To My Beloved Wife

By Bai Gengsheng

About the Author: Vice Chairman of the China Writers Association, Member of the Standing Committee of the 13th National Committee of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference (CPPCC), Honorary Dean of the China Yulong Wenbi Dongba Culture Academy

Translator: Lan Xin (Lanxin Samei)

About the Translator: Internationally renowned writer and poet, the only female inheritor of the World Memory Heritage Dongba Culture, Dean of the China Yulong Wenbi Dongba Culture Academy, Winner of International Literary Awards

Thirty-three years ago,

I met you,

And set you on a lifetime of giving.

Back then,

I said I was an ethnic minority,

You said you had long yearned for that;

I said I was born in the great southwest,

You said you had always dreamed of its wonderful customs and scenery;

I said I was a man from the mountains,

You said you loved my calm and kindness;

I said I was just a worker-peasant student,

You said it was because the college entrance exam had not yet resumed;

I said my work would keep me in the fields,

You said that was the most down-to-earth;

I said I was penniless and had no luck with wealth,

You said having knowledge made me the richest man;

I said my profession had once seen many “rightists”,

You said that era was gone forever;

I said my Mandarin was not fluent,

You said your skill would help me speak with a Beijing accent.

Your figure was everywhere on the stage back then,

Your beauty was indispensable to the landscape;

Countless eyes were drawn to you,

Many hearts were set ablaze by you.

What did it matter that you were not from the mountains, an ethnic minority, from the great southwest, or a worker-peasant student?

Who made you stay true to your heart,

And walk with me for thirty-three years?

Thirty-three years passed,

You followed me through wind, frost, and toil.

My home expanded from eight square meters,

My salary grew from forty-nine yuan;

My academic career started with short articles,

My steps always measured the land of words,

My spirit always roamed the cosmos.

Yet I bore none of the burden of raising our daughter and caring for our parents;

You raised our daughter and cared for our parents, always shedding tears alone;

You found joy in those tears,

You endured illness and pain in silence,

You never doubted anything I did,

Firmly believing I would always stay true to my original heart:

Upholding one faith,

Cherishing one ideal,

Joining one political party,

Holding one nationality,

Pursuing one profession,

Earning one salary,

Needing one home,

Loving one woman,

Raising one child,

Not envying others’ wealth and many descendants.

Thirty-three years later,

I never took you to watch lanterns,

I rarely went to dances with you;

I never asked about daily chores or social status,

I never knew the hardship of cleaning and sweeping;

You always hoped my writings would outlive me,

You loved my calm and peaceful nature.

Your sweetness was lying down to hear me tell stories of “Wolf Grandma”,

Your comfort was singing a song softly or loudly,

Your encouragement was a sincere and true kiss,

Your love was a gentle smile without many words,

Your promise was to hold my hand as we grow old.

Ah,

My beloved wife,

Thirty-two years is not short,

Thirty-two years is not long;

How many black hairs have turned to white frost,

My beloved wife,

In this life and the next, I owe you more and more,

In this life and the next, I owe you more and more——

Yet I still have a heart full of passion,

Yet I still have a heart full of loyalty,

I can only move forward bravely,

I can only give you all my love.

My beloved wife,

I will never forget your days and nights under the stars and moon for thirty-three years,

I will never forget your hand in mine through wind and snow,

I will never forget your letters when I wandered far and wide,

I will never forget your heartbeat when I rose and fell in officialdom.

Thirty-three years later,

I will also never forget how you warmed me in the bitter cold,

I will never forget how you made soup for our family and stayed by my side;

I will never forget how you remained unstained in a corrupt world,

Like an orchid blooming quietly in an empty valley, exuding a faint fragrance.

The Ark

What’s art to the soul, bees’re to flowers; a wasteland without either?

I’m pushed far off into the river, because the government wants to uproot this slum and develop the land. Land is scarce, and I have been driven out with the rest of slum-dwellers, not once or twice but many, driven out mercilessly, our shacks bulldozed, our spirits broken. But we rise again in a phoenix existence, governments cannot rid of us. 

