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.

MY GREY DREAM

     I went looking for her, my lost baby. I did not know it would be the last time. I roamed the dry barren landscape at a dusk, no normal dusk, a dusk of broken spirits, a Dante dusk. The uneven ground was tan clay, dry and cracked from lack of sustaining rain. Any sparse vegetation that had once thrived was now brown and dead. Though I stumbled, I persisted in my search. Everything everywhere was dead. I found the building, her new home that an unreal visitor with no name had constructed from slabs of grey concrete, an economy of materials, like the vaults in which caskets are placed before being lowered into the last place they will ever be.

     The building was large, there were no curved walls, no arches. Every surface was rectilinear interrupted only by impressions from where the wood frames held the wet cement as it set into featureless, meaningless, permanent shape. I opened a grey door and stood in the vestibule with a high ceiling, also cast from cement, lit by a dim light from an unknown source. I waited and waited. I would stay there until I knew. 

     There were no colors, no photos, nor paintings on the walls, not even black and white, not even ones dulled, the images obscured from the misguided desire to protect them with non-glare glass, set within thin matte-black frames. There was nothing to break the oppressive, insistent weight of the surfaces. There was no furniture. Nothing. The staircase was entirely cast from concrete leading up to somewhere. There were no sounds at all except the tinnitus always present, even in my deaf ear. The air was still. I felt dread. I felt small. I felt insignificant. 

     Then she appeared on the stairs. “What are you doing here?”; not a question but more of an accusation. She was angry and annoyed by my presence. We had loved each other with the certain seamless love of a parent and a child. There was no trace of that now, though it was there. It would always be there because it was true and real. It was obscured and hidden by a darkness delivered by an interloper seeking only power and control over a fragile, gentle soul.

     I spoke words I did not know I could speak: “I’m here to remove all things inauthentic.”  

     There was no response. She turned in disgust and left. I looked at her back as she left, I feared forever. She continued down the dark hallway to a small, cold, grey-walled room, like a cell, with only a slit of a window that let in a dull green light from which the time of day could not be determined because the time of day was his to tell her. Time was not something she was allowed know by her own deduction. The room had been constructed specifically for her to confine her and limit any sensory input that he did not oversee and permit. It was the room prepared for her by someone or something intelligent and patient who carefully calculated her destruction and began to dismantle her piece by piece from their first encounter until she was only fragments of who she had been; bits he reassembled to construct her as he thought she should be utterly and completely under his control. He owned her thoughts; he owned her dreams, her intelligence, her creativity; her actions were within the parameters he had determined correct. He even owned her defeat, her final surrender and the permanent sadness behind her eyes. Everything that had been her was his. 

     In the grim room was a banquet table constructed from 2×4 seconds and embalmed in Vara-thane that she set with gilt-edged paper plates, plastic flatware spray-painted silver and paper napkins he had l ripped from the dispenser at McDonald’s and which she folded into delicate, yet distorted, swan-like shapes she hoped would delight her only guests; the guests who never questioned nor challenged the world in which he stored her. There, in the only space allowed her, she awaited the arrival of the days’ old crumbs from the rock-bread he had casually left uncovered because he had something else to do; crumbs he decided to toss to her when he needed to affirm his power over anything that sustained her. As per his expectation, she bowed in gratitude as she gathered the crumbs from the dull, unfinished floor. She laid them out as a banquet for the others now gathered in the room; others who had been fragmented and broken, annihilated by another dream person inflated with a impotent rage and driven to dominate and control to hide his insignificance from a terror and self-loathing beyond all reason.

     Taken from her were those who she loved and who loved her; who had supported her and nurtured her and had cuddled her and kissed away her hurts. Gone were those who ran to her aid because of their love and devotion to her. Gone were all who would protect her; all who made sure she was tucked in securely at night her soft, plush toy penguin, her pink velvet froggie, were snuggled around to assuage her fears of another darkness from another interloper. All those who loved her, she abandoned, discarded and vilified at his behest to prove her loyalty to him.

     Now everyone she had chosen to dine with shared in the illusion of a luscious banquet. All were thrilled by the meager crumbs on their plates as though they had been served a luxurious meal of foie gras and truffles, sturgeon caviar with toast points prepared by a skilled French chef. She did not yet know that even those she had found for company among the broken his fear would mandate he bring under his control, too. They would be culled as it suited him until she was totally alone hallucinating imaginary friends to comfort her, reassure her, console her as her loved ones did long ago when she was frightened, but when she was not alone. The crumbs would diminish into only an illusion of sustenance until she ceased to exist and he heard her deliver her last words: “My master, I love you” and his face slackened with the pleasure of complete conquest.

     I was standing in the vestibule but I was no longer waiting. She was gone. Not a single slim thread was left connecting us. All deep bonds that had been between us he had broken. I was dead to her. I lifted a small brown bag that had not been there before. It contained imposter things disguised as the ordinary brought into our family long ago by another darkness. Things I once thought real and denied their inherent dissonance: a 1952 class photo of a smiling blonde boy with crystal blue eyes; a book of Haiku; red enameled cast iron pans. All seemed innocent but the deceptions were revealed upon closer inspection. Peering into the bag: an occasional guttural growl from the blonde boy; the pans: a bloody hammer; Haiku: a book of obscene limericks.  

