In the morning … The spring if the horizon is spreading. From the coldest winter, the spring was lifted by a spring temper to the spring. The river laughed again in the sky in the sky in the sky. The wings birds towards the hot land will return to the hot country again. Exclusive of just the exception. The butterflies also give a more charm to spring flowers with their elegance. For some reason the whole being, for some reason, a tree never flowered. If Nahot He does not want to flower, Nahot was foreigner to him?
Those questions had made a butterfly dream on the flower. The butterfly did not think for a long time. Has his curiosity? He went to that floral tree and began to ask questions. Why didn’t you even want to bloom when the whole being demonstrated his beauty? I also wanted you to land in the flowers of you too. Then the tree: I would also flow like other trees. I bloomed even from them. But regret. I was in a hurry. I was deceived in the sunset. I opened an early bud. As a result, my flowers are freezing because of my impatience. Then I was frozen. Now I can’t help me either. Neither the winter blame for me to fall into this case nor his belly. All the guilt is on myself. I wish I was not a hassle. I was also now the brains of spring. Sorry …
Mushtariy Tòlanboyeva, Student of the 8th grade of the Erkin Vohidov School of Creativity
Funny how we count time. We try to contain it in seconds, hours, days, years. But we wouldn’t know time passes if memories didn’t fall like petals, Unpacking moments we once cherished.
That once smooth skin Is scarred with lessons and cuts from our first fall. We learn time takes everything, And nothing stays the same, Reminding us to enjoy life before it ends.
But when time actually passes, We shed tears and laugh At the experiences life managed to carry us through. And here we are, Wondering where it all went.
Nóra was eager to know the results of the selection of the Nice conference. These should arrive soon. Sometimes she thought she had every chance. At other times, Nora was pessimistic. She had to wait.
She sent the text of her contribution «Dominic Valarcher, Broken Identity» to the writer too. She had scrupulously complied with the requirements requested. Some time later, Dominic replied. He congratulated her warmly. He found her analysis brilliant. Her French was perfect as usual.
Dominic suggested that she write some kind of a letter of recommendation to the jury, but Nóra thought it was not a good idea. She was probably right. This initiative risked annoying the said jury. The writer was convinced that her application would be accepted. Perhaps he was overconfident.
In the meantime, the manuscript of short stories was finished. He was happy with it and sent it to Jean-François Macor. He proposed to the publisher The Fairy of Pécs as a title. Macor quickly acknowledged receipt.
Carlotta Bonini was eager to read and translate the stories into Italian, the publisher assured.
The day ended peacefully in Garouze. Dominic took a short walk in the country. He wondered if the surrounding landscape would have inspired Camus. Was it inhabited by the gods? Probably.
He found Noces ( Nuptials) followed by L’Été ( Summer) in the small village bookshop. He bought the book in order to read it in the sun. Dominic felt the urge to start living again. Camus could help him do just that.
The writer felt good. The only thing missing was Laetitia. He would have liked her to be here, by his side, to be able to tell her in person how much he loved her.
The walk was short. He had found a bench well exposed to the sun. Children passed by, laughing. They seemed happy. It looked like this was the first morning in the world, Dominic thought. A passer-by waved at him. Everything was in place, according to the universal setting. The only thing missing was a painter who would have immortalized this «tableau» for him.
*
The light was dimming. He decided to go back in. On the way, he remembered an interview with Dr. Bronstein that had particularly marked him.
“Mr. Valarcher, you told me that Camille, your mother, didn`t like the German language?
“Hated would be more correct.” It was the language of death, as it was for Paul Celan. Without any irony, as a good Christian, she had forgiven Germany, but not the language of the executioners. »
Bronstein thought for a moment:
“I understand. I myself have preferred to express myself in French since the genocide of the Jews. It’s terrible to reject your so-called mother tongue in this way. You don’t speak German, I believe?
–No. I know the works of Franz Kafka and Todesfuge by Paul Celan in French translation. This poem haunted me for years. I saw in it the fate of my mother’s first husband, murdered at Auschwitz. I never managed to learn German by the way. I couldn’t. »
Bronstein looked at some pictures on the walls of his study. The psychiatrist had once told Dominic that he had found these pictures after the death of his father and of a part of his family in deportation. He had been tempted to destroy them. Aware that it would have been a sacrilege, he had not done so. Dominic couldn’t forget all those conversations with the therapist. The latter, in fact, had not cured him, but had helped him a lot. Samuel Bronstein had visited Auschwitz without his wife, who did not feel capable of confronting the “unspeakable”.
