If your father is with you

You are not walking on a bad road, zinhor.
Good wishes are in your blood.
You're lucky, you're always happy,
If your father is with you

You will not be one of the others,
I'm sorry if you don't break your heart.
Blessings to those who work,
If your father is with you.

One of the moon and one of the sun
Don't let the tears flow.
If you are proud, don't bend your head,
If your father is with you.

Smile on your children's faces,
Carelessness and sadness in an unpressing heart.
This is your friend and this is your country,
If your father is with you.

Prayers are answered,
May your days be filled with joy.
Happiness will not leave you,
If your father is with you.

Don't be ignorant, don't be weak,
Enjoy every moment.
Your heart will never have a dream,
If your father is with you.


Khaitmurodov Ismail
Address: Samarkand city
Alfraganus is a 3rd year student of the Faculty of Economics

Antoine de Saint Exupery’s Children’s Novella The Little Prince
Critically examine The Little Prince as a children’s novella by Antoine De Saint Exupery

Like The Pilgrim’s Progress and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Antoine De Saint Exupery’s historico-autobiographical novella, The Little Prince is an allegorical narrative of the innocence manifested and cherished in the terrains and frontiers of nature and humanity.

“Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.” Romanticization and fantasization with roses in the lamb like spirited angelic soul is literally unfathomable to the authorial autobiographical narrator. This is evidently crystal clear that P. L. Travers, author of Mary Poppins, rightly prophesied that, “The Little Prince will shine upon children with a sidewise gleam. It will strike them in some place that is not in the mind and glow there until the time comes for them to comprehend it.”

“You can’t ride a flock of birds to another planet” pontificates the assertion of the Little Prince’s cosmic odyssey from varieties of galaxies after being exiled from homeland asteroid B612. Personalities of this peregrination enlist a king’s empty domain or the hollow sham of the conceited man, a drunkard with the tremens delirium, the business tycoon’s engagement with the proprietorial starship, the extinguishing and relighting of lamppost every thirty seconds interval and finally the elderly geographer’s errand persuasive of the stately invitation to the monarch. Apart from these, the Little Prince encounters the railway switchman and the merchant. Firmament of the imagination and will-o-the-wisp reign within the fantastical narrative and thus projected as fable and parable.

That the sensitive blond stark hair, mysterious and adventuresome, precocious, charismatic
angelic lamblike child is a telepathic wonderkid of dreams and castles that brings back the old memories of the gullible and melodramatic narratorial personae. Both chroniclers including the young at heart narrator aviator as well as the seraphim cherubim sophomoric little prince are preoccupied in the quest for the springwell in the sand dunes of desert canyons. The Little Prince is the embodiment of buccaneering sea pirate vessel along with the blast from the past trip down the memory lane of the aviator’s personage. Captivating and fascinating detective novella of the mainstream childrens’ literature The Little Prince encapsulates satiric penchant of allegorical fable as pontificated by the characters of anthropomorphic beasts such as the Fox.

Fox is the reincarnate of companionship, fraternity, solidarity, association, camaraderie,
fellowship, closeness, amnesty, brethrenship, brotherhood, matyness, chumminess and
clubbiness. Upon the sea of time little prince certainly must have been elated by the euphoric ecstasy of the rapport between this beast in want of taming: “But you have hair that is the colour of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat.”

This quotable speech insinuates the overtones of springtime golden harvest season being
eternalized despite fugacious mendacity. Since the fox aspires to be domesticated by masterly human farmers and ultimately beseeches socialization within the anthropogenic anthropocene.

As if truth and beauty and beauty and truth allusion, a carnivorous fox pledges melodramatic
rhetoric to the dumbfounded and stupefied little prince: “If you tame then we will need each
other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world.”
After all, the penultimate gospel of the fox enshrines a universalistic lesson: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

Absurdities, travesties, follies, blunders, idiosyncrasies are burlesqued and lampooned by the novelist of The Little Prince. Rapaciousness and avariciousness of the case study implicated the mercenary capitalistic money grubbing extortionate business tycoon. Detachment and dissociation from the reality of romance and chivalry as engendered by this materialistic acquisition of wealth and fortunes in space time travel. Furthermore drunk as a wheelbarrow is the satirical innuendo of dipsomania. Alcoholic’s drunkenness and sobriety allegorizes inward withdrawal of the slothful moron and lethargic escapist in fantasy of delusion and paranoia.

