Boy!
My heart is full of love,
Only for you, my love, baby.
The meaning of life of your smileys,
Laugh more, I say, boy!
My longing is for you,
I miss you by my side.
A tiny piece of my heart -
You are restless like a bird.
Everything is embodied in your eyes,
To you who bound me.
I fly to the skies
To your one word "mother".
My patience is endless, the sky is endless,
My love for you, baby
Come to me quickly
Be my sustenance, boy!
Snow
No more cancellations, sir.
These snows fell on my heart.
My love can't be taken away
Unfaithful friends with a broken heart.
Closing overnight,
Satisfied with the sustenance of white particles.
Silver winter like a lover,
He rested his head on her skirt.
Slowly, whispering
Washes snow bubbles.
staring out
She is waiting for her husband.
Let your love shine.
Tuliyeva Sarvinoz
Uzbekistan.
Born on November 8, 1999.
Graduated from Alisher Navoi Tashkent State University of Uzbek Language and Literature (2023).
The winner of the state award named after Zulfia (2019).
Participant of the Zomin workshop of young artists (2019)
She is the author of the poetry books "Song of Peace", "I am a Girl of Truth", "Morning Poem". Author of the creative collection "Nurli Izlar".
About 100 creative works have been published in republican and foreign newspapers and magazines.
His creative works and articles have been published in Russia, Turkey, Germany, USA, Kenya, Great Britain.
Teacher of native language and literature at Shaikhontohur District Vocational School, Tashkent.
In the anteroom, the muzak’s too close for comfort. I mean, I can tolerate its sick-sweet breath at the rim of my ear, but I don’t want it in my head. Synthesised drums and a voice that could never identify all images containing traffic lights. A lyric tossed off by a minimum wage chatbot on a Friday afternoon. And why, after all, am I here, surrounded by fish tanks, and waist deep in picture papers from the early twentieth century? There was, I recall, a black-bordered invitation, an urgent but ambiguous phone call, and a tip-off from a carnival card reader who saw tall dark strangers and profound transformations. It was, perhaps, written in the stars at the bottom of my primary school homework. It’s all, of course, immaterial to the point of phantasm, as the muzak sticks on a low-pitched drone, and a small door opens with a sound like a breaking bone. In the darkness beyond, a dog’s eyes flash both welcome and warning.
The Sunrise Arc
The garden shifts when we turn away, with daffodils becoming dahlias, roses becoming rhododendrons, and other seemingly chance transformations governed by nothing but the laws of alliteration. The lawn becomes a lake, the paths become planets orbiting a star that, last time we looked, had been nothing but a snowdrop. And the glasshouse is a gas nebula some 700 light years from where we stand, fleeting nodes of awareness in the exhalation of spacetime. A black hole becomes a bee, humming its way from singularity to sunlight on purple petals. It is precisely fourteen steps to the gate and, 28 billion light years beyond that, Earendel shines a million times brighter than our humble Sun.
The La La Log
Having lately retired to a small village in the hills, I am struck by the shifts in what passes for real. Houses are painted like bathing huts and are larger on the inside than out, with each room opening onto fields and distant mountains, and staircases winding into clouds. Cobbled streets breathe like the spine of the serpent that circles the world, and car wheels spin in clear air so as not to wake it. Everyone exhibits aspects of the spectral, walking through walls and through each other, and speaking in dead languages which, though weighted with bulk and portent, approximate the harmony of angels. Signposts gesture to a glistening Yes, and time, as it said in the guidebooks I once dismissed as mere fantasy, runs backwards.
24/7
The chemist opens her heart to let the children in. Grazed knees and ears that ring like cracked church bells. Throats raw as condemned buildings. She doles out lint and lozenges, with gloved hands and loving eyes that say: Yes, I have sat alone, watching moths circle the antiseptic flame. Many burn, but those which survive are transformed for the remainder of their brief and beautiful lives. We are all sisters and brothers of the powdery wing; all flirtatious with the rush of extinction. The children all love her, kissing the hem of her white coat before erupting back into the sun. They will remember her when they have children of their own. They will remember her when their wings turn to dust.
Oz Hardwick is a European poet who stumbled into academia through not paying attention. He has published “a dozen or so” collections, most recently the chapbook Retrofuturism for the Dispossessed (Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2024). He has won many prizes, mostly for an extensive knowledge of 70s music trivia, but some for poetry. Oz is Professor of Creative Writing at Leeds Trinity University.
