Her face appeared, Moons in her veil, In rosy, red like coral…When she removed a veil from her full moon, and shyness adorned her gaze…
Ah, my beloved…!! After you, Will I see…? A full moon I converse with in the sky of my horizon, And love asks: Where is the reader of the verse of passion…?! In embrace and union…
For your eyes, A poem tempts me…From the clarity of your intoxicating glance. My soul is reborn, and for your union, I wrote poetry as ink. The hunter of your heart. I strive towards that heart, And the eyes’ confession Of longing openly To a beloved… who stood at my door…And what she hid from my eyes openly, I see in her beauty the chapter of embrace…
Fadi Sido is the editor in chief of Raseef 81 magazine in Germany.
Every nation has great figures who become its pride and honor. We, the Uzbek people, are justly proud of our poetess Zulfiya, whose beautiful poems, penetrating our literature, spirituality, and delicate hearts, have captured the hearts of millions. In nurturing love for the Motherland, respect for the native language, and feelings of kindness and compassion in the hearts of the young generation, the works of this great figure play a significant role.
One of the talented students studying at our school, Zahro Qahramonova, is among those gifted girls who embody such human emotions in her heart and who has developed a love for the art of words. In every line of poetry, Zahro feels beauty, sincerity, dreams, and aspiration. When she reads a poem, she becomes inspired just like little Zulfiya. She gives every word a place in her heart and brings each image to life in her imagination.
For us teachers, this is a great happiness — to work with students whose hearts are filled with love for poetry and whose souls shine with dreams. Zahro’s noble intentions, her dedication to creativity, and her ability to reflect on great themes such as the Motherland, mother, nature, and peace, give us reason to call her a true “little Zulfiya.”
Zulfiya’s proud lines, “I am the daughter of Uzbekistan”, today have become a life motto for thousands of girls like Zahro. We believe that today’s little Zulfiyas will grow into tomorrow’s enlightened, devoted, and creative women. Zahro is one of those girls who is confidently stepping toward such dreams.
Unwavering support and non-judgmental attitude makes the bonds more precious
Positive attitude with good mindset
is a boon with grace and respect
Nonchalant attitude destroying
imbalances of minds calling for
disrespect, harassment and rapes
also lapses in moral decadences
Attitude in itself is a superpower
It’s based on the way how you’re being treated
Let there be voice and not merely an echo to fade
The positive attitude brings accolades to lasting success
Keep up your attitude in grace as you’re born to express yourself
A fundamental force influencing your actions
Bearing a strong ethical values
Unconsciously cultivated prelude to action
Reflections of our inner self through challenges of daily life
We are responsible for shaping our own lives with a blend of attitude.
————
ELEGANCE OF LOVE
Dancing through the moonbeams
so enchanting
Under the twinkling stars in the amidst of challenges
Yet keeping us connected
with firm determination in mind
Waiting with patience and perseverance for your kisses so warm and sweet
I decorate each ray so magical
Crafted every verse I write
Unparalleled embodiment
weaving tapestry of dreams
soaked in the elegance of love
Unravelling the deepest mysteries
Transporting down the abyss of heart
Awakening the soul from slumber’s deep
Unfolding the stories untold
Drifting my thoughts where dreams reside
Through the night so inviting
I paint the canvas besides
the vistas unknown
Embracing one another
We renew our bond of love
Knitting the web of trust
We mingle in the breathes so warm
Never to let you go
For I live in the sheets
of crumpled linen
Wrapped in the scents of your body
Where I hear the echoes
of your silence
lying under the twinkling stars.
Parvinder was born and brought up in the coastal city of Mombasa, Kenya, East Africa. Having dedicated her career to shaping the minds of future generations, she served as a principal from the distinguished senior secondary schools in India and also served as charity in the British schools in UK.
Parvinder is a national award winner from NCERT, New Delhi, for making teaching and learning processes easier through classroom aids for both teachers and pupils. One of the defining moments of her poetic journey occurred during a visit to Dove Cottage and the museum dedicated to the venerable poet, William Wordsworth, nestled in the enchanting landscape of Grasmere, Lake District, UK.
