Mission Statement Creativity is within each of us and when it is utilized for whatever moment in time, the environment becomes more calming and peaceful, taking away the weight of the world, of that which surrounds us, we are able to maintain our creative muses, whether through writing or visual arts, discovered or possibly undiscovered by chance, through some profound experience. Creativity through literature and the arts are most beneficial to the inner senses and well-being from within. We have a stronger sense of ourselves and when we allow our inspiration to flow, whether it be through poetry/prose, visual arts, or other types of literature, whatever genre inspires us, it is that impulse of significant points of time where we can connect our mind, heart and soul. Our goals for ILA is to spark that creativity, to encourage and support writers and artists along their journeys of self-expression, by providing a harmonizing and comfortable environment. Our desire is to promote cultural diversity of literature and the arts with both established and emerging writers who have a voice and perhaps a deeper understanding of values, such as humanity, peace and freedom of speech. Our goal is to broaden the horizons of many, to be a catalyst of guidance, to help boost the confidence of people with a voice who are just beginning on the journey into literature and the arts, and, for the silent voices who are just starting out on their adventures or writing endeavors. We are supportive of writers and artists with aspirations and goals. We welcome voices of diverse individuals from different backgrounds, religions, ethnicities, cultures and societies, with utmost respect and love. ILA is a not-for-profit magazine, devoted to the world of literature and the arts, and it is here, we hope to provide a platform for writers, poets and visual artists, internationally. We want to promote the silent voices, to celebrate alongside that special creativity, the chance to be read and recognized and to finally be heard. It is within all voices, freedom of speech and literature where we will open the barriers that have kept some apart from the rest of the world, to give a sense of belonging, a deeply rooted feeling, as if you've always been here and never left. We support all writers and artists who aspire to publish their work and share their creativity with both our e-magazine as well as our Facebook group and page. Here, we feature "Random Editors' Choice", Poetry/prose, short stories, articles, special features of writers, recent book publications, visual arts/photography, blog articles, interviews as well as an occasional review and translations. It's not about statistics, it's about the self-expression of each individual poet, writer, artist, their ingenuity and inspiration, our guidance, to encourage and support, to promote cultural diversity for both established and emerging artists/writers. Annette Nasser Founder/EIC ILA Magazine USA ** Existing Editors: Atif Khurshid Wani, Senior Editor (Jammu/Kashmir) Walid Boureghda, Assistant Editor (Algeria) Carl Scharwath, Co-Editor/Interviewer (USA) Amitabh Mitra, Co-Editor (South Africa) Ikwulono Mohammed Senison, Co-Editor (Africa) ILA's newest Editors: Steve Lyman (UK) Mayyu Hamimi (Myanmar) Author Shahid Abbas (Pakistan) N.P. Khatiwada (India) Justin Roman Cain (USA) Concetta Pipia, Reviewer (USA) Irma Kurti, Interviewer (Italy)

March 8 is International Women's Day and the entire month of March is International Women's History month. The center of interest for 2024 is "Invest in Women: Accelerate Progress" - the focus is making determined efforts to eliminate economic disempowerment and progress toward an effectual and influential crusade to "inspire inclusion", which is the theme for this auspicious and global observance. We offered writers in our Facebook group, three prompts to choose from, the first prompt: "Celebrating Strength" and resilience of women in the face of adversity, the second prompt, "Sisterhood", honoring the bonds of support, however, it did not receive a response and the third challenged poets to write about the "Unsung She-Roes", recognizing often overlooked or recognized contributions of women in various roles, whether helping in the workforce, or at home, or in volunteer, or as an advocate or in the fields of war and conflict. Although one from each entry was to be chosen, we feature 13 magnificently inclusive poems from poets of different backgrounds, both men and women and their compassionate, steadfast poetic thoughts honoring the prowess of women even during times of experiences, determination, empowerment, survival