Kathak poets summit souvenir 2017 by Md. Yusuf Ali

Dhaka POETS SUMMIT 2017 31 January - 4 February 2017 Dhaka, Bangladesh

Luz María López

Habibullah Sirajee

Manfred Chobot

Jona Burghardt

María de los Ángeles Camacho Rivas

Dr. Victor Alexandrovich Pogadaev

Asad Chowdhury

Hayat Saif

Jahidul Huq

Aminur Rahman

Tobias Burghardt

Mohammad Nurul Huda

SOUVENIR

Dhaka POETS SUMMIT 2017 31 January - 4 February 2017 Dhaka, Bangladesh

National Gallery Auditorium of Bangladesh Shilpakala Academy, Dhaka (National Academy of Fine and Performing Arts)

3 February 2017

Poetry - An Absurdly Charming Weapon For a poet at the beginning of the 21st century; I think the most difficult thing is how to navigate this brave new world, where we are in the midst of making up our collective mind about what it means to be mutually connected from different parts of the globe to form a common platform of friendship. Poetry takes as its purview what is deeply felt and is essentially unsayable; that is the paradox on which the poem necessarily turns. A poet uses language as a painter uses colour, a primary material out of which to make art. However, language that is used all the time and all around us - in sound bites, advertisements, political rhetoric, newsprint needs to be rinsed free so that it can be used as the stuff of art. The poem in its acts of meaning - making turns away from the literal, its truth bound to what can be evoked. And evocation is sparked by memory. Rabindranath Tagore realised this clearly. In his reflections he writes of how poetry - far from dealing with the literal - reaches into what lies in memory, in memory fragments. While poetry is bound to the sensorium, to the sensual powers of bodily being, to memory that draws its power from feelings heightened by the senses, it is also bound to place. It is place that we locate ourselves, mark ourselves in relation with others. It is in place that we survive. But what becomes of the past when place is torm away, when sensorium is radically displaced, and when exile or dislocation marks out the limit of existence? In a time of violence, the task of poetry is in some way to reconcile us to our world and to allow us a measure of tenderness and grace with which to exist. The opening programme of the third Dhaka International Poets Summit 2017 will be held on Friday, 3 February 2017 at the National Gallery Auditorium of Bangladesh Shilpakala Academy, Dhaka (National Academy of Fine and Performing Arts). Hosted by KATHAK, a poetry initiative, this event is focused on getting poets and poetry lovers together to define path for the mutual development and propagation of the poetic arts in Bangladesh, Austria, Argentina, Germany, Russia and Puerto Rico. The Dhaka International Poets Summit 2017 will in its end, create a forum for leading poets, a forum that will allow our many fine poets to participate as leaders in the development of the poetic arts across the globe. Aminur Rahman President, Kathak

Guests

Rafael D Vargas Figueroa Puerto Rico

Dagmar Chobot Austria

Rajalingam Ramasamy Malaysia

AUSTRIA

MANFRED CHOBOT

MANFRED CHOBOT, was born in 1947 at Vienna, lives as a freelance writer. Member of the Austrian writers league “IG Autorinnen Autoren” (member of the board), member of the Austrian authors association “Grazer Autorenversammlung” (member of the board), member of “Podium”, member of the international authors association “Kogge”. Co-founder of the “1. Wiener Lesetheater und 2. Wiener Stegreiftheater” (First Vienna Theatre of reading performances). Editor of the series of books “Lyrik aus Österreich” (Poetry from Austria), Editor staff of the literary magazine “Podium”. Exhibitons of “BildGedichte” (photos). Approximately 50 radio plays for various broadcasting stations. Participant of: “18th World Congress of Poets”, Bratislava (Slovakia) 1998; “Poetry Spring”, Vilnius (Lithuania) 1999; “First World Congress on Literature”, Valencia (Spain) 1999; “Gerard Manley Hopkins Summer School”, Monasterevin (Ireland) 1999, 2000 und 2002; “Congress of International Friends of Literature and Culture”, Haifa (Israel) 1999; “Poetry Fall”, Druskininkai (Lithuania) 2000; “3rd World Congress of Poets for Poetry Research and Recitation”, Iasi (Romania) 2001; Jan Smrek-Festival, Bratislava (Slovakia) 2002; “XII. International Poetry Festival Medellin”, Colombia 2002; “XXIII. World Congress of Poets”, Taipei/Taiwan 2003; “XIII Festival Internacional de Poesía”, Rosario/Argentina 2005; 3rd Festival Internacional de Poesía de Granada, Nicaragua 2007; Literaturfestival Lemberg (Ukraine) 2007; Festival of Poetry and Wine, Valtice/Czech Rep. 2009; 10. International Poetry Festival Al-Mutanabbi, Zurich 2010; 1. Festival International de Poesía, Lima/Peru 2012; Printemps de Poèsia, Luxemburg 2016; 14th International Poetry Festival Ars Poetica, Bratislava (Slovakia) 2016. Books: twelve volumes of Poetry in German; twenty six volumes of Prose; two novels, two volumes of photo books, and two books for children. Books of Poetry in English, French, Spanish, Slovak, Czech, Polish, Bulgarian, and Bangla (with Aminur Rahman). Books of Prose in Ukrainian, and Polish. Web site: www.chobot.at

