I got used to it
The record of your expressions is complete.
I don't even remember your faces
Run away from my love
This is a long standing mistake.
Now I don't even want to leave the street without you
The ears will never hear your description.
All my dreams come true
Don't forget everything.
I used to rush only to you
I used to dream of your smile
Now I regret every moment
Your mistakes are amazing lol.
Choriyeva Shaxrinoz Sherali's daughter is an 11th grade student of the 32 school in the Jondor district, Buxoro region.
From “Intimità delle lontananze” (“Intimate Distances”) (2004)
49
Deadly feedstuff
deserts of rules
multiple misdeeds
mocking snoots.
I descend the stairs of a splendid atelier
eaten up by the sun’s comedies
cats get flat out of slack
the shadowless gallows of cicadas,
a few meters away the new cemetery
(serving the
soul of future)
dishes out gendarmes sharp with bolt cutters.
From “Vigilia di sorpasso” (“Eve of Overtaking”) (2010)
39.
at the back of the job of resisting
the wind is called a swinging of blasphemous
sphynxes riding a broomstick.
rust soaring above the nape of the neck
forerunning confetti of death
I am. long face I shall not have your
love, but you’ll see I know how to resist
the partisan anecdote in the crag
of the eventide. choppy sea in the soul to see you
from under the case that approaches me dead.
From “Il cantiere delle parvenze” (“The Workshop of Semblances”) (2010)
42.
my theatre shortens I ride on others’ coat tails
in the havoc of the index by the hour,
other snake-like cases of heartache
when they announce that boredom lives
close to break-even with ash.
actually the angel’s play
babbles the impossible to the stones
the lyre stained with axe sewage.
to die of boredom like a tortoise
like the little girls in the hollow dunes
transported by the furies of the waves.
the crash of the virgins is a reddish
tide, demented the trip
with dizziness. in a wrinkled jacket I stand
and see you leave without engaged scratches.
I like to die holding a lantern
with a stash of iris overwhelming me
feeding my discontent by my side. what happened was
that I slit my wrists tomorrow, take off my clothes
I walk naked amid the cypresses that exalt
the dead by denouncing the nape of the neck of charity
fainted.
From “Cantico di stasi” (“Canticle of Stasis”) (2012)
6.
The window of discontent
along the courses of my sacrificing
the throng of the marsh. inside
the diamond I see the basket
of useless stigmata. I am long in suffering
this Martian of anxiety.
bootless the notes do not explain
the misfortune of moves without respect
the guiles containing the arrival
on the substitutions of the wind always against
the benefit of the all-standing lighthouse.
in competition with the winning swallow
may boredom withdraw which gives the cinereous staff
of the burden inside a reason to cry.
here one immolates the greed of contending
only downpours with vising drops.
in the hands of the surf’s mercy
the scoriae in one’s hands are the affection
of people who died in the garden of marvels
so they say in the tales of vanquished nuptial beds.
the soldier’s fear is the dynamiting
fence. here if you run away in a hurry
may luck open the wind and to hell with stinginess.
From “La cena del verbo” (“The Supper of the Word”) (2014)
31.
The struggle of dawn will cause my breasts to die
Torture gerund waiting at the world
To ask for peace without stealing anything
Neither the commas of the time passed
Nor the full stop ending a child conversation.
I train you as if you were an Olympic woman
Satiated panic without an affront
Nowadays there’s a Hercules driving the sin
I use up my coma on speakerphone
And clean out with the chorus of the fibs about
Gazing at God the beloved Jesus.
61.
Sluggish swamp the sea by now
It flirts with the lighthouse the last game
When children come to the sands
And strokes, locked up adrift, rot.
I shall be my construct in vain
The livid dawn of the one who often dies
Under the sindons of fingerprints.
A dream of you will be my eventide
The naked syllabary of the meek lighthouse
And the holy gazelles’ irenic messenger.
Sinister love the raft aches
This harrowing fate of dying
In the seesaw of the shadow or of the pitch dark.
Easter backpack to gaze at your face
To have a raft in the name of service
Refuge as the bad habit of running after each other.
Marina Pizzi is a contemporary Italian poet. She was born in Rome, where she still lives, on 5-5-55. In her literary career she has published over fifty books of poetry both on paper and in electronic format. Her poems have also appeared in various journals and anthologies.
