Writer’s Block
When I try to write
I sense that millions of readers are
Crowding the paper’s edge,
Kneeling, genuflecting, and lifting their hands
To pray for my poem’s safe arrival.
The moment it looms on my imagination’s horizon,
Gazing at the concept in a diaphanous gown of metaphor,
Young people smack their lips—craving double entendres.
Meanwhile, with piercing glances, the elderly scrutinize
Its juxtapositions and puns.
Then the concept smiles shyly, dazed at seeing them.
On the paper’s lines both young and old meet for a discussion,
But my words resist
And erect walls of critical theories.
Then the paths of personal confession contract,
Contract,
Contract.
My imagination calmly shuts down,
And the conception retreats inside my head.
At that hour, it afflicts my world with
Bouts of destruction.
Workers refuse their paychecks.
Farmer let their fields go fallow.
Women stop chatting.
Pregnant mothers refuse to deliver their babies.
Children collect their holiday presents but
Toss them on the interstate.
Our rulers detest their positions.
Kings sell their crowns at yard sales.
Geography teachers rend their world map
And throw it in the waste basket.
Grammar teachers hide vowel marks in the drop ceiling
And break caesura by striking the blackboard.
Flour sacks split themselves open, and the flour mixes with dirt.
Birds smash their wings and stop flying.
Mice swarm into the mouths of hungry cats.
Currency sells itself at public auctions.
The streets carry off their asphalt under their arms
And flee to the nearest desert.
Time forgets to strike the hour.
The sea becomes furious at the wave
And leaves the fish stuck headfirst in the mud.
The shivering moon hides its body in the night’s cloak.
Rainstorms congeal in the womb of the clouds.
The July sun hides in holes in the ozone layer,
Allowing ice to form on its beard and scalp.
Skyscrapers beat their heads against the walls,
Terrified by the calamity.
Cities dwindle in size till they enter the needle’s eye.
Mountains tumble against each other.
My room squeezes in upon me, and
The ceiling conspires against me with
The walls,
The chair,
The table,
The fan,
The floor,
Glass in the frame,
The windows,
Its curtains,
My clothes, and
My breaths.
The world’s clarity is roiled.
Atomic units change.
I vanish into seclusion,
Trailing behind me tattered moans and
Allowing my pen to slay itself on the white paper.
.......................................................
by Faleeha Hassan
Translated by William M. Hutchins
She is a poet, teacher, editor, writer, and playwright born in Najaf, Iraq, in 1967, who now lives in the United States. Faleeha was the first woman to write poetry for children in Iraq.
She received her master's degree in Arabic literature, and has now published 26 books, her poems have been translated into English, Turkmen, Bosnian, Indian, French, Italian, German, Kurdish, Spain, Korean, Greek, Serbia, Albanian, Pakistani, Romanian, Malayalam, Chinese, ODIA, Nepali and Macedonian language. She is the Pulitzer Prize Nomination 2018, PushCaret Prize Nomination 2019.
Member of International Writers and Artists Association.
Winner of the Women of Excellence Inspiration award from SJ magazine 2020, Winner of the Grand Jury Award (the Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021) One of the Women of Excellence selection committees 2023 Winner of women the arts award 2023 Member of Whos’ Who in America 2023
SAHITTO AWARD, JUDGING PANEL 2023
Cultural Ambassador - Iraq, USA
Email : d.fh88@yahoo.com
Vague
It's morning
Sitting alone in my room
Looking around the outer
Nothing clear through the glass
All seem to be vague in my eyes
In the nature's lap
I pay heed to any sound
Only the birds chirping I can hear
To recollect the past I find all obscure
In this cold foggy morning
The sun has not yet risen
All seem to be hazy
I passed the days
So many days from my life gone by
Like the broken glass
The world appears to be blurred
In this foggy morning
The more I keep on for brightness
The more it darkens the world
Trembling in cold here in this lonely space
I hear the sound of birds only
What are they calling?
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh,
13 January, 2024.Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been being published in an International Online Magazine - Synchronized Chaos from America for seven years.
A dream is also a life
Tonight you came to my sleep from afar
As if the wheel of the sky had changed,
I could see you up close
Remove the thread that has already been untied.
He brought me what was not mine,
Hijra, longing ended,
This undying love was finished by the rose alone,
We turned to the direction of the wind.
Again your gaze was enchanting,
Alas, your eyes were flowing,
Your hand was not resting, it was caressing,
Just like the crane feathers, dear ones.
You gave me hope, you said a lot of words, you made my broken heart happy,
I read a poem, you listened too, The sky itself was stunned by this love.
Elmaya Jabbarova was born in Azerbaijan. She is a poet, writer, reciter, and translator. Her poems were published in the regional newspapers «Shargin sesi», «Ziya», «Hekari», literary collections «Turan», «Karabakh is Azerbaijan!», «Zafar», «Buta», foreign Anthologies «Silk Road Arabian Nights», «Nano poem for
Africa», «Juntos por las Letras 1;2», «Kafiye.net» in Turkey, in the African's CAJ magazine, Bangladesh's Red Times magazine, «Prodigy Published» magazine. She performed her poems live on Bangladesh Uddan TV, at the II Spain Book Fair 1ra Feria Virtual del Libro Panama, Bolivia, Uruguay, France, Portugal, USA.
