This month, we consider the peace, love, and joy honored during the world’s many December holiday celebrations. This issue also encourages us to take stock of where we are as human beings, physically, intellectually, and morally, and to take whatever steps are possible to rise to the next level.

Sometimes that’s going outside and getting some exercise. Brian Barbeito walks by a lake and considers the joy of simple living and natural beauty.

Mrinal Kanti Ghosh recollects a dreamy summer night. Olga Levadnaya captures the solemn stillness of midday heat. Christina Chin renders up the cold silence and calm of winter.

Aura Echeverri Uribe evokes the monumental destruction of an avalanche. Jack Galmitz speaks to how we manage and control wildness, in our neighborhoods and our bodies, and how it can reassert itself. Carrie Farrar speaks to the joy and wonder of visiting France to see the Mer de Glace glacier. Mahbub Alam speaks to a solid connection between humanity and nature, like a tree standing firm in the changing winds.

Tasneem Hossain draws on the owl as an extended metaphor for wisdom and protection. Roodly Laurore reflects on the tender and colorful beauty and diversity of nature in a piece which he intends to bring comfort in a violent and turbulent world. Maja Milojkovic encourages us to imagine a new world of gentleness and peace towards our earth and each other.

Elizabetta Bonaparte’s poetry takes a short, but strong and cogent, stand against war. Valentina Yordanova, in poetry translated by Yoana Konstantinova, laments the mindless destruction war brings to ordinary lives. Eva Petropoulou Lianou calls for genuine humanity in a world at war.

Samar Aldeek tenderly celebrates peace in her bilingual poetry. Dr. Perwaiz Shaharyar draws on the style of courtly romance to honor the legacy of Mexican poet, peace activist, and literary cultural worker Dr. Jeannette Tiburcio. Fernando Jose Martinez Alderete joins in the tribute to Dr. Tiburcio and also speaks of the need for peace and mutual respect.

Paul Durand warns us of dangerous currents, both in the ocean and in American politics. Bill Tope’s poem criticizes human rights abuses committed in the name of immigration enforcement. Duane Herrmann speaks to the spiritual unity of all the world’s people under Ba’hai teachings and how that serves as an antidote to racism and anti-immigrant sentiment.

Travel gives us firsthand experience with different cultures and helps us understand each other. Türkan Ergör illustrates the dislocation of travel through clever and poetic alteration of word and line breaks. Lakshmi Kant Mukul captures the exhilaration and elevated beauty of plane flight. Abdumuminova Risolabonu Nizamovna discusses how travel helps people learn practical skills, including pragmatic communication in multiple languages.

Learning foreign languages, and mastering one’s native language, helps us understand each other, whether we travel in person or through imagination and books. Shakhnoza Pulatova Makhmudjanovna offers strategies for mastering the Arabic language. Muhammadjonova O’giloy Bunyodbekov qizi offers up suggestions for learning Turkish that would be helpful for any foreign language. Abduhalilova Sevdora Xayrulla qizi highlights grammar rules surrounding modal verbs in the Uzbek language. Allaberdiyeva Farangiz outlines ways for students learning English as a foreign language to gain writing proficiency.

Xudoyberdiyeva Jasmina analyzes the linguistic phenomenon of “chatspeak” and ‘text-speak” on the Uzbek language in a piece that’s more intrigued than negative. Dinora Sodiqova discusses the importance of professional communication for aspiring young Uzbek leaders.

People can also travel through time by reading older works and studying history. Petros Kyriakou Veloudas reflects on the joy and the weight of being part of a creative heritage, even when one does not know the names of each and every ancestor. Poet Eva Petropoulou Lianou interviews poet Muhammad Shamsul Huq Babu about his literary legacy and dream of building a large book museum.

Dunia Pulungeanu highlights the lifetime intellectual and literary accomplishments of Dr. Edwin Antonio Gaona Salinas. Choriyeva Go’zal Gayratjon qizi explores the resurgence of academic and cultural interest in foundational works of Uzbek literature. Xudoyberdiyeva Mohiniso reflects on the historical significance of the Mud Battle, an early military defeat for Central Asian medieval historical figure Amir Temur.

Farzona Hoshimova celebrates the pride and beauty of the Uzbek culture. Matnazarova Munisa encourages young and old Uzbeks to remember and preserve their traditional culture. Bobonova Zulfiya sings of the pride, freedom, and beauty of her native Uzbekistan. David Woodward evokes a quest for truth through reading Krishnamurti, ultimately reconnecting himself with his family. Rahmonkulova Gulsevar Samidovna considers the cultural values implicit within Uzbek folk legends.

