Showing posts with label 201809E. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 201809E. Show all posts

FOUR POEMS FROM ‘A WAY LESS TRAVELLED’

Adrian Rogers

WHEN THE FLOOD CAME—AS IN A DREAM

Sodden leaved autumn, root slippery
half strips branches rain seeping
no misted magically veiling
mellow fruitfulness
only a thinly winding path down-sloped,
levelling, breaking into a clearing
as water rising
laps over fear’s primal rashness
devoid of rational lightening
dreaming a path’s aloneness
neither hearth nor home remembered

until disquiet is dismembered by hope,
the ground rising
skies cleared, rending
lead-like weighted clouds slung low
yellow sun-shafted,
defining the alchemy of confidence
rectifying the mind’s scope
as lead to gold, mastering
unexpectedness
yet in reality present tensed,
dry grounded as trees draw back

a higher clearing.

OVERGROWN TRACK

An overgrown track through minds awake
commands not
a spread-running growth of creepers
green/brown wet clinging
moss coating on rough barked trunks,
millennium lengths of dead leaf littering
the undergrowth
and overgrowth
of lichens drooping
grey/ghostly appearing
through half veiled cloud trails
falling to treetop level.

A way lightens and darkens through shake
and watery rot
of underfoot deadness, but sleepers
commune with changes ringing
as the shaken one dunks
with wetness those glittering
eyes-wide memories, the sloth
of neither and both.

Hearts welcoming pain without fearing
grasp at the rigging of love’s gilded sails,
sun and moon mesh to bevel
the gears of conscience,
light glitters in trees, and on the lees
at the bottom of a barrel.

ON HIGHER GROUND 

A sun smitten green lengthened ridge
gashing the skyline
white-yellows light-mellows slopes
ripped open by grey weathered
brokenly tooth like rocks
above dark forest waves falling back
like breakers unable to reach the high tops

as the wind sings over a bridge
onto dreaming, a fine line
crossed when a silent wolf lopes
from the wood, and un-tethered
sheep, panicked by terrorizing shocks
see the hireling flee,
and a rack outstretched comes apart,
fear stops the flowering of hope
that knowledge might be
and courage find its reward

until stolen and unloosed
from cleft scored rocks
is, unknown yet alone the real.

THE NIGHT TRAIN TO NOWHERE

Iron on iron hypnotizes
sleepers on the night train to nowhere
sleeping minds synthesizes
serpentine, long in reach everywhere
beyond hope messaging all comers
from the outermost edges of winters
and summers, layered universes,
mind driving wedges between sleeping
and waking, consciences shaking
like windblown sedges and garden hedges

iron rails emerging
through darkness surging
echoing post-modern mechanizing
for dreamers digitizing
and showering confetti
like poets devising opera libretti
weddings, births, deaths,
famous last words, last breaths,
scheming imaginers texting, fingering
for financial advantages lingering
hypochondriacs fearing infection
spirits perhaps seeing
the Bridge to Resurrection,
all drop their cover
or sleep ‘til the earth turns over.


SHORT BIOGRAPHY

Adrian CedricRogers—born September 1940, in Lincoln, England, UK

I was brought up in England, but trained as a teacher in Ireland, teaching music and English in Ireland (North and South), Scotland, England, Australia, and Papua New Guinea. I am an Australian citizen, resident in South Australia where, since retirement in 2005 I have concentrated on writing, with four fantasy novels published by Double Dragon, Ontario, Canada, and two more novels published by Mountain Mist, Queensland, Australia. I have four poetry collections published by Ginninderra Press, Port Adelaide, South Australia, and contributions—both poetry and articles to numerous journals and anthologies, both in Australia and elsewhere, including ‘Homeward Bound, Searching for the Sublime, an Indo/Australian Anthology of Short Stories’, and in Australia contributing regularly to Beyond the Rainbow, The Write Angle, The Colonial Athens’, Episteme—Bharat College, and many others.

Treasure of Short Stories by Anantinee Mishra


Book: Treasure of Short Stories 
Author: Anantinee Mishra

Publisher: Invincible Publishers and Marketeers, New Delhi
Year: 2018
pp. 130, paperback
Price:  ₹ 180/- INR

Reviewed by 
Prof. Nandini Sahu 
(Professor of English, Creative writer, Folklorist, Critic).

kavinandini@gmail.com

…………………………………………………………………………………………………
  
Nandini Sahu
Just came accros an ambitious and interesting book that is quite a surprise and good reading—Treasure of Short Stories by Anantinee Mishra, a girl all of ten years, There are fourteen short stories, written by the little girl; in fact the stories are well crafted by the young author who seems to comprehend the adult world in a most comprehensive manner. Emotions, thought processes, messages, ideas, images, symbols, allegories—nothing seem to have come from the clay-like innocent mind of a child, rather they surprise the reader, and compel him/her to question—can childhood be so mature, at all ? Can a child’s mind be so much influnced by an adult world ? Adult emotions like possessiveness, jealousy, love, hatred, bias, forgiveness, success, failure, heartbreaks, sacrifices—nothing has escaped the camera of the child author, which amuses an adult reader, and awe inspires the child reader.

