The mother sliced an aubergine through its elongated side like the sole of her shoes. She tossed an onion onto the same cutting board. Unlike the aubergine, the onion rolled a little and then stopped on the board’s edge. She lifted the knife and cut the onion straight through its broad middle. Her eyes ponded with stingy tears as they dropped. A few drops down her cheeks, she sensed and wiped them off with shoulder rubs on her cheeks. Her eyes stung as long as she sliced through the onions. No big deal with the aubergines.
Ukrainian Family Marc Chagall c. 1942
The radio was on. It announced how many soldiers died in the war—her boy was barely sixteen. The freckles on their rosy cheeks hadn’t fully faded; his arms were smooth. At the frontier, a war was raging. It didn’t matter whose wars they fought and who won or who lost. What mattered most to this mother was her loss which was paramount.
She made some deeper cuts into the onion, thinning the half-rounded rings. The fifteen-year-old was on the cusp of turning sixteen. Which she had once, too. Afraid to let him go to war, let alone understand the logic of it all? But conscription took (made) him (join the forces)… delete what’s in parentheses?
One day the mother had gone out to the well to fetch a pail of water. The door of the thatched house had almost fallen off its hinge as soldiers barged in. They pulled this petrified child hiding under the ratty bed. He had to go with them. His mother was at the well, he couldn’t bid her goodbye. Not even the last hug or a kiss, the boy was dragged to the frontier. The mother returned with her pail full of water. The boy was gone. The pail fell from her hands. She slipped and she sat in the pool of water. Her eyes were the same. The winds howled, she howled too. It could not reach the ears of the war-mongers—far too much clamour out there, the politicians were boasting one victory after another. Whose expansion knew no limits?
Who won and who lost in this game—what did it matter? It was a game of Ping Pong to the expansionists. But to the mothers on both sides—friend or foe—stingy onion tears or none at all in the case of the purple aubergine; the grief was a boundless and borderless blend. Purpled just the same.
…is an Australian novelist born in Bangladesh. Her historical fiction,The Pacifist, is a Drunken Druid’s Editor’s Choice and an Amazon Audible bestseller. Gatherings,is nominated for the James Tait Black Prize for fiction. Her short fiction has won in The Waterloo Festival Competition, Academy of the Heart and Mind contest, A Cabinet-Of-Heed Stream-Of-Consciousness Challenge, shortlisted, finalist, nominated for the 3xbotN, Pushcart, Publication of the Month, and Honourable Mention. Also, critically acclaimed by Midwest Book Review, DD Magazine, The Wild Atlantic Book Club to name a few. She is a juror to the KM Anthru Award, Litterateur RW Magazine, and featured writer on Flash Fiction North and Connotation Press. She has published books, articles, essays, and short fiction in international magazines, online, and in anthologies. Her works have been translated into German, Greek and Bangla.
The sheep floated on the blue, etched on the cloud’s sphere. In the short time that I wrote my story in the sky, they had reshaped into vapour, then pelted down. The rain fell over a garbage dump of a used plastic pond. Children of the narrow alley played in the rain as they crossed it precariously over the wavering surface. The only way to decipher a pond underneath, was by the liquid walks of the nimble feet.
Eight, seven, and nine, the children tiptoed. Only their parents knew their names. They were headed towards a destination—a balloon factory. Hired to make party balloons of many colours, blue, yellow, pink, and red, they made a rainbow of balloons and stacked them up in a corner. Balloons, to be used for birthday parties.
They held the rainbow in their palms, but never had the opportunity to use any for birthday parties of their own. After a grueling shift of making balloons all day, they returned home with a few in their hands. But they flew away. They chased them but they went too high, lost in the sky. Walking the same liquid walk, over the pond, they came back to the alley. Each day, abundant balloons were made to last a hundred parties. They gave hope and joy to the many thousands who were born with a rainbow band around their heads.
The children were soaked in the rain. They crossed the hazardous pond balancing themselves on plastic. The last of the rains withered the lambs away from the blue—a balloon in its own right. The children ran along the alley under this blue balloon. This was a good day, they thought. Because their mothers were home and they could smell the cooking. The four lambs bleated at their respective ratty doors. They cried out—we are home. The mothers let them inside. Their dry mouths spread to hungry grins. Sons and mothers greeted one another.
“How was the day?” mums asked.
“We almost held the rainbow right here in the middle of our palms,” they said.
“Meaning?” mums asked.
“We chased some balloons at the plastic pond. But we lost them in the sky, along the way.”
“You couldn’t bring any home?” the mums asked.
