Art

Stages of Becoming - Nafisa Tafannum

Anatomy of Becoming: Flesh, Bring Forth Flora

Static Silhouettes - Zaina Alam Piya

Writing

The Shape of Becoming - Trisha Ghosh

Tempting Waters/Extinguished - Jana Al Aqqad

Piquant Rips of Weird Waggery - Nicholas Viglietti 

Self - Love - Olivia Serrano

Moving my identity - Maryam Rufai

Willow in the wind - Corazon Elliott

The Lake's Lullaby/Ballad of a Young Bard/(unraveled) lovebirds - Gabriela Rocha Mello

The National Traitor - C. J. Anderson-Wu

Bittersweet Sinner, The Grass Is Green This Time,The Girl of My Dreams - Jezabel Castillo

In need of a Poet - Mawande Papiyana

Blue Butterflies, Come Red Moths - Sophia Floro

Slumber, Like Dripping Sky - Liu Yuniang

Patience - Mahailey Oliver

Lower Thyself - Reebie Ann Flowers

The Bureau of Minor Domestic Losses - Aardhra Chandran

My Adopted Dog Is An Accidental Exorcist - Sushanth Shyamsundar

Questions for the Butterfly - Hagintha Woods

Just Suppose - Milton Lopez Delgado

By Jana Al Aqqad 

Jana Al Aqqad is a Palestinian Canadian poet and Industrial Design student at OCAD University. Her poetry explores themes of identity, belonging, vulnerability, and the human psyche. She is also passionate about photography and design, and is currently working on her debut poetry collection, Unveiling the Soul.

"Tempting Waters"

I let my palms sink into desire,

like the water was a whirlpool, 

but the situation grew dire, 

legs entangled like a fool 

I let my arms brush the waves, 

drowning in the worldly weight, 

─as if my naive state expires, 

the minute it’s past midnight

"Extinguished"

My heart was covered in flames,

burning all the hues that kept me sane,

until one day I got up, 

and went for a swim.

By Nicholas Viglietti 

Nicholas Viglietti is a writer from Sacramento, CA. After Katrina ravaged the gulf coast, he rebuilt homes there for 2 years. Up in Mon-tucky, he cut trails in the wilderness. He pedaled from Sac-town to S.D. He’s a seventh-life party-hack, attempting to rip chill lines in the madness. www.clipsfromtheclose-out.com 

Swim With Shark Fins 

The world is a wash. 

It was meant to be that way. 

Sandy particle people – 

Washed – 

by the insanity of the tide 

The rush of shifting waves 

Care about your drift 

Focus on your drift 

Like selfish pride. 

Time and directions 

Will shift how you think 

stay strange 

drift on 

and find a slice of mind 

and float 

to where you belong. 

Think like how you dare 

Genuine permutates rare 

Sparks of us down here, 

and sparks 

above 

up there. 

Think along your own lines, 

Get smashed in the collapse 

of the barrel – 

the thrash 

can be good, sometimes. 

To know yourself, 

hear all the voices. 

scrambled in the wash, 

from top 

to underneath, 

and never lose 

the shark 

in your teeth. 

                                     In Dark Neon Rooms  

My heart’s drinkin’ tonight; 

Hope & soul, 

Bobby Womack croons a sad tune.  

There’s no neon  

In this dimly lit room, 

The bars don’t love me,  

Anymore. 

Not that they ever really did. 

But when the moneys gone,  

You can be totally sure.   

Sober’s worst reminder;  

Hell of a sting, you can’t ignore.  

The empty void,  

Penurious pockets and no stools  

Exacerbate the lone-hearted abyss.   

Wallets with thick green stacks  

Have all the fun. 

They never drink lonely, 

And at the end of ice-cold mugs, 

They get refills – 

Overpours and slightly foamy. 

They can buy the tunes,  

Pay for hours to pass with more booze; 

Really drown the broken-hearts 

With cracks splintered deep and loose. 

Too bad,  

Ya gotta pay for the privilege  

To drink peace in dark 

Neon rooms. 

                                           The Dumb and Damn of It 

I don’t like when I don’t feel heard.  

Kinda shit makes me angry,  

Bristlin’ emotionally,  

Like passin’ a stiff,  

Heavy turd – 

Hell,  

I can get so riled up  

That I might even punch a nerd.  

Gotta laugh.... 

The dumb and damn irony:  

The way I act 

Silences all my words. 

By Olivia Serrano

"My poem Self - Love is about the struggle of trying to love yourself while constantly feeling hated by everyone around you. It is about having GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder) as well as sever social anxiety. It is hard to love yourself when you constantly overthink everything. It is a haiku."

Self - Love

How am I supposed

To love myself when it feels

Like the world hates me?

By Maryam Rufai

Maryam Adebola Rufai is a 13 year old girl, born in Brooklyn, New York. Her family hails from Nigeria. All her life she has been one to dream of caring for kids and bring justice. She finds solace in reading and writing. She dreams of being a Supreme court justice, to bearing hope and justice the corrupt system we call America's administration.

