Tell us about your childhood. Did you want to be a painter from a young age?

Hello, well I have been a painter as a young child, yes, as for a hobby! And I was also since young interested in poetry and the experimental mathematics…

Unfortunately after some personal life events, my early years’ production has been lost, and I would not be able to find it now. There were difficulties at these times with my family – who wanted me to become a lawyer or a politician, and it was not very easy to let them assume that I would finally be an artist.

During my teen age, I did also practice street art!

What are the materials you use to paint? 

Well, I use a wide range of materials, from the gouache and paint markers, to acrylic tubes and Indian inks also… I have a variety of supports too, so I could paint on wood or on reclaimed cardboard or plastic, as well as on paper or on canvas…

What does painting mean to you?

This is a difficult question! Painting means a lot to me. It is to me a way to both express my feelings and my thoughts, and to try to share a good message, to the world! I like the combination of aesthetics and of harmony, and I see art also as a personal therapy from my past traumas, because I used to face really challenging or tensed situations.

When did you start writing? When did you start painting?

Well, these disciplines have accompanied me throughout my whole life, actually. When I was a child I used to practice them as for leisure, and gradually it became a more and more important part of my daily activities… Until a moment around 2015, about 10 years ago, when because of the successes I was gaining in literature and photography at first, I decided to commit fully to the arts !

What was your first book title? When was your first exposition?

My first book was entitled « A moment of craziness » and it was about a difficult moment that I had spent in an hospital, at the end of my eighteen year. The book was published in 2007.

My first exhibition was entitled « From the sea to the garden » and it presented a crossed perspective between some images from my holidays at the sea in France, and the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris which I lived just aside. It was at a cafe and wine bar called « Chez Georges » in 2006, in Paris, Latin Quarter.

From where do you get inspired? Who are the painters you admire?

I am inspired by many different art trends and artists ! It is the same for literature, I have the chance to have read a lot of books and I take inspiration and insights from many different sources…

As for the painters, I am very much impressed by the birth of modern art in Paris, France, at the turn of the 20th century, what was called « The first school of Paris » with prominent masters as the Delaunay Couple, Max Ernst, Francis Picabia, Fernand Léger, Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse, Serge Poliakoff, and so on…

Could you share something that happened during your exposition and really caught your attention?

Well, yes, thank you ! My shows are always a time for sharing my ideas and my views about my painting work, and what I enjoy a lot is when it happens to have young children or teenagers visiting, and that spontaneously one of them shows a great admiration or appreciation for one of my frames ! Like « Oh, this is so beautiful ! » It happened quite a few times already.

I have another special moment to enjoy at my shows is when sometimes a collector takes some interest into various paintings at the same show, and then buy three or four works, simultaneously ! So I have like a « big sale », which means a lot, and also I can see a great manifestation of interest here also !

What are your plans for the future? Do you prepare a new exposition?

Yes ! Actually today as I write to you I am planning on four personal art-shows for the next year, 2027. There will likely be one in Paris next to the Museum of Modern Arts, one in Madrid, and one in Shanghai. Plus one other show this time of photography, in Paris, in my neighborhood of « Butte aux Cailles » which is an art district in our city.

Do you believe ethics exist in our day?

Yes, I hope so ! Ethics are important to me. I might be somehow an old-mannered man, maybe ? Anyway yes I believe that as Jesus Christ said « We should not reject the wisdom of our Ancients… » – and yes the morality and ethics are an important part of our civilization I believe, and I try to share this thought in my artworks, with symbols of love, or faith, and hope, and equality, and so on…

Share a phrase from your book.

Yes, well in one of my recent books I have quoted an old French proverb, saying: « To the innocents will come abundance… » I like this phrase, very philosophical…

Why did you choose this phrase?

I like the old proverbs, because they have endured through the crucible of time… This one particularly: when you are innocent, I guess you would not be in need for greed or envy, or jealousy, and this may be the best way to experience abundance, for a simple life?

I take it that after all, we are all simple and we are not individually such important nor such clever beings, under the skies. So, let’s live simply and plainly maybe, instead of complicating too much or complaining too much, and perhaps that would be a good way to enjoy life at its best?

Can you give advice to new writers…or painters? 