“No. But it doesn’t matter,” they said.
“Why not?” mums asked.
“Quite simple. We went. We returned. We see you. You see us. What more can you ask for?”
The lambs were back, dissipating once again. This time, they left their signature in the silent bleat of a contrail across the serene blue sky.
…is an Australian novelist born in Bangladesh. Her historical fiction,The Pacifist, is a Drunken Druid’s Editor’s Choice and an Amazon Audible bestseller. Gatherings,is nominated for the James Tait Black Prize for fiction. Her short fiction has won in The Waterloo Festival Competition, Academy of the Heart and Mind contest, A Cabinet-Of-Heed Stream-Of-Consciousness Challenge, shortlisted, finalist, nominated for the 3xbotN, Pushcart, Publication of the Month, and Honourable Mention. Also, critically acclaimed by Midwest Book Review, DD Magazine, The Wild Atlantic Book Club to name a few. She is a juror to the KM Anthru Award, Litterateur RW Magazine, and featured writer on Flash Fiction North and Connotation Press. She has published books, articles, essays, and short fiction in international magazines, online, and in anthologies. Her works have been translated into German, Greek and Bangla.
My mom and dad were hippies and it definitely rubbed off on me. I’ve always been considered kind of a peace-maker; among friends, family, co-workers. I strive for a smooth, peaceful environment, and most of the time, succeed. But I have to admit that it’s increasingly difficult to be at peace in a world so increasingly filled with violence and war.
This quarter’s theme for The BeZine is Waging Peace: balancing personal and global crises and needs. What does something like this encompass? Well, in the words of our editor, Michael Dickel, “How do we work together to help each other find inner peace and to wage peace globally? How do we share resources that help individuals and also build peace, rather than manipulate, exploit (horde, deplete)? How do we wage peace collectively while also facing-off against pandemic, climate crisis, economic inequity, and personal challenges / issues?”
from the book Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals
That’s a pretty tall order. And what does it mean to “Wage Peace”, anyway? I recently came across something that made me pause and think about what that phrase really means. It’s from the book Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals.
So peacemaking doesn’t have to mean being passive. There are active ways to Wage Peace, even in such chaotic, unsettled times. Here are a few to consider:
Create
Use your passion to write a poem, or a song that expresses your feelings. If you’re a visual artist, create a painting or perhaps digital artwork that shows others why you care, and why they should, too. Never underestimate the power of art to move and motivate people!
Image courtesy of The Huffington Post.com
Donate
Even if you can’t or don’t feel like creating something, you can probably spare a morning’s stop at Starbuck’s to help out those making a difference in fighting against wars or helping survivors and refugees. Right now, one of the biggest worries on concerned peoples’ minds is how to help with relief in Ukraine. Here are some legitimate agencies who are providing help to that particular area. You can rest easy knowing that your money will go a long way to helping those in desperate need.
Maybe you’d rather Wage Peace closer to home. No matter where you live, even a small donation to a charity like The Red Cross, Salvation Army or a local food bank can help those in need. We all feel more peaceful when we have full bellies, a safe place to sleep and hope that tomorrow won’t just bring more misery. Waging Peace doesn’t have to mean railing against military wars, it can be just as effective to fight against those social ailments like poverty, homelessness, hunger and domestic violence.
Volunteer
Maybe you don’t have the extra cash right now to donate (you’re not alone). But perhaps you have some free time? Volunteering to help with relief efforts, even those locally, can be a great way to Wage Peace and give back. Since the start of the pandemic, volunteers have been in shorter supply, everywhere. Find a cause or injustice that you’re passionate about and see if there are ways you can volunteer to help. Your efforts probably won’t be refused, and can definitely make a big difference!
No matter how we choose to participate, we can all be active and Wage Peace in our own ways to make the world a little bit better. There are people fighting for peace every second of every day, all over the globe. Will your contribution and actions make a difference? Absolutely! Something is better than nothing. Actively Waging Peace is much better than being passive and watching the world get worse.
