HALL OF POETS INTERNATIONAL EZINE, JUN-JUL 2016

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HALL OF POETS INTERNATIONAL EZINE, JUN-JUL 2016 FEATURING MASSIMILIANO RASO.

Transcript of HALL OF POETS INTERNATIONAL EZINE, JUN-JUL 2016

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    Copyright 2016 HALL OF POETS

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or

    transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other

    electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the

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    Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information

    contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or

    omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of

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    The magazine is not for sale and can be downloaded from HALL OF POETS

    community on Google Plus or HALL OF POETS page on Facebook, or asked for a

    copy by writing to us on: [email protected]

    Editor-in-Chief: Dr. PRERNA SINGLA

    Joint - Editor & Owner: PULKIT MOHAN SINGLA

    Associate Editor- SEEMA TABASSUM.

    COVER PICTURE: IMMA BRIGANTE

    EDITION: TWELFTH (JUN-JUL, 2016)

    **DISCLAIMER**

    .................................................................................................................................

    HALL OF POETS Digital magazine is the property of Hall Of Poets community on Google Plus and is protected by

    the International Copyright Laws. The poems/articles are published under the name with which the poet/writer is

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    not imply Hall Of Poets magazines endorsement of material on any other site and Hall Of Poets magazine disclaims all liability with regard to your access of such linked websites. In case of dispute, Jurisdiction of Gurgaon

    (Haryana), India applies.

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    From the editors desk

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    KASHMIR

    My Sigri burnt the beams of Wood

    And my hut turned to coal

    Devoured the foundations rut

    Kept my house standing in cold.

    The dunes of snow turned crimson red

    Soaked in blood of all

    The singing breezes screaming dead

    As corses turned to corpses old

    Aura that witnessed tip toed steps

    Echoed with shots and roars

    The friendly faces turned fiend

    Bullets the very allies hold.

    And my Sigri burnt the beams of wood

    My hut just turned to coal.

    Dr. PRERNA SINGLA, 2016

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    PRAYER TO THE MASTER!

    The master weaver weaves

    The strings of truth and lies

    In a web of life, disguised

    As he does, he smiles

    O ye Master weaver!

    Weave my web with a golden thread

    Paper thin yet resilient

    Sturdy yet emollient

    The master potter pots

    The vessels made of clay clods

    Moulded on the wheel, of life

    As he does, he sculpts the pods

    O ye Master potter!

    Chisel my clay with your sharpest nail

    Hardships and struggle yet

    Of the sculptures I become the best

    The master Gardner tends

    The beautiful blooming gardens

    Blossoming in seasons, of life

    As he does, he weeds plantains

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    O ye Master Gardener!

    Tend the garden of my life with love

    Weeding out the negativities

    Let fragrant it blossom.

    PULKIT MOHAN SINGLA, 2016-01-31

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    HALL OF POETS Wishes you all

    A

    Very happy

    And blessed

    Eid-Ul-Fittar

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    The Massimiliano Raso

    Interview with Dr. Prerna Singla

    (Chief - Editor Hall Of Poets)

    English Translation By Anca M. Bruma

    MASSIMILIANO RASO

    Photo credits: Imma Brigante

    Dear readers,

    Today we have with us Massimiliano Raso, artist from Formia - Italy, the

    Vice-President and Art Director of Pablo Neruda Cultural Association -

    Italy. He has accumulated several degrees at the department of History of

    Arts in Naples Federico II University, Foreign Languages and Literature at

    Naples University LOrientale; dance hip hop and Jazz at IALS

    (Entertainment and arts studies centre) in Rome; Digital Journalism and

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    Social Media Marketing in Bari; Caribbean Dance at FITD (Italian

    Technicians Dance Sport Federation) in Rome; English language at the

    British Institutes school of Taranto; and a degree on Modern History on

    the historical aspects of the festivals in Italy. He is also Artistic Director of

    the Festival KIBATEK 39 Italy, Global Poetry and ART Festival.

    Massimiliano Raso also collaborates with the editorial staff of RAI 1 of

    Dancing with the stars editions 9, 10 and Dancing with the stars 11 on

    the road. He has attended various art juries including the FIESTA, the

    BOLOGNASAL SAFESTIVAL, the GD AWARDS, the NATIONAL

    FESTIVAL OF SONG OF THE GIRO DORO, the ART PHOTO

    CONTEST, the reality WE ARE IN SCENE ON THURSDAY, the

    CANTASHOW To radio and television programs as an expert and

    Columnist.

    Photo credits: Imma Brigante

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    Ciao Massimiliano, un piacere essere con te oggi.

    Dr. Prerna Singla: How will you define Dance and the Art of dance?

    Massimiliano Raso: Dancing is like a magical ART! Personally I cannot

    imagine a world without the art of moving the body, without being able

    to dance and express yourself freely with the body and the mind that

    performs the steps and gestures. Dancing is also a little how to love, it

    is an innate feeling, a feeling of wellbeing that envelops you and gives

    you oxygen to breathe.

    Dr. Prerna Singla: Please share something about your journey as one of

    the Founding member and art director at Pablo Neruda Cultural

    Association?

    Massimiliano Raso: Pablo Neruda CulturalAssociation is a young

    Cultural Association in Taranto / Italy, of which I am honoured to be part

    of, both as Artistic Director and Vice President, as well as a person who

    believes entirely in the power of the culture. I believe that in this

    historical period we should provide hope, especially to the young

    generation, to live in a better society, because culture helps to change the

    world indeed. In addition to some great projects, the cultural association

    also brought The Global Poetry Festival in Taranto / Italy on February

    2016, under the name KIBATEK 39, where poets/authors from various

    parts of the globe were awarded. As well, the cultural association awards

    the excellence of different artists and various forms of art during Neruda

    Awards on June 2016, for the ones who see culture as an opportunity to

    walk together and make artistic dreams come true.

    Massimiliano Raso

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    Dr. Prerna Singla: It is said that Natyashastra or knowledge of act/dance is

    considered as one of the highest form of spiritual practice (Sadhna). Do

    you also feel so? Please share your views about this.

    The Natyasastra of Bharata, presents the dramatic arts, with a detailed

    theory of the genre performative "Natja" in which dance and music are

    not just mere ornaments. Interesting is the fact that there is a lot of

    attention and dedication in putting in place this art form: the text

    describes four types of acting, from that relating to the movements of the

    body, speech, costumes and make-up and the highest, relative to the

    expression of emotions through slight movements of the lips or

    eyebrows. The dance, also in reference to Natyasastra, is very spiritual

    choreutic, not only in content but also in the feeling and in being dancers. We must search for the sense of beauty that leads us to the Divine feeling.

    As a dancer I find myself mirrored a lot in this culture.

    Picture courtesy: Massimiliano Raso

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    Dr. Prerna Singla: Please share your experiences at Dancing with the

    stars. What were the moments that you cherished there?

    I had the pleasure to collaborate at journalistic level, with the editorial

    stuff of the television program Rai 1, the most important TV channel in

    Italy. I interviewed many masters in dance, who were paired with the so-

    called VIP actors, singers, comedians, writing for the

    Giornaledelladanza.com newspaper, a leader in print media in Italy,

    providing critique articles about the art of dancing. In the last edition I

    interviewed the queen of Italian television, Milly Carlucci, the presenter

    of talent show, a great entertainer and a nice person. As well I

    interviewed the great dancers such as Samantha Togni or President of the

    jury Carolyn Smith, I shall say that all of them were very nice to me. It

    has been a growth and development experience for me on both levels:

    personal and artistic.

    Picture courtesy: Massimiliano Raso

    At the sets of "Dancing with the Stars" (Ballando con le stelle)

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    Picture courtesy: Massimiliano Raso

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    Tell us about your life and life time experiences?

    I am a normal person who loves life with all its contradictions. I like to

    do sports and have many friends. Especially I try to devote lot of my time

    to my son Mattia, 5 years old, an exceptional child, he is my life.

    Dr. Prerna Singla: You are an expert at history of dances, tell us what

    according to you is the basic element in the origin of dance forms, that is

    common to all dances irrespective of countries/states or forms.

    It 'been said that "dance is the mother of all arts" and indeed it is. This

    form of art, cultural and traditional spread across the world and old as

    the world itself. The first choral events, however, were very elementary:

    reproducing the elements of nature, everyday life and rites. The dance is

    very similar on each place on Earth, of course with some differences

    according to various belief systems, customs and history of the peoples.

