A Fucked up Life. A Bilingual Poem & Translation from Spanish by Vera Moreno

A fucked up life

living in Zurich to work in a small town
working in a small town to live in Zurich

everything for
a small retirement benefit

everything for
tomorrow´s future



every single morning the alarm o´clock

                                 the train leaves at 6.09

                                 the train leaves at 6.09


teaching three modules when the rest of teachers

teach two

wishing to change that


                          and as the cuckoo, open your beak,
                          open your beak, but nothing changes

getting up again
taking the same seat at 6.05

sleeping on the same train seat
on the way to work
sleeping standing
on your way back 

                to yawn at the wrong timing
                to yawn at the wrong timing

getting to the small town exhausted
getting  back to Zurich      more  than exhausted

knowing that today is a piece of gold for 
the retirement benefit, the retirement benefit
the precious  golden retirement benefit
cooking not so much ´cos the lack of sleeping

 DON´T DREAM
                                                         DON´T DREAM much
                                                         DON´T DREAM
                                                         DON´T DREAM much

a fucked up life
a fucked up life

living in Zurich to work in a small town
working in a small town to live in Zurich

having a reduced future for
a little retirement benefit in Switzerland

                             having a reduced morning
                             to sleep or not to sleep
                             to sleep or not to sleep
                             never dreams, never dreams
                                             sleeping on a train, sleeping on a train 
                                                but never do it, but never do it       in class
                            
Can´t- get - out, can´t get out, can´t get out

                             from the clock, 		from the cow, 
                             from the knife,  		from the cheese
                             from the Swiss       	fucking snow,
                             				fucking snow, 
                             					           can´t get out
                             from fucking Switzerland
                             				
							from fucking Swiss 
							white clean tyranny.



Vera Moreno
from The broken bodies´ fitness center
César Simón Poetry Award 2019
Una vida jodida

vivir en Zurich para trabajar en un pequeño pueblo
trabajar para vivir en Zurich
tener una pequeña pensión, 
para el día de mañana

 cada mañana el despertador
			           el tren sale a las 6.09
                                
impartir tres módulos cuando el resto imparte dos
querer cambiar, 			     
                                   y como el cuco, abrir la boca

levantarse de nuevo
sentarse a las 6.05 en ese tren


dormir sentada
dormir de pie
dormir en el tren de ida  
dormir en el tren de vuelta

                                              bostezar a destiempo

llegar al pueblo exhausta
llegar a Zurich exhausta
sabiendo que el día cotiza en bolsa o en la pensión
cocinar poco por el sueño

NO 
                                                                          soñar

una vida jodida
vivir en Zurich para trabajar en un pequeño pueblo
trabajar para vivir en Zurich

tener un mañana reducido
una pensión pequeña en Suiza

					tener una mañana reducida
					               dormir o no dormir
						       dormir o no dormir
                                                en el tren sí, en clase no

no-poder-salir 
			   del reloj, la vaca, la navaja, el queso
                                                                          la nieve



Vera Moreno
Poema procedente de el gimnasio de los rotos
Premio de Poesía César Simón 2019

Vera Moreno (Madrid, 1972). A multifaceted writer, teacher, rhapsodist, and cultural activist. She loves performance and videopoems.

She holds a Master Degree in Artistic, Literary and Cultural Studies from the Autonomous University of Madrid; and a Sociology and Political Sciences Degree from the Complutense University of Madrid. She also did Women´s studies at Utrecht University in NL.

In 2013 she was recognized as a New Voice by the feminist publishing House Torremozas (Madrid). Vera Moreno was published by Amargord publisher in a double poetry book called The whole orange (La naranja entera) in 2016. Three years later, she won the César Simón poetry reward at the University of Valencia with the poems book called The broken bodies´ fitness center (El gimnasio de los rotos). Next year a new book is coming.

Some of her texts and poems have been translated into Dutch, Esperanto and English.

