Is Love a Song Title

It was not only charm,

that made her wishes

become my dreams.

She liked the smell of lilacs

and I wanted to become a painter.

From the instant I asked,

if she were waiting

for the stars to forbid the night to end,

she said, 

“I sympathize with the color blue.”

Then I wanted to become a psychologist.

Is love a song title 

or something you say when 

you move from apprentice to master?

She playfully mocked the things that needed to be awakened in me.

She giggled when it was inappropriate,

whether at the movies or at a party.

A moment later, everyone smiled.

And when she turned to me, 

I noticed a cluster of light freckles on her neck.

I wanted to become a serious Shakespearean actor.

There can be a milky silhouette cameo

sometimes found in a peculiarly smelling antique shop 

that knows all your secrets just by passing it.

And you want to move on but find you are buying it. 

And when home,

you hold it

and stare

and curiously

discover it is not meant to keep.

One day while she was listening to music in the wind 

and making a list of novels to be read

I wanted to place the cameo on her dresser,

but though there was space, 

there was no room.

Decisions come,

either by

profession or discovery.

Keeping the hand over a flame 

or in a pocket.

Like looking into glass brick,

you can see form and color, 

but 

can’t judge distance or depth. 

One day 

I was in a bar with friends

who were applauding all that I despised.

I found my phone and looked at her name,

but I could never make that call.

Like great Art,

all expectations must remain illusions.

She 

became someone who others went to for answers.

Someone greatly loved.

And I,

I looked in many reference books 

to find that definition.

You can find me at bookstores, 

maybe at the theatre

or at a nightspot where I am easy to find 

because I am laughing the loudest.

But you will never find me 

found.

Tunis, Tunisia

They began their search for her the day of the wedding

Wandering around the eastern Sahara

Oasis’s turned scarce as they went on

No signs of her were noticed

The lack of water began to feel like Pangea, separating immensely

Until the shadow would appear 

Her reminisce stood atop a dune

Glowing eyes beaming down onto their hideous souls

Who really were they

It was because of them that she had vanished into the creek

Her decrepit body flowing down the river of her once achievable dreams

She had only lived a grain of her imagined life

Had they come for her, maybe she wouldn’t be a shadow

Maybe that grain would’ve became a large sandy beach

A Stark Escape

My shadow leaves me on the sidewalk,

and walks alone

down the street across from me.

It slips out of me,

from the soul’s hidden recesses

where the unsaid finds a voice

upon my tongue.

It needs no shoes,

no umbrella,

no cigarettes…

It never checks its pockets

the way I do.

It crosses on red,

heedless of passing cars,

or storefront displays.

It greets the shops

I no longer dare to walk past,

and smiles at passersby

I know by name.

When it sees an unfamiliar face

wearing the very clothes I wear,

it disappears behind

an abandoned sing.

It resumes its walk

when realizing that

it was not me who saw it,

as though forever

it were fleeing my body,

footsteps have grown heavy,

and it alone breaks free

of a name called “I.”

Mustafa Abdulmalek Al-Sumaidi, Yemen

The Beauty of Autumn

Autumn’s beauty, its fading grace,

So fitting for the eyes of autumn,

I burned the withered branches,

And pressed saffron leaves against my heart.

Then I wrote my very last poem

And brought it to an end.

The fires of memory burned within my chest,

The poem burned, my heart burned too,

Until the flame reached my throat.

My fingers—oh, my fingers—

Were burning, crackling, blazing still.

And the verses I wrote at the very end

Turned rebellious and mocked me.

A flower bud that refused to fall,

And the echo of withered branches

Seemed to whisper back at me.

Autumn’s beauty, its leaves of gold…

Anvarova Nilufar, a student of the 10D grade of the Erkin Vohidov creativity school of Margelan city, Fergana region, Uzbekistan.

(My legends said…and then!)

– Strange beginnings troubled me.

She would dry me on her watery handkerchief…her tears,

Then she would deliver me to the Creator.

When I perceived some of the city’s strangeness,

I lost my crudeness.

