By John Hawkhead

Quaalaa quoleylo quood quondamatus quex
Quondrous querulude quentam quoroverex

Questum quor quelran queritard quixamaic
Quintifillix quaruntgis qualfernex quin quaic

Quastrom quastromexitar quastromicansis qued
Quantifom quentifar quitsig quorts Qu’luluqued

John Hawkhead is a poet and illustrator whose work can be found all over the Internet. He lives in Bradford on Avon in the UK.

By Gerard Greenway

Jet Soaker Shower Mist Cone Flat Fan Angle
Soaker Shower Mist Cone Flat Fan Angle Jet
Shower Mist Cone Flat Fan Angle Jet Soaker
Mist Cone Flat Fan Angle Jet Soaker Shower
Cone Flat Fan Angle Jet Soaker Shower Mist
Flat Fan Angle Jet Soaker Shower Mist Cone
Fan Angle Jet Soaker Shower Mist Cone Flat
Angle Jet Soaker Shower Mist Cone Flat Fan

Gerard Greenway lives in Oxford, UK. He is the editor of the great gromboolian plain.

By Gerard Greenway

No In Ter Net Con Nec Ti On
In Ter Net Con Nec Ti On No
Ter Net Con Nec Ti On No In
Net Con Nec Ti On No In Ter
Con Nec Ti On No In Ter Net
Nec Ti On No In Ter Net Con
Ti On No In Ter Net Con Nec
On No In Ter Net Con Nec Ti

Gerard Greenway lives in Oxford, UK. He is the editor of the great gromboolian plain.

Gerard Greenway

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mgonnabangyoui
mgonnabangyoui
gonnabangyouim
gonnabangyouim
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onnabangyouimg

imgonnabangyou
imreallygonnabangyou
reallyreallygonnabangyou
reallygonnagonnabangyou
reallygonnabangbangyou
imgonnabangyou

nnabangyouimgo
nnabangyouimgo
nabangyouimgon
nabangyouimgon
abangyouimgonn
abangyouimgonn
bangyouimgonna
bangyouimgonna

imgonnabangyou
imreallygonnabangyou
reallyreallygonnabangyou
reallygonnagonnabangyou
reallygonnabangbangyou
imgonnabangyou

angyouimgonnab
angyouimgonnab
ngyouimgonnaba
ngyouimgonnaba
gyouimgonnaban
gyouimgonnaban
youimgonnabang
youimgonnabang

imgonnabangyou
imreallygonnabangyou
reallyreallygonnabangyou
reallygonnagonnabangyou
reallygonnabangbangyou
imgonnabangyou

ouimgonnabangy
ouimgonnabangy
uimgonnabangyo
uimgonnabangyo
imgonnabangyou
imgonnabangyou
imgonnabangyou
imgonnabangyou

imgonnabangyou
imreallygonnabangyou
reallyreallygonnabangyou
reallygonnagonnabangyou
reallygonnabangbangyou
imgonnabangyou

Gerard Greenway lives in Oxford, UK. He is the editor of the great gromboolian plain.

We are pleased to publish Platinum City, a long (1000+ words) visionary poem by Chinese poet Yuan Hongri, translated by his Indian collaborator, Manu Mangattu.

PLATINUM CITY

By Yuan Hongri
Translated by Manu Mangattu

Ah! With iridescent light of gems of time
The heavenly road you pave!
In the kingdom of stars
I found my home.
In that city of gold
I opened the gate to the sun,
To behold the godly giants.
At the royal palace of the jewel,
I read of prehistoric wonders
In an enormous, gorgeous ancient book.
With my eyes I saw
The golden words that John carved,
A wondrous strange mystery tale.
Into a full new world I went,
To witness the seat of the holy kingdom
Even before the earth was born –
The original home of human history.

< – >

Across time and space in crystalline glitter
Stands at this very moment a platinum city –
A ship leisurely drifting, like a bird,
Resplendent in variegated hues.

In the crystal garden I saw
A crowd of youthful giants,
Their eyes were bright and glittering
In the aura of the body’s sparkle.

