Ποιειν Και Πραττειν - create and do

The tune of verses, Marsaxlook, Malta 2013





The port of Marsaxlook

The vocalists *

Gabrielle Anne Dalli
Shall sing: Hatto’s poem “Orientation”
Gabrielle Anne Dalli : “I dreamed a dream”
Erika Seychell : “Luce”
Mardy Farrugia : “o surdatu ‘nnammurato”
Erica Seychell : “Eppure sentire (un snso di te)”
Mardy Farrugia : Perdere l’amore”
Gabrielle Anne Dalli : “Nella Fantasia”
Rudiella Farrugia : “Fly to your heart”
“La Voix”

*All vocalists attend and are part of “La Voix Academy”


The eyes take in light
when a child smiles,
or the bird speaks
with the wind
during flight.

Old hinges of garden gates
scream out their rusty pain
when people
leave for work
in the city

The poem is taken from the collection of poems under the title "The wind, my friend" by Hatto Fischer.

Sung by Gabrielle Anne Dalli

The poets and their verses:

Paul Dalli: “Tunnel of light” and “A day of peace”
Germain Droogenbroodt: “Mediation” and “Peaceful morning in the Himalayas”
Gabriel Rosenstock: “Butterflies” and “Empty cobweb”
Najet Adouani: “The Guitar” and “One evening”
K. Satchidanandan: “A man with a door” and “Cloths that bleed”
Yiorgos Chouliaras: “Refugees”and “The Barbarians are not waiting”

Hatto Fischer: “The blind man” and “The city with the great harbour”

Philip Meersman: “Mysterious disappearance” and “Zaedno”

Hemant Divate: “Butterflies”, “Even now I don’t understand” and “Mohak”

Rati Saxena: “Wing of an ant” and “Wail”

Menna Elfyn: “Murmurs” and "A door in Epynt"

Claudia Gauci: "Speck of blue" and "This ferocious rock"

Penelope Doundoulaki: "Lithurgy for peace" and "Eternity"

Anjan Sen: "Shadow" and "Village"

Kevin Ferriggi: "Eva"


The poems were read by different people making up a part of the audience. In between the girls performed by singing songs.


Paul Dalli

 Paul Dalli

Paul Dalli is an accountant by profession and retired entrepreneur. He has a strong passion for the arts: music, lyrics, literature, history and architecture. He paints and enjoys copying Picasso and Van Gogh using several distinctive mediums and uniquely primed materials. Given his passion for verse and numbers, he writes primarily sonnets due to their strict numeric pattern and association with songs. The meaning of “Sonetto” in Italian is “a little song”.

As Paul Dalli explains, 'Tunnel of light' has to do with a personal experience when he found himself to be very close to death. For he has lived through four heart failures within a relative short period of time. Like Brendan Kennelly's poem 'The man out of rain' reflecting his experience after a by-pass operation for his heart, or what Philip Meersman reveals in a poem dedicated to one of his twin children having been on intensive care station, Paul Dalli's sonnet reveals how close life is to death. As this can happen in many ways, poems reflecting this seem to suggest that there is as well a miracle at work. At times one is surprised by a return to life, so that not everything is taken away right away. But that moment changes the person forever.

Tunnel of light

Returned turned back, rove amid the living,

Want of yonder reach without forgiving,

Unknown to man, thrill, joy, blissful delight,

Passage lit bright, soft float without a fright.


And in a flare so quick, now here soon there,

A choice so rare yearning beyond compare,

Golden fare rays, intense yet soothing glare,

Quickly rushed out from such pleasant affair.


Though in a dream so real, awake so fake,

With no mistake event none dare to shake,

But finger thrust, distinct, unpleasant mark,

No game,  joke, lark, back in a world of dark.


Perfect shape hearts, stain of burning scorch,

Recall of light, in a flaming torch.


A day of peace

Year after year a day so rare,

A fresh new dawn, quickly so gone,

When each would stare with one’s own pair,

Memories drawn, events forgone.


And midst such dark is born a spark,

Of human hope in space and scope,

Scribing its mark inside an ark

Fragrance of dope, from a hemp rope.


Sounds of heart-beat under a sheet,

Where in such calm, hear moving palm,

Without deceit dear ones to greet,

Citing a psalm, fragrance of balm.


Prevail the truce none dare abuse,

Without excuse, Peace keep not lose.


Germain Droogenbroodt

Only poetry, so far, escaped the dictatorship of consumption. Since Homer’s Odyssey, the first great poem in Western history, till today, the poets have been writing about humans, about there misfortunes and their glories as did Paul Celan with his dramatic Fuge of Death, Izet Sarajlic about the horrors committed in ex Yugoslavia; Juan Gelman about the disappeared in Argentina; Mahmud Darwish about the hope and misery of Palestine people etc. etc. Nowadays, as ever before, only the poet holds his finger on the pulse of humanity.”

by the fire of dawn
wanders the mind
over the waste land of the day
who appears as nothingness
virginal and complete

an emptiness
without borders.

From “Unshadowed Light”

Peaceful Morning in the Himalayas

It appears
as if the previous night
has quenched every thirst

the day comes with light
and voices of birds
strange to the ear

in the distance
the wavering sound
of a reed flute:

a morning prayer
for Shiva, for Buddha
or for whatever god

so peaceful appears this morning
as if after so many ages
humanity were at peace
finally at rest.

From “In the Stream of Time, Meditations in the Himalayas

Germain Droogenbroodt is poet, translator and President of the Ithaca Foundation. He maintains a small publishing house called POINT Editions.

The idea of the Foundation Ithaca is to be a cultural bridge, cooperating with POINT Editions, my small publishing house, publishing since 1984 modern international poetry.


He reads in English, Dutch, German, French, Spanish and Italian.

