You Can’t Love Me

Who can judge me?

Who can measure me?

Nobody either judge and measure me

Or even judge a stone of a fountain

You are limited

But the word ‘I’ is unconditional and unlimited

‘I’ does not mean myself

It is more than myself

A stone is not only a stone

It is more than what you mean

It can speak

But you can’t speak with it

It bears the history and mystery of dream 

It is a observer of time

It can read us

But the new generation won’t read it

The reflection of my face on the mirror is not complete

The mirror can’t reflect wholeness 

It can’t reflect the the inner ‘l’ of ‘l’

Very often I fail to hold me

My body is a holder

It holds something

But what is something is unknown to me and you

You can’t judge me

You can’t measure me

You can’t hold me

You can’t love me.

You love a man who is perfect and pure

I am not perfect and pure

Everyday l walk on the street of mistakes

l embrace with them

I am not the truest flower in the garden

My face doesn’t express everything

I am not large, vast and self-sufficient 

My heart is not more open and free 

It does not bear authentic taste 

It is not more connected and purposeful 

I am smaller than tiny

I am not enough to love you.

Violence against Women Grows

The streets are a river of red ink,

each drop, a cry that drowns.

Violence, a monster with eyes of fire,

that devours dreams and leaves ashes in its wake.

Women, withered flowers in a garden of pain,

their petals torn, their aroma, a lament.

Silence, a black cloak that envelops them,

a veil of fear that imprisons them.

Society, a ship that sinks in indifference,

each wave, a blow that drags them into darkness.

Justice, a mirage in the desert of impunity,

an oasis that vanishes with the wind.

But hope, a flame that does not go out,

a fire that burns in the heart of every woman.

Union, a bridge that unites them in the fight,

a path to freedom, to peace.

Violence, a cry that rises in the silence,

a clamor that demands justice,

that cries out for change.

Women, a volcano that

awakens in the struggle,

a fire that will not be extinguished until equality flourishes.

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

Zarafshon

My umbilical cord is spilled,

You are welcome, Zarafshan.

Located in Navoi,

You are from Zarafshan.

You are rich in gold,

Take care of yourself.

You are the best in the city.

My perspective is Zarafshan

Forget your history

Think about the future.

Your descendants,

Create as a poet.

Your sons are brave, brave,

Your daughters are Zulfia.

Violet on your shores,

A bird in your deserts.

Ilhomova Mohichehra is a student of the 8th grade of the 9th general secondary school of Zarafshan city, Navoi region.

Pain is a cloud cut by a blade

My throat is learning to choke again

No one will be able to love you the same way before

No one can die like you did

I give you castles in the air

I give you sand castles

I’m drowning in the rising tide

I’m drowning in time and death

Pain is a cloud shot in/from minutes

The sand covers the past and 

I am drowning in the depths of the sands

***

Mom taught the soldier to read

Mom taught the soldier how to dress

The soldier did not teach his mother to cry

The soldier did not teach his mother to wait

You can’t be born mothers

You can die mothers

Corpses dig trenches for themselves

Corpses are dug out from trenches

***

The tree is dead

Nobody organized a funeral

No one came to say goodbye to the deceased

No one has made a coffin out of human skin

The tree was killed in an unequal battle with a chainsaw

The tree was killed by depriving the executioner of excess oxygen

Trees are so humble that they will endure anything

Trees are so proud that they even die in silence

***

Crystal air

Crystal man

Crystal leaves under crystal feet

Mines

***

1

snowflake cures snowflake

time does not stand still 

and the snow molds jugs of touches

2

the bird drinks the morning silence

spring grass is washed with morning dew

the cemetery in the morning is unchanged

3

Inevitable night plays snowballs

another moment and the eyelids will drop

forever

***

аliens are looking 

for the last flower 

in the history of planet 

***

the grass falls asleep

autumn rain drinks 

the growing silence

***

the leaves under my feet 

taught my bones to crunch 

again

***

birds seek sound 

and proud friendship 

in feathered dandelions

***

nobody knows 

who’s hiding under 

the killing snow

***

Feet are washed with water and eyes are dried

The desert of the gaze envelops with heat

Look at me and tell me that no one will die

The glass fades and the mosaic breaks into pieces

Bread crumbs gradually become smaller

Birds quietly peck bread or eyes

The world stands still waiting for the future

A storm of inaction envelops the tree

The tree does not resist but dies

How many crosses can a tree give birth to?

How many crosses can a cleaver make?

The grains of time keep their own count

***

You are silent

I drink the silence

You are a bird

I am a torn feather

You give me joy

I’m not happy about anyone or anything

You kiss me with your lips of sunny pearls

I’m still dying slowly

***

Someone is counting the number of stars in the sky

Nobody knows how many suns died in a sore chest

We all smoke the air of freedom and we all die

But what will the homeless angels think of us?

***

the sky under my feet turned into puddles

a little boy with a strange name comes to me every night

he asks to copy an icon from him

and I can draw little things in my dreams

the painted sky under my feet dissolves with the sound of the alarm clock

***

the garage stinks of gasoline

the radio in the kitchen is annoying during dinner

and the younger brother shudders at the sight of the leather belt as before

even after our father’s death

***

ran away from math class

autumn started a lesson with origami

but 

sorry I’m too lazy

sorry I’m too sad

for this lesson

silence flows through the veins of the air

the cuts on my hands are almost healed

the rope loop on the chandelier still hangs in my room

I still doubt that everything will go according to plan

I’ll probably skip English lesson tomorrow

I have important things to do in my room

***

lips crack without waiting for a kiss

the snow sculpting the touching 

at the bus stop

***
bones entwined
with flowers
wash the coffin
with their
whiteness
like its a dirty box
with a surprise

***
a black cat falls from the roof
into the night mouth of silence

***
sort through cards with the names of the dead
do not sort through cards with the names of the dead
the death assistant has a lot of busyness

***
white people with a clear (empty?) conscience enter my house
black birds on the windowsill knock on the iron night of death
white people beat
fear out of their heads
black birds sew up their eyes
with despair

***
the rubber hunger of poverty
blood flows like a spring
glossy eye drinks
sugar stream does not quench your thirst

***
Syncopation caught the top of the mountains, so air screamed and drowned in the river.
Surprisingly, the fiery heart descended from the sky and also sank in the water. We have
been living without the sun for a month.
What else does the river water carry away in memory and wash away on the eve of the end
of the world?

Mother…

My treacherous friends set a trap,

I did not expect loyalty from anyone.

I have been looking for you for a long time, my faithful man,

I am amazed at your patience today.

I’m a fool who painted whites on your hair,

Tell me if I’m worth it, mother.

I cry that the world is a lie

I’m sorry, I can’t look you in the eyes.

Ranjima from Mohinur,

Now I know how much you appreciate me.

Mom, I’m amazed at your patience today.

I see the world again

Murodillayeva Mohinur, a 10th-grade student of the 44th general secondary school of Guzor district, Kashkadarya region.

A Migratory Bird

Man flies like birds

Man soars higher and higher

Man with his spirit raises more than we count

The light of the stars twinkling in the sky

Birds have their wing power

Man with intelligence overcomes all

I fly to thee, my loving star

A relation with the moon and the ocean

Always playing a charm of tide and ebb

In this salty flow of tide overflows a new life

Spread the glow on the face

The eyes like the rosy petals

Touches both of the hearts.

Chapainawabganj,  Bangladesh

30 September, 2024

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.