IF I WERE A TREE If I were a tree the tree, hidden inside me. Perhaps a large Mango tree, all the bird's nests, all the beehives built inside me; Bees are flying flowers to flowers to collect bud nectar. Birds sing and dance in the branches of flowers. If I would be a tree The tree, hidden inside me. My branches and leaves are umbrellas that shelter from summer dust and heat. People sit under the trees in hot waves of air and humidity. Like an air cooler, but in a safe way trees reduce climate misery. I wish I would be a tree the tree, hidden inside me. The rain drops on my leaves the insect hides below to flee. The sparrows are bathing feathers are falling like a paratrooper swinging in the air. In the beehive, the queen came out from her chamber Her Majesty bath in the tender; the rainwater flashing through the root The ants are climbing to reach the bark Beneath the bark, there are colonies of troops. I wish I could be a tree the tree, hidden inside me. My fruits are sweet and sour with green, golden and red cores. Flavour and freshness, mind-blowing fragrance. It's beauty and happiness It's courage and kindness! I wish I would be a tree the tree, hidden inside me. THE BLUE MIMOSA I had seen, the blue Mimosa trees in blossoms and was overwhelmed by its beauty but I don’t know its name. You’re talking about it, when the season of flower is gone. And; when you come to my life I noticed in your eyes, the season has gone again. This time, the season of love. Because- you were in enormous pain for your past. ANOTHER TRY Sometimes, I am not afraid of life nor afraid of death. But I think, what will happen after our death. Will there someone waiting for you someone else will be mine or will we become dust or a molecule with an endless life. How far we will travel how many galaxies how many stars will you read my poems when I will be the universal traveler. Shall I feel this loneliness while traveling star after star. I want this human life back with another try. You will sit with me I will sit beside. And that will be time for our divine love without endless cry. THE SUNSET IN NAGARKOT HILLS I am standing with a friend yet I am alone and thinking about you. The sun is setting in the west of Nagarkot hills. Twilight is visible at skyline clouds kiss the forest greens. Birds and insects are making noisy sounds evening temperature is getting chilled. fogs and clouds are flying like soft cottons and I am alone with many people. Most tourist couple have already left, how unlucky they are those did not kiss each other in this foggy mountain evening. IF YOU CALL ME Distance creates disappearance time kills memories. The world is a small village but we are from two countries. Two different races, religion and ethnicity. If you call me, I will fly like an eagle if you call me I will try like an ant. if you call me I will love you like a human giving up the obsession. If you call me I will build a home; our two bodies will become one with the love of the divine. so, please call me please call me back let’s be you are mine I am yours let’s fulfill this human life. SOLITUDE Here, I have no family no country no beloved yet, I hold the entire universe in my heart. -alone and lonely. THOSE TWO EYES I have fought in so many difficulties yet, I lost in front of those two eyes. Tareq Samin is an Author, Human Rights Activist and Social Entrepreneur. He is the editor of the bilingual literary journal Sahitto. He has authored ten books. His poems have been translated in more than 25 languages of which English, Spanish, Chinese, German, French, Italian are few to mention. His poems, short stories and articles have also published in more than 40 countries. Tareq Samin received the ‘International Best Poets Award-2020’ from The International Poetry Translation And Research Centre (IPTRC), China and the Greek Academy of Arts and Writing. He has been awarded ‘Honorable Mention’ in Foreign Language Authors category for his poem ‘Another Try’ in ‘The prize il Meleto di Guido Gozzano Agliè’ poetry competition held on 12 September 2020 in Turin, Italy. In July 2021 he won Naji Naaman Literary Prize 2021. Tareq Samin is a former fellow of Martin-Roth-Initiative Scholarship. The Martin Roth-Initiative is a joint program of ifa (Institut für Auslandsbeziehungen) and the Goethe-Institut. As a Martin-Roth-Initiative Scholarship fellow he was a guest writer in Goethe-Institut, Kolkata, India, and Kathmandu, Nepal. In 2021, he was an International guest writer in Château de Lavigny International writers-in-residence, Switzerland. In 2023, he has been selected for Hungarian writers-in-residence. Also he has been nominated for the Oak Institute for Human Rights.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Christopher Bernard
The Good Father
He is the mountain anchoring the horizon.
He is the sea holding candles for stars.
He is the law on the tablet of wisdom.
He is both wind and the sheltering wall.
He is the stone foundation of homeland.
He is the sun raising day to the sky.
He is the rock his son builds his whole soul on,
and his daughter gets her wings from his eye.
Christopher Bernard is an award-winning poet and novelist. He is the author of two children’s books, If You Ride A Crooked Trolley . . . and The Judgment Of Biestia – the first in the “Otherwise” series.
