Showing posts with label POETRY. Show all posts
Showing posts with label POETRY. Show all posts

Monday, July 10, 2017

AGATA LINEK



AGATA LINEK
PARALYSIS

careful to the limits and non-limits
up to the end of existence and non-existence
we prefer to step back
just in case
to live usual life not to change anything
we live in illusion of time standing still
but it always brings us nearer to the end
of everything to nothing
and we, for this particle of time
perhaps given to us by a sheer chance
cells jointed together by a strange coincidence
we are afraid to live a life




MY LILY OF THE VALLEY

to Mum

‘cause I know
how to make coffee
how benign is the impact of green
how much washing powder should be used
how to use a dishcloth
and how to clean a bathtub really well
you have taught me
that the Sun wind and grass are priceless
that the family is precious
that upbringing means extreme responsibility
you made me respect each word
and another man
for
reading bed-time stories
consoling to sleep with lily of the valley scent
walking in the woods
sending me to theatre classes
and the faith that a rainbow comes after every storm
thank You




SUCCESS

2 tongues (including one from your own courtyard)
½ pinch of skills
3 quarts of qualifications
2 glasses of education
mix them altogether
leave to cool down
repeat the procedure several times to make it last
add
4 buckets of willingness
5 spoonfuls of organisation
1/3 cup of responsibility for your own decisions
7 spoons of self-reliance
10 kg of thinking for the future, consequences included in the packet
bake it altogether in a cooker until the colour is perfect
remember the product is often allergic

AGATA LINEK
AGATA LINEK comes from Stalowa Wola. A poet, prose writer, animator of culture, editor of volumes, reviewer of poetry, drama critic, copywriter, Carer of the Poetry at Artefakty Literary Portal. A holder of four degrees at the Jagiellonian University, where she is currently writing her PhD dissertation. A member of the Literary Group „Phoenix”, the Literary Association „Witryna”, the Polish Authors Association and Association of Polish Writers. She has won numerous national and international poetry and prose competitions. She made her debut in 2002. She published in local and nationwide, poetic anthologies and in USA, India, Australia, Slovakia, Ukraine. Her poems were translated into Slovak, English and Russian. They were also presented in the Polish Radio. She published four poetry collections: „Are You an Elf?” (2006, the Award of Rzeszów Association of Polish Writers for Podkarpackie Province Debut), „Laugh of a Night Butterfly” (2010), „Singing of a Dolphin” (2012, nominated to „Gałązka Sosny” Stalowa Wola City Literary Award) and “Whisper of a Puma” (2015, Polish-English version, “Gałązka Sosny” Stalowa Wola City Literary Award, nominated to „Gold Rose” Literary Award and to „Orpheus 2016” K.I. Galczynski’s Poetry Award). She is interested in film and music. She dreams of a trip to Australia. country of origin: Poland mother language: Polish nationality: Polish place of living: Poland


ALESSANDRA SALISBURY



ALESSANDRA SALISBURY

THE DEATH OF THE DIRECTOR

Stuck in the theatre shed
waiting for his death
legs trapped under timber and glass
blood all over the stairs ahead
Director was almost-dead
He feels sorry for his ballerina darling
who will see his body
numb and pallid.
She will shake him once and again:
“Director, my love!”
Director then will be in silent,
morbid pain.
Death is not his concern
but his ballerina darling
abandoned, slim
with nothing left of him.
He wants her to know that
after the argument
on the opening night,
while sleeping outside
under the street lights
only love filled his mind.
Now, death is taking him away
leaving her alone, deserted, stray.
He only hopes
that she can hear
his ghostly words
whispered behind her ears.
My ballerina darling,
don’t waste
all your tears!








THE GRAND PHANTOM

Theatre black curtains wide open
Blue lights spot main stage of the Opera House
Orchestra loudly plays first tune of Angel of music
Prima ballerina dances in her dressing room scenario

Audience awaits in suspense silence
Where is the phantom?
The labyrinth underground setting
Calls for him among scary fog and excitement

Beyond the lake song echoes lurid
The phantom grand and mysterious enters the stage
He is stranger than she dreamed
But he is a fool who makes her laugh

On the roof of the Opera House
Phantom and prima ballerina waltz their love
‘Why did you bring me here,’ she wonders
‘You are mine,’ he whispers


FOOTNOTE: ‘Angel of music’ and ‘Beyond the lake’ are famous compositions made for ‘The Phantom of the Opera’ original musical.







