actualizing the 'evening' answer
to The Riddle of the Sphinx


     *


what I heard was not what was being said


     *



he'd spit in his own Pepsi, if you ask for a sip


     *


aisle seat for the sorrowful ballet


     *


not in the script, the gull that flew past the bay window


     *


my incessant blathering wore out 
her hammer, anvil and that other bone
I can never remember


     *


limping toward unknown archipelagos
with a notebook and two childhood prayers


     *


brown blood in the hambone
and the first-class relic


     *


words everywhere, the oceanic fears of the illiterate


     *


maybe Gutei just needed a minute to think


     *


he's where it widens and slows with Sarah Vaughan


     *


it's hard to be alone in the hereafter

A film project on film history legend Billy Wilder

Victoria Wilder, his daughter, was awarded the “Courage for Freedom Award”

I met Billy Wilder with Gloria Swanson in Hollywood on my birthday, January 24, 1974.

I told him that I had postponed my first meeting in Rome with Federico Fellini, scheduled for the same day.

Billy Wilder observed me carefully, as if his eyes were a camera: he wanted to understand my true essence, revealing an urgency, since, perhaps, he wanted to be the first great director to discover me, before my meeting with Fellini.

Wilder had filmed, only two years earlier, “Avanti!” with Jack Lemmon, his first film in Italy, in Ischia and Sorrento, and since I was Italian by birth, the conversation shifted to this film, but without Wilder giving up on his intention to decode my essence, with his increasingly “investigative” gaze.

Although very young, I had a fairly precise idea of ​​what elements of my personality interested Wilder and which later interested Fellini.

In this scenario, Gloria Swanson had limited herself to mentioning Marlene Dietrich, who had introduced us.

We were at Paramount Pictures, and can you imagine that nothing happened related to the famous scene in “Sunset Boulevard” in which everyone recognizes “Norma Desmond,” the “forgotten” silent film diva played by Swanson in Wilder’s film? 

Something quite similar to that scene happened, due to Swanson’s long absence from Paramount, including that of Wilder, whose last film with Paramount Pictures had been “Sabrina” with Bogart, Hepburn and Holden, ending a 12-year business relationship between him and the company.

Some people waved at Wilder and Swanson from a distance, and while Swanson reacted almost “without reacting,” Wilder responded to the greetings, without taking his eyes off me, to explore my slightest reaction. 

And I couldn’t help but utter this sentence: “I’ll tell Fellini about what’s happening here now, but after we’ve known each other for a while.” 

Wilder understood the “chess move” I had made and extended his hand towards mine, appreciating the ambiguous “subtlety” of my statement.

Swanson, expected this reaction from Wilder, observed everything with detachment and a certain irony.

A few days ago, Victoria Wilder, Wilder’s daughter, pointed out a very important detail about her father: she told me that her father always appreciated being recognized and greeted, even though this was inevitable due to his enormous fame.

In short, this aspect of fame never bothered him.

The scene in the Paramount Studio from his film “Sunset Boulevard” was always within him, and Wilder deliberately made that scene immortal, since, I understood, it embodied himself and the essence of cinema. 

During the truly incessant greetings from the Paramount staff, being Italian, I was offered a “cappuccino,” and Wilder, in response to what I had said earlier, told me: “Federico, Fellini will immediately adore you if you ask him for a ‘cappuccino ‘ because you’ve created a scene that, if I had seen it, I would have included in ‘Sunset Boulevard’ . Yes, from how you picked up the cup, to when you brought it to your mouth to sip the ‘cappuccino’.”

Obviously, we all laughed.

Beneath that sentence, there was something much broader, which I will include in the film about him. Yes, I am proposing to make a film about Wilder, since I am building a mosaic with the pieces of memories I have of him, added to what Victoria Wilder told me about her father a few days ago, on my birthday. 

Victoria Wilder , introduced to me by Lady Silvia Gardin , was delighted to receive the “Courage for Freedom” award from my hands, created by Francesco Garibaldi, a descendant of the hero Garibaldi, which commends Mrs. Victoria, a great collage artist, for having had the tenacity and perseverance to collect rare and precious testimonies about her father, the only one who had the courage to reveal the true identity of the Olympus of fame: Hollywood.

But there is very important news that has just recently emerged: after the death of actor Gianfranco Barra, part of the cast of Wilder’s film “Avanti,” the only Wilder film shot in Italy, the entire film archive was given by Barra’s heirs to Graziano Marraffa, president of the Italian historical film archive.