Poetry and prose from Isabella Mori
Haibun Highway [This is an excerpt of a travel journal I wrote in 2017 while walking 160 kilometres (100 miles) from Vancouver, BC, up the Sunshine Coast in the Northwest Pacific, to visit my friends Haedy and Ed in Powell River, BC. I mostly stayed with friends along the way. Using the haibun form (known most famously through Basho’s Narrow Road To The Interior) each day has a description of the writing, followed by a haiku, as well as a haibun with impressions during the rest times.] September 6 I walk for 14,000 metres along the highway, along the highway, along the highway, past a sign that reads Smugglers Cove, until I reach Secret Cove. There’s a change in plan and I stay at Elizabeth’s, who lives right on the beach. lizzy’s couch: i dream to the water drum all night long the ocean’s waters gurgle gently against big rocks, lying there like sleeping hippopotamuses from the river nile. so much more water than land! the islands, the rocks, the coast are all here at the sufferance of water. it all exists surrounded by what we call air, suffused today as in the last days by the smoke created by the wildfires. water, earth, air, fire. water. the water people can be felt – seen? – everywhere. watermen and waterwomen, and watercreatures i can never understand, not equipped to grasp. i see a watercreature hailing a seagull and know that somewhere near, humpback whales are on the move. the sleeping hippopotamuses allow me to sense not only the nile but also the great okanagan lake, creeks in kamloops, the mighty fraser in its canyon. the waternet is everywhere. i am of land and water. we’re all of land and water. transfixed is sit in this fairytale puddle September 7 13,000 metres today, from Secret Cove to Madeira Park. I am taken by signs on the roadside: an announcement of “Visitors Info – 400m” leading to a row of ten or so billboards arranged in a quarter circle; a barn advertising it’s a mink farm, right beside an old “Drink Coca Cola” sign; donut circles screeched into the road with smoking tires. Mario greets me and takes me to his home on the hill. highway full of curves wouldn’t wanna walk this way drunk and in the rain tonight i sleep in a library. all the books are bound in hardcover, some standing neatly side by side in series – agatha christie, for example, or jane austen. photographs of lovers, mothers, long-dead dogs look down on me. videos beside a tv, respectfully stacked. a dog pillow lies on the ground. of sounds i notice hardly any, none from the outside on this quiet wooded hill, only a few from inside the house. before i fall asleep i read a little in a book called sointula island utopia, full of names like linnoila, kurikka and honkala. the scent of books how can i not have a magical night? September 8 This is my last full day on the Southern part of the Sunshine Coast. I walk 16,100 metres along a highway with less and less traffic, towards Ruby Lake. A woman stops beside me on the opposite side of the road. “I’ve seen you on the highway before. Where are you going?” “I’m walking from Vancouver to Powell River.” “Where are you heading today?” “To the Iris Griffith Center.” It turns out she works there but the center is closed today. Very generously, she decides to let me in anyway – “I’ll just put the key under the mat.” Her friendliness bowls me over. trees, rocks, blackberries … joy bubbles from my heart as i walk And another night at Elizabeth’s. We have a hoot! at the iris griffith centre. i have benefitted from so much generosity. sitting here in this beautiful space, i feel it everywhere. the generosity of air and soil, so much unfathomable abundance. the generosity of these strong tree trunks that hold up the roof. the generosity of billions of cells that grew the ten-point antler of the deer skull on the wall. the generosity of the cookies and tea on the table beside me. the generosity of the woman who gave me the key to the centre, just like that, without knowing me. i am grateful. and wish i could be feel the gratitude even deeper, right in my blood, to honour the generosity that has been thrown my way, a tidal wave, a sandstorm of generosity. can’t repay all the wealth tossed at me – not meant to September 9 It rains. I walk to the ferry and it rains. I dry out, just a little, on the ferry, and it rains. I walk from the ferry, and it rains. For 10,200 long metres I get very wet, then suddenly Haedy and Ed show up. I am confused; I was not planning to see them until I arrived at their doorstep, a good 30,000 metres from here. I am wet. It rains. I get into their car. It rains. Disappointment over not walking today’s allotted stretch, gratitude, and confusion tumble about in my head. Haedy and Ed drive me to the B&B I had arranged for the night and the day after, a day of rest. The place is stunning and luxurious. wet rat tumbling through the landscape the cackle of a crow turn on the water in the shiny sink. add shampoo, the next best thing if there is no laundry detergent. dunk the socks – the socks must go first, they are the dirtiest. their former white is grey and black in most places although clean spots shine through like the clouds behind a sudden gap between trees. turn the water off. we finally, finally had rain today but there will be no reason for a long time to waste water. add underwear, bra, t-shirt. squeeze it all a bit and let it soak. check the rain-drenched jacket – is it drying? look at the alice munro book. i like the really short stories and the really long ones. “wild swans,” – yes, i’ll read that one. return to the sink. the socks need soap – what do we