetry in Spanish, Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess), in 2015, as a response to the Great Recession, particularly in Spain. His second book, Goddess Summons the Nation Paperback , Goddess Summons the Nation Kindle Edition , is a critique of the ideas of nation and capitalism, mainly in the British Brexit context. It incorporates voices of culprits, victims and heroes with mordacity and rhythm. It consists of 21 poems, 18 of which are originally written in English, available in print and kindle in Amazon and other platforms. Editor’s note: further information bio & academic activities can be found at this link: https://ahc.leeds.ac.uk/languages/staff/91/antonio-martinez-arboleda
