agonia english v3 |
Agonia.Net | Policy | Mission | Contact | Participate | ||||
Article Communities Contest Essay Multimedia Personals Poetry Press Prose _QUOTE Screenplay Special | ||||||
|
||||||
agonia Recommended Reading
■ I know what you're thinking, father
Romanian Spell-Checker Contact |
- - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2011-07-18 | |
After a whole year reading this book, I have taken the time to make a selection to share with you, out of this great Anthology brought to us by Marlow Peerse Weaver.
As for this 8th Volume, published in 2010, mpw tells us: This generation is cynically aware that past attempts to remedy the world´s most significant problems have come unraveled, including the flowerchild/hippie/student revolution of the preceding generation. Perhaps this explains a lingering hesitancy to grasp an empty canvas to paint their own utopic visions, as if death and spiritual otherworlds offer more fascination, and distraction. This is perhaps the greatest tension welling within, asking whether this generation will drift along inconsequentially, in the grand scheme of things, or it will grasp control and attempt to redefine mankind and its social structures? These are chapters still to unfold, and as such the justification to publish future volumes of this series. The so-called "X Generation" which has been under mpw ´s attention for the last 10 years, giving this Anthology a significant value and meaning in order to understand and study our day and the generation. *** Next the selection. Hope you enjoy it. *** when I was a little girl my first poem resounded in the ears of my neighbors like a street vendor everything useful spreads out on the large and sharp tongue of the afternoon if there had been water to wash the silky mane of the sun the silver work that the desire stationed on the square of a motionless existence ah thighs of stripped dunes to cross the dense tapestry of the fog that the palms impregnate of an incomprehensible bothersome industriousness to blow up the moons it is true there was no water for a garden the desert was that humanity and the dust that my mother shoves with a broom from the collection Ludy D (editiones Flora Tristain) translated by Karen Bernedo Roxana Crisólogo (Lima, Perú / Helsinki, Finland) .::: Bewitched Bewitched eyes in silent call Them twin sparks regard me Bearing truths, she´d rather hid Veils of pain closed Etched I am, hot lead profile stamped on her mind´s wall, Lending her study essence to shame Picasso´s detailed study Joints that would´ve swiveled Locked, to hold bay knowledge Lending scrutiny precious minutes Within which, details looms real Indecisions fights surmountable fear That sprouts to drown reasn. Erasing paths not trod By feet devoid of hope´s light Time flies before procrastinator´s face Leaving gray streaks upon My longing heart´s root To lend words my soul fails to Chiagozie F Nwonwu (Lagos, Nigeria) .::: Marking Time You must intone the litany of bodies those exposed in the glare of the headlights those gatheres in the marble of the ossuaries you must find your way through amorphous byways among the shelves of stores in the mall mark the time of days that are unequal you must adapt to the rhythm of the sirens leave the shelters, expose yourself to clashes yield to the song of antitheft devices be startled by the glimmer of the merchandise be rocked by the gentle flow of the carts dream animal and body parts you must feed on organs and fetishes border every crevice with lattice pay the bill and clean up with care recite the rosary of absent faces empty the eyes, cut out the mouths adhere to the flesh and crack your knuckles. translated from Italian by Luigi Bonaffini from New Review of Literature, Spring 2008 Italo Testa (Milano, Italy) .::: Skyland Boulevard Slip inside this house the road inside the road Where the burdock & weevil seem a chattering Of what is really here a dead ground, swollen With the late sounds of war the religious right The bridges to Babylon Tuscumbia & so many Red lights set like Stations of the Cross a holy Victual like "Holy smokes, Batman!!!" how far We are from heaven It´s a manner of measure A mere chattel of time, to us what difference? Put a good foot forward & the highway opens Up a little slip inside this house, this road this Tiptoed through tulips & tell me what you see previously published in Six Little Things John Pursley III (Greenville, SC, USA) .::: Lost soul Time was so busy engraving lines showing age on her face That she forgot the memories of the heart and soul They wander now, lost. translation by Libby Volke Ester Leibbrand (Heerhugowaard, Holland) |
index
|
||||||||
Home of Literature, Poetry and Culture. Write and enjoy articles, essays, prose, classic poetry and contests. | |||||||||
Reproduction of any materials without our permission is strictly prohibited.
Copyright 1999-2003. Agonia.Net
E-mail | Privacy and publication policy