a swallow, my last token,
nomad I don’t know what I write when I’m writing
Let me have a sheet of drawing paper
Please use the white pastel
to draw a vast snowy
night, agave, gulls, kontador.
in its burning hot puddle, slowly, towards the bottom,
at 10 in the morning I go off to the Yanfeng Plaza and buy myself five jin radishes back home I
rage: at that instant, I was seething with rage,
but rage was pointless
I sat in the car,
when nothing else is going on
rain is a big event but when some event
In the sky of a town that turned so decrepit
When I put up my umbrella
I arrive at those
RAIN AND SUNTorgeir Rebolledo Pedersen
we are weeping over sons we lost
tears are griefs that are
RAIN POEMJotamario Arbeláez
All my chilhood it rained.
The tall women in the family
fluttered between the wires
When he appears
All grows visibly darker
Suddenly the air takes on dampness
it happens like this
a calm counting of syllables
RAMI LEVY IN TALPIOTAmichai Chasson
No thoughts come to me tonight, Walt Whitman
and Allen Ginsberg, solitary, childless
I hear the bells and, all is well.
It’s 1 AM or 2 AM. I can’t sleep.
You will pay for everything.
Just being born is the highest price.
A flock of mocking
It’s noon, you’re sitting behind the wheel
in an empty country road, a couple of Polish
RAPPING IN AMSTERDAMRoni Margulies
Among the grass of Rembrandtpark
a flash of colour shone in the sun
and caught my
Enter the inside of the sunny morning, and it seems as if the scream can always be heard. It’s so
the star eyes at daybreak.
The ambrosial part of the night face,
RAVEN IN HYDE PARK (1989)Gastão Cruz
With its beak it lifts September’s leaves
in intervals it listens to the music of the birds
This sleepy little town was once the empire’s center.
This baker was Caesar’s baker.
is an emergence
stuck fast in the
RAYMOND CARVERRogi Wieg
As Raymond Carver wrote. I vaguely remember his lines,
go right, not left. Take that road and
READ ME YOUR POEMSUdaya Narayana Singh
You led me, your old lover,
to your new house,
down the valley,
in an empty
READING OF HISTORYBei Dao
As plum flowers revolt, the hostile dews
Safeguard the darkness engraved by the midday sword
This is gentleness, not the rhetoric of gentleness
This is tedium, the sheer fact of
1. Don't start doubting reason,
reason, reason, reason.
A fly walks from the
A nail in mourning, the last native
‘Poetry,’ I am in the middle of declaring
to a bunch of unbelieving assholes
Don’t become a poet.
It’s hard to live like that –
Mother will sit at the table
in the cold white kitchen,
waiting for me to bring her
When in a fit of anger my father killed the cat,
Bartolo my cat
because it put its tail in
The country's on fire. I spent my life among
those never-ending flames. My soul is
RED BREADNawal Naffaa'
I look for sweets in his pockets
and find nails.
My mother bandages the wounds in his
RED FLOWERSTomaž Šalamun
Red flowers grow in the sky, there’s a shadow in the garden.
The light penetrates,
RED HELMETIsabella Motadinyane
of come and see
our home is a home
of tears and bitterness
RED LACERuxandra Cesereanu
why would I want to rip holes in your skin like red lace
why would I want to touch your
RED POPPIES Miroslav Mićanović
A part of an arm and half a head
with one eye closed
stick out under a gray raincoat
RED SCISSOR-WOMANKim Hyesoon
beside that woman walking out
of the gynecologist’s office
is an old woman holding an
REDEMPTIONAntero de Quental
Voices of trees, the wind, the sea!
When, in certain sorrowful dreams,
I’m lulled by
opposite me: roads, buildings, housing estates, a few houses
opposite me: grass plots, trees,
REGRET AND CONVINCESheng Xing
fall in love with a stone and not regret it
fall in love with a she-devil and not regret
RELIEFSonja vom Brocke
What did he slip out of. An egg hologram? A precisely removed
chip-cyst? The New Bones Man is
Remember when we on the tips of our toes on the edge
Of a mountain it seemed, that time that
Nothing in eternity, a wandering ring,
nothing in time, circle, pretence and vertigo,
Because a dream beheld at me I am here today.
You walked down the lane to the deer park and
Despair wraps itself around your name.
For a moment I am alarmed, cannot reconstruct
We carried a part of your life outside.