Muhammadjonova Ogiloy Bunyodbekovna reviews Abdulloh Abdulmutiy Huda Said Bahul’s book Qu’logim senda, qizim, which provides Islamic faith-based guidance for young girls, narrated by a loving father. Ruzimbayeva Quvonchoy also urges Uzbeks to hold onto their traditional values, including love, bravery, and respect for women.

Maja Milojkovic translates Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s tribute to hard-working women around the world from English into Serbian. Mashhura Ochilova highlights the historical respect for women in Uzbek culture and what modern Uzbek women have achieved. Jaloldinova Gulzirahon Otabek Kizi highlights women’s increasing participation in Uzbekistan’s public life.

Orifjonova Nozima Azizbek considers the prospects for preserving the Uzbek language in a time of economic and cultural globalization. Rahmonqulova Gulsevar Samid qizi analyzes the crucial father-son relationship at the heart of the Uzbek folk epic tale “Alpomish” and its centrality to Uzbek family-oriented culture. Rahimberdiyev Ozodbek outlines key elements of Uzbekistan’s heroic tales.

Rashidova Shoshanam explores the long shadows Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex has cast over human literature and psychology. Christopher Bernard reviews Cal Performances’ recent dramatization of Chicago’s Manual Cinema’s The Fourth Witch, about the after-effects of Macbeth’s violence on his victims. Paul Murgatroyd draws on Greek tragedy to poke morbid fun at humans: inwardly messy and selfish, even when outwardly clean. J.J. Campbell provides his signature dark view of human nature, full of sardonic, blunt, emotionally transparent blue-collar surrealism. John Grey picks apart human emotions in his vignettes, attempting to understand why we act as we do.

Dr. Jernail Singh describes how Dr. K.B. Razdan diagnoses some emotional and psychological ills of modern life in his book Gather Ye Rosebuds. Sean Meggeson’s visual poetry speaks to what we gain and lose as modern society progresses. J.K. Durick waxes poetic about times when it seemed that matters were more easily understood and categorized.

Abdulhafiz Iduoze’s epic poem, layered with traditional and modern references from Benin’s culture, serves as a ritual chant and prophetic warning about colonialism and corrupt power structures. It situates recent dynamics within epic time, reminding readers that current matters are not destined to last forever.

Shikdar Mohammed Kibriah affirms the reality of his personal experience amidst the complex claims of philosophical schools. Aisha Al-Maharabi speaks with the voice of one who asserts his claim to existence, writ large on the natural and human worlds. Strider Marcus Jones speaks to reclaiming and holding onto our interior life, emotions, and connection to nature in a world of mass media and technological disruption and deception.

Many other creators explore our internal lives, what we can learn from ourselves and each other and how we can grow as human beings. Allison Grayhurst speaks to her creative and personal journey: learning to function and create through loss, to integrate pain and struggle into her process. Alan Catlin’s fanciful “anxiety dreams” play with our modern insecurities about navigating daily life. Also experiencing anxiety, Mirta Liliana Ramirez’ poetic speaker takes a bit more time before she’s ready to venture out in the world.

Alimardonova Gulsevar Sirojiddinovna explores the balance between personal dreams and duty to society in Somerset Maugham and Abdulla Qodiriy’s writing.

Rus Khomutoff’s latest poetry collection Kaos Karma, reviewed by Cristina Deptula, flows through various words and ideas, pulling us along on the wings of a slow dream. Stykes Wildee’s latest poem seems at once dreamlike and ordinary and conversational, casual thoughts within the subconscious. Mesfakus Salahin’s poetry is ghostlike, contemplative, detached as he contemplates love and death. John Doyle’s poetry harks from a variety of inspirations: everything from insects to gas stations to trains and the countryside. Arjun Razdan’s quick fictional sketch compares young women he sees to elegant fine wine.

