Poetry from Sadoqatxon Ahmadaliyeva

Ode to Parents

In the dawn of life’s first breath,
With love as deep as ocean’s depth,
Stand our parents, strong and true,
Guiding paths for me and you.

Father’s hands, worn and wise,
Hold the stars in endless skies,
Teaching strength, instilling pride,
With gentle words and a steadfast stride.

Mother’s heart, a beacon bright,
Glows with love, purest light,
Her tender care, a soft embrace,
A sacred bond time can’t erase.

Through the storms and sunny days,
In their gaze, a timeless blaze,
They nurture dreams, dispel our fears,
With whispered hopes and silent tears.

In their laughter, warmth we find,
In their patience, hearts aligned,
Their sacrifices, vast and grand,
Shape the future with a loving hand.

For every night, they stayed awake,
For every tear, they chose to break,
Their selfless love, a boundless sea,
An endless source of strength for me.

So here’s to parents, pillars strong,
In our hearts, where they belong,
Eternal guardians, steadfast, near,
Their love, a treasure, everclear.

Sadoqatxon Sabirjon qizi Ahmadaliyeva was born on January 12, 2008, in Uzbekistan. She is currently an 11th-grade student at School №32. She is learning English and Arabic. She has a passion for history and has read many books on the subject. This year, she received a certificate for successfully participating in the pilot testing process for the PISA international research.

Essay from Dinora Amanbayeva

Mother

No matter the language, when I say “mother,” a vision of a pure angel comes to mind. In children’s upbringing, the mother’s role is paramount. A mother can take on the role of a father too, which is perhaps why paradise is said to lie beneath mothers’ feet. A mother is a noble being who sacrifices her life for us without asking for anything in return. Even in tales, when asked who should be pleased first, the answer is the mother, with the father mentioned third. A mother’s love, her embraces, and her radiant face are like the sun, her magical hugs are given without any expectation. I love my mother just as she is. My mother is unlike any other in the world. I can’t compare or describe my mother to anyone or anything. For me, she is unique; she is Mother.

You know, a mother raises her child with such upbringing, nurturing them to be knowledgeable and well-mannered. This is primarily due to the mother. If every woman and girl is educated and becomes knowledgeable, it benefits the entire nation and ensures their children are also educated, develop, and see the world. Mothers are extraordinary beings, with pure and radiant faces, which is why they are called “heavenly jasmine” and “angels of paradise.”

Mothers have a unique feeling that no one else has, the feeling of motherhood. Even when their child has grown up, to a mother, the child always seems small. She advises, “Be careful,” and prays with open palms, “Oh Allah, please protect my beloved child.” Even if we unintentionally speak harshly, a mother remains silent, swallowing her pain and wiping her tears with her scarf. Despite this, she still worries and cares for her child. A mother is incredibly strong and patient. She raises her children, ensuring they become scholars without letting them toil in the fields. A mother’s prayer is a miracle; only she can perform this miracle. Do you know? Many mothers lie, saying, “My child, I’m fine. Yes, I have everything. Don’t worry, I haven’t struggled; my stomach is full; I’m fine,” to soothe their child’s heart. Yet, the child senses something is wrong, abandons everything, and goes to see their mother, receiving her prayers. Such children are the happiest because their mother is alive, and they always receive her blessings.

You may have respected friends, partners, many employees, cars, wealth, and a house, but if you don’t visit your mother and receive her blessings, what kind of child are you?! Mother, I have shared my thoughts with you, but I have never asked how you feel. I have been too busy with my own affairs and friends to have a conversation with you. Please forgive your daughter who has begrudged you for even two minutes while talking to friends for hours! If you said something, I would respond, “Mom, I’m not a child,” hurting your feelings. Forgive your daughter who has grown up but still needs your love.

A mother always helps others, with a pure heart and a kind soul. However, a mother also wants to share her pain with a close child, to talk, to spend time together, to eat together, to go on a trip together. In a family, a mother and father might love a child differently, often spoiling them more. For example, in families, the youngest children or the only son or daughter might be spoiled. However, the eldest child usually carries more responsibility. As the youngest in my family, my parents’ love for me was different. A mother is the only being on Earth who embodies the love we see and feel.

