Físeán/ A tale of enlightenment

Francis Combes (POETS OF THE PLANET)

 NON, LA TERRE N’EST PAS RONDE

Non, la Terre n’est pas ronde
Si la Terre était ronde
Cela se verrait
Cela se saurait
Si la Terre était ronde
Il n’y aurait pas, d’un côté,
Quelques-uns tout en haut,
Et les autres, la plupart des autres,
En bas,
Souvent même tout en bas…
Si la Terre était ronde
Aucun pays
Ne pourrait se dire
Le centre de la Terre
Car tous seraient au centre.
Et tous les hommes
Tout autour de la Terre,
Seraient logés à la même enseigne.
Mais ce n’est pas le cas
Et la Terre va de travers
Parce que la Terre n’est pas ronde.
En tout cas,
Pas encore.

Francis Combes
Non, la terre n'est pas ronde,
« Si les symptômes persistent consultez un poète », le Merle moqueur 2013 – préface de Bernard Noël

NEIN, DIE ERDE IST NICHT RUND

Nein, die Erde ist nicht rund
Wenn die Erde rund wär
Säh man das
Man wüsste es
Wenn die Erde rund wär
Gäb es nicht auf einer Seite
Ein paar Wenige ganz oben
Und die Anderen, die Meisten
Da unten
Sogar oft ganz unten…
Wenn die Erde rund wär
Könnte gar kein Land
Von sich behaupten
Der Mittelpunkt der Welt zu sein
Weil alle in der Mitte wären
Und alle Menschen
Überall auf Erden
Wären ebenbürtig
Doch so ist es nicht
Und die Erde läuft nicht rund
Weil sie nicht rund ist
Zumindestens
Noch nicht

Nein, die Erde ist nicht rund, Übersetzung : Magdalena Kauz

NO, LA TIERRA NO ES REDONDA

No la tierra no es redonda
Si la tierra fuera redonda
Esto se vería
Esto se sabría
Si la tierra fuera redonda
No abría de un lado,
Unos pocos bien en lo alto
Y los otros, la inmensa mayoría
Abajo
A menudo del todo bien abajo …
Si la Tierra fuera redonda
Ningún país
Podría decirse
El centro de la tierra,
Porque serían todos en el centro.
Y todos los hombres
Al alrededor de la Tierra,
Serían albergados bajo el mismo lema.
Pero no es el caso
Y la tierra está al revés
Porque la tierra no es redonda.
En todo caso,
No todavía.

Traducción de Nancy Morejón

NÍ CRUINN ATÁ AN DOMHAN

 
 Ní cruinn atá an Domhan
 Dá mbeadh an Domhan cruinn
chífea é
bheadh a fhios agat é
Dá mbeadh an Domhan cruinn
ní bheadh cuid againn
ag an mbarr, i leataobh,
agus an chuid eile, an móramh,
ag an mbun,
thíos ar fad go minic  . . .
Dá mbeadh an Domhan cruinn
ní thabharfadh tír ar bith
lár an Domhain uirthi féin
mar bheadh gach aon rud sa lár
agus an cine daonna go léir
gach áit ar fud an Domhain
sa bhád amháin  . . .
Ní mar sin atá, áfach
agus téann an Domhan amú
mar nach cruinn atá an Domhan.
Ní go fóill
ar aon nós.

Toghchán/ Election

 

HE VOTED FOR THE GOVERNMENT!

VÓTÁIL SEISEAN AR SON AN RIALTAIS!

Marx

 

Toghchán /Election

 

 

cluas
an gcloistear mé?
iarsma beannaithe

an ear
is it listening?
holy relic

Gabriel Rosenstock

a lug
is't hearkenin tae?
haly relic

Scots: John McDonald

Alan Dent, Mowing the Lawn, (POETS OF THE PLANET)

 Alan Dent was born in Preston in 1951. He has lived in Lancaster, Hull, Rouen, Kent, Wales, Blackburn and now is once more in Preston. He has published the following collections of poetry: Bedtime Story, Antidotes to Optimism, Corker, Who, Town and Schrodinger’s Women. He has also published two volumes of translations from French: When The Metro is Free and Common Cause, the latter by Francis Combes. His work has appeared in Ambit, The Echo Room, The Wide Skirt, New Statesman, Prop, Tears In The Fence, Fire, Still and many other magazines. His plays include The Joy of Banking, Lap Dancing In The Gulag and The Lift. He is famous for his excoriating editorials in his magazines The Penniless Press and Mistress Quickly’s Bed; the former is now a web mag which incorporates the Northern Review of Books, founded by Dent in 2010. He has also published many reviews, mainly of contemporary poetry, and has been described by a leading contemporary poet as “a brilliant critic.” Under various pen-names he has published almost a hundred short stories.

 Lomadh an Fhéir

Má tá do thigh leagtha is do theaghlachsa marbh
leanaí is mamónna ina luí ar an ngaineamh
an domhan bun os cionn - faoi do bhun atá an spéir
níl ann ach an IDF ag lomadh an fhéir;
sceimhle na hoíche, éadóchas an lae
gan lámh chúnta in aice leat, inniu ná inné
nuair b'fhearr leat ná aon rud a bheith sínte sa chré
níl ann ach an IDF ag lomadh an fhéir;
ocras ar pháistí, déantar anraith as féar
gan uisce ar fáil dóibh ná fliuchadh a mbéil
an dorchadas forleathan ag breacadh an lae
níl ann ach an IDF ag lomadh an fhéir;
ina mbáisteach tá buamaí ag titim ón spéir
ar dheis is ar chlé níl ann ach piléir
an IDF ag méanfach is straois orthu go léir
níl ann ach na Síónaigh ag lomadh an fhéir
dílleachtaí ag caoineadh in ard a gcinn go géar
is cabhraíonn SAM leis na daoine atá ag lomadh an fhéir.

