ALEXANDER ARKADYEVICH FEINBERG
Tell me, driven by dreams and faith,
You’ll never turn back now, will you?
You’ve left your shore, far behind,
Seeking only a distant miracle?
Where to? Like a flame beyond reach,
Your dream will never be fulfilled.
A miracle is always a wave,
While the shore is ever the land.
Translation by Shukurilloyeva Lazzatoy
*****
Bref catéchisme
Tu trouves Dieu dans chaque pas,
Homme saint ! Et toi femme sainte,
Tu l’aimeras vie ou trépas,
Jeune ou vieille, Soeur ou enceinte…
Quant à moi, poète à Paris,
Je ferai de mon mieux pour Lui !
Ce sera peu, tant m’éblouit,
Son ange en mon coeur qui sourit…
Peu oui ! Mais déjà, quelques pages,
Pour dire qu’il faut être sage,
Comme nous l’enseignait Saint Paul…
Pour chanter ceux qui dignes, calmes,
Moururent pour Lui sous la palme,
Ou prirent sa croix à l’épaule…
*****
Jésus à Paris
Paris – qui est ma ville, aux mille et cent églises,
Abrita, on le sait, la nuée des oiseaux,
Elle accueillit aussi la foule des badauds,
Qui arpentent matin, soir, nuit, jour, ses rues grises.
J’y vécus ! Oui : enfant, j’y fus, j’y suis encore,
Aujourd’hui je ne sors plus tant, pour mieux prier,
Hier quatre cent coups, pour l’heure l’encrier,
Autrefois les amours… Cité : scène ou décor.
Il est une légende et je vais vous la dire :
Jésus habite ici, avenue des Lilas,
Oui, le Fils de Dieu même, a choisi d’être là.
Certains racontent l’avoir vu – ils lui parlèrent,
Des nuages du ciel, du soleil, du bel air…
Il est l’esprit des lieux, astres, zénith, nadir.
*****
Poème de reconnaissance
Oh quel bonheur ! Oh quel bonheur !
Viens à moi sans cesse, oh l’Amour !
Oui je l’ai dit je connus jour !
À ton flanc n’ai sèvre en mon coeur !
Les songes infinis s’ébrouent…
Dans l’eau lacs clairs, bleus lagons, mers !
Oh notre Père un rien te voile,
Bénis la Sainte et toi l’étoile !
Le verger, la Lune et la Terre…
Vous me fîtes page de cour,
Et d’heurs en ors votre prière,
Passion, infini mystère,
Me porte aux ailes de vos Anges…
Que j’adorerai pour mélange,
D’une vie donnée en retour,
Aux yeux bleu de nuit, mon secours,
Enfant, nourrisson en vos langes.
*****
Comme une Comptine
Les pastels de bleus, d’ors, habilleront le Ciel,
Et partout sonne le refrain – bourdon de miel…
La musique en tout sens étalée là, éclate,
Et règne sans dessus – dessous – mer disparate.
Je me promène allant dépenser du tabac,
Et d’un air sobre, lent,
Marche au pas de combat…
L’homme est un animal ! Mystère, Loi des Fables.
Il vivra vieux, pensif et assis à sa table,
S’il connaît ce poncif :
« Au carrefour un arbre,
C’est ainsi !
Un Platane !
Je ne suis pas de marbre…
Voici,
Braire mon âne. »
*****
Esther
Ou : Petit Pied d’argent
Elle était là, mais oui Venise,
Venise est elle sans ses filles ?
Par le vieux Ghetto et l’eglise,
Oui juste là, Judeira,
Le trois. Et je la vis au bras,
D’une fontaine où brille l’eau,
Versée par un enfant… Halo !
Quand je lui dis « Quel est ton nom ? »
Elle répondit Esthera.
« – Quel est ton nom doux – étranger ? »
Me demanda t elle à son tour.
« Je suis Timothée, dis – je, et j’ai,
Tout juste là trouvé l’amour ! »
Puis la tendre, si belle au jour…
– Vous dirais je ici ? Et puis, non,
Poète n’est il roi du coeur,
Sans raison ?
