Slovakian Spring – Part 3 For our last instalment, we introduce five lyrical poets who responded to our call. We hope that their poetic outlook speaks across borders, and shows different dimensions of being. ‘near the blue woods’ by Marta Franeková between the water and waterplant mejust beyond the meadow for which bees have always meant everything I’ll breathe in greedily as if I’d never existed for real and in reality until now In a forest full of consciousnessI wake up my own hands and they in the same instant fly awaythe trees dress themselves in the festive costumes we’ll be together and invoke heaven with our eyes for to use my voice would not be appropriate the day I begin to ignore the light I shall count the growth rings I’ve lived and when it’s decided when the time comes to cut me downI’ll fall in your directiontherewhere we felt the bare moss under our feet ‘Rebirth’ by Judita Ďurčová Kneeling on the seashore I pick up the fragments of the autumn goblins made of glass, who sleep by the door of the soul of fire. At the midnight innThe White Death awaits me His serpent-like eyes are full of sadness, while silken trees are caressing my cheeks… On the stairs of the blue rainbowHe leads me by the hand to the sacred ruins where angels dance in the golden grass. ‘Pinning’ by Vlasta Mesárošová You give me crooked drawing pins.At least I can hold my breath.They say:“Don’t whine, keep walking, kneepads enjoy the whole experience!” I’ve got used to the magicianpulling out bad luck from the hat for me.Wrapped in shrapnel, just in case,to –to hold together better,so it won’t vanish with the next day,to scrape the gilding off the bone,…the slashes on my knees don’t hurt ‘The Sun Is Love’ by Anton Andrej Pižurný Like the metastasis of evil todayenvy pervades everywhere, changing subtly into hatred.The god Ares rubsHis hands with glee.He doesn’t have to think of any schemes, we’ll kill each other without him.Yet again, the sun rises.It’s still up there, mighty and unrivaled.Yet, Hope like pollen still paints our mornings.The Sun is Love.Where does a good man live?In each one of us.In everyone.Really? ‘City’ by Dušan Láznička Fire!fearthe city of screams Deathwill perfectthe pulse of the present ruins corpsesTime – absolutely certain absurdity x x x the city of sleepnot worth pantingI seethe pleasure of the ruinsthe whiteness of the glowthe fire of the dead chillnothingnessmalignant silencespacewithout emptiness I feelThe coldness of the fearlast in the eyes – my sorrowsmognear the temple a REVOLVER Meet the Poets! Judita Ďurčová (1983), a poet and prose writer, read history at the University in Bratislava, Slovakia. She lives in Nové Město nad Váhom. Her poems appear regularly in literary magazines. Marta Franeková was born in 1961, in Námestov. She lives and works as a kindergarten teacher in Oravské Veselý. Her work has been published in the following periodicals: Dotyki, Literary Weekly, in the magazine Vertigo, in the collections of the literary portal Litweb; the latter one also published her collection Oh Willow, Willow in the anthologies Pars Artem and Svetlom modrý. She made her book debut in 2012 with the collection Mute Herons (DALi Košice); in 2015 she published the collection Odklonené svety (DALi Košice) with the support of the State Literary Fund, and in 2019 her poetry book Rozprávanky (Perfekt Bratislava) was again financially supported by the Literary Fund. Dušan Láznička (b. 1975) started his literary work when styding a in high school. His science fiction triptych was awarded third place in the National Literary Competition for Secondary School students. Later, he worked as an editor (Christian magazine Plátok), essayist and poet. In the second half of the 1990s he joined the Omega Literary Club in Trenčín, where he published poetry and prose in their collections and anthologies. He was the editor-in-chief of the club’s magazine Ars – Verbum. In 2012, he won second place in the prose category of the Jozef Branecký Literary Competition. In 2019, Pars Artem published his collection Journeys, which is his tribute to surrealism. In it, he experiments with automatic text and surreal images. Vlasta Mesárošová was born in 1969 to a family of mixed nationalities. Part Hungarian, Slovak, German and Roma Gypsy, her literary poeticism is influenced by this rich heritage. Vlasta studied social work and has devoted her whole life to helping others. She is also involved in humanitarian aid. She is a family person, very proud of her husband and two sons. Anton Andrej Pižurný, born in 1961 near Zilina, is a writer, copywriter, publisher, editor, and radio presenter. He has authored 11 prose and poetry books. Moreover, he has written 5 books of reportages and 7 books for children. His other activities involve script writing and an ongoing collaboration with the Ministry for Education in Slovakia. He lives in Bratislava with his wife and three children.
Mum (A Phenomenal Woman) by Nikola Veselá I want to thank you for your brightest smile that showed mehow you sacrificed your dreamsso that I can pursue mine.I want to apologize for calling you prettybefore calling you brave or smartbecause your mindis the most beautiful piece of art. A Note from the Editor I often use creative writing in my English Language classes to improve my students’ understanding and feel for the language. Needless to say, they always rise to the challenge, but every now and again, you encounter a rare talent that leaves you speechless. Nikola Veselá is such a talent. She wrote this poem last year when she was only 14. We had planned to share this piece to wish women around the world Happy International Women’s Day and Happy Mother’s Day. Now, just a country away, Ukraine is being torn apart by war. Women and girls are being impacted. Teenagers the same age as Nikola. Women the same age as you, as your sister, mother, niece, daughter… If you can, it would be wonderful if you could donate to the United Nations Population Fund, which is particularly focused on helping endangered women and girls in Ukraine. You can find out more (and donate!) here. Meet the Poet Nikola Veselá is a student at Pražské humanitní gymnázium in Prague. She is an avid reader, and her specialist subject is Jane Austen.
