Tọ́pẹ́ Salaudeen-Adégòkè: To Hypothesize Like E C Catalan

Head of the wife of an Ooni, the traditional ruler of the ancient Yoruba city of Ile-Ife, 1930s. Source: 1stdibs.com

(For Onnie)

 

I have tried to count our minted coins:

 

They are Z+ of integers slipping through mind

Like a money changer sans numismatic head.

Perhaps I am a failed Pythagorean

Perhaps I am a failed mathematicist

That I have always been all my life.

 

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Shaimaa Abdelkarim: Two Poems

Anna Boyiazis, from “Finding Freedom in the Water”, Zanizibar, 2018. Source: lifestyle.luxusni-bydleni-praha.com

 

Tremolo Provocateur

 

untuned     time

those improvised lines

unearthed tragedies

awaited

 

agency is someone else’s fortune

when all they see

genres of what we be

عيون ترسم واقعا لتلوم ما لم يكن

ويغدو الآخر     في خيال مقتبس

 

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Alexander Booth: from “Insulae”

Gueorgui Pinkhassov, Venice, 2003. Source: magnumphotos.com

On a major thoroughfare between a porn theatre and a filling station, it was just past the central cemetery and the bridge over the railway lines. A young communist lived in the room across from yours. He worked in a hotel. You had no job and no prospects but, for the moment, didn’t care. You’d sit together at the brittle table in the kitchen, all dark browns and orange, smoking, and listening to cassettes of sixties pop tunes, with small cups of coffee, now and again a beer. You had a couple of books and some traveler’s checks. Day after day you’d wander the sunburnt city, surprised, over and over again, at how often you got lost.

Ogada: Two Poems

Cyrus Kabiru (SMAC Gallery), from “C-Stunners”. Source: weareafricatravel.com


let me remember you

 

we mold differently,

teenage-fly hearts,

with phone calls we don’t want to end

what we don’t know how to do,

is walk away

 

i have known you

for introducing me to nature trails,

and each tickle of a touch

evokes the treks shared

 

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Petero Kalulé: 3 ear etudes*

Jennifer Kincaid, Digital 3D model of the human cochlea. Source: indigo.uic.edu

 

Cochlea

 

if the kernel of

sound is quiver,

 

the ear shall l-

oose te­ther,  &

 

knell itself  in

echo

of whether whether

wither w

here:

 

*the ear is a kind of leaf

 

 

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𝐹𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 Leaving

I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates—

A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.

 

God’s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar—

All the archangels—their wings frozen—fell tonight.

 

Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken;

Only we can convert the infidel tonight.

 

Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexities

multiply me at once under your spell tonight.

 

He’s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven.

He’s left open—for God—the doors of Hell tonight.

 

— from “Tonight” by Agha Shahid Ali

 

2003

I Saw a Man Hugging a Fridge: Twelve Poems by Youssef Rakha in Robin Moger’s Translation

HAITI. Gonaives. 1994. U.S. invasion.

Alex Webb, Gonaives, Haiti, US invasion, 1994. Source: magnumphotos.com

First song of autumn

 

Joy of my days, come

watch me run

I’ve bought white shoes

and see-through eagle’s wings

I am the clarinet’s mouth

and you the ransomed player

Kneel and guzzle me, set

the sea’s taste in my throat

and make my breast a wave

upon whose mane the sun

sows jewels

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Noor Naga: No One Walks Woman in Alexandria

Anti-harassment stencil graffiti by Keizer. The legend reads “Check yourself before we check you”. Source: tavaana.org

The men of this city make animal

sounds as if to say

I got a slaughter with your neck

      on it now how

you gonna walk with your psst-psst hidden

  all your psst-psst hiding

      from me

           and my tick-tick pointing

pants how now you gonna walk two-legged

with my panting your

          stiff sniffable neck and my smick-smack with my

bone back watching—

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Dhaka Dust: A Portfolio by Saqif Hossain

.Can’t occupy the same space at the same time

unless, of course, you land in Dhaka, rickshaws

.

five or six abreast. They are all here:

studded metal backboards ablaze with red flowers,

.

