Astonished Life by Masudul Hoq

 Astonished Life

Life runs holding numerous dreams 

by sleeping..

Not a single dream is awaken.

In reality, 

life explores, riding bicycle holding sorrows! 

The smoke of sorrow gets out of 

the darkness of nicotine.

Astonished life in the sadden days, 

Cries, sinking under the deep flow 

of saddened river.

Masudul Hoq (1968) has a PhD in Aesthetics under Professor Hayat Mamud at Jahangirnagar University, Dhaka, Bangladesh. He is a contemporary Bengali poet, short story writer,translator and researcher. His previous published work includes short stories Tamakbari(1999), The poems Dhonimoy Palok(2000), Dhadhashil Chaya which translated version is Shadow of Illusion(2005) and Jonmandher Swapna which translated version is Blind Man’s Dream (2010),translated by Kelly J. Copeland. Masudul Hoq also translated T.S. Eliot’s poem, Four Quartets(2012), Allen Ginsburg’s poem, Howl(2018), from English to Bengali. In the late 1990’s for 3 years he worked under a research fellowship at The Bangla Academy. Bangla Academy has published his two research books. His poems have been published in Chinese, Romanian, Mandarin, Azarbaijanese and Spanish languages. At present he is a Professor of Philosophy in a government college, Bangladesh.

I Met You on My Journey By Jackie Chou

 I Met You on My Journey 

By:- Jackie Chou 

I met you on my journey

because I had no choice

drawn to your magenta lips

until you revealed your fangs

Chomp, chomp, chomp

I let you chew me to bits

my infantile heart to satisfy 

your carnivorous desires

The nymph that I was

I picked up the pieces 

and glued them back together 

without cutting my fingers

Then I discarded you

and guarded myself

against your lies

and your put-downs

For I am older now

old enough to discern

the woman 

from the beast

Jackie Chou is a neurodivergent writer from Southern California who has two collections of poetry, The Sorceress and Finding My Heart in Love and Loss, published by cyberwit.  Her poem "Formosa" was a finalist in the Stephen A DiBiase Poetry Prize.  She also has poems published in Synchronized Chaos, Ekphrastic Poetry Review,  Panoply Zine, Alien Buddha Zine, and Spillwords.

I Feel Lightning in Your Wind by Michael Lee Johnson

I Feel Lightning in Your Wind

Michael Lee Johnson

I feel light in a thunderstorm.

I electrify your touch through my veins.

I’m the greenery around your life

that breathes your earth into your lungs.

I challenge all your false decisions and doctrines

with the glory of my godliness.

I’m your syntax, your stoic,

your ears, your prize.

I walk daylight into your morning breath

allow you to breathe.

I let the technique of me into your brain cells;

from the top tip to the bottom

of small baby foot extensions.

I’m the banquet hall of all

your joys, damnation;

your curses, your emotions—

and you’re breathing with the wind.

Soldier of Fortune by Thokchom U Meetei

 

Soldier of Fortune

I am a soldier of fortune,

Did you ever walk down

The sunny day,

Did you ever feel the rain,

Did you ever imagine,

How much i love you,

Never and never.

 You came like the tides,

And receded if we have never met.

The tides with the sound,

The rhymes with the echo,

That merges into the ocean

Will you ever understand me,

Never and never.

 Autumn comes and goes,

Also arrived the brother winter,

And can spring be far behind,

Summer too, never miss the promise,

It goes on.

Will you ever come back to me,

Never and never.

For every silent hour of night,

Admired the stars too fondly,

Dreaming a blissful life with you,

And fighting a battle, already lost.

As i am a soldier of fortune.

Will you ever miss me,

Never and never.

By:- Thokchom U Meetei 

Four poems from Michael Lee Johnson

  Feel Lightning in Your Wind (V4)

Michael Lee Johnson

I feel light in a thunderstorm.

I electrify your touch through my veins.

I’m the greenery around your life 

that breathes your earth into your lungs.

I challenge all your false decisions and doctrines

with the glory of my godliness. 

