Poet of the Month

January: Rebecca Lowe (Wales).
February: Jim Gronvold (USA). 
March: Carolyn Mary Kleefeld (USA).
April: Tozan Alkan (Turkey).
May: Byron Beynon (Wales).
June: Michelle Chung (USA). 
July: Jim Gwyn (USA).
August: Jonathan Taylor (England).
September: Beata Poźniak (USA).
October: Maria Taylor (England).
November: Stanley H. Barkan (USA).
December: John Dotson (USA).

January: Maria Mastrioti (Greece).

February: Gayl Teller (USA).
March: Mike Jenkins (Wales).
April: Cassian Maria Spiridon (Romania).
May: Simon Fletcher (England)
June: Sultan Catto (USA)
July: Vojislav Deric (Australia)
August: K. S. Moore (Ireland)
September: Kristine Doll (USA)
October: Tammy Nuzzo-Morgan (USA)
November: Christopher Norris (Wales)
December: Maria Mazziotti Gillan (USA)

2023: Poets featured as Poet of the Month 

January: Samuel Ezra (Wales)
February: Tôpher Mills (Wales)
March: Rob Cullen (Wales)
April: Mandira Ghosh (India)
May: John Greening (England)
June: Rosy Wood-Bevan (Wales)
July: David Hughes (Wales)

2025: Poets featured as Poet of the Month 
January: Annest Gwilym (Wales)
February: Sam Smith (Wales)
March: Dave Lewis (Wales)
April: Scott Elder (France)
May: Angela Kosta (Italy)
June: Abeer Ameer (Wales)
July: Jenny Mitchell (England)
August: Sydney Lea (USA)
September: Richard Collins (USA)
October: Mark Lewis (Wales)
November: Robert Nisbet (Wales)
Clare E. Potter (Wales)

2026: Poets featured as Poet of the Month 
Rhoda Thomas (Wales)
Mike Everley (Wales)
Regina Resta (Italy)
Anna Lewis (England)
Carmella de Keyser (England)
 Mujë Buçpapaj (Albania)

 

                                                                      JULY POET OF THE MONTH:
                                                                     Luis Benítez
 

Luis Benítez was born in Buenos Aires on November 10, 1956. His 45 books of poetry, essays, and fiction have been published in Argentina, Chile, France, Italy, Mexico, Romania, Spain, Sweden, Venezuela, UK, USA and Uruguay. According to the London-based Ars Notoria Magazine, he is considered one of the most prominent voices in contemporary Argentine poetry and a leading figure in the genre throughout Latin America. He has received the title of Compagnon de la Poèsie from the Association La Porte des Poètes, based at the Université de La Sorbonne in Paris, France. Among other awards, his literary work has received La Porte des Poètes International Poetry Prize, Paris, France, 1991; Amalia Lacroze de Fortabat Foundation Poetry Award, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1996; Tuscolorum di Poesia Prize, Sicily, Italy, 1996; Letras de Oro Prize, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2003; Accesit 10éme. Concours International de Poésie, Paris, France, 2003; “Macedonio Palomino” International Prize for Published Works, Aguascalientes, Mexico, 2007; International Best Poets & Translators Prize, awarded by The International Poetry Translation and Research Centre, The Journal of Rendition of International Poetry [Multilingual], and The Board of Directors of World Union of Poetry Magazines, Chongqing, People's Republic of China, 2024;  American Poet of the Year Award, awarded by the United Nations World Silk Road Forum,  the Silk Road International Federation, Dubai, United Arab Emirates, 2025, and the “Ernesto Goldar” Essay Prize, awarded by the Mystery and Word Cultural Cycle, Argentine Society of Writers (SADE), Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2025.

