I walked briskly west to 40th and Sixth to catch the F train home to Queens, where I lived with my parents. It was already dark and cold even though it was only 4pm, early for me to be leaving the bank, where I had worked for six years, since I turned 24.
In the station, there were a lot of people on the platform. An empty train arrived, and I got a seat. Commuters hung over me, so I bent my head down to my paperback copy of Wuthering Heights. It had been my mom’s favorite book when she was a girl. I was midway through, engrossed in the story of Catherine and Heathcliff.
I loved imagining my mom young. It wasn’t difficult, even though I came late in her life. We had so many black-and-white pictures from her youth in Lebanon, where I could tell she had lots of friends and was clowning in almost every shot. In one she hung upside-down on a metal bar; in others she was skiing, swimming, and sticking out her tongue.
In junior high, I used to think that if somehow my mom and I were classmates, she wouldn’t choose me as a friend. I would run through every possible scenario where we might become friends and turn over in my bed with a sinking feeling that it could never happen.
In school I was bookish and had only one or two friends. We wondered how we could become like the popular girls, but it seemed out of our reach.
My mom was popular even at age 66. She had many friends. She oozed charm and wit. Maybe it was because she was my mother, but I saw her as the vibrant center of any gathering. I admired the magnetism in her.
The subway car screeched to a halt as someone stepped on my black ballet flat. I looked up. It was my mother.
She never took the subway anymore. When I was a teenager, she was nearly choked in the turnstile by a mugger trying to grab her gold chain, which wouldn’t break. Instead she drove a Caprice Classic with velvet blue seats.
I couldn’t believe I was seeing her under the florescent lights of the subway car, amidst the advertisements for clear skin and hemorrhoid creams. She wore dangling earrings and looked glamorous. She seemed out of place, out of context in her stylish coat and high-heeled boots.
“Mom,” I said, loud enough for many to take notice.
“Lellybelle!” she said with a smile that embraced me.
I stood up, grabbed her arms, turned her in coordinated baby steps, and placed her in my seat. “What are you doing on the subway?” I asked
“My car broke down on 57th Street,” she said, brushing her brown hair out of her face.
She had been at a bridge tournament that day with her friend Mireille. She played all kinds of card games and was good at them. As we headed home together from the Forest Hills subway station along 108th Street, she told me that when she was walking down Lexington Avenue, she was overcome by perspiration, so much so that she went into a coffee shop and got napkins to wipe down her panty-hosed legs. “That’s weird,” I said. “Maybe you should go to a doctor.”
“Don’t be ridiculous” she said.
Instantly I stopped being ridiculous. We made a right on 68th Drive and were finally home.
Two days later, my mother collapsed.
That night as she was dying on the floral couch of our house, my sister, Debi, cradling her until the EMS arrived, I was on the subway. The trains were delayed. I got out at my exit; the air was arctic, my boots crunching on the snow, my breath visible in the night sky. Walking along 108th Street, I hopped aside as an ambulance went by, lights flashing and sirens wailing. I didn’t know it was racing down side streets to save my mother. I came home while they were trying to get her to breathe. A machine was doing it for her, and the ambulance took her to the hospital, but she was never able to wake up and breathe on her own. Four days later, declared brain dead, the apparatus was unplugged. For those four nights, my brother Dorian stood vigil at the foot of her bed.
Dorian and I left the hospital and made the arrangements at the funeral home and cemetery for a burial in the morning. That night, I fell into bed exhausted and depleted and finally went to sleep. I dreamed I was in bed with my mom having coffee. We were in her bedroom, which for some reason was on the first floor instead of the second, and we were wearing our nightgowns. Her gold bangles chimed as she lifted the cup from the saucer to drink. The doorbell rang. It was a couple, friends of my parents, a box of pastries in their hands. “Who was it?” my mom asked. “Valley and Marco,” I said and showed her all the goodies as if we had won a prize. As I was climbing back into the bed and getting settled for a grasse matinee, the doorbell rang again. “What’s going on?” my mom asked. I shrugged, ran to get the door to find more of her friends, and then got back into her bed. But as I snuggled next to her, smelling her smells, I realized that her friends, whom I’d known all my life, had looked at me with pity.
After the funeral, the friends who had populated my dream came to our door. It was the first night of the shiva. The friends had food just like in the dream, but my dream had been kinder.
