This morning, I had the pleasure of interviewing Hum Ale for ILA Magazine. Hum is an active participant in our group, and I have always noticed his support and kind comments to the other artists. He has always supported me as well, so I want you dear readers, to learn more about this amazing writer. First, here is a little about Hum: A Banker and Investor by profession, Hum B. Ale is a Nepalese Poet and Writer who received a Masters Degree with Specialization in Finance from Tribhuwan University. He worked in the Asia Foundation and South Asia Partnership Nepal for Social Research and Financial Management for 11 years. He also taught business students in various colleges and is currently involved in Banking and Finance sectors in various capacities. He has published two books of English Poetry entitled 'The Moment' and 'A Journey Within', the latter having been published on Amazon. His poems have been published in various digital webinars, into Spanish Language in The Mexican Literary Magazine, ILA Magazine, in Delhi Post, India and in various International Poetry Anthologies. He's been awarded by the Motivational Strips for showing Literary Excellence at Par with Global Standards and Honorary Award "Universal Icon of 2021" by Universal Fraternity of Free Poets and Poetry Readers, USA. The poet can be reached at humale@yahoo.com Carl: I am also an investor and finance guy as well and wonder what brought you to writing poetry? Hum: Yes, my field of professionalism is finance and investment. My childhood moments might be the reason that I've hovered into writing. There's always a sheer reminiscent of reflections that perennially instill me even while working, playing, traveling and making fun. And I love writing poetry especially when I get disturbed by something. It ruptures several fragments out of disturbances. When these fragments flow rhythmically along with a fine thread, I feel like it's hymn I hearken and find an eternal bliss. . . . . . Carl: Where do you get your ideas for a poem and what tools do you use in your writing? Hum: There's always something to feel when I get clicked with something I come across. It's usually prompt as emotion or aspiration stirs me to write. Mostly, creation begins to shower with a string of reverberations when I travel by bus to some destinations. It's a free flow of emotions like I dribble the basketball in the court with my passion. I ponder in depth into someone's dream and find myself a protagonist in their dream. A Fisherman's song was written in Pattaya about a fisherman's dream to sit with a beautiful girl in a fine restaurant and bar with bourbon. Metaphor is the tool I use while writing poetry as it gives me mirth and ecstasy. I explore the mental image of something that embodies feelings and emotions. . . . . . Carl: If you could spend a day with your favorite poet, who would that be and why? Hum: In life, I never went through a great work of the world's renowned poets like William Wordsworth, Sylvia Plath, John Keats or Emily Dickinson though I used to read fiction a lot during my college. I got connected with many poets across the world through the Social Media Platforms. I would love to spend a day with Pablo Neruda as some of the writers talked they found the vigor of him in my poetry. And Mary Oliver would be a favorite one to meet and listen too er wonderful work as I love the way she writes naturally. And, of course, there are few poets in Social Media Platform to be talked much about them. I'll definitely meet them when I embark on my journey to their places one day. The conversations would definitely enthuse me to delve deeper in the poetic journey. I feel inspired the way they write with the heart of joy and tribulations. . . . . . Carl: Social Media is an amazing tool for writers, how do you use this great platform? Hum: Social Media by virtue of its endowment has been a miraculous gift for writers to connect with other prominent writers across the world and share their great work. Without it, one cannot even imagine how hard they have to strive to share their work in the world of digitalization. I use this great platform to share my work so that I could get the critical reviews from the most prolific and prominent writers from across the world. . . . . . Carl: What advice would you give to someone just starting out on their writing journeys? Hum: Just never give up even though they might feel resignations sometimes. It's not that easy in life to go over what we think should happen overnight. The moment when they feel a sense of drawing out something they get into, that's when they'll definitely be using it as a tool of self-drive. They should enjoy once they feel journeyed in the literary world. . . . . . Carl: Thank you for your time today, this is my last question. Ok, Hum, we just invited you into the time machine to see your future as a writer. Please tell us what you would like to accomplish as a poet in the next few years? Hum: Let me first give you the greatest thanks for giving me such a huge platform which is beyond my expectations. I'm enjoying a lot, writing poetry. It's fun as I explore and create a benign world to live in through poetry. I'm aspiring to become an icon in poetry, recognized by the literary world in the next few years. Carl: Thank you so much Hum, we at ILA Magazine are here for you and wish you well in all you do. A Fisherman's Song By Hum Ale I dream a bourbon with you Sitting at suite Will you wave? When I wait you under the azure sky Riding boat this fisherman With the old net Your swaying hairs That I saw for years Think like that's beckon I swallow The face with a string of feelings Reverberating over my body Just to ride the moment I have been hit With your firm move Towards this floating boat Over the years Of my longing Yet never has it faded I cherish One world Dreaming of you In long evening For I fish only I can sell Enough to get you This evening When a sea tide arrives Here in this place I think of the sea air Caresses your fragrance Little it might help Me move for A great tonight I see sprinkling A thousand pieces of this sea Letting the moon witness The waves of this unruffled Evening With a first kiss under the starry night. Photo below of Hum Ale. Photo of our Interviewer, Carl Scharwath Carl Scharwath has appeared globally, with 150+ Journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays, plays or art photography. Two of his books have been published, 'Journey to Become Forgotten' (Kind of Hurricane Press), 'Abandoned' (ScarsTv) and soon to be published book, 'Playground of Destiny' (Imspired Publishing). His first photography book was recently published by Praxis. Carl is an Art Editor for Minute Magazine, a competitive runner and a 2nd degree Black-Belt in Taekwondo.

