Categories
Poetry

The Mythology of Gyres

By Anjana Basu

Abhimanyu Or The Mythology of Gyres

Like a circle in a spiral

like a wheel within a half heard song

from a womb

my father talking strategy to my yawning mother

and the son seed within her

tales of gyres and labyrinths spinning

on a needle point

clockwise twice pause twice more

then counterbalance

two slashes discus on needlepoint if not finger

and then? this work will set you free

but mein fuhrer father

from this spinning heart of fury

gas seeps slow creeping through my veins

till the light dims into a moon

and my life runs rings around it

this work will set you free

mother tell me the end of it

my father’s voice silenced by sleep or a kiss

you were bored and I the seed

plucked before I could bud

the fluid holding me spinning me

lullaby rhyme

counter clockwise twice and then

the clock’s hands spinning in a mad race

to holocaust time

suicide bomber detonated at sixteen

by an unfinished story

nothing sets you free

.

KALI 2

the wild creature formed from night and blood and the pale gleam of stars edged with steel a whirlwind of darkness darker hair and a tale of lolling tongue as destruction spirals into a force and form not woman at all or a she shaped before the elements known to the night stalkers plea of mother ending in a whimper  the calm I cannot find within the storm

.

.

Anjana Basu is a writer based in Calcutta, India. She has 9 novels, a book of short stories and two anthologies of poetry to her credit. Her byline has appeared in Vogue India, Conde Nast Traveller India, and Outlook Traveller.

Categories
Poetry

When silence finds its way between the soft

by Michael Bailey

When silence finds its way between the soft
seconds of a hushed reminder,
the unquiet dark will soon fill the void with ragged cacophonies:
alarms and buzzers,
the steady tick of irrelevant deadlines,
the restless pace of lighted dials.
It is a futile attempt
When the second hand of arteries and valves stop with
a silent sigh of relief, there will be only a soft hush of inner 
and outer darkness nestled in the light.


Music of the Cells

It is the music that changes us,
	The happy hum of well-being
	The shrill scream of illness
Like miniature whales, we moan 
In the vast sea, calling out to each other,
Calling out to the Other.
A pod of harmony
Until the song is stilled
And the crackle of static signals
Our descent into the deep.









When silence finds its way between the soft
seconds of a hushed reminder,
the unquiet dark will soon fill the void with ragged cacophonies:
alarms and buzzers,
the steady tick of irrelevant deadlines,
the restless pace of lighted dials.
It is a futile attempt
When the second hand of arteries and valves stop with
a silent sigh of relief, there will be only a soft hush of inner 
and outer darkness nestled in the light.


Music of the Cells

It is the music that changes us,
	The happy hum of well-being
	The shrill scream of illness
Like miniature whales, we moan 
In the vast sea, calling out to each other,
Calling out to the Other.
A pod of harmony
Until the song is stilled
And the crackle of static signals
Our descent into the deep.
The Grammar of Life

The grammar comes 
from the consonants and the verbs 
from the sentences: 
	simple, complex, compound
	compound-complex; 
from phrases strapped on for effect
nouns sometimes become nouns and verbs themselves
	doing double duty 
	the only way in which to wrench sense 
	out of the extreme nonsense 
	that pours from our heart, our soul.

The words hang before us, 
	invisible, 
	children of our breath, 
	incarnated in lines and circles,
spirit becoming flesh
with a cry that comes from the silence 
between heart beats.

But do we ever
	capture the experience
	get it correct with the stick figures and ovals
capture the rapture
		of sunrise
		of sunset
where transcendence gives birth to metaphor and simile
between the white spaces 
and meaning scuttles among the vowels and consonants.


Music of the Cells is excerpted from Strange Vibrations: Doctors May Soon Listen to the Music of Your Cells by Monika Rice Spirituality & Health The Soul/Body Connection March/April 2005.

Michael Bailey is a graduate of the University of West Georgia and Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary. He served 12 years in pastoral and educational ministries. His poems, columns, and short stories have appeared in the Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, THE POLISH-JEWISH HERITAGE FOUNDATION OF CANADA /newsletter, National Christian Reporter, The Christian Index, Journal of Secondary Gifted Education, Wellspring, and Resurgens, and The Chattahoochee Review.

Categories
Poetry

The Girl Who Went Fishing

By Biju Kanhangad

(Translated by Aditya Shankar)

Beneath the blue waterline,

father’s catch basks in the sunlight: a fish.

The gray-black of crows shroud the pale oar.

