Suffering and endurance 

Suffering has no beginning.

Suffering has no end. 

It’s a continuous process of digesting the unkind world 

Through pathos and apathy. 

Suffering kicks in your stomach like a silent killer 

You feel numb.

To suffer is to endure 

Endure the blackness of agony 

Endure the tantrums of moods and hormones 

Transforming like the shades of light observed during the sunset 

A pure endurance 

Of whimsical torture 

A rebellion against mild submission,

You associate yourself with the estranged tramps of Beckett 

Silence prevails like dark evening 

You can hear the whistling of unwanted creatures 

That you want to remove,

You endure life’s drudgery 

Like a spirited adolescent endures 

Thee punishment of the elders,

You become the chief narrator

Of the soliloquy of suffering and endurance, 

You press your feeble arms only to feel the blood veins 

The circulation of blood, 

You endure the resistance

Of immunity fighting against disease 

A cough 

A cold 

A perverse condition,

Melancholy is a long saga of endurance 

Your body reacts to strange melancholia,

Tears come out like the sudden, incessant downpour 

You endure the mischievous rain. 

Your frail lips mutter ungraspable sounds like an imprisoned convict 

Going to be hanged 

A thorough endurance against law and order.

Everywhere I see 

I see the marks of sorrow in the dry cactus land 

Impregnated with hollow men and curses

Alas! Life is a journey of endurance,

A pilgrimage towards the beacon of hope.

01.10.25 

The land of faces

2020

Nightmarish-

Standing on the road,

Bare foot, empty handed,

Placing my palm under the sky-

A sudden rush of wind 

Makes me realize

The shape of my palm-

Gentle for giving

Humble for taking;

I close my hands

In the momentum of awe,

I open my eyes-

I find myself

In the land of 

Degraded machines

Drowsy faces

That I never dream of.

Drowsiness

2021

Drowsiness

Drowsiness comes like a night

Silently approaching towards my eyes

Eyes like the eyes of the sky- stars

Insignificant and numerous –

Something vague.

Drowsiness comes like a new dawn

After the night

With a holy spirit of newness 

And with solemn vigour

Dawn- 

The yellowish vapour of sunrise

Bestows upon my blue-eyes

Like drowsiness.

How far! How cold!

The drowsiness seems to be-

Alas! It becomes the link

Between birth and death

Alas! It is life-

The water-

 The sea. 

13.01.2025

Moment of stillness

2020

(In this painting, I have taken the reference from the painting of Egon Schiele)

Moment of winter

He is sitting and turning over the pages of his books. 

He is sitting and combing his hair.

He is combing and listening to the music from You-tube.

The tunes, the music, the lengthy books- all seem to be longer

Than the evenings of winter.

Winter nights are for contemplation.

One’s life is lesser comparing to the cold sensation of winter.

One can be content if one counts the passing moments of winter.

It does not want to move; 

It does not want to end; 

It does not want to reciprocate

To the songs of the crickets and birds.

Winter days are like these- 

Titillating and still;

So still that a moment can turn into a frozen one

Easily;

Nausea does not bore him any-more.

He thinks- he is more than nausea. 

He is more than moments. 

The hanging clock on the walls is afraid to create a sound;

If it makes a crack in the walls of frozen time

From that crack, some illusory vapour may come out

Signalling the boats on the sea 

To protect the boats from winter- storms.

A sound can be a buzz-

Buzz of the nearby bazaars of the neighbourhood;

Sound of winter-

Are you there?

Almost one hour has passed. He is in the same position. 

Nothing changed except the time-

Eternal time of winter-

That is old age.

A solitary crow on the nearby branch of the tree

Is shrieking to awaken its counsel-

This is the last winter evening 

Evening of doom.

The You-tube music is going on and on and on-

The crow along with its counsel looks at the lifelessness

Around this house.

Some mishap has happened.

Moments of time become silent for eternity. 

14.01.2025

N

           U

M

                B

E

                        R

S

The power of magnet is so much that it attracts the other magnets. If our life is like magnet, it will attract things like fate. I am people and I attract people.  People live with numbers. And numbers attract other numbers. That is how the chain is formed. Like people, dates are special numbers. It adds, subtracts, and multiplies to create other numbers. The date of birth is a bunch of dates/numbers. It exists on earth so does our life. All the numbers are the events, the incidents, the happenings. These happenings happen so we live. We remember the dates/numbers, we forget. Ironically, we become the numbers.

I am terrible at coining words,

Framing my thoughts. 