– Il aime à mesure.
*****
L’amandier
A l’ombre d’un amandier,
En sifflotant, je sillonne,
Un champ ou la vie foisonne,
En vrai, joyeux jardinier.
Je n’avance pas, je donne,
Tout à ce cher amandier,
Le chant d’un paradisier,
Prouve que la terre est bonne.
Ma tête sous son calot,
J’aperçois au loin les bois,
Parfois je m’arrête et bois,
La fumée de mon brûlot.
Puis au soir, viens mon repos,
Je fume une herbe sauvage,
Et serein, je dévisage,
La lune, à tout cœur appeau…
*****
Jeunesse
Mon sablier de sang s’est vidé de l’aurore,
Oh ciel! Tant pis pour ça, tant pis pour les fusées,
A présent l’aube blanche ouvre ses ailes d’or,
Puis le lapis cinglant ceint mon front irisé…
Une charrette d’os à jeter dans l’oubli,
Mare sacrée des morts, le jour me reste à faire,
Les rêves trop lointains s’effacent dans mon lit,
Quand le matin sévère aiguise son mystère.
J’aperçois que plus loin : les nues sont entrouvertes,
Et repense à la Nuit ! Qui vient d’être passée…
En songeant que nos vies, quoique d’aucuns dissertent,
Ne sont que gouttes d’eau d’un océan lacées.
*****
Zut
Deux vieillards promenant leurs odeurs liminaires,
Dans le bus. Lui qui branle un chef un peu rassis,
Elle roide, quoique tremblant un peu aussi,
Tous deux fatigués, gris, d’une couleur de pierre.
Au milieu des cahots, ils sont là face à face,
Pensifs, presque rêveurs, une moue sur les lèvres,
Et pris au piège de leur destin qui s’achève,
Semblent consentir aux caprices de l’espace.
Puis, ils se lèvent, sortent dans la rue de Rennes,
Qu’ils arpenteront, quêtant pour leur quotidien
Cette vie échappée des cœurs que la mort gène,
Vers leur appartement aux meubles trop anciens.
****
Timothée Bordenave
Château d’Assat. France.
Pour European Poetry. 2024.XII.
A Brief Catechism
You find God in every step,
Holy man! And you, holy woman,
You will love Him life or death,
Young or old, Sister or pregnant…
As for me, a poet in Paris,
I will do my best for Him!
It will be little, so dazzles me,
His angel in my heart who smiles…
Little, yes! But already, a few pages,
To say that one must be wise,
As Saint Paul taught us…
To sing of those who, worthy, calm,
Died for Him under the palm,
Or took His cross on their shoulders…
Jesus in Paris
Paris – which is my city, with its thousand and one hundred churches,
Sheltered, as we know, the flock of birds,
It also welcomed the crowd of onlookers,
Who walk its gray streets morning, evening, night, and day.
I lived there! Yes: as a child, I was there, I am still there,
Today I don’t go out so much, the better to pray,
Yesterday four hundred blows, now the inkwell,
Formerly love affairs… City: scene or setting.
There is a legend, and I’ll tell it to you:
Jesus lives here, on Avenue des Lilas,
Yes, the Son of God himself chose to be here.
Some say they saw him – they spoke to him,
Of the clouds in the sky, of the sun, of the beautiful air…
He is the spirit of the place, stars, zenith, nadir.
Poem of Gratitude
Oh what happiness! Oh what happiness!
Come to me constantly, oh Love!
Yes, I said it, I knew day!
At your side, I am not weaned in my heart!
Infinite dreams shake…
In the water, clear lakes, blue lagoons, seas!
Oh our Father, a trifle veils you,
Bless the Saint and you, the star! The orchard, the Moon, and the Earth…
You made me a page of court,
And your prayer, with golden happiness,
Passion, infinite mystery,
Carries me on the wings of your Angels…
Whom I will adore as a mixture,
Of a life given in return,
With the blue eyes of night, my help,
Child, infant in your swaddling clothes.
