My parents’ faith gave me strength. 

I was born in Asaka district of Andijan region, in a family of intellectuals.

All my achievements today are due to the support of my parents since childhood.

My parents taught me to read and write, they brought me books every week, my childhood was spent in social activity, participating in various contests, and working on myself.

The doors that were closed in my face encouraged me to be stronger, to act more boldly towards my goal, and I achieved all this.

The award is not important for me, it is important that I can do it and be recognized.

When I graduated, I grew up as a strong person. During this period, I rediscovered myself as a person. Although I am a positive person, my first year as an applicant was somewhat difficult. But it was the process of adaptation that opened up new horizons in my psyche. I devoted my time to learning more. My efforts to study and research were not in vain. 

For the first time, with the intention of going abroad, I took a course in the subject that I had studied little. The fact that I gained experience in different directions has a great role in my financial independence.

My parents have a big role in everything. Since childhood, I have always strived for the best in everything. I thank my parents, who did not put pressure on me and did not set limits saying, “You are a girl.”

“My daughter knows very well what to say and which way to walk, no matter where she is,” they say.

My parents have a great role in my success.  

 From my parents, I learned to be honest and truthful, to constantly work on myself, to make the most of every moment. For this reason, I did not suffer financially.

Since I was 16 years old, I tried to support myself and cover my needs.

My lifestyle, dreams and goals, which I have always promised myself, give me strength and motivation.

Olimova Muslima Odiljon’s daughter was born on 07.08.2007 in the city of Asaka, Andijan region. She graduated from the 13th school of Asaka district with a gold medal. Andijan Mechanical Engineering Institute. 1st year student of Information Systems and Technologies, Faculty of IB and CT.

For wide is the gate, and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it. 

• The Holy Bible

Matthew 7:13

There was an eastern town, and an old man watched the rain from the window, his Bible on a small table beside. He sometimes wore a brimmed hat in the outdoors but only went out to get food from the grocery store. He had a little Christmas Tree, a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, small enough to go on a little table. Each year it came out. I liked this tree.

He had very few visitors but sometimes a soul would show up, someone from the old days. These people, most of them, grew up poor. It was nice that their children wanted more, wanted to succeed. There is no harm in that. But some of their children’s generation went crazy w/it, and took it all too seriously, breaking relationships, family bonds, trust, even any measure of happiness, over monetary gain. The world of others didn’t laugh outwardly at him but didn’t respect him, for his worldly accomplishments were not great or even pronounced. The affluent wanted to keep their money and get more and the poor wanted to be wealthy. The man wanted me to shave his face because he couldn’t do this any longer as he was getting shaky at ninety three years of age.

So he sat in an old chair, I think one of the very chairs I used to sit in as a child when he fed me lunch. I carefully shaved his face. Outside it rained. I could hear it against the glass and knew it was making its way into the earth here, mixing with the soil, disappearing somewhere there, but in some places went through gravity to fall down industrial grates built into the roads. He had chosen to never grow a beard. That choice in a man has always been strange to me. Though an orphan or mystery at birth in actuality, my people must have had beards, and there must be some spiritual or genetic memory of such, somewhere, somehow. But to each his own. Some people are like that, and most all people have their ideas about what is the right way to dress, to look, to speak, et cetera, and what is not. Each secretly and not no secretly thinks they are right. When I was a child he made me soup, and there were many cans of soup in the cupboard.

One day his wife said, ‘Where is the child’s drink,’ to which he replied, ‘Soup is liquid he doesn’t need a drink.’ This was a mistake. The woman scolded him and was vexed. That’s a word they used, ‘vexed.’ She said, ‘Get him a drink, and this child is never to be served a meal without a drink again.’ Time passes. He used to tell me stories of a ranch where someone is stealing in the night. But the ranch owner stayed up and watched and caught the person. It was determined the thief needed some livestock so the ranch owner gave it to him, gave him some livestock. Cormac McCarthy the old man was not. When I finished shaving the man he said thanks. He said once in those late life days, ‘It is lucky you are here.’ That was nice. I didn’t mind. His wife had long left the world and he was not long for the earth as is said.

Now, I suppose someone else lives there. Some soul or souls. That’s the way it goes. The man had fashioned his own necklace to help his soul. It was a piece of yard and on it were medallions of various Catholic Saints. And he had received the last rites two or three times, even in the days when he was healthy if elderly. One’s soul is their own responsibility in a way. I wonder if that saint necklace still exists somewhere. I wonder whatever happened to it. I wonder what happens to things, and to souls and old chairs and even cans of soup.