I’m your syntax, your stoic,

your ears, your prize.

I walk daylight into your morning breath

allow you to breathe.

I let the technique of me into your brain cells;

from the top tip to the bottom

of small baby foot extensions.

I’m the banquet hall of all

your joys, damnation;

your curses, your emotions—

and you’re breathing with the wind.

*This poem converted into a song:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lduJMf0MrWw&list=RDLp8Okj_zpQs&index=5

Poet In an Empty Bottle (V4)

By Michael Lee Johnson

I'm a poet who drinks only red wine.

When inebriated with earthly

delusion and desire, I crawl inside

this empty bottle of 19 Crimes Red Wine,

lone wolf, no rehab needed, just confined.

Here, behind brown tinted glass

and a hint of red stain, I can harm no one—

body squeezed in so tight, blowing bubbles,

hidden, squirming, can't leap out.

My words echo chamber, reverberating

back into my tinnitus ears.

I forage for words.

Search for novel incentives.

But the harvest is pencil-thin

the frontal cortex shrinks and turns gray.

Come live with me in my dotage.

There are few rewards.

My old egg-beater brain is clunking out.

I lay here, peace and quiet in prayer.

I can hardly breathe in thin air.

I'm a symbol of legacy crumbing

stored in formaldehyde. Memories here

are likely just puny, weak synapses.

"I'm not afraid of death, I just don't

want to be here when it happens."

Looking out, others looking in at me.

Curved glass is a new world intangible dimly defined.

I no longer care about cyberspace, uncultivated

wild women, the holy grail of matrimony.

I likely will never write my first sonnet

with angels; I only fantasize about them in dreams.

Quiet in osteoarthritis pain is this poet

who only drinks 19 Crimes Red Wine.

*Quote by Woody Allen.

 

April Winds (V3)

By Michael Lee Johnson

April winds persist

in doing charity work

early elbowing right to left

their way through these willow trees

branches melting reminiscences

of winter remnants off my condo roof

no snow crystals sprinkle

in drops over my balcony deck.

Canadian geese wait impatiently for their

spring feeding on the oozy ground below.

These silent sounds

except for the roar of laughter

those April winds—

geese hear nothing

no droppings from the balcony—

no seeds.

Down by the Bridge

By Michael Lee Johnson

I’m the magic moment on magic mushrooms

$10 a gram, amphetamines, heroin for less.

Homeless, happy, Walmart discarded pillow

found in a puddle with a reflection,

down and dirty in the rain—down by the bridge.

Old street-time lover, I found the old bone man we share.

I’m in my butt-stink underwear, bra torn apart,

pants worn out, and holes in all the wrong places.

In the Chicago River, free washing machines.

Flipped out on Lucifer’s nighttime journey,

Night Train Express, bum wine, smooth

as sandpaper, 17.5 % alcohol by volume $5.56—

my boozer, hobo specialty wrapped in a brown bag.

Straight down the hatch, negative memories expire.

Daytime job, panhandling, shoplifting, Family Dollar store.

Salvation Army as an option. My prayers. I’ve done both.

Chicago River sounds, stone, pebble sand,

and small dead carp float by.

My cardboard bed box is broken down,

a mattress of angel fluff,

magic mushrooms seep into my stupor—

blocking out clicking of street parking meters.

I see Jesus passing by on a pontoon boat—

down by the river, down by my bridge.

Poems by Guna Moran

Poems by Guna Moran

1. ROCK

Original : Assamese : Guna Moran 

A rock can be only made smaller
By beating and hitting
Can never be made larger

The rocks are generally homeless
They lay everywhere

Run over by vehicles
Rock do not get flattened
Passer by stamp on it repeatedly
Not even the epidermis is damaged

Struck by hammer
Rocks turn smaller and tinier
Even after that we term it hard and ruthess

Rock for benevolence
Rocks are immortal-never ageing
Because it can turn itself smaller immediately
(benevolent never die)

