SOUNDS OF MIRTH
My heart dances with the whispering winds
Swirling, twirling and fluttering its wings
I enjoy gleefully the soft breeze caressing
Listen to the melodies sweetly resonating
The blue oceanic sky welcomes all days
The glorious sun is shining its crimson rays
Puffy clouds billowing above high
The eagles are soaring and taking flight
As I strolled leisurely in the magnificent park
Beautiful landscapes captured my heart
The essence of flowers embalms me
The songs of the birds serenade me
Not far away, I hear the waterfall gushing
As I move closer, the crystal water is enticing
Drops of water kiss me and splashing
The cool atmosphere is refreshing
Sounds of mirth fascinate me with pleasure
I relish the peaceful moment in leisure
Silently, enjoy to the music of nature
Reverberate the soul and free from pressure.
YOUR GLANCES
I read the message in your sparkling eyes clearly
Your piercing glances penetrate my heart deeply
I want to feel your warmth and embrace you tightly
In wondrous moment, I'll never let you go easily
You light the spark and my bonfire heart is flickering
You have touched my soul like an epitome of spring
You mean everything to me and so much more
I have found my love, you're what I have been looking for
I love you profoundly, no words could ever define
You have inflamed the feelings in this heart of mine
You have made each day so wonderful, I'll always remember
Your intoxicating fragrance drenched me all over
Your beguiling eyes drowned me with ocean of love every time
Let's spend the rest of our lives the whole lifetime
Let the rhythms of our hearts play the music
We will sing our love song with romantic lyric
Your alluring beauty creates ripples in my heart every day
You kindle the passion of flame and makes me sway
Your ecstatic elegance stirs my mind blissfully
Rapturous love of my soul belongs to you only.
Eminent Author/Poetess Ms Lilian Woo hails from Malaysia and is the author of the book 'The Pearl Wonder'. She has received numerous international awards for her soulful writing. She is a Chief Administrator with Motivational Strips, Editor for Writers Tribune, and Chief Representative for the World Nations Writers' Union (WNWU). She has been appointed as the National President in Union Hispanomundial De Escritores (UHE) 2020 for Malaysia and also nominated and entitled H.E. Ambassador General of National Peace Unison ( India), International 2019.
Energy
Energy, the name of my friend
An excellent room to live in the soul
How exciting! I live and die
The taste of the fruit I enjoy every morning
Or like the rose I frequently run and lost in fragrance
By kissing and hugging connected in the magic bond
Always infatuated by
No more suiting than this mystic drug.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
27 July, 2023Sheikh Russel in Memory
It was 15 August night, 1975
Darkness and panic seized around
Here and there blood was rolling on
Stained on the wall and floor
In the 32 Number House at Dhanmodi
10-year-old Russel cried out in fear
"Take me to my mother"
Russel sobbed on
"We are taking you to your mother"
The assassins fired him bullets soon
The little boy, the innocent cry
The lovely flower face fell down to death
It was raining then
Today the rain pours in every Bangalees' heart
The sound of bullet still rebounds ----------
The people of Bangladesh stand up with a vow
"Amar Sonar Bangla, Ami Tomai Valobasi"
I love you through all.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
12 August, 2023
Evening Twilight
In calm sea where daylight fades
Evening twilight paints the world
Birds around sing their lullabies
The wind whispers the tales of beauty.
Nature's creatures join in harmony
The gentle breeze carries a scent so sweet
The trees sway in rhythm, branches dance
They bathe in the evening soft twilight.
Stirring emotions as if a painter's masterful art
I find solace and peace as the daylight dies
The stars appear twinkling, the moon hangs
All the worries and troubles transcend,
Into peace, gratitude and wonder.
The ocean slowly engulfs the evening sun
The world turns into dark and colourful
Everything becomes a masterpiece in view
With gratitude, creatures embrace the night.
Tell me I don’t live in Dystopia
Some people
delight in weird
scary stories
about our future
dystopian world
Not me
I read the news
and know
we are already there
How about
the proxy war in Europe?
How about lunatics
threatening nuclear war?
How about idiots across
the political spectrum
running countries?
How about hackers
that build algorithms
to mine our data?
Artificial intelligence?
How about
extreme weather?
fires, floods, smoke, heat,
monster hurricanes
How about the Tigris
and Euphrates rivers
drying up in Iraq?
the cradle of civilization
How about
finding Indian graves
in school yards
from a century ago?
removing, reviling, turning away
Native Americans
How about
PGA golf getting
a billion dollars from the Arabs?
How about
the civil war we’re fighting?
the same one for over 170 years
we aren’t going to have another civil war
we’re still fighting the same one
How about
the legacy of slavery?
Black people are you free?
What is critical race theory anyway?
Asian Americans, are you safe?
Latinos, are you safe?
How about
the U.S. electrical grid?
scary
How about electric cars
dependent on rare metals
found in rare places?
