“I’m like a disease that only I seem to have caught…” begins a jarring introductory soliloquy from Elizabeth Sawyer, the principal character from “Witch” as played by prolific Boston based actress Lyndsay Allyn Cox. Written by New York based playwright Jen Silverman and directed by Boston local Rebecca Bradshaw, this production is playing at the Huntington Theater’s Calderwood Pavilion/Boston Center for the Arts.

“Elizabeth”, a single woman presumed to be a “Witch” lives in what is described as a country village in Edmonton. Amidst navigating a life of persecution and vitriol saunters in “Scratch” who is the devil incarnate as played by Michael Underhill, who previously appeared in the Huntington’s production of “Man in the Ring” back in 2018. He proffers to her an opportunity for “revenge” against her tormentors in exchange for her soul, nonplused and intrigued by her leery propensity to not readily yield to his protracted cajoling particularly since some other members of the town folk have already become ensnared in his trap in exchange for their souls. This essentially marks the starting point of interest in this mordant play for the scenarios that resulted out of what could have been a predictable afflicted witch revenge story turned into a complex tale of forbidden love, lust, gender biases, challenging systemic inequality and emphasizing ideologies of “the other” in our society and daring to challenge the status quo of the power structures that has defined our lives for centuries.

“The character of Elizabeth is forcing you to look at the status quo and question it,” explained “Witch” director Rebecca Bradshaw in an interview with Huntington production dramaturg Pascale Florestal. She went on to say, “That is so important right now, to not get stuck in our own ways or in societal ways and to really think about why we do the things we do.” Ponderings that have become even more pressing during the pandemic inertia while the world was in quarantine.

Playwright Jen Silverman echoes Bradshaws’s assertions that “…the question of transformation, whether or not we are capable of change, how far people will go to feel visible, to be perceived the way they want to be perceived…how we get trapped by systemic power dynamics [and] what it takes to break free.”

This is the first play I’ve seen since the 2020 Covid pandemic hiatus of well, EVERYTHING, but for this purpose, particularly the arts. Amidst challenging times like these, I truly believe that the arts proffers creative altruistic opportunities to be a guiding light in immanent darkness, a beacon of hope in all worldly madness. “Witch” sets the stage, granted it’s a stage rightfully full of questions but also lays out ample opportunities to decipher a plethora of possible answers.

Right from the onset, “Witch” casts its spell and snatches our attention with a bold and foreboding soliloquy from principle character Elizabeth as the witch. As she delivered her inauspicious speech, she radiated confidence, authority and control and I, for one, readily surrendered to Madame “Witch” and with marked accelerated heart rate– due to a fair amount of trepidation, was willing to go wherever she saw fit to take me…

One of the most important characteristics of the theater is the ability to be pliable, the ability to shift to reflect what is happening in a precise moment in time. Although this play was written in 2018, it still manages to be relevant in 2021 since we are still facing some of the same afflictions from 2018. The pandemic is still lingering on with Covid19 “variants” morphing into other more deadly “variants”, remnants of a precarious political climate since the contentious election of Joe Biden, social unrest due to a panoramic number of issues ranging from America’s reckoning with racial justice and gender gaps to abortion rights and rainbow flag communities all fighting for unequivocal equality. “Witch” becomes a buxom motif for “the other” in a society where not all are necessarily created equal. The fact that Elizabeth as the witch is played by a woman of color, a black woman in particular, was not lost on me.

Elizabeth explains how she doesn’t feel “seen”, how people make uncorroborated claims about her character simply because she’s been labeled a “witch“, much like some people make uncorroborated assertions about those who have been labeled “black” simply because they are black. Even though this play is based on the 1621 Jacobean era original play “The Witch of Edmonton: A Tragic Comedy” by William Rowley et al, it still manages to be relevant in contemporary times, underscoring our prejudices against each other, whether conscious or subconscious. It is a grievous reminder that treating some like “the other” is not a present day anachronism that should have been left in the past. It is a present day reality that we as a society is constantly railing against so that it does not become the legacy we leave behind for our posterity.

Smart effective staging that weaved in and out as if seamlessly, casting that could only be compared to a strike of lightning hitting the same place twice, which as we’ve learned is VERY unlikely, and a deliciously contrasting tension of the erotic and the demonic sort between the characters, mostly due to a devilishly handsome devil stirring the pot that will ignite towns peoples’ stealthy passions and desires.

