FOG
my chin remains sullenly close to my chest
as all was dismantled in a wanton promenade of excess,
a foggy return of unsold goods
my mind tilts toward a grief stricken field of burnt hay,
my favorite tree in its midst torched by lightening only a few days before---
I lie with my own weight doubled on top of me, pinioned as a prisoner who has shackled himself,
and the last cloud leaves my lungs---
---I pretend I am hanging for my loss of self,
that I am truly and completely gone,
but really, I am hanging onto the precipice
of something much more looming,
something that I can't possibly as of yet know
---and I am hanging here with what seems to be my lifelessly stiffened fingers
---
but maybe----
just maybe----
that is precisely
what the 'seeming' needs to be
---for now
Born in Lubbock, Texas in 1984, AG Davis is a sound poet, author, performance artist and composer who resides in Jacksonville, Florida. Davis began his career as a Division I football recruit, having attended West Point for a brief period of time. After dropping out, he earned his degree in English Literature at the University of Florida (2006). He has written four books of highly experimental poetry, his most recent being published in 2023 through monocle-Lash Anti-Press.
Dan’s Box
In nineteen thirty-something, between the Depression and World War II, Dad built a small box, not big enough to call a chest or locker, from scraps of pine board, nailed together and screwed down with unnecessarily heavy hinges. He carved his name, Dan, into the lid, added a lock, and kept it under his bed to secure a few dollars and his precious boyhood possessions from his little brothers, Stanton and Wayne.
Dan was also my first name, but never truly belonged to me. Dan of Daniel David, two strong Old Testament origins, Daniel of the lions’ den and David, the sensitive king of Israel and Judah. I was called David, Davy, or Dave unless I was “daddy’s little helper” that day on the Jet Quality Cleaners delivery route in which case I was often called Danny by those who assumed I was a diminutive version of my father. I was Davy when I was little as all the kids watched Davy and Goliath, a creepy Christian Sunday morning claymation. (There was no beheading of Goliath as he was Davy’s dog.)
And on Saturday mornings there was Davy Jones from The Monkees TV show. I looked a bit like the very cute Davy Jones and the name Davy Jones made me think of Davy Jones’ Locker and pirates. Dad’s box looked as if it belonged to a swashbuckler who sailed the seven seas. In junior high school, I wanted girlfriends to call me Dave as it was much cooler for the brief time I was moderately and marginally popular. And to this day Dave is selected by those who don’t know me very well, attempting to be immediately chummy. I don’t correct anyone – unlike my acquaintances Robert (Bob) and Charles (Chuck).
When Dad didn’t need the box anymore as now he was a grownup with a bank account, safety deposit box, and a wall safe in the bedroom, he gave it to me to put my things in. It was empty. I hoped it wasn’t, but filled with his things, the things that were important to him. I filled it with my own boyhood treasure, the beginning of accumulating possessions.
Three arrowheads, one broken at the point, one crudely tooled, and one perfect, all found by Dad, not me in newly plowed fields after a rain. Five prehistoric shark teeth I found, not Dad, or so I liked to recollect, on the beach at Venice, Florida. It was more likely that Dad bought these along with shells and sand dollars in a cheap gift shop. A pair of gold, wire-rimmed spectacles which once belonged to a great grandparent, but no one told me which. A few walking liberty silver dollars – pure silver, Dad said.
A tiny pouch filled with gold ore Dad brought back from one of his trips to Colorado. At the time he was trying one of several new business flops, in this case selling plots of land for a new subdivision west of Pueblo. Two two-dollar bills because Thomas Jefferson was my favorite president in third grade. A note from a girl claiming she liked me – also from third grade.
Several inconsequential Army lapel insignia misplaced from uniforms at the dry cleaners. Later I wondered if any of these belonged to young men who were killed in Vietnam as I started my collection in the mid-1960s. Dad’s Ohio National Guard marksmanship badge which resembled a German Iron Cross a little too much, a decoration found around the necks of Nazis. One jumbo marble shooter, cracked, and five equally chipped cat eyes from the playground at Elmwood Elementary (I wasn’t very successful at marbles.)
A skeleton key to a door of which I had no knowledge. Maybe it was Grandma and Grandpa’s extra key, but they wouldn’t need it as they left their doors unlocked knowing no one would want to rob their old farmhouse. And when they did rarely lock the door, they hung the key from a nail on a post on the porch where anyone could easily find it. Coins and brightly colored bills from the Bahamas from when Mom and Dad travelled there for a dry cleaners’ convention. A Saint Christopher’s medal from catechism, maybe First Communion, which I never wore because of how my enthusiastically evangelical protestant grandmother talked about Catholics.
One pocketknife with a broken blade and one mini penknife meant for a key chain. And a fountain pen that, depending upon how it was tilted, the ink revealed the woman depicted on the side as either clothed or naked. All of this was locked up with a combination lock, the combination frequently lost or forgotten. And I often needed to ask Dad to open it as I could never get the turn-left-and-turn-right-past-the-last-number just right. I am not sure what became of Dan’s box. Despite filling my it, the box remained more Dan and Dad than Davy, Dave, or David.
David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the
southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.
Idris Sheikh Musa (Newborn Poet) is a Nigerian teen writer from Niger state. He started his early education at Hasha International school Bosso Minna,Niger state.And he’s currently a student of Legend International school Minna. He is a poet, short story writer,spoken word artist,novela and essayist. Also, he is a member of Hill top creative art ( HCAF) along David mark road,Minna,Niger state,He ia also a member of new born poet,The Newborn Poets, and Hill-Top Creative Arts Foundation, (Minna,Niger State chapter).Idris is a contributor at Newborn Poets Anthology 2024 yet to be published, He is a lover of African literature, and has some of his works that he submit for prizes and call for submissions, some are forthcoming on Magazines such as Legend school, Hcaf,and also want to be aspirant of Britle paper, and other literary spaces.