THE RED CABARET (GHAZAL)

Through the bohemian streets of Paris
Where artists paint and sing nothing else but love

Round playful skirt makes waves with the wind
She walks towards the red windmill for love

Red velvet curtains and friendly smiles welcome her in
Dazzling costumes, sequins and feathers announce the dance of love

Jacques Offenbach tunes of the scandalous Cancan begins
Crotch less underpants dancers excite the room with sexual love

She looks around and spots the poet, the one and only
Sitting down looking lonely, searching true love

In a glimpse of contemplation, he smiles at her
The poet and the Cabaret courtesan fall in inciting love


FOOTNOTE: Jacques Offenbach was the French composer of ‘Orpheus in the Underworld’ – the music most associated with the famous Cancan dance.

ALESSANDRA SALISBURY

ALESSANDRA SALISBURY is a Brazilian journalist and creative writer. She also has works in theatre as playwright. She lives in Australia where she is studying Bachelor of Arts/Education majoring Theatre Drama, her third graduation. She won third prize with her poem ‘Hummus and Herbs’ about family and heritage, in the 2016 Fusion Festival Poetry Competition at Southern Cross University. Her works has appeared and are forthcoming in the American literary magazines The Borfski Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, and BlogNostics.





ALICJA MARIA KUBERSKA



ALICJA MARIA KUBERSKA

CONVERSION

It is a pity that I cannot buy a new soul.
In supermarkets, there are no special offers
- New Soul! On sale!



THE OLD ONE IS DYSFUNCTIONAL.

It is much easier to have a simple vision of the world.
Keep your feet on the ground and don’t have dreams.

Being greedy protects the heart.
Life has a physical dimension. Ideals hurt.

Gain a prominent place in the rat race,
Dispose of sentiments, tears.

My soul is able to forgive.
It cannot learn to trust again.

It says it does not enter the same river twice.
Unreasonable? Perhaps. -

It does not listen to reason.
It pulls away from people



SPRING OVER THE LAKE

The sun strokes the black furrows
of ploughed fields with warmer and longer rays
The soil bulges with greenness and fecundity
Spring flows from the depths of the lake
and releases it from a dream of winter white
The ice flows shutters, opening to water.
The willows lean over the plate of the lake.
They comb and braid their hair with the wind.
The trees look at the world mirrored in water.
The wild geese come from far away
The long calipers on the sky pave the way
to their nests hidden in the reeds
Buds open up and first flowers bloom.
The waves of the lake hum a song about new life,
The mystery of rebirth begins
Contrary to Nature
The dead, dry dragonfly in a glass case
froze stiff in its last fluttering of wings .
Wind did not break its transparent body ,
colors unfaded by the sun .
Perished young in the bloom of its beauty
it exists against nature
-  destined for immortality
Alicja Kuberska



EACH DAY

I would like to know each day,
Its colors and tastes,
As if it were my first day
And the last as well.

I do not want to stay
In the sphere of silence.
I want to change the
Minutes into notes.
The days were composed
Like symphonies.
The nights played the nocturnes


THE HOUSE ON THE TREE-TOP

I dwelled high, in the canopy,
Amongst the branches
And watched the decorations change
With the months.

There are strained and gloomy days,
Entwined in stormy clouds.
There are shiny and merry days too,
Like those when spring bursts upon us.

Although the frosty winter
Ruins my home.
I know, that it won’t be long before
l feel the season change.
The spring will come again
And paint my home in green.
It will trim it with interlaced branches
And leaves until the rainy autumn


DANCE ON THE DEW

Barefoot Aurora
Dance with me on the dew.

Look,
The night scattered jewels are everywhere.
They glisten on the leaves and grass.
The spiders wove rainbow necklaces for us.      .

Is it the Milky Way
Laying on the ground, or another spell?

The jealous day will hide the drops in the casket of time
And dry the tears of the moon by warm sunshine.

