Shermamatova Charos
Samarqand viloyati Narpay tumani charxin maxalasi
Life Behind the Pages

There are some miracles in human life that cannot be fully seen with our eyes or touched with our hands. They live in our hearts, grow within our minds, and remain with us throughout our lives. One of these miracles is a book. Although a book may seem to be nothing more than paper and ink, every page hides an endless world filled with dreams, hopes, struggles, joys, wisdom, and the stories of countless people. For me, the phrase “Life Behind the Pages” represents not only books but also the spiritual wealth and experiences of humanity.

Ever since I was a child, I have loved holding books in my hands. The scent of their pages and the gentle sound of turning them always filled me with excitement. At that time, I did not realize that I was opening the door to a completely new world. Every book I read gave me new ideas, new dreams, and new goals. Through books, I learned to see life from different perspectives, to understand people better, and to appreciate kindness and compassion.

Behind every book stands an author who has poured years of experience, emotions, and wisdom into every sentence. When we read a book, we breathe life into those words once again. It feels as if we are having a heartfelt conversation with the author, even if they lived centuries ago. This is the true magic of books—they erase the boundaries of time and distance and connect one soul with another.
Sometimes, a single sentence can change a person’s entire life.

Words have incredible power. They inspire hope, encourage courage, heal emotional wounds, and remind us never to give up. The lessons we discover in books remain in our hearts long after we finish reading. Years may pass, but unforgettable characters and meaningful stories continue to guide us.

Books do much more than provide knowledge. They shape our character. They teach us honesty, patience, respect, responsibility, love, and humanity. In today’s digital world, technology has become an essential part of our lives, yet nothing can truly replace a good book. The internet may provide quick information, but books teach us to think deeply, analyze carefully, and understand the true meaning behind life.

Life behind the pages takes us to different places and different times. One moment we walk through the streets of an ancient city, and the next we stand beside great scientists, brave leaders, or ordinary people with extraordinary stories. Without leaving our homes, we travel across countries, cultures, and centuries. That is the remarkable power of reading.

While reading, we celebrate the victories of the characters and share their pain and disappointment. We learn from their mistakes and grow through their experiences. In reality, we are not only discovering their lives—we are discovering ourselves. Every book becomes a mirror that reflects our own dreams, fears, strengths, and possibilities.

For young people, books are among the greatest teachers and the most faithful friends. Reading helps us gain knowledge, improve our communication skills, expand our imagination, and prepare for the future. A person who reads regularly develops a richer vocabulary, a broader worldview, and the confidence to overcome life’s challenges.
Every time I turn a page, I feel as though I am opening a new chapter in my own life. Every book leaves a lasting mark on my heart. The person I am today has been shaped, in many ways, by the books I have read. They have taught me to dream without limits, to work hard for my goals, to rise after failure, and to keep believing in a brighter tomorrow.

For this reason, I believe that books are among humanity’s greatest treasures. As long as books exist, knowledge and wisdom will continue to live. As long as knowledge lives, society will continue to grow. A nation that values reading builds a stronger future because educated, thoughtful, and compassionate people become the foundation of its success.

In conclusion, Life Behind the Pages is a journey toward wisdom, kindness, and self-discovery. Every book offers a new lesson, a new experience, and a new source of inspiration. A person who loves reading is never spiritually poor because books fill the heart with light, enrich the mind with knowledge, and strengthen the soul with hope. Every page we read brings us one step closer to becoming better human beings. Therefore, loving books, developing the habit of reading, and discovering the life hidden behind every page is one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves.

1.大地流彩

文/肖世嘉(小荷诗社，11岁)

五彩缤纷的世界

也有流光溢彩的大地

春天的大地穿上了绿油油的衣裳

绿是希望的象征

这份希望绿是独属于春天的大地的

夏天的大地戴上了深蓝的帽子

深蓝的大海有着无穷的奥妙

这份奥妙蓝是独属于夏天的大地的

秋天的大地穿上了金黄的毛绒大衣

金黄的毛绒表示着丰收的稻田

这份丰收黄是独属于秋天的大地的

冬天的大地披上雪白的披风

雪白的白雪和枯萎的大树形成了一种凄凉美

这份凄凉美是独属于冬天的大地的

The Earth Flows with Colors

By Xiao Shijia (Xiaohe Poetry Club, 11 years old)

