Yesim Agaoglu. Born in Istanbul. Studied Istanbul University, Department of Archaeology and Art History. Master of arts degree at the same university, Faculty of Communications, Department of Radio-TV-Cinema.
Poems have been published in literary journals since the age of 18. Has seven poetry books published in Turkey and also two poetry books published in Azerbaijan and in 2016 and 2017 two poetry books has published in New York,USA. Poems translated into many different languages such as English, German, Spanish, Russian, etc.
Biographies are in some literature and art encyclopedias and poems in anthologies. Some of her essays are in collective books. Participated in numerous national and international literature and poetry festivals. Also, in 1998 she has been in Bangladesh, Dhaka, ‘‘Dar-ül İhsan English University 1 st World Poetry Celebration Day’’ as a honor guest of Bangladesh PEN.
Her poems published in “Akzente Literature Magazine” eleven pages in 2014 August issue in Munich. She has been nominated for Coburger Rückert-Preis 2016 in Germany.
She has a short theater play named “forbidden chirpings” staged at Hazar University, Baku,Azerbaijan.
Also has been continuing contemporary art activities combining different disciplines (especially poetry and language) since 1996. Participated in many solo and group exhibitions and biennials in countries like Germany, Norway, Italy, Bulgaria, Bosnia, Azerbaijan, Georgia, Uzbekistan, Korea, etc.
he is afraid of my eyes, my eyes
of the distant ship that floats in their depths
he is as ugly as can be
my lovely beautity
he is without arms and legs,incomplete
ı'll make him whole
theres no end to thinking thoughts he says
no end to kissings and salutings and missings
and that's as it should be
but what about lovings?
he is caught in a trap he says
he'll escape and come
stepping one by one on colored heads
trampling on them.
making contradictions gush out of their brain
he cant keep his eyes open,
so disgraced and furious he is
beer and gin and tonic
phones gross with vomit
distortions lived out at random hours
noises are getting louder within the house
ı wonder if the world got cracked up somewhere
ghosts are crowding in all around
my eyes are galleons tossed by the storm.
Age of metallic loves
ı know you miss me, so
ı’ll send you the second me soon.
ı’ll be all dressed up in iron armour
ı’ll record my voice on cds
the voice proclaiming my love for you
my image on harddiscs
so lovely and posed just as you like it
we’re in the age of metallic loves
wake up already we’re after indestructibleness
we will bend death’s wrist yet
push the keys of your computer
and you’ll get my meaning
ı’ve shut us up tight inside it
our dnas and rnas belong to it now
ask and you’ll get all the answers about us
have you been missing my smell
soon it too will come to you
ıt’ll wing its way to you over the distances
flowers did you say,
ı’ll be sending you bouqets of roses
heavenly smelling roses of iron
dont say you dont want them we are
ın the age of metallic loves after all.
Sweettalking the fairy
o, fairy who makes that master write poems
my call is clear, no ceremony,
having sharpened your wings just drop in,
even if you’re wet from the rains
your tea is made, coffee if you wish
and if you’re cold, your wings frozen from the snow
my wine is warm, so is my home
we could even make it springtime
my window is open
my room fragrant with roses
or come in summertime if you wish
let it be scorching hot
let’s share an ice cold water melon
spread your hair across my room
o, fairy whomakes that master write poems
come with your sharpest wings
my secrets are sacred
ı wont tell anyone that you’ve been here.
Do not ask me anything
you’ve never seen thomas ray’s shop
never seen the figures he makes
all negro, all wood
dark things go on in that shop at night
as stark dark as a negro
dont ask cause ı dont know very much either
being a stranger in these parts.
you havent seen madame kaye’s shop either
a shop from the 193o’s
only womens intimate wear is sold there
satin, silk and lace underwear of all colors
at night weird men come and go there
what goes on ı dont know either
dont ask cause ı’m a stranger in these parts
ı can see your shadow stalking me
dressed in jealousy
sliding along pitch-dark walls
reminding me that ı’m living wrong
fire at the tip of my tongue
my hair ablaze
explosions in my eyes
betrayal at the roots of my hair
please do not ask me anything,
cause ı’m a stranger in these parts.
