Teachings
 
Miss no chance to be still.
Lean back against the sink while you brush,
don't roam
into the sickening maelstrom of sights
that remind you why you should fear.
Don't yearn for your worry stone.
Take it from the pocket where it waits.
Feel its softness,
Test its minor heft,
Smell the stone aroma,
Touch it to your tongue, if you dare,
and listen to its heart.
No far-off waves, just you.

 

 POETRY OF THE FIELD

In the morning of April
The sky was looking so ebullient
Sunshine has not yet touched the earth
So nice time it was for all of us to reap corn in the field
It was a nice time for the birds to sing while eating insects in the field.
Many birds came and Twitter over the field
So melodious was their voice.
Among them, there were also herons
They are silent spectators
Meditative always on the prey.
Like fake saints.

My attention was diverted while reaping the corn.
For, they sang so sweetly
Further, from distant lands were coming 
the sounds of cuckoo.
My co-farmers were  also  enthusiastic
on cuckoo's sweet spell 

A subtle communication started between 
me and the sweet songbirds.
Oh  birds, for whom you are all singing so sweetly
For yourself
For, the creator
Or, for the creation. 
I could not get any answer from them.
I looked at them with an inquisitive eye
Sill could not.

While returning from the field
I could get my answer.
It came automatically to my mind.
It is, as if, a subtle voice was ringing in my ear.

Oh dear,
This is a very simple question.
We are not singing for ourselves
we are singing for the whole creation
To make the environment joyful
To fulfil the purpose of the Almighty.
In the process, we  get so much pleasure for making God's creation joyful.



 Oh, The Merciful Lord

There is nothing in the 
world like you
You are the epitome of love and blessedness
The epitome of magnanimity.
How much I thought of you.
Throughout the day and night, I am thinking of you.
You are gloriously present everywhere. 
The more I think of you, the more your glory is revealed.

Wherever I look, your gracious figure is coming to my mind.
For you are everywhere and in everything. 
Now I realise how it is to think of you,
In every object of the world living and nonliving.
There is nothing more blessedness than to 
feel  you everywhere
To remain under your spell of happiness and blessedness.
To remain in your sweet clasp.

Though In this earth field, other thoughts are  coming and disturbing
But I am trying to remain calm, thinking that these thoughts are also coming from you.
With this thought in mind, when I am merging my mind with your lovely thoughts, they are 
fleeing to their nest.

Oh, Supreme sweet master of the world your boundless love
has so beautifully enveloped the whole world.
It is clearly visible how distinctly and dazzlingly  you are present in all the objects of the world
I bow down at your lotus feet for infinite periods in silent reverence.



OH  HAPPINESS

Oh Happiness you are like the ethereal songs of heaven.
Everybody wants to share your wings of love.
Where is your bough of blossoms?
Come on and spread your sweet fragrance on all of us.

Oh Happiness where is your passion of embrace.
Spread your subtle links of the net to cover all of us.
Where is your cheerful bed in which you lull all to sleep?
And intoxicate all in the rapt calm reverie.

Oh, Happiness the divine gift of heaven.
Your touch is like the charm of a thousand roses.
Your presence is the sweetest of morning breeze
And charmful abode of heavenly  peace

Oh, Happiness gives a place to all the wretched persons in your sweet lap.
To give a moment's joy to the restless soul.
To relieve the pangs they endure throughout their life.
To embellish them all in the glory of divine love and peace.



 WAITING

He came as per my invitation
He came with his characteristic smile
Most assiduously stepped into 
The dark room
Wide Opened
With cosy slow steps
There was deep silence all around
Outside there was a stiff winter night

With his flute in hand 
And the slow ringing of
anklet bells
He walked into the room
The room became lit
There was a smell of sweet flowers
As if it is a house full of flowers. 
As per his promise, he came
And went away seeing me unconscious.

I was in deep sleep
Could not greet him
A sombre deep dark sleep like a cloud
had wrapped me.
I could not get up
Could not reply
Latter
I woke up from deep slumber
The room was enthralled with the smell of flowers
And sandalwood paste 
I felt magical ecstasy

I wept and wept till morning



Dr. Maheswar Das is a bilingual poet, translator, editor, and story writer. He writes in English and Odia language.

He has been pursuing his creative writing for the last twenty years and has authored more than one thousand English poems. All of his poetical exposition centres around Nature, God,   love, and relationships. Some of his poems have been translated into international languages. He has co-authored three English anthologies of poems with his two friends.  Besides he is the co-author of more than fifty English anthologies of poems of many literary groups.

