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  • A Spiral Labyrinth

    My love is a spiral labyrinth of a mixture of gloominess and happiness. One who could sneak into it would lose the way out of it. You may savour the gladsomeness equidistantly in one quarter of my heart as you may, tryingly and oppositely, regorge the tristesse of each and every part of my heart. I am totally drowned into an ethereal abyss. No single egress! No possible course of action! I am mysteriously ambuscaded and poised at the lip of a chasm of tristesse, yet gripped with some braids of joie de vivre hitherto hardly seen in the last couple of years of my mediocre life. By Walid Boureghda © All Rights Reserved, #Prose_Poetry


    CELEBRATING POETS Random Editor's Choice OLD AGE TEAR How quietly look in the eyes when a smile dies cold tears flowing in a bright old eye like a content flowing from the shore to a quiet shore where youth has been blooming tears tones in gray verses of poems wrinkled with the face mount like a camel with two humps for a purse the old cheeks in a poverty meal mouth with cold wrinkled from the frost gibberish in the language of the unknown pronunciation alphabet which was known for Hammer frightened in a curative of the cursed time on the tidy gray hair gave a silk chord in the melodic symphony he played on his cheeks with a note he sang in the heavens in the seventh sky beauty kept in dry cerach In ashes the body of her before turning wrinkles will give up equality in a blind street, these eyes will close. Where a black devil will play in the old bones time to put a worried head in the cool ground and let it dance over the body eyes from old age with tears dried leaving without a voice in lavender fields the Angelic triumph would play on the harps white angels let the black granite raise on the cross blood covered with a human stain. let the bad of the spear celebrate suffering. © Tadeusz Grela POLAND The Legacy of Slavery The memory, a furnace Built up in my heart; And my lachrymose Can't puff it off. Worst still, is its advancement We are swimming in. We are not ourselves Eurobirthed into a disarray. We are being robbed of Moral judgement; And distributing anything ours In the praises of nonauthochthons. What is our offense? The modern slavery is aching; Our leaders are their missiles. Why can't we think us? Oh, the japa! We subscribe to slavery Now, ourselves. Imagine Nigeria's top deeds Against Niger Republic! This memory, a story Our children must hear in the moonlight. What our forefathers suffered Now, modernized, the worst! There were events for stories And History uncurriculumed. Listen, my child. Whom you see now Staring and whispering to you, Is an image of our fatherland Now, placed in the middle Of the widest and deepest sea; With his hands tied to his trunk Making the swimming impossible. My children, hear me, I have been robbed of myself; The self of abundant resources To enrich outside our borders. My senior children are used as a missile Against my family to satisfy the offshore! Help me tell your likes; The now generation must know That, whoever uses your father, as a serf Will never mean anything well for you. © Ikwulono Mohammed Senison NIGERIA The Night dusky beauty holding thousands of mysteries enveloping with darkness, profound provokes curiosities with its scenic silence the camouflage of treasures of starry skies exuded by incandescent decor creates magical Arcadian romance beneath the firmament sleeps the whole universe in a stupor state leaving all stress behind resting in most tranquility and peace far away from somewhere a tinge of tangerine hue glimmers, provides hope though... darkness encapsulates the entire clime swaying arms of sleep induces stupor to all the mankind after days' long labor finding some trance beneath the charcoal skies stillness has got serenity too hushed darkness speaks a lot, though of relaxation, of calmness and magnificent repose! © Seema Sharma INDIA MY FLOWER is MY POETRY If you were a flower, what would you be? Me? I'd love to be a Gumamela! This 'complete' flower has a filament that is always heavily laden with pollen ~ attracting butterflies and hummingbirds! Known as Hibiscus, this wilting flower only lasts for a day, then it closes, curls, and falls off. Nonetheless, this flamboyant flower blooms all year round! It comes in many lovely colors: red, yellow, white, and even purple. That is how I want my poetry to be ~ simple, varied, and blooming! © Maria Evelyn Quilla Soleta aka Hibiscus PHILIPPINES DELIVERY What is your delivery to others? What do you deliver? The same package of feelings That others gave to you Or something else? Take care to your delivery Of words, facts, reactions! If the package is not ok Just leave it at the door. © Bogdana Gageanu ROMANIA Time to Switch Up Not suitable for the faint of mind You been you for decades You live life in your own shell You don't know someone is ruling you The world has always been in color Music fills a quiet soul You counted time in white lines and the body was moving even casually Time goes by so fast like a bat You sneak looking in the mirror Knowing that gloomy mode turned you over You hide your face with great fall. Your deeds are not forgotten The light in the tunnel won't highlight anything You will leave like a bird into the unknown No word will be left from this wicked The gates will not be that gracious You didn't help others with harm You won't be able to see over the shoulder You will be left alone to wander in misery. © Tadeusz Grela POLAND IN LOVE WITH AN ANGEL Say to your groping heart, hush, and to your skeptical mind, be still! I have sainted my soul to your extol, For your sake I've scrubbed my filthy hand. And the pristine blood of the lamb has also purged my hellish heart. Speak and thy servant will take heed, Teach and my two pupils will be diligent Pupils unto thee - learning under thy Pedagogy - To see and to do thy will. Turn to the stars and let the moonlight lead you. Follow the footprints of your instinct to this precinct where I, thy lover lives. Tell me! Is the imprint of a man's mind in heaven's print not accessible to angels? I learned that angels don't dwell in hell but Tell me! Will thou teach me how to build a Nirvana in this mortal world of darksome inferno - a replica of what an angel will call hell? Tell me! If I commit myself to thee, are you sure the burning heat of this world will not cause us to dispel? © Olusegun Ajayi "The Pioneer Poet" NIGERIA BE THE JOY OF DAYS As vision the layer there...quaint Where see no man sway; Inhaling the cosmic zephyr - Way being of the milky way; With pulses warm of the naked sun's ember, My memory of love! gorges faint... With time! the destroying flood... Upon its tendency to make remote They heart, exiling a dream; And with each day in step in denote Of sorrow's tangled hymn, Oh! canter in loneliness! given the nod. But upon the get of sunlit eye, Reflects the heart's inflection Of a smile - revealing life's delight: And confessed...the sacred crest...of my retention; Be the disquiet of desired sight; Indeed! be the joy of days! beard of hope... of a dream romance, that doesn't lie © Henry Farrell UK HEARTBEAT AT DAWN In the quiet soliloquy Of the quiet night; Dead in its embrace Listening to the echoes Of your heart's beats... With me, Wrapped in the quietude Of your whispering symphony; My sole, soul's accordion. Two innocent souls merged, A Siamese Forever in your nostalgia Are we bonded, a body. Awake I remain monologuing And listening to the pitch Of our rhythm So high as it soothes. A balm in this cell, An encystment embalmed In the cocoon calm Of your consoling beats. © Kichime Philibus Elisha Nigeria ICON AND SOUND Thinking so deeply I have wasted so many chances Trying to find a way To reach out to you I'm tired of making excuses. Your seductive passions Evoke the consciousness of desires in me So, take my exhausted heart To comfort in your love forever. I'm like an iris floating On high tides In an ocean of affections My emotions are melodies Of a violin tones traveling through the wind And penetrating into your mind. In love, there is no measure of time Only two bonded souls in a template Losing or winning is not the question I can hear the motions of love calling my veins For it is love, it's the space of life. © Nasser Alshaikhahmed RAS TANURA, SAUDI ARABIA Anniversary On the anniversary Of his hand touching My cheek For the first time In that crowded venue I dream of him Remembering the glow inside That I felt all the next day. © Bernadette O'Reilly IRELAND SHADOWS A'SWAYING Shadows a'swaying upon an evening breeze move to an unheard refrain eked out on distant pipes in some remote hinterland unknowable evoking unspoken sorrows and the whispered mysteries of life and death, death and life They mirror the sweep, the pitch and rise astir in the boughs of denuded trees As this way and that they incline yielding to gusts of cool air wafting through the deserted woods While thin clouds ghosts of midnight scud across the heavens fleeing wisps in diaphanous gauze etched upon the celestial canvas as silhouettes ephemeral Transient enigmas gone in a whisper where the spirits of night ever lead afloat upon the midnight scape Ruffling the leaves of weeping willows exquisite of chalk white trunk and stirring the unfathomable waters rippling on a silent lake High above a mortal realm lost in a world of slumber and dreams insubstantial as the cosmic display a' gliding across the firmament awhile © D. A. Simpson UK MOTHER You bore me of uniqueness A skin, Beautiful enough to admiration You planted me hard On a land of treasure With a landscape beautifully laid That my heart groans with joy Who am I to shed tears? Mother Africa Your structure is a beauty That observers stare with saliva They pour out their eyes To have you on their brains Because you're rich Rich dearly that I'm blessed. Oh mama Africa The lakes you poured upon my feet From Victoria to Tanganyika A wholesome of mountain like Cape Zambezi and Nile rivers rich Who are we without your beauty? For us, you gave a rich language background Swahili lamenting beauty Zulu and Xhosa elegantly dancing Hausa and Igbo a nature's safe Up you served us so well Oh Mother. Today I'm in a celebratory mood Dancing to your beautiful music Lingala pacing Rhumba Afro beats a taste of the west Amapiano oh Amapiano Kapuka rivaling genge Who are you mother Africa? You're simply elegance Beauty that's ecstatic An aroma of excellence Fragrance that dances on my line I'll forever cherish you You're my home, my mother. © Dredan Brian 'DRE Arts' KENYA IF POETRY LEAVES ME Do you know that my heart bleeds Without writing a sweet melody? Do you know that my life is meaningless Without this gentle guy named Poetry? Do you know that I laid down my life To rewrite burning tears and sorrow? If poetry leaves me, order my last tube. My blood has dried up and faded away. If poetry leaves me, The sun, moon, and stars will crack. And the trees shall blossom in tears. Even angels in heaven shall moan, For a tasty pen and paper has fallen. Oh, if poetry leaves me, Weep not for my corpse; The sun has zoomed over my nostrils. If poetry leaves me, Collect my broken pieces of words. And if I sleep with my pen and book, Order not an ambulance; Bury me with one of my touching poems. O, my body shall sleep on ice, But my words shall arise like dry bones. So, if poetry leaves me, Buy me a white book to be covered. And not a shining or spicy tree. If poetry leaves me, Please question the ground. From him, I was created. I will reimburse him. © Gabriel S. Weah LIBERIA #ILA5YEARSOFARTISTRY


