DIOGEN pro art magazine No. 25...06.9.2012...SPECIAL EDITION by DIOGEN pro culture magazine

www.diogen.weebly.com

Issue No. 25

06.9.2012.

September

SPECIJALNO ELEKTRONSKO IZDANJE / DIOGEN pro art magazine / SPECIAL ONLINE EDITION Galerija IPC “E”, Baščaršija, Sarajevo 11:00, 21.3.2012.-11:00, 22.3.2012.

Participated 28 poets from 19 countries

Učestvovalo je 28 poeta iz 19 zemalja svijeta 2012-Pjesnici pred Kapijom Bogova kao sužnji ljubavi

SARAJEVSKA ZIMA http://sarajevskazima.ba

2012-The poets in front of the Gate of the Gods as servants of love

PAGE 2 - NO.25

DIOGEN

Copyright Sabahudin Hadžialić & Authors 2010-2012. All rights reserved. Copying articles, images and other content free of charge with obligation to underline from where it has been taken from: DIOGEN pro culture magazine, Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina. NA NASLOVNICI. / ON COVER PAGE... ART— DIOGEN pro art studio DESIGN LOGO I NASLOVNICA/FRONT PAGE: STEVO BASARA, & DIOGEN pro art studio grafički dizajner/graphic designer

ONLINE EDITION....ONLINE EDICIJA

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Uvodna riječ knjige poezije - Ibrahim Spahić „Sarajevo 2012 – Poetski maraton“ DIOGEN traži čovjeka Mak, Tin i Velimir kao paradigma budućnosti Međunarodni centar za Mir je u okviru festivala Sarajevo Sarajevska Zima zajedno sa časopisom Diogen Pro Kultura Magazin pripremio drugi po redu poetski maraton tokom kojeg će pjesnici tragati kao Diogen za čovjekom. Njutnovo klatno je zaštitni znak dvadeset osmog Međunarodnog Festivala Sarajevo Sarajevska Zima kojeg pokreće pahuljica sarajevske zime, u prestupnoj godini proročanstva Maya i Zmaja. Galerija IPC primit će pjesnike iz devetnaest zemalja svijeta u čudesnom ozračju kuće u kojoj je živio najbolji pjesnik Bosne i Hercegovine Mak Dizdar. Knjiga u kojoj objavljujemo pjesme učesnika Drugog poetskog maratona svjedočanstvo je o pobratimstvu lica u svemiru, o kojem je svojim životom svjedočio u Sarajevu Tin Ujević. Prizivamo ovim susretima danas i pjesnika Velimira Miloševića i ine koji su nas inspirisali da obnovimo sarajevske poetske maratone. Ibrahim Spahić Direktor Međunarodnog festivala Sarajevo Sarajevska zima

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Introductory word of Poetry book - Ibrahim Spahic „Sarajevo 2012 – Poetry marathon“ DIOGENES is seeking for a human being Mak, Tin and Velimir as paradigma of the future International Peace Center, within the frame of International Festival Sarajevo, Sarajevo Winter, together with online magazine DIOGEN pro cultura, prepared the Second Poetry marathon during which all the poets and poetess will, like Diogenes did, search for human being. Newton's pendulum is trademark of twenty eight International Festival Sarajevo, Sarajevo Winter, powered with the flake of Sarajevo winter, within the leap year of Mayan and Dragon prophecies. Gallery of IPC will welcome poets and poetess from nineteen countries from all around the world within the amazing atmosphere of the house in which used to live the best poet of Bosnia and Herzegovina, Mak Dizdar. The book in which we are publishing the poems of the participants of the Second Poetry marathon is testimony about the brotherhood of persons in the universe, about which in Sarajevo, with his own life, testified poet Tin Ujević. We are invoking with this meetings today even poet Velimir Milošević and others, who inspired us to restore Sarajevo poetry marathons. Ibrahim Spahic Director International festival Sarajevo Sarajevo winter

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Introductory word of Poetry book „Sarajevo 2012 – Poetry marathon“ DIOGENES is seeking for a human being

Unifying of diversities „Poetry will be written by all“ – wrote once upon a time by the side of poetry bar from South Slavic areas, Branko Miljkovic. By leaving us too soon, intoxicated with youth and his own decision in the sixties of the previous century, into the behest of the arriving generations he left exactly those brilliant verses of his own hopes. That all will write poetry. And so, thanks to social networks of the virtual versions of immediate communication, an another form of assumed manipulation of insects from the civilization of lost heart, in front of us are appearing all of those who has been announced by the Poet within his departure. However, there are islands of outspoken personalities who resists to Hemingway’s phrase that "no man is an island." These are just the authors of this book. Common book of poetry simply called "Sarajevo 2012 - Poetry Marathon" and the with subtitle "DIOGENES is seeking for a human being." The authors of the complex, multilayered messages. Focused into the understandings of the worlwide cultural mosaic. Because of that we are trying to unify diversity. Through the book. Through the verse. In which was wehave succeded let's allow time to be judge, striving towards the people. However, the authors of this book are the peculiar character of the personality and thoughts, directed to the supernatural form of their own presentations. Some might say that the poets, through their mission with their fate of not only him / her but also of ourselves, readers, wishes in egoistic, self-confident, exclusive way to leave own mark on our own falling field - what is the name for the World nowadays. No! Through writing urbi et orbi they convey a common experience for all of us. Transformed and beautiful landscape paintings, love, suffering, in a word …of living.. but also…death.

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Do the holy books, and regardless of whom belong to and how, are formed between the covers? Is the present century of the nanotechnology within the shape of digital form of presentation of the spiritual treasure become more and more part of our everyday life? For whom? Of what? Not because of us. For those who will come. To read Shakespeare and Baudelaire in the virtual room environment while the voice of the reader decant records in our cerebral convolutions is like as walking through the beautiful beaches, sunilluminated. While we are baked on the sand and the sun makes us red. An in the very next moment we are refreshed with the sensuall touch of the ocean, being part of it as we are, for sure. The human one. Our authors-authors of the Poetry marathons are all those poets ... who are precisely seeking towards that perfection. As through online entanglement of the virtual-visual impressions, as well as boarded kind of, with the senses of reality targeted, the books. Authors are not here only because of themselves. They are here for the future ... common, first and foremost. And last, but not least. Every festival, poetry gathering and / or Poetry marathon is, with appropriate selection of poems, subjective sui generis. Why to run away from that? It is for sure that the beggars of the mind will complain on us. They do not tolerate others and different ones. Ivo Andrić has written: "In a country of hate the most hated one is the person who does not know how to hate.“ Because of that we have decided to present from 19 countries worldwide exactly those 30 poets and poetess, through their poetry imprints. To unify diversities. At least tried. Sabahudin Hadžialić

Selector of the Poetry marathon „Diogenes is seeking for human being“ Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina 2012.

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Uvodna riječ knjige poezije „Sarajevo 2012 – Poetski maraton“ DIOGEN traži čovjeka

Objedinjavanje različitosti „Poeziju će svi pisati“ - napisao je svojevremeno bard pjesništva južnoslavenskih prostora, Branko Miljković. Prerano nas napustivši, opijen mladošću i vlastitom odlukom šesdesetih godina prošloga vijeka, u amanet je dolazećim generacijama ostavio upravo briljantne stihove sopstvenih nadanja. Da će poeziju svi pisati. I tako, zahvaljujući društvenim mrežama virtualnih inačica neposredne komunikacije, još jednom obliku pretpostavljene manipulacije insektima civilizacije izgubljenih srca, pred nama se pojavljuju upravo svi oni koje je najavio Pjesnik svojim odlaskom. No, postoje otoci prostodušnih osobnosti koji odolijevaju hemingvejskoj sintagmi da „nijedan čovjek nije ostrvo“. To su upravo autori ove knjige. Zajedničke knjige poezije jednostavnog naziva „Sarajevo 2012 - Poetski maraton“ i podnaslova „DIOGEN traži čovjeka“. Autori složenih, višeslojnih poruka. Razumijevanju kulturnog mozaika worldwide usmjerenih. Mi upravo zbog toga pokušavamo objedinjavati različitosti. Knjigom. Stihom. Koliko u tome uspijevamo neka vrijeme sudi, ljudima težeći. Ipak, autori ove knjige su ličnosti osebujnog karaktera i misli, usmjereni nadnaravnom obliku sopstvene prezentacije. Neko bi mogao reći kako pjesnici, svojim poslanjem o sudbini ne samo njega/nje već i nas samih, čitalaca, žele egoistično, samosvjesno, isključivo ostaviti sopstveni trag na ovdašnjem terenu sunovrata što se Svijetom zove. Ne! Pišući urbi et orbi oni prenose zajednička iskustva svih nas. Pretočene i prekrasne slike pejsaža, ljubavi, patnji, jednom riječju življenja...ali i smrti.

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Zar i svete knjige bez obzira kome i kako pripadaju, nisu uobličene izmedju korica? Zar u današnjem vijeku nano-tehnologija unutar oblika digitalni oblik prezentacije duhovnog blaga sve više postaje naša svakodnevnica? Zbog koga? Čega? Ne zbog nas. Zbog onih što dolaze. Čitati Šekspira i Bodlera u okruženju virtualne sobe dok glas čitača pretače slogove u naše moždane vijuge je kao šetati prelijepim plažama suncem obasjanim. Dok nas pjesak peče a sunce žari. Da bi već sljedećeg trenutka bili osvježeni putenim dodirom okeana koji i sami jesmo. Onoga ljudskog. Naši autori-AUTORI Poetskog maratona su svi oni pjesnici... koji teže upravo tom savršenstvu. Kako online isprepletenosti virtualno-vizuelnih otisaka, tako i ukoričenih, osjetilom realiteta ciljanih, knjiga. Autori nisu ovdje samo zbog sebe samih. Već i zbog budućnosti... zajedničke, prije svega. I posljednje, ali ne i zadnje. Svaki festival, pjesničko druženje i/ili Poetski maraton je, uz odgovarajući odabir pjesama, subjektivan sui generis. Zbog čega bježati od toga? Svakako će nam prigovarati prosjaci uma. Oni što ne podnose drugoga i drugačijeg. Zar i sam Andrić, Ivo, nije napisao:“U zemlji mržnje najviše mrze onoga ko ne umije da mrzi“. Zbog toga smo odlučili i predstaviti upravo ovih 30 pjesnika i pjesnikinja iz 19 zemalja svijeta kroz njihov poetski otisak. Da bi objedinili različitosti. Makar pokušali. Sabahudin Hadžialić

Selektor Poetskog maratona „DIOGEN traži čovjeka“ Sarajevo, Bosna i Hercegovina 2012

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"2012...Pjesnici pred Kapijom Bogova kao sužnji ljubavi." “2012...Poets in front of the Gate of Gods as servants of love.” ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

FINALNI SPISAK UČESNIKA POETSKOG MARATONA 21.3.2012. FINAL LIST OF THE PARTICIPANTS OF THE POETRY MARATHON 21.3.2012.

1. Jadranka Tarle Bojović (Split, Hrvatska / Split, Croatia) 2. Barbara Bračun (Zagreb, Hrvatska / Zagreb, Croatia) 3. Nihad Mešić River (Tuzla, BiH / Tuzla, Bosnia and Herzegovina) 4. Danilo P. Lompar (Podgorica, Crna Gora / Podgorica, Montenegro) 5. Samira Begman (Cirih, Švajcarska / Zurich, Switzerland) 6. Goran Vrhunc (Sarajevo, BiH / Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina) 7. Shaip Emerllahu (Tetovo, Makedonija / Tetovo, Macedonia) 8. Giuseppe Napolitano (Gaeta, Italija /Gaeta, Italy) 9. Mexhid Mehmeti (Priština, Kosovo / Prishtina, Kosovo) 10. Marius Chelaru (Iasi, Rumunija / Iasi, Romania) 11. Jüri Talvet (Tartu, Estonija / Tartu, Estonia) 12. Craig Czury (Reading, Pensilvanija, USA / Reading, Pennsylvania, USA) 13. Marina Kljajo Radić (Mostar, BiH / Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina) 14. Gustavo Vega (Barcelona, Španija / Barcelona, Spain) 15. Krystina Lenkowska (Rzeszov, Poljska / Rzeszów, Poland) 16. Ivan Rajović (Kraljevo, Srbija / Kraljevo, Serbia)

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17. Dr. Diti Ronen (Tel Aviv, Izrael / Tel Aviv, Israel) 18. Christiana Dobreva – Stankova (Sliven, Bugarska / Sliven, Bulgaria) 19. Majo Danilović (Beograd, Srbija / Belgrade, Serbia) 20. Ljiljana Crnić (Beograd, Srbija / Belgrade, Serbia) 21. Marianne Larsen (Kopenhagen, Danska / Copenhagen, Denmark) 22. Mirzeta Memišević (Sarajevo, BiH / Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina) 23. Bardhyl Maliqi (Sarande, Albanija / Sarande, Albania) 24. Heather Thomas (Kutztown, Pensilvanija,USA / Kutztown, Pennsylvania, USA) 25. Jeton Kelmendi (Brisel, Belgija / Brussels, Belgium) 26. Dimitar Hristov (Sofia, Bugarska / Sofia, Bulgaria) 27. Naida Hrustemović (Sarajevo, BiH / Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina) 28. Anna Bagrianna (Fastiv, Ukrajina / Fastiv, Ukraine). ....... Ibrahim Spahić (Sarajevo, BiH) Sabahudin Hadžialić ( Sarajevo, BiH)

Selektor Poetskog maratona 2012.g.

Sabahudin Hadžialić 26.1.2012. Sarajevo, BiH

Ljiljana Crnić, Beograd, Srbija. Objavila knjigu poezije. Zastupljena u mnogim zbornicima i u antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kultura magazina. Pjesme prevođene na francuski, engleski, slovački, italijanski, slovenački i makedonski jezik. Majo Danilović, Beograd; Srbija. Pjesnik i grafički dizajner. Objavljuje poeziju i prozu. Objavio nekoliko knjiga poezije uz zastupljenost u velikom broju magazina i u antologijama poezije. Nagrađivani je autor. Zastupljen u antologiji DIOGEN pro kultura magazina. Marianne Larsen, Kopenhagen, Danska. Pjesnikinja sa velikim brojem objavljenih knjiga poezije. Njene pjesme su prevedene na više jezika. Nagrađivani je autor. Učestovala je na mnogim festivalima širom svijeta. Prevodila je poeziju sa kineskog na danski jezik. Marina Klajo Radić, Mostar, Bosna i Hercegovina. Pjesnikinja. Predsjednik Društva hrvatskih književnika Herceg Bosne. Objavila pet knjiga poezije. Uređuje magazine i knjige drugih autora. Zastupljena je u antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kultura magazina. Marius Chelaru, Iaşi; Rumunija. Objavio 30 knjiga (poezija, proza, prevodi, eseji, kritike). Član Društva pisaca Rumunije. Nagrađivani autor uz učešće na mnogim festival ima širom svijeta. Urednik više magazina za kulturu u posljednjih petnaest godina.

Mexhid Mehmeti, Priština, Kosovo*. Pjesnik, novinar, urednik. Objavio 15 knjiga poezije, i proze. Zastupljen u antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kultura magazina. Nagrađivani je autor a njegove pjesme du objavljene an bosanskom, engleskom, njemačkom i rumunskom jeziku.

Mirzeta Memišević– Hodžić, Sarajevo, Bosna i Hercegovina. Pjesnikinja koja je objavila dvije knjige poezije. Zastupljena u antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kultura magazina. U pripremi joj je i knjiga priča.

Naida Hrustemović, Sarajevo, Bosna i Hercegovina. Objavila knjigu poezije uz učestvovanje na festivalima poezije u Bosni i Hercegovini. Zastupljena u antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kultura magazina.

Nihad Mešić River, Tuzla, Bosna i Hercegovina. Objavio tri knjige poezije. Zastupljen u zajedničkim zbornicima. Nagrađivani je autor. Uz učešće na festivalima ex-yu država, zastupljen u antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kultura magazina. WWW: http://nihadmesicriver.weebly.com/ Sabahudin Hadžialić, Sarajevo, Bosna i Hercegovina. Objavio 13 knjiga poezije i proze. (BiH, Francuska, Italija, Švicarska) Zastupljen u antologijama poezije u svijetu i na prostoru Balkana. Uredio dvije antologije (poezije i aforizama). Urednik više magazina uz uređivanje knjiga drugih autora. Selektor Poetskog maratona 2011-2012. WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com Samira Begman Karabeg, Cirih, Švicarska. Piše i objavljuje poeziju i prozu na bosanskom i njemačkom jeziku. Zastupljena u antologijama poezije u svijetu i na prostoru Balkana. Zamjenik urednika DIOGEN pro kultura magazina. Objavila više knjiga poezije i proze. WWW: http://samirabegman.weebly.com Shaip Emërllahu, Tetovo, Makedonija. Pjesnik i naučni radnik. Direktor Međunarodnog festivala poezije ““Ditet e Naimit”,, iz Tetova. Objavio sedam knjiga poezije (Makedonija, Albanija, Hrvatska i Italija, Rumunija). Zastupljen u antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kultura magazina.

