The role and perspective of the native language in the era of globalization

Andijan State Pedagogical Institute 

Ózbek language and direction of literature 

Stage 1 student 

Orifjonova Nozima 

Azizbek girl

azizbekgylomov9@gmail.com

Annotation:

This article analyzes the impact of the globalization process on the native language, its place and position in society. The article reflects on how the prestige and importance of national languages are changing as a result of the prevalence of foreign languages. Also, in the current period, issues of preservation, development of the native language and increased attention to it will be covered. During the study, the role and perspective of the native language in maintaining national identity in the context of globalization is analyzed on a scientific basis.

Keywords:

Globalization, the influence of foreign languages, attention to the native language, the national language, prestige, its place in society, the position of the native language.

Annotation

This article analyzes the impact of globalization on the mother tongue, its role, and its status in society. It discusses how the widespread use of foreign languages has influenced the prestige and importance of national languages. The article also highlights the current effects to preserve and develop the native language and to strengthen attention to it. The study scientifically tests the role and prospects of the mother tongue in maintaining national identity in the context of globalization.

Keywords: Globalization, influence of foreign languages, attention to the native language, national language, prestige, role in society, status of the mother tongue.

Annotation:

This article analyzes the impact of the globalization process on the native language, its place and position in society. The article reflects on how the prestige and importance of national languages are changing as a result of the prevalence of foreign languages. Also, in the current period, issues of preservation, development of the native language and increased attention to it will be covered. During the study, the role and perspective of the native language in maintaining national identity in the context of globalization is analyzed on a scientific basis.

Keywords:

Globalization, the influence of foreign languages, attention to the native language, the national language, prestige, its place in society, the position of the native language.

Introduction

In today’s era of globalization, cultural, economic and scientific ties between the peoples of the world are gaining momentum. This process naturally also enhances the effect between languages. The wide penetration of foreign languages makes the issue of the position of our native language relevant, as well as a positive impact on the thinking, speech and worldview of the younger generation. The globalization process is one of the most important stages of human development 

He will strengthen social , economic, political integration of the entire Uzbek people, as well as the whole world

Transforming it into an information and communication space this process will certainly have a direct impact on the language system as well

Because language is not only a means of communication , a social phenomenon that preserves the cultural memory of its historical experience. The mother tongue – the foundation of the nation is a means of National thinking and self-realization . It is considered the most important factor that conveys social values , cultural heritage from generation to generation . 

As a weapon of communication , perception and thinking , language also characterizes how we see the world, the past reflects the connection between today and the future

The role of the native language in society is also directly related to its position in the fields of Science, Education, Literature and art.

The Uzbek language is enriched today through a system of scientific and technical terms, modern lexical units and translation work. Thanks to this, the Uzbek language is becoming not only a national means of communication, but also a means of scientific research, creativity and creative thinking, since the Internet has greatly influenced the globalization of the language. Through online platforms, people can connect with individuals from different cultures and languages, which leads to language harmonization and the development of hybrid forms.

The language of ingiliz in particular becomes a global lingua franca, influenced by different languages and dialects of the world

In the Republic of Uzbekistan, the status of the native language – Uzbek as the state language is enshrined in the Constitution of the country and the law “on the state language”. This situation provides a legal framework for the widespread use of the Uzbek language not only in the field of administrative management, but also in the fields of Education, Culture, Science, Media and international relations. Today, within the framework of the language policy, a number of programs are implemented to develop the Uzbek language, increase its prestige and promote it internationally. Hence, the role of the native language in society is an expression of the attitude of the people towards themselves, their own history and culture. Attention to language is attention to the nation, and appreciation of language is a pledge of national independence and spiritual elevation.

According to scientists, it turns out that in order for the language to survive, at least one million people need to speak it. However, such languages make up only 250 in the world. Uzbek is among these 250 languages. Currently, the number of Uzbek speakers is approaching 50 million people globally.

