Download - Taifas Literary Magazine no. 4, October, 2020

2 authors ... p. 2

editorial ... p. 3

poetry ... p. 6

prose ... p. 33

essay ... p. 41

confabulation ... p. 44

2 authors ... p. 47

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Taifas Literary Magazine no. 4, 2020, October

TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

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Gabriela Mimi Boroianu

Romania

Autodafé

Die Kerzen schmolzen

und sie strömten auf meinen Körper

von dir ausgezogen

Und das Licht drang in mich

bis Jenseits der Stille,

und das phosphoreszierende Blut

ging durch die Nacht wie ein Schrei vorbei...

Jenseits des Lebensendes

eine Seele

sucht ihre Flügel;

In meinen Wunden

wachsen Feder...

Warte auf mich an den

Toren des Traums,

damit wir zusammen

fliegen.

Arderi

S-au topit lumânările

și-au curs pe trupul meu

despuiat de tine,

Și m-a pătruns lumina

până dincolo de tăceri,

iar sângele fosforescent

a trecut prin noapte ca un țipăt...

Dincolo de marginea vieții

un suflet

își caută perechea de aripi;

În rănile mele cresc pene...

Așteptă-mă la porțile visului,

să zburăm împreună.

Vladanka Cvetković

Serbia

Hemija osećanja

Nebo je boje limenog cinka.

Moja osćanja nevoljna

u obelodanjivanju

svoje hemijske strukture.

Uostalom, kako se mere osćanja?

Epruvetom? Pipetom? Vagicom?

Sreću nosih kao

oreol,

ali ljubav je

bezbojna,

nestalna tečnost.

Naši povremeni

pogledi

nosili su mnoga značenja.

Iskrice su sevale

pržeći poslednje presne

komade razuma.

Tvoja emocija bila je

jednostavno osećanje i

nije tražila suvišno objašnjenje.

Ja sam secirala osećanja.

Sada tišina pada na nas

iskreći srebrnastom srćom

koja preti da nas povredi.


TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

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year I, no. 4, 2020, October

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editorial 3-4

Paul Rotaru

Romania

Music and substance

The concept of absolute silence is neither

an utopia nor an ideal itself, but a way of

abstractization of all our notions of sound. If

you ask someone when was the last time they

listened to the voice of the stars, you might be

answered: either never or that voice doesnʼt

exist. And yet, the voice of the

stars does exist; we hear it

whenever we search a channel

on the radio and it is that mix of

waves that sometimes disturbs

us before reaching the desired

channel. Earth has its voice,

too; its very low sound

vibration is indistinguishable

to our ears and that is why we

are unaware of it. Sound is one

of the primary factors which

influenced the settlement of

the world and universe in the

order we see nowadays; it

determines the physicl, mental and behavioral

development of all living beings; it organizes

the internal and external structure of any

matter, system and group.

Pinching a guitar chord creates a vibration

that we realize as being sound. The same way,

humans have the ability to create sound by

their biological constitution; more precisely,

they have the capacity to create a unic sound

vibration and that is called voice. The vocal

print of any human – and animal – is unique, it

has its own wavelenght and it canʼt be met

anywhere else around. That being said, we can

appreciate that two violins do not sound

egually when tested with high precision

devices.

Man, guided by the need to understand the

sound, established some frequency categories

named ranges. The ranges are disposed by the

vertical infinity rule and they relay their origin

over and over in octaves. The becar,

chromatic, harmonic or arpeggio progression

of any sequence of notes is a tendency of

returning to origin; it becomes valid and

controllable only within the limits of this

conventional interval. Nevertheless, as seven

musical notes were enough to create the

diversity of works of which we

are aware, the return to origin

on a higher plane of the sound

vibration strives to an

enlargement of its horizon. The

flexibility of the matter leaves

us with countless miracles at

hand; it allows us the

adjustment of all the things we

use on infinite frequencies.

When two musical instruments

from different categories meet

on the same wavelength, they

form a chord. Several chords on

different frequencies form

harmony. The notion of absolute sound in

terms of musical instruments is still a topic

under discussion today. When we ask the

violinist to reproduce the note Fa, we must

also take into account the squeak resulting

from rubbing the bow on the string, a sound

that is or is not the same as the note Fa.

Therefore, from the multitude of sounds that

surround us, we choose only the one that is the

object of our interest; but we never listen only

to the note, but to the set of notes.

At the same time, through repeated

exercises, man became able to recognize the

notes of sounds in nature without reproducing

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them on a musical instrument. For example,

Rachmaninoff had fun saying to a visiting

friend: ʼThe creaking of unconfined hinges is a

succession of Mi, Sol and Si, meaning a Mi

minor. You opened the door differently than

yesterday's visitor, who only gave me

dissonances!ʼ In the general chaos of all the

sounds in the universe there is a stable whole,

similar to the liquids in which the Brownian

motion takes place indefinitely. As long as

there is movement, there is also sound. One of

the most common postulates in physics and

chemistry is that, although nothing is lost but

everything is transformed, any substance

tends to a state with minimal energy and

maximum disorder. From this, the sound

vibration is a

substance in itself,

whose apogee is

extinction. Let's keep

in mind that any sound

is consumed much

later than the ear can

perceive. So we are

governed by sounds,

accompanied by them

beyond conscious boundaries.

In addition to a prelude by Chopin, we hear

the atmospheric movement, the urban noise,

and only our interest in the main factor, the

musical work, implies a harmonization of the

psyche with nature, with the world and with

the self. It is a psychic process similar to the

one in which, when you look at a painting, you

have the impression that at some point its

frame has disappeared. So, through the

exercise of attention and concentration, the

original point becomes conscious uniqueness,

and the whole becomes an unconscious

secondary plane. You don't see it, you don't

hear it, because your interest destroys the

secondary plan, but it is there permanently

and only the involuntary attention preserves it

in order to complete the original setting.

Through this exercise of attention and

concentration, you have the opportunity to

process any substance intellectually; as in

telekinesis: the stone does not rise, nor does

the spoon bend by itself, but the psyche rises

and bends under the influence of its own

flexibility! Thus, you have the illusion that the

substance undergoes the transformations that

you order, while it remains the same.

Music therapy - or sound therapy - has

existed since ancient times, as man has

understood that sound vibration is one of the

basic binders of all cells in a substance. The

production of sound vibrations aims to reduce

the intensity or even eliminate those already

existing at the place of

interest; in other

words, it aims to

restore an original

harmony that the cells

need in their

structure. Even when

we are silent, we make

sounds by breathing,

by heartbeat, by

swallowing. Therefore, the concept of absolute

silence is relatively even in a vacuum. There is

an invasion pressure around any vacuum

environment, just as a vacuum exerts a

conservation or explosion pressure, which of

course implies sound waves. We fool

ourselves into believing that we separate

ourselves from sounds when we are in

soundproof rooms; the shell itself produces

vibrations that drive away those from which

we have moved away. Even statues have their

vibrations, perceptible by specialized

measuring devices, vibrations that are

distinguished as follows: sound by moving

electrons at the atomic level, physico-chemical

by emitting radiation from the substance of

which it is composed and by arranging the

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magnetic field that surrounds all elements

existing in the environment.

The masters of music understood the

influence of sounds on matter better than we,

their humble listeners. For example, Haydn

composed works specifically for each newly

invented musical instrument; Mozart held a

glass of water on the piano, watching the

liquid bubbles play as they formed into well-

defined formations; Beethoven, during the

period of deafness, "listened" to the vibrations

of the piano with the help of a pencil fixed in

the ear, the opposite end of which placed it

close to the strings inside the

box.

The effect produced by

sounds on matter is also called

induced state. It is not the

lullaby that calms and puts the

child to sleep, but the mother's

voice, which the baby perceives

as a unique communication of

all emotional states, through

which he feels encouraged,

protected, transformed. We all

know that a sung word is

longer than when it is spoken,

which means that the pleasure

of listening to songs is a need of the psyche to

receive messages in a harmonious, organized

form. In other words, a message sent in the La

minor range will seem more lyrical, more

elegiac, regardless of its content. Also, songs

that start in Si flat major induce a state of

pessimistic meditation through serious

accents, even when the octave is played at an

acute level. Songs beginning in Do major

follow a primary harmonic alternation with

Sol major and Fa major; but, if, instead of Fa

major, we put Re minor or La minor, the

vibrational structure organizes the context

differently, allowing the multiplication of

emotional states. Thus, the instrumental

message may be different from the textual one,

whether the performer intends it or not.

There are opinions according to which,

originally, music was instrumental, in order to

invoke the beneficial forces of nature and to

repel the evil ones. For example, primitive

man struck a drum with a controlled

frequency and intensity to attract game. A

group of drummers could remove the tight

clouds over the village. By this they

understood a way of transmitting the message

to the divinity, to the superhuman spiritual

governor. But there are also

opinions that music was born

as a manifestation of their own

pain. For example, the first

sound a baby makes at birth is

crying; we can recognize it,

crying is a song of the pain that

the baby endures when leaving

the placenta, when it passes

from passive breathing,

through fluid, like aquatic

beings, to the mechanical,

pulmonary one. Few are aware

of how much effort and pain

the child endures to catch his

first breath. And from here begins the great

and only symphony of life; hence the deep

sufferings are first sung, then verbalized. Just

as dance is a form of manifestation of worship,

communion with the environment and even

sacred sexuality, so music is a form of

manifestation of our consciousness and

participation in the evolution of the whole.

Through music, man understood to convey

both the happiest and the darkest feelings.

Through a succession of notes, the psyche

notes the invisible and inherent evolution of

the universe.

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poetry 5-24

Ion Cuzuioc

Romania

***

azil în flăcări – dintr-o odaie păpușa rostind mama

***

pălăria tatei – în pânza paingului cuibul de molii

***

vrăbii în scrânciob – datina strămoșească legănată de vânt

***

roadele toamnei – luna și soarele pe rând în carul mare

***

daruri de Crăciun – păianjenii țes pânze la orfelinat

***

dor de moș Crăciun – din curtea orfelinatului plânset de păpuși

***

picuri de lacrimi – copacul își petrece ultima frunză

***

ninsoare în toi – vecinii de peste drum se bat cu pernele

***

târgul de Crăciun – cu zdrențele în stradă sperietoarea

***

Regina nopții – îmbrobodită după prima ninsoare

***

pe amurgite – soarele spre orizont cu dealul în spate

***

postul cel mare – cerșetorul și porumbeii din același colac

***

copilul orfan – pe – o filă de hârtie desenând chipul mamei

***

moștenire – ocrotită de – un paing icoana mamei

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***

pădure în flăcări – plânsul puiului de cuc înecat în fum

***

lacul fără pește – paznicul de serviciu dus cu pluta

***

pe prispa casei – un scaun și o cârjă doar amintire

***

surpriza nopții – soțul de la cazino în frunza Evei

***

vreme toridă – căruțașul dormind la umbra cailor

***

de gardă la muzeu – lângă stative motanul torcând în voie

***

pe ultimul drum – în urma sicriului florile călcate

Poemele de sorginte niponă (Haiku, Senryu și

Gogyohka) semnate de Ion Cuzuioc au fost traduse în

limbile japoneză, engleză, franceză, rusă.

S-a născut la 16 septembrie 1949 în familia

intelectualilor Valentina şi Pavel Cuzuioc din comuna

Ţareuca, judeţul Orhei, Republica Moldova. A absolvit

Universitatea de Stat de Medicină şi Farmacie ,,N.

Testemiţanu”. Eminent al Ocrotirii Sănătăţii.

Medic specialist Sănătatea Publică şi Managementul

Sanitar (categorie superioară). Distins cu Ordinul ,,Gloria

Muncii”și Medalia „Nicolae Milescu Spătarul”, Titluri

Onorifice: ,,Ambasador al Păcii (ONU) și „Ambasador al

Culturii Păcii”(Asociația Europeană a Societății Civile) ;

Distincţia ,,Coroana Păcii”(ONU); Premiul Uniunii

Scriitorilor din Moldova (2000), (2009), Uniunii

Ziariștilor Profesioniști din România

(2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019),

Premiul UNESCO şi numeroase premii

şi menţiuni la Saloane Internaționale

de Carte, Concursuri și Festivaluri

Literare Naţionale şi Internaţionale.

Cetăţean de Onoare al comunei

Ţareuca, Rezina, Orhei. Membru al

Uniunii Epigramiştilor, Uniunii

Scriitorilor și Uniunii Ziariștilor

Profesioniști din România. Membru al

Uniunii Cineaştilor, Uniunii

Umoriştilor, Uniunii Epigramiștilor,

Uniunii Jurnaliştilor şi Uniunii

Scriitorilor din Moldova. Membru al

Asociației Naționale a Oamenilor de

Creație din Moldova.

Membru al Senatului Asociației

Oamenilor de Știință, Cultură și Artă din Moldova.

Membru al Confederaţiei Internaţionale a Cineaştilor,

Membru al Federaţiei Internaţionale a Jurnaliştilor.

Membru al Asociației Canadiene a Scriitorilor Români.

Membru al Academiei Româno-Australiană.

Membru al Academiei Națiunii Române.

A editat peste 40 de cărţi de epigrame, aforisme,

proză (romane, nuvele, poveşti şi povestiri pentru copii,

schiţe umoristice), versuri lirice, poeme stil nipon,

publicistică.

În toţi aceşti ani publică cronici literare, eseuri,

sfaturi medicale, articole ştiinţifico-populare. Selecţii din

creaţia sa literară au fost incluse în peste 200 de antologii

şi culegeri din România, Rusia, SUA, Austria, Australia,

Franța, Canada, Coreea de Sud și Muntenegru,

Macedonia etc.