Like a Nursery Rhyme
Pastels of blue, of gold, will dress the Sky,
And everywhere rings the refrain – honey drone…
The music spread out there, bursts forth,
And reigns upside down – a disparate sea.
I walk, going to spend some tobacco,
And with a sober, slow air,
March at the marching pace…
Man is an animal! Mystery, Law of Fables. He will live to be old, thoughtful, and seated at his table,
If he knows this cliché:
“At the crossroads, a tree,
That’s it!
A plane tree!
I am not made of marble…
Here,
Braying my donkey.”
Esther
Or: Little Silver Foot
She was there, yes, Venice,
Is Venice without her daughters?
By the old Ghetto and the church,
Yes, right there, Judeira,
The third. And I saw her on the arm,
Of a fountain where the water sparkles,
Poured by a child… Halo!
When I asked her, “What is your name?”
She answered Esthera.
“- What is your sweet name – stranger?”
She asked me in turn. “I am Timothy,” I say, “and I have
found love right here!”
Then tenderness, so beautiful in the daylight…
Without reason?
The Almond Tree
In the shade of an almond tree,
Whistling, I wander,
A field teeming with life,
Like a true joyful gardener.
I don’t move forward, I give,
Everything to this dear almond tree,
The song of a bird of paradise,
Proves that the earth is good.
My head under its cap,
I glimpse the woods in the distance,
Sometimes I stop and drink,
The smoke from my firebrand.
Then in the evening, my rest comes,
I smoke a wild herb,
And serene, I gaze,
The moon, calling to every heart…
Youth
My hourglass of blood has emptied itself of dawn,
Oh heavens! So much for that, so much for the rockets,
Now the white dawn opens its golden wings,
Then the stinging lapis lazuli encircles my iridescent brow…
A cartload of bones to throw into oblivion,
Sacred pool of the dead, the day remains for me to make,
Dreams too distant fade into my bed,
When the severe morning sharpens its mystery.
I perceive that further away: the clouds are half-open,
And I think of the Night again! Which has just passed…
Thinking that our lives, though some may argue,
Are but drops of water in a laced ocean.
Damn
Two old men strolling their liminal scents,
On the bus. He’s jerking off a somewhat stale head,
She’s stiff, though also trembling a little,
Both tired, gray, the color of stone.
In the midst of the bumps, they stand there face to face,
Pensive, almost dreamy, a pout on their lips,
And trapped by their destiny which is coming to an end,
Seem to consent to the whims of space.
Then, they get up, go out into the street of Rennes,
Which they pace
Timothee Bordenave is a French author of fiction, poet and essayist. He lives in Paris, when not abroad or in a countryside retreat. He has published many books, and thousands of blog posts, either in French or in English.
He is also an artist, as a photographer and a painter, and is currently represented by different galleries and websites.
Timothee was born in Paris in 1984, then studied literature at high school, then law, then he became a librarian. Today he is devoted to art, and to his writings.
Kindness
The dream had not yet fallen asleep. He was impatiently waiting for his brother to come home from work. Yes, today is that special day. That is, he and his brother spent the last day of every month together in front of the TV with a plate full of sweets.
Finally, the doorbell rang and his brother came home from work. Orzu ran and opened the door and greeted her brother with a beautiful smile. They took the corn and sweets that his brother had brought and went to the hall. Orzu went to the kitchen to make his brother’s favorite jasmine tea, and at this time, his brother found Orzu’s favorite cartoon on the TV. At last they began to love.
They lost their parents in a car accident three years ago. This event had a strong impact on Orzu, who did not smile or speak at all for a year. But one day when he and his brother were watching a new cartoon, Orzu smiled in his interesting place, and since then they have been watching this cartoon together.