Annah Atane’s poetry elegantly traces the outlines of grief and sorrow. Abdulsamad Idris also explores tragedy and loss through a more frank and visceral voice. Graciela Noemi Villaverde finds herself lashed by the storms of loneliness and sorrow. Hanaan Abdelkader Ashour approaches loss with tenderness, offering a kind and reverent note of remembrance for departed loved ones. Marianne Jo Alves Zullas speaks openly of her mourning for her departed mother, everywhere and nowhere at once. Mykyta Ryzhykh’s poem captures the emotional emptiness of a relationship where one person loves intensely, and the other remains distant, consumed by their own habits. Marjona Eshmatova outlines various types of family system dysfunction and how to address them psychologically. Taylor Dibbert points to the ways even well-meaning people can misunderstand each other. Dilobar Maxmarejabova warns us how a person’s heart can become colder and more jaded over time.

Mohamed Rahal speaks of striving for authenticity in one’s faith and in love. Narzulloyeva Munisa Bakhromovna encourages people not to compare themselves negatively with others’ projected lives on social media. Raximberdiyeva Moxinabonu outlines the pressing mental health concern of smartphone addiction and the need to balance our phones with the real world. Moldiyeva Bahodirovna speaks to the way digital technologies have permeated our lives and how to have the Metaverse complement, rather than replace, our world. Choriyeva Xurmo urges balance in the use of digital media in preschool education. Orozboyeva Shodiyeva highlights educational social media applications and encourages her peers to use those rather than focusing just on entertainment.

Jacques Fleury reviews Boston’s Huntington Theater’s production of Alison Bechdel’s tale Fun Home, highlighting themes of intergenerational understanding, how children gradually came to make sense of their parents’ worlds. Young poet Avazova Diyora Alisher qizi offers her good wishes to her teacher in a tender poem. Fayzullayeva Shabbona Sirojiddinova shares her appreciation for her wise and caring father.

Priyanka Neogi playfully celebrates innocent, childlike love. Milana Momcilovic evokes an eternal, spiritual love. Dr. Brajesh Kumar Gupta captures an elegant romantic kiss under moonlight. Vorhees describes erotic and tender love with gentle whimsy and echoes of history. Kemal Berk contributes a graceful love poem about the merging of egos and personalities within a relationship.

Ana Elisa Medina describes a love that encourages her to become a better person. Mohan Maharana celebrates the value of small acts of kindness. Abdusaidova Jasmina shares the importance of kindness through a children’s tale involving a mouse. Balachandra Nair highlights the value of virtue by presenting positive character traits as valuable jewels on display.

Sayani Mukherjee pleads for deep, enduring joy that can withstand the world’s problems.

One way many people find joy is through engaging in various forms of creativity and knowledge gathering. Farida Tijjani draws on a wide variety of technical and natural inspirations to explore gender, creativity, and society.

Various contributors speak of advances in different fields. Uzoqova Gulzoda encourages innovative approaches to elementary school education. Nazulloyeva Feruzabonu highlights the value of science and innovation in inspiring society as well as providing material advancements.

Abdujabborova Rayhona points out ways medical and psychological professionals can reduce unhealthy stresses for pregnant people. Durdona Sharifovna Roziboyeva highlights the success of a recent orthodontic treatment for upper airway issues.

Dinora Sodiqova outlines basic principles of modern consumer advertising. Mamarajabova Shahnoza discusses how digital technologies are transforming the field of accounting. Dianne Reeves Angel celebrates the physical and mental artistry of comedian and actor Buster Keaton.

Several pieces remind us that as we advance in our knowledge and our technical skills, we must bring our humanity along with us. Kandy Fontaine raises questions about ethics and oversight concerning how people are treated in American hospitals. Avazbekova Rayyonaxon reminds medical professionals to display professional behavior as well as knowledge.

Finally, Dr. Jernail S. Anand reminds us to occasionally step back from the clatter of daily human interaction to connect with the universe on a deeper level. We wish all of you inspiration and a chance to think, feel, and connect with the world beyond yourselves this holiday season.

War

Smile not exist

Happiness is stopped

Hungry stomach

Hungry soul

Enough

Tired from the bodies

That are afraid of their shadows

I would like to have a man who speaks truth

Who act

Who believes

In power of love

Words

Silence is not the answer

When Sun rise

Moon is a light that

Give birth

To our dreams

Action

We can only trust

When the reality

appears

We don’t need

so small minds

We are here

to believe

In our thoughts

And in our principles

When the miracle

is happening

Only Flour

Can give the solution

To a hungry mouth

Eva Petropoulou Lianou is an official candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize, nominated by four organisations in 2024. She’s an international poet and the President of the Global Federation of Leadership and High Intelligence. She’s the founder of Poetry Unites People.

