The Straight Path: In Praise Of Israeli and Palestinian Poets

I am writing this to honour the dead. Every single person that’s experienced affliction during this, what they call, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

Like Yehuda Amichai, I “believe that all poetry is political because it deals with a human response to reality”. King Netanyahu, King Palestine, I bow before you. War builds new empires, genocides build new countries. In a heartbeat poets are immortalised during war. This has taken place since ancient times. This has been a bad year. Israeli and Palestinian poets and writers are chasing hope, peace of mind. Mosab Abu Toha writes, “I have these stories with me. The hard part was reflecting on my feelings, not my experience. There are two parts to any story, the experience and the feelings…And this is what poetry is to me”.

A poet understands the blank page because they are a philosopher. The night sky isn’t an airstrike, it turns into starlight, a constellation beyond becomes a wildflower, a hostage becomes a freedom fighter. A poet has no country, a poet belongs to the world, and they speak on behalf of humanity, for the generation that came before, and the one that will follow.

It isn’t war, it is a fight for humanity, for the return of a divine power to set the record straight. It isn’t conflict, it is more of a human nature to amplify the genetic predispositions for chronic illness, mood disorder, and manic depression. In that meeting room, that place, that space, holding the laws, in that tender room lies the rhythm and vibration of eternal rest. The poet is the holder of a moral compass.

In the poet’s hands a straight path becomes a detailed map encompassing vision and interior, shapes of consolation that carry divine power.

What is this vision

this interior

these shapes of consolation

men, women, children

turn into a wave

their body becomes

a ripple in a sea

this poem lands in a river

for all eternity

Poets have a sacred language

every word is from the divine

All life is sacred

Poetry nourishes. In conflict, we confront and sabotage.

I fade into your hurt

into this poem

into your collective pain

to build a home

to build a country

to build a sanctuary

in war, it takes peace

a collective peace of mind

words, the poems

of Israeli and Palestinian poets

it is only death that parts us

in war there are tanks

but also summer and wildflowers

I suppose if you can

handle melancholy (see depression)

you can handle anything.

Death is neither

just or fair. Life is neither just

or fair. In war, in the Israeli-

Palestinian conflict there are still

novels, plays, films. In war, poetry

is a saint. Poetry is truth.

Poetry is meant for humanity

Death can wait. I write this journal entry as if I found a journal that belonged to a poet in the rubble of the aftermath of an Israeli airstrike. Perhaps it is the journal of a poet who is studying at an Israeli university. They left this journal behind on a bench found on the campus. Poets want the same thing. Poets believe in the same thing. They believe in truth.

I am underground in this dream

Underground they tell me

that there’s a tunnel

that will lead me to your body

I take seed with me

Next Spring wildflowers

will grow in that tunnel

to commemorate the departures

of both the dead and the living

A child, a young bride doesn’t know the meaning of instability, or how to handle emotional triggers in war. Poetry is not meant for enlightened beings, beings of light or only dark, poetry is an act of defiance, a source of justice and integrity. Poetry is meant for humanity. I turn the page. Death can wait but not life.

I am, I was

You are, you were

and so, a new chapter begins

I give in to gravity

to madness and despair

to this book of lives

Look how this poem

becomes a river

and look how every

ripple turns into a ceasefire

Poets and novelists understood, understand what was meant by personal freedom, every artist that ever lived, dead or alive, those remembered, those whose work have turned to dust.

The following is an extract taken from my essay “The Hypomanic, And Unquiet Mind Of The Tortured Poet” published on LinkedIn.

“Here are some life events, people found in the unquiet imagination of a thinker, intellectual, philosopher, activist, that a female poet from Africa envisions. Reading poetry is a sensation that is fluid. It is nourishing, this thin activity. It reminds us of our survival. That our survival is found in our blood, and the ladders of our genes. Survival is also found in the unquiet mind of the tortured poet. Death is just another location. To be oblivious to someone is like being in an alternate universe (paralysis). How do you communicate with this person, people that you love if you can’t embrace them, talk to them and it torments you. I think you give them a signal. When you’re in love it is almost like an illness, this stupor, this nameless disturbance. And the poet writes, but what do other people do who aren’t poets? They let life happen to them. They find that concentrated quiet word ‘love’ beneath them, complicated, and unnatural to them. The body of a woman is art. The body of a man is art. Art has both physical and spiritual dimensions to it like an empty mountain, the rural countryside, unbroken communication, old men and women reliving their childhood through flashbacks, memories and dreams and their own grandchildren.”

