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Japanese poetry

The cracks in the roof of reeds

the makeshift shelter built among rice paddies in autumn
fan so that the sleeves of my clothes
is constantly sprinkled with dew.

Tenji Emperor (626-671) *





It seems that spring is over and that which occurred both
summer
white robes as mulberry
are hung out to dry on the divine
Mount Kagu.

Empress Jito (645-702)





* E 'before the whiteness of the frost


pearls that the bridge of magpies
that I realize that the night is now based.

Yakamochi (718-785) *






For you I go to camps to collect tender shoots spring

while on my sleeve
incessant snow falls.

Koko Emperor (830-887) *






mountain villages in the winter is so sad to think that

most people will not
and the plants wither.

Minamoto no Muneyuki (d. 939) *






Compared to the feelings I feel

since I've known the heartbreak of the past
not seem to me more so.

Atsutada (906-943) *






I wonder if you know what the wait is interminable
since the evening in tears

alone I lie down until sunrise.

Mother of Michitsuma (second half of the tenth century).


*


If
against my wishes in this world of suffering long-lived


what would regret most is the moon in the dead of night.

Sanjo, Emperor abdicatario (976-1017) *






As I grieve that the loneliness and resentment
prevent my sleeve to wipe
even more I regret that my machine is to honor
love.

Sagar (first half of XI century).


*


As your promise of love for me was

how vital it is for the dew artemisia
the autumn of this year
has passed.

Fujiwara no Mototoshi (1060-1142)

Poems from the book "Personal Shiko Kataoka. The spirit of calligraphy young classical

Edition 2006 GoBook

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Constantine Cavafy

Candles

They're the days to come before us
like a row of lighted candles, golden
, hot and vivid.
left behind the days of old, painful
row of unlit candles:
the nearest smoke damage yet,
cold, defeat, and wrong.
I do not want to see: my heart the way they look,
my heart the memory of their ancient light. And I look forward
lighted candles.
I do not want to turn, I can not see, in a shiver,
as soon as the dark line lengthens,
grow as soon as my unlit candles.



windows


In these dark rooms where I live
heavy days, here and there around me to find
windows (
will escape if a window opens). But
windows are not, or do not know
find them. Better not find them maybe.
Maybe it will light another torture.
Who knows what new things will show.



Ithaca

When you set out to
Ithaka hope your road is long,
full of adventure and discovery. The
Lestrigoni
and the Cyclops, the angry Neptune do not fear, not
will be 'this kind of meetings
if your thoughts remain lofty, and a feeling
stirs your spirit and your body.
Cyclops, Lestrigoni, not sure, it
'wrath if Neptune hitting

not carry them within your soul if you do not set them up.
Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many
when in port - and now that joy -
you touch the ground for the first time at Phoenician trading
linger and buy
pearl and coral, amber and ebony
all fine merchandise, including perfumes
piercing of all kinds, more 'heady fragrance as you can, go
in many Egyptian cities
learn a thing from the quantities of products.
But do you think of Ithaca -
Arriving there is the constant thought.
But do not hurry the journey;
if it lasts long, for years, and that old
reach the island, you, full of treasures

gained on the way, not expecting Ithaca to riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage
without her you would have never put on the road
: what else do you expect?
And if you find her poor, Ithaca you will have `disappointed. Without
wise now, with so much experience on
you already have understood what Ithaca is that mean.

On the threshold of coffee

addition, they said something close
I turned on the threshold of coffee.
And I saw, then, the beautiful body,
where self-love was more evidence:
you joyful-fitted molded limbs,
rose, carved, person, emotion
with you to shape the face, leaving
of his tract as an arcane
sense on the forehead, eyes, mouth.

The origin

Now their forbidden lust
is consumed. Rise, dress
hurry and do not speak. Hull
stealthy way, separated.
to walk away with a vague uneasiness, almost
suspect in them do not know about that sort of cheating
bed lay a little while ago. But as an artist
is enriched my life!
Tomorrow, tomorrow another, or between years, are the verses written
hale here when they had originally.



He came to read

E 'come to light. Open
two, three books, historians and poets.
He read just for ten minutes. Then just
.
dozing on the couch. It 's all full of his books
- well, has twenty-three years, is very nice.
And this afternoon passed the love
beautiful in the flesh in his mouth.
In his flesh, that all beauty
race the fever of lust. Without hesitation
grotesque form of pleasure ...

Constantine Cavafy was born in Alexandria, Egypt, April 29, 1863 originating from Greek parents in Istanbul.
His family, part of the commercial middle class, suffered financial ruin in 1876 and moved abroad, first to Liverpool, then to Istanbul.
In 1892, Constantine, who already has a good reputation for its work as a publicist and poet, is recruited to the Ministry of Public Works in Alexandria, where he remained, making a quick and profitable career, until 1922.
travels to Paris in 1897 and 1901 in Athens, where he will return also in 1903 and 1905.
in her autobiographical notes speak of an early homosexuality, sometimes psychologically traumatic.
Since 1919, the poet is involved in various controversies, both because famous person and representative for both the Alexandrian and Athenian violent diatribe in which he is among the leaders.
died April 29, 1933 in Alexandria, after a throat suffered in Athens last year.

