Bahaa Iaali Translated to English by Shurouk Hammoud 01 - Because the dust I forgot to drop it on house's cement bench, because it was just dust, Time was enough to burn my faith in stones. 02 - My twentieth years with all their smashed dreams, After her, I was looking for the traces of my feet next to her footprints I didn't remember that they got away What I found was the distance left by bullets intentionally Until this day; Everything we did during that summer was that we thought the sun was only a horizon. 03- O stranger! Step awhile into the lounge of my country house which was also my bedroom, come in it peacefully, holding a cloth and a hose. Clean the windows and the walls gently so that the paint does not wear off: You will find me there silence came to me while going out and it had my shape. 04- O stranger! "Take the wisdom from the mouth of clouds" but don't be a smoke Take the joy from the mouths of children but don't grow old; Take the light from the reflection of the mirror but don't burn the grass! Take death from the rifle's magazine but don't fire a bullet! ... Take life from all your memory but don't come back to it, unless you are barefoot. 05- I return a little child for the first time after the falling of dust. I return back to the day on which I was crying like a crocodile after devouring a zebra: The dead are many inside me Maybe I became a mobile ceremony I can no longer accommodate a funeral. 06- Over there, at the bottom of the gate there is something which is similar to Sumerian inscriptions there, where I seized my mother's sleep to write on the cement which had not dried out yet: I + you = forever; I was not lying on that day, my friend! In alienation inscriptions cannot be obliterated, each dear, leaves an inscription behind in order to rest. 07- In my deserted room, I left an old photo of me, today when I cam back to it, I found out that my body was nothing but a picture of a fire that walks slowly towards the air, shakes hands with its neighbors again without remembering that there, time recreates me with two bodies, a body hat walks in the memory and another that smiles at the rooster' cock behind the windows of the room. 08- Everything on this cement bench is nothing but more alienation, more dust, more smoke, me, who did not find the child he was, me, the one who did not leave the house. 09- A rose in the corner of desolation whose look is a disappointment for all that surrounds it. It has the fragrance of sleep for all that surround it in the mirror of this universe, it tries to cry sometimes, it remembers a tree that was fired from the earth core to reach. God, and I see it wearing a mirror's smile, a mirror that light stopped in front of. 10- In the morning, the birds that did not sing have increased while waiting for the earth cry because I lost my arm. In the morning, the sun tries not to change its clothes. I see an old man holding his hook, thinking that the sun had not yet awakened. In the morning, everything I remember since a long time is what Imhotep left for me and for her. In the morning, on the driveway to the park there are corpses of birds that fell yesterday because of the soldiers' joy. In the morning, on this driveway, Plato found his utopian city in her heart but he was still unable to enter it while reviewing his thoughts. 11- In your eyes, the star rarely could find its gases to breathe. Rain rarely could find a way to go dead through it toward the earth. It rarely could find real towns which replace their history with cans of gasoline. 12- Bukowski told me about a bar that stands alone on a narrow street. On that street, I found a few remains of his many women's tears, I chose to step on them like stepping on spit. Tranströmer has been often found standing on an island of an artificial ice with an adverb of time. He was trying to hide the sun's rays for the days of darkness. 13- Give me some or all of your grief. Let it sew shoes the size of my feet to wear out as I go towards the sun. 14- Put down all you can say that is "obscure" laugh, so that the rest will be injured by bullets. This is how I can mess with what I see of a yellow air which tries to pounce on your head, which is full of silence and tears; I say: stand up! The path is as light as mine's soil, stand up! So the path would sleep in my memory, then I keep walking. I play with what I see of the thorns the earth leaves naked. I say: Stand up let us fall together in the core of this damned universe or let us sleep on the bridge before the dynamite explodes. 15- When have we changed our destination? The air is dirty, the sea is dirty, the silence is dirty, the twaddle is dirty, the gas is expanding in our bodies while laughing like a spotted hyena. Should I be a spotted hyena to be able to laugh? 16- I knew you were a black butterfly and water thought that it was all about dust. 17- In your bewilderment, a complete silence remains and a few glass shatters that barely puncture the time for a beautiful smile to cross through. In your bewilderment, I can barely find a place for my old explosions that wind have not fallen asleep to their sounds. I barely see the reflection of the war like a widow's eyes, which are poked by the bayonets of the soldiers' rifles. 18- I closed my right eye trying to erase the other side of things but in vain. 19- When I told you all about that happened, the left part of my room's wall was filled with stains of black blood, then the paint got melted, the overweening rain and the air came in to wash away he remnants of the ruin. I had waited a whole winter for this. The only thing I saw was a huge bag that holds my clothes. I let my clothes tidy their places inside the bag then burn. 20- In a cafe I sit with a ghost whose eyes are hazy glass, whose body is a smoke. Silence is his beautiful dialogue. Maybe he is just like this, waiting to take your measures to speak. 