ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Hani Nadeem Almonds bitter to my friend Ali "Long life mantra"
Do not be afraid, Ali As we go through any little quarrel We'll cross forty! Come with me Let's believe our parents even once Whenever we share the food We multiplied love Mine is yours You have what I do
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
But... I do not make me grieve for you ... And do not be sad about me Go about forty Pour the oil into all of the jars Burn it including it Do not pay attention to our years that have escaped from us Like horses in a dream And do not tell me, "We got caught wind." As long as 5
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Birds catch on you And Christ falls asleep **** I need you to cross I am not blind But I am lured This path is dark I need you to cross You are not a bridge But I am a river A river has dried up So they spoiled me .. And did not They perform ablution I am also my friend A small offense .. This is the universe criminal **** She will date a woman and forget you Do not grieve your fragrant shirt. Take it to others The country will deny you And from pulling your body in the middle of the street After two months, he will plant a flower pot with your helmet. Do not be sad Wall your country with song .. 6
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Smile as you cross the border Sadness will cause you to commit a lot of frivolous joy The sea will push you to dry land And the land inside you .. Will pass .. Will cross Just.. Do not think about my advice! **** We grew up, Ali .. We grew up as we did not think; We grew up - just like the mawawil and songs mentioned, and we brew tea for the guests You have to know that age fortified you with sadness Until the gun strips you Do not be sad From the passage of reassuring female youth in your hands And from Navigator violations! Oh God... We grew up like a rumor in a village A lifetime passed by our neighborhood Threw us A kiss in the air from afar ........... and went ******** 7
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Life has turned us around, my friend Turned us over Lead, dream, and justice It turned us even Our fingertips understood just as our heads understood Nobody killed us twice There is no way but we have read its validity date From the first cigarette We are the students in the last seat We are late bus passengers We are our seasons for locusts Dude, life has turned us around Even And it passes by us today Passing one's mirror Not Turn
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021 Hani Nadeem is a Syrian journalist and writer, born in 1972, in the city of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. He completed his education in Syria and KSA. After graduation, he worked in the Ministry of Culture and Information, in the Sultanate of Oman and the United Arab Emirates. He moved to Riyadh, where he worked in many magazines and websites such as Elaf, Rotana, and the Ministry of Tourism among others. He is currently involved in script writing, documentary filmmaking, and cultural affairs and travel literature journalism. He has published his essays and poems in most Arab periodicals. He has more than a hundred documentaries for National Geographic, Sky News and others in his professional repertoire. He has published 18 books on poetry, journalism, criticism and theater, including: * Othello burn the theater "a play" * Sculptor of the wind "poetry" * Features : "Writings and Interviews" * The White Thread (Movie) * The dignities of the wretched "poetry" * Museum of Loneliness" Poetry" * The Industry of Grief, Dark Creative Icons , "A Study" * Sad Portraits from Wedding Studio "Essays" * We eat the sun and drink the winds "Orientalism"
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Al Sayyed Al Khamisi The Water woman A pregnant woman Walks over the water Holding the arm of a green boy The land gives seeds and newborns Every morning When she moves She will knock with two beautiful heels As the powder of musk overflows On the barren land Almond trees bloom And the water explodes Pouring honey 10
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
And lush gardens. A pregnant woman Walks over the water Whispering Oh Mahmoud Let's sing this night 11
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
And bring light Catching the Silver Moon Making it a loaf for the poor Sending some stars To hit the enemies .................. The green sparrow Shooked Flittered its wings Hovered around the water Whispering to sand Clicking the grit Caressing a thyme plant Smiling at an olive tree With a green smile ................. Behind the mute walls Black spiders were hidden The child's voice scared them So did the sound of trees And sound of water. Frightened by the sound of the Allah Akbar, The sound of the getting ready The sound of the ax, The voice of the guards The people talk to each other The rattle of the bells The green spike And a pregnant woman walking Over the water Like two arms Embracing a crescent, 12
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Hills, And a sky Crosses and chants Tunes and hymns Green birds And the seasons of martyrs .................... The land is dyed with henna Red white And green A homeland complete in color And in names By time Rubies And sons A homeland Waiting for the arrival of dawn on Water earthquake Al Sayyed Al Khamisi holds a BA in Arabic Language from the Faculty of Arts - Cairo University. He taught at the secondary grade schools. He participated in many literary seminars all over Egypt, and poetry sessions of the Cairo International Book Fair. He also participated in many cultural programs on radio and television. He published his poems in different magazines. He was elected more than once as president of the Literature Club in Port Said. His poetry collections: We Listen and Waves talk (1987) – The Gypsy Dance (1988). His novel (Al Basharoosh) narrates his biography, mixed with a historical background.
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Ali Al-Hazmi Tears Rolling down Her Salted Burning Lips Near the coast, we used to build sand homes. When he left for fishing, for the last time... We raced to return the trimmings of his net To his little canoe. With little hands We waved unceasingly to the last waves That snatched his boat away, Away from the times of our childhood. Behind the window bars, our little heads squeezed; With eyes fixed on the coast road;
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Mother's wings spread over our little shoulders As she injected her body among ours; Immensely worried about our budding innocent souls. I was scared that her long hair may submit to the winds, If she forward on the metal rail ;
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
I drew her back towards the warmness of the timber room; Then I stared at the seashores dwelling in her eyes, And saw the sea travelling far beyond the sand homes. leant "Sure, he will return," she said, Before her tear floored upon my lips— mysalted burning lips. Twenty years did not avail to demolish the sand homes In our eyes. The dried out face of my father, laid upon the waves Became a window thatlooks at the silver years of our age; An age abandoned in muddy traps. Still, my beloved mother conceals her regrets behind her shadow. Still, on the mornings, She makes fresh bread with her dreams; And at midnights, She reheats what remains of her wishes on the stove of her soul. Still, we trust her and eat the bread of her lie, Just to live on.
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021 Ali Al-Hazmi •Born in (Damad) – Saudi Arabia (1970).Participated in numerous recitals of poetry inside and outside of Saudi Arabia: •International Poetry Festival Costa Rica 2013- Toledo, Spain 2014 Punta del Este, Uruguay 2015- Madrid. Spain 2016- Havana, Cuba 2016- Medellín, Colombia2016-Istanbul-Turkey, 2016- Roma 2017Romania 2017 •The world Grand prize (forPotery ) International Academy Orient Occident in Romania 2017. Medalof honor to the poetic and literary merit in the XIV Encuentro Internacional Poetas y Narradores De las Dos Orillas y 4o Congreso de Literatura 2015 , Punta del Este Uruguay. The poem (A street through a wall ) Grand prize Verbumlandi- international poems - Italy 2017. He has published the following books of poetry:(Gate of the Body) Jeddah- 1993-(Losing)-Cairo 2000-(The gazelle drinks his image)-Beirut 2004-(Reassuring on the Edge)-Beirut 2009, (Now in past ) Arab Cultural Center-Beirut , 2018 Arab and international critics wrote about his poetic production Has eight printed books translated to different languages
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Ashraf Aboul-Yazid The Memory of the Silence No one reminds you of Your night companions, Except a burning head, Full of the ashes Of their stories! A head full of silence. They left their wives away, They left their sons In the alleys of memories. And they left their brothers framed In windows.
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
They came out of the heart of hills, To sink in the night of silence. They passed, leaving you With the cold bread Of the hot night. Will you read anything? Books will not offer themselves easily Offer to you. Every evening, You open a volume of poetry, Not to read it, 61 But to just receive your dreams Between its lines of verse. What could the texts of the world do 19
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
For a head full of Disaster? Will you watch the paintings On the walls of the room? The crying boy is on the left, And the weeping girl on the opposite side. But the poor artist can not paint A joining way between both of them! Yesterday, Dreams were no longer running On your pillows. You pass from bedroom to hall, with your worries: How many seasons did pass without having anyone To look at your window? How many years did pass without having anyone to knock at your door? The flying bird, on the neighboring wall Does not sing for you! The standing man, in the opposite window, does not smile for you! The faraway crossing female, does not look at you! 62 And the cat, Does not pay attention, To your mice! 20
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
And, the next morning will not carry Anything new for you, Except the sorrow of the newspapers, And the sore of coffee. I am climbing over the gate of the past, Looking for those who passed, Nothing I can see on the ancient glass, But some shadows of faces, under naked trees. I lived the silence tonight, So I did yesterday, And the day before. Do you remember anything? - When I forgot my sorrows I forgot my joys! (The Joy is just an apple cake burnt in an American oven.) The trees throw their dry yellow leaves. You may walk on them to break this silence. The stone you may throw into the pool, To splash water around you. This will not force the body of silence to sink. The flute of a branch may break the virginity of silence. 63 Alone you walk, Looking at a mirror, Talking to 21
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
The floating face on the ocean; asking: Who can break this silence? Alone, You will never bear anything! You wish a fire, You want the stick of Moses To drink the river of silence; The river of disaster; The river of bad news; The river of the dead dreams; Who would give you that Holy fire? The towns of the world Get noise every morning, And get up. Except this one! It has never got up! The silence of night crept Into the streets, Even car horns could not Speak a tongue: - This red tea is sour - Sore sour? Put more sugar. - A spoon? - No, ten spoons! - Is red tea still sore sour? 64 - Give more sugar? - Few quips cubes? - No, ten ones! 22
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
The salty towns are sore! This morning is just a coin, You do not trust its metal. With no face, To suit every time and place. If you get out of The cold coffin, You shall sink In the solar tomb. Live human beings have The faces of dead bodies. And dead bodies have The smell of living people. I am scattered among them. My green passport‘s papers are dry, As I cultivate my way, In the heart of the desert! This land is a mirage, A womb that gives birth only for our disasters, It is the land where we build cities, Will never be the homes of our children! We shall not know, How will rains come On the body where sadness Is camping in his eyes! A body is not concerned with anything, But this red silence, That looks like the summer‘s nights. There was a bell ringing, 65 To set fire in the night 23
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
With their tales of silence. (I may through my head away of the door) And close it after them.
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021 Ashraf Aboul-Yazid is an Egyptian poet, novelist and journalist born in 1963. He is the Editor-in-Chief, THE SILK ROAD LITERATURE SERIES. He has been working in Cultural Journalism for more than 30 years. He authored and translated 35 books. Some of his novels and poetry volumes have been translated into English, Spanish, Turkish, Persian, Korean, Malayalam, Sindhi and German books and anthologies. He was chosen the Man of Culture for the Year, 2012, Tatarstan, Russia. He won Manhae Prize in Literature, 2014, the Republic of Korea. He won the Arab Journalism Award in Culture, 2015, UAE. Currently he is the president of Asia Journalist Association (since April 2016). Poetry | Arabic Washwashat Al Bahr, (the Whisper of the Sea), Cairo, 1989. Al Asdaf, (the Shells), Cairo, 1996. Zakirat Al Samt, (the Memory of Silence), Beirut, 2000. FawqaSirat Al Mawt , (On the Passage of Death), Cairo, 2001. Zakirat Al Farashat, (the Memory of Butterflies), Cairo, 2005. Poetry | Non-Arabic Una calleen el Cairo, (A street in Cairo), (Spanish), Casa de Poesa – Editorial UCR, Costa Rica, 2010. YaraliGÜvercinlerIrmaği, (Turkish), Artshop, Istanbul, Turkey, 2012. The memory of Butterflies , (Persian), Afraz, Tehran, 2013 The Memory of Silence, English, Poetrywala, Mumbai, 2016 (The Whisper of the Sea), (Spanish), Casa de Poesa – Editorial UCR, Costa Rica, 2018. A Street in Cairo (Sindhi), Dareen, Germany, 2020 A Street in Cairo (German), Dareen, Germany, 2020
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Ayaz Gul Still it‘s our time, our era Still it‘s our time, our era O flag-bearers of falsehood Stay away, stay away The city of love still has its habitants Still the rain of lover pitters the patters Beauty still gets ornamented Still folks look for a beloved. Separation still brings a fearful night Still the longing lives in a heart. We‘ve yet to forget the darling. Still love lasts in eyes ‗n very breathing The pain still can‘t dejection give Still air borne remains birds of love 26
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Promises are still kept Still life for the land‘s wept The lost boat still finds a guide Still a slumber thought do rise The blaze of wisdom still remains alight Still the sun comes to kill the night 27
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Truth still remains a flare Still a number does share Pain with a murmur A heart still after a heart The eyes do converse With their counterpart Still for love the longing does wander Still the war with vile isn‘t over! O flag-bearers of the falsehood Stay away, stay away. ____________________ Translated from Sindhi language into English by Latif Noonari Ayaz Gul is a prominent contemporary poet from Sindh, province of Pakistan. His works are in the indigenous Sindhi language. He was born on 6 March 1959 in Sukkur City of Sindh. He did Masters in Sindhi literature from Shah Abdul Latif University, Khairpur Sindh. Ayaz Gul has authored seven books of Sindhi poetry. The published books of his poetry, 'Deenh Dithey Ja Sapna' (The Day Dreams) was published in 1984, followed by 'Dukh Ji Na Pujani Aa' (No end to pain) in 1987. One of his poetry book, translated in English, is in the process of publishing. He was professor of the Sindhi language and literature, Chairman of the Sindhi Department, as well as the Director of Sachal Sarmast (Sufi Poet) Chair at the Shah Abdul Latif University, Khairpur. Ayaz Gul is a popular poet of the modern Ghazal poetry style. He has been honored with many awards, including the best poet, the Writers Guild Award, an award from the Pakistan Academy of Letters, and an award from Sindhi Language Authority. A Street in Sukkur city has been named in his honor.
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Anjum Altaf Meditation on a Glass An old man and a young sit across a table On it, between them, rests a glass Silently they gaze on it through thoughtful eyes One, with a light burden and a long road ahead The other, looking back, counting out his years What do they see? The glass, half-empty, half-full Refractions of each other Or something else altogether _____________ This poem was written for Mr. Irfan Zuberi in Delhi
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Anjum Altaf is the author of a book ‗Transgressions: Poems Inspired by Faiz Ahmed Faiz‘ (Delhi 2019, Lahore 2020, Kindle 2021) and co-author (with Amit Basole) of ‗Thinking with Ghalib: Poetry for a New Generation‘ (Forthcoming 2021). He has a PhD from Stanford University and was Dean of the School of Humanities and Social Sciences at the Lahore University of Management Sciences. He is based in Lahore, Punjab province of Pakistan.
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
AZAM ABIDOV IN FRONT OF TRUTH It‘s not for me at all To accuse, to curse, to scratch, or to kill A man, a woman, or whoever else, My only job herein Is to please Almighty – Not to make him laugh! If I easily reach the next world I wouldn‘t blow the whistle on someone. Who in this world is free from the sins? Can a prophet stand
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Without sweating And with his face bright In front of Truth?
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021 AZAM ABIDOV (other names AAZAM ABIDOV, A‘ZAM OBID) is poet, translator, short story writer, cultural adviser, singer, was born in Namangan, city of flowers, Uzbekistan. He is the author of Tunes of Asia, The Island of Anxiety, Dream of Lightsome Dawns, A Miracle Is On the Way, Greater Than Patience, and I Leave You in Complete Boredom. He writes in Uzbek and sometimes in English. His work has been translated into more than 20 languages and published worldwide. He was a Creative Writing Fellow at the University of Iowa in the U.S. (2004) and a writer-in-residence at LCB in Berlin. Azam attended poetry festivals, creative writing workshops and cultural events in over 20 countries. He is also a World Poetry Movement‘s (WPM) coordinator of poetry events in Uzbekistan, and one of the founders of Maysara literary and cultural club at the Yudakov and Oybek House-Museums in Tashkent. In 2018, Azam launched the first-ever Writer/Artist Residency Program in Uzbekistan for foreign authors and artists. Email: azamjon1974@gmail.com Website: www.azamabidov.uz
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Dr. Brajesh Kumar Gupta "Mewadev" IN A MOMENT OF TRUTH You are the one on whom I rest my soul And makes you happy before sad always, I will not follow, just to let you lead Truth ever wins in mutual confidence To inspire joy, excitement, wonderment Just as much as space is compact, And I thank you for being there, to hold my hand You caress, taking away from the ugliness My darling, praising the perfection of all When I speak of the truth it feels like a noose I pray for the truthfulness of your existence 36
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
With me to the end of the path I implore you to continue exploring a core It is the ultimate source of human creativity Thoughts holding even a greater strength I would choose the words carefully and the truth will win. © Dr. Brajesh Kumar Gupta ―Mewadev‖, Banda (U.P. - India) @ All Rights Reserved.
Dr. Brajesh Kumar Gupta ―Mewadev‖ is a recipient of the Presidency of the International Prize De Finibus Terrae - IV edition in memory of Maria Monteduro (Italy). He has been awarded an honorary doctorate ―DOCTOR OF LITERATURE‖ (DOCTOR HONORIS CAUSA) from THE INSTITUTE OF THE EUROPEAN ROMA STUDIES AND RESEARCH INTO CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY AND INTERNATIONAL LAW – BELGRADE (THE REPUBLIC OF SERBIA) and from "BRAZIL INTERNATIONAL COUNCIL CONIPA AND ITMUT INSTITUTE". He has received Uttar Pradesh Gaurav Samman 2019. Presently he acts as III° "SECRETARY-GENERAL OF THE WORLD UNION OF POETS" OF THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD UNION OF POETS FOR THE YEAR 2021(3rd Secretary-General of the World Union of Poets, in order of time, since December 30, 2017 until December 31, 2021). He is the author of 8 books and he is an assistant professor at Eklvaya P. G. College, Banda (U. P.) and he resides at Banda (U. P.) India. Visit him as DrBrajesh, facebook.com/brajeshg1, email him at dr.mewadevrain@gmail.com, and www.mewadev.com.
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Marwa Nabil People are houses made of aqua fortis The time has changed The place has changed Those who exist have changed No one has changed but me. Oh Schopenhauer; go to Hell Along with Buddha Leave me both; to fill in the blanks of my faith with the sticky liquid primarily made in China
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ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Carelessness or indifference; chat; That happiness takes a toll on pain. I do not depend on the meaning that I paid much attention to; Isolated from the world And the world is directly refuting me. I will tell you about the pumpkin of the heart after decomposition of its rotting corpse Nonexistence Despair and anonymous, 39
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
My evil will, Triggers; enabling Schopenhauer to rent my house Transferring it into an institute for educating prostitutes Escorting them to the right way, and committing suicide
Marwa Nabil was born in Cairo, 1978. She has been graduated from the Women's Colleg, Ain Shams University. She has a diploma in Philosophy and Islamic Studies from Cairo University. The master's degree is taught in Philosophy of Science. She has published three collections of poetry: “As Gentle as a Cow”, “Against the Ordinary Dailies” and “My Blindness”. She has also published a book of her collected research essays on Greek philosophy, contemporary philosophy, aesthetics, and the philosophy of religion 40
ASIA SINGS. The Silk Road Literature Anthology. {1} /April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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The Silk Road Literature Series. ASIA SINGS. April 2021
Deema Mahmood Becoming a fetus I roll over myself hoping to feed on the grass of beginnings I become a fetus And get high on the musky scent of placenta I recover that eternity which for a while was entwined with my mother Becoming one with it through orbits and spheres. I emerge clean of all human sediment Clear of all their masks and effigies Free of gel and dyestuff.
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The Silk Road Literature Series. ASIA SINGS. April 2021
I become, and I get going, without myths and prophecies. © Deema Mahmood – Egypt Translated by: Norddine AL-Zouitni Deema Mahmood, Egyptian poet. Bachelor degree in Computer Sciences and Statistics, 1993. Professor assistant for many years in the departments of Computer sciences, Mathematics and Statistics in both the College of Education and the College of Health Sciences in Abha, Saudi Arabia. A Voiceover , Audio Narrator,Storyteller and Dubbing Actor. Publications: Braids of Spirit (Poetry), Dar Al-Adham, Cairo, 2015. I Pick Quarrels with the Horizon over a Violin (Poetry), Dar Al Ain, Cairo, 2017. Inscribing Tenderly on his Papyrus Sheet, (Poetry), Haia‘t Qoussor Althaqafa, Cairo, (Forthcoming). A Fourth book of poetry in progress Many of her poems were translated into English, French, Spanish and Portuguese and published in several anthologies in those languages. She also participated in many poetry and cultural local and International Festivals and events. Web links: http://deemamahmood.wordpress.com/ https://www.facebook.com/damdoma.alamora https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCqNpEMOwV5lP8M9BYoIoj5Q https://soundcloud.com/aldeemaalsakoob
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The Silk Road Literature Series. ASIA SINGS. April 2021
Miao-Yi Tu A Bundle of Salted Vegetables Last night, he crouched on the floor a hole in the head, bruise on the legs, pain in the arms a snap from his heart he heard was it the sound heartbreaking made? In the early morn, walking on a narrow track of coral stones a monkey lowered its rump to the ground and begged for food its bleeding nose bent to one side was it the mark fighting left? At noon, the market stall owner 44
The Silk Road Literature Series. ASIA SINGS. April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
invited me to sample vegetables seasoned with fermented soybeans salty and sour on the tongue tight and gloomy in the heart At night, lights sparkled how come I didn't notice it when he edged closer quietly seeing him next to me all of a sudden a fright entered me and I shuddered all over a dread that simmered from the bottom of my heart 45
The Silk Road Literature Series. ASIA SINGS. April 2021
saddened me to no end I was like a bundle of salted vegetables rotting away inside the house That quiet night was when I decided to leave my husband behind (translated by Yok-Hin Devn)
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The Silk Road Literature Series. ASIA SINGS. April 2021
Miao-Yi Tu is a poet, novelist , editor, and treanslator in Tainan,Taiwan. She is CEO of the Taiwan International Literature Institute. She was an editor of Arts of Taiwan Daily and Taiwan Times.She was senior editor of Taiwan Interminds and Morning Star publishing houses. She has been awarded in poetry with Na-Ying Literary Award,Tainan County(2003).Taipei Literary Award(2005),Yen Women Poetry Award(2006),Tayouan Literary Award(2007),Lin Rung-san Literary Award(2007), etc. She won ― Wu Cho Liu Shot Story Award‖(2011). She won the Kathak International Literary Award 2018 in Bangladesh. Her published books:Nature writing book‖The Land as Always a Garden‖(2006),Taiwanese poetry book ―You Come into My Forlorn Thoughts‖(心悶)(2016),Madarin/English bilingual poetry book ―腳的覺醒 The Epiphany of Feet‖(2018). Short story collection book ― The Black Gost (烏鬼記)( 2019). She attended the International Poetry Festival in Chile(2014),Taiwan(2015.2016).Boliva(2017),Bangladesh(2018),Colo mbia and Ecuador (2019).Her poems translated in English,Spanish,Bangeli,Arbia,Polish,Olia,Arbania,Italy, Macedonian,Turkey. Her short stories translated in English and Spanish.
