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A nation is its words, its stories, as much as its physical boundaries.

Mohamed Nasheed   

 

“Thus we may see,” quoth he, “how the world wags.”

As You Like It, I, iii, 11

 

 Danse Macabre

Internationale

 

It is the end of the year, a classic snowy afternoon in Upstate New York, and I am tapping away at the keyboard, a little nostalgic. Among many things, I am reminded of a 10-year-old girl clutching her copy of a novel, a story collection and an abridged version of Oliver Twist while traveling with her family. Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay’s Pather Panchali (Song of the Little Road) in Bengali was a neat volume I had just started reading after my favorite Burhi Ai-ir Xadhu, an Assamese collection of folktales and fables, and Oliver Twist. In fact, reading Pather Panchali was deemed absolutely appropriate for a girl who was young enough for fairytales and fables, yet old enough to understand how reality traversed universal boundaries, whether it was an orphan boy in 19th century London or a poor Brahmin priest migrating from his 1920s Bengal village in search of a better life. This has been etched in my head forever as an opening moment of my diverse literary engagements. Three languages, perhaps three countries (depending on how one treats the partition of Bengal), but one epic outlook.

 

As I have the honor to open Danse Macabre's (first) Internationale issue, I can only rejoice at connecting this memory to the bevy of writers from countries like France, Vietnam, Ireland, Canada, Italy, Bangladesh, Britain, Iran, Russia, India, and Germany among several others that our readers would savor in the New Year. It is a delight to come across so many new and established names jostling for attention in one single literary journal. To extend Mohamed Nasheed’s quote above, all these writers bring their poetry, fiction and essays from varied perspectives of their own cultures and countries, each of their words carrying a whiff of their diverse histories and memories.

 

And if Benedict Anderson convinces us that nation-states are often ‘imagined communities’, I then find solace in the ‘imaginary congregations’ defined by our own literary times with the tag “international”, where nations and countries mingle in one single train that is truly international. If physical boundaries are indeed frozen in time, all that we are able to view as ‘imaginary’ could only offer possibilities and changes that writers and artists hold so dear to their hearts. Whether it is the subtropical winter sun of the South Asian Subcontinent, the festive liveliness of Quebec, the serene rivers of Vietnam, or the Northern Lights of Russia, what we offer for our readers in our Internationale carries the watermark of a high order of imagination and creativity that surpasses the fixity of geographical borders.

 

I just watched Atonement and I feel how spiraling it is in its haunting-ness, like a poem. What is it that made sense to me in that assemblage of film footage about a story that wracked lives and flamed imaginations? A story that traversed the boundaries of a nation called England and a continent called Europe and finally spilled out like the Dunkirk scenes, agonizing in its quotient of human misery as well as intellectually frightening. Watched in any corner of the world, it is bound to evoke a Dostoevskyan anxiety and questions of culpability and justification, Tagore’s vision of the need for a serene one world of many nations, and resonate with the poems of Dennis Brutus (1924-2009), a glorious voice against the South African apartheid regime. This universal tone can be found in literatures in all corners of the world if we are ready to explore them. Much of it also comes from oppressed confines of the world that often have a blurred boundary of ready identification, given that secret torture camps and war zones abound even today.

 

Danse Macabre Internationale brings you a slice of this ‘epic outlook’ of restlessness, love, floundering and hope – the words rally out in search of readers, to twist the well known Pirandello title – in the earnest wish that our words can inherit for us a world of joy and honor and also show us how the “world wags” for all times to come. Happy 2010 dear readers!

 

Sincèrement,
 
Nabina Das
Editor ()
 ♠  ♣
An Online Literary Magazine

Internationale
menu du plat
♥  ♠  ♦  ♣
 
Martyn Conterio    Richard Godwin
Robert J. Gregg    Roberta Lawson
Kenneth Radu
 

 

Thierry Brunet    Arun Budhathoki

David Calcutt    Helen Catherine Calcutt

Alex Cigale    Subhankar Das

Justin Ehrlich    Katerina Fretwell

Vivekanand Jha    Penn Kemp

Alexei Khvostenko    Michael Mc Aloran

Mark Murphy    Tomás Ó Cárthaigh

Edward O'Dwyer    Bobby Parker

Alexandra Seidel    Shahidul K K Shuvra

Matteo Spinetti    Thuy Truong

Marc Vincenz    Anand Vishwanadha

Deborah Walker    Petra Whiteley

 

