Poetry from Shakhzoda Kodirova

Shakhzoda Kodirova
My motherland!

My country, you are so beautiful, 
You are charming, 
You are spectacular 
There is no equal in beauty,
 You are a paradise.
You are the only one in the country.
There is no word for your description, 
You are the most unique country.
We love you dearly,
We are faithful to you.
We will introduce your dear name to the world.
✍ Shakhzoda Kodirova

Good and rewarding work

 For many years, a small stream flowing from the side of the river made Cain's heart ache.  Because once upon a time, clean and clear water flowed from this ditch, people used it to quench their thirst and rejuvenate their gardens. No one would throw garbage in the ditch, and whoever saw the dumped garbage would clean it immediately.  Unfortunately, by this time there was no "trace" left of the clear water in the ditch.  The younger generation did not listen to the words of their old ancestors, but instead of reducing the waste in the ditch, contributed to its increase.   Despite the fact that he was over 80 years old, Mahmud himself was the head and wanted to do a hashar to clean the river, so he called young teenagers, strong men from house to house, and asked for help from the neighborhood.  Unfortunately, many did not have the patience to clean the river, which was full of garbage. And it didn't work either. 

Finally, Grandpa Mahmud  thoughtfully went to his old companions.  Gathering them together, he got everyone’s opinion on the matter. The old men agreed and decided to clean the river themselves.  Not many people know how good it is to clean a ditch, and those who do know do so without breaking the bank. Is there no one willing to clean this small ditch that has been flowing for years ?! If they need to irrigate their gardens, they are ready immediately. but to clean up ... Well, let's clean up as much as we can, said Mahmud  looking at his comrades angrily. So the old men got to work. Ketmon in hand, belt at waist.  Seeing this zeal in the elders, some honest people came and joined them.  Some were embarrassed and apologized to Mahmud.

The neighborhood gathered the workers again, this time they were full of enthusiasm. Volunteers also came and began to join. The work is "hot".  Neighboring women were busy cooking for the hard-working hashers. Thanks to 3 days of hard work, the river  was completely free of waste. Grandpa  Mahmud  joined the ranks of veterans for his efforts to clean the river.   When he addressed the villagers, he said, "The most important thing, you know, is that you and I have a great reward. Cleaning the canal is the best and most rewarding thing to do".

Flower garden 🌸

I went to Gulzor today, 
I saw a lot of flowers. 
They were more beautiful than each other, 
And the smell was fragrant.

It charms person
The fragrance of every flower.
It attracts, when you smell it.

I really like,
These fragrant beautiful flowers.
It lifts your spirits,
 Friends, look at this.

Rose, basil, tulip
Colors are red, green
 I sweat from them, 
I make many bouquets.

✍ Shakhzoda Kodirova

The world 🌎

 What a world it is,
 Both transient and deceptive.
What a world this is,
 After all.

No man can live in this world,
 For a thousand years.
No one can remain in such a world, 

So my friends,
 Let's do a lot of good.
Let us not be deceived by The way of Satan.
Let us not sink into sin.

 Without thinking of the Hereafter.
Let us do good as much
 As we can.

We know that in this world, 
Tests are not rare.
We will defeat them, 
If we have a little patience.

The world, the world is the end, 
Never complain friends.
Do not despair and torment yourself
And let's do good !!!

✍️Shakhzoda Kodirova

Shakhzoda Kodirova is 15 year-old aspiring poet from Navoi, Uzbekistan. From a young age she was fond of literature age of seven she began to read books and study oriental literature. Her poems and stories have been published many magazines and newspepers, including Uzbekistan and Germany.

Poetry from Debarati Sen

A Metonymy for life! 

Luminescent sobriquets,
nuances and innuendos,
Oleander dreams,
a morsel of left over words 
decoding syntax and semantics!
Taxonomy of hysteria,
transfered epithets, 
 shifted proxemics
blurring the gap between space and dimension.
Peeping from behind translucent ballads
are hurrine rhymes 
trying to carve a niche
within a heartfelt epistle.
Noctilucent clouds on summer skies.
Splurged with meta communication midst graphic metaphors.
Dangling dreams from distant corridors on sordid noons.
table fan,
Ma's flowing hair,
fish bones on aluminium plates,
the smell of egg curry in my fingers.
Baba's sweaty shirt smelling of his toils.
Thamma's  broken wooden chair!
Spring evenings 
and an ivory reticence
wrapped within an empiricist sheet!
 A metonymy for life
climbing down the spiral staircase of remembrance,
wearing a galvanized smile!

