Rewritten 

Translate her into a storybook 
with yellow illustrations, children’s 
fingers humming as they gaze in jealousy. Translate her scraped knuckles 
into bandaids drowned in flavorless pink. Rip out the pages where her control 
whimpers inside splintering chains, 
choking, gagging in alleyway shadows 
where a man breathes too close. 
Peel away the part where she draws her knife. Tear the paper. 
Don’t show the children how she fights back. Scribble over his body in her succulent soil and the diced red peppers 
she swallows without crying. 
Freeze the little girls mariating in envy 
as they scroll through their storybook. 
Tighten their yellow bows. 
Translate her.

NEW YEAR MAGIC

This New Year we did not have a Christmas tree. Friends were supposed to come to my party. But we couldn’t buy a real Christmas tree a thorny, scent, fluffy beauty. When my mother left for work, I asked her to buy garlands and toys to somehow decorate the rooril.

I have been preparing for the New Year for a long time. My parents knew and allowed me to call my friends. But  we were at odds with my best friend – Anvar. And I was not going to put up with him. On the contrary, I wanted to take revenge on him this year. Although, dad always told me: «Do not dig a hole for another — you can fall into it yourself)).

And he warned that Santa does not present gifts to bad children. But I didn’t care, I was very angry with Anvar and did not want to forgive him. In the afternoon we met with a former friend. He started talking first: «Let’s put up, because soon the New Year. All quarrels must be left in the past. Let’s make a snowman together and  call it Friendship». I decided not to continue the war and make peace with a friend: «Come to me tomorrow for the New Year party. It will be fun. Only we will not have a Christmas tree – we did not have time to buy it)). When I was saying that to Anvar, I saw my mother walking home and carrying a big beautiful fluffy tree in her hands! I was so staring at her that I even fell. It was such a big cool suprise!

Probably, they say the truth that New Year should be celebrated with friends, in a good mood and without bad thoughts. Then all wishes will come true and the whole year will be good. I had a great New Year party with my best friends and nice family! I am sure that this year will be happy and successful for everyone and for me! Happy New Year to everybody!

ABDULLOH ABDUMOMINOV (Uzbek young writer)

Uzbekistan, Tashkent

Age: 13

School: 102

Grade: 7

Berganda Big Announcement – BBA By Ike Boat

          Graciously, writing has been part and parcel of what I do for a living on a daily basis. Beside, song, poem, script, article, blog and story writing have all rekindled as well revived the inner passion and fulfilment associated with such professional skills in this field of creative arts. Well, in life some gifted and talented individuals are blessed to take the lead in climbing the staircase of success, thus literally moving upwards or being step ahead on the ladder of prosperity. But, in our Creator’s strategic ways it all happens in His time and season as far as the earth revolves around the sun.

Surprisingly, in retrospect the man who came to Amanful Digital Library & Learning Arena – ADDLA, where I used to serve as its Librarian and Manager has been forgotten in terms of facial persona recognition or pictorial outlook description. Thus, I can’t really make him out by offering that contact number of Mr. Dennis Agyeman with the pseudonym Dennis Mann can never be erased from the memory absorption of my cerebrum and cerebellum. In fact, Sir DM as I affectionately call him not the virtual DM for ‘Direct Message’ though but this distinguished man of valour Dennis Mann, a professional Banker, Child Educationist and astute Author in Accra, Ghana.

Thankfully, the maiden communication on the other side of the phone with him remains quite memorable, aside I cherish as well embrace it as ‘DC – Divine Connection’ by virtue of the fact that it took me a number of years to come across the diary I wrote his phone contact number. Having spoken with him several times, it always comes with blissful verbal expression and written statement that he’s such a man with optimism to blaze trail to higher heights in both domestic and exotic creative writing arts industry. Better-still ,it is so good to know his maiden published book entitled Mr. Pee Pee being one of the incredibly sought after children literary companions in Ghana, West Africa and other parts around the globe.
Remarkably, I hereby break his big news as Berganda Big Announcement – BBA as he’s poised with readiness to launch and release another marvellous book dubbed Berganda.

