We Are All Children of Mother Earth

Poem by Lan Xin (Lanxin Samei)

Islam teaches

All humanity shares one origin all are brothers under heaven

Equality justice tolerance

Meet one another with peace walk together with goodwill

No trespass no aggression only mutual respect

Christianity teaches

Love your neighbor as yourself love one another

All are children of the Divine

Hold kindness in your heart forgiveness in your soul

Uphold righteousness watch over peace and tranquility

Buddhism teaches

All beings are equal compassion is the way

Interconnected coexisting bound by mutual origin

Turn from evil embrace goodness live in harmony

Revere life bring benefit and joy to all beings

Taoism teaches

The Dao flows through all things uniting all in love

Follow nature’s way let all life flourish as one

Great nations walk in humility harmony is the highest value

Do not wrong the weak nor praise the ways of war

The Dongba Scriptures teach

All nations are born of one Mother

One mother many children

Each child unique yet all share one root one origin

Humanity and nature are brothers of the same father

All things have spirit honor heaven love humanity

All faiths share one source one heart

They converge as one point to one truth

One world one family universal harmony

Cosmic peace tranquility for all

This is the shared original heart and calling

of all sacred beliefs

Earth is a child of the Cosmic Mother

Humanity is a community with a shared future

Born of one root

why turn against one another

Every nation is a child of Mother Earth

Strife between brothers

only breaks Mother’s heart deeply and completely

Every land on this blue planet

is a precious pearl in Mother Earth’s palm

Each carries its own dignity and glory

The agony of a world in ruin

tears at the very body of Mother Earth

Every living being under heaven

is a descendant of Mother Earth

All deserve reverence and love

All deserve a home in this world to live and grow

The harm of raging smoke and war

pierces Mother Earth to her very core

Grasping and plunder

are not true victory

Triumph through bullying and power

is not true victory

What hegemony chases

is only fleeting pleasure

yet it sows sorrow for ages to come

One’s moment of joy

must never be built on another’s endless pain

Coercion and pressure

cannot win the loyalty of hearts

They only bear bitter fruit

The wisest conquest in all the world

is sincere wholehearted submission

He who wins the hearts of the people wins the world

A nation is never a plaything for selfish pride

but a shared home for all humanity

War is never a game

Not the innocent make-believe of children

nor the cold gamble of adults

Mother Earth watches helplessly

as countless precious lives

are trapped in smoke and fear

displaced distressed broken in body and soul

Countless children cry out in despair

countless beings perish in suffering

That pouring rain

is the compassionate tears of Mother Earth

That rolling spring thunder

is the solemn warning of Mother Earth

Mother Earth speaks

——My children

Chasing fleeting pleasure

will bring a heavy price

Do not plant the seeds of hatred

Better to end enmity than to feed it

When will this cycle of vengeance end

Bullying the weak

is not the way of a strong nation

Love and peace

are the spirit of a great nation

To love all the world

is true responsibility

Power is not a weapon to oppress the vulnerable

but the ultimate safeguard of peace and order for all

Be not a sinner condemned by all

but a model admired through all ages

One thought leads to heaven

one thought leads to hell

To be cursed forever

or honored through time

all lies in a single choice

The nobility of life

never comes from power

It comes from the goodness you give to this world

whether you answer the eternal longing

of all humanity for love and peace

No matter your nation

no matter your faith

no matter your skin

you are all

——my beloved children

On Ri Hossain: A Synthesis of Materialism and Surrealism

In the discourse of blending materialistic and surrealist thoughts in poetry, Ri Hossain (known professionally as Iqbal Hossain) stands as a distinctive modern voice. His poetry captures the harsh realities of contemporary urban life while simultaneously employing surreal imagery and timeless traditions to transcend those very realities.

The Materialist Lens: Reflection of Reality
In Ri Hossain’s work, we observe the reflection of contemporary unrest, mechanization, and global crises. As an entrepreneur and a busy professional, he has witnessed the rugged facets of society firsthand, which manifests in his writing as ‘objective truth.’ His poems frequently depict the struggles of the common man and the erosion of moral values. His choice of words is often modern and direct—a key characteristic of materialist philosophy.

