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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 
Dariusz Tomasz Lebioda THE ASH AND DIAMOND Someday we will stand frightened as if a bomb went off resembling the blind of Breughel–we’ll look for a haven to anchor our thoughts’pale sails–someday snatched from our dreams, we’ll jump out from a window; before we fall down, we’ll manage to fall asleep and wake up again someday, like a hero of the Fifties, we’ll begin running away, and time, our fake friend, will shoot a burst of diamonds right from behind, and we’ll fall headlong into the ashes. BLOOD OF THE UNICORN Your skull is a bowl where consciousness burns where the red fire of sleep smolders— you look into dark and see centaurs disappearing in the stellar wind. You’re the promise of heaven the threat of hell. You bear within you a child and a blood–sucking ancient in a Zoroastrian mitre. Your destiny is eternity though you’ll never experience it. Your destiny is death though you’ll never touch it. Your destiny is being, but you don’t exist. Your tenderness irks the blind dwarf seated on a throne in a silken chasuble. Your sensibility allays the anger of the crystal unicorn. You peer into the dark and ice the golden face of the pharaoh the terracotta army of the first emperor. Aldrin’s white space suits and totems of ebony golden trays and Hadrian’s denarii. You see Mary Stuart’s head tumble watch sand-covering caravan routes and dead cities, you look at the stars and become a student of the universe hang your head, turn to a tear on the cheek of a faun. Before you are many roads to mislead you many lost moments, too. Behind you the first day, the first night, before you the last dream. SKULL OF DESCARTES Here is the skull of a man a cold casket of empty eye sockets. It outlasted the duration of the Thirty Years’ War. Dreamt in it were storms in the town of Ulm. Heard in it were the words of God, quid vitae sectobar iter. Contained in it was an image of the one who thought. and a deaf universe and black grease in the mouth. Then it lay under the earth in an icy tomb shrouded in satins of darkness more precious than gold. Now it is an exhibit in a museum of man. Anyone can take it into his hands anyone can weigh it. It doesn’t think, so it doesn’t exist. A man’s skull an empty casket. Translated from the Polish by the poet Poland
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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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