PABLO AND THE POSTMANSrijato
The postman you had befriended
Gathers dry leaves now and
Sings an unfamiliar tune to
PACK YOUR BAGClaude Esteban
Pack your bag, kind old man,
the new-born day harries us
even the wolves are
PAIN IS A FOREIGN LANGUAGERăzvan Ţupa
a romanian body knows how to sidestep decisions it feels that in such cases it can no longer
PAN IN THE REEDSNorbert Hummelt
how this hot wind, scirocco, brings it all to a standstill
.. muddy ground, reed, roots,
Calm down – it is over and done,
Your body is shrouded in black –
From trash heaps
PAN'S HOURNorbert Hummelt
when we found a space to park by the shop to buy some water
and didn’t like the look of
Seeing somebody’s head fall, dangle, drop, hang, reminds me of my Papa. At the time of his
PAPER BOATSapardi Djoko Damono
When you were a child you made a paper boat and sailed it
PAPER HANDKERCHIEFSK. Schippers
A funnel, tissues, the telephone,
completely unrelated, now I see them
before me on the
Walking through the supermarket at night
past the green flash of salads,
behind the two
The swamp, forbidden to enter
Dangerous depths with purple loosestrife and bitter clover.
They say that poets should keep their tongue in check.
They, they are the fashion journalists
As if in passing and with extreme indifference
the death sentences are passed
PARIS IS NEVER NEWVahe Arsen
The wind lifted and blew my playing card
out the window of the drowsy Eldorado Hotel.
the white light in the streets
bundles the city and in the park
above the paths where
PARTAKECeaití Ní Bheildiúin
The hill speaks:
If you are defenceless, come
close to my side and sanctuary;
Like myriad streams and rivulets flowing into a nameless sea,
like masses of clouds sailing
Always the last. Tomorrow I will see only
simple poppies in a sea of mums
PASSAGE FROM THE EASTGian Mario Villalta
Steel, thuds, fragments
water that cackles in the tubes
and deeper down the
I open the photo’s windows
to air it. It’s been shut up for some time.
like so many
PASSED-ON FIREIku Takenaka
Anybody want fire?
Here is nice-colored fire.
Like a bonfire in a cedar forest.
PASSING CENTURYNirupama Dutt
In the last few years of the century
the poem will find itself
beneath the moon of the
PASSIONMaria van Daalen
Would the king himself ever bite on his tongue,
I think, facing the mirror, slavering blood
PASSOVER, 2002Aharon Shabtai
Instead of scalding
your pots and plates,
take steel wool
to your hearts:
You read the
When we meet
even before smiling
I do the checklist
your eyes, still two
PASSWORDS OF OBLIVIONSibila Petlevski
These marigolds grow on stems too long
as if their relatives were from the field
I opened the door and, having stopped at the porch,
I noticed how I experience my
15 meters from the road to Batuan, there is a dike on a river’s edge, and
PASTORAL SONGRuy Duarte de Carvalho
I don’t even know how to say it:
my cow is the color of dung
Over the house, large hanging fans –
combat helicopters from the army base.
No one can turn to the sun;
we should all have a secret forest,
but where was
PATRIOTIC POEMGerður Kristný
The cold makes me
a lair from fear
places a pillow of
Rows of armored vehicles move backwards and forwards through the sad lines
of my poems. In a
PAUL CELAN IN THE SEINESong Lin
This is an inevitable slip of the tongue. Alone, abroad. Oh! 'April will warm us.' This is
I used to go to school on foot and by trolley-bus.
Simple time. Slow tempo. Ad lib
PAUSING IN THE GARDENMohamed Al-Harthy
I will rest, poet, I will rest . . .
I will follow the signposts,
whether or not I
Round, choral, sonata. The notes
are bricks to build yourself a home:
PAX LUSITANICARuy Cinatti
Well, if I remember right it was bad enough
having to give myself to Greeks and Trojans.
Beyond this cloud of ashes
He hopes the darkness will return to him
“Let’s live on”
You and me, facing each other.
Conspiracy of spring
a man awakes and through the window sees
a pear tree blossoming,
Sometimes they are pears.
At other times sirens in a basket.
And not so often,
Wherever I go, pebbles.
There’s no place where you don’t lie about.
Blue lentils, round
PEKING OPERA LESSONYang Lian
peonies cluster round on their fine stamens stand pergola and patio
PELLETS OF GLASSEfrat Mishori
Pellets of glass worked with heat
Sunk deep at the base of a bowl.