Germain's poems were read by Paul Dalli

To read the poems of Germain, Paul Dalli exchanged letters with him. It expresses both respect and deep appreciation of what poetry does make possible, namely a kind of friendship which gives space to the other to hear his or her voice.

"Dear Germain,

I am deeply honoured to receiving your e-mail. Surely our small gathering will not be as huge as seen in your photos and definitely not as formal. It is one Hatto Fishers dreams turned into reality which will happen in a very informal but most hospitable aura, between unknown friends with a common binding drawn together by unknown mystical magnetism. We shall read two of your poems, “Meditation” and a “Peaceful morning in the Himalayas”. I am drawn to the titles as well as their delicate verse. With your kind and trustworthy permission I wish to ask you whether I may recite your poems on the night next Friday?"

This was after Germain had informed him not only what he aspires in connection with the poetry event in Marsaxlokk, Malta, but also what he was about to be doing, including a stay in Shanghai for one month, and where he lives:

"Dear Paul,

Thanks to Hatto I’ve been informed of the upcoming Malta reading which appears to me a great idea and I wrote the friend of Hatto that we should try to realize similar activities in our countries. The reading in Malta is a great example which should inspire us.

Living already 27 years in the (years ago famous for its artists) small Mediterranean city of Altea in Spain and considered and feel me meanwhile a Mediterranean poet and am well introduced in Spanish literary live, organizing here yearly The Poetic Evening Concerts of Ithaca, a cycle of 5 concerts with poetry reading in 5-6 languages."


Gabriel Rosenstock

The miraculousness of life should engender a sense of 'wonder' in us, others take it in their stride. Most people take the miraculousness of life for granted.

One of the roles of the artist is, I think, to increase our awareness of life in all its miraculous diversity. It's only when we blind ourselves to the miraculousness of life in ourselves and others - and in the universe - that conflict arises. When we ourselves are filled with the wonder of the miraculousness of life, our works of art are imbued with life; they are life-enhancing. Much of today's art is lifeless and many of our critics are deaf and blind.”


The poems were read by Elaine McDougal

Elaine McDougal



How many kinds of butterfly are there?

How many species can you give a name to?

The author of Lolita collected butterflies.

Where does the stress fall on Nabokov?

This is not a quiz.

These are questions of some substance.

Myself, I’d have to scratch my head

twice to name three or four species

in any language.

So it’s likely that my family’s

family will be as blind to butterflies as myself.

But if any of them are around

in about half a millennium

and come across these fluttering lines

who knows, they might be stirred

into wandering the world of butterflies.

Unless, in the meantime, they have folded

their shrivelled, perishing wings:

Irish, that is, and the butterflies.


An mó saghas féileacáin atá ann?

An mó speiceas atá tú in ann a ainmniú?

Bailitheoir féileacán ab ea údar Lolita.

Cá bhfuil an bhéim ar a shloinne siúd, Nabokov?

Ní quiz é seo.

Tá tábhacht éigin ag baint leis na ceisteanna seo.

Mé féin, chaithfinn mo chloigeann a thochas

faoi dhó chun trí nó ceithre speiceas a ainmniú

i dteanga ar bith.

Is cosúil, dá dheasca sin, go mbeidh sliocht

mo shleachta chomh dall ar fhéileacáin is atáim féin.

Ach má bhíonn duine acu thart

i gceann leathmhíle bliain

agus má thagann sé ar na línte eitleacha seo

cá bhfios ná go spreagfar é nó í

chun eolas a chur ar dhomhan na bhféileacán.

Mura ndúnfaidh siad a sciatháin idir an dá linn

sioctha seargtha

an Ghaoluinn agus na féileacáin.

Empty Cobweb

Do not spend time writing poems or essays on Zen . . .” Nyogen Senzaki

A long time now since I have seen a spider

but time, too, has been such a long while away:

What is spider-time?

Does spider think,

A long time now since that bloke appeared

the scribbler who notices me

the one I needn’t fear.’

If only he would show up now, spider,

we could renew our vows –

never to interfere with each other

go our own way

weave our tales, independently.

The empty cobweb flutters.

Is he coming? Spider? From nowhere?

No, it’s only a breeze

a draught from somewhere

Or the mind, simply, silky

movement of mind

Líon Folamh Damháin Alla

Ná caith do chuid ama ag scríobh dánta nó aistí ar Zen . . .” Nyogen Senzaki

Is fada anois ó leagas súil ar dhamhán alla

ach tá an t-am féin tamall maith in easnamh:

Cad is am damháin alla ann?

An ndeir sé leis féin,

Tá tamall maith anois ann ambaist ó nocht mo dhuine

an scrioblálaí a thugann faoi deara mé

is nach gá dom eagla a bheith orm roimhe.’

Dá nochtfadh sé anois, an damhán alla,

d’fhéadfaimis ár gcuid móideanna a thabhairt arís:

Gan cur isteach ar a chéile go deo

ár gconair féin a leanúint

scéalta a fhí, neamhspleách ar a chéile.


Creathán sa líon folamh.

An bhfuil sé chugainn? An damhán alla? As an bhfolús?

Níl, níl ann ach feoithne

séideán as ball éigin


Nó an aigne, díreach, gluaiseacht

shíodúil na haigne



Gabriel Rosenstock

Poet, novelist, playwright, author/translator of over 160 books, mostly in Irish. He taught haiku at the Schule für Dichtung (Poetry Academy) in Vienna and Hyderabad Literary Festival, India. Aso writes for children. Among the anthologies in which he is represented is Best European Fiction 2012 (Dalkey Archive Press). Books Ireland, Summer 2012, says of his comic novel My Head is Missing: ‘This is a departure for Rosenstock but he is surefooted as he takes on the comic genre and writes a story full of engaging characters and a plot that keeps the reader turning the page.’

