The Misanthrope

What is it going to make a difference to him if a drop falls from the sky or gallons? He has opened himself to the world, lying there under the canopy of the shop. He cares nothing about the world. It is all one and the same to him if streams flow around him or if he is deserted on an island floating amid all the flood. The question is whether this or that would make a difference to him. I saw a woman pass by, feeling sorry for him. She was out taking her dog for a stroll, she looked at him and she shook her head. She felt sorry for him and out came from her little purse a coin of €1? Is she better off or I am? Is it not a crime giving little to someone when giving much more could have made a vital difference? I am fundamentally indifferent, his life or not is one and the same thing to me, I avow my nonchalance. Is the matter with us that I think I am philosophically right? When a woman can give, and when she feels sorry for him, it is criminal to give only €1 which can make no difference to this man lying under a shopfront on a wet wintry night. If she feels sorry

for him, she must go all the way to assuage him, otherwise she is morally wrong. If she gives him a little alms, and is of on her way shaking her head and feeling sorry still glowing in pleasure almost from the volupté of hitting a child whom you wanted to correct. The fact of the matter is I could have given €1 but I did not, the woman could have given it and she did, I could have even given €10 had I wanted to, the woman could have given €10 as well, with some effort I could have gone on to €100, it would not have killed me, the way we were and the locality we live in, I do not think it would be any trouble to the Madame as well, then come to it, thinking very very hard about it and selling a few things, I would have been on to €1000, the Madame would not need to sell anything and she could give him the money and probably forget it in a few days, come to €10,000 there I would have to pawn myself, or think of an ingenious means, while the Madame she finally might need to sell something or break a deposit…beyond this we do not think. The point is clear: the Madame is guilty in giving him €1 when €1000 would have been no trouble to her, for me I am philosophically right, because his condition is of no interest to me, great curiosity perhaps, and I would like to see him do well for himself and bag more (and grander) aumônes from passersby, but there I repeat my point, philosophically I am in the right, I who had no rôle to play in the drama where as the Madame comes across as a self-aggrandising brat who needs to give to feel herself, whose only point of charity is not to be lost in the maze of accusations and critique she might feel herself downcast under.

The rain is oblivious, and I am oblivious, and that is the way of the world and there is nothing in it guilty or absolved. Darkness is oblivious too, in the tunnel as the rails hiss and the tiles clobber and two young girls call up to me their bottles of rosé wine in the hands. “Hey you your hair shines like my party dress, when I dress-up.” “See I did not use any cream, unlike you, it is just the rain.” “What are you saying?” “I said I do not need any substances, the rain is bad.” “Come join us, you seem to have nothing at hand.” “I’m not sure I want to spend my date with brats like you.” “Come join us, you fool. See two girls are calling you with their music, we even have wine for you.” We passed the whole night together. For five hours, I kept drinking with the girls with music

playing on their stereo and they kept asking me questions, one after the other. In the middle of the two of them, I would have been an elder brother, or probably a maître who shares the two. From time to time they played with my hair, somehow my dark hair had taken their fancy. I kept chiding them saying all the glues and glitters they use for the hair, while my hair was all natural, all good rain and old sun. They kept pinching me around the shoulders. Many times our legs brushed, I mean my knuckles brushed against their calves. That is when I proposed we go back to my house. I have a comfortable bed and I said one of the two of you at least can sleep on the canapé (that was just to elicit jealousy out of them). The girls agreed readily, and they kept on playing music and swerving as if we were a group of Bacchantes out on the parade. The only thing missing was ivy wreaths and staffs in our hands. Way into the night we walked, the rain having subsided a little bit though the streets still wet. It is then I realised how much we had drunk. They had three bottles at least, in the beginning, plus one huge bottle of rum that I got from my money and that I allowed one of the girls to go because I did not want to let go of the other (one of the two, at any rate). Finally we got another bottle of Get 27, and kept mixing it with soda. The girls were holding well, except now and then bumping into the shop fronts. It is then under the canopy of the chocolate shop, that I almost missed the beggar lying wide astride with his hands flying in every direction and his mouth opened up to the skies, one corner in which I saw a cheap €1 bottle of white wine. It is then I thought to myself the girls sure smell better than him.