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Two Ways into Bara, by Zahreddine: Speaker of the Baran Tribe

(1)

Go to the street, ask for anything, it will be given to you.

BARA will have seized the monarchies and set their palaces ablaze.

There is a fellow population suffering.

To have lived it, later generations will assume it caused great conflict of the heart.

But, take my trials, they are too good for me.

Remember, the videos passed around.

am guilty.

There is nothing left to say.

White sheets compound the pavement.

Chemicals in the territory.

The revolution is a farce.

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Robin Moger Translates Sukaina Habiballah

From the Aperture Foundation’s Paul Strand Book by Joel Meyerowitz. Source: studiobaer.com

nes t ree

in turn I bore straw

much straw and went

in search of a tree to make

my nest but a tree I did not find 

and with the straw I’d gleaned I packed

my chest I picked a field and I stood upright there 

 

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Aashish Kaul: Phantom Days

Cian Dayrit, from Spectacles of the Third World, 2015. Source: tin-aw.com


in this world, beauty is so common

— Jorge Luis Borges


Again I wake up with the sound of drums in my ears, the mattress hard under me. I bury my face in the crook of my arm that is on the pillow, while with the other hand I search for the watch. The drums seem nearer now; their beats ruffle the hair on the back of my head and slide down into my ears, but sleep has not left me entirely and it is with difficulty that I lift my head to check the time. It is not yet eight and I have already twice repeated these movements in the last twenty minutes, which could well be three hours. Then all at once the beating of drums ceases. The company has concluded its morning march. A bugle is heard three times. After that all is silent, though I now become aware of another sound, that of the old fan rotating above. Fighting the urge to fall back to sleep I turn around and rub my eye with a finger. I can think of nothing as I follow the movements of the fan through the mosquito net that closes on me from all sides – like a room within a room. In my sleep I recall feeling the warmth of a body. But here I lie alone, ignoring the discomfort of a full bladder. I see the road that passes through the forest, its trees yellowish-brown skeletons, their branches bare and rising willy-nilly towards a sky which is white with heat; the earth as far as you can look is covered with dead leaves. It is a landscape at the end of time.

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Robin Moger: More Saniya Saleh

The only window, in disrepair

Francesca Woodman, “Untitled”, Rhode Island, 1975-78. Source: americansuburbx.com

Don’t come tonight, sad bat

Packing your head between my brows.  

We have denied one another at times 

In despair and in defeat. In vain

Face bumping at face,

The heart at the heart.

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Hilary Plum: Lions

Saul Leiter, Barbara, 1951. Source: designobserver.com

.

The long fact of the turned face is named faith.

Through the tall windows opposing the tapestries

that depict the gaze of the lion, low hills with dark cows

remain far. A pheasant plump in the dirt, a voice saying you,

and modern angles guide us into the room where we were

never again, as in the absence of any machine a man

watches the ball propelled down the lane toward him

then bends, pins in hand. I hear his regular breath.

.

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Robin Moger Translates Salah Abdessabour

The Daybook of Bishr the Barefoot

Abu Nasr, Bishr bin al-Harith, sought out debate and discussion and heard all that was said and so inclined to mysticism. And one day he was walking through the market when, taking fright at the people there, he removed his sandals and slipped them beneath his arms and set off running through the sunbaked stones and sand, and none could keep pace with him. This was in the year 227 AH.

Leopold Müller, A barefoot man in robes running while holding a stick, 1878. Source: Wikipedia

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Rachael de Moravia: The Mutability of Beauty

Illustration (made for the poem) by John Trefry

.

I went to New Orleans when I was young.

Spanish moss hung from trees like bodies in the still air.

.

I wore white linen because of the heat

and the only time I felt comfortable was at three in the morning.

.

Her shoulders were bare, her hips narrow like a boy’s,

her skin pale and soft as moth wings in the monochrome night.

.

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