These are the gothic macabre scylla and slough of despondent charybdis from the exploratory voyages of the braggadocious inland creatures of the worldly planet. The lamplighter’s inclination epitomizing pedagogic pedantry is laconically prolific engrossment of puritanical orthodoxy embodied within the rhetoric: “There’s nothing to understand. Orders are orders.”

Sanctimonious outlook and puritanical viewpoint underscored by the sagacious allegory and sententious caricature of mankind by the observant little princes’ imago alludes to the psychic double and doppelganger of the aviator narrator. Thus the pilot of the aircraft lampoons and burlesques superficialities and travesties of humankind in the vein of the doppelganger effect.

Moreover, the solitary figure of the chronicling aviator narratorial personae is the incarnate of solitudinous solipsism, narcissistic obsession and seclusionary detachment. Candidness and frankness, outspokenness and open mindedness of the naive and gullible Little Prince are the characteristic traits that harbour the harbinger of philosophical profundity. Symbolic wonderful lamp espoused by this harbinger transcends spiritual deadliness through subversive triumphalism of Platonic idiolect: “That a life unexamined is unworthy of living.”

Since the uncluttered lovey dovey cherubic, seraphic and lamb-like cupid child, the prodigy poltergeist chronicler Little Prince condones the domain of power, fame, wealth and money as prospects yielding toward the brink of futility. Leisure and pleasure of modernity are thus let bygones by bygones at the connivance of the Little Prince. This young at heart princely juvenilia is that stellar and cosmic apple of the aviator’s eye symbolizing curiosity is the mother of invention.

Pragmatist rationalism of the quasi autobiographical narrative is reflective of the aviator’s professional and personal odyssey and/ or bildungsroman. Alienation of literal solitariness in the canyons of Sahara mirror emotional and psychological state/stance as embodied by seclusionary detachment. Elevation of lonesomeness by the gaiety and joviality of childhood roots entrenched in past upbringings nostalgic introspection. Transformation of the narratorial personae being open mindedness to the exposure of the little prince, conniving materialistic accomplishments and achievements. Melancholic and contemplative stance of the mysteries of human relationships sojourning into the trajectory from loss of innocence to the absurdist realism of the world. Protective and possessive relationship emphases real friendship. Compassion and empathy demonstrates existentialist aviator’s nostalgic yearnings as depicted by the little prince. Reckoning of wonder charismatically espouses love, relationship, fantasy, imagination, human companionship in the symbolic quest for survivalism. Cooperation and coexistence of both realistic and fantastic outlooks and points of views are essential traits explored by the novelist.

Zebra Stripes Mark Out My Life

zebra skips over river and crocodile jumps
and takes a bite out of his belly underside.
zebra kicks croc away
and lands on other side of clough ravine of river.
his cherry-blossom innards ribboning out in mountains.
he kicks instinctually, hoofing around.
and kicks out entrails on loop.

gunshot wound to the head, explodes one-half of cranium.
and it slops away like melted ice cream,
with small pork chops in the whipped cream
dropping, cow-milked, to the bare ankles
and staining them with fresh blood hues.

unlike that, entrails remain in a cohesive snake.
the zebra’s fluctuating between albino boiled chicken
and red as red as red.
the straight highway that runs from top to bottom.
the croc was ad-lib but will eat up the ugly business.
zebra stands still, glib, as the meat is torn away.

there is no embarrassment outside of man.
even if this was Take The Piss Thursday and W. C. Fields
used his day in charge from beyond the grave
to orchestrate the zebra’s demise.
we were all meant to laugh I guess.
And I can hear him still cackling from heaven.

drought has burned up the river
and equally it makes the innards taste defective
and the croc surfaces to spit them up.
and they float on the surface like red bits of cogs.
the croc stays up feigning slapstick vomitous disgust.
W. C. on vermouth, makes another play at a masterstroke.

sickly ICU lights in San Tropez.
was problematical when I tried to murder my stepfather and he survived.
I used an undergrad’s computer to fake my alibi
and was disheartened when they pumped the blood back into him
like there was no tomorrow and like there was no limit to
the blood in the world.

zebra at last falls dead
and the innards just lie there. no one wants them.
except Alistair Cowley who takes them in
a handbag of alligator leather
and keeps his bare feet away from the lurching croc.
he’s ill in the head but good at train hopping.

witches made good use of entrails on a constant basis.
they plied them with frog’s legs
and brandy spilling down their hinges
and maybe some of that vermouth, Mr W. C.
and maybe some of that sweat beer-knifed off your skinhead
Mr Cowley.
And oh it was just wonderful.

