Satakieliklubi 20.2.2016
POEMS | Zoila Forss, Aya Chalabee,Muhaned Durubi,
Payam Abdolsamadi and Daniel Bencomo

Zoila Forss / PERU-SUOMI

Pluto XVI

[Käännös: Pekka Forss ja Zoila Forss]

Minulla on salainen tapaaminen kanssasi,
luitteni oksa, kanssasi.
Kurlaava äänesi,
tehty suolasta ja sapesta,
Kiehuu sapessa
suojaa itseään suolassa,
houkuttelee puristamaan sitä.
Olen nokkosen uintiliike
suiden meressäsi,
plutoninen sukelluspuku
pelkojen meressäsi.
Ihmisyys, jota himoitsit
ei kestä enää sinun kuhmuasi.
Termi putoaa sinusta,
tulittaa ja julistaa,
että liikennevalot ovat ottaneet kaupungin.
Heidän ovat televisioidut röyhtäykset.
Heidän ovat heittotikat niskoissa.
Kelluva majakka tämän maailman päällä
on ehostautunut nukalla
ja ahmii kaikki katseet.
Kaikki.
Klooninen naurunsa
kopioi ja liittää tähden ilman valtaistuinta,
turmeltuneessa hullussa juhlassa.
Mutta sinun ovela termisi on oppinut
huulteni tanssin.
Hallitsee ja kouristelee
suuni taivaassa.
Änkyttäkää, purkitetut valomerkit!
Romahtakaa, punertavat liikennevalot!
Itkekää, tahtomattomat vatsat!
Paastotkaa kovasta tyhjyydestä
ja täyttykää sanasta,
joka syntyy, ettei kuole.

Zoila Forss is a poet born in Peru and living in Kerava, Finland. She considers poetry as a key to share sensorial experiences and a pleasant practice linking words. Revontuli is her first book published in 2014.


– AYA CHALABEE / Iraq

[Translation: Aya Chalabee]
The shadow tells me:
You are not alive
you are not tied to a song,
then it laughs
and rubbed its ear

Yes, I’m not a melody
I haven’t been before
But there is a hundred,
thousands of black tres
surrounding me
The shadow throws its bloat on my heart,
and at the end of my extended beak,
there is a coloured mouth
which sings slowly
and couldn’t say any Word

My fingers
My nails
My hand lines
which faded three years ago,
stretches out
to prevent the dew from falling
in the other side of the window
so… it saves nothing

My friend, dressed in black
which have no space in his heart
for one finger
to fade away his sorrow
tell me
that you will wear all this tres
and I will put my beak
on another face

My friend,
which lives in the dark,
tell me about your childhood
about the first light that you met after being born

Tell me anything
except that,
those things we see
are the fate
that we met for.

Aya Chalabee is an Iraqian emerging poet based in Helsinki. Satakieliklubi will be her debut as a writer on an international, multimedia and professional stage.


– Muhaned Durubi / Iraq

The Ark of Salvation

[Translation: Amir Darwish] 

Hopelessness
in the boat. All at once we look to the sky and ask.
“You in the sky: Why doesn’t the boat sink and snatch us from this slow death!”
Exhaustion takes charge.
Eyes surrender to sleep.
The boat rocks me like a newborn baby in the cradle.
Images invade my head
My childhood and allies.
Hallucination.
Faces I have met in my life become clearer and clearer
with fish masks on.
The fish who a few minutes from now
                                            will taste its worst meal ever eaten between their jaws
Perhaps the fish here are used to immigrant’s meat.
For we are not the first, nor the last they eat.    
I hold myself together not to cry
search for a piece of paper to put down my last moments.
The last life confession.
It must be the most beautiful and truthful thing I write.
It must be with heart.
I find a single expression:
Sorry.
Sorry for things I leave hanging in the air.
Sorry my home.
Sorry, mam.
Sorry brothers. 
And  you,
salty sea
Thanks, for your warm welcome,
                                            even though we don’t have passports
Thanks, for shells at the bottom.
Thanks, for seaweed that will catch between teeth,
cover nostrils and eye sockets when we are corpses in your deep blue belly.
We will be more beautiful as our carcasses float,
reach the shore
where tourists push them back to water just as they do with whales that accidently land on coast
in the morning we will be in the top of news
numbers
just simply numbers
odd number or perhaps an even number

it does not matter
And pictures of the bodies swollen with wáter
Floats on the evening newspaper
Aren’t we from the same planet
OR
we  disperse because of the curse of names

Muhaned Durubi (Muhannad Mohamed Khorshid) is an Iraqian painter and writer born in Baghdad in 1979. He escaped into Finland in 2014 and is currently based in Helsinki. Muhaned is a BA in Fine Arts for the University of Baghdad. Currently, he is member of the ‘Iraqi Plastic Artists Society’ and ‘Helsinki International Artists Society’.


 – Payam Abdolsamadi / Iran

 

Schizophrenia of postmodernism

[Translation: Niloofar Ghaderi]

 I Hallucinate
In search of another planet
Went around eternity several times

Earth was alone
I’m saying of old ages
and you were there
Before life began
Lonely and alone!
You were sitting
Eating an apple
Your lonliness was broken
you gave me an apple
We ate enough to make “APPLE”

Then I will send you email
by speed of light
So you won’t be alone
and we each eat apple in dark corner
and laugh. 

—–

Payam Abdolsamadi is an Iranian graphic designer and poet based in Helsinki. His work is mainly related with human rights and politics, developing poster design with social content. Payam has exhibited in several international design biennials and, in Finland, he has made graphic design for many organizations such as Amnesty International.


 – DANIEL BENCOMO / Mexico

 

The Photo and The Gong

[Translation: John Z. Komurki]

 

How to think the brute ray
trickling between the knuckles
or the hoop of black light on the caucasian part of the iris 

dumbstruck by a gong
that never passes
or passes
the latent to the rotund: to come

sunk in the spittle baobab
of the same enticing

sin
or
sin

with no arduous chomping
between flexion radiation
dead tanka cytoplasm
in a vasodilator
in a ghost constrictor
on the edge of the stomach
the must that boils and makes language needles acid       
at the ankles
that slowly fracture
upon unfold-
-ing
far from the splendor of another lusting molar.

That’s how you rise up each day
from a photo crumbling in the air
of more than eighty years ago.

 —-

Daniel Bencomo (San Luis Potosí, 1980) is a Mexican poet and literary translator from German into Spanish. ‘De maitines y vísperas’ (2008), ‘Morder la piedra’ (2009), ‘Lugar de residencia’ (FETA, 2010) which won the Elías Nandino prize, ‘Alces, Rejkyavik’ (Magenta, 2014) and recently ´Espuma de Bulldog’ (2016). He has translated books of Tom Schulz, Björn Kuhligk and Ron Winkler, and selected fragments from the work of Hugo Ball, Friederike Mayröcker and Hans Arp. He lives in Leipzig, Germany.

Satakieliklubi 20.2.2016

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