The sun rises even as we speak, I see lights filtered through the bees of the lush forest around the deep seas where the river and the sea meet, where I make an ark and I sleep in it another type of dwelling made in the seas. An expert in ark-making which I’ve become now from building a long ark, way too long for all the slum dwellers to live. This skill is a lifesaver, I make, mend broken arks and paint over its solid wood, until this becomes an art. Every time a hut on land is bulldozed, tall towers, constructed in its place, I appear before the demolished shacks to take advantage, and elsewhere into the seas until the ark glows at night like a spec on dark sea waves.

Ark dwellers pay me well. I can now build a brick house with it on an isolated island; papers, leases—documents, works for all that’s worth. Even join the builders’ group with such quality skills I’ve learn’t from ark building. They will gladly hire me and I can eventually buy them off. Great transformations lay on the horizon, as I start to lay bricks for a building of development project of a newly vacated slum. Then one day, a few men from the ark come along putting a claim to the land, because this is where their lost shacks were. They are no seafarers.

I look at them, I hide my face for I know these people whom I built strong new arks, my soulful arts on the sea. In my growing distance from the hive, those live off the sea. Oh! Look, look at me! What I have become!  My place isn’t on board the ark is an art I chose, which I choose to opt out. I’m a beyond rich, a brick layer by trade who owns a flat on this island—a wasteland of monstrosity called development, ultimately altruistic, a symbiotic symbolism where bees and beaus disconnect.

In ambitious film producer Dianne Angel’s memoir Every Restaurant Tells a Story, old Hollywood glamour is tinged with tragedy and motifs of potential danger. We enter smoky, booze-filled, elegant restaurants, hear old-time clever, and crass, writers’ room dialogue, and revel in the lush descriptions of clothing and accessories. 

Each chapter involves food or drinks at a different restaurant or bar, hence the memoir’s title. These venues range from Hollywood to low-income student neighborhoods in Los Angeles to still-Communist Eastern Europe to South Africa during apartheid. Although sheltered as privileged Americans in the entertainment industry, the characters still get glimpses of the rest of the world’s injustices and traumas. Planes divert their course due to political unrest abroad, Black restaurant servers have to leave to make it out of South African cities before racially based curfews, and intriguing acquaintances have massive gun collections. 

There’s often a dirtier, menacing, or just more ordinary underbelly to the tales. AIDS cuts short vibrant, creative lives, whirlwind engagements turn out to be financial scams, naive aspiring starlets dine unknowingly with armed international spies. This world is also unpredictable: the most hilarious, creative, heartfelt, or meaningful projects can be suddenly canceled on a whim, even after filming has started. The suspense adds mystery and texture to the chapters, as we find ourselves reading some of the short vignettes over to see if we missed any clues to what was really happening. 

Yet, the memoir never becomes a trite, one-dimensional morality play on the vanity of pursuing fame, or money, or beauty. While there’s certainly a class structure and pecking order in this culture and no guarantee of success, these characters enjoy their experiences and can reflect on them with a sense of humor. Also, people find real love and genuine friendship in these pages, as they connect and share food and drinks. While the author’s reconnection with an old acquaintance who becomes her husband is touching (and the incident with her car is tragically hilarious!), the most tender part is how her college study group morphs into lifelong friendships. 

This collection is worth a read: entertaining, heartfelt, and a portrait of an era experienced by intriguing and memorable personalities in various times and places. In a time when people seem to gather in person less often, this book is a call to consider what we might be missing by choosing food delivery or staying at home over going out with friends or co-workers. And, mostly, it’s a charming and elegant set of stories that draws you in with drama, mystery, and grace. 

Every Restaurant Tells a Story is available here from Lost Telegram Press. 

About the author: Dianne’s career is a fascinating journey through the entertainment and technology industries. In the 1970s, driven by an aspiring film producer’s dreams, she began her work as Vice President of Project Development at Zeitman/Townsend Productions at Columbia Pictures. At Z/T Productions she wrote the screenplay, James Barry with Robert Townsend, Executive Producer. She also wrote Berlin with Robert Townsend for Z/T (neither film was produced). She developed Weekend Fathers for CBS Television. (Not produced).

In the early 1990s, Dianne transitioned her skills to Silicon Valley, where she was a Human Resources executive for high-tech companies. She has published numerous poems that highlight human frailty and triumph, in Moonshine Ink. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature from UCLA. Dianne is a native of California, born in Palo Alto, California.

