3 poems by Robert Beveridge

Robert Beveridge

Float

Bills change hands. The politician
keeps a pen in his pocket for autographs
a separate one for thorazine injections.

Babies require handshakes. He has
an unreasonable fear of bridges.
Wind across the elms banks left,
sends another flock of laws across the mall.

Only in cherry blossom season
is this kind of graft common,
or even permitted. Two hunters
in camouflage raise their twelve-
gauges, gaze through scopes.
Monkeys cling to the Jefferson Memorial. 


 


Ostensible

The bomb disposal unit are on their way,
they say, but the suitcase is strapped
to a Roomba, bounces around the patio.
Each person who watches it discerns
a different pattern; one sees the sigil
of a thieves’ guild defunct five hundred
years, another the step diagram for the next
trendy dance. Et cetera. Each interpretation
is correct; each interpretation is wrong.

When the team arrives, surrounds
the field of play with their plexiglass
shields, the sun’s reflection dances
from place to place, eye to eye,
creates a pattern of its own.
Everyone stops, mesmerized.
All is still except the click and whirr,
click and whirr of the cleaner
and its cargo, whatever that may be.




  
Spirit Cooking

We lifted our voices in song,
composed a Threnody for the Victims
of Lordstown, backed with an Industrial
Concerto for Rust and Broken Glass.
Some escaped, fled to Tennessee, Michigan,
Indiana. The rest went home, sent
their kids to school, filled out applications.

We asked with blood, with blood and earth,
with song, with song and blood, we asked
for birth, for birth and growth, for growth
and blood, for blood and song, for song
and earth, for earth and growth, for the cycle

that pushes blood into steel, into glass,
into lights and machines and a factory
that may not have followed so many
of its brothers and sisters in the grave.

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Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Of Rust and Glass, The Museum of Americana, and Quill and Parchment, among others.

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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Tellus’s Plea. a poem by Anjum Wasim Dar

Anjum Wasir Dar

Tellus's Plea

Call Cyclops!
People with two eyes have become blind!
Have lost their sane mind
have lost the spirit of being kind.
They lie, cheat, deceive and rob
do not leave a single grain, on the cob
Call Cyclops!
for he may see
the cruelty killing and rape
the guilty making good their escape.
Call Cyclops!
he will catch the culprits
and put them behind bars or
send them for ever up to the stars.
Call Poseidon!
To clean the oceans and rivers
to save sea animals and food for fishes.
Call Aeolus!
To clean the air. purify the
atmosphere, increase oxygen everywhere.
All are mythical creatures
No wonder the world is not getting cleaner!

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Anjum Wasim Dar, migrant Pakistani of Kashmiri origin, Masters in English Literature & American Studies, Masters in History, (Elective Indo Pak History of the Sub Continent) Punjab University, awarded a scholarship for distinction in English Language, holds a  Post Graduate Diploma in TEFL, and Certificate of Proficiency in English from Cambridge University UK. An International Award Winner Poet of Merit, Bronze Medal, ISP USA-2000, Short Story Writer, Author of a Novel for Young Adults, “The Adventures of the Multi Colored Lead People” (Unpublished) Former Head of English Department at Pakistan Air Force AIR University Islamabad.
Digital Artist with Focus on Ekphrastic Poetry. 
Poetry Blog : http://poeticoceans.wordpress.com
Short Story Blog : http://storiesmiracles.wordpress.com

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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5 poems by Yuan Hongri. translated by Yuanbing Zhang

Hongri

Cherish The Memory of the Heaven
 
Today I would like to thank the world that looks like the hell.
It makes the fire that cherish the memory of the Heaven burning inside me;
it reminds me of the precious fruit of the sweet golden tree.
Those palaces and towers swirling music from outer space,
those giants whose bodies are limpid and happy,
those oceans are blue cocktails,
those rivers are the nectar of the soul;
However, those mountains float in the sky like clouds, layer upon layer.
None of stone has no transparent smile.
The wind pass through the body and sings mysterious words.
None of flowers will wither,
as if old sun is both eternal and young.


