COVID-19 Sounding All the World
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Ayo Ayoola-Amale, Accra, Ghana, 2nd August, 2020 COVID-19 Sounding All the World We have heard them say “it’s just a little bug, deranged.” The unseen making everything, ravaged so hearts don’t rest. We have heard them say “stay estranged from others.” How do I stay away from connective healing? when the heat outside hurts as droplets from my nose drowns, the cold inside burns dead in my dailiness. We have heard them say Stay safe Wash your hands regularly with soap under running water until you collapse into sleep. How do I wash my stinging hands without water? We have heard them say Stay masked and keep your distance. How do i stay away from being dead inside? These empty space kill like the little bug. We have heard them say Stay at home. How do I stay at home when I have no home? I have never been home; i have never been at home here in my good sense. Now souls crowding into iniquity learn the art of living quietly sounding all the world. Ayo Ayoola-Amale, Accra, Ghana, 2nd August, 2020 COVID-19 Ohun ni gbogbo agbaye A ti gbọ wọn sọ wipe “O kan jẹ kokoro kekere kan, ti o bajẹ.” Ohun ti a ko rii ti n ṣe ohun gbogbo, pa run ki awọn ọkan maṣe sinmi. A ti gbọ wọn sọ wipe “Dúró ní àjèjì sí àwọn ẹlòmíràn.” Bawo ni MO ṣe le kuro ni iwosan isopọ? nigbati ooru ita ba ndun ni, ni bi awọn iṣuu lati imu mi nrì, Tutu inu di okú ninu igbe aye mi lojoojumọ. A ti gbọ wọn sọ wipe Duro lailewu Wẹ ọwọ rẹ nigbagbogbo pẹlu ọṣẹ labẹ omi to nṣàn titi iwọ o fi sùn. Bawo ni MO ṣe le wẹ awọn ọwọ ika mi laisi omi? A ti gbọ wọn sọ wipe wa ninu iboju, ki o si jina diẹ Bawo ni MO ṣe le yago fun lati ku sinu? Awọn aaye ofifo wọnyi pa bi kokoro kekere. A ti gbọ wọn sọ wipe Duro ni ile. Bawo ni Mo ṣe le joko ni ile, nigbati Emi ko ni ile? Emi ko tii wa ni ile; Emi ko tii wa ni ile nibi, pelu ori mi ti o peye. Nisisiyi awọn ẹmi ti n kojọpọ sinu aiṣedede kọ ẹkọ lati ma gbe ni idakẹjẹ ohun ni gbogbo agbaye. Ricardo Azevedo, São Paulo, Brasil, 2021 Cai for a praga desonesta Vai embora bicho lazarento Larga do meu pé. Sai da minha vida Volta pra noite que te pariu Leva tua febre tua fúria teu vazio Dá o fora vírus voraz Vê se me deixa fazer meu verso em paz! Ricardo Azevedo, São Paulo, Brasil, 2021 Ricardo Azevedo, São Paulo, Brasil, 2021 Ricardo Azevedo, São Paulo, Brasil, 2021 Carmen-Francesca Banciu, Wewelsfleth, Germany, April 2021 CORONA BLUES Ich lasse das Gedicht herein Keiner kommt sonst vorbei Seit einem Jahr kommt keiner vorbei Seit Jahren Vorbei ist die Zeit Als noch jemand kam Ostersonntag Mit den Liebsten stoße ich an Mein Glas berührt den Bildschirm Wir spielen Eier-kippen Schlagen das Osterei tot Gegen die Mattscheibe Und das Ei bleibt unversehrt Auf der Scheibe treffen sich Unsere Gläser Unsere Lippen Unversehrt die Gläser Ungeküsst der Mund In einem Haus dieser Stadt Vor ihrem Bildschirm Sitzen die Allerliebsten Gedeck ist die große Tafel Geopfert das Lamm Dampfend die Speisen Das Osterbrot duftend Nicht weit in dieser Stadt Meine Liebsten Jeder vor seinem Bildschirm Wir alle tun das Gleiche Wir sind zusammen Zusammen getrennt Auf dem Tisch Suchen wir Krümel Die Krümel der Vergangenheit Nur noch die Sehnsucht Befleckt die Tischdecke Tony Birch, Melbourne, Australia Finding you above Kyoto stone cats in red knits lined a narrow canal sweetened water swirled in bowls of fallen leaves staining my hands with tannins of a winter soon born in hills above mist and mystery I climbed with you weightless resting in the small of my back sweat trickled blood flowed and on the summit I snatched a chilled breath and settled in the gathering silence away from a home I cling to fear left me and rose to a ridge of solid stone you held me you covered me my brother a blanket of love John Burnside, United Kingdom, 2021 Ma Bohème (after Rimbaud) I will leave in my ideal coat, bright as the day I learned to take light for a sign of nothing but itself: no hinterland of apropos or corn dolls etched in steel, no scar on the corpus callosum from fifty years of Calculus and Deuteronomy. Summer again; the meadow is drawing in and no one can deny the animals, each in its pocket of rainfall and quatre épices, a streak of tenderness for everything that wanders; and, always, the sense that something has still to appear, some widow-maker, come in from the fields, with nothing on its tongue but