    Her timeless movement between her kitchen and her living room was my only entertainment, as I sat completely alone behind my bedroom window, lighting my cigarettes one by one, separated from us, by only a small garden surrounded by a pink fence. The garden belongs to my active neighbor, with her slender figure and snow-white hair. Her name is Ambrosine, and this will become the only name I remember, and her face, the only face I know after I was diagnosed - by the doctor - that I was in the beginning stages of neuropathy, which affects the cells of my brain, or as she said, "It's dementia, my dear," she told me in her broken English, so I could understand her. That day, we laughed together as she actively tended her small garden. I asked her once, about the meaning of her name. She looked at me with her bright white teeth shining, then she laughed and said, "It means 'immortal', long-lived." At that time, I realized the secret of her activity that surprised me as she approached her seventieth year, like me. She appeared at my door one day and asked me, "Murad, what is the meaning of your name?" I thought for a moment, so that I could explain the meaning in a correct and easy way. Her eyes widened in astonishment when I told her, "Murad, he is the desired and the beloved." She extended her hand and said, "Come, Desired, this is a butter biscuit. I wish you a good day." Ever since I moved into this house, which is actually Lambrosin's, I have considered life on this small island to be a retirement bonus and a magical idea to escape from my past life. My Eastern origins initially made my neighbors avoid me. Most of them were elderly retirees who spoke only their native language, and I spoke only English, which helped me adapt to the old woman, Ambrosine, who lived in London for a while and left her only daughter there, whom she called, when we remembered her in any conversation between us, "a merciless bitch." Before I visited the doctor to do the usual tests, he noticed - as written in my notebook - that I was suffering from a tremor in my right hand. I told him that yesterday, I had dropped a glass of wine. He advised me to write down my daily notes, and from that moment on, I started watching my old neighbor while I was in my place behind the window of the room, a small hut attached to her house, overlooking the coast. Those notes, which whenever I returned to them, feel as if I am reading for the first time, the beginning of Alzheimer's disease. Dementia is normal for people my age, so I try to write down everything I remember before I completely forget it. I told Ambrosine everything about me and my hometown, just so that anyone would know who I was, and I instructed her that I should be buried here, overlooking the sea. I wait for her every morning, and I watch her, as usual, moving diligently to prepare biscuits with butter. Her voice comes to me loudly along with the sound of the distant sea, calling, "Murad, wake up, you heavy bear. You will miss the butter biscuits." Yesterday, we followed together, the news circulating about the attack on a synagogue frequented by the Jewish of the quiet island, and the prayer books in the synagogue were burned, saying that the world is heading to the brink of madness, and I shook my head indifferently. Today, as I write down my notes in my notebook, enjoying the afternoon sun, I try to deal with the trembling hands, and change my behavior and habits - I attribute them to the doctor's boring words about the slow symptoms of the disease - I say to myself, "Is it worth it?" I hum the sentence in a calm voice, "Nothing is worth..." "Nothing is worth..." "There is nothing worth thinking about writing down what is troubling my heart, and nothing is forcing me to buy this notebook, so I can go back to my old habits and write about the beautiful women who went through my life, full of failures and defeats. I retired after years of traveling between the capitals of the world. I got to know many women, a mixture of nationalities, different ones, some of them are beautiful, and most of them were like mothers to me. Nothing deserves this, except my loneliness, which is heavy on the heart." After I decided to spend the rest of my life on this island, as quiet as bombed cities, my only entertainment there - other than watching my neighbor - is watching a crow that used to visit the balcony of my room, identifying with the distant smell of the sea, and loitering around the houses along the coast, from which cooking fumes and the smell of the onions rise, which I hate. What compels me to come to the distant town other than my escape from the past? And the memories, could the disease that quietly runs through the cells of my mind be a gift from heaven for me to forget, and what should I forget? The beautiful lady whom I let drop her tears on a table out of disappointment may have died a long time ago, and the little girl who said goodbye to her at the sea, may now be a mother of children standing in her kitchen to make lunch for her husband, and often she does not even remember me, and at this moment, I am just trying to remember whether the color of her eyes was blue like the sea or black like the long night of the island. I am trying to remember my kiss with a beautiful, charming girl on a clean marble staircase in one of the ancient buildings, "you see." What country was she