怀念天堂
 
今天 我想感谢这地狱的人间
它让我体内燃起怀念天堂的火焰
让我回忆起甜蜜的黄金之树的宝石之果
那飘洒着天外乐曲的宫殿楼阁
那身体空明而欢喜的巨人
那海洋是蓝色的鸡尾酒
那河流是灵魂的琼浆
而那山岳如云朵般飘浮
在层层叠叠的天际
没有一块石头没有透明的笑容
风穿过身体吟唱 神秘的词语
没有一朵花会凋谢
仿佛古老的太阳 永恒而年轻





Don't Forget the Other You
 
Don't forget the other you,
those numerous yous, either in the body or outer space,
those sweet smiles and the diamond flowers that never wither,
that make boundless years on earth turn into a snippet of bird song.
Yes, the crows of a heavenly Phoenix.
Those sweet lightnings hit you,
let you suddenly wake up and see Gold Heaven is with you.
And your body is the golden body of giants,
and makes all time become sweet.

 
不要忘了那另一个你
 
不要忘了那另一个你
那在身体里在天外的众多的你
那甜蜜的笑容永不凋谢的钻石之花
让你在尘世的漫漫岁月化成一声鸟鸣
是的,那是天国鸾凤的啼鸣
那甜蜜的闪电击中了你
让你恍然醒来 看见黄金的天国与你同在
而你的身体是巨人的黄金之体
让一切时光变得甜美




 
Never-withering Light
 
I can’t say the mystery of the gods yet,
the devil is coveting the diamond of heaven.
There is a golden kingdom whose light is like wine inside the ancient earth.
The smiles of the gods are beside you,
as if they are the rounds of invisible sun and moon.
And your soul is ancient and holy
twinkles with the never-withering light of stars


不凋谢的光芒
 
我还不能说出那诸神的奥秘
魔王在觊觎天国的钻石
在这古老的大地的体内
有那光芒如酒的金色王国
诸神的笑容就在你身旁
仿佛一轮轮隐形的日月
而你的灵魂也古老神圣
闪烁辰星那不凋谢的光芒





My Heaven is Inside My Body
 
My heaven is inside my body,
my heaven is a great many,
like stars in the night sky,
with silver towers,
huge edifices that look like sapphires ,
golden palaces, gardens of crystal.
My body is bigger than the universe,
countless gods and angels are my partners,
as if they are countless myself.
Neither time nor life and death in my words ,
dawn and dusk are the same name,
and sadness and joy are the same words.
 

我的天国在身体之内
 
我的天国在身体之内
我的天国居多犹如夜空的繁星
白银的楼阁  蓝宝石的巨厦
黄金的殿堂 水晶的花园
我的身体比宇宙更巨大
无数的天神与天使是我的伙伴
他们仿佛是无数的我自己
我的词语里没有时间也没有生死
黎明与黄昏是同一个名字
而悲伤与欢喜是同一个词语





The Hymn of Sweet Soul
 
Drape the night over my shoulders like a cloak of the world,
call the birds of the stars from outer space and fly near my city garden.
Sing a song of the giants from huge city of platinum,
awoke the drowsy city of the world with a start.
Oh, the lightnings are in full bloom in the vault of heaven —the hymns of
sweet soul.
Your bones became transparent suddenly,
its light was flickering all over the body like the wings,
in a flash, the body became huge, higher than the large building
down the street.


那甜蜜灵魂的圣歌
 
把黑夜披在肩上如一件世界之斗篷
召唤天外的星辰之鸟飞临我的城市花园
唱一曲白金巨城的巨人之歌
惊醒这昏沉的人间之城
哦 闪电在天穹盛开 那甜蜜灵魂的圣歌
你的骨骼骤然透明 光芒如翅翼在周身闪烁
一刹那身体巨大 高过了街边的巨厦

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Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet’s Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization.Its content is to show the solemnity,sacredness and greatness of human soul through the exploration of soul.