Reddish crabs reach the shore, transcending

the festered basket discarded by mom.

In the houseboat, the yellow flowers on

the worn rouka* are still wet.

Unable to submerge the shark, remnants of

the blue spreads into the sky, bawls.

*Bodice in Malayalam, can also be used to see connections

Biju Kanhangad is a poet, painter and post graduation in Malayalam literature. In 2005, he represented Malayalam in the national poetry seminar conducted by Sahitya Akademi. He was awarded the Mahakavi P poetry prize (2013), Moodadi Damodaran prize (2015), Joseph Mundassery Memorial Award (2017), Thamarathoni Kavita prize (2020) and other awards of repute. Thottumumbu ManjayilayoKanhangdu, Azhichukettu, June, Ucha Mazhayil, Vellimoonga, Puliyude Bhagathaanu Njanippozhullathu, Ullanakkangal, Ochayil Ninnulla Akalam, Mazhayude Udyanathil are his anthologies of poems. Essays: Vaakinte Vazhiyum Velichavum, Kavitha Mattoru Bhashayaanu. His poems have been translated into English, Hindi, Kannada, and Tulu.   

Aditya Shankar is a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominated Indian poet, flash fiction author, and translator. His work has appeared in international journals and anthologies of repute and translated into Malayalam and Arabic. Books: After Seeing (2006), Party Poopers (2014), and XXL (Dhauli Books, 2018). He lives in Bangalore, India.

Categories
Poetry

Unconditional Thread & more…

By Vatsala RadhaKeesoon

Unconditional Thread

Born from 
the Divine’s golden thread
Molded with 
perfection, purity and grace
I’m the invisible heart – 
the unconditional thread
ruling the universe

I’m soft
I’m generous
I’m not from 
the Mundane
the materialistic world
the uncanny competitive rules 

I’m omnipresent
but recognized, seen
only by the unadulterated

I, Unconditional Thread
survive in immortal realms
and go on whispering
in every ear
“ Love, love and love
discarding mental blocks
and embracing spontaneity.”



Reflections upon Covid-19

In the 21st century
When Humankind has been boasting to be invincible,
When wise poets have been considered to be insane ,
When genuine spirituality has been eclipsed by fake sweet talkers,
When books have been replaced
by shallow petty talks ,
Who had ever predicted
A deadening virus would put the life
of each and everyone at stake- rich, middle class and poor on the same plane?

In the 21 century
When Humankind has been at the apex of busy-ness,
When only money has been the King,
When even doctors have been taken for granted for their poise in voice ,
Who had ever predicted
that no human being would be sure
to see a new dawn?

In the century of robot- like human beings,
When 24 hours a day doesn't even seem enough time,
when basic manners have become dumb,
Who had ever predicted lockdowns
in states, countries and across borders?

Suddenly a global" Halt" screams,
Unfortunately some are compelled to die,
 Luckily some fight for their own breath,
Some save others' lives

Wake up Human Race!
The global picture is dim, 
But the wheel of Karma keeps turning,
Don't curse God as he is dropping harsh hints ,
The saviors of the world are at work ,
Safety measures, Medicine, and Meditation in align -
all on one plane
are the key factors ,
Grab the signs!
Be self- disciplined!
Together we will all win this scary battle.

Excerpted from Unconditonal Thread , Alien Buddha Press, USA (2019)

First published in Le Defi, Mauritius, April 2020

Vatsala Radhakeesoon was born in Mauritius in 1977. She is the author of 8 poetry books  including When Solitude Speaks (Ministry of Arts and Culture Mauritius, 2013), Unconditional Thread ( Alien Buddha Press, USA,2019), and Tropical Temporariness (Transcendent Zero Press, USA, 2019). She is one of the representatives of Immagine and Poesia, an Italy based literary movement uniting artists and poets’ works. She has been selected as one of the poets for Guido Gozzano Poetry contest from 2016 to 2019.  Vatsala currently lives at Rose-Hill and is a    literary translator, interviewer and artist.

Categories
Poetry

To Do list & Morna

To-do List:

Today I will fall out of love with you.

I’ll sweep out the motes of dust
that clung to your feet. 
Each speck a single story, 
of your worldly being. 
 
I’ll climb ladders for the distant corners, 
to clear out limp cobwebs of words, 
whispered and strung in secret —
prose patterns of our desire. 

I’ll pick out tea leaves caught in the sieve,
filtering out sweet and twilit memories. 
A steel scrubber for the grimy pits of pots, 
dredging out the darkness of difficult days. 

