Four Poems, Roshan Ali Jan (Translated by Dr. Yousef Hanna)

 

I'm frighten of the last stab

 

Oh, Autumn...

Tell me how to kick the world

Tell me how to trade

The serenity of water, dwelling my soul, with the curse of wine

How to leave the delicacy of time

Sans breaking the water surface

Oh, Autumn...

This yellow means nothing to me

Let me survive the insanity of staining

This abusive color with lust confuses me 

Just as your footsteps on the cliff

I'm not dead yet

Teach me how to restore the imagination of the sea

to jump over the beads of speech

Teach me flitting with the chestnut impetuosity

As though I'm a ballerina

I'm afraid of the last stab

I fear the rituals of myth

Endowing the wounding slash

for the poem's agony

Long-time, I have been sustaining my stature with buddies' gasp 

Leaning on the morning hedge

like a mimosa flower

So eagerly from the imagination of bronze

I bind the thread of life to gods' eyes

أخافُ الطعنةَ الأخيرةَ

أيها الخريفُ

أخبرني كيفَ أركلَ العالمَ

أخبرني كيفَ أُقايضُ

سكينةَ الماءِ في روحي بلعنةِ النبيذِ

كيفَ أغادرُ هشاشةَ الوقتِ

دونَ أن ينكسرَ وجهُ الماءِ

أيها الخريفُ

هذا الأصفرُ لايعنيني

دعني أنجُ من لوثةِ التلوينِ

يُربكني هذا اللون الطاعنُ بالاشتهاءِ

تُربكني خطاكَ على الحافّةِ

لم أمُتْ بعدُ

علّمني كيفَ أرمّمُ خيالَ البحرِ

لأقفزَ فوقَ خرزِ الكلامِ

علّمني كيفَ أختالُ بنزقِ الكستناءِ

كما لو أنّي راقصةُ باليه

أخافُ الطعنةُ الأخيرة

أخافُ طقوسَ الخرافةِ

تهبُ فمَ الجرحِ

لوجعِ القصيدةِ

فمنذُ زمنٍ وأنا أسندُ قامتي بشهقةِ النّدامى

أميلُ على سياجِ الصّباح

مثلَ زهرةِ الميموزا

وبلهفةٍ من خيالِ البرونزِ

أربطُ خيطَ النجاةِ بعيونِ الآلهةِ

Ibex fleeing from Violins

With her astonished eyes

measuring the bare distance of stray prairie

A woman, branded by defenseless color of henna

The preys of fear are trembling deep within her

and the sightless violet roams.

She grabs reeds of eternal springs,

Throws her flaming Kurdish shawl

with rainbow over the sunflowers

Scatters the loose breeze with her tender hands.

The fairy bird takes wings

soaring closer to her braids' nectar 

narrating the pain of wildflowers.

It is absence ..

The delusion of enduring trees

Bare trees like two tremulous lovers

shivering such as a fig whilst kisses

droning with a hoarse voice, ballads of nostalgia.

Long ago It was burning in my heart

I am the one emaciated ..

Tautened by the wild ibex' sway

Ibex fleeing from the uproar of violins

while weeping for the outsider's grief.

 وعولٌ تفرُّ من الكمنجات 

 

بعينيها المدهوشتينِ

‎تقيسُ المسافةَ العاريةَ للبراري الضّالةِ

‎امرأةٌ موسومةٌ بحنّاءِ اللّونِ الأعزلِ

‎في أعماقها ترتجفُ طرائدُ الخوفِ

‎ويختالُ البنفسجُ الضريرُ

‎تفترشُ قصبَ الأنهارِ الخالدةِ

‎ترمي بشالها الكورديّ الملتهبِ 

‎بالقزحِ فوق زهورِ عبّادِ الشّمسِ

‎تُبعثرُ النسيمَ الفضفاضَ بيديها الرهيفتينِ

‎يحلّقُ الطائرُ الخرافيّ 

‎قريباً من رحيقِ ضفيرتيها

‎يسردُ لها وجعَ الزهورِ البريّةِ

هو الغياب..

