Electric Silence

have you ever been in a space

where it is so quiet

that you experience

electric silence

as your ears rest

you feel the natural electrical currents

running through you

connecting you to mother earth

if you relax enough

you can feel each tiny vibration

in a soothing sensation

rippling through your nerves

caressing all your curves

making you swerve

in an intricate motion

electric silence

deafening

yet soothing

My Special Place

I want to hug the palms

because their leaves

feel like pliable arms

able to hold me close

let me caress the bougainvillea

even with their rounded edge needles

the beauty outweighs

any worries of pain

but the flora that excites me the most

is the cocoplum

darkly beautiful

carrying a special tasty magic

I smell the sweetness while

basking in the uniqueness

tasting the tropical treats

while sitting by the pond

filled with lily pads
—

this fragile nightmare

fifty years into this

fragile nightmare

an old bottle of whiskey

hidden under some

dirty clothes

another lost girlfriend

texting madly on the

phone

not accepting that

everything comes

to an end

and here i thought

eventually, shit gets

better

maturity comes about

they don’t explain to you

when you’re younger that

money plays a much larger

role

i suppose they don’t want

you dying until you make

someone else a rich fuck

$11 at the grocery store

supposed to snow like

the end is near this

weekend

i’ll make a sandwich and

watch the snow as i slowly

drink the hours away with

some gin

———————————————————————-

your turn to talk

the muse called from germany

at three in the morning my

time and needed to talk

this is what happens when

you learn to listen and not

just wait for your turn to

talk

she told me she loved me

at the end of the call

i told her i love her as well

we both know it doesn’t

mean what it could have

twenty years ago

but time has brought

a different place at

least

put on an old morphine

record and think about

when you were cool

nothing but laughter

i often wonder when it

all turned to shit

was it when the cocaine

went bad or the music

stopped selling or when

the women stopped liking

the dirty jokes

loneliness does have some

perks

dinner doesn’t cost as much

———————————————————–

happy birthday

i put it out into the

universe that i didn’t

want to be alone on

my 50th birthday

the universe responded

and told me to go fuck

myself

there has to be some

point where i no longer

have to chase shadows

where the mountains

will relent and allow

me to breathe

i am also sadly aware

that the opposite is also

happening at the same

time

if life is a series of choices

how many fucking times

can you lose before the

walls break and all hell

is about

apparently, i’m stuck

fucking testing the limits

and here my grandmother

thought i was going to be

president one day

———————————————————-

everything is the next one

winter storm coming

the sad neon blinking

across the valley

between the ice and snow,

the stores were running

out of everything

this is what we do

since the pandemic

everything is the next

one

sadly, they are hardly

ever right

the worrying fuckers

and the ones on tv

doing the weather

having remembered

what it was like before

everything got fucked

we’ll get some snow,

the plows will get out,

life moves on

there was a big ass

blizzard when i was

an infant

i have no memories

of it

but i do remember

a cold stretch when

i had just started

working at the

airport

nothing like driving

equipment at -40

degrees

————————————————————–

find god

the simpler times cling

to me like a ragged old

shirt

chasing pussy was fucking

easier when it didn’t hurt

to walk a few miles

time doesn’t heal shit

liquor doesn’t either

i have a collection of bent

spoons that would like to

have the floor to talk about

a few things

and there is always some

young beauty that will tell

me to find god

i kindly ask when was the

last time you were told to

go fuck yourself

when she gets offended

i know i just gave her

the first lesson of life

but this generation doesn’t

know shit about minding

your own business

so alas, it is fucking useless

i’m sure the next one will

be laced

hopefully

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the last 30 years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Owl Narrative, Disturb the Universe Magazine, Crossroads Magazine and The Beatnik Cowboy. J.J. is a 3 time Best of The Net nominee and a two time Pushcart Prize nominee. You can find more info on his latest book, to live your dreams, by going here: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/245883678-to-live-your-dreams

Winter’s Edge

raw bonito 

the chef’s knife trembles 

with last year’s debt 

a helping hand

on the slippery slopes

winter mountain

frostbites

her withered hands

warms his

waiting alone—

good company around

the winter fountain

Lincoln Park Assault

Aliicia Menendez stood on the corner, near the ivy-covered mansion designed by James Nagle; she was waiting for her bus. She casually glanced down North Burling Street and noticed a gang of men staring at her. There were at least a dozen. Alicia did a double take. They were done up in military gear and their face coverings and gasmasks gave them the aspect of a swarm of six foot, 200-lb. insects. One of them pointed at her. They all wore coats emblazed across the back with ICE.