I stood in front of my class, 

holding back tears as I announced my departure.

I was looking at my friends,

hoping they'd miss me.

But her words rang in my ear, 

From then till now.

"What do you do about a mean friend?"

I moved,

I balled my eyes out, but I moved.

I sat in a new class,

met new people.

I moved from friend group,

to friend group.

I settle in a trio,

and grew doubts.

Three years passed and I still hear it,

the words spoke by a 5 year long friend.

I became nicer,

Lived by, "treat people the way you want to be treated."

I still don't fit in,

but its fine.

Sometimes,

even if it hurts.

You don't need to belong.

By Corazon Elliott

    Willow in the wind

               Learn this early on your own, or fate will make you understand, 

          that life will test you everyday, and that those tests define a man.

         Always stand with shoulders back. never break but learn to bend.

           Waver with the changing tide...just like a willow in the wind.

                 Even when nobody sees, do what's noble, do what's right.

              Let honor ride with you by day...so glory tucks you in at night.

                 Be quick to give and slow to take. Never take the very best.

              A tougher man has lesser needs, so let the needy have the rest.

                Always keep your standards high. Give your best in all you do.

              You may sweat a little more, but others may just follow suit.  

           Never walk with nodded head. Shed no tears on bended knee.

          Don't be hostage to your fears. A tougher hide will keep you free.

           Walk away from angry men, and fight your battles from afar...

         ...but if the battle follows you...hit them first, fast and hard.

               Be on time, keep your word. Cast your promises in stone.

             Always stand up for the weak...even when you stand alone.

            Find the woman that you love. don't fall for one along the way.

          If you leave it up to chance, the odds are slim she's there to stay.

             When you find your only love, keep your heart forever true. 

          Your souls will mingle into one, and she'll become a part of you.

             Celebrate her softer ways. Sniff her neck and kiss her hand.

           It's the sashay in a woman... that keeps the swagger in a man.

              Live and laugh and love as one, side by side and eye to eye. 

          Never mind the twists and turns... as long as you enjoy the ride.

By Gabriela Rocha Mello

Gabriela R.M. is a young writer from southern Brazil. She is constantly trying to balance her love for science and art, while being an overachiever and a movie-obsessed yapper. 

1) The Lake’s Lullaby 

There once was, between the woods,  

Between the dirt and the green, clean grass,  

Standing like a clover, a young and witty lass.  

She once wore her blue-colored hood  

To hide her see-through wings.  

She sat beside her hope,  

Holding still the final string,  

Then, went down along the slope.  

Now she’s all alone,  

Looking through the lake’s mirror,  

Staring at her scattered bones.  

Her tongue, as sweet as syrup,  

Singing an ancient lullaby song. 

2) Ballad of a Young Bard  

Have you ever heard about the girl with 

Long sparkling dresses and 

Filthy, dark hair. 

A devastating charm, 

And a killing pain. 

When she turned seventeen 

Do you remember when they drank up her blood and 

Filled her eyes with honey? 

When she turned twenty 

She soaked her long dresses with tears and 

Silver nuggets and 

Parts of her heart that 

Once fell apart  

And couldn’t fit together anymore.

If you run out of space continue here! (writing)

3) (unraveled) lovebirds 

Inside my room 

I sew your fate 

Your faith is the mattress I lay on 

But do not lie upon my love 

Your love, the sheet I hide in 

I replay the one time I 

Stole your last name, 

And placed it next to mine 

I imagine figuring you out 

Once again 

You’re the mystery 

In my memory book 

The blank box I 

Always left unmarked

By C. J. Anderson-Wu

C. J. Anderson-Wu (吳介禎) is a Taiwanese writer and literary activist whose work explores historical trauma, transitional justice, and human rights. Her short story collections Impossible to Swallow and The Surveillance examine Taiwan’s White Terror era, while Endangered Youth—Taiwan, Hong Kong, Ukraine and her poetry collection Clear My Name—Taiwan, Hong Kong, Ukraine expand her focus to global struggles for freedom and sovereignty. Her writing has been recognized by numerous  International awards, including the Writers' Mastermind Contest, the Human Rights Art Festival, the Strands Lit International Flash Fiction Competition, the Invisible City Blurred Genre Literature Competition, the Wordweavers Literature Contest, the Flying Island Poetry Manuscript Contest, the Premio Letterario Internazionale Città di Arona, and the Miserere Review Writing Competition.

The National Traitor

Jiang Ming-Shun was twenty-four when Taiwan’s travel ban under the Martial Law was lifted in 1987, right after he had completed his two years of mandatory military service. He was determined to do something he hadn’t been allowed to do before—leave Taiwan.

