A RIDE INTO THE PALETTE OF MEMORIES After reading Ojo Olumide Emmanuel
Once upon a dream,
I journeyed through the history of me as a page.
Inside, there’s a whirlwind teaching a boy theories of hell.
There’s a naked hell glowing from bone-to-skin skin-to-ashes
& ashes into everything the fire named.
I bent down to morph the ashes into bowl of sand.
Suddenly, Dad’s picture emerged like dust on the pulpit of wind
With a broken image still blurring on the album.
In the album, his sins are mine,
the last duplicate of his sins winged through
my palms to sky. You see, this body
Has become a temple of forgiveness.
I forgive him. I do, I believe I do.
Outside the album, he’s vomiting all the apologies
Out of boredom.
Adamu Muhammad Ja’agi (AMJ D’POET) is a young Nigerian poet, debater, public speaker, and a spoken word artist from Minna, the center city of Niger state. Ja’agi is a young voice who is passionate about art and it’s magic at storytelling. He has represented the state including in a project presentation nationwide. Ja’agi is a student of father O’Connell Science college, Minna
Only then we can move on; matters not. Outside world what is going on.
Only we can choose the path
What is right for us,
When the veil of right and wrong
Collapse like a tower
Only can save us our inner power.
Eventually this power makes us strong
The pathos of life prolong,
Then life become a mellifluous song
We left behind the tune of melancholy song.
No one can judge us
Even we can’t judge anyone,
Someone who is imperfect
Become perfectly perfect to someone.
We have to overcome the
The hardles of life one by one,
Divine power only guide us…
When we become the stronger one.
Sumana Bhattacharjee
27/6/2026
Sumana Bhattacharjee is a bilingual poetry writer from India. She born and brought up in city Kolkata in a family of teachers. From her childhood she has had a keen interest in music, poetry and drama. She is a published poet and her poems have been published in more than twenty national and international anthologies. She is a regular contributor of ezines like Glomag Raven-Cage Ezines, Spillword. com, and Cultural Reverence. She founded two online literature group and she is working as an assistant executive editor at Global Nation Newspaper, Bangladesh. She is the peace ambassador of WHMP. She is passionate about poetry and she thinks this is the only way she can spread her thought around the world.
Egypt takes action to foster a cosmopolitan culture—a legacy of its millennia-old civilization.
Two significant updates have emerged from the Arab Republic of Egypt: one concerning the safeguarding of rights and freedoms within the country, and another regarding foreign policy, reaffirming Egypt’s full solidarity with the Kingdom of Bahrain in light of current regional developments.
A top priority for Egypt is the growth of a cosmopolitan culture and the continuous development of the arts—a beacon for all peoples. To this end, the government is deeply committed—both domestically and in its foreign policy—to initiatives that ensure justice, friendship, and maximum cooperation with nations considered to be staunch allies.
Tuesday, July 14, saw two major developments: Justice Minister Mahamoud El-Sherif offered his congratulations to the incoming President of the State Council, Mahamoud Abu El-Dahab, at the Princess Fawzia Palace; meanwhile, Presidential Spokesperson Ambassador Mohammed El-Shennawy announced that President Abdel Fattah El-Sisi would visit the King of Bahrain, His Majesty Hamad bin Isa Al Khalifa, following his visit to Qatar. During the meeting with His Majesty Hamad bin Isa, the President reiterated Egypt’s firm support for the security and stability of the Kingdom of Bahrain.
Meanwhile, in the Land of the Pharaohs, there is a surge in the number of tourists visiting the world’s largest archaeological museum dedicated to a single civilization: the Grand Egyptian Museum in Giza. Concurrently, a special reception is scheduled for July 30 in San Francisco to celebrate the de Young Museum’s highly anticipated exhibition, “Treasures of the Pharaohs,” curated by Renée Dreyfus (George and Judy Marcus Distinguished Curator in Charge of Ancient Art).