When the cartoon came to the most interesting part, Orzu was pouring tea for his brother and suddenly the lid of the teapot fell into the cup. Then they laughed at each other. Because the same scene was happening in the cartoon. The brother and sister sat up until midnight and wished each other good night and went to sleep
After an hour, Orzu woke up from severe pain. Her stomach was hurting badly. Se didn’t want to wake up his brother because he had to go to work in the morning. For this reason, she went to the kitchen and looked for painkillers, but there were none left. She went into her room and tried to bear it, thinking that it would go away if she waited till morning. But near morning, the pain increased, and Orzu passed out. The brother woke up for morning prayer and called his sister several times, but when he didn’t get an answer, he went into his sister’s room and cried when he saw her lying on the
floor.
The brother, who did not understand what happened to his sister, called the ambulance, explained the address in a crying voice and begged them to come as soon as possible. The brother was so scared that he took his sister in his arms and kept crying and praying. Soon the doctors arrived and after examining Orzu diagnosed that his appendix might have ruptured and took him to the hospital.
His brother kept begging God. He kept praying for Orzuni to get
well from the operation. Finally, the operation was over and the doctors allowed him to see his sister. His brother ran ahead and brought the red tulips that Orzu loved. He went to his sister and cried again.
Orzu didn’t know what to say or how to comfort her brother, suddenly she laughed and asked her brother, “Brother, you promised to take me to the park, but did you bring flowers so that you wouldn’t?” and his brother laughed along with his sister.
Thus they overcome one more challenge. On the day his sister was released from the hospital, her brother decorated the house and the bed with things Orzu liked. Now they are happy again. Happy again. His brother thanked God for saving his only sister, who was left behind by his parents.
I was late to begin leaving for walking, so I checked the time of sunset to make sure I wouldn’t get caught in darkness. It said 6:08 was when the sun set. I had enough time. I turned off the tarot card reader I was listening to and got my boots and such on. A local golf course allowed dog walkers through the winter months. Some people said it was to keep coyotes away and some had the owner as doing this because his mother used to walk the dogs there and it was all to keep part of her memory going.
The dogs were happy and safe, and socialized well if a bit zealously sometimes, with the others they encountered. I took the left side which was less populated overall, and at that time for half the walk, that half of the golf course, there was nobody. It was one of those moments prolonged where the three of us were content, moving, together, and were where and how we were supposed to be.
I looked out far and far across the lands and could see an old and sad building, something from maybe the 1970’s and even the most positive soul would be hard-pressed to find something sanguine about. I was glad I was in the next town, even if the people were a little on the snobbish side. It got really quiet, with no wind and I just paused sometimes and admired this remarkable quietude. There was a copse of trees standing above the long and wide white snow, both the ground and trees completely untouched by anything in the world. It reminded me of something. I couldn’t recall what. Then it hit me. It was all there like some old Carlos Castaneda book cover. That led me to thinking of Castaneda. His personal narrative probably hadn’t been true, according to my research, but his writing was beautiful and interesting, and did contain much wisdom. So, it was up to the reader to determine what they thought of it all finally. His immediate group of people didn’t end well. But in another way he had inspired many and perhaps still does.
I arrived at a little series of small streams. The dogs, a Collie and a Husky, didn’t bother much and stayed close enough. They were both good swimmers but I wouldn’t want them to go too close in the winter months. I stood on some planks and stared at the black water which to the sides looked grey and in other places clear. I liked the sound and to see it travelling. I began to feel better and better. It had been a long cold snow-laden winter but finally there were little signs that it might end one day.
There was a distant bell I kept hearing then, and also a black squirrel I saw running across the way in the openness before disappearing into a stand of trees. An elderly lady appeared before me with her dog. The three dogs met and played somewhat.
‘Your dogs are beautiful,’ she mentioned. I told her thanks. ‘My dog is a rescue,’ she continued, ‘and I think they know when they are becoming a rescue.’
‘Good for you,’ I told her, ‘for giving him a home and walks. I might not be out here walking if not for mine, ’cause it easy to make any one excuse not to go out. So I rescue them and they rescue me.’
‘Exactly.’