Trident Temperament

“Poseidon, god of the earthquake, launched a colossal wave, terrible,

murderous, arching over him, pounding down…, hard as a windstorm

blasting piles of dry parched chaff.”

—from The Odyssey by Homer

Nature’s glass harmonica cries

magnolia blossoms wilt

yet scent the breeze as tree

leaves hit earth then take

flight in renewed gusts,

slicing the liquified soil

like expert wave-riders

dodging foam, hanging five—

surfers’ heads slightly covered

by Poseidon’s curl—creating,

arching, holding magnificence

in abeyance as seagulls hover

above them, leading the way

to the bumpy, slick,  shoreline,

littered with sand dollars, scallops,

periwinkles, abalone shards,

clams, pucca shells, and sea snails

paving dryland with vestiges

of yesteryear’s salty mollusks

and magnolia leaf exoskeletons.

***************************************************************

Video Caretakers

I’ve seen spoken word poets die on stage

Observed pedestrians walk in traffic

Urged on flickering senior flames to rage

Applauded graffiti artist graphics.

Since COVID hit, I’d spent more time on ZOOM

Meeting troubadours from Peru to Perth

Past always prologue informed love and doom

Shared tomes that drew tears or engendered mirth.

Yesterday ICE arrested my neighbor

An army veteran, father of five

Family—citizens—followed out the door

Birthright Americans better dead than alive.

I just witnessed another poet’s death

An ICE agent shot Renee Good— perverse!

I’ll quit Zoom but wonder till my last breath

Why real villains evade a poet’s curse.

***************************************************************

Derelict Inspiration

My life accomplishments

appear before me in moments

unrequested and hang before me

long enough to appreciate

boarders and minute details

that appear in short second impressions

then disappear like footprints embossed

in wet sand—deeply defined

only as long as the blink of an eye

while ground swells rise—swallowed

and erased by the ocean’s tide

advancing like a thin plate glass

window nourishing, destroying

renewing…leaving the Salish Sea

beaches cleansed, nondescript

giving me time to reflect how

flashbacks take on lives of their own

provoked by the sound of an earworm,

the smell of salt water, or flight of a heron

that triggers my flotsam jetsam memories.

***************************************************************

Creation’s Critics Fibonacci

C.

J.

never

insisted

that I shave

my legs, armpits and

chest or to wax my pubic hairs

I didn’t think twice

about her

body

hair

stance

that she

referred to

natural positivity

pure and pristine as

Lilith who

emerged

from

clay

in the

Garden of

Eden contrasting

her to Eve, the body shamed femme

fatal the second

biblical

account

of

life.

***************************************************************

Memory (Hawaii)

Palm trees bend, shake, rustle tunes that

Whisper like tiny whistles through fronds.

Your body like a floral island,

Where eager castaway fingers sink into sands

Inhaling exotic nights, exhaling rabid romance—

Eros entwined, shapes frolic, twist, turn

Faceless days advance without numbers;

Tasks continue devoid of deadlines

Hawaii I long to pierce your lusty wilderness with

Temperate thoughts, plumeria leis commemorating ideals

Perfumed breezes accelerating as

They gust toward north shore.

May the fantastic return with clarity,

Latch onto winners, losers, dreamers

Provide fanciful fodder—enabling those

Who dwell in tropical mists,

Engulfed by naked forest ferns, time for

Jettisoned memories and lost opportunities

Sterling Warner’s Brief Biography

An award-winning author, poet, and former Evergreen Valley College English Professor, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared many literary magazines, journals, and anthologies including  Lothlórien Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Review, Synchronized Chaos, and Sparks of Calliope. Warner’s collections of poetry/fiction include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori: A Chapbook Redux, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps, Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction 2019-2022, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci, Abraxas: Poems (2024), and Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Presently, Warner writes, hosts/participates in “virtual” poetry readings, turns wood, and enjoys retirement in Washington. 

******************************************************************************

Sterling Warner’s Author Website

https://www.amazon.com/author/amazon.com_sterling.warner

Pig Butchering

Our modern world
lacking in humanity
herding them
into secret factories
tricked and trafficked
forced to toil
enslaved to enrich
Chinese crime gangs
with specific scripts
for pig butchering:
romance and crypto
investment scams.

