Poetry in a Global Box: Arab Republic of Egypt / Ǧumhūriyyat Miṣr al-ʿArabiyyah / جمهوريّة مصرالعربيّة

Girgis Shoukry

Leben

Nie Lesen gelernt,
litt seine Seele unter Buchstaben.

Nie ein Haus bewohnt,
ergaben sich seine Augen in Fenstern.

Nie eine Frau geliebt,
waren seine Gefühle heimlich,
sie kamen und gingen still.

Er sah, wie Freunde
und Straßen und Bars
sich veränderten.

Es hieß, er sei gestorben,
als er zwischen Tag und Nacht
klar unterscheiden konnte.

Girgis Shoukry

Мирослав Б. Душанић

Живот

Никада није научио да чита,
патила је његова душа под словима.

Никада није становао у кући,
показале се његове очи у прозорима.

Никада није љубио неку жену,
тајанствени су били његови осјећаји,
долазили и одлазили тихо.

Видио је, како су се пријатељи
и улице и барови
промијенили.

Тврди се, он би умро,
када би између дана и ноћи
јасно могао да разликује.

/Са њемачког препјевао: Мирослав Б. Душанић/

Poetry in a Global Box: República de Moçambique (Republic of Mozambique)

Mia Couto

Trajecto

Na vertigem do oceano
vagueio
sou ave que com o seu voo
se embriaga
Atravesso o reverso do céu
e num instante
eleva-se o meu coração sem peso
Como a desamparada pluma
subo ao reino da inconstância
para alojar a palavra inquieta
Na distância que percorro
eu mudo de ser
permuto de existência
surpreendo os homens
na sua secreta obscuridade
transito por quartos
de cortinados desbotados
e nas calcinadas mãos
que esculpiram o mundo
estremeço como quem desabotoa
a primeira nudez de uma mulher

Mia Couto

Путања

По вртологу океана

лутам
ја сам птица својим летом
опијена
Прелазим наличје неба
и у трену
уздиже се моје срце лако
Као перо на ветру
пењем се у краљевство несталности
да сместим немирну реч
На раздаљини коју прелазим
ја мењам биће
мењам постојање
изненађујем људе
у тајновитој тами
пролазим кроз собе
избледелих застора
и на рукама изгорелим
које су извајале свет
дрхтим као онај што откопчава
прву нагост једне жене.

Миа Кото

Poetry in a Global Box: Jamhuri ya Uganda (Republic of Uganda)

Susan N. Kiguli

ISBN: 9970901001

I am tired of talking in metaphors

I will talk plainly

Because I am moved to abandon riddles.

I will tell you how we held our heads

In our hands

Because the owl hooted throughout the night

And the dogs howled as if in mourning:

We awaited bad news

We received it

Our mother blinded in one eye

Crippled in the right leg

Because she did not vote

Her husband‘s candidate.

I will remind you

Of the time the peeled plantains

Stood upright in the cooking pot

We slaughtered a cock

Anticipating an important visitor

We got her:

Our daughter – pieces of flesh in a sack –

Our present from her husband.

No, I will not use images

I will just talk to you:

I do not fight to take your place

Or constantly wave my fist in your face.

I refuse to argue about

Your „manly pact“

With my father –

Buying me for a bag of potatoes and pepper.

All I want

Is to stop denying Me

My presence needs no metaphors,

I am here

Just as you are.

I am not a machine

For you to dismantle whenever you whim

I demand for my human dignity.

Susan N. Kiguli

Poetry in a Global Box: Rzeczpospolita Polska

Roman Hornet

otworzyłem sen nie mój

strumienie pyłu za miasteczkiem. pył

i pola kukurydziane jakby rozbiła się tutaj

kosmiczna sonda i z niej wypadły fioletowe

figury, tarcze, fotele leżące w trawie.

