Σάββατο 31 Ιανουαρίου 2026
ΛΕΥΤΕΡΗΣ ΣΙΩΜΟΣ "ΔΑΚΡΥΑ ΜΝΉΜΗΣ"
Aziza Xasanova - Poetry
Again I write to you, a note,
In dreams where thoughts and hopes just float.
My letter brings a small, clear dish,
That sails the sea, just like a wish.
Not just a glass, not just a jar,
Someday you'll hold it, near or far.
A smile will bloom upon your face,
That girl ahead, in time and space.
Imagine now our ships went down,
To seas so deep, no shore, no town.
But I know still your hope won't die—
My letter from the past will fly.
What should I write, tell me, my dear?
Can feelings burn so bright, so clear?
Will dreams that simple hearts confess
One day appear in real success?
I’ll cast my words in glass once more,
Into the sea with boundless shore.
Perhaps someday they'll come to me,
When lost without a light to see...
*****
2)Thank You, Life
I no longer look behind,
Nor do I cry remembering the past.
With a light and gentle smile,
I say to you: thank you, life!
I’ve walked through rough and bumpy roads,
At times I laughed, at times felt worn.
But I never gave up on brighter days,
I say to you: thank you, life!
In every fate my Creator has written,
There lies a wisdom, always clear.
Before such destiny, calmly I bow,
I say to you: thank you, life!
****
3)My Truth
Whenever I write my poems on paper,
The pen is my companion, the paper—my friend.
Alas, they do not know what I feel inside,
Perhaps that’s why the pen tips break.
I tear the paper, hurting its heart,
I squeeze the pen as if it's to blame.
My mood today is just like the rain,
As if the paper knows I love the rain.
****
4)Irretrievable Hearts
I've left a thousand times, yet still forgave,
But now - no way back, no road to save.
Forgiveness turns bitter, too heavy to give,
When hearts fall for those with no will to live.
****
5)There’s Still a Chance
There comes a time you lose your way,
You dread the night, ignore the day.
Each breath feels heavy, joy seems gone,
You wonder if you still belong.
But hear me now — the time will come,
When darkness fades and light will hum.
A day will rise, so pure, so bright,
And lift you gently toward the light.
I know you feel your dreams are lost,
Forgotten hopes, a painful cost.
Regret may grip you like a chain,
But even storms will pass with rain.
Don’t say “Not now,” don’t ask “But when?”
For life can bloom with joy again.
The day you thought would break you down,
Will one day wear a golden crown.
You, kind in heart and strong in soul,
Your words like balm, your spirit whole.
Though things today may seem unjust,
Your turn will come — believe, and trust.
Yes, patience hurts, I know it well,
Like seeking springs where deserts dwell.
Your tears may speak, your silence scream,
But never lose your precious dream.
Tomorrow waits with open skies,
With grace that lifts and wings that rise.
There’s still a chance, there’s still a way —
Please don’t give up — not now, not today.
Success is near, just past the bend,
And joy is yours, around the end.
The world still needs your voice, your spark —
You are the light within the dark.
****
6) Miracle
A young womman lying on the brink of death, thinking not about himself but about his children, slowly called her sister and began to give a will:
“If I die, do not leave my nieces and nephews alone; they are the greatest happiness in my life. Remember how I took care of them after our parents. Take care of them the same way, but never hurt their feelings. After my life ends in this world, raise them as your own children.”
The sister stepped outside. The street was dark. A gentle rain was falling. She raised her hands to the sky and began to pray sincerely:
“My Almighty Creator, the One who makes everything exist, my greatest support in this world is my dear sister. Please bless her with a beautiful destiny and grant her a long life to see her children’s comfort and happiness,” she said with tears in her eyes. Her heart trembled because in her life, until now, only her sister had been her support. She didn’t want to think for even a minute about loneliness.
When she was crossing to the pharmacy on the other side of the street to get the medicines prescribed by the doctor for her sister, she was quietly asking God for help. Suddenly, an elderly man appeared on her way. He said he could not cross to the other side and asked the girl for help. The girl helped him. The elderly man asked:
“How are you, my girl? Why are your eyes filled with tears?”
She replied:
“No, sir, my sister is in critical condition. She is currently in the hospital, she was hit by a car. My father has passed away, and my sister has two children. The driver fled from the accident scene. Her condition is serious. I have no one else in this world,” she said.
“I saw you were telling someone your troubles on the road. I thought you were talking to someone,” said the elderly man.
“Yes, I am talking. I am talking to the only one who can heal my pain, the only remedy, my Almighty. I am praying sincerely,” she said. “The doctor prescribed the medicine to my sister from the pharmacy on that side. I am going to get it.”
The elderly man said: “How do you know your prayer will be answered?”
The girl smiled and said: “My Almighty even hears the prayers of an ant. He did not disappoint me and inspired me to pray sincerely from my heart. So there is still hope.”
The elderly man took her to the other side of the street and prayed a long prayer for her. When the girl returned from the pharmacy to the hospital, her sister was standing on her feet as if nothing had happened. The girl asked:
“How is this possible? I thought there was no chance?”
Her sister smiled and replied:
“In my dream, our late father came and said that you prayed sincerely for me, and a person you helped prayed for you sincerely as well. My father was happy and told me that your sister did a kind thing. Daughter, be happy,” he said.
