This anthology contains work from Synchronized Chaos’ contributor Graciela Noemi Villaverde and may be ordered here.

Curated by John P. Portelli, Unsilenced: Poems for Palestine brings together poets from Palestine, the diaspora, and globally—including renowned names like Fady Joudah, Leila Marshy and Marwan Makhoul alongside some 50 international poets.

This collection is not just a book—it’s a fundraiser. 100% of proceeds will go to support Gaza, providing support and solidarity.

Now for this issue! Staying Human.

Haroon Rachid contemplates his country’s potential turn towards war, vowing to hold onto his humanity through culture, thought, and study. Bahora Bakhtiyorova reminds us of the impending challenge and risk of climate change. Ahmed Miqdad despairs of life in war-torn Gaza as Maria Miraglia mourns and rages about the loss of children. Mykyta Ryzhykh speaks to the trauma of surviving wartime as a civilian as well as the grief of romantic rejection and heartbreak. Mesfakus Salahin portrays a person who has lost his humanity and become like an automaton in the face of trauma. Elisa Mascia speaks to the challenges of holding onto truth and authenticity in a harsh world.

Eva Petropoulou Lianou, in a piece translated into Albanian by Eli Llajo, shares a sensitive soul’s reflection on living in a harsh world. Brooks Lindberg addresses the limitations of being in space and time with a human body. David Sapp speaks in his poetry to some of the ever-present anguish of being human: mortality and grief, anxiety and trauma, as Steven Bruce poetically expresses lonesomeness and acknowledges the inevitability of death. J.J. Campbell vents about a variety of physical, emotional, and relational pain and loneliness as Liliana Mirta Ramirez writes evocatively of an impending storm.

Soumen Roy explores both the expansive sense of feeling at one with the universe and joining in its creative energy and the despair and emptiness we feel at other times. In a similar vein, Lidia Chiarelli speaks both to the fanciful whimsy of dreams coming to life and the urgency of preserving our environment before it becomes a wasteland. Mahbub Alam also references tragedy and restoration in the human and natural world as Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa speaks to the joy of unity among people of different backgrounds and the futility of revenge.

We find solace in a variety of places.

Dr. Jernail S. Anand illuminates the healing and restorative power of poetry as Sayani Mukherjee takes joy in verse as a bee does landing on a juicy and fragrant flower. Elisa Mascia celebrates a fresh flowering of creativity.

Brian Barbeito speculates on the beauty and mystery of wild nature as Stephen Jarrell Williams describes how intertwined even modern people are with the lives of natural creatures. Isabel Gomez de Diego photographs food and blossoms, sensual joys of life. Rizal Tanjung reviews Anna Keiko’s delicate poetry about everyday experiences and thoughts. Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam celebrate the mystery and beauty of everyday life in their joint tan-renga poems. Qurbonboyeva Dilafruz Sherimmatovna and Andaqulova Mohinur Juraqulovna share recipes and serving suggestions and a history of the Central Asian dried dairy food qurut. Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ photographs celebrate children’s colorful toys and adult knickknacks.

Murrodullayeva Makharram offers her rapturous joy at a dream visit to Mecca and the Kaaba. Maria Miraglia’s poetry explores religious doubt and the staying power of cultural belief. Izmigul Nizomova’s short story illustrates how spiritual faith can help people process intense feelings of romantic passion or grief, as Maja Milojkovic speaks to her belief in an ever-present God.

Nilufar Tokhtaboyeva’s rhyming poem mirrors the energy of the sea. Dimitris Fileles also looks to the ocean, for peace and comfort.

Balachandran Nair comically mocks artists and writers whose ego isolate them from family and community. In contrast, poet Eva Lianou Petropoulou Lianou reflects on fellow poet Vo Thi Nhu Mai’s warmth and kindness as much as her craft.

