قصيدة : وجع للدكتور عزيز منتصر

وضعوا وجعي في مخدع

في دجى العواصف

لارقص رقصة الألم

على أنين الرياح

تراقبني الأشباح

في مخدعي

تطعم جوع انفاسي

بالرماد و الدخان

من حطب بيتي

حتى تموت كلماتي

كزهرة قطفت

قبل نسمة الاريج

قبل إغراء العيون

قبل الأوان

قبل الإهداء 

إلى العشاق والحلم الممتع

صنعوا وجعي

لأحيا

كشخص صوروه في أحلامهم

يعيش دون بطاقات الحياة

مكبلا بأسلاك الظلمة الهادئة

يحمل يأسا

يتحرك بكلام آخر

ويُسقى بقطرات الآمال

By Louise hudon trottier
Original Poem languge frensh

LA MISÈRE DES POÈTES (corrigé)

À moins de la transformer en chansons

Que les gens chanteraient à l’unisson,

La poésie ne se vend pas beaucoup

Même si on en diminue les coûts.

On ne peut réussir une carrière

Sans une difficulté financière

Dans un domaine, même national,

Suite à cette activité marginale.

Ils apprécient la gratuité de l’art

Sans aucun salaire et aucun pourboire,

Notre récompense dans leur lecture,

Dans l’appréciation de notre écriture.

On parle ici d’une vocation

Appréciant certaines évaluations.

On veut passer des messages émouvants

Sur les guerres, cauchemars décevants.

Nos mots gratuits vont-ils changer le monde ?

Gens riches allez-vous penser au tiers-monde ?

C’est grave nos problèmes budgétaires,

Mais beaucoup d’enfants meurent sur la terre.

Si nous écrivions d’un style tragique

Obtenant la paix de façon magique ?

Peut-on se permettre de croire aux fées

Donnant de l’eau aux enfants assoiffés ?

Divulgation et dénonciation,

Lisez nos mots régis par la passion.

Misère des poètes d’aujourd’hui,

L’arbre de leur vie porte-il des fruits ?

Louise Hudon, poétesse du Canada

Tous droits réservés

2 mars 2016

Corrigé en juillet 2019

Unless you turn it into songs
 That people would sing in unison,
 Poetry does not sell much
 Even if we lower the costs.

 You cannot succeed in a career
 Without financial difficulty
 In a field, even a national one,
 Following this marginal activity.

 They appreciate the free nature of art
 Without any salary and no tip,
 Our reward in their reading,
 In the appreciation of our writing.

 We are talking about a vocation here
 Appreciating some evaluations.
 We want to send moving messages
 On wars, disappointing nightmares.

 Will our free words change the world?
 Wealthy people are you going to think of the third world?
 It’s serious our budgetary problems,
 But many children die on earth.

 If we write in a tragic style
 Obtaining peace in a magical way?
 Can we afford to believe in fairies
 Giving water to thirsty children?

 Disclosure and reporting,
 Read our words governed by passion.
 Misery of the poets of today,
 Does the tree of their life bear fruit?



 Louise Hudon, poetess of Canada
 All rights reserved
 March 2, 2016
 Corrected in July 2019

By Lily Swarn

                      

Green

Green ,the colour exploding on the moss clinging to the damp castle wall
Green , the lush grape leaves clustering protectively around the pale  bunches
Green , the shade of the chiffon saree I wore when we first met
Draped elegantly in loving folds
Green, the slimy frog winking owlishly at the edge of the slushy pond
Green, the pale lime tendril uncurling coyly beneath the ewes
Green , the envious colour that spread like an incurable disease
Green, the glass bangles that tinkled in my girlish wrists
Green , the jade of your smoky eyes on a tempestuous night
Green , the emerald gleaming on your throat in Royal repose
Green ,the guava I stole after climbing the neighbour's wall
Green, the thick carpet grass we lolled around on
munching on samosas with chutney
Green, the canopy of the peepul tree in the Sukhna lake in my city
Green, the pretty leaves cocooning the corn on the cob as raindrops pattered on our youthful heads
Green, the heart of monsoons in the North of India
Copyright Lily Swarn 8.7.2017

By Elena Marin

                          

"I STAY AND LOOK AT THE WINDOW"
   And sadness grips me
   I'm trying to resign myself
   And to find myself, in my soul
   peace and gentleness.

   I ask myself a lot of questions
   That I don't know what's going on
   And who punished us
   If we have, this fate
   cruel.

   And always, I keep thinking
   An answer, to find
   That I would like to wonder
   A little to calm down.

   That you don't know what will be tomorrow
   Whether it will be bad or good
   No matter what happens to you
   The world is upset
  And with a too tense face.

  Life is a question mark
  What each one puts on
  If today, it's fine
  Tomorrow will be the same
  No one can, you know.

  We don't know, let's just run
  We are like robots
  We always stock up
  We barricade ourselves in the house.

  Let's get around the pandemic
  Which destroyed, Romania
  How long will it take
  That spring is passing.

  We can't be happy
  And we can't, admire her
  Who knows, let us know
  Does anyone answer us?

  Let us pray to God
  He just always helps us
  That He loves us too much
  Only sin hates him.

  There are others who think they are dragons
  Turn into gods
  Great plague will come upon them
  Christian pandemic
  I can't help it anymore.

