Writers International Edition

Poetry

Amigo Aire: Poem by Raúl Hernández Correa

Amigo Aire…
Tú que eres el pintor de nuestro cielo,
el soplo imprescindible de la vida.
Concédeme el color que tanto anhelo
para plasmar tu brisa y tu embestida.
Permite que mi musa tome vuelo
y toque el corazón del inconsciente;
de aquel que contamina nuestro suelo
y nubla nuestro espacio transparente.
Graciosa coquetea tu corriente
bailando en la maleza como un juego.
Si puedes desgarrar la inmensa nube.
¿Por qué sueles dejar que un vil tan ciego
la tóxica impureza te la incube?
¡Defiéndete a ti mismo, te lo ruego!

Amigo Aire…
Regálame el silbar de tu decir
para adornar la luz del pensamiento.
Silente precursor de lluvia y viento,
sin ti jamás podríamos vivir.
No es bueno que intoxiquen nuestro aliento;
ni justo que te mezclen con Don Nadie.
Si al menos no condenas al culpable,
no dejes que mi verso vuele en vano…
Ayúdame a enfrentar al detestable
que suele envenenar al ser humano
y a todo nuestro gran ecosistema.
Permite que mi sueño imaginable
respire los colores de un poema
en este festival insuperable.

Poem by
Raúl Hernández Correa
Cuba- USA

Biography of the Poet

Raúl Hernández Correa
Vizconde de La Casa de Homestead en la micronación de Andorra.
Poeta, escritor y compositor. Embajador y miembro ejecutivo de varias asociaciones internacionales

  • Primer Rey Tertulia Versos desde el Pilcomayo, Bolivia 2019
  • Poeta del año. Elsa Award Miami 2019.
  • Primer premio en Fotopoema Indonesia 2021
  • Premio “GENTLEMAN ARCÁNGEL DE LA PALABRA Y LA VIDA” Hombre 2021-2022

Sus obras están en múltiples antologías internacionales
Participó como invitado en el “Festival Internacional de Literatura Panorama 2022 y 2023”

 

Unloving A Flower Bouquet: Poem by Sushant Thapa

What happens
When you don’t love
A flower bouquet?
Love just sales and
Becomes too costly.
A store of love
Goes empty
Unless you
Love an appreciative artist.
A personal redemption
Builds a rusted prison in you.
The fragrance of boredom wafts.
A universal river
Just becomes
A washing consolation.
Art is there to mystify
It is there to measure
The height of fall
When affection
Fall from the height of imagination
And make proper awakenings.
A bar
Cannot replace
A barefoot garden walk
In the morning dewy grass.
A bouquet if loved
Becomes a garden of love.

Poem by
Sushant Thapa
©Sushant Thapa 2023

Bio of the Poet

Sushant Thapa (1993) is from Biratnagar, Nepal. He is an M.A. in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. His fourth and upcoming book of poems titled “Love’s Cradle” is going to be published by World Inkers Printing and Publishing, New York, USA. He teaches Business English to undergraduate students in Biratnagar, Nepal.