They sang happy songs,
They danced a wonderful dance,
Lanky boys and girls in pairs,
As if to celebrate the splendid carnival.

I saw a circular edifice
High above the city
Giving out a white light –
Raised ground to fly into the quiet space.

The framework of a platinum edifice,
Creating a beautiful pattern.
The whole city is a circle,
All perfectly arranged into its noble structure.

Into a bright hall I went,
And saw there a strange instrument;
A huge screen hanging on the wall,
Displaying a golden space.

Like fragments of colourful crystal gemstones,
Resplendent with variegated colours of the city,
Those beautiful high-rise buildings,
A sight finer than any myth of this world.

I saw lines of strange letters.
On one side of the screen flashed swiftly
Numerous youthful, beautiful giants –
An effort to concentrate on the ever-changing images.

Their look is quiet and peaceful;
The flame of learning flashes in their eyes.
Then in a swirl of garments,
The next figure appears.

Their stature, superhumanly tall;
Each one is well-nigh seven meters high.
Both men and women equally dignified,
And without apparent age differences.

Their skin is white as snow
With a faint flashing shine;
Bright eyes as naïve as an infant’s,
Kindled with a strange flame.

They manipulate the magic of the instrument,
A picture of the changing space.
Their language is artless and plain,
With the modulation of a pleasant-sounding bell.

As I survey the length and breadth of the bright hall
I feel a powerful energy;
Body and mind suffused with bliss and delight,
As if I too am a giant.

I seem to understand their language.
They are exploring the mysteries of the universe.
As though the city is the double of a planet,
Peopled with the citizens’ doubles, their partners.

They manipulate the instrument with their minds,
Which can be used to transfer data
thousands of miles away,
Or to talk completely open-heartedly.

A mere line of text on the screen
Can communicate a world.
The whole universe is their home.
They build cities in space.

They use space shuttles
To transport you to far-distant other spaces.
A lightning flash and in an instant
You vanish into thin air, without a trace.

I feel a new civilization.
They have magical eyes;
They seem to be able to see the future;
They can enter other times and spaces.

Men and women are holy and loving,
Superior to our world’s so-called love.
They don’t seem to understand ageing.
Neither do they know about war.

Time seems not to exist.
Science has become wonderful art.
Their happiness comes from the creation of
A universe full of divine love.

I saw a young giant
Opening the door of a platinum space,
A round, magnificent hall,
Packed with rows of men and women.

I saw a crystal stage
Gyrating at the center of the hall,
Where a dignified, beautiful girl
Was playing a huge musical instrument.

A sheaf of golden rays,
Shifting with all kinds of brilliant graphics;
A mysterious and beautiful music,
Like the leisurely song of a dragon.

Thence I saw an enormous giant
Jump out of the dancing lights onto the stage.
His hands held a huge ball
Which flashed with many bright colours.

I saw a group of young girls
Wearing white dresses,
They seemed to fly lightly
Like a giant crane.

The huge circular hall was resplendent
With clear, transparent decorations,
Like a huge set of gems,
Scintillating brilliantly in the light.

I saw a young singer
About the golden flame,
The sound was very striking,
The singling like a strange chanting.

Their music is at once mysterious and blissful,
shifting ceaslessly like the lightning,
As if a planet of the universe,
Shining brightly in a shining space.

The crystal city, aloft in space,
Looks resplendent, magnificent;
Countless wonderful golden flowers
Bloom and blush in that flawless space.

I saw an image of a transparent smiling face,
As if it were a colourful garden,
The golden light from the sky
Turned it into a city of gold.

I strode out of the circular hall
And came to a wide street with a smooth pavement,
Covered with precious stones,
Aligned with the platinum edifice.

There are no terrestrial trees here,
But there are others in full bloom,
Sparkling with rich incense,
Forming a garden in the middle of the street.

Strange flowers grew there too,
Their leaves as transparent crystal,
Flashing all kinds of brilliant colours –
And bunches of round golden fruit.