Beaten in on themselves,
PENELOPELuz Mary Giraldo
Making groundless conjectures
she closes her eyes and unmakes time:
she folds and
PENIS FROM HEAVENMasayo Koike
Timidly the woman’s hand touched
The centre of the man’s crotch spread wide
The man is
PENNILESS LOVERSEugénio de Andrade
They had faces open to whoever passed.
They had legends and myths
and a chill in the
in all phases of the nesting fold the tuft,
balled-up packages, dense, tight and
PEOPLE I TELEPHONEHarkaitz Cano
There are people you once adored and
that you now call only on their birthday.
at the end of a perfect day
those simple people looking for love
left scars on
A tear drop alights
From a car that crosses my eye
Behind a light
With no salt in their coats
And no dirt
There was always a poem at the end of the notebook
that put him back in his place
beauty is Greek. but the consciousness of what is Greek is Dutch.
nothing is, everything
PET SHOPSEwa Lipska
The internment camp
from my childhood.
Guinea pigs. Parrots.
PETALSVasant Abaji Dahake
One by one, we left the black-shadow cities behind
and yet I’ve seen the gutter-yellow
PETROL PUMPMartin Reints
Stop the car at a petrol pump
so the petrol cap doesn’t end up too far in front or behind the
PHANTOM SHAKERPeer Wittenbols
No little finger, no ring finger
carries pistol of flesh.
My cousin Rini.
PHASES OF THE SUNAndriana Škunca
The sun glued to the window is no more a white-hot ball that defeats the eye. Shrunken to a point
Admit it. The pointlessness of what
you write. Sensitive waffle,
a girl who sings. Cut
a man has just finished
his promiscuous game today
A landscape – a map.
Houses scattered around
or completely washed
PHOTOS IN VARIOUS POSESK. G. Sankara Pillai
We need several photos, sir,
Of people like you
In various poses, bending,
PICASSO’S HORSEIsrael Bar Kohav
Picasso’s horse will never set his foot upon the ground
near the boy who stands
PICNIC FOR STRANGERSTom Van de Voorde
You recognise the boat by the butterfly scratched on the prow,
the bundle of sage, bruised
My work, I’m very careful about it, and I love it.
But today I’m discouraged by how slowly
PIECE OF PAPERArjen Duinker
The purple butterfly is full of meaning.
The passionate flower slightly less.
PIECED TOGETHERCharl-Pierre Naudé
“I know the feeling,” my friend chuckled,
going through a divorce.
PIERO DELLA FRANCESCAHéctor Rojas Herazo
He polishes a geometrical crystal
and harmonizes the wind and the smile.
All of a sudden, I close my right fist tightly and pound it on my left
palm. “Pow!” How empty
If only we hadn’t rushed headlong into things,
the notes of our score might still be
- So, what do we see?
- A rabbit of course!
- A rabbit. And?
- And? I see a rabbit.
Here I will not hear the voice of the cuckoo.
Here the tree will not wear a cape of snow.
PITCHER AND CROWNOrietta Lozano
My beheaded, broken-down,
a pin stuck in the
ash of the stone,
PLACES FOUND IN FICTIONChirikure Chirikure
Every face encountered
the same question
about places I have been
Only the heart
PLAIN SPEAKINGNguyễn Tiên Hoàng
They released you, what now?
You look at the night sky, news from the stars, No.
PLANE TREEStefano Dal Bianco
I went out to walk towards this sea, but I must deny this
because I had gone out and in
PLANE TREESJosé Tolentino Mendonça
After shutting everything, I reopen the door
and plunge unsteadily into the empty darkness
PLANT MANYao Feng
People, once they stood upright on this earth,
began to name with language this great
PLAY OF THE ABSURDKynpham Sing Nongkynrih
Sisyphus eternally rolls his rock
to the mountain top from which
it eternally rolls down
Somewhere in a strange hotel, meeting your end
like lost property, nowhere, that’s how they
along with my friends,
I jumped into the river
near my village
PLAYFUL EASEMark Boog
With ever greater playful ease
I counter the attacks
on my hard-won indifference.
PLAZAJoke van Leeuwen
No breath of wind. And yet a man held a woman
firmly fast, a woman a child. The small legs
PLAZA ST. ANANyk de Vries
Lisa looked very worried and for a moment I thought she had something important to say, but past
PLUCKING FLOWERSRin Ishigaki
I plucked wildflowers at Marunouchi in Tokyo.