I’ll dig out from under my nails, 
the memory of your skin. 
Make sure to clean behind my ears,
the salt of your lips.

I’ll iron out the creases of your smile, 
and allow my heart to ache for a while. 
Stretch out my fingers in vain,
and tremble for your touch. 

I’ll cap love off with a shot of whiskey.
A quick fix for the spirit.
A cinder for my belly.
A reminder to never quit it. 
MORNA
The Cape Verdeans call it their national music
A balm for the dis-ease of seafaring journeys.
Destined as they are, these archipelagic folk,
to grow roots in stormy waters.

The lips of waves carry these drawn out sighs,
a thousand and more exhalations.
The ocean laps up these lamentations.
Swayed as she is by their mournful preoccupations.

It is this suadade that breaks upon our calloused feet,
tempting us to wade and wallow deep.
And we dive in —
hungry as we are for borrowed emotion.

By Himani Sood

Himani Sood is a middle-school Humanities teacher currently residing in Mumbai, India. From a young age, Himani has found cathartic relief in writing in a myriad of forms, ranging to the more austere conventions of academic papers (which, she wishes to add, she happily disobeyed) to a number of comedic school productions. These poems mark a return to an art form she long-neglected — it is an attempt to connect with a long-stifled inner voice. 

Categories
Poetry

New York & more…

Poems by Pavol Janik, a virtusoso of Slovak Literature

(translated by James Sutherland Smith)

PAVOL JANIK | VIRTUOSO OF SLOVAK LITERATURE 


NEW YORK 


In a horizontal mirror
of the straightened bay
the points of an angular city
stabbing directly into the starry sky.

In the glittering sea of lamps
flirtatious flitting boats
tremble marvelously
on your agitated legs
swimming in the lower deck
of a brocade evening dress.

Suddenly we are missing persons
like needles in a labyrinth of tinfoil.

Some things we take personally –
stretch limousines,
moulting squirrels in Central Park
and the metal body of dead freedom.

In New York most of all it’s getting dark.

The glittering darkness lights up.

The thousand-armed luster of the mega city
writes Einstein’s message about the speed of light
every evening on the gleaming surface of the water.

And again before the dusk the silver screen
of the New York sky floods
with hectoliters of Hollywood blood.

Where does the empire of glass and marble reach?
Where do the slim rackets of the skyscrapers aim?

God buys a hot dog
at the bottom of a sixty-storey street.

God is a black
and loves the grey color of concrete.

His son was born from himself
in a paper box
from the newest sort of slave.


A DICTIONARY OF FOREIGN DREAMS


At the beginning it was like a dream.
She said:
“Have at least one dream with me.
You’ll see – it’ll be a dream
which you’ve never dreamt about before.”

Descend deeper with me,
dream from the back,
dream retrospectively
in a labyrinth of mirrors
which leads nowhere.

The moment you come to the beginning of nothing
you’ll dream an exciting dream.

Frame it
and hang it in your bedroom.

So it will always be before your eyes
because a dream which is removed from the eye
is removed from the mind
in the sense
of the ancient laws
of human forgetfulness.

Dream your own.

Dream your dream
which is reflected on the surface 
of a frozen lake.
A dream smooth and freezing:

Grieving keys,
a downcast forest,
curved glass.
The tributes of mirrors.

The rising of the moon
in a dream of water.

Recoil from the bottom
of the mirror’s dream.

In the gallery of dreams
then you’ll see
a live broadcast from childhood
fragments of long-forgotten stories.

Because our obsolete dreams
remain with us.

Don’t be in a hurry, dream slowly, completely
until you see the crystalline construction
of your soul
in which dreams glitter.
- intentionally and comprehensibly like flame.

Perhaps you’ve already noticed
that new dreams always decrease.
They wane.

Soon we’ll light up
in the magical dusk
of the last dream
the despairing cry
of a starry night.

Pay a toll to the dream’s
deliverance from sense.

You repeat aloud
the intimacies of secret dreams,
with the dull gleam
of your persistent night eyes
you explicate a mysterious speech of darkness.

You dream, therefore you exist!


UNSENT TELEGRAM


Inside me a little bit of
a blue Christmas begins.
In the hotel room it’s snowing
a misty scent – of your
endlessly distant perfume.
We’re declining bodily
while in us the price
of night calls rises,
waves of private earth tremors
and the limits of an ocean of blood
on the curve of a lonely coast.