Well yes, thank you! I would advise them to work steadily and to be enduring and determined in their creative process, because it is a well-known fact that the first years of a professional art practice are very often difficult and can sometimes be disappointing seemingly… After about ten years of good work and of experiencing the art-world and the community around them, though, it is very often that the artists can finally get a better recognition and enjoy their reward, for this compelling commitment to creating and reflecting on their ideas in the world. 

There is an Italian proverb that states : « If you move with calm, you will move sanely and you will go far… » I always try to keep these wise words in mind when planning for my next projects.

Thanks again dear Eva for your interest in my humble work.

TWIN FLAMES

I shall find you again

in the winter alleyway 

as the rain will carry the scent 

of your sobs.

A light 

October breeze

caresses the temples,

like a wistful breeze

tangled in your hair.

A kiss on the lips 

endless 

the ballads,

the companions,

on the strings of longing 

just like back then…

Back when it would ignite

in the dead of night

a rhythm 

all its own,

ours alone.

Notes flit 

around your palms 

so fair,

like sparrows

that breathe

at your touch.

Unadulterated love.

Untainted…

In time’s frame 

always unaltered.

In every form, 

timeline, together…

In celestial melodies,

of mystery…

UNFADED SEAS

Dedication 

In memory of Diana, Princess of Wales.

Unquenchable are the oceans, 

unforgettable the seas, 

eyes fixed upon the azure sky

Diana, breath of the mountains.

The green mines 

in the land of Wales,

every grape and every July 

weep in secret, weep in silence 

to the sounds of bow strokes….

The Light shone forth

beyond worlds

and beyond fears, 

heralding the dawn of a new path.

Her name, imperishable, 

endures through time,

an eternal palace…

Christina Margeti was born in 1980 in Athens. From a young age, she wrote mainly poetry as a hobby. She studied Computer Science and attended the Hellenic Open University, where she took a course in Hellenic Culture, with a particular interest in history.

She is the founder of the sole trader business ‘Nea Themiskyra’, through which she promotes and distributes her work online, as well as selected works by other authors.

Her first book is a collection of poetry entitled ‘Stis Politeies tis Gynaikas.” She was inspired to write it and began work on it around 2014. It was first published in 2022 in London by Akakia Publications, with expanded editions in 2023 and 2026. Verses from her book have been set to music in English, whilst other poems of hers (“Gaza”, “In the Tree of My Childhood”, ‘Artemis’) have been published in English through the “Poetry Unites People” initiative in international print and online literary magazines (Almanar, Synchronized Chaos, World Inkers, Raven Cage Zine, 100 Subtexts Magazine, Prodigy Magazine special edition ‘Voices of Humanity’ Noble Laureate Award 2026 and in the Greek magazine vima365.gr).

She is taking part, through “Poetry Unites People”, in the international cultural competition “Noble Laureate Award 2026” with a new poem of hers.

From a young age, she has been actively involved in various human rights initiatives. She has also signed the collective initiative ‘Her Voice – Women’

The Politics of Icon-Making and the Tragedy of a Manufactured Myth: Revisiting Sukanta Bhattacharya – By Ri Hossain 

In the history of Bengali literature, the portrayal of Sukanta Bhattacharya as the “rebellious teenage poet” has long been placed on an unquestioned and sacrosanct pedestal. However, stripping away the fog of sentimentality and examining the matter through the unsentimental lens of literary sociology, propaganda studies, and political history raises a fundamental and revolutionary question: was Sukanta truly an autonomous, singular literary genius? Or was he a tragic figure in a meticulously planned “icon-making project” orchestrated by the contemporary Bengali progressive family network and the Communist Party?

The foundation of this analytical critique solidifies when we examine Sukanta’s family structure and the extensive circle of influential communist political leaders and accomplished writers surrounding him. Analyzing his ancestral and family background reveals that he was by no means a teenager emerging from an isolated or marginalized household. His second elder brother, Ranadev Bhattacharya, was a prominent local organizer of the then Communist Party of India (CPI) and his political mentor. Top communist theorist Somnath Lahiri was connected to the family through kinship, and this same lineage later produced Buddhadeb Bhattacharya, the longtime Chief Minister of West Bengal and CPI(M) Politburo member.

