SOMEONE SHOULD TELL ME!

In that glittering touch of my dreams

Something new rises in my heart

Perhaps a smiling bud that giggles 

In the deep and dark forest of my mind .

My new poetry sings and vanishes 

Behind innumerable hopeless hopes 

Someone should tell me in a dialect 

My river of love flows in a new rhythm

And the sea of joy maddened in waves

I find not what new hue of her form

Can draw my image eternally lavish ;

Why is she acting all secretive today?

LET THE NIGHT COME!

Let the night come, my heart burns

I miss you in the middle of my life

Your love has destroyed me in toto

I have been a slave to your love

The pity is I’m neither living nor dying

You have turned my life like a hell

My heart is such I can’t ignore you

It hurts badly for the wound is deep

My eyes do cry; let them roll tears

Let the dark night come again 

I want to sleep in your slim arms.

NEVER MIND!

A chasm does open up as all roads fail

Why any cure now for a broken heart

Happiness always far-fetched for me

May you be blessed with it as you go

I pray fervently you do prosper in life

May your hopes and dreams come true

May you be free from my nothingness 

I’ve closed all my roads to come to you

Never mind, simply ignore and walk away

Be progressive and productive all way.

JUST IN A MOMENT!

While walking alone I saw you other day

It rained and you got lost somewhere

Like a dream you passed away from me

Just in a moment you entered my life

Your pain did break my heart instantly 

I clearly remember your wet face then

I smell the rain drops down the memory 

I feel you’re with me same as before

I’m crazy thinking about none but you

Someone’s evil eye obstructed my love

My lips were silent, yet heart cried a lot

I could say nothing for you aren’t mine.

Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai (DOB 07/06/1973) is a passionate Indian Author-cum- bilingual poet while a tremendous lecturer of English by profession in the Ganjam district of Odisha.

He is an accomplished source of inspiration for young generation of India .His free verse on Romantic and melancholic poems appreciated by everyone. He belongs to a small typical village Nandiagada of Ganjam District, the state of Odisha.

After schooling he studied intermediate and Graduated In Kabisurjya Baladev vigyan Mahavidyalaya then M A in English from Berhampur University PhD in language and literature and D.litt from Colombian poetic house from South America. He promotes his specific writings around the world literature and trades with multiple stems that are related to current issues based on his observation and experiences that needs urgent attention.

He is an award winning writer who has achieved various laurels from the circle of writing worldwide. His free verse poems not only inspires young readers but also the ready of current time. His poetic symbol is right now inspiring others, some of which are appreciated by laurels of India and across the world. Many of his poems been translated in different Indian languages and got global appreciation. Lots of well wishes for his upcoming writings and success in the future.

He is an award winning poet author of many best seller books. Recently he is awarded Rabindra nath Tagore and Gujarat Sahitya Academy for the year 2022 from Motivational Strips . A gold medal from world union of poets France & winner Of Rahim Karims world literary prize 2023.The government of Odisha Higher Education Department appointed him as a president to Governing body of Padmashree Dr. Ghanashyam Mishra Sanskrit Degree College, Kabisurjyanagar. Winner of ” HYPERPOEM ” GUNIESS WORLD RECORD 2023.

Recently he was awarded from SABDA literary Festival at Assam. Highest literary honour from Peru contributing world literature 2024.Prestigious Cesar Vellejo award 2024 Completed 200 Epistolary poems with American poet Kristy Raines. Books. 1.Psalm of the Soul. 2.Rise of New Dawn. 3.secret Of Torment. 4.Everything I never told you. 5.Vision Of Life National Library Kolkata. 6.100 Shadows of Dream. 7.Timeless Anguish. 8.Voice of Silence. 9.I cross my heart from east to west . Epistolary poetry with Kristy Raines

About “my Oybek” book

Undoubtedly, Oybegim Mening is one of the rarest and best works of Uzbek literature. Oybegim, which occupies a deep place in my heart, has such a powerful effect on every person who reads it that you can’t put this book down and fall in love with how it will end. my respect increased even more, this work did not leave a slight impression on my most sensitive feelings. They are so strong in the ways of life that no matter how many evil-minded people try to break them, they will not be able to do this.

Even some writers who are enlightened and learned in society are doing everything they can to arrest Oybek, to break him, they look for flaws in his works, they slander Oybek… But Oybek, a strong writer, does not give up. Oybek’s poems and works, with such a pure conscience and such a wonderful nature, are still in the hearts of not only Uzbek readers, but also readers of the whole world. The conspiracies against him did not leave a small impact on Oybek. Oybek was in severe pain, lost his speech, but did not give up.