have here today? lavender. the time for lavender bloom is over; we’re heading into autumn. as am i. this 62-year-old remembers washing laundry by hand as a given, not something done with tender nostalgia about archaic times. the owner of this luxurious place has cushion covers embroidered with the same colours and deer motif as my grandmother’s. embroidered by hand. and suddenly summer’s over … one squishy step at a time … September 10 Stillwater Creek B&B A Day of Rest i wake up at the earliest dawn, sensing it’s not completely dark anymore. first i hear nothing but quiet. the tide has gone out. then crickets. when a few moments later the seagulls start their screech, i know night is over. out of the dark gray-blue, a growl. it seems to come from the porch or … no, not the porch. farther down, by the water. then another growl and a whole chorus. this is not what bears sound like. bears are forest animals, quiet, they don’t talk like drunks in a pub. and then i understand – sea lions! they growl and bellow and gurgle, throaty voices unmistakably carried by their large blubber bodies. then – a swooshing and rushing from the same area where i believe the sea lions to be – no, farther away. a night of sensing but not knowing the sounds. not fully awake, i think of hurricanes, and i’m a little afraid. the rushing gets louder and nearer, not fast like a plane but moving inexorably, directly, without obstruction, to this beautiful house. sea lions – amid the surround sound of rain a canticle of growls
Poetry from Alan Catlin
Vollmann’s Poor People slightly altered Soot covered woman of the burned land, Madagascar Homeless camp under the freeway, Miami People and streetscapes, Riverton, Oregon Office cleaning lady just off work with Colonel Sanders (life-sized statue) Bangkok “I think they are poor” venerable white-haired man begging, Beijing Congolese beggar boy, dressed in filthy rags Unknown street sleepers Man in rubble of destroyed home Man with photo and deed to his destroyed home Garbage lady, Nanking Panorama of box houses, Tokyo Beggar in full body burqa like an angel of death, Yemen Streetwalker in burqa approaching a rickshaw, Peshawar Homeless man reading a newspaper in park, Tokyo Three drunks, Nome, Alaska Beggar girl with deformed nose Beggar pretending to be armless, Bangkok Family in front of their bullet pocked house, Congo Snarling beggar, Bogotá Man with crooked face, Bogota “Donate here to get me out of your neighborhood” placard, Oregon Afghan boys playing in wrecked Soviet plane, Afghanistan Afternoon on Ave de la Mort, Brazzaville Operation Crossroads 1948: Bikinis, a journal, extracted As culled from the journals of forward observer Of Bikini Island tests, Dr. David Bradley, in his book , NO PLACE TO HIDE “In the three years of the “atomic age,” five bombs (or is it six?) have been exploded. On only these last two or three have men been prepared to study and record the findings under anything like controlled conditions.” “This morning the surface (of the ocean) was scattered over with tiny floating jellyfish, or baby men-o-wars. Delicate, diaphanous creatures, they look like blown cherry blossoms on a windy lawn of the Pacific.” “By the nature of our work almost everything we know is potentially dangerous.” “Actually, of course, there will never be any great control of ideas concerned with atomic energy, the principles have already spread like an epidemic.” “Lectures on physics have given way to the practical business of the detection of radioactivity.” “It will be difficult to convince people of the dangers of radiation.” “The persistent power of the bomb after it has exploded is its greatest menace.” “They(the old and wise) doze a moment in the sun and wake up on fire.” Sante’s Evidence “Traces of innumerable human beings lost to history once and for all, without monuments or descendants or living record.” “A copy of a Black Hand threat letter, decorated with obscene drawings.” “An enigmatic set of shots, from various angels of a man’s right hand with two thumbs.” “Magnified views of pieces of jewelry and barely decipherable snapshots.” “Studies of urinals at different (police) station houses.” “Locations: bedrooms, bars, back alleys, vacant lots, storerooms, hovels hallways” “You do not have to be glamorous to meet a violent end.” “Objects of interest, at least momentarily, taken together, they become stills from a film, a nightmare, ride from room to room in the small hours.” “These subjects are constantly in the process towards obliteration.” “These photographs-as evidence, they are mere artless records, concerned with the details…they are the book- keeping entries, with no transfiguring mission, and serve death.” “We are breaking a taboo as old as the practice of shutting the eyes of cadavers and weighing down their lids.” “Photography like death, interrupts life.” “The more empty the photograph, the more it will imply horror.” “Empty photographs have no reason to be except to show that which cannot be shown.” “Evidence is a magnet for the random.” “You do not have to be glamorous to meet a violent end.” Julia Solis’ New York Underground: the Anatomy of a City, in text and photographs with occasional commentary Inside the Croton Aqueduct (like The Thing from Outer Space) Roots (like veins) inside the long-abandoned Croton Aqueduct Rebuilding the foundation of 7 World Trade Center A manhole cover leading to a branch of Croton Aqueduct (like a portal to the outer circles of hell) Sealed water pipes to a branch of Ridgewood Reservoir with graffiti, Brooklyn The gate chamber on the Bronx side of High Bridge (with standing