 Chinese New Year by Alexandra Romano (Canada) 2015 @aromanoart Universal Tongue About this collection: Melinda Dewsbury grew up in rural Bruce Township, Ontario, where she lived as a farm girl and spent much of her time in contemplation. She now lives in Langley, B.C. and teaches at Trinity Western University. She is a poet and contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. ENGL 102 is an introductory course in global literature at Trinity Western University. In this course, participants examine literature as an anthropological tool to discover both universals and cultural particulars. The literary works span ancient to current contexts and communicate diverse perspectives and themes from every continent. Students learn to analyze and respond to literature but also probe their own personal, family, and cultural histories. In the summer of 2020, with the educational disruption caused by COVID 19 and the shift to online delivery, Melinda looked for creative ways to engage students. The result was this final project. Students participated in an ekphrastic workshop led by Lorette C. Luzajic. By the conclusion of the course, students applied ekphrastic writing techniques together with the literary and cultural concepts of the course to create poetry that enquires into their cultural heritage and personal identity. This collection explores nationalism and political tensions, war and conflict, religious diversity, mental health, gender, sense of place, family, and personal history. The poetry we share here represents a portion of the contributions. The first poem is by Professor Melinda Dewsbury. Those that follow are by the students. It is worth noting that these students are all first-time poets.  Lilacs in the Sun, by Claude Monet (France) 1872 Lilac I caught the first fragrance Upon tonight’s walk Unmistakable Both gentle and abrupt The scent of legend and folklore, Mysteries, ghost stories, and romance Nostalgia enters my pace Bringing me to early spring solitude A little wispy girl giving Fingertip to purple blossom Gently shaking the slender canes To pour their perfume into damp air. I am back there And I find that little girl inside me And smile. Melinda Dewsbury  All is Fair in Love and War, by Arpana Caur (India) 2013 A Dangerous Illusion You didn’t ask me my name. When you put me through such Pain. As you stole my womanhood at such a young age. Burning me in the same temple in which you pray. You worship the Goddess yet rape and murder her daughters. Your own family makes you a martyr. Hiding the truth in muddy water. What kind of hypocrisy is this? Where a child’s life can be so easily dismissed? For your pleasure bound bliss...you ended my life experience. Your mothers and sisters are the same nature as mine. A woman, God’s creator on earth so divine and you little man, what do you expect? That we bow down to your physical strength? While we just brush away the Pain of giving birth again and again? Without us you would not survive... yet you get to choose whether I should be alive? A country so drowned in illusion, worshipping God and harming His creation is a dangerous delusion yet the cases are not individual. The pain is residual passed through every generation. God have mercy on such a nation. Anmolpreet Kaur My name is Anmolpreet Kaur. I am from India. I am pursuing my Bachelor’s in psychology at Trinity Western University. I am a spiritual person but I believe that religion today is only a tool for society which it exploits to suppress women which is what inspired my poem.  Gas Attack, Liévin, by A.Y. Jackson (Canada) 1918 You’ve Lost A usual fear offers strength When staring into the eyes of a thousand soldiers They take away from unending fatigue Tagged at the outset To lose A cloud of justice seething through the dark air Surrounds the umpired Like a million arrows nearing release Upon the field Swift as quicksilver Where are their lovers now Required to march on Their last thoughts What would be their last thoughts Had their inning not ended with a whizzing strike The last breaths an accord Would there be a reason Faithful crosses in hand Together no more What would be their last thoughts Myles McDowell Myles McDowell is an Irish Ukrainian Canadian from Ottawa Ontario and is currently a nursing student at Trinity Western University.  