Maftuna Rustamova Ruslan, a 9th grade student of secondary school No. 30, Jondor district, Bukhara region
Maftuna Rustamova Ruslan qizi. 19.09.2010 I was born in Jondor district of Bukhara region. Currently, I have graduated from the 8th grade of school No. 30. I have been interested in writing poems since my youth. Currently, I have many achievements in the field of poetry.
I participated in the district stage of the “Zukko Kitobhon” Republican Competition and took an honorable 2nd place. I participated in the district stage of the “Jaddidlar izida” Republican Competition and took an honorable 2nd place. In addition, we participated with a team in the “Third Renaissance in the Eyes of Youth” Competition and took 3rd place. On March 8, 2025, my first book was published under the title “My First Words in the World of Poetry”. I was awarded the “New Age Science Creator” badge, established in cooperation with Africa and Uzbekistan. I was appointed as the coordinator of one of the famous US magazines “Synchronized Chaos” in Uzbekistan. Currently, I am the head of the Bukhara region Press Service of the “Young Reformers’ Council”. My creative works have been published in many magazines and articles and indexed on Google.
In his crisp and taut collection April No Longer Comes, poet Yucheng Tao evokes fragile, transitory moments of elegance that seem to fade away even as the speakers appreciate them.
A speaker recollects a museum visit with his now-deceased sister to see a Rothko exhibit. He later imagines a blue horse carrying her from her casket “to a spring which never ends.” Spring, and specifically the month of April, show up later in the collection in some very short pieces on butterfly wings and in “Fever,” a longer piece on a speaker’s recovery from illness. The winter imagery of snow and mist in many other pieces (“Snow,” “We,” “The Glory of the Snow”) becomes a counterpoint, burying or shrouding beauty in a way that is itself graceful.
Tension and a subtle melancholy permeate many of Tao’s works, even those otherwise vibrant and full of life. In the first poem, “The Fading Light of Dead April,” about a couple enjoying a pizza dinner at a restaurant, Tao shows us the delicate bubbles in clear soda, yet ends lines with “bitterness” and “cutting off the clarity,” leaving readers with confusion and angst. In “The Glory of the Snow,” the speaker watches a beautiful woman dance, with picturesque imagery of her red lips against the white mounds of flakes, but then, ‘a clumsy dancer,’ she falls to the ground.
Death makes an appearance throughout the collection, directly in “Mr. Raven” and elsewhere as an aspect of our existence. In “Arrival Before the Rose Dream Ends,” a man eats out with his girlfriend in Portland, Oregon, the city of roses and the shadow of Mount St. Helens’ past eruption, and dreams of the volcano when he passes away in his sleep. In “Mr. Raven,” the speaker’s ticket to the afterlife “is written in the age spots on his hands.” Even an inanimate scarecrow (“The Scarecrow”) becomes less alive as bored teenagers and the weather wear down its body.
Coupled with the many natural images in the collection, mortality here seems as natural as the change of the seasons, whether characters choose to drift away peacefully or beg for more time. As Tao says in “We,” “Things shift, change, and transform: birth, death, and beyond.”
Our hopes, dreams, and identities here can be as fragile as our physical bodies. In “Where,” a speaker searches a rose garden looking in vain for a particular flower, comparing himself to Adam and Eve cast out of Eden when the blossom remains out of sight. The protagonist in “Untitled” puts on the face of a clown to cover his emptiness after his reflection, his identity, falls all around him with the shards of a broken mirror. The very last piece in the collection, “Mary’s Secret,” shares the story of a little girl rescued by loving people from an abusive situation, who attempted to bring spring into her heart.
The short lines and reserved, non-grandiose language of the poems in “April No Longer Comes” ground the sentiments in reality and make the motifs of the book more universal. Many readers can relate to “lost Aprils,” times beautiful yet delicate, now fading into memory.
Yucheng Tao’s April No Longer Comes is out now from Alien Buddha Press and available here.
“Faith is the bird that, when the dawn is still dark, feels the light..” — Rabindranath Tagore
PREFACE
In the brownian traffic of cosmic thought, few, very few indeed, are the voices that shine with luminescing clarity -Rabindranath Tagore and Jernail Singh Anand are two of them. Although they are many years apart, they are brought together in the spiritual and poetic sphere of existence, where their philosophies, ethics and aesthetic minds intermingle in a metaphysical quest. This meeting is not a mere dialogue of minds, but an eavesdropping of two souls: two souls that are committed to truth, to beauty and to human advancement. Bengal’s mystic bard meets bio-textual consciousness sage of a later age; Tagore and Anand speak across the time and space of centuries and continents.