I didn’t pick up Wuthering Heights again until the shiva was over and I had to go back to work. On the subway that morning, seated on the hard plastic orange seat, I opened the book to where I had left off.
The next chapter was the funeral of Catherine. I gasped. How had I stopped reading just before that point? Catherine saw Heathcliff again and was sick with regret. But I didn’t expect her to die. The shock of it made me cough out a sob. I closed the book and gathered myself. My mom was gone, brutally taken from me, like an excision. Here I was on the train, after an interruption of 10 days, going back to the mundane advertisements overhead like nothing had happened. But I had changed. I didn’t know how to be. I didn’t know how I was going to continue my life without my mother in it. I wasn’t ready to read a book and be in the subway. I wished I could look up and see her again, right there, stepping on my foot. My mom was in the hard cold ground in a cemetery in Queens, snow already covering her grave. The finality was savage.
My stop was next. I got up to leave the train, and with one last searching look, I stood clear of the closing doors.
Sanjeev Sethi’s latest full length collection of poetry, Legato without a lisp, is a work of exemplary fullness. A fullness of language and of intention. Comprising a collection of works rendered by a poet sure of his abilities and expression, it comes in its sheer robustness into an era marked by frail superficiality. Legato without a lisp is projected in its fullness to stand apart from the mere apparitions of art, those things that shout but barely speak, that garble as they scream with nothing to say. This is not at all in their company. This is a work solid and tangible.
It begins at the level of the line. Each feeling fully formed as though pulled from some remarkable ether and yet each line comes together, cobbled together with striking unity. Poetry born both together and apart. ‘Menarche left its mark/on your left leg’ – from Adolescence and ‘The meter of mederation fails/to direct my dinghy. A sneeze’ – from Effectuation are two such examples. This language, while transformative in its solidity, is not forceful, not violent but inviting, wise and open in its delivery. At times it almost comes like a sermon, Sethi pronouncing from his pulpit, tome in hand, somehow quiet yet booming. A gentle tone from an angel megaphone. A sound that does not speak with reluctance but with vigour.
All this is not to say that it does not have its moments of playfulness and humour. When the humour does come it comes with wit and with a sense of play that eschews the tired figure of the overly serious and dull artist. In passages such as ‘In Meatspace, we meet slices, too’ – from Rifeness, Sethi shows he’s not afraid to have fun. So too in the exemplary rhythms of the poems. They roll by on the gentle musicality, freely played with but always disciplined enough to not crumble into sing-song emptiness. You never get the manipulative feeling of being dragged into another’s song but feel compelled to sing along with Sethi’s gentle tune. ‘Do you know of anyone who dickers/with destiny? Meet the unsexed who,/like everyone, breathe some/more, and leave without a forwarding/address – from Olio, illustrated Sethi’s mastery of the rhythmic form.
The poems themselves are concerned with the movements of life, the chronological and the appreciative frozen moments where lyric poetry of this quality is born. At times political, at times gently instructive, at times traversing memory that concretes the past rather than descending into sentimental nostalgia. This shapes a world removed from attempts at the homogeneous universal and into the individual. The abstraction of the personal, the subjective waltz of place and time. One gets the feeling that Sethi has a mind for pondering the small moments of life and taking from them something entirely individual. These are not the rehashed platitudes of the churned out postcard poignancy of so much modern poetry. These stand alone. When Sethi writes lines like ‘Mortality forwards its memo,/through a long-lost friend./Senectitude wrests my mentor/and I am quietened by lines left by him;/as an impulse larger than me/chooses to triturate my ego’ – from Au Revoir, you sense his authorial presence in each utterance. He is not interested in the familiar, only in what he can grasp from life through his art.
Legato without a lisp is a book well worth the time. As an art object, it stands as a physical structure against the tide of so much that withers and falls, weak work created with so little thought apart from the on-trend and the easily consumable. Work that it is made to be quickly exhausted and disappear. Work that has no physicality and cannot stand. Sanjeev Sethi has here created a work that wishes to stand, that demands to be remembered. What more could one ask?
Nathan Anderson is a poet and artist from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of numerous books and has had work appear widely both online and in print. He is a member of the C22 experimental writing collective. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter/X/Bluesky @NJApoetry.
(Central Asian teen girl with dark hair and a white collared blouse. She’s holding a certificate.)
