Money

The trouble with 

Choosing a life

Where you don’t 

Care about money

Is that you’re sometimes

Worried about money

Because there’s so little of it.

Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “On the Rocks.”

Grzegorz Wróblewski was born in 1962 in Gdańsk and grew up in Warsaw. Since 1985 he has been living in Copenhagen. English translations of his work are available in Our Flying Objects (trans. Joel Leonard Katz, Rod Mengham, Malcolm Sinclair, Adam Zdrodowski, Equipage, 2007), A Marzipan Factory (trans. Adam Zdrodowski, Otoliths, 2010), Kopenhaga (trans. Piotr Gwiazda, Zephyr Press, 2013), Let’s Go Back to the Mainland (trans. Agnieszka Pokojska, Červená Barva Press, 2014), Zero Visibility (trans. Piotr Gwiazda, Phoneme Media, 2017), Dear Beloved Humans (trans. Piotr Gwiazda, Lavender/Dialogos Books, 2023), I Really Like Lovers of Poetry (trans. Grzegorz Wróblewski & Marcus Silcock Slease, Červená Barva Press, 2024), Tatami in Kyoto (Literary Waves Publishing, 2024). Asemic writing book Shanty Town (Post-Asemic Press, 2022), asemic object Asemics (zimZalla, 2025).

———————————————————————————

the masters of this

listening to

a grateful dead

song stuck on

repeat

trying to

convince

myself my

father’s hate

is not my own

isn’t social media

outrage just the

latest version of

a circle jerk

go lay in the

sun and see

if the grapes

become raisins

we used to be

the masters of

this

then,

we trained

our own

replacements

now,

science fiction

is reality

i guess i should

have played

dungeons and

dragons after

all

—————————————————–

too close for comfort

let’s go dancing

on the moon

drink until the

fireworks get

too close for

comfort

steal some kisses

while there is still

time to love

i ache for your

beauty like a lost

soul that can see

home but can

never return

and with each

temptation the

ache only grows

depravity pats me

on the shoulder

and talks about

his long lost

friend, dystopia

i remember

a teenager

reading

bukowski

and thought

he had it all

figured out

he couldn’t see

all the traps

ahead

now stuck,

realizing time

is all that is left

————————————————————–

memories of fifth street

i can close my eyes

and hear a saxophone

playing like the seventeen

year old trapped inside

of me remembers chain

smoking cigarettes and

asking drunks for a sip

i would often get lost

in the stunning eyes of

some woman thirty years

older than me

it never turned out well

drunk husbands aren’t

willing to listen most

nights

the best nights i would

smoke clove cigarettes

and the saxophone would

wail like all the greats

were back in town

stay quiet

be the mystery

develop the ability

to shut the fuck up

some of the best

advice i ever got

most end of the nights

fables about death

would entertain the

younger me

now, i’m living

them out

——————————————————-

my next words

she walked in

with a frilly little

thing on

i got behind her

and whispered

now, there’s something

i would love to take off

with my teeth

she turned around

i was waiting to

be slapped

instead, she licked her

lips and asked what else

can you do with that mouth

i got her a drink and

we sat down at the bar

i knew i better choose

my next words very

carefully

——————————————————————————————–

flattery

and here comes

this model

come fuck me

heels, fuck me

eyes, an ass to

fucking die for

she’s a flirt, i’m

a poet, of course

there was fireworks

i’d love to tell her

about the suicide

poems while she’s

sitting on my face

she laughed

asked for another

ten dollars to keep

the conversation

going

i’m a glutton,

will pay for

flattery

hell, there are days

where humans don’t

even speak to me

who am i to thumb

my nose at someone

saying they like a

man that is creative

and daring and so

descriptive about

what he would do

with his tongue

in all the places

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine, Misfit Magazine and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days betting pennies on baseball and soccer, while taking care of his disabled mother. He still has a blog, but rarely has the time to write on it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Role of Sahabiyyat in Framing Sirah Literature

The holy life of Prophet Muhammad (S) is the central theme of Sirah literature. It is preserved through historical records and Hadith transmissions. Within this tradition, the role of the earliest female companions (Sahabiyyat) was indispensable, as they transmitted many Hadith that have a vital role in Sirah literature. Their narrations ensure how the Prophet (S) performed his life as a public leader, as a spiritual leader, as a family member, and so on.