Jiang Ming-Shun studied English whenever he could, relying on TOEFL and GRE practice materials from cram schools. He chose not to attend cram schools, determined to save every dollar for his living expenses abroad. A Public Administration major at one of Taiwan’s top public universities, Ming-Shun earned high marks throughout his four years of study. After poring over a map of the United States, he set his sights on graduate schools along the West Coast—closer to Taiwan and more accessible than those in the Midwest or East Coast. While tuition and living costs in the cities on the West Coast were generally higher, he reasoned that he wouldn’t be able to afford a car, something almost essential for life in the Midwest.

Ming-Shun’s GPA wasn’t bad, and his TOEFL and GRE scores were good. Finding three recommendation letters was challenging; he knew few people of certain status to recommend him. Additionally, as the son of a "national traitor," most people stayed away from Ming-Shun to avoid trouble. After some quiet efforts, Ming-Shun finally found a professor who had just returned to Taiwan from the US and a former legislator who was one of the few voices openly opposing the ruling party. Ming-Shun still needed a third person for a recommendation letter.

Ming-Shun couldn’t have imagined that, more than thirty years later, he would be writing so many recommendation letters for students from universities in Hong Kong, even though he barely knew them. For decades, being a student overseas has been the first step in fleeing state violence throughout the world. Ming-Shun recalled that in the third year of his studies in the US, a massacre occurred in Beijing, and many rescue actions were initiated on campus. For professors, writing recommendation letters for students from China to secure student visas and enroll in US universities was the most direct method. Later, there were many new schoolmates on campus who spoke the same language as Ming-Shun. He made friends with some of them but was also advised to keep a safe distance from them.

You never know who might mix in with the asylum seekers. Some of them could be secret agents sent by the regime. He was warned.

So far, Ming-Shun has issued around twenty recommendation letters for Hong Kong students. He knew not every letter was useful, but he wrote them whenever his secret connection informed him that more were needed. However, Ming-Shun couldn’t fabricate so many versions of recommendation letters, so he asked his connections if the students were capable of writing their own versions for him to sign. Recommendation letters could be totally cliché, as one can easily find a perfect sample online today that says nothing meaningful about the applicant.

Ming-Shun told his students that they must edit the samples they found with personal information, such as volunteer work they had participated in, sports games they had played, or activities they had initiated.

How about street protests against dictatorship? Ming-Shun asked himself bitterly. History repeats, and they are still struggling under the same regime.

Ming-Shun did not remember how many recommendation letters he had produced or helped produce until a professor, Prof. Weiss from UC Berkeley, called him at his office:

Prof. Jiang, I've received more than one applicant with recommendation letters from you. I wonder if you truly recommend each of them.

I recommend both of them, or all of them.

We can't take all of them. That's why I called. If we could only admit one of them, which one do you truly recommend?

Ming-Shun began to sweat. He knew his credibility was in question. How could he remember all the students he had written recommendation letters for? He almost produced them blindly without knowing which institutions each applied to.

What are your criteria? he asked.

Academic performance, like every graduate school does. But none of them particularly stand out. One of them didn't even finish his bachelor's degree.

Then take him in.

Why?

Come on, you’re from UC Berkeley, not one of those private colleges for rich kids. And you know as well as I do, these students aren't really seeking degrees, they're seeking political asylum. The one who didn’t finish his college degree must be in a very vulnerable condition.

Ming-Shun thought of the bloody siege of PolyU by the martial police dispatched to Hong Kong by the Chinese regime several months ago. If the rescues had been too slow, the entire generation would have been wiped out, just like the 1989 generation.

Holding the phone, Ming-Shun realized he couldn’t take his eyes off the group of students outside the window. They were gathered on campus, in the midst of a protest. One held a sign that read “Solidarity,” while others wore outfits adorned with symbolic patterns representing the people they supported. Though they looked tired, their spirits remained high. Ming-Shun told himself that these students would be safe—that their freedom of expression would be protected. But would it?

I get you. Thank you, Prof. Jiang.

Ming-Shun felt relieved. He was glad that Prof. Weiss did not question his credibility and motivation. Being frank with Prof. Weiss had been a gamble. After all, these young students were not coming to the US to study; they had already taken the bitterest lessons in life. He chose to be straightforward with Prof. Weiss also because universities needed not only to take in as many dissident young people from Hong Kong as possible but also to provide scholarships for their living expenses in the US.

That’s what Ming-Shun had experienced thirty years ago. The little money his mother could save for him and what he earned from tutoring were drained in less than a year after he landed in the US. Ming-Shun had to look for all kinds of ways to make money.

He found undocumented work at a Chinese restaurant owned by a Hong Kong man, Mr. Fan. The business was good, so Ming-Shun was paid $5 per hour, and with tips, he made much more than the minimum wage of $3.25 at that time. Ming-Shun had to do all sorts of odd jobs in the restaurant: taking orders, bringing dishes from the kitchen to customers, wiping tables, washing dishes, and sweeping and mopping floors. He was happy with this work; Mr. Fan was fun to work for, and he hired fun people to work with. Several months later, Ming-Shun moved into the attic above the restaurant. Although the smoky smell of the restaurant lingered all the time, Ming-Shun saved a lot on rent. The only downside was feeling tired from studying and working non-stop, even on weekends. 