Zarifa Saidnosirova is the one I admired throughout the play. He was so pure, religious, and knowledgeable that he stayed by Aybek’s side until the end, always supported him, was always by his side in the most difficult situations, he was a real life partner. In fact, Zarifa Saidnosirova was not a writer, she was the first Uzbek chemist, but one cannot help but admire the fact that she was able to create such a beautiful, immense work, a work that is more beautiful than the works of some writers, a work that will be imprinted in memories….. Zarifa Saidnosirova is the child of a rich family. He will have a child, his father will be a knowledgeable, highly spiritual person who helps the elderly (if he lived for 52 years, he will spend 11 years away from home).

Oybek is the son of an ordinary farmer, but Zarifa did not care about this at all, even during the play there is no mention of Oybek being the son of a farmer, the person who reads the work does not notice that Oybek’s family is a troubled family, even if you read it very carefully, it can be noticed. Only a person familiar with the life and work of Oybek knows this for sure. Zarifa Saidnosirova, like some girls today, does not even think about the fact that she is poor and I am rich… This is pure and true love…

In fact, Zarifa Saidnosirova was not a writer, she was the first Uzbek chemist, but one cannot help but admire the fact that she was able to create such a beautiful, immense work, a work that is more beautiful than the works of some writers, a work that will be imprinted in memories….. Zarifa Saidnosirova is the child of a rich family. He will have a child, his father will be a knowledgeable, highly spiritual person who helps the elderly (if he lived for 52 years, he will spend 11 years away from home).

Oybek is the son of an ordinary farmer, but Zarifa did not care about this at all, even during the play there is no mention of Oybek being the son of a farmer, the person who reads the work does not notice that Oybek’s family is a troubled family, even if you read it very carefully, it can be noticed. Only a person familiar with the life and work of Oybek knows this for sure. Zarifa Saidnosirova, like some girls today, does not even think about the fact that she is poor and I am rich… This is pure and true love…

As soon as the play ends, saying that Oybek will never take it, he is just resting, something breaks in everyone’s heart….

I just congratulate these people

Oybek and Zarifa…..just a real proof that there are pure love and pure hearts.

I am Gulmira Poʻlotova. I was born in October 29.2005 in Uzbekistan. Bukhara city. Nowadays I am a freshmen of National university of Uzbekistan named after Mirzo Ulugʻbek. In my free times I really keen on short stories and articles also. In the future I want to be a professional translator.

Street Video

These stories almost escaped
from order into dizzying chaos,
with linear cartoon-like panels
in the rows of tenement floors,
letting us glimpse the dramas
inside, without subtitles to read.
The lens took in the flaking paint,
acid-yellow wall-paper strips,
and a woman gazing out at us,
squinting through a bruised eye.

The action moved along from here
to there, inventing a melodrama
of gunshots and alley dumpsters
But we also had seen in the street
the image from a pin-hole camera
a homeless man had documented
from when he was living rough
a block from the stately capitol
where legislators reiterated claims
that no veterans ever slept on grates.
_________________________________

THE SCHOOL MOVIE

Almost as soon as the lights
snapped on as the credits ended
those around me started asking
which character in the film
shot on summer location here
was me or should be me
or why was their cameo cut?
And a few joshing friends
with their cinema radar on
emailed or blogged the same.
Perhaps that sad-sack retiree
who quit, then recanted,
with nothing new to fill a life
spent teaching 37 years,
like a modern Mr. Chips.
("That's Mister Chipping to you")
Or perhaps a gender-bending
version of the straight-backed
harsh female faculty star,
played like, not modeled
on. a former colleague, quick
tongued and creator of quips.
The friends in joking missed
the pathetic theatre of teaching,
the sweaty wrestling with angels,
the jazz of long, dark nights,
the cries of "Help me. Help me."
as we all stepped in quicksand
that we had not seen ahead.
And this film the boy genius
shot was the perfect medium:
the plastic loops of stuff
that will eventually decay,
like our bodies and minds,
the young and old alike,
as the quick, flickering light
passes through and is gone.
___________________________________

TESTAMENT

"Ithaca gave you the beautiful journey..."
                    -- K. Kavafis

His bed table was bare
except for his glasses, propped
up as if being worn,
beside an open book.
Others would later say
outside his poems his life
does not really exist.
The silence here implies
there is "nothing left to give,"
as a darker voyage begins.
His poetry strips down,
exposing itself as prose,
its "double life" is finished.
Later, reading his books
we felt the heat of his work.
 From such a room as this,
with oriental carpets,
a black desk with gilt,
a velvet armchair,
such conventional pieces,
he inhabited his pasts
like bits of arcane clothing,
and he allowed the secret lives
of those who were not consistent,
unsurprised by their faults,
those undone by misfortune,
bad-timing, and knowledge
imperfect in source and expression,
or the crowned goddess of luck
who rules even the gods.
And now he sits alone
in this room without a light,
recalling nights that were endless
in brightly illumined cafes.
He heard a figure at dawn
enter and sit on his bed,
the place where the fortunate die.
Once when asked to write
his farewell, he took a pen
to a drawn circle's center
and placed a single dot.
The glasses he left aside
were for me an empty mirror,
looking at myself
looking at myself.


