I Once Read a Book…

And I thought that was the end of it, but it turned out that the book was on the government’s list of banned books. It was contraband. This caused great alarm among those in power—my teachers and the police. It was further surmised that perhaps I had retained some forbidden knowledge from this book, and that simply would not do. And, as a 13-year-old girl, I needed protection, but from what, they never said.

I was interviewed—no, that’s not right; I was interrogated—by federal and state rectors who evaluated my retention of any information which was untoward and at odds with the national doctrine. They said they worked for the Minister of Literary Discipline. First, of course, they asked me where I had gotten this blasphemous volume. I shrugged. At school? they suggested. I told them no, but they scoured every inch of my middle school—the library, the classrooms, even the cafeteria—turning up nothing. One of my friends, perhaps? they queried. I don’t think so, I said.

Regardless, they made me sit at a desk and write down the name of everyone I’d ever known. It was exhausting. They checked every name and at length found one troublemaker who possessed the very novel I did. They displayed with her the same kind of dedicated fervor that they had with me. I never saw her again. During interrogation, I cried and promised them I’d stop reading books, but they told me said as how I’d made my bed, I’d now have to lie in it.

They said that I’d disgraced my father, who was in charge of the Regional Book Burning Celebration that was held every year at the high school during homecoming. Nothing I said made a difference. My father, who like I said, was an officer with the Book Police, had been beyond suspicion but at last they had to question him and my family. Although he denied everything, they found the book, “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” in the bookcase in his den. Thinking that, because of my father’s reputation, they would never look there, I had hidden it away on a back shelf. He was mortified.

My father lost his position; in fact my mother lost her job as well. We’re poor now and when we applied for food stamps, we were told we needed to work in order to receive nutritional assistance. But since no one would hire my parents, we were denied benefits. We had to move from our comfortable home too, and now we scramble from one homeless shelter to the next. We’re allowed inside only after 4 p.m. in order to give my parents an opportunity to search for work. On the streets we’re known as drifters. The food there is pretty grim.

I was expelled from the 8th grade for the remainder of the term and when Mom took me back to register in the fall, they told her I would need “re-educating” first, as I would be a bad influence on the other children, who had not been exposed to the likes of that Satanist, Mark Twain. Mom hasn’t decided yet whether she’ll send me to the re-education facility, but I kind of hope she does. They get three meals a day at Camp Falwell, and I’m awful hungry.

Street Video

These stories almost escaped
from order into dizzying chaos,
with linear cartoon-like panels
in the rows of tenement floors,
letting us glimpse the dramas
inside, without subtitles to read.
The lens took in the flaking paint,
acid-yellow wall-paper strips,
and a woman gazing out at us,
squinting through a bruised eye.

The action moved along from here
to there, inventing a melodrama
of gunshots and alley dumpsters
But we also had seen in the street
the image from a pin-hole camera
a homeless man had documented
from when he was living rough
a block from the stately capitol
where legislators reiterated claims
that no veterans ever slept on grates.
_________________________________

THE SCHOOL MOVIE

Almost as soon as the lights
snapped on as the credits ended
those around me started asking
which character in the film
shot on summer location here
was me or should be me
or why was their cameo cut?
And a few joshing friends
with their cinema radar on
emailed or blogged the same.
Perhaps that sad-sack retiree
who quit, then recanted,
with nothing new to fill a life
spent teaching 37 years,
like a modern Mr. Chips.
("That's Mister Chipping to you")
Or perhaps a gender-bending
version of the straight-backed
harsh female faculty star,
played like, not modeled
on. a former colleague, quick
tongued and creator of quips.
The friends in joking missed
the pathetic theatre of teaching,
the sweaty wrestling with angels,
the jazz of long, dark nights,
the cries of "Help me. Help me."
as we all stepped in quicksand
that we had not seen ahead.
And this film the boy genius
shot was the perfect medium:
the plastic loops of stuff
that will eventually decay,
like our bodies and minds,
the young and old alike,
as the quick, flickering light
passes through and is gone.
___________________________________