I read an interesting story about Thomas Edison and his mother. When moving to his new home, Thomas carefully inspected every inch of his childhood home and asked the servants to carefully load the belongings into the truck. From the top of the closet where his childhood clothes were stored, he found his mother’s favorite red-covered suitcase. Thomas carefully placed it on the table and opened it. Among his mother’s belongings, he found a yellowing paper. This letter, signed by his teacher, reminded him of a memory involving his mother. At that time, Thomas was in first grade. That day, he brought home a letter from his teacher, who had instructed him to give it to his mother. Tears welled up in his mother’s sorrowful eyes as she read the letter, then she hugged her son. “What did my teacher write?” the curious boy asked his mother. “She wrote that you are extremely capable and that this school is not suitable for you, so she asked me to transfer you to a prestigious school,” his mother replied, trying to smile.

Thomas read the timeworn letter found in the suitcase and was astonished. It said, “Your son is mentally ill. Please enroll him in a specialized school.” Signed by the teacher. This story shows that every mother is her child’s hero. A mother always wants her child to be happy. The nights spent without sleep, nurturing and raising the child, are all due to the mother’s efforts. A child can never repay the debt to their mother. Only a mother can make life feel different. When a child doesn’t want to talk to anyone else, they can talk to their mother for hours because she understands them. Mothers deserve to be happy! The feeling of missing a mother is well-known to children living far from their mothers. Even if she is not with me, I remember her words and miss her love. I love you very much, mother. They say that the gates of paradise are open to parents who educate three daughters. Educating one daughter is like educating the entire nation. Mother, I owe you everything, and no matter how many times I say thank you, I can never repay this debt.

In the book about the mothers of great scholars, it is mentioned that the mothers of these scholars, even after the fathers’ death, took care of both financial support and the upbringing of their children. As a result of years of hardship, Imam Ahmad, Imam Bukhari, and many other great individuals emerged. This book tells the stories of how these noble individuals’ mothers raised their children. In a family, the mother’s unique role cannot be replaced by anything else. Every mother should spend her time and efforts raising her children to be great individuals for the future. The great Uzbek poet Abdurauf Fitrat emphasized the importance of family in the development of society and the prosperity of the nation in his work “Family.” He stated that the happiness and honor of every nation depend on the internal discipline and harmony of its people. Wherever family relations are strong, the country and the nation are equally strong and magnificent. Therefore, family tranquility is linked to maternal upbringing. Alisher Navoi, another great poet, emphasized that respecting parents is a form of upbringing. He said, “Sacrifice your head for your father, and give your entire body for your mother’s head. If you want both of your worlds to be prosperous, obtain the satisfaction of these two people. Consider one as the moon and the other as the sun, lighting up your day and night.” A child’s growth into a healthy, knowledgeable, and courageous person depends on the family environment and the mother’s influence.

Mother! A mother in the world makes life different. Her warmth and love make life special. Even if I reach ninety or a hundred years, living in a world with a mother is different. Mothers live thinking about their children, praying day and night for their happiness. Those without mothers cannot stop crying. Having a mother in life makes everything different. Having a mother by your side is different.

As I read this poem, I realized that a mother’s prayer is always accepted. A mother is unique and cannot be compared to anyone else. There are different kinds of children; some are indifferent to their mothers, some carry their mothers on their heads and receive their blessings, while some long for a mother’s love. So always remember, you grew up knowledgeable and well-mannered because of your mother. A mother’s love never fades. It shines like the sun, always radiating light. Thanks to such wonderful women, mothers, and daughters, life is even more beautiful.

In conclusion, wealth, friends, and success can be found, but if you hurt your mother’s heart and cannot give her love, what kind of child are you? A mother thinks of you while not eating herself. Go visit your parents, bring them two pieces of bread, and see how happy your mother will be. You will understand the sleepless nights and the difficulties your mother faced only when you become a mother yourself. You will realize how important a child is and how much you need their love. Never sigh or get angry at them; you will regret it when you grow up. The first place of education is the family. A child learns everything from their mother first. A mother’s upbringing is crucial for every child, especially for daughters. A mother’s love, her advice, and upbringing are vital in the family.