water and garbage) Inside a storm drain Queens Ghost Stations: City Hall station abandoned retaining some of its former glory Abandoned 91st street station with elaborate graffiti Sealed staircase lower-level City Hall station Remnant of obsolete trolley station Essex and Delancy Long abandoned Croton Aqueduct well on its way to being reclaimed by nature Virginal track segment, never used Ghostly staircase eastern end of Lexington Ave. station Ground Zero October 2001 Long after last transport, a gurney in a tunnel, Seaview Hospital Mattresses piled in deteriorating heaps in basement of a mental hospital Obsolete freight track, Hell’s Kitchen Long forgotten abandoned burial crypts The central aisle of the crypt of St. Patrick’s cathedral A Plague of Souls: Contemporary (Mostly) Japanese Noir Devotion of Suspect X Tokyo Nights Hotel Lucky Seven Sleeping Dragon All She Was Worth In the Miso Soup Coin Locker Baby The Devil’s Flute Slow Fuse Three Assassins Bullet Train Crossfire Grotesque Real World Out Winter Sleep Almost Transparent Blue The Memory Police Village of Eight Graves Freud On Aphasia Interpretation of Dreams Secret Memories The Future of Illusion The Ego and the ID Jokes and Their Relationship to the Unconscious The Psychology of Everyday Life “Civilized” Sexual Morality and Modern Illness The Most Prevalent Form of Degradation of Erotic Life Mourning and Melancholy Civilization and Its Discontents Beyond the Pleasure Principle Medusa’s Head Totem and Taboo: Resemblances between the psychic lives of savages and neurotics Reflections on War and Death A Case of Paranoia Running Counter to the Psychic Analytic theory of disease Case Studies: Dora Little Hans Rat Man Wolfman Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious Brutal (Soviet) Bloc Post Cards “Ideas are more powerful than guns. We would not let our enemies have guns, why should we let them have ideas? Joseph Stalin Monument to Builders of the Volga Power Station 1967 Worker and Collective Farm Women (statues) circa 1960’s (Literal) Flower of Life (concrete sculpture) 1968 Monument to the Conquerors of Near Universe 1988 Monument to the Conquerors of Space (glass ellipse) 1964 A Special Sign at the entrance to the city, Brest, (indescribable) 1987 Memory of Military Glory, Moldavia 1983 Karl Marx Monument, Tashkent, 1980 (Flyaway concrete hair) Kulpenberg TV Tower (“beehive” on concrete tower) Avala TV Tower, Belgrade (pointed as a needle) Slovak Tower Building, Bratislava 1983 (inverted pyramid) Brotherly Mound, Hillock of Fraternity Memorial Complex, Bulgaria 1980 Museum of the revolution, Lithuania SSR 1980 Obelisk of Glory, Modavic, 1972 Concrete arch known as Andropov’s Ears, Tbilisi, Georgia 1983 Museum to the Defenders of the Caucasian Mountain Passes, 1983 (Concrete henges rising) Monuments to the heroic Sailors of the Black Sea, 1971 All-Terrain Vehicle Monument to the Pioneers 1987 Broken Ring Monument, Lake Lagoda, 1966 Monument to the Communists Who Died in September 1923 Uprising, Bulgaria Alyosha Monument to the Defenders of the Soviet Arctic, Murmansk, 1986 Armenian Genocide Memorial Cemetery Complex 1967 The Sash of Glory, Odessa 1975 (glorious silhouette carved From concrete) The Constinesti Obelisk-Constinesti Beach, 1970 (White Polished marblesque, whatever on the beach front) Star Monument Kharkiv, Ukraine 1975 Monument to the executed partisans, Yugoslavia Arch of Diversity, monument dedicated to the unification Of the USSR and Ukraine 1982
Synchronized Chaos’ Second June Issue 2024: Life, Love, and Death
We wish a very happy Father’s Day to everyone who will celebrate this month! Creativity is an act of fathering, of providing, protecting, nurturing, and raising, as much as birthing works.
Also, at the request of many contributors, we are sharing ways writers and artists can lend a hand to different places in the world.
Literary Ways to Help Ukraine
Engin Program, Online English-speaking conversation partners for Ukrainian youth
Donate to Help Ukrainian Books make grants to librarians and booksellers
Literary Ways to Help Haiti
Children’s book donations through Friends of Humanity
Volunteer virtually with Partners in Literacy Haiti
Now, for our second June 2024 issue, we return to the basics of many human stories: life, love, and death.
Z.I. Mahmud explicates how Zeffirelli’s film adaptation of Romeo and Juliet captures the violent and tumultuous atmosphere of the romance. Shuhratova Shaxina praises the clarity of feeling in the writings of Alexander Feinberg as Prasannakumar Dalai illuminates strong, plaintive bursts of feelings of romance and lament.
David Sapp recollects a childhood crush and his mother’s early rebellion against gender roles. Jacques Fleury rebels against the racism and class prejudice against marginalized writers. Aziza Saparbaeva takes pride in her home village and how the people fought for freedom, and Muntasir Mamun Kiron offers up an elegy for the bold warriors who founded Bangladesh.
Ibrahimov Saidakbar outlines the historical accomplishments of Uzbek writer Gafur Ghulam as Zeboxon Akmalova speaks to children’s education and the potential of children and Sadoquat Begamova talks about methods for education of visually impaired young people. Sharipov Ubaydullojon outlines the basics of German linguistics, Narzulloyeva Munisa Bakhromovna highlights the good parts of the Internet but offers a caution against obsession, and Zamira Hakimova explores the etymological roots of the terms Uzbeks use to talk about financial processes as Mamatazimov Kabiljon outlines principles of mechanical safety for workers in industrial plants.
