Tag Archives: Arc Publications Anthologies in Translation

Part Three: Bones Will Crow, 15 Contemporary Burmese Poets

Bones Will Crow 
 
 
 
Bones Will Crow:
An Anthology of Fifteen Contemporary Burmese Poets
Bilingual Edition
Edited and translated by ko ko thett and James Byrne

with additional translations by Maung Tha Noe,
Vicky Bowman, Zeyar Lynn, Christopher Merrill,
Pandora & Khin Aung Aye

Introduced by Zeyar Lynn with a Foreword by Ruth Padel

Arc Publications, 2012
ISBN 9781906570897
 
 
 
“This is the first anthology of contemporary Burmese poets published in the West, and includes the work of Burmese poets who have been in exile and in prison. The poems include global references from a culture in which foreign books and the internet are regarded with suspicion and where censorship is an industry. The poets have been ingenious in their use of metaphor to escape surveillance and censorship, writing post-modern, avant-garde, performance and online poetries.

The anthology reveals the transition of traditional to modernist poetry, the development of Burmese poetry over the second half of the 20th century, as Burma has changed. Through their wildly divergent styles, these poems delight in the freedom to experiment with poetic tradition.”
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
the burden of being bama
ko ko thett
 
 
it’s living on
sawdust and shrimp paste
to save for diamonds

it’s being a lustrous luna
in a bamboo tube
thinking ‘how dainty i am!’

it’s being a haystack fire
flaring suddenly
fading out swiftly

it’s aching for the aunt
from the embrace of the mother

what’s your key
majority in minor-c or minority in major-d
cease-fire in flat-b or cease-identity in sharp-g
give me a falsetto
let’s improvise
no need for harmony

what would you choose
want, rage or ignorance
defeatism or maldevelopment
an increase in viral load or a decrease in internet speed
sexual preoccupation or self-denial
power cuts or power crazes
a bag of rice or an ounce of democracy
myopic blitheness, escapist wizardry and alchemy
syncretisation of incompatibilities
internalisation of irreconcilabilities
the four noble truths
the four oaths ………
………………………………
………………………………
the menu is endless
the die’s been cast

your karma is you
life short
suffering tall
plenty of water
no fish, no fish at all
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
The Day (Before That Day)
Eaindra
 
 
The day before that day
A huntress held her breath
The day that annihilated itself
The day that dressed my wounds …

That day
With the cold-bloodedness of
A public executioner
Needed nerve to reconstruct itself …

That day
Of amnesia without special effects
Needed a genuine gasp for air
To purify its lungs …

That day
Could have been the moon jumping out
From the grim underside of clouds
That day
Could have been a ticket
For a journey that never began …

On that day
He switched off the song he’d been singing along to
I shelved the book I’d been reading
The nameless café bored him
And my aimless yacht anchored

In fact …
I achieved nothing
It was a day of horrid loss …
Horrifying disintegration …

In fact …
Uncertain were the days
The bitter days disfigured by experiments
They will never be resold
For the price I paid

In fact …
In life …
I was in the habit of abhorring
Gratitude
Apologies
Regrets

On that day
He mocked me
With the worst of words
I took all his barbs
And laughed them off
Epically

On the day before that day
Is it today
Is it really today?

The day before that day
I poisoned the arrowhead
That would shoot me down.
 
 
Translated by ko ko thett & James Byrne
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
The Sniper
Pandora
 
 
When you see them on a flag march
Repress your swelling bugs
No mortar shells, no hand grenade explosion
This battle must go on quietly
With a calm mind, in cold blood
With sharp shooting, trained hands
Hone your skills when the sun shines
Camouflage like a chameleon
Be immovable as a sleeper
Don’t blink, don’t doze off
Don’t miss your chance
If necessary, play dead
Don’t flinch, even if they walk all over you
Blame fate if they shoot you point-blank
To double-check you are dead
Life may end up in anticipation, in lethe
There isn’t much of a choice to make
For example …
Five enemies are approaching
Five bullets are all you have.
 
 
Translated by ko ko thett
 
 
 
 
from Bones Will Crow (Arc Publications, 2012).

Order Bones Will Crow.
 
