Literary Editor

Sergio Badilla Castillo born in Valparaíso, Chile in 1947 is a Chilean poet founder of poetic transrealism in contemporary poetry. He spent a long period of his young life in exile during twenty years, mostly in the Nordic countries.

His publications comprise: Lower than my branch (1980), The abode of the Sign (1982), Cantonirico (1983), Reverbs of Aquatic Stones (1985) Terrenalis (1989) Nordic Saga (1996), The Fearful Gaze of the Bastard (2003), Transreal Poems and Some Gospels (2005), Transreal City l (2009), Ok Atacama (2010). The library at Ephesus (2011) Transtierra (2012), and two anthologies: The Year of the Reptile. /2016) and Arctic Wolves (2018)

Badilla Castillo resides in Santiago de Chile where he continues his writings. His work has appeared in English translations in three different publications, La cabeza de la Medusa / The Medusa’s head (2012) and Espectros y Sombras / Ghosts and shadows (2013), and The Library at Ephesus.(2015).



Heterogeneous man


I was an angel quarantined in the land of my fathers

a heterogeneous man incapable of miracles

painstaking at times under the stars

                                       totally unexpected in the dark.

I just caught sight of God going down the river by boat

as He conversed in Aramaic with some Syrian fighters

while two astronauts landed a Christmas rocket on the moon

and in the marketplace three mujahedin showed off

with their machine guns.

It was the fire that tore at the dermis of my face

and branded the atmosphere with alarming ferocity.

Here a volcano might settle or a wretched slave

trailing the cataclysm’s track.

I tried to set up a temple to Ishtar among the rocks

in the Atacama Desert:

It was the mischief of idle men on summer afternoons

with that earthly animal memory.

I was an angel quarantined in the land of my fathers

a heterogeneous man incapable of miracles.

Without a moment’s thought I became a hermit

a madman who imagines his homage credible

in mountain solitude.

Without a doubt – frenzy precipitates the stone’s blow –

in a den crammed with mythomaniacs.

Life sticks to the letter despite utopia

as stones glitter with a death wish.

The wounded are endowed with imaginary flight

to escape the nightmare unscathed.

The cosmos is curvature and perpetual expansion

and hence the North Star transits my galaxy.

I have Ahab’s obsession with the whale

and the hurried gait of Sasquatch in the Arctic tundra.

Here a maze might spring up or a jubilant love

in search of the path of a subtle inconsistency.

I was an angel quarantined in the land of my fathers

a heterogeneous man incapable of miracles.





That darkness caught us

                            in the forest

as it spread the night’s untimely filth 

and shadows suddenly broke loose

as if death had emerged in the branches.


What in the end will be left of me in this thicket of black tricks

when vain Sergio’s bright awareness clouds over

and I’m robbed of the legitimacy of appearances.                       

Between the integrity of the senses and my sense of self

lies an enormous uncertainty

an impenetrable blindness.


What in the end will be left of me

as your womb expands with my beautiful son?

The years leave scars you can feel in the ambiguous

coherence of the body

but right there inside the labyrinth there’s no validity

of any worth

              because in that darkness there is no room for bravery

                       just an impenetrable barrier blocking our way.


Suddenly darkness trapped us in the thicket

as night infected us with blackness

as if death had emerged in the branches.



Night of escape


They’ll never know what happened on that night of escape

into the darkness that caressed your body

when the road in the window stretched until

it touched the sky.

There was no route to take that didn’t break off

in a shortcut to the zigzag of the universe. Thrushes

with their enormous feet left footprints in the fleeting snow

and catfish embedded themselves in the rocks of the quagmire.

They’ll never know what might have happened

on that night of escape at the inn crawling with insects

when the fire dropped its dark smuts

on the secret of your breasts.


Copyright © all wrights reserved



The Lost Belongings


I’m at home,

But my dreams are far away

No, no, I cannot reach the space yet

I’m eager to find keys of the world

If I find I shall never lose them.

I’m at home,

But my perception is traveling afar

I am looking for but it keeps me cheating

It is very fast and I am too slow

I am really engrossed,

Not knowing what to do.