One semester, his institute was hiring a teaching assistant, and Ming-Shun was very interested, but he couldn’t make up his mind. He talked to Mr. Fan, who immediately encouraged him to apply.

But I make more money working for you. 

You came to America to be a researcher, not a restaurant operator. Mr. Fan said.

So Ming-Shun began working as a TA but still lived in Mr. Fan’s attic. Mr. Fan also provided him with free meals; when Ming-Shun offered to pay, Mr. Fan would decline, saying that the kitchen had prepared too much food anyway. Like an uncle, Mr. Fan took care of Ming-Shun generously. Ever since that time, whenever Ming-Shun heard Cantonese-accented Mandarin, warm memories of Mr. Fan surged from the depths of his heart. 

There were many people who helped Ming-Shun during his study in the US, but Kim Jae-Hyun was one of those who changed Ming-Shun’s perspective on life. During his first three years in the US, Ming-Shun continuously debated whether he should transfer to the field of Information Management, because many of his friends advised him that it was the only profession in the US in need of foreigners. Ming-Shun did wish to stay in the US, to escape the surveillance, harassment, and discrimination he had endured at home as the son of a “national traitor.” Although his mother was left alone at home, she also hoped that Ming-Shun would be able to settle down outside of Taiwan.

Ming-Shun had little interest in information technology; his heart was drawn to sociology, public governance, and politics. His passion for these subjects deeply unsettled his mother, who feared the path he was choosing. 

You’re chasing the same convictions that got your father into trouble. An elder once warned him gravely.

It was the dictator who killed my father, not his ideas, Ming-Shun responded, and his answer appalled his mother.

Ming-Shun believed that the world was changing. With the dictator's death and his successor lifting Martial Law, people were becoming more aware of their basic rights, and society was gradually moving toward openness and less authoritarianism. However, Ming-Shun’s mother wasn’t so optimistic, considering the death sentence of her husband and the consequences she and her son had endured.

Ming-Shun took some IT classes; it was fun, but he didn't think he could make it his profession. He needed a scholarship to support his continued study in the less promising field of humanities. While writing his application, something very unusual happened. Ming-Shun asked his South Korean classmate, Kim Jae-Hyun—who had successfully received the scholarship the previous year—if he would be willing to offer some advice on the application. Kim Jae-Hyun agreed immediately and raised a question right away:

Who are you?

Ming-Shun was confused. Who am I? Why did Kim Jae-Hyun ask after being his classmate for more than a year?

I mean, why are you under surveillance?

What? Ming-Shun was shocked. He and his mother had been under surveillance for decades following his father’s arrest. As the son of a national traitor, he was automatically viewed as a potential threat—even though he had been only seven years old at the time. His father’s failed attempt to overthrow the Nationalist government's Republic of China and establish a Republic of Taiwan had led not only to his condemnation as an unforgivable criminal of treason, but also to the lasting stigmatization of his entire family—parents, siblings, wife, and child. Now, in the United States, Ming-Shun believed he had finally escaped the ghostly surveillance that had shadowed him throughout his life in his hometown.

You don't know you're being followed all the time?

Ming-Shun did not know how to answer.  He thought for a moment before replying, How do you know I am being followed?

Because I thought the person watching you was watching me.

But what did you do? The question burned on Ming-Shun’s lips, but he held it back. Instead, a chill ran through him as he thought: only political dissidents live under surveillance.

I am an enemy of the state, Kim replied straightforwardly, as if recognizing Ming-Shun’s confusion.

Kim Jae-Hyun briefly told him about his activism in South Korea; he had organized protests against the autocratic South Korean government, under the rule of General Chun Doo-Hwan. He advocated for freedom of speech, direct public participation in public affairs, and transparent policy making. Kim became a wanted man after a large street demonstration that led to many clashes between the police and demonstrators, forcing him to flee his country.

Similar to what my father did, Ming-Shun said in a very low voice, almost murmuring, but Kim Jae-Hyun heard him.

So your father is an enemy of the state, Kim Jae-Hyun concluded.

Ming-Shun lifted his head and took a close look at Kim Jae-Hyun, attempting to find any trace of similarity between his father and this man of his own age. And Kim Jae-Hyun seemed to be able to read his mind.

What happened to your father?

He was executed. He was only thirty-one years old.

I see.

They were at the library balcony, the afternoon sun cast a warm, golden glow on the autumn leaves, painting the world in shades of red, orange, and yellow. A gentle breeze rustled through the trees, carrying with it the crisp scent of fall.

They gazed out at the serene landscape of the campus. Ming-Shun leaned against the railing, his eyes followed the dance of the leaves as they fell. Kim Jae-Hyun took out a cigarette and lit it, dragging a slow breath. The smoke dissipated into the cool air. 

You know, there's something about this time of year that always makes my mind restless.