    I believe, however, that from the way it is transmitted by means of the

    moving body, the way of gestures and steps (regardless of its geography)

    determine a large variety of emotions, nonverbal and many social

    meanings messages everywhere, in all world cultures.

    Dr. Prerna Singla: Do you believe that love influences all forms of art?

    I believe that without love you cannot even dance. It is important to put

    strong passion in these body movements. The ones who think can dance

    in a detached manner, with no emotions they are not on the right path

    as they do not perform the right content of dance.

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    Picture courtesy: Imma brigante

    Dr. Prerna Singla: Who would you give credit of your success?

    I shall thank my parents for giving me this passion, this creativity, this

    versatile aspect of performing art. And of course friends and experts in

    the dance show field for giving me trust and confidence that I am able to

    do so.

    Dr. Prerna Singla: You have judged so many dance and art festivals and

    shows. As a jury on what unique criteria do you select the acts of the

    participants?

    It is not easy to give critical judgments. It all depends on which

    manifestation of art or entertainment you shall judge. Moreover, the art

    criticism is the subject of the academic study and it should be held by a

    person who is well-trained to provide such a professional feedback.

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    Picture courtesy: Massimiliano Raso

    Dr. Prerna Singla: With increased incorporation of gymnastics into dance

    acts now-a-days, do you feel the essence of dance is somehow lost? Or

    has it improved?

    Actually the historical, cultural and folkloric essence has been lost little.

    Especially in the twentieth century it has been given too much attention

    to the competitive side of the dance, creating too many difficulties for the

    dancers themselves, a time when many dances were born. It should be

    kept separate and distinct these two sides of the dance, one is sport the

    other one is art.

    Dr. Prerna Singla: What advice would you give to our readers who wish

    to persue Dance and ART as their career?

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    You need passion, strength and courage in life! You shall never give up,

    even in front of your personal adversities. If you really think you can

    pursue a goal that is not venal, as in the case of the dance, then you have

    to go all out and get going without getting tired.

    I have been a student of dance for about 12 yrs.There are some

    controlled aspects of a dance, while some are uncontrolled. As dance

    originated, it represented cultures, beliefs, festivals, mythological stories,

    love, and even destruction (Tandava). In the world of poetry and music,

    how important do you feel is the dance today?

    I noticed that dancing is like poetry, each movement represents a

    word. I believe there is a strong intimate connection between poetry

    and dance itself. I would even dare to say that you cannot separate these

    two art forms. The body movements, winding steps, the gesture of a

    hand, if they cannot be counted among the verses of a romantic poem,

    then they are irrelevant.

    Picture courtesy: Massimiliano Raso

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    Dr. Prerna Singla: What is KIBATEK all about? Please share your

    experiences from KIBATEK 39.

    Picture courtesy: Massimiliano Raso

    The KIBATEK is a Turkish Literary Foundation, founded in 1998 in

    Turkey/Izmir with the participation of 12 countries. KIBATEK carried out

    international activities/festivals in 41 countries in the past 18 years,

    through literary communication and cooperation. KIBATEK proposed in

    2015 to Pablo Neruda Cultural Association to organize its first edition in

    Italy, the 39th in the world, of Global Poetry and ART Festival, in

    Taranto (Italy).We brought 22 poets from every corner of the globe.

    During gala day, all the awarded poets performed their own creations

    with artistic interludes like dance, singing and music. It was a marvel

    experience; it seemed like living a fairy tale. As Art Director of the

    festival, one of my major responsibilities was to provide great

    performers, quality singers, musicians, dancers, the entire artistic platform.

    I shall add that it was one of the most extraordinary life-experience!

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    Picture courtesy: Massimiliano Raso

    Dr. Prerna Singla: Some people say that good dance is about the correct

    moves, while some say it is expression that enables the spectator to

    understand the theme without even knowing music or words, while

    some others say it is rhythm and repetition. What do you say?

    It is not easy to have the correct dance movements; it takes time,

    dedication and constant study of this art. The body does not lie. Vittoria

    Ottolenghi, one of the major Italian dance critics said that dance is an

    ambiguous art compared to other forms of art, when the dance is

    finished, there is no continuation. I always prefer few technical details,

    but the harmonious ones, lots of knowledge as basis as well listening to

    your own body. One body move will not be the same in Time and

    Space.

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    Massimiliano Raso with an Artist .

    Dr. Prerna Singla: You wish to pursue intercultural exchange between the

    East and the West. Tell us more about your dream?

    The dance could be born anywhere in the world. Or, maybe the World

    itself created the dance giving to the human beings the opportunity to

    express themselves through dancing. More than ever now, it is imperative

    the intercultural exchange between West and East, between an Occident

    which looks towards a future more and more hectic and an Orient

    eager to give space to its own creative and artistic evolvement. My

    dream is to see a great brotherhood between different nations, without

    borders, with no hurdles. I dream of a world full with Peace, Harmony

    and Serenity.

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    Picture courtesy: Imma Brigante

    Dr. Prerna Singla: Do you feel that the West has still a lot to learn from

    East and vice versa? If yes, what do you feel the two cultures need to

    learn to initiate a cultural bonding?

    The news coming from the East, at times do not reflect the entire truth.

    There is still much to be done for achieving common and indivisible

    goals, either from one side or another one. I believe it is not that difficult

    to have and live in a globalized world under a mutual understanding of

    harmony and cultural connectedness. We are ONE human race and we

    need to come to this understanding and acceptance. And embrace this

    reality.

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    Picture courtesy: Massimiliano Raso

    MASSIMILIANO RASO

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    Dr. Prerna Singla: What are your future plans in life?

    Artistically speaking I have had the most wonderful satisfactions of my

    life. Soon I shall dedicate my efforts for the second edition of KIBATEK

    Global Poetry Festival in Italy, to Pablo Neruda Awards, to the cultural

    association with all its artistic manifestations, to carry out my dance

    shows activities and journalism about dance as I truly enjoy writing. For

    the future, I wish to have more tranquility.

    Picture courtesy: Massimiliano Raso

    What is your success mantra?

    Success is something that touches various spheres of life of a person. We

    can feel satisfied with little and still consider that we attained the success.

    We can achieve high levels in our career while living in less favorable

    conditions. However, the true wealth stands in being happy with what

    life gives to us, feeling good about yourself and of course with others.

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    Picture courtesy: Imma Brigante

    What do you think about Hall of Poets International ezine and what

    message would you give to our readers?

    I often follow Hall of Poets as I consider it as being a dynamic and

    optimum magazine. I wish to the readers of this magazine, lots of serenity

    and happiness and most of all the HOPE to live in a peaceful world. And

    of course, to keep reading Hall of Poets magazine.

    Massimiliano Raso

    Vice-President and ART Director:

    (Pablo Neruda Cultural Association Taranto / Italy)

    Dance critique and instructor

    http://massimilianoraso.webnode.it/

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    P.S. ~ The questionnaire is copyrighted and the intellectual property of HALL OF POETS. The first publication rights to the interview rest with HALL OF POETS. The interview can be reproduced only with prior explicit permission of HALL OF POETS and the interviewed. A clear bold mention and ping link to the original interview along with the name of the original interviewer, Dr. Prerna Singla, as well as the interviewee must be made when reproducing the interview in part, as an excerpt or as a whole. English Translation By Anca M. Bruma. Picture courtesy Massimiliano Raso. The individual

    artists are mentioned in the Photography. HOP claims no copyright to the pictures in the

    interview.

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    JOHN

    by Helenka

    "Congratulations! You have a daughter!" said the nurse in

    his direction through the slightly open door.

    "How is my wife?" His question bounced off the already

    closed door. John felt pride and happiness.

    After an hour the doctor came to see John.

    "I congratulate you heartily. You have a beautiful, healthy

    daughter. The weight is 3200 grams. Big baby despite the

    slight figure of your wife. There were minor complications

    during childbirth but it is all good now."

    "When can I see my girls?"

    "In a few hours. Please go home now, eat something and get

    rest. You have spent all night at the hospital. Visiting time

    is at four p.m. Goodbye."

    John stood for a moment watching at the window and

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    wondered about what the doctor just said. He didn't want to

    go home. He wanted to see Barbara and his newborn

    daughter. They came to the hospital at two a.m. Barbara

    was so weak, in so much pain, and he could not help her. He

    was walking down the stairs, his right hand in his trouser

    pocket and propping his leg. Since he could remember, that

    way was easier for him to walk.