THE SYSTEM OF HEROISM AND ITS CRITERIA

Andijan State University

1st-year student

Rakhimberdiyev Ozodbek Rasuljon o‘g‘li

Abstract:

This article explores the conditions and principles of the heroic system in folk oral creativity, as well as the tools and weapons that help establish this system. The study examines the manifestations of heroic motifs and the use of combat weapons in the epics “Alpomish” and “The Birth of Gorogly.”

Keywords: Heroic system, folk epics, patron saints, inert society, celestial bow, auspicious birth sign, heroic suffering, figure of Khidr.

It is well known that in heroic epics there exist figures of alp heroes—brave warriors who devote their lives to defending their homeland. The main distinguishing feature of heroic epics, which separates them from other types of folk narratives, is the presence of the heroic system that embodies constant ideals and immutable values in the collective consciousness of the people. The heroic system represents the artistic expression of the unity of concepts characteristic of heroic epic creativity. It is unique to this genre and rarely appears in other narrative types such as legends or fairy tales.

Below we will examine the main conditions and criteria of the heroic system.

1. Divine Patronage Before Birth

First and foremost, the future hero is believed to be under the spiritual protection of divine beings or erans even before birth (in ancient epic tradition, the alp was considered a direct descendant of the gods). For instance, in “The Birth of Gorogly”, celestial beings such as angels, spirits (chiltons), and Khidr, the leader of the erans, play a guiding role in Gorogly’s birth, upbringing, and heroic deeds.

Similarly, in “Alpomish,” the hero’s divine favor and spiritual guardianship before birth is described as follows:

“After forty days, a voice was heard from the garden:

‘Boybo‘ri, God has blessed you with twins—a son and a daughter.

Boysari, you have been granted a daughter.

When you hold a feast for their birth, I shall come as a wandering dervish and name the children myself.’”

This scene reveals that every alp possesses a spiritual patron—a guardian or mentor figure symbolizing divine guidance.

2. Prophecies and Omens at Birth

The second criterion involves the hero’s birth under an auspicious star or celestial sign. Often, priests or soothsayers from rival lands foresee the hero’s arrival and attempt to destroy him. While this motif is not vividly depicted in “Alpomish” or “Gorogly”, it is indirectly referenced in Alpomish:

“When the enemies heard this, they said:

‘This boy is extraordinary, blessed with divine favor.

None can match his strength—even at seven years old he performs mighty deeds.’”

This acknowledgment reveals the enemies’ sense of envy and helplessness in the face of divine destiny.

3. The “Pain of Heroism” (Alplik Dardi)

As the hero matures and surpasses his enemies, he experiences the pain of heroism—a spiritual trial that represents both individual and collective renewal. In Alpomish, this is reflected in the “zakot” (tribute) motif, symbolizing the hero’s moral and spiritual testing. The hero becomes both the redeemer and the sufferer for his people. His mistakes and triumphs mirror those of the entire nation. Thus, the pain of heroism becomes a metaphor for the ethnos’s rebirth and awakening.

4. Connection Between the Hero and the Erans

Another crucial feature of the heroic system is the relationship between the alp and the erans. The erans spiritually strengthen the hero’s body and soul through divine light and sacred drink, granting him supernatural powers. They teach him the mysteries of heroism and reveal his earthly destiny.

In Alpomish, this connection is manifested when Alpomish receives his bow from the erans, when he spiritually unites with Barchin, and in the guidance of his elder companion, Qultoy. Qultoy declares:

“The mark of Alpomish is this:

On his right shoulder lies the imprint of Shahimardon Pir’s five fingers,

And on his left, my own hand’s mark remains.”

Thus, the heroic system forms the very “spine” of the epic—embodying the idea that true heroes are those whom even death cannot defeat.

5. Sacred Weapons and Companions

In epics, heroes are never alone—their loyal horses and supernatural weapons are constant companions. These instruments not only assist the hero in battles but symbolize divine power and destiny. As folklorist Shomirza Turdimov notes in “Uzbek Mythology and Folklore”, the heroic system can be reconstructed through twenty-one features observed in “Alpomish” and “Gorogly.” Among these, two central attributes are highlighted:

The heroic horse that accompanies the alp through trials and transformations.

The sacred weapon received from divine beings or through ordeals, symbolizing the hero’s spiritual strength.

In “Alpomish,” this takes the form of a “fourteen-batman celestial bow made of birch,” while in “Gorogly” it appears as the “fifteen-batman sword bestowed by Ghaus al-Ghiyath.” These weapons transcend the material realm, embodying the hero’s divine mission and identity.

