The Outside, by Luci Romero

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LAS AFUERAS

Pensaba hacerte el amor
con la cara descubierta, sin embargo, las afueras
juegan a allanar moradas, desvalijando
todo lo que construimos.

Pero pienso,
lamer el exilio de la noche
arrancando ventanas,
supurando estas heridas que no conocen cárcel
que –hace ya tiempo– están vendidas. 

Pensaba hacerte el amor,
las luces ruido de a bordo en las afueras,
con mis dos manos y mi ceguera.
Me he acercado a tu destierro, entrando
por la ventana. 

Y eso, se paga caro.

Bing Translation

[THE] OUTSIDE

I thought to make love with the open face, however, outside play resurfacing abodes, cheating everything we build.

But I think, lick the night exile booting windows, oozing these wounds that do not know jail which - makes already time - are sold.

I thought to make love, the on board noise lights outside, with my two hands and my blindness.
I've approached your exile, coming through the window.

And that, you pay expensive.

~Luci Romero
(Cabra, Córdoba, España,1980)

Posted, by Emma Gunst

Never Choose to Winter, by Luci Romero

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NUNCA INVOQUES AL INVIERNO

"si dolió tanto, ¿cómo podría doler más?"
~Maria Negroni

Si ha dolido, podrá volver a doler tanto como el cuerpo
desee. Un ave, un plumaje grisáceo como el filtro
que la tormenta despliega sobre el campo. 

¿Por qué despierto si el tacto del invierno no es rugoso? 

En cada tentación de recompensa, el pacto siempre
aparece como el culmen de la vida.
No soy quien pretende abarcar todo el dolor. 

El ave, resiste si es necesario llenar cada boca
con el origen de esta tormenta. Sigue durmiendo.
El cuerpo, aún no ha dejado que la frontera se cierre. 

Dime,
el sufrimiento, ¿cuantas luces en retirada invierte?

Bing Translation

NEVER choose to winter

"If you hurt so much, how could hurt more?"
~Maria Negroni

If has hurt, you can return to hurt as much as the body you want. A bird, a grayish plumage as the filter that the storm unfolds on the field.

Why I wake up if the touch of winter is not rugged?

In every temptation of reward, the Covenant always appears as the culmination of the life.
I am not who aims to cover all the pain.

The bird, resists if it is necessary to fill every mouth with the origin of this storm. Still sleeping.
The body, still has not stopped that the border is closed.

Tell me,
the suffering, many lights in retreat to invest?

~Luci Romero
(Cabra, Córdoba, España,1980)

Posted, by Emma Gunst

Open Letter to God, by Lindsey Michelle Williams

For any religion to be open, if in fact it claims to be, then it must allow for all sorts of views about religion.  Views, mind you.  Not practices, or other actions necessarily, especially if these are violent, destructive or otherwise demeaning.  Not allow for such practices or actions, that is.  But allow for the fact that many different people are bound to have many different reactions, feelings and beliefs, some of which may, and some of which may not, jibe with a particular religion.  

Apparently Lindsey Michelle Williams faced quite a stream of criticism for this poem, to which she responded graciously, empathically and ultimately nobly:

FROM THE AUTHOR:
TRIGGER WARNING: I know, by the overwhelming response that I got when I first posted this, that this piece hits many people the wrong way. (Notably, my very strongly christian family.)

In response to those asking me how I can be so ungrateful for my blessings, I would first say that I am not ungrateful. I feel very lucky and fortunate for everything that I have. But know that the feeling of being grateful does NOT necessarily have to be associated with a belief that these things were given to me by a greater power. I can feel grateful in relation to worldly standards. 

Secondly, I ask you to please move beyond this wall (of seeing this as a poem about me being ungrateful) and try to understand the deeper longing and frustration that this piece is truly about. Understand that I am not angry at God. Nor am I upset with Him. As I cannot have feelings toward an object I have never found for myself.

This poem is about searching. 

This poem is not an argument. 

It is simply my own feelings in a moment that have been manifest into words. 

I truly appreciate all reactions that come in response to this poem. And I honestly thank you for allowing my piece to move you in whatever way it did. As an artist, the greatest thing I could ask for is that you be moved -- Your direction of travel is not a matter of importance to my artistic fulfillment.

