Dylan Thomas Photo credit: Nora Summers; copyright, Gabriel Summers
More than Words (by Vatsala Radhakeesoon, writer/poet, organizer)
No celebration is complete without the power of music. Thus, Music gives a deeper dimension to Dylan Thomas Day as well.
Thank you to all singers who have submitted their creative works for this literary event.
Here are some songs about Dylan Thomas:
Giles Matthews Wales
Son of the Wave
Robert Lloyd Australia
In my craft or sullen Art (Dylan Thomas’s poem sung)
Poem:
In my Craft or Sullen Art
In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arms, I labour by singing light Not for ambition or bread Or the strut and trade of charms On the ivory stages But for the common wages Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart From the raging moon I write On these spindrift pages Nor for the towering dead With their nightingales and psalms But for the lovers, their arms Round the griefs of the ages, Who pay no praise or wages Nor heed my craft or art.
Dylan Thomas Photo credit: Nora Summers; copyright, Gabriel Summers
Professor Tony Curtis Wales
Extract from My Life with Dylan Thomas
byTony Curtis
Every time we drive down to our house in Lydstep we stop in Carmarthen and park in that large car-park where my junior school Pentrepoeth had stood, or sometimes in the multi-storey next to the new Debenham’s. My parents had pulled some strings to get me into that school; I should have gone to The Model School off Catherine Street, where my father and uncle had gone and where Dylan’ father DJ Thomas had been taught before his successful entry to the University of Aberystwyth.
From the top floor of Debenham’s car-park I can look down on Pentrefelin Street and the back garden of the house where I was born. Next door-but-one and also a few doors further along were two families of coracle fishermen, one called the Thomas Dwr. They would have been the background characters as Dylan’s Grandpa was asked:
“And what do you think you are doing on Carmarthen bridge in the middle of the afternoon… with your best waistcoat and your old hat?”
Grandpa did not answer, but inclined his face to the river wind, so that his beard was set dancing and wagging as though he talked, and watched the coracle men move, like turtles, on the shore. ‘I am going to Llangadock to be buried.’ And he watched the coracle shells slip into the water lightly, and the gulls complain over the fish-filled water…’There’s no sense in lying dead in Llanstephan.’”
On a fine autumn day in 1995 we attended a brief ceremony of the interment of Glyn Jones’s ashes in the church of St Stephen on the Towy estuary; Glyn was a deeply serious man with an irrepressible twinkling humour; he saw every sense in lying dead in Llanstephan and was smiling over us that day.
-*-
On our journeys to Pembrokeshire we invariably stop for coffee in the first-floor Café Revive of M&S in Carmarthen. Looking out of the window at the pedestrianized street with its Boots and Clarks shoe shop I can’t help but see the ghost of Nelson’s Garage where my father worked after the war and through the decade of the 1950s. The other side of the street behind the bland and uniform retail units, in a lane now gone, he had his workshop where my mother and I would sometimes visit; he’d be there with dismantled electric car parts, repaired not simply discarded and replaced in those days, and the Sorcerers’ sinister large glass containers of battery acid with their acrid and biting tang. Oh, and always an unconscious Woodbine at his lips. This workshop was on Shaw’s Lane close to The Stag’s Head and the Nelson Hotel; it may well have been on the spot where the Ladbroke’s Bookies is now. Just up Lammas Street at the end of the lane is The Boar’s Head regularly frequented (as were many of the town’s myriad pubs) by Dylan on his way from Laugharne to the rest of the world. Lammas Street which in “A Visit to Grandpa’s” is where the young Dylan and his Grandpa’s neighbours “rattled down” in their search for the old man, gone missing from Llanstephan. At The Boar’s Head before the war Augustus John had punched Dylan and left him on the road while he drove off with Caitlin to bed her in Laugharne. On the eighth of October, 1953, it was at The Whore’s Bed, as he re-named the hotel, that Dylan took his last drink in west Wales before catching the train to London and the plane to New York.
From my father’s work-shop on our way back home to Pentrefelin Street we’d make our way up Lammas Street towards Brian the Butcher’s whose plump breasts, splayed legs and firm sausages were carefully weighted and wrapped as double entendres. It is a sunny autumn day with candy floss clouds and not a hint of rain from the west. As we pass the Boar’s Head Hotel a man emerges, half-stumbling, loudly proclaiming in mid-sentence, “…Carmarthen, Carmarthen, on my pennyfarthen’…” and my mother takes my hand more firmly and pulls me a little too quickly down the street.
Dylan Thomas Photo credit: Nora Summers; copyright, Gabriel Summers
Celebrating International Dylan Thomas Day 2024 in Colours by Vatsala Radhakeesoon (Writer/poet/artist/Organizer)
International Dylan Thomas Day is celebrated each year on 14th May. This date marks the anniversary of the reading of Dylan Thomas’s popular play Under Milk Wood for the first time in New York in 1953.
This event aims at bringing people of all artistic fields on a single platform by expressing their appreciation for Dylan Thomas’s writings. So, I am glad to feature the works of some artists inspired by the words of that unique Welsh poet.
Many thanks to those artists!
Hope Art-lovers will appreciate the following paintings:
Gianpiero Actis Italy
Dylan Thomas -Portrait Acrylic on canvas board 40 x30 cm
Gianpiero Actis is the co-founder (with Aeronwy Thomas – Dylan Thomas’ daughter) of the art-literary movement “Immagine & Poesia”, and he often offers his artworks as “responses” to poems of different writers.
His artworks are in permanent exhibitions / collections in Italy and abroad (Promotrice delle Belle Arti, Torino /Dylan Thomas Centre, Swansea Wales, /Musée de Huy, Belgium)
Innovation and deep cultural background are the main features of his artworks
Gloria Keh, 72, began painting since childhood. Her late father, Martin Fu, an oil painter, was her first art teacher. She studied mandala art and symbolism at the Theosophical Society in Melbourne, Australia, for over 10 years and undertook a short course in art therapy in Singapore.
In 2008, Gloria founded Circles of Love, a non profit charity outreach program, using her art in the service to humanity.
She has participated in over 150 art exhibitions. These include Art Expo New York, Shanghai Art Fair, Affordable Art Fairs in Hong Kong and Singapore, Art Basel Red Dot Miami, Contemporary London, Paris Art Fair 2021 & 2022, Tokyo International Art Fair 2021, several biennales in Italy and at the MEAM Barcelona.
Ten solo exhibitions:
Gallery Steiner (Vienna, Austria); three solos in Singapore; Yukyung Art Museum /Haegeumgang Theme Museum, the Daesan Art Museum and the Yeosu Art Museum in South Korea (2022); at The Kil Hwan Chang Art Museum (2023) South Korea; in Taipei, Taiwan (2023) and in the Philippines (2023).
She Won over 20 international art awards including the ATIM Top 60 Masters art award 2020 in New York.
Ruben Molina Perez Venezuela
The ship Acrylic on canvas 35 cm x 30 cm
RUBEN ANTONIO MOLINA PEREZ was born in Barinitas Venezuela on October 23, 1969; He got a Bachelor of Education degree with a mention in cultural development at the Simón Rodríguez Experimental University. He has worked as a teacher in the areas of drawing, painting and printed systems in various institutions such as the Neumann Design Institute in Caracas, Venezuela. His works have been exhibited both locally and internationally. Through his Art, he has contributed to various social and environmental events intended to fight for good causes.
Krishav Swarit Sanayasi Mauritius
Life beyond Sunset Acrylic on pebble 11 cm x 7 cm
Krishav Sanayasi is a 10-year-old boy, who has discovered his passion for Art from the age of 5. He likes painting, crafting and inventing gadgets of which he makes instructional videos. To-date, he has done 80 paintings. He has participated in many art contests, both at national and international level and he has won most of them. He has illustrated the French children’s book, L’oiseau de mauvais augure of Mauritian author, Amarnath Hosany and he has also contributed as an artist in the Mauritian anthology , Lire , une anthologie internatinale ,edited by writer, Issa Asgarally .