Uneasy, she began to drift from the bus stop. She looked again and they were moving, en masse, in her direction. Dropping her packages and clutching her purse, she took flight, in the direction of the intersection of West Armitage Avenue and North Halsted Street. She was wearing low heels and couldn’t make good time.

She fled for about half a city block before the big bugs caught up with her. Someone reached out and grabbed her arm, twisted it behind her back. Alicia cried out in pain.

“Get her ass on the ground,” one man barked gruffly and she was thrown to the pavement. Her hose shredded, her skirt tore. Her other arm was twisted behind her and twist ties affixed about her wrists.

“I got her purse,” said one of the men, turning up her handbag. “Alicia Menendez,” he muttered aloud. “She ain’t from Chicago.”

“Okay, Alicia Menendez,” purred a man, mocking her, “where’s you effing green card. Where are your documents, Beaner? You ain’t got ’em, do you?” he asked smartly.”

“I’m a citizen,” she wailed shrilly, then began to sob.

By this time, a crowd had begun to gather: Hispanics, Anglos, African Americans, a mixed-bag. They began to edge closer.

“Stand the fuck back!” shouted the presumptive leader. “This is official ICE business. You got no business here. Disperse or be detained.”

“You got a warrant?” asked a high-pitched voice. A woman. The crowd began rumbling angrily. The thugs of ICE looked uneasy.

“Like this lady said,” said a dark-suited man, “do you have a warrant?”

“What the hell are you?” asked the leader of ICE. “A goddamn lawyer?”

“I’m an immigration attorney,” replied the other man.

“This is a perfectly legal warrantless arrest, Esquire,” said the man bitingly. “You just carry your ass on out of here, while you can still walk.”

“What’s your reasonable suspicion?” asked the lawyer. “Warrantless arrests are only valid with probable cause or its equivalent.”

“She ran,” pointed out the head thug heavily.

“Because you ran after her,” the lawyer reminded her.

“If she wasn’t guilty, then why did she run?” ask the man, boldly putting his foot on the back of the prone Alicia.

“You men are all strangers to her. You’re heavily armed. You’re wearing masks. I saw the whole thing. You didn’t identify yourself as agents.”

Before the man could respond, one of his minions said, “Eh, Mike, this lady is a U.S. citizen.”

“Huh? And how do you know that?”

“Passport,” replied the other man, holding it out for Mike’s inspection.

Without another word, Mike bent and cut Alicia’s bonds. Then, as if on cue, two black SUVs rumbled up and, still without a word, the men climbed aboard. The vehicles sped away.

The attorney knelt and helped Alicia to her feet. “Anything I can do for you, ma’am?” he asked kindly.

“Wh…what happened?” she asked in a bewildered voice. “I’m a stranger to Chicago,” she explained. “I’m from Milwaukee.”

Ozod Sharafiddinov’s School of Translation: His Contribution to Introducing World Literature to the Uzbek Reader

This article provides a scholarly analysis of the translation school of the Uzbek literary critic and intellectual Ozod Sharafiddinov, his activities in introducing world literature to the Uzbek readership, and his contribution to translation theory. The study examines Sharafiddinov’s theoretical views on the translation process, his aesthetic criteria in literary translation, and his role in forming a school for young translators. The research concludes that the spiritual and cultural foundation he created in the field of translation became an important factor in the development of Uzbek literary thought.

Keywords:

Ozod Sharafiddinov, school of translation, world literature, Uzbek reader, literary translation, translation theory, literary criticism, spiritual heritage.

Introduction

Ozod Sharafiddinov is one of the prominent figures of the Uzbek literary process of the twentieth century, and the field of translation occupies a special place in his scholarly and creative activity. He interpreted translation as a creative process that enriches national spirituality, broadens the reader’s worldview, and develops literary thinking. Sharafiddinov was an intellectual who made a significant contribution to conveying progressive ideas from world literature to the Uzbek reader and to shaping modern artistic consciousness.