MOWING THE LAWN

   by Alan Dent

If your house is destroyed and your family lies dead
your babies and grandmothers left where they bled
if your world is upended and you’re lost and forlorn
it’s only the IDF mowing the lawn;
when your nights pass in terror your days in despair
if you reach for a hand and no one is there
when death’s your best friend and you wish you weren’t born
it’s only the IDF mowing the lawn;
when your children are starving you make soup from grass
not a sole drop of water for your dry mouth, alas,
when life is all darkness no promise of dawn
it’s only the IDF mowing the lawn;
when the bullets fly wildly and there’s nowhere to run
and the bombs fall at random as the goons have their fun
and the IDF laugh, sneer, lie back and yawn
it’s only the Zionists mowing the lawn;
and the righteous US as the poor orphans mourn
runs to help Zionists mowing the lawn.

MERMAID by Cao Shui (Poets of the Planet)

 Cao Shui（Chinese: 曹谁;pinyin: Cáo Shuí), also Shawn Cao (born in June 5, 1982), is a Chinese poet, novelist, screenwriter and translator. He is a representative figure of Chinese Contemporary Literature. He leads “the Greatpoeticism” movement. 

In his Manifesto of Greatpoem, he aims to integrate sacred and secular cultures, oriental and occidental cultures, ancient and modern cultures in Chinese literature. In 2008, he resigned from a newspaper and traveled around Tibet and Xinjiang, which is the center of Eurasia or the World in his view. His novels Secret of Heaven trilogy tells the whole developing history of human civilization. His most notable works includes Epic of Eurasia, the already mentioned trilogy and King Peacock (TV series). In his works, he extracts elements of various ancient human civilizations, from Babylon to the west to Judea, Egypt, Greece, to the east to Persia, India, China, and uses these elements to reconstruct a new Utopian human homeland, which always described as Eurasia, the Top of the Tower of Babel or Kunlun Mountains (Heaven Mountains). So far forty books of Cao Shui have been published, including ten poem collections, four essay collections, ten novels, twenty fairy tales, four translations and one hundred episodes TV series and films. He has won more than 50 literary awards worldwide, including the 1st Chinese Young Poet Award, the 4th Cao Yu Cup Drama Award, the Apollo Dionysus Award of the 8th Italian Rome International Academy of Contemporary Poetry and Art Award, the 12th Russian Golden Knight Award, and the Top Ten Public Figures of the 5th Chinese Poetry Spring Festival Gala, etc. His works have been translated into English, Italian, Spanish, French, German, Swedish, Portuguese, Danish, Polish, Russian, Hungarian, Croatian, Slovenian, Turkish, Arabic, Japanese, Korean, Hindi, Nepali, Vietnamese, Tibetan, Mongolian, etc. He has been invited to participate in the 30th Medellin International Poetry Festival, the 26th Havana International Poetry Festival, the 14th Kritya International Poetry Festival in India and the 4th Qinghai Lake International Poetry Festival. He is a member of China Writers Association, China Film Association and China Poetry Society. He is also chief editor of Great Poetry, deputy editor in chief of World Poetry, secretary general of Boao International Poetry Festival and vice president of the Silk Road International Poetry Festival. Currently he lives in Beijing, and works as a professional writer and screenwriter.

Maighdean Mhara

Siúlaim liom agus iasc leonta á iompar agam
Níl ach slí d'iasc amháin sa phota
Conas a leonadh an t-iasc?
Tá freagra uaim
Ní nochtfar an fhírinne gan scrúdú
Chuireas sléibhte díom, aigéin
agus na mílaoiseanna
Ghearr aibhneacha móra trí ghleannta doimhne
Oíche amháin, thiteas isteach i dtuile
Léim an t-iasc as an bpróca
Ní fhéadfainn ach stánadh air agus é ag imeacht
Deirtear gur duine lách mé
Deineadh maighdean mhara den iasc
agus cailíní aimsire lena taobh
gealach ag dul ar gcúl ina suí ar mo cheann
suas leis an maighdean mhara i dtreo na gealaí
titeann braon cumhra drúchta anuas
sínimse mo lámha amach chun breith air
i bhfaiteadh na súl, tuigimse an saol atá thart, an saol atá le teacht

Kieu Bich Hau (Poets of the Planet)

Member of Vietnam Writers’ Association. Born in Hung Yen Province, Vietnam. Ambassador of Ukiyoto Publisher of Canada to Vietnam. Founder and Head of Hanoi Female Translators. 9 National and International Awards in literature.
Published 25 books of prose, poetry, essay in Vietnam, Italy, Canada, Hungary, USA, Romania (Book titles: The Unknown, The Insidious Sister, Road of Love, Orphaned Waves, The Weird Dream, From Red River to Blue Danube, Two Moons …)
Her poems and short stories have been translated into many foreign languages (17): English, Italian, Korean, Russian, Marathi, Hindi, Romanian, Hungarian, Spanish, Portuguese, Nepali, Uzbek, French, German, Turkish, Chinese, Montenegrin.

 Cuthach

Tá sé ceart go leor, lig amach é
Béic orm
Scaoil amach an cuthach
atá ionat le fada
id' chroí, i d'aigne
i ngach cill díot
béic orm,
bain leas as na súile feargacha sin agat,
úsáid na lasracha lonracha
a dhónn mo chraiceann, m'fholt, m'anam
Cuthach an domhain seo
cuthach na harrainge is an éadóchais
mothúcháin a cuireadh faoi chois
ó bheith ag iompar ár bpeacaí dúchais  . . .

Agus is saor atá tú
Agus béarfad barróg ort lem' lámha creathacha
Agus imeoidh an uile dheoir
Ina sruth isteach sa Danóib Ghorm,

isteach san Abhainn Dhearg,
iontu go léir
Agus leáfaimid san abhainn sin
Ag rith isteach sa chruinne
de shíor
Is deoir ollmhór sinn
scaipthe ar fud na cruinne.