Parents have a great social responsibility in shaping the attitude of young people towards their native language. Each parent has a good education for their children, learning the language and making it 

should feel responsible for ensuring proper use. Currently, there are several problems in the field of language education. These include problems such as forgetting the native language, mixing native dialects or other languages, and narrowing of vocabulary

Language is the being of our nation, the sun of our hearts. Language is a social phenomenon that invigorates literature, increases the spiritual wealth of a nation. Both nationality and Literature Live if the language lives. The languages of the world are divided into several language families, depending on their origin, lexical and grammatical closeness. Earth

In the conditions of Uzbekistan, this issue is raised to the level of Public Policy, large-scale reforms are being carried out on the preservation and development of the language.

Conclusion:

In conclusion, at a time when the competition between languages is growing in the era of globalization, ensuring the role and perspective of the native language remains an urgent task . Although the prevalence of foreign languages in today’s era of globalization is a natural process, this situation should not be a reason for the decline in the prestige of national languages. On the contrary, taking them to a new level creates the opportunity to harmonize with modern technologies.

The role of language in maintaining the identity of each people in the context of globalization is incomparable.

Nowadays, Uzbek is recognized not only within the country, but also in the international arena, which shows its rich possibilities and charm.

Hence, the perspective of the native language is manifested in the affection, faith and practical activity of each citizen towards it. Language duck-means to duck the nation. While every young person deeply feels the beauty of his language, the rich vocabulary and cherishes it, the Uzbek language remains a symbol of national pride and unity not only today, but also in the lives of future generations.

Literature used : 

1. Obidova Sarvinoz – “the influence of globalization on language and cultural identity.” Impact of Globalization on Language and Cultural Identity ” (2023): PROSPECT and MAIN TRENDS in MODERN SCIENCE

2.Kurbanova Zubayda Alimova – “preservation of national language and literature in the age of globalization” (2025): pedagogues INTERNATIONAL RESEARCH JOURNAL | pedagogues / PED / VOLUME-83 / ISSUE-1

3.Orazbaev satellite ” the importance of the role of the native language in the era of globalization “

4.Shukurova Elinura – “the role and importance of Global language” (2023) Electronic Journal and internet portal “foreign languages in Uzbekistan”

5.Ja’far Kholmominov – “National factor in the process of globalization “” Hurriyat ” 

6.Kun.uz ” survive the Global recession

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

Father-Son Relationship in the “Alpomish” Epic 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Developments

There used to be animals, the latest litter

of kittens being fed on the street by strangers,

or racoons rolling across the uncultivated grounds

along the railroad tracks,

and birds, countless birds, stretched across the sky

perched on high voltage wires, starlings

mostly, but also crows and occasionally

a falcon would show from God knows where.

Now, they are gone. Construction is

mostly responsible. But there was more to it:

ill-informed young men had heard racoons

were always rabid and would attack them,

so, they poisoned them. And they poisoned

the cats, too, because they reproduced;

no one had thought to fix them and that that

would do. And the tall buildings placed where

before there were giant black trees made

the place incommodious to the birds

who used to range their rainbows in the spring.

Oh, how I miss them. Miss them all badly.

How gladly would I replace the people

for their preening and unconsidered living.

How much more than a motel

was the murmuration of those birds.

Listening To The Voice of Virginia Woolf

It was always

reaching a crescendo

then descending

like a shirt ironed

with a hiss from the steam

released like the tide

the rattle of pebbles-

I saw it with my eyes.

It returned always

the way words do

that fill a line

and make it stable-

earth shoveled into

a garden and into

a burial plot, too.

Petals open

our own tiny sun.

Shaking out the sea

it sparkles and bears

witness to the bodily

shape of memories. To some

it is ironclad law that is all

and holds within it

such dread as to not

be considered at all.

Who but a poet would associate

incarnadine with multitudinous

seas? Ah, words went

breathing and traveling

from street to street

picking up habits

remembered for centuries

becoming lips and speech.

The Examination

The doctor’s nurse will lay you down

on crumpling paper on a metal table

and place electrodes on your chest and arms.

