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International Poetry الشعر শ্লোক ကဗျာ ליבע ਪਿਆਰ өлүм கவிதை บทกวี ποίηση költészet 詩歌

with editor Vera Ignatowitsch

The Sleep of Seeds


It didn’t rain all summer.

Instead of water, my father used prayer

for his garden. Despite his friends’ laughter,

he planted spinach and lettuce,

countless rows of cucumbers

in beds lined up meticulously

ignoring old people’s warnings

about the drought.

Every afternoon, he pushed his hat back,

wiped off his sweat,

and looked up at the empty sky,

the sun scorching

the acacia trees shriveling in the heat.

In July, the ground looked like cement.

Like the ruins of a Roman thermal bath,

it kept the vestiges of a lost order,

traces of streams long gone.

He yelled at me to step back

from the impeccable architecture

of climbing green beans,

the trellis for tomatoes,

although there was nothing to be seen,

no seedlings, no tendrils,

not even weeds,

just parched, bare ground—

as if I were disturbing

the hidden sleep of seeds.



Lucia Cherciu is the author of five books of poetry, including Train Ride to Bucharest (Sheep Meadow Press, 2017), which won the Eugene Paul Nassar Poetry Prize. Her work has been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net.

Editor’s note: This poem was originally misattributed to another poet.



On worn washboards, I drag

your voice from beyond

like an un-laundered cloth.

You never asked what my

favourite colour was. If your

question came, I would have

pointed to the faraway galaxy

where the belt of Orion stung

like a scorpion’s tail, telling you

to see the show of me, a tall

flask of moonlight ending in

a semi-circle on you.


We were cleft tales of the Milky Way,

settling like bespangled sealant

in crevasses of our togetherness.

How we shone as repaired comets

determined our angles of convergence

in the view of glass-peepers, their

wooden minds ever amassing

the stretch of silence that spanned

like endless trails of astro-

fluids strayed in time.


Remember the border

where we conjoined

before a spark of passion

disbanded us


We were masters,

there, of the game

of elude and escape.



Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her work appears in a variety of literary venues, both print and online, including several anthologies by different presses. Her poetry has been translated to Spanish, Greek, Arabic and Persian. Visit

A mystery reminds me


A mystery reminds me of the revolution.

When my brother says, “There will be the retrenchment of the casual labourers

Whereas the white-colour permanent workers will remain at their posts

With their high remuneration.”

“Will there be no protest against the retrenchment of the casual labourers

From the white-colour permanent workers that shows fraternity of the working class?” I ask.

My brother smiles sadly, as he is a casual labourer,

and I recall the words, “Unite all the working people . . .”



Partha Sarkar writes poems to protest against social injustice and crimes against nature and does not know what to do but dreams of revolution . . . of course in vain.




The April afternoon melted

like sugar cubes in our coffee cups.


A new color has adorned the sky;

difficult to paint in memorabilia.


Thought we essayed color

to the coffee table


sugar cubes only mocked us

from the drowsy pot this afternoon.



Aneek Chatterjee is from India. He has been published in literary magazines across the globe. He has authored two poetry collections titled Seaside Myopia and Unborn Poems and Yellow Prison. He is alive when poetry happens.

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