poetry

poetry 5-24

Alby Raymond Parackal Insight

India

Reign of love…

For some reason you are upset with me for a couple of days

Reign of love, seems mysterious in this lifetime, Reigning always blowing hot and cold as prime; Really hate talking it’s stand unknown to blame, Righteous stance on human rights blightesome! Rarely emotional support of lovely bend regime, Right part with in logical conclusions all aflame; Righteous think about as conclusive in outcome, Rightly seen as human aberrations of lonesome!

Rarefied truth, of earthly living room so sublime, Rectify trances, transcends in life, cumbersome; Ransack trust of hearty thoughtful venturesome, Rational soulful humane treatment take to tame! Although I don‟t know the reason I guess it right You haven‟t spelled it out I too haven‟t asked you We have taken opposite positions

Silence is chatting between us Maybe the conversation is called the battle of nerves

Bloodless without arms this is the most difficult battle

On earth it is the best person who wins this battle again

and again It is the one who ends this silent battle is ever defeated

You want to be the winner Me too don‟t want to be the loser

Guna Moran

India 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. So the distance between us is widening (Original Assamese poem titled “Antardarshan”) Tr. Nirendra Nath Thakuria

First Lesson

Sitting hunched at the hearth of useful knowledge she toasted her ashen eyes

6

through the gaps of her fingers and very often said You are my unique achievements of my sacrifice for long ten months and ten days By birth you’ve got a beautiful earth besides the vastsky So you must be generous like the sun and tolerant like the earth

At my birth I cried Maybe I got the pains of my mother Since thenI have had tears in my eyes in happiness and sorrow of people One can‟t help crying whose only companion at birth was tears It was gleaming with the gaze

Affection is dumb Affection is deaf Affection for You

That honeyed word „Maa‟ was my first honeyed word Since then I‟ve blurted out „Maa‟ unawares whenever I sit down or stand up Like a speaker it did not speak about the matter like a listener it did not listen to

Till the moment of parting it kept waiting in the eyes

In the thick green of the desolate woods A tune is ringing faintly

Gazing at the eyes I want to see

Is it still alive

Oh dear

No way, no way

My birth is my mother‟s sacrifice I must be made for sacrifice An ingrate I can‟t be Cleaving the heart comes out a curious sigh

My happiness lies in my mother‟s happiness My sorrow lies in my mother‟s sorrow Never can I be happy

He is the lone custodian of happiness whose main assets are the sun and the earth (Original Assamese poem titled “Adipath Tr. Nirendra Nath Thakuria In the teary gaze is it still alive (Original Assamese poem titled “Anurag tomar babe”) Tr. Nirendra Nath Thakuria

Joanna Svensson Josefsson

Sweden

On the other side of the mirror

The silent, bashful morning Kissed me very softly On my long time longing forhead And it whispered in my ear That today would be so special Yes, a most peculiar day It happens very often That I find myself standing Standing on the other side On the other side of the mirror Many people really doubt The existense of this other side But on this side where I stand Is where everything is real There is no place for just maybe’s The unsprung words tell us so What’s unreal in this real world Is most real on this other side O, mirror of the furute! Where no needs to say ThatI’m odd or I am different In any other way Where silence sings Its silent, graceful songs In a language so vey seldom That it actually doesn’t exist But still a language That I’ve heard So many many Times before And it’s possible Just because I don’t question What I hear I just let Myself be taken To be led To the other side Where I will see And re-live So much more Than anyone I keep my senses All wide open Regardless of What others say Regardless rules Regardless time

I know the other side Do exist The other side Is all my rescue And I am often there On the other side To regain! Kamal Dhungana

India

The Red

You always disliked it; the RED color I found out later, you had always disliked those red roses of valentines. I wrote to you with my blood. Youdisliked those red love letters. You even disliked the red sindoor, I had brought to adorn you. One day You, caught in an accident; were in need of blood. After your relatives' refusal, how come you accepted my blood? How did you like your colorful life survived with my blood? After all, that too was RED in color!

Swapna Borthakur Jorhat Clive Norman

Assam

In rainy day

United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland

Blood, sweat and tears

8

There are drops of rain falls with musical rhythm My mind also bath in rainy day and then vast of possibility Coming in my eyesight Ya, the leafs become turn in to green with green leafs The trees are says about hopeful dreams of the land The hard workers Who are says about their dream of future Who are says about their crops field Who are says about struggle of native people In rainy day With perhaps and hopeful dreams I am also falls again love My love with green leafs My love with their crops field My love with the hard workers Who has never broken their heart again, In rainy day all possibility Coming in my eyesight and I am began fulfill with a dream With love and purity of mind. Few are willing to listen As humankind’s pathetically preoccupied While incessantly jostling for a better, nonexistent humanoid life Relentlessly craving glittering, worthlessly desirable glimmering objects Fairy-tales of self-fulfilling golden pots, mysteriously evaporating beneath cloudy mystifying rainbows While humankind’s insatiably selfperpetuating appetites Wrangling for individually self-indulgences, of materialistically accumulated vanities In self-serving, everevolving fiendishly untenable natures of humanity’s present legacy Leaving nothing but destructively weeping carnage, a devastating trail of sore, earthy bleeding and festering wounds A far-reaching, diabolical residue of disturbing negligence’s Irrationally ever-flowing pain and sufferances, in a stampeding, relentlessly streaming growth of humankind’s populace The populous not ready, to take an everdeepening breath, awakening in selfrealisations, of blanketing noxious demonic devastating destruction OF SELF-CREATED, SELF-PERPETUATING GRATIFICATIONS, RIDICULOUSLY STANDING IN SWEEPING, SEEPING –BLOOD, SWEAT AND ETERNALLY FLOWING UNIMAGINABLY UNWANTED TEARS!

Prof Dr. Nar Deo Sharma Rezauddin Stalin

India As a Professor of English, I have taught literature, linguistics, practical criticism in colleges for 20 years. I have two poetry books to my credit and many literary awards for which I attach my bio-file and photo for your perusal.

Bangladesh

Days of Crucifixion

Translated by: Kushal Bhowmick Blood spilled in this Eastern chapter How indifferently the history observing everything.

Glimpses of grief

The residents of old people’s home Open the doors at every knock to Share their eclectic array of agonies.

Here the old people Skeletal scarecrows, fagends of energy Bereft of loving care Prefer the visits by strangers To be caressed with Fine feel of love. Old people outdo One another when They pour out tormenting wrongs Contrived by their selfish dears and nears: The old people have to wear The tatters of frayed affections Those reek of impiety.

The old people often snuggle In the shrunk quilt of memories Of affectionate past to warm up Ugly cold of old age. The Cursed sun survey the life The rock curved city hear the footsteps Shadow of bustards lying on the wounds of rivers How many night's smiles rot under the moon

Life is a wake up silence The emptiness of stinking existence The beach of our nightmares Noon wrapped in sunshine No morning finds a place at the breakfast table Eyes walking with mass on the shoulders of trees

Rain cries all on a sudden Nobody cares The noise escapes on the footsteps of citizens There is no saviour The skeleton is coming down from the cross The motionless vehicle splits and splits

(2)

Our abstract freedom ignores partnership Before blood clots, democracy wants to escape And before breakdown The sun knees down in front of hunger

10

Wheat crushing mill Paddy threshing machine Grinding oil Called for a strike The mystery fell from the peak of labour Wants to suffocate the call of the rooster And wants to spellbound the tigers of the zoo

(3)

So much anger and resentment in the western chapter Hundreds of crores will have to be carried

Who hangs opium roots behind the night And provocative bribes the doors of the brothel Dash lingers behind the untreated dead Nobody can escape Crown of thorns on the head of theroad The streets have been smashed Amendment news has been embedded in the wig Meaningless gossip comes out of the television Violent Africa moving ass from behind

The dead bodies of the trees have not been buried yet The coffin nail has been bent with ahammer The graves are panting The mourners are given torch brand sunlight People are rushing The middle class The lower class The landless They are not addicted to alcohol mixed with water Advertisements are being woven into women's breast The camera revolves around the devil's tail Abehayat has been mixed with sweat The security seal has been stamped on the back

(4)

Life is on the knees of bureaucrats The dream of survival revolves around the stomach of the broken alley The feet are stuck in the tears of the clay The city of the sky sewn with rain The torn shame is more intense The days of the cross are more passionate A non-stop journey of pain.

Where they go- the grandpa, father and son The cockroach wants to be Didolas, the King of the sky The state is growing by tearing the history apart Philosophy is hidden in the garbage of humiliation Every night the sorrows are being driven out of the city

(5)

The voice of Norther part Will compose the words like lighting

Now the pet brokers of democracy took command over respect Giving them back, including the embryos And with the screams of the unknown YouTube, Wall, Twitter Online Facebook

Television... are floating They never find paternity The guards have taken away all the tears of the night The statement of the intellectuals is callous in the last column of newspapers The human soul smiles on its knees And cries silently And blows the flute of conscience

Standing on the bull's horn, the earth shook The world, sleeping on thetail of a snake The world revolving around hungry tigers And the Priest are harassed in searching good men at the end of the world The extremist are conducting a postmortem on the tongue of agony

Hundreds of holes are covering the shame inside the Cībar Jesus himself is in trouble Making his own cross The red and white particles of blood are rotting incessant

(6)

All ridiculous comforts are becoming coal And Honuman is covering the Sun The Moon is grabbed by Gandhamadan Now the heat of the motherland is increasing due to mercury Fever is being measured with a huge rainbow thermometer Hundreds of Hallaj are being born from the lava of shame

(7)

Across the southern section, fierce leopards And hundreds of terrible snakes are on the way

The martyred trees are honoured without any memorial Clouds play conch over head The Suns makes uludwani Becoming thunders, the Moons strikes the eye The madness of life is prehistoric The stairs of heaven are being dugout of the abyss Inauguration against death Inauguration against waiting Inauguration against dreams The eagle of Zeus is circling Over the heads of all Prometheus of the world Hera has given all the pregnant women a star crucifix

Hephaestus is making germ weapons by melting swords Mintor has gathered all

the grain in his cave Cyclops chases pets into the abyss

Surrealistic dream is fleeing from the pages of poetry Nature has found refuge on the canvas The bird that knew the artist Never come to earth from Sky The river that knew the name of the poet The page of his flowness turned upside down the mud […]

Deepika Singh

12

India The essence of illusion life

Short Bio

Deepika Singh from Margherita Assam India, qualification- M.A, B.Ed, teacher by profession. Much of my writings are reflections, thoughts and observations of my personal journey of self exploration. She believe that right words can change our society. Some of her poems also got featured in Bharata Vision, The Poet Magazine, Web Poesia, Womensweb, The Literary Mirror, Atunis galaxy poetry etc.

Pave the way

The bunker life was blissful. Cuddling with mother, tight stock and good sleep, Calm nature, chirpy birds, so serene Nature burst with joy. This limited life made us Pollyanna . This adverse life taught us to be resilient. Giving an aid to needy, doting towards animals. Morning sunbeam made us independent. Plug into online classes. Charged up for work from home. The trapped life made the bonding muscular. This caged journey made us explore within the limited. This paralyzed life I gave soul to my ink, And heart to my beloved brushes. Pain is inescapable, Empower in pain. Rise in distress, broaden your horizon. Paint your anatomy. And get a brand new yourself.