The Surrealist Dimension: Beyond the Visible
However, he does not limit himself to objective descriptions. His poetry often crosses the boundaries of the visible world to create a mysterious realm of the subconscious. He utilizes imagery that transports the reader away from reality toward a transcendental sensation. Many critics identify this as ‘Modern Sufism’ or ‘Surreal Spirituality.’ In many of his poems, words do not merely convey literal meanings but create a surrealistic atmosphere where the past, present, and future merge into one.

The Bridge Between Two Worlds
Ri Hossain’s specialty lies in his ability to bridge these two streams. This synthesis operates on several levels:
* Universal Appeal: When his personal emotions (surreal) align with impersonal social truths (materialism), his poetry attains a universal dimension.
* Depth of Expression: By presenting life’s inconsistencies through a surrealist lens, he makes them far more poignant and profound than simple descriptions would allow.

Global Reach and Significance
His poems have been translated into various languages, including English, Spanish, and Albanian, proving that his integrated poetic style resonates with international audiences. He has successfully transformed ‘indigenous reality’ into a ‘surrealistic global language.’

Conclusion
Ri Hossain’s contribution to this trend of Bengali poetry is significant for several reasons. By utilizing Free Verse, he ensures the intellectual freedom necessary for surreal expression. Moving beyond conventional styles, he has carved out a unique niche by wrapping materialist social thought in a shroud of spiritual and surreal philosophy.

In short, Ri Hossain’s poetry does not merely speak of the earth; rather, it maps the surreal landscape of the subconscious mind and the universal soul rooted deep within that earth.

The Brook

Sim Woo Ki

It looked shallow—

crossing,
I slipped,

both ankles caught.

실개울

심우기

너무 얕아 보여  

내를 건너다, 그만 

두 발목을 빠뜨리고 말았다

The Stake

Sim Woo Ki

For a young black goat,
strength is the stake.

Even when horns sprout
and its coat grows coarse,
it cannot cross the tether tied to the stake.

With powerful hind legs
and broad shoulders,
it still cannot pull it out—
the stake is God.

Though it knows
it is a losing battle,
stubbornness—
that is a goat’s way.

It circles back, round and round,
even if the rope winds tight around its neck
until it can no longer move,

it goes as far as it can.

For a goat whose world
is only the length of the rope,
the stake is the center of the world.

It is power.

Still,
the goat goes round and round.

말뚝

어린 흑염소에겐 힘은 말뚝이다

뿔이 나고 털이 억세져도

말뚝의 끈을 넘지 못한다

강한 뒷다리와 넓은 어깨로도

뽑지 못하는 말뚝은 신

늘 지는 싸움인 줄 알지만

고집은 염소고집

돌아와 빙글빙글 돌다

제 목을 감아 옴짝달싹 못하게 될지라도

갈 데까지 가고 본다

밧줄의 길이만큼이 세상인 염소에게

말뚝은 세상의 중심이다

권력이다

그래도 염소는 뱅글뱅글 돈다

Black Man
Sim Woo Ki

Because the skin was black,
there was an ignorance
that believed even the blood would be black.

The gaze that did not retreat
even before the red muzzle—
we have long misunderstood it,
hiding behind the name Africa.

Descriptions of thick lips and heavy hair
were, in truth,
cowardly adjectives
summoned to conceal the invader’s fear—
this we know only now.

Before a language we could not understand,
before an unfamiliar laughter,
we always stood closer to guns
than to understanding.

When sunlight slips
across skin like black velvet,
even that praise—“its sheen”—
was a metaphor we had stolen.

We said only the teeth and palms were white,
that clapping made the primal rhythm—
but in truth,
it was not a place untouched by civilization,
but where arrogant civilization had stalled.

The fathers of fathers—
time flowing above them,
an erased chronicle, unrecorded.

Calling the scent of sweat and soil “savage,”
we hid, with effort,
the stench of blood
that came from our own side.

Those whose hearts were darker than skin
set fire to forests and raised their guns;
God was silent,
the forest became a table,
and people returned to the earth
before beasts did.

What was called a scream,
what was written as a howl—
it was the oldest tactic,
reading the trajectory of bullets
with the whole body.

When barefoot warriors drew circles of blood and danced,
they were not calling God
they were calling
the names that must survive.

Africa, Africa—
this repetition is not incantation
but a desperate calling
not to be erased.