 
 
*

Part Two: Bones Will Crow, 15 Contemporary Burmese Poets

Bones Will Crow

 
 

Bones Will Crow:
An Anthology of Fifteen Contemporary Burmese Poets
Bilingual Edition
Edited and translated by ko ko thett and James Byrne

with additional translations by Maung Tha Noe,
Vicky Bowman,  
Zeyar Lynn, Christopher Merrill,
Pandora & Khin Aung Aye

Introduced by Zeyar Lynn with a Foreword by Ruth Padel

Arc Publications, 2012
ISBN 9781906570897
 
 
 
“This is the first anthology of contemporary Burmese poets published in the West, and includes the work of Burmese poets who have been in exile and in prison. The poems include global references from a culture in which foreign books and the internet are regarded with suspicion and where censorship is an industry. The poets have been ingenious in their use of metaphor to escape surveillance and censorship, writing post-modern, avant-garde, performance and online poetries.

The anthology reveals the transition of traditional to modernist poetry, the development of Burmese poetry over the second half of the 20th century, as Burma has changed. Through their wildly divergent styles, these poems delight in the freedom to experiment with poetic tradition.”
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Sling Bag
Zeyar Lynn
 
 
Wherever he goes, in his sling bag
He carries his severed leg. If he has to shake hands,
He takes his severed leg out from the bag,
And touches it on the other person’s hand
As he says ‘Nice to meet you’
He must have gone through a lot of suffering
With that severed leg in his bag,
Though he still has his two legs intact.
When he needs reassurance, he’ll insert his right hand,
Like a dead hand, into the bag slung on his right shoulder,
To feel the sinews and greasy slime of the severed leg.
That’s how he recharges himself.
That’s how his pride is uplifted; his self-confidence restored.
The severed leg serves as his pillow when he sleeps.
The severed leg is placed on the dining table when he eats.
(Is he married? Let’s say he is.)
When he makes love to his wife,
The severed leg welds their two bodies together.
(Only then does he feel the hit, he says.)
The severed leg is his life, his past, his present and
His future, he says. ‘It’s truth’, he says.
‘It’s honesty’, he says.
‘It’s just him’, (says someone else).
Someone who claims to be a childhood friend.
He too always carries a sling bag.
 
 
Translated by ko ko thett & Vicky Bowman
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
the heat bearer
Maung Thein Zaw
 
 
in a not-so-new morning
vivified
in sunshine

i have been infatuated with
that fragrant little ear
of my dream

what a gusty wind

on my heart
a homeless crow is cawing
all my longings are in staccato
i have descended
like a melody who has sobbed herself out of tune
‘not really very special’ she says

the screechy
dry branch
soothes me in magada
not having found any cure under the waterfall

i build a tower
the height of my heart
and look out on the genesis of the world

the person who discovered fire happened to be me
 
 
Translated by ko ko thett & James Byrne
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Rose, 1985
Moe Zaw
 
 
     1.

At a certain café in New York City
If you happen to leaf through this page
The poem is dedicated to you,
Bold Rose, swelling with petals.
 
 
     2.

I have often taken
a stroll
On your burgundy lips
The humid breeze
Between
Your tongue
Your teeth
How can I forget
The scent of grapes it carried.
 
 
     3.

As I combed your drenched hair
You laced up my jungle boots.
Shall we call it a predestined meeting
Between water drops of life?
Many wrongs have since occurred.
 
 
     4.

We didn’t love Hitler.
We loved Shakespeare.
We didn’t love Mussolini.
We loved Modigliani.
We didn’t love Stalin.
We loved Yushchenko.
 
 
     5.

Columbus!
Mr. Columbus!
I couldn’t have predicted her plight
How my Rose walked the American plank.
 
 
     6.

My fragrance of Shinmadaung thanaka,
Has just hurried
From Pazuntaung Yekyaw
To North America.
 
 
     7.

Will your itch be relieved
In the land of cowboys
Riding the world like a horse?
Will you be gazing
At the image
Of a sensitive boy
From a whisky glass?
What will you be doing
During the American holidays?
How will be greet
One another
Whenever we meet?
 
 
     8.

From beneath the tragacanth tree
My soul, like the feather of a paddy bird, is marching
Towards the native land of the Apaches
Towards the Wild West, wherever you are.
 
 
Translated by ko ko thett & James Byrne
 
 
 
 
from Bones Will Crow (Arc Publications, 2012).