*New York has been translated to 21 languages

PAVOL JANIK | VIRTUOSO OF SLOVAK LITERATURE 


NEW YORK 


In a horizontal mirror
of the straightened bay
the points of an angular city
stabbing directly into the starry sky.

In the glittering sea of lamps
flirtatious flitting boats
tremble marvelously
on your agitated legs
swimming in the lower deck
of a brocade evening dress.

Suddenly we are missing persons
like needles in a labyrinth of tinfoil.

Some things we take personally –
stretch limousines,
moulting squirrels in Central Park
and the metal body of dead freedom.

In New York most of all it’s getting dark.

The glittering darkness lights up.

The thousand-armed luster of the mega city
writes Einstein’s message about the speed of light
every evening on the gleaming surface of the water.

And again before the dusk the silver screen
of the New York sky floods
with hectoliters of Hollywood blood.

Where does the empire of glass and marble reach?
Where do the slim rackets of the skyscrapers aim?

God buys a hot dog
at the bottom of a sixty-storey street.

God is a black
and loves the grey color of concrete.

His son was born from himself
in a paper box
from the newest sort of slave.


A DICTIONARY OF FOREIGN DREAMS


At the beginning it was like a dream.
She said:
“Have at least one dream with me.
You’ll see – it’ll be a dream
which you’ve never dreamt about before.”

Descend deeper with me,
dream from the back,
dream retrospectively
in a labyrinth of mirrors
which leads nowhere.

The moment you come to the beginning of nothing
you’ll dream an exciting dream.

Frame it
and hang it in your bedroom.

So it will always be before your eyes
because a dream which is removed from the eye
is removed from the mind
in the sense
of the ancient laws
of human forgetfulness.

Dream your own.

Dream your dream
which is reflected on the surface 
of a frozen lake.
A dream smooth and freezing:

Grieving keys,
a downcast forest,
curved glass.
The tributes of mirrors.

The rising of the moon
in a dream of water.

Recoil from the bottom
of the mirror’s dream.

In the gallery of dreams
then you’ll see
a live broadcast from childhood
fragments of long-forgotten stories.

Because our obsolete dreams
remain with us.

Don’t be in a hurry, dream slowly, completely
until you see the crystalline construction
of your soul
in which dreams glitter.
- intentionally and comprehensibly like flame.

Perhaps you’ve already noticed
that new dreams always decrease.
They wane.

Soon we’ll light up
in the magical dusk
of the last dream
the despairing cry
of a starry night.

Pay a toll to the dream’s
deliverance from sense.

You repeat aloud
the intimacies of secret dreams,
with the dull gleam
of your persistent night eyes
you explicate a mysterious speech of darkness.

You dream, therefore you exist!


UNSENT TELEGRAM


Inside me a little bit of
a blue Christmas begins.
In the hotel room it’s snowing
a misty scent – of your
endlessly distant perfume.
We’re declining bodily
while in us the price
of night calls rises,
waves of private earth tremors
and the limits of an ocean of blood
on the curve of a lonely coast.

All these poems are excerpted from his book, A Dictionary Of Foreign Dreams

Mgr. art. Pavol Janik, PhD., (magister artis et philosophiae doctor) was born in 1956 in Bratislava, where he also studied film and television dramaturgy and scriptwriting at the Drama Faculty of the Academy of Performing Arts (VSMU). He has worked at the Ministry of Culture (1983–1987), in the media and in advertising. President of the Slovak Writers’ Society (2003–2007), Secretary-General of the SWS (1998–2003, 2007–2013), Editor-in-Chief of the literary weekly of the SWS Literarny tyzdennik (2010–2013). Honorary Member of the Union of Czech Writers (from 2000), Member of the Editorial Board of the weekly of the UCW Obrys-Kmen (2004–2014), Member of the Editorial Board of the weekly of the UCW Literatura – Umeni – Kultura (from 2014). Member of the Writers Club International (from 2004). Member of the Poetas del Mundo (from 2015). Member of the World Poets Society (from 2016). Director of the Writers Capital International Foundation for Slovakia and the Czech Republic (2016–2017). Chief Representative of the World Nation Writers’ Union in Slovakia (from 2016). Ambassador of the Worldwide Peace Organization (Organizacion Para la Paz Mundial) in Slovakia (from 2018). Member of the Board of the International Writers Association (IWA BOGDANI) (from 2019). He has received a number of awards for his literary and advertising work both in his own country and abroad.