Like a nimbus cloud, Some thoughts came passing by. Life is an illusion. Sometimes it gives us millions of signs, Signs of rainbow happiness. The heavy rain wash away all our worries, And soon spring rejoice. Seeing the azure blue sky, We tap our feet,

We spread our wings of exhilarating joy, Our flight of joy takes us to another world But as life is an illusion, Soon happiness starts to fade. And we entangle with our problems, We fight, we struggle, Oh! It’s killing, We struggle to create a

place in the society. A man’s life is like the weather, Sometimes it brings cloud of sadness, Sometimes it brings rays of happiness. Life is something, We have yet to discover, Joys, sorrows everything, That lives in our fate. Life is an illusion, Life is a mystery, That we have to solve.

Francesca Ghiribelli

Italia

Misunderstood tremor fed, lived hung up, never given up.

Docile deluge of lovers whispers, incomprehensible tangles, tampered with misunderstandings, senseless crimes.

Ancient madness, rough stone of diamond essence, precious breeze of dew bathes in the soul the earth.

Mystical, pressing taciturn, wandering, brooding look of sky drenched and the sea becomes mouth of arrival.

Barefoot and on foot you come out of breath on the threshold of the heart to write about fire every breath and verse.

Mild and stormy you are a caress of skin to die of love in the splendor of the stars.

Ecstatic, dejected six flower crown on marble of memories, but for you love, I would die nonstop just to love of infinity your eyes looking for me Once again.

Die for love

Lightning strike

I saw you in the light of angels that evening your face illuminated me with immense, you seem so much the celestial dawn of a clear day. You fascinated me with the perfume of almond trees in bloom, you are the mirage of an ancient splendor, looks like the darkness of a summer night, where a great peace dwells. The music of your song lulls me in the desire for a kiss in the wind he plays

poetry that creates between you and me a sweet alchemy. You're a myth or maybe a legend, the man who is born between heaven and earth. The graceful and pious soul grown in the caress of the sea only of those who still know how to love. A tear in the rainbow in the storm, love at first sight at the window. Sigh stolen from silence, nostalgic cry of time.

14

Laila Murad

Syria (kurd)

Women

Glow, you are my lady You are fire and light A marine pearl, Strong castle, Soft herb… Do not be broken My book of Love, Aromatic flower, A country inhabited by whoever befits you… You are the first of the alphabet, You are a lush garden, The seed to my life .. Life is You… The most beautiful dresses are You… The land is You… You give birth and raise the future… You are the moon and its light… Spring and its blossoms… You cry at joy… And laugh at the pain… You are silent in front of those you love .. Tolerance seeking peace. All life is You .. Women are the sisters of men. A purebred free bird… Flying with unrelenting dignity… Her heart is wild to human powers. A heart that never lives .. The sunlight, You .. The keys to the world You.. Oh man .. Take her hand .. Because she is your mother .. Your sister .. Your Sweetie.. Your lover ..

And your daughter .. Our life

Jean C Bertrand

Step-by-step

Selectable, top-notch Springs of gaiety Shining steps from The stars Carefully speeding

Running in the rain Peaceable, courageous Steps Stepping with grandeur Finest steps Merrymaking steps Suitable cheers Romantically, giggling Such a beauty Nervously, laughing Step-by-step, beginning to dance

Al-Hassan

Nigeria

I am a brave soldier

I’m a brave soldier I have got a battle to win And always remember I have to remain determined I really turned my heart into scare When heard the sound of gun boomed Dragged my ear in to the atmosphere As if a town was marching to a graveyard We all bobbed up belly wise „This is not a battle for the fainthearted” We both have to be willing to render the sacrifice Our sacrifice determine the life span of being legend Far away from abode Lost in another man’s territory With cold bloodied No person can hold a father’s fury All said it was time A time to move and search Searching for a new territory to claim In the midst of our search Our banners raised with songs of attack No retreat,no surrender I must be on track Because I am a brave soldier I ask for freedom for the ones that left Everything has to go peacefully one day No I am not in the state of deft So accept it with a graceful say The times of pain anddays of sorrow I still keep the faith For who has left was no less than a hero Someone who carved his own fate Don’t sing any song for me As I may not care Don’t cry for me I am a brave soldier with no fear!… Afrose Saad

Bangladesh

Sapphire blue realm!!!

Sapphire blue realm in the mind There all are reflected the bluish verse The azure holds only sparkling diamonds Reflection of the dreamy zone The ground makes the crescent zone Royal essence touches soul The rock makes the bluish staircase of gemstones Blushing all sites within mirror for mind’s satisfaction The ocean looks such a wonderful view No painful verse only the merriness shower A long distance the sanguine sun may wait Try to hide but can’t escape Shimmering the golden shades Paradise of peacefulbirth Sapphire blue casts such a majestic verse Dear heart can’t hold back just surrender

Giovanni Teresi Dr. Malak Nora Hammadi

Italy The song of love and friendship

Algeria

Black letters

16

We sing through the streets of the cities, in the din of the cars, the song that gathers the people in the friendship choir turning off the signs of futility. We sing, in cheerful notes, the love in unison among the silences of indifference, in the desert of the soul. We sing the good in chorus that envelops with pure beauty what God willed creating in gentle nature, by the soft colors of the dawns and in the darkness of the nights: men, women and children along the paths of peace. Let’s sing for it to happen, in joy, the brotherhood of true friendship. Friendship offered by a simple smile, from a tender caress, from an affectionate kiss to the people of different nations, to old grandparents, to parents, to naive children: our hope, our future. So let the harmonious notes soar on the staff of a different band. Humans love each other, and my love transcends the limits of nature I madly adore black letters who stole myself from me for a while And I stay in that place. Do you remember that, letters? That vanished corner inside us When the conversation between us was lengthy and not boring, when passion was stealing our eyes. When telepathy was the exchange between us .. reading was a pleasure … and the book was a picnic A second world parallel to ours devoid of all impurities is very pure From the trivialities of human beings … those who ran after the materialities of life carry their barefoot minds inside skulls that rode on bodies devoid of feelings There our beautiful world was absolutely free and everything was realistic It touches the essence of the truth, saturated with sincere feelings, where honesty was our title because there is no room for deceiving ourselves … When love is real, black letters, a phrase is written on his forehead .. sincere, there is no room for treachery .. In our world, O letters, loyalty is one of the rules of love, a clause approved and sealed and signed from pure hearts that do not bear the grudge of love and peace whose title is In our world, dear, the letters of justice are prevalent and the master of the situations

Juli Haque

Dacca

I will not leave you

Sleeping! Oh my god! woke up with a call to see! Fear! I’m Kulsum, you think the door is closed, How did I get in! You gave me this opportunity! If you fall in love at first sight I am so fascinated by my looks that, You can’t hold yourself back –If you get married in just three days! My father is poor, can’t give anything All told, you don’t want anything, All love is over before the end of the year! Everyone in the house agrees with the new punishment Dowry is not received. I also have to endure One day he kicked hard to protest, My three-month-old baby did not think anything in the stomach! Gradually your injury increased Double my protest. Diameter, Kicking you in the stomach and head I fell, bloody in the blood! When the soul goes to me When poison is poured into the mouth, To save themselves –When I told my father, I had a little argument I committed suicide by consuming poison !! Fighting all over the area! Everyone knows, Only parents say poor –If you survive on the strength of money! And notable people in the area To save the honor of his father, Asked to solve the greed of money –Parents did not agree to seek justice from the law! There was no benefit! Just stuckfor a few days, I don’t need law, I don’t need a court. I will finish you !! Busy arranging a new wedding! Will not fulfill your dream, What do you think? I have no existence, no power? These are your beliefs !! You can say I came with that power, You see what it is in my hand –You bought new sari for your new wife! Yeah Al that sounds pretty crap to me, Looks like BT aint for me either. To avenge the punishment and suffering of crime, No restrictions –Stay hanging like this until morning! I see your locals, the people of the house, the law of the land! How can they prove that I am your murderer! I know this will also send you to the postmortem as suicide –Wounds will hurt your beautiful body! Your relatives will cry in the same way! The way I cried, There will be no solution –Then your beauty and arrogance will continue

Nardine Sanderson

I slept in darkness under your skin

18

I could run through a meadow and never claim the end Dreams like that they always bend – you lay with starsin a permanent sleep, and love is an ocean configured deep I cannot count the starry nights, nor the stars behind your eye’s, I cannot hear your cries aloud, it comes as no surprise Burried in my dearest affection In the grounds of an uncharted place, in the midst of loves abrevent faith, though estranged Where has my soul embraced The union of our sin, I slept in darkness under your skin Still the light of every moon Adjusts in ways the night contours, among the dripping taps dismay –and still I find thelight of day amongst the shores Shall I speak the more of you To console the winters brim I touched the face of an asortted angel, and wished that you were him Some days longing is justified by your shivering of your death, it leaves the last taste of youupon my dying breath For what was the moment then cannot be of now But heaven only knows our trouble, in an untethered vow What escapes my lips to quoral at the skies, I etched myself a mountain in your thighs, only wake in a coocoon eternally warm For love is unjustly vacant and torn, though you represent the grounds I’m yet to walk, and confide I see you in my dreams that love provides and so I run towards your beauty bound, yet you fly my love, and my feet won’t leave the ground. Marivic Nemi

Price tag

What’s matter? If we don’t care,.. Overthinking

cause of unhappiness.. Trial and error for every beginning.. Snuggle thy amazing version.. As a soul of responsible.. Let the patience define you when you are nothing.. Let the attitude stay by your side., When you have everything., There are certain things that you could change. There is a certain areas, where you are blind to aspects ., You will have profit., By your own behavior. You can expand the world., By adopting set of beliefs., It’s OK to be lessthan perfect. at least you are doing your best . , it’s OK to be yourself. at least you are different., Make thyself valuable.. Thy price tag is not affordable.

Madhu Gangopadhyay

India

Cogitation...

I gaze at the mirror At times youplace a kiss And then like the dew drops Kissing the blade of a grass Clandestine, under the dark blanket: Vanish as the sun rushes To romance with the sky! I don't see you but my Lithe shape shiver and Blushing I close my eyelids Flushed with amour I chuckle Your invisible arms wrap me In their warmth I melt! The symphony of our opera Whispers in my ears The chiming of the Church Bell in the far, I hear clear! Those seraphic evenings Beside the lake where the fireflies play Andthe pearlystars descend To dance on the glassy,liltingfloor Warm breath mingling,clasped palms Gossamer of promises honey laced! That one fleeting vision Revived all! Those corridors in the core Incessantly resonate the yore! On life's barren shore Foolishly the heart beckons With the bygone conspires to elope! Dazzling Diana

The Lunar phase in the heart Wrecked, devastated, pitch dark, Unsure plunged in obscurity: Awaits healing: A fresh cycle Of life;the ringed tribulations Gingerly but assuredly the gloom dispel! The new moon enhances the Glamour of the distant stars The people ignored appear dear The mistakes enlarge clear! The Cresent is sighted in the core Inside the inner firmament awakens New hope! the waxing moon Each day bigger and brighter Until the luminous

intensity Overtakes theentirety of the being; The soothed heart celebrates the advent of Khonsu No matter what phase:Selene aka Diana gaze; The zeal inside passionately blaze! Like the indomitable phoneixbright In life the Lunar deity dazzlessorrows albeit!