I write as a poet, as humanity for the children, men and women of Israel and Palestinine but especially for the children and this is my prayer for all who are affected by the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. No one is immune to pain. Perhaps more so, a vulnerable child who cannot defend themselves against a tank.

Let us pray for small children. Let us pray for new beginnings for them. Their expressions of laughter, enthusiasm and glee from a novel discovery. Let us pray for the affection of small children. Let us pray for mothers and matriarchs. Let us pray for single parents and grandmothers. Watch them as they smile. Watch the innocence in their eyes. Ideas transform society and so we become an unlimited and united family who no longer feel triumphant and arrogant by material accomplishments in the world but whose body consciousness becomes much more spiritual.

We feel that we are no longer devoted to or expressing spiritual poverty. Protective wings sheltered us when we were young. We were lotus flowers and so we began to discriminate between the two images. The images of arrogance and success. The images of success and humility. Let us pray for the vicious, negative vibrations that we cannot escape in war, in conflict, in occupation, in genocide. Let us pray for the leaders of Israel and Palestine, and for the setting of goals. Humanity needs to release him/her/every child from anxiety, loneliness, bitterness, resentment, regret, past humiliation and weakness, past mistakes that have been made in a moment of passion, anger, outrage, violence, brutality, depression and stress, frustration and a feeling of being pathetic in a situation that you had no control over.

Let it go. Release it. Surrender it to the universe. Now we come to rewards. We pray for a clear intellect. We pray for a lack of ego. We pray for a clarity of vision. Goals that will lead to rewards and a flow of concise language. In the human drama that everyone has a role to play a part in be careful what you feed the intellect. Pray for your children, pray for your family, pray for humanity, pray for the plant kingdom that nurtures the human family, pray for the animal kingdom that protects you and your folk and kin, pray for your guardian angels, your spirit guides, your earth angels, your family who have crossed over into the hereafter.

Humanity is concerned with the ego and not with the lack of it. The brothers and sisters of your human family whether they are believers and non-believers are concerned with atonement, and charity. The easiest ways to love, honor, cherish and obey in hardship and struggle is realising that it is all a part of your journey, your destination, the fork in the road, the open road, the pathway. These are all beautiful things to realise. Almost as beautiful as statues. Are we living life the way we should? Are you being very careful with what we are feeding the intellect? With our thought processes?

There will always be people to uplift you. Look to the poets and novelists to enrich and uplift you. Do you have a tendency to panic when things do not go your way? This happened in apartheid South Africa. This happened to Mandela and other freedom fighters. In war, all soldiers are freedom fighters. Appreciate the fact that life is sending you obstacles and challenges and opportunities. Realise that sometimes you are limited in the help you can give other people but know that you will eventually empower and uplift other people with the simplicity of your humility.

The Christian prays the following: God, sovereign Lord, sweet Christ, our caretaker, language and protector. We pray that you will help us value our achievements on this planet earth with a clarity of vision, with effortless and with constant love, a grateful heart and humility. Make me realise that a situation is only as difficult as I want it to be and that we all need someone to lean on in hard times. When we are going through trials, let us learn that a problem shared is a problem solved.

The members of this family in their own way have, like all people around the world, felt lonely, vulnerable, different, rejected, the outsider for their faith, their religion, stigma, addiction, the spirit of brokenness in relationships and they do not want this exposed because it is a sign of weakness.

The energy of this world is becoming more and more unstable (for example, climate change and the talk of social cohesion, and there is a lack of respect that young men and young women have for their elders, they worship the material life, the physical).

But in war, all children are extraordinary. They have the intention and the potential to do the impossible. A mother’s work like a community leader’s work is never done. She is the nurturer. With her constant unconditional love, she is working with the classical ingredients to make a home. She uses her energy and her resources; the source is her unwavering faith. If you are a child in war, then you are an exceptional, extraordinarily built child. If you are a mother, then you are special beyond words, lovely beyond imagination, intelligent that goes without saying, and elegant.