ODE TO FEAR I am afraid of slipping off the list of wealthiest men getting captured near somalia crashing in a plane while my stocks are falling getting kidnapped and fried in the desert by insurgents being forced to exchange my porsche for a compact mercedes not finding a parking place in the traffic jam getting trapped without petrol on the highway in an earthquake being wiretapped in my single cell and sentenced to pay a bail of a hundred million euros tripping with a day pass and getting crushed by a paternoster lift having to meet berlusconi sitting with angelika m. and nicolas s. at one table and eating oysters getting idolized live and lyrically in front of a sell-out crowd by michael jackson getting into a banknote printing press accidentally landing as an extraterrestrial on planet earth not knowing how to navigate to dump securities on the stock market and getting reborn as an austrian with an american passport

LICKSPITTLE The tongue is for talking the spit for spitting a propos of nothing other uses are needed to whisper bashfully to the lips words with a g like gold guppy goblin twirl the three-week beard into a lock or even two and stand in the rain gulp it down get gobsmacked green isn't really green it tastes like gold greet it grab it the moon is watching before the clouds weave into each other

BALANCE SHEET Mother is no mama the crevice between her breasts leads to unknown depths her touches are cash that buys affection paying with food and sweets when it gets cooler she forces pullovers on so she'll be warmer she has fled to the grave of her own mother who didn't abort because grandfather threatened to report her so she was born her own child fears the return of the mother from the graveyard

ARGENTINA / GERMANY

JONA BURGHARDT

Born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, on 21 December 1963. Since the mid-80s, she has lived in Europe, first in Berlin, Germany, for two years, then, since 1986, in Stuttgart, Germany. She is poet and translator specialized on poetry written in Spanish and German. She was teacher of foreign languages. Editor of a series of Korean literature (poetry, stories and novel) at the Publishing House Edition Delta in Stuttgart. She makes illustrations for numerous poetry books, some stories and novels, for a volume of Hispanic poetry, and indigenous tales from Latin America. She translates German, Austrian, Swiss, Arab and Asian authors into Spanish within the framework of the International Poetry Festivals of Medellín, Colombia, Rosario, Argentina, and Caracas, Venezuela. In 2000 she directed a Workshop for Translation of Poetry at the 10th International Poetry Festival in Medellín, Colombia, and in 2006 at the Center for Latin-American Studies Rómulo Gallegos (CELARG) in the framework of the 3rd World Poetry Festival in Caracas, Venezuela. Curator of the exhibition of photography The other contenance of Borges by the Venezuelan artist Enrique Hernández d'Jesús in the context of the International Frankfurt Book Fair 2010 with the guest of honur Argentina and the foundation event 2012 of the Babylon Festival International Cultures & Arts, Iraq.Since 2000 member of the Editorial Board of the illustrated poetry review EL JABALÍ, Buenos Aires, Argentina, and the Latin-American poetry review PROMETEO, Medellín, Colombia. She is Coordinator, Translator and Interpreter for the International Poetry Festival Al-Mutanabbi, Zurich, Switzerland, and, since 2012 for the Babylon Festival International Cultures & Arts, Babylon and Baghdad, Iraq. Her poems have been translated into Arabic, Bangla, Chinese, English, Farsi, French, Italian, Portuguese, Swedish and Turkish. Jona Burghardt has presented her poetry at international poetry festivals in Latin America, Europe and Asia.

LOST SENTINEL At the kerb lies an old shoe, perhaps it fell from the bag on the way to the collection of old clothes. Shoes lying around indicate a tender longing for the foot, the leg, the body, the face. Leather covers the southernmost point where under the nail at the curve of the toes the blood changes direction. It draws in the sweat of the hard ways. It watches lonely over the dream of the cooled form of the foot. The shoe is not a means to get away the person who comes home, a lonely shoe lying around rouses the wish for an image, the track, its life and its dream.

SOME SUNDAY For years the family pictures were kept in a big wooden drawer of the desk. One Sunday in summer the bottom of the drawer broke; while one was cleaning the balcony windows, the other picked up the recollections strewn on the floor. Who could afform that every choice is not only a variant of the irreversible? Circumstances bend the body like a bow and one becomes an arrow that life shoots at a target so near although non-existent. The incredulous look of the imaginary archer confirms that at every shot there is no mistake.

WARNING OF THE RAIN DROPS When the air stretches its stifling rope and the sweat of clouds troubles the abyss, it rains, it rains as it has always rained and somebody sits down at the sewing machine. The drum gathers drops and still more drops, warm tinsel intoxicating itself from door to door. When sun and lightning compare their light, the seamstress traces the cut on tissue-paper. "Don't ever drop a pin or a needle," or the seams around happiness are mended. Today it rains, it rains as it has always rained, but the water refuses the downright fall, it avoids the gulf near the flags of the balcony. All of a sudden the thread of somnolence is torn, and the needle jumps up like a furious spear that has slept in a crack of the floor, and looks for the sleepless heel. The drops that had been dammed up fall into the dazzling gulf as if somebody tore the fabric of a forgotten dream, torrents of pins and needles come off grey felt, and it rains, it rains as it has always rained.

