God-Worship

Statues in competitions allover the world!
With one higher than the other from country to country;
But this act is god-worship.
22m High Statue in 'Maratea' (Italy) ,
25m High Statue in 'Cusco' (Peru) ,
27m High Statue in 'Dili' (East Timor) ,
28m High Statue in 'Lissabon' (Portugal) ,
30m High Statue in 'Cochabanba' (Bolivia) ,
And 38m High Statue in 'Swiebodzin' (Poland) ,
All in the name of competition around this world;
But this act is god-worship.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Dilemma of Wit

She says modernity goes
Literature is a collage earthen
New names brought to the village
Hundred years in amnesia

Goodies invent genres
Red peppers the Portuguese brought
British sign posts elongated

A girl was once hired by the company
To rob the miners of their money
Who were caving the longest tunnel in Asia

Vulgarity is the name other of wit
Humor of the sycophant
Freedom of expression espoused well
How we learn languages afar

Islamabad
24/3/2010

poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Dynamite Satchel Of Pain

Lets write a song, baby
My balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
Now sit your ass in the chair and I'll tell you my name,
My daddy always told me that he didn't wanna hear me complain,
That's why my balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
I hope this song will explain,
Just why my balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
Well I was born in the back of a truck on the fourth of july,
I was raised by a Portuguese ninja who taught me to fly,
A business man pulled over and he asked if I needed a ride,
I had to eat that business man for lunch cos I wanted his tie,
Damn I look good in that tie,
Air born Portuguese ninja eats man for his tie,
My balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
My balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
My daddy always told me that he didn't wanna hear me complain,
That's why my balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
My balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
My balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
My balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,

[...] Read more

song performed by Wheatus
Added by Lucian Velea
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Dynomite Satchel Of Pain

Lets write a song, baby
My balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
Now sit your ass in the chair and I'll tell you my name,
My daddy always told me that he didn't wanna hear me complain,
That's why my balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
I hope this song will explain,
Just why my balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
Well I was born in the back of a truck on the fourth of july,
I was raised by a Portuguese ninja who taught me to fly,
A business man pulled over and he asked if I needed a ride,
I had to eat that business man for lunch cos I wanted his tie,
Damn I look good in that tie,
Air born Portuguese ninja eats man for his tie,
My balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
My balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
My daddy always told me that he didn't wanna hear me complain,
That's why my balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
My balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
My balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,
My balls are bigger than a dynamite satchel of pain,

[...] Read more

song performed by Wheatus
Added by Lucian Velea
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Spanish Caravan

Carry me caravan take me away
Take me to portugal, take me to spain
Andalusia with fields full of grain
I have to see you again and again
Take me, spanish caravan
Yes, I know you can
Trade winds find galleons lost in the sea
I know where treasure is waiting for me
Silver and gold in the mountains of spain
I have to see you again and again
Take me, spanish caravan
Yes, I know you can

song performed by Doors
Added by Lucian Velea
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Evocação

Em dias de sol quente,
ardente,
muitos abraçam-no, de repente.
Alguns deleitam-se
num doce olhar.
Outros permanecem com ele,
bem longe, a orar!

Com seu ar majestoso,
por vezes ocioso,
reporta aventuras,
bravuras, feitos de outrora,
que a história regista
a perder de vista
e nele se demora!

Ao sentir-se agitado,
rodopia
cansado de não ser respeitado.
Faz apelos, deixa avisos

[...] Read more

poem by Maria C. Costa
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The Mask

One love and peace,
One care and hope,
I am from Benin in Nigeria!
But out of Egypt came my ancestors.
They settled in Nigeria out of love,
And the Assyrians know my identity as well;
And like Bronze, Sculptures and Terracotta.
The mask on my face is to tell you a story,
With Ivory, Slaves and Gold as part of the trade;
And with greetings from the White Volta and the Black Volta,
And like King Mansa Musa of Mali! !
But, the Portuguese came for Gold and Slaves on the West Coast of Africa.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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One Malaysia, One World

i say friend, look at the malay face
look at as many as possible
a wave of emotions
spilling from the mountains
and hills all over
so well blended they are
the real one malaysia brand

my friend, read through the malay scripts
a rain of tongues start falling from
mountains, hills, rivers, and shores
sanskrit, english, portuguese, germans
arabic, they inch their way from
some remotest part of history and world
they dance like the rarest form of dance
on the corridors of thoughts
a world language quietly taking root
One World, One Malaysia

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Die insel Bachi.

