Poet’s Heart

No matter how much a poet writes,
Their words never end.
In this world, never ever,
Will the poet’s name die!

There are many professions, skilled individuals, and people with honorable titles in the world — and no matter how much we praise them, it seems not enough. Yet, there are such people in our lives whose hearts are constantly filled with passionate emotions, love, and divine feelings at every moment. They always look at existence through the eyes of the heart and express their unique and subtle feelings through the pen. Are you wondering who we are talking about? Of course — poets!

A poet. This is not just a title. Behind it lies a world of inner storms, emotional uprisings of the soul. As one of the great literary figures of the past century, Erkin Vohidov, once said:

A poet’s heart is like a pomegranate,
Its juice is their poetry.
Those of the poetic path
Have no mercy for their own heart.

Indeed, a poet’s heart is like a pomegranate. And their poem is the juice. Just as the tiny seeds of a pomegranate are crushed to produce its juice, so too the deepest feelings, emotions, sorrows and joys, hopes and dreams hidden within the poet’s heart are awakened. Like the scattered pomegranate seeds, the poet’s thoughts and reflections come together and bring about a spiritual stir in the heart, which results in the beautiful, divine lines we call poetry.

During the creation of a poem, there is no emotion left untouched in the poet’s heart. That’s why we say: a poet shows no mercy to their own soul. Poetry is a literary form that reflects all the feelings, impressions, and thoughts that occur in the human mind and heart.

The poetess Zulfiya defined poetry as follows:
“Poetry is the fruit of emotions, impressions taken from life, and reflections…”

A poem does not appear out of nowhere. Only true poets can create it. Merely rhyming two words or lines is not a sign of being a poet. A real poet’s heart contains loyalty to their homeland, love for their country, all living beings, and the Creator. It is these emotions of loyalty and love that inspire them to write poetry.

A poet finds joy, inspiration, and delight in every event. For example, some find inspiration in the quiet of golden autumn, in the gentle whispering of the trees, the rustle of falling leaves, or the pattern of rain. Others find inspiration in the soft call to prayer, the cry of an infant, the fleeting nature of this world, the worries and hardships of life. Their thoughts and desires give them no rest, not even for a second.

That is why one poem can fill our hearts with joy and pride, while another can immerse us in thought, connecting us with the pain of others. A true poet is someone whose heart overflows with patriotism, justice, humanity, goodness, courage, and bravery.

Such noble qualities are embodied in the poet Nazrul Islam. In Erkin Vohidov’s poem “Rebellion of Souls”, Nazrul is portrayed as a devoted poet who radiates light through his gaze, looks at the universe with a sense of wonder, and uplifts humanity with a sense of justice. From birth to death, he lives for his people, his nation, and never fears speaking the truth.

Even at the cost of his own life, he calls on all mankind to seek justice, truth, and human values. Yet, the masses see his actions as rebellious and imprison him.

The following lines from the poem express the true nature of a real poet:

If you are a poet,
Let your heart be ready
To be sacrificed for your people.
If you are a poet,
Let your people
Be your shield.

Over time, Nazrul Islam departs from this world, but his spirit lives on. The people make his golden words their guiding slogan.

At the end of the poem, Erkin Vohidov writes that Nazrul Islam’s spirit gave him no peace. The spirit of the character says to the poet:

Being a poet is like
A bleeding wound in the heart.
I do not wish for you, young one,
A peaceful life,
Or comfort.
Do not rest,
As long as you live.
Let inspiration bring you pain,
Be ill with poetry’s ache.

These lines awaken feelings of pride, bravery, and courage in today’s young writers. Through them, the poet’s spirit urges Erkin Vohidov not to write about fleeting pleasures or superficial beauty, but instead to live with the struggles of the people, the worries of his time, and to take poetry seriously.

Let’s refer to another work. In Abdulla Oripov’s “The Road to Paradise”, the central figure is a young man who was a poet in his lifetime. He wrote inspiring poems, was a good son to his parents, and harmed no one. He dies while trying to save a drowning girl during a flood. In the afterlife, he stands before the Balance Keeper who measures sins and virtues. The young man, hopeful that he may enter paradise, is surprised to find his good deeds weigh less than his sins.

He asks to see his greatest sin. The Balance Keeper shows him the burning souls of envious, dark-hearted people in hell. The point is that although the young man was given divine talent and a sharp pen, he used it only to describe mountains, nature, and romantic imagery, rather than to expose society’s evils or prevent wrongdoing.

