Kattakurgan State Pedagogical Institute Primary Education Department Group 25 04

To my Dad

The mountain you lean on is my loving garden

Advice, your words are a necklace in my mouth

We are not always together my love

I love you, Dad

You are a family man and a true professional

Motherland and parents are dear to us

Shabbona misses your daughter every moment

Stay healthy, dear Dad   

  Books

I’m jealous of my books

Sitting over there

So smugly on their shelves

Complete, closed

Finished years ago.

Almost all their authors

Have moved on

Untouchable now

And all I have left

Are these reminders

Lined up side by side

Shoulder to shoulder

Settled in

Knowing their place

In my small world

And that bigger

Outside world where

People know them

Glad to see them

Hold them, read them

Sometimes I dust them

Tend to them as their keeper

Their clumsy, quiet keeper

Who has discovered

His place and is now

Jealous of theirs.

         Cold War

These days it’s easy to miss

and even reminisce fondly

about the Cold War –

the coldness of it,

the threats of it,

the simple sides –

one world power

vs. the only other.

Back then it seemed

like there were only two,

and the rest,

the non-world power countries

sat back waiting, watching,

anticipating outcomes.

We imagined spies

and checkpoints,

missiles pointing

this way and that.

We listened to speeches,

the good guys and the bad,

understood the easy equation

of mutual destruction,

measured the future

in terms of numbers

and then sizes of weapons.

Those were simpler times,

checkers instead of chess,

a simple plot scheme,

cowboys and Indians,

just children at play

as opposed to today.

           Haiku

It’s hard to get a haiku

to happen.

First of all, we must

adjust our thinking,

get big ideas in small spaces

a small upstairs room

instead of crowded

street scenes,

more Dickinson

than Whitman.

Then we get to count

three lines

and words viewed

in their pieces –

syllable count

oh, syllable count.

We get to see them

in a different light

broken down

into the parts we rarely

remember.

And the haiku needs

an image to play on

and a speaker we trust

to lead us through

the lines, the words

and the brief moment

we give over

to its take of the small

world we share.

Pyramid Prison

in detritus metronomes

of human habitation

the ghost of Shelley’s imagination

questions the elemental,

experimental

chromosomes

and ribosomes

of DNA,

reverse engineered

that suddenly appeared

as evolution yesterday.

her monster mirrors dark wells

of monsters in our smart selves,

the lost humanity and oratory

that fills laboratory

test tubes

with fused

imbued

genes

to dreams

of flat forward faster

distinction

to disaster

and barbarism’s

ectopic extinction.

this is our pyramid prison,

where all souls

and proles

climb the debased

opposite steps of extremism,

like Prometheus Unbound,

defaced

sitting around

the crouching sphinx

abandoned by missing links.

free masons of money and wars,

warp the altar of natural laws,

so reason withers

and wastelands rust-

no longer rivers

of shared stardust

in the equal symphony of spheres

in space,

filling our ears

with subwoofer bass,

definitive

primitive

medieval

evil

waste.

It’s So Quiet

it’s so quiet

our eloquent words dying on a diet

of midnight toast

with Orwell’s ghost-

looking so tubercular in a tweed jacket

pencilling notes on a lung black cigarette packet-

our Winston, wronged for a woman and sin

rewrote history on scrolls thought down tubes

that came to him

in the Ministry of Truth Of Fools

where conscience learns to lie within.

not like today

the smug-sly haves say and look away

so sure

there’s nothing wrong with wanting more,

or drown their sorrows

downing bootleg gin

knowing tomorrows

truth is paper thin

.

at home

in sensory

perception

with tapped and tracked phone

the Thought Police arrest me

in the corridors of affection-

where dictators wear, red then blue, reversible coats

in collapsing houses, all self-made

and self-paid

smarmy scrotes-

now the Round Table

of real red politics

is only fable

on the pyre of ghostly heretics.

they are rubbing out

all the contusions

and solitary doubt,

with confusions

and illusions

through wired media

defined in their secret encyclopaedia-

where summit and boardroom and conclave

engineer us from birth to grave.

like the birds,

i will have to eat

the firethorn

berries that ripen but sleep

to keep

the words

of revolution

alive and warm

this winter, with resolution

gathering us, to its lantern in the bleak,

to be reborn and speak.

THE PORTAL IN THE WOODS

Seeing somnambulist sunrise

Through open window

Touch your face

After love rides

On moon tides

In ebb and flow

At tantric pace-

Love resides

Tasted

No asides

Wasted

Spices of the flesh

Soaking rooms in Marrakesh

How I ate your truffle in Zanzibar

While you smoked my long cigar.

Back home-

Tribes of bloods

And druids roam

Seeking out the overgrown

Portal in the woods

Where we hondfast

In this present of the past

Dance chanting

In stone bone circles

Like ooparts

Practicing

Magical arts

Settling

What chaos hurtles-

Reconnecting rhythms

In living and dead

To those algorithms

In nature’s head.

We are rustic-

Romantic

In land and sky

The  air  fire  water

To warriors who slaughter

If Us or Them must die.

We wake

For clambake

Pleasure

In a cauldron lake

Of limbs together

Then cut sods of peat

From the bog under our feet

Exposing the pasts

That never last.

CUBIST GHETTOS

I think

To shrink

The distance

Of resistance

Inside self

To all else-

Knowing

Showing

Vulnerability

In the mystery

Leaves what is closed

Openly exposed-

To explanation

Under examination

When there isn’t one

That hasn’t gone

Until roof floor and sky door

Are no more-

Only roulette rubbles

Of drone troubles

Imprisoning

Reasoning

In cubist ghettos

Wearing jazz stilettos-

Flashing flamingo legs

To pink paradise Harlem heads

While new trees grow up mute

And ripen with strange fruit

Some whites too this time

A drowned boy, me and mine.

THE HEAD IN HIS FEDORA HAT

a lonely man,

cigarette,

rain

and music

is a poem

moving,

not knowing-

a caravan,

whose journey does not expect

to go back

and explain

how everyone’s ruts

have the same

blood and vein.

the head in his fedora hat

bows to no one’s grip,

brim tilted into the borderless

plain

so his outlaw wit

can confess

and remain

a storyteller,

that hobo fella

listening like a barfly

for a while

and slow-winged butterfly

whose smile

they can’t close the shutters on

or stop talking about

when he walks out

and is gone.

whisky and tequila

and a woman, who loves to feel ya

inside

and outside

her

when ya move

and live as one,

brings you closer

in simplistic

unmaterialistic

grooved

muse Babylon.

this is so,

when he stands with hopes head,

arms and legs

all aflow

in her Galadriel glow

with mithril breath kisses

condensing sensed wishes

of reality and dream

felt and seen

under that

fedora hat

inhaling smoke

as he sang and spoke

stranger fella

storyteller.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x4 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

Frozen Fish

Coming home from work is the same every day. The streets are noisy, cars roar, people hurry, and children laugh and play with pure innocence. Life around me is alive, yet inside me—silence.

  There is a strange emptiness in my heart. As if something is missing. But what? I don’t even know. Deep inside my chest, there is a voice wanting to speak, but no one seems to hear it.

  As usual, I entered that same store to buy dinner. The shop assistant greeted me with his usual smile, his usual words:

 “Hello, how can I help you?”

 And I, once again, was silent. I didn’t know what to buy. I simply wandered between the aisles. Fruits, sweets, colorful products… and finally, I stopped in front of the freezer.

  There it was — the frozen fish.

  My eyes instantly caught it. Strange… why did my heart recognize this coldness so quickly? I reached out — cold, yet familiar somehow. In that very moment, I felt something… something I couldn’t explain even to myself.

  I took the fish. The shop assistant, as always, was polite:

  “That will be 30,000 so‘m,” he said with a smile.

 I handed him the money, but my thoughts had already walked away with that frozen fish. As I walked home, a thought crossed my mind: “This is not the fish… it’s me who is frozen.”

  Yes, perhaps I am the same — alive, yet without warmth. My feelings have frozen inside my heart. That’s why I cannot love, cannot feel gratitude, cannot trust anyone.

 There was a time when I was different — cheerful, innocent, someone who made others laugh. Now everyone says: “You’ve changed, the old Zebi is gone.” Maybe they’re right. Maybe I was once a fish swimming freely in the ocean, but the cold hand of life caught me… and froze me.

 Now I live, but I do not feel. I breathe, but I am not alive.

