BOOK OF POETRY
Imagine the day of justice
The time is quiet and infinite
Nobody can be seen anywhere
The desert-fish flies in the sea of sand
A vast emptiness touching the doomsday
Nature trembles fearing the fog.
Look closely, a poet stands alone
In the north-eastern horizon
You may think he holds his fate in hand
But I swear that God knows
It is his dearest book of poetry.
FREEDOM
I read and write in my own language
I learn from the school of trees and plants
Even the ants and birds understand my meaning.
Just as King Solomon understood the essence of grasshopper
As Buddha knew the rewarding of man based on his karma
All animals seek freedom and the religion of venting their opinion.
I am walking after putting my two lips on words
I am swimming on the words all through my life.
--
Rezauddin Stalin is a very famous poet in Bengal.
He was born in 1962 in Nalbhanga village of Greater Jessore district and won many local and foreign awards including from the Bangla Academy. His poems have been translated into 42 languages. Along with poetry he has established himself as a successful media personality sharing his thoughts on various social issues.
Modest Proposals
Open your heart and embrace reality
Break your cocoon and hold the baked sun
Don't suck the last point of dream
Don't attack your fate as a doll in a lap
Read and read the philosophy of love
Make a history of your own.
Open your eyes and invent possibility
Break the icy land and touch existence
Don't forget that life is a question
Don't spend moment in vain
Enjoy the beauty of struggle
Pick up happiness in simplicity.
Open your earth with love and hospitality
Build your heart with humanity
Open your mind with a mirror of satisfaction
See the reflection of love and love
kiss the crown of happiness in everywhere
Paint whatever you like with the colour of life.
Unavoidable Fate
You remain awake with antique thirst of Sindh
River as you are like ancient inscription of Indus Civilization.You stay up like Harappa or Mohenjo-daro with the ruin of drought and flood.
Hold the evergreen Banga land by the affinity of Prowess Burg Civilization.
Sail the Sampan of Bay of Bangle on the Abysmal eyes Like river.
The water of amazed Brahmaputra increases Thirst by the harvest of Sindh's semen wants to Make an orchard with jubilant Catkin on her River basin.
Elegiac flute of yellow leaves from the forest of Banga land for the destructive civilization by The rodent devours of nature as her falling in Drops is like as her unavoidable fate.
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.
Welcome home teacher! You showed me the way Always hold my hand, The science you taught
Welcome home teacher! You are still old We will not bow your head, Thin pencil eyebrow, Welcome home teacher!
Asking how you are Seeing your student I will wait and laugh Welcome home teacher!
I was surprised that you came Your face is like a crescent, You have so many words, Welcome home teacher!
We get one and four We are still young Mother of us all, Welcome home teacher!
He realized his mistake
There was a boy in a distant village. His name is Husan. If he was asked to do something, he would find an excuse. He did not like to work, and even at school he drew pictures without listening to the lessons. This is what he does every day. Every morning, Husan did not even clean his bed, and he was late for school. One day his teacher asked him a question. And he was holding his head, unable to answer.
His teacher gave him a grade of “2” and asked him to bring his diary. If Hussain kept his diary, he had been lying down for a week. His teacher wrote notes for his parents in his diary. Saturday was the day to check Husain’s diary. He didn’t know how to correct the note his teacher had written before taking his diary to his parents. Suddenly it occurred to him to write the word “not” at the end of the sentences. The diary entry read: “Your son is not sloppy. His grades are not bad.”
His parents are happy that Husan is a good student. But his sister thinks that I can read very well, but they don’t write me such things. She asked for Husan’s diary and showed it to his teacher the next day. After his teacher’s words, his brother’s actions were exposed. After this incident, Husan realized that if people tell lies and do bad things, they will be revealed one day.
*
Imprecise Language
in different
words
I
might
convey
words
with
intended
meaning;
words
indifferent
*
Gardener's Lament
my garden spot
weeds
among
annuals
perennials
weeds
overcrowding
ornamentals
vegetables
weeds
spot my garden
This poem first appeared in Your Daily Poem, 7/22/2020.
Poet’s Notes: The Skinny poem is a new minimalist form that consists of eleven lines. The first and eleventh lines can be any length (although shorter lines are favored). The eleventh and last line must be repeated using the same words from the first and opening line (however, they can be rearranged). The second, sixth, and tenth lines must be identical. All the lines in this form, except for the first and last lines, must be comprised of ONLY one word. The Skinny was created by Truth Thomas in the Tony Medina Poetry Workshop at Howard University in 2005.
Lauren McBride finds inspiration in faith, family, nature, science, and membership in the Science Fiction & Fantasy Poetry Association (SFPA). Nominated for the Best of the Net, Pushcart, Rhysling, and Dwarf Stars Awards, her poetry has appeared internationally in speculative and mainstream publications for young adults and adults, including Asimov’s and Fantasy & Science Fiction. Her chapbook, Aliens, Magic, and Monsters, is forthcoming from Hiraeth Publishing. She enjoys swimming, gardening, baking, reading, writing, and knitting scarves for U.S. troops.
In Memory of my Brolgas
Instead of thinking
about poetry today
I am indulging my-
self with a slomo re-
play of the brolgas
dancing around a
farm dam five kilo-
meters north-east of
Ridglands. There is
a quietness in it.
A cold steer
Next time you
watch a truck-
load of cattle
being trans-
ported to the
meatworks, don't
think of them as
living creatures
about to be
put to death but
observe them im-
partially as part
of the food web.
It is so much
more melodic.
Déshabillé
Because of its
cognitive style &
incandescent light
every tonne of
scrap metal
you clean up
from a public
place can work as
a wardrobe staple
in the same way
that a built-in lum-
bar support will
retool your internal
guidance system.
conjunction
In the slice of sky more or
less directly above me is
an invisible passenger jet;
yet its engines heard so
clearly that the sound seems
rather to accompany the si-
lent hawk coasting on the
thermals much lower down.
GROWING UP
You will recognize yourself
In one poem
Verse..Words...
Unfinished story
But not the eyes or hands
Only the soul
In a hidden area
You will feel scared
In the labyrinth of desires
Where
You think salvation is
Seeing no way
You're wandering
You're looking
You grow up...
Slavica Pejović is a B.Sc. Political scientist, diplomat, writer, poet, editor-in-chief of the magazine for culture and science "Majdan". She wrote three documentary books on the history of librarianship, 13 independent collections of poetry and two joint collections. Winner of numerous awards and recognitions in Serbia, Tunisia, Romania, Italy... Her poetry has been translated into many languages: Hungarian, German, Italian, Arabic, Macedonian, Russian, Bulgarian,... French, Spanish. .. She is a member of the Association of Writers of Serbia. She lives in the city of Požarevac in the Republic of Serbia.
