Lisa Yoon Les -- poem in three languages

Korean)

사계절 (부제:장례식)

 -  by Lisa Yoon LES 

내 섬에 음악이 내렸다.

- 아름다운 선율로

내 섬에 꽃이 내렸다.

- - 눈부시도록 더디게

내 섬에 그가 내렸다.

- - - 잔인한 황홀함으로

나, 이제 떨리는 사람 내려 두고 

한 줌 햇살 가슴에 품은 채

겨울을 비상하는 새가 되련다. 

English)

Four Seasons (subtitle:Funeral) 

 - by Lisa Yoon LES

Music came down to the isle of spring

- With a beautiful melody.

Summer flowers descended on the island

- - Dazzlingly and slowly.

He landed on the islet of yellow leaves.

- - - Wearing cruel ecstasy.

I, now left my beloved behind

Holding sunbeam in heart.

Be a winter bird flying high in the sky.

Italian)

Quattro Stagioni (sottotitolo:Funerale)  - by Lisa Yoon LES

La musica è arrivata 

all’isola della mia anima

con una bellissima melodia.

I fiori estivi sono scesi 

sulla isola del mio cuore

elegantemente e lentamente.

È atterrato sul isolotto della mia vita,

indossando un incantesimo crudele.

Io, ora ho lasciato la persona amata dietro

avendo un po’ di raggi di sole 

nel mío cuore,

diventerò un uccello invernale 

che vola alto nel cielo.

Hamish Todd ---- two poems

A Wedding Prayer

This prayer is a river

It leads to the ocean

And has no end

This prayer is a river

It leads to the ocean

And has no end

Ask for nothing

A bird in flight

Is giving thanks

Love is a blessing

People dancing

Another chance

This prayer is a river

It leads to the ocean

And has no end

Ask for nothing

A bird in flight

Is giving thanks

The Sea Gulls of Alcatraz

The Sea Gulls of Alacatraz

Don't have any fond

or Bitter memories

They're glad to have a rock to stand on

To watch the city

Across the Bay

                        For my girl,

                        because every day's a gift

New poem by Julie A. Dickson

The Curve

It is wise to knock down pedestals of power,

wipe away entitled glances, the way they glower

at those deemed less worthy

in a world where straight is perceived as best,

where the curve of alternatives is frowned upon.

.

Caucasians compete for supreme power

over those berated for belief or race;

they remain blind , refusing to face diversity,

in a world where white is becoming a minority.

Their narrow views are firmly rooted,

while others yell, “me too”.

Victims long silent, skewed justice prevailed

under guise of religion or truth; assailants of the curve -

non- straight or dark complexions hated,

no ability to accept or assuage fear,

that women and people of color will persevere.

With demographic information to peruse,

clear statistics stated, but some still choose

not to see countries that surpass white by far.

Those in power, deluded by grandiose illusions,

in cloud-minding towers- look down

at the masses they deem below them.

We, the curve - seen as Troglodytes

who speak in foreign tongues,

walk among them…waiting.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Poems by Liam Roche

Poem by Liam Roche

Untitled by Liam Roche

It hangs upon angelic
architecture, upon the lonely prayer,
upon all our hard-earned art and literature
as it hangs delicately upon the butt of the half-smoked cigarette
flicked with a curse before the bar fight.

Poem by Liam Roche

Untitled by Liam Roche

Where shall we meet, sweet ghost father?
In the quiet contemplation of an empty church?
In a drunken sprawl?
Or when tossed to the edges of this earthen bowl
in the embrace of the deepest dive?

God follows me everywhere and so can you.

Poem by Liam Roche

Untitled by Liam Roche

Ease into your instincts of death, of meaningful life, lust,
God’s paternity and the kinship of evil.

Let these things raise up your spirit and give you some small
dominion in this large space.

These are yours alone and all that is required.

Poem by Liam Roche

In the Spirit of Whitman by Liam Roche

I now take upon myself the name “enemy.”
Suspect any man and suspect me.

Degrade any man, I am degraded.

Torture me in western civility and
I weep western tears.

I will channel all our long-buried American insurgents:
Our dark slaves, our natives, our Chinamen.
Irish and Italian and Poles and Russians

Flesh given, and flesh taken.

The colors of their flags
Mixed with blood

Make industry and stars on a blue field
Stolen.

Poem by Liam Roche

Untitled by Liam Roche

Good father, release me!
I’m not learning or becoming.

Silent, warm and descending,

No harm in my nature.
Make me mud again!
My nature.

Poem by Liam Roche

Untitled by Liam Roche

You will be ridiculed,
roughed up,
ignored.

You will be alone most of the time with our ideas.

Now, instead of some bitter man,
I stand here with you
and share in the gold you made.

Poem by David Fewster

JOHN REED by David Fewster

My personal hero in the large, illustrated

history of  Wallace Berman’s Life & work

“Semina Culture”

was John Reed,

a poet and collage artist

of no apparent relation to

the dude buried in the Kremlin.

In fact, he was a total loser,

a drug-addled sponger and grafter who created

a few ephemeral pieces of art

before dropping out of sight

for decades until turning up

at the turn of the millennium

as a homeless nutjob furtively living

on the Pasadena Library grounds.

And yet, just a few years after

his squalid wino death in 2001, there he was,

Immortalized Forever

with the portrait of his younger self

and a sampling of his speed freak creations

adorning the walls of a

major art exhibition and catalog.

For nearly 40 years, since I was 19, this has

always been my nebulously-conceived dream,

formulated on my long walks from

the Venice Boardwalk to Santa Monica Pier,

when I lived in a dilapidated boardinghouse

on Pico and Ocean

where I had to wear sneakers to take a shower

in the communal bathroom

to avoid stepping on broken glass and syringes.

Not for me world fame and riches

--a sucker’s game—

I would’ve been happy to die

a minor cult figure,

content to have left the smallest talisman

on the path of recorded history

to commemorate a life spent searching vainly

for Art & Love…

For crying out loud, is that

TOO MUCH TO ASK?