Yuanbing Zhang

Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), is Mr. Yuan Hongri’s assistant and translator. He himself is a Chinese poet and translator, and works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District, Jining City, Shandong Province China. He can be contacted through his email-3112362909@qq.com

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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2 poems by Gordon Phinn

GordonPhinnPhoto

Unrelenting

Word sentence stanza,
Metaphor a portal

To image and after,
the form taking shape

Despite incessant shifting,
the delightfully imprecise

Shaking free of perception,
The writer being written

Out of the narrative
As the hat is fitted

On the outgoing head,
The rain unrelenting.





Unrecorded

Putting pen to paper
Precisely as your prior

Participants in the process
Slowly procured their place

In line, you lock on to that
Signal offered by the Muses

And make the best of the fact
That you've left the precious

Pen and portable notebook
By the pile on the poetry table

Back in the home of your 
Heart's desire, and your 

Roaming through the rendered
World will now go unrecorded.

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Gordon Phinn has been writing and publishing in a number of genres and formats since 1975, and through a great deal of change and growth in CanLit.  Canada’s literary field has gone from the nationalist birth pangs of ’65 – ’75 to its full blooming of the 80s and 90s, and it is currently coping as well as it can with the immediacy and proliferation of digital exposure and all the financial trials that come with it. Phinn’s own reactions was to open himself to the practices of blogging and videoblogging, and he now considers himself something of an old hand. His Youtube podcast, GordsPoetryShow, has just reached its 78th edition, and his my blog “anotherwordofgord” at WordPress continues to attract subscribers.

Phinn’s book output is split between literary titles, most recently, The Poet Stuart, Bowering and McFadden, and It’s All About Me. His metaphysical expression includes You Are History, The Word of Gord On The Meaning Of Life.

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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along the glass door. a poem by Mansour Noorbakhsh

along the glass door

this poem is supposed to talk 
about your character 
but i don’t know you much 

it’s not true too if i say 
i don’t know you, since 
i know how much you have changed me

if it talks about changes you made to me
thus, it speaks about you

let it words my grief of not knowing 
how you have changed along with me
the changes it talks about 
have not come from a statue 

once i realized am changed
thus, i saw you, rooted in mutual changes

perhaps feeling thrives like pollination
that exchanges life within alive plants 

along passing the glass door, 
like me,
you were sinking slowly, slowly
you were smouldering to ashes bit by bit 

perhaps apathy is a fire that expands 
from one plant to another, 
whether alive or dead

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Mansour Noorbakhsh writes and translates poems in both English and Farsi, his first language. He tries to be a voice for freedom, human rights and environment in his writings. He believes a dialog between people around the world is an essential need for developing a peaceful world, and poetry helps this dialog echoes the human rights. Currently he is featuring The Contemporary Canadian Poets in a weekly Persian radio program https://persianradio.net/. The poet’s bio and poems are translated into Farsi and read to the Persian-Canadian audiences. Both English (by the poets) and Farsi (by him) readings are on air. This is a project of his to build bridges between the Persian-Canadian communities by way of introducing them to contemporary Canadian poets. His book about the life and work of Sohrab Sepehri entitled, “Be Soragh e Man Agar Miaeed” (trans. “If you come to visit me”) is published in 1997 in Iran. And his English book length poem; “In Search of Shared Wishes” is published in 2017 in Canada. His English poems are published in “WordCity monthly” and “Infinite Passages” (anthology 2020 by The Ontario Poetry Society). He is a member of The Ontario Poetry Society and he is an Electrical Engineer, P.Eng. He lives with his wife, his daughter and his son in Toronto, Canada.

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Lament for America. a poem by Jameson (Jason) Chee-Hing

Jameson Chee-Hing

Lament for America
Jackboots on the ground!
I hear jackboots on the ground
That unmistakable sound
Of black polished leather
Smashing onto asphalt
That thunderous thud of spit polished boots
Striking the ground in unison
Worn by young men
Idealistic young men
Who believe their cause to be true.

