Poetry in Our Time


Bengt Berg

Bengt Berg (born 1946), Torsby, Sweden. He has written more than 40 books, mostly poetry, translated into a lot of languages.

Bengt Berg has participated in many poetry festivals: Medellín (Colombia), Granada (Nicaragua), Struga (Macedonia), Jan Smrek Festival (Slovakia), Kritya (India), Târgul Festival de Poezie (Romania), Poetry on the Road (Germany), Kathak International Poets Summit (Bangladesh), The 5th Qinghai Lake International Poetry Festival and Chengdu International Poetry Festival (China), FIP-LIMA (Peru), 3rd International Poetry Festival in Hanoi, Vietnam, Colcata and Guwahati (India) in 2022

Winter Poems



To carry is perhaps what life is all about:
the wood that warms through the winter,
the thoughts that make us lift off with
our feet still on the ground, the respect for
what is around us, the grief that also takes
its place – and all this longing. But also
what is not as beautiful: the anger, the hatred,
the jealousy; or the toothache, the shame,
the guilt. We carry everything in the basket
of life: our joy, our worry, our sorrow and our love.



Snowing now so
white and silent and soft,
quieter than soft, white

like a string quartet
doubtful, lingering

over us and everything around
All that was right here

Again the day becomes new
and life lies undone,

a shroud of white
– the simple sadness of Winter

Again and again it snows
the softer silence,

the Thursday silence,
and Bartók’s –

white and soft



How many evenings should be counted
to make up a whole night?

Even today the crow spotted me
from his position at the top of the birch tree.

The invisible music behind the
the birch’s light-coloured grid

Turning a thought in the centre
And once more; from the silence

the sap seeps even though
it is the 7th of February

With and against the sun,
even the shadow in the snow

Goes with it across the lake
in the air that cools towards evening



and the creaking under the soles.
As if you were inside a big,
old-fashioned mill with tonnes of oxygen
instead of the smell of flour

No creaking noises from something rotating
but a light that comes
from everywhere

What instrument would be able to compose
this state? Not an organ or a bass tuba,
but perhaps a trembling violin string
that grows stronger and stronger


Three footsteps in the snow, then
only a pale moonlight

Someone has lost their
memory, can’t remember where

Beyond the snow, a treasure awaits
a treasure – golden
abstraction in the shadows

And a single thought:
Contemporaneity is now



 Winter twists and turns

like a jacket without sleeves,

there in the blizzard and beyond

the taxi stomping queue:

a princess with snowflake hubris

and the astonishment of the world



The grammar of tenderness

Writing the smallest letters,

snowflakes out there in the dark,

I listen and hear

the first of the spring winter

cicada – you!

As if the silence

was a tired wall clock,

that feeling

of kickstand diagonals

with a taste of rust, a tenderness

that finds its way

through the grammar

To move forward

in an incomprehensible confidence

as if spring were on its way,

and the maple leaves, already

already glowing in the quiet light of the vowels.

Then the day opens its eye

and we see each other




Edina Barna

Edina Barna, a poet, visual artist and Government of India scholarship holder designer. She has made significant contributions to the creative world. Her work has been featured in numer

ous printed and online publications, including various magazines.

She has been a member of Kritya since 2014. She served more times as the art director of the Kritya Festival, further demonstrating her commitment to the arts. Her poetry collection – Secret Roman

ces – is a trilingual book, was published in India.

Edina seamlessly combines her words and pictures to create visually stunning art that resonates with her audience. As the founder-owner of EdinArts – ‘The Empathetic Creative Design’, Edina has established an art organization that specializes in complex designer projects, media image consultations, and artist and theater group collaborations. Her focus on empathy and creativity has earned her a loyal following of clients who appreciate her unique approach to design.


Who will…


Who will take care

of my wounds,

when the sun is

going to sleep?


Who will take care

of my dreams,

when the moon is just

hiding behind the peaks?


I am still toward the

peacefully ocean, but

my feet are tiredly seeking

the lifeboat of heartbeat.


