Seen In Eastern Oregon                                       

Eastern Oregon is defined as east of the Cascade Mountains.  The east/west divide is political and topographical.  The fauna and flora and climate differ as well.

Many years ago, it could have been 2010, I went with a group of nature guides from the Portland Oregon area to an interesting historical site close to the Northeastern Oregon city Baker.  The main attraction in nearby Sumpter was the remains of an odd gold mining operation that operated from 1934-1954.  A dry land dredge created its own stream while running rock through the dredge.  Workers picked gold from the rock that passed through.

As interesting as that was, what caught my attention was a scene at the yard of a Sumpter resident.  A dog on a leash was barking at a deer peacefully munching on edibles in the yard.  The drama looked like it could be a nightly show.  After he had enough of the relentless barking the resident of the house came out to shoo the deer away.  The dog relaxed.

That wasn’t the only example of games animals play.  When we visited the Malheur National Game refuge in Southeastern Oregon we witnessed a coyote stalking a pheasant.  When the coyote got close the pheasant would fly twenty feet way.  We watched the slow motion unsuccessful pursuit for a few minutes, but it looked like the show could go on all day so we moved on to other wonders of nature.  Imagine a slow motion version of Wiley Coyote and the Road Runner.  Beep Beep.

On another occasion we found what appeared to be a flattened road runner.  A coyote didn’t get it, but it may have failed to Dodge a Maverick, Cougar, Impala, or other animal-named automobile.

Going through South Central Oregon just north of Nevada, we have seen herds of antelope (more accurately pronghorns).  They are the fastest land animal in the USA.  They evolved when dire wolves were around so they needed to be a little faster, and the excess speed has survived the demise of dire wolves.

The bittern is a bird that stays safe by standing head tilted up in reeds and is hard to discern from its surroundings.  It is good at hiding but we saw one.

The landscape east of the Cascades is much different.  The trees are different and smaller.  The juniper, sage brush, and horned toads (actually a lizard made famous by Yosemite Sam – I’ve run across a few) won’t be found in Western Oregon.

The differences between East and West are partly from climate differences and extent and timing of volcanic activity.  Western Oregon has a moderate climate with a lot of rain.  Eastern Oregon is arid and much more extreme.  Volcanoes made both Crater Lake National Park and Newberry Crater National Monument, home to East and Paulina Lakes, a frequent summer vacation for my family in the 1950s.  On a much smaller scale, there are the lava tubes and ice caves which were formed by lava vents.  Lava River Cave is over a mile long and open to visitors.  The various ice caves can keep ice for much of the year when the outside temperature can reach 90F.  In earlier times they provided Bend Oregon with ice in the summer.

Eastern Oregon – it’s something else.

Reason for the Rain

There was all this talk about Botticelli.

There was all this wine in our veins.

There was all this rain.

And all those people coming and going

Through my brain

Dancing on the ferry to another shore

Changes of scenery, of geography

Changes of heart

And there was this wall between words,

Erected with pain.

Will this rain ever stop?

Will the summertime

Open a window

And let the sun shine

From inside

Through my eyes again

After all these years

Of waltzing all alone

All by myself

Amidst the crowds?

Notes toward a Ballad

The August sun is intense, I undress

On the beach, sand in my toes

I hold sunrays in my hair.

I take refuge in a café 

On the nameless street

Tired of the heat

White wine goes green in my glass

Sun still fire in the sky.

No shade, no break,

His eyes dance on me,

They burn my skin 

I accept the figs he gives me

They are too soft. 

The coffee is too strong.

And the sun doesn’t give up.

And he does not give up. 

And now I lie awake pretending

That he lies awake

And that the whole world is awake

As we were then

In that summer heat

In that café

Without a break.

Fixing Cars

These callow young men who work under cars

all summer with eyes on the girls passing by

billboards of flesh, attired as if to please.

Wanderings of flesh, whose pale youth beckons

to tease and torment, their pleasure as if

just an image and perfume is enough.

For  callow young men who work under cars

their white t shirts stained with copious sweat

cool mirror shades reflect metal workings

iron tools of the trade only rearrange.

When summer’s over, the cars remain ghosts

but the girls return for a final pose.

Then driven to nowhere in borrowed cars

these callow young men reserved all along.

Death Of Language

Out of body

even as our eyes

focus/our

fingers interlocked

with familiar

detachment.

She takes

photographs of

herself, of me

countless birds

that leave us

without crumbs.

All, as it

should be until

with succinct

innocence she

mentions a friend

whose obviously more.

A montage of

images gather

to assail/accuse

with inviolate

clarity. Her

recent furtive

moments…

Calls made

with surreptitious

candor. Late

nights and

now its too late

to ask why.

