Osiris was born Tuesday, April 11, 1972, in a small white house along New York Route 43 in the town of Averill Park, New York.
1972 was a long time ago, in terms of culture and society, outlook and expectations. We took chances, gathered people together, allowed voices to be heard…A list of early contributors reminds us that we were many different voices in the beginning…
Robert Lepper, Richard Schoenwald, Martin Robbins, Jacques Bussy, Rina Lasnier, Joseph Bonenfant, Robert Marteau, Si Perchik, B.Z. Niditch, Hélène Dorion, Michel Cosem, Hans Raimund, Peter Nim, Gyula Illyes, Thansis Hadjopoulos, Flavio Ermini, Imants Ziedonis, Judita Vaiciunaite, Eugenio de Andrade, Marin Sorescu, Irma Klainguti, Enrique Lihn, Mahmud Darwish, Jibanananda Das, Jordi Albert, Claus Carstensen, Henrik Nordbrandt, Pia Tafdrup, Stefann van den Bremt, Jan Kostwinder, Paul Snoek, Miriam Van Hee, Debashish Banergi, Fred Cogswell, Robert Dassanowsky, Owen Davis, Peter Dent, Kendall Dunkellberg, Jim Elledge, John Falk, Peter Fallon, Raymond Federman, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Anne Finch, Peter Ganick, Albert Maquet, Giorgio Bellini, Madeleine Gagnon, Ingrid Swanberg, Frances Presley…
Context? Evolution? Future? Each issue is an act of faith, a Kierkegaardian leap of faith. Is there anything out there? How can we include the very young, those whose voices are so vital to the continued evolution of the community of artists and writers. Perfection is not a necessary element; the monotonous formulaic use of language that often characterizes academic writing is something we do not embrace. Rough-edged, at times, audacious (this takes many forms), so gentle the surface appears non-existent…all these are valuable…
Osiris can be read from cover to cover; there is a conscious ordering of elements. Each echoes or anticipates or concludes and intensifies the one it precedes or follows. Each issue is a whole, a gesture, a movement towards something beyond each contributor’s work.
2025. Osiris 100. We’ll see how the future evolves.
Aux monts des Bois noirs, comme seins où s’accrochent les longs nuages, les collines de résine exsudée la zébrure ocre sur les flancs des coteaux, dont le schiste gris et granite s’agrègent dans l’instrument de siècles lents quelques prés enchâssés verdoient un peuplier pâle serré entre les troncs sonores des sapins deux vaches couchées soufflent au pâturage bordé de ronciers, vers Les Salles, ballots sur la pente, vagues d’herbe, puis au col une buse aiguise sa voix : la mante, mains jointes prie, à l’envers sur un épi, ses antennes tournées vers la terre en pressentent et prédisent les failles.
Dans le présent décomposé au passage de la disparue face à l’horizon tu mesures l’enfer la matière du deuil à peine murmurée comme au tournant d’une autre vie
Sphinx fuyant le soir à son approche plus vive présence tu creuses le chemin à ton pas la mesure indéchiffrable ouvre le balancier de tes jambes
Brûlure immédiate d’un même sang précipité ta nudité rieuse résonne au bout des doigts ultime étreinte hors des murets
Dons impalpables de l’écume j’ai reconnu l’intime ferment que sont les lignes jetées par le travers des heures vertige de haute mer une phrase s’obstine autant nuit que jour flamme acérée ce vers à ta bouche comme vague s’assemble
À son envol j’ai pris le large où vient battre la mer dans le bleu dévasté je veux aller boire où tant de signes ont naufragé
Olor a salitre de rocas abruptas labradas por las olas, cuando el alma al descubierto se encoge como escarcha en tu mano y mientras partes los latidos desaceleran.
Frío sobre el golfo de Génova, como la helada sonrisa que enmarca la despedida, inmutable. No es pasajero; ese viento lo llevas dentro, es la naturaleza que te reconoce sin mentiras.
El panorama puede sostener el universo por su belleza. Desalentador y sin refugio el sentimiento se serena, es la novia asombrada por la nieve entre sus párpados.
A stone from the Rio Verde engenders a river in my house flowing subterraneous beneath the carpet of the living room. A stone from the Rio Verde mocks our six faucets spitting their bits of water on the ceramic of our sinks. A stone from the Rio Verde laughs at the tiny territory where, imprisoned, I can’t stretch out laughs at my closed window a defense against the rain. A stone from the Rio Verde feels sorry for the caladiums in their potted exile. It despises the fan the pittance of its breeze. Dethrones all clocks so superficial in their handling of time. A stone from the Rio Verde bursts open my wooden doors and, returning to mother earth, sets me free again.
Awakened by a gradual loosening of sand between my fingers, by rough cryptic rubbings that red potatoes fill in creases belonging to my unwashed palms, by the sweet sighs crushed basil flowers expel behind the back of my nostrils, I stand inside myself. I know I sleep best when black soil crumbles its loose texture upward around the new sprouts of bean plants, but because I’m always so anxious knowing a tomato on its vine bulges with lightning inside its red heart of seeds, I can’t help but stay awake. So intent am I not to miss a thing, I even go so far as to disarm my alarm clock. Now I regularly observe fresh shallot greens shake the flowering moons of their lavender colored seeds across a warmth of damp black soil. When real quiet, I hear a tight brain inside an acorn make silence my first and last name. It appears for now I need nothing. All I have is all there is.
Osiris Poetry 