*** “Hello,” – the butterfly whispers quietly with the flapping of its wings, The caterpillar moves its antenna in amazement. “I was you,” – says the butterfly, – “ And I know what you are waiting for. Your dream will come true very soon, And you will fly into the sky, beautiful and pure." That evening the caterpillar died, but the butterfly was never born. *** The voracious phone is roaring loudly Crocodiles of papers held together with a paper clip Boss instructs to drink ink blots letters Chitin grows on the back and computers glitch like rabbits A piece of sandwich has dried up on my table The head of the laboratory does not know that the work was paid for in blood Another day when I have to report Another day when I apply for a grant Another day when I quarrel with environmental activists over laboratory rabbits Another day I can't find a cure for cancer cells *** the wind speaks because someone knows how to listen autumn gives birth to sensitivity *** wife licks the spring wind puddles of clouds cut in half first part for death second part for waiting for death and the mirror is cracked and the cracks are mirrorfull the future is spreading over the sunday pan the sun ripens like an apple snakes twist like vines the past burns out in the corner of the trash bin cigarettes are the thing of the present time flows off cheek like spit birdsong awakens forgotten memories lips trying to kiss silence wife stealthily licks the spring wind *** The noise that doesn't exist Nobody came this time As always We have no choice but to let our shadows out into the street so that they knock on our door Knocking on the door - sounds full of desperation It is clear that there is no one there at the door Obviously no one will come *** black ridges of autumn grow in the pupils of a bird shot with a gun *** The bread of black heads is getting stale Someone is knocking on the door The aluminum bird breaks all the hinges Worms devour the remains of flesh *** Let's pretend there's a blue sky overhead Let's pretend that we live on a blue planet Let's pretend that blue blood flows in the pipes Let's watch the blue cats in the blue cemetery Let's paint the blue people in the colors of the blue rainbow Let's turn into blue butterflies on blue bushes No words can convey the heavy blue sweat on the cheeks of the deceased *** no one is born without a body everyone is born without sin weapons scream at the future dead people don't fuck with strapons but kill each other with guns man is a red triangle the throat of the torn night itches with a ballistic rocket *** night knocks on the back of the head and breaks the skull with a cast-iron finger no one rises again only the cemetery cries at the sight of flowers flowers in turn dream of living without graves and mourning ribbons and God's assistant presses the wrong button again *** no one will crucify Jesus once again because he will die on the threshold of a silent tree on the very first morning of burning poverty *** kitten in the red night sleeps motionless abdominal dreams do not bother the one who is not to be born feline cat jesus went on vacation in order to have a story dead cat jesus went on vacation to hang himself *** the sky screams at the ant because the ant is insanely small and prays to the grass grass is home grass is glass glass is a scar that will never heal *** Dad came from the street and said that the air is red Is it because the tulips are blooming? I asked my dad as I stumbled over my school bag. That's why, dad replied. I came to visit my dad with a bunch of flowers I said to the grave photo: the air is green now Is it because the tulips are blooming? - asked the father from the grave For some reason I kept silent A bird screamed on a lilac branch It was still dark around Morning still hasn't been invented Reprint: The Wise owl *** The loneliness of antiquity befell the cemetery Butterflies played a symphony of heritage with their wings: They were once in a cocoon They once cocooned themselves They were once their own parents Flowers tickle themselves with playful wings How much is the life of a butterfly if thanks to a butterfly spring comes and the cemetery lives again? Reprint: The Wise owl *** The sky is strangled without a noose The word death is almost the same as the word deal Who knows how to control death? How competently does someone use their talent? Body that belongs to Nobody In the middle of the road, the body that was allowed to go to waste Where does the unpronounceable road lead? The gold of the red walls scratches the throat Where does the path lead us along the night? Black mother-of-pearl coffins underground The wooden vision of a dead man blooms like a rose Nobody knows what the word dead means And overhead the black sky And overhead the dawn of darkness Reprint: The Wise owl *** The child is looking for bruises The child is looking for knees The child is looking for legs The child is looking for a torso The child is looking for himself A broken ladder rushes upwards Reprint: Тriggerfish critical review *** The weather forecast deceived Tears instead of rain Nobody is resurrected Dahlias have blossomed In every petal a breath of air In every breath of air God was called by his patronymic Couldn’t imagine it as a feminine They believed in God according to the national Calling a patch of unfortunate land a state a country Ripe apples in the garden And tomato juice floated through the veins In the spring, lips kiss Because they can’t stand their ugliness The weather forecast deceived In the spring, bones come down on the grass And nothing happens Reprint: Тriggerfish critical review *** belly torn in half by the birth of love I'm leaving you kissing your leaving shadow distance is the castle in which I placed myself my love is your gift to me you kiss in the dark with others and then fuck and I'm happy for you you will forever remain unimaginably beautiful on the other side of the castle I build distances so as not to harm you with my love we say goodbye to each other like trains that never dare to approach each other you will love and be able to make anyone happy you can give anything but not to me Reprint: Ouch! *** Three fingers crushed us with emptiness A knot has wrapped the air around my neck The alarm siren and explosion fatigue are drawn to the eyes We fuck like corpses that will never be separated from each other again Reprint: Ouch!
