Shabdaguchha: Logo_new edited by: Hassanal Abdullah issue: 69/70


Poets and Translators:

Afzal Moolla  
Alan Garfoot
Anisur Rahman Apu
Baitullah Quaderee
Bill Wolak
Biswajit Monda
Dilara Hafez
Frank Stewart
Germain Droofenbroodt
Greeg Dotoli
Ray Herndon Smith
Hassanal Abdullah
Howard Scott
Jalal El Hakmaoui
Jidi Majia 
Joan Digby
John Digby
Jyotirmoy Datta
Maria Bennett
Naoshi Koriyama
Naznin Seamon
Rehanul Hoque
Rahul Roychowdhury
Richard Berengarten
Roni Adhikari
Rukui Chen
Stanley  H. Barkan
Tanvir Ahmed Rhidoy
Tomasz Marek Sobieraj
Zhang Hu

Cover Art:

Erick Villalona

New Logo:

Najib Tareque

Shabdaguchha Title: Issue 70

    Baitullah Quaderee


    A kneel-down morning
    keeps me stranded to think
    as if it was gradually getting pregnant.
    Its spirit, and the emotional stage
    of its heart, easily transmitted
    to the third section of the dawn.
    Feelings and festivity slough
    through its leafs.
    In its unfolded lustrous vaginal lips
    the sparkling sunlight
    penetrates a thin-shadowed wave.
    Those who come to me now—
    Socrates, Alexander, Freud,
    or even Hawking and Tagore,
    they don’t show up at the turn of my well being.
    My mornings not so subtle as their nights.
    With my own electrical charge, therefore,
    I permeated a little further
    as of yesterday or even the day before.
    Again I have arrived today
    for the equal share of flesh and blood-stain sheets.
    Since, Columbus diverted my boat
    towards the wrong channel, and thought,
    for the betrayal of the wind, that I would
    evaporate the same aroma
    as the sizzling red meat.
    So, the kneel-down winter morning,
    as the amass milk-like pellucid baby’s,
    and elder’s glance
    at the third section of the dawn,
    carefully walks away with my
    evening writings,
    and like the lost youth,
    someone calls out:
    Let’s get it, let’s get it, let’s get it now.


    Don’t be upset lord, don’t be hesitant yet.
    Looking at this heartiest marrow, my lord,
    you drink some water, walk a little,
    and do some exercise holding the stick.
    Later, if you shrink in your width and height,
    then, like your wife, continue on the vocal practice,
    without waking the neighbors. Do you have a wife?
    Without waking others, you wake to break your heart.
    Lord, do you know that your neighbor’s heart is
    melted in a newly bought silk sari? Now, let’s make up
    your mind, and tell me, have you ever seen her?
    Have you ever recognized the village that is engulfed
    by flood-water? The surging water failed to find
    its depth. My lord, let’s make up your mind, and tell me,
    what is worse, the thief or the habit of being theft?


    Who asked me to
    weave the light?
    Could anyone ever
    weave light like this?
    It’s not
    a woolen sweater,
    that would be finished before winter.
    The eggs of light
    arranged in rows,
    in a circular array,
    it has been spinning around
    while clustered in a drop of water—
    Is it easy to
    weave that

    A festival of men and women.
    They are now meeting
    at the edge of each other’s desire.
    In a consumer-less dusk,
    long and pale;
    after all the hugging and kissing,
    they ignite the light
    then switch it off
    And I reckon, I am not at all
    in my own habitude,
    have gone to
    the lover-land
    burning my flesh.
    A flock of birds,
    faster than sound,
    burns me with its fire,
    and I
    then keep one
    weaving the light,
    like a weaver


    Last night, I embraced the hilly moon
    more than anything else, beside
    the weak branches of the hollowed nature,
    dry but palpable, in the midst of the wind’s respiration.
    I observed the fog stretching
    its suspended horse-mouth
    up to the street and ignited the light,
    a flickering light on a fish-ring
    in river-water.
    Someone, at least, was awarded the kingship
    at that meeting—someone, yet,
    with the help of visual lamentation
    made it up to the marriage, and then,
    there started the days of nakedness.
    Fish, too, stayed naked for the whole day.
    Along with the fringe-ring, and sprinkling
    aroma, last night,
    jumping off the quicksand
    danced the girl’s tender breasts,
    like a cotton candy swaying
    in ragged December air.

    Translated from the Bengali by Hassanal Abdullah

    Dhaka, Bangladesh

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পত্রিকার মুদ্রিত কপি


Bilingual Poetry

Poetry in English

Poetry in Bengali

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

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Shabdaguchha, an International Bilingual Poetry Magazine, edited by Hassanal Abdullah