Lidia Chiarelli Italy
Tribute to Dylan Thomas Digital Collage printed on canvas from an original photo by Nora Summers 40 x 30 cm
Lidia Chiarelli (Torino, Italy). Writer and Artist, co-founder, with Aeronwy Thomas, of the art-literary Movement Immagine & Poesia (2007). Award -winning poet. Six nominations to Pushcart Prize, USA. Literary Arts Medal (NY) 2020. KEL winner’s plaque 2022. Her poems are translated and published in many languages.
Dylan Thomas Photo credit: Nora Summers; copyright, Gabriel Summers
Let’s Celebrate International Dylan Thomas Day 2024
by Vatsala Radhakeesoon (writer/poet, Editor and Organizer)
Dear Poets and Literature-lovers,
International Dylan Thomas Day is celebrated each year on 14th May. This date marks the anniversary of the reading of Dylan Thomas’s popular play Under Milk Wood for the first time in New York in 1953.
This year, submissions have been open to languages, other than English and it is really gratifying to have received a poem in Italian and French accompanied by English translations.
I’m grateful to the UK authorities and Immagine and Poesia (Italy) for being supportive in conducting this special event on my blog.
Many thanks to the poets whose works have been selected and featured below.
Hope all readers will enjoy reading them and continue to value the writings of Dylan Thomas.
Derek Davies Wales
Poetic Inspiration…
Taylor Swift, this nation calls you Back to Cymru, where dragons roam; Dylan Thomas, that poetic inspiration Land of Wales, my heart, my home..
To this place, great songs of my homeland From a country, where coal was king; Poetry plays upon those harp strings Music to my soul to bring..
Taylor Swift your chosen inspiration The bard, a legend born for fame; A poet that vibrates, down through the history books An honour that you chose his name..
The tortured poets department That written piece of music From the bottom of a pen; Lyrics from a global pop star For the world to love again..
Taylor Swift, this nation, it still calls you Back to Cymru, where only dragons there roam; Dylan Thomas, our poetic inspiration Land of Wales, my heart, my home..
Derek Davies is a sixty-four-year-old semi-retired builder, originally from Swansea, Wales in the UK. He started out on his road of poetry through his lifelong love of playing guitar, singing and writing song lyrics. His inspirational poets to date are Manchester’s Tony Walsh, Wrexham spoken word poet, Evrah Rose and of course the late Welsh poet Dylan Thomas. He has always tried to write with enthusiasm, passion and deep inner emotion. He has written around two hundred poems to date, including a couple on the late Welsh screen actor Richard Burton.
Barbara Anna Gaiardoni Italy
LET GO
Honeymoon Of Peace Gives The moon a break
Original Italian version:
LASCIA ANDARE
Luna di miele Della Pace Lascia In pace La luna
Barbara Anna Gaiardoni alias @bag is the winner of the First Prize 2023 “Zheng Nian Cup”, National Literature Price and finalist of the Edinburgh “Writings Leith” contest. She received two nominations for the Touchstone Award 2023, recognized on the Haiku Euro Top 100 list for 2023 and on The Mainichi’s Haiku in English Best 2023. Her Japanese-style poems have been published in The Mainichi, Asahi Haikuist Network, The Japan Society UK and in 127 other international journals.
Kusahal Poddar India
Treaties, Annals And Dylan Thomas
I
‘Do not go gentle into that good night’
I throw away the balcony. It follows the trajectory of the last cigarette, sex, sixth sense, furniture, bed, pane and the entire floor I have thrown away. I jettison quiet, and no, I shall not ‘go gentle into that good night’. I shall not ‘go gentle into that good night’.
The city of the smoke rises above its ashes. One chokes and lives. Flame can be seen in hindsight.
I browse the program schedule. The choices in memory are either a fire or a looped visual of brown leaves and transparent plastic blowing in the wind.
II
“The hand that signed the treaty bred a fever,” – Dylan Thomas
As if the men fallen will rise, yawn and stretch, will begin to remove the debris and sweep the minefields between two states, and will pave the broken ways.
In a scene, imagine, I pull and peel off my burnt skin, my rotten flesh denuding the bones, and then put on the meat bought from one of those ration-stores set up by the government.
As if the treaties can end a war, unpoison the wells, populate the landscape with the extinct flora and fauna.
I sit on a pile of books scooped from a kaput library. I shall build four columns and a roof with those until I find some concrete.
Kushal Poddar is the author of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ . He has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe.
“SEEDPOD OF DREAMS”A writing inspired by the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas:
“Life always offers a second chance, is called tomorrow.”
Dear Distraction, To the next morning or morrow, sometimes a thought is shallow. Who are we? Packs of dreams in the distant echo? Changing the journey from several classes, copybooks, pens and handwritings, innocence has scribbled since childhood. In life’s school, learning comes from packages and is continuous.
Subjects alone undefine us. What transforms us? Grasping the ologies and the other terminologies is a surety for an attentive learner. The pathway of careers is well selected from a list of royal choices.
A stack of diplomas and degrees demarks the graduates. In academics, competence and competition are demonstrated by laureates. Not speaking about intelligent quotient and other legends!
Howbeit, chance is aureate. Yet, several students are left uninspired. What makes a person fortunate or unfortunate? Can we really tell or rate?
The haughty disregard of vanity marginalizes the odds as misfits of the society. The lost soul chases his cause or goal on the bench of failure and sorrow. An individual starts finding his role.
Is time a promiser or running out? The ponding delver is clever. The flower of hope never fades. The marches of success are always steps ahead.
The seed of trust roots in the heart. The crust of firmness makes its pod. The sapling of ambition shoots with daylight of good efforts. The plant grows with culture and time. And one day, falling flowers are blessings in the palms, if not on the head. The tree has finally borne fruits and shade.
A fountain of late and sincere apologies, Regret.
Jhaya Gujadhur is a Specialised Public Health Nurse and poetess from Mauritius. Her first anthology ‘Poesy And Quotes’ has been published in 2023. Her keenness and contribution in quilling keep growing.
Bimal Shrivastwa Nepal
Accompaniment in Solitariness
(In Memory of Dylan Thomas)
Groping for something insightful, In my solitariness, I get accompanied by the “Poem in October”1 And fly with “the birds of winged trees”2 Above the farms and dales.
“Green and carefree”3, My youth is eased “Under the apple boughs.”4 Mesmerized by the “Fern Hill”5, My soul flashes into the dark.
As time flies by, I identify myself with “The Hunchback in the Park”6, At the zoo, Mocked at by the rascals.
This is what echoes then: “Rage, rage against the dying of the light”7.
A poem by Dylan Thomas published in 1945/1946
From “Poem in October”, line no. 12
From “Fern Hill”, line no.8
From “Fern Hill”, line no.1
Another poem by Dylan Thomas published in 1946
Another poem by Dylan Thomas published in 1941
From “ The Hunchback in the Park”, line no. 18
Bimal Kishore Shrivastwa, PhD, is an Assistant Professor of English at Tribhuvan University, Nepal. In addition to publishing an anthology of poem, Fad Fervors from Litlight, Pakistan, he has published poems from sahitto.com, Bangladesh; the writer’s club, USA; sahityapost.com, Nepal; kabitaminar.com, India and some other online literary websites.
Heath Brougher USA
Common Locus
Forever Propped upon A house of cards And layered in longings To unpress the unbuttons. Epsom salt for broken toes. Potions spill through the ant-farm crevices. Will we learn to love each other Before it is made illegal? Reaching for dangling Daughters lifted high By amniotic Nooses.
