If take a pen in my hand,
if I start writing a poem,
My hand trembles when l draw you.
Grandfather Navoi,
the Sultan of the Ghazal estate,
the Gardener of Poetry,
the glory of the whole world.
You left us a legacy, epics of Khamsa
We learn by reading,
We will be like Navoi.
Azimova Munisa, a pupil of the 7th class of the 20th school of Bukhara City. More about historical Uzbek poet and linguist Alisher Navoiy.
Invited Hoop Chalk Canary Beach Tomb
sublime,
a preface snorkel pucker [wrench
wrecks PuMpKiN storefront
]. Elegant layered hunting
squabble,
nightmare quack
quirk quickening.
Docked
formulated bAg O’ boneyard
root toot-toot
scOOp! Badge of
comatose monkey pawn
, scrubbing pan fried leaning
tEnT pole adverb
crunch [
lookalike fictional solution dresser
]. Passage
without weary altitude smokescreen
(jargon) / (football) / (weeds) / / / / /.
Linger,
a lark on a pedestal handshake
briskly succumbed.
Tarmac Blossoming Relentless Cursive Mummies
sweet puzzle
my muzzle
locking jaw
bird spinach
, all night’s variable swinging
, tired & heaving whimpered sleeves
)eager heavenly, complaining( - - -
abandon sickle
, humming disobedient cleavers,
dramatized lists
& vague pubic analysis.
[sleep prevails wispy sparks /
ponderous wired teeth decay
/ welts
map
the veins of falsehoods / ,
tales venting
capitalistic burnings].
cipher mangled
destructive paradigms
liver breached dynamics
spooling wafted elegance:
changing skin tagged
cherry flavored tattoos
loaded down replenished
, avoidance caliber spots.
Possible Punctuation Atrocities
f
r
e
e f , a , i , l , i , n , g sInK
sTOPPer : : rushing
eclectic
trolley. Living
kitchen nail gun w/in festivities
,, carriage
cr
owd ed earthbound raven
: : scorching philosophical
roundabouts : : pressurized
zealots
, , , unleashed mongoose brat
: sprig
of sealion couch
Re=told Coil
Deviant splash
, a swoosh / handsome
pLot to ridicule
fistfuls of pampered
pollutants . Break
> faster still < , , sentence
withers
layer UPON layer , , , ,
BOZO : : : : :
‘hereafter floating less an empire
strutting chaotic weeping’
. May
, spring autumnal clocks. Softly
spoiling evidence
nearest drowning
suits drifting, ,
re=stated , ,
pulsation Beaver cloud watches
making business strangulations
Known , reverted ,
choosing cluster , ,
revoked Nail file drop ceiling
blush,
ing. Sightless
beholden post-capsized
cupboard.
Lacked a Heaving Nostril Fan Blade Widening
morning trail quiver
& WINK
fashion bug released
the handy screeching
puzzle boxes
without bodily igloo
formation greed
simplified chest to drench
ratio of looping
channel surfing
dunce nightingale
apt purple cubed
lobster pupil
sickening
trench watch reeling
daughter
destiny ladder grin
slope
bot popping seconds
beyond rocking
prep school
martyrdom
pipe
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is member of C22, an experimental writing collective. He is the author most recently of the books Prismatic Fissures (C22 Press), peeping sardine fumes (RANGER Press) and [Ruptured] >> Schematic << MAZES (Sweat Drenched Press). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com
Still burning black, the dizzy morning stretches vastly across the infinite and wakes me up with a rush of its torpidity. It is infectious and I am unwilling to quit my slumbering position. Why should I quit this lull, this rest, this magnanimity of nothingness and descend into the littleness of life that swims without an iota of comfort? What little courage I have, I must use it, extra hours must be a possibility. For if I wake, it’s for the sake of this morning which is dizzy with it’s sleeping run of sweltering glow. I will not go gently into this day, I war with the giddiness of weak bones and an excessively crushed spirit.
The scion of a sleepy eyed warrior is to be feared for laziness is more effective than hard work in the right hands. What I would do with my match stick, and my blunt and hard cock and other miscellanies would tear the world away from itself and at the same time, would mean nothing. None of it would matter, indeed, none does matter as much as a somnambulant passion, an unconscious dog burrowing his snout in stinking sand, digging and pissing, that’s why I wish to sleep. I badly wish to sleep and I would return to the rays of my slumber if only the bus of life was directed towards that destination. What is the use of waking when man, in his infinite finiteness, only truly spreads his pinions when he dreams? What is waking but a torment, a mosquito sucking the aspirations from every vein treading the mirrorless earth. It is my intention through these verses (for consider this bad poetry unversified), to sleep while I wake, to bite back the skin of the mosquito and drone and disturb it’s ears. To curse this circus is to mock the thin thread and what higher goal should man aspire towards in this gamut of deception we call wake. Eating the muck that makes up the bug which sucks our blood.
