1. Please share your thoughts about the future of literature..

 It gives me the greatest honor to share and partake my own passion for literature, that ornament that embellishes our livelihood throughout lifetime, I am smitten by rendition and erudition of books in all life spheres, to build up a cultural cauldron inside my mind, to dissolve in the amalgam of civilizations and conception of the other, I am not that fond of traveling abroad, for fear of nostalgia to swathes of my endeared heartfelt homeland, rather I consider reading is the solution to unravel the riddle and decipher the intricacies of the others’ thoughts, attitudes and expectations.

It mirrors their torchlight guidance for the generations who are in dire need of your imagination and enlightenment to recognize who they really are, to perceive to what extent they reached out in their conceptualizing the core and crux of what is going on in the literary and scientific arenas.

• When u start writing?

I do start since the prim of my youth, as a curious onlooker youngling in pursuance of language exposure, I listen a lot to the radio transmissions, like BBC news, or VOA coverage, I wrote down what I was hearing with the help of pronunciation skills I gained, the process by which I acquired spontaneity and fluency in English, fundaments in some other languages, didactic methodological errands to tackle my subject matter helped me a lot, throughout planning to – do lists in English, to your amazement, I tried to find out equivalent in my Arabic Fus7a the mother tongue, regarding idiomatic structure, interjection and syntax.

That linguistic inclination granted me tools and opened up large scale horizons to address the other, the process reached its zenith alongside with the gigantic leap of the know how, technological platforms, I jumped into platforms and mobile apps dealing in learning languages, there are so many to imitate the inventory contents and speak with the other. Since then, I planned a pathway to work on translation as a bonfire or a kindled flame to light up minds and allure other to the benefits of linguistics, as I volunteer to do so, awaiting to reap the fruits and my words instilled and inscribed in the scroll of universal history of literature like the notable role models in prose and verse.

• The Good and the Bad.

• Who is winning in nowadays?

That is a philosophical question, compelling me to the inner self of mankind, good and evil deeds created and innate inside of us, instinctively we might be susceptible to both pathways, but the mighty hand of good and righteous so doing is the vanquisher at last, goodness is like the lofty sun light, a heavenly revelation, but all humans err, and have shortcomings and deficiencies engendered, that abomination and obscene inclination dimmed the lovely hearts, that may delude us and made us into an abyss of the hell. There are wise proverbs admonishing us all—do good and cast it into the seas, do as you would be done by. Therefore, emanating from that mundane truth, we must uphold the slogan or motto of good and faithfulness rather than malfide and diabolical intrigues.

• How many books have you written

And where can we find your books?

My printed out paper literary output was not that superfluous, I wrote about 10 short stories long time ago, but some of which were printed, in fact, 3 of which named: a human being.. But?.. The altars of imagination.. Snippets tinged with the savory of one’sself.. So many published electronically on Facebook prose symposia such as:the Golden Forum of short story, the Arab conference magazine platform.. Poetic anthologies are my passion, I wrote rhymed and free verse, my first diwan named : give me some sake, my poetic quill?..’ Hanaiki ‘Published and printed, but alot of poems scattered through websites and platforms, I also translate from other foreignlanguages into the Arabic.

Novels and novella play an important part of significance, the Adventurous novel ‘Nabhan and Dannan Alhazhaian’ – Nabhah and the Cask of Bewilderness, published this year, along with a translated novella— what’s after? Both Arabic and English versions of mine. For me, I dreamt to publish an encyclopedia encompassing most of luminaries around the globe with entire congregational literary genre masterpieces I have translated for them, still that dream awaiting a sponsor to make into the light. Translation is all in all undulating waves of outrageous sea of knowledge, full of untold sunken pearls in need to shine. A plea to all literary avant-garde laureates in all fields—give a keen eye on the translators, supposedly, I am one of them. Also, I am doing great in the sphere of literary criticism, you can follow my studies for the Arab writers through Arab symposium for contemporary criticism, and magazine like Amarjy, Damietta, blue world magazine, Nokhba, and other Greek, Romanian and Albanian podiums.