Gulsanam Qurbonova writes about finding the motivation to achieve one’s goals as Amir Hamza describes a lonely boy who rises to the occasion to save lives. Bruce Roberts reflects on the artistic self-assertion embodied in Michelangelo’s David as Xidirova Mahliyo offers a patriotic celebration of her country. Christopher Bernard’s riddle poem invites speculation while drawing on history and myth as Alan Catlin confabulates historical and artistic images into poetry.
Mark Young concocts images combining text and different sorts of shapes, lines, and colors for visual effect as J.D. Nelson links words together into fragmentary monostich poems. Brian Le Lay plays with sound and thought in hay (na) kus that seem bilingual or trans-lingual.
Gregg Norman’s poetic speaker grapples with weather, with what humans cannot control. Graciela Noemi Villaverde’s poem explores feelings of waiting and watching, for the return of hope or a lover. Faleeha Hassan compares writers’ block to the abandonment of a lover. Elmaya Jabbarova evokes the mystery, wonder, and unpredictability of love and happiness. Dr. Jernail S. Anand illuminates how much our world is beyond humans’ influence as John Grey contributes humorous reflections on being stuck, staying or escaping with your mind. Hatamova Charos poetically longs for chamomile and the cities of Oman that are lost to her.
Kathleen Hulser speculates on matter remaining as it transforms, suggesting that it is okay to declutter and let go of things. Sushama Kasbekar looks at an old tea set to comment on the constant flow of time and on enjoying what you have while you can. Audrija Paul reflects on the tragedy of love and life nearly lost while Taylor Dibbert reminds us that life after tragedy can be strangely uneventful.
Susie Gharib captures the world-weariness of 2020, full of war and disease, as Mykyta Ryzhykh highlights the world’s tender questions and contradictions and J.J. Campbell recollects a search for love amidst the brutality of those who should have cared for him. For Joan McNerney, the “world is too much with us,” too tiring, scary, and complex, and she finds comfort in the mysteries of nature. Jasmina Rahmatullayeva explores the psychology underlying acts of criminal violence, Dr. Jernail S. Anand laments the selfishness in too many people’s love, and Bill Tope’s protagonist realizes as an adult that his childhood friend was being abused.
Michaila Oberhoffer explores the role social conditioning plays in our emotions in her book The Roots of John’s Happiness. Irodaxon Ibragimova speculates on where we can find happiness and offers gratitude for it. Azimjon Toshpulatov’s hopeful poem asserts that she will find joy one day.
Rachel Gorman-Cooper explores our primal hungers as Jim Meirose provides a humorous take on humans’ deciding everything by committee. Nahyean Taronno begins a horror tale where humans must work together to overcome primal fears and escape the threat of the unknown.
Brian Barbeito idly speculates on life on a horse ranch as Isabel Gomes de Diego sends up photographs of direct encounters with nature and Kylian Cubilla Gomes highlights the subtle and obvious ways we work with and regulate nature. Munnavar Boltayeva urges us to save the environment as Zulfiqurova Muslima discusses pollution of the Aral Sea and the need for restoration and O’razaliyeva Charos revels in the joy of the spring. Terry Trowbridge plays with syntax enough to restore a feeling of wonder at nature.
Duane Vorhees talks about sensual Southern European love, nature, politics and beach life. Norman J. Olson reminisces on a recent European cruise he took with his wife that inspired poetry and sketches. Easa Hossain remembers the green farmland of his home village with nostalgia. Shafkat Aziz Hajam shares regrets over lost love as Daniel De Culla visits a museum exhibit on dinosaurs and speculates on the ghosts in Spain’s past.
Allison Grayhurst offers a tribute to her mother, a very slow, gentle, realistic take on death and caregiving, accompanied by a photo of the sky on each of her mother’s last days. Yuldashev Jumanazar Muradjanovich relates a tale of love that lasts until death while Bill Tope explicates how war can break up families and the extent we can go for love.
Awodele Habeeb claims that the devil and death will not have the final word as Michael Robinson takes comfort in faith and forgiveness. Lidia Popa comments on how humans throughout time have turned to faith to process our feelings about death.
Sandy Rochelle calls us to let go and rest and let life carry us on the winds of change as Michael Stewart gives gentle encouragement to rest, let life take its course. Michelle Reale speaks to an intuitive and spiritual relationship between a father and daughter as Kristy Raines revels in wonder at the tenderness of love. Mesfakus Salahin rests content in an eternal love as Mirta Liliana Ramirez depicts a moment of passion made possible because people trust and feel safe with each other. Dr. Maheshwar Das finds tender joy in faith and birdsong as Anindya Pal offers a sensual tale of rain and love and Don Bormon meditates on the soft and gentle promise of sunrise.
Dilnoza Xusanova highlights the example of compassion in Ahmed Lutfiy Kazanchi’s novel Stepmother. Mukhammadova Mushtaryibegim Otabekovna praises the value and high calling of motherhood. Yuldasheva Xadichaxon’s essay explicates true friendship as Makhzuna Habibova’s poem reflects the exquisite emotions of love and Sevinch Nusratullayevna praises the virtue of kindness. Nigar Nurulla Khalilova rejoices in a love that has overcome major obstacles and stood the test of time. Maja Milojkovic urges people to turn towards caring for each other, starting with gentle inner attitudes. Mahbub Alam celebrates the community and joy created by the Muslim feast and festival of Eid as Nosirova Gavhar remembers an afternoon where she baked and enjoyed mint pie with her mom and grandmother and Muslima Murodova speaks to the healing power of bread cooked with a family’s love.
