Literary Editor

She has been teaching English in Italian high schools since 1987.

She devoted herself to fiction, poetry and playwriting.

In 2005 she was ranked second in "Hanojo - via Rendevuo", a Vietnamese cultural competition for the millennial celebration of Hanoj (1010-2010). Moreover, she was ranked first/second/third in lots of literary competitions for her Italian poems (2006-2018).

She published a short novel, “Segreti” (“Secrets”, 2018). Besides, she published 5 collections of poems:”Sì shabby chic” (“So shabby chic”, 2018), "L’acqua opprime" (“Water oppresses”, 2016), “Fruttorto sperimentale” (“Experimental Food Forest”, 2016), "Latte & Limoni" (“Milk & Lemons”, 2014), "L’angoscia del pane" (“Bread is anguish”, 2010). Finally, She wrote "Tabelo" (“Table”, 2006), a play in Esperanto dealing with mobbing as a supreme artistic form.

Web site: www.annamariadallolio.it

 

 

Pass it forward

 

Master, you’re brimful of a strong passion

for humanity curiosity & truth

as I search for my fashion

explaining my youth.

 

Like my role model I help my classmate

every day you pass me your seed:

tenacity & wait

to study & succeed.

 

All the time you squeeze & squeeze …

stretching & strengthening

heart & sinews …

 

My way in puzzles continues …

life will be challenging:

I’ll be independent like all these.

 

 

 

The Astronaut’s Dream

 

Last night I dreamt dreamt & dreamt

 

floating floating floating around

wading the wide wide universe

 

no more was the Earth encircled by confusion

stalked by war

raped by division

 

what I simple soul could see & hear

 

so different minds in total consensus

such various qualities in perfect identity

so complementary colours in total harmony

so many hearts beating in perfect unanimity

 

what I simple soul could barely think

 

all this clear homogeneousness

all this sheer oneness

all this definite sameness

 

is it not the reason for final union

for permanent indivisibility

is it not the best solution to so divided mankind?

 

 

The patent

 

All day I've cried, my mind is charred.
Who will keep me company now,
lull our child, I don't know how?
My life collapsed, the sun is scarred.

While I walk a sterile land,
rainbows are farther & farther,

rain is a real charmer:
no longer love holds my hand.

 

A way out? I know it’s well hidden.

I’ll really look deeply inside myself.

I’ll also call women like myself.

No longer be so loss-ridden.

 

To grief and tears we can find a patent,

something eternal, nothing but Art,

a way to melt a hardened heart,

so death will remain latent.

José Eduardo Degrazia - was born in Porto Alegre in 1951. He is an ophthalmologist. As a writer he has published 19 books of short stories, poetry, novel, and children-juvenile; Among them Permanent Lavra, poetry, 1975; Submerged city, poetry, 1979; The Guaraní urn, poetry, 2004; Body of Brazil, poetry, 2011; The fleeting flower, poetry, 2011; The record player, short stories and mini-hits, 1996; The ear of the bugre, short stories and minicontos, 1998; The earth without evils, tales; The wild lions of Tanganyika, short stories and mini-tales; The collector of owls, minicontos; The kingdom of macambira, novel, 2005; The fabulous voyage of lechiguana honey, novel, 2008; The giraffe samba, infanto-juvenil, 1985; The cocoa cactus, infanto-juvenil, 1991; Cat and shoe, infante-juvenil, 1997. As a translator of Spanish and Italian, he published 14 books, among them, 07 by Pablo Neruda. Main Awards Received: Award of the Colonization and Immigration Biennium with Permanent Land, 1974; Contest Award from Status Magazine, 1978; Award of theater of the SNT with the play The House of the Impossibles, 1975; Finalist of the Nestlé prize of Literature, of 1996, with The Record Athlete; Finalist of the Azorean Prize with the Wild Lions of Tanganyika, 2003. 2006 The Best Translation South Prize with Pablo Neruda's books Book of the Year Award of the Gaúcha Association of Writers - with the novel The Kingdom of Macambira - 2006 Award from the Mihai Eminescu International Academy of Romania for the Work in prose - 2012. International Prize of Poetry of Trieste of 2013. Prize of Poetry of the Union of Writers of Moldavia. 2015. Translation Award of the Association of Publishers of Romania – 2016.

 

LOVE IS GEOMETRY

 

In space

a single

simple

flower

on the edge

of a time

a watch stops

Love

is geometry.

 

 

NOT NECESSARY

 

In the season of May

the birds stop the sun

at my window. Nests.

