***
The cut-throat tale drowns me in blood
A sweet heart gives me a heart attack
My favorite eyes blind me
The future pushes me away
And only the snow supporting cool
Of me

***
The bombs instead of thunder crossed three times as if they had metal fingers. Angels learn to cry. The rain is learning to drip. I teach my thoughts to sleep and flow like water. I teach my saliva to flow. I’m learning to rain. I’m learning to cross my fingers every time someone dies. My dreams for a nuclear bomb to explode inside me without pain are not feasible. Instead of me, other people who want to live are dying. I am learning to live. I am learning to die. I teach life. I teach death. I teach. I’m studying. I can’t do anything. I don’t know. The angels hit the wrong buttons with their tears and it rains nuclear bombs. My heart stops and the hair on my head freezes in admiration. Groin hair no longer grows. Thoughts no longer grow. I dream that my lover fucked me so hard as if a nuclear bomb exploded in my anus. Teach me to love. I’m learning to die of love. Why am I not able to live with love? My eyes are cloudy. I teach my eyes to see. My eyes are learning to read the gazes of lovers who are no more. I count the trees that are no more. I look at the stones that used to be houses. I am learning the word no. I teach death. I study death. Angels drool and I drink this drool like nectar. The water is tainted with anger. The stone is again a ruin. The stone learns to be silent again. The stone will remain silent until the very end, but then it will be too late. I’m learning to drown myself in peace. I teach stones to be silent. I am learning to be a rock. I am learning to drown. I can heat up. I’m already at the bottom. The water screams everything in the language of dead birds. I swallow sperm in the hope that this is the filling of a bomb. I swallow pills in hope. I teach nuclear bombs to sleep.

***
The bomb didn’t kill you.
Why didn’t it?

I pretend to still love you.
Why?

Happy cards fill my mailbox again.
What’s that for?

Winter is counting down the new year again.
For whom?

***
What to feed the silence with?

My stomach rumbles without your moans
My sperm is empty without your hole
My head bursts like a watermelon
My name is ripped off my passport

[I’ve got your cocaine name scratched into my veins
Oahhh!]

A lonely room turns into a sunken boat
A cemetery crawls out from under the bed
A blanket hides the gray hair that hasn’t appeared yet

Silence is fed with old age that still not come

***
No one is born in a cemetery but I’d like to die in a maternity ward waiting for something new. No one else will be born after me. No one will see the new birth through my eyes. No one will die after I die (at least I won’t see anything else). After I die, I will stop being afraid of death. I will also stop being afraid of life, because life is a slow death. My gills will grow back in the morgue. I’ll turn into a fish and breathe glass emptiness. I’ll be cut into pieces. But who will eat me? Silence. No one asks the fish anything. Night. The fish won’t tell anyone anything. The cast iron board will slowly cover eyes. The fish will float downstream. We are all drowned. We’re all lil’ drowners who’ve overcome the fear of swimming outside the mother’s belly. The cosmos outside the mother’s belly is silent. Space is also a liquid. Space is also a fish. Everything flows. We all flow out. We will never meet each other again. We’ll never find self again. We’ll never press your random button, God. A bird with a beak overflowing with fluid sings softly. Death gives birth to a nothingness. A tree gives birth to a flower.

S Afrose (Sabiha Afrose) from Bangladesh. She is a lover of poetry. Her journey started in August 2020. Gradually it’s turned into her passion. She has achieved many awards as tokens of love.

She has published so many poetry books, all available on Amazon Worldwide and other sites. Her YouTube channel is S Afrose *Muse of Writes* and her Facebook page is Muse of Words by S Afrose.

Her email is sabihapoetryparadise24@gmail.com, sabiha_pharma@yahoo.com

1. Please share your thoughts about the future of literature

The universe is vulnerable. We can’t get the right way. We feel hopeless once. But that’s not the option to move on. Then???

Look at there, the field of literary world. It’s amazing and beautiful. Anyone can get the soothing ray and the expressed way of the hidden mind. There are so many unspoken words. We can easily share this with the aesthetic aroma of the literary world. Don’t believe????

Let’s make a clear picture.  War and war! It’s making the vulnerable and devastated platform overall. What can anyone see or say???
Nothing is in general.

That’s not. We need to aware the people around the world. People only want peace. No more violent arts.