Conclusion

The heroic system is an inseparable component of every epic. The actions of heroes—protecting peace, restoring justice, and defending their homeland—deserve eternal reverence. Through their depiction as symbols of unyielding will, strength, and courage, the alps inspire younger generations to cherish and take pride in the heroic legacy of their ancestors.

References:

Alpomish: Uzbek Folk Heroic Epic. Narrated by F. Yo‘ldosh o‘g‘li, recorded by M. Zarifov. – Tashkent: Sharq, 2010, pp. 93–94.

The Birth of Gorogly: Uzbek Folk Heroic Epic. Narrated by Muhammadqul Jomrot o‘g‘li Polkan. – Tashkent: G‘afur G‘ulom Literature Publishing House, 1967.

Turdimov, Sh. Uzbek Mythology and Folklore. – Tashkent: Fan, 2023.

Jo‘rayev, M., & Eshonqulov, J. Introduction to Folklore Studies. – Tashkent: Barkamol Fayz Media, 2017.

Mirzayeva, T., Turdimov, Sh., Tillayev, A., Jo‘rayev, M., & Eshonqulov, J. Uzbek Folklore. – Tashkent: Malik Print Co., 2021.

Turdimov, Sh. Uzbek Mythology and Folklore. – Tashkent: Fan, 2023.

Madayev, O. Uzbek Oral Folk Creativity. – Tashkent: Mumtoz So‘z, 2010.

Rahimberdiyev Ozodbek was born in the Bostan district of the Republic of Uzbekistan. He is a student at Andijan State University, Faculty of Philology, majoring in Philology and Language Teaching: Uzbek Language. He is a member of international organizations. His creative works have been published. He is a student and an online teacher. He holds international certificates. He writes poetry and articles. Many of his students have received national and international certificates.

IN THE SHACKLES OF YOUR SILENCE 

Under your name, the night trembles within me.

In my chest, a bound flame moans.

Like a cold darkness, love stretches me upon its rack.

Your shadow drinks my breath.

My bones remember your touch.

Within me, centuries collapse without you.

Like spilled gold, my sorrow flows.

Your eyes — two abysses above my soil.

My heart bears the shackles of your silence.

My skin is a book of your wounds.

I have written you in my own blood.

I have carried you through my own ashes.

Into your voice, I placed my final peace.

And when I sink, your shadow will remain in me.

And when I fall silent, I will still long for you.

Milana Momčilović was born on April 4, 1999 in Vrbas. He currently lives in Srbobran, a place near Novi Sad in the Republic of Serbia. She published the collection of poetry TALISMAN.

She doesn’t like to talk about herself, so in the end she can describe herself through the verses of Sergei Yesenin: “What am I?” Who am I? I’m just a dreamer, whose sight fades in the fog and mist, I lived along the way, who can dream, like many other people on that earth.”

Sparrow Wars

I

Sludge water dripping

into an already clogged pipe.

Blood in my microscope, torn out

like a diary page, necessary to

analyze the ingredients.

Will the wound lift? be inverted

into a creative windstorm or

a nemesis spread,

spidery-vein spreading

until the curse is complete

and conquers?

I know love is alive,

and that hot and sudden

is the joy that stems from a miraculous shift.

I know building comes with the morning,

comes like brimming sorrow and goes

to a final destination like all things final,

temporary, broken and sliced down the centre –

undergoing a brutal mitosis.

II

Empty tables

clawed apart within

with spikes a-blazing on the edges,

and the light of the moon

high in the sky,

hardly visible.

Time is a dust heap I roll inside of,

never making a dent

or relieving my extremities from

the grim cover.

Beaten by the relentless overwhelm

and the digging dream that digs further down

more than ever before, pulled in by

gravity unspeakable and charged.

Living each day bent over, cane-walking,

repeating anguish, shooting pain and dough-bread

kneading, never baking, never

consuming.

III

When grief comes

it comes at the maximum degree

of chaos, doubt and all things

unsustainable.

Even there, in the squander and grave

disadvantage, I will surrender to trust,

protect the embryo of my new understanding

as precious as it is,

as the only intention worthy of holding,

clinging to despite the toxic smog encircling,

twirling over my extremities, nose-diving into

my internal organs, shutting me down.

It is there and its power is the past, old.

It is able to kill but I am not afraid.

