This is an English language anthology that represents the new European poetic scene through authors, whose mother tongue is not initially English. This book is a result of joint activities of people all across Europe who engaged themselves in its preparation, according to their own field of specialization. Authors, designers, proof-readers and editors, all having English as a second or even a third language, have been brought together, led by one common idea - to spread the variety of European cultures in a literature product, presented in an international linguistic tool.
From the book:
My Hearing by Sandra Stolnik
My hearing, my hearing, it left me alone!
It took away all sounds, each single tone.
My ears were blocked, and it was so strange,
The state of my shock was seeking a change.
Instead, I got nothing but this constant ringing.
It never stopped! It never stopped singing!
How weird I felt back at the time
To not hear my voice, to have to only mime.
I wasn’t sure if this ringing was called
‘A hearing’ or ‘a tinnitus’. It distracted it all.
I couldn’t understand what people said
And felt so excluded and full of regret.
I had to watch people’s faces with attention,
Being ashamed of my poor listening comprehension.
I tried to guess by their faces the meaning.
A brand new battle - I needed a screening.
Some topics discussed were so hard to follow.
The lump in my throat I couldn’t just swallow.
As the time went on, more confusion I felt.
This was a new situation I dealt.
They were all kind, understanding my worry.
However, this made me even more sorry.
Sometimes they used to stop talking to me,
Taking paper and pen, so that I could see
What they were trying to say to me.
I was relieved by their generous act,
It made me forget… The greatest impact
Wondering “What are they talking about?”
Banality by Sabrina Ferrai
Walking through the static fog of a street,
Blinded by the city’s heartbeat,
I try to remind myself I exist,
But only banalities chase me. What beasts!
A day is vanishing with the flavour of progress.
Oh, if only the night could help me with its mystic caress!
Yelling children are running upon the grass,
Ah! How usually the graceful childhood does pass!
Adults are speaking of a future portrait upon the ruins of today.
How vague and conventional seems to me their play!
Young people are forced to nibble
At hope and to feed on compromise!
Listen to my echoing cry even if it’s not so wise!
Let there be still flowers to smell
And not only stale fragrances in a bottled well.
A train will drag my memories nowhere;
Of this sadness, it’s so difficult to be aware!
A cigarette will gently follow my thoughts progressing
No, I’m not ready to stop. Why is the time so pressing?
Alone, the whistle of trite Present is vanishing at dawn.
A bag is waiting silently… It is my own!
Desolation please, spare this bag for now!
I will help you grab another victim… though, not sure how!
Sooner or later, banality will slap me, and I’ll explode!
Till this apocalypse, I’ll sing this mournful ode.
