with William Butler Yeats —Temple Bar, Dublin once famous for friars and printers and clockmakers now in its yellow dressing gown, intoning: a river of vomit, a run of stags, hens, the final whistle, a moon like a sack of flour garrisons the sky, Bill picking up those Derry Girls at The Old Storehouse the bend between breath and silence like the shoulder of an Armalite O they sang American Pie while we drank and watched some troubled fool equine in length take a piss from atop a phone booth on Dame Street I couldn’t get the song out of my head for days Bill kept turning and turning the poem in his like Wilde’s address to Liberty naked I saw thee Shay and your slow thighs and skin like fine bone china the night a revelation or bad news on the doorstep.
Jennie Park is a high school student at an international school in Seoul, South Korea. She is inspired by the layered textures of city life and the quiet details of everyday moments. When she’s not painting or sketching, she enjoys reading, writing, and discovering new artists.
Unwavering support and non-judgmental attitude makes the bonds more precious
Positive attitude with good mindset
is a boon with grace and respect
Nonchalant attitude destroying
imbalances of minds calling for
disrespect, harassment and rapes
also lapses in moral decadences
Attitude in itself is a superpower
It’s based on the way how you’re being treated
Let there be voice and not merely an echo to fade
The positive attitude brings accolades to lasting success
Keep up your attitude in grace as you’re born to express yourself
A fundamental force influencing your actions
Bearing a strong ethical values
Unconsciously cultivated prelude to action
Reflections of our inner self through challenges of daily life
We are responsible for shaping our own lives with a blend of attitude.
————
ELEGANCE OF LOVE
Dancing through the moonbeams
so enchanting
Under the twinkling stars in the amidst of challenges
Yet keeping us connected
with firm determination in mind
Waiting with patience and perseverance for your kisses so warm and sweet
I decorate each ray so magical
Crafted every verse I write
Unparalleled embodiment
weaving tapestry of dreams
soaked in the elegance of love
Unravelling the deepest mysteries
Transporting down the abyss of heart
Awakening the soul from slumber’s deep
Unfolding the stories untold
Drifting my thoughts where dreams reside
Through the night so inviting
I paint the canvas besides
the vistas unknown
Embracing one another
We renew our bond of love
Knitting the web of trust
We mingle in the breathes so warm
Never to let you go
For I live in the sheets
of crumpled linen
Wrapped in the scents of your body
Where I hear the echoes
of your silence
lying under the twinkling stars.
Parvinder was born and brought up in the coastal city of Mombasa, Kenya, East Africa. Having dedicated her career to shaping the minds of future generations, she served as a principal from the distinguished senior secondary schools in India and also served as charity in the British schools in UK.
Parvinder is a national award winner from NCERT, New Delhi, for making teaching and learning processes easier through classroom aids for both teachers and pupils. One of the defining moments of her poetic journey occurred during a visit to Dove Cottage and the museum dedicated to the venerable poet, William Wordsworth, nestled in the enchanting landscape of Grasmere, Lake District, UK.
In the hallowed halls of this literary sanctuary, standing amidst the profound legacy of Wordsworth, Parvinder found herself immersed in the timeless essence of poetry, a force capable of transcending the boundaries of time and place. Her passion for poetry found recognition when she was bestowed with the prestigious accolades in a national poetry contest in 2022, orchestrated among a gathering of over 2000 poets from across India on the national level.
Parvinder is a recipient of many literary awards in poetry….
– An Ambassador for peace in the World Poetic Fraternity
– The Global Peace Ambassador Awards
– Literary Ambassador Awards
– Honorary Doctorate Award
– An Ambassador for Indian culture for Insight Magazine (USA)
– Membership card from ICAL and felicitations of appreciation and excellence, joining the bridges across the world through her literary work!
Parvinder is the author of the poetry collection, “UNFATHOMED SECRETS”, a heartfelt collection of 100 poems from the abyss of her heart. Parvinder’s poems are translated into various languages across the globe. She is honoured to be one of the 58 selected poets, whose poems are translated into Turkish and published in Turkey in the anthology book, “ Poets From The World”
Her poems are also published among 231 great noble world poets, in the book “ WORLD CONTEMPORARY POETS VOLUME 2.” A book, “ The Women – Global Poetic Gems” is the Collection of Lyrical Poems By 35 International Poets. Parvinder is proud to be featured among one of these world renowned poets. Her poems are reviewed by eminent writers, authors and also reviewers from Harvard University. From time to time her poems are featured in various journals, newspapers and magazines across the globe. She has collaborated in poetic duets with poets across the globe.
She has also participated in live poetry recitation among global poets on Google Meet and won accolades! Parvinder has translated a historical chronological book, from Kosovo, written by Dibran Fylli “Prekazi Brezni Trimash-HE IS ALIVE“.
Parvinder’s poems are music to the heart that express different aspects of life, conjuring up emotions from happiness to sadness using different styles and themes giving pleasure to the readers.
Nidia Amelia García, from Buenos Aires, Argentina, is a writer and an active member of Juntos por las Letras (Together for Letters). She has participated in numerous virtual events in Uruguay, Paraguay, Bolivia, Spain, Colombia, Portugal, Nigeria, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, and elsewhere. She has also contributed to literary anthologies such as “Books of the Immortals” and “Anthology of the 50 Poets of the World 2022.”
Furnace heat billows up from the summertime streets of the vicious valley. The doom-light of the impending dawn unleashes the earth’s phantom frenzy that buzzes before the shine sears our souls. I splash my face with sink water, and simultaneously, slurp hydration, strait off the faucet – my facial reflection is haggard & hungover.
The day’s suck gets accepted without debate. I’m behind time, my blurry eyes see trios of things, in the house, that I only have one of – grab light essentials and go. My shambles, leftover from last night, blunder out the door (might be walkin’ over the limit?); I manage to lock the front door, and instantly my system goes wrong – I rip a hard projectile vomit, right off the porch.
Never felt worse…if lucks on my side, my truck will explode…then, I won’t endure the work-day’s suicide.
Inside the driver side of the truck door, I get a damn grip, because that was a seriously heinous notion that rolled my brainwaves. Probably an indication that I should have the frequency of my noggin’ examined.
The heavy thought ramrods my basic motor functions, and self-appraisal pauses my robotic, get-up-and-go functions that allow desperate souls to survive the work-day toil.
Shit…guess I separate till sundown…and, if I open this acknowledged door of horror…then, there’s no tellin’ how many more I gotta enter…which would split the fraility of my psyche like an auger-bit, smoothly pierces soft dirt…to hell with that! At least boozed-out-bravery feels grand and gratifies instantly – last thing I need is to know all my fuckin’ problems.
“Eh,” I mutter. Can’t solve that long-term shit, anyway, right now, and I’d still have to go to work. I turn the key in the ignition of the dilapidated truck, of this depraved desperado, it sputters well enough to get me down the highway, the grim prospects in the windshield.
Quick thoughts, moments ignored, and I’ve always been inclined to put off the suffering of my own decisions for later. I got to go to work. When you dwell on existential plights for too long, you begin to clarify things that aren’t healthy for commerce.
Third-eye nourishment, eternity and the preparation of the soul for the flat-line existence would seem like perfectly reasonable things to address, but they don’t make money, and neither will I, especially, if I start gettin’ to the real truths in this nap & no chance lifestyle.
I mean, there’s a fuckin’ business that needs to be run. Goods have been sold, there’s a stack that requires the break of my back, the dexterity of my fingers, after my ass is seated in the forklift – it’s got terrible lumbar support that exacerbates my spine where it’s gonna break.
I nimbly fidget with just the right-touch…utilizing the lifts handle functions to place loads, an endless stream, on 18-Wheeler Mack-Trucks. So, the guy making the money, makes the guy happy that will yell at him if it’s not more money than last time, and if that scenario happens, then the first guy yells at me.
It seems critical that he gets paid, so I can get my comparatively scantier sum. It’s a five-day (usually, with a sixth) grind. I’m tired, and I drink to forget that I’m overworked, worn-out, and a blown opportunity of a heart-beat – but hey, there’s bills to be paid, and breathin’ ain’t free, and human’s like to earn the bitchin’ they do each day.
I don’t want to get on the highway.
It all feels wrong…the sun’s comin’ up and the shine side of it, ain’t workin’ like it should…we’re enemies for the next ten hours….yes, sure, I get ya, there’s a pay-check in it for me…but, I’m pretty sure, I’ll die on this fork-lift, and booze kills thoughts. I always thought that my existence was enough, but life demands more, and if you want to matter…well, I don’t know…get more money, it always seems to be the answer.
Apparently, when an interest in present-focused, savor the joy now because later’s aren’t promised, and seeking a good-time feels human. Even thought, it neglects engagement with those demands, so, you get relegated to cog-work in some industrious wheel – you become a machine and slowly go insane.
I see the sun is higher than it should be, for the cruise in my routine on Biz-80, slicin’ out of Sac-Town. I holler obscenities at the slow, dumb, (basically any) vehicle that’s ahead of me. They’re obvious idiots because they are like me; on a highway, at an hour when even God takes a snooze, drivin’ to places we don’t want to be, to bitch about being there, makin’ claims – the type that say, needs to change, or we’re outta here, which would require the hard-work of us implementing the changes requested. So, instead, you just cuss a lot and hope the labor offsets pulmonary issues.
Rationality’s quadrant of my lobe’s kicks in. I flood it with 2 Lime-Green Red bulls, straight electric juice, and cut through my groggy displeasure – maybe, if we all didn’t have to wake-up so early, on time, like fuckin’ robots that start at the press of a button, we wouldn’t be so bitchy in our decay.
Fuck it, fuck worry, and fuck punctuality. I’m habitually late, and as bothered as the boss and manager are about a character flaw, which I consider more of a fun, lovable quirk of loyalty, ingrain in my bizarre brand of work-ethic, they never send me home.
All those suspensions in high school, learned-me-up the wrong way – there’s no free-days off when you make a mistake! In fact, they want you to stay longer or come in on a day-off to fix some fuck-up you did or didn’t cause – hell, they know they got a trump card and wield validated anger like the only guy with a gun in an un-armed tribe.
I ain’t slept in two-days, with thoughts, like: shit, let it go, bro, I only had three beers at lunch, and I work in yard, operatin’ a fork-lift, no cop is gonna pull me over. Pussies.
The old woman next to my vehicle nearly runs, head-first, into the cement divider, I recklessly changed lanes – of course, it’s all done for the sake of being on-time. I rip queasy loose, and affirm my tardiness, with orange Gatorade streaks, down my truck door.
“You fuckin’ idiot! Why don’t you watch where you’re going!?!!” Is what I imagine the old-broad yells at me – I watch her pull a mean drag on a Virgina Slim and her indignant eyes, scream at me.
It reminds me of a crazy chica, I used to know – say what you will about the disrespect that comes with chaotic, unhinged behavior – those chica’s will knock every orgasm outta your ball-sack with a single bang.
“Onery, ole hag!” I holler, but there’s no way her dumb earpiece can pick up my barf-bag frequency.
More sun is up, and I’m less punched-in than I should be, and rampin’ up speed won’t matter now, so I pull into the AMPM –nuke the finest break-fast sandwich in the joint. The waves of microscopic heat make me wait, so, I scroll Apps for ladies to love.
I’m a single hogg on the midtown slog. I’m at the high point of the species, the apex-wreck, and I find a joint in my center console – after a few minutes, the hazy fray of pressure and the heinously uncontrollable problems, the world descends on us, evaporate from the chill gleam in my third-eye – gotta fade what you can’t fight back on.
I hit my punch code, so the computer knows my number is here – productive systems care about operational efficient data, not operational employee well-being. Just like I expected, I get chewed-out like a bone, picked clean, and the rant finishes on another expected note: “get out there and get to work!”
Ain’t nothin’ these corporate turds hate more than finding new people to do shit jobs – most chudz with sense end up behind computers to pay rent.
The boss-man unwraps his second sausage egg-McMuffin and gets to chompin’ so the grave can arrive faster than the realization of lost time. He’s always churning out a better performance because he was smart enough to be born at a time when companies didn’t hire based on resumes and drug-checks. We gotta work faster, like the yard-hoggs back in his day, but he insists: “don’t break your backs.”
He ain’t dyin’ for a while, so upward mobility is kinda at a stand-still, and the prices are goin’ up, and, I guess God, the Universe, or the Great Spirit are impressed with the fortitude in my grit, even though, my mind might snap, and I’m feelin’ the itch to quit – I’m a brief flicker that never blazed.
I crawl on my forklift, and find a corner in the big yard, to lounge and burn another joint, or three. Honestly, I’ll puff as much weed as I can smoke to perform these hurried tasks and not wake up to the fact that the walls of the rut have gotten taller than the ladder I was given to get to my ambitions.
Sup, single-mom-sluts, because fuck takin’ the work-day lumps and the lack of pay-bumps – man, right about now, I reckon, I could use the stiff energy of a key-bump.
When, I finally get confirmation – this thick mama-cita, she’s equipped with double-handed booty hunks, the burned life mentality of abandoned dreams, seeking promiscuity to make up for what she can’t get – life ain’t been nice to her; lots of love lost and heart-break, and myriad let downs, the type of dissatisfaction that makes her poon a lagoon.
Lucky me…she hits me with a face-time jangle, and she’s wearin’next-to-nothin’ (trust me, that cameras catchin’ every angle). Pretty as the lust that stokes our sin – all she’s got on is skin, kitten heels and a thong.
I take an early lunch, put an end to my day that didn’t care about me, anyway. What’s the point of humanity’s plight, unless you’re gettin’ laid. I gotta hunch, though…sure as hell, my drive to easy thighs, gets interrupted with a furious call. Answer and don’t absorb, I’m enroute to a healing fling of temporality.
The ole boss-man blabbered on about things incomplete, the importance of it handled commitments (those load orders are heavy and change, instance to instance), it dampens the vibe, but ain’t affectin’ the direction of my pipe, and sure enough, it ends…he understands, and everything has been worked out, so tomorrow should flow smoothly, if everything goes according to plan.
Nicholas Viglietti is a writer from Sacramento, CA. After Katrina ravaged the gulf coast, he rebuilt homes there for 2 years. Up in Mon-tucky, he cut trails in the wilderness. He pedaled from Sac-town to S.D. He’s a seventh-life party-hack, attempting to rip chill lines in the madness.
My first teacher-the eternal trace in my heart. In every personʼs life, there is a guide who can never be forgotten. My first teacher is an important figure in my life. When I was a little girl, I entered the doorway of school No. 3 in Toʼraqoʼrgʼon district of Namangan region, the person who took my hand was my first teacher-Munavvar Mirzaturgunovna.
At first, studying was not easy. I made many mistakes. I started my studies in Russian. Sometimes I felt weak and even lost hope. But my teacher always helped me. She said: “Терпение и труд всё перетрут”
Thanks to her, I became interested in learning. Now I study at Isʼhoqxon Ibrat creativity school. I got good marks, won school competitions, and took part in different projects. One of my happiest memories was a trip to Zomin from translation. Now I can speak five languages, and of course, this is also connected with the knowledge I received from my first teacher in primary school. My teacherʼs kindness inspires me a lot. I also dream of becoming a teacher in the future. I will never forget my first teacher. She is always in my heart, and I am very thankful to her.
Muxtasarxon Abdurashidova, 11th grader at Is’hoqxon Ibrat Creative School
