Cubefield Coffee Field

Felipe García Quintero

birds plunge their beaks into my flesh.

They sit on the palms of my hands.
drinking water of my eyes and my tongue quiet. The happiness of being their food
not reach me.

My glory will be something else, not the sky.


(1993)





* Travel in a train of cars headed by my twenty-one dead.
I look through the shattered glass of the window of a tough battle in the sky burned
butterflies of my five years.

I talk to the trees beat the time you disappear in my eyes, the only ones who have not
road, with the birds that are already
memories of the wind.

Equally I do not know what town this is.

(1994)


*


Little by little the silence is filling my soul sound, with
steps as scary as being chased by a wild beast trembling of heart
sharpening his blade.

is in this blind item that keeps my eyes open.

E - inside me - I think that other
sky waiting for me outside the house, my heaven, that he invented the rain
the corner.

A sky of foul water. Drowning moon, clouds, kept by
mud from the hand of sleep.

My sky-sea disturbing, only in your meat makes my teeth fell
shine more.

Heaven unexpected rust winter comes and fills my empty hands of a blind person without
touch with your body. My sky without a bird
sky. Sky water belly.

My heavens, deep as a stone.

(1996)


*


My house, like the desert, has no roof or door, only a mouth.

My house, like stone, does not have
beams or foundations, only a hand holds on tight.

I built this house by removing bricks and surrendering
my bones to the remaining vacuum.

The house is dark like my voice in its corridors.

I live in the house that way. What
chase and pursued as a larva after the meat ill.

For every cry rises up, with every silence destroys it.

(1996)


*


Stone


1.

Be my thought.

The firmness of my dumbness latent
not the shadow of my body, his injury.

I, your possession, my host
in the voice, the empty room of each bone.



2.


Approaching the misery and perpetual wanderings of silence.

Stone

Happiness sang defeat or silence? In particular

handful of tears
what is there for you, always with me.


3.

fool my sky all peoples cry
the darkness of my childhood.

voice in the silence of the void you touch you
cheers
t'include loneliness.

Firefighter peaceful and hidden each death.


4.

Stone

Be the flight of my fall.

(2003)



(English translations of Anila Resul)


*

Felipe García Quintero (Colombia, 1973) studied English Philology in Spain, Ecuador and Cultural Studies, Literature and Language English in Colombia. He has published four collections of poetry and an essay on the poet Colombian Rafael Maya. He has received several awards and scholarships in Colombia, Chile and Spain. He is the editor of the poetry magazine, and Ophelia professor of journalism in the University of Cauca in Popayán, his hometown.

Swing Set Swings Blueprints

Stefan Hertmans

late-

Only one cloud that we have seen, for
nothing ever looks like something else, like a funnel
appearing suddenly over the hill
cord, bright red and pink, veined and empty
a barrel full of wind and the coming evening,
probably a few miles wide, huge oyster
Drifting away in time.

Could I see from this distance
the point where, years ago, you and I were caught
on a wooden bench, during the cool spring
and the white light and bright, waving a sheet young
of capricious shapes, a forest path
blindly aiming at a face, maybe I could have


briefly saw the cloud appear,
even then, deep in your dreaming;

nothing to report under an old
so much to be silent and disappear.


*


Started

ran into the street without regard
and I like him more and more,
I thought he did it on the door. But

runs around in circles -
racing cars on the road. Now it is almost beyond
and I do not ever take time.

Just so my father, all his life,
could dream of my hand,
from small and fast, able to slip through the bars
deep into the rock and water.

Life goes in a blink of an eye.

seized him - he fearlessly
with his large eyes wide open and so quiet - I


with the deadly battle that will never leave
my life and my body.


*


Three apples and a mountain

The principal dans un tableau
c'est la distance. Paul Cézanne

1.

Three apples and a mountain -
enough to sit still for years
just look and look.
The moon is full on Sainte-Victoire,
at night is still a stone
phosphorescent
charred and burning on the side of the south.

I wrote to a friend, after the last of about fifty attempts
:
I'm too old and too sick, I can not do this. Ambroise Vollard
A: I did
a little progress.
Why so late and so difficult?

The painter is a walker. A road
mind hot rolled his eyes
and sleeps there like a snake. The incumbent

noon, evening of a life -
bright light blinds the eyes.

