Literary Editor

 Einar Már Guðmundsson (b.1954) is a gifted novelist, short story writer and a poet, as well as a dedicated activist with a social vision. He is one of the most widely translated Icelandic authors born in the post-war period. A storyteller with a lyrical perceptive and humorous style, his work charts the growth of urban culture in the capital and the larger-than-life characters that it spawns.

Guðmundsson has received numerous awards and recognition for his work, amongst them the Nordic Council Literary Prize in 1995, The Norwegian Bjørnson Prize and the Scharnberg Memorial Award in Denmark, The Karen Blixen Medal (an honorary award from the Danish Academy) and The Guiseppe Acerbi Literary Prize in Italy.

In 2012 Einar Mar Guðmundsson received the Swedish Academy’s Nordic Prize, dubbed “the little Nobel”, for his contribution to literature. The Swedish Academy Nordic Prize was created in 1986 to celebrate the Swedish Academy’s 200 year’s anniversary. It is awarded to individuals in one of the Nordic Countries that have made remarkable contributions to literature or Swedish language.

 

If I was a damaged TV

 

If I was a damaged TV

I would most certainly

cause more disturbance

in your lives

Translated by Michael Dean Óðinn Pollock

 

 

Middle-aged couple

 

They hang around in the living room

like a sandwich but there is nothing

between them except the contentment

that separates them

Translated by Bernard Scudder

 

Poem for Christmas

 

The innocent lambs of the Bible

become lambchops at Christmas

Translated by Michael Dean Óðinn Pollock

 

Poem for my sweetheart

 

After approximately 2000 years

when archaeologists dig up our bones

perhaps we could make love in the National Museum

Translated by Michael Dean Óðinn Pollock

 

I just can’t stop

 

I just can’t stop

at the corner of your lips

even though they are red

like traffic lights

Translated by Michael Dean Óðinn Pollock

 

The Russian Revolution

 

The Russian revolution

is like a family album that

we thumb through without knowing who

took the photos and it’s even

doubtful who they are of

only one thing’s certain:

Frankenstein came to power in the end

Translated by Bernard Scudder.

 

Science fiction

 

Don’t ask

if life exists

on other planets

until you’ve

made quite certain

that it exists on this one too

Translated by Anna Yates

 

Better World Books Good Reading

-খালিদ মোশারফ

 

এত ছোট গাছ, এত বার ডাল ভাঙ্গা হয়েছে
এত ছোট গাছ, এত বার পাতা ছেড়া হয়েছে
এত ছোট গাছ, এত তৃষ্ণা পেয়েছে
এত ছোট গাছ, এভাবে বাঁচতে শিখেছে।
এত ছোট গাছ, এভাবে তাকাতে শিখেছে
এত ছোট গাছ, বুক উঁচু করে দাড়িয়ে
এত ছোট গাছ, বেঁচে থাকার কি যেন অর্থ খোঁজে
এত ছোট গাছ, সহ্য করে কিভাবে?
এত ছোট গাছ ,শীত লাগে শীত রাতে
এত ছোট গাছ, ফের কুশি গজাবে
এত ছোট গাছ, কাঠ হয়ে দাড়িয়ে
এত ছোট গাছ আবার ছাগলে পাতা ছিড়ে খাবে।
এত ছোট গাছ, সূর্য পানে তাকিয়ে
এত ছোট গাছ সূর্য তোমার পানে তাকিয়ে
এত ছোট গাছ কি যেন নিয়ে দাড়িয়ে
এত ছোট গাছ ছোট জীবনে সীমাহীন কষ্ট ছাপিয়ে
কষ্টকে কি ডেকে নেই দুহাত বাড়িয়ে?

 

|| সালমা তালুকদার ||

 

সকালটা ভারী মিষ্টি,

বেলকনির হাওয়ায় খোলা চুলগুলো যেমন বাতাসে দোল খাচ্ছে,

তেমনি অবাধ্য মনটাও কোথায় কোথায় উড়ে বেড়াচ্ছে!

ভাবনার রাজ্যে আমিই তো একমাত্র সম্রাজ্ঞী।

 

ভাবছি, ভেবেই চলেছি,

কালো চুলে আজকাল সাদা প্রলেপ পরেছে

মগজটাও কেমন ভোঁতা হয়ে যাচ্ছে!

