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

    Poetry: Bengali to English

    Mohammad Nurul Huda Metamorphosis A green valley burnt under a blazing sun. A walk sloped down the rocky hills. He said, “The path is too strait.” She said, “Too strait is the gate.” She came prepared for her prayers, Heaven beacons from her eyes. He said, “I am no angel, The holiest sin sprouts in my human cells (And my blind motions rise).” She said, “Surely God’s dearest son will be reborn As our radiant rescuer.” And with no further word They followed one behind the other. The walk entered into a holy site and stopped, She passed through the strait gate and knelt in prayer. On one side the virgin mother, on the other her son: Burning under an atomic sun as old as the century, Afflicted by the holiest sin that has sprouted within him, The man suddenly turned a poet and said, “I know no acceptable word for goodbye, I want the resurrection of the most incandescent poem in my blazing sky.” Translated from the Bengali by the poet Sleepers Born of the Same Mother And then the two born of the same mother are unperturbed, deep in sleep. A little ways off the sea’s lullaby takes in the whole horizon. The beach’s sand heaped like the jasmine flowers. The earth is an improvised cot on bearers’ shoulders galloping to eternity. The sky-chador swells up like the wind in a sail. And then the tow eternal sleepers have no separate beings; Man or fish, animal or plant, They could be anyone. Translated from the Bengali by Carolyne Wright with the poet Fertility The beach gets warm even under the cool sun. At this hour in the inner chambers of the blue sea there goes on exotic cooking while cranes fly over the waves fluttering their huge wings. They raise a symphony in the wind and strike a chord in dreamy purple hearts. Over the blue flames of the sea that looks like a giant stove a golden sunny egg slowly gets fried. In taste and smell intertwined, merged into one inseparable body, without any coitus or any visible proof, the oysters grow alive and pregnant. Translated from the Bengali by Kabir Chowdhury Burning Like a Shadow I write the shadow with light And the light with the shadow. This good universe blazes itself In her own image, too. Also, I burn like a shadow Within you, Owning the body of your light I come along and go. The shadow burns Day and night In love with light, Both are eternal friends, Eternally dependent and inclined. Liberty is, indeed, Mutually dependence; inclining to each other’s bosom As liberated essence. Translated from the Bengali by the poet Bangladesh Baitullah Quaderee Once He Gets the Horse Whoever I ask to make a stone, makes a white horse, as if he would force the horse to gallop in the dust, as if he would drag the horse to a mud-splash road and make it wade through, despite its reluctance, and bring it to the village in a full moon. Whatever the hardship and misfortune happen on the way—maybe a tragic oasis or loneliness pours down on the horse’s life— the moonlight wipes it all. Time tickles through the whiteness of the horse. There is one more person in the village besides me. He is my artisan whose job is to build a house. He gradually builds it and breaks it near the end, as he approaches the road. And now when he gets the horse, would he still be the same? He becomes a vagabond, a king like me . . . Pursuing I understood green in the storm. In the storm I understood green. I understood blood and grandeur, the calm river stream, its blackening line, and the evening darkness— I understood all of them within the scope of green. Fire-like crimson blood of human corpses, the dead body of a father, the dead body of a brother, the dead body of a son, and of another father’s, another son’s, another brother’s—pulling all these bodies in a cart—the final tug-of-war— pushing people away from the road, I understood as if I were the bad character of an unjust novel of the other part of the world, situated myself under a tattered tent, annoyed by the people, birds, and the airy leaves. Still, the corpses come forth right in front of me, as if I am involved in an arbitration. Rows of bearded faces sizzling under white hats, in a village court, surrounded me like big polls… There, still, remains such a splendor. The Saint I saw a dead saint. I saw his tree, silent white-footed tree. The saint— dead like a tree. The saint died under the tree while meditating. Water’s streaming, streaming the water, what a world! Streaming water, my immensely celebrated man is gone! One day, I was near the edge of the river Ganga. I was near the edge of the river Dhaleshwari. I was near Lakshmi-Paimanta. Wandering around the world, I have returned to the wonderful darkness of the world in destitute. The intense smoke of my guru. The coiling smoke of my guru, the burning of his Ira-Pingala’s irritation, the aroma of his burning naval, and all his unspoken earthly awakening pass through his enigmatic sleep. That sleep has taken my saint away. Was he then climbing the tree to enjoy the spring? A Feather Tugged into the Ground A black duck dances everyday wearing my train, as if it were a peacock and it must dance oscillating my train. What kind of a crazy dancing ritual is it, that it must travel the world with someone else’s attire? Raising its body above the water while its head is still under, the black duck displays its thumping dance. My mate silently watches this provocative selfishness. It has been witnessing this craziness since our wedding day, it watches this with a different light on its eye. People, who gradually pass us by after their world tour, who love light or do not even like it, enjoy the dance. The beauty of it pierces into their mindsets, their thoughts or even their biological behaviors. So, the black duck keeps on dancing everyday with my train, leaving only one feather behind, tugged into the ground. Translated from the Bengali by Hassanal Abdullah with the poet Bangladesh Hassanal Abdullah You can Never Understand a River Even rivers sometimes have to say no; after allowing a leaf to a sail on its bosom for a long while it illogically lets it sink. I, who have been listening to the river’s voice, am sometimes rebuffed by the stream’s sudden unintelligibility. What had I been asking from it, why did it say no? I, however, have never stopped talking to my river. Translated from the Bengali by Jyotirmoy Datta The Scattered Display of Limbs The broken pieces of the whole world, scattered around and laying about my feet; I sense this horrible scene, I sense human bloodshed— their scratched bodies lying all around me— walking cross human corpses, I feel the pain of being alive. Ah, the scattered display of the cruel fate of my own creations makes me impulsive—lamented and aweary. The green that I once constructed with both of my hands, the road on which I mapped everyone's desired destination, the river I flowed from the land of my birthplace to the pit of the ocean— look, what the fate they have got now! I never dreamt of this dilapidated world, I earnestly hoped to cross the neighborhood and reach the rapidly growing skyscrapers, I fancied at the speed of an aircraft. Every scattered piece of ruin helplessly laying all over is definitely a part of my limb, how could I then walk past my own body! Translated from the Bengali by Ekok Soubir A Solemn Decision Every house is a house of worship— so, stop the violence and tell me how many of them you have built! Every book is a holy book— so, stop preaching and tell me how many of them you have read! Translated from the Bengali by the poet Bangladesh/USA

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