MONOLOGUE BY TAGORE
I am the hushed tone of the break of day.
My words are drawings in the air, my grief and my joy have come and met.
The universe is not a problem to be solved but a poem to be sung. In every flower’s whisper, in every beggar’s palm, I see the face of the Infinite.
Not to teach, but to wake. The soul is not a lesson but a dance.” Oh Earth, with fire let me kiss you, and in your embrace vanish.
HAIKU
Waves of morning light
caress the soul’s silent shore
—truth blooms in stillness.
MONOLOGUE BY ANAND
I am the pen of the hopeless, the scream of the battered Earth.
My ink suffers of time, my pen mourns.
The truth is not a relic, it is a cry. I’m moving with some prophets/ eating with the orphans.
I saw my thirst mirrored, there in Whitman and Puran Singh. In the mirror of Whitman and Puran Singh, I found my thirst; I learnt my thirsting. Out of this thirst, I forged the theory of Bio-Text—where blood and word can no longer be told apart.
APHORISM
“The poem is written by the world whispering through the soul, not by the poet.”
DIALOGUE BETWEEN TAGORE AND ANAND
TAGORE: Do you write with joy, Anand, or with wounds?
ANAND: I write because wounds have learned to sing. And you?
TAGORE: I sang before I knew what sorrow meant. Then sorrow became my scale.
ANAND: We have walked the same riverbanks, then. I named the stream Bio-Text. You called it Gitanjali.
TAGORE: And yet, a longing for the Divine in the human, the current is the same.
ANAND: The poem is our proof, our protest, our prayer.
TAGORE: If truth be told. The poet speaks, even in silence.
ANAND: And the poet restore to health, in suffering.
TAGORE: Like bread among seekers, then let our ink be shared.
SYNTHESIS
In their dialogic dance, Tagore and Anand, unveil the poem as a sacred act: both offering and resistance, both vision and balm. The mystic and the reformer merge into a single pulse of conscience. Their words, whether sung or bled, form a liturgy of hope in the age of dissonance.
PARALIPOMENON
The play takes the form of a dreamed conversation between two great poets who write in right-minded, spiritually questing ways. The form transitions seamlessly blip by blip from monologue to dialogue, aphorism to synthesis, and calls to mind Tagore’s transformative mysticism and Anand’s existential activism. The haiku is a frozen breath of union, and the aphorism is the metaphysical embodiment.
AUTHOR
Mauro Montacchiesi is one of the leading Italian intellectuals, multi talented and multi awarded author, ex President of the A.I.A.M. International Academy of Modern Art in Rome.
DR. ANAND:
Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, with an opus of 180 plus books, is Laureate if the Seneca, Charter of Morava, Franz Kafka and Maxim Gorky awards. His name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. Anand is a towering literary figure whose work embodies a rare fusion of creativity, intellect, and moral vision. He’s not just an Indian author but a global voice, challenging readers to confront the complexities of existence while offering hope through art and ethics. If Tagore is the serene sage of a colonial past, Anand is the fiery prophet of a chaotic present.
This hopeful green belongs uniquely to the spring earth
In summer, the earth wears a deep blue hat
The deep blue sea holds endless mysteries
This mysterious blue belongs uniquely to the summer earth
In autumn, the earth dons a golden fluffy coat
The golden fluff represents the harvest fields
This harvest gold belongs uniquely to the autumn earth
In winter, the earth wraps itself in a snow-white cape
The snow-white snow and withered trees form a poignant beauty
This poignant beauty belongs uniquely to the winter earth
2.无题
文/邹斯宇(小荷诗社，9岁)
大树伤心的时候
会落下一片叶子
但人类会觉得是一处美景
Untitled
By Zou Siyu (Xiaohe Poetry Club, 9 years old)
When a big tree is sad
It will drop a leaf
But humans will think it’s a beautiful scene
3.人生
文/雷雨晗(小荷诗社，10岁)
有些人的人生像苦瓜一样苦，
而有些人的人生像糖一样甜。
人生很苦的人想要人生变甜，
首先他得适应生活，
就像不喜欢吃苦瓜的人一样，
只要坚持下去他会变得很喜欢吃苦瓜，
那就代表坚持得了生话的各种苦。
所以，
一切都有可能。
Life
By Lei Yuhan (Xiaohe Poetry Club, 10 years old)
Some people’s lives are as bitter as bitter melons,
while others’ lives are as sweet as sugar.
Those who live a bitter life want their life to turn sweet.
First, they have to get used to life,
just like people who don’t like bitter melons—
as long as they persist, they will come to like bitter melons.
That means they can endure all kinds of hardships in life.
