+

Oh, Really 

This Fresh Creation 
     of Works without form 

Says  without  Starting 
  and  Starts before  Born 

This  has  no  reflection 
        Yet  said  to reflect 

Then  carry  one's  Heart 
       towards  what  to  expect 

Freshly  creates 
  Where time holds  in stance 

Life  carries  Completion 
      The  form  is a Dance 

At  the end  of each  Dance 
       LOVE'S  Spirit  Remains 

You  Like it ,  just  name it.
 Gifts come  without  names 
                                                                                  ...


    by  John Edward Culp 
          December 10, 2016
 

From one street of my life paths...

I remember...My childhood began in a beautiful place called Mirzaabad and still continues in the warm embrace of this place. When I was young, I remember waiting for my mother's hot loaves in the oven to be ready...

I have loved books since I was young. And this light led me to the "Knowledge Competition" held earlier at school. Because I fell in love with the book, I became the absolute winner of the republican stage of this competition. It is not surprising that the feeling of interest in creativity awakened in my heart even then.
  I still remember the first poem I wrote in my school days:

Hello, my daughter-in-law is Spring
I miss you so much
I was waiting for you to come
You are a beautiful garden.
Here, you entered my beautiful nature
Spreading the scent of flowers to the green world,
Now don't go to other countries
Your daughter Sitora will miss you.
It's true, maybe this poem, which came out of my young heart at that time, has no rhyme, no meaning, but it was the first melody of a young heart...

Years have passed since then. The golden pages of the book invited me to Gulistan State University. I remember my high school years...
When I was preparing for Oliykhoh, I read books under an umbrella despite the snowflakes and raindrops falling. Perhaps, because of these hardships, I have achieved the happiness of being a student...
I would like to thank life and fate for these great rewards. I bow down a thousand times to my parents who stood by me and supported me in my bold steps. I still have high hopes for life. Praise be to my God who created me... I am thankful that my life is beautiful and bright...
Currently, I am teaching and educating young people at school 34, Boyovut district. When I see hope for life and confidence in the future in young souls, my interest in life increases. The high status of "MASTER" coming from their tongues makes me hope to live yet. Maybe my life is beautiful with such memorable moments...

Our new Uzbekistan

Yes, I am that even by the residents of other rich, developed countries I was born in Uzbekistan, a unique country described as a “Paradise land”. First of all, thank God for this. This country is truly a paradise. Its nature, scenery, air, delicacies, friendly and hospitable people, everything is special. Day by day, the example of a new bride in our country is becoming more beautiful and polished. Whether there is a living soul living in this land, whether it is a human, an animal or a plant, everyone is happy to be born in this land, in this wonderful place. 

There are countries where you won’t find a single flower that is a symbol of beauty that will bring you a smile and a good mood. There are countries where you cannot find a child who can be a support to his parents who raised him and loved him in his old age. But God’s eyes fell on our country and everything was given in abundance. Alhamdulillah. The leader of our country, our father, our first president, Islam Karimov, did not stop until our country reached this level. They said that they are my people, whether they walk or stand. They saw people as their family members. They paid special attention to us young people. They said to themselves, “Our children must be stronger, more educated, stronger and certainly happier than us!” they put the slogan. 

In a word, every Uzbek, along with our compatriots, was able to take an indelible place in the hearts of the people of other countries. Today, their follower, our new president, Shavkat Mirziyaev, is continuing the work of our first president, Islam Karimov, for the peace, prosperity, and further development of our country. They are working day and night for the prosperity of our country, for the peaceful and happy life of our people, for us young people to get a good education and never be inferior to anyone else. After all, isn’t this the land under God’s eyes. The people under God’s eyes? Isn’t this the nation on which the bird of happiness landed? 

Yes, this happiness is not for everyone. It is the duty of each of us to preserve this happiness. It is our great goal of every young generation to protect our country, which is growing and developing day by day. Our country is changing day by day, even a person who lives here and goes to study or work in another country for a short period of time comes back and is surprised by the changes. Our country is surprising the world. The leader of our country, our grandfather, is never tired of striving for the prosperity and development of our country, just as the bees never get tired of gathering honey and keeping it. 

