Taifas Literary Magazine No. 7, January, 2021

3 authors ... p. 2

editorial ... p. 3

poetry ... p. 10

prose ... p. 26

essay ... p. 31

confabulation ... p. 34

2 authors ... p. 49

2

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021

coperta2 2 authors

Sameer Goel

Tanu Vermai Kapoor

some unfortunates

howsoever deep

roots of their love may be

never get it back in reciprocation..

.

the way they love

beyond scales and parameters

fail miserably as not

everyone deserves their love..

.

their end, never so happy

a trauma, they always go

through

succumb to the hurts,

they never deserved ever.

Vildana Staniscic

A song of peace

Peace is love,

peace is above all,

when birds fly in the open sky.

Peace has no alternative,

peace is a smiling child.

Always be in harmony with everyone,

whenever you can

help the needy.

May peace reign in your soul,

may the whole universe be blessed.

poem..

Reminiscent

Moments that were ours…never elapsed

Dangling in oblivion, few sprigs of ‘us’ they

grasped

Arduously seeking an excuse for existence

Clinging to every shred of persistence

Forever grueling to furnish an abyss

Created by a worldly absence

Mind and heart in incessant rift

Rigid to move on…excepting the drift

Heart sensed a bit, you

aren’t around

Still fuzzily perceives

your presence surround

In each and every breath I

count

In stars and floating Moon

that daunt

In every bit of me I flaunt

In everything we

shared…now haunt

Emotional crisis makes

me gaunt

I fail to keep your thoughts at bay

Time enveloped us yet, we found each other

though, we went a long way

Autumn, winter, summer, spring…brewed

grief and dismay

Seasons altered not my heart, I wish my love

to stay!!

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TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

3

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021

editorial 3-4

Paul Rotaru

Et poesis quo?

Motto: Poezia începe din titlu și nu

se sfârșește niciodată.

Balzac, un veritabil vizionar al intențiilor

umane fără ca el însuși să pretindă asta de la

sine, izbutește să construiască, în romanul

Iluzii pierdute, o strălucită parabolă a

destinului poeziei. Și face asta cu ușurința

conferită de convingerea faptului comun, a

ochiului care nu vede

excepționalitate și care nu

manifestă vexare în

proximitatea acestui

destin. Iar parabola sa

rezidă în tocmai antiteza a

două entități: Lucien

Chardon, un maestru al

cuvântului, poet prin

tehnică și spontaneitate,

care se compromite în

mod caraghios în inima

unei societăți decadente

și cumnatul său, David Séchard, poet prin

simțire și existență, însă lipsit de talentul

nativ, spirit pitoresc, de o bonomie soră cu

naivitatea. Balzac nu propune o analiză a unor

arhetipuri umane plauzibile, ci le ia, pur și

simplu, din modernitatea contemporană și le

aduce înaintea noastră dezavuându-le

identitățile de orice artificiu – și, de ce nu am

crede-o, lumea acelor vremuri avea multe de

oferit în sensul ăsta! La fel ca azi și ca

întotdeauna, de când Homo Sapiens se erijează

în ceea ce pretinde a fi.

Dacă, pentru unii cititori, apare drept un

paradox faptul că, într-un editorial despre

poezie, aducem în primul paragraf numele lui

Balzac, acest exponent al prozei moderne, tot

aceștia ne vor îngădui și o mică detaliere. Mulți

dintre marii prozatori ai literaturii universale

au debutat cu încercări poetice, versul fiind

considerat un apanaj al tinereții, ca ulterior săși

afle vocația propriului lirism în

monumentale opere în proză. Un exemplu pe

placul inimii autorului acestor rânduri este

însuși Caragiale care, într-un moment de

precară inspirație, credem noi, ironiza poezia

chiar în fața celui mai bun prieten al său,

nimeni altul decât Eminescu. Dacă veți citi

versurile lui Caragiale, veți înțelege lesne

punctul nostru de vedere.

Așadar, Poezia

încotro? Asemenea unui

cleric care, întrebat fiind

unde este Dumnezeu în

vremuri de restriște

mondială, vom da același

răspuns: acolo unde a fost

dintotdeauna. Sigur,

redundanța ce reiese din

această sentință aparent

evazivă, suscită oarece

frustrări în chestiunea

poetică, de aceea vom

apela, mai departe, la dispoziția cititorului,

asigurându-l de preocuparea noastră, dacă nu

deplină, cel puțin satisfăcătoare asupra

lirismului în sine. Căci Poesis nu înseamnă

doar versificare! Versuri se scriau și la Moulin

Rouge, ba chiar se savurau cu enormă

larghețe. Poesis rezidă oriunde se identifică în

etos, în tradiție, luându-și eponimul după

continentul spiritual al simțitorului. Și iată, cu

toate acestea, se scriu multe versuri, fără ca ele

să fie poezie, fără să conțină miezul substanței

lirice, fără să emane nici măcar cel mai firav

fior de viață – iar asta este o consecință a fricii

de prozodie, a tendinței de aliniere la uzanțe

propuse și impuse de... niște non-poeți!

De partea cealaltă, se află timizii,

year I, no. 7, 2021, January ISSN 2458-0198 – ISSN-L 2458-0198

4


indecișii, adică aceia care caută cu orice preț să

se ralieze unor standarde pe care nici nu le

înțeleg, nici nu le vor agrea vreodată. Abia

dacă poți spera să scrii poezie în pentametru

iambic doar pentru că cineva spune că acest

tip de vers aparține literaturii engleze! Abia

dacă vrei să construiești amfibrahi și anapești

doar pentru că altcineva, înaintea ta, a făcut-o

– și încă cu ce măiestrie! Dragii mei, luați-l pe

Eminescu! El abundă de pentametri iambici

(Ai noștri tineri), de amfibrahi (Mortua est!) și

s-a aventurat în jocul de prozodii până întracolo

încât s-a întors la versul popular ca să ne

ofere Luceafărul. El a scris Epigonii, apoi

Memento mori și, mai

târziu, Scrisorile urmând

o prozodie ușor de regăsit

la pașoptiști precum Ion

Heliade Rădulescu

(Sburătorul) sau Grigore

Alexandrescu (Umbra lui

Mircea. La Cozia), dar nu

numai acolo, ci în chiar

literatura clasicilor latini

precum Vergiliu, Horațiu,

Juvenal și Ovidiu! Cum să

crezi că scrii poezie de

vreme ce te ferești de așa-zisele șabloane? Ai

întâlnit pentametrul trohaic al lui Esenin (Toți

vom fi acolo, poți să sameni/Viața ta cu râs și cu

tumult!/Pentru asta trag mereu spre

oameni/Și-i iubesc pe toți atât de mult.//Pentru

asta inima mi-e moartă/Când privesc al anilor

prăpăd./Vechea casă cu-n dulău la

poartă/Parcă simt că n-am s-o mai revăd) și ai

descoperit că, la vreo optzeci de ani după

moartea lui, ai scris ceva în aceeași prozodie și

te suspectezi singur de plagiat? Păi, dacă te uiți

după fiecare nor, nu mai pleci niciodată la

drum!

Lasciateʼogni speranza, voi chʼintrate (tot

pentametru iambic, la care se adaugă un

contraiamb sublimat în ultima silabă a

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versului, efect al perplexității)! Încă ceva: de la

Baudelaire încoace, s-a trezit un deștept să

spună că Florile răului au dat naștere poeziei

moderne. Apăi, dacă însuși Baudelaire ar fi

auzit inepția asta, i-ar fi dat ipocritului cu

cartea peste ochi! Sau, ceva mai delicat, l-ar fi

orientat către Candidul lui Voltaire și

numeroasele versiuni ale nașterii lui Tamuz

pentru a vedea mostre de literatură modernă!

Dar când a fost vreodată ceva modern în

jalnica istorie a lui Homo Sapiens? Oare Dante

Aligheri ar mai fi scris Divina Comedie dacă ar

fi crezut că modernitatea omenirii se va

instaura abia după Baudelaire? Oare ar mai fi

visat el la o întâlnire cu

Vergiliu în Infern și cu

Beatrix în Paradis dacă

modernismul,

postmodernismul și

neomodernismul nu

aveau, încă, degete să bată

la porțile lumii? Cum a

putut Ovidiu cel trist să se

metamorfozeze într-un

ținut al geților care

râdeau în batjocură de

graiul lui latin?

Modernitate?! Nu, domnii mei! Lirică. Scumpa

și oropsita lirică! Modernitatea e dejecția unei

gândiri eterogene care, sub aparența

liberalismului, invită spiritul să își suprime

individualitatea prin acces la porțile facile ale

falselor democrații. Prin estompare, spiritul

nu mai iese din mulțime, ci se autogenerează

în standardul unui infinit de oglinzi, incapabil

să discearnă sinele de ceilalți și mulțimea de

diversitate.

Punctul just al sentimentului nu are nicio

relevanță în raport cu șabloanele propuse de

falsele libertăți! În teoria contagioasă a

„modernismului“ (a se citi

„pseudomodernism“!), valențele converg

către același perimetru eterogen, în care


5


gândirile tipizate vehiculează nonsensuri cu

valoare axiomatică, în care libertatea se

rezumă la tiparul unei realități construite prin

ingerința unor precepte aduse cu roaba

înaintea gurii. Deci, ce modernism și de unde?

Din Comuna Primitivă?! Din marmura

Senatului Roman?! Din flamura înstelată a

Europei?! Ori din degetul mic al lui Lincoln cel

așezat pe tron?! Și, ca să dăm credit (cu aceeași

plăcere!) lui Eminescu, teoriile astea „supte

din deget“ înseamnă modernism?! Cine nu

înțelege că poezia este modernă în eternitatea

ei, că ea rezidă dintotdeauna în arealul

suprastructurat al gândirii și esteticii, ei bine,

aceia sunt dedați (fie-ne

iertată expresia) la

prostituție literară. Când

sufletul ajunge la

supraplin de angoase, fie

cade doborât, fie își

desprinde aripile și

izbucnește din crupa

convenționalului. Noi

singuri ne creăm ziduri

împrejur și tot singuri

vom fi în corvoada de a le

dărâma. În definitiv,

spiritele noastre gemene se află dincolo de

acele baricade și nu ni se vor alătura decât

atunci când vom fi gata să le primim. Astfel,

lumea asta plină de simulări precare nu va mai

fi străină de ea însăși, căci este un dat al firii să

cunoaștem Purgatoriul înaintea Paradisului.

Freamătul spiritului condensat în

splendorile esteticii cristalizează năzuințele

rațiunii, iar expresia poetică înalță făptura

umană în sfera eterică fără să riște a-i mânia

pe zeii artelor. Doar că desprinderea de cauzal

necesită o exaltare a referențialului critic în

progresie geometrică prin cultivarea intensă a

acestui spirit. Desigur, nu trebuie să

confundăm această întreprindere cu

devalorizarea factorului substanță, materie,

căci asta ar conduce la schilodirea spiritului

privându-l de motorul care generează

contemplarea. Materia, odată trecută prin

caleidoscopul perspectivei estetice, se

abstractizează, devine idee și, deci, intră în

starea eterală, iar concretul rămâne extensia

fixă a unui simbol. De așa manieră se comportă

poezia, acest narcotic ce domolește sevrajele

cotidianului, stârnește frenezii erotice prin

transpunerea eului în voluptosul relief al

planetei Venus și descătușează cugetul de

rigiditatea rațiunii prin animarea pulsiunilor

lirice.

„Arzătoarea voință de creație mă aduce

mereu la om, în același fel

în care ciocanul este

mânat spre piatră“ – scria

Nietzsche cu privire la

monumentala sa operă

„Așa grăit-a Zarathustra“.

Nu cred că există în

literatura universală o

sintetizare mai iscusită a

menirii creatorului,

întrucât ea combate

teoria formelor în scopul

eliberării fondului. Și ce

altceva este poezia dacă nu o manifestare a

fondului pur, originar, dezavuat de restricțiile

pe care le îmbracă în mod amăgitor

convenționalul? A crede că poezia oglindește

fidel structura interioară, adică fondul

creatorului, este, uneori, o deplorabilă

amăgire. Cu toate acestea, cititorul resimte

aleanul atavic de reîntregire ce rezidă în

sevele versului. De aceea, pentru ca o poezie să

își asigure eternizarea, autorul necesită să

atingă numeroase deziderate din care vom

aminti verosimilitatea și bogăția

vocabularului propriu. Scopul oricărei creații

lirice verosimile este, de cele mai multe ori,

reflexiv-subiectiv, dar asta nu o împiedică, așa

cum tradiția literară ne-o arată, să oglindească


6


simțăminte comune, dovedindu-și, astfel,

mobilul tranzitiv. Poate că și de aceea mentalul

colectiv dă credit majoritar prozei, alterând

personalitatea poeziei prin orientare către

proza scurtă, efect al tendinței de satisfacere

imediată a unor nevoi sub generic intelectual.

E drept că ritmul vieții comportă cadențe

imprevizibile, că omul își măsoară rațiunea de

a fi pe scara hazardului și el a realizat că drama

îl apropie sau îl îndepărtează de alți oameni tot

așa cum o face fericirea. Tocmai de aceea

„ciocanul“ lui Nietzsche se apropie de „piatră“

și poezia stă aproape de spirit.

Dacă m-ar fi întrebat cineva ce concluzii

aș trasa la acest editorial,

cândva aș fi fost tentat să

răspund că nu există

concluzii pertinente și

exhaustive în privința

poeziei. Dragii mei, aș

încerca, totuși, un

exercițiu de imaginație și

v-aș invita să vă

abandonați în voia

propriilor firi, să petreceți

într-un dialog intim cu

naturile voastre și să vă

lăsați fascinați de numeroasele necunoscute și

întrebări ce vă vitalizează. Acolo, în leagănul

de fantasme, ați putea găsi un gol pe care

poezia nu promite să îl completeze în vreun

fel, iar, în acel gol, se ascunde o poveste

neterminată. De aceea, puteți îmbrățișa golul,

puteți să plonjați în el, să vă izbiți de valuri și

să le escaladați crestele. Extenuați pe plaja de

iluzii, clipiți măcar o dată pentru a regăsi cerul

care vă umanizează, vă admiră, vă trimite

astrele ca pe cei mai dedicați martori ai poeziei

numite OM. Și, dacă nici atunci nu ați gustat o

fărâmă de eternitate, povestea poeziei voastre

rămâne departe de a se fi încheiat.

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Et poesis quo?

Motto: Poetry begins with the title

and never ends.

Balzac, a true visionary of human

intentions without himself claiming this,

manages to build, in the novel Lost Illusions, a

brilliant parable of the destiny of poetry. And

he does this with the ease conferred by the

conviction of the common fact, of the eye that

does not see exceptionality and that does not

show vexation in the proximity of this destiny.

And his parable lies in the

exact antithesis of two

entities: Lucien Chardon,

a master of the word, a

poet by technique and

spontaneity, who jokingly

compromises himself in

the heart of a decadent

society and his brotherin-law,

David Séchard, a

poet by feeling and

existence, but lacking

native talent, picturesque

spirit, with a bonhomie

sister with naivety. Balzac does not propose an

analysis of plausible human archetypes, but

simply takes them from his contemporary

modernity and brings them before us by

denying their identities of any artifice - and,

why not believe it, the world of those times

had many to offer in this sense! As today and

as always, since Homo Sapiens has risen to

what it claims to be.

