You Can’t Love Me

Who can judge me?

Who can measure me?

Nobody either judge and measure me

Or even judge a stone of a fountain

You are limited

But the word ‘I’ is unconditional and unlimited

‘I’ does not mean myself

It is more than myself

A stone is not only a stone

It is more than what you mean

It can speak

But you can’t speak with it

It bears the history and mystery of dream 

It is a observer of time

It can read us

But the new generation won’t read it

The reflection of my face on the mirror is not complete

The mirror can’t reflect wholeness 

It can’t reflect the the inner ‘l’ of ‘l’

Very often I fail to hold me

My body is a holder

It holds something

But what is something is unknown to me and you

You can’t judge me

You can’t measure me

You can’t hold me

You can’t love me.

You love a man who is perfect and pure

I am not perfect and pure

Everyday l walk on the street of mistakes

l embrace with them

I am not the truest flower in the garden

My face doesn’t express everything

I am not large, vast and self-sufficient 

My heart is not more open and free 

It does not bear authentic taste 

It is not more connected and purposeful 

I am smaller than tiny

I am not enough to love you.

Violence against Women Grows

The streets are a river of red ink,

each drop, a cry that drowns.

Violence, a monster with eyes of fire,

that devours dreams and leaves ashes in its wake.

Women, withered flowers in a garden of pain,

their petals torn, their aroma, a lament.

Silence, a black cloak that envelops them,

a veil of fear that imprisons them.

Society, a ship that sinks in indifference,

each wave, a blow that drags them into darkness.

Justice, a mirage in the desert of impunity,

an oasis that vanishes with the wind.

But hope, a flame that does not go out,

a fire that burns in the heart of every woman.

Union, a bridge that unites them in the fight,

a path to freedom, to peace.

Violence, a cry that rises in the silence,

a clamor that demands justice,

that cries out for change.

Women, a volcano that

awakens in the struggle,

a fire that will not be extinguished until equality flourishes.

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

Christopher Bernard will be reading at the Poets for Palestine SF Marathon Reading at San Francisco’s Bird and Beckett Bookstore. For a donation of any amount to the Middle East Children’s Alliance, a nonpartisan and nonpolitical organization helping all children in the region, poets can come and read at any time at the store on October 14th, Indigenous People’s Day. Please feel welcome to sign up here or email poetsforpalestinesf@gmail.com to be scheduled.

This month’s issue addresses our fears and aspirations: whether life will become what we dread, or what we hope.

Wazed Abdullah revels in the joy of the Bangladesh monsoon as Don Bormon celebrates flowers and wispy clouds in autumn. Maurizio Brancaleoni contributes bilingual haiku spotlighting days at the beach, insects, cats, and the rain. Brian Barbeito shares the experience of walking his dogs as summer turns to fall.

Soren Sorensen probes and stylizes sunsets in his photography series. Lan Qyqualla rhapsodizes about love, dreams, flowers, colors, poetry, and harp music. Ilhomova Mohichehra poetically welcomes autumn to her land.

John L. Waters reviews Brian Barbeito’s collection of poetry and photography Still Some Summer Wind Coming Through, pointing out how it showcases nature and the “subtle otherworldly” within seemingly ordinary scenes. Oz Hartwick finds a bit of the otherworldly within his ordinary vignettes as he shifts his perspective.

Kelly Moyer crafts stylized photographic closeups of ordinary scenes, rendering the familiar extraordinary. Ma Yongbo paints scenes where ordinary life becomes unreal, suffused with images associated with horror.

Sayani Mukherjee speaks of a bird’s sudden descent into a field of flowers and comments on our wildness beneath the surface. Jake Cosmos Aller illustrates physical attraction literally driving a person wild.

Mesfakus Salahin asserts that were the whole natural world to become silent, his love would continue. Mahbub Alam views life as a continual journey towards his beloved. Tuliyeva Sarvinoz writes tenderly of a mother and her young son and of the snow as a beloved preparing for her lover. Sevinch Tirkasheva speaks of young love and a connection that goes deeper than looks. llhomova Mohichehra offers up tender words for each of her family members. She also expresses a kind tribute to a classmate and friend.