Where Light Begins is a selection of haiku and The Invisible Light features haiku in Irish, English, Spanish and Japanese with work by American master photographer Ron Rosenstock. Recent books include Irish-language versions of K.Satchidanandan, Ko Un, Hemant Divate and Dileep Jhaveri. Rosenstock is a member of Aosdána (Irish Academy of Arts & Letters).

E-books: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/gabriel-rosenstock?dref=2207


Najet Adouani

The guitar


Behind the window,

The old walnut tree was bored to stare

Into the eyes of a woman, who had escaped

From the slumber,

To prostate each morning

Under her feet,

While looking at her dead birds

In their fissures,

For graves…..


One evening


whenever clouds are being shaped

In the sky…………

I feel as if they are changing with my


They embrace me in a dress the color

Of my eyes………

And so they reflect

My inner being


Her poems were read by Natalie Mundle who has just moved to Malta to work for the University of Malta on studies for world heritage.

Natalie Mundle

Najet Adouani, a Tunisian writer and poetess, comes from the south of Tunisia. She studied journalism and is member of the Tunisian writers union since 1982. She is the author of 6 Arabic poetry books: "In every wound a lily - Tunis 1982...I fly by a green wing – Beirut 1984. Celestial roots - Beirut 1986...The cool of steel's soul - Tunis 1994...Fun black - Tunis 2006. ...Who stole my shadow - Tunis 2010".
She won the feminine poetry-price 2010. She has also written a collection of stories entitled: "Mirrors of one body - Tunis 1997"
More than 15 manuscripts between poetry and prose are waiting to be published. She has participated in many Arabic and international poetry festivals. Her poems have been translated into French, English and Spanish.
Always ready to support just human causes in the world, she writes to spread her wings far, in order to draw a dream in the eyes of the readers of her books.


K. Satchidanandan

There is a link between his poem 'A man with a door' and Menna Flyfn's "A door in Epynt". The two poets know each other as they have translated the poem of the other in their respective languages.




A man walks with a door

along the city street;

he is looking for its house.


He has dreamt

of his woman, children and friends

coming in through the door.

Now he sees a whole world

passing through this door

of his never-built house:

men, vehicles,trees,

beasts, birds,everything.


And the door, its dream

rising above the earth,

longs to be the golden door of heaven;

imagines clouds, rainbows,

demons, fairies and saints

passing through it .



But it is the owner of hell

who awaits the door.

Now it just yearns

to be its tree, full of foliage

swaying in the breeze,

just to provide some shade

to its homeless hauler.


A man walks with a door

along the citystreet

a star walks with him.




(Translated from the Malayalam by the poet)





Bleeding clothes

on the riverbank and the seashore ,

at the railway station and the airport,

on the playground and the street,

on the courtyard and the verandah,

in the drawing room and the bedroom,

on the newspaper and the silver screen..


Bleeding clothes,

no one asking whose blood it is.

The survivors say it is not theirs,

they sing and dance and make love,

but the clothes, they run after me

with a dumb stare.


It is Muslim’s blood, says the Hindu,

turning his eyes away, it is the dalit’s blood,

the caste-Hindu averts his face,

the Malayali says it is the Tamilian’s,

the patriot says it is the foreigner’s,

the rulers say it is the rebel’s.

It is woman’s, man washes his hands,

It is beast’s , human being plays the saint,

it is the tree’s, the beast is innocent.


And with each face that turns

In waking and in sleep,

In reading and in thought,

scattering blood, they come, they pile up,,

bleeding clothes,

clothes without God.



( Translated from Malayalam by the poet )


The poems were read by Hatto Fischer.


K. Satchidanandan was born 28 May 1946. He is a major Indian poet and critic, writing in Malayalam, and English. Satchidanandan has established himself as an academician, editor, translator and playwright. Born in central Kerala, he was a Professor of English and Editor of Indian Literature, the journal of the Sahitya Akademi (India's National Academy of Literature) and the executive head of the Sahitya Akademi for a decade (1996–2006) He has to his credit 23 collections of poetry besides many selections, 16 collections of translations of poetry and 21 collections of essays on literature, language and society-three of them in Englishbesides four plays and three travel narratives. He has 25 collections of his poetry in translation in 17 languages including Tamil, Hindi, Bengali, English, Arabic, French, German and Italian. He has introduced several poets like Garcia Lorca, Alexander Block, Voznesensky, Pablo Neruda, Cesar Vallejo, Bertolt Brecht, Paul Celan, Zbignew Herbert, Eugenio Montale, Giuseppe Ungaretti, Mahmoud Darwish and Yehuda Amichai to Malayalam readers through translations and studies besides a lot of Black, Latin American and Indian poetry. He has also travelled widely, writing and lecturing.


Yiorgos Chouliaras



On the other side

of the photograph I write to remind myself

not where and when but who


I am not in the photograph


They left us nothing

to take with us

Only this photograph


If you turn it over you will see me


Is that you in the photograph, they ask me

I don’t know what to tell you


Translated by David Mason & the author



Nobody waits in a desert for a desert

nor remains bareheaded on a barren steppe

on mountains, in forests, in damp hideouts

avoiding the civilized hordes


Mobs that keep collecting in cities

after they’ve flooded the open fields

and glutted the sea with shipwrecks


we hear they make noises in squares


From every point and in every way

breathless messengers keep arriving

with nothing written on foreign tongues

which we carefully dissect every time


These people as we believe

they surely must be

have not learned to communicate

in a direct and effective manner


Pointless for them to look for answers

in our always successful solution

because the barbarians never wait

before civilization erases us all

Translated by George Economou & the author


“The Barbarians are not waiting” is a direct reference to Cavafy's poem; this poem was read as well in Greek by Yiorgos Melanchrinoudis

Yannis Melanchrinoudis

After having heard Yannis Melanchrinoudis read the poem in Greek, Paul Dalli commented:

"The way Yannis read the poem in Greek, was very touching and moving.  It seemed that his hear was not beating any more a drum-like rhythm but switched into a tempo of melody and song.  He touched us not by comprehension but by sentiment, feeling and emotion.  The sound was so sweet that words did not mean anything but the sound was understandable with no need of translation or any form of interpretation."