If, for some readers, it appears as a

paradox that, in an editorial about poetry, we

bring in the first paragraph the name of Balzac,

this exponent of modern prose, they will also

allow us a little detail. Many of the great prose

writers of universal literature began with


7


poetic attempts, the verse being considered a

prerogative of youth, to later find out the

vocation of their own lyricism in monumental

works in prose. An example pleasing to the

heart of the author of these lines is Caragiale

himself, who, in a moment of precarious

inspiration, we believe, ironized the poetry

right in front of his best friend, none other

than Eminescu. If you read Caragiale's lyrics,

you will easily understand our point of view.

So where goes Poetry? Like a clergyman

who, being asked where God is in times of

world hardship, we will give the same answer:

where it has always been. Of course, the

redundancy that emerges

from this seemingly

evasive sentence,

provokes

some

frustrations in the poetic

question, so we will

continue to appeal to the

reader, assuring him of

our concern, if not

complete, at least

satisfactory on the

lyricism itself. For Poesis

does not only mean

versification! Lyrics were also written at the

Moulin Rouge, and were even enjoyed with

enormous breadth. Poesis resides wherever it

identifies itself in ethos, in tradition, taking its

eponym after the spiritual continent of the

sentient. And yet, however, many verses are

written, without them being poetry, without

containing the core of the lyrical substance,

without emanating even the faintest thrill of

life - and this is a consequence of the fear of

prosody, of the tendency of alignment with

customs proposed and imposed by... some

non-poets!

On the other hand, there are the timid

ones, the undecided, that is, those who seek at

all costs to meet standards that they neither

understand nor will ever agree with. You can

hardly hope to write poetry in iambic

pentameter just because someone says that

this type of verse belongs to English literature!

You hardly want to build amphibras and

anaphs just because someone else, before you,

did it – and with what skill! My dear ones, take

Eminescu! He abounds in iambic pentameters

(Our young ones), amphibras (Mortua est!)

and ventured into the game of prosody to the

point that he returned to the popular verse to

offer us The Vesper. He wrote the Epigones,

then Memento mori and, later, the Letters

following a prosody easily found in Pasoptists

such as Ion Heliade

Rădulescu (The Flyer) or

Grigore Alexandrescu

(Mircea's Shadow. At

Cozia), but not only there,

but in the literature of the

Latin classics such as

Virgil, Horace, Juvenal

and Ovid! How do you

think you're writing

poetry since you're

avoiding so-called

templates? You met

Esenin's trochaic pentameter and you

discover that, about eighty years after his

death, you wrote something in the same

prosody and suspect yourself of plagiarism?

Well, if you look after every cloud, you never

go on the road again!

Lasciateʼogni speranza, voi chʼintrate

(also iambic pentameter, to which is added a

sublimated counteriamb in the last syllable of

the verse, an effect of perplexity)! One more

thing: from Baudelaire onwards, a smart man

woke up to say that the Flowers of Evil gave

birth to modern poetry. Well, if Baudelaire

himself had heard this nonsense, he would

have hit the hypocrite in the eye! Or, a little

more delicately, he would have turned to


8


Voltaire's Candid and the many versions of

Thamus' birth to see samples of modern

literature! But when was there anything

modern in the pathetic history of Homo

Sapiens? Would Dante Aligheri have written

the Divine Comedy if he had believed that the

modernity of mankind would be established

only after Baudelaire? Would he have

dreamed of a meeting with Virgil in Hell and

Beatrix in Paradise if modernism,

postmodernism, and neomodernism still did

not have fingers knocking at the gates of the

world? How could the sad Ovid

metamorphose into a land of the Getae who

laughed mockingly at his

Latin

speech?

Modernity?!

No,

gentlemen! Lyric. The

dear and oropsite lyric!

Modernity is the dejection

of a heterogeneous

thought that, under the

guise of liberalism, invites

the spirit to suppress its

individuality through

access to the easy gates of

false democracies. By

blurring itself, the spirit no longer stands out

from the crowd, but self-generates in the

standard of an infinite number of mirrors,

unable to discern the self from others and the

multitude of diversity.

The righteous point of the feeling has no

relevance in relation to the patterns proposed

by the false liberties! In the contagious theory

of "modernism" (read "pseudomodernism"!),

the valences converge to the same

heterogeneous perimeter, in which

standardized thoughts convey nonsense with

axiomatic value, in which freedom is reduced

to the pattern of a reality constructed by the

interference of precepts brought with the

wheelbarrow before the mouth. So what

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modernism and where? From the Primitive

Commune?! From the marble of the Romanian

Senate?! From the starry flag of Europe?! Or

from Lincoln's little finger sitting on the

throne?! And, to give credit (with the same

pleasure!) to Eminescu, do these "fingersucked"

theories mean modernism?! Those

who do not understand that poetry is modern

in its eternity, that it always resides in the

superstructured area of thought and

aesthetics, well, those are devoted (may our

expression be forgiven) to literary

prostitution. When the soul becomes

overflowing with anguish, it either falls down

or spreads its wings and

bursts out of the croup of

the conventional. We

alone create walls around

us and we will be alone in

the chore of tearing them

down. Ultimately, our

twin spirits are beyond

those barricades and will

not join us until we are

ready to receive them.

Thus, this world full of

precarious simulations

will no longer be foreign to itself, for it is a

matter of nature to know Purgatory before

Paradise.

The commotion of the spirit condensed

in the splendors of aesthetics crystallizes the

aspirations of reason, and the poetic

expression elevates the human being in the

etheric sphere without risking angering the

gods of the arts. It's just that causal

detachment requires an exaltation of the

critical frame of reference in geometric

progression through the intense cultivation of

this spirit. Of course, we must not confuse this

enterprise with the devaluation of the factor

substance, matter, because this would lead to

the crippling of the spirit by depriving it of the


9


engine that generates contemplation. Matter,

once passed through the kaleidoscope of

aesthetic perspective, is abstracted, becomes

an idea and, therefore, enters the etheric state,

and the concrete remains the fixed extension

of a symbol. This is how poetry behaves, this

narcotic that calms the daily weanings,

arouses erotic frenzy by transposing the ego

into the voluptuous upground of the planet

Venus and unleashes the thought of the

rigidity of reason by animating lyrical

pulsions.

"The burning will of creation always

brings me to man, in the same way that the

hammer is driven to the

stone" – wrote Nietzsche

about his monumental

work "Thus spoke

Zarathustra". I do not

think that there is a more

skilful synthesis in the

universal literature of the

creator's purpose, since it

combats the theory of

forms in order to release

the fund. And what else is

poetry if not a

manifestation of the pure, original

background, disavowed by the restrictions

that the conventional deceptively wears? To

believe that poetry faithfully mirrors the inner

structure, that is, the background of the

creator, is sometimes a deplorable deception.

However, the reader feels the atavistic alliance

of reunion that resides in the sap of the verse.

Therefore, in order for a poem to ensure its

perpetuation, the author needs to reach

numerous desideratums from which we will

mention the plausibility and richness of

vocabulary. The purpose of any plausible

lyrical creation is, most of the time, reflexivesubjective,

but this does not prevent it, as the

literary tradition shows us, from mirroring

common feelings, thus proving its transitive

motive. Perhaps that is why the collective

mind gives majority credit to prose, altering

the personality of poetry by focusing on short

prose as an effect of the tendency to

immediately satisfy some needs under

intellectual generic. It is true that the rhythm

of life involves unpredictable cadences, that

man measures his reason of being on the scale

of chance, and he realized that drama brings

him closer or further away from other people

just as happiness does. That is why Nietzsche's

"hammer" approaches the "stone" and poetry

is close to the spirit.

If someone had

asked me what

conclusions I would draw

from this editorial, I

would have once been

tempted to answer that

there are no pertinent

and

exhaustive

conclusions about poetry.

My dear ones, I would try,

however, an exercise of

imagination and I would

invite you to abandon

yourselves to your own nature, to spend in an

intimate dialogue with your natures and to be

fascinated by the many unknowns and

questions that vitalize you. There, in a cradle

of fantasies, you might find a void that poetry

does not promise to fill in any way, and in that

void lies an unfinished story. Therefore, you

can embrace the void, you can dive into it, hit

the waves and climb their ridges. Exhausted

on the beach of illusions, blink at least once to

find the sky that humanizes you, admires you,

sends you the stars as the most dedicated

witnesses of poetry called HUMAN. And, even

if you haven't tasted a shred of eternity even

then, the story of your poetry is far from over.


10


poetry 5-24

Gerlinde Staffler

Adam Żemojtel

Sleepless mind

Thoughts are wandering in turbulent streams

Many a blinking spot in my brain beams

I can’t catch all these naughty fireflies

They flow through me opening my eyes

Thoughts leave me never alone

They’re present twice like a clone

Roaming my woods in swarm of ideas

In numerous queries,

worries and plans

Thoughts are sprouting

like plants

Or like a range of hills of

ants

My head beats like a

battle drum

Leaving me so as I forget

my name

Thoughts glide through my mind

Thoughts wrench from the heart unkind

They talk to me without strain

Of joy, fear, anger and pain

Unceasing thoughts fall asleep

Then in weird dreams they always creep

And fly with me all the night

But nothing can I do for their might

Pysznych myśli słowa

rozlałaś słodyczy eliksir na skórze

ciekawskim oczom skleiłaś powieki

ty tylko wiesz na co przy tobie zasłużę

nagość zanurzając do miłosnej rzeki

mgłą tajemnych uczuć przesłaniasz krajobraz

nie pozwalasz myślom mym dociekać prawdy

rozkosz mą wyłaniasz swym ciałem raz po raz

nie czekasz na powrót zasłużonej karmy

wzniecony płomień

szybko się rozrasta

jak miłość wzbudzona do

entej potęgi

wilgoć taka słodka klei się

i mlaska

swym śladem różowe

kreśli dreszczy wstęgi

pocałunkiem dławisz

słów moich potoki

w szczerym mym zachwycie obawiasz się

kłamstwa

w spocone tak włosy wkręcasz swoje loki

pochłaniasz istnienie w nadziei poddaństwa

opóźniasz celowo mej eksplozji chwilę

podsycasz ogień i znów go uciszasz

zabierasz z ust wrzącą od miłości ślinę

w ciemności tajemny powodujesz miraż

dusze chcą ulecieć z naczyń połączonych

krew znów rozżarzona i to do białości

plączą się akordy serc nieposkromionych

rozkosz znów przygasa bynajmniej nie w

złości

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11


wreszcie się wyzwala burza z piorunami

nie ma takiej siły by orgazm powstrzymać

rozbłyski się łączą z wielkimi grzmotami

wzburzonej rozkoszy nie da się zatrzymać

zastygają chłodem miłosne potoki

serc obu symfonia spokojem przycicha

kwiaty umęczone spijają swe soki

miłość znów gorąca spływa do kielicha

Bhagirath Choudhary

Do I need

Any religion

To keep

A kind eye

And loving vision ?

Human Poverty

Do I need

Any education

To love all

With humanistic passion

And loving

Unconditional compassion ?

Do I need

Any mysticism

Of a great Shaman

To be good human

With loving humanism ?

I have already

All what I need

For benevolent

Thought, word and deed

Do I need

Any big talks

To think

Universally benevolent

Kind thoughts ?

Here upon earth

I have already

All the potential

And humanistic worth

To create heaven

Do I need

Fine linguistics

To speak

Kind and caring words

Without selfish tricks ?

Do I need

Any philosophy

To treat

One and all

With empathy ?

But I behave

Like a frog in a well

Every moment

I create a sinful hell

With my sadistic creed

Of evil thought,

With cunning word

And selfish deed.


12


Adam Decowski

Prince Steve Oyebode

[Journey]

nad moim

a może i nad twoim snem

ten sam lęk

drąży labirynty cieni

które zatrzasną się szczelnie

gdy zostaniemy odcięci na zawsze

od światła

któregoś dnia

przystajemy nagle w tym

pośpiesznym marszu

oglądamy się

wołamy

nie ma jednego z nas

jeszcze słyszymy gasnące

kroki

chwytamy w dłonie

popiół jego słów

i nie możemy uwierzyć

że nie poda nam ręki

nie ogrzeje

klamki naszego domu

i nie potrafimy wypełnić

blizny powietrza

po nim

a nasza wędrówka nadal trwa

jej dni

słońca wahadło odmierza

aż kiedyś nieruchome

zawęźli nasz czas

i opadający liść serca

ostatnim uderzeniem

w ciemność ziemi

zapuka

Wędrówka

The power of love

We thought it was but a mere oath

When we both sworn an allegiance

That nothing shall in anyway separate us

Not even the ugly moments of

ill health

Or the dangerous time of austerity

Even period of unanswered prayers

We never knew we were both wrong

When our emotions overwhelmed us

Now that the ugly visitor

of death beckons at me

Whispering to me about

my very last moment

To separate and do us

part till eternity

My consolation is that you

shall outlive me

Even now that I believed

you have the liberty

I mean the freedom to

choose another man

The more I realize I’m fast leaving this world

Surprisingly, the clearer I see we’re both

leaving

This undemystified magnet has glued us

Right from the hour we made the promise

That wherever I go thou shall also go

That my people shall be yours and vice versa

That my life shall always be your life

And that your death shall also be mine

Now I know the nitty gritty of oath

That we both made under the mango tree

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13


Selma Kopic

Waiting for midnight

It wasn't a night like any other,

it was a night of hope for better days.

In the circle of family and friends

or alone in their homes,

everyone could hardly wait

for the year that was so bad to pass.

Sparks of fireworks shone over the city

when I heard your voice.

You sing about longing for your darling

as you drive on the

deserted icy roads

of the north!

You call her to come

and run her hand through

your hair.

Tears burn in my eyes like

needles.

Am I that darling you call

with verses?

The lost hope warms my

heart

which begins to beat madly,

then hurts as if it will stop.

This night brought joy to many,

I know those to whom it caused sorrow

because accidents happen

even on the most beautiful occasions.

It brought me you and your love song

about a distant darling you call into an embrace.

I feel every word,

they tap on my wounded heart like a sword.

But I love that pain,

it makes me feel alive again.

Čekajući ponoć

To nije bila noć kao sve druge,

bila je to noć nade u bolje dane.

U krugu porodice i prijatelja

ili usamljenički u svojim kućama,

svi su jedva čekali

da prođe godina koja je bila tako loša.

Nad gradom su svijetlile iskre vatrometa

kad sam čula tvoj glas.

Pjevaš o čežnji za svojom dragom

dok voziš se pustim

zaleđenim cestama

sjevera.

Zoveš je da dođe i rukom

ti kroz kosu prođe.

Zapekoše suze u mojim

očima kao iglice.

Jesam li ja ta draga koju

stihovima zoveš?

Izgubljena nada zagrija

moje srce

koje ludo poče da kuca,

zatim zaboli kao da će

stat.

