Octopus flowers in the dark

I want to tell you

Yes, you

the man who was so briefly

in my life

that while you were in my life

that you were gifted

with an extraordinary mind

There’s strength and risk

in my mirror,

power and dexterity

in yours

I can’t

throw out

my feminine energies

with the past

nor with the pasta water

however much

I want to

I have to accept

you are no longer

in my life

that I was

so submissive to you

The river flows into me

I dream in English

of war

of Gaza

of the warts

on my hands

when I was a child

questioning everything

but my pain

remains in harmony, in synch

with my heart

the octopus

grows cold in the sea

somehow it found

its way into

the river

into my heart

I demanded it to stay

in the same way

I demanded

the man to stay

What does

a broken woman say

to the river

to the sea

to the octopus

but this

I am broken,

please fix me

Once I thought

I knew everything

I don’t

That truth

doesn’t hurt me anymore

It’s Sunday

After church the family

has returned home

My mother

cuts up an apple

She eats it in

tiny bite-sized pieces

in the kitchen

The kitchen

is her paradise

My father is lying

on the bed

across from me

as sad music

falls all around us

like green apples

The world

is a cold place

when no one

loves you

when no one

wants you or desires you

in the way

they did when

you were

in your twenties

Older now

I write

in my journal

of emptiness

of futility

of sadness

She is old now,

they will say

She is depressed

Her arms

belong to Chopin

The leaf is Freud

The leaf is Gaza

and the sea

now is adopted

by these strange hands.

Sand

The

suggestion of your face in my hands

held there

simply just held there

as the structure of the day folded itself

into me

its command centre

The silence elevates me

and it carries me through somehow

I think of us now as something deliberately

set in slow motion in the passage of time

You find yourself in another country now

surrounded by a sea of strange faces

strange bodies

strange women

(more confident than me)

that you call your friends now in your life

I must stop this

Stop writing to you in poems

This sadness in me

I write to it

Sadness in me

like a whole fruit or nut

except that nothing about this

fruit is nourishing

it’s only strange

like the strange bodies in your life

like the strange women in your life

This sadness penetrates every cell in my body

this cage

this room

My father sleeps away the day

There is nothing I can do for him anymore

My mother sings

She sings a gospel tune in the kitchen

It fills the house

and then my broken heart

filled with grief

In case you didn’t know this

I am grieving

for the day my father won’t be here

Morning trees

My eyelids flutter

At night

I become a dark forest

my arms turn into branches

my hair into a valley

Grass finds me

and the sea fading to moonlight

I play Miki Matsubara’s Stay With Me

and close my eyes

as the walls close in

on my depression

and fear.

A Second Before the World Ends

A second before the world ends,
I caught a cat in the act—
carefully building a nest
for a pregnant dove,
bit by bit…

Right then, a politician sneezed
on his way out of peace talks
that had birthed eight wars
and five famines.

My dead father asked:
“What are you doing?
Come on, you’ll be here with me soon enough…”

I turned his word “there” over in my head.
Will I return to my mother’s womb?
Go to some nameless place?
Become a fish with wings
and one lone eye
in the middle of its head?

I’m not trying to sound surreal—
That’s just where my thoughts live
since I graduated from public high school.

Maybe it’s the government schooling.
Maybe the dirty water.
Maybe racism.
Maybe the fear of belonging to any “minority.”

Before I go,
I plan to release a poetry album.
Free entry for all.
And at every reading,
I’ll kiss the hands of infants,
of the mad,
of women whose men still ridicule
the shape of their breasts
or the bags beneath their eyes.

My father’s calling again—
this time, with mango gelato.
He wants me quickly.
I’m not sure what the hurry is.

A second before it’s all over,
my neighbors wrapped their heads in papyrus,
claiming it’s the only cure
for the “migraine of civilizations.”

Then the monkey—“Mousa”—
leapt into my chest and said:
“I write poetry too.”

I saw the sky fall
and shrink down
to the size of a fingertip.

My father called out again:
“I’m coming!”

I say it too,
as I write this final poem—
hallucinating.

When My Arm Flew Into the Air

When my arm flew into the air,
I calmed myself by believing I must be dreaming.
Any moment now, I would wake to the sound
of the gecko that’s been living in my room
for the past four months.

I haven’t killed it.
I don’t want to.

I didn’t feel like I was flying.
I felt like I was disappearing.

You know that strange training—
when you teach your body to die,
and bit by bit,
you start to feel each part fade?

I smelled the okra stew
our ninety-year-old neighbor was cooking.
I saw a large yellow butterfly
telling a joke in Salvador Dalí’s ear.

He was trapped inside a painting
hanging across from the neighbors’ window.
I saw him laugh.

And I thought:
He really was mad.
Or maybe I’m the mad one.

It’s not easy to watch your arm
lift off into the air.
Not easy to ask:
Did you really detach from my body?
and hear it answer
in a voice beyond logic—
the voice of a muffled child,
as if his parents had rushed the burial,
believed he was gone too soon,
sealed the coffin,
and drove away.