I’m at home,

But my desire, in the sky

I have found where my belongings were lost,

Now I am at the door,

I have found keys of the world

The door will open, I hope

I shall get the lost belongings soon,

Peace and Love.


Rescue The World

Hey! Poets,

Listen to me,

The world needs burning poems,

To refine the hearts,

For mankind has begun loving

The words of poesy.

Hey! Poets,

Cheer up with inspiration

Let’s start journey on the path of peace

We have to melt ice the hearts,

With the warmth of burning hot poems.

Hey! Poets,

The world needs all of us,

Take pens by the Grace of God,

Rescue the world with bright poems

As bright as transparent dew drops.






Poem from Portugal


Rui Cóias was born in Lisbon. He is graduated in Law from the University of Coimbra, has a postgraduate degree in Legal Sciences, a Jurist, and also studies Philosophy.

He is the author of the books The Function of the Geographer and The Order of the World. In 2016 was publisghed in Portugal his last collection of poems: Europa, that includes, among others, a series of texts based on the Great War 14-18, more specifically in the Battle of the Somme of 1916, written in the occasion of a fellowship awarded by the French Ministry of Culture and Communication.

This book was recently published in Mexico and Holland with translations to spanish and dutch.

Rui Cóias is also published in Belgium (La Nature de la Vie) and in France (L`ordre du monde).

He has also written some essays. In his work, the distinctions between time and space, between the personal and the impersonal, are imprecise. In the background it is all a vast territory through which travel and travel in space and time establish connections with the landscape and memory, in a project of definition and naming of the intelligible world. A happiness, however uncertain, fleeting, is always within reach, or within our retreat, and we also, at all times, pursue the dark beauty of the world.

He has also published in several anthologies and publications in Portugal, Slovakia, Italy, Romania, Macedonia and Brazil. He has also presented his work in Switzerland, France, the United States, India and Turkey and represented Portugal in several important festivals and literary meetings, like for exempla at Hyderabad Lit Fest and Apeejay Kokata, in India.

He is also part of the Portuguese authors that integrate the web platforms: Poetry International Web (Rotterdam), Poems from the Portuguese (Portugal) and Lyricline (Germany).

He has a travel and literature blog, and lives in Lisbon.



Nothing exists that hasn’t had a beginning.

Even in the distance, a clear lit speck,

in territories stripped from all limits, on

sands that flow from unknown seas,

we only contemplate the extent of what we perceived.

If fields in Livonia lead to fields in Masuria,

if tiles are smoothed in tepid bath waters,

and further on graveyard follows graveyard, and

in their midst, inert in the lack of wind, the birch wood stands,

if the sun is the flame of the olive oil crumbling the bread

or the chipped lightening on the walls of Helsingør,

if the death plot is everywhere the same,

be it in the Santa Maria flute or in the Tallinn concertina

it is because we modulate in one place what has seeped from another.

Even unwillingly, or perhaps it’s the shadows on the move,

we weave no more than a row of chances and discretions

along a current which takes each one of us, separately,

to the most sensitive final passage.

Even if laboriously we detach the places,

detailing their diversions and extremes

– the similarity between what they are and what we thought they were,

even throughout regions intersected by extensive trains,

where night will fall in scales of lavender,

we’ll follow the same story – we sink our feet in the same mud.

In that which repeatedly sucks us in,

as we yearn for whatever comes to pass further in the next cove

smoothing with our hands the oak trees on whose bark we inscribe,

like others before us, our sinuous names, our loves,

we constantly return to the point where all is repeated and begun,

of which we grasp a mere minute – an instant,

the blade mediating between this year and the next.


©Translation: Ana Hudson

Poems by Dimitris Angelis

Dimitris Angelis (Athens, 1973) has published seven collections of poetry, as well as essays, studies and short stories. His collection Anniversary was awarded the Porfyras Prize of the Academy of Athens and his collection A deer weeping on my bed was awarded with the National Poetry Prize. He was Editor of Nea Efthini literary magazine (2011-2013) and he is actually Editor of Frear (National Prize for the best literary magazine, 2014).