“The first step towards great goals”
Goal, dream, passion, plan are words that are similar to each other. Every person should have these words in their heart. If these words are not in someone’s heart, know that he is a person — People who have these words in their hearts are perfect, knowledgeable, intelligent and everyone envies them. Do you want to be among these people?
Then put a goal in front of you and try your best to achieve that goal. If you know the word “action”, you know the words “goal” and “dream” as well. To achieve your goal try hard. And achieve your goal. Also justify the trust of people who trust you. Through this goal, you become such a person that people look at you with envy and take an example from you. It is true that there will be people who look at you with envy when you are achieving your goals. But don’t pay attention to those people. On the contrary, try harder. Let that person see you become a bigger person and start looking at you not with envy, but with envy. Let that person follow your example.
Rasulova Rukhshona was born on October 16, 2008 in Rishton district of Fergana region. In 2015, she started studying in the 1st grade of school 34 in this district. Currently, she is a 9th grade student of this school. Rukhshona Rasulova is interested in participating in various competitions, writing poems and stories, and reading many books.
She regularly participates in school and district competitions and takes pride of place.
Also participated in many online contests and
There are international certificates.
Member of various creative teams.
A young artist has unlimited goals in his heart. His biggest dream is to become a “young reader”.
Rukhshona Rasulova’s poems were published in the book “Youth of Uzbekistan” published by Justfiction publishing house and in one of the most prestigious British magazines “Raven Cage”. And participated in various anthologies covering artists across the Republic. His creative works are included in the collections “Journey to the Land of Joy”, “Young Talents”, “Youth of Uzbekistan”. Currently, he is the leader of the “Young Artists” circle at Ruhshona 34 general secondary school. At the same time, her creative works were also published in the newspaper “Tong ystziri” published throughout the Republic. We hope you will enjoy reading some of her works.
raindrops washed the streets of the smoky village,
the pigeon lands at the wrong address…street number 1986.
The dove, that morning, decorated the song in the bird’s nest,
the rotten mammal was flying
to bring tidings to the chord of Eros,
in Pristina it stops at Ulpiana,
relieves fatigue in the stork’s stork,
the reception smells of the White Crow,
Doris wrote the letter beautifully
in a duel he sought in the Chair
on street number 1986.
The late letter faded into reading…
she sheds tears on the side path,
crow’s feet, seeking separation
in the corner of the heart the melody of hope,
spiders in Doris’s painting
they embroider the bride’s dowry
the late letter wet with tears,
two-way flow switches cards,
to the wrong address –
a life in search traverses, road number 2016.
(The letter left from Peja city in Kosovo,in June 1986, reached Bardh village of Kosovo, in November 2016). The distance between Peja and Bardhi is 45 km!
THRILL
Good evening –
a portrait appears on the screen,
blonde girl with lots of bangs,
special name in this late fall.
Letters get lost on the keyboard,
confusion of emotions in the frozen landscape,
“I’m sorry… – I wanted to say hi,
I have a shiver in me!
“Well, for a few years now, they have made themselves…
“break of sweat on the afflicted forehead,
vision lost in crystal ecstasy…
that, behind the glass a more simplistic world.
He dances his fingers to the chord
of syntactic timbre submerged in pools of tears,
“how close we are, how far we feel”,
this antithesis said in synonymy,
a lot has changed, a lot.
A single path of divine longing,
where I hear the return in late winter,
suspend the sworn oath,
I am looking for architecture
in Rozafa Bridge,
nothing has changed, nothing.
FLOCK CARD
My goodness
Golden hair
in a wedding dress,
it disturbs my life
how you glean the corn
who wear and weave maiden crowns.
There was a mole on the cheek, the weight on the eyebrows
of mortal suffering, in the hands of fate
embroidered in Pelasgian letters,
history cashed in mythology.
The two portraits of your soul,
a woman in infinity
which wreath we laid on the altar of happiness,
the white wedding sheet
you stole from me treacherously!
On our pillow
we share the dreams of the future,
I miss you so much..
THE PERSECUTED MUHAJIR
You sat in the lap of dreams
I caressed her tender lips with caresses
and breasts flourished in my drunkenness,
Song of the Sibyls in poetic verse.
In the oasis of the aroma of tea we lay down,
in the leaves we looked at the unlived life,
we scratched the skin in myzava,
we used to fight in lectures for years.