DUSK PATROL

It’s been dusk on these highlands

for countless days,

stuck between noon’s visibility

and night’s exposed underbelly.

It took me a while

to accept what I can’t see:

I have a clone somewhere out there

dreaming this suspended hell’s persistence

into actuality.

I won’t be outdrawn when I find him

now that I sense

what’s invisible to my present eye,

like the nearly forgotten warmth

        of a dawn’s blood orange sky.

Paul Edward Costa (He/Him)                                                                                                                                                                

THE LEGEND OF THE GRAND INTERLOPER

The Grand Interloper,

        summoned from a sunless crevasse,

crawls over my shoulders,

says

they’d love some time to pick my brain,

says,

        If swung sweetly,

        toothpicks and icepicks fit the same,

says

        maybe I should lie down

        on account of all this bleeding,

later says, with a straight face,

        No one ever stood in this place.

Empty hills and yards

emit unconditionally effusive,

        brain-deranged praises

        in their name,

as The Grand Interloper

steps over paupers

to pose with princes of philanthropy,

advocates for free democracy

if candidates are vetted

           and pre-selected,

funds community construction projects

instantly abandoned

once their top floor touches heaven,

wears one-way glasses

with irises painted on the lenses,

        avoiding both eye contact

                               and accountability.

The Grand Interloper

raids therapy’s lexicon

for new sets of verbal weaponry,

absconds to Avalon

without facing a final battle’s fury,

and so, never knows

            the dignity in escaping

            enchanted prison towers’

            immaterial enclosures,

and the real, resultant empathy I feel

for cases of that same struggle striking others.

Paul Edward Costa is an award-winning poet, spoken word artist, organiser, and teacher. He is a former Poet Laureate for the City of Mississauga and has published many poems in journals such as NoD Magazine, DarkWinter Literary Magazine, and Blank Spaces Magazine. He’s released a book of poetry, “The Long Train of Chaos” (Kung Fu Treachery Press – 2019) and a book of flash fiction, “God Damned Avalon” (Mosaic Press – 2021). As a spoken word artist, he’s featured at many poetry series across Canada. He currently organises the monthly Outer Haven Poetry Series in Toronto’s Imperial Pub.

***
Getting to know silence
The clouds in the sky burst silently
The veins on the arm burst silently
The dead cry silently
Thunder rumbles without any unnecessary sounds
Fish heads don’t scream
Even mosquitoes don’t squeak
A military pilot prepared to drop a quiet (but only for the time being) air bomb

***
the existence of clouds for the sake of the existence of rain
the creation of man for the sake of the creation of god
I know everything in the world except the truth

***
The future is water
The future is a spit
I collect spit and tears
I pretend that the cemetery is a space rocket
I pretend Im going to the stars
But in fact Im picking mushrooms in the forest after an explosion in the forest near
Hiroshima

***
Religion was invented for those
Who have not yet died
Each of us dreams of being Jesus Christ
Each of us is a baby
Вut where are the Magi

***
БОГ
ГОГ
LOL
LOLA
LOL A
LOL Æ
LOL
ГОГ
ВАН ГОГ
ONE GOG
VAN GOGH
VAH GOG
AH GOD
A DOG
AD OG
АД ОХ
ЛХ ОХ
ХХ ХХ
ОО ОО
Zero
Nothing

***

Chorus. 

Silence. 

Silence kills. 

Silence is a source of information, 

And the deader it is, 

The more valuable it is. 

Music. 

The choir repeats the same thing, 

Nailing silence to the emptiness. 

Creepy, fascinating. 

Chorus is loneliness. 

It is unbearable to hear 

How insanely lonely 

Each individual voice is. 

All voices arise from silence. 

All voices arise from loneliness. 

All voices are singing. 

Singing is the twin of music. 

Music is made up of sounds: 

Silence and stillness. 

Sound is a movement 

That moves towards 

The one who hears it. 

Hear the silence while waiting 

For the end of life. 

Listen to silence 

During your own apocalypse. 

And sing. 

Almost die. 

Life is almost dead. 

Death is almost beautiful. 

Death is silence. 

Death is a song 

Without words,

Without a voice. 

Chorus. 

Silence. 

Silence kills.

***

Blind people do not interfere with those who are happy. Night with silence. Occasionally there is the sound of cars on the street. Steps on the stairs. The noise of neighbors voices and the clatter of dishes.