Victims prey on victims
via fake online profiles
via deepfake videos
rich marks lured
by poor workers lured
to fake paying jobs
to real unpaid labor
bad food, packed dorms
beatings as morale boosters
living like farm animals
with 15-hour stints
warehouses of screens
running myriad scams
ruining others’ lives
their own lives ruined
trapped in the system
of ultra-modern slavery
to the vast organizations
that are bilking billions
from the global economy
in the ever-expanding
lawless global zones
in the scam compounds
of the pig butchering industry.

https://www.wired.com/story/he-leaked-the-secrets-southeast-asian-scam-compound-then-had-to-get-out-alive/

a fascist is a fascist is a fascist

Night town
white town
deep snow
deep cold
color white
and here we all are
a hybrid nation of individual
freedoms blackbooted
stomped upon
laws, norms, civility
under hard ice feet
glorifying the crush
the masks and heavy arms
bulked up brutality
colorless cruelty
attack dogs attacking
what stands in the way
of a demented mind
of a bulldozed morality
while the red rose pools
red  red  red
on the soft white snow.

No matter what the Administration might say, in embattled Minneapolis a rose is still a rose is still a rose.

The Country Inside My Grandfather’s Stomach

One of the books I have read so far, and one that I enjoyed the most,
is The Country Inside My Grandfather’s Stomach, written by the beloved children’s author Qobiljon Shermatov.

The main characters of the story are Bahodir, Baxtiyor, Mahmud Bobo, Oftob Payvasta, Nursalom Hoji, Shabadaliyev Sharof, the ruler Sfan, Abdurahmon Bobo, Qalandar Toga, and others.

The story begins when Bahodir and his closest friend Baxtiyor return
home thirsty after playing football and accidentally drink a shrinking
potion created by Bahodir’s elder brother, Olim. As a result, they
become smaller than a flea and find themselves inside their
grandfather’s body—more precisely, in the country within their
grandfather’s stomach.

This country is extraordinarily pure, beautiful, and radiant. Anyone
who enters it cannot help but fall in love with it. Its people are
honest, faithful, intelligent, fair, and truthful, and everyone
strives to become a scholar. Instead of water, delicious juices flow
through the rivers. As people begin to read, they grow younger, and
light starts to shine from their homes.

Bahodir and Baxtiyor, who previously did not enjoy studying very much, witness many things in this land that do not exist in our world. They experience wonderful adventures and show great courage. For their bravery, they are awarded the “Golden Star” by the city governor, Oftob Payvasta. They come to love learning wholeheartedly, take a growth potion, return to the real world, and after many events, firmly decide to become scholars. They also wish to return once again to their grandfather’s country.

However, this time, by coincidence, they do not enter their
grandfather’s country but instead find themselves inside Shabadaliyev Sharof, a greedy accountant who fears no injustice and has made his desires the master of his heart. The country inside him is completely different from Mahmud Bobo’s land. There is no sun, the people are extremely selfish and miserly, and everyone thinks only of themselves.

This land is ruled by the greedy ruler Sfan, who represents human
desire and lust.

Determined to become scholars, the protagonists meet Nursalom Hoji and continue their journey of learning. They gain extensive experience, study diligently, and strive to lead the people out of ignorance toward goodness. During one research journey, Bahodir ends up in the land of the “People of Prayer.” Together with the faithful, radiant, and kind people of that land, they fight against the ruler Sfan and defeat him. After seven years, they finally return to their homes and achieve their goals and dreams.

Conclusion

What does this work offer today’s readers? This story encourages every reader—young or old—to think deeply. It teaches us to be pure-hearted like Mahmud Bobo and warns us never to allow “Ruler Sfan,” that is, our own selfish desires, to rule our hearts. The story reminds us to seek knowledge constantly, to stand among good people, and to do good deeds.

Dear reader, as the saying goes, “Seeing once is better than hearing a thousand times.” Therefore, read this book, understand it deeply, and draw your own valuable conclusions. And never grow tired of seeking knowledge.

BEKHBUDIY: CALL OF ONE HEART, ONE IDEA, ONE CENTURY

“Turon, what is your state, vying with the stars?

