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Han Dong

*


Rain


nothing happens when the rain is an extraordinary event

else happens but when the rain becomes meaningless:
remember some others do not.
years later, when all is spent,
the rain returns once more
tapping and, while falling,
nothing happens.


*


Around the jade

ends when light, darkness fell.
when things settle, I watch a highlight
barely visible, what would it be?
this greenish glow, I never noticed before.
later my hand came into contact with a part circular jade

enveloping as if a cotton string around the fingers.
I can not remember who brought it to me
(I did, later) but this
soft light seemed to me strange
without illuminating the objects around as though looking

the dark glint in the eyes of a blind woman.


*


Winter Solstice

someone burns the money for road
is the day of the winter solstice
the flames light up the tree-lined street,
us, the living, we turn around in the shadows
to be closer to our
dead in the streets, at the foot of the walls in the courtyards of the houses where they lived
our loved ones once;
bear the loss and remorse in our house
the existence of another world
dark as the earth
agile and warm as the flames.


*




You and me and me: we met, we fell in love, lived together
you and me: we lived secluded for a bit of time to
my sin and my pain for you ,
for your affection, for your unhappiness, to me
you and me, the intimacy of the soul, isolation, everything is around


like you, derived by random
meeting, falling in love and living with her parents
random from the food they ate a kind of random
acquired
we have grown to be visited by the winds random
the world will shake like dice
for becoming
of those red dots: drops of blood,
two lines of tears;
only is this necessary.


*


Someone does not say much

someone does not say much
is neither silent nor introverted
saying only what is necessary
speaking only when required by the courtesy
floating on the surface of this is how they talk
in all their lives
summarized in a few sentences
someone lives like an epitaph
reduced long years of a sentence or two
sober as a tombstone is standing in front of us



*


Life

life is a Holiday
inhabited by people

men and women at random as the meeting on a train near
one another as are the lives

life we \u200b\u200bworry so
embrace a little 'closer
outside the station , hot tears on her face
a butterfly flying around
going back and forth without stopping.


(English translations of Anila Resul)
*

Han Dong was born in Nanjing in May 17, 1961. Graduated from the Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Shandong in 1982, he taught Marxism-Leninism in different universities of Xi'an and Nanjing. He began to devote himself to writing in 1992 and in 1994 he began working in the Academy of Arts New in Guangdong Province. In 1995 he was awarded the prestigious prize Li'an Liu. In 1998 introduced a new literary form called "duanlie" (fragment / fracture) with Zhu Wen and others. He has published several works of poetry, short stories, novels and essays.

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Shuijing Zhulian

*


Envy

infinite eternally known certain things:
the heavens, the oceans, the green plains, the lack
herbivorous creatures - with love - even the slightest connection with the innocence
infinite appetites that make them oblivious
the breaking of the heart.


*


new lover

maliciously bring me here on the shore as an imitation of my first love

silent in tribute to my first love with a tender heart
I can not bend over without bothering to last
's ocean as sea grass growing on land that is part
ocean, a most repugnant
loudly so many years I spent
and thanks to so many first love and true love the ocean
is old and dirty just like me now

in love new faces, accustomed to this pier
that stirs frenzy
here together looking at the sea
both still believing
to respect


*


In memory of a few trees several trees



far enough to make me slightly flattered
in the big cities there distance is comparable in the big cities
my visual space is suppressed
between the ankles and the search of the pupils

hours I have to go all out to spy on distant trees
their calm and more peaceful green

me the bright green door - provocative - laughing: Look here, you sure
sophisticated man
please leave the animals stowed inside the space that you can watch
everything that you think the same can not be turned off in their

is just another small forest of trees that grow far into the distance



(Translations of Anila Resul English)

*

Shuijing Zhulian is the pseudonym of Chen Huan-born China in 1981. His poetic production began on the Internet where young poets today have a different poem, alternative. He started writing at the age of 16 years but has already targeted his poetic art and irony against the lifestyle of today. In 1999 she published her first collection of poetry "The weeping trees" and in 2001 published a collection of prose and poetry collection entitled "Becoming just beautiful."

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.