If I could just be the water
When peace is cracked and dry
If I could be a shelt’ring place
When peace is cast aside
Even when my table’s full
And I sit before the feast
May i always keep a place in my heart
For the promise of peace
If I could just be a feather
When peace is try,n to fly
If I could be a single step
When peace needs to climb high
Even when I’m locked in doubt
And I fear there’s no release
May i always keep a place in my heart
For the promise of peace
O we must be the sunshine
When peace is lost and dark
And we must be the bread of love
When peace is cold and starved
Even in the threat of war
Though hopes shall fade or cease
May we always keep a place in our hearts
For the promise of peace
If i can be the smallest breeze
When peace is stalled at sea
If I must lay my anger down
Then let me take a knee
If i love this tired earth
And its child, humanity
May i always keep a place in my heart
For the promise of peace
May i always keep a place in my heart
For the promise of peace
Listen to The Promise of Peace Song: Priest / Capek
Peace Be Upon You
Peace be upon you and under your feet
Peace be before you like the wind before the wheat
A peace of many pieces is a peace so sweet
Peace be upon you and peace be below
Peace upon the mountains and the fields of snow
Peace upon the people living in the street
It’s a peace of many pieces - let it be complete
Your peace and my peace they fit together
Your peace and my peace should get together
Your peace and my peace
Peace be upon you compassionate peace
Peace upon the anguished and the so called 'least'
Peace upon the children and the birds and beasts
It’s a piece of many pieces - let it be complete
Your peace and my peace they fit together
Your peace and my peace should get together
Your peace and... not a friend is missing from the table
Not a child is missing from the play
Everyone everywhere is part of it
That’s at the heart of it
Peace be upon you and peace be below
Peace upon the mountains and the fields of snow
Peace upon the people living in the street
It’s a peace of many pieces let it be complete
Your peace and my peace they’re good together
Your peace and my peace should get together
your peace and my peace
Let it be complete
Listen to Peace Be Upon You Song: Priest / Booth Produced by Peter Lafferty
| G / / / | C / / / | G / / / | C / / / | G / / / |
peace be upon you and under your feet
| C / / / |
peace be before you like the wind before the wheat
| Em / D / | C / / / |
a peace of many pieces it’s a peace so sweet
| G / / / |
peace be upon you and peace be below
| C / / / |
peace upon the mountains and the fields of snow
| Em / D / |
peace upon the people living in the street. It’s a
| C / G / | F / C / |
peace of many pieces let it be complete
| D / / / | Em / C / |
your peace and my peace they fit together
| D / / / | Em / C / |
your peace and my peace should get together
| D / F / | C / / / |
your peace and my peace
| G / / / | C / / / | G / / / | C / / / |
Na na na na na na na na na na na Na na na na na na na na na na na
| G / / / |
peace be upon you compassionate peace
| C / / / |
peace upon the anguished and the so called 'least'
| Em / D / |
peace upon the children and the birds and beasts. It’s a
| C / G / | F / C / |
a piece of many pieces let it be complete.]
| D / / / | Em / C / |
your peace and my peace they fit together
| D / / / | Em / C / |
your peace and my peace should get together
| D / F / |
your peace and
| Am / G / | C / / / |
not a friend is missing from the table
| Am / G / | C / / / |
not a child is missing from the play
| F / C / | G / / / | F / C / |
everyone everywhere is part of it. That’s at the heart of it
| G / / / | C / / / | G / / / | C / / / |
Na na na na na na na na na na na Na na na na na na na na na na na
| G / / / |
peace be upon you and peace be below
| C / / / |
peace upon the mountains and the fields of snow
| Em / D / |
peace upon the people living in the street. It’s a
| C / G / | F / C / |
it’s a peace of many pieces let it be complete
| D / / / | Em / C / |
your peace and my peace they’re good together
| D / / / | Em / C / |
your peace and my peace should get together
| D / F / | C / / / |
your peace and my peace
Ten Civilians
When I see that list of names upon that long black wall
So many fallen in their prime it's hard to count them all
Oh yes the soldiers die they fall in all their millions
But for every one of them that dies say goodbye to
Ten civilians - fathers and mothers
Ten civilians - sisters and brothers
Ten babies being born
Ten lifetimes of tears for those who are left to mourn
When I see that line of monuments roll on out of sight
So many names engraved in stone but something's not quite right
Oh yes the soldiers died they stained the ground vermilion
But for every one of them that fell ring the bell for
Ten civilians - dreamers and lovers
Ten civilians - grandfathers grandmothers
Ten children and their teacher too
They won't be coming home no matter what we do
No their names will not be written on that long black wall
And on the TV news they’re hardly there at all
It's hard to think of them who knows how many millions
So for every warrior who dies I multiply
By ten civilians - fathers and mothers
Ten civilians - sisters and brothers
Ten nurses and a doctor too
They won't be coming home no matter what we do
When I see that list of names upon that long black wall
Listen to Ten Civilians Song: Priest / Booth Produced by Bob Wiseman
…is literary poet in the tradition of Neruda and Mayakovsky, a composer of lush love poems, a singer-songwriter, a widely quoted aphorist, a children’s poet and novelist. He is a mainstay of the literary/spoken word/music circuit both in Canada and abroad. His words have been quoted in the Farmer’s Almanac, debated in the Ontario Legislature, sung on Sesame Street, posted in Toronto’s transit system, broadcast on MuchMusic, released on numerous CDs, quoted by politicians, and widely published in textbooks and anthologies.