Although the staging resembled 17th century England with a Jacobean décor, the dialogue is modern, fresh and sometimes caustic without any “fake” English accents per the request of the playwright. One particular moment of modern dialogue that brought delight and laughter from the audience was when Elizabeth boldly tells the devil that he’s been “talking sh*t” ,just to give you an idea.

This production is a bewitching Risorgimento wailing for an apocalyptic end to the status quo in a manifested sociopolitical uneven social order replete with glaring disparities. With palpable chemistry between the stellar cast, a non sequitur fight scene bringing the play to a bizarre yet touching crescendo, Existentialist ideologies amidst pandemic quarantined musings asking us to reexamine our purpose, conventions and priorities during our impromptu stillness, ostracized individuals feeling seen and known for who they really are only some of the major themes. There were some guttural laughs and guffaws resounding from the audience including myself brought about by the play’s dark comedic genius or madness interchangeably, made even funnier and even more awkward since I was seated next to an austere male audience member who tensed up annoyingly  every time I dared to enjoy myself…I once read that if you don’t like something change it, if you can’t change it, you can laugh at it. Well this play proffers ample opportunities for laughter and more importantly, proffers possibilities for change in the form of a brighter more equitable future. It is a miscible concoction heralding inclusivity and equity for those living seemingly in the perspicuous margins of humanity.

The staging illuminated subtle balances of light and shadow adding to the perceived nefarious undercurrent embodied within this cryptic tension filled drama. It made me think about things. I find it rather questionable how some sanctimonious humans see it fit to torment and torture “other” humans simply because they are different from them. Why not question why you may think you matter more or you matter less than your neighbor? The play argues that it is imperative that we question long established social conventions and disparate hierarchical structures of power; an ideal world would be where power is sought, power is achieved and ultimately power is shared. Is that too much to hope for in an increasingly changing world? Haven’t we progressed enough as a civilization? All marginalized “others” vying for a morsel of the American Dream…perhaps it might prove more viable to “live and let live” as the dictum goes…Is the possibility for equality such a farfetched ideology?

“Witch” speaks to the empirical manifestation of worldwide protests against societal polarities.The play basically woke me up from a long quarantined aesthetical sleep and catapulted me into the world of the occult, myth, intrigue and the communal hallowed earnest yearnings of humanity striving for something better than what is immanent; compounded by a sterling cast whose astute banter and chemistry ricocheted like a ghostly yet robust echo around the stage, making for tender magnanimous moments of artistic excellence, exhortation and pure exhilaration! This play confirmed why I love the theater…” I give this bewitching gem a 5 out of 5 stars!

Jacques Fleury is a Haitian-American Poet, Author, Educator and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His book “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at public libraries, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
right before their eyes
 

apple pie, baseball, fireworks,

racism and fucking over

the next guy before he

fucks you

 

amazingly, most people

don't believe in evolution

even though it is playing

out right before their eyes

 

democracy is the last flower

hanging on in a drought

 

and sadly, none of this

rain actually penetrates

the concrete jungles

anymore

 

not sure if people

understand what

happens when

that flower dies

 

i doubt we have the

stomach to understand

how many senseless

deaths we still have

to come

 

so, laugh while you can

 

love as much as you can

 

be present as much as

possible

 

the final days are finally

upon us
----------------------------------------------------------------
ghosts in a haunted house
 

another lost afternoon

 

some guy strumming

along to an old elvis

costello song

 

you remember playing

that for one of the past

loves of your life

 

some memories

are roses

 

some are ghosts

in a haunted house

 

both of them are traps

 

needless retreats on

the flat circle of time

 

endless thoughts of

what could have been

are only good for

alcohol sales

 

here comes another

holiday

 

just in time
------------------------------------------------------
this horror show
 

cry yourself to sleep

every other night for

a month

 

stress has a way of

eating away at your

soul

 

makes the figure in

the mirror into a monster

the worst of you still

to come

 

as death gets closer to

the door the inevitable

demise creeps into the

brain and stays

 

plunging into a depression

that has no bottom

 

eventually, you forgot

you know how to swim

 

that this horror show is

the same movie you've

been in all your life

 

but this shit never ends

like the movies
-------------------------------------------------------------
the prettiest girl in the world
 

shooting stars

in the quiet

of the night

 

wishes never

seem to come

true

 

my mother

told me to

have patience

and one day

the prettiest

girl in the

world would

be mine

 

what a

fucking

lie
-------------------------------------------
lost in your own world
 

embrace the pain

and keep on going

 

these words aren't

limitless

 

one day you will

be broken and lost

in your own world

 

sprint to the finish

 

only the fools think

forever is even

possible



J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape or faking his own death. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine and The Asylum Floor. He has a book coming out later this summer with Casey Renee Kiser. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. 