On the other hand, the family’s influence within the progressive literary and social circles of contemporary Kolkata was equally far-reaching. The renowned writer Manish Ghatak (who wrote under the pen name “Yuvanaswa”) was his close relative. In the subsequent generation of this same family tree, we find Mahasweta Devi, a pioneer of human rights movements, and Nabarun Bhattacharya, the celebrated political writer of radical leftist sensibilities. In other words, the political and cultural ecosystem in which Sukanta was raised was not merely a middle-class household; it was one of the most powerful and institutionalized powerhouses controlling contemporary Bengali progressive politics and literature.

Placing this vast political and literary apparatus in context casts a deep and legitimate doubt on the “singular authorship” of Sukanta’s literary works. How plausible is it that a teenager aged between 17 and 20 could spontaneously compose poem after poem featuring flawless metric structures, complex Marxist philosophy, and nuanced political metaphors without it being the collective effort, ideological polishing, or ghostwriting of experienced party intellectuals? The cultural platforms of the era—such as the Anti-Fascist Writers’ and Artists’ Association, the editorial board of the daily Swadhinata, or the anthology Aakal—were essentially literary workshops run by party-controlled, skilled progressive writers. Consequently, a serious doubt arises: are works like Chharpatra or Purbabhas the output of Sukanta’s solitary pen, or were they a collective propaganda project by contemporary party writers?

The starkest contradiction and artificiality become evident in the social reality behind his poems’ “aesthetic rendering of hunger.” Historical facts confirm that Sukanta Bhattacharya’s family was neither impoverished nor destitute. His father, Nibaran Chandra Bhattacharya, was the founder of Kolkata’s well-known Saraswat Library and a successful book publisher, enjoying a established middle-class stability in the city. How does a poet who never personally experienced the desperate pangs of starvation write lines like: “In the realm of hunger, the world is prose-like / The full moon is like a burnt bread”? Parlor politics or political manifestos do not bring real hunger to the belly. The truth is that to construct an “Ostrovsky model” or a “party martyr” for the international communist movement, Sukanta’s middle-class identity was shrouded in an artificial persona. The imagery of hunger and deprivation in his verse was not born of personal experience but borrowed as a political instrument from the party’s proletariat ideological thesis.

One of the most successful international formulas of the Comintern (Communist International) was to elevate a physically and socially afflicted teenager facing premature death as a “party icon” to heighten emotional intensity and momentum in political struggles. Just as the blind and paralyzed youth Nikolai Ostrovsky was transformed into a miraculous symbol of communist resolve in the Soviet Union through the novel How the Steel Was Tempered, the exact same blueprint was executed in Sukanta’s case. Despite suffering from severe tuberculosis and malnutrition, Sukanta was denied proper medical care and instead subjected to a “suicidal routine” of grueling work in soup kitchens, political rallies, and newspaper editing day and night. The party calculated precisely that the tragic, premature demise of an ailing young poet serves as a far more potent manifesto for a political movement than any living senior theorist ever could.

Even from a literary critical standpoint, modernist intellectuals like Buddhadev Bose hinted that Sukanta’s poetry prioritized party slogans and manifestos over subtle poetic aesthetics. Had it not been for the party’s formidable machinery, his family’s cultural leverage, and the systematic political campaign to glorify his sacrifice after his untimely death, Sukanta’s standing purely on grounds of poetic merit would remain highly questionable.

Therefore, an objective review of history and literary politics reveals that Sukanta Bhattacharya is not the name of a singular literary genius; rather, it represents an institutional product of the party apparatus’s collective literary endeavor. The poems published under his name were essentially the fruit of collective deliberation, refinement, and strategic guidance by the party’s experienced intellectuals and progressive writers—where the name of the teenage Sukanta was utilized merely as a signboard for political propaganda. The time has come to dismantle the myth of the “solitary poet” and reframe Sukanta Bhattacharya’s body of work as the collective political manifesto of the Communist Party.