August Neeb, by Louise Neeb (Canada) 1950 August Neeb, Remembered by His Daughter Louise My face appears dour, but I wasn’t sour or too serious, neither is my reading material all that mysterious. You see, my Louise has taken up painting, so, I sit here patiently posing and waiting. What else would a loving father do? Life was not easy, I was a tailor by trade, saving every penny from the trousers I made. Two crises in the Fatherland wiped out our savings, then came the bombings and fires ignited by a madman’s ravings. Yet I stitched together a family and saw them through. Anna, my wife, I first met when she was but a baby, and in time she became mein liebchen - I so loved that lady. We would go for country walks and to the opera sometimes, but it broke my heart to see her thoughts in decline. When I died she just wouldn’t accept that it was true. Then Anna shorty followed me too. Father, how I mourned your passing. For five days straight I cried and cried. I laid upon my bed, and tears welled up from the deepest sorrow inside. With your blessing I sailed across an ocean. You let me go. Still, I am your little Louise. Your love I still know. I had my own life to live and you understood. Thank you. Now I see your image there, fixed and seemingly looking down. Upon the pages of my life. You are full of lines, yet you show no frown. This bed is my place, for I am old now and I cannot rise, so, I just lie here looking at your loving eyes. As my own mind struggles to remember, but my thoughts are of you. John Krneta My name is a John Krneta. I have German and Serbian heritage and I am a Religious Studies student at Trinity Western University in Langley, B.C. My beloved mother passed away last year (in 2019) and her clearest last thoughts were of her father August, whom I never met. I composed this poem to honour his place in her life and to connect three generations of our family.  To see the artwork that inspired the following poem, please follow link below. A Play of Colours. Artist unknown. Date unknown. A painting on display at the “Yemeni Art Caravan” exhibition in Giza, Egypt. (Al Arab) https://thearabweekly.com/artists-paint-many-faces-yemen Buried Peace Red flames hurt you my beautiful Yemen It destroys you until you become elderly Lengthy buildings shorten your breath your people asking for help still you are not answering They say you were the first to have a skyscraper though you can not prove it waking in the street full of dead bullets seeing these colourful clothes as portrait that is robed Still people show their white side smiles, hospitality, and caring an old guy suffers still he smiles peacefully fires burn villages still my Beautiful Yemen Abdullah Al-Wahaishi My name is Abdullah Al-Wahaishi. I am from Yemen, but I grew up in Saudi Arabia where I spent most of my life. I am currently a Kinesiology student at Trinity Western University in Canada. This is my first poem that I have written in my life that represents my foreign perspective of my country. Regardless the crises in Yemen, I write this poem to my beautiful Yemen that hopefully one day becomes a dream country in people’s eyes. To see the artwork that inspired the following poem, please follow link below. Photography by Laura Varon (Colombia) contemporary https://www.lensculture.com/search/projects?fallback=not-found&q=colombia%2B&modal=project-521508-colombia-dream Cartagena De Indias Colombia is like a living dream. Often the sun is in his high point. Sometimes water falls in a rhythmic scream. Tin, tin, ton! If its song is too long, Don’t be disappointed. Monday to Sunday the human alarm sound Coco, Coco, ¡a cinco mil el Coco! Aja, venga hermano que donde usted quiera yo se lo pongo. The strong song that not always make you feel belonging, It makes shine the street and breath. It makes me, and you count one to three. Every day is a colorful day. The houses wear their best dress. Yellow, purple orange, green, blue and grey Are part of a battle of midway. In the heart of Cartagena, the noise is always present. The sun rises and sets in a Carnaval, Drums, trumpets and sax buzz in your ear like a cobra dance. The smooth singing of the conga drums makes your hips move side to side. Demonstrating the Colombian essence. La música se volvió un canto ancestral That always makes you fell like an adolescent Oh, Cartagena de India, how beautiful you are! Although all the suffering that you have been passed through, the people still love you for who you are. Ay! Cartagena how lovely you are with your ripped dresses Perhaps, it is the part of the time that passes like flu, But every night and morning, your happiness hits us in our faces. Although everything is imperfect and we need to work hard with the feet in the present, We step forward with a Cóndor's presence Always being a king in essence and flying the sky of heaven, Whispering in every ear a valuable lesson. Estefania Salazar Muñoz Estefania Salazar Muñoz, who is from Medellin, Colombia, is a biology student at Trinity Western University in Langley, BC. She inherited her artistic talents from her parents and close relatives. Some of her abilities are music, dance and manual arts.  