Taifas Literary Magazine No. 7, January, 2021 by Ioan Muntean

3 authors ... p. 2

editorial ... p. 3 poetry ... p. 10 prose ... p. 26

essay ... p. 31 confabulation ... p. 34 2 authors ... p. 49

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

coperta2 2 authors

Sameer Goel

Tanu Vermai Kapoor

poem.. some unfortunates howsoever deep roots of their love may be never get it back in reciprocation.. . the way they love beyond scales and parameters fail miserably as not everyone deserves their love.. . their end, never so happy a trauma, they always go through succumb to the hurts, they never deserved ever. Vildana Staniscic

A song of peace Peace is love, peace is above all, when birds fly in the open sky. Peace has no alternative, peace is a smiling child.

Moments that were ours…never elapsed Dangling in oblivion, few sprigs of ‘us’ they grasped Arduously seeking an excuse for existence Clinging to every shred of persistence Forever grueling to furnish an abyss Created by a worldly absence Mind and heart in incessant rift Rigid to move on…excepting the drift Heart sensed a bit, you aren’t around Still fuzzily perceives your presence surround In each and every breath I count In stars and floating Moon that daunt In every bit of me I flaunt In everything we shared…now haunt Emotional crisis makes me gaunt I fail to keep your thoughts at bay Time enveloped us yet, we found each other though, we went a long way Autumn, winter, summer, spring…brewed grief and dismay Seasons altered not my heart, I wish my love to stay!!

Always be in harmony with everyone, whenever you can help the needy. May peace reign in your soul, may the whole universe be blessed.

Reminiscent

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

Paul Rotaru

Et poesis quo? Motto: Poezia începe din titlu și nu se sfârșește niciodată. Balzac, un veritabil vizionar al intențiilor umane fără ca el însuși să pretindă asta de la sine, izbutește să construiască, în romanul Iluzii pierdute, o strălucită parabolă a destinului poeziei. Și face asta cu ușurința conferită de convingerea faptului comun, a ochiului care nu vede excepționalitate și care nu manifestă vexare în proximitatea acestui destin. Iar parabola sa rezidă în tocmai antiteza a două entități: Lucien Chardon, un maestru al cuvântului, poet prin tehnică și spontaneitate, care se compromite în mod caraghios în inima unei societăți decadente și cumnatul său, David Séchard, poet prin simțire și existență, însă lipsit de talentul nativ, spirit pitoresc, de o bonomie soră cu naivitatea. Balzac nu propune o analiză a unor arhetipuri umane plauzibile, ci le ia, pur și simplu, din modernitatea contemporană și le aduce înaintea noastră dezavuându-le identitățile de orice artificiu – și, de ce nu am crede-o, lumea acelor vremuri avea multe de oferit în sensul ăsta! La fel ca azi și ca întotdeauna, de când Homo Sapiens se erijează în ceea ce pretinde a fi.

Balzac, acest exponent al prozei moderne, tot aceștia ne vor îngădui și o mică detaliere. Mulți dintre marii prozatori ai literaturii universale au debutat cu încercări poetice, versul fiind considerat un apanaj al tinereții, ca ulterior săși afle vocația propriului lirism în monumentale opere în proză. Un exemplu pe placul inimii autorului acestor rânduri este însuși Caragiale care, într-un moment de precară inspirație, credem noi, ironiza poezia chiar în fața celui mai bun prieten al său, nimeni altul decât Eminescu. Dacă veți citi versurile lui Caragiale, veți înțelege lesne punctul nostru de vedere.

Așadar, Poezia încotro? Asemenea unui cleric care, întrebat fiind unde este Dumnezeu în vremuri de restriște mondială, vom da același răspuns: acolo unde a fost dintotdeauna. Sigur, redundanța ce reiese din această sentință aparent evazivă, suscită oarece frustrări în chestiunea poetică, de aceea vom apela, mai departe, la dispoziția cititorului, asigurându-l de preocuparea noastră, dacă nu deplină, cel puțin satisfăcătoare asupra lirismului în sine. Căci Poesis nu înseamnă doar versificare! Versuri se scriau și la Moulin Rouge, ba chiar se savurau cu enormă larghețe. Poesis rezidă oriunde se identifică în etos, în tradiție, luându-și eponimul după continentul spiritual al simțitorului. Și iată, cu toate acestea, se scriu multe versuri, fără ca ele să fie poezie, fără să conțină miezul substanței lirice, fără să emane nici măcar cel mai firav Dacă, pentru unii cititori, apare drept un fior de viață – iar asta este o consecință a fricii paradox faptul că, într-un editorial despre de prozodie, a tendinței de aliniere la uzanțe poezie, aducem în primul paragraf numele lui propuse și impuse de... niște non-poeți! De partea cealaltă, se află timizii, year I, no. 7, 2021, January

editorial 3-4

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indecișii, adică aceia care caută cu orice preț să se ralieze unor standarde pe care nici nu le înțeleg, nici nu le vor agrea vreodată. Abia dacă poți spera să scrii poezie în pentametru iambic doar pentru că cineva spune că acest tip de vers aparține literaturii engleze! Abia dacă vrei să construiești amfibrahi și anapești doar pentru că altcineva, înaintea ta, a făcut-o – și încă cu ce măiestrie! Dragii mei, luați-l pe Eminescu! El abundă de pentametri iambici (Ai noștri tineri), de amfibrahi (Mortua est!) și s-a aventurat în jocul de prozodii până întracolo încât s-a întors la versul popular ca să ne ofere Luceafărul. El a scris Epigonii, apoi Memento mori și, mai târziu, Scrisorile urmând o prozodie ușor de regăsit la pașoptiști precum Ion Heliade Rădulescu (Sburătorul) sau Grigore Alexandrescu (Umbra lui Mircea. La Cozia), dar nu numai acolo, ci în chiar literatura clasicilor latini precum Vergiliu, Horațiu, Juvenal și Ovidiu! Cum să crezi că scrii poezie de vreme ce te ferești de așa-zisele șabloane? Ai întâlnit pentametrul trohaic al lui Esenin (Toți vom fi acolo, poți să sameni/Viața ta cu râs și cu tumult!/Pentru asta trag mereu spre oameni/Și-i iubesc pe toți atât de mult.//Pentru asta inima mi-e moartă/Când privesc al anilor prăpăd./Vechea casă cu-n dulău la poartă/Parcă simt că n-am s-o mai revăd) și ai descoperit că, la vreo optzeci de ani după moartea lui, ai scris ceva în aceeași prozodie și te suspectezi singur de plagiat? Păi, dacă te uiți după fiecare nor, nu mai pleci niciodată la drum!

versului, efect al perplexității)! Încă ceva: de la Baudelaire încoace, s-a trezit un deștept să spună că Florile răului au dat naștere poeziei moderne. Apăi, dacă însuși Baudelaire ar fi auzit inepția asta, i-ar fi dat ipocritului cu cartea peste ochi! Sau, ceva mai delicat, l-ar fi orientat către Candidul lui Voltaire și numeroasele versiuni ale nașterii lui Tamuz pentru a vedea mostre de literatură modernă! Dar când a fost vreodată ceva modern în jalnica istorie a lui Homo Sapiens? Oare Dante Aligheri ar mai fi scris Divina Comedie dacă ar fi crezut că modernitatea omenirii se va instaura abia după Baudelaire? Oare ar mai fi visat el la o întâlnire cu Vergiliu în Infern și cu Beatrix în Paradis dacă modernismul, postmodernismul și neomodernismul nu aveau, încă, degete să bată la porțile lumii? Cum a putut Ovidiu cel trist să se metamorfozeze într-un ținut al geților care râdeau în batjocură de graiul lui latin? Modernitate?! Nu, domnii mei! Lirică. Scumpa și oropsita lirică! Modernitatea e dejecția unei gândiri eterogene care, sub aparența liberalismului, invită spiritul să își suprime individualitatea prin acces la porțile facile ale falselor democrații. Prin estompare, spiritul nu mai iese din mulțime, ci se autogenerează în standardul unui infinit de oglinzi, incapabil să discearnă sinele de ceilalți și mulțimea de diversitate.

Punctul just al sentimentului nu are nicio relevanță în raport cu șabloanele propuse de falsele libertăți! În teoria contagioasă a Lasciateʼogni speranza, voi chʼintrate (tot „modernismului“ (a se citi pentametru iambic, la care se adaugă un „pseudomodernism“!), valențele converg contraiamb sublimat în ultima silabă a către același perimetru eterogen, în care

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

Freamătul spiritului condensat în splendorile esteticii cristalizează năzuințele rațiunii, iar expresia poetică înalță făptura umană în sfera eterică fără să riște a-i mânia pe zeii artelor. Doar că desprinderea de cauzal necesită o exaltare a referențialului critic în progresie geometrică prin cultivarea intensă a acestui spirit. Desigur, nu trebuie să confundăm această întreprindere cu devalorizarea factorului substanță, materie, year I, no. 7, 2021, January

căci asta ar conduce la schilodirea spiritului privându-l de motorul care generează contemplarea. Materia, odată trecută prin caleidoscopul perspectivei estetice, se abstractizează, devine idee și, deci, intră în starea eterală, iar concretul rămâne extensia fixă a unui simbol. De așa manieră se comportă poezia, acest narcotic ce domolește sevrajele cotidianului, stârnește frenezii erotice prin transpunerea eului în voluptosul relief al planetei Venus și descătușează cugetul de rigiditatea rațiunii prin animarea pulsiunilor lirice. „Arzătoarea voință de creație mă aduce mereu la om, în același fel în care ciocanul este mânat spre piatră“ – scria Nietzsche cu privire la monumentala sa operă „Așa grăit-a Zarathustra“. Nu cred că există în literatura universală o sintetizare mai iscusită a menirii creatorului, întrucât ea combate teoria formelor în scopul eliberării fondului. Și ce altceva este poezia dacă nu o manifestare a fondului pur, originar, dezavuat de restricțiile pe care le îmbracă în mod amăgitor convenționalul? A crede că poezia oglindește fidel structura interioară, adică fondul creatorului, este, uneori, o deplorabilă amăgire. Cu toate acestea, cititorul resimte aleanul atavic de reîntregire ce rezidă în sevele versului. De aceea, pentru ca o poezie să își asigure eternizarea, autorul necesită să atingă numeroase deziderate din care vom aminti verosimilitatea și bogăția vocabularului propriu. Scopul oricărei creații lirice verosimile este, de cele mai multe ori, reflexiv-subiectiv, dar asta nu o împiedică, așa cum tradiția literară ne-o arată, să oglindească

gândirile tipizate vehiculează nonsensuri cu valoare axiomatică, în care libertatea se rezumă la tiparul unei realități construite prin ingerința unor precepte aduse cu roaba înaintea gurii. Deci, ce modernism și de unde? Din Comuna Primitivă?! Din marmura Senatului Roman?! Din flamura înstelată a Europei?! Ori din degetul mic al lui Lincoln cel așezat pe tron?! Și, ca să dăm credit (cu aceeași plăcere!) lui Eminescu, teoriile astea „supte din deget“ înseamnă modernism?! Cine nu înțelege că poezia este modernă în eternitatea ei, că ea rezidă dintotdeauna în arealul suprastructurat al gândirii și esteticii, ei bine, aceia sunt dedați (fie-ne iertată expresia) la prostituție literară. Când sufletul ajunge la supraplin de angoase, fie cade doborât, fie își desprinde aripile și izbucnește din crupa convenționalului. Noi singuri ne creăm ziduri împrejur și tot singuri vom fi în corvoada de a le dărâma. În definitiv, spiritele noastre gemene se află dincolo de acele baricade și nu ni se vor alătura decât atunci când vom fi gata să le primim. Astfel, lumea asta plină de simulări precare nu va mai fi străină de ea însăși, căci este un dat al firii să cunoaștem Purgatoriul înaintea Paradisului.

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simțăminte comune, dovedindu-și, astfel, mobilul tranzitiv. Poate că și de aceea mentalul colectiv dă credit majoritar prozei, alterând personalitatea poeziei prin orientare către proza scurtă, efect al tendinței de satisfacere imediată a unor nevoi sub generic intelectual. E drept că ritmul vieții comportă cadențe imprevizibile, că omul își măsoară rațiunea de a fi pe scara hazardului și el a realizat că drama îl apropie sau îl îndepărtează de alți oameni tot așa cum o face fericirea. Tocmai de aceea „ciocanul“ lui Nietzsche se apropie de „piatră“ și poezia stă aproape de spirit.

Et poesis quo? Motto: Poetry begins with the title and never ends. Balzac, a true visionary of human intentions without himself claiming this, manages to build, in the novel Lost Illusions, a brilliant parable of the destiny of poetry. And he does this with the ease conferred by the conviction of the common fact, of the eye that does not see exceptionality and that does not show vexation in the proximity of this destiny. And his parable lies in the exact antithesis of two entities: Lucien Chardon, a master of the word, a poet by technique and spontaneity, who jokingly compromises himself in the heart of a decadent society and his brotherin-law, David Séchard, a poet by feeling and existence, but lacking native talent, picturesque spirit, with a bonhomie sister with naivety. Balzac does not propose an analysis of plausible human archetypes, but simply takes them from his contemporary modernity and brings them before us by denying their identities of any artifice - and, why not believe it, the world of those times had many to offer in this sense! As today and as always, since Homo Sapiens has risen to what it claims to be.