I believe that thoughts are like vapour. 

Thin, thin, long strands of vapour- 

Like fragmented clouds in the veiled sky. 

We weave; we stitch the foamy particles 

To shape them into a number-

A note- 

The living life lived 

By some lucky-draw champions.

People say that one has to start to reach somewhere

Then-

Start from where?

Where to end?

In the middle, there is a passage-

It is the life

And life becomes the numbers-

A number-

Till the eternal dawn.

22.01.2025

BOOMERANG

I wonder when we will give up,

From ignorant customs, traditions,

Clinging tightly to old things,

Separating the lover from the beloved!

… A love grows from the neighboring yard,

… A love speaks of an unfortunate fate.

An epic is written about love…

From an eternal feeling, from an undying feeling!

I turn away and say, oh humanity,

Come out of ignorance, from the black darkness,

Shahs, Pharaohs, Khagans could not,

They stayed in this world and did not live!

Remember, you are also without a ruler,

You live your life with sedition and corruption,

And if you have a signature,

You will rot in sins!

Effect and reaction are equal,

Don’t think that it will bypass you.

The deeds you do are like a boomerang,

It will definitely return quickly without delay!

Elmaya Jabbarova was born in Azerbaijan. She is a poet, writer, and translator. Her poems from 2019 to date were published in the regional and foreign newspapers, magazines, books, websites, and anthologies. She has been awarded many certificates, diplomas, and medals. She is the department manager of Hekari newspaper of Azerbaijan. She is an honorary member of the Writers of Kazakhstan and the Kyrgyzstan World Association of People’s Creators, Honorary member of the International Academy of Literature, Art, Culture and Social Sciences of Uzbekistan. She is an Academic Appointed Coordinator by the Secretary General of Azerbaijan, Argentina. She is presented in the book Famous Personalities MultiArt – 5, Argentina. She was a member World Poetic Fraternity. She was awarded the title of Global Poet of 2023; 2024. She was awarded the title of World Poet Laureate from Azerbaijan as one of 55 poets selected by Pentasi B Friendship Poetry for 2025.

TEAM ZOLOFT

“So, why are we watching this?” asked Alicia, filing her nails from her seat on the couch.

Zane, sitting next to her, pointed at the TV. “It’s World Cup soccer. Algeria versus Austria.”

Alicia looked at her man and frowned. “Soccer? You never watch that shit. Pass the remote; I think When Calls the Heart is on.”

Zane held on to the remote. “Hell, no! I’ve got a hundred bucks riding on Algeria. Besides, that snoozefest is in reruns now, anyway.”

“Algeria?” Alicia said, quizzically. “You couldn’t find Algeria with a Rand McNally Road Atlas and twelve bloodhounds. Why are you wasting our money like that?”

Zane took a breath. “Babe, I’m not wasting my money—”

Alicia brandished her nail file like a shiv. “Our money! You know my niece Ruby’s wedding is next month. And I am not dipping into my savings, again, to pay the Edison bill.”

Zane aimed the remote at the TV and pressed a button, raising the volume on the soccer match. “Don’t worry, I have an inside source. Austria’s got no game. The Algerian team’s a shoo-in to win, easily.”

Alicia used the point of the nail file to remove dirt from under her thumbnail. “They’d better win. Or you’d better go back to Algeria with them.”

The two sat silently, there in the front room, for a couple of minutes. Zane decided a change of subject was in order. 

“Babe,” he said, casually, “I forgot to mention it. . .I met this new guy at work today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. One of the apprentices. He’s no more than twenty-two years old.”

Alicia kept filing her nails. “Uh-huh.”

“Yeah. Believe it or not, his name is Prince.”

“Prince?”

“Right. And as soon as I met the kid, this wisecrack popped into my head. I wanted to tell him that Purple Rain is my favorite album. I swear, the words were perched on the tip of my tongue.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But I didn’t. I kept it to myself. I just smiled and shook his hand.”

Alicia, inspecting her fingernails, said nothing. 

Zane reached over and gently touched her arm. “That’s good, right? Aren’t you glad that my meds are working?”

Alicia used the edge of the nail file to push down her cuticles. “Yay, Team Zoloft,” she said. “Now, tell me—where did that hundred bucks come from?”