The ├йducation system in any country has always been influenced by the books read and written, and it is  more so in case of children’s books. Books shape the personality of children, make their character and nourish their personality, but children’s literature is one of the most neglected areas of our research and pedagogy when it comes to giving it any weightage  as a part of the mainstream literature. Encyclopaedia of Education defines children’s literature from a wider point of view and states: “Children’s literature is any literature which is appropriate for children. Operationally, children’s literature comprises those books written and published for young people who are not yet interested in adult literature or who may not possess the reading skills necessary for its perusal. In addition to book form, children’s literature also includes materials published in magazine form and intended for pre-adult audiences. The age range embraced by children’s literature is from pre-school age, when children can first comprehend stories being read or told to them and can enjoy the picture-story books which are now so plentiful, through the stage of early adolescence, which roughly coincides with the chronological ages of 12 through 14 .” (p.7).

But in this whole thing, we miss the mention of ‘books by children’ as a part of children’s literature! ‘Books for children’, mostly and presumably written by adults, are only considered as children’s literature. This is where children/authors like Anantinee Mishra come forward to fill the gap. ‘Books by children’ is a doubly-marginalized genre, and academia needs to addrress this issue with books like this, ably written by Anantinee.

As an adult author and critic/researcher/teacher of children’s literature, I would only suggest, Anantinee may venture into her next publication with the understanding, wide reading of myth, folklore, allegory, parable, fables and comprehend a few things like, the growth and development of children’s literature, know the bases of children’s literature, such as, psychological, sociological and emotional, find out the reading interests of Indian children and  evolve suitable themes for her books, ascertain the extent of utilization of children’s literature in the  schools, suggest measures for better production, utilization and evaluation of children’s literature. She has to understand the language and literature that are free of biases vis-├а-vis caste, creed, colour, gender, race and ethnicity, and write meaningful, substantial literature that can enter the Indian literary canon. And of course she has to get the manuscripts language edited before sending those to the press.

Anantinee is here to stay, to assert her identity as a child author, who writes for children as well as the adults-- from a child’s point of view, perspective, expectations, ambitions, desires and needs. Anantinee enters the scenario of children’s literature as a breath of fresh air. Treasure of Short Stories is her first collection of stories, and she has entered the genre with conviction and confidence. The book is well produced, nicely brought out by Invincible Publishers. Congratulations and best wishes to the young author, who has the potential to become a remarkable writer.

Paco's Atlas And Other Poems by John Thieme


John Thieme
Dear Friends,

While presenting September 2018 issue of Setu, I would like to thank you all again for supporting this bilingual journal. Because of your love, Setu is about to touch 500,000 mark for unique hits in a short span of 27 months. We have crossed 600 mark for uniques authors, and have published over 2,500 articles so far. 

Thank you all for receiving Setu Publication's first book 'Aesthetic Negotiations' so well. Penned by Setu editor Dr. Sunil Sharma, 'Aesthetic Negotiations' was released in the President House, New Delhi, in the small gathering last year. 

Now, I am here again, presenting second book from Setu Publications. The poetry collection "Paco's Atlas And Other Poems" is written by John Thieme, a renowned author and a Senior Fellow at the University of East Anglia, UK. He has been published in various journals including Setu. 

The cover art for Paco's Atlas is created by Aparajita Sharma, a budding artist and a senior in University of Pittsburgh.

Congratulations to John and a lot of thanks to our readers. The book is now available on Amazon.com and it's sister sites across the globe. Grab your copy and enjoy!

With all regular features, essayspoetryfiction, and audio-visuals September 2018 issue of Setu is here. 

Best,
Anurag Sharma
Setu, Pittsburgh 


Book: Paco's Atlas and Other Poems


Author: John Thieme
Genere: Poetry
Publisher: Setu Publications, Pittsburgh
ISBN: 9781947403000
Pages: 54, paperback, Kindle
Price: Free for Kindle Unlimited members;
$7.50 for paperback edition;