TESTAMENT

"Ithaca gave you the beautiful journey..."
                    -- K. Kavafis

His bed table was bare
except for his glasses, propped
up as if being worn,
beside an open book.
Others would later say
outside his poems his life
does not really exist.
The silence here implies
there is "nothing left to give,"
as a darker voyage begins.
His poetry strips down,
exposing itself as prose,
its "double life" is finished.
Later, reading his books
we felt the heat of his work.
 From such a room as this,
with oriental carpets,
a black desk with gilt,
a velvet armchair,
such conventional pieces,
he inhabited his pasts
like bits of arcane clothing,
and he allowed the secret lives
of those who were not consistent,
unsurprised by their faults,
those undone by misfortune,
bad-timing, and knowledge
imperfect in source and expression,
or the crowned goddess of luck
who rules even the gods.
And now he sits alone
in this room without a light,
recalling nights that were endless
in brightly illumined cafes.
He heard a figure at dawn
enter and sit on his bed,
the place where the fortunate die.
Once when asked to write
his farewell, he took a pen
to a drawn circle's center
and placed a single dot.
The glasses he left aside
were for me an empty mirror,
looking at myself
looking at myself.


Royal Rhodes is a retired educator who taught classes in global religions for almost forty years. His poems have appeared in several literary journals. He lives now in rural Ohio.

HAWKED AND DOVES

Love is hawked from every ad,
is sent likes doves from all our arks,
is aimed at every easy mark,
is scribbled on every poet’s pad
Through it all we keep in mind
what we, every one, know is fact:
that what we seek is really Sex

ORDER AND ENGAGEMENTS

I thought love’s inherent anarchy
erodes the institution.
I my co saw the situation starkly,
imposed institution,
and then, to defend love’s covenant,
fortified all my redoubts.

But I abandoned my battlements
and witnessed my army’s rout.
Too late, enlightenment came darkly;
the armistice was troubling:
I learned no lover’s a monarchy,
all lovers are republics.

AMAZING FANTASY #16

To locate her elongated man,

an invisible girl
hoisted her green lantern.

Her archenemy – that scarlet witch! --

countered with a dark spell
hidden in a shadow

that would blind any moon knight’s vision.

But concupiscence stirred
this lightning lad to flash.

Firestorm-sparked, my tinder kindling breached
her lonesome miracle:
I’m now her human torch.

CONQUERING LOVE

With hope my single ideology, innocence my only weapon,

I rose out of the nursery and went to conquer Love.

I passed all the girls in cellophane, said No to the ones in bows.

No purpose found I in frivolity: I was out to conquer Love.

And Love was a Virgin in a Pershing tank, a saint in burnished chain mail.

And I was Bubba in a pickup truck, an Eskimo in underwear.

Still, no purpose found I in frivolity. I was out to conquer Love.



So: I fell on Love with my Weakness, and I fell on Love with my Hope,

Fell on Love with my Purpose – was all-out to conquer Love.

But my belief blunted to memory, and my arms were battered to guile.

I fell back into my hatchery – I was out, oh! conquered by Love.

‘Cause Love’s a Virgin in a Sherman tank, Guan Yin in a steel nuptial veil.

I was a hick in a beat-up truck, an Eskimo exposed to the bare.

Though I found no purpose in frivolity, I was downed, conquered by Love

MY YOUNG SELF:

Your many ghosts haunt these my yellow years,
they still shout because I cannot speak.

The center of your infinity constricts to dimensionlessness. My unstable molecules made me your atomic traitor from the start.

I bartered your generous energy for this my degenerate austerity,
your oratorios and vision for these my parrots and mirrors.
I traded the fire and the wine for diet coke and ash, your altars of sacrifice for a sepulcher and some artifice.