‎ضلالةُ الأشجارِ المكابدةِ

‎الأشجارُ العاريةُ مثلَ عاشقينِ

‎رجِفَينِ كرجفةِ التينِ حينَ القبلاتِ

‎بصوتِ مبحوحِ تدندنُ أغاني الحنينِ

‎قديماً كانَ الحريقُ في قلبي

 أنا المُدنفَةُ..

 ‎المشدودةُ بسطوةِ الوعولِ البريّةِ

‎وعولٌ تفرّ من صخبِ الكمنجاتِ

باكية على حزن الغريب.

One more day

Like an angel's quiver you awaken the allure of grass

Alongside a broken branch opinionates April

This is an evening of love

I'll open a new window for air

Acacia trees and stars

Bronze Fist of the Captive Door

I whisper in your ears the hum of rain

flooding dreams and all time is mine.

I'm back to you again

And at the unique moment I'll embrace the water lilies

Before it falls asleep at the vigilant night

Here you are lustfully melting in the chalice of sanctities.

I'm so wasted,

fraught with flower of oblivion.

نهارٌ آخرُ

 

كرعشةِ ملاكٍ توقظينَ مفاتنَ العشبِ

بجوارِ غصنٍ مكسورِ يعاندُ ابريلَ

هذا مساءٌ للحُبِّ

سأفتحُ نافذةً جديدةً للهواءِ

أشجارُ الأكاسيا والنجومُ

القبضةُ البرونزُ للبابِ الأسيرِ

أهمسُ في أذنيكِ همهمةَ المطرِ

أحلاماً تفيضُ والوقتُ كلّهُ لي 

أعودُ لكِ ثانيةً 

وفي اللحظةِ الفريدة سأعانقُ النّيلوفرَ

قبلَ أن يخلدَ للنومِ في الليلِ اليقظِ

ها أنتِ تذوبينَ باشتهاءٍ في كأسِ المقدسات.

ثملةٌ أنا 

ومحفوفةٌ بزهرِ النسيانِ

Picking

Where we were...

It was only gleaming green

And cornices of ancient stone

There...

Water shivering in frosting puddles

White words grope its way back in darkness

The faint, shy air freezes very still

among the sleeping shadows.

***

The morning star of bygone autumn

Your dark hair the same as a long night

Your braids will grow on my arms

And there will be no sand to wear your feet down

As you float at dusk, on the sea

Finally...

I'll pick the chestnut color from your eyes

whilst you’re closer to my breath

And we'll together dance the waltz.

قطافٌ

..حيث كنّا 

لم يكن سوى الأخضرُ البرّاقُ

والأفاريزُ الّتي من حجرٍ قديمٍ

هناك..

يرتجفُ الماءُ في بركِ الصقيعِ

كلماتٌ بيضاءُ تتلمّسُ الرجوعَ في العتمِ

يتسمّرُ الهواءُ الخافتُ الخجولُ

بينَ الظّلالِ النائمةِ

***

نجمةُ الصبحِ التي من خريفٍ غابرٍ

شٓعركِ الحالكُ مثل ليلٍ طويل

ستنمو ضفائرُكِ على ذراعيّ

ولن يكون ثمّةَ رملٌ يُنهكُ قدميكِ

وأنتِ تطوفينَ فوقَ البحرِ في الغسقِ

أخيراً..

سأقطفُ من عينيكِ لونَ الكستناء

وأنتِ قريبةٌ من أنفاسي

ومعاً سنرقصُ الفالس

Roshan Ali Jan - a Syrian Kurd residing in Sweden, holds a diploma in Education. She works as a primary school teacher. Her texts have been published in many magazines, newspapers, and websites. Some of her texts have been translated into several languages, including English, French, Spanish, Tamazight, and Sorani Kurdish. She published a poetry book entitled Amber of Darkness in 2021.

