SILENT NOISES

Emmanuel Chimezie (Nigeria) in conversation with Abdel Latif Moubarak (Egypt)

Nigerian poet Emmanuel Chimezie, founder of Poets’ Workshop (Global), speaks with Egyptian poet Abdel Latif Moubarak about the emotional and lived reality of Cairo. The discussion moves through darkness, disappearance, inequality, silence, exhaustion, and identity. It shows how the city shapes both everyday survival and poetic expression.

What follows is a simple reflection of Cairo through poetry, presented in clear language.

1. In Cairo, power cuts are now part of daily life. How do you show this darkness in your poetry as something real people live through?

Abdel Latif Moubarak

In my poetry, darkness is not just the absence of light; it is a heavy “material” you can almost touch. I write about the sound of light switches flipped in vain, the scent of candles dragging us back to previous centuries, and phone screens becoming “lonely lanterns” in living rooms. Darkness here is the space where time stops and a forced, quiet intimacy begins.

2. When street vendors are suddenly removed from the streets, how do you write about people who disappear from public life?

Abdel Latif Moubarak

I write about them through the “void” they leave behind. A street vendor is not just a seller; they are a vital part of the street’s geography. When they disappear, I describe the cold pavement and the phantom cries of their trade that still echo in the memory of passersby. Writing about them is an attempt to reclaim their presence in the “public soul” through words.

3. Cairo has rich new buildings and very poor old areas. How do you describe these two very different cities living side by side?

Abdel Latif Moubarak

I describe Cairo as a “patched body,” where the polished glass of modern administrative towers brushes against the rust of ancient balconies. I use visual contrast: the shimmer of a gated community behind high walls versus the dust of alleys where laundry is hung to dry. It is a city living in “parallel timelines” simultaneously.

Abdel Latif Moubarak

4. As rent keeps going up, do you think silence is becoming a way people cope? How does that silence appear in your poetry?

Abdel Latif Moubarak

Silence here isn’t peace; it is a “forced muteness.” In my poetry, it appears as broken sentences or doors closed slowly to avoid notice. This silence is the “stifled scream” within walls we no longer have the luxury of belonging to—it is the language of fearing tomorrow.

5. Cairo traffic takes so much time every day. How do you write about the stress and tiredness of daily travel?

Abdel Latif Moubarak

I write about “wasted time” as if it were a life leaking through one’s fingers. I describe faces reflected in bus windows, tired eyes staring into nothingness, and the roar of engines becoming the “soundtrack” to nervous tension. Daily travel in Cairo is a fishing expedition for hope in a sea of metal.

6. In crowded homes where people can hear each other through thin walls, how do you think privacy exists anymore?

Abdel Latif Moubarak

Privacy in Cairo has become strictly “internal.” We live in a “collective soundscape” where a neighbor’s crying child is part of your dinner table. I write about privacy as a secret whispered in an ear, or a fantasy one escapes to when closing their eyes in a crowd. Walls are no longer barriers; they are “pores” that breathe the lives of others into our own.

7. Cairo streets are loud, but many people are struggling. How do you show both joy and hardship at the same time in your poetry?

Abdel Latif Moubarak

This is the “magic of Cairo.” I write about the loud laugh that erupts from a chest heavy with debt; the wedding held in a narrow alley where people dance atop their sorrows. Joy in my poems is an “act of resistance,” and hardship is the “canvas” that gives that joy its brilliance and meaning.

8. Many young people escape into the internet. How does this change the way you write and express real life?

Abdel Latif Moubarak

The internet has created an “alternative Cairo.” I write about the fragmentation of reality; a young man sits in a crumbling traditional café while his mind wanders through New York or Paris. This disconnect changes my language—it becomes more fragmented and rapid, mirroring the “scrolling” motion on a smartphone screen.

9. In Cairo, people often change how they live just to survive. Do you think identity is stable or always changing?

Abdel Latif Moubarak

Identity in Cairo is “fluid.” We shed our skins every morning to meet the demands of survival. I don’t believe in a fixed identity in a city as turbulent as a hurricane. We are a collection of “compromises” and “small victories” that ultimately form a unique Cairene face unlike any other.

10. If Cairo could talk like a person, what do you think it would say about its people today?

Abdel Latif Moubarak

If the stones of Cairo could speak, they would say: “I am weary from the weight of your broken dreams, yet I still breathe because of your stubbornness. You are harsh with me because you love me, and I am harsh with you because I no longer know how to protect you.”

