World Poetry Festival magazine 2021

299

Machiavellian

Ankur Ranjan Phukan

The many folds in the umbrella till it was ironed by the rain, that much pure is the
light of chaklong diya. The ghancharai memorising tamol folded by forgetfulness
savoury or bitter? Whatever be it, ‘Give us one too.’
The slanted scattered image on the mirror, as it had been enjoying fluid gymnas-
tics in the middle-aged railing, whom did it suddenly say, ‘Only those coloured
juicy saliva is what matters.’
The umbrella is already open, as if an immature joke
It is perhaps irrelevant to translate event.
I don’t have any compassion to the extra finger of the one for whom is the boiling
milk borrowing the heat from nought. Perhaps irrelevant.
The fluid gymnastics enjoyed alone. All the prohibited seats are airless. Irrelevant?
Relevant – irrelevant
Dialectic sometime ahead of thought
Perhaps not dialectic, dichotomy

Leave these theories, though thinly attended
Let the marriage be over, give me a ghancharai* tamol**
My only umbrella, suffering from cold
Let it remain in its folds

**Tamol – a mouth freshener chew comprising of arecanut, betel leaf, a little lime and optionally a small quantity of
tobacco; it is offered as a mark of respect to any visitor, and forms a part of every ritual
*ghancharai – ghanchirika – sparrow, charai – bird; in a folk song, the sparrow is asked to bring a tamol.

English Translation : Bibekananda Choudhury

301

ö†þï¢y¡#

xB%þîû îûOl æ%þ†þyl

î,!ÜT öèþy Séy•þyîû èþ„y–
þ›!îe ‹þy†þ¡. ²Ì˜#öìþ›îû xyöì¡y
‰yl‹þ’þüy¥zöìëûîû •þyÁº%öì¡îû ß¿,!•þ–
•þy ô¢¡y˜yîû ö¥y†þ îy ö•þöì•þy–
xyôyöì˜îû xyöìîûy ~†þîyîû ö¥y†þÐ
xyëûlyëû ‡uþéŸé˜,¢Ä xyîû
ô™Äîëûßñ öîû!¡öì. îû¤yöì¡y îû.#l ¡y¡yîû •þîû¡ !ôly!ސþ†þÐ
!¢Ö¤%¡èþ ôyîû ôöì•þy Séy•þy ö‡y¡y¥z !Séöì¡yÐ
¥öì•þ þ›yöìîû •þy ‰þlyîû ¤öìD ¤Á›,_« lëûÐ
¢)lÄ öíöì†þ •þyþ› ölGëûy ˜%öì™éŸé’%þîhsý xy.%öì¡îû ²Ì!•þÐ
•þî% xyôyîû ˜ëûy !Séöì¡y ly–
¥öì•þ þ›yöìîû– x²Ìy¤!D†þÐ
•þîû¡ !ôlÄy!ސþ†þ ~†þy¥z ’þzþ›öìèþyˆ †þöìîû!Sé¡yôÐ
¤ôhßì îyîû”ŸŸé¢)lÄ•þyŸŸéx²Ì¤y!D†þ•þy
²Ìy¤!D†þ•þy韟é!‹þhsýy韟ém¨μ韟é÷îþ›îû#•þÄ
韟é~¤î •þ_´öì†þ öSéöì’þüŸŸé!îöìëû þ›îŐþy
!ôöìþ öˆöì¡ xyôyöì†þ ~†þþy •þyÁº%¡
‰yl‹þ’þüy¥z !˜G– ¢#•þy•þÅ Séy•þy î¦þ¥z íy†þÐ

îy‚¡y xl%îy˜ öôï!ô•þy þ›y¡

302

303

A Green Passage

Lutfa Hanum Salima Begum

The fallen leaves want
A green passage
Back to the branches of trees

The birds want
To be yellow inside eggs
The river wants
That the dead fish return

The shadow wants
To be trees
To be human hearts
The smoke wants a red path
Back to the heart of the fire

The water would be stones
The stones want to dissolve
In human hearts

And me, melting in you
Seek a passage back to me
Through the green

Through water, stones
Words and tunes.