By Steve Carr Miranda adjusted her white sun hat that rested precariously other expensively coiffed pile of bright red hair before picking up her suitcase and makeup case that she had set down on each side of her. She then slowly descended the winding marble staircase, testing the fit of her new white stiletto heels that she had ordered online from her favorite frequent shoe supplier, but had just taken out of the box just before leaving her bedroom. She had stopped going to shoe stores while still a teenager having decided that no one should touch her feet but the Korean woman who gave her pedicures. At thirty-two, she had stuck with that thinking all through her ten years of marriage, not allowing her husband, now ex-husband, to touch them. As the heels of her shoes clicked on the marble steps, one step at a time, like the slow and deliberate tapping of a hammer on a nail, she listened for any sign of the heels being inferior. She knew stilettos weren't the right style of shoe for the summery flock she was wearing, but she had purchased them for other reasons. They allowed her to imagine the heels of the stilettos being driven into the skull of her ex-husband. At the bottom of the stairs, she crossed the foyer where large oil paintings of Greek gods and ancient, crumbling structures, inside gold, ornately designed frames lined the walls. The foyer led two directions, to the double doors leading to the outside, and past the staircase to the interior of the first floor. She placed her suitcase and makeup case by the door, turned about and walked to the closed doors of the drawing room. She had been told by the upstairs amid that her parents were in the room waiting on her. She knew from the conversation at the dinner table the night before they were actually waiting on her father's business attorney. They didn't expect her to actually follow through on her plans to leave and humored her each time she made threats of going to South America. "But dear, what do you know about picking coffee beans?" her mother said. "You know how much you detest the outdoors." "I drink only the very best coffee. What more is there I need to know?" she replied. She smoothed her tailored jersey purple and white print dress with a flouncy skirt, cinched at the waist with a white leather belt, tapped on the door before opening it, and then entered the room. Her mother looked up from her freshly filed fingernails. "Miranda, dear, we missed you at breakfast," she said. "You don't function well on an empty stomach." "I'm waiting on James to bring the car around to take me to the airport, stated Miranda. "Stuff and nonsense," her father said, his face hidden behind an opened, spread newspaper. "It's not nonsense, Father," Miranda replied. "My flight to Brazil leaves in a little over an hour." Her mother chewed off a small piece of cuticle and politely spat it into a half empty glass of bourbon. "Cook is preparing roast lamb for dinner, dear. You know how much you love Cook's lamb and that mint jelly she makes to go with it." "You two are impossible! I said I'm going to Brazil to work on a coffee plantation and that's exactly what I'm doing." Her father turned a page of the newspaper, and with only the top of his balding head showing, uttered mockingly, "Send us a postcard when you get there." "Really Father! No one sends postcards anymore," she snarled and then in a huff, spun about on her heels and left the room. At the front door, she picked up her things and went out. Miranda stepped off the plane in Rio de Janeiro and was immediately blasted with a hot, humid swirl of air. Her skirt blew up around her waist resulting in her dropping her makeup case as she struggled to right her skirt, spilling its contents on the tarmac. She looked around, waiting for someone to come rushing to assist her with gathering up her lipsticks, compacts, makeup and hair brushes, and a dozen other items that lay strewn about. But, as other passengers walked by, barely glancing at her, she bent down and put things back in the case, leaving many of the things on the ground, closed it, and then stood, tightly grasping the handle of the case. Sweat poured down her face causing her eye makeup to run in black streaks. So-much for expensive no-run eye liner, she thought. It suddenly occurred to her that she was thousands of miles from home. She had purposely left her cellphone on her bed back home, vowing to disconnect herself from her country of birth. There was no one she would have called anyway, even if she could have. "They're all wanting me to fail," she muttered as she stood proudly, unwavering, on her spiked heels, and then strode into the airport terminal with her back stiffened and her facial expression set in a mask of stone. She collected her suitcase from baggage claim and then walked out of the terminal. The curb was lined with Taxis and Uber vehicles. Going to the nearest one she cleared her throat to get the attention of the man texting on his phone while leaning against his taxi. He looked up. "Puedo conseguir un paseo?" she enunciated, sounding out each word slowly. He cocked his head. "You an American?" "Incidentally, yes," she said. "Why?" "Here, Portuguese is spoken," he answered. Her eyes widened in surprise. "But this is South America. Spanish is spoken everywhere." "Here, Portuguese is spoken," he repeated. "I learned Spanish anticipating coming here," she said. "Can you take me to the nearest coffee plantation?" He eyed her up and down and chuckled. "The nearest coffee plantations are about 73 kilometers, about two hours away. I can take you but it will soon be night and travel is not always safe at this hour." She stomped her stiletto like a child about to throw a tantrum. "Take me to the nearest four star hotel then. I'll go in the morning." "Si senorita," he replied accompanied by a mischievous grin. She got into the back seat of the taxi as he put her suitcase and makeup case in the trunk. When he got in behind the wheel, he turned his head and looking at her, said, "If I may be nosey, why do you wish to go to a coffee plantation?" "I want to pick coffee beans." "Pardon me again. Why?" "Working on a coffee plantation would give me something to do." He looked down at her stilettos. "You will need different shoes," he said before turning back to the wheel and turning the key in the ignition. As the rising sun of dawn spread its luminescent light on Sugarloaf Mountain, Madeline stood on the balcony of her hotel room looking out at the mountain's majestic point while sipping on a cup of Brazilian Arabica coffee. She sighed contentedly, thinking, Beans for this coffee would be delightful to pick. She then closed her eyes and let the warm ocean breeze caress her freshly made-up face. The suggestion by Francisco, the taxi driver, that she allow the concierge of the hotel buy the makeup items she needed to replace, along with a pair of locally made sandals that would be stylish as well as comfortable, had been an excellent suggestion. The makeup supplies and sandals were delivered at the same time as breakfast was wheeled into her room on a cart and set up on a table on the balcony. She opened her eyes, took a last look at the mountain and turned and set the empty cup on the table. She called for a bellhop to come pick up her suitcase and makeup case, put on her sunglasses, and picked up her sun hat and placed it on her head. She slung her purse slung over her shoulder, and left the room, then took the elevator to the lobby. She then went to the desk and checked out of the hotel. Before going out she gave the concierge standing at her station near the doors a hefty tip. She then walked out into the sunlight where Francisco was waiting for her at the curb with the back door of his taxi opened, awaiting her, as they had planned the day before him to do. Once settled in her seat, and Francisco behind the wheel, she lowered her sunglasses, leaned forward and tapped him on the back. "I saw your famous mountains this morning," she said, "is there anything else you recommend I see before we leave Rio?" "Christ the Redeemer," he answered. "I thought he was dead," she replied. He pulled away from the curb resisting the urge to laugh out loud. "I think it best if you're looking for a coffee plantation to pick coffee beans that I take you directly to the Arabica Plantations near Sau Paulo," he said. She settled back in her seat and raised the sunglasses to her eyes. "Excellent choice, Francisco," she said. "I like the idea of picking beans for a coffee that I've tasted and like." Traveling west on BR 101, Madeline filed her nails as she watched the passing scenery though the open window. Fearful of using the air conditioning the entire way because of the stress it would put on the vehicle's engine, Francisco had turned it off in spite of Madeline's complaints. As the warm, moist hair blew in, she found she was enjoying the feel of it on her face. She didn't want him to know that. Clearly he doesn't understand that I'm the paying customer. The light fragrance of the Camelia Rose resembled that of her mother's perfume. She