Synchronized Chaos’ First May Issue: Fluidity

Announcing that contributor Michael Steffen has a new book out, I Saw My Life.

About I Saw My Life: From the saying “I saw my life flash before my eyes”, the book’s title announces thresholds, things and moments of arrest and luminosity, resplendent, but also shocking as a near-death experience might be, and fleeting as any flash may be. The stars in their constellations at night glimpsed up through leaves of a tree, the drama of a scull tipped in a powerful mid-river current, a woven shopping handbag, such objects in their places and handling evoke the weights and sensations revisiting the body in reflective memory, at the heart of poetry’s deeply personal yet widely shared and recognized expressions.

It’s available for review from Lily Poetry Review’s press.

This month’s issue rides high on a wave, surging towards us with a theme of Fluidity.

Image c/o George Hodan

Some contributors literally speak of water. Eva Lianou Petropoulou personifies the creatures of the sea as she calls for an end to litter and pollution. Xoʻjyozova Dildora discusses environmental damage to the Aral Sea and efforts to restore the ecosystem. Elaine Murray celebrates the wonder of the ocean, wishing to become a mermaid. Brian Barbeito recollects being stung by a jellyfish, resting, and turning out okay in time, comforted by natural and literary beauty. Later, he celebrates the seafaring-inspired writing of Joseph Conrad.

Others address different aspects of life that can feel fluid, such as light and vast open landscapes. Juan Vadillo’s review describes Beatriz Saavedra Gastélum’s poetry collection, “Lucid Breath of Light,” as a journey exploring light in its various forms, memories, and transformations. Mesfakus Salahin immerses himself into nature and creativity. Stephen Jarrell Williams’ serene piece evokes a feeling of gentle tranquility. JoyAnne O’Donnell meditates on a pleasant afternoon outside in a meadow. Sheikha A.’s short, lyrical pieces use vivid imagery and concise language to evoke a range of natural and serene scenes. Sayani Mukherjee celebrates the beauty and splendor of an outdoor festival. Yee Leonsoo’s poems use extreme natural places (a salt desert and a deep-sea sinkhole) to explore identity, memory, and the feeling of in-between-ness. Mark Young’s geographies creatively mutate random regions of Australia into works of art.

We can also perceive time as more fluid than linear. Chuck Taylor explores the idea of the “now” and how it can be captured in words, considering the brief moments between perception and recording. Barbaros İrdelmen’s pieces intertwine ordinary images with themes of love and loss to explore how human connection, memory, and longing persist within and against time’s flow. Kareem Abdullah speaks of love, longing, and memory. Mustafa Abdulmalek Al-Sumaidi reminds us that we are all mortal. Abdel Iatif Moubarak renders up a tale of a singer’s faded glory still piercing the darkness of night.

One’s personality and attitudes also morph and shift over the years. Sevara Matnazarova outlines how her personality and outlook on life changed as she grew older. Susie Gharib’s work addresses authenticity, self-expression, and a desire for a more compassionate and peaceful existence. John Grey’s work explores vulnerability and resilience within the human (and natural) experience. Elisa Mascia’s pieces draw upon changeable natural phenomena such as wind and butterflies to dramatize introspective and emotive explorations of love, loss, and transformation. Yeon Myung-ji’s poem uses the act of shelling beans as a rich metaphor for introspection, resilience, and the quiet, often overlooked, processes of life and growth. Duane Vorhees’ poems explore themes of love, identity, and transformation, often blurring the lines between reality and fantasy. Nattie O’ Sheggzy delves into the complexities of simple things and searches for meaning, beauty, and authenticity in a chaotic and often dissonant world.

A whole set of poems by Niall McGrath explore themes of memory, identity, social commentary, and personal struggle, often set against the backdrop of Northern Ireland. Poet Michael Todd Steffen, interviewed by Cristina Deptula about his new book I Saw My Life, explores the intersection of personal and historical memories, identity, and mortality, aiming to inspire reflection, acceptance, and a deeper appreciation for the world around us. Lan Xin highlights how holding space for wonder and gratitude can enhance our daily lives. Kandy Fontaine’s piece mixes theater and prose, celebrating artist Tricia Warden and the intersection of art, literature, and identity, particularly in the context of feminist and queer perspectives.  Christopher Bernard kicks off the next installment of his children’s story Otherwise, a mixture of cultural thought, suspense and middle-grade energy. Tanja Vučićević describes a personal journey, both physically and emotionally, as they navigate through challenges and seek solace and salvation.