Let us pray that we will change old patterns, spark new and magnificent breakthroughs, take on adventure, a leap of faith and make the perfect landing.

Dearest Humanity, it takes one person, one enlightened being, one poet to start a movement. Remember that. King Netanyahu, King Palestine, and the powers that be, I kneel before you and ask for a ceasefire.

Published on the Modern Diplomacy website in the blog African Renaissance on December 5, 2024.

ALEXANDER FEINBERG IS A GENUINE POET WHO LIVES ETERNAL IN UZBEK’S HEART

          Maftuna Bozorova O’lmas qizi

    The first-year student in Uzbekistan State World Languages

       In the faculty of Foreign languages and literature: English

ABSTRACT: This article basically describes the life of Alexander Feinberg, a pure-hearted and immensely talented national poet, translator, an author of many films, and writer. Alexander Feinberg’s dedication for the development of Uzbek poetry is covered in this article, giving readers a brief detail about his life. The information about his works, career and his importance in Uzbekistan, his great services for the Uzbek people is given concisely. Furthermore, by reading this article, you can learn not only about Feinberg, but also you recognize his true love and respect towards Uzbekistan and its nationality. Despite having some unfortunate moments and bad luck in his life, he managed to keep an interest for literature.

KEYWORDS: Alexander Feinberg, contribution, poetry, literature, awards, brilliant figure, heritage, dazzling, significance, remarkable.

    Literature is such a bright sky that has a power of clouds, the brightness of the sun, and the quietness of the moon; such a garden which contains a plethora of fragnant flowers; such a golden bridge that unites all people and develop the bonds of friendship. When somebody asks about the person who has flied confidently and proudly in the firmament of uzbek literature despite being in an another nation, one can definitely remember Alexander Feinberg who was awarded the Pushkin medal in 2008 for his great contribution for the development of cultural relations between Uzbekistan and Russian Federation. He is one of the most incredible and national poets in Uzbekistan. His firm love toward Uzbek nationality led him to be a part of Uzbek literature so that he created many works, scenaries, and cartoons while living in Tashkent fo a long time. Literary works first and foremost determine dazzling remarkable expressive talent and aesthetic level. Alexander Feinberg Arkadeivich is brilliant figure of the second half of XX century’s Russian literature. His works stands out with its deep philosophical meaning, adversities of life and ability to learn people’s inner thoughts. Feinberg’s work make readers think, and leave rich and unforgettable impression emotionally.

     One of the most bestseller and well-known book he wrote is called “Border”. This novel delineates events happened during the war years, and tells us about human exploits, boldness and confidence. The collection called “Frightening stories” also brought a huge fame to the writer. His stories make a reader feel threatened, give time to medidate themselves with various thoughts and effects emotionally. The psychology of people, fear and toxic relationships between people is clearly described in his stories.“Chigir”,a book published in recent years, caught the attention of many poetry votaries as a exclusive creative work. It is also worth mentioning that he translated many ghazals, poems and works of various Uzbek writers, including Alisher Navai, Erkin Vahidov, Omon Matjon, and Abdulla Oripov. He contributed for the works of Alisher Navai to be published in Russian language in 10 volumes.

Alexander is an author of fifteen poem collections. After enriching his knowledge of literature and vocabulary, and exploring “mysteries” in poetry consummately, he started to translate works of Uzbek writers and he has achieved many accomplishments in this field. Moreover, based on his scenarios, fourteen long literary films and more than twenty cartoons are shot for television. Generally, he gained a huge respect, love and affection in the soul of Uzbeks. In this process, in the words of V.A. Jukovskiy he tried to be ideal “rival” for those whose works are being translated by others, not the “slave”.

“A flock of swans” published in Tashkent, a capital city of Uzbekistan, “Rebellion of ghosts” by Erkin Vohidov, and such translations of the works of Uzbek poets are the greatest point of Feinberg’s translation performance. Although the poet Alexander Feinberg, who made remarkable contribution for the progress of Uzbek literature did not write in Uzbek language, his poems professionally embodied the characteristics and princeples of uzbek people. His works include “Etyud” (1967), “Soniya” (1969), “Poems” (1977), “Distant Bridges” (1978), “Short wave” (1983), “Free Sonets” (1990) and so on. His poems are printed in magazines named “Smena”, “Youth”, “New World”, “Eastern star”, “New Volga” and also in periodic publishers of foreign countries like USA, Canada, and Israel.