Amanbayeva Dinora Botirbek qizi resides in Gurlan district, Xorazm region. Her creative works have been published in Alanya, Turkey, and in a Moldovan publishing house in Europe.

Poetry from Nargiza Xusanova

Central Asian teen girl with dark hair up behind her heard and a white dressy collared blouse in front of a pink and white wall holding a framed certificate.

The Echoes of Kindness

In a world where shadows often play,
A single act can light the way.
A gentle touch, a tender smile,
Can make a moment truly worthwhile.

When hearts are heavy, spirits low,
Kind words can cause a seed to grow.
A helping hand, a listening ear,
Can wipe away a silent tear.

In every life, a chance to give,
A way to show how hearts can live.
Through simple deeds and caring eyes,
We find the strength to rise and rise.

Kindness, like a gentle rain,
Falls softly, easing every pain.
It blooms in places dark and drear,
And whispers, “I am always near.”

A world that’s kind is one that’s bright,
Where every soul can share the light.
For kindness echoes, never ends,
It binds us all as loving friends.

So spread it wide, and let it be,
A beacon for humanity.
In every heart, in every land,
Let kindness take us by the hand.

Nargiza Farxod qizi Xusanova was born on November 30, 2003, in Khatirchi district, Navoi region. She graduated from the Khatirchi district general secondary school №78, Navoi region. Currently, she is a 3rd year student at Bukhara State Pedagogical Institute. She is a winner of the “Student of the Year” competition, taking 23rd place among all universities. In 2024, she authored a monograph on the topic of “Determining the Stable DC Bridge”. She is currently working as a coordinator of the “Mushoira Club” at the institute.  Nargiza is also the coordinator of the Student Girls Committee of the Bukhara State Pedagogical Institute Youth Union, the coordinator of the “Girls’ Voice” Bukhara City Sport and Health direction, and the coordinator of the Young Politician Girls Club at the Institute. She is an active member of the Bukhara City Youth Wing of the “O’zliDep” organization.

Poetry from Randall Rogers

Uber Alles

Ha!
Germans’ children’s
toys are weapons of war
and the cuckoo
mustache
adorning
the upper lip
of their women
run little flame
light
burn
live!
sweep all
clean
my little 
Hitelburger
in the real
Olympics
world conquest 
in war!




Real Man

So humble
I didn’t know
or remember
to worship
adequately
my father
as a God.
I do not think
he would approve
however.
Thankfully.


When Did You Stop Beating Your Olive Tree?

Life is like a message
in a bottle telling
you there will be
thunderbolts
and you’ll be
happiest just
before you die.

Richard Modiano reviews Yahia Lababidi’s poetry collection Palestine Wail

Cover for Yahia Lababidi's collection Palestine Wail. It's a dove flying with an olive branch in its mouth in front of a yellow, blue, and gold sun, with a city beneath of Middle Eastern stone buildings and small figures of people in robes. Background is blue green like twilight.

Palestine Wail by Yahia Lababidi

Yahia Lababidi’s new collection of poetry Palestine Wail offers a profound and poignant exploration of human emotions, social injustices, and the resilience of the human spirit. Lababidi weaves together themes of hope, suffering, and solidarity with a keen sensitivity that resonates deeply.

This is only a sample of poems to be found in this rich collection:

In the poem “Hope,” the poet redefines hope as fragile and elusive, rather than steadfast and unwavering. The imagery of hope being “slimmer than you’d think” and “out of breath” underscores its delicate nature. This nuanced portrayal invites readers to appreciate the quiet, enduring strength of hope, despite its vulnerabilities, while “Alternative Scenario” presents a powerful, hypothetical narrative of compassion and unity in the face of conflict. The poet imagines Palestinians and Israelis coming together in mutual support and empathy, leading to an eventual end to hostilities. This poem is a poignant reminder of the potential for humanity and peace, even in the most dire circumstances.

“Starving” is a stark and sobering commentary on the use of starvation as a form of punishment. The poem draws a parallel between the disciplining of children and the severe deprivation faced by Palestinians. The rhetorical question, “When did we learn / starvation is acceptable,” challenges readers to confront the inhumanity of such acts.