Slovakian Spring with Raspberries on Her Fingers by Miroslav Dávid i think everybody would want herand preferably if she were only theirsnailed upside downbleeding raspberries on the Marian cross from steel reinforcement with raspberries on her fingers she won’t hurt anybody they’re from her garden that is like a poem and from all the healing herbs of true love and shots of rum so don’t you interfere, devil even if she’s bare to her soulshe’s going to be mine. Miroslav Dávid writing as Moddivari and River Salome: “with Raspberries on Fingers” (Elist Publishing, 2018) Ripe by Danica Hrnčiarová Šišláková burlesque tones of silly wishesreverberated in the trumpets of Jerichoforgiven is the one who woundedthe beast inside me that doesn’t grow the battle is overonly silence now I peer into the poetry windowI’ve (hopefully) won the duel with pridethe other results – one all The Ballad of the Pearl (to All Petrarcas) by Vladimír Skalský Like a scalpel stuck in the chesta grain of sand hurts so muchit penetrated the oyster’s armouronly because In the moment of weakness It was let close to the heart There is nothing leftbut to wrap the pain in beautyto dull the pain with wordsand, with the cut-up heart,toll furiouslyall the bellsof the lonely bedroom I Stopped You by Vladimír Skalský I stopped you in the streetMaybe you would have been run over by a carMaybe you would have met a great loveAnd your son might have destroyed the worldOr solved the nuclear waste problemI held you up for three minutesSurely another sperm would make itMarilyn Monroe would have crooked legsKennedy’s assassin wouldn’t be born at allTen years from now, we’d land on Mars I stopped you in the streetAnd that is how I changed the world Meet the Poets Miroslav Dávid is a Slovak poet, an award-winning lyricist who celebrated massive success with hits for Slovak rock and pop acts in the 80s. He is also a music manager and producer. So far, he has four poetry collections published: Rogalo, veľryba a Kristus Pán (2017: Trio Publishing, Bratislava), Detox (2017: Silvia Hodálová – VIUSS, Bratislava), s Malinami nastoknutými na Prstoch (2018: Vydavateľstvo Elist), Domino (2019: Vydavateľstvo Elist). He has also been awarded prestigious literary prices such Mobel Prize 2018, 2019 and 2020 respectively or Pars Poetry 2018. He has three children and two grandchildren. He is divorced. Danica Hrnčiarová Šišláková, an award-winning poet and a software analyst, comes from Banská Bystrica (Slovakia) but is currently living in the Czech Republic. She started writing first poems when she was about 8 years old. At the age of 13, she became a published poet: she published in the literary supplement of the magazine Nové slovo, with then the editor-in-chief Vojtech Mihálik and in the anthology Právo na píseň. After starting a family, she took a long hiatus from writing. After 2015, she returned to poetry again and ventured to read it publicly. Her poems appeared in many anthologies in Slovakia, the Czech Republic, as well as publication in the online magazine of the Association of World Writers (AWW). Vladimír Skalský was born on April 26, 1972 in Prešov, Slovakia, where he graduated from grammar school. Later, he earned a master’s degree in theoretical physics at the Faculty of Mathematics and Physics of Charles University in Prague. As well as running his own business, since 1992 he has held a number of public office positions and management positions in various media corporations. Since 1996, he has been the vice-chairman of the Slovak-Czech Club and deputy editor-in-chief of the magazine Slovenské dotyky (Slovak Touches), and from 2004 to 2013 he was the editor of the literary quarterly, the Czech-Slovak journal Zrkadlenie/Zrcadlení (Mirror/Zrcadlení). Since 2006 he has been the President of the World Association of Slovaks Abroad, and since 2009 he has been the Vice President of the Europeans in the World, based in Brussels. Since 2014 he has been the director of the Slovak House in Prague. He is a member (2004 – 2010 and from 2019 until now) and Vice-Chairman (2005 – 2008) of the Government Council for National Minorities of the Czech Republic. He has authored many books: the collections of poems To Silence (2000) and From Two Shores (2017) and the collection of essays Keywords: Prague, Slovakia, literature (2004). All in all, he appears as either an author, co-author or editor of about thirty books. He was co-editor of the three-volume anthology of Slovak literature abroad Between Two Houses (2008-2010) and co-editor of Čítanka moderní slov. literature for secondary schools (2003). His poems and essays have been translated into English, French, Czech, Chinese, Hungarian, Russian and Serbian. All translations by Natalie Nera.
A Peruvian Autumn – Part 3 Broken by Filonilo Catalina We who are brokenare always trying to fix ourselveseither with a glass of wine in our handor with a syringe in our arms.Alwayswe always try to mend ourselvesin church with our hair neatly combedor with a partner by the hand.Wewho are brokenwalk until our shoes are worn outwe stand in long lines in the pewsand with sad smiles we wait well seated.We who are brokensay good morning without thinkingand without remedy we leave this world with our suits on and our hair in a ponytail. Until the last song by Lourdes Aparicion In memory of Evelyn Rondinelli, my Blue Orbital I have searched for you under the rockswho have been sleeping since you resigned from Ayacuchoyour shadow was a blue birdI was walking the gloryshaggy headsand the adobe houseswhere we lived when you were meatyou used to hideunder that river that led usand dance to the last songin dis-crazy parties,You expected that every nighttear themselves apart before your eyeswith your smilea blue rainbowa serene and blue skya calm blue rivera blue rainand this heart thatI knowgathershrinkrips apartbluntsfromthatyourvoiceflew Hymn to Seeing by Valeria Chauvel I’ve seen nature, infinite, boundlessThe life I see around is countlessThere is hope with us, I may proveI’ve seen them breathe and move. I’ve seen the night white coloursIn between its dark huesI’ve seen the light undercoverBehind the clouds, it diffuse. I’ve stopped to walk and talkTo learn, to see and hearIn the space, timeless clockThe beauty and sounds in here. The New Life by Willy Gómez We were leaving in your car and we had an open moon chasing us. On your body grew other shores of high meadows, and in my hands your photos, my glasses, your citrus cologne and my cigarettes. We were driving at 120 km/h listening to the radio Tragedies of Priam, astonished because of the alum stains on the track that darkened the road towards a horizon of frightened lights. A protagonist of the escape was going with us to the Lima carnival. I was saving for the arrival of its bridges and its gardens, the waltzes of the old neighborhood, the adobo recipe and the modern dance. Until the narcissus came to us wanting to fight, after the desire to go further while the cars slowed down one after the otherand slid over the real landscape of wires and poles of the Costa Verde. That starless night we were caught in a double collision between machines. But we could still hear the sea breaking the waves. About the Authors Lourdes Aparicion (Apurímac, 1993). Lourdes Apari Moscoso, also Lourdes Aparicion. Migrant, activist, psychologist and community cultural manager. She lives in Paracas (Pisco, Ica), where she is the co-founder of the Emergentes del Mar Cultural Group. She is the author of the “Warmi” plaquette. Likewise, she has been invited to participate in different literary events, national and international, and some of her texts make up various literary exhibitions in Peru, Bolivia, Argentina and Mexico. In 2020, she obtained the first honorable mention in the XI El Poeta Joven del Perú Contest with a first version of her book entitled Apacheta. Filonilo Catalina: He is a cultural manager. He won the COPÉ prize for poetry in 2005 with his book El Monstruo de los Cerros and, in 2015, he obtained the first place for poetry in the “El País de Ofelia” award in Spain with the book Arquitectura de Pájaros. He has published seven books of poetry. In his youth he was a member of the Box team from Arequipa. Nowadays he is currently dedicated to make musical compositions. He directs the label “Rupestre” with which he disseminates the poetry of his country. Valeria Chauvel Moscoso (1998, Lima, Perú). Studies philosophy at the Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, and is as passionate about poetry and visual arts as she is about her career. She has participated in a collective publication with the FCE in the poetry book “Versos desde el encierro” and in the recital of La Huaca es Poesía, “De las voces del Perú y Latinoamérica para el mundo” (From the voices of Peru and Latin America to the world). She is currently part of the organization La Huaca es Poesía. Also, she is about to finish her first collection of poems, where the search for meaning, existential emptiness and the absurd are the themes that prompted the creation of this first book of verses. Willy Gómez Migliaro was born in Lima-Peru on August 13, 1968. Winner of the Latin American poetry prize Festival de la Lira 2015. He has directed the poetry magazines Polvo enamorado (1990-1992) and Tokapus (1993-1996). He has also published the books of poetry Etérea (2002), Nada como los campos (2003) and La breve eternidad de Raymundo Nóvak (2005), all under the Hipocampo Editores label; Moridor (Pakarina Ediciones, 2010), Construcción Civil (Paracaídas Editores, 2013), Nuevas Batallas (Arteidea Editores, 2013), Pintura roja (Paracaidas Editores, 2016) Lírico puro (Hipocampo Editores, 2017), Among the research books it has been compiler of the book OPEMPE, relatos orales asháninka y nomatsiguenga (Editorial AndesBook, 2009) y Cholos, 13 poetas peruanos nacidos entre el 70 y el 90 (Catafixia, 2014). His poems have appeared in major Spanish-American and European magazines. He has been published in different national and international poetry anthologies. He is currently a professor of literature, creative writing, and literary consultant.
