Poetry - Nurul Azkiya Putrisyah

A Mystery - Warqua Marium

Differential - Wael Almahdi

Covered and Uncovered - Kaylee Bravo

Were you, Mary? - Laith Ali

A Calm Satiety! - Mariya Siddiqui 

Sight of a Monotone Hush! - Mariya Siddiqui 

Singing Through the Shadows - Atefeh Elekaei

Cycle of Life - Nehar Amin

The end - Mila Long

Marz u Had - Marwane El Mahi

Buddhist Scriptures & Broadcasting Machines/Chin Up -  Lareina Yuan

Who am I if not myself? - Abby Hodge

Echoes of Childhood Summers - Maria Schulze

Pickle Brine for the Soul - Ishima Kayal Merimus J S

Echoes of the Flowerpot/Deutschland: Auferstehen aus den Trümmern (Germany : Rising from the Ruins) - Soniya Prajapati 

Catching Dandelions - Eunice A.

By Nurul Azkiya Putrisyah

Nurul Azkiya Putrisyah, an English literature student at Universitas Bangka Belitung who’s passionate about art, film, literary, music, and digital media. She loves exploring how life works through involvement with social and artistic systems.

Layered

Sunday afternoon where one o’clock hits

And I’m waiting for your text

You should have been the one who needed to wait for me instead

Where are you sweetheart?

Send me a hi (hi, hi, hi)

Every second, every minute, every time changes and I’m still here

Waiting for your existence to appear

You’ve always been on my top list

You’re the first pinned person on mine

So where are you?

Bae, I’d give up everything to travel inside your soul

By Wael Almahdi

Wael Almahdi is a poet, translator, and healthcare professional from Bahrain. His forthcoming collection, titled A Breeze From The East, explores Mashriqi English, a poetic register than blends English with the Perso-Arabic literary tradition. 

Differential

In the tastefully lit supermarket

the bearded, the head-covered haul 

while the sunburnt—

venturing off the fenced compound

graze.

In the dairy section

everyone knows their role.

By Laith Ali

""Were you, Mary?" May 3, 2024"

"This confessional poem discusses sexuality in relation to mental disorders, queer identity issues, and absence of love; and themes of despair and recurrence, where the speaker's experience became a Sisyphean struggle to the point where he accuses Virgin Mary of lying out of shame like himself. As well as feelings of "otherness" within a group of othered outsiders."

Too loose and easily persuaded

For a virgin heart.

It's all used up,

For each of the times

Delusion swarmed its vessels,

So it skipped a beat,

So I let go of breakfast,

And my body rewards me 

With a parallel of an empty chest

And an empty stomach.

In such parallel, libido destabilizes

And It squeaks and chirps,

Moving downwards.

An eel so silky and tempting to touch,

But if I do, electricity sends a neuron

To my brain telling it to skip lunch.

This way, I get neither.

The electric shock,

Too strong to pet it for longer.

Too weak to repel me.

I am left staring at the molding ceiling.

Some strangers are stranger than others.

It's only been two meals;

I don't get to have my big reward yet.

So I call a stranger who's too strange for my liking.

What happens after that is never pleasant, 

Yet I do it every time.

Again. Again. Again.

Then I feel defeated.

I eat breakfast, lunch and dinner all together.

A single big meal.

A single looming feeling and result.

A disaster. A big looming disaster.

Mary, o Mary.

Why'd you lie?

Was he too strange for you to like, too?

Did you zone out of your body 

To kill time while it lasted?

Were you afraid to admit?

Were you afraid to admit

That you hadn't the charms

To make the Eyes of a stranger

Less strange than a father Lazy?

Were you Mary, O Mary… were you?

By Mariya Siddiqui 

Mariya is a girl who's a Microbiologist but loves to pen down whatever she feels. Wants to spread a shade of words for souls to seek beneath her write ups and glow above the horizon. She's into the chirps of birds and verses of Ruskin bond along with searching for the unseen, the microbes!!

Exact is the storm, utmost is its tone,

Distinct the instinct of silence around a stone.

Listening to the unheard that whispers a bird,

Of love being the source of the sounds murmured....!

Restoring peace in your barren land,

Greasing the same with a stearing span!

Capturing the essence of chirping that surrounds,

Rustling of leaves brings the beauty so unbound!

But only if that self of yours,

Ignoring the inner voice at all costs!

Once in a moon so red accepts the patience,

Of waiting for love and sublime affection,

Searching for a bead in water so deep,

You'll find your own whisper and leap,

Above the limit of sky so steep,

Oh! The real flower's blooming within the origin of thee!

