Lily Swarn is a very sensitive person and through her poetry we can feel, not only read her poems. She is giving us a morning breeze that can follow our sentence in our quotidian life.

I discovered reading her poetry that verses have colours and perfumes like the flowers and this book is a must to read and even go to all libraries.

Kalotaxido as we say in my country, Bon voyage.  

Article in the Hindustan Times on Lily Swarn. Her book should be available to order soon.

Work Anxiety Dream: The Haunting

All the bar walls feel hot and achingly

alive. Even the windows are breathing,

in and out, bending as if they have been

made elastic to accommodate an impossible

move. I look into the back bar mirrors

and two of the three faces of Eve look

back at me mocking my uncertainty,

my fear that cannot accommodate

of the already low ceiling, with its fake

tin overlay, is shrinking, compressing,

inching downward into what feels like

a torture chambered night. Then all 12 of

the for-sports TV’s turn themselves onto

different horror show channels, creating

a kind of cacophonous haunting in a dozen

different tongues, each more foreign

than the next tat feels like a festival

of technicolor blood and gore only a real

human sacrifice can allay.  All freezing

in place, soundless as an autoplay

on the juke cranks out the Iron Maiden

 album, The Prisoner, “I’m not

a number, I’m a free man!”

Then AC/DC Hell’s Bells, then Blue

Oyster Cult, Don’t Fear the Reaper

but I do.

A Beast in the Jungle: A Work Anxiety Poem

Waking up after sleeping in

the heat, bar interiors have been

transformed into taxidermy dreams

that make no sense.

Bewildered, I feel like Captain Willard

in a Saigon hotel seeing the overhead

fans as chopper blades descending

into a jungle instead of safely, behind

the lines, where dreams are the enemy

and there is no escaping the prison he is in.

Instead of in country, I’m in the bar,

Looking over Norman Bates’ shoulder

at birds of prey poised to attack,

at pointed antlers from long dead

steers, hear the rutting elks in the zoo,

fear the mounted wild cat heads,

the rare white buffalo skins and

the signs that say: CAUTION:

DO NOT TOUCH ENDANGERED

SPECIES, as if somehow, touching

them might make them more dead

than they already are.

I can barely see what must have been

the bar beyond the walls of mounted

heads receding into the darkness with

each tentative step I take.

The darker it becomes, the louder the dead

animal noises become and the jungle

I was now in, more confining and alive.

I check my sidearm to make sure it

is still loaded and walked on.

What else could I do?

Dormitory Fire: a work anxiety poem

I can smell the smoke from a dormitory fire,

in a building that would be attached  to

the second floor of the tavern where

the overflow auxiliary bar would be if we

had one.

Though it is a semester break, there are a

few kids who have no homes staying in rooms

where fire alarms would be if the smoke

and the dorms were real.

My bar back rescues what could be

saved before the blaze becomes fully

involved.

I feel justified not helping out as someone

has to stay behind to mind the store.

Still, I feel  a sense of guilt though

the authorities all say, “Just as well

you didn’t get involved, the old guys

always get in the way.”

Somewhat mollified, I am confronted

by a young woman from a 40 years ago

poetry workshop insisting she is my betrothed

though we both know I am married

to someone else.

The last time I saw her, decades ago,

she had short black hair cut in a page boy

but now it is dyed purple, shaved on

one side and long on the other with

curly bangs. “I just had it done,” she says,

“how do you like it?”

I think it looks awful but I don’t say anything.

Then she wants to take her home and

do what must be done.

Whatever that might be.

We leave together but I don’t know

where we are going.

Apparently, I have no say in the matter.

“Boy, are you in for a surprise.” She says,

as if that was a good thing.

I know this is the time to object

but I don’t say anything.

There is no explanation for any of this.

Work Anxiety Dream: No Exits

The sense is that my former

employer has a No Compete

option on my professional

services but as I have been retired

for over ten years, it seems unlikely

it could be applied. Still, I feel

guilty considering the new guy’s

offer to manages as, “the obvious

choice,” of a new bar in the cellar

where my first fulltime work was.

I’m inclined to say no but

this project is intriguing.