Ova noć donijela je mnogima radost,

znam i one kojima je prouzročila tugu

jer nesreće se događaju i u najljepšim

prigodama.

Meni je donijela tebe i tvoju ljubavnu pjesmu

o dalekoj dragoj koju zoveš u zagrljaj.

Osjećam svaku riječ,

one tapkaju po mom ranjenom srcu kao mač.

Ali ja taj bol volim,

čini da se ponovo živom osjetim.

“I am the one he longs for’’, I whispered

silently

as I sank into a sweet sleep, quietly.

„Ja sam ta za kojom čezne’’, nijemo sam

šaputala

dok sam tiho u slatki san tonula.


14


Shaswata Gangopadhyay

Two Poems

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Circus

Now this time a tent is pitched, wet grass at the

southern field

Hand-clapping of clowns, hair-raising shifting

movement

Of trapeze tricks in darkness, we sit spellbound

There're scantily dressed girls standing on the

hunches of camels

And keeping the balance,

reminds us that world is

globular

Three white cockatoos go

away riding on cycles

But as soon as they

depart, the interval bell

rings

After the recess comes a

funny magician in

overcoat

Ah! how he swallowed up a good number of

multi-colored fish

The scene changes in an instant, there's

throbbing in the heart,

The bike rotates round in the enclosure at a

break-neck speed

If it slips from the orbit, will there be any fiery

explosion?

There's an announcement in the mike: tighten

up your seat-belt

The last item in the breathless arena, the

intercourses of tigers

Emergency

Under some manholes of streets in Kolkata, a

few adolescent girls,

as innocent as cherry flowers, are kept

confined. At midnight my sleep

fades away suddenly and I listen to the wailing

groans they make being

suffocated. As if from all sides the river-banks

are slipping away over the

flood-water with flashing sounds. A day will

come when I won't meet anyone,

known to me earlier. Only we will exchange

handshakes among us

through

hand gloves only, one

after the other. One day,

all the words will desert

me,

leaving me all alone.

Perhaps a line or two in

poetry, in spite of their

trying

to reach very near to each

other, will not find a

parking-space in the clumsy

jottings of my diary.

Translated by: Rajdeep Mukherjee

Shaswata Gangopadhyay

One of Prominent faces of contemporary Bengali

poetry, who started writing in the mid 90s. Born &

brought up in Kolkata, Shaswata has profound interest

in travelling, adventure and classical music.

His poetry has been highly appreciated among

other fellow poets for its colorful and rich content.

His book of poems: Inhabitant of Pluto Planet

(2001) Offspring of Monster (2009) and Holes of Red

Crabs (2015). Very recently one of his poems has been

exhibited in a Short Poetry Festival in Piccolo Museo

della Poesia, Italy – the only Poetry Museum of the

world.


15


SIR SILVANO BORTOLAZZI

"Sono"

Detesto le lotterie, poiché non amo vincere:

non potrei rinunciare al mio piccolo mondo

d'amorevoli sogni.

Non cerco il potere, poiché non voglio

sottomettere:

è inconcepibile comandare ed intimorire i

giusti.

Voglio essere, non voglio avere:

per non detestarmi,

per essere libero da me

stesso e dagli altri:

per essere rispettato

come uomo.

Prendo la mia croce di

povertà,

accetto le umiliazioni

degli arricchiti

che un tempo mi furono

fratelli:

li ringrazio per la loro

stupida indifferenza.

Vivo nel silenzio della preghiera,

nel mio esilio di poeta richiuso tra quattro

mura.

Parlo con Dio:

perdono tutti.

Desiderare non è un mio concetto

ma colgo i piaceri della vita:

possono condurmi verso la comprensione

degli estremi limiti della saggezza.

Io Sono,

tutto quello che tutti vogliono avere

credendo d'essere.

"I'm"

I hate lotteries, as I don't like winning:

I couldn't give up my little world of loving

dreams.

I don't seek power, as I don't want to subdue:

it is inconceivable to command and intimidate

the righteous.

I want to be, I don't want to have:

so as not to hate me,

to be free from myself

and others:

to be respected as a man.

I take my cross of

poverty,

I accept the humiliations

of the enriched

who were once brothers

to me:

I thank them for their

stupid indifference.

I live in the silence of

prayer,

in my exile as a poet enclosed within four

walls.

I speak to God:

they all lose.

Desiring is not my concept

but I take the pleasures of life:

they can lead me to understanding

of the extreme limits of wisdom.

I am,

everything everyone wants to have

believing to be.


16


Janamenjoy Ghorai

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„”Grammar of Life”

Blazing in conflict with the rhythm of the

current of life

In the triad bed of prepositional prepositions

Again the vowel rises and sets

I walked the path of wonder for no reason

The grammar of life,

Maybe in the cosmic beauty of the colorless

alphabet lifestyle at the touch of a coyote

Adjective adjectives come selectively

Where there is a juncture of life,

Floating caught the magic world

Beautiful metallic form of

sound

Repeatedly in the

innumerable

complications of the

smooth mouth

The grammar of life at the

end of the full taste of the

verb sampika

Happiness ends in the

silence of sorrow

Comma maybe wonderful

silent beard,

Rather it leaves the whiteblack

burning house of life grammar side by

side.

Ruki Kočan

Ljubavi, Iskro Života.

Probudi Svijet Mira.

Neka ode zlo, i mržnja.

Mrak, užas i zabluda.

Evo, evo svima Svjetlosti.

Idi, - ma brišite gluposti.

Pohlepa i bolest,

haos - ljubomora i trač.

Idi - idi nepismena smrti.

Evo sreće, i Ljubavi...

Evo, evo - Svjetlosti.

Evo svjetlosti

Naba Kumar Podder

A Tale of Coloured Pent

(Translator -Shikdar Mohammed kibriah)

At the end nobody has to be detached

Nobody is only beloved as the colour

Of monochord

This tattoo time is strange too!

Is everything written in

script?

Can everything rush to

the utmost

Of piano---

Violin and pipe are not

similar

Yet in a word they are

artistic

They are fragrant Antiseptic.

Enemy doesn't test who is real

Or who is fake in the war.

What's need to react from the out?

Come to a fuss-

Pour some romance in this

Bay of Bengal.


17


Ramesh Chandra Pradhani

Something remained untold

Far away from the world of love being highly

immature

Couldn't perceive your body language due to

childish nature

Couldn't really comprehend you, that alluring

smile

You were not remaining aloof from me even

a while

Your posture seemed me the sparkling angel

of heaven so merry

Your gait in front of me

assumed the dance of

celestial fairies

Your presence in the

bathing ghats as if

coincidental

Thy appearance again

and again beyond my

imagination oriental

Sitting like a child in the

group before me stole my

attraction

But never did I bother or take to my mind's

calculation

Your eyes gazing at me haunted sometimes I felt

The hidden desire inside you nearing me seen

myself melt

In the wee hours often your body dashed

against me

Myself ashamed of it and strived to keep me

distant

The rapport between you and me made me

ignorant

Days after days passed away leaving

something untold

That puzzled, disturbed, suffered and deferred

me bold.

Often I guessed how you created opportunity

to meet me

Fear and shameness battled my mind being

gloomy.

Dared not to talk to you in inevitable fright

Dare not to touch you though chance to invite

The day when I came to know you fell in love

It was high time to taste the fruits of joyous

love.

I wish the day would come back with a last

chance

Had not at all lost that joy of divine romance.

Jigme Jamtsho

Windows of

winter

Gazing warm rays of

beautiful sun

Touches my cheek

through the window

Amid to the drowsy

morning without fun

Listening to Robin from

the far meadow

Resting on the soft and clumsy pillow

Vapours from the coffee cup waving hi

My half opened eyes gazed from below

And the sip of coffee refresh me to glorify

Activeness pushed me outside to refresh

Feeling the chill sensation of the breeze

And soothing scent of nature that bless

The winter numb me speechless to freeze

Through the windows of winter season

I can see the mountains fully with snow

Even the streams flowing with the reason

Every second of life matters as we know


18


AD Ibrahim

Timothy Michael DiVito

How tan is she!

kissed by warmth

of the sun's rays

skin dripping melanin

Her hips invites you

Her kinky hair a golden

crown of mother earth

Her skin tone a badge of honor

Her lips sweeter than red

wine

Her obsidian skin

softer than fur

a beam to African

Kings and heroes

A microcosm of the

universe

hips swaying in self love

as I dance to the afro

drum of life

Milka J.Šolaja

Da li to pada snijeg

ili pahulje lete,

u očima bljesak

bjeline.

Sivilo nestade u trenu,

jecaj me prenu...

Djetinjstvo me probudi

na Ličkom putu

u starom kaputu,

kroz snijeg gazim

sretna.

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My nubian princess

Bljesak bjeline

"A One Way Train"

It's time to leave now,

the train departs shortly.

Westward dream bound

into an unknown world,

across the desert of time.

Just sweet memories now,

a love once shared happily.

Now abruptly shattered

like glass of the human

soul,

all aboard the train of life.

I gave to you my one

heart,

now I travel the world

alone

on an optimistic train

track,

leading me to new memories,

visions of madness forgotten.

Tracks leading to new dreams

far down the line of existence,

to unknown opportune towns.

But a true adventure of life

leading to brighter horizons.


19


Velimir Siljanoski

Cilenti Emanuele

Početak našeg stradanja

polako se svima otkriva

mi sigurno gubimo bitku

još nije kasno da tražimo priliku

Posle toliko godina

mi smo naraštaj koji plaća cenu

sve što se danas dešava u svetu

postoji način opet naći se na svetlu

Neko je zbog nas život dao

kako bi nas od greha

okupao

dao nam je i odeću čistu

a mi bez časti izgubismo

bitku

Početak!

Još nije kasno braćo i

sestre

da se pokajemo svi za

svoje grehe

nastavimo tamo gde su

pre nas stali

molimo se milostivom Bogu da se sažali

Da nam opet u pomoć dođe

donese pobedu i da slobode

jer sami smo slabi i grešimo

jedni druge mi ne znamo da utešimo

Vrati se silo nebeska jaka

oteraj ovaj strah iz stomaka

vrati životu veru i blagostanje

u svima nama postoji u Gospoda verovanje

The poet of the clouds.

I wrote you

this love letter

I didn't use the usual words

I made a miracle

on the blue sheet of infinity

splashing magic ink

made of clouds

and I composed

this tender lyric

a pure white writing

that tastes like rain

but also of snow,

a poet in the clouds

just to reveal

to the whole world

my eternal and celestial

love for you.

Dijana Uherek

Stevanović,

Pervasion

In the treetops,

I hid the sun,

to remind me of you.

Do not worry,

I'll set him free

for I would not hold you captive either.

My thoughts are free,

like this passing day,

like the year 2020 that is disappearing,

as well as the life that passes.

Look at us,

we are like day and night,

we are entangled in time.

We are the sun, the source of life.


20


Mahanaj Parvin

Title name: "Love Stars"

That night knows, that star knows,

The sky knows, the moon knows,

How I love you!

Today my heart dances like a peacock!

I have written your name on each star.

Honeymoon will be in the light of the stars!

The stars in the sky cannot be finished,

My love can't end

I will fill you with romantic stories.

Rupoli moon is smiling,

The star is shining

brightly,

I just love you!

Grasshoppers and

butterflies are playing at

the tip of my eyes!

The garden of the mind

smells of fragrant

flowers!

I will decorate you with

the seven colors of the

rainbow!

I will talk to those twinkling stars in the sky-

Love only you!

Lenuș Lungu

Watch the sun go down in the

night cup

this is how loneliness descends in my soul…

your steps, vain hopes bound in a chain,

where in the course of time a secret clings

behind your words

there are two lips that give life

the muffled mixture between the rows.

put your hands next to you

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to be able to include them

Remember me

Clouds are my calling

When he shakes, I stretch out my arms to the

sky and smile at you.

Stefano Capasso

That Wonderful Time will it

ever come back?

Look far beyond

the Horizon

and see nothing,

if not ghosts

chasing each other

. in a mad rush

against time,

it's really sad.

There are shadows

that dissolve

instantly

only to appear,

like snow clouds

while others,

suddenly,

fill the scene

of tender memories

of the past,

when

everything and everything

it was truly wonderful.

But that wanderful time

will it ever come back?

Eyes now tired

makes it clear, that anyway

those already passed

they really stay

extraordinary memories.


21


Adeyemi Kehinde A. Oluwanishola

If i have not told you

If I have not told you

You wouldn't have believed me

Seeing the temperature of your eyes

As it rained snow of anger and bitterness

I could feel the heaviness of the rain in your eyes

Knowing fully well you yourself don't care to

raise your voice at me

Despite how much I tried to caution and

parcify you

You never listened but crucified my heart

before them all

The dilemma to this

equation was nothing but

a setup

I could hardly look into

your eyes than to gaze my

words

My eyes are soaked of

tears showing the

sobriety of my heart

Yet not a chance to at least

prove myself right

You wouldn't have trusted me

If not that I say whatever will be will surely be

I accepted fate when the clamouring was much

You've forgotten how you triggered my heart

Yet I never picked offense nor judge you for

who you are

I gave you second chance which leads to a

billion times

I'm me! If only you could listen to what I have to say

Bless God you came back to your senses but

the damage is done

Everyone left with the crumbs of your attitude

displayed

Take no thought because I've forgiven you

Even before now and ever after

This words melt her heart and brought tears

of apologizy

She knelt before him and pleased

He raised her up with smile and love

Embracing each other once again

If I have not told you this neither would you

believe me

Mayokun Kehinde Folorunsho

Unbecoming

And now sleepwalkers in beheaded dreams

We have dreamed with a heart

Unwashed as a madman

Around the bonfire of

ethnic offerings

Blazing in bloody heat

In those forgotten

centuries

Holy blades split

emirates' soul

And what will our myopic

eyes see

When we have tagged our

countrymen with battle

scars

Inscribed by the thirst of emperors

That paced our homeland for many decades?

Down this path flooded with rage

We have been the draughtsman

Of what we wish we were

Which seems the anthem for another age

We have sacrificed Biafra's skulls

Yet born again into recurring waves

We now are a flickering lighthouse

And the victory songs are

The anguish and wailing of sucklings

Brimming the trophies we brought home

From voyages and nameless wars


22


Ion CUZUIOC

S-a născut la 16 septembrie 1949 în

familia intelectualilor Valentina şi Pavel

Cuzuioc din comuna Ţareuca, judeţul Orhei,

Republica Moldova. A absolvit Universitatea

de Stat de Medicină şi Farmacie ,,N.

Testemiţanu”. Eminent al Ocrotirii Sănătăţii.

Medic specialist Sănătatea Publică şi

Managementul Sanitar (categorie superioară).

Distins cu Ordinul ,,Gloria Muncii”și Medalia

„Nicolae Milescu Spătarul”, Titluri Onorifice:

,,Ambasador al Păcii (ONU) și „Ambasador al

Culturii Păcii”(Asociația Europeană a

Societății Civile) ;

Distincţia ,,Coroana

Păcii”(ONU); Premiul

Uniunii Scriitorilor din

Moldova (2000), (2009),

Uniunii Ziariștilor

Profesioniști din România

(2014, 2015, 2016, 2017,

2018, 2019), Premiul

UNESCO şi numeroase

premii şi menţiuni la

Saloane Internaționale de

Carte, Concursuri și

Festivaluri Literare Naţionale şi

Internaţionale.