When the earth trembles
like the ankle of an elephant,
when history charges
like a rhinoceros,
those who stand, precarious,
between god and beast—
they are not savages,
but those who first chose to be human.

When poisoned arrows are loosed at invaders,
when broad-chested women dance,
it is not a cry of victory,
but a solemn gesture
postponing their own funerals.

I still speak of Africa,
but perhaps
I am only tracing, at last,
the shadow
of the darkness within me.

블랙맨




피부가 검으니
피조차 검을 것이라 믿어온 무지(無知)가 있었다
붉은 총구 앞에서도 물러서지 않던 그 눈빛을
우리는 오래도록 오해해 왔다,
아프리카라는 이름 뒤에 숨어


털이 많고 입술이 두텁다는 묘사는
사실 침입자의 두려움을 감추기 위해 동원된
비겁한 형용사였음을 이제야 안다


알아들을 수 없는 언어와
낯선 웃음 앞에서 우리는 늘 이해보다
총에 더 가까이 서 있었다
검은 비로드 같은 피부 위로 햇살이 미끄러질 때
그 ‘윤기’라는 찬사조차
우리가 훔쳐온 비유였음을 고백한다


하얀 것은 이빨과 손바닥뿐이라며
박수로 태초의 리듬을 만든다고 말했지만
사실 그것은 문명이 닿지 않은 곳이 아니라
오만한 문명이 멈춰 선 자리였다


아버지의 아버지, 그 위로 흐르는 시간은
기록되지 못한 채 지워진 연대기
땀과 흙의 체취를 야만이라 부르며
내 쪽에서 흐르는 피비린내를 애써 숨겼다


피부보다 더 시커먼 마음을 가진 자들이
숲에 불을 놓고 총을 들 때
신은 침묵했고 숲은 밥상이 되었으며
사람은 짐승보다 먼저 흙으로 돌아갔다


괴성이라 불린 소리, 울부짖음이라 적힌 목소리
그것은 날아오는 탄환의 궤적을
온몸으로 읽어내는 가장 오래된 전술이었다


맨발의 전사들이 피의 원을 그리며 춤출 때
그들은 신을 부른 것이 아니라
서로의 살아남을 이름을 불렀을 뿐이다


아프리카, 아프리카 이 반복은 주술이 아니라
지워지지 않기 위한 처절한 호명(呼名)


코끼리의 발목처럼 땅이 진동하고
역사가 코뿔소처럼 돌진해 올 때
신과 동물의 경계에 위태롭게 선 이들은
야만이 아니라 가장 먼저 인간이기를 선택한 존재들


침입자를 향해 독화살을 날리고
가슴 큰 여자들이 춤을 출 때
그것은 승리의 환호가 아니라
자신의 장례를 잠시 미루는 비장한 몸짓이었다


나는 아직도 아프리카를 말하고 있지만
사실은 내가 가진 검은 마음의 그늘을
겨우 더듬고 있는지도 모른다

Biography of Poet Sim Wooki

Poet Sim Wooki was born on July 4, 1964, in Hamyeol, Jeollabuk-do, South Korea. He completed his doctoral coursework in English Literature at Gachon University in 2013.

His literary debut came in 2011 with the publication of his work in Poetry Literature. In 2012, he was awarded a creative writing grant from the Seoul Foundation for Arts and Culture. In 2013, he published his first poetry collection, Thirteen Ways of Seeing a Black Flower, which was selected as a Sejong Outstanding Book in 2014.

In 2016, he expanded his literary reach with the publication of his poetry collection in English, Read My Love, You. Over the years, he has authored several additional works, including his second collection Secret Envoy, as well as Ice Pillar of Fireand The Day the First Snow Falls, the latter co-authored.

In addition to his writing, Sim Wooki has contributed to academia by teaching at Kyungwon University, Inha Technical College, and Gachon University.

Why Do I Write: What’s in it for Me?

Why do I write creative fiction? That was a question posed to me by a cousin I was once close to. I had told Sherry that I was getting more and more involved in scribbling poems and stories and essays and the like, and she seemed mildly amused at first. Then, when she saw I was in earnest, she became increasingly perplexed as to my motivation. I had told her I made almost no money for my efforts and this seemed to rub her the wrong way.