De ja vu
we never dwelled in the same cities
never got mired in the same smogs
he always had ports
and toy sailors of his own.
whereas what ı had were bridges
we never sailed our boats in the same poems
never frequented the same tales
our movies also were never the same
ın his, the star marlene dietrich mostly
even the bars we patronised were not alike
his being dark and reached down by stairs
whereas mine all lit up deliriously
most strange because according to him,
ıt felt as if we’d known each other of old
Spring time in andalusia
they left their roses behind, when they went
their violets and their loquat plums
geraniums on balconies
and nightingales in cages
ever singing across the sea
to make their vocies heard
church bells instead of the ezan
echo within the mosques now
from the fountains water flows sadly
and the women are not there anymore
beautious women balancing water jugs on their heads
along the narrow streets are still heard
the sound of ceramic dishes and
wafting all around, the saffron mixed aromas
and the sadness they left behind.
dust and chaos everywhere
the age has surrendered long since
they got on their horses,
their strong arab steeds and took off
leaving mostly roses behind them
never have ı seen such profusion of lovely roses anywhere.
Gianfranco Aurilio was born in Rome, Italy. After graduating in a Humanities-centred secondary school, he earned his Law degree from the University of Rome. He has written thirteen collections of poetry and his poetry has been published in several national and international anthologies and magazines.
Soldier of war
for just one more night
before I leave
to become a soldier of war
and don’t cry tonight.
Keep your tears
and sow them
by the lime-tree
in the shade of which
I loved you.
I will come back to pick the shoots
and adorn your hair
before the fruit
of your womb is born.”
Years went by
and every day a child
comes and picks a leaf
to put it under his pillow
and fall asleep saying
“Good night, Dad.”
I saw the stars
of the Big Dipper
from the city
and then I went to the seaside,
hoping to see them again
and they were there
waiting for me.
I asked them how they had managed
to get there before me
and they replied
that one must
stay still and steady
if they want to run fast.
I was in the forest
and there was silence
all around me.
just for a moment
I stopped to listen
in silence to the silence
and I heard
a brook flowing
an acorn falling
a bird singing
the wind caressing the leaves
a squirrel squeaking
the grass stirring
the branches waving
Just for a moment
I started walking again
no longer in silence.
Under a mantle of stars
Under a mantle of stars
I lay myself down
to listen to the silence
which was calling me from above.
I wandered through the sky
looking for the end of it
without being able to imagine it
and only then
I stopped trying to understand.
Each of us has
our own road to travel
but it's up to us
to embellish the roadside
with flowers and fragrances
and fill it with trees
so we can walk in the shade.
The smile of the sky
“I'm smiling at you.”
the sky said to me
but there was only a quarter moon
and I didn't understand.
“Bow your head.”
he then said to me.
“One needs to be able to see
from every angle
in order to find beauty
where it seems like there is none.”
I bowed my head
and the sky was smiling at me.
I discover the prologue previous to me itself.
There, after naming to love, I stay
as an immobile scenario that marvels
in the Universe. In this atmosphere
of dazzle, already I am not any more
only the other one that reads me
-interrogante anxiety that travel through my shores-.Storm in calm. Calm in the storm.
Join extremes without being and without being,
as claw detached from the flesh
in front of his mirror fountain: Moon of blood,
torch between my fingers what stain
the fresh paper with his lips and kisses
with its winter breath my autumn
that still blooms in spring. Unfold
the mystery of life; run the shadow and
It denies the uncertain of my chiaroscuro notes.
As a cat with hunger, the moon inhabits me
Deciphering me with his seven lives Jaguara of the lost Paradise Before her the amazement slips
and initiates the subtle game of the shadows.
Silence. Green tender in amber eyes
travel the sap clarified by their footprints,
footprints of fierce loneliness
read as intimate poem
of the quiescence. Everything kept silent the immense jungle,
nobody sleeps …stalks
stalks the life in the death
the ceiba unfurl the night
in the most matted of his leaves light,
belated light that undresses when falling the briefness of the time.