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Dr. Maheshwar Das
ENDLESS LOVE You are altogether a wonderful damsel Like a shed of flowers over me So much soothing and ecstatic Like a rain of moonshine splendour. So much full of lovely-look like butterflies. Ever charming like the songs of a cuckoo Endless love and timeless beauty have embraced you. Your sweet embrace is life-giving And voice is like a boisterous brook. That flows dancing and jumping on solid rock. Life has become a miraculous beauty for you. Your endless love has surround me from all sides. It has glorified my mind And filled me with unforgettable memories. RESURRECTION The pangs and pain still vibrating the air. The hilltop was tinged and soaked with blood. The sun hid away in shame, not to face, the cruel act. Thus the darkness descends swiftly Although, it was mid-day, in fact The barbarians never left him to nail down In his foot, palm, heart and waste. There was tremendous roaring of the wind The wind could not bear the torturous work. There was a cry all over nature. The butchers finished their works Took away the clothes even, leaving him almost half-naked. Jesus prayed to the Almighty to bless the sinners After hours Jesus again came back with golden colours Blessed the miscreants who were no more. He blessed all, the depressed and deprived souls Nature changed again. There were scents of flowers and greenery all around Nature was filled with fragrances sweet and soft Zephyr began to blow Few of the blessed saints could see the resurrection of Jesus Jesus blessed the whole of mankind. And left for the heavenly abode. SPRING Oh, Spring With an intermittent symphony As the sweet spell of cuckoo comes From the dense trees I remember you. At dawn, when the soft sunshine touches the earth with beauty so bare I remember you. When birds-flock fly in the sky with so much glee Leaving the foot print of their chorus in the wide sky I remember you. Often seeing the bees and butterflies in the lush green bush at my barn, I know, you have arrived with all your splendour and beauty. I remember you. When I see the vernal beauty With so many flower- bunch hanging in the creepers and trees And there is festival of flowers and hues. I remember you My heart thrills with joy in your presence, I remember the Almighty for this beautiful arrangement for his creation. Thy Songs Divine Something thrilled the whole being The sky and earth resonated With the sound of your flute moving from sphere to sphere. Thousand years have passed Yet, the voice of your flute is still creating sensation beyond reason. Enlivening the hearts of zillions, with celestial joy and splendor. Still, your memory is so vibrant everywhere in space Even, the story of your love and the teaching of Gita on the battlefield Propitiates the dry heart like charging again with beauty and ecstasy. In the lane and bylanes of cities and villages The subtle vibration persists in the minds of the people The story of celestial love is alive like a radiant ray. Thy legacy, thy teaching, thy love Is a symbol and shining elixir of life. Thy vibration of the teaching of the Gita is still an aspiring flame in the heart of all the Yogis, seers and seekers The flame of the message of the Gita is the shining sermon of the world. Everywhere thy voice is heard as sweet melody of life, enlivening the whole world. Thy sublime message is the elixir of life zillions in the world In the desolate sands of Yamuna On the wide roads of Mathura And under shady fragrant groves of Brindavan In all the dusts of Gopa Pura Everywhere is heard; thy voice, thy flute. Oh Lord, your flute is the symphony everywhere. As a symbol and sign The whole vast space is filled with verses of your love And your love for the whole creation Thousands of years have passed Yet, zillions are moved by the love and songs of the divine The enchanting chanting of the sermons of human life. Dr. Maheswar Das ------------------------------- He is a bilingual poet, translator, editor, and story writer. He writes in English and in the Odia language. He has been pursuing his creative writing for the last twenty years and has authored more than one thousand English poems. All of his poetical exposition centers around Nature, God, love, and relationships. Some of his poems have been translated into international languages. He has co-authored three English anthologies of poems with his two friends. Besides he is the co-author of more than fifty English anthologies of poems of many literary groups. He holds the degree of M.A. in both Economics and History. He has accomplished a Ph.D. degree in sociology from Utkal University. He also holds a law degree from M.S. Law College, Cuttack. He hails from Mallipur in the district of Cuttack, Odisha, India. His English poems have been published in several national and international journals and Anthologies and have gained worldwide appreciation. He has received so many accolades from various national and international literary groups. He is a recipient of the Gold Medal award from the World Union of Poets, Rome.