By Nehar Amin

creative writer for the past five years. recently began poetry.

Our words haunt the tongues that speak them into existence, and then we say it again. It’s the cycle of life. We always haunt those who bring us into this world- the greatest masterpiece they’ve created and somehow their greater tragedy. It’s a cacophony of stories from a world you only know from summer vacations and WhatsApp FaceTimes. In this world, the one you’re part of, you learn the facade- how to cover those who claim to be protectors. How to hide behind pearl straight teeth and scraping pencils on 800-page textbooks, because what are you, if not their greatest achievement? Shiny gold trophies on your bookshelves, medals that choke and smother the visceral version of you, that you’re so desperate for someone to see. Somewhere down the line, you begin to wither into the hollow that’s been caving into your chest, the moment your parents sacrificed everything to come here. Grip at the broken beams, balance on this tightrope, let yourself fall into this new world- but don’t be too long. It’s dinner in an hour, and then you have to sleep early. 

By Marwane El Mahi

He is passionate about History, linguistics and poetry. French is his mother tongue as well as Moroccan Darija. This is the first time that he wrote poetry in English and Arabic. He is fond of travel and the books are his childhood friends.  

1. English poem : 

Arabs talk about « Had, Hudud », Turks about « Sinir, Serhad », Persians about « Marz »

3 languages, one civilisation but no one to rule them

The marvels of humankind, 3 distinct families and they create what looks like a diadem

=>

I always considered myself as an African, how can they tell me that the Sahara is a barrier ?

Who are they to decide for me, that the sand is not a wonderful path but a frontier ?

I always travel, if not physically, by the screen or with the book ?

Why does it seem always the same, like an algorithmic-made Facebook ?

=>

Borderline US criminals, erased brown people, as said Sanskrit : “peace in the jungle”

Borders, oh adumbrated furrows, can we format you so we get out from the struggle ?

Who dares to define you as a limit and not as you see thyself ?

One and plural at the same time, my poor language is like a dwarf in front of an elf

=>

For me, oh fellow traverler, you are the origin and not the end

If Ahasverus was a myth, maybe can we become legend

2. Arabic poem with English translation : 

أفقا أفق

هل للبرزخ حد ؟

غربة الغروب

اين الوطن ؟

هل فينا انطوى العالم كما قال الامام

ما فائدة الجواز

وأنا ,بدون رحلة, اسافر

هل الحدود مفروضة في عالم الأحلام ؟

سجل

انا انساني

وليس لدي أي رقم

مهما كانت العراقيل والحواجز

لا يمكن سجن المشاعر والأفكار

وكما نشتاق إلى الحرية, ربما سنكون احرارعندما تصبح فلسطين حرة إلى الأبد

Horizon to horizon

Does the Barzakh have a limit?

The estrangement of the disappearance

Where is the homeland?

Can the world be contained within us as the Imam said?

What is the benefit of the passport?

And I, without journeying, travel.

Are there boundaries imposed in the world of dreams?

Write down

I am a human.

And I don't have any number.

No matter what the obstacles and barriers are.

Feelings and thoughts cannot be imprisoned.

Just as we long for freedom, perhaps we will be free when Palestine is free forever.

3. French poem with translation :

 La frontière, ce n’est ni les murs, ni les grillages

 Pour un jeune enfant, la frontière est la séparation entre les voisinages 

Comme le dit Abd al Malik, « C'est pas la rue en elle-même, c'est pas juste la cité HLM. C'est la perception qu'on a d'nous à travers elle, c'est la perception qu'on a d'nous-même »

 La frontière est d’abord une construction mentale, d’aucuns diront un blasphème

 Mémoires de fils d’immigré, c’est tout ce dont je me rappelle

 Nomades, frontaliers, étrangers, de génération en génération

 La frontière est en nous et d’elle nous provenons, provenions

 On dit que la mer est une réminiscence de notre Terre

Qu’importe les barrières, nous serons toujours ses enfants adorés, pour notre chère mère

 La plume du poète a tant célébré la nostalgie, la séparation, la douleur et la joie

 En mon nom, je parle mais comment pourront s’exprimer les voix de ceux qui ont perdu leur voix ?

 Comment raconter les voies de ceux et celles qui ne savent ou ne peuvent exprimer leur histoire, leur choix ?

 Car l’être humain n’a de limites que soi-même

 Et la bordure qui nous sépare ne peut-elle devenir l’enfant qui est bordé par ses père et mère ?