Be among the first to marvel at the 130 exquisite works that exemplify the grandeur of the world of the Egyptian pharaohs, ranging from monumental granite statues to intricate gold jewelry, each highlighting the wealth and complexity of ancient Egyptian civilization. Spanning 3,000 years of history, the exhibition features objects that beautifully and poignantly represent the daily life and views of those who served the pharaohs, offering insight into Egyptian society, its beliefs, and its artistic achievements.
“You will top as always, isn’t it,” said my classmates, as it was the last day of school today, the last exam of English Language was over.
I gave them a faint smile, of course how else could I have reacted, and quickly slipped away, as I always avoided many of them. There were two close friends, and two or three more in forty with whom I ever talked. They were gone, so there was no point in staying here.
Once I was out of the school gate, I was confused where to go to, I wasn’t going home as I know I would be going nuts there because of the boredom. After three minutes of thinking, I headed to the bazaar, my usual spot if I can’t figure out where to kill time. I had anyway informed mother that I will have lunch somewhere outside, and who will say no to a son who except coming and going to school steps out of the house once or twice a month?
I ritually played a little with the two, pure white kitties who were always found outside my school. They were kids of the strangely two black cats who were always found sleeping in the shade of the big banyan tree opposite our school, I had seen them becoming parents from kittens and I swear I cried the day these two kittens were born, whoever may be the father. I sometimes salute the father of those kittens, that black cat didn’t throw up any drama. One film on my this brother’s life, the husbands of this entire nation will learn what it means to love.
I walked away further, took a left turn and saw a small stall of an old aunty selling lemonade. It was May’s usual humid heat, Bombay being Bombay.
“Aunty, one glass,” I said. She smiled; she knew this order from me would be the only thing she would hear from me the entire year. She took a glass, and quickly made me a fresh lemonade, with just the perfect amount of lemon juice, sugar and ice. It was simply refreshing.
I then headed straight ahead, crossed a road and there it was, the bazaar. It was a huge line of one storey-ed buildings, all the same colour and the same structure. The ground floor had toy shops, stationery stores, shops selling utensils, retail shops and fast food selling shops with huge crowds in front of them. The first floor had tailors stitching shirts and pants from cloth, local ladies boutiques and tailors, barbers, and two jewellery shops. Though the rents of the shops here were the cheapest in the city, the jewellery shops here attracted waves of rich and elite people, as they had some of the most trending designs of gold earrings and gave you the largest sum of money in the city if you sold gold here. The shops on the first floor had air conditioners, and only the shops requiring it opened on the first floor. There was a medium broad staircase in between two of these buildings for you to go up. When you walked along these buildings, some hundred meters away, on the opposite side of the road were numerous vegetable and fruit carts, selling cheap but fresh fruits. These stalls sold the cheapest vegetables and fruits after wholesale rates, hence the old people who lived two kilometres or under nearby walked here to buy cheap fruits and vegetables, and even got the compulsory walk the doctors treating their diabetes prescribed them to.
I went up to Suraj ji’s shop that sold the best vada pavs in the city. Ever since his son threw him out, he and his wife learned how to make authentic, Maharashtrian vada pavs. They settled here, in Bombay, and started their very own business by selling all the jewellery they wore. Now, they were fed up with counting the money that rained into their shop, as they were the most famous entrepreneurs of the city. Be it the locals or the foreign visitors, no one ever dared not to eat their delicacy.
“Beta,” shouted Suraj ji as he spotted me. I touched his feet, and he blessed me.
“Why have you come after such a long time, keep coming and see us, you are the only sunshine our old eyes ever see,” her wife exclaimed as she assembled for me a vada pav : she sliced open the pav into two flaps;applied the spicy green chutney of crushed and ground coriander, mint and green chillies; added the dry and spicy powder of red chillies and garlic, a tiny bit of the sweet jaggery and tamarind chutney, and put a big pav of spicy potato filling coated with chickpea flour and deep-fried, in between the two flaps of the bread she had just cut open. She made me two, and I sat there eating them, the only outside food I ever love. All thanks to the love in aunty’s hands that assemble them. I paid them the money after I finished feasting, and they waved back with big smiles as I went away.