In light of the theme of this edition of The BeZine, I can’t help feeling this beautiful song rising to the surface again. Sung by the peerless octet, Voces8, it is Frank Ticheli’s timeless composition ‘Earth Song’. The lyrics fit so well with the theme… “Sing, Be, Live, See…Peace”
—John Anstie, Associate Editor
“Earth Song” by Frank Ticheli Performed by VOCES8
Sing, Be, Live, See.
This dark stormy hour,
The wind, it stirs.
The scorched earth
cries out in vain:
O war and power,
You blind and blur,
The torn heart
cries out in pain.
But music and singing
Have been my refuge,
And music and singing
Shall be my light.
A lightof song
Shining Strong: Allelulia!
Through darkness, pain, and strife, I'll
Sing, Be, Live, See...
Peace.
Welcome to the Spring Issue of The BeZine centered on SustainABILITY with a special section on Peace for Ukraine. Authors, artists, and creatives from around the world have come together here to shine lights on our common home, this spinning globe we all inhabit.
It seems every day brings a new story of climate change and its impact on our world so it can, at times, feel hopeless to even try to attempt change. Yet humans have a long history of changing things long thought intractable. That is why I love this season of the BeZine, with its focus on SustainABILITY. We ARE able and that vision of ability grows with the dreamers, the writers, the painters, and the poets.
This past month has hit us hard, however. Putin has invaded Ukraine, so hopelessness, heartbreak, horror, and hate fill our news, our conversations, and our hearts. War makes everything harder, including efforts at sustainability. Here in our special section, voices rise in community with our neighbors to speak up for our common humanity. We hold hope for a peace that respects all human lives, dignities, and freedoms.
The world has gone mad. Again.
And again voices incite—then hoarse leaders
pretend to have been polite. They did not shout
fear and hatred to explosive tension, to a thin-
wire stretched, first sounding a note then cracking,
snapping in two, each piece twisted. The world goes
mad. Again. The leaders call for calm, like arsonists
who work in the fire department. The fires burn
in the streets at night. The checkpoints flow
with blood and tears. And most of us just want
to go to work, have coffee with friends, teach
our children something other than this craziness
in a world gone mad. Again. And most of us want
to turn away and not see the burning, the smoke,
the arsonists lining up toy soldiers at borders
ready to pounce, to attack, to burn. Again.
I don’t think that I need to explain about Ukraine, and why I titled this Special Section “Ukraine Peace.” There are some who may raise legitimate questions about the focus on Europe, with so many countries at war in Africa, Asia, the Middle East. There are some who raise legitimate questions about supporting the US in battling Russia, given the undeniable history of and current aggressions world wide (and supporting other countries as they invade neighbors). So I will repeat below a version of the blog post that announced this special section and called for submissions.
Even with all of the tensions and warnings leading up to it, Russia’s all-out invasion of Ukraine on February 24, 2022, shocked the world. This violation of international law and Ukraine’s sovereignty could easily expand to a broader war. This puts progressives, as I think myself to be, in a position of wondering how do we wage peace? Is there a path to peace?
I don’t know. As I write this, the war continues in its third week. The images of the invasion invade our consciousness and my conscience. How do we wage peace?
Whatever the path to peace may be, the path for social justice would not allow for accepting Russia’s war on Ukraine. However, I also am aware that Western Imperialism has acted just as viciously in its own interests, and that the US and the West continue to promote wars in their interests.
Could a world-wide strike be the path, opposed to all war and demanding peace? Is such a thing possible even? How do we follow Gandhi’s path of non-violence and quickly grow it to a global scale? I can’t imagine that it could be done in time to help the people in Ukraine.
History provides warnings about where this invasion could lead. In fact, Putin followed a playbook used in 1939. One of the demands Hitler presented for negotiation just before the invasion of Poland was “safeguarding the German minority in Poland.” Putin said in his speech announcing the invasion that its “goal is to protect people who have been abused by the genocide of the Kyiv regime for eight years.” By dawn of 24 February 2022, the Russian army attacked Ukraine with a blitzkrieg, aiming for military targets. The blitzkrieg strategy was first used pre-dawn of September 1, 1939, starting the invasion of Poland. The USSR joined Germany in attacking Poland on 17 September of that year.
