At a time when many Americans feel that we may finally, after over 150 years, be coming to some form of recognition of the Black experience, Michael J. Robinson’s From Chains to Freedom gives voice to the pain and loss suffered by so many long ago. Only time will tell if this moment will be the change we are seeking but Michael’s poems will live on, regardless.

The poems here are tightly constructed images of the slave experience with the sea and salvation the only comforting companions to the world they were forced into.

This collection provides a history and imagery that cannot be forgotten. They are designed to be reread and reconsidered for their messages. Recently poetry has enjoyed popular recognition with several collections nudging out novels on the NY Times bestseller list. Hopefully this interest will extend to such vital collections as From Chains to Freedom as it a work that deserves to be recognized. It serves as a historical reminder of an American mindset that is too easily misrepresented in our culture. It brings the pain of the past to the present.

Success

To get you,
I clash a lot,
I gazed many times
while dreaming of you !!

I honoured you,
And questioned 
"Why I am standing here?" 
Finally, I came to know, only to get you !!

I came to know,
It isn't easy to get you,
So, I promised myself,
I never resist my dream because of you !!

To get you,
I was just like lunatic,
I couldn't analyse it.
"Who am I ?"
It wasn't detrimental,
To get you,
but wasn't easy to get you !!

I decline my incline,
I think it was your omen,
To me,
to be grabbed by me !!

I never get noble,
I always rushed,
To get you,

To the rowdy,
you are rare.
But to me,
Without you I am bare.!!

With the grace of god,
I want you,
And can't express my joy to be the devotee of you !!

Positive Vibes

In the situation of the great disaster,

On their own way and level of knowledge –

Everyone are specialist; I or you.

For now let’s turn to be –

The messenger of prosperity,

Rather being the messenger of combat

Through terrorism or war.

From now let us turn off the light of ego;

And understand the power we gain,

Drinking the nectar extracted from –

Our superego.

In the Middle of Nowhere

Deeply eroded and worn looking landscape continually passed me by. Driving along
Highway 10 in the middle of Texas I thought, “Why does anyone live here?” Occasional areas of low rolling hills dotted with scrub brush, and a few oak trees dotted the horizon. Herds of cattle that moseyed across it over the past year, trampled the crisp, dry straw colored grass into a mat, The sky, a deep blue right down to the horizon, indicated an absence of any significant air polluting population.

I headed west, after visiting my brother in Austin, to meet up with Zelda, a woman in
California. I met her in Chicago some months ago. She was alluring and beautiful,
managing to draw me into her life like metal to a magnet. We quickly connected that
night at a friend’s party, and have kept in touch ever since. The pull was just to much
for me, and I had to see her again.

I cruised west at a nice 60 mph in my white 1969 Toyota Corona. I bought the car
several years earlier after noticing it in the window of a motorcycle shop. There were
very few Toyota dealerships back then, as it was just the beginning of the great
Japanese car onslaught to envelope America. When I first saw the car, I was smitten
with it. The fit and finish were excellent, and it had an economic four cylinder engine
with four on the floor, and an AM/FM radio, all for less than $1,600.00. It was half of
what I would have paid for a small American car at the time. The car was unique on
the road, and people often stopped me to inquire about it. Even driving down the
freeway, cars slowed as they passed guessing at what it was. However, I did have to
endure the occasional joke about where I inserted the key to wind it up, or how many
clowns came with it.

A couple years after I bought it, I got into a small accident. The repair shop had
difficulty obtaining parts, and it took a long time to get it repaired. After a lengthy wait,
the car looked as good as new, and ran well. I had no hesitations about taking it
across country.

Driving through Texas hill country, my thoughts wandered from topic to topic, when
suddenly I heard a pop, and felt a slight lurch. A red light appeared on the dashboard
indicating a problem with the oil. The engine became noisy and I noticed white smoke
from behind the trunk. I quickly slowed and pulled off to the side of the road. I got out
and moved to the front of the hood, popping it open with a flick of the lever just
beneath the hood by the upper grill plate. Steam and white smoke poured from the
engine. Waving my hands to clear away the mist, I eventually exposed the engine
compartment. There was the sound of a hiss, but I did not see anything in the
compartment itself. However, as I gazed down between the wheel weld and engine, I
noticed a small pool of dark fluid on the ground below.

I scrunched down on my knees and bent to get a better look beneath the engine.
Steam vented from the oil filter housing, and oil continued to slowly drip from a crack in
the housing itself. I could not understand why this happened at this moment, as I had
not hit anything on the road that might have damaged the filter mechanism. After a
few moments of exasperation, it dawned on me that a small crack or weakness may
have developed when I had my earlier accident, and the repair shop did not pick it up.
The heat and prolonged compression of my long travel must have caused the crack to
expand and open up, releasing the oil.

