It Is All Gone πππ π ππ π ππππππππ , ππππππ ππ ππππ, ππ πππππ ππππ πππππππππππ, ππ πππππ ππππ π πππ πππ ππππ ππππππ, πππ π ππππππππ , ππ πππππππ πππ ππππππ . πππ πππ πππππππ πππππππ ππ ππ ππππ , πππ π πππ ππππππ , πππ πππππππππ, π πππππππ πππππ ππππππ ππ ππππ ππππππ πππππππ, πππ πππππ ππ πππππππ. πππ, π ππππ ππππ ππ πππππ πππππππ πππ. ππ ππππ π πππ πππππππ, πππ πππππππππ, πππππ ππ ππππ, ππππππππ, π ππππππ ππππ πππππππ π πππππ πππ π ππππ ππ πππππ ππππ πππππππ ππππ. ππ πππππ πππ πππππππ ππππ π ππππππ π ππππ, πππππ, πππ ππππππ ππ ππ πππππππππ πππππππππππ ππππ ππππππππ πππππ , πππ ππ πππ ππ ππ πππ, πππ ππ ππππ ππ ππ ππππ s. Poem By: Chris S. Suah
Poetry from Joe Balaz
RIGHT ON KEIA Wen you play dis crazy game nutting is really da same so you go easy, easy, and be right on keia. No freak βum out, just blow kisses from da mouth, and make dem realize dat you know wat itβs all about, right on keia half and half hurricane and gentle wind. Watch da leaves in da trees and see da various degrees on how tings stay gusting. Read it all like wun map and give βum right on keia half and half hurricane and gentle wind. No even trip it, moa bettah you HIP it, so bebop da constant cop trying to arrest your innate sense of reason and continue wit right on keia half and half hurricane and gentle wind. Keep it level to da eye even dough you stay up in da sky and make da buggahs question why dey no can bring you down. Deahβs only one way to play, as you move from day to day, right on keia half and half hurricane and gentle wind. right on keia Keia means βthisβ in Hawaiian. HIP Acronym for Hawaiian Islands Pidgin.
Joe Balaz writes in Hawaiian Islands Pidgin (HIP) and in American English. He has also created works in visual poetry and music poetry. He is the author of Pidgin Eye, a book of poetry. Balaz is an avid supporter of Hawaiian Islands Pidgin writing and art in the expanding context of World literature. He presently lives in Cleveland, Ohio.
Short story from Abdulloh Abdumominov
The world of books Books lived on a beautiful ground. Books controlled children to read books. The books were like family. They were upset that a child was reading a book. The boy's name was Ozodbek. He didnβt really read books. He was just tired of computer games. The houses were a mess, only computer games could be played. Books in the World of Books interviewed the Book Council with the intention of inviting him to read a book. The books worked hard. The child was sent to a dark room. There was a book on a table in the room. There was also a lamp next to the book. Ozodbek used to say, "I will not go there even if I die." Because he couldn't get a book at all! From somewhere he would say, "We have four conditions for you. If you fulfill them, you will go home, and if you do not fulfill them, you will remain in this darkness." Ozodbek, who are you? Why did you bring me here? There were more "meet the conditions" calls. In desperation, Ozodbek read the terms. He began to fulfill the first condition. The first condition was: "He must work examples from the science of mathematics." Ozodbek could not work the examples in the first. He could not solve the examples even with his hand. Anyway, there was no result. He was very sorry he hadn't read the book. Then he started reading the book from beginning to end, and he did it, he read the book. He then slowly began to solve the examples. He couldn't solve one example, it was the last example, because it was a very difficult issue. Ozodbek was playing on the phone when his teacher explained. It is not written in the example book. He thought, unable to remember. His friend Diyor had explained the example to him. Diyor's words were memorable. Ozodbek did not like his friend Diyor, he thought his friend was very smart. But, after that, he found out he was a good friend and solved the example. After solving the example, he was given awards from the world of books and a βcongratulationsβ sounded. He moved on to the next condition. The next condition was very helpful to him. Because he had to introduce himself in some language. He had bought a book when the book market came to his school. At that time, Ozodbek received a lot of money from his father for the book. However, he had taken a cheap book and used the rest. But that book helped him. He taught the book German. He nodded and introduced himself. He also passed this condition. Those who could not get the books were amazed to see the change in it. Then the boy moved on to the third condition. The third task was difficult for Ozodbek. He did not pass this condition well. Because this condition was to tell the life and work of a writer. Ozodbek regretted that he had not read the book and had not listened to the teachers. This condition helped him. He hated learning about writers. But Ozodbek liked to study writers. And he was given the last fourth task. He was given a book, he had to read the book. As he read the book, his hands trembled and he cried incessantly. Because this book was written about a child who had never read a book ... He had read about the plight of a child who had not read a book ... Unfortunately, Ozodbek was sent home from a dark room. The world of books was glad that the boy was back to reading again. When Ozodbek came home, he cleaned his house and immediately began to read a book. After that he started reading books. Ozodbek left new impressions ... The world of books was calm. It all ended well. Abdulloh ABDUMOMINOV, is a 7th grade student at School No. 102 in Tashkent