Dacă m-ar fi întrebat cineva ce concluzii aș trasa la acest editorial, cândva aș fi fost tentat să răspund că nu există concluzii pertinente și exhaustive în privința poeziei. Dragii mei, aș încerca, totuși, un exercițiu de imaginație și v-aș invita să vă abandonați în voia propriilor firi, să petreceți într-un dialog intim cu naturile voastre și să vă lăsați fascinați de numeroasele necunoscute și întrebări ce vă vitalizează. Acolo, în leagănul de fantasme, ați putea găsi un gol pe care poezia nu promite să îl completeze în vreun fel, iar, în acel gol, se ascunde o poveste neterminată. De aceea, puteți îmbrățișa golul, puteți să plonjați în el, să vă izbiți de valuri și să le escaladați crestele. Extenuați pe plaja de iluzii, clipiți măcar o dată pentru a regăsi cerul care vă umanizează, vă admiră, vă trimite If, for some readers, it appears as a astrele ca pe cei mai dedicați martori ai poeziei numite OM. Și, dacă nici atunci nu ați gustat o paradox that, in an editorial about poetry, we fărâmă de eternitate, povestea poeziei voastre bring in the first paragraph the name of Balzac, this exponent of modern prose, they will also rămâne departe de a se fi încheiat. allow us a little detail. Many of the great prose writers of universal literature began with

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

So where goes Poetry? Like a clergyman who, being asked where God is in times of world hardship, we will give the same answer: where it has always been. Of course, the redundancy that emerges from this seemingly evasive sentence, provokes some frustrations in the poetic question, so we will continue to appeal to the reader, assuring him of our concern, if not complete, at least satisfactory on the lyricism itself. For Poesis does not only mean versification! Lyrics were also written at the Moulin Rouge, and were even enjoyed with enormous breadth. Poesis resides wherever it identifies itself in ethos, in tradition, taking its eponym after the spiritual continent of the sentient. And yet, however, many verses are written, without them being poetry, without containing the core of the lyrical substance, without emanating even the faintest thrill of life - and this is a consequence of the fear of prosody, of the tendency of alignment with customs proposed and imposed by... some non-poets!

understand nor will ever agree with. You can hardly hope to write poetry in iambic pentameter just because someone says that this type of verse belongs to English literature! You hardly want to build amphibras and anaphs just because someone else, before you, did it – and with what skill! My dear ones, take Eminescu! He abounds in iambic pentameters (Our young ones), amphibras (Mortua est!) and ventured into the game of prosody to the point that he returned to the popular verse to offer us The Vesper. He wrote the Epigones, then Memento mori and, later, the Letters following a prosody easily found in Pasoptists such as Ion Heliade Rădulescu (The Flyer) or Grigore Alexandrescu (Mircea's Shadow. At Cozia), but not only there, but in the literature of the Latin classics such as Virgil, Horace, Juvenal and Ovid! How do you think you're writing poetry since you're avoiding so-called templates? You met Esenin's trochaic pentameter and you discover that, about eighty years after his death, you wrote something in the same prosody and suspect yourself of plagiarism? Well, if you look after every cloud, you never go on the road again!

Lasciateʼogni speranza, voi chʼintrate (also iambic pentameter, to which is added a sublimated counteriamb in the last syllable of the verse, an effect of perplexity)! One more thing: from Baudelaire onwards, a smart man woke up to say that the Flowers of Evil gave birth to modern poetry. Well, if Baudelaire On the other hand, there are the timid himself had heard this nonsense, he would ones, the undecided, that is, those who seek at have hit the hypocrite in the eye! Or, a little all costs to meet standards that they neither more delicately, he would have turned to year I, no. 7, 2021, January

poetic attempts, the verse being considered a prerogative of youth, to later find out the vocation of their own lyricism in monumental works in prose. An example pleasing to the heart of the author of these lines is Caragiale himself, who, in a moment of precarious inspiration, we believe, ironized the poetry right in front of his best friend, none other than Eminescu. If you read Caragiale's lyrics, you will easily understand our point of view.

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Voltaire's Candid and the many versions of Thamus' birth to see samples of modern literature! But when was there anything modern in the pathetic history of Homo Sapiens? Would Dante Aligheri have written the Divine Comedy if he had believed that the modernity of mankind would be established only after Baudelaire? Would he have dreamed of a meeting with Virgil in Hell and Beatrix in Paradise if modernism, postmodernism, and neomodernism still did not have fingers knocking at the gates of the world? How could the sad Ovid metamorphose into a land of the Getae who laughed mockingly at his Latin speech? Modernity?! No, gentlemen! Lyric. The dear and oropsite lyric! Modernity is the dejection of a heterogeneous thought that, under the guise of liberalism, invites the spirit to suppress its individuality through access to the easy gates of false democracies. By blurring itself, the spirit no longer stands out from the crowd, but self-generates in the standard of an infinite number of mirrors, unable to discern the self from others and the multitude of diversity. The righteous point of the feeling has no relevance in relation to the patterns proposed by the false liberties! In the contagious theory of "modernism" (read "pseudomodernism"!), the valences converge to the same heterogeneous perimeter, in which standardized thoughts convey nonsense with axiomatic value, in which freedom is reduced to the pattern of a reality constructed by the interference of precepts brought with the wheelbarrow before the mouth. So what

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modernism and where? From the Primitive Commune?! From the marble of the Romanian Senate?! From the starry flag of Europe?! Or from Lincoln's little finger sitting on the throne?! And, to give credit (with the same pleasure!) to Eminescu, do these "fingersucked" theories mean modernism?! Those who do not understand that poetry is modern in its eternity, that it always resides in the superstructured area of thought and aesthetics, well, those are devoted (may our expression be forgiven) to literary prostitution. When the soul becomes overflowing with anguish, it either falls down or spreads its wings and bursts out of the croup of the conventional. We alone create walls around us and we will be alone in the chore of tearing them down. Ultimately, our twin spirits are beyond those barricades and will not join us until we are ready to receive them. Thus, this world full of precarious simulations will no longer be foreign to itself, for it is a matter of nature to know Purgatory before Paradise. The commotion of the spirit condensed in the splendors of aesthetics crystallizes the aspirations of reason, and the poetic expression elevates the human being in the etheric sphere without risking angering the gods of the arts. It's just that causal detachment requires an exaltation of the critical frame of reference in geometric progression through the intense cultivation of this spirit. Of course, we must not confuse this enterprise with the devaluation of the factor substance, matter, because this would lead to the crippling of the spirit by depriving it of the TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

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common feelings, thus proving its transitive motive. Perhaps that is why the collective mind gives majority credit to prose, altering the personality of poetry by focusing on short prose as an effect of the tendency to immediately satisfy some needs under intellectual generic. It is true that the rhythm of life involves unpredictable cadences, that man measures his reason of being on the scale of chance, and he realized that drama brings him closer or further away from other people just as happiness does. That is why Nietzsche's "The burning will of creation always "hammer" approaches the "stone" and poetry brings me to man, in the same way that the is close to the spirit. hammer is driven to the If someone had stone" â&#x20AC;&#x201C; wrote Nietzsche asked me what about his monumental conclusions I would draw work "Thus spoke from this editorial, I Zarathustra". I do not would have once been think that there is a more tempted to answer that skilful synthesis in the there are no pertinent universal literature of the and exhaustive creator's purpose, since it conclusions about poetry. combats the theory of My dear ones, I would try, forms in order to release however, an exercise of the fund. And what else is imagination and I would poetry if not a invite you to abandon manifestation of the pure, original yourselves to your own nature, to spend in an background, disavowed by the restrictions intimate dialogue with your natures and to be that the conventional deceptively wears? To fascinated by the many unknowns and believe that poetry faithfully mirrors the inner questions that vitalize you. There, in a cradle structure, that is, the background of the of fantasies, you might find a void that poetry creator, is sometimes a deplorable deception. does not promise to fill in any way, and in that However, the reader feels the atavistic alliance void lies an unfinished story. Therefore, you of reunion that resides in the sap of the verse. can embrace the void, you can dive into it, hit Therefore, in order for a poem to ensure its the waves and climb their ridges. Exhausted perpetuation, the author needs to reach on the beach of illusions, blink at least once to numerous desideratums from which we will find the sky that humanizes you, admires you, mention the plausibility and richness of sends you the stars as the most dedicated vocabulary. The purpose of any plausible witnesses of poetry called HUMAN. And, even lyrical creation is, most of the time, reflexive- if you haven't tasted a shred of eternity even subjective, but this does not prevent it, as the then, the story of your poetry is far from over. literary tradition shows us, from mirroring year I, no. 7, 2021, January

engine that generates contemplation. Matter, once passed through the kaleidoscope of aesthetic perspective, is abstracted, becomes an idea and, therefore, enters the etheric state, and the concrete remains the fixed extension of a symbol. This is how poetry behaves, this narcotic that calms the daily weanings, arouses erotic frenzy by transposing the ego into the voluptuous upground of the planet Venus and unleashes the thought of the rigidity of reason by animating lyrical pulsions.

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poetry 5-24

Gerlinde Staffler

Adam Żemojtel

Sleepless mind Thoughts are wandering in turbulent streams Many a blinking spot in my brain beams I can’t catch all these naughty fireflies They flow through me opening my eyes Thoughts leave me never alone They’re present twice like a clone Roaming my woods in swarm of ideas In

numerous

queries,

worries and plans Thoughts are sprouting like plants Or like a range of hills of ants My head beats like a battle drum Leaving me so as I forget my name Thoughts glide through my mind Thoughts wrench from the heart unkind They talk to me without strain Of joy, fear, anger and pain Unceasing thoughts fall asleep Then in weird dreams they always creep And fly with me all the night

But nothing can I do for their might

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Pysznych myśli słowa rozlałaś słodyczy eliksir na skórze ciekawskim oczom skleiłaś powieki ty tylko wiesz na co przy tobie zasłużę nagość zanurzając do miłosnej rzeki mgłą tajemnych uczuć przesłaniasz krajobraz nie pozwalasz myślom mym dociekać prawdy rozkosz mą wyłaniasz swym ciałem raz po raz nie czekasz na powrót zasłużonej karmy wzniecony płomień szybko się rozrasta jak miłość wzbudzona do entej potęgi wilgoć taka słodka klei się i mlaska swym śladem różowe kreśli dreszczy wstęgi pocałunkiem dławisz słów moich potoki w szczerym mym zachwycie obawiasz się kłamstwa w spocone tak włosy wkręcasz swoje loki pochłaniasz istnienie w nadziei poddaństwa opóźniasz celowo mej eksplozji chwilę podsycasz ogień i znów go uciszasz zabierasz z ust wrzącą od miłości ślinę w ciemności tajemny powodujesz miraż dusze chcą ulecieć z naczyń połączonych krew znów rozżarzona i to do białości plączą się akordy serc nieposkromionych rozkosz znów przygasa bynajmniej nie w złości TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

wreszcie się wyzwala burza z piorunami nie ma takiej siły by orgazm powstrzymać rozbłyski się łączą z wielkimi grzmotami wzburzonej rozkoszy nie da się zatrzymać

Do I need

zastygają chłodem miłosne potoki serc obu symfonia spokojem przycicha kwiaty umęczone spijają swe soki miłość znów gorąca spływa do kielicha

And loving

Bhagirath Choudhary

Any mysticism

To love all With humanistic passion Unconditional compassion ? Do I need Of a great Shaman To be good human With loving humanism ?

Do I need Any religion

I have already

To keep

All what I need

A kind eye

For benevolent

And loving vision ?

Thought, word and deed

Do I need

I have already

Any big talks

All the potential

To think

And humanistic worth

Universally benevolent Kind thoughts ? Do I need Fine linguistics To speak Kind and caring words Without selfish tricks ? Do I need Any philosophy To treat

To create heaven Here upon earth But I behave Like a frog in a well Every moment I create a sinful hell With my sadistic creed Of evil thought, With cunning word And selfish deed.

Human Poverty

Any education

One and all With empathy ? year I, no. 7, 2021, January

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

Adam Decowski

Prince Steve Oyebode

Wędrówka

[Journey] nad moim a może i nad twoim snem ten sam lęk drąży labirynty cieni które zatrzasną się szczelnie gdy zostaniemy odcięci na zawsze od światła któregoś dnia przystajemy nagle w tym pośpiesznym marszu oglądamy się wołamy nie ma jednego z nas jeszcze słyszymy gasnące kroki chwytamy w dłonie popiół jego słów i nie możemy uwierzyć że nie poda nam ręki nie ogrzeje klamki naszego domu i nie potrafimy wypełnić blizny powietrza po nim a nasza wędrówka nadal trwa jej dni słońca wahadło odmierza aż kiedyś nieruchome zawęźli nasz czas i opadający liść serca ostatnim uderzeniem w ciemność ziemi zapuka

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The power of love We thought it was but a mere oath When we both sworn an allegiance That nothing shall in anyway separate us Not even the ugly moments of ill health Or the dangerous time of austerity Even period of unanswered prayers We never knew we were both wrong When our emotions overwhelmed us Now that the ugly visitor of death beckons at me Whispering to me about my very last moment To separate and do us part till eternity My consolation is that you shall outlive me Even now that I believed you have the liberty I mean the freedom to choose another man The more I realize I’m fast leaving this world Surprisingly, the clearer I see we’re both leaving This undemystified magnet has glued us Right from the hour we made the promise That wherever I go thou shall also go That my people shall be yours and vice versa That my life shall always be your life And that your death shall also be mine Now I know the nitty gritty of oath That we both made under the mango tree

TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

Selma Kopic

It wasn't a night like any other, it was a night of hope for better days. In the circle of family and friends or alone in their homes, everyone could hardly wait for the year that was so bad to pass. Sparks of fireworks shone over the city when I heard your voice. You sing about longing for your darling as you drive on the deserted icy roads of the north! You call her to come and run her hand through your hair. Tears burn in my eyes like needles. Am I that darling you call with verses? The lost hope warms my heart which begins to beat madly, then hurts as if it will stop. This night brought joy to many, I know those to whom it caused sorrow because accidents happen even on the most beautiful occasions. It brought me you and your love song about a distant darling you call into an embrace. I feel every word, they tap on my wounded heart like a sword. But I love that pain, it makes me feel alive again.

Čekajući ponoć To nije bila noć kao sve druge, bila je to noć nade u bolje dane. U krugu porodice i prijatelja ili usamljenički u svojim kućama, svi su jedva čekali da prođe godina koja je bila tako loša. Nad gradom su svijetlile iskre vatrometa kad sam čula tvoj glas. Pjevaš o čežnji za svojom dragom dok voziš se pustim zaleđenim cestama sjevera. Zoveš je da dođe i rukom ti kroz kosu prođe. Zapekoše suze u mojim očima kao iglice. Jesam li ja ta draga koju stihovima zoveš? Izgubljena nada zagrija moje srce koje ludo poče da kuca, zatim zaboli kao da će stat. Ova noć donijela je mnogima radost, znam i one kojima je prouzročila tugu jer nesreće se događaju i u najljepšim prigodama. Meni je donijela tebe i tvoju ljubavnu pjesmu o dalekoj dragoj koju zoveš u zagrljaj. Osjećam svaku riječ, one tapkaju po mom ranjenom srcu kao mač. Ali ja taj bol volim, čini da se ponovo živom osjetim.