As a cultural activist she created in 2001 a innovative cultural radio space of one minute lenght called Europe for Culture on Europe FM national radio station. In 2012 Vera Moreno designed and coordinated participative literary events called Literary Moondays (Lunes literarios) at the Rivas city hall – centro cultural del ayuntamiento de Rivas, and co-founder of the poetry channel on youtube Poesía a domicilio / Poetry delivery, with the great Dominican poet Rosa Silverio (2021).
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

A Fucked up Life. A Poem by Vera Moreno

A fucked up life

living in Zurich to work in a small town
working in a small town to live in Zurich

everything for
a small retirement benefit

everything for
tomorrow´s future



every single morning the alarm o´clock

                                 the train leaves at 6.09

                                 the train leaves at 6.09


teaching three modules when the rest of teachers

teach two

wishing to change that


                          and as the cuckoo, open your beak,
                          open your beak, but nothing changes

getting up again
taking the same seat at 6.05

sleeping on the same train seat
on the way to work
sleeping standing
on your way back 

                to yawn at the wrong timing
                to yawn at the wrong timing

getting to the small town exhausted
getting  back to Zurich      more  than exhausted

knowing that today is a piece of gold for 
the retirement benefit, the retirement benefit
the precious  golden retirement benefit
cooking not so much ´cos the lack of sleeping

 DON´T DREAM
                                                         DON´T DREAM much
                                                         DON´T DREAM
                                                         DON´T DREAM much

a fucked up life
a fucked up life

living in Zurich to work in a small town
working in a small town to live in Zurich

having a reduced future for
a little retirement benefit in Switzerland

                             having a reduced morning
                             to sleep or not to sleep
                             to sleep or not to sleep
                             never dreams, never dreams
                                             sleeping on a train, sleeping on a train 
                                                but never do it, but never do it       in class
                            
Can´t- get - out, can´t get out, can´t get out

                             from the clock, 		from the cow, 
                             from the knife,  		from the cheese
                             from the Swiss       	fucking snow,
                             				fucking snow, 
                             					           can´t get out
                             from fucking Switzerland
                             				
							from fucking Swiss 
							white clean tyranny.



Vera Moreno
from The broken bodies´ fitness center
César Simón Poetry Award 2019

Vera Moreno (Madrid, 1972). A multifaceted writer, teacher, rhapsodist, and cultural activist. She loves performance and videopoems.

She holds a Master Degree in Artistic, Literary and Cultural Studies from the Autonomous University of Madrid; and a Sociology and Political Sciences Degree from the Complutense University of Madrid. She also did Women´s studies at Utrecht University in NL.

In 2013 she was recognized as a New Voice by the feminist publishing House Torremozas (Madrid). Vera Moreno was published by Amargord publisher in a double poetry book called The whole orange (La naranja entera) in 2016. Three years later, she won the César Simón poetry reward at the University of Valencia with the poems book called The broken bodies´ fitness center (El gimnasio de los rotos). Next year a new book is coming.

Some of her texts and poems have been translated into Dutch, Esperanto and English.

As a cultural activist she created in 2001 a innovative cultural radio space of one minute lenght called Europe for Culture on Europe FM national radio station. In 2012 Vera Moreno designed and coordinated participative literary events called Literary Moondays (Lunes literarios) at the Rivas city hall – centro cultural del ayuntamiento de Rivas, and co-founder of the poetry channel on youtube Poesía a domicilio / Poetry delivery, with the great Dominican poet Rosa Silverio (2021).
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

LAKE TITICACA. A Poem by Lorraine Caputo

 LAKE TITICACA

I.
The fuchsia-orange sun
  is cresting the Eastern cordillera
Its colors seep through muslin clouds
  & sheen upon the icy lake


II.
Across the altiplano between
  maroon worn-ribbed mountains
    & bright turquoise waters

Shaggy-roofed adobe homes
  land parceled by stone walls
In swampy pastures graze
  sheep & llama, cows &
    long-haired donkeys

The weekly market at
  Benemerita Zepita
Pollera-skirted women sit upon
  dwarf grass, surrounded by
    their herds of livestock

Beyond the distant shores
  of Titicaca the snowy
    Andes horizon


III.
On this bank of the deep
  cerulean lake edged with marshland
A woman, child to back
  tends her sheep

Totora boats anchor
  amidst golden-green reeds
A small boy beats
  fresh-plowed earth
    with a hoe

On the far side
  dark copses speckle
    parch hills
Ghostly into the clouds rises
  that snow-capped range  

Wandering troubadour Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 18 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. In 2011, the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honored her verse. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful travel companion, Rocinante (that is, her knapsack), listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at: www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

King Kong vs. the Green Witch. A Poem by Richard L. Weissman

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
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Five Poems in Italian & English Antichi suoni d’amore, Ancient Sounds of Love by Michela Zanarella Translated to English by Leanne Hoppe

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/MichelaZanarellaOfficial https://twitter.com/michelazanar
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Fair Play (As the stars give and take) A poem by Tony Martin-Woods

Roaring Applause
    “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

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

A dead cell phone. A Poem by Bhuwan Thapaliya

Her late grandfather came with a hobbling gait

in her dream last night. They were in a tented camp 

on the river bank, nearby their abandoned farmhouse.

