Maintaining the time the train runs through the air
What a stormy speed!
And people get down and up at their fixed places
Life is always circling like the journey by train
Life gives birth lives, life builds castles
When life gets tired, it stops forever
Stops as well never to come back
Even then the train is running on the way
The way the world is rounding
We only keep pace with the time
Some stops and get down from the compartment
Some get up and start the journey anew.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
25 October, 2024.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