and struggle. "THE WOMAN THAT I AM" The Woman I see Is the Woman I am (Mirrors do not lie.) Cosmetics do when aptly applied But not these nerves deny. Age is just a factor, Like Depth, Breadth, or even Height, But the Woman who fights The odds - is, and will be...I. The Woman I see Is the Woman I am. Bravely struggling, even laughing, Crying over the years Yet, gracefully so, is aging. The Woman I see is now me. She has come a long, long way From that child, they once knew, From that girl, I saw On that truthful mirror long ago. © MARIA EVELYN QUILLA SOLETA Philippines "FURY AND FLAME" In the gorge where the twin rivers meet Fury and flame got caught up in the mirage of her soul Bloodthirsty, at the tomb of the fallen gods Divine mercy of novena, She's awakened from slumbers of the forgotten Eyes of a serpent Eophis The air has made the silky hair kiss her face Gliding through with mare of Absolom 'Ride with me, Andalusia, for the might and power are in you' Adorn with vengeance, bow and sword A heavenly phenomenal, not less than heaven. © SHEILA ANN Malaysia "STRENGTH" Nana Byrne Lost her mother Aged eleven Shipped off to Sheffield Soon after Back in Dublin she met James Byrne She had thirteen children Four were miscarriages Three were cot deaths Her eldest daughter died Aged seventeen Her only sibling died young Nana had many illnesses During her life In her sixties She became a widow Lost her sight Her home She still loved to sing What gave her strength Her unwavering faith in God. © BERNADETTE O' REILLY Dublin, Ireland "A WOMAN WITH THOUSAND IDENTITY" From Adam's ribs, she was taken Formed with undeniable beauty Embedded with abundant strength A heart as big as the universe Wider than the ocean of understanding Her wisdom emanates from her face Burning and glowing Like a candle in the dark. Her amazing hands are peculiar, rough and calloused. It can cure sickness with her touch And soothe the weary heart of a child. Her gentle stroke at night Can bring you to a slumber and dream Only with her hands, you can trust Your crying heart is in pain. Her steadfastness knows no boundaries It encompasses every soul in her life Leaving herself oblivious, unbothered Forgetting every inch of her beauty. She is the mirror of every strength A reflection of stamina and grace A backbone of every weakness A strength of everyone's failure. She is the shield of every storm A blanket of comfort An angel in disguise She is your laughter A clown in your heart An armor in every war Peacemaker in every fight She is the woman of thousand identity. © DOLO REZ Philippines "WOE MAN" A modern soul in an old-world gaze A woman navigating life's complex maze Tech-savvy mind, digital native graces Balancing tradition and fast-paced races. She tweets her thoughts, lives in podcast Coherence of time and memories that last In the digital age, she's a vintage soul An age-old charm in a modern role. She wears stardust in her digital face But craves the warmth of antique embrace. Her playlist echoes old tunes so sweet In a modern world, her heart finds its beat. Smartphones in hand and word she sends A modern woman, her prowess transcends In pixels and pages, her advocacy unfold A modern spirit with an old soul's hold. In the face of storms, women stand tall Brave spirits, they never fall Through adversity and trials they stride A strength within that can't be denied. Dance with grace through life's tempest Facing challenges with heart that jest Clothed by courage like a fierce flame In every setback she found no shame. With wisdom's touch she navigates Through the darkest hours she illuminates A tapestry of resilience she weaves Unbowed like the ocean's constant heave. So here's to the women, bold and free, An ode to their enduring, boundless beauty An inclusion to a timeless song Like a distant music that echoes along. © FLOYD GALE CABUS Philippines "WHO I AM!" When I wear jeans I am called wanderer And wearing scarf - Club me backward! Who am I I talk to some stranger And they think it's my crudity; And offering prayers Club me narrowminded ! Who am I When I laugh openly It reflects my selfishness And caged inside Among the sighs and sobs Earns me the lady of manner! I exhort from one and all Monsters - Who make me suspicious in my own eyes And for others Why should I bother to know Who actually I am! © AASIA MAJEED Pakistan "UNTITLED" The Palestinian women day is screaming in night of Gaza. The mothers are crying every day. Here, every day is going to rain the game of death. We are celebrating the woman day. Innocent children are shy. We are celebrating the woman day. The children, like