Five Poems by Hedy Habra

Nocturne

       After Lichter by Maria Gust 

 

While all passengers are asleep, I stay up late, bent over my desk until,

rising from the next-door cabin, the woman’s voice begins to lull her

child to sleep, attentive to the rise and fall of her voice my pencil runs

over the page, in a sinuous way, echoing the sound of her humming

carrying the stories she will surely tell her child when he grows older

but that for now, are rocking him in the manner of an empty score

filled with inaudible words like notes traced with invisible ink only

perceived by me, who records them faithfully night after night,

stringing words and sound waves together as though weaving a

necklace in an unknown language, drowning her child’s cries and

nightly fears within reefs filled with corals and thick-lipped butterfly

fish kissing away the sadness and longing for the home they left

behind and the pains yet to come. 

 

First published by Blue Fifth Review

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

The Memory of Unspoken Words

            After Siren by Frédéric Clément 

 

She has landed on the deck of an abandoned wreck, fails to

remember how she swallowed the fiery ball that pulled her like a

tidal wave into the stillness of a metallic sky steeped in lavender

where angry clouds hover around the drowning sun suffused with

coral. Her pillow is a melted cloud filled with birds that forgot how

to fly and now swim in a pool that overflows the deck, washing the

souls of dead sailors from every leak and corner. She presses on her

eyelids to find a different ending to their story, sees her body glow

with scales and the fish in the pool grow wings. She knows every

drop of water will vanish at dawn, erasing with black ink her

luminous shape, alive only in the formless night, and the rainbow will

soon shine over a boat with discarded bags heavy with the stained

memory of unspoken words and broken planks. 

 

First published by Pirene's Fountain

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

Musical Score in Pearly Layers

            After Giant Snail by Quint Buchholz 

 

A gigantic snail sailing in the brume over misty grass stops,

smothered by the haze: or did the cello’s music refrain his slimy

progression? Head tilted, the mollusk seems only attentive to his

vibrant antennae while the man seated on a folding chair embraces

his instrument and desperate notes rise, spiraling through the coiled

corridors of the voluminous shell, oblivious of the bike left to the

care of the tall cello case standing like a Swiss guard. The cellist thinks

himself a sailor about to climb into a caravel, flaunting its aerial

antennae as a prow, while his bow strums strings in circular motion,

sound waves swell, resonate inside the convoluted chambers,

searching for the apex of the shell, where the snail’s heart beats.

Suddenly notes grow wings, leave the musical score, fly freely in

flocks around the raised translucent wands guiding their flight. 

 

First published by Connotation Press

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

Desert Song

            After The Kiss by Federico Zarco 

 

It all started when he set out in his suit and tie, searching for a sand

rose in the desert. Wandering through dream’s thresholds, he hoped

to unearth a treasure that would resist the drought of feelings, each

millenary facet telling of the innumerable ways love can be

immortalized. He must have taken a wrong turn since all he found,

erect like a menhir, was a fossil. Was it the hip of a dinosaur, or

rather a Titan’s, lost from times beyond memory, so smoothed by

the scorching sun that it bore no signs? Looking closely he saw an

open jaw with pointed teeth and a hole where an eye once stared. He

feared he had to return empty-handed in time for his date, but

realized with terror that he had no recollection of the path that led

him there. 

 

First published by Danse Macabre

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

 

Lidless Eyes

     After Who Lit This Flame in Us by Alexandra Eldridge 

 

It all happened after a furtive tear trickled down followed by a larger

one, raindrops of blue sorrow forming a puddle then a pool,

drowning me and my unborn child, or was I diving into the deepest

of my eyes, undulating in the aqueous humor, eyes wide open,

staring at my baby’s crib suspended in oceanic blue by a long,

stemmed lotus flower sprouting from its center as an umbilical

chord rising towards this iridescent parachute unfolding its pearled

petals in sympathy, and even medusas wearing their mourning coat

slide like a procession of black umbrellas, a silent omen while

anemones’ lidless eyes stare at me as one of their own. 