Luciano Pellegrini

Italia

Goshen

Nu încetez să mă cațăr până la propriul goshen de când conștientizez paragini strâns de ecoul Inefabilului Non smetto di arrancare fino al mio goshen da quando coscienzio scampoli stretto dall'eco dell'Ineffabile

O mie de colibe trag sirena și toate își cer îndreptățirea în glumă sau cu forța Mille baite sirenano e tutte vogliono la loro ragione per gioco o per forza

Trag cu cramponul spre cea mai apropiată între furia văzduhului și spaima grabei

Dar nu reușesc s-o degust și din nou mă târăsc pe dibuitul urmelor cu forța sau în glumă În ciuda ungherelor nerușinate văpaie de frumusețe păstrez și simț în traistă până la nello zaino sino a Rampòno verso la più vicina fra la rabbia dell’aria e la paura del precipizio

Ma non riesco ad assopirmici e arranco di nuovo al tocco-ridosso delle orme per forza o per gioco

Nonostante viottoli scurrili ho fuoco d`altra bellezza e senso

Nu oaie nu lup ci îndrăzneață vrabie zdrobită de la un ram la altul

20

Înmugurit în sfera mea de flash și de umbră spionez râsetele cu fire de frac ce fâlfâie la acest cocktail de zile colecționate Şi savurez alte chances în chinul care transpare Non pecora non lupo ma coraggioso passero schiantato da un legno all`altro

Imbocciato nella mia sfera di flash e d'ombra spio le risa a fili di frac che garriscono in questo cocktail di giorni collezionati

E centellino altre chances nell'arrabattìo che traspare

Când simțul ticăitului aprinde foc în inimă acoperiți-vă cu floare de portocal și cu mierea privirilor voastre Quando il senso del battito fa fuoco sul cuore copritevi pure di zagara col miele dei vostri sguardi

Non thrillingate le albe che camminano né la patina del tempo andato nel gemellarvi bimbi dall'unico occhio

Sorriderete ebbri con l'indice puntato all'enfasi di margherite e vanesse nell'inseguimento solare

*** Olio a macchia è la quiete quando da lontano si smorzano al carminio le ore

Fra la congestione di peschi e diospiri soliloquio con la sagoma scorniciata che mi slucertola sotto i lampioni

Il sangue planctona anche se non lo quintessenso al sospirare dell'Amebeo nel limaccio e iperuranio

Nu înteţoşaţi zorile ce sunt pe cale nici patina timpului scurs în a vă îngemăna țânci cu singur ochi Veți surâde îmbătați cu arătătorul întins spre emfaze de margarete și de vanese în șerpuirea solară ***

Arome leneșe escortează printre danțuri ierboase potolind gâlceavă de dădacă cu proaspeții gemeni în nădragi prea scurți Contemplată în blânda agerime de a ierta-ndărătnic smiorcăielile se strânge ca vata scămoasă Mici ocheade și deschideri spre răsfețe ale acelei dintâi iubiri ce le-a depus luminii cu urletul-surâs

În gâlgâirea aceea împovărată o umbră singură pe poteca odihnitoare Aromi leniti scortano fra danze erbose adagianti litigio di tata coi frugoli gemelli a brache tagliate

Rimirata nell'acume attonito di cipiglioso indulgere ai brinci si stringe a ovatta squassata

Piccole code d'occhio e aprirsi ai daddoli di quel primo amore che li depose alla luce coll'urlo-sorriso

In quel gorgoglio onusto una sola ombra sulla callaia scianta

*** Ulei murdar este liniștea când de departe se domolesc orele la dărac Între combustia de piersici și lotuși solilocviez cu sagoma destrămată ce mă târăște pe sub felinare Sângele pulsează chiar dacă nu-l chintezesc sorbindu-l lui Amoebe în mocirlă și hiperuraniu

Tapaja Mitra Ross Olmos

India

Winter's song

Spain

22

That was the sunset day, Sunrise touches hand, Drowning to your inner world beautiful sunrise saw rohini star, I saw the beautiful light has spread near bisakha, anuradha and swati star, There was scare on my two legs, There was fire sphere in my two hands, Draghima line has to laid down near you, Decade after decade has gone, There is kapurush, arises, What will you give to him? Give him water of star, Give him the friendship like sudha-amal, Those who has gone, they are in the core of the heart, No painful picture everywhere, No picture of broken harmonium, Shameless sandhya malati flower has given the light, There was a song, which seven monks are singing in the east sky, It is prayer; Look, the cloud in the far To start vedic song, mantra chanting, Touching purbafalguni naksatra winter's song has started in the night of poush... we are a part of everything divine just like the sun and the moon of the soul is the flesh that breathes alive that lights up the sky the miracles of the heart's beginning the melody where true love abides just like the creator of stardust we also shine

Farhan Anjum

Heart beat

I like the roar of the waves But I’m just a rock On the shore of the sea You may love the waves of the sea But they are only throwing stones They return to their

original place Where the mermaid lives They ask, how do you write so well? I replied innocently. „With love and peace” You cannot live well unless you love Find a soul that loves with great love Is the heart beating fast? The golden pearl is hidden Somewhere in the heart of Matsyangri I also want to drown in deep water From where love gives birth to a new life The heart is not shivering

Punya Devi 1. Selma Kopic

"I Have Given Your Name Mountain"

Having seen your stability I have given your name Mountain............

Seeing my agility

You called me

River

You are standing in the same place

Gazing towards me

With a strong determination

And I have been floating down

Overcoming all obstacles

And temptation

Grief of separation between

Mountain and River

Is so much unfathomable

Which makes me lonlinessible

If drops of tear had wings

That might be flying to you

Then my sorrow would be

Easily understandable

It is not known to me

For what an invisible intervention

I could not be yours

Inspite of coming down from your

Silvery bosom

I am a river

Dynamicity is my identity

Providing fertility to the mankind

I am serving humanity

Yet I am embedded with

Eternal melancholy

Because I could not

Look back to you

The Mountain

Standing on the same position

With deep concentration

You are a saint

In meditation

Bosnia and Herzegovina Morning thoughts

My parents used to drink coffee early in the morning. It was part of the day just for them, with conversation and morning news. Father opens the curtain and watches the blossoming fruit trees. The room smells of morning coffee, a pleasant warmth radiating from the stove. Since we didn't used to get up early, the sisters and I would sometimes joinin to breathe the warmth of home, to breathe the love that the two of them had shared for years. They didn't like it. They needed those hours just for themselves. And yet they poured us coffee with a lot of milk and with a laugh complained that we were bothering them. Whenever I think of my parents, I imagine a warm room, a stove from which a fire crackles, the smell of coffee and the two of them facing each other on the sofa. And I miss all that, I miss them... It’s wonderful to share the morning thoughts, while the hot coffee smells from the cups.

24

Santosh Kumar Biswa The Rhythm of the Butterfly

Bhutan

My Love, let us grow well

My love, like the beamish sun of aurora As tender as the vitellus beaded by albumen Securely crusted by the shell to shield it firm, So does our outset love, infantile at this gait. Have it, be prudent and in sagacity we travel Like the rising sun so gently to spring mature With the fond warmth a chick needs to hatch Gradual at pace until the dusk for immortality.

My love, let us build the shell in this open air, Like clouds that stops the beam of the heat And waters the soil for greenery to flourish, To cast aside the dusty air that pollutes us, The roaring and the storm that peril our love. I shall be your Ceyx and you be my Halcyon Like the bond the sun have for the day And the moon for the night, so much devoted.

My love, let us design our arrow that Eros had, Under the sun filled with promises and love With the wings of pigeons that cast our heart To grow well, ne'er to be bartered outside And to savor the pleasing warmth of winter. Let me shine like the sun as Chivalrous Knight In your heart, to wait like the gracious Queen, For the love so virtuous, but not the death to stop. In every measure of life there is the rhythm. The rhythm unique in itself of struggle, grief, love, merriment and success.

The life comes in colors, the color so blissful in the pattern of rhythm like the butterfly that takes hold of our mind.

It is graced by the everlasting nature that disseminate the profound rhythmic power to make it look like the butterfly, so catchy in anyone's eyes.

In time, life becomes strong, other times fragile. We cherish and sob, but the spirit still goes on sometime to throb -and sometime with delight.

Man is a Biped without Feathers

Oh man! Whilst biped, I infract Aristotle, Erstwhile, the claim Diogenes knocked of Plato. Thou art adorned for nugatory as quadrupeds For the flaws are vivid as same as the beast.

No more immortality, thy soul possesses now For thy desire so vague, thou art the reclusive. Thy ideal comport looks dim with no feathers

For thou sold thy instinct, no spirit remains.

Praise the God for feathers, to fly like birds And to read minds for virtues that're mislaid For thy conscience, all brunt, you know not anyone, To fortify thy biped in pride as high as the Alps.

The Poetry of Men

The poetry of men isn’t syrupy any longer When the esurient world holds its intent To drive men's mind wild, sentient mentation Of desolate humility upon humanity to hymn. The stinginess held moldered their scruples, No fraternity rest, no fess to see, they got wild. The race turned stiff for anyone to gasconade Rich men climb and poor are left to scramble.

The poetry of men ne'er is boosting to modify Like the candle, the wax being kept depleting, True hell rests in the heart, the love to freeze. Everyone appears like Adam's unruly wife; The character fully self-absorbed and rigid Like an owl that sings the strain of bad omen. The ancient Welsh yet to come again to reign With their owl, so boon, to mend poetry soon.

Success to adopt you Poem as Oyster

Oh, Poetry! Here I compare you with Oyster For thecosmos, similar in kind of miscellany. At times, you appear weird in your contents But porcelain white from inside like an Oyster To heal like a doctor through your words Like Oyster does to fill through its pearls.

When not in the mood, I see you vivid ugly As ugly as Oyster in appearance to get word, But, as it extracts, foods from water, over its gills You too extract my instinct to heal my mind And fix me an ugly duckling for a new day.

As Oyster, you switch your gender over time, To suit in the psyche of people and their type, And boost our mind as Osyter does with zinc Through your verse rich in knowledge to heal.

Many critics come and work, But you remain for success to adopt you. Whatever they did to you, let it go, You on your side to stay steadfast Because one day you are going forward And to precede them and shine In better radiation than others.

They point at you not because they're the best But, because they hold the weak mind That concern about being voted out. Thus, accept the lifeto move at its own pace, And you in your own with little elbow grease To add to it for a better day to lead you And they in their own position to remain.

Cristina Frangulea Mladen M. Tokić

Romania

My muse

Croatia

Riddle of the Sphinx

26

My muse is my nature Full of colour And I describe on paper Every shape in its beauty.

My muse is the man himself With his soul in colors I desccribe in him poetry If he's a wonderful man.

My muse is the ocean What flows incessantly With his waves,waves I painted a picture.

My muse is any flower With its living petals I describe it in poetry Even in pots. Created who knows when Sculpted in the stone On the bank of the river Nile On hot sand Where the boy fingers play At light source Where the smile of the sun On your face

Extinguishes the riddle darkness

Created who knows when You have existed for centuries Lonely gueen of the sun As you look at the sky In your eyes In the bosom On your lips The water source is

mirrored The riddle and the winds dance Pharaoh's dance

Created who knows when You defy the looks of the curious And thirsty passers-by The call of Pharaoh The step is yours

My soul sister

I have a soul sister And I am grateful to get She helps me,she guides me, Like a bigger sister It's a beautiful gift That life gave me I can't be written in words Sometimes,the whole life Can be written in words.