The girl couldn’t hold back her tears. Her sincere prayers and good deeds, trusting in the Almighty with true devotion, have today brought results. A miracle is only given to those who truly believe. No prayer goes unanswered. We just get impatient sometimes...!
****
7) Best friend
A little girl always smiled happily every day.
One day, suddenly, she stopped smiling completely.
Her caring mother noticed this and asked,
“Why are you sad, my dear little one?”
The girl replied softly,
“My teddy bear is lost. I cannot find him anywhere. I am worried about how he is without me.”
Her mother lovingly said,
“Let’s search for your teddy bear together right now.”
They looked everywhere carefully and finally found the bear near the swing in the yard.
Her mother said kindly, “You left him there when it started to rain heavily.”
She cleaned the teddy bear gently and gave it back to her daughter.
From that day onwards, they were never apart again and always happy.
"THE JUNGLE DARES THE WORLD OF CRIME" by dr jernail s anand
THE JUNGLE DARES THE WORLD OF CRIME
Dr Jernail S. Anand
Whenever there are events involving injustice and wildness, we often say, it is ‘jungle raaj’ [the law of the jungle]. The jungle is abused as we often abuse a man who has done an indecent job calling him a dog. A crow, when crows, is a harbinger of a cherished guest, but a crow, nowadays, is mentioned more as one, who is killed and hung aloft for a lesson to other crows.
When we compare a man’s mischief, we go to monkeys and cats, and when we refer to his power, we catch the lion. However, when men eat human flesh, and turn indiscriminate, we invoke wolves. A man who is dunce is likened to an ass, and if something is going very fast, it is said to be talking to the winds. How is power of a man measured if not as horse power. And most of all, when we have to reject something as absurd, a bull comes to our rescue, along with his shit. We call it ‘bull-shit’. The jungle is never far away when we men have to say something, and it has to be exemplified from the animal world.
In fact, we go to nature to authenticate our experience. In the same way as we quote from great authors and thinkers and even from Vedas. If some man has eaten up some other person, there is no way to say it more effectively than saying that he has eaten into him like ‘deemak’ [termiotes]. If some misfortune strikes a man, we compare it with lightning.
If we have to compare a man’s steadfastness, we invoke mountains. If a man starts going to a place of worship after committing sins, we are reminded of a cat going for Hajj after eating nine hundred mice. And if we want to tell man he should have a great patience, Farid the great poet says: a man should have the patience of a tree. Men who are full of wisdom, are humble just as a branch bearing a fruit bends. As pure as the Ganges, as high as the Himalayas, I wonder if there is any human emotion which can be delivered authentically without referring to nature.
So, it is the nature which we often call the ‘jungle raaj’. The idea of ‘jungle raaj’ conveys the idea of lack of justice in the human world. It is interesting to see why man thinks that his world is more just, as compared to the world of nature. Here is a glimpse of the life of the jungle, which human beings often denounce. The big fish eat the small fish. The powerful kill the less powerful. This is what happens in the jungle and even in oceans and the same thing happens in the world of men too. But, the point of departure between the two world arrives soon, and I wonder if we can really accuse the world of nature as a land of lawlessness.
The Order of Nature
The order that we find in nature is far more powerful and more established than in the human world. Birds, animals are born with a default understanding of their role. Just imagine, they have no schools. It is only the human being who needs training in schools. And, we need worship places to teach us how to pray and remain connected to the creator, whereas animals are always in a state of prayer. A Punjabi poet, Prof. Puran Singh finds the buffaloes and calves [animals on their fours] always in a state of prostration. Animals and birds have no liquor shops, they do not have ‘bars’, they do not have rave parties, they do not molest women. And most of everything, have you come across any murder in the forest?
In the forest, which we call the ‘jungel raaj’, there are killings. The big animals eat away the smaller animals. In fact, most of the birds are non-vegetarian. They eat up smaller insects. But nobody raises any and cry. Because it is their way of life. There are no murders as I said, no police stations, no violation of rights. There are no courts to ensure justice. Only we human beings need courts of justice because the human world thrives on injustice. Murders take place in the human world only. The jungle has no underworld. They have no armies. No weapons dump. We have never seen them fighting pitched battles as men have done in the past over land for oil or resources.
Nature is a repository of sense and wisdom. Jungle is far more composed and balanced in its attitude towards life. They do not attack humans. Only humans have assaulted and molested the vegetation and the trees.
In fact, for the human world, ‘jungle raaj’ refers to the lack of justice and fairness, and a world which is given to crime. The fact is that the world of the jungle is the real world of nature where the law of the creator, the original laws are in operation. Man, with his greed and weapons, has created a world of crime which he equates with the ‘jungle raaj’. In my opinion, we denigrate the jungle in order to establish our superiority, whereas the facts prove it otherwise.
The final truth about the law of the jungle and the law of man’s land is a comparison between a sense of live and let live, and a passion for greed and exploitation and ultimate elimination of the other. The jungle ‘raaj’ is original and superior, whereas man’s laws are artificial and inferior, if not altogether infernal.
Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, with an opus of 190 plus books, is Laureate of the Seneca, Charter of Morava, Franz Kafka and Maxim Gorky awards. His name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. Anand’s work embodies a rare fusion of creativity, intellect, and moral vision. He is President of the Internaitonal Academy of Ethics.