21.3.2012. POETRY MARATHON 2012. -

DIOGENES IS SEEKING FOR A HUMAN BEING

21.3.2012. POETSKI MARATON 2012. -

DIOGEN TRAŽI ČOVJEKA

International festival "Sarajevo winter" and DIOGEN pro culture magazine

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Galerija IPC-E (Luledžina 12), Baščaršija, Sarajevo, Bosna i Hercegovina21.3.2012...11:00 do/until 22.3.2012...11:00

SVI UČESNICI SU I AUTORI DIOGEN pro kultura magazina

http://diogen.weebly.com/2132012---world-poetry-day.html

Anna Bagrianna, Kijev, Ukrajina. Pjesnikinja, prozaist, dramski pisac i prevodilac. Autor je sedam knjiga poezije, tri romana, dvije knjige priča za djecu, osam drama i libreta za mjuzikl “Gloria”. Članica je Društva pisaca Ukrajine i nagrađivan autor. Učestvovala ja na velikom broju poetskih festivala širom svijeta. Barbara Bračun, Zagreb, Hrvatska. Objavila jednu knjigu poezije, zastupljena u mnogim zbornicima i u Antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kultura magazina (25 zemalja svijeta), autor DIOGEN pro kultura magazina; foto-.art umjetnik. Mnoštvo nastupa, samostalnih izložbi u Hrvatskoj i regiji. Bardhyl Maliqi, Serende, Albanija Pjesnik, esejist, univerzitetski profesor, autor stručnih i naučnih knjiga. Objavio 15 knjiga. Dobitnik devet regionalnih i nacionalnih nagrada za književni rad. Uredio 160 knjiga drugih autora. Zastupljen u zbornicima, Učestvovao na poetskim festivalima. Craig Czury, Reading, Pennsylvania, SAD. Autor 20 knjiga poezije. Knjige prevedene i objavljene na hrvatskom, albanskom, španskom. Italijanskom, litvanijskom i ruskom jeziku. Urednik dvije antologije poezije. Nagrađivan autor:http://www.craigczury.com

Christiana Dobreva - Stankova, Sliven, Bugarska. Objavila tri knjige poezije i zastupljena u almanasima širom svijeta. Nagrađivani autor i urednik knjiga drugim autorima. WWW: http://www.krisitiana.com/

Danilo P. Lompar, Podgorica, Crna Gora. Objavio 15 knjiga poezije. Član PEN-a Crne Gore, Udruženja nezavisnih književnika Crne Gora. Objavljuje u domaćim i magazinima širom svijeta. Zastupljen u nekoliko Antologija poezije. Očestvovao na mnogim festivalima poezije. Page 12 No 25.

Dimitar Hristov, Sofia, Bugarska. Pjesnik, kantautor i prevodilac. Knjige poezije su mu nagrađivane i prevođene na ruski, srpski, albanski, makedonski, ukrajinski i poljski jezik. Radio je u Udruženju književnika Bugarske, kao predsjedavajući ureda za mlade pisce.

Diti Ronen, Tel Aviv, Izrael. Umjetnica i naučna radnica. Objavila je tri knjige poezije. Njene pjesme su preveden na više od deset svjetskih jezika. Zastupljena u mnogim antologijama i u antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kultura magazina. Nagrađivani je autor.

Giuseppe Napolitano, Gaeta, Italija. Objavio veliki broj knjiga poezije uz uređivanje i objavu knjiga autora sa svih meridijana. Organizator poetskih festivala u Italiji. Zastupljena u mnogim antologijama i u antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kultura magazina. Nagrađivani je autor. Goran Vrhunc, Sarajevo, Bosna i Hercegovina. Osnivač poetske grupe DIOGENE poetes. Zamjenik gl. i odg. urednika DIOGEN pro kultura magazina (mladi). Nagrađivan i zastupljen i antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kultura magazina.

Gustavo Vega, Barcelona, Španija. Umjetnik i naučni radnik. Umjetnik je koji kombinuje vizuelnu umjenost i poetsku riječ. Autor je četiri knjige poezije. Učestvuje na festivalima širom svijeta. Zastupljen u mnogim antologijama i u antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kultura magazina. Heather Thomas, Kutztown, Pennsylvania, SAD. Autor šest knjiga poezije.. Svoj rad objavila u velikom broju magazina i antologija (35). Nastupala širom SAD-a, i na festivala u svijetu. WWW: http://faculty.kutztown.edu/hthomas

Ibrahim Spahić, Sarajevo, Bosna i Hercegovina. Pjesnik, političar, javni i kulturni radnik. Direktor međunarodnog festivala Sarajevska zima i Predsjedavajućži Evropskog kulturnog foruma. Zastupljen u antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kultura magazina

Ivan Rajović, Kraljevo, Srbija. Pjesnik, prozni autor i pisac za djecu. Objavio trinaest knjiga (deset knjiga poezije i tri knjige proze). Autor je dramskih tekstova. Prevođen je i nagrađivan autor zastupljen u domaćim i stranim antologijama.

Jadranka Tarle Bojović, Split, Hrvatska. Pjesnikinja i prozni autor. Objavila je pet knjiga poezije i proze. Poezija joj je objavljena u Bosni i Hercegovini, Hrvatskoj i Makedoniji. Učesvovala je na više domaćih i međunarodnih poetskih festivala.

Jeton Kelmendi, Brisel, Belgija. Pjesnik i prozni autor. Objavio 17 knjiga poezije, drama, političkih eseja. Knjige su mu prevedene i objavljene an grčkom hindu, turskom, francuskom i engleskom jeziku. Zastupljen u antologiji poezije DIOGEN pro kutlura magazina.

Jüri Talvet, Pärnu , Estonia. Objavio veliki broj knjiga poezije i proze. Knjige su mu prevođene i objavljene u Španiji, Litvaniji, Boliviji, Sloveniji, Kolumbiji i Rumuniji. Nagrađivani je autor i zastupljen u antoogijama poezije. WWW: http://talvet.edicypages.com

Krystyna Lenkowska, Rzeszów, Poljska. Objavila je sedam knjiga poezije. Objavila je u velikom broju magazina u Poljskoj i SAD-e. Zastupljena je u antologija poezije, dok su njene pjesme prevođene i objavljene u Albaniji, Ukrajini Litvaniji i Ćeškoj Republici. WWW: http://lenkowska.art.pl/

http://diogen.weebly.com/2132012---world-poetry-day.html

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Anna Bagryana1 Anna Bagryana is poet, prosaist, playwright and translator. She was born in 1981 in Fastiv (Kiev region). She graduated Ukrainian Philology from the Kyiv National University “Taras Shevchenko”. She has worked as a TV and radio editor, as author of a TV show and editor-in-chief of a magazine for yong literature, is correspondent for Ukrainian periodicals. She is author of seven poetry books, three novels, two books of stories for children, 8 plays and libretto for the musical “Gloria” (The Donetsk National academic Ukrainian musically dramatic theater, 2010). Her novel "The Etymology of blood" was awarded with the International Ukraine-German Prize “Oles Honchar”,“Coronation words” Prize and the Prize of the edition “Smoloskyp” (Kyiv). Her poems have been translated in several languages. She is the member of the National Writers Union of Ukraine and of the Ukrainian Writers Association.

Ukraine: Anna Bagrianna

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Anna Bagrianna

A YARN I pull the sky by a white cloud and a trickle of light flows out between fingers the white thread becomes gold it sets out for the horizon oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;er there beyond the skyline You observe how the white cloud is melting and diminishing suddenly it completely disappears while traveling the golden thread begs Your heart to let it in Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve no one to talk with about my cagey yarn except you

Translation: Yuri Lazirko

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IT IS APPROXIMATELY THERE… it is approximately there where God ran out of threads where land is not sewn to the sky and dangles as a teddy bear’s torn paw, another bit of someone else’s childhood it is approximately there where the Lord’s hand doesn’t touch the shadow of a lonely tree felled by human hands just before the Holiday this is something like as if the sun knelt and beseeched forgiveness from you and me for warming our hearts belatedly

Translation: Yuri Lazirko

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INCEPTION in the beginning there were wounds and the sky poured out of them lymph nodes appeared in the heavens which tied together all those chaotically wandering in the sky chimerical orbs (whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s their origin?..) then the nodes kept expending and growing heavy like stones and as stones crumbled down creating something similar to those (already tied) orbs each named after a god to become one for they thought that there is no one in the heavens (just having forgotten about the wounds of the Universeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s inception)

Translation: Yuri Lazirko

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*** do not forgive me the green eyes (that's a grandma sin) have no forgiveness for too weak arms (it isn't too soon to rely on them) have no forgiveness for the silence (as long as I'm silent) and laughter (when my tears are in it) have no forgiveness for the song o'er songs not Christ crosses sloppy thoughts and the time wasted on the way led to You just forgive me my youth (it will pass away)

Translation: Yuri Lazirko

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AUTUMN BUTTERFLY It’s not love. It’s a flutter in flame Disguise for changing roles It’s reluctance to loose, To interfere in somebody’s being And to drink from the bowl of somebody’s soul… But life is so non-etrernal, Like my foolish butterfly Of Autumn Like feminine and masculine, Plait into common streaks of gray… Sometimes I want to disappear With no return. Like everyone. For keeps. Then you forget about dream Then you crash bowls Then understand, That line of life Which is on hand Too long to be The butterfly of autumn… And, uncomfortly-perplexed, in the darkness Like abandoned daughter Along with other unloved children You set out in search of the sun. And when after long wandering Finally you find luminescence And the light, when you do not feel cold any more Like autumn-butterfly Without hesitation you fly Because you don’t know That the light is from fire…

Translation: Andriy Svarga

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Barbara Bračun Barbara Bračun (Zagreb, Croatia) is employee of Zagreb City Libraries. World of books, love for photography along with solo exhibitions and writing poetry is her inspiration for understanding life and love for the world that surrounds her. In preparation - Book of poetry "Dancing Love" (March 2012) Photography - Special Edition Pro Art Photography - Diogenes, Pro Culture Magazine No 14/I., October 2010: http://diogen.weebly.com/barbara-bracun.html Exhibition - "Sea of Love", "View of the World" - Zagreb, Croatia. Among authors from 25 countries from all around the World has been included in Anthology “Poets for World Peace”, 2011, published by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss.

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Barbara BraÄ?un

SCATTERED I observe my body just by the way I touch it returning palm to face it seems it smells of you happy crazy conquered ... with eyes with walk with the movement of your body with you me and my woman in me wild tame scattered and smiling some gentle journey touched us arm in arm you and me actually hand in hand physical love is not same to us as had know taste even in a dream has slipped something wild

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but tame two opposites like all we are you and me it is not more false interlaced peace spent passion satisfied bodies void it is now like rescue break in forgetting something what was before and after something that is always and after us (Barbara BraÄ?un)

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JAZZ AND YOU

sound wealth watching you listening power of saxophone speaks with human voice I feel in mind in heart comes leaves beautiful improvisation of life delay of the moment all the same which one does not exist sound body leaning along mine in breaks between what I can not remember ah yes you love me I heard the bass the art of love in the voice singing to victim of coexistence singing to street to beauty

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variations liberation of all jazz and you I'm here somewhere I

I TAKE OFF MY TIE no woman exist from your song it will be a novel of unclear characters one scene on more or less space to main character you will give the trait of my nature will not count mother woman sister girlfriend mistress it is so you have no choice in your song you will see the outlines of women

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me on the slide only mine whose image is only slightly visible with raised view to light she does not lose her time visiting all the places of the world her biography is female geography brave stable she is ready to make thousands miles to catch up with the goal no target do you have the courage why not women of your song does not appear on photography saved in compartment of an old wallet touching memory shortly before death women of your song

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is dancing first turns on the podium if the dance will be title of the song I take off my tie

CONTINUOUS ... there are some untouchable worlds only mine intact sometimes only like the part of me escapes through my fingers in what is the wealth your existence your ecstasy to me almost impossible you are watching me calling me with a view I feel humility facing your power you kiss me I joyfully sing caressing loving touch we don't mention love we already know!

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WITH YOU LIKE FRIDA

I dare I know how to I can my strength is to extend this strong echoes of other loves do I change consequences for moments of loving adventures dangers offered I found the answer what I don't want to be but I know what I want seamlessly with feelings awarded without cracks wonderfully calm and madly conquered with you like Frida with love for Diego in those best moments

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without pain when he was just hers without wandering on other bodies he made her happy woman who lived ahead of its time

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Bardhyl Maliqi Employment: Saranda University Professor & "Hasan Tahsini" Secondary School teacher; Education and training: 1962-1969 "Bido Sejko" MiddleSchool Konispol; 1969-1974 High School of Foreign Languages, "Asim Zeneli" Russian branch, Tirana; 1974-1978 Shkodra University, Linguistics & Literature branch; 1983-1984 Graduate specialization for pedagogy and psychology, University of Tirana; 2002-2004 Postgraduate Studies, "Master" in teaching; 2007-2012 â&#x20AC;&#x153;Doctor degreeâ&#x20AC;? in education science. 1977 Membership card in the Writers and Artists of Albania Work experience: Since 1977 - 2011, I have worked in various positions in education as a teacher in the middle school and high school for language and literature, Russian language and psychology, as a specialist, education consultant and inspector. Additional Information: 2001-2012 Head of Artistic Associations and clubs of Saranda. I have written 15 books, from which three are published: Endangered taste (essay), The mirrors (poetry), Critic on compositions (study) and Morphology - shortcut for students (college text). - 9 regional and national awards for literary works and artistic competitions; 29 regional and national awards of students; 893 articles, a good portion of them published in literary press;158 books editing Marital Status: Married, daughter at the University of Tirana- Pharmacy, son, a middle school student. Lives in Sarande, Albania.

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Bardhyl Maliqi

COMPLAIN OF THE DOUBLE FRONT GATEOF TOWNHALL The double front gate of the town hall complains why the new springs cry; but no oiling they ask but seeking oil lamps for graveyard. Who is dead, I dare ask no one knows, perhaps the shelter policies, Employment, social service or else, I don`t know!

The Town halls double front gate complains For in and out come Associations, Parties, Chairmen, red and blue Gejsha of politics and rovers From stake to stake to...