We poured over the river bed
morality wrapped in dogma,
we spat the time we didn’t know each other
and when we got to know each other, we hugged.
You embroidered the bride in the poet’s muse,
I’m a persecuted muhajiri
I sought refuge in love
our harp was longing.
Lan Qyqalla, graduated from the Faculty of Philology in the branch of Albanian language and literature in Prishtina, from Republika of Kosovo. He is a professor of the Albanian language in the Gymnasium. He has written in many newspapers, portals, Radio, TV, and Magazines in the Albanian language and in English, Romanian, Francophone, Turkish, Arabic, Italian, Greek, Swedish, Hindu, Spanish, and Korean.
Amir Temur and the history of the irrigation system during the Timurid era
Rajabova Sarvinoz Utkir’s daughter
Bukhara State University, Faculty of History and Law, student of group 5.3 Tar 22, majoring in history and countries
Abstract: During the period of Amir Temur and the Timurids, the construction of ditches and canals was of great importance in the socio-economic life of the region. During this period, most of the land, water and handicrafts were under state control. Water management systems, including canals and ditches, were important for providing water for agriculture, facilitating trade, and supporting the development of cities. Information is provided on the water supply of the regions, the connection with trade relations in economic life.
Key words: Amir Temur, waterways, Angor canal, water resources, Samonjuq steppe, crafts, Murgob oasis, Barlos stream
Enter
The construction of waterways during the Timurid period is evidence of the development of engineering and infrastructure of that time. The canals were strategically designed to use water resources for irrigation, to ensure the fertility of agricultural land, and to support the growing population of cities within the state. In addition, these waterways are strategic and logistical served, facilitated transport and strengthened the defense of cities. During the reign of Amir Temur, the canal that started from the Red River (Syr Darya) is noteworthy. This canal played an important role in irrigation and agriculture in the Bukhara oasis and served the region’s prosperity and development. [1]
The main part
The careful planning and implementation of water management projects during the Timurid era reflected the state’s desire for sustainable use of resources and economic growth. The legacy of Amir Temur and the ditches dug during the Timurid era continues to inspire admiration and admiration for their engineering achievements. These water management systems not only shaped the landscape and infrastructure of the region, but also played a decisive role in the socio-economic life of the state. The remains of these ancient waterways are evidence of the ingenuity and foresight of the Timurid dynasty, and show their contribution to the development of civilization during that period.[2]
The main purpose of the ditches and canals built during the era of Amir Temur and the Timurids was to serve as a necessary water management system for irrigation, agriculture and urban development. Ditches and canals are built primarily to use water resources for irrigation purposes. By diverting water from rivers and other water sources, these systems ensured the fertility of agricultural land, the production of agricultural crops and the livelihood of the population. The construction of canals and ditches helped the development of agriculture and provided reliable water for crops.[3]
Canals and ditches served as important transportation routes, facilitating the movement of goods and people between different regions. They also supported commercial activities by transporting goods through waterways and enhancing economic exchange within the state. In addition to their economic benefits, ditches and canals also served strategic purposes in terms of defense and security. They helped strengthen the defenses of cities, provided a natural barrier against potential invasions, and contributed to the overall security of the state.[4]
Amir Temur and the Timurids paid great attention to agriculture, which played a key role in the country’s economic life, and irrigation, which was its basis. By the middle of the 14th century, land development began in Movarounnahr and Khorasan. Amir Temur paid particular attention to the irrigation and development of the Samarkand oasis. 72 villages were supplied with water by irrigation networks such as Abirakhmat, Bazar, Korand and Nahri Jadid. Amir Temur built water facilities not only in Movarunnahr, but also in Khorasan, Iran, and the Caucasus. By his decree, the Bodon ankhor or Barlos stream in the Caucasus was established in the Murgob oasis and near Kabul. [5]