Maurizio Brancaleoni is a writer and translator. He received his master’s degree in Language and Translation Studies from Sapienza University of Rome in 2018, but he has been translating at least since 2012. In recent years he localized the prose and poetry of manifold authors, among which Thomas Wolfe, Adrian C. Louis, Justin Phillip Reed, Jean Toomer, Dylan Thomas, Herman Melville, Scipione/Gino Bonichi and Amelia Rosselli. More poems by Marina Pizzi in English translation can be found here.
she had a true word or two for Master Nansen
the fragile axis of my Kirk Douglas moment
by now, I must've arm-wrestled the man from Cienfuegos over forty times
I'm a gremlin-on-the-wing type guy
hotel aquarium: the carp follow the slow movement of her hands
all day long
between my toes
ants exchanging hydrocarbons
stepping over the guard rail
introducing myself
to a sycamore tree
in some dimension of spacetime, Robert Mitchum sneers
Rujing refused to wear his brocade robe
on the Great Way
to the Giant Eagle
three faces in the one parmureli
checking the box for morbid introspection
it's the High T'ang in Pittsburgh
sweeping the path
gazing at clouds
toss some cinnabar in that prayer you said you would say for me
Life
Life is like the hot season sweating the body
And burning the green
Life is like the rainy day’s lilies on the quiet lake
Or on the starry flowers journey the day’s moment
As if the dream the lightening feather
Life is like the birds flapping and chirping in the morning
Saying ‘Good Bye’ to the darkness of the night
As if the world awakens with its new beauty and color
Of the red crabs in the sea beach
Life is like the love’s dream
Lost in the other world staring the glimpse
Life is nothing but a count of sorrows and sufferings
Sewing a lot of inner meaning
Like the designed bed cover we lie to sleep
Life is nothing but a span of time
Talks to us so many things
Standing before to face the new challenges
Life is running so fast to meet the charm
Life is a drop of water
We seek at the time of thirst
Life finds out the glory with the life we love
Life rounds in always in love
Though life causes sometimes so many deaths in this earth.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh,
28 May, 2024.Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, and zines.
He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in an Synchronized Chaos International Magazine for seven years.
Pedagogical technology is based on the use of new tools and information methods, their use, the correct introduction of pedagogical technologies in the educational process leads to the teacher acting as the main organizer or consultant in this process. This requires more independence, creativity and willpower from the teacher. Trainings conducted on the basis of pedagogical technology satisfy the desire of young people to express their attitudes to important life achievements and problems, and create an opportunity for them to think and justify their points of view. In order to achieve this, we need independent and free-thinking individuals who are able to absorb new information and evaluate their acquired knowledge by themselves.
Therefore, the role and importance of modern teaching methods, interactive methods, and innovative technologies in the educational process of educational institutions is incomparable. Pedagogical technology and the knowledge and experience of their use in education ensure that students have knowledge and advanced skills.
Its main criteria are informal debates, free presentation of educational material, independent reading, learning, conducting seminars, creating opportunities for students to take initiative, small group, large group, It consists of assignments, assignments, writing assignments, etc. computer communication) l On December 1, the next “Government Hour” was held in the Legislative Chamber of the Oliy Majlis. In it, the deputies discussed the issue of “Education of the patriotic generation in general education schools, the work being carried out on the organization of the newly introduced subject of “Education”.
The President of the Republic of Uzbekistan has clearly and clearly shown the ways and principles of achieving the future in several speeches and pamphlets. In particular, such works as “Independence and spirituality”, “Uzbekistan on the threshold of the 21st century”, “The dream of a perfect generation” describe the spiritual renewal and development of society, issues of education, and the basic principles of social education.
The concept of education has different meanings in different periods of the nation’s history and society’s development and has been interpreted in different ways. After Uzbekistan gained independence, an approach based on a new healthy pedagogical thinking in the interpretation of education began to be decided. Now special attention is being paid to genetic and biological aspects of education and nationality. National education is closely related to the name of the nation and its history.
***
Тhe ridge of silence is strewn with thorns of crunchy dying leaves.
