Moths Attracted to the Light in Gas Station Bathrooms

Jesus Christ inspired me, stare dead-eyed, cool, un-broken,

at vermin scurrying away from Golgotha, 

then days later he was back to say “so long for now, kiddo” 

as if Elvis in ’68 had been beaten to the post, 

Colonel Steve Austin half-frozen escaping that freezer in ’74 

that stunk of death and twisted rural hobbies, 

warm as Jesus when he reached flat and sun-shadowed ground

in an epiphany that the mountain wasn’t coming to me, nor those steel-wrought cheque books, 

not even those blood-lipped assassins I’d been lying awake thinking of had a dirty weekend

to concoct some 1940s shakedown,

in that final quarter of that December ballgame

across a set of lips so frozen I’d been sworn to steel’s most coldest silence,

even within this scurrying swoosh of frost those who’d shown me how to dream

spoke gently – slow down, take it in, this is the eternal –

no moth who worshipped a gas-station bathroom light means me any harm,

I watch them fly away, sunshine is their religion. Maybe we can teach each other how to pray.

Connemara : 1986

County Galway, it’s raining, 

and the music doesn’t ask me for my song,

aching slender sonnets 

on its mossy alphabets, 

roadside, roadless, 

the broken heart of the used-up railway line 

asking me to me make it a poet. I swear to Jesus I will;

the internal organs of Autumn 

speak watery creoles of their missing bones

The Sun Doesn’t Need to Set, It Hardly Moved a Muscle All Day

Out at the sandbanks

water doesn’t learn which way goes east, which ways make men violent;

we’re sailors; dumb and laugh-bleached dirty-garments stretched to our skin’s best instincts of fighting, rich and poor, no money, cash strangled in a bag of cats 

superseded by a crippling map;

Tuesday-town owns nowhere, the moon reverses to our oceans 

to calm its smoke, not too late for prevent a fire, too late

to drown secrets – look at a diagram the seashells left in the sand –

no, no-one can;

the sand has drowned – the seashells

are a wino’s roller coaster

of broken teeth, tremendous and bitter

A Poem Written on August 1st, 2024

Without thinking, I knelt in the grass, like someone meaning to pray

Louise Glück

In a bedroom, strange, though not foreign,

houndstooth eyes 

gamble money-cash 

as a witness points at a frightened light.

I think I hated someone this morning.

There’s time to reach a 24 hour confession-box

as hour 25 is swallowed by a snake,

cold sand and diamond tanning itself on a cactus tree’s wild language.

Every strand of cotton hanging to everyone’s nail

comes from somewhere belongs somewhere, comes from somewhere belongs somewhere.

Heligoland’s dark and speaks of a winter’s stolen grace,

everything’s whittled down to a glass firmament on a simple rib.

The sea feels it, existing as glass and light

between its nude after dark dreams,

people descend upon it with their foam-lip animals 

and their relics of express trains and their silly stomachs jangling in food.

To experience an unwitting baptism,

the police patrol the ancient sands, this cannot be Egypt, we have fled knowledge, 

reason, early vestiges of pornography 

or false gods levitating in flame.

Everything is simple and lost to math, china-plate toes an emperor of sand.

Light cascading until nothing, light cascading until nothing, light cascading until nothing.

Dusk, saffron prayer, angels spool withered thoughts, 

a cat hollering archway music, ceramic ladies cautious on their milky staircase, 

voices electric and programmed, 

trains do not anger their stations on approach. 

My brother, lost in a forest, made fire from a leaf, cast a spell out of water, 

told college friends he had bred several heirs to European thrones on a mountain. 

In his page in a notebook under a psalm, 

my brother whom, subject to sleep, found nothing he had wished for, 

a cat clawless and the visionary carried on the smoke, 

laughing in the water

War is the black scarf

Valentina Yordanova – Accordia (Bulgaria)

Bombs are falling, shells are whistling.

The sky is painfully crying out of fear.

Mothers as well are crying sadly out loud.

And they once sang a song of laughter.

A terrifying sight roars in the dust –

it smells of death and sorrow.

It echoes far and wide. Chaos rages all around.

People are running, birds are circling in fear.

The air is suffocating with a smoke screen

and there is a shortage – hearts stop beating.

And once there was a dewy tear – fragrant.

Mothers are carrying young children in their arms –

looking for salvation at least for them to find.

A child is kneeling next to a woman’s corpse,

sobbing loudly – ​​with tears cursing the war.

The mother is killed – with a torn chest and no pulse,

and he hopes she will see again – she is still alive.

They once walked the streets – holding hands.

And houses are collapsing. Wild fires are blazing.