Kindly, check the following details and take note of the virtual poster respectively. Thanks
Berganda Executive Book – BEB Launch
Date: 3rd December,2021 #Friday
Time: 11 AM
Venue: Dreamer’s Hub, Near Wisconsin University College,
                                                 North Legon, Accra
           Ghana, West Africa.
Host Author: Dennis Mann
Guest Speaker: Raphaelle Antwi
      Anchor/MC: Ike Boat
Contact: +233247654113 Or +233557957122

I AM A SNOWMAN
Linda Hibbard


I am a snowman built from winter snow 
My eyes are large and round 
I like to look around 
I like to play with the people 
Who built me from the ground

I am a Snowman
Each year a new Snowman stands here,
Wide eyed at the earth 
Looking at the people who 
Made them from the snow

A new Snowman I am   
Standing tall and strong

Watery Winter Sunshine 
No! Not that, 
I feel! 

The climate change, I feel 
Standing less round and 
Closer to the ground
I yell to the children, 
Who built me from the ground 
Can I have another day? 
Can you save your Earth, 
Don’t let us melt away 

    

Four Poems

Written by Chinese Poet Yuan Hongri

Translated by Yuanbing Zhang

 

The King of Giants in Prehistoric Kingdom

 

When you are not any more fresh fragrant red apple but faithful pure ruby,

you will see the back of  time, the incredible kingdom of the sweet light.

the palace of stars in which the soul lives and the golden tree in the garden of heaven.

The ulterior you will be a teenager--the king of giants in prehistoric kingdom.

10.19.2017

 

那史前之国的巨人之王

 

当你不再是鲜芳的红苹果而是坚贞纯粹的红宝石

你看到了时间的背面那不可思议的甜蜜之光的王国

灵魂居住的星辰之宫那天国花园的黄金之树

明天的你是一个少年那史前之国的巨人之王

2017.10.19

 

The Sovereign Gods Are all My Own

 

I'm not Wukong and I don't want to be Celestial Ruler Supreme God,

but I want to be myself in the beginning.

There was no the heaven and earth at that time and the universe was the paradise of the soul，

in which were full bloom a great many flowers from paradise in the galaxy.

Neither I knew what was the up and down, east and west, nor gentle and simple, both parties.

I was both a teenager and an old man,

the great many numbers of mine had a great many kingdoms, the sovereign gods were all my own.

10.9.2017

 

那至尊无上的诸神皆是我自己

 

我不是悟空我不想作天帝而只想作太初的自己​

那时没有天与地而宇宙是灵魂的乐园开满巨多星系之仙葩​

我不知何为上下东西也不知贵贱彼此而时光是我永恒之河流​

我既是一个少年也是一个老者那巨多的我拥有巨多的王国那至尊无上的诸神皆是我自己​

 2017.10.9

 

Giant's  Poem

 
The body is just a dress of your soul and the world is a picture of time.

You can't find yourself even you go all over the world,

because the temple of the soul is in a garden beyond time.

Those smiles of the prehistoric giants is in a bright mirror of the quiet spirit

and the interstellar words are giant 's poem.

2017.8.8

 

巨人的诗章

       

身体只是灵魂的一件衣裳而人间是时光的一幅画

你走遍世界也找不到自己因为灵魂的圣殿在时光之外的花园

那些史前巨人的笑容在寂静之心灵的明镜之中而星际的词语是巨人的诗章

2017.8.8

 

The Nest of Time

 

When the lightning of heaven spark-over the head of the night

and make the earth transparent, like the honey of gold,

The angel's song is like the dance of the swarm

and illuminate the nest of time--the giant labyrinth of stars;

The golden car of dragon and Phoenix will carry the mountains of prehistoric gods

and the giant ship of platinum is suddenly like a outer paradise of the interstellar giants.

 7.29.2017

 

时间之巢      

 

当天国的闪电击穿黑夜的头颅而令大地透明若黄金之蜜

天使的歌声若蜂群之舞而照彻时间之巢巨大的星辰之迷宫

龙凤之金车载来史前诸神之山岳之尊尊而白金巨轮恍若星际之巨人天外之乐园

2017.7.29

 

 Bio: Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet's Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization.
 

Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), is Mr. Yuan Hongri’s assistant and translator. He himself is a Chinese poet and translator, and works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District, Jining City, Shandong Province China.

A Silent Chorus of Waves

I dream stillness under the rough shine of the moon, hands clasped and when one blunt fingernail
scratches the inside of a palm, I am rooted, edges of raven black hair shining. And when I am
viewed upon moonlight, I am cold tranquility.
When the ocean is brought into view, glimpsed with eyelids peeled back like the naked
tangerine I hold in the curve of my hand, I am gifted an abundance of night. Thinly stretched
over the skyline, darkness barely touches my feet on the cold concrete. Air stinging across my
lips and my legs are exposed to the coolness nighttime inflicts, pajama shorts belonging to the
comfort of a warm home, I am as about as silent as the ocean. There is an echo of conversation
from dark homes, whispers gliding past turned heads because dark inspires silence and the slow
crash of waves is faint in the air. Night blends lagging movements behind thin, sand crusted
walls, pushing motions into a soft cycle of repeating routine but in the dark. Match flicks flame
into candles and my world, a silent world, is tossed back into loudness.

Photograph by Amy Bassin

“Recyclable Glass”

by

Mark Blickley

The 8:22 a.m. Kennedy Boulevard bus paused at the red light on the corner of Bentley. While staring at the line of idling cars in front of him, and without turning his head, the driver honked his horn and threw a mechanical wave.
            This gesture of recognition was directed at an old man making his way down the street. As the light turned green the bus operator glanced in the old man’s direction. The driver smiled and shook his head. For the past six years, at precisely this time, the senior citizen always appeared. It amazed the driver since it was obvious the old man had suffered a stroke. He moved as though his ankles were bound by slave bracelets.

            As the bus zoomed past, the old man halted. By the time he had lifted his head he was waving his walking stick in a cloud of black exhaust fumes. Coughing seized him for a few moments, but he was pleased by the driver’s show of camaraderie.
            A thick blanket of humidity flattened Jersey City. In retaliation, the old man loosened his tie and unbuttoned the vest concealed under the stained sports jacket. He pushed forward.

            After a few minutes, he succeeded in reaching the end of the block. Checking vigilantly before crossing, he decided to make his move. Everything seemed to be in order: the light was still green, but more importantly, the DO NOT WALK sign was not flashing underneath it. He had at least sixty seconds to execute the crossing.
            In the past the old man had this street crossing down to fifty-six seconds. Now the government had decreased his time by making it legal for cars to turn right on red lights. This called for more caution. Since his retirement nineteen years earlier, he learned car horns replace brakes when drivers compete with pedestrians for space. Halfway across the street he panicked. The light clicked amber.
            Horns screamed. The old man froze. Directly in front of his outstretched walking stick (a cane was for old geezers), a battered Lexus screeched past. “Get the hell outta the way, ya old fart!”

            A young head popped out of the back window. “Why don’t you die?” it shouted before disappearing into traffic.
            Three other cars whizzed by him. A fourth car released him from by stopping long enough for him to arrive at the opposite corner. Smiling at the driver, he did a playful hop over the curb. The old man felt good. At least a half-dozen would pass before permitting him to proceed. It was not unusual for him to be trapped in the street until the light once again turned  a comforting green.
            What disturbed the old man most about his daily journey was the block on which Martinez & Sons Glassware Company was located. The store took up nearly half a block with mirrors lining their storefront windows. No matter how hard he fought the temptation, it was impossible not to glance at his image as he crept along.
            His reflection was an obscenity to him         

            The day was really looking up. The store, which usually opened promptly at 9 a.m., was closed.  This pleased the old man because the iron gate was strung across the huge display windows. He looked at his reflection and giggled. His likeness looked as though it had been captured and jailed, peering back at him through thick metal bars.
            The old man threw back his shoulders, disregarding the ache. Picking up his pace, he reminded the reflection that his birthdate fell in the same year as Robert Redford’s.
            “That’s right. 1936. Good Lord, the girls knew it, too.” He pointed an accusing finger at the gated mirror. “Maybe I forget the exact day, but I’ll never forget all those women.”
            The old man and took a seat on a bench; overhead hung a sign, BUS STOP. On the end of the bench sat a young girl dressed in frayed blue jean cutoffs and a tee shirt that read ‘Shit Show Supervisor.’

            “Mister,” she asked, “can you lend me a dollar so I can catch the bus?”
            No reply.
            “Excuse me, sir, do you have a dollar I can borrow?”
            The old man reached into his pocket and produced a fistful of change that he dropped into her hand. The young lady leaped off the bench.
            “Gee, thanks! Wow!” Seconds later she disappeared down the street into a candy store.
            The old man checked his watch. He was fifteen minutes behind schedule.
            “Oh my God, I’m going to be late.”’ After pulling himself up from the bench, he cursed the once strong arms that had made him New York Local 638’s number one steamfitter.       

            After conquering four more blocks he arrived at his destination. It made him feel good to watch the busy activity associated with the morning opening of the Post Office. He looked up at the flag dangling limply from the mast, as if suffocated from a lack of breeze.

            Inside the building were the usual hoard of people in lines, mostly immigrants and mothers with young children. The passport section was mobbed.  Twenty minutes late, he feared the worst. Gradually he inched towards the wall lined with post office boxes.
            “Why, Mr. Goldshlager, I was worried. I thought something terrible happened.”
            “No, Ma’am. I guess this humidity took more from me than I had anticipated giving. Kind of you to wait, though.” The aged woman who reminded him so much of Colleen, the wife he buried shortly after his retirement.
            “Well, after all, Mr. Goldschlager, today’s my turn to buy the coffee…”
            “And I the donuts.”
            “Correct.”
            “Have you received your check yet, Mildred?”
            “Yes. I saw them put yours in, too.”
            The old man went over to his mailbox and withdrew the envelope.

            “Life sure plays some strange games on us, Mildred. Funny how we both decided, on the very same day, mind you, to put an end to all those stolen checks every month. Scary how accustomed we had become to missing them.”
            Mildred nodded. “And you can’t trust direct deposit because the banks are all so corrupt.”
            “You know something? Losing those checks is the best thing that’s happened to me in six years.”
            Mildred pretended to dismiss the flattery, but the added wrinkles at the corner of her lips gave her away.
            “Colleen always thought I was too angry with banks. I can hear her now, saying, ‘Horace, you shouldn’t resent what happened in the past. It’s dangerous.’ She was some woman, my Colleen.”
            “She certainly must have been, Mr. Goldschlager.”

            Strolling around the corner to the diner gave the old man a thrill, as it had most mornings. It felt good, it felt natural, to be with a woman. The few times Mildred hadn’t shown up it always made the rest of the day melancholic. The small table to the left of the grill was reserved for the elderly couple. Josh, the proprietor, issued strict orders not to seat anyone there until after nine-thirty.
            As they were led to their seats Horace contemplated Mildred’s appearance. She wore bright red lipstick which showed telltale signs of extended coloring past the outline of her lips. In fact, it reminded the old man of the happy smiles painted around the mouths of circus clowns. The red lipstick made a striking contrast to the black hat pinned to a thin crop of platinum curls. Her eyes were a sparkling gray.
            Those eyes reminded the old man of something his father had once told him about his great-Aunt Kathleen:
            “Horace, whenever you meet an old woman, say like your Aunt, never forget that despite the years she’s still got a young girl’s vanity. I know it’s hard and I brought you up not to lie, but listen, the one safe thing you can compliment them on is their eyes. Leave the wrinkled skin around them alone. Just tell them how beautiful, or lively, or even better, how sparkling their optics are.”

            There was no need to falsely charm Mildred, or her eyes. What an attractive woman she must have been, mused the old man. Her face, now caked with powder, was probably as smooth and clear as Colleen’s.
            During their coffee and donuts each spent about a half-hour bringing her husband Ted and his Colleen back to life. Neither one would pay much attention to the other; after six years of repetition, it didn’t matter. Yet missing these weekday interludes was unthinkable. The old man loved the chance to relive his youth. While talking (or listening), a vivid portrait of himself and his wife materialized.
             Horace had to think seriously about settling down and raising a family. This was a tougher decision than most fellows were faced with since young Horace was engaged to two girls at the same time. One of his fiancées lived in Hoboken, and the other was a burlesque dancer in Union City.
            While mulling over the choices before him at his favorite Brooklyn bar, in walked the bartender for the upcoming shift with his handsome daughter. It was lust, later love, at first sight.
            Colleen’s nut-brown hair offset a cute turned up nose. Her pale green eyes sent an inviting message over to his stool. Such a petite figure who filled a sweater rather nicely.

            “And Ted would pick me up and throw me into the pool right in front of all the children. I pretended to be angry but I loved it!”
            The old man took his last gulp of chilled coffee and signaled for the check. “Would you like anything else, Mildred?”
            “No thank you, Horace.” She watched his eyes following the progress of the waiter. “I really enjoyed myself this morning, dear.”
            The old man nodded. “Yes, but it’s so hard to keep track of time these days. So much to be done. Isn’t that so?”
            Mildred smiled. “Don’t I know, Mr. Goldschlager! I detest all the running around I’m forced to do in order to keep up with this crazy world. I get exhausted just thinking about it.”