Isolated among its branches, without knowing what they think,
look devour the day to night, and the night to day;
what remains of the hunt, is part of another paradise
where it is not customary to give condolence. Cosmic Fantasy The lucid madness crosses the heart of desire.Castaways of me the memoriesthey cry in solitude the delirious hoursof love, crossword puzzles unansweredwhispers insomniac that copulate dreams since the abode of the soul for if I returnfor if I return wake up again... I me seeingto rainto the beloved in per Se,in Me, in Sol
I have been alone
Days and nights
already I do not know myself.
360 º nothing moves
nor is touching. God!
An ancient mask conceals The Everything.
360 º and the epicentre
you´re still you
of the conscience
Your silence, burn
Once again life bursts
desolate the Universe is left.
Tañe his weeping in black hole
Zurze his heart in other suns.
Bite the light years of heartbreak
Burn the silence ... you don't know how much.
The stars scrawl oblivion.
Naked of time, your image
Rakhim Karim (Karimov) - Uzbek-Russian-Kyrgyz Soviet poet, writer, publicist, translator. Born in 1960 in the city of Osh (Kyrgyzstan). Graduate of the Maxim Gorky Moscow Literary Institute (1986). Member of the National Union of Writers of the Kyrgyz Republic, member, official representative of the International Federation of Russian-speaking Writers in Kyrgyzstan (London-Budapest), member of the IFRW Board, member of the Union of Writers of Russia, laureate of republican literary prizes named after Moldo Niyaz, Egemberdi Ermatova. Laureate of the International Association of Writers named after Peter Bogdani (Brussels - Pristina). Laureate of the Swami Vivekananda International Peace Prize (India). Doctor of Philosophy (Morocco). Ambassador of the World Children's Movement for Central Asia. Member of the World Haiku Association (Japan). “Poet of the Year - 2019” (Demer Press Publishing House, Netherlands). Winner of the Osh regional contest "Altyn Kalem -2003". The author of the national bestseller “Camila”, winner of the second prize of the International Book Forum Open Central Asia Book Forum & Literature Festival - 2012 (Great Britain), nominee for the Russian national literary prize “Poet of the Year 2013, 2014, 2015”, “Heritage 2015, 2016”, Prizes to them. S. Yesenina (2016). In 2017, he was awarded the silver medal of the Eurasian Literature Festival LiFF in the nomination “Eurasian Poet”, the medal “Kyrgyz Tili” of the State Commission on the State Language under the President of the Kyrgyz Republic. Co-chair of the Literature Council of the Eurasian Peoples' Assembly. The author of more than 40 books of original, translated poetry and prose. His books have been published and published in Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Ukraine, Belarus, Russia, Azerbaijan, Great Britain, Canada, Mongolia, Romania, Greece, the Netherlands, Zimbabwe, India, Tunisia, Saudi Arabia, Albania, Belgium, Pakistan, the Republic of China, Japan, Mexico, Venezuela, Poland, Macedonia, Croatia, Serbia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Afghanistan, Spain, France, USA, Colombia, Germany and other countries of the world in Uzbek, Kyrgyz, Russian, Tajik, English, Ukrainian, French, Spanish , romanian, ital Jansky, Hindi, Bengali, Dutch, Greek, Persian, Pashto, Dari, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Macedonian, Serbian, Albanian, Croatian, Bosnian, Montenegrin, Slovak, Azerbaijani, Turkish and other languages of the world.
Translated poetry and prose into Uzbek, Russian, Kyrgyz and English by authors from Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Russia, Tajikistan, Mongolia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, the Netherlands, Tunisia, Saudi Arabia, Romania, Poland, Macedonia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Iran, Luxembourg, Denmark, USA, Slovakia, Mexico, Iraq, etc.
The author of more than 20 popular patriotic songs in Uzbek, Kyrgyz, Russian, written together with composers of Kyrgyzstan, Russia, Ukraine, Uzbekistan and Germany.
There is no time to set out beautifully, -
I do not have time to tell the truth!
Without unnecessary phrases, I am called to create here, -
It’s enough for me to link a few words!