Argentine Homeland 

In the Argentine homeland, a symbol flames, 
created by Belgrano with fervor and work. 
Flag waving, in heaven and earth, 
witness of struggles, history that it contains. 

In light blue and white stripes it is shown, 
emblem of a people, its essence exposed. 
Belgrano, visionary, with courage and passion, 
He drew the revolution in the wind. 

Argentina, it is reflected in your flag, 
the strength of a people that never goes away. 
Belgrano, master of dreams and desires, 
with the creation of him, he marked the flashes. 


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.

"There is no mercy in politics" - Amir Temur's valiant struggle for the peace of our country


Nukus State Pedagogical Institute, Uzbek language and literature, 2nd stage student Pardaboyeva Adiba Shukhrat girl
   pardaboyeva@gmail.com
              @shukhratovnm

Scientific supervisor: Sayyora Bekchanova
Rector's adviser on women's issues

Abstract: This article presents information about the character of Temur, Amir Temur's politics and his way of life in Hossein Javid's drama "Amir Temur".

Annotation: This article presents information on the character of Temur, the politics of Amir Temur and his mode of life in the drama "Amir Temur" by Hossein Javid.

Keywords:

INTRODUCTION

Temur Taragai ibn Barlos was born on April 9, 1336 in the small village of Khoja Ilgor. Temur's name is translated from the Turkic language as "iron", which in many ways influenced his strong-willed character and future destiny. He was a brave and courageous young man, his parents and teachers raised him to be a real warrior. 

Despite the leg injuries he received in the battle, he was very strong and personally participated in all the campaigns and battles until the last days. The great general and statesman gave us from literary works and government structures to unique architecture and ancient architecture that entered the history of the world. He left a great legacy to his masterpieces. He lived, worked, conquered lands and created his history - the history of a great man. 

Many authors have written books about the life of Amir Temur since his lifetime. It is appropriate to study the sources about him as primary and secondary sources. The primary sources are books written during his lifetime and by contemporary authors. Secondary sources are books written long after his death. Shami's work describes the events of Timur's life from 1404 until the work was handed over to him. Later, Shahrukh Mirza's historian Hafizi Abru added the last parts of Temur's life as an appendix to the work. 

The next work, which is considered by the general public as a perfect work about the life of Amir Temur, is "Zafarnoma" by Sharafuddin Ali Yazdi. Yazdi finished writing the work in 1425 according to the order of Shahrukh Mirza. When writing the work, he refers to the authors before him. Nizamiddin's work, as we said above, does not describe the last year of Timur's life.

DISCUSSION AND RESULTS:

In recent days, I got acquainted with Hossein Javid's drama "Amir Temur", and I think that Temur's character is fully revealed in this work. It is not accidental that Hossein Javid, a creator belonging to the whole Turkic world with the scope of his talent, great personality, and high ideals, turns to the character of Amir Temur. He saw in Timur his ideal of a man, and in the kingdom he built, not only the past of the Turkic peoples, but also the model of their future. These aspects are clearly visible in the drama "Amir Temur", created in 1925 and directed by the famous Uzbek poet Usman Kochkor. 

It is known that the staged drama is the only literary genre that has the power to directly affect the audience's senses, turning an artistic event into a life event. Taking into account the possibility of the drama genre, Husayn Javid tried to depict the character of Temur not only in the style of the glorious past of the Turkic nations, but also as a person who encourages the representatives of this nation to create a bright future. 

The dramatist skillfully describes how the Turkic peoples, who are currently oppressed under the oppression of various conquerors, once decided the fate of humanity in such a skill that the reader and the viewer believe that such a great nation will rise again. they believe that it tends to show higher, brighter, more colorful. In this drama, Amir Temur's words: "He does not understand that the governor who offends the raiyat is as foolish as an animal that has disturbed its nest", his wise man and just ruler are shown. He is depicted not only as a compassionate and noble person, but as a wise ruler who knows well that it is necessary to please the people first for the peace of the kingdom.. "Amir Temur" is distinguished from other works by its impartiality, the author's personal relationship with the characters is not clearly felt, and the conclusion is left to the reader. 

Temur's quiet speech to his beloved wife Dilshod: "There is no grace in politics" shows the characteristic aspect of a cold-hearted person who does not allow state affairs to be driven by emotions. rather, it deepens its inner content, not its outwardly visible aspects, but its original inner essence.

SEER

Between the game
and my aim
lust fills the moment.

