The moon quickly rubbed itself with the star and sun,
Thank God, the floods passed away from us
Our hearts were filled with troubled weather.
Real dreams have arrived,
Every memory of mine is sweeter than honey,
My dear lady shed light on me,
There is light at the end of my path.
Sara Göyçeli Şerifova 23.05.2024
(ŞƏRIFOVA) 8.02. In 1962, she was born from the Sadanağac-Guney family of the Basarkeçer district of the Goycha district of Azerbaijan. Five books of the poetess have come to light so far. Over time, she worked as a branch manager in several newspapers and journals in the press. Its operation continues today. At the same time, her poems have been translated into many languages and appeared in Almanaxes. It is a member of the Azerbaijan Journalists Union. It operates specially in the field of Medicine. She is the co-vice president of the Women’s Council of the Social Union “The Development of Relationships among Turkish Women”. She is the owner of many awards for his activities.
The floor of his room was empty, except for old newspapers and some books dozing with dusty covers near a necktie. A chair leaned against a dilapidated wooden table like a man who had fallen asleep with his head on it. The room’s walls were pockmarked by numerous nail holes left from hanging pictures and an incongruous set of posters. On the wall hung a shirt the hand of neglect had circled with dust as its immaculate whiteness vanished. Beside it, from the head of another nail, hung a pair of brown trousers soiled apparently with spots of oil. In addition, a shoe and its mate languished in a corner next to the body of a black leather belt, which had lost its sheen.
A shadow slowly departed through a gap by the door, which stubbornly remained open even after a man’s hand tried to shut it. The closed window, though, retained the stench, which suggested the window had not been opened for a long time. The pair of pants fidgeted squeamishly and asked, “Why has he abandoned us, as if he hadn’t worked his butt off to buy us? He hasn’t worn me for a month, and that makes me feel I’m a chain shackling him to pain—after he nearly went crazy dreaming about me. Remember how he used to walk past the clothing store, day after day, slowing his pace as if melting with regret when he saw all the other trousers like me gradually disappear from the shop?
When we did meet—I mean when he saved up my price—he did not wait till an afternoon breeze had brushed aside the noon heat. No, he raced to me, smelling sweaty, just as the shopkeeper was closing the store for a siesta. He clung to the door with both hands, pleading, till the man opened the shop. Then he purchased me, expending all his money and many words of gratitude. He brought me here, and it was the same for you, Shirt. You were fresh, clean, and fragrant. Do you recall how he bathed, donned us, and rushed to her? Do you remember that rendezvous?”
2
The shirt sighed regretfully and replied, “Yes, I saw her smile at him. They sat down together. She caressed my sleeve and called it chic. Then my threads almost melted from her whispered words.” The pair of trousers trembled and shouted with rage: “But what’s happening? Why doesn’t he celebrate us now? Why is he content to wear shabby clothes so matted with dirt they resemble his hair and beard?” The shirt replied sarcastically, “Do you think you’re clean? Now that he doesn’t think to shake the dirt from your creases?”
The pair of trousers shuddered so nervously that it almost fell to the floor. Then it said, “Why mock me? You haven’t reveled in the scent of clean soap for a long time or smelled the way you did the first time they met. Have you forgotten that?” The shirt replied dreamily, “That’s true, Friend. I’ve wanted to retain her scent. Don’t you remember how close she was to him? He wished to possess her scent for a lifetime but failed. These humans lose touch with reality and cling instead to the fringes of a dream.” The trousers’ voice had a sorrowful rasp when it stammered, “What’s frightening is that he no longer needs us! He no longer wants us! He no longer loves us! I understand that love is needy and that he’s replaced us with other old, shabby clothes; but why?”
The shirt rested its collar on its sleeve thoughtfully and observed, “Some people are crazy. Yes, most people are crazy. But why do they toil to acquire us and then slouch around in old clothes?”
The pair of trousers scoffed, “Perhaps it’s nostalgia?”
The shirt wondered aloud: “Nostalgia for whom? For what? Nostalgia for poverty? For filth? For body odor?”
3
The pair of trousers shook violently. “I beg you! Be quiet. Keep still long enough for us to plan what we should do if he’s gone a long time.” Pointing to the belt and necktie, it asked:
“Should we fall and kill ourselves like those two? Or go dumb like his black shoes?”
“Or, should we wait to become a tasty meal for the armies of moths that consumed the contents of his wardrobe before he kicked the remnants outside?”