Moving, Shalida A. Askanazi

 

Things keep moving 

The river keeps flowing

The owls keep peering 

The sun keeps shining 

The forest keeps breathing 

Things keep moving 

The town keeps chattering 

The seeds keep growing 

The music keeps playing 

The light keeps dimming 

Things keep moving even when we can’t get out of bed 

When all we can stomach is a sip of water

When our tears leave white streaks down our cheeks 

When our feet tap to an unheard beat

When the earth spins 

Things keep moving 

We keep living 

We keep moving 

Shalida A. Askanazi is poet, author, and disability rights activist from Cleveland, Ohio. She is the author of the poetry collection The Lazarus Girl, which was self-published in 2020. Using her personal journey of being a black disabled woman, Shalida works to make sure there are accurate portrayals of the disabled community in her writing. She is currently working on a memoir.

Selected Works, Koss

 

Black and White and Red, a Thing for Emily Dickinson

In Australia, Magpies spurn their monochrome.

With sonar-red eyes lit, they pick their victims.

Pedestrians, take care, don’t be joyful or too swift;

Bicyclists beware of where you pedal.

A white beak might reap a trophy eye

as Emily’s hope streaks laughing ‘cross the sky.

Wuthering Heights Pieces

Doppleganger

Hare & Magpie

Indecision

Magpie & Bag 

Hare

Koss (they/them/she) is a queer writer and artist with an MFA from SAIC. They have work in or forthcoming in Diode Poetry, Five Points, Hobart, Cincinnati Review, Lunch Ticket, Gone Lawn, Scissors and Spackle, Bending Genres, Anti-Heroin Chic, Prelude, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Chiron Review, North Dakota Quarterly, South Florida Poetry Journal, Spillway, San Pedro River Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Rogue Agent, Rat’s Ass Review, Boats Against the Current, Alien Buddha, Westchester Review, Kissing Dynamite, Schuylkill Valley, Amethyst Review, and many others. They were also included in Best Small Fictions 2020 and won the 2021 Wergle Flomp Humor Poetry Award. Koss received BOTN nominations in 2021 for fiction (Bending Genres) and poetry (Kissing Dynamite). Keep up with Koss on Twitter @Koss51209969 and Instagram @koss_singular. Website: koss-works.com

It’s Spring Break Somewhere, Kristin Garth

 

When you live in a place people 

come for spring break, shop at grocery stores 

proximate to the dolphins and seagulls 

sometimes college tourists mistake you for 

some girl going wild approximately their 

own age.  Approach with carts full of Coronas

to bump yours full of produce to prepare

chicken pot pie.  Not Spring Break, Pensacola,

but you know it is somewhere when they say 

hi.  Mention parties at their condos while 

you exit towards the baking aisle.  Do they 

think you are a cougar, mistake a womanchild 

smile for some lost party girl they’ve found? 

If it’s spring break somewhere, it finds you in town. 

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist, the author of a short story collection You Don’t Want This (Pink Plastic Press), The Stakes (Really Serious Literature) and many more books.

Three Poems, Rusty Morrison

 

NATHALIE SARRAUTE  #1

NATHALIE SARRAUTE TELLS US THAT SINCE CAMUS WAGERS ON THE SIDE OF IMPOSSIBILITY, HE NEVER CAN BE TAKEN OFF-GUARD. (from reading The Age of Suspicion: essays on the novel 1963)

A doe in our front yard is chewing the last bud from our rose bush. Its petals are the crystalline pink of Himalayan salt. With our bedroom window open, we can watch her brown eyes set and a pair of full moons rise in their sockets. I close my eyes, for what seems only a moment, but already it’s morning and my husband is gone. Did he leave for the office? I walk outside to see if his car is still in the driveway and find a crow on the phone-wire with shiny black feathers. Their shine is a mirror I’m caught in. If the crow soars into the clouds, will he carry me away with him? Yahoo News on my laptop reports that dice manufactured these days have dots that rub off on one’s hands. This seems to me the way it should be since luck should turn blank and thus open to interpretation. My mother had a blank expression in her eyes when she scowled and ranted at the TV news, at me, at her long-dead husband, my father, as if he were still stooped and silent beside her. In her last months, she lived in a care facility. She would turn toward the wall, facing away from me, when I’d sit beside her. We were, to each other, mirrors more dangerous than crow feathers. 