Piling up on the platform all you’d gathered
Consigned to a shallow river
are father’s mortal remains,
mother keeps appearing
REPORT ON HUNGERFederico Díaz-Granados
Hunger dwells in me. And everyone tells me so.
It is not fear nor is it doubt
it is just
Ask how it happened that the summer lost its way in the man, couldn’t find its way out
I implore my memory to reach back, to seize all doubts
and despairs, all hopes and passions, all
The birds are switched off
but the lamps are still awake.
REQUIEM FOR A HAIRDRESSERJan Wagner
he always rested on mondays. now monday's here to stay.
so cover the mirrors, make blunt
REQUIEM WITHOUT TEARSEduardo Gómez
Your death began a month ago
and from the first day
children played in the park like
RESEARCH REPORTNachoem M. Wijnberg
I talk to doctors who have won the lottery: immediately after they have heard the news and then
RESISTANCE TO THEORYDaniel Jonas
I’ll be waiting for the grapes
of my vineyards
in the luminousness of
The fish stocks dictate no monkfish
so I choose an ostrich steak instead.
Slashed along the full length of the belly
with the scalpel of a medical student
RESTING SEPARATELYK. Schippers
My leg has fallen asleep in the hotel
like it’s on pins and needles
RESTITUTIONSGonzalo Márquez Cristo
I pretend that everything lost becomes a poem.
Wounds like hurricanes have a name. And
Because the djaga poured out kettles of tea because I couldn’t untangle myself from a
RESTORATION OF THE WORDEduardo Gómez
Why write small verses
when the world is so vast
and the uproar of cities drowns out
RETIRED SEASDorta Jagić
amongst the people from Zagreb are numerous witnesses
claiming that retired seas
RETURNChaim Nachman Bialik
Once more. Look: a spent old scarecrow
I wonder if it really was a wink.
Who knows, it could have been a fateful omen.
Father sits on other side of the table. Two moons shine in the courtyard — one red and the other
Return to classical
Because of what is ‘frozen’ in
RETURN OF THE BIRD OF EXILEMazisi Kunene
Our regiment haunched heavily on the pure sands of the sea
Watching without a murmur waves and
RETURNING HOMEUroš Zupan
Dusty roads, a voice that rises from a throat
and dissolves in the desert, the smell of a
RETURNING HOMEJorge Bustamante García
The journey has been long and hazardous.
There is still a handful of mountains
I want to go back to what once upon
a time we all called our house,
to go up the old
In winter, flakes come down
like the feathers
of some shy bird.
Woman at the black
REVIEW OF THE WEEK Alexis de Roode
On Monday I log on onto my computer, on Friday I log off.
On Saturday I lie on my laminate
It so happens
that if we mother doors
that swing open and
REVOLUTIONNachoem M. Wijnberg
Your friends who made revolution
– and in the distance you see another one approaching
REVOLUTION IILies Van Gasse
That’s still young.
That rolls over roofs
REVOLUTION XVLies Van Gasse
This afternoon when, in full sun,
I found myself a body,
REVOLUTION XVIILies Van Gasse
This evening, when the air sings like blood
and tears the sheet, she sits bald on the
REVOLUTION XXILies Van Gasse
This morning when, after years, I emerged,
my hair was wet,
scales grew beneath
RHUBARBCelia de Fréine
My Clan Mother is the great she-devil
of the forest. She stands twenty feet
over fields of
RHYTHMJuan Cristóbal Romero
What harm could there be in following
the hidden rhythm of things.
What harm in tapping
RIBBON HANDSIsabella Motadinyane
mama’s little darling
the way she is lazy
RICE PARADISERonny Someck
My grandmother didn’t let us leave rice on the plate.
Instead of telling us about hunger in
RICE STEAMERSayaka Osaki
There was an artist I used to love but I forgot who it was
There was a song I used to love
RICHARD WAGNERSelahattin Yolgiden
the nails of the wind
grow on a corpse
inside me, a clattering typewriter
A white cloud with a travel bag on its back
has just missed the gust of wind
Yes, the Greeks have rights, Germans
have rights, our beaches, bicycles
RIGMAROLEOmar Pérez López
Son of love, son of misunderstanding
Positively no(n) selfdenying nor
RIPE CHERRIESStefan Hertmans
What holds on is inedible.
The oldest houses are exchanged for newer rubble,
and smooth stone
I rise from under the ruins
Climb my pride
And reach to the surface . . .
