TECHNIQUE: Heng Siok Tian (Singapore)

I like the way

You hang up the face towel

Every night, after washing

Your face, before going to bed.

With gentleness

Hanging up the towel,

Like Life

Soaked with tears

Wrung with bruising failures.

I like to learn

How to face the towel,

Hanging up the tears

(as if to dry)

Hanging up the failures

(to evaporate)

So quietly, quietly.

From your gentle gesture

I know you don't like

To bother others.

(It's technique.)

SONG OF THE FLOWER: Kahlil Gibran

I am a kind word uttered and repeated by the voice of nature;

I am a star fallen from the blue tent upon the green carpet.

I am the daughter of the elements with whom Winter conceived;

To whom Spring gave birth;

I was reared in the lap of Summer and I slept in the bed of Autumn.

At dawn, I unite with the breeze to announce the coming of light;

At eventide, I join the birds in bidding the light farewell.

The plains are decorated with my beautiful colours,

And the air is scented with my fragrance.

As I embrace slumber, the eyes of night watch over me;

And as I awaken, I stare at the sun,

Which is the only eye of the day.

I drink dew for wine, and harken to the voices of the birds,

And dance to the rhythmic swaying of the grass.

I am the lover's gift; I am the wedding wreath;

I am the memory of a moment of happiness;

I am the last gift of the living to the dead;

I am part of joy and a part of sorrow.

But I look up high to see only the light,

And never look down to see my shadow.

This is wisdom which man must learn. 

SONG OF A COMMON LOVER: Flavien Ranalvo

Don't love me, my sweet,

Like your shadow

For shadow fades at evening

And I want to keep you

Right up to cockrow;

Nor like pepper

Which makes the belly hot

For then I couldn’t take you

When I'm hungry;

Nor like a pillow

For we'd be together in the hours of sleep

But scarcely meet by day;

Nor like rice

For once swallowed you think no more of it;

Nor like soft speeches

For they quickly vanish;

Nor like honey,

Sweet indeed but too common.

Love me like a beautiful dream,

Your life in the night,

My hope in the day;

Like a piece of money,

Ever with me on earth,

And for the great journey

A faithful comrade;

Like a calabash,

Intact, for drawing water;

In pieces, bridges for my guitar.

SILVERY BEACH: Nu Yin (Burma)

Once

For relations

I visited this place.

Alone

On this silvery beach

Beside the cliffs

I walked in thought.

I gazed at the endless sea

And I pondered.

Gazing at the sapphire and green sea

I felt calm.

I did not tire of staring at the waves coming towards the beach

Like crumbling mountains

With terrific sound

Like wanting to devour and swallow,

Being alone, I felt scared

And took shelter from this tide and rough wind

Beyond the edge of cliff

While I was seeking shelter

 I thought of the cliffs

And of our lives.

Though these dreadful waves

Could sometimes overleap,

They could not overwhelm cliffs.

"Similarly in one's existence

Though violent minds

Like rough winds

May be attacking you,

If one practices patience

One can have the tranquility in one's heart."

While taking shelter behind a cliff

This thought came to me.

RABINDRANATH TAGORE: Niyamat Hussain

If I am slaughtered

All that remain of me,

My blood, my fresh, my remains

Will be Bengal,

My grief, my pain, my love, my peace

Shall belong to Bengal.

Bengal has suffered intensely

And yet despite her suffering

In her literature

And in her songs

Is the anguish of her language:

This is the suffering we share.

We respect the memories of

Shakespeare, Dante, and Tolstoi

But in the blood of my heart

Remains Tagore.

All the time

When I eat, sleep or am awake,

Amidst solitude, amidst people,

A song echoes within my heart

In the language of Tagore.

This language rescues

 my heart 

MY DEAR FRIENDS: Guang-Su-Ying (Korea)

Oh, brothers and sisters!

Do you hear, do you hear

The sound of the song I sing

As I sit beneath the ruined wall,

Bowed down on kneeling low?

Oh, brothers and sisters!

Do you breathe, do you breathe

The fragrance of the sandal-wood oil

Which I burn with a trembling hand

In a broken censer bowl?

Oh, brothers and sisters!

Do you see, do you see?

