***
guilty nails torn off by a scream glued to a dead kitten
graveyard inside is a bedroom
the kitten sleeps and sees a red night in a dream
abdominal memories won't come out
dead kitten inside belly overcame fear of water
drowned in non-birth drinks as imperceptibly as he breathes
but where is the cat jesus christ?


***
How to be a corpse in a big house?
How to be a frame in a big house?
How to be small in a big house?
How to properly shoot neighbors in an apartment building?
How to scream in a very large house?
How to be silent? What is the right way to cry?
How to die right? How to be a child?
How to be an animal? I am overgrown-furry
I'm overgrown with a stub of a church candle
I grow like a tree for my grandparents
The apple tree is a Christmas tree on the neck of a drowned man


***
The water is silent: therefore it is on the lips, on the eyelashes, on the forehead, on the corpse. Water is a stone, and stone is silence and restraint. Remember how we were stones before we were born. Stone and tear: this is called patience. Thinking stretches like a silkworm over a wet path. Where are we going? Where does the rain fall? The dew conquers the grass. Tear after tear. Grass after grass. Face after face. Everything around is a reflection. Mirrors are silent because they reflect. God is silent because it is necessary. The person is silent because it is necessary. Man is the god of death, oh Lord. We put a candle for your repose, oh Lord.


***
black night knocks 
on the skull box 
and opens the crystal door

windy garden of silence
look carefully at your feet


***
Lonely kitten lost on the street
Lonely kitten with my eyes all alone on the street
Lonely kitten with my name is lost
Lonely kitten with my heart is killed
Lonely kitten is alone with the street

Loneliness vs solitude
The stars above are calling me on way


***
iron sheet in the eyes of hunger
fish float up and hang suicides on a tree
holocaust coast in the cold forest
the bones of the crucified on the branches in the cold forest


***
Black birds don't let the bushes bleed
Black nights prevent the grass from publicly crying
Blue skies forbid hiding scars in the dark

And in a room closed from the inside
Тhe continuous winter revels 
Іn the broken bone of a dying man


***
аnd when the soldier fell 
there was no one 
who could help him up


***
people don't want to die and I hate them because they die
pigeons compete with children in the race for breadcrumbs
oil in a pipeline competes with itself in the blackness
children compete with each other in false growing up
candy wrappers of the night in the red throat of the abyss


***
the imperceptible sky became a guinea pig
dove pretended to be kissing a dove
stone age everywhere
otherwise why were two guys in love pelted 
with stones and not with wedding cards


***
axiom 
of emptiness 
in the cemetery

Every Use of “Self” in Dale Carnegie’s How To Win Friends and Influence People, 1981 Revised Edition

Itself himself itself himself myself myself self-improvement yourself yourself yourself yourself yourself self-improvement self-examination myself myself myself self-analysis self-education yourself yourself yourself himself self-confidence self-expression himself himself himself self-confidence self-confidence himself myself himself himself himself himself himself himself himself himself herself myself himself himself himself yourself selfish self-control itself himself himself himself himself self-improvement self-esteem self-esteem selfish unselfish selfish himself himself herself unselfish yourself myself yourself myself himself self-seeking unselfishly himself himself myself self-expression self-expression himself himself himself himself himself unselfishness myself yourself selfishness yourself himself oneself herself yourself yourself myself himself himself himself self-evident yourself himself himself himself himself himself himself himself yourself himself myself himself himself itself myself myself myself selfish itself himself himself herself himself self-confidence herself itself himself myself myself himself myself himself yourself myself himself self-control yourself yourself self-respect yourself himself self-esteem myself oneself myself myself yourself himself myself myself self-dignity yourself myself self-esteem myself himself self-criticism yourself self-criticism myself myself myself himself himself himself self-condemnation myself oneself myself itself myself yourself itself itself himself myself himself self-employed himself himself himself himself myself yourself himself myself myself self-reliance himself myself myself himself himself yourself yourself yourself self-appointed myself yourself yourself myself myself myself self-pity himself unselfish himself myself yourself himself myself self-addressed self-addressed himself  myself itself itself self-expression yourself himself himself himself yourself yourself myself myself yourself himself himself oneself myself himself himself herself myself himself himself yourself yourself yourself myself himself yourself himself himself herself herself herself herself herself itself yourself herself himself itself yourself

