Essay from Choriyeva Oynur

Young Central Asian woman with long dark hair and brown eyes in a white collared blouse holding a certificate.

THE ROLE OF MAVLONO LUTFI IN WORLD HISTORY

Abstract

An article about the life and work of Mawlana Lutfi, who wrote in two languages until the second half of the 15th century, and his activities, poems and ghazals, as well as his legacy that has survived to this day.

Keywords: Poems of Mawlana Lutfi, life and creative path, divan and heritage.

Input

Mawlana Lutfullah Lutfi [1366-1465] was a great Uzbek poet and thinker. He was recognized as the “malik-ul kalomi,” that is, the “king of words,” of his time. He was considered the most famous poet of Uzbek literature until the second half of the 15th century. He served in the Timurid court and was close to Shahrukh Mirza, the ruler of Samarkand. Lutfi is a bilingual writer, that is, he writes simultaneously in both Turkic and Persian.

Main part

The famous Uzbek poet, the “malik ul-kalam” of his time, Lutfi, was born in 1366 in the village of Dehikanor, near the city of Herat. He spent almost his entire life in Herat, in the Timurid court. After the discovery of Sheikh Ahmad Tarazi’s work “Funun ul-balogha,” dedicated to Mirzo Ulugbek, based on the phrase “ul-latoyif” by Lutfi Shoshi, the idea was put forward that Lutfi’s homeland was Tashkent. Lutfi took an early step into secular sciences and literature. The future poet diligently studied not only Turkic-language literature but also Persian and Arabic literature. His interest in the heritage of Hafiz, Kamal Khujandi, and Nasimi was especially great. Like other poets of his time, Lutfi wrote in two languages: Persian and Turkic. Even Kemal Khujandi and Hafiz paid great attention to it. In his youth, he studied secular sciences. Later, he became interested in Sufi teachings and led an ascetic lifestyle. The poems of this poet, accustomed to a simple lifestyle and possessing the humility characteristic of dervishes, were distinguished by the ability to express profound thoughts with simple words in high artistic colors, and his poems in this respect attracted the attention of such patrons of literature as Navoi and Jami. Lutfi in the poetic form of the biography of Amir Timur in the epic “Zafarnama” but the manuscript texts have not been preserved. Hazrat Alisher Navoi

“Majolis un-nafois” testifies to Lutfi’s epic poem called “Zafarnama,” which has not reached us, and writes: “Mavlono’s translation of “Zafarnama” contains more than ten thousand verses of masnavi. Researchers of Lutfi’s work note that the source of the above-mentioned translation of “Zafarnama” is Sharafiddin Ali Yazdi’s “Zafarnama,” written in Persian about the life of Amir Timur. Professor E. E. Bertels says that the poet must have planned this masnavi as a heroic work in the style of Ferdowsi’s “Shahnameh.” But for some reason, the poet did not transcribe it. Navoi also says that he did not gain fame “because he did not write it on paper.” For a long time, it was said that the divan “Gul and Navruz” belonged to Lutfi. According to assumptions, this dastan was written as a response to the epic of the Persian poet Jalal Tabib with the same name, it has a fairytale theme and has a happy ending, and its volume is 595 verses. However, later it was proven that this dastan belonged to Haydar Khorezmi. It should be noted that Lutfi’s work also influenced Alisher Navoi. Even Navoi considers him his mentor and, in his biographical dictionary “Majolis un-nafois,” mentions that at the end of Lutfi’s life, he wrote a ghazal with the radif “Oftob,” that many poets of that time wanted to write like him, but none of them could “touch Lutfi’s hand.” Lutfi created fruitful works throughout his life. The total number of poems belonging to his pen is 2774 bayts, that is, more than 5548 lines. Among them, 2,086 couplets were written in the ghazal genre. The main theme of Lutfi’s divan was love, and the main goal was to describe the lover’s profession. In each of his poems, he approached the theme in a new way, created unique melodies, and used unique artistic devices. In Lutfi’s divan, the art of tashbeh, talmeh, tazod, iyhom, in particular, irsoli masal, is manifested. Lutfi also elevated his rubaiyat, tuyuq, and qit’as to the status of an example of art. The influence of Lutfi’s poetry reached not only Central Asia, but also the countries of the Near and Middle East. According to the famous Turkish scholar M.F.Kuprulyzade, Lutfi’s poems were read not only among Chagatai poets, but also among Ottoman Turkish poets, up to the author of “Harobot” Ziya Pasha. Mawlana Lutfi was a prominent representative of Uzbek classical literature of the 14th-15th centuries and a wordsmith who gained great fame in the East with his works in Uzbek and Persian-Tajik languages. Important notes and reflections on the life and work of the poet are found in the works of his contemporaries Davlatshah Samarkandi, Shamsiddin Sami, Khondamir, Abdulla Kobuli. In particular, the information provided in the works of Hazrat Alisher Navoi, who knew Lutfi closely and was connected with him through the ranks of teacher and student, is extremely valuable. In subsequent centuries, the sphere of influence of the great poet Lutfi’s mastery expanded. Many of Fuzuli’s naziras and several mukhammass are known to Lutfi’s ghazals. Mashrab, using the matla of Lutfi’s ghazal with the radif “whether you believe it or not,” created a whole new ghazal. Mawlana Lutfi held great reverence for the great poet Abdurahman Jami. He also dedicated a qasida to Jami with the radif “Sukhan.” At the end of his life, having managed to write only the first verse, he bequeathed to Abdurahman Jami the completion of the ghazal with the radif “Aftad” and its inclusion in his divan.

