TWO MISFITS

it was no time
for love outside-
old winds of worship
found hand and mouth
in ruined rain
slanting over cultured fields
into pagan barns
with patched up planks
finding us two misfits.

i felt the pulse
of your undressed fingers
transmit thoughts
to my senses-
aroused by autumn scents
of milky musk
and husky hay
in this barn’s faith
we climbed the rungs of civilisation
so random in our exile-

and found a bell
housed inside a minaret-
with priest and muezzin
sharing its balcony-
summoning all to prayer
with one voice-
this holy music, was only the wind
blowing through the weathervane,
but we liked its tone to change its time.

LOW VAULTED CEILINGS

within those man stone walls
promoting their god
bringing us to him
i told the priest-
you tell us to be content
with poverty
while you live in this big house
throwing us scraps
begged from money lenders.
this is not what Jesus
asked his disciples to do.
this is not what he died for.
he said live amongst us
and share what they have.
the priest,
red with rage,
oppressive and oppressed-
pulled my mam aside
made her shrink in his stare
weep in his words
walk me in our sins
from his dark-damp house of angels.
outside
in feral sunshine
i pointed to grinning gargoyles
chasing chastened shadows
back down primitive paths-
to a cellar flat,
bare bulb dangling
prison beam probing
baptised flesh
and mam tipped tears
soaking into straw mattresses
sucking up cold from the flagstone floor
woodworms eating a Van Gogh table
where six mouths sat
sharing stale bread and cold beans
with whiskered skirting board mice.
years later,
i left Dedalus in Dublin
in the pages of a book
to his epiphany
and Jesuit suit of guilt-
while i quenched
my glistening fruit
in street light ladies-
drenched in smokey curling
dancing clouds
and stories from voices
bouncing off low vaulted ceilings
caressing human in darkness.

OLD CAFE

a rest, from swinging bar
and animals in the abattoir-
to smoke in mental thinks
spoken holding cooling drinks.

counting out old coppers to be fed
in the set squares of blue and red
plastic table cloth-
just enough to break up bread in thick barley broth.

Jesus is late
after saying he was coming
back to share the wealth and real estate
of capitalist cunning.

maybe. just maybe.
put another song on the jukebox baby:
no more heroes anymore.
what are we fighting for-

he’s hiding in hymns and chants,
in those Monty Python underpants,
from this coalition of new McCarthy’s
and its institutions of Moriarty’s.

some shepherds sheep will do this dance
in hypothermic trance,
for one pound an hour
like a shamed flower,

watched by sinister sentinels-
while scratched tubular bells,
summon all to sunday service
where invisible myths exist-

to a shamed flower
with supernatural power
comes the hour.

AN OLD WOODEN BOAT

an old wooden boat,

the long sail through erotic journey

tattered and torn,

lip red paint peeling on planked carcass,

bleaches on a sandbar-

the silent tributary

of its river bed

dried and cracked.

smudges of mascara

over scented seasons

woman the shell of a dress

she wore

with full breasts

and firm behind.

i remember-

don’t take

the corn coloured sun for granted,

or ignore

her constellation and unmentioned course,

unless, you want to pace the deck,

invisible to love

counting silent stars

talking to the unknown.

DOES HER FAR BEAUTY KNOW

does her

far beauty know

where my thoughts go

without her

when i walk

in lush rain lashing down-

squatting in enclosed fields

of remote wheat and barley

around told feudal cities and towns-

to talk

to fate and how it feels

to be emptied entirely

of hopes sounds-

these evolutions

fill rich men’s purses

and revolutions

are poor universes

that try to bend

the unequal

to be equal

without end.