I stand and wait weeping

Outside the city wall and yearn

For you, for a place in your heart.

IN VAIN: Chairil Anwar

The last time you came

You brought bright flowers,

Red roses, white jasmine,

Blood and holiness,

And spread them in front of me

With a decisive look : for you.

We were stunned

And asked each other: what's this?

Love? Neither of us understood.

The day we were together.

We did not touch.

But my heart will not give itself to you,

And does not care

That you are ripped by desolation.

I WANTED TO COME HOME: Wen Yi-Tuo

I wanted to come home

While your little fists were like the orchids yet to open;

While your hair still remained soft and silken;

While your eyes shone with that spirited gleam;

I wanted to come home.

I did not come home

While your footsteps were keeping cadence in the wind;

While your heart was beating like a fly against the windowpane;

While your laughter carried that silver bell's ring;

I did not come home.

I should have come home

While a spell of blur covered your eyes;

While a gust of chilly wind put out a fading light;

While a cold hand snatched you away like a kite;

I should have come home. 

FEAR: Ahmet Hamdi Tanpinar

I have the fear of all the things that end,

I am the Blue Eagle who drags the dawn

Along his iron beak…

And life is caught

Within my claws like dangling emeralds

And deathlessness along my lovely swoop

Now bites the thirsty antelope of time

AFRICA'S PLEA: Rland Tombekai Dempster

I am not you

But you will not

Give me a chance,

Will not let me be me.

"If I were you"

But you know

I am not you,

Yet you will not

Let me be me.

You meddle, interfere

In my affairs

As if they were yours

And you were me.

You are unfair , unwise,

Foolish to think

That I can be you,

Talk, act,

And think like you.

 God made me me.

He made you you.

For  God's sake,

Let me be me.

1940: Baba Dioum (Senegal)

My young son asks me: must I learn mathematics?

What is the use, I feel like saying. That two pieces

Of bread are more than one's about all you'll end with.

My young son asks me: Must I learn French?

What is the use, I feel like saying. This state's collapsing.

And if you just rub your belly with your hand and

Groan, you'll be understood with little trouble.

My young son asks me: must I learn history?
What is the use, I feel like saying. Learn to stick

Your head in the earth, and maybe you'll still survive.

Yes, learn mathematics, I tell him.

Learn your French, learn your history!

A TRIP TO THE CITY: Moti Nandi (Hindi)

Dulal and Gribala got on a bus, but in her nervousness Giri lost her slippers and

And she had to see the city sights barefoot. Dulal wanted to show her off to Rai, his old  friend who owned a restaurant, but he was shocked to discover a surly young man, obviously Rai's son, in charge. Dulal decided to wait for his friend outside.

They waited in the street a little way from the shop. A tallish man with a loose shirt who presently

walked seemed to him like Rai. Dulal went up and strained his neck to look. He saw the young man grumble to Rai, who listened with his head hung. It could be no longer than Rai. Dulal was positive. Rai walked slowly out of the shop, his big framed hunched, limbs sticking out like strips of bamboo tied to his body. He used to be so    handsome he looked like the image of a god. What a fall! He even lost his mustaches.

"Hello, old man, you kept me waiting," Dulal greeted him.

"Oh, hello, how are you?" Rai grabbed his hand with a broad grin.

"Getting along. What have you done with yourself?"

"What do you expect? Growing old, touched three score. Health broken down. But you look

wonderful."

"You know something? I've married." Dulal confessed with a foolish grin.

Rai stared at him. "Oh no, not at your age! She's just a baby. Why, Dulal, you were managing fine all

These years."

Looking guilty, Dulal stared at the ground. Then he said apologetically: "Giribala is a nice girl. Takes good

care of me. Giri, touch the feet of my old friend."

Giri obeyed, kneeling in the dust, bowing, and lightly touching Rai's feet with her hands. The people in

the street looked at them.

Rai blessed her: "Sorry, I have no place where I can ask you to come in. The shop belongs to my son."

"That's just as it should be; you need rest. After all you have struggled hard, raising your son. You

deserve some rest." Dulal spoke wisely.