21- A road with many branches but I only see you from one of them where I was going to my youthfulness party. Sometimes, those branches approach me and eat me like a French apple that shines like a mirror and when I stand up, timings of the entire universe rest on my shoulders. The graveyard of time fits in my head, then I get older. Only the old people, who watch me from the balcony of the Infirmary, believed me! Maybe I looked a lot like them. 22- I hold my face in my hands, I try to touch it a little with my fingers whenever I remember something, a wrinkle disappears whenever I try to smile I feel that an old child wants to talk to me. 23- When I saw you I didn't smile much, I smiled a lot afterwards because I did not smile. I changed everything in my room. I hung a new photo of me smiling. I looked at my old photos and tried to capture some of them then I lost my memory completely. I lost all of my past. 24- Wake up, O water - wake up! Wake up, stranger, like an oversight while traveling - wake up step - the air is nothing but two steps and rain that is followed by a fig which God drops like fragile thorns for its wreckage to drop, and become a cover for my naked head. Nudity is my head - so wake up! 25- Hey you! That silence which is still there as I leave cannot die. Your head that is crowded with folk tales, is eating me slowly, so I fall asleep, then I change the scene, still I sleep, then, I come back, then try to remember what the killed man said while looking at the woods where he lost his brother, I remember as time was spinning me like a pullover, spinning me of threads that were available, regardless of their colors. Then I'm back as slowly as the internet on a mountain peak. Then I stand up, keep silent and keep silent again until all forms of death roll from my head. 26- I saw my wolf' sense, you saw it, then the desert that looked at the light hooves of our feet, woke up and knotted a collar of sand around my neck before the dead water slowly enters my body, my body which is mottled with the dead. 27- Here you are. You consider as a book what is left of your old death. It sings with bullets under its tongue. Here you are painting a glass face of my ruin , with my bloody ellipse Here you come I grew up when I came but could not find my body. All I found was wind that messed up with yesterday and with tomorrow. 28- Nothing is certain about what the absurd people said regarding the closure of the road between Thrace and the Balkans. Nothing suggests fear in the voice of Jacques Brel while taking his last breath. Dust, debris, polluted air is what I know that waits me there, or on the way to Jacque's voice. However, I am full aware that the musician does not get tired of the weights of lava that fall on and around his head. My voice arrived, and my body is still waiting with the taste of apples, it craves a tender dream that walks as sweet as a virgin's walk in my head. Nothing ever to worry about. Nothing can talk to the road to be opened by itself, nothing can keep silent as I walk stained with dust. 29- The bag only holds Beethoven's ears, a few tones he didn't hear and a loaf. The bag cannot accommodate more than my head and the tobacco and roses, which over around it. Let silence be the only road companion, and you, be the silence! Let me sleep during the day like night guards I only dream of a day off, Let me dream only to find my dead face. 30- For me, on a day that came before time, I have a bare tree, Leaves as a delicious meal for the wind. As a pit for the last of the dead, A bit that could not find any to block it, as smoke-free cities that surround me, as manifestations of empty points looking for their delusion, an echo of the song, "Aranjuez mon amour" while Richard was weeping, as details of things that only fools would think of. Like the last concerto, the cellist left as he felt bored, as things which eat each other like worms. 31- The forest took me to new stages of death, of life sleeping on its threshold, an old woodcutter who stalks tree bark, the woods were another shape of my body. In it, I will remember that I am not alone like an abandoned house. I will remember teh cave I got out of, after placing its key in the wolf's hand. I will remember that I was a guitarist there, In my music, is a sun that is painted starting from a village that is sliding down slowly like a kid's slide. Lebanese poet and translator, born in Bebnine, Akkar in 1995. He holds a BA in History and Mythology from the Lebanese University, Faculty of Letters and Human Sciences. He taught as a trainee lecturer at the Lebanese University, before moving to journalism and translation, where he wrote and translated in many newspapers and cultural platforms such as: "Al-Faisal", "Al-Jadeed", "Al-Araby al-Jadeed", "Ultra Sawt" and "Romman Magazine". He also worked as a literary editor at Dar Al-Rafidain Publishing between 2019 and 2020. He worked as a freelance translator, and translated many books of writers into Arabic, most notably Jean Cocteau, Emmanuel Bove and René Bazin. His Poetic Works: Light is the last bird in the sky (الضوء آخر عصفورٍ في السماء) – New Dalmoun Publishing, Damascus 2017 Concerto for lips lifted by the wind (كونشيرتو لشفاهٍ ترفعها الريح) – Ninawa for Studies and Publishing, Damascus 2019 Songs of a village shrouded in fog – Long Poem (أغنياتٌ لقريةٍ مضبّبة – قصيدة مطوّلة) – Al-Jadeed Magazine, London 2021 Portraits of a face starved of frowns (بورتريهات لوجهٍ يجوّعه التجهّم) – Rawashen Publishing, Dubai 2022