didn't regret leaving her mother, but the flower's scent made her slightly homesick. The pink flowers grew along the sides of the highway. "What is that flower?" she asked Francisco. "It's the Camelia Rose," he said. "Many years ago, it was common practice for abolitionists to plant camellias in a show of solidarity." "Were abolitionists gardeners?" she asked. "You might say that," he replied. After ten more miles during which the two returned to silence, thinking of the one time in her marriage that her ex-husband had given her roses, Miranda stared at the back of Francisco's head for several minutes before asking, "Francisco, are you married?" "I'm divorced." "Divorced? Getting divorced is allowed in Brazil?" Bemused, he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Judging by the expression on her face she was genuinely surprised and interested. "Divorce is allowed in most countries," he said. "I haven't traveled much," she said, her voice tinged with regret. "I thought divorce was mainly an American thing." A few miles further down the road he steered the taxi into a gravel lot in front of what looked like a normal two story house. A sign above the door read: Restaurante Para Viajantes. "Perfect! Restaurant for travelers," she said with a laugh. She understood the sign, Francisco thought, a bit perplexed. "The owners are friends of mine," he said. "They serve the best home cooking in all of Brazil. We're early for lunch, but I'm sure Adriana will gladly serve us brunch." He opened his door and started to get out, looked back at Madeline, and saw her looking into a compact mirror and applying fresh lipstick. "There is no need to do that. Adriana and her husband Lucas are simple people. They're also old-world Brazillians who only speak Portuguese." "They're your friends," she said. "I want to look presentable." A few minutes later, inside the restaurant, where small tables were covered with red checkered plastic tablecloths and bamboo ceiling fans whirled above their heads, Miranda and Francisco were seated at a table by Lucas, a middle-aged man with skin the color of burned caramel. Francisco introduced her to Lucas, who kissed the back of her hand before handing them menus anyway after apologetically saying the only things that Adriana could serve before lunchtime was scrambled eggs and Pao de Queijo. "Obrigada, isso e perfeito," Miranda said in perfect Portuguese. When Lucas went into the kitchen, Francisco leaned across the table. "How did you know to say that in Portuguese and do it without any hint of an American accent?" "I watched a little television and read the room service menu before going to sleep last night," she answered. Mouth agape, he watched as she opened the menu and read aloud the listed items, all written in Portuguese, as if she had spoken the language her entire life. "How did you learn the Portuguese language in such short time?" Francisco asked as soon as they pulled out of the restaurant's lot to continue their journey to the Arabica plantations. "I learn and understand languages with very little effort by listening to foreign cooking shows on television," she said. "It's the way I learn most things that interest me. I hate reading. Sad to say, but I didn't finish college because I wasn't good at studying." "How many languages have you learned that way?" "Fourteen, I think." Francisco let out a long whistle. "That's incredible! You're some kind of genius." She turned her head and looked out the window. "My ex-husband didn't think so. He admired me for being pretty and throwing elaborate dinner parties, but otherwise thought anything else I did was silly and useless." "You should forget what he thought and do something with your ability to speak so many languages." "I'd rather just pick coffee beans," she said. For the remainder of the ride, the two talked, in Portuguese, about their upbringings. She had always been rich. He came from near-poverty. She did poorly in school. He got top grades, and learned the English language, but with great difficulty. He always had lots of friends. She never had any. "Even now the people who I thought were my friends stopped accepting me into their homes as soon as I got a divorce. As much as I tried to please them all the time I was married, it was my husband who they were, and are, friends with, " she said icily. At the Arabica Plantations administrative office building, Francisco took her suitcase and makeup case out of the trunk and set them at her feet. "Are you certain you don't want me to wait, just in case they don't hire you?" he asked. "What can it take to pick coffee beans?" she said. He handed her his card and kissed her on both cheeks. "Call me if you ever need a drive somewhere." "Obrigado meu amigo," she said and then adjusted her sun hat, picked up her things, and went into the building. Two and a half hours later the Uber taxi pulled into the lot of the Arabica Plantations administrative offices. Miranda came out of the building and handed the driver, Joao, who was young and said only a few words to her in broken English as he tossed her things in the trunk of his car. What had happened in the Arabica administrative office was this: The man who did the hiring came out of his office, looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her manicured, polished nails and her sun hat. "You're not from Brazil, are you?" he said in English. "No, I'm an American," she said, "but my friend Francisco tells me I speak your language perfectly." "Who is your friend?" She handed him Francisco's card. He stared at it for a minute and then looked at her. "He's just a taxi driver," he said, and gave her a look that she recognized. It was the same one her ex-husband used to give her. "You're not made to pick coffee. I recommend you look for work elsewhere, possibly in your own country here jobs are plentiful. Good luck." He then turned, went back into his office, carrying Francisco's card with him, and closed the door. Miranda and Joao got into the vehicle and as they pulled out of the lot she told him she would like to stop at the Restaurante Para Viajantes for lunch on the way back. "I hear the food and service there is terrible," he said. "You're an American, yes?" "Incidentally," she answered. "I'll take you to McDonald's when we get back to the city." "Just take me straight to the airport," she said. "My Swahili is excellent and they grow coffee in Kenya where Swahili is spoken, according to the television show Kenya Cooks." The End. Steve Carr, from Richmond, Virginia, has had over 540 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, reviews and anthologies since June 2016. He has had seven collections of his short stories published. His paranormal/horror novel, Redbird was released in November, 2019. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, twice. His Twitter is @carrsteven960. You can read more of Steve on his website, and connect with him on Facebook.

Short Story Written by Dexter Amoroso Come with me, imagine with me as we enter this incredible city in nature together. It must have been on a Saturday, early morning, and the second week of Dexter's family in Singapore, since they arrived from the Philippines due to his wife's overseas assignment. While his two little boys were spread out for a silent game of hide-and-seek, he watched what felt like quite a drama unfolding that morning. Apparently, Singapore is one of only two cities in the world, Rio de Janeiro being the other one, to have an old growth rainforest within its city limits. "I. . .I. . .saw a black spitting cobra," the frightened Dexter whispered incoherently to his wife when he tried to narrate what he had seen, quite a drama unfolding as he stepped out of their back door this morning. However, he managed to take a picture with his mobile phone, of the bold iguana that was sticking around, and he showed it to his wife. Perhaps nature knew he would tell a story about it. At first, he thought a huge red-legged leafy grasshopper-like insect was already dead. Paralyzed with fear, Dexter stood rooted to the ground as he detected movement from its antennas and the legs that remained. Some of the legs that had already been detached, were twitching, as if still putting up a fight. He watched for several moments, contemplating whether he should get involved. After all, this is nature. "I was simply an observer of some of what we might consider "cruel" features of nature," he maintained. As he watched, he couldn't help but consider that perhaps if he was in the same plight, rather than having some cold observation of "nature" at work, he would like some kind of compassionate intervention . "It's one thing being attacked in a jungle with nobody around, but this was unfolding on my doorstep", he said to himself and feeling some sense of responsibility to do something. He could not help but make the connection to tragedies going on all over the world. Most of us can say we had no direct involvement in any of the suffering that takes place. The world, is like a jungle sometimes, people suffer invisibly in eyes that feel