I headed to a tiny supermarket next, and bought a chocolate bar for myself. I sat under the big banyan tree at the end of the line of vegetable stalls, and just before the fruit carts. Just as I was about to open the bar, I saw three beggar boys, and one tiny and dirty naked toddler who had just learned walking trying to chase them, falling and then getting back up again and again. They quickly peeped inside the big dustbin on opposite side of this small road which was hardly ever emptied, scanning to find anything new. A boy quickly picked up a wrapper of a big chocolate bar from the very bottom, it still had some chocolate on it. The other boys started licking the stale chocolate on the wrapper, they started dancing yelling “Chocolate…”. But soon this dance turned into bloodshed as one boy snatched it and wouldn’t share. Soon, there was pulling of hair, dragging each other, kicking each other, biting and scratching. I thought it would be thoughtful to leave my chocolate where I was under the tree, and I left. After walking a few yards away, I looked back to see another fight this time over who gets the biggest chunk. I checked my watch, and I thought I must leave now.
All the way home, I observed till I reached home the sky turning white to slight dull blue and then slightly orange, as home was a bit long walk from the bazaar here.
On the way home, I once again passed by my school. This epitome of noises in the afternoon was now dead silent, shut down as if it never functioned. I don’t know why I felt the chills, nobody from my school would ever care for such a small thing, but for me this wasn’t a small thing. I feel (I wrote this in my essay today), that the essence of being human is dreaming big while being surrounded by small, humble feelings and joys.
I turned my head to the tree in front. I was delighted to spot that black cat once again, now teaching his kittens to lick and clean their bodies. He showed them how to fold the paws and clean them, and how to turn the head backwards to clean the backs. If they weren’t able to do it, he showed them again how it’s done, but he didn’t groom them, and they must now do it themselves. While his kittens were practicing, their mother came and lovingly hugged him from behind.
I had seen enough jewels today, enough heartwarming moments, a day to remember and linger in my memories. The sky was now bright orange saying darkness would creep in soon. I headed for home then.
It’s a continuous process of digesting the unkind world
Through pathos and apathy.
Suffering kicks in your stomach like a silent killer
You feel numb.
To suffer is to endure
Endure the blackness of agony
Endure the tantrums of moods and hormones
Transforming like the shades of light observed during the sunset
A pure endurance
Of whimsical torture
A rebellion against mild submission,
You associate yourself with the estranged tramps of Beckett
Silence prevails like dark evening
You can hear the whistling of unwanted creatures
That you want to remove,
You endure life’s drudgery
Like a spirited adolescent endures
Thee punishment of the elders,
You become the chief narrator
Of the soliloquy of suffering and endurance,
You press your feeble arms only to feel the blood veins
The circulation of blood,
You endure the resistance
Of immunity fighting against disease
A cough
A cold
A perverse condition,
Melancholy is a long saga of endurance
Your body reacts to strange melancholia,
Tears come out like the sudden, incessant downpour
You endure the mischievous rain.
Your frail lips mutter ungraspable sounds like an imprisoned convict
Going to be hanged
A thorough endurance against law and order.
Everywhere I see
I see the marks of sorrow in the dry cactus land
Impregnated with hollow men and curses
Alas! Life is a journey of endurance,
A pilgrimage towards the beacon of hope.
01.10.25
The land of faces
2020
Nightmarish-
Standing on the road,
Bare foot, empty handed,
Placing my palm under the sky-
A sudden rush of wind
Makes me realize
The shape of my palm-
Gentle for giving
Humble for taking;
I close my hands
In the momentum of awe,
I open my eyes-
I find myself
In the land of
Degraded machines
Drowsy faces
That I never dream of.