Translated from Croatian by Mladen M. Tokić

prose 25-30

Šahdo Bošnjak

Bosna i Hercegovina Roman: Mokropoljske Magle

3. Poglavlje

Majka je morala dobro da ga protrese prije negoli joj je pošlo za rukom da ga razbudi. Otvorio je najzad oči i onako bunovan i uplašen upitao: –Šta je, zašto me budiš?! – Sejfula, sine, ustani. Već je šest sati. Znaš da moraš poći u pekaru, uraditi neke poslove. Odmah se razbudio, umio i stao spremati za polazak. Emko je već sjedio za stolom, iščekujući majku i brata, dok je sestra Esma pohađala četvrti razred i već se nalazila na putu ka školi. Majka je skrivala suze iznoseći pred sinove komadić jučerašnjeg hljeba i kajganu od dvoje jaja. Već je peti dan da je niko ne zove da šta uradi. Do Emkine tanke plaće još je pola mjeseca, a u kući ni bijelog dinara. Novčanih obaveza se nakupilo kao rijetko kad. Kod trgovca Ibre već se i prezadužila, dižući potrepštine na veresiju. I sad ju je stid pojaviti se pred Ibrinim očima, a kamoli još šta i potraživati na poček. Na sebe nije ni mislila i bukvalno je gladovala, čuvajući ono malo hrane za sinove. A nakon tankog doručka oni su pošli za svojim obavezama: Emko u dućan, a Sejfula u pekaru. Ostavši sama, Fahra je sjela na stari otoman, podnimila glavu rukama i tiho jecala. Razmišljala je o svom tegobnom životu i nesretnoj vezi s Ciganinom Mehom. Eto, posluživala je u Gerdovoj kafani i zarađivala taman toliko da bi uz dječiju pomoći uz Ibrino razumijevanje i veresiju jedva sastavljala kraj s krajem. Ali je šesti dan što je sa svojih putešestvija iznenada, kao i uvijek, bahnuo Ciganin. Džepovi su mu bili puni novca pa se njime i razbacivao. Laskavim riječima i mnogobrojnim razmetljivim obećanjima mamio ju je na nepoznata putovanja čak tamo do Mađarske i Rumunije, pa i dalje, “u obilazak čitavog svijeta”, kako bi govorio. Tjerao ju je da pije alkohol kako bi je lakše obenđijao i privolio na takvu odluku. Jedva je uspjela, posljednjim krajičkom svoje trijezne svijesti, da se nečujno iskrade iz kafane i tako mu umakne. On ju je privolio na preljubu. Naučio ju je gatati u karte, piti alkohol i još koječega. Da li je kriva? Hm, o tome ne želi razmišljati. Da li se kaje? Ne, nipošto. Da li je moglo biti drukčije? A da je moglo, pa bilo bi... Čovjek katkad u životu zaista nema izbora. Čini mu se da ima samo jedan put kojim, hoće-neće, mora poći. Jedan jedini, koji mu pruža kakvu-takvu nadu. Svi drugi su očigledan sunovrat. Nebo bez sunca. More bez bonace. Bolest bez ozdravljenja. Pa i taj jedini, kojim se mora poći, ne garantuje ništa. I na njemu možeš biti i kralj i prosjak. I pukovnik i pokojnik. Zašto ju je muž morao napustiti, i nju i djecu? Da je on tu, uz njih, sve bi bilo drukčije. I lakše. Naslanjali bi se jedno na drugo, pomagali bi jedno drugom, bodrili bi se i bili bi jedno drugom onaj jezičak na vagi koji uvijek prevagne u njihovu korist, kad treba pobijediti kakvu golemu nedaću. Bili bi, bili bi sve... Ne, ona nije kriva. Ako je neko kriv, onda je to, bez sumnje, on, Adem. I za sve grijehe koje počini, ako su grijesi, neka

28

odgovara on, a ne, nikako ona. Iz razmišljanja je trže ženski glas. Neko ju je dozivao s dvorišta. Pogledala je kroz nezastrto krilo kuhinjskog prozora. Vani je stajala Hanija, djevojka što je također služila kod Gerda. –Uđi –pozvala ju je jedva čujnim glasom i išaretom ruke. Hanija uđe i tiho se spusti na ponuđeno mjesto na otomanu, tik do nje. –Sestro, oprosti ako smetam. Poslao me Parip. Zove te da dođeš kod njega u kafanu. Ima nešto važno i lijepo da ti kaže. Želi djeci dati nešto novca, a tebe neće prisiljavati da pođeš s njim. I rekao je: ako li ne dođeš, doći će on ovamo i onda ti se loše piše. Pa ti sad sama odluči šta ti je činiti. A ja moram poći jer sam na radnom mjestu. Dozna li gazda gdje sam, mogao bi me najuriti, jadna ti sam. Hanija odjuri, a Fahra se dade u razmišljanje. Znala je da je zlo i otići i ne otići. Od dva zla –koje je manje? Oči su joj bile crvene od plača. Osjećala se nezaštićenom poput travke pred dinosaurom. “O, dragi Bože, ima li te?! Ako ima, zašto si dozvolio da silnici vladaju slabijim, nezaštićenim bićima, da vladaju situacijama i cijelim dunjalukom?! Pa ko će da nas zaštiti, ako Ti nećeš? Svi su me izdali pa još ako i Ti!...” I u trenu odluči poći. “Bude li me maltretirao, bolje da to bude gore, u kafani, nego ovdje, u kući. Mogla bi doći i djeca. Ne želim da to vide. Ako će biti zlo, bolje da bude što dalje od kuće.” Bila je čvrsto odlučila –neće poći s njim, od kuće i djece, ni po koju cijenu. Pružit će mu otpor, pa šta god da bude. Sjedio je na sećiji prekrivenoj tankim šiltetom, očekujući je. Bio je siguran da će doći. Znao je da nema izbora. Trebaju joj novci, a ni batine joj baš ne prijaju. Pred njim na niskom hastalu nalazila se hrana i piće: vruće janjeće pečenje, pečeno pile, narezani komadi crne pogače, masnog sira, luka, paprike te biber i so; a od pića rakija, bosanska šljiva, i nekakva “brlja”, od šljiva bjelica. Bio je predusretljiv kao rijetko kad.Ličio je hijeni u lanetovoj koži, dok je tepao: –A gdje si ti, ljepotice?! Gledala ga je mrko i, ne vjerujući njegovim prijetvornim riječima, samo promucala: –Evo me. Govori što si me zvao?! – Ama, polahko, živote moj. Kud se žuriš? Pred nama je dug dan. Sve ćeš saznati. Kao prvo, hodi sjedi svom dragom u krilo –rekao je i pljesnuo se rukama po natkoljenicama. Ona je šutjela, okrenuvši se na drugu stranu. On je naglo ustao, zgrabio je za ruku i, nimalo nježno, posadio na krilo. Pokušala se opirati, ali bezuspješno. Bila je uplašena, a mozak joj otkazao poslušnost. On je to iskoristio, natjeravši je da popije čašicu rakije. Tutnuo joj je u ruke pileći batak, govoreći: – Podmaži malo grlo, lakše će kliziti rakija. Čim popiješ još koju, dat ću ti novac da kupiš djeci hranu i sve što treba. A i ja više volim piti u lijepom društvu nego sam. “Koja lopuža i dvoličnjak!”, pomislila je. “Kako sam samo nasjela na njegove laži i laskanja, prokleta neka sam!” Nastojala je ustati i suprotstaviti se. Ljutito je podviknula: –Ne treba mi od tebe ništa! Pusti me da idem!

–Nigdje ti ne ideš! –otkresao je grubo. Nastalo je hrvanje, a zapljuštali su i prvi šamari. Na nos joj je udarila krv, taman kad su u kafanu stali pristizati gosti na prvu jutarnju “švapsku” kahvu. Uglavnom su to bili sinovi lokalnih gazda, aga i begova. Njihovi očevi prve kahve bi ispijali u Hamzinoj mehani. Tatinim sinovima je svaka vrsta zabave dobro došla, pa makar bila i ne znam kako okrutna. Zato se uz glasan smijeh, pljeskanje rukama i otvoreno navijanje za “Cigu”, moglo čuti odobravanje: –Aferim, Paripe! Svaka čast, junače! Znaš ti kako se krote divlje kobile, he, he!... Pošto joj je na silu ugurao u usta i salio čašicu alkohola, džambas Meha odlučno reče: – Ti, Fahro, večeras, s prvim mrakom, polaziš sa mnom u moj ciganski život. I to... kao moja žena! Ovaj put idemo u Italiju. S konjima, razumije se. Ostat ćemo oko dvije sedmice. Sad kad se navikneš, sljedeće putovanje će ti lakše pasti. Udarajući ga pesnicama po licu, ona je vrisnula i kroz bolni plač odbrusila: –Nikud s tobom neću poći! Ni po cijenu života, gade ciganski! Istog trena dobila je udarac po ustima. Od siline udarca izletio joj je jedan od sjekutića, kao da je katapultiran, i završio na prašnjavom drvenom podu. U kuhinji je radila Hanija, a u kafani je konobarisao Nurko, godinu-dvije stariji od Emke, s kojim je bio prijatelj i često se družio. Neprimijetno je napustio kafanu i potrčao u Ibrinu trgovinu, udaljenu kojih dvjesta metara. –Gdje je Emko?! –pitao je uzbuđeno. U tom času Emko je u skladišnoj prostoriji kupio i vagao šećer iz većih vreća u fišeke od kilograma i pola kilograma, i čuo je Nurkine riječi. Ulazeći u dućan, opazio je Nurku svega usplahirenog. Kratko je upitao: –Šta me trebaš, jarane? –Došao sam da ti javim da Parip u kafani tuče tvoju mater. Ama, budi oprezan i ne igraj se s njim. Znaš kakav je asija i nabodica!... Emko ništa ne reče već bez razmišljanja dograbi veliki nož, što se nalazio na pultu i služio za sječenje hljeba i drugih artikala, i koliko ga noge nose potrča prema Gerdovoj kafani. Sa zebnjom u srcu za njim je žurio Nurko, koji se već pokajao što je o događanju u kafani obavijestio Emku. ”Čovjek ne bi trebao nešto da učini prije negoli dobro razmisli o posljedicama. No, sad je kasno za kajanje. Jer: Da je pamet do kadije kao od kadije, ne bismo kadiji ni išli!” –brujala mu je kroz glavu narodna poslovica. Za to vrijeme Emko se kroz svjetinu radoznalaca i besposličara, što se brzo iskupljala, probijao ka Mehinom hastalu. Poput brzog voza kroz glavu mu je tutnjala samo jedna misao: “Ubiti gada! Ubiti gada! Ubiti ga!...” Ciganin je u stojećem položaju, okrenut bočno svjetini, pokušavao sasuti još jednu čašu rakije u Fahrino grlo. Dok se hrvao s njom, bio je sasvim zaokupljen i nije primijetio Emkin dolazak. – Zašto se siliš nad mojom majkom, siledžijo?! – pitao je Emko srdito i kroz suze što su vrcale na sve strane. Ispustivši Fahru naglo na sećiju, Meha se

30

polahko okretao pridošlom mladiću. Ali, bilo je kasno da spriječi ono što je uslijedilo. Prvi udarac dobio je u lijevi bok, tik iznad kuka. Na licu mu se pojavila grimasa zaprepašćenja, nevjerice i bola. Drugi ubod je bio silovit, posred stomaka, samo malo iznad pupka. Nož mu je ostao u rani, dok se on uhvatio za prestravljenu Fahru, a zatim se, s grčem neopisivog bola, niz sećiju splazao na pod, prevrnuvši pritom hastal s ostacima jela i pića. Pao je poleđuške, zagledan u Emku, kao da vidi meleka Azraila, koji je došao da ga s dušom rastavi pa se sad dvoumi: da li da to učini ili ne. Neko je odmah obavijestio Hitnu pomoć i Žandarmerijsku stanicu. Stigli su gotovo istovremeno. I dok su bolničari provjeravali da li je Meha živ i ukazivali mu prvu pomoć, žandari su sasvim izgubljenom, kao hipnotisanom Emki stavljali na ruke lisice i grubo ga gurali ka izlazu iz kafane. Majka je bila polumrtva, ali je naglo oživjela i potrčala da otima sina od žandara. Oni su joj puškama branili da mu se približi. Sad je bio njihov. Njihovo vlasništvo. I imali su više prava nad njim od rođene matere. Zapravo, odsad oni za njega jamče vlastitim životima. Zato: “Odbij!” –čulo se oštro upozorenje iz njihovih zadriglih grla.

