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 Contributors: Poets and Translators: Stanley H. Barkan Dariusz Tomasz Lebioda Sultan Catto Catherine Fletcher Naznin Seamon David Lawton Bishnupada Ray Ellen Lytle Richard Jeffry Newman Roni Adhikari Dhanonjoy C Saha Howard Pflanzer Maki Starfield Natasha R Clarke Amirah Al Wassif John Smelcer Ekok Soubir Hassanal Abdullah A Tribute To Buddhadeva Bose (1908-1974) Poetry in Bengali Hadiul Islam Suman Dhara Sharma Mahbub Mitra Mohammad Jasim Letters to the Editor Naoshi Koriyama Carolyne Wright Sultan Catto Peter Thabit Jones Samantha Jane Denise Moyo Chandan Das Partha Banerjee Sulekha Sarkar Somnath Ray Cover Art: Thaira Almayahy Husen New Logo: Najib Tareque |
Celebrating 21 Years of Publication প্রকাশনার একুশ বছর 
Hassanal Abdullah A TALE OF SHRINKAGE I shrink a little everyday. I feel as if with a sharp knife, someone shaves off the uppermost particles of my hand, nose, and ear. I gradually deflate like a ball kept in the corner of a storeroom. I am not in need of anything. My children are growing up with excited wings. Day by day I am also getting suited at my workplace, and enough food is being placed on my table. Yet I, like a shooting star, gradually lose light. I shrink a little everyday. My days get shortened. My nightly sleeping time gets shortened. The depths of my friendship become shallower. The fabulous phase of my circular orbit reduces its radius. My traveling horizon contracts— I incessantly shrink a little at the turn of each day. LONGING Let our days be prolonged, let our nights be prolonged, let our world be widened and stronger. Let the time of our unique meeting be a little longer. Let this passion be prolonged; affection of our beloved children, the fragrance of green grass, the smile of roses at the window, faces of people we love; let our upstream sail and the busiest rowing be prolonged. I MUST WALK TOWARDS ETERNITY Wrapped in a distant mystery, my own past comes up and knocks at my door. Scenes, as if they were live, project on my heart's frame. When I was exactly like you, with the aid of my crafty little fingers, picking gray hairs, smiling, I too put a quarter or two in my pocket—that money is now buried beneath the shade of time. A few of my own hairs have also grayed now. Time toiled away even faster than that. I know that moments of the past would not call me again by my name. I know those lucky quarters would not be of any use now. The known, intimate faces that, with the vicious spin of time, have gone to embrace eternity, I sometimes would search them in my own self. And at the sound of your little feet, I would also portray my past. One day, you too will find your trace into those of your children's. And, I, turning into a gray past, would walk towards eternity. . . Translated from the Bengali by Ekok Soubir New York Rony Adhikari ONE DAY OUT OF THIS NEIGHBORHOOD 1 I would have to be out of this neighborhood embracing the solitary land, I would have to walk through the stagnant blue water, wrapping my wound and mournful limbs. In the unfortunate yard of my failures, nested flickering fire . . . One day, I would definitely live this neighborhood, I would go beyond the gray blinds of this naked world. Knowing all this, a man awaited, and then slept abundantly in the vast field, noticed the wrestling of the soil and human limbs— though it was risky and saddening. The sky diffused the deep layer of blue, the sunlight draped the color to be squeezed, the fog scattered and got thicker. Thus, every man and woman of the world sleeping like this have learned a lot from the widened field and flooded gorges—learned how intensely the taste of life got completely mixed up. 2 My shadow walked through the city of ghosts and in the stairs of deceptions as if it has been hanged . . . I walked behind the shade of the sun— I walked, I had to, I had to walk through the solitude, and the secluded earth-land, silently, in a naked stillness; I walked, I had to. THE DREAM RAFT WON’T FLOAT From the Ice Age till today, Mandira has pleased herself under the fir tree and regularly ruled her lower lip with the power of her upper teeth . . . the hanging shadow mixing with sunlight, gathering on her face. The train-whistle gradually gets clearer . . . shakes her pore vessels as if they were a pulsating heart—suddenly touched by the softness of rain. Perhaps, the train would spread the musky smell as it runs away! Day, month, year, century, and even the sunlight would disappear one after the other. . . at the time of hunger and defeat. The train would be rusted; Mandira’s limbs would be rusted too, and our dreams, we would then know that the dream raft won’t float in the dark, or on the back of an octopus. AN OPEN LETTER TO NIGHT Night, touch eternity, touch my hand, touch my shape. Bathe in the seasonal rain, and get sick again . . . Walk along the wet path in the unprotected dark— worship Nature with deep love and longing, let your desire be back to your soul’s consciousness. Turn blue in love, in acute poison . . . I know, you can be bluish, beautiful, and bizarre; dreaming of my survival, I gradually get stronger. I have burned so many poetic nights in my eye-burner, though the night was never translated into the morning. At the pit of the civilized Ajanta, rubbing stones, I draw the destiny of the sun, and keep on knocking at the nocturnal door for a successful dawn. Translated from the Bengali by Hassanal Abdullah Dhaka
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Printed Version পত্রিকার মুদ্রিত কপি Contents: A Tribute to Buddhadeva Bose Poetry in Translation (polish) Poetry in Translation (Bengali) Poetry in Translation (Ahtna) Poetry in English 1 Poetry in English 2 Poetry in Bengali Editor's Journal Shabda News Letters to the Editor 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 |
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