Thank you for your kindness and consideration in reading our publication. We invite you to leave words of encouragement for the authors and artists.
Story from Yuldashev Jumanazar Muradjanovich
PETRICHOR
Jumanazar Yuldash
‘I beg you, please never leave me alone…’
He unintentionally whispered as he held his wife’s hands both firmly and in a kindly way, and he rubbed them on his eyes. Having heard this crying-like exclamation the patient who used to be groaning a minute before regained consciousness. She caressed hair of her husband who was kindly kissing and rubbing her hand on his forehead.
‘Oh how can I quit you, my madman?’
The man who went into ecstasy of seeing his wife’s consciousness automatically kissed her forehead.
‘Just recently doctor was here. He said that you would not wake up in a short time. However, thanks to my God, my prayers seem to be reached to him’.
A weak smile appeared on the pale face of woman. Afterwards for some reason she sighed and army of thoughts conquered her mind.
‘You… never ask for my recovery’ she said utilizing all strength she possessed.
‘Why you are uttering these words?’ the man shocked.
‘Because… I do not know why but for some reason God does not gave us what we asked for but the very opposite one. For instance, now you absolutely want me to live but maybe until tomorrow I will have been perished and fairies will be dancing around my spirit in the heavens’.
‘What should I do then? See, you are in a bad situation and I simply cannot keep calm without paying attention. At least I must pray for your sake’.
‘You would better… ask for my death’.
The situation was really uncomfortable for the husband and even it cannot be described with the help of words unless the reader have been in a such situation. Inclining his head, he was completely dumbfounded by the last utterance. From his condition it was possible to know that he was imagining his life alone. Finally, he managed to say a word:
‘Do not repeat this anymore…’
Apparently, woman suddenly realized that she started talking about unhappiness, therefore she did all her best to explain what was the real meaning of her words.
‘I assume that you misunderstood me. I do not choose passing away, contrarily, I want to live, only to live happily with you, my lover, and I can imagine my future in the dim: you and I shall hand-in-hand go to forest after the rain to collect mushrooms, with a wide smile in our faces. Yes, I can see the very scene! Yes!
A light, tired but happy smile appeared on her pale white face which had been revived a bit but still showing traces of illness. With the most sudden and hopeful gaze she stared outside the window. Due to the fact that her place was inconvenient to look outside, she intended to see the view standing up on her feet. Unfortunately, hands of her husband did not let her move.
‘Please, look at the window. Haven’t it rained recently?’
‘It haven’t rained since you are in bed. Why are you asking?’
‘Honestly, I wish it was raining right now and we could go to collect mushrooms together. But I don’t know the reason. Give me a word, please, shall we go to the forest when I recover from illness?’
‘I promise you, darling. We will go as soon as you are well, but please, get over your illness as soon as possible. Your contemporary condition is the most unbelievable pain for me, darling’.
‘Why you are always being pessimistic, as I said you, I will never let you stay in this world alone. It is not my fate. Let us change the theme, I don’t know why but I am really eager to converse with you’.
Now for the first time a couple of loving hearts felt the initial sweetness of ecstatic moments after surviving prolonged days of misfortune and these moments seemed not to come to an end forever. While dreaming about endless delight a man always lets his painful breath out unintentionally; the whole world, especially, his lovely friends look very gorgeous to his eyes and at that time he will be ready to do anything for his friends.
Now the husband was staring at his wife with the same happy and positive gaze that he suddenly realized it was impossible to stop himself from expressing his feelings.
‘A conversation?’ he questioned holding her hands firmly. ‘Darling, if only you had known that not only conversing with you, but deserving your attention also is the biggest joy for me. Oh, if only you had known that, dear!’
He put palm of his woman on his chest as if he was intending to let her listen his heart beats. But woman pulled his hand back with a quick act as if she touched the fireplace and stared at him smiling mildly.
Eyes could not help looking at each other’s deepest sides and lovers smiled at the same time.
‘I know, even I know very well and every morning I thank God that I am not a blind one. Do you know why I do so? Because God had not deprived me to see you’.
‘Oh darling… We are extremely happy! Have you ever thought whether there are others who are as much contented as we are? If yes, how many of them exists? Very few or so many in quantity?’
‘To my mind, probably there are not any blissful couple except us’.
They both laughed with joy. Husband stared at somewhere so long. Those who had tasted the real happiness and those who had realized what a magic it is usually dwell in the same way: with a smile in their lips, staring at one particular point as if they are obliged to look at that side forever or like a thinker who aimed to reveal all the secrets hidden in that tiny area of room they gaze. In this period of staring, for sure, others’ opinions on happiness seem very interesting to them.
‘For you what is the happiness itself?’ he asked keeping on staring at the same point.
After a while he accidentally recognized what he had said, so he felt somehow embarrassed from his question.