Written by DUSAN KOVACEVIC BATULJA All my sorrows and my wounds, As well as a wish for better days, My sea thinks regularly, I hope it won't get worse. The night is rolling down the window is covering. Cold, freezing winter outside. In a warm room I'm alone I expect the voices of the night. I look at the bright stars in the sky, Unfathomable distant secrets. The moon smiles from the sky While my heart awaits. Kosava is blowing hard, getting stronger, And my heart seems to cry. Hot blood has no peace, Remembering you touches the soul. I'm sitting writing this song, I awaken new hope in me. I would like to discover your thoughts, Maybe they are the same as mine. Open your soul, honestly say, Don't make me suffer, I live a lie. I don't want any promises I would like to find out the feelings. On this cold starry night, Sitting and writing in solitude While darkness covers my window, I imagine in myself, your smile. © 10/2021

Written by FARHAN ANJUM Where does he suddenly disappear? And it scares me a lot. Angel-like face. Eyes like deep ocean. Feeling of it keeps her alive. Sweet memories are textures. By different names and sources The following is a picture. A courage to spread my wings Infinity and beyond. No other thoughts attached - Its manifestation in every color of nature. Happy past is my beautiful future. A hope that keeps me alive. 10/2021

Written by APU MONDAL I am writing in earnest; But no one knows me here. We all know about ourselves, Even at times, we divide Ourselves along the lines, And keep cracking so well, Funny, isn't it! Unless we look Ourselves in the mirror, we Only surmise things, Then complacency sits upon Our deeds, like a housefly And its weight is forgotten. © 10/2021