compassion or responsibility to do anything. If we aren't responsible for the suffering, it's easy to feel absolved from the responsibility to do anything about it. We have our lives to live with our own challenges. It would be very easy to get consumed in the full time service of others - directly trying to lift the "ants of suffering" out of another person's life. The First Truth in "Four Noble Truths of Buddhism" is that suffering, pain, and misery exist in life. All living things suffer, therefore it doesn't sound like even a heroic effort to eliminate suffering, would succeed, though at least making an effort where you can, will help reduce or alleviate suffering. "Although I couldn't save all the giant leaf-like grasshoppers in the jungle that day, I could certainly help that one in front of me," he sneered. Granted, it no longer had back legs and would easily fall victim to the ants again if he simply relocated him. "God gave man dominion over animals (Gn 1:26), so it is not immoral to euthanize a grasshopper in such a condition," he contemplated the most compassionate thing he could do - squish it and end it fast. Once he had pulled him from the pile of ants and they scattered away, it seemed to bring new life to the grasshopper. His legs started moving with greater vigor, as if he had renewed hope. And as the last ant fell away from his eye, it was as if he was looking at him. And in moving his mouth, it seemed he was saying something, like, "thank you." He looked at this creature on death's doorway, contemplating a compassionate kill. Yet, he paused, just watching him move what legs remained, the mouth and antennas all moving with renewed life; something did not feel right about smashing it. At that moment, an iguana moved from the roof. He didn't pay much attention to it, at first. But as he continued to watch the grasshopper moving, he wondered if it was in pain from the earlier dismembering, he decided it was time to smash it as that was probably the only option at this point, plus he needed to go to the grocery store. Just as he picked it up to move it to the road (he didn't want to smash it on his front doorstep), the iguana made its way over to him. It was miraculous timing. The iguana offered him the option of a fast kill, without having to be involved, himself. He threw the grasshopper in the direction of the iguana. Startled at first, he skirted away. He could see him looking at me. . .and then the grasshopper, made eye contact after, as he did, when he removed him from the previous ant attack. He sauntered over to the grasshopper and in a quick motion, he had the grasshopper in his mouth and in two gulps, he was gone, suffering no more! He felt like he was on a Safari in Africa! Time stood still as he watched it all unfold and contemplated its meaning. The iguana was in no hurry to run away. In fact, it walked over to where the ants were still working on the two legs. It gulped up the legs and even took a few swipes at the ants scurrying around, looking for their main course. It looked at him again, and came a little closer. As bizarre as it sounds, it felt like nature unfolded through the ants, grasshopper, and iguana, telling a story, but suddenly, a snake bit him. With his eyes closed, he retraced the steps, squinting into his interior vision to recall that personal experience in as much detail as possible until. . . "My foot hurts, Jen!" Dexter whimpered in pain as he narrated to his wife what had happened. When Jen heard the husband's story and found out that the snake had bitten him, tears rolled down her cheeks like rivulets. Minutes later, Dexter died of snake venom. The End Dexter Amoroso is the author of "Rustic Charm" and "STAY-AT-HOME-DAD: Makin' Popcorn & Wiping Asses: Their Turn to Pop is Coming, but Don't Poop at the Same Time!", a former quality professional who has changed careers and wants to enter the world of teaching. He subscribes to Gardener's Multiple Intelligence as it is one of the highest truisms, but he adds another intelligence called "intuition". And he argues that intuition is the highest form of intelligence as it can identify and target a particular thought or feeling. Intuition is instinct. . .you don't think at all but it just comes to your mind. . .a thought, a feeling, a gut feel. He believes that intelligence cannot be measured only by the ability to do one task. As per what institutionalized education does to gauge intellect. Exposing children to various stimuli will expand their horizons. This will also deepen them as individuals. While at home, fathering his two little boys, he formed a small team and named it Mount Thesis. They assist clients in their thesis writing. They are Mountain Guides like Mt. Everest Sherpas. They guide climbers, they are ahead because they lead. . .but clients climb with them, so they learn, too. Becoming a father is the best job he has ever had.

A Flash Fiction Story by Chitra Gopalakrishnan Akhila, a midwife, in her small village of Pugalur in Tamil Nadu, knows of the promiscuity of making, animated, animalistic, noisy, agonizing and even violent sometimes as it is, just as she knows of the assaults of unmaking, of its unspeakable acts of all that which is not said in the undoing. She knows of the many rough ways of ousting the awaited and just-arrived lives from wombs. Not only in her village but the entire Karur district, the textile hub of the state, through her sisterhood of midwives. Akhila knows that these disappearances unwanted or not, by the women are never spoken of by them. She knows the rivers of Kaveri and Amravati, their foremothers, who flow noisily here, carry away some of their agony within their swishes and swells like they do the pieces of the oppressively hot sun that fall into them. As these rivers, beneath their scintillating surface, bear the dark of the girls' woes, their sombre lamentations on their lack of freedom, their being yoked to their men, fathers or husbands or sons, they have turned a poisonous, midnight-blue. A naive visitor should not be blamed for resting the blame on handloom dyes. She, as a midwife, knows intimately of the thrusting of the near-lethal wooden stick with cotton wool at one end. Of the wedging of twigs wrapped in rags soaked with red oxide. Of the ingesting of fruits and flowers, of the bitter and toxic Datura plant. Of the swallowing of roots and tree veins of local creepers smeared with opium. And of so many more crude methods that her tongue can't bring itself to shape the words. Akhila knows of the many ways that women in her district, young and old, married and unmarried, of upper and lower caste, hurt, within and without, in red rawness, in aloneness, in silence, as compulsions of their present-day life and the overlay of cultural, social and historical norms, tales and fairytales, contain, control and erase them. Abortion is legal in her state and her country yet many women seek elusion through midwives like her, to keep their injuries undercover. The liberation they attempt, or made to attempt, succeeds most times, but each woman, she knows, goes away with pain and privation like no other. She knows of the grief that takes these women hostage. She knows of how their aches rise with them from the shallows of their early morning sleep and dive with them into the cavernous slumber of the night. She knows of just how deep they seep into their simple daily rituals, their comforting routines, as these women stand knee-deep in water to plant rice, as they wait in the sweet expectation of a new crop, as they winnow paddy, as they feed cows and cook meals, as they string milk-white jasmine flowers into garlands and as they seek shade from the crackling sun under the lush green lines of banana trees. Akhila knows how their torment is part of their flesh and bones. She sees it in the swinging of their arms, the pressing of their hands behind their back, in the glance of their eye and knows that it will radiate for a lifetime. She knows of how they burn daily from within, as their incense sticks do for the gods in brass pots, a smoldering reminder of their unreadiness for motherhood, their denial of it, their lack of grit to fight for the flesh and blood and their inadequacies to be themselves at their best, social conditions and settings that men so easily claim. She knows that their anguish will not die with them but will be passed on organically, with its inner and outer casings, to their surviving daughters, as a kind of tensile strength, to allow them to bear up to their own inheritances of loss, to its regular, repeated ticks. Akhila knows that when she is asked about how she can live with this knowledge, and as a party to, as a sharer and helper of such murderousness, she will have a ready answer. She will say truth is a faulty enterprise. It is rarely single and never pure. The women's truths are theirs alone, and they can never be yours or a universal one. She knows she will tell the questioners, especially the men, they will never know or understand these women's inner geographies of loss, how soul-empty it is to live in the body of