Essay from Abigail George
Mood Disorders By Abigail George Pink watermelon flush in each cheek. Why didnβt you love me mum? Are you aware of the storm you created, rain pouring down, my heart feels as if red lace is wrapped around a stone, a canvas, the painterβs sketchbook. Thereβs an odd fairy lightness in her body, my sisterβs body. There is no connection between us. No longer any sibling rivalry. And so, the image of the autumn chill is always on my mind. Leaves all set for death and their diverse origins, destination for a cool wilderness landscape that feels like a frozen North American lake. I remember the despair and hope in the eyes of young girls thinking they are wearing fashionable clothes. I remember the range of peace, the delicate flutter of the eyes of old women, the limbs now infirm, who long for the warm sea when they used to go swimming as young girls. I remember the love song in silence when I felt I could no longer escape him. How does he move in the lovesick world now? I am the ice woman, frozen to her core, wrecked. See the descriptions of the clowns at the circus. I am one of them now and forever. There was a sane life, an insane life, a reality, a past regret, a mistake that was made, a telephone call, an apology, laughter, past energies in a story and I was left to wonder how some people find love in this world. A love that is as ancient as rain, the apron in the kitchen amongst pots and pans, a feast-meal on the table on Sunday, daddy sitting on his throne. Childhood is lost on me, dead to adult me, past is past yet it still has such sweetness, its dissolve. And some nights it comes back, awful, familiar, all the gruesome stories with such clarity that I know it is not my imaginationβs spell playing tricks on me. I want it to wash away all my sins' destination anywhere instead it says, βRemember me. It doesnβt matter who you love, who you fall for, who and what you desire or drink (alcoholic), watch the men dissolve. They wonβt come back.β And when the awful becomes too close for comfort I take to my bed after drawing the curtains, leaving the windows open for cool air, closing the bedroom door and I will lay on the bed until I can feel notes on grief begin to vibrate within me, as if they have a quiet, harmonic society and how beautiful and sad their symphony sounds to me. It is a breathing lesson, a lesson on suffering, on living, on life. What is brutality here? It is nothing but a memory, an interruption, and becoming a mute daughter. The flick of a belt buckle, a stinging wet cloth held under a tap of cold water, mummy, mummyβs red hands, mummyβs gardening hands inside the chilled earth, hard laughter, harsh words, running to daddy, feet bare. He is shouting at mummy. I look at her for the first time now and I see that she is tired. Her hands hang limply at her sides now. She says nothing. My skin feels as if it is burning all over. Daddy I am burning. Daddy I am crying. I am pink all over, then red. My skin feels raw, itchy. It feels as if I am Joyce Carol Oatesβs harvesting flesh. She says nothing. She simply turns around and walks away. What did I do? What did I do? Where is the key to that country? How strange is the marriage of the mind to harvesting? The mind means education, psychology, something must be taught and something must be understood. To harvest means to bring closure to a season. This is what family means. To eat in front of the television, to scream and scream and scream until you can't scream anymore. Nobody will come to you, comfort you. And so I grew up, moved up, moved away from the world of a child and the games of the child and the adolescent and stopped believing that she lived a secret life. Perhaps mummy had a secret lover. She was beautiful in that way, easily bored in that way, did not find the same things that daddy found relevant and beautiful. They were from two different worlds. They were from two different cultures. She came from money and he didnβt. She came from Johannesburg and knew a specific way of life from there. My mother came with a Pandoraβs Box, suitcases packed full of clothes from there when she arrived as a newlywed. My father came from Everywhere in Port Elizabeth. South End, Walmer, Fairview, North End, Korsten, a fishermanβs village called Port Elizabeth, Gubbβs Location, New Brighton, Zwide, Kwazakhele, Nelson Mandela Bay. Through the years those names became lodged in my memory as I studied his research wanting very much to hold onto it rather than send it to the archives at the University of the Western Cape (my father the political activist learning how to send messages using invisible ink), read his diaries from his London and European experience (I rediscovered him, his suicidal illness, and by