She will record your heart rhythms

and be satisfied with the results

if they are regular and recur.

The test has its limits: it tells the heart’s

electrical currents. It does not know

the many hurts it suffered, or when it started

fighting back with all its umbrage.  

I am surprised that they separate the heart

from the rest of the life, as if we did not belong

to an interrelated organism.

Afterwards, she will escort you to a waiting room,

where everyone sits alone and no one

talks or looks around. She will leave you there

where everyone wants to hear

their name called out and their hearts unstimulated

go on beating alone.

Scale Theory

The fish is dead,

  but the armor is still holding.

   A mosaic of silver coins overlapping

     like roof tiles on a flooded house.

My mother hands me the knife—

a dull, rusted thing—

and teaches me the art of subtraction.

Scrape.

The sound is a zipper being forced open.

The scales fly off in a wet confetti

  sticking to my wrists

   decorating the sink

   in sequins of gray light.

We are unmaking the swimmer.

We are stripping the ocean off its back

until it is nothing but white, shivering flesh.

I push my thumb into the gill—

that red, feathery fan

that used to sieve oxygen from the dark—

and I pull.

The gutting is the honest part.

It is a wet, heavy sound. A release of secrets.

The heart   /   the liver   / the empty balloon of the stomach

all the machinery that made it alive

is piled into a plastic bag.

My mother washes the body until it is clean.

Until it forgets it ever had protection.

We burn it in oil and call it dinner.

But later, in the shower,

I find a single silver scale stuck to my collarbone.

A piece of the armor.

A fragment that refused to be swallowed.

Prototype_v1

00:00 [Fade in]

The project file is heavy.

I drag the timeline cursor back to the start.

We are trying to build a woman

out of mp4s and jagged pieces.

00:12 [Clip: Mother]

Zoom in: 200%

There is a track of water running down her cheek.

A silver tear / high definition / too sharp to look at.

Action: Add Text Layer.

I type the promise in bold font:

I will fix this. / I will carry the roof so you don’t have to.

I crop myself out of the frame

so there is more room for her comfort.

This is the First Daughter preset:

edit everyone else’s sorrow / until your own timeline is blank.

01:45 [Effect: Green Screen]

I stand in the center of the frame / head high.

But looking at the monitor / I know it is a trick of the light.

Opacity: 50%

I feel like a fraud in every scene / a special effect / a glitch in the system.

I am holding my breath / waiting for the error message.

Waiting to mess it all up.

If you turn off the filter

you will see I am just a scared girl

standing in front of a blank wall

waiting for the director to yell “Cut.”

02:30 [Import: New File]

My hard drive is full of corrupted footage.

Hearts that failed to export. / XYs that turned into static.

I was ready to shut the system down.

Drag and Drop: Him.

He appeared out of the blue / no color grading needed.

Suddenly the audio is clear. / The waveform is steady.

But I am hovering over the “Delete” button.

My hand is shaking.

I am terrified that if I press play

he will shatter into pixels like the rest.

Please, I whisper to the screen, don’t crash.

04:00 [Rendering…]

98%…

99%…

The fans are spinning loud / the laptop is burning my thighs.

I am waiting to become something permanent.

To be exported into a format that cannot be hurt.

But the cursor blinks.

Error: File still in use.

I am not finished yet.

[Cut to Black]

THIS LAND SPEAKS WOMAN

They found our bones beneath grinding stones,

hips wide as hunger,

ribs bent like spoons

from feeding everyone else first.

Our skulls still had hair in tight rows,

as if we were plaited even in death.

We did not die wives.

We died witnesses to how

the earth split for men

and swallowed women whole.

We were the cloth on the table,

the table,

the floor beneath it,

and still, we were asked to kneel.

You want to heal this land?

Then start with our names —

the ones stitched shut

into the hems of our mother’s wrappers.

We are in the dust,

the scent of turaren wuta and ash.

We are in the rivers,

flowing like truths too old for tongue.

We are in the cracked heels of ndị nne,

who crossed war zones

to pick pepper for soup.