Image c/o Jacques Fleury

Writing can play a part in personal reflection and development. J.J. Campbell uses poetry to process his own experiences and emotions and to comment on the human condition. Yongbo Ma’s poems are reflective and introspective, exploring themes of isolation, disconnection, and the search for meaning. Manik Chakraborty wakes us up with the graceful hope of a new morning and continues to seek artistic inspiration despite abandonment from a muse. Ryan Quinn Flanagan probes ordinary life with a poet’s eye, considering the significance of even mundane objects. Jacques Fleury uses rich imagery and references to mythology and literature to highlight the owl’s dualistic nature, embodying both positive and foreboding qualities. Ananya Guha creates a place where a moment of fear and the stories told about it later blend together into a lasting personal myth, half memory, half ghost story. High school English student Reilley Andre expresses a mature perspective on life, pointing out how different people see matters from various points of view, expressing grief, and showing gratitude for his caring sister.

Some love can remain steady amid the flow of time. Gulsanam Mamasiddiqova offers up words of respect and love for her father. Mubina Botirova expresses her love and gratitude for her mother. Tursunova Mehrinoz Oybek qizi pays respect to her mother’s dedication and kindness. Gulchiroy Axmedova expresses tender sentiments of motherly care. Afrose S. celebrates childhood and urges people to protect children. Prasanna Kumar Dalai evokes the tenderness and fragility of early love. Anwer Ghani depicts a steady, tender, and elegant love. Anindya Paul speaks to a profound and intimate romantic devotion that lingers after death. Daniela Chourio-Soto expresses nostalgia through the means of scent. Yongbo Ma’s playful work also encompasses themes of love and human romantic connection.

Of course, not all love stories end happily, and loss is a part of the human condition. Leon Drake’s poems of heavy nostalgia mourn words left unspoken and relationships left unexplored. Donna Dallas speaks of trauma, monstrosity, addiction, and toxic relationships. Kassandra Aguilera’s fragmented poem explores the intoxicating and often painful dynamics of infatuation. On a broader scale, Milena Pčinjski laments the weight of a troubled world, all that could be and all that will never be. Yet, vulnerability is not necessarily weakness, but a prerequisite for change and growth.

Love and caring can also encompass more than one’s own inner circle. Several contributors discuss the fluid state of societal and international relations and advocate for peace and justice. Alan Catlin’s work highlights the human cost of war and its echoes in art and the human soul. Abigail George’s melancholic, reflective poems mourn destruction in Gaza and a personal loss. Shlok Pandey’s fictional story is a poignant portrayal of the human experience during wartime. David Kokoette describes age-old power dynamics and struggles. Mark Wyatt’s fragmented pattern poetry calls out the atrocities made possible by unquestioning obedience to religious and political dictates. Patricia Doyne mocks Donald Trump’s pursuit of grandeur as Bill Tope presents another satirical take on Trump’s proposed arch. Staci Modisette reminds us to protect ourselves while speaking up for peace and justice. Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s gentle words are set to ethereal vocals and a drifting background melody, with an encore here. Аshurоvа Dinоrа Аnvаrqul qizi outlines the role of Uzbekistan’s National Center for Human Rights.

Image c/o Andrea Stockel

Cultural and world history might seem static, but it can also be fluid in the sense that we remember it differently, or remember different aspects of it, over time. What and how we remember can have repercussions in the present. Lan Anh, a Vietnamese economics student in Germany, illustrates the intricate web of relationships between nations, economies, and people, highlighting the invisible boundaries that connect and impact lives in unseen ways. Muhammadyusuf Kozimjonov outlines the historical and cultural development of Uzbekistan. Joseph Ogbonna revels in the intriguing cultural and political history of the island of Corsica. Nozima Gofurova describes the cultural treasures she saw during her tour of Uzbekistan’s Center for Islamic Education. Jernail S. Anand encourages us to look to wise examples from history to create the world we would like to see.

Tasneem Hossain celebrates the richness of the world’s heritage of dance. Federico Wardal highlights an upcoming star-studded event in Rome celebrating Dante Aligheri which will be attended by cinema and theater luminaries. Yatti Sadelli reviews Dr. Bashir Issa Al-Shirawi’s poetry, highlighting his theme of the inner strength and resilience of the world’s women.