Everything, everything that moves and breathes secretly secretes a wish for death as they progress through time. It’s like they grow weary and purposely slip, hoping they crack their thinking skulls on the porcelain; like they were tired of thinking and would gladly give away the faculty for it. Like it, a burden rather cast away, had done it’s time. It had always done its time; thinking. My eyes are tired of seeing and I wish I could close them, forever and dream of nothingness or of a Hera’s plump breasts. Whichever soothes the mood I am at that moment– nothingness for ennui; the poetic breasts, well, is for everything else. And like a cockroach, seeking death at every turn, hungry for a corpse of food, hungry to be a corpse of food, I hasten towards the pails of soothe to bathe me in its gushing enshroud. Fogs, clouding against the backdrop to sanctify my choices; to be or not to be, rather to be or to perish and gloat in the perishing– rise like buildings half decimated, half eager to be seen. And in the hubbub of the court of life, I ignore the fog, the sanctity, the choices brought to the steps of my bolted door and I choose slumber; the peace of it, the comfort of assurance. And does this make me an impotent pretender, who even in his parts– the pretense, is made impotent, or raw, like the secretion of all that moves and breathes, that aspires to flee from hunger? Does it make me be? Am I– in the indelible food truck of laughter, laughing at myself, throwing a mock at everything, even this bedsheet, rumpled from giving me repose, while wishing I was an acolyte of something; my trusts saving me from the deliriums of free will?
At the edge of the shore the waves merge with the thirsty sand and it’s saltwater provokes parching through delicate care. The waves hopes it’s tides of love, which it repeatedly bathes the shores with, would one day sate it’s love, pacify her, relentlessly bring her to the four walls of a gentle climax. But each act of kindness, each touch of thoughtfulness only worsens the state of the shores. But to protest at this point, (if even it could do that, as all protest is a mask of dissatisfaction which leads to more tedium,) is a futile activity. It could even be termed rash; so the shores die in silence. No wonder the pallidity of the beach so stuns us we inevitably fall for it. All men long for woe in their massification, and thrive within the tokens of dry bones self destruct gets from pity, but the men who last… No man lasts, but all unconsciously believe they will.
All girls are lesbians, but I must wake now from my waking dream. Aurora begins to sieve her provocative rays through the meshes in the window, laying siege to my thoughts. It gilds my room with a flood of light this sunlight. I have not consulted the time. I hate the time for it reminds me of my minuteness and makes me wish so badly I am god– above time and more mean spirited, like a fish that devours the reeds, man and other fishes. This wish targets his aloneness most of all: imagine controlling the world, watching naked bodies, envious: far above the threshold yet close enough to judge. I don’t mind god too much because I don’t know much of him and I don’t believe that any man could know God better than I know God, if he did exist. Pale face that shames the sun, a dick with the seed of stars and buckets of galaxies, time in his pocket, a haughty nature which still is revered? Why give excuses for God while the same characters are disdained in man, and even give God veneration? What makes him of better stock when I exist and he does not? For to exist is to be in this world, and to be in this world props more honor than any transcendence ever will. Death is a nullification as well as all things in the unknown alter; all forms beyond the void.
To survive the melancholia, the wake, the aches in a blunted finger, to walk a distance under the blazing sun and still love it. God! Why should one not love life and hold it’s beauties however tedious, to greatest esteem. The cutting sunlight, like a knock on the head, begins to discipline me to efficacy, begins to steer me towards stirring from the bed. Still my leaden feet resists, my eyes are shut, still shooting towards sleep and I wish to dream forever.
Iduoze Abdulhafiz is a poet, playwright, short story writer and philosopher. His works delves into themes of introspection and existential questions. In them he explores profound emotions such as grief, longing, ecstasy, the divine and other worldly issues.
He hopes that through his writing, he brings some form of sate or a glim of light, to the reader reading his work.
Many of his works contemplate issues of existence using metaphorical imagery and philosophical reflections. He has been published in the ekonke magazine.