Sharafiddinov described translation as “the most complex form of literary creativity.” He emphasized the responsibility of the translator, stressing the necessity of fully understanding the spirit of the original text, the author’s individual style, and the artistic essence of the work during the translation process. His views served as a theoretical foundation for the formation of the Uzbek school of translation.

In his articles and lectures, he stated that a translator must possess a broad worldview, a high level of cultural awareness, and sufficient knowledge of literary history. Thus, Sharafiddinov aimed to enrich Uzbek literary thinking by elevating the culture of translation.

Sharafiddinov’s research on world literature enabled him to introduce new artistic ideas and styles to the Uzbek reader. He conducted in-depth analyses of the works of writers such as Hemingway, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Aitmatov, and Camus, and incorporated their works into the Uzbek literary environment on a scholarly basis.

Sharafiddinov’s commentaries on world literature:

familiarized readers with the international literary process,

explained new aesthetic and ideological movements,

interpreted trends such as existentialism and modernism.

In this way, he created opportunities for the Uzbek reader to comprehend and accept schools of world literature.

Sharafiddinov is distinguished by his scientific approach to translation. His main principles can be summarized as follows:

a) Preservation of the author’s spirit

He emphasized that a translator should transfer not merely the text, but the spirit of the original.

b) Aesthetic responsibility

The translator’s task is to ensure that the translated text in Uzbek is also artistically perfect.

c) Harmony of language and style

Sharafiddinov urged translators to have a deep knowledge of both the source language and Uzbek literary language.

d) The role of a cultural bridge

He regarded translation as a means of connecting two cultures.

Throughout his editorial career, Sharafiddinov worked with many young translators, edited their manuscripts, and provided scholarly and creative guidance. He established a school in the following areas:

Enhancing the cultural level of translators,

Developing mastery of literary language,

Demanding strict adherence to artistic criteria,

Presenting translation as a creative process.

In this sense, he can be regarded as an intellectual who laid the foundation of the Uzbek school of translation and secured a lasting place in history.

Ozod Sharafiddinov’s scholarly and practical activities in the field of translation are of invaluable importance to the development of Uzbek literature. By introducing world literature to the Uzbek reader, he expanded the spiritual horizons of national literature. His views on translation theory remain relevant today and serve as an important methodological source for contemporary translators.

The school of translation established by Sharafiddinov is recognized as a scholarly school that initiated a new stage in Uzbek literary thought.

References

Sharafiddinov, O. Literary Thought.

Sharafiddinov, O. Selected Works.

Sultanov, Q. The History of the Uzbek School of Translation.

Yuldashev, Q. Uzbek Literary Criticism of the Twentieth Century.

Rasulov, A. Fundamentals of Translation Theory.

Madina Mamasaidova

University of Journalism and Mass Communications of Uzbekistan.

Still Life with Dead Zone

1-

Blackbirds at Dusk

Bare tree outlined against a brushed-of-light sky.  Blackbirds risen in flight.  Cold, 

shifting wind suggests a freezing rain, sleet changing to snow.  In the valley, the cleared

field is collecting birds.  Their gathering a strange collection of living matter among the

desiccated stumps of summer.  Long rows of them, newly sprouted like nightmares.

Moon rise with

white comet tails;

ghost light on an

empty outdoor stage

After the flight of birds, silence.  Nothing moving among the dead, leafless trees, sheared

to the stumps or broken into diseased humps, sprouting from the ground like the broken limbs of

dead soldiers planted as a warning for those who follows after. The muffled steps of what comes

after the night, their obscene bodies, their wings.

2-

Flyway

Pre-front clouds, a black fistula consuming a bent horizon.  Birds in migratory flight

flee the stilted hills, the nesting grounds.  Static electricity rubs the color from the sky.  An open

wound left behind.

Flat sky, sun torn

fabrics, black 

blood blisters.  Birds.

Incongruous tarmac at the edge of wild jungle growth baked hard by relentless sun.  Air

ground control station, elevated sniper/ guard towers overlooking the perimeter, concertina wire,

no man’s land.  Toward nightfall, a mad minute, tracer rounds instead of exotic birds flights;

incoming instead of by-air transport.

3-

Roadside Marker

Early morning still life with grazing cows.  Sun bursting off last finger of ground fog

drying the low, foraged grass.  Budding trees just beyond wending wall of rock separating fields

from drainage ditches and black topped road.  Clipped lily on white cross by bare black limbed,

skinned-of-bark tree.  A scatter of car parts. Windshield glass.

