Green


A slowly cacophonous morning
Screaming of faultless surprises
I call back at the ruinous evening
The way the sea chanters will sing
And mourn the last evening
The soil of earth soaked happiness
The numbness, the choice of green fragility
The bemoaning madness of survival of green moist
Is this a new horizon of tumultuous ocean? 
I sign and beck a call of happiness
The night knows thousand epiphanies
A fireglow at the tale end 
Till I lose my breathe for the sky line wine. 

I love the rain

I love the rain, its gentle touch

A soothing balm, I love so much

It washes away my worries and pain

And fills my soul with peace again

The pitter-patter on the window pane

A symphony of nature’s refrain

The earth drinks in its sweet embrace

And all the world seems in its place

The air is cool, the scent is clean

A tranquil beauty, rarely seen

I love to dance in the falling drops

And feel the rhythm, my heart never stops

The rain brings life to every living thing

A gift from above, like a melody to sing

I love the rain, its calming sound

It brings me joy, wherever it’s found

Jumanazarov Zohidjon Eldor’s son was born on March 14, 2006 in Narpay district of the Republic of Uzbekistan, Samarkand region. Nation is Uzbek. Incomplete education. In 2012-2023 he studied at the 16th comprehensive school of Narpay district of Samarkand region. In 2023, the Uzbek State Institute of Arts and Culture was admitted to the “Culture and Arts Management” on the basis of a grant. He has achieved a lot of success during school and now. During the institute, the Ministry of Culture of the Republic of Uzbekistan, and in December 2023, set a global ranking record for IQ (40 seconds).

🎄New Year🎄

New year is knocking on the door
We look forward to this day
Heart full of beautiful feelings
Bring joy to all years. 

It is unique to the world
Lights shine like fir trees
Santa and Snow White sharing gifts
He likes all children. 

We are looking forward to the new year
We welcome a new day
Forget all the sorrows
Do not leave us dreams. 

May the world be happy
Cheerful girls playing on the street
These happy days will not end
Having tasted the love of winter. 

Let's wait for the new year and wish for goodness
May our hearts shine like the sun
Hearts full of sweet dreams
Happy New Year everyone. 

               ✍️Ruzmetova Zuhra

Ruzmetova Zuhra Vyacheslavovna November 30, 2006 I was born in the city Urgench, Khorezm region. There are 6 of us in the family my father my mother my brother my twin and me. I am currently a student of the 11th grade of school no 14 in Urgench city. I appeared on the international website "Synchronized chaos" and I am the coordinator of the this international site. My poems have been recognized in more than 10 countries. Every week I am guest on Khorezm TV channel. I am the holder of badge "For the international Services"🎖by the bi wing poets writers Association. I am the winner of competitions of more than 100 national and international organizations. I have a B2 certificate of knowledge of the Turkish language. I have many future dreams and goals. 

Flag

It flutters proudly in the blue 

Our heart is full of happiness 

If we show it, it will bring joy 

Red, blue, green, white 

Flag 

The star and the moon are in harmony 

A symbol of independence and beauty 

Rich in independent freedom 

Red, blue, green, white 

Flag 

Red color is blood in a vein 

The Prophet is a clear sky 

Every moment is blessed 

Red, blue, green, white 

Flag 

Pride of nations 

Prospective and great happiness 

A beautiful tree of a country

Red, blue, green, white 

Flag!

Mamazoirova Rayhona, a student of the 8th grade of the creative school named after Erkin Vahidov, Marģilon

(Previously published in Redrosethorns)

Force of Habit

“I didn’t even know his name,” she whispered softly. She looked at me. “Do you know it?” she asked. She had bright green eyes.

“Johnson,” I said gruffly.

She nodded.

“Can you tell me how it happened?” I asked.

“I met him on the bus. We talked. He seemed nice.”

I waited.

“He said, do you want to get a coffee, so we could talk some more.”

“You got off at the stop on Rogers?”

She nodded, but said no more.

“What happened next?”

“We got our coffees at the McDonalds and then strolled to the park. We talked for a while and then I looked around and we were suddenly in a woods. He…grabbed my arm and twisted it. I tried to yell but he put his hand over my mouth. He started to rip my clothes off me.”

“You’re doing good,” I told her. “How did it end?”

