Tom Veber was born in 1995 in Maribor, Slovenia. His artistic creation spans acting, singing, and writing poetry. He publishes poetry in central literary magazines such as Dialogi, Mentor, Literatura and Apokalipsa, takes part in literary slams, and performs his poetic monodrama ‘Realism is Reserved for Clowns’ all over Slovenia. He was the regional nominee for the literary competition Urška 2017, and the winner of Pesniška olimpijada.

***

These eyes too will once drown in the gleam of sadness
and you will again be able to dream up lives
beyond the frame of corporeality
you never told me why you leave every winter
and return with the first rays of june sky.

(Translated by Niko Šetar)

Alex Nodopaka is a visual artist and writer who has practiced both art forms since the 1950s in several languages. His visual art has been used on many occasions as an ekphrastic background for poetry.

3 Squeaks Soup

A choir of rats and mice

grind their teeth under the house

on heating and air conditioning plastic ducts

something Basho would not have known

unless they were served in Wor Wonton soup

~

It’s for the Birds and the Fleas

Birds and their fleas

are an everyday occurrence.

It’s for others to believe in their divinity.

Not for me.

As Basho would say,

A hand in the bush is better

than a bird in the hand.

Or as I would say,

better to have a roof of stars

than of dirt.

~

A Whiff of Russia

(for Matsuo Basho)

A sunny morning by myself

chewing

on a marinated herring.

On a clear day I can see Russia

from the end of the San Clemente Pier.

Something Basho couldn’t.

~

Beneath Snow Covered Mt. Fuji

Basho whispers to Li Po,

my unagi is shrinking and my

fish balls turn into carp eggs.

Iskra Peneva was born in 1980, in Belgrade (Serbia), where she works. A graduate of the Faculty of Mathematics at the University of Belgrade, she has published poetry in national and foreign daily and literary magazines. Her work has been translated into English, Russian, Macedonian, Bulgarian, Albanian, Swedish, Icelandic, Korean, Ukrainian, Polish, Slovene, Romanian, and Azerbaijani, and has appeared in anthologies of Serbian and Macedonian literature. Iskra is the recipient of multiple awards and recognitions, and her most recent poetry collection Somewhere In-between received the international award for best poetry book in the Macedonian language at the 55th Struga Poetry Evenings (Macedonia) in 2016. In 2018 she won Croatia’s international award for the best unpublished poetry manuscript.

Izvan

Na kući pored ulice

Moj je prozor

Sa plavim zastorom

Pogled na put iz sobe je blokiran

Ne vidim ni enterijer u njoj

Znam da je još uvek

Mračna

I skučena

Plavi pendžer nije više moj

Odavno sam sobu napustila

Krišom

I još uvek putujem

Jedina veza sobe

I druma je setno sećanje

Tada znam

Da sam sigurno

Izvan

ДЕВЕТ БАЛОНА

Ујутро у два не могу више да спавам

Седефастим балонима гађам зид

Рони се креч

Зид пуца

Малтер отпада

И тако сатима

Сада сам мајстор

Пљујем на цигле

Лепим малтер

Глетујем речима

Празнине зидног мозаика

Попуњавам

Коцкицама креча

Пред свитање

Све је на свом месту

Чак и прашина

Вертикално мирује

У подне

Балони су искористили промају

Као средство за бекство

Outside

On the house by the street

My window is

The one with a blue curtain T

he view from the room to the road is blocked

I cannot even see the interior

I know it is still

Dark

And cramped

The blue window is no longer mine

I have long left the room

In secret

And I am still travelling

The only connection between the room

And the road is a melancholy memory

Then I know

I am definitely

Outside

~

ОКВИР СОБЕ

Хиљаде облика једног лица

Мења боју

Хаотичним кретањем

Испуњава празан простор

Згуснути ваздух

Изазива вртоглавицу

Room Outline

Thousands of shapes of the same face

Changing colour

Chaotic motion

Fills the empty space

Dense air

Causes vertigo

Jernej Kusterle is a professor of Slovenian language, literature, and culture at the School of European Languages, Literature, and Culture at Beijing International Studies University. He writes in Slovenian, and his award-winning poems have been published in several national and foreign literary magazines. They have also been translated into languages such as English, Croatian, Serbian and Chinese, and are included in several anthologies. His poetry books include Poetical Freedom (2004), Neverending Fields of Digital Thoughts (2012), and Typescript: Genesis (2016). He is a president of the Slovenian Cultural-Artistic Club Artista, which organises the biennial Poetry Festival Verzionar, and has a major influence on the Slovene literary scene.

Garancija Ni Veljavna

V zibko polagam peteline

z zlomljenimi vratovi.

Zjutraj jih dam na vrvico

in jih peljem na sprehod.

Ne menim se za poglede,

ki me tlačijo v prisilni jopič.

Momljam si Chopina

in stopam v procesiji prividov.

Zvečer grem na pokopališče

razmišljat o življenju.

Moral bi umreti,

da bi z misli odrezal podivjane pse.

Ne… Ne še.

Ne bom se še zapustil!

Iz mesa si bom rezljal

okrogle otroške obrazke.