There is a big difference between Uzbekistan five years ago and today’s Uzbekistan. In a short period of time, the people of our country have achieved great achievements that have made our country take a worthy place in the world community. He introduced a number of reforms and innovations to our country. Our country has entered a qualitatively new stage of its independent development, New Uzbekistan. And this New Uzbekistan is developed on the basis of the principles of friendly cooperation with the world community, strictly following the recognized norms and principles of democracy, human rights and freedoms, and the ultimate goal is to create a free, prosperous and prosperous life for the people. It was proudly mentioned by a number of editors. 

The phrase “New Uzbekistan” means, first of all, a new life, new reforms, a new way of life, a new worldview. In this regard, we cannot count the achievements made during the past 5 years. During these 5 years, our country has developed more and has more unique landscapes. It proved that it will not be left behind by other developed beautiful countries. Developed in every way. Of course, these achievements are based on strong knowledge. The owners of this knowledge are our peers, young people, people of our country. After all, our first president Islam Karimov said, “The future of Uzbekistan is in the hands of the youth!” they hardly boasted. This is the future! And Uzbekistan is in the hands of our youth. We must make it more prosperous, raise it further, justify the trust given to us. In a word, we should join hands, tie our waists tightly, and live for the country and the  people with enthusiasm!

For Homeland

My grandfather said, "My child this world is yours.
Gird up your loins, you are a flower in the mountains.
Live for this country, let it be self-sacrificing soul,
Be great like your ancestors, white blood in your veins.

Don't give away your cradle, open to the people your door,
Try with all your heart, may luck be always with you.
This beautiful country is for you, for a black eye is yours
Let's hold hands, let's live for the Motherland too.

Since the new Uzbekistan is being built for us, we should live for our homeland. our country, our people, and work together wholeheartedly. We must justify the trust given to the youth. We need to improve our new Uzbekistan and make it flourish. We are proud to live in such a heavenly country, and it is our main duty to protect every inch of its soil like our own home. It is a dream for some to see the beauty of our new Uzbekistan, and some dream of living in other countries. And we are in this country. We should be thankful that we are among the people whom God loves.

Frankfurt am Main, Germany


Often in my wounded warrior years

I think back to Frankfurt, Germany

twenty years after the horror

though I then was

not mindful of the whistle

and bang of bombs,

the dry or the wet mess of rubble;



the streets were postcards reconstructing,

bratwurst sizzling

beer warm, not needing chill,

frauleins in calf-high boots,

mini-skirts, tight sweaters

that your eyes groped wildly, though judiciously.



The sun shone down

as in a travel magazine,

so rich that azure,

the greens dark, bright

in that damp Taunus District climate.



My legs were good.

I walked

one end of the city to the other

never fearing knife, gun, Gestapo, thug;

I walked

fantasizing

the look of the Holy Roman Empire,

of genuine Roman soldiers before that,

the armor clinking or clacking as they walked,

the precision of determined feet on stone, on ground.

I imagined campfires on dark nights,

logs, twigs burning, the crackle,

and the river silent in the shadows out there somewhere.



I strolled by the now and seemingly forever named

Main River,

the stippled white light of noon

floating,



and I

even by myself,

mostly by myself,

entered

the scene like Caspar David Friedrich,

a wanderer above a sea of fog,

but the fog was in the mind,

history, not the eye,

in the mind

and then the cold touch of a railing,

and next to me the frown and pull away

of that pretty girl that I would have liked to meet..



I heard stories of the war,

saw the aria of the old opera house,

the building a shell exploded

with a Beethoven burst.



The fog did not lift;

besides imagined Sturm und Drang.

there was only the crudity, the stupidity

of enlisted army life,

only the George Grosz faces

of people I knew,

drunks,

punks I knew,

kids like me,

when face to face

with a mirror,



and later

through years of sifted sunlight,

time established itself,

the haze of history arose

from its corpse.

I saw in perspective

a personal walk on a stage empty

awaiting the next act of the larger drama.

I was grateful that I lived in less

than Wagnerian times,

the entrances and exits

were losing their impressions

in the accumulating dust,

in the wearing away of wounds

in the sweeping away of the dust.