Closing Remark

This conversation presents Cairo as a place full of contrasts—silent yet loud, broken yet alive. Through poetry, the city becomes both witness and voice, carrying the emotions of its people in every form of struggle and survival.

I WANDERED – Tanja Vučićević, Serbia 

I set out with my heart, slowly toward the west.

I paused — I survived a heavy attack.

Where to go next: north or south?

I see no path! I am lost in an enchanted circle.

I am breaking, while my soul plows on like a field.

I ask myself: “Why does the roar of life torment me?”

I turn around and cast my gaze toward the east;

and I pray not to lose my way again.

The night is deaf! In the east I await my salvation;

I hear, I feel — the voice of God is calling me.

In general, the results obtained scientifically confirm that innovative approaches in native language lessons significantly increase the effectiveness of working with a dictionary. This indicates the need to combine traditional methods with innovative approaches in the modern educational process, without completely rejecting them.

CONCLUSION

In conclusion, the process of working with a dictionary in native language lessons is one of the pedagogical areas that is of decisive importance in the formation of students’ speech development, level of thinking and communicative competence. The analysis conducted during the study showed that working with a dictionary is not just a process of teaching new words, but a complex methodological system that shapes students’ attitude to the language, develops their creative and independent thinking.

Traditional approaches – that is, methods of explaining, memorizing and translating words – although useful to a certain extent, cannot fully meet the requirements of today’s education. In a modern educational environment, it is necessary to involve students as active participants, increase their interest and direct them to independent research. In this regard, innovative methods significantly increase the effectiveness of working with a dictionary.

According to the results of the study, interactive methods (cluster, brainstorming, group work), digital technologies (electronic dictionaries, multimedia tools, mobile applications) and gamification elements contribute to the rapid and stable acquisition of vocabulary by students. In particular, these approaches increase students’ interest in the lesson, forming them as active participants and independent thinkers.

Also, the research revealed that when innovative methods are used, students develop not only their vocabulary, but also their speech literacy, level of logical thinking and creative approach. This directly affects the quality of education and the effective organization of the educational process.

In general, organizing work with vocabulary in native language lessons based on modern innovative approaches is one of the important factors in increasing educational efficiency. In the future, teachers should further improve these methods and widely apply them in the educational process. This will serve to form a high level of speech culture, independent thinking and creative approach in students.

REFERENCES

Gulamov A. Methodology of teaching the native language. – Tashkent: Teacher, 2010. – pp. 145–150.

Mahmudov N. Language and speech culture. – Tashkent: Science, 2018. – pp. 98–105.

Matchonov S. Interactive methods in native language education. – Tashkent: Innovation, 2020. – pp. 67–72.

Harmer J. How to Teach English. – London: Longman, 2007. – pp. 120–130.

The Center of Islamic Civilization in Uzbekistan

Sometimes, an unexpected “single day” can leave an indelible mark on one’s memory for years to come. For me, one such day began as a routine university lecture but transformed into a face-to-face encounter with history.

Our first class of the day was a lecture on “Historical and Cultural Tourism,” taught by our mentor, Akbar Nurmatov. I walked into the auditorium still a bit drowsy from the morning. However, my professor’s unexpected announcement instantly jolted the entire group awake:

“We haven’t been anywhere together this semester,” he remarked.

Shortly after, another piece of news followed: we would be continuing today’s lesson at the Center of Islamic Civilization. It turned out that special permission had been secured directly from the rectorate for our subsequent classes as well. 

To be honest, I had been longing to visit this place for a long time. Hearing the news, my heart swelled with joy. One of the most heartwarming moments was when Professor Nurmatov arranged for us to enter the center free of charge. For us students, this was a wonderful opportunity.

As we reached the entrance, a wave of excitement washed over me. We were welcomed by Oktam Usmonov, the head of the center’s press service. Interestingly, he was also one of our professor’s former students. Truly, the saying “it’s a small world” felt more relevant than ever.

The moment I stepped inside, I froze in awe. At that point, Oktam Usmonov turned to our professor and asked:

“Teacher, do you have any students who are good writers or proficient in foreign languages?”

With a smile, the professor called me forward and said:

“For now, this girl is the one who truly holds her own.”

In that moment, a profound sense of pride filled my soul. A thought crossed my mind: “I wish my father could hear these words and feel proud of me…”

Our journey began in the first hall. Here, artworks crafted from colored stones delighted the eyes, seemingly transporting us into the past. As I climbed the stairs, my eyes fell upon the portraits of the Jadids. A shiver ran through my body not of fear, but of a deep sense of belonging to our national history.