tu zrozumiałem, co znaczy prowincja,

ten obojętny spazm wobec bezkresu,

wiatr – cień mężczyzny schylony samotnie

nad skrzynką magnetycznych szachów. nie

ma już dni, gdy biegaliśmy na cmentarz,

żeby karmić pszczoły (myśleliśmy,

że jedzą klaskanie i śpiew – pokarm,

którego zmarli nie zdążyli zabrać). a może to było

nie tak, to wszystko. może zmyśliłem imiona

i daty, otworzyłem sen nie mój,

na darmo. może pszczoły to rodzaj choroby powietrza,

umarli – dzieci, które jedzą śpiew

Roman Honet

I opened a dream which was not mine

streams of dust behind the town. dust

and cornfields as if it were the crash site

of a space probe which had disgorged violet

figures, shields, old car seats lying in the grass.

it was here I understood what provinces are

this indifferent spasm with regards to infinity,

wind – the shadow of a man leaning down alone

over a magnetic chessboard. there are no more

days when we would run to the cemetery

to feed the bees (we thought

they feasted on clapping and song – food

the dead didn't have time to pack). or maybe it was

not like that, all that. perhaps I invented the names

and dates, opened a dream which was not mine,

for nought. maybe bees are an airborne disease,

the dead – children who feed on songs

Roman Honet

/Translated: © by Marek Kazmierski/

Poetry in a Global Box: Republik Albanien (Republika e Shqipërisë)

Luljeta Lleshanaku

Me ty

Do të ulem në kënd të buzës
si në një shkëmb, pranë një ujëvare
e sigurt se s'do më rrëmbejë shtjellë e fjalëve.

Do të ulem në kënd të syrit
si një zambak i mbirë në ujë pranë bregut
me fletë të vogla që t'mos zë shikimin.

Se unë në fund të fundit, ç'jam?
- Një dallgë e ngrirë në hapësirë
e shkulur nga deti i gjoksit tënd.
Shtrin duart të më arrish e s'më arrin.

© by Luljeta Lleshanaku
(Preludë poetike, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1990.)



With you

I will sit in an alcove of your mouth
As on a stone near a waterfall
Certain that the maelstrom of words will not spirit me away.

I will crouch in the corner of your eye
Like a lily sprouting in the shallows near the shore
With petals tiny so as not to distract.

For after all, what am I?
A frozen wave in space
Wrested from the sea of your chest,
You stretch your hands towards me in vain.

© by Luljeta Lleshanaku
(Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie)

ISBN: 978-3-902113-74-0 

与你


我将坐进你口腔的洞中
如在瀑布旁边的一块石头上
肯定那词语的大漩涡绑不走我。


我将蹲进你的眼角
如睡莲吐蕊于岸边的浅滩
花瓣微微未分心。


那到底，我是什么？
一个凝固空中的浪
扭自你胸膛的海，
徒劳地你把双手向我伸过来。

Poetry in a Global Box: (Schweiz) / New Zealand

Micah Timona Ferris

What Sigmund Has To Say

Twist and Pop, goes the wine

bringing a little social lubrication

to the party

And everyone unwinds themselves

over a glass or two

She is a compulsive liar

he warns me, before dinner

and over braised duck

the stories

unravel themselves

complimenting the wine

quite nicely

She adds into the mix

a salty lover

fabricates a summer in the

islands, I smell the

coconut in her hair

The texture

hangs on brackish air,

A capital performance!

I suggest switching

to a peppery, yet

balanced Pinot from the

Bays, consider

getting Foucault and Faustus

into bed to see what

Sigmund has to say

© by Micah Timona Ferris

Poetry in a Global Box: Република Македонија (Republic of Macedonia)

Aleksandra Dimitrova

Mission

In meiner Freizeit bin ich kreativ

Zerstöre mein eigenes Leben

In meiner Freizeit bin ich großzügig

Überlasse den Tag dem Zufall

und

Dann kommt jemand zufällig

Vorsichtig

Wie aus einem druckfrischen Bestseller herausgetreten

Wie ein Flüchtling aus einem Oscar-prämierten Horrorstreifen

Schleicht sich durch mein Unglück hindurch

Heilt die Wunden

Bereit hinter dem Rücken

Neue Wunden

Alte Siege auszulachen

Destruktiv entlarve ich mich

Selbst-kannibalistisch gebe ich mich ihm hin

© by Aleksandra Dimitrova

Poetry in a Global Box: Iran (‏ايران‎ )

Ali Abdolrezaei

Tod

Ich habe es gesehen
immer wieder mit ansehen müssen
wie der Tod auf einen Mann fiel
der von seinen Träumen traumatisiert war

Aber ich weiß nicht
wo und wann dann eines Tages
eine Hand mich im Nacken packen wird und...

