Poems of Niels Hav

 

Axiom                      

 

False pride

collapses

sooner or later.

As if reality

in its innermost

structure were governed

by reason.

 

Despots and empires

grind to an end;

brutal murderers

and violent political

systems

last for only a time,

then the regime falls

apart from

the inside.

 

The dictator’s name

disappears

into the great forgetting –

faster than the representatives

of goodness

whom the heart remembers.

 

New incarnations

of human evil

appear –

brutality and arrogance

mate happily

with our own desire

for a jackpot.

 

But the new ones

and their servile

fellow-travelers

will also disappear

when

their time comes.

Trust that.

 

Invincible

is the marrow

which every morning

lifts us all

out of sleep

each with our own

flopping catch

of joy and hope.

 

© Niels Hav

Translation: P.K. Brask & Patrick Friesen

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Two Poems Of Welkin Siskin

Ups and Downs

We go through ups and downs

But our art of life does count,

And does then the play of its lute;

We play with life, either foul or good.

Art of living is what we as humans seek,

In the world prodigious and bleak,

To guide us through windswept state;

To falter and to go a long way is never too late.

With all attempts we dare to create artistic life

To let our art in the future revive;

Artistic living is what guides us

To let us never evermore distract.

Florets of Fancy

Life through spiral goes

Weaving florets of fancy

And then it seeks for a dream

To usher us to a path of perfection.

 For, if only for a short life we could dwell

And dwell like an empty vessel,

We could not have fancies.

As humans, we dwell with innumerable fancies;

These fancies are ingredients of life

Too, to make a gateway to our destiny.

If  we could dwell without fancies

Could we then a dream never achieve;

We dwell with fancies and are we thus humans—

with desire and wants, dreams and destiny.

Copyright: Welkin Siskin 

PYGMALION

NEHA BHANDARKAR

Send me,

Audaciously send me,

A trug of roses

And also send me,

Their fragrance

Through O’phone………

Take me

In your arms

In this global scenario

Of intrinsic internet,

And delicately tuck in

A gorgeous

Genuine fresh flower chaplet

Of Spanish Cherry

In my hair………

I would perceive

Your emotions

Invaluable than ornaments

But would you really

Fathom the depth

And perimeter of my

Intense feelings?

Agreed ssssssss………….

You would even give me

The rainbowy horizon

But would your vision

Trace out the horizon

That I do wish for?

The blood akine

Spiritual energy

Doesn’t ever let

Gain a peace

The active volcano

Dwelling inside me…………

I too,

See countless dreams

Obsessed to objectives

As never ending

Numerous dormant wishes

Keep simmering

Like the molten lava.

Would you be able

To bloom this

Dried, lifeless

Corporal flower?

Would you be able to enliven

My inanimate appearance?

Would you be able

To fill colours

In this sculpture

As once did Pygmalion?

Agreed sssssssss………

The night blooming

And blossoming

With your touch

Emanates  sandalwood fragnance

All through my senses,

As a love-light

Keeps lighting

Alike gleam of fireflies

In our love shrine………….

O dear, flowers are reborn

Through pollination,

So  flowers also

Agree to the tenets

Of nature…

Isn’t it?

Intrusion of

Every nector sucking

Bumble bees

Who crush the Body-flower

Is denied by the helpless

Wretched flowers !…..

Alas ! Even a single

Sunbeam is all enough

To wither them up……….

……Huh !

And you insist

To revital

The withered flowers?

Isn’t  it better that

Man learns not to let

The flowers wither?

Then at least

Man could proudly say

“I care you

Like the eternal flowers”

And of course dear,

When you learn caring me forever

I would yearn

Just not for this virtual

Trug of flowers

But a chaplet made of

Fresh Spanish Cherry

Yesssssssssss……..

Every day,

Every single day, my dear………….

©NEHA BHANDARKAR

Eternal horizon

 

Hans en Bianca

in the silent room I bow my head deep to the ground

my cervix shrinks together and I lose words

that will lack all power when the sun’s rays disappear forever

 

despair clings to me in an evening fog of sorrow

the fumes of your image absorbed in the plane disaster

my comprehension is unable to contain it all to the full extent

 

with empty eyes I stare at the sky and reach for heaven

your years of life pass by like a flashing comet

lightning bolts hit the epicenter of icy loneliness

 

powerlessness kills the ground under my feet in the gallery of sorrow

considered thoughts seek answers in me that can’t be found in

the connections that must proceed in two worlds – earthly and heavenly

 

out of the clouds I feel drops of you melting together with tears on my face

I hear your voice like an echo that will keep beating in my heart until I am with you again

 

© Hans en Bianca

 

PASSION AND TENDERNESS

 

Anna Ferriero

I saw Hope

in a great immensity

and wind harmonica music

he was spying on me;

on the notes of my breath

composed a poem;

in the naivety of my gaze

he found himself at ease.

The stars in the clear sky

they’re writing a new story,

soon the talings

they will give birth to a new flower.

It is an unknown flower

but it has existed for millennia.

It’s more ancient than Earth.

It is the shadow of poetry.