I saw a huge statue;
It was like a spaceship,
Clustered around by shining stars,
High above the middle of the street.

I saw the column of a dazzling fountain
In a huge circle in the square,
With an elegantly modelled statue
portraying a holy giant.

A soaring magnificent edifice
Ran round the circle-square.
There were garden villas;
There was a white steeple.

I saw a wide river
Girdling this huge city.
The riverbed flashed with transparent gold dust,
Amidst which were scattered brilliant gems.

Tall trees planted along each shore
Formed a long crystal corridor,
And big multi-coloured birds – in one group thirty-five! –
Floated on the surface of the water.

I saw a vast forest –
Swaying trees, trees of gold,
trees with towering canopies,
And amongst them some sort of platinum pavilion.

I saw giants walking on the paths,
Athletes both male and female,
At the water’s brink or in the forest,
Like birds, carefree and relaxed.

An ideal space as bright as crystal
Embraced this platinum city;
A giant, brilliant light-sphere,
Flashing boundless light into the air.

It resembled a huge sun
or a man-made planet.
The whole city was shining too,
Weaving a rare breed of magic.

A strange train sped, circling,
About the city back and forth.
There seemed to be some kind of track in the sky,
Curving, shining.

There there were seated bodies of white buildings
In a dreamlike maze –
This huge wonderous island of the city.
I could not even hear the sound of the wind.

I bade goodbye to the platinum city.
Nearby in a golden space
Stands another city –
A vast city of gold.

The buildings there are also huge,
But it it another beautiful shape.
The whole city is a glittering,
Golden edifice as beautiful as sculpture.

Here there live other giants –
As if from another nation.
They have boundless wisdom.
A golden, holy civilization.

3.3.1998

By Yuan Hongri
Translated by Manu Mangattu

Yuan Hongri, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in the theme of creation. Representative works include Platinum City, Gold City, Golden Paradise, Gold Sun and Golden Giant.
E-mail: 3112362909@qq.com

Manu Mangattu (translator) is Assistant Professor, Department of English, St George’s College Aruvithura, India.
E-mail: manumangattu@gmail.com; website: www.mutemelodist.com

“What we call art exists in order to give back the sensation of life, in order to make us feel things, in order to make a stone stony. The goal of art is to create the sensation of seeing, and not merely recognising, things; the method of art is ‘ostranenie’ [making strange].”

Viktor Shklovsky, “Art as Device” (1917)

Hugo Ball (1886–1927)

Dada is a new tendency in art. One can tell this from the fact that until now nobody knew anything about it, and tomorrow everyone in Zurich will be talking about it. Dada comes from the dictionary. It is terribly simple. In French it means “hobby horse”. In German it means “good-bye”, “get off my back”, “be seeing you sometime”. In Romanian: “yes, indeed, you are right, that’s it. But of course, yes, definitely, right”. And so forth.

An International word. Just a word, and the word a movement. Very easy to understand. Quite terribly simple. To make of it an artistic tendency must mean that one is anticipating complications. Dada psychology, dada Germany cum indigestion and fog paroxysm, dada literature, dada bourgeoisie, and yourselves, honoured poets, who are always writing with words but never writing the word itself, who are always writing around the actual point. Dada world war without end, dada revolution without beginning, dada, you friends and also-poets, esteemed sirs, manufacturers, and evangelists. Dada Tzara, dada Huelsenbeck, dada m’dada, dada m’dada dada mhm, dada dera dada, dada Hue, dada Tza.

How does one achieve eternal bliss? By saying dada. How does one become famous? By saying dada. With a noble gesture and delicate propriety. Till one goes crazy. Till one loses consciousness. How can one get rid of everything that smacks of journalism, worms, everything nice and right, blinkered, moralistic, europeanised, enervated? By saying dada. Dada is the world soul, dada is the pawnshop. Dada is the world’s best lily-milk soap. Dada Mr Rubiner, dada Mr Korrodi. Dada Mr Anastasius Lilienstein. In plain language: the hospitality of the Swiss is something to be profoundly appreciated. And in questions of aesthetics the key is quality.