Rai looked over the traffic and said wistfully. "You know something, Dulal? Angus is dead. She died of

Cholera. I tried my best but couldn't save her. Ran into debt also. Two hundred rupees. There was a terrific row at home. Finally I made peace by transferring my shop to my son. You don't know what his wife is like. Just gives me something to eat and lets me sleep under the roof. Had to leave off drinking too. Can't go begging to the sin all the time." Rai made a pathetic attempt to smile.

"You sound unhappy, old man."

"It's too humiliating to be insulted by your own son. You won't understand."

Dulal squirmed, feeling uncomfortable. Then he blurted, "I borrowed two rupees from you, remember?

I have come to pay you back."

This brought tears to Rai's eyes. "Now, look at this," he said hoarsely. "It is I who should entertain you

And know you are giving me money."

"Don't be formal." Dulal brought out the five-rupee bill. But he must get the change. He had an idea.

"Please wait here, Rai. We'll go in to your son's restaurant and have something. I promised her cutlets. We'll be right back."

He took his wife in. The man at the counter gave them a nasty look, enough to infuriate Dulal.

"Have you a place to sit?" he boomed. Giri started; she had never heard Dulal talk that way.

"What do you want?" asked the man rudely.

"We want to eat."

They went in and sat in a small enclosure. "Two cutlets. Make sure they are fresh," he ordered.

There was a picture of a woman in the wall. Giri was looking down. "Did you hear him?" Dulal

Whispered. "You saw how he treated us. All right, I'll tip the bearer  four annas."

A cat crept under the table. Its tail touched his feet. Dulal gave it to a hard kick.

He gobbled up the cutlets. "Let's have some chops. A son indeed! The old man comes begging to him

and what a way to talk to one's father." The chop was taking time. Dulal howled: "Where is my chop? Look sharp, man."

"Stop shouting," the young man pushed the curtain and looked in. "They'll have to fry them. It takes

time."

I don't have any time to waste. Bring me whatever is ready."

"We have some curry."

"All right. Some curry then. Be quick."

As soon as the young man left, Dulal whispered to his wife: "I know how hard Rai worked to keep this

Business going. Now he has  no place here. I'll tip the waiter eight annas. That young man must know his father knew some decent people in his time."

After finishing the curry, Dulal asked for the bill.

"How about tea?"

"No, no, we don't have the time."

The bill was brought. A look at the amount made Dulal feel empty inside. Giri was intently working at a

Stray bit of meat stuck between her teeth. Dulal put the five-rupee note on the platter. The man went back to get the change. Dulal made a quick calculation. Two rupees, twelve annas. That will leave two rupees and four annas for transport. He wouldn't have anything for Rai.

The man put the bills and coins before him. He remembered his vow to tip the waiter eight annas. Then

He wouldn't even have the train fare. They would have to walk all the way to Calcutta to Uluberey.

Promptly he put all the money in his pocket. He peeped out. Rai was not to be seen anywhere. He

stepped to the street with a merry heart. After he had bought some sweet betel, he heard Rai shouting from across the street. Dulal turned to stone.

Rai had a vermillion case made of plastic. He gave it to Giri: "You came all the way and I blessed you

Without giving anything. Please take this gift."

Giri looked at Rai with the same wonder with which she had viewed the bridge and the skyscraper.

Involuntarily Dulal fished out the rupee notes. "Here you are old man."

"I am going to have a drink after ages, thanks a lot," Rai breathed in his ears. Then he scampered away.

"I didn't tip the waiter, did I?" Dulal tried to remember.

"I can't say."

Dulal brought out all the coins and counted. Fifty-three paise in all. He returned to the shop. "Will you

Please call the waiter who served us? I haven't tipped him."

He gave him all the coins. The waiter bowed to him in surprise.

Walking to the Howrah Bridge, Dulal found it hard to breathe. He stood by the railing facing the dark

River. Was everything worth the trouble? Passing trains shook the bridge. Was this huge structure going to come down? He didn't want to die. He was a poor fellow; he wanted to live so much. Giri was all he had

"How are we going to get back, Giri?" he confided. "I don't have a penny."

Giri turned her large, dark eyes to gaze at him with the same wonder with which she had looked at Rai

when he gave her his gift. Then she smiled.

"You know when the waiter bowed to you, you looked like the sub inspector of the police," she said.

They set out on their way.