On Earth
We are quiet
we are calm
we are word hunters
we are labors
we are cookers
we are timekeepers-
of our stars
with the sun warm stars
with the moon our resting heart
with the days we become strong
We sometimes sing a song
when we are happy in life’s psalm.
Too Many of Us . . .
I hear a shaking of wings.
When I open my eyes, what I see
is what I see no more.—Cavafy
The gentle ones retreat into the dark
without a flourish.
They leave behind a smile
naked and surprised.
Their kind eyes are embarrassed;
death is not only tragic; it is tactless;
it reminds of everything the living want to forget.
The line of footprints in the sand
stops here . . .
But how can this be?
As though a hawk
(or an angel, if you believe in angels)
fell, seized the walker with its talons,
then soared away with him into the sky.
for Carlos Ramirez, Stephen Mackin, Don Brennan, Stephen Kopel, Iván Arguëlles, and Marvin R. Hiemstra
Christopher Bernard is a San Francisco poet, writer, and essayist.
My parents’ faith gave me strength.
I was born in Asaka district of Andijan region, in a family of intellectuals.
All my achievements today are due to the support of my parents since childhood.
My parents taught me to read and write, they brought me books every week, my childhood was spent in social activity, participating in various contests, and working on myself.
The doors that were closed in my face encouraged me to be stronger, to act more boldly towards my goal, and I achieved all this.
The award is not important for me, it is important that I can do it and be recognized.
When I graduated, I grew up as a strong person. During this period, I rediscovered myself as a person. Although I am a positive person, my first year as an applicant was somewhat difficult. But it was the process of adaptation that opened up new horizons in my psyche. I devoted my time to learning more. My efforts to study and research were not in vain.
For the first time, with the intention of going abroad, I took a course in the subject that I had studied little. The fact that I gained experience in different directions has a great role in my financial independence.
My parents have a big role in everything. Since childhood, I have always strived for the best in everything. I thank my parents, who did not put pressure on me and did not set limits saying, “You are a girl.”
“My daughter knows very well what to say and which way to walk, no matter where she is,” they say.
My parents have a great role in my success.
From my parents, I learned to be honest and truthful, to constantly work on myself, to make the most of every moment. For this reason, I did not suffer financially.
Since I was 16 years old, I tried to support myself and cover my needs.
My lifestyle, dreams and goals, which I have always promised myself, give me strength and motivation.
Olimova Muslima Odiljon’s daughter was born on 07.08.2007 in the city of Asaka, Andijan region. She graduated from the 13th school of Asaka district with a gold medal. Andijan Mechanical Engineering Institute. 1st year student of Information Systems and Technologies, Faculty of IB and CT.
For wide is the gate, and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.
Matthew 7:13
There was an eastern town, and an old man watched the rain from the window, his Bible on a small table beside. He sometimes wore a brimmed hat in the outdoors but only went out to get food from the grocery store. He had a little Christmas Tree, a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, small enough to go on a little table. Each year it came out. I liked this tree.
He had very few visitors but sometimes a soul would show up, someone from the old days. These people, most of them, grew up poor. It was nice that their children wanted more, wanted to succeed. There is no harm in that. But some of their children’s generation went crazy w/it, and took it all too seriously, breaking relationships, family bonds, trust, even any measure of happiness, over monetary gain. The world of others didn’t laugh outwardly at him but didn’t respect him, for his worldly accomplishments were not great or even pronounced. The affluent wanted to keep their money and get more and the poor wanted to be wealthy. The man wanted me to shave his face because he couldn’t do this any longer as he was getting shaky at ninety three years of age.
So he sat in an old chair, I think one of the very chairs I used to sit in as a child when he fed me lunch. I carefully shaved his face. Outside it rained. I could hear it against the glass and knew it was making its way into the earth here, mixing with the soil, disappearing somewhere there, but in some places went through gravity to fall down industrial grates built into the roads. He had chosen to never grow a beard. That choice in a man has always been strange to me. Though an orphan or mystery at birth in actuality, my people must have had beards, and there must be some spiritual or genetic memory of such, somewhere, somehow. But to each his own. Some people are like that, and most all people have their ideas about what is the right way to dress, to look, to speak, et cetera, and what is not. Each secretly and not no secretly thinks they are right. When I was a child he made me soup, and there were many cans of soup in the cupboard.
One day his wife said, ‘Where is the child’s drink,’ to which he replied, ‘Soup is liquid he doesn’t need a drink.’ This was a mistake. The woman scolded him and was vexed. That’s a word they used, ‘vexed.’ She said, ‘Get him a drink, and this child is never to be served a meal without a drink again.’ Time passes. He used to tell me stories of a ranch where someone is stealing in the night. But the ranch owner stayed up and watched and caught the person. It was determined the thief needed some livestock so the ranch owner gave it to him, gave him some livestock. Cormac McCarthy the old man was not. When I finished shaving the man he said thanks. He said once in those late life days, ‘It is lucky you are here.’ That was nice. I didn’t mind. His wife had long left the world and he was not long for the earth as is said.
Now, I suppose someone else lives there. Some soul or souls. That’s the way it goes. The man had fashioned his own necklace to help his soul. It was a piece of yard and on it were medallions of various Catholic Saints. And he had received the last rites two or three times, even in the days when he was healthy if elderly. One’s soul is their own responsibility in a way. I wonder if that saint necklace still exists somewhere. I wonder whatever happened to it. I wonder what happens to things, and to souls and old chairs and even cans of soup.
DUSK PATROL
It’s been dusk on these highlands
for countless days,
stuck between noon’s visibility
and night’s exposed underbelly.
It took me a while
to accept what I can’t see:
I have a clone somewhere out there
dreaming this suspended hell’s persistence
into actuality.