the condemned. She will tell the man that though they are invisible in the process of unmaking, they are very much present at the scaffold, often at the center of disintegration, as the raison d'être, disciplining and punishing the female body that they desire yet despise. Akhila, the complete one, the meaning of her name, knows that she, perhaps, can never live up other nomenclature. But she is going to try, the silence of the women around her is crushing. Her mother had willfully defied society by giving her an upper-caste name after the Hindu goddess Akhilandeshwari. Her move away will come with her telling of people around her of the distance between her hands and heart. Of the part of her, that lies poisoned and buried in the ground, against her choice, one that leaves her bruised and incomplete. And of the parts of her that she owns, breasts, waist, hips, vagina, buttocks, heart and soul, that are hers and hers, alone. She knows her uncovering of her shroud of silence will set off resistances among other women. That they will begin to say that which is not said. Their lack of charge over their bodies and lives. The denial of their choice of whether or not to bring a child into the world. Of their right to not be measured and shamed against the norms of society. Chitra Gopalakrishnan, a New Delhi-based journalist and a social development communications consultant, uses her ardor for writing, wing to wing, to break firewalls between nonfiction and fiction, narratology and psychoanalysis marginalia and manuscript and tree-ism and capitalism. Author website: https://www.chitragopalakrishnan.com

TEARS AND PRAYERS A golden bell tinkles in the distance. I hear a call to prayer, incense wafts gently on the air. The flame of love, the sound of surf dies in my eyes. A surly wind blows through my soul in total dark, I trip into a well of absolute silence. With all my might deaf, dumb and blind to all good and right My vain desires frozen and wedged between the banks of my love and life Withered into madness moulded by fate struck to ice Splintered and shattered by a black vomit of dark, dense cloud shutting out the face of day. In this cheerless place, my dreams chained my hopes pinned down For here, everything struggles, sickens and sinks under hot, poisonous breath not a blade or bud of promise. In this mournful shadow a depressing influence steals upon the spirit. Such is the hopelessness of a conviction in dying without fear or anxiety of fleeing the dismal gloom. With staggering feet, bloodshot eyes plead for bread drowning in tears. In my periphery, stony figures petrified wan in their looks ragged in attire. My cart rumbles by bearing me in a rude coffin in an oppressive nightmare. A speedier power has outrun my haste my ugly form of existence spurned my tears and prayers. If only I could with Fate conspire change my sorry life nearer my hearts desire. Alas! In the purple midnight even Heaven with all its stars flee fast and recede Veils its shine . . .from poverty and need. A golden bell chimes in the distance. ©06/29/21 DREAMLESS SLEEPERS # 2 The bell rings out with a mournful sound. None but the stars look into the upturned face of this frail, perishable Leaning out, staring pensively at dreamless sleepers close grown sad from communing with a shadow of the dead a leaf rustling on a grave. A heart grown heavy in a dull, solemn ruin lapping crumbs of gloom with the sickly eagerness of a meagre starveling. Unheedful of the living for the tumult of life falls with a gentler sound to tired eyes and ears the quiet remains the same. Always stillness prevails save the music in the air. The sound of Angel wings a sweet and happy dream that fades and grows dim. In this old, laden silence, I gaze the unseen with awe, tempered with a calm delight sighing with memory's breath of a life and an age gone. Chords of my heart mute and senseless to passion strange, varying strings struck by accident - stars respond to glimmering touch. The graveyard, my solemn garden often I rise in the cold dark when the wind stirs the grass put my ear to the ground. . .listen to her breathing in a dreamless sleep. © 07/05/21 DREAMLESS SLEEPERS # 3 In the twilight shade a shadow flits before me gambols about my path shuddering cold dwells here cladding me in the ice of loneliness and longing. Fate has cast my gem high into a lonely sky brighter as it mounts turning into a violet star a glittering teardrop lamenting in silence. She has taken a seat at the gates of the mighty only I hear her chanting we harmonize in my grief each the others delight she gladdens me still. Always did and always will her breath is in me love infused into my veins with a hunger like the sea drinking each and every river but is never filled. I surrender to our spirit for we two are one commune with my eternity catch a promethean brand in an exploding burst that fires my heart and soul. A fire that licks me like oil fixes my attention in earnest in a hale and healthy blush reddening my all in a glow. A welcome solemn presence stitching life and death with love. All through the night we talk and think together voices and pictures in the roar see her face in strange scenes in the red hot coals of my heart a heightened resolution of love. In the glare of the sinking flame reflecting in my dark gloom shadows come and wait with the flickering of the fire that purify and fill me up with deep and thoughtful feelings. Up and down, to and fro, all about and around me my dead love comes and goes, a change steals over me fate gifts sleep rather than death. I nourish myself by eating myself in wakeful doze I sorrow for the meeting of tomorrow where meadows are sweet and the wind sighs the promise . . .of a happy, dreamless sleep. © 07/07/21 THE SECRET KNOCK Under the sheet of sea-dreams you think you're sleeping but fly away - into something real and bright as day. I into me. . .into you. . .into we I into me. . . a drifting loneliness unfettered yet unfree gazing upon solitude pensively paddling sea dreams cloud shrouds lift and rent revealing starlight and star from the void and beyond from far and from afar nearer draws your star. I into you. . . Energy has its own patterns Love gives the secret knock so the flowers are strewn petals that daze the eye breaths of love in a sigh loneliness cracks into green a new paradise is seen. I into we. . . So we come face to face in a state of grace a united sphere lifting into supernal to soar and sing in love eternal our souls entwine in a heart-lore divine a love-knot fairer than the fairest star. And the mermaids sing to moon, "Eye sees eye Mind meets mind Body clothes body Heart touches heart Soul clasps soul." Sane love is no love. We drive us crazy. Our perfume is unslung Fragrance of absinthe bung I only admit to being young yet I'm very old so you have told. You have aged me a thousand years through joys and tears our heart and soul deliciously dance and roll through time and life's floors, windows and doors here, there and everywhere. It's what was It's what is It's what will be. I was born the day I met you. I died the day I met you. . . .I died into We. © 03/16/21 Poet's Bio: I cannot catalogue myself in normal terms because of all the things I've done and places I've seen in addition to the abnormal society that spawned me. I was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, in township of Newclare to a rebel father and powerful mother. I grew up in a place where gangsters, drug addicts, intellectuals, artists and priests all rubbed shoulders. This place, though much changed, has colored my outlook ever since. I schooled for a long time in the mountains and vineyards of the Cape, from where I explored natural beauty and wonders of my country. To this day, I have an innate love of nature embedded in my soul. My tertiary studies have explored a vast array of subjects and I have in a hit and miss way, ended up as architectural technologist more by default than anything else. My love for physics, philosophy and history remains paramount. I have been told I' m not a bad painter, either. Apartheid has foisted on me, a deep vehemence of injustice and violence. I will fight oppression and exploitation wherever I encounter it. I never discard any experience or learning I have had. If I must describe myself, I am a holistic eclectic. I am an earthling. Give me a certificate for that.

Written By Imtiyaz Pandow In the series of betrayals, I saw her - my beloved being stabbed in the back by the witch in makeup who gifted the red-soaked tulips. Am I being silenced to not counter or alarm, to bear the brunt and watch the brutal fate from stabs of the witch bruising my beloved? Yet, I kept watching - mute spectator moving on - motionless crying, but emotionless. I live in that barren piece of heart of my agrarian beloved where lovers unfurl pain in the red and dark flags being hoisted on her tomb. The stars are not dancing tonight. Moon too, stopped to shine bright. I shall sleep in the cold lap of my beloved, till the rays of sun at dawn trespass the windowpanes and reflect hope in my eyes.