  Be careful how you think
  You will soon be rewarded
  Like Edomites
  Whatever you give, you receive.
  ELENA MARIN AUTHOR
  04/02/2020

By Elena Marin

                          

"OF, COVIDULE, COVID"
 Covidule, with your name
 Too bad you did in the world
 I wouldn't hear from you again.

 Go, go wild
 I don't want to know about you
 You came, all of a sudden
 And you changed us, your whole life
 Sad is our fate.

 Who sent you into the world
 He wouldn't have you
 That you came over us
 Like the plow, through the clover.

 You didn't have a little patience
 Covidule, great pity
 Thirsty, was it you?

 To reap, human lives
 Dear ones, miss us
 Covidule, you're greedy
 Go and leave us
 No one, you don't need it.

 You locked us all in the house
 You drained us of life
 You're worse than a plague
 You bring death, not a joke!

 Damn, be cursed
 Not at all relentless
 Many lives, you reaped
 And you're still not tired.

 We can't go out into the world
 That we are afraid of you
 Except with the mask on his face
 When we leave the house.

 Covidule, if I could
 I would lock you up somewhere
 Stop appearing in the world
 And let me not hear from you.

 You're a great decimator
 Just bad maker
 Misleading covidule
 Nobody misses you.
 ELENA MARIN AUTHOR
 27/04/2020

By William s Peters sr

                           

That Poem

There was a poem waiting for me
When I turned away from the shadows
And towards the light

I was blinded by its brilliance,
And thus could not find
The required recording apparatus
That I may hold to its spirit,
Though I remember its profundity,
And the manner in which
Its eloquent essence embraced
My soul once again

This began to ‘again’
Raise my age-old question,
'What is the perfect poem?'
I do know it exists
In me, in you, in creation,
But how exactly do we elucidate
Its lore ...
How do we begin  to fathom
Enunciating that
Which heretofore
Dances in the realm
Of the 'unspeakable'?

Throughout my brief visit here
On fringes
In the aura of eternity,
I have witnessed her shy glimpses ....
'That Poem'.
.....
I have seen her light
As fleeting sprinkles
In the eyes of children,
And old men alike ...
She many times hides
In those children's eyes
Exposing her mesmerizing ‘chi’
As a twinkling 'Wonder'
And intermittent smiles,
Laughter
And impishness

I love when she visits
Without fanfare
Stoking my belief in things,
Things that are,
Things that were,
And things that will come

She imparts to my soul
A knowing
That 'Home' exists,
And it is more than a fable,
Or a story,
Or an 'Old Wives Tale'
....
Are not it a special thing
That she exists
Just outside of the realm
Of our imaginary fingertips,
Otherwise, I fear that we,
The empirical bards
Who have departed from
The archaic foundations of language
Would surely choke her to death
In our attempt
To validate our nothingness,
Bolster our esteem
And falsely lorde over
Her verse ...
.....
Sad we are,
Saddened am i
For wanting to capture
That which is meant for us
But to admire
And whisper about
Into the memoirs of time
For those to come
That 'That Poem'
We/I chase
Lives within
Each of us.

That Poem


(c) 7 july 2020 : william s. peters, sr.

www.iamjustbill.com

Glória Sofia Monteiro (Cape Verde)

Glória Sofia Monteiro was born in 1985 in Praia Cape Verde. Poet, editor, writer, novelist majored in engineering and Environmental Management at the University of Azores (Portugal). Develops various activities cultural areas, collaborating in numerous websites and magazines. She has nominated as a candidate for the Rolex Mentor and Protégé Arts Initiative.

**

Ton amour
Je tombe mortellement dans tes bras
Là, je rencontre l’éternel monde
Je te rends un amour maltraité
Je cours sans jambes et là, je séjourne
Suppliant avec détermination
Ton amour avec bras inexistants

**

Pauvre
Pauvres îles emprisonnées dans les mains de la mer
Pauvres montagnes fouettées par les flots
Pauvres feuilles pressées par le vent
Pauvres barques traînées par le courant
Pauvre terre dont le soleil arrache l’eau à l’âme
Pauvre de moi, je ne peux rien faire

**

Tu m’as laissé
Mon amour, que tu m’as laissé
À attendre toute la vie. Toi, mort
Plus jamais mon nom tu as appelé
Comme ça, boussole sans nord
Tu as laissé cette beauté triste
Dans ce corps qui dort
Seulement dort et ne mange pas
Dans cette fatigue décadente

**

Parle-moi d’amour
Glisse la chaise
Invite l’esprit
Dans une saveur de café
Dans un arôme de soleil
Dans une odeur de sourire
Parle-moi d’amour
Je veux rencontrer dans ta voix
Dans ces rayons enchantés
Je te noue avec mes baisers
Parle-moi de poésie, amour
Assieds-toi sur ce genou pauvre
Souffle le vent vers l’horizon
Parle-moi d’amour
Après, laisse les mouettes
Elles emportent mon esprit, vers l’amour dont tu parles

**

Je désire
Je désire être terre qui
Avec son sein allaite la vie
Qui même ainsi n’est pas éternelle
Je désire être soleil à des années lumière distante
Mais chauffe et caresse le monde
Je désire être lune qui tombe dans la nuit froide
Enduit la vie avec sa lumière
Je désire être mer qui naufrage le navire
Emmène et ramène provoquant de la nostalgie
Et enlevant la vie
Je désire ne pas être poète