Idris Sheikh Musa has consistently demonstrated writing skills, creativity and dedication to his craft. He is an outstanding student with a passion for writing that is evident in his creative and imaginative stories. His writing often explore themes that showcase his unique perspective and insight.
With his pen and paper,he shaped the future,sketch the world and paint the world,he is a young,talented,gifted poet ( Lyra fahari).
They say life is short, and we must enjoy every bit of it. But in my country, life hasn’t given us a brief moment of peace, and we can only enjoy it by continually losing trust in one another. In the mid-80s, six other soldiers and I were running away from military service. We just wanted to continue our studies and pursue our dreams. On a rainy day, a soldier named Ayman told us about a hidden cart we could discreetly jump into. By then, we hoped to escape the horrors of the war and the threat of being caught, which would lead to the death penalty. Around seven in the morning, we all met at Ayman’s house to gather and drive to the train station. We were crying differently, as if we knew our lives were no longer protected, and that if Ayman made a mistake, we were all dead. The rain covered our faces, making it hard to tell who was crying with tears and who was weeping from a broken heart.
We entered a dark, dusty, and foul-smelling compartment on the train. Just by looking around, I saw blood and animal waste. Ayman asked us to remain silent until the next day, when we would be in a different country. We all fell quiet, some of us lighting cigarettes, while others whispered about the terrible conditions. They knew they had to suppress their hunger and thirst. The hours were slow, long, and unbearably dull. It was terrifying to hear rockets falling around the cities. Some children cried as they watched their grandfathers being dragged from the trains to fight in the war. Those sounds were impossible to ignore—words so heartbreaking that none of us could sleep.
I drifted away into fantasies, thinking about my girlfriend, my siblings, my parents—wondering if they were praying for my safe journey into exile. I wondered if we would ever meet again, if we would even recognize each other. How long would this war last? How many friends’ funerals would I attend before my own? Meanwhile, Ayman smoked like a man possessed, sitting in the corner, staring at all of us. None of us doubted his promise or loyalty—until the rain stopped, and the train halted. Ayman took his weapon from his back and ordered us to stand in line. A few soldiers with guns appeared, ready to shoot us, but it was Ayman who shot us mercilessly.
Yes, we died fearlessly. Yes, we died in this hopeless country. Yes, we died without taking a single life. Ayman smiled, and in that moment, we knew who the leader of our miserable nation will be.
Independence! What a beautiful line of words! At its core lies a world of meanings and freedom. There is no greater happiness in the world than the freedom of an individual, a society, a nation. After the years of independence, many cities were built, parks, buildings and facilities were built, as well as many schools, buildings and dormitories for higher educational institutions. It is not an exaggeration to say that Uzbekistan has changed beyond recognition and has made progress.
In recent years, Tortkol district has developed like other districts and cities.
The lands of our Tortkol district lie on the shores of Amudarya. We have a very beautiful, poetic nature, kind and friendly people. These farmers of the old land have come down to the language of the country with their selfless work since time immemorial.
20,000 hectares of land in Tortkol district are cultivated. Now this indicator is increasing day by day.
Tortkol districts differed from other districts with their own characteristics. In particular, the hard work of the residents of this district, the equal love of books by young and old people, especially the fact that there are more poets in Tortkol district than in other districts, is recognized by the whole of Uzbekistan.
Tortkol district is the first capital of Karakalpakstan, scientists who spread fame to the world, most of the achievements in literature and art, culture and sports are also in Tortkol district.
The people of Uzbekistan have great respect and love for Tortkol district. Because Tortkol district has achieved a lot like its active young people.
Our district was established on July 3, 1927, and has been widely known not only in Uzbekistan and the world for almost a century.
In our district there are more than 22 mahalla citizens’ meetings, more than 15 village citizens’ meetings.
The achievements of our district are many. For example, six of our veterans who took part in the Second World War, 4 of our venerable mothers and fathers who are over 100 years old live in our district. About three hundred of our veterans working behind the front live.
This, of course, awakens special feelings of pride in our hearts.
Tortkol District Governor Rustam Shamuratov, Tortkol District Authority and citizens of Tortkol District have an incomparable role in the achievements of Tortkol District, which is such a beautiful country, loved and honored by such a country.
The mayor of Tortkol district R. Shamuratov has also contributed to the development of Tortkol district in recent years. In recent years, roads have been paved, new kindergartens have been opened, various confectionery brands, facilities have been built, and their role is incomparable in the fact that attention is being paid to the education of young people.
Abdulla Oripov, the national poet of Uzbekistan, the beloved poet of the hero of Uzbekistan, said about Tortkol district:
– Every time I went to Karakalpak land, which is like an endless desert, I was fascinated by its beautiful nature and I was satisfied with the hospitality of my aunt’s children. My visits to ancient and modern Tortkol were no exception. It is not an exaggeration to say that I wish Tortkol to become the pride of this country. In fact, it is not an exaggeration to say that the hospitality of our people and the beautiful nature of Tortkol surprised all our poets and writers teachers. Yusupov (People’s Poet of Uzbekistan and Karakalpakstan, Hero of Uzbekistan) Tolepbergen Kayipbergenov (People’s Poet of Uzbekistan and Karakalpakstan, Hero of Uzbekistan) Sirojiddin Syed (First Deputy Chairman of the Writers’ Union of Uzbekistan) also expressed very warm opinions.
We are proud to be the children of the Tortkol nation with such a bright future and a history of almost a century.
Oghiloy Aminova was born in Tortkol district of the Republic of Karakalpakstan. Member of the Writers’ Union of Argentina. Holder of the International Order of “Friendship”.