Artist unknown. Online wallpaper for public use. I Miss You Under The Moonlight Drink a cup of moon It’s full of bitterness Miss the frogs’ songs Beckoning me home The southwest wind brings melancholy. Busy with worldly affairs A touch of silvery light Facing the difficulties world-wide They are burning inside my heart. A cup of sadness The sky is drunk Can't see the surrounding scenery. Gingko trees from green to yellow. Mottled in an old pond The cicadas on the trees disappeared Mei My name is Mei and I am from China. I am very interested in baking. Lemon soft cookies are my favorite cookies.  Along the River During the Qingming Festival, by Zhang Zeduan (China) (1085-1145) Full scroll.  Two close up details. Ignorance, the Unceasing Tragedy Part one The day of spring, the festival of Qingming. Rivers flowing, bridges crossing, Trees swinging, petals dropping, Islands emerging. Red, yellow and green, The festival of Qingming, The day of revelry. Stepping on that boat, the rising masts. Lying on this skiff, the orchid floats. Sitting by the lake, the vanilla sprouts. Buildings grow, houses appear, By the mountain, on the water. Pouring a bowl of wine, drowning in the jasper. Stepping on that boat, partying in the chamber. Walking down the street, Waiting for the twilight. Dancing actors, and contemplative poets, Working craftsmen, and clever merchants. Horses wandering, heels are circling, Crowds flocking, like ants trooping. Brides and grooms, Like flower blooms. Walking down the street, Honey on the tongue. Celebrating, celebrating and celebrating, The everlasting joy. Part two Those who live in glory, Have never known annihilation. Arrogance and ignorance, The encounters of colonialism. Drugs, genocides and robberies, They collapsed and changed. Spear fights bullet, Boats sank, cities burnt, Fire jumped on the street. Stagnation against innovation, The king has lost his crown. Thousands of years, Failure of the prosperous nation, Hundreds of invasions, New world is reborn. Standing by the windows, Hearing the melody of sorrows, Tears have infiltrated my skin, The anger and pain. Seeing arrogance and ignorance, Feeling stupidities and injustice. Despair has corroded my wellness, The lowliness and loneliness. It is so cold of my chest, As needles penetrate through. I hope that my day will be reborn, We run, but we have never been faster than time. We changed, but do we? Oliver Liu My preferred name is Oliver Liu, I used to live in China, and I have inherited many of its cultures. Because of travelling, education and personal interests, I also have many western cultures inside, and it is still growing. I have to identify myself as a person who has mixed culture, neither normal Asian culture nor complete western culture. I always think differently from both westerners and Asians, which I think is one of the reason that has troubled me for years thinking “what’s wrong with me?” and I slightly became a sociopath for a very long time; it was torture to at once hate the world and myself. I strongly believe that humanity, different cultures, and different races should study each other to absorb the good things that other cultures can benefit from. It’s never a good thing to isolate oneself. I believe learning history is extremely significant to development of human to help with avoiding ignorance. Besides, there are no countries and nations that are perfect (well, so far), the problem is (I think) how we can understand and accept the uniqueness of certain culture sometimes. Please follow link below to view artwork that inspired this poem. Photography by Katie Joy Crawford (USA) contemporary https://www.designindaba.com/articles/creative-work/one-photographers-surrealist-impression-mental-illness Invisible Reality Trapped, paralyzed In false fears, racing thoughts --all lies Heart beats faster than it can Muscles squeeze tight Am I going to faint? Mind is playing tricks Stomach turning & tossing like the waves of the sea during a storm Nausea alone makes you sick The nightmare continues – Body frozen Unable to move curled under a blanket Fighting the thoughts --- all lies Body shivering unsure of the danger switches Now a burning fire unable to escape the unprotective shell The nightmare continues --- No sound lips move Why am I muted? Alone Tears roll down my cheek unable to communicate Nights turn into days Invisible reality Trapped Kayla Wilson I am Kayla Wilson located in the Vancouver region of British Columbia, Canada. I