So,
everything is possible.
4.无题
文/张雨涵(小荷诗社，11岁)
老天这是怎么了
总是在流泪
让大地、河流都变成了汪洋
让大豆、棉花都在潜水
让鱼、虾都在遨游
农民苦不堪言
雨过天晴后
一切都恢复了平静
Untitled
By Zhang Yuhan (Xiaohe Poetry Club, 11 years old)
What’s wrong with the sky?
It keeps crying
Making the earth and rivers turn into a vast ocean
Making the soybeans and cotton seem to be diving
Making the fish and shrimp swim freely
The farmers are overwhelmed with suffering
After the rain stops and the sky clears
Everything returns to peace
5.花
文/胡裕乐(11岁)
她静静站在那儿
人来人往都夸她
美丽、清新
可我却说她不屈
你不信
那是你没有看见她
在淤泥里的挣扎
Flower
By Hu Yule (11 years old)
She stands there quietly
People come and go, praising her
For being beautiful, fresh
But I say she is unyielding
You don’t believe it
That’s because you haven’t seen
Her struggle in the mud
6.我不算谁的附庸
王韵瑶
也不是某段的支流河
比起这些
我更想成为一场顷刻间的滂沱
旷野间乍起的风波
又或是唐朝遗风外
悬着的唯一月色
人生本就是一首诗歌
而他们的文字浅薄
不该被潦草地印刷着
所以在我笔下
一重山有一重山的错落
我有我的平仄
I Am Not Anyone’s Appendage
By Wang Yunyao
I am not anyone’s appendage
Nor a tributary of some section
Compared to these
I’d rather be a sudden downpour
A gust of wind rising in the wilderness
Or the only moonlight hanging
Beyond the legacy of the Tang Dynasty’s style
Life is originally a poem
Yet their words are shallow
Not to be carelessly printed
So in my writing
One range of mountains has its own arrangement
I have my own rhythm
Su Yun’s Poem:
栅栏
我学会笨拙的飞
或是跳跃
我就去爬盯我千遍的栅栏
用我沾上的泥点记录
我所填过的格块
填满一面
包括尽头挤压变形的铁丝
我忘记笨拙的飞
或是跳跃
我就去走俯视我千遍的横杆
用我脱落的绒羽记录
我所歇息过的桩头
走满千寸
包括中间被冰雹敲掉的木板
当我已经无力，溃烂
就让我的骨头
凭着记忆粘在铁网十字的中心
凝视人巷学会苟活的人们
用混着羽毛捏的泥人
标记十字路口的空间
The Fence
When I learned the clumsy flight
or the leap
I went to climb the fence that had stared at me a thousand times
using the mud spots stuck to me to record
every grid I’d filled
Filling up an entire side
including the twisted wire at the end
When I forgot the clumsy flight
or the leap
I went to walk the crossbar that had looked down on me a thousand times
using the downy feathers I’d shed to record
every post I’d rested on
Walking a thousand inches
including the plank in the middle, knocked off by hailstones
When I’m finally powerless, decaying
let my bones
stick to the center of the iron net’s cross
staring at the crowd in the alley—people who’ve learned to survive by compromise
using a mud doll kneaded with feathers
to mark the space at the crossroads
Biography
Suyun, 17 years old, is a member of the China Poetry Society and a young poet. His works have been published in more than ten countries. he has published poetry collections Yang Fa Wan Wu (Inspiring All Things) and Rui Yu Zhe Si (Wise Words and Philosophical Thoughts) in China, and WITH ECSTASY OF MUSINGS IN TRANQUILITY in India. he is the recipient of the Guido Gozzano Orchard Prize of Italy, the Special Prize for Foreign Writers of the City of Pomezia (with the organizing committee hailing him as “a craftsman of Chinese lyric poetry”), the “Cuttlefish Bone”
Award for Best International Writer Under 25, and the Creative Award of the Naji Naaman International Literary Prize of Lebanon.
They were twins — born from the same body, living two different sorrows. One carried illness, the other carried guilt. When a letter arrives wrapped in the scent of nasturtiums, one sister must face the truth she’s buried for years: love can be painful, and forgiveness even harder. A quiet story about loss, jealousy, unspoken love, and the haunting ties of sisterhood.
