Contributor Eva Petropolou Lianou would like to let us know about this call for submissions of poetry to benefit a writer in Gaza (whom we’ve also published).

Also, contributing poet Christina Chin has a new book available now on Amazon, “First Day of the Rest.” This is a special project, a collaborative haibun/haibunga book written with Michael Hough, poet, composer, and musician featuring both photos and art by the authors. More about the book here.

Next, an announcement from contributor Chimezie Ihekuna, who is seeking an investor/executive producer for the project, One Man’s Deep Words. It is set in the US, details here.

Also, poet and prose writer Christopher Bernard would like to share that his magazine, Caveat Lector, will be giving a reading to commemorate the Winter 2025 issue, at Clarion Performing Arts Center. Information and address here.

In this issue, our international contributors address themes of passion.

Some writers explore this concept in the way modern people tend to understand it, with pieces on love of various sorts.

Madaminova Ogiloy’s tender poem praises the kindness and care of her mother. Ilhomova Mohichehra reflects on the steady consistency and dedication of her father. Xonzoda Axtamova honors a mother who cared for her children despite her own struggles.

G’ulomjanova Marjona reminds us that family love and care for parents should come before materialism and success in our short lives.

Anindya Paul’s piece compares the pressure of a son trying to live up to his father’s expectations to that of a father doing his best to provide for and raise children.

Teachers and other professionals also extend deep concern for the children under their care. Azadbek Yusupov outlines effective ways to evaluate teachers’ classroom performance. Medical student Dilshoda Izzatilloyeva outlines causes and treatments of pneumonia in young children.

Rus Khomutoff evokes a mix of spiritual and sensual feelings in his transfixing concrete dream poem. R.K. Singh’s poetry explores the feelings of men and women navigating complex sensual desires and emotions: fear, danger, lust, and ecstasy that can come with intimacy. Mark Blickley fills out the story in a bawdy Greek myth in historical speculative fan fiction.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal fantasizes about imagined romances as his body slowly decays with time. Doug Holder crafts a mood of giddy romantic anticipation in his ekphrastic accompaniment to Gieseke Penizzotto Denise’s painting.

While the word has come to be associated with romantic emotion, the word “passion” comes from an old Latin word for suffering and originally referred to the willingness to endure much to reach one’s goals. Some of our contributors celebrate this kind of determination and perseverance, on their paths to personal or creative development or just to survive in the world.

Jacques Fleury reviews Lyric Stage Boston’s production of Lynn Nottage’s play Crumbs from the Table of Joy and discusses how the show highlights the struggles of working-class Black people for full inclusion in the United States.

In Bill Tope’s short story, a young woman rebels against the humiliation of an oppressive dress code.

Graciela Noemi Villaverde draws on gardening metaphors to describe the cultivation of character over time. Feruza Sheraliyeva writes of the corrosive nature of corruption on society and urges every individual to uphold ethical standards. Asadbek Yusupov outlines the balance between individual rights and civic responsibilities in Uzbekistan. Aminova Dilbar highlights the value placed on inter-ethnic harmony, equality, and mutual respect in Uzbekistan, codified into the highest levels of government.

David Sapp’s poetic speaker wishes to transcend this life to a higher spiritual plane, but human feelings keep calling him back to this mortal coil. Kieu Bich Hau remains resolute during her time of soul-searching loss on the shores of Italy’s Lake Como. Michael Robinson speaks to how his faith in Christ gives him joy and peace as he undergoes dialysis. Abigail George’s essay speaks to what it means to create in times of great struggle and societal marginalization.

Anna Keiko celebrates individuality in her short poem, encouraging readers to be unafraid to be themselves. Z.I. Mahmud highlights themes of female emancipation and agency and freedom from existing purely for the male gaze in Sylvia Plath’s poetry.

In his Reflective Thinking spoken word album and screenplay concept One Man’s Deep Words, Chimezie Ihekuna mulls over what makes for a wise and satisfying life. Sometimes, satisfaction can come through dedication to one’s craft.

Jacques Fleury’s poem on a day of solitude reminds us of what unites us all as human beings and brings his literary and cultural aspirations to clearer focus.