women and flowers are scared every day. We are celebrating the woman day. From what hearts, I say, my lovely mother congratulated you on a woman day. We are celebrating the woman day. © IMRAN KASHMIRI Pakistan "I WILL RISE AGAIN" In the face of adversity, I will rise again, By strength and grace, God will heal my pain. Never giving up on challenges is my slogan, I will break all the barriers, I'm a brave woman! I will move forward with passion and courage, I won't care about the things that discourage, God will pave my way as a guide to progress, One day I will surely climb the ladder of success! My dreams give me a spark to touch the sky, To achieve my life's purpose, I will always try, I will always stand firm in the face of difficulties, For me, God will open doors to new opportunities! No matter how many storms come to divert me, They can't stop me from writing a success story! © DEEPTI SHAKYA India "UNSUNG SHE'ROES" A nervous teenaged girl became a Powerful homemaker and also a teacher to supply her miserable family, who never supported her! An insecure victim of molestation stood up for herself to become a nurse and educated her only child without her husband's support! A time and uneducated lady who was abandoned by her children is happily living a splendid life at old age home with her new friends! A meek and nervous woman in her 50's came to the streets due to her drunkard and jobless husband but managed to reach the shore with her children, boldly! A humble mother with her modest knowledge became a fearless chef to support her kids and shared few morsels of food with people just like her, struggling to keep up! Women are born to be warriors who march fearlessly with a daring passion towards their determination, undoubtedly, to prove that she's forgiving and loving as a Mother Earth!! © SONAL RAO India "REFLECTION" I look into the mirror and see... a woman with wings to fly and soar high, a wife who has expectations like the sky, a daughter who is a ticket to paradise, a mother who is ocean of loyalty and sacrifice, a sister who stands by you without even asking, a worker adept at multitasking. © RAFIYA SAYEED Jammu and Kashmir, India "ABOUT THEM" They are heroes As well as men Having a strong resilience In being Mothers, Wives, Pilots, Firefighters, Doctors Or even being soldiers. They are sensitive but also powerful Never saying no to challenges They can prove that no matter What sex we have We can still be great And we can prove solidarity. Facing danger needs courage And humanity towards people. Cheers to them! High heels and a good punch work together! © BOGDANA GAGEANU Romania "HEROINE OF JIU" (Poem dedicated to Ecaterina Teodoroiu - 1) Fearless as a lioness, Strong as a she-wolf, You encouraged the soldiers To protect their Country from enemies. Despite the war wounds, You return to the battlefield More determined than ever To carry on the mission To protect the Holy Garden Until you were stabbed By the cruel fate. Many years passed since then, But your big heart of gold is still beating, Your heroic sacrifice, your noble deeds Are proofs of the intelligent strong woman. © GHEORGHE LAURA Romania Notes: 1 - Ecaterina Teodoroiu (January 15, 1894 - September 3, 1917) was a Romanian woman who fought on the front and died in World War I. She's regarded as a heroine of Romania. Source: (Wikipedia) "I AM A WOMAN" I am a woman with flesh and blood not made for your extreme lust I have emotions, I have dreams O would it be that you don't forget that I am also a human just as you If only my purpose in life if only my role in the society had you realized! Desires of thirsty eyes Parched due to the tears of blood O would it be that you don't forget Much do I suffer, I am a woman a human, just as you. A graveyard this world would be without me, do not crush me to death Walking skeletons you would be Quest for my soul, so pure Why, o why you ignore! Let us both live and love try to win my heart, my core that is my real grace would it be that you are virtuous and sincere since I am a woman with flesh and blood. © AASIA MAJEED Pakistan