At the end of the 1920’s
I was in my
PLUGGED EARSGeet Chaturvedi
I've plugged ears
What's bad around me
PLUM IN JAPANESEAdmiel Kosman
The moon casts an amusing tree-shadow
over the end of your left breast, and writes
PLUMERIA ACUTIFOLIATua Forsström
I walked in a city glittering
from exchange rates and low motels
Huge halls with slot
POCKET FROM HEAVENAbol Froushan
Pocketful of heaven
Forced entreats measure to no avail
Frustration bids no change
POEMMário Cesariny de Vasconcelos
Light occurs when
shadows are eliminated
Shadows are what exist
shadows have their own
POEMPaul van Ostaijen
Rest thus your head on my arm
that from your forehead to your lips my eye
may glide along
POEMKanaka Ha. Ma.
She catwalks, noiseless,
Stealthily laps up some milk
Slumps on the threshold
And this longing to reach the book
Following the transmutable rhythm of its signs
I call myself you for thus the distance
between us is eliminated like skin
It’s the simplest things that I hear in the wind’s
intervals, when the simple
POEM FOR A CAMELArjen Duinker
Tomorrow is the day of the small things,
Of the pin and the yellow paint.
You will feel
POEM FOR JOSEPHRobin Ngangom
“It is never too late to come home.”
But I need a homeland
where I can recognize
POEM OF THE END - 4Teji Grover
The fisherman has landed on the riverbank.
Kalidas becomes watchful.
And in the
POEM ON A TAPE RECORDERNikos Karouzos
Joy of night, oh sonorous lights,
the colored noise of the city
POEM WHILE WAITINGJules Deelder
You’re sitting deep in thought
Time drags on at snail’s pace
Far away an
POEM WITH A HAPPY ENDINGFrank Koenegracht
When late at night in bed,
a book in your right hand, cock
in your left, you make up the
POEM XVPablo Neruda
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away
POEM – 1Nitin Mehta
Even as I sat down to write a poem
somebody placed a hand on my shoulder.
And tried to
POEM – 2Nitin Mehta
I thought everything was going just fine
and caught hold of the paper.
The branch snapped
POEMS OF ADVERTISEMENTSVarjesh Solanki
About films: wanted boys and girls for a new TV serial,
Smart, young, having a good
POEMS SET ON FIREMazisi Kunene
I shall invisibly follow you into the sacred vaults
Deep in the belly of earth where you hide
POEM’S DREAMBoujema El Aoufi
For two reasons that resist speculation
The poem sleeps early
In the poet’s body:
Autumn. Listen. Crackling. Can you hear that heavy rattling?
It draws near in our clothes, in
This morning, together with many others,
I sneered at poetry
for being rubbish.
POETTeixeira de Pascoaes
When the first tear welled up
In my eyes, divine clarity
Lit up my village homeland
Why do trees weep leaves without warning?
Why do the old choose to die in their mountain
POETAifric Mac Aodha
For sustenance he wants
only a cat’s cadaver:
prays that its scything
POETIC INTERESTSSigitas Parulskis
Barely awake, I understood that I’ve been thrown out of the field of poetic interests
POETRYIgnatius T. Mabasa
Clink clink, clank clank!
Culinary noise ain’t cooking
It may just be noise of pots ‘n
A grief mounting with the drumbeats
you remained on the other bank
like no other she could
so had he assured her
suffer beautiful and deep from this life
POETRYHubert van Herreweghen
Poetry comes from on high,
with the rain and the sun,
from the planets, the moon when
The day before yesterday there was war
yesterday was the same
and it’s still war in my
I never cared much for beautiful poetry
unless you didn’t notice it was beautiful
Poetry must stand and speak.
Stand on the broken washing machine and speak the language
Poetry is our art and part
Whatever crime we committed,
POETRY BURNSDane Zajc
Fire reads poems.
Fire assigns punctuation.
Fast fire with charred eyes
POETRY IN FRANCEChristophe Tarkos
France has great artists and great poets. France, its artists, its poets, its greatest artists and
POETRY IS CHILD’S PLAYLucebert
over the cracking egg
wanders a heavenly bode
in search of his antipode
and that art
POETRY OF NONSENSE, #2Sun Wenbo
Your snow is not mine. My snow is in the courtyard.
In early morning I walk out,
POET'S TOMBShuntaro Tanikawa
In a certain place there lived a young man
Who lived by writing poetry
He wrote a poem
POISONING 1Nils Christian Moe-Repstad
A rat runs
into the gaping mouth of an alligator
continues down to the stomach
POISONING 13Nils Christian Moe-Repstad
The old state is the new state, with white cloths
on the tables and credit card terminals
POISONING 15Nils Christian Moe-Repstad
I sit in this undignified chair
I put tablets under my tongue
and read the stocks on
POISONING 16Nils Christian Moe-Repstad
We were already poisoned: changing in shape
hasty to betray, we incinerated intimacy in all
POISONING 2Nils Christian Moe-Repstad
A trace of water runs over the window
like a repetition of how
the world is reborn
POLISH RESTAURANTRui Pires Cabral
The night is sustained by its décor
like a dead man linked to his machines.
