"We are the mirror and in the mirror the face. Contuously, minute by minute, we taste eternity. We are the pain and what cures the paint. We are the sweet, refreshing water and the jar that pours it” Maulana Rumi    INTRODUCTION Germain Droogenbroodt completed “The Road”, a poetic bridge between East and West in 1998 in India, which undoubtedly left its traces in that collection. The rather philosophical, at times mystical verses fascinated not only readers in the West but also in the East. The book has meanwhile been published in more than thirteen languages, including Arabic, Hindi and even Chinese, where “The Road” retrieved its original title, namely: TAO. During the following four years he wrote less than five poems a year: only the cycle "Amanece el cantor" (The Singer Awakes), 19 extremely short poems, a homage to his favourite Spanish poet, the late José Ángel Valente of whom he translated an anthology into Dutch. In March 2002 Germain Droogenbroodt retreated for several weeks to Ronda, a picturesque little town in Southern Spain, where Rilke wrote his Spanish trilogy. That the new poems would be different from “The Road” was obvious, although “Counterlight” continues more or less the same philosophical line. As in “The Road”, the cycle contains a number of critical poems, referring to the current global situation. It gradually becomes clear that the original title – Backlight - refers not to camera work, but to a light opposed to the artificial and misleading light of the media and the consumer society which brings no “illumination” but blinds the eyes. However, although many of the poems are written in a minor key, the light of hope remains. Similar to former collections, “Counterlight” again contains a number of nature poems, but they are part of a whole and in relation to things, to the existence, the “being” of man, not only as a temporary inhabitant of this planet, but also as a part of the cosmos of which the secrets have not yet been unveiled. The first publication of “Counterlight” appeared, together with “The Road”, in Romania in August, was published by Calima, Mallorca, Spain, Dutch-Spanish and by POINT Editions (Dutch-Spanish. The publications by POINT Editions – Dutch – Spanish, does not include “The Road” but two other series of poems “Conversation with the hereafter” and “The Singer Awakes” in 2004.) Further publications will see the light in 2006 inTaiwan, Hong Kong, Italy and Morocco. Ithaca * With the poppy-red of dreams paints the sun another day knocks sparkles out of the mountain’s ochre head scatters over the Mediterranean a sea of pearl and silver paints heaven full of blue and white erases from the head the wild grow of memories. * “Ithaca” is the country-house of the poet who travelled, Ulysses alike, during twenty years ************* Dawn Slowly as a poem writes itself daybreak comes from nothing into being disposes of silence and brings light everywhere arises green victuals for the sun which from the earth no other darkness removes but the night. ************* The night empties itself of its burning entrails the poppies of dawn bleed - as heavily as mulberries torn from their branches from which the awakening morning drinks the ephemeral dreams. *************      Daybreak has lifted the tombstone of sleep leaving behind its dark web in the great urns of the night the horizon drinks the lukewarm blood of the dawn and the heart mirroring itself in the sun rejoices without reason.             ************* Green, oh breath-taking green carried along on the deathbed of winter on which the grasses of spring weave their tight nets the daffodils bloom in dazzling splendour flowerbeds in which man, as creator mirrors himself. *************   Red and blue How much can a longing grow before it dies of hunger and thirst under an indifferent sky? Shreds of light still hang in the air strange forms, transfigurations and a dizziness of blue overwhelmed by red still untouched? *************              The clouds struggle for a trivial kingdom of water and wind white and blue tendrils strangling one another sterile fertilization of ferocious beings in the mirror of the world.              ************* Interior landscape At the seashore the naked heart observes with what ardour the water throws itself upon the earth thirst, loneliness, remembrance, rebellion shreds of ephemeral happiness leaving in the hand hardly more than the dust of their sand.               ************* Variation on a poem of Rumi The song of the nightingale and the colours of the peacock have enthralled me all my life don’t tell me, one is only voice and the other nothing but hue. ************* Why desire more than the sea? within its boundaries is heaven within reach. ************* Borrowed time Oh life which unwillingly has to dissolve and unravel itself hunter and prey ephemeral string of carmine red beads around the fragile neck of a borrowed time. *************   Melancholy seascape   Under the blue unity of sea and clouds melancholy draws a trace of salt and silence because it knows: what is bound will ever be unbound naked and pale wiped out. *************   Wound Through the day comes a shiver of night and a howl a whiplash of thoughts as  harsh thrown pebbles not springing up but from the water surface hurting the blue eye. ************* Submerged the tangible light peopled by white solitude and restlessness from a revelation doubt an encircling creeper, clinging to the thin skin of the soul. *************        To the winds which sweep whirl and turn them he entrusts his queries. The mountain range reflects the answer with runic writing of slanting light. *************      In the shelter of the mind letters make pacts and forms, words new material extension of still greater darkness - or who knows illumination.           ************* Word Dewdrop on crusted earth hook between the lips of time breath still after the last kiss.         ************* The ear pressed against the blind window of the night becomes audible - silence. ************* ZEN Sound which inaudible becomes audible ************* Blinded by a will-0’-the wisp and by his own mirror image man wanders through an empty space where is the source offering water, clear as crystal, the truth, the road?         ************* Dazzled by the present You are the darkness in your own glow - man descend as deep as the bottom of the night search for limit with the blind man’s stick don’t pass it.   ************* Do not follow the stars of the night but upstream the darkness which is earthly and palpable don't save the alms share bread and wine with the nomads of the night throw roses in the break of day.   *************                The stars are hardly more than dispersed fragments of an invisible unity Resisting all question concerning what disappears or continues to exist just as in the stem of the autumn tree although invisible the blossom is already present. *************             Alienated, heaven the god of love and mercy the bed lost its river the direction its destination only the counter-light still indicates the road.                ************* Stowed in desert-urns grains of sand collected by the prophets: the hereafter of time ashes of dawn.                ************* Cycle Nothing is lasting on earth or in the universe clouds become water and water river the water of the river disappears in the sea evaporates and anew the clouds become water.          ************* Downfall of the gods Men revolted against the old empire they shattered the two Tables blinded the prophets as shades they now wander searching with the stick of the blind firm earth. *************             Heaven disposes its colours the coldness casts its shadows on the earth a creature becomes a multiple of creatures a soul a multiple of the soul? *************            A  shiver encloses the earth shall the day continue to return from of the night of time? *************            The heavenly constellation is unhinged the scorpion spins a moon in the evening blue someone threw oboluses* in the gearwheel of time - ferryman did you lift the anchor? * obolus or obolos (Gr) was old Greek currency. According to Greek mythology, ferryman Charon rowed the shades of death across the river Styx to the realm of the shades for one obolus. *************           The world is full of ice and winter through the open window becomes visible humanities illness under the smouldering ruins scorch the fires of Sodom the nightwind holds its breath.                ************* The word extends shelter no more what light removes from the night more than its obscurity? who throws coppers in the fountains of hope?               The faces of the gods blur the word became homeless and extends to the pilgrim in pursuit of the road no guidance, no shelter anymore - the universe does not come to rest earth how long lasts your eternity? *************            When the clouds discontinue being clouds they dissolve in the air slow disintegration of forms leaving behind in the infinite blue a void from which everything originated. *************          Created is everything but nothing is accomplished the night throws long shadows breathes still in such deep darkness the light? *************            Inscrutable primary earth, substance from which all was created and goes on being created dazzling mystery earth spinning on its own axis a top which someone released abandoned to its fate in the midst of the universe.   ************* You material of the earth and the dream star without night who has pity on me like the moon on darkness light, cast as beacon and buoy when its threatened to be drowned in the sea the horizon.       ************* Plea Oh angel of dawn swaddle with healing bandages the deep wounds of the night remove the sting from the naked heart pour out the horizon in golden cups say that not may submerge the light. *************  The burning bush is no more aflame but under the ashes remains still glow under the glow - hardly perceptible remains still voice. ************* An English edition of  “Counterlight” and  “The Road” in one volume  with drawings of Satish Gupta is available at  € 12 including postage in Europe and at €14 incl. postage), in other countries, published by ex Ponto, Constanta in 2004, ISBN no: 973-644-336-1 Order to: el poeta@point-editions.com     "the Road - de Weg" English-Dutch publication Poetry by Germain Droogenbroodt & 31 drawings by Satish Gupta 72p. ISBN 90-71152-60-X BEF 350,-/Guilders 20,-/EURO 8,68,-/US$ 9,- + postage For collectors: A limited bibliophile edition of "The Road - de Weg", each of the 31 poems with the corresponding drawings, individually bound, silkscreened on Indian handmade paper, in a wooden box, having inside an original painting in colour by Satish Gupta, numbered and signed by both artists. BEF 9000,-/Guilders 500,-/EUR 223,