He holds the degree of M.A. in both Economics and History. He has accomplished a Ph.D.  degree in sociology from Utkal University. He also holds a law degree from M.S. Law College, Cuttack. He hails from Mallipur in the district of Cuttack, Odisha, India.
His English poems have been published in several national and international journals and Anthologies and have gained worldwide appreciation. He has received so many accolades from various national and international literary groups. He is a recipient of the Gold Medal award from the World Union of Poets, Rome.

The Power of Motivation

Motivation is the driving force behind our actions, decisions, and goals. It is the spark that ignites our desire to achieve and the fuel that keeps us moving forward, even in the face of challenges and setbacks. Understanding the importance of motivation can help us harness its power to reach our full potential.

At its core, motivation is about finding a reason to act. This reason can be intrinsic, coming from within ourselves, such as a personal passion or a sense of accomplishment. It can also be extrinsic, driven by external factors like rewards, recognition, or the desire to avoid negative consequences. Both types of motivation are valuable, and often, they work together to push us towards our goals.

One of the key components of effective motivation is setting clear, achievable goals. When we know what we want to achieve, we can focus our efforts and create a roadmap to get there. Goals provide direction and purpose, making it easier to stay motivated over the long term. Additionally, breaking larger goals into smaller, manageable tasks can help maintain a sense of progress and prevent feeling overwhelmed.

Another important aspect of motivation is maintaining a positive mindset. Believing in our abilities and staying optimistic can significantly impact our motivation levels. Positive thinking can enhance our resilience, making it easier to bounce back from failures and continue pursuing our goals. Surrounding ourselves with supportive and encouraging people can also boost our motivation, as they can provide the encouragement and feedback we need to stay on track.

Moreover, understanding what motivates us personally is crucial. Everyone is different, and what works for one person may not work for another. Experimenting with different strategies, such as setting rewards, creating a motivating environment, or finding inspiration in others, can help identify what drives us best.

In conclusion, motivation is a powerful tool that can propel us towards success. By setting clear goals, maintaining a positive mindset, and understanding our unique motivators, we can harness this force to achieve our dreams and aspirations.
QURBONOVA GULSANAM ILHOM QIZI

POEM: HER LOVE 
I .  I lost my beauty for the harsh time of my youth,
Yearned to rare it for my name after demise,
She didn’t aid me to preserve my beauty.
She longed to preserve hers that would be mine too – 
For this she did like me but alas! my harsh time…..
I had to bear it alone, 
Her love was for my summer when fall reigned me.

2. THE LOST DREAM
The lost dream, I dreamt again,
Couldn’t fulfil it, oh! it caused pain.
Its beauty was not altered a bit,
Not even my desire for it.
I dreamt it again but untimely.
 I could only cry helplessly.
My cry and sigh it could hear,
Though it yearned, it wasn’t fair 
For it to be the dream of mine again 
As like me, him it would cause pain 



Shafkat Aziz Hajam is a Indian in Kashmir. He is a poet, reviewer and co-author. He is the author of a children's poetry book titled as The Cuckoo’s Voice and one adult poetry book titled The Unknown Wounded Heart. 
His poems have appeared in international magazines, anthologies and journals like Inner Child Press International USA, AZAHAR anthology Spain, SAARC anthology, Litlight literary magazine Pakistan, PLOTS CREATIVES online literary magazine in the USA, Prodigy and other digital literary magazines in the USA etc. 

NIGHT AND DAY

The moon and I
spend our nights
on fish and tequila.

Then dawn comes on
with welcome
oranges in her basket.

At times like this
we cherish
the gifts of our healers

and yet recall
how eager
once for a casket. 


WHAT WANTON 

Which village chemist took us from his shelf
and mixed us with his pestle,
     put us in pots,
and sold us to customers with their milk?
(they took us with cereal
     and died in knots)

And which astrologer played with ourselves
his odd game of celestial
     connect-the-dots?
(he made the moon turn the tides into whales
against glittery crystal
     chandelier yachts)


DOWSER

Once I was proudly regarded
as the foremost geographer of You:
I surveyed the careful topography
as I mapped your features anew,
measured each promontory encountered,
and charted every defile.

Many times had I plumbed for your treasures
and glad had continued my earthy research.
And I knew I could move
my stretched willow out
to discover the sweet waters below.

But now that I live in exile from You,
now that your landscape has gone,
I find it was not your true geomancy I'd learned.
For though I'm sure that it was your well I discerned,
I never divined the source.