That elusive wholeness I was to complete reduced to incoherent ruins.

Somewhere along the line a promiscuous warrior traded guts with a riskfree prayer
who avoids your fruit for fear of the rot.
Somehow an artful scientist of metaphor
transformed into this jester of awkward gestures.

Perhaps,
in time,
that I I now condemn
may become
the I I understand.

Vacuum  ( ii)


The insatiable hunger engulfs vast expanses,

Conquering oceans, deserts, and forests in entirety,

No remnant remains, no liquor to imbibe,

Yet a pervasive emptiness pervades in all environs,

A constant, haunting presence persistently lingers near,

Within resides a chasm, an abyss of profound depth,

A gap impervious to material abundance,

A palpable absence yearning to be traversed,

A darkness akin to the nocturnal expanse,

An infinite chain of flames of consuming fire,

Each touch evokes an ephemeral ache,

Everlasting is the ravine of craving, unyielding and deep,

Boundless and omnipresent to pacify this vacuity,

Roaming in search of eternity's elusive elixir,

Still no saturation, still erosive burning,

Chasing visions that ripple like eternal flames,

An introspective tide surges forth to submerge this hollow,

A radiant self, emanating from the depths of inner sanctums,

Embarks on the quest for completeness,

In pursuit of the elusive source of contentment,

A self-discovery of solitary inward remittance,

Empowered by an insight of self-searching,

Echoing solely the reverberations of personal contentment,

Demises this voracious hunger of vast void,

Navigating the inner expanse, finding serenity eludes,

The gulf pulsates with flickers of filling,

Within insight's embrace, a tranquil reservoir resides,

Emerges as a wellspring of serenity,

To Illuminate a bastion of enlightenment,

No longer a barren expanse, but a fertile terrain,

Within the depths, a sacred ember glows,

Infusing the space with celestial beams,

Illuminates the chasm with eternal intuition.





2. Soul explorer 


An ingrained texture imparts a shade of agony,

In every manifestation, I spot its torment,

A wish that saturates me in an instant,

Its touch lifts me to the pinnacle of my excitement,

A flame aspires to untouched summits,

An eternal bloom of its showers,

Casting the shadows of those I have lost,

At the zenith of my sought destination,

Each step toward the horizon is a testament,

To the enduring pursuit of the sublime,

Every note reminds of paths of past journeys ,

To beacon the soul's yearning with each  passing blink,

Which peeps through the layers of secrets,

With each stride towards the receding horizon, 

 Chronicles emerge of the anecdotes of bygone trails,

Resonating the unyielding quest for melodic note,

Steering the soul's yearning amidst fleeting sparks,

To penetrate the shrouds of enigmatic concealment.

The venture strides forth with resolute elegance,

Unraveling to the veils of reality for the intrepid seeker,

In celestial communion delving into enigmatic mysteries,

I unravel the vast expanse of my inner cosmos.





Donned the Guise of Friendship


They adorned the cloak of camaraderie to pierce the soul,  

A tempest swirling, igniting the seeker's dole,  

With the ashes of masked confident's scorn, I depart,  

To weave sorrow into the desolation of my heart,

To embroider memories into the fabric of my night,  

A flame that ignites the soul's hidden part,

From the debris of my heart, beauty I chisel,  

A silent torrent of lamentation in pain's vast ocean,  

To bedeck the fortress of my heartache,

Enriches the dwelling place of melancholy,

Every scar whispers tales of love's erosion,

Lost in the labyrinth of our shattered dreams,  

In twilight's embrace, our memories gleam,

From the ashes, I rise and fall anew,

Amidst the chaos, a phoenix ascends,  

From the depths of despair my spirit finds amends.  

Where the coverts' betraying shadows bristle my heart.  






3. International Friendship

 

Unfettered by boundaries, takes flight of solidarity,

Having unrestrained grace, soaring beyond the confines ,

Friendship's canvas colours blended with love,

Across the globe we stand, intertwine hearts .