Language and literature are part of world culture as well as a bridge among various cultures. Nozimova Shukrona highlights the value and importance of reading as a way to learn and participate in global thought. Jernail S. Anand urges readers to nourish our minds as well as our bodies, with a well-chosen and varied diet. Tursunaliyeva Zilolaxon celebrates the value of books, literature and libraries. Joseph Nechvatal’s review of Rus Khomutoff’s poem “Kaos Karma” examines the work as an abstract machine that combines literature and chaos magick philosophy, exploring themes of multiplicity, singularity, and the relationship between poetry and passion. Yulduz Kurbоnоvа explores how courtesies embedded in the Uzbek language can get lost in translation to other tongues. Delo Isulfi pays tribute to Rohini Kumar Behera, reflecting on his poetry, highlighting Behera’s themes of peace, gratitude, and nature, and how they convey a sense of spirituality and universality.

Education serves as a vital site where tradition and innovation meet—a place where societies negotiate fluid continuity and change. Many contributors discuss best practices for teaching language and other subjects in school. Subanova Dilafruz discusses audio aids for young language learners. Charos Mansurova discusses the phenomenon of English “loan-words” in Korean. Azimova Nilufar Egamberdiyevna compares word structures in English and Uzbek. Pardayeva Yulduz outlines methods of English-Uzbek idiom translation. Abduraufova Nilufar Khurshidjon kizi highlights the need for parents and educators to work together to teach young children. Qurbana Mubinakhon Umidjon qizi discusses how parents and educators can cooperate to inculcate national values in Uzbek children. Usmonaliyeva Bahora Abduvali qizi explores the role of idioms in Uzbek literature. Ahadova Feruzakhon looks at ways to improve student vocabulary knowledge.

Image c/o Omar Sahel

Abduhalilova Sevdora Xayrulla kizi asserts the importance of physical education in school. Isakova Mukhlisa Khusanboevna illuminates exercise as a stress reliever for students. Bakhromova Gulsanam discusses the importance of inclusive education for students with disabilities and practical ways to make that happen. Abdullajanova Shahnozals’hoqxon suggests ways to help shy language students feel more comfortable speaking up in class. Dildoraxon Turgunboyeva explores how to create nurturing and educational preschool environments. Abduhalilova Sevdora offers up a polylexical analysis of English language phraseology. Turdaliyeva Mohidil Baxtiyor qizi discusses classroom activities to enhance student vocabulary. Dildoraxon Turg’unboyeva highlights the value of dictionaries in education. Ahadova Feruzakhon suggests ways to work with vocabulary when teaching young students their native language. Shahnoza Amanboyeva points to 3D modeling and artificial intelligence as tools to enhance science classrooms.

One of education’s important social functions is to prepare students to join the workforce. The global economic landscape is continually in flux, as several contributors discuss. Satimboyeva Risolat Ilhomboy qizi outlines future prospects for job growth given emerging world technologies. Azamova Feruza Abduholiq qizi suggests ways to improve the service sector of Uzbekistan’s economy.

Turning to medicine, Mamadiyorova Durdona outlines the structure and function of the human placenta. Ashurova Parizoda explores the biological characteristics of the parasite Ascaris and its effects on the human body. Xamroyeva Shaxlo discusses the process of blood formation in the human body.

For a look at a widely discussed technology, Rahmonova Barno Kilich qizi probes the economic future of our world after the growth of artificial intelligence. Nurmatova Charosxon Pirnazar qizi also explores how artificial intelligence is reshaping education and the global economy. Toshbotirov Bekjaxon Asliddin o‘g‘li outlines useful roles for AI in the classroom. O’rinboyeva Ziynatjon Anvarbek qizi points to effects of artificial intelligence on society.

Image c/o Andrea Stockel

Dildora Sultonova celebrates human intelligence, singing an ode to her resplendent and resilient dreams. Eva Petropoulou Lianou interviews poet Eldar Akhadov, highlighting his optimism and respect for the next generation.

A common thread in this entire issue is the persistence of human connection in the face of change. Each contributor grapples with how individuals and communities relate to each other, to history and culture, to the natural world. Smaller scale personal narratives and larger stories intertwine as overlapping dimensions of the human story. The blending of artistic forms and styles in several works evokes the complex flowing of ideas within the creative mind, a current that dissolves rigid boundaries among ideas and cultures.