The oldest and most famous International
Poetry Festival in Europe ( Macedonia )

During the last 42 years, nearly 4000 poets, essayists and literary critics from over  hundred countries participated at the Struga Poetry Evenings, including such world famous poets as Adonis (Syria), Genadii Aigi (Russia), Rafael Alberti (Spain), Yehudi Amihai (Israel), Yves Bonnefoy (France), Josif Brodski (USA), Mak Dizdar (Bosnia),  Hans Magnus Enzens-berger (Germany), Allen Ginsberg (USA), Eugène Guillevic (France), Seamus Heaney (Ireland), Ted Hughes (UK), Arthur Lundkvist (Sweden), Pablo Neruda (Chile), Eugenio Montale (Italy), Macoto Ooka (Japan), Slavko Mihalic (Croatia), Miodrag Pavlovic (Yugoslavia), Yannis Ritsos (Greece), Tadeus Rozewitz (Poland), Edoardo Sanguinetti (Italy), Leopold Sedar Senghor (Senegal)…with an audience of thousands of people!

Last August, poets from all over the world participated at the Struga Poetry Nights. Here below a selection of their poems:

“Struga Poetry Evening 2002”

what we spoke about
without interruption is
the art of living
without hell, origin or guilt
with a view to the polite indifference of nature
and indolent beauty
in exceptional cases underlined by ball lightning, waterspouts
and earthquakes
which tear the canvas and show
that the horizon has got no behind
no hell is hidden and no heaven is waiting
it has already arrived
and is working in full swing
the judgment is pronounced and the signs pour generously from the
cosmos
especially at night
when the horizon disappears
the dimensions become innumerable
and we cautiously share dreams

©  Anne Marie Dinesen,  (Denmark)

****

Medea and Her War Machines

Thunder, an eclipse of the sun, the trunks of beech trees, pots
of pitch and sulfur, iron-tipped battering rams, hung from towers,
to breach walls.
Testudos. Fire.
Fire.
Inside, armed men talking about the bridge built on the bridge,
about platforms carrying buckets of flame, about
the horseman spurring his horse and swimming the river.
A horse bearing lanterns, shod with hot embers against the enemy.
A fagot of dry wood, burning the gates, firing up the cauldrons,
scaling ladders and mobile lanterns.
raising the waters to the heights.

Mud, wind, the blackness of darkness, 
I strain to see high above me,
on the mountain.
I hear the crackle of frozen branches under the horse's hooves.
I climb, we climb, with leaden legs; I stop, bend, tighten
my bootlaces, put a match to a cigarette;
the slope that must be climbed, the fir tree that must be cut and
 then decorated,
a few hundred meters more, a trail of smoke
snaking over my head.

©  Ioan Flora, ( Romania )

***

CAUGHT IN HIS SHADOW

I walk behind him,
caught
in his shadow.
I do not try to escape,
as he would like me to.
I do not see
who comes the other way
and greets us.

Furtively, I step out
from the carpet of his shadow.
The sun burns me,
and I resume my place.