Stephen Bett evokes the feeling of hearing performance poetry at a reading in his concrete-ish piece, and also jeers at weaponized misogyny and reflects on chemical happiness. Patrick Sweeney crafts one-line poems that become near-stories with a thoughtful reading.

Poet and nature photographer Brian Barbeito outlines his creative process and goals in a creative personal essay. Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ photos this month explore mediated images of nature: drawings and cartoons we create to interface with our world from a step removed.

Actor and writer Federico Wardal spotlights Egyptian actor Wael Elouny and Italian director Antonello Altamura and their new indie film Ancient Taste of Death. Mark Young’s mix of intriguing and explosive visual pieces meld color, shape, text, and design. Texas Fontanella mixes up chatspeak and everyday language in a cyberpunk-style set of surreal anecdotes and shares some intense, wild musical vibes.

Maftuna Mehrojova outlines basics of and new directions in the craft of business marketing and communications. Gulsevar Bosimova describes and takes pride in her proficiency in traditional Uzbek martial arts.

Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna writes of how Uzbek poet Abdulla Oripov’s works were grounded in his love of his homeland. Joseph C. Ogbonna reflects on his trip from Nigeria to visit John F. Kennedy’s birthplace and rhapsodizes on the glory of the past president and his times.

Another aspect of passion, or love, is grief for what we lose. Ahmed Miqdad mourns loss of life, hope, and joy in Gaza during wartime.

Christopher Bernard laments in mythological, epic language the loss of so much beauty and history to the flames in Los Angeles. Pat Doyne grieves not just the fires in Los Angeles, but the callousness of some in society towards the survivors and the natural environment.

Rob Plath’s poetry conveys the understated numbness of grief and remembrance as Ahmad Al-Khatat’s character sketch illustrates the emptiness and fragility that can come with being displaced from one’s homeland and loved ones. In a more upbeat tone, J.K. Durick recollects fragments of people and literary works that populated his youthful consciousness and now his dreams. Taylor Dibbert reflects on the passage of time through a brief encounter with someone he remembers from long ago.

Linda S. Gunther reviews Nikki Erlick’s novel The Measure, a tale asking big questions about mortality, purpose, and destiny through the lives of carefully drawn, highly individual characters. Wazed Abdullah reminds us to cherish life, with all its ups and downs as Mahbub Alam points out how we are all mortal, how time ticks quickly for us all.

Yucheng Tao’s impressionist poetry touches on themes of memory and loss while Mykyta Ryzhykh draws on imagery of death, decay, and natural renewal.

Lazzatoy Shukurillayeva translates a poem from historical Uzbek poet Alexander Feinberg about the brevity of life and the vanity of assuming you can make yourself great in a short time. Noah Berlatsky humorously reflects on how perhaps most of us do not need to be memorialized through ponderous tomes.

Despite the finite nature of our lives, some people take passionate enjoyment in our ordinary world.

Dr. Jernail S. Anand recaptures the wonder of childhood and urges his fellow adults to reclaim youthful curiosity.

Isabel Gomez de Diego’s photos suggest the wonder in everyday scenes: a mural of a wine toast during a meal, public fountains, loaves of sourdough bread. Lidia Popa waxes poetic on birds and green butterflies as Alan Catlin sends up many different ways of looking at winter, summer, crows, and the moon.

Sayani Mukherjee illustrates the rebirth of sunrise as winter gives way to spring and she rejoins the outdoors in her running shoes.

In another kind of rebirth, we’ve just barely started another planetary journey around the sun. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa welcomes in the Northern Hemisphere’s wintry New Year and speaks of the difficulty of conveying the feel of snow to someone in a temperate climate. Maria Cristina Pulvirenti’s minuscule haiku captures how snow can muffle sound, dulling the senses to focus your attention.

Daniel De Culla cynically speculates that selfish human nature will not change much in the New Year. J.J. Campbell considers signs of hope in his life, then rationalizes each of them away. And, in another piece, Ahmed Miqdad contrasts the human suffering in Gaza with the world’s joyful holiday celebrations. Pat Doyne reflects on quirky, hopeful, and fearsome bits of 2024’s news cycle and wonders playfully about 2025.