A Peruvian Autumn – Part 2 Borderline poem 10 by Jorge Ccoyllurpuma I’m tied to the ground like a sad child’s balloon or the smile of a drunk.I’m made out of cardboard and milk, of darts; I’m made up of feathers you don’t have but that I invented for you.I’m a stone at the window of God; I’m also the stone in your dirty window.I am a plastic kite and a boat in the bathtub.I’m a bathtub of hot water, with Pisco and eggs for your stomachache.I am, I’ll say it now, your dirty laundry.I’m tied to the sky by every fiber of December’s rain, I’m blue incense.I’m the unmovable afternoon right where you are. * From Para detener el tiempo (2013)* Translated by Jesús de la Garza, Martina Hoines and Pieter Odendaal a violet dawn before the great wilderness by Victoria Mallorga burning tireslavender grows down highways as we learn how to kiss in the backseatforget our hands, ignore the smog behind us thecity’s many eyes workforcelong men and batons readyfor the unapologetic labor of correcting wildlifebut us, we grow like foxtailsbullets rain dry over a bodyunable to hold blood,over bodies that meet againin the backseat whisperinglittle lovegrass, chantinguntil light collapses into our hands, until wildliferaises from my fingertipsand we know this isthe end of our running days as the melody of a floral lullaby bursts from the radio, overpowering the motor, the burning oil sirens howling kilometers close, hiding the smell of gunpowder that claws its way towards our little car.so you drive us cityboundyour nightshade smile, your kisses down the back of my handyour solar-powered heart, your warm cruelty turned againstthe burning asphaltthat trembles in waitforesees the blood,the final stand, the glistening warmth of our getaway car under vinesas you pour yourself into me kiss my hands until my fingertips overwhelmthe city bury usunderneath an impossible new wilderness. Ritual by Karina Medina At the height of my foreheadI picked up a coca leafi closed my eyesI looked at mandalas leaves.In the riteI took the painin my handsI left itat the root.A tear in the soul.I opened my eyeslike trailsI saw the river running away from mewith a dread of ancestorsthose that forced me to speakin another poem.I am left alonewithout leaveswithout mandalaswithout roads. Be Quiet by Emilio Paz Silence is a face.Has a cold lookThat penetrates the bones.Bones that are made of paper:WeakBrittleEasy to burnSilence is a face of sand.It melts in the hands of memory.But it always leaves a mark.Floral scent trailThat is confused with the stench of cemeteries:Decomposition accompanied by classical music.Virgilio watches over Dante’s silence.Dante consumes Beatriz’s silence.Beatriz is content with God’s silence.And God?Silently on the altarWhile the priest preaches.He preaches that is confusedWith what he wanted to sayBut that he never tried to say.Silence that is a dropThat starts a river.Rio who commits suicide in the sea.Everything returns to oneEven the wordsAnd silence is an eternal return. About the Authors Jorge Alejandro Ccoyllurpuma (b. Cusco, 1987): Poet and literary translator also known as Jorge Alejandro Vargas Prado. He has published poetry, short stories, and a novel. As a Quechua descendant, his creative work explores this ancestral Andean culture and language. Photo: Julio del Carpio Victoria Mallorga Hernandez is a queer Peruvian taurus, poet, and editor. Currently, she is an associate editor at Palette Poetry and an MA candidate in Publishing and Writing at Emerson College. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Revista Lucerna, Plastico, perhappened, Anti-Heroin Chic, Kissing Dynamite, and Thin Air, among others. Across the hemisphere, she moonlights as the chief coordinator of Literature in the Alternative Art Fair (ANTIFIL) and reviews books for La Libretilla, a Hispano-American project. Victoria has published two collections in Spanish, albión (alastor editores, 2019) and absolución (2020). Find her on Instagram or Twitter as @cielosraros. Emilio Paz (b. Lima, 1990) is a teacher of philosophy and religion, and a graduate of the Universidad Católica Sedes Sapientiae. He is the author of Septiembre en el silencio (Club de lectura poética, 2016), La balada de los desterrados ( Ángeles del Papel Editores, 2019) and Laberinto en versos (La tortuga ecuestre, n°394, 2018). He is the winner of the Marco Antonio Corcuera Foundation competition and the ninth international competition “El Parnaso del Nuevo Mundo” in the short story category. He has been published in various media in Peru, Mexico, Chile, Spain, Venezuela, USA, Argentina, India, Ecuador, Romania, Costa Rica, Sweden, Germany, Italy, Cuba, Uzbekistan, Bulgaria and France. His work has been translated into Romanian, French, Italian, Bulgarian, Uzbek, English and Tamil. He has participated in many international as well as national speaking engagements. He teaches philosophy and conducts poetry workshops. He has also published works on the relationship between poetry, aesthetics and education. He has participated in many international philosophical conferences.Photo: Mike Paredes Karina Joelly Medina Paico (Lima PERÚ – 1986) : Teacher, writer and editor. She studied at the Higher University of Applied Sciences (Advertising) and is currently studying Art Education at the National School of Dramatic Art. She has participated in certified dramaturgy, poetry and theater workshops dictated by the Cultural Center Spain. She has been published in the anthologies Dew of Poems (2017), Spring Verses (2017), Crystal Verses (2018) and Poetic Love (2019) of the Peruvian Society of Poets; as well as in the poetry collections The Danger of Being Alive (2018), Beside the Road (2019) and The sea doesn’t stop (2019). Her own published collections of poems are Pavo real (Ediciones Marginales – 2019) and Eterna estación (Pléyades Ediciones – 2021. She has worked as a copyreader and editor from a very young age. She is the editorial director at Pléyades Ediciones, her own company. Nowadays Karina Medina works as a researcher and compiler of Peruvian poetry. In 2021 she presented her Coral Collection project, which consists of four books of poems written by young and consecrated poets, Peruvian and Latin American. The first published Volume 1 is Ultimísima Young Poetry – 21 Peruvian female poets. Volume 2, Ultimísima Young Poetry – 21 Peruvian male poets, will be published this coming September. The other two volumes will be published in 2022.Photo: Biblioteca Abraham Valdelomar
