Soma Debray, Assistant Professor in English, Narajole Raj College, West Bengal, lives in a constant state of wonder at all the possibilities life has to offer. She enjoys being a woman lapping up the challenges of womanhood. Writing for her is a joyride she waits to happen.
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A Nepali poem by Swapnil Smriti, translated by Pranika Koyu
Swapnil Smriti
Dear son,
You have a right to ask every question.
.
That ageing Himalaya is your ancestor.
The deep sky is your wish.
The playful breeze bustling from one tree to the other
Is your life.
Those winding roads, hanging around the hills across, like the strings
Are your dreams.
.
Your two eyes and
The innumerable stars are kin.
All the snow of the winter,
All the flowers of the seasons,
Are like a transient rainbow.
And a short kiss I plant on your cheek —
It is our life.
.
The one who bore and raised you,
And made you this lovable
That is the Earth.
She is our mother — both yours and mine.
.
My dear son!
Be ready with questions of all kinds.
However,
About the moon by the bamboo grove
That wanes for fifteen days
And waxes for fifteen days
Never, Never, ask …
Why, at times, does it rise in the afternoon?
Why, at times, does it become a crescent?
Oh simpleton, it is like that only…
.
Why?
.
I replied —
That is the long-lost love of your father’s youth!
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Swapnil Smriti (b. Nov. 14, 1981), a contemporary Nepali poet, hails from Panchthar district, and resides in Lalitpur at the present. He works at Nepal Academy of Music and Drama. He has to his credit two anthologies of poetry: Ranggai rangako Veer (2005) and Baduli Ra Suduura Samjhana (2011). Smriti is of the opinion that poetry is an artistic outburst of the subconscious mind.
Translator’s Bio: Pranika Koyu is a poet and human rights activist. Her poems highlight socio-political context of women in Nepal. Bhaav is her first anthology. Her poems translated in English have been have been published in Zubaan and Mitra. She is the editor of Chronicles of Silence.
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While morning yet was rose,
not thorn,
earth glistening
as if newly born,
I came across
a romance here:
he hadn't seen
the shadows clear,
nor seemed
to be at all aware;
she watched,
and was content to stare.
I thought of how a love began,
of Eden, too,
the dawn of man
and how that garden
turned to grief;
of sorrow
borne without relief;
and yet,
I did not fail to bless
the tainted cup of happiness,
nor reverently to tiptoe by
this sleeper in the flower's eye.
Poems by Tom Merrill have recently appeared in two novels as epigraphs.He is Poet in Residuum at The Hypertexts and Advisory Editor at Better Than Starbucks.
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since her second husband killed her earlier daughter
in envy and plotted to let her devour
ignorant that it was the flesh of her own daughter.
The hills failed to catch her
before she fell, without a break,
succumbing to the summons of gravity.
Since then the hills are in tears
and the falls run down the cheeks.
We, on a tour, could correlate the tragedy of Likai
with that of King Oedipus, who, after killing his father
and marrying his own mother unwittingly,
pierced two gold pins in his own eyes
and later died in exile. His mother
hanged herself to death. Oedipus Rex
ended with the chorus wailing,
‘Count no man happy till he dies, free of pain at last’.
But I closed my wife for a peck,
to swab her weeping rains, soothing all the pains.
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*Noh Ka Likai, is a beautiful waterfall of Meghalaya, India. The words “Noh Ka Likai” literally mean “jump of Ka Likai”,where Ka is prefixed to name a female personality in Meghalaya.
Shakti Pada Mukhopadhyay, MA( English), writes poetry and prose. A lyrical drama written by him has been staged. He enjoys acting, singing, travelling and reading books.
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Poems by Eduard Harents, translated from Armenian byHarout Vartanian
Eduard Harents
Yearning
The shadow of colour is scaling the scars of day; walking the serenity of an encountered dream… . The flower is the secret of pain; an introspective smile. The scion names the sin. . Beyond personal bandages of prayer, the self-denial of a tree is as much bright as warm are the hands of night. . I am freezing… your name.
.
Odyssey
We ate poetry, smoked silence with a cup of coffee, we got away from death chewing colours, but still we are gazing at the word…
***
. I know, I will wake up someday from the mystical dinner, will wear my father’s damaged footsteps as little pockets filled with immeasurable love… Can my days — I wonder — scale that much unbearable lightness?
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Eduard Harents, born in 1981,is the most translated Armenian writer of all times. His poems were translated into more than 50 languages. He lives in Yerevan, Armenia. He has graduated from Yerevan State University, the faculty of Oriental Studies. Harents has authored 10 poetry collections. He has been published in numerous Armenian and foreign periodicals and anthologies.
Harout Vartanian, Armenian poet and translator, was born in Aleppo (Syria) in 1973, where he still resides. He received a degree in mechanical engineering from the American University of Beirut. His first poetry book Triangular Sun was published in 2001. Active in several literary activities, he contributes regularly to literary journals.
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They are eating the same soup delivered by the same waiter
Among them
Young people arrive through the falling snow
One young girl wearing a red backpack
Another girl wearing a baseball cap slightly tilted on the head
One male student with black eyebrows
who has ever written love letters
Sitting with a boy who has never written love letter
And also two privates coming out of army camp for vacation
One grandma with her little grandson
Among the ten
Some ones know each other and some not
Some seem to have seen each other somewhere
The wind is blowing very hard outside
Though ten people are eating hot rice cake dumpling soup
They are all islands surrounded by ten oceans
Ten islands different in shape
Are eating hot rice cake dumpling soup cooling huhu
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Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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Poems by Tom Merrill have recently appeared in two novels as epigraphs.He is Poet in Residuum at The Hypertexts and Advisory Editor at Better Than Starbucks.