Laetitia and Dominic had not been able to get through the gate of the camp. Should this attempt have been repeated? When he asked Dr. Bronstein for his opinion, the doctor replied:
“Don’t feel guilty, Mr. Valarcher. You carry within you, the suffering of the young brunette woman with blue eyes. This terrible ordeal broke you when you were a child. We must not add to it. Forgive the triviality of this expression. When I went there, I felt like I could smell the smell of death, the stench that poisoned everything. I know, other pilgrims – I use this expression cautiously – have spoken about it… It is said that, on certain evenings, the wind from Poland carries death, its smell, to Germany, yes, death and with it the screams of the damned. I would like to believe that this is only a legend. »
*
Dominic had tears in his eyes as he remembered the psychiatrist’s confidences. He had always refused to tape their conversations.
“No doubt you want to use my words for one of your books, Mr. Valarcher? Well, you will call on your memory. Memory is labile. It will transform, lie, perhaps censor and that will be fine. Therein lies the literature as you understand it. As we understand it. »
Traduction en italien :https://www.ladolfieditore.it/index.php/en/catalogue/rubino/denis-emorine-identita-spezzate-identites-brisees.html?tmpl=component&print=1
Nóra était impatiente de connaître les résultats de la sélection du colloque de Nice. Ceux-ci devraient arriver bientôt. Parfois, elle se disait qu’elle avait toutes ses chances. À d’autres moments, l’étudiante était pessimiste. Il fallait attendre.
Elle envoya le texte de sa contribution Dominique Valarcher, l’identité brisée à l’écrivain. Elle avait scrupuleusement respecté les exigences demandées. Quelque temps après, celui-ci répondit. Il la félicita chaleureusement. Il avait trouvé son analyse brillante. Son français était parfait comme d’habitude.
Dominique lui proposa d’écrire une sorte de lettre de recommandation au jury, mais Nóra pensa que ce n’était pas une bonne idée. Elle avait sans doute raison. Cette initiative risquait d’agacer ledit jury. L’écrivain était persuadé que sa candidature serait retenue. Peut-être était-il trop confiant.
Cette fois, le manuscrit de nouvelles était fini. Il en était content et l’envoya à Jean-François Macor. Il lui proposa La fée de Pécs comme titre. Macor accusa rapidement réception. Carlotta Bonini était impatiente de le lire et de le traduire en italien, assura l’éditeur.
La journée s’acheva paisiblement à Garouze. Dominique fit une petite promenade dans la campagne. Il se demanda si le paysage aurait inspiré Camus. Est-ce qu’il était habité par les dieux ? Sans doute.
Il trouva Noces suivi de L’Été dans la petite librairie du village. Il l’acheta pour le lire au soleil. Dominique voulait revivre. Camus pouvait l’aider.
L’écrivain se sentait bien. Il manquait seulement Laetitia. Il aurait voulu qu’elle soit là, à ses côtés. Son mari lui aurait dit combien il l’aimait.
La promenade fut courte. Il avait trouvé un banc bien exposé. Des enfants passèrent en riant. Ils avaient l’air heureux. On aurait dit le premier matin du monde, pensa Dominique. Un promeneur lui fit un signe de la main. Tout était en place, dans ce décor. Manquait seulement le peintre qui l’aurait immortalisé.
*
La lumière baissait. Il décida de rentrer. Chemin faisant, il se remémora un entretien avec le docteur Bronstein qui l’avait particulièrement marqué.
« Monsieur Valarcher, vous m’avez dit que Camille, votre mère détestait la langue allemande ?
– Haïssait serait plus juste. C’était la langue de la mort comme pour Paul Celan. En bonne chrétienne sans aucune ironie, elle avait pardonné à l’Allemagne, mais pas à la langue des bourreaux. »
Bronstein réfléchit un instant :
« Je comprends. Moi-même, je préfère m’exprimer en français depuis le génocide des Juifs. C’est terrible de rejeter ainsi sa langue dite maternelle. Vous ne parlez pas allemand, je crois ?