But now I have seen
what he has hidden,
what he, walking along with me,
has not mentioned
despite his many words.
He has prevented me
from recognizing my sun.

I rebel against
the coldness of his shadow,
against the darkness.
I step out into the sun.
I stay there
until he disappears
with his shadow.

I walk alone
with my shadow,
a loose shawl, in front of me.
I throw it
across my shoulders,
afraid
a passer-by might
step on it
and get caught in it.

I turn into a street
that is wide and open.
Here, nobody walks
behind somebody else.

Vienna , May 9th, 2000

© Tarek Eltayeb ( Sudan )

(translated from the German by Wolfgang Astelbauer;
from “Aus dem Teppich meiner Schatten,” edition selene, Vienna 2002)

***

Time
measures itself
by us.
On us it tests
the skills
of crawling
and flying,
of escaping notice (then
we are said to be happy) or
of attracting too much attention (then
we kill it,
like an hour-glass
which, once broken,
no longer tells
time. But time
takes a new vessel,
filled with a shifting sense,
and sets it
on guard
over its permanent
curiosity.)

© Sergey Glavyuk ( Russia )

***

My homeland, your rotten fang
goes into my throat.
Enough! Push it through or take it out,
I flounder like a butterfly pinned.

My homeland, in this shooting race,             
for which you are the circus ring,
I am the sitting duck staring into your gun,
waiting for my forefinger to release the spring.

And fan-like, as the phoenix do,
I die, next I rise from the dead -
now I'm cannon fodder under your flag,
now I'm a bloodsucker stuck on your vein.

Like a mule I carry on my back
the dear waste of your fossil yore,
this my life is a losing game
and I will have a chance no more.

I stop this haggling, I've got nothing to do a deal,
my only life weighs zero on your scales,
surely it is a losing game,
yet I pardon you, my homeland dear.

© Violet Grigorian ( Armenia )

***

    

Your solstice party was a hit --

the all-candles rule,

the tart sangria,

the out-of-towners with their accents and their knowledgeable talk,

and the moon wending it way into the kitchen

to test all the glasses for its favorite drink.

    

    from: “·Mottoes for Sundials”

© David Holler (United States)

***

Lâché du sommet de l'Empire State Building
un ballon de basket met 39 secondes avant de toucher le
sol trottoirs et foules files queues pressées taxis
derniers titres journaux papiers gras dos jetés
puis rebondit à 6 mètres 47 de
hauteur de bouches de métro fumantes pompes à incendie

puis retombe
hommes dormant dans les cartons bourse à la hausse
pneus surgonflés parcmètres tordus buttés bouchés par des
chewing-gums mâchés et remâchés
puis rebondit.

Un automobiliste immobile passe deux ans
et demi de sa vie au feu rouge
assis
à regarder le ballon rebondir

rebonds de plus en plus petits.

© Emmanuel Lequeux (France)

***

Les  âmes de l' offrande

Nous voici à l'approche de Dieu,
Défiant nos destinées au-dessus du vide.
Par-delà la tornade du présage
J'étreins les rêves d'amour.
Je suis le livre qu'on effeuille
Dans l'incendie des bibliothèques.
Sur la terre dédiée aux âmes des offrandes
Où j'erre dans le silence parmi les herbes hautes
Gisent des éléphants sans défenses
À l'image de mon peuple.
Que s'est-il passé au crépuscule de leur vie
Pour qu'ils aient perdu leur gloire?
Je me sens révolté face aux vents de l'histoire!
Les braconniers dompteurs de la poudre,
Les maîtres du pouvoir et les semeurs de foudre,
Ont participé au sacrifice des esprits...
Sur mes terres, les hommes,
Les éléphants, les crocodiles et les léopards
Meurent pour embellir le corps de femmes
Parées de bijoux et de manteaux de vanité
Faits du sang de l'Afrique
Sous des cieux lointains.
Ainsi, les oeuvres d'art, objets précieux
Naissent de mort et de déchéance...
Les villages et la savane clament leur détresse
Sous mes larmes de poète...