Arjun Razdan was first published at the age of 20 (a poem called ‘Transformation’ in The Asian Age, New Delhi) for which he has still not received the montant of ₹2126 (minus taxes) due to him. Based mostly in Europe, especially France, this Kashmiri writer has been published in many countries including India, Pakistan, the United States, and Portugal, besides his home country. In collaboration with his friend and mentor, Farzdan, he has also written a food mémoire (L’Aau à la Zouche), a book of dialogues (Lettres à Mon Elève) and a long travelogue in the wild (An Everlasting Night).

Flag

It flutters proudly in the blue 

Our heart is full of happiness 

If we show it, it will bring joy 

Red, blue, green, white 

Flag 

The star and the moon are in harmony 

A symbol of independence and beauty 

Rich in independent freedom 

Red, blue, green, white 

Flag 

Red color is blood in a vein 

The Prophet is a clear sky 

Every moment is blessed 

Red, blue, green, white 

Flag 

Pride of nations 

Prospective and great happiness 

A beautiful tree of a country

Red, blue, green, white 

Flag!

Mamazoirova Rayhona, a student of the 8th grade of the creative school named after Erkin Vahidov, Marģilon

Halley’s Comet

born in a land of static to piano
the feeling of a discomforting ease

looking up at the ceiling

almost as if you are looking up at your mistake.

“i don’t want it.”

my fantasies make me appear more truthful

when in our reality,

i can not convince myself to appear in your life anymore.

the drums in my soul get louder

my foolish heart can’t help to love you.

halley’s comet soars across the night

you watched it glow

i remained a shadow lost in our time

you chased wonder and watched it flow

i was far behind, couldn’t climb.

i tried to stay away

your laughter floats like sunlight on my walls

my heartbeat whispered secrets i could not tell

a hope entwined with fears.

each stare, a spark

the flame in my heart i shall not feed

i built these walls

you slipped through the crack

now love is a risk

and i can’t turn my back.

my brain refuses to close its blinds

the thoughts of not seeing you remain.

i could feel the bliss of a desire for nothing

now the only desire that burns

is the unachievable actuality of having you

i wish it didn’t feel that way.

in this cycle of time,

no love like this has grasped my place in this world before

only now,

in this timeline,

in our timeline,

i feel as if we were placed in this moment in time

for each other.

the drums vanish, the piano intensifies

my float in consciousness concludes

this body won’t move.

waves of my odd hearts situation shower me in panic

drenched in the tears of guilt.

i’m laying down peacefully

at the hands of my bed

my family unaware

that my state of sleep has danced away.

what am i to do?

if i can’t help to love you.

             “The Gotta Keep on Feeling

             Even When it Leaves Me Reeling

             ‘Cause I Can’t Just Not feel Any More Blues”

A few months outta the incubator

this cooing preemie poet, supine in my crib,

couldn’t turn over as my bro’ grew irater,

belting me through the bars in his angry bib.

To strike a lyric impulse, born of joy,

may twist it into a worse little boy.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

If I turned mean early, I’d no chance to really live –

who showed new bro’s such perfidy –

but then lightened up when they appeared to forgive,

seeing me draw Dad’s fire, haplessly.

He sometimes whipped his sons in his drunken ire –

I liked to take ’em swimming through fancy’s fire.

My bro’s came down to the basement one day,

told me no more Flash Gordon would we play.

They’d let Dad talk ’em into studyin’ TECH –

he said imagination was imaginary dreck –

so for Sci-Fi novels alone in their room

my playmates left me in the basement gloom.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

My new costar was my friend from the street.

At improv’ play interpreting TV

our concerted inspirations fed hilarity,

so I naturally figured it’d be real neat

to have him meet my flame since kindergarten…

Why her liking him instead me so dishearten?

I started a fight in which he got beat.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

My Dad, mostly gone, moved us thrice in succession –

huge old houses, some ghetto neighborhood

where black or white bullies, at their discretion,

on the street or in class beat up stunned me good.

My kid brothers, though, didn’t take defeat so hard,

but fought them to a standstill in our front yard.

How could I have thought, if I’d become who I was born

and had folks who shared a spirit of lyrical romance,

to have merited so roundly all my peers’ epic scorn?

A brash pacificism was identity’s best chance,

won a sympathetic friend who’d help keep track

of bully maneuvers. I think he was black.