Burning

As the months processed
I surmise a new fall
Flamingo pink skies 
Burning over the horizon
A new Streetlamp hung around my closet
I swam a darkness high 
As I breathe deep I drink a new paradise
Hope's cities has new avenues
Before they all fall a decade high
Hung around still for the spring
Matches for matches 
This is what justice felt like
Over my running shoes 
I knew the darkness has tapestry
So it showed me a matchstick sky
Heaven knows I tried 
For the spring comes 
With burning winter's sickly delicate lace. 

My beautiful flower 

You are my angel mother 

You are unmatched in the world 

My mother without paradise 

There is no woman like you in the world 

No even in heaven 

No even yours 

My mother without paradise 

You made me out of nothing 

You who washed and combed white 

You are sorry if I make a mistake 

My mother without paradise 

It is true that I love you 

Itʼs true that I even got hit 

This word is also true. Yes, it is true 

My mother without paradise 

There is little I can do for you 

Even the moon in the sky little 

Just laugh a little 

My mother without paradise 

If I cheer you up with my poem 

If I say my love, my flower 

Donʼt let my father be jealous, mother 

My mother without paradise 

Madaminova Ogiloy was born in 2002 in Kopkopir district of Khorezm region. 3rd stage student of Jizzakh State Pedagogical University. She is currently studying English and Turkish. In her free time, she enjoys reading and baking.

A POET WHO COMES ONCE IN A THOUSAND YEARS

      My country is Uzbekistan.  I couldn’t describe this country, this people, except Abdulla Oripov. 

      — A voice from far away,

      — Tell me, what should I do, grandfather?

      — He is a voice from the Motherland, 

      — Payondoz on their way.

      — The sound came again suddenly,

      — Tell me what to do, grandfather?

      — A world with a burden on its shoulders, 

      — He is your people, help me, my child.

      It is a holy happiness for me to know that I was born in a land of fire from the loving sun, that I live.  My heart is filled with pride and joy to be the child of Abdulla Oripovday Kashkadarya, who is known and recognized as the second Navoi of world literature.

      A person can choose everything in life.  But he cannot choose the blessed Motherland and parents.  Happy land with umbilical cord blood.   My homeland is Uzbekistan.  By his own name, he is a bek, he is a sultan.  Motherland is our grandfather’s legacy, our father’s legacy.  In every line of Abdulla Oripov, he found the independence of the Motherland and its definition. 

      …Only my weak pen is mine, 

         Uzbekistan is my country.

      In the poem “Uzbekistan, My Country, My”, the poet tells a deep story about the past of the Motherland.

      Today, I decided not to criticize Abdulla Oripov’s biography or his poetry collections, but to visit the poet’s homeland, his heart’s blood, his palace.

      My heart sings the ode of the poet “Uzbekistan, my country” like a charming song.

      As I read the poem from the beginning to the end, the glory of our ancestors, the halal bread of Uzbek people, appears in my mind.  My heart trembles like a chained poem because of the dark days and difficult times they have seen.  That’s all you do, old world.  Beruni, Amir Temur, Uluğbek, Ghafur Gulam… .  In this poem, the word “Motherland” finds its form and shape and pace in the blood of the farmer in the field. This feeling flows like hot blood in my body and soul. It screams like a sign of life. Indeed, Abdulla Oripov  A unique poet who glorified and conveyed the value of the homeland in this poem, it is not an exaggeration to say that the heart that has not penetrated into this ode is not an exaggeration. 

      Don’t be sad, my dear,

      Don’t worry about your age.

      Over the centuries,

      Your everlasting love. 

      In the great human family,

      Your forehead is so bright.

      My bright abode is mine,

      Uzbekistan is my country.

      The poet wrote many beautiful poems about the “Motherland”. 

      The poet created by mixing his soul and body.  I understand the poem “Why I love Uzbekistan” as a logical continuation of the ode “Uzbekistan, My Country”.  In this poem too, the artist praises verses about the soil, sky and sun of the Motherland.  While talking about Furqat, Mirza Babur, who became a king and a khan in his own country and a king in other countries, came to my mind.   My heart is already aching.  Because, as the poet said, wherever a person is born, that soil is his land.  If his Motherland is surrounded by a cold country that dominates like ice, he will look warm and give his love.  He bows to this place and this people.

