The unknown lady
Her gaze captivated me instantly,
her blond hair moving gently in the wind,
her discreet smile, her beauty,
everything about her was intrigued.
From that moment my life is not mine…
My life is in her eyes…
Harsh and cold
autumn holds to it our naked trees:
If only you would free, at least, the sparrows
from the tips of your fingers
and release a smile, a small smile
from the imprisoned cry I see.
Sing! Can we sing
as if we were light, hand in hand
sheltered in shade, under a strong sun?
Will you remain, this way
stoking the fire, more beautiful than necessary, and quiet?
and the distant light is our only consolation —
that one, which from the beginning
has, little by little, been flickering
and is now about to go out.
Come to me. Closer and closer.
I don’t want to know my hand from yours.
And let’s beware of sleep, lest the snow smother us.
by Walid Khazindar
Walid Khazindar was born in 1950 in Gaza City. He is considered one of the best Palestinian poets; his poetry has been said to be “characterized by metaphoric originality and a novel thematic approach unprecedented in Arabic poetry.” He was awarded the first Palestine Prize for Poetry in 1997.
After three thousand days we stopped loving.
It left quietly, before the first blue in the sky,
while one could still see stars and long shadows.
It walked barefoot across the moonlit floor admiring its feet,
holding a pair of shoes in one hand and an old toothbrush in the other.
It tried to look back but the thought of salt was too great. When it
reached the door,
it shut its eyes going back to minutes prior, with you in bed and your
It tried to memorize your lashes and the creases in your lips, each
It wanted more time but knew that more time was not an option.
It did not close the door entirely for fear of making noise, so
after we stopped loving, everything was framed in the sullen violet
of almost morning. Almost something that was not enough.
by Erika Moya
Erika Moya is a painter and writer. Her work has appeared in Qaartsiluni, the Smoking Poet, the Holly Rose Review, SN Review, the Toronto Quarterly, and Mosaic: Art and Literary journal of the University of California, Riverside. She attends the MFA program of the University of North Carolina Wilmington.
Mireu-me els ulls
Mireu-me els ulls per creure
en el demà que teniu als dits,
dels meus ulls clars
no hi haurà per ningú
Penseu en mi per créixer
en l’esperança d’uns anys millors,
que ens heu negat
brilla al fons dels meus ulls
Sols el poder us tempta
i pel poder us veneu el cor,
però la clau d’or
del temps que fuig
la tinc jo i és la veu
Mireu-me els ulls per créixer… per créixer…
Look at my eyes to believe
in the morning you have fingers,
my eyes clear
there will be no one to
Consider me to grow
in the hope of better years,
we have denied
shines in the background of my eyes
Only the power tempts you
and will sell power to the heart,
but the golden key
I have it and it is the voice
Look at my eyes to grow … to grow …
Miquel Martí i Pol (March 19, 1929 – November 11, 2003)
was one of the most popular poets from Catalunya (Europe) in the 20th century.
Yo no quiero más luz que tu cuerpo ante el mío
Yo no quiero más luz que tu cuerpo ante el mío:
claridad absoluta, transparencia redonda.
Limpidez cuya extraña, como el fondo del río,
con el tiempo se afirma, con la sangre se ahonda..
¿Qué lucientes materias duraderas te han hecho,
corazón de alborada, carnación matutina?
Yo no quiero más día que el que exhala tu pecho.
Tu sangre es la mañana que jamás se termina.
No hay más luz que tu cuerpo, no hay más sol: todo ocaso.
Yo no veo las cosas a otra luz que tu frente.
La otra luz es fantasma, nada más, de tu paso.
Tu insondable mirada nunca gira al poniente.
Claridad sin posible declinar. Suma esencia
del fulgor que ni cede ni abandona la cumbre.
Juventud. Limpidez. Claridad. Transparencia
acercando los astros más lejanos de lumbre.
Claro cuerpo moreno de calor fecundante.
Hierba negra el origen; hierba negra las sienes.
Trago negro los ojos, la mirada distante.
Día azul. Noche clara. Sombra clara que vienes.
Yo no quiero más luz que tu sombra dorada
donde brotan anillos de una hierba sombría.
En mi sangre, fielmente por tu cuerpo abrasada,
para siempre es de noche: para siempre es de día.
Miguel Hernández (October 30, 1910-March 28, 1942), born in Orihuela (Alicante Province), was a leading 20th century Spanish poet and playwright.
Here I Am … by Charles Bukowski
drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
an old man
maddened for the flesh of young girls in this
top-floor blood pressure
while all the fear of the wasted years
laughs between my toes
no woman will live with me
no Florence Nightingale to watch the
Johnny Carson show with
if I have a stroke I will lay here for six
days, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh
from my elbows, wrists, head
the radio playing classical music …
I promised myself never to write old man poems
but this one’s funny, you see, excusable, be-
cause I’ve long gone past using myself and there’s
still more left
here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from
pour another glass and
make love to the fresh new whiteness
maybe get lucky
from “All’s Normal Here” – 1985
Henry Charles Bukowski (August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) was a German American poet, novelist, and short story writer
I want you to know
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
if each day,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine
Pablo Neruda (July 12, 1904 – September 23, 1973) was born in Parral, Chile.
Considered one of the greatest and most influential poets of the 20th century.
Are you drinking? [by Charles Bukowski]
washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
I write from the bed
as I did last
will see the doctor,
“yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
aches and my back
“are you drinking?” he will ask.
“are you getting your
I think that I am just ill
with life, the same stale yet
even at the track
I watch the horses run by
and it seems
I leave early after buying tickets on the
“taking off?” asks the motel
“yes, it’s boring,”
I tell him.
“If you think it’s boring
out there,” he tells me, “you oughta be
so here I am
propped up against my pillows
just an old guy
just an old writer
with a yellow
walking across the
oh, it’s just
Henry Charles Bukowski (August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) was a German American poet, novelist, and short story writer.