Cities and villages disappear in a cloud of dust,

and once they were warm family homes.

Now they are collapsing with the bloody snow that has fallen.

People have long been hostile to each other –

their hearts – are mirror ice – from cold.

In their footsteps – death lurks at full speed.

From the war, their souls are drowning in deep sorrow.

Fathers have held their breath in trenches and unfurled flags.

Somewhere a machine gun bark is heard, mowing down the enemy.

War is ominous – it paints emptiness and blindness.

Black headscarves are worn by women – instead of flags.

The picture overflows with sadness – spreading sea,

from which tears roar with a powerful tidal wave.

There is no love between people, and they are brothers of the same

blood. The wind caresses the corpses of soldiers out of pity.

It collects scattered photographs of women and children –

turned into sad fallen leaves of men.

And the dust holds them in dirty red albums.

Graves sprout – like flaming crocuses,

over which a cloud of eternal sorrow and grief remains.

Weighed down on the ground – they are leaden soldiers,

forever marked with tears and flowing blood.

Hearts are orphaned. The world is left breathless.

And let there be no WAR – the black scarf!

History tells enough about it…

I want a united brotherhood to reign everywhere

and with love we sow the seeds of peace!

Let bullets never fly – instead of birds

and may the sky remain crystal clear forever!

PEACE is light – a white canvas and let us draw together

white doves in flight and create joy in the World!

Translated by Yoana Konstantinova

Peace

author: Valentina Yordanova – Accordia (Bulgaria)

The word PEACE – three letters only.

A holy word – of great love.

With a breath of sweetness and freedom –

it is happiness for people around the world.

Comparable to a mother’s, a loving word –

 so gentle, warm and light-winged.

Carried in an echo – all over the world,

reaching far and wide.

May PEACE reign on earth forever!

May there be no wars – fear in tears!

Sad melodies – outpoured by weeping,

The earth soaked with pain and blood!

And may all nations be fraternal,

May their friendship – be the sun in tomorrow.

May white doves fly freely in the open air,

And may the expanse of heaven be as pure as dew.

The word PEACE encompasses the whole world –

from the blood of freedom the dawn was born,

to remain in the beautiful morning of the day.

Let us all together preserve peace!

May war be a ship that has sailed forever,

and may PEACE be a joyful tear in the world!

Translated by Yoana Konstantinova

My name is Valentina Yordanova, pseudonym – Accordia. Born I am in Mezdra, Bulgaria. By profession I am children teacher and psychologist. My poetry is sincere and deep expression of love, pain, dreams and personal experiences. Favorite theme of mine is love – tender, beautiful, sometimes painful. My style is figurative and lyrical – I paint with words emotional landscapes – this is my soul. Publications – in Bulgaria and abroad. I know children’s soul and write children’s poems.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame Anxiety Dream

We have tickets for a game

at Shea Stadium although

we know the stadium was torn

down years ago. Still, we are

going and the easiest way to

get there is on the elevated #12 line.

We rush up the stairs to the station,

then across the tracks and we are

almost there as the train arrives

but my wife says she doesn’t think

that’s the right line despite insisting

all along that was the way to go.

Naturally, we miss that train, so we

decide to walk even though it is

an extremely long walk that would

take hours even if we could get there

from here. Then we are on the shoulder

of the Crosstown wondering what bus

might take us to the game despite being

on the wrong side of the highway

to hail a bus.  I’m extremely nervous

about crossing the bridge, we are on

as I am afraid of heights when a guy

on a motorcycle falls off his bike but

is somehow scooped up and rescued

before he gets run over and killed.

The motorcycle man is extremely

upset, yelling and screaming at us in

a language we can’t understand.

Once he calms down, he notices us

standing nearby and he begins

speaking calmly and clearly in our

language and he tells us we are now

hostages as being part of a terrorist plot.

I say, “All we want to do is go to a ballgame.”

And he says, “If I were you, I wouldn’t

worry about a baseball game, you have

much bigger things to worry about.

I have a bomb.”

A Writer’s Conference Anxiety Dream

We’re driving to the writer’s convention

on the island we have to take a ferry to reach.

Apparently, I am driving though it is well

known that I have no license, have never

had one, and I have no idea where we are going

or even who we are. I’ve decided to take

the fourteen-mile suspension bridge, that

doesn’t exist, to the island in a dense fog,

in heavy traffic at high speed. All the other

drivers must be from Pennsylvania,

I think, recalling fifty miles of near fog out

conditions near Wilkes Barre where folks

were driving bumper to bumper at 75 mph

the whole way. There is a toll both ahead but

no one intends to pay and then we are at a rest

stop buying energy drinks and the beer we’ll

need later on. Once we reach the mainland,

a guide introduces us to our gondola driver

whose name is Ivor and he looks as if he should be

an extra in a movie like Eastern Provinces or

History of Violence rather than a gondolier

on an east coast channel island. Once we get

to the inlet, where the writers are, there is a pig

roast in our honor and we can smell the meat

cooking but we can’t see the food because of the fog.