Sorry oh beautiful words
Because I am not so sick of you!
I love simple words! Maddened
Me, after all, the Queen - Simplicity !!!
It’s easy for me and simple, funny
Forgive me and you grammar!
I adore the naked Truth
She is my love, Romance !!!
War is the bestial face of people
War - their vampire mask, brink.
War is a battle of base ideas
War - violence, murder, abuse!
War is a confrontation of dirty feelings
War is a competition of evil minds.
War is loss, death, horror and sadness
War is eye hate, house fire!
War - there is commercialism, greed, pain,
War - orphan hood, widowhood, hunger, fear.
War - bombing, blood, shooting, fire,
War is hell, where human victims are dust!
War is atom, radiation,
War is a bacterium, and torture is a sin ...
War - a riot of tanks, aircraft,
War is a victory: savagery success!
(War is a defense, I’m not arguing, no,
War, but still a virus, the root of evil.
War is a crime, a response,
War is war, which it was not !!!).
War, leave us humans alone
War, we all have one World - Light!
War is chaos, the death of sunny days,
War is the end of dawn and darkness is dawn!
What does ash mean? The ashes cried out
Once, giving soul?
Not grown, not created,
It is a day that went out, the light went out.
Under it you will not bury the remains, -
The winds will be dispelled, they will race off with it.
As I recalled myself here,
Questions in my heart are pounding:
Will I become ash one day? Ashes?
And will conscience become dust one day?
And the heart with a tender flower faded -
Will the heart of a child in me wither?
I will not idly fly in the wind!
I will create a flowering garden
I'll blaze with light, half day light
Let the garden forever rustle with leaves!
What a blessing to come to visit
To friends, with a wonderful poem!
And treat guests with a good toast,
Quince jelly - a verse-jam!
What a blessing, oh, to write poetry, -
Compose a melody from juicy rhymes.
And regale friends so dear
Green tea from the petals of the rhythm!
What a happy life to live in verse
Breathe, love Poetry - Muse!
Put my years into a poem
Both sin and joy are bright bonds!
How we love to blow, bomb
The poor earth is suffering.
When we learn to love
Take care, guard - Mother!
Throw bombs on Her
She gives flowers in return.
Digging, cutting, burning, spitting,
She promises in return fruit.
Shakes our cradle, -
Without sleep, spinning day and night.
We stomp Her breasts, a bed,
We are ungrateful - son and daughter!
We are fighting on Her, the army,
Carelessly shedding blood.
In return, like a loving mother,
She will embrace again ...
FORESTS ARE BURNING
Forests are burning, alas, the globe,
The animal world needs help.
Botany, zoology from the heat,
Suffer: geography and weakness ...
When a fire in the forest, people say,
Everything burns there in a row: dry, wet ...
In the fire - the roar of a lion, an elephant and a cry of a deer,
The moan of ant, grass, trees, soil throughout.
Tigers are helpless in the forest today,
Mercy ask: wolves howling on coal!
Where the bear games remained in the fire
Save as you can, flora, fauna in our century.
Give wings, God, hares and raccoons,
Give the birds an opportunity to fly away.
Give salvation to mushrooms, forest bounties,
Let us see beauty again!
Oh, have pity on your creature children
My soul burns in fire.
Forgive us, the Sun, the sky, our Creator,
Do not punish us, under us peace, ruin.
Raed Anis Al-Jishi born in Qatif, Saudi Arabia. He has an honorary fellowship in writing from Iowa university-USA . A member of advisory committee of exquisite Teacher training plan of national Changua University of Education-Taiwan . He has translated 5 books. And published one novel, nine volumes of poetry in Arabic( last one was translated into French) and one Bleeding Gull: Look, Feel, Fly, in English( this book was translated into Serbian,Vietnamese and Italian languages and win the best translated book in Italy in different occasions. A lot of his single poems were translated to many languages.
[ A selection of poems from Raed Anis Al-Jishi’s
Genesis of Dignity: The Impact of the Arab Spring ]
Translated by Amira Rammah
The Arrival of Seagulls
I have seen gulls,
in holy visions,
hover and invent
the sound of horses.