The War, our enduring mate. (Since I was just five, the question at my core is why we do need war). Three times I had fled from war, was it my bad or good luck that I had? Or must I quiver, the fourth time always comes in my dreams. In the depths of my soul, some sort of unknown fear. Who knows of war as I, an early seer, I've named the martyrs in heaven's sphere. And witnessed those who sent them there, greenish Innocence vs. heavy-armed truths. Early at primary school, I had learned of legion names, historical leaders, and the smell of soldiers, and war's bitter lore. Dark and profane. I grasped each secret and hid it deeply in my memory graves. In the classroom, they taught us to be rude, Packed us with songs, to fight and explore. "Eat your enemy's heart," they'd sing with pride, Then wipe your mouth with hate. In shiny helmets, they have hardly canned our raw heads, We were smeared by soot on white school shirts, When my seventh moon rose in the sky, Flaming moons rained from on high. Death blooms among children's eyes, With war's cruel birth, how many kids have to die? Metal clouds rain down fire, an infernal joy. Water, like fire, upon lips it sears. Who's more fearful than a child in bed, bombed and bombed, red shadows spread in his soft head? On the playground, soldiers, their final stance, Prepared for departure, a sorrowful dance. © Yaseen Ghaleb Yaseen Ghaleb is a multi-lingual writer and poet, currently residing in Helsinki, Finland. A graduate of English Arts from the University of Basrah, Iraq, he has honed his skills as a prose and poetry writer and has a strong interest in dramatic writing. Ghaleb has a number of literary works under his belt, including the novel "15+", published in Cairo in 2020 and the Arabic poetry collection "Baghdad Throne", released in Beirut, 2021. He has also published the work, "Al Majeda: Reminding the wife of the Iraqi President" in Sweden, 2021, and a collection of poems in English and Finnish entitled "Stigma", published by Enstone in Helsinki, 2021. In addition to his published works, Ghaleb regularly contributes his poems to the Finnish literary magazine, "Elias." He is a member of several literary and artistic organizations, including: 'Kirjailija - ja taiteilijayhdistys Kiila ry", "Uudenmaan Kirjoittajat ry," "Sivuvalo Platform ry", "Suomenpen ry", "Teksti ry", "Nuoren Voiman Liitto ry", and "Exiled Writers (UK). Ghaleb is also a member of the poetry society "Runoyhdistys Nihil Interit ry".

"The Language Known by Every Flesh and Blood" This poem begins like a dirge Telling people the certainty of life; People living for a period of time Before losing way to the Mother Earth's dust Not until eyes depicted through bizarre looks My heart senses an incorrigible sureness of life; The temporariness of people living on earth Before eventually laying to rest is but a certainty. My eyes are shrouded with substances of reality Verbalizing my status in-between grief and glee. Today, people crowd together like an assembly of students Each carrying hearts filled with indirect thought In silence and grief, a folding of hands and voices takbeer And in silence again, like a slideshow ending, they disappear In what concerns the most of a brief life. Today, I learned, it badly hurts beyond measure Losing your part in life, your blood to the dust of farewell, unplanned. Thus, I question my senses: What if it is my turn to swing in grief To mourn the demise of my parents, To pine for losing something or someone I hold dear? Behold! Death is not a language taught to me by a teacher It is just a language of the world; Everyone knows it better than any other tone on Earth - Serving food for thought without a remnant of inequality. Death feeds on every soul aligning a path Commonly, a language of the world Known to every flesh and blood. © Yahuza Usman Taraba State, Nigeria

Gloaming Twilight lives constant in my mind. My eyes fight to fix in ether's haze as each shifting wind feeds water to fire, splashing opalescence across an obscure horizon. I tread the line between visceral dread and tangible truths; both terror and invigoration, each intrinsic to the other. A blinding clarity stays me to feast frantically on this ineffable beauty, mocking time's propensity to pass empty with each wasted moment © Nicole Surginer Oil Painting above by Carl Scharwath Nicole Surginer is a poet from Lockhart, Texas, who attained much influence in her writing style through many exemplary poets of the 1800's. She enjoys experimenting with symbolism, contrast and ekphrastic styles of writing though much of her writing reflects more of a personal creative style rather than belonging to any specific genre. More than anything, writing poetry is a passion of her's and with each writing she seeks to express beauty and create an experience that provokes thought and causes the reader to feel. Carl Scharwath has appeared globally with 175+ journals, selecting his writing or art. Carl has published three poetry books and four photography books. He was nominated for three 'The Best of the Net' Awards (2021-23) and two different 'Pushcart Nominations' for poetry and a short story.