Poetry from Nosirova Gavhar
Sprout As I looked at the corner of our yard, I visited the distant paths of my memory. When I was still in middle school, my grandfather brought me a bunch of sprouts and books. He looked at me while he was planting the seedlings and handed me the books he brought and said: - I’ll play with you. Surprised, I said: -I don’t know how to plant seedlings, of course you will win. My grandfather laughed and said: - I will plant the sapling, and you will read these books. If you finish reading the books before this sapling grows and blooms, you will win me. - Who needs this game? I don’t read books. I ride Salih’s bike. - Don’t ride your neighbor’s bike. If you beat me in the game, I will give you a new bike. I was so happy that I didn’t even know that I agreed to the game. My grandfather, who had not come from the yard, tended to the seedlings in the morning and in the evening, and watered them lovingly. I read a book without looking up. Months passed, months gave way to years. Today, while proudly holding my bachelor’s degree, I looked at the fragrant roses in the corner of the yard and the dusty bicycle that had not been ridden. If I count, it has been seven years since my grandfather left us… Nosirova Gavhar was born on August 16, 2000 in the city of Shahrisabz, Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. Today, she is a third-year student of the Faculty of Philology of the Samarkand State University of Uzbekistan. Being a lover of literature, she is engaged in writing stories and poems. Her creative works have been published in Uzbek and English. In addition, she is a member of «All India Council for Development of Technical Skills», «Juntos por las letras» of Argentina, «2DSA Global Community». Winner of the «Korabl znaniy» and «Talenty Rossii» contests, holder of the international C1 level in the Russian language, Global Education ambassador of Wisdom University and global coordinator of the Iqra Foundation in Uzbekistan. «Magic pen holders» talented young group of Uzbekistan, «Kayva Kishor», «Friendship of people», «Raven Cage», «The Daily Global Nation», Argentina's «Multi Art-6», Kenya’s «Serenity: A compilation of art and literature by women» contains creative works in the magazine and anthology of poets and writers.
Poetry from O’tkir Kochkor
MOTHERLAND..
My navel blood.. spilled dirt,
Basil is fragrant, mint is full of smallpox.
In the lamp.. the light illuminates,
Self-esteem.
Homeland..
The value of every breath
Mother’s love, Father’s prayer.
Priceless, priceless jewel,
Erk’s echo in the mountain.
Homeland..
The air is an example.
Dear as bread, dignified as water.
A gift from the creator,
A thousand good news in one memory.
Homeland..
And the dear, noble place,
If you love, you will be happy with love.
If you catch one, you win ten.
Soaring vulture on your chest.
Homeland..
The Alps are blue and lightning is proud,
The first look from birth.
The feeling of having found its place,
A dog who fell in love and enjoyed it.
Homeland..
Peace be upon you, corner of hearts,
The soul of every nation.
Heaven is the land.. I was born,
The Uzbek people are Uzbekistan.
Homeland..