`I'm Not Buying It, by Justice Hehir

"I'm Not Buying It" by Justice Hehir of Rutgers University. Justice was nominated for best poet at Cupsi!

Congratulations to Hehir for her nomination.  She was one of four members of the Rutgers slam team, who wrote and performed the preceding poem.  This, being yet another powerful effort on what it means to be a woman.

Why Another Rape Poem? by Rutgers Students

"Rape Poem To End All Rape Poems" by the Rutgers University slam team. Poets: Justice Hehir, Lindsey Michelle Williams, Kate Thomas, and Lillie Hannon. 

All poetry posted with permission. Video by Lindsey Michelle.

TRANSCRIPT:

A: We were in his room after the party,
The lights dim.
A few drinks in and everything was warm,
and smoothed over.
Then this moment was quickly punctured
With supposedly sweet whispers that felt like barbed wire:

B: "Trust me,"

C: "come on,"

D: "Don't you love me?"

A: His hands pushed me back.

ALL: WARNING!

C: It's that time again.

D: Time for another...

ALL: "Rape poem".

A: The audience sighs, shifts back in their seats.

B: "Oh boy," you say, "these bitches are about to go off!"

C: Off about "rape" and "pain"

A: and "no."

D: I said "no"

ALL: "he didn't listen"

D: And you ask, why another rape poem?

ALL: Didn't I just hear, like, three of these?

A: Yes. You probably did.

B: Unsurprising in a country where
someone is sexually assaulted every two minutes.

C: What's surprising is the shit
people get for telling their stories,
They are all lumped into one category-

ALL: "Rape poem"

D: As if trauma is a trope

A: Violation a cliche

B: All the while everyone is rolling their eyes and asking

C: Why so many damn rape poems?

D: We wouldn't need so many damn "rape poems" if America had

ALL: listened the first time.

A: These poems are our prayers
to beat the fucking odds in this country
of apple pie and roofies.

B: We wouldn't need so many damn rape poems
if our bodies were ours' alone.

C: We wouldn't need so many damn rape poems
if everyone abided by what "no" meant

D: We wouldn't need so many damn rape poems
if Budweiser stopped selling our bodies stretched across a six-pack

A: And maybe we wouldn't need so many damn rape poems if everyone would

ALL: listen to this one.

B: But it seems to us these lessons are yet to be learned

C: Don't tell me she was sober enough to make a decision.

D: Don't tell me she was asking for it.

B: Don't tell me to pity him for facing consequences.

C: You complain about another "rape poem"

D: But this is all part of a culture.

ALL: The "rape poems" will continue

A: Until I can wear whatever the fuck I want and not be called a slut!

B: Until I can trust my drink to someone at a party when I need to take a piss!

C: Until I can walk alone on dark streets without being catcalled!

D: "Who's your daddy"
A: "get back over here"
B: "Ow ow"
C: "Damn, look at that ass"

D: Until I can wear heels without being asked who I'm trying to impress!

A: Until my voice speaks louder than my outfit!

B: Until I'm not expected to carry pepper spray on my keychain!

C: Until no really means

ALL: NO!

D: Until rape means crime!

ALL: Until woman means human!

A: The rape poems will continue
until there's no damn material left.

Whoa what a powerful, empowering poem and recitation.  Kudos to these young ladies for their poetry and bravery.

Want to Know How? Posted by Ludmila Ivanova

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Original text

Хочешь знать, как все это было?
Три в столовой пробило,
И, прощаясь, держась за перила,
Она словно с трудом говорила:
"Это все... Ах нет, я забыла,
Я люблю вас, я вас любила
Еще тогда!"
"Да".

Google+ translation

Want to know how it all happened?
Three struck in the dining room,
And farewell, bannister,
She seemed hardly speak:
"It's all ... Oh no, I forgot,
I love you, I loved you
Back then!"
"Yes."

Poetry, posted by Ludmila Ivanova

So Helpless Breast, Posted by Ludmila Ivanova

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Original text

Так беспомощно грудь холодела,
Но шаги мои были легки.
Я на правую руку надела
Перчатку с левой руки. 