Love in art has always been a captivating subject for poets. When they look at a piece of art, they see more than just colors and shapes - they see a story unfolding before their eyes, inspired by the perspectives presented in the artwork, sparking their soul to the surface of their imagination, often intense and profound. Love in particular, evokes a myriad of feelings - joy, passion, longing and even heartache. On February 3, 2024, ILA Magazine provided 4 images for poets to choose from with a requirement to craft a poem or prose inspired by the art, choosing only one. What did they observe in their own perceptions? They were to describe their emotions in poetry/prose, forming an imagination from their own perspectives of the depicted characteristics from the images we personally created. From 27 entries, we chose 12 poets to be featured. ILA presents each poet's work under the respective art they chose to write about. "Would You" If I set out on the road of life Would you walk it with me? If I make mistakes and fail Would you still believe in me? If I confess about my flaws Would you smile with cheer? If I am little low or sick Would you cut off my fear? If I am lost in the dark Would you find me out? If I shriek like a child Would you join to shout? If gravity and thunder shakes me Would you hold my hands tight? If this cruel world abandons me Would you stand for my fight? © Rafiya Sayeed Jammu and Kashmir, India "In the Valleys of Romance" In the valleys of romance with cupid's arrow, Where love songs echo in the soulful shadow Captivated by the scent of scattered Jasmine We dive into amorousness as our hearts entwine. Our hearts pulsate in a blissful rhythmic beat, Melodies of love echo, so melodious and sweet. Our souls align, and passionate feelings bloom, The perfume of our breaths dispels our gloom. An impulse pushes us to accept the sacred bond, On every joyful cadence, our heartbeats respond. Our hearts flutter when we embrace each other, In between shy moments, our lips softly whisper. Amidst the bewitching and alluring atmosphere, We look deeply into each other's eyes without interference. We get lost in the astonishing divine symphony, Wanting to cherish each moment with harmony. © Deepti Shakya India "Fervent Heart" Lovebirds hidden from the buzz Hearts beating wild like drums A passion of fire within the two Woven into a single big cocoon Cupids arrow hitting both of us Full of emotions that just pour Amid the pain of unseen eyes A resolute love tenderly shown Your fervent desire to kiss me Tickles my heart, body and soul © Gloria Magallanes-Loeb USA "Janpath Days 1986" Janpath market checking shawls, Life effervescing then in a close-knit pashmina I thought of words written on bargain threads not knowing breaths had sealed then An oddly different sky at a connaught place Middle Street we kissed Life flowed in each other quashed in the shawl within lips I asked of a river it had always escaped afternoon of repertoires of small talk in a Punjabi accent touching your tongue I saw a sun went hiding in our ancestral sharing eyes closed in pursuit we hurled in colors and stars of another momentary season. © Amitabh Mitra East London, Eastern Cape, South Africa "Midnight Kiss" A feeling beyond the reach of imagination so deep and paranormal to people's speculation sparkling sentient currents in the body wires sending pleasure into the innards and lire arresting all senses of emotional sentinel engilds my night with romantic tunnel. It is just you and I in this solemnity that keeps heart drunk in tranquility of emotional stupor that engulfed our night radiating and relishing comfort of lustrous bight. Our tongues twisting each other bringing our senses into a libidinous pother and out bodies fastened in amatorial candor bidding wave of by to all odds except our emotional splendor. Hold me tight to your soul licking my lips into a lovely bole like flames tonguing fire-pot to a tickle I insert my tongue into yours so prickle and we journey inside each other to sojourn in a bliss of love altogether. © Ikwulono Mohammed Senison Nigeria "Untitled" Amidst melancholy, doth his soul speak Resonance that ripples, her soul t'weep For it remains within passion's embrace Care infinite eternal dwindle doth 'ncase It not matter, whether a path b'intended Adoration shared needin' no destination It is, within those instances, tho', doleful A sense upon flesh, surruond, o', soulful A something that simply exists and just is Minus regret, forevermore, belongin', his His is an essence, presence, remarkable 'Pon wings, never misplaced, ever subtle For he resides within depths of her soul Undoubtedly sensed mid crevice and pore It is all there is, all there needs to be Sharing of two, amidst lands and seas. © Mena Sisto Canada "Saccharine" I heard the words of love you spoke as you weighed flour and margarine, I wanted to believe those words but were they just saccharine? I