The exhibitions start from the First Renaissance. The history of ancient cities like Dalvarzintepa and Sopollitepa, along with archaeological finds, felt like silent pages of a thousand-year-old history speaking to us. Every exhibit manifested the intellect and spiritual wealth of our ancestors.

The next section was dedicated to the Second Renaissance an era where science, culture, and thought flourished. Witnessing that atmosphere, the thought “If only I had lived in that time” even crossed my mind.

The section that moved me most was the one dedicated to Imam Bukhari. Tears welled up in my eyes when I saw an ancient manuscript of “Sahih al-Bukhari.” It wasn’t just a book; it is a priceless heritage for the entire Islamic world. We also learned about the manuscripts and lives of great scholars like Ahmad al-Farghani, Hakim Termizi, Ibn Sino, Abu Mansur Maturidi, and Abu Rayhon Beruni. Seeing their legacy, the wisdom “Those who serve the people remain in the hearts of the people” echoed in my mind.

Next, we entered the Holy Qur’an Hall. It is difficult to describe the atmosphere there. It felt as if time had stood still, and my soul had finally found tranquility.

During our tour, we also visited the state-of-the-art library, which is awaiting its official opening. The head of the library served as our guide. Honestly, I had never seen such a sophisticated and perfect library before. It even features a specialized disinfection system for books; once a book is read, it is sanitized to remove viruses and microbes. Seeing such care only increased my respect for this sanctuary of knowledge.

In conclusion, of all the places I have seen in my 21 years, the Center of Islamic Civilization has become one of the closest to my heart. It is more than just a museum; it is a vast temple of learning that carries the scientific and spiritual legacy of our ancestors to future generations.

At this point, it is worth highlighting the creation of such a magnificent center in our country. This sanctuary brings our people’s history to life, reaffirming the truth that “a nation that knows its past shall have a bright future.”

Our profound gratitude goes to our President, Shavkat Mirziyoyev, for reviving our nation’s heritage and for bringing back ancient historical artifacts from foreign museums so that we may truly know our roots.

And finally, a huge thank you to our mentor, Akbar Nurmatov, who, much like parents who wish only the best for their children, provided us with the very best experiences and etched these unforgettable moments into our memories.

Wombs of World War 2 

Time crawled, dates changed. August 31^st was gone, September 1, 1939, stood there, a ghost for all.

One could see the darkness spreading all around as the sun rose over the horizon, marking its arrival. This was because the Germans had attacked the Polish border. Some real screams of the dead were heard. Many silent screams were heard, not by the ears, but by the ears of the heart—a prediction of what more was to come. Everyone’s eyes saw the blue river appearing red today, in the sky of doomsday. Everyone was dead silent, expressionless with a single thought – “Whatever is to come, will we have anyone by our side to lend us shoulders?”. This thought was frightening, and it squeezed the heart out of anyone. 

Hanna lived with her only son in Toruń. She was divorced from her husband who was a famous Polish writer and journalist. She was a single mother, and she raised her son all by herself who later joined the army.  The order had come, and her son had already left to fight the war from Poland’s side, following the mobilisation and careful, strategic organisation of the Polish army which became really chaotic due to German invasion. Since Toruń was a military hub, he never knew before he left that he would be told to join a unit that will be sent to Warsaw to fight, and many of the soldiers will perish on the way. 

The day before he was going, she couldn’t think of anything else except his going. In the evening, she sat at the old armchair in her living room, keeping the lights off except for a dim bulb. She sat expressionless with tears just flowing down, and her son sat on the floor with his head on his mother’s lap and kept staring ahead. 

That night, he slept cuddled to her, and she held him like a baby. The next morning, he got dressed, ate his favourite breakfast made by his mother, and started putting on his boots to leave. She walked towards the door with trembling legs and couldn’t control her tears. She couldn’t explain how scared and uneasy she felt.

“Promise me, you’ll take good care of yourself,” he said, his wet eyes full of emotion. 

“I will,” she somehow managed to reply. She kissed his forehead and combed his hair with her hands. He left, then, and she stood there until his body disappeared from her sight. 

She went back in and lay on the bed fatigued and weak due to the immense stress had taken over. Her eyes, now wrinkled, suddenly became too tired, and her face grew pale and dull due to the tension – what would happen to her son? She was finding it too difficult to survive a few hours after he had gone, she thought about how would she manage to live all these days as he would come back after months. 