In a lonely city searching for Walt Whitman and Chris Abani

(for Virgil)

There are things

I don’t tell anyone. I blamed the sunlight

Secrets I keep to myself

I was young once

Ezra Pound’s Alba tell the truth. I go down to the sea

There are things to forget

I found a kind, my kind

A temple that I could worship, destination paradise

We’re somewhere on a beach

Under sunlight I am my true self

I am an African rising in the winter light

Musing

Please don’t forget me

My eyes, the hot potato with butter on the plate with flowers

My lips, the lull, my hands, these warriors

While you love another, the other woman

I am recovering, hungry for you

My sobriety gives me a warm comfort

It is cold

The clouds are made of plasma television

Don’t let me drink a sip of alcohol

Dear God,

The man with the knife in his beak

is gone.

Striving into soft and gentle

waiting hand. The man is given a script

I videotape the dendrite

It storms the experience

My father sits in the physicist’s chair

The tree manages the peach

My rival, my guru

I seek help from the church. This poem’s

matters have a deadline

I go swimming

My limbs have a life of their own

These branches

I have flowers for Sindiwe Magona

I read the poems of Kobus Moolman during this autumn

I sit at the seat of their feet

These fine intellectual eagles

Their country made of meat, honey and milk

My prayers are compulsory

I am guided to the philosophy of

the straight path. No utopian illusion is this.

I am becoming mentally strong

Look at this blueprint

This blank page. The journey within to my mind

I find order in solitude.

In Cambodia the anchor falls

off the shore, to the handsome wind that blows

through every creek, nook and cranny at the docks

I have reached my goal. The destination

that beckoned.

The world is a lonely place

filled with Van Gogh’s sunflowers.

I think of the man’s dirty underwear that his wife washes.

Oh how his mother loves him and his children.

My love has gone to war.

He enjoys his work.

Killing men. Killing the cannibals. The humanities motivate me

to embrace this planet and the rays of the sun.

I stare at his shotgun. I open the book of poems by

Dennis Brutus and read.

I find myself

on the page. Between the blue lines I find lies there

frozen to the touch. I keep finding glaciers and

equality. The personal freedom of Milan Kundera

there in the narrative’s river

All I have in front of me is this.

Is this diary of an insomniac. When their daughter

came into this world  I immediately became her  teacher.

To the man,

(I want back in my life)

It is never going to happen

He will not return to me

Years will pass and I will grow old

He will still not return

So I think that he is dead to me

But not to another woman

He buys flowers for another, he kisses another, has children with another,

makes love with another

She has a spacious house to raise their children in, their cherubs

She drives a very smart car

She does not care for feminism or equality of the sexes, only birthday cakes

She enjoys his hand in the small of her back

This ex-soldier who was stationed in the Congo, my voice studies him

This ex-military man

He was in the air force

One day I won’t want him back in my life

One day I will say, ”I forget you,” and starve my body of him,

of his memory, the memory of his touch

I want my life back

But a woman who loses in love has painful thoughts

Tonight I am inside this poem and this poem

gives me life.

In a lonely city was the winner of the 2023 Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Award Winning Poem.

Dear Starry Night, The Ukraine-Russia War Is The Interview Of The Week

Am writing

Green Jalapeños In War during an invasion

Am reading

Emily Dickinson in war

Charles Bukowski in war

This war life has broken me

Challenged me in war

Purple beetroot in war

Green spinach in war

Orange carrot juice in war

Bittersweet naartjie on my tongue in war

The divine matters in war

secrets of poetry matter in war

We don’t have forever in war

And that’s the truth

Blood turns into pomegranate seed

Truth finds exits out

We pour the salt into the wound

Bullets are like razors

Driven into the ground like a fever

The clock works like magic in war

The lonely dragon

and the dogs have skinny legs

I turn books during this war

into old friends

I call it “natural progression”

