2. KUĆA I TI
Zakači kaput tuge u ormar,
iznošene grešne potpetice stavi u cipelar
sa ostalom pocepanom obućom,
čaršav i sve na krevetu što je upijalo
sve tvoje neprospavane noći
iznesi na sunčev zrak zaborava.
Potom svoju suzu urami u drveni okvir
i postavi iznad kamina
da je toplotni zrak pusti na slobodu,
onda kada dođe vreme.
Uđi u dečiju sobu i seti se sebe tako male i bezbrižne.
Uzmi platno bele boje i obmotaj se
u više slojeva odvojenosti,
raspusti dugu kosu da miluje tvoje telo.
Stavi ploču The Beatles-a u stari gramofon i pevaj uz daire,
izađi iz kuće čiji nisi vlasnik,
sama si je stvorila misleći da ti pripada, ali ne.
Ti nemaš dom u svetu prolaznosti.
Spoznaj Njega i prizivaj odricanje
i pleši da prizoveš nebesku ljubav.
Cigle se otapaju u crveni prah od plesa,
a ti u ruševinama spoznaješ svoj mir
i shvataš tek tada da je tvoja kuća bila
gvozdeni kavez koja ima izlaz.
2. THE HOUSE AND YOU
Hang the coat of sorrow in the closet,
put the worn sinful heels in the shoebox
with other torn footwear,
sheet and anything on the bed that was absorbed
all your sleepless nights
bring out into the sunshine of oblivion
Then frame your tear in a wooden frame
and place above the fireplace to
let the heat ray set her free
then when the time comes.
Enter the children's room and remember yourself so small and carefree.
Take a white cloth and wrap it around yourself
in multiple layers of separation,
let your long hair down to caress your body.
Put a Beatles record in an old record player and sing along the tambourine,
get out of the house you don't own,
you created it yourself, thinking it belonged to you, but it didn't.
You have no home in the world of transience.
Know Him and invoke renunciation
and dance to invoke heavenly love.
Bricks dissolve into red dust from dancing,
and you find your peace in the ruins
and you realize only then that your house was
an iron cage that has an exit.
Unbelievable palmistry
My tongue is crooked, honestly -
I can not look into your eyes.
Scattered line on my palm is connected to my destiny
I deceive myself just like that.
I am wandering of searching the line of love in my hand,
without finding it in my life ...
There are living walls between us
There are living walls between us.
Draw an invisible boundary.
What is the benefit of our separation?!
It parts us from our love.
Ruthless living walls between us.
It is like dying is not meant for them-
The tears are just a sight to behold.
(Didn't they face with the passion!?)
Living walls between us.
They part us, even the paths;
Constantly looking at us ...
We are moving apart further
Living devils between us.
They will not fall.
They are eternal…
***
Drown the hourglasses into water,
put a rope around the neck of time
released its the last breath.
Tied the clock hands to the stone
I tried to hold off the life
and live.
But -
Could not stop
My heart
Screaming
Just like a clock in my chest ...
It is not true when they say
We are lack of power when it comes to the time:
time loses -
when it stops beating
My heart
Atagulla Satbaev was born on August 10, 1995 in Nukus city, Uzbekistan. His poems were published in local magazines and journals.
I press the towel to my face for a long time. A lot longer than when I get out of the shower at home, when a few swipes take care of the drips. The shower at the gym is different: It is the final stint of nearly an hour of wetness, most of which is spent with my head in the water as I swim my laps.
During all that time, I’m not aware of the water as wet. It is, rather, temperature: The comforting warmth of my pre-swim shower. The tunnel of balm in the steam room. The shock of cold in the corridor between the locker room and the pool. The coolness I resign myself to when I lower myself into my lane. A temperate embrace once I get going. A chill when I get out and the air sucks the drops from my body. The blasting heat of the shower that follows. The humid moisture that remains in the stall.
Then the towel. It is far from plush, smaller than I wish it were. I grab it from its hook beside the shower curtain, unfold it and lift it to my face. I don’t rub or pat; I press gently, holding the nubby fabric against my cheeks. I stand like that for a few moments. It is only then that I notice I have been wet for so long, and I can’t wait to be dry.
Susan Hodara is a journalist, memoirist and educator. Her articles have appeared in The New York Times, Communication Arts, and more. Her short memoirs are published in assorted anthologies and literary journals, including River Teeth, Feed and Airplane Reading. She is one of four co-authors of the collaborative memoir “Still Here Thinking of You: A Second Chance With Our Mothers” (Big Table Publishing, 2013). She has led memoir writing workshops for many years. More at www.susanhodara.com.
I Have Walked The Morn
In Mists I have walked the morn in mists
And trodden down the valley lily white
And run the gauntlet sunshine fair
Robed in silken webs no woman ever wove,
Shod in sandals light -
Airy, as death is weightless
And left youth and gaiety high and dry
At the entrance gate of responsibility
And entered therein
To lie face down, child of marble, wayward
On the dew drenched lawn of forever,
Crying tears of stone
To the unveiling of a statue, ageless.