Yiorgos Chouliaras is a Greek poet and essayist, whose poetry in English translation has been published and reviewed extensively in major literary periodicals – including Agenda, Grand Street, Harvard Review, Poetry, Ploughshares, The Iowa Review, and World Literature Today – and in international anthologies such as New European Poets. His work has also been translated into Croatian, French, Spanish, Turkish, and other languages. He is the author of six volumes of poetry in Greek and of numerous essays on literature and cultural history, in English as well as Greek, while poets he has translated include Wallace Stevens. He was a co-founder of the influential Greek literary reviews Tram and Hartis and an editor of literary and scholarly publications in the United States. He has served on the Board of the Hellenic Authors’ Society, the Poets Circle, the Ottawa International Writers Festival, and the Modern Greek Studies Association. After finishing Anatolia College in Thessaloniki, he went on a scholarship to Reed College in Oregon, and continued at The Graduate Faculty of the New School for Social Research in New York City, where he worked as a university lecturer, consultant to cultural institutions, correspondent, and press officer. He also served as Press Counselor at the Greek Embassies in Ottawa, Washington, D.C., and Dublin, before returning to Athens. His forthcoming Dictionary of
Memories is a “memoir” in the form of a dictionary.


Hatto Fischer


The blind man

- for Costis, the son of Melina

He sees better than anyone else

what you feel and contemplate.

He senses with his hands

what your smile means to others.

And he gathers a lot from your voice.

Often you wonder how he moves

through the streets and still

finds his way back home

all by himself.

He seems never to be alone

in his world of constant daze.

Everyone greets and loves him

because he knows no sarcasm

and has a friendly word for everyone,

who passes by his house in Dafnomili,

Even to a stranger, he would say,

good that you live among us,

especially when a crisis

hits us so hard that no one can see

what lies ahead. To this he adds

with a nod of his head while his eyes

search where you are standing

that life is most powerful

when the vision of a common future

guides us all. He then shakes your hand

and lets you go, trusting

that you will find your way alone.



The city with the great harbour

at the crack of dawn

hear the rowing boats

filtering into the harbour

after they had been swayed

at sea by all kinds

of winds blowing

them in different directions,

bringing them at times

dangerously close

to rocky shores.


But now, within the safety

of the great harbour,

they quietened down

as again the rowing strokes

of the men found their rhythm

to make sure they would

soon be home – but how strange,

the entire city was silent, no one

seemed to move about, no one

waited at the pier to greet them.


What happened was told later,

for when the people

had just lit the lights in the streets


the evening before

to see what lies ahead

on stairs leading up

to the Cathedral, they went out.

It was so sudden

that a hush of silence

befell the entire city.

Even the church bells

stayed silent that next morning.


At first sight it seemed

the silence was meant

to let children still dream

instead of awakening them,

but no one else moved.

Frozen still, unmoved,

this is how the men

from the rowing boats

found a city no longer

touched by signs of life.


Acquiescence as essence

was like asking the houses

answer us, why no one moves?”

They heard only the echoes

of their footsteps ascertain

silence had become non-recognizable

to them, their heads still tossed

by a sea moved by winds.


It was only once they touched

the sand clinging to walls

like dust of history

did they realize they had

been gone for too long, and

had lost the measure of time,

so now back in their city

by the great harbour

they searched to find another horizon

not one hovering above the sea,

but the one to be spotted lies ahead

if out of certainty in love

something returns to mankind

thought to have been lost,

and when it returns,

then with a magic touch of dreams

to undo an odd kind of neglect,

if only to keep memories alive,

and rhythms saved well.




Hatto Fischer is Philosopher, Poet und Co-ordinator of Poiein kai Prattein.


Philip Meersman


Mysterious disappearances

(Genesis 11:1)

Green butterfly

Sounds pops past my pinna

I listen to cunning linguists licking their tongues

and still time ticks

moments of true happiness

Behold the tower of Babel”



Except our hearts feel

part of this

And the whole earth was of one language and of one speech.”

Can Nimrod be without God’s scorn?

Can we craft a Trans-Europe Express?

Blue Light

Radiation of a computer screen

"land belonging to no one"