in? I walk around my room looking for the box of old papers, talking to myself. My cigarettes that many? Fifty, sixty cigarettes? It will not help me, and the tobacco and wine running through my blood will not help me remember more, so nothing is worth all this thinking about. The disease may be eating away at my brain cells, and affecting the muscles in my hands, so my nerves are not able to write. Is this the sound of Ambrosine or is it another symptom of dementia (hallucinations). I will burn the last cigarette between my fingers, surrender to the sedation of the drug and try to sleep, and perhaps in the dream, I will remember another beautiful woman who smoked a cigarette like mine, carelessly, and blew her smoke away from my face. © Mohamed Fathy Aly Cairo, Egypt قصة قصيرة ألزهايمر حركتها الدؤوبة بين مطبخها وغرفة معيشتها، كانت تسليتي الوحيدة، وأنا أجلس وحيدًا تمامًا خلف نافذة غرفة نومي، أُشعل سجائري واحدةً تلو الأخرى، لا يفصل بيننا سوى حديقة صغيرة محاطة بسياج وردي اللون. الحديقة تخص جارتي النشيطة بقوامها الممشوق وشعرها الأبيض كالثلج، اسمها امبروسين، وسيصبح هذا الاسم الوحيد الذي أتذكره، ووجهها الوجه الوحيد الذي ألفه، بعد أن تم تشخيصي -من قِبل الطبيب- بأنني في بدايات الاعتلال العصبي، الذي يؤثر على خلايا عقلي، أو كما قالت لي امبروسين بإنجليزيتها المضطربة حتى أفهمها "هو الخرف يا عزيزي". يومها ضحكنا سويًا وهي تعتني بنشاط واضح بحديقتها الصغير. سألتها مرة عن معنى اسمها، نظرت لي وأسنانها الناصعة البياض تلمع، ثم ضحكت وقالت: يعني "الخالدة" طويلة العمر، أيقنت وقتها سر نشاطها المثير لدهشتي وهي تقترب من عامها السبعون مثلي. ظهرت أمام بابي يومًا وسألتني: "مراد، ما معنى اسمك؟" ، فكرت للحظة حتى أستطيع شرح المعنى بطريقة صحيحة وسهلة، اتسعت عيناها بدهشة عندما قلت لها: "مراد، هو المرغوب فيه والمحبوب"، مدت يدها قائلة "تفضل أيها المرغوب، هذا بسكوت بالزبدة، أتمنى لك يومًا طيبًا". منذ انتقلت للعيش في هذا المنزل، والذي هو في حقيقة الأمر ملك لامبروسين، اعتبرت الحياة على هذه الجزيرة الصغيرة، مكافأة تقاعد وفكرة سحرية للهروب من حياتي الماضية. أصولي الشرقية جعلت جيراني في بداية الأمر يتجنبونني. كان أغلبهم من كبار السن المتقاعدين، لا يتكلمون سوى لغتهم الأصلية، وأنا كنت لا أتحدث سوى الإنجليزية، أو هكذا خُيل لي فمن الممكن أنني كنت أتحدث لغات أخرى، بحكم أسفاري الكثيرة، لكنني الآن لا أتذكر سوى أنني أُتقن الإنجليزية مما ساعدني في التأقلم مع العجوز امبروسين، والتي عاشت في لندن لفترة من الزمن وتركت ابنتها الوحيدة هناك، والتي تطلق عليها عندما تتذكرها في أي حديث بيننا "الساقطة، عديمة الرحمة". قبل زيارتي للطبيب لعمل الفحوصات المعتادة، لاحظ -كما هو مكتوب بدفتر ملاحظاتي- أنني أُعاني من رعشة في يدي اليمنى، قلت له إنني بالأمس أسقطت كأس النبيذ، نصحني بكتابة ملاحظاتي اليومية، ومن لحظتها أصبحت أراقب جارتي العجوز وأنا في مكاني خلف نافذة الغرفة، والتي هي عبارة عن كوخ صغير ملحق بمنزلها المطل على الساحل. تلك الملاحظات التي كلما أعُد إليها، أشعر وكأنني أقرئها للمرة الأولى، هي إذًا بداية ألزهايمر؛ خرف طبيعي أن يصيب مثل من في عمري، لذا أحاول أن أُدون كل ما أتذكره قبل أن أنساه تمامًا. أبلغت امبروسين بكل شيء عني وعن مسقط رأسي، لا لشيء سوى أن يعرف عني أي إنسان من أنا، وأوصيتها بأن أُدفن هنا بإطلالة على البحر. أنتظرها كل صباح، وأنا أراقبها كعادتي تتحرك بهمة لإعداد البسكوت بالزبدة، يأتيني صوتها عاليًا مع صوت البحر البعيد منادية "مراد، استيقظ أيها الدب الثقيل، سيفوتك بسكوت امبرو". بالأمس تابعنا سويًا الأخبار المتداولة عن الهجوم على معبد يهودي يرتاده يهود الجزيرة الهادئة، وتم حرق كتب الصلوات بالمعبد، تقول إن العالم يتجه إلى حافة الجنون، وأهز رأسي غير مبالٍ. واليوم وأنا أدون ملاحظاتي في الدفتر، مستمتعًا بشمس الظهيرة، أحاول تدارك أمر يدي المرتعشة، وتغير سلوكي وعاداتي -أُرجعها لكلام الطبيب الممل عن أعراض المرض البطيئة- أقول لنفسي وهل الأمر يستحق؟، أدندن الجملة بصوت هادئ "لا شيء يستحق..."، "لا شيء يستحق...". "لا شيء يستحق التفكير في كتابة ما يؤرق قلبي، ولا شيء يجبرني على شراء هذا الدفتر؛ لأعود لعاداتي القديمة وأكتب عن الفاتنات اللاتي مررن بحياتي الحافلة بالسقطات والهزائم، فقد تقاعدت بعد سنوات في الترحال بين عواصم العالم، تعرفت على نساء كثيرات، مزيج من جنسيات مختلفة، منهن الجميلات وأكثرهن كُن كأمهات لي، فلا شيء يستحق هذا الأمر، سوى وحدتي الثقيلة على القلب". بعد قراري بأن أقضي بقية حياتي في هذه الجزيرة الهادئة كهدوء المدن المقصوفة. تسليتي الوحيدة فيها -غير مراقبة جارتي- مشاهدة غراب اعتاد زيارة شرفة غرفتي، والتماهي مع رائحة البحر البعيدة، والتسكع حول المنازل الممتدة على الساحل، والتي تتصاعد منها أدخنة الطهي ورائحة البصل التي أكرهها، ما الذي يجبرني على المجيء لهذه البلدة البعيدة سوى هروبي من الماضي والذكريات، أيكون المرض الذي يسري بهدوء في خلايا عقلي، هو هدية السماء لأنسى، وماذا أنسى؟، السيدة الجميلة التي تركتها تُسقط دموعها على طاولة من الخذلان، قد تكون ماتت منذ زمن، والفتاة الصغيرة التي ودعتها عند البحر، قد تكون الآن أم لأطفال تقف في مطبخها لتصنع وجبة الغداء لزوجها، وغالبًا هي لا تتذكرني حتى، وأنني في هذه اللحظة، أحاول فقط أن أتذكر هل كان لون عينيها أزرق كالبحر أم أسود كليل الجزيرة الطويل، أحاول تذكر قُبلتي لبنت جميلة فاتنة على سلم رخامي نظيف بإحدى البنايات العتيقة، "ترى في أي بلد كانت؟!" أدور في غرفتي باحثًا عن صندوق الأوراق القديمة محدثًا نفسي. سجائري التي أشعلتها... كم عددها؟ خمسون، ستون سيجارة؟! لن تفيدني، والتبغ والنبيذ الذي يسري في دمائي لن يساعدني على تذكر المزيد، إذن فلا شيء يستحق كل هذا التفكير، قد يكون المرض ينهش خلايا دماغي، ويؤثر على عضلات يدي، فلا تسعفني أعصابي على الكتابة. - هل هذا صوت امبروسين أم أنه عرض آخر للخرف (الهلوسة). سأحرق آخر سيجارة بين أصابعي، وأستسلم لمسكن الدواء وأحاول النوم، لعلني في الحلم أتذكر امرأة فاتنة أخرى دخنتها كسيجارتي، بلا مبالاة، ونفثت دخانها بعيدًا عن وجهي. محمد فتحي علي القاهرة – مصر Mohamed Fathy Ali is an Egyptian writer and poet.