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WHO ARE YOU?! I don`t know who you are But dressed in southern winds you look Your breasts have the shape and scent of quinces Your eyes are like Drinos valleys Sometimes grey, damp from tears, frost and fog, Sometimes green like grain grass fields in spring, Sometimes blue like deep sea water, like skies Ah, your eyes Hidden behind glasses With a thin and golden frame, Your eyes, lyric eclipse of Misses The guys lose their heads 2 A slim body, Some energetic and graceful movements Pretty profile, curly chest brown hair, Shivering voice with expressive tone So luring that Make us all envious And your friends Surly students Students I know not whereâ&#x20AC;Ś. They are your slaves Slaves of your beauty Of your voice Of your words Otherwise how could they surround you With such love and care Lost in their feelings In fervor In drunkenness They approach you As nearing fire To get warm But not be scorched from it. No one has more courage than needed No one has your passion in chest. 3 Ah, in their shoes if I were To set up traps with foxy words For you, little Greek, are really cunning But not more cunning than a forty year rascal That plays with the words as his bird of pleasure likes And the human soul in the cup of lips he drinks,

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With his luring flare, In scorching thirst. I really don`t know who you are But surely, like black birds grown up In a cobbled path village Laid in heavy stone plates. Just like black birds you are, vigorous girl Grown up in seed pecks of trap dangers In winters snowing in palm parcels, Could I move from my place, (though the professors mantle hinders me) At your seat to rest To unbutton your blouse, And all thirsty to view The hidden beauties of the crazy girlhood, And your lips to kiss with fervor, till pain But never hurting your pride. Tirana- Saranda, December 1998

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WHEN SORROWS GLOW

Summer migrated. October has come Like night with a large umbrella in hand, Hotels scintillate The promenade pitch dark, The municipality like the sky spares, spares and In the table of scrums us invites. In the promenades of Saranda the wind turns all bare And anxiously the waves splash on the shore. Rrarely girls like meteors lighten the sorrows Even friends become rare, The feminine ambers Warmer than the words, In the lonely streets no one, but poets Cops, people in plight and the crazy. In boulevard The miniskirts grow rarer, But casinos full are with vagabonds The taxi drivers curse the ferry boats That don`t come, And the streets In a wet glow their solitude hide. Around us, the mountains cornered Like beasts in caves And roaring sleep Under the wooly overcoat of snow While the pensioners dig in the pockets for pence And hold them tightly like pearls In the palm of their hand A coffee less, a coffee, but not almost Counting the money And life Is covered under the black mud. I don`t know Why the money of the coffin The expenditures for burring The post funeral lunch The purse for after the forty (days) Anniversaries, the marble memorials

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Necrologies, ah, why they don`t Pay them cash?! Later, after death, God has, Let them put in sea caves Wreaths…. Philosophers and poets have two thousand years of long meditation “Is it better live or forgotten die”?! In Falls Saranda feels sad Poets and Cypresses Murmur In solitude Saranda,October, 4-th of October 2008

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GRANDMA… Granny beheld the open sky like a vessel full of star grains like white butterflies remnant from the grainy loaf of Sun, Over there, in the mid of night, Corfu scintillated. And we dipped our bite in the shade of an oil lamp and the Moon combed the yellow hair over the Narta mountain In the reflecting Ionian mirror And the forsaken desires of our cry drowned in the crystal clear water of the well hoping for tomorrow tomorrow……

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DEATH NARRATORS Like these beacons that show the ships sunk, the path of death where no alive should pass; on earth stuck like death narrators stand ...... Statues of Generals!

http://patrickjsammut.blogspot.com/2012/02/international-festival-sarajevo-winter.html

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Christiana Dobreva â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Stankova Christiana Dobreva - Stankova was born in Sliven, Bulgaria. She graduates from the High School of Russian Language "Dr. Ivan Seliminski" in her hometown, and acquires a higher degree in the Sofia University "St. Kliment Ohridski ", a Master in geography. Her poems are published in almanacs "Jajda", "Irin Pirin", "Poets 2005", "Slovesa", "Libra", "Voices from Melnik" (in Macedonian), "The Birth of prayer" (in Albanian), periodic print and electronic publications Public Republic, the literary world, Diogen and others. In 2006 she published the book in poetry, "Because I love you" in 2007 in the Macedonian language "Sip me slowly" and in January 2009 collection of poems ''Blue Flower''. She also has prizes of poetry contests "For a - humane world," radio "Veselina" (2004), "Melnik Evenings of Poetry" (2006), "Sparks over Biala" (2010), "Dobroslov" (2010), "Before the altar of free speech" (2010). Editor of the book "Tear of the tulip" (author Valentin Naidenov, Publishing House "Valentin Naidenov," 2006) and "Magic Dream" (author Denislava Stoycheva, PH "Jajda", 2010). Lives in Sliven and workes as a Senior Public Affairs and Civic Education in the Regional Inspectorate on Education - Sliven. WWW: http://www.krisitiana.com/

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Cristiana Dobreva - Stankova

ICECREAM And yet we will meet on a Sunday, time will be five minutes to four you’ll walk with her alongside the quay and I’ll be just strange silhouette where your loud laughter will fall as a busy passerby and in that moment she will propose: "Let’s have vanilla ice cream?" Maybe you will decide it's different the thrill is a new one and good but the cycle turns and here it is vanilla ice cream and void ... And it is already late, Sunday is going across now it is five minutes to four, do not look at me I am another and do not even like ice cream.

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MUSE It is ginger and crazy, defiant and true as if someone invented it now. It is morning splashing into the window sleepy poetic and elegant sigh. And the artist in love lifelong in paintings emerald lips painted and those blue eyes in which sank and has not emerged. At the corner for a moment life got them together brief moment forever condemned. The artist continues to seek in the paintings the muse to whom his heart he gave. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ginger and crazy, rebellious beautiful and really believes in the stars will find the artist who is constantly painting her and in her sleep casually comes. And in some street in a small gallery red-headed young lady smiles thoughtfully standing in front a portrait of "Muse" who resembles her granny.

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*** And let all stations get deserted, shunters stop all trains don’t leave tonight, I love you stay, another moment hold my hand! I didn’t ask where you are going, passing by my bed, expecting nothing for tomorrow tomorrow is the time we part. And I know takes longer to collect the pieces of a broken string because I'm a pebble on the road on which your love had stumbled. And if you ever go again, across, just right through the heart somewhere along the way we’ll meet for you I'm just a little flower blue ...

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RAIN Any rain that falls in July suddenly reminds me there might be love inevitable, incinerating, crazy and beautiful unique, like a breath of life. In July is the rain endearing and whimsical a rainbow is rising and yet look, bellow a boy and a girl kissing that was formerly us. Any rain that comes uninvited into the windows reminds me that there is sadness, which shed only when love touches you again. And probably any rain in July invites you to escape for a moment the world, to love, to be a moment away from the universal vanity.

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CONFESSION Because you kissed me differently amidst the splashing rain in July, because you made me fall in love in your lips just at once, because you didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t dare lose me of the summer in the pocket torn, for a while I just wanted to have you, but It seems like eternal love.

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CRAIG CZURY Craig Czury (1951) grew up in the coal region of northeastern Pennsylvania, USA. He spent 15 years hitchhiking North America, working in carnivals, warehouses, canneries, construction crews, restaurant kitchens, and organizing community poetry readings. Author of 20 collections of poetry, several have been translated to Spanish, Italian, Lithuanian, Russian, Croatian and Albanian. He is the editor of two anthologies, FINE LINE THAT SCREAMS from his Northeast Pennsylvania Prison Poetry Project, and UN SEGUNDO EN EL TIEMPO/ONE SECOND AT A TIME, poets of the Reading Hispanic community. Czury works as a poet in schools, homeless shelters, prisons, mental hospitals and community centers throughout the world. Named Laureate of the XV “Ditët E Naimit” International Albanian Poetry Festival in 2011, Czury has been awarded many national and international fellowships to continue his collaborative poem fusion performance and poetry mural projects. An avid blues harp and bocce player, Czury earned an M.F.A. from Wilkes University and is a lecturer at Albright College. He lives in Reading, Pennsylvania where is is Berks County Poet Laureate. WWW: http://www.craigczury.com

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Craig Czury

The Book

I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what this book is about but Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m writing it with one eye on the page and my ear to what my readers say the page says about them I have to trust what you remember of your life while reading that you become its writer my eye blurs when you turn your page I turn my page and keep writing I write this from my picnic table between blindness and vertigo there are sounds that mimic birds make from birds long extinct as I sit up in the dark fishing around with my feet for slippers also an ancient gesture before clicking on the lamp Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve carried this book in my hand in my pocket in my satchel a very long time before opening it knowing the blindness I'd need to begin reading the way listening to a faraway deep song one has to silence each of his or her own songs this form of blindness for the eyes to caress and the mind to formulate each foreign letter into syllable into word I'm in 6th grade I don't know what the instructions are and I can't ask because I was just told so I make up something that has to do with writing or looking as if I'm writing and then look as if I'm reading listening carefully to what everyone says they've been reading and when it comes to my turn I just rearrange what everyone's been saying a little cock-eyed and I sound as if I've been thinking about what I've been writing as I'm (psych) reading it

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It Wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Always The Same Night

the familiar words written without paper they arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always the same words dialing your number in a phone booth without coins line to line posted in the vase at the end of the bar somebody asks what dedicates itself to you what guides or sets your direction I look back from a line of poetry drawn across the window line of poetry across the horizon drawn across my eyes and speak directly into an empty room and I hear you talking in the next room on the other side as usual I answer faraway garbled

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Beautifully Old Among The Apple Trees one of us is dead by now I’m sitting on a green hand-painted bench composting wood smoke and clipped grass in the whining white night of my harmonica it’s the spring birds that wake us widest hearing the first lone click no matter how defined you can’t blame the brightest for leaving or shimmering underneath waking the others into interchangeable language of

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Here let’s write this place nowhere and the one writing it anyone and make it simple nothing and make it simpler everything to do with nothing for no one the reader anywhere no time let’s place this writer nowhere and his thought simply everything inside the reader anyone to do with nothing simpler than the times of a word every time no one’s spoken let’s write this word everywhere to no one in that place outside the writer listening to the times no simpler than anyone anywhere nothing to do with you the world and write this world nowhere simple in its word read by everyone inside their nothing these times everywhere without thought its writer its worm

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Occasionally I Have Insights Into The Mess Of Ideas Further With No Apology

on one end and everything on the surface the other way handwriting deteriorates down the page I live among the noises repeating what I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know which is worse having an inner sense of what to look like in the end or the kind of conversation gleaned from a different sound intrinsic part of unraveling already shifting outer space where I am between conversations disappointed my silence comes down to this abandoning all for a series of strange decisions

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Danilo P. Lompar Danilo P. Lompar was born on 2 January l978. in Cetinje, Montenegro. He published following books of poetry: 1997.- „Doclean yard and angelic face of gods“; l998 – „Mystic silence of existence“; 1999. – „Traces of the roses“; 2000.- „Testimony of the night“; 2001.- „Immeasurable touch“; 2003.- „Escape from the chasm“; 2004.-„Biblical sorrow“; 2006. – „So, these are the thoughts of the poets“ and second edition back in 2008.; 2008.„Incurability of the dreamer“; 2009.- „Requiem for the track“; 2009.-„Poems of mutiny“; 2011.- „Rituals of Love“; 2011.- „Mutiny through the poem invocation of the limpid soul“; 2011.-„Mazes of time and libraries“ - digital format on the Net 2011; 2011.–„ Melancholic Poetics of Cetinjski“ – digital format on the Net; He released a CD of poetry (the first CD presentation of one poet in Montenegro): "While I dreamed about you Ana Maria" by Montenegrin Universal Theatre - Podgorica 2007. - within the interpretation of the famous Montenegrin actor - Slobodan Marunović and musical accompaniment from the known Montenegrin musicians - Srdjan Bulatovic and Darko Nikčević. He published poetry in many domestic and foreign magazines. He has been published within several anthologies of poetry and participated in many important festivals of poetry. He lives in Podgorica, Montenegro. He is a member of the Montenegrin P.E.N. Center, the Montenegrin Association of Independent Writers and Mediterranean cultural Center of Montenegro.

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Danilo P. Lompar

We took a notion - God’s hand heals us

Language – the Cause of existence 1.

«Language is the cause of everything, not the activity.» Sophocles

You have tried, in vain, to escape from the life – inseparable from the poem you have accepted a sorrow as the necessity of the man who meditates in verses just now you begin to live to be able to write (at the beginning you wrote to be able to live through the pain of everyday life) understanding the impossibility of the man to be simultaneously present within the different places worlds times: you realized that it can be done only by the Poets

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2. Your resistance for the fact that man will cease to exist (Nor does on the dusty shelves of city libraries) invoked repeatedly cogitation about the Vestige and the Language since then you write knowing that the Language is the main cause of the existence and the reason to withstand â&#x20AC;&#x201C; to live through singing in his honour

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Tempting inscrutability

«Panta rei» And behind everything always remains three dots (fortunately for the Poetry)

God...Death...Ecstasy and always re-opening Roads...Signs...Images

hope that you are awakening because of the beautiful woman: Poetry who does not befool you being inscrutable

you are observing colors steady with amazement and fear as a matter of fact it is impossible to know whether the Blue one drags you towards the Black or vice versa like when it is gloomy and you are looking at the sky will the rain imbue the ground – with the vestige... three dots does not allow you to sleep tonight «Panta rei» but the desire for repetition of ecstasy even the inscrutability makes tempting...

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To be able to look at each other eyes

appease the suspicion in my words – benevolence for revelation of time

do not proclaim accentuation of the emotions – for madness (love has to be articulated about her must hear even those who hate wouldn’t they change their mind)

becalm the ire when I condemn the injustice lie or greed...

It is admonition of my own – necessity to be able to look at your eyes

mitigate the fear because I will confess you sinfulness (sufficient for you not to be scared from my detachment) I’m here on the ground with you and time will respond that I wanted to recall

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needfulness for the feelings (to be able to look to each other eyes) to love even when we find out about those who does not speak out(in) love

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TEMPLE OF ASCENSION

«Being sad, I have learned a waiver: there is nothing where the word is missing.“ Stefan George

will even pass the last day as this day passes: with which I will come vain in front of death, I patiently have to wait to come verse through the night in which I must, to be able to focus, be alone – temporary solitude is the key of all dawns in which inhabit: Poetry – Temple since the beginning of time visited by the dreamers of the letters syllables and stars of the language of worshiping people with poltergeist Without its own roof over their head. Just the sky. Temple of Words – of Ascension 2. which is the secret of eternal speech? silence is my most painfull distance! where endless aphasia leads whether the hiatus? – punishment of the earthly act

therefore do not undress your poetic toga! I have told you „abjure and will be happy“ return to the Temple with grateness to God – who made possible that you are not absolutely mopish

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PROVIDENCE II

there is nothing beyond disbelief except Crucified God and the words in the form of omen: that the fortune is rarely following a good one

should I, my Lord, prematurely find out for the shallow intentions of the human backlash and then after every truth I will remain alone till I make through the word of Sacramental – The Secret of Your Passage

and then, when I think that I have said it all you are discovering to me one more secret, indicating that the verses are the greatest prayers – for the good man – endless word

without records the world would be justified scaffold and life is reduced to bare futile pain that is why we have kissed a Poetry – salvation dreamed for (finally) within the words we have perceived the only get over

we knew that temptations exists to invoke the silence and words we have nominated a power of creation: providence we took a notion - God’s hand heals us

Translated by: Sabahudin Hadžialić

http://kazaliste-arusa.net/poetski-maraton-diogen-trazi-covjeka/

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Dimitar Hristov Dimitar Hristov is poet, playwright and translator. He was born in 1957 in Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria. He grew up in Sofija, where he graduated in Bulgarian Philology and Rhetoric from the Sofija University “St. Kliment Ohridski”. He has worked in the Bulgarian Writers Association, was the manager of Sofkniga EOOD, president of the Office of Young Writers. He works in the Ministry of Culture. His books of poetry were awarded with the “Vladimir Bashev” Prize and the Prize of the Bulgarian Writers Association and have been translated into Russian, Serbian, Albanian, Macedonian, Ukrainian, Polish.

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Dimitar Hristov

Dream Sleep, for a little at last, have a rest in the strained oppressive expection. Dream me as I come to you meek having crossed the barriers and time. Swing as a field with coarse corns, whisper to me in your dream, don't wake up ... If you awake, I should have returned and it will be not necessary for you to dream.

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Shock How many lonely people there are in the vast city. They go through the throng and proudly creep their hunger of soul. They go through the crowded dread and don't arouse an interest - not a jot, they drag their needless fat and hide their endless shock. How could we forget about them? Our conscience sank into a dust Indifferently they pass beside us and we are already just like them!

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Guitar The guitar saves me again from black thoughts and silence, its voice, raised or stifled rings like a ring or a bell. It sounds with the unpredictable rhythm of my heart and doesn't forget to whisper in the rumble of the days and to turn every chord into a trigger. In a lull the guitar will shriek, in the scolding its voice will sink, for joy it will begin to cry in a tender song and for pain will laugh loud and long. Somebody else will hardly be able to have it without me it will be empty and sad. Then, let my darling kiss it and to caress it. And the guitar will begin to play aloud, a tear will shine on the chords and our dear song will sound which says "The love doesn't repeat itself".

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Ballad for the Sin My sad girl, forgive me for the boyish audacity! I didn't remember your name â&#x20AC;&#x201C; I was afraid of myself. With a glowing forehead I was falling to an unknown abysm with you and under a stake was waiting us with a healing fire. We both sank to the bottom careless and delighted, but after that, drunk and sleepy we caressed our shadows. Without memory I have been alone I spread wings and soared but under, your plaits remained among ashes and wails. When I stopped I looked for you, we both to spread wings together but it was already late for us so as it was early yesterday! Translation: Anna Petrova

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WRECKAGE * Use to be as birds – eat some grains but fly so high. * A writer is like a camel – had to bare thirst, hunger and a long way. All the rest is a cause of a talent. * Fun can’t go on for a long time, because it becomes dangerous. * When a woman cries a man suffers… When a man cries, a woman is glad. * Thoughts are wings for hardworking person and fetters for a lazy. * A direction of the wind is always ahead. * A top is often the beginning of a gulf. * Fallen in love is blind but courageous: doesn’t hesitate. * The difference between a birthday and a death is in chronology.

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* God is only one but people are different.

* The highest top of life way is called Love. * The wind is unforeseen lover either pollinates or ruins. * Each parting proves that each love is sole. * Love is neither saved up nor accumulated. The more you give the more you receive. * Stop, turn around, listen to your heart and if there is no drop of love in it donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t go on this way. * When we have a lot of opportunities we look for impossible love.