After conquering Khurasan in 1381, Amir Temur tried to provide water to Marv region. Each of the generals and state officials separately led the digging of the canal and called it by name. According to Hafizi Abro, the names of Dilkusho, Davlatshah Jondor, Gulbogon, Hasan Jondor, , Sahdak, Purdor, Ali Malik, Aq Bugo, Davlatshah bihisht, Sanjidak, , Kebekchi yurtchi, Kutlug Khatun are mentioned among these channels. The Barlos canal from the Araks river was considered one of the major irrigation facilities of the time. Its length is 10 farsakhs (60-70 km).[10] The isolation of ships in this channel plays an important role in trade relations. In the first half of the 15th century, during the reigns of Shahrukh and Ulugbek in Movarounnahr and Khorasan, irrigation networks expanded. During this period, the Timurids and their regional governors built large irrigation facilities in Samarkand, Bukhara, Kashkadarya, Marv oases, Tus Valley and Herat and its surroundings, and the water supply was fundamentally improved. One of the largest irrigation works carried out during the Timurid era was the restoration of the ancient Angor Canal on the Zarafshan River in the Samarkand oasis.[8]
Through this canal, which is considered the largest irrigation network of its time, part of the water of the Zarafshan River was discharged into the Kashkadarya oasis, and the surrounding areas were supplied with water. It is known from the archaeological research conducted along the ancient irrigated lands of Bukhara, that the water farms destroyed by the Mughal invasion were restored by the 15th century.[11]
During the reign of Ulugbek (1409-1449), water was released to the Samonjuk steppe, which is located in the southeastern part of the Bukhara oasis, and new lands were reduced. Due to the restoration by Shahrukh of Sultanband, the headwaters of the Murgob river, which was destroyed during the Mughal invasion, and the cleaning of irrigation networks, the water supply of the city of Marv and the Murgob oasis was radically improved. During the reign of Husayn Boygaro, a large area of land was irrigated and improved due to the construction of a new canal from Harirud on his initiative. [9]
Summary:
In general, the canals and canals built during the reign of Amir Temur and the Timurids were important infrastructure projects that played a multifaceted role in the kingdom’s agriculture, urban planning, trade, and security. Their construction reflected the advanced engineering capabilities of the Timurid dynasty and the strategic vision of managing water resources for the benefit of the population and the entire state.[7]
References:
1. Boboyev Kh.B. Amir Temur and the kingdom of the Timurids. – T.: Kamalak, 1996. – 200 p.[1]
2. Azimov E. The reign of Amir Temur. – T.: Literature and Art Publishing House, 1996. -88 p.[2]
3. Akhmedov B. Two words about Timur’s tukuz // Eastern star. -T. 1989. – #8. – B. 132. [3]
4. Akhmedov N., Badirov A. Introduction to the history of Amir Temur and the Timurid period (text of lectures). – Samarkand: Zarafshan, 1999. – 74 p.[4]
5. Lucien Keren. The reign of Amir Temur. B. Ermatov, author of translation and comments from French. – T.: Manaviyat, 1999. – 224 p. [5]
6. Proceedings of the II Republican Scientific-Theoretical Conference on Amir Temur’s World History b-219[6]
7. Materials of the Republican scientific-practical conference on Amir Temur – the great general and statesman T; 2023 [7]
8. Z. Saidboboyev Historical geography T:.2010. -125b [8]
9. History of land-water relations in Uzbekistan T:.2023. 182b [9]
10. AMIR TEMUR IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD T:. Sharq publishing house 2001. -102b [10]
11. Nizamiddin Shami Zafarnoma T:. Publishing House of Uzbekistan 1996. -154b [11]
La ballata di Peggy e Pedro è latrata dai punkabbestia
di Ponte Garibaldi, con un misto d’odio e disperazione,
insegnandoci, intimi nessi tra geometria ed amore,
ad amare come fossimo matematici circondati da cani randagi.
Peggy eri ubriaca, stato d’animo normale,
nelle baraccopoli lungo l’alveo del Tevere,
e l’alcool, nelle sere d’Agosto, non riscalda,
obnubilando ogni senso in sogni annichilenti,
trasformando ogni frase biascicata in fucilate nella schiena
contro corazze disciolte dalla calura estiva.
Sdraiata sui bordi del muraglione del ponte,
tra i drop out della Roma città aperta,
apristi il tuo cuore all’insulto gratuito di Pedro,
tuo amante, e, basculandoti, cadesti nel vuoto,
disegnando traiettorie gravitazionali dal cielo al cemento.
Pedro, non eri ubriaco, ad un giorno di distanza,
non eri ubriaco, stato d’animo anormale,
nelle baraccopoli lungo l’alveo del Tevere,
o nelle serate vuote della movida milanese,
essendo intento a spiegare a cani e barboni
una curiosa lezione di geometria non euclidea.