They show me around the place

which takes about two minutes,

as there isn’t anything to see:

just a freshly painted square space

with no tables, chairs, stools or

even a functional bar. They say,

“You just have to imagine those

being there.” I’m thinking this

project has more to do with Room

than The Tavern but I reserve judgment

until I hear their pitch. “We figure

that we can get maybe 200 or so

bodies in here.” And I’m remembering

that the tavern in this space had

a max capacity of 120 and it was

wider than this one, as these new guys

seem to have figured out a way to shrink

the walls and raise the ceiling

while removing all the personal touches

that make a college bar a desirable

hang out.” What do you think?”

They ask, and all I can think of is

the fire inspectors who used to hang out

here after checking out the high rise

mausoleums at the state school that

were being used as dorms saying,

“Those buildings are fire traps but this one

is worse. Where are the fire exits?

There aren’t any anyone could get to,

is there?” I looked around, though

I knew they were right. I said to the new guys,

“200 bodies seems just about right.”

Snowbound: A Work Anxiety Dream

Maybe it was the wind in that dream

of being snowbound in the bar,

one of those dreams so real,

it’s impossible after, to remember

what was real and what was dream

as is stand watching the snow drift

on Western Avenue, no cars moving,

no people walking, no cross country

skiers, nothing but the wind and

the still leafy tree limbs snapping,

falling taking the power wires with them,

no light anywhere but half a block

where the bar is, house lights dimmed,

MTV on mute Eurythmics surreality,

“Sweet Dreams Are Made of These,”

though there is nothing sweet

about this dream once the black

curtain is drawn down across

the bar and a spot light haloes

a silent talking head like something

out of Cassavetes and we’re in

their living room improv acting,

uncomfortable closeups and heat

lamps inducing sweating fever dream

soliloquies then the light switches off

and we hear three voices like something

from a Beckett play set in a graveyard

with beer taps and Irish whiskey added,

and their voices modulate in a kind of

crazy loop tape summary  of their lives

together, tales of love, and hate and

lust that death does not have the power

to end and then the ghost light behind

the bar switches off and there is nothing

but darkness, a black shroud that used

to be a curtain and the muted voices

of all the people who died here calling

for a drink.

Night Walking: a work anxiety poem

All the addresses on

the buildings are the same

All the front doors

All the curtained windows

All the store fronts

exactly the same

All geometric as pieces

of jigsaw puzzle

a lab testing rat maze

you feel as if

you are walking in

but somehow remain

rooted in place

as the walls slide by

as the storefronts

curtained windows

front doors the same

of all the buildings

with the same address

on streets without lights

you cannot move on

out of breath

wheezing

from all the efforts

of standing still

all the effort expended

going nowhere

Corridors of Conscience

My Dialogue with the Painting of Dr. Alaa Basheer

Look into the depths of a shattered head,

The lines intertwine like thorns,

Dancing in the corridors of blue shadows,

Where silence clashes with the moan of souls.

O fading conscience,

You who have become a cloud pursued by the winds of conflict,

Do you dwell in the prisons of memories?

Or swim in the swamps of lost dreams?

Heads merge with the roots of the earth,

Turning into branches without features,

As if they are trees searching for the fruit of truth.

O you who are lost in the forests of noise,

Your lines have been colored in black and blue,

As if you scream without a voice:

“Where are you, O hidden light?”

Chains coil around the neck of the dream,

Yet the soul dances in the spaces of the unseen,

Searching for a conscience turned into the rubble of fear.

O human of today,

Do you still hear the steps of your burdened conscience?

Do you still touch the face of truth in the mirror of distortion?

The search is long like the paths of the wind,

But if you walk through the alleys of the self,

You will realize that conscience is not absent,

It is you, in your deep self, waiting.

—

Poem by Her Royal Highness Princess

Donia Sahab – Iraq

The Painting by the World-Renowned Visual Artist Dr. Alaa Basheer

______________________________________

أروقة الضمير

حواري مع لوحة د. علاء بشير

انظر في أعماق رأس مَهشم،

تتشابك الخطوط كالأشواك،

تتراقص في أروقة الظلال الزرقاء،

حيث يصطخب الصمت مع أنين الأرواح.