The Rainless Draught

Once we were filled with rivers and fishes
Our ancestors told us the story of rain and flood
The Bangalee lived on fish and rice
Now, the rivers seen like the migratory birds
In season or out of season 
Sometimes, draught happens enough to burn the world
Sometimes water and water are everywhere
Deluging the land in the open sky
Make people and animal homeless surrounding all
Nature in us and nature outside 
Responsibly goes to the conscience
Humanity sometimes played  like instruments
In the clasp of nature –
The severe inhumanity
Sometimes, it played as a trump card
Winning the race, a common play in the world
We suffer from the pain in body or heat stroke
Or float on the land submerged by overflowing water
What’s the bridge of relation?Where the gates are set to hinder the flow
And the door closed for suffocating in the waterless rivers
People pass the days in torture for high temperature
And the rainless atmosphere
Would you please expand your hand?
O Creator! 
We pray utmost to you
The mild temperature to go in the world you made for.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh, 25 April, 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 little magazines. He has achieved three times 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 Synchronized Chaos Magazine for seven years. 

The Best Teacher

Acquiring knowledge is a priceless asset that demands persistence and hard work. Academics have compared learning to using a needle to dig a well. When someone acquires such a rare, asset, there is no question that the role that that teachers play is unequaled.

My intelligent teacher is Rahmatjon Muhammad Sabir. It has a great contribution in encouraging us to read books and in our love of science. One of the biggest lessons he taught me was to do small things and keep doing them. Every word is a lesson, and very action is an example. In my teacher, I see sincerity, discipline and strong will. He never spared his help for his students. He listens to each of us sincerely. For me, he is a modern, realist active acholar.

The saying ‘’Knowledge is true happiness’’ always gives me strength. True, this path is more complicated, but it is also noble in its place.

May God grant us paradise for the knowledge he has given us. May your knowledge increase even more.

HUMAN, DISCOVER THE HEART

History is made by human and by his actions. If we want an honest and clean world we have to let the facts speak to indicate the right path to follow.
Violence sows violence.
Racism sows racism.
Peace and friendship they sow peace and cordiality.
War and interests they sow war and destruction.
Knowing and judging history it helps not to repeat the errors of judgment.
If you ask you must give with the same measure. Nothing can be achieved by standing and looking.
To pick pears from the tree you come scratching your calves in the scab.
If cherries are good, don't forget: To collect someone spent effort.
When you drink ruby wine for lunch you can say thank you to the hands that picked the grapes.
Tomatoes, oranges and olives grow in the sun, the hands that fill the baskets are holy.
Human, in you the divine is stunned from the abyss. On Earth you are the master of your actions.
Our mission is a continuous vigil for peace. No one will ask you how you feel, maybe when it happens to you cry because you suffer inside.
Maybe then, on the border line between the abyss and life,
they will ask in an effort to feel less guilty of abandoning you,
considering you were enough strong to be able to fly by it self above the specially created precipice.
No one will ask you how you feel, only in front of the coffin will they say:
Poor thing, too bad he's gone so soon, he had a life ahead of him!
Yet the hand extended it was a false hand. Intentions had a comfortable return, because pleasure becomes self-satisfying and the need for a truth is formal.
You know, when they tell you how beautiful you are, how good you are, then turn to speak face to face with someone important?
Those moments hurt the sensibility like before an invasion and you feel practically at war with self-centered hypocrisy that he just turned his back on you.
No one is more important than the other and if we want peace we must create peace of mind for others too, around us so as not to do harm.
An infinity of words hurts. An infinity of words kills.
Few words will want to know who you are. Few words will tell you about love.
The very same few will define a hug. No one will ask you how you feel inside.
However, you believe in peace and justice for humanity.
The innocents dies on the streets, at work in front of the machinery
and in the countryside, or by criminal hand. There is no more security or peace!
Commitment to social policies vanishes in the smoke of firecrackers.
The innocent no longer have a voice. Let's defend life! Let's defend the innocent!
Don't be left with helpless hands! We who have made a complaint about our word we do not leave those most in need helpless. We write letters to the captains of the world.
They will hear voices if someone is not deaf. Life is a gift, peace is his right.
Do not waste the dreams of those who live on reality! The poet says nothing, however, he repeats himself and his voice multiplies
with the thought of him raising its echo to the sound of trumpets to heaven.
Silence is guilty of innocent deaths. The cry for life will never be sanctioned from a protest of the victims in the square, but it will be allowed by the applied law. Give us back life to the dreams of the innocent!
I bare my heart. For children torn or stolen. For the innocent dead.
For those drowned at sea. For human trafficking. For the sick with no cure.
For entrance blocks. For special people. For the poor. For the hungry.
For the thirsty. For the exploited. For those who live on the street.
For women with blood red shoes. For peace and against war.
For burnt or cut woods. For the debris scattered everywhere.
For the victims of the earthquake and tsunami. For flood victims. For damaged them.
For the unfortunate. For those guilty of nothing. For the victims of injustice.
Sometimes shoes break and the splinters stick into the flesh.
Sometimes life makes you kneel before an altar. You can't always be deaf to pain.
You wrap yourself in conscience and fight for the rights of others.
Being human is never a shame. What did you do right today?
Human, discover your heart to breathe the life and safeguard the peace.