Our voices grew sideways,

through floor cracks,

through the hum of songs,

through pestles beating yam to tears.

Our silence is not consent.

It is fury wrapped in ìrọ́ and bùbá,

a scream ground into millet

and spread in the sun to dry.

So when we speak, do not flinch.

For we do not knock.

We bloom through the rocks,

we crack the earth from inside out,

with bosoms plumped by famine,

and stretch marks like thunder

across a waiting sky.

Glossary

ìrọ́: Yoruba — a traditional wide wrap skirt worn by women

bùbá: Yoruba — a loose-fitting blouse, usually worn with an ìrọ́

ndị nne: Igbo — “mothers” (plural form of nne)

turaren wuta: Hausa — fragrant smoke used to scent homes and clothing

Farida Yahaya Tijjani is an 18-year-old Nigerian poet, scriptwriter, essayist, and spoken word artist. Her work explores themes of identity, resilience, and social justice, using creativity as a tool for healing and transformation. Her writing has appeared in national newspapers and is forthcoming in Aster Lit Issue 15. She also lends her voice weekly to NTA’s Nigerian Navy in Focus, where she scripts and edits the “Operation Delta Sanity” segment. Merging poetry with powerful storytelling to inspire change, Farida has performed across diverse platforms and has been recognized in both poetry and short story competitions.

Advertising and the Language of Advertising: A Powerful Tool of Modern Society

By Dinora Sodiqova, a student of Termez State University 

In today’s era of globalization, advertising has become an inseparable part of our daily lives. From street banners to mobile apps, from television and radio to social networks — advertising occupies almost every corner of the information space. Yet advertising is not merely a tool for introducing a product; it is a powerful social phenomenon that shapes public opinion, influences consumer culture, and even affects social attitudes.

The main weapon of advertising is language. Effective advertising sells not just a product, but an idea. That is why the language of advertising must be persuasive, brief, clear, and memorable. A single word or slogan can determine the success of an entire brand. Phrases such as “Quality is our top priority!”, “Chosen by those who trust themselves!”, or “New convenience every day!” demonstrate the essential features of advertising language: simplicity, clarity, and emotional impact.

The language of advertising works directly on human psychology. It widely uses attention-grabbing techniques, metaphors, exaggeration, rhythm, repetition, and vivid imagery. Moreover, modern advertising is closely linked with professional psychology: the meaning of colors, the tone of voice, visual elements — all are intended to influence the consumer’s subconscious mind.

However, advertising is not limited to commercial goals alone. Social advertisements aim to promote a healthy lifestyle, raise awareness about environmental issues, encourage observance of traffic rules, and draw attention to various public concerns. The language of such advertisements is more sincere, realistic, and educational in tone.

At this point, an important issue must be addressed: advertising not only informs but also shapes consumer behavior. Therefore, its language should remain honest, free from unnecessary manipulation or deception. Advertising that earns people’s trust lasts long; advertising that loses trust quickly loses its impact.

In conclusion, advertising is the heart of the modern economy, and the language of advertising is its powerful voice. Carefully chosen words, clear ideas, creativity, and honesty reveal the true strength of advertising. The quality of today’s advertising culture plays a significant role in shaping the consumer culture of future generations.

Sparrow Wars

I

Sludge water dripping

into an already clogged pipe.

Blood in my microscope, torn out

like a diary page, necessary to

analyze the ingredients.

Will the wound lift? be inverted

into a creative windstorm or

a nemesis spread,

spidery-vein spreading

until the curse is complete

and conquers?

I know love is alive,

and that hot and sudden

is the joy that stems from a miraculous shift.

I know building comes with the morning,

comes like brimming sorrow and goes

to a final destination like all things final,

temporary, broken and sliced down the centre –

undergoing a brutal mitosis.

II

Empty tables

clawed apart within

with spikes a-blazing on the edges,

and the light of the moon

high in the sky,

hardly visible.

