Meet the smiling blonde boy. Never makes a fuss. [Probably.] “Hi, hun. Love ya.” A subdural, cerebellar arachnoid cyst above the right ear. Developed during gestation. Useless bits of convoluted gray matter lie about. Shaken baby. [Don’t know for sure.] A funnel-shaped cell all the way down. Down to the reptilian brain. His accomplice, Hunger, incarcerated there. Let out at night…..to feed. “Yippee!” Grinning. Mayhem. Gnawing bloody bones. Dawn. Heads for home. Door slams shut. Moans, snarls, guttural growls. Awaits dusk. Smiling blonde boy. “Good morning, hun. Love ya.” [Maybe.]
Merge Within
With no ground of distrust,
No agony within,
Without worry of separation,
Like autumn leaves
Falling with no care,
Meeting the earth
And merging with it.
In the same way,
Come with deep desire.
Sometimes, you bury your face in my arms,
Seeking comfort and solace.
Sometimes, I nestle my face in yours,
Finding serenity in your embrace.
At times, you somersault
Like a playful dolphin on my lap,
Seeking joy and laughter.
And sometimes, I too somersault,
Offering you happiness and delight
From dawn until night.
[Sushant Kumar B.K. is a Nepali poet, translator, educator, and freelance writer from Gulariya, Bardiya, Nepal. He holds two degrees: an MA in English Literature and Political Science. He primarily writes poems in English and Nepali. His poems have been featured in national and international anthologies, magazines, newspapers, and online portals. He can be reached at sushantacademia@gmail.com.".]
A Tale of a Bird
A bird of prey flew away before me
While I was watching, I could not turn my eyes for a single moment
From that scene of changing ponderous sight.
I was not born at the time of independence of our Bangladesh
It ignited my nerves and blood to see the way of people’s
Breaking the curfew flowing the waves of the ocean on the road.
The king bird sat with the chief of staffs
But what an irony of fate no way other than
Resigning the post of the prime minister!
It had only forty minutes to leave the nest of Gono Bhabon
And at last the bird spread its feathers and flew away out of sight.
I would not like to write any episode for this
Though it has already been written in every part of the earth
And will last in every pages of history for the generation after generation
They will learn the type of bird and will sigh in astonishing
I see the birds everyday flying over head
Not like that on 05 August, 2024.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
13 August, 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.
Sun
The everlasting brimming sun
Under the cherry blossoms
The single leaf learns to fly
Ashen puddles little trinkets
Of a fairy swim high
The pond blossoms are heavy
Wet with sun gazed fever
The joy knows unparalleled beauty
Holding the lotus
Under its Sycamore high
The pond fringes wide open
The channeling of high sewn
Raspings the motley of
Three hooded pier
The poetry of sun holding
The view
One hundred views of nature's
Own
The single leaf paper flown
It knows the Circle.
***
despair syndromes
∞
myopia letters
~
silence of speech
¶
madness of meaning
¥
betrayal of consciousness
and everywhere cripples and soldiers
***
Plastic flowers will cover the graves
The graves will grow on the lawn instead of flowers
Flowers will grow higher than graves
Everything around blooms and smells of death inspired by life
Loneliness is the lot of a newborn or a deceased
So the butterflies in my stomach announce the plan to intercept
(Editor's note: adult content below)
Oh my gods he wants his asshole torn by big men
Oh yeah, baby, he wants to get talked about
Luckily he won't be picking up a gun
He'll earn his money with his ass, not his blood
He'll enjoy fucking, not dismembering
As silly as it sounds, he loves everybody
All people are beautiful, really
He especially loves those who are richer and more generous
Of course he likes to confront his complexes
Of course his stupid mother didn't approve (and then died)
The man who has been renting all his life is forced to pay
Paying for air in the form of strangulation during sex
Paying for everything else according to the receipt
Hungry children catch up with pigeons and take the birds' bread
I want everybody to learn how to fuck for bread
I want everybody to learn how to fuck for money
I want there to be no money
I want to steal air without a monthly fee
But in the meantime, after the rain, the cemetery grows
Hungry men take their fat dicks out of their pants
Death and sex is a perpetual motion machine
Money is a perpetual concentration camp
***
I want you but no one hears how the night ends with a shot in the iron of the head. Because of the nonsense, because of the lack of you -> because of the lack of yourself. How to fill yourself after the explosion of a hydroelectric power station? Water? By blood? With fur? Shit? Every day I remember how sweetly you hissed your eyes, brewed tea, sang like a perch in the net, only God knows a song.