(English versions by Prof. Araceli del Luján Lacore)

(c) of all poems, 2026: Luis Benitez

 

haute couture

 

there’s no worse profession
than being a fashion designer
who decrees
that for this season
the length of verses
must reach the knee
or fall to the ankles.
their sour mannequins then parade
across every available runway
resembling oversized strawberries
a massive salmon
teetering on huge high heels
or absurd pots flipped upside down
ready for the promised applause
of the repetitive
tedious news.
whether the “how” should be half-naked
or if it’s proper to show the “what ”
their creators assure that if invited
homer and t.s. eliot would say ‘’it’s fine’’
and nearly no one would hesitate to agree.
in every matter the edict of fashion
is the worst thing in this world.

 ants

 

this living path
crossing the garden
comes from a land
that isn’t ours
though we constantly
traverse the surface of another kingdom.
we know nothing of its tiny jungles
the desolate desert of a tile
the fleeting waterfall of an open tap
the consecutive holes a staircase unfolds.
below and around us
another infinite world lives.
it disturbs us that this domain
resembles so closely to what we see
from the window of the twentieth floor
far below and at our feet;
murderers heroes and villains
have their time and occupy their spaces
in a manner we consider mechanical.
the meaning of those days so different
is an enigma,
we quickly dismiss it
so we feel terrified
when we watch a child

paying the ants

his deepest attention:
he’ll forget as he grows the times
he fixed his eyes on a different kingdom
though our kingdoms
began on the same day.

procrastination

 

from my window i see a tree
hanging stubbornly to the abyss
he grew as it could
amid the ruins of the building across
because one night his seed thought this city

was a mountain range.
like for our desires
the frail tree pays the price
he will always fear the fury
of an unexpected storm
the sadism of capricious rain
the ferocity of sudden winds.
his aging roots cling to the vertical wall
with the strength of a remorse.
this year to be prudent
he will not bear a single fruit,
for any bird is foolish enough
to nest in him.

in distance it’s clear what the fate
of the stubborn is:
neither falling nor giving up.
almost dry

he feeds on its own pride
and postpones everything to keep on living.

on the foolishness of fairy tales

 

the good ones almost never win.
love is weak
usually, neither late nor early,
justice is done
and time
cannot heal
even the smallest wound
but what would become of us
(understand value and cherish)
without fairy tales?

zyklon^® valley

 

there are children who are born without a head
because war is coming.

 

there are uneasy people thinking
that something serious could happen
because war is coming.

 

a crazy hippie howls until she loses her voice
that there’s a wooden horse

full of elite troops at the gates of europe

and they silence her with a shot
because war is coming.

 

the war with hook hands
and barbed wire feet
with a fly’s head
and bat wings
the war that stares steadily
and is high and long like a mountain range
in front of your lilliputian horror.

 

it’s expected that at any moment
adolf hitler abandons his refuge
removes his disguise and rip off the rubber mask
to speak to us face to face

through all the international channels
because war is coming.

 

there are couples rushing to marry
to buy the house and the car.
they will have children and then divorce
because war is coming.

 

the war that prays for peace
while buying and selling stocks
the holy war
and the last resource after good intentions.

 

there are housewives

who can’t find marijuana anywhere

for war is coming.

 

at the reina sofía museum

they doubled the guard around guernica
because war is coming.

 

in rome a project was presented
to cover the coliseum the palatine hill
and the round and small temple of hercules
because war is coming.

 

there are new hopes in the skyscrapers
where everyone buzzes entering through the windows
and rubbing their little feet in joy
because war is coming.

 

there is a resurgence of nazism

fascism and vampirism
because war is coming.

 

the honourable congress of the united states of america
meets in permanent session
and someone writes on his mobile phone:
“don’t wait for me to have dinner, jenny.
don’t ask questions i can’t answer.
i love you and the kids, jenny.”
he makes a john huston face

and feels relieved by sending his message.

 

“things come in threes.”
“things come in threes.”

“things come in threes.”
repeat, those working the garden in the asylums
and the nurses run for pills.

 

a mild mussolini stretches
in every woman and man on earth
because war is coming.

