Reflections

Silvery opulence 
amidst
Snow clad hours 
My forever blue 
Anatomy of love
A golden rose 
Bow tied piano scape
Scary as love
Around wintry snowflakes
He embalms my soul
Autumnal palsy
His goodness gracious
Poignant peak 
I couldn't summon my notes 
Momentum reflections
Necessary
To be written down
For me
When Autumn comes
I will gather 
My snowing pal
And
I will ride these
Paper towns
With my oceanic wetness. 

City Smell

Dimly lit under the street lamps in an old alley at midnight, a nostalgia wells up. A perceptible city smell tickles the nostrils in humidity fuelled singed heat. Yeah, the lamps bestow light on the strays lying down on empty alleys—clean, and silent as the rains wash away any debris otherwise invisible to the naked eye, slants through the midnight street lamp—dark, heavy, and blue. To an ever-wakening and heightened sensory perception, a city sleeps, unhinged like exposed skeletons.

The city smells, however, another smell pushing through the winds and more pervasive, makes breathing hard; terrified barks and human squeals tear up the skies.The rains are gone now but smoke burns rise in the atmosphere, buckets drop cling-clang on the ground in haste; sirens of fire trucks, and a few explosive sounds. The strays stop barking. Squeals are quiet too. The burning dissipates. Silence descends; the city smell crawls back, buried into the ground.

After 24 februar

It turns out that during the cannonade and explosions you can: try to work, dine, hang yourself, fuck, jerk off, use drugs, yell at a cat, beat your young son, take away your mother's pension, pack a suitcase for departure, do crafts for elementary school, defend a diploma in zoom, wipe snot, wash away blood, stand in line for bread, throw away bread, steal potatoes in a store, feed a homeless dog, feed a homeless person, look for a mobile connection, call, be silent, eventually die...

As a child, it seemed that war was something grandiose and unbearable. Today you begin to understand that war is the same as a vacation, going to the movies or the evening news.

What does my cat think about what is happening? nothing, the cat is sleeping. And the neighbor's dog clings to the owners during the explosion and whines. And the neighbor's dog of the neighbors opposite, during the explosions, runs to the front door and growls loudly at what is happening outside the apartment.

Now it seems that money is not important, nothing serious can be bought for money. But living without a mountain of money in your pocket is now even more difficult than before. When we were kids, we wanted to conquer the Alps. Now we want to conquer mountains of money. We want to take all the money that exists in the world for ourselves in order to buy out all the military factories in the world and destroy them to hell.

The old woman from apartment number twenty says that out of habit every evening at 20.00 she turns on the TV and waits for the series. Instead, 24/7 TV shows news and air raid charts.

I have no acquaintances who would teach me to laugh. I don't have siblings to teach me how to fuck at 12. Maybe at the age of 12 I would have fucked the war to death - it would be easier for everyone.
At the age of 12, it seems to you that war and the battle for peace are the lot of the elite. At 22, it begins to seem that there can be no peace after the war. At 22, you begin to forget your age because you understand: war is the lot of children who do not want to grow up. At the age of 6, I was given a set of toy soldiers. All soldiers had 2 arms and 2 legs. Childhood is a place of lies. At the age of 21, you understand that in reality, nothing remains of the soldiers after the battles, except for a photo on a cemetery grave.

I will soon be 22 years old. I do not understand anything...

The Death of Dream

#####

-Come and take as much dollar as you need but stop crying. I hate crying. I hate tears. I don’t want to see anymore tear in your beautiful eyes.

– Why do I take dollar from you. What do you think about me? Am I a beggar? I don’t want to take any dollar from you. 

– You tiny girl! But your sound is like the Himalayas. It seems to me that you are a little bit brave. But why are you crying? 

-I am not bound to tell you. You are not able to help me. You rich people think only dollar can solve every problem. Dollar is not the solution of every problem. Go to your road and please let me cry. I want to cry and cry. My forehead is burnt. I burned my forehead.

Mr. Patrick is astonished to hear the tiny girl. She seems to under ten. She may be more than ten because none can guess her age accurately to see her structure. She is a stolen girl.

Mr. Patrick comes out from his luxurious car. He is now very close to the girl. He gently asks the girl, What is your name?

The girl is now crying with low sound but she does not answer. She is crying like herself.

Finding no other way Mr. Patrick starts to cry.

The girl stops her crying for the time being.  She is surprised and asks Mr. Patrick, Why are you crying? Are you making fun with me. I am not a funny girl.

-I am crying a little bit for you.

-I have no need you to do that.