FIX

Not by any charms or karma.
We all are ruled by lips and arms.
The best arms are keep under sleeve,
phantom limbs we almost believe.
Lips must be always in action:
proclamations propaganda
posters slogans podcasts broadsides
downloads headlines broadcasts soundbites
to entertain alarm arouse
justify distract and excuse.
Terrorists! Fascists! Immigrants
Steal Our Land Our Jobs Our Women!
Innies! Outies! Leftists1 Righties!
Liberals! Mobs! Neo Nazis!
Prosperity Or Poverty!
Our Freedom Or Our Slavery!
Criminals! Our Open Borders!
Infidels! Monarchists! Trade War!
Stolen Elections! Deviants!
Antisemites! Spies! Jacobins!
Family Values! Lies! Misfits!
Epidemics! Nuclear Threats!
Divine Order! Thieves! Bolsheviks!
And thus we’re judased by a fix.



BADGES

Wedged within your fresh crotch --
this now is all I own.

The pasts are buried bones, arrowheads, broken pots that belonged to other lovers, to lost cultures.
Wastelands conceal the nests
of their long-gone futures.

Keen time dines on butchers’ scraps as well as sweet breasts.
Their pasts are buried bones.
This now is all I own.

Calms punctuate the storms
that chart activity.
We were not and won’t be.

Lover – to this culture we belong, not others.
Hedges and not bridges
demarcate these towers.
It’s not in our power to swap campaign badges that chart activities.
We were not.
We won’t be.

For Love

Mavis always knew, even as a child, which side of the bread had the butter. A future valedictorian, she was smart, in both her studies and in her life, and was always prepared to seize an opportunity when it came along. Which was why, when Brad Travis, the best player on her high school's football team, finally began flirting with her from afar in study hall, she knew that time was of the essence. She acted. She thought she might be in love with the boy, though she knew him only slightly. Love was the most important thing of all, she thought. So she'd strike while the iron was hot. She walked over to where he sat.

"Hi, Brad," she said demurely, biting her lip and batting her long lashes outrageously at the unsuspecting jock. Somehow, a pen managed to work its way free of her notebook and plopped at Brad's feet with a little click. Brad promptly retrieved the errant pen and presented it like a trophy to Mavis.

"Here ya' go, Mave'," he said, like a friendly puppy.

And so it went. Within minutes the student athlete had been manipulated into asking for Mavis's phone number. When she gave it to him, he fecklessly slapped at his pockets, but, turning up no writing instrument, gratefully accepted the very pen that Mavis had dropped only moments before.

"I'll call you," he promised, as she made her way back to her seat.

. . . . .

On their first date, a movie, of course -- Brad loved movies -- Brad confided to her that he wanted to fall in love, serve in the Marines, and be an auto mechanic, in that order. "Love," he intoned gravely, "is the most important thing there is." Mavis smiled; knowing she'd found her soul mate.

The couple dated for two years and were, against all odds, selected King and Queen of the Prom, Class of 1968. Mavis had gone on the pill two weeks after their first date; but that was fourteen days too late, practically speaking.

After the birth of their baby -- christened Mary after Brad's mother -- Mavis and Brad continued with their high school courtship and careers, despite -- or perhaps in defiance of -- the rampant disapproval expressed by the parents of their fellow students. After graduation, the young people were promptly married in a modest civil ceremony. Times were tough for both families. They opted to live with Mavis's widowed mother, Ellen.

"Mom," said Mavis one afternoon, "Brad wants to take me to the movies on Friday; can you watch Mary?" Her mother, an indulgent grandma, nodded and smiled. "Thanks, mom." It would be their last date before his enlistment.

"What is this movie you're so set on seeing?" asked Mavis as they made their way through traffic to the theatre.

"The Green Berets," replied her husband.

When they walked out of the theatre and into a December snowstorm, Mavis turned to Travis and blurted, "I don't want you to join the Marines!"

Travis frowned. He had this all planned out: after high school he would join the USMC, as had his father before him, serve three years, and attend college on the G.I. Bill. No one in his family had ever gotten an education and Brad certainly didn't have the resources to attend college on his own. What other option did he have? Flipping burgers? The job market was tough. They looked for their car in the driving storm.

"But, Mave', we decided," he protested. "You know that tomorrow I have to head out to Parris Island." The South Carolina training facility was a 16-hour bus ride from their home.

"But, that was before I got a glimpse of what the war was about," she came back at him. "Why didn't you tell me what it was like?" she demanded petulantly. They found their car and climbed inside.