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The Silk Road Literature Series. ASIA SINGS. April 2021
Fang-ci Zhang A Small White A small white flies Across balconies along narrow allies. Did it just stay on the roof torn down, Pass by the land of burning tar, Or flit over the hills where our ancestors were buried? Postures that come from afar, Higher and lower; The wings that desire to be lighter Turn heavy in a gaze. 48
The Silk Road Literature Series. ASIA SINGS. April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
That glides over in front of your eyes— A small white Stays in my tangled bosom. Works by Fang-ci Zhang Poetry 1.Transgression 2.Swirls in Red 3.Tomorrow at Dawn 4.Resonance 5.Somewhere We Belong 6.When You Are in Prime Hakka Poetry and Music Album A Prayer to Heaven Anthology of Hakka Poetry Fallen Petals on Mud Research on Fine Arts A Study of Spatial Expression in Lee Tze-fan‘s Painting
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The Silk Road Literature Series. ASIA SINGS. April 2021
Ching-Fa Wu Rice Mom asked someone to bring me a sack of rice Without leaving any message. Last week, I went home to see her. Before I left, She looked into my eyes, ―No need to compromise; There‘re abundant rice at home.‖ I was born While Mom was doing farm work. Feeling stomachache, She went home giving birth to me In a season when rice ears grew.
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The Silk Road Literature Series. ASIA SINGS. April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
―After birth, midwife buried your placenta and umbilical cord In the rice paddy. Mom often chatted about this recently. Mom sent a sack of rice connecting to my umbilical cord. How could I eat the rice; How could I not? (translated by Zhengwei Chen) Ching-Fa Wu (Taiwan), Native:Taiwan. He graduated from the Department of Sociology at National Chung Hsing University. He was the director of the Art and Literature Group of People's Daily, the chief writer of political theory, the vice chairman of the Cultural Development Council, and the cultural director of Pingtung County. He initiated the conservation movement of Chaishan Natural Park. His books include: Yanming's Streets, Ecological Hiking, Ecological Zen...(prose), Spring and Autumn Tea Room, Disappeared Men, Three Steps in the World...(novel), My Clan, Fengqi (poem), etc. There are nearly 20 books. The current well-known host of Happy Radio. He planned the exhibition of the Big Three in Russia and the Jingmei Human Rights Cultural Park. Some of his novels have been translated into English, German, Japanese and Korean. Polish and Vietnamese are being translated. 51
The Silk Road Literature Series. ASIA SINGS. April 2021
Dr Arti kumari True love Every human heart wants love and peace In this world where people are selfish Desire fir the true love is not a crime It is beyond the feeling of yours or mine It happened in just no time Unable to explain even a single line True love is not so easy to find Whether you wander in cloud or sunshine Meaning of true love is still the same It is an unsolved puzzle for brain
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The Silk Road Literature Series. ASIA SINGS. April 2021
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
There is no calculation for loss or gain One has to face the hurdle and pain It asks the selfless love for the one The love that is spiritual with no condition It is the name of devotion and sacrifice It is the game of giving and being crucified Let someone special knock at your door Be ready to accept what life has in store Just melt like an ice disappear like a drop Just be of someone and experience pure love 53
The Silk Road Literature Series. ASIA SINGS. April 2021
Memories I have captured Every impression of yours in words Your radiant face, glittering eyes, sharp nose, dimpled smile, affectionate words, tender touch, sympathetic look, caring attitude, exciting events, sensuous situations.. So that whenever, I feel utterly alone I may easily go to them and experience your whole without any moral or social barrier or guilt I have admired you More than love And would not let you fade away From my memories.. You have to come in my dreams Whenever I call you. To give me moral and emotional support To make me strong and boast me to start a new fresh life.. You can't escape from me
Break the Silence O dear! can you please explain me 54
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What this deafening noise is all about? Bearing hatred in one's heart Everyone is shouting for his own reasons. Someone is pleading for the safety of the cows Others are objecting on the sounds Coming from the temples and the mosques The farmers are committing suicides The girls are being raped and are forced to die. O dear! this is a tough time And at this time of chaos you break your silence And write beautiful love poems Which could make the people more sensitive Which could awake their consciousness. You don't be afraid of these cruel masters That they will suppress your voice That they will burn your love creations That they will torture you for enlightening the society You sing the song of love Compose the music of humanity.
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Dr Arti kumari, Muzaffarpur is a bilingual poet and author of one book of poetry. She is a govt school teacher and qualIfied NET. She writes poetry and prose both. She has been honoured with Anuvrat samman 2011, Bihar Vikas Ratna Award 2012, Sahitya Sadhna Award 2015 by different organisations. She has been awarded Urmila kaul Samman 2018 by Bihar hindi Sahitya Sammelan, Shad Azeemabadi Samman 2020 and Rajbhasha Shikhar Samman 2021 by Jagdambi prasad Smriti Pratishthan and Antarrashtriya Hindi Parishad, India. Her poetry expresses human love, women's liberation and devotional poems. Short bio Dr Arti Kumari (bilingual poet hindi and english) Govt. Teacher, Bihar, India Birthday- 25.03.1977 Birthplace- Land of Lord Buddh, Gaya, Bihar Qualification- M.A (English), Ph.D (English), M.Ed., NET (Education), doing ph.d in Education Publications- kaise kah doon sab theek hai(collection of hindi poems), English Poems in anthology 'The melodies of immortality', several articles published in magazines, journals on education and literature. She loves to spread Love and Happiness as she strongly believes that the world needs more love and all the hearts can be conquered with love. She writes on nature and social issues as well Address- shashi bhawan, azad colony, road 3 Maripur, muzaffarpur, bihar-842001 Email- artikumari707@gmail.com Mobile- 8084505505
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Dr. Ashok Chakravarthy Tholana YES, REALIZATION DAWNS The mind cannot remain without thinking But, whatever is destined keeps happening As per our sweet-will, we keep performing; But, the stock of merit keeps diminishing Wealth, power and position keeps sinking Unaware, everything around looks annoying. Enveloped with concern, day and night We fall prey to intolerance and discontent, Brooding over ill-luck, destiny and what not Unable to swim life‘s ocean, we feel upset; Pride and arrogance, once we did exhibit 58
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Like wild fire, they burn joys castle in heart. The day we uphold the morals and ethics, The day we brood over reality and relics; Love, peace and mercy unfold their basics And convey life‘s real and purposeful topics. Yes, realization dawns; lays a path futuristic To master own destiny with a will, dynamic. Copyright@Ashok Chakravarthy Tholana Dr. Ashok Chakravarthy Tholana is a writer, poet and reviewer, hailing from Hyderabad City, Telangana State, INDIA. During his 30year stint with poetry, Ashok‘s message-oriented poems have the rare distinction of getting published in no less than 90 countries. He is relentless contributing poetry exclusively for the sake of promoting Universal Peace, World Brotherhood, Environment Consciousness, Protection of Nature, Safeguarding Children‘s and Human Rights, uplifting the oppressed-downtrodden etc. For his outstanding contribution and promotion of world literature and culture, he is conferred with several prestigious national and international awards that include FIVE Doctorates and a lot of laurels, commendations and titles etc. In recognition of his poetry writings, Dr. Ashok received commendations from Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam, former-President, India, Shri Atal Behari Vajpayee, former-Prime Minister, India, Bill Clinton, USA, Queen Elizabeth of Britain, Princess of Wales, President and Prime Minister of France, Prime Minister of Switzerland, Senator Viktor Busa, The Lord President, Italy, United Nationals Organization, UNESCO, UNICEF etc. As of now, NINE of his poetry volumes have been published and 12 spiritual books have been translated from Telugu (local language) to English language. TO KNOW MORE, VISIT : www.worldpeacepoetry.com HIS PEACE VIDEOS: https://worldpeacepoetry.com/category/gallery/videos/
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SHEN Youjun Space Station After several times of samsara, if I have a second ideal life The time and light of the constellation will still be a wink I want to be a free explorer, an effective warrior In the space station on the strange surface of the planet I know not where my homeland is I should have my perception, but I want to let go of it temporarily The reason of human‘s birth Is to explore by nature— the unknown outside their home 60
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Nostalgia is the reference when nothing regretful is left for life I want to proceed, proceed and proceed To seek the brilliance of the farther constellations To go through the fatal universe radiation that breeds hope I want to gain brilliance Life could end, brilliance would not leave with us regret When life comes to an end, I will see my hometown Forging the unyielding flame with my very birth (Translated by Brent O. Yan)
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SHEN Youjun, a famous contemporary Chinese poet, original name WU Xiaofang, member of Chinese Poetry Society. He once used pen name Di Bai and Qin Chuan. Born in Anhui province in 1971, he lived in Jiangsu Province for some years and now lives in Urumuqi City, Xinjiang. In 2012, he awarded the Naji Naaman International Literature Prize in Lebanon. He has published a number of poetry anthologies, some of which are translated into many foreign languages.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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ZHANG Zhi The Mirror Image of Ghost City Everything begins from mystery And ends in mystery Now, the Russian ashes Has filled The Gulag Archipelago In the mirror In 1996 A bookseller of Chongqing Has photocopied The Gulag Archipelago From me 64
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(Published by the Mass Publishing House in 1982 For restricted circulation With printing number of 1000) And has paid me Six thousand yuan as remuneration (Whether or not it has been published There is no knowing) Six thousand yuan twenty-two years ago Is tantamount to one hundred thousand yuan Nowadays Which means The great Russian writer Alexander Solzhenitsyn Has presented me one hundred thousand yuan Unconsciously Now I am still buried in the ghost city Between the lines Continue to search for the Gulag Archipelago Coffin lids fill the capital How many pates are to be cracked? (Translated by ZHANG Zhizhong)
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ZHANG Zhi, born in Phoenix Town of Baxian County, Sichuan province in 1965, is an important poet, critic and translator in contemporary China. His pen name is Diablo, English name is Arthur ZHANG, and ancestral place is Nan‘an of Chongqing City. He is a doctor of literature. He is the current president of the International Poetry Translation and Research Centre, executive editor of Rendition of International Poetry Quarterly (multilingual), editor-in-chief of the English edition of World Poetry Yearbook. He began to publish his literary and translation works since 1986. Some of his literary works have been translated into more than thirty foreign languages. He has ever won poetry prizes from Greece, Brazil, America, Israel, France, India, Italy, Austria, Lebanon, Macedonia, Kosovo, and Japan. His main works include poetry collections such as RECEITA (Portuguese-English-Chinese), SELECTED POEMS OF DIABLO (English), POETRY BY ZHANG ZHI (German-English-Portuguese), Selected Poems of Diablo (ChineseEnglish), A Jigsaw Picture of the World (Albanian), علَ ْى َ ش ْع ٍر َ ُخصْلةٌ ِم ْن ( َو َرقArabic), collection of poetry criticism entitled Series Essays on Avant-Garde Chinese Poets, and poetry translation A & 1 IS THE FOUNDER, etc.. In addition, he has edited Selected Poems of Contemporary International Poets (English-Chinese), Selected New Chinese Poems of 20th Century (Chinese-English), A Dictionary of Contemporary International Poets (multilingual), Chinese-English Textbook 300 New Chinese Poems (1917—2012), and CenturyOld Classics·300 New Chinese Poems (1917-2016), etc.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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WANG Mengren Waking Tiles A real worry is that a heap of disorderly past events Would shake you off from the high branch Holding my breath, I wonder which city on earth I‘d go to To stay quietly under the eaves The bright and solemn picture Should not be sought for its origin With an applause energetic like a heavy shower After the romantic intercourse of the rain and snow The sighs, like the setting sun, linger long on mind After a series of temporary fits of pain Return to their originality 68
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And there is no longer dark night with black paint Standing in the chaotic clouds Making so many broken tiles Accomplished their feats (Translated into English by Brent O. Yan)
WANG Mengren, a famous poet and calligrapher in contemporary China, and he was born in 1959 in Fugou County, Henan Province, China. He is a member of Chinese Writers‘ Association, of Chinese Calligraphers‘ Association, a committee member of Henan Provincial Literary Federation, director of Henan Provincial Writers‘ Association and Henan Provincial Calligraphers‘ Association, vice president and secretary general of Henan Provincial Prose-Poetry Society, honorary lifetime president of Zhoukou Municipal Calligraphers‘ Association, and part-time professor of Zhoukou Normal College. His works have been carried on professional magazines such as People‘s Literature, People‘s Daily, Poetry Periodical, The Star Poetry, etc. He has won a special gold prize at the 2nd―New Demeanor Cup‖ Love Poetry Competition hosted by Poetry Monthly; the title of ―excellent writer of prose-poetry in contemporary China‖ in 2007, Boundless Grassland literary prizes in 2013 and 2015, Poetry Monthly annual poetry (prose-poetry) prizes in 2013 and 2014, the Heavenly Horse Prize at the 11th Chinese Prose-Poetry Competition in 2017, the 4th annual prize (prose-poetry) of the Shandong Poets in 2018, and the 18th Lebanon International Literature Prize. He has published Literary Writings in My Humble Abode (in 9 volumes), The Writing of the Plain, The Singer of the Plain, and Ode to the Plain (ChineseEnglish), etc. Some of his poems have been translated into English, Italian, German, French, Spanish, Tamil, Japanese, Korean, and Greek, etc.
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WANG Guilin Drinking Wine in Munich Drinking with a bosom friend, a thousand cups do not suffice In Munich, by myself I Am in the bar of the ground floor of the hotel The tall bar platform and the tall stool Constitute a symbol, a form A thing of postmodernism, to express the huge loneliness Presented to me by a foreign country Without clangorous Chinese lute, without lingering pipe music 70
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
The long-haired saxophone player toward darkness Is playing blue sentimental music, as if whispering To oneself. The blond-haired girl nearby Does not say hello as usual Like me, she abandons herself to drinking, in the goblet Is lost in meditation or endless non-thinking ... Drinking and drinking nonstop Whisky, vodka Bread and cheese, dry red wine and dry-white I drink nonstop, afraid if I stop I cannot help shedding tears, feeling more lonely And I cannot refrain from changing my travel route 71
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To go back to my motherland immediately, back to the apricot village (Translated by ZHANG Zhizhong)
WANG Guilin, a famous poet-calligrapher in contemporary China. Born in 60s of the 20th century, he began writing in his 80s, and he has won a host of prizes, including the first prize in the 1st Mangzhong Poetry Competition, prize for the best ten poetry collections 2018, prize in the 1st Du Mu Poetry Prize, prize in the 4th Chinese Long Poems, prize for the 2nd Bo‘ao International Poetry Prize, prize for the 5th Kaqiu Warren Poetry Prize, the 5th GUO Xiaochuan Poetry Prize, the 1st Korean Seoul International Poetry Prize, etc. His published works include poetry collections such as The Sea on the Blades of Grass, The Changing Water, Introspection and Flying Afar, New Quatrains: Sands and Foam, Collection of Birds‘ Twitters, Berlin Wall and Jerusalem, or the Joy and Perplexity of Words (Korea), The Moving Door (Taiwan), Short Poems of WANG Guilin (Hong Kong), collections of essays such as My Own Pond, Illustrated Paintings of Du Heng, and a collection of calligraphy Annual Class, etc. He is a member of Chinese Writers‘ Association and Shandong Provincial Calligraphers‘ Association. Now he resides in Dongying, Shandong Province, China.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Qin Feng Pure and Bright: April's Two Teardrops Pure and Bright. The only two Chinese words Alive in the forlorn 'nd deserted month of April. The two teardrops, lonesome and desolate, Are time and again being scrubbed and rinsed By rainwater in the alien land. Th'Entrance to the Village. The gate of life and death Of my native place is wide agape. The vast universe has long collapsed into earth. The watchful watch of withered grass, dried trees, and winds. On the way home, no one's on his way back. Sufferings. Adopted over and over, Have grown into the only standing crops: 74
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Mother's grave, and Father's tomb. I, I am the life and death of my forebears; I, I am orphan to my own self, A gravestone, that walks upright In the world mundane. （Translated by Botao LIU）
Qin Feng, a famous poet-calligrapher in contemporary China, real name PU Jianxiong, doctor of literature. Member of the Poetry Institute of China, Member of Sichuan Provincial Writers' Association. He has won the First Global Chinese Poetry Main Prize, the First Tianfu Literature Prize, the Great Wall Literature Prize and the Su Dongpo Literature Prize. The ―Top Ten Poems Against Covid-19‖ held by the National Poetry and Newspaper Network Alliance and the first prize of the 6th the Poetry Festival Original Poems in Shanghai. His works have been translated into many languages and included in anthologies of poetry. He is the author of a collection of poems called ―On Horizon Alone‖. 75
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Eldar Akhadov TREE Artillery shots. Foxtrot sounds. Villages and ancient manuscripts burn. And only the tree outside the window keeps waiting. Whenever you glance at it The mind darkens. Ice crumbles. A fiery moon ascends. And only the tree outside the window keeps waiting. Whenever you glance at it You wander around for days on end. Walls before you. Walls behind you. 76
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Nothing is any use. And only the tree outside the window keeps waiting. Whenever you glance at it Echoes turn into a watery abyss. Time collapses and vanishes. And only the tree outside the window keeps waiting. Whenever you glance at it You turn into snow falling. Into a whisper in darkness. But the tree outside the window keeps waiting for you For this tree is just like you. Translated from Russian into English by Richard Berengarten
EXCEPT YOU… I tore all your photos. But it did not help. I remembered you. I went very far and never came back. But it did not help I remembered you. I met with others and was loved. But it did not help. I remembered you. I got drunk - like dead, like a shoemaker, like a tramp, like the last creature. But it did not help. I remembered you. 77
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I got married, had children, became home-grown. But it did not help. I remembered you. I'm getting old. Everything is eroding from memory. Everything. Except you. Translated from Russian into English by Brian Henry Tomlinson
Eldar Akhadov was born in Baku in 1960. He lives in Krasnoyarsk. A member of the Union of Writers of Russia and other writers 'organizations of Russia, Ukraine and Azerbaijan, a member of the Russian Geographical Society, Co-Chairman of the Literary Council of the Assembly of Peoples of Eurasia, a member of the PEN International Writing Club. The author of 64 books of poetry and prose. Laureate of the State Literary Prize of the Governor of the Yamal-Nenets Autonomous district, laureate of the National Prize ―Silver Feather of Russia‖, ―For the Good of the World‖, ―North is a Country Without Borders‖, silver medal of the IV All-Russian Literary Festival of Festivals. Silver medal of the IV Eurasia Literary Festival of Festivals. Holder of the international title "Knight of Poetry" (Serbia, 2020). Prize of the Association of Literary Translators of Montenegro for the book "Meaning of Life" in Serbian (2020). Thanksgiving diplomas for participating in the poetry festival (Costa Rica & Mexico) and in a poetry charity event (Argentina). Second place in the poetry competition "Vincenzo Padula" in Italia. He awarded a special diploma of the Sixth Competition of the Italian Academy of Julia Brignone. 78
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Gurjeet Kour Ghuman PARADISE SERENE Unspeakable desires to merge into chief delights and favours of our lord. Nature, that our great creator bestowed upon us pouring all the graces. Open admiration for him I behold. Idyllic homeland enchants my soul, wandering in the leisurely serene landscape, undiluted hilly terrain chiseled to perfection, God's grace and boundless love through his art of nature. Picturesque rustic valley evolve nostalgia, I walk down the nostalgic lane breathing forth elixir pure. Crystal clear stream runs by my dream home. 80
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Sunshine bright, blissful stroll. Silken purple hue's spread across the fragrant saffron fields. Looking downwards from the majestic mountains amazing hue's of vivid light, green of rice fields and darker shades of groves of fir and pine galore. Contrasting hues of golden maple foliage, delight to eyes evermore. Becalming sunlit sheets, gleams of water in soft blue haze. Cool gushing breeze oozes passion, tranquil moments enamor brings harmony for sure. Love blossoms all in heat with feast and music resounds. 'Tis my home, my paradise serene. Gurjeet Kour Ghuman ©Copyright.
Gurjeet Kour Ghuman ( poet, social activist, editor) is an active social activist running an NGO named The Sara, an organization working for suicide prevention and distress management in the union territory of Jammu and Kashmir. She heads the organization that has been widely recognized for selfless effects to work on various issues faced by the society. The organization was awarded with DGP commendation award for their relentless efforts towards betterment of society. Author Gurjeet Kour Ghuman was born on 20th November at Srinagar, Kashmir. She has boundless love for poetry and literature, her poetry reflects her passion for soulful poetry that is amalgamation of soulful romance with delights of mother nature. She is an author of collection of poetry Elysian Petals and Deep Notion, her first book Elysian Petals has featured among top 100 debut books in India. Her poems have featured in number of publications. 81
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Hassan Al Matrooshi The Banished Descendant No one is there No one in this wilderness except my own body I, the owner of this shadow, I, the banished descendant, have been moving my grave for centuries in the deserts I have plenty of enemies… plenty whom I don‘t know They‘ve lingered in the dark for years waiting for my coming
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
I have plenty of comrades… plenty; I don‘t remember them, and nobody remembers me. Why am I concerned about the doomsday of the dead?! **** In the name of the assassinated and his assassin I come forward, without clothing, towards the flood, and cross it alone This blood filling my veins constantly amasses against me 83
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I have not yet finished talking to my grandfather in my sleep ―Who are you?‖ I shout. ―I‘m your canon,‖ says he, ―that you must accept. I have bequeathed the colt of the earth to you to tour it after me I have bequeathed to you, O son, a wound named freedom!‖ **** I am the guard of the drowned ancestors‘ graveyard I have a walking staff that I hold when I dance like a drunken pirate or when I am cheerful, playing with a gang of foolish kids and we don‘t care who of us will fly or who will stay! **** I have kept holding the rebels‘ sword and running in my insomnia My night of nightmares has not lessened Nor have the dates of strangers on my roads No river ever flows without my apprehension?! 84
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***** Despite my fifty years my heedless habits have not lessened, such as: stammering in the company of others trembling awkwardly when talking to a woman running barefoot amidst the scorching heat or being split in two by a woman when she laughs or being let down by buddies and stop talking or bringing two chairs for the night: one just for me the other to see myself as two.