Ming-Shun nodded, his gaze lingering on the scene before him. It’s the shift, he thought. Autumn—the quiet moment when life begins to surrender to death.

Kim Jae-Hyun took another drag from his cigarette, letting the silence settle between them. 

The two men stood in companionable silence, as the afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky, stretching their shadows long across the balcony. Unexpectedly, Kim Jae-Hyun turned to face the glass door of the library behind them.

Now, look to our right, at the table in the direction of two o’clock. Stare at her, the woman in the light green shirt.

Ming-Shun followed Kim Jae-Hyun’s instructions, not knowing why he could trust Kim Jae-Hyun’s strange suggestion so easily.

The woman noticed she was being watched. Their eyes met for a second before she averted her gaze. Ming-Shun did not look away; he continued staring at her until she began to feel ill at ease. She then put away her things, stood up, and left.

Yes, that’s how you deal with your watcher.

Who sent her?

Your government, of course.

Ming-Shun never would have thought that, even in the US, he was still under surveillance. 

Once you are the enemy of the state, your whole family, your entire social circle, are the enemies of the state. Kim Jae-Hyun said coldly. 

I know. 

Write this in your application.

What? Ming-Shun has been surprised too many times today. 

Write that you have been under surveillance because of your late father’s anti-government activism. 

The surprise Ming-Shun was experiencing now was beyond words. Throughout his life, his father’s status as a national traitor brought shame and discrimination upon both him and his mother. They were constantly bullied—by so-called law enforcement and by the hostility masquerading as patriotism. Now, Kim Jae-Hyun was telling him to include in his scholarship application the very thing he had tried so hard to hide and avoid talking about for the past twenty years?

It is to make clear that you desperately need the scholarship to survive. 

As the son of a national traitor? Ming-Shun couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Your father wasn’t a national traitor. Who betrayed the country are those who steal the rights of the public, steal the resources of the country and hoard them for themselves. They are corrupt, oppressive and cruel because they don’t want people to know what they have done, what dirty deals they have concealed. 

Ming-Shun knew his father was wronged, but he never had thought that it was something he could talk about openly. 

Kim Jae-Hyun seemed to see what Ming-Shun had in mind, he patted his shoulder.

You should be proud of your father. We all benefit from the legacy and the sacrifice of these martyrs. They did not die for nothing. 

For the first time since his father’s death, Ming-Shun realized he didn’t have to live in fear and shame—emotions the oppressive regime deliberately instilled to keep people subdued.

It was Ming-Shun’s deepest regret that, more than fifty years on, similar tragedies were unfolding in Hong Kong—this time under the very regime that Taiwan’s ruling party had long opposed, even as it once persecuted its own citizens for any suspected ties to it. His father had been among them, targeted for nothing more than his quiet belief in socialist ideals.

Ming-Shun entered his office, sat down, turned on his computer and checked his mailbox to see if there was more demand from his secret connection. He also found Kim Jae-Hyun’s email and sent him a message.

Dear Prof. Jae-Hyun:

I hope this email finds you well. It has been years since we last met. I am giving a talk in Chicago in September and will stop by to pay you a visit on my way there, should it be convenient for you.

During the three decades of his academic career, Ming-Shun traveled home frequently for various research projects. Taiwan was reestablishing its history after the abolishment of Martial Law and the end of the Cold War, followed by the release of numerous government archives. The oppressive acts of the government were gradually unearthed from a long-silenced past, and the buried truth finally emerged from decades of concealment, lies, and propaganda.

Ming-Shun knew that South Korea was also undergoing a similar process. He had been eager to share this with Kim Jae-Hyun but was surprised that Jae-Hyun never returned to South Korea since he moved to the US. Gradually, Ming-Shun realized that, despite appearing tough and carefree during their graduate school days, Jae-Hyun had been constantly haunted by the nightmares of being tortured during his incarceration.

Jae-Hyun had been arrested several times before his escape to the US, and although each time he was released after several months, what he had endured was unspeakable. Reading through the archived documents in Taiwan, Ming-Shun could grasp a pretty good picture of what the victims might have gone through under dictatorial rules, and he was horrified to see that his father must have been one of the worst-treated victims. He wished he could ask Jae-Hyun about his incarceration and mistreatment during the autocratic era, but he was too afraid to raise any question about it.

Instead, Ming-Shun devoted himself to the cases of other victims and brought them into a general geographic perspective. He and his fellow researchers—working alongside experts from various fields—eventually created a map of Taiwan’s Historical Sites of Injustice, spanning the former territory of the Nationalist government. Among the many locations marked were the very sites where Ming-Shun’s father had been imprisoned and executed.

Where had Jae-Hyun been imprisoned in South Korea? Although Ming-Shun’s father had been labeled a "national traitor," the late and slow arrival of justice eventually redressed him and cleared his name. The gradual awakening of Taiwan made Ming-Shun identify more and more with his hometown, but this was not the case for Jae-Hyun. After all, unlike Jae-Hyun, Ming-Shun was not a direct victim of the regime.

