Dylan Thomas Photo credit: Nora Summers; copyright, Gabriel Summers
Through the Softness of Colours
by Vatsala Radhakeesoon (writer/poet, Artist ,Editor and Organizer)
Dear Artists and Art-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.
On this special day, tribute to the Welsh poet is paid by various means of creative expressions.
This year a free space for Art has been provided on this blog to artists whose works have been inspired by Dylan Thomas’s poems.
I’m grateful to Immagine and Poesia, Italy (founded under the patronage of Aeronwy Thomas, daughter of Dylan Thomas) for its continuous support over the years.
Many thanks to all artists who have sent their artworks.
Hope viewers will appreciate the works featured below.
Artworks
Gloria Fu Keh Singapore
Just Words Mixed media on paper A4
Gloria Keh, 74, has been painting since childhood. In 2008, she founded Circles of Love, a non-profit charity outreach program, using her art in the service to humanity. She has participated in over 200 international exhibitions with 16 solos. She lives in Singapore.
Lidia Chiarelli Italy
“The force that through the green fuse drives the flower” Digital Art 1542 pixel large x 1470 pixel high (if printed: 70 x 50 cm)
Lidia Chiarelli (Torino, Italy). Artist and writer, 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, New York 2020. Grand Jury Award Sahitto International Prize 2021. Winner at Zheng Xin International Poetry Award 2021 and Best Poet at the 8th Chinese Spring Festival 2022. Her poems are translated multilingually.
THREE-POINTED STAR (from the poem “In the beginning was the three-pointed star”) mix media on canvas 70 x 50 cm.
Gianpiero Actis (Italy) is one of the co-founders of the artistic-literary movement “Immagine & Poesia”. He often creates his works as “responses” to the poems of different authors.He has participated in numerous international exhibitions.His paintings can be found in permanent exhibitions / collections in Italy and abroad.Recently he has been experimenting with creative writing.
From the Lungi Series Collage (Gallery view) Inspired by Dylan Thomas’s poem, And Death shall have No Dominion
R. Gopakumar is a contemporary multidisciplinary artist from India, recognized for his diverse and imaginative artistic expressions. His practice skilfully merges art and technology, using them as powerful tools to shed light on urgent environmental, social, and political issues that shape today’s world.
Gopakumar holds a degree in Fine Arts (Painting) from the renowned Raja Ravi Varma College of Fine Arts in Kerala, India. His artistic journey has been further enriched through training at distinguished institutions including the London Art College, the Museum of Modern Art, and Duke University.
Major Exhibitions: Saatchi Gallery, London – The Motion Photography Prize; Tate Britain, UK – Source Spotlight Light Display; Kochi-Muziris Biennale, India – Critical Juncture; The Kinsey Institute Art Gallery, USA – Nature & Nurture; CADAF Crypto and Digital Art Fair, Paris; The Wrong Biennale (Cyberiana Pavilion), Spain; Kingsborough Art Museum, NY – Hello Brooklyn! Techspressionism; Museum of Contemporary Arts – MoCA L.I.ghts, Long Island; Hudson Guild Gallery, NY – Hello, Chelsea!; Museum of Contemporary Art, Urgench, Uzbekistan! Techspressionism, Sedition Art Curated and many more.
Dylan Dreams Beyond the Lights of the Day Fountain pen and ink on white paper A4.
Kushal Poddar has authored eleven books, the latest being ’21 Gun Salutes and Hemingway Syndrome’. His works have been translated into thirteen languages, and he has been a sub-editor of Outlook magazine and the editor of Words Surfacing and Zeroes Garden, and he does illustrations for various magazines.
Dylan Thomas Photo credit: Nora Summers; copyright, Gabriel Summers
Let’s Honour the Weaver of Words
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, a group of poets who have been supporting this blog for a decade have been invited to pay tribute to the great Welsh poet.
I’m grateful to Immagine and Poesia, Italy (founded under the patronage of Aeronwy Thomas, daughter of Dylan Thomas) and Lidia Chiarelli for the continuous support over the years.
Many thanks and congratulations to all the poets whose works have been selected.
Hope the readers will enjoy reading the following poems and continue to support the works of Dylan Thomas.
Poems
Lidia Chiarelli Italy
My Liquid World (amid winds of war)
to Dylan Thomas
This ashen day in April opens with dancing shadows – images carved in the air of the spring still too far. An insidious mist enshrouds me in crescendo.
Among echoes in subtle vibration teach me, Dylan, to seek shelter in my liquid world
take 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
lead me to fly away, with you, from the void … of this bewilderment and of that insanity*
* from: Although through my bewildered way
Lidia Chiarelli (Torino, Italy). Artist and writer, 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, New York 2020. Grand Jury Award Sahitto International Prize 2021.First Prize “the Best Poets & Translators”, China 2023. Montecarlo (Monaco) Second Prize at “Le Parole della Vita” Poetry Contest 2024. Her poems are translated in many languages.
The despaired tend to despair / to dip into deep dells of disrepair / but I disagree with their suffering and concede / if they would just grow a pair of ovaries their rooms would not be festooned with ghosts and ghouls and goons round their deadheaded deathbeds within their death chambers.
Those ghosts are the phantoms of unlived lives/ unfulfilled potential / ain’t nothin more insidious and vicious than a pile of unfinished manuscripts / but when you consciously choose to eat of the opinionated flesh and care about the unthought thoughts of strangers I have zero remorse since if any of them brought an idea to fruition—to finish— it would likely be nothing more than the next holocaust brought right to your front door by an idiot king donning a cross inhumanly dressed in their paisley white noosy neckties carrying copies of The Book of Mormon and The Wall Street Journal.
Heath Brougher is the editor in chief of Concrete Mist Press and received the 2018 Poet of the Year Award from Taj Mahal Review.
Ken Allan Dronsfield USA
Edge of Fate
Silent shadows slip, silently surging from the soul. Time trickles, as tremendous tides rise. Finality flickers, faint yet fierce. Dust orbs adrift dancing in the dim daylight. Mortal moments dissolve, memories clouded. Grave gravity grows, a magnetic grounding. Eternal echoes emerge, a crawling emptiness. Perpetuality presses, patient and persistent. Hollow hush hums, haunting the heart. Lingering light lapses, leaving longing. Certain cycles circle, ceaselessly closing. Fragile flesh fades, faces vacant. Certainty sleeps, saturating solitude. Chilled conclusion calls, calmly claiming. Life’s limits loom locked and looming. Ancient anguish arises, always anew. Boundless black beckons, blanketing being. Relentless rest remains, refusing release. Destined darkness descends, decisively delivered.