“He had me on the ground and was on top of me and I opened my purse with my free hand and pulled out my pistol and stuck it in his belly and pulled the trigger three times…”

I waited a minute. “And then?” I prompted.

“And then the police came. Someone in the park must have heard the shots and called them.”

I held up a transparent evidence bag with a Glock inside. “Is this your gun, Caroline?” I asked gently.

She nodded.

“You’re the legal owner of this weapon?” I asked. I had already checked the registration and the data bases. She was legal.

She nodded again.

“How did you happen to be carrying it?”

“Habit. I always carry it with me, everywhere, ever since the first time.”

Meet Samuel Beckett With Richard Wilson 2015 Manufacturing Intellect Princeton University Library Playing the Spectator While Waiting For Godot, Kimberly Bohman-Kalaja, The Princeton University Library Chronicle, Vol. 68, No. 1-2 Winter 2007,
Princeton University Library Publishers.

Discuss the use of repetition and doubling as dramatic devices in Beckett’s Waiting for Godot.
Or
Bring out the significance of the stage setting in Waiting for Godot or in Look Back in Anger.
Or
Discuss the theatre of the absurd and connect it to some of its social and philosophical antecedents.

That postmodernist Irish tragicomical Waiting For Godot is a poetic drama of the Anglo-Franco absurdist tradition that evades both the meaning of life and purpose and that of memory and
jurisdiction as envisioned by the vaudeville stock buffoon archetypal everyday humanity country bumpkins and fool-like jester tramps.

These protagonists Vladimir and Estragon’s histrionic
rhetorics “Yesterday’s evening it was black and bare. Now it’s covered in leaves” and “It must be the spring” respectively delineate the trajectory of stage directions behind the stage and
alleyways of a baffling generation of scholarly drama critics. Time is a patterning of memories in a narrative sequence as observable by these characters’ microcosmic natural world amidst blasted
heaths and ruined countryside. Representations of recurrent imageries associated with boots and hats, gastric inflammation, and pouches of belching bear resemblance to outfit wardrobe and food
crises prevalence of French resistance of the post world war epoch.

Emissary’s implication of Godot’s continual dismissal is lachrymose news to the readers of existentialism and nihilism. After all Pozzo’s declarative “Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time?” postulates that the natural world is a purgatory without a promissory note of salvation as envisioned by these tramplike vagabonds; they cannot reminisce on past memories and
are thus entwined within this gossamery of past and present spatiotemporality to be certain about who they are, where they are and why they are like rhetorical questions.

Estragon’s and Vladimir’s hanging upon the tree is a figurative trope of melodramatic hyperbolism that concerns finding meaning within a meaningless world. Lucky’s beastly burdensome stoicism [lifting of
sand bags every now and then and then dragging them down to relift them] subjective to Pozzo’s tyrannical regime upon the behest of mindless and purposeless errand is symbolic of power
dynamics concerning humanity’s enslavement to chasmic maze.

Lucky being deafened and Pozzo being blind incriminate subversion of power polity through the inversion of power dynamics, through banishment of colonial hegemony and thus proclaim emancipation to freedom by resistance and rebellion. That literature laureate absurdist and existentialist playwright Samuel Beckett crafts electrifying and spellbinding aural specks of allegorical enchantment in canonizing the fiction of absurdist poetic drama. After all, this is an allegory of the human condition for eternity as if we are cataclysmically falling with the rolling boulders from the cliff.

Fatalistically these tramp protagonists are eternalized for waiting and Beckett has transformed the destitution of mankind into exaltation through Lucky’s personae: “He’s Lucky to have no more expectations.” Furthermore, the polar binaries between the powerful Pozzo and the powerless Lucky, Estragon, and Vladimir insinuate extended metaphors of the Cold War, the French Resistance, and the Irish rebellious spirits of the nationalist freedom movement.

“Let us not waste our time in idle discourse! Let us do something while we have a chance.” Vladimir’s speech is evoked in implication of salvaging the quagmire of Pozzo and Lucky’s funebrial crisis. Angst and pangst of existentialist crisis has been translated to the traumatic psyche of these priggish and prudential beings. However the stage directions of being stationary connotes their dwarfish dormancy and alienated stagnation. That the pointlessness of existence is implicated in salvation being awaited by external force and that self is incapable of self-knowledge. In cloak and dagger connotations of Estragon and Vladimir symbolically represents
ego and id while Pozzo and Lucky symbolically represents superego.