Waiting for midnight

“I am the one he longs for’’, I whispered „Ja sam ta za kojom čezne’’, nijemo sam silently šaputala as I sank into a sweet sleep, quietly. dok sam tiho u slatki san tonula. year I, no. 7, 2021, January

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

Shaswata Gangopadhyay

Emergency

Two Poems

Circus

Now this time a tent is pitched, wet grass at the southern field Hand-clapping of clowns, hair-raising shifting movement Of trapeze tricks in darkness, we sit spellbound There're scantily dressed girls standing on the hunches of camels And keeping the balance, reminds us that world is globular Three white cockatoos go away riding on cycles But as soon as they depart, the interval bell rings After the recess comes a funny magician in overcoat Ah! how he swallowed up a good number of multi-colored fish The scene changes in an instant, there's throbbing in the heart, The bike rotates round in the enclosure at a break-neck speed If it slips from the orbit, will there be any fiery explosion? There's an announcement in the mike: tighten up your seat-belt The last item in the breathless arena, the intercourses of tigers

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Under some manholes of streets in Kolkata, a few adolescent girls, as innocent as cherry flowers, are kept confined. At midnight my sleep fades away suddenly and I listen to the wailing groans they make being suffocated. As if from all sides the river-banks are slipping away over the flood-water with flashing sounds. A day will come when I won't meet anyone, known to me earlier. Only we will exchange handshakes among us through hand gloves only, one after the other. One day, all the words will desert me, leaving me all alone. Perhaps a line or two in poetry, in spite of their trying to reach very near to each other, will not find a parking-space in the clumsy jottings of my diary. Translated by: Rajdeep Mukherjee

Shaswata Gangopadhyay One of Prominent faces of contemporary Bengali poetry, who started writing in the mid 90s. Born & brought up in Kolkata, Shaswata has profound interest in travelling, adventure and classical music. His poetry has been highly appreciated among other fellow poets for its colorful and rich content. His book of poems: Inhabitant of Pluto Planet (2001) Offspring of Monster (2009) and Holes of Red Crabs (2015). Very recently one of his poems has been exhibited in a Short Poetry Festival in Piccolo Museo della Poesia, Italy â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the only Poetry Museum of the world. TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

SIR SILVANO BORTOLAZZI

"Sono"

"I'm"

Non cerco il potere, poiché non voglio I don't seek power, as I don't want to subdue: sottomettere: it is inconceivable to command and intimidate è inconcepibile comandare ed intimorire i the righteous. giusti. I want to be, I don't want to have: Voglio essere, non voglio avere: so as not to hate me, per non detestarmi, to be free from myself per essere libero da me and others: stesso e dagli altri: to be respected as a man. per essere rispettato come uomo. I take my cross of poverty, Prendo la mia croce di I accept the humiliations povertà, of the enriched accetto le umiliazioni who were once brothers degli arricchiti to me: che un tempo mi furono I thank them for their fratelli: stupid indifference. li ringrazio per la loro stupida indifferenza. I live in the silence of prayer, Vivo nel silenzio della preghiera, in my exile as a poet enclosed within four nel mio esilio di poeta richiuso tra quattro walls. mura. I speak to God: Parlo con Dio: they all lose. perdono tutti. Desiring is not my concept Desiderare non è un mio concetto but I take the pleasures of life: ma colgo i piaceri della vita: they can lead me to understanding possono condurmi verso la comprensione of the extreme limits of wisdom. degli estremi limiti della saggezza. I am, Io Sono, everything everyone wants to have tutto quello che tutti vogliono avere believing to be. credendo d'essere. year I, no. 7, 2021, January

Detesto le lotterie, poiché non amo vincere: I hate lotteries, as I don't like winning: non potrei rinunciare al mio piccolo mondo I couldn't give up my little world of loving d'amorevoli sogni. dreams.

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

Janamenjoy Ghorai

Naba Kumar Podder

„”Grammar of Life” Blazing in conflict with the rhythm of the current of life In the triad bed of prepositional prepositions Again the vowel rises and sets I walked the path of wonder for no reason The grammar of life, Maybe in the cosmic beauty of the colorless alphabet lifestyle at the touch of a coyote Adjective adjectives come selectively Where there is a juncture of life, Floating caught the magic world Beautiful metallic form of sound Repeatedly in the innumerable complications of the smooth mouth The grammar of life at the end of the full taste of the verb sampika Happiness ends in the silence of sorrow Comma maybe wonderful silent beard, Rather it leaves the whiteblack burning house of life grammar side by side. Ruki Kočan

A Tale of Coloured Pent (Translator -Shikdar Mohammed kibriah) At the end nobody has to be detached Nobody is only beloved as the colour Of monochord This tattoo time is strange too! Is everything written in script? Can everything rush to the utmost Of piano--Violin and pipe are not similar Yet in a word they are artistic They are fragrant Antiseptic. Enemy doesn't test who is real

Evo svjetlosti Or who is fake in the war. Ljubavi, Iskro Života. Probudi Svijet Mira. Neka ode zlo, i mržnja. Mrak, užas i zabluda. Evo, evo svima Svjetlosti. Idi, - ma brišite gluposti. Pohlepa i bolest, haos - ljubomora i trač. Idi - idi nepismena smrti. Evo sreće, i Ljubavi... Evo, evo - Svjetlosti.

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What's need to react from the out? Come to a fussPour some romance in this Bay of Bengal.

TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

Often I guessed how you created opportunity to meet me Something remained untold Fear and shameness battled my mind being gloomy. Dared not to talk to you in inevitable fright Far away from the world of love being highly Dare not to touch you though chance to invite immature The day when I came to know you fell in love Couldn't perceive your body language due to It was high time to taste the fruits of joyous childish nature love. Couldn't really comprehend you, that alluring I wish the day would come back with a last smile chance You were not remaining aloof from me even Had not at all lost that joy of divine romance. a while Your posture seemed me the sparkling angel Jigme Jamtsho Ramesh Chandra Pradhani

year I, no. 7, 2021, January

Windows of winter Gazing warm rays of beautiful sun Touches my cheek through the window Amid to the drowsy morning without fun Listening to Robin from the far meadow Resting on the soft and clumsy pillow Vapours from the coffee cup waving hi My half opened eyes gazed from below And the sip of coffee refresh me to glorify Activeness pushed me outside to refresh Feeling the chill sensation of the breeze And soothing scent of nature that bless The winter numb me speechless to freeze Through the windows of winter season I can see the mountains fully with snow Even the streams flowing with the reason Every second of life matters as we know

of heaven so merry Your gait in front of me assumed the dance of celestial fairies Your presence in the bathing ghats as if coincidental Thy appearance again and again beyond my imagination oriental Sitting like a child in the group before me stole my attraction But never did I bother or take to my mind's calculation Your eyes gazing at me haunted sometimes I felt The hidden desire inside you nearing me seen myself melt In the wee hours often your body dashed against me Myself ashamed of it and strived to keep me distant The rapport between you and me made me ignorant Days after days passed away leaving something untold That puzzled, disturbed, suffered and deferred me bold.

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

AD Ibrahim

Timothy Michael DiVito

My nubian princess

"A One Way Train"

How tan is she! kissed by warmth of the sun's rays skin dripping melanin

It's time to leave now,

Her hips invites you Her kinky hair a golden crown of mother earth Her skin tone a badge of honor Her lips sweeter than red wine

across the desert of time.

the train departs shortly. Westward dream bound into an unknown world,

Just sweet memories now, a love once shared happily. Now abruptly shattered like glass of the human soul,

Her obsidian skin softer than fur a beam to African Kings and heroes

all aboard the train of life. I gave to you my one

A microcosm of the universe hips swaying in self love as I dance to the afro drum of life

heart, now I travel the world alone on an optimistic train track, leading me to new memories,

Milka J.Šolaja

visions of madness forgotten.

Bljesak bjeline Da li to pada snijeg ili pahulje lete, u očima bljesak bjeline. Sivilo nestade u trenu, jecaj me prenu... Djetinjstvo me probudi na Ličkom putu u starom kaputu, kroz snijeg gazim sretna.

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Tracks leading to new dreams far down the line of existence, to unknown opportune towns. But a true adventure of life leading to brighter horizons.

TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

Cilenti Emanuele

Početak! Početak našeg stradanja polako se svima otkriva mi sigurno gubimo bitku još nije kasno da tražimo priliku Posle toliko godina mi smo naraštaj koji plaća cenu sve što se danas dešava u svetu postoji način opet naći se na svetlu Neko je zbog nas život dao kako bi nas od greha okupao dao nam je i odeću čistu a mi bez časti izgubismo bitku Još nije kasno braćo i sestre da se pokajemo svi za svoje grehe nastavimo tamo gde su pre nas stali molimo se milostivom Bogu da se sažali Da nam opet u pomoć dođe donese pobedu i da slobode jer sami smo slabi i grešimo jedni druge mi ne znamo da utešimo Vrati se silo nebeska jaka oteraj ovaj strah iz stomaka vrati životu veru i blagostanje u svima nama postoji u Gospoda verovanje

year I, no. 7, 2021, January

The poet of the clouds. I wrote you this love letter I didn't use the usual words I made a miracle on the blue sheet of infinity splashing magic ink made of clouds and I composed this tender lyric a pure white writing that tastes like rain but also of snow, a poet in the clouds just to reveal to the whole world my eternal and celestial love for you. Dijana Uherek Stevanović,

Pervasion In the treetops, I hid the sun, to remind me of you. Do not worry, I'll set him free for I would not hold you captive either. My thoughts are free, like this passing day, like the year 2020 that is disappearing, as well as the life that passes. Look at us, we are like day and night, we are entangled in time. We are the sun, the source of life.

Velimir Siljanoski

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

to be able to include them Remember me Title name: "Love Stars" Clouds are my calling When he shakes, I stretch out my arms to the sky and smile at you. That night knows, that star knows, Stefano Capasso The sky knows, the moon knows, How I love you! That Wonderful Time will it Today my heart dances like a peacock! I have written your name on each star. ever come back? Honeymoon will be in the light of the stars! The stars in the sky cannot be finished, Look far beyond My love can't end the Horizon I will fill you with romantic stories. and see nothing, Rupoli moon is smiling, if not ghosts The star is shining chasing each other brightly, . in a mad rush I just love you! against time, Grasshoppers and it's really sad. butterflies are playing at the tip of my eyes! There are shadows The garden of the mind that dissolve smells of fragrant instantly flowers! only to appear, I will decorate you with like snow clouds the seven colors of the while others, rainbow! suddenly, I will talk to those twinkling stars in the skyfill the scene Love only you! of tender memories of the past, LenuČ&#x2122; Lungu when Watch the sun go down in the everything and everything it was truly wonderful. Mahanaj Parvin

night cup

this is how loneliness descends in my soulâ&#x20AC;Ś your steps, vain hopes bound in a chain, where in the course of time a secret clings behind your words there are two lips that give life the muffled mixture between the rows. put your hands next to you

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But that wanderful time will it ever come back? Eyes now tired makes it clear, that anyway those already passed they really stay extraordinary memories. TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

If i have not told you If I have not told you You wouldn't have believed me Seeing the temperature of your eyes As it rained snow of anger and bitterness

Even before now and ever after This words melt her heart and brought tears of apologizy She knelt before him and pleased He raised her up with smile and love Embracing each other once again If I have not told you this neither would you believe me

I could feel the heaviness of the rain in your eyes Mayokun Kehinde Folorunsho Knowing fully well you yourself don't care to raise your voice at me Unbecoming Despite how much I tried to caution and parcify you And now sleepwalkers in beheaded dreams You never listened but crucified my heart We have dreamed with a heart before them all Unwashed as a madman Around the bonfire of The dilemma to this ethnic offerings equation was nothing but Blazing in bloody heat a setup I could hardly look into In those forgotten your eyes than to gaze my centuries words Holy blades split My eyes are soaked of emirates' soul tears showing the And what will our myopic sobriety of my heart eyes see Yet not a chance to at least When we have tagged our prove myself right countrymen with battle scars You wouldn't have trusted me Inscribed by the thirst of emperors If not that I say whatever will be will surely be That paced our homeland for many decades? I accepted fate when the clamouring was much You've forgotten how you triggered my heart Down this path flooded with rage We have been the draughtsman Yet I never picked offense nor judge you for Of what we wish we were who you are Which seems the anthem for another age I gave you second chance which leads to a We have sacrificed Biafra's skulls billion times I'm me! If only you could listen to what I have to say Yet born again into recurring waves Bless God you came back to your senses but We now are a flickering lighthouse the damage is done And the victory songs are The anguish and wailing of sucklings Everyone left with the crumbs of your attitude Brimming the trophies we brought home displayed From voyages and nameless wars Take no thought because I've forgiven you year I, no. 7, 2021, January

Adeyemi Kehinde A. Oluwanishola

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

Federaţiei Internaţionale a Jurnaliştilor. Membru al Asociației Canadiene a Scriitorilor Români. Membru al Academiei RomânoS-a născut la 16 septembrie 1949 în Australiană. Membru al Academiei Națiunii familia intelectualilor Valentina şi Pavel Române. Cuzuioc din comuna Ţareuca, judeţul Orhei, A editat peste 40 de cărţi de epigrame, Republica Moldova. A absolvit Universitatea de Stat de Medicină şi Farmacie ,,N. aforisme, proză (romane, nuvele, poveşti şi Testemiţanu”. Eminent al Ocrotirii Sănătăţii. povestiri pentru copii, schiţe umoristice), Medic specialist Sănătatea Publică şi versuri lirice, poeme stil nipon, publicistică. În Managementul Sanitar (categorie superioară). toţi aceşti ani publică cronici literare, eseuri, Distins cu Ordinul ,,Gloria Muncii”și Medalia sfaturi medicale, articole ştiinţifico-populare. „Nicolae Milescu Spătarul”, Titluri Onorifice: Selecţii din creaţia sa literară au fost incluse în ,,Ambasador al Păcii (ONU) și „Ambasador al peste 200 de antologii şi culegeri din România, Culturii Păcii”(Asociația Europeană a Rusia, SUA, Austria, Australia, Franța, Canada, Coreea de Sud și Societății Civile) ; Muntenegru, Macedonia Distincţia ,,Coroana etc. Păcii”(ONU); Premiul Poemele de sorginte Uniunii Scriitorilor din niponă (Haiku, Senryu și Moldova (2000), (2009), Gogyohka) semnate de Uniunii Ziariștilor Ion Cuzuioc au fost Profesioniști din România traduse în limbile (2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, japoneză, engleză, 2018, 2019), Premiul franceză, rusă, UNESCO şi numeroase muntenegreană și premii şi menţiuni la macedoniană, fiind Saloane Internaționale de publicate în diverse Carte, Concursuri și Festivaluri Literare Naţionale şi antologii, culegeri și reviste de profil de peste hotare. Ion Cuzuioc s-a învrednicit de peste Internaţionale. Cetăţean de Onoare al comunei Ţareuca, 100 de premii și mențiuni la Concursurile Rezina, Orhei. Membru al Uniunii Săptămânale și Lunare de Haiku, Senryu și Epigramiştilor, Uniunii Scriitorilor și Uniunii Gogyohka organizate de către Romanian Ziariștilor Profesioniști din România. Membru Haiku, Lyrical flashes, Dincolo de retină, al Uniunii Cineaştilor, Uniunii Umoriştilor, Gogyohka România, Gogyohka SUA etc.