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Krampus on Campus
Dear Admissions Tutor
I am rather too mature
a fellow
to present myself to you
in this manner
(it is true)
but I believe potentially
I will have a
bright future
if you allow me to enrol
at your university.
And let me now explain
the meaning
of my name. Krampus
the word derives
from ‘claw’
and I am wearied by my
seasonal chores
which unlike those of
Santa Claus
involves punishing bad
children instead
of rewarding the good.
I am hairy,
my long tongue lolls
and I have cloven hoofs.
I leap across
your roofs at night
giving children such an
awful fright!
and this has been my role
for years.
To cap it all my head
has horns.
My appearance generally
as you can see
is hardly prepossessing
but that’s
how I was born.
And now
I’ve had enough!
I want a
change of career,
no more
nastiness and no
more fear.
I long to improve myself.
Please permit
me to enrol and achieve
my goal,
a Krampus on campus
will be quite
a boon to your noble
institution.
My essays will all
be referenced properly
with the correct
attributions.
I promise this!
Yes, you
can provide the solution
to my woes!
I write this letter
with my talons crossed for luck.
I have inspected
your prospectus
and the course I choose is
“Mythology
and Cultural Studies,
modules one and two”
and in advance I am thanking
you. Sincerely yours,
without a fuss, Krampus.
P.S. What don’t
you want for Christmas?
A Krampus
Once I was an ElfOnce I was an elf
(a real elf)
and I was proud
and strong.
I loosed my arrows
at dragons
and never thought
it wrong
to engage in battle
with my other foes,
the goblins
of the underworld.
How I miss
those ancient days
with their better ways
when mounted
on a flying horse,
a quiver on my back,
I soared above
the mountain peaks
that chewed the clouds
like demon fangs,
ready to attack!
Few back then
were quite so bold
and fewer still
so keen to seek
mighty new heroic deeds
to perform each week.
Caring not for
fame or wealth
while swooping
from the sky,
I defeated giant lizards,
evil wizards
and necromancers
for I was an elf
well versed in magic
with nothing tragic
about my circumstances.
But times changed
as they always do
and the age of wonders
passed away,
for even valour
and honour too
must eventually decay.
I fell on hard times
like all the elves
and sold my golden arrows,
cut short my hair,
lost my flying horse
and begged for work
everywhere,
cursing the worsening
of my situation
until at last I found a boss
willing to take me on.
The work is seasonal
and very hard
and now is the busiest
time of year.
I sometimes weep
as I recall how long ago
the good times were
when to be an elf
earned both respect and fear.
I have become
little more than a slave
in the modern world
and it is cold
so near the North Pole.
Yes, once I was an elf
(a real elf)
but now I am a mockery
of myself.
I slay dragons no longer
but every day
I just make toys
from a very long list
for girls and boys
who doubt I even exist.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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of autumn’s heavy late-afternoon traffic – an urgent
meeting of brown dry leaves
and some broken yellow sunlight
.
Here I am going to leave
all old latitudes and longitudes
neatly creased
and folded like a new tourist map
near the empty tea cup; in them, you may find
shadows of fish, bougainvillea seeds,
bees in November, dry deciduous leaves
and ample ember
.
But coordinates are much like our obsessions– hard to go;
they will follow
you through the busy streets in the evening
behind every pedestrian with algae masks
like numerous notifications
for one lost search
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Sekhar Banerjeeis an author. He has four collections of poems and a monograph on an Indo-Nepal border tribe to his credit. He is a former Secretary of Paschimbanga Bangla Akademi and Member-Secretary of Paschimbanga Kabita Akademi under the Government of West Bengal. He lives in Kolkata, India.
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As Mr. Jologg was getting ready for a date He was hooked by some twist of fate . In the centre of his face waved a red satin heart all flappy and as soft as petal . “Oh my nose! Where is my nose?” He shouted . Hastily he cancelled his date He called some healthcare modernists He called some traditional apothecaries They prescribed him capsules They prescribed him potions Some even prescribed him songs and some even pyramid- shaped canvas He tried them all Nothing worked . Then he jumped, jumped, jumped on the green grassy hill He ran, ran, ran across the Antelope-fields But nothing worked . Lost in despair, he called Vanilla – his girlfriend, the nurse with sunflower smile . “There’s no curse, Jologg” She assured, “Go on , take this, Sniff, sniff, Breathe in”
As he did what she said black and white pepper swirled magically A roman nose settled in
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“Oh, my nose! My nose!” he exclaimed overjoyed “ It is back but never forget Watch out! That trickster! The nose!”
Vatsala Radhakeesoon, born in Mauritius in 1977, is the author of 11 poetry books, including Tropical Temporariness (Transcendent Zero Press, USA, 2019), Whirl the Colours (Gibbon Moon Books UK/Kenya, 2020) and नीली हंसिनी के गाने – Songs of the Blue Swan (Bilingual Hindi -English, Gloomy Seahorse Press, UK/Kenya,2020). She is one of the representatives of Immagine and Poesia, an Italy based literary movement uniting artists and poets’ works. She currently lives at Rose-Hill and is a literary translator, interviewer and artist.
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Borderless 