How do we protect peace and simultaneously prevent further expansion through military force?
And who to stand behind for justice? It is not as though the U.S. does not use military force, directly and indirectly. The shadows of Vietnam, Irag, Libya, and Afghanistan loom over this battle. Can we trust the US and NATO to do the right thing?
CUNY Professor Peter Beinart offers an apt quote from 1943 to frame his argument that this time, we need to support the US, even progressives who rightly attack the US for its hypocrisy and war-mongering:
In 1943, the Hungarian-born journalist Arthur Koestler wrote: “In this war we are fighting against a total lie in the name of a half-truth.” That’s a good motto for American progressives to adopt in the wake of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine.
CUNY Professor Peter Beinart, “Russia speaks total lies. That doesn’t diminish America’s half-truths” in The Guardian
Beinart acknowledges the lies of the U.S.: Saying the US stands with Ukraine because America is committed to democracy and the “rules-based international order” is at best a half-truth. The US helps dictatorships like Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates commit war crimes in Yemen, employs economic sanctions that deny people from Iran to Venezuela to Syria life-saving medicines, rips up international agreements like the Iran nuclear deal and Paris climate accords, and threatens the international criminal court if it investigates the US or Israel.
But this hypocrisy wouldn’t have fazed Koestler, because it’s nothing new. In 1943, the alliance that fought Hitler was led by a British prime minister who championed imperialism, an American president who presided over racial apartheid, and Joseph Stalin. Koestler’s point wasn’t that the US or Britain, let alone the USSR, were virtuous in general. It was that they were virtuous relative to Nazi Germany in the specific circumstances of the second world war, and that these sinful governments were the only ones with the geopolitical heft to stop a totalitarian takeover of Europe.
These extended quotes give the overall argument. Beinart continues to develop it with a focus on the invasion of Ukraine. He points out that there are times when Russia had been on the relatively virtuous side and the US not, with examples. And times when the US has been relatively virtuous, and Russia not. In the end, for this case, we have to think clearly and make a choice.
As Beinart writes: “But Koestler’s point was that progressives can puncture America’s pretensions to universal virtue while still recognizing that it is sometimes one of the few instruments available to combat evil.”
Peter Beinart’s essay is worth reading in full here.
While I do not support much of what the U.S. does, in this situation, I agree with Beinart that it is, relative to Putin’s invasion, the more virtuous side to support.
However, I still really want to find a non-violent path to peace for all. I recognize that, today, this seems an impossibly distant goal. The non-violent path to peace probably won’t be reached in my lifetime. Sadly, it has been made more distant, seemingly less possible, with this invasion.
And ever more urgent with the use of cluster bombs, vacuum bombs, and threats of chemical weapons or even nuclear weapons.
The creative works in the follow pages of the Special Section, Ukraine Peace, support peace, humanity, and Ukraine in this historical moment. The response to the call that an earlier version of these words made for work came with intensity, sorrow, love, and hope. We have art, poems, prose submissions. We have videos of two powerful readings done on Zoom with poets from the US and from Ukraine reading. We have videos of traditional Ukrainian music.
All of this work supports Ukraine and strives for peace. I encourage you to read and share this outflowing of creativity pouring out to support people and put out into the world declarations for peace.
My heart, thoughts, and good will goes out to the peoples of both Russia and Ukraine who are caught between the anvil and the hammer. May peace return,
I am worn out from groaning.
People: mother, father, baby, child,
toddler, student, woman, man.
The grandmother who yells
In Russian at the young soldier
To tuck sunflowers in his front pocket
Because when he dies his body will sort
Out into new blooms on the land
Of Ukraine, that the yellow suns
Will redeem themselves, breaking
Through shrapnel and Molotov
Cocktail remnants, and disappear,
like cloth, the children’s cancer ward
bombed out, at its corner seams.
the teenager named Kira,
Waiting with her conure parrot for three
Days in line to get into Poland
Those underground like the sunflower
Seeds, hiding from the night afraid
And implosions of fear they cannot
Show to their children as they clutch
Lego backpacks to chests and look
At the blue for signs of sky and yellow
For the wheat fields. We are kind,
we are peaceful. We will feed you hot tea,
the Kyiv men say, we will help you to get home.
Nightmare slumber, boyhood, February,
Winter, imagining, omen, flying sleep.
…is a Portuguese-American writer, author of four poetry collections, most recentlyThrough a Grainy Landscape(New Meridian Arts 2021). Among her awards are fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, Fulbright, CantoMundo, California Arts Council, Foundation for Contemporary Arts (Covid grant), Yaddo, Fundação Luso-Americana (Portugal), and the Barbara Deming Foundation, “Money for Women.” She lives in Southern California, in the hippie enclave of Topanga Canyon.