– Non. Je connais les œuvres de Franz Kafka, Todesfuge de Paul Celan en traduction française. Ce poème m’a hanté durant des années. J’y voyais le destin du premier mari de ma mère, assassiné à Auschwitz. Je ne suis jamais arrivé à apprendre l’allemand d’ailleurs. Je ne pouvais pas. »
Bronstein regarda quelques tableaux aux murs de son cabinet. Le psychiatre avait dit un jour à Dominique qu’il les avait retrouvés après la mort de son père et d’une partie de sa famille en déportation. Il avait été tenté de les détruire. Conscient que ç’aurait été un sacrilège, il ne l’avait pas fait. Dominique n’arrivait pas à oublier toutes ces conversations avec le thérapeute. Celui-ci, effectivement, ne l’avait pas guéri, mais lui avait beaucoup apporté. Samuel Bronstein était allé à Auschwitz sans sa femme qui ne se sentait pas capable d’affronter « l’innommable ».
Laetitia et Dominique n’avaient pas pu franchir la porte du camp. Aurait-il fallu renouveler cette tentative ? Lorsqu’il avait sollicité l’avis du docteur Bronstein, celui-ci avait répondu :
« Ne vous culpabilisez pas, monsieur Valarcher. Vous portez en vous, la souffrance de la jeune femme brune aux yeux bleus. Cette terrible épreuve vous a brisé lorsque vous étiez enfant. Il ne faut pas en rajouter. Pardonnez la trivialité de cette expression. Lorsque je m’y suis rendu, j’avais l’impression de sentir l’odeur de la mort, cette puanteur qui empoisonnait tout. Je sais, d’autres pèlerins – j’emploie cette expression avec précaution – en ont parlé… On prétend que, certains soirs, le vent venu de Pologne charrie la mort, son odeur, jusqu’en Allemagne, la mort et avec elle les hurlements des damnés. J’aimerais croire qu’il s’agit seulement d’une légende. »
Dominique avait les larmes aux yeux en se souvenant des confidences du psychiatre. Celui-ci avait toujours refusé d’être enregistré.
« Sans doute souhaitez-vous utiliser mes propos pour un de vos livres, monsieur Valarcher ? Eh bien, vous ferez appel à votre mémoire. La mémoire est labile. Elle transformera, mentira, censurera peut-être et ce sera très bien ainsi. Là réside la littérature telle que vous l’entendez. Telle que nous l’entendons. »
Nora con impazienza attendeva i risultati della selezione della conferenza di Nizza. Sarebbero dovuti arrivare presto. A volte pensava di avere buone possibilità. Altre volte era pessimista. Occorreva aspettare.
Inviò allo scrittore il testo del suo contributo Dominique Valarcher, l’identité brisée. Aveva rispettato scrupolosamente le norme. Qualche tempo dopo lui le rispose. Si congratulò calorosamente con lei. Aveva trovato brillante la sua analisi. Il suo francese era perfetto, come al solito.
Dominique le suggerì di scrivere alla giuria una sorta di lettera di referenze, ma lei reputò che non fosse una buona idea: senza dubbio aveva ragione. Un’iniziativa del genere avrebbe potuto irritare i giurati. Lo scrittore era sicuro che la sua candidatura sarebbe stata accolta. Forse era troppo fiducioso.
Questa volta il manoscritto dei racconti era finito. Soddisfatto, lo inviò a Jean-François Macor. Suggerì come titolo La fata di Pécs. Macor rispose subito di averlo ricevuto. Carlotta Bonini era ansiosa di leggerlo e di tradurlo in italiano, gli assicurò l’editore.
La giornata si concluse tranquillamente a Garouze. Dominique fece una breve passeggiata in campagna. Si interrogò se il paesaggio avesse ispirato Camus. Era abitato dagli dèi? Senza dubbio.
Nella piccola libreria del villaggio trovò Noces e poi L’Été. Lo comprò per leggerlo all’aria aperta. Voleva vivere una nuova vita. Camus poteva aiutarlo.
Lo scrittore si sentiva bene. Mancava solo Laetitia. Avrebbe voluto che fosse lì, al suo fianco. Suo marito le avrebbe detto quanto l’amava.
La passeggiata fu breve. Aveva trovato una panchina ben esposta. Alcuni bambini passarono ridendo. Sembravano felici. Lo si sarebbe potuto definire il primo mattino del mondo, pensò Dominique. Un passante gli fece un cenno con la mano. Tutto era al proprio posto in quell’ambiente. Mancava solo il pittore che l’avrebbe immortalato.