    The sky was so blue - A promise for a beautiful day. When

    John came to the main street the town hall bell was just

    striking eight o'clock. He went to the church to thank God

    for a happy delivery. At the bridge he had to stop for a

    while. He already felt so tired. He watched a barge filled

    with coal then he ascended to the grocery store for milk. In

    the bakery next door, he bought fragrant, warm bread rolls.

    Very slowly he climbed to the third floor. It was there where

    their nest was. He set the water for coffee, spread a roll

    with jam, and finally sat down in a cosy armchair. The

    smell of chicory coffee filled the entire flat.

    He did not go to bed. He was in the chair and just covered

    his legs with a plaid throw. Fatigue reigned over his body.

    He closed his eyes and tried to remember how it happened

    that he found his luck; how he met Barbara and believed he

    fell in love.

    In his childhood there was no indication that he would have

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    his own home and his family. He was one of those kids who

    in the fifties caught polio. He began walk independently

    very late and it was only thanks to the persistence and

    perseverance of his grandmother. She carried him on her

    back and brought him to school. She was carrying him up

    and down the stairs. Stubbornly she told him to practice.

    Nothing was able to deter her. She repeated always that

    since she survived Siberia and the long way back home,

    nothing could stop her now.

    In the primary school he felt very lonely. At the beginning

    the kids teased him, laughed at him, but his grandmother

    quickly solved the problem. He was the only disabled child

    in the school. No one understood him, no one knew how he

    felt lonely. His escape from the surrounding world into

    books. He read a lot. He read everything he could grab.

    Quite soon he began to wear glasses. Thanks to a wonderful

    teacher who had real passion, he got easily through to high

    school.

    In high school there were two other boys his age, also with

    paralysis of the legs. Both were less fortunate than him.

    They moved on crutches. Then he began to fully appreciate

    what his grandma, Angela, did for him.

    He finished high school as a best student. Exams in to the

    university were a mere formality.

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    In October, at the start of the academic year, he met

    Barbara. She was a pretty, petite girl with long raven-black

    hair. She was a little bit confused. She came to study in

    Opole from Kedzierzyn. And from the very beginning she

    treated John with great, unfeigned affection.

    In the second year of study, he buried his grandmother and

    a few months later his mother. His younger sister, right

    after graduating from high school, got married and moved

    out. For the first time in his life he was completely alone.

    When he returned home, a strange feeling of emptiness filled

    his heart. Just Barbara's friendship helped him survive a

    difficult period of mourning.

    He could not remember how and when they became a

    couple. But he remembered very well the first time she

    kissed him. He remembered how in October, after the start

    of the fourth year of study, Barbara moved into his flat. She

    lit up his life. She brought with her joy and love.

    Meddlesome neighbours wagged their tongues at them. Once

    their gossip reached Barbara's ears. With delight she vented

    herself on the one of them. She knew that it would be passed

    on later.

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    "Ms Willow! You should be ashamed. Why are you pushing

    your nosy nose into our lives? Who gave you right do to

    insult me and John? I do not wonder that your husband left.

    I am not surprised that you have no friends. I warn you

    today for the first and last time. I do not want to hear

    again any rumours; otherwise you will bitterly regret it.

    My advice is that you start to see the man, not his

    disability. Good-bye!"

    And this finally just broke off the Hydra's head. All gossip

    stopped for good.

    John graduated as a best student again. Immediately after

    the graduations, he was offered a job in the City Hall.

    Barbara was proud of her diploma, too. She found a job in

    the library.

    More often they talked about marriage. Barbara's parents

    were horrified by her choice, but when they saw how John

    loved her, and cared about her, they began to accept him -

    though not without resistance.

    Two years after the wedding, Barbara and John announced

    that they were expecting their child.

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    At four P.M John was back in the hospital. Dressed in a

    white coat was waiting at the door of the ward to meet

    Barbara. He could not wait to hug his new treasure and kiss

    Barbara. And thank her once again, and certainly not the

    last time for everything she gave him.

    The door finally swung open. A few impatient fathers tried

    to break through at the same time.

    He found Barbara while feeding the baby. She looked

    beautiful as Madonna with the Child.

    John froze motionless, staring at his luck, and now great

    double luck.

    ******

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  • 36 www.hallofpoets.com

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  • 37 www.hallofpoets.com

    INDIA IS BURNING!

    Hey look! Our mountains are on fire !!

    The tapestry of greens all torn and mangled

    Hundreds of hectares, a smouldering graveyard!

    Hey silly, its up in the North..

    A trifling little thing..

    What does it have to do with us?

    Good heavens! Cant you see,

    Those blazing flames torching the skies?

    Black carbon from the smog and ash

    Sends mercury soaring; Melting the glaciers,

    Polluting the rivers, Just as we speak!

    Black carbon you say ? Never heard of it !

    It should be nothing of consequence

    What does it have to do with us ?

    Look at those whimpering fawns, suckling the teats

    Of a dead mother who braved the fire !

    Those charred nestlings in agony,

    Forced to be left behind by a scalded soul !

    The palette of colours smudged grey,

    An eerie silence drifts through the valley

    Oh ! The raging inferno has spared none !

    Your words make me sad !

    Dont you have anything better to say ?

  • 38 www.hallofpoets.com

    After all, its so far away

    What could we have done ?

    Cupidity of ever widening infrastructure,

    The dams and the mines;

    Quixotic plans of phenomenal growth,

    Ruthless patrons of unabated habitat loss !

    Rise in tiger numbers,

    More fiction than fact, the experts claim !

    Whilst it is this that the truth bemoans:

    More tigers were poached in a single quarter,

    Than the whole of last year !

    You heartless creature !!

    Millions die of hunger here

    And you choose to cry over a striped cat ?

    Its just a minor little fact,

    What does it have to do with us ?

    The worst drought of the decade is here

    Drying the wells, parching the land;

    Even the fortune of the monsoons

    Impotent to quench the thirsting land !

    Killer heat waves on a spree,

    Sweltering cities and blistering villages see

    Unprecedented spike in temperatures as never before !

    Oh yeah ! Just a minor bother,

    Summers are hotter this year ;

    Lets buy an A/C , all shall be fine !

  • 39 www.hallofpoets.com

    Our metros have turned,

    Gyrating concrete jungles

    Gagged with dust,

    Choked with lethal fumes of exhaust;

    Lakes fed by sewage, spew up toxic foams

    No noteworthy drainage systems in place,

    Floods, a disaster-in-waiting !

    Oh yes ! That is so true !

    But what can we do ?

    As we speak the seas are surging

    Inch by inch,

    The rising tides gobble up the shore;

    The land we call home,

    Yours and mine, is waning forever !

    Like a house of cards,

    Our world is crumbling down!

    Oh please ! please

    Let us do something !

    Oh well ! Perhaps we were held up

    In denial, a tad too long!

    For I cant breathe, my friend,

    Do hand me that bottle of fresh air !!

    Stranded by Natures fury

    Plans of millions will go awry

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    Who will save us from Her wrath ?

    For Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned !!!

    Rekha Padinjattakathu

    #WorldEnvironmentDay

  • 41 www.hallofpoets.com

    OH MRIGNAYNEE!

    Oh Mrignaynee!

    Thy visage epitomizes the transcendence of timeless beauty

    If only thy eyes flutter once

    The bees lose their direction

    And the breeze its aim

    Thy eyes hold countless stars

    Yet to be discovered

    If only thy eye-lasses flicker once

    The ships lose their navigation

    And the fighting men their aim

    Oh Mrignaynee!

    Thy one glance

    Has the power to enslave proud men

    From Afghanistan to India

    And Pakistan to Spain

    Avijeet Musafir Das

  • 42 www.hallofpoets.com

    WHERE PROMISES WERE MADE TO BE BROKEN

    With the breeze she was taken,

    All her emotions got awaken,

    Later she realised she was all broken ..

    She never received her love token.

    Her smile was stolen.

    Like a shooting star she was all fallen.

    She closed her eyes.. she saw life

    WHERE PROMISES WERE MADE TO BE BROKEN

    Ankita Patnail

  • 43 www.hallofpoets.com

    MIRZA GHALIB

    Article By Urooj Murtaza

    Mirza Ghalib. Picture from Google Images.

    Dabeer-ul-Mulk, Najm-ud-daulah Mirza Asadullah

    Baig khan "Ghalib", (born December 27, 1797, Agra India

    died February 15, 1869, Delhi) the preeminent Indian poet of

    his time writing in Persian, equally renowned for poems,

    letters, and prose piece.. Is in URDU.

    Born into an aristocratic family, Ghlib passed his youth in

    luxury. Subsequently, he was granted a small pension by the

    British government but had to struggle against penury and

    hardships. Recognition finally came in 1850, when he was

    appointed poet laureate to the

    last Mughal emperor, Bahadur shah II.