The shareable and unshareable experiences between Ming-Shun and Jae-Hyun had forged a bond between them, though it was a bond riddled with silences neither of them knew how to fill. At times, they feared knowing too much about each other. But this time, during Ming-Shun’s visit, he was certain he’d ask: Had Jae-Hyun taken part in rescuing the Hong Kong dissident students? Ming-Shun was willing to bet he had—just as Jae-Hyun had helped him stand against state injustice decades earlier.

By Mawande Papiyana

Mawande Papiyana is a South African young poet also known as Vambane PM in the Poetry industry, was born and raised in the rurals of Matatiele town in the Eastern Cape province then relocated to Pietermaritzburg - KwaZulu Natal in the year 2023 where he met some poets from KZN and advised him to continue attending a poetry club which is being held in The Bessie Head Library every Friday. He started having passion on poetry when he was doing Grade 6, until he gets on high school that is when he had hope of being one of well-known poets in the country. He is also a Writer and Publisher of a book with a title THE MAN WHO STOPPED IN THE RAIN, whereby that book talks about his struggle for success, at the moment it is available upon request from him. Also he is finalizing another Poetry book with a title: Izwi Labembola Kw'Ibuyambo which is The Return of Our Ancestral Linage that will be published in November 2026. He was being inspired by Okuhle Ntloyiya also known as Dinileminyanya to write a full Xhosa Poetry Book. 

For any queries he is available on social platforms such as Facebook: Vambane PM, TikTok: Vambane PM, Instagram: Mawande Papiyana , Email: luchumo.dikela@gmail.com, Cell: 0607866863

I need a poet

With words so bright,

To capture my dreams, and shine with all their might.

A poet who can guide, and light the way

Speak with a voice that`s powerful each day

With every line, a peace of heart is shared,

A glimpse into a soul, beyond compare.

Mbongikazi mna ndifuna wena

A poet who can weave a spell,

And bring my thoughts, to life, so all can tell.

The poet`s pen, a magic wand that sways

Bringing emotions to life, in vibrant ways.

A poet who can touch a heart,

And make the world, a better place to start

In the silence, words can be a sound

That echoes deeply and resonates all around

A poet who can find the right words to express, the deepest feelings of the night

With poetry, we heal we mend

And find the strength, to face the world again.

By Sophia Floro

Sophia Floro is an Oregon, USA based aspiring poet who hopes to one day become a larger figure in he poetry world. Sophia specializes in gothic poetry of all kinds, and writes in all kind of genres. Sophia has written 5 collections of gothic poetry with all types of themes and genres, she hopes to one day publish these works. She is still working on more collections all the time and still hopes to publish them all.

A guillotine falls

Red moths fall from the neck and into the streets

The people scurry away from the moths

Across town,

A baby is born

Blue butterflies surround the baby

The baby grows into a toddler

His father hits him in a fit of rage

Some of the blue butterflies fly away

His mother

Who is surrounded by red moths

Inside and out

With only a few blue butterflies left

Inside and out

Hugged him

Tried, and failed to bring the blue butterflies back to her son

His mother cried that night

She seems to do that often

Once the boy is seven years old, he has a few red moths clinging to his sleeves and hair

His mother cries when she sees this

One day

The boy hits his father back

The blue butterflies on his hands fly away

And red moths replace them

One day

The boy, now an adult with a baby girl of his own, is covered in red moths, only a few blue butterflies left

Whenever he gets cut

More red moths pour out

Rather than the blue butterflies of his childhood

He would make sure his baby girl isn't red like him.

By Liu Yuniang

Liu Yuniang, whose name means ‘jade lady’, has an unusual affinity towards Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun, the eleventh chapter of The Picture of Dorian Gray, and Sayaka Murata’s obsession with cannibalism. Outside of their antics, though, they are but a poet, writer, and Chinese-Indonesian undergraduate student in Tokyo. Yuniang likes to read queer literature and take walks in small alleys, and also write about weird stuff in hopes that something cool happens in the small town they live in where nothing ever happens. They have been published in numerous literary journals and magazines, including Fourteen Hills and Sinister Wisdom.

In early autumn 4 years ago, when I first came here, I realized that I had changed.

I had begun to look at the sky. An infinite, clear sky, or a cloudy sky resembling a sea of ​​cotton candy. A sky that was forever out of reach.

One day after school, I stopped for a moment just a step away from the railroad crossing. I knew it was dangerous, but my feet instinctively stopped and I reached out to the sky. That pale orange sky.

I once read somewhere that “looking at the sky should help you find a reason to live.” I wondered if that was true. Every time I looked at the sky that stretched from border to border, I felt so small that it didn’t matter if I lived or died.

What unjust cruelty. The sky ignored the tears of poets who were moved by its beauty, and silently watched the clouds drift by. There is no beauty that lasts forever. But, one day I will die and I will rot, but the sky will exist so quietly and unchanging that it is close to eternity. How miserable. The sky, which is the essence of mystery, cannot be a reason to live.