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Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak

Poland

Scheherazade

You are like the lost treasure,

which I managed to find without a map,

he said

Your lips are like a mystery

I want you to share with me,

he added.

If your eyes could talk, they would tell the

story,

to which I could listen forever and ever,

let me, he begged.

And just using the

word he dressed me

up in jewels.

He became my

confidant,

and I am like

Scheherazade,

I am filling out our

nights telling stories about love.

Grandmother Maria

In the evenings she loved to sit by the window

in which stood proud geraniums,

she chased longingly with sight after the

clouds

and she sang like no one ever after her.

I used to sit silently at her feet and

I listened to the longing in her poems.

Grandma Maria taught me as the first one

to listen only to my inner heart.

She showed me also all shades of love,

she taught to distinguish between smells,

and told me, I should forgive, because

life is a little more gracious then.

Every summer I spent with my Grandma

was so different and unique to me.

I remember everything well to this day

although she is forever gone. from the series "heart with Polish origin"

Zbigniew Michalski

Poland

Audrey Hepburn

kiedy znalazła dla siebie

wymarzoną ścieżkę przez życie

poczuła powiew

szczęścia

który wyniósł ją

bardzo szybko

pod niebiosa

choć musiała porzucić

złoty sen

za gwałtownym

zakrętem losu

pośród plejady

hollywoodzkich supergwiazd

zabłysła pełnią swojego talentu

nagradzana za profesjonalizm

częściej niż utytułowane aktorki

czarująca i dystyngowana

obywatelka świata

zapisała się wielkimi kreacjami

na kartach historii kina

do ostatka bawiła publiczność

oraz wybrednych krytyków

jakby nigdy jej nie zmęczył

spacer po cienkiej linie sławy

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Iwan Dartha

Indonesia

Inspiration

From the beginning the roots shine

Straight lines move sharply

Shielded by membrane

To establish many nice surfaces

Paint the dimensions of spaces

Color the stretched time

The empty labyrinth for

contemplation

The stormy air also fills up with

chronology

Since time immemorial and future

Morfem Monyet

Konon suatu saat, monyet-

monyet mendadak mampu

membaca. Monyong

menjulurkan matanya

membelalak. Malah mencoba

pula menulis mantera-mantera

membeda. Meringis

mengkernyit pada daun-daun kerontang yang

ber-jatuh-an. Berlaga pintar menganalisa

hubungan angin dan daun-daun.

Membanggakan kronologi angin

mengguncang pohon.

Monyet satu berceloteh: "Ini rimba kita,

bukan Kazan, tidak ada Baudoin. Kita juga

mampu menciptakan linguistik struktural".

Monyet-monyet itu saling bergumam

cekikikan. Seekor dari mereka menclok di

dahan tertinggi, berteriak: "Hai sobatku,

ayolah kita menulis mantera morfem versi

kita, pasti bisa menembus dunia". Seekor

lainnya pun menjerit: "Benar kawanku, mari

teriak sekeras petir, agar penghuni laut ikut

mengobarkan angin gemuruh kerinduan pada

kebenaran".

Episode Psikiatrik

limbung di sudut-sudut kelu

kaki-tangan bertahan hidup

bulu-bulu akal meregang

mata-mata juling memicing

mulut-mulut ngotot melotot

mabok merampok hari esok

oksidasi paradigma bergema

ber-imaji pada ragam bait

merekayasa logika kosa-kata

beralibi mengukir makna baru

melahirkan teriakan murka

ketika lari ke sudut bangsa

otak rusak enggan ozonisasi

akal-akal miring tak merasa garing

senyum retorika pamer

kepalsuan

komat-kamit sembur aroma

beracun

kau gila, menikmati bekal neraka

kita melukis warna-warni

pada kanvas ampas terhempas

di bumi getarkan aneka dinamika

meredam perbedaan berwibawa

benih-benih berbuah bahana

menyapa insan suka-duka

sadarlah: kita pencipta damai

penulis larik-larik melankolik

pemuja sajak mantra multimatra

pencinta pertiwi pusaka pilihan

pemilik laut dan bumi belum beku

gunung-gunung pun masih berjalan

nyanyian ragam nusantara mengalun

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Fresh flowers in a vase,

next to the dried one

precious flower

since last summer,

morning fogs and night frost,

toothy sun,

streets full of people,

a house full of warmth,

basket full of fruit

- all echoes of painful silence.

At night

in my alley is darkness and desolation,

only the puddles glitter

like lamps.

I'm listening

droplets ratling jingling,

Car brakes creaks ...

Maybe, someone knoks

at my door too.

That's how it happens

when it seem, like a naive child,

you fall in love

on the threshold of fifty-fifth.

You open yourself like a book,

show hopes, fears, worries ...

You bloom like a rose in the fall,

spread your arms wide

not knowing that

you are hugging north wind.

With a heart in an extended hand,

with dreams in the wounded soul,

with the letters in the open book,

with a tear in each petal

say farewell, say goodbye!

Wake up, grow up!

No matter how painful it is

to walk alone,

don't come back

in that summer any more!

Aunque caiga la noche

Y yo no pude llegar,

Tal vez él viento

El sólo me irá a contar.

Sus caras lo dicen todo

De mí tal vez hablarán,

Mí suegra muy preocupada

Porque no pude llegar.

Seguro que mí señora

A ella le explicará,

Que yo ando buscando

Un vino para tomar.

No es que a ella le guste

Sólo es para festejar,

Que tengo una suegra bella

Para mí no hay otra igual.

Dicen que está preocupada

Por el yerno que no está,

No creo que esté diciendo

Ojalá que no pueda llegar.

Las suegras son un regalo

Que uno tiene que cuidar,

Pues le pasan los años

Y le cuesta el caminar.

Ella es joven y muy linda

A su hija le fui a robar,

Una tarde muy hermosa

Que no me podré olvidar.

Bueno las letras se hicieron largas

Cuántas cosas le podría contar,

Es mí suegra, mí perla hermosa

Jamás la podría regalar.

Jaja

Selma Kopić

Bosnia and Herzegovina

The last beats of summer

Fabian Historias

Argentina

Tranquilas nadie escucha

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Adam Gwara

Poland

Błazna cień

[A Jester’s Shadow] z przyzwyczajenia mrużąc oczy szedłem choć ciężko było iść a za plecami cień mój kroczył choć raczej wlókł się, aż tu myśl zmyśliła się że wrócić mogę w dzieciństwa czas w słoneczny dzień i cień wyskoczył mi pod nogi jak gdyby błazen wstąpił weń za każdym razem cień mój błazen za każdym razem błazna cień kiedy wyjść z domu się odważę dogania mnie przedrzeźnia mnie ja kroki trzy on kroki trzy przyśpieszam on się śpieszy i nie wiem już czy ze mnie drwi czy się z pomysłu cieszy ja w lewo krok on w lewo też ja zmieniam rytm on zmienia ja przez kałużę i on przez no zgrywus głupi szczeniak za każdym razem cień mój błazen za każdym razem błazna cień kiedy wyjść z domu się odważę dogania mnie przedrzeźnia mnie tak odprowadził mnie do drzwi gdzie objął mnie ramieniem poczułem się zmęczony i sam byłem cienia cieniem

piwniczny chłód ogarnął mnie skórę przebiegły dreszcze i pomyślałem - jeszcze nie spróbuję przejść się jeszcze za każdym razem cień mój błazen za każdym razem błazna cień kiedy wyjść z domu się odważę dogania mnie przedrzeźnia mnie

Good morning yesterday

są takie puste herbaciarnie gdzie spotykają się po latach

pomaturalni nierealni wagarowicze z końca świata

można ich poznać po stolikach

łączonych całkiem bez potrzeby

bo może Hanka... może Michał...

to niemożliwe żeby nie był...

podobno Janek się posypał popatrz... a taki był sportowiec

wierzyć się nie chce... pewnie grypa

no co ty powiesz... co ty powiesz... Halinka wyszła za ministra... Marek w Australii...w Belgii Ewa... no popatrz... kto by to pomyślał... no co ty...kto by się spodziewał... kapią na obrus stearyną całują zimne filiżanki no popatrz...czas tak szybko minął jak tamten singiel Paula Anki pamiętasz jak pachniały drzewa? pamiętam tylko że nie przyszłaś czekałeś? kto by się spodziewał... do dzisiaj...kto by to pomyślał...

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Maria Strzelec-Leszczyniecka

Poland

Magic

Magią

był dom wymarzony

który budowała latami

smak wiśni razem zrywanych

kilka zasuszonych wspomnień

głos cykad i trawy

jedyny orzech laskowy

schowany na wieczną pamiątkę

w pudełku po złotych kolczykach

i ślubnej obrączce

które jej kiedyś

podarował

Omar Aburto

México

Escrito con estrellas

Fulgente, sin dormir es mi sueño

y dormido brota sugestivo,

clarividente no intuitivo

yo y mi yo de nuevo somos uno.

En noche invernal de ensueño

envíos en cielo cerúleo veo

escritos con estrellas, lo entreveo,

furtivo, c0n celo vidente leo

En fulgor iluminado viajo

levitando desde el inicio,

fino cruzo, puro en el espacio

en fúlgida luz fugaz yo vago.

Sutil vibra mi alma, devoto,

áureos mensajes que etéreos veo

con polvo de estrellas en rocío

“…fecha fija, desierto ignoto”.

Sameer Goel

India

Poem

let not the fall, ever crush thou

be strong in the heart and the mind..

bounce back harder to soar new heights

a stronger thou must incarnate..

never let the setbacks, set thou back

for they deserve a stronger comeback..

pick up thine ashes,

refill the fire

rise like a phoenix,

soaring new heights..

across the horizon,

the sun awaits thou

rise and shine,

denouncing every

setback..

Walls

walls, once created to secure the faith

those walls seemingly imprisoned humanity..

whence dividing brother from brother

culminating compassion, this inhuman vanity..

suffocated breaths, humanity's last sigh

a call so it makes, for revival of posterity..

wake up o' sleeping hearts, the time is high

this division imparts, a host of insanity..

let love bloom, for there is only one religion

compassion and brotherhood, the only

solution..

let's break these shells, without a single word

for now we want, One Nation: One World..

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Bhagirath Choudhary

India

Ubuntu I am Because we are And my dear you Says Ubuntu ! I came All innocent Without past lament As a moon crescent I came With creative courage To light up earth Her days and nights With joy and mirth I came to share All the heavenly ware How could I ? Be happy When all others My sisters and brothers Treading hungry and sad Did I come ? To compete With others My sisters and brothers Denying them Without shame Mother Earth's ware Coveting their legitimate share Hadn't been Gifts unseen Bestowed and given Like benevolent bacteria hidden Energy ATM in my every body cell Where pious Mitochondria dwell As cosmic cooperation warriors Truly as cosmic goodness carriers. I am a cosmic cooperative I am a cosmic narrative

Born of evolutionary hope and charity O, Ubuntu Let me discover anew my humanity.

Lenuş Lungu

Bhagirath Choudhary

Bhagirath Choudhary is part of the category of people who look at life in an amalgam of colors, dreams, sounds, senses, but, above all, has the rare ability to share them through their language: rhymes, lyrics and figures of speech.

The poet Bhagirath Choudhary says what he thinks. He is a painter who paints his vision of

the world, and in his hands is the power. The sheet is the support, but its strongest weapon remains the word. He is the only one who can capture the oxymoron of life, the pain of a tear, the intensity of a smile, the love itself, he dresses worlds and dreams.

His soul is like a violin. Once its strings are delicately touched, music is able to awaken emotions through a pure symphony, transform feelings into absolute knowledge and knowledge into feelings. But the fragility of the soul determines the possessor to dress it in a

rhyming robe, a coat of verses capable of retaining silence and calming the tumult of the heart by sharing thoughts. Poetry represents the way to speak one's own truth, to escape from everyday life and the way in which readers soothe their souls by immunizing them to the decay of society. This is for the poet a bridge between reality seen as a contradictory mixture of happiness and pain and the sublime universes in which he finds refuge. He offers us a white sheet and a pen of a poet. It will shape our world because poetry is basically the protest of emotions, the art capable of offering the human eye the perfection of imperfect things, refuges in which peace and calm dominate.

Bhagirath Choudhary is able to create worlds and universes!

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Omar Aburto

México

Escrito con estrellas

Fulgente, sin dormir es mi sueño

y dormido brota sugestivo,

clarividente no intuitivo

yo y mi yo de nuevo somos uno.

En noche invernal de ensueño

envíos en cielo cerúleo veo

escritos con estrellas, lo entreveo,

furtivo, c0n celo vidente leo

En fulgor iluminado

viajo

levitando desde el

inicio,

fino cruzo, puro en el

espacio

en fúlgida luz fugaz yo

vago.

Sutil vibra mi alma, devoto,

áureos mensajes que etéreos veo

con polvo de estrellas en rocío

“…fecha fija, desierto ignoto”.

Smart Oyedeji

Nigeria

The Chosen One....

Your garment and sparks of affection are

enticing

every bit of second under the influence of the

rising sun

The butterfly that dances on the blue surface

of your shoulder will make the heart of men

submit to thebeauty of your spirit

Even from the dark side of nature,

Men could sight the appearance of the

summer sun that puts on the image of your

peerless face,

Bringing out a beauty like a sky cloaked with

a plate of rainbow

Spread your cloth of affection and ease the

pain of thousands weeping to have a taste

of your presence,

For you're the only one capable of unleashing

the sparksof joy amid the sobbing cloud

Time and season have

respect on your value

The stars always align

themselves in honour

of your glory

And you're the only

angel known to ever

feed on the amazing

production of the

spring

Jupiter has enclosed you in the riches of nature

Venus has organized your spirit in love and

beauty

And the marks of heaven upon your body has

being a source

of illumination for all

You're the joy of the present and the future,

You're the sweet-smelling rose,

The wild honey of the spring

You're the chosen one!

