Arrival Before the Rose Dream Ends  (previously published by Wild Court）

He says he’ll arrive in Portland tomorrow.
It’s his turn to pay —
In the silence before the restaurant opens,
he arrives early.

A self-serve hot pot,
steam rising to fend off winter.
The union of dead volcanoes and roses,
perfect in his mind —
a scene from an Italian art film,
woven into the hum of lobby music.

A couple pick their ingredients.
A spoon stirs the sauce,
like jam stirred by love.

As dusk settles,
the girl arrives
and whispers something behind him.
He answers, “It’s nothing.”
He pays the bill this time and next time.

Months later, in a dream,
the dead volcano erupts,
swallowing the roses,
swallowing his life.

The next morning,
the news reports —
a young man in a Portland apartment,
kissed by death.

He lies on a bed of roses,
silent as a dead volcano.

Confessions of Death（Previously published in Apocalypse Confidential）

I am a wealthy writer
from a noble Kyoto family.
In Japan, my fans call me: Swan.

I remember when pale moonlight
illuminates the ashen stone.
A woman drapes herself in a white kimono,
adorned with strutting cranes
and blooming pink sakura,
gazing deeply at my figure.

She is my wife, an elegant swan too,
who carries the spirit of Bushido.

I do not long to embrace death;
I only wish to spread my wings
and self-destruct beautifully,
for redemption.

My consciousness submerges
in the weight of original sin,
rolling alone.

My family owns a villa during wartime,
where cherry blossoms bloom in abundance.
How shameful this is
to the impoverished.
Only death offers peace.

I want to cast my weightless body
into the surging ocean together with her.
I say, “As a mortal, I am so sorry.
I do not deserve to be happy.”

Two swans step into the water,
forsaking this ridiculous family.
In the moment of fading,
death is liberation.

A moment of silence,
my heart at peace,
with oceanic waves.

Within this vast wheel of destiny,
I surrender to the hush of infinity.

We long for peace,
and in the crushing of the great wheel,
only the moment of suffocation
beneath the water
brings forth
a profound and joyful illusion:

The setting sun,
spring snow,
floating chrysanthemums
in my first chapter of life.

We die for the suffering,
but for whom do the living live?
We destroy ourselves for our own expectations,
but who remembers the dead?

At last, we smile at death,
at nothingness.
Death becomes our final sanctuary,
a respite from a world
reeking of greed.

Like two delicate leaves,
we softly fall into the ocean.
Through the moon’s shadow,
flowers’ darkened faces
resemble death.

Interview with Yucheng Tao

You’re also a songwriter and a music student. Do you think your musical interests and knowledge inspire your poetry, or vice versa? Do you imagine your poems set to music?

Music’s rhythm gives me inspiration for the basic feelings in my poems. They feel like twin flames to me. I prefer to make independent work for my poetry and for my instrumental guitar music. I have had a lot of my instrumental work published by other magazines.

Since you’re an international student from China, is Mandarin your first language? What is the process like crafting poetry in a language other than your native language? Do you come up with a concept and structure in Mandarin first and then translate, or do you think purely in English for your poetry?

Yes, Mandarin is my first language. At the beginning, I tried very hard to write purely in English. Over time, it became more natural—but sometimes, inspiration still comes to me in fragments of Chinese. When that happens, I’ll translate or transform those images into English. Other times, the ideas arrive already in English. I think I now live between the two languages, and my poetry is shaped by both.

I notice a theme of death in your work, our complex relationship with the inevitability of death. Why and how do you think you’re drawn to write about death?

When I write about death, I’m really writing about consciousness, time, grief, and the fragility of perception. Life is destined to vanish in the cruel cycle of the seasons, so I feel a need to record my reflections on death—and everything bright that will one day be drowned: existence itself, which can be anything, even a voice within.

In the two pieces you sent for our July issue, your protagonists had the chance to enjoy lovely things in life: delicious food, fine clothing, moonlight, wealth, romantic love, although their enjoyment was short-lived. Many poets write about beauty in various forms. What do you consider beautiful and why, and what sorts of beauty are you drawn to in poetry?

I think beauty sometimes comes from fleeting moments—when I touch snow, rain, wind, or when the silent gods arrive with the night. My poems often explore the uncertainty of beauty, because everything can be beautiful in its own way.

How would you describe your poetic style, and has it changed over the years as you developed your craft?

My poetic style moves through darkness across beauty—and something beyond. Every day, I try to change something in my work: the technique, the form, the voice, and the feeling of the unknown.

What poets, or kinds of poetry inspire you? Do you consider your work part of any poetic tradition?

I love The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot, and I’m also drawn to Eastern forms that emphasize imagery, like haiku. Baudelaire, Akhmatova, and even the poetic language in Nabokov’s novels have all influenced me. I don’t often think in terms of tradition—I just read what I love, and follow where those poems lead me.

What are you working on now in your writing? What are your next steps?

I’m currently working on a series of poems centered around a character called the Skull-God—a light sci-fi exploration of human nature and emotion. I’ve written about five pieces so far and plan to continue expanding the series. Eventually, I hope to create a mini chapbook, somewhere between 12 to 20 pages.

Yucheng Tao’s poetry and fiction have appeared in a range of literary journals across the US, UK, and internationally. His recent work has been published by Wild Court (King’s College London), Cathexis Northwest Press, The Lake(UK), NonBinary Review (where he was also interviewed), and Red Ogre Review(UK). His writing has also featured in Waymark Literary Magazine, Apocalypse Confidential, The Arcanist, and others. He was named a semifinalist for the Winds of Asia Award by Kinsman Quarterly.

The Gate of The Cemetery

The whole world chases me fiercely

As I’m the only prey.

I passed through slaughters, massacres and massive burdens of life. 

I successfully escaped the darkness and brutality of this notorious world.

I walked the long path over the shredded parts, the killed children, the weeping widows and the hungry boys.

I ran away this motionless and silent world miraculously,

Till I reached the gate of the cemetry where life thrives as flowers

And the glamorous light appears from the innocent souls as the burning butterflies.

I walked among tombs and shrines 

Where tranquility and serenity flow.

There, I hear  the alives whisper

It was a wonder to flee the dead world and live peacefully in the heart of the earth.

I suddenly yelled at them loudly

“I honestly envy you”.

I WISH MY STEPMOM DIDN’T HAVE MY PHONE NUMBER

on Father’s Day 

my stepmom texted me-

“I can’t believe you haven’t called your father!”

I wish I could’ve texted her in 1988-

”I can’t believe you’re a home wrecker!”

but I was just a powerless

lost

10 year old 

made of tears

and I didn’t know what to do but wish

I hadn’t forgotten to call my father today

I was sick in bed

I’m about to call him now

thank god for cell phones

now there’s no chance of my stepmom

picking up

She came draped in birdsong

among those tender ponds they’d planted

for us

among our dressgreen lawns.

Immediately,

her smile feathered into action

a fowler’s net over us unwary all

(and I, admittedly, no less the nestling than another).

And when she’d left

our ponds in tatters,

our lawns gone feral again,

her shoes still twittered

In the new forest of I’s

(some trees fallen, some blazed).

REGRETS

I’m sorry we never walked arm/in/arm,

but that was from my own defects

and not your guise.

Next to your lovely limbs I’m left un/armed and fallen.

If I never said you were beautiful,

then it was from my tongue’s neglect

and not my eyes.

(I could tell you were lovely at once, but not tell you.)

Then I finally stripped down to humble,

paraded for you my regrets,

frustrations, sighs…

Keep my rubble.

You may require fill material.

FROM VIENNA, THEIR INTERPRETATIONS OF DREAMS

Two men fought their Mein Kampfs in their minds,

their unconscious wars on vaginas,

their struggles with a less-than mankind.

While Freud, that Jew, painted Austria

as a vast panorama of dicks,

Adolf Hitler, antisemitic,

bent crucifix into swastika.

Reader of signs, and maker of myths,

these, then, our architects, these our smiths.

GLUE ALL GONE

1. At my touch you’d rain from within.

You’d pulse like pigeons on a bush.

Our stormy passions fused our crows

into a rainbow made for me,

(Monochrome to Technicolor!

Distinguished Valor in a poem.)

Each new day after the havoc,

honored like sabbaths tossed in clay,

ceramic artifacts, intact

(though blackened and scratched) among bricks.

We did love the moon’s wallpaper

till stripped by scrapers in sun’s gloves.

2. There’s a toad between my legs

where I used to rear a snake,

and that nest between your limbs

disintegrated to stems.

3. I was determined to climb the mountains

but you always rode the lifts.

I was eager to dare the uncertains

and you wanted to tame the ifs.

Whenever my compass pointed to lost

you would new-rig my spankers,

and when all meridians were crossed

you would balloon my anchor.

I was the pistol in the crystal shop,

and you the glue in the glue gun.

The day came when you were ready to stop,

though my days had just begun.

You had followed in the wake of my wrecks

with your tender of repairs.

And now I gamble on an empty deck,

my hold bereft of a pair.