I'VE COME
I have come to you poetry
To give me, to be
Not to look at me
To become a lime, today, a lonely street
I have come to die, or not to die in love
Starting between heaven _ earth
Between two steps, inhabiting heartbreak and praise
I have come deceitful, distrustful like a late hope, to tell you so much luck as denial
The birth as the farewell. I have come to you poetry accomplice .. To bare my soul!
GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina. Based in Buenos Aires, she graduated in letters, author of seven books of poetry. Awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects, of the Hispanic World Union of Writers. UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. Commissioner of honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.
FEEL THE RHYTHM OF FREEDOM!
We poets are like fish in a glass cage,
many admire us because we are displayed as living figures,
we swim in the comfort zone,
where others will say that our love poems in a collapsing world
are very important as themes,
and congratulate us on a nice outfit.
Yes, we are sublime poets who stand for peace in the world
and for a free life in the salty sea, we don't know.
We are scared because
we heard that some dead fish are floating in the sea.
Sharks and some larger fish stalk the tiny souls.
And we so glorious in our poetic movement,
we kiss the hand that carries our food and directs our bodies, minds and words.
Sometimes we are on the surface, sometimes at the bottom,
but it is important that we are protected.
We watch the audience
following our movements as we swim in the limited space
of our personal freedom and peace.
Feel the rhythm of freedom!
It vibrates in my mind as I want to jump over the glass edge,
and even if I were to swim alone in the sea,
at least Poseidon will see my desire.
Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" is circulating through the blood.
That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them.
As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube.
Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers.
She is the recipient of many international awards.
"Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle."
She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.
Awaiting Summer
Take me to Summer's show
Where the sea breeze blow
And sunshine glow
To where butterflies fly
Clouds swim in the sky
And no goodbye
A-Waiting Summer's fun
Summer's fun, fun, fun
A-Waiting Summer's fun
Summer is fun!
Come join and dance with me
Swing your hips with glee
No stinging bee
Summer heat that can't burn
Where snowflakes can turn
Hi! How ya durn?
A-Waiting Summer's fun
Summer's fun, fun, fun
A-Waiting Summer's fun
Summer is fun!
Awaiting Summer's fun
Spring's dragging its run
Winter's just gone
Come, let's dance as we wait
Have iced chocolate
Summer comes late
A-Waiting Summer's fun
Summer's fun, fun, fun
A-Waiting Summer's fun
Summer is fun!
Great Wind at My Back
May the Great Wind be at my back
Feet not hindered by petty setback
May Great Wind stir gently the pool
Like silken thread around the spool
Will the Great Wind send me back
To jungleland from Eden’s outback
How the Great Wind stir the pool
Tighten thread tensed in the spool
Give me wisdom what to pack
Strenght to carry my backpack
Let not past be just memories full
Of anger and grief make one fool
May Great Wind blow at my back
Feet pushed forward beyond track
May Great Wisdom push and pull
Weave silk threads from thick wool
May the Great Wind be at my back
Feet not hindered by petty setback
May Great Wind stir gently the pool
Like silken thread around the spool
Will the Great Wind send me back
To jungleland from Eden’s outback
How the Great Wind stir the pool
Tighten thread tensed in the spool
Give me wisdom what to pack
Strenght to carry my backpack
Let not past be just memories full
Of anger and grief make one fool
May Great Wind blow at my back
Feet pushed forward beyond track
May Great Wisdom push and pull
Weave silk threads from thick wool
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila, Philippines. She has worked as a retired language instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, poetry is life and life is poetry.
Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for truth in pursuit of equality and proper stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.
The Flood
It started with droplets on hot concrete
Pooling in the cracks between my feet.
Drop for drop a puddle grew;
Reflecting only you.
I wanted to drown there,
Ringing for air.
On a sinking ship made from love letters
But the rain is the only thing that matters
The puddle became a pond
Which I couldn't see beyond.
I was but a tadpole
Swimming through your soul.
Rain drops on the surface writing poetry
But you were all I could see.
Just when I thought it was all I could take
The rain raged on and the pond became a lake.
I was a steamboat of desire
The Captain ready to retire
Sinking into your embrace
Setting to harbor in this place.
And the rain raged on and fell like thunder
And I was a ship going under.
The lake broke the shores becoming a sea
Still the expanse can't contain me.
In The Dark
Does a candle stand a chance
Here where the shadows dance;
When the stars are swallowed in darkness
In the grasp of the gaping abyss?
Can a whisper be heard
Here where a screamed word
Is carried to a void of endless silence
In a world of dismal existence?
Is there anything but misery
Here where everything dwells in agony;
When everything leads to pain?
Can one remain sane?
From South-Western, Michigan, Jerry Langdon lives in Germany since the early 90's. He is an artist and poet. His works bathe in a darker side of emotion and fantasy. He has released five books of poetry titled "Temperate Darkness and Behind the Twilight Veil", “Death and Other Cold Things” “Rollercoaster Heart” and “Frosted Dreams.” Jerry is also the editor and publisher of the literary magazine Raven Cage Zine which features poetry and prose. His poetic inspirations are derived from poets such as Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. As well as from various rock bands. His apparently twisted mind, twists and intertwines fantasy with reality.