Ispravljajući se u sjedeći položaj, Sejfula se jasno sjećao svega što mu se dešavalo tog dana. I narogušenog neba, bremenitog prvim snijegom, koji se mogao očekivati svakog trena, i kako je morao ujutro najprije drvenim kolicima iz počišćene peći prevesti pepeo na određeno mjesto, i, naročito, kad mu je pekar Salko naredio da pečene i izvađene hljebove prenosi i reda na za to namijenjene rafe. Prethodno je odrezao komad hljeba, na papir nasuo malo soli i dao Sejfuli da pojede. A njemu se učinilo da nikad u životu nije pojeo nešto slađe i ukusnije, nego što je taj vrući i mirisni komad hljeba. Uto je u pekaru nahrupila sredovječna žena, koju nije poznavao, a koja je očigledno bila redovita Salkina mušterija. Već s vrata je zavapila: – Ma, dragi Salko, što se ovaj svijet izopačio! Eno, Ciganin Parip istukao Fahru, onu što ju je čovjek napustio, a zatim došao njen sin Emko i zbo Cigu, haman namrtvo!... U tom času se na sokaku oćuti galama i žensko zapomaganje. Sejfuli u grlu zastade zalogaj hljeba, pa ni gore ni dolje. Istrčao je na ulicu kao u deliriju, i imao je šta vidjeti. Četiri žandara vode Emku vezanog, dok se majka gomba s jednim od njih, želeći doprijeti do sina i spriječiti njegovo odvođenje. Plakala je i zapomagala na sav glas, i molila žandare da ga ne vode. Shvativši da će joj trud biti uzalud, stropoštala se na uličnu kaldrmu i od žalosti ostala bez svijesti. Sejfula pritrča majci pa stade da je miluje po licu i kosi. Suze su mu umivale lice, poput krupnih kapi kiše, i škropile zaspalu majku. Ona se stade meškoljiti i dolaziti k sebi, a Sejfula baci kratak pogled za Emkom. Već je zamicao za prve kuće na uglu ulice, dok mu je glava ostala okrenuta nazad, prema nesretnim i bespomoćnim majci i bratu. Sejfula samo pomisli: kako ne stiže ni da se oprosti s bratom, da ga čestito izgrli i izljubi, jer ko zna kad, i da li će se ikad više vidjeti. Od prevelike tuge prući se po majci pa je poče mahnito ljubiti i naglas jecati. Sutradan je bila subota. Majka povede

Sejfulu i Esmu bratu u obližnje selo. Željela je da djeca malo zaborave na ružne i mučne događaje koji su im se događali tih dana. Predvečer se vratila kući, vodeći sa sobom Esmu. Ona je morala pohađati školu, a Sejfula nije imao takvu obavezu. Zato ga je ostavila kod daidže cijelu sedmicu. Daidža je imao sina Šukriju, samo godinu starijeg od Sejfule. Lijepo su se slagali i družili. Daidža Hikmet bavio se poljoprivredom i od toga je živio. Volio je sestru Fahru i pomagao joj koliko je mogao. Ali ne mnogo, jer je i sam životario na jedvite jade. Imao je kravu i junicu, volovsku zapregu, petero ovaca i nešto, ne mnogo, peradi. Predvečer je Šukrija nahranio perad, a zatim upita oca da im dozvoli da pođu na obližnji brežuljak sankati se. –Idite –odobri otac –ali se ne zadržajite dugo. Cijelog tog dana prepadao je snijeg. Prvi snijeg. Bila je to za djecu prva radost, ove zime. Već je bio do koljena. Brdo, šumica, selo i, malo dalje, varoš, sve se obuklo u bijelo ruho. Bjelina, čistoća i svježina činile su jednoću. A to je: ljepota. Neopisiva ljepota seoskog pejzaža. Sejfula je tu ljepotu doživljavao malo drukčije. Dok se Šukrija spuštao na sankama niz neveliki brežuljak, on je k nebu okretao lice, osjećajući kako se na njemu od toplote tope bezbrojne ljepljive pahuljice. I mislio: “Bože dragi, kako bi bilo lijepo da sad te moćne pahulje prekriju njegovu tugu, tugu njegove majke, brata i sestre, njihov strah i patnju. Da prekriju tugu cijelog svijeta. Da prekriju, jednom zauvijek, zlo i sve zle ljude, koji zlostavljaju njegovu majku, njegovog brata, njega i sestricu. Koji zlostavljaju bilo koga. Pa da tako zauvijek nestane prokletog zla na čitavom svijetu. I zlih ljudi, razumije se.” Iz razmišljanja ga trže glas drugog dječaka: –Hajde, Sejfula, šta si se zamislio?! Ti si na redu. Pošto im je dosadilo sankanje, rođak predloži da prave Snješka. –Ti pravi sebi, a ja ću sebi. I da vidimo ko će prije i čiji će biti ljepši, važi l’? –reče i stade valjati grude vlažnog snijega. –Važi. Ja ću praviti babu. –He, he, zar babu od snijega? –A šta ima veze, ličit će na mog oca. Kad je bio pri kraju, Sejfula ugleda ispod obližnje obale malo raskravljene zemlje. Odmah Snješku razblaćenom zemljom nacrta nos, oči, usne i iznad usana tanke brčiće. – Ho, ho, ho... Tvoj Snješko ima i brkove! –začudi se Šukrija. –Da, pa šta?! – A šta će mu brkovi? –Zato što brkove ima i moj babo. – Ali, tvoj babo vas je ostavio. Ja ne bih želio takvog oca. I pored svega što im je učinio, Sejfula je osjećao prema ocu veliku naklonost. Čak i ljubav. Nedostajao mu je. O, kako bi volio da raste pored njega, da od njega mnogo toga nauči, da mu bude uzor. Zato je rođakove riječi doživljavao kao uvredu, naljutio se na njega, ne htjevši govoriti s njim više od sat vremena. U igri Šukrija je zaboravio na očevo upozorenje: da se ne zadržavaju suviše dugo. Prenuo ih je njegov poziv za večeru. Brzo je prohujala sedmica dana što ju je Sejfula prouživao kod daidžinih ukućana.

32

Hrane je bilo dovoljno, i to raznovrsne i ukusne. I druženje sa Šukrijom, uz manja neslaganja, proteklo je na obostrano zadovoljstvo. Malo je radio, pomažući oko stoke, a nešto je i naučio. Došavši kući, zatekao je majku u postelji. Imala je upalu pluća i liječila se čajevima od nekakvih trava. Zapravo, ona je ležala zbog tuge za Emkom i osjećaja lične krivice, što mu se to desilo. Čak se i Esma trudila da joj šta pomogne i tako olakša patnju. Sejfulu je na saonama dovezao daidža, a usput je dovezao i nešto hrane: koji kilogram krompira, malo graha i sira. Predvečer je Ibro poslao po kćerki dva hljeba iz trgovine i poručio da od sutra, ako želi, može Fahra dolaziti i pomagati u trgovini namjesto Emke. To je majku iznimno obradovalo. Sutradan se posve pridigla i uz kašljucanje krenula na novi posao. Prije odlaska napomenula je Sejfuli da se pekar Salko raspitivao za njega i da je rekao kako treba nastaviti pomagati u pekari, čim se vrati od daidže. Sve se, dakle, vraćalo u uobičajenu životnu kolotečinu, osim što sa njima nije bio Emko, koji im je stalno bio u mislima i s kojim su duboko suosjećali. A on se nalazio u Zenici, u pritvoru i iščekivao je suđenje. Njemu u prilog išla je okolnost da je Meha izdržao dvije operacije i preživio ranjavanja. Pošto se oporavio, zakazano je suđenje. Stvari su bile prilično jasne. Sudija je uzeo u obzir sve okolnosti pod kojima se slučaj desio. Olakšavajuća okolnost bila je što je Meha permanentno maltretirao majku te je Emko dobio samo tri godine kaznenopopravnog zavoda, s robijanjem u Zenici. Meha se više nikad nije pojavljivao u Mokropolju. Tako se napokon završio cijeli ovaj nemili slučaj. A majka bi, po svaku cijenu, nastojala da barem jedmom mjesečno posjećuje Emku, i odnese mu štagod od svoje sirotinje: malo hrane i kakve tople odjeće, da se ne isprehlađuje i ne oboli tako mlad. Małgorzata Żurecka

Poland

The white door

Nusia, all flushed by the sun, burst straight into Grannie's kitchen with a shout: “Grannie, something to drink!” The July heat was making its nuisance, and the fun (by the river with the village kids) was so entertaining that Nusia had not time to eat or drink, but finally she recalled her grannie’s home. Grannie quickly poured some currant compote, well chilled in the well water, into a pot... and when Nusia slurped it almost in one gulp, she realized Grannie was not alone there, and that auntie Gienia (from a town not far from Skoszów, the name of which she did not remember) was sitting on a chair by the table. “Oh, when have you grown so tall and big? I couldn't recognize you. You're getting more and more like a maiden, a little young lady,” her aunt almost sang in a raised voice. “Shake a leg Nusia and go to the yard for a while,there is no dinner yet, I will call you when it is ready... and we both here, I and your Auntie, have several adult topics to be talked about,” Grannie ordered.

