I am the green of your eyes
and the red tiny tomatoes
filled with the water of sadness.

I am the snow bear
skating on a frozen lake
and the Himalaya
shrinking day after day
and everyone knows why.

It’s hard to say my name.
That’s why people call me my nickname, Abdul.

I am the soccer ball who never
betrayed its team and offered them
the World Cup.

I am young male red apple
feeding humanity,
an African of Moroccan blood,
fishing for the fourth language.

I am a giant cactus all alone
in the center of the ocean
protecting myself from the noise.

I am the end of the week
at school, the day of my favorite food,
couscous on the moon.

I am the blood of the Red Sea,
calm and warm.

– Abdessalam Mansori

From the anthology “Tell the World,” published by HarperCollins
Poem of the Month: March 2009

In the blink of an eye
wingless birds overpower the skies,
beautiful combinations of colors
arise in the thousands of kites
that soar the low heaven.

On this day winter is over and summer has begun.
The sun continues its drift toward the highest throne.
All of India’s men, women, and children stand upon their roofs,
Muslim beside Christian, Hindu beside Sikh,
connecting their minds to the red and white
dragonflies darting in sharp angles above.

Countless numbers of heads look up all day,
praising the sun
for releasing its warmth upon their faces.

Every string is painted with tiny glass shards
so that the paths might cross in playful battle,
cutting the strings and releasing the kites to the wind.
Street children run like wild beasts
to catch the fallen kites and sell them for one rupee.

The innocent pleasure of this festival
spells its name across the faces of rickshaw drivers,
factory workers, and doctors,
each laughs and smiles open-mindedly,
knowing there is no work today or tomorrow.

As the day comes to an end, pollution begins to rise
in clouds of blooming flowers, a dull finishing of red.
The sun slowly drowns into the ocean
in sheets of blue flame.

– Shahid Minapara

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.

O Bulgaria Bulgaria
I have seen your women
Carrying livestock on their backs,
I have stuffed cotton into my ears
To silence the lamb’s last cry! 

O Bulgaria Bulgaria
O bitter rain clouds that fall on our roofless homes and wash
The dishes for us
          Are your gypsies still alive?
Your black-haired, pink-cheeked, never-understood gypsies?
Did little Demir and his drowned body
Ever come back to look for me?
For a warm jacket and boots
To wear in the freezing water?
O I miss him
Tell him that I miss him 

O Bulgaria
A lion jumping over the iron woods
Is coming in my night dreams
Asking me to stop being a child
Pressing my wrists tightly
Making me run barefooted
In the painting of a foreign artist 

O Bulgaria Bulgaria
A hundred-year-flower sprouted up
At the spot where my crown bled!
The River Danube is carrying
Leaves from the willow that
Many of my ancestors are buried under 

O thief of apricots
O hungry soldier
Who opened the door for you? 

Two hands can cause
1,000 years of war
But also sew a flag 

O piggy bank full of clothing pins
Instead of money 

O picture frame empty as the wine barrel
My uncle slept in all night long 

O Bulgaria Bulgaria
I was born into a world
Some may never understand
A world       not European	not Turkish
Not African
 	Where your mistakes
Are slapped on the hand 

But you cannot see who did it
A world where your rewards
Are measured in small golden
Certificates, each one saying I love you 

O Bulgaria Bulgaria		O my Bulgaria
Wipe off your face
Because I’m coming back!

– Indiana Pehlivanova

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.

Yo soy nicoya
con mis memorias
te contare la historia
de mi gente
trabajadora y decente
que lleva en la mente
siempre ir hacia al frente

Muchos pinoleros
dejaron nuestra tierra
buscando la manera
de brillar en su carrera
otros huyeron de la Guerra
y la miseria
refugieándose bajo la bandera
de las barras y las estrellas
tratando de olvidar todas sus tragedias

Aunque digan que estoy loco
que me patina el coco
yo no me desenfoco
y sigo poco a poco
tu conciencia te toco
por eso yo te pido no dejes
en el olvido a tu suelo querido

No importa la posición social
aquí todos debemos ser igual
que si estoy lleno de cal
o si visto traje casual
si me baño en un manantial
o solo tengo agua de sal
hoy busco lo que es real

y salirme del mundo artificial
una nueva vida comenzar
sin olvidar ningún familiar
en aquel hogar que deje atras

Recuerdo los amigos, la familía,
los besos en la mejilla
los paseos con mi tía
y hasta la vende tortilla
los juegos en armonía
seguido por una dulce sandia
y mis padres pensando en el pan de cada día
preocupados por el trabajo y el dolor en las costillas
asi pasaron tres años entre sueños y pesadillas

La corrupción y la traición
agarrados de la mano acaban con mi nación
los presidentes creen que la gente son sus juguetes
y llenan su expediente de engaño hacia los creyentes
entonces miro a los niños inocentes que viven como indigentes
no tienen ropa decente, bien sucio de la frente y algunos hasta sin dientes

Los poderosos hablan de sinceridad
para ganar mas popularidad
pero al hora de la verdad
se olvidan de la realidad
aunque en nuestra actualidad
no es ninguna casualidad
que el pueblo supero cualquier calamidad
pues estamos llenos de amabilidad
y poniendo aparte toda la maldad
tenemos la seguridad
que nuestro trabajo es de calidad
y con toda tranquilidad
forjaremos una tierra de estabilidad

History

I am Nicoya
from my memories
I’ll tell you the history
of my people
hard-working and decent
who knew how to keep moving forward

Many pinoleros
left our land
seeking a way
to succeed in their careers
Others fled war
and misery
found refuge under
the star-spangled banner
and tried to forget their tragedies

Even if they say I’m crazy
that I have a screw loose
I don’t loose focus
I keep on, little by little
Your conscience I reach
That’s why I ask,
don’t forget your beloved foundation

Social position doesn’t matter
Here everyone is equal
If I’m covered in soot
or dressed in business casual
If I bathe in a tiled shower
or only have salt water
Today I seek what is real

I step away from the artificial world
A new life begins
without forgetting my family
or the home I left behind

I remember friends and family
kisses on cheek
the outing with my aunt
Even the tortilla stand
and the games played in harmony

Followed by sweet watermelon
while my parents thought about our daily bread
preoccupied with their jobs and the pain in their ribs
Like this they spent three years between dreams and nightmares

Corruption and treason
hold hands to undo my nation
Presidents think the people are toys
and fill their speeches with deceit towards the believers
Then I see innocent children who live like beggars
They don’t have decent clothes, their foreheads are dirty, some without teeth

The powerful speak of sincerity
to gain more popularity
But in the hour of truth
they forget reality
In actuality
it’s not a casualty
that our people survive all calamities

We are full of humanity
And putting aside all cruelty
we can be confident
that our job is quality
And with some tranquility
we will achieve stability.

– Jorge Aburto

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.