    Ghlibs best poems were written in three forms:

    Ghazal (lyric), Masnavi(moralistic or mystical parable),

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    and Qasidah (panegyric). His critics accused him of writing

    in an obscure and ornamental style of Persian

    incomprehensible to the masses. His verses affirm Gods

    omnipotence while questioning the misery of the

    phenomenal world.

    Mirza Ghalib is considered to be the most famous and

    influential poet of the Urdu Jagat. The popularity of Ghalib

    is not consolidated to India and Pakistan only but he is

    renowned across the world. His Ghazals are placed as most

    difficult and considered to be placed at the depth of Urdu

    literature He was a person who worked regardless of day to

    day livelihood, he spend life either on patronage, credit or

    generosity of his friends. Ghalib wrote his ghazals in Persian

    as well as in Urdu but his Urdu ghazals were much more

    popular. It is believed that he started his writing work

    earlier at the age of 19. As his ghazals were comprised of

    highly Persianised Urdu, it was hard for vast majority of

    people to understand his urdu ghazlas without extra effort

    aah ko chahyay ik umr asar honay tak

    Kaun Jeeta Hai Teri Zulf Ke Sar Hone Tak

    Daam Har Mauj Main Hai Halqa-E-Sadkaam-E-Nahang

    Dekhe Kya Guzre Hai Qatre Pe Gauhar Hone Tak

    Aashiqi Sabr-Talab Aur Tamanna Betaab

    Dil Ka Kya Rang Karun Khoon-E-Jigar Hone Tak

    Ham Ne Maana Ke Tagaaful Na Karoge Lekin

    Khaak Ho Jaayenge Ham Tum Ko Khabar Hone Tak

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    Partav-E-Khoor Se Hai Shabnam Ko Fanaa Ki Taalim

    Main Bhi Hoon Ek Inaayat Ki Nazar Hone Tak

    Yak Nazar Besh Nahin Fursat-E-Hasti Gaafil

    Garmi-E-Bazm Hai Ik Raqs-E-Sharar Hone Tak

    Gam-E-Hasti Ka Asad Kis Se Ho Juz Marg Ilaaj

    Shamma Har Rang Main Jalti Hai Sahar Hone Tak

    *****

  • 46 www.hallofpoets.com

    BEING POETRY

    Article by Sheikha A.

    Poetry is transportation. Where many definitions have been

    and continue to be penned about explaining or stating what

    poetry is about, each one being substantial in its own, my

    idea of poetry is meditation. I started writing poetry from

    my teenage years, being heavily inspired by the classical

    poets like Byron, Gibran, Rumi, etc. leaning on the spiritual

    and philosophical hills of expressing, and the idea of finding

    a connection with the universes expanse with the current

    situations of my life always found me contriving towards

    greater or deeper meaning. Poetry is not meant to be

    dissected even though, it is for various academic purposes,

    but as a personal stance, I prefer to live the verses like

    natural breathing. To leave the mysteries of a poet intact,

    without depriving the author of their secrets, poetry can be

    understood, embraced and adopted in its purest form which

    is to be simply read and accepted. The art of expression is

    free, whether poeming, painting, song writing, sculpting,

    collaging, crafting, etc. the basis remains one, and that is

    discovery. Allowing a creation to emerge from your mind

    and soul is a true release of energy. Most creations have

    found much criticism in being either positive or negative in

    its form, but if society does set barriers of expressions for

    reasons of curbing controversy or harmonizing ethics, and

    if we grant them for being correct in their enforcements, the

    beauty of an artist is in breaching those boundaries and

    attaining their expressive freedom through surreal, subtle,

    or even metaphysical forms.

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    Art is a vessel that can accommodate the bad, good, ugly,

    dark, evil, graceful, beautiful, and compassion all into one.

    It can hold each of those elements together in aesthetic

    cohesiveness whether fragmented, refined, coarse or

    absolute. A person should never stop expressing, even in

    non-artistic methods; one can create and build, the

    important aspect of it being in action. Dormancy can lead

    to several deaths of a single idea that can produce a sense of

    stoicism leading a person inwards into their own cyclones,

    which ultimately results in destruction. It can be argued

    that the most active minds could be the most destructive

    too, which is true, but there is always an immanent

    suppression of some kind towards or about some system that

    bred like a sore, never having found an outlet for releasing.

    Creative expression is a study of psychology in itself. I have

    been able to comprehend many poems much better now

    including those that I studied during school years from

    having first understood character and behavioural sciences

    of conduct. Most times, we were asked to study into the

    background of classical poets in our education system to

    gain insight about their life and experiences which lead

    them to write what they wrote, and understand the social

    and political hardships that influenced their writing. The

    romantic poets of those eras, too, had some element of

    imbalance in their writing that extended beyond just the

    faade of separation culminating from unrequited love.

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    Every piece of expression, in any genre or form, has a

    hidden story the unknown and the unknown-able

    regardless of the deepest meditation or thought we subject it

    too. Poetry, for me, in particular, has always been a telling

    of secrets without offering too many details. The

    metaphysics of it is in about being attuned to the allures

    and curiosities of the higher realms, and wanting to

    understand how our life can affect the whole, or vice versa.

    There is an undeniable coercion of self-discipline by and on

    oneself, to sit amid the whirlpool and increase the ratio of

    patience as the whirlpool rages from the harshest to mildest

    mode, eventually dying down like a mist settling on the

    ground around us whereupon we sit. It is in that short lived

    moment where the whirlpool takes a break before gathering

    dust into swirls is when we see the light or epiphany or

    truth or answer, or whatever it was we sought.

    In my writing of poetry, I have oscillated between various

    styles of writing, becoming easily enamoured by words I

    read from emerging or established writers, looking at

    artworks or reading about peoples lifestyles, preferences,

    appropriations, tendencies or even opinions, and always

    wanting to find an association or a way to relate to be able

    to co-exist even in the massive or smallest of differences,

    and looking for a balance of respect that can run mutually,

    if not in acceptance of anothers culture or religious

    representations, but in understanding their way of life, is

    what every form of Arts should ideally be about.

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    Poetry is one form of arts that is most intricate because of

    its tool which is words. A poem can actually fail if it

    doesnt deliver its image or essence. The same could be

    applied to other forms as well, but poetry has a duty to

    submit. To be able to arouse, captivate, invoke and evoke all

    through written renditions, connotations, suppositions,

    presumptions and alterations, all of this using words. Words

    are studied, and in many cases worshipped. Words are like

    a mass of clay in a potters wheel. Through words births the

    written act and form of poetry.

    My poems have dwelled on many subjects, but mostly a

    search for belonging, emancipations, spirituality and love

    finding a connection between the latter two. Only recently,

    since the past year, that I began to wallow in the dark arts,

    and the evil that motivates people towards degeneration

    that Ive written many poems trying to depict every

    possible side of it, and continue to discovering newer facets

    through watching real life cases and experiences. Of late, I

    realize I may be subconsciously mingling the dark with the

    nuances of love and spirituality because upon reflection, I

    tend to surprise myself with what I wrote. Poems that are

    written from meditation driving to your centre, closing

    that sphere and banishing the outside from entering are

    ones you truly write uninhibitedly. It is also difficult to

    achieve that sphere, but poetry is its ongoing process, one I

    am continually striving to attain.

    *****

  • 50 www.hallofpoets.com

    ART OF POETRY

    Poetry is the art that can neither be learnt nor taught but it

    is expressed in varied forms; sometimes in a proper pattern

    while sometimes feestyle. Since ages there are various forms

    that originated and became popular as the Poetic forms. In

    this section of our ezine, we will bring for you the beautiful

    poetic forms.

    DIAMANTE POEM

    Its a style of poetry that is made up of 7 lines. The text

    forms the shape of a lozenge or diamond. The form was

    developed by Iris Tiedt in a new poetry form [The

    Diamante] 1969.

    Structure :

    This poem is written using a set structure

    1: Beginning Subject

    2: Two describing words about line 1

    3: Three doing words about line 1

    4: A short phrase about line 1 A short phrase about line 7

    5: Three doing words about line 7

    6: Two describing words about line 7

    7: End subject

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    Article by:

    Urooj Murtaza

    Dr. Prerna Singla (Intro)

    References:

    Wikipedia.