this time I was enchanted by his depression, watched slides of the palaces he visited but I could never imagine myself there. It was enough for me to see Versailles as a tiny photograph held up against the light. He witnessed many great things, magnificent things of wonder. Daddy was wonderful in those days, a thinker, an intellectual, a teacher, a role model to me who brought me back to poetry. Because a fire was in my head like the studies of the Robert Muirhead poems I had begun to write, because a flash of winter was in my head like the chains of bitterness in a veteran photographerβs memory but there was also something unfinished inside of me, something had dissolved. Look for opportunities, the guardian band of gold around the sun said and that became my mission. I began to imagine other peopleβs shackles of pain, their chains, their prison walls put up all around them, the spirit of fear, hurt and rejection within them, abandonment, and spiritual neglect, poverty and for some reason it felt like I was multiplying gravity. I got tired of people asking me to smile please, youβd be lovelier if you did. Did I have courage, that mute child in the photograph? Iβve suffered but what is suffering anyway when compared to others. I have a mental switch but what do others have? What are their coping mechanisms? The universe gives freely to me. I have refuge if I want it. I have a sanctuary if I want it. Hope is there. In the arrival of it there is always freedom. There is always revolution in the mind of the poet and quintessence in the poetry that comes from the mouth, the voice, the straightforward thinking of that kind of revolution. Iβve met someone else. He tells me everything. He isnβt afraid to tell me anything. And slowly the veil lifts my smile and becomes like a scar. My wounds are like stigmata. And I begin to see and hear everything again. Hope floats. There are angels everywhere yet I still feel incomplete like some kind of show off finding it tiresome to live normally like the people next door who werenβt embarrassed to get drunk in front of their children. Iβm embarrassed by loneliness, despair and my bleak outlook on life. I know where youβve been once upon a secret life. A secret life. Do insects have secret lives too and what is their best intention for all those years they live with secrets? Therein lies their survival. When my sister comes home she and my mother sit down together as if it was the most normal thing in the world and they drink. They drink cocktails. Pink syrupy liquids that seem to sparkle, sparkling wines, Peach schnappsβ, vodka and orange juice cool as ice going down their throats. I prefer my secret life. As an adult my mother, mummy is no longer my morning star and my sister is still my dream stealer. They have become my life, guarding the car keys and the bottle of milk stout. I have to find my own projects. According to Godβs plan he wants us, me to act accordingly, justly, with integrity, humility. He wants us to go forth into the new world knowing that He is always on our side now and forever more. Weβre all born with a philosophy, not necessarily a Plan B so to speak, and we want to bring meaning to our own lives. I found a book once called Norahβs Secret Life and as I was reading it I discovered many things about this woman whose life I wouldnβt exactly call exciting or romantic. She had βromanticβ love affairs but they were doomed from the start. She was or wasnβt significant but her life seemed to become something symbolic as if I had to have an opportunistic use for it later on in life. She was unfortunately not the marrying kind but she had a wealth of spiritual knowledge unlike any other woman of her generation and sometimes in the love affairs she had she would think like a man when it came to the βtransactionβ. In the material world men dominated she knew she could never win. And so she became like the smiling faces of children amidst poverty. When she wanted to escape she did what all men did, she educated herself, she painted, and she received visitors, she wrote unfathomable poetry that was never self-pitying but stories that were in a way. And in one way, perhaps she became the caretaker of so many women who lived in isolation of a society who would not accept them because they chose to live an unconventional life. At the end of one of her love affairs Norah seems to be coping with her new life as best she can like the stars in the evening sky when the earth smells clean and as fresh and new as vanilla. She is bright. Her spirit feels bright. It feels too bright. Her conversation can be illuminating and clever. She wants to be entertained. She wants to be filled with joie de vivre. She also wants to be pursued. Doesnβt any woman want to be pursued? Men are extraordinary when they are in pursuit. They have a grand perspective. Theyβre regale you with stories. The world becomes magnificent when theyβre in it with you on their arm and youβre going places. It doesnβt really matter that youβre part of his secret life. Theyβre still pretty impressive. They make you feel desired, beautiful, and the grief that you