Where Can I Find Myamee Weave

Sergei Gandlevskij

1.

Cigola? And you
Fold the piece of paper in square
careful and make sure that this door does not open inappropriately.
Turn in stone well
The light snow squalid city -
's all but remains
One last little debt.


Remember the man remains to be everything that he does not,
On the Road to chemist, for example,
In the quiet button.

And standing in the cobra mercurial,
Look at the joy of evil
without malice, and not because we are good,
But because life has passed.


2.

There is, in the life of a poet,
A disastrous period, when he flees the heavenly light

It fears the human trial
And from the bottom of the well in the city, miles
Spreading the pigeons, a
Jura horrible oath
to settle the issue as soon as there is an opportunity, but

Thank God, on the veranda of the dacha, where the jasmine
touches his hands, the convulsive
With Vivaldi violin
Learn to fly - and that's the
Vacuum collects height,
E 'soul from the vacuum
falls to the ground and freezes,
But the flowers touch the elbow ...

We know nothing really. We
wink, drink from drunks, break the matches

anxiety and weakness to break dishes -
We are committed to tell the truth in the face
plainly, frankly.
But the verses are not an instrument of revenge,
But a source of honesty Argentina.

(Translated from Russian by Maria Cicognani Wolkonsky)

Pokemon Silver Switches

Bakhyt Kenzeev

1.

There is a star in heaven and earth wires.
From God - tears and sweat.
Run, my night, where no one knows about
rays of postal affairs.
And wanders through the square, crying in vain
like an angel in a gray cloak -
down to the dock, walk inside me
and wipes his throat with ice water.
Ah! Remote mostricciattolo the heavenly family, called
where and why?
to count the stars in the black stream,
where a dead fish float? In the long
still obeying him, in exchange for his art

vain attempt to move the crude knapsack
grown in the ground -
and still wakes up, poor and naked,
where God has laid his hands
where the city stands on the hills , waves
gritted and rocky mountains.

2. We go out

- midnight is with us. The lights almost furtively

disperse
circles in the small city center. Just
discuss with destiny,
drinking green wine,
top of many windows
it burns dim one.
It 's the who, happily intrigued
shadow of the moon on the wall, silent vigil
laborer
crumpled on the sheet?
huge drain of death, only to work

ocean of stars, which flow from the horizon and everywhere
.
rustle of leaves in the alley,
smell of bread and earth.
is heard echoing long and only a whisper away
of the Lord. A voice
clouded for no reason,
the penultimate chapter,
only the words are indecipherable, illegible
words.

3. A height

so amazing,
you want to breathe a sigh: stop,
moment, beloved, rebel ... But
cools the throat the sweet terror, and a strange
hawk with a dove between claws
hurtling down the abyss of air,
and swell the clouds in the sky,
like bread in a bowl of milk,
and the mountains, frozen, if not
reach the stars, that deadly layer that
divides the world into empty and full.
silent earth, and under him the dead. And the light
squints incredulously
the unknown wanderer, knowing that no place in the steppes
nor the Jewish miracle worker, nor
Hellenism in the mouth with a coin.
And the mountains are revealed naked,
howling, crying, uncontrollably, as if the spirit
metal silver
their bets on the tracks of blood,
as if the mercury in the rocky cliff
was ready to flow, flow without end,
linen that his girlfriend from dark face
the street does not remove the blanket.
a bonfire was burning, I will warm us the finger, and behold the heavens deserts, and
whizzing within them, and sobbed
flying through the clouds, the irreversible drought, leafing through the book
sull'amaro taste of the wilderness
Russian in its binding stuttering.


(Translated from Russian by Maria Cicognani Wolkonsky)

Blueprints For A Rabbit Cage

Elena Svarz

The beast-flower

The presentation of the life continues till death.
The cold fire will burn long bones,
clear when the rain will cease
on the day of St. Peter at the end of summer.
Here, eco sprout flowers, reddish,
ribs, around the collarbone, head
write on the stem: Elena tree, grows
nell'Iperboreo ice
in the gardens of bricks, grass stony-eyed
climb dark pinks.
are at the same time, rosebush
and non-ti-scordar-di - me,
as if a novice gardener I had engaged
the terrible leprosy of the flowers.
I will be purple and red,
grenade, yellow, black and gold, I
and humming in a cloud dangerous -
coveted trough of hornets and wasps. When
sfiorirò, God, God, that wad
remain torn -
cold and skin sagging, withered flower-
a beast and half dead.