A Peruvian Autumn I Keep Hosted in my Memory Elí Urbina I keep hosted in my memorythe placid image of the body of love.Light must come again,but now, in reality, only the raindrapes the avenue as black birdseed. Look at the slow descent ofmeat’s thorn into the secret wound.The brothel, its greed, absorbs my burnt-out soul,my hope, thirsting of feeling,for an instant, the deaf crackle. In the gloom the prostitute dances with the sinuosity of a broad flare.Already the longing gathers around in the mirror,the shadow of my hand lengthens. As strong as the pleasure burnsalways her face inside me ignites. From The Abyss of Men (2020)Transl. into English: Sofía Leibovich Photo by Leo Arslan Opening an Old Fayad Jamís Notebook on Friday Afternoon Julio Barco In the winter of the summer I describe my eyes, Ithe labyrinthine animal that still dreams opening the notebooksbetween the divided rooms the score of life. Old lovers buy dry bread in the cellars. This poem starts here.Foolish way of repeating the body; This is the poemNothing but a shaky line that isdream verse. As the city sinks into depressionI separate signs and petals. I am the one who watches over your name.I am the one who observes from your window the neighborhoodbarely illuminated by the sunset poles.The most beautiful youngsters are thrown of the Electric Towers.The most beautiful young are launched from the Electric Towers? My long hair is now a fucking form of walk against the wind. Sailor of pampas, land, asphalt, poultry.Girls commit suicide in their roomsYesterday everything was excessively sadEverything will repeat itself or bifurcate the sameIt doesn’t matter: I started another poem and came backthe same: 1. Inert object shakily disposed on the table.2. Street closed as destruction and desire.3. Movement of machines & bodies.4. This poem will begin when everything explodes.5.Our bodies collapse.6. We organize a concert in a body predisposed to joyto correct this. Good. We will walk again.I am the same one who drew centuries ago in your womb A brilliant labyrinth of a thousand Sunflowers.We repeat ourselves in the constellations. My fruit flavor intoxicated your hair. *** A piece of jazz hissing through your body.Everything changes and sprouts and multiplies. The poems we repeat now are emptinessNothingness – a lilac flower.Something mystically recognisablewhen we are absencelooking behind the windows?The beatniks have diedAnd Gary Snyder walksThe lonely mountains.I walk the night.You send your poems to other countries.Reading the poemleads to an understanding of its nature.Nothing personal.My poetic voice mutated in the neighborhoodswhere we prepare lentilsAnd we boiled our sorrowsMy poetic self is bornSad blue lilac full of cloudsThat the celery did not diminishAnd so we love each otherAmbulances roam the cityBetween Oscillations and Digital SemblanceIn forniceOf the silenced bodiesin the only concert that we giveAt the timein the only possible movement.The Concert of our open green clear eyesTo the absolute mysteryTo the burned factories and to the landDid the young people jump from the Electric Tower today?And we are And we runAnd it’s cold in this damn cityThat is my poetic art: our savageHungry,the wind shaking your face.Vague. Way.I’m listening. I observe.I am all this crazy movie whereVerb is beauty and lucidity a bodyLooking for another.I look for you.This way of mine to flee is to pronounce yourName.The clarity of a dinnerwell prepared.Sometimes rooms or versesSometimes Stefan Joyce or Li PoWhile we were cutting a tomatoCool as the diagonal thatruns through my body when I touch yours.When in yours I go back to mineI recognize myself as a void between multiplication and clay.When I hiss your nameIn the mist of hearts.This is my time.Oh streets, I’m so sorry to come backTo live everything againThe poem will be a frozen roomThe poem will be two bodiesThe poem will be some dark images that II gently release betweenThe Axials of Terror and Glory.The poem will be a path through the fire.The poem will be a star.The poem will be a way of feeling abstracted: a state in the crowd.The poem will be the image of a man looking at the glass from a window.The poem will be my hand looking for yours.The poem is an angel about my loneliness.The poem is a lost shoe.The poem is your bodyThe poem is your mouth.The poem is my destinyParty in unrest.Saturday without you.We disappeared in the restless dawnThat you smashed in a canof beer.The body of the poem silently longed forwhen we were two crazy teenagersSeeking to satisfy our abyssesOh Lima take me away from Minor SiltOf the stars multiplied in my PhallusRelatively common sentimental conversationFacing the CenturiesRepeating the maze of the bodyLabyrinth that I silently observed inside myselfWithin others,Within the total Other that is the OrbAnd my mind opening between the cracksOf the days / Smoke from the streets black prayer of the tunaWe will always long for the same poemThat perfectly leads us to ourselvesLabyrinth within Our MusicMusic that croaked within our circumferenceAnd I have rewritten our life:Saturday or Friday night landscapeLooking for love on the long hard streets andAll the asphalt was the lost crevice of your faceWe woke up looking for a ceviche in Puente PiedraI still make love to you as the year closes withSome rum in the room10 lucas is all I have in my bank accountAnd I walk alone &The poem it’s a mind game within our intensityThe poem It is the safe conduct to our temporalityThe poem is the concert of our honestyThe poem it’s the concert of our decadeThe poem it’s your body, Antonio, Mara, streets, Miguel,Ovid, Malaga, Omar, AgamemnonThe poem between roses and glasses clothes and perspirationFrom the fire of colours falling onYour belly: wildfire, beauty, landscape, poem, theoremOf chaos, fire, bodies that I deliciouslyI became my alchemy. EyelidsFrom the crazy city where I dance or play dreamingThis bouquet of wet roses that endedBeing my voice and my body, passion that is chaosIn mind awake where I slideTo know your eyes: what isThe Literary Work? What are your methodsIn the garúa of faces and symbolsIn the semen of infinities, what is reality? Ah, damn summer, you bastardIn the boredom of bitter girlsAnd I decided it embroidered on my hair a longGrimace, a long beat of bitter flowers.The speed of my rhythm. And here we startThis new notebook to protect my eyesOf the folly of a world that