He shrugged. "My old man made it through three years of service in WWII, and he came out without a scratch," he pointed out.

"I don't care," she snapped. "I don't want you to go!"

"But I enlisted already, the day after graduation. It was that or get drafted. If I don't report, I'll be AWOL, and they'll arrest me."

Now Mavis broke down in sobs. "Mary will never know her dad," she said tearfully.

"She knows me already," said Brad.

"But she's a baby; she doesn't know what a good, kind, loving man you are. She can only learn that as she grows older with you. You're all about love," she told him.

They sat in the car long into the night, discussing their possible futures, till at length Mary glanced at the clock on the dashboard and said, "Mom will be crazy with worry. Let's get home."

That night they made ardent love, as if for the last time.

. . . . .

All through the ensuing 18 months, Mavis Travis was alert to all news pertaining to the war and the military, particularly the Marine Corps. She watched the nightly news -- particularly Walter Cronkite on CBS, since he, like her, was against the war. She read comprehensive articles in Time and Newsweek and even subscribed to the New York Times. She cried at stories of love lost, and when Brad received his inevitable deployment to Viet Nam, Mavis cried again. Mavis and Brad wrote letters almost constantly. Eagerly she'd tear open the featherlight blue envelopes his letters came in. She could sometimes tell they had been opened by censors, but she thought little of it.

"I'm lonely, Mave'," he'd mourn. "I miss you so much!" One day Brad wrote something which frightened her. "If I don't make it back, as a man, a whole man, you find somebody else. Mary needs a father, and you need a husband." Had he been injured?" she wondered wildly. In the news every day were accounts of men returning from Viet Nam as mere shells of their former selves. In 'Nam, Brad was a "tunnel rat," who explored caverns and tunnels and unleashed a hellish inferno from a flame thrower to incinerate the "enemy." And he summarily shot to death "gooks" with his M-16. he wrote her.

Brad was ambivalent about his job, at best. "Like Ali says, 'these North Vietnamese never done nothin' to me," wrote Brad, referencing the former heavyweight boxing champion, stripped of his title and presently in court for failing to report for active duty. While Brad was abroad, Mavis enrolled in the local college, studying pre-law. She got an accelerated course of study, due to her perfect marks on her admissions test. She could finish in just two years.

. . . . .

At long last, Brad's tour in Viet Nam concluded and he went to Hawaii for R & R. Mavis got a letter from him, postmarked Honolulu and with a return address that read: "The World." She was so happy she could have cried.

Everyone was relieved and glad when Brad returned home. He had about 18 months remaining on his enlistment, but he would spend it stateside. As she sat with family in the Travises' living room for a celebratory dinner on Brad's first night home, Mavis regarded him proudly. He seemed fit and alert and happy and so her anxieties were allayed. It wasn't until they spent their first night together in bed that her fears came back.

"I can't do it, Mave'," muttered Brad, sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

"What is it, baby?" asked Mavis, running her hand over his well-muscled shoulders. "You still thinking about the war?" She was determined to understand, to be of help to her man.

"It's not so much the war itself," said Brad.

"Then what is it? Do you feel guilty being home while your buddies are still in Asia?" Mavis had read a plethora of books regarding soldiers' reactions to returning home after active service. In college she was also taking a degree in psychology.

Brad hesitated for a long moment, before he said, "It's more someone."

"Um?" Mavis didn't understand.

"Lien. It means water lily," he said warmly, his face suddenly lighting up. "I met her at Chu Chi." Mavis stared at him. "I was so lonely, Mave', and she had lost her husband in the war. I...we, fell in love." Her hand fell away from his shoulder.

All Mavis's dreams and expectations and hopes came crashing down upon her. Her husband, for whom she had prayed every night and lighted a candle every Sunday, and who had fathered her child, was in love with another woman. She fairly swooned.

"There's more, Mave'," said Brad. How much more could there possibly be? she thought bleakly.

"There's Lieu," he said. "She was born two months ago. She's my daughter, Mave'," and he grinned stupidly, unaware of the toll it was taking on the woman he'd promised to love forever and above all others.

When Mavis didn't respond, he put his hand on her shoulder, but she was too stunned to shake him off. "I want you to meet them," he went on, oblivious to her pain. "I'm petitioning the State Department to allow them to immigrate. It's complicated, but I think we can swing it. Eventually." They didn't make love that night, nor for most nights after that.

. . . . .