Then the lady coughed and had a hard time stopping. ‘It’s a cold I’m fighting. But I’ve had it since December.’ That was a few months, I thought to myself, and something, life experience, common sense, maybe some intuition or the manner she coughed in, told me it was pneumonia.
‘I hope you feel better soon.’
We looked around and the dogs kept playing. ‘I better get going,’ I said. And I glanced back in a bit and consciously sent her any light and good intentions that I could in order to help her with the pneumonia and in life. She seemed like such a good soul. Soon her and her dog disappeared into the part of the path that entered a group of old trees in the other direction.
I kept on. There was a long stretch and I realized for some reason, alone with my own thoughts, that I had never seen the golf course without snow, in the spring or summer. I thought it must look kind, relaxing, even inspiring for its vibrant verdancy and calm plainness. There was a bit of ice to navigate going up the long hill to our truck, and I went slow and cautiously. The dogs had no trouble at all, full of agility and youth, prowess, and such, that they were.
Some friendly people passed me and I said hello. It was interesting that they were setting out then because it was beginning to get dark. At the top the canines and I, got into my vehicle. Driving home I thought of the other side of outside, of home. There would be puzzles and books, nice people and the fire. The fire was electric and had no hearth stone, but it was a modern world and that’s just how it went sometimes. I still liked it.
Inside, I wrote this, careful not to upset the puzzle pieces. Periodically I glanced up to see the darkening sky turn from blue to darker blue and then, black. It was night. It was a day’s end. It was Sunday as a Sunday should be, peaceful and without dilemma. 6:08 EST had come and passed. And that is what I saw, did, and thought, while that winter sun was going down again.
——
FULL CIRCLE
Once we were an outpost of an empire.
Looted, used—as colonies tend to be.
Grievances were real. A core of thinkers,
afire with notions of democracy,
set off a revolution. Stars and stripes!
Fight for freedom! Down with tyrant kings!
Independence gained, this founding crew
invent a fledgling nation, full of hope.
States are sovereign, but united. Three
branches anchor checks and balances.
One makes laws. One handles all the finance.
President’s a leader, not a king.
But don’t forget the peasants, now empowered
to vote for congressmen and presidents.
Created equal, yes, but rabble-rousers
target commoners– unschooled, like children
who follow blindly men that dangle candy.
Even Senators can be beguiled.
And that’s how this old firebrand gains a foothold.
Hoodwinks voters. Preys upon their fears.
Stokes racial grudges. Rule by ultra-rich
works best when workers are no more than slaves.
And women? Slaves by gender. Slap them down.
Strip the right to vote, to rule their bodies.
This cartoon clown has seized the highest courts;
bought off lawmakers with threats and bribes;
won a loyal cult, who swallow lies,
who clap and cheer, who’d like to make him king.
He plans to rule an empire. Will annex
Greenland, Gaza, Panama Canal…
History’s come full-circle. Bites its tail.
The colony that once broke free of England
has now become Old England, Putin-style,
ruled by our own mad George III. What’s more,
a widening chasm cuts off rich from poor.
Can revolution’s smoke be far behind?
Copyright 3/2025 Patricia Doyne
Asia’s Death
Darkness with the ghosts haunts my room
The place is not allowed to stay any more
The sleeping peel can’t give me sleep in bed
That peel has snatched away Asia’s life
.
Asia, a girl of eight
In her deep sleep was raped and tortured
By her sister’s father in law with the help of family members
Struggling with life for eight days in the hospital
She expired today.
Now the time is spring and the sacred month of Ramadan
When nature spreads its glow by its own
The glory we enjoy in every step
The new leaves are coming out at the place of old falling down
On the roads and fields.
Inspite of all those beautiful sights
I see nothing in this dark world I live
Asias are dying in bed without any claim
In subconscious mind I feel sorry to think
The victims die before the death of the rapist
Like the tigers in the forest they roam about
After eating the flesh of a doe.
In this dark room I switch on the light
But darkness never removes
Something hounds me in my surroundings
That always sag my heart deep into fear.