Cetăţean de Onoare al comunei Ţareuca,

Rezina, Orhei. Membru al Uniunii

Epigramiştilor, Uniunii Scriitorilor și Uniunii

Ziariștilor Profesioniști din România. Membru

al Uniunii Cineaştilor, Uniunii Umoriştilor,

Uniunii Epigramiștilor, Uniunii Jurnaliştilor şi

Uniunii Scriitorilor din Moldova. Membru al

Asociației Naționale a Oamenilor de Creație

din Moldova.

Membru al Senatului Asociației

Oamenilor de Știință, Cultură și Artă din

Moldova. Membru al Confederaţiei

Internaţionale a Cineaştilor, Membru al

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

Federaţiei Internaţionale a Jurnaliştilor.

Membru al Asociației Canadiene a Scriitorilor

Români. Membru al Academiei Româno-

Australiană. Membru al Academiei Națiunii

Române.

A editat peste 40 de cărţi de epigrame,

aforisme, proză (romane, nuvele, poveşti şi

povestiri pentru copii, schiţe umoristice),

versuri lirice, poeme stil nipon, publicistică. În

toţi aceşti ani publică cronici literare, eseuri,

sfaturi medicale, articole ştiinţifico-populare.

Selecţii din creaţia sa literară au fost incluse în

peste 200 de antologii şi culegeri din România,

Rusia, SUA, Austria, Australia, Franța, Canada,

Coreea de Sud și

Muntenegru, Macedonia

etc.

Poemele de sorginte

niponă (Haiku, Senryu și

Gogyohka) semnate de

Ion Cuzuioc au fost

traduse în limbile

japoneză, engleză,

franceză,

rusă,

muntenegreană și

macedoniană, fiind

publicate în diverse

antologii, culegeri și reviste de profil de peste

hotare. Ion Cuzuioc s-a învrednicit de peste

100 de premii și mențiuni la Concursurile

Săptămânale și Lunare de Haiku, Senryu și

Gogyohka organizate de către Romanian

Haiku, Lyrical flashes, Dincolo de retină,

Gogyohka România, Gogyohka SUA etc.

Recent, scriitorul nostru român

basarabean, Ion Cuzuioc, care a participat la

Concursurile Internaționale Literare

„Planetopia 2020” și „Literatopia 2020” din

Macedonia s-a învrednicit de premiile I la

secțiunea Aforisme și Haiku.


23


pădure în flăcări –

plânsul puiului de cuc

înecat în fum

lacul fără pește –

paznicul de serviciu

dus cu pluta

pe prispa casei –

un scaun și o cârjă

doar amintire

surpriza nopții –

soțul de la cazino

în frunza Evei

vreme toridă –

căruțașul dormind

la umbra cailor

de gardă la muzeu –

lângă stative motanul

torcând în voie

pe ultimul drum –

în urma sicriului

florile călcate

***

***

***

***

***

***

***

Anna Maria Stępień

Recepta

Nie ma na ziemi chyba człowieka,

Co drogą gładką ciągle idzie, lato czy zima.

Tak jest i było od prawieków…

Troski, obawy, z czymś się zżyma

Czy mały on, czy duży jest…

Życiowy czeka go codziennie test.

I nie ma na tej ziemi tego,

Który szczęśliwy ze wszystkiego,

Co los przynosi z sobą w darze.

Wzloty, upadki, przygód bez liku

– tych złych i dobrych…

A na dodatek dorzuci

czasem

Worek jak tęcza

wielobarwny

Pełen przepięknych o

szczęściu marzeń.

Gdy z tego sprawę sobie

zdasz,

Receptę wtem na swe

bolączki gotową masz:

Jak radzić sobie, nawet

gdy

Nie idzie po Twej myśli Ci,

Gdy nie po myśli Twojej jest,

To co dookoła dziś Ciebie dzieje się.

W górę więc serce, przed siebie pierś,

Rękawy zakasz, siedzisz czy stoisz,

Do pracy umysł zaprzęgnij i ręce swoje.

I nie myśl, żeś jest sam, choć pewnie…

We dwoje lepiej, gdy druga para rąk,

Gdy głowy dwie,

Do pracy nad jaśniejszym jutrem

Już dziś z zapałem wezmą się…

W marzeń magiczną moc swych wierz,

Bo przecież Ty sam najlepiej wiesz,

Co w duszy Twojej tańczy, co w niej gra!

Chyba, że wolisz, gdy to Ci podpowiadam ja…?


24


Muhammad Ishaq Abbasi

The Rape

Three days ago when the night spread it's fence.

The woman with her three children, was going from Lahore to Gujranwala by motorway,

after meeting her sister.

She belonged to a family that ate and drank.

Suddenly, her car ran out of petrol on the road near Gujarpura village.

It was one o'clock at night.

And the car stopped.

She was screaming and screaming for help.

Meanwhile, two beasts came and broke the glass of the car and started looting her.

The pen was trembling and the heart was coming to the mouth as I wrote the poem.

Heaven and earth were weeping at the cries of mothers and children.

The mother was holding her children in her arms along with her honor.

Sometimes she was calling to the East and sometimes to the West for help.

Everyone was enjoying their sleep.

The beasts dragged her and her children into a nearby forest.

The desolation of the forest was also weeping tears of blood.

The mother was beaten and raped in front of the children.

And left them there and fled.

Everyone needs to do their part to end this oppression.

Heaven is under mother's feet. And our society has tramped a mother underfoot.

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25


Dušan Pejaković

Interpersonal correlation –

what a strenuous activity,

such a complicated dynamics.

The law of causality

It mainly manifests itself:

like this dual current of life’s force

running down the paths of our doings.

It’s much like the law of nature,

that proportional, inversed logic –

so called reciprocity of

action and reaction.

Aftermath of all that

rationalizing

should be the sum of

inputs

leading to a desirable

outputs.

The whole world as my

witness -

that modality of

computing and analyzing

in the real world - nowadays - is baseless.

A stampede of inequality and

injustice

A stampede mainly formed out of:

misconceptions, misconstructions and poor

judgments -

is bulldozing all over the entity of individual

being.

The world machinery is pushing, irresistibly,

a single amorphous template of conduct

and the richness of diversity of each

individuality -

it is washed away like dirt after heavy rain.

Everything tends to be constructed that way,

that all shades of a wide range of colors

are being repainted in one of the shades

of nonetheless then mechanical-worker gray.

The goal is to produce as many units of the

identical as possible,

to delete differences with one stroke of the

keyboard.

And what is the only thing left for us, as an

option,

being non-stop propagated every single day?

Adapt, learn to be like

others or simply

disappear.

Short biography:

Dušan Pejaković is a

student, volunteer, social

entrepreneur and author,

based in Podgorica,

Montenegro. A passionate

reader and nature lover.

Currently at the position of MA

candidate at the Faculty of Political Science, University

of Montenegro. Has been expressing himself through

written word from an early age. He writes and creates

on a multilingual basis (languages of the Balkan

peninsula area, English, Spanish, Italian) Published so

far in several books of poetry, culture magazines, as

well as via online platforms. In July 2020, he published

a book of English poetry “Unrest of lucidity” which can

be found on Amazon as well as other places Amazon

collaborates with. He also writes prose, primarily

embodied in the form of short stories, novellas and

essays. His second book of poetry, written in his native

language (Eng. translation: “The silhouette of an

unfulfilled dream) has been published in November

2020. He is currently working on a new project, which

is underway, and it is a collection of stories.


26


prose 25-30

Spisateljica Biserka

Maslačak na planeti

Pokosila sam travu, provukla ruke kroz

grm lavande, sjela na klupicu i podigla noge na

crni kamen prošaran bijelim, kvarcnim žilama.

Kroz napola zatvorene oči, zaklonjene

dugim trepavicama, opijena mirisima,

promatrala sam male oblačiće, ružičaste od

zalaska sunca. Baš kad sam pomislila kako bi

bilo divno da sjediš tu, kraj mene, ugledala sam

njega, moj mjesec,

veličanstven kao i uvijek,

ali opet, večeras poseban.

Tek sad sam otkrila

kamo nestaju svi oni

maslačci sa zelenih livada,

lebdjeli su oko mjeseca,

obasjani njegovim sjajem,

tvorili paučinastu

koprenu koja se omatala

oko njega. Pružila sam

ruke, visoko, visoko, želim

te dotaknuti.

Odjednom, mjesec se zamutio, zatitrao,

kao odsjaj u vodi. Osjetim dodir na obrazu i

rukom krenem očekujući tvoje prste. Ne

nalazim ih, samo kapljice na mom dlanu,

blješte kao dijamanti na mjesečevom sjaju. Još

jedna noć spušta se na pokošenu travu i

usamljen moj lik na klupi.

Oko mene, žamor života, u meni, samo

neizdrživa čežnja koja gori na ovoj planeti.

Zoran Radosavljević

Pompeja

Rukama krvavim od borbe sa njenim

demonima sakupljao sam ostatke pepela te

Pompeje u njoj..Vezuve moj..gasila te

prekrasna reka Sarno.. Bila je rodjena sa

vatrom u sebi. Čuvala je u dodirima i mislima,

i poklanjala malo po malo ljudima, sve dok joj

iskra u oćima nije nestala.Nestala je toplina i

dobrota koju je širila..Ljudi su je istrošili i

ostavili.. Da joj ližem krvave očnjake posle

životnih poraza, ona da me čuva od celog sveta

…Da vidamo rane jedno

drugom..klesanjem joj

đavoli prošlosti želili

oduzeti dobrotu..borio

sam se koliko sam mogao

da sačuvam tu njenu

anđeosku lepotu … Meni

su godinama krvava

stopala, a i dalje istim

putevima moja duša

korača …idem njoj u

susret da je čuvam dok

opet ne ojača…nemoj te

da pomislite da tražim izgovor samo da bi

lutao… Kad je Niče plakao, svet je ćutao…a ići

ću opet i opet iznova..čujem kako viću izađi iz

zabluda i uđi u stvarnost, umrećeš od lažnih

snova Ne znaju oni da sam takav po rodjenju…

pred putokazima spuštam glavu, volim da

idem po sopstvenom nahođenju ..kao i biljka

kad sama od sebe baci svoje sopstveno seme…

džaba ste štedeli sve te tišine, reči, dodire i

pesme kad se pravi ljudi pojave u pogrešno

vreme ..Jurim prema njoj danima i noćima..ne

bole me padovi ali bi me boleo pad u njenim

oćima..potrudiću se da joj život ne bude samo

od plača…ostaću sa njom dok ne ojača..

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27


Šahdo Bošnjak

Iz moje neobjavljene zbirke priča:

“tešanjske koke i druge priče”

Banane

Da li je Ahmetu pomogla Butra i hodža

Grbeša ili mu je pomoglo nešto drugo da

progleda, tek on je ponovo uspostavio

harmoniju u braku, odlično se razumijevajući i

slažući sa svojom ženom Safom. Ama, hronična

nestašica novca ponovo je zaprijetila da bi

mogla ozbiljno ugroziti tu bračnu harmoniju i

sreću. Žena postala

nestrpljiva, potreba se

namnožilo, a para

niotkud, a ona samo

zvoca, baš kao ljuta

nakostriješena kvočka:

– Znaš li ti, bolan,

čovo, da našem Ramici

trebaju nove čizme, one

se poderale pa dijete

samo što ne hoda boso?!

Vidiš li ti, bolan ne bio, da

se kobila nema za šta vezati jer joj je posve

dotrajao jular, već sam ti govorila da u kući

nemamo ni gram soli! A tek kako nam kuća

izgleda iznutra a tako i spolja, ko ni u kog, pa

me stid naroda što je tak’a neokrečena, a ti

nećeš da kupiš kreča da je okrečimo.

I tako svakog dana, probi mužu glavu

neprestano zanovijetajući: te treba, Ahmo,

ovo, te treba, Ahmo, ono... Kad mu njeni

prijekori prekipe, a on pokuša da smiri tenzije,

snižavajući ton, nastojeći pritom da bude što

uvjerljiviji:

– Znam, ženo, znam. Sve ja to znam i

vidim, ali šta vrijedi kad nemamo ni prebijene

pare u kući! Pa neće niko da zovne ni na

dnevnicu, a ni da mu kakav poslićak uradim.

Svi se stvrdli ko ćerpič. Sve sami škrtac, i

begovi, i age, i gazde, i skriveni kulaci... Sve

sami Čifut i cicija, ko da će sve na onaj svijet

ponijeti!

A ovamo u sebi misli: “Ehej, ženice moja,

Safice moja slatka, ta, ko ne bi volio kupit’ i

čizme malom, i jular kobili, i so, i kreč, i grablje,

eh, njih si zaboravila, a eno ih, sve istruhle i

zupci poispadali, već li je ostao samo jedan što

liči na babin zub, a grablje na babinu vilicu? A

tek banane! Ih, što sam se uželio lijepih, žutih,

krušnih banana!” Ahmet je toliko volio banane

da kad ih se sjeti, duboko uzdahne od želje da

ih ima, iza zuba mu poteče

bistra voda, a na usta

pocure sve same sline,

dok zamišlja njihov

božanstveni okus. “Ženo,

ženice mila, sve je to

važno i potrebito, ali

banane, banane... Banane

su ti, bolan,

naaajpotrebitije. Eto, šta

bi insan u životu bez

banana, haj, šta bi? Ovaj

život bez njih ne bi vrijedio ni pet para. Ni pet

para!”

A žena nije mogla znati o čemu Ahmet

tako često sanjari već pomisli kako on sjedeći

u kući neće dočekati da mu neko dođe na noge

i zovne ga da mu šta uradi, pa pođe kroz selo

pitajući imućnije seljane treba li im radnik za

muške ili ženske poslove. I našlo se nekoliko

hanuma kojima je trebalo urediti ili okrečiti

kuću, oprati veš ili zasijati rasad u bašči.

Također, nekoliko imućnijih domaćina reče da

im je potreban neko ko bi im pocijepao drva za

ogrjev, zatim prevezao sijena iz polja za stočnu

ishranu te iskrčio živice po njivama. Sva

radosna Safa se vrati kući, ispriča sve Ahmetu


28


i oni se u taj čas dadoše na posao. Radeći tako

danima, zaradili su, Boga mi, finih parica,

taman toliko koliko im je bilo potrebito za

najnužnije stvari, i još malo da i pretekne u

kućni budžet za crne dane ili za: ne daj, Bože,

zlu ne trebalo! Usto su hanume, zadovoljne

čestito obavljenim poslom, još i darivale Safu:

koja sapunom điritom, koja čankom

kukuruznog brašna, koja s malo graha, a njoj,

bogme, zauhar, da se koji dan preživi,

očekujući neka bolja vremena, a koja, nažalost,

nikako da dođu.

– E, sad se, čovo, ne možeš izmotavati

kako nemamo novca da bi kupio to što nam je

najnužnije; nego, sutra je

petak, put pod noge pa

pravac u Tešanj, na pijacu.