licked your pink, frosted fingers You licked my cupcake lips, I think I had a sugar rush caught up in a sugar spun kiss. Something so homely and wholesome as we decorated sweet delights, I thought of you all day You were the rich marzipan of my nights. Buttercream daydreams then that proverbial bun in the oven... I saw you licking her fondant fingers You had to have your cake and eat it... In fact, you'd bedded a baker's dozen! © Rhiannon Owens UK "Let Us Stay Right in Love" Under spread of umbrella, let's both of us stand, far from crowds and unpeopled silent scene of a lane where breeze resonates sweet melody of our love jot, where leaves dance in tandem, in the merriment accord. Only two hearts and none to block the free strike in range, peeping into the hearts thru eyes with uninterrupted gaze. Exchanging warmth by being close with no bar site, Yes, my love, let's appease in fair, the love term in light. Let's hug by dearie tie, tightening tie by warmth of love, deluge of delight may surpass the acre of realm thereof. My sweetheart, let us not query rather merge in track, forgetting outer cult of scene and dotting in show, unchecked. © Shiv Raj Pradhan India "Untitled" When it started to rain on this summer day, she heaved a sigh of relief, she knew the rain would sweep all the anguish that was between them and it could give a new start; she had chosen a short black dress as light as a summer breeze and as attractive as the lover's eyes; she also decided to put a pair of high heels, so she could reach him for a hug and tuck all the moments of absence in her heart. She began tiptoeing on a wet road, the sky was gleaming as if washed by the generous clouds, and the street was empty, he said he would wait for her not far from the oak tree the way they used to do when they were schoolmates. She started listening to her heartbeats as she saw him holding an umbrella, wearing a black suit as if preparing for the dance under the rain. He greeted her with a wide smile, he did not want to say anything, he raised the umbrella and mutely covered her hair and then looked at her, when he felt that she seemed a bit feverish, he rushed to touch her lips with a healing deep kiss that would write all the memorable stories of love. © Sihem Cherif Tunisia "Soaking in Love" Last night when it was raining, it was as if it were your tears - splashing through the old sills of trust, and sousing down that diary of frustration - - that had words less, but silence more, and ink less, but tears more - buried! Last night when it was raining the past honked onto my vision, and I left myself and rode to the old heart, and I can see us soaking in love again. And... And The rain never stops and keeps us hearted under the single umbrella of love - - holding us in one soul. As we had crossed the deserts of separation through spans beating the talks in our hearts only, and uttering only sighs and sobs But we keep saying, may the rain never stop now, as I can see us soaking in love again. Yes, we had crossed the seas, too, and sailed on the withered yacht of hope, but that sour thirst burnt us in aches, and the taste was never quenched...until This rain tasted like an April romance, and we can see us soaking in love again. The storms avenge... so do my hopes and I wake up like the withered rose - eyeing for the lovely morning again... © Eshfaq Majeed Pampur, Jammu & Kashmir, India "The Rain" I do not know why, but I love the sound of rain while it is falling on a hot asphalt. It is always different, as if choosing the way to the heart, and the green leaves in the treetops, are rustling with happiness. I do not know why, but I love the touch of its drops, falling out of order, onto the petals of poppy flowers. I love when under the eaves, a bird is waiting, distracted by the dream... ...as luck would. I don't know why, but I like mild rain, flowing down the body, flooding with heat. I love you, the traces of your hands, filled with love, and grace, disturbing the silence... I love the rain, I love her when we are together, when the views speak for themselves, I love when drops... ...leave the messages around as the bodies sway, in the hug... ...The heart is searching for, Answers you seek. Snežana Šolkotovic Serbia "Even in the Heavens" Even the heavens with a heavy heart with tears gently flowing from its bosom cannot hinder two creatures in love to show the world what it takes to invest one's emotions in another with bodies quivering in the rain The feelings do not feel the restraint of how hard it is to ensnare teh warmth in a quick embrace to be savored at the very moment when words are futile when even a grasp for breath is precious for two souls enslaved in a love that is never meant to be for they have lost that very chance before in the past...when the world is at a standstill and the captive audience of a young love meant to last in the arms of other creatures But then, even the heavens are helpless to separate thirsty souls out to drink that fleeting drink from the rains. No, even the heavens are inept when even the hearts weep. Rosemarie Miranda Philippines