GUESTS

Artists' House, Madeira Lying on the hundred-year-old bed the body doesn't feel obliged to the dream, hesitation sleeps beside doubt and from the deep sea rises an awakening that strolls through unexpected places in the silence of the paths of memory. Step by step the untouchable and unerring track sets the course without hesitating and getting lost. The dream leads past side-scenes that have always been waiting for movement. And in spite of the confusion at the waking there has never been disorientation nor losing one's way. Every walking infallibly reaches its aim. In the ancient room the movement of an eyelash sinks into dawn. 13

GERMANY

TOBIAS BURGHARDT

Tobias Burghardt, who was born on 9 November 1961 in Essen-Werden, Germany, lived 1976-1986 in La Paz, Bolivia, Berlin, Germany, and Buenos Aires, Argentina; since then in Stuttgart, Germany. The poet and essayist was editor of the magazine for essay writing and poetry DELTA (1987-1992) and cultural journalist for the Stuttgarter Zeitung and Neue Zürcher Zeitung. He was a juror at the global Poetry Project Anna Blume (Kurt Schwitters) of the Expo 2000 in Hanover, in 2010 at the Lyric Festival in Sankt Augustin, 2011 at the International Poetry Prize Víctor Valera Mora in Caracas, Venezuela, and in 2013 at the Internationale Poetry Competition Rhein Triptych in Sankt Augustin. Today, he is the director of the Publishing House Edition Delta. He published several volumes of poetry, among others September Soil & August Alphabet (2010), River Islands and other Districts (2005) and River Bank (2001) as well as bilingual editions in Argentina, Iraq, Japan, Portugal, Serbia, Sweden and Venezuela. His poems have been translated into numerous languages and published in international anthologies, magazines and newspapers. Together with Juana Burghardt: Editorial Board of the Latin American poetry journal PROMETEO who received the Right Livelihood Award 2006 for organizing the excellent International Poetry Festival of Medellín, Colombia; Coordinator at the International Poetry Festival Al-Mutanabbi, Zurich, Switzerland; as well as Co-Founder and International Coordinator at the Babylon Festival International Cultures & Arts, Babylon and Baghdad, Iraq. They translate together newer poetry from Latin America (i.a. Antonio Porchia, Olga Orozco, Juan Gelman, Alejandra Pizarnik, Alberto Szpunberg, Pedro Shimose), Spain (i.a. Juan Ramón Jiménez, Clara Janes Andrés Sánchez Robayna, Luisa Castro, Rosana Acquaroni), Catalonia (i.a. Joan Margarit, Teresa Pascual), and Portugal (i.a. António Ramos Rosa, Casimiro de Brito, Eugénio de Andrade).

A TAXI-DRIVER'S WILL Almost on the seats of a taxi I was born, on a corner on the opposite side of the Atlantic, no water in the radiator, no heavy sea, where a November wind brushes the shrivelled lips and dances in tango steps with some page of a newspaper, on a city trip to another district of childhood. Every place can be the first departure, also the last arrival. And the moment does not even blow away the vestiges, the leaves.

FRAGMENT To dwell in even fewer words than shades that have lost almost all their bearings, without shoes already, at times a blink from somewhere called nowhere, the dust of the solar system in between two or three fingers, eucalyptus-clock, slow fever of today, moss-green each path, which is more hours than ours, inscribes itself into your bones.

NOCTURNE OF SAN TELMO The lull in the wind anticipates some death. And yet we stray along the old lines of streets and know that we'll leave nothing behind. However, there is something different which is abandoning us now: pain, the present, Oblivion. In view, these sounds remain. And all of a sudden a dusky downpour drifts all the ramifications in the labyrinth. Every life prolongs the dream.

CONVERSATION WITH A CRICKET Today a tree-cricket visited me and told of the lousy star-shaped journey which always begins on the stroke of midnight. For hours we circled above Habana, drank vodka, smoked up to the clouds, and broke in the meanwhile in Camaguey. The tropical vegetation pleased me, and the unexpected visit from the cricket provides the first point on my route at which to pause and recognize where we were going back to.

THE CICADA IS ANOTHER WORD

In memory of RubĂŠn DarĂo

A gnat is singing in transit on Melancholy's road and loses itself in nothingness. So does the bird, a note, the lip of the breezes, a breath of forgotten space. Only the voices within the tree resound in you, although you can scarcely hear this now. We breathe on the verge of death, the iridescent night moth and much else besides. The cicada is another word which recalls all that.

