My joy is spring Spring always gives us happiness Everyone feels a sense of joy Most girls dance and use a powder Old ages make us laugh to enjoy I am happy about the season That's why flowers are everywhere. I like spring, but I don't know how My heart blooms when spring is here. The nature of spring is captivating Various birds fly on one side My heart cries out for alerting Every facet of spring with me alongside. O'razaliyeva Charos lives in Uzbekistan, Syrdarya region, and attends a creativity school which is named after Halima Xudoyberdiyeva.
Poetry from Xidirova Mahliyo
Homeland Your love is for me, Just let one word come out of my body: Homeland! you are always with me My glory, my love, you are my everything. I will never be apart from you I can stay without you Let this be a confession for you. You are the air to me, my dear country, I bow to you a thousand times, my country. Even your deserts are paradise, Companion always success to you, There is no more trouble in your head, You are my pride, my pride.
Poetry from Awodele Habeeb
Dear ruiner of all, Indeed, in destruction lies your own pleasure, Amidst sorrow and sadness, springs up your own joy, Your success sight, is to watch other success dimming. Devil, I know your laughter is ignited, when a tranquil heart turns violent, Your smile is sparked, when a blossomed flower withers, Your solace reigns, where lovebirds suddenly be at daggers drawn. Devil, I know the contentment you crave, is to put humankind in grief. Surely, I know in miles you have ruined, Leaving every single stage of this journey scathed and shattered, Incessantly stabbing the innocent flesh of this vulnerable heart, Mercilessly carving there the holes of bitterness, Heartlessly disposing of this injured heart to the abyss of sorrowful thoughts. But, Devil, do not yet, yell of conquest! For the end, still vague to foresee the outcome, For my defeat now, can transition to triumph, That my wound would meet healing in the end, And my feebleness would wear the garment of mightiness. Devil, do not ever laugh yet! For even in your laughter, is no tone of lastingness. Dear Devil, Remember, if you do not laugh last, you do not laugh best.
Excerpt from Michaila Oberhoffer
Chapter One I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t happy… I don’t say this to sound conceited, it’s just the way my people are since my earliest memory. Every day like clockwork I’d wake up and find myself with a smile on my face, going through the motions of my life as if on a permanent loop blissfully unaware of how empty my rooted happiness was or how futile my purpose was at this point. Until one day, on my way to work I found myself waiting for my train at the local Muni station, like I always do, when suddenly a young woman bumped into me out of nowhere. As she pushed past a paper fell to the ground from her backpack and I instinctively went to hand it back to her until I realized she had continued her path running in the opposite direction. Why was she running? I thought. No one runs anywhere any more, there is no need, and what was she wearing? I continued to stare in her direction intrigued by her movement until I realized I now was becoming the distraction in everyone’s path to work and began to go on my way thinking how strange this instance was. Still holding that single paper in my hand unaware yet of its significance in my life. It wasn’t until I was sitting on the train, in my regular seat, that I realized I was gripping on to that very paper. Like a shock to my senses, I felt that curiosity spark inside me. I don’t remember ever being this curious before… I uncrumpled the paper to find a single sentence written plainly in the middle of the otherwise blank piece. Why are you so happy? Why are you so happy? I laughed to myself as I read such a simple question thinking how odd of a thing to just carry around, until it hit as I sat there frozen in fear with the predominant smile on my face quickly fading as I found I had no answer. Why am I, so happy? All I could muster for an answer is just that everyone just was happy. Since the dark days when my parents had passed over thirty years ago, I felt as if I might have been in this very moment the only person in my society who had questioned this. Well, except for that girl... Who was she? Was she happy? During the dark days our people found so many stresses in their daily life, so much pain, so much unnecessary sadness blanketed our society or so I remember from the propaganda slogans plastered all over our city when I was a kid... So funny I had not recalled that memory until now… It sounds stupid I’m sure but before this piece of paper. This crumpled up piece of paper that could have easily been ignored and discarded at the perfectly accessible waste bin next to every train entrance, I never found myself questioning my