Bring dynamite and a crane
Blow it up start all over again...

                               (Tobacco Road)


                           Obligation


                     His fly is open.
              His cock is a two-forked tongue of the bell.
Meanwhile, he sharpens a boning knife. 
                     The famulus is skinning the foil off a book.  
       Now the poet is the boss. (Hanging on a hook.)
Mr. Blockhead and Miss Witless complete
the selection committee.
 
After the explosions comes the living revolution 
paralyzed into barrenness      
       (It destroys things unnoticed.) 
The hissing, decaying wreckage of our world: 
       a billion barricades on the river Otter Tail. 

The poet would call the literates of Honeyland 
       hiding in the swamps, 

but they are blind,
deaf and
mute.



(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)
 

Bring dynamite and a crane
Blow it up start all over again...

                               (Tobacco Road)



                                   Obligation

                  

                                   Slicc nyitva. 
                                          A pöcs kétágú harangnyelv. 
       Közben csontozókést köszörül. 
                     A famulus könyvfólia-bőrt nyúz.  
       A költő most kápó. (Kampón függ.) Gyöpinger úr és 
                            Ostobenkó kisasszony kiegészíti
 
a választmányt.
 
A robbanások után jön az élő, 
meddővé vénült csend forradalma.  
       (Észrevétlenül pusztít.) 
Világunk sziszegve málló roncs-maradványai: 
milliárd torlasz a Vidrafarok-folyón. 

A lírikus szólítaná  Mézföld mocsarkba bújt 
írástudóit,

de vak,
süket,
némult mind…  

Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon)

Goetia


Legless centipede.        On all four.
                                              

A bloated abdomen split like a gangrenous log.
              (A fissure in a blinded mirror of ice) A shriveled faced pirate with dangling balls
                                        is the late prey of our civilization. 
       The deck is a lifeless quicky, 
where the flayflints of our freedom feast, 
              with their saliva dripping, 
       the laughing Grim Reaper dances like a living shred of meat on the festive table. 

"Go on, leave the wheel, turn into a bottlenose dolphin yourself!"

                     Behold, the hominid, 
              and his ubiquitous sidekick, 
this is what we deserve, 
       some hideous beast, it's holy true. "No, to the trough, 
my friends, but up for puking!" 

Then one day you'll awake in your grave, and touched by the one returning before us, "Come, leave it to the maggots," and points at the wobbling, 
        filmy moon-palm above us -

“you will now move into his body…"

              Freedom is simply as follows: the condemned man can choose the method of his execution. And we telling lies stating that this ever-decaying terminal stage is progress. Three-pronged wand, cudgel, bell, shrunken head of a man,
       sickle, wax rigidity after bloodsucking, catatonic delirium. 
              Fingerprints of our doings on cosmic flypaper. 
              The Earth purged of humanity, and the boisterous oceans are continue writing their history without us…


(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)

Goetia



       Épkézláb százlábú.        Négykézláb.
                                   ˙qálzéʞʎƃéN 
                                              

Üszkös fahasábként hasadó, felfúvódott has.
              (Hasadás megvakult jégtükrön…) Aszott pofájú, lógó tökű kalóz
                                        kései zsákmánya civilizációnk. 
       Élettelenné vált tákolmány a fedélzet, 
szabadságunk uzsorásai ott lakmároznak, 
              nyáluk csordul, 
       élő húscafatként táncra perdül a röhögő Kaszás az ünnepi asztalon. 

„Menj csak, hagyd a kormányt, változz pléhcsőrű delfinné te is!”

                     Íme, az emberszabású, 
              valamint a mindenütt megbúvó kísérője, 
amely, 	
amit érdemlünk, 
       valami undorító szörny, az szentigaz. „No, vályúhoz, 
cimborák, okádásig!” 

Egyszer aztán föleszmélsz a sírban, s megérint az előttünk visszatérő: „jöjj, hagyd a férgeknek,  - s a fölöttünk imbolygó, 
       hártyás hold-tenyérre mutat -
mostantól az ő testébe költözöl…”
              A szabadság mindössze ennyi: a halálraítélt választhat a kivégzési módok közül. S fejlődőnek hazudjuk ezt a folyamatosan hanyatló végstádiumot. Háromhegyű pálca, dorong, harang, zsugorított   
       emberfő, sarló, vérívás utáni viaszmerevség, kataton révület. 
              Viselt dolgaink újjlenyomatai a kozmikus légypapíron. Nélkülünk is tovább írja történetét 
              az emberiségtől megtisztult Föld, s a háborgó óceán. 

Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) poet, anarchist, occultist from Hungary. Earlier books: „(szellem)válaszok”, „A Nap és Holderők egyensúlya”, „Kiterített rókabőr” His poems in English have appeared in over a hundred journals. New book about to be published, “Delirium &…The Seven Haiku” (Published By DEAD MAN’S PRESS INK ALBANY, NY 2023). He has been nominated several times for international awards. He is known for being a spiritualist medium and his work explores the relationship between magic and art.

I am marginalised in my own country!