We only have a moment to dance,
When the night has not yet fallen asleep.
The day did not wake up until to the very end


SPRING WALK

Spring gave me new dresses.
They are made of clouds' dreams,
Warm glances and soft touches.

Accessories are also important-
A necklace made of  tender kisses
And a soft scarf of gentle smiles.
Do I look well?

It seems, that shoes dance.
They have joyful bows
And heels made of bird's trills
Where are we going?

The chill of the indifference
Need only disappear
For mistrust to melt.

Look! First snowdrop!
Do you want it?
I will offer you something valuable…


SPRING IN THE GARDEN

Air smells of lilac in the May evening .
The bunches of white and blue flowers bloom.
The lilies of the valley rise above the leaves
And overshadow the modest beauty of daisies.
The inconspicuous violets crouched  close to the ground.
Small flowers delight with exquisite fragrance.
Jasmine bushes join this symphony of smells.

The warm wind wafts down the petals of flowering trees.
It paints tiny, white specks on  the green grass.
Nature creates another moving picture
And invites us to observe life awakened.
We sit on the terrace  and look with wonder as
Magnolias toast the health of bees and singing birds.

We again find the joy of existence.
You take my hand and put it on your heart.
I feel its beating - no need to say anything.
I look at you and  my smile says - I know everything


BLOOMING

I do not know what color May's wind is.
It carries  a sweet smell and wraps it in warmth.
It showers our hair with apple blossoms
And covers it with a delicate veil of petals.

The colorful meadow blooms on my dress.
I weave a wreath of white daisies
And carry a bouquet with blue rings.

Just for you I'm so beautiful.
Promises are hidden in my eyes
And an engagement of love waits inside them.

I would like to cuddle up in the cloak of your arms
And hide from the rain of tears and bloom again in the spring


ALICJA MARIA KUBERSKA




ALLISON GRAYHURST



ALLISON GRAYHURST


IT IS NOT NEW
                                                                             
                                                                              to hold out a hand
and find something dead
cupped inside.
It is not love that loves
through essential compromise.
It is God we speak to
everytime we verbalize,
and God will mend even the ones
who think they're saved.
It is the cracked jaw,
the splintered bone and expressions
of boredom and greed that
disease a child's innocence.
It is how we deal with the senselessness of being
that makes us either deny or realize
a gift of spiritual wonder.
allisongrayhurst@rogers.com
www.allisongrayhurst.com





HIT THE MARK

This sunrise, rushing
from your pores, smooth and
bright as perfection
has trailed out from a loving home,
out from the endurance of a decade tattooed
to your skin.
You, under the spotlight
bearing no fractures
are as close as the bone is to the shell.
And everyone was transported, gliding
through your soliloquy like birds in
a cool spring air.
A coming together, a rejoicing of all
your struggles, the last completing thread,
magic and kindled by your spiritual voice.
Animated like silver dust on still water, you arrived.
You made the world, at last
understand and listen.
allisongrayhurst@rogers.com
www.allisongrayhurst.com





SOMEONE NEW

Change is crouching
on my back deck,
behind the pillars
and rotted wood.
Change is tossing in my womb
and giving me a bell to ring.
Like someone new to sing to,
it nicks my forehead with its
broken rhythm. Like starlight
weaving under my skin, growing,
wanting my speed,
change is alive, but small as a rice grain
forming its heavenly head.
Welcome little hamlet of wonder,
welcome from the blue breath of God.
Come see us all and turn this home
of three kindred souls into four.
allisongrayhurst@rogers.com
www.allisongrayhurst.com





MY DREAMS COME

I move and lose my frame
of ultimate freedom. Into
immobile dreams, and growing
fast are the fantastic blossoms of my mind.
As the hard core challenge
gets tucked in my socks
like a saved coin for tougher days,
I get weak with the demands on my shelf,
lazy in my intent though still I am
loved. Loved, but lost again and not at the
potential I am asked to uphold.

The sound rises in my ear. I put more
pillows under my head. I see the TV light
blind the brighter one beneath my bed.