I stood up, and gazed both directions down the highway. Except for the occasional
rare whoosh of a passing car, dead silence reigned. There was no wind, and the sun
beat down hard on everything around me. A fly landed on my sweaty brow, and I beat
it off with a quick swipe of my hand. It smelled of herbs, dry grass, and engine oil.
“Now what the fuck do I do?” There was no urban environment to be seen. Low hills
blocked distant views in every direction. “Okay, then,” I told myself in a determined
manner. I locked the car, stood between it and the road, and stuck out my thumb,
hoping someone would see that I was in distress and needed assistance.
Fifteen minutes passed with no bites. People passed me by as if I were just another
advertising sign along the freeway. I figured it might be my long hair and the peace
sticker on the window of my car that put people off. After all, I was in pretty
conservative country. Except for the liberals in Austin, much of the population was
pro-war, and I had nothing to identify myself as a Vietnam Veteran.

Finally, in the distance I could see a white car approaching with an array of fixtures
across the roof. As it came closer, I could see that it was a Texas State Trooper. The
trooper turned on his flashing roof lights, slowed and pulled in behind my car. As he
pushed open his door, he grabbed his stiffly blocked cowboy hat off the passenger
seat, and placed it on his head, adjusting it with a slight tug of his forefingers. His grey
uniform was neat and crisp, as if he just picked it up from the dry cleaners. I wondered
how someone could keep their clothes so neat after sitting in a hot car all day. In a
thick Texas drawl, he asked if I needed help. Gazing at myself into the lenses of a pair
of highly reflective aviator sunglasses, shaded by the curled brim of a grey Stetson, I
explained my situation to him.

After a brief pause, the trooper went back to his car and pulled out his microphone,
stretching a long twisted black cord from somewhere beneath his dashboard, and up
to his mouth. He briefly talked to his dispatcher, and then hung the microphone back
in the car. Walking back over, he told me a tow truck would be coming in a short time.
The trooper then started walking around the Toyota, as if he were inspecting it. He
looked into the window and down underneath the frame. He ran his fingers across the
grill grating, and down along the front bumpers. I thought maybe, with my “Hippie”
appearance, he might suspect I had drugs on me. However, he never asked to search
anything. At one point he stated, “Ain’t seen one of these out here. I’ve seen some
small Jap trucks on occasion, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen a sedan.” He
placed his hand on his jaw and stroked down on it a couple times, giving considerable thought to the vehicle.

Once he was finished examining the exotic machine before him, he began a casual
conversation with me. “I notice you have Illinois plates. Where you from in Illinois?” I
told him I was from the Chicago Area, and was traveling to see a friend in California.
We talked of nothing significant for several minutes before he looked up. “Aah, here
comes Trevor,” as he waved at the oncoming tow truck to signal him in.

Trevor pulled the old 50’s series Chevy truck in front of my car. The vehicle had a worn
out Texaco emblem on the side of the door and the paint on the hood was burnt away
from years of sun exposure. Trevor emerged in his oil stained blue and white striped
mechanic’s jump suit. He had long dirty blonde hair and a moderate mustache. He
held out his hand and we shook, as we introduced ourselves. I told him what I thought
was the problem, to which he declared he would not be able to fix anything at this
location, but would have to take it into town.

After seeing I was properly tended to, the trooper nodded goodbye, got into his car
and left. Trevor then backed up the tow truck closer to the front of my car. He asked
that I put it into neutral, as he connected the chains and hook. He got into the truck,
and started the engine, then came back and pulled a lever in the back of the truck.
The front of the car was slowly lifted off the ground about a foot or so. He pulled back
the lever and placed a metal lock into the chain to keep it from accidentally loosening
as he drove.

We both entered the truck at the same time. The passenger side door creaked a bit as
I opened and closed it. The seat was a dirty grey with some areas of ripped cloth
exposing stuffing and the top of a spring. The truck lurched and whined through
several gears as we headed forward towards town. There was a small hole in the
floorboard, and I could see the surface of the road as we passed over it. The cab had
a musty smell of old oil. After a bit of silence, Trevor flicked on the small portable radio
wedged between the front windshield and the dashboard. Mel Tillis accompanied us
into town.

We drove a couple miles up a low grade, and descended down the other side of a hill
towards the horizon. On the right, a green sign with white letters spelled out Junction,
Population 2,550. I could see the town off to the right as we descended the hill. It
looked like a typical western burg, laid out on grid, a with a main drag lined with
various shops. Several cross streets heading out in either direction pierced the main
street. The side streets were lined with trees shading small homes situated along
roads. Trevor pulled off onto the exit which teed into the main street. He turned right
and headed towards downtown.

As we approached the business district, I could see a large slender red sign with white
letters indicating Texan, above a large wide marquise. I was impressed that such a
small place would have a movie theater. We passed a drug store, a cafe and a
saddlery, before Trevor turned left onto one of the side streets. I was surprised at the
turn, for I could see a gas station further down Main Street, expecting that the Texaco
sign was our destination. We next passed through a residential area before heading
out further beyond the confines of the city. I was getting a bit nervous at this point, but
hesitated to question Trevor directly. I decided to let things play out for now. Just past
a small fenced pasture, Trevor pulled right onto a gravel road which quickly ended at a
ranch with a large weathered barn. Paranoid curiosity finally getting the best of me, I
asked why we were here, and not the local gas station or auto repair shop. “This guy
can help you.” Trevor replied, offering no further explanation.