Pls! Stop this war.
Message spreads as the flying saucers. People can know the genuine thoughts at a time. That’s how, the Literature helps.
So, we have to reserve this amazing and magical method after all.

Literature world will be the good messenger to hold all things, without any sort of restrictions; with its artistic essence around the universe.

WHEN DID YOU START WRITING?
***************************

During the time of COVID-19, the total environmental state of the universe was distracted and too much pressurized. The vulnerable time acted as a fume for my journey in the Literature World. I started my work slowly on the online platform. But my love for the literary field was from my childhood.
I love to read poetry and short stories books
Specially science-fiction and detective series.

2 .The Good and the Bad.

Good and Bad- those exist as the dearest peers who fight with each other.

Good: Always shows love. Offers hand of friendship to all.
Spreads the message of heart with love and respect.

Bad: Always comes with a devil’s mirth. Enjoys destroying every beautiful part of the earth. The world should be the hell, without the essence of love and respect.

Oh no!
How pathetic!

Ridiculous this time. The global warming is upright. The ecosystem is falling down.
Early morning losing its beauty. So sad!
Universe is vulnerable with rising power of the global greed.
That’s why, only fighting with power, War, killing people, destroy environment beauty,  technology rampant,,,overall, losing the beautiful paradise by the human greed always.

Good cries and sleeping into a desert.

Bad smiles and enjoying its era with the Demoniors’ mart.

WHO IS WINNING IN NOW-A-DAYS
***********************************
Though Bad is overlapping Good, using its penetrated news around the world,  by global platform; we can’t escape from this situation. We have to ensure that still good is enough for resurrection the bad tempered souls all over.

The literary world has a wonderful power. It can show the possibility and positivity. It showers the petals of sophisticated and dreamy life.
Living beings, all are here.
People we are, have to declare for the good environment to live happily.
We want peace. Don’t spread negative newsfeed. Use your power wisely.
Your power, wisdom, enough to restore the lost rhythms of the earth. Hold the tears and spread and angelic fire.

Definitely good will survive and will hold all under the humanity umbrella,  beneath azure’s hub.

I feel like that. So, I have to use my thoughts of mind, on the pages of the literary world. The power is inevitable.

3. How many books have you written
And where can we find your books?

I have written many books both on Bangla and English, but mostly English poetry books. But there’s a short story book also.
Most of the Bangla books were published in Bangladesh 
There are 35+ published poetry books. All are available on Amazon Worldwide and also other sites as usual.

For example- Woman, The Bride,  Friendship,  A new beginning, Lion’ Roar, Lost Lotus,  Who I Am? Blood Sucker, VIBRANT THOUGHTS, A CUP OF TEA etc.

There’s my YouTube Channel: can access for the quick look at a time- S Afrose *Muse of Writes *, also Facebook page- Muse of Words by S Afrose

Recently, I am working as a part of editorial team. And my successful projects are- VIBRANT THOUGHTS,  A CUP OF TEA, HAPPY NEW YEAR etc.

4. The book. e-book or physical book-
What will be the future?

So many of us, are too busy attending to the prime artifacts of daily life, that’s why e-books are going to be a good way to help people access books and also a part of their rest.

But, paperbacks are always a better option to carry as a gift, and also the best friend for passing some good moments. It also acts as a reflection of the sweet memories. A souvenir for the family members.
Nothing can beat the essence of reading a book, holding it in the hands; turning pages one by one, marking some words as the dearest arts. The precious gem for refreshing the mind overall.

Just imagine,  on the easy chairs or midst the garden in beautiful weather, holding a cup of coffee with the dearest canvas of the words…just wow! This can’t be replaced by an e-book anyway.

5. A wish for 2025
The world is too dangerous for all the vulnerable living beings. The bombastic shimmers can’t be accepted anyway.
* No War* * No Blood*

We all want to live on a peaceful planet.
There should be love within all. Must be the bridge of friendship, wearing the crown of humanity. UNIVERSAL  PEACE – this message is the prime gist now-a-days.

If want to say something, holding the hands of literature; then I have to say that, this Literature World has such a power to spread the message of heart and mind, around the world.

Positive emissions can see. Let’s say and spread- Unspoken words with the power of ink. The universe has to understand and love this passage heartfully. Through starlights of literature,  we can make a friendly world.