In the hallowed halls of this literary sanctuary, standing amidst the profound legacy of Wordsworth, Parvinder found herself immersed in the timeless essence of poetry, a force capable of transcending the boundaries of time and place. Her passion for poetry found recognition when she was bestowed with the prestigious accolades in a national poetry contest in 2022, orchestrated among a gathering of over 2000 poets from across India on the national level.
Parvinder is a recipient of many literary awards in poetry….
– An Ambassador for peace in the World Poetic Fraternity
– The Global Peace Ambassador Awards
– Literary Ambassador Awards
– Honorary Doctorate Award
– An Ambassador for Indian culture for Insight Magazine (USA)
– Membership card from ICAL and felicitations of appreciation and excellence, joining the bridges across the world through her literary work!
Parvinder is the author of the poetry collection, “UNFATHOMED SECRETS”, a heartfelt collection of 100 poems from the abyss of her heart. Parvinder’s poems are translated into various languages across the globe. She is honoured to be one of the 58 selected poets, whose poems are translated into Turkish and published in Turkey in the anthology book, “ Poets From The World”
Her poems are also published among 231 great noble world poets, in the book “ WORLD CONTEMPORARY POETS VOLUME 2.” A book, “ The Women – Global Poetic Gems” is the Collection of Lyrical Poems By 35 International Poets. Parvinder is proud to be featured among one of these world renowned poets. Her poems are reviewed by eminent writers, authors and also reviewers from Harvard University. From time to time her poems are featured in various journals, newspapers and magazines across the globe. She has collaborated in poetic duets with poets across the globe.
She has also participated in live poetry recitation among global poets on Google Meet and won accolades! Parvinder has translated a historical chronological book, from Kosovo, written by Dibran Fylli “Prekazi Brezni Trimash-HE IS ALIVE“.
Parvinder’s poems are music to the heart that express different aspects of life, conjuring up emotions from happiness to sadness using different styles and themes giving pleasure to the readers.
I was disturbed by this phone call in the last month.
RAIN IN MY EYES
The rainbow appeared
behind the lines of rain,
the worries and troubles of stis,
carved verses
where the west burned,
in the braided flower,
we put a wreath.
You can’t see the rainbow
it didn’t rain a little,
in my eyes…!
METAMORPHOSIS
(Loraa of New York)
Loraa asked me to imitate Odysseus,
not to listen
sirens of the deep,
nor the poet’s erotic verses
in the rocky waves of the sea.
In New York he studied Pythagoras,
the language of mimicry read the unspoken word
wrote it in saltiness,
where life is a dream
and the dream becomes life.
The epic words underwent a metamorphosis,
the seagulls danced
over our heads,
deep sea conception
shivers run through,
air in New York
I missed the thrill of life.
Lan Qyqalla is an Albanian writer, editor-in-chief of the EliteOrfeu International Magazine, winner of several national and international literary awards, member of the Albanian-American Academy of Sciences and Arts in New York, and Director of the International Poetic Festival “Poetic, Literary and Artistic Heritage in Kosovo” for 17 editions, and Professor at the Gymnasium in Pristina. The poet from Kosovo has published more than 67 works (poems and stories) in languages including Albanian, Romanian, Francophone, Swedish, English, Polish, Arabic, Hindi, and Mandarin. Some of his poems have been translated and published in several languages and in several magazines and literary portals. Qyqalla lives and creates in Pristina.
It hasn’t rained in a while. I hope it does soon. The earth needs the rain and besides, all the clouds and winds and strange atmospheric things that come with the rain are more interesting and inspiring than a sunny day.
You know though, come to think of it, the meadow, the place where much of this writing’s events and thoughts are set, is rarely completely dry. Its grasses and earth seem to retain some moisture, somehow. It is sagacious that way. I know because my shoes, most of the time Converse, high top yellow and regular blue (both faded now), get wet there.
Today there were a few souls along the path, coming back as they were, but after I passed them, not many. Not any at all in fact. Let me give some context to the place. It’s after towns and highways and even roads. In fact, the road ends at the beginning of the forest, having turned from asphalt to gravel to dirt.