On a busy street

she wants to explain

all I feel. As every

artery rushes blood

to my skull with

dizzying effect.

At a restaurant

she cant explain herself

nor can I.

The death of language

all we know.

Waitress gives us

menus but English

and love  are now

languages-

I no longer understand.

For Lydia Lunch

They’re all guilty

said Lydia Lunch

of her predators.

Cracked mirrors

who left each                               

sharp shard

of  hate deep

to draw blood

frequently in

nightmares framed

with forbidden

detail from assaults

of childhood incest.

It’s been her life

to wake scathed

from these or

lesser indifferent wounds.

Later documented as if

from  a mirror

in too many ways not

to be her life’s work.

A  timeless art

from trauma her shadow

at home or hospitals

as they stitched her up again.

Trauma of being set loose

with havoc and revenge

the only words to live by.

Seldom having

enough disdain to aim.

Her targets all

varied players…

some merely accidents.

In lurid yet beguiling

ongoing adventures

she half hypnotizes

even the casual to read…

or hear on stage.

Where still

no one is ever safe

especially not her.

Alfonso Reyes and Poetic Consciousness: Dreams as Revelation

Cesare Pavese stated, “We don’t remember days, we remember moments,” and Heidegger reminds us that “man acts as if he were the shaper and master of language, while language remains man’s master.” These two ideas can illuminate the work of Alfonso Reyes, a writer whose poetic exploration is not only an exercise in memory and conscience, but also a testament to the relationship between language, dreams, and revelation.

For Reyes, the habit of poetic consciousness is the meeting point between word and idea, between thought and feeling, between life and reason. His fascination with Greek tradition led him to understand poetry as the origin of human existence. In his view, reason and hope were not opposites, but complementary, as evidenced in Platonic philosophy. Reyes, in agreement with María Zambrano, seemed to understand that in classical Greece there was no sharp separation between thought and feeling, between poetry and reason, but rather both elements coexisted in vital harmony.

One of the most interesting aspects of Reyes’s poetry is his conception of dreams as a space of revelation. He understood them not as a simple escape or manifestation of the unconscious, but as a path to knowledge and poetic creation. Just as Heraclitus saw dreams as a place of absolute individuality, Reyes perceived them as a form of wakefulness, an intermediate state where language and image illuminate each other.

This vision is present in his poem “Pesadilla,” where dreams are not only a refuge, but a stage where fear and memory converse with history, with the dead, and with time. In these verses, Reyes shows us a world where spirits and memories blur, suggesting that dreams are also a form of truth, a way of reconstructing human experience through poetic imagery:

“Through those houses I visit in dreams,

confused galleries and halls,

staircases where fear wanders

and darkness rolls in tremors…”

The same experience can be had again and again in the dream of returning. Ideas follow one another over time in a vital and luminous way, making it almost impossible to reconstruct the remnants of thought without taking into account the energy to which it leads us, the desire to return to that dream, to those houses visited in dreams, since dreaming is not conceived in Reyes’s work as the simple wandering of the unconscious. This sensation, which causes the discourse of the encounter with existence in Reyes, is repeated until it provokes the desire for an eternal dream, which is both origin and consequence in a given moment.

His poetics is a constant journey toward the mystery of being, an attempt to reconcile vital cosmology with poetry. For him, writing is tracing a path that begins with intuition and emotion and leads to the light of understanding.

Awakening, dream, and vision are a provocation in the depths of time. Their timelessness is the original awakening and therefore the birth of Alfonso’s history, consciousness, and thought. In this angle of poetic vision, the antagonistic tendency established by the poetic image of the theorist, of the instant in subordination to the contextual world, and on the other hand, the influence of the same world, within the artistic system of Alfonso Reyes, who, beyond the mimetic relationship between reality and vision, dream and configuration, life and word, highlights the deference of real contexts as an incitement to creative activity.

This poetic awareness that Reyes develops between the extratextual and the textual, from external and internal perspectives, between the objective and the subjective in Rey’s literary invention, produces an artistic effect, which is developed throughout his own artistic feeling, in which the writer’s balance and personality play a relevant role, defining the objective and the impersonal from a new perspective that concerns his own expectations and from a particular point of view.

Reyes seeks to make his vital thought an astral, eternal, and uniform inclination. It is possible for him to transit in and through life, even in the manner of the stars, which is not proper to man. And Reyes certainly recognizes that this image has something of a frenzy, since it is an image of an empty time, without beginning or end, of an absolutized time; devoid of scope. Yet if space is described by creating it, then it is an effigy of life in its purest state, of life as an existence both chosen and free.