Order Bones Will Crow.
 
 
 
*

Part One: Bones Will Crow, 15 Contemporary Burmese Poets

 Bones Will Crow

 
 
 
Bones
Will Crow:
An Anthology of Fifteen Contemporary Burmese Poets

Bilingual Edition
Edited and translated by ko ko thett and James Byrne
 
with additional translations by Maung Tha Noe,
Vicky Bowman,
Zeyar Lynn, Christopher Merrill,
Pandora & Khin Aung Aye
 
Introduced by Zeyar Lynn with a Foreword by Ruth Padel
 
Arc Publications, 2012
ISBN 9781906570897
 
 
 
“This is the first anthology of contemporary Burmese poets published in the West, and includes the work of Burmese poets who have been in exile and in prison. The poems include global references from a culture in which foreign books and the internet are regarded with suspicion and where censorship is an industry. The poets have been ingenious in their use of metaphor to escape surveillance and censorship, writing post-modern, avant-garde, performance and online poetries.

The anthology reveals the transition of traditional to modernist poetry, the development of Burmese poetry over the second half of the 20th century, as Burma has changed. Through their wildly divergent styles, these poems delight in the freedom to experiment with poetic tradition.”
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
“This collection is important because these poems are a splendid counter to the current scholars’ obsession with ‘cultural authenticity’ of national literatures. What we have got here is not so much just Burmese poetry as simply poetry (in the cosmopolitan sense) that happens to have been composed by the Burmese in their language. It shows that Burma is part of the world and significantly part of World Literary Culture. The fact that we have both the Burmese language originals and the English translations (which are really lovely and wonderfully free of the usual attempt to ‘Burmanise-Buddhacise’ the English) makes the collection not only enjoyable to readers anywhere, but also of serious importance to scholarship on Burmese literature.”

– FKL Chit Hlaing
 
 
 
Bones Will Crow is an illuminating account of real Burma narrated by uncensored and often deviant Burmese, who dare to dream and challenge the norms. Burma Studies scholars and literature fans often lament the lack of authentic Burmese voices in print, accessible to the world outside Burma. Bones Will Crow not only fills this gap but also presents the readers with a counter-narrative of ‘exotic’ Burma often associated with golden pagodas and smiling faces. Daily struggles under crony capitalism, confronting commercialisation of female bodies, an exile’s homesickness, issues Burmese grapple with leap out of the pages of this anthology. This anthology is a long overdue, much-welcomed addition to everyone interested in Burma and Burmese poetry.”

– Tharapi Than
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
About the editors
 
  

ko ko thett is a Burmese poet who writes in English. He translates Western poetry into Burmese, and he is working on his first full poetry collection, the burden of being burmese.
 
 
 
James Byrne’s
second poetry collection, Blood/Sugar, was published by Arc Publications in 2009. He edits The Wolf, an international poetry magazine, which has published various Burmese poets like Zeyar Lynn, Saw Wai and Zawgyi. In 2008, Byrne won the Treci Trg poetry festival prize in Serbia. His Selected Poems: The Vanishing House was published by Treci Trg (in a bilingual edition) in Belgrade. He is the co-editor of Voice Recognition: 21 Poets for the 21st Century, an anthology of poets under 35, published by Bloodaxe in 2009, and he recently edited The Wolf: A Decade (Poems 2002-2012).
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Desert Years
Tin Moe
 
 
Tears
a strand of grey hair
a decade gone

In those years
the honey wasn’t sweet
mushrooms wouldn’t sprout
farmlands were parched

The mist hung low
the skies were gloomy
Clouds of dust on the cart tracks
Acacia and creepers
and thorn-spiral blossoms
But it never rained
and when it did rain, it never poured

At the village front monastery
no bells rang
no music for the ear
no novice monks
no voices reading aloud
Only the old servant with a shaved head
sprawled among the posts

And the earth
like fruit too shy to emerge
without fruit
in shame and sorrow
glances at me
When will the tears change
and the bells ring sweet?
 
 
Translated by Maung Tha Noe & Christopher Merrill
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
My Island
Ma Ei
 
 
Singhala for Prince Wizaya
Saint Helena for Napoleon
Tahiti for Gauguin
The Isles of Belles for Maung Shin
The Coco Islands for a baby turtle.