PUERTO RICO

LUZ MARÍA LÓPEZ

Luz María López was born in 1963 and is writer of poetry, narrative, essays, translator, editor and cultural promoter. She is Executive Director of World Festival of Poetry (WFP-IOC) and World Poetic Front Defending Women's Rights (WM); Member of the Organizing Committee of the International Book Fair in Mayagüez, Puerto Rico (FILEMH); Poets on the March (Puerto Rico); President for Spain and Puerto Rico of Writers Capital Foundation; Honorary Consul for the International Parliament of Writers from Cartagena de Indias (Colombia); WM-FeminIstanbul; Ambassador at Large and Director General of World Institute for Peace (WIP) to Puerto Rico and USA. Luz María has been recipient of two honors: "Universal Inspirational Poet", by Pentasi B, Accra, Ghana, 2016 and Shaan-E-Adab "Glory of Literature" by Kafla Intercontinental, Udaipur, India 2016. Is the author of two poetry books: "Beneath Your Skin", written in English, and "La Hora del Vuelo" (The Flight Hour), in the Spanish language. Is Editor in Chief and compiler - translator of "Poetic Voices of New Century" (Spanish edition, 2016), published by Kafla Intercontinental Press, India. Many of her poems are translated to Arabic, Italian, French, Chinese and Turkish. Other books in the style of narrative and social poetry will be released soon. As advocate for women's issues, has contributed with various academic articles in the line of psycho-social aspects of the genre, published in many countries and languages, and feminine literature essays: "Heritage of Latin American Women Writers", topic presentation at the XXI International Writers Congress in Udaipur, India (2016). Holds degrees in biology and psychology and is a certified Conflict Resolution Mediator. She studied at the University of Puerto Rico (UPR-RUM) and Eugenio María de Hostos Law School. Luz María believes that poetry can heal the world and poets do have a social responsibility towards humankind.

MANGO KISS! rejoice for the mango tree on the river bank has given fruits! a rally of hummingbirds hurry to sink their beaks deep into the flesh of delightful treasures bustling around from one to the other greedy for sugary joys nonetheless leaving holes for bees to get drunken as well wandering horses lift their neck to pluck the mangoes right from the branches chewing oblivious to glancing eyes their massive teeth getting stained with hues of gold so much desire seized from one tree! two lovers seeking a solitary corner, stand leaning against the trunk under the shade of countless leaves ripping away the skin of sweet pleasures and their next kiss is already mango flavored!

INEBRIATED tequila for a bit of dizziness an inescapable love whisper fighting its way to a dream the sweet confusion rewriting it all a salty smile hanging around that corner the one that we crossed one day when our eyes were candidly talking about us 20

the reborn shyness of the words pronouncing that the door was never closed and maybe it is just the stupor of a gone yesterday bringing back its nuances as if bewildered again, for such is love to kiss sweetly anew on a known frenzy the prelude to a restless night lived together when the crazy wish ravaging the skin left a scar, the same one that today is calling you back.

SEPTEMBER September will reach as a graceful breeze blooming sighs on my skin in the light of a tomorrow I will dress myself as dawn the stars will dance in my eyes the soft fluttering of his hand - an euphoric sonnet one thousand trails of rouges drawn on my lips September will shelter me as does the sea when it cuddles seashells from his gaze will flow a stream of warmness - reveries lulling me the crooning of life the kiss' bliss a feast of hushes dwelling in his soul September will arrive surrendering life and in the frenzy of its colors, my heart will beat!

MARÍA DE LOS ÁNGELES CAMACHO RIVAS

María de los Ángeles Camacho Rivas from Patillas Puerto Rico was born on June 24, 1969. Angie, as everyone calls it, is teacher, poet, and storywriter. She has a master's degree in Curriculum and teaching of the Spanish language. It has been awarded in prestigious literary contests in her country. In her spare time make educational workshops in nursing homes, schools and nonprofit organizations. She has also worked as a fashion designer, volunteer coordinator, host of radio and missionary. Part of her literary work has been published in the newspapers ¨La prensa de Nicaragua¨, El nuevo día (Puerto Rico), the ¨Libro verde¨ in Mexico, ¨Bromelias¨ - her blog-, among others. She published the collection of poems ¨Días de bromelias¨ in 2011, compiled and edited the student poetry anthology ¨Salmo de un esclavo¨ (2014). She took part in poetry festivals: Medellín, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua and Dominican Republic. She is part of the board of the International Poetry Festival in Puerto Rico and member of Guajana, a poetry group of social and politician conscious. Soon she will present her new book, ¨Con mi jirafa azul¨.

OPEN SESAME We do not have roots in the earth. Only the eternal is poetry the valuable, the vast is not a mere rumor: she is. Poetry pearl eye rain in the dead of thirst fragile life the unknown damn the soul of that despises. There are kings of crowns, other of feathers there are kings of scepters, of spear and hunting there are kings with gold in their sandals there are kings of land on their feet there are queens with silk dresses queens of free skin kingdoms of proclamations for princes kingdoms of rites for the tribe in the language of blue blood there is only one poetry: that of the centuries from the centuries.

A SETBACK Today: They are tempting me the troubles. I am armed to the teeth heating the sun on my tongue. To see if lit ears if I untie the sands of the sunk feet. Morning: Duplicate be the stars. Today: Pained lie the enclosed operas.