“OK, Grannie,” Nusia dropped a curtsy, and they could not see her more. However, she did not run away immediately, but stopped in the hall to curiously hear about what Grannie and Auntie were talking about. “And where did we stop our chat, Wiesia?” “On this material for a soutane you are buying for your Sylwek.” “Well, and imagine, Wiesia, a friend from Przemyśl put this material in the shop away for me, hidden under the counter, and I must tell you, a beautiful, black woolen ‘onehundred’ type, it is not cheap, but what cannot be done for one’s own child?” “Since September, he will start studying at the Roman Catholic priests’ seminary. I will tell you that it is my great dream to live long enough that I can see his first mass and see him in the priest’s soutane. My God, how happy I am that he agreed to go to this seminary!... because at the beginning, he rebelled. And you know our Polish proverb: ‘He who has a priest in his family will not be touched by poverty.’” “Oh, nonsense, what are you talking about, Gienia? It’s hard to hear, one should be a priest when inspired by God’s call!” “Eh, you’re kidding!... inspired,” Auntie grunted. …Nusia listened no longer, fled as soon as she heard the chair scrape, she quickly jumped out into the yard. “A plague with this girl! I told her to close the door, but why, no! She runs ‘through woods and fields’ and lives on air,” Grannie slammed the door shut. It turned out that Auntie didn't come alone. Almost as if from under the ground, Nusia's cousin and, at the same time, Auntie’s son Sylwek appeared suddenly. She had not seen him for a long time. “How are you? You‘ve grown up so much, which school class are you in?” “Promoted to Class Five already,” she blushed, because she felt him watching her with concentrated attention. “Have you come for a long time?” she asked him shyly. “As long as until tomorrow, because we have to go to Przemyśl. We are visiting you on our way there because my mother wanted to talk to your grannie… and probably, to borrow some money… You have a pretty dress and your hair is long now,” he said as if by the way, glancing all

over her. “Oh, yes,” she said, even more embarrassed. They sat by the house on a birch bench, not having much to talk about.After a while, however, Grannie leaned out the window. “Kids, come to have dinner! But shut the door, when already in, for fear of flies!” Nusia and Sylwek briskly headed home. Tasty smells flew from the kitchen. Although it was not Sunday, Grannie was cooking a chicken soup, in order to properly treat Aunt Gienia. After the dinner, Sylwek suggested: “Maybe we could take a stroll towards

34

the river? Will you show me where you play with your gang of kids?... Grannie told me about it when you weren't here.” “Okay, we can go. There will certainly be some of my friends, girls and boys, because they graze cows… and they get bored by grazing cows, so they will be happy to see you, as a new person.” And indeed, there were several of her peers chasing one another across the meadow on the bank of the river. “Oh, Nusia is coming! Whom are you leading here?” they were already asking from afar.

“Well, this is my cousin Sylwek,he and his mother have come to visit us.”

Sylwek saw no problem in the fact that he was much older than them. He cut out some withes (of the osier at the river bank) with a penknife, and offered them with his suggestion to start a ‘chase-me’ game: “Whoever is reached by the withe, must fall to the ground and get up only after counting to ten... and we play in pairs. All right, let's get started.” Nusia was ready to be running from Sylwek, because he immediately had chosen her to his pair. And she wasfast in her legs, so it was not easy to catch up with her. Sylwek could not catch her because she was cleverly trying to confuse the directions of the run, and she was hiding behind some small bush… but he was preponderant over her in the great leaps of his long legs. He suddenly collided with her. She sensed that he did it wittingly. They both fell down together to the ground… and he pressed her firmly with his whole body to the ground, at the same time,quickly slipping his hand underneath her short dress. Nusia could not even move or shout, because he covered her mouth with his hand… but he instantly released her and laughed, saying: “It was a joke, let’s keep playing!” And he only made sure that the other kids were running about with their withes, falling on each other with laughter and ignoring them. Nusia, taking advantage of this situation, wanted to immediately run towards the children and thus free herself, but he barred her path and whipped her bare calves hard with his withe. She hissed with pain but she didn't betray that it was painful to her, and he staggered against her again with a cry (from a ‘warship game’): “Hit by a torpedo, sunken down!” And, after throwing her to the ground and lying on her, he pressed her down and clang to her with his whole body, immobilizing her hands… and his hand, insistentlyand unhesitatingly now, reached as far as to touch and tug her panties between her thighs, forcing them apart more and more. In defence, with all her strength, she did her best in attempting to make her knees come together. Nusia was struggling hard, unsuccessfully trying to free herself from

under the overwhelming weight of Sylwek’s body, and to cast his disgusting palm of the hand out of her private parts… which she had avoided to call in plain terms until then, and used to grow so embarrassed when it had been mentioned. All overlain with his body, she couldn't even scream. Unexpectedly, he freed her body from himself, as if nothing had happened, because the children were running to them, seeing them struggling. “Don't fight, what’re you doing?!” they shouted in fear. “We don't fight, do we, Nusia? It's just like fooling around.” And when she was released, she jumped up like a scared deer, she could no longer hear what Sylwek was saying to her. She was running as fast as she could, straight to Grannie’s house, without looking back or looking at the ground beneath her feet –she did not bypass any thistles, mud of drying puddles, or nettles, scared herds of hens grazing in front of Grannie’s house… There was pain in her chest, sweat on her back, and her throat was dry with fear and hot air.

She was running, thinking of nothing but reaching her Grannie’s door as soon as possible. When she finally reached the door handle, she jerked hard, but the door didn't open. Only this cry was knocking in her head: “Do open, Grannie, open! I beg you, open!” She tugged at the door handle again, banged on the door with her fists: “Grannie, open it! I beg you!” She fancied that Sylwek was standing behind her, and going to throwher down again. She tugged at the door handle, while thinking that she was already completely lost because Grannie was probably not at home and the door was locked. Giving up and resigned, she looked back, but Sylwek was not there. Once again, but this time she pressed the door handle more calmly. Suddenly, the door handle gave way, as the door had not been closed.

…Grannie, disturbed by the sound of knocking at the door in the hall, went out to check what was happening… and when she saw Nusia, she got terrified. “Baby, what’s happened, baby?... ” “Nothing, Grannie, it is nothing but my headache. I want to sleep.” she let it loose from inside, nervously, unable to catch her breath. “In full daylight, to bed? Well, show your forehead, I think you have a fever, you heaven’s plague of mine. Do go to bed and lie down immediately, I'll bring you some cold compote, maybe it’s owing to the hot weather. …Nusia carefully closed the door of the room where she and her Grannie used to sleep, she still looked outof the window as to make sure Sylwek was not coming there. She sensed that what he was doing to her was very evil and a serious sin. She went to bed, pulled the quilt all the way to the top of her head. She felt like crying,

36

and also wanted to tell everything to Grannie, but she was so ashamed and…and was not sure if she was guilty herself… because once her Grannie angrily told her not to swing her buttocks in the way she did because it wasnot allowed, as a girl was to be modest. But Nusiawas convinced that she had not been swinging her buttocks, she just had such a waddling gait, she couldn't otherwise... and she didn't really know what Grannie was so particular about, but she sensed her Grannie warned her for some reason. Finally she fell asleep. She slept all the afternoon, evening and night, and when the voices of her aunt, Grannie and Sylwek woke her up in the morning, she suddenly sat up on the bed in fear. Grannie called to her: “Say them goodbye, as they’re already leaving. They have to hurry, a good bit of the way to the station. They can't be late for the train!” Sylwek stuck his head into Nusia's room and just put his finger to his lips, and then he punched himself under the chin with his fist, conveying her in that dumb show that Nusia had not tosay a single word about that. That time Nusia wanted to return home from holidays as soon as possible, she looked forward to her Mum with longing. She felt relief only when she had returned to her room in their town. For good-night, she hugged her beloved teddy bear, which she had got from her dad when she was a little baby… and started crying long into his corduroy paws. Since her adventure with Sylwek, she often dreamt a nightmare at night: she was running away, her legs failed her and did not want to run, and when she reached the door at last, and was tugging the door handle, the door wouldn’t open. However, the door was always white in a dream.She could not guess why –after all, the door of Grannie's house was painted with brown paint… One day in late autumn, when she had returned from school, the telephone rang. Her Mum answered and after a moment she gestured for Nusia to go to her room and close the door behind her, which meant she was not to eavesdrop. From the muffled words of the conversation it appeared, that Sylwek had not gone to the seminary to be a priest, and he had had a lawsuit in a court, but he hadn’t been imprisoned, he had joined the army. Nusia was deeply penetrated by a thrill of fear, and she felt a painful cramp in her stomach.

x x x Translated by Mirosław Grudzień & Anna Maria Stępień

essay 31-35

Myriam Ghezaïl Ben Brahim S. M. Sajeur Rahman (Ashru)

Tunis

I learnt

Dubai

A handful of love

And I have learned that it takes time to make what should last,That it takes more than a moment to consolidate the walls, that it may take a few seasons for the summer to erase the winter, for the present to chase away illusions and to do everything that needs to be done. We can get excited about something and then leave at the slightest sign, we can take a path and then deviate from its line, it often takes more than a desire to fill the need, and sometimes even a whole life to achieve better love.

We build with what we have, sometimes it's little, sometimes a lot, but by not giving up we manage to do it despite everything. We can appreciate what we have and then let our heart quiver, listening to all those secrets that will help us grow, but let's not wait until we are old to appreciate the little days, those little things that make us happy, those little things that make us love. To want everything well before time, we neglect the daily life, we forget the happiness and sometimes even to reach out... A woman is a dream A little love to come a little A poem One line rhythm A moonlit night Something not to say. Some get what they want Given something Flower broom in the delirium of words Singing. A little mercy in life A little faith Yours sincerely Done A sorted household Some emotion some arrogance A handful of love

A little dad called. A little struggle a little The struggle for survival A little energy boast A little power, a little victory A little wearing win With thisLife story. One day the hair will ripen One day I willgrow old The power struggle will stop Boast of power One day destiny calls I have to pay the last ferry. I will leave one day Leave the world The new generation Just like me A handful of love The fragrance will spread in this way. One day it will be mine All feelings are in the air of love

confabulation 36-46

Dr. Malak Nora Hammadi Nardine Sanderson

38

Algeria Australia

Black letters Before the grave

Humans love each other, and my love transcends the limits of nature I madly adore black letters who stole myself from me for a while And I stay in that place. Do you remember that, letters? That vanished corner inside us When the conversation between us was lengthy and not boring, when passion was stealing our eyes. When telepathy was the exchange between us .. reading was a pleasure … and the book was a picnic A second world parallel to ours devoid of all impurities is very pure From the trivialities of human beings … those who ran after the materialities of life carry their barefoot minds inside skulls that rode on bodies devoid of feelings There our beautiful world was absolutely free and everything was realistic It touches the essence of the truth, saturated with sincere feelings, where honesty was our title because there is no room for deceiving ourselves … When love is real, black letters, a phrase is written on his forehead .. sincere, there is no room for treachery .. In our world, O letters, loyalty is one of the rules of love, a clause approved and sealed and signed from pure hearts that do not bear the grudge of love and peace whose titleis In our world, dear, the letters of justice are prevalent and the master of the situations Someday amidst the light of mourning We may come to sad days end, or maybe thenight will court us and then become our friend, who knows if joyous sun's may set, or rain brings storms of heavy doubt, reminding those who've come to loss, what love was all about

Who knows if darkened skies may hold the lasting breaths for time may cease And call upon the Angel's , and bid them home in fleece, For only places touched By love with mortal eyes and hands unfold, but bring to mind such immortal words where spoken last and bold Such sadness in the overflow of tears on beds of death may come And in the light exchange what's left before the words are done Goodbyes seem so painful,in the midst of all things beautified and touched by grace, and evening comes with gentle kisses upon a tired face, yet In the middle of a desert not a flower escapes the hot brased air, and in the night oh many stars they shine so way up there And in my garden beds that group Hold soil to my heart and soul But come not for endings ever dark But oh so beautiful ,

For all the roses would then be flourished,by the bone and blood confined to land, and so the call of morning light makes me succumb As sand, no time would come for further breath,and death would then be the light one craves, in all but all we are but children,whom live before the grave. Radhika Rani

Bhutan

Chapter 1 : The Prison Cell

The soothing moonbeams swiftly walked in through the tiny window that layed an inch higher than her hight and gently touched her show white like skin. The night outside was pretty dark like someone is mourning over the death of their beloved ones but in contractry, it unusually looked beautiful. The flickers of glittering night twinkles thousand of miles away from the land -water earth crust in the sky glowed more and made her feel, there is still a day filled with delights and sparks patiently awaiting her arrival outside those closets. She can be free and find her home.