Jesi l’ zapamtio šta sam ti

sve rekla da trebaš kupiti?

– Kako, bona, ne bih

zapamtio? Ta ponovila si

to makar sto puta! Ma, šta

sto, jesi, vala, i hiljadu

puta, i lud bi zapamtio

denali ne bih ja ‘vako

pametan. Ko Tito. Uh, šta

rekoh; nemoj, ženo, da neko za ovo sazna, ni za

živu glavu. Uh, ne dao Bog, pa da zaglavim u

prdekani. Jali na Golom otoku! Uh!...

– Eh, moj Ahmo, jest da si pametan, al’

malo si plaho prećerao. Da barem reče kao

Ranković, il’ kao Đilas, de li, de li... Al’ đe’š rijet’

kao naš voljeni Tito?! Jerbo ‘nak’e pameti

nejma na dunjaluku. ‘Nak’og čojka majka više

ne rađa!

– Jami ba, Safo, ne budali. I on prdi kao i

svi mi, samo što je 'nako... malo previše izvikan

i napuhan da ga se neprijatelji boje, a da narod

prema njemu osjeća strahopoštovanje, kao

prema kakvom božanstvu, eto sad, pa to ti je.

A ti mene prijavi, ako ti nije žao.

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– Haj’ ba, Ahmo, ne benavi. Đe bih ja tebe

prijavila... Nego, nemoj sutra slučajno da bi

gledao one tamo tešanjske koke, one nacifrane

tešanjske frajle. Ehej, sve ću ja čuti, beli!

– E, gledat ću, dašta nego da ću gledat’. Pa

neću, valjda, hodati zavezanih očiju?! Il’ ćeš ti

ić’ sa mnom pa me vodati kao slijepca, da nam

se svijet smije.

– Smiješ ti gledati ‘nako, preda se, da ne

bi udario na drugog insana jal’ na hajvana, jal’

u banderu. Ali frajlice gledat’... E, to se ne igraj

živom glavom!

Smjehuljeći se u sebi, Ahmo pomisli: “Sva

sreća pa ti nećeš bit’ sa

mnom, jer voli Ahmo

napariti oči na kakvoj

mladoj i lijepoj curi jal’

snaši nego večerati, samo

ako li je večera bez

banana. Jer, banane,

banane... Ah, te čarobne

banane!“

Sajo je redovno

petkom posjećivao

tešanjsku pijacu, a Ahmo

samo po potrebi i,

uglavnom, ako bi imao novca. Zato on ode kod

Saje da se dogovore kako bi zajedno putovali,

naravno, pješice, jer je mnogo ugodnije u

društvu negoli sam. Sajo je, kao i obično, ponio

da proda malo mliječnih proizvoda: koji sir,

kajmaka, dvije-tri litre mlijeka..., dok je Ahmo

nosio korpu od pletenog pruća, napunjenu

kokošijim jajima. Sajo priča o proljetnim

radovima, osobito o sjetvi kukuruza, i već su

na ulazu u Jelah, kad ti njega Ahmo prekide

pitanjem:

– Eto, Sajo, ti si ‘vako pametan, što bi se

reklo, svjetski čojk i znaš svašta. Reci mi je l’

istina da su banane zdrave, da su pune njakvih

mintamina, tako kazuju dokturi, belćim?


29


– Dašta neg’ su zdrave, kao i svako voće.

Nego, otkud ti sad to, mislim, da me pitaš to, za

banane?!

– Ma, nako ja nešto mislim. Slučajno mi

naumpalo pa rekoh da pitam.

Kad su bili u Jevadžijama, prvom selu

nakon Jelaha, sustiže ih Meho Skrozo, kočijaš

iz Drinčića, s konjskom zapregom. Prevozio je

narod na pijacu, ali su zaprežna kola bila

poluprazna te on zaustavi konje i pozva:

– Bujrum, ljudi, u kola, da ne idete pješke.

Poznavajući dobro kočijaša, Ahmo i Sajo

povikaše skoro uglas:

– Fala ti, Mehaga,

nismo nešto pri parama!

– Ama, ljudi, je l’ vas

neko pitao za pare? Meni

je u Tešanj, s vama il’ bez

vas. A ne vozim ja kola već

konji.

Bilo je rano jutro,

lijepo, vedro, proljetno.

Početak aprila. Travica se

pogdjegdje zazelenjela,

ptičice se rascvrkutale i

raspjevale, radujući se valjda lijepom danu i

proljeću. Tad Sajo opet povede razgovor, ali

ovaj put o stočnoj ishrani i kako su sijena

skupa, a stoka, i napose telad, jako jeftina.

Ahmet uopće nije pratio šta mu rođak priča pa

će ti, onako iznebuha, provaliti:

– Je l’ ba, Sajo, je l’ de da su majmuni

onako zdravi, živahni i spretni što vole da jedu

banane?

Jaran ga pogleda sumnjičavo i odvali,

malo ljutito:

– A što, ti bi, bezbeli, volio da postaneš

majmun?! Pa jednom smo bili i nemoj, bogati,

da se ponovo vraćamo na isto!

– Ma, ne, ne... Ja to samo ‘nako...

– A šta ‘š ti kupovat’? – upita Sajo.

– Aha... pa kupit ću uglavnom dosta

banana i još tamo nekih sitnica.

Jaran ga ponovo pogleda začuđeno:

– Hm, sve se nema, sve se nema, a ‘vamo

se ima i za luksuz, moj dragi! A šta će tebi tolike

banane, ako nije tajna?

– Ah, znaš kako ti je, teke se para

zaradilo, prodat ću i jaja pa da obradujem

čeljad bananama. Valja kupiti Ramici, bezbeli i

Safi, a malo, vala, i ja da se primrsim, radi reda.

Sajo, ponovo ne shvatajući Ahmeta, samo

zaklima glavom i zašutje.

Silazili su niz Krndiju,

ulazeći u sami Tešanj, kad

Ahmet zamoli jarana:

– De, Sajo,

zahmetile, ako ja

zaboravim, kad dođemo u

Tešanj, napomeni me da

kupim banana, a ostalog

ću se lahko sjetiti.

– Hoću, hoću,

napomenut ću te... Pa zar

ne vidiš da si u Tešnju?! I kako ćeš zaboraviti

kupiti banana kad ni o čemu drugom i ne

pričaš od kako smo ono krenuli od kuće?

Pošto su na pijaci rasprodali šta su

prodati imali, dva jarana krenuše da pokupuju

što im treba pa da idu kući, opet pješke, jakako,

ne bi li im tako u džepu ostao koji dinar.

Šetajući gradom, naiđoše pored jedne

prodavnice u čijem izlogu Ahmo ugleda lijepe

žute banane, žute kao ćilibar. Sav sretan reče

rođaku:

– Stani, Boga ti, da svom Ramici kupim

banana.

I prije nego što je Sajo mogao bilo šta da


30


i prozbori, Ahmo se pomoli iz prodavnice

zalažući se slatkim bananama. A kad su došli

do sljedeće prodavnice s mješovitom robom,

Ahmo je već bio pojeo sve banane. No, ništa za

to jer je i ta prodavnica imala finih banana, da

Ahmet pored soli kupi i kilogram banana.

– Ovo za moju Safu – reče i tako krenuše

prema pijaci. A usput je mislio: “Uh, da zna

kako sam napario oči, gledajući tešanjske

gospojice. Evo ih ko findžani. Neće me, vala,

zaboliti dok sam živ.”

Ali do pijace je bilo podaleko i Ahmo ne

odolje bananama već ponovo stade jesti sve

jednu po jednu, misleći

kako će još samo ovu

pojesti i neće više te tako

dođe i do zadnje. Onda

pomisli kad je sve pojeo,

što bi i nju ostavljao. Na

kraju je nekako pojeo sve,

a da to Sajo nije ni

primijetio. I samo što su

stigli na pijacu, Ahmo

ugleda najljepše banane,

koje je ikad vidio iako je

vjerovatno da mu se tako

samo učinilo. Odmah kupi pregršt banana, i to

koje je sam probrao, pa stade halapljivo da

jede, baš kao da mu je danas prva. Na to Sajo

primijeti:

– A ti pojeo i Ramine i Safine banane, što

sad i te jedeš, što ne poneseš njima?!

– E, ono su bile njihove rede, a ovo je sad

moja reda, a ja svoju redu ne prepuštam

nikome.

Dok je tako jeo banane, sve je kore bacao

preda se. Jedući zadnju, primijeti kako su kod

jednog prodavca ostale posljednje grablje pa

se uplaši da ih ko ne kupi i da tako ostane bez

grabalja. Istog časa htjede da potrči, gledajući

samo u grablje, te ti tako stade na kore od

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

banana, noga mu se pokliznu, a on se ispruži

na kaldrmisanu podlogu koliki je dug. Cijela

pijaca se grohotom zatresla od smijeha, a njega

bilo stid ustati i svijetu pogledati u oči. Pa sve

da je i htio, nije mogao bez Sajine pomoći jer je

pao čelom na kamen i pritom zaradio čvorugu,

gotovo kolika je šaka. Uz Sajinu pomoć nekako

ustade, jaran mu maramicom obrisa krv, a

njemu se mantalo u glavi da je morao sjesti na

obližlju klupu, kako bi ponovo došao sebi. Za

sve to vrijeme prodavači i mušterije nisu mu

se prestajali smijati, a u ušima su mu

odzvanjale njihove riječi, koje je slušao dok je

bespomoćno ležao na kaldrmi: “Aferim,

ljudino!” “Ponovi, delijo!”

“Ustani, pa jope’!...” Čim se

malo oporavi, Ahmet

ustade pa praćen

podrugljivim pogledima i

smijehom kupi nesretne

grablje, Rami čizmice,

kobili jular i kreč za

osvježenje i uljepšavanje

kuće. A kad pogleda u

novčanik, a on prazan.

Onda zamoli Saju:

– Sajo, Boga ti, pozajmi mi jednu stoju.

Vratit ću ti čim prije.

– Pa eto, sve si pokupovao, i što će ti

stoja?!

– Hoću da ponesem Rami i Safi banana.

– A sebi, zar nećeš ponijeti i sebi?

– Hoću! – reče ljutito. – Sebi ću ponijeti

ovu čvorugu na čelenjki, koju sam i zaslužio.

Otad je Ahmet zamrzio banane, baš kao

birvaktile ptice, dok je bio mali dječak. Nikad

više banane nije htio ni okusiti. A ako bi ih

negdje ugledao, okretao bi glavu, gadeći ih se,

kao da je ugledao nečastivog, šejtana.


31


essay 31-35

Loreta Toader

În căutarea luminii

Am fugit, am fugit cu toată ființa mea

încercând să-ajung gândurile din urmă.

Viața mă izbea biciuindu-mi sufletul.

Respirul mi-era spintecat de loviturile atâtor

cuvinte durute și neînțelese.

Alergam… alergam fără să aud, fără să

văd; nu mai simțeam, nu mai știam dacă miera

cald sau frig, nici de mi-era zi sau de mi-era

noapte…picioarele nu mă mai ascultau iar

mâinile, mâinile încercau

să se agațe de acel ceva

încă nedefinit.

Doar ochii îmi

cercetau sufletul

întrebând: mai poți?!!!…

N-am știut să

răspund așa cum n-am

știut câtă durere și câte

lacrimi am strâns în gând.

Am obosit. M-am

oprit din alergat mergând

cu pași repezi spre niciunde. În mine ploaia își

revărsa boabele-i de jad rescriind povestea

unei noi renașteri… am adormit pe iarba udă;

gândurile mi-au poposit pe verdele crud al

primăverii insuflându-mi tinerețea pierdută

cândva… inima a început să bată încet, liniștit

– zbuciumul ei a rămas undeva în trecut- un

trecut greu înțeles, aproape inuman – acum

uitat.

Simt o căldură benefică- ploaia s-a oprit;

soarele îmi mângâie fața scăldată de lacrimi

iar curcubeul îmi pictează sufletul

regenerându-i sentimentele.

Am deschis ochii și m-am pierdut în

albastru – un albastru divin, imperial-

albastrul ochilor tăi, Doamne…

M-am înveșmântat în verdele renașterii

pe care mi l-ai oferit a doua oară.

Am început să alerg andante prin viață

percepând lumina în fiecare culoare a

existenței sale: rece, caldă, neutră, difuză pe

sufletul și gândurile mele ce țipau libertate…

Bill Stokes

pictură – Alexandru Darida

Drum

Life is the ultimate tapestry woven on a

loom as the shuttle moves

back and forth on the

warp leaving tiny bits of

thrum

And the shuttle is

the metronome of our life

as it beats out both

cadence and rhythm and

is by far all of creation’s

most most exquisite

drum.

Thread by thread

the history of your life is

recorded by your soul’s shuttle

And at the end of your mortal journey

and standing at the bar of justice your warp’s

documentation with either gain you eternal

glory or force you to into outer darkness with

a wailing scuttle.

Just as there are no to souls exactly the

same The drum beat of your life is the the beat

of your heart that only the love of Christ can

tame.

Both drums and hearts can have beats

both loud and soft as a baby’s cheek and when

your heart belongs to your eternal mate and

when their breath gently caresses your face

you truly can understand that heaven on earth


32


is the prize we all seek.

Life is the ultimate tapestry woven on

loom as the shuttle moves back and forth on

the warp leaving tiny bits of thrum and the

shuttle is the metronome of our life as it beats

out both cadence and rhythm and is by far all

of creation’s most most exquisite drum.

Santosh Kumar-Bhutan

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

Harmonythat never was

How keenly I feel to see, all are gone for

their family god, Never, even a lonely finger for

pointing or boasting, In

solidarity, they walk with

the bannerof lofty

mankind, No colors to see

and no races to protect

aside from harmony,

Within, with common

goals of peace to emerge

all at once.

Now, the brilliant

day draws near, I can see

the striking sinking star,

Simply over, the

nightingale and the skylark join together, In

prospect, the falconer cheers, hearing the

peace train whistle, The melody of the upper

waves, so joyful in tone, With hope, which has

never been with every lack of worry.

The cord of humanity, in the minds of

individuals, rested, All around thesquare,

recitingoneness being, No more conteni pt in

sight, no more selfishness in feeling, All

together, with divine ideas to paint the tomb,

Forever, to allow it to sparkle in harmony that

never was.

Ryszard Mścisz

Groza śnieżnej nocy

[Horror of the Snowy Night]

Śnieg za oknami przystrajał krajobraz

świąteczną bielą. Ozdobionym puchem

gałęziom drzew widocznie nie było tak lekko,

skoro kłaniały się ziemi pokornie i czołobitnie.

Ja również nie czułem misternej lekkości

ducha Święta Narodzin. Już tego nie czułem.

Wciskanie do oczu śnieżnego bałwana

węgielnych kamieni zdało

mi się torturą. A wesołe

dzieci zdawały się mieć

diabelskie ogniki w

oczach. Pomyśleć, że

jeszcze

wczoraj

widziałbym to samo

zupełnie inaczej.