LA COLÈRE

C’est bon, laisse-la sortir
Crie-moi dessus
Libère la rage aveugle
qui s’est accumulée depuis longtemps
dans ton coeur, ton esprit
chacune de tes cellules
Simplement crie-moi dessus
use de tes yeux en colère,
Utilise le feu,
et la lumière qui brûle
ma peau, mes cheveux, mon âme
La colère de cette terre
la colère de la douleur et du désespoir
des sentiments refoulés
de tant porter les péchés d’être un humain…
Et tu seras libre
Et je te serrerai dans mes bras tremblants
Et toutes les larmes couleront
dans le courant du Danube Bleu,
dans la rivière Rouge,
dans tout
Et nous nous fondrons dans cette rivière
Restant pour toujours
à couler dans l’univers
Nous sommes une larme géante
dispersée
dans l’univers.

Kieu Bich Hau
La colère, traduction de Francis Combes

Alexis Bernaut (Poets of the Planet)

 LE CHIEN

Le chien aboie à l’écho de la montagne

qu’il lui rende son aboiement – 

Tu sais, le chien

moi aussi j’ai aboyé

à mes rêves, à mes amis, mes quatre murs

et même mes dieux, si j’en avais eu

je leur aurais aboyé dessus –


J’ai aboyé à la vie

espérant qu’elle me rendrait

l’écho de mon premier cri

J’ai aboyé

moi aussi

Alexis Bernaut

GADHAR

Tá an gadhar ag tafann ar mhacalla an tsléibhe:
"Tabhair mo thafann ar ais dom"

An bhfuil a fhios agat, a ghadhair,
Tá tafann déanta agamsa, leis,
tafann ar mo chuid taibhreamh, ar mo chairde, ar na fallaí
na déithe féin, dá mbeadh a leithéid agam
bheinn tar éis tafann orthu.

Tá tafann déanta agam ar feadh mo shaoil
ag súil go bhfaighinn ar ais
macalla óm' chéad bhéic

Sea, tá tafann déanta
agamsa leis.

Bíodh Lá Deas Agat! / Have a Nice Day!

Cutting Bananas in Jamaica, Frank Newbould (1930)

Have a Nice Day is a protest poem in Irish and English by Gabriel Rosenstock.

Bíodh Lá Deas Agat!

(do Guy Debord 1931-1994)

Tá go maith, ag ceannach roinnt bananaí san ollmhargadh atáim,
spadhar éigin, ní foláir.
Is é lá breithe Harry Belafonte é
(bheadh an céad bainte amach aige).
I mo pháiste dhom, bhíos meallta go mór
ag an leagan aige den Banana Boat Song:
‘Tar, a fhir an tailí, agus comhair mo bhananaí . . .’
Ar aon chuma, ag tabhairt aire do mo ghnó féin a bhíos
agus mé ag smaoineamh (ní coir atá sa smaointeoireacht, tá súil agam):
Cuir i gcás go mba fhear geal é Belafonte
agus Zelenskyy (‘y’ amháin nó dhá ‘y’?) ina fhear gorm.
An mbeadh léamh eile againn ar an stair?
Íocaim as na bananaí.
Ba chóir bananaí a reo, dar leis an Dr Alan Mandell.
Toisc . . .? Breathnaigh air, tá sé ar YouTube.

‘Tar, a fhir an tailí, agus reoigh mo bhananaí!’
Ní fhuaimníonn sé i gceart.
Chuirfinn geall nach reofadh Harry Belafonte a chuid bananaí go deo).
Ar aon nós, cá rabhas?
Sea go deimhin, íocaimse as na bananaí (neamhreoite),
Féachaim as eireaball mo shúl ar shuaitheantas ainm an chúntóra:
Galyna . . .
Úcránach? Cá bhfios. Níl tuairim agam dáiríre.
‘Bíodh lá deas agat,’ ar sise.
Táim im’ staic anois aici.
An ag dul as mo mheabhair atáim?
Ní bhraithim ar fónamh in aon chor.
‘Deas? Lá deas? Cad is brí le deas?
Bíodh lá deas agam
agus an cac á bhualadh as a chéile ag cách –
gan stad!
Báibíní! Búm! Buamáilte! Búm! Búm!’
De bharr cleachtaidh, is dócha, arsa Galyna arís
‘Bíodh lá deas agat!’
‘Lá deas, an ea? Conas sa foc a . . .’
‘Lucht Slándála! Cuntar amach 5.
A Lucht Slándála? Cuntar amach 5, le bhur dtoil!’
Réchúiseach go maith atá sí ina thaobh.
An dtarlaíonn sé seo go minic?
Sna deich soicind sula dtagann na gardaí slándála –
na tatúnna sin, th’anam ’on ducs!-
Samhlaím go gcloisim curfá Bíodh Lá Deas Agat!
Iad ar fad á rá, sa stíl Iamácach:

Deochanna boga
Cnónna
Anraithí
Lorgaí sicín
Glantaigh:
Bíodh lá deas agat!
Iógart
Uibheacha

Agus an criú slándála do m’iompar chun siúil . . .
Dhera féach, tá jab le déanamh acu is dócha.

Is beag Béarla atá ag ceachtar acu.
Laitvigh? Eastónaigh? Úcránaigh? Cá bhfios.
‘Samhlaigh go raibh Zelenskyy ina fhear gorm,’ arsa mise leo.
Is dócha go gceapann siad gur duine le Dia mé.
Chun a gceart a thabhairt dóibh, ní rabhadar ródhian orm.
Cá bhfios ná gur chabhraíos-sa leo, ar bhealach éigin,
Nár thugas rud éigin dóibh le déanamh,
nár dheineas an saol níos eachtrúla dóibh?
Leagann siad síos mé tuairim is leathchéad slat
ó dhoras an ollmhargaidh
taobh le reilig bheo ollmhór tralaithe
slabhra orthu go léir
bonn airgid uathu go géar a scaoilfeadh saor iad.
Deinim banana a thairiscint do na gardaí
agus féachann siad orm faoi mar ba bhreab é.
Ní deir siad ach, ‘Bíodh lá deas agat!’
Agus brostaíd leo, ag freagairt do ghlaoch eile:
‘Lucht Slándála! Cuntar amach 11.
A Lucht Slándála? Cuntar amach 11, le bhur dtoil!’  

