On Listening To Gardel While Peeling Carrots

Aprilia Zank

the blade of my mother’s peeler

reveals the salmon red, juicy flesh

of the carrots

with unaltered precision

as sharp as ever

after all those years

on crudely refurbished records

Gardel reels his passión

in words pregnant with vowels

that unleash endorphins

long before the morphemes

reach the left hemisphere

alma de mi vida



at the poetry workshop

they teach you

to forget words –




turn to scrubland

and we delete our hearts piece by piece

lest their beats should sound obsolete

in my kitchen

a bandoneon challenges the eternity

with suspiros de amor


Carlos Gardel (1890 – 1935) is known as the best tango singer of Argentina. The Spanish words in the poem translate as: alma – soul, vida – life, corazon – heart, amor – love, suspiros – sighs)


Elisa Mascia

I Nostri tempi!
In tutto il mondo è uguale ciò che accade si rinnova quotidianamente.
Noi tutti guardiamo
per non aver bacchetta magica
per una soluzione istantanea.
Impegno costante
per decenni o secoli
necessari per ritornare
all’armonia ciclica di vita
qui su questo mondo,
la  nostra Madre Terra
ormai patrimonio di tutti e di nessuno.
Responsabile ciascuno
e tutta la massa delle genti.
Guerre martirizzanti ,
distrutte  generazioni…
uomini inermi o dormienti
incapaci di reazione.
Sotto al Crocefisso, cadente,
religione in bilico.
Luce di speranza tenuta per mano
a risplendere intelletto donna
e catarsi da peccato.
Missile frapposto
fra Croce e colomba di pace.
Madre abbraccio materno  al suo bambino
divino dono per sé e per l’umanità.
Mano offre un frutto della terra
e non sembra sostentamento.
Visi raffiguranti interconnessione
esistente tra gente imperturbabile
quasi dallo sguardo assente…
sempre più misterioso
aleggia nell’aria e nei Continenti.
Rigogliose piante,
profumati fiori
e natura circostante
si possono ammirare solo a sprazzi.
Ma quanto tempo il mistero ancora dura
fra lo scempio e le miserie degli umani
sempre più malvagi?
Elisa Mascia 

Granny and the Summer Months

Santosh Bakaya

Summer was a noisy poem, full of sounds.
The dimwitted pigeons hiding in the shade of the neem,
yodeling away, nonchalantly looking down
at my toothless granny, who
like Oliver Twist was always asking for more-
more of water melons, musk melons
more of ice cream,
slurp – slurp – slurp
more of mangoes,
more of cold coffee; creamy and frothy.
More of soft drinks
plop – plop -fizz – fizz
merging with the drip- drop of water
from the perennially leaking tap in the sink.
“Don’t waste water!” papa’s reprimand
rising above the whirring of the cooler
meant to hit his pampered daughter.
Crunch and whirl, whirl and crunch!
The hand wielded ice-cream machine
labored away in those hot summer nights,
and granny just loved glugging
scoops and scoops of it down her parched throat.
What absolute bliss on hot days of May!
Oh how hard she tried to douse those raging
memories of the home she left behind in Kashmir,
wistfully recalling those flower-filled Mughal gardens,
those shikara rides,
the verdant green chinar leaves,
which, chameleon like, would change color,
with the approach of autumn.
The jacaranda, gulmohar and amaltas
lured her with their vibrant hues,
but those flowers of her homeland
continued to burn bright in her memory.
Cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep,
slowly as the cooler hummed,
the birds in the tree chummed up to each other.
Ah, more sounds pounding our eardrums.
It was the feisty summer rain!
Dot- a –dot- a -dot,
tattooing the windowpanes  with  liquid emotions
flick a flack fleck
plop –plop- plop, hitting the roof
and then a  song
its lyrical cadence drenching our young hearts.
Croak – croak – croak, the frogs choked on their croaks,
lightning crackled and thunder rumbled. We sneaked out.
As we entered the house furtively after our audacious escapade
  our boots gave us away.
Squelch- squelch- squelch,
they squelched away our secrets.
There was a flood
of shouts about rules flouted.
An absolute rout!
Unfazed by our pouts
the flamboyant gulmohar trees outside
rustled up a song and dance, swaying in the breeze.
Where are now those songs of the trees?
Where the sparrow’s happy chirps?
Where those scoops of home-made ice-cream,
over which granny drooled and which miraculously
cooled her parched
Now, the heat persists, but alas
summer has ceased to be a noisy poem.
Dr Santosh Bakaya


Anca Mihaela Bruma

I stopped looking for you
in the glorified Scriptures
so I can see
Past, Future, all Present in you!
The invisible one who can see
the Eye of my Eye
and not the Mind of my Mind,
but the Heart of my Heart!…
You are so different from unknown
yet!… so very well known,
“infected” by Infinitude
giving justice to the silence of the Truth!
No meta-logic…… not extra-language….
You rose above the canons of False and True,
passing through the song and rhythm
of your own life, while Infinity
found shelter in the depths of your eyes.
You wear my Being….. as I do yours…..
duo souls….. but we named them as one!
You are the One within the multiples
reflected in thousand dips of everlastingness…
I closed my eyes….. not to hold, but behold you
and speak to your multitudes in the name of one
about the history of futures residing inside your breaths…
No more citadels of doubts
in these lofty peaks of mysteries
You are either my distance or my proximity,
a sentient Being inside my listener’s Eye
as you died plenty of deaths of your Self.
I finally empty my Self….. so LOVE can enter
and accompany each of your breath,
recurring in both of your Presence and Absence!
I am the singer of your song
and the lyricist of your Life!…
Only YOU remain!…
the rest…..is IT!…..
(Anca Mihaela Bruma – 9th May 2015)  
Copyright (c) 2015 by Anca Mihaela Bruma, All Rights Reserved,