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SHIP OF HOPE Where is that canopy? In which a bird lives Hiding in its nest All the sufferings of the world. Where is that river? Hiding in its springs All misfortunes and forebodings Where is that ship? Embarking on his deck All those people who think well, Work hard and speak wisely Where is its sea? ©® Ana Stjelja Ana Stjelja (1982, Belgrade, Serbia). In 2012 she obtained her PhD (on the life and work of the Serbian woman writer Jelena J. Dimitrijević). She is a poet, writer, translator, journalist, researcher and editor. She published more than 30 books of different literary genres. She is also a graphic designer and digital artist. In 2018 she established the Association Alia Mundi for promoting cultural diversity. She is a member of the Association of Writers of Serbia, the Association of Literary Translators of Serbia, the Association of Journalists of Serbia and the International Federation of Journalists (IFJ). She is also a member of the Europeana Pro, CIESART (Spain) and UMEA (Portugal). 101

RADOMIR ANDRIĆ–Serbia NEAR THE DUG-UP WELL In the extended thought His silence grew And a shining hill to the sky And an open house He goes into it often And never comes back His memories are horses Which never arrive From the well’s depths A strange boombing frightens him Oh my house where Not a word is heard ©® Radomir Andrić THE AST TILE On the house’s roff I hold The last tile, Too heavy For my hand. 102

I cant’s put it in place. I can’t put it in place. I can’t Think up The most beautiful part. I have some light And I have a house. My eyes are full, My mouth empty. Fear was the first To enter My New house. ©® Radomir Andrić Radomir Andric, was born on the 3 rd March 1944 in fillage Ljubanje, near Uzice (western Serbia). He spent a number of years in Kru[evac, where he published his first books of poetry in the publishing house „Bagdala“. He graduated in Yugoslav literature and Serbian anguage at The Philogical Faculty in Belgrade. He is the author of a number of books of poetry. To mention but a few: Sunce u vodenici (The Sun in the Water-mill) (1967), Vecernji krug (The Evening Jug) (1969), Shumska crkva (The Forest Church) (1971), Karpatsko umiljenije (The Cartpathian Cherishment) (with Vesna Parun, 1971), Pohvala smehu (The Praise of Laughter) (1977), Neustuknica (The Undaunted) (1980), Kakva po;ast (What a Praise) (1986), Ispod snega (Under the Snow) (1989), Zgon* (1991), Nocni plivac (The Night Wwimmer) (1992), Vu;ica na prtini (The She-wolf in the Wnow Trail) (1993), Rujno (Ruddy)(1994),Charno dleto (The Dark Chiel) (1996), Rumunska ikona (The Romanian Icon) (1997), Isto I obrnuto (The Same and the Inverse) (1998), Vecera na savskoj ladji) (The Dinner at the Boat in Sava) (2000), Beli izvor (The White Spring) (2001), Poleteshe ptice lastavice (The Swallows Took Off) (2005), Yarno vitlo (The Winch of Enlightenment) (2006),Ka drugosti (Toward the Differnet) (2007)…. He is also the author of a few books for children, as well as a number of anthologies and selections of poems. He is also the author of a few books for children, as well as a number of anthologies and selections of poems. He is currently writing and pubishing the essays and literature critiques. Radomir Andric received many literature awards in Serbia as well as Romania. Rade Drainac, Isidora Sekuli, Belovodska rozeta, Zlatni Orfej, Oktobarska nagrada grada Beograda , Milan Rakic, 103

Filip Visnjic, Prsten despota Stefana Layarevi’a, Povelja Morave, Lucijan Blaga, Nikita Stanesku, Marin Soresku, Bazjashka povelja, the medal Mihaj Eminesku, Zlatni beocug Beograda. He also worked as the editor of the Second Programme of Radio Belgrade and of the magazine Zadruga. He is currently the editor of the magayine Bagdala and the journal Kwi\\evne novine (the Literature Gayette). The works of Radomir Andri’ have been translated to many languages: Macedonian, Romanian, Russian, French, Italian, Sanich, Swedsh, Belarus, Polish, Czech, Slovenian, Armenian, Greek… His poems regulary find place in the anthologies of the Serbian poetry. He lives in Belgrade. *Zgon is a colloquialism which means gathering the sheep in the autumn and their femoval from pasture in light grounds to the safety of the pen in the village. 104

MILKO GRBOVIĆ-Serbia GOD'S LOGIC What logic God pursued – I'd wish to grasp and tell – When He put on mountains Snow peaks of icy hell, But lovely landscapes, He Spread at the foot of hills – With joyous running streams And whisp’ring daffodils. When a plane up in space – A non–feathered bird that flies – Draws with chalk a double trace On the board of azure skies; And then when up it soars, A biting frost prevails, Covers with ice the plane In ever thicker glaze. God I don't criticize, His logic I won't pry, Nor change the yoke size To help my soul survive; But the earth grows warmer The closer to it we get – The closer we come to God, With more cold we are met. ©® Milko Grbović 105

EVERY DELIBERATELY BROKEN GLASS…' (A Bohemian Nocturne) Barman! Come here right now! Forget the closing time! This very moment I introduce An extra shift for you – No, I'm not out of my tree! Tonight, don't give a damn About anything, Forget your home, Your wife ¬– It's her own fault A barman's wife to be. Why, with that bowtie, Have they collared you Like a horse to draw a cart? Is this but a humble pub Or a ballroom in high style? You've crystalized into sugar Like plum sweet in a jar; You'll almost bite your own ear With such an outstretched smile. Come, sit down with us – This bunch of good–for–nothings, Reeking with smelly odours – Why do you find us that repulsive As if we were slimy snails? You would never care again About broken glasses, The inventory, Your bosses, If only you knew what cost A deliberately broken illusion entails… ©® Milko Grbović Translated from Serbian by Milomir Ilić 106

Milko Grbović was born in 1957 in Gotovo near Pljevlja. He finished high school in Pljevlje, graduated from the Faculty of Economics in Belgrade. He writes poetry, satire, columns, etc. Represented in several anthologies, anthologies, etc. He also sings poetry in English and Russian; several of his songs were published in magazines. So far he has published books of poems: PYRHIVY DEFEATS, Belgrade, 2001; ON THE HEAVENLY SCALE, Belgrade, 2008; THE WIND BLOWS WITH THE DONE VUŠE, Podgorica, 2010; DVOGLASNIK, sonnet garlands (poetic pantograph, together with Miloš Janković), Belgrade 2013. 107