Показалось, что много ступеней,
А я знала - их только три!
Между кленов шепот осенний
Попросил: "Со мною умри! 

Я обманут моей унылой
Переменчивой, злой судьбой".
Я ответила: "Милый, милый -
И я тоже. Умру с тобой!" 

Это песня последней встречи.
Я взглянула на темный дом.
Только в спальне горели свечи
Равнодушно-желтым огнем.

Google+ translation

So helpless breast grew cold,
But my steps were light.
I put on the right hand
Glove with his left hand.

It seemed that a lot of steps,
And I knew - were only three!
Between maples autumn whisper
Asked: "Die with me!

I cheated my dull
Changeable, evil fate. "
I replied: "Dear, dear -
And I do too. Die with you! "

This song is the last meeting.
I looked at the dark house.
Only in the bedroom candles burning
Indifferently yellow fire.

Poetry, posted by Ludmila Ivanova

Swan Song of Ophelia

The Darkened Beauty Image

Original text

Вечерний и наклонный
Передо мною путь.
Вчера еще, влюбленный,
Молил: "Не позабудь".
А нынче только ветры
Да крики пастухов,
Взволнованные кедры
У чистых родников.

Google+ translation

Evening and oblique
In front of me the way.
Only yesterday, in love,
Pleaded: "Do not Forget".
And now only the winds
Yes cries of the shepherds,
Anxious cedars
In pure springs.

Poetry, posted by Ludmila Ivanova

Ophelia fell in love
     Where evenings slope
     Clutching at hope -
She heard the bough above
The nestled down of swan
     Cry anxiously,
     And cried Love me
When I am caught, and done.

Swan Song of Ophelia © Ron Villejo

Vertigo, by Les Murray

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Last time I fell in a shower room
I bled like a tumbril dandy
and the hotel longed to be rid of me.
Taken to the town clinic, I
described how I tripped on a steel rim
and found my head in the wardrobe.
Scalp-sewn and knotted and flagged
I thanked the Frau Doktor and fled,
wishing the grab-bar of age might
be bolted to all civilization
and thinking of Rome’s eighth hill
heaped up out of broken amphorae. 

When, anytime after sixty,
or anytime before, you stumble
over two stairs and club your forehead
on rake or hoe, bricks or fuel-drums,
that’s the time to call the purveyor
of steel pipe and indoor railings,
and soon you’ll be grasping up landings
having left your balance in the car
from which please God you’ll never
see the launchway of tires off a brink.
Later comes the sunny day when
street detail whitens blindly to mauve 

and people hurry you, or wait, quiet.

Vertigo, by Les Murray

My goodness, what a deft account of aging, at once humorous and poignant, wholly personal.  It's a bit of a holiday in historic Europe, and the fall, trip and drop have become a common occurrence.  Over time, the railing becomes more a proxy for balance, which signals a marked shift from driving to walking the streets, and the surrounding details from colorful and sharp to dull, blind and dizzying.

Les Murray

Bloody Mary, by April Bernard

Bloody Mary, by HuMAC

Note who’s got to go
today, don’t fuss
about the means,
just go ahead behead,
impale, starve, strappado,
the sheer assortment
of choices enough
to make a crown
crow. They never
loved me enough.
It must be said: They
were a disappointment. 

When divine mother
love wears out, I just
reverse the robe
from blue to red.
I like a flat ground
to build the next town,
city, empire of disgust.
All the waste you see,
that’s what I did,
none of that happened
to me. I did that.
I made that. I killed that. I.

Bloody Mary, by April Bernard

A disturbing, powerful poem.  Bernard is obviously not writing about the cocktail drink, but instead about a sinister 'sister' to the Virgin Mary.  Just as we speak of an Anti-Christ, as a variation the Devil, so she speaks of an Anti-Mary.  "Strappado" is not quite a crucifying, but worse:  It calls for binding the wrists from the back, then hanging the poor soul up at the wrists.  "To make a crown / crow" reminds me of Jesus Christ's crown of thorns and bearing of the heavy cross.  The reversal of the robe from heavenly (blue) to hellish (red) is what Mary, in this poem, has come to, after people in her life dismissed and disappointed her.

It's a fierce, gruesome horror of a poem.

April Bernard