O Captain! my Captain! Poem by Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain!
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
**********
O capitano! Mio capitano!
O Capitano! Mio Capitano! Il nostro viaggio spaventoso è finito,
La nave ha superato ogni ostacolo, il premio che cercavamo è conquistato,
Il porto è vicino, odo le campane, il popolo tutto è esultante,
Mentre gli seguono la ciglia solida, la nave severa e ardita;
Ma o cuore! Cuore! Cuore!
O le gocce sanguinanti di rosso,
Dove giace il mio Capitano sul ponte,
Caduto gelido e morto.
O Capitano! Mio Capitano! Alzati e ascolta le campane;
Alzati – per te è issata la bandiera – per te suona la tromba,
Per te fiori e ghirlande ornate di nastri – per te le rive affollate,
Per te invoca, la massa ondeggiante, a te volgono loro volti ansiosi;
Ecco Capitano! Amato padre!
Questo braccio sotto la tua testa!
È solo un sogno che sul ponte,
Sei caduto gelido e morto.
Non risponde il mio Capitano, le sue labbra sono pallide e immobili
Mio padre non sente il mio braccio, non ha polso né volontà,
La nave è ancorata sana e salva, il suo viaggio concluso e finito,
Dal viaggio spaventoso, la nave vittoriosa, torna con la meta raggiunta;
Esultatevi, o rive, e suonate, o campane!
Mentre io, con funebre passo,
Percorro il ponte dove giace il mio Capitano,
Caduto gelido e morto.
**********
Oh Capità! El meu Capità!
Oh Capità! El meu Capità! S’ha acabat l’espantós viatge,
La nau ha superat tots els esculls, hem guanyat el premi que anhelàvem,
El port és ben a prop, sento les campanes, la gent està exultant,
Els ulls segueixen la ferma quilla, la nau severa i audaç,
Però oh cor! Cor! Cor!
Oh sagnants gotes vermelles!
Allà, a la coberta, el meu Capità
Jeu fred i mort.
Oh Capità! El meu Capità! Aixeca’t i escolta les campanes;
Aixeca’t -per a tu s’alça l’estendard -per tu sona la trompeta,
Per tu rams i corones florents -per tu les platges atapeïdes de gent.
Per tu crida la massa oscil•lant, per tu les seves cares es giren anhelants;
Aquí, Capità! Pare estimat!
Que el teu cap descansi sota el meu braç!
Això ha de ser algun somni, a la coberta
Jeus fred i mort.
El meu Capità no contesta, els seus llavis tan pàl•lids i quiets,
El meu pare no nota el meu braç, no té pols, ni voluntat,
La nau ha ancorat sana i estàlvia, s’ha acabat el seu viatge,
De l’espantosa travessia, la nau arriba victoriosa amb un trofeu;
Exulteu-vos, oh platges, i soneu, oh campanes!
Però jo, amb una fúnebre càrrega,
Camino per la coberta on el meu Capità
Jeu fred i mort.
**********
Ω Καπετάνιε! Καπετάνιε μου!
Ω Καπετάνιε! Καπετάνιε μου! Το τρομερό ταξίδι μας τελείωσε.
Το σκαρί άντεξε στον καιρό, αποκτήσαμε το ζητούμενο έπαθλο.
Το λιμάνι είναι κοντά, ακούω τις καμπάνες, ο κόσμος όλος αγαλλιά,
Καθώς ακολουθούν τα μάτια τους τη σταθερή καρίνα,
το σκάφος πλέει βλοσυρό και με τόλμη.
Μα, ω, καρδιά! Καρδιά! Καρδιά!
Ω, οι άλικες στάλες που αιμορραγούν,
Εκεί που στο κατάστρωμα κείται ο καπετάνιος μου,
Πεσμένος παγωμένος και νεκρός.
Ω Καπετάνιε! Καπετάνιε μου! Εγέρθητι κι άκου τις καμπάνες.
Εγέρθητι—για σένα κυματίζει η σημαία—για εσένα η σάλπιξ ηχεί.
Για σένα οι ανθοδέσμες και τα στεφάνια με κορδέλα — για σένα συνωστίζονται οι ακτές.
Εσένα καλούν, οι παλλόμενες μάζες, στρέφοντας ανυπόμονα τα πρόσωπά τους.
Ορίστε, Καπετάνιε! Αγαπητέ Πατέρα!
Αυτό το χέρι κάτω από το κεφάλι σου.
Είναι όνειρο πως στο κατάστρωμα,
κείτεσαι κρύος και νεκρός.
Ο Καπετάνιος μου δεν απαντά, τα χείλη του είν’ ωχρά κι ασάλευτα.
Ο πατέρας μου δε νιώθει το χέρι μου, δεν έχει σφυγμό μήτε θέληση.
Το πλοίο έριξε έγκυρα, είναι σώο και αβλαβές, το ταξίδι του ολοκληρώθηκε.
Από τρομερό ταξίδι, εισπλέει το πλοίο της νίκης, ο στόχος επετεύχθη.
Αγαλλιάστε, ακτές, και χτυπήστε, καμπάνες!
Μα εγώ, με πένθιμο βήμα,
περπατώ στο κατάστρωμα, όπου ο Καπετάνιος μου
κείται παγωμένος κι άψυχος.