She could barely eat anything, always thinking about what condition her son would be in at that moment, and could never find herself at peace. As days crawled by, she would keep her hand on her heart as she heard the casualties from the neighbours. She also kept track of what was happening in the neighbourhood, who came and who went. She hardly ever got to listen to the radio as Toruń had been occupied by the Germans by the end of the first week of September, and this was followed by the gradual forbidding to listen to foreign BBC radio and Polish radio stations which were the main sources to get to know about the proceedings of the war. To gather information about what was really happening at the site of fighting or to learn about the real sufferings of the people, returning soldiers, local authorities passing by, and neighbours were the only sources of information about any new news and harm done. She waited daily, and asked her neighbour about who came back, and who departed to heaven. The feeling of dependency, and not knowing immediately what had happened was very difficult to tackle. 

During the Siege of Warsaw in September 1939, Civilians were being killed, and even the soldiers were dying. This news sent chills down her spine; she didn’t know where her son was. She was torn apart between negative thoughts, great worry, and a little bit of hope that everything would be all right. She used to sit all day with her eyes closed, praying for him and sending him blessings of long life. She hoped it reached him. But did this Great War care about anyone’s sufferings? Definitely not. 

She woke up one day, and was way too tired that day, and mostly lay down. She had taken an immense amount of stress which had clearly degraded her mental well-being and physical health. There were no thoughts in her mind that day, just his face going on in her head. 

The next day, while she sat on the sofa lost in her thoughts, she suddenly felt pain in her stomach. She couldn’t figure out why, but it didn’t go away. Two days later, she was told that Warsaw had been besieged and had to surrender. She felt restless, and sat every day the upcoming days at the entrance of the willing to spot her son from the very few soldiers who were returning. Sadly, she couldn’t spot him coming home. 

Many days later, in the last week of October, a gentleman knocked upon the door of her house. She didn’t recognise him but welcomed him inside the living room. 

“I must sadly tell you that your son has sacrificed his life for our country, and has departed to heaven,” he said with moist eyes as his voice trembled, his hands shook, and he couldn’t look into the eyes of the mother. 

Hanna sat there expressionless, eyes wide open, and she forgot to respond. She felt as if she had fallen into a black hole and was sinking down and down. 

“How did you come to know?”, she managed to control her emotions and ask him. 

“ You have never met me, but I live quite a few crossroads away from here. I met him on the day we were being sent to Warsaw. We were the few lucky ones who managed to go and fight in Warsaw.  There we fought bravely on the streets of the city. Some soldiers who had spent a full day fighting, used to go back to the basement of a school that had been shut down during the war. We would rest at night along with other soldiers, we were both among them. Every night we hid in the basement, and we would see who had come back. The one who hadn’t come back had gone to heaven for sure. The day your son passed away, I scanned through the entire basement, but he was nowhere to be seen, and never came back. Then two days later, all the other fellow soldiers who were most of the time seen with him, were worried about his absence. This news might look uncertain, but trust me as I am also a soldier, and I have seen many of them die, your son is dead, as the one soldier with whom he mostly fought and was mostly there with him didn’t know where your son was. This probable news is the only thing what the families get.  But very shortly, Warsaw had been besieged, and I was a captured soldier. With great difficulty and immense risk I managed to escape. I decided to disguise myself as a civilian, got rid of my uniform, and ran away with difficulty. I blended in with many Polish people who were moving around. I walked down long rural routes, moving at night and taking food and water from the kind people whose homes I passed by. I came back home yesterday”. 

She couldn’t control her tears after listening to this. She started yelling and sobbing and beating the sofa with her hands. He tried comforting her, but he knew nothing could help her except bringing her son back. 

“I can’t even see the dead body of the child I nurtured in my womb for nine months,” she said as her pain knew no bounds. 

“I live at the sixth crossroad. Tell me if you need anything. Take care,” that was all he could manage to say and he left her alone to heal herself. 

She sat at the window of her bedroom. Her eyes saw a bird chirping loudly, crying in its language and panicking, as she came back to the tree finding her egg broken and fallen on the ground. Now, she couldn’t control herself. She started weeping and moaning and cursing god. She felt as if her womb, which nurtured her son and shed blood to let him out into the world, was now being stabbed and set on fire. She cried for hours nonstop, seeing his photos and begging him to come back. Her emotional pain had now converted to physical pain. The burning sensations throughout her body and the immense weakness she experienced were nothing compared to the terrible pain one experiences while giving birth to a child. She sobbed loudly, her hand on her womb. 