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and prize winning poet from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He has seven poetry collections to date. Ken’s been nominated four times for the Pushcart Prize and seven times for Best of the Net. He was First Prize Winner for the 2018 and 2019, Realistic Poetry International Nature Poetry Contests. Ken loves his country, shooting at the range, writing, thunderstorms, music and spending time with his family and’rescue cat’, Yumpy.
Richard Doiron Canada
Ode To Dylan Thomas
Ah, Dylan, to capture your essence, why, that would surely be about as plausible as capturing and silencing the wind, when a tempest overtakes the sea!
Ah, the roiling, rollicking sea, Dylan! – more drops in an eyeful of that surge and swell than ever in all the whisky bottles lined up across the whole of the British Isles!
Ah, Dylan, I see you hanging on for dear life, as you ride those incessant waves, each one of them lapping at your overcoat, for sure to weigh you down to drowning…
Ah, the thirsty throat that could never drink its fill were the entire ocean turned into a whisky maker’s paradise! – waves piled higher than heaven itself…
Ah, but, Dylan, how your eager eyes, even to this day, would yet perceive that briny sea in more colors than ever an ink maker could dream of concocting!
Ah, yes, Dylan, a fine whisky it is, is it not, that would forever fuel a man’s passion, prompting him to meander in miles of metaphors, his compass an affront to the lords of literary leisure…
Ah, for sure, Dylan, for sure, you would forever write upon the water that your heart aches if to not always know why, but that you have found yourself lost at sea, life’s currents far stronger than a dreamer’s daunting dreams…
Ah, yes, Poet, some read you still, if perhaps not so well these days, the sea choking up on its islands of plastic throwaways…a rarity now the stuff of glass bottles and, quite frankly, a worthy friend with whom to share even a drop of that inspiring amber.
RICHARD DOIRON, work in print 62 years; published in hundreds of paper books, anthologies, periodicals, personal books; on-line blogs; author of novels, biographical works, essays, and lyricist; 2012 Lifetime Achievement Award World Poetry; 2017 Lifetime Achievement Award Pentasi B World Friendship Poetry; 2019 named World Poet Laureate Pentasi B World Friendship Poetry. 2019 Nominated for Nobel Peace Prize, via Dr. Epitacio Tongohan, Philippines; latest book, “My Mind Could Be A Garden,” WE Literary Community, India, 2025; cover picture and 14-page spread, “Wildfire International Magazine,” Jan.15, 2026. Jan. 22, 2026 one-hour interview, World Poetry Cafe radio, program heard in 189 countries. Website: www.richarddoiron.com
Linda Imbler USA
Vibrancy To Gloom
Words, out of time, in the spotlight, a thunderous and dazzling voice that shook the world. Reading tours, bringing forth powerful emotional intelligence, imbuing brilliancy with confidence. Praise for the poet who brought the glow, luminosity that moved hearts, poems read vibrantly in the brightness of the beam, patterns of syllables ablaze within the radiant beat and glide of his words. Lines as lyrics, once sung, now dimming and newly hushing, a strong sense of rhythm stilling. His fighting spirit against that good night sapped, while the darkness of pneumonia took his voice.
Currently, Linda’s work has been published in 178 poetry journals and sites. She has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prizes and 7 Best Of The Nets. This writer lives in Wichita, Kansas with her husband, Mike the Luthier, and an ever-growing family of gorgeous guitars. Learn more at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com.
Santosh Bakaya India
Dylan Thomas- The Artistic Genius
Thirty-nine is no age to die- But you did!
Why did you not go gentle into the good night? You found the earth ‘so sad and beautiful,’ so tremulously like a dream. Still, you did not rage against the dying of the light.”
Your vivid imagery, acutely lyrical and emotional poetry, was a balm for the bruised soul. You stole our hearts with your musical language and impassioned intensity. Your extraordinary poetry catapulted you to the top among Welsh poets of the twentieth century.
Controversial you were, but who could deny your mastery of language? An artistic genius, you juxtaposed the straight and the complex, perplexing many with the deceptive simplicity of your words. But, believe me, thirty-nine was no age to die! But you did!
Once in a park, I saw some kids pelting a dishevelled figure with stones. I immediately recalled ‘The Hunchback in the Park’ and his survival tactics. The stark cruelty meted out to him by the kids playing truant from school. also reminded me of William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, which also emphasised the inherent capacity of kids for savagery. Any vulnerable individual can be at the receiving end of vile, wicked bullying by these so-called innocent kids.
You deftly brought out the inner beauty of that lonely, deformed man, whose chained cup of water was filled with gravel by the predatory kids, who mocked and lampooned the poor fellow, who merely existed, but longed to belong!
Santosh Bakaya PhD, is an internationally acclaimed and awarded writer of thirty- two well- received books across genres; ten of which are books of poetry. An academician, poet, columnist , novelist , Creative Writing mentor, biographer, and TEDx speaker; her TEDx talk on the Myth of Writer’s Block is very popular in creative writing circles. Her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi, Ballad of Bapu , and her biography of Martin Luther King Jr Only in Darkness can you see the Stars, have received critical acclaim. Her latest solo poetry book – At Thirty Minutes Past One , has garnered positive feedback. She has been a part of many national and international literary festivals.
Her weekly columns Morning Meanderings in Learning and Creativity. Com and Trigger that Creative Spark in Kashmir Pen, enjoy a huge readership.
Her video recordings in Kashmir Pen about the literary classics are greatly appreciated.
Her collaborative venture Melange of Mavericks and Mutants with Ramendra Kumar has just been launched, and received a very positive response.
Vandana Kumar India
The room’s testament
Lying in bed Did you ever ask someone to draw the curtains So that you could see the first ray of sun You were being consumed by the nights You swallowed phlegm and brooding bats Defying nurses When asked to spit out
‘Everything has a shelf life’ You spoke out to an empty room As you touched wooden study table Lamp Even pen and paper
Not your words, Dylan Not you
Vandana Kumar is a translator, recruitment consultant, cinephile, Indie Film Producer and multiple award-winning poet from New Delhi, India. Her poems have been published in over 150 national and international websites and anthologies of repute. Her poetry collection ‘Mannequin of Our Times’ has also won several awards. ‘Mannequin Of Our Times’ has been translated and published in Greek and French. She received the Global Icon Award at the Global Vision Summit 2025 held in Athens, Greece.