*
La luce si stava affievolendo. Decise di rientrare. Durante il tragitto si ricordò di una conversazione con il dottor Bronstein che lo aveva particolarmente colpito.
«Signor Valarcher, mi ha detto che Camille, sua madre, detestava la lingua tedesca?».
«”Odiava” sarebbe più preciso. Era la lingua della morte, come per Paul Celan. Da buona cristiana senza ironia, aveva perdonato la Germania, ma non la lingua dei carnefici».
Bronstein rifletté per un attimo: «Capisco. Io stesso preferisco parlare in francese dopo il genocidio degli Ebrei. È terribile rifiutare la propria cosiddetta lingua madre. Lei non parla tedesco, suppongo?».
«No, non parlo tedesco. Conosco le opere di Franz Kafka, Todesfuge di Paul Celan in traduzione francese. Questa poesia mi ha perseguitato per anni. Vi ho visto il destino del primo marito di mia madre, ucciso ad Auschwitz. Tra l’altro, non sono mai riuscito a imparare il tedesco. Non ce la facevo».
Bronstein guardò alcuni dei quadri appesi alle pareti del suo ufficio. Una volta aveva raccontato a Dominique di averli trovati dopo che suo padre e parte della sua famiglia erano morti durante la deportazione. Era stato tentato di distruggerli. Consapevole che sarebbe stato un sacrilegio, non l’aveva fatto. Dominique non poteva dimenticare tutte quelle conversazioni con il terapeuta. Egli non lo aveva certo guarito, ma lo aveva aiutato molto. Samuel Bronstein era andato ad Auschwitz senza la moglie, che non si sentiva in grado di affrontare l’”indicibile”.
Laetitia e Dominique non erano riusciti a varcare il cancello del campo. Questo tentativo avrebbe dovuto essere ripetuto? Quando aveva chiesto consiglio al dottor Bronstein, questi aveva risposto: «Non si biasimi, signor Valarcher. Lei porta dentro di sé la sofferenza della giovane donna bruna dagli occhi azzurri. Questa terribile prova l’ha distrutto fin dall’infanzia. Non deve aggiungere altro. Perdoni la banalità dell’espressione. Quando sono andato lì, mi sembrava di sentire l’odore della morte, quel fetore che avvelenava tutto. Lo so, altri pellegrini – uso questa espressione con cautela – ne hanno parlato… Si dice che in certe sere il vento che spira dalla Polonia porti in Germania, l’odore della morte e con la morte le urla dei condannati. Vorrei credere che si trattasse solo di una leggenda».
Dominique aveva le lacrime agli occhi mentre ricordava le confidenze dello psichiatra, che aveva sempre rifiutato di essere registrato.
«Sicuramente vorrà usare le mie parole per uno dei suoi libri, signor Valarcher? Beh, dovrà usare la sua memoria. La memoria è labile. Si trasforma, mente, forse censura e va bene così. Qui sta la letteratura come la intendete voi e come la intendiamo noi».
This article focuses on explaining the importance of early detection and diagnosis of diseases in women’s health. It aims to provide useful information for medical professionals and the general public by covering common gynecological diseases today, their causes, types, treatment methods, and similar information.
The health of the female reproductive organs is crucial throughout life, encompassing reproduction, hormonal balance, attractiveness, and other female-specific processes. Disruptions in these processes can lead to various gynecological diseases.
Main Part
The primary gynecological diseases in women are linked to the anatomical and physiological characteristics of the female body. Although these diseases mainly affect the reproductive system, they also influence the entire body. The pathology of vital organs is of great significance.
Uterine Fibroids (Myoma)
Currently, uterine fibroids are diagnosed in 30-35% of women. Myoma is a benign tumor that develops in the muscle layer (myometrium) of the uterus. There are three types of myomas:
Intramural Myoma: Develops within the uterine muscle layer, causing noticeable uterine enlargement, menstrual irregularities, severe pain, and pressure on the bladder and rectum.
Subserous Myoma: Forms on the outer wall of the uterus within the serous membrane, growing outward into the pelvic cavity. These tumors are often asymptomatic, but may cause constipation and frequent urination.