RIVERGert Vlok Nel
River, o river you’re the deepest word that I know
I could navigate by you to the sea & to
there are many rivers in the mountains where I grew up
in deep gorges they flow
That was the same strange word
that I searched for in a dream
and was unable to
ROAD: TWO SCENESManushya Puthiran
I have been
watching that boy
ever since we came here
As soon as dusk falls
ROADSVasant Abaji Dahake
Now I’ve filled my lungs with cold darkness
and my eyes are unpeopled roads.
In the forgetting of tree and tree
Is the dog’s lyric assault
At the pointless journey’s
I heard about them by chance in our humble country
I asked who they really are
A robin that taps against the window.
Not against the window but against the egg in which it
ROCK PAINTERQin Xiaoyu
I carve game on stone, my quarry,
So they become beasts in fur coats, mastered by me.
ROCK PAINTINGMarlene van Niekerk
Whoever set you upright here, little quagga foal,
alone on your first legs, a birth moment
ROMANIAN HITSRăzvan Ţupa
What they once called youth is gone and nothing has taken its place When it’s raining
Behind the waterfall, roaming across rustling fields,
crouched above liverwort, springing
ROMANTIC EPILOGUENikos Karouzos
Don’t read me if you haven’t
attended the funerals of strangers
or at least memorial
RONDEAU ALLEMAGNEBarbara Köhler
I’m hanging on, a stranger to this land,
Caught up by love that drives me beyond the bounds
RONDELLeón de Greiff
Music, music from afar,
music, exotic music
Music that harms the soul
In Japanese homes the roofs are low,
The poorer the home the lower the roof,
sitting alone on our rooftop we feel as if we are sitting huddled in some crowded basement
ROOMNyk de Vries
In that town there was a room I kept circling. It was near my girlfriend’s. She didn’t know I
No one rings
and email’s full of ads
London is not London either
and this room is
perhaps it lacks objectivity
on the terrace of the Excelsior Hotel he said I
ROOM 421Menno Wigman
My mother’s near kaput. She’s got a hutch,
not quite a box, and sits the same day
Sunday, I sit on an iron bench with a missing leg in a quiet corner
of the park to enjoy the
His long white neck will be your prize;
If I may peck his bright blue
My lips tell the lament of your distant voice,
a medal I wear on my chest, not forgotten
It’s time to pack your bag and go.
You don’t know what to take – something
ROSE IØyvind Rimbereid
In the Lufthansa flight on her way home from Milan
seven thousand metres above the Alps
ROSE IIØyvind Rimbereid
So fast you flowered!
No one discovered you before
you had unfolded.
First we saw
ROSE WARNazih Abou Afach
Never, I don’t want to die
And it doesn’t cheer me to see you dead.
Now, since we
It was a Thursday
(a special nothing)
and I missed the train.
ROTTERDAM JOURNALJoseph Brodsky
Rain in Rotterdam. Dusk. Environment.
Opening the hood, I raise the gate.
ROUGH STATEStefan Hertmans
Open the door of the poem.
The house is empty.
The furniture you’ll need to make
ROUND JADEHan Dong
when the light goes out, darkness falls
when things settle, I see a patch of
ROZA AND THE MOONPeter Holvoet-Hanssen
The moon is a boy and yet he’s cute
he peeps from under the clouds
but I sleep under the
RUBY GUPTANilim Kumar
Ruby Gupta’s underwear had not dried out
on the day the Jallianwala Bagh massacre took
Sebastian there’s nothing I can tell you about the snow of this mountain
I walk past the ruins
the roof has flown off
the me on the roof
is gone with them
RUINS OF A SAGEYang Lian
they were perhaps doing no more than discussing goats
RULES OF THUMBK. Michel
If the house is unclean, they said
in my grandparents’ village
shut a pig up in it all
RUM AND SNOWYukio Tsuji
I used to run barefoot on the deck,
sit on the mast all day behind a tattered flag
RUMBA IN THE SUNWilliam Agudelo
Oh, sun of dishevelled curls!
(your biting old golds
stab the swollen feet
RUSH OF AIRPiotr Sommer
O days! those were the most unyielding,
fluid at first, then quivering
there was no way
RUSTIC SOLOMaurice Gilliams
I dreamed: when I came over the heath
in the setting sun: my cold hand
had snatched a
If I were a rye field not a daughter and you were a
man on a walk.
Was I sown so early