You Know how To sing the eternal Crescendo of the cities kept in bags. This poem Has been Brought To you By Pepsi.
Heath Brougher is the editor of Concrete Mist Press and poetry editor of Into the Void Magazine. He has published elven collections of poetry and prose and has two forthcoming collections.
Dustin Pickering USA
Grief “Tersettes“
this whimper does not delineate or fabricate the stylus of my imagination– a poem dies on its grief.
*
he wanted so badly to remove my grief: he did not know i was in love with sorrow.
Dustin Pickering is founder of Transcendent Zero Press. He has contributed writing to Huffington Post, Café Dissensus Everyday, The Statesman (India), Journal of Liberty and International Affairs, The Colorado Review, World Literature Today, and several other publications. He placed in the top 100 out of 12,500 entries for the erbacce prize in 2021, and was a finalist in Adelaide Literary Journal’s first short fiction contest. He was longlisted for the Rahim Karim World Prize in 2022 and given the honor of Knight of World Peace by the World Peace Institute that same year. He hosts the popular interview series World Inkers Network on YouTube.
Lidia Chiarelli Italy
My liquid world (amid winds of war) to Dylan Thomas
This ashen day in October opens with dancing shadows – images carved in the air of the Winter not too far. An insidious mist enshrouds me in crescendo.
Among echoes in subtle vibration teach me, Dylan, to take shelter in| my liquid world
teach me to feel the pulse of the tides that ceaselessly ebb and flow
And while time and space dissolve in the primordial roar of the ocean
teach me to fly away, with you, from| the void … of this bewilderment of that insanity*
* from: Although through my bewildered way
Lidia Chiarelli (Torino, Italy). Writer and Artist, co-founder, with Aeronwy Thomas, of the art-literary Movement Immagine & Poesia (2007). Award -winning poet. Six nominations to Pushcart Prize, USA. Literary Arts Medal (NY) 2020. KEL winner’s plaque 2022. Her poems are translated and published in many languages.
In the forward moving green of time, he takes up his singing quill, records the thunderclap of politics; great losses, deaths of children.
In the forward moving green of time, he takes up his singing quill, heralds treaties of peace with the moon as his guide.
His muses: 30 days of the chitter of birds, cloudless skies, the dominion of hope shouted beyond despondency.
His wild soul studies and records triumphant voices in nature, the daring of the lunar proclamation, trumpeting his rise above all noise that seeks to break his spirit.
In the forward moving green of time, time that created his anthems now chooses to silence them. The feather cracks, and his sounds grow mute.
Critics say his work was sound over sense, but what sense is there in a world without sound?
Linda Imbler is an internationally published poet with twelve poetry collections and one hybrid ebook of short fiction and poetry.
In a humble class family of the 20th Century, A charismatic child was born. It was during the seedling of World War I, When his first soft step landed on the earth. For him, it was harder than landing on the moon, only the thing that could do well for him; during this time was- a shield of faith, provided by his birth angel.
Wait, they weren’t the fancy angel we can’t find, Everyone can find them as their shield- we find this shield in the form of parents. Although God didn’t bless him with- ‘Materialistic Wealth’ to live a life, this child, Thomas Dylan, was blessed with ‘wealth of knowledge’— to live as a legend in history. And now, He has been the richest soul in the world of poetry.
Rajendra Ojha (Nayan) is a Nepalese poet, philosopher, social researcher, social worker, and EU certified trainer. He also served as a citizen diplomat for three months under the ‘Ministry of Population and Environment’ in 2018 in Switzerland for the diplomatic program of the Minamata Convention, which was held in Geneva, Switzerland. Poems and philosophical writings of Rajendra Ojha have been published in various national as well as international literary journals from Nepal, the U.S.A., India, China, Russia, Spain, Myanmar, and Pakistan in both Nepalese and English. He has also published two anthologies, ‘Through the World’ (a collection of experimental poems) and ‘Words of Tiger’ (a collection of philosophical and psychological poems), in 2011 and 2019, respectively. Mr. Rajendra Ojha had been honored by two major prestigious award named ‘Asia’s Outstanding Internship Solution Provider Award 2020/21’ and ‘Dadasaheb Phalke Television Award 2023’ for his work as a ‘Social Researcher’ as well as a ‘Social Worker’ (Activities related to Social Responsibility) respectively in 2021 and 2023.
Vandana Kumar India
How did you know, Dylan?
How did you know, Dylan? That you would go at 39 Were you born aware Of decadence Of rot Of streets littered with mice Those that would gnaw At ropes and cable wires Dangling from homes Ten decades from then
How did you know, Dylan? The thin line between the dying and the dead Even when you were young Playing in strawberry fields
I don’t trust your sketches Dunked in nostalgia It could have been October Or November The month doesn’t matter You knew it You just knew
Those last few days on sterile beds White sheets Not of Satin But crisp cotton
The longest nights When the sea murmured secrets And rocked your boat house in Laugharne
How gently did you go? When it was time for the final goodbye Did you carry your umbrella? The papers had said it would rain that week Did you, Dylan Thomas? Did you?
Vandana Kumar is a French teacher, translator, recruitment consultant, Indie Film Producer, cinephile and poet in New Delhi, India. Her poems have been published in national and international websites of repute like ‘Grey Sparrow Journal’, ‘Dissident Voice’, ‘Borderless journal’, ‘Madras Courier’, ‘Outlook’, ‘Ink Pantry’ etc. She has featured in several literary journals and seminal feminist anthologies of repute.
She was a jury member for the ‘All India Poetry Competition’ organized by ‘Cocoa-Butter’ and also co-edited their debut print anthology that resulted from this competition in 2020-2021. She was the only Indian in 40 participating poets in the ‘INĐIJA PRO POET 2023’ festival held in June23 in Serbia. Her debut collection of poems ‘Mannequin Of Our Times’ was published in February 2023. The book has been awarded ‘The Panorama International Book Award’ 2023 and ‘The Mighty Pens Awards’2023. She has also received the Asian Literary Society’s 2024 certificate for excellence awards in the category of best poetry book and women achievers award for literature. She is a Pushcart Prize-nominated author- poet for the year 2023.
Rehana Chamroo France/Mauritius
A flowery dream
Hylô ‘nghariad, yellow li’l trumpet Lying there solely in your tainted demesnes Far beneath the valleys, the hills, the lilies,
Why are you so silently glooming? Flowers are meant to bloom, Don’t you know that, Cutie?
Upon the dusk of the shadowy night, Rise! The horns are ringing. It’s the battle of your life baby.
Shine to the world. “And death shall have no dominion”, Dylan Thomas proses.
Rehana Chamroo is a Mauritian born author whose first French novel Les Dames de Willowland has been published by Estelas Editions in February 2024. Holder of a master’s degree in Psychology, specialised in Cognitive Behavioral Therapies and mum of two, she lives in France and is actually working on her second book.
Dinesh Bachoo Mauritius
Starry Stroll (translated by Vatsala Radhakeesoon)
A summer morning at some peak time Inquisitiveness grabbed me to know his two sides by blessing me with celestial fragrance by opening an unknown path
The enigma so mesmerizing whereby flows mysterious scent of unusual dreams Imagination calls the fresh canvas
Pastel view beaming beauty displaying reality undying all through eyes- hooked Laugharne
Vivid dream in peaceful sleep At the doorstep of the boathouse I met Dylan Thomas The prince of Welsh writings
Blessed by the month of Mary (rosary) We share a world un-mundane Far from a euphoric mob In the refined daring words
What a pleasure to entice time listening to the waves-Castalian Whilst all swirl- poise My soul is immersed Under Milk Wood.