Setu Editorial: September 2018

Sunil Sharma
The September edition is here---in its signature vitality, vividness and colours.
This month is marked by the presence of two writers who have redefined the art of writing---Tolstoy and Hemingway---not only for their respective generations but for the succeeding ones also. The holy ones are here as the beacons to be followed and read by the current consumers and practitioners of serious art. Tolstoy was the tallest summit of the world literature and continues to be that, dazzling in majesty and effect, on the recipient-consciousness. His exemplary life, writing style and moral vision are as relevant and inspiring today as they were in his time, earning him global admiration and respect. In his art, the individual and the artist both blend well and come out as an organic unit. Through his constant search and agony for living right kind of life, the aristocrat becomes one with his ideals and the moral synthesis finds brilliant expression, a fitting outlet, in his severe art that can be rarely imitated but never- ever duplicated.
For his devoted fans, the Count becomes a venerable saint, and, his work, their shrine!
The iconic-fiction by Tolstoy selected in this issue is a classic that speaks to us, despite dramatic changes in geo-political realities and practices of reading, and, the very environment of consuming artifacts and their creators in the new millennium. The two authors are the gold standards for a dynamic field, setting their bench marks forever. They wrote not only for their but also for the future eras as well. The interview with Hemingway is insightful and serves as a model resource for those interested in learning from the masters. Nobody is better than Papa in giving the tips about the art of writing. Here is the man who too lived his ideals and ideas in a way others could never do. The boxer, hunter, ambulance driver, ├йmigr├й and reporter chasing big game or the enemies or watching the snows of Kilimanjaro is what he always was---a real hero evolving his own code of conduct in dystopias manufactured by the war-lords of imperialism.
Like Tolstoy, Hemingway is a summit that can never be scaled.
Our aim through such re-visits is to keep the dialogue open with the past and bring the best for contemporary audiences encouraged to read fantasies by a market economy.
They are the heritage that needs to be preserved.
Prolific poet Scott Thomas Outlar shares a video-recording of his poems with us, on request. Scott keeps on amazing his global fans by the pace and imagery of his works and he is always a delight.
David Allen is the Author of the Month. He is another stand out poet, making a difference through his poetry and editorial efforts.
September saw the end of the deadline for the call for nominations for the Setu e-awards in two categories---individual and group. Some of the entries were, sad to say, not even properly formatted and the senders hardly bothered about the guidelines given on the site. It seems some people do not bother about rules and regulations these days and want to do things as they please.
Anyway, there were other entries that were sent in a highly professional manner. The chair of the internal jury is respected Australian artist-thinker Rob Harle, our senior editor also. We will let you know the results, once the deliberations are over. It might take a month or so. Please bear with us.
Editor Agron Shele introduces us to writings from different parts of the world. He is doing a great job!
Recently Hindi Lit and the country lost an eminent poet and critic Kedarnath Singh. Setu mourns the passing away of a legend. As a tribute, translation of his select poems is carried elsewhere in this edition.
Then there are other writers and sections that will give you pleasure, aural, sensory and linguistic.
Big thanks to the writers and readers!
Please enjoy!
Editor, Setu, English
Kalyan (MMR), India

Cities: Two Perspectives by Gopal Lahiri and Dr. Sunil Sharma

Cities: Two Perspectives

Category: Poetry, Fiction and Short Stories

Poets: Gopal Lahiri and Dr.  Sunil Sharma

PP 100
Price ₹ 250.00 INR
ISBN-13: 9789387651227
Publisher: AUTHORSPRESS, Delhi, 2018

Dr Santosh Bakaya
This sleek, pretty book of hundred pages, beautifully published by Authors Press, Delhi, [2018] is a collaborative poetic venture of a bi- lingual poet cum earth- scientist, Gopal Lahiri and Dr. Sunil Sharma, a senior academic- critic and literary editor.  Between the two of them, they have managed to produce a book, which is definitely going to enthrall poetry lovers for all times -a book which slowly creeps into one’s heart, and resonates with every compassionate soul.

 Egalitarian in outlook, both write about the invisibles, the underdog, and the dark, dismal secrets hidden deep inside the innards of the underbelly of a city where the good, bad and the ugly all coexist in a bustling chaos.  In this metro city, Mumbai, there is magic, there is mystery, there is history; it vibrates, it is dull, there is filth, there is squalor, and there is glitz and glamour.

In fact , Cities : Two Perspectives , is about the two sides of the schizophrenic Mumbai , its  Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde character of beauty and ugliness , benevolence and malevolence , high rise buildings and skyscrapers crinkling their concrete noses at the stinking shanties and hideous hovels , and the expensively suited and booted humanity apathetic to half – clad  frail figures lying prostrate on malodorous pavements.

In thirty poems each, the poets have painted the tenacity of the underdog, the homeless, the naked, the hungry; the desperation, the frenzy and the panic of those running the rat race, juxtaposing it against the beauty of the moon and even the ‘tweets of those tiny blue whistlers’ [Blue Whistlers, Gopal Lahiri, p 18], the ‘piercing blue eyes’ of the Juhu Beach,   where ‘an old lady smiles at the rising sun’ – a wrinkled smile.  [Juhu Beach, Gopal Lahiri, p 20] ‘the gentle breeze’,  ‘palm trees’, ‘ grey hornbills’ , all lost to the landscape of ‘glass and concrete’. [Flora Fountain, Gopal Lahiri p 27]
In the ‘Sea Lounge’, [p 29], Lahiri very evocatively writes,

‘Disabled sun barely lights up the afternoon
Scattered clouds like chopped salads
on the southern sky.’

‘The crowded lounge filled with tootles and screeches
 cackles of laughter,
post- truth, plain speak and trolls- roll into one’.
 Such beautiful heart – warming imagery!

This busy city  is  teeming with addicts, drunks, beggars, lumpen elements,  bearded men, sitting on ramshackle benches , babbling incoherently, shunned, forgotten and excommunicated, reminding the poet ‘of a painter who died unsung’ [Dusk in Suburbs  Sunil Sharma , p 64]
 
‘A figure, there, yet - not there'. [Night, Sunil Sharma, p 66]   These handful of words in ‘Night’ speak volumes about this silhouette, languishing on the fringes of society, invisible to the frenzied people, running the rat- race helter – skelter, living in ‘exorbitantly priced’ ‘concrete cages’ .
Then there are emaciated folks, ‘eyes blank and hollow faced’, skeletal hands searching for sea- shells on the beach, their very survival depending on the generosity of the beach. [Mudflats, Sunil Sharma, p 93]

The images that pierced my heart totally were, that of a woman in a tiny balcony of a high rise building , reading a newspaper , trapped  in a concrete cage, while
 ‘A bird flutters in a cage
Below
Searching for a full sky’ [cages [p 94]

In The Moon [p 65, Sunil Sharma ] , as the October dusk descends across the ‘few  open spaces and stunted meadows’, the poet glimpses the celestial visitor travelling with him,  and you gape with him at the rare sight-  ‘ageless;  kind ;  tender ,  full of milky light !’
Ah, for the small mercies of a big, bustling, bloated city!
And the tyranny of nostalgia!
The staccato sound of the drilling machine drowning the cadences of  the birdsong once heard in leafy Mumbai, [Drilling , Sunil Sharma , p 69] , the quickly vanishing book vendors [ The City Life , p 71] , and  the open spaces and greenery of a once verdant  Mumbai .