Poem by
Walt Whitman
traduzione in italiano Joan Josep Barcelo
traduzione in catalano: Jaume C. Pons Alorda
traduzione in greco: Irene Doura-Kavadia

Walt Whitman was an American poet born on May 31, 1819, in West Hills, Long Island, New York. He grew up in a large family and attended Brooklyn public schools. At the age of twelve, he began to learn the printer’s trade, which fueled his love for the written word. He read extensively and became acquainted with the works of Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, and the Bible. After working as a teacher for several years, Whitman turned to journalism as a full-time career, and he founded or edited various newspapers. In 1855, he self-published his first edition of “Leaves of Grass,” which he continued to refine and republish throughout his life. During the Civil War, Whitman worked in hospitals, tending to the wounded, and in 1873, he suffered a stroke that left him partially paralyzed. He spent his final years living in Camden, New Jersey, where he continued to work on additions and revisions to “Leaves of Grass” and his final volume of poems and prose, “Good-Bye My Fancy.” Whitman died on March 26, 1892, and is considered one of America’s most important poets, along with Emily Dickinson.

Mi último aliento: Poem by Alejandra Veruschka

Es pleno día y el sol ya no alumbra como antes,
las tinieblas envuelven el entorno de nuestra aldea.
Se aproxima una tormenta de arena, no se puede respirar,
se escucha como silbidos graves y agudos; allí fuera.

No recuerdo la edad que ahora tengo,
Solo veo frente a mí, un antiguo espejo
que refleja un rostro y un cuerpo demacrado.
Asustada, cierro los ojos para recordar el tiempo pasado.

Lo que ahora nos falta, un día sobró en nuestros días.
Hoy traemos en el aliento, incontables historias y agonías.
de esos días felices cuando respirábamos aire puro.
Pero fue más fácil para el ser humano crear, fábricas y llenarse
los bolsillos de dinero sin importar las consecuencias,
botando desechos químicos en nuestros ríos, bosques
y ciudades, contaminando el aire que se expandió por el planeta
con nubarrones de níquel y de lluvias ácidas.

Hace un tiempo, la naturaleza empezó a pasarnos factura,
los ríos están se secaron, los árboles desaparecieron,
las enfermedades se multiplicaron y nosotros quedamos sin aliento.

Regreso a mi sillón después de la turbulencia,
mis latidos se están apagando, ya casi no siento mi respiración,
sin embargo, tengo la esperanza de que un día el ser humano
vuelva respirar del aire puro que aliviaba al sol.

Alejandra Veruschka
D/Reservados, Bolivia

Alejandra Veruschka San Miguel Avalos, Lic. Contador Público, Escritor, poeta y Art, Plástico. Diplomado en Promotor de lectura
Miembro activo: Unión Monárquica Balear- España, Embajador distintas Org. Literarias internacionales. Reconocimientos internacionales por la trayectoria literaria. Fundador Presidente del Centro Cultural “Versos desde el Pilcomayo”
-Publicación, “Latidos desde el Pilcomayo” y las antologías “Los Reyes de la tertulia “(Bolivia 2019-2020-2021-2022). Antologías estudiantiles “Los Príncipes de la Tertulia ETG.” Bolivia 2020- 2021- 2022

THE TRUTH, I’M COGNIZANT OF: Poem by Dr Bhawani Shankar Nial

The truth is known
fully well that
all that I claim
to be mine today,
all my affluence,
my prosperties, my landed
properties and
my great domain,
shall parish away one day.