Time is a dust heap I roll inside of,

never making a dent

or relieving my extremities from

the grim cover.

Beaten by the relentless overwhelm

and the digging dream that digs further down

more than ever before, pulled in by

gravity unspeakable and charged.

Living each day bent over, cane-walking,

repeating anguish, shooting pain and dough-bread

kneading, never baking, never

consuming.

III

When grief comes

it comes at the maximum degree

of chaos, doubt and all things

unsustainable.

Even there, in the squander and grave

disadvantage, I will surrender to trust,

protect the embryo of my new understanding

as precious as it is,

as the only intention worthy of holding,

clinging to despite the toxic smog encircling,

twirling over my extremities, nose-diving into

my internal organs, shutting me down.

It is there and its power is the past, old.

It is able to kill but I am not afraid.

I hold the jewel of this glowing budding faith

and that is all I will look at.

My heart is crushed, undone by the weight of grief

but my soul is tiny blooming. Let it be key.

Let everything be where everything needs to be.

Both are real. Only one will have authority

and receive my attention, elixir formed, a trickle,

ingested.

IV

Drum beat

no beat

I raise my arms

and scream hosana.

The drawers are empty

hunger parts my soul

into quarters. Stand up

and take account, no one

is listening.

Four months of stagnant emotion,

upheaval at the roots, planted again

somewhere less familiar and less fecund.

Faith and despair overlap, cross paths, join

together as a new entity.

Who understands? There is no understanding

to be had, only the ceramic bird on the shelf, winking,

and the air, heavy and humid one minute

and cold, oxygen-free, the next.

In my mind is an argument

existential, without possible resolution.

In my core there is shock at the terror

of disintegration, and for how long?

How much more? And still there is more.

In my being, I knew God

came with mercy, with Jesus and the peace

of infinity – washing clean, a soft joy

without degrees but only flowing, showering, eternal.

In between I wake up and I cannot see forward,

I listen, but I cannot be one with what I hear.

Holy Spirit, holy, do not escape me,

be clear, re-construct my devotion,

find me my union seed, to plant and tend to

simple devotion.

V

Jesus, you let me live.

I will sit with you

hand in hand.

I know you

in my personal crisis –

faith obliterated, reseeding

in a lucky garden.

I will trust you with all my problems,

with my anxiety like a dysfunctional

city, polluting the roadway, the airway

with its violence and indifference,

I will breathe easy, knowing you are here,

that you own it because I give it to you

and reckoning is rescue, in your hands,

miracles are coming – life changing,

a kinship with your divinity.

You are sovereign, my still-point, my doorway

into perpetual redemption.

I will collect the fruit and sit beside you,

eating together – no hunger, no hurry –

You and I, I with you, you

holding my hand.

VI

When I see the unseen

in a twisted longing

death-circle fantasy,

irresistible hope,

and drive to make that hope happen

even though

I am not a citizen of that land,

not meant to come forward

and shine with those deeds,

then I fail and live for an

illusionary future, creating a

hellish now, ripe with lack

and disappointment.

Bend on your knees, bow

to the one-name of God,

feel the slap of sobriety,

the consequences of depending

on your own wit and power

which is like a gnat trying to cross through

a tornado or a choir that sings without

glorifying.

I am learning that being conceived

and being re-conceived

is the cure for fear, the fire

that watches a greater fire,

burning enough,

releasing enough

to rejoice and just burn, a light, a warmth

transient, but elementally,

in this way, everlasting.

VII

It is hard to hold purpose

when purpose no longer holds you

when the single curtain seals the window

blocking the sun and sky,

making you blind so you only touch corners

and never a door.

All things lost their ownership, just wandered

aimless, squandering energy like tossed pebbles,

no pattern, sinking.

Governance failed, was only an imagined

corridor leading to a chaotic marketplace

that doled out meals, lacking nutrients and staying power.

Each shape to take and hold and shift from each day

was hard labour, exhausting to perform,

pretending hope existed when hope had abandoned.

I was not afraid because my fears

were pushed hard into my face,

swelling my eyes so they could only see behind.