Submucosal Myoma: Forms under the inner lining of the uterus and is rare but severe, leading to abnormal menstrual cycles, excessive bleeding, lower abdominal and lower back pain.
Symptoms of Myoma:
Not all myomas cause noticeable symptoms, especially subserous ones. However, in some cases, clinical signs include:
Menstrual changes (lasting more than 8 days, heavy bleeding, blood clots)
Severe pain between menstrual cycles
Lower back and abdominal pain
Increased abdominal size
Pain during intercourse
Adenomyosis
Adenomyosis is a chronic gynecological disease where the endometrial tissue (inner uterine lining) invades the myometrium (uterine muscle layer). This condition is often referred to as internal endometriosis due to its similarities with endometriosis. It causes thickening and enlargement of the uterus. Research suggests that adenomyosis is diagnosed in 70% of women of reproductive age, particularly those aged 35-50.
Causes of Adenomyosis:
Although the exact causes are not fully understood, several factors contribute to its development:
Autoimmune factors (where the immune system attacks its own tissues)
Symptoms of Adenomyosis:
Painful menstruation (dysmenorrhea)
Heavy menstrual bleeding (menorrhagia)
Pain during intercourse
General discomfort in the pelvic area
Endometriotic Cysts (Endometriosis)
Endometriotic cysts, or “chocolate cysts,” are another chronic gynecological condition. In this disease, the endometrial tissue grows outside the uterus, attaching to other organs, leading to inflammation and severe pain. The menstrual blood in affected women often takes on a dark, chocolate-like color.
Causes of Endometriosis:
Genetic predisposition
Hormonal imbalance
Acquired factors (surgeries, immune dysfunctions)
In some cases, it can lead to infertility
Treatment Methods
Treatment options for the above-mentioned diseases include:
Surgical intervention: Removal of fibroids, cysts, or affected tissues
Chemotherapy: Used in severe cases
Diagnostic methods: MRI, ultrasound
Conclusion
To prevent these gynecological diseases, women should undergo regular medical check-ups and seek gynecological advice. Maintaining a balanced diet, ensuring hormonal stability, and engaging in physical activity can significantly contribute to overall reproductive health.
Synchronized Chaos Magazine expresses our sorrow for the lives and property lost in the Los Angeles wildfires. We invite people to visit here to learn about how to send cards of encouragement to fire crews and to donate books to replace school library collections that have burned.
Finally, contributor Chimezie Ihekuna seeks a publisherfor his children’s story collection Family Time. Family Time! Is a series that is aimed at educating, entertaining and inspiring children between the ages of two and seven years of age. It is intended to engage parents, teachers and children with stories that bring a healthy learning relationship among them.
Image c/o Chevalier’s Books
In March we will have a presence at the Association of Writing Programs conference in L.A. which will include an offsite reading at Chevalier’s Books on Friday, March 28th at 6 pm. All are welcome to attend!
So far the lineup for our reading includes Asha Dore, Douglas Cole, Linda Michel-Cassidy, Aimee Suzara, Reverie Fey, Sumiko Saulson, Ava Homa, Michelle Gonzalez, Terry Tierney, Anisa Rahim, Katrina Byrd, Cindy Rinne, Norma Smith, and Kellianne Parker.
Image c/o Justin Hamm
Author Justin Hamm is hosting a FREE online literary event the weekend of AWP, known as StayWP. This will include author talks, informative panels, book launches and networking!
This issue focuses on the journeys each of us, as individuals and cultural groups, take throughout life. We follow characters as seasons change and time passes, through different aspects of our shared humanity.
Sayani Mukherjee conveys the feel of the shifting landscape as night gives way to daytime.
Shukurillayeva Lazzatoy Shamsodovna translates a poem by Alexander Feinberg, which offers advice for new beginnings: start in silence and quietly observe the world before speaking. Sometimes we need to consider and learn before we can act.
As in life, we begin with childhood. Daniel De Culla writes of a kind and gracious angelic intervention on a pair of children’s first communion day. Isabel Gomez de Diego’s photos celebrate the whimsy and raw joy of a child’s dinosaur themed birthday party.
Mahmudova Sohibakhon presents methods of teaching and learning spoken and written English. Abigail George speaks to her friendship and mentoring relationship with aspiring South African playwright Dillon Israel. Sharipova Gulhayo Nasimovna outlines and details her educational dreams.