Anyone can search on my name through Google search engine in Arabic and English: Ahmed Farooq Baidoon أحمد فاروق بيضون.

• What will be the future?

The future is promising, throughout unprecedented microcosm of consensus of literate, authors, playwrights, novelists, poets and poetesses, along with the evolutionary literary new genres, like haiku, tanka, haibun, micro-fiction, micro novella, I wish the future of literature created a venue that shall simplify meeting of the notable acculutred from the entire global territories, to stand united as upholders of word beauty and firmaments, they build up mind apart from undermining mental calibers of the generation by trivial bandwagon of fallacies and violence. We all call upon peace, welfare and serenade, to populate the Earth, to be worthy living and let the children of the world sing the song of unity and unanimous psalms of  love. I dreamt that I could hear  the sparrows chirping again.

• ..A wish for 2025

I wish it will be the turning point for a fruitful future, that’s all,

If only I could see the sunlight without imbued clouds,

If only I could see festivity world-wide without a droplet of tear or bereavement,

Let-alone a world of grudge-free and cherished with tempestuous sentiments.

Be it a dream in impelling need to come true or still the apparition of hatred looms?

• A phrase from your book

(I Am The Wandering Letter)

Behold—here I am the solitary letter,

Let go astray in a paginated paper,

My ink fountain has muttered its insomnia,

I wrote down words and battle myself in a race,

I stay up late at daytime and darkness loom at night,

Therein – could hear all shall carry and trace,

I call upon everyone before the glow of twilight,

How come could eyes blink-my ribs fed up with stress,

How come shall we caress those melancholic setbacks with laughter alright,

And, hide all what may choke of distress,

And, flout all contemptuous abomination and dismiss,

Oh! Let-alone that blackout and sleepless eyelids perplexed till late times,

And, all inflected upon us—such lethal crimes,

I shall lay aside all overwhelming screams into oblivion rhymes,

Behold – the stroke of pens, ripped papers of mine; be it echoless as I feel down,

That serves me right as crippled, knitting my eyebrow and frown,

Does the croak of toads prevail in the universe and trumpet?

Verily, the celestial skies manifested as my salvation refuge to glimpse in slumber,

From color to another, we shall stomp it,

Behold-homesick of days, in grey tug of conflicting starry curtains – please hide,

If only I could be back in shape, a free letter without clipping wings – open- eyed.

at the perfumery

the vibrant fragrance

of freshly peeled tangerine

          my first time 

          dealing cards

Paul Callus (Malta) / Christina Chin (Malaysia) 

– – – – – – – – – – –

the busy 

holiday streets

lovely afternoon

          hawkers experience

          a sales bonanza

Christina Chin (Malaysia) / Paul Callus (Malta)

– – – – – – – – – – –

snow butterfly 

clings to the leaf  

beautiful spring

          speckled wings

          on a buddleia bush

Christina Chin (Malaysia) / Paul Callus (Malta)

I miss the hug

A hug that they give you and you forget the weaknesses of your existence.

I miss a kiss

The kiss that someone give you and your stomach make those noise like is full of butterflies

I miss the smile

That childish smile that you have

U are smiling and all nature become

Pink

I miss the walk to the beach

The waves

The perfume of the salt

I miss the sunshine and the sunset

All the simple things that I had

I miss the generosity of people

I miss the kindness of grandparents

I miss the relaxing moments of drinking a coffee

Now, they all want your friend, your position, your talent, your contact, your potential, your life almost but no one…

Nobody want to get in your shoes

They are too tide.!!!! 

Spokane

Disillusioned by

what was going

on around him

he tried to open

his life in another

window but was

never able to get

past the pop-ups.

Career Paths

At thirteen he decided to become a prophet. By nineteen he had died & been reborn five times. Nobody took him seriously. Youth is a hard barrier to overcome.

He then decided to emulate the form of regeneration that seemed to have been most successful for generating prophet recognition & had himself crucified. Unfortunately, one of the nails was rusty, & during the transition period he contracted tetanus. He came back unable to speak, & essentially illiterate since so certain had he been of his destiny he had neglected to acquire much of an education.