Ri Hossain is a prominent voice in Bengali poetry, recognized as a rebellious and resilient figure in the contemporary literary landscape. Born on August 19, 1981, in Rangpur, Bangladesh, with ancestral roots in Munshiganj, he began his literary journey in 1993. His poetry deeply reflects personal experiences, societal conflicts, urban alienation, and a steadfast commitment to free expression. Author of several works, including the poetry collection Kobitar Abhyutthan Chai (2024), his writing bridges social consciousness with profound psychological and intimate introspection.

How Lucky I Am
Kamal Salahin
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

How lucky I am—
I remain normal still,
I have not become intoxicated
Like those strange creatures
Who have nothing to offer
To my listless body.
I cannot recognize my home;
The rooms fall into disarray,
And the doors drift away
The moment my shadow touches the ground.

How fortunate I am—
That my love was not trapped
Within the covers of civilization.
I did not have to sniff the soles of shoes
To enter an earthly paradise,
Where painted affection
And factory-made love devour
The manuscripts of human souls.
And all the flowers keep burning
Amidst dazzling budgets.

I am truly very lucky.
I am the only customer of my own shop
I buy and sell whatever I please,
whenever I wish.
I do not run after a livelihood
In a line of rats,
Following the piper.
I do not have to eat poison-laced biscuits,
Nor do I have to buy a night’s sleep
At the pharmacy on the corner.

How fortunate I am—
My tattered clothes stand guard
Over my very being, fearless.
I possess no suit of thunder,
Nor a garment of lightning,
Like the Superman-gentlemen—
Who hawk sweets in Hell
And plunder everyone’s future.
The ants march in a line—
Along which path?

The Archaeology of Gravity

Love, he says,

sounds like a door

closing too carefully

not to wake the neighbors,

not to let the hallway know

that something has changed.

The room is small.

A single bulb hums.

Your name waits

inside his phone

unopened,

heavy as contraband.

Outside, a patrol passes.

Boots count the seconds.

He studies your hands

the way others study exits

how they hesitate

before touching the cup,

how the cup tilts

at a certain angle

only when you’re afraid.

On the table:

two chairs.

Only one used.

He deletes a message

before it finishes breathing.

The phone goes dark.

The silence stays.

Here, it holds two people

exactly where they are

standing inches apart,

unable to move closer,

unable to move away.

He still feels it

that bend in the air

when your shoulder brushed his

in the stairwell.

That quiet shift

when the world noticed

and looked away.

The way his breath changes

when you enter a room.

The way time slows

in the second before

you speak his name.

Gravity never stops.

Even when you leave

cross borders,

change your name,

delete the messages

the pull remains.

Invisible.

Constant.

Faithful.

Some nights,

he wakes

and checks his phone.

No new messages.

But the weight is still there

the archaeology of all the words

never sent,

all the touches

never risked,

all the love

never named.

Layer upon layer.

Heavy as galaxies.

This is what gravity does

in a place where love

is contraband:

It doesn’t bring you together.

It just makes you feel

the exact distance

between you

and you carry it

everywhere you go.

Without putting it down.

Without being asked.

Flowers (for Tara)

Sometimes breezes visit the outdoor flowers and gently guide the petals this way or that. Red, blue, orange yellow. A bird in the rafters watches everything. Its head moves this way and that almost frantically but that’s just how it is built. Long steel rafters that support baskets and who made them all? If you walk through there it is another world. A great atmosphere for a poet or photographer. Clear honest light. Hope inspiration even love. The soil and dirt and root systems. The signs, such as, WATER WHEN DRY. Industrial grade hoses and many racks waiting for display.

But, just sometimes, irrigation systems. The world finally begins again after the longest worst winter. The old discerning gardener looks at the wares. The casual browser also. Flowers,- a universal language. There is a large hill on the outskirts of town, and below, a pond. Perhaps on that hill, alone, one of those blue or purple wildflowers have bloomed. That same breeze teases its petals to the side. There is warmth from the sun. Warmth from the new spring. The town had grown and was bursting at the seams. Many selfish souls lived there. Some good ones though. But the flowers often better than even the good souls. In the heavens they say, are often fields and fields of flowers and they often include colours not even known to the earth. Plus, many say the flowers are alive more than they are here- quite conscious. Ah look at the earth flowers for gardens and the feral ones too, whist thinking of the astral planes and what whimsical wondrous ones might live there.