NATHALIE SARRAUTE  #2

NATHALIE SARRAUTE TELLS US THAT PROUST DEMONSTRATED WITH HIS CHARACTERS HOW WE WILL NEVER FIND DEPTH BY GOING DEEPER. THERE WILL ONLY BE MORE LAYERS OF SURFACE. (from reading The Age of Suspicion: essays on the novel 1963)

A few weeks ago, my husband Ken read the registered letter that came to us both. He said that excavators would be first, then carpenters would work deep in the earth to build a subterranean bistro that a group of wealthy investors had planned to open sixteen miles below our house. Along with the letter was a report from the county confirming the investors’ rights. The study they commissioned guaranteed there will be no impact on our property and that the bistro is beneath the limit of our property line.  “…and so, and so…,” chirrups a mockingbird in the tree outside the window. It’s mimicking Ken’s voice, as it often seems to, at dawn. So often I wake up angry. Ken isn’t here. If he were in bed beside me, he’d tell me there’s nothing to be done. He'd smile and say he found humor in the registered letter’s explanation that we’ll receive a dozen free gingerbread scones once a week, for the lifetime of the bistro, as a courtesy. I know the bird won’t answer but I ask it if Ken is still in the hospital, where I’ll drive again this morning in rush hour traffic, between cars with white motionless men driving them, as if chiseled from stone. Is that how I look? The bistro’s promotional flyer says they’ll feature three kinds of organic coffee, served at the precise temperature of urban strife in the morning and urban loneliness at night. Each cup will be accompanied by $20-a-pound Muscovado sugar, and cream from free-ranging cows—all of it described as deliciously and convincingly authentic, which is what convinces us that it’s not.

NATHALIE SARRAUTE  #3

NATHALIE SARRAUTE TELLS US THAT DOSTOEVSKY’s CHARACTERS ONLY ACT AS IF THEY’RE LIVING THEIR LIVES, BUT THEIR MOVEMENTS ARE ALWAYS ONLY ADJACENT TO THE REAL, THUS CALLING ALL OF LIFE’S SUBSTANCE INTO QUESTION. (from reading The Age of Suspicion: essays on the novel 1963)

I accidentally left a windsock hanging on our porch-rail during last night’s heavy rain. This morning it’s full of holes. When I reach my hand into it and try to push my finger out one of the holes, no finger appears. If I slipped all of me into one of the windsock’s dark holes, where might I find myself? I’m about to say this to my husband Ken, to make him laugh, but he’s choking again on too much phlegm to hear me, as he does most mornings before words can pass between us. There’s a hole, so dark, so deep in his throat, which seems to be calling him into it. If he goes there, will I be able to follow? Would we both be lost? I must remember that in the best fables there’s always an escape. It has taken all the years of my adulthood to gnaw deep into the wood, but finally I’ve splintered my childhood bedroom door, which my mother kept locked. Even as a girl locked in her room, I knew I could hike-up my skirt past my thighs and reach in between them, far enough to feel where there’s no end to my own heat rising in tidal rhythms stronger than any ocean’s. I must remember now that a dark place might have many reasons to call a person inside it.

Rusty Morrison is co-publisher of Omnidawn (www.omnidawn.com). Her poems have recently been accepted by American Poetry Review and by Fence.  Her five books include After Urgency (won Tupelo’s Dorset Prize) & the true keeps calm biding its story (won Ahsahta’s Sawtooth Prize, James Laughlin Award, N.California Book Award, & DiCastagnola Award) & Book of the Given from Noemi Press. Her recent Beyond the Chainlink was a finalist for the NCIB Award & NCB Award). She is a recipient of a Civitella Ranieri fellowship, and a recipient of other artist retreat fellowships. She’s one of eight fellows in the inaugural year (2020), awarded by UC Berkeley Art Research Center’s Poetry & the Senses Program. She teaches & she gives writing consultations. Her website: rustymorrison.com