Fine breakfeast,

and a pale face of woman

breathing knives

over the old wood table.

Poems are not necessary

I think –

but I write them.

 

 

POEM TO EDGAR ALLAN POE

 

I put source

of the Raven

in my hat,

and the dark rat

knock at the gate

of Heaven.

 

I dream with blackbirds

in the middle of the night,

and see the face of a maiden

in the middle of the mirror.

 

I see the dark cat

crossing the wall

of midnight,

and the bells sing,

solitude

in my troubled soul.

 

I put silence

in autumn’s ears,

and attune the violin

of the clouds’s stars.

I am afraid – she said,

but I don’t wake-up.

 

 

A SONG OF A FAREWELL

 

There was a boy

Wordsworth

 

There was a boy in a circle of paradise

but he did not know his power –,

he was a leader in a rock and roll band.

And his soul a blade, an iron wheel

running away from home, going so far

from the little city where he was born;

but the girls loved his sweet blue eyes

and put their hands on his long hair

and kissed his untouched lips

but he did not know his power,

and he was in the circle of hell

drinking oceans of bottles, using mounts of drugs.

There was a boy in the 60’s,

he saw the bottom of his life

and sang a song of love to nobody.

And on a winter’s night, in an old hotel room,

he died lonely, prisoner of his youth.

In the old school where he studied

in the little inland city where he was born,

a lonely girl sings a song of farewell.

 

 

Poetry collection Conscience’s Quantum by Rupsingh Bhandari now available in bookstores.

 

Rupsingh Bhandari (a Nepali writer in English,  motivational speaker, an Educator of UPF Nepal)  one hundred one poem's poetry book has been launched at  Nepal Academy in Kathmandu. The book was launched by Professor Dr. Shree ram Prasad Upadhyaya. Mr. Binod Kumar Dangi UPF Nepal secretary-general, Santos kumar Paudel FFWPU South Asia Director, Raghubir Sharma the Cultural Department  Head of Indian Embassy,  Poet Shubhas  Parajuli, renowned linguist Bhim Regmi have spoken on the book. 

"happiness is not the station but it's an ongoing process. therefore people have been anguished to find happiness but forgetting reality. I have been searching for peace by creating poetry, it is love towards the self and world". said author during the program. The book is published by Brosis publication New Delhi India, and also available in amazon.com.

 

Nonviolent Revolutionaries

Nonviolent Revolutionaries

 

 

-Tareq Samin 

Revolutionary Chuni Lal Dutt's house was in Chittagong. During the independence movement of British Indian sub-continent he was jailed on numerous occasions. He was a follower of Mahatma Gandhi and Deshbandhu Chittaranjan Das, during non-violent movement. He was talking while sitting relax on a sofa made of cane:

“During 1913. I was a final year student of Presidency College, Calcutta. My elder brother's daughter 'Indu' was nine years old when she got married. Indu was immature, lien and thin, with short hair on her head, innocent face, child like behavior. She tell me, “Uncle, my little doll’s wedding. Please buy Sarees for my doll from Kolkata”. She had a great tendencies of drawing picture. On the ground, on trees, on paper, she draws beautiful pictures. The wedding was a massive festival. Candle light and sound cracker, guests noise and her parents ware hectic. I like a lot of befuddled, doing what are being told. Child marriage, was a social norms at that time. From time immemorial that has been there. Our family was outset Brahmin. A little alteration of the scriptures, can erupted a colossal conflict.

In early youth, I was also willing to sacrifice my own life to protect the glory of traditional Hindu religion and it’s principle. At my youth therefore whatever books I got; stories, novels, poetry, science, economics, history, politics, philosophy. I studied them. After vast reading a self-vision and humanism awoke within me. Gradually my own weaknesses and the loopholes in our society has exposed in my eyes. I felt, Child marriage as filthiness. Alas! a child, her marriage, family and conjugal life! Further Indu was not my daughter. My elder brother was in charge of our property and assets. He carry out my reading costs. So I do not talk over them. I came back to Calcutta with sorrow and grief. An young face always appears in my mind. My heart felt enormous pain while passing children’s doll store. At that time a letter came. I have to go to Madras for party work.

The village ‘Perambur' was two hundred miles away from Madras. Some Hindu families living in that tribal villages. At that time, women did not wear any clothes in their upper part of body. Most of the village huts were built of straws and soil. All around there was huge greenery of forest and jungles. Lots of ponds, rivers and canals. At first sight the village was very nice. Four of us, me, my friend Satyananda, Mukul Roy and Saravanan.