Ščipal jih bom za lička,

ker vem,

kako sam nisem prenesel

nasmehov protez,

ki so silili vame s tistim klišejskim:

»Buc, buc.«

Preklet naj bo dan,

ko so me iztrgali iz maternice.

Warranty is Void

I put down roosters with broken necks into the cradle.

In the morning I put them on a leash

and take them for a walk.

I don’t mind the stares

forcing me into straitjackets.

I murmur Chopin

and walk in the procession of ghosts.

In the evening I visit the cemetery

to think about life.

I would have to die

to sever the rabid dogs from my thought.

No… Not yet.

I won’t let myself go yet!

I will carve round childlike

faces from my flesh.

I’ll pinch their cheeks,

because I know

I could never bear

the prosthetic smiles

grinding into me with that trite

“cutesycute.”

Damn the day

they extracted me from the uterus.

~

Sneti Obraz

Odpeti prsno zadrgo pomeni živeti.

Razpreš si rebra in z roko sežeš k srcu,

stisneš ga v pest, zamenjaš z bobni,

žile potrgaš in po telesu napelješ kable.

Namesto pljuč namestiš membrane,

iztrgaš sapnik, v grlo vstaviš trobento.

Z jezika obrišeš patino;

in ti nisi več glasbenik temveč glasba.

To Cast off a Face…

To pull down the zipper on your chest is to live.

You part the ribs and reach for the heart,

clutch it in your fist and replace it with drums,

rip out your veins and riddle your body with cables.

You install membranes instead of lungs,

pluck out your windpipe and insert a trumpet in your throat.

You wipe the sheen from your tongue;

and you’re no longer a musician, you’re music.

Jeremy DeWayne Greene is a school psychologist working currently at Shanghai American School (Puxi). In his spare time, he writes, records, and performs spoken word poetry around Shanghai and Sacramento (California). Though previously residing and working in Sacramento, Mr. Greene connects strongly with his familial roots firmly planted in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

Small Towns

It’s funny how our paths have diverged.

You always said you “hated” small towns.

“Reminds me of hard times…”

you once mentioned while

reflecting on your childhood.

Chicago was just around

the corner back then

and you would often jump at

any chance to taste

what it was like to be

a global citizen.

You spent your whole life

trying to escape small towns

only to find yourself once again

within their unsavory confines.

No longer a small-town girl

but now a small-town woman

living with an old-time guy

who fades the image of Chicago

from your eyes.

I guess it’s more safe and secure

in those small-towns

with them old-time guys.

I never found small-towns

nor old-time guys

“safe” as a man of

indigenous pigment.

And, oddly enough,

I find myself in this

vast city of Shanghai

feeling more “safe”

though less secure.

However,

though we may diverge

from one another,

I can still see

the Chicago skyline

in your eyes….

Dare to dream, Clementine. After all, we are both Big City Lovers.

Jennifer Mackenzie is a poet and reviewer, focusing on work from and about the Asian region. She makes regular appearances at festivals and conferences, including the Ubud, Makassar and Irrawaddy Festivals. Her most recent work is ‘Borobudur and Other Poems‘ (Lontar, Jakarta 2012).

Artaud and the Ecstatic Transfer

Exposition colonial internationale, Paris 1931

                                    ‘Who am I?

                                    Where do I come from?

                                    I am Antonin Artaud

                                    and I say this

                                    as I know how to say this

                                    immediately

                                    you will see my present body

                                    burst into fragments

                                    and remake itself

                                    in ten thousand notorious

                                    aspects’

                        and how does time flow?

the gesture/s and the fan

flickering across continents

the gamelan’s

ecstatic pinning of the minimal and the decorative

to a percussive consciousness

pirouette through the horizontal mirror of fingers

fly into theatre’s mango grove and

marketplace                 where

the golden heart outlives winter

transparent pick of the gamelan

                                                            *

the priest predicted rain

for this afternoon

and it is gently falling

over the rice-fields

over bright lamplight

rain a soft gauze

onto the black night

crickets chirp, geckos

dart over walls, seeking

secret hiding places

among columns of insects

marching over plants

refreshed and sensible to light

*

from the black and ruined forest

the dancer springs

frontally illuminated

swaddled chrysalis

fingers flickering butterfly wings

defiant of the

dark unspoken gloom of

trees, mountains withholding

unnavigable springs

frantic hollow drumbeats score

a gestured metaphysic

mirrored interplay of

moonrise eyes, pouting lips

head travelling shoulder to shoulder

as if on rollers

rain singing over instruments

sharded flights of sound

inflected, airborne from the back of the throat

syncopated feet, hot and dexterous

stamping crackling leaves and twigs

from a percussive earth

conjuring dry seething plants

gulping rain,

beckon the ecstatic drummer

*

ballroom where the

lover-dance

undid me

waltzing over snow

in flaming sunset

*

the gamelan of death

is coming along the river bank

I hide in a hollow              from

wild unleashed

I place the mask over the collapsing

portraiture

mask and its double

I am the fearful aspect of

the Tiger, I am – and do not question it –

I am the Other