Pavol Janik’s literary works have been published not only in Slovakia, but also in Albania, Argentina, Bangladesh, Belarus, Belgium, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Canada, Chile, Croatia, the Czech Republic, France, Germany, Hungary, India, Israel, Italy, Jordan, Kosovo, Macedonia, Mexico, Moldova, Nepal, Pakistan, Poland,  the People’s Republic of China, the Republic of China (Taiwan), Romania, the Russian Federation, Serbia, South Korea, Spain, Syria, Turkey, Ukraine, United Kingdom, the United States of America and Venezuela.

James Smith Sutherland is a writer, critic, poet and translator.

Categories
Poetry

Poems from Morocco: Let’s Unite to Celebrate Humanity

                                                

By Abdelmajid Erouhi     

A “Borderless” Poem

Never talk to a bee as it is fecundating a sunflower,

Never talk to a butterfly as it is flying over a daisy,

Just keep seeing and thinking, and never glower

At them, just wonder on the way they go crazy!

Never abort their tuneful warbles while singing,

Never vex them or repress their deep thinking,

So, let them write the way their hearts like,

Let them think the way their minds like,

Let them sing the way their tongues love,

 Let them have fun and fly with a cooing dove!

Never besiege or cage them in poetic death,

Never make them short of imaginative breath.

What garrulous lips that oppose calm and freedom!

Oh! Maybe they ignore that silence is wisdom!

 Maybe, they think the two singers hate talking.

Yes, It’s true a bee and a butterfly hate talking,

And hate to be talked to while pollinating,

So, never imprison their words in one shut up house,

By talking to them about ladies’ soulless blouse,

As the butterfly and the bee like to resort to a journey

Across the world without a passport or a visa of entry,

As they don’t like to keep queuing at the embassy

To meet varied pollinated flowers from other continents,

Where they can go beyond any traditional confinements

Of thinking, feeling and creating a map of poetic seeds

That draws human love and peace that anyone needs,

So, let a ‘poet’ sing and fly like a bee and a butterfly,

Across his borderless world and transnational blue sky

Corona is a Plea for Love!               

How stupid of world colorful peacocks

To boast of their wings and hearts of rocks!

How stupid of woodpeckers to eat bees!

How stupid of birds of prey to harm trees!

How stupid of wolves to eat rabbits!

What a gloomy forest of unfair habits!

*

How stupid of wealthy peasants

To sow hemlocks to kill thousands

Of pigeons put in dark dungeons,

 Using Hitler’s nuclear weapons!

What a myopia to expose a pigeon to danger!

So, you fail to fight against a Honey badger!

Thus, corona is a cure for such a ‘corona!

It enfeebles tempted vultures’ vile stamina!

What a war that breaks out in the forest!

It stirs up peace and love to reach the crest,

As it’s unwise to keep seeing the waves of sea

And ignore inhaling its breeze that sows glee!

So, let’s quieten the roughness of East-West sea

Let’s stop political tides — it’s a sulky sky’s plea.

As the Nile and Euphrates complain of aridity,

Let’s unite world foes to celebrate humanity!

Enough of greedy guns, enough of grudge that is rife!

Coronavirus warns any lion as there is no eternal life!       

 

Abdelmajid Erouhi is a Moroccan poet and writer. He is a teacher of English from Zagora, from an Amazigh origin. He is currently teaching in Tantan City in the south of Morocco. He has published some of his poems in different magazines and websites. He has an unpublished collection of poems, and he is now working on a new one. He is also interested in writing short stories. He is pursuing his PhD about Cultural Encounters between the East and the West in Postcolonial Narratives of Contemporary Arab Muslim writers in Diaspora at Sultan Moulay Slimane Faculty of Letters and Humanities in Beni Mellal. He is similarly interested in Travel literature, Diaspora, Cultural Studies and postcolonial theories. Besides, he is interested in Arabic literature.      

Categories
Poetry

Poetry of Jibonanada Das

(Translated by Suparna Sengupta)

BANALATA SEN

For a thousand years, am I trailing the paths of this earth --
From the oceans of Ceylon, amidst darkling nights, to the Malay seas
Much have I wandered; To Bimbisara and Asoka’s ghostly days
Have I been; even farther, to the distant dark Vidarbha wen;
I am a tired being, all around me foams life’s ocean,
A moment’s peace came only from Natore’s Banalata Sen.

Her tresses, dense and dark, unbeknown like Vidisha’s nights,
Her face, like Srabosti’s sculpture; in the seas distant,
Like the rudderless sailor, who loses way,
A land of green grass, in the cinnamon island, when suddenly he sights, 
So too, in the dark, I sighted her; She said, “Where, for so long, have you been?”
Like a bird’s nest, her eyes uplifted, Natore’s Banalata Sen.