Original French version: Balade Astrale
Un matin d’été à une heure miroir A savoir le double dans son intimité M’embaume d’un parfum célestiel En m’ouvrant une porte inconnue
L’énigme y est drôlement fleurée D’où coule un baume mystérieux Aussi drôle qu’un rêve puisse être L’aire fantasque change de toile
De ce regard tout beau pastel On vient transposer la merveille Aux couleurs d’un réel éternisé Le long du comté de Laugharne
Rêve lucide au sommeil du juste Au seuil de la maison dans l’eau Je viens épier un Dylan Thomas Le prince de l’écriture galloise
Étant béni par le mois du rosaire On se partage un monde astral A l’écart d’une foule déchaînée Dans la finesse des mots hardis
Quel plaisir de leurrer le temps Au bruit d’une mer castalienne Alors que tout se fige en spirale Mon âme écoute Au Bois Lacté
Dinesh Bachoo is a Mauritian poet born on 22 October 1967 at Triolet. He started writing while he was still at secondary school in 1982. Though his chosen language for literary writing is French, being a Kreol Morisien teacher, he also writes in Mauritian Creole. Having published a poetry book in that language, he plans to launch another one very soon and this time it will be in French.
Melissa Chappell USA
The Earth is Bowed
The earth is bowed beneath brumal frost, No furrow is broken, no sod has been turned, only the parched straw of the field by glassy wind lies low, worshipping, as it only knows how, the coming of the Lord as he passes, singing his Sabbath, his voice, the holy streams of Spring, the first green blade, cutting through its earthen aperture, light of creation come early, a promise that the broken shall be unbroken, the frail shall be made strong. The forgotten? They shall be unforgotten. The dead shall live. Those under the earth shall rise. Thus, he strikes firelight against the flint of the heart’s hard fear, for the day is coming soon when Death shall rage in its chains, a strong man bound eternally.
Melissa A Chappell is a writer native to South Carolina, where she leads a rural lifestyle. She gains much inspiration from the forests, fields, birds and wildflowers. In addition to writing, she plays the guitar and the piano. She plans one day to visit the southwestern United States.
Nell Jones Australia
At Last, my Love, My Foxy Darling.
(After Gossamer Beynon)
In the morning light, The daybreak rush is over, And Llarregubb sits quiet.
Parading her best cotton dress, Gossamer Beynon, schoolteacher, Lovesick, Sits at high table, sighs, And supposes, her steamy bedfellow, Sinbad Sailor, who will never be her beau.
And she picks at her food, like a sparrow.
Garden greens yard grown, last night’s, leftovers, Fish heads, and tip bits, hot pot turnovers. Piping hot Welsh cakes, cockles, and rarebit, Pea soup and corn crab and fish flavoured stew. Laver bread, kippers, and cheese melt fondue, Hobnob through Donkey Street, sing ballyhoo, To nibble on giblets, otter, and shrew, And sing bloody murder from inside Bayview.
Potatoes in jackets, sit comfy and snug, Mice in the larder, hide under the jug, Oh Sinbad, she smiles with his name on her lips, I’m through with these lunchtime kidney and chips. But the afternoon bell beckons, in monotonous tones, Dinging and ringing, the tintinnabulation moans. She stands, and flutters out like a moth, Filled to the brim with vegetable broth. She tells herself, today is the day, She will tip him a wink, Or scratch him a note, written in best ink.
Her red stilettoes sing in salacious tones, Down to the Sailor’s Arms. High heels hit the cobble, Tip, tap, click clack, Two stones clanging, Click, clack, clock. Sinbad Sailor, lovestruck, chest puffed out, Warbles like a Stone Chat, At the passing dream of his desires.
Perched high above his morning brew, Still hanging from last night’s, hullabaloo, He bows to greet her, his ice maiden fail, Full of brave sorrow, and passion frail, ‘Here’s to me, Sinbad’ he says, heartbreak drowned, And she slides by, right past him, her eyes to the ground.
‘I want to gobble him up.’
Oh, Gossamer B, So proud and so free, I pine for you, Like a selkie for the sea.
Oh, Gossamer, Gossamer, Gossamer B, Let me peel away, your frilly, flowered frock, Down to your stockings and stays. Come ride with me, on the ship bobbing sea, Be there roses for you and garlands for me.
‘Be still, so that I may absorb you.’ And he downs the last of his beer, with sonnets in his head.
I want to be your lover, When the light out dies each night, And the moon throws its caring arms around us.
I want to be your friend On the tide of every wave, Even when you rise and fall.
I want to be your love, All bed cosy, in the twinkle of the dusk, Shipwreck me gentle, then rock me to sleep. Under the starshine, so warms in its peep.
At last, this is the place, my love, My foxy darling, Oh, Gossamer B, Come lay with me. Come join me, in the sand sifted air, Between river and harbour, Ocean and wave.
But now the day has gone all foggy, and she seems to have slipped away.
Oh Gossamer… And he picks at his teeth with a pin.
Nell Jones (Daniella) was born in Adelaide in 1964. She has Dutch and Welsh heritage. Writing since the age of 12, Nell had her first play, Dead Man’s Alley, a work focused on the plight of homeless men living on the streets of Melbourne, performed at the Nimrod Theatre, Sydney, a second play, The Blind Forty, set on the Torrens River during the Depression in Adelaide, performed at the Seymour Centre, Sydney. She has been the recipient of a Master Writers Grant, from the Australia Council and has written several other plays for youth theatres and schools, as part of her role as a drama teacher and director in those organisations. Nell has published many works over the years, including Jack and Lily, a chronicle of short war stories and poetry. Nell’s first novel, The Lost Sister of Groningen, based on the life of her mother in WW2 and 1950’s Australia, was launched at the Tap Gallery in Sydney in 2010. It was later launched at the Ubud Readers and Writers Festival(URWF) in 2011. Her second novel, A Token for Perry, was launched by Libby Hathorn in Sydney at the 371 Gallery Marrickville. Her poetry volume, The Sky Is My Religionwas also launched in in 2012 with the support of the UWRF and opened by Australian poet and children’s author, Libby Hathorn. Nell performed her poetry daily with Balinese musicians and dancers in an art space at Dewangga Gallery in Ubud, with paintings that were specially created to reflect her poetry volume. At the opening she performed with Balinese dancers and a 30-piece orchestra as part of the festival celebrations. She has had poems published in 2021 for the ‘How Time Has Ticked A Heaven Around the Stars,’ eBook, Poetry Anthology, by Infinity Books as part of Dylan Day celebrations. She was also featured on a poster with her haiku poem, Celestial Turmoil for that year. Coquun was shortlisted in 2021 for the Bridport Prize in the U.K. Poem, Blazing Star for Dylan, in 2021 and, In Ceremony of a Fire Raid Past, 2022 were both featured on Vatsala Radhakeesoon’s blog, for International Dylan Day Poetry Celebrations. In 2023 she co-authored an article based on John Keats, which was published on the Australian Children’s Poetry website. In 2023, she was longlisted for International Dylan Thomas Day, with her poem, Elegy, Is it a Dream? In 2023, she wrote the foreword for Magic Cube of Time for the poet, Vatsala Radhakeesoon, published by Impspired, UK.
Nell has two degrees in Education and lives by the sea in Newcastle, Australia. In 2021 she retired from teaching and is a full-time writer. She completed an Artist in Residency placement at, Lighthouse Arts in Newcastle in 2022, while working on her third novel, The Ingenious Professor based on the life of artist, Joseph Lycett. Nell is a member of the Society of Women Writers, NSW.
Old Age is a library For any society. Rage acts as a reason Of wisdom, For when the light With a lifespan dies, The library is dark. We need the rebelling spirit Against the dying of light. Light is a seeking For wise men Still keep their inner Calling alive; They do not go gentle Into that good night. An artist paints at night An artist is a rebel. The night is fought With the child like freedom In its depiction in the art. It is hard to shut the Age of experience With the whole library Of old age Burning down to ashes.