The collection suggests that while much of our lives inevitably flows and shifts with the passage of time and with cultural and technological change, the underlying human impulses to connect, to understand, and to create meaning remain constant..

Essay from Brian Barbeito

Beyond the Extraordinary or of Joseph Conrad (Experience, Language, Hard Work, and Genius)

Many of the scholars and documentaries and such rightly claim that numerous things contributed to Joseph Conrad’s highly successful and monumental canon of literature. They point out his multiple languages, plus a passion for the sea and written word, and the study and hard work, plus an immense dedication to craft and truth both. But, though that’s all obviously true, in reading him there is something more, and it’s that he was possessed of genius. And in two ways. 

One part of his genius was in seeing, and he himself said that above all he wanted to make people see. And the other half was in expression, in writing. He saw and he wrote. Many people speak multiple languages, and several are writers and poets, but is there anyone that can turn every sentence into gold like Conrad? Little or few. And in a climate modern where sparseness and brevity is lauded as a fashion for some odd reason, his golden descriptive sentences shine even brighter, turning the idea of telling a story into something immensely valuable. Conrad can show the way back to true storytelling and literature. 

Therefore, it is a sea worker’s life and experience, the languages, the interest, and hard work, but, nature or God also added genius to the mix. If you look closely, even though there are several that can turn sentences that are extraordinary, there are few that can go beyond the extraordinary into something else entirely. 

Poetry from Yee Leonsoo

Salar de Uyuni*

Lee Yeon-su

I turned the desert upside down

I part my lips and let salt bloom

I came face to face between desert and sky

The husks shed by salt-tree fruits on all sides

murmur their sentences

I roll in the salty garment the sea has taken off

Uyuni, in the traces of having collapsed,

gathered the sloughed skins the foam left behind

Forbidden tears ripened and burst — the salt

stacked its body, rising on the tips of pillars

It is an unknowable origin that resembles a mirror

You, who have not evaporated,

are crossing the desert you once swam through

on milk-white ice floes,

drifting, drifting, drifting

I lean my chest back — all night, white grains of sand

keep spilling out from my mouth

With the clouds the sky has spat out,

the loose space between us brings

a lengthened shadow trailing behind —

greetings and farewells in one

In every chest where white sand grains mutter,

a mirror flickers, and a saltiness keeps rising

Where has the face that hung in the sky gone —

even shattered beneath my feet,

I return again,

and even overturned, reflected,

it is a face that cannot be erased

* Salar de Uyuni: the world’s largest salt flat, located in Bolivia

소금사막 우유니*

이연수

사막을 뒤집었다

입술을 열어 소금을 피운다

사막과 하늘 사이 마주했다

사방 소금나무 열매가 쏟아놓은 각질들이 

문장을 웅얼거린다

바다가 벗어놓은 짠 기운 옷으로 뒹군다

우유니는 주저 앉은 흔적으로

포말이 내어놓은 허물을 모았다

금지된 눈물이 익어 터진 소금은

기둥으로 발끝을 세워 몸을 쌓았다

거울을 닮은 알 수 없는 기원이다

증발하지 않은 너는 

헤엄친 사막을 우유빛 유빙으로

둥둥둥 건너고 있다

가슴 젖히니 밤새 하얀 모래알

자꾸만 입으로 흘러나온다

하늘이 뱉어 낸 구름으로

헐렁한 사이는 마중과 배웅으로

길어진 그림자 끌고 온다

하얀 모래알이 주절대는 가슴마다

거울이 반짝이고 간기가 자꾸만 솟아오른다

하늘에 걸린 얼굴은 어디로 가고 

발아래에서 쪼개져도

내가 다시 돌아와

뒤집혀도 반사되어

지워지지 않는 얼굴이다

*소금사막 우유니 : 볼리비아 포토시주(州)의 우유니 서쪽 끝에 있는 소금으로 뒤덮인 사막.

​Blue Hole

Lee Yeon-su

Topaz sapphire pearl jewel-sea of the Red Sea

A blue hole is a cave filled with unusually blue seawater

Somewhere, endlessly — once you enter

A sinkhole in the sea begins, from which you cannot escape

A trap, on the day I must descend into the blue water?