An island is a landmass surrounded by water.
But what do you call a place surrounded by dukkha?
Amalgams of body and soul,
Angst and anguish, suffering, doubt and delusion,
Circled by an illusory life,
I keep on trying … Yes, trying so hard to stand upright.

It was me! I was such a handful,
Such a flirt, such a red.
I’ve had no reward, just fingers pointing.
Dying ain’t much of a living!
The lady is a crank.

I’m out of shape,
A sculpture chiselled by two masters,
Here’s a chipped ear …
there’s a cock-eyed eye.
(Let them be chipped and cock-eyed).

Diluted in water
After slurping curses down
I turn a new page,
But life is un-renewed.
Sometimes I sing ‘I Seek Retention Loss’.

Look …
To purify the soul
Firstly, don’t deceive yourself.
Secondly, don’t deceive others.
In the long run, lies grow legs.

How I hate to spit it out,
Some men are too featherweight,
The copulate with their own craft.
 
 
Translated by ko ko thett & James Byrne
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
A Sun-ripened Song
Maung Chaw Nwe
 
 
Don’t chime in with
A definition of ‘the individual’
Just live within your own meaning
Just be sure
You’ve known defeat.

To punch a man
You need a strong lower jaw
When I land my fists on you
I maintain a good solid chin.

You are jawless
Yet your jabs keep raining on me
Mr. Truth
You are beyond the dhamma

What I hate most in this whole world is
That scumbag named Truth
Whose fat face is
Scarred with chicken pox.

In this life
You don’t need four, five, or six.
You only need two.
Just two, real love and
An authentic foe.

Maung San Aye, my friend,
Who has had to survive
By the smell of strangers
You need not install
Mercury lights in the town.
Towns are made of mercury.

There at Table No. 1 is
The man who lays down the law
Unerringly over his life.
Firmly seated there,
Isn’t Aung Cheimt, my pal,
A booming city?

Like Pompeii
Inundated with lava
The poet Phaw Way
Had once been a thriving city.

Who has lost
The whole earth?
Only they
Will get it back.

Maradona channelled
‘The Hand of God’
To score.
 
 
Translated by ko ko thett & James Byrne
 
 
 
 
from Bones Will Crow (Arc Publications, 2012).

Order Bones Will Crow.
 
 
 
 
*

The Parley Tree: Poets from French-speaking Africa and the Arab World

  
  
  
 
The Parley Tree
An Anthology of Poets from French-speaking Africa
and the Arab World

Bilingual edition
Translated by Patrick Williamson with Yann Lovelock
Edited and introduced by Patrick Williamson
with a Preface by Tahar Bekri
Arc Publications, 2012
ISBN 9781906570613
 
 
 
“Poetry is one of the major forms of literary expression in both Africa and the Arab World and this anthology endeavours to provide the reader with a glimpse of the most representative voices of the poetic movements, and generations, in the French-speaking countries of these two regions, at the same time as doing away with the divisions and distinctions between the countries of Africa. The poets anthologized here – from North Africa, Sub Saharan Africa and the Arab World – have long wished to escape from artificial pigeon-holing and rather to be associated with common threads. The past half-century has confirmed their work as poetry of great literary quality, full of a unique vitality and presence, and this anthology enables an English-speaking readership to discover and savour these distinctive voices.”
 
 
 
About the translators
 
 
 
Patrick Williamson was born in Madrid in 1960 and lives near Paris, France. His most recent poetry collections are Bacon, Bits & Buriton (Corrupt Press, 2011), and Trois Rivières/Three Rivers (Editions Harmattan, 2010). He has translated the selected poems of Tunisian poet Tahar Bekri (Inconnues Saisons/Unknown Seasons, L’Harmattan, Paris, 1999) and the Quebecois poet Gilles Cyr (The Graph of Roads, Guernica Editions, 2008). He is the editor of Quarante et un poètes de Grande-Bretagne (Ecrits des Forges/Le Temps de Cerises, 2003).
 
 
 
Yann Lovelock lives and works in Birmingham, England. In addition to numerous collections of his own poetry and scholarly work, he has published translations from French, Dutch, Wallon, Flemish, Urdu, Spanish and Danish and held guest editorships, notably for Modern Poetry in Translation, Dutch & Flemish issue, 1997. As a Buddhist, he has been widely involved in educational work and inter-faith dialogue.
 