Some of his works covers a sense of humour. For instance, in his epic “Ruboiy tori”, he describes the plov, a national food in Uzbeks’ kitchen with jokes so that it is impossible to read this without smiling. It is noticeable that he managed to connect both Eastern and Western culture, their traditions. His works truly illustrate the link between past and present, traditionalism and progressivism, thereby creating a particular literary world.

                A man can be alive, if he defies the lie,

                Delay the time, he will never make a plea

                You were the river, now turned to sea

                 You will soon emerge, as the ocean high.

                 Like grayish surf, the wave will soar,

                 Right on the arrogant, marble cliff,

                  With salty and bitter freshness biff.

                  In eons your images will dissolve,

                  All your life you have been so desperate.

                  To find out, that you were born great.

                   And longed for an angel’s voice for it.

                   So you he could say, yes, this is your fate.

      This poem written by Feinberg has a deep meaning, and leaves a person silent so that he think about its words to understand the core meaning. Its words makes a person reflect and think for some time.

Alexander Feinberg worked as a consultant in the Uzbekistan Writers’ Union during 1965-1969. He conducted seminars for the writers of Uzbekistan in Tashkent for several years. He is an author of the film called “House under the hot sun” (1997, Uzbek film). After being accepted for Tashkent Topographical College, Feinberg wandered around the country as a geologist and it filled his heart with love for nature. At the same time, his first book “Bicycle Pathway” is published. With the great assistance of this book, he upsurged to progressive stages in literature.

     Although is childhood ,the most significant moments of his life, coincided with World War II, he developed his passion for learning literature in order to be well-educated and have a shining and successful future. His talent and interest in literature evolved and started to work at the University Publication. Glancing at his literary works, it is not difficult to notice that his collections spread quickly around the world. He managed to become one of the great writers of his period among other Uzbek writers, despite being a Russian. In one of his essays, he wrote, “There is a cheer in my forehead, I live in the independent nation of Uzbekistan… Uzbek writers have helped me several times in the field of literature. Abdulla Aripov, Erkin Vohidov, and many others. During the moments of my career, more writers, artists, musicians, and other professionals have been friendly to me”. These words truly emphasize his huge esteem and admiration to Uzbeks and vice versa.

       Why he gained such an honor in Uzbek’s soul? Firstly, he had a advanced level of creating works and poetic eccentric aptitude. Alexander is valuable figure for us, Uzbeks, and for his patriotism and loyalty for his motherland. His works that showcase a real love toward Uzbekistan and his attitude for poetry traditions require special pages in the history of Uzbek literature. His contribution for literature is highly regarded and respected by the government. Honourable awards, “Uzbekistan public poet”in 2004, “Culture personnel who served in Uzbekistan” in 1999 bear witness to endless respect of uzbeks toward such a great person. He absolutely can be a great motivation for everyone and he will continue to be a kind of genuine article for many in a long run. It is fair to say his works have been an intangible and prominent heritage for Uzbek literature.

REFERENCES

1.https://www.intereuroconf.com/index.php/THPFSPMS/article/view/3744/2903

2. Ishq degani bir qarashda tuyular oson, 811.161.1-1 84-2(2Рос=Рус) F20. Toshkent:Ijod NASHR nashriyoti, 2021. – 72b. ISBN 978-9943-6561-1-6

3.https://uz.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aleksandr_Faynberg

4.https://interonconf.org/index.php/idre/article/download/10923/9196/9003

5.https://yuz.uz/uz/news/aleksandr-faynbergning-yorqin-xotirasiga

6.https://cyberleninka.ru/article/n/the-importance-of-the-uzbek-people-and-uzbekistan-in-the-artistic-creation-and-life-of-alexander-feinberg/viewer

7.https://mudarrisziyo.uz/index.php/innovatsiya/article/download/16/12/13

8.https://jeev.innovascience.uz/index.php/jeev/article/view/826/703

9.https://www.intereuroconf.com/index.php/IEMWDSE/article/view/3807/2938

10.https://www.intereuroconf.com/index.php/THPFSPMS/article/view/5126/3780

Out of the Woods

Little spider, stick to your web.

