Burned the houses, trees and all the things around
Fire is not only the fire at all
A ghostly appearance haunts the earth
No time to realize it devours the whole
Fire is raging in body
Fire outside
Leaving thousands of people homeless
And death of twenty nine
The world empowered by heat with carbon dioxide
We are mankind played by
As people play with it
So wavy current flowing on body
In this form of change
People fall in hopelessness
Burning the body of nature
They are running so fast
Fire is chasing from behind like the snakes sparking
O! Fire in Los Angeles!
I always think over.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
10 February, 2025.
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 the 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 published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.
there are sounds everywhere that you will never hear again
*** We’ll die of love We’ll die of AIDS Life bets at their highest Prices for graves are rising I kiss your imaginary portrait Rain washes away memory with transparent watercolor I love you like at the very beginning I’m dying without you before and after you Birds meet the winged dawn Meanwhile the cast-iron night in my heart is growing to burst
***
the bird said it would be quiet and the air was filled with no one’s breath
and in the evening on the corner near the lake birds flocked and were silent
I watched the birds and was also silent, unable to move
meanwhile, somewhere far away, very close, people plucked up the courage
to yell when a stranger with the face of death roars artillery at them through the window
*** God looks like you and also like a section of forest burned under the snow The rusty bones of the snowflakes show me the grinding path I step quietly so as not to wake up the little Jesuses – not yet resurrected flowers Nobody knows what will happen at the end of the road Probably at the end of the journey we will all return home After all the earth is cruelly looped by an ellipsoid But now in front of me is a fork of cast-iron milk of the night Where should I go: forward or into the future? Each step seems like a step into the grave abyss The cemetery stuck like a sticker to a shoe can’t be peeled off A snowstorm begins and the voice of the wind begins Celans aria The ivory of the sky dissolves in the eyes I lose strength and reluctantly fall asleep on chest of the wind I dream about you and it seems to me that now you are even more like God My body is covered with a blanket of snow and I’m burning for the last time
*** white tea of the day sugar time cubes
the powder of my views dissolves in your thick boiling water of silence
red triangles of the walls of the long night You don’t /everything is obvious to everyone/
I. Dark Prologue Walking through the hillside, with a hiking bag slung over my shoulder and a pair of dusty shoes, I feel the cold seep into my bones, making me shiver. The dim night, the howling wind. I drag my heavy feet, continuing along the mountain’s flank. My consciousness gradually fades, blurring the boundary between reality and illusion.
II. Debris Narrative Piece Perhaps I have returned to a reality long buried in my memories. My classmates turned my back into an ant’s paradise. When their pranks crossed a certain point, it felt as if an engine roared in my mind. Powerless and angry, only cold and flame remained. Mocking laughter was like the stench of rotting corpses. Vultures might love it, but I detest it. Perhaps, the vultures are the classmates themselves. Perhaps they find joy in teasing one another. Perhaps, the classmates: one, two, three, more. Vultures: one, two, three, more. The Sacred Mountain reappears before my eyes.
III. Rebel Sonata Shadows flicker; the road is rugged; the heavy snow strikes my face, stretching endlessly before me. I dream, I pray, hoping there aren’t so many vultures attacking. I dream, I pray to become a black-clad warrior, to withstand all forms of malice. I dream, I pray to reach the mountaintop and find a tranquil realm—a place without discrimination, war, or divisions. Bellies, teeth, and fur. The vultures’ bodies come into focus before me. Their long claws shoot flames, swift as lightning, like Wolverine’s in the movie, longer than the epic of the Mahabharata. The earth splits, and the shrubwood is destroyed. Flames stab across my down coat, almost scorching my hiking bag with violent burns. The flames, like serpentine trails, dart everywhere, burning everything. Their wings whirl, bringing a huge chill wind, akin to this arctic climate. Fear is a tangible reality, yet the shadow of fear within me is more terrible than fear itself. The vultures are the enemies; fear is instant, always present in life. They attack, they revel, they laugh madly. I struggle madly to resist.