أيها الضمير المتلاشي،

يا من صرت غيمة تُطاردها رياح الصراع،

هل في سجون الذكريات تسكن؟

أم في مستنقعات الأحلام الضائعة تسبح؟

الرؤوس تتماهى مع جذور الأرض،

تتحول إلى فروع بلا ملامح،

كأنها شجر يبحث عن ثمرة الحقيقة.

يا من ضاع في غابات الضجيج،

تلوَّنت خطوطك بالسواد والزرقاء،

كأنك تصرخ بلا صوت:

“أين أنت، أيها النور الدفين؟”

القيود تلتف حول عنق الحلم،

لكن الروح ترقص في مساحات الغيب،

تفتش عن ضمير أحيل إلى ركام الخوف.

يا إنسان اليوم،

أما زلت تسمع خطوات ضميرك المثقل؟

أما زلت تلمس وجه الحقيقة في مرآة التشوه؟

البحث طويل كطرق الريح،

لكن إن سرت في أزقة النفس،

ستدرك أن الضمير ليس غائباً،

إنه أنت، في نفسك العميقة، ينتظر.

—

القصيدة بقلم الشاعرة الأميرة الهاشمية

دنيا صاحب – العراق

اللوحة الفنية بريشة الفنان التشكيلي العالمي د. علاء بشير

Now I want to share about my life. Are you ready to listen to me?. As we all know, every person suffers from painful losses at some point in their lives. My dad was on his deathbed…

Even while in pain, he used to lecture about how I should be there for my mom and sisters, protect them, and be the man of this family even at a young age. 

I knew that day was coming, the day I would be losing my title “kid,” the day I would carry all responsibilities of my dad’s and also mine, and the day I would become father to my siblings.

It came… It was harder than I thought to bear the pain of losing the person you love the most and at the same time, to be strong for your family as the only man left now. 

It was painful—the fact that I didn’t spend time with my dad a lot, the fact that we don’t have enough memories, and the fact that Dad doesn’t feel proud when I achieve the dreams I promised to him. To fix that, I started to spend more time with my mom; it wasn’t talking and chilling but more like cleaning the house, cooking in the early morning, and going to work together. I got a job in a clothes shop. It was harder than I thought, giving suggestions, communicating with different types of people, and handling their personalities.

Even though I faced some challenges at first by not managing time properly, in the end, I learned to be there for my family and work. Also, my teacher Shukurova O’g’iloy helped me a lot in learning English. She was always patient, kind, and understanding. Although English seemed tough to me at first, thanks to my teacher’s kind words and wise advice, I gradually fell in love with the language. She taught me grammar, pronunciation, and, most importantly, self-confidence. I was afraid to speak English before, but my teacher’s words, “You can do it,” made me confident. She gave me strength and confidence and never left me alone. Every lesson of my teacher was interesting, and I looked forward to each lesson. Instead of criticizing my mistakes, she patiently explained them and encouraged me to try again. This gave me great confidence. My teacher became not only a teacher for me but also a kind person, like a mother. She loved me, supported me, and cared deeply for me. That’s why I value her so much and love her like a mother in my life.

This challenge, one I cursed at first, taught me being strong doesn’t mean hiding pain; it means carrying it while still showing up for the people who need you. Most importantly, I discovered that real connection comes from shared moments, not expensive places. These lessons have shaped me into someone who values family, hard work, and growth.

My name is Annamurodov Umarbek, a passionate and ambitious high school student born on November 10, 2009, in Karshi, Kashkadarya Region, Uzbekistan! 

I currently study at college. I have earned several educational grants and awards, and my achievements include being an IA volunteer, Collab Crew member, volunteer at a youth center, Youth Perspective Club member, Youth Run Club member, Avlod talk participant, coordinator of Kashkadarya, and 1-degree diploma.

With a deep interest in leadership, public speaking, and writing, I continue to work hard toward achieving academic excellence and inspiring others in my community. A bright example of this you can find on my Telegram channel @Annamurodovv_Umarbek.

Your Lily Awaiting

I look out the window and think of you

knowing that you are as sad as I am

The sound of the Cuckoo reminds me of that

When we talk, I can tell you have been crying

This time of year is always the hardest on us

The nights last forever and I will be glad

when I will see my love again

Your Lily awaiting…

I cry out for you, for it is lonely here without you

My only happiness is knowing this sadness will not last

because the warmth of the sun will be coming soon

The cry of the Cuckoo will turn into the beautiful Bird of Paradise

and the return of Summer will dry your tears..