History is so much cloud;

The brief shapes evaporate

But the essence of storm

Always arises, bit by bit,

And grumbles out to another country,

Bites lightning quick,

Floods with impassioned blood

And roars the rhetoric of anger and grief.



In Frankfurt I roamed the wisps of the past

As if the conclusion of one war was final,

 but it is the human heart that’s always ready for new battle,

arming itself with distrust, suspicion,

vainglorious ambition,



A generation falls dead,

So many puppets rot away,

All that courage, fear, blindness,

Visionary grief evaporated like water,

Puddles of blood hidden, absorbed by weeds,

The dancing flowers of peace so charming,

Disarming nations with the veneer of civilization.

How so much is reconstructed, built with hope,

But all the foundations are built on forgetting, or if

Memory is invoked, the kings, queens, sergeants,

Killers and the fallen are made of bronze or stone.

No blood, no veins, no laughs or tears

Come out of the unchanging mouths of statues,

Posterity that has that faux nobility,

Like scripture has that holier than thou reverence.

Nothing is grounded in the common world of bombs, armor.

The head is still wrapped in historic fog,

----Dan Cuddy

*******




The Gasthaus On Homburger Landstrasse

 

Johan or “John”

owned a profitable business

a gasthaus

serving Henninger Bier

cognac

all manner of whiskey

schnitzel, wurst, pommes frites

that the young depraved American army craved



A somewhat homey place,

the wood paneling,

the white and yellow opaque glass

of the lower window panes,

the comfortable tables,

not too closely spaced;



Locals visited it too,

not just soldiers

that wanted to get off-base

but had to stay nearby,

Edwards Kaserne just across the street

and Third Armor headquarters' gate,

this side half a block down.



John had a glass eye.

He in his late forties

a soldier in Hitler's army,

his frau,

attractive face,

a bit plump

but good living settles, spreads,

sits in contented conversation.

Renoir would approve.



Life moves on.

Certainly, John was not

a war criminal

but a skinny youth

in the bad times,

when harangue and euphoria

were the orders of the day.



John just wanted to get along;

it was his duty to serve,

defend the homeland,

had nothing to do with Jews.

he didn't particularly like Nazis.

He was a dark-haired German

lean, young,

given a uniform, a gun.



John was not an intellectual;

he fell into the general apoplexy,

nurtured no visible conscience

or protest,

just an ordinary man,

Ecco Homo,

the events swarming

before his eyes

within, without his mind,

he just wanted life,

not a soldier's death,

not a hero's monument,



and so,

twenty years after the war

he had a plump attractive wife

who gave him a peck of affection

in public and more in the marriage bed,

three floors above that gasthaus

where soldiers would come and go

talking of drinking and bordellos,

but the American soldiers

were kids

and the couple

like chaperones

kept a semblance of order,

had little trouble with loud voices,

off-key American singing.



A profitable business,

an ordinary life,

not a romantic’s dream

but preferable to the ride

of the Valkyries



one learns to tap forgetfulness

toast the present,


---Dan Cuddy

694-

something I read
or heard somewhere,

“The dead have memories
For up to thirty days after they die.”

Actually misheard.
should be,

“The dead have memorials that last
Up to thirty days after they die.”

“It was like the truth”







	700-

“For imaginary visitors I had a chair
Made of cane I found in the trash.”
		Charles Simic


After Dante, no one
was surprised
how many levels
of hell there were


“Your invisible friend, what happened to her?”
	 Simic
 
704-

Hell’s lawn ornaments.
Sock puppets. Stuffed toys.
Rusted hubcaps. Flexible
action figures. Colored string.
Lawn jockeys. Garden gnomes.
Dried flowers. Wrought iron
funeral wreathes. Metal flowers.
Bird houses. Birds. Pinecones.
Broken wrist watches. Detached
human ears. Potato heads.
Doll’s heads, voodoo heads.
Fetishes. Mannequin limbs. 
Snake eyes. 





	706-

Doomsday or plain old day books.
Jean Seberg or Romaine Gary.
Dead in the trunk of a car or
The back seats of. Jim Carroll.
Herman Melville. Jerry Garcia.
All born August 1. All gone now.
 