Morning: Dust them off -the magic is lost among many tears-. Collect in empty theaters the footsteps of dance and water their dance on sidewalks and plazas. Today: Memory must not die. -Blessed museums the libraries! that preserve heroes -. Today and tomorrow: Hearts reborn tremble with the verses of poets.

SUNSET RECIPE The treasures are being forgotten... and passes, in an open, the shaking sunset the one before, the innocence tree the one with the feet in the water the one from the balcony of my grandfather the one of the rosaries of the neighborhood the one of the nostalgia-flavored lullabies. By the light: the return of mercy to renounce the twilight of the higher walls, more love once were. And passes, -which in a humble bit of glorythe limp of a table intones firmly the minutes fill the sips of humble wine; crown. And in the clouds cooks a saffron-baked spell in a sonata toast. 24

RUSSIA

DR. VICTOR ALEXANDROVICH POGADAEV

Dr. Victor Alexandrovich Pogadaev was born in November 20, 1946 in Sakmara, Orenburg region, USSR. After finishing school in 1964, worked as a teacher of German language in Krasnokommunarskaya school. In 1970, graduated from the Indonesian department of the Institute of Oriental Languages, M. V. Lomonosov Moscow State University. In 1970-1971, studied Malay language at the University of Malaya (Kuala Lumpur) in the first group of Russian students in the framework of student exchange. In 1975, defended his PhD thesis on Malaysian history at the Institute of Asian and African Studies, M. V. Lomonosov Moscow State University. In 1977-1982 and 1987-1989, worked for the Foreign Ministry USSR in Indonesia and Malaysia. In 1989-2001- Editor-consultant at the sector "Encyclopedia of Asia", Institute of Oriental Studies, Russian Academy of Science, in 1996-2001, Senior Lecturer at the Institute of Asian and African Studies, M. V. Lomonosov Moscow State University and at the same time the correspondent of the newspaper "Evening Moscow". Since 2001, a lecturer of Russian language and Russian culture at the University of Malaya (Kuala Lumpur), since 2003, Associated Professor. He is a Corresponding Member of the International Academy of Pedagogical Education, a member of the Board of the "Nusantara Society" (Moscow), full member of the Russian Geographical Society, the Union of Journalists of Russia, a lifetime member of the Association of Modern Languages of Malaysia. A member of the editorial board of "Pendeta" (Sultan Idris Pedagogical University, Malaysia), the journal "Folklore and Folkloristics" (India) and International Review of Humanities Studies (Faculty of Humanities Universitas Indonesia). In 2009 and 2011 was named by "International Biographical Centre" (Cambridge) among the 100 leading educationists of the year. Dr. Pogadaev is a winner of the Third All-Union competition of student research papers on social science issues (1970), "Prima Komeksindo" award for his contribution to the study of Indonesia in Russia (1998), 2 bronze medals at the University Exhibition of Research, Invention and Innovation (Malaysia, 2007), International Prize "NUMERA" for his contribution to the study of Malay language and Malay culture (2013), Diploma of the Federal Agency for Commonwealth of Independent States, Compatriots Living Abroad and International Humanitarian Cooperation (Rossotrudnichestvo) for the popularization of the Russian language in Malaysia (2014).

THIS STAR IS NOT TO BE MY On the horizon there is shine of beam: There is shine of cherished star. I believed then in happiness of stars And thought - that star was mine. In the autumn garden I stood And listened to the quiet rustling. Dark and damp was here And with all my soul I strived to the sky. "If you always shine I never would grow old" I whispered to her in the darkness of night While pulling my head over the trunk of tree. But only a cold glare light She sent me back From her silent height Into the arrogant silence. For a long time I was still standing But only then I realized That I should not have believed it This star is not to be my.

YOU ARE GONE You are gone, you are gone, you are gone, not returned You were looking for heart, but found a stone And everything whirled and everything turned There was grievance, but soon it passed In the streets you avoid meeting him now But when you see him you hide the face No more longing, no more suffering And a different ring on the finger you have

GO AWAY Go away! No more songs My life is not easy at all You however, became more beautiful How tender and thin is your hand But in the eyes flashed sparks of grief You are still thinking about him? Then why did you come to me? Youdreamed To pass your life with another guy. You were walking all nights. I was still waiting, still waiting, still waiting for you I wanted our hearts clattered together And merged into large: you and me. And then he was gone. But I stayed. How tender and thin is your hand Song! Song! In order the whole world laughs Why then tears on the cheek?

BY NIGHT By night The sun is satisfied Sipping water From the foggy river, From wells of rainbow. Heavy drunk: Can't stand anymore. It shakes once or twice, Finally went down A ray is shot Far to the horizon. 2002

BANGLADESH

ASAD CHOWDHURY

The poet Asad Chowdhury was born on 11 February 1943. He is a Poet, Writer, Translator and Anchor. Chowdhury was a former director at the Bangla Academy, Dhaka, and worked as an editor at the Bengali service of Deutsche Welle after his retirement. During the liberation war of Bangladesh, Chowdhury was a contributor and broadcaster of Swadhin Bangla Betar Kendra. A few of his poetry books are Tabak Deya Pan, Bitto Nai Besat Nai, Joler Madhye Lekhajokha, Je Pare Paruk, Modhya Math Theke, Nadio Bibastro Hoi, Batash Jemon Parchito, Brishtir Sansare Ami Keo Noi etc. He was awarded the Bangla Academy Award and the National Award EkusheyPadak.

