GUEST Yes, the lane was the same, but there was no presence of the naked fakir on the pavement, looking at nothing and occasionally crying out ALLAH-HU. I saw a uniformed shadow, peering through a bunker. Had my fakir exchanged places with him? Did he too, feel a threat and hid himself? I did not see the house of my neighbors, who had a pomegranate tree in their compound. The big gate, open to all, was missing. The half-burnt window reminded me of my parents. Winding deodar staircase were ashes. Drawing room with its Persian carpets and rung and colorful bolsters, which had hosted guests, was untraceable. My idols of faith were there but they were on the road like pebbles. there were new names, new faces, new roads, new walls and new gods. I was like a guest in my own land. © Professor Indu Kilam Professor Indu Kilam taught English in various colleges of Jammu and Kashmir, for more than 3 decades, and retired as Associate Professor from MAM post-graduate college from Jammu. A translator and a social activist, she has been working for the cause of women and children. She has to her credit, the translation of Ms. Naseem Shafaie's Sahitya Academy award winning collection of poems, 'Neither a Shadow a Reflection'. She has also translated a number of Dogri poems. Holding a brilliant academic record, she has a Masters in English and a degree in Law, and has been living in Jammu since 1990. Her poems are nostalgic and she moves with ease from the past to the present, penning memories with a delicate touch, making all, beautifully poignant.

I AM FINE My cheeks have started to hurt from the smiles I wear all day, trying to hide the cuts and scars that threaten to peek out, every time. Someone asks me how I'm doing. My eyes have grown tired of holding all the secrets inside, ready to spill out every piece of the scattered mess that I am, as tears or blood, when I run out of my "I'm fine" lies, someday. Everyday I hope for someone to pull my mask away, and stare right at the core, where I sit curled up into a ball, in the corner of my mind, trying to get away from my own thoughts and feelings. Everyday, I hope for someone to tear through the pretense around me, find me inside, hold my hand and, take me away, to some place far. but every night, when I'm still there, alone, I hug myself, cradle my soul, and go back to sleep, with the screams and shrieks as my lullabies. © Summiaya Nilofer Kichloo

FOR EVERY DREAM I am in the fields for every dream shattered under the weight of traditions and every freedom shackled by chains of customs. For every sister traded for her brother's honor and every mother abandoned and abused for the birth of a girl child. For every bride tortured and burned alive for the dearth of dowry and every daughter deemed less worthy of education and inheritance. For every child whose books exchanged with henna and every wife whose autonomy was buried with the vows of her marriage. For every woman, called names and judged impure, because her body fell prey to your lust, shall rise a generation with anger in their eyes, anger, that does not forgive, that does not forget, that does not breed years of generated trauma. A generation of gallant men and women, who are not afraid with the idea of equality. A generation of women who do not need men to define their worth and beauty, who are not slaves to the notions of centuries, who are not silenced by fear or consolation, who breed children that fight for a world where men and women walk on the same road not as subservients and masters, but as equals and worthy, with might and dignity and grace, that God created them as worthy and beautiful. © Summiaya Nilofer Kichloo

FIVE FIFTY-FIVE Moon hangs like a wire in the sky above tree touched roofs of semi-detached houses while clouds become waves marking the passage of afternoon into evening. Looking down upon pale yellowish leaves scattered on the moist green not daring to dance against the moods of a capricious wind which casts away scraps of discarded memories Meanwhile, from an upstairs window, a small red-haired figure imagines these scenes in his mind before writing them down on paper hoping to make some poetry out of all pictures he sees on this bleak autumnal weekday. © Julius Howard