Author’s Note: This poem is a response to the poem entitled “Do not go gentle into that good night” by the poet Dylan Thomas.
Sushant Thapa (born on 26th February 1993) is an award-winning Nepalese poet from Biratnagar-13, Nepal who holds an M.A. in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. He has published five books of English poetry, namely: The Poetic Burden and Other Poems (Authorspress, New Delhi, 2020), Abstraction and Other Poems (Impspired, UK, 2021), Minutes of Merit (Haoajan, Kolkata, 2021), Love’s Cradle (World Inkers Printing and Publishing, New York, USA and Senegal, Africa, 2023) and Spontaneity: A New Name of Rhyme (Ambar Publication House, New Delhi, 2023).
Santosh Bakaya India
What is Beauty? Beguiled by words ever since he was a child; Dylan Thomas mesmerized us by his words when he grew older. Writing about nostalgia, complexities of human nature, pain, loss and other things grim, [I think I get my love of alliteration from him.].
His verses sprung from the inner recesses of his heart; the words of this lyrical poet so fine, sang with a forceful vitality. How I mulled over the words which, I oft found bordering on verbal density. I read and read his poems of so sublime an intensity, trying to catch hidden meanings and layered nuances.
That poem about The Hunchback in the Park, left me contrite about our cruelty to each other. What is beauty? What is ugliness? What construes dark; what is bright? The world is a real mess! What is it coming to? What is up? The poor fellow ate bread from a newspaper, drank water from a chained cup, sneaking into a dog kennel at night. Was he ugly because he was unlike us?
I often picture the homeless man furrowed-brow, hunched on a ramshackle bench, rheumy eyes fixed on the squirrels, watching a hare blundering into a burrow, absently wondering why there was gravel in his cup. Perhaps also about the tearing asunder of the world by ugly emotions- of hatred, jealousy, rapacity, malevolence, megalomania and mendacity?
Quasimodo, The Hunchback of Notre -Dame, despite his so -called repulsive physical appearance, Hugo told us, was compassionate, loyal and kind. So what if he had a wart on one eye? Was he not beautiful? What is a wart? Can a wart blot someone’s inner beauty?
Was the hunchback of Dylan devoid of beauty, just because he was different? No, he was not. Dylan Thomas warned; it’s we who are unappreciative of differences. It’s we who are ugly. It’s time to rue our squint-eyed points of view.
Internationally acclaimed for her prolific literary output, Dr. Santosh Bakaya is an academic, award – winning poet, novelist, biographer, columnist, Tedx speaker, and creative writing mentor, having penned 28 very well – received books across different genres. Her latest book of poems is entitled Sunset in my Cup.
Vatsala Radhakeesoon Mauritius
Forever amidst Poetry for Dylan Thomas
Waves spun, Words dive-drown, Fans’ eyes filled with tears open-wide
Yet, there you are floating on the darker seas sprinkling slivery resurrection – yours, an eternal one, Ink- wisdom dipped and laid on immortal pages for generations to ponder, cherish and glorify
D sings your name to the mermaid’s beach-solace, Finally, free in poets’ greatness you silently smile.
Vatsala Radhakeesoon is a Mauritian writer/poet and an artist. She is the author of various poetry-books. She is also into abstract Art and illustration of children’s poetry and stories.
He has published five books of English poetry, namely: The Poetic Burden and Other Poems (Authorspress, New Delhi, 2020), Abstraction and Other Poems (Impspired, UK, 2021), Minutes of Merit (Haoajan, Kolkata, 2021), Love’s Cradle (World Inkers Printing and Publishing, New York, USA and Senegal, Africa, 2023) and Spontaneity: A New Name of Rhyme (Ambar Publication House, New Delhi, 2023). Sushant is a lecturer of English Poetry, Literature and Business Communication in Biratnagar, Nepal. His poems are featured in Mad Swirl, Spillwords, Journal of Expressive Writing, As It Ought To Be Magazine, Corporeal Lit Magazine, and many other platforms.
Here are 3 poems by Sushant Thapa:
Passion and Compassion
My focus on compassion Made me dedicate To my passion. A flowering humanity Is a treasured urn. How poet John Keats Would visualize The images in his modern urn If he were alive? Art can be interpreted| And it never gets old. It teaches a whole Mighty fountain, Showering blessings from the chasm. In art I find the cave of humanity Reflecting social echoes and A creator or weaver of A new world. No height of temptation Can drain the brain Of passion and compassion.
Brook and Fire
Some memories teach, Some drift by Like a brook by the fire. Enveloped in the freshness Every blooming color Imprints the soulful caricature Of humanity. The fire is a sign of impermanence it burns and is a trace of rage. Yet, it cooks for life. The brook is a flowing measure In consolation it flows. Brook and fire sound opposite, Yet, they both can give birth to life. An equilibrium balances this play| Of fire and flowing brook. Books caged in libraries tend not To make a man, Unless the man decides to open His inner self to receive The herb of knowledge. Balance is a house built With rooms like A beating heart and A roof of intellect. The land or the sky Both need affection Like a clock tower Never really getting old As long as it ticks To provide the spell Of correct time.
Weight of Progress
Opening the curtains of sunshine I delve into the morning. I am a first streak of light And also, the revealing darkness. Both day and night I treasure for upcoming flights That carry the life forward. I saw a progress report Of a work at progress I uncovered a blanket of jargon And allowed myself to drown In the healing hemlock of my study. Hemlock killed Socrates, but My hemlock only heals and I turn action into goals And let those actions speak. Life is a nectar of paradise Only in purity it thrives. From the height of imagination
If you wish to have your poetry chapbooks, poetry books, children’s books (prose and poetry) translated from English to French French to English Mauritian Kreol to English English to Mauritian Kreol please feel free to send them to :
vatsfrankness@gmail.com
Translation Fee: $0.08 (Rs 3.71 Mauritian currency) per word
Translation of Individual poems may also be considered. Please send a minimum of 5 poems if you wish to have a small number of your poems translated. Those poems will be published on my blog.
Shyamasri Maji is an Assistant Professor in English at Durgapur Women’s College in West Bengal, India. She was the recipient of Independent Research fellowship 2018-19 at Satyajit Ray Film and Television Institute, Kolkata. Her book reviews and articles have been published in reputed journals such as South Asian Review, Indian Literature, Economic & Political Weekly, Asian Review of Books, Antipodes and Third World Thematics. Her short stories and poems have been published in Unish Kuri, Muse India, Six Seasons Review, The Bombay Review, Outlook India, Café Dissensus, Modern Literature, Indian Periodical, Durgapur Review and Writers, Editors, Critics. Her poem “Monsoon in the City” has found a place in Scent of Rain: Remembering Jayanta Mahapatra, an anthology in memory of the legendary poet (Ed. Ashwani Kumar, 2024). Her debut collection Forgive Me, Dear Papa and Other Poems (Hawakal, 2023) has received critical acclaim. She has participated in online poetry reading events such as Hamara Mushaira (South Asian Literary Association) and Anantha Poetry Festival (Samyukta).
Here are some poems by Shyamasri Maji:
Hairfall
nails hoot at shameless stars knots tether night’s leathery nape Winter, a tattoo of tyrannical teeth, runs up and down to slaughter strands on my white marble floor
Premenstrual Syndrome (PMS)
I accuse the laundryman of senility and slander like a nagging toddler at mamma’s office, the sullen sun waits outside the electricity office I can’t help it, in the crowded bus, my eyes flow
Haiku
1.
Empty fields mumble marks of grazing unsettle us late afternoon air
2.