So she concealed me as mythical sand, guided by the wind into a whirlwind and fire…

I wished the remnants of Rome would emerge and steal me

On their swords before my time.

– My endless legends said:

The suns would dry me and I would “bend” into clouds,

The winds would roll them to the ends of beginnings,

Until I broke like a falling tear,

And the eyelids of the earth would lie still…

And I remained searching for the ruin of water…

For the sorrow of the earth; so that I might not die…

Your clay resisted, and extended a hand;

 To protect me on a mountain that embraced a sigh like water…

And I saw your face, frowning like hell…

And I kept drawing on my memory our final union…

When I met you and we mingled,

My femininity was fleeing,

And a skirmishing wind was leading me to you.

And I kept drawing like a child two palm trees,

And a boat that comes with two oars from the furthest veins of water,

Until I awoke to the burning of my first candle

In your distant darkness.

– My endless legends said:

I will keep melting in flames, so that I may reveal what your match hides in the whiteness of snow,

And flow from my wound that you made me bleed, a new wax that will not melt.

 My endless legends said:

Surely I will drop candle after candle

And let the threads of my burning passion flow

That will pierce the pain that has been mended in your echo…

All the longings will pass… the fires…

The pulse of my rhyme… and you,

And I will scatter your buried sorrow

In tales of love and infatuation…

Layla… Buthayna… the spirit of “Elsa”…

Which of us had our ships sink on the shore of love?

Tell “Ibn Zaydun”—the one who sang in our marble palace for a time and wandered—

And his mad friend—the one who “got entangled on the day of Darat Jaljal,” and forgot to weep over the marble candle—:

The city’s alleys became drunk…

The wine cups became drunk on my lips,

The “greenness of the snow” melted and the drowned one committed suicide,

And there was none but “Zuleikha” treacherously cutting the shirt of your Prophet from behind and weeping.  My legends spoke… and I was captivated:

The down of candles… the scent of camphor…

The sweetness of milk… the cherries of fingertips when they dried…

The language of lilies and the creaking of narcissus…

The touch of fingertips on the edges of snow

And the lamp with its broken light…

As if the oil of its fire were snow that flew in all directions!

“The Didymoune” no longer loosens her braids

And the ancient pain in “Othello” does not yawn

The journey to reach her farthest reaches is fraught with apprehension and submission

My legends spoke… and then:

The woman falls like fresh candles…

Boxes from “Denmark” with fresh milk…

Pieces of cheese wrapped in milk,

And she keeps falling like fat and the heat of calories in the frozen body…

And she keeps falling…

Then she falls…

Then she falls…

 Hani Al-Fahham of Yemen

When Laughter Reveals the Truth: Reading The Miller’s Tale

A Book Review by Raida Jirjees

Book: The Canterbury Tales

Author: Geoffrey Chaucer

Translator: Nevill Coghill

Edition: Penguin Classics

Publisher: Penguin Classics

Publication Year: 2003

Pages: 528

ISBN: 9780140424386

There are books we approach because their reputation precedes them, and others that remain alive because they continue to recognise something in us. The Canterbury Tales belongs to both.

What draws me to Chaucer’s work is its extraordinary gathering of human voices. Pilgrims of different professions, social positions, desires, virtues, and weaknesses travel together and tell stories. Through this simple framework, the road to Canterbury becomes a road through human nature itself.

Among those voices, the Miller’s is impossible to ignore.

His tale does not enter politely.

It arrives laughing.

And behind that laughter, it watches us.

Chaucer and the Human Comedy

Geoffrey Chaucer, one of the defining voices of medieval English literature, possessed a remarkable ability to observe human contradiction. His humour can be ironic, playful, earthy, and deliberately crude, yet beneath it lies an understanding of vanity, desire, fear, and weakness.

The Miller’s Tale is a striking example.

John, an older carpenter, is married to the young Alison. Nicholas, a clever student, desires her, while Absolon pursues her with theatrical romantic devotion. Desire, jealousy, deception, and revenge soon turn their lives into farce.

Each character enters the tale carrying an illusion.

Chaucer gradually turns those illusions against them.