An Interview of Sugar Zedna by Carl Scharwath Thank you, ILA Magazine, and your dear readers for allowing me to highlight another amazing poet and her story. Today, we meet Sugar Zedna, "Jenny", born a Filipino and in her words, "With a little Spanish blood and a dash of caffeine in my bloodstream." She started to write at the age of 9, has a Bachelor's degree in Political Science and a Master's degree in Education, with a major in teaching in the early grades. Sugar was the Editor-in-Chief of her college paper. She has multiple publications and has won many awards with her writing. Writing is her passion, but this multi-talented friend also is a part-time fashion accessories designer and dabbles in sketching, using pencil and gel pens. When she's away from her art, Sugar is presently a teacher to young children, a speaker in various events and host programs. Carl: Good morning, Sugar, ILA Magazine is so happy to have your time today and my first question is: 1. Please tell our readers about your poetry style: Sugar: My passion is writing essays, quotes, and poems every day, to vent my creative juices. Words are my way of conveying my witticisms and fun side. I am an ardent lover of the arts as these are outstanding souvenirs to future generations. My poetry is generally short, practical, real-life situations, fiction and whimsical. I don't dwell much on the serious side of life as stress would kill me. I love to write about human relationships, nature, endless metaphors of human existence and so on. I am still a budding writer/poet, I know I still have a long way to go and my way is by joining prompts every day. 2. Interesting what you said about prompts. I know you are an active participant in the ILA Group and enthusiastic about their prompt challenges. How has this helped you define your style and improve your skills? Sugar: Very much, as these prompts push me to get my brain cells moving, to think fast, to focus on the theme or picture and scribble coined words. It is like working with grace under pressure, there is a deadline you have to meet and it is a must to adhere to the theme and number of lines without sacrificing the entire content of your entry. 3. When you first picked up that magic pen to write at the age of 9, what was the inspiration? Sugar: I was called "Silent Water" by my teacher in the third grade, as I didn't want to participate in class discussions. I hated reciting in class. I used to sit at the back, so I wouldn't be seen. But I loved it when class activities or performance tasks involved writing answers, that's when I started to get noticed. My teacher asked me to write what my favorite place was. (At the time, I frequented a US Military base located in my city where I considered to be a small city within a city). So, I wrote about Camp John Hay's skating rink with an ice cream parlor adjacent to it. My teacher was so impressed with what I had written, she told me that she could almost see the place with how I vividly described it with my words. She said I would make it as a great writer, someday. Her words served as a motivation for me. Her admiration for my simple essay was seen in her eyes. Everyday she would read aloud, whatever I had written for the daily theme writing. (This had made me blush every time she read). My teacher was my inspiration. 4. Tell us who your favorite poet or writer is and why: Sugar: I must say, my dad is my favorite writer because he was a journalist for one of my country's top newspapers, after that, he was also the Editor-in-Chief of a local newspaper. Though he passed away when I was three years old, it was only when I was in college, that I came to realize the deeper meanings of his love letters to my mom. At a young age, I never really knew how cunning and brilliant he was with his writings until I met people who, one after another, told about his multifarious achievements. Presently, people who notice my writing style, say I write like my dad (I guess it's a case of writing style begets writing style). 5. How do your poems develop? Please guide us through your process: Sugar: I normally start with a clear mechanism, meaning, I rid myself of other concerns and focus on what am I going to write. I pause. I always believed in the adage that goes: "A peaceful mind, generates power." True enough, form a single thought, ideas flow naturally (especially when I'm under writer's mood). It's like magic. Like I'm lost in a sea of words, metaphors, alterations and allusions. I write everything that comes to mind. When I'm done writing, I Thank God for the gift of words and for the patience of my hands. (Sometimes, when I go over a finished poem, I am in disbelief that it was me who wrote that. Like it was me, saying: "Did I really write that? Wow! I'm a Bard), no kidding aside, when you're a writer, there are occasions when you cannot explain the myriad of ideas that abound in your mind. Some thoughts dissipate in seconds, so before that happens, you should've written that on a piece of paper, otherwise, it's difficult to recall what it was. 6. Can you please give advice to someone wanting to write and publish poetry? Sugar: Some pieces of advice I could give to budding writers, include: (1) Read a lot. You have to be a voracious reader. By reading, you are going to learn so much. (2) Widen your vocabulary as these words are your weapons. Read the dictionary or thesaurus, learn at least 5 new words per day. (3) Write your personal journal, you may never realize it at the start, but this is a very good practice for you. (4) Assess yourself. Know what is your forte. Or the genre of writing you are good in. (5) Join a lot of literary platforms where you could showcase your talent, but never share everything there. Be wary of p people who might steal your poetic pearls and claim these to be theirs. Share a few, but leave a lot for yourself. (6) Keep a copy of all your writings whether these be in digital storage or the old-fashioned notebook. (Mine is both, I still love writing my poems on a nice notebook alongside with it, is a sketch of a beautiful flower that I might have seen in shirts, hankies, bags or blouses.) (7) Join a lot of prompts. Like what I said a while back, these let you think fast. Prompts also widen your imagination. (8) Be humble. No need to brag. As true talent is seen even if you don't show it. (9) Appreciate the works of fellow poets (old and new), as you will learn from these, too. (10) Maintain a clean heart, devoid of envy and also avoid being extremely emulous. (11) Thank God for everything. (As all these are nothing without Him). 7. Ok, Sugar, in front of us, is a crystal ball with your name on it and the words of a new poem just forming. In the future, what are your goals and what would make your creative side the most happy? Sugar: As of the moment, I am contented with coming out of my shell, sharing some pieces of my poetry, joining prompts, being included in anthologies and gaining friends. But in the future, I would love do do some collaborations with some friends...writing the very subjects hat inspire a lot of people. I would also love to author a book or two, someday. Carl: Thank you so much, for your answers as I and our readers wish you the best and will follow your journey of creativity. Sugar: Thank you so much for the opportunity for letting me spill a portion of myself. I hope my words would bring a smile in the face of people who read this. More power to ILA Magazine and the entire editorial team, most especially to Annette Nasser. More power to you. God bless you all. Image above, "Double exposure of Sugar Zedna", by Carl Scharwath Photo of our Interviewer, Carl Scharwath, at the beach. Carl Scharwath has appeared globally, with 150+ Journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays, plays or art photography (his photography was featured on the covers of 6 journals). Two poetry books, 'Journey to Become Forgotten' (Kind of Hurricane Press) and 'Abandoned' (ScarsTv), have been published. His first photography book was recently published by Praxis. Carl is Art Editor for Minute Magazine, a competitive runner and a 2nd degree Black-Belt in Taekwondo.