Your Lily, will bloom just for you

I await your return anxiously..

Love Will Heal my Soul

In a world where nothing makes sense anymore;

Where the clouds no longer rain, and oceans thirst

I refuse to let the perils of giving up, win

I am not a woman who quits, and I need nothing

but the nectar of hope that fills my tearful eyes

Paint a portrait of my soul with the colors of red

and write me a poem filled with sound of the wind

My heart beats with the blood of a warrior

though soft and gentle on the surface of my being

I can withstand the beating from the world around me

and I will stitch the wounds around my own heart

with strands of resilience that will keep me, alive.

And in the end, it will be love that heals my soul.

Step Back in Time

I miss the words we used to utter in the night

that seem now like dreams woken from

Let me find you as you were long ago

with caring thoughts and concern for me

I still seek that man and never forgot him

I believe he still remains, in his heart of hearts

I wait for him to take a step back in time

and once more sing again the song

that won my heart when we first met

I miss hearing it in the night, under the lit stars

as I gazed into the eyes of who used to sing it.

Kristy Ann Raines was born Kristy Ann Rasmussen in Oakland California, in the United States of America.  

She is an accomplished international poet and writer.  Kristy has two self-published books on Amazon titled, “The Passion within Me”, and  an anthology of epistolary poems, written with a prominent poet from India, Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai, titled, “I Cross My Heart from East to West”.

She has one children’s short story book coming out soon, titled “Tishya the Dragon”, and a few other children’s stories to follow. 

Kristy is also working on finishing two very special fantasy books that have been in the works for quite a few years, titled “Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings” and “Princess and the Lion”. 

She is also writing her autobiography titled “My Very Anomalous Life”.  

It is her life story that few know about, and the many transformations she went through.  She reveals every interesting and sometimes tragic aspect of her life. She shares her failures, victories, tears, joys, losses, heartbreaks, and how she changed, by the grace of God. 

A loving family and how two wonderful children stood by her through her transformation to who she is today.

Kristy has received numerous awards for her distinctive writing style and her work as an advocate and humanitarian around the world.

Kristy also enjoys painting, making pottery, writing song lyrics, and being with her family.  

She is married, has an older brother and sister, two wonderful children, and is a proud grandmother of three beautiful granddaughters. with one great-grandchild on the way! 

Giorgos Pratzikos and Eva Petropoulou Lianou 

Greece 

**In collaboration with the Literary cultural initiative POETRY Unites People Founder Eva Petropoulou Lianou**

**An exclusive interview presented by Eviasmile**

Journalist **Giorgos Pratzikos** introduces the beloved author and poet **Fay Rempelou**,

Greece 

I met Fay Rempelou, although we live very close – she in Chalkida and I in Psachna – (and she herself has roots in the local community of Psachna), through Eva Petropoulou-Lianou last year, at “The Path of Hero.” Indeed, Eva and the Path know how to connect and unite people. From the very first moment I heard her, I sensed something unique in her poems and thought to myself that I would one day interview her. Well, the time has finally come.

—

**1. Fay, I know you don’t give interviews often. Searching online, I only found one more from eight years ago. I want to ask you many things, but I’ll start a bit unconventionally: Let’s begin with Eva Petropoulou-Lianou, thanks to whom we met. What does Eva mean to you?**

Eva is multi-talented, a very good writer of fairy tales and a poet. She is also a remarkable organizer of cultural events, who has given and continues to give her utmost to culture, especially in these difficult and cold times we live in, where material gains are placed above humanity. I met Eva at poetry gatherings of the group *Poetry in the Age of Auctioning*, and we immediately became friends because, above all, she is a wonderful person who gives from her soul. A true human being who inspires love and admiration.

—

**2. The place where we met is “The Path of Hero” in Politika, Evia, where, for two consecutive years, the Women’s Poetry Festival Greece–Mexico was held. You also participated both years. What are your experiences?**

This event, dedicated to peace and gender equality, is very important. Especially when it takes place in the enchanting *Path of Hero*, a beautiful and mystical landscape that speaks directly to our hearts, born out of the love of Hero’s parents, who gave everything to create this space, a true gift and cultural bridge. This magical place ignites the imagination, making me believe that our calls for peace and equality across the world will be heard.