A PHRASE FROM YOUR BOOK:
There’s a poetry book of mine: *No War*
I want to say some lines from this one.

“Stop grudges to protect earth for living happily & peacefully “

‘ Have a look
At each nook
When one door is closed,
Anyway will try,
Another will be here,
Hope to see the smile ‘

A poem from the book

THE FLYING BULLET

Love to hear
The lullaby
Of dear parents.

Love?
Can’t hear that song,
This time.

The flying bullet.
Believe or not,
This is not applicable for the minds.

The flying bullet
Now killing
All the people.

No!
We don’t want to see
This nasty game of the bullet.

A BOOK YOU LIKE

I love all of my books. All are my lovely creations. My best friends.  My Reflection of the Mind. So I can’t say anyone specifically. But if want to say now, then will love to share my beautiful soothing charm- A CUP OF TEA .

My dear best friends on this Literature realm have reflected their thoughts, using the magical power of quill. Love for all.
Love the Literature World. Love my dear poetry paradise.

Thank you so much!

EVA Petropoulou Lianou
Author and poet from Greece

The Hairdresser’s Daughter

My mother
Silver hearts in her ears
An apron over her black blouse
Shimmery pink gloss on her lips
With light blonde hair in waves behind her

Holds another’s life in her hands
Bleach on to long and it will never be the same
Flat iron too hot you’ll singe it right of
Cut it to short and that’s months of growth ahead
There are perils to a client and plenty of pitfalls for her hairdresser
Knowing all this I watch in awe
At the easy trust her client bestows
And the gracious elegance my mother receives it with
She is confident she’ll be happy with her hair
And my mother is confident she will make her happy
I am relieved that my job is much simpler.

Face scrubbed clean
Velcro sandals in place
Beaded play bracelet on my wrist
Hair down along my back held in place by butterfly berets
it swishes when I step

I am the sweeper
Although I have many duties as the hairdressers daughter
Fetching clean towels
Holding the mirror steady
My favorite job is getting to sweep
Dark hair recently shorn of, litters the floor
Broom in hand I shape it into a neat pile
Careful not to miss a single strand
This job is important, though discarded every piece carries weight
Each took months to grow and where painstakingly cut
Take it from the hairdressers daughter

Before we even step foot into work we prepare
My mom stands in front of the mirror making a perfect face even more perfect
I thoughtfully weigh out flower or butterfly clip
Butterfly
They have sparkles
And mom says we should try and look our best

At the salon the other stylists
Ashley
High ponytail
Christina
Black short bob
Gwen
Messy bun with a claw clip
Smile when they see me as they set up there stations
Waiting for the beautiful people to come in
Ready to make them even more so

I study the clients carefully as they walk in
What starts out as a half hearted braid shuffling in might leave as a blowout strutting out
Pin straight to a perm
The person entirely changed along with it
But it’s not just how they leave, but what takes place in the chair
That matters

Client #1 is indecisive
She has had practically every color and look under the sun yet still hasn’t found one to wear
longer than a month
Client #2 is old
She is going gray so she’s decided to dye it all silver. That’s aging in style she says
Client #3 is nervous
She has prom coming up and she wants to be perfect
Client #4 is ready
She is going for a promotion at work. She wants to look like a big business lady so maybe she’ll
feel like one

I blame it on the mirrors
You can’t stare at yourself like that for hours and not get to thinking
You can do that at a salon
think
You can count on the hairdresser to talk with if you need it
The hair sweeper to keep things clean
And that when you leave even if nothings been figured out
If nothing’s changed but the hair on your head
You’ll feel a little bit better

Ours Now

We saved the bedroom for last
We said it was because it was in the back of the house
Made sense to start in the entry
The living room
The kitchen
The bathroom
Everything but the bedroom
Anything but the bedroom
Until now
Because even now
With the rest of the house in dumpsters

I open the door
See the bed
And stop
Faded floral sheets tucked in
The white comforter smoothed out
It’s made, The beds made
That’s what’s different
It was never made before
Because she was always in it
I still expect her to be in it
It’s still expected that we
Shuffle in single file avoiding the cups of cold tea
Bunched up tissues balanced on stacks of magazines
Pushing aside odds and ends
To make a path, to the bed
Where she waits with her hand outstretched, spotted and knobbled
Her shock of white hair spread across the pillow like a halo
Drooping eyelids struggling to stay open
I can’t call her fragile
You can’t struggle for that long and be
fragile