  • Highlight of a Poet

    Featuring the work of Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) PRALAYA Felfúvódott hasú kanopusz-Hold; Föld-szarkofág, előző élete maradványain pihenő, zilált szentek súlyos, delejes álmát alussza. Pókkirály újbortól részeg, szakadt bohócmaskarát ölt, fején gyűrött, gyerekcsináló sapka. A kikötői bordély álmatag, alabástrom-testűnek tűnő, ám nyálkás, ragacsos varangy-bőrű szajhájával párzik. Majd kinyitja a tömlöcöket, s a jól táplált, boldog rabjai Mézföld felé veszik útjukat… „Gonosztevők, fenevadak kedvükre kóborolhassanak mostantól, ég, föld törvényei nem kötnek többé, minden hitványságom levedlettem, szabad vagyok!” © Aranyi László (Frater Azmon) PRALAYA The Canopus-Moon with a bloated belly; Earth sarcophagus, is resting, sleeping the heavy, lethargic sleep of disheveled saints on the remains of her previous life The spider-King is drunk from the new wine, He puts on a torn clown-disguise, with a crumpled child-making cap on his head. The brothel in the harbor is sleepy and alabaster-bodied. He copulates with a slimy, sticky toad-skinned whore. Then he opens the dungeons, and the well-fed, happy prisoners make their ways to the land of honey... "Villains and beasts may roam at will from now on, The laws of heaven and earth shall bind them no more, I have shed all my wickedness, I am free!" (Translated by Gabor Gyukics) Pikkelyes maradványok A rontás nyugodt lélegzetét idézi a varangyméreggel átitatott élő kalács. „Kanördög-kapitánnyal üzekedtél-e?” Kápolna ajtaján fölfeszített kóbor korcs, vaskos szögek ütötték át; az öldöklő alkony száradó szitakötőszárny. Horpadt bádog mellvért, öklömnyi lyuk tátong rajta, s a feszülő hordó-has nyálkás pikkelyei sejtetik a Föld előző életét… Holdserleg. Elhullt hős koponyájából. Babalon úrnő iszik belőle. S a rendszeres távlatokban újraszülető emberszabású oldhatatlan üledékként alámerül Isten fanyar borába. © Aranyi László (Frater Azmon) Scaly Remains Evoking the calm breath of menace living loaf of challah soaked with the poison of toads. "Have you fornicated with the horny devil captain?" A stray half-bred crucified on the chapel door, thick nails driven through him; deadly twilight drying dragonfly wing. A dented, tin breastplate with a hole as big as a fist, and the slimy scales of a strained barrel-belly foreshadow the previous life of earth Moon-goblet. Made from the skull of a dead hero. Lady Babylon drinks from it. And as an insoluble sediment of the regular intervals of rebirth she submerges in the tart wine of God. (Translated by Gabor Gyukics) Ákásá-krónika A Kör kelyhe, a Kör kérge… Ne tépd, ne marcangold, áhítattal érintsd, ittléted nyomát megőrzi így is, s a borzongásból aberrált mesék ocsúdnak (ihletett bók), visszatér az elűzött diadalittasan. Csordul, illő méltósággal, lassan, mint részeg combján a fos, utolér; állóképek sokasága sejtet csak egy baljós tántorgást, melyet egykor ők úgy hívtak: „kétezer év”. Hiába a kereszt, bor és kenyér… © Aranyi László (Frater Azmon) Chronicles of Akasa The chalice of the circle, the bark of rondure... Do not rip it, nor maul it, touch it with piety, it will preserve your presence without harm, stories from horripilation, aberrant tales now intangible (inspired compliment) comes back the ousted triumph drunken. It trickles down,decorous dignity, slowly, like the diarrhea dripping down a drunk mans leg, it gains on; Still pictures multitude surmises only a sinister staggering movement, which they once called "two-thousand years" so much for the cross, wine and bread. (Translated by Johanna Semsei) László Aranyi (Frater Azon), is a poet, anarchist, and occultist from Hungary. His earlier books: "(szellem) válaszok", "A Nap és Holderök egyensúlya", "Kiterített rókabor". His poems in English have appeared in over a hundred journals. New book recently published, "Delirium & The Seven Haiku" (Published by DEAD MAN'S PRESS INK, Albany, NY, September 2023). Laszlo has been nominated several times for international awards. He is known for spiritualist mediums, art and explores the relationship between magic. He is marginalized in his own country! Facebook Twitter Delirium & The Seven Haiku (Poems)


