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    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

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    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

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    The Naked Shell of Aloneness – Kazi Rafi

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    The Shadow of a Shadow – Nandini Sahu

  • Non Fiction
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    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    SOME CONSIDERATIONS ON METHOD (Part I) – Gaius Tsaamo

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    “My family is gone,” she wrote, her voice silenced by the weight of her words – Hedaya Saleh Shamun

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Mathematics As Poetic Thought; Sans Barbarian Evidence – Will Alexander

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Lingual Mesmerism That Rises From Haunting Evidence – Will Alexander

    FUTURE PERFECT – IYA KIVA

    FUTURE PERFECT – IYA KIVA

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    Coordinates for a poetic debut. On “Allora ho acceso la luce” by Antonio Merola – Iuri Lombardi

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    BEING AS TRANSMUTATION: THE LIGHTNING PATHS OF WILL ALEXANDER – Andrew Joron

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Understanding the Mathematical Metaphysics of Nandini Sahu’s Zero Point – Bhaskar Bhushan

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

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    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

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    Everything Comes from the Soil: Painter Tendai Makufa Interviewed by Camilla Boemio

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    The Stony Guests: THE STORY – Neil P. Doherty

    Chapters Four and Five from La Cena (The Dinner) – Božidar Stanišić

    Chapters Four and Five from La Cena (The Dinner) – Božidar Stanišić

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    In Exile, War is Bitter – Hedaya Saleh Shamun

    My Annan’s Photo – Appadurai Muttulingam

    My Annan’s Photo – Appadurai Muttulingam

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Of Farms, Poetry and Philosophy: Three Poems from Gary Whited’s Collection Being, There

    Of Farms, Poetry and Philosophy: Three Poems from Gary Whited’s Collection Being, There

    Films From Palestine: A Poem – Farah Ahamed

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  • News
    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

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    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

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    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

  • Home
  • Poetry
    …so I turned on the light: Poems by Antonio Merola

    …so I turned on the light: Poems by Antonio Merola

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

    …andromeda whispers breathe as you go – Four poems by Michael Amitin

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The woman doesn’t want to wake up crazy: Selected poems by Mariya Grabovska

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Three Poems from The Stony Guests – Neil P. Doherty

    LAUNCHING PAPER BOATS OF HOPE: Five Poems by Halyna Kruk

    LAUNCHING PAPER BOATS OF HOPE: Five Poems by Halyna Kruk

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    PHOENIX (Part III) – YIN Xiaoyuan

  • Fiction
    OCTOPUS – Nandini Sahu

    OCTOPUS – Nandini Sahu

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    THE SOUL AND THE BODY / DEHATMATATWA – Abhijit Sen

    Roble Negro – Lucia Cupertino

    Roble Negro – Lucia Cupertino

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

    The Door to My Inner Self: Four Prose Pieces by Abdallah Zrika

    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    In memoriam – Swimming in the Tigris, Greenford: The Poetical Journey of Fawzi Karim, by Marius Kociejowski

    The Naked Shell of Aloneness – Kazi Rafi

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    The Shadow of a Shadow – Nandini Sahu

  • Non Fiction
    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    Listening to Our Listening – Gary Whithed

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    SOME CONSIDERATIONS ON METHOD (Part I) – Gaius Tsaamo

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    “My family is gone,” she wrote, her voice silenced by the weight of her words – Hedaya Saleh Shamun

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Mathematics As Poetic Thought; Sans Barbarian Evidence – Will Alexander

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Lingual Mesmerism That Rises From Haunting Evidence – Will Alexander

    FUTURE PERFECT – IYA KIVA

    FUTURE PERFECT – IYA KIVA

  • Interviews & reviews
    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Coordinates for a poetic debut. On “Allora ho acceso la luce” by Antonio Merola – Iuri Lombardi

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    BEING AS TRANSMUTATION: THE LIGHTNING PATHS OF WILL ALEXANDER – Andrew Joron

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Understanding the Mathematical Metaphysics of Nandini Sahu’s Zero Point – Bhaskar Bhushan

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

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  • Out of bounds
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    • Non fiction
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    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    That Elusive Orgasm – Nandini Sahu

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    BOUNDARY/GONDI – Abhijit Sen

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    The Stony Guests: THE STORY – Neil P. Doherty