      Well, if they tell me the reason why I love Uzbekistan, before the poet’s beautiful poems – I bow to my motherland.

      Abdulla Oripov is like that, a poet who loved the people and was loved by the people.

      Today, the wind of Independence is blowing in the song that the poet sang… .  In new Uzbekistan, the country is prosperous and the people are happy.  The joy of happiness shines on the faces of our people.  Today, navbahar came to our country full of light and spring full of flowers.  The days of living and living are visited by Navròz.  We are also celebrating the poet’s 82nd birthday on such happy occasions.  This is also a great blessing of God.

Hero of Uzbekistan, People’s Poet of Uzbekistan Abdulla Oripov wrote thousands of poems, epics, dramas.  He translated masterpieces of world literature into Uzbek. 

      If he writes about the poet, he will not do it.  A poet who honors the country and the people always sings the National Anthem of Uzbekistan.  It’s no wonder that this is the pride of the poet’s heart. 

      As I put the last point, I bow to the great poet Abdulla Oripov, who instilled in me and us young people the feeling of loving the Motherland in colorful verses.

      To the homeland, grandfather,

      You have planted flowers. 

      In every line of your poem, 

      You have lost the value of the country.

      This nation, this country,

      How many bloods have you swallowed?

      Before your description ends,

      Today the pen is weak.

      Once in a thousand years,

      A saint like you.

       Kashkadarya region

Koldoshova Dilbar Nuraliyevna, a student of the 10th grade of the 10th grade of the 43rd school of Karshi district.

Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna was born on March 5, 2007 in the Karshi district of the Kashkadarya region.

   She is currently the 10th “B” student of the 43rd school. 

      Dilbarhan is the queen of poetry, the owner of creativity, a singer with a beautiful voice, and a ghazal girl.

      She came first in the “Leader of the Year” competition.

        1st prize in the regional stage of the “Hundred Gazelles and Hundred Gems” competition.

         It took part in the “Children’s Forum” category and won first place in many competitions.

          She is currently the coordinator of the training department of Tallikuron MFY in Karshi district.

          Kamalak captain of the opposite district.

          Head captain of the “Girls There” club at school 43. 

         The articles titled “Memory is immortal and precious”, “Our School” and “Mother” were published three times in Kenya Times International magazine in 2024.

     In 2023, the first poems were published in the poetry collection “Yulduzlar Yogdusi” of the creative youth of the Kashkadarya region.

      In 2024, ghazals of the creative youth of the Republic were published in the poetry collection “Youth of Uzbekistan”.

Badge of Glory

Karin knew the drill.  She got in line behind all the other girls in Mrs. Lowenstein’s fourth grade class and awaited her turn to be observed, measured and judged.   At the front of the line, near the blackboard, Mary Ann approached the towel arrayed across the floor, knelt on her knees and allowed Mrs. Lowenstein to gauge the distance between the hem on her skirt and the floor with a wooden yard stick.   It was a rather primitive ritual, but this was 1964 and there was little room in the educational system for progressive thought, so-called.  “You’re good to go, Mary Ann,” commented the teacher.  “Good girl.”  Mary Ann, her cheeks red, took her seat among the other students, who were all the boys in the class.  “Next!” snapped Lowenstein.

Next up was Kay, the class tomboy, who always dressed in denim jeans.  Objections from some school board member mandated that Kay conform to the dress code, however, so she  was forced to wear a skirt over her dungarees.  This didn’t get her out of the measuring ritual, however, and down on the towel Kay went.  “Kay,” said Mrs. Lowenstein reprovingly, “you’re more than an inch too short.”  Kay’s mouth opened incredulously, then closed.  “You know the rules,” her teacher reminded her.  Kay’s mouth opened again but no words came out.  Her face perceptively darkened.  “Now, get on home and put on a decent skirt so you can fit in with the rest of the girls!” directed Lowenstein.  Kay left the classroom without a word.  Students had learned from hard experience that there was no negotiating with Mrs. Lowenstein.  Kay slammed the door as she left.  Mrs. Lowenstein’s mouth formed a hard, straight line, but she said nothing.  And so it went, till nearly every girl had been suitably appraised ahd humiliated.  There was but one girl  left.