ANĐELKO ZABLAĆANSKI-Serbia WHEN A POET When a poet becomes a man One child has grown up One dream was ended And one silence Stopped ringing When a poet becomes a man His lips are bitterly cold Thoughts are heavy and harsh And the heart is quiet In a uniform rhythm When a poet becomes a man Those who met him Won't recognize him anymore Those who never met – Never will meet him When a poet becomes a man He won't know either That everything – somehow Hurts him more normally And that he sobs quite differently ©® Anđelko Zablaćanski 108

I WANT A WOMAN I would like To sleep a dream longer than the whole eon To fall asleep in one woman's lap Long time desired and waiting me somewhere And don't ask Does she have a name or is hiding behind nic-knames Whether she speaks nice or ugly words Nor does her smile ring like a cold morning Don't ask Does she have a mole above the upper lip Is she young or just thin Or if her legs are long and her hair is lush Don't ask Did I love women like that Did I hug them drunk or sober Or did I just love the lechery in them Don't ask Did I ever give them anything Nor did they give me anything Don't ask – I don't know Because I think of Only one woman - a woman without a name With eyes that have the color of my sadness And her look fixed Only in the wandering of my pupils I think of a woman Whose lips taste like kisses And which never kissed Because she doesn't kiss with her lips but soul I think of a woman Who never said the word Love But she spoke aloud about it in silence I think of a woman Whose bosom doesn't smell of lechery 109

But of passion and pure longing I'm just thinking of A woman before whom I tremble And she is superior and quiet in my loyalty Like sitting on a throne And I want her But I still stand alone Captured by the crossroads of love and watchful-ness ©® Anjelko Zablačanski Translated from Serbian by Diana Lazarevich Andjelko Zablacanski (Anđelko Zablaćanski) was born in 1959 in Glušci in Mačva. He writes poetry, prose and aphorisms and translates from Russian. Songbooks: Frame for Dream Pictures, 1992; Game of Shadows, 2004; Bird at the Window, 2007; Dream of a Cracked Reality, 2009; Crossroads of Insomnia, 2012; Drunk Dawn, 2014; Little Night Verses, 2019; Nights of the Wolf Call, 2020; Pen, Metaphors, Ink – selected poems, 2021. Collection of aphorisms: Tong slapping, 2006. Book of prose, satirical poetry and more: Behind the line, 2020. He prepared and translated a collection of Russian poetry From Pushkin to Kapustin, 2019. The initiator and editor-in-chief Journal of Literature The Essence of Poetics. He is a member of the Association of Writers of Serbia. He lives in Glušci. 110

MARIJA NAJTHEFER POPOV-Serbia NOT LOVE… Once, something will press your heart. Do not believe that it is disease. When you feel pressure and become breathless, do not look for remedy. Somewhere in you, your conscience will reach you and tear you causing unbearable moan. It will sound like my grief does now, as it pours down my cheeks and expects to move into the dwelling of your conscience. No, do not hope for mercy, because when you hurt someone knowingly, somewhere Someone sees it and memorizes it double (for balance). Someone protects love, not to be uprooted from this world. ©® Marija Najthefer Popov 111

TREASON I was: a lady and simpleton a queen and a maid darkness and light night and day insomnia and peaceful sleep lonely birch and oak forest rose and her thorn water and thirst bread and salt disease and cure summer and winter heat and cool laughter and crying on knees and on the throne… But now I am knight and ember , who leads my own above mentioned subjects, into battle. The truth forged my shield while crying; and the sword by love and treason were forged for me. How will the morning look like After that night In which the lanterns of your soul Will disappear I wonder Obsessed with the fear of scream From the dark Which will arise With knowledge 112

In me Everything will stop In the landscapes of the mind That is intoxicated by words Like water that washes the remedy Down the bloodstream Who will dare To announce to me the news I know without a doubt (I don’t need the messengers I will behead them) At that moment, I will start And try to figure out Where did it come from at once This terrible cold In every throb The polar night will begin The bird will not be at the window The Danube will freeze In my bed On one ship The sails will break At the helm I will see A screaming crow I will understand You are the messenger I did not believe The truth I cannot accept So I forgave your life In that non-acceptance ©® Marija Najthefer Popov MARIJA NAJTHEFER POPOV (SERBIA) was born in Serbia on March 11, 1958. So far, she has been published in more than two hundred joint, domestic and international poetry collections, of domestic and foreign magazines and literary sites, translated into many foreign languages. 113

CROATIA BORIS KVATERNIK-Croatia WHAT I THOUGHT OF WHEN I THOUGHT OF DEATH Of countless souls flittering towards the stratosphere, Unburdening aching back of an old, blue hen. Of silence and serenity and luxuriant darkness' mysteries That we got to know in the infinity, before our first sob. Of a woman who cannot remember what it's like to be a woman, And every evening by a night lamp, full of longing, she listens To the clatter of familiar footsteps on the stairs of her memories. Of a cosmonaut howling at the darkness beyond the Milky Way, While foolishly clutching a lump of damp, sepulchral dirt in his palm. Of cathedral's doorway swallowing mosaics with a thud, Denying a fearful priest the redemption of a summer's day. Of a face, someone's face I'm storing behind my brow. Its eyes I can recognize, but its lips are stranger's lips. Of a fleshy apricot rotting underneath a young tree While ants deliver a pit out of a prison of its crimson skin. I thought of all these things when I thought of death. ©® Boris Kvaternik 114

