MYSELF
Never ask me, please, who am I myself
Myself is a couple of verses on paper.
My self will save myself, and I hope
For those who left me it is bad news.
Myself is different, differs from me,
Far away from those who are so selfish,
May myself is not visible for everyone,
But myself will never abandon myself.
One day I will go shaking my hand to all,
From the arenas which disappointed me.
I will tear the dress of arrogance myself
Then I will throw it from mountain.
A moment, only a moment is enough
When myself starts a rebel inside me.
I do not wait for a clap from hands,
For me being myself is the greatest honor.
I am never afraid of foxes, no, no,
Even any jury cannot threaten me.
I am so proud of being myself,
I am thankful of God for being me.
Never ask me, please, who am I,
Rather read my poems, read my verses.
BEGINNING
One day I lose my life, it is clear
One day I will return to the Creator.
And all my collected pains and sorrows
I will only retell to my only God.
One day my body will disappear,
Maybe I will be reborn as a basil.
Being happy from my death
One day my haters will have a party.
Passing through alley with silence
I hear all the gossips they tell.
Now my poems will become orphan,
Now I only live in my poems.
But the world remains the same,
Thousand years again it stays still.
All the lies, all the fake faces,
And ignorance in the gene.
All the lips whisper one by one,
Thanks God, I am far away.
Blind souls never recover,
I am not related to earth any more.
The only thing tortures me is
My days that I spent aimless.
And incomplete writings of mine,
My voice that paused on my throat as well.
One day I lose my life, it is clear
One day I will return to the Creator.
Asking God to revive inside of me
I will utter the name of my elder son.
Sharipova Zuhro Sunnatovna (Zahro Shamsiyya) She was born on April 9, 1969 in the Nurata district of the Navoi region. Her first poem was published in 1985 in the Gulhan magazine. Uzbek publishing houses published works in the journal "Sharq Yulduzi", in the literature and art of Uzbekistan - "Ma'rifat", in various regional and district newspapers. World almanacs in Canada, -2017 in Dubai WBA 2018 "Turkish poets of the world" (Buta 3) 2019, "Muhammad Yusuf izdoshlari" 2017 almanac. She published her book "Ismsiz tuigular"
Alfonsina and the blue sea
I lost my gaze in your deep blue.
Listening to Alfonsina's verses
from the extreme depth of navy blue...
Wrapped in the ribbons of heaven,
It rises with its letters to the firmament.
Where the clear blue sky merges
with the blue-green belly of algae
where he took refuge with his pain
dying in his bowels
revealing a song to life...
Where the sea currents invade
with warm temperatures
and there the treasures emerge, in that clarity...
Where Alfonsina remembers that in that blue sea
I was lost and consumed by pain.
Mirta Liliana Ramírez has been a poet and writer since she was 12 years old. She has been a Cultural Manager for more than 35 years. Creator and Director of the Groups of Writers and Artists: Together for the Letters, Artescritores, MultiArt, JPL world youth, Together for the letters Uzbekistan 1 and 2. She firmly defends that culture is the key to unite all the countries of the world. She works only with his own, free and integrating projects at a world cultural level. She has created the Cultural Movement with Rastrillaje Cultural and Forming the New Cultural Belts at the local level and also from Argentina to the world.
The spell that sustains us dies on the tip of the tongue
Balances wear out for a while hands full
The lights dim and devour in the room of thirst
The cherry tree houses the sparrows
A gramophone makes you hear Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony
In the meantime and letting the moments go by …
I ask for light as a symbol of my audacity
I ask for light, when I look at your eyes
and I see the eternity that begins to anticipate,
lying face of desire
I ask for light in fervor and drift
Soul and shadow that overflow like flight
GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina. Based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters, author of seven books. Poetry genre. Awarded several times worldwide. She works as she, World Manager of Educational and Social Projects, of the Hispanic World Union of Writers .UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. Commissioner of honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.
HANAMI
At night,
I touch my eyelids with my cheekbones,
with my touches I try to sharpen the features of your face,
but with my fingers I only create flickering white butterflies.
Still, I manage to take you by the hand.
Suddenly, while we are running at the foot of the mountain,
I stumble clumsily on the veins of the trees,
I fall with you and so we break your mask one by one.
Love, our chest needs vastness so that we can constantly observe the cherry blossoms,
I'm telling you while we lie down...
and the souls of one's ancestors, from the treetops, stare into our deep eyes.
I am afraid of dawns full of this immersion in pain,
which seems kind of callous to me:
are we going to be that hungry after all
and only harsh rubble and the wind will be able to
to feed
our relentless loneliness.
Azemina Krehić was born on October 14, 1992 in Metković, Republic of Croatia. Winner of several international awards for poetry, including: Award of university professors in Trieste, 2019.,„Mak Dizdar“ award, 2020. Award of the Publishing Foundation of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2021. Fra Martin Nedić Award, 2022.
She is represented in several international anthologies of poetry.
Shortly before my father died, he whispered to me longingly: “Daughter, treasure this, because it authenticates your heritage to our kinsfolk!” When I accepted this object, I discovered it was a stone with inscriptions I did not understand and delicate, mysterious lines. He continued, “It is a keepsake from our great-great grandfather and can ultimately be traced back to Bilal, the Holy Prophet’s first muezzin, and his father, who was the king of Ethiopia.” I accepted this small heirloom, which I carried everywhere with me in my handbag.