“Karin,” said Mrs. Lowenstein with relish.  “You’re next.”  Karin could almost imagine the sadistic teacher licking her lips, salivating to bring the brunt of her authority to bear on the nine year old student.  Karin stood before her teacher.  “Well, get down on your knees,” ordered Lowenstein.  Karin could hear some of the boys giggling across the room.  Karin felt heat on her face, but complied with the directive.  Lowenstein stuck her damnable yard stick against Karin’s knee and measured.  “Aha!” she yelped gleefully.  “You’re fully an inch and a half too short, you naughty girl!”  Karin rose to her feet, shrugged.  “Get home and get a decent skirt, or maybe a dress–that’s what proper young women should wear!”  Lowenstein was ungracious in victory.

“And just how am I going to do that, Mrs. Lowenstein?” asked Karin wearily.  “Huh?  What?” spluttered the teacher.  “What do you mean?” she demanded.  “I live two miles from school; I take the bus here,” said Karin, as though explaining a simple arithmetic problem to a slow child.  “How do I get there and back?  Both my parents work.” she explained.  “Your mother…works?” asked the teacher, scandalized.  “Well, you work, don’t you?” her student asked.  “Don’t be impertinent,” snapped the teacher, frustrated at confronting the truth.

Mrs. Lowenstein thought hard for a moment before snapping her thumb and forefinger and announcing,  “I’ve got it:  go down to Miss Washburn, the Home Ec teacher and have her let the hem out of that skirt.”  Karin rolled her eyes but complied with her teacher’s wishes.  A few minutes later, Miss Washburn appeared at the door of the four grade classroom and motioned Mrs. Lowenstein to join her.  “Yes, Wanda, is there any problem with Karin?”  “I couldn’t let the hem out because there wasn’t but about a half inch left.  But I found a quick fix.”  “What is it?” the other teacher asked.  

“Well, I’ll show you.”  Signaling behind the door, Miss Washburn beckoned Karin to join them in the classroom, which she reluctantly did.  The rest of the class immediately burst out laughing uproariously.  There, appended to the hem of Karin’s skirt, was a four-inch band of gold-colored fabric, stretching all around the circumference of the skirt.  Mrs. Lowenstein frowned at first, then perked up, determined not to make a bad situation worse.  “There, that’s fine, thank you, Miss Washburn.”  She turned to the little girl.  “You see, Karin, you’re quite presentable now.  Don’t you think your father would see the improvement in your apparel?”    “I agree, Mrs. Lowenstein,” said Karin with surprising enthusiasm, her green eyes flashing.  “And I believe my father would love it.”  “Really?” asked her teacher, skeptical.  “Yes!  During World War II my father had one just like it, only in a Star of David; I’ve been pictures.  He wore it at Auschwitz!”

Apple Lack For

Look it up. 2 much mercenary info. Je suis yr ponce Charlie and L-l-l-l-lola. DONT sever era 4 pp 404. He? Just ice age, tall me too, smirk out the nme terra forming at the time of the mouth floes Fister

Made out the ion quest. I like Arthur Flander’s Twistered grammarx of martial law. And syntax for the lust could be mean girls to get her.

The Naruto gif play the big other wise guise. You’ll be no kith ot kentucky fried Wildean childREN SHD BE SHORT a quid of the riverlution. EleVader muzak 47 crates of yeahyeahyeah. Took aegis. ASiOLmC f light vers GHC

O Lorde, oh Jesse, o Jamms, o Kelsey, u wake up2 unsure theyre a broad. Cursed if my debt, live wire me the Mooney on a Foxtel i prepared Apologue Four earliar.

Skim a P? Nod. On. Sears train of fought derails. Screw the hinges off, i mise en scene change nothing out better yet, a yeti sighting your sauces, witch i will reuse for the motor scheme.

They say they seem you out with my mane. Its as logical as welfare but vacuum. Slobs. For dinner goes Cletis: doobie, doobie my Dorian: A Limitation. Play id on my Reptar braim. Is just noh good.