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Antonia Rodríguez Ferreiro

Spain

Té

Sentada delante de una taza de té,

en una conocida cafetería,

mirando al mundo con osadia,

esperando encontrar mi fe.

Enfrente, un viejo caballero

está a leer,

una revista de pornografía,

levemente teniéndola

escondida,

entre las páginas del diario

de ayer.

Llegando está el tranvía,

bajando una jóven mujer,

acercándose le como una arpía.

Sentándose frente a él,

recibe el talón de regalía,

hipnotizada por su poder!

Graciela Beatriz Sovran Haro

Argentina

A mi esposo

Por tantos malos negocios,

por tanto impulso fallido,

a la vejez he venido

sin un pasar decoroso.

Por tanto error cometido,

por los caminos torcidos,

hoy ya no gozo una casa

que a mí me ha pertenecido.

De tanto como tuvimos

tú yo lo perdimos todo,

y en la vejez busco el modo

de continuar el camino.

Pero hay algo que agradezco

a tu consejo tan sabio:

volver al verso de antaño

con más fuerza que al

comienzo.

Porque a escribir me

impulsaste,

a esta sensación radiante,

mas,los bienes materiales,

por cierto,los expulsaste.

Malos negocios reprocho,

reprocho que no me oyeras,

mas,en poesía vieras,

este futuro que noto.

En parte voy a la pena

por lo que tú me quitaras,

en parte el verso me hallara

en una sabia faena.

Y el verso a ti te lo debo

porque a escribir me impulsaras.

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Muhedin Mahilaj

Albania

Mysafirë jemi!

Mysafir të gjithë jemi.

Si sotē edhe dje.

Pēr tē marr asgjë nuk kemi,

Veç një grushtë dhe!

Asgjë smarrim e as fitojmë,

Pse i shtojmē qiellit re?

Kemi ardhur dhe do shkojmē.

Ç'ndodh kështu me ne!

Vritet , vritet

pafajesia,

Vritet plaku dhe

fëmia,

Lahet në gjakē

djalëria,

Mëndje pse na le?

Hiqni dorë nga

marrëzia,

Të vihet paqia - dashuria,

Të forcohet vëllazēria.

Aq mē tepēr sot!

Sehir bënë njerëzia,

Në udhëkryq diplomacia,

Mëndë na i mori babëzia.

Çpo ndodh sot në botë!

Mos afroni ditën e gjykimit,

Por atë të paqētimit,

Para Zotit kur të dilni,

Mos të derdhni lot!

Mysafir të gjithë jemi,

Dashurin të parë të kemi,

Para Zotit kur të vemi.

T'na jap mëshirë të plotë!

Labud N. Lončar

Montenegro

Jedna žena sanja more

Jaweed Ahmed

India

Monsoon

Every year in mid June

The wind comes in her mellow tune

From the vast sea and large lagoon

Over the dusky hills and sandy dune

Swiftly and smoothly she was strewn

I think you may hear her so soon

Dancing under the midnight moon

Monsoon playing the fiddle soon

She is the kind nature's prettiest boon

To revive the mother earth so soon

Nadošlo zrelo grožđe

I vri u dojkama

U glavi more huči

Znojna noć niz trbuh curi

Dok sokovi mame leptirove.

U glavi Galeb klikće

Pjesmom nekazanom

Doziva San i

Kao magla misli obavija

Dok daleki talasi

Ime dozivaju.

Miriše rana jesen i

Postelju pod prozorom

Sokovima topi —

Jedna žena sanja more!

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Anna Saracchi

Italia

Guardo il mare

Quel mormorio del mare

che ascolto seduta nella riva

quando assorta mi rilasso,

lontana da questa vita ingrata

immersa tra il moto ondoso

dove naufragano senza remi

i miei pensieri,

guardo uno spettacolo reale

soltanto io e il mare

il vento che scompiglia

i miei capelli e un onda sale

bagna sincera la mia pelle e

poi va via,

rimango ancora assorta

quasi immersa dentro un sogno

dove nascosta tra la sabbia

resta ancora la mia infanzia,

una fanciulla spensierata che

inseguiva un aquilone colorato

correndo sfidando il vento

senza paura di cadere,

sono qui ora e guardo il mare

vedo il mio passato

resto nel presente

spero nel futuro

ma poi non vedo niente,

tra le onde perdo la mia rotta

cerco ancora, mmersa tra la nebbia offuscata

dalla foschia

cerco una barca che mi porti

via

Slavka Bozovic

Montenegro

Whisper of rain...

I love when the rain rustles,

her whisper touches me,

the storm disappears in the soul,

that beautiful feeling hugs me.

I love that game of romance,

the restlessness in me calms

down,

the wind flips through the

pictures,

the stream of love from my

heart springs.

Then the wings of longing

carry me,

through the auras of loved

ones,

I float between the drops of

memory,

emotions sway on the eyelids.

I'm fascinated by the magical whisper of the

rain,

fountains in the veins overflow,

the soul turns into a violin,

well, the charms of the symphony do not cease.

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Bajram Bajro Neljković

Bosnia And Herzegovina

Zavičaj mi u grudima spava

Da sam soko i da imam krila,

Da se vinem nebu u visine.

Da obiđem moj zavičaj mio,

Lijepi Plav i rodno Gusinje.

Da je meni da preletim samo,

Rodna brda Gusinjske doline.

Da posjetim mezar roditelja,

I Izvore da me želja mine.

Da pogledam na našu

dolinu,

Od Gusinja pruža se do

Plava.

Jer me srce samo tamo

vuče,

Rodno mjesto nema

zaborava.

Ja te sanjam i o tebi mislim,

Nikada te nisam napustio.

Otišo sam moralo se tako,

Ali sam te u srcu ponio.

Da sam soko i da imam krila,

Svakog bi ti dana dolazio.

Na izvore napio se vode,

Ali paša što nam ostavio.

Preletio Gusinjsku čaršiju,

I mahale našeg lijepog Plava.

Da me želja i merak moj mine,

Zavičaj mi u grudima spava.

Luciano Zampini

Italy

Anche la notte

Il silenzio bruciò le sue carte nella mano,

appena calate erano già prossime alla fine del gioco

come uno stallo restava seduto all'angolo di un

tormento

appisolato tra i fanti impettiti si mordeva le labbra.

Se non ci fosse stato quel colpo di vento

se non fossero cadute vorticosamente le attese

se tutto fosse così dichiaratamente semplice

il patibolo avrebbe

cantato un'altra

vittoria scontata.

Opale, ora azzurro ora

grigio perla l’idea…

roteava insinuando la

soluzione in quel

budello di lamento

mentre le perle si

infilavano nella buca delle disobbedienze

si riempiva la sacca delle certezze apparenti.

Fu colpa dell'ultimo lampo ad accendere la

scia alla vita

mentre tutto moriva nella dimenticanza del

tempo

qualcuno trovava il coraggio di risorgere come

Fenice

si, anche la notte più desolante deve

attraversare il deserto...

Per giungere a mare aperto serve una paura da

raccontare...

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Tu şi eu

O amintire și o lacrimă de sare

Tu erai ramul verde pe care înverzeam,

Mă legănai în nopțile pline cu stele,

Acum mi-ești dor,suspin de când nu te mai am

Și-mi bântui cu amintiri gândurile mele.

Soarta mi te-a uscat și mi te-a frânt,

Mă vestejesc nemaiavînd unde înflori,

Ai devenit doar un tribut pentru pământ

Și roua dimineților reci ce îl vor stropi.

Tu erai ramul, eu mugurul bobocului de floare,

Ce răspândea în preajmă-ți miros îmbătător,

Acum mi-ești doar o amintire nemuritoare,

Eu lacrimă de ceară topită de al tău dor.

Tu erai seva mea ce în viață mă ținea,

Din care sorbeam ferice și eram împlinită,

Astăzi în neputință gust doar singurătatea grea,

În tăcere m-ascund și zac nefericită.

Tu erai esența vieții,prin tine trăiam,

Respirai prin mine și cât de fericit erai,

Ramul meu drag pe care eu înfloream,

Acum port o cruce,tu ești un înger în rai.

Totul în jurul meu e trist și mă doare,

Din ramul pe care îți înfloream gingașă floare,

Dintr-o poveste de dragoste arzătoare,

Atât a mai rămas o amintire și o lacrimă de sare.

znów słucham ciszy którą nagość szepcze

podsłuchuję wersy co za sobą biegną

wybieram obrazy tylko te najlepsze

i kwiatów naręcza co przy mnie nie zwiędną

dusza ma wzlatuje ponad mgły obłoki

znów szczęścia uczucie wypełnia mą całość

w palcach zaplątane ukochane loki

w oczach najpiękniejsza wymarzona nagość

delikatny uśmiech pysznej kokieterii

zapach co prowadzi me zmysły w

szaleństwo

kocham cię kochanie – płynie z papeterii

jakże cudne nocą uczuć człowieczeństwo

wśród dłoni splecionych dwa kochane ciała

deszcz wieczorny szepcze monolog miłosny

noc już wszystkie gwiazdy na zawsze

oddała

dzień nowy się budzi o nagość zazdrosny

nie otwieraj oczu powiek nie przecieraj

nie odpędzaj stanu w którym tak jak w

niebie

z biciem serc płonących nigdy się nie

spieraj

tu bądźmy na zawsze zapatrzeni w siebie

niech nas świat kołysze gdy czas się

zatrzymał

myśli niech się złożą znów w wiersz o

miłości

w grzechu jak najsłodszym będę dokazywał

w twoim ciele moje teraz się rozgości

wy teraz znikajcie w swoje prywatności

szaleństwo miłosne też wam się należy

uskrzydlajcie miłość w cudownej nagości

wiara czyni cuda gdy się w to uwierzy

Pysznych Myśli Słowa

ELENA TUDOSĂ

Romania

Tu și eu

Adam Żemojtel

Poland

Znów slucham

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Oana Lupaşcu

Romania

Salta la luna

Saltavo piena di gioia

Nel mio vestitino a fiori

Fatto di primavera

Di vento e di allegri canti

Quando ti ho incontrato

Ma tu mi hai portato via

Tra un salto e l'altro

Da sotto ai piedi l'allegria

Siamo diversi è chiaro

Mentre io ho scelto

Le gioie dei miei giorni

Molto prima di

provarle

Per condividerle con

te

Pensavo che l'allegria

Fosse contagiosa

Ma mi sbagliavo

Tu hai scelto come

sempre

Essere noioso ed egoista

Il solito te stesso

E ti ritrovi con solo la tristezza

Hai commesso

Il peggiore peccato

Hai vissuto senza gioia

Nella tua veste triste

Grigia, stretta e corta

Senza renderti conto

Della mia passione

Che volevo regalare a te

Non hai capito

Preso solo da te stesso

Che ti offrivo l'ultima tua

occasione

Di essere felice

E l'hai sprecata

Ma io, anche se sono caduta

Dalla mia nuvola rosa

Sono sicura che da sola

Cantando come di prima

La mia gioia di vivere

Mi rialzerò

Ancora viva

Avrei voluto essere rossa,

ma tutti mi prendono in giro,

dicendo che sono un vampiro.

Vorrei scavarmi una fossa,

tutti quegli occhi mi

danno il capogiro,

e mi ritrovo a fare la

finta bionda,

anche se mi sento

ancora presa in giro.

Invidia, odio, rancore,

per essere una bella

giovane oziosa,

così scostante,

insopportabilmente odiosa,

come l'esistenza piena di dolore.

Avrei voluto non essere stata così innocente,

così pura.

Esser rimasta a casa,

senza fare niente.

Senza capire che la superbia non è la mia cura,

e nemmeno desiderare che il mondo,

là fuori,

sparisca.

E nel mio profondo,

sopravvivo,

con un demone incatenato

affamato di sangue, interiora e cioccolato.

Posso essere la tua immaginazione così reale,

il miraggio perfetto che puoi toccare.

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Avere il mio corpo ed essere divorato,

abbracciarmi forte e finire strangolato.

Sì, desideravo essere la reginetta del ballo,

la bella principessa,

salvata dall'uomo sul cavallo,

ma col coraggio di una leonessa.

Non volevo diventare grande,

adolescente,

non volevo arrivare a certe risposte,

di certe domande,

a bruciare una Bibbia

per poi togliermi la vita così miseramente.

Gli anni bruciati e la vita buttata,

bugie così belle,

la verità malata,

finendo per guardare le stelle,

tremendamente addolorata,

e il giorno in cui son morta,

ho solo scoperto,

che in realtà ero risorta.

Vorrei esser rimasta una

vergine pura,

con gli occhi innocenti come il

cielo,

ma son una peripatetica

dell'ultimo secolo,

con la pelle fredda e l'anima in gelo.

Bere fino a toccare la luna,

fumare con una grande voglia di uccidere,

affamata di sangue, interiora e cioccolato,

e con troppi peccati da redimere.

Avrei non aver mai baciato,

tradito, abbandonato,

chi con me è stato solo narcisista,

freddo, egoista.

Vorrei aver solo amato,

anche a chi mi faceva solo male,

vorrei non aver mai baciato,

anche chi mi voleva davvero amare.

Vorrei non essermi mai incantata allo

specchio,

guardandomi un'ultima volta,

scrutando quell'animo così consumato e

vecchio,

ripetendo che morirò sola,

che la vita non ha avuto senso,

ripercorrendo gli orribili giorni passati,

e sentendo l'Immenso,

sussurrarmi,

perchè son stati così crudeli,

i miei anni tanto amati?