I hold the jewel of this glowing budding faith

and that is all I will look at.

My heart is crushed, undone by the weight of grief

but my soul is tiny blooming. Let it be key.

Let everything be where everything needs to be.

Both are real. Only one will have authority

and receive my attention, elixir formed, a trickle,

ingested.

IV

Drum beat

no beat

I raise my arms

and scream hosana.

The drawers are empty

hunger parts my soul

into quarters. Stand up

and take account, no one

is listening.

Four months of stagnant emotion,

upheaval at the roots, planted again

somewhere less familiar and less fecund.

Faith and despair overlap, cross paths, join

together as a new entity.

Who understands? There is no understanding

to be had, only the ceramic bird on the shelf, winking,

and the air, heavy and humid one minute

and cold, oxygen-free, the next.

In my mind is an argument

existential, without possible resolution.

In my core there is shock at the terror

of disintegration, and for how long?

How much more? And still there is more.

In my being, I knew God

came with mercy, with Jesus and the peace

of infinity – washing clean, a soft joy

without degrees but only flowing, showering, eternal.

In between I wake up and I cannot see forward,

I listen, but I cannot be one with what I hear.

Holy Spirit, holy, do not escape me,

be clear, re-construct my devotion,

find me my union seed, to plant and tend to

simple devotion.

V

Jesus, you let me live.

I will sit with you

hand in hand.

I know you

in my personal crisis –

faith obliterated, reseeding

in a lucky garden.

I will trust you with all my problems,

with my anxiety like a dysfunctional

city, polluting the roadway, the airway

with its violence and indifference,

I will breathe easy, knowing you are here,

that you own it because I give it to you

and reckoning is rescue, in your hands,

miracles are coming – life changing,

a kinship with your divinity.

You are sovereign, my still-point, my doorway

into perpetual redemption.

I will collect the fruit and sit beside you,

eating together – no hunger, no hurry –

You and I, I with you, you

holding my hand.

VI

When I see the unseen

in a twisted longing

death-circle fantasy,

irresistible hope,

and drive to make that hope happen

even though

I am not a citizen of that land,

not meant to come forward

and shine with those deeds,

then I fail and live for an

illusionary future, creating a

hellish now, ripe with lack

and disappointment.

Bend on your knees, bow

to the one-name of God,

feel the slap of sobriety,

the consequences of depending

on your own wit and power

which is like a gnat trying to cross through

a tornado or a choir that sings without

glorifying.

I am learning that being conceived

and being re-conceived

is the cure for fear, the fire

that watches a greater fire,

burning enough,

releasing enough

to rejoice and just burn, a light, a warmth

transient, but elementally,

in this way, everlasting.

VII

It is hard to hold purpose

when purpose no longer holds you

when the single curtain seals the window

blocking the sun and sky,

making you blind so you only touch corners

and never a door.

All things lost their ownership, just wandered

aimless, squandering energy like tossed pebbles,

no pattern, sinking.

Governance failed, was only an imagined

corridor leading to a chaotic marketplace

that doled out meals, lacking nutrients and staying power.

Each shape to take and hold and shift from each day

was hard labour, exhausting to perform,

pretending hope existed when hope had abandoned.

I was not afraid because my fears

were pushed hard into my face,

swelling my eyes so they could only see behind.

Death won out over the light, won obedience –

the middle and opposite, smelling.

Death smells bad

smells like an inevitable succumbing

to rot, betrayal, rendering

endurance useless

and even the holiest of faith debunked.

There is a string before me,

thin and golden and unbreakable.

There is something I see I never saw.

I have collided with the consuming tyranny death,

felt it swerve and twist through

every vein, enter, break my heart,

break the truths I had before.

The string dangles,

dripping down from

of my inadequate cries

and a mangled prayer,

comes shining a faint intermittent glow.

It is small and so am I, minute,

hardly there, but there.  

VIII

If I talk again,

I will keep my end-mind twisted

so it cannot speak or formulate

a plan.

I have no constitution for plans

or wherewithal for achieving

human-made provisions.

If I talk again,

silence me into prayer,

conversing only with the angelic order,

strengthened by devotion and the power

of obedience.

If I try to be a player,

remind me of my meek capacity,

sting me with regret and slap me

into a state of surrender.

If I try to enter a world not my own,

laugh at me, call me out

and put me in my designated low-chair place,

a dreamer, advancing

no further.

IX

Falling away like before

launching water at the moon

then releasing it, scattering it

onto a lifeless surface.