IV. Freedom Rhapsody Unsolved math problems sway like classmates’ proud heads, always presenting puzzles instead of solutions. Their voices echoed in the classroom, turning into atonal music, reminiscent of Igor Stravinsky. With blades drawn in my imagination, I cut away my incompetent self. Whatever the cost, I hope to achieve one thing. I aspire, I pray, I cannot fall on this treacherous journey. I aspire, I pray, to keep marching forward. My flashlight not only illuminates the path ahead, it also becomes a sword, slaying my weaknesses on the frigid trail to the Sacred Mountain.
V. Solo Piece When they prepared their mischief once more, I rose, statuesque, with a voice like rolling thunder, and said, “No.” My voice was loud: once, twice, thrice. It drove away the vultures before they could plunge me off the cliff. Yes, I can. “I believe I can say no to the malice in life. I can become my black-clad warrior, driving away bothersome vultures and all manner of monsters. I try, try, again, like Sisyphus confronting his boulder.”
Red Blood
Blood rain is dripping
from the battlefield in the Far East now.
Every second. Every ruin.
Every window. Every child.
The blood moon makes someone shiver
with a special prophecy.
Women varnish a bloody red with painted nails.
An American friend has a bloody floor.
He was scratched by a bloody-haired cat,
his arm bleeding red over the screen
of his phone, smeared with blood last week.
The sunset, “暮” in Chinese words,
turns at dusk into a giant, red blood egg.
The yolk spills into the mushroom soup,
becoming a red-blood delicacy
with a juicy, rare, blood-spattered steak.
A medical-themed drink— Blood Energy Potion,
popular in 2014. Back in 1957, A painting—
“Black in Deep Red” an abstract collision from.
Yukio Mishima’s self-martyrdom
was an avant-garde show.
A display of red, an art of blood.
The uncanny cup my teacher,
bought yesterday, seeping blood.
The Bombax ceiba blooms with a vital red.
The sudden snow last year in Portland
dropped red on my blood-covered poetry,
a memory of a deceased friend.
The friend’s name is pronounced like blood.
He was soaked in a bloody past.
A bleeding rose now grows before my eyes.
The red won’t let me forget.
It will flow into him at the grave,
whispering longing to him.
But Life Goes On
No one can touch my heart
It is as cold as the Arctic Frost
Friendship in the tech age
is Higanbana of flowers
Unreachable –
Unattainable –
My desire is lost
I stand on the Tower Bridge
amidst the dense fog
Faded memories drift through
not this foggy day
The vivid past has faded, somehow
And the party on the lawn
the dance during the party
the laughter of peals
echoed from yesterday
That’s yours, theirs and
is a blurred world
Where everyone is near
As I reach out the misty rain
like pine needles
it pierces my skin into London’s fogs
I can touch the raindrops
not grasp the joyous past
nor the distant future
within the fleeting mist
I want to ask
Will Men be one?
Will wars be none?
Will all races come together
And exist as one?
As the fog lifts
I am still here
Nothingness
Nothingness is silent, yet contains all sounds, empty, yet empty of nothing.
Nothingness is water— water without shape.
Pour it into an indigo cup, and the water takes the shape of the cup— that is emptiness, like someone truly seeing reality.
But nothingness is something that reaches emptily toward itself.
Yucheng Tao, from China, is studying songwriting at the MI College of Contemporary Music in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared in multiple literary venues, including three Wingless Dreamer’s Open Theme contest selections. NonBinary Review later reprinted his poem” Blue Horse” alongside an author interview. Synchronized Chaos featured three of his poems, while his work also appeared in Ink Nest, The Arcanist, Moonstone Art Center, Poetry Potion, and Literary Yard, Spillwords.
I searched for my lover, wandering through many hearts and deserts
I, the lover, my heart is a lover, my soul, I miss it
I couldn’t find her, the angel, my beloved
I sought my beloved, soaring to the heavens
I searched for Shirin and Layli, the princess, my soul’s beloved
My heart searching, eagerly seeking, yearning for the tale
I was stricken like separation, O beautiful parrot
I became enchanted, a lover, longing, I miss it
That ghazal, the parrot’s melody, took my soul to the sky
A pure heart, I became a lover, my heart longs, I miss it
—
Tursunov Abdulla Bakhrom o’g’li was born on September 18,2005, in the Nurobod district of the Samarkand region. He is currently first course in the Karshi university of history faculty.