Sì, desideravo essere la regina

della scuola,

la ragazza stupenda,

che ti punta contro una pistola,

e ti fa fare una fine orrenda.

Non volevo diventare così

vendicativa,

così crudele e assente,

non volevo arrivare ad

uccidere chi mente,

pur di trovare la mia verità così

cattiva.

Non volevo arrivare a bruciare

una Bibbia

per poi vivere una vita eretica combattente.

Gli anni buttati e la vita bruciata,

l'anima disperata,

la mente suicida,

le dolci menzogne e la realtà cattiva,

finendo per guardare le montagne,

fra grida, morte e follia omicida,

son morta,

per scoprire solo che ero ancora viva.

Il Diario dell'ultimo Nichilista

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destiny m o chijioke

Nigeria

Pillars of nation

Falling of the mighty city

When the ears is dumb

How can the wise speak

When the odd is in the

Favor of the fool how can

Nation produce men of

Understanding.

Cracking through the

basement

Of the interior and

exterior motive of the

heart and mind of

men.

It hard to kick against

the pricks

Curse have render

upon us

Because the heart is perpetrated with evil

The mind thinks more and not attains nothing.

What message do we preach"

Who has taken advantage of our foolishness

against us?

Who has robbed us?

Who has done these evil against us?

Old men of the ancient

Knew beneath the surface

They got hold of the

Pillars through strength and courage,

They chase away fear and brought

Peace to the land, the land rested.

But who are these fluttering sparrows

That has stolen national treasure.

Men wake up.

The house is fallen

The pillars one have being

Taking, replace with lies

Providing us with mere riches

But the secret that hold the riches

Is taking away and turning to lies.

Give us our nation.

We need to restore back our nation!

We need to chase

away the pot belle

We need to drive out

godfatherism

We need to practice

democracy

We need a brand new

country

Without spot or

wrinkles.

we need undefied nation with

Great goal and plan for the upcoming

generation.

We need a nation of truth and blessing

We need a nation of heart and mind.

Not a nation of lies and curse

Not a nation that is filled with emotional

concoction and little mind thinkers.

We need heart filled and mind filled..

Give me back my nation.

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Daniela Vîlceanu

Romania

Dilematic

Spune-mi dacă mă primești într-un vis în care

te plictisești?

Spune-mi dacă aș face cu Luna prinsoare,

Ai fi dispus să mă găzduiești în visele tale?

Dacă aș toarce fir de dor dintr-un nor aș putea

bandaja iubirile care dor?

Dacă prin perdeaua de gene mi-

ar pătrunde praf de stele,

Mi-ai șterge lacrimile cu o

batistă din flori de albăstrele?

Dac-aș obosi și n-aș putea să

mă ridic,

Mi-ai putea căra iubirea până la

margine de infinit?

Dacă ar răsări flori din talpa

mea, umblând,

Mi le-ai uda cu lacrimile

ochiului tău stâng?

Dacă ar fi curcubeul cerului

numai al tău,

L-ai putea risipi să scrii în rogvaiv numele

meu?

Ți-ai dedica o noapte, de mai, să faci un pat din

petale de maci

Să-mi demonstrezi în răsărit că nu suntem de

dragoste săraci?

M-ai îmbăta cu vin de trandafir și boabă

stafidită

Să mă ataci șoptindu-mi versuri o noapte sau

o mie o sută?

Să-ți cad pe brațe fluturând batista albă,

istovită,

Cuceritorule, erou, felicitări, pentru a ta

izbândă!

Răspunde-mi sincer, mă iubești?

Sau îmi văd de nimicurile mele lumești?

Giovanbattista Fetta

Italy

– Libri imperdibili

– Libri imperdibili

(ma irreperibili) :

– Guarda come dondolo!

Da "Gli impiccati" di Villon

a "Come tirare le cuoia

senza paura:

la canzone del boia".

La pena di morte in

letteratura.

–In principio era il

(cruci)verbo

e dio lo risolse in sette giorni

creando il mondo:

l'origine mistica

della Settimana Enigmistica.

– Storia finalmente svelata

di Gesù, il primo cosmonauta,

che giunto sulla terra dallo spazio

fu perseguitato come alieno,

e per sfuggire allo strazio

ripartì per il cielo

in un battibaleno

sulla "crux", un razzo-motore

ad autopropulsione

di sua esclusiva invenzione.

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Lina Alfieri

Italy

„”Andate anche voi nella vigna”

„Andate anche voi nella vigna;

quello che è giusto ve lo darò”.

Il proprietario terriero esce all'alba,

in cerca di braccianti

e li cerca fino a che c'è luce.

Da a loro tutti la stessa paga,

non toglie nulla a

primi...

aggiunge agli altri.

Non è ingiusto, ma

generoso.

L'uomo prima del

mercato,

la dignità prima delle

ore ...

avvolge di carità la giustizia

e la profuma.

Lui dona,che non sa fare di conto,

ma sa saziarci di sorprese.

Nessun vantaggio, allora,

a essere operai della prima ora?

Un vanto c'è, umile e potente,

''aver reso più bella la vigna della storia."

''Verrai a cercarmi ancora,

anche se si sarà fatto molto tardi?''

La vigna è il campo più amato,

quello in cui l'agricoltore investe

lavoro e passione,

fatica e poesia.

Senza poesia

anche il sorso di vino

è sterile.

Antoinette DiGiorgio Corbell

Italy

Steam

In the heat of the humid night

Sanity can become

obscured

All I feel is the hot

perspiration

Clinging to every inch

Of this burning body

My mind is muddled

fog

Yet each pore is aware of the heat

Exuding from them

I think about the edginess

Of the quiet darkness

Not a breeze is blowing

This stillness makes me gag

There I am waiting

For this ardor to be doused

Ahhh, at last the caress of his touch

A fresh gust of cool breeze

Sending thrills throughout

My impassioned form

Releasing steam

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Gianfranco Aurilio

Italy

Così è il tuo amore

Lontano

quel soffio di sole

sui miei occhi erranti

nella luce del giorno

di un mattino d’estate,

eppure

così vicino

che sembra nato

intorno a me.

Così è il tuo amore

che adesso fugge

per mai più ritornare.

Lo conserverò

tra i tramonti del cuore.

Giusy Criscuolo Padovan

Italy

Or che ti domani

Or che ti domandi,

cosa c'è d'umano l'uomo,

senza ascoltar

avvinghia,

l'aura funesta

del tormentato stuolo.

Ordunque, Villani fummo,

quand'anche rigettammo,

ma a capo chino

o peggio,

lindi impettiti e sordi,

vagammo pel contorto

labirinto del peggior vanto:

sorpresi e stolti, accettammo.

Gemei,

gememmo ciechi,

d'ignobil nulla.

Anna Maria Strzelec-Leszczyniecka

Poland

[Magic]

[Untitled***]

Magią był dom wymarzony

który budowała latami smak wiśni razem zrywanych

kilka zasuszonych wspomnień głos cykad i trawy

jedyny orzech laskowy schowany na wieczną

pamiątkę w pudełku po złotych

kolczykach i ślubnej obrączce

które jej kiedyś podarował

Mariana Rogoz Stratulat

Romania

Departe de tine...

Lacrimi se-ascund sub pleoape și liniștea mă doare. Îmbrățișez o stea, un dor din lumânare,

mi-agăț suspinu-n noapte cu miez dulce de floare, zâmbesc îndrăgostită la anii ce-au trecut, la iarba ofilită sub pasul moale și tăcut. Ating ceașca de ceai, mai sorb un abur oblic și-nchid iar amintirea copilului în ornic. Mi-e dor de Tine, Mamă, de vocea ta - poem albastru -, de-mbrățișarea, ce-o aștept și azi, de pasăre măiastră.

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Zbigniew Michalski

Poland

Audrey Hepburn

kiedy znalazła dla siebie

wymarzoną ścieżkę przez życie

poczuła powiew szczęścia

który wyniósł ją bardzo szybko

pod niebiosa

choć musiała porzucić złoty sen

za gwałtownym zakrętem losu

pośród plejady

hollywoodzkich supergwiazd

zabłysła pełnią

swojego talentu

nagradzana za

profesjonalizm

częściej niż

utytułowane aktorki

czarująca i

dystyngowana

obywatelka świata

zapisała się wielkimi kreacjami

na kartach historii kina

do ostatka bawiła publiczność

oraz wybrednych krytyków

jakby nigdy jej nie zmęczył

spacer po cienkiej linie sławy

Bozena helena Mazur-Nowak

Poland

The bird' hearts

Don't scare my birds away, please,

they are so tired after the long trip.

They perched on the apple tree, and

will surely be sleeping there tonight.

Let them dream about the dreamland,

so far distant and so wonderful,

where life flows very slowly,

and there is no violence at all.

Where the forests are still virgin

and blue lagoons up to the sky.

The sea of grass to the line of the horizon.

Are there such places yet on the Earth?

They are definitely in the birds' hearts,

and they are in our deepest dreams,

the reality is cruel and won't change, as

the men kill the surrounding world each day.

Tanu Vermani Kapoor

United Arab Emirates

Entwined

Incessantly

entangled...

in untwisting and

untwining..

Recalcitrant knots

of memories are conniving.

Unravels scars, solemnly I sigh,

To vulnerable stance

... and destiny I comply.

Agony will cease...

all enmeshed will be sort;

I’ll cherish for now, whatever I’ve got.

As stars.....we are born...

... we sparkle and die.

It’s doomed from beginning,

... no reason to cry!!

To heart these musings...

... are of solace..

Implausible desires lay sedated....

.... undeviated at one place!!

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Zehra Bajić Alić

Bosnia And Herzegovina

Ti i on

Nemaš ti tu ludost iza uha

koja bi nakapala mi se na jezik

on i kada ćuti govori mi slatke riječi

u tvojim očima su tame i blijesak nedorečenog

ja u njegovim mijesim nebo

i bistro jezero .

Ti nikada nećeš biti on

on i kada me lomi

puše u rane

uzme me za prste i stisne ih

jako

miriše kosu

uđe u trbuh čežnji i ode

jer zna da ga čekam.

Nemaš ti usne kao on

koje bi ja ugrzla željnim zubima

i osjetila toplu krv

u kojoj crvena zrnca piju ona bijela

ti si samo zapetljan vjetar

koji ne zna gdje i kamo da duva.

Ja i neću da budeš ti on

jer on je moja ljubav

moja kaplja sunca u zoru

on je moja koža naborana oko struka

i osmjeh iza kog je tuga.

Nećeš ti nikada biti on

ne dam

ma pusti to

ni jedan od vas dva

za dušu me ujest neće

ni neko treći , peti

al on ostavio je trag

i uvjek se vraća

na svoje mjesto.

Bello Ayuba

Nigeria

I can't marry a poetess

How can I seduce you?

While stars abet you to

consume rays

In lines sparkling words on

papers

How can I seduce you ?

While I only grope hays

That impregnate rhythms

Incite pen to bear rhymes

Instead soaking her nipples but

end in pen's nipple

A poetess is a goddess

That:

Spurts your faith to frolic

Spurs your pain to prey

Spurns your stick to seduce or grope grace

I can't marry a poetess

With no doubt my chest 'll be her slates

My feet 'll turn to hooves

She bathes me in inks

And dresses in bookshelves

With no doubt I'll be vagrant.

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Joanna Svensson

Sweden

A new life

Years ago, when summer

Was about to end

I felt so intensely and strongly

That the time was getting near

The time I had awaited

For oh, so many days

The time that bore

The fruit of love

I felt so blessed and

healed

By everything around

The sun flowers of

days

Of days of late summer

Whispered every

morning

That it will be a be a beautiful

Beautiful late summer's day

The day that the new life arrives

Shy little dragonflies

Of that late summers day

Were dancing pirouettes

On the glassy surface

Of the tiny little brook

Even Uncle September

With his hat with the widest brim

Often came to visit

Sitting on the bench

In our shady little garden

Making notes on invisible paper

Written in invisible ink

Telling that a miracle

Was about to take place

Early in the morning

On that last summer's day

All was prepared

For the miracle to take place

A New life was to begin

With no predicted time

This was about to be

A great big harvest

fiest

Everything was

prepared

All in perfect time

The Apple-trees of

utmost splendor

Had offered their

sunriped fruit

The Dog-Rose bush

Came all dressed up

In a dark green coat

All emerald and juicy

Shaped by fullgrown verdure

With ornaments of coralred pearls

The sun flowers had decided

To stand guard at the garden gates

I saw them there already

On the night before at sunset

Confering with each other

Trimning their splendid, colorful clothes

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I just knew that it would be

Such a very special day

When the life I bore inside of me

The first of two blessed lives

Was about to enter

To be welcomed into this world

I prayed and I felt the blessing

Sweep me in its veil so soft

Sweep me in its gentle bossom

And kiss me with prosperity

I sensed myself

Standing on a meadow

Filled with moisty

Morning dew

Reaching hands in the air

Towards heaven - praying that

It would all

Turn out well

Then I saw

A glade in heaven

I saw it slowly

Open up

A Guardian angel

Was coming down to me

Saying it would walk beside

The newborn child for ever more

Years ago that magic summer

When the summer was about to end

Yes, on that very last day of summer

Praise the Lord for a life so blessed

That's when my first born son was born!

George Ioniţă

Romania

Ploaie despărţită-n două

cu ce-am putea să stingem focul

ce ne arde-n trup

uscate buze sărutul iar s-adape

şi mâna ta în mâna mea un legământ -

de mai încape...

voi curge peste tine-ntr-un

potop de doruri ude

inundă-mă şi tu în val de rouă

să răcorim aceaste clipe prea

arzânde

cu stropi de ploaie despărţită-

n două...