707-

True seriousness resides in the comic.
Nicanor Parra. The Oblivion
Seeker. Isabel Erhardt or DFW.
Drowned in a flash flood in the desert
or hung by the neck until dead.







		708-

Drowning the desert. Like getting
killed in a car crash on the way
home from a funeral. Like a mystery 
writer being murdered. Like being killed
on the ground by a plane falling from
the sky after surviving 9-11 in a tower.

going viral
  
there are so
                      many
                expressions
                              of God
love
            a hug
            is one
                            in a sea
fish
          contours
                             rubbing
against
slippery
scaly
aqueous
matter
between
us

no Thing
between
us

a
silent
sound
passing
in the
moonlight

an
expression

of Love.

~

a virus
(God 
sent?)
has opened-up
a new
world

a stagnant
sessile
creature
born of
creation

is free

free
an opportunity

virus
an opportunity

opportuned  
to be

Creators
to create

distance

distance
the eyes
that see

beyond

a daily
weekly
monthly
yearly

cycle

one-routine-after

another
we’ve missed

the opportunities

the opportunities
that have
been
calling us
listen! listen!
i say
to your next

dream―

have you seen
the wisdom
in there?

in here
this un-conscious
machine

this un-conscious
medicine

this un-conscious
                     god

delirium

awake! awake!
                   it cries

i want You
                     fully

realized

the non-living
is near

alive

the virus hints

alive
in here
whispering
                     death

& life

subtle
in its
message
                   cruel
                   in its
                   response

but only
for
a moment

one cruel 
moment
at a
time

we are
learning
so much

in here
with you

with us

we haven’t
been
this alive

in a good
long
white
whale

swallowed

a virus
a teacher
a god
             God
you are
approaching

i can smell
disease
decay
decomposition

with-out
my
will

a heart is
faltering

there is
a rhythm

not
our own

the self
is
fading

a virus
is
growing

the core
is
exposing

truth

exposed

the kernel
with-in
the core

institutions
corporations
markets
economics

distractions
distortions

elite
minds
in
elite
towers
crumbling

to the
sea
fish

at home
home

in here
to make

a home
the un-conscious
mind

at work
at last

part virus
swimming
searching

learning

rubbing
against
the fabric
of the fuller

existence

of being
finalizes
itself
fully

virus

dies.






epilogue:
a sea
replete
with fish
swimming
amongst
the corals
rubbing
growing
rubbing
growing
brother sun
beating
down
reflecting
love
reflecting
lovingly
sister
moon
expanding
the tides
expanding
the tides
of fate
taking
over
what was
what is
only
a number’s
game
with-in
a circle
with-in
an embryo
we watch
the gods
forming
un-forming
the odds
archetypical
swimmers
inside
the naked
truth
fornicating
with illusion
as time
passes
through
virus to
bacteria to
fruiting
body
bacteria phages
with-in
the living
iridescent
sense
of microscopic
particles
of precious
life.

Outline



Too bad you got burned

on the spell of worldly accomplishments

and comparison, that you fell

into the snowbank and drenched yourself through.

Friendly false eyes in the flame,

in the sweating ruthless ocean - you lost

the hand that held you to truth and the longing

for a deeper betterment.

 

But now you are home, proclaiming

the invisible as your building blocks - piled high

and mortared together strong against every storm.

You almost got pulled into the everlasting pit, fooled

by fool’s gold, but you reached the upper edge and

lifted yourself to a safe landing.

 

Eat from your bowl and be grateful.

Everything you asked for is already yours.

Walk away from the party,

shake hands, give uncommitted hugs,

then read by the dim light, knowing your true riches,

knowing all that you treasure is complete, thriving

in this compact tried-and-true family

and in the landscape of your evolving solitude.