Your penis was so beautiful that the morning ended before it started. The rain soaked the cemeteries and the ashes scattered.
I always wanted to feel your body: incomprehensible, inapplicable. The body of electricity. Body of flowers. Fire body. Your appearance always gave me the creeps: you were so beautiful that the mud on your boots did not frighten me - I was not afraid when you touched my pants with your shoes in a cafe. We ate the rain. We drank views. I want to get drunk. I want to quench my thirst. I want at least your lips to drool or cum. I want you to charge me with electricity.
Cemetery with a sea of flowers. One person less. One less sexy ass - and it's unfair. How to fill yourself after this explosion?
My head swells and explodes like a coconut from stress. I can't fill myself with sperm or thought or lust or erection. Little beetles crawl оf minutes on the wall of my room. The stomach of the house is trying to erase me into the powder of moments.
How to fill yourself after this explosion? Flower pots in which there is nothing else to plant. And small carcasses of birds on the windowsill.
Cast iron death plays the flute. There are as many explosions as there are stars. There is only one God in heaven - but this is not certain. I so want to fill myself with love that I am ready to descend into hell - but alas, there is no greater hell than now.
Little girls are born every day. Some are born into wealth and power, others into poverty and powerlessness. As they grow into women, a few of those born into poverty transcend the financial and social status of their families and better their condition. Others do not change and may even worsen their lot. Some are lucky to be born in a period of history when human enlightenment progresses at an astounding rate. Others are born when humanity seems to bury itself in the darkness of ignorance, violence, and intolerance. And for many, their period of history presents only ambiguities and contradictions. Those born in such times find confusion and pain as they navigate that landscape. They must rely upon their own innate intelligence and wit, the love of their families, true friends, and other people of good will, if such people exist in their lives, in order to find success and meaning.
The second half of the twentieth century was one of those ambiguous periods for African Americans – particularly the women. The civil rights movement promised them the right to vote, equal housing and accommodations, and attempted to improve their education through integration. The women’s movement promised parity with men of all races.
The African American women who believed in those promises and decided to work towards their fulfillment often achieved financial and social success. However, their victories often bore a high emotional price tag, triggered by often overt and even more insidious, subtle racism.
Into this fog of ambiguity and contradiction, in the geographical center of America during the year of 1947, Lauren Sullivan was born.
Chapter One
Participating in the Bold Experiment
Two big, brown eyes peered over the pink chenille spread. Then an entire face, revealing a big smile. After four seconds, the intensity of the smile dimmed and the eyebrows furrowed. For the first time in her eight-year life, Lauren was going to attend her neighborhood school, the one only the white children were allowed to attend – until today.
For a year, it had appeared to Lauren that the only topic the adults in her world discussed was racial integration of the public schools. She remembered hearing about some decision made in the U.S. Supreme Court, Brown vs Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas. Her mother told Lauren that Topeka was only two hours’ drive from their town. Lauren would sit on the floor playing with her dolls while she overheard conversations about how the lives of Negroes would be affected by this event. Every adult said that integration was a very good thing and long overdue. It meant that Lauren could attend a much newer school with more books and supplies than her old school. But Lauren didn’t like the fear and powerlessness she heard in the grownups’ voices when they whispered about what the white teachers and students might do when the Negro teachers and students came to their schools.
“Lauren,” called her mother, “are you dressed yet?”
“Not yet, Mama; I can’t button my dress.”
Helen hurriedly entered Lauren’s bedroom, her facial expression anxious and distant. The school in which Helen taught, deep in the Negro section of town, was not going to be integrated this year. The school district had refused to send white students there. Helen buttoned her daughter’s brand new green and yellow plaid dress with its Peter Pan collar and wide skirt, and gave her a long stare. Lauren’s eyes were riveted on her mother. Her eyes were the first things one noticed about Lauren. They were huge relative to her small face – dark brown and clear – and they seemed to bore a hole through anyone looking at them. They reflected intelligence and wisdom older than her years. Their size was also a stark contrast to Lauren’s thin build. People often teased her by saying that a gust of wind would blow her away. Helen gave Lauren’s left cheek a spit bath. Lauren groaned, but did not dare move.
“You know, Lauren, you have a lot to look forward to this year,” Helen began, slowly and deliberately. “You will have a new school, new teachers, and new friends.”
“I liked my old school and friends, Mama. We didn’t even move, so why do I havta change schools? I finally got a teacher I liked – Mrs. Redding.”