Dr. Ahmad Al-Qaisi takes pleasure in the simple joy of coffee with a friend as Kareem Abdullah crafts tender love poetry and Christopher Bernard’s poetic speaker vows to love their honest-to-a-fault friend even if love is complete foolishness. Shoxista Haydarova pays tribute to her loyal and caring father, as Manik Chakraborty reflects on the nurture of his mother. Murodullayev Umidjon speculates on the nature of friendship. Umarova Nazokat celebrates a mother’s tender love as Nurullayeva Ra’no highlights mothers’ care, devotion, and concern for their children and Dr. Jernail Anand reflects on the vital role of mothering. Maftuna Rustamova reminds us to honor and respect our parents because of the love and care they have shown us, as Graciela Noemi Villaverde describes the unique personalities of each of her beloved grandsons. Chimezie Ihekuna turns to the loyalty of family as a balm for human vulnerability as Priyanka Neogi speaks to the love and responsibilities of marriage.

Duane Vorhees’ poetry explores physical and romantic intimacy while digging deep into the self. Michael Todd Steffen presents a memorial tribute that’s a character sketch of a strong and driven person with plenty of personal agency, for good or ill.

Taylor Dibbert asserts his newfound self-love after years of experience. Babajonova Charos draws inspiration from Pablo Coelho’s characters’ journeys to self-actualization and intimacy in The Alchemist. Alan Catlin crafts a literary and personal narrative through a list of memories.

Self-respect can encompass more than merely the self, and many writers take pride in their cultures. Marjona Mardonova reflects on the strength and dignity of Uzbek women and girls as several elementary school students in China contribute poetic thoughts on their hometowns, nature, heritage, and inspiration. Rizal Tanjung translates into Indonesian an essay by Konstantin Fahs on how ancient myths still speak to Greece’s contemporary struggles and questions of identity, highlighting the universal nature of these questions.

Z.I. Mahmud explores themes of racism, misogyny, and Black women’s reasserted dignity and healing in Alice Walker’s The Color Purple. Daniel De Culla presents a tale of vigilante justice served at an aquarium.

Bruce Roberts recollects the decorum and honor he saw in the days of American president Abraham Lincoln and laments how far the United States has fallen since then.

Uzbek writer Azizbek Shaymurzayev celebrates and honors the soldiers and leaders who founded Uzbekistan. Dilbek Ergashev offers up a poetic tribute to Uzbek writer Muhammad Yusuf, who captured the nation’s heritage and met an untimely death. Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumovna finds elegance in a portrait of a woman reading.

Yet, Yusuf certainly passed along the baton in the relay race of Central Asian literary and academic thought. Farangiz Xurramova outlines grammatical differences between Uzbek and French. Yunusova Khodisa contributes many scholarly essays in the humanities, including one on the form and structure of words, another on play as a technique for teaching foreign languages to young children, a piece on the need for clarity in a language teacher’s speech, another on methods of translation and strategies for developing competence in the discipline, and finally, an article on ways to teach different types of communication activities in a foreign language.

Moving to other fields of inquiry, Azganush Abdulmajalova’s poetry finds wonder in invention, physics, and mechanics. Shermatova Hilola Mirzayevna and Tolqinboyeva Odinaxon outline possibilities of modern information technology. Aytuvova Khurshida’s essay outlines modernizing reforms in education, particularly the use of technology. Muminova Farida highlights the importance of teaching primary school students critical thinking skills.

Dr. Perwaiz Sharharyar, in poetry translated by Maria Miraglia, highlights the world-expanding power of travel. Vo Thi Nhu Mai’s gentle poetry celebrates animals, the world’s children, and the vibrant multicultural city of Perth.

Latofat Amirova craves a life of rebellion, curiosity, and adventure while Jacques Fleury probes the uncanny dark motifs of Edgar Allan Poe’s creative genius.