Saravanan was born and raised in Madras. That time he was 28 years old. A young man of medium height with muscular body and curly black hair. He did not know how to speak Hindi or Bengali. He spoke in English with laughter. He was a doctor of Madras Medical College. We went there for his sake.

Saravanan called us through Party, for the purpose to stop ‘sahamarana*’ (an ancient Hindu custom of, burning widows alive with the body of her dead husband).

The villagers seems to very short-tempered. They have bulk body, thick eyebrows, wide shoulder. We were little bit panicked when they start talking in loud voice. But Saravanan has a very good reputation as a doctor. Many people far and wide knows him. As we were activist of Indian subcontinent independence. So it was difficult to get help from colonial British administration or the police.

I told Saravanan, "We must proceed with the help of local people."

Saravanan replied, “The local young men are uneducated, illiterate and covered with superstitions”.

I said, “In adolescence I was also like them. You can not change them by hurting. Instead Love them”.

Another fellow and friend of us, Mukul Roy. Young Barrister. Studied law in England. He said, 'Let's say Europe, America or our Indian subcontinent, in any society speaking against bigotry is as dangerous as scratching ears with Cobra snake's tail”.

Satyananda added, “Also remember Sahamarana is a vital part of the Hindu religion. If someone willing to take that path. therein we tried to resist. What will be the consequences, I know better!"

The story he told us than if I remember; still makes me pale.

Satyananda said: "In 1896 AD., when I was nine years old. At that time, once I went to see sati practice*.

the girl who was willing to co-death. would be between nineteen to twenty years old. chubby face, fair skin, medium height, slim body. Big black eyes. Head full of thick black hair. Sindoor  (vermilion) on  the hair part. wearing ornaments of gold bracelets, necklaces, and legs painted with red. Just like a bride .

The priest was sitting on a wooden bed while chanting mantra.* ( in Hinduism a word repeated to aid concentration in prayer.) Beside the dead body of the women’s husband. Her husband was a landlord. Died at the age of 59. The young women had been married ten years ago. Her husband was Lascivious by nature. He was suffering in many diseases. Rumors were in village, that he possibly had infected in gonorrhea. such a lascivious man, had a beautiful wife like her. Even will burnt her alive. I was surprised by that.

Two wooden bed. In one the deceased landlord, and the other is for his beautiful wife. lifting the two bier up. eight to ten young men went to the crematoriums ghat below the large banyan tree, along the village way to the bank of the river. Then the woman took a bath on the bank. At a little hide she wore white widow's clothes. A wooden ladder is there to climb up to the crematoriums altar with front curtains. Beside that; two wooden piles, fuels, ghee, sandalwood and more miscellaneous objects.

When flames burns up, curtains had removed, she jumped on it. Her frightened face! In a moment the flame of fire consumed her. quickly, few people lay down heavy wood on her body and began to hit by stick. I saw blood marks on their stick. I thought; due to the drums sound and priest chant, no one did not heard the girls screaming. I lost consciousness at the moment.

For few days I could not eat anything. I vomit when I remember that. Satyananda stopped talking for a little. Watching great sadness on his face, we all were silent.

Again Satyananda said, “After that an young man argue with society leaders to stop sati practice.

That young man, was beaten to death by villagers in broad daylight. allegedly insulting religion. Police came to arrest those responsible for his death and funeral arrangements. This erupted a big riots. The three who died in police firing, villagers funeral them as heroes. Thousands of people come from far distance to pay homage to the martyrs. And the unfortunate young man, who had been urged to stop burning widows alive. His family deny to accept his dead body”.

After hearing of the incident, none of us was not able to sleep at night.

In the morning I told Saravanan, to continue talks with the heads of the village.

Mukul Roy, also told Saravanan, 'Be careful. foolish, stupid or prejudiced person can do any heinous work. For the greed of heaven in afterlife. But the real religious person never become extreme in the name of religion. And have firm faith, God will never defeat true and honest person”.

I prayed to God to help us.

A couple of hours later Saravanan came with a heavy heart. Villagers are not interested in stopping widow burning. Therefore everyone sat down with an upset mind.

Next morning a village doctor known to Saravanan, gave us a proposal for boat trip. To boost our mind, everyone went out together with him. Walking few distance from the village, the river is along the way. On the bank of river, a beautiful boat was there. It was similar to large boats in our villages. Nearly thirty feet in length. Two storied; therein nice doors and windows. Entirely made of wood and cane. Shiny polished inside. Just like a swan, floating over water. Bedroom, bath and dining facilities are Inside there.