O’tkir Mulikboyev Kochkor oglu, Koshrabot district, Samarkand region, Republic of Uzbekistan
The son of Mulikboyev O’tkir Kochkor was born on August 11, 1990.
Currently, he is a student of the “Primary Education” department of Tashkent ISFT Institute Teacher of “Primary Education” at School 75, Koshrabot District, Samarkand Region.
His creative works are “Bakht khunirogi” Tashkent, “Buta 5” Azerbaijan, “Turan writers” Turkey, “Anthology of Kazakh and Uzbek artists” Uzbekistan, “Uzbek writers anthology” Canada, “Young Pencilers 2″ ” Published in Moldovan, republican and international collections.
His poems were translated into Turkish, Azerbaijani, English, Russian and published in more than ten countries. Hundreds of poems have appeared in the press. Awarded with the “Initiative Reformer” badge of the international level.
Essay from Jumanazarova R.
My teacher was the best teacher. Everyone’s favorite teacher will be a teacher. He will learn many things from the teacher and remember this in the future. Do you know? To make your dreams come true, you need to respect your teacher! Teachers are our pride! They are the best people in the world! Because of them, we will be known to the world, we will be well-known people!
Poetry from Adam Fieled
The Painter The compact red book I ran around with: Crowley’s Book of the Law. I was goaded into knowledge that a reckoning was at hand. An archetypal Goddess had manifested as a tactile reality in my life. An image had been seared into my mind; a painting called The Vessel; it was hers, & yet I was a married man. The only path forward that tempestuous autumn of ‘01 was to cheat. The book laid down a gauntlet of what it meant to act in the world with a genuine sense of destiny; to be a man who had the mettle to be a real force of nature. She knew, my wife, that I had been possessed, & that winds were blowing me in a new direction, towards the forbidden. I had, it seemed to me, no choice. The night I spent with the painter, in a studio in PAFA, I discovered what it meant to have a hinge to true will about matters of the heart. She kept paintings there, of Dionysus & Apollo, & she would make me a myth, too. We shared red wine that had the effect of being blood between us; our chalice was the air, the sound of water pipes late at night in an old building, darkened corridors meant to hold only us, bathrooms which could be used as portal-ways into starry worlds. As I gathered steam, I felt the book hover in the air as well, a piece of text writ in boiling blood, pummeling towards spring. Adam Fieled is a writer based in Philadelphia. His books include Equations, Cheltenham, Apparition Poems, Beams, and Opera Bufa. A magna cum laude graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, he edits the journal PFS Post.
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
the little ants marching we are the losers the glue of society the little ants marching for hope even though destiny has other things in mind the lost souls holding on for something that resembles a life we dreamed about as children sometimes the sun doesn't even bother to shine -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- some people are i once thought i was in love with this beautiful older woman right up until she got me fired from my job and it's not that i'm unwilling to accept that some people are just fucking evil i only wonder why the fuck am i the one that has to experience all of them the witches have won again i suppose ------------------------------------------------------- just as damaged all the beautiful faces on those magazines i convince myself they are just as damaged as i am any chance meeting and the life long quest for the right one will be resolved and yes, i'm aware these delusions aren't healthy and are only going to lead to trouble boredom doesn't exactly keep the juices flowing these days ------------------------------------------------------------- does the madness ever end another day spent breathing another day watching this crazy fucking mess just burn do i break out the violin or join a protest and throw a rock does the madness ever end where is the laughter a joyous hug instead, everyone is buried in their phones plotting or masturbating out of hate i tell all the ones i love that i do love them every day i can mostly because it is a very simple act that can bring someone a moment of joy a smile a flutter of emotion something better than all the shit we wade through just to make it to a bed the ground or the concrete of a cell i can't imagine anyone calling this living ----------------------------------------------------------------- an interesting test of pain a ghost from my past has noticed i'm mentioning sex more in the poems any time that ghost wants to take the hint and pounce she is more than welcome lord knows two arthritic wrists make for an interesting test of pain as one is trying to climax before attempting to get some sleep each and every night glutton for punishment as always J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Black Coffee Review and The Asylum Floor. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)