If Heidegger proclaimed that language is man’s teacher, in Reyes we find a concrete application of this idea. We can see in him that the poetic word not only names reality, but creates, expands, and transforms it. As in Plato, in Reyes, poetry is a way of knowing the world, a journey that seeks to wrest its hidden truth from existence.

His writing moves between intellectual rigor and imagination, between clarity and reverie. His verses and essays reflect a ceaseless search for meaning, a desire to transcend everyday experience to reach a broader dimension, where thought and poetry intertwine in an unquenchable radiance.

In Alfonso Reyes’s work, dreaming is not simply closing one’s eyes and escaping, but opening one’s mind and expanding one’s consciousness. It is searching in the depths of language for those sparks of truth that illuminate the world and restore our breath in the true dimension of what we have experienced.

Fadwa Attia from Egypt writes about play (Fares reveals the hidden) Mohamed Sobhi’s directorial vision, from the very first scene, is presented by Sobhi using the technique of merging the cinema screen with theatrical performance, using footage from the character of Faris Faris Balajwad in the series, which he played years ago, to confirm a specific identity at the beginning of the play.

He takes us back to the very first scene of that, enthusiastically entering the scenes of that train—the train that expresses the history and identity of a nation, and the Al-Sadawi family, who came from different places for the inheritance and do not know each other—and a discussion about the treasure in the scene that follows, in an enjoyable transition between Cairo Station and the scene of the apartment in which they will live, which is the family home, conveying to us the concerns of the Egyptian household, from free education and its concerns to Afrocentricity, which is trying to steal the identity of the ancient Egyptians, to the conscientious censorship of our lives, to artificial crying, globalization, technology, and the mobile phone that has torn the Egyptian family apart.

All of this is done in successive scenes in the first act as they search for the treasure amidst a succession of slogans, songs, lighting, and sets, and an attempt to decipher the treasure between the two heroes of the play, Mohamed Sobhi and Wafaa Sadek. By inviting the 22 heirs of Hafez Naguib to search for the treasure of their great patriotic grandfather, the land usurped by Maysoun, Mudalla Ghazi. These heirs include traitors, agents, pessimists, frustrated opportunists, superficial and greedy individuals. They resorted to deception until they were burdened with debts in their quest to fulfill the terms of the requirements of the rulers of Zion to the letter, ending with their dispersal, despairing and hopeless, due to their lack of true awareness of what was being plotted against them.

A play by the Fares Studio troupe, Uncovering the Hidden. This is the Actor’s Studio band, founded by the star Mohamed Sobhi in the eighties. With the team spirit, expressing the dreams of young people today, raising the slogan of awareness of the Palestinian cause. These are the names of the actors and actresses.

This play revolves around the events of a knight’s play, which reveals the hidden, set against a melodramatic background. A true artistic, comedic, musical, and theatrical show, presented by the Actor’s Studio troupe, written and directed by Mohamed Sobhy, with Ayman Fatia participating in the book, decor by Mohamed El-Gharbawy, lyrics by Abdullah Hassan, music by Sherif Hamdan, and starring: Mohamed Sobhy (Fares), Wafa Sadek (Baheya), Kamal Attia (Dahab), Rehab Hussein (Maison), Angelica Ayman (Nidal), Laila Fawzy (Souad), Dalida (Shaimaa), Mustafa Youssef (Ghazy), Mohamed Shawky (Shawky), Lamia Orabi (Abla), Dalia Nabil (Malak), Michael William (Michael William, Daqdaq), Abou Heiba ​​(Sand), Helmy Galal (Aref the lawyer), Mohamed Abdel Moaty (Mukhtar), Alaa Fouad (Kamal), Khaled Mohamed (the final man), Gamal Abdel Nasser(Sadon), Walid Hany, James: Mahmoud El-Sherif (Rahma), Remasib (Sara), Lamar Awad (Hanin), Bilal Mohamed (Seif).

The play consists of two acts, each with seven scenes, and achieves harmony in all elements between the various sets and theatrical scenery, from the station to the apartment to the palace to the grounds. The smooth and effortless performance, the spirit of a loving team, the various topics including the identity of the homeland, the Palestinian cause, the golden billion, education issues, and others, and the emphasis on “We are all one, Muslim and Christian, hand in hand.”