I switch off


Zaedno / EN

There hasn’t been a smile

an awakening

so much longed for

There hasn’t been a grey day

a sunset

shining so brightly

There hasn’t been a body

its fluids

so much monitored

the beeps, pleeps, dings,

trings, ticks, dongs,

lines, curves, colors

so much stared at

a rollercoaster

of tears, fears,

silences and sighs


Than that moment

of mmmmpoe and phboe,

hihi and kriihi

of PR & EN

© Philip Meersman, 27/05/2011


Philip Meersman was born May 5th, 1971 in Sint-Niklaas, Belgium, Philip Meersman has been active in the fields of theatre, poetry and plastic arts since 1984. Philip has been constantly searching for (re)new(able) art and creative people. As an actor Philip played (main) parts in some 17 plays. As a directorplaywright he created original plays and translated the play "The Carp" by Bulgarian playwright Rumen Shomov. Together with Lieven Vercauteren he wrote the theatre play “Flight 39.1” in 1996, the project(compilation) "de min" and the theatre play "Naspel" in 2003. Philip published in the capacity as poetwriter-publisher 4 collections of poems: Postume Brief aan Mezelf (Posthumous Letter to Myself, 1989), Speelse Ogen Doven (Playful Eyes Faint, 1996), The BG-Files – PART I, 2003-2005 (2005) and Savanablues (2005). On behalf of the tsunami 12-12 foundation he edited and published the anthology "Woordenvloed". Several of Philips poems are translated into Bulgarian, Romanian, Russian, Spanish, Italian, Hebrew, Arabic, French and English. Philip curated for EXTOS vzw the project "de min" in 2003 in Sint-Niklaas. In the capacity of poet-painter-conceptual artist Philips work is exhibited in different international exhibitions.
Within his academic work as a bachelor student in Archaeology and Art Sciences, Philip has received his bachelor degree with a paper about visual poetry: “Visual poetry”: a semiosphere with its own logic and own reseach domain.” He has also been an intern at KriKri in Ghent.
Philip works on different projects where music, words, sounds, samples and poems are deconstructed and live reconstructed into a new art pieces and studying language and communication as a whole (i.e. different languages) and different forms of expressing poetic thoughts into a form of sounds, ideas, textual images and written words.
He’s working with some people on a brand-new Poetry Magazine about Performance and Experimental Poetry within a new international publishing house. Philip worked for the Flemish Department of Foreign Affairs as a financial expert and project auditor of projects in the countries of Central- and Eastern Europe from 2001 till 2009 and from 2009 till 2011 as a procurement officer at the Belgian Technical Cooperation at the Brussels headquarters of this executive office for development aid in Belgium.


Hemant Divate

The poems were read by Joyce Gauchi

Joyce Gauchi



Ambling by in the garden of the apartment complex

I casually remarked to a friend,

Don’t see those small

deep-yellow butterflies these days

He casually said,

That brand has been discontinued


Even Now I Don’t Understand

Even now I don’t understand

what exactly should be done first

while making love


From where should the touching begin

so that she gives in immediately?

It’s the same as writing a poem


From what line should the poem begin

so that it comes out good?





In my son’s mind there’s someone called Mohak

whom he awaits

and searches for

in the garden, on the ground

or by calling up here and there


Early in the morning

Mohak wakes him with a punch on the back

or a pinch on the thigh

At times he rises from sleep, startled,

and, in tears, says

Mohak missed his school bus

and, at other times,

Mohak is cross with him


We looked for Mohak desperately

To invite him for our son’s birthday, my wife

roamed the whole apartment complex

She even asked security to keep an eye out for him


On his birthday

my son sat crouched

waiting for Mohak

but Mohak didn’t come

Bored at last

he kept Mohak’s return gift and a slice of cake on the table

and went to sleep




We saw Cartoon Network shows

scoured his Time-Life books

thumbed through puzzles

even sent a memo to his school

We left nothing undone

but couldn’t trace Mohak


One day my son said,

Today Mohak and I

played TV games

and when I beat him

in the 100-metre race

the TV game software applauded

but Mohak didn’t clap even once.

So I am not speaking with him anymore.’


I asked Ma,

Did some friend of his come to play?’

Ma said, ‘No one.’

I asked Pa,

What games do you play with him?’

Pa said, ‘Puzzles.’

When I angrily confronted my son,

he said, ‘I have no one to play with.’



There’s a Mohak

in my mind too

Becoming my son’s mind

I too have been awaiting him

for a long, long time

( Mohak is a name of imaginary child. The closest meaning of Mohak in English is Tempting.)

Hemant Divate is an internationally known Marathi poet, editor, publisher, and translator. His two poetry collections in Marathi, Chautishiparyantchya Kavita (Poems Till Thirty-Four) and Thambtach Yet Nahi (Just Can’t Stop), proved to be path-breaking in the Marathi literary landscape. His poems have been translated into English, French, Spanish, German, Urdu, Arabic, Gujarati, Bengali, Hindi, Oriya, Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, and Malayalam. Poetrywala
has just published his third book of Marathi poems titled Ya Roommadhye Aale Ki Life Suru Hote (The Moment You Enter This Room, Life Begins). The celebrated poet and translator Dilip Chitre translated Chautishiparyantchya Kavita into English and titled the book Virus Alert. It is also published in Spanish as Alarma De Virus, and in Irish as Foláireamh Víris. His second book of poems in English translation, A Depressingly Monotonous Landscape, is just published. A Depressingly Monotonous Landscape is a translation of Hemant’s second book of poems ‘Thambtach Yet Nahi’ which was awarded the prestigious Yashawantrao Chavan Prize for the best poetry collection published in Marathi from Jan 2006 to Dec 2009. Hemant has won several prestigious awards, including the Bharatiya Bhasha Parishad Award (Kolkata, India), Aksharrang Lokmat Award 2013 and Maharashtra Foundation Award (USA). He has presented his poetry in many national and international poetry and literature festivals (Europe, Latin America and Asia).
He is the founder-editor of the prestigious Marathi little magazine Abhidhanantar, which saw uninterrupted publication for 15 years. Abhidhanantar has been credited for giving a solid platform to new poets and for enriching the postnineties Marathi literary scene with amazing talent and great poetry. Hemant’s publishing house, Paperwall Media & Publishing Pvt Ltd (Poetrywala), has published more than 45 collections of poetry of extraordinary quality in Marathi and English. Hemant lives and works in Mumbai.


Rati Saxena

The poems of Rati Saxena were read by Mary Cassar

Mary Cassar


Wings of an ant

They said an ant does not have wings

They said even she had them, she cannot fly


If there is no flight, why suffer the pain of wings?


Wings show the death of the ant is near


But death itself is flight


The ant started flying


Holding the light blue light

Bending her wings towards the south

An illusion of silence in the noise

Towards the yellow light


She flew against her life


Carrying flight in the cells of her body

Bringing a seed for the next generation



My wail
does not find
a place
on earth
nor in the sky
but tries to seek shelter
in my chest,
in my abdomen and thighs,
in my womb.
They are afraid
of my wail
and try
to tear out my skin
with nails
while wishing to remove
my womb.
So I bury now my womb
in the earth
and stand there
till I turn into a tree
which grows with thousands cries
to remove
all the nails of artificial civilization.
For that
one wail is enough.