Three men sat in old weathered wooden chairs, the backs of which were butted up
against the barn. They wore jeans, work shirts, and sweat stained cowboy hats. Their
western boots were well scuffed, with bits of manure clinging to the cusp between the
heel and the sole. One of them gently placed beneath his chair a bottle of wild Turkey
they previously passed between them. As the truck came to a halt, they waved at
Trevor, got up out of their chairs and sauntered over. Trevor met them half way. “Hey
Trev how’s it going?” one of the men shouted. “Just fine, real good, Dil, but we got o
bit a problem here.” Trevor explained my situation to Dil, which I assumed was short
for Dilbert. After some conversation, animated by considerable gestures towards my
car, Dilbert walked over to me and introduced himself. “So, it sounds like ya gotta oil
leak.” I nodded in affirmation, and explained about the crack in the filter housing. He
then went over to the car and lay down next to it, shuffling himself partway underneath.
After a minute or so, she shoved himself back, stood up, and wiped his oily hands on a
rag he had stuffed into his back pocket.

Dil was a tall slender man of middle age. He was deeply tanned with a leathery quality
to his well wrinkled face. I noticed when we shook hands that his finger whorls and
palm creases were stained black, and he had a number of small scars on the back of
his hands. This was a working class man. A hands on kinda guy, who’s persona was
honed by years of hard toil and direct experience.

Dil moved to the front of the car, placed his hand beneath the hood, and popped it
open. He raised it full tilt, and slid the long metal pin up into the hole under the top of
the hood. Once the hood was stable, he asked that I get in and rev up the engine. I
quickly complied, and turned over the engine, which emitted a “whah whah whah
whah,” and never quite started. “Okay stop.” Dil shouted. He replaced the hood and
came up to me. “Yer number one piston is also seared.” “Damn, how could he know
that from just listening to the engine?” I thought to myself. Cognitive dissonance
overwhelmed me for a time. I was trapped between a sense of awe at the man’s
mechanical prowess, and the notion that I may be caught up in some highway robbery
of sorts.

“I ain’t never worked on one of these Jap cars, but I did watch a feller who lives down
south repair the engine in his Toyota pickup. The engines are puuurdy simple. I think I
can help ya.” With a mild sense of incredulity, I asked, “Where the hell are you going to
get parts?” Dil replied, “Well, there’s a Toyota dealership in San Antonio. “I can order
4the parts I need and have them shipped up on the Greyhound that comes up every
other day.” “The guy who owns the pickup knows the clerk in the parts shop. I’ll have
him order them for me.” Other than pay to have my car towed to the dealership in San
Antonio, which is over a hundred miles to the south, I really had no choice. So, I
accepted his offer to make the repairs on site.

“Trevor can take you back into town. There’s a motel there, and you can get some
supper at the nearby cafe. I will take care of things from here.” Dil had Trevor pull the
car into the barn, and left it. He then drove me back to town and stopped in front of
Motel 6. I gave him my AAA information, thanked him, and we parted.

After settling into my motel room, I decided to check out the town, and get something
to eat. Standing out along the row of buildings on the street was a large neon sign with
the words; Isaack Restaurant written on it. Air Conditioned was also boldly printed on
the sign, and it drew me in, as it had been in the nineties all day. The restaurant was
clad in distressed red stained clapboard. The roof looked more like an afterthought of
the architect with its metal frame and flat top—like a metal canopy was dropped down
over the place to serve as a roof. Part of the canopy extended out over the sidewalk,
providing shelter from the elements. I pulled open the single window paned door, and
found myself inside a singular environment of someone’s country kitsch.

I expected the interior to be much smaller. Inside, several wainscoted rooms adjoined
each other. In some places the traditional knotty pine trim was replaced by metal
corrugated paneling, giving it a somewhat industrial look. A number of stuffed deer
heads adorned the upper walls, along with various home spun crafts. A lacquered pine
buffet sat in the center of one large room. A large clawfoot bathtub occupied its center.
Inside the tub were a number of cold food trays sitting atop a deep pile of ice cubes.
On either side of the tub, counters held a variety of condiments. Along one wall was a
row of wooden booths, while another area had formica covered tables with unmatched
chairs around them.

Off in another smaller room stood a short bar wrapped in corrugated tin, with a
stainless steel top. There were several chrome legged stools aligned in front of it.
There was one other large room, the entry of which had a large double door. The room
had a couple of long wooden tables with a number of chairs. It looked like a good
place for the local ranchers club to meet on a regular basis.

I sat down in one of the booths and grabbed a menu from between a bottle of catsup
and a napkin holder. The menu appeared well used, as the plastic coverings were bent
along the outer edges, and had a few scratches across them. The food offerings were
extensive, and included a variety of standard American comfort foods, as well as a few
Mexican dishes.

