FOUNTAIN OF DESIRE 

The water gurgle accepts coins 

while wishes are spoken in silence 

through the way of prayer. 

Desires travel at the speed of thought 

to the Universe 

who doesn’t know the word NO. 

I imagined being a butterfly 

Staring at the clear water 

which intoxicated my vigilance 

from shining golden threads. 

I managed to maintain that state of mind, 

but the water mirror brought me back to reality. 

I’ll throw in a coin next time, 

so I don’t forget that I’m just a woman.

Maja Milojković was born in Zaječar and divides her life between Serbia and Denmark. In Serbia, she serves as the deputy editor-in-chief at the publishing house Sfairos in Belgrade. She is also the founder and vice president of the Rtanj and Mesečev Poets’ Circle, which counts 800 members, and the editor-in-chief of the international e-magazine Area Felix, a bilingual Serbian-English publication. She writes literary reviews, and as a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and international literary magazines, anthologies, and electronic media. Some of her poems are also available on the YouTube platform. Maja Milojković has won many international awards. She is an active member of various associations and organizations advocating for peace in the world, animal protection, and the fight against racism. She is the author of two books: Mesečev krug (Moon Circle) and Drveće Želje (Trees of Desire). She is one of the founders of the first mixed-gender club Area Felix from Zaječar, Serbia, and is currently a member of the same club. She is a member of the literary club Zlatno Pero from Knjaževac, and the association of writers and artists Gorski Vidici from Podgorica, Montenegro.

Light Blooming in the Dark

That day there was no sun,
so I did not step outside.
The whole day slipped away
thinking of something I cannot name.

I kept looking at the sky,
waiting for rain supposed to fall.
The hours passed in expectation—
yet not a single drop descended.

In the hush between light and shadow
old leaves of spring kept falling,
quietly, over and over.
Green did not meet me today either.

There were words to be spoken—
I almost said them,
again and again—
yet they remained unsaid.

Perhaps your sky too
was heavy with clouds.

When all the lights of the world go still,
night arrives, darkness settles.
And in that darkness
I see a blooming light.

In that flood of radiance
I lose myself somewhere.

The rain does not fall,
the sun does not rise exactly—
yet in your light
I am illuminated again and again.

The darkness that surrounds me
is never greater
than the light
you unfold before me.

The rose-petals of dawn unfold in the gentle dance of a dove.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

Once when he was in grade ten in 1990, his Bangla letter was selected as the best one from Deutsche Welle, Germany Radio that broadcast Bangla news for the Banglalee people. And he was given 50 Dutch Mark as his award. They would ask letters from the listeners to the news in Bangla and select one letter for the best one in every month.     

From 17 to 30 September, in 2018 he received a higher training in teaching English language in Kasetsart University of Thailand for secondary level students through a government order from education ministry. 

On 06 November 2015 he achieved Amjad Ali Mondal Medal for his contribution in education field by a development organization in the conference and felicitation function for the honorable personalities at Rajshahi College Auditorium. 

On 30 December 2017 from West Bengal in India he was declared a ‘Literary Charioteer’ in Bangobandhu Literary and World Bango Conference and they awarded him with a Gold Medal in their International Literary Conference and Prize Giving Ceremony.

In 2018, he achieved Prodipto Lirerary Award in Prodipto Literary Conference at Kesorhat, Rajshahi for poems in Bangla literature. He received honorary crest from the administration of Chapainawabganj District Literary Conference and Cultural Function in 2021 and 2022 consecutively. 

His poems have been published in many international online magazines such as Juntos Por las L Raven Cage Zine, and Area Felix.  His poems have been translated and published in Argentine and Serbian, and he participated in many international online cultural meetings. 

1. Behind the Ironing Board

Hiding for hours

behind the ironing board

in the stuffy room at the back of the house,

body rigid with fatigue and fear.

How much longer?

Will they find her?

Burn her—as they did the others?

Outside, the voices of Nona and her mother,

nonchalance carefully masking naked fear.

In a corner of the room, 

on the pallet-bed, Mahattaya—

Usually so loud with life,

whose kindness made the loneliness

bearable. Now lies, silent and stiff.

Paralyzed. Petrified.

She dozes, and dreams

of the highlands of her childhood.

The air fresh and spicy

like the tea she and Amma used to pluck,

Chilly nights in the little line-room,

squashed between Akka and Thambi,

Stomach hollow with hunger,

heart heavy with hope.

She came to Colombo 

in the winter months of ’82.

Eyes dazed with the heat and hurry.

Crying herself to sleep, clutching letters from home—

“We bought shoes for Thambi, and school books,

medicine for Appa’s cough-

 with the money you sent.”

Amma’s words—

Such a comfort and consolation.

Looking after Baba.

Baba—such a strange conundrum

of angel and devil: a temper erupting

like a burning cauldron.

Little fists beating her,

A tongue scalding her.

Yet, Baba—cuddling close, sharing sweets, 

chattering endlessly, calling her name.

Baba now, crouching beside her

Behind the ironing board,

the mischievously wicked face—now wan.

Sent to the back room with sharp orders

not to speak so loudly in Tamil.

Voices. Violent, virulent, veering closer.

Loku Nona’s voice, calm.

“We’re Sinhalese.”

Silence.

I breathe again. 

They are leaving…

But then—a rough voice.

“Where are your daughter’s husband and child?”

I stop breathing, pull Baba close—

eyes seared, heart raging.