She was buried two towns over
But that room
With the vanity now dusty
Crammed full of costume jewelry and expired cosmetics
Overflowing closet with now moth eaten wardrobe
Was her real mausoleum
It was sacrilege to even enter
But we did
We entered with trash bags and gloves and spray cleaner
All because a piece of paper said it was
Ours now
This house that I can only remember a handful of visits too

That the smell of cats and dust and age drove us out off
Was ours
Because it’s what she would have wanted

My little sister said it was haunted
I said it wasn’t
She hadn’t died here after all
She died in a bright white room that smelled of disinfectant
She died surrounded by family
That she couldn’t recognize anymore
But we cried for her anyways
I cried so hard she called me over
Voice slow and drifting
Why are you crying little girl
And that made me sob louder

When we sorted
The trash pile tripling the keep
We didn’t talk
Not when someone stared of in the distance
Or sat and cried
Because if we stopped every time
To feel the cool jade beads of a bracelet she always wore
Marvel at the birthday card we made and for some reason she still kept
Flip through the worn pages of the bible she preached
If we stopped every time the memories were too much to bear
We would never finish.

So we
Peeled away yellowed wallpaper
Pried of sunflower tiles
Pulled up the green carpet
A home turned into a gutted out house
And it was done
Except it wasn’t
Because now we would live here
No point having it sit there empty,
Right

I don’t know when it became our house
It wasn’t when we painted the walls grey
Or put in grey floors
And moved into our grey little house
I wondered if we would always be imposters
Who dared put food in the fridge
And their coats in the closet
Squatters
In a house waiting for its real owner to come back
Home

Lili Lang is 16 years old and lives in California, USA. Lili is a sugar addict who loves all things sweet and spends her time reading and plotting literary world domination. She has her head perpetually in the clouds and is a cat person at heart, or at least she would be if she wasn’t allergic. Lili is a CSSSA Alum and Writegirl Mentee. She is an LA Youth Poet Ambassador.  Her work has been previously published in Under The Madness Magazine and Girls Right The World. 

The Entity

Give me a love sight

I’ll give you my world

You can build your love generation

Without any brick our love castle is magnetic 

As the two exiting northern and southern hemisphere

Our emblazing heart will sleep in peace for years in grave

When we will get up again, life’s another chapter will begin.

Give me your sweet laugh 

We discover the forever green atmosphere  

The leaves swing in the breeze by the river

Life is a bond

The entity of two makes one.

People dream for making a place in Mars 

It needs force to encounter the gravitation

We go forward leaving all the wastes behind

 From one to another planet

Our blink for the same mirror 

Nothing can smash the glass to look into the broken frame.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

12 June, 2025.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

This Black Crevasse of Night

In this black crevasse of night,

when every dark wing

of grackle, crow and raven

appear to take silent flight,

as if I’ve paddled into the black

waters, far from the strand of dusk,

and dawn is a distant, mythic shore,

in this dark turning of summer,

when an invisible, black heat

suckles liquid from my skin –

I’ll soon be a parched mummy –

each night a silent decay begins again;

the things of the world molder

in lightless cellar recesses.

No wonder this night is for sleep,

an escape from inevitable, vast,

dark distances between silent stars;

in this black crevasse of night,

when all is sluggish and wilting,

the strongest steel begins to rust,

brilliant colors of the day fade:

electric, yellow goldenrod,

violets of thistle and clover,

the patinas of green, dulled

like tarnished copper roofs,

the jewel of Queen Anne’s lace,

a clouded ruby eye.

In this black crevasse of night,

the dew silently settles on webs

and grasses; not until morning

will I applaud the dark spiders,

quick trapeze acrobats,

under silvery circus tents.

Only the frogs’, the crickets’

and the few, remaining cicadas’

crooning is raucous in the silence,

in cattail and dark, bulrush speakeasies;

they sing for fleeting pleasure

in the few nights before the frost.