Not long after I sat down, a waitress, perhaps in her fifties, approached me. She had a
stainless steel urn in one hand, and a ceramic cup in the other. “Coffee sir?” she
uttered with a slight twang to her voice. And yes, of course, she also chewed gum. I
nodded to her, and she quickly placed the cup down and filled it to the brim. She had
a high bouffant hairdo and dark heavy eye liner. She wore a pink striped dress with a
white apron sewn into the front. “Are you ready to order?” she said, as she pulled a
small tablet and pencil from the pocket in the front of her apron. I had noticed a nice
looking hamburger being eaten at another table as I walked in, and decided to order it.
It came with fries and a side of coleslaw.

There were only a few other customers in the place. They spoke openly with each
other, suggesting familiarity between them. While waiting for my order, I pondered the
fate of my car. “How long will this take? Will they be able to get the right parts? Can
the guy fix it right, and if so, how much is this going to set me back? Loud laughter
interrupted my thoughts. I turned to look at the source of the gaiety, and noticed two
tables of people quickly shifting their eyes away from my direction. I became a bit self-conscious, and wondered what they found amusing about me. Perhaps, they were
sharing some hippie jokes or something? Who knows? Their view was suddenly
blocked by the waitress, who brought my order. The hamburger was fantastic, as were
the fries, but the slaw was not so good. I ate quickly, and after gulping down the last
of my coffee, I waved down the waitress, paid for my meal and left.

I had difficulty getting to sleep that night. I kept ruminating over my car. After a period
of restlessness, I remembered that when home, I used the radio as a white noise of
sorts to help me sleep. I turned on the lamp next to the bed, and glanced about the
room for a radio. Indeed, there was one sitting atop an old RCA television. I crawled
to the end of the bed and reached over for it, pulling it towards me, as I sat at the end
of the bed. After squelching through a number of western music stations, I found one
offering American standards. I adjusted the volume and placed it back on top of the
TV. I pulled the cover back over me and tried to relax. I must have drifted off
because the next thing I knew I was awake, and sunlight glowed along the edge of the
heavy window curtain. It was well beyond 10 am, and a brunch was in order. After
cleaning myself up, I dressed and headed back to Isaack’s.

My belly was sated with a well made bacon, cheese and tomato omelet and a couple
cups of strong coffee. Once again it was a hot day, and by one in the afternoon, the
metal posts of the restaurant overhang were too hot to touch. All morning and into the
afternoon, I worried about my Toyota, as I paced the boardwalk along Main Street.
Finally, I decided to walk out to the ranch and check on things. The ranch was about a
mile from town, and the town itself was not that big. Besides, the exercise would do
me good.

Large Oak and Elm trees lined the median strip of the residential areas. A few locals
passed by offering a “Howdy” or Mornin.” Once I hit the city’s edge, vegetation
became sparse, and the road abruptly changed from hot sticky asphalt to gravel. The
gravel was actually more comfortable, than the heat absorbing asphalt. I was glad I
took my panama hat with me on the trip. For it now provided me with a bit of shade
across my head and face. The sun was intense, and sweat quickly formed around my
headband, underarms and upper back.

Coffee is considered a diuretic, and I eventually became aware of that fact. Checking
out both directions down the road, I was pleased that no vehicles or persons were in
sight, allowing me to relieve myself against a knotted fencepost. I continued on,
eventually sighting the ranch house and barn in the distance. A bluebird abruptly flitted
out and back from the top rung of barbed wire, flying off as I got closer to it. The fields
were covered in straw nubs, and intermittent dry caked cow patties. I turned onto the
approach road to the ranch, and headed towards the barn. The chairs were empty,
and an empty bottle of whiskey remained beneath one of them. The barn door was
slightly ajar, and I approached with some hesitancy, not knowing how any local might
consider a stranger on their property.

As I got closer to the opening, I noticed a couple of bright lights hanging from the loft ceiling, and I could hear the hum of a machine.

The door made a loud scrunching noise as I opened it wide enough for me to enter.
Hearing the sound of the door, Dil, off to the left, standing next to a workbench, turned
and looked in my direction. He had a small piston in his hand. He turned back and
flicked a switch, turning off a grinding wheel, fitted with a soft buffer. He held up the
piston, stating, “See, yer number one piston was seared, and I just buffed it out.” I
couldn’t believe it, but he was right. I then turned back in the other direction and saw
my car up on four jacks, hood open, and the entire engine in parts, laid out in front of it, neatly arranged on a clean white sheet.

“Oh my God!” I thought. Dil had dismantled the whole engine, and cleaned all the
parts. He walked over to show me the piston up close. I could see a slightly shinier
surface where he had buffed out the charred oil seared onto the piston by the heat. “ I
ordered the parts I needed last night, and they should be on the 4 pm bus today.” I
was completely dumbfounded and at a loss for words. All I could do was to profusely
thank him for his efforts. “I’d love to share some whisky with ya, he said, but I need to
start putting it all back together. I want to have it all done by tomorrow mornin.” I once
again thanked him, and left him to his work.