Jami fulfilled this testament of the elderly poet, and the ghazal with the radif “Aftad,” which still lives in Jami’s divan, is valuable as a testament to the creative collaboration of these two great artists of the word. Lutfi left no significant literary legacy. Sources say that the poet wrote more than 200 works, but only one of his divans is known to us (preserved in Konya, Turkey). At the suggestion of Shahrukh Mirza, he made a poetic translation of Sharafiddin Ali Yazdi’s “Zafarnama” (1437). Fitrat, E. Rustamov, E. Fozilov, S. Erkinov, Y. Ishoqov, E. Ahmadxo’jaev, and others studied the poet’s work. Thirty-three copies of the poet’s Turkic divan, transcribed between the 16th and 20th centuries, have survived and are currently preserved in libraries and manuscript collections in Tashkent, Dushanbe, London, Tehran, Istanbul, and Paris. Lutfi’s poems and ghazals were popular among the people and even set to music as songs. One of them is the ghazal with the radif “Whether believe or not.”

You are my beloved, believe it or not. Believe it or not, my dear, my heart bleeds. On the night of separation, the wheel of fate reaches you, oh moon, My morning sighs, believe it or not.

It should be especially noted that Lutfi, as a ghazal writer, skillfully combined the principles and methods of the experience of oral folk art with the literary and aesthetic traditions established in Eastern literature. Therefore, in his ghazals, national feelings are illuminated, and the depiction of human pain, regret, sorrow, and joy acquires a unique expressiveness. The great poet Lutfi, not only in his ghazals but also in poems of other genres such as rubaiyat, tuyuq, qit’a, and fard, expressed a sense of refinement and celebrated the thoughts and feelings of intelligent and life-loving people with high taste and intellect. When reading the poet’s lines like: Sensan sevarim, xoh inon, xoh inonma, Qonur jigarim, xoh inon, xoh inonma, sometimes it’s hard to believe they were written several centuries ago. Because they are so simple, close to oral speech, and far from bookish ornamentation and sincere. Speaking of Shaim’s quatrains, his tuyuqs deserve special attention. It can be said that Lutfi’s poetry vividly expresses the art of creating tuyuq through tajnis (zulma’niayn) words, mostly related to Turkic poetry. The subtle nuances of meaning in many tuyuqs found in his divan introduce the reader to the rich possibilities of the native language, captivating them with imagination and giving them aesthetic pleasure.

From your grasp, O heart, I am your servant,

Oh, when will I reach that beloved,

You made me captive to the unfaithful ones,

You are my sultan, oh heart, I am your servant.

Mawlana Lutfi died in 1465 in Dehikanor, his residence. His Holiness

According to Alisher Navoi, his grave is also there. Streets, schools, and libraries in our republic named after the great poet are immortalizing his memory.