“Why?”, this immensely loud cry of hers echoed through the silent neighbourhood filled with the vacuum of terror and hopelessness. It shook the souls of those who heard this haunting cry, as nobody could understand why this war had to take place. People lost their limbs, were burnt alive when bombs fell upon them, some starved and many lost their children and loved ones, but what problem in the world can be so big for the leaders of their countries to give rise to such a bloodshed, nobody could understand this. 

The next day, she couldn’t bear it and thought of committing suicide. She wanted to go back to her son. She had prepared herself to burn herself alive, and just at that moment came a voice – the last words her son had spoken to her. He wanted her to take care of herself. But how could she when she had died from the inside now? She continued to live for him, fulfilling his last wish, like an almost-dead person, until death actually came to her. 

She prayed for death to come, for days, but she knew she had to live for him. That’s when she one day stood up, and re-assembled his crate. She made soft balls of his clothes which carried a very slight scent of him into the shape of a baby, and fixed his photograph on it. That’s where she was always, singing his favourite lullaby to that baby she had made. Seeing it, she was sure that just like how this lullaby made this baby sleep, it would also reach to her son resting peacefully in heaven. 

Hanna used to learn about these events days after what had happened through the neighbours and trusted people who were a part of the tiny, secret and illegal presses who told people to pass on the course of events as they met other people; and the ones who could bring in the courage of listening to forbidden radios which was prohibited by the Germans and could bring a death sentence. Every time she learnt any horrible news, she became more and more ashamed of being a human. But there was more tragedy to follow her. 

On the night of 25^th October 1939, German officers banged her door. When she opened the door, she came to find out that they had come to capture her as she was the ex-wife of a famous Polish journalist who was actively spreading nationalism among Polish people and was caught running an illegal and secret press that informed the people, hence she was also misunderstood in being an influential nationalist. The Germans arrested anyone who could be a part of spreading Polish nationalism, or if they were linked by relation to any such elite person and were assumed to be guilty. There she was being taken away, with very few basic belongings like a few clothes. She carried her son from his crate and tried to hide it from their eyes but couldn’t. Those German soldiers quickly examined her and told her to hand over. As she handed it over to them, and they saw that photo, they threw her assembled baby on the floor and did not allow her to take it with her. 

“Please I beg you, I will do whatever you say, I will obey you and go where ever you tell me to. He is dead, this is all his memory I can have with me,” she begged them as she wept looking at the photograph of her son on her baby that had been thrown on the floor. They dragged her away to Fort VII, and there kept her with other many captured Polish people. She was always kept in extreme hunger, and in poor conditions, letting her shiver if she felt cold. That incident, when they didn’t allow her to keep her son’s clothes and photo, had made a serious impact on her. She screamed and wailed loudly, and shivered continuously murmuring. “I want him back,” she used to yell.  

But there was good news awaiting her. She was one of the many guilty nationalistic Poles were taken from the Fort VII in Poznań to the Barbarka Forest to execute them. They were killed here as these forests were away from the normal areas where people lived and getting rid of those dead bodies would be easier here in these forests. She could now go and reunite with her son in heaven – the moment for which she was yearning and tormenting for so long now. She was shot by the Germans and blessed the soul who freed her from this suffering of maternal loss as she fell down on the ground. 

Shlok Pandey is a 17-year-old Indian writer who is a student of a completely different field and practices writing and reading in the very little spare time he can manage from his studies. His stories have appeared in the Wise Owl Magazine, Setu Journal, The Drift and Dribble Miscellany and Wildflower Post and his poems have appeared in/ forthcoming in The Crossroads Review, cloudymoon lit mag, The Utrecht Pigeon Magazine, Poetic Practice and Aesterion magazine.

What inspired you to write this collection? 

The urge to salvage something I suppose of my losses inspired a good deal of the poetry in this book. That is the oddity of memory: we never really lose anything we cherish. For me, there is an almost invisible essence to each thing we love, each moment, as particular and invisible as the scent of mint in the sauce of a good meal. So part of the inspiration to write the poems was also finding or coming up with the disguises that would conceal those dear ones, moments and things while they held the place of identities and kept the reader (in me) on the appreciative hunt, searching them out anew. An indispensable element of joy is in the pursuit and discovery of it. 