BIOGRAPHY

Lidia Popa was born in Romania in the locality of Piatra Șoimului, in the county of Neamț, on 16th April, 1964. She finished her studies in Piatra Neamț, Romania with a high school diploma and other administrative courses, where she worked until she decided to emigrate to Italy. 

She has been living for 23 years and worked in Rome as part of the wave of intellectual emigrants since the fall of the Berlin Wall.
She wrote your first poem at her age of 7. She is a poet, essayist, storyteller, recognized in Italy and in other countries for her literary activities. She collaborates with cultural associations, literary cenacles, literary magazines and paper and online publications of Romanian, Italian and international literature. She writes in Romanian, Italian and also in other languages as an exercise in knowledge. 

BOOKS

She has published her poems in six books:
in Italy:
1. " Point different ( to be ) " - ed. Italian and
2." In the den of my thoughts ( Dacia ) " - ed. bilingual Romanian/ Italian Aletti Editore 2016,
3.“ Sky amphora " - ed. bilingual Romanian/ Italian Edizioni Divinafollia 2017,
in Romania:
4. " The soul of words" ed. bilingual Romanian/ Albanian Amanda Edit Verlag 2021,
5." Syntagms with longing for clover " ed. Romanian, Editura Minela 2021.
6." The Voice interior " Lidia Popa and Baki Ymeri ed. bilingual Romanian/Italian, Amanda Edit Verlag 2022.

Her poems featured in more than 50 literary anthologies and literary magazines on line from 2014 to 2023 in Italy, Romania, Spain, Canada, Serbia, Bangladesh, United Kingdom, Liban,USA,etc.
Her poems are translated into Italian, French, English, Spanish, Arabic, German, Bangladesh, Portuguese, Serbian, Urdu, Dari, Tamil, etc.
Her writings are published regularly with some magazines in Romania, Italy and abroad.
She is a promoter of Romanian, Italian and international literature, and is part of the juries of the competitions.
She translates from classical or contemporary authors who strike for the refinement and quality of their verses in the languages: Italian, Romanian, English, Spanish, French, German, stating that "it is just a writing exercise to learn and evolve as a person with love for humanity, for art, poetry and literature ".