“Why, then,” she asked in bewilderment, “do you do it?”

Until that very moment I hadn’t given it a lot of serious thought. Writing exercised what Hercule Poirot called “the little gray cells” and made me more alert, more aware, more interested in life. Moreover, it made me feel good. I was retired and had little else going on. Most of my friends were deceased or moved away.

“Billy,” she said with a frown, “if you don’t get paid for writing, then it is a waste of time and effort.”

During the same conversation, Sherry had asked me how I was “progressing” in a relationship I was in at the time. When I was noncommittal, she got down to it: “Have you scored yet?”

“Not everything,” I told her, “is so transactional.”

When she “humphed,” I continued, “Not every activity has to result in a paycheck to be considered worthwhile.” Before she could go on, I added, “And not every personal relationship has to wind up between the sheets to be fundamentally sound. No one is keeping ‘score,’ cousin, so just cool your jets.”

That was two years ago, but the question remains: why do I write?”

I think it’s because when I write, I am master of my universe. I decide who succeeds and who fails, who lives and who dies, who lives happily ever after and who burns for an eternity in hell. This is quite an ego trip. I know a little of what God must feel like. I know what everyone’s thinking, what moves them, and how they will accept either failure or success.

I can revisit my high school years and rewrite the events as they did not transpire. I can ask out the prettiest but most demure girl and she’ll say yes. And I’ll have the dough to take her out. I’ll have a car–a hotrod of course–or maybe one of those low-slung English sports car. Nothing is too much.

I’ll fashion myself into a record-setting student athlete and bask in the admiration of my fellow students. I’ll get an A in calculus rather than a D. I’ll try out for and grab the lead in the school play. It’ll be a musical, because unlike reality as I lived it, I’ll be able to sing. And join a garage band and wind up with a record contract.

I’ll stand up to my abusive brother and fight back and kick his ass. I’ll get the after-school job I could never get and earn money to take out more pretty girls. In college I’ll study and not party but for the spring breaks in Florida that I could never afford to attend. I’ll make my parents proud and they’ll never have to bail me out.

I’ll say none of the stupid things in life that I did say. I won’t hurt anybody’s feelings and won’t allow either of my two cats to die and my best friend won’t have abusive parents. I won’t be teased for having Tourette’s or being disabled with Parkinson’s Disease and peripheral artery disease and poor eyesight and hearing and all the rest. I’ll still be able to lift my weight and play soccer and run five miles. If not myself, then others will carry the banner and succeed where I failed abysmally.

I write so that things turn out right, and not to shit. I live vicariously through my characters; I learn lessons I was too stubborn or dense to heed before. I am a normal child, teen, and now old man. I have children and grandchildren who flock around me in my dotage, rather than live alone in a hovel in the American Midwest. That’s why I write.

Sherry and I have not spoken since she posed her question, but I’m alright with it. I’ll know now what to tell her, should she ever call again. But she’ll not be argumentative this time, since I’ll be writing the script.

Charos Yusupboyeva was born on July 10, 2010, in Qirqqizobod mahalla, Ellikqal’a district, Republic of Karakalpakstan. Despite her young age, she stands out for her active involvement in educational activities, promoting reading culture, and encouraging young people to pursue knowledge.She is currently the founder of the “Qirqqizobod” journal. Through her “Book Readers Club” project, she has brought together around 200 students, creating a strong community of young readers. She is also a prize winner of the republican stage of the “Zulfiyaxonim Izdoshlari” competition and a young writer whose poems have been published in international journals. Through her passion for learning and strong initiative, she continues to inspire her peers.

Bridging the Distance: The Transformative Role of Online Education in Remote Areas

In the contemporary world, education has become one of the most powerful instruments for social progress and sustainable development. However, geographical isolation continues to limit access to quality education for many learners living in remote areas. With the rapid advancement of digital technologies, organizing online education has emerged as an effective solution to reduce educational inequality. When properly implemented, it not only overcomes physical barriers but also creates new opportunities for students and teachers.

One of the most significant factors influencing the organization of online education in remote regions is the availability of reliable internet infrastructure. Without stable connectivity, digital learning platforms cannot function effectively. Therefore, improving broadband networks and expanding internet coverage are essential steps toward making online learning accessible to everyone.