A cup of coffee smoke soon fills the forest hours our bed unruffled
From Forgive Me, Dear Papa and Other Poems (Hawakal, 2023) :
*Kintsugi
I collected you in bits and pieces over the years, in hugs and kisses. From the icy floor with marble shine buzzing with waltz and bonfire wine sparkling like tear drops in LED lights. Who sutured the stars on the cracks of nights? Fallen dead from the embracing arms that held them close in sun-kissed charm, the crumpled leaves whimpered in the rain with the desire to dance in the storm again! Our broken hearts waited in the sunset glue on bleeding branches bloomed blossom new, the painter’s strokes celebrated our scars, our wounds are reborn as smiling flowers.
*This poem is inspired by Kintsugi, a form of Japanese art with broken pottery pieces
International Dylan Thomas Day is celebrated every year on 14 May. As a representative of Immagine and Poesia (founded by the patronage of Aeronwy Thomas, daughter of Dylan Thomas) and upon the approval of the main organizers and consultants, UK, I am conducting International Dylan Thomas Day 2024 online.
I invite all writers/ poets, artists and singers interested to submit one creative work about the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas or appreciation of his works to: vatsfrankness@gmail.com
Poetry and Prose: Poems and short stories in English and other languages will be accepted. For writing pieces other than English, please submit an English translation of the work together with the original. Please acknowledge the translator as well. Only poems or stories with proper imagery and theme in context and having a refined language will be accepted.
Art: Artworks in any medium will be accepted, provided they are related to Dylan Thomas.
Music: Songs in any language paying tribute to Dylan Thomas are welcome.
Theme: Any theme but related to Dylan Thomas’s life or works
If your work is accepted, you will receive an acceptance e-mail within 1 week of your submission. If you do not hear from me within 1 week, then your poem hasn’t made through this time.
Rajorshi Patranabis is a multilingual poet, editor, translator and reviewer dabbling into different forms of poetry.He has this knack of writing in fewer words with a lot for the readers to ponder about. A Wiccan by philosophy, he has ten collections of poetry (nine in English and one in Bengali) and four collections of translations (including two co -authored volumes from Assamese to English and Bengali)
He has collections of sonnets, haibun, haiku, ghazals and free verses. He is credited for the first ever collection of Gogyoka, titled The Last drop of your Tears, published by Hawakal prokashona and launched at World Book Fair, 2023, New Delhi, which had been translated to Assamese and is currently being translated to Hindi. He is also credited with the first ever collection of Gogyoshi titled Checklist Anomaly by a single author in English, also published by Hawakal publication. His last published collection is Soliloquy (Ghazals in English) from Penprints publications, and his last published book is Buddha and Void, published by Hawakal Prokashona.
Here are six 5-line Japanese style of poems, Gogyoka by Rajorshi Patranabis:
guilt of a sinful touch collapsed in lucid words I looked up into the crisscrossed galaxy to club my depth with her shallows the universe found itself in red
colossal thoughts slither like tightly knotted snakes panting in ecstatic dilemma love pinks itself in arrogance roses become redundant
you whimper into my eyes lost dreams colour scribbled lines of surrender my lips touch your words arrogant verses open its eyes
comforted pockets of an oblivious sleepless mind petals quiver in sinful glory of thoughtless dry death silent kisses reverberate in blue
opulent austerity looks into your defiance of a blatant nonchalance clouds muster courage to smell your yellow spring
day sprinkles life into the throbs of death stars wait eternally as she looks up to the moon I wait to drink her smile
Lopamudra Banerjee is an author, poet, translator, editor with eight solo books and seven anthologies in fiction, nonfiction and poetry. She lives in Texas, USA with her family, but she is originally from Kolkata, India. She has been a recipient of the Journey Awards (First Place category winner) for her memoir Thwarted Escape: An Immigrant’s Wayward Journey (Authorspress, 2016), the International Reuel Prize for Poetry (2017) and International Reuel Prize for her English translation of Nobel Laureate Tagore’s selected works of fiction (2016). Her poetry has also been published in renowned platforms including Life in Quarantine the Digital Humanities Archive of Stanford University. She has been a Featured Poet at Rice University, Houston in November 2019. Bakul Katha: Tale of the Emancipated Woman, her English translation of Ashapurna Devi’s award-winning Bengali novel Bakul Katha has received Honorable Mention at London Book Festival. Her recent collection of poetry and monologues We Are What We Are: Primal Songs of Ethnicity, Gender & Identity (Black Eagle Books, 2022) is a collaboration with Mexican-American poet and storyteller Priscilla Rice. The Bard and his Sister-in-Law is her fourth book of translation (2023) and has been selected for the Book fair of UK Bengali Conference in Harrow, London, September 2023.
Here are some poems and a prose work by Lopamudra Banerjee:
Poetry
Unraveled
To let every atom of a forbidden rain Pierce my crust and core To let the glistening pearls of sacred tears flow when they gush, unhindered. To bare open, surrender to the naked richness of a flawed being To embrace the architecture of flesh and the poetry of a body That has endured the lull of music And the sordid dark of many a death. To let go of the vain lushness of fairytales And the chaotic hunger of sweet nothings. To rest amid the fierce nudity of many unborn verses. My life, the unraveled seed of a virgin poem. Let it be, let it be, Let it be clothed in fire, unsheathed.
From poetry collection in collaboration with Priscilla Rice, titled ‘WE ARE WHAT WE ARE: Primal Songs of Ethnicity, Gender & Identity, Black Eagle Books, 2022
Embers of Hope, In Search of Fire
My verses search for elusive light, I live in them, A bird of darkness. Would you let me live in my verses, my own little microcosm? Let the universe swirl and twirl in its magnanimous bounty. Let me scald in my tiny home of poetry Where mountains, forests burn, rivers converge, soils erode In little atomic bursts.
I cry and the glaciers melt in my chaotic home as I wage war With poetry, scattered puddles of tears at the closure of war. For ages, you have gang-raped my verses in shelter camps As a rejoinder to incessant riots, for ages, you’ve cooked my verses In the bonfire of your ancient myths, garnished them with earthen metaphors, while in your heart of hearts, You knew they were the battle cries of insane girls, The rose dipped in blood over the ruins of civilizations.
In your globalized universe, my verses have scalded some more, A chorus of change, I’ve wanted, a manifesto of equality. My verses have thus, taken to the open streets with all their ailments, My womb expelling murdered female fetuses, one after the other. In my first virgin kiss, in the first offspring sprouting from within me, Within the creases and folds of our homes and hearths, I see the naked march of my verses, their rising and falling.
In search of the fire, of the elusive light, my verses Die a thousand deaths, and are reborn amid catastrophic change. My verses have known the art of living Amid the fledgling embers of hope reborn as power.
First published in the anthology on the theme of ‘Fire’ edited by Geetanjali Dilip
Rakta Karabi (Red Oleander)
Inspired by Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore’s drama ‘Rakta Karabi’, dedicated to the heroine, Nandini
Where are you, my Rakta Karabi, my beautiful, fierce red oleander? In the boughs of my ever-yearning body, Here, I cocoon the want, the throb Of the blood of your cruelly pierced breast.
I am Nandini, remember me? The woman who crumbled in the quest Of my Rakta Karabi as all my words lay writhing, Imprisoned in small heaps of nothingness.
Our Raja, the mighty King smothered with his cycle of abuse My love for Ranjan, as darkness encircled my silent night, Each note of my unsung hymns rising out of the unruly wind, Out of the uncaring earth, out of the invincible depths of the sea. Each note emerging out of the bloody pain of your red breast Like an insatiable hunger as the mad world of the king Hummed around me, consuming my burnt edges?