is more deplorable every day.And behind were the bodies that I silently lovedAnd behind, my house and the light from the windows, and theTerrible affection that nobody knew how to give. And here,In the showcase of loneliness, among the gardens of boredom,I repeat your body virulently, I longI rise, kiss, lunge, dream, I light up your voiceIntensely the voracity of our bodies.And despair gave me this world that II turned on with the clarity of my mind. And now I do not bathe and I walk alone,Disturbed between streets and hermit smiles.And poetry was something that we tirelessly repeated:Streets, bodies, pieces of a ballad that I placed in your eyes,Insomnia, verses by Borges or Gelman, a balladDe Manzanero while he was looking for the ideal epigraphTo simply show my intensity.Chasing the writing was the verse itself.The verse itself mutates into the plurality of I’s.Perfection is not enough for me, I do not want the absolute.Abstract thinking as an aphorism translated from EnglishTo French, To SpanishThat simply reveals the chaos of a polished mindAs Kavafis thoughtAs I knocked on your door and you opened a quiet pageBy M. Proust. I think we have nothing else left.Except buying old editions of VerásteguiFind a volume of Eminescu to use his versesAs an epigraphWalk, Walk, Breathe, BurnLive it, inhabit it like a strange fire that haunts it.Sing it, cry it, we inhabited the verse like a summerOpen with shorts and fear of going out on the streetsThat was the saddest month.I only want my little room where I dream versesOr streets or landscapes that are necessarily another matter.Another matter to describe the course of your mindInside silently sad computers.And my sadness is miles of versesThat one day I will dream for you whileI miss you between the rooftops and loneliness, lonelinessAnd cats opening black garbage bagsBlack tears of my still raging lonelinessTurned into a little hymn landing on the wingsOf the Lepidoptera. And it’s true, I’m depressedOr sad or with a thousand rebellious sunflowers inside my eyelidsAnd my eyelids are all my crazy mind full of I’sThat, as Julio Herrera points out in metric verse,It is the shuddering Me before the mud of the dough.The Shocked Epoch tenderly overwhelming your sex.And you shine so brilliantly.Oh party, Lima is my crude city and my countryLima is a luminous melody growing happilyand my crude way of walking and watching and scratching my musicTwo young men haunted by hatred searchingA small room to love each other.And yes, I am a boy and I love you, and I will shut up when youNaked and I undress and we are this countryOpen, shattered, cracked like your lips.And that’s why I wrote this poem and started anotherWithin the same axial axis of your mouth.Not this one, pick and choose in thicknessOf meaning the most. And what difference does it make to haveBeen the fire if today we are but twoSilent truths. So far from love I speakSo far from faded feelingsThat I reject my voice from another year, my lonelinessNow written between papers and cutleryAnd this need to walk or stroll quietlyBy rooms. I stared at a flyThat flew above volume two of the WorkComplete by Neruda. And I opened that little book of Fayad, the Cuban, Jamís. Days of getting bored and immediately writing the seizureAnd convulsion is thousands of streets or pains. And all my powerIt is to fix my eyes on you now that you are sobbing betweenYour memories: streets, houses, shattered country, AprilIt’s the most stupid month, you know, you have to workTo pay for the receipts, electricity, streets, songsAnd I also remember that we slept in the eyeOf a newly pregnant mother. Photo by 3Motional Studio Face Walter Velasquez Seeing the glow of your beautyWhat does your beauty contemplateAccompanied by your natureAnd freshness It is your face that amazes meQuiet and distractedLeaving my eyes blindAnd my body turned off Frankly I don’t know if this will be artOh no if it’s art, oh I don’t know if it’s artBut I can’t deny what it isBrighter than everHave been seenOh blazing, oh blazing About the Authors Elí Urbina (b. Chimbote, Perú, 1989) is licensed in Letters and has a Master’s degree in University Teaching and Pedagogic Research. He has published the poetry collections: “La sal de las hienas” – The salt of the hyenas (Plectro Editores, 2017) and “El abismo del hombre”- The abyss of men (Buenos Aires Poetry, 2020). His poetry has been translated into Greek, Serbian, Macedonian, French, Italian and English. He is the founder and director of the poetry magazine Santa Rabia. Julio César Barco Avalos (b. Lima, 1991) is the author of the books Me da pena que la gente grow (Arteidea Editores, 2012), Breathe (La Chimba Editores-2018-Writers Guild Award), Vastísima Architecture (Editora Huachumera-2019-Huauco de Oro Award), Arder (grammar of the dandelions) (Editorial Higuerilla-2019), The music of my head Vol. 7 (Language Peru -Editors) In 2019, he presented Semen (music for young lovers) (Language Peru – Editors). He is the founder and director of the TAJO group. In 2020 he published four books during lockdown: Des(c)ierto (Metaliteratura, Argentina 2020), the re-edition of Semen (Metaliteratura, 2020) and two volumes in Colombia: Operating System (SO, 2020) and Copy, cut, paste, load (Obra Abierta, Colombia, 2020). He is currently Editor of Literalgia and Lima Gris and Manager of the Poético Río Hablador Cultural Project (which develops poetry projects in El Agustino) and directs the website Lenguajeperu.pe, which is a new national blog of Peruvian and Latin American poetry and art. He obtained an honorable mention in the XI Young Poet of Peru contest (2020) with the poetry book Semilla Cósmica. Walter Alexis Velasquez Mendoza is 24 years old. He is a journalism student at the Antonio Ruiz de Montoya University. He has been involved in literary activity since he was twenty years old, where he made his first poetic presentation at the Oral Poetry Slam, at the Reporteros Infiltra2 collective. He has participated in national anthologies such as “El Dolor de la Tinta” (Editorial El Verso Azul); “El Mar No Cesa” (Editorial Ángeles del Papel); “Al Lado del Camino” (Marginal Editions), among others. His writing has appeared in both national and international magazines. Previously, he worked in the Federation of Journalists of Peru, in the Diario La Verdad Municipal and the literary magazine Buensalvaje. He is currently an editor and reporter for the digital portal La Cuarta Noticias.