Songs and singing are murderous,

selling the false business of a buffet

inspiration, and poetry, like a sober

prayer or pleading, blossoms in a place

where no one comes or looks or even cares.

Things that once stretched

with divine determination towards health,

now fall backwards into addiction and defeat.

Chaos always hovering at the entrance door,

violence a few footsteps away.

Idealism once trapped in my mind has sieved through

incrementally and now in my mind, a faint flow

of tainted possibility, mostly consumed by despair, mostly

non-existence, more hesitant than youthful,

more resigned than risking.

The days drive on the same,

and how I wish I was in a state

of conspiratorial superiority

or in a social bliss of nonchalance.

How I wish I could be like I used to be,

believing despite the odds,

calling for help and receiving it.

What is this weakness,

this futureless waste of now,

pressing on all my joints,

an aching misery perpetual?

What are these days

when I can find no hope

to master this tortuous doom?

I am removed. A thin slice everywhere

between me and reality. Only sorrow brings

me near enough to touch, only happiness lives

inside my dreams or in my memories,

stripping the peel from the fruit,

dropping it to rot in the mud-marsh with the rest

of my wearied hold on merciful possibilities.

X

I don’t see

the far-reaching joy

to build a future on,

just disappointment, false-starts,

isolation and how can-that be?

I don’t see

but I know the builders take their time

to make sure what needs to be aligned

is aligned, that broken hearts can

become hardened hearts

and hope is dangerous for those who are desperate,

perishing at the foot of the mirage.

But there is a noble prophesy to follow,

to stand by and wait for.

There is true love, love that alters bitter grief

that wraps your love in its healing balm until

it blooms and your dry throat is

finally soothed, your wounds are rewarded,

transformed into strengths exposed,

safe on the marriage altar.

XI

Time does not help

to lessen the sharp scream

of amputation, or to help gain

a way to cope, maimed as I am,

lacking resilience.

Prayer does not answer

any questions or bury the emptiness

outside of my body, allowing

room that can be filled, even with only

a faint groaning microscopic creation.

Love that sits beside me,

day-after-day, holding my hand,

stays with me – miraculous devotion –

helps while it is there,

but does not stop the welling-up of sorrow,

that will not ease or be appeased

in solitude or by distraction.

Faith is a word that sparks

but cannot ignite. I sink down again

on my broken knees. I cannot rise.

I try and I try, but

I cannot overcome.

XII

God do you love me?

Everyday I fall short

of receiving your love,

blocked and stalled and wading

knee-deep in sewage mud.

I cannot take a step. I cannot

hear you anymore or

feel your mercy move the spoke

a mile, an inch, a fraction of

a way out of this criminal sleep,

arrested every day.

I try to take a breath,

try to step but I cannot

move. Please God, show yourself

to me again. I am aching all over,

joints on fire, mind – ablaze in jet-fuel burning

heat, tired all the time, cut off

from your glory.

Cut off no matter my prayers

and my pleas.

Please God, take my hand,

recognize me as one of your own.

I long for you.

I need your grace

to lift me, now,

trumpets calling,

advancing, only with you,

loved, permitted.

XIII

A hive blasted

by poison.

A blood-letting

in crave of a cure.

Two close-together cliffs

jumped across, looking

closer than they are.

In the whirlspin of a fall –

arms broken, extremities blasted,

crying out for someone from the angelic order

to swoop down and placate the pain.

But no angel-being arrives and what is broken

remains broken, deformed and starting to heal

that way, into a permanent liability.

Even then, when stuck thigh-deep in forsaken ground,

God is close, washing our cracked bodies,

cradling our defeat, saying

My Love doesn’t always answer with a clean slate

or a put-on spell so all hurt is forgotten,

not a trace left traceable. Sometimes

My Love just sits with you, beside the pain,

lets you know I am here,

here, in the empathetic love of others,

here, in your own resilience each morning to carry on,

here, in your determination to stay close to me

as you anguish and ache,

unable to walk or fully wake,

seeing that nothing turned out

the way you saw it

in your times of highest harmonic resonance

the way

you were sure it would.

XIV

Will you speak to me again

like before death cracked my windpipe

like when death still hovered thick in the air

but you were there surrounding everything

with the weight of your love?

Will you answer me again

cooling my shape, giving back force

to my petering-out flame

so I can grow again, still tied to your mercy

and the joy of having dreams?