And let’s not forget Myanmar where the hundreds
backed into deaths
their safari park purgatorial deaths.
And the crocs take their legs off each other,
popping off muscles,
they will eat each other,
and show no pain on their hateful death masks.

Rumbling Machine
rumbling machine is an Egyptian jungle
a set of spots that spring up endlessly
bluebells blaze on cold heathland mornings
the dishes of the earth are washed
and dried out over jumping hearths
the droning malaise, it is a rumbling machine
a deeper layer to your lives
a football chant croaked with a strange voice wavering
the windmills are growing in church-like seabeds
the jerk off is hot hot creamy bilge
a python mouth dripping between fangs and defeated
and nibbled at and snarling
he wakes
and the snake, knowing, drinks from his
aqueducts
on the farm, where my dad and I knew each other
very well as parents and sons do
the horses were bloody and dark eagles
landed on their backs or their flat parts
which were stained with cherry blossom
or so we thought but we later found out
it was just blood
white blood cells cascaded down the carob tree boughs
and they took me out of the school paper
after my arrest for what the snake
provoked out of me militarily
the water-troughs around the farm are touchstone ornaments
they bounce light between themselves
assorted silver medallions of field sweat, spit
for the creatures of the field under the blue mountain
in their stables, clad in blood
and red pent up anger like leaking
apple orchards unfurling green
spaced, rank and file, moss
cold with blueberries and bluebells
and lazuli in the Scottish land
gets lonely even in summer when the grass
yellows and crows flight and the green flows out – open-mouthed –
cyber friends block me arbitrarily
pornography is a rumbling picture of background, a brain bleed
the bodies are prismatic vibrations
yoga and coves, tights, lips
they are hot under the collar like the horses
the bodies wash back and back, lick
and rubbish the silence with wedding bells
rumbling just as an afterthought over
undulating anti-Nazi-glider fields
the loneliness of stroking yourself under white table cloth
and the memory, pictorial, of the snake
weighing on your skull
the poison of the trough melting out the floor of your mouth
the football chorus is a chorus for life
these fields are a wasteland where we make
urban legend and pain
and pen in those creatures of the field
the bulls have their death sentence and their sterile penises, venomed,
their bodies need to be rinsed
their bowels leak and flies stick
spliced together into one  
on their swooping
batting-away, congealed tails
the blood mills of the factories turn
in or out and rat race or rat race
clambering over and under nets held
by steel railings
and scraps your dad picked up from plate-steel shipyards
closed and pumped with English exit wounds
self-redundant and fetishised and clean
the stone in your garden is cold,
is bird-like, iguana-like, dog dream
the jagged edges of your loins look perfect
rested on the fence posts – cowboyed –
you look like a man and you have become
a good one
and it’s a shame no one will touch you
on account of all you did roofied, serumed
and invaded by something eldritch
in the spaces in that decadent orchard
you entered the enclaves of
thinking you would like a wife or maybe just a smoke
or might change your name to Hume or Hubbard
or Billy and play on rocks like you were just a kid
a kid out in the cold getting smeared in black
getting laced in black-white and so cold out in Scotland it’s like
drowning in a bog,
the lawyer can see that this is Hell stomping over it
that child killers have buried not just bodies
but less obviously their perverted instruments
under the hardened soil
his rubber boots walk over insulin pens discarded
the Budget comes and goes and you’re no better or worse off
you go to the lake far beyond your home
you try to drown yourself hidden by the trees
weigh down your pockets with stones
and everything will go under except your head
you are treading and your head stays up
looking at blue, happy times, summer,
no dead dog moaning and no pigeon-holing
into something you weren’t meant for
and you pivot more vertical and see another
horse watching you all fill with secreted
blossom
the vibrational pornified eyes of death

Crazy Eye                                                                                    

They looked at each other, blank-eyed, after the delivery van drove off, outside.