Translation: Oksana Bagryantseva

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Diti Ronen Diti Ronen, born in Tel-Aviv, Israel, is a scholar and an artist. She is the author of three poetry books – littlebird (Bar Ilan University, 2010, a bilingual Hebrew/English edition); Inner Moon, Notebook (Hakibbutz Hame'uhad, 2002), and With the Slip Showing (Gvanim, 1999). Her next poetry book is about to be published in 2012. Ronen's poems are translated into more than ten languages. They are published internationally, taught in Academic Institutions, adapted for the stage and serve as lyrics for songs and as libretto for musical concerts. Ronen is regularly invited to perform readings of her poems in International Poetry Festivals and other venues in Israel and elsewhere. Dr. Diti Ronen is a professor at The Hebrew University and at The Center for Academic studies. She is deeply involved in the Israeli Cultural Scene. Her fields of interest are Poetry and Literature, Theatre, Cultural Policy and Arts Administration. She has received awards for poetry in Macedonia (2) and Israel (2). Main latest publication of poetry in anthologies and magazine outside Israel: Macedonia, Italy, Serbia, USA, Mexico, Belgium and India. Among authors from 25 countries from all around the World has been included in Anthology “Poets for World Peace”, 2011, published by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss. Many Essays and critics on Ronen’s poetry have been written in Israel and abroad.

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Dr. Diti Ronen

Second Quarter: Full Moon

My nights are longer than the inner darkness my dreams are spoken in their private names unfurling in slow motion and the hours drag on. Often I think of my life that lives outside the frame of my life. The span of my existence is shifting.

From: Inner Moon, Notebook. HaKiboutz HaMeĂşhad Press, Tel Aviv 2002. Translated from the Hebrew by: Rachel Tzvia Back

Page 87 81 No 25.

Now, that You have been revealed Now, that You have been revealed familiar, imminent and beloved, I wonder whether You belong to this cycle of my life to previous cycle of my life or to the previous to previous cycle of my previous life. I hug you, and kiss you, I hold you tenderly in my arms and then release. Now You belong to me.

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Second Quarter: Three-Quarters Full

My body's scent is heavier than me, spilt on the road – will you know me now that I am made fluid? Tonight my neck will lengthen to reach you – I am marking my moves. The mango is dripping, emitting its sweetness through the window.

From: Inner Moon, Notebook. HaKiboutz HaMeúhad Press, Tel Aviv 2002. Translated from the Hebrew by: Rachel Tzvia Back

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When I close my eyes

When I close my eyes You are in front of me Wise and tall and handsome And I want to be your wife. When I open my eyes You are not there, You are all around You are all.

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Monday: Pre-Dawn

Like a home, I leave you – when I come back I turn on the light. You follow me to the kitchen waiting for a sign of love. I'm hungry – you offer a plate, a chair, a bed. I am conciliated. I fold my body into yours while my head leaves for its winding paths. How I longed to capture the words of beauty, their perfection round like a river stone. Homes that I left come back to visit me. At night I repay their visit. Farewell within farewell within farewell. Still I know nothing about your ways in me, like how your mornings are readied for solace.

From: Inner Moon, Notebook. HaKiboutz HaMeúhad Press, Tel Aviv 2002. Translated from the Hebrew by: Rachel Tzvia Back

Page 87 No 25.

Giuseppe Napolitano Giuseppe Napolitano was born in Minturno (Latina - Italy) in 12.02.1949 and lives in Formia. Married to Irene Vallone, poet and actor. They have a daughter, Gabriella. A Liberal Arts graduate of Rome University in 1972, with a thesis in surrealistic French theatre, Giuseppe Napolitano taught Italian litera-ture and Latin for 33 years at the high school level. Since 2006 he has been publishing a series of booklets: "La stanza del poeta" (the poet's room). Through this, he has published, besides numerous poetic and essay publications of his own, various known and emerging Italian authors, and above all, the translations of Medi-terranean poets, unpublished before in Italy (D. Leuwers, G. Drano, E. Burgos, A. Olive and N. Stamberg of France, C. Vitale, A. Serna and G. Vega of Spain, S. Nasr and R. Chehaibi od Tunisia, A. Tufa of Albania, S. Negrouche of Algeria, S. Emërllahu of Macedonia, S. Hadžialić of Bosnia-Erzegovina). In 2008 he founded the cultural Association "La stanza del poeta" (of which he is also the President) through which for years he organized an international Poetry Festival in the southern part of the province of Latina (in the municipalities of Itri, Gaeta, Formia and Spigno): "Voices of the Mediterranean". In 2011, the Festival was hosted by the international exposition "Yacht Med Festival" in Gaeta, with twelve poets from ten Countries. Among authors from 25 countries from all around the World has been included in Anthology “Poets for World Peace”, 2011, published by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss. Translated by Elaine Pampena

Page 88 No 25.

Giuseppe Napolitano

Words (and then...) I'll still be (when - "and then..." of me of my words you truly tire) I'll still be the one of words - of the many words that I uttered to you that I wrote to you and then... disheartened I'll regret not knowing anything except how to speak and to write words but deeds (deeds that - you would've wanted? - would've indicated a capacity of mine to act never enough demonstrated when the situation called for it) I didn't have the strength to uncover them - where were they hidden? in the folds of an ever "in fieri" conversation and then... then I'll still be the one of words the sweet touching exalting essential torrential words said written whispered caressed dedicated to your heart to your senses dedicated to who we used to be - the words which will prevent then really to tire of me

Page 89 No 25.

September 5 Now you're coming and the waiting that for years fooled me into believing that I could even do without you, appeasing my dreams on paper, now opens a fragile barrier to me proposing to me an other other me It'll take time to repair my makeup and introduce a new myself to you without tricks with a more attractive mask as in unusual circumstances but I'll be ready when and I don't want to wait any longer - you ask me to take you by the hand If you want me to guide you and my hand will give you confidence stronger in your hand Now here's why a day has as if a sense of otherness that isn't there but it's as though it were as if before what there was wasn't there - is this my child?

PAge 90 No 25.

Return to Sète The white horses of the Camargue greet you and the fragrant garigue of wind-swept grasses, the pines of the "Mas de Suède" greet you and the contorted sun-drenched vines Without you Sète seems a little sad like the two little donkeys in the candid photographs taken in the unpoetic mugginess of a tiring day Rugged hills greet you and fields where time is suspended the hordes of vacationing multihued tourists greet you and the serene faces of the rurals at siesta time in the small villages: a continual turning to you: where are you why aren't you here? without you Sète seems a little sadder

Page 91 No 25.

"Almanachs, new almanachs!" Today it's Christmas and the new year is now near but who knows if it'll be truly new Leopardi still asks the vendor of calendars on which ones to attach hope such as the tiny holy images to turn to every time the new year then appears like the last past one not entirely corresponding to the promises that the other year were made us and it's for this reason that every Christmas we resolve to be a little better so as to deserve a little of what we have often lost already tense waiting for who knows what and not even Horace taught us to bear it

Page 92 No 25.

End of year dance Hanging limply like marionettes words dance immediately getting lost if you release your grip, careless puppeteer, before noting their weight And you remain, inert puppet, waiting for someone who will carefully repair the strings, scarcely able to move - if a task is offered to you irrefutable for the moment - at least Searching for an author or a role inside yourself you live anyway distilling tastes and already known other knowledge satisfying your mind that thinks of you Soft is this inertia on which to hang the cast-off suit and new masks hurrying to buy with the coins of a year just barely traversed

Page 93 No 25.

A story in time You will burn down the candle of you day delving into the large tome searching for the page on which burns (or you think it should) the ultimate answer to the ultimate question - ah, if only you could scroll through the index undisturbed glancing over where may be written the word that would conclude your speech First you will burn down your candle and the flamelet will die without knowing - drowning in its extreme tear - which one it's leaving you heir to write (or it's leaving to others and who it may be it's impossible to perceive in the coming darkness - whichever it may be finally and it certainly isn't useful to say) How difficult it is to get out of a fable!

Translated by Elaine Pampena

Page 97 No 25.

Goran Vrhunc Born on the November Twenty- Nine , 1982. in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina. He graduated Literature and Library on University of Sarajevo. His poetry has been published in few collection of poetry in Bosnia and Herzegovina. One of the leaders and originator of poetry group called "Diogenes Poetes- Sarajevo". Deputy editor in chief of the webmagazine "DIOGEN" pro culture. He is still waiting to publish his first book. Among authors from 25 countries from all around the World has been included in Anthology â&#x20AC;&#x153;Poets for World Peaceâ&#x20AC;?, 2011, published by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss. WWW: http://diogenespoetes.weebly.com/

Page 98 No 25.

Goran Vrhunc

What should I said? What should I said? Brother killed brother. That's that. They said to you enough. What should I speak? Capitalism, segragation , Primitivism and nationalism And other speaks for themselves.

What should I speak? The right on life and coexistence. Do you want democracy? It is the soap for washing your bloody hands. Pilat knew it. Democracy killed Jesus And doesn't wash for itself What should I speak? I would not even come all I loste my voice, Became blind from cruelty, Lost this hair And silence in my ears, Given shelter And nobody... Nobody would listen. What should I speak? Whole world is in front of your eyes. Translation: Amina Beriša

Page 99 No 25.

Just a slip

My gaze felt Like drop from the sky. I couldn't see Who shot one with me From the fifth floor Who never, ever said „Hello“ Ruined my hands, Through the hollow pockets, I would have never wanted Them to strech, Them to getting dirty And they are dirty anyway, And bare feet now Feel his blood. I stand and hear Someone shouts : FULL! And I wanted to be here, I don't know how I came there, Just a slip And now I only hear : FIRE!

Translation: Amina Beriša

Page 100 No 25.

No matter I don't want the street behind me, cleansing me I was dirty and full of feces. But don't mind when I walk. I saw what was gone before Bustle and squeak is gone and silent. But no matter where I walk. A little dog playing with a rattle, Crow broke the nut on the stone. But dont' mind when I walk. So I don't want street to clean me To delete traces of daily life, I know that you live by their work and my negligence Without me you don't exist, and without you I'm still here. I was dirty and full of feces But it doesn't matter when I walk. Translation: Amina Beriša

Page 101 No 25.

Nothing isn't Nothing isn't like yesteday, Nothing isn't. Nothing isn't like nowadays, Nothing isn't. Nothing isn't like tomorrow, Nothing isn't So what the fuck is? Translation: Autor

Page 102 No 25.

Cannot Walls cannot replace cloth, Fingers cannot replace brushe's, Printing cannot replace painting, Plumb-line's cannot replace pendulum's. Time cannot attain mortality, Space cannot attain narrowness, Life cannot attain stiffness, Earth cannot attain imortality. Translation: Autor

Marius Chelaru (Romania), Samira Begman (Switzerland) and Sabahudin HadĹžialiÄ&#x2021; (Bosnia and Herzegovina)

From the left Craig Czury (USA), Heather Thomas (USA), Diti Ronen (Israel), Samira Bgeman (Switzerland, Sabahudin Hadzialic (Bosnia and Herzegovina), Nissan Ronen (Israel) and Marius Chelaru (Romania)

Shaip Emerllahu (Macedonia), Ekrem Ajruli (Macedonia), our Editor and Selecton of the Poetry marathon Sabahudin Hadzialic and Mexhid Mehmeti (Kosovo*)

Ivan Rajović (Serbia), Naida Hrustemović (Bosnia and Herzegovina and Majo Danilović (Serbia)

Page 107 No 25.

Gustavo Vega Gustavo Vega born in León, resided in Barcelona, Spain, is Dr in Spanish Philology from the University of Barcelona, graduated in Philosophy in Rome, Philosophy and Arts (spec. Philosophy) from the University of Barcelona and Teaching from the University of León. PhD thesis: Poéticas de Creación Visual en España, 1970-1995 (Poetics of Visual Creation in Spain, 1970-1995). He specializes in theoretical investigation, pedagogy and creative activity in three fields: Philosophy, Poetry and the Plastic Arts. Three disciplines which Vega combines and frequently synthesizes in his works, obtaining a perfect ensemble of literary-poetic elements and plastic arts. As a plastic artist and visual poet, he has exhibited individually in Spain, Argentina… and participated in more than two hundred group exhibitions. Will talk about the plurality of his visual poetry: ideographic, calligraphic, letrist, concrete, video-poetry, threedimensional-poems, action-poems, etc. Vega is the author of books: Habitando Transparencias (Inhabiting Transparencies), 1982, El Placer de ser (The Pleasure of Being), 1997), Prólogo para un Silencio (Prologue for a Silence), 2001, La Frontera del Infinito (The Border of the Infinite) 2005, etc. He founded and directs the group Ex.Tensión Fonética and the Laboratory for Poetic-Phonetic Investigation, which has presented many recitals.As part of his pedagogical activity he has given creative poetry seminars, courses and workshops in both Spain and Latin America. Among authors from 25 countries from all around the World has been included in Anthology “Poets for World Peace”, 2011, published by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss. WWW: http://www.gustavovega.com

Page 108 No 25.

Gustavo Vega

24.05

To tell (You)

I wanted to tell you… But I couldn’t. Devastated angel, still I couldn’t paint the light. I? You? Tangle in between the sense and its deconstruction. They are the complex systems of a post-poetic saying, Angles. dead angles. They are knots, links, of a net where we got lost desiring I don’t know what, I don’t know what, desiring the country where dreams dream, yearn for, the mastery of tenderness, between order and chaos, they yearn for everything, nothing, any Newtonian determinism and, above all, they yearn

the yearning.

Page 109 No 25.

25.05

To tell (You)

I wanted to tell you… To feel, the intertextual weaving where feeling is felt and spoiled. What do gods, a shell’s sea, a firecracker, and a kiss lost in time, or in darkness, and a beggar’s ripped sock gnawing at his heels have in common? x = s (y – x) y = x – y - xz z = xy - z There is a mysterious link between knowledge and blindness, between sayings and blindness. The yearning for the future and to tell… To tell you.

Page 110 No 25.

26.05

To tell (You)

To yearn for. To yearn for. I wanted to tell you… You, I, all of us… immerse in the correlates of reality, a quantum reality, relativist. Immerse, like broken statues between objects, while our blood is flowing, or light, through the eyes, through the stays, through diagnosis. While reality howls at us while hiding inside multiplicity… You disappear dragging my I, diluting it into silence, without saying a word, the word, your word, You. Your know it, to tell, to tell to yourself, it’s not a problem, It’s destiny. And in spite of the blood spilling broken on the marble, the mud, the snow or the dumpster, and in spite of somebody or something imposing adjectives when saying -somebody would say, for example, that art is beauty, moral, expression, imagination, copy, abstraction…I want to name you To name you? To listen to you. Alone, I alone, I alone try to listen to you. Impossible to build any destiny, it’s him who name us, and undoes us.

Page 111 No 25.

Clarity? Transparency and mystery… to paint to say, loneliness, silence. Because to tell you -narration, art, poem- is not delirium, not a vision, it’s a wound from reality. We spill illusions, blood, above mountains of doubts. We extinguish with them the fire or the gaze of our own rust, sadness, death. I? You? Around me there is nothing missing, or almost nothing, only I am the one missing. Something, or somebody. Stained the walls, cruelty, of an inexistent color. Impossible to live without interfaces. Utopia’s limits are the limits of utopia. Internet is the universal memory, exhaustive and available to all. Something inevitably substitutes us. Polysemy, homonymous things, language superpositions, are mask’s logic –prosopon, personare- where people superimpose, I?, You? my I is disintegrating.

Page 112 No 25.

28.05

To tell (You)

Electric butterflies. How To listen to one’s eyes to tell, To tell (you)? We are born from dream, we come from dream, We are dream and, in spite or our growing absences, we don’t know how to erase dreams, like the dawn does, the dreams that dreamt us yesterday, were born from us. Dreams, art, artifice to tell… The life. Dreams, art, artifice, Life. They are life. The life.

Page 113. No 25.

29.05

To tell (You)

Your skin? Absence. How to tellâ&#x20AC;Ś The flow of the I in time, germinated from death, looking. Looking for you. But there is always something that distract us, for example, the cold season, clouds and clouds always different from other clouds, a farewell photo, the poliedric face of threat, a spit on the forehead or a nail stuck in the skeleton we hide under, the crystals of some invisible wall or â&#x20AC;Ś

Lucky for us that life protects us from our own passions.

Page 115 No 25.

Heather Thomas Heather Thomas of Reading, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., is the author of six poetry books, including Blue Ruby (FootHills Publishing), Resurrection Papers (Chax Press), and Practicing Amnesia (Singing Horse Press). Her poems have been translated into Spanish and Lithuanian. Sometimes under the name H.T. Harrison, her work has been published in 35 journals and anthologies, including the Wallace Stevens Journal; American Letters and Commentary; Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania; and Only the Sea Keeps: Poetry of the Tsunami. She has given 200 readings in the U.S., Argentina, Ireland, and Russia. Her work has been recognized by the Academy of American Poets, the Gertrude Stein Awards in Innovative American Poetry, and the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts. She was born in New York and grew up in Berks County, Pennsylvania, where she was Poet Laureate from 2008-10. Thomas holds master’s and doctoral degrees from Temple University, Philadelphia. She is a professor of English at Kutztown University of Pennsylvania. Her literary essays have been published in Approaches to Teaching H.D.’s Poetry and Prose (MLA, 2011), The Writer’s Chronicle, The Emily Dickinson Journal, and We Who ‘Love To Be Astonished’: Experimental Feminist Poetics and Performance Art (University of Alabama Press). Website: http://faculty.kutztown.edu/hthomas

Page 116 No 25.