The border is neither the walls nor the fences

For a young child, the border is the separation between neighborhoods 

As Abd al Malik says, "It's not the street itself, it's not just the ghetto. It is the perception that we have of ourselves through it, it is the perception that we have of ourselves"

 The border is first of all a mental construction, some will say a blasphemy

 Memories of an immigrant's son, that's all I remember

 Nomads, border dwellers, foreigners, for generations

 The border is within us and from it we come, came

 It is said that the sea is a reminiscence of our Earth

 Whatever the barriers, we will always be her adored children, for our dear mother

 The poet's pen celebrated nostalgia, separation, pain and joy so much

 I speak in my name, but how will the voices of those who have lost their voice be expressed?

 How can we tell the ways of those who do not know or cannot express their story, their choice?

 For the human being has no limits except himself

 And cannot the border that separates us become the child who is tucked by his father and mother?

By Abby Hodge

Abby Hodge is a sixteen-year-old writer from North Carolina. She was first published as a freshman in high school, where she went on to be featured in two literacy magazines at the age of fifteen. She has written over one hundred poems in three years, and she aspires to publish a poetry book one day. 

At the time I am writing this, I have been alive for sixteen years, ninety-three days, and seventeen hours. Since that day in 2009, I have been a hundred people, subtle echoes of the same girl. In the same way that my eyes turned from blue to green as I aged, my personality has shifted tremendously as well. 

The Performer:

     One of my earliest memories was of four-year-old me in ballet class, preparing to make my debut on the stage, a place that I would continue to linger until my body gave out over a decade later. I believe that performing arts has shaped me in the same way that a hand can shape a lump of clay into a masterpiece. From an early age, I was conditioned to associate bright lights and music with ecstasy, a sort of euphoric feeling that washed over me the way sunlight can bathe a person during a summer day.  The arts were my way of connecting with the world, a piece of my life where I am untouchable, both mentally and physically. Whether I was backstage, running through numbers in my head, marking them as I went, or blinded by the lights and the deafening music, I was home. I was safe.

The Patient:

     However, a lesson I learned many times over in my lifetime is that what comes up must come down. I was young, unbound, and high on life: the crash was almost poetic. In the same way that a body of water ripples, my life distorted and changed until it was something I no longer recognized, and I was something I no longer recognized. I was fourteen when my world broke down. I was fifteen when I started to pick myself up, and I was sixteen when I could finally look at myself and not see a fractured soul. Everyone looked at me then —parents, friends, and classmates — but I couldn't look back. I could not see past my pain and suffering far enough to see that there were people out there who cared. But they were always there, and even when I could not admit I needed help, they were there ready to catch me when I inevitably fell, and boy did I fall hard. 

The Poet: 

     As the world got heavier, so did my words. My pen became a double-edged sword, cutting down people with it, but inadvertently hurting myself in the process. I could not talk about it, so I wrote. Poem after poem, line after line until I could feel nothing. And when I could no longer write about my pain, I wrote about others. The words echoed in my mind as loudly as the changes in my mood, further isolating myself from the bright girl I once was. If I couldn’t be the soldier, fearless as my younger self when braving the stage, and if I couldn’t be the king, powerful in mind and soul, then I would be the poet and write my way through. 

The Phoenix: 

     Much like a phoenix rises from the ashes, I rose from my troubles. The cycle of life is undoubtedly cruel and finite, it is also a chance for redemption, an ideal that is so often admired, but rarely acted upon. And while I am no Odysseus, a man whose actions defied nature itself, I am also not allowing myself to give up. Self-growth is never easy, and it's nearly impossible to separate yourself from who you once were. Life itself is difficult, a lesson that everyone comes to learn eventually, however the best things in life are nearly impossible to obtain. Without a doubt, I am not the girl who stands backstage, awaiting the applauding crowd, nor am I the girl who couldn’t understand the idea of love. Instead, I am a mosaic of everything I have endured until now, with bits and pieces of me sticking out in odd ways, however, I am truly myself: today, tomorrow, and for the rest of my life.

By Ishima Kayal Merimus J S

She’s an artsy type this one. Life drudges her out when it’s 9-5, but she thrives when creating. She doesn’t write much poetry, is mostly a screenplay, play and game writer— but writing bores her when it becomes work, and poetry flows whenever there’s drama in her life(important to note that Celena does not invite drama or manifest it, it just keeps finding her). So here she is, submitting her overflow of emotions because what good are they hidden in her pages? 

PICKLE BRINE FOR THE SOUL 

-Celena Merrimus 

My heart knew;

It knew all too well

Too well to let it sink in

I’ve wallowed in your love long enough now

For the lie to marinate 

Till I was none

But pickle brine for your soul

And you were none 

But the jar that held me in lies

All that I did not let sink in,

Now I drown in.