At a long day’s end, like the drop of a dew
Comes duskfall; its sun-scented wings, rubs off the eagle,
All shades of earth dimmed, the manuscript prepares anew,
For then stories, like fireflies, glow and twinkle;
All birds come home--all rivers--emptied, all loss and gain.
Alone this dark remains, for a face-to-face with Banalata Sen.



      1946-47

Daylight casts thither on uncertain mortal racket;
On lanes-bye lanes, on broadways, tramways, footways;
Some stranger’s home will be auctioned right away—perchance,
At throwaway rates. 
Everyone tries to hoax to heaven
Beating everyone else, everyone you bet.

Many, perforce, rush breathless—yet
Those auctioned houses, those furniture—or what’s not for auction,
All those stuff --
Only a few, depriving others, can still purchase.
In this world, interests accrue, but not for all.
Doubtless, the treasury, rests with one or two.
The demands of all these lofty men, dominate
Upon one and all, women too left unsaved.
All the rest, in dark, like ceaseless autumnal fall,
Wishes to meander, somewhere to a river
Or maybe upon earth--within some germinating seed,
Themselves embedded.  Knowing this earth has had several lives, still
They return sun-scented, to dust, grass, to flowering elixir’s
Long-known bliss, to light, the humble heirs must reclaim them—

Musing thus, they submerge unto darkness. 
Disappeared thus, they are currently all dead.
The dead, to this earth, never come back.
The deceased are nowhere; are they?
Excepting some autumnal ways, some sauntering gentleman’s
Arterial trails, the dead might be nowhere else,
May be then, before death’s onset, light, life, liberty and love
With serenity, could have been better greeted.

Lakhs of Bengal’s hamlets lie drowned, hopeless, despairing, still and lifeless.
As the sun sets, a well-tressed night, as if
Comes to dress her braids—but by whose hands?
Vaguely, she stares—but upon whom?
No hands, no humans are here—lakhs of Bengal’s hamlet-nights, once upon a time,
Like hand-drawn designs, like vivid scroll drawings, had grown into 
Wide-eyed prophets—all extinguished.

Here, even the other day, new harvest they had scented;
Upon new-born paddy sap, sunbathed, so many crows met;
The flock from this hood replied to the chatter from that hood--
Airmailed they came, lapping up the sap.

Not a whisper now, even in those cauldrons;
Skulls and skeletons are not beneath human counting;
In Time’s hands, they are unending. 

Over there, on a full-moon night, in the fields, the farmers danced,
Drinking mystical paddy-sap, the majhi-bagdi’s
Divine daughter beside. 
Some pre-marital—some still extra-marital—presaging birth of a child.
Those children in today’s evil state, are muddled,
Drained, this society has stamped them out
Nearly dead; the predecessors of today’s rustic class,
In blissful ignorance, stacking the evil Zamindar’s
‘Permanent Settlement’ atop a charok gaach, have passed away.
Not that they were too well-off; still,
Today’s famine, riots, hunger and illiteracy
Have blinded the distressed rustic beings, such that 
A distinct, clearer world, in comparison, once there was. 

Is all in doubt today? To see through things, is quite problematic now;
In dark times, divulging half-truths
Has its own rules; consequent, in this murk,
Gauging the residue truth, is a practice 
That remains; everyone looks askance at everyone else.

Nature’s hidden truth seems malicious.
Nature’s hidden truths, in all our sincerity,
Draw upon the shadow of our own doubts, to 
Uncover our own pains. In Nature’s hills and rocks, in 
Her exuberant falls, have I discerned, how first waters flush red 
With a dead creature’s blood, thence the tiger hunts down the deer, even today!
Jibonananda Das