Between the thinned surface, a computer’s power light flickers

Shall I dip my ankle in — I hold my breath, bubbles rise gurgling

The breath I filled myself with swims, transparent ears drift

The diver steadies their breathing and turns toward the bottom

Cobalt-colored shallows and sea urchins blooming like red flowers

Lotte World Gyro Drop, spinning and dizzy

As I rise, the held breath floats up

The moment the crown of my head strikes the sky

A vertiginous 2 seconds of weightlessness on the way down

Gathering my whole body, hoping not to be discarded

I shut my eyes tight and grip my hands hard

The speed of falling

I had a dream — the days I laughed brightly as a child,

The playground seesaw creaking and groaning

I surrendered my body to the children’s cheers and movement

A husky voice flowing from the radio

The film Begin Again, and the song

Lost Stars — guitar notes ringing out

Like a star that has lost its way

A blue sports car racing down the road

Hair streaming above my forehead

It was the day the wind blew and I left home

The underwater cave, like the cut cross-section of a bell pepper

Someone’s hands and feet refracted, rippling

Lifted their head, wagged their tail toward the surface

A cursor blinks in the deep sea —

Click

블루홀

이연수

토파즈 사파이어 진주 홍해의 보석 바다

블루홀은 유난히 푸른 바닷물로 가득 찬 동굴이다 

어디 한 부분 끝없이 한번 들어가면 

헤어나지 못하는 바다 속 싱크홀 시작된다

푸른 물속으로 들어가야 하는 날 함정이라니?

얇아진 수면사이 컴퓨터 전원이 반짝거려 

발목을 넣어볼까 숨을 참는다 기포가 뽀글뽀글 솟아오르고 

가득 채운 숨은 헤엄쳐 투명한 귀는 떠다닌다 

다이버 호흡을 고르고 바닥을 향하여 

코발트 빛 여울과 붉은 꽃으로 피어난 성게들

롯데월드 자이로드롭 뱅글뱅글 어지럽다

올라가는 사이 참던 숨이 떠오른다

하늘에 정수리가 부딪힌 순간

아찔하다 내려오는 무중력 2초

온몸을 모아 버려지지 않기를 

눈을 질끈 감고 손을 꽉 쥐었다

추락의 속도를

꿈을 꾸었다 어렸을 적 환하게 웃던 날, 

놀이터 시소는 삐그덕 거린채 

아이들 환호성 소리와 움직임에 따라 몸을 내맡겼다

라디오에서 흘러나오는 허스키한 목소리

영화 비긴 어게인과 노래 그리고

‘Lost Stars’ 기타소리 울려 퍼져 

길을 잃어버린 별처럼

도로 위에 파란 스포츠카 질주하고

머리카락이 이마위에서 휘날리고

바람이 부는 방향으로 집을 떠난 날이었다

물속에 잠긴 동굴은 피망의 잘린 단면처럼

누군가 손과 발이 굴절되어 일렁인 채

고개를 쳐들어 수면을 향해 꼬리를 흔들었다

바다 속 커서는 깜박인다

클릭하기를 

Poetry from Yongbo Ma

Living in One’s Own World

“You just go on living in your own world!”

With these words, a door slams shut in a distant wood.

The fire flickers for a moment,

a thoughtful face brightening and dimming.

With these words, the planet quickly splits into many more.

On one side lies a desolate sea,

on the other, a barren desert.

Quadrilateral light rises in the night sky,

compressed by an inner reflux,

shifting among several possibilities.

Streets keep branching out from where he stands,

branching more and more

past every monument they meet.

Night falls like a curtain around his feet,

he is a statue waiting to be unveiled,

magma glowing inside him.

Refuse to Wake

In the south of the Yangtze in March, grass grows and warblers fly,

yet I still feel no warmth.

My heart remains like a block of chemically infused ice,

I have tried every means to thaw it,

all in vain, wine no longer ignites passion.

I have nothing to say to anyone, save for teaching

and going to the cafeteria. I lock myself away indoors,

drawing all curtains to block the unkind light.

I know the outside world is still the same outside.

Nature runs by a cruel law—

no mercy, no love, only mutual devouring.

A magpie pecks a soft thing on the lawn,

flies up to the bare branches of a parasol tree, 

its tail vibrating to keep balance. 