Red oleander, my Rakta Karabi, my lips had a tremor That delighted me when Ranjan’s love hid in the folds Of my yellow sari. The soft grass of the meadow looked greener The pastures swirled around my madness, no greed or power Could touch me there, where I hid you in my flesh and bones Rakta Karabi, they seized me, weighing my madness Against Bishu, the mad man’s lunatic songs. But then, I flung myself down In an abyss of no return, my sorrow Floating over the heavy monsoon sky.
In me, I hold you still, your crushed red breast The flesh of your sacrifice, unleashed In the dark King’s world. I am Nandini, The sun-drenched golden maid, Hiding you between indiscriminate desire And irrevocable faith.
First published in print in Bhindeshi mag (bilingual: Bengali & English), Durga Puja issue, Seattle, 2023
Radha Krishna-Jugalbandi
Her scarlet-red petals meet the deep blue cloudburst of his tumultuous rain. Within her, the cosmos of hungry love, a surrender Deeper than the depths of the luscious waters of Yamuna. And he, the enticing dark torrent and glorious flame of Vrindavan, Melts with her jasmine-bloom, filled with verdant longing A love born before the beginning of Time, slipping through The rims and crests of their thousand lovelorn days and nights.
She, the Radha of the elemental thirst, cloud and raindrops Falling on Krishna’s pensive, earthen flute. He, the dark Shyam, the astute Krishna of the centuries of her wants, Filling the parched rivers of her being with his devouring ocean. She doesn’t know the dark undone of their destinies intertwined, The sound of his flute uncoils her, a liberation divine.
Radha, the nectar and the sweet ambrosia of the saga of unbridled love, Krishna, the elixir and poison-ivy of her amorous, engrossing ballad.
Do they still have their hearts on fire, does smoke arise on their path still? The crescent moon pines, the birds croon their names wistfully— The Krishna and Radha of the love-consumed Vrindavan.
Originally written for a poetry and Kathak dance Jugalbandi, a collaborative performance where the poet participated at the Pleasant Groove Public Library in Dallas, Texas, August 2019
Prose -Excerpt from The Incorrigible: A novella Original Bengali novella: ‘Nachhor’ by Ashapurna Debi
Translation by Lopamudra Banerjee
Neera stood at the verandah for a while, even after the car left in front of her eyes. Biram, her husband had to stay away from their home for a few days, yet again. She felt forlorn, wistful for a few moments. Today evening, unlike the other evenings, his office car won’t stop at their door. It was nothing new, though, she thought. In fact, Biram had to stay away from home for more than half of the time, every month. However, just because it was not a new phenomenon, it hadn’t become entirely tolerable, at least to Neera. She felt awful about these frequent tours of Biram, for his office work. Is it because of this, that some or the other moment of anguish and melancholy emerges before her at the time of his departure? She thought, fervently. The trips of Biram are going strong throughout the year, but still the moment he would broach the topic, advices, suggestions of over-cautiousness would start floating in the air. It felt as if the moment the news of his absence would be known to the world, all the thieves, rogues and all the perilous phenomena of the world would flock together, ravaging the humble two-storied abode of Biram and his family. Thus, before starting out, he would keep warning Kanai, their servant, about mundane everyday things, like he must not open the door to strangers, he must keep the number of the family doctor handy, he must not unplug the cooking gas for a minute, and so on. His warnings also involved his wife, nonetheless. “Don’t go near the kitchen wearing your nylon saris…All of you need to be careful about eating…” And the list goes on. This would irritate Neera immensely at times. “How many accidents like this have happened during your absence?” She would ask. “Well, you cannot argue that they couldn’t have happened, just because such things didn’t happen. What’s the harm in being safe, rather than being sorry?” Biram would impose his own logic on his wife. Besides, there was the ubiquitous presence of Biram’s Pishima, his ever-affectionate elderly aunt in the house. When Biram would stay at home, his Pishima would meander around him at all times. And God forbid, once these occurrences of his office trips happened, she hovered around her nephew like a stubborn shadow, and continued to shower her incessant advices and her precious words of caution on him, as if Biram was merely a child. “Don’t ruin your senses due to the pressure of your office work…don’t go out too much in the sun…don’t stay hungry for too long, your acidity will worsen…You have to put up in a hotel, don’t eat the worthless food…” It goes on and on. Biram wouldn’t get annoyed, even for once! Strange! But Pishima’s words angered Neera to no end. She felt like uttering: “They aren’t the cheap hotels supplying rotten fish, which are the only ones you know about since times immemorial, Pishima, they are the plush, sophisticated hotels arranged by his company.” However, she had to keep mum. If she uttered those words, even by mistake, Biram would probably think she was insulting his aunt. She had raised this motherless nephew of hers, after all, since his childhood. He couldn’t pay off this debt of kindness, not in a lifetime. If it were the olden times, and Neera would have spoken to her husband during the daytime in front of the elders in the family, she would have been condemned for her shameless act, but she was lucky that such rules weren’t applicable anymore. But even if she could speak to her husband, could she say everything? Could she chat with him uninhibitedly, exchanging words about the outside world, about art, literature, music, cinema, television, politics and corruption? Would she save these sudden, relevant discussions for the night when they would reunite in solitude? But did her husband, with his calm, quiet exterior really want her incessant chats about these topics at night? No…all he wanted was Neera herself, following by deep, unperturbed sleep, accompanied by snoring. Neera didn’t understand why Biram was so sensitive about Pishima, his aunt. All she knew was she would have to talk about the elderly woman with extra caution. If Neera would have thought deeply, she would have realized that since she did not regard Pishima with the esteem that her husband Biram had for her, he chose to play the role of a mother bird, protecting his Pishima fiercely, lest Neera spoke the wrong words at the wrong time, lest she starts bossing over Pishima, already established as the strong matriarch of the household. Strange were the activities of Pishima. In spite of her age, she seemed to have no sense at all. She would stick to Biram like glue when he had his meals; she would come up to him inevitably during tea times, however much household chores she had to attend to. She would come to him even when he was busy shaving. She would come up to him with her characteristic smile and comment: “I hear Jyoti Basu said…I hear Rajib Gandhi said…Is it true, that rain water seeps through the Metro railways?” Well, there was no dearth of her discussions at any given time. And to think of Biram’s patience with her, she was amazed how he managed to answer all of her useless queries somehow. Not once could he say in her face how stupid her queries, her discussions were. If such a person like Pishima escorted her dear nephew till the door of the car, blessed him by touching his head tenderly, when would his wife Neera look at him with her fervent eyes and bid him goodbye? When would she touch his hands with her own hands, with deep affection, and say the parting words: “Okay, then…’? If she could, perhaps the vacuum in her heart would be filled. But no, it wasn’t destined for Neera, hence she stood for a while on the Verandah with the characteristic emptiness in her heart. Suddenly, the telephone rang in the room. “Good Lord! Has Biram forgot any important document at home?” Neera thoughts, and picked up the receiver. “Hey Neera, who’s there with you?” It was her friend Kakoli’s voice that reverberated in the room with its sweet resonance, just like her name. “Nobody’s there.” Neera replied. “Why? Your husband?” “Vanished into thin air for ten days.” “Is it? For his office tour?” “What else? How many days of the month is he at home anyway?” “Ah, what an awful job! But for now, do one thing…give me freedom from the job I do for you! I am stuck in an awful situation too!” “Job for me? What do you mean?” “Ah, don’t say you don’t remember! I mean, I can’t bear the burden of those love letters of that incorrigible old lover of yours. Look at him, he keeps sending you those letters, and you don’t give him any reply. Listen, I was fearing that some day my husband will start doubting me, due to these letters. Anyway, for the time being, our days of happiness seem to come to an end. His transfer order has come from the higher authorities…now what would I do with your…” “What? Transfer order? Where?” Neera asked, cutting her