Wczoraj był taki

sam zimowy wieczór. Z

nostalgią zimy w

otulinach śniegu, lekkim

przymrozkiem, który nie odstrasza i nie więzi

w ogrzanych domach, ale pozwala wejść w

otwartą księgę nocy w towarzystwie

rozgwieżdżonego nieba. Gdy wyszedłem z

domu było tak spokojnie i cicho, na

opustoszałych ulicach tylko pojedyncze cienie

przemykały w świetle latarni. Oddaliłem się

od ostatnich domów z oświetlonymi oknami,

wszedłem w mroczną tajemnicę drzew

oswojonych – zdawałoby się – jasnością

śniegu. Wydawało mi się, że w braterskiej

ciszy natury mogę być chwilę sam na sam ze

sobą. To tak rzadki w życiu luksus, cudowny

paradoks życia: wśród natury bywamy sobą,

wnikamy w siebie – wśród ludzi prowadzimy


33


grę, zakładamy maskę jak w antycznym

teatrze. Zdawałoby się, że każdego stać na ten

luksus, chwile prawdy. A jednak łatwiej o

sukces, pozycję towarzyską, nawet materialny

dobrobyt niż o nie. Czy jesteśmy zbyt zajęci,

zaaferowani wypełnianiem schematu życia...?

A może boimy się owych odkryć samotności,

prawdy o sobie, której wobec natury nie

jesteśmy w stanie zakłamać...

Lekkie skrzypienie kroków, delikatny

trzask gałęzi wyrwał mnie z zadumy. A więc

nie jestem sam? No cóż, chwila samotności

skończyła się – może moja samotność zbratała

się z samotnością innego

człowieka i przestała nią

być. A może po prostu

dana mi była tylko ta

ulotna chwila w

zbiorowej formie życia...?

Nagle ujrzałem cień, który

ów hałas stworzył. Cień

nie był imponująco

wielki, ale zarazem

niepokojący nad wyraz.

Niepokojący, bo...

nieludzki. Zdawało mi się,

że nieforemna, olbrzymia głowa wyrastająca z

niewielkiego tułowia unieruchomiła mnie

zupełnie. Odczułem intuicyjnie jakąś

przewagę intelektu, pozaczasowej mądrości,

która obezwładnia, odbiera rację bytu,

przytłacza... To coś ma wiele odnóg, kończyn,

a może macek, które gotowe mnie opleść i

zgnieść w każdej chwili. Usłyszałem głos,

raczej dźwięk, który tajemnicza istota wydała.

Zdawał się rozbrzmiewać od wewnątrz,

wydobywać z mojej głowy. Być może nie

istniała żadna zewnętrzna postać głosu. Ale

nie był na tyle wyraźny, bym był w stanie go

zrozumieć. A raczej nie mógł się od razu

przebić przez jakąś warstwę psychiki, która go

blokowała. Przeczucie o istnieniu odpowiedzi,

odzewu na hasło, które ów głos z sobą niesie,

towarzyszyło mi bezustannie. Byłem o krok od

jasności. Bądź o krok za nią. To jakiś język, kod,

który prawie znałem, mogłem odkryć. Nie

wiedziałem, czy był mi znany w jakimś

odległym kiedyś, czy może to pewien wariant

języka, który znam od zawsze...

To zaczęło iść w moim kierunku.

Tajemnica językowego szyfru przegrała z

gwałtownym lękiem. Te nieskoordynowane

ruchy, kroki zdały mi się groźne, skierowane

przeciwko mnie – nie do

mnie. Próbowałem się

ruszyć. Raz, drugi... Ani

siła mięśni, ani siła woli

nie była mi posłuszna.

Strach rósł wraz z

malejącą odległością

między mną a tym... Było

coraz groźniejsze, coraz

bardziej odrażające – w

naszych ziemskich

kategoriach. Coraz

bardziej odmienne od

wszystkiego, co dotąd widziałem... mimo że

nie w pełni widoczne. Wreszcie udało się,

mogłem zrobić ruch, parę kroków... mogłem

biec. Starałem się wykorzystać całą moją

szybkość; całą szybkość mięśni i strachu...

Dobiegłem do pierwszej zaspy śniegu i

przesadziłem ją błyskawicznie. Coś

podpowiadało mi, że nie mogę biec wprost

przed siebie, zwykłą drogą. Że muszę kluczyć,

uskakiwać, byle przybliżać się do znajomych

miejsc, do domu. Nie mogłem się oglądać za

siebie. Nie potrafiłem. Czułem jednak to na

pewno. To jest blisko, jest szybkie, bardzo

szybkie. Nie chciałem wiedzieć jak wygląda,


34


choć światła wyłaniających się latarni

pozwoliłyby poznać część tajemnicy. Nie

chciałem wzrokiem sprawdzić jak jest szybkie,

jak się porusza. Wiedziałem, czułem, że koszt

zetknięcia się z tajemnicą może być zbyt

wysoki. Byłem już bardzo blisko, ale i ono

powoli choć nieznacznie przybliżało się.

Chyba czułem ten poryw szybkości,

wzlatujący pod jego krokami śniegowy puch.

Jeszcze tylko kilkadziesiąt kroków,

kilkanaście, kilka... Kiedy czułem zniewalający

oddech owej istoty na plecach, dopadłem

bramy, potem drzwi od domu. Zamknąłem

drzwi za sobą, mocno

przytrzymałem i na

chwilę przywarłem do

nich. Rozejrzałem się z

niepokojem po oknach,

ciemnych ścianach

mieszkania.

Dopiero po

godzinie zaświeciłem

światło, usiadłem w

fotelu. Cisza była zbyt

niepokojąca, pustka

zdawała się krzyczeć we

mnie. Włączyłem telewizor. Chyba program

już się skończył, ale pozostał szum, tak

potrzebny mi w tym momencie szum... Po

chwili jednak zdało mi się, że słyszę głos. Tak,

spoza niego wyraźnie dobiegał głos... Na tyle

wyraźnie... Nie, musiałem się przesłyszeć... A

jednak ciągle słyszę to samo. Ten głos.

Podobny do tamtego, a przecież zrozumiały,

ludzki.

- Mogłem cię dogonić. Gdybym chciał,

dogoniłbym cię...! Ty wiesz o tym dobrze!

confabulation 36-46

Lenuș Lungu

Un grande poeta, critico

letterario, umanista di fama

mondiale

Jawaz Jaffri è un poeta in cui scolpisce le

sue creazioni in una montagna di parole e

veste la bellezza di una materia sensibile da

cui emette i suoi sentimenti. L'idea del poeta

ne illustra l'intensità e dà una forte risonanza

dove dipinge le parole in un mare di colori

presentando il quadro poetico. Attraverso le

sue opere ci dà molta

sensibilità, amore,

sensazione di relax e pace.

In un mondo di poesia

letteraria in cui la

scrittura si muove

vertiginosamente verso i

sentimenti, Jawaz rimane

autentico, un poeta che

sceglie di esprimere stati

attraverso le parole, ma le

emozioni continuano a

fiorire, idee per far

nascere idee. Leggendo i

testi di Jawaz, sono riusciti a farmi conoscere

una vibrazione di metafore ed epiteti che

cercano di trasmettere il messaggio delle

parole. Riesce a catturare in modo sfumato

l'universo invisibile degli stati d'animo. Offri ai

lettori versi che fanno vibrare le corde delle

anime attraverso la penna ardente. Offre ai

lettori un universo lirico pieno di simboli in

uno stile unico, restituendo maestria alle

persone. Non smette mai di stupire i lettori,

formando una simbiosi e un'armonia assoluta.

Il classico si fonde con successo con le

caratteristiche della poesia moderna. Il lettore

viene così catturato nella rete di Jawaz che si

trasforma da autore nell'io di chi legge,

filtrando le sue idee, i suoi punti di vista,

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198


35


prestando i suoi occhi a vedere il mondo come

lo vede l'autore. Resta da leggere la poesia e

ritrovarsi lì, tra i versi della poesia. La forma

dell'anima nel suo fulgido splendore,

sensazioni varie che accrescono il mistero

della poesia e la tensione del vivere.

L'amore per la pace è il sentimento

edificante che si manifesta nel cuore di ogni

uomo. Tutto è semplice e complesso, allo

stesso tempo naturale e deciso, sembra fluire

con naturalezza, ma l'occhio sensibile e la fine

intuizione del poeta coglie la poesia

essenziale, come in uno stop-frame che cattura

uno stato d'animo, un momento unico che

l'amore della pace, della luce lo chiama sempre

per regalare il suo piccolo

recital di bellezza a chi

vuole e può sentire questo

splendore. Leggendo i

testi del poeta, mi sono

ricordato dell'aforisma di

Tudor Arghezi: Il vero

libro di un poeta penso sia

uno, purché unico, perché

la definizione di un poeta

che pubblica un buon

libro è in due parole:

talento ed energia. La

poesia è percepita esattamente come viene

mostrata, con tutta la trasparenza di un'anima.

È consapevole e comprende il rapporto

profondo e sacro che gli scrittori sviluppano

con la poesia, ma non nega il suo diritto di

sperare che la bellezza debba essere

evidenziata.

società, il rapporto tra scienza e letteratura, musica

classica e altre arti visive. Ha una vasta collezione di

librerie di musica classica. Una considerevole biblioteca

di libri è disponibile nel suo studio, il che è evidente nel

suo gusto letterario. Molte delle sue poesie sono state

tradotte dall'International Center for Poetry

Translation and Research, Cina. Scrive contro la guerra,

il suo libro "Mout Ka Haath Kalaie Per Hey" è stato

tradotto come "Il polso negli artigli della morte" da

Muhammad Shanazar, poeta e traduttore pakistano. Le

poesie di questo libro sono anche tradotte in molte altre

principali lingue del mondo e anche nelle lingue locali

(Punjabi, Pashto, Sindhi e Hindko). Ha contribuito con

altri libri di poesia contro la guerra in urdu intitolati

"Main Laam di Janj da Lahda han", che è stato tradotto

da Harpreet Kaur e pubblicato in India da Nawi Dunia

Publishers, Punjab, India. Ha scritto articoli su celebrità

letterarie internazionali come

Pablo Neruda, Toni Morrison,

T.S Eliot, Seamus Heaney, Jan-

Paul Sartre, Charles

Baudelaire, Tolstoy, Franz

Kafka, Kinza Br O, Gabriela

Mistral, Salima Langrof, Harry

Sinclair e Lu Xun., Il grande

scrittore della Cina classica è

stato pubblicato sul quotidiano

Jang e Nawa-i-Waqt. Quasi 20

libri sono al suo attivo come

scrittore, gli è stato conferito il

prestigioso

Premio

Presidenziale del Pakistan

(The National Human Rights

Award, 2016). Inoltre, il Presidential Award (National

Human Rights Award, 2016) ha ricevuto il premio

Special Shield for Peace dal Ministero dei diritti umani

2017 (Pakistan), Quid-e-Azam Gold Medal (2015),

Asian Cultural Association Award (2017) , Harf

Academy Awards (Quetta) e molti altri premi da tutti i

simposi inter-collegiali in Pakistan e concorsi di oratori

durante il periodo accademico. È membro della

Pakistan Writers Guild, Pakistan, Pakistan Academy of

Il Dr. AZADAR HUSSAIN JAWAz (Pseudonimo Dr. Letters, Islamabad, Halqa-e-Arbab-e-Zauq, Pakistan,

Jawaz Jaffri) è nato a Toba Tek Singh (Punjab, Pakistan) Drama Scrutiny Committee, Punjab Arts Council,

l'8 aprile 1964. Ha conseguito il dottorato. in letteratura Lahore e Adabi Baithak, Lahore Arts Council, Lahore.

urdu presso l'Università del Punjab, Lahore, nel 2006. Era anche il presidente della Sherani Society, Govt.

Attualmente è professore presso Govt. Lahore College College, Sheikhupura, President of the Urdu Society,

of Science, era presidente del dipartimento di urdu al Oriental College, Lahore, Honorary Editor Husn-e-Byan

Govt. MAO College, Lahore. Ha un profondo interesse Monthly Quarterly Magazine, Karachi and Honorary

per la scrittura creativa, la critica, la poesia, la scrittura Editor Monthly Magazine G News, Great Gran Bretagna.

drammatica, la scrittura di colonne, lo studio comparato Le sue opere principali consistono in poesia, Dehleez pe

delle religioni, le prospettive storiche e culturali della Aankhain, Muthi Mein Tera Wada Khawab, Maut ka


36


Hath Kalai par Hai, Mohabat khasara naheen, Umr-e-

Rawan sey parey, Wrist in the Clutches of Death, Mera

Dil Fakhta da Ahlna ay, Main Laam di Janj da Lardha han,

Vasal say Khali Din, Mutbadil Dunia ka Khawb,

Chiraghon se Bhari Galliyan, Asaan Sufny Sahvey rakhey

e Ik Hijr Jo Ham Ko Lahaq Hai (Lettere) che sono

ampiamente lette dagli amanti della poesia. I suoi

documenti di ricerca includono Urdu Adab Europe Aur

America Mein, Iqbal Sajid Bataur Ghazal Go, Urdu Adab

Europe Aur America Mein, Urdu ki Qadeem Bastian,

Khaak se Uthny wala Fun, Urdu afsaane ka Maghribi

Dareecha, Urdu Ghazal ka Maghrabi Daricha,

Tassawarat, ( Tehqiqi gold Tanqidi Mazamean), Asasa

(Compilato da) Il primo libro poetico del famoso poeta

Iqbal Sajid, Kulyat-e-Iqbal Sajid, Iqbal Sajid: Shakhsiat

gold Fan e Kuliyat-e-Ustad Daman. Hs articoli Bartanvi

Danese Gahon Meinn Urdu Tadrees Ki Riwayat, Khak

say Uthnay Wala Fann, Europe

Aur America Mein Urdu Zaban

ka Mustaqbil, Urdu Zaban kay

Europi Shoara, Mashriq

Shanasi ki Rawait aur German

Mustashreqeen, Arab Dunya ka

Pehla Jang Mukhalifare Shayer

aur Takhliqi Zaaviey, Classiki

Mausiqi: Dhurpad Say Khayal

tak, Lahore ki Adabi Rawait

Mein Qahwa Khanon ka

Kirdar`` Classiki Mausiqi mein

Gharaney ka Tasawar, Classiki

Mausiqi kay Pakistani

Gharaney, Bar-e-Sagheitdu

Khanon ka Kirdar`` Classiki

Mausiqi mein Gharaney ka Tasawar, Classiki Mausiqi

kay Pakistani Gharaney, Bar-e-Sagheitdu Janibal Mein

Syah Sulagta Sigret, Information Technology aur Kitab

ka Mustaqbil, Maghrabi Tarz-e-Ahsas aur Is Kay

Tashkili Anasir, Europe Aur America Kay Urdu Nazm

Nigar, Kainati Shaur ky, Javed Shaheen Aik Ta'aruf,

Shaeri, Science aur Falsafa, Tarikeen- e-Watan ki Nai

Nasl aur Urdu ka Mustaqbil, Tarkeen-e-Watan ki Shaeri

par Tanhai aur Begangi Kay Asraat, Tarkeen-e-Watan ki

Shaeri aur Maghrabi Tarz-e-Ehsaas, Mout k Ghaat

Utarty Mizamir, Nars lon se aati Awazen, Saazon ka

Jahan, Taar k Saazon ka Bawa Adam, Urdu Afsaane ma

Kahani ki wapsi e Europe aur America k Urdu Nazam

Nigaar sono stati pubblicati in diverse riviste di ricerca

nazionali e internazionali. È l'autore delle serie

drammatiche Dastak Na Do, Adh Khula Darwaza,

Suragh, Teesri Aankh, Faisla, Shart e Painda. Ha anche

ospitato programmi televisivi come Marsia Gold Karbla,

Naat Go, Bahattar Aik Taaruf.