-At least tell me your name.

-My name is Dream.

-Dream! That is interesting. What is your father’s name?

– It is unknown.  I don’t know anything about him. My mother has never shared anything about him. Even she has not informed me Who  my father is and what his name is. So, how can I tell you my father’s name?

Dream starts crying again. Mr. Patrick is a little bit  nervous but he does not express himself. He asks Dream,

-What is your mother’s name?

Without giving answer Dream angrily asks,

– Are you a question man? Why are you asking me question one after another? I have forgotten everything.  Everything.

– Tell me your mother’s name.

– Death.

-Death! How is it possible? I have never heard this name. 

– Rich people like you are afraid of this word.You want to forget this word by spending dollars. But you won’t, will you?

Your dollar is not as true as death. Death is dead. My mother is dead. She is dead and a dead woman has no name.

– Your mother is dead and this is why you are crying. Now you need dollars. I want to help you.I want to give you dollars. 

-Oh! No, I do not need dollars . If l need l will not take dollars from you.

-But why?

-Simple. Very simple. You are arrogant. I hate arrogant people.

– Take dollar from me. I have enough dollars. l want to stop your crying.

-I need my father’ identity and my mother’s name. My mother’s life. Can you give me any of the two?

– No, no, no. I can’t. I can’t.

-Let me cry.

– Stop crying.

Mr. Patrlck threw dollars into the air.The dollars were flying but could not touch neither the sky nor the tears of Dream.

Mr. Patrick is walking as if he were  mad. He utters some words but these are not clear.

Education

Education means light
Again asset
Education makes one great
Education is knowledge
A change of attitude
An art and enjoyment
A power to build oneself a human.

29 August, 2023.
Monira Mahbub is a student of grade 6 in Nawabganj Government Girls' High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

***
the birds drink 
the flow of silence
autumn creeps with rain

***
corner of the mouth mocks crying
bird leaves fly out the window

the smoke of silence rises
buried in the cemetery tears mixed with memories

***
no one talks with torn faces

***
open bellies conceal simple truths

***
fog from which the limbs 
of people or monsters grow

***
fish die in the sugar 
of water happiness

***
Religion is a hobby club for those who have never died
 

***
The secret of the soul
Secretion of guilt
Who will kiss my neck and turn me into a vampire?
 
The dream of a soldier who will turn a gun into a sex shop toy
 
Who will kiss me?
Nobody


***
Mosquitoes fly to the scent of blood
So are military pilots
 

***
There are as many explosions as there are stars in the sky
Every night to underground storage and bunkers
An alarm siren sounds
 
Life is wonderful as if it started from an egg and not from a dead chicken


***

The grass we grew up in
The ant seeks protection from 
Тhe summer heat


***
man brings bundles of hay home
mother cooks dinner
father lights a fireplace
the dog sleeps and sees the son


***
strange sky falls on your head
solar stroke


***
the crunch of leaves underfoot reminds of Jesus


***
stove warms the house
dragonflies under fire freeze
dragons do not fly in order to warm insects with fire

1. SILENT STRUGGLES
My childhood unfolded.
A tale of misery within an adventure never told. 
Verbal arrows aimed, and with each pronouncements a savage onslaught. 

The word "depression" was a sinful joke in my household and remains an abomination never to be spoken about.
I was called "weird" and "strange" because I never spoke at public gatherings.
people said I was possessed by powers unknown or I was just acting up.How cruel. 

Mental torments weighs down my fragile back.
Within the walls of home, a battleground of strife and animosity.
Broken plates, cups and souls became the order of the day.
parents' love turned bitter, a tempests dreadful roar.
The wounded witness I was, violated in every way possible and amidst this tumult, academic pressure grew. What a fate. 

My pen bleeds but in the darkness I found my guiding star.
Through the ink-stained pages of my journal, I discovered a sanctuary where my thoughts could flow freely, unburdening my troubled mind.
Each word became a lifeline, a means to navigate the stormy seas of my life.

2. INTERWOVEN ECHOES
I seek my reflection in voice and personas.
A face hidden within the depths of connection.
I listen closely, in each word and tone. 
In your words, I search for my own rhyme.
A mirror of my soul in the sands of time.
I look deeper and I see, it's not just in you but also in me.
Are we all mirrors reflecting the light?
In the tapestry of voices day and night.
In your essence and in mine, intertwined we became. 
A kaleidoscope of selves forever undone.
In the voices of others we discover our art.

Biography
My name is Hannah Aipoh. I am 17 years of age, I am a Nigerian poet with a flair for writing.