…. As the night turned to darkness, when we were about to close the restaurant, a beautiful woman with a long hair, wearing a beautiful dress, with red blood running down her face came in:
– Please don’t close the restaurant for another half hour, she asked.
– Okay, madam. Do you have a guest? What do you order?
– Yes. Set a table for two. Let there be wine next to it.
– Well, now we will prepare a romantic table for you.
As time passed, there was no sign of her boyfriend. It was already time to close the restaurant. As I approached the woman, she was drinking only wine and not eating anything.
– Madam, is your guest coming?
– He won’t come anymore.
– I didn’t understand. Why?
– A year ago, I could not tell him about my inner feelings. We were just friends. When I met him, I noticed that he was staring at me for a long time, but I did not say anything until he opened his mouth, but I turned my attention to the other side.
The day I decided to admit it all, I couldn’t find him. He went somewhere without telling me. This restaurant was the first place where we met.
The woman put her head on the table and continued to drink wine. Since loneliness overshadowed her, she fell into the bottom of her heart and talked to herself, she was trying to destroy the wall she had created from the inside…
Basket
Five years ago, the basket in which she left her child was standing on the house net, and now the woman could not do anything other than to smell the child’s smell.
Nosirova Gavhar was born on August 16, 2000 in the city of Shahrisabz, Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. Today, she is a third-year student of the Faculty of Philology of the Samarkand State University of Uzbekistan. Being a lover of literature, she is engaged in writing stories and poems. Her creative works have been published in Uzbek and English. In addition, she is a member of «All India Council for Development of Technical Skills», «Juntosporlasletras» of Argentina, «2DSA Global Community». Winner of the «Korablznaniy» and «TalentyRossii» contests, holder of the international C1 level in the Russian language, Global Education ambassador of Wisdom University and global coordinator of the Iqra Foundation in Uzbekistan. «Magic pen holders» talented young group of Uzbekistan, «KayvaKishor», «Friendship of people», «Raven Cage», «The Daily Global Nation», Argentina;s «Multi Art-6», Kenya’s «Serenity: A compilation of art and literature by women» contains creative works in the magazine and anthology of poets and writers.
The goal
If you strive for a goal,
There will be a lot of friends.
If you agree with me,
The flower of desire also withers.
Did you fall, stand up quickly
Get up even if it hurts.
keep your head up
Don't be fooled.
Good luck if it doesn't come
Don't be sad and worried.
Don't bend, don't bend.
It is necessary to stand up for you.
There is wisdom in everything,
Do not wet your eyes.
Enjoy this job,
You will not be less than anyone.
Life goes on
Do not lose your passion.
Your flower goes out of hand,
Don't land the blackbird.
Numonjonova Shahnozakhon. She was born on June 7, 2009 in Fergana region. Currently, she is studying at the creative school named after Erkin Vahidov organized by PIIMA. Her creative works have been published in several international magazines and has various international certificates. The creator's future goal is to become an international ambassador and receive a state award named after Zulfiya.
Scripture: Hebrews 11:6 (MSG) – “It’s impossible to please God without faith. Anyone who wants to approach God must believe both that he exists and that he cares enough to respond to those who seek him.”
Message: My Christian walk started in childhood. I felt alone in the middle of the street, not knowing where I was to go. I was about eight or so at the time.
I remember that night and the fear and the confusion and the uncertainty. My foster mother, Dee, spoke of Jesus often. In my fear and loneliness, Jesus came to me. I thought about dying. There were many times since then that I felt alone.
The tears often fell down my cheeks. Throughout the years I always prayed for God to “Help me!” I can only describe a sense of peace and comfort as I prayed. This feeling remains with me to this day at the age of sixty-seven.
I always thought that only God could give me the sense that I was not alone when I prayed my “Help me!” prayer. The comfort and peace and wholeness was strongest in the sanctuary of my heart.
Today, no matter where I am I know Jesus is walking with me. I often return to the sanctuary of my heart seeking His comfort and peace which came that night as a child standing on the corner. It is there where I still find His comfort, His peace and His guidance for which I am most grateful.
Prayer: My Heavenly Father who created me, You have given me Your Holy Son to walk with me throughout my life. You have never forsaken me, nor have You left me to die in the streets. You have poured out Your love for me and placed it in my heart. I praise You and vow to continue to love and cherish You for all eternity.
