Twists

 

We are a tangle.

 

He sees himself

As master-at-

Arms, twists

The appendage

Behind.

 

Transmogrifies.

Becomes the monster

On the table

From memory, from

Lore.

 

Dancer, statesman,

Retiree, friend of toxic

Masculinity.

 

Who can understand

Why anyone, who would

Hurl stones through

His windows.

 

Foolish tire-waisted

King of television, who

Hides behind shiny metal

 

Instruments of fear.

 

Who hides.


 


 

 

I used to think the Kingdom

Of God was rolling in like

A fire,

 

And I had better roll with it.

But couldn’t. It wasn’t me. I was a quiet

Soul on a bench.

 

An occasional tear.

 

As though I could summon

Another person inside, another voice that would

Be more valuable.

 

Gumption, you don’t have enough gumption

To stand. Wrong, but how it wrung me.

 

I had not yet found the right place

To find footing yet, like slipping toes

On the wet stones of a forest path.

 

As though a shout was all I needed

To prove myself – to whom?

 

I worried my head

Was too full

Even with a sensing muscle inside.

 

Such worries have so often proven

False, reifying identity,

Finding compassion where others find

Fences

 

And fences where others find welcome.

 

I am who I am, perhaps created, I believe

Created – angry, silent, bereft, doubting,

Certain, confused, clear, seeing the steam’s

Bottom on mud at once.

 

            Seeking.

 

A creature of calm, not cacophony,

But speaking, not only when spoken to.

Who would rather read one

Book I love

That a thousand so-so stories.

 

Who sits, listens, writes,

Letting a thousand pasts and possibilities

Ride by with a thousand worries

 

Calling from the backseat. Awake.


 

An Upside

 

Down

            World, the floor a floor

            The cavern walls,

Rising above, this is the cold winter world

I discovered as a teenager when a new path

Opened.

 

Want to come to my house?

I knew that invitation could lead to screaming

Diapered trouble. Found that bit of fear inside

That wouldn’t trade a moment for a life.

 

Rising above, a tundra sky, welcoming

Ice that will make you slide if you don’t watch

It. Watch it.

 

When will warmer

Weather come? The climate is cold,

Like standing in a stranger’s kitchen, like

Bobbing heads of angry on the way

Out the door. Like an earthworm heart.

 

Like the blank spot next to another

That won’t be filled. Anytime soon. No one’s

Home because someone’s always hiding.

 

Fuck it, I’m not hiding

Anymore. Tired of traipsing

Worries and woes behind me like a row

Of babbling, honking geese.

 

Bread is now baking in the oven, even

If it’s not my oven. Anymore.


 

Poison in the Yard

 

The common morel, of course,

populated our dinner table, popping

up like – well, you know.

 

We had a field guide with illustrations

that were a little too imprecise

for my liking. Glossy pages, the title

might as well have been:

 

How Not to Die Around the House.

 

Decades later, as I approach middle age,

I hear the phone ring, the static story buzz

of how my father insisted he had found

 

a safe one.

 

Cooking it, liquid like blood leached out

in the butter-laden skillet, nature’s final warning,

and my mother tried to convince him.

 

He insisted and, thankfully, made it through,

a testament that even the memories that grow

locally sometimes have death in the middle.

 


Recluse 

 

No, not the brown kind,

scrambling creature with legs

and venom, fiddle belly.

 

Such creatures are proof

of the story of Lucifer to me,

fallen from some ancient ago.

 

Yet, recluse/reclusive, still.

 

I think I know enough of fellow 

humans to suggest a modicum

of reclusiveness can be helpful,

 

the stirring of murmurs commonly

drowned by the din,

 

the steep mountain of self-

acceptance, laden with barbs,

packed with prevarications.

 

Yes, rejected, I reject; refused,

I refuse; distanced, I say now I am

in my starry cavern.

 

Don’t let my inner music 

dare to disturb.


 

Stillville

 

There’s a hollowed-out mouth in the rockwall

of mountain, where the trappings of an old still

are located.

 

Visitors to the park gawk at it, some laugh, and some

touch the marks of an alcoholic’s anger, wherever

such scars can still be found.

 

I myself was seventeen the first time I took

a drink of some cheap wine from a Sam’s Club

bottle and thought: What’s the big deal with this?

 

Others swallow a drop and are caught. But I have

been raptured by other invitations.

 

A bit further up the mountain, you can look to your left

and see a giftshop where items may be purchased

to remember the days of yesteryear: outhouses, smokehouses,

 

old women spitting tobacco into open containers

with a pinging sound, like shelling beans. It’s the insecurity

 

that comes from being born of such a place that makes

me switch my code by adding my g’s to the end of words.

 

But, of course, we all come from some hollowed-out

story in the side of some grander scheme.


 

The Paradox of Connection

 

I’ve been told that men only want to gather

and talk about sports or alcohol. 

Well, aside from bouncing a basketball back

and forth with my Dad in the hallway

of my childhood memory, I don’t know a damn

bit about sports.