When I was in my home country, I drove everywhere, so I didn’t have the opportunity to look at the sky. But when the sun was setting, the view from my bedroom was a purple heaven. I couldn’t help taking pictures. First, I turned off the lights in the room. Then I opened the window, took some photos, and then admired the sky with the gentle breeze. Like a maiden in love, I put my hand on my chin and looked up at the violet sky.

After all, Tokyo’s sunsets are no match. The color between light and darkness in Tokyo’s sunsets is too pale. Sometimes there’s not even a tinge of orange; the blue of the sky just fades and it becomes dark. It was as if I was left behind by the person I admired. I wasn’t given a chance to love the Tokyo sunset properly.

So I left the railroad crossing and left my slumber, and suddenly became afraid of the clear sky. I was hyperaware that the sky was just a hole above. My head spun around, realizing that it was more possible to “fall into the sky” than for the sky to fall.

As I walked, I glanced up at the sky many times, as if playing with the overwhelming vastness of the place. Then, as the orange color turned to a deep navy blue, I looked away to the grey concrete that was closer to my body.

Dearest sky. I hoped I would encounter you again tomorrow.

By Mahailey Oliver 

Mahailey Oliver (she/her) has an English MA from Stephen F. Austin State University. Her work has most recently appeared in the little things literary magazine, A Curious Moon, and Spark to Flame. When she is not reading and writing, she enjoys camping, hammocking, and stargazing in the East Texas Piney Woods with her husband.

Title - Patience

Soon, it will be Spring

and flowers will shed

their blankets of snow,

y a w n i n g their petals awake.

Baby’s breath the breadth 

of the meadow will glisten

softly under morning dew.

You will forget

what happened to you.

By Reebie Ann Flowers

Authentically Rich

Rages to riches is the new theme of mental challenge.

Allow me to carefully teach the meaning, 

to what it means to move through life challenges…

With no other intention but to morph into an embodiment of adaptability and genuineness.  

Qualities that automatically qualify one to lure an unexpectedness, 

that does more than stand in the fire of duress. 

But, contour a lens that won't be measured to impress.

Rather map playing fields of changing moral unpredictness.

The brokenness isn’t in the pockets…

What holds some of us in spiritual blockage,

sits in one’s actions, when you assume no one is watching.

The Goat that Escaped     

The truth shouldn't be mixed in any confused mystery. 

Ideally, I fancy an in depth analysis of murder she wrote. 

In the state of remaining a float… 

Soak the reasons a scapegoat actually exists. 

To grasp a breakdown may be risky, causing a mental paralysis.  

What will consist, it is such a thing of unfairly casting backhanded criticism… 

The type that pushes unrealistic realism. 

Deep cut to the throat, exposes a GOAT which always escapes any underlining of belittling. Scapegoating. 

Rising about what does not fit. 

For sure, will have some in a whirlpool of regret. 

The consequence of meddling creates unordained contentions… 

Now this is just a suggestion,

keep the door closed to what doesn’t bring growth and benevolence. 

A Lifter of Light

Seemingly someone who is willing to shine some positive insight in a situation. 

Will provoke a consensual redirection. 

To lift, despite displaying an incentive, is like bringing a boiling pot to a simmer…

Without touching the stove.

Thinking beyond the impossible will hurdle results, that brings more than a glimmer of hope.

A lifter of light is what one will call someone, who manifests on a mastered level.

Inhale intents of manipulating the concealed non believers.

Embodying the skill of a protectress,

unveils every need to protect ritual healers…

Habitual spiritual offenders, who are waiting to be felt, seen and freed. 

By Aardhra Chandran

Aardhra Chandran is a poet from Kerala, India. Her work has appeared in Eunoia Review, The Punch Magazine, Borderless Journal, and Active Muse. She writes image-driven poetry exploring domestic, environmental, and institutional spaces.

The Bureau of Minor Domestic Losses

Aluva at Midnight 

The grammar guide has a stiff, plastic spine.

Three red crosses on the cheap paper—an utter, quiet failure.

My English, they said, a child’s stammer.

Dust furred the library books of regional translation.

A crossing to Aluva with a single ledger,

merit counted out in black ink on a slip of wood-pulp.

By noon, the desks formed an iron border.

A hand dropped three white sheets across my name—

leaving a grey smudge of newsprint on the margins.

Ink-stains spread across the foolscap paper at midnight,

when the household is sleeping and the rain outside is rising.

My father’s umbrella hangs from the hall peg, dusty.

Now the relatives count dropped semesters like broken roof tiles.

A gold-embossed seal fitted like a badge.

Forced into a corner desk, learning to barely pass—

At midnight, beneath a lamp smelling of hot dust and zinc,

the paper is folded once more.

My name misaligned at the edge.

The Mud-Bound Archive 

The rain hits the roof tiles with a frantic, metallic hum.