In “You, Again,” Lababidi delves into the introspective journey of a solitary soul. The language is rich with metaphysical musings and the struggle to find meaning and sustenance. The imagery of a “nocturnal flower” and the “whirring of the reel” evoke a sense of timelessness and introspection, creating a deeply reflective piece.

“Ode to the Children” is a heart-wrenching tribute to the children of Palestine. The poet elevates their suffering to a sacred level, drawing connections between ancient rituals of sacrifice and the contemporary plight of these children. The poem is a powerful reminder of the sanctity of life and the enduring strength found in the face of unimaginable hardship.

“Love That Makes Devils Weep” meditates on the transformative power of unconditional love and forgiveness. The poet envisions a scenario where one side in a conflict resolves to be entirely blameless, ultimately leading to the end of animosity. The notion that such purity could “make devils weep” speaks to the profound impact of love and moral integrity.

“Walls” critiques the artificial barriers that divide humanity, both physically and emotionally. Lababidi asserts that walls cannot contain the human spirit or prevent love and hate from transcending boundaries. The poem is a call for unity and understanding, emphasizing the limitless capacity of the human heart.

Palestine Wail is a masterful blend of lyrical beauty and profound social commentary. Each poem stands as a testament to Yahia Lababidi’s ability to capture complex emotions and situations with clarity and compassion. This collection is not only a literary achievement but also a call to action, urging readers to reflect on their own roles in the broader human narrative.

Richard Modiano is a poet, artist, and influential figure in the literary community. He served as the Executive Director of Beyond Baroque Literary/Arts Center in Venice, CA from 2010 to 2019. The Huffington Post named him one of the 200 people doing the most to promote poetry in the United States. His collection of poetry and prose, The Forbidden Lunch Box, was published by Punk Hostage Press in 2022.

Yahia Lababidi’s Palestine Wail is available here.

Story from Martha Ellen Johnson

MY GREY DREAM

     I went looking for her, my lost baby. I did not know it would be the last time. I roamed the dry barren landscape at a dusk, no normal dusk, a dusk of broken spirits, a Dante dusk. The uneven ground was tan clay, dry and cracked from lack of sustaining rain. Any sparse vegetation that had once thrived was now brown and dead. Though I stumbled, I persisted in my search. Everything everywhere was dead. I found the building, her new home that an unreal visitor with no name had constructed from slabs of grey concrete, an economy of materials, like the vaults in which caskets are placed before being lowered into the last place they will ever be.

     The building was large, there were no curved walls, no arches. Every surface was rectilinear interrupted only by impressions from where the wood frames held the wet cement as it set into featureless, meaningless, permanent shape. I opened a grey door and stood in the vestibule with a high ceiling, also cast from cement, lit by a dim light from an unknown source. I waited and waited. I would stay there until I knew. 

     There were no colors, no photos, nor paintings on the walls, not even black and white, not even ones dulled, the images obscured from the misguided desire to protect them with non-glare glass, set within thin matte-black frames. There was nothing to break the oppressive, insistent weight of the surfaces. There was no furniture. Nothing. The staircase was entirely cast from concrete leading up to somewhere. There were no sounds at all except the tinnitus always present, even in my deaf ear. The air was still. I felt dread. I felt small. I felt insignificant. 

     Then she appeared on the stairs. “What are you doing here?”; not a question but more of an accusation. She was angry and annoyed by my presence. We had loved each other with the certain seamless love of a parent and a child. There was no trace of that now, though it was there. It would always be there because it was true and real. It was obscured and hidden by a darkness delivered by an interloper seeking only power and control over a fragile, gentle soul.

     I spoke words I did not know I could speak: “I’m here to remove all things inauthentic.”  

     There was no response. She turned in disgust and left. I looked at her back as she left, I feared forever. She continued down the dark hallway to a small, cold, grey-walled room, like a cell, with only a slit of a window that let in a dull green light from which the time of day could not be determined because the time of day was his to tell her. Time was not something she was allowed know by her own deduction. The room had been constructed specifically for her to confine her and limit any sensory input that he did not oversee and permit. It was the room prepared for her by someone or something intelligent and patient who carefully calculated her destruction and began to dismantle her piece by piece from their first encounter until she was only fragments of who she had been; bits he reassembled to construct her as he thought she should be utterly and completely under his control. He owned her thoughts; he owned her dreams, her intelligence, her creativity; her actions were within the parameters he had determined correct. He even owned her defeat, her final surrender and the permanent sadness behind her eyes. Everything that had been her was his. 