Lazizbek Raximov’s essay highlights the purposes and power of literature. Mehran Hashemi shares some of his poetry and outlines how his writing journey has changed his life. Federico Wardal interviews filmmaker Michael Poryes in a wide-ranging conversation about both of their artistic visions and goals and about the perils of fame and the necessity of real friendship for artists.
Image c/o Safarova Charos
Anna Keiko expresses how small beginnings can grow into larger scenes of beauty. Safarova Charos’ watercolors capture and highlight simple domestic comforts: tea, flowers, bluebirds.
Mickey Corrigan shares the stories of authors’ and creatives’ homes, which took on a historical cachet after the creatives left their legacies. Nozima Raximova discusses the Jadidist national cultural revival movement in 19th century Crimea, highlighting its importance in modernizing the area.
Caricature of the Crimean Tatar educator and intellectual Ismail Gasprinsky (on the right), depicted holding the newspaper Terjuman (“The Translator”) and the textbook Khoja-i-Sübyan (“The Teacher of Children”) in his hand. Two men, respectively Tatar and Azerbaijani Muslim clerics, are threatening him with takfīr and sharīʿah decrees (on the left). From the satirical magazine Molla Nasreddin, N. 17, 28 April 1908, Tbilisi (illustrator: Oskar Schmerling).
Sean Meggeson experiments with words, sounds, and arrangements of text on the screen. Mark Young splashes swathes of color and delicate text and lines across the page.
Eva Petropoulou Lianou reflects on the beauty of our diverse world full of many people with different creative gifts. For something different, Duane Vorhees contributes Mother Goose-esque pieces that address grace, mortality and human equality and diversity with gentle humor.
Nate Mancuso’s short story presents a couple who meet for a date and finally find themselves able to connect when they let go of their expectations and categories.
Grace Olatinwo recollects her mother’s steady love and draws strength from it as she navigates adult relationships. A rich poem by Kareem Abdullah, translated by John Henry Smith, celebrates sensuality and surrendering to love. Tajalla Qureshi speaks to the fragrant and silken ecstasy of sensual and spiritual love.
Mesfakus Salahin encourages readers to understand and wait for true and non-materialistic love as Maftuna Rustamova reminds us of the importance of money to have a stable life.
Sobirjonova Rayhona takes joy in her sister’s beautiful wedding. Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna reflects on the wonder and responsibility of motherhood. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa shares how she’s doing what she can to show compassion to the world, even as a person of limited means. Michael Robinson speaks to the spiritual love and sense of belonging he has found in his later years through knowing Jesus Christ.
John Grey’s work explores agency: moments when we feel like active protagonists and when we get subsumed by life. Pamela Zero offers her admiration for bold women with confidence who walk by as she quietly weeds her garden. Jumanazarov Zohidjon reflects on the winding road of life and its ups and downs.
Image c/o Kylian Cubilla Gomez
Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ photography explores the dislocation of travel: window views, sculpted renditions of international flights, objects balanced at strange angles.
Eleanor Vincent’s memoir Disconnected, reviewed by Cristina Deptula, charts the journey of a romance between two people with different neurotypes, ending in a different kind of dislocation.
Jacques Fleury’s story relates the tale of a man finding a glimmer of love again after the death of a spouse. Graciela Noemi Villaverde memorializes her deceased husband and the many ways he complemented her and illuminated her life. Taylor Dibbert reflects on how one takes one’s departed loved ones with us in our minds long after their passing. Tursunov Abdulla Bakhrom O’g’li poetically mourns a lost love. Kristy Raines’ evocative poetry illustrates how people can communicate the depth of love and grief with or without words.
J.J. Campbell’s poetry evokes longing, loss, and ennui. Kassandra Aguilera conveys the anguish of unrequited love. John Dorsey’s poetry captures moments of isolation and waiting, characters who feel out of place.
Image c/o Jacques Fleury
Khomidjonova Odina shares a scary story of a boy and his pet deer being threatened by robbers. Mahbub Alam evokes the vast power of the Los Angeles wildfires as Don Bormon speaks to both the destruction and the city’s power to rebuild. Naila Abdunosirova’s poignant piece describes a homeless, landless rabbit devoured by a fox. Ahmed Miqdad grasps the enormity of all he and many other civilians have lost due to the war in Gaza.