 

First published by Pirene's Fountain

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

Hedy Habra is a poet, artist, and essayist. Her latest poetry collection, Or Did You Ever See The Other Side?, won the International Poetry Book Awards and was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer and USA Best Book Awards. The Taste of the Earth won the Silver Nautilus Book Award and Honorable Mention for the Eric Hoffer Book Award. Tea in Heliopolis won the Best Book Award, and Under Brushstrokes was a finalist for the International Book Award. Her story collection, Flying Carpets, won the Arab American Book Award’s Honorable Mention and was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. Her book of criticism is Mundos alternos y artísticos en Vargas Llosa. She is a twenty-five-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and a recipient of the Nazim Hikmet Award. https://www.hedyhabra.com/

 

  

One Poem in Italian by Angela Caputo with English Translation by Bruce Hunter

 

NEL VOLTO DELLA GUERRA 

Dipinge il pittore
l’ombra bruciante del male.
Attaccano tanti cobra
dalle fauci spalancate
un volto senza armatura e pelle.
Nella bocca, negli occhi,
teschi che racchiudono
all’infinito altri teschi.
L’espressione è morta.
Riemerge un’impronta,
innocente, dal deserto del Sahara.
Sullo sfondo, un cielo terso
di speranza o indifferenza.

 

Angela Caputo

IN THE FACE OF WAR

The painter paints
the burning shadow of the evil.
Many cobras attack
with gaping jaws
a face without armor and skin.
In the mouth, in the eyes,
skulls enclosing
infinitely other skulls.
The expression is dead.
An handprint reemerges,
innocently, from the Sahara Desert.
In the background, a clear sky
of hope or indifference.

 

Translated by Bruce Hunter

Angela Caputo was born in Bari in 1985. She graduated with Master Degree cum laude in American, European Languages and Cultures from the University of Bari. Afterwards she pursued a Postgraduate Diploma in Literary Translation of Postcolonial Texts from the University of Pisa. She contributed writing critical essays for the literary reviews “Soglie”, “El Ghibli” as well as for the literary review of compared poetry “Semicerchio”. Since September 2017 she is permanent French teacher. She translated for “El Ghibli” poems of the francophone authors August Bonel and Ernest Pépin. For the publishing house KANAGA, she translated into Italian the poetical text “Le Psaume à deux visages” written by the francophone author Catherine Boudet. She was ranked second (section A – single poems) within the First Edition of the Internation Prize of Poetry, Fiction and Non-Fiction – KANAGA and first (section A - single poems) within the second Edition of the same Prize.

Bruce Hunter is the author of 12 books.  His poetry, fiction and non-fiction have appeared in over 100 blogs and journals in India, China, the U.K., the U.S., Canada and Italy. His award-winning novel In the Bear’s House was just reissued and also published in Italy as Nella casa dell’orso.

Five Renga Poems - Collaboration by Christina Chin (Malaysia) & Uchechukwu Onyedikam (Nigeria)

 

Renga Poetry Collaboration by Christina Chin (Malaysia) & Uchechukwu Onyedikam (Nigeria)

black war—

driving out the crows 

the Aborigines

holding off 

for decades

— Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin

pale sunlight 

the musty scent of cassava

peeling and washing

spices on chickpeas

feed the whole family

— Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin

the love

Niger River

between us 

ferry fares bargain

at the jetty

— Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin

indiscriminate

use of chemical 

pest control

bombing 

to kill an ant

— Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam

wrinkled silence

of an aged Ìyánífá

rubbing her hands

children emerge 

and rise

— Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin

Christina Chin is a painter and haiku poet from Malaysia. She is a four-time recipient of top 100 in the mDAC Summit Contests, exhibited at the Palo Alto Art Center, California. 1st prize winner of the 34th Annual Cherry Blossom Sakura Festival 2020 Haiku Contest. 1st prize winner in the 8th Setouchi Matsuyama 2019 Photohaiku Contest. She has been published in numerous journals, multilingual journals, and anthologies, including Japan's prestigious monthly Haikukai Magazine.

Uchechukwu Onyedikam is a Nigerian creative artist based in Lagos, Nigeria.  His poems have appeared in Amsterdam Quarterly, Brittle Paper, Poetic Africa, Hood Communists, The Hooghly Review, and in print anthologies.  Christina Chin and he have co-published Pouring Light on the Hills (2022)

Five Poems by Attila Nyilas - Translated from Hungarian - English by Gabor G Gyukics

 

Attila Nyilas 

 

Magic Spell 

For Patroclus 

If he dies first, 

you'll still be alive. 