A blind man is looking for a roof. The stars are shining and there is nowhere to hide from the shine. Its not snowing. There is no access to the roof.

A blind man is looking for a basement. A blind man plays hide and seek. The door to the basement is closed.

A blind man is looking for a home. A blind man does not want to live in a house without color. There is a sharpened knife on the table. The soul turns into a bird. The door is open.

***

I teach the lights to light up

I learn from people about combustion

Matches have no soul

Matches can break

You can build a house and death out of matches

The flowers in which the cemetery is floating are fake

Lighters are much preferable to matches

The peace of the grave is guarded by a cricket

***

no one knows 

the autumn cemetery 

as well as worms

***

the rain washes away the dirt 

from the face of a homeless man

***

again no one was born 

in the cemetery

***

the ship floats away 

into the distance

the clouds float away 

into the distance

people are floating away

no one will catch up with time

***

the grass opens 

its spring temple 

belatedly

I Can’t Reply

 one hand is my sky

That spreads peace of shadow

 All the seasons l feel it

My every morning blooms 

With the blessing of it

My day mixes with it

I dream lying in its lap

As if l were an innocent infant

I do everything in the heaven

Its touch welcomes my steps.

Your another hand is the crown of glory

That spreads the pages of beauty

All the time beauty kisses my heart

And makes me a ship of love

That sails through the sweetness.

The ship is nothing but fresh love of eternity

The fountain of the crown refreshes my breath ;

Gentle breeze writes love letter In my virgin eyes

l read and feel that with time

But I can’t reply. 

#################

Tomorrow’s Couple

Everyday my rainbow draw you

The colours adorn love river

My breath touches your bright lips

The roses bloom in my heart to read you.

Every spring l hear a new sound

I feel new fragrance in secret

l compose a song of soul

I plant a tree of love and tenderness.

I and you are always tomorrow’s couple 

Not for the present time

Tomorrow is always pleasant 

As we can’t touch it. 

(TIME)
…as time flies fast – unless GOD cuts its wings.
But then time seems to simply start to run
out of space. Time sometimes only brings
slow-motion sighing from the setting sun.
Yes, time can heal; but time can also kill
like a wind blowing out candles. When a rain-
storm starts, you feel all you can feel until
you come to find out if it is in vain…
…as time flies fast – unless GOD cuts its wings. But then time seems to simply start to run out of space. Time sometimes only brings slow-motion sighing from the setting sun. Yes, time can heal; but time can also kill like a wind blowing out candles. When a rainstorm starts, you feel all you can feel until you come to find out if it is in vain…
January 2004

(LEAF IN THE WIND)
…the sun sets and the time
pauses in a pantomime
like an old black and white
photograph of the night
in the window. You dream
of snow that tastes like cream.
In the light of a moon-
shaped plate, a silver spoon
mixes sugar and salt
inside your restless soul.
Each time you lose control
over the steering wheel
of your life, you may feel
as helpless as a torn leaf
in the wind. For a brief
moment, your memory
lane turns into a free-
way of living without regret
or fear. Inside your head,…
…the sun sets and the time pauses in a pantomime like an old black and white photograph of the night in the window. You dream of snow that tastes like cream. In the light of a moon-shaped plate, a silver spoon mixes sugar and salt inside your restless soul. Each time you lose control over the steering wheel of your life, you may feel as helpless as a torn leaf in the wind. For a brief moment, your memory lane turns into a freeway of living without regret or fear. Inside your
head,…
October 2010

(IN THE AFTERGLOW)
…also known as the sun.
This day is married to
that night. Does anyone
think that it isn’t true?
Some words seem not to mean
anything. Others – even
less. You look at their lean
letters while the evening
skies are starting to grow
dark as the easiest thing
to sow in the afterglow
of the day’s wedding ring…
…also known as the sun. This day is married to that night. Does anyone think that it isn’t true? Some words seem not to mean anything. Others – even less. You look at their lean letters while the evening skies are starting to grow dark as the easiest thing to sow in the afterglow of the day’s wedding ring…
July 2018

(AROUND A WORD)
…in the Beginning when
there wasn’t a single man.
GOD created the World.
So, every single word
that may be found in
It can also be seen
as a word that has got
to be coming from GOD.
Whenever a word is found,
it is bound to be around
a word and, of course,
the Word that was…
…in the Beginning when there wasn’t a single man. GOD created the World. So, every single word that may be found in It can also be seen as a word that has got to be coming from GOD. Whenever a word is found, it is bound to be around a word and, of course, the Word that was…
February 2021