I have reached reverently out to touch
The alabaster agony of space without time
To carve the precious light of existence, sweet
With flawless line, chisel
The wrinkles of age and time away
Layer by layer to the stone’s heart
Newborn, in beauty glowing, translucent
With hands of steel, a sculptress
Kneeling to whisper, “It is good.”
RUNNING DOWN THE COMET TAILED STREAMS OF LIGHT
Running down the comet tailed streams of light,
Day into day; night into night; pulling free,
Bursting into flight, suddenly
Caught up in the Earth's stream
Soaring in vapor trailed orbits of being.
Atoms of mass in conglomerates of be,
Exploding full circle into dimensions of me.
I do not grow old; I am forever!
I dream; I feel; I see all things
Of life; of beauty; of death; ( Secretively whispers )
I know the song the dust sings - (Song of the Dust)
"There is no finality in me,
I soar; I float and dance,
I laughingly chant the notes of life
From “The Songbook of the Dead."
Annie Johnson is 84 years old. She is Shawnee Native American. She has published two, six hundred-page novels and six books of poetry. Annie has won several poetry awards from world poetry organizations including; World Union of Poets; she is a member of World Nations Writers Union; has received the World Institute for Peace award; the World Laureate of Literature from World Nations Writers Union and The William Shakespeare Poetry Award. She received a Certificate and Medal in recognition of the highest literature from International Literary Union for the year 2020, from Ayad Al Baldawi, President of the International Literary Union. She has three children, two grandchildren, and two sons-in-law. Annie played a flute in the Butler University Symphony. She still plays her flute.
Name: Nahyean Bin Khalid
Class: 7
THE MANSION HIDDEN IN THE FOREST - CHAPTER 02
I floated through the broken mirror into a realm of shadows and echoes. The ghostly figures whispered tales of their own misfortunes, and I realized they were trapped souls crying for release. Together, we roamed the mansion's different rooms and corridors, seeking clues to set us free.
In the moonlit attic, an old diary revealed the mansion's tragic history. A cursed family, betrayal, and a desire for redemption tied the spirits together. Determined to break the curse, I explored the mansion's secrets, solving puzzles, and calming restless souls.
As I uncovered the truth, the mansion transformed. The broken windows mended, the walls revitalized, and the whispers turned into songs of gratitude. The spirits, freed at last, faded away, leaving me standing in a restored mansion.
Yet, the mirror remained shattered. I realized my destiny was intertwined with this place. The ghosts, my new friends, offered a bittersweet farewell as I became the guardian of the enchanted mansion, forever balancing between the worlds of the living and the spectral.
Once again, Synchronized Chaos Magazine expresses sympathy for all the people affected by the recent violence in the Middle East and shares the hope for a peaceful and just resolution and for justice and equality for the region’s many groups of people.
In the spirit of what we do here, we are sharing author Michael Lukas’ recommendations of fiction and poetry from both Israelis and Palestinians that he and others believe will help people understand the issues and the cultures in the region.
Please feel welcome to suggest other titles.
We are also aware that Afghanistan has suffered an earthquake that has killed thousands of people. We invite people to help however they can and suggest the Afghan-founded and led organization RAWA which assists those of all genders and racial backgrounds in the country. They are seeking people to translate articles on their website and help in a variety of ways.
Also, we stand with the people of Burma who are continuing to undergo war and repression. We encourage people to assist through groups such as Doctors Without Borders. And we acknowledge the great conflict and displacement crisis in Sudan and encourage people to donate books (textbooks included, everything except murder mysteries and encyclopedias) to schools in Africa through Books for Africa.
This month’s issue looks at life from different vantage points: from speakers who are fully engaged in their surroundings and from others who overhear or watch from a distance.
Brian Michael Barbeito shares the experience of sitting alone and catching bits of nearby conversations. Michael Tyler relates encounters with random people at a party. J.D. Nelson reflects on the sounds he hears at night a men’s homeless shelter.
Christopher Bernard’s poem’s narrator finds herself mistakenly at her own funeral, overhearing snatches of gossip while entombed in a coffin.
In his photography, Daniel De Culla focuses in on objects and creatures that are slightly out of place. In Mark Young’s poem, a postwoman brings the slightly-askance world to the speaker’s doorstep. Nathan Anderson plays with words and letters in a rhythmical manner reminiscent of electronic music while Thomas Fink contributes unique horseshoe-shaped concrete poems on memory and change.
Taylor Dibbert writes of his speaker’s loss of London the dog, a moment he never knew would be the last with her.
Qosimova Parizoda speculates on the psychology of a short lived butterfly. Do they grieve the brevity of their existence?
Jerry Langdon evokes mortality in a philosophical, tragic sense through the symbol of a gathering of ravens, while Zahro Shamsiyya speculates on the world after her future death.
Others focus in, deeply absorbed by a place or setting.
Isabel Gomez de Diego sends up photographic vignettes of fall country life, people, leaves, and apples. Brian Barbeito’s photography is a selection of natural moments, a mix of panoramas and closeups. Monira Mahbub celebrates the natural and human beauty of her country, Bangladesh.