That afternoon, as I sat gazing out the window of a tavern, savoring a glass Raynal on
ice, I noticed a Greyhound bus pull in at the small bus depot across the street. It was
almost exactly 4 pm. One passenger got off, and the bus driver unloaded a number of
packages onto a cart, and took them into the station. About fifteen minutes later, a
Dodge pickup pulled in, and Dil got out. He went into the station, and came out with
several boxes of different sizes and placed them into the bed of his pickup. He then
drove off.

I spent most of the afternoon sitting in the bar slowly sipping my drink and gobbling up
salty peanuts, while I had casual conversation with the bar tender. Later, I walked over
to the Texan, bought a drink and some popcorn, and settled in to watch Clint
Eastwood in Dirty Harry. Sleep came easily that night.

I got up late again. It was another hot Texas day. Coming from the Midwest, I had no
tolerance for such heat. After brunch, I bought a few items at the local grocery store
and headed back out to the ranch. I did not know what to expect. I fretted about
money, and ran through my mind a number of ways I might pay for the repairs. There
was a bank in town, and I figured I might have to have some money wired to me. I did
have a credit card, but I doubted Dil had any way of utilizing it. I had some cash, but
probably not enough. When I got to the ranch, I saw my car out front of the barn. Dil
was hosing off the last of some suds on the hood. Not only had he repaired the car,
but he washed it as well. I thought, “God, this is a guy who really appreciates
automobiles. Dil waved to me as I approached him. “Mornin, I finished her up early
this mornin. It’s a neat little thing.” He set down the hose, and went over to the faucet
protruding from the side of the barn, and turned the handle. “Go head, git in and start
her up.” he directed, as he handed me the keys. I got in and turned it over.

“whirrrrummm.” the engine started quickly and kept on humming. It sounded a bit rough, but it ran well. “It’ll be a bit noisy at first, Dil noted, until the rings get fully seated, but you should have no more problems with it.”

I slid out of the car and went over and shook Dil’s hand, thanking him for all his work.
Then I asked the big question. “How much do I owe you for this.” bracing myself for a
shock. “ Oh, well, lets see now.” Dil mused as reached into his pocket and pulled out a
wrinkled receipt. He gazed at it for a moment, and handed it to me. It was a list of
parts, with each part having a price next to it. I mentally summed it up, and to my
surprise, the total was not that bad. “Okay,” I said, “but how much for your labor.” Dil
paused for a moment, then said, “Nothin. You gave me the opportunity to tinker with
one of these jap machines, and that was good enough for me.” I was taken aback by
his generosity, but also greatly relieved. Luckily, I had enough cash on hand to pay for
the parts.

I lifted a brown bag out of a larger handled grocery bag I had brought with me, peeled
it back, and pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey, and handed it to him. “It’s the least I
could do for you.” Dil smiled, removed a pocket knife from a small leather pouch on
his belt, and cut open the seal on the bottle. With a quick head gesture towards the
chairs, we both walked over to the barn, took a seat and leaned back against the wall.
He offered me the first sip, and we sat for a time, chatting as we passed the bottle
back and forth between us, occasionally swatting at pesky flies. It turned out that he
was also a Vietnam Veteran, so we had something in common.

After a number of war stories, I decided I had had better limit my intake of booze, I did
not want to head back out, and end up with a DUI from that state trooper who helped
me. I said my goodbye, got into the car and drove back towards town. Looking in my
rear view mirror, Dil’s image slowly disappeared in the dust of the road somewhere in
the middle of nowhere

Following the dream

Suddenly I woke up. It was morning. Someone was calling me in a loud voice that came from the street.

“Uncle Nurmat,” I greeted as I opened the gate and saw my neighbour dressed oddly.

 “Me… me…” he said hurriedly. “I have been calling for you for a long time. It’s freezing cold.  Let’s go inside.”

Uncle Nurmat was seventy years old, a very thin and small man, none of the hair on his head had fallen out. He lived as a beggar. His wife had died many years ago, leaving him alone with his children. Except those two daughters, who occasionally visited him, there were no relatives to take care of him.

He was an actor who had played only minor roles throughout his life, a mediocre man whose dream of embodying Shakespeare’s characters on stage had turned into an obsessive desire.  This man, whose only significant role in the theatre was Bobchinsky in “The Government Inspector”, was sincere, free of the inherent stubbornness of older people, good-natured and energetic. At that age, he had nothing left to ask of life, and there was nothing to complain about fate. But for some reason, despite forty years of experience, he did not feel confident on stage, and because of this, they say, he could not play the role of the old King Lear in Shakespeare’s famous play.

“I rehearsed a lot yesterday, my neighbour,”  he said, running into the room ahead of me because of the cold, warming up by the stove.  “ It didn’t work. It did not fit. At that moment I said to myself: how can I rehearse like that, in the evening? I have to rehearse in the morning, waking up early. I think that’s the right decision. Because last night I repeated the monologue of the wretched king in the last scene four times. It was unsuccessful. And this morning the rendition of your humble servant was much better.”

As he said that, he rubbed his hands together.

 “May I sit on the chair? “ the neighbour continued.

 His body seemed warming up, and he moved away from the stove.