PLANTS A green fire licks up A virgin womb will bend low with the weight of harvest have patience, patience, patience. The skylark soaring high will dive down with a mild sun baking its feathers; with the sun on her crimson beak the bird will dive low. Green fire removes the soil hoping the sun would kiss her. Translated by Mohammad Nurul Huda

OBSERVATION The blazing sun Tired of soliciting the candle's compassion Has just set. Rivers, vast stretches of water of once upon a time, Ripped of all by-gone dignity Now long for a gulp of water. Free sky, free air Free economy, free breast All have settled on my shoulder. Even the kingly body of a rose Borrows the luster of a silken dress. Fresh and hot youth Walks away in bold and quick steps Within sight of the homosexuals. Translated by Suresh Ranjan Basak

WHAT LIGHT DID YOU SHED BEHIND ? What light did you shed behind In the dark corners of Jebel-e-noor ? Days of darkness came to an end (though darkness keeps coming back) The radiance of that light Interacted with opposites effecting A heavenly blend, Currents and cross-currents came to A confluence Leading to a flourish of creativity And of intellect Making love and peace prevail Emanating from his endless flow of rahmat.* Tress, herbs, birds and insects Rivers and hills and men and women Speaking a thousand and one languages, What compassion you have for all! This perched, dried up barren civilization Knows you are there, the unfailing sea of peace. The hand that did not know how to write Received the Heavenly Light Wiped gently away the sufferings of all mankind, Bending graciously in melting compassion, Took on himself the burden of his followers' sins, O Allah, will you show me the face of Sublime perfection ? Translated by M. Harunur Rashid

* Rahmat : Mercy, kindness.

HAYAT SAIF

He is one of the major poets of Bangladesh belonging to the generation of sixties. Born in 1942, he has been a career bureaucrat since the early sixties. He retired from active service in 1999 and since then is engaged in the corporate private sector and divides his time between World Scouting and literary and artistic pursuits. His publications in Bengali include twelve collections of poems apart from two collections of essays and a huge number of poems and articles published in various periodicals. He has been translated into English and Spanish. He is generally accepted as a poet of high modernism both cerebral and lyrical in expressions and has a sharp critical talent.

MAN AND EARTH All around one can witness Many high-ranking and garrulous asses Occasionally worthy, but always affecting wisdom Here, these clamorous men live. Yet in the blood-stained centre of this small planet, What a multiplicity of frightening Relationship exist, Stained and stung by mud sand-stone parasite, Roots, branches, insects, and men, Get hit by atomic explosion, reduced To muddy heaps of flesh. In all directions lie, scattered social contrarieties. The centre falls and there is a marked Lack of cohesion, For men are powerless in the grip of mutual malice. In marshes, briars, and untended fields As though creeping out of a large dust-bin Congregate all the world's noisome waste Those who propitiate the lords With dissembling bows Themselves use their fellow human-beings to attain to affluence A fake man of God, graves covered with blazing red cloth The waving green flag amid an epidemic or scorched by a heat-wave. And yet man is always in need of faith Not so birds or animals. Therefore one can hope one day faith reality The visible and the invisible insects worms mud and sand-stone Will all co-mingle in an ultimate understanding between man and earth And from the blood-stained red earth under the cosmic sky Will emerge the bud of a huge dazzling white water lily. 35

ANOTHER CIRCLE Grazing life's horizon I voyage Towards another circle Endlessly impulsive place Love around tortured wrists Store well-loved fragrances In chests and boxes And in my pocket a stamp For an unaddressed envelope Where is the destination Of life's breathless journey? Right ahead the bus stop beckons, milling crowds around hawkers and touts The bright merchandise of popular bliss Is this then the destination, This lit-up General Store? A cripple on the sidewalk invokes the grace of God Is He asleep in a waveless silence On Heaven's minaret? So, let us go elsewhere Do a demented dance get roaring drunk, Dive in a tailspin like a giant kite? Go placidly grazing life's horizon Sometimes as needed, playing the trumpet.