The two poets have very deftly captured the cacophony and euphony, the glitz, the glamour and grime of the metro city,
‘Manic-
Energetic,
A bit reclaimed by everybody.’ [Exit, Sunil Sharma, p 62]

Mumbai is exciting, tantalizing, euphoria- inducing, and also hair- splittingly perplexing and frustrating, but there is definitely no escape, no exit from the snug warmth of this love –hate relationship.

This book is a must read for all lovers of good poetry, which is going to strike a chord with every discerning reader;   it is definitely a book to adorn the book shelves of all college libraries and universities.


Bio:
Dr Santosh Bakaya , academic- poet - novelist - essayist- Ted Speaker was the winner of the Reuel International Award for Literature for her long poem Oh HARK[2014] and the Universal Inspirational Poet Award[ 2016 ]  jointly instituted by Pentasi B Friendship Group  and Ghana Government.

Her poetic biography of  Mahatma Gandhi , Ballad of Bapu, [Vitasta , 2014, Delhi ]
has been internationally acclaimed  and awarded. Her other books are Where are the lilacs ?[Poetry, Authorspress Delhi, 2016], Under the Apple Boughs [poetry, AuthorsPress Delhi, 2017],
 Flights from my Terrace [essays, AuthorsPress, 2017], which have also been critically acclaimed.
A Skyful of Balloons [A Novella, AuthorsPress, Delhi, 2018] is also receiving critical acclaim.

Besides, she has co-edited a few books, Umbilical Chords [Global Fraternity of india, 2015 Gurugram, Haryana, 2015], Darkness there but something more [The Blue Pencil, 2017, Delhi],
Cloudburst: the Womanly Deluge [Global Fraternity of India, 2017, Gurugram, Haryana]

Poetry by Madhumita Sinha

Madhumita Sinha

Echoes of Silence

My silence echoes louder than my words
As my inner whispers becomes coherent
Thoughts tip-toe into my chaotic mind
Stirring the dust of silence
Quietly and calmly settling down
In muted mode
My silent sobs
Are lost with the sound of waves
the emotions get swallowed
As the waves crash against the shores
Splashing water droplets on my face
The tears continue to flood
My eyes my soul
The sea water and the tears
Together they give my tongue
A taste of salt
As I continue to sit engulfed in my grief
Without letting the world know my pain
The sea and me share our stories
As I continue to sit by the shore
I know I am not alone
I have a true friend in the sea.

The Finishing Lines

Running each day
After the finishing line .
I wonder, are there any
Finishing lines for life !
The unending journeys
The temporary destinations
Some success some failures
Some euphoria some despair
Some times the life peaks
Some times it hits the Rock bottom.
The journey however continues
In this limitless universe
Wonder why should I stop!
Some lines at times May look
Like the finality
The end
And May be the final stop
But on serious delving
They turn out to be mirages

So they can’t be my finishing lines
Yes I am certain They aren’t
I have unfinished tasks
Unfulfilled desires
Hence I need to come back
Again and again
May be many more times
To this universe
Each time to make a fresh start
To reach another finishing line …

Poetry by Nathalie Buckland

Nathalie Buckland

Nathalie Buckland migrated from England to Australia as a young mother. Always a writer, she has had her poetry, haiku and other writing extensively published both in Australia and overseas. She is the author of a collection of poetry, ‘Shards & Figments’.

London walk

I walk the dirty footpath
dodging dog turds,
soiled newspaper,
crusted vomit.

The summer air is chill
and damp upon my face,
gritty on my tongue-
where is the sun?

no warmth in this great city
except the feel
of a small hand in mine,
his trust that I will guide him
safely home. 


Puny power

at the unburned, the unflooded
centre
where starlight sears
and sun destroys
in the quiet heart
I see
my universe exists
both real and illusion
side by side
tangible
and I
create my own
unbounded centre
build pyramids of fantasy
make living breathing flesh and blood
and tears
and history
with puny power.

Migrant 


On a crystal morning,
magpie spangled,
sun pushing through the net of winter branches,
I walk with dewy footprints
to pick the golden bounty of my orchard,
and I remember
the winters of my youth.

Grey, grey, grey
the water-laden sky
lay spread-eagled on the grimy rooftops.

Turning on lights, mounding on clothes,
venturing into the still-dark morning
I slotted into the monochrome stream of workers,
poured seamlessly down the escalators,
hung from a strap
in the clotted underbelly of the city.

Days passed under flickering fluoro
coming, going,
earning, existing, etiolated,
light deprived.

Ah yes, there are things I miss.
Cuckoo call and early snowdrop,
childhood friends, brother, sister, parents.
Sometimes I return.

But always the sun, the sun, the sun
pulls me back
to this place of my heart, Australia,
home not of my childhood,
but of my children.