And do we need one more
British murder mystery on PBS?
How about mass shootings?
This is the sign of a sane society?
Hot comes faster
we scramble to adjust
Not fast enough
Hot comes faster
Disaster follows disaster
the world goes to waste
for future generations
Present generations
sit helpless
distracted by social media
Dictators try
to shut us up
as we talk and talk
voicing no-fact opinions
endlessly
Who cares?
Need I go on?
We already live in dystopia.
SILHOUETTES AND SHADOWS
Earth was a shadow
with figures positioned in its ends
silhouetted against light,
A myriad of hills shrouded in mist,
guarded kingdoms shrouded in mysteries,
Mortals faced with the Labour of Hercules
were covered in a cold aura
blazing with the fires of hell,
Earth became an ungrateful planet
mocked by Mars and Jupiter
– they were the most insolent,
and Saturn was the gossip
The constellation of bitter silhouettes
opposed by a clique of dead shadows
in a lodge full of damned aquatints
engaged in a cloak and dagger
with singers hitting a clinker
"Oh! How soothing!"
Earth defied sanity
and welcomed ghostly silhouettes
in deification of medieval kings
Then, a fierce opposition;
Shadows refused to bow
By riversides fed
with melting snow seasoned with blue blood,
shadows got murdered,
silhouettes, charred,
and earth birthed volcanoes
that erupted without warning
Saturn chattered,
frail Pluto wept in hurt
– earth was its bestfriend,
'Death' in dead shadows died,
silhouettes became extinct
Like a shield,
darkness covered the earth,
with neither form nor void,
Alas!
Earth got a visitor,
an invincible speaking spirit descended
and said;
"Let there be light"
The Genesis of Genesis.
The Farmers of Bangladesh
In Bangladesh's fields, farmers toil,
Planting seeds, working the soil.
Day by day, under the sun's ray,
Growing food along the way.
With weathered hands and hearts so true,
They make the land come alive and new.
Harvesting dreams from dawn to dusk,
In their hard work, they put their trust.
Wazed Abdullah is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Remembering Sam Rivers at 100
For a group that worked together so long and so intensely, recordings by the trio of Sam Rivers, Dave Holland, and Barry Altschul are surprisingly few and generally obscure. The only albums I’m familiar with by this lineup in its original incarnation (outside of the three musicians appearing together in other groups) are The Quest and Paragon, both on small indie labels. I think the three of them first appeared together on Dave Holland’s landmark ECM album Conference of the Birds, from 1973, which also featured saxophonist Anthony Braxton.
From 1974−76, this trio was more than a group I saw many times, they were part of a coming of age for me. The setting for most of those encounters was Sam Rivers’ own loft, Studio Rivbea, on Bond Street in lower Manhattan. Rivbea, named for its patron saints Sam and his wife Bea, was the epicenter of the loft jazz movement, in which a number of free-jazz-oriented players like Rivers, percussionist Warren Smith, drummer Rashied Ali, singer Joe Lee Wilson, and saxophonist Charles Tyler, among others, took a DIY approach to presenting their own music and that of kindred spirits when jazz itself had lost much of its commercial viability and there was little room in the established clubs for the more “outside” players.
On a typical Friday or Saturday night, when I normally went to Rivbea, Sam’s trio (or another one of his groups like Winds of Manhattan) would split a bill with a guest artist’s group. For most of the time I attended, the shows were held in the basement space, which was not air-conditioned. We sat on cushions on the floor. The only time I remember it being oppressively hot and crowded was when Sam’s trio split the bill with Anthony Braxton’s quartet. Both groups shared the rhythm section of Dave Holland on bass and Barry Altschul on an expanded drum kit, including cowbells, temple blocks, and sirens.
Upstairs one could take a break and buy refreshments or Bea’s homemade fish sandwiches, though toward the end the stage had moved upstairs. Bond Street, which is home to hip restaurants these days, was pretty industrial and quiet after dark back then. It would be some years before the neighborhood was dubbed Noho. The Rivers’ landlord was Robert De Niro’s mother.
A performance by Rivers’ trio was more a flow than a set, usually an improvised suite without any break between sections. Though Sam was primarily a wind player (tenor and soprano saxes and flute), he also played piano and would move among his instruments. The deep listening and interplay of the three musicians kept me riveted. With jazz at its best, the group itself is an organism, and this trio was a prime example of that.
Sam and Bea were the most gracious of hosts to the musicians and the listeners. Sometimes I went with friends and sometimes I went alone, but one was never alone in that audience of mostly hardcore devotees of some of the most vibrant music of the time. Conversations would spontaneously erupt. For me, at 18−20 years old, this world of mostly African-American musicians taking charge of the presentation of their music without compromise was an education in artistic integrity that has stayed with me all my life.
Sam Rivers died in 2011 at age 88. Happily, I got to see a reunion of his great ’70s trio at Columbia University just four years earlier.