I won’t touch the crown or the things of great seed
until my excuses and ways to crawl under
are called to task and asked by me
to permanently, irrevocably
leave.
allisongrayhurst@rogers.com
www.allisongrayhurst.com





DARK NIGHT

Can’t
stand the long drawn spike wedging
year upon year into my belly - can’t
breathe under this burden of debt
and the cold didactic sentiments of the crowd - can’t
live without some relief, some saving grace
to upload this struggle and haul it to the nearest dump - can’t
understand the ruthless actions that forsake
the existence of God and paint a false justice on each toenail
to count and display at convenient random - can’t
get my head around the hate that jettisons
into my arms because of the path
that has been laid before me - can’t
help but try to hold on to the fine threads
of my sanity, to look at love and believe that is all
that matters - can’t
keep this cast-iron anchor cuffed to my bones or take
another step in this downfall direction - can’t
think in terms of linear hopes and
just-making-it calculations

Can’t
do anything but say that I can’t
then send this confession
into the wind
allisongrayhurst@rogers.com
www.allisongrayhurst.com

ALLISON GRAYHURST

ALLISON GRAYHURST is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Three of her poems have been nominated for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net” 2015, and she has over 1000 poems published in more than 410 international journals and anthologies. Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then she has published twelve other books of poetry and seven collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream, and four chapbooks published by The Plowman. Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was published by Ottawa publisher above/ground press December 2012. In 2014 her chapbook Surrogate Dharma was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press, Barometric Pressures Author Series. In 2015, her book No Raft – No Ocean was published by Scars Publications. More recently, her book Make the Wind was published in 2016 by Scars Publications. As well, her book Trial and Witness – selected poems, was published in 2016 by Creative Talents Unleashed (CTU Publishing Group). She is a vegan. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com


ANAHIT ARUSTAMYAN


ANAHIT ARUSTAMYAN

WHAT AM I?
This armchair is my motionless cart.
The curtain behind me is my window's scarf.
The ceiling covers the crown of the sun.
This white hat pats my forehead but shades my eyes.
I am probably lame to leave the armchair and run.
I know where you are.
This armchair is heavy like Noah's ark.
The ceiling isn't leaking but my minds are in floods.
One thing is right.
The world's philosophy is an old wizard but what am I?






YELLOW CANVAS
Amnesia can never invade your brain.
You don't forget the birds flown away.
 You invite insomnia to paint pale pictures on the yellow paths.
You are a lonely house with the paintings turned into shades.
You can't call the angels back.
They guard you but can't mend a broken chair.
 The angels used to have hands.
 Look at the yellow canvas with the birds' nests.
The birds will come again.
Don't wait for your angels but keep the canvas they left.






THE ROSE IN MY HEART
My colourful days are not many.
The clouds which cover them are heavy.
This spring rose is a tattoo on my shoulder not to fade.
The faded roses have no numbers like the drops of rains.
I close my eyes to see the plane flying to your place.
I dare to dream though I am glued to my shabby chair.
The rose on my shoulder is a tiny sketch.
The rose in my heart is red and fresh.

ANAHIT ARUSTAMYAN

ANAHIT ARUSTAMYAN was born in Yerevan, Armenia on May 21, 1963. She went to school at the age of 7. After finishing high school, she started her studies at Yerevan Engineering University. Anahit graduated from the university in 1985. She was so deeply interested in literature that she focused all her attention on poetry. She published through Lulu and Amazon, and her creative works are included in many poetry anthologies and magazines. Anahit’s works include My Wandering Muse, My Lyrical Tongue, and The Phantom’s Dolphin. She also published a print book in Yerevan in 2009. The Queen Of Metaphors was published on August 6, 2015. Her new book ' Words In Flight: The Phantom Of Poetry was published on 26 April,2017.

ANA-LUCRETIA NEDELCU


ANA-LUCRETIA NEDELCU

EVENING CONFESSIONS...

When the evening comes
He prepares the mighty pen in detail
For a full night
Of written confessions...
He keeps them deep down
In an endless memory lane
Only for the beloved to hear...
for the lover to feel...
for the adored to cherish...
As for all to become fragrant...