“ Look, I was sitting like that. Not upright, a bit hunched over, because that’s how King Lear sits. He’s old, exhausted. His hands are always shaking. That’s why he can’t hug his daughter’s dead body tightly. What’s more, he opens his eyes wide, not wanting to believe it is lifeless.”

He opened his eyes as he wished, pulling out a badly crumpled piece of paper from his jacket’s pocket. Finally assuming the position of King Lear, he began to recite a sorrowful monologue, glancing at the piece of paper.

“I have some shortcomings to work on,” he said as he finished his monologue. “Mostly I’ll have to work on this last scene. That’s the hardest part.”

He got up from his chair, walked over to me and, looking around coyly, whispered:

“Even  great actors could barely perform that last scene. I have to get serious about the monologue and learn it. Until I carry written monologues with me? If I go back to the theatre today or tomorrow, there is no way I will read the monologue on a piece of paper.”

He rubbed his temple and took a deepbreath.

“I have to solve this problem. I had better go to home.”

He hastily expressed his gratitude to me for watching his rehearsal and clutching the monologue sheet in his fist, he ran out of the room.

 After he left, I went outside, warmly dressed. I spent the whole day working in the city library.  Flipping through books, I gathered information for my research paper on Latin American literature. When I returned home in the evening, I met uncle Nurmat again at the gate.  He was banging his fist impatiently at the gate. He was dressed as he had been a couple of hours before.

“Ah, you’re not at home?” he said when he saw me.

“I went to the library,”” I answered, pointing to the books.

“I went to the theatre today,” he said, ignoring the books. “I wanted to talk to the director about going back to work. I waited outside his office for a long time. But he did not come through. Tomorrow I will go again. I’ll tell him I’ve decided to go back to work: I’ll play the role of King Lear.”

 When I passed his house the next day, the window to the street opened with a crack of the frame, and uncle Nurmat looked out.

“ My neighbour,” he shouted, waving his hand. “  I met the director last night: he came. I told him of my intention. He listened to me attentively and spoke flatteringly of my return. But apparently the job has been postponed for a long time because, he said, there is no vacancy in the theatre at the moment. He said he would let me know by phone as soon as there was a vacancy.”

For the next three days, uncle Nurmat didn’t come out to see me. And when I finally met him, he looked very annoyed.

“Scoundrels, scoundrels,”he repeated incessantly.

He sat by the stove, as usual. He was gesticulating a lot as he spoke.

“My daughters are here,” there was a note of rage in his voice that was uncharacteristic of his character. “I told them I was going back to the theatre, but they didn’t approve of my idea. They said I was old and could not work as before. They said I couldn’t work now. No, that’s not going to happen! It’s the right time to play King Lear. And my age is right. King Lear was about seventy years old.”

Suddenly he perked up, pacing the room from side to side with his hand behind his back.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” he said, stopping suddenly in front of me. “You have seen that I can play King Lear, that I have deeply studied his state of mind. You heard with your ears how expressively I read the monologue. And they have not even seen or heard. The daughters grieved my soul by saying ruthless words.”

I looked up, distracted by the descriptions of Mario Benedetti’s portrait. It was one part of my academic work.

I couldn’t work when uncle Nurmat was so nervous. At this time the water in the electric kettle boiled.  I brewed some tea.

 “Tea raises blood pressure,” said uncle Nurmat.

He wasn’t thirsty and put the cup on the windowsill.

“Uncle, maybe your daughters are telling the truth,” I said as I drank the tea all the way down. Then I looked sadly at the rest of the tea that was left at the bottom of the cup. 

Uncle Nurmat looked at me sadly.

“They don’t know anything.”

This is where I used to rent a place to live. Visits to my parents were sometimes deferred because of work at the institute, as science was time-consuming. Since I took time off from my work at the department, I now have the time to visit them more often.

“ Tomorrow I am going to the village,” I said when I sensed that uncle Nurmat had calmed down a little. “I’ll visit my parents, for two or three days, maybe a week.”

He nodded, as if to say okay.

“ By then, the director of the theatre will have called me.”  

I stayed in the village for a couple of weeks. The cold days of January seemed even colder there. I continued my research work without leaving the house because of the cold.  The days were boring, and I translated Benedetti’s stories into Uzbek. A heavy snowfall occurred the day I returned to town. It was knee-deep in snow. The roads were slippery. Not only was it dangerous to walk, but also to drivea car. We were moving so slowly that it seemed as if the taxi speedometer wasn’t working because of the slow speed.

When I got out of the car near my house, I noticed an ambulance near uncle Nurmat’s gate, in which the driver was not moving; he huddled up on the steering wheel. After a while, a paramedic came out of the house with a suitcase of medical instruments in his hands, and sat down on the front seat. The carriage drove slowly up the road. After settling the bill with the taxi driver, I went to uncle Nurmat’s house. When I entered, his eldest daughter Zarifa, who was just getting water from the well, greeted me. I inquired about her affairs and health, then entered the house. Uncle Nurmat was lying in his bed staring at the ceiling. His head was covered with a white bandage.