once felt or had so strongly in your life above anything else is no longer triumphant. Youβre no longer flying-walking-singing-chanting solo. It is the year 2013, nearly two in the morning, December and another Christmas has come and gone and my brother is about to become a father. I canβt mock him anymore. And in the exquisite compass of the infinite internal struggle between suicide, wanting to fly, wanting to have that family, that plan coming together, the memory, the thought of Plath, Hughes, Bessie Head, Anne Sexton, Robert Lowell I am still here. I am alive with an awakened spirit, with everything that Iβve put the sum parts of me through I have realised that I cannot turn back. I have to move on, move forward because Iβm the sunβs mistress and life after all is a mission. I donβt really see how my life could change after this, after all Iβve put it through. Two birds. Plath and Sexton. Once upon a time they were two birds on a mission too. Joy fills my lungs so does a surge for the realisation of humanity. Our survival. Our instinct. The little oneβs name is Ethan. Ethan Ambrose. Weβre all actors acting in a bit part there and a bit part here. My brother held this bright shining thing in his arms. Something that would be educated, instilled with his values, his parenting skills and I felt as if I was being torn apart by some primal, primitive animalistic force. And I knew that I would put the past Jean Rhysβs Mr Mackenzieβs (plural) behind me. I never had an ounce of ambition within me anyway. They had all come with the worldβs territory. There it was. The undocumented love affair was really most of all inside my head however brilliant the man was and however bold his moves and brave I was to take him on. I knew something different now. I was more defiant like Norah was in her secret life because eventually she had found her way out. Nobody wants the ending of a book or film to be spoiled for them. Norah had found her way out and she was happy. As happy as could be. Women deserve to be happy. Men are altogether different. Lost boys everyone. They are always searching and I donβt think they ever grow up. Good things are born from painful experiences. Ropes, ropes and more ropes. I have had enough of them, the hangmanβs noose and their knots with basic tension. I want a pretty city, with bright lights on the promenade as I walk into the sea, as I feel my hair against my skin, my feet bare, the night air so crisp and all I see is the clarity of my mission. The sun has her mistress and there is a man that lives on the moon. I am a drowning visitor. I sink further and further away and I finally grasp the shoreline. Here I am free. I have hours to think, I am no longer trapped by gender equality and who wants to trapped by equality, brutality, everything gruesome, obituaries, by hours, and things of childhood-making. Starving landscape after starving landscape, brittle like filament, a burst of thirst pulsating like a shiver, a thread of sweat, a breath, a river, shamanic wisdom, the normal who live next door, the other side of the mirror is buried under smoke, the incessant flap-flapping of the wings of moths, seasons draw wrinkles on my mother and fatherβs face. A green feast shoots up everywhere in the garden and everything seems young, fresh and new again. The rain has its own way of thinking and it is a way that humanity will never understand. It can be a beast. A serious beast with a serious intent who remembers their vowels in a coolly distracted way on a hot-cocktail-drinking day in apartheid South Africa while sunbathing next to a chlorine-blue swimming pool in the backyard. The earth on the other hand has a vision of her own. I see all of these things in the mansions of my imagination. Something is bright within me. I enter into a contract with them. I am lifted up, up and up. I am standing in a forest. I look up and what do I see. The blue jewel of the sky. Godβs sky. Godβs forest. I close my eyes, feel the sun against my skin, and imagine standing on the beach, a lone figure watching the waves and their never-ending spiritual love story (spellbinding ghost story) with the shoreline. I step forward feeling the burden, the will of the river-sea rises up to meet me. I no longer stand tall, my wounds are frozen, the physical, the deep pain is numbed and becomes a posture, the world turns upside down and I am being navigated towards something greater than myself, away from painful experiences of the past. The lasagne tastes good. It was made by a prophet, my mother. The prophetess. Once I was skin and bone but they didnβt call it anorexia nervosa in those days. In those days I had to βperk upβ. In those days βI had to pull up my socksβ, βput meat on my bonesβ. These days I think about my ancestors. I have ancestors. Everyone does. Everyone who lives on this side of the world. Dark skin, white skin, mixed race, different faith, rituals and the burning of incense that comes with them, doctrines stored away like a file of a case study in a psychiatric institution (mental hospital) they all tread on religion at some point in their lives. They have their own