Turcia

Efe Duyan (n. 1981)

Gökçenur Ç. (n. 1971)
Yaprak Öz (n. 1973)

Ungaria
Gerevich András (n. 1976)
Mestyán Ádám (n. 1979)
Krusovszky Dénes (n. 1982)
Orcsik Roland (n. 1975)

Polonia
Dariusz Sośnicki (n. 1969)
Justyna Bargielska (n. 1977)
Tadeusz Dąbrowski (n. 1979)
Tomasz Różycki (n. 1970)
Marta Podgórnik (n. 1979)

Bulgaria
Ivan Hristov (n. 1978)
Kamelia Spassova (n. 1982)
Maria Kalinova (n. 1983)
Galina Nikolova (n. 1978)

Belarus
Valzhyna Mort (n. 1981)

Macedonia
Lidija Dimkovska (n. 1971)
Nikola Madžirov (n. 1973)
Igor Isakovski (n. 1970)

Germania
Daniela Danz (n. 1976)
Ulrike Almut Sandig (n. 1979)
Daniel Falb (n. 1977)
Uljana Wolf (n. 1979)
Björn Kuhligk (n. 1975)

Slovenia
Aleš Mustar (n. 1968)
Barbara Pogačnik (n. 1973)
Aleš Šteger (n. 1973)

Italia
Elisa Biagini (n. 1970)

Irlanda
Aoife Mannix (n. 1972)
Croația
Ana Brnardić (n. 1980)
Branislav Oblučar (n. 1978)
Marko Pogačar (n. 1984)

Catalunia
Jaume C. Pons Alorda (n. 1984)

Belgia
Michaël Vandebril (n. 1972)

Israel
Anat Levin (n. 1973)
Almog Behar (n. 1978)
Yael Tomashov-Hollander (n. 1981)
Shai Dotan (n. 1969)

As mai zice
Italia
Fabiano Alborghetti n 1970
http://poetrydepot.wordpress.com/2008/10/31/fabiano-alborghetti-italian-contemporary-
poetry/
I

Then her son got lost, suddenly in the square

among the crowd there’s a new space where he stood:
and no one who knew, no one that had seen

a t-shirt with purple stripes, his red cap on his head.

What do you know of the fright I got she shouted right in his face

what do you know of a mother being crippled

Croaţia
Vlado Bulić n 1979 http://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/cou_article/item/6740
003
a former
warrior, adventurer and a convict
Mate U.
won himself
a job
in a local butcher’s shop.

he slaughters for coins

and always takes a bottle of brandy with him.
he takes a sip or two.
brings in a bull.
chains it,
to the right wall
and to the left wall.
fixes it with his eyes.
raises a steel hammer (the bull does not stand a chance)
and the hits it with all his might and main between the horns.

the bull kneels.

Mate hits it one more time.
the bull collapses.

Mate goes on:

“You”
TUP!
“ugly”
TUP!
“Chetnik”
TUP!
“motherfucker!”
TUP!

he wipes his sweat.

takes a knife.
takes another sip
and cuts the dead bull’s throat.
the blood gushes out
like water from a fire hose.

he takes the bottle.

sits down on the dead bull’s shoulder.
drinks
and watches blood flowing down the drains.

Dorta Jagić n 1974

FLYING STONES
where did you get that pebble in your belly you can fly with?
for that pebble I fell in love with you.
winters and summers you are driving to work
with your long hair loose from its bun
and in the spring you’ll stop and sway on the place
where the sorrel stalk was broken.
and you are doing nothing at all;
just looking like a river air larva.
in those days I dream that I’m wrapping your face with a wedding veil
and cuddling you with the breathing feather, or
with my bare feet I am turning the handle of
the old-fashioned coffee grinder
and kissing you, kissing until I’ve ground all those black beads
into fragrant dust

Danemarca e Ursula Andkjær Olsen face chestii misto dar nu gasesc traduceri
Cehia Petr Borkovec n 1970, Jáchym Topol n1968

Finlanda Risto Oikarinen n.1978

Franta
Édith Azam 1973
http://www.lyrikline.org/index.php?
id=162&L=1&author=ea02&show=Bio&cHash=29c4f8e968
[Une parole, vite, sans trace...]

Une parole, vite, sans trace. Une balle en granit incrustée dans la peau : je bascule ma tête
s’ouvre et c’est à la fin de la lumière. Je lis dans les veines de ma gorge, dans les veines de
ma gorge, dans les veines... Le vide et la terreur, ce n’est pas le début, non non, c’est la
terreur. Effacer effacer. Paysage irréel, son mat, solitude : Du sable dans la tête. Respiration.
Respiration coupée. Lui ses doigts tremblent sur la table. Elle : a des partis pris. Elle cherche
l’assassin de l’imaginaire. Les bruits du corps : dedans les voitures. L’énervement ronge les
dents, ronger les dents nous rouille. La géographie n’a pas de mesure. Ils parlent tous les
deux à présent. Mais ça ne fonctionne pas, leur phrase est agrammaticale, leur longue et
même phrase qui tourne en boucle : obligé. Comment ça s’est fini ? je suis partie, et c’est très
bien comme ça. Mais un mot me gêne, une exclusion, une précision injustifiée. C’est
possible, oui, exactement, il faudrait supprimer, supprimer : l’assassin de l’imaginaire. Le
vent s’engouffre, il gèle. Il gèle des oiseaux, ma tête s’ouvre, les veines de ma gorge… je
bascule, je ne peux m’arrêter de basculer, basculer. Le crissement d’un rideau de fer, la ligne
de chemin de fer, les mensonges c’est dans les yeux, c’est dans les coins, aux commissures,
mais ferai pas de commentaires. Si je me trompe oui, je suis prête à faire ça, réintégrer ma
friche, plus faire de commentaire.