***


The ballet in the sky

Yesterday there was a storm, and
: "oh, oh!" - Every time I said that lightning
with a jump to Nijinsky
and flew in a cloud run away,
falling into the abyss - then the thunder and the clouds

sprayed powder adamantine.
And with the lightning and poaching importunate.
Desirè Oh! Celestial ballet! They push
, In short, it's time to jump on this narrow stage,
suspended between the gulf and suffer,
bend the elbow, straighten the heart,
remain suspended, be radiant and sink into the abyss, the immensity of the eyes shine
behind the windows.


***


The David Dance David

to dance, and I with you! I
fledging as a dove. While the branches, the news
leap alone in its beak.
not a stone - bird mad,
but he is the Creator, the God of pride.
Torcetevi arms! Testa,
flies from left to right palm.
have evaporated, becoming salt all the words in
Thrones have become all the words
and bends like a snake, fire.
rustling hair! Peal, bones! Like a splinter
throw into the fire of God's
the mirror - faceted ocean -
bright eyes and rotten.
Although there do not you see,
You are suspended in them like tears.
O Lord, allow to assuage your pain.
We do not feel pain,
do not know the suffering.
And the earth, the mountains, the waves
continue to call them: Paradise.
O Lord, let
to assuage your pain. Blood
biting, bone merry,
throw the Throne of God


***


half asleep

light sleep, abbarbicatisi under the skin,
I have wrapped with tender, tense and prehensile dodder.
I wake, I try the third side, a whip
tear from his temple, a white flower. In

drowsiness becomes simple, spherical.
Now I'm on a promontory, now study in Latin verbs.
The heart - a cross on the abdomen - the star of David, and leaf clover
- drawing on his stomach.



(translated by Maria Vignola)

The first collection of poems by Elena Svarz published in Russia in 1990. His three previous collections were printed only in the West. The Svarz devoted to poetry for over twenty-five years, it can be defined as a "masters" of contemporary Russian poetry, which it was impossible to get an idea if you do not consider his work.

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Ndjock Ngan

Africa

Africa, Africa my Africa
proud warriors in ancestral savannahs Africa
my ava sings
In a river far
Never seen thee
But blood I filled your eyes
your beautiful black blood spilled on the fields of your sweat

Blood Sweat of your work
Work
Slavery slaves of your children Africa Africa

tell you what can you back that folds
and bows down to the weight of humility
back trembling with red stripes
consents to whip on the streets of South
Then he answered a serious strong voice
Son impetuous young That tree over there Splendidly

tree only among white and faded flowers
'Africa Africa, that your new sprouts

patiently obstinately And the fruits of which gradually acquire
The bitter taste of freedom.

***

live once

In one city,
in one country,
in one universe,
live in one world is
prison. Knowing only one language


one job only a costume
one civilization
know a logical
is prison.

***

one who has lost everything

1

Risa
of sunshine in my hut and my women beautiful and graceful palms
Eran the evening breeze slipped
children died at the great river
How deep
And my canoes were fighting with crocodiles
Mother, the moon if one be serious and the dancing
Frantic pace of the tam-tam
Tam-Tam Tam-Tam carefree joy
Among the fires of freedom

2

Then one day, silence ...
rays of the sun seemed to darken
In every sense of the hut empty
The red mouths of my women
lips pressed hard eyes of the conquerors and thin steel
And my children left the quiet nudity
For the uniform Iron and blood
And there are more, not even you
nights of my Tam-Tam, Tam-Tam
of my forefathers The chains of slavery have broken my heart!



***

Black beauty

I love the look of your fair
And your mouth taste of mango
Rama Kam
Your body is pepper
that incites desire
Rama Kam
When you step

The panther is jealous of the hot pace of your side
Rama Kam
When you dance nights in the glow of the tam-tam

Rama Kam
pant beneath the storm of the griot Dyunung
And when you love
When you love Rama Kam
It 's the tornado that thunders And Fell

It leaves me full of breath you
Rama Kam.

Ndjock Ngan - Cameroonian poet who lives in Rome, author of the poetry collection Nhindo black.

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Thoughts in a quiet night


front of my bed the gleam of moonlight
make it look like frost on the floor.
I look up and watch the moonlight,
lowered his head and look back to the country of the past.



***


engraving on a mountain monastery


Bivouac night at the monastery in the mountains
reach out my hand, grab the constellations
I dare not speak aloud
I'm afraid to wake up who is above the sky.


***

Three five seven words


Shining Light wind autumn moon autumn
The fallen leaves are piled up and then they go away
The crow and then crouches
shake And when I think I know the day when I can see you
At this moment, on this night, are difficult feelings



***


Winter

Even that old wall
even that skinny dog \u200b\u200b
also freeze in the bucket
enjoy the sun this morning.