Ion CUZUIOC

Recent, scriitorul nostru român Uniunii Epigramiștilor, Uniunii Jurnaliştilor şi Uniunii Scriitorilor din Moldova. Membru al basarabean, Ion Cuzuioc, care a participat la Internaționale Literare Asociației Naționale a Oamenilor de Creație Concursurile „Planetopia 2020” și „Literatopia 2020” din din Moldova. Membru al Senatului Asociației Macedonia s-a învrednicit de premiile I la Oamenilor de Știință, Cultură și Artă din secțiunea Aforisme și Haiku. Moldova. Membru al Confederaţiei Internaţionale a Cineaştilor, Membru al

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TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

*** Anna Maria Stępień pădure în flăcări – plânsul puiului de cuc înecat în fum

lacul fără pește – paznicul de serviciu dus cu pluta

pe prispa casei – un scaun și o cârjă doar amintire

*** surpriza nopții – soțul de la cazino în frunza Evei

*** vreme toridă – căruțașul dormind la umbra cailor

Recepta Nie ma na ziemi chyba człowieka, Co drogą gładką ciągle idzie, lato czy zima. Tak jest i było od prawieków… *** Troski, obawy, z czymś się zżyma Czy mały on, czy duży jest… Życiowy czeka go codziennie test. I nie ma na tej ziemi tego, Który szczęśliwy ze wszystkiego, Co los przynosi z sobą w darze. *** Wzloty, upadki, przygód bez liku – tych złych i dobrych… A na dodatek dorzuci czasem Worek jak tęcza wielobarwny Pełen przepięknych o szczęściu marzeń. Gdy z tego sprawę sobie zdasz, Receptę wtem na swe bolączki gotową masz: Jak radzić sobie, nawet gdy Nie idzie po Twej myśli Ci, Gdy nie po myśli Twojej jest, To co dookoła dziś Ciebie dzieje się. W górę więc serce, przed siebie pierś,

*** Rękawy zakasz, siedzisz czy stoisz,

pe ultimul drum – în urma sicriului florile călcate year I, no. 7, 2021, January

W marzeń magiczną moc swych wierz, Bo przecież Ty sam najlepiej wiesz, Co w duszy Twojej tańczy, co w niej gra! Chyba, że wolisz, gdy to Ci podpowiadam ja…?

de gardă la muzeu – lângă stative motanul torcând în voie

Do pracy umysł zaprzęgnij i ręce swoje. I nie myśl, żeś jest sam, choć pewnie… We dwoje lepiej, gdy druga para rąk, Gdy głowy dwie, Do pracy nad jaśniejszym jutrem *** Już dziś z zapałem wezmą się…

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

Muhammad Ishaq Abbasi

The Rape

Three days ago when the night spread it's fence. The woman with her three children, was going from Lahore to Gujranwala by motorway, after meeting her sister. She belonged to a family that ate and drank. Suddenly, her car ran out of petrol on the road near Gujarpura village. It was one o'clock at night. And the car stopped. She was screaming and screaming for help. Meanwhile, two beasts came and broke the glass of the car and started looting her. The pen was trembling and the heart was coming to the mouth as I wrote the poem. Heaven and earth were weeping at the cries of mothers and children. The mother was holding her children in her arms along with her honor. Sometimes she was calling to the East and sometimes to the West for help. Everyone was enjoying their sleep. The beasts dragged her and her children into a nearby forest. The desolation of the forest was also weeping tears of blood. The mother was beaten and raped in front of the children. And left them there and fled. Everyone needs to do their part to end this oppression. Heaven is under mother's feet. And our society has tramped a mother underfoot.

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TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

The law of causality Interpersonal correlation – what a strenuous activity, such a complicated dynamics. It mainly manifests itself: like this dual current of life’s force running down the paths of our doings. It’s much like the law of nature, that proportional, inversed logic – so called reciprocity of action and reaction. Aftermath of all that rationalizing should be the sum of inputs leading to a desirable outputs. The whole world as my witness that modality of computing and analyzing in the real world - nowadays - is baseless.

A stampede of inequality and injustice A stampede mainly formed out of: misconceptions, misconstructions and poor judgments is bulldozing all over the entity of individual being. The world machinery is pushing, irresistibly, a single amorphous template of conduct and the richness of diversity of each individuality it is washed away like dirt after heavy rain. year I, no. 7, 2021, January

Everything tends to be constructed that way, that all shades of a wide range of colors are being repainted in one of the shades of nonetheless then mechanical-worker gray. The goal is to produce as many units of the identical as possible, to delete differences with one stroke of the keyboard. And what is the only thing left for us, as an option, being non-stop propagated every single day? Adapt, learn to be like others or simply disappear.

Short biography: Dušan Pejaković is a student, volunteer, social entrepreneur and author, based in Podgorica, Montenegro. A passionate reader and nature lover. Currently at the position of MA candidate at the Faculty of Political Science, University of Montenegro. Has been expressing himself through written word from an early age. He writes and creates on a multilingual basis (languages of the Balkan peninsula area, English, Spanish, Italian) Published so far in several books of poetry, culture magazines, as well as via online platforms. In July 2020, he published a book of English poetry “Unrest of lucidity” which can be found on Amazon as well as other places Amazon collaborates with. He also writes prose, primarily embodied in the form of short stories, novellas and essays. His second book of poetry, written in his native language (Eng. translation: “The silhouette of an unfulfilled dream) has been published in November 2020. He is currently working on a new project, which is underway, and it is a collection of stories.

Dušan Pejaković

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

prose 25-30

Spisateljica Biserka

Maslačak na planeti

Zoran Radosavljević

Pompeja

Rukama krvavim od borbe sa njenim Pokosila sam travu, provukla ruke kroz demonima sakupljao sam ostatke pepela te grm lavande, sjela na klupicu i podigla noge na Pompeje u njoj..Vezuve moj..gasila te crni kamen prošaran bijelim, kvarcnim žilama. prekrasna reka Sarno.. Bila je rodjena sa vatrom u sebi. Čuvala je u dodirima i mislima, Kroz napola zatvorene oči, zaklonjene i poklanjala malo po malo ljudima, sve dok joj dugim trepavicama, opijena mirisima, iskra u oćima nije nestala.Nestala je toplina i promatrala sam male oblačiće, ružičaste od dobrota koju je širila..Ljudi su je istrošili i zalaska sunca. Baš kad sam pomislila kako bi ostavili.. Da joj ližem krvave očnjake posle bilo divno da sjediš tu, kraj mene, ugledala sam životnih poraza, ona da me čuva od celog sveta …Da vidamo rane jedno njega, moj mjesec, drugom..klesanjem joj veličanstven kao i uvijek, đavoli prošlosti želili ali opet, večeras poseban. oduzeti dobrotu..borio sam se koliko sam mogao Tek sad sam otkrila da sačuvam tu njenu kamo nestaju svi oni anđeosku lepotu … Meni maslačci sa zelenih livada, su godinama krvava lebdjeli su oko mjeseca, stopala, a i dalje istim obasjani njegovim sjajem, putevima moja duša tvorili paučinastu korača …idem njoj u koprenu koja se omatala susret da je čuvam dok oko njega. Pružila sam opet ne ojača…nemoj te ruke, visoko, visoko, želim da pomislite da tražim izgovor samo da bi te dotaknuti. lutao… Kad je Niče plakao, svet je ćutao…a ići Odjednom, mjesec se zamutio, zatitrao, ću opet i opet iznova..čujem kako viću izađi iz kao odsjaj u vodi. Osjetim dodir na obrazu i zabluda i uđi u stvarnost, umrećeš od lažnih rukom krenem očekujući tvoje prste. Ne snova Ne znaju oni da sam takav po rodjenju… nalazim ih, samo kapljice na mom dlanu, pred putokazima spuštam glavu, volim da blješte kao dijamanti na mjesečevom sjaju. Još idem po sopstvenom nahođenju ..kao i biljka jedna noć spušta se na pokošenu travu i kad sama od sebe baci svoje sopstveno seme… usamljen moj lik na klupi. džaba ste štedeli sve te tišine, reči, dodire i pesme kad se pravi ljudi pojave u pogrešno Oko mene, žamor života, u meni, samo vreme ..Jurim prema njoj danima i noćima..ne neizdrživa čežnja koja gori na ovoj planeti. bole me padovi ali bi me boleo pad u njenim oćima..potrudiću se da joj život ne bude samo od plača…ostaću sa njom dok ne ojača..

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TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

dnevnicu, a ni da mu kakav poslićak uradim. Svi se stvrdli ko ćerpič. Sve sami škrtac, i Iz moje neobjavljene zbirke priča: begovi, i age, i gazde, i skriveni kulaci... Sve “tešanjske koke i druge priče” sami Čifut i cicija, ko da će sve na onaj svijet ponijeti!

Šahdo Bošnjak

Da li je Ahmetu pomogla Butra i hodža Grbeša ili mu je pomoglo nešto drugo da progleda, tek on je ponovo uspostavio harmoniju u braku, odlično se razumijevajući i slažući sa svojom ženom Safom. Ama, hronična nestašica novca ponovo je zaprijetila da bi mogla ozbiljno ugroziti tu bračnu harmoniju i sreću. Žena postala nestrpljiva, potreba se namnožilo, a para niotkud, a ona samo zvoca, baš kao ljuta nakostriješena kvočka:

A ovamo u sebi misli: “Ehej, ženice moja, Safice moja slatka, ta, ko ne bi volio kupit’ i čizme malom, i jular kobili, i so, i kreč, i grablje, eh, njih si zaboravila, a eno ih, sve istruhle i zupci poispadali, već li je ostao samo jedan što liči na babin zub, a grablje na babinu vilicu? A tek banane! Ih, što sam se uželio lijepih, žutih, krušnih banana!” Ahmet je toliko volio banane da kad ih se sjeti, duboko uzdahne od želje da ih ima, iza zuba mu poteče bistra voda, a na usta pocure sve same sline, dok zamišlja njihov božanstveni okus. “Ženo, ženice mila, sve je to važno i potrebito, ali banane, banane... Banane su ti, bolan, naaajpotrebitije. Eto, šta bi insan u životu bez banana, haj, šta bi? Ovaj život bez njih ne bi vrijedio ni pet para. Ni pet para!”

– Znaš li ti, bolan, čovo, da našem Ramici trebaju nove čizme, one se poderale pa dijete samo što ne hoda boso?! Vidiš li ti, bolan ne bio, da se kobila nema za šta vezati jer joj je posve dotrajao jular, već sam ti govorila da u kući nemamo ni gram soli! A tek kako nam kuća A žena nije mogla znati o čemu Ahmet izgleda iznutra a tako i spolja, ko ni u kog, pa tako često sanjari već pomisli kako on sjedeći me stid naroda što je tak’a neokrečena, a ti u kući neće dočekati da mu neko dođe na noge nećeš da kupiš kreča da je okrečimo. i zovne ga da mu šta uradi, pa pođe kroz selo I tako svakog dana, probi mužu glavu pitajući imućnije seljane treba li im radnik za neprestano zanovijetajući: te treba, Ahmo, muške ili ženske poslove. I našlo se nekoliko ovo, te treba, Ahmo, ono... Kad mu njeni hanuma kojima je trebalo urediti ili okrečiti prijekori prekipe, a on pokuša da smiri tenzije, kuću, oprati veš ili zasijati rasad u bašči. snižavajući ton, nastojeći pritom da bude što Također, nekoliko imućnijih domaćina reče da uvjerljiviji: im je potreban neko ko bi im pocijepao drva za – Znam, ženo, znam. Sve ja to znam i ogrjev, zatim prevezao sijena iz polja za stočnu vidim, ali šta vrijedi kad nemamo ni prebijene ishranu te iskrčio živice po njivama. Sva pare u kući! Pa neće niko da zovne ni na radosna Safa se vrati kući, ispriča sve Ahmetu year I, no. 7, 2021, January

Banane

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

i oni se u taj čas dadoše na posao. Radeći tako danima, zaradili su, Boga mi, finih parica, taman toliko koliko im je bilo potrebito za najnužnije stvari, i još malo da i pretekne u kućni budžet za crne dane ili za: ne daj, Bože, zlu ne trebalo! Usto su hanume, zadovoljne čestito obavljenim poslom, još i darivale Safu: koja sapunom điritom, koja čankom kukuruznog brašna, koja s malo graha, a njoj, bogme, zauhar, da se koji dan preživi, očekujući neka bolja vremena, a koja, nažalost, nikako da dođu.

– Haj’ ba, Ahmo, ne benavi. Đe bih ja tebe prijavila... Nego, nemoj sutra slučajno da bi gledao one tamo tešanjske koke, one nacifrane tešanjske frajle. Ehej, sve ću ja čuti, beli!

– E, sad se, čovo, ne možeš izmotavati kako nemamo novca da bi kupio to što nam je najnužnije; nego, sutra je petak, put pod noge pa pravac u Tešanj, na pijacu. Jesi l’ zapamtio šta sam ti sve rekla da trebaš kupiti?