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Hassan Al-Matrooshi is an award-winning poet, translator, and media-man from the Sultanate of Oman. Hasan has published five Arabic poetry collections, two of which were translated into French and Spanish. In 2016 he was awarded the Sultan‘s Praise Medal and also honored as the Omani poet of the year. In 2019 he received an award in the prestigious international poetry contest TulliolaRenato Filippelli in Italy.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Suchismita Ghoshal An Afternoon Obsession Dusky and dusty, This luscious afternoon appears so lusty, Falling from the cliff of a thirsty mind, Driving me crazy until I discover myself crushing into tiny pieces. Strawberry paints my brain into blasphemous divinity, Candies buy luxury and the seduction drips From the humidity of two entangled and heated bodies. Serpentine ways of earned admirations Gives the situation a satisfactory lubrication. Tempting love found in a forlorn alley 88
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Invites all the desires to reach the heaven. Thunders, drizzles, petrichor and rainbow Tattooed the atmosphere in a grandeur blend of precious wines. Go slow, go slow, the evening shouldn't rush and smoke! Fumes and bubbles making love With the air in an inebriating language. Unveil the moment, lick it with the passionate tip of the tongue and grab it with the lascivious embrace as a jingling rhyme. A charming endeavour leaves a hickey On the delicate shoulder of the stimulated time. ~ ©storytellersuchismita
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Suchismita Ghoshal hails from West Bengal, India. At the very early age of 23, she has shaped her life in a way where she cuddles with literature and devotes herself into finding peace through love, compassion, learning & community service. With an academic career in science till graduation, she is currently pursuing her masters in business administration ( MBA) from the renowned GD Goenka University in Gurgaon, Haryana. Besides that, she is a professional writer, published author, internationally acclaimed poet, literary critic, literary influencer, content writing member for WEST BENGAL UNITED NATIONS YOUTH ASSOCIATION & HELPING HAND INTERNATIONAL ORGANISATION, change-activist & a nature lover. With more than 500 coveted co-authorship in various renowned national & international anthologies, prestigious literary magazines, websites, webzines and eminent literary journals, she fosters to carry forward her literary career in a more prominent way. She has also authored 3 poetry books by the name of "Fields of Sonnet", " Poetries in Quarantine" & "Emotions & Tantrums". She has an enormous number of accolades and highly elegant achievements entangled with her name. Few of them are enlisted below : 1) REX KARMAVEER CHAKRA AWARD( instituted by iCONGO and powered by UNITED NATIONS), 2)AUTHOR PAGES BEST WOMAN WRITER AWARD 2020, 3)INDIAN YOUTH GENIUS AWARD 2020, 4) INDIAN YOUTH STAR AWARDS 2020, 5) AAGHAAZ 2K20 AWARD, 6)THE SPIRIT MANIA INFLUENTIAL WOMEN AWARD 2020, 7)TOP 50 POPULAR AUTHOR AWARDS 2020 By THE SPIRIT MANIA 8) NE8X LITERARY AWARD 2020, 9) INTERNATIONAL GOLDEN AWARD by Deep Dan Foundation 2020, 10) INDIA STAR PERSONALITY AWARD 2020 by India Star Book of Records 11) ASIA PRIDE AWARDS 2021 etc.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Ismail Fakih More Than Ear Your beauty was pouring out of village, Flooded in the nature more than air… Awakens stagnant tremors in my Chest, Making my eagerness descending into unknown places and then adopted… Like a tree combing its leaves, And twisting its trunk like a long embrace.
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Ismail Fakih was born in Lebanon in 1964 widely travelled he has lived in The Brazil, France where he worked as a Journalist and a lecturer. He has published Ten volumes of Poetry. Ismail Fakih has worked in the written Press for a quarter of a Century as well as with Audio and Visual media. He Has been translated into Spanish and French.
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Dr. Debaprasanna Biswas Hunger I like to translate your hunger Travelled miles after miles. Rare found hunger for knowledge Rare found hunger for modesty Rare found hunger for attitude But found hungry people all around Found hungry people quarreling, fighting, killing Naver found hungry birds quarreling
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Even beasts like tiger or lions knows how to share food. Birds neither share peas nor quarrel. They don't believe saving grains. Man is power concious, He knows how to suppress the weaker section. He knows how to commercialize, 'hunger' for economy. Wealth grows at the cost of hunger for food of backwards. Backwards are made not born. Hunger, the silent killer is the cause behind. So I am to search for inner meaning of hunger. Without which proper translation is meaningless. Dr. Debaprasanna Biswas (1948) is an Indian Bengali poet. He is a Retd. Associate Professor of Mathematics in India and Professor, 95
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Faculty of Science, Lincoln University, Malaysia. He is a member of different national and international literary groups. His poems are published at home and abroad and associated with different anthologies. He is awarded 'Best Writer of the year 2019' by 'Bangabhumi Sahitya Parshad' an esteemed literary group in Dhaka, Bangladesh. His creation is mainly on social life. He is a believer of humanity and universal brotherhood.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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jyotirmaya.thakur MOUNTAIN'S EDGE Let's meet at mountain top junction, Where cosmos is calm in reflections, Where boundaries greet in affection, Beauty has multiple manifestations. Where there are no issues of defection, Where conflict melted away in perfection, Where twilight sings in conviction, Beauty of sunset in colourful selection. Steps in snow are deeply engraved, Sunrise leveling all the grades, Beauty of diversity in unity fades, 98
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Identities surrender in joyful waves. Where gentle winds caress in silence, Where paths divulge in wild reliance, Beauty of vales end at mountain's edge, Vales never forget their pristine pledge. Beauty of cadence in shuffling gravity, Bittersweet night glimpse life's brevity, Depends on heartbeat's serenity, Star's sparkle streaking with regularity, Beauty of waves kissing the shore, But will soon return to Ocean floor, Life is brief and swift as dawn, Like the dusk has come and gone. @copyright Jyotirmaya Thakur.
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Jyotirmaya Thakur( retired Principal) is the author of thirty three books . Multi - genre award winning poet of more than 300 awards from literary and humanitarian organisations. A reviewer , translator ,columnist , researcher,social and environmental activist . She serves on various prestigious Committees as International Ambassador in many literary and humanitarian organisations. Her work has been published in more than 500 anthologies, magazines internationally and translated in many languages. She is the first Indian poet to be published by RVAW Publications , UK and her poems are showcased by the Wolf International Poetry Exhibition group of UK. She has been featured as "A Woman of Essence " by Dotism Journal, Australia. "Woman of Excellence " and in the 'Gems' series by the World Pictorial Poetry forum, Daman. She has been featured in -'The World Contemporary English Poets' anthology by Paschim Bangla English Academy . Jyotirmaya means different things to different people, for she is an embodiment of what is ideal, especially what is aspired by an accomplished personality. She is an internationally renowned poet and writer, who has won numerous awards, for both her literature and humanitarian efforts. She exemplifies the ideal that writing is more than just words on paper, it is a means of creating positive change in the world.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Mohammad Al-Ameri Poems for a hunter in love 1 Death I looked at my grandfather‘s face in the grave And saw my mirror I realized that death didn‘t get so far away From me.
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2 A Single Look I looked at him just once One single glance to be thirsty for him And I recall I drank from the glass of his absence Till I cried.
3 Oneness She was walking with my shadow behind her. I realized it was rather me running And she was with me.
4 Parting When we interlocked our fingers When we stuck to the wall of delusion In fact we were weaving a rug for parting.
5 Amman I have never known this city, not even for 103
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A single day that this town is nothing but a blind cat, preoccupied with the mew of the sick all that is there are cans of sleep and details of stangers overloaded with tears I tried to know her But she declined So I smashed her night mirrors in my glass And I drank it.
6 Vitrine All those who passed by the "vitrine" Who their colorful shirts And ties akin to a spotted snake All those who came along this way, With disappointments and some love Questions in their pockets Hurried towards a futile date And kept putting their shirts on For unfruitful dates.
7 A vain waiting I waited for you in the morning as a frail Bird I saw 104
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Nothing but your faded shadow Across the mirror.
Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Mohammad Hassan Al-Ameri, also known as Mohammad Al-Ameri, was born in Al-Ghazawiya, in an area of the Jordan Valley called ―Al-Aghwar Al-Shomaliya‖ on the 25th of December, 1959. He was the second son born to a family who specialized in agriculture, and he lived among an educated family. His father worked for the Ministry of Social Development, so his grandfather was in charge. In his grandfather‘s Diwan, the tribe‘s gathering place, he lived in a setting where he could learn the details of history and the events that took place in Palestine. His eyes were opened to cultural climates as his nine siblings were professionals in poetry, drawing, and literature like their father, who recited traditional poems in their appropriate contexts. This was what most affected his cultural upbringing. He belongs to the Ameri tribe, which came from Algeria with the Hawarith tribe to fight with Salah Addin in Palestine. His entire tribe was given entirely to the Murj Bin Amer tribe. His grandparents were displaced to East Jordan in 1948 and they settled in the Jordan valley to work in agriculture. His family is considered to be one of the families that own the land of Zoor Atiya in the Jordan Valley. Al-Ameri began to draw and write poetry as a hobby in primary school and he was the school‘s illustrator. His father taught him and encouraged him to explore and read extracurricular books such as the Quran, stories, novels and old Arabic poetry books. He studied elementary and middle school at UNRWA's Waqas Preparatory School until he moved to Shouna Secondary School, where he finished his studies and graduated in 1979. He then moved to Beirut in 1980 to study Political Science in the Lebanese University, but returned to Jordan due to the Israeli invasion of Beirut in 1982. He began studying once again at the Jordanian University until he graduated with his Bachelor‘s in ―Ramified Education of the Arabic Language‖. He continued developing his talent in drawing throughout several intensive courses with the 106
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American artist Len Allen and Spanish artists in the manual paper industry. He worked as an art teacher in the Ministry of Education for 10 years until he moved to the Ministry of Culture where he was the head of the Art and Theatre Administration and then the Institute of Fine Arts. He worked as an editor for more than one magazine, such as Funun Magazine, Arab Visual Magazine, Awraq Magazine and Madraj Magazine. He was the president of the Jordanian Visual Artists Association in 2002 and a member of the Administrative Committee for the Association of Jordanian Authors as well as a member and founder of the Jordanian Critics Association. He is now the head of the Arzal Cultural Foundation. He has produced a number of projects in several areas combining poetry and drawing, such as Jazz Sahrawi with the poet Amjad Nasr and Arthur Farasha and the poet Mahmoud Darwish, and As If it Were Night with the poet Taher Riyad, and another exhibition called Poetic Spaces in the Royal Cultural Center in the early 90‘s. His illustrations were displayed and won a number of awards, most importantly two Kuwait Biennial Awards, the Greatest Work of Art Award from the College of Art and Literature at Philadelphia University, and First Place in the annual Jerash Festival exhibition, the Lorca Award and the Tafkir Bilyedein Award from the Cervantes Institute. He took a creative sabbatical from the Ministry of Culture for his ―River and its Neighbor‖ project and participated in more than one art judging panel on the local and international levels, where he submitted his work to international auctions including Christie's Auction and Art Fair in Dubai. He held his first exhibition in 1983 at Yarmouk University. His exhibitions took place in the Arab and Jordanian galleries. His works were very popular and professional from a group of Arab and foreign critics. He was invited, along with other famous Visual Artists, to China for a month and completed several works there. He also took a sabbatical from the Gota Institute during the City Narrators project and published a book in German entitled Leave Everything and Go to the River. His first poetry collection was published in 1990 entitled The Rise of Concern and his second book The Entity‘s Losses in 1995, which won first place in the Chamber of Arab Poetry, his third book, The Sharp Memory – House of Feathers in 1999, his fourth book Garden 107
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Blouse in 2003 and his fifth book Perfume Eraser in 2017 and his biography, The Tree of Life in 2015. He also published a journal about his experience in Visual Arts in 2011 and book about Jordanian Graphic Arts. The first edition was published in 2006 and the second edition was published in 2015. He has a collection of research in the field of Visual Arts and is a monthly columnist in specialized magazines including Dubai Cultural Magazine and Sharjah Cultural Magazine. In regards to his artistic experience, he passed through several stages from realism to expressionism, symbolism and synthetic works, reaching abstract art in which he found himself and became one of the most important Arab artists in this field.: In regards to his poetic experience, poems were distinguished between the interactive poem and the prose poem where the vocabulary of nature appeared clearly in the overall experience of poetry and art. In this context, he says: ―I was born in an agricultural environment full of trees and wild flowers. My childhood was related with the Hishir, one of the types of mountain plants that bordered the Jordan River. I had a reservoir of memories of the herbs and the smell of orange and peppermint. My birthplace was an herbal area in North Aghwar, famous for agriculture and harvests like the orange and wheat harvest. The nature of our daily food consisted of teucrium, arum lillies, hibiscus, aloe, dandelion, grape leaves, purslane and citrus. The river had an important place in my poetic vocabulary as well as herbs, the moon, the door, and the herd of goats climbing the mountain. Nature is smell, sound and sight combined, interwoven between me and everything it relates to, from the harmony to the color to the aroma. This aesthetic reservoir is just a fraction of the aesthetic value and the rhetorical nature of my poetry. As an Arab poet of the desert, I adore the agricultural environment with its spontaneity and aesthetic richness. It is the magic realism that nourishes my poetic experience of poeticism. Nature is the body, soul and harmony.‖
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Kalipada Ghosh YOUR BREATHING Your breathing is whispering into my ears So pulsating, so sonorous I pay heed time and again. A sweet , delicate and winsome Wishing to unite with thee A passionate exuberance A divine light, aura and lustre. So fragrant and delicate. A spring tide flowing and glowing Enlivening and enlightening Flourishing and augmenting blossoms. 110
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Your breathing and heart throbbing , a sonorous intonation A soulful and crazy cry But not whining Doesn't hurt and prick Soothing and consoling. Wishing to mingle into your breath. An effusion and overflowing of love to enlighten the tortured souls of humanity. Copyright reserved@ Kalipada Ghosh, WB, INDIA. Kalipada Ghosh ( Retd Headmaster) , a bi-lingual poet ,Critic, educationist, essayist ,translator , humanist and elocutionist has authored 8 ( eight) Books of Poems in Bengali and English including one in the press. The main theme of his Poetry is based on Nature, Man, love, world peace , anti-war,humanity and social issues. His poetry is philosophical, romantic as well as realistic. He is also a surrealist poet. He has written poems in national and international Anthologies. He is awarded with many national and international awards like ORDER OF SHAKESPEARE MEDAL, KAIRAT DUISSENOV MEDAL for Poetic Excellence from Motivational Strips, World Icon of Literature, Guardian Of World Literature Award Noble Peace Personality Award , Michael Madhusudan Award, Bibhutibhusan Memorial Award ,Muse-2020 Award, The HaVen International etc. His poetry is translated into Hindi, Russian Swedish,Bosnian Croatian Italian Spanish Albanian, Kyrgyzse and many other dozen languages. He is on the administration and acting as creative critical reviewer, Jury, Admin, Moderator of different International Literary Groups. His poems have been globally recognized and published in esteemed anthologies and literary magazines and journals like BHARATH VISION and others.
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Mo‘men Samir The Last Blind‘s Hymn To Salah Faeiq Walking in the dark I was robbed of one of my eyes An old woman I had to ask she said don‘t believe my looks they tell lies Since my memories denied me Refused to sleep with me I became a failed corpse My clouds wander aimlessly driven by destiny And fill the city 112
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
I hurried after its golden bird Bewitched by chasing it in vain The fire passing by my eyes awoke my pain I asked the sad cages and the fugitive sound I asked the disguised policemen in scents and ships around I asked my beloved that I left with my picture until she got used to My seduced smile and forgot my feature Everyone denied except my other eye, sighed and said twenty years ago, I conspired against my sister and 113
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handed her over to the forest…. Animals were weeping of isolation that the lake will be filled with pictures And we are devoured by loneliness.. Translated by :DR.Waleed Abdallah
Moumen Samir, is a poet who belongs to nineties Egyptian poetic generation. Born in 15/11/1975, he published twenty seven books. From his poetry books: the Ultimate Ecstasy 2002, The Joy of Dying 2003, The Blind Lane of Wars 2005, Deconstruction of Happiness 2009, Overlooking the Senses 2010, A Ghost Glimpse in afternoon 2013, The Nap of the Blind Woodman 2016 and No Bread, Nor Wine2017. 114
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Kamal Dhungana You never come back Thus the age has passed Waiting for you How many winters have passed, how many rains have gone How many came and how many went through the same path But you never came back The same path you took. The same old tree that I have lived with for ages Looks very old nowadays Maybe he is also looking for someone else's way. 116
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The ice in the mountains has melted and turned into a glacier But your mind never melted and became a river You remained the same stone of stone. You have always been tough That's why you never came back. In the crowd of these people today I am lost in the mist like a lost crow. He is wearing old power glasses. The feet have left the ground But these eyes never stop looking at you If you are somewhere in the world I wanted to meet and ask only one question Will the waiting end that day? The day I die waiting for you? Kamal Dhungana, Tikapur Kailali Nepal Email: kamaldhungana860@gmail.com I was born in India but I am a citizen of Nepal, I have studied up to Inter second year I have been writing poems for 5/6 years now. Apart from poetry, I also write ghazals & story . Some of my poems have been published from Vietnam, Bangladesh ,Serbia, Spain , India ,Egypt, Roman ,China , Pakistan , Mexico , Brazil ,Palestine , Croatia ,Montenegro, indonesia and Nepal. After some time now, I am bringing a collection of poems to the market .
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Dr Alka Singh The tethering rope so short Yes , the spirit is there And the sportive self still quivering and squirming too often along . Yes , there is pain there is flair too for feeling the pain fellow workmen , that partake , meadows still green across yet the tethering rope so short . 118
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Serenity questions Serenity questions getting inbound Several days –so roll and roll For behind the grove jeering tiger lilies in velvet , orchard stands . No move , no footprints that vast sphere brooding Sun‘s furious glare . 119
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A deadly slumber and a piercing charm Qualms many more Here and there . Human moves are all stalked No morning walks. The timid park - grinded shows Civic move in slumber shows . Virus so variant so vicious devouring civic ambitions.
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Dr Alka Singh: An academician , poet and essayist , for the cause of women ,culture, art and literature ,Dr Alka Singh is an Assistant Professor of English at Dr Ram Manohar Lohiya National Law University Lucknow. For her writings and expressions, Dr Alka Singh has 15 awards to her credit. Postmodernism (2008), Gender Roles in Postmodern World (2014), Postmodernism: Texts and Contexts (2014), Issues in Canadian Literature (2016), Women Empowerment (2018), Women: Issues of Exclusion and Inclusion (2018) and Women Society and Culture (2018) count her works in criticism, and Colours of Blood represent her poetry . She has contributed popular essays to National dailies ,and academic essays to different international knowledge volumes like Pop Culture in Asia and Oceania published from Santa Barbara, California: ABC Clio, Ideas and Movements that Shaped America: From the Bill of Rights to "Occupy Wall Street.Vol.1 Santa Barbara, California: ABC Clio, Encyclopedia of Human Services and Diversity, published from Thousand Oak: SAGE Publications, Encyclopedia of Native People of the World: Groups, Issues, and Controversies (3 vol.) published from New York: M.E. Sharp Inc. She has worked as an academic advisor to Contemporary Literary Criticism (CLC) Series of L. P. P. LLC Columbia, USA for writing on ‗U.R. Anantha Murthy, and to Twentieth Century Literary Criticism(TCLC) Series‘ for writing on A Doll‘s House by Henrik Ibsen. Her poems appear in dozens of anthologies .
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Krishnasankar Acharjee VALENTINE'S LOVE Frameless fairy patricia, as the water colour. In time Daisies and Daffodils its uncompare. Drawing loves in body as frame of the stars. Both part, but love remains rainbow-colours. All paints divide not shapes of the affection. Dart dream and unaltered state benediction. Our tidal night is very nice than astonishing. Goluptuous garden is graceful for the liking.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Into dim moonlight both souls soar for ever. To bring abundance the great door is upper. All together life times and the statue of love. Fancy, flow but women's imagination above. I am reliance, reverence and real assurance. Exacts, wish in my expectations admittance. Clear scent of truthful amours hurt the eyes. Upon the death woman's love, keeping tries. Incept the fame such as the heavenly queen. Born to blush a flash of flames to be unseen. 123
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Feelings for man's message, in the universe. Without support & shore attachment eagers. Timely, opportune chilli-air winks in summer. Delicate dreams dabbing me made a dancer. To grow from grave that Christs'-immolation. Valentine's love laminate, sinless veneration. KRISHNASANKAR ACHARJEE. COPYRIGHT@RESERVED
BIO DATA :- I am Krishnasankar Acharjee successful English teacher (India-Calcutta-Bengal ), is an international free lance writer, poet with several Global Awards. I am belonging to the selected member of World Union of Poets in Italy, World Icon of Peace and Ambassador in Spain ( ROMA -JOTABE ), World Laureate in English literature from World Parliament. I have been attended National and International Seminar over poetry in different places of the Globe and Many poems have been published in Journals and Anthologies. I acknowledged the prestigious International Award Honoured poet in the World.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Lenar Shayeh ONE OF YOU The soul and body mature; One is happy, one is bright. I harbour no grudge in my nature – As I was born with a kind heart. And let them be mean, or just liars, While trying on the reins of power. I find myself not taking in A drop of envy: or using dirt showers. I waste no useless words, I‘m calm and I‘m resourceful. 126
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But someone‘s ready to curse life, Uphill and down in full. Their guile is stiff to handle, Yet, whoever threatens me. I only wish them good in return, And trust that strong I‘ll be. …And so, at the high peak of being, I thought of it just here: I‘m a Tatar. I am a human being, And I‘m one of you!