What’s the matter. Why the look?

I told you already. I don’t like this.

Don’t like this? Don’t like what? The TV’s here, right? Look at it. There it is. What more do you need?

It still bothers me I never heard of the company you said you ordered it from.

What? Why? You said you were nervous it’d never get delivered ‘cause you never heard of the company. I could even see that, maybe. But—here it is. What’s the big deal now?

They gazed at the TV on the floor between them.

I don’t know, I—hey listen, I think anybody hit in the face with a name like the “Regulation TV set factory out West Bruce Toothpull” would think that’s fake.

Uh. Okay. So the name’s odd. But—here it is.

Yes, I know. But—oh, never mind.

No no no, wait. Here it is. It’s plugged in. It’s powered up. What were you going to say still bothers you? Come on.

Okay, okay. I almost think we shouldn’t have it, that it shouldn’t be here.

Why?

I guess because I—think its dirty—like something I can’t touch ‘cause I don’t know where its been!

Instant’s stunned silence, then, Jesus Christ, that’s crazy! How can that be?

Don’t pick at me now. You forced me to say that! I wasn’t going to say it, but you forced me—so don’t look at me that way!

Okay, okay—I didn’t  mean—

Oh yes you did. I always know what you mean! You got me started now, so—shut up and listen! First, the name of the company. You see it anyplace on any paperwork we got?

I don’t know, maybe—I—

Never mind maybe. The answer is no! Next—did you see the van it came in?

Okay, sure. A big white van. So?

That’s the kind of van you always called a kidnapper van. Remember?

Huh?  What—I never heard that term—kidnapper van. What is it?

Oh, again, a nice pat convenient answer. I swear, you’re so stubborn.

Stubborn? Really? When I’m simply honestly saying I don’t remember things the way you do? I just—just don’t know what a—kidnapper van, or whatever you said—I just say I don’t know what that is, and—how is that being stubborn?

Okay. Maybe not stubborn, but—what you’re admitting to can’t be true, because I can see and hear you as clear as a bell, telling me all about “kidnapper vans” way back when. Why have you decided to get your back up and lie about it to me, today? 

Wait—hold it, this is going too damned far!

Really? No! I’llgrant you that liar may be just a hair too strong, maybe you’re just forcing yourself to believe you don’t remember to keep yourself clear of being an actual liar, but—

What? That’s crazy!

No, no! Never mind—pay attention! When you used that term back then, I asked you what a kidnapper van was, and you told me clear as day. You said—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

Hold it, don’t cut me off—yes you did, because you explained that a kidnapper van is a van of one blank color : mostly white or black—other colors are rare : with no windows in the sides or in  the back door and no—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

DAMN it don’t talk over me! Uh—okay, a van with no lettering of any kind and even sometimes with blanked-out license plates, this all being so, so that—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

—the victim can be snatched, and thrown in the back there, and then with the doors locked the kidnappers can drive away to the secret site of their choice to do what they wish to the victim in secret, and—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

—and if even someone saw them grab the victim and take off, there’d be nothing unique about the vehicle to tell the police to look for—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

—and you capped all that off with some kidnappers even take the van to a scrap dealer for crushing, once they’ve used it in the kidnapping grab and—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

—then they can proceed with the rest of their plan for the use of the victim for this that or the other—and then you said—

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

—you said that was all that there was to be known ‘bout a kidnapping van.

No! Can’t possibly have happened! I’ve never heard of such a thing!

But, the description I’ve just recounted, I got from you way back then!

No! No! I’ve never heard of such a thing! What are you—you are calling me a liar?

Uh—isn’t it possible you may just have forgotten what it is? That wouldn’t mean you are a liar. Perhaps a bit forgetful, but—

What?

—but no way could you be considered a liar. That is, if you claim to have simply forgot.

{wink}

What? NO! I did not forget, and am not a liar, both. Both things, and both, and—

Hold it HOLD it just one more thing—and that is why I fear this damned TV—I fear what may have been done to it—and what it may do to us in revenge if we let down our guard!

{crazy eye}

Step back—

{crazy eye}

Dear God!