The first reader has a heavy middle European

accent and introduces himself as Charles Simic

but we all know this is impossible given how

dead he is.  Still, his poems are good and we think,

perhaps, he is ghost of Simic, which makes sense

somehow, and appears to provide deeper meaning

to the context of the conjunction of ghost, man

and poetry. Later, near the middle of the roster

of readers that extends from Hart Crane to

John Berryman to Sylvia Plath to Anne Sexton,

who is scheduled to read just before me, I start

to have a bad feeling about the conference

and wonder if coming here might not have been

a serious error in judgment.

Where the Wild Things Are

Once the entrance fee is

paid, I am compelled to enter

the cave. At first, the walls are

regular, rounded, and expansive

but gradually the walls narrow and

compress as the slope inside

becomes more extreme until I am

forced to bend over, then crawl on

my hands and knees. All the light

I have comes from a small device

strapped to my helmet making the way

down more treacherous, especially

once the walls, ceiling, and floor

become slicker, more slippery,

the further inside I crawl.  There is

a guide somewhere ahead encouraging

me on but I can’t hear exactly what

he is saying nor what his location is.

If it were possible to turn around

and flee I would be long gone but

there is no way back, only down,

further and further into the darkness,

where the wild things are.

Class Registration Anxiety Dream

All the names of the advisors for

transfers and new students are listed

on a movable bulletin board in the gym

along with the courses they are offering.

I’ve been told it is absolutely essential

to consult with one of these counselors

but all the ones are listed are from another

college I no longer attend and none of

the courses apply to my chosen field of study.

A literature professor at a nearby folding

table tells me not to worry,

“I’ll take care of everything.”

I watch as she shuffles a handful of IBM

computer cards, chooses some, and feeds them

into a machine that looks like a factory

time card punch clock.  After the cards

are processed she hands me a print out

with my name on it and , a list of all

my next semester courses.  Before I can

leave the professor says,

“Don’t forget these.”

She hands me a folder with the course work

syllabi and a fat mimeographed reading list

that looks like an appendix to Foster Wallace’s

Infinite Jest, footnotes and all.

I try to explain that this schedule is impossible.

That I’ll never ne able to keep up as I work

nights, have two infants and I’ll never be

able to sleep. And she says,

“Who needs sleep? No one ever sleeps in

graduate school.”

And then I’m on a conveyor belt like one

of those airport moving sidewalks that are

everywhere in the tunnels beneath the campus.

I’m desperately trying to get off because I’m

supposed to be on the up escalators  but there doesn’t

seem to be any way to get off. Not that it matters,

neither the walkways nor the escalators go

anywhere near where you need to be.

Eventually, I ask one of my classmates about

the tunnels and she says,

“Have you ever been here in Winter?”

“No” I say, “I haven’t. Not yet, anyway.”

“You can’t get anywhere above ground

in Winter. You’ll need to get snowshoes too.

And a gun.”

“A gun! What for?”

“The wolves.”

Full Dental Services Anxiety Poem

I must have been late for my

teeth cleaning as there is already

a line out the door.  The last time

I was here they were using scalpels

for scaling and I saw after care

patients in recovery rooms with

blood pack transfusions underway.

After what felt like hours the line

has barely moved so some of us

decide to go for a walk on the campus

of the college across the street.

Despite the weather being clear and warm

when we started, soon it is darker

and snowy with a fierce wind in

our face. I turn to ask one of my companions,

“What’s with the weather?” But there

is no one there and while the snow

has stopped, it is now a dark and a moonless

night and I am lost in a forest of dense trees.

I struggle onward but it becomes impossible

to walk in the underbrush and I am being

lacerated by needles that are growing

from the branches of the evergreens.

Once the laughing gas has been taken

Away, I see that I am in the recovery room

and the procedure has been completed

but I am not in the same office nor with

the same people who were on line with

me earlier. A receptionist is asking for payment

for services rendered but I can’t move my arm

to sign a check as I am still connected to

the transfusion fluid bag.  I hear other people

laughing but I am not finding anything funny

here so I refuse to join in. The receptionist is

still waiting for me to sign the check

staring at me with a look that says,

“Any time you’re ready would work for me.”