Elena Spătaru

Romania

Când vara zâmbește

Te vreau pe șes

precum grâul ales,

să gustăm amorul

cu chip de fluturași aleși,

să rătăcim prin univers deschis

în glasul tău de vis

să rămân un crin special,

când vara zâmbește

veselă în noapte,

un dans feeric

deasupra noastră.

30



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Paul Rotaru

Romania

Misery

I’m slipping like the water in the sewers Towards the cradle of a muddy sea. No gathering of some compliant viewers, But only hopes and only misery. My goddess always swears a candid loving – Sometimes I know she cheats, sometimes I don’t. I thirstly kiss her hair in the morning – She doesn’t feel! I know she always won’t… Perhaps I am indifferent to her passion, Perhaps I never understand her lust. Oh, tell me Lord, how should I pass this session Or how, at least, I’d clean my eyes of dust. She only cheats the manhood with her beauty, The mistress in a land of criminals. My poem is the feeling of a naughty Who sucks the blood of pacifying gulls. Forgive me, Sun, for these unchained illusions; Forgive me, Moon, for my dispair in night. I’ll never have the strenght to fight confusions, I shan’t be able to defeat the right. That’s what I am: a slave into the doubtness, The ultimate of demons to defeat. My misery is keeping me in darkness As rivers bring their garbage just to eat. She’s just a dream who promisses the heaven To all she kills! I know she always does. No blood, no soul, no worries – they just happen To die before the world would give its fuzz! I know, because we live the same old story, With cheated humans, guilty for their love. Tomorrow tells me not to have a worry, As haven never lies in skies above. I shan’t be laughing! That means no deliver

Of what could be just a satanic joke. Oh, Buddha, let me sink into the river And just revive through my consuming fog. I would forget the misery of hoping If only I had less of poetry. I would defy eternal sins of loving If only I’d never tasted misery! Forgive me, Love! I can’t be fool pretending Of never hearing shewolves cry their lust. By God! By Satan! I shall be defending My only treasure: poems in the dust! So please, my darling goddess, don’t remember A drop of tear flowing from my eyes! I hope you would be safe until november, Unless you change the number Satan dials! You might be safer without all my poems, You might be happier after I die.

My grave will swallow every reminiscence To keep you strong in hope you’ll learn to fly. Beloving memories would fade in sewers As rats let poison to revive their blood. Don’t be afraid, my goddess, only rumours Are prophecies of the eternal flood!

Keep loving everything that nature offers, Keep breathing all the air for your heart. Before you realize that Satan covers Your immortality, I’ll be apart! So don’t pretend that you regret this moment Of sudden leaving Eden in the sky. Your mouth of Sun will breath the air of covenant Until consuming wishes that I die. And free, forgeting all my once existence You would be happy lying other fool. By getting older, you will make the difference Between a cheaper world and other doom. At least you’re just a shewolf, precious goddess; You’ll be remembered as iconic star And all the misery I felt in darkness Will flow into the poem that you are!

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Odujebe Oluwole

Nigeria

Sunrise hope

It was a bright sunrise

At time so nebulous

The sun in it's guise

Do reveal the fabulous!

The shore's miracle

On the morning sands

Sprouts to the pinacle

On the vast sea bands!

A Sunday, so radiant

Ambience so serene

The breeze so brilliant

A wonder filled scene!

Here love did prevail

Nature's sweet scent

Too, profusely avail

In hope, magnificent!

Suresh Chandra Sarangi

India

Who is wife ?

A wife is half of the man, transcend.

In value far all other friends.

She every earthly blessing brings.

And even redemption from her springs.

In lonely hours companions bright.

These charming women give delight.

Like fathers wise,in duty tried.

To virtuous acts they prompt and guide.

Whenever we suffer pain and grief.

Like mothers kind they bring relief.

The weary man whom toils oppress.

When traveling through life's widerness.

Finds in his spouse a place of rest.

And there abides, refreshed and blest.

Metin Yildirim Antakya

Turkey

As the world turn

In the light of every day.

The bittersweet life begins.

At every sunrise.

Hopes are reborn.

The days were good and bad.

How did the corona viruses

come out?

People are locked in the house.

Bitter fears swept the world.

Some cry, some laugh.

He was neither comfortable nor morale.

They are fluttering and hesitant.

Certainly dark days will pass someday.

The world wants a comfortable world.

Very easy dreams.

It is difficult to implement.

Life is worth living well.

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Yanush Doyniak

Poland

Teatrum nadziei

Przywiązany

do nieba

pasem Oriona

ciężarem dyszla

Wielkiego Wozu

opadam ku ziemi

czego mi jeszcze trzeba

świeci księżyc

a kot Pascali

przy piersi

mruczy

wtedy

na strofach

wzlatuję

na niebiosa

cisza

granatem śpiewa

serce

pisze poemat

gdzieś

w ciemnej dali

płynie

klucz gęsi

w obłokach

do lepszego jutra

Anna Maria Sprzęczka-Stępień

Poland

Dla Pana Stanisława D.

Tutaj mieszka pewien Pan,

nie każdemu może „znan".

Ptasie on nazwisko nosi.

Namaluje,

wycuduje,

gdy poprosi

pan czy pani.

Obraz, szopkę (i ruchomą!) –

rzeczą mnie to jest wiadomą.

„Co, Dziewczyna?" –

Brata pytał.

„Co, Chłopaku?" – do

mnie to.

Taka Jegoż jest logika.

Piotruś autkiem się

rozbijał,

potem autko dał do

Stryja.

Stryj Wnukowi je przekazał –

jeździł Jacek... „wte i nazad"!

Mama Ania aż z podziwu

(dla talentów...Dudka tylu)

wyjść nie może!

Szczęść Mu Mały Jezu,

szczęść Mu Panie Boże!

Pani Marii, Zuzi, Izie i Agacie,

gdzie ich ścieżki:

w Tarnobrzegu czy w Krakowie.

Daj im zdrowie!

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prose 25-30

Anna Maria Sprzęczka-Stępień

Poland

Auntie Stasia

If I were to tell now who is my favourite

family member, I would say it with no

hesitation: Aunt Stasia. Well, of course, along

with my big boy, Jacek.

She lives in a small town of Tarnobrzeg, in

the south-east of Poland. Unfortunately, we

don’t meet very often

nowadays, but once she used to

call in on us every Saturday.

My Auntie is a rather short

woman in her early seventies.

Her plump round face is

framed by a mass of curly fair

hair and her sparkling blue

eyes show her humour and

friendliness. She often wears

casual clothes, but she also

likes to be elegant from time to

time. And she really is, in her

long skirts and well-tailored

and perfectly ironed blouses or

shirts.

Auntie Stasia has a very pleasant

personality. Never have I met a more patient

and kind-hearted person. She always has time

to listen to her grandchildren’s big problems.

She is also very helpful, not only for her family

but also for friends. Quite willingly, my dear

Aunt comes to them and helps with everyday

chores. I remember that once she was asked to

look after a very ill elder woman, and she

didn’t hesitate even for a second.

No doubt, she is generous. Always

remembering my son Jacek, she never comes

without a small gift for him. It’s worth adding

that she’s truly hard-working. Her flat shines

and she always prepares something delicious

to eat for her guests.

My Aunt always seems to be busy. She

spends a lot of time doing the housework,

baking or cooking and so forth and so on.

When she is not at home, she is usually at

church or either visiting her friends or family.

This is a person who really taught me a lot,

just by her own example. I would like to be

such a good human as she is. When you are

with her, you can relax. Although we see each

other occasionally, I still really like to spend

my spare time with my Auntie Stasia.

Cheating Doesn’t Pay

It was a beautiful autumn,

just the beginning: September.

So golden and sunny. People

have been coming back from

their holidays. James too. He

has spent wonderful time in the

countryside, but all good things

must come to an end.

The next day after the

return, first thing in the

morning, James went to the

bank where he worked.

Nobody was there. He switched on his

computer and started realizing his vicious

plan. He opened an account for himself; then

he charged the bank’s account. The money was

finally there!

“It will solve my £ 20,000 problem.” – Jim

sighed with a relief. When he was about to go,

suddenly other employees came in to the

room.

“What are you doing here so early?” – one

of them asked. It was Tom, Jim’s best mate.

“Oh, hmm, so…” – James murmured

nervously. He wasn’t prepared to this turn of

events!

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“Well, I have been so snowed under with

work recently that I thought I could come here

earlier one day to get through it. And here I

am!” What a brilliant and simple answer it

was. At least his colleagues believed him, even

though he seemed to be confused a little bit.

James was quite satisfied and he eventually

calmed down.

“But what am I going to do when they find

out about the fraud? Sooner or later it is going

to draw somebody’s attention.” – James kept

thinking about it. The rest of the day, he was

on pins and needles. But the day finally passed

and nothing, absolutely nothing had

happened.

Next day Jim went to work as usual. With

some dose of

hesitation, he opened

the door of the office

and entered the room.

Everybody was there.

Jim noticed that they

had been gossiping

about something in

low voices. But at the

very moment they saw

him, they became silent.

“The boss wants to see you, Jim. He is

waiting for you in his room.” – Tom said.

Left with no choice, James did what he was

asked to do.

“Good morning, James.”

“Good morning, Mr Harper.” – Jim replied

with noticeable uncertainty in his voice.

“Do you know what I want to tell you? Oh,

I’m sure you know!”

Jim stood still, not being able to say any

single word.

“I should have called the police, but I didn’t.

You’ve been such a good and intelligent

employee! It’s a pity I must say it:

YOU ARE FIRED!!!!!!

Šahdo Bošnjak


Snovi Šehida Ibrahima

ROMAN

13. POGLAVLJE

Sjedili su u bašči, na prostrtoj deki, sami,

pijući crnu kahvu, pušeći ko zna danas koju po

redu cigaretu i šuteći, svaki zanesen svojim

mislima, nastojeći tako posložiti u glavi haos i

pronaći način za rješenje brojnih životnih

problema, nastalih u ova pasija ratna vremena.

Nedaleko od njih

žuborila je Usora dok

se naokolo hvatao

paučinasti mračak i

ugođaj bi bio potpun,

osjećao je Hamid,

samo da nije ovog

prokletog rata, pa

oduševljen ljepotom,

koju je najzad

primijetio, u jednom trenutku prekide šutnju i

progovori:

– Veliko je zadovoljstvo, labude, sjediti

ovdje dok nastupa akšam, pa mi nešto

naumpade ona pjesma: “Ah, meraka u večeri

rane...“

– Baš je lijepo... – složi se izviđač, makar što

ljepota nije dopirala ni do njegovog razuma, a

kamoli do njegovog srca i duše, uzburkane

različitim osjećanjima, nad koju se nadnio

golem, mračan oblak, da se momku na licu,

tom svojevrsnom ogledalu duše, pojavi grč

bola, koji vodnik ne primijeti, što zbog

nadolazeće tame, što zbog buljenja u talase

rijeke. – Nego, kako je na liniji, mislim... ima li

problema?

– Pa, baš i nema... Ovaj, ma nije baš posve da

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nema, ima, kako da nema... Jutros su nas

obavijestili iz Komande da neprijatelj sprema

dosad najveću ofanzivu na Kalošević. Naši

obavještajni izvori javljaju kako im

svakodnevno pristižu velika pojačanja u

ljudstvu, čak otud iz Srbije, pa u oružju i

materijalnotehničkim sredstvima. Stiglo im je

i nekoliko tenkova, sve nove osamdeset

četvorke, glanc iz fabrike. Isti obavještajni

izvori također kažu da su Srbi u završnoj fazi

priprema i da ofanziva može da otpočne

svakog časa. Ovaj put su, izgleda, najozbiljniji

u namjeri da konačno zauzmu ne samo

Kalošević već i Tešanj. Jah, eto,

labude, tako nekako stvari

stoje...

– Proklete četničke hulje!

Ima li drugih novosti?

– Da, tanki smo s municijom

i sa sredstvima za

protivoklopnu borbu. Za BST,

naprimjer, imamo samo jednu

kumulativnu minu. Imamo

doduše dvije zolje i nešto

granata za RB-ove. No, što je,

čini se, najvažnije, asfaltna

komunikacija Teslić – Doboj

dobro je osigurana te nam otud

ne prijeti velika opasnost. Znaju to, sigurno, i

Srbi i neće se usuditi na proboj tim pravcem.

Tenkovi će svakako davati njihovoj pješadiji

veliku podršku, ali mislim da se neće usuditi

na tenkovski proboj ni iz Bugarinovića, zato

što bi im bilo jako rizično, osim ako operacijom

ne bude zapovijedala kakva budala, u što lično

sumnjam jer imaju dovoljno školovanih oficira

iz JNA. Ono, labude, što me posebno raduje,

jeste visok borbeni moral naših boraca, koji,

svi do jednog, prkosno izjavljuju – da četnici

preko njih živih nikad neće kročiti nogom u

Kalošević. Neprijateljski vojnici već vode

verbalni rat s našim borcima. Ma znaš, to je u

psihološkopropagandne svrhe, samo s jednim

ciljem – da sebe ohrabre, a da naše borce i

narod pokolebaju. Baš prekjučer javlja se neki

planinac, veli da dobro poznaje Kalošević jer

da je ovuda progonio stada ovaca na

zimovanje u Posavinu. “Eto nas, balije, za koji

dan vama na kavu u Kalošević.” A onda prijeti:

“Ni pas, ni mačka neće ostati, ni dijete u bešici,

sve ćemo poklati!” Drugi, valjda kroz dogled,

opazio kako nam dijele ručak te, glasom punim

mržnje, dobacuje: “ ‘Rante se, ‘rante, balije, da

za dva-tri dana budete deblji za ražnja!...” Sve i

jedan borac vjeruje da bi četnici svoje prijetnje

i ostvarili, ako bi ušli u Kalošević. I ništa im ne

podiže borbeni moral kao to

uvjerenje! A čuj ovo, Zijo

Mamić, onaj đavo što skida

snajperom čete ko cvjetove pod

šatorom na vašarima ili

proslavama, ne može otrpjeti

pa uzvraća: “Samo vi dođite,

vlasi, da vas ko mnoge četnike

dosad, pošaljemo na onaj svijet,

vašem đeneralu Draži

Mihailoviću na smotru i svetom

Savi na ispovijed!” Na to sa

srpske strane zapljuštaše

žestoke psovke nakon čega se

ponovo javi onaj planinac:

“Turci, je l’ vam promaja u

džamiji dok se molite svome Alavu?!” Time je

podsjećao na nedavni napad kad su

tenkovskom granatom izbušili munaru.