POLISH ROCKSerhiy Zhadan
Falling asleep, she remembered the river –
somewhere in the caverns of sleep, where she
This dry tree
how has it arranged itself so well
so well under the
POMPE INUTILIManuel de Freitas
Nobody’s born; it would make no sense
to call the placental remains
enveloping a bunch
says he: grief is a pond.
says i: yes, grief is a pond.
because grief lies in a
POOL PARTYAyoub Ahrari
In a sunkissed party
I take a seat somewhere
To see all the beauty
POP STARMicha Hamel
Not that I’ve ever seen your rosy mouth
for real, or been allowed to give those
that was fulda just now. the weak glow of the ceiling lights
in the open carriage is
PORGY & BESS BANDZvonko Maković
to lie, why not. after all words are
arbitrary; words that are not things,
PORNSCHLEGELDirk van Bastelaere
It’s July, and who would kill for a woman
Now? It’s so hot it’s unreal. In the country:
He returns a few Shahsavars
with the necktie of a noose
a few scratches on the
PORT SOUNDSGordana Benić
Sometimes ships are greater than houses,
brighter than streets. Cracks in the walls draw them
you are lucky you will be able to scream
when the whole world is trying to escape on a
smoke from the seventies asleep in his tash as anger
aimed at kids in a driving ford escort
Man, 21st century
Livid glimpse, jawbone with balls galore
that for far too long
She is alone.
She strokes her face with a cold hand, forcing a smile.
PORTRAIT ENDEDMirta Rosenberg
It is a way of saying
I want to be left without words,
to lose without comment.
PORTRAIT OF A WOMANAlberto Vélez
She hopes for nothing. Maybe a
Peaceful death. Or not even that. Because
PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG MANPorfirio Barba Jacob
Paint a young man, with loyal and pure
words, with words of reveries and emotion;
PORTRAIT OF AN UNKNOWN PRINCESSSophia de Mello Breyner Andresen
For her to have such a slender neck
For her wrists to bend like flower stems
For her eyes to
PORTRAIT OF RAINBoujema El Aoufi
The rain’s portrait
We used to surprise
In old note-books
And colored poems
PORTRAIT OF THE POETC. (Cornelis) Buddingh’
you want a portrait of the poet?
there’s a cartoon by charles addams
PORTRAIT WITH DOGRutger Kopland
That dog and I. He has withdrawn
into himself, and I
– I had laid my hand
If only, Portugal, you were just three syllables,
a beautiful view of the sea,
POST COITUMO. Nimigean
sad as if some time
– but I don’t remember when here
POSTCARD FROM A PORTVeronica Jimenez
The philosopher González Pérez, stevedore of seat
number three, examines with
POSTCARD FROM JERUSALEMTuvia Ruebner
Jerusalem left Jerusalem and ran away.
That thing up there, surely it can’t be
POSTCARD FROM ZURICHTuvia Ruebner
Zurich is rubbing against the Zurichberg.
Zurich doesn’t like being tickled under its fur.
POSTHUMOUS POEMLauren Mendinueta
The book I am writing
Is a grave much anticipated.
Were I to make a list of what
POSTPONEMENT Mae Yway
Aim & shoot, but at what?
Like one hand shuts the door on the other
Control from a
POSTSCRIPTJorge Bustamante García
Everything has been certain on this journey
That which has not happened and that which
POSTSCRIPTJorge de Sena
I’m not one of those whose bones are kept,
nor am I even one the future will lament
POURING DROUGHTAndrej Sen-Senkov
the women who live in the city
built by the river
throw the little gifts of former
PRAYERMaría Mercedes Carranza
No more dawns or customs,
no more light, no more jobs, no more instants.
For my days I ask,
Lord of shipwrecks,
not for water for my thirst, but thirst,
Grant me the strength to look at you, to bear the radiance
of the sun;
the strength to alert
My God! Damsel of gold!
I know you care nothing for me
I know you don’t notice my
PRAYER BOOKAharon Shabtai
For years I’ve wanted to write a prayer book
Why? Because I’ve learned
PRAYER OF THE VANQUISHEDFederico Díaz-Granados
Lord of the vanquished
I pray to you for myself, courier of the birds.