Published in Shards & Figments’ ‘Poetic Connections’ 2013


Seeing them

A crunch of gravel on the drive—
they’re here, their petal skin
paled by an English winter.
One clings to me,
smelling of boychild,
sticky with sweat and apple juice;
the little one
clutches my daughter’s legs
as she and I
just hold and hold each other.

Picture piles on picture for the week:
small bodies in my bed,
old battered books re-found,
chipped cars, boats for the bath,
my children’s dusty toybox emptied out.
At the pool’s edge my fingers feel
their bird-wing shoulders
slick through sunblock.
The constant ripple of their conversation
fills my days.

Too soon, too soon the kisses and goodbyes.
I wave and keep a smile upon my face,
say ‘see you soon,’ and listen to
the fading engine sound.
For days
balls leap from clumps of grass,
I limp from Lego bruises on my soles,
towels still drape the garden chairs
and pavers carry clustered stains
from ice-block drips, while in the fridge
the milk goes sour.

Published in Dangerously Poetic anthology ‘All the way home’


Waking

mist waterfalls from the roof
as the rising sun
touches the tin roof

across the drive
the persimmon’s leaves lie
a gaudy garment
shrugged to the ground
leaving naked twigs
to grasp at filmy webs,
dew-bejewelled

a crested pigeon pecks and calls
and from the gum
a kookaburra stirs the day,
shadows shift and the dog
shaking off droplets
flops on the now-warm tiles

stretches and sighs.

Bunch of Blooms: Poetry by K. Pankajam

Bunch of Blooms

Poetry by K Pankajam
Publisher: Authorspress, New Delhi
Edition 2017
ISBN-13: 9789352075928
pp 110
Price ₹ 295.00 INR

Review by Prof. R. K. Bhushan Sabharwal

Creative Writer, Poet, Fiction Writer, Book Reviewer & Course Writer

K Pankajam
Bunch of Blooms is Pankajam’s latest poetry book which has received the attention of renowned scholars. Her very brief Preface, a gem in the casket, is an evidence of the poet’s utmost humility and intellectual maturity in which she has clearly stated the purpose and function of a poet and her poetry. Pankajam says:”Poems in this collection are divided into seven sections. The thematic dissection is not fortuitous, but deliberate as I wish to serve the readers a piquant reading with variety and would feel happy if this is achieved.” She further says: “Themes stem from my observations especially social concerns like lawlessness, the dismal tale of women, etc. I am sure I cannot change the world through my poems, but I believe it is my duty as a poet to hold a mirror to show what is happening around and thereby make the readers sensitive.”

R. K. Bhushan Sabharwal
I deemed it really essential to quote from the Preface to write an honest appraisal and review of this remarkable poetry book of Pankajam who is now well-known among the finest poets, especially women poets, of Indian English Poetry. She has truly succeeded in fulfilling and achieving what she declares in the Preface. This is the poetry of ease and spontaneity marked by extreme simplicity and rhythmic beauty, open mind with no masks of manner and mannerism and naked head; it is a bunch of celebrations and her blooms, though bound with a silk ribbon, sway in the soft, soothing breezes adoring the gardens, meadows, hills and rills, owned and inhabited by the innocence of singing birds and trees, enchanting and enticing beauty of the Marina Beach, rainbows, fireflies, peacocks, jasmines, trees of sorrows, stormy and tempestuous aspects of Nature, leading to the glades in the delectable company of the dancing soul of the poet.  In this respect, Pankajam has a closer and intimate kinship with the best of the English Romantic and Pre-Raphaelite tradition. These are the poems of intellectual behavior in emotional tranquility for spiritual love and enlightenment to sensitize and transcend humanity at the receiving end.

This is the immaculate art of the Divine in the movement, music and dance of the vibrant colours, scents and flickering lights with which Pankajam fills the Endless Endowments, the first section of the book. She is bold in her honesty when she says-

            “I furtively wear the hat of a poet
            to tell the world, truth clothed in lies,
            so far unsaid, muted, half-said or shouted….”

                                                                                    -My Experiments With Truth p21.

One can imagine the poet wearing the hat to speak the truth. Here the empowered woman is out to awaken and enlighten the world. In “Sorrows of Jasmine”, the poet is at her simple best in delicate and tender grace of images, thoughts and emotions, style and spirit woven in the ecstatic romance of feminine beauty loaded with the intoxicating fumes of “the heady scent.” It is a total picturesque beauty of a woman, beginning and ending in human world and more so, above all, truth and beauty of LIFE ending in dust. As we reach the end, dust vanishes, the charms of magical beauty, in its divine light, haunt the reader. Even when Pankajam’s pen pauses-     

            “Down on the earth below
            the sheet of paper before me remains virgin
            as my pen pauses to get fully inspired
            to prove its realm of resplendence.”                      -p31


The poet pauses for a while, demands a minute to tell us about the “bright fluorescent colours,” “sense of aesthetic beauty of the Peacock”. She feels awe at “the flawless creation, incredible.” She feels His Presence like a Pantheist. Her love of Nature in all its purity and sacredness, elevating and transcending, is revealed with utmost ease and exquisite simplicity in all her poems. For her, “Every Life is a Poem” studded with “Pearls”. However, she is sad and becomes sorrowfully contemplative in her yearnings in “Wishes Immaculate”. This is a sumptuous feast of intoxicating sensuous and sensual delights.”Wishes Immaculate is a poem of noble and lofty thoughts in which the poet yearns to break all the shackles of misery and money, lust and sin, fear and falsehood and she wants to “hold a magic wand to ward off evils” so that she returns to the land given by her ancestors-”pristine nature pure and unmolested” and must fulfill her mission before she leaves. Then we read the poems of deep sympathy and love for humanity overpowered by the devastating natural calamities and disasters when we are all “brothers-in-distress” when “religious barriers vanish”-