     I left by the same door through which I had entered. At the top step of the crumbling concrete outdoor stairs, I saw the dead dried grass that had once grown through the cracks but no life remained in the leaves that fluttered from a light breeze that did not refresh. I had forgotten my cane and feared I would fall as I descended the stairs carrying the bag that held the unwanted truths in one hand, the inauthentic old ones I had to carry away and destroy at long last. I did not fall. I found my car. To my surprise her Dad, the dark interloper from a distant time, was sitting in the passenger seat but his visage was translucent and vague; he was disappearing. We didn’t speak. I handed him the bag; it belonged to him. I drove away for the last time. A sadness overtook me and I knew it would be there in my heart, in the place with the defect from my birth, the place on the ventricle that generates the weak beat, even today and until the end.  

2022

The Heartbeat of a Poem

In the quiet of a silent room,
Where thoughts like whispers softly bloom,
A poet’s heart begins to weave,
A tapestry of dreams, believe.

Each word a thread, each line a beam,
Woven into a vivid dream.
Emotions dance, raw and true,
In the gentle flow of ink and hue.

A poem speaks what hearts conceal,
It captures all we deeply feel.
In metaphors and similes,
It sings of life’s sweet symphonies.

The rhythm is the heartbeat strong,
That carries us through joy and wrong.
With every rhyme and cadence fine,
We find our souls in every line.

It paints with words, a world anew,
Where skies are not just simply blue.
In stanzas rich, with depth and grace,
We glimpse the beauty of a face.

A poem is a silent song
That lingers in our minds for so long.
It’s in the laughter and the tears,
A timeless echo through the years.

So let us cherish every verse,
For in its lines, our lives immerse.
In every poem, pure and bright,
We find our truth, our guiding light.

Madinaxon Meliqoʻziyeva was born in 1995 in Buvayda district of Ferghana region. She has a great passion for poetry and creativity, with many dreams and aspirations. In her free time, she writes poetry, short stories, and articles.

Vernon Frazer’s most recent poetry collection is MANTIC PANDEMIC,  a C22 publication.

C22 will publish Frazer’s Voyage in Port in July 2024. 

“In everyone’s life, at some point our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful to those who rekindle our spirit.” --Albert Schweitzer

The Brink of Summer’s End: Travel Log Celebrating the Authentic Spirit of the Seasons 
By Jacques Fleury

[Originally published in Spare Change News and Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting You Authentic Self]

The noonday sun has mellowed. The laughter of children echoing in the playgrounds has dwindled. Soon, the chilly breath of winter will be upon us, fogging up car windows in the early morning and late at night. Yep, summer is practically over and for some of us, this glacial news is mighty sour. 

Now is a time to reflect on the last few months. Did you keep all the promises you made to yourself back to the beginning of summer? Did you take that vacation you’ve always wanted to take, talk to that cutie you’ve always wanted to talk to, read that book you’ve
always wanted to read, see that movie you’ve always wanted to see? 

Or did the summer days pass by you as fast as a NASCAR race car, drowning you in a smog of dust, confusion and missed opportunities? Well, you’re not alone. I did not get to do all that I wanted to do either, but I sure did as much as I could do and I don’t think it’s necessary for me to be hard on myself for the things I didn’t get to do and neither should you.

Then in late August, I decided to go on a road trip with some friends. We decided to tour some of the states of New England so that we can get to know other northern neighbors, each other and ourselves along the way. 

Driving down the countryside almost always leaves me mesmerized. The quiet dignity of the trees; the wide majesty of the mountains; the boldness and beauty of the sunset and the docile and gleaming offering of the moon. As we drive along the highways and back roads of New England, assimilating Chinese fire drills and switching seats
with one another, we talked about things that we normally wouldn’t talk about in any other circumstances. We spoke of our hopes and aspirations, joys and pains, unrequited loves, past loves, present loves and pondered about future loves that we hope would save us all during our lifetime. Sometimes, we didn’t even speak at all. We just drove and rode in silence or listened to the radio and the music of our hearts.

We drove up to Jeffrey New Hampshire so that we can climb Mount Monadnock, purported to be the second most climbed mountain in the world, second only to Mount Fuji in Japan. Climbing the mountain was both challenging and invigorating. I saw all types of people climb, young and old. But I don’t think I saw even one other Black person climb. I suppose hiking is not “a black thing”, but I was there to challenge this stereotype. I did get some malevolent (what
are YOU doing here?) looks from some of the hikers as well as some benevolent (welcome!) smiles. I decided to concentrate on the smiles.

I was able to find some time to be alone in the woods, to hear the sound of the heart of nature and so that I can feel closer to the creator. Having some quiet time to think about my life to me is
a great luxury. I was able to think about what I’m doing right and what I’m doing wrong.