The foremost transmitter, Aishah (R), who narrated more than 2,000 Hadith, recognized by Companions and later scholars as an authentic source about the Prophet (S). Her knowledge preserved essential details of the Prophet’s worship, character, and family life. Without her contributions, a major portion of the Prophet’s life would not have been remained in Sirah literature. Similarly, Umm Salamah (R) transmitted valuable Hadith, including her narration of the Treaty of Hudaybiyyah, which highlighted the Prophet’s political wisdom, patience, and ability to maintain unity in difficult circumstances. Another important figure, Asma bint Abi Bakr (R), narrated the event of the Prophet’s migration (Hijrah) from Makkah to Madinah, a major event in Islamic history. Likewise, Fatimah bint Qays (R) preserved the narration of the event of Tamim al-Dari and the Dajjal, which revealed the Prophet’s method of validating reports and guiding his community.

The legacy of these Sahabiyyat was carried forward by the Tabi‘iyyat (women of the next generation). Amrah bint Abd al-Rahman, one of the most trustworthy transmitters of Hadith, was a student of Aishah. Similarly, Fatimah bint al-Mundhir, granddaughter of Asma bint Abi Bakr, a notable Hadith scholar in the 1st century Hijrah, studied from Asma bint Abi Bakr.

This indicates that how Sahabiyyat shaped the foundations of Sirah literature through their narrations. Their Hadith transmission not only preserved the Prophet’s personal, political, and spiritual legacy with authenticity but also illustrates how women, often marginalized in other societies and communities, were empowered by knowledge in the Muslim community, and it served as evidence of women’s intellectual authority in early Islam. The later expansion of Sirah studies is inseparably linked to their efforts.

Muhammed Suhail T 

Duel

I roam through tempests, distance dares,

a burning cry my spirit bears.

No rest for fire, nor queenly gaze,

shall bow to dust, or shame’s disgrace.

That scorn the netherworld will raise,

ensnares the will in passion’s blaze.

Through storms of sin it gasps, it flies,

while reason bridles sweet demise.

A stone strikes lust, the soul is torn,

yet longing lures to death’s cold thorn.

Headless, death breathes close and near,

beside my step I feel her fear.

In furious clash of spirits wild,

untamed delights break free, defiled.

The joints of starry madness snap,

an avalanche bursts from the chest’s dark gap.

To wisdom’s heart I plead, implore,

a cup of mercy I adore.

Restraint to bind my hunger’s reign,

while lust feasts on, unbridled, stained.

Ana Petrović was born in Jagodina, Serbia, in 1985. She completed both grammar school and medical school, weaving together the clarity of science with the sensitivity of art. Her poems have been published in several international literary journals, as well as in a world anthology of contemporary poets.

Her poetic voice, at once intimate and defiant, carries echoes of her favorite poets—Mayakovsky’s burning intensity and Yesenin’s tender lyricism—yet remains distinctly her own.

The Call of Home

Sometimes silence speaks louder than words.

In distant lands, surrounded by the noise of foreign cities, there lives a quiet space in my heart. And within that silence, there is always one voice — the call of Home.

One day, walking through a crowded street far from my country, I caught the scent of freshly baked bread. At once, my heart trembled. It was not just bread — it was the smell of my childhood yard, the warmth of my neighbors’ ovens, my mother’s voice calling: “Come, my child.” In that moment, I realized: Home never leaves us, even when we are thousands of miles away.

Every person carries a homeland within their heart. For some, it is a mother’s lullaby. For others, the shadow of mountains, the scent of rain on thirsty soil, or the laughter of children playing in dusty streets. Homeland is not just a piece of land. It is memory, it is root, it is the voice that follows you wherever you go.