Chapter 1 A Memory in Bloom
— Goodbye… Her voice rang out like a “hello” meant for tomorrow. I quietly watched her walk away, swaying like the spring breeze. In her hand, a cane — tapping against the ground with a rhythm of its own. “Look,” she said, “the nasturtiums are blooming. Aren’t they lovely? Pick one for me…” I looked around. I had never noticed nasturtiums here before. And yet now, branches burst open with blossoms. Gently, I picked the finest bud and handed it to her. With weak, trembling fingers, she caressed the flower. A soft breath escaped her. “It smells beautiful… When you visit my grave, bring nasturtiums. Nothing else. Okay?” “It’s too early to talk about death, little lady,” I said, trying to smile. “You’ve got a long life ahead.” I didn’t believe my own words. She didn’t reply. She only smiled, smelling the flower deeper. “Lay me next to it someday…” I wanted to say, ‘Why are you hurting me like this? Why use death to scare me?’ But I said nothing. “When we get home, we’ll sew matching dresses. With nasturtiums. Just like before.” She stayed silent. Inside, I knew she was counting the ways we were no longer the same. My arms ached. Light things grow heavy when you hold them too long. “Look — we’re home.” I gently lowered her. She couldn’t stand, just sat on the ground, breath shallow. I helped her to her chair. “Stay tonight… please.” Her voice trembled, pleading. I couldn’t say no. “Open the window,” she said. “Let me see the bright world. I’m tired of the dark.” I opened it. The spring breeze carried in the scent of medicine, sorrow, and memory. I wanted to cry. I looked at her — eyes closed. Was she asleep? I touched her hair — wet with sweat. “Sleep well, my nasturtium…”
Chapter 2 The Letter
— I’m sorry about your twin… My friend’s words pull me out of the film of the past. My eyes still gaze toward the window. The wind gently flutters the curtain. — If you want, I can stay with you? — No… I want to be with her. I press the scarf, still smelling of nasturtiums, to my chest. My friend silently leaves. I lie on the bed that feels emptier without her. As I reach for an extra pillow, a white envelope slips to the floor. I pick it up — the scent of nasturtium instantly surrounds me. Inside: a small note and the dried flower — the same one. I open the letter.
“My dear… Are you still changing pillowcases? (You’re smiling, I know it.) I’m going toward a light where pupils shine the same. Please don’t cry. I’m not mad you didn’t become my donor. I love you. I never said it when I was alive, did I? I’m tired. Maybe if you hadn’t left me that day out of jealousy, I could’ve lived longer. I’m not mad at you. (Strikethrough): Damn it, I am mad. I hate you. I wanted to live. At least until I was twenty-two. You’re a coward. At least admit it after I’m gone.”
Even the nurse writing this down for me probably knows you better. I know I’ve been cruel. I always blamed you for everything — my sickness, my loneliness, my blindness. Hurting you made me feel lighter somehow. But it never lasted. I liked watching you suffer with guilt. Because I was already walking toward death. We were twins — same body, different pain. When I fell, I wanted you to fall too. Do you see what a terrible person I was? I wanted you to be just as broken. I only ever wanted you to say: ‘It’s my fault. I left my sister alone. I’m the one to blame.’ But you always ran. From guilt. From me. From truth.
Isn’t fate cruel? When we were born, they thought you’d be the weak one. I was the healthy twin. But you lived. And I… Our parents always took care of you more. You were the sick daughter. I was jealous. I know it sounds silly, but… I wanted to be sick too. I thought being sick meant being loved. I envied you. And you envied me. You wanted to get well. I wanted to fall apart. Mom always said, ‘You’re strong, you’ll manage.’ You used to carry me. I made you — the sick sister — carry me. What a manipulative, selfish child I was. I hurt myself on purpose. I wanted bruises. I just wanted someone to notice me too.
Looking at me now… I realize God gave me what I wished for. I always thought sickness meant love. I was wrong. You only understand the value of something when it’s gone. Yes, I jumped from that tree on purpose. I did. If I could turn back time — I’d never do it. That day, I had a school competition. Everyone’s family was there — except mine. You had one of your attacks again. I was angry. I thought, “Mom only needs her sick daughter.” So I jumped. After that, you got better. And I finally got our parents. At first, I liked it. Then I began to suffer. I blamed you for everything. You ran away. Forgive me, please. I know you couldn’t be my donor. I always knew. Don’t blame yourself. Just live. I loved you. I never said it out loud. P.S. When the nasturtiums bloom — remember me.”
I wanted to scream. Inside me, something broke — like a dam collapsing. But this time, my tears were silent. “You didn’t know…” I whispered. I held the letter to my chest, hands shaking. “That day… I pretended to be sick.” So our parents wouldn’t go to her competition. I was jealous too. Of the smart, healthy girl… I curled up at the edge of the bed. Now, no one’s here. Just me, the letter… and the scent of nasturtiums. “It was my fault… my fault…” — I murmured, lips trembling. It was hard to admit. But it was the truth.