Thousands of separate heads—Freedom, why not come?

Find your own opportunity—Nation, why not rise?

Time will not wait. Will the heart not beat?

It is a companion to fear… Should I live like this?

Your death is nigh.”

(Najmiddin Ermatov)

     Uzbekistan, my radiant land, the home of the golden cradle generation where the sun sleeps in your veranda when you sing a “alla”, where white “to’n and “adras” robes suit well, adorned with silk belts; the land of Mahmudkhoja Bekhbudiy, Fitrat, and Chulpan; a bright nation where faith and Islam are perpetual companions! My dearest sun-filled land, an oasis where the architect of the Taj Mahal, the engineer of the Nile, and the Imam Bukhariys originated; where spring whispers in winter, and gold blossoms in the soil! My heavenly nation, a pearl of the East, that has captured the morning shimmer of the sun in its orbits, a stellar land that has made both the sun and the stars fall in love with it!

     My chest is full of pride that the great Turkistan enlighteners, who endured all hardships for the happiness and prosperity of this country and sacrificed their lives to lead the homeland from darkness to light, are my ancestors. The feeling and glorification of the homeland are inherent in the heart of every person who grew up on the soil of Mulki Turon. When talking about the brave sons ready to give their lives for their country, the difficult lives of our Venerable Jadids, who raised them in the spirit of the homeland, and simultaneously the dawn suns who opened the eyes of our nation, serve as an example for everyone.

     “If we, the Turanians, spend the money we use for weddings and funerals on the path of science and religion, we will soon progress like the Europeans, and both we and our religion will gain prestige and development. If we continue in our current state, we will have nothing but humiliation and misery in religion and the world.” The people were in a deep sleep of negligence. Yes, these were the words of Bekhbudiy spoken at a time when other intellectuals were bursting forth from within, like a volcano, with the cry of “freedom”… The more we study the history, life, and activities of these national luminaries, the more they remain alive, and the unfulfilled desires scratching a corner of our hearts are reincarnated. They are rivers that have overflowed their banks and flowed backwards, untamable stallions restless in chains, the frothing blood of the nation, the life of enlightenment that has reached the throat in the face of ignorance. The Jadids are the new echo of the questions sought from the essence of the homeland, the tears that flowed behind the eyes of Mother Turkestan, whose heart was filled with lamentation; they are the very identity of this country, the root veins of New Uzbekistan. They were lessons incarnate, brought into the world to explain the value of the gift called life, the honor and respect of a human being, and what it means to be worthy of one’s nation and homeland. The goal of these innovators, who did not fit into the despotic system and had their own new world and ideology, was the noble pursuit of opening the nation’s eyes, achieving the days of progress for the people of Turkestan, reaching the world through educated national cadres, and building a free civil society on the foundation of enlightenment and culture. Striving to reform and renew a backward country, its education system, Bekhbudiy despaired with the “needs of the nation” in his heart, saying, “This path leads to a bad end; we must learn and teach,” and never lost hope for our present day until his execution.

     Have you seen the softly rustling, burning candles in the dark night? They flicker faintly, continuously and orderly spreading light. This light has the power to illuminate the entire night. Mahmudkhoja Bekhbudiy was such a candle of light.

He selflessly sacrificed himself, like a shieldless victim, to return the sun to the dark, unattended heart of a slumbering nation. It was exactly Behbudiy who launched the wingless birds of the darkness of illiteracy into the sky of science, “drowned” the thirsty fish in the ocean of endless books, and acted as the rider for the unsaddled horses. Mahmudkhoja dreamed of seeing the Uzbek people on equal footing with developed nations, and he stood out among the mature Jadids of the period of intellectual awakening with his worldview and activities. In his view, the school alone was not enough for enlightenment. It was necessary to keep up with the times and world events, to be aware of the condition, and daily life, of the nation and homeland. Therefore, society needed a mirror in which it could see both its ugliness and its beauty. This need and necessity led Bekhbudiy to theater and the press.

     “Padarkush” came into existence during this period. The author called this work a “national tragedy,” and it tells the story of ignorance and folly, where an uneducated child falls into corrupt ways and kills his own parents. Despite its small size, the lesson to be learned from it is extremely important. The life path and scientific and social activities of this enlightener, who tried his best to light the candle of the future in people’s hearts, are an endless example for us, as are his works and instructive ideas.