The shirt replied in a mournful whisper, “I think she won’t return to him and he won’t return to us, even though I watched their shadow puppets sketched on the ground—when they met . . . and parted. He was so enchanted by her that he forgot: what’s impossible always remains impossible. He wasn’t watching with the eye of his spirit. Oh, my friend, without him, our existence makes no sense. The worst humiliation is being unable to reject what you hate, and I hate being discarded. I hate anyone who discards me. I even hate the person who made me—for what?”
The pair of trousers wondered aloud, “Aren’t you blowing the situation out of proportion? You are something. You exist.”
The shirt replied intensely, “Says who? A thing without the person, who just departed and forgot about us is, nothing. Our existence is a logical contradiction. We cannot exist without the body we clothe, that becomes us as we become him.” The pair of trousers asked sadly, “Will he return?”
The shirt replied softly, “I don’t know, Friend. Perhaps.”
By Faleeha Hassan
Translated by William M. Hutchins
Faleeha Hassan 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 a Pulitzer Prize Nominee for 2018, and a Pushcart Prize Nominee for 2019. She’s a member of the International Writers and Artists Association. Winner of the Women of Excellence Inspiration award from SJ magazine 2020, and the Winner of the Grand Jury Award (the Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021). She served on the Women of Excellence selection committees for 2023, was a winner of a Women In The Arts award in 2023 and a Member of Who’s Who in America 2023. She’s on the Sahitto Award’s judging panel for 2023 and a cultural ambassador between Iraq and the US.
Maintaining the time the train runs through the air
What a stormy speed!
And people get down and up at their fixed places
Life is always circling like the journey by train
Life gives birth lives, life builds castles
When life gets tired, it stops forever
Stops as well never to come back
Even then the train is running on the way
The way the world is rounding
We only keep pace with the time
Some stops and get down from the compartment
Some get up and start the journey anew.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
25 October, 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 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.
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.
An Ordinary American Monster: Liberalism, Capitalism, and Donald Trump
By Christopher Bernard
He was inevitable. The innocents who believed either in the fundamental goodness of humanity, or in the power of our institutions to undermine humanity’s drive to evil – its selfishness, greed, hunger for power, arrogance, deceitfulness – did not just fail to defend us from him. They helped create him. And then made it almost impossible to defend against him. You see, he had rights, and these rights were guaranteed. And his rights superseded our rights to be protected. That is the way it is with rights: the agent has more than the patient. When the elephant has the same rights as the mice, it is not the elephant that is crushed.
And this is the way with liberalism. And, with capitalism, which is the economic driver of liberalism; this is the way with America and its “exceptionalism.” This is our way, the American way. We have avoided, or conquered, the worst effects of our way of life for a very long time. Until now.
Yet who doesn’t love liberalism, especially when it is applied to them? The very word is steeped in generosity, in magnanimity and loving kindness. I love the freedom it accords me to do whatever I wish whenever I wish. I love the feeling of lightness and air it surrounds me with, like a bath. I love the fact it gives the same freedom to everyone I know and care for, even though they sometimes use it in a way that (usually inadvertently) does me some harm. And even for people I do not particularly like or love: I hate the idea of them, or of anyone, confined, oppressed, suffering, for any reason at all. In fact, if I had my way, Dante’s Inferno would be empty. Indeed, if I had my way, life on earth would be a paradise.
But the Supreme Being didn’t ask me when drawing up plans for the cosmos. Really, he should have. I would have had some nice liberal ideas, and also a few useful ideas that might have saved us from liberalism’s formidable flaws.
It is not often noted that liberalism is not so much a political philosophy as an abdication from having one, a kind of what the French call faute de mieux (“for lack of anything better”), a jury-rigging and gigantic shrugging off and throwing up of one’s hands at the very idea of discovering how a society, how a polity that supports the well-being of all its members, might actually work: every attempt to found a “philosophy of liberalism,” from Hobbes to Locke to Jefferson and the framers of the United States Constitution, has failed, mired in helpless contradictions and blinded by forms of willful self-deception.
For at the very basis of liberalism lies a series of gaping holes liberals keep pretending not to notice, and then keeping falling into them while pretending they are just potholes they are mending on the way to the millennium.
To wit:
Liberal: “The freedom of the individual supersedes the rights of society as a whole.”
Skeptic: “Really?”
Liberal: “That’s right. And we must tolerate all religions and philosophies because people can’t agree on first principles, and we want to live in a society that is at least relatively at peace.”
Skeptic: “But you just told me you in fact have a ‘first principle’!”
Liberal: “I hoped you hadn’t noticed that.”