friend midway. She had almost slumped down on the floor, with the shock of the news. “A different city, I’m afraid. Kanpur.” Kakoli replied. “Oh, Kakoli, what do I do now? Even you will leave me?” “No, sir! I’ll continue to live in this house, in a desperate bid to protect your restless old lover’s letters, won’t I? You’ll come from time to time to read those letters, then deposit them in my care, and I’ll continue to look at them with greedy, desirous eyes…” “How many times did I tell you, read them, please? But you…” “Well, why do you think I would have any interest in others’ love letters? And look at that stupid boy! You never write to him, but he still writes to you and pines for you!” “It’s nothing but self-love! A way to develop one’s own being.” “Stop…no need to prove yourself as a clean, pure soul. Look how your voice trembles as you speak.” “Do you wish to get beaten up?” “Well, you can’t stop me from telling the truth, even if you want to beat me for that…by the way, is there anyone else in your room?” “No, I told you before, I’m alone.” “I was asking because that Pishima of your husband pokes her nose everywhere in your house. Anyway, swear by God and tell me you don’t love Kunal anymore?” “What’s there to swear? Did I ever tell you I don’t love him? A woman’s first love is always special, don’t you know? A divine, immortal phenomenon.” “How would I ever know, darling? Did I ever have the chance in this life to taste or feel such a divine phenomenon? But I knew its taste in a different way, for the first and last time in my life, and its an ongoing affair, you know. The affair that started at my holy wedding stage.” “Wedding stage? Ha ha ha! It started then?” “Yes, why not? Don’t you know about ‘love at the first sight’, the proverbial saying in the scriptures of love?” “I know about that! But the way you both fight at all times…” “Ah, that’s a different thing, you won’t understand it. Anyway, listen, please take your bunch of love letters from my home without any further delay. We’ll have to pack our own things and move.” “Shall I have to take it all away from you? But where will I keep them here?” Neera asked, in a helpless, parched voice. “How would I know where you’ll keep them? I can suggest, keep them safe in the cage of your heart, inside a gold box you yourself know of!” Kakoli replied, in jest. “Ah, don’t play with words! What I suggest is: let that bunch of letters remain inside your box or suitcase. There would be so many of them anyway, during your moving, how much extra burden would the letters be?” “Don’t talk like a stupid girl, Neera! Imagine, even if I go away to that alien land with that bunch of ecstatic love letters tucked carefully in my bosom, is it impossible to trigger doubt in my husband’s mind, no matter how big a heart he might possess? You know, time and again he keeps telling me: ‘Why get entangled in others’ problems unnecessarily? I see envelopes from some foreign country addressed to your name every now and then, what is this?’ Needless to say, I don’t make him go too far with his query, I stop him midway. Let it be the way it’s going on, I think…let’s see when his curiosity subsides. But now—the situation will change.” “So now suggest what I can do.” Neera replied in a more helpless voice. “What suggestion can I give you? But if you would listen to me, I would say, write a letter to that man in a stern language, so that he doesn’t dare to write back to you again…” Kakoli said in a sympathetic voice. “Also add to it that I won’t remain in Calcutta anymore! And then, if you can’t destroy the letters, gathering the strength you have within your…” “Destroy?” Neera questioned, in a broken voice. “Don’t you think I didn’t try to do that every time I read the letters? But I can’t…Instead, I leave them with you as your burden, so that I can teach you a lesson.” “But this arrangement needs to stop now! Besides, don’t you think you need a closure to this now, after all?” Neera kept mum for some time, then said: “Okay, let me visit you tomorrow morning at your house, then. We’ll see what can be done after that. You’re not vanishing from the city tomorrow itself, I hope, are you?” “I can understand you are seething in anger at this moment. But what can I do, tell me? It was all going on fine, trust me. And I could also see you from time to time, in this pretext. Who would have guessed such a situation would occur all of a sudden? But then, this boy Kunal is so incorrigible! Why cling on to your first love after so many years? Couldn’t he get hold of a memsahib in all these years? I hear, one doesn’t need to try hard to get hold of one in those foreign lands, the ladies themselves come and get on the shoulders of men. Why then bother a married woman like this? What’s the use? –Well, you are coming tomorrow then? I’ll take your leave now. It seems the lord of the household is back.” “Didn’t he go to his office?” “No dear! Due to this unprecedented transfer order, he’s been granted a one-week leave.” “Is it? Then there’s no hope I can talk to you alone, in private tomorrow morning.” “Yes, there is hope, dear. He’s going to Memari tomorrow morning to meet his parents before we move away to Kanpur.” “How lucky you are. Your in-laws stay so far away. And look at my luck, my husband doesn’t even have a family, or a home in the countryside or something like that. Okay then, bye.” Neera hung up the phone and collapsed on the bed, looking like a weary soldier who returned to his camp after an excruciating battle. How complex her life had been, and how unnecessarily, she thought. Neera had never thought that her marriage with Kunal, a boy of her neighbourhood who was nearly her own age, would ever be possible. But still, Kunal’s ardent emotions, his eagerness for her company had been too irresistible to reject altogether. She indulged the incorrigible boy, a sapling growing on the brittle sand, and watered that sapling for quite some time. What other option did she have? “Just wait for a few more years, Neera! See if I can’t get myself established by then, and prove myself as an eligible groom in all respects! Once I am, your parents, Mashima and Meshomoshai won’t object…” “Huh! Keep living in a fool’s paradise, weaving impossible dreams!” “Do you really think they will keep guarding their beautiful daughter as a spinster till then? They are gauging my rate in the marriage market already, for your kind information!” Neera would reply with a frown on her forehead. “Forget what they are doing…What about you?” “You really talk like a stupid boy, Kunal! What is your age now?” “Don’t you know?” “Yes, of course, that’s why! I know you are just eight months older than me. In order to get a proper job, to be even remotely considered ‘eligible for marriage’, it will take at least eight years for you, and even more! Do you think my parents will let me wait for you for all these years?” “Huh…you are speaking of your parents now? Can’t you yourself wait for me? Don’t you have that courage within you?” Kunal said, angry and distraught. “Listen, you simply don’t have the capacity to comprehend the plight of women. And also, legally, I am still a minor, you know.” Neera replied. “But how long would you stay a minor? Forever?” “I admit, I won’t remain a minor in a few years. But how do I know what’s there in store for you in the coming years? How do I know if you would really establish yourself?” Kunal was a young boy of nineteen, but he looked like a grown-up man, with an enviable height of six feet, and a slim, slender body. Needless to say, he was growing up at an incredible speed. But in terms of his behaviour, his talks and his interaction with others, he resembled a young, innocent boy. He had been to Neera’s house regularly, and for a long time, hence he knew how impossible it was for the members of such a household to allow their precious girl to wait for an unworthy childhood lover like him. But what about Neera? On what basis would she herself demand to wait? Being a mature, sensible girl, it had been ingrained in her mind that a dependable, established, mature groom was the prerequisite to marriage. A strange dichotomy was nestled in her heart. On one hand, she could not do without loving Kunal, indulging him to no ends, while on the other hand, she couldn’t imagine getting married to that immature, childish boy and embark on a tumultuous voyage in the ocean of life. She knew Kunal was a brilliant student; she also knew that his challenge of proving himself as a successful, established person would become a reality, but that reality was far away. Neera herself was quite mediocre as a student, somehow carrying on with her studies. Passing her BA exams was her mission, as well as that of her parents, and that was just midway. She didn’t nurture the unrealistic hope of getting into higher studies further, spending her time so that she would be able to keep pace with Kunal. But then, could she move away from Kunal just like that? No, it seemed a more difficult task.
First Published in the collaborative anthology ‘Legends Speak: Bengali Women’s Narratives in Translation, Avenel Press, 2022
Vatsala Radhakeesoon Poetry, Prose, Translated Works 