And we were none, 

But a jar and its brine

Till I was too sour for your liking

And then we were none. 

By Eunice A.

There is nothing, except for the carves on the cold wall behind me. I trace my fingers to its shallow curves: “I was here”. No name or initials followed, only questions unanswered. Slumping back on the wall, I close my eyes and succumb to the chill. “Please, remember me,” a voice whispers from the cement, “I haven’t cried in so long, in so long.” 

  I shivered, backing away from the wall. But then, my throat felt heavy with unsaid words and my eyes became bleary. It’s too much. I curl my legs up to my chest; if I make myself smaller, maybe the sadness will feel smaller too. Whirr. Looking up, I see a ceiling fan, a desk full of books, an unmade bed, and beige walls – the nearest one had something written… or carved? It all flickered out when I tried to get closer. Cement walls and floors. Cold. 

“In so long.”

  Now it’s uncertain which way to go would bring me safety, as light is scarce again. Slowly, I gather myself to walk away, and everything’s lighter or normal. Focus on something else, focus on something else. 

One, two, three, four… 

One, two, three, four… 

One, two – What? 

  My foot stepped on something lower, uneven compared to the rest of the flooring. I can’t pull it out. I knelt down to inspect it, using my hands to see. Another carving, but it hollowed out a piece of the floor with a footprint shape fitting mine, and a wire holding me down? “No one will even know,” a girl laughs softly from the floor, “These soils are unknown! Ha! We’re the first!” 

  What is this? I stumble backwards from yanking out the line, next thing I hear is a whirring that sounds like something’s definitely collapsing. Holy– 

  Running as fast as I could into more uncertainty, the whispers ran after me too. 

“Ha ha! We’re the first! We’re the first! The –” first? That voice. It must be familiar, because I could feel myself smiling. I slow down, heaving air and hoping I’m not being insane. My adrenaline was replaced by a comforting warmth, like a fire born from love and not survival. I feel it, I’m happy. How?

  I start to laugh with the remains of the whispers, and now the black all around is a lush green and an orange hue coursed through leaves above and the floor is soil. I’m alive. “Alaya! We can look around later, let’s go! Sunrise is coming soon!” And everything stopped. 

  The chill bit my skin, ashening the comforting warmth. Silence. Darkness again. Is that my name? Who is that? I have to figure out what this place is and escape without losing my mind, so I continue walking — carefully now. Although it is confusing as to how far these floors are stretching, as much as I remember, I haven’t turned at all. Oh. I should’ve thought of it sooner. 

  I make my way to the left first and keep my arms up in front trying to touch anything — preferably a door —  but then I still keep walking. Is this just a huge open and cold space? Enough of my patience and time has passed, so I turned with numbing arms but then my hand hit something solid and warm. I yelp back. Still loving the darkness, for sure. 

  Feeling that solid thing again with my hands, I think my eyes have adapted to the darkness. There’s this silhouette of a weirdly shaped table or a short post. Atop it is a vase, it has nothing inside and wouldn’t budge. I stare at it until I see a small chip. Another small carving on the porcelain’s side. This place is just obsessed with carvings, isn’t it? 

  It’s a symbol this time, and it looks like a flower, a… uhm… dandelion! Well great, this does absolutely nothing except molding my curiosity even bigger. I look around again for a shadow or silhouette or anything. But there’s nothing. 

  Squatting down, I inspect the post holding the vase and see a small circle on the very bottom, the size of a button. Well, well. With no desire to cluelessly walk again, I press it. Another whirring emerged from the base of the post as I slowly stepped backwards to give it space for whatever’s going to happen. 

  Clink. 

 I’m squinting my eyes and nothing happened. Is this thing serious? Then what’s the point for this to be here? I circle the post and the vase for new details, yet it’s unchanged. “C’mon!” I kicked the post and only the pain moved inside me. “Something has to happen!” I scream. 

  Clink.

  I pause. Then suddenly, I’m shaking. My chest is aching for air as if I’ve run a hundred miles, and my fists are balled tightly. “Just shut up!” A voice snapped all around, then a warm and sore streak rose on the left side of my face. “You’re too young to understand, Alaya!” The door slams hard in this new room with white walls, a rustic chair, and abstract paintings. “But it’s not fair!” I shout back, surprising myself why I even responded to a stranger. Walking to the door, I turn the knob but it’s locked. “You’re too young to understand, Dahlia!” It echoed. 

  Everything is heavy and light, all at once. I touched my left cheek and it stung, was I slapped? There’s a fire scorching my insides and I start hitting the knob using my right elbow. “Let me out! I don’t deserve this!” I scream at… Dad? I stop. There’s something I’m missing. How did I get here? What happened? Darkness spreads all around again, and it’s like staring into the abyss. I’m forgetting… Have I forgotten?