WHAT DID YOU SEE? Flick your eyes firmly With an index finger of your mind. Make them spin like marbles On a dusty road beneath the Sun. May they strongly spin In a void inside your head, 'Till they fall into a hole in the field Of your empty eye sockets, So that they clang and turn over Towards darkness of the soul. What did you see With those ivory marbles? Whatever it was, You know it's not enough. Therefore, throw them out Back beneath the Sun in Spring, Fling them firmly So they fly off in the middle of a field. Let an old mole Mistake them for hazelnuts. Let a wandering bird Lay them in its nest. May children play with them, Like with rocks fallen from the sky, Until their hands get wet With discreet kisses of eye's dew. What did you see With your pebbles of wisdom? Whatever it was, You know it's not enough. ©® Boris Kvaternik Boris Kvaternik (1987) is a Croatian author from Zagreb. He holds a master's degree in Indology and Croatian Studies. His literary work includes poetry, prose, journalistic texts, academic papers and translations. In 2022 he published his first book of poetry Na kraju svijeta (At The World's End). He has numerous texts published in several printed regional publications and web-sites. He also participated in the finals of half a dozen regional literary competitions. 115

MILODAR TOMLJENOVIĆ-Croatia DASH Life in autumn calms As if stuck on something. Vast mouth of skies Gape indifferently into the blue, And in the void of fallen leaves One bench lasts alone. That it doesn’t shimmer with happiness, Beside it in a passage Witnesses a lonely lady. Chirps erupt from above. They moved across the sea. ©® Milodar Tomljenović 116

MIZANTHROPE He’s the true winter. He lives in the cold Like a naked copper wire Without turtledoves. See him panting. He strokes the dog quietly, with love. And on a poor dreamer Begging in a wet passage, He spits With a grimace, strong. ©® Milodar Tomljenović Milodar Tomljenovic was born in Rijeka in 1953. He attended elementary school in his hometown and graduated from the Maritime high school in Bakar in 1971. His first poems, seven of them, were published in 2009 in the magazine \"Queen of the sea\". His first collection of poems \"The universe of light is us to be\" was published in 2016, the second collection \"Soul wanders with love\" in 2018, and the third collection, \"Eternity in shoes\" in 2018. 117

INDONESIA EWITH BAHAR-Indonesia SOMEBODY IN THE MIRROR In the mirror I see somebody A strange traveller who always observed me With her piercing eyes Her words from the deepest abyss Shaking me to the core Somebody in the mirror Shut my eyes and open my head I studied her visage that I know well I know well every inch I respect her rule and obey her every cold command We fight sometimes in several ways I, with my selfishness She, with her sagaciousness 118

She, who dwells in me And I who sink in her ocean We fight, we cry, we laugh Forever we will never part. ©® Ewith Bahar RIMSKY KORSAKOV’S PIECE Sweet suite creeps from nowhere Brings crocus fragrance Brightening the mind with the profound sound of flowing river The Scheherezade symphonic composition Fills every pore of my heart The dazzling melody in largo, lento and allegro molto Swaying the night to the peaceful coda The romantic music from extravagant tale Drowning me deeper and deeper. ©® Ewith Bahar Ewith Bahar is a poetess, novelist, editor, translator and essayist from Indonesia. She has written eleven books in all genres: poetry, short stories, novel and essay. Some of her works, are already translated in many foreign languages. She also translated many of her eminent fellow poets into Indonesian language (Bahasa Indonesia). One of her own poetry books, Sonata Borobudur, got a prestigious prize from Indonesian National Library as The Best Five Indonesian Poetry Books 2019. She won multiple awards in poetry writing and essay writing contests, local and abroad. 119

BULGARIA EVGENIA TAGAREVA-Bulgaria *** Women and men, Parents and children, haves and have-nots, happy and suffering, fools and geniuses, Roles, roles, roles in the ghostly play of fate! But I leave the theater with great inspiration, because it's not a role to be alive! *** I believe in the heavenly magic And so I call on you Come, Worlds Come over here 120

Transform everything Oh, Worlds of heaven Open up to the earthly human Reveal your deepness, appear to him May your magic bring light To the seeming hopelessness of our lives May the Earth be free From despair and darkness Let it shine The soul of the World The apocalypse is inside us! I Where can the light of the heart be found? We always question and search, and desire... Let us ourselves be the light of life before the darkness makes us blind! II May we suffer! With the patience of an ant, with the dignity of a flower, with the fervour in our wings! Shall we suffer? Yes, But only if the wailings leave diamond traces in our souls! III A bloody drop is falling into my earthly eye A pearl is shining inside the heavenly light eye A blow! Then pain, and flesh, and darkness in the heart! The aspiration flows into the soul and once more I’m Love! ©® Evgenia Tagareva 121

]Evgenia Tagareva is a poet, translator of poetry, pianist and music pedagogue, author of songs and piano works. She works from an early age, her first appearances were during the school years - in literary competitions, in periodicals, on radio and television. She is the author of the poetry collections \"House in the Sky\" (1993), \"Right to Return\" (1995), \"Music from the Temple\" (2013), as well as a collection of original music for piano \"Sounds of Infinity\" (2019). Her poems have been translated and published in German and Polish. She presents her work at original musical and poetic recitals in different cities in Bulgaria and Europe. She takes an active part in all publications and performances of the International Poetry Festival \"Spirituality without Borders\" since its establishment in 2015. Membership: Union of Bulgarian Writers, Society of Plovdiv Writers. Founder and President of the Foundation for Art, Culture and Young Talents \"Fire of Orpheus\", which implements a number of national and international projects. Evgenia Tagareva's poetry reveals the spiritual quests and the rich inner world of man - a cosmic being with creative power and a desire to know his original divine essence. 122

YORDANKA GETSOVA-Bulgaria ENLIGHTENMENT Who lives in blindness won’t forgive the miracles I tell. If only did they listen to the rain, dictating gently to the roadway Sip of life – a dancing water spring – coming from so far away glaciers. The solid ground is conquered by the will of fragile sprout of flower. In the veins of oaks’ leaves the sun embroiders all day summer lace of heavenly calligraphy the one who sees can read the script of their destiny and chooses to bear a cross for life. I stand in wicked time for magic And keep a grain of faith in handful soil – so no one steels it. ©® Yordanka Getsova 123

