Village

A lonely cottage by the river wall
The sun scooped daisy under my beige wall
A pointed facade a long overturn over there
To mend and bask the town Meadows
As I lay dipping in the river 
I hear cascades over my rimmed lens
A lovely blossom it was, it lied open dust
The moonbeamed sun is lowly now
To hung the home grown lilies
The blue painted carpenter singed a choir
A thousand lullabyed biddings
For the village was aglow in the pure love. 

Lost

Grass or hair

Very close

Sickle-covered hands

Cut by the clouds of the decks

Sailors’ souls or sailors’ corpses

In the ocean of time

In the ocean of the soul

A void stirred by the storm

A void moved by the wind

Catch me

Raw are matches

Keep me warm

Hands are broken

Anchors melted into cotton candy.

Sails soak up the screams and become heavy as metal

No one remembers but the seagulls

Death by ship

A ship that tasted death

No one knows where the corpses go

Ice beneath the feet of slipping death

Cast-iron milk of tastes and sunken eyes of noses

Nobody knows how to compose a proper serenade

Nobody knows how to die with rhyme

Nobody writes dead poetry

Nobody writes poetry for dead people

Nobody knows how to write and read

Strange seagulls look everywhere with their beaks

EURIDIQUE COME BACK ONE DAY!

(dedication to my late wife)

Eurydice, come back one day,

that my song for you does not stop

prayer to Hades touches ancient crystals,

my muse invades Diana’s verse,

I will not turn my head back

that I am not Orfe.

Eurydice, take the fairies’ journey,

come to visit and don’t stop there to see

the children have grown up. Teuta walks

your traces in Grammar,

Fly like birds in flight,

Lali stays calm like a meteor pillar,

cold winter has fallen on me

I have snow everywhere on my head.

Eurydice, I wrote you a letter,

in which paradise do you rest,

sorry i didn’t have an address

and started the journey without a visa,

no passport, no goodbye

and how do we wish this year?!

The Sun’s Tears

I do not trust

the sun’s

tears

and Lora’s

love

I do not trust

theweight

ofher word

or the longing

I have for her.

The Drawer of Forgetfulness

I locked you up

in the drawer of forgetfulness

as the crystalline water under the earth

and the crumpled writing on the gray sheet

proof of the time spent in the studio

I saw you

in the labyrinths of the faculty

where the Alphabet’s raytwinkles

your voice can be heard in each class room

in the workbook you

are piling up the memory years.

Lora 

We wander through time 

like snakes in the bushes 

Lora and I 

in the ecstasy of the painting 

I gave her Mona Lisa’s smile 

I drank water from Lora’s bosom 

and I lost myself in adolescent dreams, 

I gave Lora a life 

I gave the sky a kiss 

the sun seemed to be silent 

and left a free way to darkness 

the rainbow lightens my way 

fiery I take the stars to the bosom 

I hug the sun 

to feel its tenderness. 

Lora is silent 

and she silently speaks 

in her blonde hair 

I touch the love 

embers in the lap 

white frost 

he left traces 

Lora is asleep 

with the fiery stars 

tickling her lips 

in the corrugated crown 

the sounds of silence 

I put her crown 

and I read under her eyelids 

the novel I will write 

Lora with her bosom as virgin snow 

lures the Talmudists’ years 

Lora crystalline meteor.

WHAT TO WISH YOU TONIGHT

I am drunken with craving

of cords of your voice

I seek the canary of love

in the labyrinths of the soul

the morning messenger is not heard

nor he knits the sounds cardigan of Monastery

you, the lost one in the waves of forgetfulness.

I glaze the pictures in the museum

I doze in present time

the verb love

I conjugate in first person

Because you loved me

I track in mirative form

the time passed in lucidity

what to wish you tonight as you forgot me.

Ah, with the sweetness of the vowels

Quivered even my lake

we, like two canaries in the mountains

loosing trails in canon

me, you and the voice

tonight brings me back to nostalgia.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
flutter

and here comes the old timer



a blackout drunk in the city
that never sleeps


has stories for days about
hookers, heroin and whatever
happens to flutter into his mind


i egg him on from time to time,
especially when he calls oprah
the anti-christ


how many black women have
fucked you over?


i stopped counting in the late
fall of 1979


like a lost dog, he wears those
puppy eyes like a scolded child


ok, let's go to the bar


he lights up

a smile



we get to the bar and ask for
two old fashioneds and a shot
of everclear


the bartender asks are you two
celebrating or looking to die


the old timer mumbles under
his breath
what is the fucking difference

i pat him on the back, reassuringly

tell him there isn't any
---------------------------------------------------------------------
imagine the fame

watching the news recently
has me rethinking all those
dreams when i was a kid
and i wanted to kill
my father

i sip on a whiskey
and imagine the fame

love letters on the wall
of a prison cell, cracking
jokes

of course i try not to
think who is claiming
me as their bitch

swimming in a river
of apathy that never
ends

whatever greatness ever
touched me has withered
away by now

a walking corpse


a poem edited beyond
belief

even the shotgun in the
corner has lost interest

i think of my bed as a tomb
and one day, i won't be jesus

actually get to enjoy
a few more hours
of sleep
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
any sense of depravity