Death won out over the light, won obedience –

the middle and opposite, smelling.

Death smells bad

smells like an inevitable succumbing

to rot, betrayal, rendering

endurance useless

and even the holiest of faith debunked.

There is a string before me,

thin and golden and unbreakable.

There is something I see I never saw.

I have collided with the consuming tyranny death,

felt it swerve and twist through

every vein, enter, break my heart,

break the truths I had before.

The string dangles,

dripping down from

of my inadequate cries

and a mangled prayer,

comes shining a faint intermittent glow.

It is small and so am I, minute,

hardly there, but there.  

VIII

If I talk again,

I will keep my end-mind twisted

so it cannot speak or formulate

a plan.

I have no constitution for plans

or wherewithal for achieving

human-made provisions.

If I talk again,

silence me into prayer,

conversing only with the angelic order,

strengthened by devotion and the power

of obedience.

If I try to be a player,

remind me of my meek capacity,

sting me with regret and slap me

into a state of surrender.

If I try to enter a world not my own,

laugh at me, call me out

and put me in my designated low-chair place,

a dreamer, advancing

no further.

IX

Falling away like before

launching water at the moon

then releasing it, scattering it

onto a lifeless surface.

Songs and singing are murderous,

selling the false business of a buffet

inspiration, and poetry, like a sober

prayer or pleading, blossoms in a place

where no one comes or looks or even cares.

Things that once stretched

with divine determination towards health,

now fall backwards into addiction and defeat.

Chaos always hovering at the entrance door,

violence a few footsteps away.

Idealism once trapped in my mind has sieved through

incrementally and now in my mind, a faint flow

of tainted possibility, mostly consumed by despair, mostly

non-existence, more hesitant than youthful,

more resigned than risking.

The days drive on the same,

and how I wish I was in a state

of conspiratorial superiority

or in a social bliss of nonchalance.

How I wish I could be like I used to be,

believing despite the odds,

calling for help and receiving it.

What is this weakness,

this futureless waste of now,

pressing on all my joints,

an aching misery perpetual?

What are these days

when I can find no hope

to master this tortuous doom?

I am removed. A thin slice everywhere

between me and reality. Only sorrow brings

me near enough to touch, only happiness lives

inside my dreams or in my memories,

stripping the peel from the fruit,

dropping it to rot in the mud-marsh with the rest

of my wearied hold on merciful possibilities.

X

I don’t see

the far-reaching joy

to build a future on,

just disappointment, false-starts,

isolation and how can-that be?

I don’t see

but I know the builders take their time

to make sure what needs to be aligned

is aligned, that broken hearts can

become hardened hearts

and hope is dangerous for those who are desperate,

perishing at the foot of the mirage.

But there is a noble prophesy to follow,

to stand by and wait for.

There is true love, love that alters bitter grief

that wraps your love in its healing balm until

it blooms and your dry throat is

finally soothed, your wounds are rewarded,

transformed into strengths exposed,

safe on the marriage altar.

XI

Time does not help

to lessen the sharp scream

of amputation, or to help gain

a way to cope, maimed as I am,

lacking resilience.

Prayer does not answer

any questions or bury the emptiness

outside of my body, allowing

room that can be filled, even with only

a faint groaning microscopic creation.

Love that sits beside me,

day-after-day, holding my hand,

stays with me – miraculous devotion –

helps while it is there,

but does not stop the welling-up of sorrow,

that will not ease or be appeased

in solitude or by distraction.

Faith is a word that sparks

but cannot ignite. I sink down again

on my broken knees. I cannot rise.

I try and I try, but

I cannot overcome.

XII

God do you love me?

Everyday I fall short

of receiving your love,

blocked and stalled and wading

knee-deep in sewage mud.

I cannot take a step. I cannot

hear you anymore or

feel your mercy move the spoke

a mile, an inch, a fraction of

a way out of this criminal sleep,

arrested every day.