Look down, up, away, and into straight into pierce probe prod and stab-b-b-b w’, the n say softly as humanly possible—Let’s talk about something else now, okay?

Okay sure. If you’ll admit you believe me.

—NO but I never no b-b-b-ut I it’s always but I this, and but I that—Let’s talk about something else I tell you say one damned more syllable—

Ah. Okay. Sure. I believe you.

Good. Deep silence in-tween in-tween, deep silence—both then turned and left the tense airless room after one pulled the plug on the no-name TV and pushed it into a corner. Over there in the corner it sits to this day under stuff come on top more and more and so under that stuff on top of it there, under it all, there it sits alone; the dark room

First of all, we’re sharing an announcement from contributor Howard Debs about the upcoming virtual course Writing from Atrocity to Healing: A Multi-Genre Virtual Workshop.

This four session virtual workshop will provide poets and writers of all levels, genres, and backgrounds with the tools to write from their experiences with atrocity, the traumas produced by atrocity, and the healing (personally, communally, nationally) your words can make of it. Featuring Ellen Bass, Jacqueline Osherow, Joy Ladin, Geoffrey Philp, Jehanne Dubrow, among others. Moderated by Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum. Four consecutive weekly sessions (January 7, 14, 21, 28 ).

Each session includes content from the forthcoming book The Wounded Line: A Guide to Writing Poems of Trauma (“ethical concerns and helpful craft elements for writing poems [and other writing] that engage with trauma”) presented by the author Jehanne Dubrow, and session related writing prompts and open review of selected flash fiction, poems, etc. as submitted by attendees. Each registrant receives New Voices: Contemporary Writers Confronting the Holocaust suggested readings from which coordinate with the workshop series. Session recordings will be made available to registrants unable to attend specific sessions upon request. Registration fee includes all four sessions. Limited registration closes December 30. Presented by the New Voices Project, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization. newvoicesproject.org and you may sign up for the workshop here.

Now for our issue’s theme, Plumbing the Depths. We look into the varied aspects, not always visible at first glance, of people’s interior and social lives, human societies, the natural world, and our artwork, history, and culture.

Chuck Taylor’s story reminds us about the complex layers of each person’s life, that we are more than our most obnoxious moments. Paul Tristram explores everyday human feelings and interactions in his “street poetry,” claiming them as a worthy literary subject.

Gabriel Kang speaks to the important issue of men’s mental health by illustrating men’s struggles passed down through generations. David Sapp delves into Middle American family life in the 1970s through a cascade of shifting perspectives.

Daniel De Culla laments relationships inside and outside of the church which are exploitative rather than nurturing.

Ivan Pozzoni brings a comically psychoanalytic perspective to digital and analog aspects of modern life. Mykyta Ryzhykh illuminates the internal and external destruction of total war with a landscape suffering from PTSD. Alexander Kabishev evokes the displacement of civilians during wartime in his continuing epic of the siege of Leningrad. Muheez Olawale’s dramatic tale of escape and survival highlights the tragedy of human trafficking and the slave trade. Nicolas Gunter evokes the hopelessness of a person displaced and oppressed within a cruel climate.

Daniel De Culla’s fragmented near-death dream vision excoriates the political and economic power structures of the modern Western world. Noah Berlatsky illustrates the grotesque nature of hate and vitriol through his consciously repulsive imagery. Patricia Doyne excoriates the rising tide of racist and anti-immigrant sentiment in the U.S. Jake Cosmos Aller lambastes the political climate of the United States. Howard Debs preserves the words of and speculates along with the hosts of The View, wondering about Trump’s recent victory. Christopher Bernard suggests that America’s unique mix of cultural values and priorities helped to produce a leader akin to Trump. Bruce Roberts registers disgust at Trump’s voice, attitude, and behavior.

Turgunov Jonpolat describes how he stopped his peers from bullying him by reminding them that they were not all that important in life. Ivanov Reyez crafts vignettes of people determined to live and thrive despite the small and larger cruelties of the world around them.