Since math test A’s, but not my essay ones

won my father’s praise, his tuition funds

went to shrewder bro’s when we left high school.

Dad made me, though, feel like a fool,

saying, “Good sons go to college, bullies never will.”

So I had to join the service for the G.I. Bill.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

Recruiter promised language school out in Monterey.

I signed my enlistment papers that very day.

But down in basic training heard Drill Instructor say,

“Recruiting Sergeant’s promises you can just throw

into the shit-can – you’re mine now, you know?

Our two-week clerk school’s where you’re going to go!”

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

My Colonel math Prof’ from our isolated base

told his Airman ace-test student confidingly

my civilian English Prof was a queer disgrace –

though he’d lit up many a dark stanza for me.

When for pushing Air Force pencils my desire lost its clout

they gave me a court-martial and an early out.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

Ya gotta grow sci-biz brains so smart,

ya really can’t grow a mind with heart,

so after discharge I buckled down

for A’s in math, made my brothers frown –

then I changed my courses to the English I espouse

and my bro’s and Ma kicked me out of the house.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

Drove out west where tuition was cheap,

got waylaid into a ghetto hippie commune

where free love proved a vow you couldn’t keep,

though onto two non-jealous nymphs you glom, you’n

your artist pal. Mine starved to duck the draft –

and when I mentioned college the girls just laughed.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

Footnote:

I’m the one who didn’t hold free love together

in a world of possessiveness and jealousy,

though my buddy and I couldn’t be sure whether

our girls, having ravished us thoroughly,

couldn’t just up and do the same for another;

and, when we asked ’em, heard ’em agree

that my buddy and I could be those other!

Ah, we four had commitment and variety….

‘Til the draft wrote my friend, and he grew quite thin.

So, since one of our girls had an Aunt who could cover

their expenses ’til his 4-F deferment came in,

they left. Four people, each with just one lover –

living as couples in estrangement’s sin.

I had to use the GI Bill – as protests swept through town –

I quit my drugs ‘n’ smokes to try another way.

With clerical and class work’s endless sitting down

I’d jog, skate or cycle miles ev’ry other day

after work hours of dummy-down ennui,

to revive me for lectures on creativity.

Snapshot of moi:

Here I am gliding downhill

toward an intersection,

making a sudden right turn

off the toe-stop of my left skate

to avoid slamming into a crossing semi.

Three years on, art student and guttersnipe,

in interesting times I found ’em seldom ripe

to take off work to meet with prof’s after class

(or have an affair with some accommodating lass) –

only work days, then study for honor roll,

nights full of sirens as the riots take their toll.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

Some hooker’d take me home to meet her mother.

They’d treat me with warm deference and regard,

but frequently they had one absent brother

and son – to speak of him was always hard.

So how that summer could I check where he was at?

Just join the poor some night, fight back – that’s that.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

Footnote:

Five wars ago I thought I might be big:

in solidarity with gangling guys

I’d seen through riots slouch, I hit a pig –

if you can’t fight, this may not prove too wise.

In jail, my first week there, a bunch of dudes

jumped on a young grass dealer late one night –

who, next day, called the guards and me includes

as one of his attackers! So then right

into the compound rolled the paddy-wagon.

When I therein with five rapists-accused

had sat half an hour, my spirits flaggin’,

the victim changed his mind – I was excused.

Could I my fellow inmates’ taunts survive?

One turned me on to pumpin’ iron – he,

a genie black, desired I stay alive –

who wonder why, still pumpin’ irony.

Girls at the office may suspect a college man,

like classmate girls who see that he must work.

Incredibly, though, either place a fellow can

probably get lucky who flirtation doesn’t shirk –

since, strapped for time and cash, with mere technique

I sometimes found a lover for an eve’ning or a week.

My black sheepskin was sent by snail mail.

They save the ceremonies for grads who don’t hit cops.

Times changing, school job prospects fail

but Civil Service wants you if your test score’s tops:

Humanities scholars toiling far afield,

so happy for a gig that makes us nothing but well-healed.

Snapshot of Moi:

These are the new class

of SSI Benefit Authorizers,

bachelors to doctors who couldn’t find

work in their fields, chairs in an oval.

Behind the desk at one end

stands the Head of the Western Division.