HAVE A NICE DAY!

(for Guy Debord 1931-1994)

OK, I buy a few bananas at the supermarket
on a whim, more or less.
It’s Harry Belafonte’s birthday
(He’d be 100).
As a child, I was enthralled by his rendition
of The Banana Boat Song:
‘Come, Mr Tally Man, tally me banana . . .’
Anyway,  here I am minding my own business,
and thinking (it’s not an offence to think, is it?)
What if Belafonte were white
and Zelenskyy (one ‘y’ or two?) black?
Would history have turned out differently?
I pay for my bananas.
Dr Alan Mandell says you should freeze your bananas.
Why? It’s on YouTube. Have a look.
‘Come, Mr Tally Man, freeze me bananas!’
Nope. Doesn’t sound right.
Bet Harry Belafonte never froze his bananas).
Anyway, where was I?
Oh, yes, I pay for my (unfrozen) bananas,
glancing at the name badge on the check-out person:
Galyna . . .
Ukrainian? Could be.
‘Have a nice day,’ she says.
I freeze.
Am I going bananas?
I must say, I don’t feel well at all.
‘Nice? Nice day? What do you mean nice?’ I say.
‘Have a nice day
While people are bombing the shit out of each other –
every goddam hour!
Babies! Boom! Bombed to bejasus! Boom Boom!’
Galyna, out of force of habit, I guess, says
‘Have a nice day!’
‘How the fuck can I have a nice day when . . .’
‘Security! Checkout 5.
Security? Checkout 5, please!’
She seems quite cool about it.
Does this happen a lot?
In the 10 seconds before two security guards arrive –
you never saw such tattoos! –
I imagine I hear a chorus of Have a Nice Day!
They’re all crooning it, kind of Jamaican style:

Soft drinks
Nuts
Soups
Chicken legs
Detergents:
Have a nice day!
Yoghurts
Eggs
As the security lads lead me away . . .
Ah sure look, they’re only doing their job, I guess.

They haven’t much English between them.
Latvian? Estonian? Ukrainian? Who knows.
‘Imagine Zelenskyy was a black guy,’ says I.
They probably think I’m nuts.
To be fair, they were nice enough as it happens.
Maybe I helped out, in some small way, you know,
gave them something to do,
made life a little bit more interesting for them?
They plonk me down, about 50 yards
from the entrance to the supermarket
beside a massive living graveyard of trolleys
with a dangling chain on each
all hungry for a coin to release them.


I offer the guards a banana.
Their attitude is, ‘We don’t take bribes.’
All they say is, ‘Have a nice day!’
And scurry off in answer to another call:
‘Security! Checkout 11.
Security? Checkout 11, please!’

O zi plăcută!

lui Guy Debord 1931-1994

Ok, cumpăr cîteva banane de la supermarket
oarecum dintr-un capriciu.  
Este ziua de naștere a lui Harry Belafonte
(ar fi împlinit o sută de ani).
În copilărie  mă vrăja în cu   
Cîntecul bananei:
„ Hei, Mr. Tally Man* vino să-mi cîntărești banana. . . . . .”
În fine, îmi văd de treabă, gîndindu-mă
(a gîndi nu jignește pe nimeni ori . . . ?)
la ce s-ar întîmpla dacă Belafonte ar fi alb
și Zelenskyy (cu un singur ‘y,’ sau cu doi?) ar fi o persoană de culoare?
Istoria ar arăta altfel?
Achit bananele.
Dr. Alan Mandell spune că  bananele ar trebui înghețate.
Cum așa? Este pe You Tube. Priviți.
„Hei, Mr. Tally Man, vino să-mi îngheți bananele!”
Nu. Nu sună bine.
Pariez că Harry Belafonte niciodată nu și-a înghețat bananele!
Unde mă aflam, totuși?
Oh, da, plătesc pentru bananele (neînghețate)
în timp ce privesc  ecusonul cu numele persoanei de la casă:
Galyna. . .
Ucraineancă S-ar putea.
„O zi plăcută!”, spune ea.
Îngheț.
O iau razna?
Trebuie să spun că nu mă simt deloc bine.
„Plăcută ? Zi plăcută ? Ce înseamnă plăcută?”, zic eu.
O zi plăcută?
În timp ce oamenii se bombardează–
la fiecare nenorocită de oră!
Copii! Bubuie! A bubuit, Doamne! Bubuie Bubuie!”
Cred că din obișnuință spune Galyna:
„O zi plăcută!”
„Cum naiba pot să am o zi plăcută cînd. . .”
Paza! Verificați 5.
Paza? Verificați 5, vă rog!
Tare cool trebuie să i se pară treaba asta.
Se întîmplă de multe ori?
În nici două secunde sosesc doi gardieni–
asemenea tatuaje nu ați văzut niciodată! –
Îmi imaginez că aud un cor: O zi plăcută!  
Toți fredonează cîntecul  într-un fel oarecum  jamaican:

Băuturi nealcoolice
Nuci
Supe
Picioare de pui
Detergenți
O zi plăcută!
Iaurturi
Ouă
Cînd băieții de la pază mă conduc în altă parte. . .
Ah, de bună seamă, își fac datoria, cred.

