Winter is coming E-Book

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 81

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Winter is Coming is already the third international poetry anthology that has been published by Verlag Expeditionen. In this book you will find 51 poets from 20 countries, who have published their poems in English as well as in their mother tongue.

Leseprobe

Winter is coming

International Poetry

Edited by

Gino Leineweber

Verlag Expeditionen

To appreciate the beauty of a snowflake

it is necessary to stand out in the cold

Aristotle

Inhalt

Ahmet Özer, Turkey

Ali Al-Hazmi, Saudi Arabia

Annabel Villar, Uruguay/Spain

Anna Würth, Germany

Aristea Papalexandrou, Greece

Barbara Pogačnik, Slovenia

Barry Stevenson, United Kingdom

Betül Tarıman, Türkiye

Burkhard P. Bierschenck, Germany

Chloe Koutsoubelli, Greece

Christine Geweke, Germany

Claudia Piccinno, Italy

Cordula Scheel, Germany

Dalia Staponkutė, Lithuania

Domenico Pisana, Italy

Dorel Cosma, Romania

Elizabeth Kurian ‘Mona’, India

Emel Koşar, Türkiye

Emina Čabaravdić-Kamber, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Ester Cecere, Italy

Fethi Sassi, Tunisia

Gino Leineweber, Germany

Hilal Karahan, Turkey

Holly Iglesias, USA

Jenny Lkhagvasuren, Mongolia

Juan C. Tajes, Uruguay/Netherland

Julio Pavanetti, Uruguay/Spain

K Pankajam, India

Liana Sakelliou, Greece

Lily Exarchopoulou, Greece

Magie Faure-Vidot Vijay-Kumar, Seychelloise

Maja Herman Sekulić, Serbia/USA

Mallika Chari, India

Maren Schönfeld, Germany

Marian Eikelhof, The Netherlands

Mawar Marzuki, Malaysia

Mesut Şenol, Turkey

Militsa Yeftimijevic Lilic, Serbia

Mohammad Zahid, Kashmir, India

Osman Öztürk, Turkey

Padmaja Iyengar-Paddy, India

Preeta Chandran, India

Ra'ed Anis AL-Jishi, Saudi Arabia

Šimo Ešić, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Simon Fletcher, United Kingdom

Supratik Sen, India

Utz Rachowski, Germany

Uwe Friesel, Germany

Yiorgos Chouliaras, Greece

Zorin Diaconescu, Romania

BİOGRAPHİES

Imprint

Ahmet Özer, Turkey

THE SNOW

sniffing a rhythmical air the snow falls

on all the times of the world that witness our lives

on the white page of our voice / on eternity

on the childish loneliness of our flowing days

from the grey sky sparkles pour down on

the locked doors of the dirge behind us.

to the leafless branch of the cherry that misses its flower

the wind releases a bird with no direction to fly to

two eyes / a beating heart / the glances flowing off of the windows

travel with the trains setting forth for long trips

kissing the face of the earth the snow constantly falls.

sprinkling the magic of joy on dark seas

snow places the sorrow of the evening in our infant dreams

brings the years wrapped in silk to our windows

and adds many an embroidery to the songs that raise life.

clock sounds / passengers into night / the humming of the stations

raise the pages of the diary left half-finished

written on the diary of love whose salt is upon our lips

and leave a drop of blood at the endless page of history

the sound that makes the earth think grows: the snow falls.

KAR

Ahmet Özer, Türkiye

kar yağıyor oynak bir havayı kollayarak

ömrümüze tanık bütün zamanlarına dünyanın

sesimizin bembeyaz sayfasına / sonsuzluğa

akan günlerimizin çocuksu yalnızlığına

gri gökyüzünden ışıltılar sağılıyor

ardımızdaki ağıtın kilitli kapılarına.