wrote this from the feelings I personally experience from having a generalized anxiety disorder as well as a mood disorder. I see such importance in being connected not only in the amazing moments, but also the trials and tribulations we all go through. To view the art that inspired this poem, please follow link below. Artist Not Known. https://webneel.com/daily/3-indian-paintings Hindi version: कविता: - एक नए सफर पर चलते है लेखक : - शिवांगी शर्मा एक दुल्हन …………… बाबुल की दुनिया छोड़ चले एक नए मोड़ की ओर चले | कुछ अनकही बाते मेरी थी जो करनी है बस तुमसे ही कुछ कही ये मैंने बातें हैं, कुछ रखी उमीदे भी मन के इस ताले की बस है एक चाबी तू ही | लाल गुलाब के फूलों को, अब जीवन में भरते है एक नए सफर पर चलते है | कुछ रिश्ते पीछे छोड़े है, कुछ रिश्ते नए बनाने है, कुछ को अलविदा और कुछ को नमस्ते करते है, एक नए सफर पर चलते है | इस रस्मों से परे कुछ वादे बनाए, उन वादों को पूरी शिद्दत से निभाए | उनके लिए इक फिक्स्ड डिपोसिट भरते है, एक नए सफर पर चलते है | कुछ वादे तेरे लिए अजीब होंगे, कुछ वादे मेरे लिए अजीब होंगे | सात फैरो के वादो को निभाने की कोशिश करते है, एक नए सफर पर चलते है | सदा साथ निभाने का एक वादा तुमसे करती हु, पर बदले में मैं तुमसे भी कुछ ऐसी ही उम्मीद करती हु | चलोअब इस रिश्ते को बराबरी से पूरा करते है एक नए सफर पर चलते है | दूल्हे का जवाब !!!!!!!!!! गीता जैसी सच्ची तुम फूलो जैसी सुन्दर भी अब तो दिन की शुरुआत भी तेरे नाम है और जिंदगी का अंत भी Let's Go on a New Journey A bride …… Leaving the world of Babylon Heading towards a new turn There were some unsaid things That I wanted to share with you only The mentioned are some simple things But also, some expectations of what will be You are the only key for the locks in my heart Now filling life with the fragrance of red roses Let's go on a new journey. Leaving some relationships behind Making some new relationships aside Saying goodbye to some and hello to some Let's begin a new journey Let’s make some promises beyond these rituals Fulfil those promises with determination With filling a fixed deposit for them Let's begin a new journey Some promises would be weird to you Some promises would be strange to me Without hoping for any trouble, let’s try to fulfill each, Let's begin a new journey I promise to always follow you But in return I expect something similar too Let’s construct a house without cracks with equality Let's begin a new journey Groom’s reply …… You are honest like Geeta And beautiful like flowers From now on my days would begin with you and My life would end with you Shivangi Sharma My name is Shivangi Sharma. I am from India, Punjab. In the year 2019, I came to Canada to complete my bachelor’s degree in business at Trinity Western University, Langley. I am a mix and match of extrovert and introvert (more of introvert). I like doing adventurous sports. Apart from that I love reading and writing (as in giving words to my imagination, ideas and thoughts not as a professional or expert). For reading, I read all kinds of books but mostly fiction and for writing, I like writing persuasive, narrative and fiction.  Chinese New Year by Alexandra Romano (Canada) 2015 @aromanoart Chinese version: 金红交错 我闭上双眼，仿佛那金红交织的万花镜在闪烁； 在这瞬目间，爆竹的声响贯穿脑海； 双目微垂的刹那间，孩子们在闻声起舞； 我再次闭上双眼，人们的欢声笑语回荡在街道上。 我听见了春天来临的脚步声， 她仿佛在呼唤着我的名字。 那些鞭炮的火药味还回荡在我的鼻腔、 那些声响仿佛一条金龙还在余音绕梁。 当我睁开双眼，中华五千年的文化璀璨生辉， 眼里尽是华夏子孙传承的繁荣盛景。 霎时，童年的回忆涌上了心头， 我渐渐地被这友爱模糊了双眼； 世界的冰冷在这一瞬间全都被融化了， 我睁开双眸，满是幸福、 那正是金红交错的世界， 我最温暖的家。 Red and Gold I close my eyes and I see a kaleidoscope of red and gold I close my eyes and the sounds of swish and bang crash through my ears I close my eyes and sweet hand in hand with sour dances on my tongue I close my eyes and I hear the sounds of tiny feet hitting the road while their tiny giggles hit the walls of the street I close my eyes and I can feel Spring calling my name I close my eyes and fresh gun powder lingers in my nostrils I close my eyes and the tail of a dragon caresses my cheek And when I open my eyes again, I see centuries of culture I open my eyes and I see heritage being taught I open my eyes and I am a little kid again My heart full of love and my eyes full of wonder My mind full of innocence and an experience untouched by the harshness of the world I open my eyes and I feel happiness I open my eyes and I am home again, amongst the red and gold Shenghao Wu My name is Shenghao Wu. I am an overseas student from China who has been studying in Canada for more than five years. In the past five years, Due to the arrangement of the semester, I missed the most important traditional Festival in China -- the Spring Festival, which is also the Chinese New Year. Therefore, when I saw this picture, the feeling of homesickness came to my heart. I also hope that every Chinese student abroad will have the opportunity to go home and see their relatives.  