    Celebrating the Poetic Work of Mayyu Hamim A BLEEDING HEART I am a child with dreams, dreams to grow and explore this beautiful world, returning to my unseen motherland despite being born in the plight-filled refugee camp. I am a child, an ungerminated seed, I am yet to bloom into a flower, a tree. I solely want my childhood to be free, I am still a child, yet my heart bleeds. I am a child, an ungerminated seed, I want my sky to be filled with flocks of beautiful birds, but my sky is filled with smoke I am a child with dreams, I want to live my life without fear of losing my beloved ones. I strongly believe that humanity passed away somewhere in the genocide. © Mayyu Hamim VOICE I am Rohingya who has not savored the true taste of peace and democracy I am Rohingya, disenfranchised I am Rohingya, stateless for decades. I am a Rohingya Refugee Survivor, holding on the rope of optimism, learning in the midst of challenges, being the voice of the voiceless. © Mayyu Hamim UNTITLED For certain, residing in the refugee camp is much more harrowing than being silenced for a lifetime. There's a reason behind such an illegal commitment and the certainty of imprisonment. But, returning to one's motherland is unlikely to happen in the days to come. It's excruciating and disappointing © Mayyu Hamim (from an upcoming book) A MODEST MENTOR In my life-span, a prolific tree stands firm. Eternal fruits bloom. Silent strength in the roots, devotion in the branches. Notation: This heartfelt tanka poem is dedicated to someone who holds a special place as my one and only © Mayyu Hamim MY IDOLIZED FATHER In a world, everyone has their unique hero in their worldly life to make them prosperous and successful, but for me, you were unparalleled, pre-emininent, and undoubtedly precise - the ideology and the sole mentor of my life. As you exist in another realm, my atmosphere is devoid of proper light, and living without you is like rocket science. There's none to quench my fervent thirst, always in an ocean of depression. Being a child without a father is like a building without a foundation, a rose without aroma, winter without dew, and surely a tremendous ocean without water. However, your every single word makes me soar over the clouds, deeply motivating and strengthening me. © Mayyu Hamim VOICES OF REMEMBRANCE In hushed forenoons and the dusky evenings, Witnessed the massacre and mass departure, Amidst paddy fields, thousands found refugee, Even the streams bore witness to the lifeless. Rohingya voices cannot be silenced In a world where rivers of tears flow After six years, our scars still exist. We feel their suffering this . As we gather here on each 25th of August, In foreign country, in memory of lives lost We come together in empathetic unity, Our hearts crave for justice and peace. So let's pledge to bring about change, Tear down barriers, and rebuild our planet So that everyone can live happily Ever after in harmony, love and peace. A note from the Poet: "The Voices of Remembrance" is a poem written in reflection on the tragic events committed against the Rohingya people in Myanmar and their resilience and conveyance of the major intentions of the repeated commemoration each year. © Mayyu Hamim I desire to live my life On the lap of my birthplace Camp isn't my haunt; I feel suffocated and bored, Exhausted and agonized Nook and cranny of the camp No more confined life; No more refugee life A Note from the Poet: It is totally hard for me to describe my life in any way since I am a weak refugee who is still denied justice. © Mayyu Hamim Mayyu Hamim is a 19-year old writer, poet and certified author hailing from the Rohingya community in Myanmar, one of the most severely victimized ethnic groups in the world. His life story is a testament to resilience and the unyielding power of the written word. His journey as a writer began in the midst of unimaginable adversity, forced to live as a caged bird in an open prison, he endured hardships that most of us could scarcely fathom. The loss of his beloved father further deepened the complexities of his existence. These profound experiences became the driving force behind his creative expression, spurring him to pen down a diverse array of poetry and stories. As a dendrophile, Mayyu has a profound connection with the natural world. Nature, with its mysterious and healing qualities, has served as a sanctuary for his heart amidst the misery and plights of refugee life. In his verses, he often draws inspiration from the beauty and resilience of the natural world, weaving it into the tapestry of his poetry. Writing has been Mayuu's solace in the face of excruciating adversity. It is a means of transcending the limitations of his circumstances, a way to document the untold stories of his people, and a vessel for his own emotional catharsis. Through his words, he hopes to shed light on the Rohingya's struggles and aspirations, offering a voice to the voiceless. Mayuu's literary accomplishments are impressive. He is the author of "Rhythms of the Heart: The Two Rohingyas in Bloom," a work that showcases his poetic prowess and his deep understanding of the human condition. Addionally, he has contributed to over 100 anthologies, sharing his unique perspective with a global audience. Beyond his own creative pursuits, Mayyu is an English editor of 'Rohingya Art Dreamland', a Facebook page dedicated to reviving and encouraging Rohingya arts and literature. This role reflects his commitment to nurturing talent within his community and providing a platform for fellow Rohingya artists and writers. Mayyu is also a blog writer and co-editor of ILA Magazine. Mayyu's aspirations extend far beyond the realms of literature. He envisions a future where he can be a formidable educator, eradicating illiteracy within his community. He strives to be a poet whose words ignite change, and renowned novelist whose stories transcend borders. In a world often defiant by divisions, Mayyu Hamim's journey is a testament to the unifying power of literature and the indomitable human spirit. His story serves as a reminder that even in the face of the harshest adversities, the written word can provide solace, hope and a path toward a brighter future.

  • "Hatred Love"

    There is an admiration for the expressive courage and creativity displayed in the featured poems each poet took great strength to confront and articulate such strong and conflicting emotions, laying bare their innermost feelings, the power of poetry as a means of their catharsis and expression, their poems woven together, the threads of hatred love and the nuanced portrayal of emotion, evoking empathy and introspection in equal measure Specimen From Hell Specimen from hell Killer of the moon flowers Slithering like a black cobra Hissing in tongues The voice was full of venom Don't stop, run, run, run Until you reach a safe moon. © Sheila Ann Malaysia Heart of Contradiction In quiet moments, a storm brews within, Love's gentle caress, intertwined with the sting of hatred, An ocean of turmoil where feelings clash, But within your gaze, flickers fire and frost, In this turmoil, my heart discovers solace, In the chaos of hatred, love I roam. © Mohammed Arshad Amin Myanmar "Untitled" My love only knows what to hate For my beloved loves what I hate Yet I have to love For my beloved hates what I love Yet I have to hate Between this love hate gamble My love and hate married silently © Mushtaque B. Barq Srinagar, Jammu and Kashmir How Could It Come??? Don't think that as usual? As you're the the whole earth my dear. But now the situation is totally unacceptable Hatred can't wait to spark. How could it come? Mind thinks abruptly as usual. Hopefully your unacceptable response and behavior Gradually killing the sweet fragrance of love. S. Afrose Bangladesh

  • "A Tug on the Heartstrings"