It had been almost half a decade that she had been enclosed amongst those melancholic walls, too strong to tear apart and way too concrete for her to break through. She tried hard, a million ofways to slide through and find back her shedded wings but lost and was ultimately helpless. There was nothing else she could do either besides staring at them day and night. The white paint on the wall that she have seen when she first came there have now almost turned dull greyish and started to get peeled off as the time flowed by over the years. It was one of the darkest days to be alive with immense pain in her heart. But lately the walls that have kept away the joys seemed to reciprocate some invisible hopes that are ultimately healing her wound. "It's better for me to be here. I never had a place to go eitherways", she said to herself taking a long breath and stretching her lips to set her teeth to the edges. There was a pain in her sing song voice. She stared at the metal bars in front that have kept her confined for so long and bluffed a faint smile.

"With so many memories, right? " someone broke the chain of her thoughts from behind. The voice wasn't exactly unknown to her yet she abruptly turned around towards it to face and it was her again. Uff. It was Misha. Misha was two years elder to her and was a lawyer who completed her bacholar degree from one of the University in Bangladesh a year ago and now is an intern who wants to clear her name from the criminal records. She found out about Neelam being wrongly accused for the crime she didn't even commit and despite the hurdles she will have to face through, she was still willing to fight for

40

her and spillthe ball of justice on her court and set her free. Moreover,she treats Neelam like a friend and wants to help her out on the stake of her marriage. She is ambitious. "For how long you want to be here amongst this ridges that keeps you confined. Neelam, I know well about how desperately you wish to see the daylights and smile, to hear the tiny chirping of the birds in the morning, to see the seasons displaying it's gifts with the passage of time and so on", Misha asked her again in her commanding voice. She had been asking the same question to her for almost month by then and silence was only response she have got so far. That was inconsiderate.

"I don't really have a home", she said with a smile, actually a fake smile that came over her pinkish lips stretching till the other end of her frozen face with reluctance.

"But Neelam, I am your lawyer here. Please, I need your full cooperation. Your statement can help me prove you innocent and..."

"What about your engagement Misha? You said your family is really anxious about it ", Neelam cut her short. "It happened two days ago ", she replied with a shrilled tone knowing well in her head that Neelam was literally trying hard to divert her attention.

"And marriage? When is it? You really must be happy about it I guess", she immediately asked again pretending hard to sound excited when in reality she was least bothered by it. How can she be when her life have become a puzzle she couldn't comprehend herself. "I think it will not happen ", Misha replied. "Why? You are young and of course beautiful too. So why is it Misha", she asked little astonished. This time she really was taken aback and little curious as well. She could not exactly understand about her denial for marriage in the spur of the moment. "I need to take you out first! I have promised that I will celebrate my happiness after you be freed", she smirked. She took a long uneven breath and Neelam could notice that she was agitated but to her astonishment, instead of screaming, she continued in a totally calm tone , " it's in your hand now"

"But Misha. You...? "

"I don't know anything regarding this matter, you can sort it out yourself and let me know!", she said and stood up to leave. She was not at all sure whether Neelam would dare to spill the beans to her but abruptly she heard her voice behind her.

To be continued!

George Popescu

Romania „Şi în tăcerea cea mai tăcută se aude un cuvânt..."

Interviu cu poetul Luciano Pellegrini

1 - Cine ești tu, de fapt, Luciano Pellegrini ?

E foarte dificil de dat un răspuns la această întrebare, dat fiind faptul că în această dimensiune nimic nu poate "fi" static, ci totul devine și se transformă continuu. Cu atât mai mult cu cât noi, subiecte umane, tocmai în calitate de subiecte, potrivit lecției lui Sartre, nu suntem ceea ce suntem. Aș putea poate să mă definesc un "neliniștit căutător al Esenței", ce escaladează vârful vieții oprindu-se în refugii. Deși având o mare atracție pentru filosofiile orientale nu neglijez presupusa științificitate occidentală. Având în vedere că, pentru mine, totul, chiar și ceea ce nu se reușește să se înțeleagă și să se cuprindă cu mintea, are o explicație, să zicem..."logică", sunt convins că, odată cu trecereatimpului, se va găsi punctul de întâlnire între ceea ce definim "Spirit" și materie. Astăzi, am desăvârșit multe "miracole" de negândit până acum câteva decenii. Însă asta nu înseamnă, totuși, că eu naș fi religios, dimpotrivă, în felul meu, sunt într-o foarte mare măsură.Numai că nu pot accepta pasiv misterul dogmelor doar fiindcă nu se reușește să fie explicate ori fiindcă au fost, în mod greșit ori voit, ocultate și am nevoie nu atât de a înțelege, cât de a percepe, de a experimenta. Rețin ca foarte comod, și chiar insignifiant, faptul de a accepta și a face ceva doar fiindcă este tradiție și gata. Nu-i pentru ființe ce posedă o mare resursă intelectivă cum suntem noi, ființe umane. Apropos de asta, într-adevăr mare este lecția lui Dante care, în Divina Comedie, îl pune pe Ulise să spună: - "Considerate la vostra semenza: / fatti non foste a viver come bruti, / ma per seguir virtute e conoscenza." 2 - În introducerea la ultima ta

culegere de versuri, Goshen, susții că poezia e un fel de refugiu și apoi că refugiul uman e fortăreața în care a iubi înseamnă a urâ. Şi atunci, a iubi înseamnă a urî ? Şi încă: ce anume este pentru tine poezia, în această visată relație cu cele două verbe ?

Sunt de părere că nimic nu-i în totalitate negativ sau pozitiv, ci că fie unul, fie celălalt fac parte dintr-un sistem de echilibru. Şi nu e o întâmplare că una dintre imaginile cele mai semnificative pentru mine este tao. Ei bine, în taoparteaalbă are un mic spațiu negru, cea neagră are un punct alb. Asta înseamnă că Binele nu e în mod complet bine, iar Răul nu e întru totul rău, ci ambele părți se completează și se rezumă reciproc. Iar asta e valabil pentru toate lucrurile, printre care și iubirea. Astfel, în anumite limite, totuși ura poate deveni un refugiu. Deci, totul e "refugiu": casa, leagănul, căldura. Însă ceea ce înțeleg eu nu e desigur refugiul crepuscolar și pascolian, ci un areal spațio-temporal unde se pot studia strategii pentru a încerca să ne satisfacem "programul" interior ce ne este propriu. Iar poezia face parte tocmai din "programul" genului uman fiindcă totul este poezie: soarele ce răsare, o floare ce

42

îmbobocește, jocul unui copil și, chiar dacă nu pare, este asta și o lacrimă, durerea, o ființă bătrână care moare. Orice lucru, repet, are un dublu sens și este văzut pozitiv ori negativ după cum se consideră singur. Pentru mine, deci, poezia este "arta de a vedea și de a reprezenta cu oricare mijloc posibil echilibrul cosmic".

3 - Pellegrin[i]ajultău într-un continent care este cuvântul mi se pare un mod de a "penelopa" continuu la granițele speranței. "A penelopa"* pentru mine înseamnă a aștepta nu doar speranța, fie și cu toată credința necurmată în înțelepciunea lui Ulise. Este, după părerea ta, poetul un Ulise care nu s-a întors încă, dar știe că se va întoarce odată ? Luciano, te simți un Ulise ori cel puțin un nepot al său ?

Toate ființele umane sunt, după părerea mea, niște Ulise ce se refugiază, evident unul mai mult, altul mai puțin, în căutarea a ceva. Poetul amplifică această căutare, o trăiește cu intensitate, o vivisecționează, aproape. De asta poetul poate, efectiv, să se definească chiar un Ulise care caută să se întoarcă acasă ( pacea sa ), în Itaca sa ( în el însuși), la Penelopa ( la sine însuși ). La acest punct, având în vedere că ne aflăm în argumentul nostru, aș născoci, improvizat, chiar și verbul a ulisa. De aceea a ulisa și a penelopa, în semnificatul lor metaforic intrinsec, sunt ambele două refugii extrem de active: Ulise luptă pentru a se întoarce la Penelopa; Penelopa, la rândul ei, nu stă degeaba, acolo în ungherul ei, inertă, sperând și așteptând întoarcerea tovarășului ei, ci acționează, țese și des-țese pânza pentru a întârzia o nouă căsătorie, printre altele nedorită. Iar asta tocmai fiindcăștia că Ulise sar fi întors. Iată deci din nou dualitatea și echilibrul fiindcă a ulisa și a penelopa sunt două verbe-refugii ce tind împreună spre unul singur și astfel spre infinit.

4 - Există un poet român, Nichita Stănescu, de care te apropii . Nichita a murit cu vreo cincisprezece ani în urmă, însă poezia sa continuă să ne izbească pentru modul său singular de a 'manipula' cuvântul, verbul. Îți spun pentru curiozitatea ta că în română există acum și verbul 'a nichitiza' care, sunt convins, că îți place. El vorbea adesea despre cuvânt ca despre un 'sălaș", în terminologia, pe atunci neștiută totuși ca astăzi, heideggeriană, iar tu vorbești despre cuvânt ca despre un refugiu...

Eu susțin că toți locuim efectiv în cuvinte: nume de persoane, substantive, verbe. Fără cuvinte n-ar fi comunicare și nici măcar civilizație. Gândurile înseși și emoțiile sunt exprimate cu semne și sunete care sunt de fapt cuvinte. Acum, și limba este ca o ființă trăitoare și este astfel subiect al metamorfozei și al regulei universale de stază și de mișcare intuită de Parmenide și de Heraclit. Fiind obiect al unei arte, înțeleasă ca mijloc la dispoziția ființei umane, limba nu se poate fosiliza, ci trebuie să urmeze evoluția în mod direct proporțional celei a unei civilizații. Şi cine este cel care posedă sensibilitatea și mijloacele pentru a modifica sensul expresiv al cuvântului și a-l îmbogăți cu noi elanuri metaforice dacă nu poetul ? Apoi, că tu crezi ori nu, și în tăcerea cea mai tăcută se aude un cuvânt: e cel care invadeazăorice ființă, orice lucru existent. Este ecoul Vibrației universale.

5 - Dacă ar trebui să alegi un cuvânt în care ai vrea să locuiești sau ori poate să mori, care ar fi acela ?

Am încercat să exprim într-un roman că orice ființă are un nume al său, foarte invididual și unic, care ar trebui să încerce săl descopere în sine însăși. Acest nume este cuvântul ce împrejmuiește esența fiecărei ființe umane. Vezi, eu gândesc că fiecare dintre noi e asemenea unei ființe nedesăvârșite și, în felul său, își simte în spate acel 'nu știu ce' de neliniște. Atunci trebuie să comunice în vreun fel, să aibă raporturi cu ceilalți. Este un concept poate un pic mai dificil, dar are, pentru mine, o importanță fundamentală care trimite la ideea infinitudinii refugiilor, a dualității oricărui lucru și al echilibrului individual și cosmic. Prin urmare, în așteptarea descoperirii cuvântului care oglindește esența mea, trebuie să spun că sunt mult atras de un cuvânt, de mine născocit: AMORATION. Nu ar trebui să fie prea dificil să i se înțeleagă semnificatul, nu ?