Or else abandon your sorrows for the way.

            —from discover the Buddha

In the story there are always two children.

Lost in the woods.

Brother and sister

rooted in forgetfulness

as if we are all in a dream with them

wandering,

coming upon: a stream

a rickety cottage

our family history of neglect.

*

So, what do we know

besides the way is unclear?

This, our first lesson in life

and what we continue to tell ourselves,

slaves to our desires.

Some kind of test to reveal something,

to prove someone more powerful than us or

to prove we have hidden power:

climbing a beanstalk

outsmarting the wolf

fitting the right slipper in time.

What we can’t accept

is the truth—spider web of sorrows,

of our own making—and what

we can’t let go of.

*

If we sit still long enough,

not searching for the just-right bed

or following bread crumbs, if

we listen for the still, small voice, if

we stop painting walls new colors

trying to make a difference,

the way finds us,

our mind stream poised for another

body to breathe in,

“I” disappeared,

no self in any life

no web, no magic word,

no spell to cast.

What Could Be Known

            the idea of empire—

            of winnowing chaff from grain—

heresy as in

            early maps of the human body

in the era of God—

their makers’ sinful pride in opening up

bodies needed for an era of Man,

still, I recall this idea

of an empire between us, or

rather,

what could be known—

                                    your heart?

us falling off the edge of the earth, or

                                    rather,

joss sticks waving scent—

blessings at sunrise, sunset,

bone cage, linen, raven, feldspar;

            a field in breathy October;

an abstract painting of two lovers;

what the artist almost captured:

            beyond language there is meaning,

how they sit on the porch of the palace

            and have forgotten the palace

embrace sounds the same in any language—

ahead a phantom clearing—

I no longer remember:

that youthful cause, who joined me in it,

our duty to love;

                        memory caves in upon itself—a mine collapse;

                                    what is left:

*

a nest of hornets, ash buds, the unsayable,

or is it that which I refuse to say?

            this or that always ahead—

either demon twin could ruin me,

if, in fact, there’s anything     

            to be ruined

            like the lost worship in your eyes

            I have forgotten too

                        the stone walls of Vieux Quebec,

                        narrow cobbled streets;

                                                you hidden

                        in shadows of fleur-de-lis,

                                    unfindable

                        a ghost ship     indeed a way to almost

                                                appear,

                        with nowhere to go, you can’t go astray

In Nova Scotia’s maritime museum

            I found God;

not a form of God       not what I’d known,

            no not known—

                        *for knowing about light

                        does not dispel dark*

            but experienced, always,

before;

                        arm in arm, long streets down to the harbor

                        whispers in doorways

                                                silver moth/mouth—the elemental

                        puddles of regret skipped over

                                                black stone/white stone

                        a child’s riddle, peach pit, dust mites

                                    history, myth—a flute’s spent reed

Sanctuaries

Ripe field in August—dew drops on corn silk

Under a large willow in a sudden rainstorm

The fabulist’s tale embellished with each telling

The canyons of Giant City—gaping mouths

Church on Rue Sainte Pierre, Quebec City

The catty post mortem of a family get-together

A conservatory’s moist, names posted in Latin

Thicket in the woods found in childhood

House of memory: even the misremembered

Giggling beneath a sheet pulled over our heads

Calm paradise in my mind—safe place for therapy.

Treehouse with wooden steps and makeshift floor

A teenager’s poster-filled bedroom

Musty attic filled with the past buried within us

Quiet bookstore—a cat rubbing my calf

Old movies with comforting, cliched characters

In bed, your arm over my side wanting nothing

The blue hour’s remaining light—hold still

Natura Morta (Still Life)

We want to see flowers arranged to seem random—

Van Gogh’s vase with fifteen (count them) sunflowers.

Braque’s monochromatic violin and candlestick,

Cezanne’s jug, curtain, and fruit bowl.

Our urge to catch the apple before it falls.