All things kill one another to survive, 

The universe drifts toward heat death.

I hurry to read on the south balcony while daylight lasts,

I read only books written by saints—

they murmur in deserts, on pillars, or in caves,

words no one can make out,

yet I possess endless patience for this.

Sunlight occasionally illuminates a fragile sentence,

like a spotlight framing an actor fainting in slow motion.

My longing for spiritual experience overwhelms all other needs,

yet those words and logics still bring no warmth,

sunlight reveals more dust.

I believe there is One who governs human history,

I believe local evil may be global good,

I believe when I turn the final page of the book,

something unprecedented will happen.

Yet my heart still tightens. I refuse to wake

to the still heavy reality.

I have spent my whole life in escape.

Late Night in Early March

Deep into the night of early spring,

darkness and spring water flow down the southern slopes of Purple Mountain,

only silent cars occasionally glide past on the street.

I carry Whitman’s heavy Moments of the Soul,

and a bottle of hometown liquor long out of production.

A full decade has passed,

and eight years since you journeyed north to the capital.

Everything has changed, yet nothing seems to have changed at all,

haggardness lingers, unhidden by white hair and night,

two crabs raise their claws and touch,

they will cross the vast starry sky, one after another.

Ancient Town of Tongli, our wandering with two kitchen knives,

Yancheng in Changzhou, frogs croaking amid our rain filling shoes,

the golden glow of rapeseed blooms hides in remote mountains,

the moon and fireflies of Linggu Temple—

I have never seen them again since that day.

This is not our hometown after all,

but where on earth can we call home?

At a small Hot Pot inn, only the two of us remain,

bright lights hang empty, midnight has long passed,

I feel uneasy, time and again, for the inn owner’s toil.

One more drink, brother,

those scattered lights of our conversation

are a silence growing deeper in the dead of night—

concerning faith, like the faint chill of early spring nipping at my shoulders,

ten years ago I came here, at the very age you are now.

Nothing has changed, the earth turns gently,

I watch the taxi’s red taillights flicker and fade away,

a cool wind brushes my fevered forehead,

I stand long on the empty street,

Staring up at the bare treetops of plane trees 

rising higher and higher against the stars.

Evening at Longhill Lake

Wooden villas, sounds crystallized with fragrance,

abstract murals pieced from small blocks of wood.

Lake before, hills behind—

wild expanse, high sky.

Here one may drink and sing aloud,

or keep silence with the wilderness.

The sun sinks west;

a soft breeze drifts like a ship’s wake.

Heaven and earth seem to wait

for a solemn rite to begin.

I need not speak, nor think at all—

abide in a happy, plant-like state:

swaying with the wind, yet still in time.

Twilight falls quietly like a fishing net,

autumn crickets chirp,

dried cow dung glows with its last light,

like pale yellow window paper

soaked soft into pulp,

breathing the scent of paste and raw flour.

The Final Room

You write poems in your final room,

I translate poems in mine,

between us lies the silence of a whole continent,

and a gray, early winter.

You look up now and then toward the far shore,

shadows of trees, an overturned boat,

the deep-yellow roof of a temple,

gradually, you lose track of which afternoon it is—

much as my writing hand moves slower.

Has your Keatsian unease and the fog-shrouded plain,

vanished for a moment? As I set down these lines—

no man is an island, entire of itself or sufficient alone,

as I hesitate between two versions.

By now you must have finished that afternoon poem,

rising, you step onto the balcony to smoke,

glance back at the emptied room,

then gaze long at the wrinkled surface of the lake.

When I pause my work, twilight floods the window

like crowds of murmuring ghosts,

scattering and hiding in rooms that recede one by one,

turn on the light, brother—we are far apart.

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of polyphonic writing and objectified poetics. He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included 10 poetry collections. He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell Williams, Ashbery and Rosanna Warren. He published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over 600,000 copies. 

Essay from Nozima Gofurova

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.