Kushal Poddar India
The Barn House
“Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me” Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill
The youth of our vacation house holds a lantern. It worries that we may go astray, climb up the wrong slope and visit someone else’s childhood.
In wind his shadow is a swinging mood, an argument with the dark of the night,
a hooting barn owl, and the sleight of the fox whose red four quivers in a bush.
We stand in front of the right house feeling something wrong about it. You say that we shouldn’t have returned. I shake my head. In the end we always do. And the morning comes. The same one we recall from the beginning, the one all whitening.
Kushal Poddar has authored eleven books, the latest being ’21 Gun Salutes and Hemingway Syndrome’. His works have been translated into thirteen languages, and he has been a sub-editor of Outlook magazine and the editor of Words Surfacing and Zeroes Garden, and he does illustrations for various magazines.
I would meet you where brown trout run in rivers of cloud beneath a flint and speckled sky
How often did I walk in mists to the sparrowed shed, cradled in cliffs, my path a loft of birch and ivy still
We will gaze through the window broad at the monocled bay, where my surly wake breaks upon the Cambrian tides.
Words splash down upon the iron roof, as I sleep in lathered dreams
with Wales in my arms
Melissa A. Chappell is a writer living in rural South Carolina. Her poetry is greatly influenced by the natural world. She is an ordained Lutheran pastor with a BA in Music Theory and a Master of Divinity degree. She served parishes in southwestern Virginia for eight years. Chappell is a pianist, singer, and guitarist. She currently serves as a church musician and director of choirs in the upcountry of SC. She spends her free time reading, walking in the field and woods with her dog, and enjoying life with her family, miniature schnauzer, and two cats.
Pranab Ghosh India
Lash! Lash! … Lash Out!
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light” The flow of the waves Lash at ‘time’, Ours, yours, theirs
I stand at the bank And see the sun set… On my dream, desire, Aspiration!
No! No!
No need to go and ‘catch’ the ‘falling star’ or the ‘sun’ No need to despair And repent or savour The loss, blow by blow!
No need to rejoice at the Fall of the hero No need even to identify!
No need to think of Catharsis too!
No need to fight Any syndrome Even the ‘pressure cooker’!
Well?
Lash out Lash out Lash out at time itself, instead!
Keep lashing As long as Gloom Despair Repentance Hunger Oppression Usurpation
…
Are all cast aside… To be taken away, Far, far away from You And Your times!
Pranab Ghosh is a journalist, poet and author. His poems and prose pieces have been published in magazines and e-zines, including IndianLiterature, PikerPress, DissidentVoice, Memoryhouse, Setu, Impspired.Com, Spillwords etc., published from India and abroad. His poems and short stories have also been widely anthologized. His last two books of poems – KarmaCola (Impspired.com, UK) and Love, ReligionandPolitics (Virasat, Kolkata) – were published in 2023. He, at present, lives in Kolkata, India.
Gayatri Lakhiani Chawla India
Journey
Across the limitless horizon of golden sunshine my heart is a bird today, it flies, it flies to a country unknown to me my soul deep like the muddy rivers that flow it hums, it hums to the beat of the glistening rain my hands weary, mudcrack like touch the leaves of the Tree of Life they sing, they sing the enchanted tale of the blue skinned God my feet sway for the journey home they dance, they dance naked in abandon.
GayatriLakhiani Chawla is an award-winning poet, translator, healer and teacher from Mumbai. Her poems have been published widely and anthologized: Her poems are featured in the anthology Modern English Poetry by Younger Indians published by Sahitya Akademi and Yearbook of Indian Poetry in English . Her poem won the Commendation Prize at The All-India Poetry Competition 2013. She is the author of three poetry collections – Borders and Broken Hearts shortlisted for the PVLF Author Excellence Awards 2024 for Best English Poetry. Invisible Eye longlisted for Cochin Lit Fest Poetry Prize 2016, and The Empress, winner of the 2018 US National Poetry Contest by Ræd Leaf Foundation for Poetry & Allied Arts. Accolades for her poetry include a special mention award in the Architectural Poetry Annual Competition 2020, the Panorama Special Jury Award at the Panorama International Literary Awards 2020, being shortlisted by Asia Pacific Writers and Translators in collaboration with Joao-Roque Literary Journal June 2020 and first prize at The New Normal Poetry competition by Poetry Paradigm and Oxford Bookstore. She is recipient of the Rahi Kadam Inspiration Award 2021. She is the author of Healing Elixir- The Hawakal Handbook of Angel Therapy, Numerology & Remedies. Her latest book is ‘Redolence- The Greatest Poems by Sachal Sarmast’ published by Om Books international.
Vatsala Radhakeesoon Mauritius
Flowing with Fate
Little did I know you were waiting for me while I was basking in my dreams of studying Medicine in days of adolescence – a girl of fourteen holding it steadily till eighteen yet instinctively, secretly reading, penning, hobbying Poetry ridiculed often by classmates for being the cloud-sensitive of sentimentality to logic’s practicalities Limited vision of All-Obvious!
Fern Hill was my first mesmerizing sun, my moon of word-refuge in Everyman’s Poetry series
Much later, a request to serve Poetry and Art combined flowed through a river mind of Italy A call to celebrate you The embrace shelters me till now
In Do Not go Gentle into that Good Night And Death shall have No Dominion I am astounded by your force-creative of fear, anguish, words of truth transcending the planes physical or stuck in between for a while
From Under Milkwood springs new perceptions of imagination, reality undisguised justified through drama’s catharsis singing fairness to Humanity
Call it twist or swirl of Fate To your literary wits , I obey Destined to cherish your special day from a remote island I feel blessed as a poet .
Thank you Dylan Thomas for showing me the way!
Vatsala Radhakeesoon has been writing poems for 34 years and she is the author of numerous poetry books. She is also an abstract artist and likes to experiment various possibilities that bless Art. Vatsala is a literary translator and currently lives in Mauritius.