Als ich das neu weltbuch durchlase
Wie vil insel durchfaren wase
Die neu schiffart von Portugal,
Darein ich wunder ane zal
5
Funt, gar von seltsamen refieren,
Von menschen, vögel, fisch und tieren;
Zu nachts trieb mich die fantaseie
In ein schwere melancholeie,
Nach zu gründen den dingen tief,
10
Bis ich entlich darin entschlief.
Do traumet mir so eigentleiche,
Wie ich in Portugal dem reiche
Ausfüre auf das weite mer
In einer naue mit eim her
15
Für manche insel groß und weite.
Entlich kam wir in kurzer zeite
Zu der insel Bachi mit nam

[...] Read more

poem by Hans Sachs
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We Met In A Restaurant In Pretoria

We met in a restaurant in Pretoria,
maybe it was more a kind of coffeehouse
with the strong scent of roasted coffee
Spanish or maybe South American pasta dishes

and music in a strange language
probably Portuguese or Spanish
of which the words did carry some meaning
and the customers were cosmopolitan,

you suddenly stopped short,
looking for lingering moments at me
as if you know me from somewhere,
coming abruptly to sit at my table

you wanted to read the words that I was writing,
they were magical to you
and rather full of grief
and you smiled, full of confidence,
totally without fear.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Worried Water Vertebrates

And the sun keeps on shining a bit warmer now in Mars.
But rain keeps away and fish in the cisterna are worried.

Is this the end of their world? Tiny fishes lives on what?
Planned cannibalism every two, three months, perhaps?

Small and translucent I see their quickening heart beats.
Open the cisterna's lid so they can see the blue clear sky.

Since they may take me for the creator must show them
They are not forsaken and I cannot be blamed for this.

And the sun keeps on shining, a bit warmer now in Mars,
But Louis, the farmer, and I know this can lead to calamity.

Cisterna... a place to store rainwater (Portuguese)

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Sunday

Sunday
Blank screen waits for me to fill it with strange letters,
but there is no haste as this is a lazy sunny afternoon.
Earlier today when the window shutters were still on
someone knocked on my door, I hid in the bedroom
didn’t want to open. Been alone for a month now and
don’t like to meet people and talk idly about nothing,
be polite and offer coffee and cakes.

Just been reading about the Portuguese in Zaire,
they took their culture with them and thought their
sweet African life would last forever- what a useless
word forever is- and now it is all memories in books,
few bother to read. This afternoon too will glide away
as I sit here, wondering who knocked on my door.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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September Rain

September Rain (sonnet)

Most days, on my way to the bar or grocery shop,
I walk past an old man who sits in the shade of
an oak, on a creaky sofa that has lost its place in
the lounge. I usually stop and talk to him, he can’t
remember me from one day to the next, tells me
the same story about his parents, and where he
grew up; Portugal of yore. He isn’t here today, only
the mantle, he wraps around himself when there
is a chill in the air, is flung on the old sofa; a zephyr
whispers that he will not be back. “Will I be that old?
I ask the waning sun. I sit on a sofa on the terrace,
a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, scan the sky,
in the vale where I live and my parents too lived,
we wait for September rain.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Blood is thicker than water

Remember the days we shared a slice of bread
Dipped in a chicken gravy bowl.
Unfortunately bones got wings and flew away.
Remember the days we shared a tiny bed with bugs.
A winter; We stranded in Portugal
No heater; the cheap room rented in the upper Lisbon Railway station.
Still I hear that mysterious train hoots of our hard times.
Hardly I breath now and sadness hugs me secretly.
But you are no more, my loving brother!
You are my intimate friend and I think of you deeply
While waiting at a solitary station till my crawling train comes.