For the Cours Mirabeau Aix resides on the screen,
once, under the great plane trees
a petty tyrant lit
reached a ripe fruit - then made a circle
fairly quiet and was unaware of any cunning.

There is beauty in the old court houses and offices.
The passage of the painter has been preserved. Still ahead near the

advanced study lies in the garden transformed by eye color.

But only against the high wall of distant haze

things took shape and became
gray tint of color.

A cross stands in inaccessible
air melting. You climb the mountain

with nothing but your eyes
and the path is full of tiny strokes ugly.

Bellevue, Beauregard, Vauvenargues.
A mill and a village asleep. A wash of

Roman period.



2.

brushes are maintained in a silence still hot, even if the colors
cry out the sun.
He knew what was the distance.
stepped among the bodies, including apples
to better hear what he said the mountain. It is beyond
burning in appearance,
not revealed to the guest, with the owls and whispers

blacks in your ear at night.
you can sit out of your life there,
as children grow anywhere alone,
water always flows to a source.

But all those forms have thought about whether
in his head as he joined
so cleverly that in a dream I
recognize them as something once my
and yours, anyone who knows what
heat, silence
is an endless afternoon in the south?

Crush the insects to death on the terrace, not drinking too much absinthe

speaks quietly and with water. Give
evening sink into his being.

[...]


(English translations of Anila Resul)


*

Hertmans Stefan (Belgium, 1951) is professor at the Academy of Fine Arts in Ghent is considered one of most famous writers in the Dutch language and one of the leading contemporary poets. He has published novels, short stories, essays on literature and philosophy, theater and poetry texts. His works have been translated in England, France, Germany and Spain.

Wooden Swing Blueprints

Barbara Korun


On the night of the summer black

I stepped out into the garden
to pick a flower for you -

he shook the leaves on my face, repelling
stubborn,
scratched with its thorns.


Now you look at the corner of the house,
I'm still there and I feel



shake the rose in my hand,
is hot, black blood flows

darkness.


*


Two Of

I.

that god is huge and heavy

gone so far

angel from heaven with a powerful
an angel whispering in my ear bud

bent over me, and I whispered shining



all the way so many years lost

destroyed everything you have is this moment

this only when you whisper
're nothing nothing
powder forgettable
and I love you I love you



angel angel
with a sprout pierces my heart burning



II.


this God is dwelling in the darkness from under


from inside the golden robes of icons
by dark veins pulsing

is lit by candles on

thin hair


this god lives in the holy
underground rivers
entries in temporary
and faith

rises in the sky directly


with a fragile breath
with the softest breeze
speaks to me


*



white room A room, then, a white room ,
light walls washed with lime,
white panels, wood floor naked
there is a bed in this empty room
and, in the distance, two bags of garbage. Through the window fully open

breaks the smell of the pines.

The song of the cicadas flying away.
One bed in this room, this white room,
a couple is sitting there in the broken white robe,
looking toward the sky so blue
they are drowning in the distance.
Feet, hips, hearts are touching -
but their eyes are turned towards the high blue
, were kidnapped in the infinite.
This is like the touch of anime, as they go

each other under the skin and deeper still.

I cover, in one piece?
find shelter here?

Here in the quiet, silence
in their souls to each other, linked
filament light.
There are models of the rainbow on the ceiling
milky
soft explosions of color.

There's something softer than the tips of your fingers?
What flavor are your lips?
Let me taste your heartbeat, let me
feel the flow of blood in your veins.

I'd stop here for hours motionless in silence, just listening
.

The world breaks in the white area of \u200b\u200bthe South. All
withdraws, only your close
ever closer, ever more present and yes,
it is powerful, yes, I'm too afraid, so I'm

careful not to hurt you, not to hurt me.

Slowly now, no need to hurry,
the time he retired, the space falls away,
now there is only you.
Like this, the opening of the sea before Moses.
Like this, the opening of world before me.
Everything pulsates in your body,
that beats in your heart.
Let me be even closer, let me
be deeply, completely into you. Let me be you.

And then the miracle. In a word, a touch,
you take me in your shadow of the moon. Can I watch
through the undergrowth of your groin,
rest in the soft nest of your navel,
I can lick the hollow of your arms like a deer licking her cub,
can I touch your ears small,
can pierce my tongue in your spiral heart.
gentle shaking chills my body, too,
I can taste your every perception, every thought.
membrane expands and bursts of solitude,
are submerged in your order.

