Will

I may not believe in God

But I do believe in saviors

And I very much believe that you are mine.

You came into my life

Not like a wounded animal on my doorstep

Begging for me to save it,

But like a bird flying down from the sky

With an offering of peace.


No, in our story, I was the wounded animal,

And you were the one who saved me.

I fell down at the doorstep of your heart

Looking for a friend who could heal me,

Who could be there for me,

And you opened the door wide and

let

me

in.


And not only did you welcome me with open arms,

You shaped me.

You made me the person that I am, and

Although that person is far from perfect

– Very far, in fact –

He is better because of you.

You

are the one who keeps me holding on

You

are the one who gives me my courage

You

are the one who keeps the light inside of me,

The light that may sometimes flicker

But refuses to go out.


I pour out so much of my heart into you

And yet the amount of me I give

Never seems to be too much,

It’s always just the right amount,

As much as I want to give

And as much as you want to receive.


Whenever I am with you,

Sitting next to you

or

across from you

or

just anywhere

in the same room as you,

I feel at home –

Because for me, my home

Is wherever I am with you.


It’s something I can’t explain,

Can’t put into words,

But being with you

Is the best medicine

I’ve ever taken.

So I guess what I’m trying to say

Is that this is my incredibly cliche,

incredibly cheesy,

incredibly roundabout

way of saying

I love you,

I really love you,

and thank you so much

for everything

you have done.


Cameron Carter is a 9th-grade writer, artist, and amateur musician at Ruth Asawa School of the Arts in the Creative Writing department. He is passionate about using poetry and other forms of art to express himself and raise his voice. Through activities like writing, drawing, playing guitar and drums, and singing (or often doing metal screams), he pushes himself forward to achieve his goals and make himself known for who he truly is. 

Hanging Together Inside

The floor of his room was empty, except for old newspapers and some books dozing with dusty covers near a necktie. A chair leaned against a dilapidated wooden table like a man who had fallen asleep with his head on it. The room’s walls were pockmarked by numerous nail holes left from hanging pictures and an incongruous set of posters. On the wall hung a shirt the hand of neglect had circled with dust as its immaculate whiteness vanished. Beside it, from the head of another nail, hung a pair of brown trousers soiled apparently with spots of oil. In addition, a shoe and its mate languished in a corner next to the body of a black leather belt, which had lost its sheen.

A shadow slowly departed through a gap by the door, which stubbornly remained open even after a man’s hand tried to shut it. The closed window, though, retained the stench, which suggested the window had not been opened for a long time. The pair of pants fidgeted squeamishly and asked, “Why has he abandoned us, as if he hadn’t worked his butt off to buy us? He hasn’t worn me for a month, and that makes me feel I’m a chain shackling him to pain—after he nearly went crazy dreaming about me. Remember how he used to walk past the clothing store, day after day, slowing his pace as if melting with regret when he saw all the other trousers like me gradually disappear from the shop?

When we did meet—I mean when he saved up my price—he did not wait till an afternoon breeze had brushed aside the noon heat. No, he raced to me, smelling sweaty, just as the shopkeeper was closing the store for a siesta. He clung to the door with both hands, pleading, till the man opened the shop. Then he purchased me, expending all his money and many words of gratitude. He brought me here, and it was the same for you, Shirt. You were fresh, clean, and fragrant. Do you recall how he bathed, donned us, and rushed to her? Do you remember that rendezvous?”

2

The shirt sighed regretfully and replied, “Yes, I saw her smile at him. They sat down together. She caressed my sleeve and called it chic. Then my threads almost melted from her whispered words.” The pair of trousers trembled and shouted with rage: “But what’s happening? Why doesn’t he celebrate us now? Why is he content to wear shabby clothes so matted with dirt they resemble his hair and beard?” The shirt replied sarcastically, “Do you think you’re clean? Now that he doesn’t think to shake the dirt from your creases?”

The pair of trousers shuddered so nervously that it almost fell to the floor. Then it said, “Why mock me? You haven’t reveled in the scent of clean soap for a long time or smelled the way you did the first time they met. Have you forgotten that?” The shirt replied dreamily, “That’s true, Friend. I’ve wanted to retain her scent. Don’t you remember how close she was to him? He wished to possess her scent for a lifetime but failed. These humans lose touch with reality and cling instead to the fringes of a dream.” The trousers’ voice had a sorrowful rasp when it stammered, “What’s frightening is that he no longer needs us! He no longer wants us! He no longer loves us! I understand that love is needy and that he’s replaced us with other old, shabby clothes; but why?”