When night comes...hmmm
Madness unleashes
From the strings
Of its human limits
Letting go of the goddesses
The inks...the overcrowded hearts
While the thunders strike
All at once
Preparing the storm
Of the unbridled fire
...of the mighty pen...
He slowly starts writing
His love whispers
All over her curves...printing the ink
Into her soft skin
Making her moan
At the sweet bites of his words...
...printing his love into her depths
...
When midnight comes...hmmm
Passion overloads
Her body is now covered
In his perfervid letters
His verses speak from miles afar
...into her very embrace...

After the storm and pages all over filled
...with her...
She now becomes the book
Of avid love inks
Of oceans` nymphs
She`s already prepared
As his book of desire, his adored, his beloved
...and universe`s dedication
of an authentic love
For a woman.

©LiterAnART-15/03/2017




THERE`S A MAGIC…

there`s a magic way in which
this love carries her beyond
the present moment...
is when she gets overwhelmed
by the power of its enriching storms
is when she craves to touch
his complexion...and whisper him
how much she adores his presence
...his existence...

there`s a magic way in which
this love carries her beyond
the present moment...
is when love demands
to break the doors of her chest
and spread the diamonds
of the orchards...the full bloom
of all lavender fields...

there`s a magic way in which
this love carries her beyond
the present moment...
is when the sea meets the ocean
the colors intertwine
becoming a landscape of fairies...
a scenery of the outer limits

there`s a magic way in which
this love carries her beyond
the present moment...
and there`s a magic way
in which this irresistible, unbelievable love
can be accurately expressed
in no words...in no language known
but in one tender touch
in which lovers can vibrate
in one single union...in a gleam
of galaxy`s wonders...

there`s a magic way in which
this love carries her beyond
the present moment...
that`s when she knows
about the mission of her destiny
the meaning of her existence
the diamonds in her thoughts
the rubies in her heart
the way love goes...all around
...
to love him...truly madly deeply
a love of magic poets

©LiterAnART-12/03/2017




…THE MORNINGS…

I remember the mornings...
waking up beside you
covered in your magical scent...
the embrace...
the way we used to hold each other
in shyness and desire...

I remember the mornings...
waking up beside you
in our significant silence
while holding our hands
that told the whole story
from the lands we had stepped on...

I remember the mornings...
waking up beside you
you kissing me on the forehead
the soft skills of your touch
was taking me to heavens...

I remember the mornings...
waking up beside you
the texts in my head...
the ones I never said...
the love kept inside
holding you tight
to my heart and into the flight
of our magnificent bond...
the way love shouted in my chest
and my inner tears
of the thought of a mere goodbye...
long distance used to be
until our next "come by"
....
I remember the mornings...
waking up beside you...

©LiterAnART-10/03/2017




VEIL LIKE

she`s all vulnerable and soul naked
waiting for him to soon arrive
and wipe out her endless longings
...
her body is entirely wrapped up
in the warmth of his embrace
in the colors of their memories
the giggles, the laughs, the goosebumps
her nakedness strikes all the storms
painting an imagery portrait right there
on the wall & in her mind
always lives him...forever him...again
the man of her wild dreams
...while waiting his charming perfect figure
her body rests, her body longs,
it screams in exquisite desire though
inside her organs she wants him
and her beauty feeds them all
with the memories...ahh...the memories...
until very soon...until he claims
her again...in wholeness...in clarity
again in desire... in devouring fire
in conscious dream...in reality`s cream

©LiterAnART-11/12/2016




OPEN WINDOW…RUMPLED BED

this bed awaits...the art incorporates
…
open the window and start painting
my arrival...in bluest sky in
golden frames...like our soul while
whispering our names...breathing our flames
...butterfly exclaims: how enchanting love games

©LiterAnART-12/12/2016


ANA-LUCRETIA NEDELCU
(PEN NAME LITERANART)

ANA NEDELCU (pen name LiterAnART) is from Romania, Eastern Europe. Her mother-language is Romanian. She has been writing for ten years and she has widely published in her country and abroad, having multiple international collaborations. She is a writer, poetess, journalist, researcher, book editor and translator. She also teaches creative writing workshops and represents the World Poetry Canada association in her country. Together with the association, she is about to publish this year the “Creative writing 10”- a series of workshops dedicated to literary and journalistic creation and implemented in her country of origin in 2016. You can find Ana @https://www.facebook.com/LiterAnART/ & https://ananedelcu.wordpress.com/

~~~