Two caligrafías by Adriana Lisboa

The Present

for Claudia Roquette-Pinto

At the red light a boy asks me for a handout. He sees my weary face, my muscles signalling urgent needs, my life catching its breath, my fears. At the red light I say I’m fleeing from something toward something else far away.

The boy gives me a handout: his smile. As time stands still, I realise it’s me smiling in the boy while it’s me here on this side, in my car, and the boy and I share our gaze.

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Two Poems by Ramon Mello



at the selarón

staircase songs

shattered feelings

coloured under

the rain walking

for months

two hundred and

fifteen degrees to

find out he

does not accept

the black

umbrella it’ll

be a revenge

they ask



I put an ad in the paper

I’ve asked everyone

but no one has news from you

meanwhile the flip-flops

continue to rest in the laundry

area behind the door between

the mop and the floor cloth

since that night I’ve only

walked barefoot

it’s my protest



Written by Ramon Mello and translated by Thereza Rocque da Motta.

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Ramsey Nasr — I wish I was two citizens (then I could live together)


and this is my poem, come on in

don’t be afraid, ignore the echo

let us begin in emptiness

welcome to my crater of light


once we gathered, you and I, remember

revived by the cool gleam of a rummer

our shadows like finest crystal

our fame as glancing as the light that falls

on a letter read by a woman becalmed


we were gold dusted

pale, almost translucent with love

lowering our eyes before each other


and we loved to do penance

if someone asked how we were

we answered truthfully

ashamed to our boots, sir

firmly convinced

that we ourselves had scourged

our very own lord

and crucified him personally

the certainty of the apocalypse

was branded on our retinas


what happened in the few short centuries

we looked the other way?

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Two prose poems by Nyk de Vries



A small group was passing through the street with Bibles in their hands. My father was standing next to me, grinning. He said, “Those people still believe in God.” He probably stopped to think about what he’d just said. The word “still” implied progress. “Those people still believe in God.” It suggested levels of increasing insight. My father sniffed and mumbled, “We still believe in progress.” Silently we watched the slight figures until the small group had disappeared around the corner.

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In the service of blood by Michel Houellebecq

Translated by Delphine Grass and Timothy Mathews


I no longer go on trips, really,

Because I know the place

And I know my rights,

And I’ve lived through rage.

In the service of humanity,

In the middle of the estate,

I know my bedroom well

And feel the night descend.

Angels take flight

In the glory of heaven

They will find God;

And the women have fun.

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Two Poems by David Hermann

Bacteria Street Circus

scan the detail for spectators
blind maestro

hear the hoopla
when they zoom

up and down
into and through

desk city
microbe avenue

ashen spheres
and pill shaped acids



among your pens
and paper thrives


fissioning aficionados
take their microscopic seats

in microscopic opera houses
built in microscopic streets

raise your hand and with a whisper
spin your silly fairy tales

it is with ease that you will please
the crowd beneath your fingernails


Pseudomorph: Some octopi and squid, when threatened, eject ink in a blob about the same size and shape as their bodies, leaving a phantom copy of themselves (a pseudomorph) hanging in the water, as the original makes its escape.

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April auf dem Lande by Cees Nooteboom



It was summer and winter.

The water by the river,

how it rose.

Mist between the hills.

In the valley the expensive villas,

shuttered, white and pink.

Fox and owl

hidden out of sight,

a work day for herons and mice.

And the man who loved women lonely,

not thinking about the birds.

Dew or rain

on the serrated leaves,

the call of a train

from the depths.

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Man Said by Helen Silverstein

Man Said

Helen Silverstein

Man said, girl done got herself knocked up.

Woman said, Ima help her mama kill the man done this.

Man said, could see this one comin’ mile way.  Girl actin’ like a slut.

Woman said, girl ain’t nothing but a child. What kinda man touch a child like that?

Man said, her mama shoulda teach her better, watch her better.

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Colombina by Paul Verlaine

Pierrot who on cricket’s
legs legs it through thickets—
one leap—
Cassander (old hoodie),
Leander the goody-
shoes creep,

and Harlequin (Domin-
o’s eyes have an omin-
ous look:
the outfit’s so natty
it’s positive that he
’s a crook

are all thumping guitars an’
pretending they’re Tarzan,
in a pile-drive entreaty
of Little Miss Pretty,
this child

whose eyes are a message
denying her undressage
with such
a defense of her fair butt
as says “You may stare, but
don’t touch!”

Ye planets whose motion
can scupper an ocean
of ships!!

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