Smjehuljeći se u sebi, Ahmo pomisli: “Sva sreća pa ti nećeš bit’ sa mnom, jer voli Ahmo napariti oči na kakvoj mladoj i lijepoj curi jal’ snaši nego večerati, samo ako li je večera bez banana. Jer, banane, banane... Ah, te čarobne banane!“

– E, gledat ću, dašta nego da ću gledat’. Pa neću, valjda, hodati zavezanih očiju?! Il’ ćeš ti ić’ sa mnom pa me vodati kao slijepca, da nam se svijet smije. – Smiješ ti gledati ‘nako, preda se, da ne bi udario na drugog insana jal’ na hajvana, jal’ u banderu. Ali frajlice gledat’... E, to se ne igraj živom glavom!

– Kako, bona, ne bih zapamtio? Ta ponovila si to makar sto puta! Ma, šta sto, jesi, vala, i hiljadu Sajo je redovno puta, i lud bi zapamtio petkom posjećivao denali ne bih ja ‘vako tešanjsku pijacu, a Ahmo pametan. Ko Tito. Uh, šta samo po potrebi i, rekoh; nemoj, ženo, da neko za ovo sazna, ni za uglavnom, ako bi imao novca. Zato on ode kod živu glavu. Uh, ne dao Bog, pa da zaglavim u Saje da se dogovore kako bi zajedno putovali, prdekani. Jali na Golom otoku! Uh!... naravno, pješice, jer je mnogo ugodnije u – Eh, moj Ahmo, jest da si pametan, al’ društvu negoli sam. Sajo je, kao i obično, ponio malo si plaho prećerao. Da barem reče kao da proda malo mliječnih proizvoda: koji sir, Ranković, il’ kao Đilas, de li, de li... Al’ đe’š rijet’ kajmaka, dvije-tri litre mlijeka..., dok je Ahmo kao naš voljeni Tito?! Jerbo ‘nak’e pameti nosio korpu od pletenog pruća, napunjenu nejma na dunjaluku. ‘Nak’og čojka majka više kokošijim jajima. Sajo priča o proljetnim ne rađa! radovima, osobito o sjetvi kukuruza, i već su – Jami ba, Safo, ne budali. I on prdi kao i na ulazu u Jelah, kad ti njega Ahmo prekide svi mi, samo što je 'nako... malo previše izvikan pitanjem: i napuhan da ga se neprijatelji boje, a da narod – Eto, Sajo, ti si ‘vako pametan, što bi se prema njemu osjeća strahopoštovanje, kao reklo, svjetski čojk i znaš svašta. Reci mi je l’ prema kakvom božanstvu, eto sad, pa to ti je. istina da su banane zdrave, da su pune njakvih A ti mene prijavi, ako ti nije žao. mintamina, tako kazuju dokturi, belćim?

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TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

– Dašta neg’ su zdrave, kao i svako voće. Nego, otkud ti sad to, mislim, da me pitaš to, za banane?!

– Ma, ne, ne... Ja to samo ‘nako... – A šta ‘š ti kupovat’? – upita Sajo.

– Aha... pa kupit ću uglavnom dosta – Ma, nako ja nešto mislim. Slučajno mi banana i još tamo nekih sitnica. naumpalo pa rekoh da pitam. Jaran ga ponovo pogleda začuđeno: Kad su bili u Jevadžijama, prvom selu – Hm, sve se nema, sve se nema, a ‘vamo nakon Jelaha, sustiže ih Meho Skrozo, kočijaš se ima i za luksuz, moj dragi! A šta će tebi tolike iz Drinčića, s konjskom zapregom. Prevozio je banane, ako nije tajna? narod na pijacu, ali su zaprežna kola bila – Ah, znaš kako ti je, teke se para poluprazna te on zaustavi konje i pozva: zaradilo, prodat ću i jaja pa da obradujem – Bujrum, ljudi, u kola, da ne idete pješke. čeljad bananama. Valja kupiti Ramici, bezbeli i Poznavajući dobro kočijaša, Ahmo i Sajo Safi, a malo, vala, i ja da se primrsim, radi reda. povikaše skoro uglas: Sajo, ponovo ne shvatajući Ahmeta, samo

– Ama, ljudi, je l’ vas neko pitao za pare? Meni je u Tešanj, s vama il’ bez vas. A ne vozim ja kola već konji. Bilo je rano jutro, lijepo, vedro, proljetno. Početak aprila. Travica se pogdjegdje zazelenjela, ptičice se rascvrkutale i raspjevale, radujući se valjda lijepom danu i proljeću. Tad Sajo opet povede razgovor, ali ovaj put o stočnoj ishrani i kako su sijena skupa, a stoka, i napose telad, jako jeftina. Ahmet uopće nije pratio šta mu rođak priča pa će ti, onako iznebuha, provaliti:

zaklima glavom i zašutje. Silazili su niz Krndiju, ulazeći u sami Tešanj, kad Ahmet zamoli jarana: – De, Sajo, zahmetile, ako ja zaboravim, kad dođemo u Tešanj, napomeni me da kupim banana, a ostalog ću se lahko sjetiti. – Hoću, hoću, napomenut ću te... Pa zar ne vidiš da si u Tešnju?! I kako ćeš zaboraviti kupiti banana kad ni o čemu drugom i ne pričaš od kako smo ono krenuli od kuće?

Pošto su na pijaci rasprodali šta su prodati imali, dva jarana krenuše da pokupuju što im treba pa da idu kući, opet pješke, jakako, – Je l’ ba, Sajo, je l’ de da su majmuni ne bi li im tako u džepu ostao koji dinar. onako zdravi, živahni i spretni što vole da jedu Šetajući gradom, naiđoše pored jedne banane? prodavnice u čijem izlogu Ahmo ugleda lijepe Jaran ga pogleda sumnjičavo i odvali, žute banane, žute kao ćilibar. Sav sretan reče malo ljutito: rođaku: – A što, ti bi, bezbeli, volio da postaneš – Stani, Boga ti, da svom Ramici kupim majmun?! Pa jednom smo bili i nemoj, bogati, banana. da se ponovo vraćamo na isto! I prije nego što je Sajo mogao bilo šta da year I, no. 7, 2021, January

– Fala ti, Mehaga, nismo nešto pri parama!

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

i prozbori, Ahmo se pomoli iz prodavnice zalažući se slatkim bananama. A kad su došli do sljedeće prodavnice s mješovitom robom, Ahmo je već bio pojeo sve banane. No, ništa za to jer je i ta prodavnica imala finih banana, da Ahmet pored soli kupi i kilogram banana. – Ovo za moju Safu – reče i tako krenuše prema pijaci. A usput je mislio: “Uh, da zna kako sam napario oči, gledajući tešanjske gospojice. Evo ih ko findžani. Neće me, vala, zaboliti dok sam živ.”

banana, noga mu se pokliznu, a on se ispruži na kaldrmisanu podlogu koliki je dug. Cijela pijaca se grohotom zatresla od smijeha, a njega bilo stid ustati i svijetu pogledati u oči. Pa sve da je i htio, nije mogao bez Sajine pomoći jer je pao čelom na kamen i pritom zaradio čvorugu, gotovo kolika je šaka. Uz Sajinu pomoć nekako ustade, jaran mu maramicom obrisa krv, a njemu se mantalo u glavi da je morao sjesti na obližlju klupu, kako bi ponovo došao sebi. Za sve to vrijeme prodavači i mušterije nisu mu se prestajali smijati, a u ušima su mu odzvanjale njihove riječi, koje je slušao dok je bespomoćno ležao na kaldrmi: “Aferim, ljudino!” “Ponovi, delijo!” “Ustani, pa jope’!...” Čim se malo oporavi, Ahmet ustade pa praćen podrugljivim pogledima i smijehom kupi nesretne grablje, Rami čizmice, kobili jular i kreč za osvježenje i uljepšavanje kuće. A kad pogleda u novčanik, a on prazan. Onda zamoli Saju:

Ali do pijace je bilo podaleko i Ahmo ne odolje bananama već ponovo stade jesti sve jednu po jednu, misleći kako će još samo ovu pojesti i neće više te tako dođe i do zadnje. Onda pomisli kad je sve pojeo, što bi i nju ostavljao. Na kraju je nekako pojeo sve, a da to Sajo nije ni primijetio. I samo što su stigli na pijacu, Ahmo ugleda najljepše banane, koje je ikad vidio iako je vjerovatno da mu se tako – Sajo, Boga ti, pozajmi mi jednu stoju. samo učinilo. Odmah kupi pregršt banana, i to koje je sam probrao, pa stade halapljivo da Vratit ću ti čim prije. jede, baš kao da mu je danas prva. Na to Sajo – Pa eto, sve si pokupovao, i što će ti primijeti: stoja?!

– A ti pojeo i Ramine i Safine banane, što sad i te jedeš, što ne poneseš njima?!

– Hoću da ponesem Rami i Safi banana. – A sebi, zar nećeš ponijeti i sebi?

– E, ono su bile njihove rede, a ovo je sad – Hoću! – reče ljutito. – Sebi ću ponijeti moja reda, a ja svoju redu ne prepuštam ovu čvorugu na čelenjki, koju sam i zaslužio. nikome. Otad je Ahmet zamrzio banane, baš kao Dok je tako jeo banane, sve je kore bacao birvaktile ptice, dok je bio mali dječak. Nikad preda se. Jedući zadnju, primijeti kako su kod više banane nije htio ni okusiti. A ako bi ih jednog prodavca ostale posljednje grablje pa negdje ugledao, okretao bi glavu, gadeći ih se, se uplaši da ih ko ne kupi i da tako ostane bez kao da je ugledao nečastivog, šejtana. grabalja. Istog časa htjede da potrči, gledajući samo u grablje, te ti tako stade na kore od

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

essay 31-35

albastrul ochilor tăi, Doamne…

Loreta Toader

În căutarea luminii

M-am înveșmântat în verdele renașterii pe care mi l-ai oferit a doua oară.

Am început să alerg andante prin viață percepând lumina în fiecare culoare a Am fugit, am fugit cu toată ființa mea existenței sale: rece, caldă, neutră, difuză pe încercând să-ajung gândurile din urmă. sufletul și gândurile mele ce țipau libertate… Viața mă izbea biciuindu-mi sufletul. pictură – Alexandru Darida Respirul mi-era spintecat de loviturile atâtor Bill Stokes cuvinte durute și neînțelese.

Doar ochii îmi cercetau sufletul întrebând: mai poți?!!!… N-am știut să răspund așa cum n-am știut câtă durere și câte lacrimi am strâns în gând. Am obosit. M-am oprit din alergat mergând cu pași repezi spre niciunde. În mine ploaia își revărsa boabele-i de jad rescriind povestea unei noi renașteri… am adormit pe iarba udă; gândurile mi-au poposit pe verdele crud al primăverii insuflându-mi tinerețea pierdută cândva… inima a început să bată încet, liniștit – zbuciumul ei a rămas undeva în trecut- un trecut greu înțeles, aproape inuman – acum uitat.

Drum Life is the ultimate tapestry woven on a loom as the shuttle moves back and forth on the warp leaving tiny bits of thrum And the shuttle is the metronome of our life as it beats out both cadence and rhythm and is by far all of creation’s most most exquisite drum. Thread by thread the history of your life is recorded by your soul’s shuttle And at the end of your mortal journey and standing at the bar of justice your warp’s documentation with either gain you eternal glory or force you to into outer darkness with a wailing scuttle.

Just as there are no to souls exactly the same The drum beat of your life is the the beat of your heart that only the love of Christ can Simt o căldură benefică- ploaia s-a oprit; tame. soarele îmi mângâie fața scăldată de lacrimi Both drums and hearts can have beats iar curcubeul îmi pictează sufletul both loud and soft as a baby’s cheek and when regenerându-i sentimentele. your heart belongs to your eternal mate and Am deschis ochii și m-am pierdut în when their breath gently caresses your face albastru – un albastru divin, imperialyou truly can understand that heaven on earth year I, no. 7, 2021, January

Alergam… alergam fără să aud, fără să văd; nu mai simțeam, nu mai știam dacă miera cald sau frig, nici de mi-era zi sau de mi-era noapte…picioarele nu mă mai ascultau iar mâinile, mâinile încercau să se agațe de acel ceva încă nedefinit.

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is the prize we all seek. Life is the ultimate tapestry woven on loom as the shuttle moves back and forth on the warp leaving tiny bits of thrum and the shuttle is the metronome of our life as it beats out both cadence and rhythm and is by far all of creation’s most most exquisite drum.

Ryszard Mścisz

Groza śnieżnej nocy [Horror of the Snowy Night]

Śnieg za oknami przystrajał krajobraz świąteczną bielą. Ozdobionym puchem gałęziom drzew widocznie nie było tak lekko, Harmonythat never was skoro kłaniały się ziemi pokornie i czołobitnie. Ja również nie czułem misternej lekkości How keenly I feel to see, all are gone for ducha Święta Narodzin. Już tego nie czułem. their family god, Never, even a lonely finger for Wciskanie do oczu śnieżnego bałwana pointing or boasting, In węgielnych kamieni zdało solidarity, they walk with mi się torturą. A wesołe the bannerof lofty dzieci zdawały się mieć mankind, No colors to see diabelskie ogniki w and no races to protect oczach. Pomyśleć, że aside from harmony, jeszcze wczoraj Within, with common widziałbym to samo goals of peace to emerge zupełnie inaczej. all at once. Santosh Kumar-Bhutan

Now, the brilliant day draws near, I can see the striking sinking star, Simply over, the nightingale and the skylark join together, In prospect, the falconer cheers, hearing the peace train whistle, The melody of the upper waves, so joyful in tone, With hope, which has never been with every lack of worry. The cord of humanity, in the minds of individuals, rested, All around thesquare, recitingoneness being, No more conteni pt in sight, no more selfishness in feeling, All together, with divine ideas to paint the tomb, Forever, to allow it to sparkle in harmony that never was.