Mesfakus Salahin describes the poetry written in the shapes of clouds, while Annie Johnson reflects on night’s blurring the edges between imagination, sentiment, and reality. Azemina Krehic meditates on danger through a surreal image of a mulberry tree.
Wazed Abdullah highlights the beauty and charm of music. John Culp metaphorically illustrates how the world of natural and human-built objects metaphorically calls to each other and communicates.
Graciela Noemi Villaverde loses herself and her bearings in the vast fiery energy of her creativity.
Kristy Raines highlights how true love fosters her personal growth and helps her become her best self, while Samuel Dayo evokes the intense emotions that come from romance. Faleeha Hassan depicts a love that consumes a woman’s life yet perennially remains a fantasy. Elmaya Jabbarova wistfully reflects on the tender feelings that can come with love and separation while Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa rejoices in romantic and family love that shines like a light in a sea of cruelty.
Jim Meirose sends up a story about how we relate to the physical, animal parts of ourselves.
Denis Emorine’s new collection A Step Inside, reviewed by Cristina Deptula, probes the inner struggles of an artist to create.
Many others are involved in their worlds, yet still observing themselves and others from a distance.
John Grey reflects on uncertainty through his humorous poems on life’s caprices. Noah Berlatsky considers his relative importance in the poetic sphere with humility.
Jerry Durick’s poetic speakers attempt to figure out their travels in various humorous ways.
Duane Vorhees writes of living within this world and seeking transcendence beyond it, while J.J. Campbell speaks to mortality and nostalgia and Dilnurabonu Vaisova sends up a poem of love and longing. Niginabonu Amirova looks back on the games her grandparents played on the playground and the life lessons they learned from them.
Muhammad Ubandoma writes of natural and supernatural forces which people can’t escape. Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumnova expresses a sadness so deep she wishes to destroy her own poetry. Aasma Tahir relates a kind-hearted soul’s escape from a city that had hurt them, while Aklima Ankhi watches the state of the world with concerned vigilance.
This frame of mind has the advantage of allowing contributors to see the world as it is, yet speculate on alternative possibilities.
Maja Milojkovic urges all humans to heed the call of Mother Nature and keep the Earth clean and healthy. Mahbub Alam laments political violence and environmental destruction. Amanda Dixon describes her trip to a nature sanctuary along Georgia (USA)’s Ocmulgee River’s longleaf pine forests in great detail and reflects on how she and others can reconnect with nature. She further develops this theme in a poem on how embracing natural jungle environments helped heal post-traumatic stress syndrome for children of soldiers home from war.
Parvej Husain Takuder outlines some hypothetical positives and negatives of artificial intelligence technology.
Muhammad Ehsan offers a guide to leadership that inspires people towards competence rather than rote obedience.
Santiago Burdon conveys the continuing pull of past bad habits and wishes for better for himself.
Odina Rustamjonova resolves to make the most of life and keep a good attitude in hard times, while Terna Nicholas dreams of a better day in the future. Manzar Alam holds out long-awaited hope for a kinder world amidst terrible social injustice and violence.
Begim Khadjieva outlines a moral dilemma on friendship, family, and hospitality, while Rukhsatbegim Hojieva shares a story about the virtue of being good even at risk to yourself. Ochilova Nozima speaks to the importance of respect and love for one’s elders.
Sevenchbonu Ozodova contributes an essay on how girls and women need education and skills to ensure their security. Bakhtiyorova Gavkhar outlines the educational programs of a leading university in Uzbekistan.
Yahya Azeroglu describes the accomplishments of Turkish human rights campaigner Nergiz Muhammedi and her qualifications for the Nobel Peace Prize. Susie Gharib pays tribute to dead Middle East human rights activist Rachel Corrie while reflecting on loss, regret, and silence.
Daniel De Culla draws on a dead pigeon as a metaphor for civilians who die in wartime, while Taofeeq Ibrahim issues a strident call for peace in his nation. Mykyta Ryzhykh evokes the tragicomedy of life and death in light of modern warfare while Stephen Jarrell Williams speaks to death and desolation and to the day when the powerful who wish harm to others will be brought down. Sayani Mukherjee highlights the preciousness of peace, how working through conflict and finding common ground can be even more difficult than love.
This issue suggests that there’s a place for both spectators and participants, both for those who actively take part in life and those who stop to listen and learn first. We hope you enjoy these reads!
Longing letter
I took a step towards you again,
Hopes for the eternal springs.
I have a longing letter in my hand
Endless heart-wrenching writings.
I took a step towards you again,
I had to send my letter a long time ago.
A grassy suspicion scratches my heart
Missing does not give peace for some reason?
I take one step towards you,
Endless thoughts fall like rain.
What about U? There are thousands of you who are silent
The hearts are filled with hope.
I took a step towards you again,
There are empty rooms in my heart.
This is a longing note full of pain and lamentation,
I know you have those pictures in your mind.
I take a step towards you every day...
✍ Dilnurabonu Vaisova
Student of Bukhara state university