Time-winning aesthetic is impossible sans sculpture
In every era the rock sculpture stands best
Still we find it hard to accept
The eternal rock is the ever spreading glory of the mankind

Translation : Bibekananda Choudhury 

2. MOTHER

Original:Assamese:Guna Moran 

Mother
Bless me to turn into dust
Would stay stuck to both your feet every day

Mother
Bless me to be your teardrops
Would glitter in your eyes in times of joy and sorrow

Mother
Bless me to become air
Would turn lively in your inhalation-exhalation

Mother
Bless me to turn into a tree
Would protect you from sun and rain 

Mother
Bless me to remain a baby throughout my life
Would always remain a adored sweetheart in your lap

Mother
Bless me to remain full of laughter always
You’d also smile seeing me laugh

Mother
Bless me to be a yellow metal
Would shine as a star on both your ears

Mother
Bless me to be your best attendant
Would attend to you every moment

Mother
Bless me to become a magician
Would bring you back to life even after death

Mother
Bless me for rebirth
Would take birth as your child
Again and again

Translation : Bibekananda Choudhury 

3. TIME WILL WRITE HISTORY ON YOU

Origin: Assamese: Guna Moran 

(dedicated to all those perished in Corona pandemic) 

Time how cruel you are
My devotion is still far tougher than it

Fighting on
I would continue penning
on your bosom
The history of my triumph 

You would remain a spectator
To my indomitable entity
You would remain a listener
To my fame and glory
You would turn into history
To carry to my progeny my motto

You would lose on the brink of winning
I would win on the brink of losing

I would stay alive even after dying
You would die even though living 

You’d rise again
Like Phoenix from the ashes
Our Progeny would fight again with you
Pages in the
history of triumph would keep added on
countless diyas would blow on my altar

Time how cruel you are
My devotion is still far tougher than it

Fighting on
I would continue penning
on your bosom
The history of my triumph
You just watch

Translation : Bibekananda Choudhury 

HUMAN EGGS By:- Mushtaque B Barq

   HUMAN EGGS
        By:- Mushtaque B Barq

A sleaze ball fancy giggled the partially parched mind; the current that was so strapping from the back doors of the semi consciousness settled in. What metamorphosis! This majestic globe was just précised to a dot in the park wherein, grass and grasshoppers were nakedly narrating their naughtiness.  With their gestures so weird and strange, few leaves from the nearby tree had shed their frill. And down the lane a few wanton boys followed as their playmates had long been locked.  The weather took an  ugly turn, the sun moved like a kid under the breast of clouds to share the grief and thunders broadcast the agony.  “There is a sorrow that lingers in old parks”, the old man said, looking around wistfully. He is yet another fallen leaf from the branches of the  family. Wrapped in rags, this feeble frame was too heavy to be carried on, the grief on his face had along settled down as his wrinkles were narrating saga of his sadness. A fallen leaf on his shoulder was not all a mismatch, but a pictorial representation of his veracity. “Let somebody lift this mount of me”, he yelled. For there were only kids around and everything in them was a thrill. He was flocked round and examined by those innocent eyes carrying a ray of naughtiness to tease when compassion would have been employed.  He was lifted like a sac and bundled in a corner under the tree that like him was shedding leaves occasionally. 

The wandering kids had their half pants at their bases torn and like old man’s shirt near his shoulders, but covered by withered leaves. What harmony between the hunger and heed. The fallen leaves shrouded both need and the heed. A few shamelessly glued at their bases but failed to stay on the shoulder. Shoulders must have been taken to toil and the fragility around was just an accidental whiff. The rain brought down few postcards reading his tale of worries and the storm with its carry bag knocked every door to drop the mail. Most of the people fail to read between the lines for their eye glasses were already broken into pieces because their own pieces were scattered by the roar of the clouds. These clouds are scary; they take the life out of the cage. Merciless! Moreover, despondent coins from the city of ether banged the already bald head of the old man waiting for an out of order umbrella. The weather brought back unrest in the park where the old man and the kids had nothing to fall back upon save the giggle and the glare.