Saravanan and I sat in at the boat’s window. And caught many fish angling with a rod. Prepare and cooked with spicy masala and coconut milk. Everybody ate well with white rice, fried fish, vegetable curry and coconut cooked with lobster. There was fun, music and singing until we returned in the evening.

In the river bank we meet with the village Panchayat chief Venkatesh Sharan. Healthy tall man with wide shoulder. Three white lime stains on his forehead, bracelets on the hands, thick mustache, and curling hair. He was wearing white shirt and a white lungi folded in half over his knees.

This time he was speaking too courteous with Saravanan in local language.

Saravanan told us, “Chief of the panchayet has one son and one daughter. The little girl, age of seven was very sick. He have to go with the head of Village panchayats. For medical treatment of his daughter”.

Our host rural doctor Mr. Nisanatan. also went with him. Bullock cart waiting near the bank. Everyone sat down, then bullocks start running. We would not let Saravanan leave alone. We all wanted to go. But he forbid us. Saravanan never return that night. And no one came with news. We all remain anxious for unknown danger.

Saravanan and village Doctor Nisanatan arrived in the early morning. Fatigue in their face and eyes; for sleepless night.

“The girl had stomach illness, vomiting and fever. She repeatedly lost her sense. Probably food poisoning and diarrhea. Still weak but the girl is recovering rapidly. Before this, another daughter of village chief died in of same illness. Baidya and Ojha’s of the village blames ghost for this. And beaten the little girl in ruthless way”, Saravanan said in sighed.

A great doctor's tireless human service, made my heart wiggle.

In the afternoon, Panchayat chief came along with fifteen to twenty men. gladly told us, all the head of the village had been agreed to abolish widow burning practice.

Also they ask for our help, to establish a school and hospital.Happy and emotional we all hugged everyone. Now 1966 AD. In 78 years of in life I did not get the same joy second time in nonviolent movements”.

After saying this, the great revolutionary looked at everyone.

He told us in generous voice, “All battles do not require guns. But some battles can not be win without guns. Sometimes in life is to look back. How far we came! How the progress of science, art and literature has changed our minds. Now millions of people no longer die in infectious disease tuberculosis, smallpox, or malaria. Communications from one end to the other end of the world becoming easy. Child marriage, polygamy and widow burning has been abolished. Yet this is man's character, he is afraid of new innovation. By creating all around strong shields of fallacy, he try to ignore the changes. Only proper education can create enlightened people . Great humans like Dr. Saravanan”.

 

NEGLIGENCE

NEGLIGENCE

[ Based on a True Story ]

 

 -Tareq Samin 

Alimuddin is 32. Medium height, light-slim body. Circular face. Sparkling line is beside the eyes. Always he is smiling. Alimuddin lives at Paikpara Tinshed Colony. He is a responsible family man. From morning 6 am to 10 pm at night he drives auto-rickshaw. Alimuddin tries hard. His wife Julekha is 26. She is short in height, bright complexion, physical structure is beautiful, face is something longish, straight nose, black thick hair. Julekha looks beautiful when she smiles. Eleven years have gone after their marriage. Julekha is very much irritated to bear the family. Her husband does not give her time. The personal time in conjugal relationship he spends in his work. She does not prefer to spend money. She also usually does not go to the outside or relative's home. Only during the time of two ‘Eid’ she used to go to the market. Affections and love are very distant things to them whether she would not be taking initiative. Her joy is her children and television.

 

Alimuddin comes back home at 1 pm. After bath he is taking lunch. Julekha cooks well deliciously. Julekha fans her husband with a handmade fan though there is electricity and the electric fan moves fast.

- Where is our son and daughter? Suddenly Alimuddin questions.

- They have gone to see the marriage ceremony at the neighboring home. Julekha spread the bed sheet with care.

Come take some rest—Julekha invites him in a low voice.

No, today I’ll go to repair the auto. If the day is wasted how I can income!

Julekha’s eyes are burst with tears. She blamed her luck. And gives mind to television. Alimuddin comes back 10 at night.

Hei listen—Alimuddin calls his wife.

Yes say!

I’ll bring Bahauddin in Dhaka.

Why?

To stay in Dhaka he would have to work.

We can’t stay well. We are somehow living in pain to take our children. Here how can he stay! Julekha replied in a very acute voice.

See you don’t prefer my relatives and brothers, I know that, Alimuddin angrily tells that to his wife.