This colorful world

Also has a radiant earth

In spring, the earth puts on green clothes

Green is a symbol of hope

This hopeful green belongs uniquely to the spring earth

In summer, the earth wears a deep blue hat

The deep blue sea holds endless mysteries

This mysterious blue belongs uniquely to the summer earth

In autumn, the earth dons a golden fluffy coat

The golden fluff represents the harvest fields

This harvest gold belongs uniquely to the autumn earth

In winter, the earth wraps itself in a snow-white cape

The snow-white snow and withered trees form a poignant beauty

This poignant beauty belongs uniquely to the winter earth

2.无题

文/邹斯宇(小荷诗社，9岁)

大树伤心的时候

会落下一片叶子

但人类会觉得是一处美景

Untitled

By Zou Siyu (Xiaohe Poetry Club, 9 years old)

When a big tree is sad

It will drop a leaf

But humans will think it’s a beautiful scene

3.人生

文/雷雨晗(小荷诗社，10岁)

有些人的人生像苦瓜一样苦，

而有些人的人生像糖一样甜。

人生很苦的人想要人生变甜，

首先他得适应生活，

就像不喜欢吃苦瓜的人一样，

只要坚持下去他会变得很喜欢吃苦瓜，

那就代表坚持得了生话的各种苦。

所以，

一切都有可能。

Life

By Lei Yuhan (Xiaohe Poetry Club, 10 years old)

Some people’s lives are as bitter as bitter melons,

while others’ lives are as sweet as sugar.

Those who live a bitter life want their life to turn sweet.

First, they have to get used to life,

just like people who don’t like bitter melons—

as long as they persist, they will come to like bitter melons.

That means they can endure all kinds of hardships in life.

So,

everything is possible.

4.无题

文/张雨涵(小荷诗社，11岁)

老天这是怎么了

总是在流泪

让大地、河流都变成了汪洋

让大豆、棉花都在潜水

让鱼、虾都在遨游

农民苦不堪言

雨过天晴后

一切都恢复了平静

Untitled

By Zhang Yuhan (Xiaohe Poetry Club, 11 years old)

What’s wrong with the sky?

It keeps crying

Making the earth and rivers turn into a vast ocean

Making the soybeans and cotton seem to be diving

Making the fish and shrimp swim freely

The farmers are overwhelmed with suffering

After the rain stops and the sky clears

Everything returns to peace

5.花

文/胡裕乐(11岁)

她静静站在那儿

人来人往都夸她

美丽、清新

可我却说她不屈

你不信

那是你没有看见她

在淤泥里的挣扎

Flower

By Hu Yule (11 years old)

She stands there quietly

People come and go, praising her

For being beautiful, fresh

But I say she is unyielding

You don’t believe it

That’s because you haven’t seen

Her struggle in the mud

6.我不算谁的附庸

王韵瑶

也不是某段的支流河

比起这些

我更想成为一场顷刻间的滂沱

旷野间乍起的风波

又或是唐朝遗风外

悬着的唯一月色

人生本就是一首诗歌

而他们的文字浅薄

不该被潦草地印刷着

所以在我笔下

一重山有一重山的错落

我有我的平仄

I Am Not Anyone’s Appendage

By Wang Yunyao

I am not anyone’s appendage

Nor a tributary of some section

Compared to these

I’d rather be a sudden downpour

A gust of wind rising in the wilderness

Or the only moonlight hanging

Beyond the legacy of the Tang Dynasty’s style

Life is originally a poem

Yet their words are shallow

Not to be carelessly printed

So in my writing

One range of mountains has its own arrangement

I have my own rhythm

Su Yun’s Poem:

栅栏

我学会笨拙的飞

或是跳跃

我就去爬盯我千遍的栅栏

用我沾上的泥点记录

我所填过的格块

填满一面

包括尽头挤压变形的铁丝

我忘记笨拙的飞

或是跳跃

我就去走俯视我千遍的横杆

用我脱落的绒羽记录

我所歇息过的桩头

走满千寸

包括中间被冰雹敲掉的木板

当我已经无力，溃烂

就让我的骨头

凭着记忆粘在铁网十字的中心

凝视人巷学会苟活的人们

用混着羽毛捏的泥人

标记十字路口的空间

The Fence

When I learned the clumsy flight

or the leap

I went to climb the fence that had stared at me a thousand times

using the mud spots stuck to me to record

every grid I’d filled

Filling up an entire side

including the twisted wire at the end

When I forgot the clumsy flight

or the leap

I went to walk the crossbar that had looked down on me a thousand times

using the downy feathers I’d shed to record

every post I’d rested on

Walking a thousand inches

including the plank in the middle, knocked off by hailstones

When I’m finally powerless, decaying

let my bones

stick to the center of the iron net’s cross

staring at the crowd in the alley—people who’ve learned to survive by compromise

using a mud doll kneaded with feathers

to mark the space at the crossroads

Suyun, 17 years old, is a member of the China Poetry Society and a young poet. Her works have been published in more than ten countries. She has published poetry collections Yang Fa Wan Wu (Inspiring All Things) and Rui Yu Zhe Si (Wise Words and Philosophical Thoughts) in China, and WITH ECSTASY OF MUSINGS IN TRANQUILITY in India. She is the recipient of the Guido Gozzano Orchard Prize of Italy, the Special Prize for Foreign Writers of the City of Pomezia (with the organizing committee hailing her as “a craftsman of Chinese lyric poetry”), the “Cuttlefish Bone” Award for Best International Writer Under 25, and the Creative Award of the Naji Naaman International Literary Prize of Lebanon.

Mykyta Ryzhykh’s new collection tombboy depicts what Margaret Atwood pointed out in her famous quote, “War is what happens when language fails.” 

Through repeated phrases, inverted words, special characters, checklists and tables, and italicized product specifications, Ryzhykh breaks language and meaning. He creates a mood of absurdity and confusion where we feel lost, without landscapes or place names or titles or even recognizable syntax to orient us. Like ee cummings, Ryzhykh eschews capitalization, but rather than representing a bold individual artistic statement, the choice reinforces the low status of nameless humans in this barren world. 

Death and loss recur as motifs in tombboy, through the title poem and several others that mention cemeteries, sandcastles disappearing at high tide, checkmate at the end of a chess game, a coffin embedded in a birthday cake, bees separated from their hives. One piece consists almost entirely of blacked out text, illustrating the loss of the poem’s meaning as well as its narrator, and another is merely a blank page. Another describes a bird purely in the negative, listing everything the animal lacks, and wondering aloud how it will fly. 

Most of the poems focus just on conveying the feeling of dislocation and disorientation without speculating on its causes. However, near the beginning, a few pieces suggest that violence of various sorts has ruptured the world. One piece references “bombs tears grenades grenades of tears” and a destroyed house, and another poem mentions a suicide. The poetic subjects are universalized: the description in the line following the first reference to ‘tombboy’ suggests he/she could be male or female. People have lost much of their individual humanity here and become an anonymous, alienated mass. 

The collection ends on what is perhaps a note of kindness, although as tenuous and fragile as the world of this book. Poem #46 serves as a kind of lullaby to a child not yet born, with a repeated chorus urging them to sleep. We see the first glimmer of tenderness and hope in this poem, as the unborn will have ‘the strength of the stones we once were” and the speaker begs them to “kill me with your love.” 

Although the object of the poem is mortal: “posthumous ants will eat you” and will come into a tenuous world “where they may be crippled for life,” they “were once fish/we should become birds.” They, like us, belong here, and despite war, violence, and the breakdown in human language and connection, still have a place in our broken world’s long history. 

Mykyta Ryzhykh’s tombboy was recently published and can be ordered from Lost Telegram Press. 

