• from Decarceration

    Crepuscular cupules in pulpy vigils. The joy of letting the harrow level out the soil of your being. * the inebriation of running yourself dry belonging when you find the way out in others. * Led back, drawn off once again towards your fluvial and insular solitude which you struggle to gather into a single pronoun. * You’re no longer your body you go beyond yourself like a law whose revocation you have demanded. * Core in which breaks out a fire that again takes on flesh.

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  • LA PLUME AILÉE

    Je parcours la route sans amis, le poids de la solitude de l’au-delà pèse comme une orange lourde sur mes épaules. Mon amie a disparu, son visage se décompose, ses mots s’évaporent, elle ne m’accompagne plus. Je flotte en me demandant si j’ai réellement existé. Le vent emporte un tableau ancien qui représente mon corps. Mes lèvres bougent à peine répétant les mêmes mots que je n’ai pas encore oubliés,

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  • Mon propre visage, pas celui d'autrui!

    Rishabh Keswani, le meilleur attaquant de RNA, était prêt à prendre le pénalty pour les champions en titre. Rishabh avait déjà marqué plus de buts que tous les autres dans le tournoi. « Allez, Rishabh! » Allez, Rishabh! Rishabh a ébouriffé sa coiffure normalement élégante et peignée, maintenant ruinée par la sueur, et a couru jusqu’à la balle.

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  • Teodora Lalova: Too much of a good thing is a bad thing

    Since I moved abroad, home has stopped being tied to a location, to a tight and simple definition. To be fair, I am not sure if it ever was like that for me, even simply by virtue of having family history in several parts of my native Bulgaria. At the moment, home feels like the place/moment where I love and am loved, where I can be vulnerable, where I can do what I enjoy doing and what I find purpose in (both professionally and personally).

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  • “A beauty not yet visible to our eyes”: A Dialogue with Franca Mancinelli

    The Butterfly Cemetery is a composite book, which collects more than ten years of writing. It is an unexpected book, which took shape all of a sudden, thanks to this long time period. The same thing happened to me as a child when I would play with butterflies: I would make a tomb of white stones for one butterfly, then another tomb. . . and suddenly I realized that I had put together a small cemetery. It is a special book because it was born first in English.

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  • POEMES

    black banners at sunrise black banners at sunset black on black are our days and nights black cars and black-clad men with dark machine guns riding on the back of black tanks and pickups firing aimlessly into the darkened sky as if in a bleak wedding driving on roads lined with rotting corpses singing a capella like a good choir stroking cats and taking selfies black phantoms emerging from the dead of the night

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  • Le Corps Invisible

    Elle a disparu, elle n’est plus là. Je me demande si j’ai été l’unique témoin d’un miracle diabolique qui m’a permis de vivre l’expérience la plus sensuelle de ma vie. Incapable de trouver une explication à ce phénomène bizarre, je me hâte de revenir chez moi, je m’esseule dans ma chambre, je rêve.

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  • A poem of Belarus

    And as an old soldier, Like an ex-warrior in the plains, the mountains and the marches, I have the right, after the war has left me to breathe without a reason for more other years. I have the right, To choose those snowy hills to lie down under them with an mysterious safety and happiness. Actually, things were not that worse, Life in my homeland was a joyful journey, sometimes, And a hard one in others.

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  • Intro

    As a little saint floats in the unholy land of the people with the pretended past, demons are too scared to walk this path... but to saint it’s home sweet home - Magic and witchcraft despair is here to last and its judgment day everyday to those who can’t last - An innocent girl indeed but pure is too naïve you can’t win a demon race if you don’t sell your soul away - But not to be mistaken my friend those people are hidden

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  • PANGOLIN STEW

    Anne, 43: «Personal hygiene is something fundamental in the man I am looking for. In addition, if you are classless or your look is very simple, don’t make me waste my time, please». Did you say ‘time’, Anita? But time is the only thing we have left now, girl. If you want to find that fashionable and spotless man you are looking for you need to adapt to the new circumstances, darling.