Confluence of shadow

and fog, no light

leaking through.

White stone marker embedded roadside indicates eighty-one kilometers to nowhere.

Lifting ground fog and battlefield smoke envelop cratered highway littered with discarded gear:

worn boots, torn rucksacks, unfolded blankets, ruptured canteens, tattered tents.  Along the road,

stunted trees, a long, thin barbed wire fence posted with warning signs, blackened fields of burnt

elephant grass.  Still life with dead zone.

4-

Flooded Road

Legacy of storm; a spontaneous inland sea.  Reflections of immersed objects in still

water: trees, tops of fence posts, vehicle roofs, antennae, tips as rigid as insects remains.  Clear,

cloudless sky cleansed of light.

Temporary bridges

between two shores,

water in the middle

washing them away.

Fording the river in full combat gear.  Foot soldiers holding their weapons diagonally

overhead, walking, waist high, then chest high, some totally submerged. Only the rifles, still

mostly dry, visible above the surging water.

5-

Fog and Woodsmoke

Evening haze with scent of cook stoves, fireplaces.  Houses trimmed with decorative

lights off-season; an almost unearthly glowing in near-night darkness.  Still life with cracked

blacktop and low hanging trees.  The pulsing of the overhead wires almost audible.  Nothing

moving but the smoke. The haze.  The strange rings of the overhead street lights.

Dead air with black

smoke; impossible

to breathe.

Smoke from the burning thatched huts.  The guts of cook fire spread on the hard packed

earth: embers, overturned black pot, utensils for stirring, nearby.  Last, spent remnants of 

location-marking flares amid the black, billowing smoke.  A naked baby, sitting amid the 

wreckage, screaming.

6-

Pavement Ends

Single lane of hard packed, graded rock between fenced fields.  Thick, intensifying

ground fog covering the land, obscuring the caution sign, masking the way.  Vision, at last light,

no more than a few feet forward.  Soon, the dark.

Maps without borders,

unmarked trails

have no end.

Bent-to-the-earth signs say: Extreme Caution: Minefield Do Not Enter.  A skull and

crossed bones penciled beneath the words.  Fields extending on either side of the road into the 

dark; the enclosing jungle trees beyond.  The way on either side cratered from overhead

bombing or from something explosive underneath.  Large pits with still water inside. Other

objects, as well.  Soon, the dark.

The Ark

What’s art to the soul, bees’re to flowers; a wasteland without either?

I’m pushed far off into the river, because the government wants to uproot this slum and develop the land. Land is scarce, and I have been driven out with the rest of slum-dwellers, not once or twice but many, driven out mercilessly, our shacks bulldozed, our spirits broken. But we rise again in a phoenix existence, governments cannot rid of us. 

The sun rises even as we speak, I see lights filtered through the bees of the lush forest around the deep seas where the river and the sea meet, where I make an ark and I sleep in it another type of dwelling made in the seas. An expert in ark-making which I’ve become now from building a long ark, way too long for all the slum dwellers to live. This skill is a lifesaver, I make, mend broken arks and paint over its solid wood, until this becomes an art. Every time a hut on land is bulldozed, tall towers, constructed in its place, I appear before the demolished shacks to take advantage, and elsewhere into the seas until the ark glows at night like a spec on dark sea waves.

Ark dwellers pay me well. I can now build a brick house with it on an isolated island; papers, leases—documents, works for all that’s worth. Even join the builders’ group with such quality skills I’ve learn’t from ark building. They will gladly hire me and I can eventually buy them off. Great transformations lay on the horizon, as I start to lay bricks for a building of development project of a newly vacated slum. Then one day, a few men from the ark come along putting a claim to the land, because this is where their lost shacks were. They are no seafarers.

I look at them, I hide my face for I know these people whom I built strong new arks, my soulful arts on the sea. In my growing distance from the hive, those live off the sea. Oh! Look, look at me! What I have become!  My place isn’t on board the ark is an art I chose, which I choose to opt out. I’m a beyond rich, a brick layer by trade who owns a flat on this island—a wasteland of monstrosity called development, ultimately altruistic, a symbiotic symbolism where bees and beaus disconnect.