 Who knows, maybe inside each of us lives a frozen fish — a piece of ice that has grown used to the cold and forgotten what warmth feels like…

My name is Dilobar Maxmarejabova. I am a 2nd-year student at the University of Journalism and Mass Communications, majoring in Philology and English Language Teaching.

ALISHER NAVOIY NOMIDAGI TOSHKENT DAVLAT O’ZBEK TILI VA ADABIYOTI UNIVERSITETINING ONA TILI VA ADABIYOT FAKULTETIO’ZBEK TILI VA ADABIYOT YO’NALISHI 13-GURUH TALABASIRAHMONQULOVA GULSEVAR SAMID QIZI

Father-Son Relationship in the “Alpomish” Epic 

Abstract  This article analyzes the father-son relationship in the “Alpomish” epic, a unique example of Uzbek folk oral creativity. It demonstrates that the relationships between Alpomish and his son Yadgar in the epic’s plot express family loyalty, heroic heritage, and generational continuity. The article illuminates the ideological-artistic features of the epic, its plot motifs, and differences in various variants based on the research of literary scholars such as Hamid Olimjon, V.M. Zhirmunsky, Hodi Zarif, Bahodir Sarimsoqov, and To‘ra Mirzayev.

The father-son relationship is linked to ancient folklore roots, comparative analysis with world epics, and national values, emphasizing the epic’s significance in folk education.   Keywords. “Alpomish” epic, father-son relationship, family ties, heroic epic, generational continuity, Uzbek folk oral creativity, folklore studies, Hamid Olimjon, V.M. Zhirmunsky, Hodi Zarif, Bahodir Sarimsoqov, To‘ra Mirzayev, plot motifs, national values, variant comparisons.  

The “Alpomish” epic, one of the largest and most perfect examples of Uzbek folk oral creativity, not only expresses the spirit of heroism and patriotism but also deeply depicts family relationships, particularly the father-son bond. In the epic’s plot, themes such as family, intergenerational connections, loyalty, and protection occupy a central place. These relationships reflect the nation’s national customs, moral standards, and way of life, as the epic has been passed down orally from generation to generation over centuries, shaped by historical conditions.

In this article, we analyze this theme based on the research of literary scholars, particularly drawing from the opinions of experts such as Hamid Olimjon, V.M. Zhirmunsky, Hodi Zarif, Bahodir Sarimsoqov, and To‘ra Mirzayev, to broadly illuminate the father-son relationships in various variants of the epic. The studies of these scholars have made significant contributions to exploring the ideological-artistic features of the epic, its plot structure, and system of characters.  

Literary scholars have studied the father-son relationship in the “Alpomish” epic within the framework of the epic’s overall ideological-artistic structure. Their opinions help illuminate the ancient roots of the epic, its plot motifs, and national characteristics.  Hamid Olimjon, in the foreword he wrote for the 1939 edition of the epic, evaluates “Alpomish” not only as a favorite work of the Uzbek people but also of Turkic nations. He focuses on the epic’s artistry, similes, and exaggerations, emphasizing the system of characters.

According to Hamid Olimjon, the relationship between Alpomish and his son Yadgar stands at the center of the epic, which served as the cradle of the hero’s poetry. He writes, “Alpomish is considered his most beloved epic. ‘Alpomish’ was the cradle of his poetry,” through which he interprets the father-son bond as generational continuity and heroic heritage. Hamid Olimjon emphasizes the influence of folklore, comparing the epic to the works of Pushkin and Navoiy, where family motifs derive from folk creativity.  

V.M. Zhirmunsky, in his book “Uzbek Folk Heroic Epic” (1947) co-authored with Hodi Zarif and in his article “The Epic Tale of Alpomish and Homer’s Odyssey” (1957), compares the epic to world epics. He likens the hero’s return in the second part of “Alpomish” to Odysseus’s return: just as Odysseus meets his son Telemachus, Alpomish meets his son Yadgar and protects the family. Zhirmunsky meticulously analyzes the plot line, delving into the genesis of the characters Alpomish and Yadgar. In his view, this relationship stems from ancient folklore motifs (the hero appearing at his own wife’s wedding) and has similarities in European folklores. Zhirmunsky connects the basis of the epic to heroic tales, though this assumption was later deemed controversial.  

