Kissing Patty McCalla						

Patty, Patty, Patty. When I was seven, all I could think of was Patty. Kissing Patty McCalla. Patty was the tiniest girl in our class, an itty-bitty version of Mary Tyler Moore. Dark hair, impish eyes, the best giggle. For picture day she wore a bright red jumper with chartreuse green leotards and white glossy vinyl Mary Janes. She was the first in our class to wear glasses, but I liked her anyway, maybe more so because of them. 

I chased her around the playground at Elmwood Elementary, around the slide, monkey bars, and teeter totters. In the winter, when the slide iced up, the boys crouched at the top and let our hard slick shoes and gravity carry us precipitously down the metal and across the blacktop. Fledgling ski jump Olympians. (Not the girls as at that time all the girls wore dresses every day.) Some kid was always getting hurt. As skinned knees were a daily occurrence, the teachers kept antiseptic and Band-Aids at the ready. 

We played jets and parachutes on the swings, and once I fell out the back of a swing and passed out from whacking my head. My ejection seat failed to deploy. I wondered if Patty was watching. Mom was called and I ended up spending a night at Mercy Hospital with a concussion beside a boy a little older who had a heart murmur. I threw up twice in one day: once outside the car on the way to the hospital when we took my sister to Grandma Dearman’s. Mom wasn’t keen on leaving my sister there as Grandpa Dearman was a “mean old bastard.” (He was!) And later, because I threw up cherry Jell-O in my bed, it looked like I was bleeding to death. It gave the nurse a fright. I was amazed at how the nurse could change the whole bed while I was still in it. I was even more surprised when the nurse didn’t seem to mind at all unlike my mother under the same circumstances when I had the flu.

Every recess, Patty was there and those fifteen minutes twice a day were bliss. Though I was equally in love with my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Hennell, and wanted to please her by making paintings and practicing the cursive letters lining the borders of the chalkboards, my mind wandered to Patty two rows over and three seats down. I tried many strategies to sit near her in the reading circle. But at recess, there was Patty, right there beside me. I wasn’t interested in shooting marbles in the dirt or playing kickball with the other boys. 

The competition was too fierce. And dangerous. Running towards home, Tom Auger, a boy on my bus route, slid under the chain-linked fence, broke his leg, and spent the next six weeks in a body cast. Though he got behind in school, Tom would later be a high school football star. I was happiest playing with the girls and the other less athletic boys. Girls were more interesting more mysterious, than boys. Why play kickball when there was Patty? 

In return for my affection Patty kicked my chins. I came home once too often with black and blue and variations of purple and green legs. But I endured the pain because it was Patty, and she was my girlfriend – as far as I knew. Even though I begged her not to, Mom called Patty’s mom and they laughed together over the kitchen phone about our courtship. The shin-kicking eased up, but I rather missed the bruises. Mom said Patty probably liked me well enough but was just fickle. All I could think was fickle rhymed with and reminded me of pickles. I liked pickles, especially the little sweet gherkins. As usual, Mom did not define the new word or offer up a dictionary. 

There were other words like belligerent, incorrigible and insolent that stumped me, though no other grownup I loved used those words describing me. I had a notion of what the word unruly meant. Nine years later when I was driving and Dad was out of the house, on the last day of living with her, Mom threatened to declare me an unruly juvenile according to the Ohio Revised Code, Section 2151.002 – when she was “on strike” and wouldn’t cook, do laundry, or look after my little sister for weeks – wouldn’t allow me do the laundry – when I tried to get out the door with the laundry baskets and detergent – when I shoved her.  (Years later we learned that during Mom’s strike a budding molester down the street attempted to lure my little sister inside his house with candy.)

In the summer I missed Patty terribly. We exchanged letters even though we lived only three miles away. These were brief and repetitive as there wasn’t much to talk about in the dog days of summer and our large loopy handwriting didn’t allow for much elaboration. I wanted her to visit so that I might kiss her under the wild cherry tree in the meadow. I implored Mom and Dad to let me ride my bike down Martinsburg Road, a busy highway, to see her. 