Conclusion

Lutfi was considered one of the creators who deeply mastered both external secular and religious Sufi sciences, was able to look at his time and era with an open eye, and was devoted to truth and enlightenment. In Navoi’s words, he was an outstanding poet in Persian and Turkic. Although Lutfi became famous for his poems written in his native Turkic language, he also managed to acknowledge many people for his poetic talent and skill in Persian.

References

1. S. Erkinov. Lutfi. Life and work. T:1965

2. Selected Works [2-edition], T., 1968; You are my beloved. – T., 1987.

3. Taken from the book “Stars of Spirituality” (publishing house of folk heritage named after Abdulla Kadiri, Tashkent, 1999).

Choriyeva Oynur was born in Muborak district of the Republic of Uzbekistan. She is a student at the Faculty of English Philology of the Uzbekistan State World Languages University.

Essay from Muxtasarxon Abdurashidova

My first teacher-the eternal trace in my heart.
In every personʼs life, there is a  guide who can never be forgotten.  My first teacher is an important figure in my life. When I was a little girl, I entered the doorway of school No. 3 in Toʼraqoʼrgʼon district of Namangan region,  the person who took my hand was my first teacher-Munavvar Mirzaturgunovna.

At first, studying was not easy. I made many mistakes. I started my studies in Russian. Sometimes I felt weak and even lost hope. But my teacher always helped me. She said: “Терпение и труд всё перетрут”

Thanks to her, I became interested in learning. Now I study at Isʼhoqxon Ibrat creativity school. I got good marks, won school competitions, and took part in different projects. One of my happiest memories was a trip to Zomin from translation. Now I can speak five languages, and of course, this is also connected with the knowledge I received from my first teacher in primary school.
My teacherʼs kindness inspires me a lot. I also dream of becoming a teacher in the future. I will never forget my first teacher. She is always in my heart, and I am very thankful to her.

Muxtasarxon Abdurashidova, 11th grader at Is’hoqxon Ibrat Creative School

Poetry from Damon Hubbs

The Center, or: The One in Which I Get Drunk

with William Butler Yeats Temple Bar, Dublin once famous for friars and printers and clockmakers now in its yellow dressing gown, intoning: a river of vomit, a run of stags, hens, the final whistle, a moon like a sack of flour garrisons the sky, Bill picking up those Derry Girls at The Old Storehouse the bend between breath and silence like the shoulder of an Armalite O they sang American Pie while we drank and watched some troubled fool equine in length take a piss from atop a phone booth on Dame Street I couldn’t get the song out of my head for days Bill kept turning and turning the poem in his like Wilde’s address to Liberty naked I saw thee Shay and your slow thighs and skin like fine bone china the night a revelation or bad news on the doorstep.

What holds the poem together

fuck

all

gossip, sex, imperial measures.

No, I’ve never eaten Crab Louis.

God, you know everybody

in the world.

Story from Dilobar Maxmarejabova

Young Central Asian woman with brown eyes and hair, resting her head on her hand and wearing a light-colored blouse and a brown watch.

The Living Orphan

I heard the sound of familiar footsteps approaching our street. When I turned, I saw my old schoolmate standing there. I hadn’t seen her since the last days of high school, when she had suddenly married and left. Time had flown by. And now, she was at my door, carrying a tiny baby in her arms.

Her eyes were the same as before, her hair just as I remembered it back in tenth grade. It was as if the very girl I once knew had returned unchanged. Only the infant asleep in her embrace told another story — a story that had already marked her life with burdens far beyond her years.

I walked up to her and greeted her. My gaze fell on the child’s face, and my heart trembled. The baby looked exactly like his father, Qurbon. But the truth struck me like a cold wind — this man had denied his own child, refused even to acknowledge him.

“My husband now carries him in his arms,” she said, her voice filled with pride. “He treats him as if he were his own.” I stayed silent, questions echoing in my mind. It may be so today, but what about tomorrow? Will promises remain unbroken? Will this child’s presence one day be thrown back at him like a reproach?

Meanwhile, the baby slept peacefully, unaware of the weight of life, unaware of the wounds left by adult mistakes. Not even a year old, yet already a living orphan. His mother was still barely a woman herself, and his father had turned his back on the responsibility of being a parent.