does her

far beauty know

where my thoughts go

with her

when i walk

in lush rain lashing down-

soaked in moments come to this

paradise and precipice

belonging

bonding

thoughts

serendipitous

blowing into us-

gives shelter to the self

of us and other else-

unlike bare rooms we rent

to leave behind

when change moves us to fit

into it-

with only our echo and scent

of passion and mind.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

MIRRORS OF LITTLE SUN 

Mirrors of little sun

ridges rushing with curtain

dark is bright behind carnival  

child transecting The Skeletal lampshades

bright halo faster with pink head  

vanished then hung stars down

the blazing

displayed bright supports with its  

strangely shining radiance

Bronze blasted Sun King wanted snow

his frozen head

like a blow from armor surrounded by shining deities

glowing eyes polished around the blade

spectators saw him unwrap his golden feet

the zero of moon region approaches Sun machine all fused

but earth edge turns galaxies off its golden haze in

the water maidens see nitrogen like methane glowing

A FABULOUS MARBLE DREAMED ON RED GLASS

A FABULOUS marble DREAMED on red GLASS  

a Butterfly IS YELLOW pumpkin and pop

daisy aftershave

soft peppermint Sausages with cake

cock of sandpaper in blue ice lake

fallen peach Candied BETWEEN the skirt inside of

pink tabletop touching crunch with pop

pink sunshine and blue apples  

then another between the legs

with chuckling woodchuck and freaky cone

clock made of pudding

penguin wearing sombrero OF hard sunshine

Eating a marble peppermint and talking to a woodpecker  

SUN in skies under yellow Lake

glass eyes floating in wooden belly

Bunnies pecking corners with Candied lips

breast hops between fuzzy tabletops

ANTIQUE MOON

Submarine with green flesh

bubbles with swarms of bees

empyrean universe filled with ghosts

folded back the jungle as

mist crowns little lakes  

Chemical wind roars

world collapses slowly

waitress forces salts beyond

the pyramidal structure

Empire under thick edges of chopsticks in creased sea

GRANULAR sky polished cloud  

flashing to misted Book buried in darkness

spheres disappear in milky skies

strumming folded fringes in a carbon buzzer

Or harps of ice found hazy rays of jeweled atoms

Blisters looking from the sparkle pulses

recombining floating equations

disconnected in cobblestones

five surfers handed his hats to Blood compounds

infinitesimal CLUSTER an opalescent dream

Kierkegaard the sweet rubbing world

the antique moon disturbing particles through

Little boxes wearing EASTER with intricate gears

pill opened by dull darkness ironed

Roman

 off

HILLBILLY BEES

I saw tables inside tiny rooms  

there the sand drops two forbidden nose cones  

HILLBILLY BEES on a blurry Road  

fuzz approaches with one of the beetles

chieftain sent yellow cone but

space benches would double him

unclear efforts moved to March

clearly someone with gold glass of photos and a talking

system photocopies with corkscrew

Historic animals flip before   

washed shirt or glass of buzzers  

Helga couldn’t bestow a tube that sent dozens from vapor

STORM linen wearing the standard deduction

constructing numerous evenings

which formed and blended

a grim cheer of Bundles when

Neptune saw only Small rimmed etching

CONCENTRATION CAMPFIRE

Swampy crocodiles in

wrecked fluorescent dimension

rain dress shrank her armor

brightness scalded thunder

fire clusters hide shake dimension

focus generators flag electric springs

feather lanterns vanish

cheeks elliptical

assembling continuous drift  

accumulate system vortex

Shelley bruised pillow and cloud

from relaxed incandescence

pink sardines curled freeze arrangement

dented women on confused face magnet

ringing top the juice curfew

thick insect surrounded

lost lozenges of haggard kisses

with hands embroidered groups of

transposed gas planets

POLTEXT

The risen is unbearable

sudden brightness through trigger profits

their galaxy dreams of 22

distant Hardtop without the poles

cyclones flick those silent crystals

smoke falls where ghost seconds against pieces

their mountain systems choreographed despite silver rust

oblivion islands glow in five Ray process

THE wounds had accepted faded bottles

poltext cocked the disintegrator

Chicago shrank into blue hares

black sky pale in the golden time

stepping transparent brightness

denouncing range through melted wire

regressing to the mandatory parentheses

Africa felt hatch of fluttering color

trees dissolved with Aldebaran out of ICE police

hot pressed metal whispered from forbidden consequences

Monday in tiny glowing crack of TWITTERS and decomposing crummalite

the manda grass around nylon gun is GLOWING

closed skull tries swiftly the glimpsed room

ash separator hop and long palms through world liquidation

The timejector pulsation creeps on tomorrow  

then the call was spinning on Machine for pink hours

again picture pressures THE computer candy

but dotted 16 oscillations over crylon bars

burning owls give small covering for folded hands

Gregory Wallace has been making art of various kinds for at least 50 years. He was active in the mail art scene in the 80s and participated in international mail art exhibits and correspondence. Mr. Wallace was a founding editor of Oblivion magazine and has published several books of poetry including The Girl With Seven Hands, The Return of the Cyclades, and Exile and Kingdom Come. His artistic activity encompasses poetry, collage, sculpture, assemblage, photography and painting. His work has appeared in Typo, BlazeVox, #Ranger, Black Scat Review, Clockwise Cat, and many other journals.