When my arm flew up,
I thought:
This is delirium.
Maybe I’m dying.
Maybe I’m about to write a new poem—
one that will be rejected
by many editors
but adored by one person,
who will carve it into the bark
of a massive fig tree.

And after he walks home,
the fig tree will stir from its long sleep
and finish writing the rest of the poem.

I don’t know exactly what happened.
But I do know this:

Whatever part of you flies off
becomes braver
than it ever was
before.

Yesterday, I Met My Jinn Double

Yesterday, I met my jinn double.
Her fingers were shaped like forks.
She smiled at me three times—
with an upside-down mouth.

The roughness of her skin reminded me
of the last time I touched a leaf with my bare hand.
A long time ago,
back when trees could still be touched,
back when trees belonged to the earth.
Back when grape clusters were earrings—
and ropes to escape.

I knelt before her and whispered:
“How many times have they killed you?”
And I heard the echo:
“How many times have they killed me?”

I’m not her.
I don’t want to be her.
I’m free.
I flutter from flower to flower,
tasting mulberries,
playing with clay.

She points to the moon,
trying to pull it down with a rope.
I got scared.
I wet myself.

I’m not a child—
but fear makes everyone do that.
The baby next door does it.
So did my grandfather—
and he was a bank manager.

No one is bigger than fear.

She comes closer.
Her feet were shaped like hooks.
I step back.
Then again.
And again—
until I disappear.

Or wake up
from the dream.

Independence 

Be kind like a mother,

Your words are sweeter than the song of a nightingale, 

My soul, Uzbekistan sings, your daughter,

May your fortune be great, dear Independence. 

You are a mine of wealth, a dear place, 

You are an endless opportunity that illuminates our path, 

You are a patriot, and yet a child, May your fortune be great, dear Independence!

You are a pure-hearted believer, Motherland, 

You are a precious mountain, sky, Motherland.

You are a land of gold, Motherland, Independence, blessed soul, Uzbekistan.

My great-grandfathers are my pride, 

Navoi, Babur – he is Ogahi. Knowledge and faith are a flowing river, Independence, blessed soul, Uzbekistan. 

May my Motherland flourish and live freely, My motherland, my sacrifice, my soul.

What have I done about you – Independence, blessed soul, Uzbekistan.

Zumrad Sobirova Tohir qizi was born on April 5, 2007 in the Altinkul neighborhood of Yangibazar district of Khorezm region. She graduated from secondary school No.12 in the district with a gold medal. In addition, she participated in various competitions and festivals and achieved several successes. She received 100% certificates in general education subjects in Mother Tongue and Literature, 77% in History, and B2 level certificates in Foreign Language. She took an honorable 3rd place in the Essay Competition at the regional stage. She took an honorable 1st place in the most beautiful calligraphy category at the “Uzbek Woman” festival. She also works in poetry and prose. Her poems are reflected in the books “Ilm va ijod bo’stoni” and “Ko’zgudagi men”. In her free time, she reads fiction books. I have set main goals for myself and work hard every day to achieve them. I believe that good intentions and relentless pursuit will lead me to my dreams!

She was only asking if her Matryoshka dolls would be safe…

                                         *

By the time I met him, he had a potato stone at the center of his grand synthesis

                                          *

He didn’t know he was a nervous wreck until Perry Como sang

                                            *

On his lonely way, he kept his hands at his sides until the diamond needle skipped 

                                             *

Instigators of unmanned aerial attacks know nothing about the whites of a child’s eyes

                                              *

Limping through eighty-four thousand Dharma doors to shake Yevtushenko’s hand

                                              *

Opening the koan with a yellow Lego I found under the backseat

                                              *

The adjunct professor has arrived at the pool with his scattered notes on lofty things

                                               *

When most alone, in the greenhouse ’round the praise of blue sage, she’s young again

                                               *

Horseshoes and hand grenades with every utterance

                                               *

It takes a green bile duct and a certain smirking, lickspittle disposition, to serve a tyrant

                                                *

Pussy willows in the vase, slowing the arrow of time

                                              *

The Roman Emperor Domitian, commanded the senators to kiss his knobby, yellow-bunioned feet during receptions…

Patrick Sweeney is a short form poet and a devotee of the public library.

Position Paper

The

calf-high

high-heeled

highly-polished

hand-tooled

cowboy boots

are exquisite

but without them

the

emphysemic

pint-sized old

man under his

sweat-stained

ten-gallon hat

would need

to carry an

acetylene

torch in

order to

strike any

sort of spark.

? & !

The thing I find

most amusing

about the on-

line “what _____

are you?”

meme / quizzes

are the

conclusions

people feel

they can afford

to admit to.

Sorry, Aretha

I just don’t know

what to do with

myself so I play

Dusty Springfield

songs in the hope

the son of a Preacher

Man might come

along & take time

to make time & tell

me everything’s

alright, out of sight.

Prescript

I feel no

need to

document my life

fully.

Maybe after I’m dead

I may wish

I had.

But then…..

After I’m dead

somebody

may read

my poems & decide

I have documented

my life

even if

fit-

fully.