© Kama Kamanda (Congo)

***

Defending Declaration

Poetry its own Nature has What fortune gives
1 bear in my heart
Whatever times may find me
I bear time and nation inside me The invisible seed
Merged within me
Is turning round in an invisible ring The undefended
Defends me the undefended Between life and death
Like between two fatherlands
What is most difficult is with the shield To break through
Your own defense And I have done it.

(taken from the Shield, 2001)

© Radovan Pavlovski ( Macedonia )

(Translated by Tanja Ivanova)

***

Dubbio

Sento attoreigliarmi
addosso,
come un serpente,
un dubbio:

ma chi dice di sapere
sa,

o lo dice soltanto
perché

sembri che sappia,
e se non sa,
perché mente

e si aspeta
lodi?

© Ivo Petkovek (Italy)

***

Fantasy

The apartment will be private: air empty and pure of other breaths
I will flow through my lungs. No cup will move from where it was put.
Flooring, walls and thoughts will be free of decoration

No phone will ring, no fax print, no news paper set down. Silence
will reign. No muscle will jump fearing penetration. Three corners I
I will create in my symmetrical house: 1, 1 and 1. Ninety degrees
precisely between each and its sister. At dust thought

moths will glide through the calm, a silent winging
will row through space. Colors of metal will limn the dimness
hexagons will dangle from lashes. Ravaging peepholes

will flash their wings to bite me

My gates will open slowly
My hand will write nothing

© Liat Kaplan ( Israel )

                         ***

ON THE OUTSKIRTS

You are not a stork.

Nor can you afford to fly far away
when your heart gets broken.

Wandering like this on the outskirts
is the thing to do.

The care-worn look of the child you met
was inquiring.

In whatever place the town ends,
starts the waste land of no way.

It is full of stones, naked, tearless.
You are one of them.

Once upon a time you hated morons
and the world they've shaped.

The world is the same, the morons the same,
how come you are unable to hate?

The child looks at you. Tell her it was not
your wish to become a stone like this.

Tell her - no way. She will not believe.
She will go her way.

© Mariné Petrossian (Armenia)

                         ***

Non Amarmi

Non cercarmi nel tuo canto...
non sapresti dove sono,
dove sbando il mio pensiero.
Il suo subdolo ritorno
ha già invaso le mie vene
come fumo vigliacco
che impregna ogni fessura.
Non chiamarmi nel mio inverno...
non conosco più il mio nome,
non ricordo più chi ero.
Il mio attonito languore
s'è adagiato sulle tempie
e mi culla, mi stordisce.
E' martello nel mio sangue.
Non parlarmi di domani...
io non so che cos'è l'alba,
non le conto le mie ore.
Tu lo sai,
ma non odiarmi
se non sento il tuo respiro.
C'è la luna e m'ipnotizzo.
La mia pelle non si scalda,
non pensarmi nel tuo sole...
non mi prende, non mi vuole.
Sembra pietra la corazza
dei miei brividi incalliti,
ma il mio spirito in catene
è infestato dalla ruggine.
Non sognarmi questa notte...
ho smarrito la mia ombra
nelle buche dell'insonnia.
In vertigini e spirali
mi ha scavata sui miei fogli
e ho perduto mia rotta.
Non provare a salvarmi...
tu non devi amarmi...

tu non devi amarmi...