This leads us to Abdulla Oripov’s profound words:
“A poet cannot isolate themselves in their own little world and write — they are connected through countless threads to the complex, conflicted, and heated life around them. Thus, they must live with the concerns, pain, and passions of their era…”

One of his quatrains also captures this well:

Don’t say a poet runs everywhere,
Neglecting the world’s burden.
They carry a mountain on their back,
Yet walk lightly like a bird.

Only when a poet takes on the burden of that mountain — not only their personal troubles, but also the problems of society — can they truly be called a poet.

In conclusion, today’s young writers must first and foremost possess patriotism, loyalty to the homeland, and a sense of humanity. For generations, our ancestors have passed down works that emphasize such noble qualities. Even knowing that writing them could risk their lives, they never feared spreading goodness and light.

Therefore, the writings and poems of today’s young authors must also become true weapons of goodness and patriotism for future generations.

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Author: Xo‘jamiyorova Gulmira Abdusalomovna
Born on June 25, 2004, in Surkhandarya region. While studying at Secondary School No. 22 in Uzun district, she actively participated in Uzbek language and literature Olympiads and earned honorable places. In 2022, she was admitted on a state grant to the Termez State Pedagogical Institute. She is a graduate of Shine Girls Academy and the “Formula of Success” course, and a member of Kazakhstan’s “Qo‘sh Qanot” Union of Writers and Poets. Many of her scientific and promotional articles and authored poems have been published in international newspapers, journals, and collections, and she holds several international certificates.

IT’S JUST THE WIND

The wind possesses a sentimental soul

A sincere and soft heart to adore the trees

Passionately in love, maybe not yet, how can the wind know?

When in the middle of chaos

There are many mountain tops it has to blow

The wind wonders why we live on the same earth

When the trees and the wind colour the afternoon of dating

Why humans observe discreetly each other’s wounds

The trees pretend not to know the wind

The trees pretend not to love

Not to have a fond remembrance, not to be jealous

They let the wind pass by

Like an apricot branch that never blooms

Like a romantic couple

Never passing this town on a bike

Happiness streaking through them like a comet

They couldn’t stop laughing

And by a cafe she drank two cups of lemon juice

Not sure if the trees have to pretend not to love anyone else

For the afternoon leaning, a few drops of sunlight scattering

For the unsteady sea forgetting its quiet sail

For the humans with the same blood colour

Keep doubting each other and forming opposite sides

The wind wishes

There are no wars on earth

The trees are not neglected

And the stormy seasons

Have not caused misunderstanding between them

So that when the wind passing by

The trees would feel

Love is so affectionate, trustworthy and cherishing

So that when the wind passing by

We would love our earth a lot more

The wind blames the trees just a little bit

Then it would be back to its chaotic journey

Then it would surf this planet

That is filled with colourful happy and sad stories

IT’S JUST THE WIND was born from a reflection on the affections between beings, whether trees and wind, or people with one another. I imagined the wind is a force of nature and a soul with longing, tenderness, and a wish for peace. Through metaphor, this poem seeks to speak gently to the human condition: our hesitations, our masks, and our shared yearning for connection in a divided world. The wind becomes a witness, sometimes brushed aside, sometimes misunderstood, but always carrying the hope that love can be felt openly and that harmony, like wind through branches, might one day move through us all. (Vo Thi Nhu Mai)

Võ Thị Như Mai is a Vietnamese writer, poet, and translator based in Western Australia. She has published four poetry collections in Vietnamese and numerous translated works both in Vietnam and abroad. A senior specialist teacher and cultural advocate, Mai also hosts a literary podcast and contributes essays on multicultural literature. Her long-running website, vietnampoetry.wordpress.com, has showcased Vietnamese poetry and translation for over 15 years.

Pomposity and Circumcision

I was an extremely nervous Veteran in my mid-20s, attending college on the G.I. Bill. I wasn’t at this institution of higher learning in pursuit of knowledge. I had been laid off one too many dead-end jobs, and decided to turn to Uncle Sam to provide me with some income.

Veterans could obtain open admission status at Jersey City State College. During the first day of a literature class a rather plump, middle-aged English professor went around the room to each student and asked us who was our favorite writer.

I was at the end of the room in the back row, so my response would be among the last.

The names of authors that the students bandied about baffled me–I had heard the name of 2: Shakespeare of course (though unfamiliar with his work), but as the students spouting names totally unfamiliar to me snaked their way towards my response, I began to panic.