They don’t understand

and I am unable to explain…

what happened after

the last goodbye.



under the bridge


above me… there is the noisy night traffic  –

urgent and itching thoughts… are in my mind


the waves also are yelling at me, but

I am just standing there… motionless


the dark water is perfect screen –

on my retinas the past few days are echoing


as a cheap endless tv-series –

I am just a helpless marionette puppet



Morming moment


The scent of night rain

is slowly writing


the memoir on the old

awakening firewall.


He is remembering every

forgotten feelings of forever.



My sky


My evening sky is always

like an aquarelle painting

with a tiny reality of passing…



Who will hold the pen?


crossword night between

my heart and my mind


they always just fight

because both want to write



Juan C. Tajes,–Uruguay-Nederland

Juan C. Tajes is a poet and multidisciplinary artist. He has lived in Holland since 1971. He writes poetry, plays, and essays. He organizes cultural events and gives lectures on different subjects. His literary work has been published and translated in different countries. He has participated in international literary festivals and has collaborated with literary magazines in the Netherlands’, Argentina, Brazil and Mexico, Bangladesh, Nepal, Russia. He has been a former Professor of interpretation for singers at the WMDC Rotterdam Conservatory and former teacher of Oratory Art at the University of Political Sciences of Paris.

He represents Liceo Poético de Benidorm in Amsterdam, 100.000 Poets for Change Association, World Organization of Writers.




The fair

doesn’t wake up from sleep

wonder and concern.

at the end of the stairs


at the other end

the shine of reason

angel shadow

falling down


Jacob’s nightmare

in Moria,

as a speaking voice

In dilogue

with the eternal.

where to go

If the prophets

they no longer speak


no one

crack the keys

no one.


The Ladder


 You will go back to being what you were.

When your time will come

no one shall remember your beginning.

All past is invention

that legitimizes an uncertain future.

The angels go up and down the stairs,

Jacob dreams leaning on his stone,

While hearing the promises

From a voice that claims to be from God.

Perched on his column

Simon prophesies profane litanies

For timid numb consciences,

And sheds his excrement

To unsuspecting interns.

Poets for hire contradict,

Corrupt politicians deny.

An eye for an eye, said the blind man,

when they emptied his orbits

And they were served to him

Marinated in a delicious sauce.

He had to eat them without wine and without talking.

But let’s not fool ourselves, the earthly punishments

They are always worse than the spiritual ones,

They leave indelible scars, stinking sores.

The saints were not always innocent,

Neither the blessed, nor the martyrs,

Not virgins, not demigods.

When you will get sick of who you are

And stop aspiring to be something else,

You will no longer think about the butterflies

That they are only a few hours alive,

Nor in the tadpoles

They don’t know that they will be frogs,

Not even in the parrots

Repeaters of foolish words,

Nor in the immortality of the crab.

You cannot be and have been at the same time.

How to talk about time without naming it?

How to name time without living it?

And those angels that go up and down the stairs,

where are they going?.




I searched in memories

not lived




chimeras of passing

in hours spent

lost in the dark

of truth revealed

dark and offensive

there are no bright epiphanies


It’s a lie and deceit

the shadow confirmed

the light does not need to reveal itself

the force of things

is more energetic

that the impetus of the will

I will have that certainty

when Azael knocks on my door

and hand me the apple

for the sweet transit

without return

to Paradise.



Mohammad Hajji Mohamad-Tangier, Morocco

Mohammad Hajji Mohamad(Tangier, Morocco 1958) is one of the major poets of contemporary poetry in Morocco.  He also plays a very important role in the cultural press in Morocco with his chronicles in the Akhbar newspaper Al-Yaoum.  He writes book reviews and criticism and has translated several books from French. He has published his poems in almost every cultural supplement in Morocco. He ran a Literature website called Acropole that he himself founded in 2006. He has been a member of the Moroccan Writers’ Union for decades. He has participated in various national and international poetry festivals and has published in many Arab literary magazines.



A trivial morning

Like any morning,

very early,

the alarm chased me

away from nostalgy paradise.


I left home

like a busty guest

in a gloomy hotel.


Like any morning,

the idle’s glow shines at my face,

I see a wolf droning of sleep

listlessly walking towards the bathdroom.