Behaviors that I need to re-evaluate and behaviors that I need to celebrate. I thought about all the people in my life who contribute to who I am and I could not help but smile. I realized then that I
have a selective group of people around me who contribute greatly to who I am and who I’m becoming. I gladly let go of toxic relationships that threaten my progress and embrace new friendships that can only strengthen me. During my vacation, I also rediscovered the power of
God in my life, which forced me to re-evaluate my spiritual path.

Getting away even for a short time from my day-to-day life taught me something. It taught me that I could find happiness outside of all the “stuff” I have back in my apartment or all the accolades I often get from my community for being a writer, performer and Television
personality. Being away from all of that, generated in me a sudden epiphany. I realized that other than my God, I’m all that I need. I am self-sufficient. I don’t really “need” someone else to make me happy. 

I don’t “need” someone else to give me what I can give to myself: respect, love and attention. I realized that all one need in life is to be comfortable, healthy and happy. How can I expect someone else to give me what I can’t or won’t give to myself? I don’t believe in the
notorious saying “I’m looking for my other half” because I think that one should be a “whole” person first and naturally, if I know anything about karma, another “whole” person will find you.

We often get stuck in our lives when we practice the same behavior but expect a different outcome. Well you may be aware of the omnipresent saying: “Insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results.” Well, I have two things to say about that! First is “be the change that you want to see” and secondly “when you change the way you look at things, the things you look at begin to change.” 

In other words, if your wish is to see the world as a friendly place then you have to try being friendly yourself. Yes, it is that simple. Because if you choose to see the world as a friendly place then you begin to look for evidence of that. However, if you choose to
see the world as a hostile place, then you began to look for evidence of that. It’s all about the way we think about things. 

My point is this: as the Autumn leaves change colors, you too should try changing your thought patterns by being the change that you want to see, by changing the way you look at things and I promise you the universe will change with you. Remember, keep your hearts open, have good intentions and everything will most likely fall into its rightful place.

Jacques Fleury is a Haitian-American poet, author, educator and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His book “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at public libraries, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…

Palestine Wail by Yahia Lababidi

Yahia Lababidi’s new collection of poetry Palestine Wail offers a profound and poignant exploration of human emotions, social injustices, and the resilience of the human spirit. Lababidi weaves together themes of hope, suffering, and solidarity with a keen sensitivity that resonates deeply.

This is only a sample of poems to be found in this rich collection:

In the poem “Hope,” the poet redefines hope as fragile and elusive, rather than steadfast and unwavering. The imagery of hope being “slimmer than you’d think” and “out of breath” underscores its delicate nature. This nuanced portrayal invites readers to appreciate the quiet, enduring strength of hope, despite its vulnerabilities, while “Alternative Scenario” presents a powerful, hypothetical narrative of compassion and unity in the face of conflict. The poet imagines Palestinians and Israelis coming together in mutual support and empathy, leading to an eventual end to hostilities. This poem is a poignant reminder of the potential for humanity and peace, even in the most dire circumstances.

“Starving” is a stark and sobering commentary on the use of starvation as a form of punishment. The poem draws a parallel between the disciplining of children and the severe deprivation faced by Palestinians. The rhetorical question, “When did we learn / starvation is acceptable,” challenges readers to confront the inhumanity of such acts.

In “You, Again,” Lababidi delves into the introspective journey of a solitary soul. The language is rich with metaphysical musings and the struggle to find meaning and sustenance. The imagery of a “nocturnal flower” and the “whirring of the reel” evoke a sense of timelessness and introspection, creating a deeply reflective piece.

“Ode to the Children” is a heart-wrenching tribute to the children of Palestine. The poet elevates their suffering to a sacred level, drawing connections between ancient rituals of sacrifice and the contemporary plight of these children. The poem is a powerful reminder of the sanctity of life and the enduring strength found in the face of unimaginable hardship.

“Love That Makes Devils Weep” meditates on the transformative power of unconditional love and forgiveness. The poet envisions a scenario where one side in a conflict resolves to be entirely blameless, ultimately leading to the end of animosity. The notion that such purity could “make devils weep” speaks to the profound impact of love and moral integrity.

“Walls” critiques the artificial barriers that divide humanity, both physically and emotionally. Lababidi asserts that walls cannot contain the human spirit or prevent love and hate from transcending boundaries. The poem is a call for unity and understanding, emphasizing the limitless capacity of the human heart.

Palestine Wail is a masterful blend of lyrical beauty and profound social commentary. Each poem stands as a testament to Yahia Lababidi’s ability to capture complex emotions and situations with clarity and compassion. This collection is not only a literary achievement but also a call to action, urging readers to reflect on their own roles in the broader human narrative.

Richard Modiano is a poet, artist, and influential figure in the literary community. He served as the Executive Director of Beyond Baroque Literary/Arts Center in Venice, CA from 2010 to 2019. The Huffington Post named him one of the 200 people doing the most to promote poetry in the United States. His collection of poetry and prose, The Forbidden Lunch Box, was published by Punk Hostage Press in 2022.

Yahia Lababidi’s Palestine Wail is available here.