     In particular, there is a lesson in Behbudiy’s attitude towards world phenomena. His discretion in distinguishing between friend and foe is immaculate. The evidence he provided to prove his views is strong. The weights of his balance scale are not hollow inside. That is why dozens of names of Eastern scholars and titles of works appear in the content of his articles. Since he knew Russian perfectly, he referred to Russian books and the ideas of Russian scientists. There is great pain, a great dream, and meaning embodied in the communication, awareness, and cry of His Holiness Bekhbudiy with world civilization, world scientists, and world-famous books. For instance, in his article “Islahi Tahsil” (Reform of Education), he wrote, “We should send students to Egypt to systematically study general religious and Arabic literature and learn the methods of education there.” In this regard, he freely expressed his recommendation.

     Bekhbudiy is the star that defines the nation’s new path! Bekhbudiy is the gazelle staring into the far distance, trying to save its herd from predators! Bekhbudiy is the rope that fell into the hands of executioners and is preventing the innocent from perishing! Bekhbudiy is the compassionate soul worried about the lifeless, impoverished people, astonished by the populace that has even forgotten religion! Bekhbudiy is the love whose heart is burning while looking at those smiling as they die! Bekhbudiy is the tightrope walker carefully passing the pearl of knowledge from one heart to another above those silently watching! What an honor that Mahmudkhoja was born like the sun, with such dedication fixed in his body and soul.

      Indeed, the Jadids were not ordinary people. They opened new method schools and created textbooks. They enriched our language with writing and linguistic units. They worked tirelessly, like swallows trying to awaken the sleep in people’s eyes. They went from village to village, knocking on doors saying, “We have brought knowledge, please accept it.” The pen was their sword, every letter put on paper served them like a soldier. They published newspapers and magazines, wanting to awaken the nation with only one thing—the truth. Prison chains, years of exile, and even the executioner’s sword could not stop them. All of them sacrificed their lives on the path of their sweet dreams.

Is there a greater, more magnificent deed than this for a nation? True, this enlightenment movement, which urged the future towards light and stirred Turkestan, encountered great obstacles, was erased from the pages of history, the national leaders were branded as “nationalists,” and the bright faces were blackened. However, neither chained legs nor bound hands could turn the Jadids, who have taken an eternal place in the consciousness of the young generation, away from the path of enlightenment. The secret of eternity lies precisely in this commitment and self-sacrifice. “Oh Turkistan, did you manage to preserve the second pearls emerging from the shells? Did you not accept with a torn and patched shroud those who honored you with poems that sang of your love in every line? Oh Turkistan, did you stand by silently when the riders galloping in the field of literature were whipped on the head? Did you not share sustenance from your fields and dastarkhans, becoming a ready meal for those who trampled your sacred soil? Oh Turkistan, did you ever throw the stones that muddled the water back at them? Even if evil deeds and the most sordid events occurred in your past, could you loudly proclaim the thousands of treasures of enlightenment, the priceless jewels of knowledge within your chest? Turkistan, every dream of yours has a unique secret, every night of yours is adorned with divine inspiration. Turkistan, we bow to every wind of yours, we cherish every flower of yours. We will shine as stars in your sky, we will pay our debts as children on your lands, we will be the generation that preserves your power!

     In conclusion, our ancestors, who dreamed of seeing their colonized homeland among the world’s developed countries by fighting against ignorance and defending the nation’s honor, have achieved their goals today. Now, we, the owners of today, have a strong duty not to forget that we must realize the centuries-old dreams of our ancestors, preserve the land where peace reigns, and make the youth understand whose descendants we are through our aspirations, participation in reforms, and initiatives. Indeed, the future of New Uzbekistan is a glorious responsibility entrusted to our shoulders. As Bekhbudiy emphasized: “Oh zealous youth! The time is yours. Unite with each other, build societies, and serve the nation’s cause.””

Dilafruz Muhammadjonova is a second-year student majoring in Uzbek Language and Literature at the Faculty of Philology of the National Pedagogical University of Uzbekistan named after Nizami.