 
 
Contributors are Mohammed Dib (Algeria), Habib Tengour (Algeria), Paul Dakeyo (Cameroon), Nimrod (Chad), Alain Mabanckou (Congo Brazzaville), Tchicaya U Tam’si (Congo Brazzaville), Kama Sywor Kamanda (Democratic Republic of Congo), Abdourahman A. Waberi (Djibouti), Tanella Boni (Ivory Coast), Venus Khoury-Ghata (Lebanon), Edouard Maunick (Mauritius), Khal Torabully (Mauritius), Abdellatif Laâbi (Morocco), Babacar Sall (Senegal), Amadou Lamine Sall (Senegal), Tahar Bekri (Tunisia), Shams Nadir (Tunisia), Amina Saïd (Tunisia).
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Four times azure and five
Habib Tengour
(Algeria)
 
 
Sand stone or mineral ultramarine blue
memory attaches to its rays
frail trace of a camp
to cross our lives set out in a mirror
just as hachures fade to grey
and the sky is colour sterile

The trip, you cannot tell us about it
this ash taste when words merge
nor the burst of joy when landing

I stared and stared at the line
stubbornly searching for a bearing

Pale at the time of reckoning your book on the stall
visibly unsettled
no longer a question of flight

The spectre is mute
it will not reveal its secret before cock-crow
the anguish that roams at night is not fatal
even though fear haunts the stars

In the bedroom, dawn sprinkles its gold sequins
and azure drinks from your lips
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Soweto, suns shot down (extracts)
Paul Dakeyo (Cameroon)
 
 
My anger
The high winds
That punctuate the march
My homeland in revolt
My people rising up
Against raging night
My people rising up
Ferment of our suffering
The raging storm

And our martyrs
That are not dead
Our martyrs
That are in my song
In the air the sea
Like a volcano in fury

I will carry you over my land
Barely dry from tears
I will carry you among the flowers
Pollen the pure volcano
I will carry you a sun
All through the final march
I will carry you lovingly
Even in the stirring
Of my faraway country
Even in the unbridled silence
Of our solitary corner of the world
I will carry you

Time hangs heavy
The march drags on
Waiting for the warm
Embrace of the great day
Waiting for love
And harvests to come
Time hangs heavy
The march drags on
In the night
Cold and alone

We will walk on thorns
In insubordination
To order
In insubordination
To prison space
Our final insubordination
In the night
Till freedom come

And when the march ends
We will strike up a friendship
With the intimacy of day
With fire, water, air
And a brighter morning
A warm embrace
That probes the virgin wind
Of our parallel geographies
We will strike up friendship
Our arms that untiringly
Embrace time

So we will emerge from exile
A swarm of bees
A tidal wave
That ebbs to the horizon
Flayed by wind
Like so many stars hoisted
To the very centre of the sky
We will emerge from exile
Like a raging volcano

I will take you to walk
On the shore
Along the coast
When the breeze skims
The sea
The never-ending sea

I will offer dawn
The magnitude of love
And your snugly
Sun-beaten
Body

And we will go on
Across the smooth sand
Of my land
Alone in love
Just as the incoming tide
Lulls the worn reefs
With silence
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
The cry of the bird
Nimrod
(Chad)

for Daniel Bourdanné
 
 
I wanted to be overcome with silence
I abandoned the woman I love
I closed myself to the bird of hope
That invited me to climb the branches
Of the tree, my double
I created havoc in the space of my garden
I opened up my lands
I found the air that circulates between the panes
Pleasant. I was happy
To be my life’s witch doctor
When the evening rolled out its ghosts
The bird in me awoke again
Its cry spread anguish
In the heart of my kingdom
 
 
 
*
  
   
 
In the silence of hearts
Kama Sywor Kamanda (Democratic Republic of Congo)
 