    Chapters Four and Five from La Cena (The Dinner) – Božidar Stanišić

    Chapters Four and Five from La Cena (The Dinner) – Božidar Stanišić

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    In Exile, War is Bitter – Hedaya Saleh Shamun

    My Annan’s Photo – Appadurai Muttulingam

    My Annan’s Photo – Appadurai Muttulingam

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Of Farms, Poetry and Philosophy: Three Poems from Gary Whited’s Collection Being, There

    Of Farms, Poetry and Philosophy: Three Poems from Gary Whited’s Collection Being, There

    Films From Palestine: A Poem – Farah Ahamed

    Films From Palestine: A Poem – Farah Ahamed

  • News
    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

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Home Poetry

A flock of cardinals melted in the scarlet sky: Poems by Daryna Gladun

May 3, 2023
in Poetry, The dreaming machine n 12
Overturning planes in the labyrinth – Four poems by Rita Degli Esposti
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Cover art: Anton Tarasiuk “High voltage” 2021, courtesy of Ukrainian painters’ exhibit in Padua

as mother as daughter

part 1. as daughter

clock hand goes in the same direction as the wooden spoon stirring porridge in a saucepan
eventually both of them stop to hit me with all the regrets they have

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

my bruises have faded by now as well as 1999 Easter photo
on the front page of the local newspaper
though my mother still keeps it on a kitchen shelf

the pain on my face caused by two tight braids
was captured multiplied and delivered to 15000 mailboxes around the city

if you look closely you can see I am wearing self-made jewelry
that is the only thing my mother regrets about that photo

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

I was always so crafty you know
suppressing my traumas into some beautiful pieces
like poems or short stories or beads for my neckless
weaving and sewing and putting my own life together
but in a tolerable way

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

near the big purple bead that I got for telling my mother I hate her
near a couple of beads that I got for being just like my father
near dozens of similar wooden beads
//because in this family we don’t talk at the table
near hundreds of beads
each meant to teach me a lesson
//what was the lesson tell me what was the lesson
near countless number of beads that are torn combs of my long nasty hair

there is plenty of space

part 2. as mother

Clock hand strikes 6 a.m. that is the time to wake up
6:30 – I wake up my daughter
At 7 I feed my daughter
At 7:05 I hit my daughter
At 7:15 I braid my daughter
At 7:30 I kiss her goodbye when she goes to school

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

At home we say it is not me that is hitting you
It is my hand
It is a wooden spoon

||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

I still cover my forehead with left hand when I eat
My left ear hides two tiny scars left by sharp nails of my mother
Though my back shows no traces of the buckle of an old army belt
Acquired kyphoscoliosis doesn’t let me forget they’ve existed

||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

I go to work at 8

It is not me who hits her it is my grandmother
It is not me who yells at her it is my mother

It is me who works on the weekends to pay for her school
It is me who takes extra shifts to have a nice vacation on summer
It is me who buys her all of her pretty clothes and shoes

Work till 7

Wearing the gemstones of my wounds all day long
With pride
Like our family heirloom

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

When I get home it is time
– to feed my child
– hit my child
– read her a bedtime story

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

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Clock hand strikes midnight
I put myself to sleep

Thinking of the bills I still have to pay and

|

|

|

Loving my daughter

midsummer landscape

1.

dry air leaves bitterness on the surface of my lungs

2.

the bitterness travels by arteries and capillaries to every cell of my body

3.

every cell of my body stores the scent of the burnt wood

4.

the sound of stomping hooves approaches
the scream of every creature that is capable of screaming approaches
collective animal fear approaches
rapidly

a head of a dead deer passes by
a tail of a red cardinal passes by
a collective body of fear covered in feathers and wool passes by
undistinguishable
irreversible

5.

the burnt wood smells like me
sounds like me
tastes like me
feels like me
has the form of me
comes from distant territories like me
in fact here we stand together as one in the hot dry air observing grass and bushes
and trees turn black
gradually

6.

damp stones under my feet
dried out

7.

a flock of cardinals
meltedin the scarlet sky

8.

my hair weaved into the rusty grass at the bank of Connecticut river

9.

on September 28, 2022 in Uppsala, Sweden
a poet from Belarus Kristina Bandurina asking
if I will be able to write poems of something besides the war once the war is over
I replied sure
I replied look at parts 1-5 of this poem
I replied
Yes?
Kristina smiled
I am planting her smile into a wounded soil at the bank of Connecticut river
to resist

to resist

I hope

moonless night over Appalachian Trail

1.