Skeptic: “And what about people (most people throughout history, really) who believe the rights of groups, of families, of society as a whole come first – and in fact they must come first, for obvious reasons? No individual human being can exist outside a society; we are social creatures from the day we are born, and remain so until the day we die. The only perfectly autonomous individual is a dead one. We all begin as infants, and if we weren’t immediately supported by a complicated network of social support – from our parents and family to doctors and nurses – we would be dead within hours, even minutes, of coming out of the womb. We are components of a group before we ever become (relative, since we never become complete) individuals. So privileging the individual above the society is literally an insane idea – it would be like saying the tire on a car is more important than the car itself.”
Liberal: “[Several pages of incoherent and inconsistent logic-chopping we will not bore the reader with. But their ultimate argument always comes down to:] Everyone loves liberty, everyone wants to be free, just like us. Everyone wants to do whatever they want to do whenever they want to do it. The fact that most societies since the dawn of time have considered this the height of human immaturity at the very least, and, at worst, of moral irresponsibility and active evil, to be condemned, excoriated, and punished, makes no difference. Their morality is just out of date – these things change, history has its own morality and ethical standards, there are no absolutes, but history is progressive (yes, I know the Nazis came after Florence Nightingale, but don’t bother me with facts!), we are progressive, we are liberated, we are enlightened! And who gets to define what these noble values mean (to anticipate your irritating question)? Why, we do, of course! And so, if anyone doesn’t choose to be free, we shoot them until they do. It’s really very simple: as Rousseau and John Stuart Mill so wisely said: people sometimes need to be forced to be free. And as far as infants go, we’re doing this for the children!”
Skeptic: (Silent. After all there are no words by which one might wade through such a swamp of self-contradictions.)
But then there’s the liberal doctrine of “tolerance.” How can anyone possibly oppose that? It sounds so nice!
Liberal: “We must tolerate all forms of thought and action as long as they do not cause harm to other people.”
Skeptic: “Okay. And who gets to define ‘harm’?”
Liberal: “Why, liberals do, naturally!”
Skeptic: “So what do you do with people who don’t agree that something you tolerate does not cause ‘harm,’ indeed they believe it is an absolute evil that must be destroyed? Wait, don’t tell me! You . . .”
Liberal and Skeptic “. . . shoot them until they do!”
Skeptic: “Well, of course we do. But I have another issue. Isn’t there a danger liberalism will encourage the most anti-social forms of behavior; in fact it will reward psychopaths and empower ‘malignant narcissists’ when they also happen to be talented manipulators? It could hand power over society as a whole to some of the worst monsters humanity is able to create. At the same time it will have made it almost impossible to protect against them.”
Liberal: “But if we liberals just scold enough and say out loud what a very nasty person it is and how we should really not let these people either become billionaires or become president of the United States, and just follow the Constitution, which is after the greatest political document in the world, with its marvelous array of check and balances, and division of branches of government, and an actively questioning Fourth Estate of news organization, independent of any interference by psychopaths or ‘malignant narcissists’ or political sway of any kind, and we have after all a robust and independent debate going on in America on all the important issues of our time, without fear or favor, don’t we? I mean, well then everything will work out just fine. We hope. Maybe.”
Skeptic: “My gosh, you actually believe all of that . . . gibberish?”
Liberal: “Of course I do! We are what liberalism created! We are the freest country in the world! Oh wait: I meant to say, ‘We are the greatest country in the history of the world!’ (Don’t want to be cancelled, heh, heh!)”
Skeptic: “Whew! I knew you didn’t know yourself very well, but I never guessed how much. Despite the qualms I have about the knot of self-contradictions making up your so-called ‘political philosophy,’ it doesn’t bother you at all. And it sure looks like a heck of a lot more fun than worrying about being ‘moral’ all the time. Where does one go to sign up?”
Liberal: “No need to! Just stop thinking so much and Do Whatever You Feel Like Doing Whenever You Feel Like Doing It, and devil take the hindmost,”
*
And capitalism? Capitalism is liberalism on meth, cocaine, steroids, old wine for me, fentanyl for thee. It is the economic policy of liberalism, of America and her “exceptionalism”: it makes the monsters rich. The elephant crushes the mice because he can. The mice have the same right to crush the elephant . . .
*
And then there is Trump.
But what is Trump?
Perfect liberal, perfect capitalist: psychopath and malignant narcissist with a gift for manipulating millions of us. A man who is just doing whatever he wants to do whenever he wants to do it – and he has very good lawyers in using the laws invented to protect his liberal “rights.” And devil take the hindmost – the rest of us.
Trump is a very ordinary American monster.
_____
Christopher Bernard is a novelist, essayist and poet, and author of numerous books, including the award-winning collection The Socialist’s Garden of Verses. He is founder and lead editor of the webzine Caveat Lector and recipient of an Albert Nelson Marquis Lifetime Achievement Award.