  • 52 www.hallofpoets.com

    FUNNY LOVE STORY

    By Anjali Kullu

    Period. I was in a state of period; no not in my regular

    cycles. One of the saddest and lonely point of my life when I

    came across my Knight (just my lame imagination, his

    attitude was more of a Romeo.) He is someone who is fun

    like a badass and just a little crazy. So, how we ended up

    together was more of cosmos and mystery or say science

    than some fairytale love story. Hence, how things started

    Picture courtesy: Anjali Kullu

    I had an event (I was into part time events: I badly needed

    money back then) at Hyderabad, so, by the time I was done

    and landed back to Bangalore it was damn late past

    12.30am. So, I live in south of Bangalore; getting back to my

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    room this late was not an option when you stay alone in not

    so safe area. Hence, relying on my friend I called him to

    receive me. It was for the first time I went to his room (my

    friends are mostly boys, when you are into civil engineering

    the chances to have girl friends are always near to zero.) It

    was a cozy flat, one hall, a bedroom, kitchen and bathroom

    made up Sattus space (we christened him this name.) After

    freshening up I went to sleep in the bedroom having a large

    king-size bed. The bed and the room belonged to Sattus elder

    brother who was in office then that I learned about.

    After being assured that his brother wont show up I shut

    the door and slept without a blanket. Though being directed

    to take blanket from the cupboard, my etiquette didnt allow

    me to peek into others cupboard. Hence, I slept without one

    despite freezing. I usually cant sleep in a new bed but that

    day I simply dozed off. Being a dream lover unfortunately I

    had no dreams. Waking up right on time to go to class,

    unexpected: there was blanket on top of me while I feared

    the worse. I rushed to the washroom to look for any

    misdeed. But everything was perfectly fine; after freshening

    up I started to leave for my room when I learned that

    Sattus brother was already here. Wondering still about the

    blanket I left never once meeting his brother.

  • 54 www.hallofpoets.com

    Picture courtesy: Anjali Kullu

    So, after a month we are here, in my room me and Sattus

    brother. I remember one instance trying to login into the

    Wifi at Sattus place, asking Sattu for the password

    (wasim*****) my next question being, Who is Wasim?

    Giving a stare Sattu answered, My brother. They were

    brothers-cum-roommates since school days. There I came to

    know his name was Wasim though funnily I never called

    him bhaiya (brother), never felt the need to. He was our

    senior as he had passed from the same college. There at my

    place, it was the first time that I saw his face clearly. Okay,

    the thing is I dont eye men, no matter how handsome a guy

    is until unless they turn me on. And Wasim, oh boy, he is

    handsome! But I never bothered to look at him.

  • 55 www.hallofpoets.com

    Picture courtesy: Anjali Kullu

    I usually went to Sattus place for group study during

    semester exams; sometimes stayed back before the exams.

    Occasionally cooked dinner for us, one such night I prepared

    bhindi ki sabji (Ladys-finger curry.) We all sat to eat even

    Wasim; as I removed the lid from the vessel, all eyes fell on

    me, making me ponder on my mistake. Once the food was

    served and tasted I got my first compliment from none but

    Wasim The food is delicious reminds of my mothers (Now

    this statement was for real or just to impress, I am yet not

    sure.)

  • 56 www.hallofpoets.com

    Picture courtesy: Anjali Kullu

    So, coming from there, how this man ended up in my room!

    Huh, not mere coincidence, the previous night as usual I

    was at his place studying with friends. One of my friends,

    Sameer, had always hit on me from the start. Sameer was

    high: planned to hump me that night almost getting touchy.

    Now this I hate in men just because I am your friend or

    have only boy friends doesnt make me consent your pervert

    ways. Things went out of hand when he accused me of being

    at Sattus place plus letting no one to sleep with me. This

    raged me, I stormed out of the flat at 3am in the night; none

    of my friends came forward neither to stop nor to say sorry.

    I went straight to my room, bruised internally. Almost

    crying till morning, I slept around 10am and by the time I

    got up it was late evening.

  • 57 www.hallofpoets.com

    Bringing food from a small restaurant I came back in an

    hour. The place where I lived was one room cum bathroom

    kitchen attached space, but big enough for one person.

    Situated in top floor of the building it had a huge terrace

    and down below was occupied by army of men. Luckily,

    nobody ever bothered me, and though not safe I still lived

    there so as to keep my pockets from burning. I was still

    broken from last nights incident, what was more upsetting

    that I didnt have any friends to confide with. All my

    friends left me when I needed them the most while I was

    always there for them. I unwillingly finished my dinner and

    got busy cleaning my room.

    Picture courtesy: Anjali Kullu

    By exactly at 1am I got a call from an unknown number,

    hesitant I picked up the call. It was Wasim. We shared

    pleasantries and then he self invited himself. I, at first,

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    denied that it isnt a proper time to meet; he agreed but he

    added he has no place to go. So, I gave in to his request

    directing him my place. He came at 3am with one of my

    friend and bid him goodbye. That was awkward fearing his

    intentions I still let Wasim into my house.

    But the first thing he did after shutting the door was shout

    at me for not relying on him for the previous night that I

    went off without once informing him. He was angry

    because it was too late and unsafe for a girl to leave at 3 in

    the night. He was furious and sorry that he couldnt sleep

    whole night. He heard everything what was going on and

    feared for me but was helpless as I never once informed him.

    I know this sounds stupid but this is what happened after

    talking for an hour or so he slept in my cozy little bed. And

    I had to sleep next to him; funnily, he cuddled dozing like a

    baby.

    Picture courtesy: Anjali Kullu

  • 59 www.hallofpoets.com

    Love is more of science I feel, his smell was so arousing, it

    reminded me of smelling his towels and liking it. The smell,

    the profound aroma that lingered always gave me

    Goosebumps. As a matter of fact the night I came from

    Hyderabad it was Wasim who put a blanket around me. It

    was all meant to be but I feared the consequences because I

    didnt want to be in love but fate always have different

    plans for me. And so the lousy lamb did fell in the trap.

    Talking of science, he theoretically proposed me in three

    days of knowing me while I took around fourteen days to

    accept his love. Fearing the fate, I did fell in love. The cupid

    did get us falling for each other. Somehow, we connected

    and still rolling together funnily

    ******

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    DONE SOMETHING DIFFERENT

    & UNUSUAL IN LIFE?

    Share your shocking story with us and we will feature your

    story in the Hall of Poets International ezine.

    Send your entry at: [email protected]

    Website: www.hallofpoets.com

  • 61 www.hallofpoets.com

    PASSAGE

    A Garden-lily caresses my gaze;

    It bequeaths a pristine glory on me

    The ubiquitous moon cannot

    Out-shine its glow that smears

    My courtyard

    Its this bit of moon; this shredded legacy

    And nuptial bliss bestowed upon me

    That I bask under its illustriousness

    The voluptuous moon, frustrates your

    Inane awkwardness, that you inhale

    Among crackers, matchboxes

    Among festivals and rituals

    You travel deep, deep down among

    Throaty silences and mindless fissures

    Till our breath mingles in an explosion.

    I inhale your skin among fresh mint and banana

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    Syrups and lozenges, your apricot skin allures me

    Among untrodden ways

    Your eyes are gateways to gardens of babylon.

    Deeya Bhattacharya, 2016

  • 63 www.hallofpoets.com

    IN QUIETUDE

    Yellow pansies are a tell-tale of memories-they look into my

    face and buckle me up-I cannot explicate the difference in

    timescape-flitting from one dungeon into another-inelegance

    reverberating in my nerves.

    Ensuring my hurried scampering from one dungeon to the

    next, they spell mistiness. Far away the marshy swamps

    resound with the croaking of wild frogs-their bulging

    throats full of venom-an eeriness slowly engulfs me.

    Eeriness is misnomer I should rather say uncanny it is.

    Thoughts dwindling unbelievably I fondle for your warmth-

    warmth that once lingered upon my virgin skin in quietude.

    Deeya Bhattacharya, 2016

  • 64 www.hallofpoets.com

    HALL OF POETS ARTIST OF THE MONTH

    Dorina Costras

    POEM AT TWILIGHT (ART BY DORINA COSTRAS)

    About the painter Dorina Costras - by Anca Mihaela Bruma

    The moment I set my eyes on Dorina Costras paintings for

    the first time I knew her work was the perfect kind of

    artistic expression I had been looking for in terms of

    paintings.