English Translation : Pradip Acharjya

304

~†þ!þ ¤î% ˆôlþ›í

¡%êæþy ¥yl%ô ¤y!¡ôy öîˆô

Vþîûy þ›y•þyîûy ‹þyëû
~†þ!þ ¤î% ˆôlþ›í
!æþöìîû öëöì•þ î,öìÇþîû ’þyöì¡

þ›y!‡îûy ‹þyëû !’þöìôîû !èþ•þöìîû
þ›%lîÅyîû ¥¡%˜ ¥óöìëû öëöì•þ
l˜# ‹þyëû öël
!æþöìîû xyöì¤ •þyîû î%öì†þ ô,•þ ôyöìSéöì˜îû ˜¡

Séyëûy ‹þyëû
ˆySé ¥óöì•þ
¥óöìëû öëöì•þ ôylî¥*˜ëû
ö™„yëûy ‹þyëû ~†þ!þ îû!_«ô þ›í
!æþöìîû öëöì•þ xy=öìlîû ôöìl
¡ ~†þ!˜l þ›yíîû ¥óöìëû ëyöìî
þ›yíîû ö‹þöìëûöìSé ôylî¥*˜öìëû
oî#è)þ•þ ¥óöì•þ

xyîû xy!ô– ˆ¡öì•þ ˆ¡öì•þ ö•þyôyîû !èþ•þîû
!löìîû †þyöìSé¥z !æþöìîû öëöì•þ Ö™% ~†þ!þ ˆôlþ›í ‹þy¥z
¤î%öìîû î%†þ !‹þöìîû

¡ G þ›yíîû !‹þöìîû
!‹þöìîû !‹þöìîû ¢· xyîû ¤%îûÐ

îy‚¡y xl%îy˜ ö¤y¥ô ‹þe«î•þÅ#

305

306

The bell formed by the dripping fatique

Md. Kamaluddin Ahamed

Along the river bank
We made the journey
The cobwebs of the city gradually
got erased from our minds
The veil of fog pushed
The grime of our bodies
behind the sheet
The site slipped into our hands
the imagined land of fog
In the journey made along the river bank
as if our clothes won’t get soiled
as if we’d never ever come back
we’d be shrouded by time
Slowly the clang of the bell
formed by the dripping fatique of the city
would die down at heart

English Translation : Nirendra Nath Thakuria

307

†Ïþy!hsýîû Çþîûöì”îû ‰rþy™ç!l

ô¥ †þyôy¡%!jl xy¥öìô˜

l˜#îû ™yîû ™öìîû öëöì•þ öëöì•þ
e«ô¢ Vþyþ›¤y ¥ëû ¢àöìîû ß¿,!•þîû y¡
†%þëûy¢yîû þ›˜Åy ~ ö˜öì¥îû ôëû¡yöì†þ îûyöì‡ xy’þüyöì¡¥z
†%þëûy¢yîû †þyÒ!l†þ ö¤ ßiyl •þ‡l ¥yöì•þîû ô%öì‘þyëû
~ þ›öìí– †þy˜y ¡yöìˆ ly öþ›y¢yöì†þ

!æþöìîû xy¤öì•þ ¥ëû ly xyôyöì˜îû
öël ¤ôöìëûîû ˜y¤c öl¥z xyîû
™#öìîû e«ô¢ îyöì ö¤¥z ‰rþy
¢àöìîû †Ïþy!hsýîû Çþîûöì” §Ã ~ ™ç!lîû
ëy !löìèþ ëyöìî ¥*˜öìëû¥z

îy‚¡y xl%îy˜ öôï!ô•þy þ›y¡

308

!l’þz!¡Äyuþ
Newzeland

After the flight

Olivia Macassey

Tell me of these things
which inhabit you
through silence,

which for a moment
you imagine me imagining.

That opaque, still water beneath
mangrove shadows at high tide.
Or how she put in an earring,
graceful beside the line of her moving wrist,
and you caught her eye in the mirror.
How it happened –
how you came here.
Moments in
the solitude of morning darkness.
The feeling of rain against the pulse at your neck.
The slow circles of stars towards dawn.
These wonders.

You move in and out of self-acceptance, even now.
There is nothing between you and the river.