Tonight bears in its wings the dirge of a thing clattering
the world in its teeth.
Shrapnel & bombs ricochet that way & this way, shelling
cities into rubble.
& people scamper for safety, force themselves into the mouth
of another country because their birthplace has become
a lapping fire. Reminds me of Afghans thronging the bodies
of planes in Kabul after Taliban takeover. Whenever war news
grip me before the TV screen, I reach for the brink of silence.
Tonight, I'm at the brink of silence. Tonight, I hear soft moans
in Kyiv. This night, sighs run deep in Kharkiv. A Ukrainian
woman hurls her baby into arms, running for the borders,
afraid to look at the things bombs have eaten halfway,
afraid of turning into a pillar of ruin. Tonight, my lines
reek of bloods, my hand is too heavy to continue this poem.
Come & see bloods stroke the skin of ego. Come & see bloods
oil the wheels of politics. Come, come & see blood murals on the walls
of Kherson. Every night, after switching between Aljeezera & BBC
like a pendulum, I borrow new names to numb my pains. Now, I'm
running out of names. I think of the journeys the people of Ukraine
are unwilling to make. I think of the split gap between beauty & ruins.
Each night, after the war correspondent's voice weans off my ears,
I run my palm over my skin & collect into a soulful soliloquy
of bloodied flesh & things smouldering. Tonight, a breaking news
about this war lingers over my TV screen. & the reporter says it
with a certain weight in her voice as if she were drowning. I watch
a woman sated with the burden for home says to a Russian
soldier, Take these seeds so sunflowers grow when you die
here. I clasp my palms in prayers, clogged words rippling down
my throat: Peace for Ukraine, for Russia, for everyone running.
…a Nigerian writer, poet & medical doctor, is currently in the 2022 Cohort of the Global Arts in Medicine Fellowship. His poem, “A dirge of Broken Things” wins the 2020/2021 Poetic Wednesdays Initiative Contest. He also win the Ayamba LitCast Essay Contest with his piece, “Daffodils and the Promise of Rebirth” in 2021. His works appear in Afritondo, Mbari, Nantygreens, The Red Letter Journal, The Nigeria Review and elsewhere.
Can you imagine being forced to give up all your participation and activity in poetry, storytelling, music, art and oral histories; even your connections and hence enjoyment of these forms of culture … by the imposition of an external aggressive, authoritarian and violent regime? A regime that will insist on imposing their own strict values, that could barely be described as cultural? Gone from your life. For a long time, possibly for the rest of your life.
Are we about to see these very same inhuman restrictions being imposed again? Restrictions that the old Soviet regime stamped out for seventy years in all those Eastern European countries that were freed by the breakup of the Soviet Union in 1989.
The Ukraine, a country that voted clearly and decisively for its own sovereignty within two years of the break up of the old Soviet Union, is now the object of an invasion that was clearly planned strategy, which is an unmitigated disaster. When, in 2014, the Russians moved their armed forces into and claimed that part of Ukraine, Crimea, which has always been a strategically important peninsula, a southern bridgehead, it was clear that this was a part of that strategy, which has been on the cards of a dictatorial leadership. They are now bombing, shelling and attacking what is effectively an independent, democratic European country on three fronts and it is clear that they will stop at nothing to get their way, even to the extent of threatening Europe as a whole.
Several years ago, I attended a workshop run by one of the top Georgian Male a cappella choirs, who were touring the UK. At some point in the evening we learned that, during the seventy years of Soviet dominance, their art of story telling through their folk and cultural traditions was not allowed by the authorities. Only through clandestine meetings, at risk of banishment, did they manage to keep their songs and their stories alive and it took several years after the break up of thee Soviet Union, to get back to the level of performance they and now we can enjoy.
Just as Georgia kept their stories alive through song, dance and oral history, so too does the Ukraine. Miklos Both founded the Polyphony Project, for which, over a period of four years, he travelled around Ukraine, to visit 100 villages. He managed to record over 2,000 songs for which he has created a digital archive. This represents such an important piece of work.
For anyone in any country, oral histories, whether spoken, sung or danced, as well as their visual art, are an absolutely vital part of preserving the truth of a culture, a country or a system of believe, as they come from the mouths and minds of those people who are the culture, who are the stories, who are their histories unabridged by those despotic dictatorships and empire builders, who would erase what doesn’t fit with their own version of the truth.
