World Vivek Aklima
Ankhi Morning is not good
Even Noon and Night are the same.
Who are chasing our goodness?
Think,World Vivek knows it well!
It is you who are the vigilant warden of it.
Our voice echoes on the cosmological wall.
See once —
How is the present quaking by the past blankly?
Then now scratch —
Your conviction in the hands of the unborn.
Aklima Ankhi, poet, storyteller and translator from Cox'sbazar, Bangladesh. Born in Mymensingh, Bangladesh. She has a published poetry named "Guptokothar Shobdochabi" written in Bangla.She is a post graduate in English Literature. As a profession she is a Lecturer in English.
It’s 7:35 a.m. It was time to go to school. Then suddenly my grandmother said to me: “Daughter, come make me some tea. Then you can go to your school.” Then I angrily shouted at the grandmother:
Grandma, I’m going to be late for school. Drink it yourself. I’ll make you some tea when I get there!
My poor grandmother has a soft voice, it’s okay, baby. Go to school, I’m the same without you. You should study and learn, I will see my day, they said.
Suddenly he reached me and shivered. While I still had time to go to school, I disappointed my grandmother. If there is still time, I will make you some tea. As for my grandmother, she sighed angrily: “I’ll drink it myself, you can go.”
Grandma, forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend you. I promise I will do everything you say. Please only forgive me!.. I am not angry with you, my daughter! – said my grandmother laughing.
Then I took my grandmother’s blessings and went to school. At school, we also wrote an essay on respecting elders and honoring children. I wrote down what happened today. And I got an excellent grade.
In fact, the more respect and honor we show to adults, the more it will be returned to us. After all, we must not forget that this world is another.
When winter's embrace arrives,
Softly stirring from slumber,
Like a hushed lullaby sung by gentle winds,
Yearning for the familiar path of old,
Guiding us towards the new.
Like the courageous battle of dawn against night,
I witnessed mama's presence, fierce and overpowering,
As she crushed the boy and his mother,
With a force that echoed through the air,
Sucking the light from their souls.
She attempted to bind the elusive breeze,
But all she saw was the breeze binding her,
Within the confines of her modest bamboo kitchen.
Moments passed by, yet the tangled threads above remained oblivious,
To the elusive vapor that perpetually emerged,
From mama's fiery stick that dances with flames.
But in the end,
That flammable liquid quelled her burdens,
And the threads warmly welcomed their companion,
Transforming the walls into a canvas of darkness.
Are you a soul, a being enraptured by melodies in this vast world? Yesterday, my mother's voice, like a bare tongue, unraveled a prophecy within me. It spoke of a looming day when those who cling to the insignificant beats will be drawn towards the allure of the most enchanting tones. On that last day, drums shall resound, reverberating throughout the realms for all to hear. Yet only a select few shall surrender to the rhythm's irresistible pull.
But I question if this day bears the weight of judgment's hand, a day where girls and boys, women and men, shall race swifter than a fleeting sparrow. I beseech not for our presence in witnessing such a day, but for our transcendence, away from its grasp. For this day is known as "Nafsi, Nafsi," a whispered call to depart, where no companions can remain. It is a mystery, where strangers move alongside one another, their true selves concealed.
In the depths of our hearts, we crave a tranquil oasis, where peace flows like a gentle river. Like the sweet embrace of a mother's love, unity is the tapestry that adorns our deepest desires.
Our nation, once plagued with turbulence, yearns for the soothing balm of harmony. Fear shall not bind us, for we possess the courage of steadfast warriors. As we kneel in humble reverence, our prayers ascend like fragrant incense, seeking divine intervention for our heralds.
Together, we must forge an unbreakable bond of trust, as solid as the earth beneath our feet. For the lands we tread upon are vast, stretching infinitely towards the horizon, beckoning us to summon our leaders and beckon forth their unwavering support.
“ ‘Dead’ woman bangs on coffin during her own wake in Ecuador”—Recent headline in an English newspaper
By Christopher Bernard
It is so dark. Ay Dios!
What is that smell above my head?
I think it is candles. Yes?
Why so? And there is singing?
No, it is sighing,
and moaning and weeping.
I think I hear
little Perdita with her husky voice.
My foot itches but I can’t reach it,
my arms are all wrapped up!
I can hardly move!
And what am I doing in a closet?
Graciela really needs to clean it out,
it smells of mothballs and bedbugs.
And what is it doing on the floor?
Am I dead?
But where are the angels?
Unless they are the ones weeping.
Or maybe they are devils,
and all their tears are lies.
If I am dead, I think it is very
uncomfortable.
My butt hurts! They really need to
consider adding a cushion.
I remember Beata’s face look
suddenly scared.
We were gossiping away – “When will
Teresa have her baby?
How is your niece in Nueva York?
Why did Alejandro do that terrible thing?”
– in her kitchen? in my kitchen?
Ay! My memory is getting so bad!
Then suddenly nothing.
But I heard something fall.
Then I was asleep, yes?
But such dreams!
Such shouting
and rushing through the streets!
I thought I saw a bit of sky.
I have not looked at the sky
since I was little.
And there, there it was . . .
It is quieter now.
And the smell of wood is restful.
I think there is a door close to my face.
What will happen if I knock on it?
If only I could move my hands!
I think I will give it a kick.
My feet, they seem free.
Si! I could give it a big strong kick!
Even an old lady can give a
strong kick if she wants.
I will give it a kick,
and maybe it will open.
And then maybe I will finally see
whether there is a heaven or not.
_____
Christopher Bernard’s collection The Socialist’s Garden of Verses won a 2021 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award and was named one of the “Topic 100 Indie Books of 2021” by Kirkus Reviews. His two children’s books, the first in the “Otherwise” series – If You Ride A Crooked Trolley . . . and The Judgment Of Biestia – will be published by Regent Press in November 2023.
It's My Country
My country is Bangladesh
Filled with flowers and fruits
With folk songs and cottage industries
Green color and freshness
Spread the green glow across the fields
With its thousands of rivers and lakes
This is my country-Bangladesh.
29 October, 2023
Monira Mahbub is a student of grade 6 in Nawabganj Government Girls' High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Peace.
For Peace comes slow
A sudden birth
Unexpected win
Balms your soul
A royal blue impish touch
Sometimes
A hurricane
It just
Soothes
For Peace comes slowly
More difficult
Than Love
Loving One
Each breathing
Each Eyelashes
It is private
A fine jewel
Must be hidden
Kept
Under your shirt
For peace is precious
Than Love
Itself.
THE LAST MAN STANDING (1)
I rise with a white flag in my hands for peace
But shown up with a sorrowful smile
Which holds none but my country's name.
On my face there is a tint of jeopardy
And scribbles that widely cover it
Such that I look no more like a human being.
With my tone I feel the waves of agony,
And in my heart, there is an emblem of death
For I alone has fought and vanquished my woes.
Say, let it be as it is, and If there is still life
Then, there is still hope even with a bloody heart
Cause the last man standing is one with might
But let be know that death is of no exception
Thus even the last man standing today
Is likely to become the first blood of tomorrow's war.
By TAOFEEQ IBRAHIM (Newborn Poet 4)