I WARM THE WORLD WITH MY LOVE (Triptych) 1 Lamenting this cold captivity And not finding a sacred path, I spread my arms to the Sun for liberty – Or to a matchbox I have. Why then, on this hot summer day, Does my heart feel cold: I‘m shivering? Either love keeps away from me, Or I have chosen the curvaceous wrong path. Oh world, present me with your warmth and light. 127
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Pour them from the horn of abundance! I‘m searching for warmth, but there‘s nothing in sight. My head is dropping with weakness. 2 Breaking a cold, cold glass – My best day isn‘t yet lived through. I give away my warmth to the masses, To a world that cannot bestow it. It grows big in my soul – Take it – I‘m ready to give it! Don‘t fill your wallets with gold, Fill souls with affection and light! Oh humanity, there is a source in you, Of those things the world is groaning for: Just live, my birchen leaf and gleefully, Ignite these pieces of a longed-for heart! 3 Fly, my birchen leaf, flee, To meet with the warm summers dawn, And maybe you can lie at my feet, Debating with rains and storms. And he might lead you to the sun, Your dear timid escort… While the Sun lives – if you still don‘t know: Not in a matchbox, for sure. 128
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Oh, you‘ll never disappear, my leaf. I feel it… and I know it… So, you could be warmed up, While I warm the world with my love.
POETRY!.. So, let time whirl on a full run. I will be at the junction even in a snowstorm. Oh, Poetry, my destiny, my earthen realm, Let me just follow you everywhere! When all the world is captured by indifference, It will be warmed with my sincere dearness. Oh, Poetry, in the homeland of severe cold, I‘ll be your true and faithful consort. When valley flowers caress my eyes, When my heart is pierced by a birds‘ chorus, I‘m sure you will tell me nothing – hiding, That you are happy, Poetry, as I am! When yellow leaf perturbs my heart, I‘m joyous with my grief and clear mind. I‘m still a child, so full of hope, Oh, comfort me, please, Poetry, console!
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I LOVE!.. Snowfall out there; snow. I am flying to this snowiness glad, And delightfully catching the flakes of snow: Oh, I love, oh, I love, oh, I love!.. That snowfall in my soul; snow. The snowflakes are like pearls in a dance, I am dancing and spinning with snow, Oh, I love, oh, I love, oh, I love! This snowfall, oh, what snowfall! I am floating on snow in the air… And am so happy, I‘m molding from snow: Oh, I love, oh, I love, oh, I love!
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Lenar Shayeh (Lenar Shaekhov), a Tatar poet, children‘s writer, translator, publicist. Born on 4 October 1982 in the village of Taktalachuk of the Aktanyshsky District of the Republic of Tatarstan (Russia). Graduated from the Menzelinsk Pedagogical College, Department of Tatar Philology and History of Kazan State University, Post Graduate Programme. Chief Editor of the Tatarstan Book House. Author of twenty-six books published in Tatar, English, Russian, French, Kyrgyz, Bashkir languages. Member of Union of Writers of the Republic of Tatarstan and Tatar PEN-Center and PEN International, Union of Journalists of Tatarstan and Russia, as well as of International Federation of Journalists (IFJ), and Eurasian Creative Guild (London). Winner of the Musa Jalil Republic‘s Award, Abdulla Alish Literary Award (for achievements in children‘s literature), the Volga Region Literary Award ―NEWBOOK. Volga-2015‖, Eurasian International Award. Academician of International Public Academy of Poetry of Omor Sultanov of the Republic of Kyrgyzstan. Corresponding member of the Petrovskaya Academy of Sciences and Arts. Candidate of Philological Sciences. Honoured Artist of the Republic of Tatarstan.
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Mukhtar Muharrem The last words Still those words a burden on my lips I keep looking at my addressing to my attention while babbling Like I am a dawn chasen by darkness of night Like I am a child frightened from wolf and fled to the sheep. That passing wound in me quilts my confusion So I keep chasing the laughter in amusement jungle.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Looking to the past that keeps haunting my way My suspicions wonders: Was I what? What I have become? Same to my memories my steps are aging, but I still living for searching inside my soul of the God soul. Fleeing from the thirst of what held in the glasses to the weeping of the clouds, with my inability I bandage my prestige. I stand the last chapter's name in book of love As the wind, I go on in all directions. 133
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Mukhtar Muharrem: Yemeni Poet. Born in 23rd Jan 1977 He had published a numerous poertry collections, His works : - Long Distances Nostalgia 2012 at Sana'a Yemen - Noise On The Knock Of Silence 2014 at Sana'a Yemen - On The Verge Of a Dream 2017 at Cairo Egypt - Uninterpretable Blues Of Sorrow 2019 in KSA Editorial director at Aqlam Arabia Magazine since Oct 2016 till present day
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Zhanat Askerbekkyzy Poems 1 The wind blew around my door and cried forlornly. Unable to speak it turned about and headed back to the hill. It had lost its faith in men. So who now can bring relief, its fugitive song echoing across limitless sky, where I have tried to track its haphazard flight? 136
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My glory days were tinged with sorrow. I‘ve left them far behind. The wind's dirge is fading. We cannot sing that old refrain. The universe would feel for us, aware of what we hide. Disconsolate wind, what do you tell the wayward clouds about me?
2 You‘re in a place where I am not. That‘s where it‘s best you stay. I have turned my back on carefree days. A white fog surrounds me. It‘s like my own private domain. You are there where I am not. Why is it so? Why does doubt so often get the best of me? The Moon recites its poems about you, pursuing me through vacancy. Your voice is cheerful now I ‗m gone. ‗You know I‘m here‘ replies my sorrow. You‘ve found me in my shroud of fog, where the moon leads me astray. Stay there, safely, where I am not. 137
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Don‘t send my sorrows to me! No one asks about you here and no one answers. Even the universe holds its peace.
3 It‘s August and the dew is shining on the grass. The summer hastens away. It has no time to stop. Unable to focus on one I love, my thoughts have soured among my household chores. There‘s dew on the grass and autumn‘s approaching. Summer blames us for wasting its days. Leaving much behind, the Pleiades are rising, summer‘s breezes fade away. They‘ve had enough of us. Nostalgia brings its pointless sorrow – I know it‘s true, yet cannot shake it. I‘ve wrapped myself in feelings for you. I‘d like to be a poem you have learned by heart. The dew is lying on the grass ... have you noticed? It says that it‘s a sadness seeping from your heart. Will my ordeals and tearful moments dissolve like dewdrops in the wind? It‘s August and the dew is shining on the grass, 138
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The summer has passed it by. It had no time to stop. My longings gaze beyond the cliff top. I‘m worn down, weeping, absorbed in pointless tasks.
Aymukhambet Zhanat Askerbekkyzy Professor of the Kazakh Literature Department Contact details: E-mail: a_zhanat@mail..ru
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Berkinalieva Sagynbubu POEMS -1Let me sing, poets, let me sing, And let your applause sweetly roll. Today, flowers bloom in my heart – White lilies, the queens of the soul. For you, a garden‘s unfurled, And my lilies will cover the world. Butterflies of gorgeous hues are dancing here before my eyes, And as I write down every verse, it seems I am in paradise. I have become Happiness‘s choir.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Look at me, people, and admire! Applaud me, cheer me, and warmly praise me – Help my inspiration raise me. May in my words joy be revealed. Dear folks, let yourselves be healed!
-2Inspiration came from heaven Like a breath of magic to me. It quickly purged all my grief. 141
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It was a dove of liberty. I‘ve no patience now with passion, And continually being swept away. It just roared briefly then pounced, Like a lion from a rock on its prey. I‘ve been able to climb the heights. My homeland‘s the infinite sky. I‘ve found my pride in the clouds – I‘ll lie on a feather bed, I‘ve come through this metamorphosis, MY SOUL IS A WHITE BUTTERFLY
-3I am locked up for life, for life. My emotions are beaten, beaten. Time ticks away and I weep with shame I can no longer stop the brimming tears. Oh maiden Lyra, come to me, care for me. Those moments of pleasure are lost. I‘ve been looking for them everywhere. I‘d travel for an age to find them I‘d search the Universe. I wish I could be a shining star, Giving light to the black sky
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-4Life – it is eternal. But we all are mortal. I know in the end, my time will come to me. To earning a living, one shouldn‘t write pages And then more pages of feeble poetry. Swim freely in verses, kiss and caress with love. Enjoy the life expressed in every line. Even if people think I‘m spoiled and indulgent, Gossip will never hurt this heart of mine. It was always my fate to become a poet. Destiny dropped a pen in my hand. My enemies may thrust a knife in my side. But I‘ll only write truth, you must understand.
-5I‘m so cold, and no-one will warm me. I‘m hungry for kindness. My mood is black. No-one understands the secrets of my heart. Anyone who might, turns their back on me. Cold, cold people surround me. My hands and feet are shackled by routine. How I long for freedom! But I‘ve no power to be a hero. I‘m a woman who can‘t accept her destiny. How sad. Oh yes, I regret not being a man. If I were a man, I would take command. I‘m thirsty for freedom, like a chick thirsts for water. 143
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All I ask for my words is security. Oh god, if I were a man I would blaze like a fire! I‘d be dagger-sharp in my pride If I had to love a beautiful girl. If I were a man. I can hide my troubles but I cannot hide my heart I long to laugh. To soar like a winged horse. But there is a dead end. A deafening silence. No-one will see my secret. I cannot breathe. One day, I‘ll pour out my heart at last. I‘ll admit you into my secret. My heart will open wide And you‘ll see the bitter truth. Translated by Altynai Toktomatova, Edited by John Farndon (UK)
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Poetess – Berkinalieva Sagynbubu Abdusamatovna (Kyrgyz Republic) Member of the National Writers‘ Union of Kyrgyzstan, member of Eurasian Creative Guild, member of the Writers' Union of North America (German department). Published works: 1) «Sheet covered with the dust» (Publishing house «Biyiktik» – 2014). 2) «Girl dancing in the sky» (Publishing house «Great mountains» – 2019). In 2016 she took part in the competition for young poets and won the Audience Award. Diploma winner for active participation in the competition of young poets «Mekenge taazim» and «Besh Akin» in 2017. Diploma winner of the Festival of Eurasian Week of Culture, which was held in Great Britain (London). In 2019, she had participated in an International Competition of Eurasian Creative Guild in Belgium (Brussels). She won the first place in the nomination of poetry and was awarded the «Lyre» medal for the best female lyrics. In 2019, she was awarded «The Best Poet of the Year» in Kyrgyzstan.
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Oral Arukenova QUARANTINE POEMS secretly I walk to the park to see how the crooked apricot has become a living cloud of light aroma wind secretly I walk to breathe the blossoming of apple of cherry slightly bitter secretly listen to the river‘s current – the ceaseless quarrel of bacteria with the flow of springtime tropes secretly 146
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
to speak freely with myself – ordinary hereditary fear to see, to breathe, to listen to speak freely in my way. Only the dog walkers will survive zhanna‘s gonna crash kurban‘s gonna snap anel‘s got a bruise that fits right under her mask in the grocery a girl in a cap asks them to keep their distance a man in a threadbare mask mutters meanly presses forward 147
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a woman in a hijab they step aside for her toddler screaming sputtering cashier girl in a protective shield trembling slightly counts the coins every night she faintly senses a ring and rustling past her door like someone dropped their change and is picking it up – the pennies clink the nickels clink like they stumbled and scattered their change – sweeping it back into piles relentlessly rustling sighing past her door zhanna‘s gonna crash kurban‘s gonna snap anel‘s got a bruise that fits right under her mask zulya has not stepped outside even once this month several times every day she sterilizes her hands her shoes mobile phone credit cards when the doorbell rings she speaks all nerves over the intercom with the courier her groceries are packed up in plastic the bag was disinfected 148
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as it should be the guy talks freely, used to this can you just go over it again with sanitizer yeah no problem but change your gloves please yeah no problem and leave my things by the door no not that close a little farther i‘ll transfer the money online zhanna‘s gonna crash kurban‘s gonna snap anel‘s got a bruise that fits right under her mask galima translates day and night articles and summaries theses dissertations from russian to kazakh to english to german or vice versa she edits these writings nothing has changed but there are more authors and they pay an advance then for hours they mess with your brain she puts dialogues with some of them in the umpteenth volume 149
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of her novel that nobody will ever read about seven ways the relationship develops with the man of her dreams zhanna‘s gonna crash kurban‘s gonna snap anel‘s got a bruise that fits right under her mask dosan applies for his 42,500 for the fifth time at dawn everyone‘s sleeping and e-gov is empty as self-employed an entrepreneur unemployed fired working remotely on insta they write some people got their payments it takes five times he runs away early to the park at twenty past eight they hose the place down at half past eight a whistle disperses the homeless pensioners athletes and health nuts 150
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assorted freaks from the yesentai banks people straggle away downtown uptown along city arterials hungrily inhaling the mountains‘ morning call to their houses apartments basements and lairs along the alleyways and the parkways envying the dogs and their walkers zhanna‘s gonna crash kurban‘s gonna snap anel‘s got a bruise that fits right under her mask Translated by Shelley Fairweather-Vega Oral Arukenova: Poet, writer, Kazakhstan
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Duisenali Alimakyn The sun and moon The sun asked, «Where‘s the moon's house? » The moon asked, «Where‘s the sun's rays? » The sun asked, «Who will sing the song of freedom? » The moon asked, « What is higher than mountain, than pure dignity? » The sun asked, « Does innocent hearts burn in the fire?» The moon asked, « Will the sun shine after the storm? » I couldn‘t answer the questions of the sun. I couldn‘t answer the questions of the moon.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
I can teach them poems and songs. I can tell them what I saw and What I learned along the way. I can try to tell them what is precious. Yes, what is precious? I ought to know that. And you? They say I am the youngest poet on the Earth. There is a great question in my heart What is precious? This Earth is ours 153
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This garden we must tend. These people we love.
Freedom Bird This is a poem that came to me from the Stone Age Era Known it the heavens and the Earth, the seas. This is a poem that came to me from the sounds Of the liberty song of freedom Known it heroes who holding golden color spears And the hoof horses. So, the sky and the earth also constantly sing And the birds. That song is called ―Heartfelt‖. That bird's name is Freedom.
When I left my homeland The mountains hugged me； The roads made me go for a long trip The rivers hurry to the west Old mum waved with tears… My mother stood up and did not say anything, The steppe symphony revived in my ears, The Dombra* sound heard from the Neighboring house… The black dog smelled my leg； And the black horse tied on the sill. While lightning made a game on the sky, And dreams waved hands from a distance 154
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Song for steppe written in my heart When I left my homeland. *** If not you, who? If not now, when? If not day, year? If not here, where? If not rain, what? If not way, rock. If not flower, thorn If not fair, lie. If not morning, night If not dark, light. If not hate, like If not death, life. If not sky, earth If not winter, autumn If not birds, clouds If not theater, prison. *** We will meet That will happen That might happen. I will send you my heart-letters I will have you thousands of kisses. That will happen That might happen. I will give you a present that is made of clouds I will write your name on my soul. That will happen That might happen. 155
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*** The world is living in dark days Black flowers full of streets are sad. Black horse flying on my horizon Owner is my soul and heart. The voice of my heart – World`s breath That voice came to night sky. Black flowers hair of centuries footsteps Black horse is – dancing shadow. That shadow was on that side of my window.
GIVE ME A THOUSAND KISSES I'm jealous without a cause, But that is my heart's wish. My handgrip brings A lot of scented roses Honey, give me a thousand kisses. If you give me a thousand kisses It would be a glowing to my darkening world. Have you felt that my tears Are my life's juices? Because you've tightened my hand holding Even more. Your shining world My one and only image As the master hand shooting at us Your voice became my heart's hymn. My soul‘s song to forever more. 156
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MISSING YOU IS MY DESTINY She came back to say goodbye The soul of spring, in the heart of winter. Accompanied by a dirt road, I went along with nostalgia. World damaged, Moderated by a skinny soul. Only one hope left, Accompanied by a poem. Grief set on fire, Burned everyone left away from home. I took the next truck The fate of going along. *** I call the mornings, "The consolation" As they bring long days. Losing the dream, It's nostalgia imprisoned. Are those truthful things A tribute of stone to embrace my city? The poem is a silver smile, A heart quake in shuddered structure. Passion doesn't matter, When one night is pretending to be A whole month. Depth is a black eye sea When a star falls. 157
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Please, don't say That I can't go too far. I'm flying off your shiny sky. But never mind, I won't fall apart.
Duisenali Alimakyn, born in 1989, a poet, translator. Author of the poem collection «The November Birds song».
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Metin Fındıkçı Forgetable We had started with forgotten shadows But loves don‘t remain as they are, that if you open The window on the backyard side Neither the cat nor the child, even if you call From a nearby ruin We‘ve forgotten within the forgotten shadows On the mattress that we sat legs crossed We dwindle away as far as we look into time Opening to yard all day long.
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Forgotten within the forgotten yard Muddy flowers, beak of the birds Bloody eyed pomegranate and me In an ancient city I don‘t tidy up your forgotten nudity From my kid bed anymore Are you there? From the ruin standing within me, Wish you call once again..
Last Word We‘ve come from the sound of smashed roses We‘ve come from the remains of the frozen photos names known to us We‘ve come from the remained faces from a time fable which we carry in our hearts We‘ve come from stars back out of us, from blooming snowdrops we‘ve come.
The Bell Turban and Fishes The bell rings blow In the mouth of the dry veined orange They fall the green turbans Turban‘s hands are up in the air. 161
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- Hands down, it waits for your help only Fishes flow in the sea Clear and bare
March 84
In Memorium of An Old Used Death Rosebay flavor left I don‘t know from which love it‘s remained You have taken the water which I wash my face You sowed those wild weed They strangle the rose in my heart. While can‘t get wind of wind in sweat Sea left its last drop In the front of the wall, It has got pale What it used to mean in the poem That; has to be looked up again Translated by Tuğrul Asi Balkar & O. Nuri Peşkircioğlu
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The Poet Metin Findikçi : He was born in 1961 in Mardin, Turkey. After he finished his middle school his family went to Ankara and there he got his high school diploma. He worked as an employee then as a translator in a company. He got early retirement for the sake of poetry and translations. Now he lives in Istanbul.
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Masudul Hoq The door Because I lost you On the first lunar line of the month of Shawwal Search the moon very well You are the full entity in our separation And I I start new one from imperfect water droplets In your worship, My free heart and self-awareness stays awaken ...
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
After remembering you When everyone will be enjoying in the light of the festival, Then I will touch the door of your closed chapel with my hand. By reading my destiny, written in the palm of my hand, May make you mercy on me again I'm tired of people's fake love!