Ponovo ne otrpje Zijo, vraćajući im istom

mjerom: “Čuj, bradata spodobo! Nama

promaha u džamiji, a vašoj dvadeset osmerici

četnika promaha u glavi od naših metaka, pa

ste sutradan u Tesliću proglasili Dan žalosti.

Usto vam je naš Bahrudin servirao granatu

ravno na sto, dok ste večerali u pokoj duši

četnika Mileta. Tom prilikom ste izbrojali

desetak mrtvih i isto toliko ranjenih.

Napadnete li opet, proći ćete mnogo gore nego

tad!...” Bradonje ponovo ljuto opsovaše i

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zaprijetiše kako će nam to za dva-tri dana sve

vratiti, i to s kamatom. Jah, umalo da

zaboravim; ovo što ću ispričati, tebe će,

labude, siguran sam, iznimno zanimati. A onda

se prodera krupan, autoritativan glas, koji se

dotad nije javljao: “Tišina, seljačine

beslovesne, da vojvoda nešto kaže Turcima!”

Na njihovoj strani nastade grobni muk, po

čemu sam zaključio da je veliki autoritet među

četnicima. Onda zovnu: “Ej, balije, da vas nešto

ozbiljno pitam! Ima l’ tu Ibra’ima Bošnjića?!

Studirali smo skupa u Saraj’vu i bili nekad

veliki prijatelji.” “Šta te briga, vlaše!”, odbrusi

neko od naših. “Ako nije tu”, poručuje isti glas,

“pozdravite ga od Đorđa Stanivuka i recite mu

neka odma’ zaboravi staro prijateljstvo.

Odsad smo smrtni

neprijatelji, i sretnemo

li se negdje – zaklat ću

ga zubima, ili mene

neće biti!...” “Tebe,

tebe, vlaše, neće biti!”,

otkresa Meho Šego,

odlažući prazan tanjir

na klupicu pokraj rova.

Međutim, Đorđe više

ništa ne reče, a i neprijateljski vojnici, kao po

nečijoj zapovijedi, prestadoše s daljnjim

provokacijama.

Na ove riječi Ibrahim se lecnu, a u grlu

zastala oskoruša, pa ni gore ni dolje, dok kroz

glavu prolaze sjećanja na Sarajevo, na sretne

dane studentskog siromahovanja. Sjeća se

visokog, crnomanjastog Stanivuka. Plaho

naočit momak. Dijelili su zadnju koru kruha,

zadnju cigaretu. Iz iste su čaše pili jednu koka-

kolu. Sjeća se lažnog imena, Ismet, kad se

udvarao muslimanskim djevojkama. I kako je

govorio da bi volio više od svega da se oženi s

muslimankom. “Da, lažno, lažno... Sve je na tim

bijednicima bilo lažno, dok su s nama zajedno

živjeli. Lažno prijateljstvo, lažno kumstvo,

lažni komšiluk, lažno bratstvo i jedinstvo,

lažno sve. Sad, kad su, najzad, skinuli maske i

pokazali neljudska, zlikovačka lica, tek sad,

ustvari, vidimo ko su. Srbočetnici, fašisti,

napokon su otklonili vječitu dilemu, ako ju je

ikad i bilo, i pred cijelim svijetom pokazali

svoju moralnu bijedu, pokazali su da su zvijeri

i spodobe u ljudskom obliku. E, moj Đorđe, zar

bi me ti ubio?! Da li je moguće da bi na mene

digao ruku, ruku koju sam toliko puta stisnuo,

pozdravljajući te i misleći da stišćem ruku

iskrenog prijatelja, prijatelja koga sam cijenio

i volio kao brata, ruku s kojom sam dijelio

zadnji dinar, zadnju cigaretu?! Čak si i to

zaboravio kako sam nedavno rizikovao vlastiti

život, spašavajući te od razbjesnjelog

Mahmuta. I kako sam sve učinio da budeš

razmijenjen,

energično se

zauzimajući za te kod

svojih nadređenih.

Zaboravio si, eh... Eto,

takav si ti; takvi ste vi!”

– Nešto si se, jarane,

duboko zamislio.

Kanda su ti misli

daleko odlutale? –

prenu ga i vrati u stvarnost prijateljev glas.

– Hah?!... – zbunjeno izusti izviđač.

– Kako tvoja rana? – upita vodnik. I, ne

čekajući odgovor, dodade: – Još jednu heftu pa

ćeš, čini mi se, biti kao nov.

– Heftu?! Hm, dvoumio sam nešto da li da

pođem sutra na liniju. Nakon ovoga što sam

saznao od tebe, sad više nemam dvojbe. Idem,

pa makar i na jednoj nozi.

– Ali, Ibro, oprosti, pa to je ludost... Rana ti

još nije sasvim zacijelila, ugruhan si, psihički

potresen...

– Rana, hm... Sve su to trice i kučine. Rekao

sam ti već da ću se protiv tih zlotvora boriti,

zatreba li, i na jednoj nozi. Uostalom, svejedno

je – poginuo danas ili sutra.

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– O kakvoj ti to, prijatelju, pogibiji? Ta, šta ti

je? Živ čovjek ne ide u mezar. A dok je čovjek

živ, ljudski se nadati.

Ibro duboko uzdahnu, a lice mu se umi

vrelim suzama, koje su pekle kao žar, ali on to

nije niti osjećao kad je rekao:

– Ti se možda i možeš nadati, ali ja ne. Ja

sam sinoć odsanjao svoj posljednji san. Sanjao

sam, labude, vlastitu smrt!... Moj životni krug

se zatvara... To je kraj... kraj... svega!...

Nakon tih riječi, zašutješe, zanijemješe

obojica. Dugo su tako šutjeli, svako zaokupljen

svojim mislima. Onda Hamid prebaci desnu

ruku preko prijateljevog

ramena, zagrli ga i tješeći ga

reče:

– Nemoj da prenagljuješ pri

zaključcima. Sve je to psihički

stres prilikom ranjavanja od

koga se još nisi sasvim

oporavio. Sve će to biti dobro,

vidjet ćeš...

A u mislima je počeo da

strahuje za prijateljev život.

Znao je, kad je smrt u pitanju,

da tu Ibro ima snažan

predosjećaj, intuiciju, šesto

čulo, šta li? Da je taj predosjećaj

čvrsto skopčan sa snovima i da ga još nikad

nije prevario. A, opet, s druge strane, kako

vjerovati da čovjek, obični smrtnik, može imati

te nadnaravne moći?! Kad bi o tome

razmišljao, još nikad ne bi uspio razriješiti tu

enigmu, bolje reći taj paradoks, pa ni sad dok

čuje prijatelja kakao s mukom, i bolom u glasu

nastavlja pričati o sinoćnjem snu:

– Ovo je san koji ću ti zadnji put ispričati. I

samo tebi. Nisam ga ispričao ni roditeljima ni

braći niti ikom drugom, i neću. A tebi mogu, jer

si mi ti najbolji prijatelj, i znam da mi se nećeš

smijati niti ćeš moju priču izvrgnuti u sprdnju,

kako bi to mnogi učinili. Ma, znaš kakvi su

ljudi, puni slabosti. Ali, ne zamjerim im, zato

što smo i sami ljudi. Vjerujem kako ćeš priču

koju ću ti ispričati sačuvati kao tajnu do kraja

života, jer je to i moja želja. Sinoć sam se

osjećao iznimno umornim pa sam legao

neuobičajeno rano, odmah svečeri. Čini mi se

da sam odmah zaspao, a onda su krenuli snovi.

Kao: vraćam se s izviđanja, sam samcit. I

gladan, i žedan, i usto mrtav umoran. Naiđem

tako na jedno osojno mjesto, mala zaravan, na

njoj trava mekahna ko duša. Svježa hladovina

svu je obgrlila da me odmah žeđ minu. Dušek-

trava sama mami, zove da malo prilegnem,

odmorim. Srušim se od umora i

izvalim na leđa pa onako

nalakćen metnem travku

između zuba, odmaram koščice

i uživam, što bi se reklo, u

prirodnim ljepotama. Odnekud

pjevuši slavuj, ma milina ga

slušati, dok pred očima pukla

predivna panorama:

nepregledan kanjon, zarobljen

u zagrljaju s jedne strane

četinarske a s druge strane

listopadne šume. A ja pomislim

kako ovako nekako, možda,

izgleda u Džennetu kadli ti se

iznenada oćuti bat kopita,

prolama se, ali nekako potmulo, kao da dolazi

iz same zemljine utrobe. Obrnem glavu lijevo –

i ništa. Obrnem desno – kad iz šume ispade

jahač na pomamnom vrancu te se stane

postrance spuštati niz strminu. Uh, vidim: k

meni se zaputio! Ustanem, iz pristojnosti, da

barem sjedeći dočekam nezvanog musafira, ili

bolje reći putnika namjernika. Dok mi prilazi

sve bliže, znatiželjno ga posmatram. Brada mu

duga, do pasa, sijeda. Vidim, čovo mi poznat,

kanda sam ga negdje vidio... I sjetim se. Samo,

umjesto zelenog sad je na sebi imao crni

ogrtač, nekako plaho dugačak, gotovo do

zemlje, raskopčan, ispod koga se vidjelo

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kratko crno džube, crne čohali, malo preširoke

čakšire, crne čizme, a na glavi mu vješto

savijena crna čalma, tek navoji joj pričvršćeni

zlatnim kopčama. Na čalmi zlatni znak, ama,

toliko sjajan da u se ne da dugo gledati.

Zabliješti ti oči kao da gledaš ravno u sunce, a

po njemu ispisana meni nerazumljiva arapska

pismena. Za pojasom crne korice iz kojih viri

pozlaćen balčak kratke savijene sablje,

krivošije. Riječju – sve na njemu crno. Pošto,

najzad, stiže do mene, zategnu vrancu dizgin.

Konj ukopa u mjestu sve četiri, a neznanac

uljudno pozdravi:

“Es-selamu alejkum!”

“Alejkumus-selam!”, otpozdravim i u

nevjerici i sa zebnjom iščekujem šta će došljak

dalje reći ili poduzeti.

A on upita,

iznenađujuće blagim,

raznježenim, gotovo

pa očinskim, glasom:

“Jesi li mi rad,

sinko?”

“Jesam, jesam, kako

da nisam?!”, velim, ne

znajući šta drugo da

kažem, sav premrijevši od straha.

“Ja bih malo da sjednem, s tobom koju riječ

da probesjedim pa moram na put. Mnogo me

još sličnog posla čeka, jah!”

Dok je govorio, nije sjahivao s konja,

očekujući, valjda, moje dopuštenje.

“Bujrum, samo izvolite!”, provalim u

nedoumici.

“Eto, sinko, dolazim ti drugi i, posljednji

put”, reče neznanac, sjedajući na travu pored

mene i vadeći ispod džubeta veoma staru

knjigu, požutjelih listova, sličnu Kur’anu, samo

sad u crnom povezu. “Donosim ti jednu

radosnu i jednu mnogo tužnu vijest.”

Na njegove riječi “i jednu mnogo tužnu

vijest” ja se stresoh od groze, a on je sjedio

pored mene, ovako kao ti, mirno listao

nagrižene stranice požutjele knjige i govorio:

“Ovo je, sinko, Knjiga sudbina. Ubrzo ćeš

saznati šta ti je u njoj zapisano. A kako imam

da ti prenesem dvije vijesti: jednu radosnu i

jednu tužnu, ja bih da pođem od one radosne,

jer za tužnu nikad nije kasno.”

Kako je pronašao određenu stranicu, počeo

je da čita polahko, razgovijetno, glasom

dubokim, kao da govori iz duboke kace ili s

nekog drugog svijeta:

“Ti, Ibrahim (Remze) Bošnjić, boriš se za

slobodu svog naroda i svoje zemlje. Boriš se za

slobodnu, suverenu, demokratsku Bosnu i

Hercegovinu; za zemlju jednakih prava i

sloboda za sve njene narode i sve njene

građane, neovisno o

njihovoj vjerskoj,

nacionalnoj, političkoj

ili nekoj drugoj

pripadnosti. To je tvoj

san, san koji i – budan

sanjaš. Tvoj san će se

sigurno ostvariti. Do

njegovog ostvarenja

proći će mnogo

vremena. Prolit će se još mnogo vrele šehidske

krvi. Kolone šehida, najboljih sinova Bosne,

preći će tamnu rijeku, rijeku zaborava, što

razdvaja dunjalučki od ahiretskog života. Na

kraju te natčovječanske borbe tvoj narod će

izvojevati veličanstvenu pobjedu protiv svih

svojih dušmana. Zato što vodi najpravedniji,

odbrambeni rat, sveti rat – džihad; rat za svoje

svetinje: svoju slobodu i slobodu svoje

domovine, za slobodu svoje vjere, svoje

kulture, svojih običaja i svoje tradicije; rat za

mezarove svojih predaka; jer vodi

najpravedniji rat za svoje dostojanstvo i – za

svoj opstanak. Tvoj narod će pobijediti voljom

mog i tvog Gospodara.