The music, theatrical lighting, and the integrated visual image with integrated scenography, in addition to the appropriate clothing for each actor and actress, the songs and performance in singing as well, with a new return to emphasize identity, homeland, and belonging, and a reminder of the integration of cinematic presentation with theater, by integrating the character of Fares, who appeared to us years ago in the series “Fares without a Horse,” so that the prologue at the beginning of the play became the first scene that attracted the audience. As for the children, he presented them in the impact of technology and artificial intelligence on their lives, bringing us to our lives and what is in them, so that we can stand with ourselves, fully aware of the external threats from Israel to the challenges within our daily lives.

Thus, “Fares Uncovers the Hidden” is a historical show that displays the past, present, and future in the best play presented at the level of public and private sector theater, to sit on the throne of the summit in terms of occupying first place compared to shows that did not achieve the same artistic and moral value, achieving the difficult equation in a complete artistic show. The play “Fares Uncovers the Hidden” occupied first.

Fadwa Attia is a writer, painter and photographer from Egypt.

Snow falling white birch forest
After wandering the world,
I now watch the snow falling
on a birch forest in Poland.

Every soul that leaves its home
will long for the land it once dwelled in,
the lingering scent of wildflowers left behind,
the laughter of a beloved voice.

I only miss the sunshine of Jeju.
There is no gift more precious than sunlight.
The autumn sun in Jeju is dazzlingly beautiful.
You will never know
how deeply I love the sunshine.

Standing beneath the gray sky,
watching the snow fall in a Polish birch forest,
in this divine and beautiful woodland,
I long for the warmth of the sun.

Snowflakes fall endlessly,
piling on the snow-covered birch trees,
as longing quietly settles in my heart.


Distance Between You and Me

Each word, each phrase,
like the wind, it sways.
When we hear but don't retain,
connections start to wane.

With a quiet heart, sincere and wide,
we look, we listen, side by side.
Emotions flow, a hidden stream,
revealing truths, a whispered dream.

Listening is magic, soft yet strong,
it soothes, it heals, it rights the wrong.
It melts the ice, it breaks the chain,
and opens hearts to feel again.

At work, at home, in love, in ties,
trust is built where empathy lies.
To truly hear, to understand,
creates a bond, a helping hand.

Like forests need the sun and rain,
so do hearts through joy and pain.
Nodding gently, eyes that see,
reflecting words so truthfully.

Not just our voices, loud and free,
but others' stories, their decree.
Only then, both strong and wise,
can we unite and harmonize.

Together swaying, firm yet free,
a bamboo grove in unity.


The Day I Turned Away from the Heron

She gazed at glass in the morning light.
What did she see in that silver space?
A lonely ghost in her own embrace.
She longed to be like the crane so bright,
with feathers pure as drifting white.
Yet in the stream where shadows play,
her form was cast in quiet gray.

Who would cherish one unseen?
One who scorns where they have been
can never know a world serene.
The crane looked on with patient eyes,
as still as time, beneath the skies.
The heron stood where waters gleam,
a fading shape within a dream.

I turned away from the heron, left nothing there,
just silence hanging in the air.

Poet Dr. Kang, Byeong-Cheol is a Korean author and poet, born in Jeju City, South Korea, in 1964. He began writing in 1993, publishing his first short story, “Song of Shuba,” at the age of twenty-nine. He released a collection of short stories in 2005 and has since won eight literature awards and published more than twelve books. From 2009 to 2014, he served as a member of The Writers in Prison Committee (WiPC) of PEN International. Additionally, he worked as an editorial writer for JeminIlbo, a newspaper in Jeju City, Korea. He holds a PhD in Political Science and currently serves as the Vice President of The Korean Institute for Peace and Cooperation and vice president of Jeju PEN. Moreover, he holds the position of founding President of the Korean Association of World Literature.

Her words paint the world

Rainbow colors,

It fascinates everyone,

The poet comes to inspiration,

She draws colors into words.

Every color has a meaning,

The poet sees harmony,

Her imagination is very rich,

She hears, writes from feelings.

She calls people,

She wants peace for the world,

She feeds a white dove,

Between the lines.

Every word, every song,

The composition of his heart.

The voice of the heart is sung,

In the rhythm of a double heart.

She praises the good,

She suffers the bad,

She loves his friend, brother,

Against the backdrop of justice.

She has a wish in the world,

There should be no war,

Adults and children

May they always live happily!

The poet’s word box,

It is like a paint bucket,

Like a painter, a word brush,

 Look, She paints the world!

Elmaya Jabbarova was born in Azerbaijan. She is a poet, writer, reciter, and translator. Her poems were published in the regional newspapers «Sharginsesi», «Ziya», «Hekari», literary collections «Turan», «Karabakh is Azerbaijan!», «Zafar», «Buta», foreign Anthologies «Silk Road Arabian Nights», «Nano poem for Africa», «JuntosporlasLetras 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.