YOUR MARRIAGE TO THIS OLD MAN

To possess a stone of rules against those pharaoh-boys

and their noisy persuasions and their handsome toys

you needed to meet a thin christ at Calvary

or a buddha declining in his banyan leaves.

The unexpected dwarf you met your wedding night

was a bullrush baby again, enough of knife

to open a Red Sea but not a Promised Land.

All the commandments are sleeping tablets cut from sand.

You’re lost in the desert, and deferred in the dust

your legendary golden calves, your burning bush.

…

Dream?

Dreams embrace the sky,

Then dreams fly from this dream

Let me fly in the sky, embrace the cloud

Even if it’s just in my mind, I’ll reach my dream.

If there was a way, I would find a way,

My hope would save my heart from breaking

May the sky embrace my aching heart,

May the clouds fill my heart.

Even if it’s just in my mind, I’ll reach my dream,

Even if it’s just in my mind, I’ll embrace the sky.

There are no opportunities to make a dream come true,

There are no people who give me opportunities.

Murodillayeva Mohinur was born in 2008 in Kashkadarya region and is an 11th grade student of secondary school No. 44 of Guzar district of Kashkadarya region.

The path I have chosen is for the future of children.

Every time I hear the laughter of children, something flutters in my heart. As if a voice inside me says: “That’s why you live.” They are innocent, pure, sincere. 

One of their tears shakes the world, one of their smiles warms the heart. 

I want to live for children. Not just that – as a person who listens to their pain, heart, and breath. I want to protect them. That’s why I chose Pediatrics. 

This profession requires not only knowledge, but also heart, love, and patience. You can’t just treat a child – you also need to understand him. You need to look into his fearful eyes and give him confidence. 

Being a doctor is not just about writing prescriptions, it’s about giving love, receiving blessings, and being a reason to live. Even though I’m still a student, I’m learning slowly. Every lesson, every page of a book brings me closer to my dreams. Every night I memorize terms, every morning I wake up – all this is for the future I want. 

Sometimes I get tired, cry, and suffer. Questions like “why did I choose this profession?” also arise inside me. But suddenly my parents’ voices are heard, and every time I write to my father, they say: “Daughter, you will grow up, you are our greatest hope, we trust you, you will justify our trust.” These words give strength to my heart. In fact, the biggest reason for me to choose this profession is my father. My father’s faith in me, his dreams, and his prayers will not stop me from my path. I did not choose this path by chance. My heart chose this path. For the children, for the future, and above all, for the trust in my parents.

Rushana Raupova Sanjar qizi was born on May 7, 2005 in Yakkabag district of Kashkadarya region. Currently she resides in Tashkent city. She is a 2nd year student of the Faculty of Pediatrics of Tashkent State Medical University and participated in the international anthology in Turkey. Her articles are being published in the international anthology. 

Conclusion from yourself…

A mother had a daughter and a son. Since her son was little, he used to play ambulance a lot. When the mother noticed this, she said: “My son will become a doctor.” The mother then directed her son to the medical field. When he grew up, he studied medicine. Thus, he became a qualified doctor. The mother married off her daughter and raised her son. The son’s wife kept saying to her husband, “Let’s buy a separate house and live separately.” One day, the son told his mother what his wife had said. The mother agreed, saying: “Okay, my son, live separately.” The son and his family moved to another house. The son gradually paid less attention to his mother and received less news. One day, the son had a dream. His dream was as follows: one day, there was a call. The son and his assistant were The ambulance was driving to the address given. The driver turned the steering wheel to the street where the boy’s mother lived.

At that moment, the boy’s body was filled with great anxiety. The driver stopped the car in front of the house where the boy’s mother lived and said, “This house.” The boy hurriedly entered the house and when he entered the room… he saw his mother lying dead on the floor. At that moment, the boy woke up. The boy said that it was a wonderful dream. He quickly dressed and went to his mother. He went and hugged his mother tightly, tears welling up in his eyes and said, “Mom, I love you.”

The mother said to her child, “I love you too.” When the boy came to himself, the mother asked, “What happened, my child?” The boy told her about the dream he had. After saying that, the son said, “Mom, I will not leave you alone anymore, we will live with you now.” The mother hugged her son again and said, “Oh, my child.” “My child,” he said. Dear ones, let’s not forget that parents are a blessing. Before it’s too late, pay more attention to your parents now, make them happy, tell them that you love them every day, every hour if possible. May that dream not come true for you!…

Yuldasheva Oyshakhon was born on May 28, 2011. She lives in the Sabo neighborhood of Yangiyul city, Tashkent region. She is currently an 8th grade student at Yangiyul city, Secondary School No. 3. She is an active participant in various events, competitions and science Olympiads held at the school.