Nobody wants a prophet who cannot communicate his prophesies. He spent the rest of his allotted three-score & ten in silence. Alone.

nOne-step

Nothing ad-

ventured

nothing

gained

when you

rely on

toxicology

instead

of taste.

Otherwise

partly because the sun

was in an

inclement meridian

partially because

the moon was

in the wrong

quadrant of the sky

particularly because

the cusp between

daydream & nightmare

was a silver ribbon

with elastic properties

Ella in Budapest

Something I have always

found disappointing,

hearing a singer in concert,

hearing a recording of that

singer somewhere else, some

years later. The same song,

The Lady is a Tramp, music by

straight George, lyrics by gay

Ira, Ella Fitzgerald singing.

The voice a little harsher than

I remember but the phrasing is

the same. I sing along. We impro-

vise together. In unison. I know

what notes will come next.

My future 

I ride in this path with the vehicle of mercy,

With the hope of kissing my destination.

A hope that whispers to me that I shouldn’t peep in to giving up.

And in me, I hugged the faith that promise me  I will make it,

And sighting more effort to grab my goals.

The critics may criticize,

But it can never sink the water out of my basket.

I knew I have many holes but wish to patch them days to come.

UNSINGSONG OF ETERNITY

DR SELVIN CALLS DR. ANAND A HOMO SACER 

WHILE GROCK CONSIDERS IT A BOLD CONTRIBUTION TO WORLD LITERATURE

SECTIOM A 

A  REVIEW OF MY EPIC  BY GROCK.

GEET: THE UNSUNG SONG OF ETERNITY  PUB  by Authorspress.

https://amzn.in/d/2biF4dU

A SEQUEL TO MILTON’S ‘THE PARADISE LOST’.

Dr. Jernail Singh Anand’s Geet: The Unsung Song of Eternity is a remarkable modern epic that showcases his prowess as a poet, philosopher, and literary innovator. This work is often described as a sequel to John Milton’s Paradise Lost, but it carves its own distinct path by placing Dr. Faustus, rather than Adam, at the center of its narrative. Anand reimagines the Renaissance hero as a prototype of modern humanity, grappling with existential dilemmas in a world marked by spiritual and moral decay.

The epic explores the complex relationship between man and divinity, inverting Milton’s intent to “justify the ways of God to Man” by instead questioning the ways of man to God. It delves into the struggles of contemporary existence, reflecting on how knowledge, ambition, and the passage of time have led to a deterioration of the human spirit. Anand’s Faustus embodies the modern individual—brilliant yet flawed, seeking meaning in a universe that often feels indifferent.

What sets Geet apart is its ambitious scope and philosophical depth. Anand blends Eastern and Western literary traditions, drawing from his Punjabi roots and the broader Indian cultural heritage while engaging with the Western canon. The work is not merely a retelling but a reinvention, offering a fresh perspective on timeless themes such as sin, redemption, and the search for eternity. His use of free verse, honed through his study of English literature, allows for a fluid and dynamic exploration of these ideas, unencumbered by rigid form.

Critics and readers have noted the epic’s imaginative power and its ability to resonate with the challenges of the 21st century. It’s a testament to Anand’s vision—a poet who dares to tackle grand narratives in an age where such undertakings are rare. Geet: The Unsung Song of Eternity stands as a bold contribution to world literature, inviting reflection on humanity’s place in the cosmic order and cementing Anand’s reputation as a significant voice in modern poetry.

Appreciation by Grock 

SECTION B 

A PAPER ON GEET was presented by Dr Selvin Vedamanickam,  a free thinker 

The Homo Sacer in J S Anand’s Geet: 

A Norm Violated to Establish Another Norm

THE HOMO SACER IN J.S . ANAND’S  GEET ;