When he got out of the Marines, Brad went to a trade school on the G.I. Bill and became an auto mechanic. Mavis, meanwhile, finished her undergraduate degree and enrolled in law school and was an honors student. Their lives went on apace, but it was never quite the same after Viet Nam. Mavis knew that Brad tried, but he wasn't the attentive husband and lover she had known before the war; his heart just wasn't in it. They had no more children.

"Brad cheated on me, Mom," Mavis told her mother one spring afternoon. "He fathered a child by another woman." They had had this forlorn discussion many times before. They all still lived together at Ellen's house.

"Men get lonely in war, honey," murmured mom. Ellen's father had died in WWII and she held soldiers in high esteem.

"I got lonely too, but I never cheated," remarked Mavis crossly.

"You just have to forgive him, baby," said Mom. "It's what love is all about." Mavis sipped her coffee and said nothing. "You graduate tomorrow!" said Mom buoyantly, changing the subject. "You'll be a lawyer!" she exclaimed.

"If I pass the bar exam," Mavis corrected her, with a little smile.

"You aced every test you ever took," Ellen reminded her with a twinkle.

"We'll see," replied Mavis, thankful anew for her mother's unfaltering love.

. . . . .

Mavis, Ellen, 13-year-old Mary and Brad stood at the gate for international flights at the airport, expecting two long-awaited arrivals. Mavis glanced at her husband of 12 years; he seemed anticipatory, edgy. He didn't look at her. Suddenly the huge aircraft deplaned. Mavis recognized Lien and Lieu, from the hundreds of photos she'd seen, even before Brad did. They were petite and beautiful, but seemed so small, so vulnerable. At last they caught Brad's eye and as they entered the concourse, he rushed up to them, swept them both into a warm, loving embrace. Mavis swallowed. It was as if they had never been parted. The love that the three of them shared was manifest and nothing more need be said, she thought.

Ellen turned to her daughter. "What'll happen now?" she asked.

Mavis shook her head. "I don't know."

Suddenly Brad signaled for Mary to join them, and she did, relishing the idea of a younger sister and curious about the strange little woman accompanying her.

"You know," remarked Ellen, "this never could have happened if you hadn't negotiated with the State Department on behalf of Lien."

"I'm an immigration lawyer, Mom; it's what I do. And it knew it was what my husband wanted -- to have his family back."

"You did it for love," said Ellen simply.

Mavis only nodded and continued to watch the welcoming ceremony -- and the expressions of love -- at the gate.

Aweary  

Aweary with the dirt 
that amasses at the doorsteps of multiple nations,
the trash of treaties, conventions, and dialogues
in assemblies that spew out noisome speeches,
the tedium of eloquence 
that has been evolving since the extinction of Dinosaurs
and other pre-historic creatures,
when heavy clubs and hand-held rocks 
gave way to more refined ways of resolving 
territorial grievance. 


 
Terrorized

Terror now runs in our veins
like electric currents that are ordained
for the God-forsaken and the condemned insane.

We daily anticipate the predicted forecast
of tremors, volcanic eruptions, or some devastating gales
that bring everlasting perdition in its inevitable wake.

Our homes have become gossamer 
in the breath of raging warfare.
Stars are dragons to be heeded 
and clouds are ominous bearers of pain.
They have injected terror into our brains, 
each nerve resonating to a parody of the end of times, 
prescribed to every indignant homo sapien.


 
2024

It is only the second of January
and I am already bed-ridden,
unable to move a limb or lift an eyelid. 
I had mumbled something on the phone 
that made my brother nearly have a car accident. 
The search for a doctor immediately commences 
since I rarely fall ill. 

Nausea makes it impossible for me to suck 
a single sip of my favorite drink. 
I feel my grip on life fast loosening, 
but there is no white light beckoning 
or a flower-strewn tunnel 
at the end of which stands the welcoming dead. 
 
The mask-less doctor is reluctant to pinpoint the culprit.
‘Is it the new Corona?’ I faintly ask. 
2024 has just unwrapped its miscellaneous gifts.


 
If They

If they condemn ongoing butcheries in the Holy Land,
they are instantly accused of hate crimes,
of embracing anti-Semitism with a godly might,
but fortunately they happen to be Semites
and there is no way they could turn against themselves.

If they speak against the atrocities of Zionism,
they’re branded with the ugliest forms of racism,
but they are not the ones who inherited an apartheid 
that persecuted the Irish, red, and black.

If they invoke the help of Almighty God
to send Archangel Michael to battlefields
to support the persecuted in an occupied land,
fanaticism is the final verdict.