     In the grim room was a banquet table constructed from 2×4 seconds and embalmed in Vara-thane that she set with gilt-edged paper plates, plastic flatware spray-painted silver and paper napkins he had l ripped from the dispenser at McDonald’s and which she folded into delicate, yet distorted, swan-like shapes she hoped would delight her only guests; the guests who never questioned nor challenged the world in which he stored her. There, in the only space allowed her, she awaited the arrival of the days’ old crumbs from the rock-bread he had casually left uncovered because he had something else to do; crumbs he decided to toss to her when he needed to affirm his power over anything that sustained her. As per his expectation, she bowed in gratitude as she gathered the crumbs from the dull, unfinished floor. She laid them out as a banquet for the others now gathered in the room; others who had been fragmented and broken, annihilated by another dream person inflated with a impotent rage and driven to dominate and control to hide his insignificance from a terror and self-loathing beyond all reason.

     Taken from her were those who she loved and who loved her; who had supported her and nurtured her and had cuddled her and kissed away her hurts. Gone were those who ran to her aid because of their love and devotion to her. Gone were all who would protect her; all who made sure she was tucked in securely at night her soft, plush toy penguin, her pink velvet froggie, were snuggled around to assuage her fears of another darkness from another interloper. All those who loved her, she abandoned, discarded and vilified at his behest to prove her loyalty to him.

     Now everyone she had chosen to dine with shared in the illusion of a luscious banquet. All were thrilled by the meager crumbs on their plates as though they had been served a luxurious meal of foie gras and truffles, sturgeon caviar with toast points prepared by a skilled French chef. She did not yet know that even those she had found for company among the broken his fear would mandate he bring under his control, too. They would be culled as it suited him until she was totally alone hallucinating imaginary friends to comfort her, reassure her, console her as her loved ones did long ago when she was frightened, but when she was not alone. The crumbs would diminish into only an illusion of sustenance until she ceased to exist and he heard her deliver her last words: “My master, I love you” and his face slackened with the pleasure of complete conquest.

     I was standing in the vestibule but I was no longer waiting. She was gone. Not a single slim thread was left connecting us. All deep bonds that had been between us he had broken. I was dead to her. I lifted a small brown bag that had not been there before. It contained imposter things disguised as the ordinary brought into our family long ago by another darkness. Things I once thought real and denied their inherent dissonance: a 1952 class photo of a smiling blonde boy with crystal blue eyes; a book of Haiku; red enameled cast iron pans. All seemed innocent but the deceptions were revealed upon closer inspection. Peering into the bag: an occasional guttural growl from the blonde boy; the pans: a bloody hammer; Haiku: a book of obscene limericks.  

     I left by the same door through which I had entered. At the top step of the crumbling concrete outdoor stairs, I saw the dead dried grass that had once grown through the cracks but no life remained in the leaves that fluttered from a light breeze that did not refresh. I had forgotten my cane and feared I would fall as I descended the stairs carrying the bag that held the unwanted truths in one hand, the inauthentic old ones I had to carry away and destroy at long last. I did not fall. I found my car. To my surprise her Dad, the dark interloper from a distant time, was sitting in the passenger seat but his visage was translucent and vague; he was disappearing. We didn’t speak. I handed him the bag; it belonged to him. I drove away for the last time. A sadness overtook me and I knew it would be there in my heart, in the place with the defect from my birth, the place on the ventricle that generates the weak beat, even today and until the end.  

2022

Haiku from J.D. Nelson

Five One-Line Haiku

rose blooms of mid-June a dandelion gone to seed

near sunset summer’s first bat circles above Broadway

staring contest a small rabbit hops out of a bush onto the sidewalk

morning errands little horseflies bite my calves & ankles

were crews able to put out the fire a bit hazy this morning

bio/graf

J. D. Nelson is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). His first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.