In a similar spirit of artistic exploration, Texas Fontanella contributes some exploratory beats and guitar chords. Vernon Frazer’s new book Nemo Under the League, reviewed by Cristina Deptula, splashes together text, line, and image. Terry Trowbridge grows a fanciful poem about a potato facing surveillance and arrest as Zeboxon Akmalova’s poem reflects the experience of overhearing fragments of conversation as J.K. Durick explores our reactions to words, sounds, and numbers in daily life. Mark Young’s “geographies” explore fanciful locations as works of art.

Finally, Bill Tope’s short story satirizes the world of small magazine publishing and reminds us all not to take rejections too seriously. Humor can prove one of the small, and larger, ways we hold onto our humanity as we navigate this world.

WHO IS A FRIEND?

Just yesterday, I saw a question posed,

Asking for a definition of true friends.

I paused, lost in thought, considering my response,

Six letters came to mind, a word so grand.

What qualities define a genuine friend?

The question pierced my heart, sharp and profound.

Then, with sincere hope, I could finally contend,

A pure heart, noble intentions, all around.

In times of hardship, a true friend will seek,

To offer solace, a companion’s embrace.

Words fail to capture the qualities we speak,

The kind of comrade humanity would embrace.

I haven’t found what my heart truly desires,

A true friend, a figure like parents so dear.

This longing within my soul still transpires,

For a bond so strong, a friend always near.

Murodullayev Umidjon Rustam o’g’li was born on November 2,2006,in the Narpay district of the Samarkand region.

He is currently a student of Tashkent State of Transport University.

The Golden Rule of Mechanics 

Lifting weight? Don’t strain, don’t fight— 

Work it smart, not just with might! 

Levers, pulleys, wheels in sync, 

Force will shift—just stop and think. 

Want to lift with ease and flow? 

Stretch the path, let distance grow! 

Push with less, but pay in space, 

That’s the rule—no more, no chase. 

No force comes for nothing gained, 

No motion moves till trade’s arranged. 

Push or pull—it’s give or take, 

Nature’s law—no bend, no break! 

Gears keep spinning, cold yet wise, 

Balance rules where chaos lies. 

One side falls, the other flies— 

Unchanging truth that never dies! 

I am Azganush Abdulmajalova, a 10th-grade student at Secondary School No.  30 in Samarkand. I am passionate about physics, know exploring the beauty of mechanics and innovation in science. 

I remember my first semester in grad school taking fifteen hours.

I remember working in a just opened pub checking proof and reading A Clockwork Orange.

I remember reading twelve hours a day with a baby and another one on the way.

I remember the job became an everyday of the week thing as the bar took off.

I remember not sleeping.

I remember how that made me feel.

I remember my draft status at that time changed from 2S to IA which meant I was Eligible.

I remember what that made me feel like.

I remember that my thoughts were becoming jumbled, hazy, mixed up in class and out.

I remember listening to the college clarion chime the early morning hours as I read another endless Victorian novel.

I remember literature into movies, my favorite class.

I remember Mixing up sentiments from Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist and Traven’s Treasure of Sierra Madre and somehow the observation about negative influence Catholicism was pertinent to both books.

I remember feeling like the two men and a woman in Jules et Jim driving off the harbor to drown together.

I remember seeing Who’s Afraid of Virgina Woolf at the Stanely Theatre in Utica.

I remember how the audience thought it was a comedy, laughing all the way to just before the end.

I remember them not getting the question and answer, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? I am.

I remember thinking I was too; afraid that is.

I remember seeing The Good, the Bad and the Ugly there as well, my first Eastwood movie.

I remember the first time I heard Warren Zevon singing Knock, Knock, Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.

I remember the first open coffin funeral I went to.

I remember it was a Sonny Corleone experience I never wanted to relive but here I am doing it.

I remember thinking I could write books, novels in the modern Barthelme, Coover mode and make money doing it.

I remember how many years it took to disabuse myself of that absurd notion.

I remember playing The Association song, “Requiem for the Masses” and the B side, “Pandora’s Heebie Jeebies” on all the college bar jukeboxes in Utica.

