FROM THE HEART OF A HOARDER Stuff overflows the house – to the disinterest onlooker, it is the house – you may be able to live with the barest minimum of items – but I'm committed to purchases, storing objects in previous empty places - you are looking at a lifetime – you can't say that in your house – come inside, if you can find the space – I will point to you the boy, the man I am now, and everything in between – wherever I live, a museum wraps around me like a cloak – every book, every toy, every photograph, every piece of music - I can show you my life history in nothing but spoons – my most cherished secrets in a filing cabinet – interested in the real me? come along - a sated closet awaits – I was married once – "it's either all this crap or me," she said – take a good look - you'll find report cards, bank statements, comics, newspapers, razor blades, ceramic horses, tin soldiers, baseball cards, but ultimatums – nada. TO MAKE THIS WORK I have no wings, no gills – can’t fly, can’t live under water. But I can occupy a parlor chair, put my feet up on an ottoman, drink beer, munch chips, and stare at football games on a flat-screen television. You’d be surprised at what can constitute a pet. THE DAY BY ROTE The day glows yellow in the clock radio face. The day puts the kettle on for coffee. The day shaves the lower half of my face. The day dresses me in what won’t embarrass either of us in the brightest of its light. The day exits the house, gripping my hand. The day starts the car. I grip the wheel but the day is in the driver’s seat. WHY I SAID “NO” There’s no such thing as an innocent family picnic. The food aims right for my craw. The alcohol comes on like a compress. Open the old hurts. Cut through the insincere smiles. It takes more than courage to take the hand of brothers. To eat with them To sit between those great boulders and not call them bastards. You urge me to set aside my differences for the afternoon. Sure, like green, given the occasion, can convince itself that it’s really orange. It’s okay for you. You’re only a family member courtesy of the diamond on your finger. My brothers and I drown in the same blood. In my dream, I crash the event in my car. In one great sweep, down goes the grill, the hotdogs, the glowing coals, the ash. No my dear, pretending I’m someone else won’t wash. Won’t wash the words. Won’t wash the deed. And if you think there’ll be some kneeling involved, a little begging for forgiveness, you’ve been watching the wrong drama. The wounds cut deep. The blades are still in me, still jiggling about, in search of a more tender spot. There’s no shared memories to flutter a cooling breeze. No ray of sunlight in a web of darkness. No natural bond that will pull us all into line. Just baggage. Just pain. For me, one family ends here. Only you and I can have a future. EMMA REMEMBERS THE MAN OF THE HOUSE He was Seagram 7 man. He was Budweiser man. Much of her childhood was the stink of his breath. But she loved him - even when he drove that Chrysler like a crazed demon, with her bouncing in the backseat; even when his slippery grip once dropped her to the floor. And he was rough hands man. He was chest scar man. Much of her childhood was him up on a roof somewhere, in searing sun, hammering in tiles or repairing chimneys. High atop a house, he was a god. Then after work, straight to the bar, he would stumble home as the devil. He was holy man. He was nasty man. But she loved him – when he tore her heart out, it refused to tear. John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, California Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Isotrope Literary Journal, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.
Poetry from Wazed Abdullah
Friends Friends are like stars in the night sky, Together we laugh, together we cry. In happy moments, they stand close, In tough times like a comforting dose. Sharing special moments, making memories dear, Through each smile and every tear. Side by side, through thick and thin, Friends forever, a bond that'll always win. (This poetry has been dedicated to all of my friends.) Wazed Abdullah is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Poetry from Azemina Krehic
ADJUSTMENT TO THE DARK Accustomed, we no longer stagger, And we don't hold our hands in front of us trying to feel the shapes. We are already walking confidently through the darkness, along the roads which seem to have always been ours, and on which we know each one crease, salience and direction. Darkness can now be touched. We grab it; darkness is a loose earth, humus and it rushes through our fingers Azemina Krehić was born on October 14, 1992 in Metković, Republic of Croatia. Winner of several international awards for poetry, including: Award of university professors in Trieste, 2019.,„Mak Dizdar“ award, 2020. Award of the Publishing Foundation of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2021. „Fra Martin Nedić“ Award, 2022. She is represented in several international anthologies of poetry.