Drowsiness
2021
Drowsiness
Drowsiness comes like a night
Silently approaching towards my eyes
Eyes like the eyes of the sky- stars
Insignificant and numerous –
Something vague.
Drowsiness comes like a new dawn
After the night
With a holy spirit of newness
And with solemn vigour
Dawn-
The yellowish vapour of sunrise
Bestows upon my blue-eyes
Like drowsiness.
How far! How cold!
The drowsiness seems to be-
Alas! It becomes the link
Between birth and death
Alas! It is life-
The water-
The sea.
13.01.2025
Moment of stillness
2020
(In this painting, I have taken the reference from the painting of Egon Schiele)
Moment of winter
He is sitting and turning over the pages of his books.
He is sitting and combing his hair.
He is combing and listening to the music from You-tube.
The tunes, the music, the lengthy books- all seem to be longer
Than the evenings of winter.
Winter nights are for contemplation.
One’s life is lesser comparing to the cold sensation of winter.
One can be content if one counts the passing moments of winter.
It does not want to move;
It does not want to end;
It does not want to reciprocate
To the songs of the crickets and birds.
Winter days are like these-
Titillating and still;
So still that a moment can turn into a frozen one
Easily;
Nausea does not bore him any-more.
He thinks- he is more than nausea.
He is more than moments.
The hanging clock on the walls is afraid to create a sound;
If it makes a crack in the walls of frozen time
From that crack, some illusory vapour may come out
Signalling the boats on the sea
To protect the boats from winter- storms.
A sound can be a buzz-
Buzz of the nearby bazaars of the neighbourhood;
Sound of winter-
Are you there?
Almost one hour has passed. He is in the same position.
Nothing changed except the time-
Eternal time of winter-
That is old age.
A solitary crow on the nearby branch of the tree
Is shrieking to awaken its counsel-
This is the last winter evening
Evening of doom.
The You-tube music is going on and on and on-
The crow along with its counsel looks at the lifelessness
Around this house.
Some mishap has happened.
Moments of time become silent for eternity.
14.01.2025
N
U
M
B
E
R
S
The power of magnet is so much that it attracts the other magnets. If our life is like magnet, it will attract things like fate. I am people and I attract people. People live with numbers. And numbers attract other numbers. That is how the chain is formed. Like people, dates are special numbers. It adds, subtracts, and multiplies to create other numbers. The date of birth is a bunch of dates/numbers. It exists on earth so does our life. All the numbers are the events, the incidents, the happenings. These happenings happen so we live. We remember the dates/numbers, we forget. Ironically, we become the numbers.
I am terrible at coining words,
Framing my thoughts.
I believe that thoughts are like vapour.
Thin, thin, long strands of vapour-
Like fragmented clouds in the veiled sky.
We weave; we stitch the foamy particles
To shape them into a number-
A note-
The living life lived
By some lucky-draw champions.
People say that one has to start to reach somewhere
Elmaya Jabbarova was born in Azerbaijan. She is a poet, writer, and translator. Her poems from 2019 to date were published in the regional and foreign newspapers, magazines, books, websites, and anthologies. She has been awarded many certificates, diplomas, and medals. She is the department manager of Hekari newspaper of Azerbaijan. She is an honorary member of the Writers of Kazakhstan and the Kyrgyzstan World Association of People’s Creators, Honorary member of the International Academy of Literature, Art, Culture and Social Sciences of Uzbekistan. She is an Academic Appointed Coordinator by the Secretary General of Azerbaijan, Argentina. She is presented in the book Famous Personalities MultiArt – 5, Argentina. She was a member World Poetic Fraternity. She was awarded the title of Global Poet of 2023; 2024. She was awarded the title of World Poet Laureate from Azerbaijan as one of 55 poets selected by Pentasi B Friendship Poetry for 2025.