  

 

Jesus in the Marrow

 

You arrived again, reviving

the groove, clearing

out the debris of lingering

madness and anxiety, brilliant

blazing again with your miracles,

your compassion that leaves me breathless

with joy, surges within with affection, protecting,

 

feeling like a did when I was a child

and my father walked with me on his shoulders

and I could see higher, further than ever before,

safe and moving, knowing

I would never be harmed, never abandoned,

knowing the freedom of a child’s fearlessness,

trust in the strength of the one who loves me,

trust in the power of the one who carries me like

a queen, like someone special,

unshackling my imagination, restoring my vigour

and swoon.

 

You arrived again and I remember

all of it, all of your love,

dazzling, perfect, saturating

my seat at the table, overflowing.

 
 

You Heard Me

 

You heard me speaking

and you shook the floor,

loosening the dust and devastating

sadness until that floor

was dismantled and replaced

by a stronger, easier-to-clean

platform, until the miracle

rose unpolluted in a continual

swelling, sinking the darkness for good,

calling brother to sister to the truth

of your perfect temple, worshiping the work

of love, relieving the weight of chaos.

 

You heard me and I know you are perfect,

more real than the burrowing fears inside my head,

more powerful than the churning sickness of

anxiety that overtakes my gut, overtakes and takes

me away from you.

 

You who heard me,

through paralysis and poison,

through my weak overtures, ripped away

my unhealthy accumulations, cleansing

my desires that missed the mark,

until I saw and committed

to one voice, one priority, listening.

 

 

Rabbit

 


Broken longing

healed in the eyes

of a tender receiver, blessed

by mercy and the promise of perpetual drink.

Soft, silky warmth beside me

fragile and more precious than

any perfectly-cut gemstone.

 

Faith once mangled now restored

to a richer glory than introduced before.

Solitude in communion - God inside

a gentle touch, mutual bond and loneliness appeased.

 

Sweet waters of fate receive me,

my neck is stretched high,

my arms are a basket.

 

Let the unassuming reign,

place me secure in this place

where the private and the meagre

are honoured, quietly

declared yours.

 


 

Zen Virgin

 

This killer yoke

was pieced together from another century,

enforcing brutal labour,

swollen joints from overload

and depression swamping the upper ground.

 

You know it has always driven the hunt,

from your parents’ childhood homes

in Indian monsoons and Polish Februarys -

dishwashing, factory working, 4 a.m. typing,

deciding to plot an unexpected ending,

yet still, following form.

 

You know you can get out only

if you stop defending all of its creation, only

if you drain your devotion and broaden what

you are and are not permitted to be.

 

You can get out, flashing, golden-sea eyes

flashing and leaping in celebration of the door touched

and opened, the re-wiring that burns every wire

and sets down the players

and the playing board.

 

Do this emptying.

Trust it is done and it will be done.

 

You can hold your shoes in one hand

and your truth in another,

put on those shoes and yield to a direction

unprecedented.

 
 

Mark it down

 


Great joys approach

like weeping harmonies in music,

relief in the course-correction,

astonishment in the manifold beauty.

Decorations placed around the table.

Declarations for devotion riveting

through the backyard garden where

everything overflows with abundance,

is a tapestry of young blood frolicking.

Shared surges of strong faith between us,

because our love is never ending

because the loudest boom has exploded

altering the vibration here and forever,

a higher octave, a mountain sailed over,

a vision walked into, gallant and kind -

welcoming, offering

to fully bathe our bodies, open a fortune box

so we can step away from restrictions, step into

a beautiful anticipation.

 

 
 

Pasture

 


I can see my mind in victory

over the clinging contaminating thoughts

that used to spiral in a vigorous loop

through my days even when in joy,

even when hearing a tambourine tune

rise up, happy and fresh.

Now those thoughts struggle to stand,

abandoned in a desert vast

and widowed. Dehydrated unto death

they sometimes whisper, but barely have a hold

or exert a reasonable authority.

 

My shame has packed its belongings and left.

My self-pity has reduced its wound

to a pin-prick along with my bitterness.

Gratitude is the only dream worth feeding.

I will feed it and not be overwhelmed

or react to desperate hungry

rumblings, not react in desperation

to what is lacking on the canvas, on the alter,

or in my understanding and this growing surrender.

 


Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Five times nominated for “Best of the Net,” she has over 1375 poems published in over 525 international journals. She has 25 published books of poetry and 6 chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay.