Janina Aza Karpinska is an award-winning Poet from the south coast of England. She achieved an M.A. in Creative Writing & Personal Development (with Merit), at Sussex University. Her work has appeared in Bath House Journal; Isacoustic; Three Drops Poetry; Willawaw Journal;Ekphrastic Reviewamong others. She makes writing a daily practice, drawing on many influences and employing a variety of styles, particularly interested in the self-imposed constraints employed by experimental writing group OULIPO.
Abdul Raheem, who used to be an autorickshaw driver in Kerala, reached Saudi in the first decade of the century. He was hired by a family in Riyadh to take care of a differently-abled teenager along with driving duties. The boy used to breathe and eat using the help of a device attached to his body.
One day, while driving with the 15-year-old, the boy assaulted Raheem for stopping at a traffic signal. While trying to calm the teenager down and protect himself, Abdul Raheem ended up pushing the medical device on the boy's shoulder unintentionally. As it fell inside the car, the boy became unconscious and passed away, Onmanorama said in a report.
In 2018, Raheem was sentenced to death as the family refused to grant amnesty. The Kerala man's appeals were rejected and the Supreme Court upheld the verdict. However, in 2023, Raheem received a ray of hope as the family reconsidered and decided to accept diya (blood money) instead. They demanded 15 million Saudi riyals, approximately Rs 33.24 crore, which was to be paid within six months from the deal's signing on October 16, 2023.
With the deadline fast approaching and Abdul Raheem's fate on the line, people across the stratas of life in Kerala joined hands to crowdsource the money. Until last week, the crowdfunding effort could only manage to find Rs 5 crore. However, as the deadline loomed, an aggressive campaign was launched via social media and the volunteers managed to find the entire amount in just four days' time,
Why I mentioned the real story of Kerala ?
It is a movie that trying to halt the prosperity and love between religions and cast
The Kerala Story is a 2023 Indian Hindi-language drama film directed by Sudipto Sen and produced by Vipul Amrutlal Shah.[1] It stars Adah Sharma, Yogita Bihani, Sonia Balani, and Siddhi Idnani. The plot follows a group of women from Kerala who are coerced into converting to Islam and joining the Islamic State .[5][6]Marketed as a true story, the film is premised on the Hindutva conspiracy theory of "love jihad",[7] and falsely claims that thousands of Hindu women from Kerala have been converted to Islam and recruited in the Islamic State.[8][9]
So Kerala didn’t have story like this, so this is not the real.
Today we seen how the Keralites treat every one
A tiny oversight cost him his life.
18 years spent incarcerated
No aspirations, no desires
Seven days remain before death.
The tears were shed like spring.
The mother, in despair,
thought of her cherished son.
34 crores for one life.
No money, no forgiveness
The remnants of humanity
The insight of society with an aspiring mind
The civilization that was portrayed as
radical and narrow-minded shown true humanism.
Saved him with four finger days.
Tiny branches that are connected
by various boundaries
The genuine world's lifesaver
No hue, no faith
Neither wealthy nor impoverished Combined,
providing the shed
The Humanity Day
The day of God's pardon
Dreams as actuality
The modern era's angles
With the courteous customs
and principles proud of every second.
It feels like we were born with
human emotions and died as human beings.
The real Kerala story
Not just one, more than the blood money
Written by Sinanbinumer
Five Untitled Monostichs
bowl of raisin brain taco filling in my socks
—
raspberry clown known maritime repellant
—
battle cake captain adenoid subculture
—
millerbot brownie rice chickpea rice
—
listen bug too-mato paste w/ bears
—
bio/grafJ. D. Nelson’s poems have appeared in many publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
The work “Stepmother” is about the kindness and love of a believer and caressing the heads of orphans, showing them mercy and kindness.
The ideas of the work are manifested in the image of Fatima, a Muslim woman. At a time when people are not able to give good education to their children, they are not able to say sweet things, Fatima’s love for Khayria’s two sisters, pampering her with sweet words, what does she do to her child the fear of hurting an orphan’s soul will shake the heart of any person. The main ideas of the work are about humanity, how to treat orphans.
He can be an example to people who do not know how to treat their children well, who are not afraid to hurt the heart of an orphan. Our mothers and sisters should read this work to know God, to understand oneself, to understand what a Muslim should be, what actions are obligatory in Islam. Our fathers and brothers should study in order to learn to fear someone’s rights, humanity, and refrain from sinful things. In my opinion, this work is not suitable only for young people. The work is intended for everyone to read.
“Since handing over the righteous one to an orphan, after every prayer, hoping for the grace of God, who is able to do everything, “Oh, Lord, grant Samiham to a pure orphan, grant my daughter a happy and prosperous marriage, just as you have answered my prayers with justice until today, grant me this marriage. He did not forget to pray to Habibi Akram, the Sultan of orphans, strangers, and orphans. She wants to go out and live on her own, not to live alone, but to show love to people who grew up with a broken heart and hard to love, together with her righteous daughters, and wants to reduce those defects even a little. because he asks Allah Almighty for this in every prayer.
It is true that this work tells about the fate of orphans whose mothers died for certain reasons and were left in the hands of their stepmothers. But unfortunately, today there are people who give their loved ones to orphanages and sell their children for money. Looking at them, the characters in this work seem to us to be a little bit good. That is why I think that it is necessary to increase the publication of this work, and to strengthen the promotion of reading the work.
As soon as I started reading the work, my heart cried without it. After reading the book, I decided to change. I have no doubt that I will leave this world unscathed if my life is like that of Fatima.
Hamrokulova Zilola Sherali’s daughter was born on June 26, 2006 in the village of Kyzilcha, Nurota District, Navoi Region of the Republic of Usbekistan.Nowadays,she is studying “Foreign Languages” at the academic lyceum of the Navoi State University of Mining and Technology. In her spare time, she writes poems. She has published her creative works in world-famous magazines of several foreign countries.
THE DANCE: NANCY
I said I wouldn’t dance with you:
Your hair’s too blonde, your eyes too blue.
A loaded gun and fully cocked,
dynamite cap set to go off.
I swore I wouldn’t dance with you.
She’s too proud of humility.
Her giant modesty towers from her knees.
She’s so proud of humility, the giant Modesty towers from her knees.
Even us healthy ones she treats like disease.
I said I wouldn’t dance with you.
Your arms, I knew, would hold like glue.
No neon ever hijacked us,
I refused to be target practice.
I knew I’d never dance with you.
Oversharp in her ignorance, she’s
indisputably a genius between the knees.
Oversharp in her ignorance, undeniably she’s a genius between her knees.
The peacock preens, pretending that no one sees.
I said I wouldn’t dance with you:
The night’s too young, too bright’s the view.
But that bandit moon lit the fuse,
and insurgent night made the news,
though I’d sad I’d never dance with you,
dancing in the moon
light with Nancy and kissing her good
Night
comes quickly this time of year
and icily as well: the wind
bites nicely and to the quick--
oh these thoughts! are dancing nicely
through the wind kissing the memory
somehow – I can hear the
memory embers
hisssing in the wind (is sharp
this time of year) like java in the night
comes dark and sharp and bitter.
Spring it was or was it fall? (no matter)
(no matter at all the season) the reason
I recall at all is Nancy her name
whispers in the moon light, or
is it the night
wind that’s light
ir was it the fall --
-- no matter --
it was time and she was mine and we were
hours until the dawn (comes quickly, this time)
and I must go on
I wanted to go on, to bound
fast as the hound Wind
and as free too but I was bound too fast to the ground
and ground too far down and
ground far too fine too but I danced on
with Nancy till I was out of time
and out of mind (but I must go on for now)
I dance with my mind I dance
with the wind and the night and the ice and
but where is the Nancy?
