In fondo in ognuno di noi c’è una Senna avvitata e contorta snodata e sgranata debordante e cangiante fluente e degradante verso le nostre assenze diluita nelle attese dileguata in capillari ramati Con lampioni ai lati e gialli e tenui con ponti azzuccherati e nebbiosi con pioggia fine C’è una Senna tortuosa e impetuosa ingabbiata da argini e panchine nubi basse e voragini radicate inurbamenti statici e dolori fusi
Osiris would like to thank all the writers who have contributed their work since 1972.
You share your voices, your visions, and your cultures to stand in solidarity with your fellow writers. Each of you, writing in different languages, keys and registers, exploring harmonies and dissonances, moving language in new ways or embracing traditions, is unique. Writing is an act of courage and faith that transcends boundaries and opens the world for others.
Osiris would like to thank all our readers who, for over five decades, have joined us on this adventure. You are the essential link for writers, the hearts and vibrant minds that enter the world of their poems. Your appreciation, criticism, and devotion to poetry takes poetry off the page and into the world.
The cold air is billowing through the cabin Christ the redeemer is draped in the national colours we are disinfected when entering the boats return to the harbour at the day’s end the man at the helm a woman still stretched out across the bow
they are being delivered and the sea flashing gold sprinkles and this is going nowhere days spent thinking of nothing but emptying the mind and sleep the black sand still burns my soles the church is aflame again mountains covered in mist and rumbling roads winding along the coast under flowers they’re dressed in black and running at dawn they’re dressed in white and crowding the roads at night there are jumpers, card-players and day trip trains this is just a litany of lives and they all have stories to tell
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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
Osiris Poetry 