Kids are funny things. They weep and laugh for the reasons they only know. In one voice, beating the rain and combating with the storm, a coil around the old man they made. One holding the other, one giggling the other, one teasing the other, one pulling the other and one naughty reaching the privacies of the other making a human fence . The movement up in the bowl and the wrestling down the Dale was on the whole poles apart to send a signal of relief. He cried, “Where must my sons be?” His words irritated the vacuum of the kids and in reciprocation a few made ill faces, a few just laughed and the rest of them  were still roaming in fancies to portray the fate. The naughtiest among them responded, “They like our parents must be ignorant.” The old man raises his head and they just fixed his eyes on him, he was about to say something when all of a sudden a spell of chill turned his words into a vapour and he only sighed.

 They made around him a pulsating umbrella.  The old man under the umbrella of love looked like a hen in the pen ready to incubate the eggs. Eggs, of course, but not of the human race, of but aliens, for human eggs have no shells, they move with the flow and leave, leaving their own race.  Human eggs have rich yolk, but fragile shells. We are all but eggs, luck ones find the pen to get hatched; unlucky ones are on to peck from the heap of dust to produce a race that in the backyard of the temple perform inhuman rituals. And produce for the dust bins. What a discovery! These dustbins in a corner of the park are still waiting for the morsels, in their infinite belly baskets, the sins and sensitivities are nursing the worms, these scavenging tiny balls that finally fill their miniature bellies and compel the decomposed tissues of a sinner to travel through the darkest and the longest pathways of their innards just to mark the end of the man who leaves the old man in the park.

He opened his arms, and broke the rim of the umbrella; a boy , immediately pulled his arm and forced him to be fixed at his chest.  He felt his palpitation; it was not at all different from his own. Full of wishes, copious with needs and equally painful.

“Are you looking for eggs in my bony breast?” the old man asked.

Laughter under the human umbrella died soon when the boys reached his pockets to find what all they needed.  His pockets like him were full of agony, empty and wet.

“We hate eggs”, they responded.

“No, we cannot hate eggs as we too are eggs, human eggs”, he responded.

“Where is our yoke, where are our shells, let you show us?” the naughtiest asked.

“If at all I tell you, you will break your shells and your yoke shall but only serve the worms”, the old man announced.

They looked at each other and all of a sudden folded their arms and exposed the old man under the weeping sky “Don’t go, stay here”, he tried to plead them. The wind hardly reads the post. 

“We are looking for the yoke to save our shells”, the naughtiest remarked.

Beating his stripped body, the wind brought down a limb of the tree to break the shell of yet another human egg.

 

 

Mushtaque B Barq is a columnist besides a poet and short story writer. His earlier translation work: Mystic Voices of Kashmir , Verses of Wahab Khar , The Wings of Love   were published by Jay Kay Books and Withered Petals was published by  Global Fraternity of Poets His poetic collection is available on Poetry Soup and Poem Hunter.Com. He teaches English Literature and is associated with various literary clubs and forums.  The author was awarded ‘Editor’s Choice Award’ for outstanding achievement in poetry presented by Poetry.Com and International Library of Poetry in 2007. In 2017, the author was awarded with a certificate of Appreciation in recognition of his poetry being published in The Criterion: An International Journal in English in February 2017. The author’s publications are available in New Age Islam , Shabnama.faiz-e- zabaan- org., Kashmir Lit ( On line journal of Kashmir and Diaspora writing)and The Tibet  Journal. Author is a regular columnist of Daily Kashmir Images, his column ‘Creative Beats’ is a regular feature of his writing. His short story collection : Feeble Prisoner, Aditiya Publications has been appreciated by readers. The author was awarded Late Ab. Rashid Farash Memorial Award by HF Foundation. He is a member of Jammu and Kashmir Fiction Writers Guild  

 

Tali Cohen Shabtai - Sunset before sunrise? and Ideology as a way of life

 Sunset before sunrise?