The shirt rested its collar on its sleeve thoughtfully and observed, “Some people are crazy. Yes, most people are crazy. But why do they toil to acquire us and then slouch around in old clothes?”

The pair of trousers scoffed, “Perhaps it’s nostalgia?”

The shirt wondered aloud: “Nostalgia for whom? For what? Nostalgia for poverty? For filth? For body odor?”

3

The pair of trousers shook violently. “I beg you! Be quiet. Keep still long enough for us to plan what we should do if he’s gone a long time.” Pointing to the belt and necktie, it asked:

“Should we fall and kill ourselves like those two? Or go dumb like his black shoes?”

“Or, should we wait to become a tasty meal for the armies of moths that consumed the contents of his wardrobe before he kicked the remnants outside?”

The shirt replied in a mournful whisper, “I think she won’t return to him and he won’t return to us, even though I watched their shadow puppets sketched on the ground—when they met . . . and parted. He was so enchanted by her that he forgot: what’s impossible always remains impossible. He wasn’t watching with the eye of his spirit. Oh, my friend, without him, our existence makes no sense. The worst humiliation is being unable to reject what you hate, and I hate being discarded. I hate anyone who discards me. I even hate the person who made me—for what?”

The pair of trousers wondered aloud, “Aren’t you blowing the situation out of proportion? You are something. You exist.”

The shirt replied intensely, “Says who? A thing without the person, who just departed and forgot about us is, nothing. Our existence is a logical contradiction. We cannot exist without the body we clothe, that becomes us as we become him.” The pair of trousers asked sadly, “Will he return?”

The shirt replied softly, “I don’t know, Friend. Perhaps.”

By Faleeha Hassan

Translated by William M. Hutchins

Faleeha Hassan is a poet, teacher, editor, writer, and playwright born in Najaf, Iraq, in 1967, who now lives in the United States. Faleeha was the first woman to write poetry for children in Iraq. She received her master’s degree in Arabic literature, and has now published 26 books, her poems have been translated into English, Turkmen, Bosnian, Indian, French, Italian, German, Kurdish, Spain, Korean, Greek, Serbia, Albanian, Pakistani, Romanian, Malayalam, Chinese, ODIA, Nepali and Macedonian language. She is a Pulitzer Prize Nominee for 2018, and a Pushcart Prize Nominee for 2019. She’s a member of the International Writers and Artists Association. Winner of the Women of Excellence Inspiration award from SJ magazine 2020, and the Winner of the Grand Jury Award (the Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021). She served on the Women of Excellence selection committees for 2023, was a winner of a Women In The Arts award in 2023 and a Member of Who’s Who in America 2023. She’s on the Sahitto Award’s judging panel for 2023 and a cultural ambassador between Iraq and the US.

Butterfly

 When I wake up early, the sky is the sky,

 It was blue and flying. 

 A long-tailed deer standing by the stream,

 A butterfly comes to us from there.

 He is called an angel, just a soul for a day,

 He flies and plays and has no blood in his veins.

 He saw the sunrise, only the moment he was born,

 His head reached the sky, he saw his own iqbal.

 He didn’t say wealth, he didn’t say wealth,

 He just flew, flew far and never complained.

 He took a whiff of the crimson rose,

 A new friend saw and did not leave.

 His little life is over.

The sun is giving way to the moon.

 He gave his life, both of them,

 To the world of light until it stops.

Murodova Muslima Kadyrovna was born on June 29, 2010 in Jondar district of Bukhara region. Currently, she is a 7th grade student of school No. 30 in this district. Her first book of poetry was published in 2024 under the name “Come beautiful spring”. Winner of many achievements. She won the 2nd place at the festival held in the district. She won the 1st place in the district stage and the 2nd place in the regional stage of the “Bakhtim Shul: Zulfiyasiman Uzbek” contest. Her first anthology was published by the UK publisher Justfiction Edition. Founder of “Muslima’s” blog. A young teacher who was able to develop about 250 artists. Owner of more than 50 international certificates.

Not Raining, Pouring

I was not yet

am not

yet will be

infinite in the ocean

tethered by my infinity

to the sand

tethered to red rock

my broken back strewn across

my face

pointed to myself

sewn across last nights sky

last night

alluding to myself.

poured into the ocean

anchored by infinity

to my inconjurable self.

tethered to the sand

bloodied bruised and waiting.

TONIGHT!!

This night turned into a magical night,

The stars shed their light on the grapes,

The sky and the earth fought, run with my love,  

The clouds took away the tears from my eyes,

I said the end of this day, kama, qussəye,

May the clouds lie on your arms,

May the loving volunteers please you,

The poets had a sleepless night.