This archive contributes to the rediscovery of the celebrated director and gives more urgency to my initiative to make a film about him, which, by depicting Hollywood, clearly illustrates the dangers faced by anyone who falls victim to the most popular obsession of our times: fame.

Engagement and Disillusionment 

Engaged here means the engagement of the mind with the mind. In order to keep the engagement of the mind with the mind intact, it is important to be happy with your mind. Despondency is despair, grief, heartbreak.          

In the case of engagement, if the mind’s desire is fulfilled, if the mind does not get hurt, sorrow, or suffering, the mind is right. The attention is the same remains A close connection of mind with mind keeps the focus fixed. Enthusiasm increases in the mind, it remains cheerful. Therefore, there is no need to grieve, nor to suffer. You have to keep going, seeing that the cut does not open in the mind and feet. No one can be given a place to occupy the mind. You have to move forward in connection with your own existence. Therefore, the power of the mind is very important.  Flowers should be kept in care. The juice will be in the mind, let the mind move like that. Mind connection provides the juice to move forward in life.

Understanding of mind and spirit with mind. Persistence, hope, desire, self-strength, mental strength move the mind forward. From connected thoughts, one has to increase concentration and move forward in life. Sparkling, shining light keeps life in full flow. All is the result of mind freshness. Intelligence and mental connection with the mind, kinship of one’s own soul with one’s own soul can keep oneself in order, must reach the right goal.              

Despondency means to be broken, hopeless. The mind is burdened with pain – it increases the sickness of the mind. The mind breaks down, becomes useless. The distance between the mind and the mind increases. The connection between the mind is lost. There will be both engagement of the mind and disorientation in life. But if you give importance or keep alive the depression Mind will be hurt, mind power and self-power will be lost. Which is very bad for everyone. Even if you are depressed, you should do what you need to do. You should see your dreams.          

Symptoms of depression or anxiety:

1. First understand yourself – I have suffered, I am suffering. 2. Loss of enthusiasm for work or creative work. 3. No way forward. Signs of getting out of depression: 1. To identify the pain of the mind, find out the cause. 2. To find a way to shake off or erase the pain of the mind. 3. Staying away from those people who have caused grief. 4.Walk and talk in such a way that no one gets hurt. 5. Talking and discussing the matter with a close person if necessary. 6. Dancing-reciting-pictures-art- listening to music, creative work including yoga and joining social service work.

7. Persistence, strength, patience and courage to make new plans and move forward, to overcome adversity. 8. Mental preparation is always necessary. I will be fine. I will be strong in any situation, my actions I will take it forward. 9. I will not let injustice happen to me. I have to protest for injustice. Sometimes I have to fight silently. 10. Even if you are disappointed, you have to give yourself hope. Must go to work. 11. Stay away from negative thoughts and activities. 12. It is one’s duty and duty to mend one’s broken heart. 13. Have confidence and trust in yourself.              

Both good and bad are in our hands there is self-view, self-action, consideration, self-perception, Dreaming, thinking, choosing direction, staying positive is all is in good standing.   

Amb. Dr. Priyanka Neogi is from Coochbehar. She is an administrative controller of United Nations’ PAF, a librarian, a CEO of Lio Messi International Property & Land Consultancy, international literacy worker, sports & peace promoter, dancer, singer, reciter, live telecaster, writer, editor, researcher, literary journalist, host, beauty queen, international co-ordinator of the Vijay Mission of Community Welfare Foundation of India.

My Migrant Father

Though labor weighs him down with strain,

He says, “If it is honest, that’s my gain.”

He lives afar, a migrant far from home,

To build our house, through foreign lands to roam.

When thoughts of family fill his mind,

Longing grips his heart, so cruel, unkind.

Like pearls, his tears fall from his eyes,

Adorning sorrow no one ever spies.

“Daddy, when will you return?” they pray,

His children wait and hope each day.

Too late they learn his worth so true,

Their hearts now ache with deep regret anew.

Your sweetest tea has lost its taste,

Your earned-up money feels like waste.

This splendid house, so rich, so grand,

Without a father—no builder’s hand.

Gulsevar Mirzamahmudova was born on May 12, 2009, in Eskiarab village, Oltiariq District of Fergana Region. She is currently an 11th-grade student of Class 11B at General Secondary School No. 23. She is a holder of the National Certificate in Uzbek Language and Literature.