exact perspective. And when I dream I dream of the waterfall of the past when I was a girl. And everything that I see makes me feel wonderfully calm, as if I am made of substance. I remember when I first drank red wine (it came out of a box), when I first tasted, really tasted basil, felt as free as a bird with a broken wing, drank a soup made entirely out of noodles, fell in love with sushi (fish with no eyes in a blanket of sticky rice), a girl, a boy, the world, a married man who dominated me and the world around me. And so the world of my childhood-making, mummy and daddy evaporated. I still remember the manβs skin, his knowledge of the universe, his experience and influence, how his flesh became my flesh, how I could see him as a boy and it was the most beautiful feeling in the world. It made my heart sing. It made words dance maddeningly inside my head, on the page of a book and I could finally see past, present, future merging into one. I moved from one unpredictable, unusual affair, situation, and relationship to another and I grew up and became more fragile, that is my common sense and sensibilities and my ambitions grew into humility and humility grabbed with greed at the wuthering heights of my pride. The people that I knew once passed on. Nothing unusual about dying, moving to another city, moving forwards even if it is towards poverty, marriage, terminal illness, suicidal illness, mental illness, the icy grip of the panic of terror and anxiety. Time. I donβt believe in it and I never will. Time steals away your dreams, your soul, your spirit, your childhood. It closes in on you until you are forced to face your deepest fear. Death stands there in the gap from this world to the next. Eternity. It is not loved. It is not nurtured. It is not a paradise-in-waiting. When I meditate I go inside myself and see God. There is no longer a divide between the wards of hell and the divine paradise of heaven. One is a lake of burning fire, choking smoke and plumes of ash and the other one is locked and a saint stands before the gates leading into heaven. Death has always been there, looking down, or over my shoulder and with each step that I take Death follows me with a steady pace. Iβve never seen Deathβs face but I have been frightened that when my time has come my work here on earth has not been done. I do not want to leave anything incomplete. Everything must be put away, packed in boxes, connections that were once as alive as electricity must be disconnected. Iβve been close to death. Close enough. I think about you a lot. You were kind, nice, sweet, and younger. You made me feel like a museum piece, a statue. Itβs been years since Iβve seen you. Not so long ago we sat and laughed as if we were old friends, good friends. I made you coffee. You made me forget my sadness, my manipulative nature, my familyβs arrogant manipulative nature and in some small, adequate way I began to feel alive again as if I could survive everything that life had arranged, assembled for me. But I am bad for you. I am not the chosen one meant for you. How can I make you understand this? I do not belong in your world. There is nothing welcoming or bold about the arrival of me. Choose another. I am giving you your freedom. Hush. Here. Now go. I want to watch you, study you, watch you fail, surrender, let go, fight for the underdog, understand you, comprehend you, what makes you whole, what makes you think, what do you love? What opinions do you have on the current trends in politics, who will you vote for this year, do you believe in magic, why have you not forgotten me, what do you remember, do you have any fears (do you have any fears about my disability), what anchors you? In forgetting you, the pieces, the tiny bits that refuse to evaporate have become distilled beautifully and I also have realised that I need to write more than I need human company. I donβt care about ambition. If other women think youβre arrogant let them think that. Donβt waste your time, your energy on them. If other men want to destroy you, your empires, your soul then let them think that they are getting away with that. Iβve forgotten about your mistress, your ego that strokes your vanity (that I canβt take away from you). It belongs somewhere else but not in your personal space. Children need the ego. It makes them feel different in a special kind of way in a world filled with ducks and games. I hate the smell of cigarette smoke but am intrigued by women who do smoke, with their airs and graces, with all their manufactured secrets and that one slim cigarette held between their fingers. The women in my family do not smoke. Theyβre like a union of spies. I only learned about fear late in life. They do not drink red wine out of a box only fruit juice cocktail on special occasions like birthdays, Christmas and Easter. They do not sit for portraits, go to parks, spread out a blanket for a romantic picnic lunch made for two. They only go to the beach in December when it is the summertime in Southern Africa. Thereβs something clean and pure about depression when it is looked at with the round peg that canβt fit in