In far away lands they dream
One day they will live in America
The American dream
Free expression 
Rule of law
Where no one is above the law.

America what have we become?
Half-truths are now the truth
Truth shading is the lingua franca
Say it often enough
And the foolish will believe.

A populist leader feeds on the ignorance
Feeds on the baser instincts of men
There is mistrust and fear in the air
He spreads his gospel to the world
There are many takers
Goebbels you must be smiling
That evil smile
Somewhere in the afterlife.

America, 
Fearful of the desperate from foreign lands
They want to live the dream
The same dream as our forefathers
Who themselves emigrated from foreign lands.


Jackboots on the ground!
I hear jackboots on the ground
That unmistakable sound
Of black polished leather
Smashing onto asphalt
That thunderous thud of spit polished boots
Striking the ground in unison
Worn by young men
Self righteous young men
They believe their cause to be true.

We have forgotten the past
Or conveniently cast it aside
But I remember the jackboots at Kristallnacht
And I remember the jackboots of Il Duce
And the jackboots of Franco
And the jackboots of Peron.

Jackboots on the ground!
I hear the sound of jackboots
That unmistakable sound
Of black polished leather
Smashing onto asphalt
That thunderous thud of spit polished boots
Striking the ground in unison
Worn by misguided young men
They believe their cause to be true
Ready to stomp on the faces
Of anyone that does not look like them.

Jackboots on the ground!
That unmistakable sound
Much closer now
I hear jackboots outside my door
Are they coming for me?
Are they coming for you?

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Jameson (Jason) Chee-Hing is a poet, essayist and writer. His poems have been featured in several anthologies. Jason writes about relationships, social justice and the human condition. He grew up in the inner-city neighbourhoods of Toronto, Ontario. Jason can be reached at jchee-hing@sympatico.ca .

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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The Ties That Bind. a poem by Mary Alice Williams

Mary Alice Williams

The Ties That Bind

I am of fieldstone walls,
thundering seas. I am of salt air,
of sand squeaking in summer heat, 
of snow squeaking in winter cold.

I am of Tammany Hall and the chicken
it put in my childhood pot. I am
of urban grit, its attendant grind.
I am of unskilled labor, 

of the guy who knows a guy who’ll fix 
your furnace when the landlord 
won’t and while he’s at it   
fix your parking tickets. 

I am of the Irish who need 
not apply, of the ones 
who became Union Organizers, 
Precinct Delegates, President.

I am of candles lit and Latin hymns,
Gregorian Chant and devotion
to the Virgin. I am of Roger Williams
and his heretical stands
on freedom of religion, separation 
of church and state. I am 
of the Narraganset Great Grandmother, 
the odd Swamp Yankee, 

three teenagers who came steerage, 
came solo, with only their wits 
from Kerry, from Cork, 
from Leitrim.

I am of hunger strikes, picket lines,
sit-ins and walkouts.
I am of reels and Rebel songs.
I am of the teeming masses,

the tubercular, the foreclosed upon,
the alcoholic. I am of big tents, 
big government and too-big
for-your-britches dreams.

I am of fieldstone walls,
thundering seas, salvific salt air.
I am of wheels squeaking
for justice. 

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Mary Alice Williams, a native of Providence, RI, lives and writes in Grand Rapids MI. Winner of the Dyer-Ives Poetry Contest judged by Conrad Hilberry, she has been published in Boston College Stylus, Voices, Potato Soup Journal and Shorts Magazine.  She received an Honorary Doctorate from Aquinas College in recognition of her long engagement in community organizing for social justice. Since retiring from the human services arena Williams has focused on honing her voice as a poet.

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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2 poems by Yahia Lababidi

Yahia Lababidi

What is the Desert?

It’s forgetfulness
of trivia
and noise:

the city
or ego

Remembrance
of essences:

silence
stillness
and G_d.