  • 65 www.hallofpoets.com

    There is a dynamic balance in Dorinas compositions, which

    reflects how she sees the universal equilibrium between the

    two primordial forces: ying and yang, feminine and

    masculine, the higher and lower self, above as below. Her

    canvasses express a new revitalized energy with images

    that vibrate with strong saturated colors, and the main

    focus seems to be a moving spirit expressed through bright,

    glowingly exotic colors. Her paintings are characterized by

    grace and fluency developing the theme of divine influx as

    an expression of sacred femininity and sensuality, an

    interaction of divine forces within the human being,

    celebrating the wonders of life. Feminine beauty is the

    central landmark in her work, eternal and everlasting

    within a musical world.

    Dorina Costras, from Romania, is a prominent painter, a

    globally recognized artist whose works have been displayed

    at many exhibitions, and whose artwork has featured in

    various art albums and on book covers.

    what the artists says: "I like to transpose on canvas inner

    states, to interpret and render them... I paint from

    imagination and I have some favorite themes but the main

    character, in all of them, is the woman. I alternate between

    them depending on my mood and inspiration of the

    moment." (by Dorina Costras)

    Dorinas website:

    http://www.decorative.ro/

  • 66 www.hallofpoets.com

    ANOTHER KIND OF RHAPSODY (ART BY DORINA COSTRAS)

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    DREAM TRAVELLER (ART BY DORINA COSTRAS)

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    HEAVEN FOR TWO (ART BY DORINA COSTRAS)

  • 69 www.hallofpoets.com

    IMPOSSIBLE LOVE (ART BY DORINA COSTRAS)

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    IMPOSSIBLE LOVE (ART BY DORINA COSTRAS)

  • 71 www.hallofpoets.com

    IN THE LIGHT OF KNOWINGNESS

    (Inspired by Dorinas art Impossible Love)

    You complete the sentence within my highlight,

    Turn me into prose and decipher my twilight,

    Depict my silences with stars and moonlight......

    I was in the future!... Yet, you see my sidelight...

    I recreate the metaphor in you and jostle for the limelight,

    And every meter, lament and line raise its own sight,

    The verbs of your palm, I bring them to the eyesight,

    Our fingers build unknown languages into the headlight!...

    Let us burn in pages, as a song in a firelight!

    Embrace me with your eyes reflection and insight!

    As curator of curves I will build in you a stalactite,

    Casting and recreating each breath in the candlelight!

    I see in you an overture... An image to ignite,

    I leave an empty line to place your significance to recite!

    Your whispers on soft petals, give Love another sight,

    And the sum of my heart grows inside a crystallite!

    I forget to put commas and full stops overnight,

    Historia bivalente has been brought to the spotlight!

    As a fraction of our Existence is perplexed into the sunlight,

    And a chorus of dreams repeat psalms under starlight!...

    Rhymed lines and hopes bloom and reunite,

    Your punctuation takes the form of kisses and light,

  • 72 www.hallofpoets.com

    Until we destroy the language and leave the spaces bright,

    And I can see you frame by frame with its own height!...

    I martyred myself in You!... What a delight!...

    (Anca Mihaela - 25th March 2014)

    SUNSET KISS (ART BY DORINA COSTRAS)

  • 73 www.hallofpoets.com

    I AM NOT THAT!... I AM THIS!...

    (Inspired by Dorinas art Sunset Kiss.)

    I am not

    described by these

    epileptic diagnosis

    and eternal midnights...

    half dreams

    and stamped lives...

    I am not

    this tattooed persona,

    and not the lies

    justified by your own mouth!...

    I am not

    the coagulated rhythms

    of your googled thoughts,

    and not the paragraph in which

    ONCE you loved me!...

    I am not

    your Life Story

    filled with anxious antonyms

    and unlearnt lessons...

    I am not

    these epidermic proclamations

    of your reiterated assumed pains...

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    I am not

    the maze of your intricate conversation

    filled by holographic nemesis

    and self contradictory promises!

    I am not

    your reflected misread images

    and scribbled immature emotions,

    which... u collect for a white procession...

    I am not

    your days and nights

    on which you spread your ink

    as a fraction of MY Existence!...

    I am not

    your double "I"-s

    and sampled love.

    I AM THIS

    tantalizing Verb called

    "To Love"!

    And....

    I cannot be dethroned

    from your Life Song!...

    Anca Mihaela Bruma

  • 75 www.hallofpoets.com

    A GIANT LEAP TOWARDS THE VISION OF

    UNIVERSAL FAMILY

    On the human family tree, we are all cousins. united by

    blood and emotions

    Our genes, our bodies are all the same, albeit separated by

    great oceans

    We share the same outlook, that should bind us in a deep

    connection

    There is every reason that we are all one and there is truth

    in this conception

    Yet, humans are divided in their minds by race,religion,

    caste,and class,

    Causing never ending strife. hatred, and incalculable

    human loss

    Ethnic cleansing, religious wars, racial conflicts poisons our

    mind

    Fighting our indomitable human spirit and vision of

    universal family behind

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    This anarchy, this malice ,this avarice, this fanaticism, this

    extremism is spreading like cancer

    To live and experience the beauty, the immensity and

    mystery of this universe, we must workout an answer

    Each human deserves equality, respect and inalienable right

    of belonging to one home, one Universe

    If all of us take a small step, this will prove to be a giant

    leap towards making world as sweet as as a verse

    We believe proudly that we have accomplished many

    things, wealth, fame and power

    Yet, all these things never brought us neither inner peace

    nor world peace, still we cower

    Let us tame the animal within us to shun violence , greed

    and unquenchable hunger for money

    Accept the worth of all fellow humans and encourage the

    ability of all to promote harmony

    K.Radhakrishnan/2016

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    BURNING

    The enchanting fire grate lay beside..

    Immortal with metamorphic passions...

    Passions - that drove both of us..

    Lying together on the comfortable bed..

    I espied it burning..

    Burning precisely in both of us..

    With that shimmer in your eyes, ink brows and manly

    curls...

    Instincts played..

    My head in the hollow of your shoulder

    I melted into your body..

    My hands cafund you....

    You leaning on me ... Stimulated by the idea of heightened

    pleasures

    Thus, pushing the sides of my gown..

    With the last fastening undone..

    You placed pecks on my bareness..

    While your hands cupped my bosom..

    I shuddered,

    Beneath the light strokes..

    Reluctant to leave the pleasure of your hands..

    Unerringly my fingers made its own way ... to your fabric

    down below desperation had already started its search

    for the sheltered pearl of my womanhood...

    Rectifying the completion of ecstasy

    The temporal thoughts evaporated at the sound of sensual

    requests..

    I grasped the sensation of welcoming a loved one home..

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    We both lay contended,

    your head in the hollow of my shoulder...

    My hairs sweeping your chest

    We remained silent..

    Neither of us wishing to speak...

    Vaishalivasshu sarkar

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    THE SADDEST TREE

    The saddest tree

    Almost cried

    In the arms of widowed earth

    And an orphan bird

    In love with the broken skies

    The pains swam back

    To the unfertile heart

    As i go round and round

    Of the saddest tree...

    What you did to me

    Is what autumn does to green trees

    Damaged and fading

    When the silence gets too loud..

    And my skin is cultivated with loneliness

    The orphan bird

    Under the broken skies

    Is my souls companion

    On the dented scratched path..

    Towards your promise..

    Where there is not a patch of sky..

    Till nothing's left unseen...

    Urooj Murtaza

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    THE FLOATING STONES

    REVIEW BY Dr. PRERNA SINGLA

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    The floating stones is a collection of 57 poems written by

    Tanni Bose. The poems variedly present a rainbow of

    thoughts by way of scenarios and stories that are both

    heart touching and mindfully profound.

    In her poetry poet expresses the essence of death by way of

    leaves, Essence of beauty by way of Sculpture carved in

    Marble, Faith in the smoke from burning incense,

    Opponent in the fear she fights with, the universal fact of

    impermanence in the dying Gulmohar... She has

    beautifully used nature to express her thoughts.

    In the poem Dry Leaves, poet expresses the dying of a

    leaf when it goes through the last phases of its life and

    metaphorically using the same, she expresses that she

    would like to die a death with which even the traces of

    her disappear rather than a life that is lived in sadness

    and pain.

    Her poem The Artist presents a beautiful thought

    carved into a poetic story saying that beauty lies in the

    eyes of beholder. It is a soul that is more beautiful than

    the external appearance. It is the nature that is more

    attractive than a pretty face... and when met with a

    marvel like that, the world wonders who carved the

    beauty of it.

    Rating: 4/5

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    Verses that touched me:

    Days and months pass, the mind covers ages

    He takes refuge in the Lord and now his thought

    changes. (The Refugee)

    Fear, be fearful of me

    I will capture your pride and steed. (Dauntless fear)

    They want to abide by your side

    But land up with my company beside

    So, I am the winner and ever will be

    Since they say, I am the world and the world is me.

