Free Associative Gifts

The poems  in this issue are by Mabelle Peñalver, Tom Ormay, Marcus Price and Cosmin Chita.

A poem by Mabelle Peñalver

Prayer

It’s sacrilege
don’t be mistaken
– it’s terminal.
Forget the herbal cure
It’s time over.
No arguing
and no chemical input.
Not fair,
with no escape.

As a good atheist
I rage against the gods
and ask the angels
forgiveness.
There seemed so much time
There seemed so much future
when all the time
you were going
and leaving me here –
in dialogue with the fallen,
in dialogue with the maimed,
in dialogue with myself
and all the cats I collect.

It’s the daily ritual,
to dream of heaven
and set it on fire
I can do scorched earth
Yeah
I can do that.

A poem by Tom Ormay (Hungarian with English translation, 1962)

Cikk Csak

Cikk csak.
Ok nincs.
Nem ezeknek.
Min nevetnek?
– Nyolc pohár, és egy kis üveg. –
A verseden.

Gyenge vagy,
Félsz.
Nem beteg?

Ez nem vers, nem is él.

Oly váratlanul kéne megváltozni mindennek,
Hogy csak akkor vegyem észre,
Amikor már úgy van.

Hidd el, hogyha hiszed, a dolgok élnek is.

Ne félj emlékezni,
Mindenben te vagy,
Ha nem hiszed, akkor is,
De akkor nem látod.

Alkoss! Alkoss! Alkoss!

Just Jots

Just jots.
No cause.
Not for them.
Why do they laugh?
– Eight glasses and a small bottle. –
At your verse.

You’re weak,
Afraid.
Not ill?

This is no verse, not alive.

Everything should change so unexpectedly,
That I would notice only,
When it has been there.

Believe, if you believe it, things live.

Don’t fear to remember,
You are in everything,
Even if you don’t believe,
But then you don’t see.

Create! Create! Create!

A poem by Marcus Price

A child was smacked
A child was beaten
And now as a monument
The ice cream like a fallen steeple
Melts into the hard unforgiving road

Feathers unveil a moving sky
As taken to a lovely place
Denies the road its cruel embrace
And dancing shores the full desire
To cuddle friends beside the fire.

A poem by Cosmin Chita (German with English translation)

Die Akazie

Hoch auf dem Hügel,
über das Grab,
wacht die Akazie.

Jahr für Jahr
schlug die Axt,
brach ihren Schatten.

Derweil dornig,
roch mein Fleisch
glühend wie Honig.

Scherbentief,
Wuchs der Baum
nach, am Wasser.

Fällender! Schweige fort!
Unter dem Baum
ruhen die Eltern.

The Acacia

High on the hill,
over the grave,
wakes up the acacia.

Year after year
hit the axe,
broke her shadow.

Meanwhile thorny,
smelled my flesh
glowing like honey.

Deep as shards,
Grew the tree in
At the water.

Lumberman! Be silent!
Under the tree
the parents are resting

Please send poems for publication to
Marcus Price
lbwplumb@gmail.com