HOURGLASS Staring at the grains so steadily falling I think: there’s no need to keep them in hand. A newer kind of gravity I forge – to pledge for love. So close I keep your heart to mine, While with bare hands for me you move the mountains. I sew your shirt, by breath – the summer breath, what if the chestnuts crash in the pavement… How do I love? – can’t tell – brushing off snow sprinkled in my hair. Don’t clear the passage to sunset – I light up the dawn! Sharp saved tear cuts my eyelid – a speck of sand peeks from inside. ©® Yordanka Getsova Yordanka Getsova – a famous Bulgarian writer is a Landscape architect. She works as a teacher in vocational secondary education at the School of Architecture in Plovdiv. Yordanka is an author of three poetry books: “Symbiosis” – 2011, “Pearls in hourglass” – 2022, “Life without substitutes” – 2023. Yordanka’s poetry was published in periodical press and lyric almanachs. Yordanka Getsova is a prizewinner of many poetry competitions She is a member of the Society of Writers in Plovdiv. “The poetry of Yordanka Getsova is a difficult and rapturous amalgam of nuances and events, depths and flights, doubts and confidence of the pioneer, expressed masterfully and even whimsically by an ancient soul and a beautiful young woman – Yordanka Getsova.” Rozalia Aleksandrova 124

VIETNAM BÀNG ÁI THƠ-Vietnam LOVE! Lover's nightmares Or a peaceful glow Love of husband and wife in pillow and blanket Or the beautiful male screaming humiliation The day of marry to rely on Injustice stalks the princess curtain Bowing the heads to recite the naive body Phoenix appointment date for reunion King father, how wise Lost palace is by only a magic crossbow Get lost in death, love life The spirit converges for judgment Red tide surges, angry waves Paternal love crushed grimly Crying and looking up at the father last time Spiritual wind and rain sighed Dear Father, My Chau is sacrified Feel father's pain 125

Daughter’s blood was red Father's body was full of mourning The East Sea has let go of its bolts Foolish madness devil cries love Bright turquoise hidden deep well A pair of green souls Ancient words turn back to ancient city Red silk covered the body with smoky incense Mossy rock banks rained and shined Exculpated the lives to rebirth the flowers! ©® Bàng Ái Thơ DELUSIONS DREAM I dreamed of something strange Good people and evil people take together And a starry sky sings white night song Leaves whispering in silence Startled the little birds I dreamed of something strange Someone cut my soul in frustration My body is numb with smell of incense The sound of young felt seeped into my skin I drifted wildly back to heaven Don't dream anymore, gray dreams The high sky has set the stars Morning in the mist Birds jump on high trees A light knock on my door so happily Come on, wake up! Beginning of a new day Come on, wake up! Outside the door What is it - not a dream ©® Bàng Ái Thơ 126

Born in 1958. She is a poet, a musician, a painter Member of Vietnam Writers’ Association Published 8 volumes of poems (The silent eyes, The white candle and the rose, Wizard of poetry…) Won 2 national awards of literature, 2 national awards of music, 3 individual painting exhibitions. 127

HUU UOC-Vietnam ALONE A day A day Then another day Alone Alone Then alone again… Where to, and from… The world is immense The universe is vast Who comes to see whom And who comes to search for me... Who is my friend? Who is the passerby? A story as a gift A smile for the sake of smile A meaningless nod One comes to see one A smile from memory A face from memory The ground is narrow, things unequally shared places in power covered in dust Time has gone and a life is no longer fresh The sad note scattered in the air Alone, the note falling down in sadness I’m alone with my very own loneliness 128

Alone Alone Then alone again A day A day Then another day… The sad note…. the wandering breeze... ©® Huu Uoc CLINGING (For those soldiers) On my childhood, I cling to the back of a buffalo To cross the muddy fields and water puddles To avoid hungry leeches waiting to cling on me On growing up, I hold the gun at seventeen Challenging battlefields, bombs, smoke and fire I look forward to be back, alive To be back alive, I cling on each page of books I want to be a mature and educated adult and yes it happens I get married, have children I cling on my hardworking wife Who dedicates herself, day and night to take care of children and support my career Life is full of sadness and sorrow with time So much to do But my wife passes away, where do I cling on It's cold at night I try to find a warm spot Blankets, pillows and beds, freezing and lonely A chameleon hissing in the dark 129

Night sound, An incomplete verse An incomplete drawing A play with only a title Oh well, I cling to tight time Clinging to the clutter of life To live Do you know! ©® Huu Uoc Huu Uoc (born in 1953) is a Labor Hero, general of the Vietnam People's Public Security, rank of Lieutenant General. He was former Editor-in-Chief of the People's Public Security Newspaper (2003-2013), Former Deputy General Director of the General Department of Politics, Ministry of Public Security (Vietnam). He is also a writer, poet, playwright, and a musician. He is currently the Chairman of the Police Writers Association, a member of the Vietnam Writers Association. He has published more than 20 books of prose, poetry, plays, and songs. He won several national literary awards. 130

NGO DUC HANH-Vietnam SCARED Everyone hates and condemn the war The majority of people are scared condemn the war love your past self want to spit into fear that is destroying ©® Ngo Duc Hanh FLY WITH THE SUN I wake up at five o'clock the sun lifts the curtain hold my hand step out into space 131

I look at the earth the young leaf on the branch stretches out sunflower buds still have morning dew march holds dew I tell the red sun Dilute the color to reduce the glare of summer the sweat on my mother's back won’t break my sister won’t shed any tears I fly on wings with so many questions today tomorrow The sun has the depth of suffering tears overflowing the black hole ©® Ngo Duc Hanh Poet/Journalist Ngo Duc Hanh was born in 1960 in Ha Tinh province, Central part of Vietnam. He is bachelor of journalism. He currently lives in Hanoi and works as the Deputy Editor in Chief - Vietnam Bridge and Road Magazine. He also works as the managing editor for the Literature and Arts newspaper. He is also member of Vietnam Writers’ Association and Hanoi Writers’ Association. His published books: “Our homeland folksong” (2015), “Dried straw road” and “Night ballad” (2017), “Concept” and “The sing to find you” (2019), “Another Ballad” (2020). 132

TRAN THI NUONG-Vietnam THE HUMAN ROAD So we do not see each other in the glitter of human color. Who stretches silk of gold silver spots? I return to my motherland on a pinky sunny road. Who waits to be there? I am waiting for the pearl palm. Who looks for alcohol to get drunk? I am looking for human in ferment days Who manages the cluttered place? Relax, I light a lamp in poetry. The human road is very surprised Close but when will we meet each other...? ©® Tran Thi Nuong 133