Chardin’s ray of light upon dark, a live cat lurking hints

at movement, as shocking then as the spoiled fruits

of Caravaggio. Claesz’s glass ball reflects

him painting—self portrait amid still life.

1960’s pop art versions: television, beer bottles, red chairs.

All to convince us we can stop life, knowing we can’t.

What is Next?

—italicized line from Rilke

You must change your life

I say nearly every day

as I crumble like the Colossus

O to be a solid Trojan horse no one sees coming!

No telling what threatening beings

would hop out of me

to wreak havoc for no sound reason

as in any war

You must change your life

I hear before sleep—

And when dreams mine my unconscious

I sense how true this is

This shouldn’t prove difficult

I’ve kept everyone including myself guessing

I’ve never had one life

Always almost who I was meant to become

Marc Frazier has published poetry in over a hundred journals both online and in print. A recipient of an Illinois Arts Council Award for poetry, he has also been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and two “Best of the Nets.” He’s published poetry, essays, flash fiction, fiction, photographs, book reviews, and memoir. His four books are available online. His latest poetry book If It Comes To That recently won Silver in the Florida Writers Association best published anthology. Marc, an LGBTQ author, can be found on his Marc Frazier Author page on Facebook and website www.marcfrazierwrites.com. X @marcfrazier45, Insta mcfj45.

A Day Out

A day out

Is not complete

Without

A place to rest my feet

Some floss for my teeth

After eating nice treats

Which I should pack in the bag

Along with some rags

To wipe the sweat

Because this heat

Is not one easily beat

And even with the largest water bottle

You can’t compete

But we need to have water

Or the day out will be a disaster

and I can’t forget the comfy shoes

so that way I don’t get bruised

if I fall on my face

because no day out should end in disgrace

or course, I can’t forget my keys and IDs

and any tickets to gain entry

because a day out is a time out

for me to relax and shout out

that I’m not working today

and my day will go by what I say

and I say it’s great to be away

to enjoy something new

Pack Mentality

you’d never tickle a prickle

or be rude to an obstinacy

you’ll shiver if you see a quiver

remove the blockade for the parade

who does transactions with a business

or asks a cry to cackle

who’d throw albumen at a yoke

or be too haughty to hunt with the pride

bet you wouldn’t dance with a rhumba

or take your illness to a fever

could you walk up the hill with a descent

or be lazy unlike a labor

willing to fly with a kettle

or wear black with a stand

maybe tether the leash

or ask the tower to lay down

you can’t quiet the sounder

or be brave with the cowardice

don’t play with the shadows

the garden hates the clouds

you can’t be blind to the gaze

or get dragged by the string

we may do better with the richness

in the parliament of fowls

Sometimes

Sometimes you wake up and you find no strength to come out of the bed

Believe me

You are not the only one

Sometimes you see the past.

You see the present

And you just wonder

What have I done all those years 

Believe me 

Many people had the same question

You look yourself in the mirror and you like nothing

But this is a reaction of 90% of people

That is life

We called life

A beautiful miracle

And day and night 

Is coming and go

Go out

See the sun

Have a great day

Walk to the sea

Think positive

You decide if you will be happy or sad

You decide only

Life is for everyone

We don’t have any manual

How to live

How to succeed

We fight everyday

And if we find love in this journey

Then we can consider ourselves as lucky

Keep dreaming

Keep believing

Miracles happens

…….

Peace, 

So expensive

We buy so many weapons

To maintain it

If we pray more

If we were kind to each other

We could say

We have Peace of mind

Poetic heart

Call for meditation

Inside our heart

Peace,

We say a lot

We make nothing

Peace,

Such as a woman

We adore

But few can get

Peace,

A value with no cost

If the humans understand the word…

I wish one day….

Nothing

Nothing belongs to us

We are free

We are the captain of our soul..

Nobody can say this or that  and you must execute

.