Like a village dazed by thousands of sunlights

Yawning a while,

or taking off ghosts’ nightmares from its ribs.


What if I throw to the river its despair waste,

then shelter a café

nearer my jugular vein

like a traveler let down by a bus in a station?


Like any morning,

I wake up on my enemies’ skulls.

My teeth, I clean them from the meat,

then throw bones to the wild birds.


I am not an executioner from antiquity,

or a crow betting on a winning game.


I carefully count my ghosts’ cadavers,

came back to my sleeping’s barraks

like a soldier returning from a battlefront.


Like any morning,

I free my chin from its herb legions,

I scold the water tap for its purling noise,

that spoils the universe sleep.


whenever my howling wakes up,

I opened the window,

hoping a clean air

sweeping my soul yard

from the remaining thunder bangs.



New enormities


With a stormy head

you habitually wake up

from your sleep’s rubble,

with your smashed ribs of treacherous raids.


Before you throw your sleep’s remnants

to the washing machine.

Before you cast your deception with an ink of fake nails,

together, we pull apart

the clouds’ turbans of a continent,

and lead its tyrannous tribes

till the distant seas.



My destiny: lead your field’s insomnia

to a cattle of a rotten index fingers.

My dstiny: Teach Awss and Khazraj•

the sun’s rules

and the rhetoric of the Greek skull.

And because,

my cave is full of lasting nightmares,

my shelter is your intimate tavern,

and with a sip,

of a stilted morning coffee,

I will expel all your mood’s clouds.


Oh morning !

where will your enormities throw me? To lesson plans’ fashion

I wish it extirpated,

or to some words

scented with the wasteland customs… ?!


  • Socrates : A Greek philosopher
  • Awss and Khazraj : 2 famous Muslim tribes


The first night


In the fierce darkness,

in my body,

the early howling wakes up.


I see a sparkling woman with proud kings.

I see thousands of birds guarding my boredom,


cheering my dreams

in the lust dome.

Once I turn around,

she faded away like stars crowd,

over there,

in farthest skies.


In the fierce darkness,

wars and songs are a start storm weeping in the castle.


my desires now:

Traveling, wine and a beauty.

On my bedding,

she left her nectar perfume

and responded to the chalk calling.

Crowning all shining dreams

from her nectar warmth.

The longing glittering, warbling

in her fading galaxy.


In my words flow

the yearner I am

getting nothing but

childhood insomnia

and some jugglers’ sacred stray.


How can I flee a love:

devouring my heart

not trucing my wings ?



celestials surround my forehead, for « Rabab »• :

I draw a longing garden,


a pic-nic blessed by velvet flowers.

A gentle angel she is,

on the chest

I hang her childhood coat,

a mariner, I sail the seas

lurching in the memories’ waves !?


Oh night !

Continent of joy

a wobbling pearl between

the universe thighs.

Leave me far away

from a woman blowing the body parts.



his howling lust in jungles,

she folds her face features,


she left at once

pulling my heart

and my desired sleeping over.

  • Rabab : An Arabic first name for a girl.


Brief bio:

Mohamed Hajji Mohamed (Tangier, Morocco 1958) is one of the major poets of contemporary poetry in Morocco.  He also plays a very important role in the cultural press in Morocco with his chronicles in the Akhbar newspaper Al-Yaoum.  He writes book reviews and criticism and has translated several books from French. He has published his poems in almost every cultural supplement in Morocco. He ran a Literature website called Acropole that he himself founded in 2006. He has been a member of the Moroccan Writers’ Union for decades. He has participated in various national and international poetry festivals and has published in many Arab literary magazines.   Some of his major works are:

  • The wolf of the deserts, Editions Anajah Aljadida, Rabat, 1995
  • A morning that does not concern anyone: poetry, Infoprint Editions, Fez, 2007
  • I… Belonging to the dynasty of the flute, Poetry, Publications of the Moroccan Writers’ Union, Rabat, 2013
  • The Prometheus Syndrome, essays on art and literature, Ediciones Agora, Tangier, 2021.



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