Nu prea vorbesc în engleză între ei.
Letona? Estona? Ucraineana? Cine știe.
„Imaginați-vă că Zelenskyy ar fi ‘o persoană de culoare’ ”,  zic eu.
Ei cred, probabil, că sunt nebun.
E drept, au fost destul de drăguți, ca de obicei,
poate că i-am ajutat cît de cît, știți,
le-am dat ceva de lucru,
le-am făcut viața puțin mai interesantă.
Și mă iau și mă trîntesc cam la 50 de yarzi depărtare
de intrarea în supermarket,
lîngă un cimitir viu și întins de cărucioare,
fiecare cu  un lanț atîrnînd pe el,
și toate așteptînd cu lăcomie o monedă care să le elibereze.    

Le ofer gardienilor o banană.
Și reacționează:„Nu ne lăsăm mituiți.”
Atît spun:„ O zi plăcută ! ”
Și se grăbesc  să răspundă unei alte chemări:
Paza! Verificați 11.
Paza? Verificați 11, vă rog!

Romanian version: Olimpia Iacob

The Displaced, Díláraithe

 

Drive out, Masood Hussain

The Displaced

The truth lies within.
Look inside!
What do you see?
Do you not see that it is the heart
That is displaced!

Listen!
In Sichot Haran
Rebbe Nachman of Breslov speaks these lightning words:
"You should feel the pain of others
in your own heart."
Fine! But if the heart is missing, displaced?
He continues,
"If you can't feel this pain
you must strike your head
against the walls of your heart."
Yes, yes, yes!
But if the heart is displaced, if the heart is missing?

Díláraithe

Istigh ionainn atá an fhírinne.
Féach isteach ionat féin!
Cad is léir duit?
Nach léir gurb é an croí
Atá díláraithe!

Éist!
Sa Sichot Haran
Tá na briathra tintrí seo ag Rebbe Nachman:
"Ba chóir arraing an duine eile a bhrath
i do chroí féin."
Go breá! Ach má tá an croí ar iarraidh, díláraithe?
Leanann sé air,
"Mura mbraitheann tú an arraing sin
ni mór duit do chloigeann a bhualadh
in aghaidh bhallaí an chroí."
Sea, sea, sea!
Ach más díláraithe atá sé, más ar iarraidh atá an croí?

The Displaced

The truith liggs wi'in.
Leuk thair!
Whit dae ye glisk?
Dae ye no glisk, it's the hert
thit's displaced

Tak tent!
in Sichot Haran
Rebbe Nachman o Breslov threeps thae lichtnin wurds:
'Ye suid fin the pyne o ithers
i yer ain hert.'
Fine! Bit gin the hert's amissin, displaced?
He threeps on,
'Gin ye cannae fin this pyne
ye maun dunt yer heid
forenent the wa's o yer hert'
Aye,aye,aye!
Bit gin the hert's displaced, gin the hert's amissin?

Leagan Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald

Other collaborations between Masood Hussain and Gabriel Rosenstock include Walk with Gandhi, a biographical sketch with haiku for Young Adults (FreeKidsBooks), Love Letter to Kashmir (Cross-Cultural Communications, New York), and Boatman! take these songs from me (Manipal Universal Press, India).

Only Bombs are real / Buamaí amháin atá fíor

 Only Bombs Are Real is an ekphrastic poem in Irish and English by Gabriel Rosenstock, in response to Raptus (c.1913) by American artist Marsden Hartley.

 Only Bombs Are Real

Is this real
this heavenly light
or am I gripped
by the fantastic workings of the brain
For now
it seems
that only bombs are real
Certain people
on their deathbed
see this heavenly light:
Might it be no more than the implosion
of millions of dying cells in their brain?
For now
it seems
that only bombs are real

Buamaí Amháin Atá Fíor

An léas neimhe seo
an fíor é
nó an gafa atáim
ag  feidhmiú dochreidte
na hinchinne
Ní fíor dar liom
i láthair na huaire
aon ní ach buamaí
Ag saothrú an bháis dóibh
is léir do dhaoine áirithe
an léas neimhe sin:
An é nach bhfuil ann ach imphléascadh
na gceall inchinne gan áireamh?
Ní fíor dar liom
i láthair na huaire
aon ní ach buamaí

Doar bombele sunt reale    

Este reală
această lumină divină
ori sunt eu vrăjit
de mecanismele fantastice ale creierului?
Deocamdată
se pare
că doar bombele sunt reale
Pe patul de moarte
anumiți oameni
văd această lumină divină:
Să fie oare implozia
milioanelor de celule cerebrale care cedează?
Deocamdată
se pare
că doar bombele sunt reale

Romanian: Olimpia Iacob

Solo las bombas son reales

Esto es real
esta luz celestial
o estoy atrapado
por el fantástico trabajo del cerebro.
Por ahora
parece
que las bombas son reales.
Cierta gente
en su lecho de muerte
ve esta luz celestial
Podría ser solo la implosión
de millones de células muriendo en el cerebro?
Por ahora
parece
que las bombas son reales.

Spanish: Patricia Jiménez

குண்டுகளைத் தவிர வேறில்லை

இந்த சொர்க்கத்தின் ஒளி
உண்மையா
அல்லது
மூளையின் நம்ப முடியா செயல்களுக்குள்
சிக்கியுள்ளேனா?
இப்போதைக்கு
குண்டுகளைத் தவிர வேறில்லை
என்றே தெரிகிறது
ஒருசிலர்
தங்கள் மரணப் படுக்கையில்
இந்த சொர்க்கத்தின் ஒளியைக்
காண்கிறார்கள்:
அது தங்கள் மூளைக்குள் மடியும்
மில்லியன் செல்களின்
உட்குழிவினும் பெரிதாயிருக்கலாம்?
இப்போதைக்கு
குண்டுகளைத் தவிர வேறில்லை
என்றே தெரிகிறது