I remember in grad school hearing that Kurt Vonnegut’s brother taught Physics at the State University of New York at Albany that I was attending.

I remember Bernard Vonnegut, the Physicist, was largely responsible for the theory and execution of cloud seeding.

I remember never meeting him.

I remember almost meeting Kurt but not quite.

I remember Kurt worked at GE Schenectady and lived there  though not in the same neighborhood I was living in.

I remember Vonnegut’s novel, Player Piano, as a fictionalized account of working for GE.

I remember how much he hated it.

I remember how GE outsourced twenty or so thousand jobs from the plant in the 70’s and effectively killed the city.

I remember thinking Kurt would have said, “So it goes.”

I remember hearing Kubrick planned to move Australia after releasing Dr. Strangelove.

I remember Kubrick fearing for his life, career, and his family’s security after filming Clockwork Orange.

I remember the first six times I saw Strangelove in a theater.

I remember Seven Days in May.

I remember Fail Safe.

I remember the Cuban Missile Crisis.

I remember thinking I would not live to see 25 years of age.

I remember when I was 25 at The Blue Note record shop in Albany buying Vintage 45’s to put on my jukebox in the tavern I now ran two years after reading Clockwork Orange checking proof at the door.

I remember scoring a Philadelphia orchestra conducted by Ormandy version of the Star-Spangled Banner.

I remember putting it on the jukebox under the title Fear and Loathing in America.

I remember playing that every night at closing along with “moving music” Blues in F.

I remember that no one ever found it on jukebox.

I remember thinking it wasn’t really that hard to spot the ringer but no one ever did.

I remember some extremely tempting offers from sorority pledges to reveal the secret location but I never would.

I remember submitting poems and stories for three plus years while working and alternately attending and dropping out of grad school.

I remember nothing ever being accepted.

I remember how excited I was when The Iowa Review, edited by my literary hero at the time, Robert Coover accepted my story, “All the Coney Islands of the Mind.”

I remember the hand-written rejection for the Chicago Review comparing my story favorably with Samuel Beckett’s writing the same week.  

I remember the handwritten not I got from Iowa Review assistant editor at the time, T.C. Boyle, regretting that the Review had to trim the acceptances for financial reasons and mine was one of those to go.

I remember keeping that note and thinking I should frame it the way Byron had a human skull on his writing desk he often drank wine from.

I remember when Woody Allen movies were funny.

I remember phone calls I got at work where I told no one ever to call me.

I remember my uncle telling me my mother was arrested.

I remember he told me in a matter of fact, composed way I could never summon under those circumstances, that she tried to kill their mother and that the hearing was later that week.

I remember that was the longest chapter, a prelude, or the hell portion, leading up to my personal book of the dead.

I remember six or seven years later the call from the New York City Police department with regards to the case of BJC.

I remember asking the detective, “What has she done now?”

I remember him telling me someone from your precinct will be by to deliver the news in person.

I remember telling him we don’t have precincts Upstate.

I remember thinking for the first time that no matter how worldly, how streetwise most NYC policemen were, they have an extremely insular frame of reference and near total ignorance of all things not immediate NYC metro area.

I remember the detective told me that someone would be by from your department then to tell me the news.

I remember I knew what that meant.

I remember the rookie, fresh faced, nervous as all hell, kid from the police department ringing my door bell and not knowing what to say.

I remember saying, “She dead, isn’t she?”

I remember how relived he was that already knew and he wouldn’t have to break the bad news.

I remember how relieved I was and that it wasn’t really bad news.

I remember thinking a few months later that you never know what troubles are until the real troubles begin.

I remember a line in my first chapter in my Books of the Dead that said, “There wasn’t enough        scotch in Manhattan to completely drown that feeling (of what it was like to imagine what he life had been locked into a dismal dark hotel room in midtown Manhattan) And there never would be.

I remember when No Trump was just a bridge bid.