Heather Thomas

Vortex Street

She inhales the scent, holds on to the bridge to keep from floating away on Vortex Street, the dusk is slit with prisms, the dead children are chasing fireflies light refracts upon entering a drop splits upon leaving an old man breathes into balloons braided with wind, the river sheds its eddies

Rising and crossing our bodies had a sacred geometry chains of octahedrons and four oxygens scaffolds of light we thought we needed to add something time, knowledge, more form

Page 117 No 25.

the past heaped up and hoarded

A dark corridor in the afternoon drives her back to the house of glass tables he is listening to the bells of empty glasses filled with vapors, the street moving across the darkness the river hidden in fish the windows filling with trees first one side of the body then the other, crisscrossing the distance between brocade of the waterfall, phoenix and deer

We pass back through the slits on Vortex Street old man, old woman craning our necks in a vast cloud chamber downstream by the columns supporting the bridge the dead mother gathered her childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shoes geese rustled their wings the onrush of spray was the signal we needed we spun through the eddies held on to the air

Page 118 No 25.

Postcards from Vortex Street

Postcard 1

We dared to scrawl our names in chalk. The beams still bear the marks across a current of walkways, maps of sticks and apps we made waiting for ourselves to show up. Children gathering our bones asked, were they dancing bones or sad? (no motive for the metaphor) The world never was in place. How do you want this day to live? My friend saved a packet of seeds. A bowl of oranges under moon, the path between my brows unearths a burrowing owl in desert aquifer, salutation to the rotating oceans. We were waving not drowning in the heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s magnetic field. Imagination is a force: occupy.

Page 119 No 25.

Postcard 2

Torn from earth and toppling its leafy head akimbo, crack of falling limbs, the rumble and crash into river exposes a labyrinth of roots, flung black ganglia under freak October snow. I start the day trying not to hear myself think, breath on the page turns itself out in the street where the trees were for you, the whole of the wideness of light. Have I gotten over myself so I can reach you?

Page 120 No 25.

Postcard 3

Mapping your voice draws out the sound, roots upended in a mess of arteries, twisted cords once knitted into ground thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s now a wound we have to travel, linking knotty arms, listening to wisps, to water. In the mirror ropes between the stars slit open those invisible intersections. Suppose a lattice springs up muddy from the eddy as it climbs and we stare down at the moon, brilliant in its bowl.

Page 121 No 25.

Postcard 4

Did the universe align in tawny fire for the last ghost flower, the dusky sparrow with a backbone like the last tongue of ice stretching down to Russia across Siberiaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Laptev Sea as it dissolved? Does a blazing star still begin in the ground as button snakeroot? The orange moon rises to white fire when farthest from us. In midnight rain I drew the curtain on a buck leaping Vortex Street. Drenched antlers flashed in the streetlight my roots untangled, some dark corner burnishing the light. The older it is, the fiercer the ember. Â

Page 123 No 25.

Ibrahim SpahiÄ&#x2021; Ibrahim Spahic was born in Sarajevo on May 10, 1952. He graduated from the Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Sarajevo. He is the author of the text on the cultural strategy of BiH that was for the first time accepted in 2006 as the part of the strategy on the economic and social development of BiH in a document entitled "Revised Strategy of the Economic-Social Development 2004-2007 (PRSP)". Ibrahim Spahic is the president and the organizer of the International Festival Sarajevo "Sarajevo Winter," the president of the International Peace Centre (IPC), the president of the House of Europe - Sarajevo, all on a voluntary basis. He is the founder and the president of BiH Foundation Kulin Ban. He was the initiator of the project "Sarajevo - European cultural centre" 1993/1994 and was the initiator and coordinator of the project "Sarajevo-First Intercultural Centre of Europe 2003-2004. He organized the first Intercultural Forum of the European Council in 2003. He was the president of the Coordinating Board "Sarajevo European Region 2006" along with the government of the Canton of Sarajevo. He has been the recipient of many awards: the Award for the North-South Cultural Cooperation (Morocco); "Charte d'Or" for Humanism (International League of Humanists); the medal "Joan Miro" (UNESCO); as well as the award "Tartuffo per Pace" (Italy). He received special recognition by the EU and the City of Taomira for activity in the defence of human and artistic dignity; the award "Nine Dragon Heads" for the development of cultural relations between BiH and Korea; the award of the city of Antwerp, the European Cultural Centre 1993, and a special award of the cultural association L'eta verde (Italy); as well as the first award of the international organization "Biser" for GENDER promotion, an award from the Fine Arts Biennial - Alexandria, the award of the City of Dubrovnik and the award of the International Book Fair in Podgorica. He is the author of numerous works about foreign policy and human rights, culture and art. He has been a participant in many international cultural and scientific conferences and congresses, is the organizer of workshops and international seminars and is often a the speaker at round tables. Ibrahim Spahic is the author of the book "Parliamentary Assembly of B&H" (1998-2002), the book of poetry "The Sign" and the editor of the Monograph "Twentieth Anniversary of the Sarajevo Winter Festival." He is the publisher and editor of more than 150 books and magazines from all areas of human creativity. He is President of the European Culture Forum as well.

Page 124 No 25.

Ibrahim Spahić

THE SIGN IT IS INSCRIBED IN EVERYTHING ALLYOU NEED IS TIME TO GET TO KNOW IT BUT TIME YOU DO NOT HAVE

Page 125 No 25

THE COBWEB LORDS IN FRONT OF INVISIBLE AUDIENCE SPREAD OUT BUGS FROM THE SKY TO THE GROUND IN THE MIDLLE OF THE ROAD NOT CLOSER NOT FARTHER JOYFULLY HUNTED MERE MOONLIGHT SILENT LORDS OF THE COBWEB THEY HAVE FORGOTTEN

Page 126 No 25.

LETTERS I M WRITING YOU A LETTER WITH NO ADDRESS A LETTER WITHOUT SIGNATURE YOU IL OPEN MY LETTER WHEN POSTMAN FINDS NAME ADDRESS AND NUMBER IN ASHES FROM URN WITH MY NAME

Page 128 No 25.

Ivan Rajović Ivan Rajovic was born on September 14th, 1956, in Kraljevo, Serbia. He writes poetry, fiction, poems for children and he is engaged in journalism. His poems have been translated into Belarusian language. Winner of October, and November awards for his contribution to the culture of the town of Kraljevo, Letter of Gratitude of City council of Kraljevo Award "Stražilovo" for best book of poetry in 1990. He has published: Books of poetry: “Dogs will rule the world” (KOS, Pegasus Edition, Belgrade, 1982), “The Pact” (National Library of Kraljevo, 1987), “The Wax Museum” ("The new act", Belgrade, 1988) “Great show” ("Stražilovo", Novi Sad , 1990), “Cinema in the province” (Literary club of Kraljevo, 1992), “Coquette” ("Apostrophe", Belgrade, 1997), “Poems” ("Prosveta", Belgrade, 2001), “Whispers from the edge of the world” ("Alma", Belgrade, 2008.). Books for Children: “Fearful fox and other poems” ("Scientific Papers", Belgrade, 1994), “Knight of slobbery nose” ("SFAIROS", Belgrade, 1997). Books of documentary prose: “Together in front of Milutin” ("Publik press" Kraljevo, 1997), “Forty-one story” ("Ibarske novosti" Kraljevo, 2001). “Notes from the insanity” (Handikep centar and Ibarske novosti "Kraljevo, 2004). He is the author of texts for two theatrical productions: “The Royal tub” and “Knight of slobbery nose”. He lives in Kraljevo. Poems of Ivan Rajović are, as the only poet from Serbia, published in the book Bridges of Friendship, which has been published under the auspices of the European Union. He is honorary member of the Styrian community.

Page 129 No 25.

Ivan RajoviÄ&#x2021;

Nurseling I tremble listening warmongering program from the world peace movements. Absently watching naked crones which repose on the roofs and imprecates Harms. I'm trying to gather up and to spit into the distance, into the glistering eye of the creator of the new world wonder. Nobody cares what is going on in greyness of other people's brains. who still floats and who sinks leaving behind undigested notion of life, slurry and the sweet poop of the baby openly gazing into the own show about the salvation of mankind through the masacre of rebels behind the barricades.

Page 130 No 25.

Billboard Flags have fallen only hatred rests on the elbows through gaping and the trampled promises are spitting on a common shrines. Murderous, Avaricious, And obsessed with hatred, they lost sight of that after all wars is coming century of nonentity in the history and pupils of the enraged scorpion on billboards.

Page 131 No 25.

Oblivion Oh, you, pawns of stalemates - wars you, the sinful puppets within the thunderstorm of occurred phut, you, the owners of spared lives you, the owners of life savings in the obscured consciousness of auriculated piggy money â&#x20AC;&#x201C; box laid in the vault of cosmic nonentity, your turn is arriving stringently in silver-plated gypseous bed, in gold-plated go-carts, on the self-propelled crutches, in the carts glittering like medals for the loyalty to the leader.

Page 132 No 25.

The double That face whose is watching me, grin and whisper from proximity, is not my face. But, it will come over the class of army of barbarous vagabonds from deserted sites of fire of Biblical story and will be turned over from the East from where arriving hyenas with golden teeth and shine within the silence of the trenches where the bastards were hatched.

Page 133 No 25.

EMPTINESS There are no big thoughts after love. Emptiness darts under the bags And dripping on the whiteness of crumpled pillows. It is mĂŠtier. Masterly or deplorable touching of genitals under the surveillance of cynical ego. The combination of hemisphere buttocks drunk in flash or intimate sniffing of ecstatic animals in front fo all-seeing Thanatos eye. And just how much energy need to wake up hunger in the scrotum, how many years of stiffed dreams that squeezed lips of bursted cornel-berry not make the first voracious grin?

Page 135 No 25.

Jadranka Tarle Bojović Jadranka Tarle Bojović was born in Sinj, Croatia, in 1957. She lives and works in Split, where she received her education. She graduated from the Faculty of Economics in Split. So far, she has published several books. A collection of short stories “Priče iz podsvjesti” (Stories from the Unconsciousness) and a collection of short stories and poetry “Proljeće ljubavi” (Spring of Love) were both published in 20006. In 2008, she published a short novel “Vrijeme kad su padale maske” (The Time When Masks Were Falling Off) which was well received in two competitions in 2009, organised by an internet portal for the best novel and by the “Lice knjige” for the best illustration. In 2009, she published a collection of short stories “Noć ružičastog obzora” (Night of the Pink Horizon). In 2011, she published a collection of poems “Izgubljena ulica” (A Lost Street). She is a member of the Croatian Literary Society in Rijeka. Her works have been published in Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Macedonia. She participated in European and international poetry festivals. Her style represents a detachment from traditional Croatian poetry; it is unique and truthful and leaves a deep mark both in readers and in the Croatian poetry as a whole.

Page 136 No 25.

Jadranka Tarle Bojović

A whim of life This moment you’re here The next one you might be gone A whim of life carries you on Who knows where you’ll end up The whim of life is not only yours Others may be faster Others may be slier Others you may not trust But don’t bother Give yourself up to life Pretend you have faith in people Give yourself up to the whim of life You’ll arrive some place Some place you’ll be carried away.

Page 137 No 25.

Stand in the Sun Hands opened up to the Sun You’re looking at it Expecting something Will it come? You don’t know You believe The Sun sets still And you’re still standing and waiting It will come be patient Clouds sometimes shield the Sun A part is here forever for you Stand and wait It will come and a part of justice is on your side.

Page 138 No 25.

Parting This might be our last encounter We may have something to say Maybe we should have said it a long time ago Nice words are left for the end In the end regrets come before departure You still need me so much I want to give you so much This might be our last encounter Nice words are left for the end I have so much to say Time is so scarce Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m unhappy without you.

Page 139 No 25.

Oblivion II Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve forgotten my sorrow Cellophane-wrapped Forgotten in the background Lost somewhere along the way The sorrow has bloomed and vanished Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve forgotten all about it The sorrow has vanished Evanesced between tobacco smoke A sip of coffee and omnipresent lie.

Page 140 No 25.

People I People kill in different ways They might not have killed you right away They might have been killing you for decades They might have been killing you with words They might have been killing you with intrigues Behind nice masks The killerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face was hidden Shown only to you They killed in different ways Nice ladies were killing slowly With their refined words And soft voices Killing for years They might not have killed you right away.

Page 143 No 25.

Jeton Kelmendi Born in the city of Peja, Kosovo (1978), completed elementary school in his birth place. Later he continued his studies at the University of Prishtina and received the degree of Bachelor of Arts in Mass communication. He completed his graduate studies at the Free University of Brussels, Belgium, specializing in International and Security Studies. For many years he has written poetry, prose, essays and short stories. He is a regular contributor to many newspapers, in Albania and abroad, writing on many cultural and political topics, especially concerning international affairs. His poems are translated in more that twenty-two languages and published in a some international Literature Anthologies. He is one of the most translated Albanian Poets. He is a member of many international poetry clubs and is a contributor to many literary and cultural magazines, especially in English, French and Romanian Languages. Currently resides and works in Brussels, Belgium. He published 17 books of poetry, dramas, political essays. Published books in Greek, English, French, Hindu, Turkish. Among authors from 25 countries from all around the World has been included in Anthology â&#x20AC;&#x153;Poets for World Peaceâ&#x20AC;?, 2011, published by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss.

Page 144 No 25.

Jeton Kelmendi Somewhere Outside A performance of enormous shapes

I have decided The proper way In one mind To cross the long roads Until the road of your Spirit And you can make me a Konak If I am caught by the warm Summer Of yours Open a little the window of your heart To enter a little cool wind Of words If you want to make room for me Please do To be a little comfortable And not only to house my head In the mirror of the eyes As the star of the sky I appear On your thoughts Perhaps They say that the breath Enters through the ear of the needle If you believe this Close the door of your spirit Write with red letters My name and place it in your spirit Then we know that the tower Has one owner.

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The Stop At Point Zero I manifest on Sundays I crack two thoughts as two glasses One for you and the other for myself Yours Is trespassing and returning again the sorrow Of my Sundays with a few Quarter of memories In order to know the game of cracks and honesty Time is alarming me After twelve o'clock For an instant with you and like Sundays They have all disappeared I count only the days From your week Are emerging one thousand and one Thoughts Towards your direction You are far away right now I am happy during Sundays I read my joy with your letters That I took a little from you When I will have in my hand The key to your heart I will open the door of time and you and I Will be together Under the moon

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I Recognized The Thoughts I gathered the words of the soul In a hand bag And left them only in one side Leave me alone now Some people Nearby my shadow Came after the shadow The others arrived In front of me At my bed where they also sleep I counted the departures And the arrivals also I equalised them You either take me or bring me here What is your plan I noticed the ideas Located as white color over the hair, for only one day And arrived together with my dream In the meeting with the girl I want to hug you, my dear, for today I closed the ears of the eyes, I slept So the vision could not nervously hear.

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Instant Had I been the rain Today So coincidentally I would place my drops In your cheeks Indeed It would be a drop that flows slowly In the vision in front of you What are you going to do with the instant I am escaping secretly again You have to think for the other second

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Arrival They accompanied up to one point From the big fear from herself The day and night Expedited her walk Gathered with her Everything that was for arrival Which from here and in the end of departure Is waiting for someone who has never arrived

Translated by: Peter Tase

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JÜRI TALVET was born on December 17, 1945 in Pärnu (Estonia). A graduate of Tartu University in English philology (1972) and a PhD by Leningrad (St. Petersburg) University (1981, with a dissertation on the Spanish Golden Age picaresque novel), he has over several decades taught Western literary history (from 1992 as a Chair) at Tartu University. As a writer (a member of the Estonian Writers’ Union since 1984), he has published a number of books of poetry and essays. Selections of his translated poetry and essays have appeared in English, Spanish, French, Romanian and Catalan. He has been an invited participant of international poetry festivals in Lithuania, Spain, Colombia, Slovenia, Bolivia and Romania. Talvet was awarded Estonian Annual Prize of Literature in 1986, the Juhan Liiv Prize of Poetry in 1997, and the Ivar Ivask’s Memorial Prize for poetry and essay in 2002. WWW: http://talvet.edicypages.com

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J端ri Talvet

BELIEVE WHAT SIGNS YOU LIKE No matter that your ancestors spoke another tongue, a tongue that now no one knows. A shield wrought with words defends only during peacetime. In wartime, the time of love, you spoke to me in the oldest tongue, darker than your dark hair, deeper than the stammering words of your ancestors, more alive than the blood of your red lips, defying with your tongue the dividing lines of the word, fearlessly smuggling onto my tongue a taste greener than grass, more like the sea than the sea itself.