A shadow on rough rock
becomes angular, becomes

a seabird in flight;
impulse briefly becomes desire.
If I cannot sleep and it is raining,
I may think of you standing in the rain

309

’þz’þüyöìlîû þ›îû

x!¡!èþëûy ôÄy†þy!¤

ö•þyôyîû ÷l/¢öì·îû xy’þüyöì¡îû †þíy=!¡ îöì¡y
~†þ þ›¡ xyôyöì†þ †þÒly †þîûöì•þ †þÒly †þöìîûy–
öì¡îû •þ¡yîû xߺFSé•þy–
’þz„‹%þ ö“þ’þzöìëû ôÄylöì@ýÌyöìèþîû Séyëûy !†þ‚îy
•þyîû †þyöìlîû ˜%¡– ö†þyôöìîûîû öîû‡y韟Ÿéëy ö¥y†þÐ
xyîû xyëûlyëû ö˜öì‡y •þyîû ö‹þy‡
èþyöìîy ö†þl ¥öì¡y ~¤î– †þ#èþyöìî ~‡yöìl ~öì¡ •%þ!ô–
öèþyöìîûîû x¦þ†þyöìîû ö•þyôyîû ~†þy†þ#c–
ö•þyôyîû ‰yöì’þüîû †þyöìSé î,!ÜTîû xyèþy¤–
öèþyöìîû æ%þ!îûöìëû xy¤y •þyîûy
~¤î¥z èþyöìîy–
@ýÌ¥”öìëyˆÄ•þyöì†þ öæþöì¡ ~öì¡
ö•þyôyîû G l˜#îû ôyöìVþ !†þS%é öl¥z–
~†þ ¤ô%oþ›y!‡ ’þz’þüöìSé–
•þy’þüly e«ô¢ xy†þyAÇþyëû þ›!îû”•þ ¥öìFSéÐ
ë!˜ ly ‰%öìôy¥z– xyîû î,!ÜT lyöìô–
•%þ!ô î,!ÜTöì•þ öèþöìy韟éxyôyîû †þÒlyëûÐ

îy‚¡y xl%îy˜ öôï!ô•þy þ›y¡

310

öß›l
Spain

What is it to be a poet and why,

Francisco Munoz Soler

I never ask these questions to myself,
it flows out from the spring within my soul
forging the choices of my life,
my stance in the world,
expressing myself through the word
and through silence
with beauty and humanism.

ö¡‡öì†þîû ߺîû*þ›

æÊþy!ª¤öì†þy ô%öìly ö¤y¡yîû

!löìöì†þ †þ‡öìly !öìKþ¤ †þ!îû!l
~ôl ²ÌÙÀ
î¤hsý öíöì†þ xydyîû ˆèþ#öìîû
²Ìîy!¥•þ ¥öìëûöìSé ~îû ߺîû*þ›–
#îöìlîû xl%†þîûöì”– !îöìÙ» xyôyîû xîßiyöìl–
!löìöì†þ îÄ_« †þîûyîû xèþÄyöì¤Ð
ôylî•þyŸŸéö¤ï¨öìëÅîû îÄ_« l#îûî•þyëû ~îû ߺîû*þ›Ð

îy‚¡y xl%îy˜ öôï!ô•þy þ›y¡

312

þ›y!†þhßìyl
Pakistan

If only i were younger

Sabahudin Hadžialić

I read
Poetry
written by the young poets…

I
don’t know
if I should
call it
Regressive or Progressive ?

I better shut up
and continue reading
The poetry written by young writers.

ë!˜ xyîûG •þîû&l ¥•þyô

¤yîyà!jl ¥Äy’þ!ëûy!¡†þ

•þîû&” †þ!îöì˜îû †þ!î•þy þ›!’þü
y!lly †þ# î¡öìîy
²Ì!•þ!e«ëûy¢#¡ !†þ‚îy ²Ìˆ!•þ¢#¡
~îû ö‹þöìëû èþyöì¡y ‹%þþ› †þöìîû íy†þy
~î‚ •þîû&”öì˜îû ö¡‡y †þ!î•þyþ›y‘þ †þîûyÐ

îy‚¡y xl%îy˜ öôï!ô•þy þ›y¡

314

•þy¥zGëûyl
Taiwan

316

Permanent Address English Translation : Lee Kuei-shien

Chen Hsiu-chen îy‚¡y xl%îy˜ öôï!ô•þy þ›y¡

During my wandering,
I looked for a permanent address.

May have an invariable address
for a fragrance of flower?
May have a permanent watershed
for a drop of river stream?
May have an eternal sky
for a floating cloud.

After the endless wandering,
each drop of tear
moistens the homeland under feet,
the permanent address is eventually found.

Whether the love in wandering
needs to look for a permanent address?