It’s the stormy story of the sea
recollected in tranquility

death and birth and death
and transformation—

a gift granted only
to the patient
who surrender.






Lockjaw

Strange aches in quarantine
for our phantom limbs:
others and nature.

memories, longings
waking hours & dreams blend
with the daze of the weak

outer and inner are unclear
--this overcast sky
or that hangover

With no end in sight
beginnings called into question:
did we, always, live this way?

Wait, did you hear that;
are those birds chirping
or am I going mad?

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Yahia Lababidi, an Egyptian of Palestinian background, is the author, most recently, of Learning to Pray (Kelsay Books, 2021) a collection of spiritual aphorisms and poems as well as Desert Songs (Rowayat, 2022) a bilingual—English/Arabic—poetry collection and photographic account of mystical experiences in the desert.

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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3 poems by Jake Sheff

Jake Sheff

Elegy for Goldfish II: A Failed Acrostic

“…[M]ost errors consist only in our not rightly applying names to things.” Baruch Spinoza, The Ethics

Stillness swam so uninformed!
Obviously uniformed,
Limit-touching creatures loved you. 

Oafish me; love’s interstate
Mastered loss. The interest rate
Operated on what loved you

Nearly as long as the strife-
Stricken striving in each life
Held you. Ferruginous slush funds loved you,

Extra sure and iron-rich. 
Frozen by reason’s heat: my sitch… 
Famous sylvan skylines loved you. 




 
Elegy for Cat III: A Failed Acrostic 

Vitality’s white fur combines
Intensity with peace to make
Regality the Antonines
Go after in our memories:

It’s what you gain from such great heights;
L’appel du vide cannot compete
Very much longer: bluer lights
Instructed eyes less blue than yours. 

Real love is heavy in abstracto;
Geography itself admits,
In time, all hearts feel time’s X-ACTO. 
(Lord Acton felt it in his pen.)

Varying sentence length, when flux
Insists, distracts winter. My grief 
Repairs the wings on flying fucks,
Gaslighting all my funereal birds. 

I miss you. If these aren’t your best
Lopsided lapses, then I’m Queen
Victoria! (My constant guest
Is memory; I water down 

Reminders with reminders…) Life’s 
Gimlet can turn life’s heartache sweet,
If heavens mix aperitifs. 
Live wires seek and find each other. 





 
The Broadway Bridge

“[A]rgument is thrown away upon a magician…” Thomas DeQuincey, Confessions of an English Opium-Eater

"May all the people of Israel be forgiven, including all the strangers who live in their midst, for all the people are in fault." Numbers 15:26

It’s 1963’s: your red loveliness,
Which makes fall’s jumping trees all jump jealously. 
   Ridicule triples disbelieving;
      Double-leaf bascule: too honest by half. 
The truest dreams rebel against sciences. 
A perfect Godsend, fear is contagious 
   And trust a Rall-type vector. Streetcar
      Benefits run on your risks like meerkats. 
Your choriambic heart pulled the old switcheroo 
On Zubenelgenubi. That viaduct
   We called the Lovejoy Ramp pretended
      Nature had other ideas and powers. 
At dawn the night prostrates itself eagerly. 
The only sinner in what’s unnatural 
   Checks out the ass on transit, whipping 
      (Irony of ironies!) all things commanded. 

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Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He’s married with a daughter and several pets. Poems and short stories of Jake’s have been published widely. Some have even been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing). A full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe,” is available from White Violet Press.

WordCity Literary Journal is provided free to readers from all around the world, and there is no cost to writers submitting their work. Substantial time and expertise goes into each issue, and if you would like to contribute to those efforts, and the costs associated with maintaining this site, we thank you for your support.

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Poetic Prose from Dialyzing. by Charline Lambert. translated by John Taylor

Charline Lambert by Sadie von Paris

Poetic Prose from Dialyzing

      That woman, having sunk into what, from now on, is no longer her: a desire will deliver her into the world, through her membranes. Her birth will always be an injunction, a bleeding. An oedema on the sea.