Debarati Sen


Works in Presidency University Kolkata as a Junior Assistant. Her debut poetry book called 'Blurred Musings' has recently been published. Recipient of the Tagore Award 2022 and the Sylvia Plath Women's Literary Award, Debarati finds emancipation in her poetry! She has also been the winner of the International Poetry Writing competition held by the Elite Book Awards in November 2021. She has also grabbed the third position in the National Poetry Writing Month 2022 contest hosted by the Elite Book Awards. Debarati features in the Council Year Book launched  on the occasion of Women's Day 2022 by Literoma in association with the Public Safety and Security Council of Bengal. She has also been declared as an Empalled Author in the International Author's Conclave held by Literoma in December 2021. She is one among the top ten poets of the Women;'s Day poetry contest organised by Delhi Poetry Slam. She has co-authored more than 15 anthologies and is recently compiling her first anthology as a compiler with the Quill House Publishers. Her poems have found shelter in prestigious websites like The Antonym, The Yugen Quest Review, The Kolkata Arts, Lapis Lazuli, The Das Literarisch, to name a few. 

Poetry from Andrew MacDonald

Gone if come quick

Gone if come quick 
death-bound not leased 
life itself shocked 
in repeating

energy forms 
present in our
sinuous room 
trite flesh repaints
too pretended

‘neath up-ends of
convulsants groomed
each night by way
of visitors

their breath not yet
but his here re-
membered to loom
and hang over

wait releasing
its gain of chance
not to happen,
left intending

some next visit
a round to please
with help a bed
soft undressing.

Hard-bound out-takes

Hard-bound out-takes
cherish the score
six cards their worth
can knock to shame

of what gets us
pity at the last
and grieve, forgive
if take, put-back.

But side-steps verve,
hold what hands flood
to up-shot nods
of truce down one

when got back wired
if secret pleads
the case that’s tried
of cards their yield.

Here are some sad ones got nerve

Here are some sad ones got nerve
and with no rules get smart of,
steel a love yet-born-made-fun
to sprawl upon new ground a-
bove the heart’s intent, surface
of dreams their truths tidbits what
un-dead reams if rolled out-live
mem’ries each pleat back their moves
showing in bright dread what we
feed of, maggots on broke scenes
incumbent mind pangs, taking 
for sore truths unreasoned and
yet hard-proved while we dance-out
our naked bests empires hold.

Andrew Cyril Macdonald considers the role of inter-subjectivity in poetic encounter. He celebrates the confrontations between self and Other and the challenges that occur in moments of injustice. He is founding editor of Version (9) Magazine, a poetry journal that implicates all things theoretic. You can find his words in such places as Blaze VOX, Experiential-Experimental-Literature, Fevers of the Mind, Lothlorien, Nauseated Drive, Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, Strukturriss, Unlikely Stories and more. When not writing he is busy caring for seven rescued cats and teaching a next generation of poets.

Short story from Jim Meirose

Okay now, Pastafrieszer.  What do you want me to do?
Off Turbulino. 
Off Turbulino; who.

Okay. Go on. 
 Off. Turbulino, Off. Turbulino Turbulino Turbulino, Off. Turbulino; who? 
Hiss off Turbulino who. 

Off Turbulino wh’ ‘o. Off Turbulino w’ ‘ho. Off Turbulino, who? Who? Who Off? Turbulino? Or Off Turbulino? Or Off Turbulino, who? 
Oke oke.

Wassa! Giddyup, Turbulino! Giddyup Off! Giddyup giddyup wasa wasa Turbulino, who?
Ghasta. Mon ghasta. Mon Ghasta Turbulino’d Off ‘da big Turbulino, who? Tucumcarro-wowo. Tucumcaro-wowo who? Lastafisharians! Lastafisharians! Lasta-off Turbulino lasta off’n the fisharianisticals, too! 
For the right and the good of the mystical other world where we all end up anyway these must be—eliminated; elli-elle hey maw these must be eliminated by name haw haw hold it softer and slower please you are Off turbu—breaking up and—lino off sounding bogged down.
Owkai wooney betta; now?
Yes papillary. Esso. Pappillary. Go.
GhostFred Von Terbulino maw maw mai-sweet, and her Fred the Ghostess, arms-akimbo. Got that?