Do as you wish—in a reply in an angry mood Julekha tells and then washing all the utensils she keeps those modestly.

 

After doing all the works, 11 at night Julekha put off the light. Her husband and two children are in deep sleep at that time.

 

Behauddin is 17 (seventeen). He is taller than his elder brother at this moment. His Face is circular. Nose is thin, big eyes. Still in his stature there is boyhood staying. He has come Dhaka capital city only for last two months. Still he can’t manage a job. Elder brother does not prefer his loitering outside. For that he has yet to make friends. Teaching the children of his elder brother and watching television—these are only his job.

 

There are many channels in television. His sister-in-law is the very fan of Indian Bengali serials. Love between brother-in-law and sister-in-law if shown in the television through the complexity then Bahauddin feels something awkward. He is the fan of Hindi cinema and dance-music. The nude physique of the heroines enlightens his heart.

Six months later what happens.—

One-day Alimuddin drives the auto. Mr. Sadek, his neighbor, in this short span of time dials 4 times. Alimuddin compels to speak in mobile. Suddenly he stops the auto severely. He started to cry terribly. And he drives the auto like a madman. And making himself to realize that what he heard that is a lie. All is remaining well.

 

To see the two dead bodies of his children he breaks down and hitting his chest. His two children are more favorable to him rather than he himself. Endless vacuum. Unending bereavement. He screams in an heart-breaking cry. Alimuddin time and again loses his sense.

 

Sometime later, in television chaneels; Alimuddin’s entire family is shown, the two lifeless bodies of the two children, his wife Julekha and brother Bahauddin are taken by the Police to the Police station and Alimuddin cries and cries by hitting his heart.

The children have seen the objectionable intimacy between the uncle and mother. Ruthlessly—the eight year old boy and the six year old girl were putting to death suffocationly choked to their throat—this was the breaking news.

 

SENSE OF RESPONSIBILITY

Tareq Samin is a Bangladeshi Poet, Writer and Editor. He is author of five books, include two poetry collections, two Short Stories collections and a Novel. Some of his poems are translated in English, Spanish, German, Slovak, Portuguese, French and Hungarian Languages. Nature, Love and humanism are central to his work.

 

 

 

SENSE OF RESPONSIBILITY

 

Majhar, Santanu and Iqbal were taking tea. Jayanto has yet to come. This roadside tea-stall is their preference. Beside the wide road in this tea-stall they the four friends usually pass their time. They are studying M.B.A. For a long time they are the friends to one another.

 

Majhar is very clever in nature. Medium height, slim health, longish face always in a naughty smile.

 

Santanu is easy, simple, indifferent in nature. He is the only one child of his parents, good health, circle faced. Eyes are bound in thick framed spectacle.

 

Iqbal is a man of poetic and literary flair. With long slim physique, curly hair, thick eyebrow and something longish face.

 

In their pastime talk there comes the future scope of jobs, present politics and beautiful girl mates. Most of the time they talk to take these three topics.

Majhar says, ‘why Jayanto Saheb is late today?’

He has some office work today, so he’ll be something late today’—Santanu replies.

After five why there is office?’—Iqbal asks to move his eyebrows.

The tea-stall owner Akhtar Mia pouring tea into the kettle remarks, ‘people do offices still 10 at night. And he tells why the office is after five? ‘Go to do the job you’ll understand what would be the matter!’

 

Majhar sits on the opposite side. He smiles and tells—‘see friends, see behind, your girl friend is coming.’

 

To see behind Santanu becomes reddish in shame. A mad, may be between 20 to 30 years old young woman fully naked. Her hair is raveled up. Unclean body, though her body structure is attractive. ‘Give money, I’ll eat rice?’ The mad woman wants alms in a pathetic voice.

In a sense of fear Santanu leaves his sit and goes away.

Now she stretches her hands to Iqbal. ‘Why you are rambling without clothes in this way’. Iqbal chides.

 

Majhar naughtily said, if she would be clothed ‘what could you see?’

 

When Jayanto has come suddenly, nobody knows. He puts off his shirt and gives it to the mad woman’s hand. The woman puts on the shirt slowly but surely. He gives a banana and bread to the woman, as if she is the family member. Eating them the woman happily goes away.

 

Among them Jayanto is the most needy and his financial condition is most pathetic. Beside the study, he is doing a job.

He sends money to his parents. Though he does not miss out the opportunity to help others.

 

If all the people would be helpful, then all the deprived people of the society could live better. To think this in his mind the tea-stall owner Akhtar Mia releases a big sigh.

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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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