THE EXHIBITION
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THE EXHIBITION •
Nowruz
Ahmad Morid is a young and self-taught poet and artist. They have been writing poetry since May of last year and drawing and painting since they were seven years old. Art and self-expression is what drives them forward in life, and their other hobbies include: screenwriting, analyzing movies, reading books, etc.
Photographer - Tobi Brun
Nowruz
As the frozen sky melts and drips down,
Droplet by droplet.
Thawing the trapped sunlight from the ground,
And how death's counterpart will visit these lands,
Breathing life into every branch that was touched by its sibling.
Bird songs echo from this firmament forevermore,
And my eyes will kiss green.
Time is backtracking.
Fallen leaves grow magnificent wings and fly back to their branches.
The night breeze is touched by the sun before hitting my delicate face,
And the dark clouds scurry away to make way for brightened days.
The land feels like a dormant creature rising after its slumber,
This is reanimation,
This is spring,
This is Nowruz.
NOWRUZ - Noun
Nowruz, also known as Persian New Year, is a 13-day holiday that celebrates the first day of spring and the vernal equinox, which usually occurs around March 21. The word "Nowruz" translates to "new day" in Persian, and the holiday symbolizes harmony with nature and renewal.
“Nowruz means a lot to me, waking up and realizing that the dark days of winter are over and it's time for the land to become green and warm again. Eating "samanak" and drinking "haft mewa". It's all very nostalgic!” Ahmad Morid is a young and self-taught poet and artist. They have been writing poetry since May of last year and drawing and painting since they were seven years old. Art and self-expression is what drives them forward in life, and their other hobbies include: screenwriting, analyzing movies, reading books, etc.
New Year?
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents. Some of his recent works will appear in York Literary Review, Willow Review, Thimble Lit, and Modern Reformation, to name a few.
New Year?
Who claims the year is new?
I cannot see good fortune's fresh-shot ray
Illumining my soul today,
And I'm still feeling blue.
Who claims the year is new?
Who says hope's buds will bloom
Within our hearts? Its nursery's long died,
And now my dearest friends abide
In the wastelands of gloom.
Who says hope's buds will bloom?
Old scars refuse to heal.
Like foreign hosts, they latch onto the mind,
Creating din of every kind—
An ever-turning wheel.
Who says old scars will heal
And we will get relief?
The married girl, each night, still looks above
To see the star of her lost love,
Who left with heavy grief.
We will not get relief.
New year? What's new about it?
Same tarnished windows, fusty rooms, and flies.
The old wall clock that faintly cries—
Same days that spin about it.
New year? I really doubt it!
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents. Some of his recent works will appear in York Literary Review, Willow Review, Thimble Lit, and Modern Reformation, to name a few.
The Little Joys of Spring
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents. Some of his recent works will appear in York Literary Review, Willow Review, Thimble Lit, and Modern Reformation, to name a few.
Photographer - Tobi Brun
The Little Joys of Spring
Each hill affirms the presence of the ease
That copiously comes when winter's dead.
Old stems regain esprit, but more than that,
Blooms of new colours join a flowerbed.
For man and beast, the obstinate disease
Of idleness tails off, and oval, fat,
And pulpy things suspend from leafy trees.
Lakes seem like glasses with paillettes of gold.
Leaf-scattered rays appear as stelliform
Designs that wink. In pocket parks, young boys
Take strolls, do yoga, and soak up the warm
And gentle sun, while in their groups, the old
Sip tea, debate the headlines, and rejoice
In watching the rose-coloured day unfold.
Temples win back their worshippers once more.
The mandaps' floor tiles chilled their naked feet
Back in December. Now, they're mild and friendly.
Now, vendors line the footways of each street
With pushcarts packed with fruits. Their charms restore
The market squares with shoppers and so gently
Set that old, lively hubbub like before.
But, out of all these lucky friends of spring,
The luckiest's the wandering butterfly,
For she is served a giant plate of flowers
On meads. She draws their fluids, then flutters by
A lad (who's come with his small net for trapping
her), making him believe he's superpowers;
He tries and tries while she keeps dancing, flapping.
Word Meaning:
Mandap: The main hall of a temple.
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents. Some of his recent works will appear in York Literary Review, Willow Review, Thimble Lit, and Modern Reformation, to name a few.
To the Evening Breeze
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents. Some of his recent works will appear in York Literary Review, Willow Review, Thimble Lit, and Modern Reformation, to name a few.
Photographer - Tobi Brun
To the Evening Breeze
When I unbolt the terrace door,
He enters quickly, greeting me
With kisses on my cheeks and hair
As if a friend who'd longed to see
My face for countless centuries.
As night begins to blacken more
And, ray by ray, the moonlight flees,
I settle on the window chair
And grab a book. Then he comes too
And reads the tale before I do.
He loves to ring the bright wind chimes,
Flick draperies, skim by each leaf
Of our Neem tree that waits all day
For his cool touch of sweet relief.
But out of everything, he likes
The top floor's balcony. He climbs
There, chitchats with the plants, or strikes
The hanging clothes—a rare ballet
For father, ma, and me to view;
A lustre finds our lips anew.
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents. Some of his recent works will appear in York Literary Review, Willow Review, Thimble Lit, and Modern Reformation, to name a few.
A Meeting
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents. Some of his recent works will appear in York Literary Review, Willow Review, Thimble Lit, and Modern Reformation, to name a few.
A Meeting
We chose our old patisserie, Faheem's,
One Monday noontime. Half the chairs were stacked.
The waiter Abdul's smile displayed the fact
He knew our likes: fudge brownies with whipped cream.
Her clothes were simple, just a plain Salwar
Kameez—not what she mostly wore to meet me.
No dimples sat upon her cheeks to greet me;
Her body there, her mind was somewhere far
Away. "Must be a slight familial thing,"
I thought and asked, "A crossfire with your mother?
The usual hijinks by your puckish brother?"
It seemed no act or word of mine could bring
The truth out of her throat. After a pause,
She spoke (as if an old, corroded door,
Reluctant to be slid): "Just six months more.
My baba says it's for my own good cause.
The boy's an engineer from our own caste
With good emoluments." She turned away
From me to hide her face, now moist and gray.
This news, like summer's heat, wizened the last
Bright bloom of optimism in my heart.
"When is the day?" I wished to ask but could
Not voice a word—perhaps, for my own good;
Perhaps, to keep my soul a bit apart,
Veiled from the knowledge of her wedding date.
We sat, hands clasped, and watched the hour grow,
The people leave, the lightbulbs' dimmish glow.
The food remained untouched on both our plates.
Word Meaning:
Salwar Kameez: an Indian outfit for females
Baba: Father
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents. Some of his recent works will appear in York Literary Review, Willow Review, Thimble Lit, and Modern Reformation, to name a few.