I now stand in my turn –

stating name, College, field of study,

“Creative Writing” – at which he laughs –

the only pursuit to get that reaction.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

Out of desperation, but idyllically,

as I seemed to have tuition benefits left,

I took some manuscripts to the university,

onto a prof’s desk the stack of ’em to heft;

with my low GPA I didn’t think he’d give a damn,

but his letter was my ticket to the the Grad program.

I was two more years in full-time academe

with low-pay part-time desk work again

when the government cut off the money stream –

so I dropped out, shipped out with lonely men

on a twelve-month voyage in the Merchant Marine –

then I made it back to the campus scene.

My friend’s, our girls’ and my hippie menage

once lent this monkish scholar Casanova panache,

whose sporadic lovers now made such a sparse collage

that I took a logic course and impressed a babe, by gosh!

When I had somehow caught, though, a cute singer’s eye

and they ran into each other I was two girls shy.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

When your discharge and rapsheet trump also the M.A.

that another year of classes and some loans win you,

they’ll take you eight years at clerk’s wages to repay –

since Fed jobs aren’t PC enough now ever to pursue.

All claim as young men the title of Master –

in keeping which art types court total disaster.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

Snapshots without moi:

These photos are two

graduation ceremonies –

S.F. State seventy-five,

U.C.B. Eighty-four –

your poetry major couldn’t attend –

units delayed, a technicality –

no gown for him nor any hood,

no traipse across the stage with his peers.

Footnote:

In far the most humiliating scene

I’ve e’er endured, the real Living End,

young Laura, roomie, tutee, cutie – mean –

her then main squeeze, my guts-mad biker friend,

and I our way we wended toward the tall

encrusted town. We escalating up

from subway, toward Three Stooges festival,

Chicano cat who’d one too many cup

accosted me and wouldn’t let me pass.

I sidestepped, ran five paces, turned –

around ‘n’, like a fool, I called him “ass,”

but learned with what attacking rage he burned.

As soon as I began exchanging blows

with him, my motorcycle pal emerged,

who jumped him.  From the crowd there then arose

a further swarthy brawler. When I urged

my friend to let me have my fights, the new

hidalgo went at him. As their fists rained,

this Juan, Ill call him, (though I never knew),

resumed his work to keep me entertained.

As student, swimmer, skater, clerk may fight

I stood and fought him even, as he me.

‘Twas several minutes gone into the night

until I knew I’d not the winner be.

I made a bleak half-hearted lurch to flee,

he turned our battle into running one….

He tired. Again the odds weighed evenly.

Somewhere distant Jerry shared such fun,

while somewhere nearby Laura sweetly wept.

A quizzical surprise lit my foe’s grin –

it seemed as though I’d actually kept…

my end up. Then the blame Police stepped in,

attacking, as pigs will, in out-sized odds

while charging us, as pigs will, from behind.

One seized my belt in back. I cursed his gods,

his chains, his bars, his heart so young gone blind.

They sorted us by seeming sides, then bade

us sit on low concrete retaining-wall.

They checked ID’s, bestowed no accolade

to ask me whence I hailed, me winner call.

But balmy Jerry said, “Stop crying, Laura.”

I, hearing, said, “Stop crying, Laura” too;

but n’er were saying when she donned her aura,

(nor pressing charges), something we could do.

Except for Juan, the pigs let us all go.

except the hombre I’d been flailing at.

He wore no guns, no cages kept, and – oh –

he fought me clean, alone, up front – no rat.

But since he had a “prior” he got hauled

away, and all because of me! But she,

that biker’s imp, said I should not be called

a wimp, though, any more – and frowned at me,

a Kleenex patting gently on my brow.

Then Jer’, his lover Laura, and I resumed

our way. She led, a goddess from the prow

of some old ship. I trailed, soul-entombed.

The only right or privilege my Parchment confers

that isn’t cancelled out by my follies and crimes

is this Eternal Youth the credential ensures.

But you get that without school, using just the rhymes,

avoid the shame ‘n disrespect, years’ study gettin’ hornia

where hard dreams come true easy here in sunny California.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even though it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

Political Coda

Most citizens acknowledge reparations are owed

to Native Americans by our old Uncle Sam,

and that poor home-owners under tax burden bowed

were due for relief – but our sold-out leaders’ scam

could grant the first wish only while they gambling

                                       legalize,

the second just with industry’s big tax-break prize.

