Shabdaguchha: Logo_new edited by: Hassanal Abdullah issue:83/84


Poets and Translators:

Poets and Translations Alicia Ostriker, Álvaro Mata Guillé, Amir Or, Baitullah Quaderee, Bill Wolak, Bishnupada Ray, Carolyne Wright, Daniela Negrete, Ekok Soubir, Hassanal Abdullah, Helena Berg, Jaehyung Park, Joan Digby, Jyotirmoy Datta, Kabir Chowdhury, Kalina Izabela Zioła, Maid Corbic, Maria Mistrioti, Mohammad Nurul Huda, Peter Cole, Slava Konoval, Stanley H. Barkan, and Sungrye Han

Poetry in Bengali

Prabir Das, Naznin Seamon, Ahana Biswas, Tareq Mahmud, Shourav Sikder, Al Imran Siddiqui, Farhan Ishraq, Chandan Das, Laila Farzina, and Al Noman

Letters to the Editor

Teodozia Zarivna, Kalina Izabela Zioła, Majed Mahtab, and Ehsanul Habib

Cover Art:Jacek Wysocki

Jacek Wysocki


Najib Tareque

Celebrating 24 Years of Publication
প্রকাশনার চব্বিশ বছর

Shabdaguchha: Issue 83/84
Cover Art: Jacek Wysocki

    Álvaro Mata Guillé
    As a Child
    As a child
    I asked myself about the fog blending in it, letting 
    myself go in the lethargy that
    the dust embraced,
    it was a time without time:
    what is alien, the nostalgia, 
    me reappearing in the distance, on the hill 
    that would erase the caves of the
    witch, in the arms of the trees that 
    pointed toward the hillocks,
    diluted in the haze,
    in the void;
    there were a few streets
    perambulated by the sun and the murmur of the ghosts,
    voices of shadows that came out of the houses,
    a before of a before immerse in the twilight, 
    confused in the silence,
    which I perceived while I sought for 
    (among the welter of things, 
    the dust, the rain, the wind)
    which was my face,
    which was my voice
    a shadow;
    I was born in a place with no name,
    the country of the absent, Jorge Arturo would say,
    the pueblón, Eunice Odio would call it,
    a place that wasn’t a place, I would say.
    During the nights, I would imagine distant places,
    sounds that stayed in the sidewalks overnight,
    escaping amid the forests,
    a letting oneself go discerning in the distance,
    a getting lost;
    the same nostalgia sensation reappeared when 
    contemplating the shinning that 
    blinked in the mountains,
    in the houses next to the haze that masked the furrows
    between the trees,
    the exile,
    the distance;
    submerged in the drizzle
    I searched for something of the something,
    being there I was here,
    everything was everything:
    foreignness, dream,
    minutes transformed in the uncertain,
    the mutism that went to the past in search of answers,
    but the answers are not answers,
    they are opals that get lost without shine in the abyss,
    diluting like the rain on the hills,
    awaiting the coming of the dead,
    what they say in us,
    while the fog arrives.
    At almost dawn,
    with some stars still remaining, with the 
    wind at stillness and the rain as well,
    I continued to wander through the barrios 
    of my quarter:
    the desert would reappear,
    some sleeping hills,
    the murmur of singing I barely could hear,
    rites walking toward the void;
    the yonder was the here,
    it came and it went it was the other:
    the shadow, the fog,
    the absent,
    the past returning at the distance,
    the everything in the everything,
    the shadow, the fog,
    the absent.
    The mutism would submerge in the indifference,
    without happening, things happened:
    a bird, a cloud,
    the sun again between the streets aging,
    a dog dragging the chains,
    a shout, a bird,
    a cloud,
    would chase the first light,
    would look for a ghost,
    the strangeness,
    the origin of the origin in the dust,
    but there was nothing.
    Translated from the Spanish by Daniela Negrete
    Kalina Izabela Zioła
    The Marathon
    The old man is running away from time
    faster and faster
    he loves younger and younger women
    to find in their eyes
    the shadows of past emotions
    to see his own youth
    he has got fairer and fairer hair
    shorter and shorter breath
    and uncertain step
    he often jousts  
    I tried to stop him sometime
    in the present time
    to soften the pain of the fall
    but he was too deep in the past
    and too far in the future
    the old man is running faster and faster 
    along the way  
    parallel forever to mine 
    low and high tides 
    rhythmic breath of the sea
    uneven breath of life
    the waves embrace
    deserted sandy beach
    and hide the shining tears of the sun 
    in amber crumbs
    sometimes a lost jellyfish
    is washed on the sand
    to die in pink sorrow
    minutes are running
    minutes are washed away
    One more day and night
    into changeable mosaic of colors
    hair like the touch of the moon
    hair like a black verse
    hair like the bitterness of tea
    life choked in
    uneven breathing
    the sea awaits calmly
    for one more tide
    When You are with Another 
    when you are with another 
    be kind to her
    say words she is waiting for
    seal your promises with a gold ring
    write poems for her that
    you didn't have time to write for me
    on the walls of your house
    draw fiery butterflies
    caress her gently in the evening
    bypassing starfish feet
    fall asleep next to her white shoulders
    and don't think of my body
    immersed in your darkness nor
    when I kissed you at night
    in the morning with a cheerful face
    bring her coffee to bed
    and plan another day together
    be her angel and demon
    the past and the promise of tomorrow
    and I will stop visiting
    even in your dreams
    Translated from the Polish by the poet
    Slava Konoval
    Kudos to the Miami Cops
    Beyond the blue-eyed seas,
    behind the stormy oceans,
    where Miami cops keep the city on the keys,
    photos from Ukrainian towns brought them emotions.
    The Buchanskyi policeman held the girl in his arms,
    a nearby wall collapsed,
    deep gullies, destruction of buildings and farms.
    Worn black uniform, number plate covered in blood,
    head cut by shrapnel, but he goes, performs
    the debt to the community, to his nation.
    Colleagues handed over weapons from Miami,
    that Ukrainians protect their cities,
    repulsed the Russian army,
    Miami cops, you are my heros!
    Oleniv Martyrs
    Clothes smelling of metallurgical soot,
    a torn strap curls on the shoulder,
    a machine gun near my chest,
    I see the enemy's foot.
    The soldier heard the command of the headquarters,
    laid down his arms and surrendered
    scornfully, glancing at the Russian, beastly murders.
    The patriots came out of the siege,
    they thought about the exchange
    but in captivity they are cattle,
    UN? Red Cross? Hey, where are You, Mr., Ms, Liege?
    Cut, chopped, tattered soldiers,
    enemies keep you hungry and cold,
    torture chamber in the steppe,
    the Armed Forces are getting closer,
    I am almost 32 years old.
    When Do You Hear Burevy?
    Oh, the tire is trampling the track,
    she is surrounded by greenery,
    large barrel, anti-aircraft gun (flak)
    the falsity has disappeared,
    as well as the scenery.
    Slowly raises the back
    sleeping handsome
    yellow eyes blink,
    a green camouflage on the color black.
    Start one, start two, fire,
    the captain of the car will shout,
    the first volley, the rocket went ahead
    to polish skills, they acquire.

Shabdaguchha: Issue 83_84

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পত্রিকার মুদ্রিত কপি


Poetry in English 1

Poetry in English 2

Poetry Translated from Other Languages 1

Poetry Translated from Other Languages 2

Poetry: Bengali to English

Poetry in Bengali

Editor's Journal

Shabda News

To the Editor

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