I try to take a breath,

try to step but I cannot

move. Please God, show yourself

to me again. I am aching all over,

joints on fire, mind – ablaze in jet-fuel burning

heat, tired all the time, cut off

from your glory.

Cut off no matter my prayers

and my pleas.

Please God, take my hand,

recognize me as one of your own.

I long for you.

I need your grace

to lift me, now,

trumpets calling,

advancing, only with you,

loved, permitted.

XIII

A hive blasted

by poison.

A blood-letting

in crave of a cure.

Two close-together cliffs

jumped across, looking

closer than they are.

In the whirlspin of a fall –

arms broken, extremities blasted,

crying out for someone from the angelic order

to swoop down and placate the pain.

But no angel-being arrives and what is broken

remains broken, deformed and starting to heal

that way, into a permanent liability.

Even then, when stuck thigh-deep in forsaken ground,

God is close, washing our cracked bodies,

cradling our defeat, saying

My Love doesn’t always answer with a clean slate

or a put-on spell so all hurt is forgotten,

not a trace left traceable. Sometimes

My Love just sits with you, beside the pain,

lets you know I am here,

here, in the empathetic love of others,

here, in your own resilience each morning to carry on,

here, in your determination to stay close to me

as you anguish and ache,

unable to walk or fully wake,

seeing that nothing turned out

the way you saw it

in your times of highest harmonic resonance

the way

you were sure it would.

XIV

Will you speak to me again

like before death cracked my windpipe

like when death still hovered thick in the air

but you were there surrounding everything

with the weight of your love?

Will you answer me again

cooling my shape, giving back force

to my petering-out flame

so I can grow again, still tied to your mercy

and the joy of having dreams?

Will I know you again

despite my mutations

and the iron that rotates sickeningly

in my core, using my energy

for lesser aspirations?

Will you love me again

and I will know that love

igniting its current through

my every predicament,

bonding me unbreakable

to your side, inside

your privileged embrace?

XV

First thing,

you are here.

I wake up and we are talking,

merged in a matter-of-fact

conversation. My need, my only way

to take a step in the morning.

More and more, without you, I can’t

exist or comprehend a thing.

Then why this endless desert, the

hard bloated boils erupting

every time I do move?

How is it, you are here, but there

is so much pain still, so much struggle

just to keep alive?

How do I feel so close to you and need

you more than I ever have, have you

more than I ever have, with such

drought and trembling-burns burning everyday,

throughout the days, echoing – no medicine, no food,

just you and I in this high heat,

where I am barely capable,

but somehow capable.

XVI

Then the bitter defeat

was burning like a sin

committed, recognized

and unforgiveable.

Then on a hill, heavy with

weighted down legs and

an injury there, debilitating but

unexplained, the challenge came

to walk.

Walk slowly at first, walk like

I can walk even though the reins

are dropped and I have lost my mother,

lost life’s victory over death and the comfort

of an unbreakable love broken,

altered, intangible now as an angel’s skin

or a hope held for decades unrealized.

Walk with my mortal burden, stumbling without

a path, a cane or a flat plane. Twist in my ankle, twist

in my knee, swollen, bloated with a hot fever, walk.

Face a direction, walk, slowly,

commit and make it my own.

XVIII

Soak the born

in their own initial conception

to remember the pure-memory-pockets,

the truth of miracles.

Underline everything that matters

and read it again until no small word

is skimmed over or taken for granted.

Open the shelter doors and let all animals

in, wild ones, broken ones, aggressive and tame.

Free with a blessing

every dream that isn’t false,

and follow your deepest duty –

both desirous and undesirous divine commands.

Under the blanket, conspiracies are made.

They grow limbs that look like light but exclude

humility and the thumb-print of surrender.

The atmosphere is big,

the button-hole is small.

I am small when I toss

my self-determination out as wisdom

and fail at every turn.

Mercy comes with obedience,

obedience comes with trust, and then finally

freedom.

The dying are trapped in their wounds.

The living, in their success at survival,

but the gift is always

open for everyone, and changing

even without core movement.