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FROM SANTIAGOâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S ROAD III (A dream of Europe) In the end, our task is to multiply the blue sky, the peaceful dream of sunrise, to take the grey rag from the eyes, to be a lake that washes its eyes, a forest that readies its green bed, not to fear being an ocean that expands, a well that explains. The republic of course only imitates liberty: every state is a mark of the stamp, every president a cartoon parrot. In every Republic one learns anew to escape the clever corridors the great architect designed, while into the expanding cracks power sucks parrots and lions, chiggers and men. Above all, fear the cruel, mad sectarian. Better be a pagan barbar, till the point of the toe. Better a mad Roman, until Christ. In everything the fear of love is guilty. Too capriciously screamed the apple, but justly the sink moaned under the burden of nightly ablutions. We do not sow culture here, it grows by itself and breeds us. While presidential beaks clap shut and the West wails in labor, pregnant with joys it cannot deliver, invisibly Europe sends out shoots of balance always green near the heart.

(Translated by H. L. Hix; Estonian Elegy. Selected Poems. Toronto: Guernica, 2008)

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TRAINS 1. To the train! To the train!, a cherished colleague called. Everyone is aboard already: diligent compatriots, ministers, poets, the beauty of humankind on the Paris-New York Express! Bon voyage, then. Once my Latvian great-grandmother, who never in her life got angry, told my mother, who sat in her lap amid the world war’s smoking ruins, when the morning whistle from the station pierced Mõisaküla’s bone and flesh: That horse never waits.

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AT A PUB CALLED “BLOND LIVES HERE” YOU SEE BEHIND THE BAR INSTEAD OF MARILYN MONROE’S LOW-CUT NECKLINE THE SEAWEEDEYES OF A DARK SLENDER GIRL

A small yellow leaf has followed, floated down off your jacket, landed quietly beside the coffee cup. You could pretend to be in Paris, but really your Europe is nowhere else than here, especially now that after summer’s tumult only the murmur in your native tongue of the falling leaves of lime and maple remains, under your feet acorn crowns crackle, the darker brown of chestnuts, the red of woodbine staining the side of the house you whitewashed in summer. You gather antonovkas, their thick peels like wax, let somebody claim that this one looks like wax fruit from a museum, let him keep his thought to himself, let him live more and preach less. A hard apple dropped down on your head — before you yourself could start to preach. Gold, red, brown. Along the coast of Tahkuranna a golden line runs, the Tihemetsa park like a Japanese garden, the wind’s claws tear at the water of a fountain, boldly rip to shreds the gray carpet of the sky, but the bay stays more peaceful than Seneca’s Mediterranean heart, knowing that a few months remain, before a skin made of ice defends its heart against age, a few months remain until you run shouting for joy toward spring swings, despite time.

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IT FLIES TO THE HIVE

Swallows flit from the corner, golden heart-splinters. You are one of them, sent alone to the market for the first time, now returning home: running-running, smiling-smiling, merrily-merrily, with your braids aglow, your heart beating, in your bag a heavy loaf of good P채rnu rye bread.

(Translated by H. L. Hix; Of Snow, of Soul. Poems. Toronto: Guernica, 2010)

D I O G E N p r o a r t m a g a z i n

D I O G E N p r o y o u t h m a g a z i n

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Krystyna Lenkowska has published seven volumes of poetry between the years 1999 and 2010, among which two have appeared in Polish-English version (Keep off the Primroses and Eve’s Choice). Her poems, fragments of prose, translations, essays, literary notes and interviews, have been published in numerous journals in Poland and in the US (f.ex. Absinthe, Boulevard, Chelsea, Confrontation, in Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough’s translation). Lenkowska has been also translated into other languages and published abroad in literary magazines and anthologies, f. ex. in Ukraine, Lithuania, Czech, Albania. She is a member of SPP (Association of Polish Writers). She lives in the southeast Poland, in the city of Rzeszów. She is also an author of song lyrics recorded on Polish CDs. WWW: http://lenkowska.art.pl/

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Krystyna Lenkowska

The Eye of John Keats in Rome For hours it stands in the window once in a while it throws itself onto the Spanish Steps or into the Tiber if onto the steps it bursts and then returns intact like a gel medusa to the dark-skinned palm of a street vendor if into the water it swims and then flies to dry its wings it sweeps the Hadrian arches of the bridges the sky of the Vatican domes the horizonsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; caravans of stone pines in the evening it orders the same wine in the same bar at last it returns to the window and writes on the pane with its finger the crowds on the steps wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let it sleep it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what to do next so it starts all over from the pupil from the core

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A Sorry Computer How are you? she asked with concern when I began to stammer she looked at me fearfully I saw myself in her face as if in a broken mirror you must reset yourself reset! that was precisely the word I needed to focus my reluctance and hope on something the elementary verb relation of my daily trips into the uncontrolled weightlessness of my desk and nightly escapades to the fridge I a sorry computer favored and disfavored by earthly gravity how much strength is needed to get up from bed and return to it with dignity? how much strength must a strong person have not to sink into being but to plow sew gather and share everything except the ten thousandth page on the hundredth site? Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve already touched all the keys on the keyboard even my eyeballs and nipples I can also turn the power off close my eyes embrace myself and trust that after I get back my whole memory will be here only a little bit different

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A Poem I’m a poet you’re a poet he’s a poet she’s a poet it’s a poet we’re a poet you’re a poet they’re a poet solemn in a dark suit in sleeves pant legs in the right hand pocket in the noose of a necktie I read my poem I listen to my poem I am my poem without sleeves without pockets without pants without shoes without shoelaces without a noose I don’t have to write or read I don’t have to be a poet or a poem my poem no one’s poem or no poem’s poem I don’t have to be there’s nothing I have to I don’t have to I have to have to to

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Charles Bukowski That’s Me

Earlier I never would have thought how much I resemble Charles Bukowski the barfly Henry Chinaski or Mickey Rourke the actor who was one of them for several sleepless nights and days the scandal monger from old photographs where he paws skimpily dressed girls I’m not a prose writer and don’t belong to the Beat Generation sex doesn’t inspire me to write I don’t hang around shady types I’m not drawn to lowlife I don’t get drunk I no longer smoke I like perfect order and nights in my own bed before I leave the house I primp and preen and check many details too many in front of a mirror and even though our names sound alike their endings suggest a completely different gender but I still catch myself being Charles Bukowski for a short while to the extent he was never someone like me and wouldn’t have even imagined that.

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Tracing Joyceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Traces Nora spent all her days lying in bed And waiting for a letter from James. Passion took her speech away. In the wind, on the balcony Her daughter stood like a stone baluster Dressed in a white dress with the stroboscopic pattern of Light. The powder on the floor led to the labyrinth of The bedroom. The powdered sugar led to the well of The backyard. There is Faith in the touch of the mind Motionless faithless The sheets near Nora The humming arteries of fiber optics In Triest.

translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough

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LJILJANA CRNIĆ Ljiljana Crnic was born in 1954 in Split, Croatia. Ljiljana writes poetry and prose. She started publishing her work in 2010 when she actively joined various poetry gatherings. Ljiljana’s works were published collectively with other poets in a number of countries, i.e. Serbia, Bosnia and Herzegovina and Croatia, and were presented on a number of poetry websites. Ljiljana’s poems were translated to English, Italian, French, Slovakian, Slovenian and Macedonian language and she received a number of literary awards. Ljiljana lives in Belgrade, Serbia. In 2011, she published a book of poetry titled ‘I’ll keep Your Name In My Heart Only’ and within some collections of poetry. Her poems has been published within the book Anthology of poetry “Poets for World Peace” 2011, by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss. In preparations new book of poetry.

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Ljiljana CrniÄ&#x2021;

From the Universe to You

As the universe groans, My thoughts become a light. Do you see it in my eyes? Do we create our own reality? Why we allow the present to slip away because of the future? You are creating your world not knowing you're in the river of mine. I'm here. Swim towards me. Morning light is magical.

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Observing silence I am observing silence Next to me Moon tired fled to sleep I am observing silence day says high to me recognized me told me that I am observing silence again listening in through observing silence Maybe I will greet you with a silence

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Sometimes, I screech Sometimes screamed out from me unfulfilled passion who really hurts. I can see unreachable eyewink, more empty. I'd like to replace your reflection within my curves. I am dreaming in my own world lost in thoughtsâ&#x20AC;Ś Curtain falls Play ends through the hole I am penetrating through my head. I know, I was much larger than you think. Today, I think like that. Tomorrow? Should I?

Page 171 No 25.

I want to catch it up Darkness within the head The mouth is locked absence of the spirit Self-doubt The desire for love is stronger than the desire for hatred With all of my power I take a spark of hope I am running rushing for happiness Maybe will catch it up ...

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I love…being silent I love and I hope for the realizing of that unspoken only to me known dream I'm waiting ... Through the prayer I am calling you Confusing universe calm down unknown feeling ... Tonight I'm pretty Just for you Thy silence break me stronger than my own While I love you in silence ... Translated by Sabahudin Hadžialić

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Majo Danilović Born 1955. Graduated in political science, Free graphic designer. Lives in Belgrade, Serbia. Writes poetry and prose. Publish poetry and prose since 2008. Published hundreds of literary collections, almanacs and magazines. Published in Serbia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia, Montenegro, Macedonia, Slovenia, Bulgaria, Italy and Poland. Included in the Anthology of Slavic art, among 10 authors from Slavic countries, which is 2011th published in Poland under the auspices of the Ministry of Culture of Poland. Among authors from 25 countries from all around the World has been included in Anthology “Poets for World Peace”, 2011, published by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss. Participant of the Poetry Marathon organized by DIOGEN pro culture magazine and Sarajevo Winter Festival “Diogen seeks for a human being” on the occasion of World Poetry Day in Sarajevo, 2011. Present at leading literary sites in all ex-Yugoslav countries. Translated into Bulgarian, English, Italian and Polish. He is a member of several literary clubs and associations and freelance author of “Diogen” pro culture magazine. His poems and stories have been awarded. He has published five books of poems. In preparation of his two books of poems and short fiction. Currently working on his first novel.

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Majo DaniloviÄ&#x2021;

AGAIN, POET...you are day dreaming This poem, wind blows across the sand you are day dreaming, poet. The reality that, by you, if it is the ideal oneagain, you are made of the clouds. The nights does not want me for the mate! They say, sadness kills the darkness of theirs. Neither white dawn does not like me. From my sorrow they got sick, and after that- a day got sick as well.

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TRAIN WAS DRIVING With a pure indiscretion, a train was driving to Venice Me and officially - Mrs. Stimac, beautiful Lucretia. Cabin No six, of the sleepers unashamedly she stripped bare. Under obscure ceiling neon light , For the start, We made love standing up. Warm and all made of miracles, kissed without a rubber and prejudices. Nails all over my shoulders, all over the face with a trace of lipstick, cheating herself and her nice husband. The railway winds, and we are all around: left and right, up and down, north, east, rear, front and on sides. And all night long carried me within her, defied life or her husband. Tear hanging from windows, in the coupe finally the dawn entered. We smoked last cigarette. Rosy, with smeared makeup, descended in Portoguaro, with a light step - like in some kid. There, just after Trieste gave me a kiss at the end of a finger, until she became a point and for her a train like a toy. Discerned the outlines of Venice in front of me all over me the smells of Lucretia. she will tell her husband that she did not sleep all the time, during the travel. Revilers tracks, railways he will blame, his wife struggled insomnia. All what remained of Lucretia Plum in the neck (I will have to tie a tie). Totter feet, I am barely trailing, I guess I will pulls up to Verona.

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I - rolling pet, officially – of Mrs. Stimac TALL UP TO THE CLOUDS

Awfully tall was Aida, like it is not given birth by mother, but brought by the storks. And beautiful like a fairy tale, no matter that she is a little bit a snob and a slave of fashion. I asked her open minded, Aida does not give! Viewing from above, from the perspective of the stars. Neither grams of hope, smiles enigmatically, I'd like to take her to my nest. My wish, for her, under my stomach is rippling. C'mon, painfulness, Aida, do not be somebody wrong, grant to the poor one! Lean on mine your soft mouth Let's go to my apartment, I live near the stars. I'll kiss you in the world of wizards, my room, will be upside down for you: earth will be above, the stars below - festive sparks moon would be happy to be under your nightie. My midnight rider, your stars in my eyes, you are shaking up because of the fever, we are think about the same – you tall one, a little minx! She, the wise one, is observing silence - not to be confused at all bothering me, rack me, as if would like to punish me. She was smiling in a strange way while she was scratching my head. By the side of god Eros being occupied, uttered Aida - I want to give myself to you. Glad, a rocker, I do not know where I'd started, hit to the right, hit to the left, Like young fly, with a puzzled face. Somehow we found our way to the apartment, in fact the studio. Stars – it is closing time! Quench the heavenly lanterns! Let it be as the light in the dark, with all of her shame, light up until the morning, tall, beautiful, Aida!

Page 179 No 25.

The Assumption of Illusions

I do not fear The One above me! He is rightful and a tough. I am afraid of people! Afraid of myself – a miserable one! I am afraid of the dark and the height. And we, who are, with a smile, to another one striking the cleats in the back. And those what was and what will be! Would I ever meet, I do not know, man in us to recognize? I loathe the envy and vanity, of the people – who watch from above. Arrogance, without coverage at all, apathetic of human being. Ordinary lie and truth on duty! I am most afraid of myself? And afraid, obviously, of you! I who lives humbly life on knees, in front of you stand upright, with the hope that you will be marveled with my phylum. I am running away in my dreams and cutting out a bad poems! Life, than death, I am afraid more! More and more I am empoisoned with it: Cursing and cursing, increasingly blame others – I exist, but I am not living. And none that goes down in my suburb, that tells me that the correct form of the verb to be to create myself, a not to kill a human in me. I'm afraid of loneliness! As people rush heedlessly into the new! Force you steal, while they friendly embrace, deep water, too much freedom, lack of space and width, I'm afraid! I am not looking back, while we are leaving. While we are wading over the neighbors and over the ancestors! We do not know, simple ones as we are, when we spit the other one, we spit at ourselves, when we killed the other one, we killed ourselves! Within the illusion of the assumption, we are sinking! Blind seeing, silently listening!

Page 180 No 25.

I am afraid of the dark, Mom!

Under the old mulberry

Hear ... it is like the sea is singing! While I am sitting in the shadow of an old mulberry tree, the waves play in the rhythm of dalmatino. Poet, you are dreaming again! At you are back on your own. A little of something was inspiring, almost anything obsessively, not even you are in love - and you are not lost any more. Hope on the horizon! In this sunny mattino, within the abloom of the lavender seem purple from the female eye in dehisce pomegranate - the vigor of a woman, Now when you are creating singular again, look like you're not alone. And I'll be and I was, and I am. - here and now! In the shade of an ancient mulberry raising up your view, enhance your head and looking into the distance. In t the white froth, rolled by the sea, naval fiesta - bride in white, Sailors heavenly nuptials. Two clouds, two pillows, two soft kisses, the smell of salted anchovies and the blue bottle of wine for a long time I will not go from here. By the side of the the water I will sing in dawn

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... all the birds from the forest ... Let see the Gull, the carrier of the bora that the poet rises again! Under the old tree - I am dreaming again.

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Marianne Larsen Marianne Larsen was born 1.27.1951 in Kalundborg, Denmark. After taking her General Certificate she studied comparative literary history and Chinese at the University of Copenhagen, and has translated modern Chinese poetry into Danish. At age 20 she made her literary debut with the volume of poems Koncentrationer, which established her as a poet who experiments with language. First and foremost she is a lyric poet. And has written several volumes of poetry. Her latest was published 2011 and is called Sig mig et underjordisk trĂŚ med vindens udtale (Tell me a subterranean tree with the sound of the wind). But she has also written several novels and books for children and drama. Marianne Larsen is translated into many languages, and has received many awards and prizes. In 1989 she received the prestigious life grant by Statens Kunstfond. She has traveled widely in the North and the rest of Europe and China and Australia. She lives in Copenhagen.

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Marianne Larsen

Between shops and offices

Between shops and offices suddenly this a crowd of kids and adults as usual with golden light around their faces and their hands as usual on their way to thousand places a crowd of kids and adults a crowd of outdoors love in the wind between shops and offices suddenly this English: (Anne Born)

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An empty place

you should have come and have said I like you very much I hate the chair you should have sat in I am afraid my hatred for that chair is about to kill me

English (Laura Hudson)

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Once upon a time

Once upon a time there was a city in the night with millions of locked doors. Millions of inhabitants disappeared into millions of locked rooms. Did they all take me for a thief? Once upon a time my unconscious had shut its gates. It wanted to be left in peace. Everything else about me walked around restlessly circling the closed space. Sighing, twisting, turning. And so did you.