Yes go. 
Okay Rally-round the fla’ oke oke. Huh hunchydown splitt-toonea the youn’ Giddy-pap. Giddy-pap. ‘er got that? Norway gotterpap hunkily-bunqui. 
No you are breaking way up. Way way up. 
Wrenchindafist way too tight heckindafistica. Who? Gahhh knucklyblusters. Gahhh. May I pluck please that marliebone? Off Turbulino, who? In fancydanced figuatures well written yet somehow Off Turbulino inadequate somehow Off Turbulino-too. Offensive. Off Turbulino. Very offensively off dat turbinitianned big fast Turbulino too! That off! That off! Was-shashstistickinnanne’d off pluck’ ghast of a shackilly hot Turbulino, too. Meeshashee-moo. Big cows! Big cows! Big cows go meeshashee-moonienne’s flash turbulinos, too. Big daddy swept out his pot. To feed big cows out from yelling meeshashee-moonienne’s flash turbulinos please plea’ ple’ no not me, too!

Oke oke oke. Oooo. ‘n elsewise? 
Fish-men! The fish-men! All the fish-men plus; the following:
Ghastlienne Snappudia nee Turbulino. Mangia-gashette the youngerawan’s teatglass. Avast ye landlubbers know zouppe fo’ u. Lasty tie ten rags round yer face in the interest of its big better-be-clean campaign ( you know the one failes before it starts) I am George I say it is hell being old and I am I am and I, tired before I start. 
Tired before. I start.

Too many flick-slippers’ they gift me each Christmas-time.
No himagination, sus’pose.
Tired before. I start. 
Please sew up my gash, doc. I’ll lay back’n me lickliner. Do it very very good, doc. And I’ll praise ‘u good’n plenty. Hop-Cockula! All praises all fish-men big cows’n dem dere turbulinos, too. The fish men the fish men men me’ m’n men men doodliewisician’s fast ghastly whipmen, too! Off. Turbulino. Off Turbulino. Off Turbulino Off. Turbulino! Turbulino Off. Turbulino Off Turbulino. Off Turbulino Off off Off ghasta-Turbulentionelleianed vast pocka-bock Off that there Turbulino, too! Spit hack patooey! Spit hack Off patooie’s big, vast, wallow of a Turbulino too! N-n-n-n-d’d? What gives with the prizes? Off Turbulino? What gives with the prizes what prizes these prizes and who’s off that big Turbulino o’ there, too? I don’t get why we have to do this. 

Turbulino. I don’t get why we have to do all this and b’ backsides off’n this here Turbulino, too. Oh yah sure you may praise your Gods manysizes you want, but we still got to get hatchen’ off all these here Turbulinos. Too! I’m afraid we may need additional bodies here. To do all this work this to do allk this workity wonkhonking, too. Muddy wallows fulla’ witches and one two evilly spirited spirit-men, too! Hot-t-t-t ho-o-o-t-t-t-t h-o-o-o-o-o-t-t-t-t ehah! Ehah! Ehaha!
Doc garble these down doc! 
Hot Petunia! 

<clear air>
Okay now that the air has cleared, thanks to the breeze gusted up round round baby round round, here’s. We must make right what this clan has turned wrong. Too long our roost’s been ruled by D. Act we must we must act hiccup-cause we don’t sue soi halfundanalle’s planet ‘ll be n’ hoe thrall of the Tumturbilnos hag gah do not take the healing wind from us please! Off Turbulino pawk do not take Off Turbulino Off pawwk take the healing Turbulino 

Off Turbulino pawwwk pertropterequertie healing wind off us please, Mr. Syndrome—Off noo known Turbulino cure off Off Turbulino no gone Mr; Syndrome drat Off o-f-f-f nop known cure Turbulino no known cure for Off cure for drat drat these bananas’r gone rotten yes the Pop did one time rule an entire VatiVan or two whoop-whoop this being certified torrentialezed by Turbulino by artificial Off Turbulino’ mass-aretficially prefabricated means Off Turbulino causing mass magnitation of all nearby spirits, atchoo! Heck, doof; off also may mean porefabricated t-t-t-t-t sweet sweet Turbulino Off this si the emit Turbulino Off the emit for lla good Turbulino Off Turbulino Off Turbulino lla good nem to emoc-umoc Off Turbulino tri-titularically come to the aid of their country hurculaneum-styled hoch! Time for a good old-fashioned hot drench-sweat. Off Turbulino what Turbilino? Thaddeus Turbulino of coarse he and his ten pencil-think’d henchmen. So battenda’ yon hatches.
God willing! 

What price the freeze? 
Uh, Off Turbulino Off Turbulino hackatptwatoeey splat ackoff course!  Marie-Strider Good-n-Plentiful stole ten names off a boxcar side in the Off Turbulino Off the torrential rains of the last Turbulino, Off a Turbulino, never to be repeated off, damned Turbulino! I am not Shakespeare no cut da fish-rod twice just coulda’ not meter it in, solildly, twice! 
Off Turbulino.
Off Turbulino Off. 

