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冬天的夜 poem by Lidia Chiarelli, translated by Tzemin Ition Tsai

 

在半圓形的月光下，透過樹影婆娑的窗口

男人常常在冬天的夜看到…

出自冬之夢  由戴倫‧湯瑪師( DYLAN THOMAS)

伴隨著椋鳥

在風中的最後一場遊戲

霧裡隨處飄揚的小水滴

倘佯在整個海面上

雪花在冬天的夕陽下

閃爍

 

月

不惜被沙灘上的海浪

刻畫著

 

瞧，就在那兒

我們的話語

也逐漸地

凋零

牙兒

在古老的迷宮中

探路

黑暗中

Lidia Chiarelli

Translated by TZEMIN ITION TSAI, Taiwan

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CAMILLE CLAUDEL: poem & digital collage by Lidia Chiarelli, Italy

–

 

Poème pour Camille Claudel

Il y a toujours quelque chose d’absent qui me tourmente.
― Camille Claudel

 

 

(19 octobre 1943)

 

Nuages denses

corbeaux invisibles

flottants dans le ciel de la Provence

le vent s’enrage

et ouvre des fissures  bleues

petite fille étonnée

seule, tu écoutes la voix du silence

et regardes les grandes flaques

et l’argile brune

cadeau précieux

que la pluie de la nuit

a apporté

pour la dernière fois

dans une lumière irréelle

de cette boue

des créatures étranges

s’animent

caressées

par ta main tremblante

abandonnée à leur vie

c’est alors qu’un calme inconnu

te saisit

et tu souris

infiniment  libre

en ce matin d’octobre

à Montdesvergues

Lidia Chiarelli, Italie

 

Lidia Chiarelli: artiste, écrivain et fondatrice du Mouvement artistique littéraire Image & Poésie http://immaginepoesia.jimdo.com/

Ses poèmes ont obtenu de nombreux prix et ont été traduits et publiés en plusieurs langues.

Poète nommée pour le Prix Pushcart (États-Unis ) 2014, 2015 et 2016.

http://lidiachiarelli.jimdo.com/

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“Hiking with Peter”poem by Alex Drummond, “The Road Less Travelled” fine art photo by Adel Gorgy – America

gorgy_theroad_less_traveled

HIKING WITH PETER

        for Peter Thabit Jones, September 17, 2016

 

Boot-shod feet, born and bred south coast of Wales

felt the pulse of Big Sur’s thumping shore,

tapped its  rhythms into poems,

then leaped, with the help of an airplane,

California to Colorado, where I met him

and was glad he was properly shod

to wind with me up among the sandstone fins

south side of Mt. Sanitas,

hiked and jogged by hundreds,

but sure to be people-free I promised Peter

on our descent north, then west, south,

and east from the summit.

 

Hour-long uphill huff and puff

failed to deflate our lungs,

left in fact whole hallways and corridors

of oxygen-filled enthusiasm

to talk poetry halfway from A to Z,

saving the other half for the less steep

meander back down.

 

Peter could pick up from where he left

the Pacific sprawled below his hillside

hermitage at Big Sur by viewing

flat Boulder suckling its own shoreline

steep off Sanitas a thousand feet below our feet.

 

Peter clicked his camera at whatever wonder

first flew into his eye, a young women clicked us

shaking hands by the mountain’s summit pole,

and shy deer on the way down

ambled in and out of focus,

as poets and the ways of poetry

filled our talk, mixed with the scent

of ponderosa pines, the slope of hillsides,

the grass of  meadows, and a certain log

we had to find to find a certain way down

the rest of the world no longer knows.

 

Fine friendly trail companion,

this man Peter, for whom poetry

ties and unties his boot laces

talks to him in his sleep, sometimes

shakes him awake, and showed him yesterday

through his boot soles how to step

from Boulder’s young pink sandstone

to its old grey granite in whatever dance

between the two will add

an audible Colorado ripple

to each new poem  

rising up inside him. 

Alex Drummond     America