* To my deceased younger brother Rohan! Once we traveled together in Europe under the same tattered sky without an aim.And I never forget your precious soup that made from throw away rotten tomatoes.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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An Emigre

I have lived in this foreign country long, perhaps longer
then I should. Many seasons I have seen, my hair is grey
brow wrinkled from seeking understanding. I know their
culture and sing their songs. But I came here as an adult,
I have read Fernando Pessoa, know Fado and can talk
about my favourite singers. Yet, this culture is not in my
soul it does not echo in my heart. I wanted to be a part of
my new Iberian country, but when I remember a lullaby
my mother used to sing a cold Nordic winter night; when
guests have gone home and the party is over, I know I’m
forever a pretender. I have lived here long, too long, but if
I go to back to the old country I will be a stranger walking
in a town where no one knows my name and I’ll dream of
my mythical Portugal.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Napoleon's Europe

Europe my realm and my prized possession,
I instill in thee our novel ideals,
for your feudal laws our conquest repeals.
Our boisterous wind of emancipation
liberates Spain from draconian inquisition.
Of the proud Brits' stupendous earning power,
an Egyptian campaign would rest the case.
I have made subservient Austria to face
defeat and lasting capitulation.
By sheer divine providence, I soar
above my Italian inheritance,
bequeathed by Papal authority,
and placed in custody of my viceroy.
By my might, I brought to subjugation,
the recalcitrant fiefdom of Russia,
and the resilient kingdom of Prussia.
Not even Portugal dared resistance,
with her weak army debased like a toy.
But in sudden flight, and rare sobriety,
her sovereign lord bowed to abdication.

poem by Joseph C Ogbonna (5 April 2011)
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Figures In There Somewhere (Revised)

Came home to a brightly coloured work text
with Edith Piaf's life resounding in my head,
read a Roger Bootle (Fortune magazine) écrit
on PIIGS (probable Euro-split, Portugal,
Ireland, Italy, Greece & Spain) explained

And Edith Piaf's life intervenes, paging too
violently in the magazine, reading a heading
Dad Doesn't Have Hobbies, He Has Passions
Tom Ricketts said; admonished by my love
I rest the magazine, time to get rid of

Edith Piaf's passions in my head, her words
ringing in my ears - what's the use of being
Edith if I cannot do what I want? It may be
why being Margaret Alice fails, I cannot do
what I want, becoming instead

Expert at hiding desire from myself; I shall
never know what I really want except that

[...] Read more

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Portugal In May

These rounded hills surrounding my valley is lush
green with yellow flowers, wish I were a horse, no
jutting military granite jaws around here; God, when
making Portugal, had women in mind.

A flock of sheep eagerly graze have no time to look
up and see the blue spring sky, doomed as they are
to produce wool and meat for Irish stew, watched
over by the shepherd who sits in the shade of a carob
tree and wonders what's for tea.

Pretty red tractors plough soil around olive trees,
perfume of newly mowed grass and roses hang in
translucent air as sun filters through a mystic veil
of aromatic mist of history. Yet, a slight discord in
the day lingers, the donkey is absent, the last one,
a grey jenny, was given to a sanctuary. That is sad,
the long eared made the scenery more peaceful.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Guitarra Portuguesa

in the cafe
Carlos Paredes held the Portuguese
guitar – walnut wood – the body
of Lisbon – with twelve strings
his fingers emulated rain

across the room a woman began
dancing –
the fingerpicking and figueto
described her movements –
the underwater sway
of sea grass –
I was submerged

her figure haunted every glass
of water or wine

her shadow drifted through the welter
of candlelight
on the adobe walls

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Spring
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Indian Dream

The Indian Dream

I saw an Indian princess coming out of a limousine, not
an actress, pretending to be royal. She was dressed in
a sari made of the finest silk that ad been spun eight times
was airy and light as a zephyr. She wore diamond earrings
and necklace of black pearls on her swan like neck,
she looked so aromatic and esoteric had I seen her coming
out of the loo I would have been quite flummoxed.

Eyes downcast, a demure mien she didn’t see me waving
at her, when crossing the street a guard shaded her with
a green parasol. I’m going to India before the monsoon,
I’ll find the princess drive her home to Portugal in
a low-cost Indian car, I will have to install an air condition,
one cannot have a princess transpire, mind, if she did it
would be pearls of sweet honey on her brow.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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