RETURN TO PINEY CREEK by Steven Lester Carr There's Russell. Lying on the bank of Piney Creek he feels the sunlight on his bare chest. It lays across his skin like a thin layer of sterile gauze, warm and healing. The damp moss under his body provides a soft mattress. In the nearby pine trees black capped chickadees jump among the branches emitting their squeaky chirps. From inside the pine forest the nasally groan-like call of a bull moose echoes out. The air is alive with gnats and butterflies. Only inches away from his feet the clear water gurgles as it rushes over eroded stones. He feels the gentle breeze fragranced with the forest scents as it washes across his scarred skin. He sits up and then leans over and looks at his reflection in the water. Running his fingertips over the ridges and grooves in the skin on the left side of his damaged face, he watches as a school of minnows swim by just beneath the surface of the water. # With every bump on the dirt road, Russell's pickup truck that needs an alignment bounces and rattles, shaking his entire body. He has both of the windows down and the dirt kicked up by the truck's tires has formed a hazy cloud inside the cab. He can feel the grit on his tongue when he runs it across his lips and between his teeth when he bites down. On the seat next to him is a license plate he found stuck in the mud along Piney Creek's bank. It's a fairly new plate and although slightly bent, the numbers on it haven't been tarnished. He has it weighed down with a black rock from the creek; a rock so smooth it felt like glass as he lifted it out of the water. There are blood-red streaks that crisscross its surface. He can see his reflection on the rock. Without slowing he exits the dirt road and turns onto the paved two lane road leading into Maysville. He slams his foot down on the brake bringing his truck to a screeching stop. The car he nearly collided with, also headed for Maysville, stops also. Russell can feel his heart thumping wildly. He sits back in his seat. Blood trickles down his chin from where he bit into his lower lip. Carl Laughton gets out of the car and walks over to Russell. He sticks his head through the passenger side window. “What the hell is wrong with you, Russell? You could have gotten us both killed.” Russell wipes away the blood with the back of his hand. It's warm and sticky and adheres to his skin like syrup. “I'm so sorry, Carl. I wasn't thinking.” “Well, at least no one was injured,” Carl says. He looks down at the rock. “That's quite a rock. You been down to the creek?” Russell lays his hand on the rock. It feels cool, soothing. “Yeah. I hadn't been down there since getting back to town.” “You should go up to the gorge,” Carl says. “That's where that miracle happened.” “Miracle?” “You haven't heard about it?” “No.” Carl looks up and down the road. “This isn't safe standing here in the middle of the road. Meet me at Shiny Pete's later, around eight, and I'll buy you a cold one and tell you all about it.” “If I can,” Russell says. “Debbie might want me to stick around the house.” “Alrighty then,” Carl says as he slaps the truck with the palm of his hand. “You two have been through a lot. I can understand her keeping you within shouting range.” Russell can feel his cheeks redden. “It's not that.” “Maybe not,” Carl says. “If you can make it, I'll see you later.” He goes to his car and drives off. Russell waits a few minutes before starting the truck. # The shower water is tepid. Russell holds his face up to the spray, turning his head from side to side, as always feeling the difference of how the water feels on each side of his face. The scarred skin around his left eye twitches when the water hits it directly. He closes his eyes as he runs the bar of soap down his chest and stomach, feeling it glide over the topography of his torso. He slowly turns, allowing the water to run down his back and legs, the only areas of his body untouched by the flames. When he steps out of the shower the tiles feel slick beneath his bare feet. He drys off while looking at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. After eight months, he still has difficulty recognizing that the person he is looking at is him. The surgeries and skin grafts could only do so much. He wraps the towel around his waist and goes into the bedroom. Debbie is setting on the edge of the bed with the rock in her lap. “You sure you don't want to come with me?” Russell says as he begins to get dressed. “No, thank you,” she says. She lifts the rock. “What kind of rock is this?” He sits on the bed next to her as he puts on his shoes. Still without a shirt he can feel the warmth emanating from the skin of her bare arm. “It looks like a hematite, but I didn't think that kind of rock was found around here.” She runs her finger along one of the red streaks. “These look like human veins.” He stands up and puts his shirt on and tucks it in. “What are you going to do this evening?” “I'm sorting the photographs. I'm still trying to see what photos can be saved. Being in storage all