‘You may consider that question as a ridiculous and childish one. But please, do not be shocked, do not be disappointed from me for giving you this kind of weary question. Simply this question came to my mind and I transformed it to my speech. You do not need to answer it’.
‘No, I answer with all my heart. The only thing surprised me is your embarrassment. Because this question should be asked from everyone. It is the greatest question in this world. I commended it a lot, sorry, now I have to answer to this properly. For me every breathe I take is happiness, my ability to cry, to laugh and to see is the great joy, and in general, my existence is happiness. Everything related to me in this world is delight. Breathing in the fresh air, listening to the song of birds, lying underneath the initial beams of sunlight, watching the flight of beautiful butterflies, smelling lovely perfume of flowers – all things I have mentioned is happiness, I even consider pain and sorrow as a type of joy’. Having finished her speech, woman looked at her partner who was analyzing his thought. At that moment she found herself eligible to repeat this question. ‘So, how would you answer it yourself?’
‘I can only state my answer in short. Your existence and your belonging to me is happiness. Right, I am madly devoted to you, darling. I adore you even though you hate me as you hated the most awful man in the world. Maybe my words seem very simple to you. But I want you to know this: you are second half of me. I cannot be perfect without you’.
Woman broke into laughter unintentionally.
‘You spoke like…’ she said and paused for a while. She understood that continuation of her words would harm her husband’s soul.
‘Like what?’ he asked seriously. His facial expression revealed that he was eager to hear the rest of her speech.
‘You spoke like a fake lover!’
Woman smiled sweetly. Her husband once looked at her and then he aimed his glaze at the window.
‘It is still cloudy…’ he said with a sick voice.
His spouse was still staring at him regretfully. Husband had already realized this, however he went on looking at the window intentionally.
‘Look at me’ said she. And he obeyed. ‘I let you down, I know…’ she held his hands and kissed them. ‘Sorry… Please, forgive me…’
He, as well, replied to his wife by holding her hands.
‘No, I am not upset with you. I never be sad because I am not allowed to be sad’ he smiled to prove his words. ‘Do you know, it was not your words, but my own behavior offended me. My attitude and ridiculous sample-like words seemed to you like an artificial one, so it is my own fault, not yourself. I cannot hide waves of feelings I have. I really want to express all the words I possess in my heart. I want to share all the joy and all the sorrow I have with you. Therefore, I reveal you my secrets’.
‘Forgive me for offending your soul, I am so sorry…’
‘No! Please do not say that feel sorry. I am not allowed to be angry with you. It is sin’. He kept a bit silence. ‘Do you know, God lavished us with a great joy. All we have to do is to deserve this joy and enjoy it. Now imagine, if you carry on quarreling and offending each other without any reason, if we do not stop asking for forgiveness, how God will again bless us? He would be upset from our ungrateful attitude. I am afraid of this… I am afraid of living these happy days no more. I am worried that God might possibly retake what he gave us. If I tell you, I have read a book yesterday. The author of that book was a person who denied the God. A minute, please…’ he quickly stood up and took a book with red cover from the shelf. ‘It consisted of such frustrating things that I shocked while reading. Surely it is written by a murderer of happiness’ he started reading the lines which he highlighted before:
“I cannot spend all my life fearing of Great Creator who supposed to be able to deprive me from happiness I have. I would rather live unhappily or die. God wants us to live in fear. He is an egoist. The best way is to disobey his rules and to pass away” – ‘I cannot read more. These are words of a wicked person who teaches to quit bright side and leads people to the darkness. Can it be really true that people follow him and accept his thoughts? Isn’t it a whole of malice, it is? How this person, whose words stink the smell of secularism and materialism, can be able to someone’s attitude towards the life. God will never punish those who are not grateful of their happiness. God is the most generous one. He only wants to give people all the best things because whoever in this world want to harm his or her own children? He will forgive all of our sins if we understand and feel sorry for what we have done. He will even forgive this atheist author, if he feels really sorry. The greatest sin is to criticize openhanded God. But why he does not understand this?!’
‘Can you give me that book, please?’ suddenly she said.
She took the book handed to her and looked for a while. Flipping through the pages she started to read some pieces of it. The more he read, the more sadness and horror appeared on her face… Having read the last page, she closed the book and whispered something. She passed the book to her husband and turning her head back, said: ‘Let it burn…’
Man gazed at her astonishing, but he did what he ordered: he threw the book away to the fire. It started to burn better. Then he looked back at her. The woman accidentally became apathetic to everything, it was difficult to know exactly where she was looking at or what she was thinking about.
‘What you asked for while whispering?’ he asked. ‘I hope you haven’t asked for the death of author’ he laughed.
Now, hearing this sudden question she gained her consciousness and glared at him seriously. Man felt embarrassed at his weird and unlucky joke.
‘How can you assume that? How do I dare to ask for someone’s death?’
‘No, I was only joking, sorry’.
‘You said that you were not allowed to be upset from me. This rule not only works for you, but also for me. Therefore, no need to say sorry. I asked… I asked from God to forgive this sinner. I think, we don’t have to hate these kind of people. Contrarily, we must feel sorry for them. How cannot you feel sorry for those who failed to find the right path? They resemble to the yellow autumn leaves. If an evening breeze blows a bit, they abandon their branches. The reason why they sink in the ocean of sins is that they have lack of patience and ambition’.