Nuraini Mohamed Usman’s tale of enemies-to-lovers takes place within a secondary school. Ahmad Al-Khatat describes two broken people finding and healing each other in an unexpected love story. Mesfakus Salahin offers his gentle love to someone for whom he cares very much. Lan Qyqualla poetically immortalizes his late wife Lora in his mythical verse. Taylor Dibbert conveys continuing grief over the loss of a beloved canine companion. Kodirova Barchinoy Shavkatovna mourns the loss of her grandfather’s kind and poetic soul. Faizullayeva Gulasal reflects on how her love and respect for her parents helped her get through sheltering in place during the Covid-19 pandemic. Cameron Carter describes a love that inspires him to become a better version of himself.

Harinder Lamba presents a love story between a couple, their baby, and the Earth as they help our planet navigate climate change.

Michael Robinson leans on the poetic voice of Rumi to describe his spiritual intimacy with Jesus. Brian Barbeito evokes the mystical feeling that can come with staring into the deep daytime or nighttime sky as Sayani Mukherjee offers up a sensuous take on fallen leaves.

Sidnei Rosa da Silva gently chronicles a ladybug’s climb up a sand dune as Muslima Murodova relates the tender tale of a beautiful but short-lived butterfly.

Kylian Cubilla Gomez zooms in on bits of nature and culture from unusual angles, cultivating a sense of childlike wonder. Isabel Gomez de Diego’s work accomplishes something similar with scenes of cultivated nature: sheep on a hillside and seaside lookouts. Raquel Barbeito also gets up and close with nature, sketching outdoor scenes as well as a closeup of a person’s eye.

Duane Vorhees’ poetic speakers merge with nature in their own way in his descriptions of passion and indigestion.

Sarvinoz Quramboyeva highlights the beauty of Uzbekistan and its people’s optimism. Nilufar Anvarova celebrates the beauty of her Uzbek village and the kindness of its people while Ilhomova Mohichehra highlights the goodness of Uzbeks. Mansurova Sarvinoz Hassan, an Uzbek writer, relates her educational and professional accomplishments and thanks those who have supported her.

Zafarbek Jakbaraliyev outlines the language and distribution of the world’s Turkic-speaking peoples. Irodaxon Ibragimova relates the history of the Bekobod area of Uzbekistan. Sarvinoz Tuliyeva elucidates the history and importance of Uzbekistan’s Shaikhontohur Ensemble. Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna highlights the elegance and history of the Uzbek language as Farangiz Abduvohidova explores proverbs in Uzbekistan’s culture and Shamsiyeva Gavhar celebrates the beauty and rich history of the Uzbek language and its integral role in Uzbek culture. Maftuna Rustamova praises the wisdom of the Uzbek constitution.

Z.I. Mahmud draws out themes of nationalism and civilization vs wild nature in his analysis of Ted Hughes’ poetic works. Ari Nystrom-Rice illuminates the sheer force of nature, rainwater crashing into the sea. Kass evokes images of nature and plant life overtaking cities. Olivia Brody revels in melding with the beach, merging with wind and sand and ice plants.

Niginabonu Amirova blusters about the power of wind to transform a day and a landscape. Federico Wardal celebrates the lush landscapes and many talents of emerging Egyptian painter Nour Kassem. Nathan Anderson highlights the pure blunt force of Rus Khomutoff’s new poetry collection Kaos Karma as John Dorsey celebrates the soft and tender melodies of jazz. Jacques Fleury’s poetic mishmash twists and turns syntax around into a kerfluffle.

Joshua Martin weaves biological and mechanical images into his elaborate syntax-adventurous poetry. Mark Young’s “geographies” adjust, alter, and repurpose images and style elements. Texas Fontanella also probes the edges of conscious thought with his stream-of-consciousness text-message dialogues.

Also through a stream-of-consciousness form, Abigail George recollects personal struggles and a lost love in a poetic and descriptive essay. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa shares her own journey through poetry, towards balancing compassion for self with that for others. Bill Tope’s short story calls attention to the silent suffering of many with misophonia, sound sensitivity, through its depiction of a person’s quest for outer and inner peace.

J.J. Campbell speculates through vignettes from his own life on our place in the world, among time, history, and other creatures, and whether we are learning and growing as time passes.

Mahbub Alam compares the cycles of life to stops along a train route, as our world continually moves and changes. Through the tale of good clothes hung up and set aside, Faleeha Hassan reminds us not to save our entire lives for some amorphous special occasion.