The trust of my parents has given me strength.

My father is the most precious person in my life, a man whose value is as high as the sky itself. He is such a father that if I asked him for a single star from the sky, he would prepare the moon for me instead. Until this very age, he has always been my support — encouraging my education in every possible way, working tirelessly day and night for my sake. He has always told me, “My daughter, I have great hopes for you,” and has stood by my side, shoulder to shoulder, in every step I take. My father is my greatest pillar of strength, and when I try to describe him, tears come to my eyes.

Mashrabxoʻjayeva Feruzaxon was born on March 7, 2005, in Chimyon village, Fergana District, Fergana Region. She is currently a second-year student at Fergana State University.

For those killed in the Iranian Revolution

*

For which war do my hairs don a white shroud?

Do the soldiers who cry out love still live?!

There is silence at the front.

My teeth ache as they raise the white flag,

The homeland aches,

Humanity weeps.

The lines that fall upon my brow—

the barbed wires of which country are they?

They separate love from separation,

They separate hope from death,

They separate the days,

They separate the nights…

At twilight, someone wipes the sweat from my forehead,

Someone sings the Song of Freedom in Saat Square,

Someone, in intensive care, is still breathing,

There is silence at the front…

Silence…

*

Per quale guerra i miei capelli indossano il sudario bianco?

Vivono ancora i soldati che gridano l’amore?!

C’è silenzio al fronte.

Mi dolgono i denti che innalzano la bandiera bianca,

Dà dolore la Patria,

Piange l’Uomo.

Le linee che solcano la mia fronte

sono i fili spinati di quale paese?

Separano l’amore dalla separazione,

Separano la speranza dalla morte,

Separano i giorni,

Separano le notti…

Nel crepuscolo qualcuno asciuga il sudore dalla mia fronte,

Qualcuno canta il Canto della Libertà in Piazza Saat,

Qualcuno, in rianimazione, respira ancora,

C’è silenzio al fronte…

Silenzio…

*

Voor welke oorlog dragen mijn haren een wit lijkkleed? Leven de soldaten die de liefde uitschreeuwen nog?! Er heerst stilte aan het front. Mijn tanden doen pijn terwijl zij de witte vlag hijsen, Het vaderland lijdt, De mens huilt. De lijnen die over mijn voorhoofd vallen — van welk land zijn dit de prikkeldraden? Zij scheiden liefde van afscheid, Zij scheiden hoop van de dood, Zij scheiden de dagen, Zij scheiden de nachten… In de schemering wist iemand het zweet van mijn voorhoofd, Iemand zingt het Lied van de Vrijheid op het Saat-plein, Iemand ademt nog steeds op de intensive care, Er heerst stilte aan het front… Stilte…

*


Pour quelle guerre mes cheveux revêtent-ils un linceul blanc ?

Les soldats qui crient l’amour vivent-ils encore ?!


Le silence règne au front.

Mes dents me font mal en levant le drapeau blanc,

La Patrie souffre,

L’Homme pleure.


Les lignes qui tombent sur mon front —

les fils barbelés de quel pays sont-elles ?

Elles séparent l’amour de la séparation,

Elles séparent l’espoir de la mort,

Elles séparent les jours,

Elles séparent les nuits…


Au crépuscule, quelqu’un essuie la sueur de mon front,

Quelqu’un chante le Chant de la Liberté sur la Place Saat,

Quelqu’un, en réanimation, respire encore,

Le silence règne au front…

Le silence…

Umid Najjari was born on 15th of April 1989 in Tabriz (Iran). After graduating from Islamic Azad University of Tabriz in 2016, he entered Baku Aurasia University to continue his studies in Philology in Republic of Azerbaijan. “The land of the birds” and “Beyond the walls” are among his published works in addition to some translations. His poems have been published in USA, Canada, Spain, Italy, India, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Iraq, Kazakhstan, Georgia, Chile and Iranian media. He was awarded the International LIFFT festival diploma in 2019. He achieved “IWA Bogdani” Award in 2021. He was awarded the “Mihai Eminescu” Award in 2022. He was awarded the International Prize “Medal Alexandre The Great” in 2022. He is Vice-President of the BOGDANI international writers’ association, with headquarters in Brussels and Pristina. and Turkic World Young Authors Association.