A NORM VIOLATED TO ESTABLISH ANOTHER NORM 

Dr. Selvin Vedamanickam 

Unaffiliated Free Thinker

Pondicherry

The paper starts with an attempt to study the current significance of the terms “human being”, “being human’ and “homo sacer” in J S Anand’s Geet. Even though the work claims to be a sequel, it is filled with fresh beginnings and new point of departures. What is astounding is its political, economical, sociocultural and literary relevance to the present day world even when dealing with a special binary of geographical vs. non-geographical space. Often the illusionary nature of representing the world as “good, true and beautiful” has been comfortably forgotten by both literary artists and other art form practitioners. Apart from representing a real and/or imaginary world either it be symbolical/allegorical, literature has to posit a viable(?) world. Even the Library Intellectuals or the Campus Hoppers have talked of the modern man only in the light of the metropolitan hyper-individuals and seem to conveniently omit the existential predicament of the sub-human man whose life is increasingly becoming bare and he himself becoming a rare being at the verge of extinction under the clutches of the privileged, super-civilized races. 

The paper also tries to question certain key critical concepts (which are rarefied post-modern issues) such as irony, indeterminacy, self-reflexivity which are mere ‘thought representations’ of ultra-civilized man’. The paper calls for an understanding and literary representation of the equal importance of “an ironic sensibility” and “an empathetic sensibility” in capturing the plight of the sub-human common man, thus leading to empathetic activism to alleviate the sufferings of the bare/rare beings. 

Submitted for the Two -Day International Conference on International Seminar on Novel Issues in Indian Writing in English (JKC College, Guntur, 23, 24 Feb 2018)

The Checkout Kid

            He saw the kid who worked the checkout at the convenience store walking down the street, arm in arm, with a girl about his own age, maybe 17. He was a handsome kid. Compared to him, the girl was rather plain, he thought, wondering if people thought the same of him when he was dating his wife, or even now. She was a knockout, his wife. He never asked her if she had dated during their brief separation. He didn’t want to know what they looked like if she had. He wondered if they were sleeping together, the kid and the girl. If we were all contemporaries, he thought, and double dating, people would probably assume his wife, his future wife, was the one dating the checkout kid. He was probably being hard on himself. He was probably a cut above plain.

First Haircut

            “The usual,” he told the barber, John.

            “Remind me.”

            “Number two blade.”

            He’d remembered to wear a shirt with a collar. A collar provides a better vehicle than a crew neck for the paper thing they wrap around your neck to keep the hair from falling down your back.

            An older man walked into the barbershop. He greeted all the barbers, “Angelo, Vinny, John,” with a nod of the head for each name.

            “Have a seat, Tommy,” Vinny, who was available, said, “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

            John asked him who he liked in the World Series. Since neither team was local, it wasn’t a big surprise that he and John had different ideas. Tommy chimed in, agreeing with John.

            “Put on Sinatra,” Angelo, who was cutting a kid’s hair, yelled over to Vinny, who was at the CD player.

            “Eyebrows?” John asked.

            “Yeah.” He called them his Brezhnev eyebrows. The barbers were all old enough to get it.

            Angelo started singing along with Sinatra, “Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away,” then said to the kid, “Betcha you never heard that one.” The kid said, “No,” and Angelo laughed.

            “Ready to greet the world in style!” John said when the cut was done.

            Out of the blue he was struck by a dim memory of his first haircut, his first barbershop haircut. Maybe it was the Sinatra. He remembered sitting in a kid’s barber chair in the form of an elevated red sports car. Or was it a fire truck? He remembered crying.

            “What?” he asked John, holding back the tears.

College Days Full of Hope

            Reading the obituaries, he discovered one of his favorite college professors had been a Nazi sympathizer. He made coffee, in a French press. As he sipped his coffee, Sumatra Mandheling, which he admired for its boldness, he also read about a man in Cambodia who had won a tarantula-eating contest, the first of its kind. The article conjectured it would become an annual event.

            At work that day, he was asked to fill out a self-assessment, an oddly Maoist incursion into American corporate life. He wrote an unqualifiedly rave review of himself, refusing to give his bosses ammunition to use against him. After he had submitted the self-assessment, his thoughts turned to the dead professor. What was that course again? Oh yes, the theatre of cruelty seminar. Looking back, he couldn’t remember anything that hinted at Nazi sympathies.

            Wistful for those college days full of hope, he stood up and surveyed a sea of cubicles in which he was but a speck.