Poems translated by Memi Katsoni





I sought to dress like you but could not find the way


A child dressed as Wednesday afternoon before the music lesson because his father had dressed as a tractor

A worker dressed as November before his wife vanished round a street corner dressed as a bus

A taxi driver wore the smoke from a worker’s cigarette before his ascension

A girl dressed as a chiming Christmas tree but nobody noticed

A tree dressed as five hanged men and an Antigone with a shovel

A woman dressed undressed dressed and then confessed that her name was not Maria

A lunatic from the asylum took the hatchet and dressed as an obituary

A dog passed in front of us stark naked

A man without a dog dressed as an empty room and I

Cannot dress as you when I come home

There is nothing left to extol.




To write a poem about the silent Sunday that calls the wolves wolves and the killers killers

To go out on the atrium and shout not as if choking

To read Joseph Roth, to remember the midwar years of Leontaris

To dance to Riders on the Storm playing on the turntable as if again the end were nigh

To be your midwar and for you to be my ending

To leave the house to get out of myself at last

To buy a newspaper, to see the pensioners play chess on the benches by the dock

To imagine a Byzantine angel descend on the water whispering alien words

To pass by the café where they talk about politics and football

To phone the electrician

To phone the Surveyor

To ask the neighbour for sugar

Not to have a silent Sunday, not to write poems.





Three Poems by Eliza Segiet

Eliza Segiet is from Poland. She obtained Master's Degree graduate in Philosophy. Completed postgraduate studies in Cultural Knowledge, Philosophy, Penal Revenue and Economic Criminal Law, Arts and Literature at Jagiellonian University, as well as Penal Revenue Law, Film and Television Production in Lodz.

Featured poet of the Month (June 2017) in The Year of the Poet 14 in the USA.

Author's poem "Questions" was the Publication of the Month (August 2017)

Author the International Publication of the Year (2017) in Spillwords Press.

Author's works can be found in anthologies and literary magazines in Poland and abroad (Albania, Australia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Chile, Canada, Great Britain, India, Kosovo, Philippines, Portugal, Romania, Scotland, Singapore, Spain, Sweden, USA, Zambia).



Just for a Moment


If the world stopped for a moment,

I could sit,

listen to the silence that becomes,

watch how

a river stops flowing,

how the trees congeal into motionlessness.


If the world stopped for a moment,

and I with it?

I would not see

flowering meadows,

where a river becomes just a line,

and the still trees

look like sculptures,

I would not hear the ubiquitous silence.


If the world stopped

even for one day

then people –

could not hurt people.



I Will Be While I Am


Eve was first,

and I?


I'm like the sun,

which blings -

real, yet elusive.


On the surface of eternity

man is only a flash.


She was and is,

I -

will be while I am.



Inverted Time


What am I doing here?

Am I amusing myself?

I'm looking for youth

among young people.

Mental mirages are like

flights between good and evil.

I listen to stories

about the wonders of the future.


What am I doing here?

Am I taking my time?

I'm looking for old age

among old people.


Life is not a pendulum

and never comes back.


the motion of memory and oblivion.

And I,

listen to

what is still left –

inverted time.


Translated by Artur Komoter

Three poems by Michela Zanarella, Bengali Translated by Tareq Samin


মাইকেল জানারারেলা ১৯৮০ সালে সিটিডেলায় জন্মগ্রহণ করেন। ২০০৭ সাল থেকে তিনি রোমে বসবাস করেছন এবং সেখানেই কাজ করেন । তার কবিতা  নিয়ে এ পর্যন্ত ১১টি কাব্যগ্রন্থ প্রকাশিত হয়েছ। এছাড়া তিনি কথাসাহিত্য ও থিয়েটার সংলাপ লেখক। তার কবিতা অনুদিত হয়েছে ইংরেজি, ফরাসি, আরবি, স্প্যানিশ, রোমানিয়ান, সার্বিয়ান, গ্রিক, পর্তুগিজ, হিন্দি এবং জাপানি ভাষায়। ২০১৬ সালে তিনি সৃজনশীলতার জন্য নাজি নামান আন্তর্জাতিক পুরস্কার পেয়েছেন। তিনি একজন সংস্কৃতি দূত এবং নাজি নামান ফাউন্ডেশন এর জন্য লেবাননে, ইতালির প্রতিনিধিত্ব করেন। ১৫১১ সালে আউলো গিয়ানো পার্রাসিও কর্তৃক প্রতিষ্ঠিত অ্যাকাডেমি কসেন্টিনা এর তিনি যোগাযোগ রক্ষাকারী সদস্য। ইউরোমেড বিশ্ববিদ্যালয় এ তিনি আন্তর্জাতিক সম্পর্কে কাজ করেন। ইউরো-মিডিট্রেরিয়ান ডায়ালগ এর তিনি ইতালীয় নেটওয়ার্ক সভাপতি।