Turbulino run ‘round Turbulino Off Turbulino like a record bray-be must half peened brutally hard off his donkey numbered in the ear Off Turbulino numbered in its ear Off Turbulino Off yah numbered in its numbered in its hey ha numbered up filled that cup so painfilly Jerry-Loius’ expanded drug face in the middle of the AM face; yes and nothing ended coming of his big fat telethonisticanne-laboring daily-day’s big fat bash, too! H’ cut his strips so very fine, so many years. But, hot-pick; Turbulino, who imagines when something’s Off, been Turbulino for Off years, and Turbulino years until everyone’s confronted with it then yank! Yank! Tank yank ‘t down Off that there great big grossly alien looking somehow big Turbulino too! So; so! So; …. so, behind this whole big plot to purge us we when they reach a depth of ten factory-spans we stopped them there. 
No. No. Too vague. 

Factory-spans. That could be from a few meters to several thousand yards centimentrical metering meters-thick, so—be more specific, then.
Okay, Say ten feet.
Okay, there you go, here we are they can’t allowed t’ go no lower.

Off Turbulino okay there you Off Turbulino Off Turbulino there you fo’ there you are they Off cannot Turbulino be Off allowed to go an inch lower ah their battlescars behold them behold them in their battlescars first Eric Turbulino their battlescars their then, myself first Eric Off Turbulino Off Turbulino then myself Off Turbulino hint hint Off Turbulino wink wink Off Turbulino nudge nudge Off Turbulino get it hey Off hey Turbulino get Off it Turbulino hey Off hey get it go you get it wink wink nudge nudge hey ya hot copsa’ dickey, n’ fat too!
S'what ‘f it?
So this completes the narrative of the last statements. 

So dem thymes’ a-wastin here’s the backside’s the list shot shoo Melanie fast-turbulino off their very rocker of the defendant allegedly flying his pastor into the bricks of the and small might turbo-mind down the jang-jinglin’ deep of the place hah! Hah! ‘ff okay knives out peterpans’ wall for his homes for funerals the chains of which less’s more for the drillin’ get fast for once ouch this Turbulino Off to that side then that Turbulino Off to the other then swat; he had owned singlehanded until up to over the top of very recently his deteriorated Turbulino Off undering the deep tableplace under style, mmmmoooooo-cow, the prank d’ ‘lectrical fencegrab wow that feels Turbulino Off Turbulino funny wow wow this feels really really funny what high Off Turbulino 

Off voltage state of mind yes of course can be seen clearly by the pottering stride of thought all gone and all wrong; all gone baloney high Turbulino voltage come on under through I can hold it Off Turbulino Off Turbulino Off Turbulino look the hell at me I am holding it hurry Off con-hurry well zip zip, I’ll be damned, Willy, looks like I gone did drop dead for my country being bad enough by itself, and all wrong by the same logic, also; but all gone and all wrong together pose the insurmountable peak atop the already mountainous body of evidence hiss and boo Turbulino Off Turbulino Off boo and hiss okay, so there, St. Peter. That’s the full drip out my high death for my country Turbulino faucet’s open Off drip Turbulino drip drip Off drip drip drip Turbulino drip drip drip drip off rounded up written down and presented to you for your pleasure here today.
To wit;
Yes to wit;
We sign our names and, hey, uh, wawa.
So. Know what to do now? Know what’s our pleasure?
No. Not at all.
Okay now, Pastafrieszer. Repeat everything to me, but; a bit slower this time, please.
Just do it.

Poetry from Alan Catlin

Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann: Blackwater 2

Stunted, wasted trees at
conflagration’s end along

the ink blasted creek
only dead things float in.

What remains of a bled-
out sickle moon is being

swallowed by gasoline fire
clouds. It’s always midnight

where the blackwater runs.
Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann: Blackwater 4

The hard work of dying 
has already taken place here

in this used-to-be-landscape
artist’s sought refuge in

during night terrors where
the paint they used to create

images became the blood
of slaves pressed upon 

spoiled canvas.

Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann: Blackwater 18

Sideways rain raises
blisters on all that

it touches. Still black
water is inert as a dream

image terror is trying
to escape from.  Here,

even the tree’s shadows 
have shadows that radiate

a constant pain.

Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann:
	Blackwater with Lightning

Maybe the end times
had begun and only

the woman with a camera
noticed how the black

sky was split wide open
by crooked, spoiled veins,

electricity bolts;
heat licks the dry fallow

earth instead of rain.
Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann:
	Swamp Bones

If the juncture where dream
becomes nightmare could be

captured as an image in
a photograph it would look

like this: massive ground root
structures like broken bones

emerging from a gripping fog
then frozen, severed from their

subordinate trunks in a fetal, 
pain of light.
Southern Gothic: A Romance After Sally Mann:
	Antietam (Starry Night)

An explosion of fireflies
is superimposed on paint-it-

black-night as present as a landscape 
Vincent would have painted if he arose

from the dead in this place, haunted
by the 30,000 lost souls who fought 

here and accomplished nothing.

Poetry from James Whitehead

Pierced Flesh

you believe you believe in a piece of pierced flesh pinned

to the carpenter’s own carpentry; you believe you believe in sin’s

redemption, & for all eternity; you believe you believe in Him.

where hide those females, lovers of life, that would live just, to wash his feet?

in your land, your state, your neighborhood, or on your streets,

woman treads heavily; the source of life loosed, then she bleeds;

there are no feet to wash; once day’s focus grows nightly dim,

the killer, thief, rapist, man in the identification line, “him,”

he takes her, throws her, hits her, kicks her, then chews on her seed

as easily as if she were fruit; what follows this, you hypocrites call “life;”

what does follow in her life, which is life, & which is already of us,

unlike unformed abstract forces eventually born of evil or good via the uterus,

is the gambling of her life in a game played out by the Law, Death, in Strife;

what follows being a victim in her life, is being the victim again;

a woman is raped raped raped; while male judges preside over trials,

she feels every ounce of her entire being resisting that – that – that thing

that philosophers lump alongside prophets when they speak of “man” & Being

loses all its Nobility, Beauty & Grace to Violence & Pain;

& the judges – Souter, rehnquist, scalia, et cetera, consider the gains

brought on by their beliefs in “life” & consider this abstract & smile.

& while the wrong that call themselves the right celebrate, a real, human, woman is

walking down an alley-way towards the only help that she can afford, or knows;

it could be she goes to see a hack who takes her back to a dirt-hole in provo,

where the man doesn’t care to wash his hands, being no judge, no pilate;

could be a room full of coat hangers in indy, cincy, baton rouge or dallas;

but with no money, doctor, or help, that violence in her belly is all that matters;

all that matters is that IT invaded her; that she did not want IT to happen; she hates IT.


IT is sin; & she is going to get rid of it.


She is going down that alley-way so she can die for the sins of another.


She dies.  Pierced flesh.  Believe in it.

Poetry from Thadeus Emanuel


What if I tell you I know something

About the masking of deceit and the

Usual posturing that comes so nasty and Vail

Wouldn't you want to know

That it starts with a vague tongue—

So smooth and perverted?

What if I tell you, that hypocrisy is 

More than just a mere word, platted 

In the heart of a sham, from which

Out of its abundance, he speaks?

Listen, it not just abiding to a role

Of pretences and unfaithful lies.

For hypocrisy degrades its servant

And submits the entirety of his/her

Ways unto the control of contradictions—

About what you say and what you do.

It is about harbouring a worldwide weapon

That is so casual and feeble, yet deadlier,

Than the world best nuclear or atomic.

For even, a hypocrite goes beyond what

injures it is inflicted on people. It is about

The injures inflicted on oneself—It is 

Pertinent, that even, hypocrites lie to themselves.


Men live to see the seasons of the sky, 

In temperates slay, while on earth—

breathing the lovely hard days of life.

They feel the scent of earthly dust when

The wind takes it course during the chilly,

Overcast days of harmattan, and blows;

with a freezing cold that leaves the

Teeth Chattering hard with a chapped lips.

The days promise, also, an extreme centigrade

During the rise of the dry spell casted upon

The earth, that makes you think If the gates

of Hell have prevailed over mankind.


Every latter needs a medium
Maybe a word to fit in and a word-
A group of words; probably.

When you look closely, you could see how it is done; how words are screeching-
Creating resonance noises like a clangor

And how collocating they stand
Breaking a bunch of constancy
With dulcet rhythms-that soothes its usage

There are piles of ideas and a stock-
of beautiful voices
That will inveigle wars into peace

But this niche will only transcends
When there is a medium-of words
To release the puissance that will placate

We all need a medium for expression
Or/and to unleash influences
With quiddity-of who we truly are

For it only happens when there is a medium
Only then; 
We can do and undo

Thadeus Emmanuel is a writer, poet, critic and a Graphics Designer. He is a student of Economics at the Taraba State University, Jalingo, Taraba State. His articles and poems has over the years gathered reader’s sensation.