***



Under the moon, a lone party

Sitting there among the flowers, with the jug of wine -,
party alone, without of close friends -,
I raise my mug and I urge the moonlight. Together
shade Then, there will be three,
since the moon will not be denied drinking.
And while the shadow will follow my body,
Meanwhile, at his side, I will escort you to the moon.
The way of gaiety ends in spring;
as the moon floats in my hand, here and there.
And he startled the shadow, trembling, to my dance.
sober, we live in a common joy, then when
, drunkenness, everyone scatters.
three of us, together forever, wandering without suffering,
Finally, in the distance, we are in the Milky Way. "

(translated by Leonardo Arena, in: Chinese poetry of the time T'ang, cit., P. 52).

Li Po (701-762) was a Chinese poet, considered among the greatest of the Tang Dynasty (along with Du Fu and Bai Juyi) and the whole of Chinese literature. The pronounced "Po" (pinyin: Bo ) of his name, is a variant now obsolete, so that is currently known in China as Li Bai . In the West is better known as Li Po is also called the immortal fallen and the immortal poet, (where means immortal Taoist hermit of exceptional longevity). Him remain about 1,100 poems, some of which challenged the paternity.

In the West began to know him through the translations of the Marquis de Saint-Hevrey Denis.nell 'anthology Poesies de l'epoque des Thang , 1862 Here the full text. It was later translated into German and English.

Li Po is best known for the flamboyant visual imagination, the desire for separation from worldliness, to the Taoist elements in his poems and in her passion for alcohol, often sung. As the youngest poet Du Fu spent most of his life traveling. Legend has it that it drowned in the Yangtze River falling from a boat while drunk, tried to take the moon reflected in water.

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Yang Lian Li Po

The proposition of the raven



in the language of crows every morning dies again
with darkness crows exhibit light green again trampled graves

the forest shows its profile
fat in the flesh of dead pines
but ears are thin and transparent at night hung over all the branches
silence after the death awakens you with a start

only heard in a dead head
repugnant as the thought is the harvest of the storm
head timely warning in the bedrooms a laugh
arrogant as a jailer
bald crow wrapped well in the uniform borrowed from the night even more naked



gilding on the writings of the summer to keep the little hands that slow progress on 'grass tear their fingernails one by one
your textbooks are printed in a dream
go to school in his sleep feathered from head to toe

listen to swim the river water body in a cave dug
whiter light

new to what you can not hear a loud cry, scary


***

Already read

Chinese cemeteries in the pines grow as rspirano
but the wind changes the direction of the quiet day
the plow goes back and forth until the end of the field
lush green book of life
August sowing the seeds of the dead

the night all the stars travel in a well of jade

all summer read a biography
the shade of the pine
is immersed in a chair full of water is carved in a bas-relief
the distant sea is angry alone
bird songs flood the sky hardly sing
read as if I had not read anything

there is only art that shakes a week and make it black

***

The book of birds

in the theater of darkness are larger and paler
of these birds
guts spilled out

a book that he hates himself a couple
wings make a sound card
a hand that controls the flight when it is reached by light is achieved by bone

sky installed in the deep green leaves of reading funeral
seats stars observed
the dead to sit and listen to friendly words that illuminate the death

cruelly nailed to the back the buzz continues to write words
the wind hits the tombstone pears black frozen on top of the branches
carries a book in order to sink into the sea birds blindness

angry tired
make life a script those who have lived long enough
spill seek the ancient gold that they themselves have swallowed

but the ax does not choose any page
after the feathers of each page are stripped hurts the whole sky when we stop to applaud
fall to pieces



***

Harvest

These thorny roofs shine in the yard after threshing

these summer skies that you are exposed to the sun suddenly

blacken the sea shrinks dazzling silver tiles
two trees fall into two opposite directions
famine sown with wheat

of a man's death next year is already obsolete
the sun is broken neck
the pave your eyes and expose the city crowds



***

Neighborhood (1)

death that is cooked in a pot of delicious
near the fireplace in the near
a strain of burning pine quiet cent '
years
summer is always sad as stone walls that feed on climbing vines
but the road through the fire goes into winter

from the fire can be seen
who wash windows one by one livid nights
the shade of pine cut on the sheet outside the window
corrects your skeletons

unnecessarily knocking a green sun burst
stones in the scenario of a bad word breaks into two poems
attests to the mouth of the displaced poet
you seem to grilled fish with