May I invite you to watch this brief five minute example of how this can be done …
In my searches I also found this popular Ukrainian band playing an NPR Tiny Desk concert back in 2015. Their sound, their voicing and infectious rhythms and performance are joyous and very uplifting. Their vocal sound is particularly poignant and very characteristic of those regions of Eastern Europe …
Who gives the order to fire
and who aims the gun
and who is the target
and whose life is stolen
and who weeps with regret for what is lost
and who will raise a flag of truce to stop the insanity
and who will be the first to utter the word: peace?
Was it frightened by the sound
of rockets falling?
Did it run away
to hide in the nearest
bomb shelter?
Is it huddled with the
children in the dark
space under the rubble?
Is it hiding from war,
from anger and rage,
unwilling to risk
returning until
the fighting stops?
Is it caught in this endless
tug-of-war, each side claiming
ancient injustices, bruises, rebuffs?
Is it burrowing deeper into
the safe room or shelter
to avoid the conflict?
Or is it missing in action,
protecting a body
concealed in the
rubble?
Or carried
on a stretcher
into what’s left of a
hospital?
Or maybe it’s weeping
over each life lost,
unable to keep count—
Arab, Israeli—each life
lost a precious life,
irreplaceable.
is the author of Writing Yoga (Rodmell Press/Shambhala) and editorial director of The Jewish Writing Project. He received his BA from Columbia University and his MFA from Vermont College. His poems and personal narratives have appeared in Soul-Lit,Poetry Super Highway, Atherton Review, Elephant Journal, Blue Lyra Review, Tiferet Journal, Hevria, Poetica, Jewthink, The Jewish Literary Journal,Mindbodygreen, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and elsewhere. He lives in Sarasota, FL.
An assimilated dart,
Unsustained long-standing insurgencies,
the sequelae of ambience & peculiarity in holds of dynamism,
Seeping & entrenched; an unrest of sustenance,
Stability has a rare affluence on significant truces left in the dark,
Peace can only stay when there's a joint act of benevolence.
The air that surrounds an apneic state of no riots,
Breathless & proportionate the heaps of unsettled upheavals.
Revolts of unfairness in a time of undeserving merciless acts,
Divulged & presented in a predominant maneuver,
It hits like a collective pulse of pain,
It hits with an error of silence,
It hits with tentative overlooked & unconcerned shuns,
It hits with a creeping creed of pain,
It hits like the past,
Yields with no dividends,
The packs of life.
A time to wage peace from obscurities,
an ousted onset of the past.
…is a skilled nursing officer in emergency cardiovascular care which is provided for short term contracts in various prestigious organisations. Benedicta writes poetry during her leisure periods. I was born in Bloemfontein, Free State, though a Ghanaian, and completed my degree program as a professional nurse in Garden City University College in Kumasi, Ghana.I’m the fourth and last child and as it stands my parents are retired lecturers. Currently, I have a personal blog on WordPress and a partner organisation that deals in emergency courses and live webinars. I have an inner passion to write daily from the heart in making a difference as a poet in an outstanding literary world.
Daughter of a broken arm,
legs drove the wheels,
shot down at the speed
of a black jeep.
The evening moved to make things
square. Details in bags and rustling bills.
Our nation is ready
to give his last shirt.
Vladimir’s cathedral and walking
on subway cars with dull drawling.
A guy cleaned paws off my shoulder,
walked to the exit of transition,
he graduated with grief in half,
three classes.
But all this being said, the flowers.
…is an avid attendee and leader of poetry workshops. She has been published in numerous national and regional journals, magazines and anthologies of note. She judges poetry contests around the nation. Debbi’s strong voice ranges from narrative to lyric, short to lengthy, grief filled to joyous, inner to outer landscapes and politics. The deep influences of the surrealist, modernist and beat poets sing through her collections of clear, tough, tender and fantastical poems. She is the author of three chapbooks as well as two full length poetry collections. In Everything, Birds, is her second full length collection published by Village Books Press, (OKC, OK 2015)and was awarded an inaugural Margaret Randall Book Prize in Poetry. Her newest chapbook is Walking the Arroyo (2020-Cyberwit Books).
Country people say when a hummingbird
flies in at your window it brings a love
message to someone in your home. Unheard
Love quivers against the ceiling, ‘til love
stunned and exhausted, unless caught, released,
is found dead in rooms little used, entered
unperceived. Outside love defends cities
of nectar flowers when found invaded.
Increases intensity and the speed
of its song to ward off intruders. Knocked
Down it revives and returns to succeed,
Keep its territory, invaders stopped.
Bold and fearless tiny love makes very
Good battle when it is necessary.