As I held the fragile little body in my arms, a storm of thoughts rose within me. Who was truly at fault? The reckless choices made in youth? The blindness of love? Or the indifference of a society that lets such stories repeat again and again? I had no answer. Only one truth stood clear before me: the child was innocent.

My friend kept talking, complaining about another acquaintance, words spilling fast and bitter. I barely listened. My eyes were fixed on the sleeping baby, my mind trapped in a single haunting question: Whose hands will raise him? His uneducated mother’s? The stepfather who now shows him affection? Or the real father, who has rejected him, yet whose blood flows in his veins?

This question pressed upon my heart like a heavy stone — and no answer would come.

Dilobar Maxmarejabova, born in Yakkabog‘, Qashqadaryo, is a young writer and a second-year student at the Journalism and Mass Communications University in Tashkent. Specializing in English Philology, she is passionate about literature, poetry, and storytelling, and often reflects on themes of identity, resilience, and the beauty of her homeland. Beyond her studies, she leads youth initiatives such as the “Rivojlanamiz Club,” where she organizes literary competitions and reading circles to inspire creative expression among young people. Dilobar aspires to pursue further studies abroad and dreams of becoming a voice for her generation through journalism and creative writing.

Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh

Old Europeans often buy classic, rather dubious-looking blazers, shirts and shoes at flea markets. But you can’t buy the past, just like you can’t buy flexibility.

***

I don’t have a single HIV-positive friend. European statistics say otherwise. I don’t have a single gay friend. The number of users on dating apps says that this is mathematically unlikely. I don’t have any friends. I don’t even have myself. And I actually don’t have any data.

***

Your family gives you to me like pneumonia. I have never loved either you or myself. If I were Shakespeare and wrote about our life, I would have hanged myself long ago.

Short story from Taro Hokkyo

Older East Asian man with short dark hair and reading glasses.

JULIETTE

My hands were frozen, and I couldn’t move them. Juliette, you and I are certainly far apart. It’s not just geographical distance, but the way a woman and a man think is far more distant. I don’t know what else to say except that I’m still alive. On the night when the light of the spring stars reaches the bottom of the fountain, all I can do is show you my feelings as they are in the light. 

I ate rice from a lacerated bowl. There were days when I was beaten so severely with a baton that I could not get up for days. In a world where nothing is certain, one may continue to search for certainty, and I’m waiting for some kind of signal from you. Juliette, even if it’s just a small rustle of wings, it’s better than feeling uncertain. 

I don’t have a past like a worn stone. There is no future like a curtain that harbors the wind. Now I am filled with the image of you. I see you on the wine like freshly squeezed fruit that I have just soaked up at a wealthy gallery. Tonight, from the darkening sky, another clear, cold spring rain will fall.  

If you want, I can crystallise those raindrops into starlight on my palm. I want to see the light in your eyes, so that it may shine in the center of Juliette’s black eyes and shine in my own. I am beaten to the ground like a stray dog, with no place to go back to, while dreaming of you. My beloved homeland, Juliette.

Poetry from Bhagirath Chowdhary

Older South Asian man with white hair and a tan coat encircled by a red and blue circle reading Global Literary Society Founder.

Tree of Life

Evolution made man

Truly wise and sane

The human child 

Comes to earth

Like a divine tree

Without any worry

So infinitely innocent

Trusting all

Like a loving saint

Desiring to make man like an earthly sage

God modelled man in his own image

And gave man only three commandments

Asking man, be steadfast upon these commitments

God desired to fill the earth with multitude of sages

God asked man to “go and multiply” his images

Multiply doesn’t mean have violent, cruel egoistic kids

But multiply God’s images of kind saintly seeds 

God desiring to make man benevolent and useful 

Secondly, God commanded man to “be fruitful”

Be fruitful doesn’t mean to keep fruits to yourselves

But kindly share like Ubuntu do among themselves

Desiring to fashion man as earth’s holy midwife

Thirdly, God commanded man to “be the Tree of Life”

“Tree of Life” means, man “be a guardian of all Life”

Like tree, a man must make good of existential strife.

This is all about the Holy Bible’s true message

Rest comes from Christ and apostles holy Praise.

Give breath, catch clouds and cook food for all 

Be a “Tree of Life” to nourish, a foe or a pal.