Tamil: Tamilmainthan John Richard

爆弾だけが本物だ

これは本物か？
この天国のような光は
それとも私は
脳の幻想的な働きによって
今のところ
爆弾だけが現実のようだ
死の床で
天国のような光を見るものがいる：
脳内の何百万という死にかけた細胞の爆発にすぎないのだろうか？
今のところ
爆弾だけが現実なのだ。
マキ・スターフィールド

Japanese: Maki Starfield

Michael Augustin (POETS OF THE PLANET)

 

 
JÜDISCHER FRIEDHOF, CZERNOWITZ

Michael Augustin & Gabriel

Die Grabinschriften
Russisch, Hebräisch, Ukrainisch
Rumänisch, Jiddisch, Deutsch
Hier kannst du
von den Toten lernen
wie sich zusammen leben ließe
ohne Streit

REILIG GHIÚDACH, CHERNIVTSI

Na feartlaoithe
Rúisis, Eabhrais, Úcráinis
Rómáinis, Giúdais, Gearmáinis

Is féidir foghlaim anseo
ó na mairbh
conas maireachtaint le chéile
gan aighneas.

JEWISH CEMETRY, CZERNOWITZ

The epitaphs
Russian, Hebrew, Ukrainian
 Romanian, Yiddish, German

Here you can
learn from the dead
how we might live together
without strife

CIMETIĖRE JUIF, CZERNOWITZ

Des inscriptions funéraires
en russe, hébreu, ukrainien,
roumain, yiddish, allemand
Ici, tu peux
apprendre des morts
comment vivre ensemble
sans se disputer.

Traduction de Francis Combes

 

 

Maram al-Masri (POETS OF THE PLANET)

Níl a fhios ag mná
dem’ shórtsa conas labhairt.
Fanann focal ina scornach
mar dhealg
a shlogfaidh siad.
 
Mná dem’ shórtsa
ní heol dóibh faic ach caoineadh,
caoineadh doshamhlaithe
doirteadh
gan choinne
ar nós artaire a gearradh.
 
Mná dem’ shórtsa
buailtear iad
gan buille a bhualadh ar ais.
Bíd ar crith le cuthach,
cuirid srian leis.
 
Mná dem’ shórtsa
is geall le leoin i gcás iad
ag taibhreamh . . .
ar shaoirse

 

Maram al-Masri

 

M. K. Ajay (Poets of the Planet)

LÁRNAITHE

I lár m'aignese,
lochán.
Púróga boga thart air,
féar glas,
éigrit.

Istigh sa lochán,
cuilithíní, agus éisc órga
a ndearna duine éigin dearúd
iad a chur isteach san uisceadán.

Agus laistigh de na héisc órga tá fiaile,
tithe glasa na mbuaf is na dtorbán.

Laistigh den fhiaile, leis,
fionnuaire agus láib,
scáileanna ó dhomhan iomlán na hóige.
Laistigh den fhiaile tá brionglóidí
á slogadh ag éisc órga
tumann cruidíní chun breith orthu.

Preabann éigrit.

An aigne ag cleitearnach.

Ní fheicim an lochán a thuilleadh.

Ní bhraithim ach an fhionnuaire ar mo chraiceann,
déantar aislingí dá chuimilt
ar snámh isteach i bhforaois dhubh
laistigh dem' shuan,
sa tóir ar sheanmháthair.

M.K. Ajay

Marx ...

 

Dán ón India

I came across poems by Jacinta Kerketta in the current issue of Modern Poetry in Translation (No. 2, 2024). As a language-activist poet-translator, you can see why I was immediately drawn to her work. I wanted to know more. I have made a transcreation in Irish (and recording) of the second poem below, one of the most moving eco-poems I have encountered in many a day.

 

 

 

 

 

Cén fáth nach bPioctar an Mathua den Chrann?

A Mháithrín, cén fáth a fhanann tú ar feadh na hoíche
go dtite an mathua?
Cén fáth nach bpiocann tú
na torthaí go léir den chrann?

Arsa mo Mháithrín -
Mairid sa bhroinn an oíche go léir.
Nuair a thagann a n-uain
Titid go talamh as a stuaim féin.
 Ag breacadh an lae, agus iad ar maos i ndrúcht
Bailímid iad le tabhairt abhaile linn.

Agus an crann i dtinneas clainne
An oíche go léir
Abair liom, conas a chroithfinn
an ghéag go teann?
Abair, conas a phiocfainn an mathua
go fórsúil den chrann?
 
Fanaimid, sin uile,
Mar go bhfuil grá againn dóibh.
 

Why the Mahua is not Plucked from the Tree?

Mother, why do you wait all night
for the mahua to drop?
Why don’t you not
just pluck all the mahua from the tree?
 
Mother says –
They live in the womb all night long.
When the time for their birth comes
They fall by themselves to the earth.
At dawn, when they’re soaked in the dew
We pick them up and bring them home.
 
When the tree is going through
Labor pains all night long
Tell me, how I can
shake the branch hard?
Say, how I can  forcibly
pluck the mahua from a tree?
 
We just wait
Because we love them.

   क्यों महुए तोड़े नहीं जाते पेड़ से?/ Kyon Mahue Tode Nahi Jate Ped Se?/ Why the Mahua is not Plucked from the Tree?

Alex Salmond

 

Photo: Ron Rosenstock

Alex Salmond
O is he dead then?
say the waters of Loch Leven


Alex Salmond
Ó, an marbh atá sé?
a deir uiscí Loch Lìobhan


Alex Salmond
fegs! is he deid then?
threep the watters o Loch Leven

Scots: John McDonald

The English version of this haiku (or senryu) echoes a  sonnet by G. M. Hopkins, Felix Randal, (1880) which also contains the poet-priest's blessing:

Ah well, God rest him all road ever he offended!