“Yesterday he had been very drunk and slipped in the snow,” said Zarifa. “ He hurt the back of his head.”

I sat down on a chair beside the bed, putting my things away.

“The director hasn’t called me from the theatre yet,” said uncle Nurmat when he saw me.

There was a short silence. I looked around the room. The stove was unburned, a leaning cupboard with two dozen books in it, a sprung bed and an old chair. There was an old telephone set on the window sill, an empty bottle of wine beside it, a pile of sheets and used syringes lying scattered about. The room was so cold.

“My neighbour,” said uncle Nurmat anxiously, seeing that I had  brought wood from the yard for the cooker. “Take a look at the telephone, is the wire broken?”

“No, it’s all right,” I said  glancing at the phone.  I poked the matches and lit the cooker.

“Oh, well,” he said with great satisfaction, reassured by my answer. “If the director calls, the phone will ring.”

 Soon the stove was heating and the wood was crackling. Warmth was spreading in the room. Zarifa must have seen the smoke from the stove and came into the room to get warm.

“ I have memorized by heart all the speeches and monologues of King Lear,” said uncle Nurmat as his daughter went out into the yard, warming up.

He could not shake his head because of his injury. So he swivelled his eyes as he spoke.

“ However, there is no call from the theatre. Waiting everyday. There is no news.”

 Uncle Nurmat soon fell asleep, apparently the paramedic added sleeping pills when he gave the anaesthetic shot. Uncle Nurmat’s youngest daughter Zamira went to the windowsill as soon as she entered the room and tore the scattered sheets to shreds. When  finished, she sat down on the edge of the bed where her father lay.

“You must go to the hospital, without any arguments,” she said, approaching uncle Nurmat as he woke up.

Uncle Nurmat looked at her in surprise then at his eldest daughter who had brought tea into the room.

“I don’t want to go to the hospital. I’ll be getting a call from the theatre soon.”

The daughters shook their heads when they heard his words.

“They won’t call,” said Zamira, with a deep groan. “Do you know why they won’t call you? Because,  they don’t need you. There are dozens of actors in the theatre who can play the part of King Lear. And they’re all more talented than the others.  The director won’t give you the part; he’ll give it to them. You weren’t given the lead role when you worked there; do you think they’d give it to you now?”

“My sister’s words are right,” Zarifa, the eldest daughter, raised her voice from the doorstep. “All your life you have dreamed of playing the role of King Lear. Much of your life and youth has been spent on this dream. But it did not come to pass; it was not your destiny. Now you have grown old… You are no longer of an age to run in the footsteps of a dream.”

 Uncle Nurmat sighed heavily, clutching the edge of the bed with all his might.

“You… both of you… step out of the room.”

 After they left, he lay quietly, not taking his eyes off the door. When he spoke, I couldn’t differ if he was talking to himself or to me.

“My life passed not following a dream, but in the hassle of caring for my daughters. All my colleagues came to the theatre in the morning cleanly dressed and combed, while I came in old clothes with my unshaven beard for weeks because I didn’t have enough time to embellish myself. I took over the daily care of my daughters because of my wife’s illness. I took care of them, washed them, fed them, took them to kindergarten and school; did homework with them when they were sick, stayed with them in the hospital for a few days. Because of that, I couldn’t work at the theatre as I had dreamed of doing. I was also talented. But it took a long time to look after my daughters. When putting on a play at the theatre, I used to get reprimanded by the stage director many times because not only I couldn’t  perform the role allotted to me perfectly, but even couldn’t memorise character texts. I almost didn’t work on myself, like others. I didn’t read books, didn’t develop speech. Twenty-four hours a day I thought only about daughters. And they stopped giving me roles. In the eyes of the stage director, I gained a reputation as an inept actor, unfit for any role, completely irresponsible, and I was dismissed, bypassed in the distribution of roles before a performance. I played nothing for months. I was assigned roles only occasionally and unexpectedly, but they were minor roles in small, unpopular productions, episodic, with two or three lines.”

Uncle Nurmat was silent, staring dejectedly at the telephone. Tears stood in his eyes and, accumulating, ran down his cheekbones.

“ My life has never been following a dream,” he said, closing his eyes.

The wood in the stove must have burned out by now, for the heat from the stove had diminished considerably. I brought another bundle of firewood from the yard.  As I was heating it the door opened, and the paramedic whom I had seen that morning appeared on the doorstep.

“We tried to take your father to the hospital,” he said to Zamira, excusing himself. “But he would not go himself.”

“A man becomes so capricious when he gets old,” replied the daughter, glancing embarrassed at the bed where her father lay. 

The two men carefully laid uncle Nurmat on a stretcher. He did not resist. He didn’t even open his eyes.

 I went to the window, standing alone for a while in the centre of the room. Scraps of sheets on which King Lear’s monologues and lines had been written scattered across the window sill, some lying beside a bottle of wine and a syringe, others behind a telephone.

“ I felt like ventilating and tidying the room a bit.”

 Seeing Zarifa standing on the threshold, I went out into the corridor. I stood there pensively, leaning against the wall. Suddenly the phone rang.  After a while I heard Zarifa’s voice picking up the receiver.