 

Alcohol is lovely but sits in the back of my throat

in the middle of the night. Each sip is a sacrifice

of a moment of rest.

 

I’ve been told that, as a man, my best bet at friendship

with women will always end in some kind of desire

for romance for one of us. Not that I’m insanely irresistible,

but this is the When Harry Met Sally outlook on life.

 

This is also one problem with a binary existence.

 

Relegated to a digital space for connection, I marvel

at how much human experience is captured in the click

of a like, in the share of a post. Sometimes, someone will

jump into the conversation. This is dicey.

 


 

Don’t steal my thunder, man. Don’t jump in and subvert

the post. This is the only fucking outlet I have.

Connected with more people than ever before, that

titular paradox is the inherent distance.

 

But then sometimes, in a moment of masculine bonding,

someone will surprise me over a bite:

 

            Have you thought about…

            Have you read…

 

and my ears, were they as active as a dog’s, would

settle back into a contented conversation.

Precipitation and Evaporation as the Science of Human Creation

Like a boy who holds a piece of marker
Scribbling on a white board
Writing, erasing…
God writes, too,
 But erases, with purposes. 

And so when HE writes, 
Prints of shoes we find at our doorstep, 
Like the footprints of rain on the chest of the earth. 
Then I learnt,
That everyone comes as two bodies, heavenly bonded,
Showing God's journey to the earth. 

At a time, a body of water
Leaves green footprints on tree-begging palms, 
With a water pot
 Emptying itself without breaking. 

At other times, a sun that flashes the earth
To set, leaving no ray behind
 But clothes every tree with brown leaves,
With a pot's shards, 
Or bore its content for the soil or both.

Here, I knew that,
The soil upon which trees were raised
Is in serious rivalry with the trees
For God's gift whenever he visits the earth. 
Trees are closer to the sky
But this does not matter,
As a gift that is meant for the soil
Shall have its way into her mouth,
Through the thin lines in between trees' palms. 
And if a gift is meant for the tree, 
Trees shall be perfect enough to save the score. 

At first, I thought this was God's bearing a scale
Between the trees and the soil,
But no, the soil has it all in the end
As all was just about writing now and erasing later. 

Ridwanullah Solahudeen, Olalekan is a Common and Islamic Law undergraduate of Bayero University, Kano. He is a patriotic member of the Nigeria’s largest youth and teen writers’ Foundation, Hilltop Creative Arts, Osun branch. His works have appeared and forthcoming on Spillwords, the Piker Press, Synchronized Chaos, D’lit review, Al-mirath Islamic magazine, the academy of hearts and minds, inter alia. He was the winner of the Muslim Students’ Society of Nigeria’s Best Essayist Award for secondary schools in Nigeria, 2019; Mahmud Kola Adesina, SAN, Osun State Best Essayist Award for Secondary Schools in Osun, 2020; Brainbuilders Teen Speak Out 7.0, 2019 1st runner-up award; and Stars Writers’ Award for his short story, Without Despair. Ridwanullah is currently making ASUU’s suffocating strike win-win for himself at Ikolab Mayor Aluminium Depot, where he is doing his entrepreneurial training.

Seascape with Gulls: 
My Father’s Last Painting

An Ekphrasis
by
David R. Topper


Look,
they are not your usual strokes.
Not the stringent way you controlled your brush
all those years 
from Art School to an evening hobby to
this Seascape
that water
these waves
those gulls.
A lifetime drawing & sketching
mostly painting, mainly oils
with details, details, details – 
your forte.
You liked it when someone said 
“Oh, it looks so real, like a photograph.” 
But, of course, you worked from magazines 
National Geographic, Life, calendars, too.


Look again,
they are your strokes.
Someone said
“Looks like a watercolor.” 
Look closer,
the opaque white 
with traces of a brush’s bristles 
in oil paint with extra linseed oil
in very thin layers. 
The same way you made your sandwiches
thinly spreading the peanut butter & jelly.
A vestige of growing up during The Depression,
part of being frugal.
No, not frugal,
cheap … or
tightfisted, as they said then.

Look, really, 
they are not your strokes. 
Too broad, too loose, too vague 
too imprecise, too open, too unfinished
too expressive for your temper –  
not your usual rigidity.

Aah, 
the onset of dementia,
after those other strokes 
released & relaxed your brain’s severe part, 
loosening the grip on your hand, 
bringing this Seascape into being. 

And,
at the same time, as dementia
shut down another part of your brain,
all desire to paint vanished,
leaving Seascape with Gulls
 – your first and last unfettered work – 
	
as the very best artistic expression in your life.   

Dyunlekan was born in a place that is covered with deep woods. That place was still covered with white snow. Reddish-grey ground will be seen only in summer. What saw Dyulecan in the world is his father’s wooden cabin, green fir trees and nut trees, flannel dogs and deer that pull sledges, sky, cloudes and frog. He also knew polar fox, blue wolfe, brown and black bear and bogs of the thicket. Although his father, Mirgachan, told him about marvelous things of other worlds, he hardly believed that they existed. How could he believe the things he hadn’t seen?

