My neighborhood

At dawn in my neighborhood

Birds are chirping

My neighborhood is a sight to see

The hearts will break.

Brooms are yards

They open their hands to prayer

My neighbors

Light shines from his face.

The neighbor comes to visit

People to each other

Saying sweet words

The rays of the sun.

Children on the streets

They run happily

In the symbol of friendship, this

They scream and laugh.

Both women and men

They don’t sit down

“Idleness is bad!”

They say or.

Young people also aspire

Knowledge, knowledge for work

Thanks to our leader

For all your hard work.

Chairman and activists

They do a lot of work

That’s why we also them

A lot of respect in our country…

You will see in my neighborhood

Beauty and beauty

Affection, consequence, friendship

Religion, modesty, orni.

What about me, I will search

The inspiration of my poems

We need to justify

The name of our neighborhood!

Rustambekova Nozimakhon is the daughter of Jahangir. Khorezm region of the Republic of Uzbekistan. She is an active participant and winner of “Yosh kitobxon”, “Zukko kitobxon” and a number of other republican contests. The author of the fairy tale “Yumronchaning sarguzashtlari”. Samples of creativity are being published in “Gulxan” and “G’uncha” magazines. She is a member of the “Oydin Ozylar” circle organized under the Writers’ Union of Khorezm region. Currently, she is a 8th grade student of IDUM No. 30.

Pedagogy: A Higher Profession

Professor Amelia Bellwether straightened her spectacles and adjusted the microphone clipped to her tweed jacket. A nervous flutter ran through the lecture hall as two hundred pairs of eyes turned towards her. Today was no ordinary lecture; today, Professor Bellwether was delivering the opening address for ‘Pedagogy: A Higher Profession,’ a groundbreaking seminar series aimed at elevating the field of teaching.

Amelia, a veteran educator with eyes that twinkled with the wisdom of countless shared stories and a heart brimming with passion for her craft, believed with every fiber of her being that teaching wasn’t just a profession, but a calling. A calling higher than any other, for it shaped the minds that would shape the future.

‘Why ‘Pedagogy: A Higher Profession’?’ she began, her voice resonating through the hall. ‘Because within this room, within each one of you, lies the power to ignite young minds, to spark revolutions both personal and global.’

The audience, a diverse mix of seasoned teachers, aspiring educators, and skeptical academics, leaned forward in their seats.

Amelia shared anecdotes, tales woven from her years on the frontlines of education. A shy student finding his voice through the power of poetry, a struggling single mother excelling in her studies to build a better life for her child, a classroom debate sparking a lifelong passion for social justice.

‘We are not mere transmitters of information,’ she declared, her voice rising with conviction. ‘We are architects of understanding, weavers of dreams, cultivators of compassionate and critical thinkers.’

The room, initially abuzz with hesitant whispers, fell silent, absorbing her words. Amelia could see the spark ignite in their eyes, the same spark that had drawn her to teaching all those years ago.

The seminar series that followed was electric. Workshops explored innovative teaching methods, lectures challenged traditional notions of curriculum, and passionate debates raged late into the night. Amelia, a guiding light throughout, witnessed the transformation firsthand.

The skeptical academic discovered a love for mentoring young minds. The seasoned teacher, grappling with burnout, rekindled his passion. The aspiring educator, initially daunted by the responsibility, embraced the challenge with newfound zeal.

As the final session drew to a close, a sense of bittersweet accomplishment filled the air. Professor Bellwether, her heart full, looked out at the faces before her, no longer just attendees, but fellow torchbearers.

‘Go forth,’ she urged, her voice thick with emotion, ‘and illuminate the world, one young mind at a time. Remember, you are not just teachers, you are the architects of a brighter future.’

And with those words, the “Pedagogy: A Higher Profession” seminar drew to a close, leaving behind a legacy of empowered educators, ready to reshape the world, one lesson, one student, one dream at a time.

Shokhijakhon Urunov

Student of Bukhara State Pedagogical Institute

Achievements:

– Recipient of the Bobur State Scholarship for the 2023-2024 academic year;

– Winner of the “Student of the Year 2022” competition in the regional stage;

– Awarded 1st place with an iPhone 13 Pro Max in the “31st Anniversary of Our Independence” competition organized by the Republic’s Cultural and Knowledge Center under the decree PQ-340-SON dated August 1, 2022, by the President;

– Winner of a competition organized in honor of the 31st anniversary of the national flag of the Republic of Uzbekistan by the Republic’s Cultural and Knowledge Center;

– 2nd place winner in a national competition dedicated to the 85th anniversary of Islam Karimov by the Islam Karimov Foundation;

– 3rd place in the 1st season and “Most Active Promoter” nominee in the 2nd season of the national competition “Young Readers” organized by the Center for Increasing Social Activity of Students and Pupils;

– Winner of the “History of Bukhara” competition organized by the Bukhara Regional Tourism and Sports Department;

– Head Coordinator at the Volunteer Center of Bukhara State Pedagogical Institute;

– Chief of “Towards Leadership ” project;

– Author of over 30 scholarly articles;

– Author of two methodical guide on history;

– Author and organizer of seven literary anthologies;

– Member and volunteer of over 10 international and local organizations.

Daddy, I miss you, I miss you

He fills the fireplace without stopping because of his family.

I can’t stop being a child, I don’t know.

My dear father, my heaven is mine.

Daddy, I miss you, I miss you.

My mother burned her hands when she baked bread.

We were arguing by the side of the oven.

We all walked together, feeling his love.

Daddy, I miss you, I miss you.

His hands are full of hard work.

White in his restless hair.

I look at the picture and miss every moment.

Daddy, I miss you, I miss you

COCOON

I saw my externist today

and got my prescriptions filled

for a well-curated array

of armor auras and pills

to protect me against weathers

and germs. And also to blunt,

like a cuirass wrought of leather,

the intimacy of hugs

and the taste and touch of kisses.

In this invisible plate

I can discover what bliss is,

now that I’m inviolate.

THE ENGAGEMENT

Every man must embrace his war.

Our crown and temples we must defend,

our missionary positions enforce.

Ignore our sacrifice of semen.

We engage body against body

for the future sakes of all the children.

 Until a little peace is rendered

we expose our privates at the front;

we bear arms but only to surrender.

A ROPE AND A PIPE

The sharpshooter’s father

learned to dance

when he married the ropemaker’s daughter.

“No saddle

instructs the horse to prance.

The lesson is always in the bridle.

Nothing is so efficient as a gun’s

violence,”

the marksman taught his son.

“The bullet

can establish your best environment,

find your foe and kill it.

Sing to me when I die

if you wish,

but know that music’s a waste of your time.

Don’t get drunk,

and put down that damn flute! Be like the fish,

who only dance when hooked.”

And the son followed his dad’s direction.

A trigger

captained his affections.

But his flute

and humble philosophy and liquor

led him to peace and truth.

BY INVITATION ONLY

No. Lacking your exact welcome mat,

my poems/your name cannot attach.

Not entitled to your writhing nights

or flash-thoughts of unsari’d thigh,

a-thirst I stand at the Well of Unrequited.

THE SHIP

Oh, the mariner is like the moon;

perfect the once in the month

when my land concedes to your sea.

Our boat was, before, a forest,

leaves like sails, winds

like a petrel’s exhale.

Anchored by a stone that once

hugged earth, like mom and son.

And the sea, the sea. The basket

of stars upside-downed, so all

its flowers scatter everywhere.

HOLOCAUST AND REGENERATION

Fires hibernate in the trees.

The forest flowers,

red and gray,

race through underbrush,

uproot wild life

and humanity.

The burn tattoos the earth.

But growth curls within the rain.

Balmful sky rivers

swell heaven’s banks

to soothe scar wounds.

Seeds find footholds

for a newer green.

Creatures settle in.

Havoc hides inside the grain.

Fields uncelibate themselves.

We clear space

to celebrate

to dance to drink

to lure relief

from the caress that grinds.

Tan-Renga 

flood current 

the sampan capsized 

determined

she keeps pushing back 

her hair

burning flags 

and effigies

the protest ends

on an upside

down signpost

piercing cold

I comb through what’s left

of my dream

strangely I can’t 

remember 

Epitaph on my grave

Here lies a heart, which loved with the intensity

of an erupting volcano,

and went out like an ember in the fireplace,

leaving a deep silence.

A restless soul, which sought the truth

in the labyrinth of existence,

and found silence, in the immensity

of a forest without birds.

An unread book, with pages

yellowed like autumn leaves,

a faded canvas,

where memory dissolves

like smoke in the air.

A river of tears,

which flow silently and deeply

like the bed of an underground river,

a bird without wings,

which clings to the hope of an impossible flight,

like a butterfly trapped in a crystal.

An echo in the silence, a whisper of wind that whispers secrets like a lament in the night, a shadow that fades,

a scent of wet earth and broken dreams,

like a bouquet of withered flowers.

A soul in the shadows,

a spirit without flight,

like a candle that goes out in the storm,

a heart in ruins, waiting for oblivion,

waiting for the end,

like a rose petal that falls to the ground.

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

Alone

This sound says more than I can say Your trail stretched out in front of me But I don’t feel capable of walking it It’s like a cold shadow that doesn’t allow the seed to sprout, An interrupted laugh still in my throat…. And I’ll still be here at midnight At the nearest train station, towers of fog lie on the night roads of the mind, Follow the line of reason; the intrepid destiny of dawn, Before the world spins and the heart shakes, The space opens for another farewell wave…

I want you closer, but I don’t know where to start. The night kissed the wind and the rain fainted around the corner, The welcome signs faded into the landscape. One time, joy folded her tiny hand and snapped her fingers into glittery lights. In my thinnest version it was necessary to be vast and embrace all sights. Only among the white-capped Nordic mountains did a new day emerge transiently, And each step made everything coexist simultaneously, and perhaps it had been like this since the beginning: white sand house, blue flame of the northern lights, coastal mill headquarters, salt dune, matrix flora, abyssal paradise, rainbow in the shape of a pinwheel.