The well water rises until it tastes of the muddy riverbed.

The yard where we dried the parboiled rice is entirely underwater.

The ancient mango tree, whose roots held the riverbank for fifty years,

slipped quietly into the brown current just before midnight.

With it went the swing, the shade, and the notches carved into the bark,

one above the other, marking each summer.

The current carries a submerged wooden chest downriver.

A floating plastic bucket knocks against the veranda step.

We carry the wet trunks to the higher edge of the road,

watching the red silt reclaim the kitchen floorboards and the veranda.

Our bare toes sink into the fine silt left behind on the concrete.

The Slow Rotation

The green plastic token is warm from the palms of many strangers.

Under the white glare of the long tube light, forty people sit in rows,

their backs pressed against the blue vinyl of chairs that smell of dust.

The only sound is the rhythmic, mechanical click

of the ceiling fan missing a bolt as it turns above the counter.

It goes on and on, this waiting.

An old man balances a folder of worn documents on his knees.

His thumb traces the faded blue ink of a seal from thirty years ago.

A girl pulls at the fraying hem of her dupatta, her collarbones tense,

her eyes fixed on the ink-stained fingers of the clerk behind the glass.

The ceiling fan clicks four times every minute.

A red bulb flashes above the glass window.

The steel clip clicks shut.

By Sushanth Shyamsundar

Sushanth Shyamsundar is an Indian asexual queer writer, poet, and spoken-word performer based in Chennai. He is currently enrolled in a weekend screenwriting diploma program. His work often explores memory, queerness, grief, humour, horror, pop culture, and the strange pressure of ordinary life. He performs as Rakshasan and is the author of The Opposite of You.

Nobody warned him this house came with demons.

My adopted dog arrived rescued, suspicious,

street-smart, bad-mannered, tail full of gossip, eyes full of new chapters,

stomach full of strict opinions. The haunting was not cinematic:

no floating furniture, dead voices, or priests shouting Latin.

It preferred closed curtains, the stale air of three bad days,

an ashtray where a month of joints had gone to die,\

unanswered messages, food ordered because moving felt

like a separation of church and state. It wore my voice and said, later.

My dog understood none of this. His faith was older: 

bowl, door, outside, sunlight on the gate.

A paw on the mattress broke the circle.

His bark cracked the afternoon’s possession.

A wet nose crossed the salt line

sadness had drawn around the bed.

He did not save me with love. He saved me with ritual.

Breakfast became an offering; the walk became a ward.

A pole required investigation. A leaf had insulted his bloodline.

The world I had declared impossible suddenly needed my shoes.

By evening, despair had lost its borrowed voice.

That night, one paw pinned me to the living./

In his dream, he kicked at unseen things.

I did not ask what he chased away.

Sometimes mercy arrives covered in fur,

demanding chicken, growling at an empty corner

until whatever lived there learns

my house has changed gods.

By Hagintha Woods

Hagintha Woods is a storyteller that writes about mental health, creating a healthier, kinder world, and the occasional sparrow that crosses her path. She is also working on various novels to craft new myths and fairytales for the modern woman. When not writing, thinking about writing, or reading other people's writing, she is drinking tea, making unwise decisions and affectionately bothering her community.

When you dance

through the space

you only dreamed of touching

before, when you taste

the sweet ambrosial nectar

of the brightest flowers,

are you glad to be alive? 

How long till you were no longer

that child that weaved herself 

a silken casket, that stared

at the sky, chanting: 

“I wish, I wish, I wish,”

as she crafted her grave,

knowing her purpose was

to die in order to

be something loved?

Do you miss

the crunch

of a supple green leaf

laden with the morning’s 

dew?

How long till you see yourself

in your reflection,

till you agree this

was always who you were,

the tiny caterpillar only a shed

skin of identity that no longer fit,

instead of a curled, desperate

thing within your thorax,

multiple pairs of legs tickling 

the inside of your exoskeleton?

Does it feel unfair,

how much they love you now?

By Milton Lopez Delgado

       JUST SUPPOSE                          

                                       Suppose the winds ceased to blow?

                             Suppose all the seeds could no longer be sowed?

                               Suppose there would never be another spring?

                                Suppose the Song Birds could no longer sing?

                                              Suppose, just suppose.

                                    Suppose flowers no longer bloomed?

                               Suppose the light vanished from the moon?

                   Suppose trees and plants were plucked from the ground?

                            Suppose the world stopped spinning around?

                                              Suppose, just suppose.

                                    Suppose we had just one life to live?

                          Suppose none of our sins, no one could forgive?

                            Suppose the sea and oceans, suddenly dried?

                         Suppose the stars and planets fell from the sky?

                                             Suppose, just suppose.

                               Suppose we could no longer hope for peace?

                                     Suppose the rainfall suddenly ceased?

                                         Suppose the gift of love was lost?

                              Suppose we’re left deserted to suffer the cost?

                                            Suppose, just suppose.