Letter To The Unknown Poet

Dear Esther,

I saw the message you sent me about your friend who is interested to be guided as a new unpublished poet. I’m also honored that you take me as someone who would be able to guide someone else. I’m honored because I myself am also a new poet, and I’m willing to help in ways I can.

 First of all, she has to see poetry as something that she does for herself first, before other people. I started writing poems just before the end of secondary school, and my poems came from sorrows and grief. I remember how we took Literature-In-English classes together and how we did so well in the arts department, and how we were among the best students. We were in the same debate club, we read together, laughed together, but it didn’t occur to me that anybody would read my works in the future and classify them as poetry. Or even classify them as anything. Yes, let me confess that I wasn’t confident. I did not have faith in my writing then. For many years I thought my writing was something that only I could enjoy, love and understand, and I was satisfied with that thought because sitting down every evening to write and pour my heart onto paper was the most glorious thing ever, something akin to prayer.

I didn’t know that I was writing poetry because even though I did literature, I wasn’t very sure if what I was writing qualified as poetry. So I would write for myself for many years as a form of therapy. Poetry helped me to heal of my emotional pain. I wrote poems to see myself, to find myself. I read other poets as sources of comfort. I was deeply introverted, and because I was very hurt in my spirit, poetry helped me to stay alive. I wrote to myself without being sure if I was doing it in the right way, without knowing what I was doing, until many years later when I got an opportunity to be published.

I’m emphasizing on writing poetry for yourself first because poetry wouldn’t make you automatically richer than you are, but it can open doors for you. It can connect you to people or your readers whom you wouldn’t have met outside your writing space. Many publications do not pay you when they publish your poems. You will be paid or earn something only when you win poetry contests, or when a publication that pays their contributors pick you up. So I want her to approach poetry as something that she does for herself first, not as something that can fetch something else.

I want her to approach poetry with humility. I want her to be kind to herself. I want her to be truthful to herself. I want her to be truly herself. Let her see poetry as something she must do, something she has to do, if she is really a poet. If she is a poet, I want her to be proud of being a poet. Let her listen more to her literary spirit. I want her to be happy. Any day she decides to send her work out to any publication, I want her to know that rejections are normal. Many publications will reject her, but she shouldn’t be discouraged. The more she is rejected the more she should write.

The Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie says she writes because she has to write. In interviews, she says that even if she didn’t have the wonderful opportunities she has today to be read widely and deeply appreciated, that she would still be somewhere writing, unknown, but still, she would be writing, and this is true for every genuine and unpretentious writer. Being a published writer is a secondary aspect of being a writer. I think the first aspect is more important than the second. First of all, you have to write, and the writing has to be for yourself first, before moving into the world. You will have to love and believe in the work first, before looking for a publisher, or a publication.

If your friend the poet is Nigerian, or African, I will advise her to read Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s books. If she’s not interested in big books, then she might be interested in her smaller pieces. She might follow her on her social media handles. She might also be interested in watching her interviews on YouTube. Or her popular Ted Talks, The Danger Of The Single Story, and We Should All Be Feminists.

I wish her everything good.

From Isaac Dominion Aju

Isaac Dominion Aju has appeared in different literary publications in the United States, including Poetry X Hunger, Flapper Press, and New York City’s Writers’ Journal. He will be a featured writer in Cajun Mutt Press in the US by November. He lives in Nigeria where he works as a fashion designer and writes in his free time.

our call

what are we if not real?

i propose this question now,

here in our present day

begging for an answer.

we yearn to pick apart

the people surrounding us

leaving our nails covered in 

soot, yet we never clean them.

we long for residue of

others, dream for some

remnant of their life inside ours.

we are layers upon layers,

circles in the trunk of a 

redwood tree, and are made

human by the ones who

came before us, ever

lasting our own thoughts.

i ask you this question

to spur what you believe.

we can never wipe our

slates clean, every choice we

make cemented into the 

roots that travel throughout

our being. it forces us to 

make our own choices, 

spawn our own thoughts,

create what we believe will

have an endless effect on

what we call our existence.

we are human, allowing us to

conceive our reality. if we can

manifest our thoughts, than 

what are we if not real?