Mobile Phone In hand it rests, a portal bright, With every tap, it brings delight. Sent, calls so clear, The mobile phone, our modern seer. From dawn to dusk, it never tires, Connecting us with all desires. In a frame, a world's embrace, Our mobile phone, a magic space. Wazed Abdullah is a student of grade nine in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Country!!! Did you feel the power of that one word? You say that this word did not shake the hearts of some, and did not make them cry! There is a world of meaning in a five letter word. So what is Homeland? The homeland is the place where the blood from the navel of man and his descendants was shed. The homeland is the abode of the ancestors, the land where the nation grew up, where its language, religion, history, culture, traditions and values were truly formed and developed. The homeland is each of our breaths, our beating heart, our innocent eyes full of love...
The more the country is described, the less it seems. Therefore, in a nutshell, Homeland is the place where every person was born and raised. As the homeland is dear to everyone, my heavenly and beautiful homeland is also dear and holy. My homeland is UZBEKISTAN.
Our country has all the conditions, only one thing is required of us. As they say, "A child who reads a book now will lead a hundred children who watch television in the future." This is the requirement of our time.
People have to deal with problems carefully throughout their lives, even if they are small. After all, problems that seem insignificant to us can radically change our lives. In fact, our daily life and every action consists of these tests. If we courageously overcome these obstacles, we will undoubtedly achieve our goals in life. I think all young people in the country need attention and conditions. Because every young generation living and growing up in this country has the right to receive an education. We can only justify the confidence of the whole country if we unite and become one force. Because "Strength is in unity".
If the children of the world unite and concentrate all their efforts on acquiring knowledge, no dangerous idea can defeat such a noble force.
In my imagination, a peaceful world is an example of the sea. The calmer and more peaceful the sea, the more peaceful the aquatic creatures at the bottom of the sea. The same is true for humans. When the whole world is at peace, people in all countries live in peace and freedom.
For young people to have a peaceful future, it is necessary for them to work together, learn innovative ideas, exchange ideas with young people from other countries and exchange knowledge and skills based on experience.
Talented Uzbek girl
Mahmudjonova Zahroxon is one of talented girls of Uzbekistan. She was born on November 14, 2006 in Almazor district of Tashkent city. Nationality is Uzbek. Art direction – field of flute. In 2016, She was awarded with a 2nd degree Diploma at the “Zolotoy Fenix” international competition held in St. Petersburg, Russia. In 2021, she was awarded the 1st degree Diploma in the essay competition dedicated to the 580th birthday of Mir Alisher Navoi. In 2021, she was awarded the “Praise Label” for her excellent studies and exemplary behavior. In 2021, she was awarded the 1st degree Diploma at the International competition “Rainbow art’s” held in the city of Karaganda, Republic of Kazakhstan. In 2021, she was awarded the 2nd degree Diploma in the “Smart Girls” competition. In 2021, she was awarded the 1st degree Diploma at the “Snejnyy Bars” International Competition held in Moscow.
In Tashkent (ensemble)she was awarded with the Grand Prix. In 2023, she was awarded with the 1st degree Diploma at the international competition “Melody leto” held in Tashkent. In 2023, she was awarded the 1st degree Diploma in the “Best Play Performance” competition held at the school level. She was awarded the 2nd degree Diploma at the 30th International Competition named after “A. Jubanov” held in Almaty, Kazakhstan, from October 30 to November 3, 2023
In 2023, she was awarded with the 1st degree Diploma at the international competition “Melody leto” held in Tashkent. In 2023, she was awarded the 1st degree Diploma in the “Best Play Performance” competition held at the school level. She was awarded the 2nd degree Diploma at the 30th International Competition named after “A. Jubanov” held in Almaty, Kazakhstan, from October 30 to November 3, 2023.
THE NATURAL CAUSE OF THINGS I've heard from old stories that some Gypsies taught a horse how to starve. It died after a while. /as soon as they taught it how to starve, it dropped dead/ It will be heard from our story that a poet taught a woman how to get over. She left after a while. She learned how to get over and fell in love with someone else. /the natural course of things/ * A CLOUD IN TROUSERS During those years I was a cloud In trousers. I was Mayakovsky. And I did not want To be a poet Not at least your poet Or theirs. I did not want them to say How I lived Or died because of you. How I died because of love. I wouldn't want them to be wrong. I lived love With you And with everyone of them. During those years I was a cloud in trousers With a hole on the belt. * Dušan Stojković was born on June 27, 1994. He lives in Grdelica (Serbia). He published the collection of poetry "YOU ARE NOT CURSED - It entered the chest, it came out (2021) and the collection of poetry "GRIEF - You irretrievably went to the fields" (2023). Together with Jelena Sarić Cvetković, he is the founder of the Association MUK (Young Artists of Culture), he is the general director of the international chamber of writers and artists CIESART for Serbia, he is a member of the BUKA Association and the International Association of Writers and Artists GORSKI VIDICI from Montenegro.