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

——————————————————————————————-

the porcelain gods are calling

preparing my mind for hours

on the toilet the day before

my colonoscopy

with colon cancer on both

sides of my family, dread

is on the tip of my lips

and i know, i’m young

enough to beat anything

found early

but the question that is

never asked

would i really want to

no one seems to understand

death is the only way out

of here

why fear it

why prolong this fucking

misery

unless of course, you’re

into the pain, the agony

and the endless struggle

perhaps have a drink

with sisyphus and go

over the war stories

preferably, i’ll have

a stiff drink

maybe listen to some

music

close my eyes

and just let go

———————————————————————–

hidden joy

i’ve been dealing

with pinched nerves

long enough now

that the pain no

longer sneaks

up on me

it is like a constant

companion

the nagging wife

on a long road trip

of course, i can say

that since i am single

a hidden joy of loneliness

—————————————————————-

a little money

here come the beautiful

women telling me they

just need a little money

and they will make me

thousands to help me

get out of debt

i laugh and ask which

rock was i born under

or what ditch will they

leave the body in

they can try to insist

they are legitimate

but i know damn

well

i can’t be the only

one to know a fucking

scam when i see one

besides, using a porn

star for your profile pic

is an obvious fucking

giveaway

—————————————————————-

suffer

sitting here in

the waiting room

listening to this

program

that is stressing

that you don’t

need to suffer

over and over

again

i’m guessing we

all have different

terms of suffering

but holy shit

suffering is coming

out of that television

just loud enough

i get the fucking

point

————————————————————-

a lesser hell

i hear all the horror stories

of the father that left for

cigarettes and never came

home

i’m sure most of them

were running from debt

or a family they didn’t

love or could barely

afford

and sure, some ran to

other families that were

of a lesser hell

but how many of those

that never came back

never made it to another

destination

i think of all the bodies

turning up in old fields

deep in the woods

i bring up all of this

because i have always

wondered why my father

couldn’t have been one

of those fuckers

he stayed for the abuse

for the hell

for all the times he never
knew how to be a man

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. The 3 time Best of The Net nominee and two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he’s been widely published over the years. Most recently at Yellow Mama, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Owl Narrative and Disturb the Universe Magazine. His latest book, to live your dreams, published by Whiskey City Press, is available by going here: https://a.co/d/01WIoaxo

Poetry from Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Gorky’s Cathedrals

Cathedrals of the city,

that is what Gorky called the many fire hydrants

he would pass in the street.

Ascribing meaning and texture,

the artist’s eye brought to everything.

I’m surprised surly New York 

never got to him,

always how and when he wished

to see it.

An acrobat 

of such fine delusions.

How far out

do you plan on treading

against the twisting 

tides?

I sit

at the back of the house

wondering how the front 

of the house

is doing

and if this makes me paranoid 

or overly sensitive

in some way 

then you’re counting

porcupines 

instead of

quills.

Net of Lemons

The fridge almost empty again,

it is hard to not grow sour.

A single net of lemons.

Pushed back by better options  

and forgotten on the second shelf.

The yellow netting 

every bit as cowardly and sad

as the failing fruit within.

And I stand over the sink.

Squeeze out the last dried dregs

into the bottom of a single malt glass.

Thrown back without toast.

That deep copper mine way I wince with a pain 

everyone can remember.

Standing

in this change 

room

trying on many 

slim fit shirts 

that don’t fit

as half-naked children

run around 

trying to open 

all the doors

not realizing 

their future 

is just

on the other 

side.

What I love

about 

Detroit 

is that it never 

once

tries to be

Paris,

only itself,

which is all 

we can 

ever 

do.

Sub Par

The submarines are on shore leave. 

Playing a round of golf in checkered pants 

that hide their torpedoes.

The submarines are taller than you would think

when they stand up on end.

Waiting for their turn at the tee.

Looking to break even on a difficult Par 4.

Tiny pencils to keep score.

A friendly wager or two before the 6th green.

While the rest of the submarines are off patrolling the oceans.

With sonar ears and gangly periscope eyes.

Waiting for their shore leave.

An opportunity to hit the links.

Your

life can be in park

even if you don’t drive

that is what

they never tell you

once they get 

around to not telling 

you things.

Steve Jobs 

ate his food raw 

and would always lease a car  

for 6 months 

because anything longer  

required a license and registration  

under California law 

so that every six months 

Steve Jobs would drop off his car 

at the dealership 

and drive a new one 

off the lot  

behind that steering wheel  

that had just been waiting 

for its turn at the helm.

Question

What’s wrong with losing your mind?

You may find it all over again.

And never in the way or place

they told you.


Ryan Quinn Flanagan 
is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle though his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, SynchronizedChaos, Literary Yard, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.