poem from "Where to stop the sea"-Books Scheiwiller - Playon


Yang Lian is one of the greatest Chinese poets and was nominated for the Nobel prize for literature in 2002. Born in Bern in 1955, officials state-owned Chinese embassy in Switzerland. Two years later the family returned to Beijing, where he attended school, absorbing the parents love for literature and foreign languages. He began writing poetry in 1976, after an intense experience of working in campaigns and long trips in more remote provinces of China, eventually finding work in a publishing house in Beijing. Since 1978 began publication of the independent magazine of poetry Jintian (Today), which reopens the space and inventive of contemporary Chinese poetry, in August of '79, published for the first time works by Yang Lian. His artistic debut takes place within a group of young poets already known in underground China and present in influential journals of politics and literature during the "Democracy Wall Movement-". In 1986, Yang Lian makes a long trip to Europe and Hong Kong, returning from which he founded along with the group of poets, Mang Ke Xincunzhe (Survivors) homonymous magazine. In February 1989 he went to New Zealand, Auckland, where there is also the poet Gu Cheng. Both are following the events of Tiananmen Square and denouncing the Chinese government's choices: Yang Lian begins to exile in various countries. In '91 receives an important foundation of the fellowship as a resident artist of the DAAD Berlin in '93 teaches Chinese language and literature at the University of Sydney and began work on the poem Dahao tingzhi zhichu (Where stops the sea). In 1994 he decided to settle in London, where he currently lives and works. In 1999 he received the International Prize in Italy Flaiano for poetry, Where the sea is calm. In recent years, thanks to a different cultural and ideological climate, Yang Lian has returned several times to China, where his works were published with great relief. Yang Lian has worked in more than 20 countries, has published six collections of poetry, two books of prose and several essays in Chinese that have been or are being translated into several languages \u200b\u200b(including Italian) are a major voices in the literary scene , political and cultural world.

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Lindita Arapi

Poetry by Linda Arapi is a hymn to isolation, the body consumed by loneliness and illness, subject to rot under the constant rain, which is the same pain of the poet. In addition to pain, there is no "then nothing (everything comes back to earth): the poem becomes the basin block where life and death collide. And death is seen as a marriage feast: a spot of life continues. There is no trace to cheer him, the peace that is seen only between the faces of others: the poet is left alone, tormented by the same all his male.Forse refers to loneliness among them his fellow man - "Who looks at him go like a stranger on the street. Foreigners. "- Or perhaps is only a reference to the poet's private life, where love and hatred is hatred becomes a thorn in the ribs, a memory that can not be dissolved, but it remains to rot with the same body in death.

***

Isolation

Blu

cold dark blue in the morning

a 'horrible summer

a' horrible summer

Peace in the lungs

occupies a large space handkerchief

clean every moment, like the sky

reflecting on the mirror.

No wire powder, no powder wire

A clear isolation
summer

a 'horrible summer.

Indifference.

will be tomorrow, the day after

to greet me every now and then or maybe just the vomiting green

will cover such as grass

to rot.

are gone.

Summer is quiet everywhere.

not shut in a cage.

I smell my body

feel how long your life ...

I move.

A dark pink.

Lungs sick.

***

bloodstain

In white rooms

scattered in the white blankets

enter

relatives

sit with white jackets.

Wiping the sweat with white handkerchiefs

drink hot coffee cups with white.

wish the bride dressed in white

congratulations on other days

white

rises

for the banquet, they kill white lambs.

by Ndodhi në Shpirt 1995 - (It happened in the soul)

***

The corpse flower

Beyond the glass woke

as a day of rain, when

smoke and drink coffee without getting up

dark with my hands begin to tremble

that often exists

accontonata a box at an angle,

to remind me that my dead body among the flowers

gets wet with rain.

Sola. Who goes

looks like a stranger on the street.

Foreigners.

***

I love you I love you

quiet breathing as the wealthy. For what

I hate you so much I'm

as death his murderess.

Since the legs rot

one day I love you wildly - like an animal

ripping her fetus.

I know you do not breathe

one day in the bushes, silently

die,

rotting smell in

who has forgotten name ... I love you ...

When you spit on them,

am I lick with his tongue

quiet.

I love you!

How long you are together

do not know, then,

do not know, the drunks do not remember the crazy things they do.

***

wonder

And my tombstone odorerà

as a small house to rot in the rain ... nothing

Then everything returns to the earth

(all taken) As simple

like a mother calls to debt oil and salt.

Then nothing.

Who knows how long,

maybe I'll be a beautiful flower

(or plug) or a sea

or bread is eaten

while ... who knows.

by Kufom Lulesh 1992 - (The body Fiorito)

(Translations of Anila Resul Albanian)

*

Lindita Arapi was born in 1972 in Lushnje, Albania. He graduated with honors from the University of Tirana in 1994 and began working as a journalist and moderator for the Albanian national television (TVSH). In 1996 until 1998 he studied languages \u200b\u200band lettererature German and English at the University of Koln in Germany. From 1998 to 2001 he devoted himself to the doctorate in the Faculty of Philological and Cultural Sciences at the University of Vienna, Austria. He currently lives
Bonn (Germany). Among the publications are
Kufomë lulesh (Tirana 1993), translated as The corpse flower in Italy (Brindisi, 1993), në Ndodhi Shpirt (It happened in the soul, Elbasan 1995), and Melodi të heshtjes (The melodies of silence, Peja 1998 ).