Written by Sherzod Artikov Suddenly I woke up. It was morning. Someone was calling me in a loud voice that came from the street. "Uncle Nurmat," I greeted as I opened the gate and saw my neighbor dressed oddly. "Me. . .me. . ." he said hurriedly. "I have been calling you for a long time. It's freezing cold. Let's go inside." Uncle Nurmat was seventy years old, a very thin and small man, none of the hair on his head had fallen out. He lived as a beggar. His wife had died many years ago, leaving him alone with his children. Except those two daughters, who occasionally visited him, there were no relatives to take care of him. He was an actor who had played only minor roles throughout his life, a mediocre man whose dream of embodying Shakespeare's characters on stage had turned into an obsessive desire. This man, whose only significant role in the theatre was Bobchinsky in "The Government Inspector", was sincere, free of the inherent stubbornness of older people, good-natured and energetic. At that age, he had nothing left to ask of life, and there was nothing to complain about fate. But for some reason, despite forty years of experience, he did not feel confident on stage, and because of this, they say, he could not play the role of the old King Lear in Shakespeare's famous play. "I rehearsed a lot yesterday, my neighbor," he said, running into the room ahead of me because of the cold, warming up by the stove. "It didn't work. It did not fit. At that moment I said to myself: how can I rehearse like that, in the evening? I have to rehearse in the morning, waking up early. I think that's the right decision. Because last night I repeated the monologue of the wretched king in the last scene four times. it was unsuccessful. And this morning, the rendition of your humble servant was much better." As he said that, he rubbed his hands together. "May I sit on the chair?" the neighbor continued. His body seemed warming up, and he moved away from the stove. "Look, I was sitting like that. Not upright, a bit hunched over, because that's how King Lear sits. He's old, exhausted. His hands are always shaking. That's why he can't hug his daughter's dead body tightly. What's more, he opens his eyes wide, not wanting to believe it is lifeless." He opened his eyes as he wished, pulling out a badly crumpled piece of paper from his jacket's pocket. Finally assuming the position of King Lear, he began to recite a sorrowful monologue, glancing at the piece of paper. "I have some shortcomings to work on," he said as he finished his monologue. "Mostly I'll have to work on this last scene. That's the hardest part." He got up from his chair, walked over to me and, looking around coyly, whispered: "Even great actors could barely perform the last scene. I have to get serious about the monologue and learn it. Until I carry written monologues with me? If I go back to the theatre today or tomorrow, there is no way I will red the monologue on a piece of paper." He rubbed his temple and took a deep breath. "I have to solve this problem. I had better go to home." He hastily expressed his gratitude to me for watching his rehearsal and clutching the monologue sheet in his fist, he ran out of the room. After he left, I went outside, warmly dressed. I spent the whole day working in the city library. Flipping through the books, I gathered information for my research paper on Latin American literature. When I returned home in the evening, I met Uncle Nurmat again at the gate. He was banging his fist impatiently at the gate. He was dressed as he had been a couple of hours before. "Ah, you're not at home?" he said when he saw me. "I went to the library," I answered, pointing at the books. "I went to the theatre today," he said, ignoring the books. "I wanted to talk to the director about going back to work. I waited outside his office for a long time, but he did not come through. Tomorrow, I will go again. I'll tell him I've decided to go back to work; I'll play the role of King Lear." When I passed his house the next day, the window to the street opened with a crack of the frame, and Uncle Nurmat looked out. "My neighbor," he shouted, waving his hand. "I met the director last night; he came. I told him of my intention. He listened to me attentively and spoke flatteringly of my return. But apparently the job has been postponed for a long time because, he said, there is no vacancy in the theatre at the moment. He said he would let me know by phone as soon as there was a vacancy." For the next three days, Uncle Nurmat didn't come out to see me. And when I finally met him, he looked very annoyed. "Scoundrels, scoundrels," he repeated incessantly. He sat by the stove, as usual. He was gesticulating a lot as he spoke. "My daughters are here," there was a note of rage in his voice that was uncharacteristic of his character. "I told them I was going back to the theatre, but they didn't approve of my idea. They said I was old and could not work as before. They said I couldn't work now. No, that's not going to happen! It's the right time to play King Lear. And my age is right. King Lear was about seventy years old." Suddenly, he perked up, pacing the room from side to side with his hand behind his back. "You saw it, didn't you?" he said, stopping suddenly in front of me. "You have seen that I can play King Lear, that I have deeply studied his state of mind. You heard with your ears how expressively I read the monologue. and they have not even seen or heard. The daughters grieved my soul by saying ruthless words." I looked up, distracted by the descriptions of Mario Benedetti's portrait. It was one part of my academic work. I couldn't work when Uncle Nurmat was so nervous. At this time, the water in the electric kettle boiled. I brewed some tea. "Tea raises blood pressure," said Uncle Nurmat. He wasn't thirsty and put the cup on the windowsill. "Uncle, maybe your daughters are telling the truth," I said as I drank the tea all the way down. Then, I looked sadly at the rest of the tea that was left at the bottom of the cup. Uncle Nurmat looked at me sadly. "They don't know anything." This is where I used to rent a place to live. Visits to my parents were sometimes deferred because of work at the institute, as science was time-consuming. Since I took time off from my work at the department, I now have the time to visit them more often. "Tomorrow I am going to the village," I said when I sensed that Uncle Nurmat had calmed down a little. "I'll visit my parents, for two or three days, maybe a week." He nodded, as if to say okay. "By then, the director of the theatre will have called me." I stayed in the village for a couple of weeks. The cold days of January seemed even colder there. I continued my research work without leaving the house because of the cold. The days were boring, and I translated Benedetti's stories into Uzbek. A heavy snowfall occurred the day I returned to town. It was knee-deep in snow. The roads were slippery. Not only was it dangerous to walk, but also to drive a car. We were moving so slowly that it seemed as if the taxi speedometer wasn't working because of the slow speed. When I got out of the car near my house, I noticed an ambulance near Uncle Nurmat's gate, in which the driver was not moving; he huddled up on the steering wheel. After a while, a paramedic came out of the house with a suitcase of medical instruments in his hands, and sat down on the front seat. The carriage drove slowly up the road. After settling the bill with the taxi driver, I went to Uncle Nurmat's house. When I entered, his eldest daughter Zarifa, who was just getting water from the well, greeted me. I inquired about her affairs and health, then entered the house. Uncle Nurmat was lying in his bed staring at the ceiling. His head was covered with a white bandage. "Yesterday he had been very drunk and slipped in the snow," said Zarifa. "He hurt the back of his head." I