Poetry from Nicholas Gunter

Deathiversary

If not you, the bird. If not the bird, 

me.

But the bird has been dead for months now,

I made sure of that.

But you still rot away at my solace.

Did I do the right thing?

Should I have shot the bird?

Should I have buried you?

I remain unsure, even now

No good son should abandon his father.

Last I was here, over your grave

I told you a few things,

Maybe I shouldn’t have said them,

Ruining your funeral

I don’t know if I regret it.

I won’t forgive you

For taking my father from me

But it doesn’t matter

Because I’m not seeing him again

I’m not seeing you again

I told you I changed,

Not that you could hear

I told you I was tired of your shit, 

not that it matters anymore

But no matter what I think, I’m tired of these ghosts.

Essay from Muxtasarxon Abdurashidova

My first teacher-the eternal trace in my heart.
In every personʼs life, there is a  guide who can never be forgotten.  My first teacher is an important figure in my life. When I was a little girl, I entered the doorway of school No. 3 in Toʼraqoʼrgʼon district of Namangan region,  the person who took my hand was my first teacher-Munavvar Mirzaturgunovna.

At first, studying was not easy. I made many mistakes. I started my studies in Russian. Sometimes I felt weak and even lost hope. But my teacher always helped me. She said: “Терпение и труд всё перетрут”

Thanks to her, I became interested in learning. Now I study at Isʼhoqxon Ibrat creativity school. I got good marks, won school competitions, and took part in different projects. One of my happiest memories was a trip to Zomin from translation. Now I can speak five languages, and of course, this is also connected with the knowledge I received from my first teacher in primary school.
My teacherʼs kindness inspires me a lot. I also dream of becoming a teacher in the future. I will never forget my first teacher. She is always in my heart, and I am very thankful to her.

Muxtasarxon Abdurashidova, 11th grader at Is’hoqxon Ibrat Creative School

Essay from Yuldosheva Yulduz Ravshanovna

Young Central Asian woman in a green headscarf and blue and white top.

Little Zulfiya through the Teacher’s Eyes

Every nation has great figures who become its pride and honor. We, the Uzbek people, are justly proud of our poetess Zulfiya, whose beautiful poems, penetrating our literature, spirituality, and delicate hearts, have captured the hearts of millions. In nurturing love for the Motherland, respect for the native language, and feelings of kindness and compassion in the hearts of the young generation, the works of this great figure play a significant role.

One of the talented students studying at our school, Zahro Qahramonova, is among those gifted girls who embody such human emotions in her heart and who has developed a love for the art of words. In every line of poetry, Zahro feels beauty, sincerity, dreams, and aspiration. When she reads a poem, she becomes inspired just like little Zulfiya. She gives every word a place in her heart and brings each image to life in her imagination.

For us teachers, this is a great happiness — to work with students whose hearts are filled with love for poetry and whose souls shine with dreams. Zahro’s noble intentions, her dedication to creativity, and her ability to reflect on great themes such as the Motherland, mother, nature, and peace, give us reason to call her a true “little Zulfiya.”

Zulfiya’s proud lines, “I am the daughter of Uzbekistan”, today have become a life motto for thousands of girls like Zahro. We believe that today’s little Zulfiyas will grow into tomorrow’s enlightened, devoted, and creative women. Zahro is one of those girls who is confidently stepping toward such dreams.

Poetry from Teresa Nocetti

Older light skinned European woman with reading glasses and white hair and lipstick and a white blouse.

PILLOW

Accomplice of vehement thoughts.

Burning in moments of passion.

A burning heat that bites at the temples.

Softness that displaces my anxiety.

It muffles a breathed cry.

It returns with texture another relief.

It excuses torrents of hostility.

It reflects visions difficult to find.

And at dawn, sunk

Bearing the weight of so much sorrow.

You rest, ready to receive other hours.

And to give peace: dreaming and dreaming.

Teresa Nocetti was born in Montevideo, capital of the Oriental Republic of Uruguay. She has been a retired teacher for seven years and is a mother and grandmother. She loves to travel, get to know different cultures, read and talk.

Since 2017, she has been a member of the group of international writers “Junto por las Letras,” counting hundreds of participants from different languages to date. In 2018, she published “La visita de Perseo”. She’s published in the anthologies: “Women on the brink of the abyss” (collection), “Vida de Piedra”, “When letters mature”, “A story for a smile” Volume Three, “Uniendo Fronteras” (Bolivia). In 2019 she was awarded a Special Mention from the Outstanding Women in Culture for her cultural trajectory and human values.

As of 2020, her works have been virtual. She continues to participate actively in the Virtual Book Fairs, in the virtual book Immortales, and in all the proposals of the “Juntos por las Letras” Group as Cultural Manager. They will publish her next book: “Sinuous Soul.”

Poetry from Mark Young

Impressions  (short)

If this 

were Cézanne’s 

birthday 

I might consider 

having an 

apple 

for lunch.

She

handled

it well, apart

from a slight

case of novocaine

burn acquired

while coming

down the

mountain.

Taciturn

to the end, he 

took a tacit

turn, & nobody

heard him die.

scratching #1 

my eyes
are playing up
on me

don’t see
things clearly
any more

listen
intently
to things
that aren’t
there 

sundae, bloody sundae


Whether in cyberspace
or a Baskin Robbins ice-

cream parlor, nobody can

hear your multiple ban-

anas split when they’re
served in a cone of silence.

Investiture

Divesting assumed i-

dentities is hard to do

especially when it is

others who have done

the assuming for you.

what’s / going on / with the drones?

Clusters of lights multiplying expo-

nentially. Concern; & then confusion.

The suspect promised to leave their

phone number, but was last seen 

running away.

from the brochures of the Well-being Institute

Add

a token

aberration just so

life isn’t all

beer &

skittles.

Plaint for the day

I’ve got gall

stones, kidney

stones, most

every stone

except the

Rolling Stones —

& I’m saving them

for a rainy day.

Poetry from Stephen Jarrell Williams

End of Summer

(1)

I don’t wear my Hawaiian shirt anymore.

Those were the good old days,

actually the good old great days,

racing into the waves,

exploding through them like a torpedo.

Swimming farther out

to meet the next rising mountain of water.

(2)

I was unafraid back then.

Of course I was a lot younger,

before the sun and the cold turned me old.

(3)

No.  I was never in Hawaii.

I just had an Hawaiian shirt.

And it’s still hanging in my closet.

A Waste of the Sea

(1)

They say don’t go into the water.

It’s polluted now.

(2)

Waves along shores of trash.

It will give you today’s latest rash

and much more.

(3)

Memories coming like a tidal wave,

with no ark

big enough

to save.

Laguna Beach

My Bikini Girl

in my dreams from long ago.

Are you still alive?

Do I still have a chance

to walk with you

hand in hand

in the warmth of the sand?

Moist Lips

Lick of the sea

tasting tease

summer’s end

forever dreams

magnified.

Prayer

Come swim with me

in the palm of the sea,

God’s tear of heaven.