    During the week of February 4th, poets were asked to write a 7-verse poem in rhyming couplet form for each of the seven days of the week. They were also asked to fill in the blank to complete the title: "A Week of_". The twist required, to write their chosen words from the title in non-rhyming Acrostic form. For people not celebrating Valentine's Day, poets had the option to write in some way related to love, as in familial, friendship, universal, nature or passion for a cause. From our entries, ILA Magazine chose three lovely poetesses and their works of art. A WEEK OF "HAPPINESS" (Dedicated to my family) On MONDAY, we start the week flashing each other a sunny smile Getting ready to enjoy life and go the extra mile On TUESDAY, after a hard day's work, we enjoy each other's company On a beautiful meadow outside the city, listening to nature's symphony On WEDNESDAY, love gives us the comfort we needed God's advice about togetherness is what we heeded On THURSDAY, we all have fun together as a family Adding the paintings of the memories we make into our gallery On FRIDAY, we are grateful to our mother for the motherly affection She gave us and to our father, for his fatherly attention. On SATURDAY, our parents happily reminisce of the day they became husband and wife And how they didn't let their relationship be torn apart by strife SUNDAY is the day of spending quality time together The feeling of joy that we all share is reflected in the lovely weather Heavenly music comes from the heart of the gentle souls, Affection is an important ingredient in a healthy relationship Positive thinking keeps the mind safe from negative emotions Paradise is the home of the close-knit family that respects itself Inner peace reigns over us while wisdom keeps the balance between mind and soul, Nature's songs bring tears into our eyes, penetrating deeper into our hearts Elated our parents were by the birth of my brother and I, Seeing eye to eye with each other takes thinking and courage Solace can be found in your family's warm hugs. © Gheorghe Laura Romania A WEEK OF "DEFERRED DREAM" Serendipity on a Monday We bumped in a crowded subway. Had dinner after work on Tuesday Forgot the passing time, we were so gay. Wednesday, he confessed feelings for me I said, we need to wait and see. But Thursday found me dreaming of him Chance of hiding my emotion was slim. Our Friday date climaxed in kisses and hugs Both of us were like addicts high on drugs. But Saturday brought a disagreement We failed to settle our argument. On Sunday, I nursed a deferred dream Of a love that melted as fast as ice cream. ** Dreams are illusions Ephemeral as shooting stars Flowers of the night Echoes of unsung songs Remains of unspoken thoughts River flooded with desires Extinguished embers of whims Debris of expectations Dying fires of ambitions Recurring through the years Ending in respite Absconded by sunlight Must live again somehow © Myrtle Eve Reyes Tejada Philippines A WEEK OF "EUPHORIA" When Sunday was the best For my legs to rest Monday came out of the blue Without any clue Tuesday didn't dampen my spirit As my energy was within a limit Wednesday somehow got me active Mirror applauding me as attractive Thursday became a friendly phase As the next day became my craze Friday was the day to dance and sing Where my soul was ready to swing Saturday became the boon of ecstasy For my heart to sing a melody. ** Excited to be in this moment with Unforgettable memories Painted with loving hues of a Heart with unconditional Ocean of emotions Reconciled with an Intense look from the Aroma in and of those beats! © Sonal Rao India


    February 8, 2024 Review of Eric Aguilar's poem, "Patchwork" PATCHWORK My riches are for the generations after me, quilt-patching legacy in poetic masterpieces. With wrinkle and crease, furrow and crumple, couplets in subject fall, naïve to styles a'wit. But, also is the time orbital with stint and span. The days of infinity scape endless trails and I scribe them down, in responsibility. Who am I, to not script the record of a moment's notice? Let the bells ring as vocabulary chimes and resonates an innately potent fragrance. The text of this duration in course with capsule, and I surely will write of the day so signed. It is to say, by jacket of attire and scar of character that truth show age; weathered with tears of beauty. If you knew how many times this ink was pounded down before you saw its inscription, the eyes would read the soul. © Eric Aguilar The poet expresses in deepest sense, responsibility toward future generations, emphasizing a significance of leaving behind a poetic legacy. The imagery of "quilt-patching legacy" suggests a deliberate and intricate construction of this poetic inheritance, reflecting care and thoughtfulness, his approach to his craft of writing. Eric's poem skillfully employs vivid imagery, his artistic expression through phases such as "wrinkle and crease, furrow and crumple" and "vocabulary chimes", creating a sensory experience for the reader. His use of personification, as read in "Let the bells ring as vocabulary chimes", adds a musical quality to his poem, enhancing its lyrical appeal. In Eric's reflection of intervals and truth, he contemplates time as "orbital with a stint and span", his acknowledgement of truth showing through the "scar of character", conveying a profound understanding of the passage of time and the impact it leaves on both individuals and their creations. He concludes with quite the powerful reflection on the depth of the poet's commitment to the craft of writing, as evidenced by the line, "If you knew how many times this ink was pounded down/Before you saw its inscription, the eyes would read the soul." - This evocative statement alone, emphasizes on the labor and emotional investment that underlies the creation of each of his poetic works he pens. My overall impression of "Patchwork" is quite a thought-provoking and introspective poem, inviting readers to contemplate enduring significance of art, the passage of time and the essence of truth. Eric's skillful use of imagery and language (vocabulary), creates a rich tapestry of emotions, making his poem quite the compelling and resonant piece of literature. Reviewed by: Annette Nasser Founder/EIC ILA Magazine US

  • Poetry of Chad Norman

    A FEATHERED TUTELAGE ON THE FRONT DECK for all Ukrainian poets, past and present, who have written and still write on behalf of national independence. Learning is, or could be, continues to land safely: being there, being witness only, as the chickadee makes a decision, chooses a certain seed to fly off with. Another morning meal, no further celebration or redefined holiday feast. To know one thing now: (seated on the red lawnchair) moments here, are free, are far from a war, Ukraine, telling in a way... the next seed, unchosen and left behind for another songful beak. ACCIDENT AT THE MILL for Ken Cathers Ant large in size, a new friend found in the sticks, sticks going into stacks, stacks of two by this and two by that, destined for the kiln. Ant, fallen between boards, able to survive a journey to me, unprepared for the injury you managed to take on, your head up proud but your rear-end taken. Ant, I see your legs trying to do what they always do, carrying something, but this moment must be uncommon as I see and I don't want to. There is a different direction you didn't choose going in circle after circle, all that can be leaving me the big reckless man, trying to help those legs, legs part of your damage, part of how any escape is possible. Ant, I don't give up. I continue with a sliver of fir, holding it so still, moving it under the crushed section until I pick you up and try to prevent any further confusion. Ant, perhaps during the next shift I will know you survived, see no sign of you on any piece of wood. CHILDREN OF THE CLOCK In memory of Swedish poet, Tomas Transtromer First born. Second is his name. He wears a t-shirt if one were to notice says, "It costs money to stay alert and alive", which somehow lights up according to, better yet, in unison with his breath, a ticking that comes and goes. Born, importantly, one-armed, remarkable appendage for a future of control, how lives will be lived, the duration of them a loud endless repetition of click click click, steady show of telling nerves. Second born. Minute is her name. She wears a round mask if one were to forget says, "I am clear plastic so all can see my face as well as my servant's, he or she seeking a decision." On the sunniest of mornings reflections of their faces can be seen as Minute provides, explanations on when to leave, or why to stay; face to face, private acceptance, a hand offering losses and wins. Third born. Hour is his name. He wears a hockey jersey if one were to choose says, "I am on backwards so number 12 is celebrated, a reminder teams need games expected to begin when I say". Hour is unlike the others. He is the longest. Closer, perhaps, to clock's other larger and older family with locally known names like Day, Week, Month, Year, and that one unforgettable uncle nick-named, Time. MAKING THE CANDLES FIT A wish in the snowflake with the aimless wind finds my exposed tongue. Inside now where I live on fewer doors to open as the hallway of my life continues to shorten. Standing by room sixty-three a day before I am reminded about the date of my birth. Downing my youth a certain aged mix makes it taste so fine, makes it all easy to swallow. Casa Harris Truro, N.S. February 12, 2023 NO AUDITIONS NECESSARY After the hatching and flight is possible, after parents' rapid care, dry catfood in the beak, baby starling has no use for any idol show: to possess the exclusive talent no human will ever master, to land and rest on a tiny stuffed belly, return to the safety of a wire. Chad Norman lives and writes in Truro, Nova Scotia. In 1992, he was awarded the Gwendolyn MacEwen Memorial Award for Poetry, the judges were Margaret Atwood, Barry Callaghan, and Al Purdy. His poems appear in journals, magazines and anthologies around the world. His most recent book, 'A Matter of Inclusion', is out now, with a new collection, 'Parental Forest', scheduled for Spring 2024.