SELF LOSS In the garden of humanity There are empty days, fruitless after the season. There are days, lost everything with an emotionless look The indifference hollows out the time. The person who lost himself in my sentimental garden An arrow fly as words can not return A dried branch that have stopped bloom at first Don't swap out the magic crossbow for emotion No sesame seeds again the old mountain. Do not know what to do in the forbidden garden Sow my season in a flash of heavy rain. I am in redundancy with myself in pale I am infatuated with the force of spring. ©® Tran Thi Nuong Year of birth: 1953 Hometown: Tu Hiep, Ha Hoa, Phu Tho, Vietnam Member of Vietnam Writers’ Association Member of Vietnam Journalists’ Association Member of Vietnam Association of Literature and Arts of Ethnic Minorities Member of Hanoi Writers' Association Published: 16 volumes of poems 15 awards of Central and Local Culture and Arts Associations. 134

PROSE 135

Dr. Jernail Singh Anand President, International Academy of Ethics ETHICS: WHY DO GODS NOT LISTEN TO OUR FRACTURED PRAYERS? When we are performing as human beings, every day we pray to gods. But do you think they respond? All our prayers are not worth listening, and therefore, most of them are declined. Reason: We are praying only for ourselves. We are crazy, to think only of our wellbeing, or at the most of our family, and now we have added our castes, creeds too. Gods wonder why we are not worried about their creation, which supports us. Such a fractured prayer provokes derision. When people start organized prayers and ask for boons at the cost of the wellbeing of the society, these prayers are summarily denied. Gods are there not to listen to your personal problems. The theory of ‘Karma’ is there, and the list of criminal acts and their punishments, is widely circulated. These things happen automatically. Men start suffering as soon as they step on the sword. Touch the live electric wire. Will it ask the International Court of Justice to react? Justice is instant. The moment you do something wrong, you start suffering in your mind. Has a murderer ever had a full night’s sleep? You can dodge the world’s courts, as we see how gullible justice is, but Gods cannot be treated like this. We have invented artificial intelligence. We have CCTV cameras. We have forensic laboratories. But Gods have far more sophisticated spy systems, through which they create havoc in the mind 136

of evil men. Did Dr. Faustus ever had a night’s sleep after he slept with the Devils? Macbeth’s fall from human grace shocks us. If you want to see what happens to the evil men, they are classic examples. Did any human court arraign them? The court that arraigned them has its seat within their hearts. It is the Invisible Court of Inevitable Justice which sets nemesis after the evil-doers. We often say: Virtue is its own reward. So, it can be said, Evil too is its own award. One step aside, and the train derails causing death and destruction, and it takes a whole effort to put it back on the rails. Suffering arises out of actions performed which were not granted by gods. Gods don’t listen to our inordinate desires, passions, and prayers. When things do not happen as we wish, we take the law in our own hands. And inflict our ‘personal’ justice. Try to get even with the presumed wrongs committed against us. But such an action falls into conflict with the divine justice. Hence, suffering. THE CENTRAL ISSUE: The central issue is: Where to stop. How to read the writing on the Wall. Or in other words, HOW TO READ THE MIND OF THE GODS? I have said in an earlier writing that Gods do not talk in our language. Their language is different. They talk with signals which we are not taught to decode. Here I provide an easy access to the Language of Gods. They converse with your souls, through a SOUL TO SOUL NETWORK. Look within. Listen to your internal voice which remains submerged. Gods speak loudly in that silent voice. Here is the clue. They will never approve of any deed which is not proper. If we start listening to the INTERNAL VOICE, and acting accordingly, IT WOULD BE A BETTER WORLD. ©® Dr. Jernail Singh Anand Dr. Jernail Singh Anand is Founder President of The International Academy of Ethics, a think- tank of Poets, Philosophers, Thinkers, Scientists and Social Scientists. He is Professor Emeritus with the European Institute of the Roma Studies, Belgrade and Honorary Member of the Serbian Writers Association. Dr. Anand has authored 150 books which include 9 epics which are considered world classics. He has innovated the theory of Bio-text in critical theory. The Univ. of Neyshabur, Iran has conducted a Research Project on his Poetry comparing it with Iranian Poets, under Dr. Roghayeh Farsi. His works have been translated into 20 world languages. Contact: [email protected] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jernail_Singh_Anand? universityofethics.org/ethicsacademy.co.in worldliterature.in 137

DR. MOLLY JOSEPH-India STOMPING MUD PUDDLES Like a child , stomping mud puddles, ,splashing water, streaking down the mossy , windswept pathways that lead to the leafy , creepered riverbank.. self trots.. Saroj woke up from her reverie.. time! ..time for classes! Class rooms, the one place where she would be out of all stupor..sizzling like a fresh prawn caught in a net now released into a bowl of fresh water..quivering..wriggling.. Each leaner face is a book, their wide open eyes allowing entry, the more you plunge, the more you explore.. But today it is something very different. Could get premonitions in the staff room, no not premonitions, but devious warnings .this batch is finishing its three year course. The need and outing, to the far off Goa. St. Xavier’s , being a woman’s college , no teacher dares( or bothers) to shoulder up such a far off trip. Laden with U G C workload on one side and domestic chores on the other, you cannot blame them..delicate balancing of tight rope walkers, these working women. Even the class –in charge Madam the other day requested , “ Madam, as the HOD cann’t you dissuade them from those far off adventures?” Although one smiled , mind was whispering to oneself. No, it is not in me to blow out their zest. The best thing you can give your students are these kind of memories that outlive time. Barely allowing time to take the attendance, there pipes up voices.. “ Ma’am, will you allow us, will you come with us, to Goa. Every teacher refuses.. Ma’am, more than anyone you can understand us..”. The last trump card. 138

