Joel Linares Moreno
Resistance
The olive speaks in the middle of the camp
opens its charred entrails to the universe
It buries its woody claws
in the womb of the world
drinks the juices of fire
the swell of memory
Its leaves breathe in the midst of smoke
in boiling obstinacy
procures the last drop of the night
Its blossom perfumes -again- the morning
and scares away the stench of the pit
Inside the tent
a woman is in labor pains
–+++++++++
The rivers
All the rivers of the river
end up hanging from the sky of the mouth
they become a vessel to bury the moans
they roam the silence
that is more river than rivers
and pass under the palate
to the carpet of the throat
like a mass of flesh
like a nocturnal wheeze
all the words are tied together
their names written on the skin
they resist to be swallowed
because they need to say
not to take their weeping to the stomach of oblivion
All the rivers of the river
pray joining little hands without a body 
closing the eyes that the blast took with it
at the zenith of darkness
All the rivers of the river
flow into Gaza
Poet, Educator, Culture coordinator, participated in various poetry festivals, from Venezuela.
Rira Abbbasi
Confess
All the girls have committed suicide
All the mothers have confessed
All the shirts have been tarred by lies
All the tears are blood soaked happiness
We are fabricators of history, through and through
We’ve never become mothers
Mahsa Nika Sarina Hadis Hadieh Hananeh Hajer Ghazaleh Minoo
without even having girls, we always bear the stigma of enough-girls
We are fabricators of history
students commit suicide behind closed doors on their own
Zahedan has been self sufficient for years
no child ever goes hungry
cheaper than bread, we send bullets their way
We are fabricators of history
Prisons have no bars
Baktash was also a lie
despite the shackles and chains
and with that booming laugh
Who dies for freedom anyway?
We are liars through and through
a poet’s place is not in prison
liar
Prisons are barely populated and so we set them on fire
We are fabricators of history
We shoot down our own planes
we don’t lack happiness
soon as children fly
we burst into laughter, ululating in celebration of death
You are right, you were right
No mother buries her blood soaked child’s body
We said we are blackboards, write as you please
write and don’t believe that we’ve believed
This blackboard
Will never wash clean from the blood of the young
This poem is dedicated to all who lost their lives, to the children and adolescents
who came out in support of freedom, to the girls who realized a centuries-long
dream of their mothers and created an epic called Women, Life, Freedom. This poem
is dedicated to the families who lost loved ones, and instead of being soothed by our
collective tears, were coerced to make false confessions, a repeated scenario
repeating again
Notes:
After the murder of Mahsa Amini at the hands of the Morality Police, widespread protests erupted across Iran, and the girls named in this poem, most not older than sixteen years old, were also brutally killed by the security forces. Their mothers were forced into making false confessions on television, stating that their daughters had committed suicide or had fallen from rooftops.
Zahedan is the capital of Sistan and Baluchestan Province in Iran. In one incident following Mahsa Amini’s murder, the security forces fired at protesters from helicopters, killing many children among others.
Baktash Abtin was a poet sentenced to six years in prison for exercising his right to free speech. He contracted COVID-19 during his term and perished in prison after being denied proper care.
On January 8, 2020 Ukrainian Airlines Flight 752 was shot down by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps shortly after takeoff, killing all 176 passengers and crew aboard, mostly Iranians.
Evin prison that keeps majority of recent prisoners, was set to fire by government on 15th October, 2022 while all the staff left and also denied access to the ambulances to reach and help.
translated by Bijan Mottahedeh December 14, 2022 in Translation
Open Your Umbrella
I was born with a dictator
death was a birth, I was condemned to
now that everyone thinks of freedom
I won’t get liberation
Open this pain
a pain opening to birth
is a maze and
me, under its boots
and now, if everyone achieves justice
I won’t reach the plants of this vase
if the rain has a home
I won’t reach to an umbrella.
Do You Know?
the animal of my body wears a checkered pattern shirt
and my circle has always transformed to square
silence never turns into greatness
no shame is left to say I’m mute
and my instinct is a god
who nailed me on four sides
I’m not ashamed of saying
a tree that I’ve got no clue what it is
the sun that I’ve got no clue what it is
got no clue
if you push back god
anything will fall from the tree or not?
Want a Drunk Horse
I’ve been saluting my shadow for years
and deadlier than ever, have responded to tyranny
like two heads with one scarf
labor and bread
going to dance with a man this year
who’s got a drunk god
who’s got a drunk horse
that jumps on my skirt
going to make wine from the edges of my skirt
this year.
Translated to English by Nasim Basiri
Rira Abbasi, Iranian poet,
fiction writer and peace activist, was born in 1962 in Khorramabad, Iran. Acclaimed as Iran’s Lady Poet Laureate and the winner of the Parvin Etesami Poetry Award in 2005, Rira is also a member of Iran’s Writers Association and the founder and director of the biennial International Peace Poetry festival since 2007. Black Fairy of Wednesday (2000), No More Guns for this Lor Woman (2001) and the bold collection of love poems Who Loves You More Discreetly? (2002) are among her works. Rira has edited and introduced the first collection of Iranian Peace Poetry (an anthology) in 2002. In 2008, she founded the Rira’s Blue House, an establishment in line with the International Peace Poetry Festival. A brainchild of Rira Abbasi and supported solely by individual donations and sponsorship of non-governmental organizations, the charter of the Peace Poetry Festival states that “Poetry for peace is affiliated to humanity, regardless of race, religion, sex and geography”.
Stefan Balan
Mosquitoes
The slice of light
would be invisible if not
for the mosquitoes
climbing up
or down
confused
by hope
or pleasure
their backs in
an out of
the warmth
which would go
unopposed
unwarming
unknowing
of itself
if it was not
for the gleeful
confusion
of mosquitoes
In praise of noise
What would music be
without the unwrapping
of a fire red candy
what would Al Compas
del Corazon be
without the rustling
of the nylon
without the striking
of the match
when he sings it Raúl
Berón is twenty-two
now he is not
what would music be
without the clandestine
whisper
what would it be
without Keith Jarret’s
moans
without the Köln
in the Köln concert
what would anything be
without the distant cough
of someone
no longer with us?
A poem should feel
Like stepping on a Lego
your child
left around
after playing ninja
doctor
astronaut
Bobba Fett
maybe all
none
there was no one around
to hear the names
except of course Mr. Gold
Train Kid
Mushroom Sprite
Harpy
Fierce Barbarian
and for that matter everyone
in Mos Eisley cantina
and then he was gone
fled
the intergalactic police
I'm telling you
a poem should feel
like stepping on a Lego
Stefan Balan is a 
Romanian-born American living in the Greater Boston area, where he works as an oncologist. He authored three books of poetry and, in collaboration, one of film criticism about Lars von Trier, which received Romanian’s national critics’ award. In the US his writings appeared in, among others, Boudin, Pensive, West Branch, Frog Pond, The Bancopa Literary Review, Lifelines, The Red Moon Anthology, Juste millieu. His poetry was published in Australia (Cordite, The Poetry d’Amour Anthology), Sweden (Two Thirds North) and, extensively, in Romania. He is the 2024 recipient of the 3rd Wednesday magazine first prize for poetry and of an honorable mention from Passager Journal. His website is https://www.stefanbalanpoetry.com/.
He is recipient of the 2024 first prize for poetry from 3rd Wednesday’s and of an honorable mention from Passage Journal.