MOHAMMAD NURUL HUDA

Mohammad Nurul Huda (born on 30 September, 1949, Cox's Bazar) is a leading Bengali poet of international repute in today's Bangladesh with more than 100 titles published to his credit. His poetry books are above sixty in number including his 'Kabyasomogro' ('Collected Poems' in Bengali) and 'Selected Poems' (in English Translation). His poems have been translated into many international languages including English, French, German, Swedidh, Russian, Arabic, Urdu, Hundi etc. He has won more than fifty awards at home and abroad including the Bangla Academy Literary Award, the Poet of International Merit (ISP, USA), the Tripura State Award (India), the Mahadiganta Award (India), the President's Honour (Turkey), the Ekushey Padak etc. He also organizes a poetry festival called Darianagar Kabita Mela (Darianagar Poetry Fair) at an interval of one to two years. He can be reached at poetnurulhuda@gmail.com

ONLY ON CONDITION OF POWER Does the magic wand turn men into vampire ascetics? Does the cruel ascetic disguise himself as Lakhindar ? Blessed by the goddess, does anyone make bold to violate a woman? The magic wand makes the scales of justice tremble in apprehension; Who is magic, who is just, The two sisters, Neti and Padmavati, Engage in debate and go their own ways. Woman's pride is chastity, Although Padmavati wants divinity; Sati wants the life of her husband back, The goddess of serpent eyes the Olympian heights, Be it Behula, or Manasha Neither pity nor devotion moves them Audacity being their life-long passion. Homeless, penniless, childless Chandradhar merchant Has no fear, being a devotee of Shiva; He too wants to put the house of the underworld goddess in disorder. Conflict between heaven and heaven, or Between heaven and earth, being the sole aim Neither man nor gods want a welcome truce. O! they all want to win on condition of wielding power!

WHITEPAPER ON BACHELORHOOD Flora,

how long have you been anxiously waiting in time's gay courtyard? Look at this tree in the dusky gloom, at the lovely art-work on its clustering leaves. It is but an ancient image of our earth at whose feet I sit.

I sit here, Flora, an undefiled hermit at the top of a towering hill. Down below stretch dense forests full of pines, orange groves and apricot trees. Alongside, life's twin lakes flow, deep and mysterious. Like a hunter's arrow these scenes fly before my eyes while sorely wounded I sit here a bleeding sinner. Flora, you have blossomed in the blue night of happy times, you whisper into the ears of the wind. Or, are you writing in perfumed green ink the silent history of some other maiden? I do not understand what you say, as if I were stupid. I do not hear what you utter, as if were deaf. I do not see anything of your history, as if I were blind. Flora, I am blind, deaf and stupid, a sleepless sinner of the earth with no interest in history or geography. With steady eyes I keep staring at the virgin land, the whitepaper of my bachelorhood lies open, a divine pen attached to my body. Flora,

I do not write a word. I only get drenched in nature's blue deluge. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury 39

HABIBULLAH SIRAJEE

Habibullah Sirajee was born on the 31st December 1948 at Faridpur, Bangladesh. Graduated from BUET in 1970. Worked in South-East Asia, Middle East and different organizations of Bangladesh. Total number of published books is more than forty; which includes poetry, novels, essays, memoirs & juvenile verse. Received the Ekushey Padak, the Bangla Academy Award, the Jessore Sahittya Parishad Award, the Alaol Literary Award, the the Bishinu Dey Award, the Rupashi Bangla Award, the Kabitalap Literary Award, the Mahadiganta Award. He was President, National Poetry Council, Bangladesh; Fellow, Bangla Academy, Dhaka, Bangladesh.

A PAINTING OF HUMANITY With a gush of cold air from Africa's woodlands I have come to meet you; With a can of milk from Australia I have come to your abode; would you let me sit for a while? I have chocolates, cashew nuts from South America, clothes and toys from Europe I wish to live in amity with you all. I am the green of Bangladesh I offer you the silt-filled crop-fields to sit. Love for hand extended anytime, care on every stride, Eat some rice and fish; from within dreams bring out a bit of broad sky, where a whole picture of humanity is painted life and science. Translated by Quader Mahmud

A LECTURE ON HEALTH For a change of health some go to the beach Accompanied by their wives. Their objective : to wrap around their body and mind A vigorous climate, live healthily, And pull the wagon of their years Close to the frontier to some hilly spot. Thus some regain their health, Get back the joy of physical union in the salty and fresh air, The necessary taste of fulfilment. Some, even as they feel the favourable environment, See on the wet sand a sick sunset, The brown back of crabs, and slippery oysters. Everything is natural, And thus all automatic actions Go on happening naturally: 41

The roar of the sea The restless flutter of the breeze The intimacy of the snow The rise and fall of the waves. For a change of soil Some run to the distant west. For a change of palate Some give up fish And pin their faith more on meat. For a change of home Some break up their homes Again and again, Changing one's clothes is, of course, A person's very personal affair. For the sake of one's health Some turn epicurean, some stoic, Some include in their menu Chicken soup and bread and wine Or tomato and spinach. But however delightful the breeze And the water sweet and tasty, And even if there are flying clouds And captivating nature before one's eyes There is still something lacking, Something absent â&#x20AC;Ś Certain problem-ridden monetary matters Invariably control the climate And the hills and valleys and plains In a very sanitary manner. Translated by Kabir Chowdhury

JAHIDUL HUQ

Born in 1949. Poet, short story writer, lyricist and novelist. His major works are: Pocket Bhorti Megh, Neel Dutabash, Tomar Homer, Parigusccha O Onnano Kabita, Balconygulo, Premke Korechi Bari etc. Honoured by the Bangla Academy Award. He worked for Bangladesh Betar (Radio) as Deputy Director General and spent valuable time in Deutsche Welle as senior editor. He is well travelled.