As Lauren spoke, she could smell the scent of Tabu, her mother’s signature fragrance, permeating the air. She loved that scent. Although it was strong, it made her feel secure because as long as she could remember, her mother had worn it. It evoked thoughts of visits to the zoo, birthday parties, and church. Its fragrance also evoked in Lauren a feeling of romantic adventures yet to come because of the magazine ads she had seen. In one, a man with a violin was grabbing his female pianist in a passionate embrace. Lauren needed that sense of security and adventure today.
The adults were attempting to paint a rosy picture of Lauren’s new school. But she had misgivings. She’d overheard too many other whispered conversations.
“Lauren,” Helen said impatiently. “you know there is a new law that requires the schools to integrate. That means you have to attend the school in your neighborhood – in other words, you have to go to Garfield Elementary.” Lauren hated it when her mother didn’t explain the “whys” of things. She felt insulted and trapped.
“I heard you, Uncle Warren, and Aunt Eleanor say that the white teachers wouldn’t care much about us Negro kids and wouldn’t teach us anything. You said the white teachers really weren’t as smart as Negro teachers, Mama.”
“First of all, Lauren,” Helen snapped, “you were not a party to those conversations. Therefore, they are none of your business. Second, that’s not what we said. We just observed that as of today – 1955 – educated Negroes such as your uncle, aunt, and myself, don’t have much of a choice of careers. Most of us teach or end up in the post office. Only those Negroes who came from a little money can attend the professional schools at Negro colleges and become doctors, dentists, and lawyers. Even those with advanced degrees, they are only allowed to serve the Negro community. Educated white people can do anything that they have the ambition to do. They can have careers that pay far more than teaching and working within the Negro community. Many of those whites who end up teaching are those without the ambition or skills to do anything else.”
“Well, if my old teachers were better, why do I havta go to Garfield? Danny doesn’t want to go there either.” Danny, Lauren’s five-year-old brother, was beginning kindergarten at Garfield.
“It’s out of our hands, Lauren. You are going, and that’s that.”
Chapter Two
The Black Swan
The sun was casting its hot rays upon the storefront windows as Lauren stared absent-mindedly out the window of the trolley bus. Her mother’s tan Samsonite cosmetic case lay in her lap, filled with her leotard, tights, ballet slippers, and a change of underwear. Although the temperature had surged to 97 degrees, Lauren felt comfortable in her shorts and halter top. She liked to watch her tan skin become darker on her arms and stomach each Saturday, as she traveled to dancing school during the summer of her tenth year. She would travel alone for an hour, changing buses twice. On the way home, she would also stop at Zesty Creme for a large vanilla ice cream cone dipped in chocolate. The bus drivers also treated her as if she were a grown-up.
The ballet teacher, Devon Martin, was a thirty-nine year old white woman who had studied briefly in Paris and New York. After teaching technique at the Kansas City Conservatory of the Arts, she’d opened her own studio in a fashionable white section of the city. Devon was strict with her students, some of whom had actually gone on to New York for ballet careers.
Lauren took two one-hour classes each Saturday. The first at 11am stressed technique and barre work. The second, which began at 1pm, focused upon excerpts from classical ballets. Between classes, the students ate lunch at the restaurant a half block from the dance studio.
As she entered the studio, Lauren immediately noticed the smells of sweat and powdered resin, the substance that the budding ballerinas placed on the toes and soles of their ballet shoes to prevent slipping on the hardwood floors. These were smells to which Lauren had long become accustomed since beginning ballet lessons four years ago. This sweaty smell was distinguishable from the one Lauren experienced on the playground or in her own home. It was formed by the body chemistry of white people, and had as its elements the diet they enjoyed, mixed with their colognes and talcum powders. Lauren walked into the dressing room. Here, everyone wore the same uniform: black leotards, pink tights, and black ballet slippers. The girls who were older and more advanced wore pink toe shoes. Lauren could hardly wait until she would be able to wear toe shoes, after, as Miss Devon Martin had said, her legs had developed a bit longer.
Devon Martin demanded superlative performances from all her students. She had often told Lauren privately that excellence was “the great equalizer.” Lauren wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but she knew that when she was in ballet class, she transformed into a beautiful graceful fairy princess. The most slender student in the class, she was also the second youngest. Therefore, in addition to working hard to meet Devon’s high standards, she had to perform as well as girls one to five years older, who had better developed muscles. Lauren did not mind the challenge.