Got the gotta keep on feeling

even when it leaves me reeling

’cause I can’t just not feel any more blues.

Envoy: “Drugs from Within”

When gray hill skaters learn to cheat

and motorize the ol’ two-wheeler

endorphin high they thought so neat

becomes adrenal thrill, much realer.

If you prefer drugs from within

you too might try adrenalin.

It floods you out upon a Honda –

of feelings few will you grow fonda.

Of course one wants, when one reflects,

hormonal joys that come with sex –

which thought makes workout fans most blush

who relish an endorphin rush.

Insolence

The morning begins with a remonstrance against tapers,  

which I am likely to kindle

in the event of imminent misfortune 

habitually induced by her well-executed schemes.  

I ignore all that demeans:

her lips become agitated with narratives 

of the ills of the present 

and all that is deceased!

The afternoon heats up with the lava of her eruptive moods,

which have nothing to do with the weather 

or her blood pressure, 

besides she is long past the menopause.

No siesta is possible in such an infernal abode.

I simmer over slow-burning coal

and bite my tongue before it protrudes.

The evening always puts the final touches to a day of gall.

She harvests her crops with a single panoramic look

at my eclipsed moon,

at my ill-zipped lips,

struggling to block the release of a few words,

which eventually find their way out per force.

With damn your insolence, the night is concluded.

The Moon

The moon is neither a goddess,

nor a harbinger of doom 

when heralded by the howls of wolves.

It plays no role in the malevolent rites

of Dracula’s resurrection lore.

It is not the necromancer who inflicts lunacy

or changes the substance of nocturnal thoughts. 

It is simply a marvelous piece of masonry,

a celestial, megalithic stone,

chiseled by the Architect of the World.

Departed

Departed is the fellowship of swallows from our skies,

the stately clouds that cling to its own trails like excited brides,

the allure of the sea that entices swimmers who are without

apprehension about any lurking sharks.

Fishermen report hearing strange noises

that make them collect their nets with fear-driven speed,

and People living on the coast 

dread at most 

a hurricane’s holocaust.

It sounds like the end of days,

but I do not believe it is.

Have you ever contemplated wrestling with a demon? 

Have you ever contemplated wrestling with a demon,

in a combat that flexes the muscles of your brain?

They reiterate that it is not a being

with a couple of horns 

and a hideous mien.

In a battle of intellects,

demons are adept in the lingual spheres, 

so one can have recourse to literary language

since they need not consult any dictionaries!

On Thomas Malory’s Morte d’arthur

Why does he have to be the fruit of lust,

of a ploy that involves the shedding of blood,

conceived by Merlin, 

the dream-reader with a high expertise in the occult?

For some this amounts to defamation of character

in the modern sense of the word,

since they believe no chivalry is begotten 

from evil deception or sexual misconduct.

A true king cannot be weaned by a thought-reading

and shape-shifting wizard!

Contributing poet Howard Debs’ work has been included in Chameleon Chimera: An Anthology of Florida Poets, which has just been released by Purple Ink Press, including work by U.S. inaugural poet Richard Blanco and notables such as Geoffrey Philp, Jen Karetnick, David Kirby and many others.

Also, contributor Peter J. Dellolio’s new novel The Confession has just been released from Cyberwit.

The Confession is the first-person account of a serial killer on the evening before his execution.  It is literary fiction, and somewhat similar to Naked Lunch by William Burroughs.  There is suspense in the narrative, as there is some speculation as to whether or not the narrator is really guilty.

Now for this issue: A Literary Snow Globe. As with a real snow globe, we watch delicate bits and pieces of creative thought descend and fall wherever they may on the landscape of our world. Each time we shake the globe and let it settle, each time we read these works, we take away something different and view a unique scene.

Daniel De Culla’s poem glories in the exuberance and diversity of human creative expression.

Salihu Muhammad describes stages in his development as a creative writer.

Ilhomova Mohichehra’s poetry probes the creative potential of liminal dream-states, how emotions and imagination can be strengthened when we approach sleep. Mark Young incorporates color, texture, and text into subconscious, surreal images he calls “geographies.”