A monostich is a single-lined micro poem expressing a complete thought. It is usually written as an unabridged concept with sagacity, in other words, it should be insightful and profound. Twelve people engaged in the challenge and were required to apply at least one of the specific words offered, also required to write in one, complete line, with breaks of commas in paragraphical form. Only one poet chose not to write in paragraphical form, instead he wrote the commonly written sentence. Each poet wrote impeccably, and for this reason, ILA Magazine decided to publish all. "A Mellifluous Monostich" May serendipity not be obfuscated behind inexorably pulchritudinous intentions, paradise is never lost nor hidden to irrefutably beautiful actions, for righteous decisions answer to the heavens revealed one inevitably divine result that was always meant to be. © Matt Elmore USA "A Mellifluous Monostich" Serendipity of pulchritudinous personality obfuscates inexorably. © Prasanna Bhatta India "Untitled" From the core of yore, a bang like a penetrating serendipity cradled a thought, a notion that on its partially broken wings cart a pulchritudinous memory like an unwelcome guest to nurse a lacerated wound, a well that in its profound womb, traps the sky for no eye of narrow walls reach where human tearful eyes reach and teaches a lesson otherwise inexorable. © Mushtaque B. Barq Srinagar, Jammu/Kashmir "Monostich" You come to my senses, haunting my inner thoughts, like an old faded photograph that obfuscated the remnants of bitter-sweet memories, lingering on like silky cobwebs fluttering in my mind, so vague and indistinct like that moonless summer night when we said goodbye and there's no coming back to retrace the footsteps, as you melted away in the shadows of the dark. © Gus Perez Amio Philippines "The Serendipitous Journey" Endowed with inexorable possibilities, unique and different from other species, which often make human beings swing like a pendulum between reason and obfuscating diffidence, or between love and hatred or indifference, depending on the path chosen in life's pulchritudinous journey, makes life, though brief, an uncertain but meaningful sojourn of serendipity. © Kalucharan Sahu India "What Everyone Is Truly Seeking" Walking on the open meadow, with the floral scent pleasing your nose, with fresh morning breeze touching your face, with nature's symphony pleasing your ears, being alone with yourself, having some time to recharge your batteries, away from the hustle and bustle of the chaotic world, letting inner peace settle in and drinking from the fountain of wisdom, is the serendipity moment everyone is seeking. © Gheorghe Laura Romania "Untitled" It breaks my heart to see you saddened, feeling oppressed, obfuscate or trodden, I would fight pulchritudinous for your pride, to always stand by your side and I would fight inexorably, not to see you crying or even see by serendipity, your smile dying. © Nasser Alshaikhahmed Saudi Arabia "Flowing Waves" Damp mist of salty air whirling around my being, as the splashing wave ebbs away, relieves a sudden sensation of joy, leaving a stoic smile on my dry lips, the depth of gloominess covered in dark, foggy clouds projecting a cool, magnificent place well hidden, the pulchritudinous tide flowing in unison, gives a reminiscent of sublime beauty. © Gloria Magallanes-Loeb SFO, USA "Untitled" The inexorable truth, simply by serendipity, I met my wife at a waiting shed with an obfuscated glass wall, while we are waiting to ride a bus and I was charmed by her pulchritudinous physique upon spotlight by the bus headlights. © Ency Bearis USA "Untitled" In trailing pulchritudinous of quietness in her lone part, there followed the tiptoeing thuds inexorable, which sailed at low, fondling tint of obfuscating grip of memory zone, which forced her to steer the day apart to far site and made her to lie like a torn brochure. © Shiv Raj Pradhan Siliguri, West Bengal "Untitled" A pulchritudinous flow of a river kissed the obfuscated passion of a poet with a bubble of to enchant him with an inexorably heartfelt spirit to flame his intensity into an impassioned bowl of emotional happy tears to be celebrated with his craft of melodramatic ink! © Sonal Rao India "Untitled" In the obfuscated chaos of life's labyrinth, serendipity whispers softly, gently guiding us inexorably towards our destiny, unfolding the resplendent patchwork of moments that intertwine, illuminating the path ahead. © Concetta Pipia USA

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 beauty...to 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 lit...how 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.

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.