I am beginning to wonder if any of this

costs extra or is everything included.

DREAMS FOR LOVE ———

Under the moonlight, our hearts interlace,

The stars above gently shine,

Your gentle caress, a heavenly affection,

Two spirits united, for eternity,

A murmur in the darkness we understand,

United in this realm of fantasies,

Your eyes, they gleam, a holy coast,

In your arms, I listen to the currents

That plea to us, a passion so genuine,

Your kiss, a vow, radiant and pure,

In each instant, I adore you

You understand me deeply.

About the Author: Dr. Brajesh Kumar Gupta, also known as “Mewadev,” has been recognized on several prestigious platforms for his contributions to literature and the arts. Notably, the state of Birland commemorated him with a special edition postage stamp. He is the recipient of the Presidency of the International Prize De Finibus Terrae (IV edition), awarded in memory of Maria Monteduro in Italy. Dr. Gupta has been honoured with an honorary Doctorate of Literature (Doctor Honoris Causa) by both The Institute of the European Roma Studies and Research into Crimes Against Humanity and International Law in Belgrade, Republic of Serbia, and the Brazil International Council CONIPA and ITMUT Institute.

In addition to his literary achievements, Dr. Gupta was awarded the Uttar Pradesh Gaurav Samman in 2019, further solidifying his impact on regional and international platforms. Currently, he holds the position of the 3rd Secretary-General of the World Union of Poets, serving from December 30, 2017, through December 31, 2024. His role in this organization is pivotal, reflecting his commitment to advancing the global literary community. Dr. Gupta is an accomplished author of eight books and the editor of twenty-seven volumes, showcasing his extensive contribution to literary scholarship. Beyond his literary pursuits, he serves as the principal of S.K. Mahavidyalaya, Jaitpur, Mahoba (U.P.), and resides in Banda, Uttar Pradesh, India. For further engagement, he can be reached via his social media profiles at facebook.com/brajeshg1, or through email at dr.mewadevrain@gmail.com. His work and legacy are also featured on www.mewadev.com.

The Northern Town and its Water

In the small town there was an old library, a few churches, and even a place where they sold worms for fishing and nearby, in the summers anyhow, a corn stand. I only realized far after that I never brought my bike there, such as in stories and films. If I could go back, I would have, for a bicycle fits a town and one could go on adventures and take more pictures of the local flora and fauna.

Yet I still have much memory in the mind’s eye and a few photos from walking. I used to fish off the shore walls and near little bridges and no matter what theory says, worms always got the fish to bite or at least become curious and nibble more than any metal or plastic lure. There were wooden bridges and stone ones, and moss and rocks and the sun-bleached parts caught my eye whist people generally were friendly and many of them waved. 

There was a series of canals and though they go in Northern Ontario it was based off a model of waterways from somewhere in Europe. These waterways, often called ‘intercostal,’ can be found in southern Florida also. They are often secondary homes or cottages, and I suppose that means upper middle class or affluent populaces inhabit them. Or old timers that simply always lived there through the generations. Maybe each situation is unique, and they can’t exactly be categorized. 

I remember the winters frozen and sometimes an ice fishing hut or series of them could be viewed as one looked from the purlieu of the lagoon intercostal waterways out to the white and grey lake frozen and crystalline-like under a December or January sky sun laden. That would make a good landscape painting for someone, some soul involved in such, and often as I walk summer fields and meadows or winter hills with vistas, I have the passing thought whimsical of wishing I knew a painter to talk about all with. In fact, I should have lived in older times where letter writing, where true soulful epistolary was the norm. But, in lieu of not having a confident or artist contact I’ll tell here…

The area was big, several square kilometres and none of the houses could have basements for the water could go in and that would be problematic. The dwellings were built on piles, telephone poles wooden and probably chemically stained to preserve them. Some houses were bungalows and nondescript with simple screen doors and others towered over the earth maybe up to four of five stories tall, and those usually had expensive power boats over forty feet long outside of them bobbing up and down a little bit in that lake water. 

And it was quiet while someone watched the nice world there and the change of seasons. Boat. Book. Walk. Reflect. Even pray or meditate. Repair a bird house wooden or sit on the porch and watch the world go by. When we went to church, so long ago, the old man that gave the exegesis about the gospels used to say that his goal should be the same for his community. And what was his goal? It was for his maker, his God, to simply say in heaven when the day arrived, to say about the life one had lived on earth, ‘Well done good and faithful servant.’ 

~~~~~

Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet, writer, and photographer. The Book of Love and Mourning, a third collection of prose poems and landscape photographs, is set to be released in winter 2025. 

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.