***
Fire gives birth and kills
new perspectives
***
go(o)d morning
somebody need a reason
for a bee to buzz not so loudly
***
history of prisons teaches silence
killer becomes suicidal
the sky breathes snowy immortality
white as if no one died
***
Wheat of centuries
He was forcibly resettled he sowed and sowed until the very moment of resettlement
Collectivization of Soviet misfortune
Slavery of the collective farm boomerang
He was torn from his native land lay down in the wheat and choked on the aroma
So the years passed
We were all drowned like a Soviet village during industrialization
We are all choked by the scent of carnivores
***
We will all die from the needle of spring
No one understands how people who are still alive die inside themselves
We will all die from AIDS inhaling the scent of dead flowers
No one will help anyone to be lonely like the cry of a newborn
We will all die and no one will help us
Snow falls through a hole in my hand
Overdose on love
Nobody really loves anyone
Marijuanas needs needles powders wedding-rings
Each of us is dependent
Each of us is lonely
Each of us will die
Tattoo instead of skin
AIDS instead of eternal love
Light of a night star
And suddenly a stone void
We were all stones in our mothers belly before we were born
We all freeze daily in the cold winter
The black cemetery hides in the darkness of the night
White clouds envelop a white bird in snow
***
I've always had a crush on sexy comic book superheroes
I always burned stupid comics at the stake
I always burned my lonely heart at the stake
I was always looking for someone I could become a heart donor for
I always mixed my tears with sperm
I'm still not sure that people know how to love
Im still not sure Im human
I don't even know who I am
I'm just one letter without an alphabet
And under my bed is a bottomless cemetery
***
Kill me with your love
I have a lot to tell you
Heaven stumbles
The night rots
Revive me with water from snow and fire
The day turns to stone
Silence has a lot to tell you
And the last butterflies burn in the stomach of the executed summer
Death from the letters of a learned name
The stream of war ---- which the thirsty fill with their own blood
***
Black water flows down the cliff of a flat [as before] Earth
The piano of bones plays the plague saraband
And the moon above the heads of the trees turns red from the shame of the angels
God's feathered assistants again pressed the wrong button on the control panel
The cemetery flows down the pupil of memories
Boom boom
End of [hi]story
***
breakdown
catalysis
they will catch you
run
fall down
fatalization
they will release you
into the emptiness of the waters-silence
***
the air is free
first spring butterfly died
silent trees drink sadness
***
winds shod a bird lost in the snow
the bird pecks lost in the wind
the world is blooming like a flower
dead pilots float out of the cloud-cemetery
death speaks the language of kittens
the abdominal cavity of the mother cat is like a fried frying pan
cat jesus is not dead
cat babies die
ok let them die
god-man again pressed the wrong veterinary button
***
feathers turn to fire
the sun turns into a bird
and sakura blossoms-rays
***
unhappy cloud shadow
trees embrace the sky
in spring joy
Redirect to Self
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
I come home in Eucharist
Body slanted in brown-and-broad-faced praise
The simple shape of this Gemini
Made for Taurus
(I’m born again
Among stars)
The fabrics that strecheth and bindeth me are no more,
Cast away, deemed false
Deemed sacrilege
Deemed too cool
I’ve always wanted to call myself a r3b3l
I’VE GOT NO CAUSE TO PROVE IT
(apologies for the outburst)
This is my temple, my history.
This is my sacred Hell
This is my poisoned Heaven
I ask you to come and worship
Hand in hand with me
And live neither dead nor awake
But dreaming all the same
Dreaming till dreaming becomes too much to bear and the urge to lead some great parley with the sandman bears strange fruit
Skin bagged like dying men
Flesh downy like sheets
I ask myself:
Why do we
(always)
Worship what we can never obtain?
The static of the commercial world wedges a sea of product placement into my endorphin-dependent sludge
I used to call you brain
But you have since become
(insert Egyptian word for brain)
So that a witty comparison centered around the ancient belief that
The brain’s only purpose was to hold apart the ears and the heart
Did all the real thinking
I suppose they were mostly right
‘Cept I don’t think that makes me any smarter considering my track record
I still pray to altars of IKEA wood and Amoeba plastic
I still try to use hooks to remove the wart I call reason
I would lay with Morpheus happily
(speaking as a straight man)
If it meant the sleep was dreamless
And deep
And the clock stayed silent
For as long as I am waking
There is nothing left to do
But if I dream
Then there is the lover-shaped void that I tried so hard to fill with broken people
Never bothering
(until now)
To see if I fit myself
--