Still I stand in your door the pomegranate morning vining ripe in my mouth
Auroral geese are mist gliding into a vanishing cadence
Yet my chipping-sparrow heart has only begun to negotiate your ancestral oak the oleander climbing intoxicating every sense
geese bounding brave raptured blue
and I fly into hemispheres stone and cedar raftered history the bitter hardwood
You
So unexpected
Our suns rising from such ruin
presiding over seas desiccating
desecrating the totems of our countries
with prodigal restraint my breath in your throat storming
a cosmic unbuckling
The sorrows of this place shake the foundations
You are the fuse burgeoning
your body a wailing wall for every lament
the rift between us
earth fractures and collides once and again
devastation
a grove of orange trees swept by brimstone and fire
the power and the glory
La puissance et la gloire
Immobile je suis debout à ta porte Le matin grenadier plante grimpante toute juteuse dans ma bouche
Les oies d’aurore se mêlent en brume planant en cadence perdue
Néanmoins mon cœur de bruyant familier vient tout juste à se mettre à surmonter ton chêne ancestral laurier grimpant envirant tous les sens
les oies bondissant brave l’enlèvement tout bleu
et je m’envole dans les hémisphères pierre et cèdre l’histoire chevronnée le bois franc amer
Toi
Si imprévisible Nos soleils se lèvent d’une ruine
présidant les océans desséchants
profanant les totems de nos patries
avec des contraintes prodigues mon souffle dans ta gorge fulminant
un débouclage cosmique
L’angoisse de ce lieu chamboule les fondations
Tu es la mèche naissante
Ton corps un mur de gémissements pour chaque élégie
le désaccord entre nous
la terre se brise et se heurte encore et encore
la dévastation
un verger d’orangers balayé par le feu et soufre
la puissance et la gloire
Settle the Earth
What scenes do I behold where the earth (a bride yet again) is tilled and dark seed is cast
rising falling
with shouts of Hosannah from the furrowed morning
Fields of ardent light maiden
her skirts of rose-fallen sash spread for plough and piercing blade
in bloodrich earth life riven and life wrought a brother catches his brother’s heel in the writhing womb
Cresting hills their ancient quarrels mended a seam of cows exulting stream by stream threading through evergoing fields
swallows wheeling carrying aloft the barns in thinning light
By this new river
set the stone firm plant a tree for figs
what has been given us is enough
to settle the earth
Établissons la terre
Quelles scènes est-ce que je retiens lorsque la terre (une jeune mariée de nouveau) est labourée et la graine poivrée est lancée
s’élevant se baissant
aux rythmes d’Hosanna d’un matin sillonné
Champs de la lumière fervente vierge
ses jupes de roses- fanées ceinturées étendues pour la charrue et lame perçante
dans la terre sanguine vie déchirée et vie forgée un frère sur les talons d’un autre dans le ventre maternel douloureux
A la crête des collines Leurs vielles disputes réglées un filon de vaches triomphant de ruisseau en ruisseau s’écoulant à travers les champs infinis
les hirondelles tournent en rond transportant au-delà des granges en chaque lumière tamisée
par cette nouvelle rivière
établissent la pierre déterminée plantent un figuier ce dont nous a donné tout ce qu’on a besoin pour établir la terre.
As Before On the pandemic
Winter is the right time for a virus, I suppose, for in its hollow, soundless days we are twining helices, warm, in hope’s deep hold where mammal dreams stir and waken to a country of earth-breaking marigolds, forsaking the days that take away our breath, the masks of pretense and vagaries that ride snowy plumed breezes. On the hearthstone let despair burn brittle, tinder in the ash.
Therefore with perseverance and a will to fight until the jessamine overtakes our graves, and the Monarch leaves its branch no more, a new fire shall burn in winter, and in its rising light we shall see one another face to face, as before
Comme auparavant à propos de la pandémie
L’hiver est le moment propice pour un virus, J’imagine, que dans son vide, jours silencieux nous jumelons des hélices, chaleureuses, en s’accrochant fortement où les rêves de mammifères se remuent et se réveillent dans un pays de séisme de fleurs de souci, renonçant aux jours qui nous coupent le souffle, les masques de faux-semblants et les caprices qui dirigent les panaches de brises neigeuses. Sur le foyer laissons la détresse brûler fragilement, d’allumettes en cendres.
Donc avec la ténacité et la volonté de se battre jusqu’à ce que le jasmin atteint nos tombes, et le Monarque ne laisse plus ses branches, un nouveau feu brulera en hiver, et dans sa lumière prometteuse nous nous verrons tête à tête, comme auparavant.
Crossing the Broad River at Turtle Bridge
So many crossings I have made and never have you wearied of me or all that I bring
my last breath the last word I remember the last song that I know the last love that blossomed like bloodroot along my appalachian sorrow
And my soul is cast down O Lord into depths the rubble of contrition born of ferocity and grace waters which order the taking and giving of life
the last word I remember is no word at all
an exhalation lost
floating away in breath misting over this middle realm of river color uncreated I shall not encroach the mystery
My parting breath Earth river the ongoing sea
Traversant le Broad River à Turtle Bridge
Tant de fois je t’ai traversé et jamais tu ne t’ai pas lassé de moi et de tout ce que j’emmène
mon dernier souffle le dernier mot dont je me souvienne la dernière chanson que j’ai connu le dernier amour qui bourgeonna comme la sanguinaire au long de mon chagrin d’Appalachien
Et mon âme est abattue O Seigneur au fond les décombres de la pénitence naissant de la férocité et grâce des eaux qui ordonnent la naissance et la mort
le dernier mot dont je me souvienne n’est point un mot
un soupir perdu
s’envolant en souffle brumant au-dessus de cette sphère centrale de la rivière couleur incréée (naturelle) Je n’envahis pas l’énigme
Mon souffle d’adieu Terre rivière la mer éternelle .
In Cloths of Heaven
On that day at the fringes of last things when silken ribbons have been spun in full and the earth has been turned a thousand times beyond
I shall meet you in cloths of heaven
We shall rest shining among such gardens no more forbidden a kiss exchanging
just once
for an orange sweet in the whisperings of weft and warp your name on my breath beneath vaulting skies a meal shared
in this windfall light
our alleluias beginning
again
Dans les voiles du Paradis
Ce jour-là en marge des dernières actions lorsque les rubans de soie seront tissés complètement et la terre aura tourné milliers de fois au-delà
Je te rencontrerai en voiles de Paradis
Nous nous reposerons rayonnant parmi ces jardins qui ne seront plus interdits un baiser échangé
rien qu’une seule fois
pour une orange juteuse dans les murmures de chaîne et trame ton nom régnant dans mon souffle sous les cieux voûtant un repas partagé
dans cette lumière d’aubaine
nos alléluias résonnant
de nouveau.