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Wczoraj był taki sam zimowy wieczór. Z nostalgią zimy w otulinach śniegu, lekkim przymrozkiem, który nie odstrasza i nie więzi w ogrzanych domach, ale pozwala wejść w otwartą księgę nocy w towarzystwie rozgwieżdżonego nieba. Gdy wyszedłem z domu było tak spokojnie i cicho, na opustoszałych ulicach tylko pojedyncze cienie przemykały w świetle latarni. Oddaliłem się od ostatnich domów z oświetlonymi oknami, wszedłem w mroczną tajemnicę drzew oswojonych – zdawałoby się – jasnością śniegu. Wydawało mi się, że w braterskiej ciszy natury mogę być chwilę sam na sam ze sobą. To tak rzadki w życiu luksus, cudowny paradoks życia: wśród natury bywamy sobą, wnikamy w siebie – wśród ludzi prowadzimy TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

grę, zakładamy maskę jak w antycznym teatrze. Zdawałoby się, że każdego stać na ten luksus, chwile prawdy. A jednak łatwiej o sukces, pozycję towarzyską, nawet materialny dobrobyt niż o nie. Czy jesteśmy zbyt zajęci, zaaferowani wypełnianiem schematu życia...? A może boimy się owych odkryć samotności, prawdy o sobie, której wobec natury nie jesteśmy w stanie zakłamać...

przebić przez jakąś warstwę psychiki, która go blokowała. Przeczucie o istnieniu odpowiedzi, odzewu na hasło, które ów głos z sobą niesie, towarzyszyło mi bezustannie. Byłem o krok od jasności. Bądź o krok za nią. To jakiś język, kod, który prawie znałem, mogłem odkryć. Nie wiedziałem, czy był mi znany w jakimś odległym kiedyś, czy może to pewien wariant języka, który znam od zawsze...

Lekkie skrzypienie kroków, delikatny trzask gałęzi wyrwał mnie z zadumy. A więc nie jestem sam? No cóż, chwila samotności skończyła się – może moja samotność zbratała się z samotnością innego człowieka i przestała nią być. A może po prostu dana mi była tylko ta ulotna chwila w zbiorowej formie życia...? Nagle ujrzałem cień, który ów hałas stworzył. Cień nie był imponująco wielki, ale zarazem niepokojący nad wyraz. Niepokojący, bo... nieludzki. Zdawało mi się, że nieforemna, olbrzymia głowa wyrastająca z niewielkiego tułowia unieruchomiła mnie zupełnie. Odczułem intuicyjnie jakąś przewagę intelektu, pozaczasowej mądrości, która obezwładnia, odbiera rację bytu, przytłacza... To coś ma wiele odnóg, kończyn, a może macek, które gotowe mnie opleść i zgnieść w każdej chwili. Usłyszałem głos, raczej dźwięk, który tajemnicza istota wydała. Zdawał się rozbrzmiewać od wewnątrz, wydobywać z mojej głowy. Być może nie istniała żadna zewnętrzna postać głosu. Ale nie był na tyle wyraźny, bym był w stanie go zrozumieć. A raczej nie mógł się od razu

To zaczęło iść w moim kierunku. Tajemnica językowego szyfru przegrała z gwałtownym lękiem. Te nieskoordynowane ruchy, kroki zdały mi się groźne, skierowane przeciwko mnie – nie do mnie. Próbowałem się ruszyć. Raz, drugi... Ani siła mięśni, ani siła woli nie była mi posłuszna. Strach rósł wraz z malejącą odległością między mną a tym... Było coraz groźniejsze, coraz bardziej odrażające – w naszych ziemskich kategoriach. Coraz bardziej odmienne od wszystkiego, co dotąd widziałem... mimo że nie w pełni widoczne. Wreszcie udało się, mogłem zrobić ruch, parę kroków... mogłem biec. Starałem się wykorzystać całą moją szybkość; całą szybkość mięśni i strachu...

year I, no. 7, 2021, January

Dobiegłem do pierwszej zaspy śniegu i przesadziłem ją błyskawicznie. Coś podpowiadało mi, że nie mogę biec wprost przed siebie, zwykłą drogą. Że muszę kluczyć, uskakiwać, byle przybliżać się do znajomych miejsc, do domu. Nie mogłem się oglądać za siebie. Nie potrafiłem. Czułem jednak to na pewno. To jest blisko, jest szybkie, bardzo szybkie. Nie chciałem wiedzieć jak wygląda,

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

choć światła wyłaniających się latarni pozwoliłyby poznać część tajemnicy. Nie chciałem wzrokiem sprawdzić jak jest szybkie, jak się porusza. Wiedziałem, czułem, że koszt zetknięcia się z tajemnicą może być zbyt wysoki. Byłem już bardzo blisko, ale i ono powoli choć nieznacznie przybliżało się. Chyba czułem ten poryw szybkości, wzlatujący pod jego krokami śniegowy puch. Jeszcze tylko kilkadziesiąt kroków, kilkanaście, kilka... Kiedy czułem zniewalający oddech owej istoty na plecach, dopadłem bramy, potem drzwi od domu. Zamknąłem drzwi za sobą, mocno przytrzymałem i na chwilę przywarłem do nich. Rozejrzałem się z niepokojem po oknach, ciemnych ścianach mieszkania.

Dopiero po godzinie zaświeciłem światło, usiadłem w fotelu. Cisza była zbyt niepokojąca, pustka zdawała się krzyczeć we mnie. Włączyłem telewizor. Chyba program już się skończył, ale pozostał szum, tak potrzebny mi w tym momencie szum... Po chwili jednak zdało mi się, że słyszę głos. Tak, spoza niego wyraźnie dobiegał głos... Na tyle wyraźnie... Nie, musiałem się przesłyszeć... A jednak ciągle słyszę to samo. Ten głos. Podobny do tamtego, a przecież zrozumiały, ludzki. - Mogłem cię dogonić. Gdybym chciał, dogoniłbym cię...! Ty wiesz o tym dobrze!

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confabulation 36-46

Lenuș Lungu

Un grande poeta, critico letterario, umanista di fama mondiale Jawaz Jaffri è un poeta in cui scolpisce le sue creazioni in una montagna di parole e veste la bellezza di una materia sensibile da cui emette i suoi sentimenti. L'idea del poeta ne illustra l'intensità e dà una forte risonanza dove dipinge le parole in un mare di colori presentando il quadro poetico. Attraverso le sue opere ci dà molta sensibilità, amore, sensazione di relax e pace. In un mondo di poesia letteraria in cui la scrittura si muove vertiginosamente verso i sentimenti, Jawaz rimane autentico, un poeta che sceglie di esprimere stati attraverso le parole, ma le emozioni continuano a fiorire, idee per far nascere idee. Leggendo i testi di Jawaz, sono riusciti a farmi conoscere una vibrazione di metafore ed epiteti che cercano di trasmettere il messaggio delle parole. Riesce a catturare in modo sfumato l'universo invisibile degli stati d'animo. Offri ai lettori versi che fanno vibrare le corde delle anime attraverso la penna ardente. Offre ai lettori un universo lirico pieno di simboli in uno stile unico, restituendo maestria alle persone. Non smette mai di stupire i lettori, formando una simbiosi e un'armonia assoluta. Il classico si fonde con successo con le caratteristiche della poesia moderna. Il lettore viene così catturato nella rete di Jawaz che si trasforma da autore nell'io di chi legge, filtrando le sue idee, i suoi punti di vista, TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

prestando i suoi occhi a vedere il mondo come lo vede l'autore. Resta da leggere la poesia e ritrovarsi lì, tra i versi della poesia. La forma dell'anima nel suo fulgido splendore, sensazioni varie che accrescono il mistero della poesia e la tensione del vivere. L'amore per la pace è il sentimento edificante che si manifesta nel cuore di ogni uomo. Tutto è semplice e complesso, allo stesso tempo naturale e deciso, sembra fluire con naturalezza, ma l'occhio sensibile e la fine intuizione del poeta coglie la poesia essenziale, come in uno stop-frame che cattura uno stato d'animo, un momento unico che l'amore della pace, della luce lo chiama sempre per regalare il suo piccolo recital di bellezza a chi vuole e può sentire questo splendore. Leggendo i testi del poeta, mi sono ricordato dell'aforisma di Tudor Arghezi: Il vero libro di un poeta penso sia uno, purché unico, perché la definizione di un poeta che pubblica un buon libro è in due parole: talento ed energia. La poesia è percepita esattamente come viene mostrata, con tutta la trasparenza di un'anima. È consapevole e comprende il rapporto profondo e sacro che gli scrittori sviluppano con la poesia, ma non nega il suo diritto di sperare che la bellezza debba essere evidenziata. Il Dr. AZADAR HUSSAIN JAWAz (Pseudonimo Dr. Jawaz Jaffri) è nato a Toba Tek Singh (Punjab, Pakistan) l'8 aprile 1964. Ha conseguito il dottorato. in letteratura urdu presso l'Università del Punjab, Lahore, nel 2006. Attualmente è professore presso Govt. Lahore College of Science, era presidente del dipartimento di urdu al Govt. MAO College, Lahore. Ha un profondo interesse per la scrittura creativa, la critica, la poesia, la scrittura drammatica, la scrittura di colonne, lo studio comparato delle religioni, le prospettive storiche e culturali della year I, no. 7, 2021, January

società, il rapporto tra scienza e letteratura, musica classica e altre arti visive. Ha una vasta collezione di librerie di musica classica. Una considerevole biblioteca di libri è disponibile nel suo studio, il che è evidente nel suo gusto letterario. Molte delle sue poesie sono state tradotte dall'International Center for Poetry Translation and Research, Cina. Scrive contro la guerra, il suo libro "Mout Ka Haath Kalaie Per Hey" è stato tradotto come "Il polso negli artigli della morte" da Muhammad Shanazar, poeta e traduttore pakistano. Le poesie di questo libro sono anche tradotte in molte altre principali lingue del mondo e anche nelle lingue locali (Punjabi, Pashto, Sindhi e Hindko). Ha contribuito con altri libri di poesia contro la guerra in urdu intitolati "Main Laam di Janj da Lahda han", che è stato tradotto da Harpreet Kaur e pubblicato in India da Nawi Dunia Publishers, Punjab, India. Ha scritto articoli su celebrità letterarie internazionali come Pablo Neruda, Toni Morrison, T.S Eliot, Seamus Heaney, JanPaul Sartre, Charles Baudelaire, Tolstoy, Franz Kafka, Kinza Br O, Gabriela Mistral, Salima Langrof, Harry Sinclair e Lu Xun., Il grande scrittore della Cina classica è stato pubblicato sul quotidiano Jang e Nawa-i-Waqt. Quasi 20 libri sono al suo attivo come scrittore, gli è stato conferito il prestigioso Premio Presidenziale del Pakistan (The National Human Rights Award, 2016). Inoltre, il Presidential Award (National Human Rights Award, 2016) ha ricevuto il premio Special Shield for Peace dal Ministero dei diritti umani 2017 (Pakistan), Quid-e-Azam Gold Medal (2015), Asian Cultural Association Award (2017) , Harf Academy Awards (Quetta) e molti altri premi da tutti i simposi inter-collegiali in Pakistan e concorsi di oratori durante il periodo accademico. È membro della Pakistan Writers Guild, Pakistan, Pakistan Academy of Letters, Islamabad, Halqa-e-Arbab-e-Zauq, Pakistan, Drama Scrutiny Committee, Punjab Arts Council, Lahore e Adabi Baithak, Lahore Arts Council, Lahore. Era anche il presidente della Sherani Society, Govt. College, Sheikhupura, President of the Urdu Society, Oriental College, Lahore, Honorary Editor Husn-e-Byan Monthly Quarterly Magazine, Karachi and Honorary Editor Monthly Magazine G News, Great Gran Bretagna. Le sue opere principali consistono in poesia, Dehleez pe Aankhain, Muthi Mein Tera Wada Khawab, Maut ka

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

Hath Kalai par Hai, Mohabat khasara naheen, Umr-eRawan sey parey, Wrist in the Clutches of Death, Mera Dil Fakhta da Ahlna ay, Main Laam di Janj da Lardha han, Vasal say Khali Din, Mutbadil Dunia ka Khawb, Chiraghon se Bhari Galliyan, Asaan Sufny Sahvey rakhey e Ik Hijr Jo Ham Ko Lahaq Hai (Lettere) che sono ampiamente lette dagli amanti della poesia. I suoi documenti di ricerca includono Urdu Adab Europe Aur America Mein, Iqbal Sajid Bataur Ghazal Go, Urdu Adab Europe Aur America Mein, Urdu ki Qadeem Bastian, Khaak se Uthny wala Fun, Urdu afsaane ka Maghribi Dareecha, Urdu Ghazal ka Maghrabi Daricha, Tassawarat, ( Tehqiqi gold Tanqidi Mazamean), Asasa (Compilato da) Il primo libro poetico del famoso poeta Iqbal Sajid, Kulyat-e-Iqbal Sajid, Iqbal Sajid: Shakhsiat gold Fan e Kuliyat-e-Ustad Daman. Hs articoli Bartanvi Danese Gahon Meinn Urdu Tadrees Ki Riwayat, Khak say Uthnay Wala Fann, Europe Aur America Mein Urdu Zaban ka Mustaqbil, Urdu Zaban kay Europi Shoara, Mashriq Shanasi ki Rawait aur German Mustashreqeen, Arab Dunya ka Pehla Jang Mukhalifare Shayer aur Takhliqi Zaaviey, Classiki Mausiqi: Dhurpad Say Khayal tak, Lahore ki Adabi Rawait Mein Qahwa Khanon ka Kirdar`` Classiki Mausiqi mein Gharaney ka Tasawar, Classiki Mausiqi kay Pakistani Gharaney, Bar-e-Sagheitdu Khanon ka Kirdar`` Classiki Mausiqi mein Gharaney ka Tasawar, Classiki Mausiqi kay Pakistani Gharaney, Bar-e-Sagheitdu Janibal Mein Syah Sulagta Sigret, Information Technology aur Kitab ka Mustaqbil, Maghrabi Tarz-e-Ahsas aur Is Kay Tashkili Anasir, Europe Aur America Kay Urdu Nazm Nigar, Kainati Shaur ky, Javed Shaheen Aik Ta'aruf, Shaeri, Science aur Falsafa, Tarikeen- e-Watan ki Nai Nasl aur Urdu ka Mustaqbil, Tarkeen-e-Watan ki Shaeri par Tanhai aur Begangi Kay Asraat, Tarkeen-e-Watan ki Shaeri aur Maghrabi Tarz-e-Ehsaas, Mout k Ghaat Utarty Mizamir, Nars lon se aati Awazen, Saazon ka Jahan, Taar k Saazon ka Bawa Adam, Urdu Afsaane ma Kahani ki wapsi e Europe aur America k Urdu Nazam Nigaar sono stati pubblicati in diverse riviste di ricerca nazionali e internazionali. È l'autore delle serie drammatiche Dastak Na Do, Adh Khula Darwaza, Suragh, Teesri Aankh, Faisla, Shart e Painda. Ha anche ospitato programmi televisivi come Marsia Gold Karbla, Naat Go, Bahattar Aik Taaruf.