 

the circles of beauty lovers

worry and discuss the threat

of a resurrection of social poetry
because war is coming.

 

there are 20 million refugees
expelled forever from our species
because war is coming.

 

a miraculous medicine is promoted
worldwide
to avoid future infections
because war is coming
and so on.

 

the writer spoilt by the french right
predicts in his last book
that there will be no war

and sells half a million copies
in one afternoon
because war is coming.

 

there are forty- and fifty-year-olds
re-reading lenin and nostradamus with nostalgia
because war is coming.

 

the sound of the keyboard in this computer
sounds like the rattle of a machine gun
because war is coming.

 

in the vatican, someone lights a cigarette
and smiles looking out the window
because war is coming.

 

the flour the coffee the tea, and the heroin
have gone up to the clouds brushing god’s sandals
because war is coming.

 

the academics gather in urgent conferences
to discuss the possibility of the appearance
of a post-war literature

and the appropriate theoretical framework,
if there is even a brick left on top of another
because war is coming.

 

and this poem no longer continues anywhere
because war is coming.

the blinds

 

every night you tell me
to pay the greatest attention
to make sure the blinds are properly closed.
the pleasant aroma of dinner
has not faded yet
our eyes are still closed 

inside this dream.
but before that

it is necessary
to repeat that daily precaution
not because of the sporadic attack
of the wind and the rain
or because of the next sun.
the blinds must be properly closed
so that nothing stands in our way
like an insect carrying on its legs a foreign poison
something that cuts or obstructs the bridges
we have so carefully built
over all these years together.

marcelo dughetti argues with montale

 

let the young man pass
(the one who weaves the faces of the past
like a weaver from rimini

who skilfully uses bobbins)
to eat trout with me on this roman night.

 

bring that old one which we only opened
when joseph brodsky came to visit

dim the lamps once again

so the horizon can sparkle again

beyond the windows

and the strange light of the oil tanker

shines again.

i am an old poet, all ears
and i don’t know who leaves and who stays
so now i want to hear everything from my son

 

i want to know him and recognize him
even if he has a rough voice and he is vulgar

because he knows of what substance we are made

where is our past?
what weight a patio holds in its memory?

 

let the rogue pass, the clumsy young man
the one who talks to himself crossing dirt streets.
we’ll have a long conversation in this empty room,
empty for so long
and if you hear him raise his voice don’t be alarmed
for this is how the young speak.
once i also complained like this
furious at the passing of years, love and hours.

 

fury is to know that leaving

is the best way things have to remain

 

let the young man rage, for in rage
he understands even better what the dust holds
what the echo says what the day hides
let him suffer and cry

and also laugh whenever he can.

the laughter of poets is a rare thing
the most precious thing on earth.

you had many horizons, country

 

though the fat days and the years of fire
fried you like a biscuit

you still seem to be this matter

made of landscapes and families
where someone often asks what happened
what led you to do certain things that look like a crime

or to that which no one dares to mention yet
like a shame

hidden in photographs burned on purpose
or relatives buried at the back of the house in the early morning
when no one is awake

except someone who prefers to be blind

so he shelters himself in the known story
of nightmares and insomnia

 

i was taught to love you, country
i cried as a child singing the song to our flag
and i was the last generation found

the last bullet in your russian roulette
the click on the temple that awakens in another world map
where i searched for your femme fatale silhouette in vain
slapping the globe harder and harder

 

you old lady
i know you went through many hardships
(the last two hundred years weren’t good at all for you

and for us)
and i hope you choose your gigolos better tomorrow
for the possible sake of your children as well.

 

the boarding school where you left us

smells like dog pee
and no one is very kind anywhere.
you don’t come to see me very often
i miss all those promises of affection
when you bore me under the leaks

in a town hospital
making innocents cry
smiling as if you had no guilt at all
waiting for congratulations flowers and chocolates
among pillows and attentions

where your old blood shone

broken and complete.