I allowed my soul to ascend to the sky,

The moon quickly rubbed itself with the star and sun,

Thank God, the floods passed away from us

Our hearts were filled with troubled weather.

Real dreams have arrived,

Every memory of mine is sweeter than honey,

My dear lady shed light on me,

There is light at the end of my path.

Sara Göyçeli Şerifova 23.05.2024

(ŞƏRIFOVA) 8.02. In 1962, she was born from the Sadanağac-Guney family of the Basarkeçer district of the Goycha district of Azerbaijan. Five books of the poetess have come to light so far. Over time, she worked as a branch manager in several newspapers and journals in the press. Its operation continues today. At the same time, her poems have been translated into many languages ​​and appeared in Almanaxes. It is a member of the Azerbaijan Journalists Union. It operates specially in the field of Medicine. She is the co-vice president of the Women’s Council of the Social Union “The Development of Relationships among Turkish Women”. She is the owner of many awards for his activities.

Well, The essay of mine is based on overcoming conflicts in my personal life. If I reveal something about my personality, character or lifestyle, it's that I am such a calm, peaceful, introverted, relaxed person. I can say that not upsetting people is one of my traits.

So, why am I writing or exposing my character in this essay? To explain that I have encountered so many problems, conflicts, issues and longitude considerations. I am absolutely saying as one of the minor member of this generation -people, especially youngsters, do not want to respect others. I had had some kind of conflicts with children, individuals and school organization that year, I am going to speak about them one by one in my essay.

Initially, my personal character has caused many misunderstandings with school mates during my school years. I do not fancy having a conversation with people who are irresponsible, irresistible, irrespective, rough, rude and also stupid. Nonetheless, we must admit these types of people are more and more around us. 

Once upon a time, when I paid a visit to school in the past, some teens in my school were kidding me and say something worse about me. At that time I did not pay attention to their stereotypes. I though it was a simple childish thing of them to say. Then it escalated and I should have done something to prevent these bad things for me, at this time I had few conceptions of how to get rid of their violations or bullying.

Therefore I have three ways to figure out this conflict, First, I can utilize adequate manipulations to their psychology, because if they had had a good personality, they wouldn't have behaved themselves in this way. In this situation, not only did I not influence them with true and impactful opinions and conversation, but I was likely to be influenced. I just ought to speak to their guardians or parents, if I was not able to manage it. 

I would call their parents, so that I could have a straightforward and easy conversation. The next day I did come across again to them in the hall. Tranquility was really gone there, they were bound to reveal some of nasty or unacceptable sayings again and again. After that I had been trying to have a top-notch and real conversation with them.

I requested them to please tell me why they were doing that to me.    I had spoken about their life, asked them to be a merciful person. I told them about homes for orphans, refugees, and the poor. Then I said it was not too complex to be a better person.

Every person has a admirable personality, positive hobbies, and closest acquaintances who are able to shape that person from the core. After this phenomenal situation, every member of his "crew " left there without any words, genuinely realizing that we must be thankful, respectful, and responsible humans. We must take a look at the significant issues around our world. 

They understood that embarrassing people did not gain them anything. I was both happy to influence someone to find out the significance of their life, why they are living in this life, what the importance of their goals and dreams are, and indispensably, to be a grateful person. They had bullied everyone, not just me, so that's why I did these campaigns to teach manners to them. It was beneficial for everyone who were suffering from their actions, because everyone has a right to live proudly and independently.

My mother tongue

Languages are beautiful, my Uzbek language,

If the creator of beings is resounding.

My Uzbek language seems to be unmatched in glory,

If the light shines in the hearts of those who hear.

My people proudly say on every front,

The anthem of the country, the bright gloss of the language.

If it increases the reputation,

Such is the power of words, oh well done.

If you love your tongue, blood flows in the veins,

My native language is inherited from my grandfathers.

If you love your language, you will find a place in any field.

If the world loves the Uzbek language, it will be my language.

I value my soul like gold,

I will give my life for my tongue.

We, the Asrayites, are our heritage, like our ancestors.

It is strong even for barley grain.

My Uzbek people, let’s celebrate the language holiday,

Let’s celebrate the birth of a beautiful language.

Let the world know, the whole world, let the nations know,

Great respect of the Uzbeks who speak the language.

Shamsiyeva Gavhar was born in Zarafshan, Navoi region. In addition to science classes, he practices poetry. He has taken pride of place in several republican contests. Her future dream is to win the state award named after Zulfia.