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Xhevahir Spahiu

Xhevahir Spahiu's poetry is a call to freedom, the one that was removed for a long time. It 'a cry against the horrors of captivity. This image always recalls the myth of Constantine, who continued to wander after death. The prison then stretches out from life to death. Life is seen as a bit of solitude from which you can not leave. The desolation is the only way possible. Pure love is seen as a "mourning" because love means to remove them to eat the heart to each other. Note the remains of his poetry and then pessimism toward people, toward the dreams never realized, always toward freedom sought and never attained to death ... that is the only way and so continuous and single.

***


The word

They said the word: now you are free
but the word had no strength to say: I do not need. What is

if I did not speak when needed?
I was deprived of wings, I was without
sky, are
a life without a dream, a dream
are lifeless.
They said the word: you are free.
difficult, he said the word, how hard
believe to be free;

after eating their syllables,
after they were cut off
freedom becomes even jail.
They said the word: freedom alive. The word
said
are like that after Constantine's death still traveling.
They said the word, you're free.
To understand what is little
she thought,
she spoke, but instead sounds

there came out blood.


***


Immigrant

'S past the pain they said,
passed the bottom,
the bottom of the coffee in the cup
and the word has taken on ...

But the coffee, the coffee drinkers?


***


father


the night when the world sleeps
and the sea swallows the remorse of the madness of the day when the gulls cry
memory
in heaven and the stars - eyes that do not close your eyes -
silently begin to fade out of hiding

and rides a flying horse

es'avvicina the fence.

is not the only Constantino. It 's the father.

Nobody looks at him and no one it flourish.
League
the horse to the fence under the moonlight,
cleans his shoes es'avvicina
the window next to the sleeping children.
Reach out, cover them with a pail because
dream and dreams are cool.
A node closes the throat but contains
cough
children could wake up. If
rises to seek bread: he
a long forgotten fairy tales. As the silence walks away


takes the path to the home that nobody takes
eyes speaks to Charon, not heard,
not to wake the other dead.
Ah, his soul filled the excavation of the sky
only the body remains there
in the knees of a night underground
... the only night without stars. The olive

Stacom a candle above his head.


***


the top of the mountain peak in

Here
where only the oaks
not left me and leaves tell the fate
here where the waters come to life
cowardice of where they go,
are one area of \u200b\u200bthe summer dry
a tongue cut in the mouth of silence. How close to God

forgotten by God.
For a knock
I give you, traveler,
everything that belongs to me.


***


Our Daily Bread

You came close em'hai said
eaten thee my heart!

I closed my eyes and mixed dreams.
I look like my heart bleeds
between your lips and light meat.
Enjoy, love.
But now, now do not tell me
heartless, how to love you?
You said a few words, tossed a stone
:
thee ate the heart and I
bloody account
hoops dreams.
You know, my heart
your heart shattered, blood
cola
like pomegranate seeds, Plick-Plick.
You said: thee ate the heart, poor
when I had eaten yours. It was time

of mourning and hearts have become our daily bread.


(Translations of Anila Resul Albanian) *

Xhevahir Spahiu was born in 1945 in a village in the city of Scrapari, Albania. In 1967 he graduated in Arts at the University of Tirana Albanian. Since then, a teacher of Albanian Literature, journalist, poet and scrittore.Dal 1993 to 1998 he was secretary of the "Artists and writers Albanians" His works have been translated into several languages.
Works:
Mëngjes sirenash (1970) - "Morning of the sirens" We qytet the Dashur (1973) - "You, the beloved city" and Vdekje perendive (1977) - "The Death of the Gods"; Dyer dhe zemra të Hapur (1978) - "open hearts and doors; Bashkohësit (1980) -" Peers "Agim Shqiptare (1981) -" Albe Albanians "and Zambakët Mamicës (1981) -" The lilies of Mamica "and Kitaristët vegjël (1983) - "The young guitarists" Neser jam aty (1987) - "Tomorrow there are" Heshtje s'ka (1989) - "There is silence"; Dielle the lodrave (1990) - "The sun games; poezie Shqipe (1990) - "Albanian Poetry" and Kohei krisur (1991) - "broken time"; Ferrparajsa (1994) - "Inferno Heaven"; Pezull (1996) - "Suspended"; Rreziku (2003) - "Danger"; poezie të zgjedhura: 1965-2000 (2006) - Poems decide

Serious Gallbladder More Condition_symptoms

Ali Podrimja

I do not think there are enough words to describe the pain that lies in the poetry of the poet Ali Pedrimja. The call to this native land that always leaves her forever and always "sold", an ancient tale, is a clear mark of a natural anxiety derived from the war of men, "his neighbors," the poet always comes to look at each one, without finding it. The man in love is also led to war: the only state ' livable mind is suffering. Perhaps the poet tries to chase away the shadow of the Tower, seen as a call to freedom, to reach the highest place, and almost reach to fly. In his poetry there is always the metaphor of the tower that cradles the loneliness, the coming and going of thoughts ... to erase the anguish. But nothing is truce: everything is a sign of war and tears.