 

If you die first, 

he’ll stay alive. 

 

If you die together, 

you’ll do it happily. 

 

The invulnerable one 

who has a friend. 

 

 

Metachrosis 

 

I'm interested in the moment 

when the pine tree becomes a Christmas tree. 

The transformation. 

Fully decorated, 

not yet carved into the base. 

It happens in between. 

 

At the blood-draw, in the dentist's chair 

and during similar situations, 

I think about my premature daughter, 

the first time I saw her, 

to gain strength, 

when they stuck a needle in her tiny head, 

or at a family gathering 

with her forehead peeking out from under the scarf 

leaning against my friend's, her godfather's sister’s 

naked arm as she  

fell asleep on a swing bed, 

which happened when she was one and a half, 

on her first conscious Christmas Eve: 

 

I was busy with something 

next to the pine tree with some scattered ornaments 

already set up with a base in place. 

We hadn't been so careful about secrecy, 

and perhaps my mother-in-law's supervision had slipped, 

suddenly Móci appeared next to me, 

with a tone of surprise in his voice, 

doubt, hope, unexpected joy, 

asked me the question: 

"Christmas tree?" 

And the transformation took place.

 

 

Pontage 

 

I've heard so much here and there, 

what they gave up to have a child. 

- Mom dropped out of high school, 

Dad left technical college 

(Some pages were crossed out in his index, 

with a note saying it was invalid), 

and they ate a lot of bread and dripping. 

Then I decided that for my own sake 

I won’t give up anything for my children. 

So, I wouldn't blame them later, 

or anyone else. 

That's how it went. 

I breathed freely. 

- I remember one time when 

I came home from a night of drinking, 

my wife, who was already awake, greeted me: 

"Poor you, you must be very tired!" 

I have given up many things, 

but not for my children, 

but for my poetry career, 

I was trying to achieve some serious results, 

It wasn't their fault if I failed. 

On the other hand, I took nothing from them, 

I fed them, gave them 

my money, my time, 

my attention, my energy, 

but it wasn't surrender for me, 

It was fulfillment.

 

 

Capitulation 

 

I planned a blitzkrieg, 

I managed to advance, 

but the fierce resistance 

slowed my attack, 

and, as is so often the case 

the front lines stalled, 

the resulting stalemate warfare  

came with too many casualties, 

my heartland, where I felt secure 

was weakening, 

while hoping for a miracle weapon 

step by step I was pushed back, 

so far that I couldn't even hold  

the borders of my homeland, 

the invading army 

surrounded my city, 

so I began to hum, 

there would be no victory, 

I wanted it to be, but it failed to be 

then I realized 

the enemy was in my house 

I searched for poison and revolvers 

but to no avail, 

finally, to the stranger who 

I wanted to cast into hell,  

I had to unconditionally surrender.

  

 

Itinerary 

 

There are regularities. 

I wear a hat in the fall and spring, 

in winter I wear a cap, in summer I'm bare-headed 

I taste the rum first, 

then I pour it into my coffee - 

after my former professor from Transylvania 

I call this mixture mother's milk. 

I always start with a glass of beer, 

only order a pint the second time, 

unless I switch to wine. 

I play chess with a literary friend  

on Tuesdays every second week 

and then (or before) we go to the  

Cirko Geyser cinema to see a movie. 

I keep the first chestnut feast, 

I drink mulled wine (when 

 it's available at my hangout for the first time). 

- sometimes the two coincide -, 

I celebrate the first snow, 

if the occasion arises. 

The casino is due around my birthday. 

On the fifteenth of March, traditionally 

I'll take a carnation to the statue of Petőfi, 

That's how I got involved in the first demonstration of my life. 

On our wedding day, my wife and I 

go to the church with one steeple, 

to the cake shop that made our wedding cake, 

to our wedding place on the Romai Beach in Budapest, 

and bring home a pebble. 

I live in a castle of habits. 

 

Translated by gabor g gyukics