Often hailed as the most influential poet of the post-Tagore generation, Jibonananda Das remains one of Bengal’s most intimate and incisive observers. Born in 1899, at the cusp of change raging across India and indeed the world, Jibonananda started his poetic career as a Romantic celebrant of Bengal’s vast green fields, sun-dappled rivers, lush horizons, its minutest of elemental forces. As years rolled by, a variety of societal changes impacted this landscape and indeed his own life—colonialism, World Wars, the Bengal Famine, communalism and the dark days of Partition.  His poetry and sensibility gradually took a turn to the urbane introspection of existential loneliness, tradition and its clash with modernity, death, sickness, and the newly evolving concept of the nation. However, the theme that towered over his thought-process was the concern of human civilization, its evolution and achievements and the paradox of death, disease and violence that this civilization always was confronted with. Both the pieces translated, ‘BANALATA SEN’ and ‘1946-47’ capture these romantic/humanist approach. ‘BANALATA SEN’ is perhaps his most-quoted poem, where the enigmatic, eponymous damsel offers respite and peace to the world-weary traveller-persona. What is striking in this piece, is the catalogue of places that the persona travels to—all strung together by a distinct Buddhist civilizational motif. Perhaps, he is quietly reflecting on India’s departure from its ethos of non-violence, peace and tolerance, across ages.

BANALATA SEN

For a thousand years, am I trailing the paths of this earth --
From the oceans of Ceylon, amidst darkling nights, to the Malay seas
Much have I wandered; To Bimbisara and Asoka’s ghostly days
Have I been; even farther, to the distant dark Vidarbha wen;
I am a tired being, all around me foams life’s ocean,
A moment’s peace came only from Natore’s Banalata Sen.

Her tresses, dense and dark, unbeknown like Vidisha’s nights,
Her face, like Srabosti’s sculpture; in the seas distant,
Like the rudderless sailor, who loses way,
A land of green grass, in the cinnamon island, when suddenly he sights, 
So too, in the dark, I sighted her; She said, “Where, for so long, have you been?”
Like a bird’s nest, her eyes uplifted, Natore’s Banalata Sen.

At a long day’s end, like the drop of a dew
Comes duskfall; its sun-scented wings, rubs off the eagle,
All shades of earth dimmed, the manuscript prepares anew,
For then stories, like fireflies, glow and twinkle;
All birds come home--all rivers--emptied, all loss and gain.
Alone this dark remains, for a face-to-face with Banalata Sen.

GLOSSARY:

  1. Bimbisara: a 5th century BC king of the ancient kingdom of Magadha; remembered for his military exploits and his patronage of the Buddha
  2. Asoka: Celebrated as one of the greatest imperialists in Indian history, he is remembered in history for his dramatic conversion from an aggressor to a Buddhist who spread the message of non-violence and peace. 
  3.  Vidharba: The north-eastern territory of Maharashtra, on the banks of Godavari.
  4. Natore: a district in northern Bangladesh. Legend has it that a Zaminder was once travelling by boat looking for a suitable place to build his principal residence. While travelling through Chalan beel (lake), he saw a frog being caught by a snake. His astrologers interpreted it as a sign of the end of his search for a place of residence. The Raja called out to his boatmen: ‘Nao Tharonao’ as in, ‘stop the boat’. From a corruption of this exclamation, the place eventually came to be called ‘Nator’.
  5. Vidisha: Situated very to the Buddhist pilgrimage city of Sanchi, Vidisha was an important trade centre under Buddhist rulers in the 5th century BC.
  6. Sravasti: Currently in modern day Uttar Pradesh, the city is one of the premiere centers of Buddhism.

‘1946-47’ is a landmark poem on the history of violence and bloodshed that came in the wake of Partition. The poet is a chronicler of Bengal’s changing landscape, her ethos and values in the modern times. But above all, Jibonananda voices the subaltern, especially the Bengal peasantry, whose plight and suffering under colonialism is deeply etched on his mind.

GLOSSARY:

  1. majhi-bagdi: Denoting the caste of fisherfolk and tribal warrior communities of rural Bengal
  2. Permanent Settlement: A revenue agreement between the East India Company and Bengal’s landlords to fix taxes/revenues to be raised from land.
  3. charok-gaach: a maypole erected out of the stump of a tall tree during the season-end festival of the last month of Bengali calendar, Chaitra. On top of this tall maypole are tied bundles of jute and flags with which a merry-go- round is built. Congregants whirl around the top of the maypole, supported by the ropes and hooks.

Although he spent his early days in earstwhile East Bengal, yet he moved to Kolkata where he graduated with an Honours in English in 1919 and thereafter earned an M.A., also in English, from the Calcutta University in 1921. Following his tragic death in a road accident in 1954, a vast body of novels and short stories, written by him, were discovered. Throughout his life, he shied away from public attention as posthumously he emerged to be a modern poetic giant in the annals of Bengali Literature.