Arno Calleja n1975

Moi il y a des images d'enfant que je garde, de mon enfance, il y a des ciels par exemple, des
ciels que je garde en mémoire, des ciels de quand j'avais sept ans, que je vois je les vois
encore. Et ces ciels de mes sept ans que je garde en mémoire ils sont toujours actifs dans ma
tête, au niveau des pensées.
http://www.lyrikline.org/index.php?
id=162&L=1&author=ac03&show=Poems&poemId=7696&cHash=a3cedb1659

Albane Gellé n 1971 http://www.lyrikline.org/index.php?

id=162&L=1&author=ag02&show=Poems&poemId=7358&cHash=62656a480b
[nous donnons à boire aux plantes...]

nous donnons à boire aux plantes

et quand
le jour se lève nous éteignons
la lumière électrique
nous épluchons
les mois d’hiver des mandarines
dehors inquiets depuis des lustres

Portugalia
Gonçalo M. Tavares n 1970

Garden

There are no precious stones, there are no safes,

nor buried treasures to play pirates.
None talks with each other – dumb, you’ll say, or uninterested.
The elements here present have certain colours,
one form or other, smell, and no more.
None of them values the extraordinary invention of the alphabet,
nor the latest novelty in engineering.
Round here the word concrete is
indelicate.
They don’t speak, that’s true, but they hear perhaps.
They are recipients, yes: water and sweet words that make them grow
(the least useless ones in the dictionary.)
And they’ll give out something, for sure, for thus the world was made:
of innumerable exchanges,
but what they give is not known, it’s only felt: they give beauty.
Yes, flowers, weeds circumscribed to their place
- the one of inconsequential meanness –
bushes undecided between growing further
or staying as they are looking closely
at ants and other friendly species.
And also: four tall trees. Here is the garden.
However, this one’s authority doesn’t come from the trees,
but from small details.
For example: the business man goes around
not to tread on a minute flower.
Will he be late for his meeting?

http://www.lyrikline.org/index.php?
id=162&L=1&author=gt00&show=Bio&cHash=94211a4895

Daniel Jonas n 1973

The idea is to deform it, after an interval

of time, and to pass to generalize
or, like an escape capsule, to deform
what was uttered, speech

Luís Quintais n 1968

A CERTAIN INNOCENCE
Birds devour the garbage.
Gluttony makes them scramble,
contriving ambushes, machinations
which the soul has no part in.
Their wings go flap flap flap
in the black plastic. You stop.

Something makes you observe.

With aphorisms you sanctify
the reasons of those who despair.

What does poetry do?

It redeems and redeems and redeems
like those wings thrashing

the black plastic, flap flap flap.

You sanctify the reasons
of those who despair,

the anguishing implications

of the imagination, the world
going out like the light

in the room of childhood,

thrashing the sumptuous plastic,
all that you turned your back on

and that doesn’t demand to exist.

What does poetry do?
It redeems certain types of things

through a certain type of words a certain

type of wings flap flap flap a certain type
of desperate reasons.

Rusia
Polina Barskova n 1970
Manuscript Found by Natasha Rostova During the Fire
I will try to live on earth without you.
I will try to live on earth without you.
I will become any object,
I don’t care what—
I will be this speeding train.
This smoke
or a beautiful gay man laughing in the front seat.
A human body is defenseless
on earth.
It’s a piece of fire-wood.
Ocean water hits it.
Lenin puts it on his official shoulder.
And therefore, in order not to suffer, a human spirit
lives
inside the wind and inside the wood and inside the shoulder of a great dictator.
But I will not be water. I will not be a fire.
I will be an eyelash.
A sponge washing your neck-hairs.
Or a verb, an adjective, I will become. Such a word
slightly lights your cheek.
What happened? Nothing.
Something visited? Nothing.
What was there you cannot whisper.
No smoke without fire, they whisper.
I will be a handful of smoke
over this lost city of Moscow.
I will console any man,
I will sleep with any man,
under the army’s traveling horse carriages.

Slovacia
Nóra Ružičková n1977
face chestii misto video etc

Michal Habaj n 1974

WHY DID THEY GIVE US BRIDGES WHEN THEY TOOK OUR RIVERS AWAY?

(dedicated to Valdemarr van Staveren van Dijk)

the wind hushes its breath so pretty are the hairstyles of the girls
the little wooden chapel is praying for their souls
which lost in bank machines beg for so much mercy
as will sustain the account of their lightandeasy faces

they lay them like translucent cups under the heaven

till they are full with the first sprinklings of the snow
the heavens drink from them the sun the chirrupping birds and you
always when the years are flowing on but life is at a stand

//are these still our souls between escape and delete?//

Mária Ridzoňová Ferenčuhová (1975)

IV.

Direction:
Footsteps in healed wounds, will to awareness.

Slowly
(in the present mode, give this word a sense):

Somewhere here was a trail, leading between trees,

And light children‘s footwear, sandals
With a leather strap and chromium buckle
Indented their outline in it, the front part
Petty horseshoe;
Because very small children always run on tiptoe.

But the trees have already burgeoned so,

That nobody will believe: one could pass through here.

Plots with the twisted, half decayed fence,

Plot borders,
Dashed line; water station.

Colours, too, were completely absorbed by earth,

Earth texture, its taste, odour, slimy material
Drying on the hand, solidifies and before cracking,

It will remind you:

dashing windows on a still unplastered house,

Drought, snow,
But also the pain of a mouth ripped apart by smile.

Trebuie sa mai gasim englezi neaparat poate si irlandezi