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Poetry from Marianne Jo Alves Zullas
Blink of an eye
I am walking with my chest open. The pain is visceral.
My mother is everywhere now, but no longer within reach.
I am no longer able to feel her warm hands, receive her tender hug, and listen to her energetic voice. That is it.
Life can change in a blink of an eye and we have to accept it.
My heart has a scar, it hurts, only time can heal that type of pain. There is no quick fix.
For now, I am walking with a big open wound, leaning only on my faith. God is with me, God within me.
(In loving memory of Cleide Alves)
Story from Arjun Razdan
Very Tasty Sandrine
In the brume, there is nothing to do, the fog shifts through the pockets of pine forests, as they come and sit next to me. The Local girls…huh…the other day I was walking down a hillside and a pahadi girl was walking up with her wicker load of substance, and the moment she looked at me, a cry of despair escaped her: ‘Quelle gueule?’ she said, not wanting to be impolite, but her maidenly forthrightness escaped the confines of her restraint.
Monkey girls come, and sit next to me. I know them by their tits. Monkey boys, never come, they are too proud. The other day a male monkey, came a little too close to me, and I unslotted the button of my umbrella, and it made a sword-sheatheing noise, and the Monkey just calmly looked at me, nodded his head, bossively and said: ‘Ça va pas? Je suis juste en train de chier…’.
Girls come, and sit next to me, unperturbed. I know Sandrine, because her left nipple is longer than her right one. She is the colour of a Bordeaux Clairet Rosé (C.R.) with a fine strawberry-tétin, jutting at the front. Claudette is older, she has sagging, paps but the nipples are still of fine provenance, un Jambon de Paris on dirait, but whether she has ever made a trip to the capital is anybody’s guess, her accent is certainly Provincial.
The Simian twins, Élodie and Lucidie are distinguished by the fact that for the younger sister the nipples become red in the summer and blonde in the winter, just like a fine blonde of Southern French provenance, while for Lucidie, a darker (brunette) nipple lends to auburn tints by the time of the solstice. Marie-France has the finest Bordeaux, she is convoitied by all the Bandariennes in the coin, she was the 2014 winner of the Miss Branch contest. Florence has cherry lips, laitières I mean, she resembles a Bourgogne in that sense.
These young girls come, and give the old man a company. I do not know what they find in me?
Sixteen short-stories of Kashmiri writer Arjun Razdan have been published in twenty-one literary journals in ten countries, equalling twenty-two publications. This former French Government scholar, started writing fiction in 2012 and was first published in 2016. He awaits the publication of his first roman The Gusts of Alien Wind
Poetry from Christina Chin
Peace & Stillness
midnight hush
even the wind is silent
a chorus so deep
crescent moon hovers —
civet cat thuds on the roof
figs fall in the dark
rainy moon softly
mourns autumn departure
tears slip through the clouds
moonless autumn night —
only the whispers of stars
warm family chats
the last moon quarter
sinks into the morning dew
the night exhales chill
Poet Maja Milojkovic translates Eva Petropoulou’s poem from English to Serbian
Maja Milojković
Eva Lianou Petropoulou
A Poem Dedicated to All Women
Žena
Pitala sam se da li sam slobodna.
Da li se ti osećaš slobodnom?
Ne.
Svakog dana hodam ulicom mogućnosti i prilika…
Ali niko me ne gleda.
Jer sam žena.
Neizrecivo je koliko se žena iskorišćava.
Od prvog dana.
Žena je trebalo da vaspitava dete,
da kuva za dete,
da ga nauči kako da misli, govori,
postupa…
Mnogo je toga što žena treba da uradi.
Ali šta se dešava posle?
Šta je sa ženinim potrebama?
Njenom željom?
Ženinom rečju?
Kao da ne postoji.
Sve dok jednog dana
ne pogledaš u ogledalo.
Vidiš svoje lice.
Vidiš svoje srce.
Vidiš svoje telo.
I ne prepoznaš ga.
Jer si toliko iskorišćena.
Iskorišćena odbacivanjem.
Potrošena samoćom.
Iskorišćena lažnim ljudima.
Potrošena lošim odlukama.
Bez vere.
Eva Petropoulou Lianou
Grčka
*******
Women
I was wondering if I am free?
Do u feel free?
Nooo
Every day I walk in a street of possibilities and opportunities..
But nobody look at me
As i am a woman..
It is unspeakable how much a woman is used..
From day one
A woman needed to educate the child
To cook for a child
To learn him how to think.. Speak..
Act..
A lot for a woman to do
But what happens after..
A woman need
A woman wish
A woman word
Inexistant person
Until one day
You will look at the mirror
You see your face
You will see your heart
You will see your body
And u will not recognize it
Because u will be so used
Used from the rejection
Used from the loneliness
Used from the fake people
Used from the bad decisions
Without faith!!!
Poetry from Fayzullayeva Shabbona Sirojiddinovna
Kattakurgan State Pedagogical Institute Primary Education Department Group 25 04
To my Dad
The mountain you lean on is my loving garden
Advice, your words are a necklace in my mouth
We are not always together my love
I love you, Dad
You are a family man and a true professional
Motherland and parents are dear to us
Shabbona misses your daughter every moment
Stay healthy, dear Dad
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
When The Times Become Death
When the times become death and hang
I hang from the branches of a dead tree
The tree is very tall and ancient
I can hang freely
Age is in favor of time
Standing time is like death
I hang with a red ribbon on my head
The valley of change does not attack me.
I know the long history of death
The soul does not deny history
I know the scent of death
This scent is permanent in my bones
I live in every moment of time
I love every moment
This love of mine is exclusively my own
Don’t blame me
The love of a hypocrite has many colors
My love is colorless like death, eternal and breathless
Your complaint is to time
To each his own time, to his own love
As life is close to time
Death is also close to love
Life without love is lifeless
However, love cannot bind death.