By: Summiaya Nilofer Kichloo You see, My Ammi- She tells me, How her ribs contract, Whenever she breathes, How her back aches, Whenever she sits for too long, How her eye lids feel heavy, Though she’s unable to sleep, How her nails- Have acquired a purple shade, Which is sick to the eye, How her bones crack, All of a sudden, How her pulse doesn't escalate, At a normal pace, How her bed, isn't warm anymore, How her eyes, They have lost its color, And that there's a void- Seeping thru her heart. How her fists, They aren't clenched anymore, How her body is weakening, And that she's losing everything, From the tips of her fingers, Like the pixie dust, the glamour- The glamour of grief, sorrow, empathy. But still you see, She awaits for me, With her arms wide open. To sing me lullabies, To bring me home, To shower all the pixie dust, That of love, and happiness, Over my distant being. All of that, When I cannot do things anymore, She encourages me to do it once more, When I think its all over, She tells me to start over, It’s all about her- After all, My Ammi. Poet's Bio: Summiaya Nilofer Kichloo is a student from the Kishtwar District of Chenab Valley, in Jammu/Kashmir. She is an avid and enthusiastic writer, penning both poetry and fiction. Her poetry covers a broad range of ideas, thoughts and philosophies. Currently, she is working as a freelance writer and columnist.

By: Summiaya Nilofer Kichloo Rice from a holy grain A tiny droplet of merciless rain Anatomy full of pain Terrifying armament facing this shame Buried framework Scorching sun Ruthless nights Dead sights Bloodlines Death of peace, I witnessed on this holy night. My death right across my eye May be measured casually or tonight. Ain't a job schedule of the dreams But might be the last one. Unsure if it's worthy tonight Joyful, favourable, advantageous, thoughtful Dream of my words Words of my dreams There are no longer stairs to walk down They are burnt forever Ain't no point of going down I'm already beneath Deep, very deep Underneath I walked down still No, we don't have funerals That's consistent A day with you, Another without. Yes, that's my mum Ain't no doubts, because Gunshots have always been loud. I hope my dad's alive Wait, am I still alive Is that hell life Or life after death Or both at once I have been broken; I have been apart, I have been dead, I have been hell, I have been all at once, through A Mercenaria All because I been a great, Great citizen of Kashmir. © Summiaya Nilofer Kichloo From Kishtwar District of Chenab Valley, Jammu/Kashmir Poet's Bio: Summiaya Nilofer Kichloo is a student from the Kishtwar District of Chenab Valley, in Jammu/Kashmir. She is an avid and enthusiastic writer, penning both poetry and fiction. Her poetry covers a broad range of ideas, thoughts and philosophies. Currently, she is working as a freelance writer and columnist.

HOPE I was murky, dull in a deep grief I just listened to a tiny beef, something was whispering "time has not gone" don't lose well as you have not won. This was hope still in my core telling me I deserve something much more it widened my lips and make me walk it gave me words and made me talk. It made me dream beyond the sky it held my hand and taught me to fly It awoke my wishes which were slept It brought back the happiness that was theft. It made me confident wherever I been It made me do what no one has seen!

February 2021 SAME BREATHS Oh day! I'm tired of you Same the sunrise from hills And boil wounds to highs Where you rest at night I will change that nation. A year is just a day The blood lacks vitality Else, the ears are bored And eyes fell down daily. Songs, I listen many Several lines I remember With same melody I murmur Cause the felling of words. By my side, death laughs "Million streets I changed Billions are my homes I lament, I serve Still, I'm a knight." Ordeal, hate or love, what? I'm lost in heart's pother. Mutely moon appears always Never brings tidings along How the day will converse At least I can slumber long. Time's soul is busy in ruining My soul revolves around!!! © Bur Han