çiçeğini özleyen kirazın yapraksız dalına

bir kuşu salıyor rüzgâr uçacağı yön belirsiz

iki göz / çarpan yürek / camlardan akan bakışlar

uzun yolculuğa çıkan trenlere sefer eyliyor

kar aralıksız yağıyor dünyanın yüzünü öperek.

kar sevincin büyüsünü serperek karanlık denizlere

çocuk düşlerimize oturtuyor akşamın hüznünü

ipekle sargılanan yılları getiriyor penceremize

binbir nakış ekliyor yaşamı havalandıran şarkılara.

saatin sesi / geceye giren yolcular / istasyonların uğultusu

yarım kalan güncenin sayfalarını havalandırıyor

tuzu dudaklarımızdaki aşkın güncesine yazılan

bir damla kan bırakıyor uçsuz sayfasına tarihin

yeryüzünü düşündüren ses büyüyor: kar yağıyor.

Ali Al-Hazmi, Saudi Arabia

LOSS

on the threshold of night

They await the passing of the last evening

Their eyes filled with sorrow

They willingly forget themselves in the pathways of pains

Where mistaking them for the flames of estrangement

from hopes they left behind the path of time,

you would think they are drunk when they are sober

But the shock is even harder on a sprout

in the spring of their eyes

They did not wish for their wounds to leave their footsteps stolen

at the very start of the path

where they stayed away from the blossoms of their days They rested to an exhausting exile that leafed out in

their chests

That’s how the losers do with their time

When it is finally time

When the last path heads nowhere in the face of night

for they had shared everything

And no words are left for them from the wine of

speech to make a judgement

For so their night didn't care about the screams

coming from their memories

behind the door of life

Oh, how noble it would have been of their dreams

to stay on paper

in the closet

خُسران

علي الحازمي ، السعودية

على عتبة الليل

ينتظرون مرور المساء الأخير

عيونـهمُ اكتحلت بالأسى

في دروب المواجع ينسون أنفسهم عنوة

حيث تحسبهم من لهيب التغرب

عن أُمنياتٍ لهم خلف درب الزمان

سكارى وما هم كذلك

لكن وقع الفجيعة أقسى على برعمٍ

في ربيع عيونـهمُ

لم يشاؤا على الجرح ترك

خطاهم على أول الدرب مسلوبةً

حيث ظلوا بعيدين عن زهر أيامهم

واستراحوا إلى غربةٍ أورقت

في صدورهمُ بالضنى

هكذا يصنع الخاسرون من العمر

عند انتهاء المطاف بـهم

حيث لا وجهةٌ للممر الأخير أمام المساء

لأنـهم اقتسموا كلَّ شيءٍ

ولم يتبق لهم من نبيذ الكلام كلامٌ

فيحتكمون إليه

لذلك لم يكترث ليلهم بالصراخ

الذي كان يصدر عن ذكريات لهم

خلف باب الحياة

وكم كان أسمى لأحلامهم

أن تظلَّ على ورقٍ

في الخزانة

Annabel Villar, Uruguay/Spain

VELVET IS NOT FOR THEM

Velvet is not for them,

neither lace or muslins,

just rustic clothes,

just rough voices,

just hard gestures.

Books are not for them,

neither desk or academies,

just scrubing/ washing/ stinging/ digging,

planting and harvesting,

dreaming is not allowed

But there is always something worse…

Marginalized behind the veils,

preaching in stony deserts,

in their Third World of camps

without oasis or future or present,

watching life pass in front of their eyes

narrowed by sun and sadness.

But there is always something worse…

In their patriarchal Third World

of dry woodland ignorance,

marginalized under their tunics

raising children without water but with caltrops,

watching life pass in front of their eyes

clouded by Aids and sorrow.

But there is always something worse…

Marginalized beyond the red slum showcases,

in their unequal and unfair Fourth World

with their noses pressed to the windows,

just watching life pass in front of their eyes

without living it, sidelong, like a spectator.

But there is always something worse…

Among birth and death…

just suspension points.

PARA ELLAS NO SON

LOS TERCIOPELOS

Annabel Villar, Uruguay/España

Para ellas no son los terciopelos,

ni los encajes ni las muselinas,

sólo telas rústicas,

sólo voces ásperas,

sólo gestos duros.