2024 Fall

Leave it in the air

My fear

Warn myself to be aware

Of the veneer

Of the seemingly clear

Leave me there

Ditch all the flare

But I was given no flair

To tame a bear

It lost an ear

A long blare

A long glare

At me who’s near

And dare

12th Nov. 2024

I wrote reams

Reams of slips

To you just piles

Of utter nonsense

Spearheaded in this cold war

I’m back with

A wounded Soul

Gigantic hole

Bullets shot through me

No more

Not valiant soldier

No affinity for

A purple heart

Now even your heart

Thumps for me not

Home where

And how?

Founded in a trench

Failed to stanch

Haemorrhaging

Bird Light Day Night,

-from,

The New Springtime Journals, Prose Poems and Pictures 

(for Tara)

Rya, R-eee-ya, R-iii-ya, goes the bird and it’s night when that occurred and the bird is unseen. There are soft lights in the real reality indoors. Love and friendship also, plus literature,- stacks of books. Papers and pens. 

Before, it was morning, and the sun ascended and the earth was warm if a little damp. Reading quickly through Rimbaud’s life and times. The diviner listened to, said a bird would fly overhead. A slightly larger than normal bird. This happened. And there was a large tree and winding paths, hills that went quietly up and then standing on the summit one could see far and far,- distant buildings and more hills,- trees. I watched the thawed and therefore flowing river, and the closer I went the louder and more wonderful it was. Morning, afternoon, dusk, and night. These things and the things within them. Airplanes and clouds in the sky. Spring. The new springtime. The springtime poems from springtime journals. Messages. Letters. Many words. 

A ring. I had lost a ring. Looked for it for weeks. Then I let it go for a while. When this night arrived I sat in silence and it came to me…the ring is on a bookshelf. I didn’t know exactly where but that was the message. From spirit or from the higher self or internal knowledge or something. I got up. Turned on lights. Stood before the shelf. Saw a small box. Opened it. There was a picture of Jesus Christ and a small medallion also, and some jewellery. There, amidst all that, was the missing ring. I put it on my finger. I had tried it on at a carnival once, the night fairgrounds of electric eclectic wondrous lights, vendors, music, scents wafting through the nocturne. Distant firecrackers of the firmament. Metropolis of summer. Scenes. Life. Streets. Cars. People. So many people moving about. The vendor: ‘It fits well.’ Me: ‘Yes.’ Memory. The beloved. Brown eyes and dimples, slight blonde streaks in her dark brown hair. Lovely. She doesn’t wear earrings but has been of late,- this year. She is pretty. Naturally pretty. A good soul. Wise. Strong. Honest. Reliable. From the South. Virginia. 

We look around at the carnival night. Before and after ride buses, trains, and in a car. Fine. Summer evening. Make memories. Hold hands. Talk. You know how it goes. Everyone has a story as they say. 

Back to now: pears and strawberries. Literary biography. Dreams. Good dreams and some bad dreams. But far less bad dreams than before. Almost a whole day without writing prose poems. For reading. For finishing a book I was into. Carson McCullers. A biography. Hmm. Pastel green duvet. We share chocolate the brown haired one and I. A fan whirls. The fields are out there, to be walked in and through, tomorrow morning again. Birds. And window sills here. Silence. Glass. Fences. Cleaning things. Wondering about the future. Aruba. Planes. Places. Beaches. Pools. Short walks. Longer walks. What will be there? Pictures and poems from the parapets and by the promenades of life. hopefully. Take it easy. The world needs less ambitious people anyhow. There should be a district for daydreamers, a mountain for magic, an arena for artists, a shrine for seers, a beach for believers, an applause and clause for the apolitical, a placid pool for poets…

There is a story I wrote about a blue crocheted heart and a small metal heart was found while looking for that ring. A diviner said: ‘Someone out there can hear this message- a blue heart I am seeing. Strange. Hearts are usually red. But this is blue. That message is for someone in the collective…’

Later I’ll step outside. Maybe the night birds will be there somewhere in the distance. A-r-iy a. Ryiiia. That’s what they seem to say. Loquacious if anything. It’s spring. I guess they are taking to their friends. Everyone communicates in their own way. The birds sing those strange songs. The architect makes a rendering. The mechanic repairs the engine. The train conductor sounds a whistle. A teacher makes a rubric. The novelist, an outline first usually. The poet the poem. The mystic creates themselves a new, with God. 

——