the square hole in the eye. Clarity is found and so is rest. The people-traffic-zoo outside is possessed with identity and the idea of not emancipating themselves. Why would they do that if they think that their reality, their dreams, their goals and their imagination is enough for them? The stem grows. The branch reaches forwards and we all move towards the light hoping that it will put the spotlight on us. When I feel weak inside is when mummy speaks to me. My heart slips and thuds inside of me at the same time. Thereβs no awakened rhythm in that red palace. All the voices of mother, father, mummy, daddy, sister, brother become familiar to me. They are not the same people all of the time and their visions are awesomely vibrant and energetic, burning like phosphorescence, a lone star. They orbit me. The invisible air tastes like salt. My mouth gulps down slippery seawater that licks the insides of every one of my teeth. I want to feel you inside of me, as I open up to you like the flowers of a manuscript. Iβve already lost you to another woman. Is she a girl, does she have a matronβs figure at a girlβs boarding school or is she as dead to you as I am to you now. I donβt say these things to get at you, to think like you do, to get inside your head Iβm just lost in the silence of violence like George Botha, Richard Rive, Kevin Carter, Dulcie September, Arthur Nortje and when I feel most intensely lost is when I write poetry, that is when everything Iβve collected in my heart comes out. I really donβt care for nowβs sake if I never saw pictures of you, heard sob stories of you again in my life, your living memory, so romantically-felt is enough for me and it will stay with me until the end of my lifetime. The heat. Itβs hot, intolerably-hot and there is nothing I can do to eliminate it. Was I really loved as a child? It serves to improve the lies I keep telling myself. That I am not pretty enough, tall enough, enough for enoughβs sake. There are millions of children who are not loved, who bathe every day in dust and shit. Life is designed for oppression, ridicule, rejection but also for liberation. In some wanton way the world makes us want to move backward without us having any say about it. House torched. It was burned down to the ground with two children in it. The door was locked. The mother was away. There was no father as there is often in these cases. And so another community is brought together but this is no celebration of life. They thought a witch lived there. It shows how fragile we are as humanity. And I am preoccupied with love when the world around me is burning. These are all things we wish that could be buried in peace and dust and memory. There are happy, healthy progeny. Mums that are glowing in a blue and white hospital gowns. Their skin radiant with life but what happens when you like writing poetry about death, grief and denial. It is a land that time forgot. This kind of writing (poetry) is a writing that so few people can understand. There were no angels on the frontier when pioneers confronted wilderness and poverty in Southern Africa just dust that has been here for millions of years. The lasagne tastes good. It was made by a prophet, my mother. The prophetess. Iβve worshipped her all my life. She has taught me how to forgive, how to live, and I am beautifully grown now. Although the universe is still sweeter, purer, more honourable than I am with all its untitled interpretations. How can the extraordinary unconscious of the universe be anything but baffled by humanity. I am. People are not as invincible as they think they are. Freedom fighters every one? Unfortunately no. Coldness. Aloofness. Indifference. Introspection. Suffering. Water. Ghost nations. Precious bittersweet gifts everyone. Nothing belongs to us.
Screenplay from Chimezie Ihekuna
Title: Saved by His Grace
Adapted from a book by Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben)
Screenwriter: Robert Sacchi
Rev Michael Xhosa’s ‘Saved By His Grace’ sermon becomes a practical test of how saved he is in Christ through the character of Dan, his son, whom he single-handledly raised when his wife, Felicia died.
Genre: Feature
For reviews, production consideration and other publicity, please contact us through the email addresses below:
– rsacchi@rsacchi.20m.com
Synopsis/Details:Β
βPromoting the message of our Lord Jesus Christ to all the ends of the earth through the church, depopulating the kingdom of hell and expanding Godβs kingdom on earth and speaking the Bible language as led by the spirit of God to all situations, brethren and the heathenβ and βInviting to the church the less-privileged and unbelievers, providing for their immediate needs through several welfare schemes organized by the church and all its branches and ensuring that they hear the word of God for themselvesβ were the respective visions and missions that Fountain of Truth stood for.
As conceptualized by the two founders, Reverend Michael Xhosa and Pastor Bode Damilola, with the former as the active front-man for the church, the church since its inception have been living up to the stated expectations.