Waiting for the flames 

To rise, engulf—

And burn us,

Whole.

2. Rapture that Never Knew my Name

Slipping in guiltily,
like a would-be thief for sweets,
I stand, outwardly nonchalant,
behind the empty pews.

Memories flooding like a spring breaking free—
Sunday mornings,
lost in dreams while the priest intones,
knees gritty from kneeling on unswept floors.

Amma’s voice—tinny in its high pitch,
singing lustily to prudish hymns.
Rising, kneeling, crossing, genuflecting.
Waiting for the rapture
which never came.

Now, older than Amma was then,
inside that familiar, sacred space,
by chance, not choice,
I stand again, listening—
for rapture that never knew my name.

3. After our Laughter

He used to walk down our middle-class lane

every Saturday afternoon,

A boy my age—a barefoot scarecrow,

with a heavy sack of cow-dung.

Walking bravely, 

a smile as bright as summer—

amidst the boos

and insulting names.

A smelly, funny creature selling cow-dung

to fertilize our plants.

Pausing in the midst of hide-and-seek, hopscotch,

badminton and blind-man’s-buff,

we laugh and cheer at this hilarious distraction

from our conventional, cosy, Colombo existence.

A cheerful clown with cow-dung.

Years wheel by,

neighbours scatter, 

games give way to grown-up routines,

childhood memories blur into nostalgia.

Until, one Saturday afternoon—

A gleaming car.

A tall, polished stranger. 

Something suddenly familiar

in that smile—as bright as summer.

Left Alone

He was left

alone

never knowing

his mother and father

growing up

in the overhang

of dark dreams

like so many others

not understanding

the why

of conflicts

and war after war

killing

the tree

the sea

and the sky

above babies.

Stone Flower

Almost

a stone flower

lit by sun and moon

she is

almost

unfeeling

her heart

breaking

waiting

for someone

with the touch of love.

Shock Treatment

Shock treatment

no more

wars

on earth

or beyond.

Too Much Love

All day I have tried to get the cat to sit on me.

And finally just as I am about to finish a movie

and stand up, she does, and so does the dog.

She is beautiful and fluffy and purrs

her warmth into my hand.

It is a lot of warmth. The dog is also warm.

My temperature spikes. I have to pee.

My nose is running and I have no Kleenex.

We all believe we want love and endless love

but it is too much, my body cannot bear it,

the weight of floof and love.

THE CURSE OF WAR

Let the wars be only in them

and let only they bleed to exhaustion

but to survive and celebrate victory

over themselves

let their wars keep them alive

and let the riots disturb them at all times

and let the riots boil them into sick brains

like hungry birds pecking grains

and let him quench his bloody thirst

such as quenching quicklime

let them eat their flesh

and because of defeats and victories to exhaustion

and let the war never cease in them

until they destroy themselves

on a day that will not be reminiscent of other victims

so, fight you to whom wars are sacred

you have eaten our meat enough

taste your own now

fight within yourself and drink from your womb

and the poisoned wombs of your mothers

who renounce you in death

and curse the days when they gave birth to you

therefore, worship your shadows today

because tomorrow no one will worship them

if my curse reaches you

you will be saved from new bloodshed

Poetess, Writer, Great Humanitarian 

Samar Al-Deek  

Translates Bhagirath Choudhary’s “Let My Child Live” 

Let My Child Live

How could any mother ?

Ever gets so terrified

From her own brother

And how much ?

She ever gets so victimized

By existential pain

And life’s burden so insane 

That she takes a decision

For any damned reason

Trying to save

Life and future of her child

From brother savages so wild.

How on earth ?

A mother can throw her child

Over the barbed wire

Trying to save her child

From beastly hell’s fire

To an utter stranger

And that too

To a foreign soldier.

She has lost 

Her faith almost

In her own kith and kin

Who are bathed

In human blood and sin

So vile and utterly wild

Who are chasing her

And her unfortunate child

To ravage her femininity

And her sacred humanity 

She will stay back

So her wild cousins

Can tear her skin

And humanity apart

But making sure 

That at least for her child

It will be possible

To make a fresh start.

All rights reserved

Bhagirath Choudhary

French Translation from Samar Al-Deek

Comment une mère

Peut-elle jamais être terrifiée

Par son propre frère ?

Et jusqu’à quel point

Peut-elle être ainsi brisée

Par la douleur existentielle

Et le fardeau insensé de la vie,

Au point de prendre la décision,

Pour quelque maudite raison,

De tenter de sauver

La vie et l’avenir de son enfant

De la sauvagerie de son frère devenu féroce ?

Comment une mère, sur cette terre,

Peut-elle jeter son enfant

Par-dessus des barbelés,

Essayant de le sauver

Du feu infernal et bestial,

Pour le confier à un parfait étranger,

Et de surcroît

À un soldat étranger ?

Elle a presque perdu

Toute confiance

En ses proches,

Trempés dans le sang humain et le péché,

Si vils et si sauvages,

Qui la pourchassent, elle

Et son malheureux enfant,

Pour ravager sa féminité

Et son humanité sacrée.

Elle restera en arrière,

Pour que ses cousins déchaînés

Puissent déchirer sa peau

Et son humanité,

Mais en s’assurant

Qu’au moins pour son enfant

Il sera possible

De recommencer une vie nouvelle.

© Bhagirath Choudhary — Tous droits réservés

Translation from English to the French language by © Samar AIDeek

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