An Unforgotten Dream

In a small village lived two little brothers, Idil and Imir. Alongside the brothers were their elderly grandfather, a fat cow, and a constantly meowing kitten. Both brothers were very mischievous children. While their grandfather worked in the fields, they would jump and play around him, and the old man, watching their joy, would smile to himself.

Days passed, and for twelve months of the year, the grandfather never rested. Every autumn, he would take Idil and Imir to the city and buy them new clothes and toys. The children were always thrilled to go to the city. Surrounded by forests, the village was so isolated that they would wait an entire year for that one trip to town. They would pester their grandfather constantly:

“Grandpa, when will autumn come? Why doesn’t autumn come twice a year?”

They never let the old man rest with such questions.

The village was located in the farthest corner of the country, surrounded by forests and valleys, and it had fallen far behind in terms of development. It was as if this place had been left behind by time, frozen and forgotten. Things that were invented long ago in the city would only reach their village a year or two later. Life itself – and the government too – seemed to have forgotten this place. The people lived and died in their own way, unnoticed by the world.

Whenever Idil and Imir went to the city, it felt as if they had entered an entirely different world.

Seasons changed, and finally, autumn came. The old grandfather joined the other villagers, and together with Idil and Imir, they set out for the city. After eight days of travel, they arrived in the city just in time for lunch. As they reached the central school, the bell began to ring.

“Jingle-jingle”

Like a dam bursting through the river, the children poured into the schoolyard.

Idil and Imir stood in awe, watching the children – clean, neat, and dressed identically. Their old grandfather tugged at their sleeves.

“Come on, let’s not fall behind. We still have a lot to buy.”

“Grandpa, what is that?”

As the children followed their grandfather, they couldn’t take their eyes off their peers. Their games seemed completely different, fascinating. Had they ever seen such things before?

The grandfather and the boys wandered around the market. They bought everything they needed. But neither Idil nor Imir could forget the children in matching uniforms.

The villagers began preparing for the journey back home. The boys longed to pass by that same place again, to see those children one more time, but the guide led them down a completely different street.

At last, everyone returned home, riding carts full of gifts and purchases, satisfied. Yet this time, Idil and Imir were not jumping for joy as they usually did.

“Grandpa,” Idil nudged the old man, “what was that place, where the children were?”

The grandfather’s expression darkened. His already wrinkled face tightened further in thought.

“That… that’s a school.”

“A school?!”

“Yes.”

“What do they do there?”

“They study.”

“What is studying?”

“Studying is…” the old man’s face scrunched even more, “…where they write, draw, and do things like that.”

Others joined in the conversation between the old man and the boys. Everyone started talking about things they had never seen with their own eyes.

“They say they beat children in school!”

“No way…”

Sitting on the edge of the cart was a small-framed young man whose face was covered with large blotches. He started an intriguing conversation.

“Could it really be that they beat them?!”

“Yes, with a long stick, they say,” someone replied.

Idil was intrigued by this.

“Does everyone go to school?” he asked.

“Everyone does,” the same young man answered.

“Then why don’t we go? We’re people too, aren’t we?”

“Because we don’t have a school,” said a fat man with a large belly, laughing as if he had just told the funniest joke. But when he saw that no one else was laughing, he gave a little cough and fell silent.

The cart rolled along slowly. Stars twinkled above. Just like their owners, the horses pulling the cart walked with their heads lowered. Everyone was quiet, walking with their heads down. Even Idil and Imir could feel deep inside that it wasn’t the right moment to ask any more questions.

The cart driver finally lost his patience and flicked his whip, urging the horses forward.

“Chuv! Move, you creatures, chuv!”

“Where are the spirited young men of this golden valley?
Where are the beautiful maidens of these homes…?”