I never knew the
PRE-POETRY (1978–1984)Vlado Martek
you can wander through language
To have an attitude means to offer
you a Prophet a Jesus?
you wit yo palace-house?
you wit yo airmobile?
In one city there is one man
In two cities there is one orientation
PREDRAG SAMARDŽISKIPredrag Lucić
In the Macedonian Globus
That goes by the name of Fokus
I read an interview with a
PREMATURE METAPHORAjmer Rode
I have winged with the flock
where the crop is good.
No more questions from me: from now on I am going
to know things. From now on she is not rose
Even rocks crack, I'm telling you,
and not on account of age.
PRIMEVAL MOTHEREdvard Kocbek
Where are you, oblivion? Where are you, transient winds?
Everything passes but my sad
PRINCE CALFJohn Leefmans
We were princes, ‑ Rev. said –
because we were by heaven elected.
PRIOR TO A POEMMiri Ben Simhon
I want to write now
but I’m too nervous to write now
and that’s all that
only a year is left just one year
until he can cross the shoe-scraped threshold
PROBLEMS WITHOUT ENDRutger Kopland
One ought to avoid the word ‘problem’
for two simple reasons:
PROCEEDING TO THE LETTERPaul Bogaert
Proceeding to the letter
and in the spirit of the scheduled starting time
he checks the
You mistake someone for an animal and kill the animal
That’s how it happens in the forest,
All the cars in the rain
whizzing past my window,
passing along the bend in
You, the stranger, whose face is dimmed by intimacy
spread your body into a net
to hunt me
In Greek philosophy for beginners,
I turned the ancient words over without
PROLOGUE Aurélia Lassaque
All that follows is from profane memory
the poets reinvented
Some blue and flowered morning
we shall sweetly go, hand in hand
to listen to the
I've got something special for any day of the year. Long or short,
whatever it takes to
I always sought the profusion of the rains
and celebrated excess.
The door that
What could have been us:
under all our clamour the man
who wasn’t here
He plays a train.
She plays a whistle.
They move away.
He plays a rope.
I´m still here, though my country´s gone West.
PEACE TO THE PALACES AND DEVIL TAKE THE
PROPHETIC SEASONAmparo Osorio
My eyes can
Prophets have light
Screwed tight in their eyes. They cannot see the darkness
PROPOS SUR LE VENTMakoto Ooka
Après la pluie. Voici un gué.
Vagabondages à travers bois.
PROSAICPeter van Lier
Although it’s eleven at night, or thereabouts, a girl comes cycling
past. On her
PROSCRIBED BLOOD — 1Malathi Maithri
In the sanctum’s dark stands
Our half-female Goddess,
Waiting on her one aching foot
PROSCRIBED BLOOD — 2Malathi Maithri
On this rainy night
The full moon hangs precariously
From the temple’s sacred mast
the hankering does not
PROSPECT HILLYao Feng
The sun slides down toward West Mountains
The twilight gradually distances the palaces
PROTECTIVE STATEAlfred Schaffer
The probability that a terrorist* is living in your neighbourhood is very small.
The electronic eye now aims
at every movement.
Its beam which should be purple
but put yourself in my place but
it’s just that put yourself in my place is
The stranger seated beside me has dozed off
His body slackened, head resting on my
PRYPIAT – STILL LIFEOksana Zabuzhko
It could be dawn.
The light, crumpled like sheets.
The ashtray full.
liberated from me you shan’t free yourself of me
while you’re in me I’ll keep repeating you
Then these sounds will be wind,
when they rise up from their place, then
they will blow
PSALM 138Lloyd Haft
When I praise you
my heart is whole,
even where the thousand images
PSALM 141Lloyd Haft
What I have –
Accept it when I say I need.
I have no incense,
PSALM 22Maria van Daalen
When I open the door of the refrigerator
the mould on the milk is half an inch thick.
Halka, my sunshine, don’t block the light
PUNCTUALHugo Jamioy Juagibioy
I must walk until I’m exhausted
and even though I’m in a hurry
I will not walk any
PUNCTURED SKYNico Bleutge
the lines of telegraph wires above the skeleton’s sandstone
the swelling clouds behind the
Without hair, legs,
empty of clothes it feels cold and slow
however it hurries.
PUPEMAGustavo Adolfo Garcés
I wonder what became of Pupema
who deliriously told us
PUTTING ON MY FACEChimako Tada
Facing the mirror, I put on my face
Apply a thin layer of makeup
But not like usual this
I sleep over the fissure;
sharp edges press against
my soul my heart my sex,