English: (Robyn Ianssen)

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Double language

the lovers touched each other with their faces or was is their brains or was it their eyesockets or was it their wings or was it with their warmth they touched each other with their bodies outwardly and their songs inwardly

English (Anne Born)

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Once upon a time

Once upon a time the grown ups woke me from an afternoon sleep in late August. I was lifted up from the bed. Then put down. They wanted to see if I could stand alone. They had forgotten you donÂ´t do that sort of thing on a globe of clover flowers. You crawl around on your four wings and fly.

English: (Robyn Ianssen)

Page 199 189 No 25.

Here I am

hugging the air with you in it when I am alone

English: (Laura Hudson)

Page 199 191 No 25.

Marina Kljajo - Radić Marina Kljajo – Radić was born in Mostar (Bosnia and Herzegovina) on January 25, 1962. She graduated from Faculty of Philosophy at University of Mostar, and currently, she is doing the postgraduate study of PDS Language and Culture in Contact, also in Mostar. She is respectable writer and President of Croatian Writers Society of HB. Her poems have been represented in numerous Croatian and Bosnian antologies. She has been an editor of Osvit and Naklada DHK HB, and chief editor of Bjelopoljska zora, a journal published by HKD Napredak Bijelo Polje. She has been writing poems since she was in her earliest youth, and, up to now, she has published five collection of poems: Tragovi, Mostar, 1997.; Narančasti cvijet, Mostar, 1998.; Sjaj slova, Mostar, 2004.; Svitac kameniti, 2007., and S neba cvjetovi, Mostar – Zagreb, 2010. She writes literary reviews and essays. Her literary work has been published in many literary periodicals, as Osvit, Motrišta, Republika, Diogen, Marulić, Most, Hercegovina, Hrvatsko slovo, etc. Her poems have been published within the book Anthology of poetry “Poets for World Peace” 2011, by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss. Translated by: Ivana Šimunović

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Marina Kljajo Radić

Then You Will Be Able Call Me Darling

If you ever Hear the voice of a sea Listen What it talks to a reef… If you ever Halt After hearing Singing nightingale Catch him And give it To me… If you ever Hear the cry of a river Ask her For the pain of a birth! Then you will be able Call me darling And the lovability will spread To distances… In the word Darling You will hear the primeval world Sound of a flute and the cry of A Newborn child.

Page 199 193 No 25.

Two Words I know Once we will meet. Amoung two seas and two blueness. And two words will roll down And echo In the pass. And none will be there Two strict cliffs For always separated Will watch each other In the mute duration. A Legend said to folk: Do not dream The cursed place is there!

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With The Wind Of The Spirit To Saint Father Ivan Paul II. He spread the mercy of the suffering And the allure of a death With the wind of the spirit The secret of an eternity Was discovered like The dried up spring With the wind of the spirit The love has taken off From dewy eyes Despair has retreated Before the commitment To the letter of the gather He fall asleep in the sanctity In the lights of assumptions With the wind og the spirit 02th April 2005

Page 199 195 No 25.

Between Between that which I am And that which I must be A sea is wide On it paper boat sail And the scream of lonely words Between that which I am And that which I must be An olive is black With tburn moon at the heart The unstoppable sailing to the sky Between that which I am And that which I must be A heated iron boils The safe hand Forms the metal in the cross destiny Between that which I am And that whichI must be I want hide my selfe But nevertheless be Petrify firefly KorÄ?ula, 30th August 2005

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Abortion After of the conception of the life Mother throws the child In hands those which Will alter it To the blame And the fear To hallucinations The thrown child after the conception Lives As a largest obstacle To the life Which would flow at rest Without it. April 2006 Translated by Ĺ˝arko

Page 199 No 25.

Marius Chelaru Name: Marius Chelariu, Pen Name: Marius Chelaru, DOB: 30,08,1961 Present days – live in Iaşi, Romania. Contributor with articles/ poems/ critics & work as editor & editor in chief, editorial advisor etc. for some cultural magazines: Timpul/ Time, Cronica/ Chronicle, Convorbiri Literare/ Literary Conversations, Poezia/ Poetry, Carmina Balcanica etc., or Publishing Houses as: Junimea (1994-1998, editor, 1998-1999: editor in chief, 1999-2000: Director), Sakura (1999 – 2002, Director), Parnas (2000- 2002), Timpul/ Time (2001-2003, Executive Director), Secretary of Association of Magazines and Publications from Europe ş.a. He published more than 30 books (novels, poems, critics, essays, translations); he was awarded with some national/ international literary prizes Contributor with articles, poems essay, prose, translations etc. in various international anthologies, and in magazines/ journals from Romania and some countries on different continents. Member of Romanian Writers Society, member of the famous club Junimea from Iaşi, honorary member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture, Beirut, Liban, Member of Romanian haiku Society, Member of World Haiku Association, Japan, Member of Romanian Language Writers from Québec, Canada.

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Marius Chelaru

The prophet

death and life were standing face to face in his palms bent towards the land where we all shall lie down God will mow us one day and in our palms raised in a prayer towards the sun that is caressing our children the daisies of the memories will bloom now the winds of the day have grass blades the hot girls are passing by us hotter than the palms of the sun the instant humble snail at the end of the road is suffering from the fright of its own death looking at the soles that are mercilessly flowing towards him now love is the glass out of which we are drinking tomorrow’s poison and today’s honey the old man was murmuring like a changing water now clear then troubled he was giving names to the seconds that were spreading in the wind he was inventing words and the people believed them „this is the road of the future” he said and everybody believed him wisdom threads were flowing on his face falling down at his feet waiting for us like some doubts abandoned in a dark corner of the life

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his words are stretching out his fingers to grasp the truth that is shyly passing by us sprawled among our fears fright indifference truth and life were standing face to face in his palm in our eyes that wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see the daisies of the memories are blooming his tired words are trickling into the land where we are sitting masters of the silence in which we have been wrapped

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every day ballad

.the dawn crosses the border of the smile as the witnesses say you have your hair plaited with sounds dipped into light you are holding a totem in the hollow of your palm drawn with black ink from the darkness chest it is like a fence for fright .chunks of life are thrown on the TV screen not even the window can stop the death that is to enter my neighbour’s house questions, questions - clinical death of the days that wouldn’t come anylonger a fly is grazing with jubilation the prime minister’s speech someone is giving a call to the birds they can guess where to put the flight that keeps hanging by the rain that is clearing the drunkards’ eyes I am washing with my hands the wounds from the face of the child set loose from the teeth of the earthquake from Pakistan the solitude bursts like a bullet in the air .on the street in front of the block the people stand for the brushes that are painting all kinds of already ringed stories look there is someone meant to remain a rough a policeman is locked in the photo on the pole there is a leg hanging out of life wrapped with a wing belonging to another bill at the next block someone opens a door like a mouth with grass covered teeth from the middle of the road from her middle a woman with her name in blank is looking towards the sky .with her eyes she turns into crickets the scream of the train that is pulling itself out of the railway station .then in her dreams she let herself loved by a guy with a briefcase full of whips toy bears and autumn shells .on the corner snow a non flower-flower with golden eyes springs out it is whispering like a spring got lost by time .the library is groaning like a leavened past on the second floor of my soul you are waiting for me next to me as a child

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.the equilibrium goes hand in hand with me on the wire till about the sunset thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s it.

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about illusion and discrepancy my steps are following me like some Bedouins that are looking for an oasis at the other end of the landscape the memories were simply gossiping - they want me to kneel down on the legs of the man that I used to be or they are merely laughing at me like some mad creaturesafter any instant corner friendships is waiting for me knowing it will never meet the souls of the worlds I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t part of are abandoning me love after love selling the lines of my body the most abstract answers turn to stone within my bones somebody firmly told me that I was living indeed I have been allotted persons with whom I can boast that I am living and days I am supposed to wait for like an apple at the edge of nothingness love stories tears walking from beginning to beginning that I should sip words that I should cast as if they were some dice in the corners of my happenings on a tight skinned day at the end of the metaphor illusion is hanging its legs loose wallowing during the hours that are kissing each other in the complicated blue that stands for this day full of happenings o God maybe I really exist

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My father my soul and I stood for a whole night close by the time looking through the eyes of my dead father the reality that was hiding beyond I wandered around his face where even the wrinkles had died but on which there were written now love waste unborn or killed dreams and maiden desires his life was standing by me wrapped in a shroud of withered kisses the night within his body took hold of me idly my father was burying in the instant ash his self that had faded away he had a look at the life and without saying a word he threw the last shovelful from which a dream with him and my mother had hung ever since I had been born they were laughing thus measuring happiness by my little body in which the soul was fighting for a place to live at dawn I took that dream and I put it on a rose for my mother when my loneliness was born I looked after it as if it were a flower it grew up like a child with dreams desires hopes it had strange dreams about treeless and grassless woods I used to wrap myself in its dreams it used to wrap me when we were taking a walk together people were looking at us with vivid or envious eyes as there are not many who can raise loneliness so nicely sometimes in the evening I am staying by myself with no loneliness in front of me and I am waiting this is how my father was lying in his coffin but I saw him

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how he was walking among fairy tales waiting for me by the time I was almost ready to become a soul in a body laying the world at my feet as if it were a plaid that was waiting for me to embroider it with my desires he put my palms on the land and the land accepted me letting me take part in the great show now he was stepping on the road towards the soul of the earth I strung my steps imbued with astonishment none of the days I passed through let me abide within it with all my dreams more than producing a little necklace from memories that I would have wanted them to live sometimes in my mother’s or my father’s words surprised by the state of being Now my father finished his steps his memories abandoned him as well as his body he was shattered like a happening in an ocean of silence I remained with my brothers and my mother who is still expecting a flower from him but that night smelling like resurrected sadness my thoughts were flowing like the tears of some candles melted long ago I hear the voices of my parents younger than they had ever been I close my eyes and I have a look beyond me my father’s eyes now seem to be some flowers sheltering tales maybe for a once beloved man that was gulped by oblivion although he thought the earth wouldn’t forget him either the last shadows faded away under the eyelid of the newborn day the dreams with my father are losing their thinner and thinner silhouettes I am wondering have I existed before this night smelling like resurrected silence and sadness?

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Creation

the world was built up from forests of tears trickled down from God’s eyelashes out of each tear there flowed one by one our life smelling hearts Adam bit Eve’s breast sipping the poison of the first cry .from the pages of Eve’s lips there broke loose already in shadow like buds the hatred. the sorrow God sowed her smile in each shadow on every cheek of the fruit .the spring accepted the people the forests received their animals .the dawn burst beyond the sky eyelashes .the sky-humble beggar of angels rose to dimensions full of bitterness the miracles turned into a game the gods ran away through the windows of the souls the wind is flowing through the world’s veins on which there are floating the tears of the beginnings with the petals spread over the angels’ wings open as for a prayer

Page 209 No 25.

Mexhid Mehmeti (Presheva, 11. VI. 1948). He completed his studies in the Philosophical Faculty, Department of Albanian Language and Literature, in the University of Prishtina. He was one of the establishers and editor of the reviews “Filizat” and “Panorama” in Presheva, and “Jehona” in Bujanoc. For a long time he was the manager of the Literary Club “Phoenix” in Presheva, and publishing editor of the club. He was editor of the culture column in daily newspaper “Rilindja”. In the period 2005-2008, he was a member of the Presidency of the League of Kosova Albanian Writers (LKAW). He published 14 books of poetry, novels, short stories, dramas, stories, monograph and anti-novel1. In 2006 he was awarded the prize “Hivzi Sulejmani” of the (LKAW) for the novel Seven days after death. He has also received several prizes for poetry, and had his poetry presented in several anthologies, university textbooks, lexicons, criticism editions, and so forth in Albanian, English, German, Rumanian, Bosnian, and other languages. Among authors from 25 countries from all around the World has been included in Anthology “Poets for World Peace”, 2011, published by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss.

an experimental work of the author with limited copies

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Mexhid Mehmeti

SILENCE REALM When you are speechless Silence is king When the pain begin In the spirit It causes insomnia And confusion Word after word You cannot stop then You canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t It happens to write poetry In specific moments Or avoid solitude Through the loop in the throat

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NO NEED I count of insatiable Earth, Womb, Throat, Fire And i see that lied He lied when he said: My way was paved I am afflicted Unforgettable road The wound is bleeding and noisome eye covered with tears The castle Built from sand Inshore Castaway by Atlantis ... I gaze constantly At the stars The Milky Way And I dream of senile A piece of mine in heaven Wasting time In vain I hold my skull on my hands Looking for A place To bury it Again from the start Perhaps needless Enumerate the insatiable Fire, earth, throat Womb...

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RAVEN SHOWED ME DARKNESS Since the enemy took my breath And stand on my head As a black raven Obscured my sight Nictitating To fade away my horizons Landscapes and light From the forehead frame Now i do not know Who to blame For the foul language Inheritance remained I know well to blame the others Without blaming myself Neither for deportation Nor for flag-bearer Of non-oriented The history was aggravated For the heck For generations For my hassle Europe may be damned

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LIMBS STEALING

Well filled with tears Of concerns Endless nights The word infidelity takes place People do not recover Having stolen limbs For transplantation Blood does not receive Foreign organs in itself Murders in vain Aggravate the pain Sins Fill the wells With tears of sorrow The hoary snow...

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YOU WILL BE NO MORE

If you tear one of my eye out The other remains To see Who blinded me If you cut One of my hands only And one of my legs too The other remains I can come squat to You Jumping as in theater Even You May know: In revenge One finger is needed only If you cut my tongue If you deafen my ear With mimic I can see Your screams And i can respond As i want If i become The homeland Torso My descendants Will have All the limbs And you? You will be no more Over their head, To defeat them And deprive them Of freedom...

Translated by: Mirsad KUTELI

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Mirzeta Memišević - Hodžić Born 1979. Master of science in forestry. Employee of Public Enterprise in Forestry “Bosanskohercegovačke šume” • Author of two published books of poetry (Toliko rasta 2001 and Krive Drine 2007), and first book of novels is in preparation. • Write for Diogen pro cultura magazin • Member of NGO "Fondeko", organization whose goal is to contribute to the preservation of the environment and the Earth planet through numerous activities; among the first environmental education especially for young people. • Active member of Association of Forestry Engineers and Technicians of Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, whose goal is to improve forestry and foresters in society. Among authors from 25 countries from all around the World has been included in Anthology “Poets for World Peace”, 2011, published by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss.

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Mirzeta MemiĹĄeviÄ&#x2021;

My Fairy Tale is Incomplete Name's Mirzeta In some collections of names It is translated as princess So what kind of the princess am I And on what kind of a pea (It has to be the size of a mountain!) My fragile back's been bruised For some years now Let's not get into that (If I am a princess of some standing Then I'm bound to be a lady And even this lady keeps quiet about her age) Who is testing me? Neither the prince Nor his wise mother Do I see in this court ! Frankly, I don't see the court either!

(Boris Mrkela)

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Alone Who am I If not The man Himself I'm a man Yet what is human is often Alien to me I'm a the one Who wakes up in his sleep And dreams with his eyes wide open I'm one half of the definition For Love I'm just one half of The whole! (Boris Mrkela)

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BUTTERFLY Yes, Yes After all, you had Something of a butterfly in your soul I know You were considerate Of everything and everyone In your soul You had something of a Butterfly No matter what In the summer you went to work on your motorcycle In the winter you didn’t feel like going When they deprived you Of everything you had loved You rarely came home singing You followed me through my dreams easily But to parent-teacher meetings Not with a riffle Only with a tear In your soul you had something of a butterfly After All Yes, Yes. Niđara Pašanović

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DEAR MOTHER, DO NOT SEND ME TO THE WATER I Dear Mother, do not send me to the water There is no use Why am I running between the previous and the next Shell And what when the previous catches up with the next I run into my friend’s house And why do his parents feed me Because you couldn’t There is no use When you are worried why I’m not home Fourty-eight hours straight If you count days in hours If you count hours in minutes two thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes Or one hundred and seventy two thousand eight hundred seconds A second like a year A year like a century When at home Under shells I’m gone In vain were the houses and banks What I have for the hours and minutes Won playing monopoly Anyway, I managed to keep just a friend! II Dear Mother, do not send me to the water For the darling there that stands Isn’t waiting for me Isn’t waiting for anyone He is just dreaming The steps which he will never hear again Because they have always stood On that other side Of the same Drina that we take from the well III Dear Mother, do not send me to the water For there is no spring there My darling is not there IV Dear Mother, do not send me to the water I will die before I become someone’s darling

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V Dear Mother, do not send me to the water There is no use Like this song of mine Hikmet Karčić

Monument I was so afraid That only my eyes walked on my feet I was so hungry That I ate myself up from the inside I was so thirsty That I drank a river of tears I was so cold Here I am, turned into stone. Translated by Niđara Pašanović

PAge 225 No 25.