this time after being damaged by the smoke didn't do them any good.” Sitting on the dresser, leaning upright against the mirror is the license plate. Russell runs his fingers across the top edge. “Did you hear anything about a miracle up at the Piney Creek gorge?” he says. “No. After losing Mia and almost losing you I know longer believe in miracles anyway.” He goes to her and places his left hand on her cheek. Her skin feels warm and soft. The two missing fingers and scarred flesh of his hand seem out of place against the perfection of her face. He pulls his hand away. “Are you sure coming back to Maysville was the right thing to do?” he says. She gazes at the veins in the rock and says, “We grew up here. This was where Mia was born. Boston had too many bad memories.” # There's Russell entering Shiny Pete's. He walks into a fog of stale air mixed with the aroma of beer and peanuts that clings to his skin as he walks into the saloon. He's only been here once since his return to Maysville, and without looking at anyone directly, he can feel their eyes on him. The saloon is dimly lit, crowded and noisy. Peanut shells crunch beneath his shoes. He joins Carl who is standing at the bar. Carl slaps him on the back, and then quickly pulls his hand back. “Sorry,” he says. “Why?” “The burns. I thought maybe . . .” His voice drifts off. “My back didn't get burned. Besides, none of the burned areas hurt anymore.” Carl waves at the bartender and holds up two fingers. The bartender nods and takes two large glass beer mugs from a counter and begins to fill them. “I was really sorry to hear about what happened to your daughter,” Carl says. “Thanks.” Russell glances up at the ceiling, feeling the slight breeze from the slowly rotating blades of a ceiling fan directly above him. The bartender places the beers on the bar. “I'll get this,” Carl says as he hands the bartender money. “The next round is on me,” Russell says as he raises the glass to his lips and slowly drinks through the frothy head. The cold beer chills his throat as he swallows. “What was this miracle at the Piney Creek gorge you mentioned?” Carl takes a long drink of his beer. “You would have never met Sam Whitaker because you didn't live here at the time, but he and his wife owned that large cabin for a while near the top of the hill on Ludlow Road. This all came out afterward, but seems he was depressed or crazy or something and was having hallucinations and seeing a guy in the rear view mirror of his mint condition 2010 Dodge Viper.” Carl took another drink. “Sam Whitaker decided he was going to kill himself so he drove at top speed down the hill and crashed through the guard rail at the turn headed toward the bridge. His car went off the cliff on that side of the gorge and while it was soaring over Piney Creek, the fellow, ghost, or angel, or whatever it was, lifted Sam out of the car and lowered him to the bank of the creek. The car crashed into the limestone wall of the gorge on the other side of the creek and blew up, dropping a large part of the car into the creek and scattering pieces of it all over. When they found Sam, he didn't have a scratch on him. Word has it that the whole incident cured him of whatever was ailing him. The Whitakers moved away a few months after that.” # There's Russell returning to Piney Creek. Water from the soggy moss wets Russell's bare feet as he walks the short distance to the creek. Bright moonlight carpets the the gorge and illuminates his naked body. The cool, pine scented air bathes his skin. As he steps into the swiftly moving current he struggles to keep his balance as his feet touch the slippery creek bed rocks and stones. The remaining taste of beer has soured in his mouth. He wades out far enough to be waist-deep in the water. He spreads his arms and opens his hands, palms up, and tilts his head back. Staring up at the star freckled sky, he says, “Whoever or whatever saved Sam Whitaker, save me. When I started the fire that burned down our house I only wanted the insurance money. Lord knows I didn't mean to kill my daughter or disfigure myself trying to save her. I was lucky no one ever found out. Please take away the memory of what I did and remove the scars from my body.” He stoops beneath the water's surface, and with his head submerged, he counts ten seconds and then stands. For just a moment his thoughts are about nothing other than the feel of the water cascading down his body. Then he touches his face and feels the scars, and then he remembers it all, every burning flame. The End Steven Lester Carr, from Richmond, Virginia, has had over 530 short stories published internationally in print and in online magazines, literary journals, reviews and anthologies since June of 2016. He has had seven collections of his short stories published. His paranormal/horror novel, 'Red Bird', was released in November of 2019. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, twice. Steve is on Twitter and on Facebook. And his website: Steve Carr Steve can be reached by email at: carrsteven960@gmail.com