It’s a truth that
everything shall pass away:
this soothing morning and
its great effects,
the great historical day,
the footprints of the first
glistening sun
of the free country and
the magnetic effect
of the night prelude to
the Great Freedom.

I know that,
my pride throne will not be
there from tomorrow,
there will be no kingdom and
its innocent subjects,
there will be no power,
no rivals to fight with,
and no sycophants
will be seen buzzing around
me from tomorrow morning.

I know the truth that
I know nothing, nothing at all
I knew nothing ever before.

But, I’m sure
I know why I born and
why should I die one day

I know the secrets
of my death
as my enemies
may get success one day
in their heinous conspiracy
against me.

Though they failed
many a times during
my short – stay with this body
they will definitely
get success one day,
the very day of my death.

Original Poem by
Dr. Bhawani Shankar Nial

Translated by
Dr.Tapan Kumar Rath

About the author

Bhawani Shankar Nial is a poet, editor, thinker and human rights activist. Originally an Odia poet of high repute, he also writes in Hindi. He is the author of three poetry collections in Odia (Srusti, Pachash Barshara Pachash Phasala, Jhiara Chitrakhata), two in Hindi and two in English (An Encounter with Death, Lockdown). He is the Chief Editor of The Mahuri, a widely circulated Odia literary magazine. His poetry embodies a hieroglyphic manifestation on variegated minutiae of human conditions and relationships. His poetic oeuvre is impregnated with multidimensional themes of love and longings at one hand and unmusical themes of bread, food, hunger etc. on the other. This anthology, a compilation of his poems on death consciousnessis, is Bhawani’s first poetry collection in English.

 

TARGET: Poem by Aneek Chatterjee

Evening wraps up the day and
unfolds a long night.
The old eagle finally settles down
on the big, tall tree.
In this juncture of orange lights,
someone whispers:
the night ahead is long;
try to sail through the night.
And I get ready with my bow
and arrow to target adikia,
fear, holocaust, charade.

In the morning, after a long
sleepless night, I find all
arrows are targetting me.

Poem by
Aneek Chatterjee
© Aneek Chatterjee 2023

Aneek Chatterjee is a poet and academic. He has published more than five hundred poems in reputed literary magazines and anthologies across the globe. He has authored and edited 16 books including four poetry collections and a novel. Chatterjee has a PhD in International Relations and he has been teaching at leading Indian and foreign universities. He was a Fulbright Visting Professor at the University of Virginia, USA and a recipient of the prestigious ICCR Chair (Govt of India) to teach abroad. His poetry has been archived at Yale University. Contact: akchatjee@gmail.com

Walking on the Trails: Poem by Dr Shalini Yadav

Real or Surreal
Deceptive or True
It seems vice versa
Whenever I think of a Walk
On the trails of Muir Woods…

Sunshine reaches
To brown humus-rich gravel loam
Making its way through Redwood trees
And my heart delights
The serenity of Woods…

Burnt by fire and wind
Chopped by deceiving human
Yet standing still like my little heart
With all its grandeur
Being ancient and tallest in all…

Healing the beauty of Woods
Exoticizing my Soul
Surpassing all draughts and diseases
Thousands of tempests, floods and avalanches
A survivor in all…

I wish to walk with You
For the joy of mesmeric Woods;
Where you sing some musical strings
Dwelling me deep in your love-lexis…