Naida Hrustemović Naida Hrustemovic was born on 24th of May in Sarajevo. After finishing elementary school “Alija Nametak”, with a title “Pride of the generation”, Naida enters First Grammar School in Sarajevo.After graudating Grammar School, Naida enrolls at the Faculty of Political Science a full-time student at the Department of journalism. Naida is a member of the Literary Club at the Youth Center «Gorica». Her works have been published in two poetry collections: “To stars and slightly lower” and “Such a great invention.” As a representative of afore mentioned Club, Naida took place at numerous events, among which: “Sarajevo Days of Poetry”, International Festival Sarajevo “Sarajevo Winter”, "Meetings of young writers from the South East Europe". In addition, Naida has received an recognition, by Novo Sarajevo’s literary meetings 2007, for participation in the event. Her first individual poetry collection named “Castle of Tulips” has been recently published. Among authors from 25 countries from all around the World has been included in Anthology “Poets for World Peace”, 2011, published by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss.

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Naida HrustemoviÄ&#x2021;

PENELOPE A drop of your scent For every mile Of distance A part of your shoulder For every day Of absence A corner of your lips For every feeling Of cooling Leave! If you want me to be Your Penelope

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I GO DOWN WELL WITH YOUR HANDS I go down well with your hands In the seconds when They touch my hands I go down well with your hands In the minutes when They touch my face I go down well with your hands In the hours when They touch my body In the seconds captivating In the minutes insatiable In the hours vertiginous Your hands hug me

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IN YOU In you I have found Me Hidden during the centuries Restless and temperamental Me Calm and wistful Me Different From any other me I have found me that I have searched for trough Islands and corals Of all the previous Seas of love

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CARTIER I invite you tonight In dark chambers With my fingers testing The limits of your weakness I invite you tonight To be your concubine The dress made for you I have knitted by Cartier You will understand... The lovers are recognized by the senses!

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THE TRACE I would love to see you in the steps of others To catch sight of your smile in the cracks Of unknown streets To feel your sound In every touch of the rock I would love to draw contours Of your absence And forbid their usage Until the moment when In every trace of you I find myself...

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NIHAD MEŠIČ RIVER Nihad Mešić was born in Tuzla, Bosnia and Herzegovina in 1965. He published articles related to human rights and conflict resolution. In 2007 co-authored the book „Globalising Hope/ Globalizzare Speranza”, published by IUPIP in Italy. He worked as translator from English and French and is involved in peace and human rights activism. As „River”, Nihad published poetry from 2002 at the Cyberbulevar Forum, „Tuzlarije”„Diogen” and „Maxminus”. He co- authored the book of poetry „Pod istim nebom” in 2008, and authored „Dovoljno lud” in 2009, „Kroćenje straha“ in 2010 and “Iza oklopa” in 2011 published by DHIRA verlag, Switzerland. He is represented among the poets from Bosnia in “Poetas del Mundo”. Among authors from 25 countries from all around the World has been included in Anthology “Poets for World Peace”, 2011, published by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss. River participated in Poetry Marathon “DIOGEN is seeking for human being” in Sarajevo, organized by Sarajevo Winter Festival and DIOGEN pro culture magazine; Belgrade “Poetsko ćoše” and project “Balkan - House of Diversity”. His poem “Andric, Travnik and I” was rewarded in 2011 at the Competition of the Croatian Cultural Society “Napredak” in Travnik, His poem “Ne moramo o politici” was among the ten most read poems at the website Primijenjena poezija for months. His poems were translated to English, German and French and presented in media. Nihad lives and works in Tuzla, Bosnia and Herzegovina. WWW: http://nihadmesicriver.weebly.com/

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Nihad MeĹĄiÄ&#x2021; River Taming Fear During my whole life I look How to Tame Fear To make it an ally, instead of enemy. When the nightmares Wake me from dream To be able to sleep again Without difficulties, With light turned off. So I keep trying But, the fear is trying too. Old Thief does not give up, It spites me impudently. Nevertheless, I do not give in. Taming Fear is a process some people call life.

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Up to Me Give me back dreams In colour And Black and White From the Frank Capra movies And light orchestra music To introduce me to a new Sunny Day. Give me back dreams About the Sunny Coast, Green Meadow And Shiny Splendour In the Blue Sea. Thus I scream to be given back myself, knowing that nobody would be able to - it is up to this Dummy.

Opportunities Wasted opportunities by definition do not return. Another time, it was said. What should I say knowing that Another time will not happen. My steps are too small to catch the opportunities. Wait on, it will be in vain. I don't know why I am hurt by double-dealing, Knowing it is a natural human state, However, tonight I am pressed by the thought That the sum of the wasted opportunities is always proportionally bigger Than the sum of the encounters dreamed through.

PAge 236 No 25.

You don’t know, really You don’t know, really I’m trying To be tidy For you. You don’t know, really I take a deep breath So my fat stomach doesn’t show For you. You don’t know, really I am trying Not to get lost In your eyes. You don’t know, really I have beautiful dreams of you In the night, and sometimes in the day, Though, I didn’t sleep. You don’t know, really Maybe it is time That you know, and Maybe it is not.

PAge 237 No 25.

JANUARY NIGHT If you were with me now, As you are not, We would be warmed By Bosnian home-made rakia. If you were with me now, As you are not, We would have watched Through the window, Romantic sight Of the wind and snow game. If you were with me now, As you are not, We would have comforted each other Hugging. Then some sense would have been found. Translated by Nihad Mešić

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Sabahudin Hadžialić Sabahudin Hadžialić was born 23.9.1960.g. in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Europe. Today he is a member of the Bosnia and Herzegovina Association of Writers (Sarajevo, BiH), Croatian writers association Herzeg Bosnia (Mostar, BiH) and Association of writers Serbia (Belgrad, Serbia) , Academy “Ivo Andrić” (Belgrade, Serbia), Association of writers Montenegro (Podgorica, Montenegro) and Journalists Association of Bosnia and Herzegovina and Ambassador of POETAS del MUNDO in Bosnia and Herzegovina. He is Editor in chief of the electronic and print magazine "DIOGEN" pro culture: http://diogen.weebly.com and Editor in chief of E –magazine MaxMinus:http://maxminus.weebly.comfrom Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina. He has the status of the independent and selfsustained artist in the Canton of Sarajevo, writes poetry and prose with the editing and reviewing books of other authors. He is freelance editor in the publishing house Dhira, Küsnacht, Switzerland. His poems, short stories and aphorisms have been published within magazine in all former Yugoslavia states, England, Ireland, Spain, Italy and USA. His poetry and prose were translated into English, French, German, Spanish, Italian, Albanian, Arabian and Romanian. He was the co- owner is the first private newspaper in SR BiH "POTEZ", Bugojno, Bosnia and Herzegovina - 1990. So far he has published thirteen books of poetry and prose (Bosnia and Herzegovina, France, Switzerland) and Edited Anthology of poems and aphorisms as well. He has won several awards among which are the best: "May pen" for the best young poet of former Yugoslavia in 1987 (Svetozarevo). He lives in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina. Official WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com

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Sabahudin Hadžialić

SHE AND… HE Happy chap spearheads towards destiny while in the land of hectic hopes. He doesn’t turn back… …He doesn’t pay attention to the thump of troublesome waves made by inhumane chaps who silently try to turn their malicious, ouble-faced, envious, hateful, standards into his reality. … He does not want at all to wake up through self reflection. … He. … She is there. She is his mate. The one and only. And she walks away with him. No turning back.

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IT COULD HAVE BEEN BETTER My dreams are still hanging at the tip of the dagger of my dreams. Sobbing, grief-stricken wanting to turn into Reality. No, that is not to happen. The culprit is no one but me. Why ? The answer, my friend, was swept away by the river of Wisdom. Not mine, the leastâ&#x20AC;Ś..

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UNAUTHENTIC POETS Once upon the time I searched for myself in you. I was yet to realise that unauthentic poets hang around waiting for the seagull to perish. … I can’t let them triumph. … And not because of me. … Because of you. I am neither the important one Nor… the ideal one. They are the illusion of their own intention. And me? I am the reality of your core.

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SUBLIME INTERACTION She survived amongst endless whispers although She was vocal. … She became quiet although She was wide awake. … She bared her soul in a fit of rage although She is hope. …. She survived the sun blaze although I left her to burn. … She did not hold it against me although She just smiled and left. Without me.

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THE CONSCIOUS, AND OTHERS

Cynicism lures in their veins. … Hypocrisy is their Anthem while misery of others is their intertwined desire. … I plead with you Do not wipe out Consciousness You, the Others !

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Samira Begman Karabeg Samira Bergman Karabeg was born in 1954 in the village of Husimovci not far away from Sanski Most. She graduated in finance trade and management at the university of Zurich, where she lives since 1977. Samira writes poetry and prose in Bosnian and German language, and translates to both languages. Her works were represented in five anthologies published in Switzerland and Germany. Samira published three independent poetry books in Bosnian and two in German. She translated poetry of Tianxin Cai, a Chinese poet, from English to German. The book title is ‘Song of the Quiet Life’. Her current translating project is the translation of Paul Celan’s poems to Bosnian. Samira is the founder of Dhira publishing house which vision is ‘Authors for Authors’. Through the publishing house she donated several hundreds of books to a number of city libraries and humanitarian associations operating in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Among authors from 25 countries from all around the World has been included in Anthology “Poets for World Peace”, 2011, published by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss. Samira is the member of editorial board of MaxMinus, the web based satirical magazine and an assistant editor-in-chief of Diogen pro-culture magazine. Samira Begman is a member of the Eastern Swiss writer’s association. WWW: http://samirabegman.weebly.com/

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Sam i r a Be gman Kar ab e g

Mid summer D r e am !No Passaran! The crowd screamed at the passing centuries. Thou shall not pass, you with the black skin, You with foreign acent, You with empty pockets, orhodox religion... written in ink and feather. Michail ! I believe in words Roared the one and only once To those who donâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t carry the torch, the flame From the tip of his blazing sword. The tree and the palace â&#x20AC;&#x201C; unreachable Warning, the book and the wailing wall Gone, The ninth seal broke And the time hid in the black hole. Mice and cats sail through the eternity Those that carry the flame below their necks Proudly set sailed and then perished In the Universe. Sickly sickle Shuddered when she saw her shadow And her placement while awaiting the dooms day. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust Hand in hand they entered tumbledown pub And spent their last penny buying a glass of sweet wine.

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Summer Wa t e r c o l o ur Early July evening rippens Beauty, sweet nightingale song, The golden sea of wheat Swells in lustful summer. The river bends Soft murmur instead of roar. The hawk, perched on the rock, bends its wings, Blissful tranquility settles. Heated sigh of a women, hidden in wheat Rips through the silence Echo of thousand longings, As if forming the Universe from scratch. Hidden, seen only by the skies, While her handa follow the line of her thighs, In her mind, she gives herself to her lover, Her breasts heave with desire. Silent nature, the birds frozen mid-flight, As to protect the deep dream, At the sunset, the Sun absorbs the picture of the world To proclaim her for a new day.

There is One There is one, Ohhh, my dear, there is one He bites Spring‘a breasts He grows from the coldness of my belly Sucking the heavenly nectar from my brests. There is one, My thighs are his pillow My eyes his the mid-day fire The rest for the tired worrior Longing deeper than the thunder Burst into nocturnal depth in the morning. There is one He ploughs my insides Mercilessly He roots germinating seed He gathers my dispersed dreams Among groves. There is one, oh dear, ...stronger than the thunder From one waterhole to the other Stirs up my fire so it reaches skies. There is one He does not speak, he does not sing He is silent during the day and heals wounds at night He has his horn and no other dream And he has me – mother Earth I am his food I am his fast abstinence among stars. That one With a stiff, knotted horn He has eyes front and back But he doesn’t look at me He uses his horn to burrow me in the grove He doesn’t have peace He doesn’t have ties to the woman in me He doesn’t let me get of the loom

Answer Will I be able to...? Worry â&#x20AC;&#x201C; two horns Forget the Unicorn. Through the window Peeps the Strength Of wild primrose. They donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need The greenhouse To protect them from frost.

Sublime From different spectrums Of attractiveness and repulsiveness From astral hurricanes To the soul shores sails harmony and backwards through stormy seas in my lap sails the sun to the starting point and the hands glided by emphaty night embraces the moon the truth has disrobed and on the thigs of history drifted in pleasure.

Translated by Anya Reich

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Shaip Emërllahu Shaip Emërllahu was born in 1962 in the village of Trebosh near Tetova, Macedonia. He completed his Philological Degree of Albanian Language and Literature at Prishtina University in Kosovo. Mr. Emerllahu completed his master degree with the subject "Poetical structural in Azem Shkreli's poetry" in the University of Tirana. He is a professor in the Philology Faculty at the University of Tetova. Director of the International Poetry Festival “Ditet e Naimit”, Tetova, he has worked as a journalist and culture editor for the newspaper “Flaka”. Emërllahu has participated in international and national poetry festivals in Columbia, Ireland, Italia, Tunisia, Poland, Croatia, Romania, Bulgaria, Turkey...He has been awarded with many literary prizes. He has published the seven poetry volumes in Albania, Croatia, Italy and Macedonia. Poetry book has been published in Albanian and Romanian in Romania, 2011 and in Croatian and Albanian in Croatia, 2004. In 2000, he also published as a co-author the book about testimonies from Kosovo in Albanian and English. Emërllahu’s work has been translated into French, English, Hebrew, Spanish, Arabic, Italian, Korean, Romanian, Polish, Croatian, Macedonian… Among authors from 25 countries from all around the World has been included in Anthology “Poets for World Peace”, 2011, published by DIOGEN pro culture magazine & DHIRA, Swiss.

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Sha i p EmĂŤ r l l a hu

ALBANIAN MARATHON I will enter in Tirana before than the Spartan marathoner entered in Athens I will walk on that day when I will bring the news that the Middle Age has fallen I will challenge the marathon death the great thirst for contemplating the long awaited wreath as it comes after upon my land the Albanian marathon comes and is provoked on this side

English version by Fadil BAJRAJ

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SELFSACRIFICATION Almost at dawn The old year dying new year cradling They hurried to build walls All through the name They said Our graveyards won't stretch Beyond the border of hadorws Distant from nightmares Traveling we preferred to live our dream Outside walls In the kingdom of the happiest sun English version by Ukzenel BUÇPAPAJ

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THE SKY BLOOMED WITH BULLET FLOWERS two violins of life were torn to pieces by bullets right in front of us and we stole their sound and life life was beautiful above Tetova just as God is He invited me at night to the embrasure when the sky bloomed with bullet flowers it gave freedom to the eyes of our people freedom-eyes we ourselves blinded Tetova, 15 March 2001

English versions by Craig Czury and Elvana Zaimi-Tufa

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OTHER T I ME even if you changed one hundred voices you wouldn’t be noticed anymore o rooster of empty mornings nobody wakes up no in the remaining hours alarm clocks hit the scene English versions by Craig Czury and Elvana Zaimi-Tufa

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OPENING A MEMORY in Qafë Thana Pass there remained the broken shadow of the full moon the harsh wave of a ship’s departure (and a painful sound) in its wake hello the one in my heart opened the curtain of this memory Struga, 2000 English versions by Craig Czury and Elvana Zaimi-Tufa

LITERARY AWARD FOR THE POETRY CYCLES "WHEN SORROWS GLOW” PRESENTED DURING the Poetry marathon 2012 “DIOGENES is seeking for human being”

BARDHYL MALIQI SARANDA,

ALBANIA

21.3.-22.3.2012. Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Sabahudin Hadžialić

Editor in chief DIOGEN pro culture magazine

,Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina

21.3.2012.

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EXPLANATION FOR THE LITERARY AWARD FOR THE BEST POETRY CYCLUS DURING THE POETRY MARATHON “DIOGENES IS SEEKING FOR HUMAN BEING” IN SARAJEVO, 21.3.2012.

“WHEN SORROWS GLOW” BARDHYL MALIQI „The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity.“ Seneca

The story of life within the shortness of living. Being young and brave within his souls, he can only asks himself the questions of wandering. While drinking eternal coffe. With the God. His poems is a prose within verses. Of all of us: a.) As a warning. b.) Or wakening. Which one of those two? The answer we will find out within Seneca's words above and... - The poet as the reflection of belongings to the ground of existence. - The poetra as dedication of the living per se. - Experience as the reflection of the soul of goodness, while seeking for the truth. 1

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Which one? Of the eternal truth while „let the silence speaks in whispers“. Intensely resisting to the conquered emotions, nothing else was left to him but to leave the message. So strong message that was intoxicated with a dream.The question appears: Were that just an emotions? Or the life itself?

Selector of the Poetry marathon Sabahudin Hadžialić 21.3.2012.

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