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  • DES RIRES AU BORD DE L’ABIME

    Je suis à la fois croyant, athée, agnostique, nul et superbe. Je suis le père des bâtards à mille racines, l’amant d’une Aphrodite cosmique dont le talent charme les habitants des continents multiples, le fils d’une mère au corps luxurieux qui s’étend de la mer jusqu’au sommet des Monts enneigés. Je forge mon destin à ma guise, je transgresse toutes les limites. J’existe, donc je résiste.

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  • Six letters for R. R.

    Which round number do you prefer? 0 messages 0 calls 0 missed calls 0 letters Lebanon From afar it looks like the start of a Balkan film, typical. Blood. Rain. Trains. Rain. Well no. Up close it was dry and hot and we traveled by plane. not meaning it was any easier on me, the urge to vomit, regardless of the mode of transportation Is here. Always here, inside the nostrils.

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  • THREE POEMS

    I swim into river of borders which touches the souls of the ethnic roots. It reaches the mass without orders, then gathers the nations to make it understood and answers achieved by the billion languages. The river is multi-coloured by initial default. We all put our toes in and feel the envisage. The river of languages will float till fulfillment of thoughts.

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  • POEMS

    This night. When it is about to break the shutters of the clouds and stick to the Afghan T-shirt, even though above the garden that I stride across it pours spitefully. I am smoking, drinking the leftover coffee, chatting to dwarfs and fireproof scientists of my brain the same way I was still chatting with you ten minutes ago. I was holding grace under control. The words. Now I am levitating with a limp.

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  • POEMS

    having drunk bottoms up the cup of autumn they roll their despair The wind – a deceiver at heart – tricks them that it is able to tie to each branch their breath flickering in the thin green veins They follow in its footsteps hoping for some life after the fall I measure my steps as words said after love I measure my words as steps near hills of tamed foliage It is not difficult to escape It's hard to hold on to the passion for escaping

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  • Extraits du recueil Pierres témoins/Ostańce

    La congère a depuis longtemps craqué sous la chaleur l’eau s’est écoulée or il ne nous suffisait pas de nous faire cadeau d’un tel « rien » « Rien » ne se change pas dans le poème en quelque chose dont on peut faire commerce debout à l’angle de la neuvième allée à gémir Eh, là j’ai quelque chose à perdre (seule une couronne de myrte, maman) ou bien d’un doigt menaçant ceinturer

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  • POEMES

    L’électricité coule dans mes veines un objet magique coule dans mes veines mille gouffres grouillant de vie coulent dans mes veines. Les gènes exécutent une lente danse latérale dans mes veines. La main invisible d’un marché mort touille dans mes veines le liquide contaminé une procession de planètes parcourt mes veines. Je m’infecte en m’injectant mes frères bactériens

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  • Tes yeux bruns tournesol

    Tes yeux bruns tournesol Sont un havre de vie : Nul besoin de boussole Pour trouver nos envies ! Les daguets y somnolent Tout près de la rivière, Les lutins cabriolent Fous, dans la tréflière. Tes yeux bruns tournesol Abritent cent trésors : Regarde sur le sol, Vois ces champignons d’or, La sylve parfumée : Elle est le lent écho De ton âme embrumée Par les coquelicots.

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  • Les cerises bleues

    Inventons-nous un monde Où bleues sont les cerises Et où chaque seconde Est guidée par la brise. Le doux souffle du vent Y régit les automnes, Le rocher est vivant Et les astres rayonnent. Les fleuves grenadines Sucrés comme un baiser, Font s’écouler le Yin, Énergie apaisée.

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  • Love poems to a forty-year-old woman

    Your ever-wakeful mouth, I know it I throw it like a die in a corner, Like a veil over my shoulder To survive. Your ever-wakeful mouth is my good fortune in the library My nose when it shines My mouth when there is no escaping it Without a kiss.