I remember the first time I formed an opinion about Trump was when an TV interviewer told him how beautiful his new wife, Marla Maples was and Trump replied, “You should see her naked.”

I remember high school.

I remember how much I hated remembering high school until I finally had a girlfriend my junior year.

I remember writing a poem in English class , An Ode to a Shopping Cart, as a joke and Sir Sev, Marty to his friends after graduation, allowed that it wasn’t half-bad.

I remember thinking maybe I could do better if I actually tried.

I remember of such humble beginnings an apprenticeship begins.

I remember thinking despite having hundreds of poems accepted in the early 80’s, I really had no idea what I was doing until I wrote a series of poems about seeing my mother at Pilgrim State.

I remember how those poems came, almost whole in a white-hot stream of elevated consciousness unlike anything I had ever experienced previously.

I remember the chapbook of these collected poems was first runner up in The Looking Gladd Chapbook contest and was published by Pudding Publications.

I remember the titles poem, Visiting Day on the Psychiatric Ward was the most republished poem I have ever written including in an anthology by the NIH.

I remember after a decade of frustration and book rejections publishing two chapbooks and a full-length “bar book” in consecutive months in the early 80’s.  

I remember the full-length book was to be the first of a five-volume set of bar-books to be called Animal Acts after the first volume.

I remember the contract the publisher sent em, to sign for those books that he hadn’t signed yet.

I remember not thinking at the time maybe that was a bad omen.

I remember the assistant football coach who came into the tavern I was working in after a division three contest with Albany State.

I remember how he took an ungodly amount of loose change from his pocket and put it on the bar and ordered, “the cheapest draft you’ve got.”

I remember him counting out exact change in dimes and nickels for each beer.

I remember he was the only person in the bar at the time and we shot the shit.

I remember  making the mistake, it’s always a mistake, of saying I wrote when I wasn’t working.

I remember he asked me if I knew T.C. Boyle who was Tom when he was an undergrad.

I remember Boyle had changed his name to T.C. to, if nothing else, to disassociate himself from the crazy over-the -top drunken drug abusing wild man that he was.  

I remember telling him we had briefly corresponded when he was a grad student but I didn’t; keep it up.

I remember coach said they were good friends when they were undergrads.

I remember trying to envision what that one-sided friendship must have been like.

I remember thinking what could the enfant terrible of, rising star of the literary world have in common with this terminal jock type who had risen to the pinnacle of his career as an assistant coach at a division three school?

I remember thinking it couldn’t have been much more complicated than beer, booze, and babes.

I remember after about a dozen of exact change cheap beers, coach scooped up what remained of that ungodly pile of change and stuffed it in his pocket.

I remember he didn’t leave a tip, not even a stray penny or a lucky quarter.

I remember thinking, I bet Boyle actually does know this guy.

I remember wishing I got his name but thinking, somehow, Boyle would just know who it was if I ever got to talk to him which wasn’t likely.

VO THI NHU MAI – A QUIET FLAME AMONG FELLOW ARTISTS

At the recent literary gathering, Vo Thi Nhu Mai made her debut appearance, not with loud declarations, but with a quiet presence that left a warm impression. As a first-time participant, she spent much of the time observing and absorbing the atmosphere around her. Though she spoke little, her attentiveness and gentle smile spoke volumes.

During the program, while others were caught in the bustle of performances and interactions, Võ Thị Như Mai moved gracefully between people, offering small yet thoughtful gestures. One such act stood out: she personally handed each participant a small card with their name written on it, a simple but touching effort to acknowledge and welcome everyone. It was a beautiful moment of connection, reminding us that care and presence can sometimes be more powerful than words.

Her demeanour was soft-spoken, but her actions carried sincerity. Many noted her warm energy, quietly friendly, respectful, and keen to understand the nuances of the gathering. In a space often vibrant with creative voices, Vo Thi Nhu Mai’s quiet kindness was like a calm note in a symphony, and her presence undoubtedly enriched the experience for all who were there.