Hodi Zarif, the founder of folklore studies, analyzes the epic’s emergence period and motifs in his article “The Main Motifs of the ‘Alpomish’ Epic” (published in 1957-1959). He links the epic not to the 17th-18th centuries but to the pre-Mongol invasion period and emphasizes the presence of pre-Islamic beliefs. According to Hodi Zarif, the father-son relationship is one of the central motifs of the epic, representing tribal and national unity. He refutes the accusations of A. Abdunabiyev and A. Stepanov, defending the epic as a popular national epic.

Hodi Zarif studies the etymology of the word Alpomish and the place of the epic’s creation (Boysun – ancient Khorezm), linking family bonds to ancient conceptions.  Bahodir Sarimsoqov, in his article “Three Etudes on the Alpomish Epic,” refutes Zhirmunsky’s assumption, linking the basis of the epic not to heroic tales but to real historical events. In his opinion, the heroic epic directly reflects tribal and clan events, so the father-son relationship derives from the people’s specific historical experience. Sarimsoqov emphasizes that the epic is not based on heroic tales; rather, the tales are based on the epic, which helps interpret the father-son bond as a symbol of national unity and independence.  

To‘ra Mirzayev, in his article “The ‘Alpomish’ Epic, Its Versions and Variants,” illuminates a brief history of the epic, comparing various versions (Kazakh, Karakalpak, Tatar, and others) and Uzbek variants. He reminds that the epic became known in scholarly circles in the 1890s and analyzes variants recorded by various bards (Fozil Yo‘ldosh o‘g‘li and others). According to Mirzayev, the father-son relationship varies in the epic’s versions, but the common motif – generational continuity and family protection – remains preserved. He evaluates the epic as an example of oral creativity that has been sung among the people for centuries.  

The “Alpomish” epic consists of two main parts: the first describes the hero Alpomish’s birth, marriage, and adventures in the Kalmyk lands, while the second narrates his return and protection of his family. The father-son relationship becomes particularly evident in the second part. While Alpomish is in Kalmyk captivity for seven years, his wife Barchinoy (or Barchin) gives birth to a son – Yadgar (in some variants, Yodgor). During this time, in the Qo‘ng‘irot tribe, Alpomish’s brother Ultantaz (or similar characters in other versions) seizes power and persecutes the family: he insults Alpomish’s father, oppresses his son Yadgar, and tries to force Barchin to marry him.  When Alpomish returns, he disguises himself and saves his family.

Here, the father-son relationship takes a dramatic turn: Alpomish recognizes his son but initially fights or tests him. Yadgar is depicted as a young hero who has inherited his father’s bravery – he tries to protect the family but faces difficulties due to his youth and inexperience. With Alpomish’s return, the father-son bond strengthens: the father saves his son and teaches him heroic virtues, while the son continues his father’s legacy. The continuation of the epic (in some variants) is dedicated to Yadgar’s own adventures, emphasizing generational continuity.  

The father-son relationship in the “Alpomish” epic forms the ideological center of the national epic, expressing family loyalty, heroic heritage, and intergenerational unity. Hamid Olimjon’s artistic analysis, Zhirmunsky’s comparative study, Hodi Zarif’s motif research, Bahodir Sarimsoqov’s views on historical foundations, and To‘ra Mirzayev’s variant comparisons help to understand this relationship more deeply. This bond not only enriches the epic’s plot but also reflects the Uzbek people’s national values – family, homeland, and loyalty. The epic’s relevance today lies in its ability to educate the younger generation in the spirit of devotion and justice. These studies indicate the necessity of continuing to explore the epic within the framework of world folklore.

Student of Group 13, Uzbek Language and Literature Major, Faculty of Mother Tongue and Literature, Alisher Navoi Tashkent State University of Uzbek Language and Literature, Rahmonqulova Gulsevar Samid qizi

Echo of My Words —–

Don’t be angry…

I don’t surrender to anger

And your ideal worlds

Don’t concern me

I am a man with a permit

To cross the thorns of pain

To speak

I do as I please,

I tear the cheeks of lilies,

I strike the face of dew,

I cast my weight upon the moments

I cross the seasons,

I throw love with the butts of my cigarettes

And with all my pride, I depart!!