Sweet Charity

Is channeled in to her

from some source

more immediate than

Shirley MacLaine. Other-

wise she would take no

note of it. But hearing

the words in a language

with which she is not

familiar but which she

speaks fluently

gives pause.

Snail Shell (Nature Journals)

A snail shell fell out of my pocket while I was putting my coat away, and I had forgotten about picking it up. So nondescript and plain it was but also wonderful, part of the natural world. I had not had a chance to really look at it a lot. Unlike in stories or fable-like things, it was not extravagant or something one would really notice. In fact, it was not only generic and common to the area, but faded tremendously, perhaps for age or the sun, I am not sure. 

Those worlds out there calmer than the other worlds so fast and ambitious, clever and calculating, crowded and often callous. 

It was white with brown swirls that went around. I had always liked snails and half adopted them as the idea for a totem ‘animal’ or symbol when others chose the wolf, the eagle, the lion, or even the hawk. I could move fast, but chose to move slowly and just go however I did, come what fates may, much as the snail moved along slowly. If sensing almost anything, these type of snails anyhow, would move back into their shell. 

Where did I find it?- at the end of a field where the land meets a stream, and the thawed waters now rush past intent on their destiny, alive alive alive,- a sure sign of if not spring having bloomed, then at least winter having ended. Some rocks are there and bits of ice still linger around them, remnants of the long frozen months. This is a liminal time, a moment between winter and true spring. Tall feral stalks and reeds golden, resilient, rising up still to the sun in the blue sky. Yes it just sat there alone and I figured I’d pick it up, hold it, and put it in my pocket. 

Then as aforementioned, I forgot about it. 

That area has a large woodpecker sometimes, and myriad small birds, plus there was a group of swans just a few days ago, having gathered in a little adjacent pond.

It’s not as if there is nothing to photograph, write about. 

The snail shell I like. Who thinks about it?- especially since there is not even a snail. I am sure there are in the world somewhere, snail enthusiasts. And what can be thought of as the opposite even, was there yesterday. What? A heron flying across the way, and some people have argued that it is the most beautiful bird of birds. Definitely it is graceful, agile, majestic. Perhaps beyond compare. When it waves wings they look as if they are in slow motion. 

But someone has to mind the lowly snail shell, I would think. Maybe not, but I would think so.  Details. Forgotten things. Some artifacts never even seen at all. 

Once a poor man picked up a penny and the others souls laughed. But the poor man became a rich man, who the world respected. Maybe though I have no motive one way or other, appreciating the snail might bring me some sort of luck or positive happenstance. 

And who would eschew any good fortune?

What do I want?

Money, cars, houses?

Do I really want them?

Can I get them?

If yes, 

I live in the world of possibilities

I am very confident in my abilities

I chose not to dwell in the thought of uncertainties

So,

I want money to show the world my ambition isn’t funny

I want cars to show the world I’m on not day-dreaming on planet Mars

I want to own houses to show  the world I’m not  only about blouses

If no,

I find myself in a world of seeming impossibilities

I am apparently not confident in my capabilities

I am choosing to dwell in the thought of “realities”

So,

I don’t want money to avoid the world laughing funnily at my ambition

I don’t want cars to avoid showing the world how I could day-dream on planet Mars

I don’t want houses to avoid showing the world I’m about blouses.

Again, What do I want?

Cynicism

I always look forward to a health relationship

Yet, all of my efforts to to make it work become a mishap

I have always wanted to have a good companion

Yet, I have been entrapped by those interested in my onion

Moving up and about have I searched for true love

Yet, I have engaged those ripping off the good I am of

I have been assured not to give up in my search for the right one

Yet, I have been cheated on

I believe my relationship will work well

Yet, what it has brought me is hell

I have always thought that money makes relationship stronger

Yet, that made my intimacy weaker.

I have always wanted altruism

Yet, I have seen my life of relationship heading towards cynicism

The Valence Of Cynicism

                    (I)

With money, 

love from people comes around

People’s interest towards you abound

They want relationship with you

Their interest is hidden from your view

Some want  you to have intimacy with them

Their ‘want-back-in return’ you won’t condemn

When they are satisfied with they want,

they say outside your hearing what you are not.

You want to show altruism

But they depict Cynicism.

       (Ii)

Diogenes was a character of transparency

His mannerism was void of hypocrisy

The truth was exposing the lies of culture of humanity

Ancient Greek had its elitism off the reality

Living by the idea was an evidence

He gave the ideology of Cynicism a substance

The ancient Greek elite kept his activities in private 

 Diogenes’ lifestyle of copulation and defecation in public exposed his mate.

The double-standard cutture was typical among the elites.

Diogenes’ idea of Cynicism  unveiled the truth the less-considered minorities.

Iii)

Politicians are seen as great tools for change

But are concerned from what they to gain  the meagre wage

Politicians unveils to their subjects  what they want to hear

But ensure they utterly steer clear

Politicians encourage the use of vaccine shots

But they immune themselves from the faults.

Politicians appear to be selfless in service

But are really spineless-to the people in terms of importance

Politicians assure people change is on the way

But eventually leave them in dismay