SHE IS
*Member of the Italian Federation of Writers (FUIS)
*Honorary member of the International Literary Society Casa Poetica Magia y Plumas Republic of Colombia,
*Member of Hispanomundial Union of Writers (Union Hispanomundial de Escritores) (UHE) and Thousands Minds For Mexico (MMMEX)
*President UHE and MMMEX Romania, August 21, 2021
*She had come power of attorney Vice-president UHE Romania, Mars18, 2021- August 21, 2021
*President UHE and MMMEX Romania, August 21, 2021
*Counselor from Italy for Suryodaya Literary Foundation Odisha India,
*Director from Italy for Alìanza Cultural Universal (ACU) Argentina
*Member Motivational Strips Oman,a member of numerous other literary groups at the level internationally,
*Director of Poetry and Literature World Vision Board of Directors (PLWV) Bangladesh
*Membership of ANGEENA INTERNATIONAL NON PROFIT ORGANISATION of Canada
International Peace Ambassador of The Daily Global Nation International Independent Newspaper from Dhaka Bangladesh - 2023
*Founder literary group Lido dell'anima with LIDO DELL'ANIMA AWARDS
*Founder LIDO DELL'ANIMA Italian magazine
*Founder SILVAE VERBORUM INTERNATIONAL multilingual magazine
*Founder literary currently #homelesspoetry
etc.

ghost, breathing

I can
stand still

as air before
a thunderstorm

and feel my 
footprints begin
to fill in

(though I have not
yet stepped
out of them);

I never did expect
to leave an impression 
anyway 

This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf. 


the palette of his palate

my synesthetic 
son has lunch waiting – two takes

on the spring beets he 
found yesterday at the first

farmer’s market of the year – 
when we return from

church, each prepared according
to the hues he sees

when seasoning: purple from
orange sections, from honeyed 

pecans, a touch from
the beets themselves; red (deep, like

the wine we open
to play alongside his work)

from beef and asparagus; 
the beets, far milder

than their autumn counterparts,
shine gold through their red

tinge (like a sunset, he says,
and for a second I see)

 
Jamais Vu

I
have walked
that street all
sorts of befores with
eyes open (if not always
mindful of where I happened to be going) – 
and yet on this grey Sunday it seemed new, a place to
be discovered, mapped into memory for the first time. It did not
last long, this sudden untethering from experience – two minutes, perhaps,
before I held the lines again – and still, hours on, there is a part of me that drifts and wonders.

This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf. 

 
Rue des Rêves 

		Running through my memory
		on the Street of Dreams
		- Joe Lynn Turner

The path of love is a Möbius strip; it runs ever 
	ahead, behind, between.

All steps are steps forward; all footfalls vibrate
	along immeasurable length.

Where it passes over water, it gleams mirror-bright; 
stars come down to see their true selves, tiny
ideas of angels by whose light we read and dance.

Where it leads through trees, they do not crowd.
There, it is paved with red bricks from old schools;
all leaves which fall to it become singing birds.

Where it becomes a city street, it is lined (on both
sides, two being one) with museums, with noodle
shops, with shaded places for quiet and chocolate.

Where it soars above dark ragged gorges, we who
	love meet and are not afraid.

Arms linked in hopeful conspiracy, we look over
	the edge, see ourselves waving back. 

This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf. 

In the Manner Which Seems Best to You

Forget inspiration; the only thing
the Muses really give you is a choice.

		You have nine possible ways 
		in which to be devoured alive.
		Please pick one.

There is no tenth option. Take up your
pen, your microphone, your paintbrushes
	and give them a good show;

they do so like to be entertained before their
	teeth meet through your heart.

This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf. 

Poets Power
 
In the realm of chaos, we seek peace, 
Where poets' words make conflicts cease. 
With ink as our sword and love as our guide, 
We stand united, side by side. 
Through verses woven with care and grace, 
We paint a world where hatred has no place. 
In the tapestry of dreams, we stitch our hopes, 
Binding nations together with poetic ropes. 
Let the rhythm of our lines echo loud, 
As we sing of love beneath the shroud. 
Brotherhood and sisterhood, hand in hand, 
Together we'll build a peaceful land. 
So let us raise our voices high, 
And let our words touch the sky. 
For in poetry's embrace, we find, 
The power to heal humankind.

Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whomfrom an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" is circulating through the blood.
That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them.
As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube.
Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers.
She is the recipient of many international awards.
"Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle". 
She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro,and shealso is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.