Meanwhile, rather than describing tender loving affection, Mykyta Ryzhykh gets in your face with his pieces on war and physical and sexual abuse. His work speaks to the times when life seems to be an obscenity. Z.I. Mahmud looks at William Butler Yeats’ horror-esque poem The Second Coming through the lens of Yeats’ contemporary and tumultuous European political situation.

Alexander Kabishev’s next tale of life during the blockade of St. Petersburg horrifies with its domestic brutality. Almustapha Umar weeps with grief over the situations of others in his country.

In a switch back to thoughts of hope, Lidia Popa speaks to the power of poetry and language to connect people across social divides. Hari Lamba asserts his vision for a more just and equal America with better care for climate and ecology. Perizyat Azerbayeva highlights drip irrigation as a method to tackle the global problem of a shortage of clean drinkable water. Eldorbek Xotamov explores roles for technology and artificial intelligence in education.

Elmaya Jabbarova expresses her hopes for compassion and peace in our world. Eva Petropoulou affirms that action, not mere pretty words, are needed to heal our world.

Ahmad Al-Khatat’s story illustrates the healing power of intimate love after the trauma of surviving war and displacement. Graciela Noemi Villaverde reflects on the healing calm of silence after war.

Meanwhile, Christopher Bernard showcases the inhumanity of modern warfare in a story that reads at first glance like a sci-fi dystopia. Daniel De Culla also calls out the absurdity of war and the grossness of humor in the face of brutality.

Pat Doyne probes the roots of anti-Haitian immigrant rumors in Springfield, Ohio and critiques fear-mongering. Jorabayeva Ezoza Otkir looks to nature for metaphors on the corrosive nature of hate.

On a personal level, Nosirova Gavhar dramatizes various human responses to loss and trauma. Kendall Snipper dramatizes an eating disorder ravaging a woman’s life and body.

Donna Dallas’ characters are lonely, bruised by life, and drawn to what’s not good for them: drugs, bad relationships, lovers who don’t share their dreams. J.J. Campbell evokes his miserable life situation with dark humor.

Meanwhile, Maja Milojkovic savors each moment as she creates her own happiness through a positive attitude. In the same vein, Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa celebrates the power of a free and self-confident mind and the joy of spending time with small children.

Tuliyeva Sarvinoz urges us to move forward toward our goals with faith and dedication. Numonjonova Shahnozakhon echoes that sentiment, encouraging perseverance and resilience. S. Afrose resolves to move forward in life with optimism and self-respect.

Michael Robinson reflects on the peace he finds in his continuing Christian walk. Federico Wardal reviews anthropologist Claudia Costa’s research into spiritual fasting practices among the Yawanawa tribe in Brazil.

Duane Vorhees explores questions of legacy, inheritance, and immortality, both seriously and with humor. Isabel Gomes de Diego highlights Spanish nature and culture with her photographic closeups of flowers, religious icons, and a drawing made as a gift for a child’s parents. Federico Wardal highlights the archaeological findings of Egyptologist Dr. Zahi Hawass and his upcoming return to San Francisco’s De Young Museum. Zarina Bo’riyeva describes the history and cultural value of Samarkand.

Sarvinoz Mansurova sends outlines from a conference she attended on Turkic-adjacent cultures, exploring her region as well as her own Uzbek culture.

Barchinoy Jumaboyeva describes her affection for her native Uzbekistan, viewing the country as a spiritual parent. Deepika Singh explores the mother-daughter relationship in India and universally through her dialogue poem.

David Sapp’s short story captures the feel of decades-ago Audrey Hepburn film Roman Holiday as it describes a dream meeting between lovers in Rome. Mickey Corrigan renders the escapades and tragedies of historical women writers into poetry.

Duane Vorhees draws a parallel between Whitman’s detractors and those who would criticize Jacques Fleury’s poetry collection You Are Enough: The Journey To Accepting Your Authentic Self for having a non-traditional style.

This set of poems from Jacques Fleury expresses a sophisticated childlike whimsy. A few other pieces carry a sense of wry humor. Daniel De Culla relates a tale of inadvertently obtaining something useful through an email scam. Taylor Dibbert reflects on our escapes and “guilty pleasures.”

Noah Berlatsky reflects on both his progress as a poet and editors’ changing tastes. Sometimes it takes growing and maturing over time as a person to create more thoughtful craft.