Mother, I Climbed
These stones remember no primrose vows only the carriage of winters spilt into that summer of birches trembling with each rain
You and I wearing the river only no servile kiss the sun uncoiling blush of pomegranate
You held out your hand and I climbed yes, mother, I climbed into his arms and went with him
to his house on the mountain his stone house where the waxwing sang in cedared rafters
Maman j’avais grimpé
Ces pierres ne se souviennent pas des vœux de la primevère mais simplement du chariot d’hivers divisé en bouleaux d’été tremblant avec chaque pluie
Toi et moi portant que la rivière pas de bisou soumis le soleil levant rougeur du grenadier
Tu tendis ta main et j’avais grimpé oui, maman, j’avais grimpé dans ses bras et j’étais partie avec lui
à son domicile sur les montagnes sa maison en pierre où le jaseur chantait dans les poutres en cèdre.
Gossamer Words
You are the rhododendron blooming in the deepest hold of my winter
I recall your words gossamer graveled falling to my lavender pillow
how they still fall down the echoing well
of decades
pebbles of remembrance parting the air as great drops of snow outside my winter window
There have been other voices in other rooms
yet yours makes fine the memory and unfathomable the loss
Paroles de fils de la vierge
Tu es le rhododendron fleurissant tout au fond de l’attente de mon hiver
Je me souviens de tes mots fils de vierge gravillonnés tombant sur mon coussin (oreiller) lavande
Comme ils tombent encore dans le puit résonnant
des décennies
Les cailloux de souvenirs séparant l’air comme les gouttes de neige à l’extérieur de ma fenêtre hivernale
Il y a eu d’autres voix dans d’autres chambres
mais la tienne fait du bien à la mémoire et la perte inimaginable.
Other Music
I hear it in the graveled cadences of his voice, the rests which are no rests, but the pulsations of my blood, caught up in a recapitulation of our summer rhapsody, long ago, his words, circling around, strange pattern, strange melody, still sung in my far country— arias, recitatives, resplendent cadenzas. What is this other music, that begins in him and ends in me? I try to name it, to draw boundaries around it, to give it definition. What is it then, but the secret sound of spring come early, that quietly breaks open the dogwood bud, that cracks apart in me that other music, floating on a jessamine wind, and he knows it not.
D’autre musique
J’entends dans les cadences gravelées de sa voix, des pauses qui ne sont pas des pauses, mais les battements de mon cœur, atteints par une récapitulation de notre rhapsodie d’été, jadis, ses mots, tournant en rond, tendance étrange, mélodie étrange, toujours chanté dans mon pays lointain — arias, récitatifs, resplendissant, cadences, C’est quoi cette autre musique qui commence en lui et s’achève en moi ? J’essaie de la nommer, poser des limites autour d’elle de la définir. C’est quoi cela donc, mais le son secret du printemps précoce, qui silencieusement ouvre le bourgeon du cornouiller, qui se casse en moi cette autre musique, s’envolant sur un vent de jasmin, et il ne le sait pas.
This is How I Love You
Do you know how I love you? I love you with no farewell, yet with few expectations. I love you from the deep spaces, where lie the shimmering whale bones, where burn the ancient mystic fires. I love you as the red fern grows, longing only to graze your skin as you pass. I love you as I am wounded, in your forgetting, in your silence. Even as we are an impossibility, “No chance” to me is something worth loving. I love you and live with you in the monochrome memories of beaches and empty streets and dimly lit cafes. My love was rageful when you left me. I lay in the ashes that remained, I burned as the cindered river, but perished not, Do you know how I love you? My love is a broken fragrance, that sheds its aroma across the blue true sky, 5000 miles, to perish at your door. This is how I love you.
Voilà comment je t’aime
Sais-tu comment je t’aime ? Je t’aime sans adieu, mais avec quelques attentes. Je t’aime tout au fond de grands espaces, où refugient les fanons étincelants des baleines, où brulent les anciens feux mystiques. Je t’aime comme la fougère rouge qui grandit, envie simplement de regarder longuement ta peau quand tu y passes. Je t’aime comme je suis blessée, dans ton oubli, ton silence. Même si nous sommes une impossibilité, ‘Pas de chance’ veut dire pour moi digne d’être aimé. Je t’aime et vis avec toi dans le monochrome souvenir des plages et de rues désertes et l’éclairage feutré des cafés. Mon amour était fou de rage quand tu m’as quitté. Je me couchais dans les cendres restantes, Je me brulais comme la rivière carbonisée, mais je n’étais pas morte, Sais-tu comment je t’aime ? Mon amour est un parfum endommagé, qui répand son arôme dans le vrai ciel bleu, 5000 milles, pour périr à ta porte. Voilà comment je t’aime.
When Death Comes to Our Table
When Death comes to our table, The distance separating us disappears.
The silken sash of rose shall fall upon you, O rider pale,
and my passion flows from my thighs, a river of orange blossoms that fall over you.
The silken sash, once binding, now unbinding, has freed us to know as we want to be known.
When Death comes to our table, Love’s grief is falling upward.
Quand la mort vient à notre table
Quand la mort vient à notre table, La distance qui nous sépare disparait.
La ceinture en soie de la rose tombera au -dessus de toi, O Cavalier tout blême,
et ma passion s’écoule de mes jambes, une rivière de fleurs d’oranger qui tombent au -dessus de toi.
La ceinture en soie, jadis contraignante, maintenant non-contraignante, nous a libéré pour être connu comme nous voudrions être connu.
Quand la mort vient à notre table, le chagrin d’amour rebondit plus haut.
The earth cradled you. The woods surrounding you cried out into the ether, so that even in your stillness, those who searched could find you.
Your physical silence expressed something of soft deeply harbored traditions. Your essence releasing in soft whispers, whispering to the Creator, whispering something that mattered.
The leaves that witnessed unfolding events, actions that released your soul, will one day speak to those who will never stop asking about the who, and the how, and, most importantly, the needful why.
Indispensable
(pour Cole)
La terre te berçait. Les bois tout autour de toi pleuraient dans les cieux, pour que même dans ta quiétude, ceux qui te cherchaient pourraient te retrouver.
Le silence de ta présence dévoilait quelque chose de la douceur profonde des traditions entretenues. Ta raison d’être s’échappant en doux murmures, murmurant au Créateur, murmurant ce qui comptait.
Les feuilles qui ont vécus le cours des événements, des actes qui libéraient ton âme, parlera un jour à ceux qui ne cesseront jamais de demander qui, comment, et surtout l’indispensable pourquoi.
Osmium
Blue-white brittleness densifies the heart, then heavy lies our thoughts and feelings. We begin acting as strangers do.