The three hours per week she spent here allowed her to fantasize about worlds much more glamorous than the mundane scene of the Kansas and Missouri flatlands and the lifestyle of her family. She dreamed of going to Paris and New York, becoming a prima ballerina. Why, the dance movements even had French names that flowed gracefully from Miss Martin’s tongue. The rhythmic tapping of Miss Martin’s baton on the hardwood floor was blended with the classical music Mrs. Landon played on the piano.
The teacher stared at her pupil for a few seconds. Then she slowly started speaking.
“You are going to be a remarkable woman, Lauren. I hope you will study ballet diligently because I feel you truly have some talent.”
Lauren was shocked to hear these words from this woman. She loved ballet, but didn’t believe she had any unusual talent.
“You are very thin, which is good for a ballerina. You could have a career in ballet.” Lauren involuntarily started to smile.
“You will, however, always have unique challenges because of your beautiful brown skin, Lauren. That, however, is no reason to shrink away or attempt to be unobtrusive. Wear that skin, as well as your whole being, regally and proudly, my dear. You owe no one any excuses for being who you are. If you run into people who lack character – and you certainly will – look straight into their eyes and show them that you are a woman to be reckoned with. However, to pull it off, you must always be far better at whatever you do than anyone else. Do you understand, my dear?”
“Yes, Miss Martin,” said Lauren. She had never been spoken to this way by a white person. “Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome, my dear,” smiled Devon. “Now hurry home. You have quite a way to go.”
“G’bye, Miss Martin.” Lauren went to the dressing room, picked up her overnight case, and headed for the bus stop. She felt a heady euphoria that she had never before experienced. Her mind raced into the future. Lauren suddenly saw herself in Paris, dancing on the stage of the Paris Opera, a place that Devon had described to the class several times. For the first time, Lauren saw herself as the beautiful, graceful adult that Devon had described.
Lauren’s daydream continued without limit until the loud bellow of the bus’ exhaust awakened her. As she ascended the steps into the vehicle, she recognized the bus driver as the same bald, little white man who always drove this bus every Saturday. He had been solicitous of her in the past because, as he told her several times, he thought she was young to be on a bus so far from the Negro section of town. Sometimes, he allowed Lauren to ride for free.
“Hi, little lady,” the driver said again for the hundredth time. Lauren dropped her dime into the slot and took a seat behind the drive. “Little lady, where do you go every Saturday? Do they make you clean the whole house?” Lauren was puzzled at first by his question. But then she realized that the driver thought she was a miniature version of the day workers, who climbed on his bus at the end of the day, heading back toward the Negro section of town.
“Oh, I don’t work in anybody’s house, sir,” stated Lauren, innocently. “I go to dancing school. I’m going to become a great ballerina someday,” she said, proudly. The bus advanced a few blocks before the driver said anything else. Then, seemingly out of the blue, he began talking.
“So you go to ballet school, do you? In this white neighborhood? That’s real highfalutin’. Well, didn’t you know that ballerinas have to pay thirty rather than ten cents to ride a bus?”
“No, sir,” said Lauren, with genuine surprise.
“You bet, little ballerina girl. So from now on, when you get on the bus, make sure you have your thirty cents ready.” Although the driver wasn’t speaking in a threatening tone, Lauren recognized his hostility. She didn’t understand exactly what she had done to offend him; but she calmly rose and dropped the additional two dimes in the meter – dimes she had planned to spend on her weekly ice cream cone. As Miss Martin had instructed her, she walked regally to the meter and back to her seat without uttering a word. The driver had a look of vindication on his face; Lauren didn’t even notice. She felt graceful, intelligent, and beautiful, in spite of that mean old driver.
The bride
On Thursday, the first of April. University Street in the Karrada district was alive with a grand carnival. Fifteen carriages drawn by white horses paraded in majestic succession, perfectly coordinated, one after another. Leading the way was the bride's carriage, the sixteenth in total. This carriage stood out in every aspect. Colours were purposefully scattered across it, and in bold, green Kufic script, it read: Congratulations on your marriage.
The horse was adorned in attire befitting the occasion, showered in vibrant, glittering colours. The coachman, dressed in colourful garb, his fez standing proudly atop his head, played with a leather rein and whipped the horse with the force of lightning, uttering incomprehensible words that only his companion and faithful horse might understand. The faces of those participating in the celebration glowed with laughter and joy, beaming with contentment. Everyone was happy.
One remarked playfully, "A good idea... an innovative approach... horse-drawn carriages instead of cars." Another chimed in, "A new trend that might become widespread in the future." Someone else jested, "Atrees' marriage to Fouada is invalid..." The carriages jostled forward, horses neighing, applause growing louder and more vibrant. Bodies, heated by the warmth of the carnival, began to sweat. The women's faces turned redder and shinier.