Though in mind you planned to waive it off, what comes out from the spur of the moment, is just the opposite..it spurts out.. “ok dears.. agreed . Now let us start the class.” Exhilaration springs up, subsides.only to rise up as wild jubilation after the class. Back in the staff room, in your cabin you can hear the resonances. ‘She is too student friendly..she ought not to have consented..’ The senior most accosts.”Ma’am did you agree? You taking them? What a risk, botheration. A flat no would have done it..” Saroj cuts it short with a smile..Sometimes proper use of body language is just a smile. The 5 day package works out well with Indian railways affording student concession plus free fare for two teachers who accompany. The accommodation is well arranged. Parents gather in large numbers at the station to off their wards. Many sending the like this for the first time. a thousand instructions,.. hugging wiping tears.. Ahaha. What a scene! Moments before boarding, they hover around, folded hands.. Ma’am, our children we entrust with you.. Anxiety ridden tearful faces.. every Amma like that.. Yes, I am an Amma also. Some shake hands .. meanings very clear.. “Ma’am trust you.” With trepidation veneered by self assurance Saroj repeats, “ ok thank you all. We are two, the teachers, ask your girls to look after us… Everything can be fine.”” To while away time with your group of students is fun, easy to the extent if you give them the leeway to be themselves.. free.. Again, it is a tight rope walking, you laugh and joke; simultaneous , your mind hovers over your home, spouse and children. It is not easy, to set the mind at ease.. Goa! The vast sprawling beeches! St. Xavier’s Church! the sprawling church grounds..Students vie with each other taking snapshots. Accommodation food everything puca.. Days of outing, shopping, flit across. In the evening there is the river cruise. Youthful vibes taking steps in tandem with floating music. the luminous shores keeping bay watch. Students gleefully trip along with the dancing boat. They drag you also in, the two teachers into their midst to join .. The last evening in Goa. So many Beeches seen, it seemed the last one was in no way significant. We had come almost to the fag end of the trip. Most of the students preferred sitting, sucking the ice cream.The two teachers also sought a shadowed nook keeping surveillance. Sudden it came. The outcry! “Ma’am ! our girls in water.” A shudder creeps through..You run, run, holding breath.. Just to find two heads moving on the crest of waves, yes the waves are carrying them further into the sea. Where is the third one? 139

Shout and cry.. we find an old white man taking a sudden swim into the sea.. Three of them were there standing on the soaked soily surface, no not in water , till unexpectedly the waves devourd them in., the very shores they stood devoured. You cry your heart out..frantic run for Coast Guards… Yes, there they are up in action. Quickly floating the launch pad chasing waves. Minutes turning into ages..eternity.. Only thing you can do. Just kneel down on the dusty, damp sea bed, pray.. The Gods on high help us.. ... save us. Media men swarm in. Where are you from. How it happened.. Too stunned to answer. The faces of the parents who entrusted their wards with you flash before your closed eyes.. An uproar! The launch pad is returning. The two girls tied on it. The Coast Doctor is quick in service removing the crowd circle he allows fresh air in. They vomit gallons of water. Bloated stomachs, disgorging…at last opening their eyes... Thank you , God! Where is the other one gone , the third one? You wait and wait for God’s angel to emerge..pray.. There he comes.the angel guised as the white aged man. He carries the third one safe ashore. She also has too much water in side. Obviously, this man the angel had risked his life also. Down he lies tired. The Doctor attends to both. Yes, moments of rescue. Sometimes on life blind alleys angels appear to lead the way. Return to Kerala on the booked train on right timings was the other hazard.It was reported the accident, police case, the students hospitalized.medical reports, FIR. We had to plead with the authorities to let us go not to miss the train. Girls kept on reassuring us, Ma’am, we are fine. Ultimately on our own risk undertaken in paper, they were discharged. Wayback, it was not at all jubiliant. Everyone tense observing the girls.. doctor doubted whether they had sand accumulated in their chest, would suffocate. With a rosary in hand you sit and watch..the two teachers vigilant to trace any marked change in their breathing pattern. They are just dozing off , others also. One could never ever forget the night while the train howls and chugs unmindful. It is morning! Parents hover around.. “Thank you Ma’am . trip fine?” You smile, your faded smile.. They say, “Ma’am you look tired , they are fine. You take rest Ma’am”. Yes, I need it very much.. 140

Back home, sleep eludes.. you re -live the shock when you close your eyes.. It takes days to normalize. God kind you were, Otherwise my place would be in a mental asylum.. with three students gone due to lack of your vigilance how could u ever forgive yourself? Saroj, blessed you are , God keeps you in the palm ..in his right hand! ©® Dr. Molly Joseph Dr. Molly Joseph is a Professor, Poet (Bilingual) from Kerala, who writes Travelogues, Short stories and Story books for children. She has published seventeen books -14 Books of Poems, two Novels (translation) and a Story book for Children. She has won several accolades which include, Wordsmith Award 2019, India Women Achiever’s Award 2020 and the Best English Poetry Book of the Year Awards 2020, 2022 (ALS, New Delhi). She believes in the power of the word and writes boldly on matters that deal with the contemporary. With her Doctorate in Post war American Poetry, she has won Galaxy Award in Experimental Poetry, developing an indigenous diction characterized as ‘Ribbon Poetry’. She can be reached at [email protected] 141

EVA PETROPOLULOU LIANOU–Greece WINTER Ιf only I was a tree I could narrow stories about the winter that a 100 years are not enough to finished them. But i will tell you this story. About a couple in love that they split due to a bad flue Every morning they meet from distance and leave messages of love to each other,hanging to an oak tree. One day the girl did not go to meet the boy, in vain he was waiting and start tell to a oac tree, all feelings he has for that girl. The oac tree start crying and tell to the boy \"-u make my heart feel young again. I suggest you to write a letter and share your feelings to the girl. I will tell my friend the sparrow to give her the letter.\" That happens. The boy write a letter of love to the girl, telling her, how deep his feelings are and he give the letter to the sparrow. The bird fly high and some hour ago, get in the room of the girl, that she was sick lying on her bed. The bird sing and give the letter to the girl. That moment the girl starts feeling better and better. She write back to the boy, and explain to him, why she couldn't come out, all those winter days. She gave another appointment to the boy and the next day, she went to find him. As winter was so cold, she sat in the bench near the oak tree. She start singing the song of winter, \"Snow is coming wear your gloves, put your hat, snow is coming, let's go out and 142