Head bowed

The numbing curse

of resentment comes

to capture me

in its lumpy maggot-riddled

corpse, putting on my back

a burden I am aware of

I cannot keep.

And even though I wash and scrub,

daily cleansing myself of its

putrid stench, it returns, living,

climbing my shoulders into my hair.

I know the only clear path is forgiveness,

no matter my so-called-righteous-heart

cawing for justice. I know I will never

find peace this way, nor mercy

unless I can give it.

I am the one who need forgiveness

for allowing this monstrosity to suckle on

my spirit for so long.

I thought I was past it.

I thought I truly became a citizen,

sealing my covenant.

But it is here again,

raging like before, expecting

vindication.

I hope it is a ghost of its first-self,

still large but flimsy, visible

but lacking all density.

I pray I can overcome its devouring song

and show the love to others

that I myself have been given.

Open here, casting off

its angry cries,

its barbarian anguish

blocking my own way forward

into saving deliverance.

This Place

From a place of trust

I glimpse your magnificence,

your harnessed race of complexities

in harmony, slow moving, more

powerful than a hundred suns

conjoining.

From a place of faith,

being wrong is just as exciting

as being right – a longing to know

you, knowing I will never know you

only know the minute aspects that flip

and twist and rewrite as my knowledge grows,

while keeping some laws fundamental.

From a place of love,

your love is gathering in

bright awe-inspiring displays,

terrifying in their brilliance and

in their magnitude.

Nothing is personal. Everything is individual,

overreaching galaxies into galaxies,

twin dreams.

From a place of exploration,

finding inspiration

where paradox consumes,

invigorates, illuminates

all places, gloriously shifting.

Surrendered

In the middle –

steady, harsh waves,

salty flavoured ocean,

stranded, treading.

Love comes smiling.

It is a ghost.

Joy comes and passes by.

Purpose comes but floats by

like a jellyfish riding the momentum.

In the middle, tired of treading,

no escape, just the ebb and flow, surging,

retreating waters. What lies beneath makes

no difference because nothing is above

except the burning brutal sun, cloud cover

occasionally, and only air to eat.

Skin cells, bloating. Eyes, unable to keep

open. In the middle

of an endless abyss, all my happy days

behind me.

I hold my hands in prayer position,

arms raised over my head.

I stop struggling to not go under.

I go under and let that weight, the peace

at last, take me down.

She

Fear is splendid

in making the body inflamed,

bloated on trepidation at the news

of many meadows burning.

She hurried and found a healer

inside herself, willing to go

the distance and forfeit

personal power for a greater

acquisition.

She understood the traveller and

the sit-at-homer as one in the same,

especially on a stormy day or a year of upheaval.

Faith is the bullseye with no point-marks gained

unless hit dead-centre, directing every focus

to only that centre.

Faith is the wave to ride to the shore,

removed from other moving sources,

like wind and arm-strokes.

She opened herself to fear

not denying it but seeing it

as just another entity

under the canopy, smaller

than the giving sun.

Out

I asked to be let out

from that unwanted accomplishment.

I asked to shed my shame, my duty

and the hard-core call of doing time.

It was taken down and away from me,

along with so much more.

Guilt, and worldly bondage

also fell along with security,

along with a strange, twisted pride.

Knuckles down, hands still folded.

In my head are ghosts of patterns dissolved

but are still haunting. Ways of being I don’t have to

carry are dropped, but my empty arms are stalled

in position, humbled by uncertainty.

Set free and starting over, but not yet started,

just starting to try to etch out different

possibilities, a solid surging becoming.

Whiffs of passing currents,

rich aromas that entice briefly then fade.

Whiffs I cannot capture and keep,

not now, maybe never,

let out, dumbfounded,

helpless, screaming, just born.

A Love Like No Other

Your steady love has saved me,

one more dark wave rising and you

hold my hand, staying the course,

sharing with me your glowing inspiration,

giving me space to expose

my gruesome wounds within.

You do not flinch, or distract, but give me room

to writhe and cry out and then you look at me,

love in your eyes like God at my table,

offering water, acceptance,

and with that acceptance, untellable mercy.

Every night you read to me to keep me afloat,

to cup me in the flow of your voice

reminding me why we are here.

I think you will leave me, here

to implode in this over-a-year pit

of me climbing up to the edges, falling back in,

collapsing on bedrock, but you never do.

You stay and you are steady

and you are a miracle, patient, never

cursing your fate, never letting me go.

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