Alan Catlin strips artworks down to their bare essential elements in his list poetry, drawing attention to main themes. Mark Young focuses on kernels of experience, on the core of what matters in the moment. J.D. Nelson captures sights, experiences, and thoughts into evocative monostich poems worthy of another reading.

Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ pictures get close up to everyday miracles: a beetle, car components, action figures, a boy in a dinosaur costume.

We hope that this issue, while being open about the worries we face, is also a source of everyday miracles and thought-provoking ideas. Enjoy!

Do not forget, classmate

We won't see each other for three months.
Remember, my friend.
I know you are kind
Do not forget, classmate.


I sure miss it now
I play with the picture.
It was you, my friend.
Do not forget, classmate.

keep calling
Or write messages.
There is a merging class,
Do not forget, classmate.

You are the sun of that heart,
A loving embrace.
You gave me patience,
Do not forget, classmate.

Ilhomova Mohichehra is a student of the 7th grade of the 9th general secondary school of Zarafshan city, Navoi region.

A Kiss Through the Darkness

When I discovered I suffered from depression and anxiety, I decided to make peace with them. They became my companions, teaching me to avoid people, though not strangers. I often found myself in bars, drinking recklessly. I kept telling myself that each night would be the last. But night after night, I met different women. I drank without care, to the point of forgetting my own name, but never could I forget my depression and anxiety.

Sometimes, as I undressed women who wanted to be with me—drawn to my humor, I suppose—my eyes would fill with tears. They would kiss them away, offering me comfort that felt foreign. I was lonely, and my parents didn’t understand my struggles. When I told my mother I felt guilty, her response was, “Maybe you hurt a friend.” But I had no friends, just the bullies who tormented me. I longed for someone to hear the silent screams of my heart.

In those bars, some women pulled me into their world of lust. I became a slave to their desires, some of them married. I had to stop drinking, but I found myself offering something else—my body—to appease my sadness. I remember one woman dancing, and when she turned around, she kissed me as I headed for the washroom. Seconds later, she apologized as her husband, sitting in a wheelchair, laughed tearfully, saying, “You chose him over me, after all these years.”

She didn’t care. She grabbed my hand, led me to her sports car, and drove us to her house. We continued drinking, undressing each other. She saw my tears, smiled, and passed me a cigarette. We sat there, naked, smoking in silence. She stared at me as I coughed, struggling with the cigarette.

“Is this your first time smoking?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “But drinking? I’m fine with that.”

“Are you trying to drink yourself to death, young man?” she pressed.

“Maybe. I’m always suffering alone, and no one at school wants to sit with me. My parents are too busy with their lottery winnings to notice.”

“Is that why you cry, like an orphan who learned the war was over only to discover his parents are gone?”

“I think I was adopted just so they could have someone to raise, a cover for their wealth.”

“Money doesn’t buy happiness, and you’re spending their fortune on your own slow death.”

“I feel like I was born with a lifetime of grief. Drinking numbs my sensitivity, my inner peace, and most of all, the masks I wear to hide the pain in my mind and heart.”

“Do your friends care about the person you are in these bars?” she asked.

“I think they’d prefer I sober up so I can decide whether to pull the trigger or keep cutting myself.”

“Are your friends alive?”

“I’m alone. Depression and anxiety gave me a second chance at life.”

“Are you happy to be alive now?”

“I’m not sure. I feel like I’ve been alive for too long.”

“Have you ever fallen in love?”

“I don’t think I’m capable. I’ve always felt unworthy of love, even from my family. The only person who loves me, though she doesn’t understand me, is my mother.”

“Can I help guide you toward healing? Toward confidence?”

“Thank you, but life has been wearing me down, slowly, like a candle melting its own wax.”

“Will you let me adopt you before I die?” she asked, tears welling up in her eyes. “I want to heal you because you’re young and deserve a better life.”

I was confused by her mention of death. As I dressed to leave, she screamed, “I love you! Please, let my remaining days be filled with the happiness of helping you become a better man.”

I turned back and hugged her. We both cried.

Because of her, I became sober and successful. She healed me in ways no one else could, and in return, I tried to help heal her. She overcame her illness, and we became the best of friends, forever grateful for that accidental kiss.

Now, I am happily married to a strong woman who chases away the shadows of depression and anxiety from my dreams. Together, we’ve built a life filled with love and understanding. I’ve learned that we must talk about our weaknesses and embrace the help offered by those we trust.