            “to fortify human bonds
            change the common convictions
            and fight natural calamities jointly.”
                                                                                                -p 51

In the Section, “Hearts’ Affairs”, the poet tells us that love between the poet and the poetry has a sanctity and splendor that inspires zeal in us to treat life as a celebration. Love itself is an eternal poem that unfolds the coloured and colourful reflections and images in rich diversity of love and lust that-

            “dissipates upon fulfillment,
            no selflessness, no sacrifice,
            only passion and joyousness;…”                          -p 55

However, love that feeds and feasts on lust stands impoverished and famished. Love may be blind Cupid merrily engaged in sowing seeds of desire in Venus, yet “To Live is to Love”-a powerful expression of love in life:

            “love all and dream your morrow
            for to live is to love, dream and laugh.”                 -p 59

Pankajam captures the shine and shyness, beauty and blush, glow and gloom, desires and dreams, moods and movements- all let loose from body, mind and soul when love touches, caresses, sighs and stares. Amidst all this playful hide and seek of love’s lease, “Life is a Celebration” and the poet says-

            “I celebrate life
            Life waits to celebrate me.”                                     -p 63

Her treatment of love is fine, free and fiery. Thus she acquaints and awakens us to the bliss of tender graces of love.

When we reach ”My World”- the 4th Section- the bi-lingual poet, Pankajam,  says in simple and elevating tone-“My Soul Belongs Here” because she comes up with the essence of her being as a woman, a human, a poet and a lover-

            “Though in four tongues I read
            speak in three and write in two,
            I dream in only one
            The one in which my Mom prayed.”                      -Mother Tongue p 69

This four line lyric, if sung to the accompaniment of music, shall lift us to unknown heights. The poet has expressed and explained many levels of her greatness. She risks defining the meaning, purpose and function of poetry on clearly sound footing. Her reflections are original, clear and self-explanatory. She is very brief and concise when she defines it all simple unrestrained flow of thought about poetry and prose; her own poetry deviates nowhere from what she says with authority.

In the fifth section, “Pristine Thoughts”, the poet tells us how deep thoughts are expressed in apt words. “Gratitude”, indeed, is a marvelous poem in which she has a strong conviction that happiness completely eludes us in life without a feeling of gratefulness. Gratitude is absolutely essential to life of happiness in love, achievement, friendship, distress and difficulty, touching comforts of dears, pride in being a part and belonging to this wonderful world full of intense movement of beauty in the profoundly rich colours of light and fragrance and the rhythmic radiance spread around in the unceasing magic of the daily procession- all for the ecstasy of the soul to make the poet feel blessed! This is , in fact, a precious secret about which we are consciously ignorant. Pankajam warns us against the Third Eye of Man and reflects how man is a puzzle, an enigma. This sections is a prelude to enter the world of man in the next section- “Tools of Sin”.

The poet feels intense pain when she portrays the miserable and deplorable plight and poignant life of a woman. Her understanding of feminism, femininity, womanism and womananity deserve high appreciation as it is more objective than subjective. Today when all platforms are being used to highlight and expose the naked truth about the daily life of women subjected to socio-economic, professional and physical humiliation day in and day out, we hear about the disgusting and savage atrocities being inflicted upon women depriving them of their right to live a free, dignified and happy life to enable them to give their best to the harmonious growth of human life, these poems forcefully convey the protest and give the message of understanding, sympathy, care and love. “The Misogynist Society”, “Caged Bird”, “Aftermath-the Turmoil”, “She is Vulnerable”, “Break all Shackles”, “Being a Woman”- all are poignantly expressive and meaningfully suggestive poems for the contemporary situation. But “Is This Too Much to Ask For?” is complete in every respect to define the great role, function and simple expectation of a woman from man. Wonderful! She says:

            “My expectation genuine
            a fair share of space in your life,
            to respect me for who I am,
            my inner universe,
            my chastity, my loyalty…
            ……………………………….
            a loving pat in secret,
            a gentle rubbing under the table
            to appreciate my new dish and be a solace
            to me in my solitary penance
            and tell me: Is this too much I ask for?”

                                                                        -Is This Too Much I ask For?  p 99/100

The poet suggests that the reality which a woman faces in daily life is very disturbing and she tolerates and endures and loses the best of herself. In spite of the loud proclamations of radical transformation in the status and security of women, things are worsening for her..

This leads us to the final seventh section of the book- Pocket Poems. These are eleven three line poems with distinct meanings to sum up this poetic venture. Reading these in the context of the previous sections, it becomes a philosophical end to the epic of LIFE, a POEM! It may be specially observed that the seven sections are consciously logically sequenced to communicate the message of the lavish beauty that begins the course of life and the course it follows to its tranquil short and sudden end! The reader heaves a sigh of relief, of course, with a bright broad smile to express heartfelt Gratitude!