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Masudul Hoq(1968) has a PhD in Aesthetics under Professor Hayat Mamud at Jahangirnagar University,Dhaka,Bangladesh. He is a contemporary Bengali poet,short story writer,translator and researcher. His previous published work includes short stories Tamakbari(1999), The poems Dhonimoy Palok(2000) , Dhadhashil Chaya which translated version is Shadow of Illusion(2005) and Jonmandher Swapna which translated version is Blind Man‘s Dream (2010),translated by Kelly J. Copeland. Masudul Hoq also translated T.S. Eliot‘s poem , Four Quartets(2012), Allen Ginsburg‘s poem, Howl(2018), from English to Bengali. In the late 1990‘s for 3 years he worked under a research fellowship at The Bangla Academy. Bangla Academy has published his two research books. His poems have been published in Chinese, Romanian ,Mandarin, Azarbaijanese, Italian,Russian ,Turkish, Nepali and Spanish languages. At present he is a Professor of Philosophy in a government college, Bangladesh.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Prasanna Kkumar I strolled across the times 1. I strolled across the times, the ages that left no mark of traces, Walked back and forth in order to collect pieces of moments, alas! The days were gone and the days that are left , yield, no result to my strife, I asked breeze and waves in dusky dalliance, whether, still, any footprints left in the sand of my beloved, 168
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I was retorted by saying " my friend there nothing ever remains in this ephemeral realms" Neither " you" Nor "we" Everything just becomes an erasable source. ©Prasanna Kkumar Prasanna Kkumar is a published poet and author of over 1000 macro and micro poems, he acquired Masters in Commerce from Andhra University of India, having concern of issues troubling the society he turned towards same by choosing to work in the social field, having had a registered trust, he delivers service to the needy. Having closely associated with people of different strata, it naturally nudged him from within to hold the pen and to write that touches upon facets of life, an avid lover of nature his pen innately rolls on paper with ryme and rythm of his unique style. with almost six anthologies to his credit where he featured among other writers, he also got international appreciation and recognition from several poetry groups around the world and also being moderatorr to some of which, he constantly try to encourage other poets and contributing his best in the literary stance. he was always awarded as best poet of day/week/month for several times and also received certificate of honour for rendering his hand in writing Testimonials: 1. Diploma Di Merito - France 2. Honorary Ambassador of Vision - Science Fiction Centre Macedonia 3.Certificate of Appreciation (expressit magazine) - Nigeria 4. Member of International forum for creativity and humanity Morocco Anthology: 1. Dream Catchers anthologies - 2.Beautfiul minds Poesis 2. Raindrops - 3.Namastey Ink 4. Wildfire publications 5. Spalash 6. Illusive hearts 7. Love in spring 8. Love is 9. Motherly Hug 10. Voices from the society 169
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Mohamed Ghabriss Light is another darkness of a lost light For centuries, we have been dragging our feet behind the dark We sleep on its worried tunes And we wake up to the beating of its drums It happened once that we took a step towards the light Light is another darkness of a lost light Darkness is born with us It lives in the homes of our memories and never leaves our photos It hides our wrecks and leaves not a single clue of the truth Darkness penetrates deep into us 170
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
We don't care about it As it lies in our roads and we do not see it Building its nests build on the branches of our dreams Closing windows to consciousness To assassinate every vision from which the light flows Religion without a reason is a sprawling darkness Religious people are kept in the transportation prisons Full of a darkness they think it is the sun From left to right Darkness takes different forms Darkness feeds on the algae of ignorance And breathe in backward smoke Sectarian is the darkness of a long night 171
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It houses bad guys under its cloak So that the light does not burn them Racism, is a darkness of another night The miscreants fall into its arms To plant a thorn in the neck of the day War is a darkness killing the light in the eye of love And cutting off the road to life Opacity is a syndrome of vulnerable Rising out for them from the pools of despair Catching them from all sides A rebellious darkness A blazing darkness Called the Arabian life Between darkness and darkness Our dream car is stuck The shelters could no longer accommodate those fleeing from the face of darkness I saw people in the funeral of future to its enlightened rest in the darkness of reality Optimism is a luminous piece of darkness Ink is darkness by which we discover the light of words The darkness in our country does not give its back to light Books turned dim as the reading light was refracted The alienation is dark, but it is less dark than the day in our homelands 172
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Prisons are darkness. Of their bars, free people make a bridge to cross into the day of freedom Only the blind drenched in darkness knows the meaning of light The man who can see sleeps with darkness in the sight of the day
The Arab people inherit the darkness and do not waste part of their heritage The day comes in the form of a ring that the night puts on a finger If the darkness is made of glass, then the light is a sharper stone than the wind Thee, who is afraid of light Lives in the dark, forever. "
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Mohamed Ghabriss, poet and journalist from Lebanon. He holds a Bachelor's degree in (written journalism and news agencies) Lebanese University - Faculty of Mass Communication. Editorial Secretary of "Sharjah Cultural" magazine – Sharjah, Department of Culture / 2016-2018, Editor- "Dubai Cultural" magazine - Dar Al-Sada Press, 2003 - 2016. He has been awarded by many shields and certificates of appreciation. He participated in the Prince of Poets program, in its fourth edition, 2011, and reached the final nominations. Books by Mohamed Ghabriss : • "The Pulse of the Chrysanthemum" - Poetry / Dar Al-Hiwar 2010. • ―Pots of Lights‖ - Poetry / Poetry Academy in Abu Dhabi in 2013. • ―Staring at her Darkness‖ - Poetry / Dar Canaan 2015. • ―The industrious prophet and the sound of the authentic minaret, O my father‖ - Poetry / Dar Al-Adham, 2019 • Mohammed bin Rashid as seen by Emirates - Press interviews Dar Al Sada" 2009. • ―Close to them… How does the Emirati creator view the cultural scene‖ - Interviews by the press / Sharjah Department of Culture 2012. • ―The Emirati-Moroccan Investment Attaché‖ - Dar ―Al-Sada‖ 2011. • ―The Fist of Fire: The Role of Intellectuals in Confronting Terrorism‖ - The Egyptian General Book Authority - 2017.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Mohammad Al-Domaini Speech‘s Cold Blood These are not our words, long did they stay awake, then they slept, shaking, on the bars and look! there they are pulled down, since the morning, to clear the guards‘ road. We brought fire from the tombs of the dead, our fingers were burnt, and it failed to ripen our pots that were stained with drowsiness. They were not just chattering, as a brave man argues with a prostitute who is swallowing the night. 176
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
They were dedicated to fencing on the heights, where there are neither daggers nor noise, and where deep grudges are waiting and can reward the victorious with its cold blood. What are we leaving for mothers who threw us on the roads‘ stones so that we grow as solid? Much was the blood that we split in a hurry 177
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in front of these poisoned souls and heavy were the bequests that dried on the forefathers‘ boxes and got twisted on tongues. I did not create enough words to fit my morning scowling in the mirror, some of those I gathered with my father‘s slingshot, others came down with overflowing imaginings on the roof of my home then trickled down mixed with the hoopoes sounds separating the farms. I never forgot its metal pain as it dropped from my eyes like a disturbing record surrounded by the night. Even memory cannot be implanted. We protect what has remained of it so that it becomes heart. No, it is not the right way, not the one we have followed deprived of heart, and the words we have stored are leaking out through the cracks of sleep. This is our fair share of the wind.
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Mohammad Al-Domaini was born in Saudi Arabia. The poet holds a college degree in library science. He worked as the editor-in-chief of two prominent cultural magazines: ―Al-Qafilah‖ and ―Dareen‖. He has published three collections of poetry. Some of his poems have been translated into English, French and German.
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Parthita Dutta I WILL FIGHT TILL THE END When the whole house turn off, blanketed in peace With the gravity of darkness, I count my heartbeat A buzzy whisper in my ear, ―wake up, crusader!‖ The souls who brought freedom, awaken within me Therein with a turner as my sword, my shield a cauldron I‘m ready to fight the battle of Armageddon. Many grievances, inundated, blocking heart-chamber The sparrow community had a roadshow with a slogan For shelter and food crisis, they sternly indicted me In many forums, I raised voice, quieted by mighty decree From beggary and tyranny how will the earth be free? But an avenger yet a dove heart must fight as a crusader 180
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Thus with a turner as my sword, my shield a cauldron I‘m ready to fight the battle of Armageddon. Despots rend the soul, hunting for the smallest particle Divides country, community, religion,…., quark, photon The progression is glass building and smoke inhalation Succumbed in intoxication, addiction, mental inertia Every cell is a genetic defect, opinions, no salvation Yet with a turner as my sword, my shield a cauldron I‘m ready to fight the battle of Armageddon. Disparity, division, deceit, developing despondency Vortex of depression rising tall, hijacked humanity 181
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Unfiltered information caters to chaos in the chaotic universe Wrong and right is but a cockfight of perception Where is that human soul, god sculpted once? A thousand souls thumping, make me tempestuous Thus with a turner as my sword, my shield a cauldron I‘m ready to fight the battle of Armageddon. Copyright—Parthita Dutta ©©
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Parthita Dutta, an Indian citizen, born in Kolkata. She has done graduation in computer science and engineering(B.Tech). Currently living in Poland. She is a passionate and aspiring writer in two languages, English and Bengali. She has keen interest in physics, metaphysics, Indian scriptures and literature. She intends to write all genres of poetry. Through her poetry she wants to spread love, humanity and spirituality.
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Rakesh Chandra Shadows of the Past Why the shadows of the past, Always wearing an apron dark, Run parallel to my body in motion, Reminding me of the moments, grim and stark? Sometimes these lengthening shadows overtake My moving body in the triumphal bid, Only to proclaim the pyrrhic victory Of the forces evil over the spirit of Goodness and to bruise a noble heart;
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Why the shadows of the past never Leave me alone and push me out Of my brief reverie? being human, I do have some footprints of grey On the shifting sands of time, yet I'm fighting with my weaker self, and For changing hues, I'm still in the fray; The shadows of the past have carved a Niche into the safe enclosures of my heart; I know that I have to live with It, be the life's taste sweet or tart. Copyright@Rakesh Chandra. 185
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Mr Rakesh Chandra is a former civil servant. He has got two collection of English poems Titled "Moon is Black", ―Cercle of Life‖ also one collection of Hindi Poems Titled ―Mere Shahar Me‖ and a book on Rekha Chitra Titled ―Be Chehre Wale Log‖. His English poems have found place in different Anthologies, Poetry Journals and News Papers‘ literary supplements. He also has authored three books on Law. Namely ―Globalization, Environmental Protection & Social Justice: A Study in Indian Legal Framework‖, ―Right to Privacy in India with Reference to Information Technology Era‖, ―Environmental degradation, water management and climate justice: A Study In Indian Legal Perspective‖. and currently pursuing his Ph.D in Law from Lucknow University.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Rezauddin Stalin Binoculars Returns to helpless childhood as a horserider of memories When everything was worthy Peanut chocolate ice cream Till today the parakeet bought at the fair Comes and sits on the shoulder The lips are red as before Hot jelebi pulls tongue Keeps it long With a laugh Papad breaks in my palm Binoculars bought with a little savings Look around in ecstasy 188
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And with the magic of the jinns How amazing everything becomes big Man- nature Everything exists on the continent of memory The moon still goes to sleep In my pocket The sun rises late in the west Even today, newspaper headlines are tied to a hook wireless binoculars of Jessolin are printed in new stars But I‘m looking for what I bought in my teenage years That‘s the infallible telescope once again I will see everything big Man and nature
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Rezauddin Stalin is a well-known poet in Bangladesh and beyond and is born on 22nd November 1962 in Jessore, Bangladesh. He has done his Bachelor's degree in Economics and MA in Political Science from Dhaka University. He is the former Deputy Director of Nazrul Institute where he was employed for 35 years. Stalin‘s poems got translated in most languages in the world and he is also a well-known TV anchor and media personality in Bangladesh. Stalin is the founder and chairman of the Performing Art Center and is also the senior editor of Magic Lonthon - a literary organization. Rezauddin Stalin‘s total number of books are more than 100 now and his Wikipedia link is: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rezauddin_Stalin He has received many awards and some accolades are: Darjeeling Natto Chokhro Award India (1985), Bangla Academy (2006), Micheal Modhushudhan Dutta Award (2009), Shobho Shachi Award West Bengal (2011), Torongo of California Award USA(2012), Writers club Award California USA (2012), Badam Cultural Award California USA (2012), City Ananda Alo Award(2015), West Bengal, India, Centre Stage Barashat Award (2018), Journalist Association Award UK (2018) and Silk Road Poet Laureate Award Xi‘an China (2020).
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Saleem Raza Jakhar Placid Pain" You dripped me deep into this dark grave O' my Breathe, you've doth revenge. This pain can't bore by me, i'm brave To face, all these heckles, yet cognate All my life pass in thy castigate Caitiff callous before thee like cigarette This is the biggest massacre for me Bravo bravo!! You exclaimed with clement For a single moment, when your ever left Lithe to conjoin the fullest of mine, i felt 192
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Little grudge without canon for serene Though iam miffed for morbidity Life doth puzzled in the oblivion of squander I want to negate, placid out of woe 'Tis little fun, wheedle by wag, bravo! Jeopardized by integrity, yet voluptuary. Saleem Raza Jakhar(Amar Shaw) Khairpur Sindh
Saleem Raza S/O Muhammad Safar Jakhar. Born in Khairpur Sindh Pakistan on March 16, 1995. Interested in writing poetry since childhood got various poetic certificates on facebook for poetry contest in different groups. Did BS in English Literature. My pen name is Amar Shaw Saleem.
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Sherzod Artikov I like the autumn 1. I like the autumn I like the golden look of it I like the smell of the leaves The cold rains with a sour taste And thick mists with a sad sigh. Now it is springtime outside It rustles as if dancing A soft wind blows from the south Passers pass with a smile on their faces The abricos tree is blooming madly. 194
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
I sit in front of the window like this: From morning till evening serenely With a cough on my throat With a pain in my stomach With a cup of hot coffee And a book by Garsia Marquez in my hands. Sometimes I glance longingly To nature, to people, to everyone And mutter ― oh, where are you my autumn?‖ But instead of answer The cheerful spring again Makes a rustling noise there.
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2. I live without principle Without any instructions whatsoever Without goddamn idols Without authorities like God. My life is so simple: I get up in the early morning Run for losing the weight Taking up boxing in the yard With an uncomfortably hanging bag. Then I dress reluctantly before breakfast And in it I drink hot tea or coffee Enjoying it fleetingly by closing eyes. Then with an old-fashioned diplomat I rush off to a bloody job That tires me out That poisons my soul That makes me a painful puppet. Also in evening without any change Do like what I did in the morning Run for losing the weight Taking up boxing in the yard And do not forget about tea or coffee. The same… Only one change Before going to bed I reluctantly get undress instead of dressing.
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Sherzod Artikov was born in 1985 year in Marghilan city of Uzbekistan. He graduated from Ferghana Polytechnic institute in 2005 year. His works are more often published in the republican inside presses. He mainly writes stories and essays. His first book ― The Autumn‘s symphony‖was published in 2020 year. He is one of the winners of the national literary contest ―My Pearl region‖ in the direction of prose. He was published in such Russian and Ukraine network magazines as ―Camerton‖, ―Topos‖, ―Autograph‖. Besides, his stories were published in the literary magazines and websites of Kazahstan , USA, Serbia, Montenegro, Turkey, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Egypt, Slovenia, Germany, Greece, China, Peru, Saudi Arabia, Mexico, Argentine, Spain, Italy, Bolivia, Costa Rica, Romania, India, Poland, Guatemala, Israel, Belgium Indonezia , Iraq, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Albania, Colombia and Nicaragua.
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Sujit Mukherjee MEET ME IN MY VERSE We both live together in our soul In love and in loss We are both far yet close We are united yet separated I weave my longing for you In my verse I conceal your beauty Within the wefts of my soul My night dies in the memory of you My days live in waiting for you I go back to my verse to find you Please meet me in my verse ... 198
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt Sujit Mukherjee is a poet, author, photographer and culinary expert. He has authored 7 nonfiction books and 27 books of poetry. His poetry is translated in Greek, Portuguese, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, Mandarin, Hindi and Bengali. He is member of International Writers Association (USA). Twice he received best poet of the year award in India. He is the world President for the global organization of poets POETAS DEL MUNDO which has 9000 poet members from 107 countries. Skm567@gmail.com New Delhi , India
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Abdullah Al Samati Shortly after the, morning Shortly after the morning Near a neglected sun I wrote the notebook of existence with two fingers And I went alone Spill out like a branch in the inkwell of the heart. Heavens were too low Two clouds spoil me I'm the sidewalk lover I only have two steps To get to the spring 200
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
The most popular beloved women Here they swim in the trenches Restore my senses, desert To bet at the backs of trees I will banish this annoying thunder I do not tolerate any natural phenomenon in the world Being busy in explaining the lips of sweetheart For a passing rose With a wise kiss
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Abdullah Al-Samati: A poet and literary critic from Egypt. He has published 38 books on poetry and literary criticism. Of his poetry volumes: The Space of Lamentations / Video Clip of the Leader / The Beautiful Women Do Not Do This. He has been working in cultural journalism. He has also worked on developing the classic vertical poem by changing its phases and the way of its poetic formulations.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Sungrye Han 10 Poems The meridian line It is made up of everyday life and unnecessary things that can be exchanged at any time, so it has always become a habit of speaking from the conclusion. The meridian is a changeable criterion, which meridian is used as? If Greenwich Observatory is the standard, Eurasia is the east, if the U.S. is the west, if the New Zealand and Bering Sea Zhao are the standard, Eurasia is the west, and the U.S. is the east, only one line. 204
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It is not our will to manage the place. It is only tapping the present. imaginary lines passing through the South and the North Poles the numerous lines within us Whether the Earth is cut to the south or the north, or the universe to the left and right, it is a world of semicircle anyway. Our water bottles are always only half full. Your body, a water tank that circulates through your body. I imagine water rolling in half in a barrel. Suddenly, I want to shine the delight like fresh water on the bright sun. The hot boiling water, its transparent will swirl at the boiling point. A vertical flash of light strikes the eye. Survivors are betrayed and endure their daily lives. Every single new routine disappears one by one every time you call it by one. Everyone walks forward. It looks fixed, but it rotates on its own. Walk around and find an exchangeable moment. It faces from east to west, but sometimes the sun strikes from west to east. There are times when the dazzling light is poured out at once. a house flowing with blood a shrieking house at night The whole body was filled with grief. Just press it and the water leaks out. 205
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a house that sheds tears just by holding hands Sometimes they struggle and make a cracking sound. There are times when I urinate a little. On rainy days, there's mud everywhere. Sometimes the blood flows backward, giving off a disgusting smell. Each of the cells was engraved with a coagulated pattern. To survive is to carve a pattern out of shame. I've shed tears at the tear gas on the campus, It was once a wonderful life. Hanok where the chairman of the board of directors lived The house is now a professor's lab. Dust comes together to create all kinds of light. The light makes a rusty ice wall. A bone of sharp ice breaks its wings. a house waiting to die with a curved back. Nobody shines on me now. Looking for upside-down characters. Someday I'll find a way out. It will be broken with majesty. a dying being But I'm not getting old. It's bleeding. The cat comes back and she's pregnant. 206
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have another season with a little bit of a little bit The house that burns the last of its passions, Tears were the only monument.
Thorn with great acceleration of joy the great sorrow assigned to one a thorn deep in one's heart It is a relic of life. a small pot full unfulfilled White bone fragments and powder. It's melted. the relics of life embedded in one's heart a sore thorn The wind will take him. Forgetfulness will take you.
Poinsettia Poinsettia red leaves The murky pitol of your heart. It's not because I ignored life. You don't love yourself. 207
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I've picked up all my life. I don't know if it's a leaf or a flower. a mixed red tongue with countless leaves hanging bent over one's waist. close to the window frame under a heavy load on one's shoulders It's like seeing a complicated life. I can't wait to put my heart down. standing in the wind with a gorgeous body When I stare at you, Rather than a self-destructive process, You know, pushing your back off the cliff? As I say, it's the biggest advice. The red leaves drop like blood. The leaves are flowers. You who stand in deceiving yourself a helpless shake of hair Hold on to your slim waist. It was all for nothing. It was for nothing. as it should be Let's smile. Let's laugh. a myriad of flesh flapping on the floor
Maternal inheritance 1100 light-years supernova has exploded today. I'm sure you remember seeing landscapes and things. 208
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Don't you have a sudden head start to blank out? At the end of the evolutionary journey, It's either a white dwarf shining with the remaining heat. Exploded in the final stage of star evolution. He glistened for a moment. with the remains of it, enduring for hundreds of years. Like a supernova in the night sky with a vanishing point. He's at the end of his rope. He's barely alive. like a gisaeng projection. a faint memory of the maternal inheritance a maternal habit Earth, the mother of the Earth, sometimes gets angry. It's a massive earthquake, it's cutting through the ground. It makes the sea run wild. Maybe he's punishing the ones he raised in his arms. The fetus lived on the scent of the sheep in its womb. The moment you open the door, I forget the memory of the room. We all have a regression instinct. There are places where you can't go back. 1100 light-years supernova has exploded today.
Incidental colors The life of the Earth is now about 4.6 billion years away. Even if we calculate the strength of the Earth's magnetic field, we are growing old like humans. Depending on the contraction of the Sun, the 209
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diameter and light speed are decreasing, and it is said that it is difficult to go over 10,000 years. Assuming that the Earth is about 5 billion years old and 100 years old, the Earth had a rock about 15 years ago, the dinosaur world was born three years ago, the upright man was born three weeks ago, the ice age was two hours ago, and the average human life expectancy was one minute.
in that one minute What will you and I do? Even if that one minute is given back, Just like the habits of the brain. The law of inertia that remains in the afterimage. to live you and me The transformed caterpillar turns into a moth. I've just passed the day since I've lived my entire day. The sun is not yesterday's. I once considered desire passionate. The habitual factors are swimming in the bloodstream. A minute ticks and ticks in it. Voice is not the only thing that doesn't change.
Wild Horse Reserve Wild horses stare at the distant sky all day long in the wild horse sanctuary in Hustainur, Mongolia. He seems to have just popped out of prehistoric cave paintings with 210
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a legend. Living fossils. Big bodies, black, shiny fur, exceptionally long legs, those who hate other people's hands to death, the living fossil's name is Taki, so-called Prochevalski, stands still in the sandstorm, refusing to be protected. Please don't let anyone in my life! The eyes full of the original blue sky seem to tell that. If you ride a human being, you can't stand the strange smell of it. The Mongolian wild horse, which shudders at the touch of another world and bites its own young, is free in its genes that have been around for tens of thousands of years! Only the factor of freedom is engraved. No matter how much I like it, this wild horse never approaches me first, but it has a silent relationship with the wildflowers of the grassland or the wolves of the desert that often come to play and dreams of dream on a starry night. The sky is filled with snow, so it usually seems to be dreaming, but when the sandstorm hits the whole body coldly, it disciplines the mind with an immovable asceticism and puts fire in the chest.
Submersible bridge and tuna Crossing the submersible bridge, snowflaking bridges. a tuna just going back. 211
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in the snow I think I saw him show up and disappear. a never-ending swim of fate If you stop running, you can't breathe in oxygen. an end of life a motion of flapping fins behind one's back It's like you've been swimming through the rough waves. Behind that vibrant background, The submersible bridge under the snow has disappeared. They say this is the most dangerous way when it's slippery. He runs down the uphill road with acceleration. You were talking to me while I was driving. The poet couldn't drink oxygen before the year was over. I stopped on my way. with a wagging tail like a habit Sometimes destiny is driving. I'll shout it out. I don't have a sequel. Our life without end My life a hot fin The day you have to swim I'll bury a fireball deep in my heart. Don't burn to the bone. 212
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boundless Your life, my life.
Copernican star I want to know Byul. I earned bread by giving stars to the nobles. To buy a better telescope, To steal a glimpse of another star. Sometimes I compromised with heaven. as much as the time has been My beloved stars are getting bigger and bigger. If you look up into the endless night sky, as dizzy as the scent of a spiny flower. The stars poured down into my heart. The last time I saw that star, This time, it's this star. round and round Comet Revisiting after 4,200 years Love with him a wrong meeting Even if they're all coming back late, You come a long way with a limp I'll give you a hot hand. all alone in the dust The Zombie Star Falling into the Abyss I don't think anyone's gonna remember. 213
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on one's last companion I'll give you a little coat. It's pouring down. With the meteor shower dreaming of a beautiful end, a warm chest-to-heart meeting looking up into the sky higher and higher eye-to-eye stars To another place of residence. I'm going to score stars again today. *Nicolaus Copernicus (1473-1543): Polish astronomer. He denied the theory of thunder and insisted on the theory of Ji Dong. This revolution of the universe and worldview is called the Copernican Revolution.