The person who shared my life under the title of “husband,” however, threw it down the drain at our house, thinking—as he told me—that it was a fetish. From then till now I have endured successive exiles. So I wrote this poem to explain the secret of my skin color—given that I am a native of al-Najaf, Iraq—spiritually, mournfully, and poetically!
My father said: “You were born quite unexpectedly, Remote from Aksum, like a beauty spot for al-Najaf—‘the Virgin’s Cheek.’
Your one obsession has been writing, but the sea will run dry before you arrive at the meaning of meaning.”
He affirmed: “During a pressing famine,
I devoted myself to watching over every breath you took.
I would thrust my hand through the film of hope
To caress your spirit with bread.
You would burp, and
I would delightedly endure my hunger and fall asleep.
I could only find the strength to fib to your face and say I was happy.
2
I would feel devastated when you fidgeted,
Because you would always head toward me,
And I felt helpless.”
Aksum! They say you’re far away!
“No, it’s closer to you than your exile.”
“And now?”
“Don’t talk about ‘now’ while we’re living it.”
“The future depresses me. How can I proceed?”
How can the ear be deaf to the wailing from the streets?
Aksum, you have colored my skin. Al-Najaf has freshened my spirit.
She knows and does the opposite.
She knows that I inter only dirt above me, and
That I deny everything except spelling out words:
M: Mother, who went walking down the alley of no return.
F: Father, who hastened after her.
B: Brother, who never earned that title.
S: Sister who buttoned her breast to a loving tear, no matter how fake.
………………….There’s no one I care about!
The trees tremble some times, and we don’t ask why.
My life surrounds me the way prison walls surround suspects;
I am the victim of a building erected by a frightened man.
With its talons time scratches its tales on me,
And I transform them into a silent song
3
Or, occasionally, a psalm of sobs.
Father, do you believe that–the roots have been torn asunder?
Fantasies began to carry me from al-Najaf to Afyon
And from Afyon to nonexistence,
Yellow teeth stretching all the way.
“History’s not anything you’ve made,”
One American neighbor tells another.
He’s surprised to see me.
“Who are you?” he asks when he doesn’t believe his eyes.
Would he understand the truth of my origin if I told him I was born in al-Najaf
Or that Aksum has veiled my face?
I have walked and walked and walked.
I’m exhausted, Father.
Is your child mine?
Show yourself and return me to the purity of your loins.
Allow me to occupy the seventh vertebra of fantasy!
Don’t eject me into a time I don’t fit.
I need you.
I ask you:
Has my Lord forbidden me to be happy?
Am I forbidden to preserve
What I have left
And sit some warm evening
4
Averting my ear from a voice that doesn’t interest me?
Answer me, Father!
Or change the face of our garden
So it changes . . . .to what they believe!
She 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, PushCaret Prize Nomination 2019 and a member of the International Writers and Artists Association.
Winner of the Women of Excellence Inspiration award from SJ magazine 2020.
Winner of the Grand Jury Award (the Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021)
One of the Women of Excellence selection committee members – 2023
The Colours Of Seasons
With seven colours of Rainbow,
Six seasons keeping me awake
Keeping me amuse
Giving me excite
Illuminating me
Throughout the whole year.
When Summer Solstice Sun is on her head,
Delonix give smile with a crimson glow.
Green colored eyes of Rainy season
Paints the purple colour pain.
Autumn as a girl, wearing blue Saree
Fills up selvage with Nyctanthes.
Dawn's light of Late-Autumn
Glisten with sunshine.
Yellow Chuddar of Mustard Flower
Coddle the winter body.
Ravishing colors of Spring air
Outbreak the desolate mirthless
Where blooming bunches of Red-Palas.
Sparkling land gifted by the Majestic Sun
Which is my center of soul–
Prying from the safe distance of hard
Ice or warm desert.
Aklima Ankhi, poet, storyteller and translator from Cox'sbazar, Bangladesh. Born in Mymensingh, Bangladesh. She has a published poetry named "Guptokothar Shobdochabi" written in Bangla.She is a post graduate in English Literature. As a profession she is a Lecturer in English.
My Best Friend
Oh, Wazed, my cherished dearest friend,
A bond that time cannot transcend.
Through laughter, tears, and all life's bends,
Our camaraderie shall never end.
In moments of darkness, you bring the light,
Guiding me through the darkest night.
With words of wisdom and calm insight,
You make every burden become light.
Your heart so pure, your spirit so kind,
A true companion, one of a kind.
In your presence, solace I find,
A treasure in this world, hard to find.
You fill my days with joy and cheer,
With your laughter, the skies appear clear.
Together we conquer, with no fear,
For our friendship's embrace is sincere.
In memories we create, forever we'll dwell,
The stories we share, our tales to tell.
Through thick and thin, forever compelled,
With you, Wazed, my dear friend, all is well.
So here's to you, Wazed, my closest confidant,
A friendship so precious, no words can supplant.
May the bond we share forever enchant,
My dear friend, in my heart, you'll always remain, nonchalant.
Don Bormon is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