I ask my country, how are you, dear Bangladesh?
Are the conductors okay to help drive the bus well?
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
13 March, 2025.
Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.
Poet Pat Doyne invites writers to enter the Tor House poetry contest. Submissions must be sent via snail mail to the address in the link and postmarked by March 15th.
Poet Eva Petropoulou shares that Our Poetry Association, an international writers’ collective, has opened submissions for its spring contest, with a theme of justice.
Poet and essayist Abigail George, whom we’ve published many times, shares the fundraiser her book’s press has created for her. She’s seeking contributions for office supplies and resources to be able to serve as a speaker and advocate for others who have experienced trauma or deal with mental health issues.
Synchronized Chaos Magazine also encourages you to watch short videos of international authors, artists, and activists interviewed on the Xena World chat show, including several of our contributors.
Poet Annie Finch seeks assistance with training a new app that will identify and teach different forms of poetic scansion. She’s looking for people who know how to do scansion manually to go over the collection of poems in the training set.
Essayist and poet Chimezie Ihekuna seeks a publisher for his children’s story collection Family Time. Family Time! is a series that is aimed at educating, entertaining and inspiring children between the ages of two and seven years of age. It is intended to engage parents, teachers and children with stories that bring a healthy learning relationship among them.
Essayist Jeff Rasley’s new book is out: It’s a story inspired by my own experience of a sophisticated California kid transferring to my grade school in the small town of Goshen, Indiana in 1965. It did not go well, when the new kid challenged the “gang” of kids who thought they were the cool kids who ruled the playground. For most of us, it was a blip in our lives. But one boy never recovered.
It is a short story, just 25 pages. So it only costs $2.99 for the ebook and $9.99 for the paperback. For some of you, it may evoke nostalgia for a time gone by (like using Juno instead of gmail). For others, it will be historical fiction from a strange time and place.
Check it out at https://www.amazon.com/Came-Parkside-School-Jack-Thriller-Mystery-Romance -ebook/dp/B0DY9TKL6V
Contributor Kelly Moyer has a new book out, Mother Pomegranate and Other Fairy Tales for Grown-Ups. It includes the piece “The Pussy Whip” which she sent to Synchronized Chaos, as well as many other stories. It’s available here.
Contributing poet and Pushcart nominee Kurt Nimmo’s new book Texas and New Mexico: Selected Poems 2015-2025 is out and available here.
Our April 1st issue will be crafted by co-editor Kahlil Crawford. He’s a poet, musician, and essayist who has put together previous issues on Latin Culture and Electronic Music.
In March we will have a presence at the Association of Writing Programs conference in L.A. which will include an offsite reading at Chevalier’s Books on Saturday, March 29th at 6 pm. All are welcome to attend!
So far the lineup for our reading includes Asha Dore, Douglas Cole, Scott Ferry, Linda Michel-Cassidy, Aimee Suzara, Reverie Fey, Ava Homa, Michelle Gonzalez, Terry Tierney, Anisa Rahim, Katrina Byrd, Cindy Rinne, Norma Smith, and Kelliane Parker.
Author Justin Hamm is hosting a FREE online literary event the weekend of AWP, known as StayWP. This will include author talks, informative panels, book launches and networking!
To register, please click here: https://docs.google.com/…/1FAIpQLSe0jqgxfQn…/viewform…
Now, for the first March issue, Oh, the Humanity!
Paul Tristram, like Whitman, sings of himself with easy confidence and exhilaration in life’s experiences. Philip Butera’s poetry speaks to the masks we wear and finding the courage to be authentic. Grzegorz Wroblewski digs deep into our fleshy reality, addressing the “meat” of our existence and our bodies’ undeniable needs. Tojiyeva Muxlisa also looks at our bodies, outlining common gynecological diseases and their treatments.