Play the angels game. Lay on snow. Start mooving one leg, one arm or both at same time. Snow is coming. Kids are happy\" Suddenly the boy appeared and she ran to him with a smile. They hug each other so tide and they wish never be apart The oak tree start to cry, it was so emotional to see the couple together again. And that hug was a special one, so that time of season, they called it the winter hug as for years people they stop hugging each other because they were affraid of the microbes, but this boy and that girl had both a pure heart and from the moment, they hug each other, they myth says the bad flue dissappeared, and there were no sickness, not disease, if you are travellers, and you visit the area, do not forget to visit the oak tree of the winter and give a big hug to eacher other under that tree. ©® Eva Petropoulou Lianou Eva Petropoulou-Lianou, author children literary and poet was born in Xylokastro, Greece. Initially she loved journalism and in 1994 she worked as a journalist for the French newspaper \"Le Libre Journal\" but her love for Greece won her over and she returned in 2002. He has published books and eBooks: \"Me and my other self, my shadow\" Saita publications, \"Geraldine and the Lake elf\" in English - French, as well as \"The Daughter of the Moon\", in the 4th edition, in Greek - English, Oselotos publications. Her work has been included in the Greek Encyclopedia Haris Patsis, p. 300. Her books have been approved by the Ministry of Education and Culture of Cyprus, for the Student and Teacher library. Her new books, “The Fairy of the Amazon Myrtia \"dedicated to Myrto with a disability, and\" Lefkadios Hearn, Myths and Stories of the Far East \", illustrated by Sumi-e painter Dina Anastasiadou, are released in 2019. She recently published her book,\" The Adventures of Samurai Nogas san \"in English by the publishing house , based in England. The daughter of the moon in Greek language Editor Prodigy Published The pencil.and other stories EditorProdigy Published. Collaborates with the electronic literary magazine The poet magazine. She is his partner International Literary Union based in America. Collaborates for the promotion of literature and promotes the work of Greek poets. Eva is a member of the \"Association Alia Mundi Serbia\", the \"International Society of Writers and Artists of Greece\" and the \"Piraeus Society of Letters and Arts\" as well as the Corinthian Writers Society. President of GREECE association Mille Minds of Mexico. Presidente of Greece Global UHE Peru. International Ambassador of e _magazine Namaste India. Advisor and Editor in chief Web magazine China. Advisor Member of editorial board Las Olas del Arte Magazine Belgium. Literary agent Cooperatevwith Greek site Polis magazine. 143

LIDIA CHIARELLI-Italy EKPHRASTIC POETRY THEN AND NOW One of the most interesting aspects of today’s poetry is Ekphrastic Poetry. The term \"ekphrastic\" originates from a Greek expression for description. According to the Oxford Classic Dictionary ekphrasis is an extended and detailed literary description of any object, real or imaginary. In antiquity one of the earliest forms of ekphrasis can be found in \"The Iliad,\" when Homer provides a long account of the detailed scenes engraved on the shield of Achilles. In Greek literature, the relationship between art and poetry was examined by Simonides of Keos (c. 556 – 468 BC) who stated: “Η ζωγραφική είναι ποίηση που σιωπά” “ Painting is a silent poetry.” In Latin literature, Horace (65 - 8 BC), in his \"Ars Poetica\" said: “Ut pictura poesis” meaning “As is painting, so is poetry.\" And Leonardo da Vinci in “A Treatise on Painting” states, “Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.” Ekphrastic poetry flourished particularly in the Romantic era; a notable example is “Ode on a Greek Urn” by John Keats. This poem is the description of a piece of pottery that the poet considers very evocative. He formulates a hypothesis about the identity of the lovers who appear to play music and dance, frozen in perpetual motion. Other examples of the genre were common in the nineteenth century and twentieth century. Let's remember two particularly significant: Algernon Charles Swinburne's poem \"Before the Mirror\" which ekphrasises James Abbott McNeill Whistler's “Symphony in White, No. 2” and Claude Esteban’s prize-winning volume “Soleil dans une pièce vide,\" inspired by the paintings of Edward Hopper. 144

But it was only in 2007 that a true literary art movement called Immagine & Poesia was founded by the poetess Aeronwy Thomas, (daughter of poet Dylan Thomas) with four other Charter Members (Gianpiero Actis, Lidia Chiarelli, Silvana Gatti e Sandrina Piras) who believed that the power of the written word and the power of visual image, when joined, would create a new work not only greater than the parts, but altered, enhanced, changed and magnified by the union. On the stage of Alfa Theatre in Torino, Italy, the Manifesto of Immagine & Poesia was read in front of the audience on November 9th 2007, at the conclusion of the celebrations of the Dylan Thomas Festival of that year. Within a few years Immagine & Poesia rapidly spread via the web where collaborations between artists and poets are published, as well as through international exhibitions. Today, the Immagine & Poesia's Manifesto is translated in thirty languages and the movement includes hundreds of artists and poets from all over the world. Since 2014, the annual e-book of Immagine & Poesia has been published by the Canadian publisher Huguette Bertrand and the President of the Movement Lidia Chiarelli. Every year the e-book includes many ekphrastic contributions from different countries. The works of Beat Generation poet-editor, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and the American artist Agneta Falk Hirschman are part of the latest five editions. An on-line journal devoted entirely to writing inspired by visual art is The Ekphrastic Review, founded by Canadian artist and writer Lorette C. Luzajic. The Movement Immagine & Poesia has particularly evolved in recent years by carrying out a message of peace, brotherhood, mutual respect and cooperation between writers and artists belonging to different countries and cultures. On the other hand - on a purely aesthetic level – ekphrastic poetry has conveyed an incentive to the development of \"beauty\": beautiful poems combined with beautiful images, almost adopting as a motto the words that Fyodor Dostoevsky attributes to Prince Myškin : Beauty will save the world. ©® Lidia Chiarelli, Italy Lidia Chiarelli is a Charter Member of Immagine & Poesia, the art literary Movement founded in Torino (Italy) in 2007 with Aeronwy Thomas. Coordinator of the #DylanDay in Italy. She has become an award-winning poet since 2011. In 2014 she started an inter-cultural project with Canadian writer and editor Huguette Bertrand publishing E Books of Poetry and Art on line. Her writing has been translated into different languages and published in Poetry Magazines, and on web-sites in several countries. She is also an appreciated installation artist and collagist. 145