Jim Leftwich’s poem incorporates vivid imagery and wordplay, referencing animals, landscapes, and celestial bodies. It also includes philosophical reflections on time, thought, and human experience. Catherine Zickgraf’s work explores time, mercy and judgment, spirituality, and gender. Maja Milojkovic revels in the beauty of the world while acknowledging everything’s impermanence.

Duane Vorhees’ poems explore themes of love, loss, sexual intimacy, nature, and self-discovery. Cheryl Snell’s fictional drabbles look at moments of connection, humor, and tenderness, between humans and each other and other species. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa affirms her acceptance of her entire life journey and her acknowledgement of the different parts of her personality and character. Linda Gunther’s short story depicts a woman who finds her identity by finding her calling in life.

Ilhomova Mohichehra ponders the dreary sufferings of life as she stares out at a rainstorm.

Mykyta Ryzhykh’s work offers a glimpse into a complex and troubled inner world through images of childhood, animals, fear, and death. Texas Fontanella’s poem expresses feelings of financial instability, frustration with societal expectations, and a desire for creative and personal freedom. He includes references to pop culture, politics, and literature, often in a fragmented and surreal manner. Mahbub Alam addresses humanity’s potential for great good or great evil and the need to make choices. Sayani Mukherjee speaks to the inner wilds: the vision, beauty, and danger we all carry within us.

Chuck Taylor’s poetry speculates on the nature of chaos, how it does not operate according to a holy book or an algorithm.

Nilufar Anvarova urges everyone to expand their horizons by reading. Kucharova Ugiloy celebrates the power of books and learning to expand one’s worldview.

Numonjonova Shahnozakhon reflects on how wonder and curiosity add color to life. David Sapp approaches outer and inner landscapes as a tourist and explorer, probing an office firing and the idea of his death with the same curiosity as he brings to Rome’s Trevi Fountain. Lawrence Winkler brings a sense of wonder to his trip to the Micronesian island of Pohnpei, exploring the history and culture of the place while witnessing his friends’ mishaps in international business. Santiago Burdon sketches a time and place in his Christmas tale from a rough Italian-American childhood.

Zarshid Qurbonov reads a book out in the grass on a sunny day and reflects on Uzbekistan’s literary heritage.

Farangiz Abduvohidova illuminates the work and life of Uzbek poet and magazine publisher Zulfiyakhanim, highlighting her qualities as a kind human being as well as her writing skill. Murodova Muslima Kadyrovna also honors the legacy of Uzbek woman poet Zulfiyakhanim.

Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna dreams of becoming a teacher or journalist so as to shape the minds of her fellow Uzbeks towards good. Gulsevar Xojamova highlights the Uzbek Youth Academy’s role in developing the creative potential of many young people.

Ibragimova Rushana outlines various techniques for teaching languages. Aziza Umurzoqova highlights the role of student-directed technology for language learning. Jonpolat Turgunov elucidates the history and value of the Ibrat Farzandlari Project, an online resource for learning foreign languages. Durdona Ibrahimova suggests possible innovative roles for technology and online apps and games in language instruction.

Abdumalikova Mushtariybegim celebrates the Internet but encourages balanced and moderate use of technology.

Fayzullayeva Gulasal outlines technical and financial problems within Uzbekistan’s industrial chemical industry.

Sarvinoz Quramboyeva conveys the daily determination of the Uzbek people to move their society forward. Shodiyeva Mexribon celebrates the hard work, hospitality, and honor of the Uzbek people. Ilhomova Mohichehra praises the kind and hardworking villagers of Uzbekistan. Sitora Otajonova honors the rule of law and social progress and community spirit of her native Uzbekistan. Mahzuna Habibova speaks to her native Uzbekistan as a friend, urging the land to hold onto its freedom and glory.

Farangiz Abduvohidova elucidates the history and culture of Uzbekistan’s Azim Bukhara region as Tuliyeva Sarvinoz describes the Uzbek historical castle monument of Tuproqkala. Ismailov Sanjar describes in detail the shrine of Sa’d Ibn Abu Waqqas in Uzbekistan. Through his photographs of an Afro-Caribbean festival in Boston, Jacques Fleury celebrates the region’s vibrant cultural diaspora while outlining the historical and psychological significance of the Caribbean rara celebrations.

Sarvinoz Tuliyeva recollects her Uzbek childhood: fragrant trees on her street, parents baking bread in the oven, her father crying as she grows up too fast.