***




Love It 's time to love,
to have confidence in me when I say: Come on,
to have confidence in you when I say, brave.
But in my time too many traps you set,
many guns filled with your father, your people, a thousand and one dark
pitfalls you warp, where I could get waited. And in a corner
s'abitava,
pesavi my hours every day,
Every day I read Shakespeare in the shadow of the Tower,
not meet you in the arm of hope.
Curami eyes, my love,
Heal me back the sun, the pain!
I'm afraid that I dig my eyes in fear, I fear that
kill me behind my back without the faith.
My love, my hand to cross this water allungami wide
are not foreign, nor are the dead land.
the bottom of the valley watch collection:
the white horse is ours now and forever.
looked me straight in the eye, let the bickering, the words, the injuries.
'll take you from the heart of the Flower peach
kindle the lamp of the tower, will sow the new
land.
When I loved you, bring the love after seven villages
and your collections were strong. When
loved me, brought love to a woman mad
el'ingrata retreated in horror.
E 'in term life, brave, why do not we thought of ourselves.
Time is of love.


***


Epica

For centuries I sold blood
and grew only sold blood. For centuries
I ate alone
conscious of not having enough rice on its own ... Friends,
Kosovo is not my blood that is given.


***


Anxiety

My land is burning, my beloved land,
my furrowed brow, a pine tree ...


I shuffled quickly through your territory with my shadow,
Kosovo, ancient fairy tale! Soon
hast bound feet and hands in horror
suffering and death ...

So, who saved first, myself or birds

rose in?
What about the grandchildren of my song of death?
- Eh, even if m'aveste severed his head, another would grow
me!

My
earth burns in every inch of my body - cursed land ...


***


Over pain

broken branches have fallen from the clouds on your body
sold. Kosovo.

Your penis until the roots are crumbling, and over
screams shatter the pain in my forehead,
with the wings of birds killed by the love of my people
exhausted by thirst.

around your body like a snake is wrapped
for burning the Rocky Mountains,
tie them hand and foot with all of your stories - you do not leave alive
bloodied, without washing the
palm with the palm, leaving in you body and life
floor and no lighting fires ...
are broken branch fell from the clouds on your body
sold the gun death, the gun invisible

... What will be my song of yesterday and the word of my people?

The poplar has run of my house burned down, look where to cut, dissolve
where the flame of the water for you, Kosovo?


***




The beauty stretched out my hand to pluck a flower on the lawn
"Do not do it - my beloved near m'urlò -
- fade away!"

stretched up to reach the white horse - the arrival
dreaming who knows what.
"Do not do it" - again came close. And I cried again
nastalgia. I threw

arm throughout the afflicted - and I think it comes
m'accenda eyes of light.
"Lucky you!" - Someone shouted in a hug
and saw and heard nothing.

Since then, wherever I try my best next.

(Translations of Anila Resul Albanian)

*

Podrimja Ali was born (1942) and raised in Gjakovë. He studied Albanian literature at the University of Pristina, where he currently lives. In 1957 he published his first poem in the magazine Jeta e Re (New Life). Those were years when the Kosovo Serbs living in fear of power, with his city as a major center of unrest. This led the poet to write about this state of total distress in 1960 Hija and tokes (The shadow of the earth). In 1961 he published the anthology of elegiac verses Thirrje (Recall) and then Shamijat and përshëndetjeve (1963 - The scarf of greeting), and Dhimbë Bukura (1967 - Dhimba beautiful), Sampo (1969), Torzo (1971) and so on. to work best Lum, lamps (1982) determined that a change in contemporary poetry in Kosovo.
In the '80s and '90s there were publications of Zari (the nut), në Buzëqeshje kafaz (I smiled in cage) up to two books of prose: the Hapur Burguete (1998 - The prison opened) and Harakiri (1999). His poetry introduced Albanian poetry in the use of free verse, the use of metaphors and symbols, irony, a new way of representing the human world.
His works have been translated into several languages.

Gloucester Sailboat For Sale

Alfred Capaliku

very conscious that a poem by Alfred Capaliku. There is still known as sudden stops and the description of real people and what surrounds it: all are part of a collection that hangs in a sense the poet and urges him to think about how people change with the changing world. His poetry is sometimes a complaint with the modernizing too fast and did not want people to see better what and how to make this modernization of the world every day. And this scrutinizing look and judge poet is in the "rhythm of the rain" which seems to indicate a tear of the heavens to see the decline of the world.