HANNIE ROUWELER-Netherlands ABOUT THE CONDITION OF POETS On a hot summer day, which will turn into a tropical day later in the week, I feel the need to say something about the poets' condition. Like many poets, I can also be influenced by what approaches my garden door from the outside and comes in. Especially on a hot day, where you tend to walk out and in. My last action was to water flowers and plants. Most people do this early in the morning, late in the evening, so that the moisture is retained. But I do believe that my flowers won't last that long, and the leaves and petals are going to suffer. So, they get extra splashes from me. For the preservation of nature. I also try not to dwell on what happens further on for too long. Everyone is already advised to stay at home as much as possible, to avoid crowds and to keep away from others. I have a relationship with that distance. The moment you are writing it completely disappears, it is only about you and the words. There is no pin between that. As soon as the poem is on paper, that distance is immensely important. You have to disconnect from yourself, like an astronaut moving from a space station to a capsule, high in the sky, to return to Earth in a fixed place. The computer then does all the work. Take a closer look to see if the way in which you want to record the poem has the form you want. Usually there are still some words left, a comma needs to be added or removed and you carefully look at the blank lines or whether they are in the right place. Blank lines, which often indicate a break in a poem or a turn to another image, corollary or contrast, should be closely monitored by a poet. Blank lines matter. After a while, you're just tired of writing and tired of letting go of your newly born poem, which needs time to stand on its own two feet. You see the same picture with foals, they stay near the mother horse and try to get up, but still lie on the ground for a while. However, within a day a foal can stand, lift itself up and walk. 146

Poems go for walks. They find a nice spot in a shady forest, along a stream or cross a wheat field in search of a ditch between meadows. Poems enjoy the view offered to them from a resting place, even if only temporarily. MY MOM MOVED TO HAWAII One day my mother had enough of everything, she was already 70 years old and no longer the youngest. She wanted to get away, this town, she just wanted to leave. \"I've had enough of the world,\" she repeated over and over. I was a bit surprised, because I thought she had settled in the meantime, satisfied with her downstairs house, a small apartment with a beautiful garden, terrace in front, tree with hanging branches and a large public lawn. But one day she let me know she was ready for something else. Even worse was that it would not be an ordinary move, but departure from this city, a quiet sleeping city, with little traffic and problems. I had always thought it might be a nice place for her to live now that she's a senior. Especially since she was so close to my children. She even made regular efforts to pick up the children from nursery and kindergarten when they were little. She beamed when I picked up the kids again at the end of my workday. \"I'm going to Hawaii,\" she said. It was as if a flash of lightning suddenly appeared in a clear sky. Everything I expected except that! “Although it is an American state, it is a long way from the mainland. An island, with a beautiful natural beauty, full of variety. Pleasant climate even though many tourists come every year. But I will find something in a remote area. I can also get my pension there, just from the bank. I'll rent a place.” Ever since then I have received e-mails with photos almost every day. My mom in bikini at the feet of volcano area. My mom with a bag full of groceries at a supermarket, next to which rows of palm trees. My mom in mini skirt with brown legs and sandals, visiting her neighbours. My mom throwing a kiss to me in the photo, while she is standing in the middle of the surf of the sea with surfers in the background. My mom on the beach writing I miss you in sand. My mother. Aloha. ©® Hannie Rouweler 147

Hannie Rouweler (Netherlands, Goor, 13 June 1951), poet and translator, has been living in Leusden, the Netherlands since the end of 2012. Before she lived in different places in Holland, she also stayed abroad for a longer period of time. Her sources of inspiration are nature, love, loss, childhood memories and travel. In 1988 she made her debut with Regendruppels op het water (Raindrops on water). Since then, more than 40 collections of poetry have been published, also ten translations into various foreign languages. Poems have been translated into about 35 languages. She attended evening classes in painting and art history, art academy (Belgium) for five years. Hannie writes on various topics. 'Poetry is in the streets, up for grabs', is an adage for her. She mixes observations from reality with imagination and gives a twist to her feelings and findings. Fantasy and imagination play an important role in her works. She has received awards from the Netherlands and abroad, e.g. ‘best poet of the year 2021’, from the institute IPTRC voting international executive committee in China. Hannie Rouweler followed short commercial and language courses at language institutes (Arnhem, Amsterdam, Hasselt BE). She has published several stories (including short thrillers); is editor of several poetry collections. 148

DR. ESTRELLA FERNANDEZ-Mexico RESEÑA, shorts Story. a book LAS MEMORIAS DE ADRIANO DE Margerite Editorial Hermes. de MSRGERITEY YOURCENAR. THE MEMORIES OF HADRIAN by Marguerite Yourcensr I want to tell you a little about the memories of the Emperor Rpmano ADRIANO, 2nd century AD. making a great emperor was a man of battle, conquest, war and bravery. And although I am against violence and war in those times, he was a man who in his wake left culture and poems, he wrote with a penetrating and overwhelming closeness and leaves teachings and proofs for the world of his passage through life precisely for his writings and his taste for culture that he left embodied in sculptures in the towns he was conquering. This shows that the human being is not black or white, but rather has shades of negative things and an exuberant cascade of positive creations. That's what made him immortal. Like every human being, he took time for love and his partner was of the same sex, they loved each other and defended themselves madly. It was touching when his partner died far from Rome, he carried him on the prow of a ship and put his remains in front and stood with him the whole trip and said; \"This is our last trip together, but our destinations are different. I travel towards life and you travel towards death\" HE himself said when he was about to die: \"I congratulate myself that evil has left me with my lucidity until the end, I am glad that I did not have to go through the test of extreme old age, that I was not destined to know that hardening, that rigidity, that dryness, that atrocious lack of 149

desire\" He died of respiratory disease and said. \"I want to die with all my sensitivities and please put my remains next to my partner on the seashore, it's better to breathe there\" Undoubtedly, reading overflows our imagination and is not boring, but it must be done when our body needs it and wants a rest to let our imagination run wild. In fact, it seems that I saw the scene where he goes in The ship. Upright, suffering but in silence with that gallantry that he never lost with a broken heart next to love. I sincerely invite you to read a different book, the one you choose, but not the same old classics. ©® Dr. Estrella Fernandez 150