Salito sui bordi del muraglione del ponte,
nell’indifferenza abulica dei tuoi scolari distratti,
saltasti, in cerca della stessa traiettoria d’amore,
dello stesso tragitto fatale alla tua Peggy,
atterrando, sul cemento, nello stesso istante.
I punkabbestia di Ponte Garibaldi, sgomberati dall’autorità locale,
diffonderanno in ogni baraccopoli del mondo la lezione surreale
imperniata sulla sbalorditiva idea
che l’amore sia un affare di geometria non euclidea.
THE BALLAD OF PEGGY AND PEDRO
The ballad of Peggy and Pedro barked out by the punkbestials
of the Garibaldi Bridge, with a mixture of hatred and despair,
teaches us the intimate relationship between geometry and love,
to love as if we were maths surrounded by stray dogs.
Peggy you were drunk, normal mood,
in the slums along the bed of the Tiber
and alcohol, on August evenings, doesn’t warm you up,
clouding every sense in annihilating dreams,
transforming every chewed-up sentence into a gunfight in the back
on armour dissolved by the summer heat.
Lying on the edges of the bridge’s ledges,
among the drop-outs of the Rome open city,
you opened your heart to the gratuitous insult of Pedro,
your lover, and toppled over, falling into the void,
drawing gravitational trajectories from the sky to the cement.
Pedro wasn’t drunk, a day’s journey away,
you weren’t drunk, abnormal state of mind,
in the slums along the bed of the Tiber,
or in the empty parties of Milan’s movida,
with the intention of explaining to dogs and tramps
a curious lesson of non-Euclidean geometry.
Mounted on the edge of the bridge,
in the apathetic indifference of your distracted pupils,
you jumped, in the same trajectory of love,
along the same fatal path as your Peggy,
landing on the cement at the same instant.
The punkbestials of the Garibaldi Bridge, cleared by the local authority,
will spread a surreal lesson to every slum in the world
centred on the astonishing idea
that love is a matter of non-Euclidean geometry.
NON RIESCO AD INTEGRARMI
Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un disturbo borderline
distribuisco gomitate tipo Greg “The Hammer” Valentine,
nemmeno se mi impegno riuscirò a aspirare al Nobel
deutoplasma irriducibile tra vacche nere d’Hegel.
Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un delirio schizofrenico
rifuggo dalle masse e intingo biro nell’arsenico,
canto, fuori dal coro, come un mitomane a X Factor
disinnescando bombe, spaccio col metal-detector.
Non riesco a integrarmi, ho attitudini da killer,
deambulo tra zombie, stile King of Pop in Thriller,
volando a bassa quota quoto quote di quozienti,
costretto a impacchettare sottotitoli per non-utenti.
Non riesco a integrarmi, ho ogni sorta di fobia
in coda appetisco il verde, come un virtuoso in dendrofilia,
mettendo a fuoco il mondo e sfuocati i tempi con lo zoom,
mi arrendo alla desuetudine della consecutio temporum.
I DON’T FIT IN
I don’t fit in, I have a borderline personality disorder
I give out elbows like Greg ‘The Hammer’ Valentine,
if I don’t apply myself I’ll never be able to aspire to the Nobel Prize
irreducible deutoplasma among Hegel’s black cows.
I don’t fit in, i have a schizophrenic delusion
i hate the people and dip my pen in arsenic,
i sing, outside the choir, like an X Factor mythomaniac
defusing bombs and dealing with a metal detector.
I don’t fit in, i’ve got a killer’s disposition,
i wander between the zombies, style King of Pop in Thriller,
flying at low altitude I quote quotes of quotients,
forced to pack subtitles for non-users.
I don’t fit in, i have all sorts of phobias,
in the queue i crave the green, like a virtuous dendrophile,
setting the world on fire, blurring time with the zoom,
i surrender myself to the obsolescence of consecutio temporum.