***


The goal

The dead wear new shoes because
walk on endless roads, scattered ognidove
desert mirages,
without traffic lights and white lines and poles, traffic and
unsupervised fashion mannequins ,
without passing the opposite direction as dunes,
to find the time, the exact recive. Over the hills
paved stone blocks used as
knock of horse hoofs,
hasten the tires as bumping into cars,
shatter the mirrors of luxury. How many new shoes are

been sold this year! Sybil

a word unanimous
"No Stop" with emphasis
modern language as a knife, without stopping the biblical
no trees, no birds that carry news from decorations.

upside down left right forward back - heaven, with angels
distracted with devils tempting,
under the terms of passers-by Dante.
They watch their doubts over the dust of the shoes that
falter as a chorus in the ancient empty
while off the skin, the foot remains bare.
Far is the goal for God, with
maze of hope opened by itself.


***


Skies marble


Sky marble
weightless
swallows against the current without
arrival

old memories
chewing smokeless,
stunt of trees over roads
odorless.

The white becomes blue,
black ink runs out.
The die is cast,
life is a game.

Rain, virgin tears, shattered
river,
disappears in mystery, as
shots without punishment.

The white is red, black
change color.
In the trap of the day,
life is a game.


***


Symbiosis

Two halves of life not make one,
even split from the cross of pain,
even multiply in the hope,
summed with themselves in poverty,
subtracted from the sky.
The man has the color of autumn woods,
two halves of life does not make it one.


***


Carnival

Day
carnival masks are everywhere,
under the rhythm of the rain, playing with air
smiling
imitate animals, insects, berries,
asymmetrically make accrobazie
to forget the masks of all time.





*** The happy season

As the winds blew season yesterday,
as if the spring would give a concert violinists among its
months
squares and streets in the suburbs.

How hurried lovers under umbrella, laughing
two by two,
and scattered among the green under the
rhythm of the rain.

All this happened yesterday, while waiting for you

near the bar and find your name written on the glass.

(Translations of Anila Resul Albanian)

*

Capaliku Alfred was born in Shkodra in 1952. Debutò with his poems already in high school. He graduated from the University of Tirana in Albanian Language and Literature in 1973. Then began working as a teacher in the city of Shkodra and Tropoja. E 'professor of Albanian literature at the University of Shkodra "Luigj Gurakuqi.
He has published several works including: - "Kenga and kantiereve" (poems "The Song of the yards"), Tirana, 1976 - "For njerezit and punes" (poems "To working people"), Tirana, 1980 - " Java pa ty "(poems" A week without you "), Scutari, 1995 -" At Vincenc Prendushi "(monograph," Father Vincent Prendushi "), Scutari, 1996 -" NJE perralla jave me "(prose for children" A week of fairy tales "), Scutari, 1998 -" Bernardin Palaja "(monograph), Scutari, 1999 -" Tregime for ty " (Prose stories for you "), Scutari, 1999 -" I levizje Muzik "(poems," Music in Motion "), Scutari, 2000 -" Ufoja dhe lulet "(poems for children" The UFO and the flowers "), Scutari , 2001 - "Gasper Pali" (monograph), Scutari, 2002 - "The Alphabets Mungu" (literary studies "The alphabet is missing"), Scutari, 2003 - "Ese studime dhe letra" (literary studies and essays, "Essays and Studies literature "), Scutari, 2005

Blueprint For Pontoon Trailer

Ko Un

will also be the paradox of paradoxes
but in reality I tell you
get poor people of today get tomorrow

poor countries not to America, get
agl ' American Indian
Somali women
news on the new century


*


the line of ants crossing the road in
horizon

perhaps to make us understand, little by little, today


tomorrow and again tomorrow
that this world is not
only in humans

burning light of noon the cuckoo stops singing *





some say you have memories of a thousand years ago
and who says he has already visited the thousand years in the future

a windy day I wait for the bus


*



to think of it more times I buried
why I
are many graves

ah, brag to be here!


*


today I spent my days as a story of someone

on the way home I watch the trees

* Poems taken from "Flower of a moment", published by the Home publishing "Cafoscarina", edited by Vincent D'Urso.

Born in 1933 in the region of Cholla-do province, is probably the most controversial and certainly the most prolific writers of contemporary Koreans. He has published over one hundred volumes of poetry, novels, essays, translations and drama. His poetry ranges from short lyric two lines to vast epics, like the one dedicated to Mount Paektu (Paektu-san) in seven volumes. Born to a poor family
when Korea was under Japanese colonial rule, he studied the Chinese classics and soon cultivated their own language, especially trained by his grandfather (then in Korean school children were forced to study and speak Japanese). The sad experience of suffering during the Korean War led him later to become Buddhist monaco, but after ten years, disgusted by the corruption found in that environment, he abandoned the monastic life and returned to the world with an attitude deeply nihilistic, culminating in 1970 in a suicide attempt. Who later became one of the main spokesman of the artists and students who opposed the dictatorial regime then in force, was arrested several times around the year 1980 and suffered imprisonment. In 1982, at age 50, married and went to live in the countryside away from Seoul.