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Jawaz Jaffri

Dal dottor Il mio cuore è il nido di colomba Il vento, Venendo dal campo di battaglia, Si riversa nelle mie orecchie, Il nitrito dei cavalli. Le tombe collettive, Stanno per invadere le mie città; E i venditori di bare, Guarda i nostri corpi giovani e freschi Con occhi avidi. Il ragno della morte è impegnato, Nel tessere la ragnatela della mia vittima. Oh! Becchini, Elimina la fame diffusa Dai tuoi cortili, Perché c'è trambusto Nel cimitero. Venire! Protestiamo sulle strade Contro la guerra; I miei lettori sii mio testimone, Non ho macchiato la mia penna Con gli inni delle guerre, La mia identità, Sono le canzoni di pace Le mie canzoni stanno scavando le radici delle guerre, Perché il mio cuore è il nido di colomba. Una breve biografia letteraria

TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

Review

contradictions of affections, the obstacles of despair in their allusive depth.

The intensity written beyond the lines "The night will pass without miracles" by Daniele Vaienti follows the detachment from conventional

poetics and feeds on literary improvisation by The night will pass without miracles by involving the emotional symbols of the Daniele Vaienti (Edizioni del Faro 2019 - theatrical magic vortex, accompanying, in each Series "Sonar. Words and voices" directed by comment, the poet's emotional resources. The poet exists in the present instant, Paolo Agrati) is the debut book of the poet and performer active in the circuit of slam and releasing the ambush of nostalgia and memory acting poetry, dictated by tenacity free and in the free vibrations of feelings.

eager, rhythmic descriptive in a sound trend The texts capture the inviolability of that takes root in the sharp and dramatic love, against the inevitable defeat of the world measure of humanity celebrated as "a group of and the laceration of its constraints and urge street children talking the need for a new about the end of the conception of happiness, world" (Jack Kerouac). of salvation towards the call to authentic life and the complicity of the The verses seek the moment. existence of familiarity

life is the communicative passage of what is written with passion and for our own Here are some poems from The Night Will happiness. Daniele Vaienti's hypnotic and Pass Without Miracles... confidential writing is a benevolence of intoxication, in mastering an experience in which the close and incisive technique and joke praises a sentimental autonomy that torments the unpredictability and year I, no. 7, 2021, January

The discovery of the and reanalyze the private, self, of the thought everyday and simple absolved by prejudices, of expressions common to human values, of the emotional confessions collective consciousness that reveal the comforting is the goal of a complete refuge of any ideological poetic affinity with the and practical, tangible and autobiographical experience. The individual journey towards a task towards diffusion of poetry is the existential magnetic hope. recording engraved on material resistant to The artistic need arises from a desire for the wear and tear of time. freedom of expression, vital dynamism, and The distortion of concrete and carnal through the investigation in the sense of good, visions (a photo, cigarettes, autumn) allows us it includes the universality of the content and to imagine a dream and real license, in which the intimate research of the whole.

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

Nothing else

Sherzod Artikov

That silence

Sherzod Artikov was born in 1985 in Marghilan city of Uzbekistan. He graduated from Ferghana Polytechnic Institute in 2005. His works are more often published in the domestic press of the Republic. He mainly writes stories and essays. His first book, The Autumn’s Symphony, was released in 2020. He is one of the winners of the national literary contest “My Pearl Country” in the category of prose. His works appeared in such Russian and Ukraine network magazines as "Camerton", "Topos", "Autograph". In addition, his stories were published in the literary magazines and websites of Kazakhstan, USA, Serbia, Montenegro, Turkey, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Egypt, Slovenia, Germany, Greece, China, Peru, Saudi Arabia, Mexico, Argentine, Spain, Italy, Bolivia, Costa Rica, Romania and India.

It's about learning to exist without pretending that is. It happens, be careful do not fall.

I smile blankly counting trains lost and lost for to be able to forget absent voice that he raised the volume of silence by a notch

The autumn

What should I do with this wet autumn, which is scary all wrong as my score in the fall of this year, who took the smile out of town on which we embraced out of necessity, because it's cold outside and you can't smoke inside There it is this fall what to do with it

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*** Sherzod Artikov urodził się w 1985 roku w mieście Margilan w Uzbekistanie. W 2005 roku ukończył Instytut Politechniczny w Ferganie. Cieszy się rosnącą popularnością w swojej ojczyźnie. Pisze głównie opowiadania i eseje. Jego pierwsza książka Symfonia jesieni ukazała się w 2020 roku. Jest jednym z laureatów ogólnokrajowego konkursu literackiego „Mój perłowy kraj” w kategorii proza. Jego teksty ukazały się w rosyjskich i ukraińskich czasopismach internetowych, takich jak "Camerton", "Topos", "Autograf". Ponadto jego opowiadania opublikowano w czasopismach literackich i na stronach internetowych Kazachstanu, USA, Serbii, Czarnogóry, Turcji, Bangladeszu, Pakistanu, Egiptu, Słowenii, Niemiec, Grecji, Chin, Peru, Arabii Saudyjskiej, Meksyku, Argentyny, Hiszpanii, Włoch , Boliwii, Kostaryki, Rumunii a także Indii. TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

LenuČ&#x2122; Lungu

Literary review Bhagirath Choudhary is a writer and a valuable humanism, a soul with an inner and outer activity. The magic of words vibrates in sounds. With the lucidity of a vision, any emphasis is focused exclusively on the accuracy of absolute accuracy. Style is a powerful dream with a poetic intonation, unity of thought and vision. The psychology of lyric poetry is obvious, this being an engine of inspiration and the existence of the poetic hero. Poetry has a great value and a great appreciation from readers and literary critics. The poem "My Earth Sojourn" is modern and expresses the artist's creative effort for a spiritual product on the inner states of the poetic year, tormented by inner turmoil and turmoil. The verses are the product of a revelation, of divine grace: "Evolution has given me / A divine body ". The poem suggests beauty, purity, light. Representative for artistic language innovation. An artistic modality encountered in European lyric poetry, it offers a shocking and fascinating expressiveness through its aesthetic effects. Poetry is structured by unequal lyrical sequences, artistic creed and divine grace. It suggests the desire to express in verse the thirst for communication and the year I, no. 7, 2021, January

transmission of a message to the world. To convey the message of divine grace. List of fabulous items: "The wave of the false self", "orgasm of wisdom", creates an image of great suggestive force. The modernism of poetry is argued by the compositional structure, the poem is constituted in lyrical sequences, in which the poet directly expresses his conception of the act of creation, emphasizing the light of the artist's condition in the world. The lyricism in this poem confirms the presence of the lyrical self through the lexicogrammatical marks represented by the verbs: "I came," "I explored." A parable that highlights God's grace. The expressiveness of poetry is realized at the morphosyntactic level. The words in the present gnomy perpetuate the structural passion for writing, the creative commotion and the desire to communicate the poetic self with the world, ideas that confer the pragmatic character of poetry. The language is characterized by the use of shocking words with fascinating expressiveness, words "my pound of flesh", "holy vicars" whose meaning acquires new values. The stylistic registers combine, in the modern way, the popular language with archaic flavor with the religious one, from this combination thus succeeding the originality "apostle", "divine value", "mental evolution", "the sedative of the ego". Modern prosody is supported by lyrics with metrics and rhythm. A literary work that is the fruit of divine grace and toil.

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

Bhagirath Choudhary

For getting My pound of flesh

My Earth Sojourn I came Upon earth To explore My divine worth To learn My lesson With passion And to earn

With sadistic pride Every day I write My false narrative Keeping firmly Under ego's sedative Of greed And material race I hide behind Veil of false self

My mental evolution

But not to face My truth

Every night

And my divine self

Before I retire I take stock

Evolution made me

Of every bump

God's Image

And every stroke

Like a true Sage

Every valley

Without any schism

And every hillock Every start And every stop I flasely verify I justify I deny My every falsity

And every lie I talk like Saintly Vicars But I stage wars

I am made like A wisdom organism Evolution gave me A body divine For letting Love and light shine Without tools of offence Or defence I came Like an apostle Of nonviolence

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TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

"Alone on the sea shore" Punya Devi The sea is the one that can be identified with the human being, because it is a symbol of the dynamics of life. Just as man sighs, he is troubled in the hard moments of life, just as â&#x20AC;&#x153;the sea is troubled, it sighs, it crushes its rushing waves of boulders, it retreats into enigmatic waves, then returns. She struggled, uneasy and troubled, like a titan. Everything emerges from the sea and everything returns to it, because it is a place of births, transformations and rebirths. The water reveals to the poet the source, dividing into me its color and the rocks, giving it strength, the sand the warmth with gentleness and enveloping me with an awfully rich gratitude, leaving for the rest of the days in memory the perfection of its beauty. Quiet. It's so quiet that it's starting to heat up every part, every bone, every piece of me. The poem is a lyrical creation in verse, in which a picture of nature is described, made by combining the human-terrestrial and universal-cosmic planes. The poet (lyrical self) directly expresses his states, emotions, feelings experienced in front of the painted landscape. As artistic means, the poem combines visual images with auditory, motor, chromatic, olfactory images, etc., an important year I, no. 7, 2021, January

role being played by artistic procedures, style figures and coloristics of the elements that make up the painting. Defines a painting created by a special technique of using discreetly applied colors, the images being blurred, without thick touches, emanating delicacy and tenderness. Appreciating the beauty of the sea is, perhaps, the most influential component of inspiration for preromantic poets, being animated by an uplifting love of an exaltation specific to the era in the description of enchanting landscapes (the sea). The title The Beginning is the artistic image of the unique moment of the meeting between the author and the sea. The landscape is created by discreetly combining the humanterrestrial plane with the universal-cosmic one. From a pre-romantic perspective, the description of the landscape is made by the discreet combination of the human-terrestrial plane with the universal-cosmic one, made up of artistic images and style figures. The subjective lyricism highlighted by the presence of the first person, authorial - in the second and third stanzas - and the meditative note of the poetry in the last stanza. The poetic imaginary transfigures the concrete reality into an artistic vision specific to the lyrical self, whose interpretation implies the sensitive reflection of the surrounding world through the expressive and aesthetic function of the word, sounds and colors. The attraction that the landscape exerts on the

LenuČ&#x2122; Lungu

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

lyrical self is expressed by verbs in the first Punya Devi person singular: "I left", "my dreams", "I look", and the painting is dominated by motor "Alone on the sea shore" images, "Looking for diamonds and pearls," in veils â&#x20AC;?. Passing through the various levels of the sun The chromatic epithet and descriptive heated sand epithets, contribute to the creation of emotion Me alone on the sea shore for the beauty of the landscape, elements that constitute the plan of the object viewed by the lyrical self. The idea is emphasized that this I am welcomed warmly poem describes not only a natural landscape, By the dazzling waves but also a landscape of the soul, highlighting the subjective lyricism of poetry. The attitude I feel as if the waves are smiling of the lyrical self is And immediately started meditative, discreetly playing suggesting the idea that hide and seek with me his thoughts are Like a herd of children hypnotically attracted by the moving waves, through the metaphor of the flow: The waves begin to rise /And they started running on sticks /With their hands ".

They awakened in an instant My childhood which was dormant

Running towards me The lyrical self Touching my feet detaches itself, as it were, from the surrounding nature, contemplating Then going back to the fascinated and frozen in admiration: "I feel Lap or their mother sea that the waves are smiling /And immediately I The waves are playing started playing /hide me and seek with me " Thieves-cops with me The suggestion of the lyrical text is For a while illustrated by the style figures (tropes) that compose a unique picture through beauty, a true aesthetic ensemble made by combining Again it felt like that visual and motor images, provoking a strong emotion of admiration and delight on the reader. The expressiveness of the poem is supported by the verbs found in the present tense, which outline the permanence of the dynamic aspect of the landscape ensemble.

The waves are starting to raise And have started chasing the sticks With their hands Like our old teacher of the school Asked me_hey girl,if you do your Math wrong

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

You could not success in your life What is your name

Nandita De nee Chatterjee

Interview of Lenuş Lungu I earnestly bowed my head And give my identity In the Sea of my life By seeking diamond and pearls I have committed the blunder I didn't get but met a plunder Jumping in the tide My dreams coming up to me Becoming

common

oyster Carrying a load of an empty house On my back You could not understand what kind of nomad now I am But Oh my great Sea Having seen the meeting scenery Of many rivers in your bosom Hearing the echoing of music of Of the concert of unity Flying to me from the tree of knowledge Being a new born silver dove I have lost myself in the Great Sea of humanity.

Nandita: What are the current poetic trends in Europel? Thematic and form? Does it vary between regions? Lenuș L: Literature evolves by force of circumstances, it has no way to stand still. The world we live in is evolving, the tools, the ways we use when we write. Another is our relationship with the text, with the sheet of paper, I would say, but I should say with the computer screen. There are many who continue to write on paper, but there are individual options. All of these things have changed the literature. I don't like the word evolution very much, because evolution somehow has a connotation that brings the word closer to the idea of progress. It's changing, for sure. For better or worse, it remains to be seen. 40 years ago, poetry was the queen of Romanian literature; it was an avalanche of very good poets, being considered the golden age itself. Romanian poetry had a privileged status, in contrast to what was happening in Western literatures, for example, and what is happening now. And the relationship with the public has changed. With the disappearance of censorship, a number of barriers and inhibitions have disappeared. The language of literature has changed, it has freed itself from the straps.