lullaby. Night in the cities, lockdown; the end of neon; simples of pus and feverfew ranged on the shelves with spent bulbs and dog-eared copies of Dao De Jing, yarrow stalks, tea-dregs, Tarot cards spotted with wax, Justice Reversed, Fortuna, The Queen of Wands – what it means, I suppose, is that presence no longer abides, or not in the shapes we sacrificed so much to barter with, a twilight flooding in from nowhere to the child-sized Shangri-La of tree-line, where we magnify the rain in lieu of Seraphim, and all the smaller fauna of the age come out into the open, where we cannot name them; we, who never quite achieved the brusque humility to be involved. No catechism here; no sunken church; and yet, it seems this mystery is ours as ruins are, a counterpoint to grace where each thing hunts its echo, fish, then fowl, first one, and then another: little owl and vixen, herons stock-still in the reeds, the stoat unclasping from its lookout in the wall, a thinning streak of mastery and venom. The Silk Road is gone from our hearts, a final spindrift under the concourse of Yorkstone and camber; the Dreamtime is lost and The Temple of Baal-Shamin; the forests are gone to palm-oil and Merbau decking and all that remains of presence is pure decorum: no Hop-o'-My-Thumb, no child’s-play, no Dog Shark Mother; the Inn at the Plough is closed, now, for renovation, first signs of snow on the high road, the last of the traffic making for home, wet blister-packs of search-lamp in the dark, flatbeds and semis loaded with gravel and lumber, a last bus bound for the depot at who knows where – and I go my way, learning to breathe, like a Seventh Son, wind in my head and the murmur of stars in my blood, till the night dew falls through the trees like ice on my skin, sweeter than ruin, and cool, like a fine young wine. Beppe Costa, Rome, Italy, September, 2020 Covid 19 siamo sono statistica costante metodica estrema senza concedere soste mentre l’amore tiene qualche vecchio vivo non l’amore per i vecchi bensì l’amore dei vecchi -l’amore che ho- costante metodico estremo mentre tu figura per me sempre più invisibile siamo sono un numero fra quelli che in terzo turno aspetta quel miracolo nato come un bambino in nove mesi: miracolo per la vita siamo solo fantasmi presenti ma tenuti prigionieri in attesa del vaccino che ci renda immune dal dolore d’assenza d’amore sono solo un uomo non certo unico che aspetta l’abbraccio sapendo che presto ci sarà e sarà l’ultimo che mi sbatte alla terra ridotto in cenere Lidija Dimkovska, Ljubljana, Slovenia History Dead people in live years, live people in dead years. Dead nations in live decades, live nations in dead decades. Dead humanities in live centuries, live humanities in dead centuries. Each time has unwanted histories, each history – unwanted times. Amidst the contents, summary and key words, history is a paper on life and death. After the conference it’s duly published in the proceedings, which no one will ever read. Translated from the Macedonian by Ljubica Arsovska and Patricia Marsh. Forrest Gander, USA, 2021 Aubade Can you hear dawn edging close, hear * soft light with its vacuum fingertips * gripping the bedroom wall, an understated * what? exhilaration? Can you hear the voices, * if they can be called voices, of towhees * scratching in the garden and then * the creaky low husky * voice flecked with sleep beside you in bed * telling a dream slowly as though in real time, * and now, interrupting that dream, can you * make out the voice, if it can be * called a voice, of absence speaking * intimately to you, directly, * using the names of those who were vulnerable * those who have gone * I know you must * hear it feelingly, a low vibration in * your bones, for don’t you find yourself * absorbed in a next moment beyond your given life? Forrest Gander “Aubade” will be included in Twice Alive, forthcoming from New Directions in 2021. Edward Hirsch, New York, USA Eight People Eight people died on my block in Brooklyn last week and I didn’t know what it meant to be living at one remove from each other, wary, isolated, locked up with the relentless bad news while ambulances cruised the neighborhood which was otherwise so calm and quiet that I wondered if God, too, had gone into hiding and sheltered in place. Etgar Keret, Tel Aviv, Israel Olives, or End-of-World Blues The world is about to end and I’m eating olives.