76 POWs After the end of the Korean War, a stake was placed in the 38th parallel. Choose a third country, not South Korea or North Korea. scattered about You guys Even the map of the Korean Peninsula in my head. I'm gonna erase it. Choose a more unfamiliar, more distant country. a gaze upon the land of one's last homeland. a fluffy blush. The dry shoulders on the boat. I wonder if he was shaking. 214
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One person in the black and white picture gets on deck. I'm staring at this side with my eyes wide open. scattered like the seeds of dandelions from country to country. I took root, but... So far your war is not over. In the currently stationary screen of the form, I'm still getting bullets. Fluttering through the valley. Eat even if you're not hungry. Don't be thirsty. Ideology is lighter than instant. You in the picture have one's eyes pierced somewhere in the world the South Korea and the North Korea and the Third Reich Divide the way in three. Soldiers from other countries simply lined up. On your way out that day, you'll be able to... one's hometown in the back of one's home Your sister's fingernails were dyed red. as if by picking off the petals of a bud Take the red sun off one by one. dumped in the sea *Korean War: Ideological war between South Korean compatriots broke out on June 25, 1950, when North Korean troops made a 215
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surprise invasion south of the 38th parallel north. On July 27, 1953, a cease-fire was established on the 38th parallel north, and the truce is still ongoing, and the parents and brothers of South and North Korea have not met each other. Millions of South Korean civilians and foreign soldiers, including U.N. forces on South Korea's side, and Chinese and Soviet troops on North Korea's side, were killed in the war.
A smiling flower What does that letter mean? The letters must be smiling. A Japanese friend suddenly asks. There is a flower on the spot. a smiling flower Laughing out of the flower shop's glass door, a bunch of flowers that catch your eye flowers of unknown origin The word flower is smiling brightly like a flower. a smiling flower every leaves of a flower by flower Squeeze your broken selfThere's nothing but laughter on your face. be full of laughter A smiling flower is a sad flower! I saw you in a traveling van. a very short moment a flower for flowers 216
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the smile of a flower for a flower. in the name of a flower to live with a smile on one's face the physiology of flowers tailored to the face the name flower
Translation by Jaehyung Park
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Sungrye Han(韓成禮, 한성례) Born in 1955 Rep of Korea. Poet, Translator(Japanese-Korean). Adjunct professor. She majored in Japanese language and Japanese literature at Sejong University and earned her master's degree in Japanese studies at Sejong University's Graduate School of Policy Science. Her works have earned her the Newcomer Award of <Poem and Consciousness>, Korea's the Heonanseolheon Literature Award and Japan's Sitosozo Award. Book of Poetry 『The Beauty in a Laboratory』, 『Smiling flowers』in Korean, 『The Sky in the Yellowish Red Korean Skirt』, 『Drama of the Light』in Japanese. Historical essay 『The Formation of the Ancient Nation in Japan and Japanese oldest anthology Manyoshu』 and so on. Her poems express Korean tradition, life and death, sadness, pain and anguish in surrealism, modernism and avant-garde forms She translated many Japanese literary works into Korean and many Korean literary works into Japanese. This work includes more than 200 volumes, for example, poems, novels, essays, poem anthologies, books for children, humanity books, self enlightenment books and scientific books. In particular, she translated many poems and Book of Poetry between Korea and Japan.In particular, she translated many poems and Book of Poetry between Korea and Japan. Korean textbooks used in Korean high schools contain several translations of her for educational purposes. She has translated and introduced Korean and Japanese poems in literary magazines between the two countries since 1990. She is now an adjunct professional at Sejong Cyber University in Seoul, South Korea. -----------------------------------------Sungrye Han Address : 129-1003, Jamsil Els, 99, Olympic-ro, Songpa-gu, Seoul, 05501, Rep of Korea Tel(Mobile) : ***82-10-7424-8434 / Fax : ***82-2-465-5640 E-mail : hansungrea@naver.com https://blog.naver.com/kudara21
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Svetkali Nurzhan LEAVES OF MY SOUL From separating brands and marks of The distant path, dragged us When our road, parted, then The leaf of my soul was green... After the eyelids, I caught up with you It was a cold autumn... I kissed your cheek. And seeing a lot of sadness through your eyelashes Which shone... I did not break loose. The sweet juice of the senses did not dry out, Lights flashed from your eyes. 220
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Tears of longing, that had been swallowed for centuries How hard is it to be above the soul?! Barely gathered – disposing Tearing out the moods in tears So much sunken, trampled like podoykinnoy patience I barely, barely withstood, and did not lose my conscience. Without showing compassion, limiting yourself, We turned out to be novice 221
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Like, lost for so many years Shaggy, fearful and woman-like Autumn was there... to churn a hurricane Got it – we still have regrets I swallow down the tears flowing Right through the crimson leaf bin the shower. Svetqali Nurzhan Translated by Kairat Duissenov Parman Edited by Maggie Vijay-Kumar
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Svetkali NURZHAN was born on January 1, 1962 in the village of Kanga Baba, Tupkaragan district, Mangistau region. In 1979 he graduated from high school №8 in Zhetybay village, Karakiya district. After graduating from high school, he worked as a horseman and oil worker. From 1981 to 1986 he studied at the Faculty of Philology of Al-Farabi Kazakh National University. From 1986 to 1987 he worked in the magazine "Pioneer" (now "Ak Zhelken"), from 1988 to 1994 he worked in the Karakiya district department of culture. From 1995 he headed the Mangistau regional fund "Art". From 2000 to 2012 he was the founder of the republican newspaper "Ush Kiyan". Creativity "Audience" (1985, collective collection); Aruana (1993); "Breaking the morning husk" (2002, 3 volumes of poems); "Moonlit Night" (2008, poems and epics); "Melody of the Saints" (2009, translation); European Poetry (2010, translation); "European classical poetry" (2011, translation); "Forty Wisdoms" (2013, translation); "Evidence of the helpless" (2013, translation); "Ruby Star of the Dawn" (2015, poems); "The Source of Saryaishyk" (2019, poems and epics); "Fragrance of the stars" (2019, poems); Heinrich Heine (2019, translation); The books "Orphan star on the top" (poems), "Light in the lamp" (poems), "Summer pasture of youth" are in print, 22 volumes of works are in the poet's portfolio. In 2017, on the eve of the 55th anniversary of the poet Svetkali Nurzhan, a creative evening "Baba tukti boz dala" was held. Awards In 1996 - Laureate of the State Prize "Daryn". Winner of the Tolegen Aibergenov Prize of the Writers' Union of Kazakhstan; Winner of the Presidential Scholarship of the President of the Republic of Kazakhstan in the field of literature; Winner of the medal "Eren enbegi ushin"; He was awarded the Order of Honor by the Decree of the President of the Republic of Kazakhstan dated December 5, 2017. Winner of the Makhambet Prize.
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Bayangali Tokanovich ALIMZHANOV Life is interesting... If you think up calmly, Life is enough interesting, Stays funny next day, Something you angry today. Life is amazing, and modest, As the gift of God, Only by human deed, Spoils everything by hand. Be thankful for everything, Have a good time, 224
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Do not be upset too much, Laugh and have fun. Life means chapter Everyone thinks on their own, Sacred a tragedy? Or a laughter holy?
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Waves and clouds. Curly waves leap over, The wind blows in the clouds, When a hurricane strikes, The waves hit the shore, The clouds are flying. A thick cloud of steam, Refilled as water. The tide was turned. Accepted in its own way, Everything in nature. Do not go astray from your own way, Everything in time, Will come true, Obey or do not obey, This is the law of nature! 30.04.2020
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Bayangali Tokanovich ALIMZHANOV is a Kazakh poet, playwright, author, improve-performer, director, and scriptwriter and film actor. He was born on 16 October 1954 in the town of Stepnyak, Akmola region. He is the author of over 30 books, 4 films and 6 documentaries. He has appeared at aitys 216 times, and has won 22 grand prix and about a hundred other competitions. He twice won the grand prize at the Kazakh national story-telling competition. In 1995 he won the international competition for manaschi – narrators of the Kyrgyz epic novel ‗Manas‘ – in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. Mr. Alimzhanov is an Honored Artist of Kazakhstan, and a past winner of the A. Maldybayev International Prize in Kyrgyzstan. He writes in Kazakh and Russian. Tel: 87014432593, 87770424026. E-mail: alimzhanov1954@mail.ru
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Levri Ardiansyah One Asia Sings The sun-beams flutter in Asia‘s heart, Bright as silken fins on myrtle diadem, Ties up my love kept not apart, Before internodes grow be flower tree-stems. Beautiful morning like three upturned gem, In One Asia for opening clouds, Break through all aloofness and phlegm, Innumerable minds rise, hope uncurled. Ill and pain will be hurled, Fate endows patient lips now all ruddy, 228
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
It‘s time to heal the world, Fair rolling melody, Making One Asia sings, Make world worth, that‘s a blessing.
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Levri Ardiansyah, levri.ardiansyah@unpad.ac.id, +628112383110 I am interested in writing textbooks, academic scripts, poetry, song lyrics and movie script, while maintaining my interest in philosophy, public administration and public policy. Date of Birth: October 31, 1972 Profession: State Civil Aparatus at Universitas Padjadjaran, Jatinangor, West Java, Indonesia 1999–2018: Lecture at Public Administration Study Program, Faculty of Social and Political Science, Universitas Padjadjaran, Jatinangor, West Java, Indonesia. 2018-2020: Researcher at Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs Center Unpad), Universitas Padjadjaran, Jatinangor, West Java, Indonesia. 2020-2021: Researcher at Innovation and Corporation Directorate, Universitas Padjadjaran, Jatinangor, West Java, Indonesia. Education Bachelor of Science in Political Science, Universitas Padjadjaran, 1997 Publication, Books: Ardiansyah, Levri. 2014. Cooperative Human Actions Menelusuri Jejak Energi Interrelasi Manusia Primitif. Jatinangor: Unpad Press. ISBN: 978-602-9238-55-6. Ardiansyah, Levri. 2016. Induction and Science of Administration. Jatinangor: Unpad Press. ISBN: 978-602-439-016-7. Ardiansyah, Levri. 2016. Bumi Yang Padu. Jatinangor: Unpad Press. ISBN: 978-602-439-035-8. Ardiansyah, Levri. 2017. Earth and the Laws of Association. Indonesia: copyright issued by Ministry of Law and Human Rights, Republic of Indonesia. Ardiansyah, Levri. 2019. Ouroboros, Filosofi dan Ilmu. Indonesia: copyright number 000131955 issued by Ministry of Law and Human Rights, Republic of Indonesia. University Service Secretary of Public Administration Study Program, Faculty of Social and Political Science, Universitas Padjadjaran, Jatinangor, West Java, Indonesia, 2005-2007 Research Skills Qualitative Analysis Application of Scientific Theory to Qualitative Data 230
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Address https://www.unpad.ac.id Mailing Address levri.ardiansyah@unpad.ac.id Social Media https://facebook.co m/lev.ri.3110 International Conference Presentation ―World Peace Summit‖, Charles Water‘s Society for Innovation and Research (CWSIR) India, Special Guest on Virtual Grant Summit on Peace, February 27, 2021. Honors and Awards Suscadoswar 2000 Award, Indonesian National Defence Institute, Republic of Indonesia (LEMHANNAS RI), 2000. World Peace Award, Charles Water‘s Society for Innovation and Research (CWSIR) India, March 4, 2021. Languages Indonesia: Fluent English: Proficient References Prof. Dr. Ir. Hendarmawan, M.Sc., Professor and Vice Chancellor for Research and Innovation, Universitas Padjadjaran, West Java, Indonesia. Email: wr3@unpad.ac.id phone (022) 84288888 extention 1401. Diana Sari, SE., M.Mgt., PhD., Director of Innovation and Research, Universitas Padjadjaran, West Java, Indonesia. Email: inovkor@unpad.ac.id.
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Tamer Al-Hilaly Old wings Who are you today Why did you so quickly remove your old wings, When you learned that you are a poet. You thought that poetry is enough to fly you But you forgot that metaphors cannot escape From the laws of attraction This is how you do with your life When sadness comes, you run Play around with any happy kids Your tears wet the playground, They ask you to leave 232
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
When your pains hit you, You massage your heart with language oil And forget the swelling of your legs And the damage in the nerves of your hands I know the advice is nonsense Life will drain you like others But I hate to see a poet in pain all the time Who then will write about love and joy We are your friends and neighbors 233
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We always try to run away like you But when we do not find in your words Only pain We play in places we do not belong to We mess up the fields With the salt of tears We ruin the beautiful mirage With our realistic images.
Tamer Al-Hilaly: Egyptian poet, journalist, researcher and translator. I have published one Poetry collection titled "A Blue Tree". This year, my collection of "Wings for Forced Residency" (under publication) was awarded the Zahidiya Cultural Foundation award, sponsored by the Dhay Gallery of Arts and Literature. Mobile: 99590901010200 email : tameralhelaly@yahoo.Com 234
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R .P. Singh Easier to sheath It is easier to sketch a castle of empathy with our portraits swindling higher in high tootle , music makesthe clinching of the tongue and smokes the incense. It is cooler, enough it is buddy, to think of … Thank you –intellect ! 236
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It is smarter to declare to talk , and to smear your sweat-drops so tactfully from your quite sharper lens . Yes , trained intellect , Yes, I mean , I mean my words … Yet , you know , You mince… Yes , you mince the words . I am sure, it is difficult, more difficult to stay more to stay more with us than the span of one hour discourse ! Don‘t you sense Throttles the essence and so it reacts for making genres waft , Don‘t you sense dear excellence your thoughts wrestling my way, Metro, urban heights 237
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sleepy towns or chuckling fields dissolving , harvesting or any turmoil to yield ! Set it sight yes, cast a glance … the drops , the drops and the sweating drops . My thoughts ooze up and vaporize the self. And moves the Mountain And moves the mountain stalks the wind fragrance swindling yet smitten to the end fighting moments on. Brazen posts all across the shores some howling moments , and shrieks unknown . Welting systems and weeping tongues longing so obscene . It is the wind that plays so eschewed it is the phase so under the stars many dreary deaths 238
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so afflicted past it so upsurges across the globe , mantling flame so tolls the blues and the system is on.
R P Singh (Dr Ravindra Pratap Singh) is a Professor of English at the Department of English and Modern European Languages, University of Lucknow. Professor Singh is an award winning playwright, poet, essayist and academician. As a creative writer in English and Hindi , his plays; Flea Market and other Plays (2014), Ecologue (2014), When Brancho Flies (2014), Shakespeare ki Saat Ratein (2015), and Antardwand (2016), Cahudah Farvari(2019), Chain Kahan ab Nain Hamare (2018) have received critical acclaim, and wide popularity. Banjaran : The Muse (2008),Cloud ,Moon and a Little Girl (2017), Pathik and Pravah (2016) and Neeli Aankhon Wali Ladki (2017), Adventures of Funny and Bana (2018) ,The World of Mavie(2020), Two Violet Flowers(2020) represent his poetry. A frequently anthologized poet in more than 12 prestigious anthologies, he has published more than 300 poems and popular articles in newspapers and magazines. He is the recipient of 16 awards for his creative writing, innovations in teaching, and commendable contribution in Higher Education. 239
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Bishakha Moitra The Sound Of Silence Have you ever experienced the silence When you are with your lover, your soulmate Tight in an embrace, absorbed in one another The silence is so comforting, so endearing The sound of silence is bliss Have you ever experienced the silence When you are lonely, and vulnerable Shattered, unloved, repenting and grieving The silence is painful, tormenting The sound of silence is melancholy
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Have you ever experienced the silence When you are alone, one with yourself Meditating or in prayers, gone in trance The silence is so calming, so soothing The sound of silence is peace ©®agypsysoul ©®Bishakha
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Born on 2nd May 1980, in a small town, Serampore, in the Hoogly district of West Bengal, India, Bishakha, is an artist (a writer and a painter) by passion. After working in corporate sector for 10 years she chose to be a stay at home mom. Writing to her is penning down, expressing her, emotions, views, thoughts, feelings and opinions in a way that others can understand and feel the connect. Her preferred choice of language for writing is both english and hindi. Many of her poetries and short stories have been published as paperback and e-books in various Indian and international anthologies, magazines and literary website. She also has recieved several accolades on her poetry and stories in various literary platforms. Indian embassy in Beijing also awarded her Poetry on the occasion of Vishwa Hindi Diwas 2021. Bishakha uses "a gypsy soul" as a pen name as she thinks this is what she truly is, a wanderer at heart. You can read and follow her page on instagram www.instagram.com/thoughtsofagypsysoul.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Rahim KARIM (KARIMOV) POETS OF ALL COUNTRIES OF THE WORLD, UNITE!
Poets from all over the world, unite! Now is not the time for confrontation. We were not created for our own glory, God chose us to serve Humanity. We are the guides of blind Humanity, If we don't show him the right way, he will fall into the abyss. At all times, poets, thinkers have served as a torch for people. Poets must be like Prometheus, like Danko Gorky.
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Come to your senses! On our shoulders lies the fate of civilization, So it was in the past, so it is now, so it will be in the future. We don't have to be distracted by the little things in life, We must proudly carry the torch of peacemaking. To open people's eyes, to encourage them to remain human, To love each other, to be an eternal torch for people, Like Homer, like Rumi, like Khayyam, like Dante, Like Rudaki, like Hafiz, like Navoi, like Shakespeare. Like Ganjavi, like Schiller, like Verlaine, like Baudelaire, Like Byron, like Pushkin, like Goethe, like Tagor. Like Kipling, like Lorca, like Neruda, like Esenin. Like Beranger, like Mickiewicz, like Kits, like Shelley. We don't live for orders and medals, We live not for the sake of awards and titles. We do not live for glory and privilege, We live for the POETRY of the world. A world without Poetry as a body without a spirit. We, poets, must provide for his livelihood. With his heartfelt word, all-encompassing love, We are the blood of the Universe, we are the heart of the Universe.
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Rahim Karim (Karimov) - Uzbek-Kyrgyz-Russian Soviet poet, writer, publicist, translator (b. 1960, Osh, Kyrgyzstan). Graduate of the Moscow Literary Institute. A.M. Gorky (1986). Member of the National Union of Writers of the Kyrgyz Republic, the Union of Journalists of the Kyrgyz Republic, the official representative of the International Federation of Russian-speaking Writers (LondonBudapest) in Kyrgyzstan. Co-chairman of the Literary Council of the Eurasian Peoples' Assembly (Russia). Member of the Writers' Union of Russia. Laureate of the Republican Literary Prizes named after Moldo Niyaz, Egemberdi Ermatov (Kyrgyzstan). Honorary Doctor of Philosophy. (Morocco). Academician of the Turan Academy of Sciences, Uzbekistan. Laureate of the International Prize. Peter Bogdani (Brussels-Pristina). Member of the International Association of Writers (Belgium). Laureate of the Swami Vivekananda International Peace Prize (India). Ambassador of the World Children's Movement in Central Asia (Nigeria). Member of the World Writers Union of Nations (WNWU) Kazakhstan. Member of the World Haiku Association (Japan). Laureate of the Gold Prize (Ethiopia). Winner of the prize of the International Union of Englishspeaking Writers (India). "Outstanding figure of the world" (Morocco). "Author of the Year - 2019" (Netherlands). "Author of the Year -2019" (Montenegro). Laureate of the International Dardanica Prize (North Macedonia). "Author of the Year - 2019" (USA). Representative of the radio project "Uniting the World with Poems" in Kyrgyzstan (Mexico). World Literature Icon (Mexico-India). World Literature Ambassador, Motivational Strips, Oman. Ambassador of World Literature, World Literature Academy, Romania. Official translator of the international literary magazine ITNACA (Spain). Holder of the International Gold Certificate of Recognition (Morocco). Recipient of the Honorary Diploma of Poets of the World "Isla Negra", Chile. PENTASI World Poet Festival Award, Beijing, 2019. Certificate holder of the Rosas Orquideas Poeticas World Competition (Colombia). Laureate of the International Prize "City of Galateo - Antonio de Ferrari", Rome, Italy. He was awarded the Diploma "Trophy for the Promotion of Literature at the Global Level", World Academy of Literature, Romania, World Association of Poets (Romania). "Order of Shakespeare", Motivational strips, Oman, 2020. Certificate of the National Competition of Poets, Literary and Artistic Association "Prince of Muzaka", Albania, 2020. 246
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Awarded the Certificate of the World Association for Literature, History, Arts and Culture, Mexico, Certificate of the Sahitya Gujarat Academy for literature (Government of Gujarat, India). Appointed National President of the World Union of Hispanic Writers (UHE) in Kyrgyzstan, World Director of Publications and Translations of the World Union of Hispanic Writers (UHE). Awarded with the Kairat Parman-Duisenov Medal, "Motivational Stripes", Oman, World Writers Union of Nations ", 2020," Best Poet of the Asian Continent ", World Union of Hispanic Writers (UHE), 2020. Certificate of Recognition, Texas, USA. Cup "Friend", Egypt. Member of the World Movement of Poets, Chile. Received the World Literary Prize. Cesara Vallejo, Peru, 2020. "International Award for Best Poets and Translators of 2020", International Poetry Translation and Research Center (IPTRC), PRC, and the Greek Academy of Arts and Letters.
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Ewith Bahar A CROON OF LIFE For centuries Life is still the same music We hear a profound song of love, truth, beauty or suffering We train our ears, our eyes, our hearts, to be wholly aware Towards the seen and unseen elements We compose our strains of the lamentation and celebration Combining the two pieces 248
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
into tone and cadence A serenade and lullaby we gently croon We are born for singing our piece of music The pure written testament in a lyric. (Ewith Bahar) Ewith Bahar is a poetess, novelist, editor, translator and essayist from Indonesia. She had a long time career in a masscommunication field, radio and television industry, as a TV host at Television of Republic of Indonesia (TVRI, a government TV station). She has published nine books, in all genres: poetry, short stories, novel and essay. One of her poetry books, Sonata Borobudur, got a prestigious prize from Indonesian National Library as The Best Five Indonesian Poetry Books 2019. Many of her poems have been translated into several foreign languages. Ewith Bahar is also known as a public speaker for communication matters, creative writing and biblio-therapy. 249
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Nemr Sa‘di Visual Music From a thousand ages which had lost their features, like you and more And my blood knocks at a bitter spring of a far summer I have raised it up through the odor of your perfume and you falling at the evening of the soul You are the body of the roses I have raised it up at your absence full of dreams Naked and barefoot you sleep upon the burning of water As if my blood is recreated I have raised it up with a tomorrow hanging over me like a dream 250
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Or with a hand from the winging dawn with butterflies of songs
A Song for Troy A yearn for longing, A wish for cohesion and healing, On the road to knowledge, life and survival… Oh my end I know you hate me without a convincing cause For the conflict of cultures, but I shall be patient To the end for the meaning of longing To know my essence… who am I?? Who may I be??"