life… questioning this society. It just wasn’t something that was done. Or at least from my experience it wasn’t something that was discussed. Everyone was just happy the way they were. It never seemed odd to me really because it was our standard of normal. Until this stupid piece of paper ruined my life. Made me an outsider, made me question everything that I was perfectly happy with moments ago. I felt a strange surge through my body like a warmth running through me that wasn’t welcome and a narrowing of my sight as I stared blankly at the ground until I realized what I was doing with my hands clenched and my face down towards the floor. It wasn’t until I lifted my head that I noticed my strange nature had also surprised the people around me with the many faces of spectators looking at me in confusion then looking at a poster on the train above my head that I never really noticed before. It read: Happiness is a standard. If you are unhappy, we are here to help. With a number following the message. Why had I never noticed this before? My whole life I never felt this way or had been looked at so questioningly as If I am sick. You can’t be sick. Why did this frighten me so much? I thought to myself... If I was sick, I could get help…That’s what they taught us. Like a battle in my head, I fought the idea of whether I should tell someone, but fear overpowered me. I sat there and found myself faking a smile in response to their stares and like clockwork they smiled back and went back to what they had been doing previously. I felt sick, fake. Hidden. Behind this now pretend façade. I spent the rest of my trip to work with a smile on my face and a busy mind trying to understand, trying to force out this confusion hoping it would pass, still holding the piece of paper that so taunted my reality. As I looked around, I kept finding myself wondering if they were all happy too. Why are they so happy? Why is this a bad thing? My subconscious tried to ask me… but it was so strange now after I had been asked why I was happy. I now found that since I did not have an answer to this question that my mind tried to find the most logical step forward. That maybe if I looked at others, or asked them, I might find an answer. The right answer… the needed answer. No, that’s too much of a risk. And then I thought… What if they aren’t happy? I mean they had to be right? They were all smiling. I’m not happy and I’m smiling. I’m not happy… Like a shock wave to my reality, it hit me. I never meant to think such a horrid thought… not happy… This cannot be true. That would mean I am sick. You are not sick. But I must be… You can’t be sick. It felt as if I was handed a key and then a door for that key appeared that I never knew was there and as I went to open the door the key disappeared from my hand, yet the door remained. Locked, taunting me, begging me to open it. What was on the other side? Why am I on this side of it? Which side was free? I tried my best to be reasonable, to get myself to stop questioning the purpose of my happiness because it only brought me sorrow not having an answer, but once the question is asked it becomes impossible to forget, especially such an intriguing one…and once you begin to look for something you notice it everywhere. Moments in your everyday life that make you question. That force you to remember the mystery hidden inside… Why am I happy? Jeez I do not remember this commute being so long… and so boring.
Michaila Oberhoffer was born and raised in the foggy San Francisco Bay area, a place she is still happy to call home. Satisfied with a great meal, a refreshing drink and a bit of nature, Michaila wishes to live life simply doing what she loves. A lover of all things philosophy and science, she believes that being human isn't about being intelligent enough to know but wise enough to question. She can easily be found sitting at a patio table at a coffee shop or at a local brewery, trying very hard to allow the thoughts in her head to become coherent enough to publish, settling for the comforts of humor and speculation. THE ROOT OF JOHN'S HAPPINESS is her debut novel.
Poetry from Christopher Bernard
The Hallucination It tracks the edge of the wilderness inside the skull of the mind, tongueless yet obstreperous, shouting like King Ubu lost in Poland. It is shocking how unshockable it is. The raptors of consciousness gather in its many caves, the blue shells of their eyes do not blink. Argus is its only ancient commentary, though Medusa is to come. Count its eggs, those tiny mausolea. The mice in the garden gave it all their stories. The mountain flowers are frozen like so many monkeys in its zoo of gazes. The coyotes themselves are whining to get in, you can hear them every night. The ravens shake their beaks and coolly smirk at the madwomen staring at their hands that are holding nothing.
