Before My Friend Got Killed
The sky actually was blue
The streets were more spacious
Women were sitting on the thresholds of their houses in the afternoon
Telling amazing stories to each other
The cafes were full of men’s laughter
My father smiles as he tells her:
Don’t take Faleeha to the hair salon
Give your hair the color of the sun
And leave the glamour of night to my daughter’s hair
She smiles back and says
Her name is not poetic
If it were me, I would change it
We all laugh
My mother was more compassionate
She would say
Eat from one plate so your emotions will not be lost
And like ants on a candy bar, we would gather together
Oh, my friend
After your death
The world wore a garment of dust
The war had swept away the thresholds of our homes
Women now wear worries
Permanent sadness
Cafes are bustling with the songs of false victory
Men’s voices are hoarse from smoke
And from drinking scorching defeats
Oh, my friend
Your death spread the snow colour on my hair
If you had stayed a little bit longer
You would have seen how my name was won
But death betrayed you
As it did my mother
And my father as well
All their advice fell on stone ears
Our lives filled up with wars, poverty, and exile
When I shout
Oh father ,
Mother,
Brother,
Sister,
There is no echo coming back
And regret bites my heart
Oh, my friend
Can you stop your Specter from dancing in my memory
Give me ten minutes to sleep
The smoke from the plane that killed you
Suffocates my days
……………
(Dedicated to my friend Mason Hassan Kamuna which she was killed during the Iraq-Iran war)
She is a poet, teacher, editor, writer, and playwright born in Najaf, Iraq, in 1967, who now
lives in the United States. Faleeha was the first woman to write poetry for children in Iraq.
She received her master's degree in Arabic literature, and has now published 26 books, her
poems have been translated into English, Turkmen, Bosnian, Indian, French, Italian, German,
Kurdish, Spain, Korean, Greek, Serbia, Albanian, Pakistani, Romanian, Malayalam, Chinese,
ODIA, Nepali and Macedonian language. She is the Pulitzer Prize Nomination 2018,
PushCaret Prize Nomination 2019.
Member of International Writers and Artists Association.
Winner of the Women of Excellence Inspiration award from SJ magazine 2020,
Winner of the Grand Jury Award (the Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021)
One of the Women of Excellence selection committees 2023
Winner of women the arts award 2023
Member of Whos’ Who in America 2023
SAHITTO AWARD, JUDGING PANEL 2023
Cultural Ambassador - Iraq, USA
Email : d.fh88@yahoo.com
IN THE WORLD OF PEOPLE
In the world of people uncomfortable and cold,
The sun warms the hearts less and less.
And kindness, like a ounce of gold,
Tightly hidden in stone of the face.
Oh, these are bystanders looks!
The lion overtakes the running doe.
The hawk torments with a cruel tremor
The partridge in the grass, just look!
Ostrich sweeps in the feathers of contempt:
-Croaks someone as if below?!
And straining patience crocodile
Sharpens its tooth with green bile.
In the world of people all borders are marked.
So as not to pass on the scent of a stranger.
If the hyena passes unnoticed,
There is no way back to her alive.
There are green pastures on the planet,
Chubby hunger entry is prohibited.
There are no homes for homeless people
Even at the cemetery…
Fatty man knows no wealth account.
In the wild savanna instincts howling,
Mother-antelope was killed.
Lioness takes care of a cub,
Hunger in herself drowning.
Nigar Nurulla Khalilova is a poet, novelist, and translator from Azerbaijan, currently in the Kingdom of
Saudi Arabia. Member of Azerbaijan Writers Union.
Graduated from Azerbaijan Medical university. Holds a Ph.D Degree.
Boot
As soon as I opened the window, the drops of the pouring rain hit my face, wafting the smell of rain-soaked soil. I fell in love with the rain with my tiny heart, my dreams led to Niagara. In front of our door, under a large rainbow-colored umbrella, my father sat and worked without looking up. Passers-by would one by one go in that direction, show their shoes, and throw something as if they were teaching a lesson. The big box under the foot was quite full. It seems that today
will be a busy day.
At that moment, my mother’s words: «Be still, my girl, your
breakfast is ready, don’t be late for school» could be heard from the kitchen. When I was getting ready and going to school, I witnessed my father’s good mood:
- I’m going to school, don’t be tired
- «Study well my child» - he said.
Dawn was gradually giving way to day. When I returned from school upset, my father, who was still working without raising his head in front of our house, saw me and asked: «What happened?» - he looked worriedly.
It’s hard to say that the water got through your boots again, my feet are frozen, bring me a new one?! My father was deep in thought, sighed and said: «Don’t be sad, my girl, I will take you for new shoes» and left his work , went with me towards the market.