sat down on a chair beside the bed, putting my things away. "The director hasn't called me from the theatre yet," said Uncle Nurmat when he saw me. There was a short silence. I looked around the room. The stove was unburned, a leaning cupboard with two dozen books in it, a sprung bed and an old chair. There was an old telephone set on the window sill, an empty bottle of wine beside it, a pile of sheets and used syringes lying scattered about. The room was so cold. "My neighbor," said Uncle Nurmat anxiously, seeing that I had brought wood from the yard for the cooker. Take a look at the telephone, is the wire broken?" "No, it's all right," I said, glancing at the phone. I poked the matches and lit the cooker. "Oh, well," he said with great satisfaction, reassured by my answer. "If the director calls, the phone will ring."Soon the stove was heating and the wood was crackling. Warmth was spreading in the room. Zarifa must have seen the smoke from the stove and came into the room to get warm. "I have memorized by heart all the speeches and monologues of King Lear," said Uncle Nurmat, as his daughter went out into the yard, warming up. "However, there is no call from the theatre. Waiting everyday. There is no news." Uncle Nurmat soon fell asleep, apparently the paramedic adding sleeping pills when he gave the anesthetic shot. Uncle Nurmat's youngest daughter, Zamira, went to the windowsill as soon as she entered the room and tore the scattered sheets to shreds. When finished, she sat down on the edge of the bed where her father lay. "You must go to the hospital, without any arguments," she said, approaching Uncle Nurmat as he woke up. Uncle Nurmat looked at her in surprise then at his eldest daughter who had brought tea into the room. "I don't want to go to the hospital. I'll be getting a call from the theatre soon." The daughters shook their heads when they heard his words. "They won't call," said Zamira, with a deep groan. "Do you know why they won't call you? Because, they don't need you. There are dozens of actors in the theatre who can play the part of King Lear. And they're all more talented than the others. The director won't give you the part; he'll give it to them. You weren't given the lead role when you worked there; do you think they'd give it to you now?" "My sister's words are right," Zarifa, the eldest daughter, raised her voice from the doorstep. "All your life you have dreamed of playing the role of King Lear. Much of your life and youth has been spent on this dream. But it did not come to pass; it was not your destiny. Now you have grown old...You are no longer of an age to run in the footsteps of a dream." Uncle Nurmat sighed heavily, clutching the edge of the bed with all his might. "You. . .both of you. . . step out of the room." After they left, he lay quietly, not taking his eyes off the door. When he spoke, I couldn't differ if he was talking to himself or me. "My life passed not following a dream, but in the hassle of caring for my daughters. All my colleagues came to the theatre in the morning, cleanly dressed and combed, while I cam in old clothes with my unshaven beard for weeks because I didn't have enough time to embellish myself. I took over the daily care of my daughters because of my wife's illness. I took care of them, washed them, fed them, took them to kindergarten and school; did homework with them when they were sick, stayed with them in the hospital for a few days. Because of that, I couldn't work at the theatre as I had dreamt of doing. I was also talented. But it took a long time to look after my daughters. When putting on a play at the theatre, I used to get reprimanded by the stage director many times because not only I couldn't perform the role alotted to me perfectly, but even couldn't memorize character texts. I almost didn't work on myself, like others. I didn't read books, didn't develop speech. Twenty-four hours a day I thought only about daughters. And they stopped giving me roles. In the eyes of the stage director, I gained a reputation as an inept actor, unfit for any role, completely irresponsible, and I was dismissed, bypassed in the distribution of roles before a performance. I played nothing for months. I was assigned roles only occasionally and unexpectedly, but they were minor roles in small, unpopular productions, episodic, with two or three lines." Uncle Nurmat was silent, staring dejectedly at the telephone. Tears stood in the eyes and accumulating, running down his cheekbones. "My life has never been following a dream," he said, closing his eyes. The wood in the stove must have burned out by now, for the heat from the stove had diminished considerably. I bought another bundle of firewood from the yard. As I was heating it, the door opened, and the paramedic whom I had seen that morning, appeared on the doorstep. "We tried to take. your father to the hospital," he said to Zamira, excusing himself. "But he would not go himself." "A man becomes so capricious when he gets old," replied the daughter, glancing embarrassed at the bed where her father lay. The two men carefully laid Uncle Nurmat on a stretcher. He did not resist. He didn't even open his eyes. I went out to the window, standing alone for a while in the centre of the room. Scraps of sheets on which King Lear's monologues and lines had been written and scattered across the window sill, some lying beside a bottle of wine and a syringe, others behind a telephone. "I felt like ventilating and tidying the room a bit." Seeing Zarifa standing on the threshold, I went out into the corridor. I stood there, pensively, leaving against the wall. Suddenly, the phone rang. After a while, I heard Zarifa's voice picking up the receiver. "Have you hospitalized father? I'm airing the room, it smells everywhere." (Translated into English by the Author and received permission from Author to publish on ILA Magazine.) Sherzod Artikov was born 1985, in the city of Marghilan of Uzbekistan. He graduated from Fergana Polytechnic Institute in 2005. He was one of the winners at the 2019 National Literary Contest, "My Pearl Region", in the direction of prose. In 2020, his first authorship book, "The Autumn's Symphony" was published in Uzbekistan by publishing house "Yangi Asr Avlodi". In 2021, his works were published in the anthology books titled, "World Writers", Bangladesh, "Asia Sings" and "Mediterranean Waves", Egypt, "Emerging Horizons", India, "Healing Through Verses", in English language, Canada. His authorship book, "The Autumn's Symphony" was published in Spanish and English in Cuba by Argos Iberoamericana Publishing House. In 2021, he participated in "International Writers Congress", which was organized in Argentina, the International Literature Conference under the name, "Mundial Insurgencial Cultural", dedicated to Federico Garcia Lorca's life and work, also in Argentina, "International Poetry Festival" in Tunisia, "International Poetry Carnival" in Singapore, "First International Prose Festival" in Chile which was held under the name, "La Senda del Perdedor" and the International Poetry Festival, "Return of Sheherazade" in Romania. Currently, he is the Literary Consultant of the Cultural and Literary website of Pakistan, "Sindh Courier", Literary Magazine of Peru, "La Huaca es Poesia", Literary Magazine of Chile "Valpoesia", representative and delegate in Uzbekistan of the Literature Magazine of Mexico, "Revista Cardenal" and Literature and Art Magazine of Chile, "Casa Bukowski." His works have been published in several magazines and newspapers of Uzbekistan and translated into Russian, English, Turkish, Serbian, Slovenian, Macedonian, Spanish, Italian, Polish, Albanian, Romanian, French, Greek, Hebrew, Portuguese, Swedish, Bengali, Arabic, Chinese, Indonesian, Persian, Urdu, Nepali and Vietnamese languages. Besides, his works have been published in literary magazines, newspapers and websites in 50 countries.