Alimbayeva Diana reflects on the constant care and provision of her father for her whole family. Zabuna Abduhakim writes a succinct verse of gratitude for her caring parents. Makhmasalayeva Parizoda Makhmashukurovna praises her father’s selfless love and sacrifice. Sobirjonova Rayhona honors her kind-hearted sister. Diyorbek Maxmudov praises her father’s tender love. Azimjon Toshpulatov’s verse honors the warmth and love of her mother. Ilhomova Mohichehra reflects on how blessed and lucky she is to have loyal and caring family members. Akmalova Zilolakhan Akobirkhan speaks to the consistent love and practical care most people receive from their parents. Faleeha Hassan speaks of children in the winter, nourished and warmed by caring parents. Muhammed Sinan offers up a tribute to the love, dedication, and integrity of his father.

Audrija Paul’s poetry reflects the determined patience of a lover as Jonborieva Muxlisa Rahmon reflects on the value of friendship and what you gain by being a good friend. Norova Zulfizar reflects on a love so joyful and nurturing it reminds her of spring’s flowering and her parents’ care. Mesfakus Salahin employs a variety of poetic images to convey a gentle and kind romance. Sobirjonova Rayhona urges her fellow young people to live happy lives and treat their parents with gratitude and respect.

Nurullayeva Mushtariy illustrates the heartache that comes when the younger generation does not have compassion for their parents. Shahnoza Ochildiyeva remembers how she began to empathize with and befriended some children who were originally annoying bullies, because she realized they lacked the care of loving parents.

J.J. Campbell reflects on having survived decades of broken dreams, troubled relationships, and abandonment. Yet, as he acknowledges, he has survived. Abigail George reflects on love, loss, mental health, family relationships, spirituality, and her artistic dreams in a prose poem formulated as a letter to her niece. Graciela Noemi Villaverde grieves the death of a husband with whom she shared a tender love.

Z.I. Mahmud explores masculinity and romance in D.H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers and how various social and psychological pressures drive the protagonist away from his fiancees. Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s poem, reviewed by Williamsji Maveli, explains how both psychological issues and societal problems such as discrimination and violence against women can interfere with loving relationships.

Kass’ piece explores themes of heartbreak, regret, and the lasting impact of a past relationship. Grant Guy’s poetry reflects on daily routine, loneliness, the lack of intimacy, and loss of identity within some relationships.

Chimezie Ihekuna elucidates the struggles of men in his native Nigeria and elsewhere in the world: being disrespected and viewed only as a source of money in an economy where decent jobs are hard to come by. Maftuna Rustamova also reflects on materialism and the tragedy of reducing human value to money. Don Bormon laments the suffering of the poor out in the cold during winter, while acknowledging the beauty and the harshness of nature during winter months.

Sandro Piedrahita’s short story dramatizes another tragedy, the Pinochet regime’s murder of singer and guitarist Victor Jara. Odera Chidume highlights the effects of war in Nigeria on everyday people through his story of remarkably resilient teenagers.

Vernon Frazer’s poems explore themes of wealth disparity, societal decay, and existentialism, often using vivid imagery and unconventional language. Howard Debs reflects on the human and ecological losses of 2024 and the changes many societies are experiencing.

Before we can fully take stock of 2024, though, there are the December holidays.

Taylor Dibbert recollects an awkward encounter with a stranger as Doug Hawley’s memorable anecdote recounts a Christmas filled with physical and relational peril.

Brian Barbeito’s poem illuminates the beauty of our world and highlights the importance of appreciating nature and loved ones, at the holidays and any time.

Bill Tope’s short story explores human compassion, connection, and perception. Another of his pieces depicts a kindly Jewish shopkeeper whose gift makes some young girls’ Hanukkah very special.

We hope that this issue will be a gift to you, and that as you read, the particles of snow in our literary globe will land in interesting ways that resonate with you.

Village people 

In the village, people only work,
They say: "The one who works, the one who bites."
That's why they don't stop working.
They are happy when they are happy.

Day and night never stops,
They do not know the feeling of fatigue.
People are always upset,
He does not wish to say bad words.

Ilhomova Mohichehra is a student of the 8th grade of the 9th general secondary school of Zarafshan city, Navoi region.