And I return,

I return to paint hope,

I flirt with the letters anew

I am a knight in the art of words

All the letters

In my chamber, captives

Until the impetuosity leaves me!!

I am a man, you

From the remnants of bygone eras

I carry the books of civilization in my palm,

I brush away the dust of ignorance if it touches my shoulder

Standing tall like a mountain

Untouched by wounds Nor by follies…

I write my mornings

And cast shadows upon dreams!

From the depths of history

I live, I and my voice

I am all images

And all voices

Who are you?

Who are you?!

What are you?

Nothing but an echo of my words!

Poet/ Aisha Al-Maharabi Aden City Republic of Yemen Bachelor of Philosophy, University of Aden Married and a mother Worked in the field of teaching Participated in several Arab festivals in Egypt, Tunisia, Algeria, and Jordan Hobbies: Reading and writing in the field of poetry and literature My works have been published in several Arab and foreign newspapers, and I have had several press and radio interviews. – My poetry collection, “Master of the Evening,” was published in 2013 by the University Publishing House, Yemen. – “And the Daisy Breathed” was published in 2014 by Khalid Ibn Al-Walid Publishing House. – “How to Tame Longing” was published in 2014 by Al-Jeel Al-Jadeed Publishing House. – “Stuck Behind the Eyelids of the Homeland” was published in 2017 by Fikra Publishing House. – “Peace Be Upon You, Dawn” was published by Abrar Publishing House in 2019. – “And Madness Has Its Meaning” was published by the Poets on the Window of the World Foundation for Culture and Creativity in 2023.

PEACE

Peace is necessary for all, do not let it be a dream,

   of unnecessary violence.

  the light is for all, man is man’s wolf,

  only love will give us the things that last,

take a trip into your soul.

Peace is required by children,

  chaste pearls of the universe,

  let us not fail them as humanity.

I want to shout to the seas pity for the innocent.

 No mortal being can judge the sin of another,

have no right to take their lives for their ambition,

less revenge for past matters,

nor compel to believe what you do not want.

I call the world to a song of love to Palestine sacred land of god and love

I want to bring about peace with joy,

carry as a flag the respect to the earth,

loving beyond existence.

Silence

Before the veil, the body that was not, just a flash, the Essence without reason. A sea of calm, where the Being rests, immense peace, before being the thing.

The soul travels in light, weightless and without haste, knowing the Whole, without voice or currency. Home without walls, without time to measure, the eternal source of Life.

It is that moment, the subtle memory, where bliss becomes a path of complete being, of not needing. Peace is always, before beginning.

MY GENIUS SISTER

She draws the sky on paper
with hands of light,
with a soul of honey,
her ideas fly like a sparrow,
she weaves dreams with her heart,
the wind whispers, the sea sings,
her voice guides us, makes us think.


My genius sister,
shooting star,
brings peace where there is storm,
her love teaches, her laughter gives,
a new world where she will grow.

She plants books in every corner,
and waters words, harvests reason,
Her mind is fire, her soul a volcano,
she awakens life in every place,
she is a bridge and a lighthouse, calm and sun,
her strength shines, her faith is her driving force.

I love you Jeanette, forever and ever.


FLOWER OF THE WORLD

A flower that perfumed my life with her kindness.
Great teacher. Creator of peace,
brilliant fairy who taught us to think of others,
that was Jeannette’s legacy, her inheritance.

Thank you for existing eternally in our souls,
because with a smile, you continue to give us calm,
you loved Mexico and the world madly,
and you made love a strong architecture.

As orphans, we feel like your siblings,
only God knows how much we miss you,
thank you for all the good you gave,
for showing us that you overcame every obstacle.

Fernando José Martínez Alderete is a writer, poet, and theater actor. Born in Leon Guanajuato Mexico on April 21, 1977, Fernando studied the degree in communication within the Latin American University of Leon. He has written poetry from 14 years of age and published several of his writings in the most important newspapers in his hometown, cultural magazines California, Leon, Guanajuato capital and Zacatecas, USA. He is currently involved as administrator of various literary groups, publishing his poems in social networks, participating in various anthologies published in Black Island, Chile and stories in Madrid, Spain with poets of America and Europe, He has also recited their texts in radio programs in Montevideo, Chicago, Barcelona and Buenos Aires. He is the president of many cultural organizations.