      By way of illustration, this is how desire overwhelms her. It calls her Aurore.

*

      Here she is, in her soul, at the edge of a cliff;

      Facing the ocean, standing there, at the brink of the sky.

      An in-between moment.

      She erects a membrane there.

*

      Draws from a great lung what she gives back inside the other one.

      Draws from the condensation of the air what she gives back in waterfalls. Draws from the wind what suffocates her. Draws from the retained water what she transforms into great movements of freedom.

      Potent dialysis.

*

      Barely a breeze breaking—fissures her and fractures her.

      Wrings her heart, gives her a push, makes her grow potent wings. Blows her out and sweeps her off,

      vaguely.

      In a moment the wind will push her off and gravity will unleash inside her the forces of flight. . .

*

      But she asks to see: if matter has no bottom to it, against what irremediable abyss will she crash?

      Does a body bursting in a chaos react by nuclear fission?

*

      Facing infinities, she digs into verse. She digs into it, digs into it, extends its echo, she bores a well in it, then her grave.

      And, incandescent, she gushes back inside it, tossing the poem over the edge.

*

      At the edge of a cliff the breeze, subsided, resting, lays hold of her limbs. In her sternum, the day gulps down her skies and her black linen, sinks while little by little dispensing its lesson of luminance.

      Noon rises.

      It raises its pleurae and takes a deep breath inside her.

*

      It’s not the bronchial tubes, but the air that wants to breathe, swell, ransack the lungs. It’s always a sky that wants to be invaginated.

      Her pulmonary sheaths are clouds—bellows of storms, airlocks of vapors, alveoli of tempests.

      Her mouth, the muscle in which the wind contracts.

*

      The mountains heave themselves up and quiver in her toes; her feet unfold their leaflike pages, subjugate their summits—but legs are no wings, he said,

      therefore, alive, she lapsed.

      Living and lapsing: metabolizing gravity. For the earth is grave, as grave as a volcano’s voice that goes up in smoke.

*

      By now in her, everything is so naturally decongested that one day she will have only this helium gravity, matter that is more ardent than words.

      Only at that moment will it be possible to say, without lying, that she is there.

      Until then, she occupies herself, thrashing time, making fumaroles of it.

*

      At the edge of a cliff, potent dialysis, she fights over the infinite with the ocean. But they breathe at the same gill.

      Their breath escapes, enters through a crack, dashes to lose itself in the volutes of her pleura-colored dress.

*

      Something hails her, gasps her.

      She is that danseuse rushing forward, spreading her arms, at ease, on the brink of blazing, losing her arms and becoming the blaze.

      She starts out from there, her body in insurrection.

—from Sous dialyses (©Éditions L’Âge d’Homme, 2016)

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Charline Lambert was born in 1989 in Liège, Belgium. She is the author of four books of poetry: Chanvre et lierre (“Hemp and Ivy,” Éditions Le Taillis Pré, 2016), Sous dialyses (“Dialyzing,” Éditions L’Âge d’Homme, 2016), Désincarcération (“Decarceration,” Éditions L’Âge d’Homme, 2017), and Une salve (“A Salvo,” Éditions L’Âge d’Homme, 2020). She is currently finishing her Ph.D. thesis on the relation between poetry and deafness.

John Taylor’s most recent translations are, from the French, José-Flore Tappy’s Trás-os-Montes (The MadHat Press) and, from the Italian, Franca Mancinelli’s The Butterfly Cemetery: Selected Prose 2008-2021 (The Bitter Oleander Press)—of which the essay “Piazza XX Settembre” originally appeared in Word City. His most recent book of poems is Transizioni, a bilingual volume published in Italy by LYRIKS Editore and illustrated by the Greek artist Alekos Fassianos. 

John Taylor by Françoise Daviet-Taylor

Charline Lambert’s photo by Sadie Von Paris
John Taylor’s photo by Françoise Daviet-Taylor

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