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Jawaz Jaffri

Il mio cuore è il nido di colomba

Dal dottor

Il vento,

Venendo dal campo di battaglia,

Si riversa nelle mie orecchie,

Il nitrito dei cavalli.

Le tombe collettive,

Stanno per invadere le mie città;

E i venditori di bare,

Guarda i nostri corpi giovani e freschi

Con occhi avidi.

Il ragno della morte è

impegnato,

Nel tessere la ragnatela

della mia vittima.

Oh! Becchini,

Elimina la fame diffusa

Dai tuoi cortili,

Perché c'è trambusto

Nel cimitero.

Venire!

Protestiamo sulle strade

Contro la guerra;

I miei lettori sii mio testimone,

Non ho macchiato la mia penna

Con gli inni delle guerre,

La mia identità,

Sono le canzoni di pace

Le mie canzoni stanno scavando le radici delle

guerre,

Perché il mio cuore è il nido di colomba.

Una breve biografia letteraria


37


Review

"The night will pass without

miracles" by Daniele Vaienti

The night will pass without miracles by

Daniele Vaienti (Edizioni del Faro 2019 -

Series "Sonar. Words and voices" directed by

Paolo Agrati) is the debut book of the poet and

performer active in the circuit of slam and

acting poetry, dictated by tenacity free and

eager, rhythmic descriptive in a sound trend

that takes root in the sharp and dramatic

measure of humanity celebrated as "a group of

street children talking

about the end of the

world" (Jack Kerouac).

The verses seek the

existence of familiarity

and reanalyze the private,

everyday and simple

expressions common to

emotional confessions

that reveal the comforting

refuge of any ideological

and practical, tangible

and autobiographical experience. The

diffusion of poetry is the existential magnetic

recording engraved on material resistant to

the wear and tear of time.

The distortion of concrete and carnal

visions (a photo, cigarettes, autumn) allows us

to imagine a dream and real license, in which

life is the communicative passage of what is

written with passion and for our own

happiness. Daniele Vaienti's hypnotic and

confidential writing is a benevolence of

intoxication, in mastering an experience in

which the close and incisive technique and

joke praises a sentimental autonomy that

torments the unpredictability and

contradictions of affections, the obstacles of

despair in their allusive depth.

The intensity written beyond the lines

follows the detachment from conventional

poetics and feeds on literary improvisation by

involving the emotional symbols of the

theatrical magic vortex, accompanying, in each

comment, the poet's emotional resources.

The poet exists in the present instant,

releasing the ambush of nostalgia and memory

in the free vibrations of feelings.

The texts capture the inviolability of

love, against the inevitable defeat of the world

and the laceration of its constraints and urge

the need for a new

conception of happiness,

of salvation towards the

call to authentic life and

the complicity of the

moment.

The discovery of the

self, of the thought

absolved by prejudices, of

human values, of the

collective consciousness

is the goal of a complete

poetic affinity with the

individual journey towards a task towards

hope.

The artistic need arises from a desire for

freedom of expression, vital dynamism, and

through the investigation in the sense of good,

it includes the universality of the content and

the intimate research of the whole.

Here are some poems from The Night Will

Pass Without Miracles...


38


It's about learning

to exist

without pretending

that is.

It happens, be

careful

do not fall.

I smile blankly

counting trains

lost and lost for

to be able to forget

absent voice that

he raised the volume of

silence by a notch

The autumn

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Nothing else

That silence

What should I do

with this

wet autumn,

which is scary

all wrong

as my score

in the fall of this year,

who took the smile out of town on

which we embraced out of necessity,

because it's cold outside

and you can't smoke inside

There it is

this fall

what to do with it

Sherzod Artikov

Sherzod Artikov was born in 1985 in

Marghilan city of Uzbekistan. He graduated from

Ferghana Polytechnic Institute in 2005. His works

are more often published in the domestic press of

the Republic. He mainly writes stories and essays.

His first book, The Autumn’s Symphony, was

released in 2020. He is one of the winners of the

national literary contest “My Pearl Country” in the

category of prose. His works appeared in such

Russian and Ukraine network magazines as

"Camerton", "Topos", "Autograph". In addition, his

stories were published in the literary magazines

and websites of Kazakhstan,

USA, Serbia, Montenegro,

Turkey, Bangladesh,

Pakistan, Egypt, Slovenia,

Germany, Greece, China,

Peru, Saudi Arabia, Mexico,

Argentine, Spain, Italy,

Bolivia, Costa Rica, Romania

and India.

* * *

Sherzod Artikov

urodził się w 1985 roku w

mieście Margilan w

Uzbekistanie. W 2005 roku

ukończył Instytut Politechniczny w Ferganie.

Cieszy się rosnącą popularnością w swojej

ojczyźnie. Pisze głównie opowiadania i eseje. Jego

pierwsza książka Symfonia jesieni ukazała się w

2020 roku. Jest jednym z laureatów

ogólnokrajowego konkursu literackiego „Mój

perłowy kraj” w kategorii proza. Jego teksty

ukazały się w rosyjskich i ukraińskich

czasopismach internetowych, takich jak

"Camerton", "Topos", "Autograf". Ponadto jego

opowiadania opublikowano w czasopismach

literackich i na stronach internetowych

Kazachstanu, USA, Serbii, Czarnogóry, Turcji,

Bangladeszu, Pakistanu, Egiptu, Słowenii, Niemiec,

Grecji, Chin, Peru, Arabii Saudyjskiej, Meksyku,

Argentyny, Hiszpanii, Włoch , Boliwii, Kostaryki,

Rumunii a także Indii.


39


Lenuș Lungu

Literary review

Bhagirath Choudhary is a writer and a

valuable humanism, a soul with an inner and

outer activity. The magic of words vibrates in

sounds. With the lucidity of a vision, any

emphasis is focused exclusively on the

accuracy of absolute accuracy. Style is a

powerful dream with a poetic intonation,

unity of thought and vision. The psychology of

lyric poetry is obvious, this being an engine of

inspiration and the

existence of the poetic

hero. Poetry has a great

value and a great

appreciation from

readers and literary

critics. The poem "My

Earth Sojourn" is modern

and expresses the artist's

creative effort for a

spiritual product on the

inner states of the poetic

year, tormented by inner turmoil and turmoil.

The verses are the product of a revelation, of

divine grace:

"Evolution has given me /

A divine body ". The poem suggests

beauty, purity, light. Representative for

artistic language innovation. An artistic

modality encountered in European lyric

poetry, it offers a shocking and fascinating

expressiveness through its aesthetic effects.

Poetry is structured by unequal lyrical

sequences, artistic creed and divine grace. It

suggests the desire to express in verse the

thirst for communication and the

transmission of a message to the world. To

convey the message of divine grace. List of

fabulous items: "The wave of the false self",

"orgasm of wisdom", creates an image of great

suggestive force. The modernism of poetry is

argued by the compositional structure, the

poem is constituted in lyrical sequences, in

which the poet directly expresses his

conception of the act of creation, emphasizing

the light of the artist's condition in the world.

The lyricism in this poem confirms the

presence of the lyrical self through the lexicogrammatical

marks represented by the verbs:

"I came," "I explored." A

parable that highlights

God's grace. The

expressiveness of poetry

is realized at the

morphosyntactic level.

The words in the present

gnomy perpetuate the

structural passion for

writing, the creative

commotion and the desire

to communicate the

poetic self with the world, ideas that confer the

pragmatic character of poetry. The language is

characterized by the use of shocking words

with fascinating expressiveness, words "my

pound of flesh", "holy vicars" whose meaning

acquires new values. The stylistic registers

combine, in the modern way, the popular

language with archaic flavor with the religious

one, from this combination thus succeeding

the originality "apostle", "divine value",

"mental evolution", "the sedative of the ego".

Modern prosody is supported by lyrics with

metrics and rhythm. A literary work that is the

fruit of divine grace and toil.


40


Bhagirath Choudhary

My Earth Sojourn

I came

Upon earth

To explore

My divine worth

To learn

My lesson

With passion

And to earn

My mental evolution

Every night

Before I retire

I take stock

Of every bump

And every stroke

Every valley

And every hillock

Every start

And every stop

I flasely verify

I justify

I deny

My every falsity

And every lie

I talk like

Saintly Vicars

But I stage wars

Without mercy or grace

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For getting

My pound of flesh

With sadistic pride

Every day I write

My false narrative

Keeping firmly

Under ego's sedative

Of greed

And material race

I hide behind

Veil of false self

But not to face

My truth

And my divine self

Evolution made me

God's Image

Like a true Sage

Without any schism

I am made like

A wisdom organism

Evolution gave me

A body divine

For letting

Love and light shine

Without tools of offence

Or defence

I came

Like an apostle

Of nonviolence


41


Lenuș Lungu

"Alone on the sea shore"

Punya Devi

The sea is the one that can be identified

with the human being, because it is a symbol

of the dynamics of life. Just as man sighs, he is

troubled in the hard moments of life, just as

“the sea is troubled, it sighs, it crushes its

rushing waves of boulders, it retreats into

enigmatic waves, then returns. She struggled,

uneasy and troubled, like a titan. Everything

emerges from the sea and

everything returns to it,

because it is a place of

births, transformations

and rebirths.

The water reveals

to the poet the source,

dividing into me its color

and the rocks, giving it

strength, the sand the

warmth with gentleness

and enveloping me with

an awfully rich gratitude,

leaving for the rest of the days in memory the

perfection of its beauty.

Quiet. It's so quiet that it's starting to

heat up every part, every bone, every piece of

me.

The poem is a lyrical creation in verse, in

which a picture of nature is described, made

by combining the human-terrestrial and

universal-cosmic planes. The poet (lyrical self)

directly expresses his states, emotions,

feelings experienced in front of the painted

landscape. As artistic means, the poem

combines visual images with auditory, motor,

chromatic, olfactory images, etc., an important

role being played by artistic procedures, style

figures and coloristics of the elements that

make up the painting. Defines a painting

created by a special technique of using

discreetly applied colors, the images being

blurred, without thick touches, emanating

delicacy and tenderness. Appreciating the

beauty of the sea is, perhaps, the most

influential component of inspiration for preromantic

poets, being animated by an uplifting

love of an exaltation specific to the era in the

description of enchanting landscapes (the

sea).

The title The

Beginning is the artistic

image of the unique

moment of the meeting

between the author and

the sea. The landscape is

created by discreetly

combining the humanterrestrial

plane with the

universal-cosmic one.

From a pre-romantic

perspective,

the

description of the

landscape is made by the discreet combination

of the human-terrestrial plane with the

universal-cosmic one, made up of artistic

images and style figures. The subjective

lyricism highlighted by the presence of the

first person, authorial - in the second and third

stanzas - and the meditative note of the poetry

in the last stanza.

The poetic imaginary transfigures the

concrete reality into an artistic vision specific

to the lyrical self, whose interpretation implies

the sensitive reflection of the surrounding

world through the expressive and aesthetic

function of the word, sounds and colors. The

attraction that the landscape exerts on the


42


lyrical self is expressed by verbs in the first

person singular: "I left", "my dreams", "I look",

and the painting is dominated by motor

images, "Looking for diamonds and pearls," in

veils ”.

The chromatic epithet and descriptive

epithets, contribute to the creation of emotion

for the beauty of the landscape, elements that

constitute the plan of the object viewed by the

lyrical self. The idea is emphasized that this

poem describes not only a natural landscape,

but also a landscape of the soul, highlighting

the subjective lyricism of poetry. The attitude

of the lyrical self is

meditative, discreetly

suggesting the idea that

his thoughts are

hypnotically attracted by

the moving waves,

through the metaphor of

the flow: The waves begin

to rise /And they started

running on sticks /With

their hands ".

The lyrical self

detaches itself, as it were,

from the surrounding nature, contemplating

fascinated and frozen in admiration: "I feel

that the waves are smiling /And immediately I

started playing /hide me and seek with me "

The suggestion of the lyrical text is

illustrated by the style figures (tropes) that

compose a unique picture through beauty, a

true aesthetic ensemble made by combining

visual and motor images, provoking a strong

emotion of admiration and delight on the

reader. The expressiveness of the poem is

supported by the verbs found in the present

tense, which outline the permanence of the

dynamic aspect of the landscape ensemble.

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Punya Devi

"Alone on the sea shore"

Passing through the various levels of the sun

heated sand

Me alone on the sea shore

I am welcomed warmly

By the dazzling waves

I feel as if the waves are smiling

And immediately started

playing

hide and seek with me

Like a herd of children

They awakened in an

instant

My childhood which was

dormant

Running towards me

Touching my feet

Then going back to the

Lap or their mother sea

The waves are playing

Thieves-cops with me

For a while

Again it felt like that

The waves are starting to raise

And have started chasing the sticks

With their hands

Like our old teacher of the school

Asked me_hey girl,if you do your

Math wrong


43


You could not success in your life

What is your name

I earnestly bowed my head

To the great sea

And give my identity

In the Sea of my life

By seeking diamond and pearls

I have committed the blunder

I didn't get but met a plunder

Jumping in the tide

My dreams coming up to

me

Becoming a common

oyster

Carrying a load of an

empty house

On my back

You could not understand

what kind of nomad now I

am

But Oh my great Sea

Having seen the meeting scenery

Of many rivers in your bosom

Hearing the echoing of music of

Of the concert of unity

Flying to me from the tree of knowledge

Being a new born silver dove

I have lost myself in the

Great Sea of humanity.

Nandita De nee Chatterjee

Interview of Lenuş Lungu

Nandita: What are the current poetic

trends in Europel? Thematic and form? Does it

vary between regions?

Lenuș L: Literature evolves by force of

circumstances, it has no way to stand still. The

world we live in is evolving, the tools, the ways

we use when we write. Another is our

relationship with the text, with the sheet of

paper, I would say, but I should say with the

computer screen. There are many who

continue to write on

paper, but there are

individual options. All of

these things have

changed the literature. I

don't like the word

evolution very much,

because evolution

somehow has a

connotation that brings

the word closer to the

idea of progress. It's

changing, for sure. For

better or worse, it

remains to be seen.

40 years ago, poetry was the queen of

Romanian literature; it was an avalanche of

very good poets, being considered the golden

age itself. Romanian poetry had a privileged

status, in contrast to what was happening in

Western literatures, for example, and what is

happening now. And the relationship with the

public has changed. With the disappearance of

censorship, a number of barriers and

inhibitions have disappeared. The language of

literature has changed, it has freed itself from

the straps.