Artist not known. Public domain image. The Sunset The sunset in a lonely forest, This tremendous fireball holds a strong desire with his power To burn the world with his fiery color What is that? Just two solitary red-crowned cranes seek the route to go home The beauty of hometown, the warmth of family The hug from my father, the meal from my mother These all remind me: I have returned home So I stretch my feathers under the flame of the sun Flying back towards home without thinking twice The white and red harmoniously exist together Gradually golden red sunlight reflecting on my wings Sunset is the beauty of nature Taking out the warmth and light Eventually, night falls Everything lies in silence and peace. Xinyu Yuan I am Xinyu Yuan, a Chinese student who is studying in Trinity Western University. I am now studying in linguists, which I hold great interest in. This is mainly because I want to become an English teacher when I return to China and help more students to learn more about English.  Public domain. Chinese painting featuring two birds on a flowering tree branch (ca.1800–1899) from the Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Division of Art, Prints and Photographs: Art & Architecture Collection. Original from the New York Public Library. Chinese version: 赏雀 冬去春来花上梢 雀落枝头成对双 独坐楼台观雀鸣 双雀笑眼赏台楼 View and Admire Sparrows Spring arriving at the top of the tree, Winter has just left. Sparrows landed on the branch of the tree, Show up in pairs. Sitting by the windows enjoying the view of the birds, All to myself. The sparrows admiring the creation of man, They sneer at me. Junqi Zhou  Classic Chinese Painting. Details unknown. Chinese version: 出征 尘沙飞扬骋边疆 战马嘶鸣载黄军 不识马上将为谁 红池衣堆乃无谓 Heading To War Wind blowing up sand in the air, war horse screaming, running, Making more dust in the air. Soldiers carry by horses are all covered in dust, heading to the front line. Only yellow cloth and red hat can be spotted in the dust. Nobody can tell who is on the horse, Is that the commander? Or is that the General? None of these matters. In the end, In the red sea full of colourful cloths, Nobody will be there to tell the difference. Junqi Zhou A nineteen-year old Chinese student who came from Shanghai. Not very much talent in poems, to be honest. Just hope someone can understand the meaning behind the poem.  Yashoda and Krishna, by Raja Ravi Varma (India) by 1906. Mother Cow Oh Mother! You’re not just an animal; You’re the source of our creation and well-being. As a mother feeds her child, You feed us with all the love in you, By which we share an astonishing bond. Time immemorial, through the floods and famines, You were our strength for robustness. Then, how do we address your significance while you go extinct? While your culturally consequential, You’re slaughtered in the name of “individual liberty” and “secularism.” Before prohibiting your flesh for political and religious interests, A lot more education is required. Your presence at one’s dinner table should be a matter of self-interest and fundamental sense Rather than political policies or religious faiths. Vighnesh Vijayan  The Humiliation of Draupadi,An Illustration from the Mahabharata(India) 1830s A Cry for Justice Is gambling more significant than a woman’s dignity? Ruthlessness vanquishes tranquility While some take contentment of the situation Many are confused and impotent Probity stipulated equanimity Wholly lustful attributes of man Guiltless and defenseless woman Procrastination is never a solution So why isn’t anybody voicing their dissention? Her weep and shriek were heard by the divine The divine thumps out the opulent And she receives her equity Vighnesh Vijayan My name is Vighnesh Vijayan. I hail from Bengaluru which lies in the southern part of India. Coming from a country and culture which gives predominant consideration to cows for various reasons, I was longing to describe an art which explains a part of my extensive culture. Although academically I am inclined to business, I have enormous endearment towards artistry. I aspire my poem furnishes a platform for my readers to get a glimpse of my multi-diverse country and deliver their notions on this exceedingly sensitive affair as a nonconformist.  