From both years of the festival, I keep a wonderful experience, not only because I had a great time and felt inspired, but also because I met amazing people who took part. The organization, the poetry, the music, the venue—all together were impeccable and felt like a beautiful fairytale, full of joy and optimism.

Moreover, because Greece is not only Athens, this festival taking place in the province contributes to the spiritual growth and flourishing of the local community, just like all events that promote, in times of individualism and spiritual inertia, participation, collectivity, and culture.

—

**3. I took a look at your work *Everything is a Circle*. Do you believe that life really works this way?**

Yes, I believe that our stories, our relationships, and our lives in general follow their own cycles. Beyond that, however, I gave my book this title because its four stories create a circular flow, starting from the first, where power, through technological development, has fully controlled and subdued people. Then, raising questions about our roots and our capacity for resistance in the next two stories, it ends with the last, where love, passion, and altruism conquer everything harsh and inhuman that tries to subdue us. If this human stance in life fails, we return again to the first story.

—

**4. I especially liked the second story of your book, which speaks about a tree. As you have mentioned, the tree is symbolic and refers to our roots. How do you see today’s society? Do we have a chance to return to our roots, or will we eventually be completely uprooted?**

I’m glad you liked it, Giorgos. The story with the tree is indeed symbolic, representing our roots, which, since the 1990s, Greek society seems to forget, avoid, or even deny, carried away by the trend of easy affluence, urban comforts, and greed.

As the well-known poet Katerina Gogou said, our roots are there so we can grow branches, not to hold us down to the ground. And I too believe that progress is necessary, but without tradition, the memories of our past, and our history, we will end up with inhuman progress, with modern societies stripped of values and sensitivity.

Especially today, when man tends to be replaced by a mere number, this is a great danger, and our connection to our roots, tradition, and history becomes an essential issue.

—

**5. The last story in *Everything is a Circle* refers to a theatrical game, where the protagonists are Tarot cards. This really surprised me. Which Tarot card, among those that appear in your story, represents you the most?**

In this story with the Tarot cards, which is the final story of the book *Everything is a Circle* and my personal favorite, I identify with Chrysanthe, who, together with Nektarios, forms the Lovers, the protagonists of the story. Their love brings about social revolution and resolution—the victory of Humanity against harsh and inhuman social systems.

And that’s because I have always believed that love and passion, containing the authenticity of free choice, were, are, and will always remain revolutionary acts.

—

**6. Searching online, I saw that you have participated in many poetry collections. Although it’s difficult, can you tell me which contribution stands out the most for you?**

My contribution to the erotic poetry collection *Hello, I love you, goodbye*, and to the collection dedicated to the elderly *With the Pi of Poetry*. That doesn’t mean that all the other poetry and prose anthologies I took part in were not equally important to me, that they didn’t inspire me equally, or that I didn’t give them my best.

—

**7. September is dedicated to the elderly. I know that there is a poetry collection dedicated to them, in which you participated. How does Fay Rempelou, the poet and author, view old age? Does it scare you?**

As I write in the poem for old age with which I participated, *The Circle of Life*, “there is no death. In the face of every old person hides the future child.” It is natural that old age and death scare us, but only as future insecurities that all people share. In reality, old age is wisdom and the essence of life, helping you rediscover your simplicity, spontaneity, and childlike nature.

As for death, it is something we should not fear, because, firstly, as the writer and psychologist Leo Buscaglia says, it is our best friend, reminding us to live each moment that is given to us. And secondly, as Epicurus wrote, it is someone we never actually meet, since when he comes, we are no longer here.

—

**8. To close, I’d like to lighten the mood and ask you: what are you preparing for the future?**

I am preparing the publication of my fourth book, which will be a poetry collection titled *Unaware Perpetrators*. It speaks about people whose actions’ consequences, no matter how much they embellish their motives, transcend even themselves and become unmanageable! I am already in contact with publishers, and I hope it will come to fruition soon!

In closing, Giorgos, thank you for giving me the space and stimulus to introduce myself to the world and talk about myself and my works, as well as for your overall contribution to the promotion of culture in my beloved homeland.

I wish you continued success in your own work.

…..

Fay Rebelou