Aysel Khanlargizi Safarli - Interview
“MY CHILDHOOD MEMORIES ALWAYS TUNE ME TO FRAGILE NOTES”
Our interlocutor is one of the bright figures of Azerbaijani literature — poet, publicist, and editor; a member of the Azerbaijan Writers’ Union, the “Yanqi Ovoz” Central Asian Writers’ Union, and the “Iraq-Turkmen Writers and Literary Figures Union”; a recipient of the Presidential Scholarship; laureate of the “Rasul Rza” and “Shakhmar Alakbarzadeh” Literary Awards; Head of the Women’s Wing of the Civil Solidarity Party; and editor of the website Mustaqil.az — Aysel Khanlargizi Safarli.
– When speaking about childhood, a person dives into an ocean of both joy and sorrowful memories.
When you recall your childhood years, what feelings awaken in your heart first?
— My childhood memories always tune me to fragile notes. Whenever I recall them, I return to the carefree, beautiful days when my father was still alive. Back then, little Aysel would show her very first poem to her father, and his kind words would light a small spark of creativity in her heart… I become a child again, and my father gently strokes my hair with eyes full of love… In this flow of emotions, I find myself gazing both into my past and into my own soul.
– There is a delicate silence and a deep emotional wave in your poetry.
Where does this silence come from — childhood memories or the turbulence of life?
— Some of these feelings come from the fragility of childhood memories, while others were born while rowing against life in the stormy sea of existence, fighting to survive.
– Every poet carries an invisible flame within.
Who ignited that fire in you for the first time — what event or which feeling?
— The first torch of poetry within me was lit by my late father. From my earliest years, he took pride in my poems, encouraged me, became my first reader, and always stood behind me… I believe it is a unique happiness for a girl to love her father also as her very first reader.
– “Paper planes” — does this symbol represent the purity of childhood or the human need to let dreams fly?
— In fact, the origin of “paper planes” is different. Because I lived far away for many years and waited for someone from afar, my life passed through airports filled with longing… In one of my poems, I wrote about how my son, waiting for his father, made paper planes and flew them across the room, turning our home into an airport… That is where the expression “paper planes” was born.
– Truth and beauty — how do these two concepts merge in your poetic worldview?
— Although truth may sometimes appear ugly to people, in my world it is a form of beauty itself…
Beauty always changes depending on one’s perspective. What matters is the ability to see beautifully. Sometimes a person can feel happiness even in sorrow, can live through pain beautifully, and carry it with dignity.
– In the modern world, a woman is simultaneously a creator, a mother, and a leader.
How do you maintain the delicate balance between these roles?
— I try to maintain it as best as I can. A woman is created so strong and perfect that she can carry the highest emotions of the world with immense love and patience. I am happy that I am both a mother and someone who can express her feelings through writing.
– You also lead the Women’s Wing of the Civil Solidarity Party.
When literature and social activity intersect, what tones collide within your soul?
— The founder of the Civil Solidarity Party is himself a People’s Poet — Sabir Rustamkhanli, a master who gifted priceless works to literature. I believe literature itself is already a form of social activity…
Even the strongest conflicts have often been resolved with a single word. My soul stands in harmony with both my words and my actions; it befriends them, loves both its work and its word.
– There are wars, hunger, and injustices in the world.
What should a poet do in the face of such pain — remain silent or turn the pen into a sword?
— Even if a poet wants to remain silent, they cannot. Poets feel those pains and emotions as if they have lived them themselves. That is why the countless states of the world have always been transformed into poetry, words, and verses — and will continue to be.
– In your opinion, is modern literature a remedy for society’s spiritual wounds, or merely consolation?
— I believe literature is neither consolation nor a remedy. Literature is the verbal expression of feelings that thousands of people cannot articulate. Literature is the image of emotions, the artistic tones of life. When we are alone with ourselves, it makes us think, sometimes awakens us from heedless sleep, and sometimes gives the human soul the strength to fight. Literature is the nourishment of our spiritual world.
– Time changes, technology dominates the human soul.
Do you think the value of words still remains in this century?
— As long as humans exist, words will exist, and their value will remain. Sometimes a word becomes healing and hope in a sick heart; sometimes it becomes life itself.
There is nothing a word cannot do… Just as with a single word — “dear” — a person is ready to sacrifice their life for the one they love.
– They say a person must find the meaning of their life.
Where do you see the meaning of life?
— Giving meaning to life depends on the individual. When a person sees what they value in the place they desire, life becomes beautiful in their eyes. For a creative person, the meaning of life is to live, to create, and not to grow tired of struggle.
– What inspires you most or causes you concern in today’s literary environment?
— The emergence of many talented young writers today inspires me greatly. What concerns me are those who devalue words, who seek so-called fame for the sake of publicity and ratings, or who force themselves into being poets or writers. But then I think to myself: time and the scales of literature will weigh every line and every verse; meaningless things that exhaust the agenda will be sifted out and filtered away.
Leaving everything to time is the wisest choice.
– Is there a distance between today’s reader and the poet, or do souls still hear one another?
— Where there is spiritual kinship, there is no distance. A true reader and one who understands words will feel, sense, and comprehend them anywhere.
Jakhongir NOMOZOV, is a young poet and journalist from Uzbekistan.
He is also a Member of the Union of Journalists of Azerbaijan and the World Young Turkic Writers Union.
Παρασκευή 30 Ιανουαρίου 2026
ΠΑΝΑΓΙΩΤΗΣ ΜΥΡΓΙΩΤΗΣ "Συμεών ο Θεοδόχος και Άννα η προφήτης"
Συμεών ο Θεοδόχος και Άννα η προφήτης
Ο Συμεών ο Θεοδόχος και η Άννα η προφήτης τιμώνται από την Αγία μας Εκκλησία την 3η Φεβρουαρίου. Αποτελούν προσωπικότητες ξεχωριστές και ευλογημένες από τον Άγιο Θεό. Διαδραματίσανε ρόλους κομβικούς κατά την Υπαπαντή του Κυρίου.
Ο Συμεών ονομάστηκε Θεοδόχος επειδή στις αγκάλες του δέχτηκε τον Σωτήρα ημών Ιησού Χριστό όταν βρέφος σαράντα ημερών ο Δίκαιος Ιωσήφ και η Παναγία μητέρα Του τον πήγαν στο Ναό, κατά την επιταγή του νόμου. Ο υπέργηρος Συμεών πληροφορήθηκε από το Άγιο Πνεύμα να πάει στον Ναό. Με χαρά και θεία προσμονή τρέχει στον Ναό. Το βρέφος Ιησούς καταφθάνει στον Ναό στην αγκάλη της Παρθένου Κόρης και ο Συμεών φωτισθείς από το Πνεύμα ότι το βρέφος είναι ο αναμενόμενος Σωτήρας με σεβασμό το προσκυνάει, το παίρνει στη γέρικη αγκαλιά του και αναφωνεί , ευχαριστώντας τον Θεό «Νυν απολύεις τον δούλον σου, Δέσποτα, κατά το ρήμα σου εν ειρήνη· ότι είδον οι οφθαλμοί μου το σωτήριόν σου, ο ητοίμασας κατά πρόσωπον πάντων των λαών, φως εις άποκάλυψιν εθνών και δόξαν λαού σου Ισραήλ». Τώρα, δηλαδή, πάρε την ψυχή μου Δέσποτα, σύμφωνα με το λόγο σου, ειρηνικά, διότι τα μάτια μου είδαν αυτόν που θα φέρει τη σωτηρία που ετοίμασες για όλους τους λαούς και θα είναι γι’ αυτούς φως, που θα αποκαλύψει τον αληθινό Θεό και θα δοξάσει το λαό σου Ισραήλ.
Στρεφόμενος ο Συμεών προς την Υπεραγία Θεοτόκο είπε τα εξής προφητικά λόγια: «Ιδού ούτος κείται εις πτώσιν και ανάστασιν πολλών εν τω Ισραήλ, και εις σημείον αντιλεγόμενον· και σου δε αυτής την ψυχήν διελεύσεται ρομφαία, όπως αν αποκαλυφθώσιν εκ πολλών καρδιών διαλογισμοί». (Λουκ. β’ 34-35).Τα λόγια αυτά προέλεγαν την βαθιά θλίψη που θα νοιώσει η Παναγία όταν δει τον Υιό Της σταυρωμένο στον Σταυρό.
Αμέσως ο Συμεών πλήρης χαράς και αγαλλίασης άφησε τα γήινα και ανεχώρησε στα ουράνια. Η υπόσχεση τηρήθηκε.
Πιστεύεται ότι ο Συμεών ήταν μέλος της Ομάδας των εβδομήκοντα που μετέφρασε την παλαιά διαθήκη την ελληνική γλώσσα. Κατά την διαδικασία μετάφρασης της προφητείας του Ησαΐα: «Ιδού η Παρθένος εν γαστρί έξει και τέξεται υιόν και καλέσουσιν το όνομα αυτού Εμμανουήλ»(Ησ. ζ’ 14) εκφράζει την δυσπιστία του και αμφιβάλλει για την εκπλήρωσή της. Από ένα αόρατο χέρι δέχεται ισχυρό ράπισμα και άκουσε φωνή που υπόσχονταν : ότι «δεν θα πέθαινε, πριν ιδή τον Σωτήρα του Κόσμου». Ήθελε μια επαλήθευση και για τούτο ρίχνει το δακτυλίδι του στον Νείλο ποταμό λέγοντας ότι θα πιστέψει αν βρει το δακτυλίδι του. Πράγματι, το ίδιο βράδυ καθαρίζοντας ένα ψάρι βρήκε μέσα το δακτυλίδι του. Πίστεψε τότε και ζούσε με πίστη και προσδοκία ότι θα δει τον Σωτήρα. Προετοίμαζε καθημερινά τον εαυτό του για την μεγάλη συνάντηση, ζώντας με σύνεση, με ευλάβεια , με δικαιοσύνη, φόβο Θεού και με υποταγή στο θέλημα του Θεού, όπως το δηλώνει και το όνομά του. Στα εβραϊκά Συμεών σημαίνει υπακοή. Με τον τρόπο αυτό κατόρθωσε να αποκτήσει όλες τις αρετές και να ανέβει στα ύψη τελειότητας. Ο Ευαγγελιστής Λουκάς μας πληροφορεί ότι ήταν άνθρωπος «δίκαιος και ευλαβής» και κατοικούσε στα Ιεροσόλυμα. Ο Συμεών θεωρείται τελευταίος Προφήτης της Παλαιάς Διαθήκης και Πρώτος Προφήτης της Καινής Διαθήκης.
Τα Λείψανα του Αγίου Συμεών, άγνωστο πότε, μεταφέρθηκαν από την Παλαιστίνη στην Κωνσταντινούπολη και κατατέθηκαν στο Ναό της Παναγίας των Χαλκοπρατείων, όπου φυλάσσονταν και τα Λείψανα του Αποστόλου Ιακώβου του Αδελφοθέου και του Προφήτου Ζαχαρίου. Από εκεί αφαιρέθηκαν το 1204 μ.Χ., πέντε ημέρες μετά την άλωση της Πόλεως από τους Φράγκους, από τους Βενετούς Πέτρο Steno, Άγγελο Drusiano και Ανδρέα Balduino και μεταφέρθηκαν στη Βενετία. Μετά την αναγνώριση του 1317 μ.Χ. τα Λείψανα τοποθετήθηκαν σε μαρμάρινη σαρκοφάγο, η οποία το 1733 μ.Χ. τοποθετήθηκε κάτω από την Αγία Τράπεζα του προς τιμήν του Ναού, όπου και σήμερα φυλάσσονται.
Λείψανα του Αγίου Συμεών φυλάσσονται επίσης στο Ναό Aix La Chapelle, στο Άαχεν της Γερμανίας.
Προφήτιδα Άννα.
Ας δούμε και την βιωτή της Προφήτισσας Άννας. Η Προφήτιδα Άννα είναι κόρη του Φανουήλ και κατάγεται από τη φυλή του Ασήρ, όγδοου τέκνου του Ιακώβ. Παντρεύτηκε πολύ μικρή αλλά, μετά από επτά χρόνια πέθαινε ο σύζυγος και δεν ξαναπαντρεύτηκε. Έζησε τα υπόλοιπα χρόνια της επίγειας ζωής ως χήρα. Παρηγοριά και ευχαρίστηση είχε την προσευχή, την νηστεία, την φιλανθρωπία, την ανάγνωση των θείων γραφών και την καθημερινή συμμετοχή στις δεήσεις. Εξ αιτίας του ευάρεστου τρόπου ζωής της στον Θεό το Άγιο Πνεύμα την προίκισε με το Προφητικό χάρισμα.
Αξίωσε ο Θεός την Άννα, σε ηλικία ογδόντα τεσσάρων ετών, να υποδεχθεί στο Ναό το Θείο βρέφος μαζί με τον Δίκαιο Συμεών. Σκίρτησε η καρδιά της από αγαλλίαση και ευφροσύνη αντικρίζοντας τον σαρανταήμερο Χριστό. Πλησίασε, προσκύνησε το βρέφος, ευχαρίστησε και δοξολόγησε τον Θεό. Προφήτευσε δε λέγουσα «Τούτο το βρέφος, ο τον ουρανόν και την γην στερεώσας Κύριός εστιν , αυτός εστιν ο Χριστός, περί ου οι Προφήται προκατήγγειλαν άπαντες»¨.
Η μνήμη της Προφήτιδας Άννας επαναλαμβάνεται στις 28 Αυγούστου.
Ἀπολυτίκιον
Τὸν Ὕπερθεον Λόγον σάρκα γενόμενον, ἐνηγκαλίσω ὡς βρέφος ἐν τῷ Ναῷ τοῦ Θεοῦ, Θεοδόχε Συμεὼν Πρεσβῦτα ἔνδοξε, ὅθεν καὶ Ἄννα ἡ σεπτή, ἀνθομολόγησιν αὐτῶ, προσήγαγεν ὠς Προφήτις, ὅθεν ὑμᾶς εὐφημοῦμεν, οἴα Χριστοῦ θείους θεράποντος.
Κοντάκιον
Ὁ μήτραν παρθενικὴν ἁγιάσας τῷ τόκῳ σου, καὶ χεῖρας τοῦ Συμεὼν εὐλογήσας ὡς ἔπρεπε, προφθάσας καὶ νῦν ἔσωσας ἠμᾶς Χριστὲ ὁ Θεός. Ἀλλ’ εἰρήνευσον ἐν πολέμοις τὸ πολίτευμα, καὶ κραταίωσον Βασιλεῖς οὓς ἠγάπησας, ὁ μόνος φιλάνθρωπος.
Μυργιώτης Παναγιώτης
Μαθηματικός
Poems from Gëzim Basha USA... translate by Marjeta Rrapaj
LOVE SONG IN SPRING
Sun in the morning, rain in the afternoon
This is how you are to me this day
Here you play, there you frown,
What will you do to me, every time I do to you?!
Silent with words, speaks with looks
You become shy because of my shyness!
I feel your breath, where are you, why
I will abandon myself to come there
A white flame leads us on the path
We come…it leaves…We go…it burns us
Something of me burned to ashes
Coal to write what we haven't said
I descend from the depths, you descend from the trees
Shake on the edge of the abyss, you will scare me
We stand in silence and cry without tears
I can't stay with you, I can't do without you
The flame of lightning ignites in the rain
And the embers of longing bring tears to my eyes
Sun in the morning
Rain in the afternoon…
Poetry from Gëzim Basha
USA
TIME OF DECAY
You tell me: The world went to hell
When the wolf under the lamb's skin started laughing
And the rabbit hid in a turtle shell…
Since the hawk became a dove
And the snake learned to make eel-like coquetry
Since then…(always according to you)
The devil took man for granted!
It's not true…
Deterioration began in that world when people
Learned to change their skin every day
Animals imitated them as always.
Translator
Marjeta Shatro Rrapaj
Poems, Niloy Rafiq. Bangladesh.
NILOY RAFIQ
Bangladesh
Niloy Rafiq began his literary journey in his school years, contributing to the literary pages of local daily newspapers. His voice soon reached national prominence, with poems appearing in leading newspapers and little magazines across Bangladesh. Over time, his work transcended borders: more than a hundred of his poems have been published in international literary journals, magazines, and newspapers.
His poetry has been translated into over thirty languages—including English, Spanish, Swedish,Finnish, Albanian, Macedonian, Serbian, Russian,Ukrainan, German, Italian, Greek, French, Portuguese, Persian, Hebrew, Polish, Arabic, Urdu, and Chinese—testifying to its universal resonance.
Published Works
English Collections (Amazon, Latin America):
1. Sun Leaf
2. An Incomplete Kiss
3. White Stone
Bengali Collections:
1. Bishuddho Bishade Bhasi Ami Rajhans (I Float Like a Swan in Pure Melancholy)
2. Pipasar Paramayu (The Longevity of Thirst)
3. Nona Manusher Mukh (The Face of the Salt People)
4. Agnyato Agun (The Unknown Fire)
5. Ankhi Anka Adinath (The Eyed Adinath)
6. Momer Prarthonay Nato Matir Sharir (The Earthen Body Bowed in Waxen Prayer)
: Niloy Rafiq. The Poet of a New Horizon: a book of review on the poet's works, written by Professor Gausur Rahman, a renowned literary critique and author of Bangladesh
Forthcoming Collections:
1. Nur-er Pathor (Stone of Light)
2. The Fragrance of Fire (English)
Style and Vision
Rafique’s poetry is a spellbinding weave of thought and emotion, where rhythm and diction create a hypnotic cadence. His words form a delicate yet powerful tapestry, making him appear less a poet than a magician of language—conjuring wonder through syllables and silence alike.
International Recognition
• SENEGA Literary Award, Italy (2025)
• NOSSLIDE Literary Award, Italy (2025)
SWARUPKATHI-2
Niloy Rafiq
In secret sorrow, the necklace trembles with fever
The weeping cloud draws the eye with its form
In the mind of creation, the house of peace collapses
The dream-dweller dissolves into the river Kaliganga.
The dream woven in a deft net remains unfinished
A new address forms in the ribs of the duck’s isle
Erase the artisan from the lost cover
Silently, the worshipped word becomes the script of the casuarina.
The rhythm-bound heart pulls toward green hills
On the road of art, a house of light is built
Thirst plays hide-and-seek in the dark with a rose
The shoreline’s artwork breathes mountain fragrance.
Translator: Jyotirmoy Nandy
SWARUPKATHI-1
Niloy Rafiq
In the garden of beauty, Swarupkathi glows—
A palace of verses, dancing with words,
Where flowers of mystic melody blaze
In the forest cave of time’s peddler.
On a night of art, in Nilachal’s hush,
Nature converses in quiet tones,
A cloud-maiden waits at the gaze’s estuary,
Love’s touchstone stirs a storm in the sea—
Yet joy voyages to Sonadia, the isle of love.
Beneath creation’s seedbed, poetry takes form,
Its face, the pole star of nature’s sky.
In the chariot’s procession, treasure lies hidden
Within the nectar-school’s enchanted heritage.
Translator : Jyotirmoy Nandy
.......
THE DIARY OF MASUD SHAFI
Niloy Rafiq
In tales, a staff-saint stumbles through falsehood,
Blind devotion rides the river in a reverse chariot.
The heritage of flowers adorns the heart’s home with trees—
On the far shore, you may glimpse the light of civilization.
In the artisan of weeds, a vast genius hides!
Waves of stolen dreams ripple through the breast of purity.
North to south, the casuarina sulks in silence—
Is the torn manuscript still missing from memory?
Masud Shafi, thirst unfinished,
Awakens the pole star in sky and mountain.
In slogans of light, the face meets life’s horizon—
Hand me the notebook of words, scented with reflection
Translator: Jyotirmoy Nandy
......
THE WINTER BIRD
Niloy Rafiq
I gaze, enchanted, as fragrance stirs nature’s courtyard—
Through deep forests, the winter bird glides,
Mist-veiled windows brim beside riverbanks,
Waves kiss the hills with a smile of misted delight.
In the green’s dancing form, a bird loses its way,
Each day, a restless soul calls to the land of memory.
At the fair of pure love, a word-farmer sows verses
On a winter-bitten morning, as a golden sun warms the Bakkhali’s shore.
In the spellbound gaze of trees, a procession of songs—
Unlatch the heart’s lock, let the unknown ferry arrive.
Translator : Jyotirmoy Nandy
Ma Yongbo ( China ) - Poetry
Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of polyphonic writing and objectified poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce British and American postmodern poetry into Chinese.
He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included 9 poetry collections.He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell,Williams, Ashbery and Rosanna Warren. He published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over 600,000 copies.
Archaeology of the Morning
Suppose a poem was left forgotten in a dream
in the morning, you stroll through the woods
and add the quacking of ducks
to the list of things that gladden your heart
Everything could just go on like this forever
behind the door you’ve closed, the dust no longer shimmers
no matter how hard you try
those words are like fish slipping back into the deep water
all that you write is but the shadow of that only poem
So you keep walking, keep encountering
faces half-familiar, smiling, nodding, exchanging greetings
as if you could wake up, as if you’ve been sitting all along in the morning sun
a little dazed
A Hometown with No One Left
It will never be better again
it exists nowhere on this earth
how can I possibly fabricate
a painted paradise?
behind the open door lies a stretch of dimness
when the sunlight of memory surges forth
when even the dust carries a faint yellowish warmth
I have long forgotten the sound of your voice
it lingers beyond life, beyond death
whispering of us who are no more
when marble seals my lips
when I have no time to bid you farewell
What to Do, How to Proceed
Let’s just sit on this jutting rock
the afternoon sun still keeps it warm
it is firm and solid, leaning out over the abyss
let’s sit right here, we can talk about this rock
besides the sunlight, it bears traces of weather, traces of moss
time and wind have not loosened it
instead, they have fused it more tightly with the cliff
Autumn has come, gazing at the increasingly high blue sky
I feel old age, like a stone inside my body, growing bigger day by day
one day we will lift it up
and tap the moon that rose, somehow, at an unknown time
look—It is nothing more than a stone that is consistent inside and out
The others have all gone down the mountain one after another
or vanished into the rock crevices around the bend
lights have lit up inside the stones
we still wait for a sudden gust of wind
to snatch us up, like two small stones
and hurl us at a forehead, glowing bright with the rage of innocence
The Abyss and the Stone
I discovered it at five years old, inside me
a place I could never reach
vast, wreathed in smoke, yet sometimes seeming not to exist at all
as if a single leaf could cover it whole
in the middle of play, it would suddenly emerge from the leaves across the way
rooting me to the spot in terror, back then, I’d turn deathly pale
grab a pebble, and slip away from my friends without a word
Words cannot hide it either, it defies all depiction
so, carrying this abyss—now swelling, now shrinking,
now fading, now flaring—I walk in the earthy world
gradually wearing an expression of solemnity ill-suited to my years
like the faint, ominous shadow of an iron ring
stealing over the brightness of summer
I buried my face in books through entire nights, wandered far and wide
at times, I would suddenly fail to recognize my own kin
Now, I often take it out
as pull a stone from my pocket, it is harder than a fist
blazing hot, it glimmers for a moment, then its surface turns black
I will not hurl it at dogs, nor cast it down into the valley
nor boil meat with it in a spring, as primitive men might do
I set it on the mountain, I think
perhaps it will slowly cool
slowly fade away into the variegated rocks and stones
Early Summer on Purple Mountain
In the small puddles left by wheel ruts beside the wild path
float clumps of frog spawn, like swollen, sticky clusters of tiny white grapes
the tadpoles that have already hatched refuse to leave
tadpoles, tadpoles, hurry and grow your legs
the woods are growing denser, and the puddles are drying up
At the end of every desolate trail, there are couples parking to make love
the path merely cuts through the sweltering thicket, curving toward another
springy slope that could shield against cannon fire
where obscure signals flicker at the crest
I have no choice but to live and die inside every frog spawn
On quiet afternoons, the mugwort pulled up exudes a stronger scent
I still find myself thinking about those clumps of frog spawn
it would be better if it rained a few more times
climbing the mountain with butterflies in the rain
the mountains are filled with frogs joyfully carting landmines
croaking loudly, their trousers rolled up just like mine
Τετάρτη 28 Ιανουαρίου 2026
ΛΕΥΤΕΡΗΣ ΣΙΩΜΟΣ "ΤΟΥ ΚΑΦΕ ΟΙ ΦΟΥΣΚΑΛΕΣ"
Πάλι και σήμερα έμεινα μόνος
Ραμμένο στόμα πικρό και άλαλο
Σαν της χίμαιρας ο ταχυδρόμος
Λιωμένο σώμα,στραβό,σαράβαλο.
Μες στου καφέ της μαυρίλας καθρέφτη
Σαν μαύρα μάτια οι φουσκάλες με κοιτάνε
Το πρόσωπο μου σ' αυτές σιγοτρέμει
Σ' άσπλαχνη δίνη προσμονής με βουτάνε.
Θελω ν' ακούσω το βήμα της τώρα
Ούτε πειράζει ας πει και μια κοτσάνα
Καρφώνω ματιά στο κύμα μπρος της ώρας
Την μοναξιάς μου να σπάσω την καμπάνα.
Μα σαν ξαναγυρίσεις και πάρεις την τρεχάλες
Και το κατώφλι απουσίας περάσεις
Θα παρακαλώ μέσα στου καφέ τις φουσκαλες:
" Αν είσαι φιλος χαίρε,αν εισ' εχθρός να σκάσεις."
Λευτέρης Σιώμος Κ/ 112 δ.π.ελ
Κυκλοφόρησε από τις Εκδόσεις Μετρονόμος η νέα δισκογραφική δουλειά του σπουδαίου δημιουργού Γιώργου Σταυριανού με τίτλο "Θαμπό του απογέματος φως"
ΔΕΛΤΙΟ ΤΥΠΟΥ
Γιώργος Σταυριανός
«Θαμπό του απογέματος φως»
Κυκλοφόρησε από τις Εκδόσεις Μετρονόμος η νέα δισκογραφική δουλειά του σπουδαίου δημιουργού Γιώργου Σταυριανού με τίτλο «Θαμπό του απογέματος φως».
Μια μουσική κατάθεση, βαθιά ποιητική και υπαρξιακή, προστίθεται στο πολύχρονο και γόνιμο έργο του συνθέτη Γιώργου Σταυριανού. Ο νέος του δίσκος «Θαμπό του απογέματος φως» αποτελεί ένα ώριμο καλλιτεχνικό έργο, εμπνευσμένο από τη σιωπηλή δύναμη του χρόνου, τη μνήμη, το φως και τη σπαρακτική ομορφιά της ανθρώπινης εμπειρίας.
Τα τραγούδια ερμηνεύουν ο Βασίλης Γισδάκης, ο Παντελής Θεοχαρίδης, ο Μίλτος Πασχαλίδης, η Ηρώ Σαΐα, ο Κώστας Τριανταφυλλίδης και ο Μιχάλης Άνθης, προσφέροντας ο καθένας τη δική του ευαίσθητη ανάγνωση και συναισθηματική σφραγίδα.
Τους στίχους υπογράφουν, εκτός από τον ίδιο τον συνθέτη, ο Φίλιππος Γράψας, ο Οδυσσέας Ιωάννου και ο Μάκης Τσίτας – δημιουργοί που γνωρίζουν να μετατρέπουν το απλό και καθημερινό σε βαθύ και διαχρονικό. Ο δίσκος αυτός δεν είναι απλώς ένα μουσικό άλμπουμ, αλλά ένα ποιητικό τοπίο. Ένα στοχαστικό βλέμμα προς το φως που σβήνει, τη ζωή που πέρασε, τον χρόνο που μας διαπερνά.
To εικαστικό έργο του εξωφύλλου, καθώς και αυτά που συνοδεύουν το ένθετο του cd είναι της Σοφίας Αντωνακάκη.
Λίστα τραγουδιών
1. Αντίλαλος - Οργανικό
2. Το πλοίο φεύγει - Μίλτος Πασχαλίδης
Στίχοι: Γιώργος Σταυριανός
3. Μαζί με το δικό σου ερχομό - Ηρώ Σαΐα
Στίχοι: Μάκης Τσίτας
4. Θεοί - Παντελής Θεοχαρίδης
Στίχοι: Φίλιππος Γράψας
5. Το απόγευμα θαμπώνει - Βασίλης Γισδάκης
Στίχοι: Γιώργος Σταυριανός
6. Όλοι μας σας παιχνίδια χαλάμε – Μίλτος Πασχαλίδης
Στίχοι: Οδυσσέας Ιωάννου
7. Ώρες μου χρωματιστές - Κώστας Τριανταφυλλίδης
Στίχοι: Γιώργος Σταυριανός
8. Ξημέρωμα - Ηρώ Σαΐα
Στίχοι: Γιώργος Σταυριανός
9. Ο περίπατος του φθινόπωρου - Οργανικό
10. Περίλυπος εστί η ψυχή μου Μιχάλης Άνθης
Ενορχήστρωση - Ηχογράφηση - Μίξη - Mastering: Κώστας Παρίσσης, Studio Praxis
Για αγορά του άλμπουμ:
https://www.musical.gr/cddetails.php?gui_language=1&CD_code=5206229241636&cat=2
Ακούστε το στις πλατφόρμες:
YouTube:
Επικοινωνία: ArtsPR
Μετρονόμος Περιοδικό & Εκδόσεις
Ζωοδόχου Πηγής 8-10 & Σόλωνος, Αθήνα, Τηλ.: 210 3807206
Carpe "Ζωή αληθινή..."
που έχουν κατακλύσει την ψυχή.
Δάκρυα μπερδεμένα με τη μαύρη σκόνη
απ' το χνώτο μας .
Η οργή σωρεύτηκε
στις φιγούρες της απόγνωσης .
Μάθαμε να μετράμε τη ζωή
με τους χειμώνες,
οι τρικυμίες ξέβρασαν
άπνοα τα καλοκαίρια .
Κυνηγάμε το αληθινό,
μια επιθυμία ζωής
να καταντά έρμαιο
σε σχέδια επισφαλή .
Μάτια χορτασμένα
από τις " δυσφορίες" των πολιτισμένων .
Στο βωμό των θυσιών
προς τους θεούς της αναλήθειας
στέκεται λευκός αμνός,
ο αυθεντικός άνθρωπος .
Η αληθινή ζωή ήταν αιώνια σαν το φεγγάρι....
μέρος της είναι για πάντοτε κρυμμένο...
Carpe .
Δευτέρα 26 Ιανουαρίου 2026
ΣΠΥΡΟΣ ΖΑΧΑΡΑΤΟΣ " Χρονολογία ζωής"
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