What a wonderful playground, your body,
a surprise at every step. We are like children playing
each other, playing in the endless sea.
not worry yet. No shame again.
Everything here is one: you himself, myself, the sea, the sea.


*


breathing together


You can reach me anywhere

deep as you can;

in pleasure, in pain


slips away from you;

in language, in the words
,
here

you breathing inside me, I inhale
entirely.


*

Birth of an angel

I gave birth to a swelling on my breast, my third breast
want hidden under scarves and shawls. It hurts like it came from.
He helped me with his big hands, he peels the faces of souls.
I saw a small creature, the size of a fist, covered everywhere,
white and sticky. You have to let it dry, he said, warming
the creature in his big fingers. I can see how this
be very little was taken with much larger wings
himself. He did not live, he could not, he did not want to live.
vision, sea-foam, merged into our hands.


(English translations of Anila Resul)

*

Korun Barbara, born in 1963 in Ljubljana, is among the leading figures in the generation of contemporary poets in Slovenia. He is the author of Ostrinia Milina (`the edge of tolerance ', Mladinski Knjiga, 1999), with whom he received the national award for the first work published.
His poems have been published in many anthologies and magazines, in twelve languages.
works in publishing houses and literary publications Apokalipsa NOVA Revija .

What Is An Average Bmi For Woman

Sheng Xing




One day I'm walking down the street, which can not erupt lava
to a morning sun can not fall from the sky
run to a woman who can not love
in his hand She holds a dead fish that can not be brought to life
you use a language which may not repugnant
be nice now I can not develop wings and fly above the clouds in the sky
go home in a house that can not sink
and run to my father that I can not take a long time with me
now are too big I can not

turn me into a rat crawling into my hole and quiet in a corner
tonight I'm in my bed that can transform into the open sea

now I can not die but I have a dream: the sun falls to the ground

lava flows
flight from the ground up in the sky
kissing the sweet lips of a woman
the fish holding in his hand is singing hymns
my father kneeling at the side of a ruined
and says, indicating
the sky "that great man is he"
the morning I wake from my dream
I can not believe it was real.


*


The house built in the winter

the house built in the winter
workers who take protective jackets
rocks covered with frost

timber covered in snow and lake water you can have a layer of ice breaking

addition, the black smoke from the chimney on the roof slowly advancing
women are visible through the windows to fog
but the walls remain frozen

when summer arrives
not have to worry about burning that the house
melt like ice cream under the rays of the sun cuocenti
now
workers protect themselves with a trail of trees will
rocks on a distant hill
will be buried under the forest green leaves
the lake will be subdued by the wave
there is a profound absence of all these things and
in the hottest summer sun
(or in the coldest winter)
tighter hug.


*


It 's summer here, but nothing changes

summer is here but nothing changes


caring man
can not change the fact that he died, a woman

not beautiful is one year older
is what I would call "adding insult to injury"

someone who has waited and waited
eventually became insane
unable to stand up to the end of time
someone who has lived
stirs the desire for ill
hopeless because all of the faces of remorse

for someone who is overcome by depression
jokes are a waste of time even for a idiot

the sincere advice is a waste of time

when someone takes the road to ruin is at a precipice


jumping into it without hesitation.


*


We can not remain in the sky for even a second flash of

rise into

is not a problem but we can not remain in heaven, nor can we get
supported from the air like birds because we have not

wings so we can not stay in the sky for even a second flash of
we can only fall straight down from heaven
to beat our noses and faces are swollen
never even dream of challenging the birds dream-


*


I can not wait any longer summer

is a shame, really fall in love with you
winter
undressed
thee when I saw you in the frosty air
your arms wrapped around your naked body in
a shiver when I see your face pierced with tears
treasure

're so beautiful you have to forgive my be rude, my impertinence
only wanted to see what you looked inside the shell
I can not wait any longer summer



(English translations of Anila Resul)


*

Sheng Xing was born in China in 1978. He devoted himself to publishing his poetry since childhood works of poetry in various magazines in China and mainly relying on the possibility of publication on the Web.

Two of his poems are included in the collection "2000 years of Chinese poetry" [2000 XinShi nian Zhongguo of nianjian] published by Yang Ke.