Relatively Relative

In those gardens, tucked away from the city,
one of the main attractions when visiting you;
the affluence that laced this air with distorted tendrils,
a world away from my usual backdrop, and somewhat
strangely more exciting.

After we left that council funded attempt at tranquility,
we crossed the tree lined roads, that living room 
now just a fragmented memory, brandy snaps and whiskey 
in decorated glasses, your grin just slightly terrifying, overseeing 
everything.

Those stairs to steep for comfort, complimenting
the vertigo that was often caused by your presence, 
which left us all way too early, your wisdom expanded 
over three decades, only spoken in half drunk
conversation, your echo only ever intended to be 
a memory. 


No Chance of Rest

Together we gather, encapsulated in this web,
that hangs heavy with grit smeared rain drops
between broken branches of yew, 
still not ripe enough yet to carve into arrows.

This snare trap of time, with inheritance 
we never wished to accept. 
Our recreation once again cut short;
only the higher echelons have parks 
that remain open all evening. 

We retain strength in thimble sized vails,
the same tasks repeating like decreasing
circles in puddles of oil. 
The same days, weeks and hours 
shuffled like wine-stained playing cards. 

This handed down grind, which somehow
evolved into gratefulness, 
embraced with broken arms, 
which we still manage to retain a grip
on for long enough, and to eventually 
suggest a change. 


Failed Excuse

It doesn't seem so quaint and fine,
once it's crawling across your doorstep,
interfering with the breakfast tables;
residing in cupboards and meterboxes,
rifling through handbags and trouser pockets.

Eyes, however, suddenly begin to remove their glaze,
once fabrics and prescriptions beguin 
to burn at the edges and crumble 
at the slightest touch. 
The excuses now run painfully thin, 
like water pouring through crumbling dam cracks.

And now they claim protest,
but only with trepidation, 
a spare hour amongst hypocrisy, 
that still fails to convince them.
they now stir tea in broken cups,
"it will soon pass", they all promise.


The Same Plan

In this equal space, the clash of church
bells and car speakers, screams and barks
entwined like daisy chains around 
the neck of this city,

Washing hung with decomposing pegs,
casting secrets over ancient brick walls
smudged with soot like ash stained tables,
steam from gutters creating a convenient 
fog.

The buildings scraped empty and regenerated,
a crude taxidermy, as cracks widen within 
windows, telephone wires like buntin,
decorated with flags of this disposition. 

Another promised plan, a plaster
over gangrenous wounds, dangles
mid-air but never reaches the ground;
our mouths remain open, but it never
passes our throat. 

-

Jonathan Butcher has had poetry appear in various publications including The Morning Star, Popshot, Picaroon Poetry, The Transnational, Cajun Mutt Press, Mad Swirl, and others. His fourth chapbook 'Turpentine' was published by Alien Buddha Press.

Let’s save our world

Our Lord, who created the world,

He gave us the world as gift,

Let’s rise by living and creating,

The world that only shines light on our lives.

The world is entrusted to us,

It is necessary to share in every pain,

Choosing the good and the bad,

It is necessary to give a correct assessment.

In everyone’s actions and work,

You must have justice and conscience,

Standing guard of the Motherland

You should be a general and a soldier.

However, as more and more scientists,

Innovations are fake and unknown,

Oppressors rule in every corner,

The black spot on his forehead is not removed.

Don’t burn the forests,

Smoke and fog are everywhere,

You feel lack of oxygen and it’s hard to breath,

Because of this, life expectancy is reduced.

Do not use low-quality gasoline,

Do not release carbon monoxide,

Many types of gases are poisonous,

You can’t count the toxins in the air.

An ecological crisis is at the door,

War in every country

They fired shells pollute the air,

Even if they pray every day, in repentance.

Toxins are very harmful to mother,

This also affects the baby,

If parents live a healthy life,

The world will be paradise for every child.

Let’s not see every sin in someone else,

Let’s look at ourselves and understand,

Let’s not weave a spider’s web in the air,

Let’s rebuke the sinner in time.

Let’s go together hand in hand,

Let’s have hope and faith in the future,

Let’s save the world together

Let’s call people to courage.

Elmaya Jabbarova – was born in Azerbaijan. She is a poet, writer, reciter, translator. Her poems were published in the regional newspapers «Shargin sesi», «Ziya», «Hekari», literary collections «Turan», «Karabakh is Azerbaijan!», «Zafar», «Buta», foreign Anthologies «Silk Road Arabian Nights», «Nano poem for Africa», «Juntos por las Letras 1;2», «Kafiye.net» in Turkey, in the African’s CAJ magazine, Bangladesh’s Red Times magazine, «Prodigy Published» magazine. She performed her poems live on Bangladesh Uddan TV, at the II Spain Book Fair 1ra Feria Virtual del Libro Panama, Bolivia, Uruguay, France, Portugal, USA.

“What Has Passed”


An empty wine bottle

(reincarnated as a vase

for a dead rose)

tries its damnedest

to believe in ghosts,

but regardless

if that flower is loved enough

to let rot,

it's best to let what has passed

haunt or rest (both a leap

of faith that leaves one

grounded) in our yesterdays.



“Love Shaped Death”


It's there like an urban legend

spider crawling down your throat as you sleep,

or is it a mosquito one kills

with a dramatic clap,

only to be revulsed at realizing

the blood on your hands

is your own?


Perhaps this is the reason for guns

under pillows, or long looks

at grocery store bouquets

that force you to remember a name

you forgot you forgot,

but giving you something to talk about

with yourself when you get home.

Blue Rain

Restless neighborhoods bathed in blue rain

A man puts chickens in a coop

The dog is barking loudly

The wife soothes the children before bed

I think about us

We live far away

It’s warm in the bosom

You are the spirit I embrace

I’m dying to give you a name.

Emina Đelilović-Kevrić (Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina) After studying the b/h/s (bosnian/croatian/serbian) language and literature at the Philoshopical Faculty in Zenica she got her master’s degree on the subject „Memory construction in the South Slavic interlinear community: typical models of the war camp experience in literature“. She is the author of the poetry collection „ This time without history“ and the short stories collection „ Erased lives“. Her collection of poems „ My son and I“ is awarded by the Publishing Foundation of Bosnia and Herzegovina in 2021. In 2022 she won the second place in the international literature competition „ Isnam Taljić“. She is the winner of the second award for the best short story of the regional literature competition „Zija Dizdarević“ 2022, and she won the first place on international literature competition „Nastavi priču“. 2023. she won a third place on international poetry competition „Ossi di Seppia“ Italy.