All posts filed under: How Words Play

“Pomegranate” and other poems by Kim Myeong-sun translated by Sean Jido Ahn

Pomegranate In autumn, even a tree sheds jewels on the street. A deeply buried heart may be fetching like this. Around this time, A bird shall pilot the life of a fragrant tree, Crossing the river with a seed in its beak, Passing the field of silvergrass on a mountain. My shallow roots, Which were swayed by no more than rain and wind, Have you ever borne a piece of ruby hot as blood? Without a jewel to pass on to a bird or a wind, I pass in front of a pomegranate tree. Whether I love or hate, Life merely flows. Toward where is life—an initiation ceremony—leading to? The heart too red to believe in an afterlife, The heart pecked by the bird! A Will Joseon*, when I part from you, Whether you knock me down by a creek Or yank my blood in the field, Abuse me more, even my dead corpse. If this is still not enough, Then abuse her as much as you can When someone like me is born henceforth. …

“Finding Symmetry” and other poems by Jo Burns

Conchita reads Pablo’s letter to God (while he is painting)   Your committee for time-keeping has ruled diphtheria a highly unpunctilious event. By consensus you can’t seem to remember this being planned into any agendas.   You call me precocious but Pablo, honestly it’s you that Mama has always adored, Papa ignores me, I can’t even draw. It’s all planned for you so perfectly.   You’re a stickler for timeliness, and planned these years differently. You have the domestic dates regulated but I heard you, silently   trying prayer on for size, gambling paint for my life. You waver clandestine. Your brushstrokes will sacrifice us all and I will be the first in line.   First published by Helen Ivory at Ink Sweat and Tears for National Poetry Day. http://www.inksweatandtears.co.uk/pages/?p=12146   Mrs Violet Schiff at The Majestic   At this gathering of society horsemen behind Parisian oyster cream gates, Proust is here. He drives me insane. Bloody Joyce is silent and seems irritated.   I’m waiting for you Pablo. Please wear, for me, that faixa …

“Magic Bullet” and other poems by Rus Khomutoff

  Untitled for Andre Breton   Nostalgic sentiments and new wave nocturnes intersecting in a normal chaos of life an hourglass of neglected affinities idols of saturated phenomena night of filth, night of flowers the aporia of revelation   Magic Bullet (for Tristan Tzara)    Smell of death smell of life of embrace a medicine of moments semiquavers and sundial conductors of the postspectacle deposits of legitimacy left behind sortilege of the divine decree words in blood like flowers   Grand Hotel Abyss    Selenophilia of our being the obscuring of the queen vexed in your hollow divine incipience of the notable nonesuch like fragrant paperwhites in the corner of the transcendental frame pleasure ground of annulled pretext in hysterically real daymares everyday extraordinary grand hotel abyss   Masque of the minutes for Adam Lovasz    Masque of the minutes like a red psychotonic cry agnosia of the just interloper scarlet bellowing of the deep end excisions on vacuous origins temporal flight of the elemental route   Hygge    A sense of timelessness surrounds her …

“Foraois Bháistí” agus dánta eile le Doireann Ní Ghríofa

Foraois Bháistí   I mbreacsholas na maidine, leagaim uaim an scuab nuair a aimsím radharc nach bhfacthas cheana   ag dealramh ar an mballa: fuinneog úr snoite as solas, líonta le duilleog-dhamhsa. Múnlaíonn géaga crainn   lasmuigh na gathanna gréine d’fhonn cruthanna dubha a chur ag damhsa ar an mballa fúthu, an duilliúr ina chlúmh   tiubh glas, an solas ag síothlú is ag rince tríothu. Fuinneog dhearmadta ar dhomhain eile atá ann, áit agus am   caillte i gcroí na Brasaíle, áit a shamhlaím fear ag breathnú ar urlár na foraoise, ar an mbreacscáth ann, faoi dhraíocht   ag imeartas scáile, dearmad déanta aige ar an léarscáil, ar an bpár atá ag claochlú ina lámh: bánaithe anois,   gan rian pinn air níos mó, gan ach bearna tobann ag leá amach roimhe. Airíonn sé coiscéim   agus breathnaíonn sé siar thar a ghualainn, mar a bhreathnaímse thar mo ghualainn anois,   ach ní fheiceann ceachtar againn éinne. Níl éinne ann.   Rainforest   In morning’s piebald light. I set aside my duster on finding …

“Rosa” and other poems by Bernadette Gallagher

Hanging #2 (Things Fall Apart) For JL As I relax in Inchydoney reading ‘Things Fall Apart’ by Chinua Achebe you encounter a real life hanging and with no time to think you scale the tree and save a man’s life. Twenty four hours later I could do nothing to save Okonkwo, only read to the end of his story. First published by HeadStuff.org as Poem of the Week on 11 November 2015; Editor – Alvy Carragher; Audio recording by the poet Shades (After ‘To Any Dead Officer’ by Siegfried Sassoon) In memoriam: J.J.J. Well, how are things in Heaven? Better than 1916 when you were born? Humans fighting humans. Are there quarrels amongst the shades? Does he who shouts loudest get heard? Have you met Robert Tressell whose book sustained you? He, who died a pauper, yet unpublished. How many others have you met who died unsung or poor? How are Rembrandt and El Greco? And how fares William Blake who was buried in an unmarked grave? Have you heard the music of Vivaldi or …