Ivan Pozzoni è nato a Monza nel 1976. Ha introdotto in Italia la materia della Law and Literature. Ha diffuso saggi su filosofi italiani e su etica e teoria del diritto del mondo antico; ha collaborato con con numerose riviste italiane e internazionali. Tra 2007 e 2018 sono uscite varie sue raccolte di versi: Underground e Riserva Indiana, con A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni, Cherchez la troika e La malattia invettiva con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi, con Joker, Il Guastatore, con Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, con deComporre Edizioni. È stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria Il Guastatore – Quaderni «neon»-avanguardisti; è stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria L’Arrivista; è stato direttore esecutivo della rivista filosofica internazionale Información Filosófica; è, o è stato, direttore delle collane Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) e Fuzzy (deComporre). Ha fondato una quindicina di case editrici socialiste autogestite. Ha scritto/curato 150 volumi, scritto 1000 saggi, fondato un movimento d’avanguardia (NeoN-avanguardismo, approvato da Zygmunt Bauman), con mille movimentisti, e steso un Anti-Manifesto NeoN-Avanguardista, È menzionato nei maggiori manuali universitari di storia della letteratura, storiografia filosofica e nei maggiori volumi di critica letteraria.Il suo volume La malattia invettiva vince Raduga, menzione della critica al Montano e allo Strega. Viene inserito nell’Atlante dei poeti italiani contemporanei dell’Università di Bologna ed è inserito molteplici volte nella maggiore rivista internazionale di letteratura, Gradiva.I suoi versi sono tradotti in francese, inglese e spagnolo. Nel 2024, dopo sei anni di ritiro totale allo studio accademico, rientra nel mondo artistico italiano e fonda il collettivo NSEAE (Nuova socio/etno/antropologia estetica).
Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literature in Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2018, different versions of the books were published: Underground and Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Here the Austrians are more severe than the Bourbons, Cherchez the troika. et The Invective Disease with Limina Mentis,Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine L’Arrivista; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine Información Filosófica; he is, or has been, creator of the series Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) and Fuzzy (deComporre). It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), with a millier of movements, and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettiva wins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poets of the University of Bologne and figures à plusieurs reprized in the great international literature review of Gradiva. His verses are translated into French, English and Spanish. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology).
Christopher Bernard will be reading at the Poets for Palestine SF Marathon Reading at San Francisco’s Bird and Beckett Bookstore. For a donation of any amount to the Middle East Children’s Alliance, a nonpartisan and nonpolitical organization helping all children in the region, poets can come and read at any time at the store on October 14th, Indigenous People’s Day. Please feel welcome to sign up here or email poetsforpalestinesf@gmail.com to be scheduled.
This month’s issue addresses our fears and aspirations: whether life will become what we dread, or what we hope.
Wazed Abdullah revels in the joy of the Bangladesh monsoon as Don Bormon celebrates flowers and wispy clouds in autumn. Maurizio Brancaleoni contributes bilingual haiku spotlighting days at the beach, insects, cats, and the rain. Brian Barbeito shares the experience of walking his dogs as summer turns to fall.
Soren Sorensen probes and stylizes sunsets in his photography series. Lan Qyqualla rhapsodizes about love, dreams, flowers, colors, poetry, and harp music. Ilhomova Mohichehra poetically welcomes autumn to her land.
John L. Waters reviews Brian Barbeito’s collection of poetry and photography Still Some Summer Wind Coming Through, pointing out how it showcases nature and the “subtle otherworldly” within seemingly ordinary scenes. Oz Hartwick finds a bit of the otherworldly within his ordinary vignettes as he shifts his perspective.
Kelly Moyer crafts stylized photographic closeups of ordinary scenes, rendering the familiar extraordinary. Ma Yongbo paints scenes where ordinary life becomes unreal, suffused with images associated with horror.
Sayani Mukherjee speaks of a bird’s sudden descent into a field of flowers and comments on our wildness beneath the surface. Jake Cosmos Aller illustrates physical attraction literally driving a person wild.
Mesfakus Salahin asserts that were the whole natural world to become silent, his love would continue. Mahbub Alam views life as a continual journey towards his beloved. Tuliyeva Sarvinoz writes tenderly of a mother and her young son and of the snow as a beloved preparing for her lover. Sevinch Tirkasheva speaks of young love and a connection that goes deeper than looks. llhomova Mohichehra offers up tender words for each of her family members. She also expresses a kind tribute to a classmate and friend.
Meanwhile, rather than describing tender loving affection, Mykyta Ryzhykh gets in your face with his pieces on war and physical and sexual abuse. His work speaks to the times when life seems to be an obscenity. Z.I. Mahmud looks at William Butler Yeats’ horror-esque poem The Second Coming through the lens of Yeats’ contemporary and tumultuous European political situation.
Alexander Kabishev’s next tale of life during the blockade of St. Petersburg horrifies with its domestic brutality. Almustapha Umar weeps with grief over the situations of others in his country.