Like an Old Movie by Mircea Dan Duta Translated by Natalie Nera I’m sitting at Ginger Mary’s, a railway station pub in Ostrava. The place feels as industrial as the rest of this North Moravian city. A beer to say goodbye. An empty pint on my table. A pretty young blonde is sitting at the table in front of me. The femininity of her existence – her unreal blue eyes, her angelic face, her firm round breasts, her beautiful sexy legs, her narrow waist, her delicate knees, her thin ankles and elegant pumps, paired with the incomprehensible city of Ostrava… I am staring knowingly, urgently, and in vain. She doesn’t notice me at all. In fact, she doesn’t move at all, as if she were dead. Yes, I know she’s not dead, because that’s what I understand about Ostrava, that there are no dead blondes sitting around with a beer at Ginger Mary’s. But that doesn’t matter anymore, does it? But what did I get from Ostrava this year? A month (just a crescent) of authors’ readings, in which I was originally supposed to moderate thirty events, but in the end there were only fourteen of them. A well-known poet promised to attend all of them, though he ended up attending only four. I was invited to another illustrious reading, where, as the – would-be – main guest, I was supposed to read five poems, and in the end I barely read one. A beautiful Slovak photography student, with whom I fell incurably in love, and vanished from the Ginger Mary’s together with two bright young classmates, without paying their bill. The pissed-off publican who didn’t want to understand that I wasn’t really the father of those students, so I didn’t have to cover their bill. The police officer finally solved everything by making me pay for his dinner in addition to their beers, liquor shots and plates of stew. Futile dreams of promoting my poetry, if not in the Czech Republic, Moravia, Silesia or Ostrava, then at least at the Ginger Mary’s and at the Absinthe Club, and if not at the club, then at least at Les. No beer at Dvanáctka, which is a theatre space. A bottle of local liquor – Becherovka – gifted by the festival director, which doesn’t fit in my luggage, so I have to sip it in secret here at the Ginger Mary’s, or on the fourth platform at the Ostrava’s Central Station before my train leaves. Two bus rides in full sobriety, to Brno to attend some conferences, followed by three drunken train rides back to Ostrava. (I have never found the unshaven conductors on Czech Railways prettier and more seductive). Seventy-two draught Ostravar beers, which I paid for out of my own pocket, and another thirty-six, which I would have been entitled to for free had I learned in time that as a festival participant I also enjoyed certain benefits, not just obligations. The hands of the long-broken wall clock in my room, still showing three hours and twenty minutes of in all likelihood our era, as still as my empty pint here at the Ginger Mary’s and as still as the pretty young blonde at the table in front of me. I down the Director’s bottle of Becherovka. This year, like the years before, Ostrava didn’t show me any panties. My train’s on time. I won’t make it anyway. I don’t give a damn about them. Or him. And everything. I’m slowly falling asleep. Here in Ostrava at the Ginger Mary’s. … to magically wake up at the Dragon bar in Brno. A pretty, unapproachable blonde is at the table in front of me. She’s typing on her phone and smiling stupidly at the screen. Next to me, a fat guy in a business suit. His cell phone keeps ringing, but he doesn’t answer. The waitress is chatting with the bartender, they haven’t taken an order in half an hour. There’s an empty pint glass on my table. Loneliness in Brno. In the old movie with the same title, they were just dealing with boredom. I don’t know how they managed to bring me the first beer and cutlery. I’d like to cut my veins with the knife, which would solve everything, of course, but I don’t know how the fork would fit into the equation, let alone a spoon and tea spoon. And so, I hesitate over whether to stab myself in the wrist, throat or liver with the knife, and whether this would be better achieved with the fork, spoon or tea spoon, or just feebly with my own bare hands. I look around once more. Certainly no one will teach me. The blonde is typing on her cell phone, the fat guy’s cell phone is ringing constantly and unnecessarily, the glass in front of me is still empty, the waitress is still chatting with the bartender – it’s getting unbearable. Just take the knife in your hand and then there will be a solution. All of a sudden, the blonde giggles charmingly – you know, I’ve never heard such a charming and seductive laugh before; she spreads her beautiful legs like wings – spontaneously, unexpectedly, abundantly and willingly, oh man, as I enjoy the sight of her modern, transparent and immaculate white miniature panties, the fat man at the next table finally takes the last of these urgent calls, oh man, what a pleasant and willing corporatist voice, the waitress and bartender appear at my table, what would you like, sir, oh, man, how nice and helpful they are, oh well, I know what to do, life is worth living, the void around me can be filled after all, so I’m ordering another beer. About the Author Mircea Dan Duta (b. 27 May 1967, Bucharest) is a poet, a film historian, critic, researcher and academic (he holds a PhD in the subject), translator (Czech, Slovak, Polish, Romanian, French and English), and writer who has chosen to express himself in another language – Czech. He has also produced and organised many literary events in Slovakia, the Czech Republic and Romania. As editor, he works for Levure Littéraire (France, USA, Germany), A Too Powerful World (Serbia), Alephi (India) and Quest (Montenegro). His poetry collections include: Landscapes, Flights and Dictations, Tin quotes, inferiority complexes and human rights (2014/2015, Petr Štengl Editions, Prague), Plíz sujčov jor mobajl foun senťu / Pliiz suiciof ior mobail faun senchiu (Next Page Editions, Bucharest, 2020, bilingual Czech-Romanian anthology). Examples of his academic work are: Narrator, Author & God (Charles University Press, Prague, 2009), The Holocaust in Czech, Slovak and Polish Literature & Cinema (ibid., 2007), The Czech & Slovak Film New Wave in the Social, Political and Cultural Context of the 60s of the 20th Century (Jozef Škvorecký Literary Academy Press, Prague, 2008) – last two titles are collective works. His literary works have been translated into many languages and published in many countries: Britain, France, the USA, Serbia, Poland, Spain, India, Montenegro, Albania, Egypt, Syria, Korea and Kosovo. His poems have appeared in numerous international anthologies of contemporary literature – in the USA, UK, Mongolia, Spain, Czech Republic, South-Africa, India, Indonesia, Romania, Moldova.