Governments and technology providers must collaborate to ensure that even the most distant communities can benefit from modern communication technologies.Another crucial aspect is the provision of digital technology for both students and teachers. Access to devices such as laptops, tablets, or smartphones allows learners to participate actively in virtual classrooms. Equally important is equipping teachers with the necessary technological tools and training so that they can deliver high-quality lessons. When educators are confident in using digital platforms, they can create interactive learning environments that encourage creativity, critical thinking, and collaboration.

The impact of organizing online education in remote areas can be profound. First and foremost, it significantly expands educational opportunities. Students who previously faced limitations due to distance or lack of resources can now access a wide range of courses, educational materials, and global knowledge networks. This not only improves academic achievement but also empowers young people to pursue their ambitions and contribute meaningfully to society.

Moreover, online education fosters lifelong learning and professional development. Adults living in rural communities can acquire new skills, participate in training programs, and adapt to changing economic conditions without leaving their homes. As a result, communities become more resilient, innovative, and economically active.

In conclusion, organizing online education in remote areas is a transformative step toward building a more inclusive and knowledge-based society. By improving internet infrastructure, providing digital technologies, and supporting both students and teachers, societies can ensure that education reaches every corner of the world.

Ultimately, the expansion of online learning does not merely connect people to information—it opens doors to opportunity, empowerment, and a brighter future for entire communities.

Key words:Online education, remote areas, digital technology, internet infrastructure, students and teachers, virtual learning, educational opportunities, lifelong learning, digital literacy, community development

The Tree House

By Jacques Fleury

 [From Fleury’s book: Chain Letter To America: The One Thing You Can Do To End Racism:

A Collection of Essays, Fiction and Poetry Celebrating Multiculturalism]

While the butterfly hovers and the bird sways…

I take tepid steps around the forest

So not to disturb the natural way of things;

Night time in the woods,

I stroll into its evening with a lantern,

So dark a night I can only see what

The light will allow;

I can feel earthly debris crunching

Beneath my feet, the sounds echo in the distance,

I see the dilapidated treehouse that

Father and I built, a once buxom structure

Now barely standing with little nurturing…

Yet still I climb the ladder leading up to it,

The rungs creak beneath  my feet,

I get into the pungent pad on the floor

And lay next to the spot where father

Once leisurely reposed while we talked into the night

Listening to at times tiresome benedictions:

The eternal noise of crickets and other cryptic night noises;

We spoke of traveling and transcending,

Navigating and never minding…

He spoke of his epistolary love with mother

And how they got together,

How glad he was when I saw light for the first time,

And how he would always be by my side,

“Promise?”

“Promise!”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“Promise.”

I can hear the leaves rustling in the wind,

As a gentle swaying of the treehouse that

Father and I built rocks me to sleep…

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc… He has been published in prestigious publications such as Spirit of Change Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at:  http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.–

THE CHARITABLE HAND 

Life is like a festival of ‘basant’

At which,

Young kids fly kites

And don’t mind using the china twine

Which has a high killer potential.

Govt announcements apart,

Who bothers about life,

That too of others,

When their own joy 

Is at stake? 

While having a post-dinner stroll

We came across a pigeon

Trying hard to fly

But caught in a twine

Which did not oblige. 

We caught the pigeon

And to our horror,

The twine had got round

And round and round

Its body, and clipped its wings.

The pigeon now was scared

The poor thing didn’t know for what

He had been trapped.

Would this hand wrench its neck

And boil it the next moment.

Ohh! The poor thing was 

In the hands of mercy.

We brought a pair of scissors

And started cutting the twine

It was badly wrapped around its wings.

At last the twine was cut,

But it had impaired his wings,

And when we left it free,

It could only move,

And failed to fly. 

We brought it home,

And offered it all it liked to eat.

It is still in our balcony,

But still not able to fly

But it knows what is care and safety.

The story held a lesson for me.

The twine represents the little misses

That we make, 

Which then wrap around our neck

And our wings, and halt our flight.

Rather, they cut our wings sometimes

And we are made vulnerable 

To the vultures,

A moment with a cat 

Was enough to do it in.

Desires, passions, unfilled dreams

Keep us trapped like this twine

And impair our freedom,

Rather put our very life in danger.

Christ is not born in every manger.