It is the soul of the verses.

Knows every step

of the artist in love.

Red and Yellow ladybugs

they draw tulips

but the new petals overlook the sunset

Tender and Shy

they are the scent of sunflowers field

 

This poem is dedicated to the Ireland-Sunflower Association

 

PASSIONE E TENEREZZA

 

Ho visto la Speranza

in una grande immensità

e la musica del vento armoniosa

spiava me;

sulle note del mio respiro

ha composto una poesia;

nell’ingenuità del mio sguardo

si è trovata a suo agio.

Le stelle nel chiaro cielo

stanno scrivendo una nuova storia,

presto le talee

daranno vita a un nuovo fiore.

È un fiore sconosciuto

ma esiste da millenni.

È più antico della Terra.

È l’ombra della poesia.

È l’anima dei versi.

Conosce ogni passo

dell’artista innamorato.

Coccinelle rosse e gialle

disegnano tulipani

ma nuove corolle si affacciano al tramonto

tenere e timide, esse

(esse) profumano di campo di girasoli

 

Questa poesia è dedicata all’associazione Irlanda-girasole

INNO ALL’AMORE VERO.

Elisa Mascia

L’uomo che ama di amore vero la sua donna

scopre un percorso verso il cielo

ove regna  e protegge con ampie ali Dio.

Non avranno né gelosia né possesso

l’uno dell’altro.

Energia vitale fluisce

nell’aprirsi all’amore di Dio.

Guardandosi negli occhi

vedranno quant’è immenso l’Universo…

e tutto in dono possibile diverrà

nel progetto d’amore in cui l’uomo promette :

‘Se  in futuro un dì incontrerò

colei che ha bisogno di doni

per affiorar sorriso sulle carnose labbra

e che si emozioni arrossendo le gote

ebbene quei doni

saranno come brezza marina

mai prigioniera sarà

ma vera libertà.

Rappresenterò  lo spazio circoscritto

alle sue armoniose forme corporee

e sosterò dentro lei come il tempo.

Donna

non esser frettolosa

ad anelar a mia conoscenza.

Rivelazione magica :

Spazio e tempo sarò

entro i quali divenire

simile al seme che dimora nella terra

per crescere albero rigoglioso.

Farò che respiri

avendo cura a non  soffocarla

di presunzione.

Neanche la celebrerò per come ella è.

Sprofonderò gli artigli dell’amore in lei.

La proteggerò come aquila reale dalle possenti ali.

Nessuna bramosia di manifestarmi

ma ch’ella,  per mezzo  mio,

possa ammirar monti,  valli,

mare,  cielo,  le stelle e il firmamento.

Non è me stesso in esame…

sono soltanto colui che entusiasma.

Non è di te che si discute.

Tu sei il sentiero che conduce

alle praterie dell’alba di ogni dì.

E… neanche di noi si parla :

assieme siamo il varco

per approdare a Dio

che per un istante

afferra la nostra creazione

per adoperarle.

Elisa Mascia

Small Temptations

Alicja Maria Kuberska

 

The lures  appear out of nowhere and weigh next to nothing.
Light and airy – they sneak quietly through life,
They are translucent, barely visible and noticeably weak.

They do not have a specific gravity of serious sins.
Quickly, in ad- hoc mode, they  justify the offenses.
They do not leave  the marks of their stay in memory

and conscience.

They abandon responsibilities, forget the dates on the calendar
They sit comfortably in a chair

and fly to the blue realm of dreams,
where  the aromas of coffee are entangled in the whiff  of the cheesecake or apple pie.

No regard for calories ,

they add cream and delicacies to the ice- cream,
They melt in the mouth the sweetness of stuffed chocolates,
In the evening they serve a glass of champagne with strawberries.

On the sunny and warm days they invite one to walk to the park
to buy from a florist  the bouquets of violets

with their last few pennies.
The blameworthy and reckless, they do not worry about finances.

Small enticements and small fibs know each other  vey well.
They together discount the extraordinary beautiful handbags, dresses and shoes.
Sometimes they occasionally purchase  the colorful

scarves and  the beads.

Innocent sins are full of irresistible charm and grace,
And as water droplets falling on stone systematically,
They crush the monolith of serious standards and steadfast rules.

 

THE INFINITE STILL EXISTING

Anna Ferriero

He was born in Recanati

in the sober, sober village

a little past

with the scent of lavender

and goodness of a sparrow.

In the loving period

the light of life

but that ironic and oppressed cult

He transformed your joy

in eternal pessimism.

The aroma of the print

He saved your soul in prison

that your Giordani too

he asked you to translate

and to find out how painters

but you have changed phase

singing much elsewhere

over the horizon

affirming in your traits:

“To express my world

I need my verses

no more than that prose “.

Your big closure

he made you work hard

but the family environment

maybe he trained you

and also crowned.

You, sweet little sparrow

only for the fields

you sang your Silvia

sweet and without deception

your sweet caress.

From silence and then at sunset

memories of a village

on the day of that party

where infinity begins

This poem is dedicated to the great Italian poet Giacomo Leopardi