I dance with memory and death and death and memory
and now the dancing’s through, for
every spring one makes, a fall’s not far behind--
and life and mind and bight and wind
go quickly this year of time and mightily as well
and all matter
(but no matter)
though I promised never to dance with you.
NYUN
"When birds
lose their plumes
in the sand,
they can't
glue balloons
to their hands.
They can't fly
so they die."
The years are like so many sweet girls.
They cuddle against the navel in the middle of the night.
They change O they challenge the body
with pain with delight.
But though the waist is gone, its shadow yet remains.
Is this what we needed?
To lie in fields that we seeded
with the sperm of you/and/me?
My skin is a wrinkledup grocery sack,
all the goodies unpacked and eaten long ago.
My erection turned into slush yesterday,
my eyeballs into snow.
But though the face is gone, the halo yet remains.
All the stones unheeded... The skies... The fields....
Back have kneaded into worms, my butterflies.
And the years. And the years: just like the sweet young girls!
Hanging in memory like leather kites,
gaudy garish stabbing neon lights
to mark the passing of fond remembered rites.
But though the voice is gone, its echo yet remains.
Is this what we needed?
To die in fields which receded with the germs of yesterday?
(A toast: Time is a precious necklace bequested upon your birth. As time's beneficiary, you must realize its worth. Though age encircles your throat with its usual yearly pearl, the worth rests in the wearer and not within the jewel.)
The Duane you loved is gone:
There's a Stranger in his skin.
The old duane was younger,
and the new one's bones are thin.
Former laughs reform as coughs.
The change cloud-to-clod begins.
"When birds lose their plumes in the sand,
they can't glue balloons to their hands.
They can't fly so they die."
[nyun is a Korean homonym that means years or floozies]
THE OBSCURITY OF HEAVEN
The bomb is in the temple, the eraser on the page.
Our timid mirrors reflect but they never take a step.
A cancer’s in the nipple, spectators usurp the stage.
We mourn heaven: “It’s obscured, so we cannot know its worth.’
And we moan that circumstance proves to be our best defense.
Clouds are integral as stars in its measurement from Earth.
Our judgment misjudges us and aborts our renaissance.
We can reject starvation without accepting poison.
The body discharges pus while mitigating relapse.
Hunkering down in our forts is desperate strategy.
To drive the enemy back we must go upon attack.
Garret verse, a poet’s corpse that has no utility.
EVANGELIST
The arch science of religion
taught me to carry lips of mercury.
Now I have a hoard.
I wore a heartfelt tongue of stone
while a student of the science of love
and I learned to starve.
THIS INDIFFERENT ETERNITY
There is not enough dark
though the night is unmooned.
The stars are toomanyed,
skyfull prickly pennies
instead of ebonstones.
And thus my mood is mocked.
Cosmos ignores despair
and unechoes my cries.
Depression is the stone
that I must bear alone,
its whole weight in my thighs.
Reflections are unmirrored.
New Uzbekistan
Every corner of my country
It is blooming
Changes are in full swing
The eyes are happy
The head of our country is the head
Support us
Change at every step
It will surprise you.
My country is rich in history
Every corner is sacred,
To such a great country
Many people like it.
Of great scholars
We are young people,
First at every step
Shakhdam takes steps.
This is my country in the world
There is no comparison, there is no equal,
Everywhere is rich in history
There are many holy places.
Sometimes this language is weak
One look is not enough
I will describe it again
I won't run out of words.
Mamadaliyeva Aziza is the daughter of Dilshodbek.
She was born on October 19, 2006 in the city of Chust, Namangan region. Her first book "Joy of Youth" was published in 2021. Aziza is very interested in reading books along with writing poems. She is the district and regional prize winner of the "Young Reader" competition. A number of her poems are published in district and regional newspapers. Aziza Namangan has delighted many fans with her poems on television.