Dr. Prasanna Kumar Dalai’s poetry explores human emotion: romantic attraction, loneliness, grief, and confidence. Kendall Snipper speaks to the small and large sensations that bring back memories. Stephen Jarrell Williams looks back at the ‘paradise’ of his hometown in a moment of nostalgia. David Sapp recollects the wildness and local color of his boyhood days.
Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ photography captures a sense of whimsy and joy. A cat, Jean-Paul Moyer, partners with poet Kelly Moyer to create splashy, colorful paintings by moving paint around on canvas.
Life meets art in Alan Catlin’s work, as he recollects bits of his past and how he engaged with literary movements and cultural icons. Mark Young evokes moments of change, evolution, and decision in his poetry, as characters grapple with taking stock of themselves. Alaina Hammond’s drama explores the tension and commonalities behind practitioners of different art forms, and how and why they chose their crafts.
Umida Haydaraliyeva expresses the creative joy of an emerging author. Muhabbat Abdurahimova speaks to a poet’s quest for inspiration. Chris Foltopoulos’ guitar plucks out dulcet tones on his experimental music project Arpeggios. Chuck Taylor turns to writing as one of many ways to find solace during fits of insomnia.
Mahbub writes of a dream journey through gardens and his early childhood as Rus Khomutoff’s visual poetry takes us on a dreamlike quest through the beauty and mystery and riddle of our existence. Chuck Kramer’s work comes from a speaker of a certain age reflecting on their life and its meaning, finding purpose through experience teaching young children.
Ilhomova Mohichehra offers up her gratitude to her teacher. Bibikhanifa Jumanazarova poetizes about her mother’s wisdom and gentleness. Ibrahimova Halima Vahobjonovna celebrates the lifelong love and devotion of her mother as Sevinch Abirova contributes a piece of love and appreciation for a younger family member. Mirta Liliana Ramirez points out how she learned and got stronger from her past experiences, even from people who were not kind to her. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa speaks to the power of kindness and friendship, even online friendship across the distance, to affect our lives.
Mesfakus Salahin recollects the joy of young love on a warm evening. Xavier Womack speaks of a crush and the desire for a deep connection with a classmate. Anna Keiko speaks to the joy, strength, and staying power of true love. Jeannette Tiburcio Marquez evokes the joy and sweet surrender of ballroom dance with a romantic partner.
Kristy Raines’ poetry explores both interpersonal romantic love and human compassion for the world. Peter Cherches’ short stories probe how much we owe each other as fellow inhabitants of the planet, how far we will go for each other. Graciela Noemi Villaverde expresses her hopes and dreams for international peace among humanity, and Eva Petropoulou does the same for the sake of the world’s children. She also pays tribute to her deceased father.
Dr. Adnan Ali Gujjar offers up a poetic tribute to the grace and mentorship of poet Eva Petropoulou Lianou and her advocacy for peace and global justice. Dr. Jernail Anand’s essay argues for the value of art and literature for a fully developed and moral society.
Nozima Gofurova shares about an inspiring visit to one of Uzbekistan’s national centers for the visual and performing arts. Poet and magazine editor Maja Milojkovic interviews one of Serbia’s greatest living poets, Dr. Maja Herman Sekulik, on her writing journey and the need for artists to teach ethics and culture to the next generation.
Saidqulova Nozima sings of her Uzbek homeland as Munisa Azimova celebrates her Uzbek heritage and homeland in tender verse. Still others focus on the nation’s many accomplished writers. Sevinch Shukurova illustrates how the genre of poetry allowed Uzbek writer Alexander Faynberg to concisely and directly express his message. Nilufar Anvarova sends up a poem on the creative legacy of Uzbek writer and statesman Erkin Vahidov. Odina Azamqulova highlights the contributions of writer and translator Ozod Sharafiddinov to Uzbekistan’s literary heritage.
Nosirova Surayyo offers up suggestions for becoming fluent speaking in a second language. Maftuna Bozorova encourages readers to learn about other cultures through learning foreign languages. Abduraximova Farida Khomiljon examines various methods for teaching English as a second language.