    Dozens of Civilians Die Every Day Dozens of civilians are dying to the sounds of loud sirens, houses are engulfed in flames, photos of the nearby rusty antennas. The earth groans, freed from the masses, once carrying the streams to the sea, dozens of old grimaces drowned, The Kahovka disaster is a new national grief. You fall asleep alive, the alarm cries by a siren, God save me from the rocket tonight let my leg not fall in the gangrenous. © Vyacheslav Konoval The Creaking Bench Will Receive You Hospitably The creaking bench will receive you hospitably. She is besieged by old chestnuts. You sit silently, meditating innocently, about the eternal duel between good and all-powerful evil. Some of us die at the front, and someone hiding, is stealing millions. Someone will help a little And for some, money is like those promotional coupons. The main speaker tells fables. The owner of the villa carries lies. A young man has habits of an old man. He is a pet of the system that everyone wants. Here is a tall boar walking along the beach and everyone knows him as the former owner of state property. He fled cowardly to Austrian affairs. A boar goes there and tastes ice cream for free. There are many such figures in power from the bottom to the top, and many executioners among them. A queue is formed to steal money. What kind of state will be tomorrow? If there are enough thieves in it. I take my hat off to the righteous, today. © Vyacheslav (Slava) Konoval Vyacheslav Konoval is a Ukranian poet whose work is devoted to the most pressing social problems of our time, such as poverty, ecology, relations between the people and the government and war. His poems have appeared in many magazines, including 'Anarchy Anthology Archive', 'International Poetry Anthology', 'Literary Waves Publishing', 'Sparks of Kaliopa', 'Reach of the Song 2022', 'Diogenes for Culture Journal', 'Scars of my heart from the war', 'Poetry for Ukraine', 'Rhyming', 'La page Blanche', 'Impacted', 'Military Review', 'The Lit', 'Allegro', 'Innisfree Poetry Journal', 'Antunes Galaxy Poetry', 'Ekscentrika', 'Mere Inklings', 'EgoPhobia', 'Fulcrum', 'Omnibus', 'Lothlorien Poetry Journal', 'Revisita Literaria', 'Taller Igitur', 'Tarot Poetry Journal', 'Tiny Seed Literature Journal', 'Best American Poetry Blog', 'Quilled Ink Review', 'Chronograph Poetry Journal', 'The Appalachian Journal', 'Dark Horse', 'Agape', 'Mascara Literary Journal', 'Lyrical Somerville', 'Charleston Poets', 'Briefly Zine', 'Varied Spirit', 'Taos Poetry Journal', 'The Skinny Poetry Journal', 'Academy of the Heart and Mind Journal', 'ARIEL CHART', 'International Literary Journal', 'Poesia Ultracontemporanea', 'New Ulster 124', 'Revista Cronopio', 'Gothic Nature', 'WordCityLit', 'TSaunders Pubs', 'London Grip New Poetry', 'Mill Valley Literary Review', 'Zeitglass', 'The Coin', 'Coal Literary Journal', 'Orenaug Mountain Poetry Journal', 'Diamonds in the Rough Magazine', 'Spy Community Media', 'Delmarva Review', 'Synchronized Chaos Journal', 'The Horror Zine Journal', 'The Bosphorus Review', 'The Cloud Poetry', 'Redbrick', 'Cacti Fur'. Vyacheslav's poems have been translated into Spanish, French, Scottish, Italian and Polish languages. His poems also have been read at meetings of various other poetry groups, including Newman Poetry Group, Never Talk Innocence, Voicing Art Poetry Reading for Ukraine, Worcester County Poetry, Brussels Writer's Circle, Poets Anonymous May Middle-Met, Brett Show by Andrea, The Manx Bard group, Allinghman Art Festival, Versopolis Poetry Expo 2023 Poetry Readings, Poetry of Struggle, Solidarity, Poetic Voices, Coal Literary Journal's Eve, Presentation at Albert van Abbehuis Fling, and International Human Rights Art Festival. Vyacheslav's poems were presented at War Art Project. He is a member of the Federation of Scottish Writers.