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Life as I understand it Life as I understand it A wish for a sky colored with calls The spirit of springs carry me like the perfume of dew The zest of a winging horse towards The burning of pots in the dome of night * The ultimate occurrence of love in the body of the morning Bringing the news of noble whiteness to the heart of the country * Life as I understand it Not as you understand it and interpret it inanimate
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Nimer al-Sa'di is a Palestinian poet and writer born in October, 1977, living in his small village Basmat Tab'on located east of Haifa. It is a Galilee village well known for its beautiful location and marvelous landscape as well as its charming impression upon the poet's concerned soul. Nonetheless, this soul is rich of sensitivity and vision; always tending towards freedom and the beauty of the universe which leaves open windows for the strange and far world at the same time. Thus, the poet continuously observes the fields of life and all the spaces of the universe, particularly whatever is innovative and modern. The poet began publishing his poetry after the ripeness and maturity of his experience together with his talent and education in Al-Itihad" newspaper in Haifa and well as "Kul-Al-Arab" and "AlAkhbar" in Nazareth in 1999. Sa'di's collections includes Visual Music.
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Shaswata Gangopadhyay AN EGYPTIAN FOLK TALE Don't throw stones at a fellow who truely loves you those stones'll come back to you someday or other It is an Egyptian folk tale, the written version in the proverb but you did'nt obey it, rather as a first lover you ditched him, leaving him alone putting chewing gum casually in your mouth at 8 o'clock past 10 in the morning, you are crossing the quiet desert, no mirage is visible, only broken skeletons of camels lie scattered here and there 254
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
sometimes after the sun will look like a ruthless hammer after pulling out from your rucksack the last bottle of soft drinks you being exhausted, will roll on the ground senseless sense when regained, you listen to the wind of the storm : It's the curse of the God of sands and deserts :
Throughout your life you all alone will go on searching water 255
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you will earn money, enjoy solvency, but never you will get a beloved Translated by : Rajdeep Mukherjee
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Shaswata Gangopadhyay (India) : One of the Prominent face of Contemporary Bengali Poetry ,who started writing in Mid 90s. Born and brought up at Kolkata, Shaswata has profound interest in travelling,adventure and classical music. Shaswata writes in Bengali, the 4th largest language of the earth and as per UNESCO, it is the sweetest language. His poems have been published in all major journals of Bengali literature. He has participated in different virtual poetry festival of Europe and Both North and Latin America. His book of Poems : Inhabitant of Pluto Planet (2001) Offspring of Monster (2009) and Holes of Red Crabs(2015). Recently His Poems had been exhibited in a Poetry Festival in Picollo Museum,Italythe only Poetry Museum of the world. Translations of his Poems have been published in various journals and anthologies of Europe,America, Asia, Africa and Latin America. Very recently He has been Recognised as ‗International Poet of the week‘ by well reputed ‗The POET‘ Magazine of London
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Dr. Perwaiz Shaharyar WAKE UP ASIA Sometimes, This thought, Comes in my mind that The Pregnant Earth would give birth to children Till how long Within a blink of an eye from its belly This Earth would pour out thousands of children Till how long Millions of creeping and crawling children on her chest Would demand milk from dry breast of their mother Till how long
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Being habituated of drugs ----- this Earth Vomit smokes from its mouth 259
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Till how long Carbon stricken These millions of children Sustain their uprooting breaths Till how long These small kids Will become tired after their continuous running Someday uselessly Sometimes, This thought, Comes in my mind that The oxygen manufacturing in the factory Would spent out ----- Someday There would remain no farm-lands anywhere on this Earth to cultivate food grains Before that the demon of population would wake up ----And eaten up all the food-grains tied in the corner of clad of mother Earth Muse for a while! Before it that The balance of man and Nature would get disturbed Before it that The global warming will destroy the environment Before it that The whole world get sunk into water We should do something Muse for a while! The whole West is crying about Global Warming But the whole Asia is sleeping carelessly Sometimes, This thought, 260
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Comes in my mind that We would have to take some corrective steps We would have to make some arrangement well in time O, yes! Asia will have to take a lead by going ahead All the responsibilities have to be onus Before it that It will get too late Before it that The human beings get defeated by the devils Before it that In Nuclear Deals, the whole world get turned into a heave of ashes Before it that The sky would become the enemy of the earth Before it that The Yajooj-Majooj get done their work Before it that The San-conscience stars of the sky Do finished the game of lives from the earth Muse for a while O, the race of Adam! You will have to leave the luxuries For the sake of sustenance of life on the sphere of the earth As a preventive measure You will have to fight even with Dajjal For the sake of spiritual evolution The citizens of Asia will have to fight against their ego O, yes, Asia has to take a lead Come on, 261
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Wake up Asia! Copyright: Dr. Perwaiz Shaharyar NCERT, India
Dr. Perwaiz Shaharyar is an Editor in National Council of Educational Research and Training (NCERT), Ministry of Education, Government of India. He had been Principal Publication Officer in National Council for Promotion of Urdu Language in 2007. He is a famous short story writer, poet and critic from India. He is Graduate with English Honors from Ranchi University. He has topped Jawaharlal Nehru University in Masters with Literature. He was awarded Doctor of Philosophy for his Research Work from University of Delhi. He is Post Graduate Diploma holder in Calligraphy, Mass Media and in Book Publishing with Specialization in Editing. He has begun writing his poems in English since lockdown in the period of Pandemic Covid-19. He has written around 50 poems, participated in many worldwide webinars and published in various international anthologies, so far. His poems are being published in several magazines within country and abroad. His poem ‗The Burning Boat‘ contains mystic (Sufism) and metaphysical elements. He has bagged many States and National Awards and accolades for his literary works. He has total 12 published books, 2 each of collections of short stories and collections of poems, 4 books of criticism and 4 books of translation from other languages in his credential. His one Children Story book has recently published by a premier organization National Book Trust, India. His collection of 12 stories for children is ready to print. Furthermore, his anthology entitled as ―The Burning Boat‖ is under process for publishing, which is likely to be brought out from India. 262
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Munaidar Balmolda YOU ARE GUILTY No worthy muse you met in your life No paradise bird to adore. Listen to heartbeats, born for love Thus, you are guilty if you cannot love beauty! For a paradise with created souls, It is true that you like it deeply. Seeing a beauty hanging like an angel, If you cannot fall in love, it is your fault. Where the feeling moved you, Does the light shine in your mind?
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I would say, where evil comes from, Everyone is heartless and blind. Somehow laughing and playing in the sun, No worries, no grief, spent the day. Humanness expect from heartless Though their hearts beat at the chest. If you know in real life - who saves the world, And who keeps pure love in the soul. The heart of a lover shines brightly, That made the world blossom by his love. 19.02.2019. English translation by Bakhtygul Makhanbetova 09.04.2021 ―Your boon of love, my destiny‖ I feel sad. My soul is exhausted. In this way, the moon is melting in the sky. I beg you, the Heaven ladder, lift me up skyward. My destiny let your boon of love come down on me, Let your boon of love come down on me. Your boon of love, my destiny, It is the oil for the grief of my heart. Let my heart's trembling break out Into flames that ablazing forever, Into fever of love, my destiny, that consumes everything. I am thirsty of love that I have never ever seen before. This life is woven from the dream. 265
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That is too far away to touch. How many times I fell down from height. How many times I soared again. A shining beacon of hope will never burn out. I do not dread barriers and hurdles. The happiness lives there, where neither of us have ever been My song will fly to that area. English lyrics by Lina Bugulova 03.08.2019 Munaidar Balmolda: Poet, writer, journalist, Kazakhstan
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Mukhtar Shakhanov To Zhambyl Though here with years his soul did not spend all its flame, Though there did the frantic squall of Beauty not fade – Invited as guest to Georgia, what wonders there came! The hundred-year-old Zhambyl fell in love with a maid! Here‘s a knight of our day, an old man with aging not full, By no hurricanes bound, nor by thunder of rumbling years. The power of Beauty is boundless, they said to Zhambyl, With envy, or joy? Of a Russian poet one hears? Yes, we have old people, who are not the victims of Time. 268
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The years mean nought, when you straddle your steed in a dream. I see, young man, you no more understand Beauty‘s line! That means your soul‘s grown tired - you‘ve grown old, I deem! Are there tracks on earth which have no place in the sun? Are there any who could not last out a century alive? Are there women who‘re old when they‘ve thirty become? Are there bold riders who‘re old when just thirty-five? Be glad, then, if Beauty your feelings have now set free. But how old you are - we‘ll let the whole land decide. Old age means the dying of fire, but the young, you see – Those with servile souls - are a danger, which spreads far and wide. An old man is glad if his eyes can drink in new days From the spring of Beauty, so of the years don‘t complain. Don‘t try to be sly, for your age even children can say. They know what years are - like mountains they soar away. Not with them you‘ll measure your age - do not try in vain!
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―Chokan and Dostoyevsky‖ ―My dear friend Fyodor, a last wire I‘m sending – My looks, and sighs. The fossilized gossip‘s unending, Where black and white in shades of grey unite, Confusion hides true colours from the light. And, torn to pieces by my end, folk Now bear me off to a dark, graveyard, yoke. So let my strength and energy, splashed out vainly Harrow my folk: to the grave, quite plainly, With common hopes before The Judge I go. There still remain those who‘ll bring me back, I know! Well, when these lines of mine you start a-reading, The grave upon my life -juice will be feeding.. . So large is my account with laws swift-flying, And slippery as the ice on cliff-slopes lying. You were the source of my first love, exciting. To you, the last, go my spirit, and my hand-writing! There are rivers on earth, which flow from land to land, And bear great riches, reflecting the heavens grand. To break their freedom of will is beyond man‘s power, And thousands of cunning Khans no longer flower. Let life, capricious, resist, and shake its head, And show off, with proud put-on manner instead: The greatest of us still onward like streams go fleeing. Who jokes straight out with a noble human being? O river, so great! Say, who can match your forces? 270
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Within your waves all thoughts are borne off their courses. We, mortal ones, can we then understand Your depths? Against which waves a-foam so grand? Bright friend! Nobody can hold you back at the border, And only envy everywhere fashions disorder. Your ponderings form a cradle for all the world; You are my shield, and also my good unfurled. How I should like it, if all Kazakhs as one people Should love like I, with brotherly love, not feeble! With a smile I rose, The light in my closed fist holding, I wished along with you to start blooming, unfolding, But short was my path, and not too serious seeming,.. And many thoughts I borrowed from you, and dreaming.. . The moon grows red behind that mountain Matay. The morn grows crystal, with one single star yet higher Although trembling, as if some Evil it now perceives. Chokan is no more. This letter must immediately cease. Was it not he who struck at the named century, Or was it the century fighting with him eventually? At the height of his might, all power to everyone giving, At twenty-nine, he began a second time living ... In the naive heavens there trembles a lonely star, And from itself, in the darkness, it runs afar. .. How the century faded away, we can‘t say at once – But Dostoyevsky was then a prisoner in Omsk. But talent by Time can‘t be changed in the century‘s story – 271
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Just the opposite - Time‘s the companion of lasting glory. So the funeral mound was witness to many a meeting, The Altinemel mound, where deep in eternal dark In glory, Chokan lay quietly, peacefully sleeping. So with that we finish - the last exclamation mark! If there are no sudden actions, we do not expect, Whose burden above time comes heavily sagging, Then sense, through the passing years grow more correct. But take a swift glance - your understanding is lagging. Chokan‘s warm spirit seemed worthy of some monument, And Russian friends then agreed upon a memorial, And they were able to find this in Tashkent, The needed stone block, and soon sent sparks in an aureole. But human pettiness, found among thieving clobber Which hides in corners until the time comes to appear, Then showed itself in the heart of a rough-handed robber, Who wanted to split that stone in half, it was clear, To chip it in halves, to make two stones for grinding Some grain he had, not letting its owners see, The great profit from this he‘d soon be a-finding – He thought everyone around was blind as could be! But he had only begun his secret stone-chipping, When up flew a splinter, and stuck itself straight in his eye, And he fell backwards from pain which his head was gripping, 272
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And grew and grew, and flew from the floor to the sky. He lay there half-blinded, cursing his fate, and swearing, His mouth full of sand, and the carpet to shreds he tore, And conscience looked down on him, and what he was bearing, As though he came from strange worlds and times, what‘s more ... And then that spring, above the cone-shaped Matay, There swept a crane-flock, and tighter their circle became, So friendship ubiquitous, sacred, flew higher and higher, And passed on the news to Petersburgh, where they came. Tears rolled down the face of his dear brother, And he then grieved, but thought: ―It served him right!‖ There is a punishment, legally paid to the other, And there is friendship which puts all evil to flight!
―Kazhimukan‖ ―Kazhimukan, a giant of a man, Unconquered wrestler of the Kazakh plain, Weighed over one hundred and sixty kilogram, And ate at each sitting a whole roasted ram. He was at that same time tender of soul. In love till tears with poetry, they say. From time to time expressing himself in verse. And after he fought, victorious, proud and strong, With the champion of the world, and earned his curse, His countrymen made for him a festival grand, 273
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And praised him, since a champion he‘d hurled: ―You‘re not alone the strongest in your own land, But also the strongest wrestler in the world!‖ ―Just wait!‖ replied Kazhimukan, ―Just wait! There‘s something magical to be found in sport, At times more exciting than the blind ways of fate, And therefore sport needs rules of the strictest sort. And bodily power is beautiful only as long As it is strengthened by spiritual powers too. Look, here is someone stronger then I in this song – And clapping a hand on his shoulder, he led him through. A shy and modest, curly-headed chap, With nothing about him special at first glance.. . A long and doubtful silence followed that.. . This was young Mukhtar Auezov, and not by chance. The words of Kazhimukan were prophetic then, For thirty-six years later it occurred – One of Japan‘s great champions, strongest of men, Had read a book of Auezov‘s - was deeply stirred: ―What strength he shows, for when I read his book I was conscious of my spiritual weakness, look!‖
―The Death of Tolstoy‖ ‗‘All‘s dark with sorrow in that simple chamber. All ruffled up, exhausted by permanent pain, Here Lev Tolstoy lies dying, in constant danger. .. His wife comes in. She bends o‘er his bed again: ―Forgive me, Lev, forgive! I‘m the guilty person!‖ 274
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But he kept silent. He thought: ―Oh, my poor dear, Don‘t cry - my sorrow‘s no less than yours, I‘m certain, No matter what tears you shed, my end draws near! You know I loved you, but it ended sadly, For by your deafness I‘ve been torn to bits. You could not understand ... I know, you suffer badly, As the wife of Tolstoy, a heavy cross dulls your wits. But a heavier one I bear - your not understanding. You could have understood, but had no desire. We‘ve spent long years together, now we‘re disbanding. Here I forgive you, forgive your husband‘s ire!. . ― He closed his eyes; with a hundred ills so spiteful, So bitter it was to be not understood by his wife. TOLSTOY no longer lived. O, genius, just delightful, How unhappy you were, though one of the wisest in life! Where‘s tenderness found, that will accept us with passion? Who‘ll cool us in heat, and shelter us from cold? Three measures in life - height, depth, and breadth we fashion, Not knowing these are the core of darkness untold! From soul to soul there lies no pathway trodden. To be not understood - there‘s no crueler curse! The way from soul to soul is a fight unforgotten. How steep is that path to a circle of friends, what‘s worse! No understanding - what‘s that? The fault of the faultless? 275
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But no wish to understand - that‘s a heavy crime! O, how many ways do I really know in their fullness? O, how many springs dried up at their source in time! No understanding - there steals the slayer and traitor, The executioner, tearing in darkness and waste. The fire of Dzhordano behind you blazes later. You are Galileo‘s judge - that must be faced! With your noose Birzhan-sal you captured, Extinguished the starry light of Ulugbek. With the curse of the Devil, you always were enraptured. For you there is no forgiveness - a noose round your neck! Abai, straight in the face, you gave a back-hander, Auezov also you overtook in your time. You envious eyes could not from his work wander, And so the whisper went round about his line: ―His novel does not touch one in any measure – He does not reach reality in the height!‖ Auezov smiled sadly at bitter words for his treasure: ―The folk will JUDGE, and will UNDERSTAND alright!‖ And so they did! Accounts we, shall be keeping! What blindness - to look, and not to recognize! And those who don‘t understand‘ are their consciences sleeping? Not to wish to know - what a crime, just to close one‘s eyes! Not to understand - a sudden mist, where all‘s feeble, It shrouds the horizon - by day the sunlight dims. Here‘s youthful talent - which flies towards the people, So, while he is young - let‘s understand all his whims!.. 276
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―Twelve to thirteen – equals?‖ In that land where white-shouldered eagles grew, long, long ago there lived a mighty Khan. ‗ It was hard to know what was the main thing in him – The fact that he was mighty, Or stubborn! He was old, but ―played on his horse‘s ears‖That means, he was a good rider in his days. If he set a goal, The target he always hit, And the worthiness and honour of his folk He thought to raise – But how he did not know. But he decided, And issued straight away A brand new law, which he had just devised. Then it was placed Before the people‘s eyes – That only age would gain a mind mature, And that the mind of youth was a danger to man. There‘s nought more frightful Than an ill-thought law, And therefore officials, and major-generals too Must be selected from the eldest and the best! They will be slow in all the steps they take, For moderate pace is found in maturity, And wise is he who shows no sign of haste!‖ So, stepping with moderate pace over all their youth, But actually killing its spirit straight away, About the use of youth forgetting too, 277
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And speaking everywhere of the use of age, The leaders quite forgot young people around, And tied them up with disbelief in themselves. On the flame of youth they buckets of water poured, And soon all youth grew timid, without a will. At twenty-five they could not, without tears, Eat up their bowl of soup, and crust of bread. Young folk might glorify themselves in verse – But now was nothing left to praise at all. To all their earthly sorrows, a new one came – The confirmation of a brand new law. So they grew up as terrible cowards, When they heard the clash of enemy swords, Just hid their heads. The warriors just died out. From whence then came this depression in the young, This misery and oppression, which they feel, Which makes the souls of people and flowers fade? This disbelief in the young Has changed us all, And changed their souls, so it‘s hard to recognize them! The Khan first seized that Satan by the tongue, To all the folk around he then announced: ‗‘So that our rule should be unshakeable here, We must make progress - forward we must go! Have we no warriors, filled with manliness here? Why then does fortune seem so mean today? Let‘s make a war, and win new glory there, Against.. . against.. . And there he sobered down, And once again Spoke slowly, and quietly too – 278
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Against.. . well, let us say, some other land, Which is a quarter smaller than our own. That surely will raise our fighting spirit again! He did not start at once, But merely tried, And was at once defeated, and captive made ... With his grey hair, like feather-grass in the wind, And with his eyes all pallid from weeping now, He cannot lay the blame on anyone else, Or justify the evil which he has done. He has no bow nor arrow To angrily shoot. His viziers and elders, with their goat-like beards, All trembling, like a little isle, stand there Before the threatening landslide, thundering down.. . ―Where are those days of greatness in our land? Who dealt this blow, so pitiless on us?!!!‖ Then their new ruler, who had defeated them, Called the lost Khan with a grin, and full of spite: ‗‘Believer in slowness, yet you made too much haste, You went quite off your head, and lost all sense.. . At last you‘ve come to yourself, So hasten now; If you can guess my riddle, I‘II set you free! If not, then you can count on it - you‘re dead! Well, rack your brains, and answer, if you can – Here is the simple puzzle which I ask: ―IF YOU TAKE THREE FROM A DOZEN, WHAT REMAINS?‖ The Khan, whose face was already deathly grey, Already feeling the noose around his neck, 279
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Then laughed: ―Well, nine, I‘d say!‖ was his reply, As gay as if his wife had born a son! Again the Emir gave a mocking grin, With victory‘s sweetness, and bitterness of spite: ―In this small fray, again the truth I‘ll teach – You couldn‘t guess – So bare your neck for the blade! But among the prisoners, standing condemned around, One youth stepped forth: ―O, mighty Emir!‖ said he, ―Death comes to all, be it soon, or be it late – Why hasten him on his way - his slowness is wise. The spilling of blood is an easy thing, Emir: Well, I will answer your riddle for him now!‖ Emir: ―Unending is man‘s struggle for happiness here. Say, who can stop it? No one! Never, I say! Let death then punish upstart elders and Khans Who can‘t believe in the power of youth, not their own. The roots of disbelief so deep are hid, That they will surely hinder you, my son!‖ The Youth: ―Is death the most fearful punishment, then? More fearful still, by chance, to remain alive, And see with your own eyes your own mistakes, And somehow come to peaceful terms with them! If power is taken from you, then you have no means To put your frightful error to rights again ... ― Emir: ―My son, I passed the ninety mark long ago, But I am glad of the growth of youth on earth. I follow their fate, to see that it does not fade, That flame of youth in bold and beating breasts. The day when youthful flame all dies Will be A day of spiritual death for me, I fear. 280
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I do not like it, Seeing unloving youth, I do not like it, seeing stones thrown at babies , And therefore no pity to your Khan can I show, But as for you - well, there‘s something in you I like, So, very well, - I‘ll fulfill your youthful wish, What can you pay for the Khan‘s mistake, that is, With the flame that burns within your youthful breast?‖ The Youth: ―Let not one be happy on this earth, Who throws a mocking stone against a baby! But to throw such stones against age is also bad! It‘s unbefitting to both the baby and youth. I like this puzzle which you have set, Emir! Forgive me though, unwittingly you have erred, If you name your riddle an everlasting law Of life, of time which passes, of nature too. If people think: ―From a dozen take three away – Then nothing remains... That‘s my answer, I would say!‖ Emir: ―Well done, my son! Guessed right! So, good for you! And how do you prove point, I‘d like to ask, For that is the final weapon in any debate?‖ The Youth; ―Each year consists in all of twelve whole months. Three out of them are Spring. Do I get you right? But Spring, that is the boldness of Nature itself. Who refuses Spring, by his cowardice shows I‘m right. For youth is Spring, And who would go against that, Would break down Nature‘s own immortal law. 281