a slow song
as she rests
her aching head
on what is left
of your soul

it was never
supposed to
be this hard

all the mistakes


bad luck dressed
as a devil in a
three piece suit

two dreamers left
alone to suffer

stretch a dollar past
any sense of depravity

this is what happens
when the drunks realize
a bon jovi song is never
something to aspire to

can't afford the good
drugs anymore

this is why you never
burn any bridges with
the homeless

you never know
------------------------------------------------------------------------
when the holidays roll around

embrace the madness like tomorrow
is the hooker with a heart of gold

some fantasy made up in a
tarantino movie i suppose

the nights get bleaker when the
holidays roll around

suicide is this tempting seductress
showing just the right amount
of leg

she will give you a taste and you'll be
fighting the urge the rest of your life

i see the tombstones of my friends

lucky fucks that made it out

but who knows

maybe some damsel in distress
stumbles into my life

i win a lottery or a ten team parlay
and suddenly, sunshine is something
more than just cancer waiting to happen
------------------------------------------------------------------------
something fondly

sometimes i believe my death
will solve everything and soon
enough i will be forgotten

my ego tries to make a point
that the poems will last longer
than any of us

and there will surely be a woman
or two that cries or remembers
something fondly

the realist in me laughs

knows none of this matters
or will come true

the ashes will be spread into
a flower bed where the dogs
will piss every morning
that part always makes me laugh

fitting

i always pictured my ashes
being flushed down a toilet
in a cocaine rage
but pissed on isn't that far off

hopefully the flowers

will look good



J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Yellow Mama, The Rye Whiskey Review and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. 

Rubina Anis is the Headteacher of Harimohan Government High school, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. She has obtained her honors’ and masters’ degree from the department of Arts and Crafts at Rajshahi University.

The same motherland that shaped me now seeks to break me,
A stranger hut where familiarity’s a distant memory.
Every step feels like a betrayal, choking my breath,
A reality that suffocates, leaving me gasping for air.
But we’re survivors, weathering hunger’s biting pangs,
Enduring bullets born of insecurity’s sting.
We stand tall, proud in our composure,
United in love for our country, despite its flaws.
My skin, richly pigmented, tells ancestors’ stories,
Resilience and triumphs are etched in every glory.
Like my father before and mother now,
We, the younger generation, face adversity with courage.
Though aspirations are restricted, dreams flourish hidden,
Wildflowers blooming secretly, unrelenting.
Rise, fellow countrymen, weary but united we stand,
Determined to reach great heights, despite soaring challenges.
Our fuel may be scarce, but perseverance is plentiful,
Our spirit is unbroken, like wildflowers that bloom.
Let us rise, and in our diversity, find strength,
For a brighter future, where dreams are free to length.

Marvelous Monday is a passionate writer with a published credit in Written Tales Magazine. His work explores themes of identity, resilience, and social justice.

Karakalpak folk poet Berdak

Through this article, I would like to provide information about the life and work of the great poet of the Karakalpak people. Berdak is a poet, the founder of Karakalpak literature. 

First, he studied at a village school, then at a madrasa. Alisher deeply read the works of Navoi, Fuzuli, Makhtumquli and the Karakalpak poet Kunkhoja, and learned from them. He knew history and folklore well. The social life of the Karakalpak people in the 18th and 19th centuries was expressed in Berdak's lyrical poems and epics. He evaluates the events and social relations of his time as an intelligent poet. 

The ideas of equality, humanity, justice and patriotism are put forward in his works. In Berdak's works, the condition of the working people is the main theme ("It didn't happen", "Tax", "This year", "My life", etc.). The poet dreams of selfless fighters for the truth, for the happiness and future of the working masses ("For the people", "I need", etc.). 

The poet proudly sings about the heroes of the people in his historical works "Avlodlar", "Omongeldi", "Azadosbiy", "Ernazarbiy". Berdak's work "Generations" is a chronicle of historical events, the common events in the lives of the Karakalpak people and other Turkic peoples are recorded, and the legends about the origin of tribes and peoples are described. Berdak exposes the lies of some corrupt clergymen ("Better", "Like", etc.), defends women's rights, calls on young people to love their country, reach the heights of enlightenment ("To my son", "Don't be a fool", etc.).

 In his poetic observations and struggles for life, Berdaq dreamed of a happy life for working people. While thinking about making the people happy, Berdak asks God for help ("Help"), thinks about happiness ("I searched"), dreams of a just king ("Need"), hopes for the construction of a happy society. Berdak's work is close to the traditions of folk literature. He occupies the main position in the history of Karakalpak literature with the richness of his creativity and the ideological and artistic height of his works. 

Many of his works have been translated into Uzbek and other languages. The 170th anniversary of Berdak's birth was widely celebrated in Uzbekistan and Karakalpakstan (1998). One of the avenues in the city of Tashkent was named "Berdaq" and a bust was installed. A bust of the poet was also installed in Bozatov, the birthplace of the poet (1998). In the city of Nukus, a statue was dedicated to him, a musical drama theater, a street and a school were named after Berdak.

AUTHOR: MAFTUNA YUSUPBOYEVA, UZBEKISTAN.