 “I haven’t cried in so long, it feels like it’s too much.”

   You’ll be okay, I know it. I think, looking in the mirror.  

“We’re almost there Alaya!” 

                 Cori? I’m so excited! All those weeks of preparation and hours of hiking is worth it! 

“Just shut up!”

    Why would I, Dad? I have a voice too. 

“Let’s go back to this place one day.” 

    We should, it feels like home and a warm cup of tea. 

“Why’s this happening?” 

    I’m sorry, Mom. We’ll find a way like we always do. 

“Redo all this work immediately.” 

     What’s wrong? I poured hours over that, Sir. It complies with the requirements.

“We have to get most people to safety, this is the way to do it… this is the only side effect.”

    Are you sure? There has to be another way. 

“Congratulations on this great achievement. It’s a breakthrough!” 

     Thank you, Ms! Yes, I’ll prepare my presentation very soon.

“You and your family are part of this list, we hope to see you in a few centuries again.”

      How many others are on board? Tell me, please. Let more in, okay? 

“Do you remember those days?”

       I do, I remember and I’m so grateful it happened. 

And I fall, expecting hard ground but it’s soft, so soft. 

  A beeping monitor awakes me in a bright room. An IV drip connected to my hand. Outlines of neon blue spread from the ceiling and the floor’s baseboards. Gray walls. A dandelion carved on the door. Warm bed. Where am I? 

  “Alaya?” A white-coated man with a stethoscope draped around his neck came through the door, holding a glass of water. “Yes?” I responded. 

Placing down the glass on the table at my side, he smiles at me softly, “I’m Doctor Draven and I’m glad it worked well.”

“What did? Wait, don’t I have things to do? Where are my family and friends?” 

  “Don’t worry about that now. I wouldn’t want to disorient you too much. This treatment was created for the side effect of preserving bodies – memory loss – while the government’s scheme of ‘Earth Mending’ began; of course there will be follow-up tests to really see if it worked, but your behaviour right now should bear positive results.”

“Oh. Right. Well, I thought I was going crazy in there, hearing whirring sounds and whispers and vivid memories.”

  “That’s normal. Those whispers came from remembering, the whirring was the machinery that set the details and atmosphere. We had to trigger hefty emotions for you to associate with people and happenings in your own life. So, we did our best to place hints and restructured the room according to how you’d decide, then progressively remember your memories.”

  “Ah, I see. That reminds me… was it based on my research?”

  “Yes, it was a vital contribution for the establishment of the now ‘Catching Dandelions’ and it has helped patients throughout the centuries.”

  “I’m so glad. How many people, Doctor Draven? We were aiming for at least 80% of the world’s population for this treatment.” 

  Ding. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t like the answer to that, Alaya. But –”

  “What’s that sound? I don’t understand. Before this was set in motion I specifically stated how it was made to accommodate almost all kinds of genetics and conditions...” 

  Ding. “The ‘Earth Mending’ scheme was not only for our home, Alaya, it was also used for those the government wanted or those who did not respond well after the ‘C.D. treatment.’” 

  “What are you saying?”

  Ding. “It was too costly, Alaya. They saved their resources and time for more impOrtant tHinGs…”

  “Why did you garble at the end? Is that, what…” I look closely at Doctor Draven now, and notice a dim shine of red in his eyes. 

  Ding. “Final Warning,” said by a monotonous voice coming from Doctor Draven, but his mouth was not moving. 

  “Alaya, Earth Mending is using people’s minds – healthy or not – as a learning base for modern artificial intelligence. They want us to remember to mend humanity’s deficiencies and bolster our strengths, until we’re no longer needed. I’m sorry — INITIATE SELF — get out, before I kill you, too.” 

              Without any further thinking, I rip off the IV line and run past Doctor Draven with a medical gown and bare feet. Locking the door behind me, BOOM.

                Must’ve flown a few steps back with the new bruise I could feel on my hip. Damn it. I don’t know where to go and this place is most likely flooding with things like him. 

                “Ms. Alaya?” A sweet voice from behind me asks, “We need your services now that you’re back.” I turn around to see another “doctor” holding a new set of clothes and a brighter smile. 

                  Cautiously I take the garments and ask, “Thank you, and what for?” It laughed, red eyes flashing. “For you to conduct the rest of the memory loss C.D. treatments, of course. You know your research best. As you have concluded in your paper, ‘nothing lingers longer than emotions, so let’s use it to awaken yesterday and tomorrow’.”