ßiyëû# !‘þ†þyly

ö‹þléŸé!¤’þzŸéö‹þl

¼ôöì”îû ¤ôëû ßiyëû# !‘þ†þyly ‡%„!Sé¡yôÐ
æ%þöì¡îû ˆöì¦þîû lÄ ~†þ xþ›!îûî•þÅl#ëû !‘þ†þyly–
l˜#îû öì¡îû ~†þ!î¨%îû lÄ ¡y¢ëû–
èþy¤ôyl öôöì‰îû lÄ !‹þîûöì†þöì¡ xy†þy¢ ‡%„!Sé¡yô

xyîû ö¢£ì ly ¥Gëûy ¼ôöì”îû ö¢öì£ì
²Ì!•þ!þ ö‹þyöì‡îû öì¡ !èþöì öˆ¡
þ›yöìëûîû •þ¡yîû ôy!þ– þ›yGëûy öˆ¡ ßiyëû# !‘þ†þyly–

èþyöì¡yîy¤yîû !†þ ö†þî¡ ßiyëû# !‘þ†þyly
‡%„öì öþ›öì•þ ¥ëûÚ

317

¥zþy!¡
Italy

Amanti English Translation : Karubaki Roy

Maria Teresa Tedde

Gli amanti hanno occhi di sole
e mani profumate di viole.
Parlano fitto fitto,
sorridono alle rotaie incandescenti
e fanno, di momenti,
eternità.
Colorano la vita
impastano pane nuovo
mettono a riposo tuoni
fanno condoni di sfiducia.
Li trovi nelle strade
in angoli di mondo
nel blu profondo
di occhi senza nome.
Amanti senza tempo.

Lovers

Maria Teresa Tedde

Lovers have sunny eyes
and hands perfumed with violets.
They talk tightly,
they smile at the glowing rails
and make, of moments,
eternity.
They color life
they knead new bread
put thunder to rest
make amnesties of distrust.
You find them in the streets
in corners of the world
in the deep blue
of nameless eyes.
Timeless lovers.

319

ö²Ì!ôöì†þîûy

ôy!îûëûy öþöìîûy öþöì’þ

ö²Ì!ô†þöì˜îû íyöì†þ ’þzIμ¡ ö‹þy‡–
öî=l# ¤%ˆ¦þ# ¥y•þÐ
™#öìîû †þíy îöì¡ •þyîûy–
ö¥öì¤ •þyîûy Çþ”éŸö†þ !‹þîû†þy¡ †þöìîû ö•þyöì¡Ð
•þyîûy îû. öîyöìl #îöìl–
•þyîûy îû&!þ îylyëû– Vþ’þü íyôyëû–
x!îÙ»y¤éŸö†þ †þöìîû Çþôy
•þyîûy íyöì†þ þ›öìí þ›öìí
!îöìÙ»îû ö†þyöì” ö†þyöì”– lyô¥#l ö‹þyöì‡îû ‰ll#öì¡Ð
ö²Ì!ôöì†þîûy ¤ôöìëûîû !¥¤yöìîîû ’þzöì™ÅÐ

îy‚¡y xl%îy˜ öôï!ô•þy þ›y¡

320

Spring Snow

Anna Ferriero

I saw a star
as I was listening to my heart,
I was happy and full of love.
I saw a star
as I was dreaming of your gaze
there was a new perfume
that in the waves of the sea
it sounded new melody.
A Flower was born
it reminded the snow.
I grazed that flower:
spring has blossomed!

î¤hsý îîûæþ

xÄyly öæþ!îûGöìîûy

•þyîûyîû ˜,¢Ä öël ¥*˜öìëûîû ¤D#•þ
öë ¥*˜ëû èþyöì¡yîy¤y– ¤%öì‡ þ›)”Å
•þyîûyîû ˜,¢Ä öël ö•þyôyîû •þy†þyöìly–
l•%þl ¤%ˆ¦þ#– ¤ô%öìoîû ö“þ’þzöìëûîû l•%þl ¤%îû•þîûDÐ
¤˜Ä§Ãyöìly ~†þ æ%þ¡ ôöìl †þ!îûöìëû !˜öì¡y îîûöìæþîû †þíyÐ
æ%þöì¡îû !˜öì†þ •þy†þy¡yô î¤hsý ²Ì†þy¢ öþ›öì¡yÐ

îy‚¡y xl%îy˜ öôï!ô•þy þ›y¡

321