SEEING OFF You are leaving. So leave. But think For once, before paying for the fare, You're not really going anywhere. Why leave? What would you add To that empty distance? Mumble instead at the ticket-counter, 'Please give me the passage to nowhere. I've travelled for many a days between Inside and out, between dream and wakefulness ; May be this time I'll go on a hideout'. You are leaving. So leave. As you Pull out of the station, think of what You may have left behind On the platform of silence, Like someone's waving a hand, fading away, Then turning up in the station-vendor's box On the sheen of his apples and grapes. Think for once whether or not You're leaving behind any keepsake. You are leaving, well, leave. It is that time of a limping day. At the station, on a day of leave-taking, It is not nice to stop anyone saying, 'No', It is not fair to plead, 'Stay'. Neither must one say, 'Stop' to the river Even when, far away in the distance, The shore-slides into the water With a deep thud. It is uncouth to make placards Out of tattered sadness and display them At the terminal on the eve of departure. It is no good saying, 'Do not de-anchor On this pale afternoon'. No use saying, 'Stay, please, Dear silver-winged aeroplane, Leave tomorrow. Why not let yet another Sunrise drink a glass of champagne 44

In your warm company '! But I know, it is ominous to say so. You are leaving, so leave. In the drought Of my dream, whenever I see trains, They seem to be leaving, always. None returning. Nor do I ever see any Aircraft afloat on the leeward wind. Never a ship mooring here. There is nothing in my heart That can define your meaning Except you yourself. Is that why I feel sad on this odd day Having caught your sight In the departure lounge? I utter to myself, 'Woe me, what a sad hour'! In the imaginary customs section, There are a few beholden to my heart Who want to stop you from leaving. They look for mistakes in your passport. Biting their fussed lips In a show of disapproval, they go through Your luggage looking for wondrous gold, Documents of pacts made, and names, Names written on blue paper. Meanwhile, the day goes by, Damp with memory. I see on the bridge of forgetfulness My own trembling shadow. That is why it is not right To say, 'Stay'. I would rather you whisper, 'Here I am. Keep this place of Deep shadow in your solitary space. Keep it a dark secret. Keep it with care. Even if I go, how far can I go'? Translated by Farida Majid 45

AMINUR RAHMAN

The poet Aminur Rahman was born on 30 October 1966. He is a well known poet in Bangladesh and abroad. His work has been translated in more than twenty five languages and he has poetry books in Spanish, German, Japanese, Mongolian, Russian, Chinese, Arabic, Malay etc. He is a renowned Translator and Art Critic of the country. A few of his poetry books are: Hridaypore Dubshatar, Thikana Kabita Dighir Par, Bhalobasha O Onnanno Kobita, etc, Compact disk of recitation, Solitary Dependence. He has translated thirteen books of poetry and edited a few poetry magazines and books. He has represented Bangladesh in the Poetry Festival in Colombia, Malaysia, Mongolia, India, Japan, Nicaragua etc. He was Awarded the Chinggish Khaan Gold Medal (2006), Heaven Horse Award (2015) in Mongolia Numera World Award of Letters (2016) in Malaysia, Contribution Award (2016) in Taiwan.

THE SCULPTURE From the mist's dense cape I carve your body's shape -gently sculpting, all morning. With my eyes shut, I sit amid the fog's heavy sheets as its frost settles on my cheek, ear, and nose. The same hands, the same lips, the same eyes -I find them with such ease -Your torso floats on that river; I shall conquer its flow. Your figure blossoms, freeing itself, leaving behind sun's light and fog's ephemeral body. You're entwined with my soul -its root, plinth, and depth. Translated by Sudeep Sen

LOVE : 7 For so long, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been searching for you in this alley and that lane The result, always negative. In a crowd seeking shelter from heavy rains In a nest where a bird heats her hatchings If I find you, my own piece of diamond I shall return to my village set up home with my beloved. I shall work my heart out, and there will remain no folds in my life. Only you shall remain, my love Translated by Sudeep Sen

CINDERELLA You have appeared to me at midnight! When I have closed all my dream doors When I can hear the sound of darkness Suddenly you have appeared to me Appeared out of fairly tales just like Cinderella Thousand years I have been waiting for Waiting with my empty basket of a dream. When I have asked the air, 'where you are?' When I have asked the night 'where you are?' When I have asked the moon 'where you are?' Every one said 'I don't know' Suddenly the air whispered in my ear 'Yes, she is coming!' And you have appeared to me from fairly tales You questioned me 'why are you awake at midnight?' I told you 'I was trying to find a dream' I also told you 'I would like to open my dream's doors' A few minutes you were with me Until we enjoyed the music 'love can make us alive' Suddenly you vanished Vanished from air, ether and from everywhere! I was trying and trying to find you But you were invisible, incredible but immiscible I could not find you anywhere You have disappeared ruthlessly to save me But every moment killed me a thousand times Bleeding night passed on with heart murmur.

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