Its poetic virtue is sure to be a lasting delight for the poetry lovers and even for the general readers.

The publishers have also  taken care to bring out the qualitative and aesthetically appealing edition of the book.

Two Poems

Rob Harle
by Robert Maddox_Harle (aka Rob Harle)


Screeching Blackness

an insect shrills the night air
shrill    shrill …………………… SHRILL!
all becomes silent and then …………….. CRASH!
echoes crash the forest dark ….. CRASH!
screaming blackness bounces off old trees
a machine hummms in the distance …… WAITING!
an insect-like machine hummming  ….SCEAMING,
waiting for its master ……………….. WAITING!
more insects scream and screech and shrill,
screech – scream - shrill
silence blankets the darkness – quiet – quiet – quiet
a heartbeat of silence then ………. SCREECH!
the dark noise is menacing, penetrating
violent ….. CRASH!
echoes crash the forest dark  ……… CRASH!
Murderous-like screams ……. screaming,
unforgiving ….. brutal ….. intense
TWANG! ……………….. push-pull ……………..TWANG!
ping ….. ping ….. TWANG!
high pitch vibrations …… violently agitated
shake the leaves from trees,
they fall forever into blackness
as the forest falls silent.

This poem was inspired by the work of composer Karlheinz Stockhausen, especially his work “Kontakte”



Sand Dunes At Dusk

the sand dunes-  still warm
surround me as the sun departs,
each rippling ridge receding
receding,           receding,            receding
disappearing in the salty saffron haze.

relentlessly the waves crash,
then swirl and whoosh towards me
swirling-whooshing, swirling-whooshing, swirling-whooshing,
crash-swirl-whoosh, crash-swirl-whoosh, crash-swirl-whoosh.

incessant screeching of gleaming white gulls
competing with the waves’ crashing-swirling-whooshing
create a counterpoint cacophony
ever rising, surging, silvering
screeching, swirling, crashing, receding.
then the crashing, whooshing, swirling starts again
crash-swirl-whoosh, crash-swirl-whoosh, crash-swirl-whoosh.

a mysterious moon, rising ever so slowly
slowly,        slowly,            slowly
rising slowly,        rising slowly,          rising slowly
casts silvery shadows
dancing fluorescent, iridescent, hauntingly
dancing on the silvery, swirling, crashing
Crashing -  Crashing  - Crashing
the crashing haunts me, haunts me, haunts me
as the darkness descends
and steals my eyes away.


This poem was inspired by Philip Glass’s “Glassworks” composition.

Translation: Imtiaz Mahmud’s Bengali Poetry

Imtiaz Mahmud’s Poems Translated by Shafinur Shafin

Loneliness

On a lonely island in the Andaman Sea, when a sage was outraged because of
A bird’s chirping and wondered how to become more alone
While a man was walking on a street of Jakarta
Through crowd of thousands of people

Eid

I have no Eid.
Eleven years ago my Eid was robbed while I was going for 'Namaj'.
That day
I went for prayer putting on punjabi dress like others.
The only exception was a 'tasbih' in my hand. I was so busy
Looking at the tasbih that I could not get for a moment
By that time
I have lost my Eid.
My father had no way
to go to police station and complain.
He consoled me, never mind.
Everyone does not have Eid. You better take my Eid.

I told him, from where will you get one? I have heard that
You lost your Eid, too, when my grandfather was alive.
Father looked blameworthy and then uttered,
You are right, but I've stolen your mother's Eid secretly!

Letter

Shafinur Shafin
Dear, I'm very scared,
not well here. They’ve
Taken away
my all bones. And said
Life is beautiful this way.
I rub my body on the soil
Wondering of the bones now
Those who were with me yesterday.
Dear,
Get the news of
My missing bones
In the river, next to the flowers
Either in the police station or in the morgue
Without the bones
I am not
Feeling well
Here
In this heaven!

*These poems are written originally in Bengali. Imtiaz Mahmud is a contemporary Bangladeshi poet . He was born in 1980 and published eight collections of poetry. He won Krittibash Sahitya award for his collection of poems “Pentacle” from Kolkata, India.

Poem: Oppressed Souls

Elizabeth Castillo

By Elizabeth Esguerra Castillo

I stand on Mount Nebo as clouds gather around above,
In front of me lies this majestic, panoramic view
Biblical places of Jericho and Jerusalem
And immersed myself in a contemplative mood.

This mystic revelry brought me back,
To the time Jesus was baptized in the Jordan River
This Land of the Prophets where pilgrims often travel
In search for their lost souls, blessed by the spirit of the gods.

The arid, dry land now cries in deep agony,
Women and children and the weak in a miserable state
Where even water was denied to them by evil occupants
Bringing violence to a once peaceful birth land.

These walls built, witness to a thousand screams of protest and suffering,
From the hands of strangers who stripped them of their dignity
Prisoners captive in their own land, oppressed and enslaved by hunger,
With even the dry river beds they expressed no mercy.

“Give back Palestine to its people”, I can hear their pleas,
The Holy Land where many men walked and communed
Let them marvel again at its holy mountains and miraculous valleys,
Until freedom breathes calmness to their restless spirits.