Poetry of Peru: Melancholy and Power Do you know any Peruvian author? No? You may be surprised to discover that the revered world writer and Nobel Prize in Literature Winner Mario Vargos Llosa is Peruvian. It is far too easy to place all Spanish writing literati from South America in the generic brackets of Latino writers without recognizing the unique and distinctive styles, voices and points of view they represent. Yet, because of history, there are also similarities between countries of Latin America, dividing literature roughly into colonial period, modernism and contemporary literature, so typical for the region. Names of Peruvian poets such as Sebastián Bondy, José Maria Arguedas, José Santos Chocano and Martín Adán go back to the period of establishing national tradition and self-determination. Having said that, we cannot and should not overlook specific historical developments of Peru as well as significant linguistic influence of the language spoken by the original inhabitants of the country, Quechua. From that, a strong traditional lineage of oral and lyrical literature has grown, and the voice of Peruvian authors rings loudly not only through the continent but through the whole world, echoes of which one may appreciate in the latest offerings of contemporary poetry of Peru. We hope you are going to be as excited as we are when you read a small taster of its youngest poetry. The sadness, blue mood, even depression is paired with a surprising strength, daring to say the way things are, without being opaque, or nebulous. The surprising views and turns of the language are gripping and awe-inspiring. Even more baffling element of the poetry you are going to enjoy this autumn, is the ability of these poets to merge powerful narratives with lyricism. In September, we are publishing poems by three men, Eli Urbina, Walter Velazquez, Julio Barco. In October, we are offering two formidable feminine voices of Karina Medina and Victoria Mallorga, complemented by philosophical and introspective perspectives of Jorge Ccoyllurpuma and Emilio Paz who is also our guest editor for this autumn’s translation feature. And finally in November, you will be able to enjoy mesmerizing verses of Lourdes Aparicion, Valeria Chauvel, Filonilo Catalina, and Willy Gomez. We hope that this will add to the artistic flow and communication we want to encourage and facilitate as bridges, not walls spark human creativity and understanding. Natalie Nera
Czech Poetry Spring In our last instalment, we introduce Czech authors who were born in 1940s and 1950s and thus spent a large part of their lives in an undemocratic regime. They represent poets that do not normally get selected for translation by academics or editors although Tomáš Míka who translates his own work, has been published and known internationally. He moves in multi-lingual cultural spaces with ease and inhabits them with irresistible charm. However, there are many reasons for the lack of representation in translation: behind the Iron Curtain, post Jaroslav Seifert & Nobel Prize for Literature, and with enormous success of Miroslav Holub in English, hunger for Czech poets rapidly decreased. Moreover, over the years it has been overshadowed by the proximity of the bigger, and thus more significant Poland. And there is the issue of translation itself. Jiří Dědeček is a singer and songwriter as well as outstanding translator of many French texts into Czech. His poems reveal that musicality, and with rhymes, so natural in Czech, pose a difficulty in other types of languages, namely English (and I have tried my best to do his text justice). Jiří Žáček is incredibly popular and even those who do not read poetry and do not know any other poet, know his name. His poems are recited to toddlers by their mothers, school children find his texts in their reading books. However, his easy and playful rhymes, self-deprecating sense of humour do not travel well. Moreover, at present rhymes are sneared upon in Czech poetry, as one unnamed editor of a prestigious literary periodical explained to me, We don’t do rhymes anymore, that is not how you are supposed to write. This rejection of rhyme in contemporary poetry is even more surprising because a rhyme in Czech is as natural as is iambic pentameter in English. And then there are poets who made their names in other parts of creative industry. Daniela Fischerová is famous as a scriptwriter, playwright and prose writer both for children and adults. She was also a close associate of president Václav Havel, another playwright who had made his name worldwide before leaving his mark in Czech history and politics in the 1990s. On the other hand, Olga Walló is a true legend of translation, radio, TV and film, admired by many, even worshipped. Olga Nytrová represents a stream of Czech poetic output that gets rarely noticed or mentioned even locally – she is a spiritual and philosophical writer who uses verse as a medium of expressing and unpicking her understanding of the world and universe with a large number of successfully published books. Natalie Nera (All texts below are translated by me apart from Tomáš Míka, the translation is his own.) JIŘÍ DĚDEČEK And the Blues A Blues The blues no blame here and with you Your rhythm I hear lost and dear losing myself, adieu My soul turns to dust and what attracts me to you are lost sorrows of a refugee Avoiding the old place and somehow have answers Greeting all who are disgraced and prostate cancers A blues The blues what can I change the unchanged revivalist I in you With no roots growing for my wreath My blues You are like the story about a maid who is waiting to be saved, by the pen that becomes blade From Pošta shora, 2019 publisher DANIELA FISCHEROVÁ Looking Back Lot’s wife looked back And at once Orpheus looked over his shoulder And at once I have a contract with my memory That some videos are not going to be shown anymore In return I give up Names foreign languages and addresses My memory demands more and more Perhaps Right before the end I am going to look back And in one horrifying glimpse I will face myself Like a naked old octopus That will see herself in the mirror for the first time From Potvora mlsná, příběhy, portréty TOMÁŠ MÍKA Stripping off I’ve stripped off my thirst while waiting I'm almost a stranger as before back then long ago deliberately distancing closeness Only when it's not within reach I am calm and at the same time I’m not Only then do I pull my hands out of my pockets and use them as a welcome So far, just a picture not painted yet And I immediately turn my back on it and start to run never to come back I know I'll find you farthest from you xxx At her wailing wall he didn't shed a tear even the wall fell silent very desirable but he was unwelcome with a fishing rod without a hook xxx I tend towards the minimal closing both my eyes and doors all other entrances and exits restricting movement to breathing Sleep is not coming but the encounter is drawing near I know it Transl. by the author OLGA NYTROVÁ Socrates’ glass Eyes full of tears the irritating Prague air tired bronchial tubes nasopharynx full of pus Breathe in again a clean sip of air hear the seagulls by the sea catch the rhythm of the waves Socrates’ glass full of red wine left next to the scented sticks and the slender candle Let the words flow like a tune their juicy flesh taking in like paradise fruit from the lost beach. OLGA WALLÓ You shouldn’t trust me at all I can lie but not well It’s dark outside like in the light well An unlikely likening The dark outside with daggers and a spell And courage badges Ice melting in the mountains I climb Every day something happens for the last time From Láska k stáru (Love in the Twilight Years) JIŘÍ ŽÁČEK Wings If our ancestors had wings, they would fly. But our ancestors were fish God knows why. (Approximately half a billion years ago.) Perhaps to you, that’s a blow? Back then, the strangest creatures roamed the seas: Their eyes of a fish, Teeth of a fish, Fins of a fish, A tail of a fish - their missing-wings – a secret wish. But evolution supports constant change. I think of those wings all the time And how it’s all arranged. I hope our descendants Will really try And in gazillions of evolutionary days, Powered only by their arms, they will reach the sky The fish will be amazed! The salamanders will be amazed! The mammals will be amazed! And you will be amazed, it’s not just a phase! ABOUT THE AUTHORS Jiří Dědeček (b. 1953, Karlovy Vary) is poet, translator, educator, singer-songwriter. He was educated at a specialist secondary school for languages. In 1976 he graduated in librarianship from Prague University and was conscripted to the army, after which he worked in the Prague Language School as an interpreter in French. In 1983 to 1987 JD studied script writing in FAMU (Prague Film Academy).He started writing in 1974, and his output includes poetry, songs, plays and musicals. “Because the possibilities for publishing any of my work were practically non-existent, I started singing in clubs and theatres. And so for this reason I am mostly known in my country as a folk singer. I see the texts of my songs as the main area of my creativity. The music is simple, but it si there to help convey the thought.” His publications include: Texts (1982), published by the Club of Friends of the Semafor Theatre; What happened in the ZOO (1987), from the children´s publishing house Albatros; The moon over the housing estate (1987); etc… In 1988 his translations of Georges Brassens´songs from the French was published. His recent collection of poems Questionnaire was firts published in Munich, and, after the revolution, in Czech Republic Daniela Fischerová, b. in 1948 in Prague, is a prominent Czech writer, playwright and script writer as well as an award-winning author for children. For many years, she worked as an editor in a publishing house. In the 1990s, she was one of the close advisors of President Václav Havel. She currently teaches creative writing. More information at https://cs.