I wasn’t much of a reader before my stint in Vietnam. If I read anything it would be newspapers and magazines, not books, because what’s the point of reading stuff that’s made up?

But while overseas a barracks buddy we called Happy Jack gave me James Michener’s novel The Source. I told him I didn’t see the point of reading novels because it wasn’t about the truth. Happy Jack responded that it was great historical fiction and filled with cool stuff that really happened.

Happy Jack convinced me to read it. I was enchanted with the epic storytelling married to historical facts about the ancient history of the Jews that took readers up to the creation of the state of Israel.

One of the memorable storylines in this novel was about a great Jewish athlete in Israel (based on fact) who was a favorite of the Roman occupying Governor. He wanted to enhance his own glory by sending his prized athlete to compete in Rome. The problem was that all Roman athletes competed in the nude and it would be unacceptable for a circumcised athlete to perform at the games.

The Roman Governor offered his Jewish sports prodigy a very painful medical procedure that would result in a foreskin being sewed back on. The ambitious Jewish athlete dreamed of competing in Rome. When he informed his parents and Temple priests of this choice, they rebuked him and said if he accepted this blasphemous medical procedure, he would no longer be considered a Jew and would be outcast from his true people. After an agonizing deliberation, he chose the operation and this gifted Jew became a celebrated Roman athlete.

This book me led me to read another Michener novel, The Drifters, which blew me away because this author was in his sixties when he wrote about my hippy generation and got everything right, including how and what esoteric music influenced us. During the rest of my military tour, I devoured novel after novel by him.

When it came my turn to declare my favorite author, I proudly said James Michener. The Professor stopped and feigned complete shock. She said she was asking for real authors, not pseudo-writers like my literary hero, whom she put in the same category as popular exploitation authors Jacqueline Susan and Harold Robbins.

I was humiliated by her put-down, especially since I was probably the oldest student in class. But as the minutes ticked by, my shame turned into anger. I felt cut, wounded. Not only had she insulted me, but she also insulted an author that I truly loved and who had ignited within me a passion to read literature. When class ended, I got up the courage—after the other students left—to tell her how upset I was.

Back then Vietnam Vets lived with the stereotype that we were mostly crazed and a cauldron of potential violence, so she seemed very uncomfortable with my confronting her for calling out my “lame” literary taste in class.

I knew that quite a few guys in the military used Harold Robbins as jerk-off books, but Michener was most certainly not in that salacious league. I asked her if she had read any Michener books and she told me she had not. When I asked why not, she said she assumed he was a sleazy writer because he was so popular. She dismissed him as a literary artist in lieu of being a soft porn commercial hack. She said the marketing of many of his trade paperback book covers seemed to come straight out of pulp fiction art.

When I related some of his content and how it affected me to the point where I could now comfortably embrace the genre of fiction, to her credit she gave me a heartfelt apology. Her words of contrition replaced my anger towards her with genuine respect.

This early academic encounter helped erase my intense insecurity that a High School dropout with a military-issued G.E.D. diploma did not belong on a college campus.

Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of New York’s Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild, PEN American Center, and Veterans For Responsible Leadership. His latest book is the flash fiction collection ‘Hunger Pains’ (Buttonhook Press).

