Lorca's City That Does Not Sleep

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.

Nobody is asleep.

The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.

The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,

and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the

street cornerthe unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the

stars.

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.

Nobody is asleep.

In a graveyard far off there is a corpse

who has moaned for three years

because of a dry countryside on his knee;

and that boy they buried this morning cried so much

it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!

We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth

or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead

dahlias.

But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;

flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths

in a thicket of new veins,

and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever

and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day

the horses will live in the saloons

and the enraged ants

will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the

eyes of cows.
Another daywe will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead

and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats

we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.

Careful! Be careful! Be careful!

The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,

and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention of the bridge,

or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,

we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes

are waiting,

where the bear's teeth are waiting,

where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,

and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.

Nobody is sleeping.

If someone does close his eyes,

a whip, boys, a whip!

Let there be a landscape of open eyesand bitter wounds on fire.

No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.

I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.

But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the

night,

open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight

the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

About The poet

Spanish poet and dramatist, Lorca was a talented artist and a member of the 'Generation of 1927', a group of writers who advocated avant-gardism in literature.
He was murdered at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War [1] by persons likely affiliated with the Nationalist cause. He is thought to be one of the many victims who 'disappeared' and were executed by the Nationalists.[2Major works; Sonnets of Dark Love, Ode to Salvador Dalí, Poem of Deep Song, Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías...

WHERE AM I?

Where am I

in your life?

In the morning breeze

or the evening star,

hesitant drizzle

or sharp rain,

silver moonlight

or hot noon,

deep thoughts

or casual tunes?

Where am I

in your life?

Down from work,

a weekend's interval

on a beach,

or an unintended

silken release between your fingers

from serial smoke?

Or a readily replenished,

freshened moment without wine,

or a moment's leave, anonymous,

between the breaking of one dream

of love and another's beginning?

Where am I

in your life?

ALAMGIR HASHMI is an English poet and scholar, who has also translated many Asian writers. His work is widely anthologised. His latest poetry books are A Choice of Hashmi's Verse (1997) and The Ramazan Libation (2003). He has been Professor of English and Comparative Literature in Asian, European, and American universities. She used the first-person feminine pronoun, which is rarely used in Urdu poetry even by female poets. The feminine perspective of love and the associated social problems were her theme.

Ancient Tune

I
One youth slides off towards the abyss

And is followed by another . . .
Happiness will soon be obsolete

A boy writes down a line of poetry
One line, alas, just one single line :

“Above the Bridge of Twenty Four the moon dispels the night”
II
Winter, South of the River

You cannot focus your thoughts or find a theme

Yaorou pork leg, the Ge Garden, Shanghai folk
The tour guide is hot with enthusiasm


Photo, please. A photo
His frozen red face smiles.



Born in Sichuan province in 1956, Bai Hua seems to have decided from an early age to pursue a writing life. After completing an English degree at the Guangzhou Foreign Languages Institute, he went on to study an MA in Western Literary Trends at Sichuan University.
He comes across as a highly serious writer, steeped in the classical Chinese tradition, but keen to apply its lessons to the contemporary world. The short poem ‘Reality’ seems to express his view of writing poetry as a painstaking harvesting of the real.

A New Song By Langston Hughes

I speak in the name of the black millions
Awakening to action.
Let all others keep silent a moment
I have this word to bring,
This thing to say,
This song to sing:
Bitter was the day
When I bowed my back
Beneath the slaver's whip.
That day is past.
Bitter was the day
When I saw my children unschooled,
My young men without a voice in the world,
My women taken as the body-toys
Of a thieving people.
That day is past.
Bitter was the day, I say,
When the lyncher's rope
Hung about my neck,
And the fire scorched my feet,
And the oppressors had no pity,
And only in the sorrow songs
Relief was found.
That day is past.
I know full well now
Only my own hands,
Dark as the earth,
Can make my earth-dark body free.
O thieves, exploiters, killers,
No longer shall you say
With arrogant eyes and scornful lips:
"You are my servant,
Black man-
I, the free!"
That day is past-
For now,
In many mouths-
Dark mouths where red tongues burn
And white teeth gleam-
New words are formed,
Bitter
With the past
But sweet
With the dream.
Tense,
Unyielding,
Strongand sure,
They sweep the earth-
Revolt! Arise!
The Black
And White World
Shall be one!
The Worker's World!
The past is done!
A new dream flames
Against the
Sun!

ABOUT POET:

Langston Hughes American poet, novelist, playwright, short story writer, and columnist. Hughes is known for his work during the Harlem Renaissance.

Hughes was born in 1902 in Joplin, Missouri. Through his poetry, fiction and plays he tried to accurately portray the African-American experience in early to mid-twentieth century America. He made major contributions to the Harlem Rennaisance, and is known for incorporating jazz influences into his work.

A poem on gandhi - The Recipe

Into a bare handful of bones and skin
Pour just an ounce or so of flesh and blood;
Put in a heart loveful as Sea in flood;
Likewise a mind sea-deep and free from sin,
Fix on two jumboo ears,... two goo-goo eyes
Paint on a smile of babe at mother's breast,
Inclose a soul that caps Himavat's crest;
And speaks with tongue which honey's sweet defies;
The "stuffing"? Goat's milk, soya-beans and dates,
Now, cover to brim with suffering human's years;
And bake this dish in gaol for one score years
Take out and garnish it with pariah mates,
Wrap up in rag, prop up with lithe bamboo
And serve; The world Redeemer; Our Bapu.
- T. P. Kailasam (From the book "Light Of India" by M. S. Deshpande)

About Poet:
Thyagaraja Paramasiva Kailasam (1884 - 1946), was a playwright than a poet and prominent writer of Kannada literature. His contribution to Kannada theatrical comedy earned him the title Prahasana Prapitamaha, "the grand old man of humorous plays".

Path

Near the open road
And woods under the snow
A point that lifts the night
A lamp keeps watch
Upon the white face
the lowered eyelids
Upon the bare wall
the closed shutters
Ruts in the soil come together
The bridge nearer
And cubes all about
Shapes
Objects
The mystery of doors
We step across emotion barring the road
And without turning we continue onward
The house will not follow
The house is watching us
From between two trees
its red topknot
and white brow
Silence lingers.

- Pierre Reverdy

About Poet:

Pierre Reverdy was a French poet associated with surrealism and cubism.Reverdy arrived in Paris in October 1910. It was there, at the famous Bateau-Lavoir in Montmartre that he met Guillaume Apollinaire, Max Jacob, Louis Aragon, André Breton, Philippe Soupault and Tristan Tzara. For sixteen years, Reverdy lived for his writing. His companions were Pablo Picasso, Georges Braque, Henri Matisse and many others. These were the years in which surrealism took flight and Reverdy partly inspired it. In the first Surrealist Manifesto, André Breton hailed Reverdy as "the greatest poet of the time,"

Butterfly

Speed is violence

The butterly seeks safety in lightness
In weightless, undulating flight

But at a crossroads where mottled light
From trees falls on a brash new highway
Our convergent territories meet

I come power-packed enough for two

And the gentle butterfly offers

Itself in bright yellow sacrifice

Upon my hard silicon shield.

About Poet:

Albert Chinualumogu Achebe is a Nigerian novelist, poet, and critic. He is best known for his first novel, Things Fall Apart (1959), which is the most widely-read book in modern African literature. Achebe has been called "the father of modern African writing", and many books and essays have been written about his work over the past fifty years. In 1992, he became the first living author to be represented in the Everyman's Library collection published by Alfred A. Knopf.