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  • Poème à Laube des possibles rêves

    Inspirés par ces voix qui tracent La nuit où l’on commémore Les innocents d’un crime contre l’humanité Tout bascule le poids et la balance De l’injustice sociale et de la souffrance Inaudible, invisible et indicible Le sacré se mêle au profane Et dans les volutes, les rêves secrets Se profiles et se révèlent au grand dam De Damdan du jour, dame d’amour

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  • Isabelle Macor

    Née en Tunisie, Isabelle Macor a vécu en France dans un milieu multiculturel, plurilingue, effectuant de nombreux séjours à l’étranger, Grande-Bretagne, ex-URSS, Europe Centrale, Israël, Maroc, et notamment en Pologne où elle a mené ses recherches sur la poésie polonaise contemporaine. Chercheur en littératures comparées, spécialisée dans le Monde slave et l’Occident,

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  • Trois nouvelles

    Ces assiettes moscovites étaient restées dans le buffet de notre cuisine à Forest Hill pendant 37 ans, quand mes parents vivaient dans notre appartement, et pendant les cinq ans qui avaient suivi la mort de mon père et de mon frère, alors que plus personne n’habitait notre appartement puisque ma mère très âgée avait déménagé avec moi.

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  • Alexander Manuiloff: Theatre can be a space of discussion

    After his 2017 tour to Washington’s ForumTheatre/Woolly Mammoth, the DC Theatre Scene called him “a rare creator”, the Washington Post found his piece “exceptionally thoughtful”, while the Broadway World defined Manuiloff’s writing as being “akin to magical realism”. In 2019 Alexander Manuiloff became the first non-German speaking writer to be invited to the prestigious 44-year-old Mülheimer Theatertage festival

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  • POEMS

    I am blowing the air around me I keep silent in their eyes and they are running away yes: they are probably running away to relieve the turbines that I have drifted away the lacuna carved by my spine they hit me with the pendulum of the space they look at me with suspect and fear they scratch me in their mind and then they leave me without seal without stamp without humanity

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  • Book Excerpt-The Night Time Raid on the Kitchen

    Cinnamon had to make the journey back. Again, he could barely make out anything. The blackness became a bit less intense but none the less, persisted. He decided to get down on all fours and crawl across. He bumped his head against the bedroom door on his way back. It was all he could do to stop himself from crying, but he bit his lips.

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  • Les chèvres de Vahid

    Des rhumatisants crispés par la douleur, des personnes à la colonne vertébrale opérée ou bien qui se préparent pour une telle opération, des retraités désorientés et des flâneurs comptent à contrecœur les enjambées restantes de cette vie éphémère. Dans la rue, à peine quelques personnes qui croient qu'elles sont encore en bonne santé et qu'elles n'ont pas été rongées par l'humidité du Luxembourg.

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  • Cement Rain

    The inner world has been cast in transparent concrete, flowing from an orange cistern on wheels. My mind has acquired a curvature and an opaque density, turned into a sandbox with playing kids caught inside a pearl as big as a dump truck. Yes, the gray cement drizzle was falling even then, at the beginning of time, when we were kids. No one could expect the tragedy then. We were drinking white wine in Valencia,

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  • POEMS

    I don’t remember exactly when I turned into a robot I got used to sleeping for three hours and working the rest of the time my free time was only when I was on public transportation of waiting for it in line that is when I read books life was others as well as hell I don’t remember when during the endless traffic congestion and the translations in which I saw little sense plus they paid barely a dime I trained myself not to think about

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  • POEMS

    It almost feels like you haven’t lived through all these disjointed years after the revolution, or the naive hypocrisy of growing old, -- perhaps this cage, security, or a slice of life like a piece of bought meat. If you only know what invisible thread what a taut and mendacious rope – I too under the flood The incalculable burden I too want to stop saying I

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