Dán Cogaigh / War Poem

 

War Poem #14

i’ve sat among arab villagers
            along the sea
                        drinking tea
                                    eating dried fruits

praying with story and laughter
for each other’s survival

Mimi German

  قصيدة الحرب #14                                                                                                    

  
لقد جلست بين القرويين العرب
            على طول البحر
                        شربت الشاي
                                    تناول الفواكه المجففة
الصلاة بالقصة والضحك
من أجل بقاء بعضهم لبعض

שיר מלחמה #14

 
הסתופפתי עם פלאחים
   לחופי הים
     לוגמת תה
      מנשנשת פירות יבשים
 
מתפללת עם סיפור וצחוק
מייחלת עבור שנינו – השרדות

Dán Cogaidh # 14

do shuíos-sa i bhfochair na n-arabach
          cois cósta
              ag ól tae
                 torthaí triomaithe á n-ithe againn

is sinn ag guí le seanchas is le gáire
go dtiocfaimis go léir slán

Ko Un

 

Note: Gabriel  brought out the selected poems of Ko Un, transcreations in Irish, a number of years ago.

Two beggars

By Ko Un
(1933 - )

Two beggars
sharing a meal of the food they've been given

The new moon shines intensely

BEIRT BHACACH

Beirt bhacach
roinnid an béile a tugadh dóibh

Gealach úr ag lonrú go tréan

Tashlich

(15 Meán Fómhair 1996)
 le Stanley H. Barkan

    

    Duáin níl agam

    ná líontáin,

    le caitheamh 

    ar na huiscí suaite.

    Gan agam ach grabhróga

    do na héisc

    atá ag feitheamh faoi bhun an droichid,

    sa duibheagán,

    a mbéal ar leathadh

    agus iad amplach ar an dromchla.

    Tá an t-arán caite agam

    ar na huiscí

    athshlánaithe,

    mo chuid peacaí go léir,

    ag súil le bliain eile

    nuair a bheidh mo phócaí

    folamh,

    is faic eile le caitheamh agam

    chun na n-uiscí.

Cóip Léirmheasa/ REVIEW COPY

When a snail starts following a shining path, he begins to wonder: 

'What's this? What does it mean? Where is it going? Where did it begin? Where will it end?'

Only one other snail has the answer. Grandfather! Now brought to life in an Irish-language edition as well, Gabriel Rosenstock's poetic vision and Masood Hussain's magical eccentric artwork provide an unusual introduction for young readers (8-12+) coming to terms with spirituality, religion, and the meaning of life.

 

 

Paperback and hardback editions available.

Reviewers may request a copy now, from the undersigned. Please supply name and address (no PO boxes, please).

Aoibhinn, a leabhráin, do thriall.

Gabriel Rosenstock

Both titles published by Cross- Cultural Communications. New York.

 

Íosa, mac Mhuire/ Jesus, son of Mary

 Íosa, mac Mhuire/ Jesus, son of Mary is an ekphrastic poem in Irish and English by Gabriel Rosenstock,  inspired by Christuskopf, a painting by German artist Hermann Stenner (1891 -1914) and these words from The Holy Quran, 3.45:  

"O Mary, indeed Allah gives you good tidings of a word from Him, whose name will be the Messiah, Īsā, (Jesus), the son of Mary."

                              

    Íosa, mac Mhuire

    A Íosa, an mbíonn tú fós ag guí?
    An mbíonn tú ag guí ar son deireadh na coimhlinte
    sa Phalaistín, d'fhód dúchais?
    Nó deireadh leis an bPalaistín féin
    Deireadh le hIosrael
    Deireadh le gach náisiún?
    Nach fada i mbun mioscaise iad na náisiúin chéanna.
    Más domhan gan náisiún ar bith ann do ghuíse,

    A Chroí Ró-Naofa, Íosa,

    Lig dom guí  id' theanntasa.

    Jesus, son of Mary

    Jesus, do you still pray?
    Do you pray for the end of conflict
    in Palestine, your native home,
    Or do you pray for the end of Palestine itself
    The end of Israel
    The end of all nations?
    Nations have been brewing mischief long enough.
    If a nationless world is your prayer,

  O Sacred Heart of Jesus

    Allow me to pray with you.

Aiséirí / Resurrection

Aiséirí / Resurrection is an anti-war poem, in Irish and English, in response to a painting of the same title by Hermann Stenner who was only 23 when he was killed during the First World War.

 

 

Auferstehung (1914) Hermann Stenner

 Resurrection

Will they rise from the dead
the casualties of all wars;
will armies be cleansed, miraculously,
of their hate, and prejudice?
Will war propaganda be recognised as what it really is -
lie after lie after lie.
If not, and if we plunge into World War III
will newspapers print one last headline:
OOPS, WE SHOULDN'T HAVE ENCOURAGED THEM!
Too late now.

 Aiséirí

Na mairbh a cailleadh i ngach cogadh go dtí seo
an bhfuil sé i ndán dóibh aiséirí;
an nglanfar na saighdiúirí, trí mhíorúilt éigin
ionas nach n-aithneoidh siad fuath ná claontacht go deo arís?
An ndearbhófar ansin bolscaireacht chogaidh
mar bhréag i ndiaidh bréige i ndiaidh bréige?
Mura dtarlóidh sé sin, agus má thumfar sa Tríú Cogadh Domhanda sinn
an mbeidh ceannlíne amháin fágtha ag na nuachtáin:
HOIPS, NÍOR CHEART DÚINN IAD A SPREAGADH!
Ródhéanach, is baolach.

 

 

 

 

 

Dán

Fómhar 2024/ Autumn2024 is an ekphrastic poem in Irish and English by Gabriel Rosenstock, in response to a work of art (c.1874) by Hungarian poet-philosopher  
László Mednyánszky.

