Shabdaguchha: Logo_new edited by: Hassanal Abdullah issue: 73/74


Poets and Translators:

Adam Szyper
Amir Or
Aniela Gregorek
Beata Pozniak
Bill Wolak
Birutė Jonuškaitė
Danuta Bartosz
Dariusz Tomasz Lebioda
Hassanal Abdullah
Hatif Janabi
Jerzy Gregorek
Jaroslaw Pijarowski
Joan Digby
Józef Baran
Kazimierz Burnat
Małgorzata Żurecka
Lee Kuei-shien
Maria Mistrioti
Mirosław Grudzien
Nat Scammacca
Naznin Seamon
Sona Van
Stanley H. Barkan
Tomasz Marek Sobieraj
Zbigniew Milewski

Poetry in Bengali

Ahmed Shiplu
Rafiquzzaman Rony
Roni Adhikari
Uday Shankar Durjoy

Short Reivew

Belal Beg

Letters to the Editor

Badal Ghosh
Jasim Uddin Tutul
Maria Mistrioti
Nilas Mazumder
Noorelahi Mina
Jelani Sarker

Cover Art:

Jacek Wysocki


Najib Tareque

Celebrating 21 Years of Publication
প্রকাশনার একুশ বছর

Poetry in English

Stanley H. Barkan


It is said that 
the ancient Han
walked on sky
above the Yangtze
where the water 
is green and turbulent
by the Three Lesser Gorges.
They cut four-inch, 
two-feet deep squares,
placed wooden planks 
for a bridge of steps in them
—one over the other—
then, carrying their 
spears & halberds,
knives & lances,
they made their warrior way, 
over, above the raging rapids.
Like visitors from another planet,
they seemed to walk on sky.


Snow covers the Wyeth houses—
the porches, the decks, the roofs,
the lawns and backyards,
all the way to the Rail Trail—
only the scrub brush
and the evergreens are clear.

The sky itself is a snow-mist,
the sun hidden behind.

Still light pierces
the blackness of night
now gone with the dawn.
Nothing is moving,
no rabbits, deer, nor
even the occasional coyote.

The birds are silent, too.
No hint of spring to come.

The whiteness of the snow,
like a cerement of earth,
covers everything.

It covers all . . . 
It covers all . . .


A squadron of great white clouds
hover in the aquatinted sky.
No bird, kite. or plane—
just my rising thoughts . . . 

Gray clouds
slate across
the dawn sky.
Night falls
like a shade
down the windowpane.
No stars shine . . . 

Great gun-metal clouds
covering the morning sky—
just some blue patches.

New York

Joan Digby


Just like Snowball to bring on a flash flood
that was the very image of himself
coming closer and closer in a gray cloud
hovering above us as we helped him leave 

Then the sky opened up with a great burst
exploding in rain and thunder
as Snowball lit up the evening sky 


I nailed the photograph
to his favorite tree
like a poster that read:

Dead Or Alive

I wanted him to be alive
but he is now dead
and only this picture 
eyes focused on me
parading back and forth
remains in his place of shade

New York

Bill Wolak


You’re the bridge of mirrors 
crossed only by a smile.

You’re the darkness tasting of kisses
and the restlessness of sparks.

You’re the embrace of the labyrinth
in an alchemist’s firewood.

You’re the promise of feathers
and the rose of vanished lightning.

You’re the trance of sand 
in a mermaid’s eyes.


	"If anything is sacred the human body is sacred..."
	—Walt Whitman

May there be friends, 
and toasts to friendship, 
poetry, embraces, kisses, 
a sumptuous feast 
and wineglasses 
that can never be emptied,
tenderness and lovemaking, 
especially lovemaking. 
May there be “love-looks"
and “love-flesh,”
that shiver with
Whitman's promptings. 

Become sacred for another. 
Find your sacredness 
with another. 
Coax the sacredness 
from another.

Repeat what Spring 
only murmurs and moans:
“Now come and dance
while there's music,
dance with this shattered mirror,
dance, at last, your freedom.”


“Have you lost a piano?”
Princess Alexandra of Bavaria
would ask everyone she met,
for she believed she had swallowed
a grand piano made of glass.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I can see it
reflected in the bedroom mirror
when I am naked as light.”
Yet to all others it remained
invisible, inconceivable.

“If only my flesh were transparent,”
she would insist, “then you could see it,
the lost piano offering its keys
here, just behind my breasts.”

But no fingers ever found those keys,
and the lost piano stayed 
silently hovering near her heart
unseen, unheard.

New Jersey

Naznin Seamon


Tell me where I can find you
how far I need to walk, or
which medium you can be reached at:
email, facebook, emo, whatsapp, or anything else—
spill it once, briskly I’ll come like a shooting star.
I’ll slice open the world as if it’s a juicy orange, 
I’ll tear apart the hemispheres, 
pluck all obscurities like people do to the 
dark black seed of a red watermelon;
I’ll swallow down three-fourth of water and start
crossing the sun-baked desserts until I reach you
and ask you that eternal question:
Why did you leave me alone?


I wondered how I can 
strengthen my lexicon,
be sophisticated and 
present myself to be 
elegant, exquisite.
Someone suggested me to 
be an avid reader.
You are the only one who I 
can turn to now.
Will you write me letters, 
one, every day, my beloved?

New York

Shabdaguchha: Issue 77_78

Find us on Facebook

Printed Version
পত্রিকার মুদ্রিত কপি


Polish Poetry

Poetry in English 1

Poetry Translated from Other Languages

Poetry Bengali to English

Poetry in Bengali

Editor's Journal

Short Review

Shabda News

To the Editor

Contributors' Bio

শব্দগুচ্ছর এই সংখ্যাটির মুদ্রিত সংস্করণ ডাকযোগে পেতে হলে অনুগ্রহপূর্বক নিচে ক্লিক করে ওয়ার্ডার করুন।

To order for the hardcopy of this issue, please click on the following link:

Get a Hardcopy

Back to Issue 77_78
Back to Front Page Send Your Feedback
Shabdaguchha, an International Bilingual Poetry Magazine, edited by Hassanal Abdullah