Written by Parth Aasim Shaaz On the tracks of a train like being insane I crushed essence in red-hued rain As I was right in thy fond and fold so shy so loved thee was by myself of sight. © 10/2021

Written by Tom Kraft So many times I traveled through The summer days to be with you, When Autumn mellowed on the hill And we could be again as one Beneath the cooler autumn sun, But warm enough to touch you still. How often did I pray to be The rushing wind to carry me Beyond and past the hands of time, To the day when I would touch Again the lips I"d missed so much - Two lovers cast in perfect rhyme. The hours would pass on weighted bells, Each day and night on summer swells, When sleep was more than I could bear, And longer...longer did it seem When you would knock on my front screen And I would rush to find you there. It was then, and I new at best, The long hot days had been laid to rest - - A time remembered not again Because we'd moved closer still To the day of our free will - - Two lovers cast on love's sweet wind. ~ For Her ~ © 10/2021

"We're Kashmir's Missing Persons" Lost somewhere in a sordid dungeon, I talk of my rights and bashed in a dudgeon The rights of freedom and dignity That too in my own vicinity The right in my land to a peaceful life Whose absence has been a scurrilous rife I could see my teen shoulder in the prison Dusted and tainted with charges of treason Altar of my youth the confines might be, not of my dreams The citadel of your tyranny will shred to my screams These screams belong not to myself, but the oppressed Whose voices you tendered, muted, thrashed and suppressed This oppression is bound to end, late or soon Nature shall step in to defend us, against the phantom goons And you, the satisfied! How could you feel our travails With lenses prejudiced and the conscience that ails Also, With an inhumane bias you'll give us a gaze And spew unto us a venomous phrase: "The Muslims are traitors, they are predators" But believe us, "We are Kashmir's missing persons, not the enemy's insurgents. Lies there a contention in our tale: Jammu and Kashmir is not for sale!" © Summiaya Nilofer Kichloo 10/2021 Summiaya Nilofer Kichloo is a student from Kishtwar district of Chenab Valley (Jammu and Kashmir). She is an avid writer and enthusiastic to writing poetry and fiction. Her poetry covers a brand range of ideas, thoughts and philosophies. Currently, she is working as a freelance writer and columnist.

ILA Blog has been given permission by Dr. Amitabh Mitra, to feature some of his YouTube videos, of his art and recitations. Below, a watercolor interpretation of the poetry of Liu Xiaobo by Dr. Amitabh Mitra, which was first shown at the Wordfest, National Arts Festival in Grahamstown, Eastern Cape, South Africa, on July 8th, 2011. A Poetry Film, below, "Do you remember those caves?", by Dr. Mitra: "A Slow Train to Gwalior", Poetry Film by Amitabh Mitra, and based on a love poem. "A Slow Train to Gwalior: Love Poems", book by Amitabh Mitra, can be found on Amazon. Dr. Amitabh Mitra is a trauma surgeon at Cecilia Makiwane Hospital in Eastern Cape, South Africa. He is also a poet, artist and publisher. As a widely published poet in both web and print, he has held many exhibitions of his poetry and art. You can read more about Dr. Mitra on his website: Amitabh Mitra

Presenting the artwork of Ali Mukhtar Artist Ali Mukhtar lives in Pakistan. He has had a passion of the Arts from his childhood. He didn't take art classes yet he has painted freely for 10 years until present time. He paints murals on walls and canvas as well. He paints beautifully for never having taken art classes and we thought to showcase his work for all to view. This isn't nor will it be the only time we showcase his work. We hope to feature more of him in the future, on ILA Magazine as well as the Blog. Artist Ali Mukhtar

Written by D. A. Simpson The sun flared a deep gold Low on the far horizon Gilding the western skies While in the east The night by degrees Encroached upon the celestial sheet As it washed the heavens In a pale ink of blue Of pastel tones subdued And bided time awhile Until the glorious finale Aloft in the crepuscular skies Had blazed its last And the firmament Yielded to a deep indigo As the curtain of nighttide Folded across a slumbering world. © 09/2021

forgotten lore is a double edged sword that cuts to the chase when it catches a break. Mark Olynyk © 09/2021