As a result these characters are alter egos or shadows or persona soul image of themselves weaved by the gossamery of existentialist crisis. In this context, Lucky is the shadow of the superego of the egocentric Pozzo whose emotion becomes repressed pouring forth of the unconscious state through monologue.

Estragon is feminized with sensitive, irrational and poetic traits while Vladimir is masculinized with rational, contemplative and intellectual traits. Godot is a political satirical idiom of modern popular culture symbolic of the gothic monsterish figure of loathsome whangdoodle as dracula macabre. Pathos of nothingness is a dire catharsis by the crucial existentialists’ plight engendering from being sublime to travesty within universalistic spatiotemporality by the indication of “A country road”. “A tree”. “Evening”.

Domineering colonizer master Pozzo with his whip and the subservient colonized subaltern Lucky’s servility in burdensome stoical endurance is the inversion of the amnesty between
Estragon and Vladimir despite these individualists’ nihilistic despair with insurmountable frustrations. Antiphrasis of stage directions hint to “They do not move” despite speech acts of voluntary action: “Let’s us go” furthermore metaphorically suggestive of philosophical
pessimism as embodied silence, stasis, absence and negation.

Becket’s poignant revelatory envisioning from Biblical allusions point out that “Do not despair, one of the thieves was saved; do not presume, one of the thieves was damned.” Although the tragicomedy lacks female reproductive machinery however, the tree is symbolic of that utopian hope in a world of futility.

Frugal and mundane existence in a characteristic bleak landscape in expectation and anticipation of the messianic Saviour Christ through the mediation of the emissarial convoy exhibit the maudlin encumbrance of these stock characters like vaudeville fools and country bumpkins in mainstream absurdist realism. “I’ll never forget this carrot. The more you eat, the worst it gets. I’ll get used to the muck as I go along.”

These dialects are philosophical prompts propounded by the childish, materialistic, feminist, poetic, melodramatic Estragon and rational intellectualist wimpy guffaw of Vladimir contrasting differences of their outlook in life. The essence of struggling and wriggling is both bogus and vague as contemplated by these speculative skeptical states of affairs. Godot might be a satirical human condition of both waiting and achievement throughout Christmas, birthday celebration, job prospect, love of the life, funeral anniversary and so forth.
Sadomasochism of Pozzo and Lucky are allegorically satirized by brevity of intertextual allusions that mirrors habitual distraction and interruption that embodies Didi and Gogo’s world of nihilistic pessimism, stasis and repetition, skepticism and ambiguity.

Their forlorn and obscuring of train of thoughts and chain of events, forgotten memories, obliviousness of dreams, discarding of dialogues and abandonment of suicide attempts are verily brought to the foray of this justification. Language has lost the essence of the core of communication by the farrago of charlatantry and buffoonery in Lucky’s monologue. Audiences would walk out by the off stage characters’ frustration and oppression after all in correspondence with the effect of defamiliarization. Lucky isolated island of retreat from dialogism critiques the purgatorial nightmare pestering into the
infested microcosmic existence of these slapstick vaudeville country bumpkins tramps. Lucky is the symbolic thinktank Beckettian institution which dismantles establishment of linguistic games
and sheds light on the furthering of ideas into the dialogic proximity.

After being traumatized and tortured by these existentialist characters, Lucky is doomed into thinking and functioning as
Pozzo’s porter.

Further References Youtube Podcasts and Documentary Films and Lecture Presentations
Seminary Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, Professor Dr. Nick Mount, Department of English, University of Toronto The Meaning of Godot, Professor Dr. David Pattie, Department of Drama and Theatre, University of Birmingham Theatre and Language: Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, Professor Dr. Belinda Jack, Gresham Professor of Rhetoric, Gresham College, London, UK
Cambridge PhDcasts John Gallagher presents Any Wimbush’s Samuel Beckett and Quietism
Ian McKellen Discusses “Waiting For Godot” Staging Shakespeare

At the end I lived in rented rooms.  Desolate side streets.  No elevator.  Creaking steps.  Paint chips in the water glass.  Cockroaches in the bathtub.  Bed by the wall.  Dark convoluted mattress stains like an inkblot ghost.  No hot water.  Smell of old blood in the closet.  Home for a week, home for a month.  Then another city.  Another room.  Another name on the newspaper.  Another set of identification letters for the television stations.