Your reply’s flame
does the same,
fulfills the omen.

WORD

I started this work in cuneiform
but I couldn't undam the poem.
The stone wedged it. Bereft, mute, tuneless,
the task I adjourned to papyrus,
The flooding rendered it all a smudge,
its squiggly hieroglyphic unedged.

I converted to parchment and quill,
betook myself to tonsure and cowl,
to abstinence and flagellation, 
but manuscript illumination
of my holy writ couldn't complete.

Printing press further repressed my wit,
O! Its backwardness and reverses
transformed my tercets into curses.
Typing required guitarist fingers,
not these mallet hands of my nature.

Word processors came to my rescue
at last! Too late, alas, for my muse.

THAT Y IN MISER IS ME: A MELODRAMA

I had thought to hoard your beauty,
to store it safe and proud
in that place where you'd amused me
and none else would be allowed.
But you crept out through the tower,
and you burst out into World.

Now you perfume your universe
with circus, peacocks, clouds . . . .
while I stay locked in duty
with my memory and my
                              (shroud
    almost I wrote/ A miser's booty
    lost!!! Hyperbole for the horde.)

PARIS ERECTION

His cock had set the hour
when Paris’ city would die.

Eiffel made a tower
to mate Paris with the sky.

GAZA REDUX

This time there is no honey left in the lion
and there are no brass shackles on Samson.
Arise, mace and chariot of Dagon!

Trouble began when mythical brothers
confused their identities as others’
shadows and mirrors, instead of doubles.

Dagon resented the enemy’s reign.
Injustice and neglect made him insane.
“They’ve laid waste our land and multiplied our slain.”

Nova morning burst and then exploded.
Nova dancers flared up and then went dead.
The sun worshipers fled while others bled.

Samson was ordered to regrow his mane
and to resume his judgment, now unchained,
and yet remain blind to the others’ pain.

The jawbone of an ass – heartless orders --
Samson deploys 30-cubit shoulders --
the heaps upon heaps of children smolder.

Samson expands an eye for an eye
to peacock’s tails and needles’ eyes.
Gaza is as flax that was burnt with fire.

Burn all the wells! Keep the corpses hostage!
Grind up humanity into sausage:
tabulate but don’t value the lossage.

Samson/Dagon said: “Though you have done this,”
(each said) “yet of you will I be avenged
and after that” (they promised) “I will cease.”

Samson said, “Now shall I be more blameless,
though” (Dagon said) “I do them displeasure
to do to him as he hath done to me.”

Soldiers and martyrs measure their service
on the basis of duties, not mercies.
Each world regards the world as its world is.

The Never Quiet Continent

I watched for provinces and states both, the wires go up and down outside the car window, always a Buick. in some places fireworks seemed to be for sale everywhere and I placidly but still curiously looked at the designs and words on signs, on walls, on box trucks parked and painted. when the sea was reached, past pastoral fields where birds formed visions in the skies moving moving moving; where infrastructure went past graveyards right in the middle of overhead highways because I suppose it’s wrong and difficult to move the dead even amidst worldly progress, and where hotels and motels lined strips,- I could hear the waves. carnival barkers hankered for attention and a ferris wheel gently touched and traversed the little heavens. I could hear crowds of people and in the night a man and a woman bumped into each other and fell in love at first sight. they were embarrassed about it,- and hardly really knew what to do. I don’t know what happened to them as the car moved on. in the north it rained and was serious and drab, melancholic, while in the south it was clear and bright and more spacious. a truck was on its side, under an overpass, and the yellow and orange and red fires, coupled w/smoke, all like Medusa’s hair aflame, scratched the air on an otherwise regular enough earth, like a small country trying to fight a larger one, the fire versus the firmament.

I liked much of the rest of the world there and felt sad for the truck and anyone hurt. almost every place I saw had industrial corridors bleak, grey, and also areas w/many units in buildings made for manufacturing and distribution. I could hear air brakes. and I think whistles. the air was thick. on the coast cargo ships slid the horizon line like ghost vessels and planes flew banners w/advertisements. the intercoastal bridge opened high, mechanically, and the world definitely and almost defiantly knew what it was doing. I looked around the stores and could smell the shirts they ironed on logos and pictures to. it’s a loud place for a daydreamer, a lost soul. yet- the rains in the morning sunlight strange and surreal were okay and somewhere still, the warm breeze must make the branch leaves to sway above grain and stone, near step and bench and water blue, in a place where later, witching hour dreams are borne, dreams one tries to remember, dreams almost sacred, dreams where one has a glimpse of a home forgotten.