He began to sing the familiar song at the top of his voice. The others joined in chorus. It was such a relief – everyone had secretly longed to escape the heavy burden of those difficult questions. As if released from a weight pressing down on their shoulders, their faces lit up. Cheerfully, they continued on their way. There was bread, there was water – the days passed. Who really needed school anyway?

Only Idil, Imir, and the old grandfather did not smile. His stern face grew darker still. A sorrowful look settled in his eyes.

Finally, they arrived home. Idil and Imir fell asleep. But the old grandfather did not sleep. Early in the morning, the children woke to a stir of noise. Something was happening.

Their grandfather was gathering things into a sack. From outside came the voice of the cart driver:

“Hey, old man! Why are you bothering me at the crack of dawn? I haven’t even recovered from yesterday’s exhaustion.”

“Take me to the city.”

“To the city? But we just came back yesterday.”

Just then, the fat man from yesterday entered, holding a small bag. He handed it to the grandfather.

“Your house wasn’t really worth this much – but since you’re my neighbor, fine. Still, why are you selling it?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Seriously? Where to?”

“To school!”

At the grandfather’s words, both the neighbor and the cart driver burst out laughing.

But the old man ignored them and began dressing his grandchildren. The boys were overjoyed.

At last, the cart driver, sensing the seriousness of the situation, tried to talk the old man out of it.

“Come on now, could we really go to school? Look at those who left before – none of them came back. The city’s not like the village. The city is heartless.”

“Are you taking us or not?” the grandfather stared straight at him.

Realizing it was useless to argue, the cart driver gave in.

“Fine… but you’ll pay me more.”

“Alright.”

The villagers came out to see them off. Some, with tears in their eyes, wished them good luck; others scoffed and chuckled with disbelief.

On the cart sat Old Grandpa, the little brothers Idil and Imir, their constantly meowing kitten, and the cart driver. The fat cow had been sold to the fat neighbor.

The old man turned to look at the village fading into the distance and said:

“Someone has to begin…”

But no one heard his voice except himself. Then, glancing at his two hopeful, dream-filled grandchildren who reminded him of his younger days, he smiled.

“They’re not like me,” he whispered.

With pride, the old man raised his humble head – something he had never done before. The road was long ahead, but now it was time to prove to the world that they too existed, that they too mattered.

At that very moment, in a small home back in the village, a young bride hung a tiny clock on the wall – a wedding gift from her husband.

“Tick.” “Tick.”
Time began to count the seconds.

Urazaliyeva Sarvinoz Saidakhmadovan was born on December 27, 2002, in Sirdarya region. She is currently pursuing an incomplete higher education. In 2020, she graduated from the specialized boarding school for English language in Mirzaobod district. She is now a 4th-year student at the Nizami Tashkent State Pedagogical University. In 2021, she became the winner of the regional stage and a participant of the national stage in the prose category of the “Duel” Republican Creative Contest.

Muslima Academy is an educational and motivational initiative founded by young leader Muslima Olimova. The project aims to equip students with skills in technology, global education, scholarships, and leadership. So far, it has reached over 1,000 young people in Uzbekistan and abroad.

Muslima Academy held an inspiring youth presentation in Andijan, Uzbekistan. The goal of the event was to inspire, educate, and empower young people with opportunities that stretch from local to global.

Although traditional media did not attend and some invited guests couldn’t make it, the energy and passion in the room were undeniable. The event was filled with hope, determination, and the belief that true change begins with us.

During the presentation, young participants learned about how to apply for international programs, ways to earn certificates, how to develop skills, and how to build self-confidence. The day was enriched with live workshops, motivational speeches, and moments that lit up hearts.

Muslima Academy’s founder, Muslima Olimova, stated:

“Even if the cameras didn’t show up, the world will continue to hear our voice. What we’re doing truly matters.”

This event was a powerful reminder that to make an impact, we don’t need an audience — we need action. And this time, the youth of Uzbekistan took a bold step onto the global stage.

Those who lie awake at night and say
Those who put aside the affairs of the world
Those who sacrificed their lives for their children
Mothers are great, my mother is great.
They cry when we cry, they laugh when we laugh.
May your kindness be the same for us.
They give knowledge to this tiny heart
Mothers are great, my mother is great.
Today, he did not turn away from giving love.
Mehrin didn’t fake poison.
May you live long.
Mothers are great, my mother is great.