In the vibrant mosaic of human existence,

 Diversity crafts bridges of empathy and  trust,

Embellishing collective aspirations with intricate patterns,

Celebrating eternal bonds of global kinship in majesty.


In each thread, dormant dreams stir cultural riches,

Within soul's sanctums, an inward lexicon transcends,

Voices of epochs merge in celestial symphony, 

Undivided in the hush of universal theme .





Dr. Sajid Hussain, born on February 1, 1969, in Morgah, Rawalpindi, Pakistan, is a distinguished poet, educator, and advocate for literature. He holds memberships in global literary organizations and has received numerous accolades, including the Shahitya Pata Award and the Rabindranath Tagore Memorial Literary Honours. He has authored acclaimed works and contributed to international anthologies. A senior Chemistry teacher and Master Trainer in "Low Cost and No Cost Science Material," Dr. Hussain is also a homeopathic doctor and former principal. His poetry, often focused on humanity and nature, is widely published and translated. Dr. Hussain is a committed advocate for global understanding, cultural exchange, and social justice, using his platform to inspire positive change and foster dialogue.

Dr. Sajid Hussain is the author of several acclaimed books and has co-authored numerous international anthologies. His notable works include:

1. Acquits of Life
2. Parlance
3. Cloud Nine Fantasia
4. Oceanic Upwelling
5. Waves and Rays of the Life

He has also contributed to and co-authored various international anthologies, including:

1. Flowers of Love
2. Arabian Nights
3. Poets for Peace
4. The Candles of Hope
5. Poetry Collection
6. Poetry for Ukraine
7. The Silk Road Literature
8. Ancient Egyptians Modern Poets
9. Mediterranean Waves
10. Peace and Love Make Society
11. Rhapsodies
12. Dandelions: Multiverse of Poets

Additionally, he compiled Pakistani English Poets Prodigy, which was published in the USA.

Dr. Hussain's books and anthologies cover themes such as love, peace, resilience, and the human condition. His works are known for their profound empathy and eloquence, reflecting a deep understanding of the human experience. His poetry has been featured in prominent international magazines and websites, and he has penned over 1400 poems, published in more than 200 world anthologies and magazines, translated into several major languages.

The Sidewalk is My Friend

not the lobby

the dining room 

or even my balcony

overlooking the streets

but the sidewalk 

with its long stretch of concrete 

rows of agapanthus 

thrusting their heads toward the sun

the dappled shades of trees

that house the song sparrows

the occasional passersby 

the sound of traffic 

muffles the crowds

whose voices

have become my own

Losing You

I lose you

like a jacaranda tree shedding 

its purple trumpet flowers

In losing you, I lose myself 

parts of you 

that became parts of me

the laughter 

the gestures

the candlelight in the eyes

I lose you

though I have already lost you

a million times

in small daily fragments 

a memory here 

a photograph there

Soon my heart 

will be bereft of you

like debris 

and leaves

swept away by a breeze 

I lose you

like pieces of a mosaic 

falling one by one

until the last seashell 

hits the floor 

with a final clonk

She Calls Me Norma

This lady I know

thinks my name is Norma

which makes my dad a fan

of Marilyn instead of Jackie

If that were the case 

I would be clad in white

instead of the color the first lady 

wore to her fateful parade 

the ruffles of my skirt flaring 

while I spun around 

in front of an electric fan

If I wore pink

it would be fuchsia 

not pastel

a strapless satin dress

exposing my chest

with matching long gloves

It didn’t matter either way

so I never bothered 

to correct her

MotherMoon

The moon chaperones the night’s dance

of twinkling stars above and below 

Oh, mother goddess!

Whose velvet lapel

shall I rest my palm upon?

What suitor will chase away 

the clouds of wrath 

around your porcelain face?

May the grace of our waltz 

bring a smile

to your lunar highness!