If he was in the South, I traveled south.  When he ventured West, I followed west.  The moonlight shines behind his fingers as he picks up the knife.  The shadows unfold as I raise my hand.  I wipe my forehead.  I close my eyes.  

I feel the wounds.  I hear the screams.

Is this the room where the pregnant girl perspired during the hasty abortion that ruined the cheap bedspread?  Is this the closet where the old watchman hanged himself, unable to hear the sound of his own voice?  Maybe it is the place where the weary salesman raised the revolver to his temple.  At that moment, a child sitting in a train on the elevated platform just beyond the salesman’s window put into his mouth a hard candy shaped like a bullet.  Or could this be the last room for a killer?  A deranged man?  A monster unable to refrain from the dark urge, deliriously craving the final peace of his own destruction?  Every room has a death story.  Every room is another museum filled with the irremovable or unnoticed traces of someone’s fatal moments.

There was the vigorously applied razor blade left imbedded in the chunky soap bar.  Dark flakes of hemoglobin were scattered across the white rectangle.  They blew away as I raised the bathroom window with a bang.  Three greasy fingerprints on the dull grey fuse box panel prefaced an outline of feet scorched on the shabby wood floor.  Shards of a broken iodine bottle in the hallway leading to the toilet.  Soiled grasp marks on the matrix of jaundiced damp sewage pipes.  Nylons twisted into a noose lying like a coiled snake in a heap by the fire escape.  An iridescent scabrous square of rat poison in the center of the loop.  Crusts of rancid vomit in the Bible drawer. Maggots pinching through the Revelations.  

A symbolic image, no doubt.  The kind of thing that might appear in some controversial film about damnation, or the dissolution of religious belief.  Dearest father, I did not forget your lessons.  Everything I have seen throughout my life has been viewed within my own personal frame.  Without really knowing why, the importance of a thing always depended on its visual content.  I never understood the world, or its people, or its objects, unless I was making some kind of visual conclusion about the relationships between things.  I could never resist what I must call a supreme demand, from somewhere within my nature, to establish and construe elaborate connections between all that my senses digested.  It is as though my subconscious was engaged in some kind of esoteric archaeology, as though everything that could be depicted and suggested, especially all things that seemed destined to have a relationship, that somehow all this was already so, had been so, and now it was the duty of my mind’s divination to uncover what was, to reconstruct and display it, like a great structure or artifacts uncovered in a dig.  It was as though my imagination had inherited some kind of perverted obligation from the teachings of my father, or perhaps my imperfect soul had made it perverse.  Now I feel a great shame in all this, I can see the great reluctance that prevented me from true communion with others, yet I cannot deny the great understanding that depended on the power of the imagination, the interiority of consciousness, the relativity of perception and cognition. Did I unwittingly turn your wisdom into a comedy of errors, dear father?  Did I somehow turn your spiritual warnings about the dangers of illusion into a rationale for the processes of illusion?  I know you were genuine in your heart.  You never gave me a stone when I asked you for bread.  You never gave me a serpent when I asked you for a fish.  Somehow the light of my body depended upon an evil eye, the false camera eye that filled my body with light that is darkness.  

         Shotgun blast blood outline, contours like a hologram fixed upon the wall after the trigger was pulled.  Here the body remained too long, and there was too much heat, too little maid service.  Gas mask swinging on the knob of the cellar door, hollow eyes sunken deep like a desert bone animal face.  Cracked plastic tube of the hair blower in the empty stained fish tank once filled with water.  Eyelashes brittle next to the coral house on the bottom, evidence of a successful electrocution long ago.  Hysterical suicide confessions scrawled in lipstick across the large pages of the telephone book still in place atop the decrepit wooden stand by the lobby desk.  Stench of the manager’s fingers as he flips through the book in search of a clean page.  Monotony of his practiced gestures as he hands me the key, looks over the desk to be sure I have luggage, places the pen in the center of the decaying registration log, sits back on his stool, lighting another cigarette as he watches me ascend the stairs, wondering if I will become another suicide, another body carried out on the red rubber stretcher.  A large cockroach does not escape the trained assault of his shoe.  Its inner matter bursts with a gush as I turn the key to my room.  Slowly the bent dusty blades of a fan turn about.  The cockroach antennae twist a few times.  I shut the door.

The Confession is available here from Barnes and Noble.