    (Sorrow)

    Trivial is dust to our minds

    We dont count on them (Dust)

    MY FAVOURITE POEM: THE SEVEN SISTERS

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    ABOUT THE AUTHOR

    Mrs. Tanni Bose works as an educator in Aravali

    International School, Faridabad now. She was an

    English Teacher at Tendruk Higher Secondary School of

    the Royal Government of Bhutan hails from Kolkata,

    West Bengal. She was born and brought up in the steel

    city of Rourkela, since her father was a SAIL employee

    there.

    Writing was always a passion for Mrs. Tanni. However,

    2008 became a defining year in her life since she could

    publish a few of her works in the school magazine and

    made a self-discovery that she was indeed in romance

    with literature. It formally bloomed in 2012 when her

    first anthology Dawn and Dusk was published. Her readers, including critics confessed that a new breeze in

    poetry writing is here to blow to soothe and to ruffle too,

    of course. Her passion for reading and writing assured

    her a berth in the Writers Association of Bhutan and the

    Edu Talk where she thinks aloud to make the readers

    ponder, delight and at times wrinkle their brows. Her

    writing in facebook and her blog A Grain of Faith are being followed by many. Her articles in Student Digest and Norzam Speaks both publications in Bhutan are well taken by readers at large. She also contributes

    regularly in the international journal by

    Ciberwitnet.com TajMahal Review

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    She has represented Bhutan as an official delegate in

    the SAARC Literary festivals in Thimphu, Bhutan in

    2013. She was a delegate in the FOSWAL Literary

    Festivals at Agra and Jaipur in 2015 and in Delhi in

    2016 February as well.

    Floating Stones is her second work of poems, ringing the inescapable paradox of existential pulls and pushes.

    The poetess here is swayed by multiple senses and

    sensibilities, reflected in these poems.

    Her third Book The Molested Clay is also ready for printing.

    Writing apart, Mrs. Bose loves reading, music and her

    students. Love given reciprocates. After all books support her; music heals her aches and her students

    adore her. Life then becomes poetry to her.

    *****

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    ALI ALI ALI...MISS THEE

    First Boxer known to me?

    Muhammad Ali,

    first book read, although I

    had Malcolm X,

    didn't feel ready so instead,

    I read the other M,

    his autobiography gave me

    laughter and a better understanding of him.

    Favorite character in fight night 3?

    you know the answer?

    Muhammad Ali,

    if I cornered you expect a speedy flurry,

    I was fast with the buttons like him with the feet,

    in the game he felt like a butterfly

    and

    definitely stings like a bee;

    My brother would be Frazier,

    Thrilla in Manila,

    rematches until the early hours,

    I would be the winner,

    giving him Ali combo showers.

    Muhammad Ali he was

    tall and wise like a tree,

    down to earth with his roots,

    he knew his history.

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    Muhammad Ali

    you live in peoples heart,

    boxing was not much of a picture

    until you brought your art,

    29th of October when boxing saw this star.

    Cassius Clay,

    god made him in his image

    and said "you cannot touch this face"

    so go gave him a good

    offense and defense with a unique pace.

    He had a child like attitude

    Kept his opponents confused,

    They really wanted to whoop him,

    But he's lightning in shoes.

    An icon of his time

    and

    he was wicked with the rhyme,

    he didn't only have a wicked punch,

    but had many wicked punch lines.

    So many wise quotes

    and

    experienced notes,

    serious behind the scene

    and

    could put on a show.

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    I was never a boxing fan,

    but i could watch this man,

    his heart, his desires would

    speak through his hands.

    Muhammad Ali is poetry,

    so am I and I write this for him,

    now he's in heaven,

    boxing with legends,

    infinite rounds in a golden ring,

    Rest in peace to a boxing king.

    "The peoples champ,

    the greatest,

    Louisville Lip,

    thank god for your existence

    and

    you will truly be missed"

    Le Hornet

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    FA LA LA

    Hold me one more time my love

    I am fading into an absent state of mind

    Falling from this abstract, ambient dream painted thereof

    peace an isolated hue

    Strange, I cannot bring myself to pluck flower petals from

    these flowers

    For, in time like I, will they wither in die

    So, I empathizesympathizing to the point of vanity

    Caring in a way that may allow them to have but a few

    more moments to sing

    With those vibrant colour which add a verity of tones to

    this dying worldI mean

    It seems we tend to rush that which is meant to be

    Death looms, love is forever, and our consciousness fiends

    for them to sets us free

    Fa la lala lala fleur de dieu (The Flower Of God)

    The misplaced lullaby that wanders in my lost corrupted

    mind

    Kiss me one more time my love

    As I am aging, decaying, and declining to see the hope in

    tomorrow

    Yet, your lipsthe gentle curves of your rejuvenating lips

    And the their passionate touch revitalizes my faith

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    In that your beautiful face will be there when I awake

    within that un-promised morning

    Just like those flower petals I felt for, took pity on and

    dreamt about

    Thereby, If by the grace of God may you be my flower to

    which I could care for

    Thus, within these fleeting moments tied to time I would

    paint pictures dedicated to you

    Lacing emptying canvases with a sheen that mimics your

    vibrant esoteric glow

    Having your image to be the reason my quill floods a page

    with nonstop poetry

    All to make something like your essence everlasting

    As if you were to corrupted the mind of God

    As this lullaby has mineFa la lala lala fleur de dieu a

    perpetual ambient hue

    ~ Paradises Poet ~ (Tony)

    rarityofparadise.wordpress.com

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    I WOULD LIKE TO BE A CHILD

    I'm two years old

    and I have many wires

    on the arms

    they put them

    even on the head

    and sometimes

    on the legs,

    I don't understand

    what they're doing

    but I cry

    because it hurts.

    I was told

    that outside

    the world is beautiful

    but when do I go out

    of this box?

    I'm two years old

    and I have many wires,

    if I were a child

    they wouldn't do it

    they would cry out

    that it's horrible,

    you too

    would think the same.

    But a little mouse

    doesn't arouse pity

    and when

    I shout

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    with pain

    nobody hears

    nobody listens

    nobody cries.

    I would like to be

    a child

    and yet

    I too

    have hands, legs,

    eyes and ears,

    have nose, mouth,

    nerves and heart,

    and yet

    I too

    tremble and suffer,

    I'm cold,

    I'm scared

    and I feel pain.

    I would like to be

    a child

    to see

    the world

    and forget

    a box

    and many wires.

    Gianfranco Aurilio

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    VORREI ESSERE UN BIMBO

    DALLA RACCOLTA INTORNO A ME

    Ho due anni

    e tanti fili

    per le braccia

    anche in testa

    me li mettono

    e qualche volta

    nelle gambe,

    non capisco

    cosa fanno

    per piango

    perch fa male.

    Mhan detto

    che fuori

    il mondo bello

    ma quando esco

    da questa scatola?

    Ho due anni

    e tanti fili,

    se fossi un bimbo

    non lo farebbero

    griderebbero

    che orrore,

    anche tu

    lo penseresti.

    Ma un topolino

    non commuove

  • 94 www.hallofpoets.com

    e quando

    grido

    di dolore

    nessuno sente

    nessuno ascolta

    nessuno piange.

    Vorrei essere

    un bimbo

    eppure

    anchio

    ho mani, gambe,

    occhi e orecchi,

    ho naso, bocca,

    nervi e cuore,

    eppure

    anchio

    tremo e soffro,

    ho freddo,

    ho paura

    e ho dolore.

    Vorrei essere

    un bimbo

    per vedere

    il mondo

    e dimenticare

    una scatola

    e tanti fili.

    Gianfranco Aurilio

    http://www.gianfrancoaurilio.it/poems

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    THE RIGVEDIC POETRY

    By Kiron Krishnan

    KIRON KRISHNAN

    The Rigvedic poetry is full of metaphors and exquisite

    poems that talk of the parallels between natural phenomena

    outside and the spiritual phenomena inside. Rigvedic poems

    normally do appear to speak about some natural symbol,

    until in the same poem you see one key left by the poet to

    decode. That may be the usage of a known metaphor

    symbol in Vedas, or the continued usage of the pun words.

    At a point, you realize that the poetry you are reading is

    too deep to be decoded from a single perspective. In a way,

    you are amazed at their stunning usage of the beautiful

    poetic language Sanskrit to weave their beautiful poetry.