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniela_Fischerov%C3%A1. Tomáš Míka was born in 1959 in Prague, Czech Republic. His original work includes books of poetry “Nucený výsek” (Destruction of Animals), 2003 and “Deník rychlého člověka” (Journal of a Fast Man), 2007 and “Textové zprávy” (Text Messages), 2016. His book of short stories “Und” was published in 2005. He works as a translator from English, among the authors whose works he translated are Samuel Beckett (Watt), John Bunyan (The Pilgrim’s Progress), James Hogg (Confessions of the Justified Sinner), Jack Black (You Can’t Win). He lives in Prague. Olga Nytrová (b. in 1949 in Prague) is an academic, philosopher, editor, poet, playwright and writer. She is head of Prague’s Writers’ Society and literary-drama club Dialog na cestě. She also works in clerical service of Czechoslovak Hussite Church. She represents a spiritual brand of Czech poetry. More information at https://cs.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olga_Nytrov%C3%A1 Olga Walló was born in 1948 in Prague. She read philosophy at the Charles University and then carved a successful career as film dubbing director, writer and translator of literary texts, including Shakespeare etc. She has always written poetry but started publishing her poetic texts at the age of fifty. She currently lives in a remote cottage in the middle of the deep mountain forest in the Czech Republic but counts among legends of Czech radio, film, television, literature and literary translation. Jiří Žáček, born in 1945 in Chomutov, is a writer, poet, playwright, translator and author of textbooks for young learners. With accolades of national and internation awards, he is truly a national treasure. His poems are known to generations of children and adults alike, popular for their melodic grasp of Czech language, easy rhymes and wit. More at https://jirizacek.cz/ and https://cs.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ji%C5%99%C3%AD_%C5%BD%C3%A1%C4%8Dek
Introducing Four Czech Poets Not only about the Presence by Adam Borzič Since Berlin you want to write a poem so simple, That you repeat for a hundred times words like banality, presence, black currant… You read your notes in your mobile; its display is somewhat scarred, Which now seems to me fitting. You read in them you cannot turn back time. There is nowhere to return it. So the sadness of the past is forever only an echo, Falling through a large sieve like a noodle, while the ladle still hangs On the wall, and the sky is grey and the stairs look they lead to hell, But they don‘t. So you open the door, the defeat of the meaning disappears, Only a chest with tulips on top remain. You thought of poetic scenes, And they are your new nightmares, your love poems For more and more men and one woman, topical only for the polyamory, But you won’t confess it publicly, so you suffer from nightmares, That fall on the professor’s bald head Several days after his radio programme was cancelled, Which is also your fault, and on top of that, he has to introduce you. . Through a strange eye of a while, climbs an insect’s futility and all that love It feels to be threatened with the polite interest Of the audience, say in Berlin... At night you whisper to yourself: They kept coming to me And the doors got opened And the door got closed And they kept asking: What do you want? What do you want? And their voices sounded like thunder in the larder, Like a spike in the wet sand. The wind of nervousness is luckily asleep. It’s November. Berlin kept October to itself together with the beautiful Tereza And beautiful Jan, together with the beautiful black man at the reception, Who, aged fifty, married a Czech man who hates his countrymen. Now at last November. A month of simplicity. As well as a month of joy. Far behind are left poetic scenes, orphaned like a lighthouse on an island In the middle of the North Sea. The chairs are empty, tables by the wall, Toilets sparkle with cleanliness. Standstill. So you are happy about a repaired tap in the kitchen, Several outstanding poems I have read today, Interviews with Olga and Ivan. And naturally, walking. Sometimes modest, other times self-confident, ever so often meek like wrinkles on Ivan’s face, ever so often magical like the night full of yellow tobacco leaves on the pavement, and nautical apples, which you stole in your dream. And then you laughed about it. PRAGUE...TO BE CONTINUED by Aleš Kauer Prague. The old whore, bored and willing to walk along each generation all over again. I am like Prague begging for a photo, like a foreigner pleading for love, like a tourist believing in virtual values. I am exploding tenderness and misguided imagination. I sweeten the bitter dregs with two sugar cubes from the nearby street. On the window – a spider of yesterday’s explosion. Slavia. You fall asleep with an i-Pod in your hand. With pleasure, enjoyment and neurosis within my reach. With assurance there is another chamber full of light. The shining pause between two lives. I want to be your confidence, I want to be your talent with the real inner complexity, with the spectrum of cynical, caustically witty and snap observations. I want to be your address in the yellow Moleskin, your artefact and adrenalin. Wink at me so I am sure you know what I am talking about! We touch our anxieties like razor blades. Unshaven strayed people on the polar maps. Yet, in all that lived-in melancholy is so much truth, ugliness, humour, beauty, there is only one answer in existence… To go out and live! perro callejero by Tim Postovit avenida as long as the arm of your mother when she placed an ice-cold towel on your forehead sweaty with fever the café is as small as your soul when a street dog scared you for the first time because you understood you would follow him the man’s teeth crack the grains of sand from the sandals of Mary Magdalene who, in the act of reconciliation, hands you a neon clavicle bone so you can sell it at the market – easily like boiled sweet corn like sheep cheese and for the money you make, you buy a ticket home by Josef Straka swirling pressure intractable words, repeated over and over a little corner at the boat’s bar there is nowhere to sail off not even inside you with all the barricades – on and on churning something going out – somewhere to the upper deck and watch the last ray of the fading day with a certain trace of additional hope and hope-lessness and then you really abandon the boat the reverberating sound of lock chambers what with what and against what and what in unclear circumstances and what completely explicitly, what acutely unbidden questions when sinking perhaps not, the other un-said negatives! All translations by Natalie Nera About the Authors Adam Borzič (born in 1978) is a poet, mental health therapist , translator as well as editor-in-chief of the prominent literary bi-weekly Tvar. He is the author of five poetry collections. In 2014 he was nominated for the Magnesia Litera literary award. His poems have been translated into Polish, English, Romanian, Croatian, Serbian, Russian, Slovenian and Portuguese. Aleš Kauer (born in 1974) is a Czech poet, artist and activist who tries to highlight the issues of gay writers and poets. He has five collections under his belt and is also a founder of an artistic collective Iglau Ingenau as well as the Adolescent publishing house in Šumperk Tim Postovit (b. in 1996) is a poet and translator from Russian. He studies philology at the Charles University in Prague. His first collection Magistrála (published by Pointa) came out in 2019. He is currently working on his second book. Moreover, he frequently performs in the genre of slam poetry. In 2019, he became a champion of the Czech Republic in duo slam. He teaches Czech as a second language. He lives in Prague. Josef Straka (born in 1972), originally worked as an academic researcher in psychology for the Institute of Psychology. At present he organises literary readings in the City Library in Prague. He is an author of several critically acclaimed collections. His poems have been translated into Polish, Serbian, German, Spanish, Portuguese, English and Dutch. .