Sad je na redu ona druga, tužna, vijest, za

koju, kao što rekoh, nikad nije kasno. Naime,

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dužan sam ti prenijeti da ćeš u borbi na tom

pravednom putu ti uskoro junački poginuti.

Znam, ti si za ovozemaljska poimanja mlad i

htio bi još živjeti. Pored toga, na dunjaluku

ostavljaš najmilije: roditelje, braću, prijatelje,

djevojku, ratne drugove... Sve! Zato je ova

vijest za tebe mnogo tužna. Ali... naređeno mi

je da ti kažem da se zbog toga mnogo ne

žalostiš, sinko. Tvoja smrt nije uzaludna – jer

će tvoji snovi biti ostvareni. Pored toga, ti si

šehid! A to je najveća čast i merhamet, kojom

naš Gospodar nagradi i obraduje jednog

smrtnika. Tvoja duša će u Džennet! Tamo će ti

biti ukazane sve počasti i uživat

ćeš sve blagodati našeg

Gospodara. U Džennetu će

tvoja duša sresti duše tvojih

roditelja, prijatelja, saboraca...

Mnogi od njih bit će, također,

šehidi. U Džennetu ćeš sresti i

dušu osobe do koje ti je toliko

stalo – dušu tvoje Zaime.”

Na samo spominjanje

njenog imena zadrhtao sam

poput travke na buri, poskočio

na noge i uspio da izustim samo

jedno:

“Ali...”

Nije mi dozvolio bilo šta da kažem, upitam,

da glasno zaplačem, da makar ljudski kriknem.

Presjekao me pogledom, i natjerao da

zanijemim, gotovo mi naredivši:

“Ne, ništa me ne pitaj! To je sve što piše u

Knjizi, a što mi je naređeno da ti prenesem. Sad

moram poći.”

Odmah vrati crnu knjigu pod crno džube,

zajaha crnog konja i na polasku, opet uljudno,

pozdravi:

“Allahimanet, sinko!”

“Allahimanet!”, kažem, te se probudim, sav

okupan u znoju.

Zoran Radosavljevic


Hajmo Lagano

Pesak od cvetnog praha..po meni se prosuo

bez straha..Noć se bešumno cepala..svetlost

mesećine obasjava mi sobu..a ti mi kroz snove

šetala. Zato vodiću te... u Spaniju i Portugal, pa

da nam ostanu senke na obali Atlantskog

okeana i sećanja na krečnjačke stene između

peščanih plaža Algarvea... Da po pesku Azurne

obale trčimo bosi... Da nam izlaze žuljevi od

penjanja po stenama kamene

Sicilije..Hajdemo na sever

Portugala, u onaj predivni

region Minjo da ispijamo

zeleno vino i smejemo se

životu... Tvoj zagrljaj peron,

tvoji snovi silazne stanice; tako

biram da dišem u ovom životu...

Probudimo se čupavi. kraj

kreveta načeto vino, a na stolu

pomorandže; još samo da je

Pariz iza roletni..a mi u

Lisabonu... da naućimo

Portugalski kako bih uvek

mogli da dozovemo okean

stihovima Fernanda Pesoe..da mi mirišeš na

okean... i daleke svetove ..da mi mirišeš na

najlešpe snove... Da obučeš naajlepšu haljinu,

otvoriš vino, pojačaš fado i počeš da plešeš po

kući, čekam još samo da se stvorim na ulicama

Lisabona..da trćimo zagrljeni po kiši...

– šta je toliko lepo u tom Portugalu

– sve, na primer Ponte de Lima

da živimo Portugal od 16. veka, kada se

otvorila ulica koja je prolazila preko bašte

portoanskog biskupa; živimo ga od kad živi

Rua das Flores...samo ti, a u tebi sve lepote

sveta... samo ti a u tebi sva ludost i sreča

deteta... jer duša ti je satkana od peska Sahare,

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pločnika Moskovskih ulica, lepote Plave

džamije, glasa fado pevačica i duše Atlanskog

okeana... Krašču te rećima sve manje češ biti

svoja a sve više moja...

Njeno telo miriše na stotine gradova, na

hiljade zabačenih ulica u kojima su pijani

pesnici ljubili muze po poslednji put.miriše na

portugal..njene su dubine najlepši okeani..zato

i sedim i čekam te... negde daleko, na nekoj

ušuškanoj plaži Portugala... Sva si od

skandinavskih vetrova, berlinskih noći, grčkih

maslina i portugalskog vina... vinskih podruma

Porta i snova u bojama Lisabona... Rukama

krvavim od borbe sa njenim demonima

sakupljao sam ostatke pepela te Pompeje u

njoj..Vezuve moj..gasila te prekrasna reka

Sarno.. Bila je rodjena

sa vatrom u sebi.

Čuvala je u dodirima i

mislima, i poklanjala

malo po malo ljudima,

sve dok joj iskra u

oćima nije

nestala.Nestala je

toplina i dobrota koju

je širila..Ljudi su je

istrošili i ostavili... Da joj ližem krvave očnjake

posle životnih poraza, ona da me čuva od celog

sveta... Da vidamo rane jedno drugom...

klesanjem joj đavoli prošlosti želili oduzeti

dobrotu..borio sam se koliko sam moga da

sačuvam tu njenu anđeosku lepotu... Meni su

godinama krvava stopala, a i dalje istim

putevima moja duša korača... idem njoj u

susret da je čuvam dok opet ne ojača... nemoj

te da pomislite da tražim izgovor samo da bi

lutao... Kad je Niče plakao, svet je ćutao... a ići

ću opet i opet iznova... čujem kako viću izađi iz

zabluda i uđi u stvarnost, umrećeš od lažnih

snova Ne znaju oni da sam takav po rodjenju...

pred putokazima spuštam glavu, volim da

idem po sopstvenom nahođenju... kao i biljka

kad sama od sebe baci svoje sopstveno seme...

džaba ste štedeli sve te tišine, reči, dodire i

pesme kad se pravi ljudi pojave u pogrešno

vreme... Jurim prema njoj danima i noćima... ne

bole me padovi ali bi me boleo pad u njenim

oćima... potrudiću se da joj život ne bude samo

od plača... ostaću sa njom dok ne ojača...

Rukama krvavim od borbe sa njenim

demonima sakupljao sam ostatke pepela te

Pompeje u njoj... Vezuve moj..gasila te

prekrasna reka Sarno... Bila je rodjena sa

vatrom u sebi. Čuvala je u dodirima i mislima,

i poklanjala malo po malo ljudima, sve dok joj

iskra u oćima nije nestala.Nestala je toplina i

dobrota koju je širila..Ljudi su je istrošili i

ostavili.. Da joj ližem krvave očnjake posle

životnih poraza, ona da me čuva od celog

sveta... Da vidamo

rane jedno drugom...

klesanjem joj đavoli

prošlosti želili oduzeti

dobrotu... borio sam se

koliko sam moga da

sačuvam tu njenu

anđeosku lepotu...

Meni su godinama

krvava stopala, a i

dalje istim putevima moja duša korača... idem

njoj u susret da je čuvam dok opet ne ojača...

nemoj te da pomislite da tražim izgovor samo

da bi lutao... Kad je Niče plakao, svet je ćutao...

a ići ću opet i opet iznova... čujem kako viću

izađi iz zabluda i uđi u stvarnost, umrećeš od

lažnih snova Ne znaju oni da sam takav po

rodjenju... pred putokazima spuštam glavu,

volim da idem po sopstvenom nahođenju... kao

i biljka kad sama od sebe baci svoje sopstveno

seme... džaba ste štedeli sve te tišine, reči,

dodire i pesme kad se pravi ljudi pojave u

pogrešno vreme... Jurim prema njoj danima i

noćima... ne bole me padovi ali bi me boleo pad

u njenim oćima..potrudiću se da joj život ne

bude samo od plača... ostaću sa njom dok ne

ojača.

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essay 31-35

Myriam Ghezaïl Ben Brahim

Tunisia

Story of a solitude

Laughter has always been a part of my life.

I come from an Italian family where, growing

up in the suburbs of Paris, all I heard was

laughter and singing. Laughter very quickly

served as a defense mechanism and was very

useful in fighting my shyness.

Later it was essential to my

socialization.

I have been a Spanish

teacher for sixteen years and

an actor for ten years. In 2016,

I made my most decisive

decision: to go around the

world for a year and make a

documentary about laughter.

As an actor, I wanted to

understand the mechanisms of

humor. I wanted to know if we

could all laugh at the same

things, from Moscow to

Melbourne.

This trip made me a laughter activist. The

common point of all those I met is that they use

art to heal, denounce or give hope. My most

beautiful revelation was to discover the art of

the clown. Not the circus clown that everyone

knows, but the humanitarian, social clown; the

one who goes to hospitals to make the sick

laugh and to refugee camps to bring a little

comfort.

It is enjoyable to be able to understand the

person in front of you, to see what

psychological leverage you can use to help

them.

This project really took shape when I was in

New York.

Starting in 2014, I spent two years working

at the French high school. I was head of the

language department. I had a lot of

responsibilities, a huge workload, a good

salary. I met someone. We got married. The

relationship didn't work out. We got divorced.

One day I was having lunch with a friend.

She asked me if I was okay. I was at the bottom

of the hole and spontaneously told her that I

had only one desire: to quit my teaching job,

take my backpack, leave and

make a documentary on

laughter. Since I was a kid, I had

always dreamed of going

around the world, but the idea

had been put on hold for a

while. There in this

conversation of depressives

over sushi, the project came to

life.

I really enjoyed teaching but

I already felt that my life didn't

fit me or no longer did. A

feeling. I was beginning to feel

that my relationship to the

world was different. So I dusted off my idea of

a trip and I realized that the project was very

complete in my head. I knew exactly what I

wanted to do.

I could stop everything in New York and

nothing was still waiting for me in France. It

was the ideal moment. From that moment on,

I started telling everyone about it. The project

had a name, a date, a fundraising campaign on

the internet.

It took six months to organize the

departure.

During this time I always felt like I was

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going to chicken out, that I would never get on

the plane. My fear was linked to the idea of the

lack of money on the spot as well as the whole

logistical part. Even the night before the

departure, I slept very badly, I still told myself

that I wouldn't have the courage to leave. I left

New York to return to France and on

September 5, 2016, I took off from Paris to

visit fifteen countries.

This first world tour was unique.

I was very lucky and made many

exceptional encounters. At each critical

moment, I met someone who helped me and

opened my eyes.

My initial idea was that this project would

have a beginning and

an end. I was thinking

of coming back to

Paris to resume a

more normal life.

When I came back, I

realized that this

would not be possible.

I didn't feel like I was

going back, but like I was making a stopover to

see my buddies and my family. As soon as I

arrived, I could already see myself leaving.

This trip turned a lot of things upside down.

The first effect was to detach myself from

the extreme, even sickly consumption of

which I was a slave. When I returned from my

world tour, I arrived at my grandmother's

house where my things were stored, and I had

the impression that the wardrobe was a store.

I was almost ashamed of it. I felt like all this

stuff was defining someone I was no longer. I

had filled myself materially but at the same

time I had emptied myself.

The opposite is also true. As I freed myself

from it all. I became richer.

I am still struggling. When I spend time in

the big cities, where the ads are attacking you,

I still find myself thinking, "I want that!

But this realization has been a great relief.

I managed to cast off a lot of moorings, to

free myself from material ties. I have no rent

to pay, no phone. Nothing to hold on to.

I have no fixed place to live and I still have

the chance to choose when I work, who I work

with and whether I get paid or not.

It has changed my life. I've reached a great

degree of freedom. This feeling is a source of

adrenaline and happiness detached myself

from what people might think of me, even

though the pressure of the standard exists. I

don't have a fixed apartment. I don't have a

fixed couple. I don't

have a fixed income. I

move all the time. So

my friends and family

will always be worried

about me even though

it's still a gentle

pressure. They have

learned to trust me.

I've always been very sociable, but more

and more I appreciate solitude. During long

periods when I am not alone, I feel a real need

to be with me.

I turned forty six months ago.

Now for me the next step is to have my own

artistic and humanitarian café that would

serve as the headquarters of my association.

This would allow me to generate money to be

able to do my missions, but also to invite the

artists I have met during my travels. The idea

is to be able to make known the countries I

have travelled through through their

creations, and not through misery, photos of

kids crying or hungry, etc..

Today, my ambition is to move to Seville,

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there is a master's degree in art therapy that

interests me. I am very keen to develop this

aspect and to have even more psychological

acuity. I want to perfect my art and I wish that

my clown workshops help more people and

better.

Moreover, Seville is a city that I know well

and that is changing. Maybe this is the ideal

place to open this café.

Definitely, I feel close to Spain.

For the moment it's working for me to trust

my intuition and my gut. I know myself better

and better. If I spend too much

time thinking about a project,

it's because I don't want to do

it. The "yes, but..." is for me a

"no". It's a matter of instinct.

Thanks to that, the paths I've

taken have turned out to be a

lot cooler than I had previously

imagined.

I'd like to do even more, get

out of the system completely

and be even more respectful of

the environment. Here too

there are limits, we can't afford

everything. But the better

things go, the more I feel like I'm eighty

percent in tune with who I am, what I think

and what I want to be.