trying to capture the moment

and here comes this light

soul saying all the right

things

sharing secrets

trying to capture the

moment

it makes me laugh

all of us

broken souls

searching for a better

tomorrow in a world

hell bent on destroying

itself

longing for a touch

a kiss on the sunset

as the world burns

it always ends the same

someone will need money

and i will have seen this

scam before

i respect the honest criminals

they found something

they were good at

most of us don’t

———————————————————

this time of year

the apartments behind

us like to play with

fireworks this time

of year

they will usually go

to two or three in the

morning

that is usually when

some genius

probably drunk

will throw a firecracker

into the dumpster

that explosion usually

wakes up the entire

neighborhood

a world war two vet

used to live next door

to me

too many memories

in the middle of the

night for him in his

nineties

he made it out

i doubt the rest

of us will

————————————————

memory of joy

growing up in dysfunction

doesn’t bring much memory

of joy when the holidays

roll around

only the moaning and bitching

about every little thing

so, for this fourth of july

i did my laundry

fucked up my back while

stripping my bed clean

icing that bad back

and counting the bottles

of whiskey over in the

corner and how many

it would take

dysfunction never leaves

you

like a cancer

a disease that knows

no limit

and i’m supposed to

give this joy to a child

fuck you

—————————————————————

tucked away in the darkness

i often think about

death these days

yours

mine

everyone i suppose

nothing comes from

these thoughts

they are tucked away

in the darkness

always willing to

come out and play

in the rain if ever

allowed

insomnia likes to

creep inside of me

open up a book

and a bottle of

wine

so, if you ever see

me bleary eyed

and laughing

we’ve got to a

chapter about the

pursuit of pussy

or power or some

motherfucker that

thinks there is a

difference between

the two

———————————————————————-

everyone wonders

the water is rising

paradise is burning

and everyone wonders

where is god

and i know i am the

crazy one for showing

the world the bullshit

of organized religion

yet no one wants to

give anything more

than thoughts and

prayers

god forbid

believe in science

stop raping the planet

stop thinking the rich

will save you

or any elected official

gives two shits about

anything other than

money

you have to be the

difference

you are the solution

because, eventually

you will realize

you is all you got

————————————————————-

J.J. Campbell

51 Urban Ln.

Brookville, OH 45309-9277

jcampb4593@aol.com

https://evildelights.blogspot.com

https://goodreads.com/jjthepoet

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, looking for some lost soul to complete his misery. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Misfit Magazine, Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Mad Swirl and Yellow Mama. Rumor has it he may have a new book coming out sometime before he dies. You can find him most days legally betting on sports and taking care of his disabled mother. He still has a blog, though he rarely has the time to post on it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

The Good Life

Three years after the onset of my chronic illness, I realized it was up to me to manage my condition. And what better way to take control than through the practice of chaos magick? In no time at all, I began sleeping better, which helped with the brain fog and whatnot; but, my heart rate still hovered around 160 bpm, and the loneliness remained unabated. 

So, I created a sigil tied to the intention, “I am healthy and at peace.” 

Who would have imagined I’d wake up this morning at the farmers’ market, sitting contentedly within the kohlrabi bin? I’ll admit, I am a fine specimen, fit as a fiddlestick; and, there’s little to fret over as a card-carrying member of the cabbage family. 

A beneficent figure approaches, blocking the glare of the sun. Her bracelets jangle as she rifles through the bin. I then feel a gentle pressure upon me.

Well, how do you do? I think to myself as I’m lifted and carefully placed into a well-used reusable tote.

At last, rather than rotting in my bed, I get to live out the rest of my days with this lovely hippy-dippy lady who reeks of patchouli. Sure, she’ll cut me into slices and slather me in Bitchin’ Sauce; but, after years of frustration, I’ll have, at last, fulfilled my destiny—bringing joy to someone capable of seeing me as I am.

In a remote village, in an old brick house, lived a mother and her two children.

The mother’s name was Guzal, and her children’s names were Oysha and Komil.
Their father had left for the city in search of work several years ago and never sent any letters after that.

Every morning, Guzal would take her weaving tool and weave adras cloth,
and in the evening, she would become a mother — telling stories to her children.
They lacked material things, but their hearts were full of hope.

One day, Oysha came home from school crying.
“Mom,” she said, “The teacher said: ‘It’s good to dream, but consider your reality.’
But I was dreaming of becoming a pilot…”

Guzal hugged her daughter tightly.
“My dear,” she said, “On the day you truly dream, even the sky won’t be able to stop you.
Just never stop believing.”

From that day on, Guzal read books to her children every night.
They couldn’t afford to buy books, but the old books in the village library were like treasures to them.

Years passed, and Komil became a doctor.
And Oysha — yes, she really became a pilot.

The first time she flew over their village, she waved at her mother from the plane.
And her mother stood on the ground, in a large flower garden, holding her weaving tool.

There was such a smile on her face —
as if the whole world was smiling back at her.

Mashhura Farhodovna Jo‘raqulova
Born on May 16, 2004, in Termez, Surkhandarya region.
She is a 4th-year student at the Termez State Pedagogical University, specializing in Foreign Language and Literature.

Father

For the happiness of children
They work hard from morning to night
Without giving less than anyone
They bring them to maturity
They give their lives for their children
They forget themselves
Without working hard
They make us happy
My father

Mother

Your beautiful love
Is unique in the world
A mother like you
Will never be found in the world
Sometimes by giving reprimand
You start on the right path
For the happiness of children
You never stop praying
For children

Hamroyeva Shahinabonu Shavkatovna was born in Romitan district, Bukhara region. She’s currently studying at school 43 in Bukhara City, Bukhara region, Uzbekistan. She is interested in writing poetry. Many of her poems are published in Turkish.