Poetry from Mahbub
In This Foggy Unclear Morning In this foggy unclear morning All seem to be hazy and smoggy The world's covered with the white sheet It is as it were the moon hid in one corner And the sun tries to peep through the other A play between light and shade Through which we, the two loving doves Spread the wings for the longing site How sweet the kingfisher falling on a fish on the river Breaks the silence of the world around Perhaps always breaks the silence over time How sweet the swans making love on the bank of the river! Falling on each other in every way they need to be In this cold winter morning I feel my warmth into the arms, O dear On the soft touch in between us The sun rises within enlightening the body of the earth Every loving hand getting close together The eyes so deep and clear Disperse the fog as the day advances. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 21/12//2020 The New Sun Who is sawing my heart like the woods up into logs? The sound of cutting the musical stream The rhythmic waves of the ocean As goes on from the beginning The endless journey of this water How can you describe it in the theory of revolution? The ever chopping sound of the woods muses the present Striking on the strings of the past The eyes fixed on to the light The waves falling on The saw cutting on The lifelong process both in water and land Flowing on the wings of eons always evolves the luster of the new sun. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 22/12//2020 The Death Bed The cot made for carrying the dead body How glistening in the light of the sun! Just at the walking side on my way to home My sweet home; my dears, caresses and loving tears The bed placed on for anyone to the unknown The love-bed, the dreamy gardens How happy I pass my days on the ground! This gigantic tower, the brand new materials all the year round Our little sweet babies crying for any little sweet insistence Forgetting all I am taken to this bed Lying there in peace under the shady large tree Deep in sleep The birds and deer unveil the curtain of my eyes. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 23/12//2020 Every Day and Night A night burned in turn the light of the day seems obscure A day's tyranny breaks the rib bone of the silent peaceful sleep at night The face is as it were hundred years old dilapidated home The role we play for every day and night What an effulgence of the sun, the cascading wave of the moon! We are all with the petals, leaves and roots getting altogether Flowing on the river of day and night Feel that pain or joy in tune. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 25/12//2020 The Fragrance of Jasmine You are my fragrance of jasmine in the moonlit night I rush to you forever charmed in love To the flower, to the shade To the unknown musical rhythm My heart beats with the pea-cock dance Yet, why does the flower hide-away? Why does the moon get lost in the cloud? Water rolling into the well of my eyes In this lifeless dark room fighting the fire Back to my own I come over O my jasmine, my moon Won't my sky be filled with the shade and affection? Laughing loud I take my breath so quicker The sky reflects with new form of jasmine light. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh 25/12//2020
Poetry from Robert Ragan
Grow Up (Say It To The Mirror Remix) Look at you wearing ocd like it's a badge of honor Is that your latest excuse to get through life What people are supposed to feel sorry for you and give you a break. You know better than that by now you should realize that you Will never amount to anything unless you make a lot of changes really fast Out here bragging about being a criminal with your silly ass You'll never get any bigger in the world you want because you're really trash And not as good as you think you are Writing all this crazy love poetry about a woman you've never met Yeah you two had a special bond despite the distance But instead of losing your mind over a woman You need to sit it out have some alone time Try to fix yourself because in your current shape You wouldn't do anything but bring a woman down Of course you would love them with a passion they've probably never seen before But what about all those other sides of you that you could show them With every single heart you can't settle for anything less than a tragedy Such a drama king you look on the bright side and turn your nose up What are you 41...well I'm here to tell you that you still need to grow up Not good with the shears and snips you lay out of work And sacrifice the money to run from the problem So you gonna let em fire you for laying out or you gonna get every dollar possible And make em fire you for fucking up some plants Again you've got a lot of growing up to do I know you don't like hearing that but I'm gonna keep saying it till you can't stand it Till you stop and say to yourself...you know what he's right I have a lot of growing up to do You can't hide in your fictional worlds anymore You just made it to the pan you never even flashed I know this hurts but someone had to tell you One more thing and I really didn't want to go this far But while you're out here chasing women Why don't you sit it out and try to fix your relationship with your children Yeah I know that one hurt and again someone has an awful lot of growing up to do Hate to be so tough on you...you just look like a fool the way you carry yourself I wanna see you do better in life so you can hold your head up proudly Best take all these words to heart What breaks it in a different way might save you...