That Turgid Timekeeper Blast the turgid timekeeper, that bombastic ticker of opportunity and occurrence, always congesting time with seconds, minutes and hours. There's no mercy in the hourglass. The sand has no choice but to drop, and expose the depth of all that has been, even for those who have made no progress. An oblique sense of time given to us by that experienced jester of intervals, who presented to us, upon and inside the constant stream, scenes from life's footage. Who presents a jumbled lace of occasions, which turn our world into a living, breathing strand of sentiment within the sediment. © Linda Imbler PRIME MOVER You're the pedal that rotates and moves the bike, a helping hand boosting others' climb to the top of the vine. You make sure ventures never blink, but instead clear a line of sight to courteous consideration. You, a humane intellectual. Not afraid to tackle the question, how can problems between and among us to be resolved? Your heart tells other hearts the lasting solution. You, aiding others to stand on level ground, and hold the line of dignity steady: None to fall back, none to fall down. You, the prime mover of kindness. Your greatest power is in your smile. © Linda Imbler Linda Imbler's poetry collections include five published paperbacks: Big Questions, Little Sleep, Big Questions, Little Sleep second edition (expanded with 66 additional poems), Lost and Found, Red is the Sunrise, and Bus Lights, Travel Sights. Soma Publishing has published her four e-book collections, The Sea's Secret Song, Pairings, a hybrid of short fiction and poetry, That Fifth Element and Per Quindecim. Examples of Linda's poetry and a listing of publications can be found at: Lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com In addition to writing, Linda helps her husband, Luthier, build acoustic guitars in Wichita, Kansas, U.S.A.

Written by Walid Boureghda I imagine you like a real goddess, who reigns over the heavens of my heart. I imagine you like a poetess who dives with heat into words from the start. I imagine you like a soft fragrance, which caresses me in bed with rapture, sets my body on fire with reverence, and drowns me down into your love chapters. I imagine you like a faerie tale, which we relate to our children at night. I imagine you like a blend with no fail, full of ardor deep into the limelight. I imagine you like a good attraction, which we urge ourselves to long contemplate; In the deepness of a carnal reflection, I imagine you a love epic with no hate. I imagine you like a unique pearl, which we plainly praise like a halcyon girl. Image courtesy of Wix.com

WHEN WE WERE WATCHERS It seems you are from heaven, it is true, O little white Angel! So soft light but hidden, your heart is a temple. Like the sun, shine on the earth, happy and hopeful, when I see you. Like a rosebush, pure from birth, sad and sorrowful, when you are blue. In dreams, we were watchers. The life you lived so ample, pain and pleasure you could get, I piously pray in your temple, the dreams you wish I evaluate. I love your smile and tranquility for your eyes, I write love poetry. Your looks are the music of the life, one glance simply fades all the strife. Supreme minds, Singing birds, Sorrows of love, Moaning of dove, Secret feelings, Sweet seedlings, In dreams we were listeners. THE QUEEN OF THE GARDEN I saw a red rose, Kind, mild, so tired. She is brightly spring, The red bird hovers highly, Sings with a soft voice. The rose decorated with more fresh flowers, The bird plumaged with tender multiple-colors. The queen of the garden, Sweetest lips, Red tulips, The bird wishes to find a little gate, To be a gatekeeper. © Ahmad Yasir Dhain. THE TEMPERIST O Friends! Four faithful, why are you silent? Shakespeare and Keats, Coleridge and Yeats, you are silent, I know, like them, I will go. It is a pleasurable peace, each one wrote a great piece. They rest in a pleasant sleep, silence and stillness so deep. It is a terrible tranquility! For the masters of poetic society In love, two are unfortunate, third, dreamy, the last fortunate. Love unsatisfied, unfulfilled, genius inspired, recognized. The words eternal, the silence magical, the memories green, the times are gone, stars are your names, bright, are your dreams. My pen bleeds with scripts, he shines with vivid thoughts. They feed the world with delights, I saw them aglow as superior sun lights. They are simply sweet and sensitive lovers, the earth's orb is brightly rich with fresh flowers. Let me stay in my world! Let me have a different sky, you are great, but not I. © Ahmad Yasir Dhain A ROSE IN RED I dream of a rose dressed in red, she shines and sits on a green bed. I send her the winds to whisper, I know springs of love flow, pleasures and looks grow, sweet smile and gentle gait glow. She walks with two-scented flowers, She talks in a twittered talk, She looks at the union of the leaves and the sprigs, as two true and gathering lovers. Love is in heart as an art, I can read her attractive eyes, full of silent peace and noise, as two great and heroic epics. Two red lips are two red tulips, I kept in shyness like a cloudy sky, Love has different letters, unknown and strangers, land of pleasures, ocean of painful tears, vale and evil disease, elements of life. I wish to be together, in love, as two doves forever. © Ahmad Yasir Dhain Ahmad Yasir Dhain, birth on March 28, 1981, is a contemporary Iraqi poet in English. He was born in Dhi-qar (a city south of Iraq). From his early childhood, he was well educated. His parents were illiterate, but his brothers and sisters were well-educated. At the age of 17, he was interested in Literature and imagination. He studied English at the University of DHI-QAR, graduated in 2004, and then started his career as a teacher and a poet. He has great talents in writing poetry since his college days. He has worked as a teacher of English in one of the secondary schools in Dhi-qar. In India, he studied English literature, American literature and published his first collection of poems under the heading of "Osculation". In 2011, he received an M.A. in English Literature from Baba Saheb Ambedkar Marathwada University (Maulana Azad College of Arts, Science and Commerce).

REMEMBERING LOSS Just crows, sparrows kneeled under wings while the lambs hurried from pens to stray, even they shine more when drenched the rains made me remember my winged heart. Panting, when I was out of breaths, I learnt love too late was that, then my tongue was bitter I can merely utter hate and pain, how can I love now my verses sing torn Romeos and lost Juliets. At night, I shrunk into lost corners in outskirts lonely reckoning the trampled lovers of world then passionately, I let snails to host my love but my stone heart widened fast like plagues. © BURHAN I OWE AGONIES The rain I drenched yesterday sighs that made air to blow. . . Yesterday I left them yesterday sighed calm yesterday earth was dry. . . Now the Mastaan cries the drunkard longs the wines of death. . . © BURHAN Read more of Burhan's poetry on his Facebook page at: https://www.facebook.com/writerburhan/ Peerzada Burhan, a 21-year old writer hails from the beautiful valley of Kashmir. From school, the poet has a great love for literature and books, which gradually embossed in him. He writes both poetry as well as fiction. Several poems and short stories of this author are published in renowned anthologies and magazines. Peerzada Burhan is inspired by several writers especially Rumi, Jaun Elia, Agha Shahid Ali and Faiz Ahmad Faiz. This gentle poet inks everything he feels inside and tries to portray the unheard secrets.

By Imtiyaz Pandow Reeling Under the darkness Of this ruthless occupation I am Kashmir Striving to see the dawn of life Amid The hopes Entangled in concertina wires. I am like a pet parrot Caged in my castle Compelled to praise My capturer. I am the dweller Of a new era Pushed towards the stone age I am Kashmir My identity is rage. I am a book, unread yet My pages are inked red I am black, I am dead I am a deaf, I am yed. My blank pages Speak volumes Of my past, present and future I am a diary Not maintained yet I wonder, still why? My pages are inked red. I am a Magazine A newspaper and a journal Serving the haunting tales My stories are unusual Be it headlines or masthead My pages are inked red. I am a canvas Sketched with pieces of art Letting the artist’s brush vent My pages are inked red. First published in Indian Periodical, received from poet to publish on ILA blog Image of Poet, Imtiyaz Pandow, Web Content Editor of ILA Magazine.