For the old woman wandering alone after the heavy door to her past is shut, and the old man in the crowd wearing white whiskers, slipping his heart in his pocket.
Tears swell in the eyes of not just the old.
The black-frocked goth horse-girl rides by. She’s not immune to dreaming of what might be, within a world whose sky can reflect a million hues of blue.
The boy drenched to the bone by tears, who feels he’s in a world with too many words in its head, when all he needs to say and hear is “I love you.”
What do we do to brush away the pain before there will be no place to sing and dance, when there seems to be no cure for the many kinds of sadness and all our deepest regrets?
The time is right for getting back to sharing loaves and fish, bringing forth the doers, thinkers, praisers, and empathizers.
There’s not a moment to lose.
L’osmium
Bleu -blanc fragilité densifie le cœur, puis nos pensées et sentiments s’assombrirent. Nous nous mettons à agir comme des étrangers.
Pour la vielle dame errant toute seule dès que la porte immense du passé soit fermée, et le vieil homme au moustaches gris dans la foule, glissant son cœur dans sa poche.
Les larmes envahissent les yeux de non seulement les vieux.
La cavalière en robe noire gothique y passe. Elle n’est pas insensible aux rêves de ce qui peut exister, dans un monde d’où le ciel reflète milliers de nuances de bleu.
Le garçon inondé de larmes jusqu’aux os, qui ressent qu’il vit dans un monde de mots excessifs dans sa tête, lorsque tout simplement ce qu’il veut entendre est « je t’aime ».
Que faisons-nous pour balayer la douleur avant qu’il n’y ait plus d’espace pour chanter et danser, lorsqu’il semble ne plus avoir de remède pour toutes sortes de tristesse et de grands regrets ?
Il est temps de revenir au partage de pains et de poissons, valorisant les bienfaisants, penseurs, admirateurs et les empathes.
I’m a writer/poet and an artist from Mauritius. I work as a literary translator (10 years of experience).
I’m currently looking for new works to translate in 2026.
My translation services for the following languages will be provided at these specific fees:
English to French
French to English
English to Mauritian Kreol
Mauritian Kreol to English
Prices in U.S Dollars and Mauritian Rupees
Individual poems (5- 12 poems) $ 40 (Rs 1800)
Poetry chapbooks (20 -40 pages) $100 (Rs 4500) (Full payment to be made before translation work starts)
Full length poetry books (More than 40 pages) $250 (Rs11 250) ($125 to be paid intially before translation work starts , $125 to be paid after translation is completed)
(Please Note: Prices are non-negotiable)
25% discount is only offered to authors whose books and chapbooks have been previously translated by me.
French and Kreol Translations by Vatsala Radhakeesoon
FRENCH TRANSLATIONS
Blood
I have always been proud of my distinguished benefit to this Earth,
surpassed only by oxygen. Yet, at times, my portrayal is less than benevolent. My most precious essence
as red as cherries, apples, Oklahoma dust, spilled in the street for the price of territory.
Frozen by horrors of truthful revelation, thickened by cold, boiled by outrage.
Or depict me as the moon’s command over ladies, offering womanhood, granting new life.
Many believe one shed me to deliver this world. Lifetime loyalties have been sworn in my name.
See me as you will.
Le sang
J’ai toujours été fier de mon bienfait remarquable sur terre,
surmontant qu’avec de l’oxygène. Mais parfois, mon image est moins justifiée. De nature précise
aussi rouge que les cerises, les pommes, la poussière d’Oklahoma, répandu dans les rues marquant le territoire.
Figé par le dévoilement de la vérité, endurci par le froid, brûlant d’indignation.
Ou me projetant comme l’effet lunaire sur les dames, offrant la féminité, accordant une nouvelle vie.
Nombreux sont ceux qui croient qu’on me déverse pour délivrer ce monde. Des serments ont été faits à mon nom.
Apercevez-moi comme vous le voulez.
All Those Chairs in the Field
Rapturous orchestral maneuvers performed by bees and butterflies.
One to each symphonic chair, they sit upon these colorful structures, measuring each refrain with the beating of wings.
I lie at the edge, enchanted by this euphoric ensemble that plays out the course of life while perched upon nature’s own soft seats.
Toutes ces chaises dans le champ
Ravissantes manœuvres orchestrales réalisées par les abeilles et les papillons.
Une créature pour chaque chaise symphonique, elle s’assied sur ces structures pittoresques, évaluant chaque refrain avec les battements des ailes.
Je m’allonge à l’extrémité, éblouit par ce groupe euphorique qui démontre le parcours de vie en se perchant sur leurs propres sièges de la nature.
Tower of Bones
A parade seen from the perspective above the clavicles of a king among men; or lengthy fields of bluebonnets, or guitarists on stage.
He counted train cars aloud to me as they passed.
Now as I stand at ground level and watch his funeral procession go by, I long to once more climb that tower of bones, to view the majesty of this life’s moment while perched atop my father’s shoulders.
Tour Des Os
Un cortège vu du regard au-dessus des clavicules d’un roi parmi les hommes ; ou de vastes champs de lupins, ou des guitaristes sur scène.
Il me comptait les wagons à haute voix dès qu’ils passaient.
Maintenant, lorsque je me tiens au ras du sol et regarde son cortège funèbre passer, Je veux à tout prix encore une fois grimper cette tour des Os, pour mieux voir la Majesté à cet instant de la vie en se perchant sur les épaules de mon père.
The Shaping of Clouds
At dawn I recall the shapes of yesterdays’ clouds, each one at variance, a differing
outline, and how we argued about their shape and the wispiness of that cruciform shape that disbursed
right in front of our eyes, before we could settle the debate and come to an agreement on how it had really appeared
to us. As the sun rises, I notice the sky is cloudless and your chair is empty too.
Later in the week as I look at the clouds alone, it does not much matter their shape nor that they even exist. By tomorrow, I’ll no longer feel like looking.
La formation des nuages
A l’aube je me souviens des formes des nuages de la veille, chacun d’eux en opposition, un différend
contour, et comment nous nous discutions à propos de leurs formes et de la légèreté de cette croix qui se dispersait
tout droit devant nos yeux, avant que nous puissions trancher le débat et parvenir à un accord s’agissant de comment il paraissait vraiment
à nous. Dès que le soleil se lève, Je constate que le ciel est sans nuage et ta chaise vide aussi.