I have seen them
give alms to rats
hungry for crumbs of bread,
crucified on the altar.
I have seen them
flap their wings and swallow
common rules of fish.
Reinvent the physics
of a silver talisman’s dance
on the sea’s curve.
I have seen rats
feast at the fall of dusk.
They claim to be the genesis of light.
A Dance of Bullets
If out of passion I strained my heart,
it doesn’t matter.
You crossed each alley
of my inner streets -
mirrored the dream
running through my veins,
and from my garden,
the love grown
from a pear tree.
If I offer you roses
distilled from my blood
and if, in your honor
I play the anthem of salvation
with my heart’s beats,
it doesn’t matter.
it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter if
all you could offer me is
a dance of bullets.
No borders for bounty,
with a thousand parties and factions,
and woes crown kings of passion.
I’m all & nothing
for the great & worthy belong
only to the free word.
Leave me then.
I chose mirrors
as a mode of reflection
and will -
a compass for my path.
The Genesis of Clay
I wear clay masks
made out of sapless soil.
Call on the storm cloud
chained by the bleak cold
to join the thrill of the newborn wind
on a pearl
muffled with pride.
Baffled, the gunpowder disparages you
With what pride did God mold your hands?
Each time, you called on Death
upon their divine revelations,
Death prostrated itself and prayed
like the heavens for your sake.
On Love & Death
I’ll surrender to Love
if that’s her wish
My hand reaches out
to stroke her shadow
resting by twilight's woes
As I doze, I open one eye
trace in my memory
the shape of her little smile.
I saw her eyelids frozen to a prayer.
I could love,
I could love and die her way.
JAMES SUTHERLAND-SMITH was born in Scotland, but lives in Slovakia. He has published seven collections of his own poetry the most recent being “The River and the Black Cat” published by Shearsman Books in 2018. He also translates poetry from Slovak and Serbian for which he has received the Slovak Hviezdoslav Prize and the Serbian Zlatko Krasni Prize.
His translations include selections from the work of Slovak poets Ján Buzassy, Mila Haugová, Pavol Janík, Ivan Laučík and Milan Rúfus and Serbian poets Ivana Milankov and Miodrag Pavlović. Selections of his translations of Mária Ferenčuhová’s Slovak poetry and Rajko Dzaković’s Serbian poetry were also published in 2018 and a second selection of translations of the poetry of Mila Haugová is about to be published in Britain by Arc Publications as well as a selection of the poetry of Ján Gavura in Slovakia.
Outside cold drags us down to minus ten degrees.
I’ve yet to shake the snow from our conifers
beyond which the streets run parallel to one another
their vanishing point under steep hills once patched
with orchards never lit by the orange street lamps.
No-one walks out, though on the radio a dance
from heat quickens on a guitar to abandon,
sounding where snow falls rarely on the glossy leaves
of orange trees growing in long parallels
and even then it turns to vapour upon the grass.
The guitarist’s fingers could be at minus ten degrees,
their touch exact and gentle as the falling snow
on strings not quite parallel to one another
where the notes walk out like folk acquainted
with one another shading their eyes against the light.
Our world today is melting.
The red arcs of the creeper
bend and shake with beaded light
to the point where a twig ends
its own non-Euclidean form,
so water drops on to mulch
which stirs under the impact.
Now your hair is much thicker.
You’ve washed, dried and twisted it
into a braid whose gold sparks
with light when you comb it out
and my gaze is held there by
I saw a snake swimming in the stream.
It moved in time with the minute changes
of the ripples over silt and pebbles.
So at first I thought it was a reed
or a long wild iris leaf folded double.
But then it seemed to tilt of its own accord
against the cool current and I made out its head
as it broke the surface then paused,
a mottled yellow like a linden bud,
on a stepping stone’s rough, warmer edge.
It withdrew once more into the water
so nonchalantly at ease in the cold
until the liquid and mineral mutter
accelerated and the snake rolled
sideways to slip between tree roots in the bank.