Your poems often explore themes of nostalgia and reflection. Can you talk about the role of memory in your work? 

To add to the partial answer to this question found in my first response: History contains a key in my way of thinking about my own past. It is collective memory, and it’s a vital key in knowing who we are, who we choose to be rightfully from our journey across time and distances. The fact for most of us is that we have many homes and a large and very diverse family. Going to be with one means leaving and for the time losing the other. I grew up watching the spirited Sand Hill Cranes on the Nebraska-Platte River stop of their migrations from South America to Canada each spring. They’ve flown the same migratory path since the age of the dinosaurs. A simple clue to the nearly perpetual mechanism of nostalgia and desire in me comes by way of the salient ironies of missing America most when I was living in France, and then missing life in France now that I’m living in America. That can be true of the different places I’ve lived here in the States too, living in Boston and missing Oklahoma or Tennessee. I have a joke about a partner who insists she stays with her guy mostly only to avoid falling into the gross error of having to miss him if she were to leave him!

These poems touch on the intersection of personal and historical events. How do you balance these two aspects of your poetry? 

Some time back after I’d finished my Masters degree in England, I moved to Normandy in France. To my surprise I was very much appreciated – The American! – by people there. They kept insisting on thanking me for helping liberate them from the Nazis in WWII. I kept thanking them for the wine and fine meals they prepared for me, while insisting I hadn’t even been born yet in 1944. I grew up vaguely aware of a great-uncle, my mother’s uncle Jack, who did participate in the Battle of Normandy, but it took me awhile to connect those dots. In fact, particular interest in WWII came back powerfully to me as a way of finding a language to help me write about those 10 years in France. The end of the long poem in this book alludes to that uncle. Two more long narrative poems were written about the family French-American connection and the days of WWII in rural America and in Occupied France. I met so many people there who had lived under the Nazi Occupation, each with their memorable story to tell. Eventually I’d like to publish the three narratives together as a trilogy.

Your poems often have a strong sense of place. How do you think your surroundings influence your writing, and what do you hope readers take away from your descriptions of specific locations? 

Writing about the particulars of a place marks a positive act of writing, of witnessing, but also appreciation. It is like complimenting another for the care and work they put into what they do—gardening, dressing fashionably, fixing a meal. The particular language of love waters the plant we are. When we don’t receive any recognition for our efforts we wilt. Same for place. We need, on a larger scale, to put more into the infrastructure of our country. When I first moved into the Boston area and was teaching, it disheartened me to hear students from Japan and Canada, polite and quiet as they meant to be, lament the shabby conditions of our roads, airports and trains!

In several pieces you write about accepting things you can’t change (death, war, office politics, WWII history). How do you think this relates to your broader themes of identity, mortality, and the human condition?

Acceptance is an abiding wisdom that runs the American in me deeply at odds. Because, I suppose as an American, I do believe humanity can live better – that we have, at periods in history, lived in fact better than in this age of great access to convenience, communication and travel. We are emphatically out of balance with nature, especially its pace and patience, and terribly imprudent in how we consume our resources. That is what the upcoming generations have to struggle for. But it helps me to see that by and large they are becoming lucid to the challenge and I believe they will by numbers overcome the harmful ways our super-tech and voracious society lurches about as though to saw off the branch we’re all sitting on, so to speak.

Your poetry often has a reflective, introspective tone. What do you hope readers take away from your work, and how do you think it can relate to their own experiences? 

I try to be very careful about broadcasting any demagogical intention in my writing. I would hope the introspective element would inspire readers to be themselves generous with quiet time, turn off all the media and music, not all the time, not in any strict sense, but to cultivate an appreciation for the sifting ruminative processes of reflection. Great insights do come, but only of themselves with a sort of natural, unforced, even wary way of approaching them. Almost like deer in the wild. Voluminous wide access to all the facts doesn’t really help us put those facts together. On a small very intense scale, that’s an important lesson creative writing teaches us. Beyond what, the how!

Michael Todd Steffen’s book I Saw My Life is available here from Lily Poetry Review.

