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Contributors:
Poetry and Essays:
Hassanal Abdullah
Roni Adhikari
Kayes Ahmed
Rassel Ahmed
Chak Amitava
Pallav Bandyopadhayay
Stanley H. Barkan
Nicholas Birns
Jyotirmoy Datta
Jyotiprakash Dutta
Caroline Gill
Nirmolendu Goon
Clinton Van Inman
John McLeod
Manas Paul
Matin Raihan
Hasan Sabbir
Naznin Seamon
Amiyakumar Sengupta
Letters to the Editor:
Maria Bennett
Laura Boss
Stephen Cipot
Joan Digby
John Digby
Arthur Dobrin
Kristine Doll
Maria Mazziotti Gillan
Adel Gogy
Mary Gogy
Mike Graves
Leigh Harrison
Yvette Neisser Moreno
Marsha Solomon
Tino Villanueva
Bill Wolak
Letters to the Editor:
Babette Albin
Chandan Anwar
Mansur Aziz
Laura Boss
Rumana Gani
David Gershator
Caroline Gill
Isaac Goldemberg
Zahirul Hasan
Omar Faruque Jibon
Gholam Moyenuddin
Hasan Sabbir
Subir Sarkar
Tabrish Sarker
Bikul Hossain Rojario
Cover Art:
Ekok Soubir
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Shabdaguchha: The 15th Anniversary Issue
Poetry In English
Stanley H. Barkan
DHAKA, QUEENS
(for Hassanal Abdullah, 14 April 2013)
I walk the streets
of Dhaka . . . Queens!
Men, women, children—
all walking, too, with
a quick and happy step.
Faces full of festive
promise,
joy in this new place.
The women are
in sparkling holiday dress
—red & green—
the colors of Bangla.
It is the birthday
of Bengali,
the language
of Bangladesh.
It is also
my poet friend’s birthday—
a double celebration.
Crowds gather
in a courtyard:
many speakers,
poetry readings,
singing, & dancing.
The streets have everything:
restaurants,
groceries,
bakeries,
jewelry,
clothing,
toys . . .
Queens is jumping
in Bangla rhythm.
In the car, my poet friend
plays a tape and sings
some of the 400
songs he’s written.
The tape he plays
is varied with
woodwinds, strings,
brass, and drums.
The songs are
of love & loss.
They all link
yearningly
back to Bangla.
I am admitted,
privileged,
to walk with,
among
these new Americans
on the streets
of Dhaka, Queens.
Bangla America—
I love you!
Merrick, NY
Clinton Van Inman
SYLVIA
I hear they have placed
A pretty blue plaque
High above your flat
So that tourists can find you
And say that this is the spot
Where you killed yourself.
Lucky girl, you modern Sappho
To take the quantum leap
Like a comet to take your place
Among the darkest regions of empty space
With a brilliance that few can keep
And even less the mind to know
Where no dull planet can perturb you
As fallen flowers have no faces.
Florida
John McLeod
MY TORMENT
I let my insecurity and prurience rule my life, my first regret.
Followed by an education in banality.
I rue the day that I defended my bugbear, with an idle threat.
Exposing my weakness and justifying a call to security,
Spawning an unholy clique, a furtive phantom, that will not go away.
Now receding, ever retreating, only needing a reason to vent,
Only light of day holds them at bay.
A pent-up, self-righteous tide, regardless of my repent.
Don’t pretend that “it’s over”.
It isn’t for me, and never will be!
As heavy as my condition, and as light as a feather,
At my home and beyond the sea.
What do “the better Angels of their nature” represent?
Looming and daunting, “justified and deserved;”
My interminable torment.
EIGHT
They’re “them.” They’re “they.” They’re “those people.”
Too many to cross or ignore,
Too vague to accuse or reason.
Wrathful, fearsome, and proud of it.
Above reproach, yet complicit.
They were a rumor, a phantom.
With no account more than themselves.
Evocative of the people
Whom I have ever known that I
Never wanted to see again.
The murk has passed, gone with the tide.
They were the strange scent in the air,
The friendly pall, the looming shade;
The squeaky wheel of righteousness,
And the grassroots of fascism.
Florida
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