I define myself as a forty-year-old French

Italian, teacher, actor, author, clown and

globetrotter.

From now on, benevolence and gratitude

bathe my relationship to the world and to the

Other. I have the impression that even the

universe responds to me differently.

It makes me laugh.

Bagawath Bhandari

Bhutan

Peace in every fist…

Every blossom holds peace,

Ambassadors of serenity are bees,

Every dew dances in peace,

Amid breathtaking caress.

Every shaft of sun spreads peace,

And love is eased,

Every drop of rain descends

with peace,

And warms everyone akin to

fleece.

Every smile is a hope of peace,

Every motherly touch is nice,

Every stream sings for peace,

Wanting not to be in piece.

Every country aspires for

peace,

With law, order and standing

police,

Every heart race for peace,

In its rhythmic beats.

Everyone hopes for peace,

In the lonely streets,

Let us fight for peace,

Leaving no crease.

Peace be at every home,

In every holy song,

Peace be the weapon of our generation,

To move forward with determination.

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confabulation 3646

Michael Ondaatje

The term warlight was used to describe the

dimmed lights that guided emergency traffic

during London's wartime blackouts. The word

aptly describes the atmosphere of this

haunting, brilliant novel from Ondaatje (The

Cat's Table), set in Britain in the decades after

WWII, in which many significant facts are

purposely shrouded in the semidarkness of

history. The narrator, Nathaniel Williams,

looks back at the year 1945, when he was 14

and "our parents went away and left us in the

care of two men who may have been

criminals." Nathaniel and his older sister,

Rachel, are stunned to

discover that their

mother's purported

reason for leaving

them was false. Her

betrayal destroys their

innocence; they learn

to accept that "nothing

was safe anymore." To

the siblings' surprise,

however, their designated guardian, their

upstairs lodger, whom they call the Moth,

turns out to be a kind and protective mentor.

His friend, a former boxer nicknamed the

Pimlico Darter, is also a kindly guide, albeit

one engaged in illegal enterprises in which he

enlists Nathaniel's help. The story reads like a

nontraditional and fascinating coming-of-age

saga until a violent event occurs midway

through; the resulting shocking revelations

open the novel's second half to more

surprises. The central irony is Nathaniel's

eventual realization that his mother's heroic

acts of patriotism during and after the war left

lasting repercussions that fractured their

family. Mesmerizing from the first sentence,

rife with poignant insights and satisfying

subplots, this novel about secrets and loss may

be Ondaatje's best work yet.

Agent: Ellen Levine, Trident Media Group.

(May)

Giovanna Casapollo

Il gesto di Caino

Il libro Il gesto di Caino (Einaudi, 2020) di

Massimo Recalcati esordisce prendendo in

considerazione il testo biblico che definisce la

violenza come vera aspirazione a distruggere

l’alterità per ambire alla “propria

divinizzazione, il desiderio dell’Uomo di

essere Dio”.

In questa spinta alla

violenza riconosciamo

l’illusione di rendere

raggiungibile questa

meta.

Contrariamente al

mondo animale, in cui

la violenza è legata alle

necessità naturali

dell’organismo di

difesa e di attacco, la violenza umana è sempre

legata all’alterità che limita la nostra libertà.

Per questa ragione Freud, accogliendo il detto

biblico, considera il gesto di Caino come il

riconoscimento della natura crudele del

genere umano, pulsione criminogena

dell’inconscio che ne caratterizza la vita:

nell’uomo vi è sempre la spinta a liberarsi

dell’alterità, dell’Altro che ne compromette

l’unicità e quindi l’aspirazione a riconoscersi

in Dio.

Un altro elemento che giustifica il gesto di

Caino è l’invidia che abbiamo visto comparire

nel caso di Adamo ed Eva, che si lasciano

irretire dalle parole del serpente la cui spinta

invidiosa nei confronti di Dio lo porta a

diffamarne la legge che proibisce l’accesso

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all’albero della conoscenza.

Prima che l’assassinio di Abele si consumi,

Caino manifesta verso il fratello un intenso

odio invidioso, introdotto dal serpente che

fomenta la prima trasgressione.

Perché Caino colpisce a morte il fratello?

“Egli non tollera di non essere l’unico”.

Non è insolito che con l’arrivo di un secondo

fratellino si scateni quello che Lacan chiama

“complesso di intrusione”, che fa perdere nel

primogenito il proprio statuto di oggetto

fallico nel desiderio della madre, innescando il

senso di abbandono.

Si tratta di una situazione

che spesso incontriamo

nell’esperienza clinica, afferma

l’autore.

Caino che è il primo figlio

dell’intera umanità, l’uno

assoluto senza l’altro, viene

trascinato nella violenza da un

altro elemento che definiamo la

“mancanza di riconoscimento”:

la delusione che Caino prova

quando a essere preferiti da

Dio sono i doni di Abele e non i

suoi. Ferita narcisistica da cui

scaturisce il gesto violento: non ragioni sociali,

quindi, ma psicologiche.

Ma Dio non lascia Caino senza riscatto,

anche quando viene maledetto a un’erranza

senza casa impone su di lui un segno che lo

protegge dai suoi gesti, che ora divengono

doppiamente generativi. Egli diviene padre e

costruttore della prima città della storia

dell’umanità.

Nasce una nuova versione di fratellanza che

diviene indice della relazione con l’altro,

“Non tanto con il fratello di sangue, con il

più prossimo, ma con lo sconosciuto, con il

fratello che ancora non ha nome”.

Borna Kekić Milos

Croatia

Biography

Borna Kekić Zagreb Croatia Autumn is

coming…. Autumn leaves fall very quickly

Because the new time has come now Love

reigns in our hearts Love happiness and

goodness It costs people nothing The holidays

are over And they were happy And the

children started life And old

friends found each other The

friendship never ended

Because love is just one thing

Human kindness is a gift And

let autumn begin In my veins

Because friendship is the

greatest gift While the autumn

thing is coming ....

Borna Kekić Summer

Summer is in town, the shade is

calling me .... I'm sitting under

an apple tree in the garden, an

apple that evokes memories, memories that

warm like the rays of the sun caressing me

gently like my grandmother’s fingers as I sank

into sleep. My grandmother and her apple ....

An apple that gave an abundance of fruit that

fall when I was born. I intertwine the warmth

of memory with the warmth of summer in the

shade of my grandmother's apple…. Summer

is in town, Summer is in the garden, warmth

and serenity in my soul…

About the author: Borna Kekić was born in

Zagreb, where he finished high school in

economics. He started playing music as a little

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boy in the Zagreb Kids Choir. Borna has been

involved in rap music since elementary school

and has remained his preoccupation to this

day. He writes his own lyrics, makes his own

music, and back in high school he started

creating his own little music studio. The

knowledge acquired at the School of

Economics in the field of marketing and

entrepreneurship encouraged him to take

additional activities, so that in addition to

studio recording, he is currently working on

videos. Through music he met poets which

encouraged him to express his emotions in

this way as well.

Drži me za ruku

Došla si one divne noći

i ušetala u moj život

kao kap vode na žedne

usne.

Ponovno sam rođen

za tebe one noći.

Moj život je bio tama,

osvijetlio ga je sjaj tvojih očiju.

Moj život je bio tih,

probudio ga je tvoj smijeh.

Moj život je bio bez cilja,

ti si mi pokazala put.

Dovoljno je da me držiš za ruku….

Krenut ću sa tobom na putovanje ljubavi.

Dovoljno je da me držiš za ruku….

Neću odustati od tebe,

hodat ću sa tobom putem naše ljubavi.

Dovoljno je da me držiš za ruku…..

Samo ja

Ponekad nesvijesno poletim nebom

ostavim muke i brige,

a ne bih trebao…

Olovka u ruci,

Ispred mene prazan

papir.

Idem nepoznatim

putem,

u svoje misli kročim,

bježim od svih,

tražim mjesto gdje mi neće suditi,

Mjesto gdje ću moći biti samo ja.

Onaj ja koji sam u svojoj duši,

čist, iskren, ispravan.

I jak.

Da ne bjezim.

Samo ja…

Samo ja….

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47

Adam Żemojtel

Poland

Znów dotyk zapamiętany...

[The touch remembered again]

znów dotyk zapamiętany

uśmiech i iskry z oczu

akord dwóch serc zagrany

i całus na uboczu

i kwiatów polnych bukiecik

kaczki puszczane na wodzie

miłości skryty bilecik

schowany w smutne

paprocie

a potem opowieść poduszki

przez łzy uśmieszek wysłany

wciśnięte w mą dłoń

paluszki

mój Zuzik ukochany

kolejny ból pożegnania

samotnie krwawiące serce

tęsknota do podpisania

opadłe bezsilnie ręce

i jeszcze słowa co dudnią

jak krople deszczu o dachy

żale śpiewane lutnią

wspomniane ochy i achy

i cisza znów na miesiące

i noc co obrazy zabiera

tak bardzo zimne słońce

smutnych przemyśleń opera

Nelu Cazan

Romania

Vouă

Mi-e toamnă de tine

De mine mi-e frig

Mi-e toamnă de noi

Şi te strig

Încep iar frunze

Să se-ngălbenească

Din toamna vieții

Căt a mai rămas

Gutuia-mi zămbeşte

Trist din fereastră

Visăndu-se parcă

La un parastas.

Din toamna mea

Îți dau azi şi ție

Nu frunze ce cad din copaci,

O lacrima azi ,

Dar de bucurie

Şi aş vrea ca să ştiu ce mai faci.

E toamnă acum

Dar în mine e noapte

Copacii lasă frunze pe drum

Te aştept tot aici

Doar o singură noapte

S-au străns atătea să-ți spun

Să vii să-ți culeg struguri copți,

Ți-i pun peste semnul de carte,

Din toamna ta dă-mi dacă poți,

Iubire într-o ultimă noapte

Te aştept negreşit toamna asta

Crezănd că n-ai să mă minți iar

Îți las deschisă fereastra

Tu uită-te în calendar,

E toamnă iar.


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Authors in summary: ADAM GWARA 11, ADAM ŻEMOJTEL 19, 47, ANNA MARIA SPRZĘCZKA-STĘPIEŃ 32, 33,

ANNA MARIA STRZELEC-LESZCZYNIECKA 25, ANNA SARACCHI 17,

ANTOINETTE DIGIORGIO CORBELL 24, ANTONIA RODRÍGUEZ FERREIRO 15,

BAGAWATH BHANDARI 43, BAJRAM BAJRO NELJKOVIĆ 18, BELLO AYUBA 27,

BHAGIRATH CHOUDHARY 13, BORNA KEKIĆ MILOS 45, BOZENA HELENA MAZUR-NOWAK 8, 26,

DANIELA VÎLCEANU 23, DESTINY M O CHIJIOKE 22, ELENA SPATARU 29, ELENA TUDOSĂ 19,

FABIAN HISTORIAS 10, GEORGE IONIŢA 29, GIANFRANCO AURILIO 25,

GIOVANBATTISTA FETTA 23, GIUSY CRISCUOLO PADOVAN 25, LENUŞ LUNGU 14,

GRACIELA BEATRIZ SOVRAN HARO 15, ION CUZUIOC 6, IWAN DARTHA 9, JAWEED AHMED 16,

JOANNA SVENSSON 28, LABUD N. LONČAR 16, LINA ALFIERI 24, LUCIANO ZAMPINI 18,

MARIA STRZELEC-LESZCZYNIECKA 12, MARIANA ROGOZ STRATULAT 25,

METIN YILDIRIM ANTAKYA 31, MICHAEL ONDAATJE. 44, MUHEDIN MAHILAJ 16,

MYRIAM GHEZAÏL BEN BRAHIM 41, NELU CAZAN 47, OANA LUPAŞCU 20, ODUJEBE OLUWOLE 31,

OMAR ABURTO 12, 14, PAUL ROTARU 3, 30, ŠAHDO BOŠNJAK 34, SAMEER GOEL 12,

SELMA KOPIĆ 10, SLAVKA BOZOVIC 17, SMART OYEDEJI 14, SURESH CHANDRA SARANGI 31,

TANU VERMANI KAPOOR 26, VLADANKA CVETKOVIĆ 2, YANUSH DOYNIAK 32,

ZBIGNIEW MICHALSKI 8, 26, ZEHRA BAJIĆ ALIĆ 27, ZORAN RADOSAVLJEVIC 39

The magazine appears in Romania

editorial office

Founding President Lenuș Lungu Director: Lenuș Lungu, Ioan Muntean Deputy Director: Paul Rotaru Technical Editor Ioan Muntean Covers Ioan Muntean Editor-in-Chief: Ion Cuzuioc Deputy Editor: Stefano Capasso Editorial Secretary: Anna Maria Sprzęczka Editors: Vasile Vulpaşu, Anna Maria Sprzęczka, Pietro Napoli, Myriam Ghezaïl Ben Brahim, Zoran Radosavljevic, Suzana Sojtari Iwan Dartha, Auwal Ahmed Ibrahim, Destiny M O Chijioke, Nikola Orbach Özgenç

Responsibility for the content of texts published in the journal

Taifas Literary Magazine belongs directly to the authors who sign

them, in the name of freedom of expression.

Reproduction - in whole or in part - of the journal and its electronic distribution are authorized for the private use of the reader and for non-commercial purposes.

yaer I, no. 4, 2020, October

ISSN 2458-0198 ISSN-L 2458-0198

Founded in Constanţa,

June 2020

Revista de scrieri şi opinii literare Taifas Literar poate fi citită online pe

site-urile Cronopedia (lenusa.ning.com)

or: Taifas Literay Magazine

Email: [email protected]

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Download - Taifas Literary Magazine no. 4, October, 2020

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