Intelligence, Fear, and Desire

Nicholas believes intelligence gives him control. Educated and resourceful, he uses his knowledge to manipulate John, convincing him that another catastrophic flood is coming.

But Chaucer does not allow the clever man to remain safely above the joke.

The deceiver eventually becomes part of it.

John is jealous and possessive, but he is also afraid. Nicholas succeeds because his lie speaks directly to that fear. There is something timeless here: we do not always believe what is most reasonable; sometimes we believe what most effectively confirms what we already fear.

Alison, meanwhile, is not merely a passive object of male desire. She participates in the deception and exercises her own will, though Chaucer does not turn her into a moral heroine. Like the others, she belongs to a world where desire repeatedly outruns responsibility.

Absolon offers another kind of illusion. He performs the role of the refined lover through appearance, song, and courtship, only to have his romantic self-image transformed into humiliation.

Here lies one of the tale’s sharpest contrasts:

the language of romance exists beside the physical reality of desire.

Why Does Chaucer Make Us Laugh?

Laughter in The Miller’s Tale does more than entertain. It strips away appearances.

Education does not guarantee wisdom. Age does not guarantee judgment. Romantic language does not guarantee love. Cleverness does not guarantee escape from humiliation.

Everyone believes, for a moment, that someone else is the fool.

Eventually, almost everyone becomes one.

Nicholas is educated but manipulative. John has experience but lacks discernment. Absolon has polish but little self-awareness. Alison understands the game but cannot stand outside its consequences.

Each character knows something.

None understands enough.

That distinction feels remarkably modern.

The costumes change.

Human vanity does not.

Reading Chaucer Today

A contemporary reader may find the tale’s bawdy humour excessive or uncomfortable, but its earthiness has a purpose. Chaucer deliberately sets the physical body against idealised notions of romance.

Modern readers may also question its treatment of marriage, gender, age, consent, and power, particularly Alison’s position as a young woman married to an older, jealous husband.

Such questions do not weaken a classic. They keep our conversation with it alive.

The Miller After the Knight

The position of The Miller’s Tale after The Knight’s Tale makes its comedy even sharper.

The Knight gives us chivalry, honour, ceremony, and elevated love. The Miller answers with bodies, tricks, adultery, and laughter.

One raises love toward the heavens.

The other pulls it into the bedroom.

Yet both ask whether human beings truly understand what they call love.

Final Assessment

I no longer see The Miller’s Tale simply as a collection of medieval jokes. I see laughter being used as a mirror.

Its comedy exposes weaknesses that time has not erased: vanity, jealousy, self-deception, desire, and misplaced confidence.

For the modern reader, the tale is also a reminder that a classic need not be solemn to be profound. Literature can reveal human nature through tragedy and beauty—but also through absurdity and an indecent joke.

Perhaps this is Chaucer’s quiet achievement.

He lets us laugh at his foolish characters long enough to realise that some part of their foolishness may belong to us as well.

And that is when the joke becomes literature.

A Garden of Memory

Morning comes

without her.

No song from the kitchen,

no sound of the kettle

only the garden,

wild with weeds,

waiting.

The roses bow

beneath their own weight.

I follow her path

through the wet grass,

placing my feet

where hers have been,

and the earth gives back

the weight of her footstep,

still there.

Her brass thimble

lies beside the sewing chair,

the threads she never finished

like tangled questions

I never had the chance

to ask.

A photograph she kept hidden

folded twice,

tucked behind her Bible

her younger self in another dress,

before the revolution

came looking for her.

When they came to question her,

she was in the garden.

She did not hurry inside.

She wiped her hands on her apron,

placed seeds in my palm

warm, unhurried

and walked toward the door

as if she had been

waiting for them for years.

“They can take the streets.”

I remember this, later

by the window,

watching them go.

When I was afraid,

she called me

“my little seed.”

Now I light a candle

in the room where she slept.

The flame trembles

small and steady

like her voice

calling my name

after everyone had gone.

Spring will come.

The roses will bloom again.

And somewhere in the turning

of the earth,

in the stubborn mint

that returns every time

where no one planted it

I place my hand in the soil

and know where to go.