One day a helicopter landed on the thicket. As every child Dyulekan was surprised looking at helicopter. His hair was as brown as bear and his eyes were as blue as the lake. He was coming towards Mirgachan, Dyulekan’s father, also was hurried: “ –At last you came, Victor – he said.

“ –Mirgachan, it has passed 12 years since we last met”, – a white man slightly beated on Mirgachan’s shoulder. “ – Where is your son, at that time he was a new born child. The time flies.”

Mirgachan met Victor, when Dyulecan was born. This all because adventurous Victor fifteen years before visited this village and got lost in the wood. Fortunately, Mirgachan on the sledge ran into him. He took Victor to his wooden home and gave him to warm himself. He made healing tea by verdures and gave him. These were the reasons of their making friendship. Uncle Victor told him about the world, where he lived and Mirgachan wanted to go to that world. So, uncle Victor took him to Moscow. Mirgachan came back with a lot of impressions and would always tell about another world with pleasure. Because no one expect Mirgachan had been there. Uncle Victor lived a week at Dyulecan’s cabin. During this week Mirgachan took him for hunting on the sledge with dogs. Mirgachan also went for a trip on the sledge with deer. Uncle Victor was very happy. Near to his leaving, uncle Victor invited Mirgachan to Moscow again.

“ – No, thank you,’ – he refused seriously, ”– I have been there. I won’t go again. Impressions which I’ve taken are enough for me to the rest of my life. Can my son Dyulecan go with you, if you don’t mind? I want him to have conception about another world. “

Uncle Victor listened to Mirgachan with a smile on his face and agreed to his offer. So, Dyulecan on the iron bird came to Moscow. To Dyulecan’s surprise, there weren’t any wooden houses. They lived as a flock of deer in the crowded square houses that reminded big stone boxes. Besides, there were glass building all around and they hang colorful lams everywhere. They shone day and night over noisy city. They cut the wood and build wide plains. They go in the cars, but not on the sledge. Just to please Dyulecan uncle Victor took him to places, where women have short hair like men’s and wear open closes. He saw uncountable new things like underground, internet, hypermarket, bar, disco clubs. They all were artificial and strange for Dyulecan. Because all people here talked using such senseless words as massage, “odnoklasniki”, “what’s app”, “facebook”, “office”. Dyulecan missed his own home. Because there people talked about sky, bread, wood and deer in his native language – tungus.




ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 


Sherzod Komil Khalil was born on 13th September in 1982 in Kitab  district, Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. He studied at Uzbekistan National  

University for Bachelor of philosophy from 1999 to 2003. Sherzod gained a master degree in Modern philosophy and history of the West from 2003 to  2005. 

He also studied for Higher Literature Course. In 2016, Sherzod Kamil Khalil’s book “Ileft Poetry” was published in the United States. His works have been published in more than twenty languages. Sherzod Kamil Khalil is the brightest figure of young writers of Central Asian literature.He currently lives in the Writers' Town in Peredelkino, Moscow.

 Now Sherzod Komil Khalil is a freelance writer

Tan-Renga by Christina Chin & James Young 


late moonrise 
the blood moon bleeds
an unsettling howl

the clock says it is
the time i think it is



a sacrificial fowl
at the crossroad 
incoherent chants

the book falls
title page up



licking thin lips
a raspy whisper 
lights her eyes

drawing closer
we are all there



creating potions
the new priestess 
casts spells 

the cat
watching a spider



drumming 
on the lintel beam
a woodpecker

across the cemetery 
no heads turn

PRAGUE, CENTER OF THE WORLD

I was happy in Prague.
Because I drank the best spirits
Meet a historical fact
Yes, Prague is a country of existence
Where people are very happy
I was a tourist one day.
But I felt like it every day.
I am their resident.
Because they are really good people.
Historical battles are shown
Where people with swords fought
For the history of his country
In all this, it is as if I find myself
Because the meaning of life is my existence.
Love was born in that wonderful time.
When no one cared, it wasn't
Prague is the centre of the world for me.
Because I feel free in it.
The reason for life is now more persistent
Because the Czech Republic is the land of peace and happiness


COLD WEATHERS
Winter has come
In a white coat
There's a man standing
That was me.
And I looked around
Austria is a country of cold
Rich in Mozart balls
Eight euros and much more
I was amazed by the garden
At Schoburn Castle
And everything is as if they are in a dream.
More than ever especially
Because I'm so happy
Why I meet people at night
Culture and Art
I appreciate everything about them
Because they are people
Similar menu
Cold but beautiful
Because the meaning of life is
To look forward to a new day
Coming to me
Austria is my dream
To experience it again
Because love is very clear
When I have what I want!

Maid Corbic from Tuzla, 22 years old. In his spare time he writes poetry that is repeatedly praised as well as rewarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and he is moderator of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for humanity and peace in the world in Bhutan.