Para ellas no son los libros,

ni los pupitres ni las academias,

sólo fregar, lavar, picar, cavar, sembrar y recolectar,

soñar no está permitido.

Pero siempre hay algo peor…

Marginadas tras los velos,

predicando en desiertos pedregosos,

en su tercer mundo de campamentos

sin oasis, ni futuro, ni presente,

viendo pasar la vida ante sus ojos

entrecerrados por el sol y por la pena.

Pero siempre hay algo peor…

Marginadas bajo las túnicas,

criando niños sin agua y con abrojos,

en su tercer mundo patriarcal

y de seca ignorancia selvática,

viendo pasar la vida ante sus ojos

nublados por el sida y por la pena.

Pero siempre hay algo peor…

Marginadas tras los cristales

de los guetos de barrios rojos,

en su cuarto mundo desigual e injusto

de nariz pegada a la ventana,

viendo pasar la vida ante sus ojos,

sin vivirla,

de soslayo,

de prestado.

Pero siempre hay algo peor…

Entre el nacer y el morir…

sólo ilusorios puntos suspensivos.Anna Nasiłowska, Poland

Translated by Joanna Nasiłowska-Rek, Poland

IN THE MIDDLE OF SUMMER

In winter having once lacked

good shoes

you know

they have to be comfortable

not to slide

not to soak.

In February having once lived

in the attic

where the wind whistles

you appreciate

good windows

and warmth.

During my generation’s life

in my homeland

things have changed:

who didn’t gather winter supplies

will

go to the supermarket 

and buy anything.

But it won’t be as good!

Oh, it cannot be compared!

– I’m telling over the cooker

preparing marmalade

stirring sweet fruit pulp

with a ladle.

Such an atavism

in the middle of summer

the breath of frost can be felt

as default.

W ŚRODKU LATA

Anna Nasiłowska, Polska

Kto kiedyś nie miał na zimę

dobrych butów

wie

że muszą być wygodne

nie śliskie

i nieprzemakalne.

Kto choć raz mieszkał w lutym

na poddaszu

gdzie hula wiatr

docenia

dobre okna

i ciepło.

Za życia mojego pokolenia

w moim kraju

zmieniło się:

kto nie zrobił zapasów na zimę

ten

pojedzie do supermarketu

i kupi sobie wszystko.

Ale nie takie!

O, nie ma porównania!

- opowiadam znad garnka

smażąc powidła

mieszając chochą

słodki owocowy miąższ.

Taki atawizm

w środku lata

czuć

domyślny oddech mrozu.

Anna Würth, Germany

WINTER SONG

Your song Lucia

when singing still helped

but then the snow

SOPHIA

Anna Würth, Germany

Translated by John Waterfield, United Kingdom

A wind-skewed gait

felt as nettles in the spine

a shock to the vitals

bodily wise

my early warning system ignites

intrinsic physical treasure

WINTERLIED

Anna Würth, Deutschland

Dein Lied Lucia

als Singen noch geholfen hat

aber der Schnee

SOPHIA ODER

DIE WEISHEIT DES LEIBES

Anna Würth, Deutschland

Ein windschiefer Gang

Nesseln kreuzwärts

der Schlag ins Kontor

körperklug

springt mein Frühwarnsystem an

geschätzte Leibeigenschaft

Aristea Papalexandrou, Greece

Translated by Philip Ramp, USA/Greece

NEW YEAR’S

Troupes came to us

from abroad

listening to us

left us

Eleven o’clock sleepless

the unlit city heading for

twelve

Vassilopsomo1* petrified

calls to mind the unworn silk of a

Jocasta

Happy New Year and Goodnight!

Memories piled in moments

Two thousand and ten…

New year

dawn our diminishing

future.

Mute night.

1*Vassilopsomo is a special bread baked in a round loaf for New Year’s and is named after St. Basil (Vassily) whose name day is January 1.

ΠΡΩΤΟΧΡΟΝΙΑ

Αριστέα Παπαλεξάνδρου, Ελλάδα

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