Extrapolated from a passage in “Rural Hours” by Susan Fennimore Cooper
Amongst the ruins where some are cut down.
Sunflowers grow in their soil, where others
fall, Chamomile grows. In between fired rounds
We harvest the dead, as oilseed croppers.
Make tea from our enemies, helps us sleep.
Carve sunflowers into wood furniture,
weave them into girls celebration wreaths.
They protect us from evil, provide cures.
Bullets, missiles and bombs are seeds blasted
Into one another. Skin is good earth.
Violent kernels kill targets planted
in soil amongst ruins that hold their worth.
Victims of war always nation’s flowers.
Memorialise in time’s quiet hours.
…is a shop asst. Lives in a cat house full of teddy bears. First play performed at The Gulbenkian Theatre, Hull. His chapbooks include The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley, (Dearne Community Arts, 1993). A World Where and She Needs That Edge (Nixes Mate Press, 2017, 2018) The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017), Please Take Change (Cyberwit.net, 2018), As Folk Over Yonder ( Afterworld Books, 2019). He is a contributing writer of Literati Magazine and Editor of Wombwell Rainbow Interviews, book reviews and challenges. Had work broadcast on BBC Radio 3 The Verb and, videos of his Self Isolation sonnet sequence featured by Barnsley Museums and Hear My Voice Barnsley. He also does photography commissions. Most recent is a poetry collaboration with artworker Jane Cornwell: “Wonderland in Alice, plus other ways of seeing”, (JCStudio Press, 2021)
In the Kremlin the guards were monsters of the kind
of secrecy that flattens souls,
an enormous place for hiding spies and jewels
where the air rang of old czars and killings.
It was as though i too was masked and silenced
there in that killing quiet.
That killing quiet.
I tried to imagine a blond czarina playing cards,
being able to sing her songs in that pernicious silence,
those halls staggered large and long everywhere,
Lenin outside preserved forever, what a deadly fear
and the polite waiting lines
all too silent
and I played Bartok and B.B. King voraciously
loud to obliterate that crippling politeness.
Time In War
We lived in the war pasting coupons
page after page in the war our parents
subdued for us, banned in a loud quiet.
banning feeling in themselves
keeping the lights bright. We lived in a war
bleeding alone, for there was no tv
to see. Night radio muffled. The war hit our hearts,
what else? We ate polite weeklong pot roasts
And knew something was missing. It was fear
that the world would not be here, nor we,
that the rituals would crash like Alice
fell through, fell to newwhere-land
Oh, where will we go when we pass
into you? Will our hearts even start?
Who will keep this ritual life going
with all the killing and darkness?
Anne Frank at least she said, and Joan of Arc withstood.
And we all targets geographical and physical
And we exposed and frightened, having
to put a good face on this evil which threatened all
those war days and witch-hunt days and
always in our ever oppositional living
And now again as the long days pass casting evil
Again I wander-wonder alone what I’ll do when
Life turns into a living bomb cast and I’ll have no
Pot-roast or pretense. Writing my
Globetrotting weapon and disguise.
In out and all about. In rife absurdity.
Calm the bombs and silence the mad.
Let’s feel clear water and soft words all
Green, clad in long love and trust beyond bloodshed
Not hope but a sudden heartening.
Wall Mural by @2022 My Dog Sighs Northcote Lane, Cardiff, Wales
One Night after Ukraine
Voice is an old cliche I’m
Not proud to say that closer
It’s just all getting tighter
Any way I see mushrooms
I see that angular nose
Spelling the world and time falling:
War cries upon us again harder
Takes it onto us harder.
We’ve watched all this before
Now let us speak
peace surer & surer
Let no dictator bite the
Worlds chestnuts out and
eat their way in. Stand up and plunder their bones harder
And harder harder till our cliches stick true
Ukraine Besieged
Stones unto bones unto trinkets
there was a time I ain’t gonna
study war no more bones
no more shocks
Stones onto my big heart
bones unto war
no more and like death
stones us tight into our years
We have forgotten there was a time
We locked hands and remembered
Those bones
those overtones of war
And now there are three wars
Anyway
Where has all the young love gone
Stones unto bones unto trinkets.
Poems make a shape
they take like magic
in a Finnish prayer
they reach eternity
where we’re all marching
for peace, for each other,
our feet preaching peaceful.
…is a writer born in Berkeley who has been socially aware all her life. Years in Franco’s Spain only taught her more about group action and collaboration. Professor of American and teaching World literatures teach her how to live and love. Intensity is her middle name.
The BeZine 