14 Reasons Why

Today I am challenged to write

A poem about my purpose in life

I envision filling the pristine white

With strokes sharp as the marks of a knife

Not a single word tenants the page

The paper stares at me menacingly

At this wooden desk, I’ve come of age

Who wants to know about the plain old me?

As I sit here, pondering my own worth

Unable to notice any progress

I have already contributed to this earth

My struggle is part of the process

Feeling inadequate as a poet

This poem was written before I knew it

Jackie Chou is a writer from Southern California who has two collections of poetry, The Sorceress and Finding My Heart in Love and Loss, published by cyberwit.  Her poem “Formosa” was a finalist in the Stephen A DiBiase Poetry Prize. 

Entreaties from the Pinnacles of Despair

Know yourself before knowing others
Believe in yourself before you trust blindly 
Judge yourself better than judging blood, 
and bones of a smiling on friendly faces.

Don’t carry your past sins into your sober life 
Get some sleep before the liquor drink you 
Get some rest before the cigarette inhale you 
Cry and let your tears drown the knife by your flesh.

You can only change the world with your knowledge 
Be the leader of your dreams and open arm’s happiness 
Change the directions of death, anxiety, and depression 
Remember you are miserable because your coffin has fallen 

_into the hands of people you once adopted and adored 
They farewell the world in silence with only the presence of 
death. Meanwhile, you try to call them, text them and ask 
your parents if they heard anything about them from trip to exile.

 The world of dreams

 At that time, even though I was still young, I still had a small love for books. I still read that book, and I still read this book. But books seemed to me to consist of ordinary pages. Over the years, I realized that books are not just ordinary pages. the book itself is a world, not a manuscript, the book itself is a world. A person reading a book lives two lives at the same time.... Only one life ends when a certain period of time is reached, and the other is absorbed into eternity with memory. while leaving...

                                   Part 1
   The door to the land of the book or the beginning of the story
  When I was in the fifth grade, I suddenly became interested in fiction. .It has become my biggest dream to read all the books in our school's library and achieve many achievements. I started my work by reading the books in the children's literature section of the library. I was captivated by the works of the famous writer Khudoyberdi Tokhtabayev. 

It was at this time that my studies were over and vacation was about to begin. I rushed home. I didn't know why, but I was in a great mood that day. After eating, I started looking through the books I got from the library. First, I looked at Jack London's White Fang, and then Pakhmaq, Avazkhan, and so on. My eyes fell on a book with a white cover and no name written on it. After all, I had never bought such a book. I was surprised. As soon as I opened the book, a light shone from it. but it was empty. 

Not many days later, about a week later, I took my books and necessary things and went to my grandmother's village. Because my grandmother spends her annual summer vacation I thought about a book with a white cover. The next morning, when I entered my grandmother's yard, this dream did not leave me. I rushed to the cave. This cave is so ancient that the locals called it the Cave of Life. 

Near the cave, a crystal-clear spring gushes out. The ground is covered with green grass. The mountain and the rest of them were connected to the rocky hills, so it was difficult to find such a royal and peaceful place to read a book. With my light, some rays of light flashed blindingly, and I suddenly appeared in a completely different world.


Rashidova Shahrizoda Zarshidovna was born in 2010 in the Karakol district of the Bukhara region. Currently, she is a 7th-grade student of the 20th school in the district. In my tune and in my tune 
 Motherland, We bow to those who know you, "I will do everything", Rainbow stars, Bilimdon 2018, Zakovat, etc. 

She is the first prize winner in competitions. Her creative writings were published in German and British publications such as Just fist edition, lulu, Rashidova Shahrizoda Zarshidovna's work was covered in Ezgulik newspaper. Her stories are on the Wikipedia open encyclopedia and published in a number of anthologies, including Towards My Goals, New Uzbekistan creative collections. 
 She's also the author of the book The lion called the first flight of the artist.