© Loredana Pietrafesa (Italy

 ***

EN CES PAGES DU CEPAGE

C'est arbuste rabougri
lové telle une larve
avec des noeuds dedans les nerfs
et qui s'extirpe dessus la terre

Un peu plus tard ça pousse des feuilles
comme un embryon s'invente des doigts
dans un ventre ou au soleil
et ça arrondit comme un corps qui s'adulte
dans le vent et la tempête

Et puis aussi ça se fabrique ses propres fruits
n'ayant sans doute aux autres pas confiance
ça se vêt de diverses couleurs
ça fait ses grappes qui débordent
ou qui restent en la gorge
ou bien en bouche

Ça se défait de ce que ça fait
un matin de grandes chaleurs
ça se foule aux pieds
ça s'écrase et ça saigne
et ça bout
et ça se boit
et ça circule
et le blanc
et le rouge
et le rosé
au coeur des chairs
dedans les veines
de la vigne
et de la vie

© Bernard Pozier (Canada)

***

Der Wecker von selbst in Alarm
ich sitze und schlafe im Bett
ein Griff: vier Uhr achtundachtzig
und achtundachtzig Sekunden.
Das Glas von gestern
gefüllt am Abend
das Buch neben mir.Vier Uhr neunundfünfzig und neunundfünfzig Sekunden
war das Äußerste.
Der Wecker meiner Großmutter verrückt
im Suppenteller tanzt
fällt auf den Rücken und verstummt.
Einfach, schwierig
das Gehäuse zu öffnen in solcher Hast
eine gedruckte Schaltung, eine Spule
die Batterie in meiner Hand
dann Stille.
Minus auf Minus
Plus auf Plus
null Uhr null und eine Sekunde.

© Etna Renate Ruf (Germany) 

***

The neighbour

He reviews his territory, all forty foot of it,
mapped, a general planning his campaign,
Napoleon next door in his massive
vomit green shorts. Him and his wife.

In his own little comer of his own Third Reich.
He identifies neglect, waste, labour requirements
for the next grand project in concrete,
the next five year plan. Him and his dog.

His enemies are the slugs and the snails,
they die by the dozen and still they keep coming,
he stamps them, clubs them, salts them,
watching them foam into nothing at all.

Hint and his dog in his flagstone empire.
Not that anything grows there these days.
He knows: under the paving the worms writhe,
and they're every one of them enemies too.

© Ken Smith ( Great Britain )

                         ***

THE ROLE OF VENGEANCE

A strange habit more powerful than life
Keeps her beside me. Sometimes at night,
In the fog of sleep, I foresee her lying in wait
With that secret stubbornness of a killer.
Her ears await the rhythm of my calm.
An hour, a month, a day, for her are of no importance.
She shall know how to find the right moment
When I find myself devoid of all light and strength
To spill the acid or the raging axe. With her dark, speechless loyalty,
She expects me always. She waits for my arrival
To begin a cruel and daily rite
Whose existence has just one aim:
To execute on me her role of vengeance.

© Justo Jarge Padrón  (Spain)

                        ***

November

das dunkle unten, in den gassen fast
dunkelblau in der kalten dämmerung,
die am nachmittag einbricht.

hoch oben, über dachausschnitten,
leuchtet die helligkeit des nachmittags,
weite, offenheit.

auf einmal, und danach wiederholt,
kommt die gestimmtheit eines nachmittags
aus der kindheit,

ein langer moment, gefühlt und ganz klar,
etwa im november vierundsechzig -
ein kind ging von der schule nachhause,

in der dämmerung, im halbdunklen nachmittag,
im november.

(Wien, Jänner 2002)

© Berhard Wider (Austria)

The Croatian poet Slavko Mihalic
(of whom POINT Editions published poetry in their anthology
of Serbo-croatic poetry) received this year the Golden Wreath of Struga

Madrigal

Love needs nothing but itself two loving bones

in the body's infinite chasm
two fingernails' separate patterns
one withers, the other persists
two trickling specks of dust

with all kinds of devilment in mind

Only love, two yellowed leaves rustling
two flies drunk on death
two trees that slip unbidden
out of their trunks at night
two downcast winds
two boats foundered in mud
two spots of rain

two letters

Why is your love restless
Why does your love always want
something quite different

Why does it constantly invent unhappiness
and dream of love between fox and cockerel
of fish overfull with the shoal

and a moon disinclined to shine

© Slavko Mihaliƒ

From: “Selected Poems”,
Published by the Struga Poetry Evenings, 2002
Translated by: Johnson