The Russia Desk

poetry

Konstantin Balmont

New Translations & Comment by Alexander Cigale

 

The Road

poetry

Ali Abdolrezaei

 

incl. Fragments

comment

Abol Froushan

 

The Safety Match

fiction

Anton Chekhov

 

The Tower Room

fiction

Arthur Elck

 

In the Red

pt.2

fiction

James Kendley

 

Love Notes (from a Soldier's Diary)

poetry

Craig Podmore

 

The Queen of Spades

fiction

Alexander Pushkin

 

excerpts,

Space Cake Amsterdam

poetry

Yuyutsu RD Sharma 

 

Art de Perse

Mahdi Tavajohi

 

יִשְׂרָאֵל Vox

poetry

Ricky Friesem

Sabine Huynh

Ronnie Kadish

Larry Lefkowiitz

Mike Schneidemann

Katherine Shabat

 

 

 
Danse Macabre
After a German Engraving of the XVIth Century
 
Translated from the Russian
by
Alex Cigale
 
 
T h e  P e a s a n t
 
Hey, old man!  Why are you plowing?
Standing shoulders tall, all full of hope?
Welcome me, your old acquaintance:
Just as you do, as I reap so I sow.
 
We might never finish winnowing
Swollen grain from summer’s wheat,
Just as well instead go dancing,
You and I, together.  Break a sweat!
 
Stretch your hand out to me brother.
Limbering up, begin to jig, and then…
All life-long was work; one for the road now!
Straight to hell we go! catch us as catch can!
 

T h e   L o v e r
 
Greetings, my friend!  Your proud attire,
The rim of your hat so devilishly bent.
And why not?  I’ll walk with you awhile.
Just like you, I’m a lover of men.
 
Is true happiness only in caresses,
Only in what can be held and hugged?
Hey! Put your trust in lively dances,
We’ll strut a bit, and then jitterbug.
 
Just as in your sweetheart’s boudoir,
So in the dance’s careless ways,
Your soul will also become captured,
And you’ll tumble face-first into hell!
 
T h e  N u n
 
In your habit, black as death itself,
You have given your body to God.
Don’t believe; beware the gospel!
It was Satan’s best selling tract.
 
Just like yours, my robe is darkness,
Just as you are black, I am black.
What to do? Let’s go to dances.
I’m your man!  Say yes; wed Death!
 
Do you hear those bells a-ringing?
Someone’s marrying; my soul, embrace!
Let’s spin and turn the tarantella
Into the grave, so fast prepared.
  

T h e  I n f a n t
 
Little boy in the tiny cradle,
My heart trembles for your health!
Mother’s somewhere, gotten stranded.
I will sit here and sing in her stead.
 
I will never tell you fables,
All those whispers, a mother’s lies.
I will prop you up for prancing,
Then rock to sleep and hope to die.
 
I will rock and I will rock you,
promise twice to save from life.
I will hold you in my armies, you
I’ll carry off right, to paradise.
 

T h e  K i n g
 
At your table, under halberds,
You are feasting, my liege, my lord.
As a sign of deepest honor allow me
to beseech you humbly on my knees.
 
Now I will, on a thinnest whistle,
Issue out my call to dance.  As I sing
Your eyes clear of wine’s mist and drizzle.
Have you recognized in me your kin?
 
Rise, you king!  And in your great hall
Turn, twist, slither, bluster, bluff.
It’s no use.  Your dance is up now.
From throne to grave is one brief hop.
 

VALERY BRYUSOV
(1873-1924)
 
 
by
Mikhail Vrubel
1906
(Vrubel's last work before going blind.)
 

 
dm xxxi
  Internationale  
 
Danse Macabre 

An Online Literary Magazine

 

Volume Five, Number One

 

Copyright © MMVI-MMX

by

 Adam Henry Carrière / Stonesthrow Publishing LLC

All Rights Reserved.

ISSN 2152-4580