Children ran, delighted, drumming behind the horses. The women's ululations, both familiar and unfamiliar, echoed high. Children's voices rose and fell. Young girls sang an Iraqi song by Maida Nuzhet: Tonight is their henna night, and in Basra, they celebrate their wedding. Other girls echoed the second verse: Basra has become a paradise. Everyone was lost in their own world, but the bride and groom were in their own world.
A smile graced the bride's lips, her dreamy, radiant eyes filled with meaning. The groom, with heartfelt sincerity, said, "Today is the day I've always dreamed of, being by your side, my dear." She lowered her head shyly, a faint smile playing on her lips, and replied, "Me too." He continued "You have no idea how much I love you and how I've longed for this day to come. Believe me, I'm not exaggerating when I say it's the happiest day of my life."
She remained silent, perhaps out of shyness. He paused, then added, "I will, God willing, provide everything that makes you happy, my love." With a hint of mischief, he continued, "Do I have anything more precious than you now? You are the garden, and I am the gardener." Her lips parted in a broad smile, and her honey-colored eyes and angelic, childlike face radiated contentment.
She responded, "I will make our home a bed of roses and the air filled with fragrance. I will serve you with the lashes of my eyes and remain faithful to you as long as I live." His heart warmed at her words, which fell upon him like pieces of ice on a scorching day. He gathered his composure and said, "Thank you for these heartfelt emotions... I always knew you were like this. Trust me, my dear, I will buy you a large house by the Tigris, with servants. I will make every room unique in its design and furniture. My love, I want to see you as a queen in this palace, an empress in this home."
The coachman overheard some of these words, raised his whip high, and struck the horse forcefully as if to say, "Enough lies and deceit on this poor girl." The wedding procession continued its calm march, turning left onto Abu Nuwas Street, where the bars and clubs were. Men with beer bottles waved in celebration of the wedding parade, shouting various words, both polite and impolite. Ululations rose, and voices sang songs from a golden era. Words floated from here and there, indicating that on a wedding day, everything is permissible.
The procession exited Abu Nuwas Street and turned onto Saadoun Street. The groom, feeling encouraged, said to her, "I will fulfil all your dreams. Don't be surprised, my heart burns for you, almost worshipfully. I will pray to God fervently to achieve our goal." The bride felt reassured by his praise, which was filled with love and devotion. Waves of affection and tenderness rose within her.
She trusted him more and more, finding comfort in this man who had given her life and restored her identity. She believed his words, seeing them as honey from a sincere heart and a loyal, honorable husband. She drifted into the dreamy world of his rosy words, living in another realm, believing spring would soon bloom for her, unaware of the obstacles the future held.
The groom continued with his sweet words, sending them to the bride, who was lost in a sea of happiness and perpetual spring. The couple remained immersed in this bliss, the relatives and guests continued their shouting and singing, and the coachman relentlessly whipped the horse. The street was still crowded with people, but the procession moved on joyously.
Suddenly, the horse's leg twisted, and it collapsed. The bride's carriage quickly overturned, In the hospital, the bride had lost one of her eyes due to a severe blow to her head but the groom was unharmed. The groom looked at his bride intently, said nothing, turned his back, and left the hospital.The next day, he sent a note to his bride in the hospital: It's not proper for me to be married to a one-eyed woman, you are divorced.
The bride shook her head and said, “Thank God...he failed on the first try."
By Abdul Zahra Amara
Translated by Faleeha HassanAbdul Zahra Amara Novelist, Storyteller, and Scientific Researcher Birth: 1951, Amara, Maysan Governorate, Southern Iraq Education: Bachelor's degree in Electronic Engineering from the College of Engineering, University of Baghdad, 1976
Professional Roles: Editor-in-Chief of Sumerian Amarji Magazine Member of the Iraqi Engineers Syndicate with the rank of Consulting Engineer Published Works: Novels: Tomorrow I Will Leave! A Lover from Kanza Rabba Flu in Baghdad No Time for Tears Dogs in the Dark Blood in the Fish Lake The Servants Are on Vacation Baghdad Never Sleeps Fadia Waiting for the Moon The Blonde of Basra I Adore You Until the End of My Life Palace Rats A Forest of Thieves The Glow of Youth Cellist Stories: The Sun Shines in Women's Eyes Misses of Babylon A Cat on the Road When Do You Take Off the Turban? The Secretary and the Fall.