In a switch back to thoughts of hope, Lidia Popa speaks to the power of poetry and language to connect people across social divides. Hari Lamba asserts his vision for a more just and equal America with better care for climate and ecology. Perizyat Azerbayeva highlights drip irrigation as a method to tackle the global problem of a shortage of clean drinkable water. Eldorbek Xotamov explores roles for technology and artificial intelligence in education.
Elmaya Jabbarova expresses her hopes for compassion and peace in our world. Eva Petropoulou affirms that action, not mere pretty words, are needed to heal our world.
Ahmad Al-Khatat’s story illustrates the healing power of intimate love after the trauma of surviving war and displacement. Graciela Noemi Villaverde reflects on the healing calm of silence after war.
Meanwhile, Christopher Bernard showcases the inhumanity of modern warfare in a story that reads at first glance like a sci-fi dystopia. Daniel De Culla also calls out the absurdity of war and the grossness of humor in the face of brutality.
Pat Doyne probes the roots of anti-Haitian immigrant rumors in Springfield, Ohio and critiques fear-mongering. Jorabayeva Ezoza Otkir looks to nature for metaphors on the corrosive nature of hate.
On a personal level, Nosirova Gavhar dramatizes various human responses to loss and trauma. Kendall Snipper dramatizes an eating disorder ravaging a woman’s life and body.
Donna Dallas’ characters are lonely, bruised by life, and drawn to what’s not good for them: drugs, bad relationships, lovers who don’t share their dreams. J.J. Campbell evokes his miserable life situation with dark humor.
Meanwhile, Maja Milojkovic savors each moment as she creates her own happiness through a positive attitude. In the same vein, Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa celebrates the power of a free and self-confident mind and the joy of spending time with small children.
Tuliyeva Sarvinoz urges us to move forward toward our goals with faith and dedication. Numonjonova Shahnozakhon echoes that sentiment, encouraging perseverance and resilience. S. Afrose resolves to move forward in life with optimism and self-respect.
Michael Robinson reflects on the peace he finds in his continuing Christian walk. Federico Wardal reviews anthropologist Claudia Costa’s research into spiritual fasting practices among the Yawanawa tribe in Brazil.
Duane Vorhees explores questions of legacy, inheritance, and immortality, both seriously and with humor. Isabel Gomes de Diego highlights Spanish nature and culture with her photographic closeups of flowers, religious icons, and a drawing made as a gift for a child’s parents. Federico Wardal highlights the archaeological findings of Egyptologist Dr. Zahi Hawass and his upcoming return to San Francisco’s De Young Museum. Zarina Bo’riyeva describes the history and cultural value of Samarkand.
Sarvinoz Mansurova sends outlines from a conference she attended on Turkic-adjacent cultures, exploring her region as well as her own Uzbek culture.
Barchinoy Jumaboyeva describes her affection for her native Uzbekistan, viewing the country as a spiritual parent. Deepika Singh explores the mother-daughter relationship in India and universally through her dialogue poem.
David Sapp’s short story captures the feel of decades-ago Audrey Hepburn film Roman Holiday as it describes a dream meeting between lovers in Rome. Mickey Corrigan renders the escapades and tragedies of historical women writers into poetry.
Duane Vorhees draws a parallel between Whitman’s detractors and those who would criticize Jacques Fleury’s poetry collection You Are Enough: The Journey To Accepting Your Authentic Self for having a non-traditional style.
This set of poems from Jacques Fleury expresses a sophisticated childlike whimsy. A few other pieces carry a sense of wry humor. Daniel De Culla relates a tale of inadvertently obtaining something useful through an email scam. Taylor Dibbert reflects on our escapes and “guilty pleasures.”
Noah Berlatsky reflects on both his progress as a poet and editors’ changing tastes. Sometimes it takes growing and maturing over time as a person to create more thoughtful craft.
Alan Catlin strips artworks down to their bare essential elements in his list poetry, drawing attention to main themes. Mark Young focuses on kernels of experience, on the core of what matters in the moment. J.D. Nelson captures sights, experiences, and thoughts into evocative monostich poems worthy of another reading.
Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ pictures get close up to everyday miracles: a beetle, car components, action figures, a boy in a dinosaur costume.
We hope that this issue, while being open about the worries we face, is also a source of everyday miracles and thought-provoking ideas. Enjoy!