Poetry from Rachel Gorman-Cooper
Smoky Lullaby The birds are getting stoned and it’s all my fault. I can’t help wanting to unwind with some creature nearby, who maybe just once feels the same way I do And the feeling buoys my troubled heart upward makes me want to consume all of every thing. After a day of soaking up the people, the places, the thoughts and feelings, after a day of being the devoured, I want to be the one who devours Desire desire desire I am you, you are me So long as I am coaxed into my dreams and not stranded with my nightmares So long as the birds who agree to stay in the yard, and the bunny who always inches toward me to bum a smoke of my green, smoke-filled lullaby The Female Skin Trap The woman’s desire to be small is so much more than being sexually attractive. We want to take up as little space as possible, We want to shrink into ourselves We want to be swallowed by the clothes we wear I say, Fantasizing of the skeleton utopia, Oh to drown in the oversized cottons and silks Not strangled by the linens that somehow feel like myself, my thick skin smothering anything that dares to contain it I am tired of bursting at the seams Of feeling every inch of myself and more Squeezed, tightly packed, suffocating in my own skin My layers double, then triple, then rip me to shreds We want to be microscopic, thin and tall as a blade of grass Free from the shackles and perceived in surface area just a few inches less- Until nothing can contain us but ourselves Earthly Appetite The earth is a stomach- no, a womb- Digesting and spitting up and mixing and separating and protecting and defending its creatures When it's done absorbing and disbanding me, it hesitates to regurgitate anything I’ve said or not said The earth is a womb. Every morning I am born again, and the world spins like a coin Neither mother nor father to its creatures And the sky rumbles and growls when it is hungry for more Swallow me whole, I beg of the sky, who may decide to tell the whole Earth Who are you but the sum of your parts? Sometimes, Earth, you make me wonder whether you are tasting us, savoring and delighting, or merely eating us for the nutrients required to survive.. Land of enchantment, or Badlands? We’re drawn to places that promise to change us The elements are different, the water and air a different taste The homes sculpted of clay, its conception still visible to the passersby Below the watchful Half crescent eye, neither waxing nor waning The flavors of an ancient and eclectic landscape blending seamlessly- Green chili, red chili, lavender, prickly pear Back to the land we go Places we’ve never inhabited feel like our roots, and how? HUNGER What do you do when you’re starving, and nothing tastes good enough? What do you do when you’re ravished, and everything is unappetizing? What do you do when your mouth waters for something that doesn’t exist? Taste whatever it is that you crave so badly, spit it out, swoosh it around, Draw some conclusion- Leave no crumbs, sop it up with a hearty bread and make sure to lick your fingers Then throw it up
Story from Jim Meirose
Spring Twilight Porch clear Sky Moon Above Spring twilight porch clear sky moon above. Son, said Father. The boy looked up. Know how we all walk upright on two feet? Not on all fours? The boy lightly nodded. Most don’t know this; we didn’t always walk that way. Back at the beginning the first of us walked on all fours. But; somehow some command from on high came, to rise from all fours, and walk on just two. Seems simple, eh, right? Yes, but—even back then, humans never could get anything done without a big noisy debate. One morning they found that new two limbed rule had been posted on a wall in the middle of the night. They stood sleepy-eyed, quietly regarding this, until the loudest mouth among them shouted, Okay, here! Let’s do it—here’s how—and they tried standing on their right arm and right leg, and, promptly fell over, failed. But, even before that failure, others were shouting over them, saying, No, no, no, that’s no good! Its like this—and tried their left arms and left legs, and, also fell over. Some few stubbornly tried those failed ways again and again and fell again and again, as yet others closed in, shouting, No, no, no, no—it’s this way! Right arm, and left leg, see? See—uh, wait, I—and as they fell over, yet more rushed in, crying no no shut up everyone, here; left arm, and right leg, see? See? And the turmoil grew faster, and louder, and hotter, until a voice shot clear, higher and louder than the rest, crying, This! Two hands! Look here! On two hands, yes! Look how tall! Yes so tall! And I am not falling! This is the way! So, they all tried to leap onto their hands. Some could not do it—but most were able to, and—these were in the majority, so—they agreed! Yes! They agreed—this is the way! Until, as they learned to do it longer, heads began reddening, eyes began bulging, and pressure began building, and they--they had to let go. Yes, had to—to fall over. But, this being the best solution so far, and one they’d all agreed on, they kept trying—and trying—and getting nowhere. But some learned to do it longer, but—they found the prolonged rushing of blood to their brains was not healthy. Some sickened. Some died. How many? Oh, who’s counting—before at last one let go, fell down, and by chance, rolled over and shot up to standing, solidly on their feet! Look! They cried—look! Here’s the way! Here’s the way! And they all followed. And that problem was solved—and that was that! Now, isn’t that something, son? I think that’s really something. Don’t you? Looking down, he saw his son, calmly relaxed, asleep. It had worked. They went inside.