6 - Deloc, mai ales că în română, ca și în italiană dealtfel, acest cuvânt funcționează în ... „manieră” francez. Apropos de „manieră”, care este 'regimul' tău poetic. Te întreb fiindcă, atât cât te cunosc, simt că în spatele sintaxei tale există o dictatură a verbului. Dictatură ar însemna dic-tare**, de la 'a zice', nu, chiar dacă etimonul e același. Nu crezi însă că ar fi mai bine ca Verbul, ca (Verbum, ca logos), să tacă, așa cum voia ori cum credea Wittgenstein ?

Și cum se poate opri universul? Așa cum spun Luzi și filosofia orientală, metamorfozarea continuă a lucrurilor, mișcarea și tăcerea nu coexistă?Ori încă, poate o ființă umană să-și oprească fluxul gândurilor, având în vedere că acestea se exprimă în cea mai mare parte cu cuvinte ? Verbul manifestă o acțiune, în această dimensiune, unde totul e în continuă mișcare și în perenă metamorfoză, și chiarși a te opri determină o acțiune. Prin urmare, pentru mine verbul nu poate să tacă și trebuie să vorbească continuu, fiindcă limba se întemeieză chiar pe verbul care poate, după părerea mea, să transforme foarte bine și substantivele creând noi forme verbale și metafore mai incisive și mai directe. Corciano ( Perugia) - 22 octombrie 1996

* Poetul italian uzează, amator de creații de cuvinte, născocitor de termeni poetici proprii, de verbul a penelopa în ultima sa plachetă de versuri intitulată Goshen * *Joc de cuvinte posibil în italiană între dittatura și

dettatura

„E nel più taciuto silenzio si sente una parola” Intervista con il poeta Luciano Pellegrini

1 - Chi è Luciano Pellegrini?

È molto difficile dare una risposta a questa domanda, visto il fatto che in questa dimensione niente possa “essere” statico, ma tutto diventa e si trasforma continuamente. Quanto più noi, soggetti umani, appunto come soggetti, secondo la lezione di Sartre, non siamo ciò che siamo come tale. Potrei forse definirmi un “impaziente ricercatore dell’Essenza”, che scala verso la cima della vita fermandosi nei rifugi. Pure avendo una grande attrazione per le filosofie orientali non ignoro la presupposta scientificità occidentale. Dato che, per me, tutto, anche ciò che non ci si riesce

44

capire e competere con la mente, ha una spiegazione, direi “logica”, sono convinto che. col passare del tempo, sarà identificato il punto d’incontro fra ciò che chiamiamo Spirito e Materia. Oggi, abbiamo decifrato molti miracoli impensabili fino a qualche decennio fa. Però questo non significa che io non sarei religioso, anzi, da parte mia, ne sono in una grande misura. Soltanto che non posso accettare passivamente il mistero dei dogmi solo per il motivo che non si riesce a spiegarli oppure perché sono stati, erroneamente o volutamente, occultati e per questo sento il bisogno di percepirli o sperimentarli. Mi pare troppo comodo, spesso anche insignificante, accettarli e seguirli perché effettivamente entrano nella tradizione e basta. Non va per esseri che possiedono una grande risorsa intellettiva come pretendiamo essere noi umani. A questo proposito, gande resta la lezione di Dante che, nella sua “Divina Commedia”, lo mette Ulisse a dire: Considerate la vostra semenza: / fatti non foste a viver come bruti, / ma per seguir virtute e conoscenza”.

2 - Nella introduzione della tua raccolta Goshen sostieni che la poesia è una specie di rifugio e poi che il rifugio umano è la fortezza in cui amare vuol dire odiare. E allora, amare significa davvero odiare? E per lo più: cosa effettivamente è per te la poesia, in questo sognato rapporto con i due verbi?

Penso che niente non sia totalmente negativo o positivo, bensì che l’uno e l’altro appartengano di un sistema di equilibrio. E non sarebbe una semplice vicenda il fatto che una delle immagini più significative per me sia il Tao. Ebbene, nel Tao la parte bianca ha un piccolo spazio nero, quella nera ha un punto bianco. Questo significa che il Bene non è completamente bene, e il Male non è in tutto male, ma tutte e due le parti si compiono e si completano a vicenda. E questo vale anche per le tutte le cose, fra le quali anche l’amore. Così, con qualche limite, anche l’odio può diventare un rifugio. Quindi, tutto è rifugio: la casa, la culla, il caldo. Però ciò che io ci intendo non è certamente un rifugio crepuscolare e pascoliano, ma un’area spazio-temporale dove si possono apprendere strategie per tentare di soddisfare il nostro “programma” più intimo. E la poesia fa parte appunto del programma del genere umano, in quanto tutto diventa poesia: il sole che sorge, un fiore che sboccia, il gioco di un bimbo e, anche se restano oscurati, una lacrima, il dolore, un anziano che sta morendo. Ogni cosa, ripeto, ha un doppio senso, positivo o negativo a seconda del punto di vista. Per me, quindi, la poesia è “l’arte di vedere e di rappresentare con ogni mezzo possibile l’equilibrio cosmico”.

3 - Il tuo peregrinare in un continente che è la parola mi pare presentarsi come Penelope ai continui confini della speranza. Per me, “penelopare*” significa attendere non solo la speranza, nonostante la sapienza di Ulisse. Sarebbe, secondo te, il poeta un Ulisse che non è tornato a casa, ma sa che ci ritornerà finalmente? Tu, Luciano, ti senti un Ulisse oppure almeno un suo “nipote”?

Tutti gli esseri umani sono, a mio parere, degli “Ulisse” che si rifugiano, uno di più, altro di meno, in cerca di qualcosa. Il poeta ampia

questa ricerca, la vive intensamente, quasi la viviseziona. Ed è per questo che il poeta possa, effettivamente, definirsi anche un Ulisse che tenta di ritornare a casa (la sua Pace), nella sua Itaca (lui stesso), a Penelope (a se stesso). A questo punto, visto che ci troviamo nel pieno del nostro argomento, inventerei anche se improvvisato, il verbo a ulissa. E per questo a ulissa e a penolopa, nei loro significati metaforici altrimenti intrinseci, sono tutti i due rifugi estremamente attivi: Ulisse combatte per ritornare aa Penelope; Penelope, a sua volta, non rimane inattiva, lì, nel suo angolo, il suo un regno, solo a sperare ed aspettare il ritorno del suo compagno, ma agisce, tesse e dis-tesse la tela per allontanare un nuovo matrimonio, per altro neanche voluto. E questo proprio perché sapeva che Ulisse sarebbe tornato. Ecco quindi di nuovo la dualità e l’equilibrio dato che ulissare e penelopare sono due verbi-rifugio che tendono insieme verso uno solo e così all’infinito.

4 - C’è un poeta romeno, Nichita Stanescu, di cui ti sento vicino. Lui morì anni fa, a soli 15 anni, però la sua poesia continua a provocarci per il suo singolare modo di “manipolare” la parola, il verbo. Te lo dico anche perché nel linguaggio della critica letteraria romena è in uso il concetto “nichitizzare” che sono convinto che ti piacerebbe. Lui parlava spesso della parola come di un riparo nella terminologia heideggeriana e tu parli di parola proprio come di un rifugio.

Io penso che tutti abitiamo effettivamente in parole: nomi di persone, sostativi, verbi. Senza parole non ci sarebbe comunicazione e nemmeno civiltà. I pensieri stessi e le emozioni sono espressi con segni e suoni che altro non sono che parole. Ora, anche la lingua è come un essere vivente e così è soggetta alla metamorfosi ed alle regole universali di stasi e di movimento intuita da Parmenide e da Eraclito. Oggetto dell’arte, intesa come mezzo a disposizione dell’essere umano, la lingua non si può fossilizzare, ma deve seguire la sua evoluzione proporzionalmente e quella di una civiltà. E chi è quello che possiede la sensibilità e i mezzi per modificare il senso espressivo della parola e nel più taciuto silenzio e arricchirlo con nuovi slanci metaforici se non il poeta? Quindi: che si creda o no, anche nel più vuoto silenzio si sente una parola: ed è quello che invade ogni essere, ogni cosa esistente. È l’eco della Vibrazione universale.

5 - Se dovresti scegliere una parola in cui vorresti abitare oppure anche morire, quale sarebbe?

Ho tentato di esprimere in un romanzo il fatto che ogni essere ha un suo nome, molto individuale e unico che dovrebbe cercare di in se stesso. Questo nome è la parola che circoscrive l’essenza di ogni essere umano. Guarda, io penso che ognuno di noi è simile di un essere compiuto e, a suo modo, sente alle spalle quel nescio quid di angoscia. Allora deve comunicare, avere dei rapporti con gli altri. Ed è un concetto forse più difficile, ma ha, per me, una fondamentale importanza che invia all’idea dell’infinità dei rifugi, della dualità di ogni cosa e dell’equilibrio individuale e cosmico. Di conseguenza, in attesa della scoperta della parola che rispecchierebbe la mia essenza, devo dire che sono attirato da una parola, da me inventata: AMORATION. Non dovrebbe

essere difficile trovargli il significato, no?

6 – “Niente” e “Mai” in romeno e in italiano, sono parole che agiscono in „maniera” francese. A proposito di „maniera”, mi accorgo che alle spalle della tua sintassi c`è una specie di dittatura del verbo. Dittatura vorrebbe dire “dettare”, dal verbo dire, no?, anche se l’etimo è lo stesso. Non credi che sarebbe meglio che il Verbo (come Verbum, come logos) dovrebbe tacere, così come suggeriva Wittgenstein?

E come può fermarsi l’universo? Come dice Luzi e la filosofia orientale, la continua metamorfosi delle cose, il movimento e il silenzio non convivano? Oppure, potrebbe un essere umano fermare il suo flusso dei pensieri, dato che questi se esprimono nella maggior parte con parole? Il verbo fa apparire un’azione, in questa dimensione dove tutto è in continuo movimento e in perenne metamorfosi e per questo anche se fermarsi significa una specie di… agire. Quindi, per me il verbo non può tacere e deve parlare continuamente, perché la lingua se fonda appunto sul verbo che può, a mio parere, trasformare molto bene anche i sostantivi creando delle forme verbali e delle metafore più incisive e più non mediate. Corciano (Perugia) – 22 ottobre 1996.

46

* Il poeta usa, amante di creazione di nuove parole, inventore di termini poetici propri, il verbo penelopare nella sua presente raccolta. ** Gioco di parole posibile in italiano fra dittatura e

dittato. Goshen

Statui nătângi plânsului real al Eonului ce tereflectă încă excavând sânge în bolta aceea dintâi

Armă scandaloasă nu prea sau lamă ci foc ce se desface ca o ciupercă și lasă pleavă

Nu schelălăie geamătul entraineuse de sclifosiți ce se striptează la soare razant sub hirunde

La măslini invită și chelește spre a îndepărta piscul punând streașină vâlcelei

Statue ciocche al pianto vero dell'Eonio che ancora ti riflette a scavare sangue in quella prima volta

Non più ama litica o lama ma fuoco che scioglie a fungo e loppa traccia

Non uggia il fiato entraineuse di peranzi che stripteasano al sole sotto hirundi a raso

Ad ulivi invita e scalva per allontanare I'apogeo ingrodato di landa