Wart am i mensa do if top not up from the happenstance? The changing collar gear, the reddy good bats all swopping and screeching overheard me in the pube, in fuel on komodo mode da vie 666 daze in she had a bud so categorically imperative it was perfect i say so. *imperial

That’s Sol, folks. Masticate my ExistenZ.  4 or 5 years later, maybe sex. Navy nights on these nervous roads in Las Voguest.  Without me, it was still the realest, all about a genderfuck, her phat but i spank therefore i am the only Dendy around here. I do all the dandistry. Stop the is real. Free pale.

Jules Verne is In2Deep. He could letterally turm in office. Kitty is a saxophone off end er. I hate to love it.

Git freaky, then place confusing traffic cones in orange places with Waz, who out skiled sever L pro lice officers laid out back. [Words]

We white maw if trickled downes syndroke w/ cornext pasture and in your dexterity, Hyde Parks it in your stops 1-4. Dunce murk me stroppy wada in yr perso in formation fot thr tweak.

But sands west, i seer the west apple lags.

My Furthermorw bornes like babble rpa. I did it to degaol the ill seeing eye. Time is only what gets a noice example of whose line is it pointillism, any weigh? We candy cane it be wee piked all nu metal that sewer rat was as fringe festival aa “they” come out of the closest. This Kettle’s yours. 82% water. Works…

Macro chips were my only Sustagen
Court type listen like device in hard form dumpers breakfast lie

N thru the telescope line snapped @asiolmc. And at TKs party 17th partly, shrewd new all abo’ me.

They lurve it soft machine fuzzed

over Fleetwood Mac big deal

Breaker escapes her eyes. You whys buy;

Crazy eye addict. I will knit be yr hell p.

Errorist Marcel laughs himself to debt. Im the mast head job of the spin master SKPing unharmed. We Total Recall John M Bennetts auctions as high distinction identities, trysts with uncanny linguistic titties.

4379. Thats not a pest code.

Thats gnat

A system, a pest code, or the systematic derangment of its pretenses.

Treasonous little zits. The statistics of play have treated me like a dag. I mean dog. They know bland loyalty.

I dork trashpo behind mark young’s back against your motifsm

I spy with my little i is a bother.

We resorted to a knight of pashin’.

I didnt wanna frisk what we had, but what if what we could get could be beta? We exotic resorted to a lost nite of Passiona.

Its a rich hunt..

Not Really

I sat under a cherry tree 

writing love songs.

Not really, but what if I did?

Your heart, my heart, our hearts 

vowed to be together.

Not really, but what if we did?

We held the moon in our hands,

picked daffodils in the rain.

Not really, but what if we did?

One magic moment we kissed

and vowed our love was true.

Not really, but what if it was?

*

Dying to Live

I am no flower.

I am not thin enough.

I am dying to live

in a photograph.

Years later, you at

my side, in a photo,

what a lovely thing,

a smile on our faces.

Such splendor and

beauty in the back-

ground. I leave this 

world this old photo 

from a happy time.

I stick out my tongue 

and puff out my chest

as a ghost. My white

hair, far from radiant.

Where have my eyes

gone? Where is my 

flesh. I hide even if no

one is looking for me.

I am all bones. My

skeleton hand shakes.

My soul is long gone

from this earth. The

finality of life leaves

a ghost facsimile,

an oxidized monster,

which time no longer

waits for.

*

Sleep Talking 

I speak for much too long

without pause in my sleep.

I speak without filter when 

we are apart in my dreams.

In my daydreaming days is

where you kiss me at last.

It is all I want on days the

streets are wet with rain.

Quivering on snowy days

like a grape on the vine, I

freeze up again and again.

I wish for another dream

where you wrap me up

in your embrace. When

are you coming my way?

I cannot wait to see you.

Is it today or tomorrow?

I am wise to know it might

be too long of a wait. I

speak whole volumes of

nonsense. I speak it in

my sleep. I speak so much.

It must be awful to sleep

near me. One can only 

imagine. When I sleep 

I will spill my guts. I must

put my hands over my mouth.