To the great sea

And because it translates enormously, the reader has an extraordinarily wide range year I, no. 7, 2021, January

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of literary options at his disposal. Quality reading, for any person, must be indispensable. Certainly, I tell you, a book, at the right time, can change a person. It would be a great exaggeration to say that I am aware of what is being written in the world now.

free of constraints. Nandita: What were your early influences which made you an author/editor? LenuČ&#x2122; L: I chose writing. And writing, I've been writing since I was 10 years old. Since then I have the first memories of this desire. And, you will probably be surprised, those memories are not related to prose, but to poetry. Four verses written in blue colored pencil on the page of a geography atlas. I wrote for school magazines, children's magazines.

Now you know, after a year you see that you are no more. I do not think that there is "literature that is being written now", in the sense of a coherence and consistency of several literary formulas. The problem with today's literature is: what books come to the In time I also wrote prose, essays, surface? For every great book, for every great articles for various newspapers and author, there are a hundred equally great magazines. The years have passed, I have books and authors that will never reach written 6 books (poetry, everyone's lips. essays, interviews,

"Quality" literature is on the verge of extinction today, like everything that is quality. The competition it (does not) face today comes from various areas and is overwhelming: commercial literature, non-fiction, ethics, film, video games, the media industry in general. The semi-literacy state of today's societies. But especially the political and ideological field that distorts everything. "True" literature does not flourish, but survives today, and its future (like ours) is bleak.

All the more I value those who, as artists, do not make any pact and do not enlist in any army, but remain faithful to their beliefs and the Western tradition in which they grew up. You can only write out of artistic conviction, everything you write as a militant comes out false. You can express your ideology in articles and posts in social media, I believe in the need to involve the artist in world issues and, in my clumsy and naive way, I have always been involved. But poetry and prose should remain

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psychology, ancient history, the founders of the Romanian language). My literary influences were some famous writers Usually what I dream of at night is the day. Nandita: What are the themes your books and literary work are centred on? Has it evolved over the years or is it a continued exploration of your initial interests and concerns? LenuČ&#x2122; L: My books focus on love, psychology and a lot of philosophy. Yes, I think we have evolved and it is still in continuous exploitation. My most important concern is the "Word." Through the originality and diversity of the work, I hope to join the gallery of people dedicated to Romanian culture, in the country and everywhere in the world. I earned this unanimous respect through prodigious work, seriousness, study and love for the Romanian language and literature, for the authentic values of the nation. Culture, TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

literature, art, are not only done on vacation, waves in an atmosphere of love for Romanian on weekends, in free time. An exercise in total and international literature and culture, devotion is necessary, as in true love. anchoring and making souls interested in The published articles serve as a mirror vibrating. of a life entirely dedicated to the Word and Art. The word is like a clear fountain that flows through the rocks to the valley of tears where people live. I base my approach on solitude and on a loving-detached look of the ambiance, recording and communicating such an experience in stylistic structures.

Nandita: What is the International Literary Coffee Association about? What does it do?

Lenuș L: I am the founder of the Associazione Internazionale Caffe letterario is a non-governmental association and is founded in Italy. This association deals with Nandita: Tell us about your two the promotion of culture and literary events in magazines Cronos and Taifas Literary. What Italy and around the world. Within this are the central themes? How did they begin association there is also a literary circle of and what has the journey music and poetry, we been like? meet and debate various literary and musical Lenuș L: These are themes. Due to the my soul magazines were pandemic, we stopped the born in Constanța literary meeting for the (Romania) by the sea. time being. I love culture, Together with the literature is part of me members of the editorial and I can't live without team, we set out to bring them. culture closer to the souls

I can say that Cronos and Taifas Literary Magazine invites the reader on a journey into the world of visual arts, prose, poetry, interviews, journals, representing any area of culture. Writers and artists are the bearers of the flame of the Romanian spirit and culture, which illuminates the way and makes the fruits of this nation bear fruit through unconditional dedication. I thought of the magazines as a new representation of universal culture born on the sea shore, where the sand spreads under the wave through the veil that embraces the sparkle of the water, and transforms the shadow of the sole into letters. I thought that on the wet shore touched by a "Golden Pen" the wind will blow raising the word in huge year I, no. 7, 2021, January

Nandita: What are the projects in your hand now and your plans for 2021? Lenuș L: First of all, to transmit culture in people's souls being a cultural promoter. The project that makes me happy for 8 years I lead a campaign (good writers but they can't afford to edit) "A writer's dream" I help them to edit an author's book. Yes, I have many projects from which, in addition to the magazine, I want to publish an Almanac "Taifas Literary Cafe" that will contain sections from all fields. I am working on 2 international anthologies. I have a lot of projects and there would be a lot to write about, but for now I will stop here. The 7th book will be published in India.

of our fellow men and to create a community of beauty lovers.

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

Stefano Capasso

Above the altar there is a 1749 canvas

""TRANSFIGURATION"" and then again a Stabia - Quisisana, BAPTISMAL SOURCE of 1582 on which the oldest is stamped Coat of arms of the city of CHURCH of SS SALVATORE and SAN Stabia. MICHEL To admire a canvas of the eighteenth Pope Callixtus III, after the victory over century ""OUR LADY OF CONSTANTINOPLE"" the Turks in Belgrade, in 1456, instituted the ORGAN from 1894 placed in the Cantoria Two feast of Christ the Savior throughout the ALTARS of 1793 WOODEN STATUE of the Church. eighteenth century ""SAN MICHEAL"" work of Monumental Church located in the hilly Francesco Picano. area of Stabia, in the hamlet of Scanzano. And lastly the Canonica and the Bell The current appearance can be traced Tower which date back to the end of the 18th back to the works from the beginning of the century. twentieth century, based on a project by the parish priest of Palmigiano; while the decorations were the work of Vincenzo Galloppi between 1914/1915. Following the earthquake of 1980, it was still necessary to intervene, but the works only ended in the late 90s. Facade in travertine it is divided into two orders by an entablature which in the center bears an inscription in metal alloy from the 19th century, with the Name of the Temple. In the lower part a portal with three pairs of capitulated pilasters on the sides.

Identical motif in the upper part, with a large window in the center with a splendid window. It ends with a triangular tympanum surmounted by an iron cross. INTERIOR - with two vaulted naves, an ABSIDE with dome where the high altar is placed in precious marbles, coming from the Church of the Annunziata al Molo, demolished to give additional space to the Royal Shipyard.

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The best wishes that I address to Stabia What I envy, as a distant exile, it is without a doubt that tender perfume of the Life down there, where Mare, Sole and a blue sky spread in the air delicate flavors of an Ancient Land: Beautiful, cultured and fascinating Today, however, my gaze remains veiled by melancholy for neglect and abandonment of places that over the centuries have intertwined, with mixed fortunes the life of a proud people: that of the Stabiani.

Therefore, the Great Wish that I address to my people is to put a bank, convinced, to an interminable drift of a Cultural Heritage which horrifies also WHO, above the clouds remains silent to observe.

year I, no. 7, 2021, January

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Kabbo Kotha

Jonayed Khandakar Nir

খয়রাতি চাওয়া আর কি রাি জাগা? আর কি তিয়ম করর কারে ডাকা? উরেক্ষার অরেক্ষায় সবই শূিয অসার তিজজিিায় ফাাঁকা। যতি দিখরি দেরি মরির আকাশটা, বুঝরি কি তিিঃসঙ্গ দেরমর তচরেরকাঠা! এই যাযাবর মি দেরমর বাাঁধি কি শি ভারব সারাক্ষণ তিয়তির তিোরম চরে েোট তেখরি েুরে অিুভরব অিুক্ষণ কি তক দয ররচ এই মি তিশুতির চরাচরর… চাাঁিরক হিযা করর তবরহী িিুমি সূয জ দিরখ দসািা দভারর। আর কি রাি এমতি করর মরির অতেন্দ দডারর.. ভারোবাসার অর্ঘযজ তিরব,মন্দাতকিী সুর িু েরব ইথারর? জাবর কাটুক মিাতেন্দ আত্মজ েোরে আাঁতক রংধিু সময় িাতেরয় দবোয় েূণ জ শশী দেররায় বাজজরয় দবিু। সুরখর োয়রা িাতহ দিয় ধরা েোট তেখরি শুধুই খরা আগুি সম রঙিি ফািুস দয উোয় দকবেই স্বয়ম্ভরা। মি আরে দসরিা মৃিবৎসা আগুরিই খুরাঁ জ ফাল্গুি সহসা এ জীবি খয়রাতি চাওয়ায় শুধু খুরাঁ জ বসন্ত অিুসতিৎসা। জািাোর গ্রীে ধরর িাাঁোই যখতি তেেু ডারক যাতমিী হৃিয় চঞ্চে হয় দচাখ েেেে উিো েবি আউো ধরণী।

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ইরে করর ইরে করর জুিারয়ি খন্দকার িীর ০৫ তডরসম্বর ২০২০ তিষ্টাব্দ ইরে করর দিামায় হাজারটা িারম ডাকরি, হৃিরয় জমারিা কথা গুরো দিামায় শুিারি। দিামার সারথ দরেোইরির ধারর দমরঠা েরথ হাাঁটরি, দিামায়

তিরয়

কতবিা

তেখরিআমার দয খুব ইরে করর।। ইরে করর দিামার কারো দকরশর গি তিরি, রংধিুর সাি ররঙ্গ দিামায় রাঙ্গারি। ইরে

করর

োতখ

হরয়

উেরি, োাঁয়া হরয় দিামার সারথ সারাটা দবো কাটারি। ইরে করর কিম হরয় ফুটরিদিামার আতঙ্গিায় সুভাস েোরি। ইরে করর িিী হরয় বরয় চেরিদিামার হৃিরয় দেউ িু েরি, আমার দয খুব খুব ইরে করর। (েকৃতি ও োকৃতিক দসৌন্দরযরজ তকেু েতব তিোম) (েতব গুতে সংগৃহীি)

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

coperta3 p47 2 authors

Jay-Ar Nhor

Refik MartinoviÄ&#x2021;

Wish I would give anything to be tonight in my dreams

Are You Tired of Waiting a True love ? My heart is bleeding Flowing non stop of boiling blood My anger burns me My tears drown me

to play on those same rapids which we loved as children to be a butterfly restless trajectories and a white stone waiting for your touches that there is no sorrow

Day and Night Days and weeks Months and years Still I have a long patience Finally,my heart warms again My heart heals What a happy feelings I feel Is this true love?

their sounds which kill our steps but it all passed they are our birds long ago flew away in some distant sky to wait for new encounters ... how I will survive the truth

Never tired hoping Never tired waiting Learn to wait Because there is a true love for you And there is someone especial for you . I hope you like it readers !!

that you're gone tonight.

Our hearts have the same rhythm Our eyes know that we are meant to be Our brains know that it is a true love My heart is happy again

year I, no. 7, 2021, January

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

The magazine appears in Romania editorial office Founding President Lenuș Lungu Director: Lenuș Lungu, Ioan Muntean Deputy Director: Paul Rotaru Technical Editor Ioan Muntean Covers Ioan Muntean Editor-in-Chief: Ion Cuzuioc Deputy Editor: Stefano Capasso Editorial Secretary: Anna Maria Sprzęczka

yaer I, no. 7, January, 2021

ISSN 2458-0198 ISSN-L 2458-0198 Founded in Constanţa, June 2020

Editors: Vasile Vulpaşu, Anna Maria Sprzęczka, Pietro Napoli, Myriam Ghezaïl Ben Brahim, Zoran Radosavljevic, Suzana Sojtari Iwan Dartha, Auwal Ahmed Ibrahim, Destiny M O Chijioke, Nikola Orbach Özgenç Responsibility for the content of texts published in the journal belongs directly to the authors who sign them, in the name of freedom of expression.

Taifas Literary Magazine

Reproduction - in whole or in part - of the journal and its electronic distribution are authorized for the private use of the reader and for non-commercial purposes.

Revista de scrieri şi opinii literare Taifas Literar poate fi citită online pe site-urile Cronopedia

(lenusa.ning.com) or: Taifas Literay Magazine Email: worldliterarymagazine@gmail.com Orders for the purchase of the magazine can be made on the Cronopedia website and on the email address above.

Authors in summary:

3 AUTHORS 2, SAMEER GOEL 2, VILDANA STANISCIC 2, TANU VERMAI KAPOOR 2, EDITORIAL 3, PAUL ROTARU 3, POETRY 10, GERLINDE STAFFLER 10, ADAM ŻEMOJTEL 10, BHAGIRATH CHOUDHARY 11, ADAM DECOWSKI 12, PRINCE STEVE OYEBODE 12, SELMA KOPIC 13, SHASWATA GANGOPADHYAY 14, SIR SILVANO BORTOLAZZI 15, JANAMENJOY GHORAI 16, RUKI KOČAN 16, NABA KUMAR PODDER 16, RAMESH CHANDRA PRADHANI 17, JIGME JAMTSHO 17, AD IBRAHIM 18, MILKA J.ŠOLAJA 18, BLJESAK BJELINE 18, TIMOTHY MICHAEL DIVITO 18, VELIMIR SILJANOSKI 19, CILENTI EMANUELE 19, DIJANA UHEREK STEVANOVIĆ, 19, MAHANAJ PARVIN 20, LENUȘ LUNGU 20, STEFANO CAPASSO 20, ADEYEMI KEHINDE A. OLUWANISHOLA 21, MAYOKUN KEHINDE FOLORUNSHO 21, ION CUZUIOC 22, ANNA MARIA STĘPIEŃ 23, MUHAMMAD ISHAQ ABBASI 24, DUŠAN PEJAKOVIĆ 25, PROSE 26, SPISATELJICA BISERKA 26, ZORAN RADOSAVLJEVIĆ 26, ŠAHDO BOŠNJAK 27, ESSAY 31, LORETA TOADER 31, BILL STOKES 31, SANTOSH KUMAR-BHUTAN 32, RYSZARD MŚCISZ 32, CONFABULATION 34, LENUȘ LUNGU 34, JAWAZ JAFFRI 36, REVIEW 37, LENUȘ LUNGU 39, BHAGIRATH CHOUDHARY 40, LENUȘ LUNGU 41, PUNYA DEVI 42, NANDITA DE NEE CHATTERJEE 43, STEFANO CAPASSO 46, KABBO KOTHA 48, JONAYED KHANDAKAR NIR 48, 2 AUTHORS 49, REFIK MARTINOVIĆ 49, JAY-AR NHOR 49

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