I sustain these books

as night turns into war

and day turns into hell

like relationships in my inner circle

Inside the mind of this poet

is a classical mind

a third World War

Tendai Mwanaka and Montgomery Clift

are men on a mission

taking the practical approach during war

They embrace art

during combat maneuvers

If the paradigm remains in control

and does not shift

In this blue reality

all the chairs are empty

Everyone is gone

Only I’m a captive locked

in this lonely place

I pray for serendipity, a son

I long for a song

Happiness and its pursuit

I meditate. I give. I hope

It will always be this way

because of the choices I made

That does not escape me

Now after all this time

Hours and and the silence

Maybe it’s supposed to be guiding me

I keep busy and distract myself in war

Practice good. Do good. I tell myself

Read

Navigate

Soon this war will be over

Or the illusion of it

Soon

We’ll still have the knowledge

of the wildflowers

Hunger mirrors sky

lonely in a minor key

War has a thin laugh

The woman in that mirror

her head is filled with starlight

Refraction takes place

Light bends

The Ukrainian woman

ties her hair back

with a black ribbon

The trees are unhappy

They have lost all their joy

The sea is green

The sun is lonely

An echo falls to the ground

A child is crying

An old woman left behind in war

is strong

Like magic she comes to life

in front of the journalist’s camera

Win or quit river phoenix

War is a novella

Suffering is a galaxy

Everyone has a fractured identity

We’re living inside the suicide

of a glacier

ascendance

mysticism

young constellations

We’re in interplanetary alignment

The paper is brittle

The sun is brittle

Cold and lifeless is the night

Inert is a better word

I blame the sunlight

The wasp found sadness there

This second poem was shortlisted for the Writing Ukraine Prize in early 2023.

Thirst

Yehuda Amichai

Marina Tsvetaeva

Nadine Gordimer

Han Kang

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

Remember these names

Nadia Davids

Mongane Serote

Khaled Juma

Refaat Alareer

Although there are too many to mention

please, please I beg you

to remember them

If you have the time

Write these names down

Study what they have to say

They are writing for the future

Thirst appeared in a Canadian anthology, Unsilenced Poems for Palestine, and in the poetry collection Songs For Palestine: Struggle Poems).

Bamboo Flower

Thi Lan Anh Tran (Aschaffenburg, Germany)

& Musharraf Hussain (Assam, India)

Through winds of life where tempests stray,

A steadfast soul still finds its way.

It stands unmoved through storm and pain,

And rises stronger yet again.

It bows to neither fate nor fear,

Though hardship carves its presence here.

Each stone, each thorn upon the ground,

Becomes the strength it turns around.

In silence deep, it learns to grow,

Where only trials dare to go.

No wealth of ease, no borrowed light,

Yet still it burns with spirit bright.

It walks through dust, through night, through flame,

Yet never bends to shame or blame.

A heart that holds both steel and grace,

Time cannot weaken, not erase.

Though life may shake its weary frame,

It keeps its truth, it guards its name.

And from its roots, so firm, so true,

A stronger future breaks anew.

No fear of loss, no pride of height,

It stands through darkness into light.

And even when the storms remain,

It turns their fury into gain.

So lives the man of iron will,

Who walks through fire, standing still.

Unbroken, pure, and steadfast whole—

The blooming flower of the soul.

*****

HOA TRE

Tác giả: Thi Lan Anh Tran (Aschaffenburg, Germany)

& Musharraf Hussain (Assam, India)

Giữa đời gió bụi ngược xuôi,

Một thân đứng thẳng giữa trời chông gai.

Không cong trước những đắng cay,

Càng va sỏi đá càng dày ý tâm.

Lặng thầm giữ một chữ “ngầm”,

Mà trong im lặng hóa tầm vóc cao.

Ngực ôm bao trận phong đào,

Tay không buông giữa lao xao cuộc đời.

Đói nghèo chẳng gãy nụ cười,

Chỉ càng tôi luyện nên người sắt son.

Bước qua dâu bể mỏi mòn,

Vẫn đem chân thật giữ tròn nghĩa nhân.

Dẫu cho số phận xoay vần,

Lòng như ngọn lửa muôn lần chẳng phai.

Một đời chẳng ngại chông gai,

Đứng lên từ chính những ngày bão giông.

Summer

It is inevitable.

The anticipation.

The delicious certainty that something wonderful is about to happen.

I can smell it before I see it.

Summer announces itself.

It arrives on a warm breeze carrying charcoal smoke drifting from a neighbor’s grill.

Freckled cheeks. Sunburned shoulders. Cute boys. White shorts.

Bare feet toughened by sidewalks too hot to stand on.

Watermelon, buried in the cool, wet sand. Sticky juice running down our arms while opportunistic seagulls circled overhead.

A towel was all you needed.

A swimsuit.

A best friend who lived close enough to hear your whistle from across the street.

The soundtrack was the slap of flip-flops, the crash of the waves, and the distant song of the ice cream truck.

First kisses tasted of coconut oil and lemonade.

Every June, I believed this would be the summer I would grow taller, swim farther, fall in love, and become the person I had imagined all winter long.

Its arrival leaves me breathless.

www.dianneangel.com

THE GRINGA

Cyril Erchev – Gchú.

You dance with the wind

and with the storms.

You seek treasure

in every dawn.

The enchanted flowers

bow reverently

as you pass by

in the daylight.