I remember the soil of my childhood yard, soft and warm beneath my feet. I remember elders gathering at dusk, their words weaving history into my soul. I remember the vast blue sky of my homeland, so endless that it seemed to embrace me. Those moments became more than memories — they became my homeland itself.

And I know this: when an American remembers his homeland, he may see golden fields stretching endlessly. When an Indian remembers, he may hear temple bells and the chants rising into the air. When an Uzbek remembers, he may smell the clay-oven bread and hear the songs of ancestors. Different, yet the same. For homeland is the place where your heart first learned to beat.

Homeland is not divided by religion, race, or borders. It is a sacred whisper that says: “You are of this soil, you are of this root.” Even if years and distances separate us, even if we live on the farthest shore, one scent, one song, one word can shatter the walls of distance — and in a single breath carry us back home.

Home is love.

Home is longing.

Home is the soil that shaped us, the sky that watched over us, the dream that never dies.

And today, once again, I smell that bread. I close my eyes, and I hear the birds of my childhood, the gentle prayer of my mother. And I hear it clearly, unshakably — the call of Home.

Dilnoza Bekmurodova Navroʻzbekovna – 13 years old, born on January 31, 2012. Currently, she is a 7th grade student at the Presidential School in Karshi, Kashkadarya region, Republic of Uzbekistan. Dilnoza is interested in writing poetry, reading books, drawing, making things, and teaching others. She has been interested in creativity since the age of 7, and has been writing poems and various creative works. One of her biggest dreams for the future is to send her parents on the Hajj pilgrimage, open her own educational center, teach others, travel to many countries, and publish her author’s works. She is very interested in learning languages, and currently knows 2 more languages.

Atlantis

Grant her the trident 

with which to conjure up the sunken city,

the square and the compass

to calculate the diameters of the cerebral journey,

as her ark is bent on pursuing

the emerald of a charted symmetry.

Grant her the trident

with which to subdue the dragon

that had been long conceived

in the depth of her contaminated heritage,

as her crusade is bent on surmounting

the convolutions of a mental labyrinth.

Into the Abyss

It will take the seven oceans to cleanse the soiling of our souls,

to flush out the debris from our clogged pores,

to peel off the ugliness

that drapes our tarnished walls,

the soot, the mould.

There are no Charles Darneys in the real world,

a noble spirit that would sacrifice its life

to save a scapegoat’s,

that is plunging down into the abyss

once and for all.

A Visitation

In my world, there are no kings and queens,

hence the concept of monarchy is alien to me,

and this lack of interest

is not intended to manifest

any disrespect

for the royal sect.

In a dream, I descend a flight of ancient steps,

only to view a partly dilapidated wing

of a majestic building,

where I am told by a dark-skinned Usherer

I once had my own dwelling.

At the huge doorway, a young woman,

who wears a white, woolen hat

and a very beautiful shawl,

embraces me with tears of joy.  

The blueness of her eyes vies

with the azure of the skies.

In the morning, I start to wonder at the capacity of our dreams

to evoke people who have no presence in our reality,

but a year later a picture of the woman in her youth

appears on my timeline on Facebook.

I still ponder over what makes a monarch bid me goodbye

three days before she dies?

An Encounter II

I carry my dog five flights of stairs

four times a day,

and as I breathlessly mount the arduous steps

I say to Lucia “the sniper has not caught up with us yet,”

then I plant three kisses on her tiny, velvety head.

But don’t snipers prefer to maintain some distance

between themselves and their intended victims?

I resolve to ascertain this fact on the net

since this topic is still alien to my literary mindset!

Fragrance

Let me remind you that it’s the head that teems with scents,

not thy nostrils!

They only titillate its mucous for fleeting seconds,

or some lingering minutes,

but have a lasting impact upon your cerebral cells

for as long as you live.

Each scent has its own personal context

an emotional aura,

conjuring up the past

and whatever pertains to thy daily presence,  

a fragrant image

that brings to life all that is aesthetic

and hauntingly pleasant.