Rati Saxena is an eminent Hindi poet, translator and Sanskrit scholar. She has authored four collections of poems in Hindi (Maya Mahathagini, Ajanmi Kavita Ki Kokh Se, Sapane Dekhata Samudra and Ek Khirki and Aath salaakhen) and Two in English (The Serpent quailing woman body and One Window and Eight bars) and one in Malayalam (in translation). Besides, she has written several research articles on Vedic literature and Indology and published critical studies. Her poems are translated in different languages like persian and Italian. Rati Saxena's poetry represented in various journals of other part of world like-Verasal (Amsterdam, Netherlands and printed in Prague), Edgar literary Magazine (Texas) and gumball poetry etc. Thus establishing a sound reputation as an academic critic Rati Saxena has translated 10 books from Malayalam to Hindi.
Translations of some of the most well known Malayalam poems and novels have earned her nation-wide respect and recognition. She has written a book on famous poet of Malayalam -Balamaniyamma.Among the several awards she has received, the most coveted is the Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award for Translation in 2000. She is also a recipient of the prestigious Indira Gandhi National Culture and Arts Fellowship, which helped her complete this pathbreaking work "A seed of mind-a fresh approach to Atharvavedic study".


Menna Elfyn




How to live and breathe

with mercy?

A quandary, a question.


How to walk lightly

without a cry in the dark,

or even a shadow,


and with each step

be aware of the child sleeping next door:

how we’d give the world, not to wake her.


Murmuring blessings

around the walls,

love in its foundation.




walls are sounds

of the old tongue We understand ‘shibboleth’,

the ‘s’ is clear on our lips;

the ‘sh ‘, ‘sh’, ‘sh’,

a warning that it’s the language of silence.



Now the breeze whispers


Can’t you hear the heather – rasping?


And when an army officer on Epynt announces

that they always take off their shoes

in Afghanistan,

as a gesture of respect to the natives,

(after kicking the door down, that is,)

everyone is quiet as the grave.

Far away, not a whisper from the grapevine.



I urge you please notice when you’re happy and exclaim

or murmur or think at some point—if this isn’t nice, I don’t

know what is...

Kurt Vonnegut


the murmur

we voice,

is a language


strange to others.

We mouth apology

when caught out


in soliloquy:

a muttering

on the lip…


but are pleased too


we snatch a glimpse


of some other wise man

walking the street

or behind a wheel


telling tales,

minding the hours

with himself,

a being containing ‘multitudes’

and all content.



Although you may have an innocent murmur

throughout your life, you won’t need treatment for it

National Heart, Lung & Blood Institute


Poets live with beats,


lubb-dupp, its melody

carries a pitch that flows

through all the heartaches

and meter of the blood.




A door in Epynt

(before leaving Epynt, one woman asked if she could take her door with her)


There’s a door which closes by itself,

a door that deludes time,

one knock and there’s fighting talk.


And althoughshe lived in the back of beyond

this hearth was her harmony,

its underlay, the chill of tranquillity.


No stand-off or ford to cross,

no enemy but the purchase order:

A perfect place, this, for a squaddies’ mess.’


Armed with warrants, in haste they removed

the people from the land. Then the hills of refuge

surrendered to the combats’ heavy outfits.


Not without a plea. Before turning her back:

May I keep the door to the cottage?’

Empty handed, she left for the village.


Yet, when the east wind howls, I hear terror

the door slam shut and, then,flung open.

Listen to its sounds. Earth shakes. Pleading.


Tran. Elin ap Hywel from the Welsh


The poem 'murmur' was read by Lucienne Seychel and the poem 'A door in Epynt' by Pauline Miceli.


Pauline Miceli


Menna Elfyn was born 1951 and is a Welsh poet, playwright, columnist, and editor who writes with passion of the Welsh and identity. She has published ten volumes of poetry and a dozen more of children’s books and anthologies. She has also written eight plays for stage, six radio plays for BBC, two plays for television as well as writing documentaries for television. Her latest publication is Perffaith Nam/Perfect Blemish, (Bloodaxe Books, 2007), and IN PERSON, Bloodaxe Books, one of 30 poets chosen from around the world by the publisher in 2008 as one of their most successful poets. She also co-edited the Bloodaxe Book of Modern Welsh Poetry. She has won numerous prizes for her work, the most recent of which is a Creative Arts prize to write a book on ‘Sleep’.


Claudia Gauci


Nitfa sema mbiegħed

Lil Mary


Ir-riħ reġa' ġie mat-tielet ħarifa.

Trid jew ma tridx

kellek tiftakar fi wliedek sparpaljati

u d-diski fuq ir-radju saru inkonsolabbli.

Bennint kollox f'dirgħajk, żewġ epitaffji.

Imliek dan ir-riħ u sirt mara tqila

b'wegħdiet u xewqat jitmattru fil-gett ta' ġufek.

Żammejthom ħfief bħaż-żrieragħ xmux tad-deheb

biex itiru u jitħawlu weħedhom 'il bogħod

f'art li għażlu huma.

Donnu kollox sar twil iżżejjed.

ll-libsa fil-kamra tal-ħjata baqgħet

tistenna b'ruħha tixlil imxerred fl-art.


It-twieqi sirt tħobb tiftaħhom beraħ

bħall-pori nodfa ta' ġisem żagħżugħ.

Tħalli r-riħ jidħol jingħi,

jitgeddes ġo xagħrek kwiet

jitmiegħek ġo soddtok għarqana

jitħallat mal-ħolm li ntilef fid-dalma.