Nobody belongs to us

We are choosing according our feelings

Our thoughts

Our beliefs

Our stomach

If  a person make you laugh

The more u want to be with this person

We are nobody

We are nothing

More than the butterfly

Than the bee…

We are no creators but small ants

Or cigals

Or wolves

Show respect

Kindness

But no trust

Trust your instinct

Trust your heart

We are nothing more than a fly

We are nothing more than a bird

Laugh to your heart

Love your inner soul

And put your frequency high

Touch the stars

Make a wish

Stay a happy child

……

Eva Petropoulou-Lianou was born in Xylokastro, Greece. Initially she loved journalism and in 1994 she worked as a journalist for the French newspaper “Le Libre Journal” but her love for Greece won her over and she returned in 2002. She has published books and eBooks: “Me and my other self, my shadow” Saita publications, “Geraldine and the Lake Elf” in English – French, as well as “The Daughter of the Moon”, in the fourth edition, in Greek – English, Oselotos publications. Her work has been included in the Greek Encyclopedia Haris Patsis, p. 300. Her books have been approved by the Ministry of Education and Culture of Cyprus, for the Student and Teacher library.

Her new books, “The Fairy of the Amazon, Myrtia “dedicated to Myrto with a disability, and” Lefkadios Hearn, Myths and Stories of the Far East “, illustrated by Sumi-e painter Dina Anastasiadou, will be released in 2019. She recently published her book,” The Adventures of Samurai Nogas san “in English by a publishing company, based in England. She collaborates with the electronic literary magazine The poet magazine. She is a partner with the International Literary Union based in America. She collaborates for the promotion of literature and promotes the work of Greek poets.

Eva is a member of the “Association Alia Mundi Serbia”, the “International Society of Writers and Artists of Greece” and the “Piraeus Society of Letters and Arts” as well as the Corinthian Writers Society, the Greece Association, Mille Minds of Mexico, the International Ambassador of Namaste Magazine, the Advisor and Editor-in-Chief of Web Magazine in Hubei, China, an advisor and editorial board member of Las Olas del Arte in Belgium, the Vice President of the Global Circle Cultural Association in China and Mexico, the founder and editor-in-chief of Acheron Magazine in Greece and Vietnam, and an official 2024 candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize. UNESCO Italy and UNESCO Mauritania have awarded her books.

In a vision I had a hat and a coat, warm pants and boots. But nothing was at all for what people think of as style or fashion. Everything was functional only, and it was in the days before trouble and such. Happy. I was between two hills, in a clearing, behind my house then. I know exactly where I was.

On one side, where I came from, were large homes, while on the other side were sullen grey brick buildings, seemingly with no joy. It was snowing thick and fast and it wasn’t too windy. My eyes were closed and sometimes opened and I looked up and tried to let the snow land in my eyes. I would sense when it did and it didn’t bother me. I was with my spirit and with the spirit and the nature world and air and snow was also a spirit. Spirit spirit spirit spirit spirit. I was alone. All alone, world-wise. I turned sometimes like a whirling dervish. I didn’t really have a focal point like ballerinas use I just rather saw everything and became dizzy and fell over.

The ground was softened by snow. There was nothing gold at all, but later, I thought of it as a golden place for it somehow felt golden. I was innocent. I had always been innocent. That was how I felt the gold. I turned from my side which I had landed on, to my back and stared around. Everything looked different and from that perspective one spot was not good and one spot was not bad. There were just things. The buildings and their balconies, the high brown framed rooftop. Trees to the side. The fence where the ravine began. Grey.

My own wooden fence that sat atop a series of railway ties that made a retaining wall. How was I there? And why? I heard a bird, and didn’t see anything, but then thought I saw something fly through the winter air out of the corner of my eye. The neighbour’s yard, completely different, with no fence or walls or anything at all. Which is ironic or something because the owner was a skilled and successful engineer.

His youngest son adopted me as a younger brother to him, in real life. Though from eight siblings, he had nobody after him. He taught me how to tie my shoelaces. Later, how to fight. And he taught me well because I could win against a few of the older kids. And how to skateboard. I wonder whatever happened to him. The ravine things like trees just grew there also. A manicured cultivated world in parts, and a feral earth in others. Nobody went past. I could hear no soul. I thought I heard angels singing but they were distant, in the inside somewhere in another world. It was nice. I was warm but then began to feel cold. I stood up. I was still okay but my head hurt a little bit. The sun had been somewhere and now it was getting dark, given to a sudden dusk. I felt a bit nervous for some reason. Cleaning the snow off myself, and adjusting my hat, I began to make steps towards home.