Poem by
Dr Shalini Yadav
© Shalini Yadav 2023

Dr Shalini Yadav holds a PhD in Post-colonial Literature and M. Phil in English Language Teaching (ELT) from the University of Rajasthan, India. Additionally, she has done a course in Advanced Creative Writing from the University of Oxford, UK. She has progressive teaching experience of 16 years at the University level in India, Libya and Saudi Arabia. She has participated and presented papers in many conferences and seminars, chaired sessions and delivered lectures across the tenure. She has edited and authored various books including Reconnoitring Postcolonial Literature, Emerging Psyche of Women: A Feminist Perspective, On the Wings of Life: Women Writing Womanhood, Postcolonial Transition and Cultural Dialectics, Communication Techniques and A Text Book of English for Engineers. Besides, she is a freelance writer whose creative writing publications include three poetry books in English Floating Haiku, Kinship With You: A Collection of Poems, Till the End of Her Subsistence: An Anthology of Poems, and one in Hindi language entitled Kshitiz Ke Us Paar. She has recently edited an anthology of poetry titled Across the Seas. Many of her short stories and poems are published in numerous peer-reviewed journals and anthologies; besides, she is member of various virtual poetry and literary societies. She keeps reading her poems and short stories at various national and international poetry carnivals. She has meticulously written and also reviewed a big number of scholarly research articles for various National and International refereed journals and edited volumes. She is also an efficacious member of the editorial boards of various qualitative journals of various countries. She is the editor of the open page at Writers International Edition.

poem by emily dickinson in writers edition

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain: Poem by Emily Dickinson

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through –

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum –
Kept beating – beating – till I thought
My mind was going numb –

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space – began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here –

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down –
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then –

Poem by Emily Dickinson

 

 

Poem by Emily Dickinson ,Writers EditionEmily Dickinson (December 10, 1830–May 15, 1886) was an American poet best known for her eccentric personality and her frequent themes of death and mortality. Although she was a prolific writer, only a few of her poems were published during her lifetime. Despite being mostly unknown while she was alive, her poetry—nearly 1,800 poems altogether—has become a staple of the American literary canon, and scholars and readers alike have long held a fascination with her unusual life.

 

poem by emily dickinson in writers edition

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain: Poem by Emily Dickinson

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through –

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum –
Kept beating – beating – till I thought
My mind was going numb –

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space – began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here –

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down –
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then –

Poem by
Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson (December 10, 1830–May 15, 1886) was an American poet best known for her eccentric personality and her frequent themes of death and mortality. Although she was a prolific writer, only a few of her poems were published during her lifetime. Despite being mostly unknown while she was alive, her poetry—nearly 1,800 poems altogether—has become a staple of the American literary canon, and scholars and readers alike have long held a fascination with her unusual life.

THE GENDER IMBALANCE: Poem by Jernail S Aanand

If you go anywhere,
You find men and men
And few women
Are they really small in number?
No, they are forced within
The four walls.

Now ‘thankfully’,
Homes have lost two walls
And roof too is cracked
And we can see the eternal prisoners
Enjoying sunbath and fresh air
On the outskirts of the darker times

Men supply the shortages
Of female colleagues
With a powerful dose
Of imagination.
Which mind is free
From feminine fantasies?

If both the sexes had got
Equal opportunities,
Civilization would have
Fared (faired) better,
Than limping on one leg
The other tied with apron strings.

They are neither weaker
Nor dependent on men,
Having endured untold suffering
They have proved their steadfastness
It is time to decide new mores
So that the balance is restored.

Forget it only at your peril
For every boy, a girl is born
Somewhere in the world
No human crook can belie
Gods’ sense of balance
Which we men both deny and defy.

Poem by
Jernail S Aanand
© Jernail S Aanand

Jernail S AanandDr Jernail Singh Anand is an Honorary Member of the Association of Serbian Writers. He is Prof Emeritus in Indian Literature at The European Institute of the Roma Studies and Research Belgrade. Dr Anand has authored more than 150 books in English poetry, fiction, non-fiction, spirituality and philosophy. He is credited with the theory of Biotext in critical theory. His work has been translated into more than twenty world languages. Author of 9 epics which are regarded as modern classics, Anand has organized 4 International Literary Conferences, latest of them, in Chandigarh. He was conferred Franz Kafka Laureateship 2022 and International Aco Karamanov Poetry Award 2022 (Mecedonia).