ভাবনা গুলো আর ডাল পালা ছড়াচ্ছে না।

 

দুঃসহ স্মৃতিগুলো আপনজনের মতো, আশে-পাশে ঘুরে বেড়ায়

চোখের সামনে অতীত দৃশ্যমান হয়ে,  সামনের রাস্তাটাকে শ্মশান-ঘাট সাদৃশ্য মনে হয়।

মনে হয়, সুনসান শ্মশান ঘাটে আমি নগ্ন, বিধ্বস্ত

ভাবলেশহীন চাহনীতে শুধুই শূন্যতা।

 

ব্যাস্ত রাস্তার সব মানুষ গুলো তখন

হিংস্র শকুন রুপে আমার নগ্ন শরীরটাকে খুবলে নিতে ব্যাস্ত।

উৎসব করছে ওরা,

কেউ হাত ধরে টানছে, কেউ পা ধরে, কারো মুখ স্তনে, কারো যোনীতে।

 

কেউ চুষে খেয়ে ফেলছে ঠোঁট,  কেউ রক্তাক্ত করছে কান

প্রতিটা অঙ্গ, প্রতিটা মুহুর্ত; কামনার আগুনে দগ্ধ প্রতিনিয়ত।

আমি কি মানুষ ওদের কাছে?

নাকি শুধুই এক খন্ড মাংস!

 

প্রকৃতির অভিশপ্ত নারী দেহ!

পুরুষের তীব্র, লোলুপ দৃষ্টি থেকে যার মুক্তি মেলেনি কখনো

বেঁচে থেকেও প্রতি মুহূর্তে যার মৃত্যু ঘটছে ?

হায় নারীর জীবন! হায় দীর্ঘশ্বাস! 

 

যে দিন গেছে, তাই-ই কেবল ফিরে ফিরে আসে।

আর যন্ত্রণা কাতর হৃদয়ে রক্ত ক্ষরণ ঘটে।

কি করেছি আমি?

কি অন্যায় ছিলো আমার?

 

নারী দেহের ভাঁজ গুলোতে পুরুষের নির্মম চাহনী

পাশবিক অত্যাচারের ইতিহাসে বিপর্যস্ত আমি, আজ বেলকনিকে মনে করি কারাগার,

ব্যাস্ত রাস্তাকে মনে হয় ধূ ধূ শ্মশান ঘাট।

আর পুরুষ গুলোকে মনে হয় নেকড়ে, হায়না, শকুনের দল।

 

আজ আমি চিৎকার করে বলতে চাই, আমি মানুষ, মাংসপিন্ড নই!

আমি মানুষ, ভোগ্য বস্তু নই!

আমি মানুষ ,বলির পাঠা নই!

আমি মানুষ, আমি নারী,  শুধু একখানা মাংসপিন্ড নই!

OLD TIMES

Olimbi VELAJ (1971) was born in Mallakastra, Albania. She studied in Tirana and Sofia. Velaj is author of the lyric volumes Çastet vdesin nën akrepa orësh (Moments perish under the hands of clocks), Tirana, 1998; and Qenia pasdite (Afternoon existence), bilingual volume (Albanian-English, Tirana, 2003. Her poetry is published in 15 languages, in Balkan countries, in Europe and Azia in some of literature magazines and anthology. She has been in a number of poetry festivals and she has nominations and awards for her poetry. Velaj translates into Albanian contemporary poets.

Velaj works as a lecturer in Albanian Literature of XX century, Creative Writing and World Literature of the Nineteenth Century; she is Head of Literature Department, Faculty of Education “Aleksandër Moisiu” University, Durrës, Albania. Currently she is teaching Albanian Language, Literature and Culture in University of Belgrade, Department of Albanology.

Velaj worked as a journalist in cultural issues from 1993 till 2008 and she was one of representative journalist during transition, after communist regime in Albania. As a journalist she has published widely in cultural heritage and folklore. During 1997-1998 she had a research fellowship in Sofia University, focused on comparative studies on Ballads of the Balkans. Her PhD topic (2012) was “The Albanian ballad in the inter-Balkan context”. Her research interests are in areas of oral based literature and po

THEY SILENCED OUR CHANT

JULIO PAVANETTI (Montevideo, Uruguay, 1954)  is a Poet and a Cultural Promoter. He lives in Spain since 1977 and is founder and President of the international poets association “Liceo Poético de Benidorm”.
Honorary Vice President of the “World Organization of Poets, Writers and Artists”. Cultural Delegate for Uruguay of “Hispano-American Union of Writers”.
Director of the poetry collection "Azul" of Enkuadres Publishers, Alzira, Spain.
Director of the International Poetry Festival “Benidorm & Costa Blanca” (FIPBECO). Honorary Member of the American Academy of Modern Literature (USA).
Member founder of the Student Academy of Contemporary Art in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Member of the “Association of Spanish Writers and Artists”.
Member of the “Spanish Collegiate Association of Writers”.
Member of the “World Poetry Movement”.
He has published ten books, one of them bilingual Romanian/Spanish, published in Romania. His book “Al roce de la piel callada”, winner of the first prize in the contest of Aspe, Spain, in 2015, will be published soon in English / Spanish bilingual edition. He has participated in several international poetry festivals and has taken part in more than 50 international anthologies. He had received many awards, honors and recognitions, both for his poetry as for his cultural work. Many of his poems have been translated, into English, Italian, Catalan, French, Arabic, Romanian, Portuguese, Croatian, German, Dutch, Japanese, Turkish, Malay, Greek and Mycenaean Greek (Linear B), and have been published on innumerable national and international newspapers and literary magazines, both in digital and printed format.