The literary festival itself was a rich and colourful celebration of poetic voices from around the world. Held in a welcoming space filled with music, laughter, and multilingual readings, it brought together poets, translators, musicians, and friends of literature to share work, ideas, and cross-cultural conversations. Each segment of the program was crafted with care, blending each cultural literature with international voices, allowing a beautiful dialogue of language and soul.

Vo Thi Nhu Mai, though initially quiet, contributed meaningfully to this shared space. She took to the microphone and read her original poem “The Song of Life” in both Vietnamese and English, offering the audience a sincere glimpse into her poetic world. Her delivery was gentle yet confident, her words soaring with listeners across language boundaries. It was a moment of quiet power, her voice steady, her poem luminous.

In another generous act of cultural exchange, Võ Thị Như Mai also read a poem titled “Enjoy” by Greek poet Eva Lianou Petropoulou, further knitting the threads of international friendship. Her choice to present not only her own work but also honour another poet reflected the very spirit of the gathering: connection through words, across cultures, in mutual respect. For a first-time participant, Võ Thị Như Mai left a lasting impression, not just with her poems, but with her grace.

THE SONG OF LIFE

Poet: Vo Thi Nhu Mai

From: Western Australia

 

If we knew spring would never return

To strum its notes along our wandering path

If we knew the journey would drift afar

If eternity called with a sudden breath

 

If we knew beauty could never be touched

Nor seen through deep brown eyes

If we knew those blue clouds in the heights

Were but a rain falling down with passion

 

If we knew life would bring grace and blessing

Or a simple lesson in a night of getting lost

If we knew our hearts could be fragile

If we knew sorrow could sing a tender lullaby

 

If we knew foamy waves carrying silent love

If we knew sunlight shining on brief blooms

If we knew presence is just a passing moment

The moment a rosebud resting upon our lips

 

If we knew the song of life itself

Could be a pain that healing never finds 

If we knew joy in every word we write

An afternoon translates a lifetime into poetry

 

Enjoy!

From: Greece

As a child

I discover the city lights

Buildings without trees

Water without fishes

The magic city I born

Was a fake town

No masters

No angels

As a child

I sing a lullaby

Every second

My life become a miracle

Hope to get a rainbow

Wait to travel with a unicorn

As Theseus make the world around

For a love

For a word that nobody understand

Filotimo

A DREAM COME TRUE

On a winter’s day, Mubina gazed out the window, lost in thought. She dreamt beautiful dreams, pondering how to achieve her aspirations. A sudden creak broke her reverie. The door opened, and her mother entered. Her mother switched off the lights, preparing for rest, and settled into bed. In the darkness, Mubina still tried to visualize the Kaaba.

It was the night between Thursday and Friday. Listlessly, she went to her place, picked up a picture of the Kaaba, and wept as she gazed at it. She yearned with all her heart to visit Allah’s house on Earth. Careful not to let her mother hear her sobs, Mubina wiped away her tears and quietly slipped into bed, closing her eyes. Sleep evaded her at first. After a while, her eyelids began to droop.

Suddenly, a light fell upon Mubina’s face. She opened her eyes to find herself in a vast expanse. The surroundings were breathtakingly beautiful. The natural phenomena were captivating. Mubina’s wonder grew, for on one side, a radiant light dazzled the eye, while on the other, rain gently fell. Curious to know where she was, she noticed something in the distance.

Mubina slowly walked towards the object visible amidst the dark clouds. As she looked, she could hardly believe her eyes. There, before her, stood the Kaaba. The immense, jet-black Kaaba, adorned with gold embroidery, was the object of her deepest desires. She circumambulated the Kaaba, and as she prayed, she suddenly awoke.

She found herself in her own bed, in her own home. Mubina realized she had been dreaming. Overcome with joy, she wept. Even in a dream, her cherished wish had come true.

Murodullayeva Makharram Rustam qizi was born on March 31,2003, in the Narpay district of the Samarkand region.