            With this last remark they concluded their visit and returned to their respective schedules: she to a park bench in nearby Bayonne, he to the bus stop across the street.
            When the bus arrived, the old man was visibly upset. Hector was not driving. The doors flung open and the old man was shoved aside by boarding passengers.
            After everyone had paid their fare and secured a seat, the driver waited impatiently for the old man to complete his attack of the high steps leading to the fare box.
            As the old man strained to maintain his balance via the walking stick, two thoughts flashed. One was to fall forward should his legs fail him. The second was how differently he was treated when Hector was behind the wheel. Hector made sure no one pushed him around and always helped him up the steep steps.

            On reaching the top step the old man fumbled for the Senior’s discount pass inside his sports jacket. As he turned to find a seat a swarm of indignant glances greeted him. He gave pleading looks to the men seated directly behind the driver. They in turn, almost as if on cue, rotated their heads and fixed their eyes on some object outside the window.
            The bus lurched forward before the old man could get a firm grip on the overhead strap. He was flung to the other side of the bus. His back smashed into the knees and packages of a pair of horrified women shoppers.
            Unable to control himself, the old man let out a cry. It was a soft cry, but it lingered.
            Upon the scolding of the women shoppers, two men raised up the old man. One sacrificed his seat. Laughter broke out from the rear of the bus.
            Perspiration beaded on the old man’s bald spot. It dripped onto his sports jacket as he tucked his chin into his chest. Once again, he drifted off to that first encounter with Colleen.

            Outside his apartment building children were jumping rope and an impromptu soccer game was in progress.
            “Hi ya, Mr. Goldschlager! Wanna play with us?”
            “Sorry, kids. I’ve had a rough day. I think I’ll go rest these tired old bones, if you don’t mind?”
            The children giggled.
            The old man enjoyed children and children liked him. But he knew how defensive most parents were these days, and he was embarrassed by their reactions whenever he stopped to speak to their kids.
            The old man was appalled by the fear he generated whenever he spoke with kids at the playground. Or stopped a young couple to congratulate them on producing the beautiful child they were wheeling in their stroller.  His attempts to shake an infant’s hand or stroke underneath a baby’s chin with his finger usually made the parents irritable, and they would quicken their pace. Being around children began to make him feel dangerous and dirty and he hated that feeling. He comforted himself by imagining that one day these parents would understand the desire of the elderly to once again feel the smooth flesh of youth.

            Touch was a superior memory to any childhood photograph. The old man refused to stop his attempts at making contact with fresh life. Yet despite the humiliation of parental disgust and annoyance, he would always mouth a silent pray that none of these parents would ever experience his horror of outliving his child.
            The elevator ride to his eleventh-floor apartment was noisy, slow and as frightening as always. It took him a few minutes of fumbling with his keys, but eventually he gained entrance to his home of forty-seven years. The odor of stale air escaped into the hallway as the door closed behind him.
            The first thing he did was throw off his sports jacket and switch on the television. He surveyed the apartment. It was filthy.

            “I will give you a good going over this weekend,” he promised the living room.
            The old man hobbled into the kitchen to prepare his daily staple of cornflakes and milk with fresh fruit. After eating, he left the dishes on the table next to yesterday’s plates and lunged for the bottle of cognac propped up on the kitchen counter. He shook it and was upset.
            “Did I drink that much last night?”
            The old man phoned the liquor store around the corner to order another. The shopkeeper refused to send it until the previous bills were paid in full. Horace apologized and promised to pay when his overdue pension checks arrived. The ploy did not work.

            Clutching the cognac, he passed from the kitchen through the living room to his bedroom. He paused to raise the volume of his television set. Although he disliked watching it, it’s voices replaced the music that once echoed through his apartment before the radio shorted out. The babble was comforting.
            The old man balanced the bottle of cognac on a dusty night table and walked over to a closet. He pulled out a large cardboard box and dragged it over to the bed. The old man was surprised at how light the box was becoming.
            He dipped his hands inside the cardboard box. The clinking of glass accompanied his search. When his fingers locked around a heavy piece of crystal he smiled and pulled up a large, ornate goblet.

            The old man carefully poured cognac into the crystal goblet. He swallowed it and poured another. And then another until he drained the cognac. He dropped the empty bottle on the floor and it rolled under the bed.
            Horace stared at the fancy goblet and fingered its engraved designs. When he realized he had no more cognac to pour into it he tried to soothe himself by pressing the cool crystal against his cheek.
            Sorrow gave way to anger and he heaved the heirloom with all his strength. It crashed into the wall, splintering into pieces of jagged, dangerous glass.
            About forty minutes ahead of schedule, the old man passed out.