There is a public forest to the right. It attracts dog walkers, hikers, joggers, bike riders, photographers, walking groups, and sometimes homeless people. Sometimes there is even a type that is hiding out from something like the law or people in general, a type that stays in the woodlands when others would not in parts where others don’t go.
But to the left is a private forest. This is the one that leads to the meadow. The meadow is like a golden treat at the end of a journey, a beautiful goal if ever there was one. There are two definite and visible No Tress passing signs at its two entrances. People obey them. But some lucky souls like me have permission from the old farmer that owns the land, to go there.
Two
There is something else, something bordering on the esoteric or gnostic. It’s insight seen while driving to that entrance of the forest that leads to the meadow. Since it’s rural, there are many sprawling properties. Many affluent homes, the new ones, are grey and without character. They just copy one another. It’s doubly sad, because of the copying but also what’s being duplicated. Not a thing in it all looks unique or soulful, not even a special trellis or bit of coloured brick, sounding fountain, or flowing garden.
But…I noticed that some places have older homes, from a time of wooden porch and red brick and chimney. From an era of grounded-ness and more honest atmosphere. And beyond rain barrel and sunflower, past stained perimeter fence and sometimes no fence at all, I could see a pond and little forest back there. They would contain a different area-atmosphere. Mysterious, even in the plane light of day under the clean azure sky. It’s as if the prose of the world turned into poetry, then. Trees. Leaves. Branches. What was back there? I wished I could know. I longed to go. But I knew none of them, not one of those owners. I supposed that they took the magic for granted, these sprawling old lands. And how could they not, if they indeed did? It was their reality. Lucky ones, that’s what they were, however hard working, they were still lucky. All I could do was drive by. Being an empath, I could just feel the areas even for moments and from a distance. I loved it. They were as if containing portals or vortexes to other worlds magical and monumental.
Often I imagine the coyote dens, the travelling foxes, the large porcupines. I knew there must be deer that wait and watch near there, because I had seen them. Maybe there were types of insects rare or not even discovered by scientific or poetic eyes. The scents of the flora. The sounds of the rains at night. The woodpecker or Bluejay. Strange snakes representing the kundalini energy. The kind summer dew morning. The autumnal hued leaves when that highly spiritual time came, the veil between worlds thinning. Halloween, Thanksgiving. Then some string of electric lights for Christmas. And much more. How come I couldn’t have a place like that? What a caretaker and curator I could be, surely would be. Ah well, I would think and sigh it away with a brief smile. What was meant to be, would be.
Three
Well, the path. What of it? And then the meadow itself of course. Go past the signs and there are two options, no, three. The top after heading left has itself stationed on the uppermost part of a long and winding valley. It is safe but the side does become steep if you go off the regular way. Deer cross there sometimes and other times hide in the bushes by the thick trees. Wild berries grow and there are snake holes, many sticks, and lichen and moss. The one grouse I had, only one slight one, is that there are very few rocks or boulders. I don’t know if they were removed or just never there. It would be nice to see some cinematic view of the lands through time to note small and large changes, to watch the valley and its surrounding habitat move, grow, glisten, and weather or bloom.
In the middle down the way is, well, the middle path, thicker on the sides especially of late for some reason. More raspberries, a hybrid berry of some sort, half black and half red. Many birds and numerous chipmunks running for cover at the sound of things or else up trees to safety, talking to their friends. The trail is bumpy in parts but also serene. So uninhabited by human presence. Mostly pristine and untouched. Those are the real ‘moments,’ nature lovers look for,- the meditative and quiet, the Zen-like phenomenon of being present amidst a type of natural mystical sense…
And the more main path, it’s old Oak trees and some Evergreens, straight for a while but also winding along. Mushrooms and pebbles, good old dirt earth and sometimes the rain drops left on leaves after a night storm. Walk and walk and walk. See and be and have a certain amount of glee. Soon enough, part Pine and placid easy places,
going along there by the verdant canopy where bits of sun filter down through to say hello, will be the magnificent meadow waiting.
