• 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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  • TWO POEMS

    How many words to cover the heartless distance between us? And when you’ll take in your hands this antiquated letter, I will know that your palms will be sealing my faint fingerprints. I don't want them to be obvious, to offer my surrender so easily. I will then peel myself the few pretexts. Will I scare you?

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  • poèmes

    Son cerveau plein à ras-bord de matières scolaires en lieu et place de l'éthique, Ema a fermé les yeux dans mes bras rassurants pour encore une nuit. Toi aussi, cher Aïlan, tu les a fermés, mais toi c'est pour l'éternité, dans le giron d'eau froide. Tout seul tu t'es endormi pour toujours sur les plages de la Mer Égée, là où se baignent chaque année trop de touristes européens, qui en rentrant chez eux ferment leurs portes à double tour devant

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  • When I left “Karl Liebknecht”

    I am Ali from Iraq, I fled to Germany in 2016. A classic refugee journey: by foot, boat, foot, then train, foot, a taxi that robbed me, foot, then a van which took the last of my money, foot, swimming, foot, etc. until I reached Potsdam, without a penny, and my head bandaged because of a beating from two Syrians in a camp at the Austrian border. They thought we were taking their place in Europe and they would be sent back towards Syria,

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  • Joyeux Anniversaire Julian Assange, né le 3 Juillet 1971 La torture du Rêveur

    Je porte ma plume comme une croix sur mon dos, et j’avance. Voici Sisyphe roulant sa pierre à ma droite. La terre gronde sous ses pieds, il avance incessamment vers un but inconnu. Le mystère de sa torture se reflète dans mon âme, comme dans un miroir ténébreux. Je plonge au fond de la transparence de la glace en quête d’un Narcisse souffrant. Ses larmes sont les miens.

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  • TWO STORIES

    I am a rational man – I have never believed in what one can’t touch. I respectfully listen to stories about souls, connected by karma, and so on and so forth, but my attitude to the matter is over with this. At the end of the day, everyone has the right to believe in whatever makes them happy. Things are very simple to me – we came from earth and will become earth. But this is not the point now. The point is: I have faced a paradox for the first time in my life.

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  • Farid Ghadami: Literature is counter-cultural, inhuman and savage Interview by Irina Papancheva

    I write as I think, as I live. I think my novels are all completely different, but you can find me in each of them. My first novel, published about 13 years ago, is the story of a football player who is murdered at his home, but at the same time it could be perceived as a sharp critique of the Iranian educational system, Lacanian - Freudian psychoanalysis, and fundamentalism.

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  • THREE POEMS

    It’s Sunday where I am not - where roasted chestnuts are sold on the street, trams are orange and old, and someone else is learning to play the piano. The light solemnly says goodbye. Afternoons like this make me want to write poems about the smell of chimney smoke, about the unread books at home and about first loves. Of course, on such afternoons I don't carry a notebook with me.

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  • Interview with Christos Chartomatsidis by Irina Papancheva

    Some writers have influenced my worldview and approach to life, such as the classics – Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Kazantzakis, Zola, Radichkov. From others I have learnt the craft – Gogol, Vazov with his “Uncles”. Lately, I am more and more admiring Dumas, the father, who is an unbeatable master of plot. We know him best for “The Three Musketeers” and “The Count of Monte Cristo”, while he has written a series

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  • ABOUT TODAY

    I have a friend who is a communist and a friend who defines himself as one my neighbour is a fascist and what a fascist! it's impossible to find a radish the salad is here the onion is here but no radish! I was a nazi later on a socialist now I'm a Human

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  • Grandiosity of fake modesty

    i know they’ve all expected a downfall but instead they’ve found success and although they didn’t know what to do with it i didn’t help them when you exceed all their expectations you end up all alone * don’t accuse me i don’t love you every morning i wake up with a feverish desire to bite your toenails * when i wait for you i turn on a blinding light and then you arrive and turn it off (so that i can see you)

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  • THREE POEMS

    She has conspired with a woman dressed in green, who was missing a leg. She has resisted gridlines. She has stolen time from the bellies of spinsters. She has slept sitting, set tails on fire; with mountain folk she has eaten dark food. She has opened the shutters at night, taken out a ladder, switched on the lights, and washed the windows wearing only a bra.

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