Will I know you again

despite my mutations

and the iron that rotates sickeningly

in my core, using my energy

for lesser aspirations?

Will you love me again

and I will know that love

igniting its current through

my every predicament,

bonding me unbreakable

to your side, inside

your privileged embrace?

XV

First thing,

you are here.

I wake up and we are talking,

merged in a matter-of-fact

conversation. My need, my only way

to take a step in the morning.

More and more, without you, I can’t

exist or comprehend a thing.

Then why this endless desert, the

hard bloated boils erupting

every time I do move?

How is it, you are here, but there

is so much pain still, so much struggle

just to keep alive?

How do I feel so close to you and need

you more than I ever have, have you

more than I ever have, with such

drought and trembling-burns burning everyday,

throughout the days, echoing – no medicine, no food,

just you and I in this high heat,

where I am barely capable,

but somehow capable.

XVI

Then the bitter defeat

was burning like a sin

committed, recognized

and unforgiveable.

Then on a hill, heavy with

weighted down legs and

an injury there, debilitating but

unexplained, the challenge came

to walk.

Walk slowly at first, walk like

I can walk even though the reins

are dropped and I have lost my mother,

lost life’s victory over death and the comfort

of an unbreakable love broken,

altered, intangible now as an angel’s skin

or a hope held for decades unrealized.

Walk with my mortal burden, stumbling without

a path, a cane or a flat plane. Twist in my ankle, twist

in my knee, swollen, bloated with a hot fever, walk.

Face a direction, walk, slowly,

commit and make it my own.

XVIII

Soak the born

in their own initial conception

to remember the pure-memory-pockets,

the truth of miracles.

Underline everything that matters

and read it again until no small word

is skimmed over or taken for granted.

Open the shelter doors and let all animals

in, wild ones, broken ones, aggressive and tame.

Free with a blessing

every dream that isn’t false,

and follow your deepest duty –

both desirous and undesirous divine commands.

Under the blanket, conspiracies are made.

They grow limbs that look like light but exclude

humility and the thumb-print of surrender.

The atmosphere is big,

the button-hole is small.

I am small when I toss

my self-determination out as wisdom

and fail at every turn.

Mercy comes with obedience,

obedience comes with trust, and then finally

freedom.

The dying are trapped in their wounds.

The living, in their success at survival,

but the gift is always

open for everyone, and changing

even without core movement.

I have a boat and that is all I own.

I see flowers on the shore, rooted in the sand.

I see yellow and sometimes, I see gold.

Allison Grayhurst has been nominated for “Best of the Net” six times. She has over 1,400 poems published in over 530 international journals, including translations of her work. She has 25 published books of poetry and six chapbooks. She is an ethical vegan and lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

Life Bird

A life with a tree is like a bird

Floating in the wind for many years

The breath of life is mixed with the air

That image emerges clearly with every breath

Just like the bird that flutters in the sky,

Fluttering wildly in the waters, awakens

When all the sleep of the world is broken

In the gentle light of dawn

What a wonderful sweetness mixed with mountain trees and shrubs!

Transplanted before my eyes

You are intertwined with a tree for a lifetime

Years are passing by in the wind

The ants are climbing in rows.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

Transient summer

The transient summer.

Restless and

weary rain are

silent and beautiful.

Deep forest near

the mountain ledge.

Unexpected rain

soundless and hazy.

The dreamy

grasses are covered with

blue light shadows

behind the mountain.

The cloudless

skies are

bright and lonely.

So beautiful was that night.

Mrinal kanti Ghosh, India He is a lyricist for All India Radio Calcutta. He has written many books of poetry, novel and short story. The names of his books are as follows: 1. Atmabairi 2.Sudhu rtis jannaya (Funded by West Bengal government) 3. jodi chole jai 4. Nairite nisarga namey 5.Ami se o somudra (novel) 6. Ekhane akash nei 7.Suranjana (English and Bengali) 8.Chayapathe saresrip bikel 9.Bideshi kobita (transcription of poetry in English and Bengali) 10.Dhupchaya nir 11.Nirjan sayanhey joytshna 12. Shely 1. Bangladesh award 2.Certificate from different countries. He has given certificate. He is a musician. He plays guitar (Indian classical). His other two books are under process. He is also an Astrologer, He believes in Astrology. He also believes in Rebirth/Regeneration. The poet also wrote a rtist poetry on Rebirth/Regeneration. His other book is going to be published on Rebirth/Regeneration.