Emotions  

Feeling sick is a feeling that will come and go. 
The heart will tremble, the heart will break,
It will make your heart beat again,
It's a powerful feeling, to burn from the inside. 
Sometimes you can't hold back the tears
It has rained and it is flowing because of the sadness. 
You can't remove the pain from your heart, 
Hiccup - hiccup out of resentment. It's futile to protest the world, 
This is a prison for everyone. 
Someone's punishment is fun, fun, 
For some it is hard labor, pain, torture.
Fates are written for everyone, It's hard to get rid of it. 
No matter how far he goes, 
He came again and passed through his birthplace. 
He did not break hearts, if we approach privately,
Everyone will respect each other, 
It would be great if we could live by the law. 
Then the world will also respite.


Elmaya Jabbarova was born in Azerbaijan. She is a poet, writer, reciter, and 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.

Pain of Conscience

 It was a bitter winter… It was snowing… It never stopped… Mother and child were living together in a house at the tiny village. The mother was very kind to her child, and the child was very playful. However, despite this, he loved his mother very much. One day, Mrs.Mahbuba fell ill. The doctor came to see him. He checked the sister’s condition and prescribed a treatment for her. It was found that Mrs. Mahbuba has a very serious liver disease. The doctor left the house, saying that if this disease is not treated in time, it will end in death. Mrs. Mahbuba was very worried. Because Samandar was very young, he had not yet gone to school. Moreover, she was a very young and beautiful woman. Who will take care of him if she dies? He will become an orphan…

 On top of that, her father died in a car accident 2 years ago… The poor woman asked these questions over and over again. Since he was a seamstress in a sewing shop, he could not afford these expensive drugs. If she took two, she would not be able to pay for third. That is why his illness was getting worse. But as they say: “A mother’s heart is in the child, a child’s heart is in the field…” – Samandar did not know about his mother’s condition. After that, the winter and spring seasons ended, and finally the hot summer came. Due to her poor condition, Mrs.Mahbuba had to go to work 3 days a week. One day it fell late. Samandar still did not return home. His mother went to the street to look for him, but could not find him. Tired of walking so much, he started getting sick. A mother who is running out of medicine and has finally found her son. She brought him home… The mother died…

       Samandar was a big guy. He understood everything. Why didn’t he know his mother’s pain earlier? Why didn’t he come home earlier that day? These questions did not give him peace. Poor mother only cared for him even when she was sick. Samandar was tormented all his life by “Pain of Conscience”…

Safina Abdusalomova was born on March 23, 2007 in Sariosia district, Surkhandarya region. Currently, she is a student of the 68th general education school. During the last school year, she took the proud 3rd place in the Olympiad held under the name of “The best school for learning English”. In addition, she took part in the competition “English Language Scholars” and won many places. In the 2021-2022 academic year, in the “Most Exemplary Captains Competition” organized by the “Youth Agency”, together with her team, she took the proud 1st place at the district level, and the proud 2nd place at the regional level. Se is currently the “Head of Press and Media Department” at the 68th General School. Se tested himself in the “Examination of English Language Proficiency” held on June 11, 2023 and obtained the CEFR certificate B2 level. Currently, she is learning English and Korean. In the future, IELTS 7+ level has started a huge effort.

Weeping as a Mutilation of Fear

Today, every face in my community bears tears like a mutilation

All ears of our land are worn out by the

acerbic headlines whistling out from our radio.

Outside, the whole land is becoming a sea of corpse

In here, fear has a large apartment in our bodies than blood.

In this home we cannot home

For we are preys chased by wild raiders

Yesterday, the raiders strike in at midday,

and left with my father’s blood on their knife.

Yesterday, a holocaust ate up my uncles barn of grains and hays

and at the time the day became grey,

another mutilation of fear and tears outshone from our faces.

Nags of gunshots are chirps of birds,

A tragic song we perceive on steady basis.

Perhaps my father’s God said that the day

violence chews the serenity of our land,

we should know we are approaching the butt of life

and so we pray this day not for the end of violence,

but for the kickstart of apocalypse.

Purpose of Everything

If one is to drink water, 
urinate to dispose water,
and later be thirsty again.
What is the use of drinking water? 
If everything is for naught?
Why do most creatures eat, sleep, labor and fight to survive?
Some believe in life after death, 
but there are those who do not. 
Why do they persist doing good 
when there are others doing bad?
If everything is for naught? 
Why mate, procreate and strive daily in order to have better life?
Why do people even care to seek to understand when all is for naught?
Why do people seek power, fame, and glory when all is for naught?
Or is everything really for naught?

Deadliest Weapon

Guns to be banned. Knives to be banned
I am waiting for when rocks are banned. After all, a rock was known to be the first murder weapon. Or so I heard about Cain and Abel.
But then, how should we go about herbs, drugs, missiles, bombs, media and tongues? 
Mind is the deadliest murdering weapon I think. 
With so many ways of killing weak and innocent ones, even without any logical reason at all. With so many wicked moves for different kinds of death, not only by losing one's life.
So sad that it is innocent ones being snatched from the living stage, and the culprit never dies, just changing names and bodies to dwell in.
So sad, when the culprit is being protected, while the innocent ones are ignored. When data is accepted without confirming the accuracy of information.
So sad, that right belongs to the might, and blame belongs to the shield. When one is compelled to stand on the sides or be a collateral damage as well.
So sad, that a candle lighted to face the darkness seems to be losing a battle against a collective wind that trespasses a private room.





Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry. Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and consider poetry as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.