Pesach Rotem draws on Dr. Strangelove to try to make sense of the current bewildering state of the U.S. federal government. Pat Doyne laments the national American chaos caused in part by people who believed they were voting for lower consumer prices.
Z.I. Mahmud discusses the mixture of pathos and moral critique of war profiteering and opportunism in Bertolt Brecht’s play Mother Courage, ultimately concluding that Brecht “hated the sin while loving the sinner” and approached all his characters with empathy.
Each poignant in its own way, Bill Tope’s poems cover anti-LGBT violence, a tender moment between mother and son, and a reflection on what matters at different points in life.
Image c/o Brian Barbeito
Joseph Ogbonna revels in Texas’ adventurous and wild countryside and culture. Brian Barbeito reflects on the various ways different people cope with the harsh, primal energies of winter. Harry Lowery’s poetry explores love and loss through metaphors of travel and the nature of light.
David Sapp addresses the human spiritual quest, how searching for transcendence and meaning is natural for us, sometimes to the point where we fight each other over faith. Mykyta Ryzhykh’s poetry conveys longing and acceptance in the face of life’s challenges.
Yucheng Tao’s poetry explores freedom, rebellion and individuality, death, wildness, and loss. Su Yun writes of the interplay of light and shadow, beauty and decay, and humans’ relationship to the vibrant and resilient natural world.
Finally, Stephen Jarrell Williams waxes poetic in his truck at night, overcome with joy and nostalgia.
Mother is the greatest creature in the world. Our mothers carry us in their wombs for nine months and nine days. Then they wash us white, comb us white, and give us white milk. Mother cannot be described in words, because Mother and Motherland stand side by side. The definition of mother is that, “Heaven is under the feet of mothers.”
If heaven is in the sky,
Underneath is my mother.
If heaven is on earth
On top of my mother.
If there is only one heaven
Dear mother.
If there is heaven in this world,
My heavenly mother.
Mother cannot be described in one word. Mother is only three letters, but one life is missing to describe her.
When I look at your eyes, it’s wet.
He clenched his teeth and asked for my heart.
Your white milk is white, mother,
One life is not enough.
We talk about our mothers, we can’t get enough of them, but there are very few of us who actually do it. No mother will ever do bad things to her children, instead they encourage good and show the right path. Some people envy their companions to their mothers, “I wish my mother was like that”, and feed them with envy. But “Kaltafahm” people consider Chuchvara raw
But I lived for six years and did not envy anyone’s parents. Because my parents are heavenly people. If a mother does what she does before the birth of her unborn child, the child will be like her mother. If a mother misbehaves during pregnancy and harms people, she can expect the same from her child. On the other hand, if a mother reads religious books and prays during pregnancy, her unborn child will grow up to be a Muslim like our Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) and a Muslim like our mother Aisha.
O my nightingale, sing it many times
A smile from his lips.
Laugh and see my happiness
My prayers are with you, my mother.
Mother and Motherland cannot be chosen in the world. What I write is not a fairy tale. The truth of my life. Before I was born, my mother prayed, thank God, I bow down like my mother.
May our mothers survive. As long as they exist, life goes on. After all, respected parents rock the cradle with one hand and the world with the other.
Kashkadarya region. Qoldoshova Dilbar Nuraliyevna, a student of the 10th grade of the 10th grade of the 43rd school of Karshi district.
Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna was born on March 5, 2007 in the Karshi district of the Kashkadarya region.
She is currently the 10th “B” student of the 43rd school.
Dilbarhan is the queen of poetry, the owner of creativity, a singer with a beautiful voice, and a ghazal girl.
She came first in the “Leader of the Year” competition.
1st prize in the regional stage of the “Hundred Gazelles and Hundred Gems” competition.
She took part in the “Children’s Forum” category and won first place in many competitions.
She is currently the coordinator of the training department of Tallikuron MFY in Karshi district.
Kamalak captain of the opposite district.
Head captain of the “Girls There” club at school 43.
The articles titled “Memory is immortal and precious”, “Our School” and “Mother” were published three times in Kenya Times International magazine in 2024.
In 2023, the first poems were published in the poetry collection “Yulduzlar Yogdusi” of the creative youth of the Kashkadarya region.
In 2024, ghazals of the creative youth of the Republic were published in the poetry collection “Youth of Uzbekistan”.