Fil-mera kiesħa nżajt ħwejġek bil-mod

bħal frotta mqaxxra barra minn zmienha.

Minflokok tfaċċat ermafrodita

rasha tarbija

sidirha ċatt

fjura ferita.

Riġlejha bojod bħal żewġ ċinji

jaħbu f'nofshom art għammiela

midbula f'deżert.

F'għajnejk hemm nitfa’ sema mbiegħed

iħares fih innifsu jistenna l-għabex

tiela' nkiss inkiss bħal ċpar minn ġo ħoġru.

ll-qmis erġajt għalaqtha

bhal siparju mnikket fuq teatru vojt.

Bexxaqt it-tieqa u naddaft ħoġorha

biex min jiġi lura jkollu fejn jistkenn.


Raqqditek magħha l-ħarifa

u stennejt fid-dlam,

sakemm waqgħet l-aħħar werqa.


Speck of blue

for Mary


The wind is here again – your third autumn.

Whether you like it or not

you were forced to remember your scattered children

and the songs on the radio have become inconsolable.

In your arms you lulled everything to sleep – two epitaphs.

This wind filled you and you grew pregnant

with vows and desires stretching in the ghetto of your womb.

You kept them light like golden sun sees

which fly and sow themselves far away

in the land they chose.

It's like everything's grown too long,

The dress in your sewing-room was left

waiting unfinished, its threaded soul spilt on the floor.


You like windows open wide

like the pores of a young body.

You let in the moaning wind

to settle quietly in your hair

to kick in your sweaty bed

blending with dreams lost in the dark.

In the icy mirror you stripped naked slowly

Like a fruit peeled when not yet ripe.

Instead a hermaphrodite appeared

her head a baby's

her chest flat

like a wounded flower,

her legs as white as two swans

that hide between them a fertile land

turned into a desert.

In your eyes a speck of distant blue

gazes into itself waiting for twilight

to rise stealthily like mist from its lap.

You have fastened your shirt again

like a sad curtain on an empty theatre.

You've left the window ajar and cleaned its sill

for whoever returns to seek shelter.


Autumn has laid you to sleep with her

and you waited in darkness

till the last leaf fell.


Translated by Maria Grech Ganado

This ferocious rock


With the moon dancing in your naked eyes

we slowly teased out some words from ourselves and

aired them out as clothes, brand new and outlandish,

in a fogged car parked near the ferocious rock.

That's how I got to know you, hands twined in your hair

spelling out spools from your life

casting them haphazardly next to my head

akin to rare stars at 3 o'clock in the morning.


That's how I got to know you, hands twined in your hair,

black, akin to the night which infused us that day,

soft, akin to a warm secret which you cuddle

till it cools, becomes tiring and forgettable.


Translated by Mark Anthony Fenech

Dal-blat qalil

Bil-qamar jiżfen f'għajnejk għarwenin

slitna bil-mod il-kliem minn ġo ruħna u

perriċnieh bħal ħwejjeġ ġodda u strambi

f'karozza mtappna ħdejn dan il-blat qalil.

Hekk sirt nafek, b'idi go xagħrek,

ittarrafli trufijiet minn ħajtek

titlaqhomli sparpaljati ħdejn rasi,

bħal stilel rari fit-tlieta ta' filgħodu.

Hekk sirt nafek, b'idi ġo xagħrek

iswed, bħal-lejl li daħal fina dakinhar,

artab, bhal sigriet sħun li tgeddsu miegħek

sakemm jibred, jgħejjik u tinsieh.


The poems in Maltese were read by Gertrude Spiteri, and the English translations thereof by Hatto Fischer.

Gertrude Spiteri

Claudia Gauci was born on the 25th September 1976. She graduated from the University of Malta in 1997 with a B.A. (Gen) in Maltese and French. She joined the NGO Inizamed in 2002 and participated in many workshops with diverse writers, both national and international. Her work has been published in F'Kull Belt hemm Kantuniera (Every City has a Corner - Inizjamed, 2003). She has also participated in various projects, amongst them Borders (2003).


Penlope Doundoulaki


The poem 'specks of dust' was written some years ago. The II War, the Battle of Crete, years 1940-45, have kept her mind busy for a long time. During the last two years she visited twice Auschwitz and Ebenzee concentration camps in Krakow [the second visit with her son]. Then she visited the concentration camp in Eisenhausen near Berlin, and then the Anti-Krieg Museum, as well.


Liturgy for peace

Now there are the memories

of the survivors

books, medals, photos.

Now there are - graves, flowers,dust

- some specks of dust

dancing through the sunbeams

some specks of dust

from those lost in the horrible battles

some specks of dust

from the victims of massacres

some specks of dust

from Anna

[killed by toxic gases]

some specks of dust

from her little son

[killed at the same time,too]

some specks of dust

from Werner' s eyeglasses

[really hated that war]

some specks of dust

from cities bombed

from villages put into fire

some specks of dust

from comrades

who never went back home.

Now, so many years after

these specks of dust

- unfulfilled wishes,

violently cut off dreams -

continue to fly - continue to dance - under the sunlight

over the blood-stained earth of Crete.

There have not been words

(there never shall be words)

to describe

all things that these specks of dust,

strolling in front of filled with tears eyes,

(can say.)



My beloved one is sleeping in the mountains

cypresses bow to give him their shade

wild wine trees embrace him

sparrows build nests in his armpits

the leaves of plain trees make a quilt for him.