FEATURED POEMS of DR. MUDASIR AHMAD GORI February 2021 SCREAMING SILENCE Words are missing The silence hides a scream Yet it interconnects. It is born out of repression And aims to liberate my soul From the inaudible storms That have nurtured ages ago. I remained silent for "The deepest rivers are the quietest." The frozen soul has melted and Crying. Words are missing But a lot has been said Screams have reached to the deaf ears To the stone hearted folks With a hope That no other soul has to scream in silence. © Dr. Mudasir Ahmad Gori AGONIZED HUMANS Immortalized dead bodies, My young progeny, Destined to drive us across the shore. These pearls have fallen to bullets, Their innocent bodies pierced with deadly metal. Screeches of sisters echo, Stains of blood on mourners are evident. The perfume of grief, The sobs of mothers, Elders sniveling, stand still. The fights to have the remaining relics of brave hearts, Last glimpse before the send-off, To the world of eternity. The shroud of the martyr Deck with garlands and cologne, Hands festooned with myrtle. © Dr. Mudasir Ahmad Gori. Dr. Mudasir Ahmad Gori (BA, B. Ed, MA, M. Phil, Ph.D. (English) & TS-SET). Dr. Mudasir Ahmad Gori did his Post-Graduation in English Literature from Bundelkhand University Jhansi UP in 2010 (Gold Medalist). Dr. Gori did his M. Phil from Vikram University Ujjain MP and pursued Ph.D. from Department of English, Maulana Azad National Urdu University, Hyderabad, Telangana, India. He has also qualified for TS-SET in the year 2019. Dr. Gori is presently working as Guest Faculty at The Directorate of Distance Education, Maulana Azad National Urdu University. He has published several peer-reviewed research papers in various reputed journals apart from penning down more than 50 articles in both English and Urdu languages, in International, National, and Local Newspapers. Dr. Gori has written several poems and some of them have been published in reputed journals like, 'Teesta Review', 'Kashmiri Adabi Markaz Kaamraaz', to name a few. His upcoming book, "Screaming Silence", will be published soon.

February 2021 HUM OF HUMANITY Universal wailing rainforest burning choking up the atmosphere - Rivers clogging newsreels spinning daily global grinding gnashing of hungry Children gulping polluted air just hoping to stay alive whilst mothers desperately kneel in dark corners begging for open borders so their innocent children can be saved from starvation sickness and zero nutrition hoping desperately for charity angels to soothe their daily lament maybe even miraculously Create healing smiles to brighten young eyes and sing, jump, shout, with glee in an imagined childhood expected reverie but that was not meant to be as Power hungry rulers insist on continued global crashes stifling words halting progress destroying humanitarian bridges causing existential seizures A cry, a prayer, a melodic lament, hands raised to the heavens, a plea for invading forces to end their tyranny hopefully embracing humanity but what about the children? They beg, they crawl, they cry, they die, they plead, they bleed - Come, join in this global chorus, add your notes to the hum of humanity... © Don Beukes WARPED CHIRALITY We are meant to be part of the same species yet you forge your own warped realities pretending confessing announcing orating your alternative existence from ideas born from your elected ignorance - Listening absorbing accepting broken lullabies from hoarse false poison-tipped tongues of larks whispering untruths spinning words But you allow your essence to soak up its negativity garnered from deformed misguided mentalities now so twisted you just cannot resist owning that leaking, lying Legacy - You see me as an unknown racial oddity not knowing my true mixed race Genealogy As you burn your obvious dislike for me through my startled pores but I see you as a lonely lost soul indoctrinated by spiral ideologies bleeding through you for generations whose voices now whisper even taunting you to throw that stone clutched in your shaking hand. Your conflicting inner rage I can somehow understand, even pity you, but here I am, about to become just another statistic of divisive rhetoric and there you are, contemplating my fate - just another unfortunate fatality in Our Warped chirality © Don Beukes Don Beukes is a South African and British writer. He is the author of 'The Salamander Chronicles' (CTU) and 'Icarus Rising - Volume I' (ABP), an ekphrastic collection. He taught English and Geography in both South Africa and the UK. His poetry has been anthologized in numerous collections and translated into Afrikaans, Persian, French and Albanian. He was nominated by Roxana Nastase, Editor of Scarlet Leaf Review, for the 'Best of the Net' in 2017 as well as the Pushcart Poetry Prize (USA) in 2016. He was published in his first SA Anthology, 'In Pursuit of Poetic Perfection' in 2018 (Libbo Publishers) and his second, 'Cape Sounds', in 2019 (Gavin Joachims Publishing). He is also an amateur photographer and his debut Photographic publication appeared in Spirit Fire Review in June 2019. His new book, 'Sic Transit Gloria Mundi/Thus Passes the Glory of this World', is due to be published by Concrete Mist Press.

February 2021 Art by Elaine Yanni Shimmering wings of spirit Heart tremulous with light Winging to heaven in majestic flight Hope is the passenger Hitching a ride Into the realms of time Delight to discover The way is illuminated Past diminishing Present Future refined Searching the sky Spirit soaring above Hope everlasting never ending Display of faith and love © Elaine Yanni