 
Now you are queen of my kingdom of dreams!
Woman, I am lost in your darkest night
Without a guiding star!
Carried away by your everchanging soul
As on an infinite sea,
I am drowning in the light of your desires:
Your love of its sensual pleasures transfigured me,
And I distanced my life from the shores of solitude.
It is softness in my heart
Nourished by the blood of lovers!
The fears on the flanks of wind are ripening,
I pray for heaven
To protect your life from all suffering,
And the force of love to safeguard your freedom
Wherever honour
Is a requirement of election.
I will cross gulfs of bitterness
To accede to the sun of your pleasure,
And I will attain the highest summits of your slopes
So that the river of all tenderness will flow down
Broadening as it courses its way.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Desires
Abdourahman A. Waberi (Djibouti)
 
 
I am the rustling of the world
the swaying between here and elsewhere
the dumb foliage of the cactus
the coarse wood that covers the gecko
the bed for the world-book
whose pages are as many waves of the quest
endlessly begun again
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Tales of yesterday
Abdourahman A. Waberi
(Djibouti)
 
 
               The female lips of the tiger orchid have
nothing to hide. Darkest night.
Everything sleeps, even silence.
The bones of the past here, visible in evening streets.
The laurel trees weep for their Daphne
Apollo is off chasing skirt in Abyssinia.
Go on, anchor further out. Leave the sea of Eritrea,
the heavens will be better then.
This is the sacked bard telling you:
my land is poor, there is nothing for sale.
Black gold, precious wood, pearls of azure?
Nothing but the wind, migratory winds –
the dreams of flocks and mirages of water.
Our confidence has evaporated
like the morning dew
sucked up by the eye of the sun.
It is black, often. Pink sometimes. We are a long way
from having said yes to the abduction of the coffin.
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Dialogue of water and salt (extracts)
Khal Torabully (Mauritius)
 
 
Dialogue is no more a place than space,
nor cry where being is born and trespasses.

It is a sudden crossing, a succession of epitaphs
where the soul leaves traces in the calligrapher’s silence.

Yet, between sky and water, the word alone
disquiets the being: between coral and rock,
the instant of speech – this reed finally full of notes
that quiver.

If salt and water wish to undo the sea
or silence, that’s not my business.
But if this here is the Frontier,
 
between desire and speech, I note it in flesh and bone.
The sea is further out than salt
salt closer than sea.

[…]

Speak! Speak! Tell me the dialogue of water!
Speak! Speak! Tell me the arabesques of salt!
The opposite meaning of words,
Speak memory, before I take you out!
 
 
 
*
 
 
 
Afghanistan
Tahar Bekri (Tunisia)
 
 
If music were to die
If love is the work of Satan
If your body is your prison
If the whip is what you know how to wield
If your heart is your beard
If your truth is a veil
If your refrain is a bullet
If your song is a funeral prayer
If your falcon is a crow
If your look is brother to dust

How can you love the sun in your lair?

If your sky detests kites
If your soil is a minefield
If your wind is thickened by powder
And not fecund pollen
If your mulberry tree is a gallows
If your door is a barrage
If your bed is a trench
If your house is a coffin
If your river flows with blood
If your snow is a cemetery

How can you love the water in the river?

If your mountains submit
Humiliated and humbled
Their backs unjust citadels
Their guts disembowelled to harden stone
If your valley is not to fuel your dream
Like a rose in the zephyr
If your clay is kneaded by grief
Not to raise a school
Like an apricot tree in flower
If your reed is not a qalam

How can you live in the light?

If your labour is seed for scarecrows
Craven cache for poppies
If your horse is enslaved by its blinkers
Scorns the flight of flutes in the air
If your valley vomits its sapphires
To the warlords
If the braids of women are ropes
If your stadium is a slaughterhouse
If your path is invisible
If your night is a tomb for the stars

How can you promise the moon?

If Gengis Khan is your master
If your child is the offspring of Timur
If your face is faceless
If your sabre is your executioner
If your epic is ruins and vultures
If all the rain cannot wash your forefinger
If your desire is dead wood
If your fire is ash
If your flame is smoke
If your passion is grenades and cannon

How can you seduce the dove at the window?

If your village is a casern
Not a nest for swallows
If your house is a cave
If your source is a mirage
If your dress is your shroud
If death is your mausoleum
If your Koran is a turban
If your prayer is war
If your paradise is hell
If your soul is your sombre gaoler

How can you love the spring?
 
 
 
 
from The Parley Tree (Arc Publications, 2012).

Order The Parley Tree.
 
 
 
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