Noelia Cerna, in her new poetry collection Las Piedrecitas, as reviewed by Cristina Deptula, endures great loss, abuse, and racism. She finds the strength to stand firm in her own worth as a woman and a Central American immigrant in the United States, claiming her culture and her identity.
Poet and magazine editor Maja Milojkovic interviews poet and peace activist Eva Petropoulou Lianou about the power of our shared global poetic heritage to connect us.
Nafosat Nomozova draws connections among art, life, and the universal language of mathematics.
Lazzatoy Shukurillayeva translates a poem by historical Uzbek writer Alisher Navoi that considers the vagaries of fate. Duane Vorhees speaks with a gentle humor to both intimacy and mortality. J.K. Durick’s work comments on transience: money, moments in time, even our health will pass. Kurt Nimmo addresses forms of living death in his work alongside actual mortality: being stuck in a dead-end job, being addicted, having one’s life’s work erased.
Mykyta Ryzhykh crafts a somber, deathly world. Jacques Fleury’s protagonist drowns himself in a quest for oblivion after his mental illness drives his family away, missing some potential positive news after his passing. Alex S. Johnson’s short story character decides against suicide when he encounters “spirits” who wish they had had more time on Earth.
Paul Durand’s piece explores how Andy Warhol transcended his ordinary, vulnerable humanity through art and fame. Taylor Dibbert finds a kind of strange and transcendent solace in the fact that great authors have written about the kinds of travel mishaps he experiences.
Maftuna Rustamova reflects on life lessons from growing up poor. Joseph C. Ogbonna describes the small and large privations of life in poverty in Nigeria. J.J. Campbell speaks to his memories, life, struggles, and inevitable death. Denis Emorine’s excerpt from his upcoming novel Broken Identities addresses the long shadow of the Holocaust in the cultural and personal memories of academics and writers.
Pat Doyne lambasts Donald Trump’s plan to take over and gentrify the Gaza Strip by displacing its impoverished residents. Bill Tope’s short story traces how casual prejudice and homophobia can lead to violence. Abeera Mirza’s poetry tells the tale of how a young wife escapes domestic violence. Bill Tope and Doug Hawley’s collaborative story also presents hope as a wife bravely confronts her husband about his behavior and he chooses accountability and sobriety.
DK Jammin’ turns to his faith for moments of grace and solace in ordinary life despite a complex and sometimes harsh world. Sara Hunt Florez recalls the constant passage of time and encourages us to make the most of what we have, even in small moments with those around us. Ma Yongbo speaks to shifting reality and impermanence, human limitations and death, and the immortality he finds through creativity.
Isabella Gomez de Diego’s photos reflect the simple joys of nature, family, home, children, and faith. Maja Milojkovic offers simple kindness to a ladybug, releasing the insect to fly and dream freely outside. Lidia Popa reaches deep inside her mind to find inner personal peace.
Sayani Mukherjee revels in the small pleasures of a spring tea party. Rasulova Rukhshona celebrates Central Asian spring Nowruz New Year with a poem about loving grandparents, flowers and birds.
Brian Barbeito’s prose piece evokes his youth and personal creative awakening. Mushtariy Tolanboyeva expresses the lament of an impatient tree who wanted to blossom, but bloomed too early before winter finished.
Daniel De Culla’s piece illuminates his love for all of the planet’s life and recognizes that each species’ existence is inter-related. Adaboyev Maqsad’s essay suggests pathways towards ecological sustainability, elucidating economic and legal means of addressing environmental issues.
Murodjon Asomidinov also discusses economics and global justice, calling for empowering the youth of the world through financial literacy education.
Z.I. Mahmud’s essay explores feminist Indian writer Amar Jiban’s writing about the struggles of older single and widowed women and the need for all women to have education as a pathway to independence and financial security. Nurmatova Aziza relates the tale of a young woman who bucks traditional gender expectations by traveling to the city for an advanced degree.
We hope that this issue will be a source of empowerment, commiseration, and merriment at the many facets of our shared humanity and our shared connection with the rest of Earth’s life.
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