And because it translates enormously,

the reader has an extraordinarily wide range


44


of literary options at his disposal. Quality

reading, for any person, must be

indispensable. Certainly, I tell you, a book, at

the right time, can change a person. It would

be a great exaggeration to say that I am aware

of what is being written in the world now.

Now you know, after a year you see that

you are no more. I do not think that there is

"literature that is being written now", in the

sense of a coherence and consistency of

several literary formulas. The problem with

today's literature is: what books come to the

surface? For every great book, for every great

author, there are a hundred equally great

books and authors that will never reach

everyone's lips.

"Quality" literature

is on the verge of

extinction today, like

everything that is quality.

The competition it (does

not) face today comes

from various areas and is

overwhelming:

commercial literature,

non-fiction, ethics, film,

video games, the media

industry in general. The

semi-literacy state of today's societies. But

especially the political and ideological field

that distorts everything. "True" literature does

not flourish, but survives today, and its future

(like ours) is bleak.

All the more I value those who, as artists,

do not make any pact and do not enlist in any

army, but remain faithful to their beliefs and

the Western tradition in which they grew up.

You can only write out of artistic conviction,

everything you write as a militant comes out

false. You can express your ideology in articles

and posts in social media, I believe in the need

to involve the artist in world issues and, in my

clumsy and naive way, I have always been

involved. But poetry and prose should remain

free of constraints.

Nandita: What were your early

influences which made you an author/editor?

Lenuș L: I chose writing. And writing,

I've been writing since I was 10 years old.

Since then I have the first memories of this

desire. And, you will probably be surprised,

those memories are not related to prose, but

to poetry. Four verses written in blue colored

pencil on the page of a geography atlas. I wrote

for school magazines, children's magazines.

In time I also wrote prose, essays,

articles for various newspapers and

magazines. The years have passed, I have

written 6 books (poetry,

essays, interviews,

psychology, ancient

history, the founders of

the Romanian language).

My literary

influences were some

famous writers

Usually what I

dream of at night is the

day.

Nandita: What are

the themes your books

and literary work are centred on? Has it

evolved over the years or is it a continued

exploration of your initial interests and

concerns?

Lenuș L: My books focus on love,

psychology and a lot of philosophy. Yes, I think

we have evolved and it is still in continuous

exploitation. My most important concern is

the "Word." Through the originality and

diversity of the work, I hope to join the gallery

of people dedicated to Romanian culture, in

the country and everywhere in the world. I

earned this unanimous respect through

prodigious work, seriousness, study and love

for the Romanian language and literature, for

the authentic values of the nation. Culture,

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45


literature, art, are not only done on vacation,

on weekends, in free time. An exercise in total

devotion is necessary, as in true love.

The published articles serve as a mirror

of a life entirely dedicated to the Word and Art.

The word is like a clear fountain that flows

through the rocks to the valley of tears where

people live. I base my approach on solitude

and on a loving-detached look of the ambiance,

recording and communicating such an

experience in stylistic structures.

Nandita: Tell us about your two

magazines Cronos and Taifas Literary. What

are the central themes? How did they begin

and what has the journey

been like?

Lenuș L: These are

my soul magazines were

born in Constanța

(Romania) by the sea.

Together with the

members of the editorial

team, we set out to bring

culture closer to the souls

of our fellow men and to

create a community of

beauty lovers.

I can say that Cronos

and Taifas Literary Magazine invites the

reader on a journey into the world of visual

arts, prose, poetry, interviews, journals,

representing any area of culture. Writers and

artists are the bearers of the flame of the

Romanian spirit and culture, which

illuminates the way and makes the fruits of

this nation bear fruit through unconditional

dedication. I thought of the magazines as a

new representation of universal culture born

on the sea shore, where the sand spreads

under the wave through the veil that embraces

the sparkle of the water, and transforms the

shadow of the sole into letters. I thought that

on the wet shore touched by a "Golden Pen"

the wind will blow raising the word in huge

waves in an atmosphere of love for Romanian

and international literature and culture,

anchoring and making souls interested in

vibrating.

Nandita: What is the International

Literary Coffee Association about? What does

it do?

Lenuș L: I am the founder of the

Associazione Internazionale Caffe letterario is

a non-governmental association and is

founded in Italy. This association deals with

the promotion of culture and literary events in

Italy and around the world. Within this

association there is also a literary circle of

music and poetry, we

meet and debate various

literary and musical

themes. Due to the

pandemic, we stopped the

literary meeting for the

time being. I love culture,

literature is part of me

and I can't live without

them.

Nandita: What are

the projects in your hand

now and your plans for

2021?

Lenuș L: First of all, to transmit culture

in people's souls being a cultural promoter.

The project that makes me happy for 8

years I lead a campaign (good writers but they

can't afford to edit) "A writer's dream" I help

them to edit an author's book.

Yes, I have many projects from which, in

addition to the magazine, I want to publish an

Almanac "Taifas Literary Cafe" that will

contain sections from all fields. I am working

on 2 international anthologies. I have a lot of

projects and there would be a lot to write

about, but for now I will stop here. The 7th

book will be published in India.

Thank you very much!


46


Stefano Capasso

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Stabia - Quisisana,

CHURCH of SS SALVATORE and SAN

MICHEL

Pope Callixtus III, after the victory over

the Turks in Belgrade, in 1456, instituted the

feast of Christ the Savior throughout the

Church.

Monumental Church located in the hilly

area of Stabia, in the hamlet of Scanzano.

The current appearance can be traced

back to the works from the beginning of the

twentieth century, based

on a project by the parish

priest of Palmigiano;

while the decorations

were the work of

Vincenzo Galloppi

between 1914/1915.

Following the

earthquake of 1980, it

was still necessary to

intervene, but the works

only ended in the late 90s.

Facade - in

travertine it is divided into two orders by an

entablature which in the center bears an

inscription in metal alloy from the 19th

century, with the Name of the Temple. In the

lower part a portal with three pairs of

capitulated pilasters on the sides.

Identical motif in the upper part, with a

large window in the center with a splendid

window. It ends with a triangular tympanum

surmounted by an iron cross.

INTERIOR - with two vaulted naves, an

ABSIDE with dome where the high altar is

placed in precious marbles, coming from the

Church of the Annunziata al Molo, demolished

to give additional space to the Royal Shipyard.

Above the altar there is a 1749 canvas

""TRANSFIGURATION"" and then again a

BAPTISMAL SOURCE of 1582 on which the

oldest is stamped Coat of arms of the city of

Stabia.

To admire a canvas of the eighteenth

century ""OUR LADY OF CONSTANTINOPLE""

ORGAN from 1894 placed in the Cantoria Two

ALTARS of 1793 WOODEN STATUE of the

eighteenth century ""SAN MICHEAL"" work of

Francesco Picano.

And lastly the Canonica and the Bell

Tower which date back to the end of the 18th

century.


47


What I envy,

as a distant exile,

it is without a doubt

that tender perfume

of the Life down there,

where Mare, Sole

and a blue sky

spread in the air

delicate flavors

of an Ancient Land:

Beautiful, cultured and fascinating

Today, however, my gaze

remains veiled by melancholy

for neglect and abandonment

of places that over the centuries

have intertwined,

with mixed fortunes

the life of a proud people:

that of the Stabiani.

Therefore, the Great Wish

that I address to my people

is to put a bank, convinced,

to an interminable drift

of a Cultural Heritage

which horrifies

also WHO,

above the clouds

remains silent to observe.

The best wishes

that I address to Stabia


48


Kabbo Kotha

Jonayed Khandakar Nir

খয়রাতি চাওয়া

ইরে করর

আর কি রাি জাগা? আর কি তিয়ম করর কারে

ডাকা?

উরেক্ষার অরেক্ষায় সবই শূিয অসার তিজজিিায়

ফাাঁকা।

যতি দিখরি দেরি মরির আকাশটা,

বুঝরি কি তিিঃসঙ্গ দেরমর তচরেরকাঠা!

এই যাযাবর মি দেরমর বাাঁধি কি শি ভারব

সারাক্ষণ

তিয়তির তিোরম চরে েোট তেখরি েুরে

অিুভরব অিুক্ষণ

কি তক দয ররচ এই মি

তিশুতির চরাচরর…

চাাঁিরক হিযা করর তবরহী

িিুমি সূয জ দিরখ দসািা

দভারর।

আর কি রাি এমতি করর

মরির অতেন্দ দডারর..

ভারোবাসার

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

অর্ঘয

জ

তিরব,মন্দাতকিী সুর িু েরব

ইথারর?

জাবর কাটুক মিাতেন্দ

আত্মজ েোরে আাঁতক

রংধিু

সময় িাতেরয় দবোয় েূণ জশশী দেররায় বাজজরয়

দবিু।

সুরখর োয়রা িাতহ দিয় ধরা েোট তেখরি শুধুই

খরা

আগুি সম রঙিি ফািুস দয উোয় দকবেই

স্বয়মৎরা।

মি আরে দসরিা মৃিবৎসা আগুরিই খুাঁরজ

ফাল্গুি সহসা

এ জীবি খয়রাতি চাওয়ায় শুধু খুাঁরজ বসন্ত

অিুসতিৎসা।

জািাোর গ্রীে ধরর িাাঁোই যখতি তেেু ডারক

যাতমিী

হৃিয় চঞ্চে হয় দচাখ েেেে উিো েবি আউো

ধরণী।

ইরে করর

জুিারয়ি খন্দকার িীর

০৫ তডরসম্র ২০২০ তিষ্টাব্দ

ইরে করর দিামায় হাজারটা িারম ডাকরি,

হৃিরয় জমারিা কথা গুরো দিামায় শুিারি।

দিামার সারথ দরেোইরির ধারর দমরঠা েরথ

হাাঁটরি,

দিামায় তিরয় কতবিা

তেখরি-

আমার দয খুব ইরে করর।।

ইরে করর দিামার কারো

দকরশর গি তিরি,

রংধিুর সাি ররঙ্গ দিামায়

রাঙ্গারি।

ইরে করর োতখ হরয়

উেরি,

োাঁয়া হরয় দিামার সারথ

সারাটা দবো কাটারি।

ইরে করর কিম হরয় ফু টরি-

দিামার আতঙ্গিায় সুভাস েোরি।

ইরে করর িিী হরয় বরয় চেরি-

দিামার হৃিরয় দেউ িু েরি,

আমার দয খুব খুব ইরে করর।

(েকৃ তি ও োকৃ তিক দসৌন্দরয জর তকেু েতব তিোম)

(েতব গুতে সংগৃহীি)


49


coperta3 p47 2 authors

Refik Martinović

Jay-Ar Nhor

Wish

Are You Tired of Waiting a

True love ?

I would give anything

to be tonight

in my dreams

to play

on those same rapids

which we loved as children

to be a butterfly

restless trajectories

and a white stone

waiting for your touches

that there is no sorrow

their sounds

which kill our steps

but it all passed

they are our birds

long ago flew away

in some distant sky

to wait for new encounters

... how I will survive

the truth

that you're gone tonight.

My heart is bleeding

Flowing non stop of boiling blood

My anger burns me

My tears drown me

Day and Night

Days and weeks

Months and years

Still I have a long patience

Finally,my heart warms

again

My heart heals

What a happy feelings I

feel

Is this true love?

Our hearts have the same

rhythm

Our eyes know that we

are meant to be

Our brains know that it is a true love

My heart is happy again

Never tired hoping

Never tired waiting

Learn to wait

Because there is a true love for you

And there is someone especial for you .

I hope you like it readers !!


50


The magazine appears in Romania

editorial office

Founding President Lenuș Lungu

Director: Lenuș Lungu, Ioan Muntean

Deputy Director: Paul Rotaru

Technical Editor Ioan Muntean

Covers Ioan Muntean

Editor-in-Chief: Ion Cuzuioc

Deputy Editor: Stefano Capasso

Editorial Secretary: Anna Maria Sprzęczka

Editors: Vasile Vulpaşu, Anna Maria Sprzęczka, Pietro Napoli,

Myriam Ghezaïl Ben Brahim, Zoran Radosavljevic, Suzana Sojtari

Iwan Dartha, Auwal Ahmed Ibrahim, Destiny M O Chijioke, Nikola

Orbach Özgenç

Responsibility for the content of texts published in the journal

Taifas Literary Magazine belongs directly to the authors who sign

them, in the name of freedom of expression.

Reproduction - in whole or in part - of the journal and its electronic distribution are

authorized for the private use of the reader and for non-commercial purposes.

yaer I, no. 7, January, 2021

ISSN 2458-0198

ISSN-L 2458-0198

Founded in Constanţa,

June 2020

Revista de scrieri şi opinii literare

Taifas Literar poate fi citită online pe

site-urile Cronopedia

(lenusa.ning.com)

or: Taifas Literay Magazine

Email:

worldliterarymagazine@gmail.com

Orders for the purchase of the

magazine can be made on the

Cronopedia website and on the

email address above.

Authors in summary:

3 AUTHORS 2, SAMEER GOEL 2, VILDANA STANISCIC 2, TANU VERMAI KAPOOR 2,

EDITORIAL 3, PAUL ROTARU 3, POETRY 10, GERLINDE STAFFLER 10, ADAM ŻEMOJTEL 10,

BHAGIRATH CHOUDHARY 11, ADAM DECOWSKI 12, PRINCE STEVE OYEBODE 12, SELMA KOPIC

13, SHASWATA GANGOPADHYAY 14, SIR SILVANO BORTOLAZZI 15, JANAMENJOY GHORAI 16,

RUKI KOČAN 16, NABA KUMAR PODDER 16, RAMESH CHANDRA PRADHANI 17, JIGME JAMTSHO

17, AD IBRAHIM 18, MILKA J.ŠOLAJA 18, BLJESAK BJELINE 18, TIMOTHY MICHAEL DIVITO 18,

VELIMIR SILJANOSKI 19, CILENTI EMANUELE 19, DIJANA UHEREK STEVANOVIĆ, 19, MAHANAJ

PARVIN 20, LENUȘ LUNGU 20, STEFANO CAPASSO 20, ADEYEMI KEHINDE A. OLUWANISHOLA 21,

MAYOKUN KEHINDE FOLORUNSHO 21, ION CUZUIOC 22, ANNA MARIA STĘPIEŃ 23,

MUHAMMAD ISHAQ ABBASI 24, DUŠAN PEJAKOVIĆ 25, PROSE 26, SPISATELJICA BISERKA 26,

ZORAN RADOSAVLJEVIĆ 26, ŠAHDO BOŠNJAK 27, ESSAY 31, LORETA TOADER 31, BILL STOKES 31,

SANTOSH KUMAR-BHUTAN 32, RYSZARD MŚCISZ 32, CONFABULATION 34, LENUȘ LUNGU 34,

JAWAZ JAFFRI 36, REVIEW 37, LENUȘ LUNGU 39, BHAGIRATH CHOUDHARY 40, LENUȘ LUNGU

41, PUNYA DEVI 42, NANDITA DE NEE CHATTERJEE 43, STEFANO CAPASSO 46, KABBO KOTHA 48,

JONAYED KHANDAKAR NIR 48, 2 AUTHORS 49, REFIK MARTINOVIĆ 49, JAY-AR NHOR 49

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198


Taifas Literary Magazine No. 7, January, 2021

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