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Life is distinguished not by beauty alone, But by the thoughts, which Spring‘s great beauty brings. And if in Spring our apple-trees do not bloom, What fruits in autumn can we then expect? Thus nine months of the year would sentenced be, If you take away three! Then nothing should we receive. We cannot, then, Emir, from a dozen take three – Whoever does that finds woe, like our one-time Khan, Who sees that eternal law as a riddle till now!..‖ ―Who‘s this that speaks?‖ thought that saddened poor old man, Who until yesterday bore the title of ―Khan‖ – ―Why didn‘t I chow him, and the other young men, Relying only on goat-bearded elders there?.. ― The Khan glanced sadly up at the swaying skies, Remembered the lad as a slave - a stable-boy. Then he recalled his own fate, And so he groaned: ―I‘m finished, a corpse, I shall never rise again ... I shan‘t open my eyes again ... In my stable I kept The ones who might have been war-leaders too. A pitiful fool, how could I have been so blind, Not allowing others to stretch their wings and fly?.. Is there a torment worse than this madness now, When all too late Has one good thought come to me?.. ―
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―WOMEN‖ Once, by the hospital window, it occurred, That having seen me sitting, and looking sad, A girl then told my fortune, every word, Her eyes were lit up by a smile, so glad. What will the cards say, rustling quietly there? ―Your sickness will be cured! On your parched lips The honey will flow… Why sit and stare? You will not lose that special warmth which grips. Shh! Since your childhood, from your boyish tricks All these four queens will never leave you, sure! ‗Love‘s achievement!‘- Thus, you always said. Alas, poor Poet, clearly that‘s true. What‘s more – No poetry and no drama lives without love. In verses thoughts of beauty are woven so That truth we know, all fortune-tellers prove – From women come your happiness, and your woe. So fly to them, but beware of women, as due!‖ I had to laugh! ―A clever girl you are! Tell all our troubles, guessing them! First class! You put all gypsies out of face, by far; And leave them out of work, my dear young lass. You‘ll be their queen! Well, thank you. Let me pass!.. But that amusement proved to be the key – 283
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The sacred casket of thoughts it opened wide. Of women endless tales you hear, like me. Such stories weave through the world, like veins inside. But woman is the crown of earthly gifts. The one who does not know what woman means – He is no man! Just half-a-one, he seems! The road to beauty‘s an icy one, which lifts, But how we prize its slipperiness and dreams! Your fate slips too – Catch hold of it, my friend! And having caught it, hold fast, Don‘t let it go! Hold fast, or you‘ll be lost, and that‘s the end ... Yes, women can be a blessing, Or curse, you know! But beauty - that will burn us badly too, And weak ones‘ - envy slings its lasso, once more. I glance upon those burial mounds anew – There young men lie - for there has been a war. There, for a woman, tribes have been at strife, Like Greeks in Ilion, Fighting for their Helene! All knights are mortal – but she has lasting life. The poets, so well-beloved by their people then, Were burning for one single woman again, And for her honor died, in combat vain. But women, those who with cold beauty shone, The crowd forgot. They were doomed to dark anon. 284
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To be a flame, yet with no warmth to glow, To be a woman, and yet no beauty show – What meaning lies in such contradictions, say? Can they change their nature, their whole life betray? And so become unhappy, all their way? But in their spiritual depths real beauty lies. External beauty is fruitless, teases one‘s eyes. What lies in glitter, if shallow is the sea? The ship will shortly, surely, come to grief The captain will set the vessel upon the reef, And those accursed will die, hid in mist will be ... No, woman is not shallow, nor can be inside. She‘s a fortress of honor, the aim of masculine pride. To find such a one You must penetrate right through time, For such is the dream of all the masculine tribe. And there‘s a law: Make haste to gain the height, And give one‘s life For such a beauty‘s plight, And bring her to the light, from out the gloom. ... Although that does not always happen so soon. For many, gladness lies further off than woe. Not all are able themselves to sacrifice so. But where is valor, when there‘s no soul athirst? For thirst it is which calls forth beauty first. I know that citizen‘s life is wingless therefore, If it‘s quite dried out, like yellowy feather-grass, When love has not bestowed its raindrop store. O love, don‘t leave me, that I beg, don‘t pass! So that my soul does not lose power once more, But still believes: 285
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That strength will ever last – That woman, whom so deeply I adore
―Mukhtar Shakhanov is one of the most significant writers ever to have emerged from Kazakhstan. As Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Republic, his work is unrivalled. Honours culminating in equally becoming the National Poet of the Kyrgyz Republic. Further plaudits include his chairing of ―Intellectuals Union of the Turkic World‖ and ―Best Poet in the World among Turkic-Speaking Peoples‖. Indeed, Shakhanov‘s academic titles range from Professor and Doctor of Sciences, to Academician in 22 universities across the globe. Most significantly, Shakhanov holds a Nobel gold medal (dedicated to the 100th anniversary of the Nobel Prize), along with the highly prestigious Albert Einstein gold medal, awarded by the California Academy of Sciences (USA). His name has also been entered in the Golden Book of the United Nations. As a contributor to Global Text and a vigorous defended of minority rights, Shakhanov is an honorary citizen of more than 40 cities. The poetic vision of Shakhanov is comparable with the vision of people endowed with a cosmic sense of existential harmony and historical continuity between past, present and future. His poetry is derived from personal experience, as well as the ethical learning rooted in traditional stories. As such, he focuses on those perennial values that elevate our existence.‖ Federico Mayor, Director-General of UNESCO (1999)
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Nandita De nee Chatterjee Ode to My Mystic Messiah Wee li'll birdie! Which far off vale have you flown in from? A vision in ebony Winging in silver charms. O Dark Beauty! Legate of the beauteous Diana Chaste and virtuous Allaying the oncoming darkness. A silvery crescent Dispersing the wandering dark clouds. You arrive without aplomb Retreating into my humdrum space 288
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Scarce a complaint Shunning the vivid life outside Gentle your visage Mild your manner Never seeking, never condemning An angel from above Suddenly descended on earth. Are you an answer to my adjuration A sign of a balmy morn You gaze anon Your gentle glance An antidote to any agony. Silently providing succour Maybe you're my Plato I hear the silent sermon Heart filled with solace I await those musical chords. And in the sudden darkness of daylight You speak. And I hear The gurgling waterfall The pure mountain winds The story of the trees And see the branches bow with blossoms. Into my confines You bring me the entire universe Where love rules 289
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And rancour doesn't exist. And the Sun and Moon spin merrily Their light a certain inevitability.
Nandita De nee Chatterjee: Writer/freelance journalist/housewife. Formerly with Economic Times. Cover stories and Feature Writer with Statesman, Illustrated Weekly, Economic Times, Telegraph, Times of India, Femina, Filmfare, Germany Today, Voix Meets Mode, UK, FrontierWeekly, Namaste Ink, Setu magazine, US, Innsaei International Journal, Plethora, Chrysanthemum Chronicles, Literatureslight Magazine, Global United Renaissance magazine, Raven Cage Ezine, Germany, Taifas Literary, Italy, Our Poetry Archives. Co Author: Big Bang of Non-Fiction, Life in Reverse; 30 Best Poets; Sea; Coffee & Echos; Wrapped Up Feelings; Poetry Planet's Christmas in my Heart , Moonlight; ALS's Kaleidoscope of Asia & Bilingual Anthology of Poems; Poetry Planet's Writers' Haven; Rewrite the Stars; Love Thy Mother; The Real Hero; Heart of a Poet by innerchildpress; Ashes; Arising from the Dust; Striving for Survival & An Indian Summer by Plethora Blogazine; Poetry Planet's Lockdown Diaries, Born to Dream Winner's Anthology & Words in Motion; Poems from Best Poets; Gems II and Gems III by World Pictorial Poetry & Art Forum; Macabre Tales by Chrysanthemum Chronicles; Poetry: Best of 2020 and I Want to Live by Innerchildpress USA; The Sounds of Spring by Silk Road Literature Series, Egypt; Golden Apples of God by World Pictorial Poetry Forum, April 2021; Dancing with Death, Poetry Planet.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Nandita Samanta The Threshold Of Chroma In Aroma~ Melting into the feat of existence I co-exist in different smells and colours of indulgence that conjure a world beyond the normal. My feet delve into the depths of the colours; abnormally aromal. The smell of darkness… uh! Is pungent, like tar, and the blue silence of the night, moss-damp like old inscriptions on a grave. The red wound of deception smells of blood and puss like my grandmother's bed sore, um! like rotten egg.
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Insights have colourless sights of liberation they seep in the golden hue in every sip of golden brew, early morning. The wind that takes over the October sky smells like Parijat- the night jasmine, the tired vapours of the evening reach the moon wrapped in cardamom muffins. The vague, ambrosial odour of love floats above the VIBGYOR rainbow, its edges inevitably dissolve into the dank mortal happenings.
Nandita Samanta is a poet, a short story writer, a reviewer, an artist. She also practices as a parenting and relationship advisor, is the secretary of a creative platform Calcutta Creative Confluence and the literary convenor of ISISAR. Her writings feature regularly in many international/national anthologies, magazines, webzines and journals. Many of her poems have been translated to different languages. The poetry collection, ‗Scattered Moments‘ finds a prestigious place in many Kolkata libraries, and has been translated into French and Bengali, both the versions to be published soon. Her second book of poems ‘The Trapeze Of The Mind‘, is available on Kindle. 293
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Moushumi Bhattacharjee Masked Man Hypocrisy, chicanery Fraudulence, dishonesty Human can‘t breathe In absence of such traits. Ethics and values Are decorative pieces Carefully locked in Golden caskets. Avaricious species With flawless wits Masquerades the beast within 294
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
With polished etiquettes. Swindles nature‘s treasure With devious skills Etches signatures of his lust With utmost thrill. His stratagem backfires His false pride quells A tiny virus is enough To banish him from this planet. 295
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If he is a bit polite A little less ambitious Life will be beauteous Without hiding behind a terrible mask.
Teacher, author and a passionate home maker, Moushumi Bhattacharjee has a knack for music and photography too. Her favourite pass time is reading and watching movies. She inherited her love for literature from her parents as both of them were avid readers and exceptionally good writers. She regularly contributes her poems, short stories and articles in national and international magazines. She is a contributing author of Indian Summer In Verses, Arise From The Dust, Macabre Tales, Coffee And Echoes, Roses And Thorns, Gems II, Golden Apples of God and a number of other anthologies.
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
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Mohammad Shamim Mia In the hope of love I am in the hope of love I bought clothes, The girl said at the end You're fine, Mama. Age is not a little more Tighten the skin, That's why you call Mama Karlii insult. From the day you told me Damli says mamu, I have intended since that day Let's go to the grave. If I want to live Uncle Dak De Bad, 298
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You are my life partner You are the moon of the sky.
Mohammad Shamim Mia: Poet from Bangladesh, father - late Taher Mia, mother - Moshammat Hafeza Begum. In education he has completed Prelims (Masters). During his career, he has been working as a Compliance Officer of Body Fashion Pvt. Ltd., located in Naojor Kadda Joydevpur area of Gazipur district. He is currently living in Gazipur with his family. A total of eight books of poetry published by the author: "Dream Poetry" (Single) '18, "Kavya Kanne Basant", "Kabita Bilas" 16 (Joint), Ekushey Book Fair, "Kavyatirar Vela", "Swapnil Swapnatari" and "Amader Kabita" 18, "Kabi O Kabitar Bane" 19, Asche Dipti Barnamala 21 are available all over the country. He has received more than 50 honors from the organization. He is the founder and president of "Literature in the Bond of Friendship. 299
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Guna Moran Three Stanzas Lotus Submerged neck-deep Yet I smile The smile you call a lotus
Consciousness Consciousness too is addiction Addiction too is pain Staying conscious all the time What utter pain 300
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Only an addict knows Gladness and Sadness Sadness is my breath Gladness is my smile Smiles do have types Breath is beyond types ****** (Original Assamese poem titled ―Tinita Stavak‖) Tr. © Nirendra Nath Thakuria
As the paddy seeds ripen As the paddy seeds ripen the munia fledglings learn to flap their wings Munias nesting in the paddy field means they do the peasants good by devouring pests and insects Munias nesting in the paddy field doesn‘t mean as the peasants think the paddy field is the ultimate shelter of the munias
By coincidence the peasants always claim the credit The munias making no claim 301
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fly away with their fledglings While reaping the paddy the reaper on seeing the empty nests remembers the munias Till the seeds turned like gold the munias were the keepers of the field Instead of it something else crosses the reaper‘s mind As the paddy ripens, the munias‘ days are numbered * * * * * * (Original Assamese poem titled ―Dhaan pake maane‖) Tr. © Nirendra Nath Thakuria
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Bio-Guna Moran is an Assamese Poet and critic. His poems are published in more than hundred international magazines, journals, webzines, blogs, newspapers, anthologies and have been translated into thirty languages around the world. He has three poetry books to his credit. He lives in Assam, India. Email-gunagelakey85@gmail.com Twitter@gunamoran Phone-9678572267
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Rati Saxena Amidst the Earth-coloured Trees 1 A pinch of doubt Tied into a bundle Pursuing the path of words. The journey has started Towards the earth Who stands spreading her arms Towards the sky Who is ready to take her to her breast? Who will spread the red carpet? 304
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Painting by Artist Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen. Egypt
Who will welcome with kumkumi and akshaiit? Who will be looking eagerly at the route? The journey is on The traveler is the cause The horizon covered with the coconut leaf has left The caravan of moha-raga-virag iiiis on the move.
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2 Faith in doubt Sugar candy melts on the tongue How close they are Who are quite unknown! Faces unclear at the start become shining How difficult to connect names .with words! How easy it is To link names and faces! Memory is struggling So names are connected with sweet relations
3 From the tamarind tree to the leaves of the mango tree chirping is hopping: Oh" this is the black-head mynah, that is the big parrot, and this? : "Oh, I am the cuckoo; don‘t you recognize me?"' "How can I recognize you? On the terrace in my village, there is only the caw-caw of crows-" "Try to remember, try to remember," the sparrow is hopping and singing. Sunlight shine enters 306
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through the little window. The rice piece on the slope the ants take and run away, The mango branch bends and takes a turn and goes up. The tamarind falls down with a "tup" sound burbur, burbur sparrow. The festival spreads from akshat to akshariv .
4 A single cloth in menstruation, very hot before conception, very red, very red, very dusty earth, trees take off the leaves, cover the lover's body, and stand completely naked, "we are always irrigated by your love, now whatever is ours is given to you." Immersed is the earth 307
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with the rain in sunlight. The laughter tingles in the local bogey, the forest is caning from outside the window.
5 That was the carnival, where we get separated; this is also a carnival where we are meeting. Under the boiling tin roof the minibus lies, crying like a camel, where the fields vanish, there flourish the roads. Everything is scattered now, nothing would be left behind, Even though I am trying to collect everything something gets left behind. You will see there is a sprout where a drop of my sweat has been shed. There will be a kua kua sound in the air, where my hair flows in the air. The journey which grows through the journey reaches the rapture. Then the crounchvadhv was put off in the timelessness of Time. 308
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6 "O, you are hiding here? Where have we not searched for you?"' They shouted dhum dhum, grumbled. mumbled, and then melted and rained. they came in my search, the sea clouds. "Thanks, my friends. I get wet inside.‖ Dhamtari is dancing dhanak. dhanak, dripping drops from the trees, tinkling on the dry leaf The she-camel started moving like a sea-wave; the organizers are upset by the thunder and storm. My mind is flying over the coconut trees. The evening comes down, sinking the dreams of poetry.
7 She is a divine maid, he is the ancient man; she is Nature, he is the lord of Nature. She is walking on the dry leaves. under the trees; he is holding her feet on his chest; 309
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mahuas viare falling on the faces of both. He changed into a white flower and stuck into her hair; she came down as the sweetness of mahua on the lips. the dedication of life in the embrace of arms. The jungle became ghotulvii, and ghotul changed into the ancient jungle. In the burning palash, the coolness of amaltas in grove after grove, yellow, brown and dusty. The earth removed her mantle and covered the trees with it Thrilled was Prakriti, Ecstatic was Purush. A resplendent vision of the ancient world!
8 "Please, stay here," pleaded the little sun "Please, listen to me" the sun grew big tied up with the slanting rays. The evening was charmed and entranced and set. 310
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The ghotuls are growing dim, queues run towards the city, nylon saris replace tile red-bordered ones. The hibiscus lies somewhere which had a place on the hair . The thirst of the mahua became the thorn in the throat The morning grows and fades away, and the day turns into a thorny boundary , villages are growing into cities, arrows, bows, and horns have become show pieces in the drawing room. The sun is writhing and the evening darkens.
9 What is this place? Who is this new Yaksha sitting with Yakshi, and talking to clouds? Is it heaven or earth? Is it colour or sheer loveliness? Unlimited is the sky, sourness dipped in salt. Silence is eloquent; trees have started showing the picture stories, with the help of wooden puppets. See there, a tired, pregnant mother, holding her child on her knee, a yellow parrot, 311
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pecking at the yellow leaves: this is the company tree with red, red flower. There in the distance is a feast for trees with yellow, brown and red leaves. Emotions are cooking in the pot of the valley. Invitation to death, " Are you coming?" in a sweet voice. She started thinking, "Come, come, O come," the string started getting broken, till the last thread, but somebody is pulling back the urge to return There will be some Yakshaviii on the seashore, What a strange union of death and beauty, whether it is the Kerala sea or the Chhattisgarh valley.
10 Poetry is not iron, but cuts the iron. In iron there is no poetry, but the sharpness of poetry. The heart is connected with the iron city , weaving the nest with poetry. Here the trees. the birds also, with the chirping with fluttering. 312
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Here there are clouds, mango groves, neighbours and their secret talks- sometimes the birds build their nest on the electric post, by saying ..no" to the inviting branches and scolding the coolness of shadows, they challenge the burning sun. There is poetry in iron, may be something special
11 Like bubbles of the soda melts the intimacy, till the friendship gets solid Newness always invites but the cry of being left laughs at the terror. One seed always remains Sand gets sprouted There are so many waving hands saying farewell, some from the near ones, some who wanted to be near. In the dream a number of ghosts are waving. and the souls are fighting with the ghosts 313
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the return to rebirth may be something like this, entering into the earth colour from the beauty of the sky.
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Dr. Rati Saxena – Rati Saxena is a Poet, Translator, and Editor. She is a student of culture, history and ancient literature, and philosophy by passion. Thus her soul is wandering in these different directions. Being the student of Vedic studies in honours and Masters, having done PhD on subject related to Atharvaveda, she has worked more in restudy of ancient literature. In this direction, her work under Indira Gandhi Fellowship is – ―The seed of mind - A fresh approach to Atharvaveda‖ study along many articles for journals. She has six collections of poetry in Hindi and four in English (Translated or rewritten). She has translated fifteen books mostly from Malayalam to Hindi, and five poetry books (International poets) from English to Hindi. Being a natural traveler, she has two travelogues in her credit. She has also written a Memoire- ―Everything is past tense‖ about Ayyappa Paniker‘s poetic journey and one book of criticism on Balamanyaama‘s poetry. Her book on poetry therapy came out with Hawakal publications, - A fist which opens, a poetry therapy from distant past to present future. Her poetry books have been translated into many internationals languages like Italian, Irish, Vietnamese, Spanish, Estonian, Serbian, English and Turkey languages by international poets. She has been invited to more than 30 poetry festivals. She has been in three residencies in Germany and China. Member of the journal‘s editorial board Multilingual Journal of Literature and Opto-Art ―WürZarT,‖2. She is member of an international scientific board, experience in musical and literary fields (www.squilibri.it). Her poem was also part of space mission by Jaxa, Japan, along with 24 other poems. She is not a big award catcher, still a few came to her automatically -Fellowship by Indira Gandhi National Centre for Arts in 2004-5, Sahitya Akademi Award for Translation 2000, State Bank of Travancore Award for poetry 2001, Naji Naaman‘s Literary Prizes (International) for complete work 2016, DJS Translation award for Chinese poetry (DJS is the acronym in Chinese for (Emily) Dickinson, the American woman poet) 2018, and best poet of the year by Rajasthan Patrika Award biggest in the country for signal poem. 315
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i Kumkum, a red power used on the forehead ii Rice , used on forehead along with kumkum iii Moha means affection, raag means attachment and virag means detachment iv From very small to very large v There is a story that a great poet Vamiki Wrote the Great Epic ― Ramayan‖ After watching a bird killed by hunter and watching , ho her beloved was crying on her death vi Madhuca longifolia is an Indian tropical tree found largely in the central and north Indian plains and forests. It is commonly known as madhūka, mahuwa, mahua, mahwa, mohulo, or Iluppai or vippa chettu. vii A gotul is a spacious tribal hut surrounded by earthen or wooden walls. It is an integral part of Gond and Muria tribal life in regions of Chhattisgarh and the neighboring areas in Madhya Pradesh, viii Yaksha, also spelled yaksa, Sanskrit masculine singular yakṣa, Sanskrit feminine singular yakṣī or yakṣinī, in the mythology of India, a class of generally benevolent but sometimes mischievous, capricious, sexually rapacious, or even murderous nature spirits who are the custodians of treasures that are hidden in the earth and in the roots of trees
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Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsen
All paintings are gifted to the Silk Road Literature Series by the Egyptian iconic artist Dr. Abd Elwahab Abd Elmohsenwho. He has been a practitioner of art since the 1970s until this very day. His work is often inspired by nature and his experiments mainly evolve around the constant trial of new and different materials, techniques and mediums. He has participated in many international graphic events including Triennial and Biennale events in Kraków, Poland; Norway; Yugoslavia; Japan; India; Switzerland, and Egypt in both Cairo and Alexandria.He established Al Burollos Forum for Painting on Walls and Boats; inviting artists from Egypt and abroad to paint live in the northern village of Al Burollos on the Mediterranean. 317
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