Manchmal wenn ich meine Augen öffne
sehe ich eine Pusteblume in meiner Hand
Trotz alledem weiß ich nicht
warum ich den Tag herbei sehne
dessen Ankunft ich fürchte

Ali Abdolrezaei

Poetry in a Global Box: Canada

Lesley Choyce

Legend

When I was three years old
and my father was building our house--
nothing there yet but a skeleton of studs
and empty air,
I climbed the ladder to the not yet attic
and crawled along a joist
just wide enough for infant knees
until I was discovered
in the centre of a would be home
with mortality singing along my skin
and a cold concrete basement below.

All I had going for me (as usual)
was blind optimism and a sense of balance
like a bright idea not quite yet lost.
Then, somehow, before the darkness found me out,
my father was aloft,
too scared to shout my name
or make me move.
I think he almost tripped in fear,
a man whose feet could dance through work,
while I just smiled, expecting praise
and found, instead, a painful price
of angry hands that spanked me back
into a world of safe and love
before the time of further years
of higher climbs to narrow beams
with legs less sure at every step
and darker depths below us all.

© by Lesley Choyce

Victoria, B.C.: Ekstasis Editions, 1998.

ISBN: 1-896860-30-3

Poetry in a Global Box: Hong Kong Special Administrative Region of the People’s Republic of China (中華人民共和國香港特別行政區)

Marco Yan

Remembrance 

They may have permeated into branching veins.

They may have left, passing the laundry
        hung by a half-open window.
They may have stayed, trapped in the narrow space
        between the hands of the family clock.
They may have risen from the flame
        of an incense candle, burnt
        and become a billow of white smoke.
They may have fused with spirits,
        dancing away from your body.
Maybe they are just tired of respiration.

It seems futile, silly even, to sit breathing.
Still, tracing the scent of your presence, I recall
the unwanted puffs, once in your lungs,
then involuntarily let flow to night hours.
Now the swaying hangers, the air-dried sleeves,
the congealed wax, the potted violetta,
        ghosts of your exiled breaths,
        all swirl around in the living room.

© by Marco Yan

Poetry in a Global Box: Jamhuri ya Kenya (Republic of Kenya)

Betty Wamalwa Muragori

Mind Games

I was isolated, a woman all alone
And so, I played with my own mind
I invited nightmares, which unnerved me
I shook my world
I was left debilitated
Like a reflection I became unstuck

I was alone in the world,
All on my own,
My mind preyed on me like a vulture
I chased down wisps of terror
And made them my own
Like a rat in the wild there was no escape
The talons of my wits held me firmly in their grip

On my own in that place
Alone with tales long since dead
The sound and fury blowing my mind apart
I crouched with fear,
I stumbled and almost fell
Reeling in an avalanche of despair

Unexpected, a flash of light
From somewhere,
Blasted my head wide open,
And set me free
I blinked, with my reason
And escaped into the sunshine, embracing bliss

Betty Wamalwa Muragori

Poetry in a Global Box: Slovensko (Slovenská republika) / Slovakia (Slovak Republic)

Marián Hatala

dva druhy bezmocnosti

bože náš čo robíš

vo hviezdnych hodinách ľudstva

keď človek človeku

zas chystá bitúnky?

- modlím sa

za koho?

- za jedného i druhého

to predsa každý z nás!

- nie vy sa modlíte k bohu

a ty?