Painful silence filled the room. They both were sadly thinking about something. At first husband recognized that there was inconvenience and found it very annoying.
‘Why we are keeping silent. See, we are happy people. Sadness does not fit us. Why not we cheer up or remember something. Because we are not this kind of individuals. What is the difference between us and unhappy people if we carry on keeping silence?’
‘You are right. We got even much sadder. But these kind of people…’
‘Okay, please, let’s stop discussing them. Because they are not related to our life in any way. Why not we look back on any of our more delightful times which are wort to remember. There is no need to think about this kind of issues while we have lots of sweet memories, I think. On the other hand, the world is getting much darker and darker day by day. All we have to do is to burn and tear up this darkness conquering the world.
‘Yes’ she said smiling.
Her husband did all his best to find any worth-to-remember story they had. It did not take a long time. He found what he wanted but it was not a story they both took part in but he was very impatient to tell her something he had had in her mind for long time. Unfortunately, he had no suitable situation to retell it. Now it was the very right time he wanted so he took his wife’s hands in order to let his words out.
‘Actually, I was going to speak about the funniest moments we had. But now I want to tell you something I was dwelling on for a long period. Do you still remember once we made a trip to mountain? At that time something unknown happened and weather turned bad. So as to find a dry shelter we had climbed up to the shanty on the peak of mountain. A wrinkled old man with grey hair had welcomed us. Even though he was not extremely glad to have guests, he did not seem so sad as well from our visit. He invited us to drop in. He even gave us a cup of tea and to towel to dry ourselves and took his sit in front of fireplace and went on reading a book. While we were sipping tea and conversing with each other he had glanced at us so many times both secretly and openly. When we talked about something interesting, he also had smiled and I think, our conversation was more intriguing than book for him. In order to behave as a polite man, he was pretending himself as if he was not listening to our discussion, however my eyes had recognized it already. For some reason the old man sighed while listening to our nostalgic memories. He put the book and gazed at hearth for a long time. He light of the fire revealed that he was hiding his tear drops on his face. He was whimpering with no sound. (You hadn’t recognized it.) At that time, to be honest, I felt very unusually embarrassed. I felt so sorry for an old man that… I contemplated that my future will duplicate this old man’s fate. Do you believe in seeing one’s future or past on another one’s life? I had seen… Then it ceased to rain. We abandoned his old house expressing our gratitude. I overthought about him. But I had not searched for him until I knew that I had to see him again. I had revisited that are to find him and investigated everywhere we stepped on. Unfortunately, I could find neither him nor his shanty. I don’t know why, but I wanted to tell you this…’ – he stared at somewhere for awhile – ‘I… I love you to death!’ As he was going to cry, put his face into the embrace of his wife, – ‘I… I…’ – he could not help himself stop crying, – ‘Why?… Why?’
Early drops of the tear appeared inside the woman’s eyes.
‘It will never happen… Trust me, dear. Because I have told you…’
Suddenly thunderstorm broke out. Thick black clouds veiled the whole sky.
Woman hopefully looked at the window.
‘Look, my dear, it is raining…’
‘Yeah, it is raining’ he also stared hopefully.
They both glared at window for long, until it stopped raining. Despite they both were in tears they were trying to hide it from each other.
It was raining no more.
‘Can you help me stand up?’ she could not do it by herself so she asked for a help.
She went to the door counting on the shoulders of her helper. While walking she looked at her partner. He was trying to hide his eyes for some reason. His eyes were weeping. She paused for a while, wiped his eyes and smiled with sorrow. Then she took her basket.
‘Shall we go?’ she said happily.
‘Let’s go!’ her husband as well said in the same way, forgetting all the pains and tortures of his soul.
Laughing happily, they stepped into the wood spreading dewy petrichor.
2018
Translated from Uzbek into English by Shokhrukh Usmonov
About the author
Jumanazar Yuldash was born in 1997 in the Khiva district, Kharezm, Uzbekistan. He is an undergraduate student of Philology and Uzbek Language faculty at Urgench State University. His stories were published on the pages of national press. His works were included in several collection such as “Song of the Rivers” (“Jilgʻalar qoʻshigʻi”), “Common hearts” (“Mushtarak dillar”), “Garden of Creativity” (“Ijod gulshani”). He is a participant of the Zaamin seminar (2018). Winner of the creative festival “Spring of Uzbekistan II” (“Oʻzbekiston bahori”) in Khiva in 2019. Author of the collection of short stories named “Petrichor” (“Yomgʻirdan soʻng”).
Poetry from Taylor Dibbert
Ghost Town He got on Tinder Thinking there Might be some Awkward moments Or mildly Exciting times, Or things Unfolding in a Notable way But he must Be doing Something wrong Because it Turns out That there’s Not a lot Happening On Tinder, At least Not for him, Who knew That looking For love in The wrong place Could be So uneventful. Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “Rescue Dog,” his fifth book, was published in May.