Days of a shivering sun 

(i.m. David McWilliams) 

   I have shaken in those same streets 

among a throng cowering at the bandstand

   as down the hill something erupts

a puff of black smoke as if from the chimney

   above a camp crematorium,

those same roads where you noticed him, nose pressed

   to shop windows, skin as pale as death 

and I have known a similar prejudice

   what it’s like to be overlooked

to be invisible and leave no trace 

   as the vain elbow through their race 

chasing other dreams and snatching at wealth 

   for all they’re worth, while just like you 

I’m content to observe, make brief comments

   about how glory is disbursed 

of, by, to and among the least worthy 

   with glassy eyes that do not care

and untwitching noses that do not smell

   the tartness of blood-sticky streets

where sandwich-board men holler about hell 

   and the evils of the casino 

that stands a Reichstag stately pleasure dome 

   burning with harsh voices that wail

about injustice even while they inflict 

   greater crimes on the innocent,

their hearts are caves of ice, their skulls winecups

   of the godless hoards, the type of brutes

blind enough to follow the first howling

   dog with leg cocked at a lamppost 

where only drunkards’ urine and rats run 

   they can get you so down you bow 

your head, fail to notice the lovely sun 

   roughs in the streets or yes-gofers

in grey suits in grey buildings issuing

   spiteful decrees like bureaucrats 

that stymied our moments of glory 

   through pettiness and passing spite, 

but you were beyond all that, going home

   to watch white horses jump the spray

along the strand where dark basalt columns

   mingle with tufts of seaweed grass

and pass precious time in the company

   of the only hearts that matter,

so I salute you and thank you for songs

   that make heavy moments lighter,

for reminding us when all’s said and done 

   best forgotten times and filthy streets

are mere totems of where we’ve risen from,

   immaculate days lie ahead. 

the day before

The day before I was due to go away

I visited you in your house,

tea and biscuits by an open fire,

your mother slipping into the other room

as we snogged on the sofa. 

We called at your aunt’s

to see her new baby. I learnt

your uncle had just started a business

in a converted church.

In the backseat at the marina

we made out some more

as the lough’s waves slapped on the shore. 

On the radio, songs of inspiration:

When the Going Gets Tough from Billy Ocean.

When I left you home, I told you

what I had to do the next day.

We promised to write. (For a while, you did,

how you liked how I slipped the hand

even if, after a few weeks apart,

it became Dear John). 

And I drove away, rattling over the cattle grid

listening to Captain of her Heart

and Manic Monday wondering 

should I go or would I stay?

CONSENT

It is march in Tyrone,

bluebells burgeoning, larches

swaying above St Patrick’s chair,

shamrocks greening by the bullán. 

I thought of Singing School

and The Strand at Lough Beg

as we drove by Lough More

and you spoke of Rattle and Hum,

Bono slagging armchair patriots

after Enniskillen that shocked

you into sense, knowing who to revere.

Those around us here,

now, young and dumb enough

to idolise or wear

their balaclavas as badges

of dishonour, whatever their colours. 

I mull over what happened to Lyra

and to my tutor’s wife,

starting her car to go to work,

who didn’t even know her neighbour

was a cop or, until it was too late,

that the volunteer went to the wrong address.

And the hate that took her legs

was the same as that in Carrickfergus

where Glenn criticised 

racketeering. The dew of my libations

is for people like him,

the shards of his ribs

bleeding out, agonised, 

alone by the bed

where they left his dog

like The Godfather’s horse’s head. 

It’s too much of an inconvenient bore

for many to think about the skelfed seats

and foam-pocked red cushions

of Darkley and Tannaghmore. 

No Troy-like cures

this long after we were supposed

to have respite, when our guardians of peace

are too neutered to chase escooters. 

The well’s rags have rotted away,

the plaster St Patrick has toppled;

there’s a dog walker who is aware

it wasn’t giants or enraged sidhe

but winter floods that flattened 

burn-side hazel and birch

and last year’s storm that brought down

so many spruce here in Favour,

but there’s still demons in Augher 

this Lughnasa to coerce to Altadaven.

Rockefeller made me a junkie

‘The way to make money is to buy when blood is running in the streets…

I have ways of making money that you know nothing of.’

(John D Rockefeller) 

old John D wanted workers not thinkers

he and his rich mates wanted cheap labor

he donated to medical schools – the catch 

being he would dictate what they could teach

promoting his petroleum-based pills

over alternatives – holistic, herbal –

spawned over a century of disdaining

complementary techniques

it’s why I can hear the laugh in the GP’s

voice on the phone when I mention I see

hypnotherapy stopped me being anxious,

kinesiology fixed my reflux 

when I was down they gave me diazepam

without saying what it does to the system

when will they accept the curveball thrown,

causing my spiral towards methadone

when they cut welfare I tried cold turkey

couldn’t shake the monkey, stuck as a junkie 

desperate, get fentanyl, crack cocaine,

anything off the street, heroin –

when I am beaten, bloody in the gutter 

who’s counting dividends? 