tiny hawk arrives at Thundering Falls
scratchy trees stop grieving their bloom
when I start thinking of war

2.

a moment ago I got a call from home
‘bomb shellings at night look blossoming’
said my mother

3.

adamant sky swallows
anxious thoughts provoked by my mother’s call  — withered leaves  — flying hawk

and gets even darker

Meeting Mariya

plastic bottles flank surface of timeless river. its banks – dumps of empty cans torn clothes and sunbathing people. I hide in the shadow of sign ||||||| SAWAGED ||||||| CONTAMINATED WATER ||||||| the landscape seems almost idyllic till I put on nearsighted glasses
my infant grandmother Mariya comes out of the river wipes herself dry and curls under a ragged blanket beside me. I am old. my hair has already turned from grey and white to completely white. my infant grandmother shares her drinking water and a slice of bread with me. this is how we survive.
she says something but I am not wearing my hearing aid. her voice sounds like mumbling of war long forgotten and never recalled

another place where we often meet is a coach of the refugee train in the borderland. Mariya is twenty by then. I am twenty eight. she stands in a box-wagon at the frontier between Russia and Kazakhstan in November 1941. I sit in a commuter carriage at the frontier between Ukraine and Poland in March 2022. we are cold. more scared of our future than our past even though our past was atrocious. young grandma asks if I ate well. I lie. asks if I feel well. I lie. asks if I slept well. I say no. the train continues its movement. we arrive at the towns we’ve never been before. all we brought in the pockets of our long black coats is identity cards and hopes. this is how we survive.
we leave the train without saying goodbyes

I have to say Mariya and I lived together when I was a child. I watched her hair turning from grey and white to completely white. I rarely talked to her – as each year it required more screaming. she never fully recovered after the second stroke and was half-paralyzed. she talked like a person who lives in the past. she yelled if I had thrown away bread crunches left on the table.

she told me some stories of her life and made me repeat them checking if I have remembered them well. once she made me do that a couple of times in a row louder and louder and said: ‘what a nice story you tell. whose is it?’ I replied: ‘yours’.
‘oh, but it’s not mine’.
and in two month
she died.

peace, n.
Pronunciation: /ˈtriː.t̬i/
General use:

1.

children of army depots schooled at bomb shelters
misspelling word ‘peace’
in essays about their dreams

therefore I have to make ‘piece’ into ‘peace’ at least once a month for almost a decase

2.

year by year

they have almost forgotten what it was and had to look for the meaning of the word in

month by months

they have almost forgotten what it was and had to look for the meaning of the word in

day by day

they have almost forgotten what it was and had to look for the meaning of the word in

every minute every second of war

they have almost forgotten what it was and had to look for the meaning of the word in

seems endless

they have almost forgotten what it was and had to look for the meaning of the word in

makes peace less and less plausible

they have almost forgotten what it was and had to look for the meaning of the word in

3.

there are two main questions regarding peace
teachers of humanities have to struggle with
in military depots

question 1: how to protect children who have never seen peace
from an outdated concept they have learnt from books
once the treaty is signed

question 2: how to protect our own memories of peace
from the retouch of despair

4.

when the peace was announced
I could almost appreciate nice spring weather flowery dress and heels on my way to school

but I could feel sharp fragments of war
where the clothes was touching my skin

till the last of my days


one of the adjectives used in the description of the Hydrogen Bomb is ‘sophisticated’

elegant steel surface
and the content of it
is the end of the world

like the content of an empty shell
is an ocean

if you could put it to your ear
what would you hear?

Daryna Gladun is a Ukrainian poet, performance artist and translator, born 1993. She lived in Bucha until the beginning of March. When she realized that the Russian troops were not only bombing the airport but were also aiming to take over the city, she packed her backpack and left by whatever route was possible.Since then she has continued writing in various academic venues in Europe and the U.S. that have provided support. She is one of nearly five million Ukrainians who have left their home country.

Tags: animals in wartimeDaryna Gladunecosystemsfamily historyfamily relationshistoryhopehumans as part of naturenew definition of peaceRussian invasiontraumaUkraineviolencewar
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HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran
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HAIR IN THE WIND we  invite all poets from all countries to be part of the artistic-poetic performance HAIR IN...

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  • TABLE OF CONTENTS
    • the dreaming machine – issue number 12
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