  • A Special Moment Between Two

    For this year, my interviews for ILA Magazine I'll concentrate on bringing editors to you. We will learn about new submission opportunities as well as hear best practices about the submission process. First up for 2024, is my dear friend, Mysti Milwee, editor of Sequoyah Cherokee Journal. Here is the link for submissions and she does nominate for the Pushcart awards: Carl: Good morning, Mysti, we are honored at ILA Magazine to spend some time with you today and appreciate your time with us. CARL: What motivated you to pursue a role as an editor for a literary journal? ** MYSTI: The literary world is a challenge in itself, in the world today. Often, we see poets and writers being accepted and rejected during challenging times in a world where mental health is the biggest issue for writers and poets alone. My motivation to pursue being an editor came during the COVID pandemic, I wanted to become a vision and inspiration to keep other writers, artists, poets, creatives, etc., out of the depression and fog due to so much sickness the world was and is still enduring, and yet alone the ones being abused during this time as well. Being an empath, my heart felt like I should do something to help others and give back at the same time. By doing this, I hope to make a difference in society as a whole. Hoping and praying that if I could make a difference in someone's life, I felt that this challenge would open doors to those suffering, giving them space that keeps writers, artists, poets, etc., happy in a beautiful and uplifting setting, and in response to help make a difference in someone's life. CARL: How do you approach the editing process for literary pieces? Can you walk us through your typical editing workflow? ** MYSTI: During the editing process I approach each piece delicately. My vision for the journal acts as a story from beginning to end. So, each piece has its own unique voice, and is placed accordingly to the vision and voice of each piece at the same time, replicating a different perspective of beauty and flow of words and art, as the workflow generates the story. Each piece of work, in my mind (visually and written form) is projected through my synesthesia method, which makes the journal unique in its own setting. So that when you read through the issue, it is brought to life through and with form and shape. CARL: What criteria do you use to evaluate and select pieces for inclusion in the journal? ** MYSTI: First of all, adhering to the submission guidelines is my number one way of evaluating and selecting pieces for inclusion in the journal. I look at it from a professional standpoint, and knowing that my writers take their submission(s) seriously. Secondly, I evaluate by those who adhere to the vision of the journal. Overall, I also look for how a writer projects themselves within the email as well. CARL: In your opinion, what makes a literary work stand out and deserving of publication? ** MYSTI: In my opinion, the overall vision and how each work adheres to the journal's vision and voice within, makes a literary work stand out. If it does not flow, it throws it off, and shows irregularities within the workflow, and the story becomes broken. Stand out pieces projects the vision and overall atmosphere of the journal. The voice and tone make a literary work stand out, and then how it fits into the story and/or workflow. When I see a standout piece adhering to the vision of the journal, I know that it deserves a special place within the story, therefore I accept the piece for publication. CARL: What mistakes do you see in the submission process that would cause you to reject work you might have published? ** MYSTI: Not adhering to the vision and voice of the journal is the biggest mistake when seeking publication in a journal or magazine. For example: If a Dog magazine is wanting to be captivated by beautiful stories, poetry or photos of dogs, you don't send your cat's photo to the magazine. Another common mistake would be not following the guidelines. CARL: Can you discuss any ideas you have for expanding the reach and impact of your literary journal? ** MYSTI: This year, I hope to expand through other international literary platforms and add ads of the journal covers with the submission email and specs, so that anyone can send their work any time of the year. Other ideas are to approach through ads in the Global Literacy Foundation, that makes over 10,000 literary journals and magazines worldwide. Right now, Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal is reaching over 800,000 people worldwide since I've started my journal on April 1, 2020. Its impact has reached more than I thought it would, and I'm grateful to have honored and published all writers, poets, and artists in my journal on a global platform. CARL: Thank you, Mysti, and to you, our ILA readers, please consider submitting to this growing and incredibly special editor and publication. Mysti Bio: Mysti S. Milwee is an international award-winning and published multidisciplinary artist, synesthesia artist, poet, writer, translator and screenwriter. She serves as an International Art Ambassador, a leader in the arts. Her poetry and art have been published in over 25 countries and over 12,000 publications globally. Her poetry, literature and art have also been used for academic and ministry studies across the globe. She serves as the "Poet Laureate" of Fire Eagle Ministries. She is the editor-in-chief and publisher of her journal, 'Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal'. She resides in Southside, Alabama in the USA. She is a member of the International Association of Professional Writers and Editors; International Society of Filmmakers & Screenwriters; National Director at Large Forensic Art Therapy and is the Vice President of the Worldwide Art and Writers Literacy Department for Intellectual Property. Her poetry and art have appeared in numerous magazines, brochures, journals, TV shows, newspapers, blog talk radio shows and many other media outlets across the globe. About the Interviewer: Carl Scharwath is from the sunshine state of Florida. He is a Co-Editor/Interviewer of ILA Magazine, Art Editor of Glitterti and former editor of Minute Magazine. His work has appeared globally with 175+ journals selecting both his writing or art. He has published three poetry books and his latest book, "Ebb Tide Reflections", features short stories, photography and poetry (World Inkers, NYC). Carl has published four photography books by Praxis and CreatiVingenuitiy. He has been nominated for three 'The Best of the Net Awards' (2021-2023) and two different Pushcart Nominations in 202, for poetry and short story.

  • Poetry Highlight

    Featuring eight poems written by Haitham Abdullah Al-Akrumi The water did not betray you Luck was a hole in it Go down to the river and make the cup your paw Hide your nostalgia from those who led you to the air And they shall not step Written in the ink of the heart They became full of you until you made them a city You are lost in it And the longing is high Stuck on memory lol You hurt them The stubbornness of Taniba And when you are gone, there is no weakness or carelessness After the surgery You bit the end You are the glue on a delayed dream And now you can't believe and lie... © Haitham Abdullah Al-Akrumi Your tears are moving me and the poems are scattered like olive seeds I'm trying to touch her with my heart pockets Thus I become a farmer Just like my father and grandpa And the picker of the village I've always been practicing poetry But my years have been reckless On yesterday Just on yesterday I've been practicing on love and suddenly it's picking season. © Haitham Abdullah Al-Akrumi New born my hope My pain is old The days have been trapped in many pictures I am starving and displaced And also lovers of their simplicity Technology broke them apart New born throw down As for my superiority, it is old. Trying not to pass it on to anyone but me And one after me The new born is my joy As for my old age Because the children that fell On the swings of the world...They grow up And they put the world on a swing © Haitham Abdullah Al-Akrumi Apple on the cheeks or something Lola is confused My hair flew like an eagle And he caught what he caught From a colorful world Suitable for your name, whatever the wills, liking is a command The abode of your shadow has added a language to the world. Speak silently to speak... Once again Replace love with the intensity of passion And the river is old enough to describe the stream And I will not riddle you in your eyes U hide a lot And stuffing each other up I have two regrets And now you are coming Did you add an ice cold heart Did you cross my limits...Then my memory And he will be satisfied And you won't waste your apology I don't know myself for a lifetime UNTIL I LIVE Who deserves to live © Haitham Abdullah Al-Akrumi In an area of you She is bounded by a severe anxiety attack A butterfly dancing And a raven is in a chokehold And others run away to sell out In an area of you Joy is divided and sorrows are challenged And many souls will fall In the form of bombs In an area of you Dawn breaks without eyes His hands are stained with your pencil And his mouth is stained with your blood. Wonder is it the end of the world Or your beginning in another world A world of long nails... © Haitham Abdullah Al-Akrumi Death is like asphalt, it breaks the road And you gotta walk check for a shine Are your eyes around from a pile? Or a banner of peace raised by a friend And your strings of music postpones her dancing How painful it is to step from narrow to narrow The gunpowder of the free silenced their angels And the sorcerer is a demon on the loose Bandage hair wounds without saving Childhood ideas are cursed like tenderness Let the truth be spoken in grief About the rain of words amidst the fire Death is like asphalt without its blackness And the end of the tornado...Captain is sinking © Haitham Abdullah Al-Akrumi hold me in a sigh and a sigh And wear the dream Cute as a spark Deepen the lamentation I don't want no noise Rather a mixture of dew and nectar I am so sorry If I ever just made a disappearance I needed a to sink Two years ago I haven't lived Where is my age to see You see I lost my way In the seasons of life Did I live my death And then I am...And you touched my veins © Haitham Abdullah Al-Akrumi You crave my blood and quantity So relieve your absence from the heartlessness And I accept that my time is no longer delicious And my life is on my behalf The shadow of your eyes is haunting me And I'm drowned in you And I stay, not my ground above my ground As if clones abound in me I am away, I want you close He gives strength to those who want it. © Haitham Abdullah Al-Akrumi Haitham Abdullah Al-Akrumi is a Lebanese poet residing in the Gulf. He was born in Jamal Akrum, northern Lebanon. He wrote poetry at an early age and practiced teaching Arabic before traveling. He has a poetry collection that was printed twice and published since 1998, and a collection of poems that was printed but not published. He currently has more than one collection in print. His poems have been published in many newspapers and magazines and he has participated in many cultural events in clubs, literary centers and universities, he held many evenings, both alone and with other participants. He has won many honors. He won second place in a cultural competition held on the occasion of the Saudi National Day, and third place in a cultural competition for the Literary Club in the northern Saudi region.

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