After all, I rode to Gambier to get a haircut once, over that rickety bridge spanning the Kokosing River. It was a very bad haircut – crooked bangs, but I also stopped at the candy store on Wiggins Street and loaded up with Bazooka Bubble Gum and Three Musketeers. But then, maybe that trek occurred when I was ten or eleven. Kenyon College was there in Gambier and my grandmother was a cook at the dining hall for many years serving the long-hair kids from the East Coast. Grandma and Grandpa had a little dairy farm just outside the village where I spent much of my summers. 

My bike was an embarrassment as Dad bought it for me new just before the Sears Spyder and the Schwinn Sting-Ray models with the banana seats and the chopper handlebars came out. Mine was a gearless stylistic remnant of the 1950s – fire engine red with coaster brakes, too much chrome, and whitewall tires for god’s sake. None of the other boys in the neighborhood ever commented on my bike as they were generally polite kids, offspring of professors who taught at the very protestant and very evangelical Nazarene College just down the hill. John Taylor, who played a viola in the orchestra and would become a weather forecaster, had a gold Spyder Mark IV with caliper brakes, a leopard print seat, and a gear-shifter like Steve McQueen’s sportscar. 

I felt somehow that I was just a little less cool and was required to work harder at popularity as I was also Catholic and went to catechism on Sundays rather than Bible school. Their evangelical parents were suspicious of Catholics. No, in actuality, prejudiced. Maybe it was because I knew fewer rules and players’ stats in football – though I liked the Jets and Packers for some reason. Maybe it was because I was the only boy in the neighborhood who knew how to swear properly.

I lost track of Patty after fourth grade as, of course, there were other girlfriends: Brenda, Sherry, Robin, Melanie, Penny, Linda, Barbie. But Patty McCalla was my first obsession, and I was indebted to her for that emotional opportunity, the instantaneity of love, the purity of adoration before the animal desire of adolescence took hold. I am not sure I actually kissed Patty when we were seven – even on the cheek, let alone on the lips. I doubt we fully comprehended the procedure even though there was plenty of kissing on television in the old black and white movies at 4:00 on Big Ten Theater and even on Bewitched and The Brady Bunch. I am fairly certain we held hands a bit until it was no longer practical to do so. After high school, I heard she married Tom’s cousin, Dave Auger, and like everyone else suffered the tragedy of adult life. They had a little girl who ran out onto Sycamore Road.


David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.

Passion

I'm burning in the bonfire of desire 
I feel your warm lips that are approaching shyly 
To mine... 
You're not trying to devour me. 
And with peace of mind your hands 
they run through my body 
just make sure 
bear 
and dress myself 
With your body 
Without intention 
abandon me 

Mirta Liliana Ramírez has been a poet and writer since she was 12 years old. She has been a Cultural Manager for more than 35 years. Creator and Director of the Groups of Writers and Artists: Together for the Letters, Artescritores, MultiArt, JPL world youth, Together for the letters Uzbekistan 1 and 2. She firmly defends that culture is the key to unite all the countries of the world. She works only with his own, free and integrating projects at a world cultural level. She has created the Cultural Movement with Rastrillaje Cultural and Forming the New Cultural Belts at the local level and also from Argentina to the world.

This article is about a true friend of the Uzbek people, translator and poet Alexander Feinberg. His life experiences, works and translations are given in a concise manner to witness the true purpose of the poet’s poems and his charm.

Alexander Arkadevich Feinberg was born on November 2, 1939 in Tashkent.

He was born after moving from Novosibirsk. After that for the rest of his life he lived and created works in Tashkent. For several years, he led the workshop of young writers in Tashkent.

He was also considered a member of the Writers’ Union of Uzbekistan.

He was an extremely prolific creator. He has written 15 poetry books. Based on “Writers Scripts” feature films and more than twenty animated films are shot based on his work.

He translated epics and ghazals, poems of modern Uzbek poets such as Abdulla Oripov, Erkin Vohidov, Omon Matjon into Russian, and through this he allowed the people to enjoy the rare gems of our literature and served the development of friendship and cultural relations between peoples.

Therefore, all literature in our country, regardless of the language and nationality of the writer, deserves respectfully mention. The great Uzbek literature of the 20th century representative, Hero of Uzbekistan, famous poet Abdulla Oripov about him:

“As for the work of Alexander Feinberg, all the high words are one hundredth of the truth does not reflect part of it, because he was, in fact, a unique poet and translator. In Russian none of the writers who speak so much to our sunny country can sing a sincere song”

We can know from the writer’s attention that Alexander Feinberg has a unique place in the world of creativity and has deeply penetrated the hearts of the Uzbek people is a human being. The artistic world of the poet’s work is characterized by a harmonious combination of past and present, West and East, nationality and mutuality.