Plus tard durant la semaine quand je regarde les nuages toute seule, je ne me rends pas vraiment compte de leurs formes ou même s’ils existent. D’ici demain je ne voudrai plus les voir.
Cathedral
Bells are ringing around both thieves and priests. Those bespoke to the below, those contracted to the heavens.
Electrified guitar plays as the carillon of a cathedral, within this sacred theater. The licks and strums of Old Man Rivers.
And while Wichita slow dances and sways to the music, we recall the discarnate push and pull of yesteryears’s greatest songs.
Knowing that Old Man Scratch enjoys a good riff from a Gibson, as well as angels, thieves, and priests and the Savior Himself kept such company.
La Cathédrale
Les cloches sonnent autour de tous les deux, cambrioleurs et prêtres. Ceux personnalisés sur terre, ceux embauchés au Paradis.
Des guitares électriques jouent comme le carillon d’une cathédrale, dans cette salle de spectacle sacrée. Les coups de langue et grattements d’Old Man Rivers.
Et lorsque Wichita danse lentement et se balance à la musique, nous nous souvenions du pousser et tirer désincarné de meilleures chansons d’antan.
Sachant que Old Man Scratch se réjouit d’un bon refrain de Gibson, aussi bien que des anges, voleurs et prêtres et le Sauveur lui-même leurs tient compagnie.
Guitars Galore and Big Boots
Up and down the sacred corridors of the Country Music Hall of Fame, is shared an evolutionary picture, of those who never grew tired of hurting as their years passed. Those who were once young enough to know it all, and many now old enough to have lived it all.
Words sung, torn from male tongues: The whiskered rhetoric of Willie Nelson to the shadowed loudness of Brad Paisley, even work of the virtual poet, Bob Dylan, is displayed here. (Nashville Skyline)
Enter into this universe, female gambits, once seen in thorny kinships with men who ruled the slide guitars.
These performers, now a binding cult, including the electrifying falsetto of Dolly, and folk women like Emmylou. Patsy Kline built such a bridge!
Guitars galore and big boots, exhibited as memorials to the roots of the American heart.
Those born of mountains, Those born of hills, Whose daddies worked as miners, And labored within the hot sawmills.
Des guitares à gogo et de grandes bottes
Le va-et-vient des couloirs sacrés du Country Music-Hall of Fame , se partage en un portrait évolutif, de ceux qui ne se sont jamais lassés d’être blessés dès que les années passaient. Ceux qui étaient jadis assez jeunes pour tout savoir, et beaucoup d’entre eux actuellement assez vieux d’avoir tout survécu.
Des mots chantés, brisés par les voix masculines : De belles paroles moustachues de Willie Nelson au intensité sonore assombri de Brad Paisley, même les œuvres du poète virtuel , Bob Dylan y est exposées. (Nashville Skyline)
Entrant dans cet univers, des gambits féminins, autrefois en affinités épineuses avec les hommes maitrisant les guitares slide.
Ces artistes, maintenant devenu un culte contraignant, y compris le fausset électrisant de Dolly, et les femmes folkloriques comme Emmylou. Patsy Kline établit un tel lien !
Des guitares à gogo et de grandes bottes, exposées comme monuments commémoratifs traçant l’origine au fond de la Culture Américaine.
Ceux natifs de montagnes, Ceux natifs de collines, Dont leurs pères travaillaient comme mineurs, Et peinaient dans les scieries surchauffées.
MAURITIAN KREOL TRANSLATIONS
Schadenfreude
The crows refuse to turn away from the carnage. The broken and bent frames of machine and man thrill them. Across the road is spilled dreams and desires, never to be realized, and the crows flap their wings with glee.
Schadenfreude (Plezir malsin)
Bann korbo refiz aret masak. Bann parti kase e kabose masinn e imin fer zot plezir. Lor larout finn eparpiye rev e dezir, ki zame pou realize, ebann korbo bat zot lezel dan lazwa.
Lumen
Feel the flame in your bones, a miracle invited, When seeking light. learn ancestry without greed. Study where the voyage takes you. The simplicity of your soul will become celestial bliss.
Lalimier
Resanti laflam dan to lezo enn mirak dan ler Kan rod lalimier. Konn orizin san gourmandiz. Obzerv kot vwayaz-la amenn twa. Sinplisite to nam pou vinn boner ki bondie pou done.
A Street Prayer
I lay this rose above you. I leave my prayer for you. I ask the angels to guide you. I will write all manner of pen that those who threaten your brothers and sisters will choose to lay down their weapons and take up the arms of righteousness, and find valiant deeds better suited to their days than blind hatred of different colors of scarves and shirts.
Enn lapriyer lor sime
Mo les sa roz la lor twa. Mo les mo lapriyer pou twa. Mo demann ban anz gid twa. Mo pou ekrir dan tou fason ki kapav pou ki tou seki menas to frer e ser pou swazir depoz zot zarm e pran dan lebra zistis, e fer bann aksion brav ki amelior zot lavi olie viv dan laenn aveg pou bann diferan kouler foular e semiz.
Temple Moon
In Heaven, memories fade. This is why the dead do not visit. They no longer remember.
God remembers real sin he took from us. Angels he sends try to change things. They aim to help you understand why it is that you live.
Heart and Earth, within and without, Earth and space, up and down, sky and graves.
The esoteric scent of sage and incense.
We, as builders. Who are the teachers of the builders?
The Earth spoke to the moon. The moon spoke to the sky.
Has the need for temples passed? For teachers? For builders? For angels?
Why then do we still have death?
Tanp Lalinn
Dan paradi, bann memwar efase. Lakoz sa bann seki mor pa vizite. Zot nepli rapel.
Bondie rapel vre pese li finn pran ar nou. Bann anz li avoye sey sanz kitsoz. Zot lintansion se ed zot konpran kifer zot viv.
Leker e later, avek e san, Later e lespas, anba lao, lesiel e tonbo.
Later finn koz avek lalinn, Lalinn finn koz avek lesiel.
Eski nesesite tanp finn pase? Pou profeser? Pou konstrikter? Pou anz?
Kifer sinon nou touzour ena lamor?
Pulse
Through a net of dreams engraved in memory, I sensed the tempo of love between us, redolent kisses beyond midnight that kept me yearning. I dreamt your music was all I could hear from where your gentle spirit sung the psalm.
At the start, I had no music. Only a plenitude of need to learn the lilt of love, performing. Then, came awakening, rhythm, rhythm, within sinews, into our very cells.