I have a boat and that is all I own.

I see flowers on the shore, rooted in the sand.

I see yellow and sometimes, I see gold.

Allison Grayhurst has been nominated for “Best of the Net” six times. She has over 1,400 poems published in over 530 international journals, including translations of her work. She has 25 published books of poetry and six chapbooks. She is an ethical vegan and lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

War is the black scarf

Valentina Yordanova – Accordia (Bulgaria)

Bombs are falling, shells are whistling.

The sky is painfully crying out of fear.

Mothers as well are crying sadly out loud.

And they once sang a song of laughter.

A terrifying sight roars in the dust –

it smells of death and sorrow.

It echoes far and wide. Chaos rages all around.

People are running, birds are circling in fear.

The air is suffocating with a smoke screen

and there is a shortage – hearts stop beating.

And once there was a dewy tear – fragrant.

Mothers are carrying young children in their arms –

looking for salvation at least for them to find.

A child is kneeling next to a woman’s corpse,

sobbing loudly – ​​with tears cursing the war.

The mother is killed – with a torn chest and no pulse,

and he hopes she will see again – she is still alive.

They once walked the streets – holding hands.

And houses are collapsing. Wild fires are blazing.

Cities and villages disappear in a cloud of dust,

and once they were warm family homes.

Now they are collapsing with the bloody snow that has fallen.

People have long been hostile to each other –

their hearts – are mirror ice – from cold.

In their footsteps – death lurks at full speed.

From the war, their souls are drowning in deep sorrow.

Fathers have held their breath in trenches and unfurled flags.

Somewhere a machine gun bark is heard, mowing down the enemy.

War is ominous – it paints emptiness and blindness.

Black headscarves are worn by women – instead of flags.

The picture overflows with sadness – spreading sea,

from which tears roar with a powerful tidal wave.

There is no love between people, and they are brothers of the same

blood. The wind caresses the corpses of soldiers out of pity.

It collects scattered photographs of women and children –

turned into sad fallen leaves of men.

And the dust holds them in dirty red albums.

Graves sprout – like flaming crocuses,

over which a cloud of eternal sorrow and grief remains.

Weighed down on the ground – they are leaden soldiers,

forever marked with tears and flowing blood.

Hearts are orphaned. The world is left breathless.

And let there be no WAR – the black scarf!

History tells enough about it…

I want a united brotherhood to reign everywhere

and with love we sow the seeds of peace!

Let bullets never fly – instead of birds

and may the sky remain crystal clear forever!

PEACE is light – a white canvas and let us draw together

white doves in flight and create joy in the World!

Translated by Yoana Konstantinova

Peace

author: Valentina Yordanova – Accordia (Bulgaria)

The word PEACE – three letters only.

A holy word – of great love.

With a breath of sweetness and freedom –

it is happiness for people around the world.

Comparable to a mother’s, a loving word –

 so gentle, warm and light-winged.

Carried in an echo – all over the world,

reaching far and wide.

May PEACE reign on earth forever!

May there be no wars – fear in tears!

Sad melodies – outpoured by weeping,

The earth soaked with pain and blood!

And may all nations be fraternal,

May their friendship – be the sun in tomorrow.

May white doves fly freely in the open air,

And may the expanse of heaven be as pure as dew.

The word PEACE encompasses the whole world –

from the blood of freedom the dawn was born,

to remain in the beautiful morning of the day.

Let us all together preserve peace!

May war be a ship that has sailed forever,

and may PEACE be a joyful tear in the world!

Translated by Yoana Konstantinova

My name is Valentina Yordanova, pseudonym – Accordia. Born I am in Mezdra, Bulgaria. By profession I am children teacher and psychologist. My poetry is sincere and deep expression of love, pain, dreams and personal experiences. Favorite theme of mine is love – tender, beautiful, sometimes painful. My style is figurative and lyrical – I paint with words emotional landscapes – this is my soul. Publications – in Bulgaria and abroad. I know children’s soul and write children’s poems.