 

 

Fómhar

 
Ar thugais faoi ndeara?
Tá an fómhar ann!
Fómhar lom, bréan.
Is dealbh é an domhan
agus is folamh é croí an duine.
Ní bhraithimid cumhracht a thuilleadh,
Toradh ár saothair i bpáirceanna is i bhfíonghoirt.
A fháinleoga, an ag teacht atá sibh
Nó ag imeacht,
Den uair dheireanach?
 
 

Autumn

 
Have you noticed?
It is autumn now!
A bare, foul autumn.
The world is denuded
and the heart of Man is empty.
It cannot detect fragrances, fruits,
The rewards of labouring in fields and vineyards.
Swallows, are you coming
Or are you going
For the last time?
 

 Herbst 2024

 
Habt ihr es bemerkt?
Es ist Herbst!
Ein barer, garstiger Herbst.
Die Welt ist entblößt
Und das Herz des Menschen leer.
Es kann keine Düfte wahrnehmen, keine Früchte,
Keinen Ertrag der Arbeit auf Feldern und in Weinbergen.
Schwalben, kommt ihr
Oder geht ihr
Zum letzten Mal?
 

Übertragung ins Deutsche: Jürgen Schneider

Polaitíocht na hEagla / The Politics of Fear

Maynard Dixon      

                               

The Politics of Fear

       

We do not know who or what we are

We huddle in fear

There is no warmth from one another

Nothing but cold fear.

Leaders of the world, have you brought us to this?

Fear begins to smell like a rotting animal

A fox shot between the two eyes

Its tongue hanging out limply, scorched by the sun

                                    

Polaitíocht na hEagla

Táimid gróigthe le chéile agus eagla orainn

Níl teas ar bith ag teacht óna chéile

Fuareagla amháin.

A cheannairí an domhain, an é seo toradh bhur gcuid oibre?

Tagann boladh ainmhí ón eagla, ainmhí atá ag lobhadh

 Sionnach a lámhachadh idir an dá shúil

A theanga ar liobarna, barrdhóite ag an ngrian

tafann na dtonn

A PDF of a new book of photo-haiku herewith, The Barking Waves

This is a broad explanatory note on the project:

A great landscape photographer is aware of the Heraclitean maxim, 'You never step into the same river twice'. What does that mean? It means

that American master photographer Ron Rosenstock has been exploring the mysterious and ever-delightful hinterland of Westport for the past half-century without ever

tiring of it! Today's disease is, 'Been there, done that.' Have you really been there? Have you been anywhere? Without awareness, without mindfulness you've been nowhere. And if you go back, do you think it's going to be the same place? How could it be? Heraclitus says, Panta rhei, all is flux! Even in the space of half an hour, the landscapes of Co. Mayo, so prized by Ron Rosenstock, can change in a second.

A cloud appears that wasn't there before. The light begins to work its magic, to announce the coming of twilight. These ever-changing variations of light and shade create landscapes which bewitch and invite not only the photographer, but the haikuist as well. The haikuist is conscious of a living landscape and when the two artforms come

together, photography and haiku, we can create meditative moments together. The experience, when repeated over and over again, can sharpen and enrich our awareness of the living world and contribute to mindfulness.

I have followed Ron on his photographic tours and odysseys, to Morocco, Scotland, the Faroe Islands - and Mayo! - not as a chronicler. To describe what I see would be tautologous. What the haikuist does is somehow to reflect the spiritual or poetic effect which the photograph has on his consciousness. I view Ron's photographs as

masterpieces. I can return to a photo I haven't looked at in a year and write a completely new haiku to match it. It seems to me that each photograph is mysteriously alive!

Print version from Foyles 

Éilias á chothú ag fiach dubh

Giovanni Girolamo Savoldo (1485 – 1548)

Éilias

Tá an scéal ar eolas agat.

Má tá na gadhair sona

gan chúis -

tá cúis leis!

Tá Éilias, fáidh, sa chomharsanacht!

A leithéid de dhuine!

Mar sin, abair liom.

Conas tá na gadhair na laethanta seo

in Rafah?

An sona dóibh?

ELIJAH

Ye ken the crack.

Whan the dugs'r blithe

fir nae raison -

thair's a raison!

The prophet Elijah is near haun!

Whit a chiel!

So, witter me

hou'r the dugs thae days

in Rafah?

ur thay blithe?

                               

Leagan Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald

  

Ο Ηλίας

Ξέρεις την ιστορία.

Όταν τα σκυλιά είναι χαρούμενα

για κανένα λόγο –

υπάρχει λόγος!

Ο προφήτης Ηλίας είναι στη γειτονιά!

Τι τύπος!

Λοιπόν πες μου

Πώς είναι τα σκυλιά

αυτές τις μέρες στη Ράφα;

Είναι χαρούμενα;

Leagan Gréigise: Dino Siotis

Elijah

You know the story.

When the dogs are happy

for no reason -

there's a reason!

The prophet Elijah is in the neighbourhood!

What a guy!

So, tell me

How are the dogs these days

in Rafah?

Are they happy?

Image: Kazuyuki Ohtsu

A single leaf falls 

then suddenly another

stolen by the breeze.

Rensetsup

1654-1707

titeann duilleog aonair

ansin go tobann

sciobann leoithne ceann eile

jedan list padne

tada odjednom drugi

ukraden lahorom

Croatian: Tomislav Maretić

ஓர் இலை உதிர்கிறது

உடனே இன்னொன்று

காற்று களவாடிச் செல்கிறது

Tamil : Tamilmainthan John Richard

 

Haiku agus grianghraf le Jason Symes

an mise

fheiceann grian na maidine

an mise tusa?

the "i" that sees

the morning sun

 am i you?

.

Photo-Haiku: Kon Markogiannis

abhainn ag rith

sliabh ciúin 

     is ionann iad

ஓடும் நதி

        நிசப்த மலை

                 இரண்டும் ஒன்றே

Tamil: Tamilmainthan John Richard.