Suparna Sengupta lives in Bangalore, India and is a faculty, Department of English at the Jyoti Nivas College for more than a decade now. She has translated various poets from India and Bangladesh and has been published in literature magazines. Her translated poem has been published in “Silence Between the Notes”, an anthology on Partition Poetry (ed. Sarita Jemnani and Aftab Hussain). She also features in the Annual Handbook of “Words and Worlds”, a bi-lingual magazine (PEN Austria Chapter) as also in ‘City: A Journal of South-Asian Literature’, Vol 7, 2019 (City Press Bangalore).

Categories
Poetry

Black Beauty

By Dr Santosh Bakaya

THE BLACK BEAUTY\ Dr.Santosh Bakaya 

It was just a small thing.
Come to think of it, not actually small,
but pretty big.
Huge and black. A Black Beauty.
A figure stood silhouetted near the window,
watching the beauty in black.
It shimmered and glowed in the noonday sun,
waiting for that touch which would galvanize it into action.
Dreams rippled in the figure’s eyes
Body taut, in an agony of apprehension.
He craved no luxury.
But that car, he did crave,
albeit , a second hand one.
I don’t know whether it was the Hillman minx,
the Hillman Avenger, Hillman Super Minx
or the Hillman Husky.
But it was Hillman, just a car.
A second hand one
standing outside our University quarters,
waiting to be claimed for a paltry sum.
“No , I cannot afford to buy it” , the figure said , casting one last ,
lingering look at the black beauty , and hastened out ,
pinned up his trousers , pulled a hat over his head
and pedaled away towards his department .
From the sun- dappled lawn,
his much loved menagerie of cats and
dogs looked on. Unspeakably sad.
The devoted friends of this hatted, handsome professor.
My dad.
Nissim Ezekiel was to be the guest speaker that day
and he couldn’t afford to be late.
I watched him from the balcony
as he became a speck in the distance.
Yes, a speck. That dream too was a speck,
which remained quiescent in his heart till his last breath.
“It is just a small thing, and this craving for a car,
is so embarrassing, but I don’t know why ,
it keeps coming back.” He would often say.
That towering figure suddenly travelled far
sans car, and became a distant star,
the shards of his broken dream,
well- hidden,
bidding us goodbye,
all of a sudden,
leaving me with this overwhelming feeling of guilt.
This devastatingly destructive guilt.
Many a night, when the clock on the mantelpiece
goes tick tock tick tock and the house resounds with lost echoes,
tiny pigeons venture out of pigeon holes of memories, it is then that
the fossilized monster of guilt also yanks away its shackles
and hurls accusations at me.
I hear the cacophony of the clash of priorities,
our school and College fees, summer holidays clanging against
his dreams and tiny cravings.
I submit to the night’s scrutiny, and ask myself,
if his dream had been bigger,
would my guilt have been bigger, too?
Suddenly, piercing the night, that Black Beauty resurfaces.
Nostalgia gushes through my ruptured wounds,
and I am red all over.

Dr. Santosh Bakaya is an academician, poet, essayist, novelist, biographer, Ted Speaker and creative writing mentor. She has been critically acclaimed for her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi
[Ballad of Bapu]. Her Ted Talk on the myth of Writers’ Block is very popular in creative writing Circles . She has more than ten books to her credit , her latest books are a biography of Martin Luther King Jr. (Only in Darkness can you see the Stars) and Songs of Belligerence (poetry). She runs a very popular column Morning meanderings in Learning And Creativity.com.

Categories
Poetry

The Mending Egg

By Juan Pablo Mobili

The Mending Egg

To Victoria, my grandmother

My grandmother had inherited
a wooden egg from her mother who
had used it to mend countless old socks;

its surface now thoroughly smoothed
after having sewn away so many holes
and reuniting so many wounded siblings.

I don’t believe I ever saw my grandma
fix a single sock with it; by then
we did not have to, we were fortunate that way,

but the egg remained carefully placed
atop the box where she gathered threads,
needles, and a tribe of orphaned buttons.

We never spoke about the mending egg
or how it earned its place. I think now
that she meant some sort of altar for it

because to neglect what gave its life
to repair what had been torn would be a sin
or, even more, to disrespect her mother.

Juan Pablo Mobili was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and adopted by New York, a long time ago. His poems have appeared in First Literary Review-EastThe Poetry Distillery, Anti-Heroin Chic, Red Planet Magazine; or are forthcoming from Spirit Fire Review, Mason Street, The Red Wheelbarrow Review, and The Journal of American Poetry.  In addition, he co-wrote a chapbook of poems in collaboration with Madalasa Mobili, “Three Unknown Poets,” published by Seranam Press.