    The poems of Vedas have a poetic metre in which they are

    written, and a subject on which they deal. The concepts of

    Vedic divinities are a notable one. As we read in the last

    article, the Veda calls the ultimate Reality, the One, as

  • 96 www.hallofpoets.com

    "who". It is this "who" who is the "one Reality" (ekam sad) or

    "That One" (tad ekam), and this Reality is just "spoken of as

    different" by the people. Thus Vedas are inclusive basically,

    and they never limit the concept of the Divinity. According

    to them, Divinity is infinitely mouldable, but all your

    descriptions still cannot pervade its greatness.

    It would sound something very

    funny and sarcastic - but on pondering over the lines, we do

    realise the pun in it. The "who" is the question, and we

    expect an answer for it. It is the question that shows we

    know the outward attributes or features of the person, but

    do not know his identity or inner Reality. For example, I

    say "who?" as a question only when I know something the

    "who" has done/effected or like the person is right before me,

    but in all cases I don't know the actual identity. Such a

    situation implies the limits of our brain, our own knowledge

    - we know something caused due to the person, but we don't

    know the identity of the person. An unanswered who

    simply shows the above qualities.

    It shows the incomprehensibility of the person, it shows that

    the person is beyond what knowledge can cover, it shows

    that the person is always beyond the reach of senses and can

    only be felt through the splendour he has left for us to

    question. Though this idea seems a pessimistic one for a

    seeker, in reality, it actually does promote the need for

    finding a cause that is beyond his knowledge limits. The

    final Reality is best described by a question, which needs to

  • 97 www.hallofpoets.com

    be answered by someone. Of course we have to seek, and get

    our answers from the same "who".

    The poetic beauty of the lines that use

    the who for the Reality is so exqusite. This is further used

    for the poem in the famous creation poem of Rigveda

    (10.129), and in several poems of Vedas. The who is the One

    Reality that actually knows everything. Thus, the spiritual

    sun, the Vedic symbol of Ultimate Reality has its bright

    lustre that prevents us from looking within. The bright

    lustre of the spiritual sun induces the question "who" in us,

    and the answer is but behind its golden lustre. Or sometimes,

    Veda calls it poetically, the origin of golden lustre, or

    Hiraya-garbha. The sun as we experience is not the sun

    behind it.

    In the beginning was the origin of Golden lustre,

    Manifested as the sole Lord of land, skies, water, space and

    that beneath

    He upheld the earth and the heaven.

    To the who, the shining one, we offer worship with oblations.

    Rigveda 1.121.1

    The expression of the who as something to be found out

    through seeking is a typical seeker's philosophy that echoes

    in the beautiful pun of "who".

    The Vedic metaphors are

    present for every physical symbol, from land to sky. But the

    most basic of them is the couple of sky and earth. The sky is

    the symbol of "spiritual realms", while earth symbolises the

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    "physical mind". The concepts of God, are born in our mind

    during the "spiritual dawn", and are born from the earth of

    our minds, and rise up as the sun to the spiritual realms.

    Our Self, one with the sun, traverses the spiritual realms

    upto the sky, and returns to the earth of mind during

    physical life. The Vedic sages considered spirituality to be

    complementing physical life, and not simply one shall be a

    healthy thing. One should do his duties, both spiritual as

    well as physical, this is compared with the sun rising and

    setting as per law.

    Even beyond this metaphorical symbol, one poet

    (Maitravaruni Vasishtha) tells poetically that he sails to

    and fro in the sky with his boat of Self, the Sun.

    Thus most of the natural

    metaphors in Rigveda have a spiritual symbol associated.

    The poems become so wonderful as they begin to use pun

    words apart from these metaphors. For example, the

    Nasadiya sukta, Rigvedic poem of Creation states that at

    the beginning of creation :

    "Non existence / Unreal did not, nor did existence / reality

    exist then,

    There was no rajas then, nor the realm beyond it.

    What covered it, Where, In whose keeping,

    What, the cosmic water, existed, in depths unfathomed?"

    Here, the word in Italics is a Sanskrit word with two

    meanings - rajas which means both atmosphere and the

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    psychological quality of behavior with a small level of

    ignorance. This is the key we get to decode the subject of the

    poem, right in its opening lines. If we see the first meaning

    as air, we get the poem starting as talking about a timeless

    situation where there is no existence or non existence - there

    is no atmosphere or realm beyond it. The subsequent lines

    are presented as a question, for which we will see answers

    in coming lines : "At first there was only darkness wrapped

    in darkness. All this was only unillumined water...".

    But now lets think of the other situation - rajas meaning the

    psychological quality of little but lesser ignorance. Then,

    reading the first line, we are reminded of a totally ignorant

    situation where there is no distinction between reality and

    unreality. The next line again, compliments the above by

    telling that there was not even the rajas quality of lesser

    ignorance, nor the upper realm of pure knowledge in the

    spiritual man. All that covered was the question

    "what/why" (kim, the Sanskrit word means both what and

    why). It covered it in the abode of "who", the Ultimate

    Reality. As we see, "waters" represent the thoughts in

    physical mind parallel to the vast sky. The poet now tells

    that the thought of what (or why) was the water (thought)

    that existed in unfathomed depths.

    Similarly, the poem progresses until the last

    portion,, with the same unbroken parallel meanings of

    spiritual and physical creations. The whole poem is an

    unparalleled masterpiece in Sanskrit poetry and its wisdom

    stands still unquestioned. In the coming days, as we have

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    seen the basic poetic metaphors underlining the Vedic

    poems, we shall be looking further into this poem of creation

    in detail.

    *****

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    ONE EVENING WITH ME

    I place my thoughts

    on a thread of consciousness

    to design a garland

    of soul's memories.

    Whoa! Fire!

    Doesn't it romantically blend in?

    Fumes can only suffocate

    but burns are tattoos

    of loved ones,

    marks of memories

    on skins that never shed

    in a long lifetime.

    Seriously?

    Dreams.

    Kisses have

    low boiling points:

    volatile gifts of summer

    get washed away

    in sophisticated machines

    while dreams yearn for

    rice between rails of fate.

    Rituals.

    Aren't women divine?

    I loved a girl in twenties.

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    People called her a witch

    for she worked even

    when she bled;

    when she bled every month,

    she offered prayers,

    better than men who

    were single shakers,

    who carried ova

    of voyeurism in selves,

    like the Satan who stays

    pregnant with bastards.

    Yet, they called her a witch.

    Prosecution.

    I fight for my land

    that now rots in fouls

    but was once golden.

    I fight for my land:

    had I been born then

    I would have pride,

    then why not now?

    The soil still basks in the old spirit,

    only spirits have changed.

    I live for the goodness.

    Cuckoo calls find me.

    They search for you too.

    Poor wings!

    They cannot carry their calls

    over oceans and unknown marshlands!

    I can, but, send you records!

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    But I won't!

    Haha!

    -Rupam Goswami

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    ~BE

    Shall I stand in ovation

    And applauds

    On thy style

    Shimmering, blinking

    Falls from sky

    Felt in depths

    Within

    Invisible from

    Naked eyes

    O my love, O my life

    How shall I describe

    Thy presence

    Smiling, dancing like

    Stubborn childs pride

    What comes next

    What future holds

    Let thinker decide

    O my love, O my heart

    How shall I define

    Thy nonsense

    Ah! Balouch

    Shivering, rattling like

    Withered leaf

    Attached to branch

    Yearns to be free

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    Float on winds

    Fly with breeze

    Fall on the womb

    From where it be

    O my love, O my soul

    How shall I explain

    Thy grievance

    Asif Balouch (Asif Ajaz)

    Copyright June 9, 2016

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    LOSS

    We spoke today;

    words silently popping up

    on the small cellular screen

    cradled in the palm of my hands

    Like a lifeline I wait,

    agonizing moments bound

    tight like rubber bands

    waiting for what

    I still don't know

    but I wait quietly

    pacing the cold kitchen tiles

    cursing the miles between us

    I wanted to find myself

    so I walked away

    from everything I knew,

    from everything true

    and all that I found was loss

    Priya Patel ~ June 7, 2016

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    Interview with Dr. Aprilia Zank

    Theoretician of poetry, translator, poet

    by

    Anca M. Bruma

    Dr. APRILIA ZANK

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    Anca M. Bruma: I know that you yourself have done

    interviews with various well-known people. What is, in your

    opinion, the 'must' for an interview?

    Yes, I have had the chance to meet and interview some

    renowned personalities such as the poet George Szirtes,

    winner of the T. S. Eliot Poet