After continuously enriching his literary knowledge and vocabulary, he began to translate the works of Uzbek poets and achieved great success in the field of artistic translation. In this creative process, according to Zhukovsky, the works of the poets are being translated.

He strove to be a worthy “rival” rather than a “slave,” as he said in the poem “Rebellion of Souls” by the national poet of Uzbekistan Erkin Vahidov, in Tashkent.

Translations of works of Uzbek poets named “Oqqushlar galasi “were published. The collection is the double peak of Feinberg’s translation activity.

The poet’s poems have penetrated so deeply into the hearts of the Uzbek people that the mystery and attractiveness of the image, the brightness and clarity of feelings accompany the reader and make his thoughts wander for a long time. It takes you far away and fills you with deep thoughts.

To sum up, Alexander Feinberg has a strong affection for Uzbekistan. His love is incomparable, as is his loyalty, in introducing our literature to the world. Thanks to the great services he provided to our people, he became a great poet. His works nourish our spirituality, calm our souls, and bring peace to our hearts. So, do not honor such a person, his works do it for him. It is impossible not to read his work with love.

Shakhina Shukhratova is a student of Uzbekistan State World Languages University in Tashkent.

NIGHT AND DAY

The moon and I
spend our nights
on fish and tequila.

Then dawn comes on
with welcome
oranges in her basket.

At times like this
we cherish
the gifts of our healers

and yet recall
how eager
once for a casket. 


WHAT WANTON 

Which village chemist took us from his shelf
and mixed us with his pestle,
     put us in pots,
and sold us to customers with their milk?
(they took us with cereal
     and died in knots)

And which astrologer played with ourselves
his odd game of celestial
     connect-the-dots?
(he made the moon turn the tides into whales
against glittery crystal
     chandelier yachts)


DOWSER

Once I was proudly regarded
as the foremost geographer of You:
I surveyed the careful topography
as I mapped your features anew,
measured each promontory encountered,
and charted every defile.

Many times had I plumbed for your treasures
and glad had continued my earthy research.
And I knew I could move
my stretched willow out
to discover the sweet waters below.

But now that I live in exile from You,
now that your landscape has gone,
I find it was not your true geomancy I'd learned.
For though I'm sure that it was your well I discerned,
I never divined the source.



FIX

Not by any charms or karma.
We all are ruled by lips and arms.
The best arms are keep under sleeve,
phantom limbs we almost believe.
Lips must be always in action:
proclamations propaganda
posters slogans podcasts broadsides
downloads headlines broadcasts soundbites
to entertain alarm arouse
justify distract and excuse.
Terrorists! Fascists! Immigrants
Steal Our Land Our Jobs Our Women!
Innies! Outies! Leftists1 Righties!
Liberals! Mobs! Neo Nazis!
Prosperity Or Poverty!
Our Freedom Or Our Slavery!
Criminals! Our Open Borders!
Infidels! Monarchists! Trade War!
Stolen Elections! Deviants!
Antisemites! Spies! Jacobins!
Family Values! Lies! Misfits!
Epidemics! Nuclear Threats!
Divine Order! Thieves! Bolsheviks!
And thus we’re judased by a fix.



BADGES

Wedged within your fresh crotch --
this now is all I own.

The pasts are buried bones, arrowheads, broken pots that belonged to other lovers, to lost cultures.
Wastelands conceal the nests
of their long-gone futures.

Keen time dines on butchers’ scraps as well as sweet breasts.
Their pasts are buried bones.
This now is all I own.

Calms punctuate the storms
that chart activity.
We were not and won’t be.

Lover – to this culture we belong, not others.
Hedges and not bridges
demarcate these towers.
It’s not in our power to swap campaign badges that chart activities.
We were not.
We won’t be.

For young people living in the world of adults, “love” is a means of defiance and resistance. Explore with respect to the literary text and any cinematic adaptation of Romeo and Juliet prescribed in your course. 