He poured a large peg of Khukri Rum, drank it

with a sly smile and sat down beside her

 on a wobbly camp cot, lit a  cigarette, 

nostalgic smoke curled into the night. 

He took a sip again and through a ragged crack

glimpsed outside and beamed at a  star worm crawling

among the fallen leaves, and thereafter listened for hours and hours,

the melody of those olden times. Its lyrics now hidden, buried,

awaiting discovery as a child with several siblings,

all forgotten, overlooked, lost.

The sky roared and the wind blew hard.

“I think I have to go now,” he whispered in her ear.

“So where do you go from here, grand pa,” she asked.

“I will continue to travel 

but now it is all about reverse travel.

I will move to a place where I’d been before

and stay maybe a week, a month , a year, 

and completely alter the way I see the future.

I see my father. I see my mother.

I see your grandmother.  I see you,”

he answered her with a somber smile

and requested her to stay connected with her past.

She nodded her head and said I will grandpa.

Next morning, she woke up late 

to a dead cell phone

beside her bed in a wooden rack.

No charger in sight.

 

 

Nepalese poet, Bhuwan Thapaliya works as an economist, and is the author of four poetry collections and currently he is working on his fresh poetry collection, The Marching Millions. Thapaliya’s books include, Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected (Nirala Publication, New Delhi), Our Nepal, Our Pride , Verses from the Himalayas and Rhythm of the Heart. (Cyberwit.net)Poetry by Thapaliya has been included in The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry, The Strand Book of International Poets 2010, and Tonight: An Anthology of World Love Poetry, as well as in literary journals such as Urhalpool, MahMag, Kritya, FOLLY, The Vallance Review, Nuvein Magazine, Foundling Review, Poetry Life and Times, Poets Against the War, Voices in Wartime, Taj Mahal Review, VOICES (Education Project), Longfellow Literary Project, Countercurrents etc. Author: Safa Tempo: Poems New & Selected & Our Nepal, Our Pride
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author
& https://poetrylifeandtimes.com
See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Poets Die (V2) & Poets Out of Service (V6) 2 Poems By Michael Lee Johnson

Editor’s note: Frontpiece image title Poets Die Young List.

Poets Die (V2)


Why do poets die;

linger in youth

addicted to death.

They create culture

but so crippled.

They seldom harm

except themselves—

why not let them live?

Their only crime is words

they shout them out in anger

cry out loud, vulgar in private

places like Indiana cornfields.

In fall, poets stretch arms out

their spines the centerpiece

on crosses on scarecrows,

they only frighten themselves.

They travel in their minds,

or watch from condo windows,

the mirage, these changing colors,

those leaves; they harm no one.
Poets Out of Service (V6)


Like a full-service gas station

or postal service workers

displaced, racing to Staples retail

for employment against the rules of labor,

poets are out of business nowadays, you know.

Who carries a loose change in their pockets?

Who tosses loose coins in their car ashtray anymore?

iPhones, smartphones, life is a video camera

ready to shoot, destroy, and expose.

No one reads poets anymore. 

No one thumbs through the yellow pages anymore.

Who has sex in the back seat of their car anymore,

just naked shots passed around online?

Streetwalkers, bleach blonde whores,

cosmetic plastic altered faces in the neon night;

they don’t bother to pick pennies

or quarters off the streets anymore.

The days of surprise candy bags for a nickel

pennies lying on the countertop for

Tar Babies, Strawberry Licorice Laces

(2 for a penny), Wax Lips, Pixie Sticks,

Good & Plenty are no more.

Everyone is a dead-end player; he dies with time.

Monster technology destroys crump fragments of culture.

Old age is a passive slut; engaging old age

conversations idle to a whisper and sleep alone.

Matchbox, hand-rolled cigarettes,

serrated, slimmed down, and gone.

Time is a broken stopwatch gone by.

Life is a defunct full-service gas station.

Poets are out of business nowadays.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada, Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 244 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet 43 countries, several published poetry books, nominated for 3 Pushcart Prize awards and 5 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 536 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author
& https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Share