Poetry from Faleeha Hassan
Not Maryam Father, I am not Maryam. Not Maryam. Despite that The one you see Utter between you, I am not his mother And he is not borne from me Yet the one called Jesus belongs to me. … I am not Maryam, father Not Maryam. I buy my bread with my own tears Every time You don’t feed me. Your sky is grapes And I have not a prophet’s uncle and My mother didn’t sell me For the Qibla* of her prayers. Why then do I see the deaf And blind Fight me at my doorstep? … Not Maryam, father. I am not Maryam. I was not a sister to Harun * My hands are my witnesses They tire of shaking the root of your palms And I did not dream of flour falling into my hands The drink I brought Is tasteful only to myself. What’s with these horses Bleeding and whining At my sight? … I am not Maryam, father. I am not her. Your women seek me for the onset of labour. And this face Its features moulded by the palm of the wind is ruined by exile. For the first dawn I do not rise to deceit, I am not hanged - and have no fear. I am not Maryam, father I am not Maryam. But I present myself As a temple Lest you claim that I am Maryam. ………………….. * Qibla: the direction that a Muslim faces when performing their daily prayers. * Harun: (Harun Al Rashid 766-809) His date of birth is debatable. The Thousand and One Nights tales were based on him and his imagination. By Faleeha Hassan Translated by Dikra Ridha She is a poet, teacher, editor, writer, and playwright born in Najaf, Iraq, in 1967, who now lives in the United States. Faleeha was the first woman to write poetry for children in Iraq. She received her master's degree in Arabic literature, and has now published 26 books, her poems have been translated into English, Turkmen, Bosnian, Indian, French, Italian, German, Kurdish, Spain, Korean, Greek, Serbia, Albanian, Pakistani, Romanian, Malayalam, Chinese, ODIA, Nepali and Macedonian language. She is the Pulitzer Prize Nomination 2018, PushCart Prize Nomination 2019. Member of International Writers and Artists Association. Winner of the Women of Excellence Inspiration award from SJ magazine 2020, Winner of the Grand Jury Award (the Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021) One of the Women of Excellence selection committees 2023 Winner of women the arts award 2023 Member of Whos’ Who in America 2023 SAHITTO AWARD, JUDGING PANEL 2023 Cultural Ambassador - Iraq, USA Email : d.fh88@yahoo.com
Poetry from Mahbub Alam
Winter Love Winter comes though late comer I feel you so much, dear winter After a long hot weather We welcome you with so many new elements of enjoyment Including items of foods, cloths and soft touch of loving hand Sleeping with quilt facing with you Feeling warm love in secret my heart blazes In the morning the world is covered with the mist and fog While nothing is more suitable than my date's cold juice And the verities of pithas and pa-es I love you winter so much Love you because the new flowers in the trees will bloom soon I love you too much you brought me too close to my loving heart. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh, 11 December, 2023 The Spring Year-2024 To the beginning of the year -2024 What I say? What I say I do not know. But like to say much though I can't express Within this circumstances of the enclosed room My heart smiles on over the new tune of love And fraternity in a harmonious world That makes us happy with all our aims and activity We can walk freely day and night Without any dubitation of fire fighting or anxiety All the flowers in the garden may bloom from here to the last space of the earth The Spring Year -2024 I love you, welcome you Hope for the replacement of sorrows and suffering Into the glittering light of humanity. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh, 30 December, 2023 Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos, for seven years.
Poetry from Manzar Alam
The Harbinger of Beauty Today in the evening I saw a baby Resting its head on the shoulder of its mom. The little one was gazing with its enchanting eyes That was unusually attractive, marvelous and nice. The soft glow of roses was reflecting through its face. No sign of weariness, anxiety or pain Could anybody find in that ever beauty creature’s eyes. I gazed and gazed and found enormous joy The purity and innocence that the baby had shown. It captured my feelings and soothed my soul. This sweet lovely baby, looked heavenly flower to me, Whose soul is still in touch of the Lord. The innocent little soul had seen not yet Poverty, injustice, cruelty and fake. The treacherous people are following him or walking ahead. This poor little beauty does not even know What deprivation, corruption, injustice and hate Is waiting for this innocent infant. Alas! this poor soul has not yet guessed Or imagined the action the silent killers have In the name of justice power and pelf. How treacherous, heinous and cruel are they Who advocate for equality but practice not they! But dear little baby still we hope Your arrival on the earth will bring a change. This world will see righteousness, equality and justice again, People will have the opportunity to speak, opportunity to work In the environment where they will enjoy the rights - Right of speaking, right to smile, right to choose their leader they wish Who will lead them to the real golden age Where the sun of freedom will shine again, They will see there not suppression, corruption, violation of rules Not application of illegal power or deprivation at all. (Manzar Alam from Bangladesh)
Poetry from Elmaya Jabbarova
New Year Song The caravan of the long road, Choose a pure address, Purify every person, Every year when the last month comes. Joy fills my heart, When every New Year comes, Spring is coming to my life, When I hear a message from you. I wait patiently My love remains with a deficit, A year passes with algebra, Grief, sadness when strength comes. This is how I spend my life I'm secretly worried My heart just laughs When your voice comes. I have a wish my love, Get out, my grief, You be mine, I'll be yours, When our soul is the same. Let's sing a new song Let's knit verse by verse, Let's create a poem, an epic, When every New Year comes. Elmaya Jabbarova - was born in Azerbaijan. She is a poet, writer, reciter, and translator. Her poems were published in the regional newspapers «Shargin sesi», «Ziya», «Hekari», literary collections «Turan», «Karabakh is Azerbaijan!», «Zafar», «Buta», foreign Anthologies «Silk Road Arabian Nights», «Nano poem for Africa», «Juntos por las Letras 1;2», «Kafiye.net» in Turkey, in the African's CAJ magazine, Bangladesh's Red Times magazine, «Prodigy Published» magazine. She performed her poems live on Bangladesh Uddan TV, at the II Spain Book Fair 1ra Feria Virtual del Libro Panama, Bolivia, Uruguay, France, Portugal, USA.