You walk barefoot

on the grass

arranged with dew

and sighs.

You wait in silence

while the sky announces

your half-smile

to captivate time.

You carry sweetness

in your hands

as night falls

you drift off to sleep.

Restless maiden

you captivate the breeze

you awaken passions

with your blonde hair.

The thrush loves you.

The lark sings to you.

The sparrows invite you to dance.

A black-headed siskin blows you kisses.

On serene nights.

Your green eyes

dream of the return

of your ancestors…

Vikings!

CYRIL ETCHEV, pseudonym of Elvira Cirila Etcheveste, was born in the city of Gualeguaychú, Entre Ríos. She studied at School No. 4, Gervasio Méndez, and became a teacher at ENOVA. She taught in Islas del Ibicuy, Entre Ríos, and in Buenos Aires: Necochea, Quequén, and Mar del Plata. She is a Professor of Language and Communication Sciences, with a degree in Language and Literature.

She specializes in Reading, Writing, and Education, and has completed national and international postgraduate studies. She is an independent researcher of the works of Cortázar, Borges, and Chekhov. She is an International Ambassador of the Word (Quero, Toledo, Spain) and a World Ambassador of Culture (Tarija, Bolivia). She is a Distinguished and Illustrious Citizen in cities in Argentina and Bolivia. She has directed plays for children and young people, as well as adult storytelling performances. Founder of Literature Clubs: Little Prince, The Blue Heron, and The Bicycle.

Published books: She Tells, The Book That Speaks, and Amara, the Eyes of Time. Essay and profile magazine: The Blue Heron. Attends Writers’ Meetings and National and International Book Fairs. Has given lectures on Latin American authors in theater, art, and literature. Edited the book: The House on San Juan Street and Other Stories. De Los Cuatro Vientos Publishing House. San Telmo, Buenos Aires. Tucumán Park Editions: The Women of the Earth. She pro bono promotes Latin American stories among children, young people, and adults in cultural centers, libraries, and institutes. She collaborates on anthologies with the group: Together for Letters: THE IMMORTALS on the Web, in ArtePoética, the cultural magazine THOTEM, and in Weaving International Brotherhood: with essays and short stories. Dr. Mirta Ramírez, Chaco, Argentina. Translated into thirteen languages.

She is invited to read, present, teach classes, and give lectures to all countries via streaming networks: YouTube and Facebook. She also appears simultaneously on radio and YouTube. She has been an active writer at Mercosur Congresses since 2020. President: Professor Zulma Nicolini, Gualeguaychú, Entre Ríos. In Mar del Plata, she belongs to the Ibero-American Society of Poets, Writers, and Artists (SIPEA). From Mexico, she represents the International Book Confederation. Presidents: César Salvatierra and Alan Morales from Peru. Coordinated by Cultural Ambassador Julio Gorenaud for the world. She receives distinctions as a Writer and Cultural Promoter from the Organization for the Defense of Peace and Art AWARD THE BEST World Federation of Women Grand Masters.

Presidents: Elena Paniagua and Nora Miranda at the Palace of the Buenos Aires City Legislature. The International Mendoza Condor Award/Presidents: Guillermo Salinas and Adela Cornejo. She receives the Silver Seagull Award/The Knight Errant/Dr. Princess Alexandra of Easter Island. Dr. J. Manuel Equihua Estrella International Literature Prize from the International Cultural Collective, Universal Poetic Utopia USA Branch, and the International Program of Virtual Tributes to Living Artists. Selected among the 100 writers of Ibero-America and the Caribbean by EDITORIAL HISPANA USA, Atlanta, Georgia, 2020.

She has numerous publications in anthologies from Argentina to the world. MSADEI Diplomas of Honor. J. PAYRÓ, Dr. Jorge Citrángolo Casal. Mercedes, Buenos Aires, Argentina. Sworn in as a writer at the “Monument to the poet Alfonsina Storni” in Mar del Plata, Buenos Aires, by Dr. Jorge Citrángolo Casal. She is a member of the National Society of Writers (SADE) and the Gualeguaychú branch in Entre Ríos, Argentina. She donates books of her authorship to the Domingo F. Sarmiento Library in Gualeguaychú, Entre Ríos, the National Library, the Library of Congress, and the Library of the Legislature of the Autonomous City of Buenos Aires, as well as to schools and museums she visits. In 2025, she published Romance de la Sirena, followed by the publication of BORGES, nació con el Tango (Borges, Born with Tango).