‘The sunset is preparation for the strengthening sunrise the next day’
This sounds to me sloganistic if nice to write, yet
not patently accurate and can even be interpreted
as lowering the value of
the intelligence
that knows a thing or two about ‘rising.’
By the way,
I checked this statement at twighlight
the sunset was even observed
in “Cogan Marina” in Oslo.
And the sunrise the following morning amounted to an incline that I trod and rose from a
flat, slightly elevated footpath that can be climbed by foot and reach a level
slightly higher by a few centimeters between each stair.
Secondly, there is no necessity for the sunset I
feel it covering itself every evening between my breasts
beyond the western horizon
watching from within the earth while I am
in the east.
So it is true
some phenomena occur with the rising of the sun
such as
as we rise higher, the atmosphere is thinner at a height of a few hundred meters and then
it dissipates into space
and there are also those who believe that the sun’s red color at sunset is explained by the
sun passing in the evening over hell and in the morning at sunrise over the roses of
paradise
and this is indeed a nice allegory.
– but –
In order to remain sane
immediately after sunset I adopt the time between the suns – time between day
and night
that ends with the stars’ coming out
When I rise for the shacharit morning prayer and recite the blessing “I thank you in front
of you,” opposite a hazy
mirror
Observing every wheel of the sun under the line
of view is a creation that many
have knowledge of
It is known that in the Jewish halacha (ritual law) that the time of the sunset determines
the timeline for various commandments, such as the mincha afternoon prayer,
or when the Sabbath
commences
For me? It’s just sunset.

Ideology as a way of life / Tali Cohen Shabtai

Women like me, yes
have been added over the years to overshadow
what preceded us
that is mostly
not in line
with our agenda.
The accepted wording is
not what
will satisfy our desires –
Desires? Ours? Well then, I write
in the female first person plural
so as not to sound
as one who sins with pretension
as an individual woman,
however
I do not have many female friends for this journey
and those who have already passed
through a station or two
according to
the
fixed
rules
of society
A woman like me
tries
to stay free
from society
and at the same time
to be in it
with boycotts in double-digit ages
until the arrival
of the adolescence age
and beyond
I bear this bitter
in
sult
so far.
So! Spare judging
me
that “Cohen Shabtai
has rules
of her own…”
as Amos Levitan* wrote about me.
I came
with the goal of
satiating inspirations
based on
my theories
Therefore
I collect poems of the margins of humankind,
since
they have a greater potential
to waver from
the conventions –
just like me!
With 50 cents
in my wallet
I
live my own actions
lest
my inarticulate mouth
will be passed over and my eyes?
My eyes are blinded.
Women like me, particularly
at the beginning of
the fifteenth century
were persecuted and burned
for being independent and strong
at the Catholic church’s instruction
Nowadays? You can petition
the High Court of Justice.
So it is for a woman like me.
*A well-known Israeli poet and editor.

Tali Cohen Shabtai, is a poet, she was born in Jerusalem, Israel. She began writing poetry at the age of six, she had been an excellent student of literature. She began her writings by publishing her impressions in the school’s newspaper. Frst of all she published her poetry in a
prestigious literary magazine of Israel ‘Moznayim’ when she was fifteen years old. Tali has written three poetry books: Purple Diluted in a Black’s Thick, (bilingual 2007), Protest (bilingual 2012) and Nine Years From You (2018).
Tali’s poems expresses spiritual and physical exile. She is studying her exile and freedom paradox, her cosmopolitan vision is very obvious in her writings. She lived some years in Oslo Norway and in the U.S.A. She is very prominent as a poet with a special lyric, "she doesn’t give
herself easily, but subject to her own rules".
Tali studied at the "David Yellin College of Education" for a bachelor's degree. She is a member of the Hebrew Writers Association and the Israeli Writers Association in the state of Israel.
In 2014, Cohen Shabtai also participated in a Norwegian documentary about poets' lives called "The Last Bohemian"- "Den Siste Bohemien",and screened in the cinema in Scandinavia. 

By 2020, her fourth book of poetry will be published which will also be published in Norway. Her
literary works have been translated into many languages as well.