My beloved one is sleeping on the mountain

a restless wind dances with his dreams
his beard has been mixed with thyme

his hands have the skin of the pine tree

cyclamens stand on their stalk just for him




My beloved one is sleeping on the mountain

his hair keeps the touch of the anemones

his lips keep the taste of sage

his eyes keep a thunder on their sky

a butterfly blushes him with blue




My beloved one is sleeping on the mountain

his shoulders are cornerstones of old castles

his smile opens the way to hope

his speech can confront all weapons

his heart stays in vigilance for the whole world




My beloved one, a fighter for justice

my beloved one, a beggar for the seeker of the poor

my beloved one, a prisoner for truth,

my beloved one, a hermit of bitterness

my beloved one, a poet out of poems

high, on the top of the mountain

the rain washes his dusted clothes

the sun make his boots to fade

nightingales fly among his ribs

I scent jasmine flowers for his sake

I pull the stars off for his sake

I gather the words for his sake




The poems were read by Paul Dalli.


Penlope Doundoulaki 


is medical doctor, poetess, writer, painter. Born in Chania, Crete, 1949, she graduated from the "Aristotelian" University of Thessaloniki in 1973, followed by confirmation of her specialization in Internal Medicine from the University of Athens at the Medical School in 1977. She absolved her Medical Doctorship before doing postgraduate training in Diabetes in 1990. She has served as vice president of the Municipality of Chania in 1987-89, with responsibility for culture. Equally she was Vice Head of the Prefecture and again responsible for culture for the years 2004-2006. She has made numerous publications both in poetry, literary and historical works.


Merlie M. Alunan


Kids' Guernica mural done in Sendai three months prior to the catastrophe in 2011


SENDAI, MARCH 11, 2011


Michiko chan

was picking flowers

the day the rocks

heaved and the sea

rose on its toes

to kiss the hillsides.

Now a thousand things

litter the beach at Sendai—

boats, houses, cars,

bottles, shells, felled trees,

animal bones, broken bodies.



O Michiko, I dreamed

to see you this spring

under the sakura orchard

with the moon glow caught

in your black hair.

Now on the sand at Sendai,

these drying seaweeds.

Among the seagrasses,

these countless shoes

in hues of orange, blue, pink, red

gay yellow, all without pairs.


I want to ask the sea,

Which one is Michiko’s?

but no use. The water

has nothing to say

from its deep black heart.

Only the little waves

drift back to me, licking

my feet, sighing, almost—









last night laughing

you grabbed my sleeves—


so now we’re

on the road again

these strange neural paths

the golden river, behind us

the sunlit fields, a gray sky

cracked with lightning

arching above us


you old rogue chuckling

at the back of my head

what’s to stay us on this

north-bound road—


sour wine laughter song

a bagful of wishes

my satchel of skin

my brittle bones—


chasing the rain

the sun at my heels


The poems of Merlie M. Alunan were read by Hatto Fischer and Gertrude Spiteri.

Merlie M. Alunan has lived and worked throughout her life in the Philippines but not in Manila. That city she describes as a huge urban conglomeration with people perhaps poorer off than what they still had when living on the land. On the map of her country one can spot a group of islands between two large ones - the island of Luzon and of Mindanao. The group of islands is known as the Visayas. She lives on the island of Leyte where she has been living since 1959 when she was just in high school. While she has traveled a bit around the Visayan islands, she finally settled in Leyte in 2000. The island is largely rural. Most of the people are engaged either in fishing or farming. It means that there is not much of an intellectual life. In that sense, poetry is a way for her to resist in the mind from becoming numb due to a lack of activities and intellectual challenges. She has a Master's Degree in English, major in Creative Writing. By the time she was 26, she had completed her M.A.. Once she had started her family and ended up with five children, she no longer wrote. Also she had started on a Ph.D. but due to all the family pressure, she lost the momentum for that. She only resumed writing poetry in the early forties, beleaguered as she was with the task of raising her children alone. She brought all of them through alone by holding down her job as teacher. In that sense, poetry gave her strength and sanity to see all these and more things through.


Anjan Sen



The shadow shakes

The shadow's shadow floats

In the room on the edge of the river

Long long painted scrolls

The story comes in pieces and goes on

In the mind's long painted scroll

Long painted eyes a body in the eyes
But she's not at home
There's no speech, only speech's shadow
These images from words
All blessed illusion

Translated from Bengali by Jesse Knutson



Sorrow's family has left
Its rundown ancestral home
Heading down the path of poverty
The universe will be a village, my dear.

Translated from Bengali by Jessi Knutson


The poems of Anjan Sen were read by Hatto Fischer.

Anjan Sen worked as writer and painter on the campus of "Assam University" in Silchar from March 2010 until June 2011. He gave special lectures in the Dept. of Bengali, Fine Arts and Masse Communication. Presently he is editing "gaNgeopOttro" (1975 - ), a Bengali Journal of literary theory (present co-editors are Udaya Narayana Singh & Subha Chakraborti-Dasgupta). He initiated the Uttaradhunik (Beyond Modernism) to promote literary consciousness - a movement along with Amitabha Gupta and others who joined him since 1985. He is involved with a group of Folk Musicians "Bhromora" and has contributed on art, music and cultural studies, Inter and Intra Cultural Issues, including about Tagore. His date of birth is 16.09.1951.



Then it was the turn of Kevin Ferriggi


Since a proud father of a newly born child, he was asked to read the poem he wrote for his girl called Eva.



The evening ended with a performance by all four girls who developed a kind of dialogue between Gaby and the other three. The piece is called "la voix", and indeed poetry had found a voice thanks above all to the presence of these children who all attend the "La Voix Academy" to train their voices already at an early age.



THE START for the poetry evening was made when Gertrude Spiteri recalled a magic moment when she experienced a poetry reading in a cave on the island of Gozo. Once this impulse was given, Hatto Fischer and Paul Dalli took up the suggestions to ensure that a contraband of poets could land on Malta Friday, 17.May 2013.

^ Top

« The role of the concept in Katerina's poem 'Destiny also flows' by Hatto Fischer | In Search of Peace, Marsaxlook, Malta 7.Sept. 2014 »