Twilight’s Pale Reverse

The borrowed time of a hotel room

(‘It’s the nearest thing to pretending you’re dead’)

Smoking is a distraction

The smouldering cigarette end

A last star beneath the foredawn

Outcast to outcast

Neither relishing the coming hours

His head is the maquette of a skull

Gaining depth within the sculptural 

Antechamber of his hands

As twilight’s pale reverse 

Blisters into day

(‘Oh god, not another one’)

What god lacked in variety

The restless mind feels in malaise

Hell is only the endless now

An impossibly diminishing sameness 

(‘And on the seventh day god rested,

And the eighth day drifted free,

And every iteration thereafter’)

Nothing at the End of the Day
 

Walking beneath the black bandage of night

I can feel the memories 

Seeping through

The wounds of the waking world

As the first light of day threatens

To cauterise in reverse

I look up at where the stars should be

And consider leaving them behind

Funny how easily eternity 

Can be overcome 

If you really try

It’s an Inferno Out There
 

We were quick to express our sorrow

When the city skyline burned

To show solidarity in the face of disaster

As we gathered to watch the flames

Eating away at the facades

Exposing ourselves to the cancerous dust

Which filled the air like regret

A violent pornography

We took home for later

‘I never thought something like this could happen here’

A fellow onlooker said

Admitting to a life spent looking the other way

To a community extending no further than sight

The violence has always been here

Behind every door and curtain

A rage in thermal runaway

Which can never be put out

With bruises worn like scorch marks

Licked by flames of wayward desire

Ghostland

The fluorescent tube light strobes the shadows

With the jagged pulse of a heart monitor patient after the assault

A safety measure against the imminent dark

Down this shambles of an alleyway

Its broken cadence indicative of our failure

To inhabit the alien worlds we created

The indecipherable morse-code of that light

Keeps me awake, reminding me

Of the old BBC idents

When each new programme seemed preceded by

The ghostly chiming resonance

Of an angel’s wings in flight

When I was too young to understand

The images which followed as anything other

Than reports from a realm I could not understand

During the day the light is an annoyance 

Somewhere between a lightning strike and a migraine 

Once the night settles it reveals itself entirely

As just another human idea

Losing the battle against the dark

A Certain Kind of Happiness

‘It’s not altogether darkness’

So Malcolm Lowry said

Dictating into the echo-chamber

Between the bottom of two bottles

It’s a sentiment I stand beside

True, we’ve crucified ourselves at every opportunity

Made martyrs to our own misery

But there’s a stoicism to that

A street-level setting of the face against the wind

Like the brief moment of joy the fetishist feels

Before he’s choked into oblivion

Taryn Allan scribbles things into notebooks. Occasionally, these scribblings coalesce and have been known to appear in such places as the Horror Writers Association’s Poetry Showcase, Horror Sleaze Trash, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Pixelated Shroud and Disturb the Universe Magazine, amongst others.

Everything

Too many

people

pretending and accepting

what the world has become….

When will we open our eyes

and our hearts

and change everything?

Arrival

You speak

and I listen,

believing

with a flow of tears.

This world temporary, 

but You

are forever

helping us

into the Arrival.

Morning Dew Drop

Morning dew drop 

Stop,

Stay 

Give me time 

Let me see 

You,

Your heart 

Where I breath my love

Your eyes

Where I reflect myself

Your soul

Where I fly

Your dream

Where my image floats

Your trust

My pure love.

Time is limited

 My love is unlimited

Nigeria My Jerusalem 

And did God’s lips pronounce a curse

on Nigeria’s errant people?

Did not his blood our bills disburse,

having considered us feeble?

Did his presence elude us all

when terror and death took their toll?

And was hell to befall us all

when thieves and villains took control?

Give us men of Godly repute!

Bring women of chaste and virtue!

Take possession of every brute!

Let your spirit our land imbue!

I will not cease to intercede

nor shall my passion ever wane

till Nigeria ceases to bleed, 

and Christ begins his sovereign reign.

Author’s Biography:

The poem ‘Nigeria my Jerusalem,’ was inspired by William Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’ poem and hymn, which is very widely sung in the church of England, or the Anglican church. From the Nigerian perspective, the poem bemoans the deplorable state of my country, with the hope of a Divine intervention in the foreseeable future.

Jerusalem is one of my favorite hymns as an Anglican adherent and evangelical.

Joseph C. Ogbonna is a widely published poet. Some of his works have been published in Synchronized Chaos online magazine, Spillwords Press, Micromance, North of Oxford, Written Tales magazine, Borderless online journal, Waxpoetry Magazine, Ihram and in over two dozen anthologies and magazines.

He is a graduate of Nigeria’s famous Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. He has four post graduate qualifications from other Nigerian universities. He lives in Enugu, Nigeria.