I won’t be outdrawn when I find him
now that I sense
what’s invisible to my present eye,
like the nearly forgotten warmth
of a dawn’s blood orange sky.
Paul Edward Costa (He/Him)
THE LEGEND OF THE GRAND INTERLOPER
The Grand Interloper,
summoned from a sunless crevasse,
crawls over my shoulders,
says
they’d love some time to pick my brain,
says,
If swung sweetly,
toothpicks and icepicks fit the same,
says
maybe I should lie down
on account of all this bleeding,
later says, with a straight face,
No one ever stood in this place.
Empty hills and yards
emit unconditionally effusive,
brain-deranged praises
in their name,
as The Grand Interloper
steps over paupers
to pose with princes of philanthropy,
advocates for free democracy
if candidates are vetted
and pre-selected,
funds community construction projects
instantly abandoned
once their top floor touches heaven,
wears one-way glasses
with irises painted on the lenses,
avoiding both eye contact
and accountability.
The Grand Interloper
raids therapy’s lexicon
for new sets of verbal weaponry,
absconds to Avalon
without facing a final battle’s fury,
and so, never knows
the dignity in escaping
enchanted prison towers’
immaterial enclosures,
and the real, resultant empathy I feel
for cases of that same struggle striking others.
Paul Edward Costa is an award-winning poet, spoken word artist, organiser, and teacher. He is a former Poet Laureate for the City of Mississauga and has published many poems in journals such as NoD Magazine, DarkWinter Literary Magazine, and Blank Spaces Magazine. He’s released a book of poetry, “The Long Train of Chaos” (Kung Fu Treachery Press – 2019) and a book of flash fiction, “God Damned Avalon” (Mosaic Press – 2021). As a spoken word artist, he’s featured at many poetry series across Canada. He currently organises the monthly Outer Haven Poetry Series in Toronto’s Imperial Pub.
***
Getting to know silence
The clouds in the sky burst silently
The veins on the arm burst silently
The dead cry silently
Thunder rumbles without any unnecessary sounds
Fish heads don’t scream
Even mosquitoes don’t squeak
A military pilot prepared to drop a quiet (but only for the time being) air bomb
***
the existence of clouds for the sake of the existence of rain
the creation of man for the sake of the creation of god
I know everything in the world except the truth
***
The future is water
The future is a spit
I collect spit and tears
I pretend that the cemetery is a space rocket
I pretend Im going to the stars
But in fact Im picking mushrooms in the forest after an explosion in the forest near
Hiroshima
***
Religion was invented for those
Who have not yet died
Each of us dreams of being Jesus Christ
Each of us is a baby
Вut where are the Magi
***
БОГ
ГОГ
LOL
LOLA
LOL A
LOL Æ
LOL
ГОГ
ВАН ГОГ
ONE GOG
VAN GOGH
VAH GOG
AH GOD
A DOG
AD OG
АД ОХ
ЛХ ОХ
ХХ ХХ
ОО ОО
Zero
Nothing
***
Chorus.
Silence.
Silence kills.
Silence is a source of information,
And the deader it is,
The more valuable it is.
Music.
The choir repeats the same thing,
Nailing silence to the emptiness.
Creepy, fascinating.
Chorus is loneliness.
It is unbearable to hear
How insanely lonely
Each individual voice is.
All voices arise from silence.
All voices arise from loneliness.
All voices are singing.
Singing is the twin of music.
Music is made up of sounds:
Silence and stillness.
Sound is a movement
That moves towards
The one who hears it.
Hear the silence while waiting
For the end of life.
Listen to silence
During your own apocalypse.
And sing.
Almost die.
Life is almost dead.
Death is almost beautiful.
Death is silence.
Death is a song
Without words,
Without a voice.
Chorus.
Silence.
Silence kills.
***
Blind people do not interfere with those who are happy. Night with silence. Occasionally there is the sound of cars on the street. Steps on the stairs. The noise of neighbors voices and the clatter of dishes.
A blind man is looking for a roof. The stars are shining and there is nowhere to hide from the shine. Its not snowing. There is no access to the roof.
A blind man is looking for a basement. A blind man plays hide and seek. The door to the basement is closed.
A blind man is looking for a home. A blind man does not want to live in a house without color. There is a sharpened knife on the table. The soul turns into a bird. The door is open.
***
I teach the lights to light up
I learn from people about combustion
Matches have no soul
Matches can break
You can build a house and death out of matches
The flowers in which the cemetery is floating are fake
Lighters are much preferable to matches
The peace of the grave is guarded by a cricket
***
no one knows
the autumn cemetery
as well as worms
***
the rain washes away the dirt
from the face of a homeless man
***
again no one was born
in the cemetery
***
the ship floats away
into the distance
the clouds float away
into the distance
people are floating away
no one will catch up with time
***
the grass opens
its spring temple
belatedly
I Can’t Reply
one hand is my sky
That spreads peace of shadow
All the seasons l feel it
My every morning blooms
With the blessing of it
My day mixes with it
I dream lying in its lap
As if l were an innocent infant
I do everything in the heaven
Its touch welcomes my steps.
Your another hand is the crown of glory
That spreads the pages of beauty
All the time beauty kisses my heart
And makes me a ship of love
That sails through the sweetness.
The ship is nothing but fresh love of eternity
The fountain of the crown refreshes my breath ;
Gentle breeze writes love letter In my virgin eyes
l read and feel that with time
But I can’t reply.
#################
Tomorrow’s Couple
Everyday my rainbow draw you
The colours adorn love river
My breath touches your bright lips
The roses bloom in my heart to read you.
Every spring l hear a new sound
I feel new fragrance in secret
l compose a song of soul
I plant a tree of love and tenderness.
I and you are always tomorrow’s couple
Not for the present time
Tomorrow is always pleasant
As we can’t touch it.