Suddenly it can be seen through a frame of red sumac that reaches over both sides of the path arching to itself. Blue skies beyond. A green swath is cut all around and some ancient farm machinery wait in the middle like a token gesture, a nod to other decades. The sun lights everything then. Continue. A corpse of trees is waiting to the right. Birds fly in and out. Some to sing and some to speak their speech loquaciously and vigorously.
Onward is a way to a lower area where chaga mushroom, rare and not known by many, grow on some birch streets in a certain stand of them. The blooming earth has overtaken an ancient access road where a bank robber is said to have abandoned a stolen car, then gotten away while hiding in barns for nights and running between forests and meadows under the light of the moon. Now such an old story, but there is an actual abandoned car from that time down there, and everyone, even straight and upright old timers, are rooting for him. Some have him escaping out all with the loot and somehow making his way to down to Florida. Maybe a personal dream projection from some old storyteller local. Maybe not.
But drama, thoughts, and time come and go. The goldenrod and queens lace, impossibly tall, a refuge for myriad bugs and insects and the home of grasshoppers dragonflies and even the Praying Mantis, seem to stay. Tall and well-wrought in the clean air world. Every direction then is green and vast, open, and calm, pastoral and perfectly put.
——-
Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet, writer, and photographer. His third compilation of prose poems and pictures, The Book of Love and Mourning, is forthcoming in autumn 2025.
Forgetting about stocks and politics and the economy
Forgetting about being at work or on time
And need to go mad and become alive
I’ve been trying not to be crazy, but
The crazy days and moments call for me
And seduce me like the voluptuous walk
Of a cat,
I do not want to go back to the mad days,
I suffered myself greatly
Or do I?
A World Without
I’ve been thinking there was no women
In the world,
And how could that be,
Just a thought a feeling i had,
And it depressed me,
To wake up and all the women gone,
And the world was left to the men,
And I became so depressed,
Could men, like me, go on without women?
That’s terrible thought to have
The world might collapse right now
And the men would go on doing all kinds of manly shit
And doing it well, like they have
But i was thinking of the world without ladies and girls
And it just didn’t seem worth it
And lots of men would go crazy slowly,
A whole world without poetry, music and dance,
Just the hard tough stuff
We were left with
And suddenly like i did not want to be here
Or anywhere
I Must Stop
Thinking that I am better than others
I must stop thinking my pain is more valid
I must quit thinking I should be rich and famous and handsome
I must quit thinking that certain jobs below me
I must quit thinking I am deserving
That I am smarter than others and that I know better
Where do these feelings come from?
My stupendous ego
Playing upon a boat of isolation
No one is onboard in the sea
As the cold calm water goes go
Without beginning.
A Strong Man
I want to be a strong man
Someone benching five hundred pounds. Looking like a bodybuilder
Someone running the 40 in four seconds. Running like man cheetah
Some one running marathons regularly, incredible stamina
Someone makes important decisions, like a CEO. Affecting so many lives. With towers on his back
I wanted to be a strong man
I felt like a strong man for a day maybe two
Or maybe it was a year or two
Maybe I was around 32
I remember lifting 50 bags at work,
Just tossing the around like nothing
And drinking beer after work. Feeling strong and manly
And thinking that i would always feel that way,
The winter winds nipped my nose
At 46 I don’t feel like it anymore. My
Knees ache just thinking of lifting that 50 pound bag
Wanting is so soft
But reality is so hard.
Just Want to be Loved
And you write and think and publish and study and write
Thinking of perfect poems and perfect thoughts
You want to be loved and celebrated
And praised and showed the good time
And have people interviews and ask me questions
Just to feel important in the world and share
Little insights with people who dig my stuff
Feeling like Henry Miller or Ernest Hemingway
And have people say that is really good,
And how did you come up with that,
What inspired you do or say that
I’ll buy your book, and you give a reading here
Will pay you
I guess most writers feel this way,
And the others, can hardly care
At all
Damion Hamilton is from St. Louis MO. His poems have appeared in Chiron Review, Poesy Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee, Red Fez, The Camel Saloon and many others. He writes poetry, stories and novels. He has written several books. Available here. He can be found on twitter here.