 বাংলা অনুবাদ: তারিক সামিন।              Bengali Translated by Tareq Samin.              English translated by Leanne Hoppe.                                        


 বাংলা |  Bengali  ইংরেজী | English     

জীবনের প্রাণবন্ততা


এই হাড়গুলোর মধ্যে

আমি ভ্রমণ করি

এবং আমার সাথে বহন করি

জীবনের কিছু প্রাণবন্ততা ।

আমি তাপ উদঘাটন করি,

শ্বাস গ্রহণ করি,

আমি ভালোবাসি।

আমি চাই

এই চামড়া ভেতরই থাকতে,

আমি চাই এটা থাকুক


গন্তব্য পথে।

আমি চাই তুমি বিস্ফোরিত হও

আমার থেকে

এবং আমি জানতে চাই

সমুদ্রের স্বাদ।




Sparks of Life


In these bones

I travel

and I carry with me

the little sparks of life.

I unearth heat,

take in breath,

I love.

I want
to stay in this skin,

I want it to remain


in destiny.

I want you to erupt

out of me

and I want to know

the taste of the sea.




আমার বেড়ে ‍উঠা নারীত্ব


ইচ্ছাশক্তির শিকড়

এবং শান্ত চেতনায় থেকে উচ্চতর,

আমার বেড়ে ‍উঠা নারীত্ব

সময় আগুনের উপর হাওয়া দেয়।

হয়তো এটা ইচ্ছা আকাশের:

রক্ত সঞ্চালিত হয়

এবং এটি আমাকে সাহায্য করে ভালবাসা আবিষ্কারে


আমি খুঁজে বেড়াই আলোক পিণ্ডের

এবং ভ্রাতৃপ্রতিম নীরবতার,

আমার পদক্ষেপগুলো একটি সাক্ষাৎ

শৈশব এবং অনাবাদী স্বর্গোদ্যানের।

শক্তি দিয়ে আমি চেষ্টা করি

এই ভাবে

এবং আমি চিৎকার করি জীবনের সম্মুখীন হতে

মৃত্যুর সময়ে।

My Growing Woman


Will to the roots

and calm superior to spirit,

my growing woman

on the fans of time’s fire.
Maybe it is the desire of the sky:

the blood runs

and it helps me to discover the love

of sunrises.

I chase lumps of light
and brotherly silences,

in my steps a meeting

of childhoods and paradises uninhabited.

I try with strength

a way

and I shout to encounter life

at death.


নারীবাদে মেডিটেশন


একটি সুন্দর ত্বকের ভেতর

আমি নিজেকে খুঁজে পাই

ধমনীর সঙ্গে একত্রিত,

সাথে মহামূল্য বাসনা

আমি সময়ের পরোয়া করি না:

অথবা নীরবতার

ওটা বৃষ্টির মত প্রবেশ করে।

আকাশ এবং প্রেম

আমার নিঃশ্বাস পরিতৃপ্ত করে

তারপর একটি বিশেষাধিকার

পবিত্র জীবনের জন্য।

Meditations in the Feminine


In a pleasant skin

I find myself

together with arteries,

with precious desire.

I do not care for time

or for the silence

That enters like rain.

The sky and the love

satisfy my breath

after a privilege

divine to life.



Page 10 of 19

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


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