The Creation of Adam, by Michelangelo (Italy) 1508-1512 You are Adam From the opaque chasm of nothingness, His light crafts my existence. Divine breath surges life into my eyes, And I am born. An artist’s sculpture of Earth’s red clay, A helpless being clad in nothing more than the sky’s kiss, And shivering skin. I am naked, without armour, yet He tells me I am sturdy and strong. I feel exposed and small, yet He tells me I am human. His own design, Destined to be the king of the bears who stalk the woods, The birds who sing in His canopies of trees, And the fish which He has crafted to fill my belly. The wind whistles past my ear, the grass curls under my toes, And I can hear His voice, Assuring me that I am alive. But I do not know what it is to live, For I have just been born. I am a man with solid bones, and muscles to root my stance. I am towering and broad, and I know that I am grown. Yet somehow, I am a child. A child who needs his father. I can hear the thunder of His voice, Embrace both His stern grip and His gentle pride. But I cannot see Him, and suddenly there is something within me, Something that pounds beneath my throat. I reach out my fingers, Straining for a loving touch I do not know exists. A moment alone passes, And I can feel Him breathing. I know He is close to me, Even though there is naught but a burning breeze tracing along my fingertips. Water glosses my eyes, air clutches as a gasp, And then my tongue forms around my first strained cry of spoken word. “Father,” I call out, “Father, tell me who I am.” At first, I think it is a cloud breaking away, Or perhaps the sun about to collapse over my feeble body. I fall backward, my arm still outstretched and trembling, And then a face appears. But to me, it is not a face. It is a ball of blinding light, a dream, A crushing blow all at once. It is a cleansing warmth, and a stream of frigid water My heart just now names as tears. It is terror and fear. A dry desert and a damp valley. It is the sweet and the bitter. Anger and serenity. Safety and relief. Both a miracle and a familiar happening. For He is the Lord, my God, The Father who hears even the most silent of my murmurings. And then it is His turn to murmur, Though to me, His murmur comes out as a roar. He at last clasps my hand in His own holy depth of a palm, And He declares, “You will be called Adam, For I have made you the father of what I name Humankind.” Mariah Neily Mariah Neily is a nineteen-year-old aspiring Canadian author and historian, born and raised in British Columbia. She enjoys a passion for writing, and plans on moving to England to begin a career as a novelist and a specialist in British history. Violent Amnesia, by Oscar Murillo (UK, b. Colombia) contemporary
Spanish Para Adonde El Futuro Nos Lleva Ay En lo profundo de la muerte de los sueños Ay En lo profundo de la oscuridad de esta depresión donde nos descartaste Ay Delirante por derribar restos desechados directamente de la basura Ay Disociado de tu destructividad despreciable Silenciosamente gritando, luchando para no ser otro muerto Masacrados, masacrados en avaricia Excepto los pocos afortunados que sobrevivieron para crecer codiciosos ¿Mi dulce joven bebé será adormecida por un suave zumbido? ¿O llorarán sin remedio bajo su opresión? Ahogado por el feroz disparo de disparos Portuguese Para Onde O Futuro Nos Leva Ow Nas profundezas da morte dos sonhos Ow No fundo desta escuridão onde você nos descartou Ow Ilusório de restos de escavação escavados diretamente do lixo Ow Dissociado de sua destrutividade desprezível Gritando silenciosamente, lutando para não ser outro morto Massacrado, abatido na ganância Exceto os poucos sortudos que sobreviveram para crescer gananciosos Será que meu doce jovem bebê será embalado para dormir por um suave zumbido Ou eles vão chorar desesperadamente sob sua opressão Abafado pelo feroz disparo de tiros Where The Future Takes Us Ow Deep beneath the deaths of dreams Ow Deep in the dark of this depression where you discarded us Ow Delusional from downing scraps dug directly from the trash Ow Dissociated from your despicable destructiveness Quietly screaming, fighting to not be another one dead Massacred, slaughtered in greed Except the lucky few who survived to grow up greedy Will my sweet young babe be lulled to slumber by soft humming Or will they cry hopelessly under their oppression Drowned out by the fierce firing of gunshots Juliana Silva Madrigal My name is Juliana Silva Madrigal. I was born in Medellín, Colombia in La Clínica De Las Américas in 1999. My family moved to Vancouver British Columbia when I was three years old. While I grew up in Canada and hold many Canadian values there is still a significant part of me that holds my Latin American heritage. I would like to bring to light the reality of what Latin America can be like and hopefully challenge people to rethink their current worldview.
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January 2023
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