Royal Rhodes is a retired educator who taught classes in global religions for almost forty years. His poems have appeared in several literary journals. He lives now in rural Ohio.

Five One-Line Haiku

rose blooms of mid-June a dandelion gone to seed

—

near sunset summer’s first bat circles above Broadway

—

staring contest a small rabbit hops out of a bush onto the sidewalk

—

morning errands little horseflies bite my calves & ankles

—

were crews able to put out the fire a bit hazy this morning

—

bio/graf

J. D. Nelson is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). His first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.

The Beacon of Knowledge

In halls where echoes softly tread,
A world of wisdom gently spreads.
Where minds awake and spirits soar,
Education opens every door.

A child’s first steps in learning’s grace,
A teacher’s patience lights their face.
From letters formed to stories told,
A bright future begins to unfold.

The books are gateways, vast and wide,
To realms of knowledge, far and wide.
In pages worn and pens that glide,
Dreams are nurtured, side by side.

The sum of all our hopes and fears,
Reflected in the students’ tears.
For every challenge met with might,
Brings forth a dawn, a clearer sight.

In science labs and art rooms bright,
In every quest for deeper light.
The seeds of thought are gently down,
In every heart a wisdom grows.

Through history’s lens and language’s song,
We find our place where we belong.
In numbers’ dance and nature’s law,
We see the world in silent awe.

For education’s gentle hand,
Shapes the mind to understand.
In every lesson, deep and true,
Lies the strength to start anew.

So let us honor every mind,
With paths to knowledge, unconfined.
For in each scholar’s fervent quest,
Lies the hope to be our best.

Qo’ziyeva Shaxribonu Muzaffar qizi was born on September 5, 2004, in Mirishkor district, Qashqadaryo region. Currently she is a 3rd year student in the Mathematics and Informatics program at Shahrisabz State Pedagogical Institute. She is also a mathematics teacher at School №19 in Shahrisabz district. She is learning Turkish.

To my compatriots

You don’t give equal risk to everyone,

You whole family is a great happiness.

When separated from the gold and the state,

Don’t live in the world.

Don’t worry, don’t worry,

Enjoy the air and the sun.

Don’t let the rich world overflow,

Live close to what you find.

Don’t let sorrows infect your face,

Thank you for every second.

Help good people,

Be a good person, thank you.

Iskandarova Gulchehra was born in the Gallaorol district of Jizzakh region.

I Once Read a Book…

And I thought that was the end of it, but it turned out that the book was on the government’s list of banned books. It was contraband. This caused great alarm among those in power—my teachers and the police. It was further surmised that perhaps I had retained some forbidden knowledge from this book, and that simply would not do. And, as a 13-year-old girl, I needed protection, but from what, they never said.

I was interviewed—no, that’s not right; I was interrogated—by federal and state rectors who evaluated my retention of any information which was untoward and at odds with the national doctrine. They said they worked for the Minister of Literary Discipline. First, of course, they asked me where I had gotten this blasphemous volume. I shrugged. At school? they suggested. I told them no, but they scoured every inch of my middle school—the library, the classrooms, even the cafeteria—turning up nothing. One of my friends, perhaps? they queried. I don’t think so, I said.

Regardless, they made me sit at a desk and write down the name of everyone I’d ever known. It was exhausting. They checked every name and at length found one troublemaker who possessed the very novel I did. They displayed with her the same kind of dedicated fervor that they had with me. I never saw her again. During interrogation, I cried and promised them I’d stop reading books, but they told me said as how I’d made my bed, I’d now have to lie in it.

They said that I’d disgraced my father, who was in charge of the Regional Book Burning Celebration that was held every year at the high school during homecoming. Nothing I said made a difference. My father, who like I said, was an officer with the Book Police, had been beyond suspicion but at last they had to question him and my family. Although he denied everything, they found the book, “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” in the bookcase in his den. Thinking that, because of my father’s reputation, they would never look there, I had hidden it away on a back shelf. He was mortified.

My father lost his position; in fact my mother lost her job as well. We’re poor now and when we applied for food stamps, we were told we needed to work in order to receive nutritional assistance. But since no one would hire my parents, we were denied benefits. We had to move from our comfortable home too, and now we scramble from one homeless shelter to the next. We’re allowed inside only after 4 p.m. in order to give my parents an opportunity to search for work. On the streets we’re known as drifters. The food there is pretty grim.

I was expelled from the 8th grade for the remainder of the term and when Mom took me back to register in the fall, they told her I would need “re-educating” first, as I would be a bad influence on the other children, who had not been exposed to the likes of that Satanist, Mark Twain. Mom hasn’t decided yet whether she’ll send me to the re-education facility, but I kind of hope she does. They get three meals a day at Camp Falwell, and I’m awful hungry.