When I saw a brand new pair of boots that had just arrived in the store, soft and white inside, I wanted to buy them. My father said «OK» and went to bargain with the merchant.
After a long argument, I immediately put the boots on my feet. When we were walking down the street, my father said: «walk on the side of the road, my girl, it’s drier.» I happily told my father:» No, let’s walk in the street with my new boots for a while under the rain». My father would not be able to say «no» again.
Sometimes I would jump into the puddles and watch the water splash. On my way home after walking around the bazaar for exactly two hours, I entered the house after my father and praised my mother for my boots. My mother, who did not say a word, smiled and hung my father’s socks next to the oven to dry.
When I went and looked, my father, whose feet were soaked in water, turned pale and shriveled, had started mending his boots, which he had not mended twice. With tears in my eyes, I was hugging my father tightly and crying, my father hugged me and smiled calmly and said: «Study well my girl.»
Nosirova Gavhar was born on August 16, 2000 in the city of Shahrisabz, Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. Today, she is a third-year student of the Faculty of Philology of the Samarkand State University of Uzbekistan. Being a lover of literature, she is engaged in writing stories and poems. Her creative works have been published in Uzbek and English. In addition, she is a member of «All India Council for Development of Technical Skills», «Juntos por las letras» of Argentina, «2DSA Global Community». Winner of the «Korabl znaniy» and «Talenty Rossii» contests, holder of the international C1 level in the Russian language, Global Education ambassador of Wisdom University and global coordinator of the Iqra Foundation in Uzbekistan. «Magic pen holders» talented young group of Uzbekistan, «Kayva Kishor», «Friendship of people», «Raven Cage», «The Daily Global Nation», Argentina;s «Multi Art-6», Kenya’s «Serenity: A compilation of art and literature by women» contains creative works in the magazine and anthology of poets and writers.
Binary Ballet
In the digital dawn, where circuits hum,
Science and Technology intertwine,
become one.
Their dance, a rhythm of logic and wonder,
Weaves a tapestry of progress, pulling us under.
Science, the sage with inquisitive eyes,
Peers through telescopes, reaching the skies.
It whispers equations to the cosmic breeze,
Unraveling galaxies, unlocking celestial keys.
Technology, the artisan of silicon and wire,
Crafts innovations that spark our desire.
From microchips to quantum realms,
It bridges the gap between dreams and realms.
Together they tango, a harmonious pair,
In labs and data centers, they declare:
“Let there be light, let there be code,
Let curiosity guide us on this cosmic road.”
Science observes, questions, and seeks,
While Technology builds bridges, peaks.
They birth revolutions, pixel by pixel,
In this grand symphony, their notes enthrall.
So raise a toast to this binary ballet,
Where ones and zeros waltz, night and day.
For Science and Technology, hand in hand,
lead us forward, toward a future so grand.
Muntasir Mamun Kiron is a student of grade 10 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Friendship's Melody
Friendship is the sun's warm glow,
A priceless gem in life's treasure trove.
Together we find joy's reflection,
In the gentle hearts of true connection.
Friendship is a raindrop's kiss,
Tiny birds singing melodies of bliss.
Side by side, we paint the sky,
A garland of sweet memories, oh so high.
Friendship is the forest's song,
Love's tune that plays all day long.
With each heartbeat, we dance and sway,
Through sorrows and laughter, come what may.
Don Bormon is a student of grade nine in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
How About it? Who are you?
Oh. Who are you? I don’t remember seeing you living here before. How ‘bout it? Who are you? All those houses up that way are for sale. I don’t remember seeing you living here before. How ‘bout it? Who are you? Why are all those houses up that way for sale? What the hell was that? I don’t remember seeing you living here before. How ‘bout it? Who are you? What the hell was that? I can’t get the car started. Let’s harvest some of that pronto hey mom look there’s two weasels hey mom look there’s two weasels and get it under a microscope.
But I don’t see how that can be ‘cause of the big bang. I don’t remember seeing you living here before. How ‘bout it? Wow we all thought this house was empty, I don’t remember seeing you living here before. I think I got a battery-powered transistor radio. Let me go get it. How ‘bout it? Look down there. What the hell was that? Everything just stopped, just like that. They’re bringing stuff out to the curb down there. Look. Who are you? Something wrong in the ground up there?
Look. Really? That’s why they’re all selling? I don’t remember seeing you living here before. How ‘bout it? Oh! They’re beautiful! How old are they now? Really? Why are they bringing that stuff out to the curb down there? Wow how time flies. But anyway. Who are you?