Now, the pulse breathes on and on for as long as time itself.
We will be, for as long as time itself.
Pou
Par enn file rev grave dan memwar, Mo resanti kadans lamour ant nou, bizou dou apre minwi ki les mwa anvi sa. Mo finn rev to lamizik ti tou seki mo ti kapav tande depi kot to nam dous sant Psalm.
Avan, Mo pa ti ena lamizik. Zis enn dezir konple pou aprann fason lamour, performe. Apre, finn ena levey, ritm, ritm, dan misk, dan nou selil.
Aster, pou respire, kontinielman ziska ki letan exziste pou nou.
Nou pou la, ziska letan pou nou exziste.
The Cards Spoke
On the day no one was looking, everyone aged, only by a day, but that day went fast, as the cards were shuffled so quickly. It was as if a parlor trick was being presented. And people wept, knowing the chance to slow down time had eluded them. The clock’s hands would spin. When no one was listening, life spoke secrets for earning immortality, long lost knowledge was confessed. and all were deemed unlucky. The flip of the cards was so loud that they drowned out any chance to catch the words. And people wept, knowing that to live forever had eluded them. That last day would come.
Bann kart finn revele
Enn zour personn pa ti pe gete, zot tou ti vieyi, zis dan enn zour, Me sa zour-la li finn pas vit, parski bann kart ti bate bien vit. Li ti koumadir enn vre trik ki ti prezante. E bann dimounn finn plore, kan konn lasans fer letan pas dousman finn anbrouy zot. Zegwi revey ti pe marse. Kan personn pa ti pe ekoute, lavi finn revel bann sekre pou gagn imortalite, konesans perdi ti konfese e zot tou ti sorti malsanse. Batman kart ti telman for ki zot finn touy lasans resezi bann mo. E bann dimounn finn plore, kan finn kone ki lide viv pou touzour finn deles zot. Dernie zour pou vini.
Santosh Bakaya is a resident of India, internationally acclaimed for her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi, Ballad of Bapu; and a biography of Martin Luther King Jr. Only in Darkness can you see the Stars,
She is an academic, poet, essayist, columnist, novelist, biographer, TEDx speaker, and creative writing mentor, whose TEDx talk on the Myth of Writer’s Block is very popular in creative writing Circles, and so are my columns Morning Meanderings in Learning and Creativity.com. And Trigger that Creative Spark in Kashmir Pen . She has thirty well-received books to her credit, many of which have been Amazon bestsellers. Her latest book is Din about Chins which has garnered a lot of critical acclaim .
She is giving finishing touches to her novel and a poetry anthology, The Bridge over the River Jhelum.
Here is a video of Santosh Bakaya reading her poem:
Dylan Thomas – Portrait by Gianpiero Actis (Italy)
Let’s Pay Tribute to Dylan Thomas
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, a group of poets have joined to write a collaborative poem to be featured on my blog. The theme of the poem is Poetic Sea.
I’m grateful to Immagine and Poesia, Italy (founded under the patronage of Aeronwy Thomas, daughter of Dylan Thomas) for its continuous support over the years.
Many thanks and congratulations to all the poets whose lines have been selected.
Hope the readers will enjoy reading this poem as a whole and continue to support the works of Dylan Thomas.
Words-Waves
Welcome, Welcome dear Poets One by one with pen-corals on the golden sunny beach -grins let your lines flow with the glow of undying flame of creativity – A tribute to Dylan Thomas.
– Sea Blue (Oceans Endless)
Amidst the sea waves echo blue, green, orange, grey words locked in seashells carrying centuries of inspiration born in a second, grown gradually, dead- blurred momentarily but phoenix-reborn singing poetry’s immortality
– Vatsala Radhakeesoon (Mauritius)
Who is this enigmatic figure creating music, stirring the soul? What sublime message is the bass player sending across? Trees sway in sync with the music, energized. I emerge from my languor, rejuvenated. Resurrected. Risen from the ashes, poetry pulsating on my lips
– Santosh Bakaya (India)
Amid these waves I swim each day caressed by waters whispering tales from times gone by. Here, I roamed with whales and dolphins for company.
– Gloria Fu Keh (Singapore)
You propose to the word near the sea. Wind plays the wingman, bear the ring forged with your breath. You cheat your word, stray with silence, and even then chiselling the word’s shape in your mind. Word makes you fight, give you peace, row the boat when you fish for thoughts.
– Kushal Poddar (India)
In the unreal grey of these liquefied lines in the vortex of a sea of steel where shadows stretch darker and darker I listen to Dylan’s words – echoes in subtle vibration like a slow crescendo like a gloomy, confused whisper… And death shall have no dominion
– Lidia Chiarelli (Italy)
The light of the soul lives in us as an inexhaustible spark it explores the darkness and erases the shadows with echoing resonances It brings forth the rainbow … and new words slowly take shape on the horizon
– Gianpiero Actis (Italy)
From within the eyes of Wales, breaks open the light, sunshine pulled inside the soul, and the soul shall revive the life of the man, and the man shall sing his words into the heart of the sea, and the sea shall remember him beyond all eternities.
– Linda Imbler (USA)
What if by drowning these letters baptize themselves– as simple softness of our existence, cold rivers run through like pillows of thought sleeping eternally: awe-defying eternity.
– Dustin Pickering (USA)
A gathering of waters, the word of God cresting, breaking over ramparted dunes— Here is the bereaved sea, afflicted by Eden’s sorrows. Does her children’s diaspora of reason fracture the spectral bow of the Lord? Unknowing, the sea waits, her heart in tides ebbing, flowing, cleansing the just and unjust alike.
– Melissa Chappell (USA)
How I love this sea facing me My thirst for every water body All rolled into one The drought last year I tilted my head for every drop Directly from the faucet What else is this feel if not poetry Toes first
– Vandana Kumar (India)
Although fleeting in its own right Faithful to the arrival of spring The sea seems reborn from the strandline Like the stirring phoenix that comes back to life
– Dinesh Bachoo (Mauritius)
The Sunday supper knocks at our sea-facing door reckoning what’s remembered in a half-forgotten voyage The whiff remains in burnt out butts on the deck Aimless arguments await menu card on the waves
– Shyamasri Maji (India)
Words flow and lines unite to praise your creativity-boldness Gone too soon, young poet but your writings unlock inspiration on the cycle of centuries of Poetry Thank you, contemporary friends, for safeguarding the literary flame within!
Vatsala Radhakeesoon Poetry, Prose, Translated Works 