Take away the fourth wall 

see the bedroom scene

double bed centre stage 

pre-divan spindly legs 

toddlers push pillows aside

bounce bounce bounce

arms out straight

swinging for propulsion

launching somersaulting

so high heads tucked

most of the time

landing squat 

at the edge

but the carpet 

cushions any falls

as spindly legs splay 

get replaced by stacks

of family bibles 

which one day

contain fresh names

of gleeful toddlers 

long after that room

has been demolished 

Aftermath

I’m a mess. 

But you had to insist.

Even though you were told.

You knew. 

That’s why your subterfuge. 

But still you persisted. 

And here we are. 

You harassed and bullied. 

And you roped others in. 

So that when I resisted

it was them as well as you. 

And made me look stupid. 

As always, victim-blaming. 

As always, self-blaming. 

this city

The poet rages the room,

smashes chair over table

screaming, My work’s not systemic 

or formal like Lowell, 

that same bland, gloomy hand

they all affect

however pseudo-confessional,

that multi-dimensional 

lack of meaning,

I don’t scrawl like an academic,

I write like a human being. 

Feel the sun blaze,

skin tingling as it reddens,

cheeks itching as they dry,

ignore the heady aroma of magnolia

and rose pungent on the breeze

from railed in street greenery.

Sense the moon rising above

the horizon, eeking its way from one sky

to another, delving into darkness 

as surely as this city turns us into savages: 

the way the lover rages,

kneeling on the sidewalk,

weeping over the bloodied limbs

and exposed viscera of the only soul 

that made inhabitance bearable.

One needy conceit rages,

objectifying, denying an other,

oblivious to the reality

every herd doesn’t just murmurate 

or scatter like magnetized irondust, 

but throbs with a multitude of hearts 

that spew adoration and harm as readily 

and promiscuously, as delicately

and beautifully as bile 

seeping onto pavements. 

So, this city swarms 

with such exigencies

nightmares generate. 

You Know It’s Me 

Sunshine through grubby trailer windows…

A moment ago I was at the gas station,

they have a good vegan range. Everyone knows

me, the wild-haired cat-lady,

the old one there with accusing baggy eyes

even remembers… why I take

a cab to the clinic twice a week at four

to queue up for the methadone that keeps

me level, why I lie awake when it’s dark,

sometimes siesta through afternoon heat

when the distant industrial estate

is clattering. All the world is busy

living and getting, consuming, taking. 

I panic and rush to the doctor’s. Infrequent

sessions with a shrink to regain focus.

Sunday mornings the catholics parade 

for service, I watch them go and return 

from slippy deck steps, feel shutters

crash in my head, calloused like the hands

that kneaded me when I was playdough.

Crashing down, galvanized steel 

locking away the past. Steel, like gates 

all around you. I visited once, 

threw up in the parking lot. 

I don’t need to see you, I know you’re there. 

I know your stomach knots

to see me, but you’ll never admit it. 

You shuffle between gray block rooms,

lie, fantasizing, sometimes about me, 

as I lie next to a treated plywood wall,

sometimes fantasizing about you.

Through so many years –

letters, then emails, now texts.

Rare voicecalls. We have little to say:

you don’t want to divulge the threats

you face every day; I don’t want to confess

the emptiness of my existence. 

There was no doubting the evidence,

I understand why you have to be where you are,

don’t excuse what you did or why.

But sometimes there is something 

that is stronger than sense. 

That’s why I tolerate this incarnation. 

That’s why I contend with 

sunshine through grubby trailer windows…

I know you know,

you know I know…

I know it’s you;

you know it’s me. 

Niall McGrath is a twice Pushcart Prize nominated writer in the 2020s, most recently for 2026, from County Antrim, N Ireland. He has had work in Tears In The Fence, The South Carolina Review, Ashville Poetry Review, Poetry Scotland, French Literary Review, Antigonish Review, Irish Times, Poetry Ireland Review, The Stinging Fly, Poetry Scotland, New Statesman and Quadrant (Australia) among other journals. He is Assistant Editor of Northern Ireland’s premier journal of the arts and culture, Fortnight. Recent selections include oral tradition (Alien Buddha, USA, 2024) and Shed (Lapwing, UK, 2021).