They always say every household should have a battery powered transistor radio. But we don’t got one. [flop] So what’s wrong in the ground that they all need to move? Do you got one? I don’t remember seeing you living here before. How ‘bout it? Who are you? I don’t remember seeing you living here before. How ‘bout it? Who are you? The sky up there look at it. I thought you said you had a battery powered transistor radio. I never knew it looked quite that blue. Okay—and no we didn’t hear nothing. That’s something. We didn’t hear nothing.
Why’d you say you had a battery powered transistor radio when you knew you didn’t have a battery powered transistor radio? No. You didn’t hear nothing? I mean dear God, it was something. We’re calling on neighbors who didn’t come out to make sure everything’s okay with them.
Why’d you say that eh you a liar? We—nobody knows but there was a big bang up in the sky and all the power cut off. Why’d you say that eh you a liar? A big bang in the sky someplace. Why’d you say that eh you a liar? They reached on the inside of the wall for the entryway light switch and managed to get the lights back on. They looked out.
What happened?
Why’d you say that eh you a liar?
Can’t tell.
Just a big bang in the sky someplace.
What?
Why’d you say that eh you a liar?
A big bang in the sky someplace.
Why’d you say that eh you a liar?
A big bang in the sky someplace.
You a liar? A liar? A liar?
You a liar?
No!
So = they left the house, through their never had been knocked on ever, door, leaving their brand new but already dead TV televisions “McVisionary and Pole” deeply branded dead set behind, and so even though they had got it for deep-free anyway, dear God Gimi Rando McRando never min all that damn anyway, get yourselves out there where you were then Gimi, for reasons having nothing to do with that one thought they had a battery-powered transistor radio but not never went back to get the damn thing here hey were deep seated o’re their elementalized correct element again as-as h-hey, strapped on their cestas, re-entered the court, and began to play. {pillo}
They still found the game to be su-uperprisingly easy{.} ? Easy sass’ Fly! Pop! so Back! Catch! play Fling! Fly! Pop! so Back! so Back! so Back! so Back!
“Isn’t this game great, great fun?”
“Yes it’s fun!”
A POSTCARD FROM PERU
Yerbabuena
We pass a young boy herding four yearlings. They startle at our engine’s grind, the glare of headlights, the shrill horn. In the dawn twilight, other trucks and combis are pulling up. Their passengers climb down, heavy bundles and baskets over shoulders, and enter the market yard.
The Sunday market in Yerbabuena is one of the largest in the region—and one of the few traditional trueque (bartering) markets that still exists. Folks have come from the many small villages and hamlets in this Utcubamba River valley, between Leymebamba and Chachapoyas.
Tarps are being stretched over rickety wooden stands. Offered wares are set out: horse tackle and ropes, sandals and slingshots (for hunting) made of old tires, produce from highlands and low. Wood fires in the comedores spice the growing morning.
Soon the bustling hustle is on. One woman offers half a saddlebag of corn for plantains. Yonder, a family is their calf. All around people are trading pottery for produce from a chakra (small farm), or well-bundled kindling for a trussed chicken (no doubt, this afternoon’s almuerzo).
I have nothing to trade—but soles (the local currency) are accepted for the bread and avocados I buy before hopping a truck towards the Revash ruins.
IN THE FRIGID NIGHT
18-19 March 1994 / Oaxaca to Mexico City (El Oaxaqueño / 2ª class)
I awaken at about 4:30 a.m. Our train is winding deep within the folds of the Sierra Madre. This night is frigid. I dig out my sleeping bag.
A father in one seat holds two of his small children tight. They wear only light cotton shirts. They might be migrating from the warmer lowlands – from Tapachula on the Guatemalan border, or perhaps from the Tehuantepec isthmus.
On the floor across the aisle, the mother shares their only blanket with the two younger children.
I unzip my sleeping bag open and hand it to them for the night. Father smiles and folds it around his son and daughter. Soon they fall asleep.
I put on another shirt and button up my jacket. Huddled within my seat, I watch the night silently slip by.
SUNSET JOURNEY
Across & across miles & miles of flat, dry-green savannah, the land rolling towards dark-treed mountains dressed in clouds, blue crystalline sky brushed with nebulous white, sunlight sheening off rivers graveled tresses braiding. Shadows sink deeper, rose perfumes periwinkle clouds, the setting sun honeys the grasses & trees of these flat, rolling sabanas, scattered settlements gather like the foothills, like the cumulus over that now-nearer sierra. Climbing through three lo-o-ong tunnels & finally into a high valley, pallid indigo sky stippled with clouds, the mountains covered with low brush, dwarf trees, cacti, bare rock folded, twisted, tilted by the millennia … all lost in the dusk.
Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose writings appear in over 400 journals on six continents, and 23 collections – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Santa Marta Ayres (Origami Poems Project, 2024). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures at www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or http://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.