Fiction: The End of Childhood

Danijela Trajkovi─З
Written by Danijela Trajkovi─З
Translated by Danijela Trajkovi─З and Octavio Quintanilla

It was 1998. The end of the school year was near. My brother and I were excited. This meant only a few days more, and we would go to the village to spend summer holidays with our relatives and friends as we had done for years. We packed, and then planned what we were going to do. Although I was eighteen and my brother was sixteen, we were still children, innocent and happy.

The war in Kosovo had started. Young, inexperienced soldiers, most of whom had never seen a real rifle before, were sent to defend their homeland. The evening news at seven thirty were a nightmare. Every day someone was killed. Everything about the war was disgusting. In other parts of Serbia, life seemed normal: we lived the usual daily activities: school, work, recreation, TV. I counted the days.
One night, as I watched the evening news with my parents, I heard a familiar name: "Today soldier Mladen S. was killed ..." I immediately knew it was him.

"Wait," my mother said in shock. "Maybe it’s not him. Let's hear it again."

"No, I've heard it well. It’s him.“ I ran out of the room. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to die. My brother was playing basketball with some friends in the yard. Suddenly I cried: "Mladen was killed!" The game stopped. The ball lost its direction.

Later, my parents criticized me for telling my brother the sad news the way I did. I immediately accepted Mladen’s death. I did not react like my mother, who hoped it might not be true. After the shock, I cried for hours. My weeping went on for days. It was unbearable.

At that time, we lived in a place where the Albanians were the majority. Surprisingly, I did not feel any hatred for them. One day, as I walked home from school, I noticed them everywhere, the pain inside me, the pain that made me cry steadily. Still, it was my pain and I was not interested in anyone. A family friend, a Serbian woman, felt sorry for me, she was gentle: "Oh, my dear child, I heard your friend was killed." I cried quietly. My brother and I did not go to the funeral, just our parents. I still have not seen his grave. I light candles for his soul in churches.

In the year 2000, my brother and I were in the village. We were not there since Mladen was killed. We could not, we just could not show up where everything died. I recall one picture of the two of us with our two cousins, who were also cousins of Mladen. We are walking along the village road. God, this is the picture of four dead children! Those were not four young people walking, but four ghosts. We roamed the village without knowing what to do, what to talk about. A dead silence ruled the place. Our heads bowed into the dust of the road. It seemed that the only thing alive was the earth, that gave us signs of life breathing, moving its dusty breasts. We were near our grandfather's house. On the other side of the road was Mladen's house.We were at the point of the road where we could see some kind of garden owned by Mladen’s family. Then, they moved to the new house when Mladen went to the army and went with all the ceremonies traditionally performed by Serbs: music, food and drink,  guests and joy. The old house was almost completely deteriorated in two years. It looked like a house in Gothic novels. I saw Mladen's poster* on the front of the house. It was blue, which meant that someone young died. I still see that nasty shade of blue. In the garden under the road was an old apple tree. It had bloomed. How sweet this apple tree was! We loved to climb it and eat its fruits. Now, who is going to eat them? The tree also looked sad at us. It no longer had a purpose in life.

It is 2018. I'm not asleep. It's two after midnight. I heard a neighbor's rooster crow at one o’clock. I'm writing about Mladen. For the first time. I wrote letters to him while he was in the army. Later, his mother showed them to me to see how she kept them. I do not remember whether I got a response from him. I cannot remember it. But I remember so well that my heart gleefully jumped every time he came to my grandfather's yard to play hide and seek, or football, or when he came inside the house to talk, watch TV, play cards, listen to himself tell jokes,  munch seeds in winter and drank sweet wine ... I would fly out of my room when I knew he was coming. I watched him once from my room through a small window with bars. He was helping his grandfather work. He was shirtless. I watched his sun-tanned body and muscles and later,watched him kiss his girlfriend at a caf├й. I did not hate her. Oh, not at all. Nor him. His sisters would sometimes comment about their relationship. I would feel jealous, but would say nothing.

I adored him since I knew he existed. He was only two years older than me. We would only see each other in summer and winter holidays. He was a talented artist and drew my portrait once. Once, I met him on a road while he was with friends. I started to stutter terribly when he spoke to me and I felt my legs fail me. Oh, forget the legs— but the stutter upset me. I had been ambushed by surprise.
Not once I told him how I felt. We were friends. The most intimate moment that ever happened between us was this: he stood in front of his gate, and I stood in front of my own. His house was on the upper side of the road. He tossed a green plum up to my feet. We looked at each other. We did not say anything. At that moment, he had strange look, which I had never seen before: mysterious, male.
Shortly before his departure to the army, we accidentally found ourselves at a wedding. There was another young man who would also not return from Kosovo. I was so happy that day. We got a photo, but I rarely see it. I think of his green, slightly slanted eyes, with thick lashes and brown hair. Every time I watch Titanic, Leonardo DiCaprio or hear the songs “I Will Always Love You” and “You Will Never Know,” remind me of him.

Mladen is a part of the past. He can no longer influence me as he did when I was a young girl. He is always present, but he occupies me less and less. But there is something that clings to me and eats at me all these years. A day or two before his death he called me on the phone. I think it was the first time he had called me. I was the one usually calling him. My father picked up the phone. My father told him that I was not home, even though I was a step away from the phone. It was his last call. No, I haven’t forgiven my father. Not yet.


*In Serbia when someone dies there is a poster with the photo of dead person with given details about funeral, etc., put on the front wall of the house of the dead person, as well in many places in public, especially on trees or lampposts.