Selected Works, Rose Knapp

 

Radical Pulsation

Distorted reverbed rippling four to the floor 

Ecstatic trance melodies echo through shapeshifting walls

Esoteric electronic hisses, bleeps and bloops on infinite delay

Baroque Cave Scratchings

Hhhhhiiiiisssssssss hhhheeeerrrsss lines and glossolalia reign 

Fuck spit blood ecstasy abhorrent violence

There is no Cartesian I invented yet, only the tribe, the hive mind

Astral Ecstasy 

Tribal drums crash in arrhythmic patterns

Mystical glass chimes ring in ping pong delay

A crescendo of sublime stringed synths

Glitch in the Cisystem 

Are trans and nonbinary more than a glitch 

In the system of binaric rigid gender roles? 

A few of us are famous, but what about the rest of us, 

The impoverished, the Dalits of Western society?

Modular 

Modular morphing futurist glassy gliding synths

Intermingling and intermeshing 

With atmospheric crashing analog stabs

Rose Knapp (she/they) is a poet and experimental electronic producer. She has publications in Lotus-Eater, Bombay Gin, BlazeVOX, Hotel Amerika, Fence Books, Obsidian, Gargoyle, and others. She has poetry collections published with Beir Bua Press, Hesterglock Press, and Dostoyevsky Wannabe. She lives in Minneapolis. Find her at roseknapp.net and on Twitter @Rose_Siyaniye

Two Poems, Amy Hoskins

 

Disrupted Shamans

Ineluctable Birdsong. Knotted tongues sing and repeat. A Chimney swift found its way into our sunroom. Holding onto the windowsill, wings curved into a V, hid behind the desk. We helped him out the front door and he flew well, away. Something wild escaped safely out.

In the hummingbird family, the swifts chirp and tweet above us in early and late hours of the day, eating bugs aloft. Like little fighter pilots, they twist and play in the air. Now we’ve seen one up close, like a spirit animal visiting in a dream.

Creating, breathing slowly through a muddy wall. Patterns, Eschers. Loops that catch my wings. Stop. Untangle. Breathe, create, fly through glass to reach the sky.

Moulting, shedding. Letting drop, gravity pulling down, things I no longer need. Every day, night, my self sheds old souls long gone, in order to fly.

Doing child’s pose, the floor holds me up. I remember to breathe deeply again. Soul to soul. We shiver. It’s so close. The engine is you, disrupted shamans all.

When Trees Were God

She walks through the park at 6:30 in the morning 

with her backpack on, holding on to the straps for safety. 

It is the ancient time on the planet. 

Dawn. Birds rule with song and flight for a 

few more hours until we humans wake, make 

noises of our own, en masse.

Many forms of prayer, song, gentle loving 

thoughts sent from the soul, heart, mind.

We now know well, the difference between 

fireworks and gunfire. Too well. Prayer comes in 

many forms. Fills my palmate hands with hope, 

faith in the good.

Butterfly voice, you fly with musical notes.

The ambulance just came past. Did they come for 

you again?  Bugs get crushes on flowers this time of 

year, even flirting with humans. Now I see you out on

your bike with a new friend, a new cap on. Earbuds. 

I’m happy for you.

I can’t check. It’s too distressing. Each app has its terrors. We are experiencing multiple wars. Ripple effects of trauma.

We survive.

Gaps between memories in sharp focus. A muddled brain tries to understand. I am made of green tea leaves, steeped in routine.

Walking in the woods at church camp in early summers. The woods were better than God. Were God, secret tree spirits.

Be a changeling. Hew the light inside you into flame, out of thin air, out of nothing, out of grief, despair. Be the crucible for creating your life out of dreams. Back when trees were God, we had to believe.

Amy Hoskins is a poet and visual artist creating with disabilities from her home in South Nashville, TN.  Hoskins has hosted the monthly Gestalt Poetry Open Mic, which is virtual for now, since 2017. She has had more than fifteen poems published in the US and Amsterdam. amyhoskins.com