Richard Stimac comments on the rhythms of life and human experience through the metaphor of Argentinian tango as Sara Goyceli Serifova rejoices in the look and feel of a long-awaited hopeful night.

We hope this issue will help plumb the depths behind the surface of the headlines and wring some hope from the sodden fabric of the world.

Examine a close reading of Songs of the Crow and Hawks Roosting by Ted Hughes in terms of critical commentaries.

In Songs of the Crow and Hawk Roosting Yorkshire native poet laureate Ted Hughes explicates the fraternity of nature by the amnesty toward their habitation, niche, mindless instincts and ferocity. These alien creatures nevertheless station themselves in the abodes of the human psyche. The whole of the countryside Yorkshire is a dwelling of mourning in funebrial of World Wars I and II. Thus “Hawk’s Roosting” is a hawk’s dramatic monologue of hawkishness,
exhibiting murderous instincts, malicious vivaciousness and manic egoism, infernal ruthlessness, precarious hubris, perilous arrogance, maleficent coldbloodness and gothic tyranny.

Hughes at his most disposition exhibited the aura of being the poet of claws and cages: Jaguar, Hawk, Falcon and Crow, mythologizing and psychologizing anecdotal memorabilia through penchant of restorative memory. Mythic or symbolic and elegiac or confessional poetry crafted by Ted Hughes are exemplified thus with Coleridgean vision and Wordsworthian candour.

Existence of the stark predatory personae of the hawks’ is emblematic of animalistic savagery and cannibalistic bestiality bereft of remorse and empathy in case of Hawk Roosting. The primitive and instinctive nature of its cold existence are further metaphorically represented within “the allotment of death” as implied by the superpower of “hooked beak” and “hooked feet”.

The futurity of nihilistic existentialism in the havoc and upheaval wreaked by the post World Wars allegorically critiques this satirical motif. Furthermore decadence and dehumanization along with
the fall of the legacy of Western civilization becomes the harbinger of the Hawk spirited personae espoused by the poetic voice. Harshness and ghastliness of the poetic voice examines the satiric scathing and incantatory conjuring of large scale nuclear annihilation, anarchic apocalypse and massive environmental cataclysm. Crow’s life and songs is an exposition of human hubris as an ecofeminist project in the vein of the tragic and mythic in the anthropocene.

That poetry consists of phrases that are soul feeding verses as declaimed by Seamus Heaney fruitfully resurrects in Ted Hughes’ Crows Song and the Hawk Roosting too. The poet laureate
remythologizes communion of heaven and earth resembles iconoclastic atonement and visceral bloody crucifixion. crows’ nailing of heaven and earth together/ So man cried with God’s voice and God bled with man’s blood… Thus life exemplified by crow song is an amoral but extraordinarily volcanic force in the aesthetic eloquence of darkness being lightened and speechlessness being speechified. Nonetheless traumatic memorabilia from the Great World
Wars I and II and Sylvia Plath’s suicidal death by the gas stove psychically embroils the cauldron of fantastic narrative poetry
‘Crows Song’ and ‘Hawks Roosting’.

Hughes’s re- mythologization of Crows after all symbolically
manifests inimical indifference of obliviousness embedded in human nature throughout a demythologized world.

Hughes like New Moderns re-enchants the contemporary historical socio economic and cultural milieu through ancient, antique, atavistic and primordial ballads, myths, legends, epics, folktales and fairytales into the British Isles and Britannic legacy. A wild destructive London night and a banging blasting ferocious love masculinizes the lovemaking by libidinal urges of Plathian eroticization. In this scenario, the penis envy enmeshes the metaphorical symbolization of dominance and power in the poems. The Hawks Roosting propounds the American symbolist spirit of the nationalist bird evoked by proud roosting posture and the image of the strong talons.

Further Reading
A History of Modern Poetry Modernism and After David Perkins

.

Haze

The autumn windfall of fallen leaves
A shadowy misty river water 
Sat by the upfront the river cried
A dozen zenith full of wavering sadness
I churned the fall from the seasons
Of Tulip's most unkempt secret 
A lonely hazardous blush garden
All around a throny buzzing
Fall came with its basket 
By the river it was
As I carried the leaves with the moisty touch 
So all were symphony of a cacophonous haze.