- ja k človeku

© by Marián Hatala

ISBN: 3-901749-49-7

so eine art vorhersage

nicht dass du nie gekommen wärest
du kommst nur nicht
wenn ich auf dich warte
ohnehin habe ich auch angst
auf dich nicht zu warten

ich habe angst du würdest kommen
und mir bleibt nur das warten
dass du nicht gehst
denn wer weiß
ob du kommen würdest
um nicht wegzugehen
oder wegzugehen

© by Marián Hatala


5.30 uhr

verlassene stühle
resigniert gelehnt an die tische
wie sklaven aneinandergefesselt
mit ketten an den füßen
ohne unterlass vom dunkelblauen regen gepeitscht
zur flucht in ketten
in einem unbewachten augenblick
den schweigend
ein verglastes undurchsichtiges gesicht
hinter der tür das erleuchteten cafés
bewacht

© by Marián Hatala

Poetry in a Global Box: (República de Cuba) / United States of America

Enrique Sacerio-Garí

Tiempo mudo

tú que has visto las palabras

deslizarse por la sombra

y tocar la lágrima el oído

con sangre

llegas acurrucando los silencios

entre la rosa y el capullo

en la orilla

de las manos solitarias...

tú que has visto las manadas

de agua perderse en el desierto

ensayar las estrellas los colores

y el planeta su instrumento

por ti cayó

la lengua al suelo

las alas en la arena

la lanza en el costado

por ti se quemaron los crepúsculos...

tú que viste

al viejo cabizbajo

retirarse de la playa...

© by Enrique Sacerio-Garí

Poetry in a Global Box: Western Sahara ( الصحراء الغربية ) / República Federativa do Brasil

Felipe Rey

Luanda

a lua anda

conforme a música

a noite fecha

meus olhos

mas é você

quem dorme e dança

nua anda

na distância

pelo deserto sereno

eu penso numa boca

que ainda não me beija

a fotografia - a mesma -

revela o sonho

de um sorriso bom.

© by Felipe Rey

Poetry in a Global Box: Україна

Василь Махно

Елегія води

Усі веселки випили воду - і риби літають в повітрі
велика яма світового океану - чорна діра - порох замислу -
що вислизнув рибиною з рук - і повернувся п"ятьма хлібами
повернувся сумовитим поглядом вибіленого як парус світла

рибалки приходять до човнів перевернутих як мушлі
що гудуть гулом минулого; тиньк води -
вогкий запах і ластовиння солі - бридкі медузи -
розпластаними плямами покрили лінію берега

Порипують човни - вітер сушить їм ребра -
а позеленілі сіті розхитують тінями замість дерев

© by Василь Махно

Василь Махно

Elegy of water

Every rainbow drinks water - and fish fly in the wind.
Deep oceans of the world - black hole - dust of thought -
fish slip from our hands - in return for five loaves of breads,
in return for a sorrowful glance pale as a bleached sail.

Fishermen arrive at boats overturned like turtles
who murmur about the old days: plink of water -
damp scent, freckles of salt - hideous jellyfish
stains cover the shore.

The boats are creaking - the wind dries their ribs
and green nets - not trees - sway in the shadows

© by Vasyl Makhno

Poetry in a Global Box: Rzeczpospolita Polska

Grzegorz Wróblewski

TRUE FRIENDS

Some times it’s women with a false diamond

in the ear, other times gossiping parrots

or failed politicians.

There came often to my uncle’s house, a priest

in company with a professor in corpse

conservation. They played poker

and drank peppermint liquor.

They had a good time together.

I also knew a man who chose

loneliness. (He had a passion

for silence and vermin crawling

on the walls!) When he died,

he bequeathed his body.

He was a huge man.

He lasted many months.

Grzegorz Wróblewski

ВЕРНИ ПРИЈАТЕЉИ

Понекад су то жене са вештачким дијамантима у уху,

други пут брбљиви папагаји или поражени политичари.

Код мог стрица често је свраћао свештеник у друштву

са професором који сецира лешеве. Играли су покер

и пили ликер од менте. Било им је добро заједно.

Познавао сам такође мушкарца који је одабрао самоћу.

(Тај је био наклоњен тишини и бубама које гмижу по

зидовима.) На самрти завештао им је своје тело.

Био је то велик момак. Потрајао им је месецима.

Гжегож Врублевски

(Пријевод: Зоран Ђерић)