I shall be reading poems that are meant to dispense with conventional language, no less, and to have done with it. Dada Johann Fuchsgang Goethe. Dada Stendhal. Dada Dalai Lama, Buddha, Bible, and Nietzsche. Dada m’dada. Dada mhm dada da. It’s a question of connections, and of loosening them up a bit to start with. I don’t want words that other people have invented. All the words are other people’s inventions. I want my own stuff, my own rhythm, and vowels and consonants too, matching the rhythm and all my own. If this pulsation is seven yards long, I want words for it that are seven yards long. Mr Schulz’s words are only two and a half centimetres long.

It will serve to show how articulated language comes into being. I let the vowels fool around. I let the vowels quite simply occur, as a cat meows… Words emerge, shoulders of words, legs, arms, hands of words. Au, oi, uh. One shouldn’t let too many words out. A line of poetry is a chance to get rid of all the filth that clings to this accursed language, as if put there by stockbrokers’ hands, hands worn smooth by coins. I want the word where it ends and begins. Dada is the heart of words.

Each thing has its word, but the word has become a thing by itself. Why shouldn’t I find it? Why can’t a tree be called Pluplusch, and Pluplubasch when it has been raining? The word, the word, the word outside your domain, your stuffiness, this laughable impotence, your stupendous smugness, outside all the parrotry of your self-evident limitedness. The word, gentlemen, is a public concern of the first importance.

 

Sanctuary eyes you got me good,
You always said you could and would,
I’ve heard myself and that’s enough,
So strike me down and cast the curse,
Of sleepless mind, a fate much worse,
Left to wonder what it was you found,
A thought that keeps me up till dawn,
Eyes fixed down upon the ground.

Walking past these streets and roads,
Will I ever get the chance,
To be the man I wish to be,
And break free from this trance?
I’ve searched these woods a thousand times yet all I find is me,
It never ends, it never stops but still you mustn’t leave.

Sanctuary eyes you got me good,
After a while I thought you should,
Time caught me out and now I’m old,
That’s how it goes or so I’m told,
I hide so much, filled up with madness,
They knock on doors that I can’t open,
And knock again, always harder,
You could of let me out to answer.

The master’s face is always hidden,
Blind men will always guess,
Yet it wasn’t all that long ago,
You proclaimed my life a mess,
You locked me up and kept the key,
Made it difficult for me to breathe.

Alas,
Sanctuary eyes you got me good,
To tell the truth I knew you would.

Gretle Feeson

Gretle Feeson, 29, is from Glasgow, Scotland. A new fan to poetry. Unemployed at the moment and searching for new ways to occupy my time.

She is calmer than her songs
She falls asleep watching the twisted veins of trees
She is luckier than night and darkness
Blood capillaries will set fire to her moon
And night and darkness will run on all fours fearing her and her moon

Alisa Velaj

Translated from Albanian by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj

Alisa Velaj was born in the southern port town of Vlora, Albania, in 1982. Her work has appeared in a number of print and online international magazines. Her first full-length book, A Gospel of Light, from which this poem is taken, was published by Aquillrelle in 2015. 

 

Naked songs
Under a naked moon
My curiosity defeats paleness
And tries to keep quiet as long as possible
Look at the boreal nights for a short while, darling
Something worthier than nothingness
Must necessarily be hiding
Beyond my curiosity and the lethargic mornings
The frightened sparrows of your breath
Are the first accords of the guitar lost
Somewhere under the snow or amidst the moon’s bones
No one knows
Where other accords and other solitudes
Come from or go to
Come into being, die again, and live three other lives, honey
Just to bring curiosity back to life for a short while…

Alisa Velaj

Translated from Albanian by Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj

Alisa Velaj was born in the southern port town of Vlora, Albania, in 1982. Her work has appeared in a number of print and online international magazines. Her first full-length book, A Gospel of Light, from which this poem is taken, was published by Aquillrelle in 2015.