I left the cabin that night with you to look
first at the stars and meteors burning up
in the atmosphere of our dying planet,
then watched the stream with its scintillants of light,
the tail-end of a galaxy shaped like a snake.
There was rustling near us. It was not the creep
of a mouse. It was too continuous, too slight
like a breath avoiding words which wait on the tip
and back of our tongues so that language fails
and stays unformed in the dark heat of our throats.
The signs were there for all to see.
Red ants raised little dirt volcanoes
from cracks in the gazebo’s masonry.
Fruit dropped from creaking trees on cue
each windfall more circular than the last
and colouring to a blush’s hue.
Our manuscripts were carelessly left out.
Their ink ran like witch’s blood and scorched the grass
so nothing healthy would ever sprout.
The laurel was transformed by ill will.
Wind could not stir leaves which yet moved
when the air was absolutely still
as though they were lips round dark mouths
babbling above mould and loam where neither
bird hopped nor lizard scuttled. Truths
beyond our hearing’s pitch were uttered.
We slowed the noise down octaves, reversed it.
All we heard was meaningless mutter.
HAVING THE BOYS OVER
Who will tumble from the sky
and be arrested in my garden
disentangling themselves from a parachute?
Who will thrust up through the soil
and brush crumbs from their heads and shoulders
staring goggle-eyed waist deep in our cabbage patch?
And who will flit like a bat
intent on catching moths and midges
claiming they are between heaven and the earth?
None of my friends, I suspect,
though of those who are outrageous
some still love their wives, some still believe in God.
We look up at shooting stars.
The ground beneath our feet is unmoved.
Something dark in the air shies by very fast.
FIVE POEMS FROM “The River and the Black Cat”
The trees have devised an alphabet of colour.
The river nurses a favourite vowel
over hieroglyphs of shadow and small stones.
Yellow and green is the business of the day
although the black cat denies this
leaping from branch to branch in the apricot
as if blackness and points glittering
from the sunlight in her fur had nothing to do
with our language where syntax rattles its bones.
We regard and whisper nonsense
over the clauses of each other’s bodies
to confirm we are landscapes within
or landscapes without, trees without leaves
or blossom, flowering heads without
petals or colour, scent the breeze has brought
from somewhere we can never locate.
All at once more considered,
more leisurely, more constructed,
over time less inspired,
less impetuous, less improvised,
the garden comes alive at appointed places,
brown, violet, pink velvet buds,
nature imitating the unnatural,
staked, pruned, espaliered,
a language on its best behaviour,
voices practising a nuance,
hands splaying their fingers to make a point,
smiles not residing in the eyes,
laughter deliberately musical,
a heart breaking with perfect manners
unlike the river unruly with melting ice
while slightly elsewhere between little
avenues of rose twigs the black cat trots
with the first song of spring in her jaws.
A headless thrush brought in for breakfast,
the black cat more than usually companionable,
unseen, unheard the river conveys greetings
from the Holy Roman Empire to the court of France
despite the raucous manners of jay and magpie,
the calloused hands of the executioner grasping an axe,
a would-be lover having to comprehend that No means No
while the garden begins to flourish before its due time,
the apricot breaking out into white and pink
and you and I embrace naked heedless of the open window.
THE LOST WORLD
Our journey to the centre of the earth
begins without the clean-living white hunter,
without the absent-minded professor,
his devoted person-of-colour servant,
his critical daughter, virginal
obsessive cleaner of test tubes.
You require somebody who always leaves
the toilet seat down. I require somebody
who always laughs sincerely at my jokes.
The language synchronizes with the earth
and opens its golden fissures into which
we dive speaking unintelligible tongues.
Crust, mantle, magma are exposed as myths.
The river is a surface expression
of underground idioms and jargon.
The black cat frisks over continents
of extinct animal sounds to join us.
The Golden Age is once more upon us,
sunshine alternating with bouts of rain,
the black cat sheltering in the shed,
the river surly with reminiscences of the hills.
You and I, too, are fire and water,
our faces perfect shining miniatures
in drops of water, our kisses vapourising
with a tang like wine spilt on a hot stove.