 “ Have you hospitalized father? I’m airing the room, it smells everywhere.”

Translated into English by the author

Autobiography

Sherzod Artikov was born in 1985 in the city of Marghilan of Uzbekistan. He graduated from  Fergana Polytechnic institute in 2005. He was one of the winners of the national literary contest “ My Pearl Region “ in the direction of prose in 2019. In 2020, his first authorship book “ The Autumn’s Symphony “  was published in Uzbekistan by publishing house “Yangi Asr Avlodi” . In 2021, his works were published in the anthology books called “ World Writers “ in Bangladesh,  “Asia  sings” and “ Mediterranean Waves “ in Egypt, “Emerging horizons” in India, “ Healing through verses” in Canada in English language.  In 2021, he participated in “ International Writers Congress “ which was organized in Argentina , in the international literature conference under the name “ Mundial insurgencial cultural “ dedicated to Federico Garcia Lorca’s life and work , in “ International Poetry Festival “ in Tunisia, in “ International Poetry  Carnival “ in Singapoore and in the First International Proze Festival in Chile which was held under the name “La senda del perdedor”. 

This year he’s awarded “ Global Peace Ambassador “ by Iqra Foundation,  “ International Peace Ambassador “ by World Literary Forum for Peace and Human Rights,  “ Certificate of friendship “ and other certifications by “Revista Cardenal” in Mexico.  Currently,  he is the literary consultant  of the cultural website of Pakistan “ Sindh courier “, the representative and delegate in Uzbekistan of the literature magazine of Mexico ” Revista Cardenal “ and the literature and art magazine of Chile “ Casa Bukowski “.

His works were  published  in several magazines and newspapers of Uzbekistam. Then translated into Russian,  English,  Turkish,  Serbian,  Slovenian,  Macedonian,  Spanish,  Italian,  Polish,  Albanian,  Romanian,  French,  Greek,  Hebrew,  Portuguese, Swedish, Bengali,  Arabic,  Chinese,  Indonesian,  Persian ,Urdu and Nepali languages .

Besides,  his works were published in the literary magazines, newspapers and websites of Russia, Ukraine, Turkey, Montenegro, Serbia, Slovenia, England, Germany, Greece, Italy, Spain, Romania, Poland, Israel, Belgium, Albania, Macedonia, Sweden, Kazakhstan, Bangladesh, Pakistan, China, Saudia Arabia, India, Indonesia, Iraq, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Yemen, Palestine, Iran, Nepal, Nigeria, Egypt, Morocco, Algeria, Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, Colombia, Chile, Venezuela, Brazil, USA, Mexico, Costa Rica, Guatemala , Nicaragua, El Salvador.

Ledge

Stepping out on the ledge

this many floors up

puts things into perspective.

The people become ant size

scurrying about

the rich, the poor

the happy, the sad

appear the same from up here.

Their cars and trucks become

matchbox size toys yet again

to play their parts.

From up here their stories

take place in your imagining

clashing, crashing, crushing.

The violence in you plays out.

Up here the world becomes

yours.

The wind, the slant, the sun

flashing on windows

the distant traffic sounds

the stray plane going away

are yours to use

as background for the tale

you’ll tell. Icarus unappreciated,

suddenly Superman, a minute is

passing – the man you launch into

the afternoon,

a story they will read carefully,

claiming they saw you all along.

 Accidental

It’s not hard to guess what’s going on

when there’s a couple of police cars,

an ambulance and a firetruck blocking

the intersection. You see people moving

about, saying things you can’t hear, but

there doesn’t seem to be any hurry in

what they are doing. Someone is lying

in the street, the center of attention, but

now there’s very little to do for him or

her. All that’s left is to clean up and move

on, some measuring and some questioning.

That’s all that’s left of whatever happened.

In the end this is just a pause in your day,

one you will mention just in passing when

you get home. It probably will not make

the evening news, but if it does, you’ll say

something about seeing all that commotion

when you were coming back from groceries.

There’s a body in the road, was a body in

the road, an interruption, a pause in your day

and it really wasn’t hard to guess what was

going on – things like this happen all the time.

Credits

When the day is finally done

we should roll the credits

for this low budget blockbuster

we are living: first the main

characters and who played

those roles, the big time players,

wives and doctors and the one

or two friends we still have left,

then the minor characters and

those background extras who

played and pushed their way

into our day. After that we need

to quickly run a complete list

of directors and producers, their

associates and assistants, whole

gangs of support folks, key grips,

make-up and costuming, the whole

list, stunts and special effects. Yes,

the list is long and perhaps boring,

but people like to be remembered

and credited with what they did. And

during all that we should play theme

music, something classical, Handel

or Beethoven, big dramatic stuff

that will stay with our audience,

something they can hum to themselves

as they walk out of the dark, empty

theater of our day.

J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Literary Yard, Black Coffee Review, Literary Heist, Synchronized Chaos, Madswirl, Journal of Expressive Writing, and Highland Park Poetry.