  

 

THEY SILENCED OUR CHANT...

 

They silenced our chant

they tear out our feathers

and cut our wings

without them they push us to the woods

they piled up hopeless moons

in a horizon that stopped escaping.

 

Not happy with cutting the chain

they broke links

and raped our houses

they confiscated letters to our parents

whilst beyond the sea

we had to survive with no news

when internet did not exist.

 

Located in our own abyss

we tried to connect our steps

to an unhurt hope

but in a shared reality

we stayed face to face with time.

 

We wandered as nomads

unknown and unlinked

we resist the disillusionment

of messy days in memory,

like lingering feelings in rebelliousness.

 

But we had survived

teaching exile in freedom

burning each one on them own way

in a fight against the sea that brought us

deaf rumours of absences.

 

Temporary lives with us

although it sleeps out in the open.

 

Human being gets used to everything,

some of us saw muses go away

while we tried to reborn

breathing peripheries.

 

Trapped in the net

that warps survival

muses slowly came back

others rediscovered them

drowning dictatorship on alcohol

but sooner or later all of us

came back to look for lost youth.

 

Life is like a wound that worsens with years.

 

© Julio Pavanetti 

Translated into English by Prof. Gabriela Pavanetti

 

 || Duska Vrhovac ||

 

Duska Vrhovac (Duška Vrhovac), poet, writer, journalist and translator, born in 1947 in Banja Luka, ex Yugoslavia. She graduated from the Faculty of Philology of Belgrade University. She has published 20 books of poetry, many of which have been translated, in part or in full, into more than 20 languages. She is considered one of the most important contemporary poets from Serbia. She has received important international awards for poetry and the gold medal for the “generosity, dedication, perseverance and creative contributions that are made to spread the culture of the nationalities of the Republic of Serbia". She participated in many literary and other gatherings, festivals and manifestations in the country and abroad.

Duska Vrhovac is a member of the Association of Writers of Serbia (Vice President of the Board for International Relations), Association of Literary Translators of Serbia, of the International Federation of Journalists, and she is Ambassador to Serbia by Poets of the World (Movimiento Poetas del Mundo) and current vice president for Europe. She lives in Belgrade/ Serbia.

 

 

MYSTIC RAINS

 

I was picking red peonies with you last night

by the muddy Bistrica river.

From the sky were falling white petals on us

from the hands of souls who haven’t found peace.

From grass could be heard whisperings of ancient lovers,

the sound of horsemen clatter was coming from the road,

as in the poems of Hikmet Nazim.

 

While drops of the mystic rain were colouring our faces

Your eyes were sparkling balsam for the soul

and with some damned synergy

your hot breath on my mature lips

was turning into scarlet dew drops.

Everything was unreal except the night,

except our tears and blessings of our Lord.

 

Now I know that you are and what is and what is not.

If you were a blue dawn of my gentle death

and painful twilight of their outgoing youth;

if you were stopped voice of the primordial scream,

the runaway dream of fullness of a sleeping angel

who got tired of the excessive desire

and wished to rest on my shoulder.

 

 

 

TO FIND MY OWN WORD

 

Countless poets have already told

how they see a whole world in a grain of sand,

infinity in the palm of a hand, all heaven in an eye,

and how a single day can be an eternity..

 

Many of them have glorified love,

cursed suffering, sorrow and pain,

described death, hell, paradise and a happy home,

earnest that everlasting shall be their work and name.

 

Everything has been said and seen,

forewarned, sung and written about,

and there is nothing that has never been.

 

So why then do here I stand

Like the first woman and the first man,

As if I were a God.

 

To say what was told?

To describe what is written?

To find my own word.

 

 

Page 7 of 11

লেখা পাঠাবার নিয়ম

মৌলিক লেখা হতে হবে।

নির্ভুল বানান ও ইউনিকোড বাংলায় টাইপকৃত হতে হবে।

অনুবাদ এর ক্ষেত্রে মুল লেখকের নাম ও সংক্ষিপ্ত লেখক পরিচিতি দিতে হবে।

আরো দিতে পারেন

লেখকের ছবি।

সংক্ষিপ্ত লেখক পরিচিতি।

বিষয় বস্তুর সাথে সামঞ্জস্যপূর্ণ অঙ্কন চিত্র বা ছবি। 

সম্পাদক | Editor

তারিক সামিন

Tareq Samin

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লেখা পাঠাবার জন্য

ইমেইল:

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