The frantic pace of the movie reveals the outburst vehemence and impulsive hot-headed nature of the dwelling aboriginal of Verona as latterly foreshadowed by the rage, grief and passion of the feuding rivalries between the adversaries-Capulets and Montagues----true to the authenticity of Shakespearean spirit. 1960s film version was focused on tragic love; the 1990s is about violent love. 

Shakespearean dramatis persona were the milieu of the starcrossed lovers and their inner moral dilemmas of those minds whose temperaments resonate reckless and hasty nature as the dysfunctional world of the Montagues and Capulets whose blood and honour were inseperable. Modern day mise-en-scene of the adaptation is a brilliant spectacle that marvels the accomplishing achievements through bestowal of laurel wreathed bouquets and accolades. For instance, Mercutio’s raving in the Capulet’s ball makes unimpeachable exemplary phenomenon with the bottling of acid beforehand. Romeo’s decision to end his life with poisonous drugs parallels the lifestyle of violence and addiction. The mafia clans fanaticism of religious sentiments as projected by their Catholic vein running through the plot juxtaposes coldblooded aggression as ironically spotlighted by the stereotypical families. 

The close shot camera focusing the Shakespearean hero and heroine cloistered by the walls of Verona and confinement by window frame of patriarchal abode respectively. Upon revealing close up shot Zeffirelli’s camera angle moves to showcase Romeo attired in a deep, lilac; a Montague bereft of Capulet vulgarity and ostentation; nonetheless, pill box hat, eyeliner, flawless complexion and the flower exemplifies effeminacy. “A glooming peace this morning with it brings. The sun for sorrow will not show for his head”-----unshaved, unkempt Romeo beside swollen lips and fluffy faced Juliet in the tomb scene is the visual artifice in commitment to the ironical perspectives of the drama. Zeffirelli’s textual interpretation literally elucidates Shakespeare’s highly stylized and emotionally expressive naturalism that bestows weight to the narrative moments like Juliet’s departure epitomizing overexcitedness and emotional disorientation by the state of the physical dizziness. Here, as throughout, Zeffirelli creates a situation where visibility becomes feeling and feeling becomes awareness. 

Religion of love imagery foreshadowed by the sonnet dialogue is absolutely superbly visualized filmic adaptation to cherish beneath the connotations of pilgrimage and saintliness: institutionalized and ritualized love-making courtship. The starcrossed lovers romantic love-making sonnet in the background depicted by the imageries of saints, pilgrims and statues brings the abstractest essence of martyrdom, canonization and immortality---the fabulous trappings embodying their history---their personalities and their naivetes, and their uncertainty of each other and the awareness of the social context in which they find themselves in the ignorance of perils. Choruses last six lines musical effect is absolutely inappropriate and unnecessary addition to the cinematic conventions of diegesis hovering between snapshots and painting, documentary and fiction; reconciling the present tense with the past tense of the film, ethical space with that of the cinema and history with story as profoundly replicated in Mercutio’s remark to Romeo is appropriately credible to Zeffirelli’s diegetic: “Now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature.” 

Further Reading

Sarah L. Lorenz’s “Romeo and Juliet”: The Movie, The English Journal, March 1998, Volume 7, No 3, Teaching the Classics: Old Wine, New Bottles, March 1998, pp. 50-51, National Council of Teachers of English 

Michael Pursell’s Artifice and Authenticity in Zeffirelli’s: “Romeo and Juliet”, Literature and Film Quarterly, 1986, Volume 14, No 4, pp. 173-178, Salisbury University

Eid-Ul Azha (2)

The heart is on the goats, cows, camels, or any other animals-
That permits on the day for us
Feeling a touch of love
Sacrifice our best like the friends
So nice of getting active by doing so many things
By embracing, meeting and distributing 
The meat to the relatives and neighbors
And enjoying the taste and beauty of sacrifice
Spread the light of brotherhood among us
On the other side the greatest assemble of the Muslims at Ka’ba in Mecca  
Pray to Allah for the salvation of the soul
And may He be merciful to the humankind
We are passing our days so acute regarding natural imbalance
And facing the challenge of unknown diseases
Oh Allah! Please, pardon us 
Make the world suitable for us to live in peace
We are going to sacrifice our best
Please remove us from our all misdeeds and sins
And receive our sacrifices we do on the day.

Chapainawabganj,  Bangladesh,
13 June, 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 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.