(Central Asian woman in a black and white coat and dress pants over a white ruffly blouse holding books and awards. Posters and poetry are on the wall behind her).

Zulfia’s life and the history of “Saodat” magazine.

Abduvahidova Farangiz 

2nd stage student of Samarkand State University named after Sharof Rashidov

Abstract: In this article, we will focus on the life and activities of our beloved poet Zulfia. Although Zulfiyakhanim faced many difficulties, she never stopped striving in life. She was able to be a selfless and loving mother for her children. In addition, she did not stop her creative activity. She also founded a publishing house to improve people’s education. Her services and cultural heritage for our youth are incomparable. A state prize in her name was also established for our female poets. 

Key words: Zulfiya, life path, woman, magazine, poem, “Worker”, “Happiness” 

A number of our linguists and literary experts have expressed their opinion about the poetess. For example, Azod Sharafiddinov, the national hero of Uzbekistan, “I miss you, sister Zulfia!” in the article entitled: “Zulfia is a famous poetess, a great statesman, active in public affairs, a person in the eyes of the people. But she was first of all a woman, and even when she was a woman, she was an Uzbek woman. She had a certain duty as a woman. She lost her husband Hamid Olimjon early, she raised their children by herself.

“- My sister Zulfia used to walk in big circles throughout her life. They held face-to-face conversations with scientists, poets, and politicians not only of our country, but also of sister republics, and many foreign countries. The sister was very proud. In some circles, as poets and publishers, they could not afford to lose to someone in debates about literature and history. Of course, the fact that they are interested in this field is the reason why they read classical literature, Eastern and Western literature in general, our own history, and also world history. But in order to be equal in circles, our teacher must have studied a lot. He knew our classical literature very well.”

Reporter of “New Uzbekison”.

    Mukhtasar Tojimamatova.  

Musurmonova Feruza (teacher of mother tongue and literary science at the comprehensive school No. 63 in Zhargorgan District, Surkhandarya Region) in her article on “The Uniqueness of Zulfia’s Life and Work” wrote: “To sum up In addition to being a poetess with a special place in Uzbek poetry, Mrs. Zulfiyakhanim was also a woman with all the noble qualities of this nation as a person. Today, by writing this article and taking a deeper look at Zulfiyakhanim’s work, I am once again convinced that no matter how many conflicting, difficult and complicated paths Uzbek literature has traveled in the 20th century, it has a number of literal creative people grew up and Zulfiyakhanim was one of the shining stars among them. In today’s days of independence, their creations are showing new aspects.

Zulfiyakhanim’s life and work is an example for all women. Because her hard work in life, her constant striving for progress, her faithfulness in love, her unceasing pursuit of artistic creativity, her persistence in the face of life’s difficulties, and the fact that she does not lose himself in the face of achievements, arouse envy in the heart of any girl or woman.

In her article “The Life and Unforgettable Work of the Uzbek Poet Zulfiya Khanim” under the theme of “Remembering Zulfiya” Shahida Zhoraboyeva, a second-year student of the Faculty of Preventive Medicine, wrote: In addition to being a poet with a special place, she was also a woman with all the noble qualities of this people as a person.

Today, by writing this article and taking a deeper look at Zulfiyakhanim’s work, I am once again convinced that no matter how many conflicting, difficult and complicated paths Uzbek literature has traveled in the 20th century, it has a good number of literary artists grew up and one of the shining stars among them was Zulfiyakhanim. In today’s days of independence, their creations are showing new aspects.

  Zulfiya Israilova, who is embodied in the image of a beloved poetess of our people, a devoted woman, was born on March 1, 1915. His father Ismail worked as a blacksmith. The famous writer began her first education in 1922-1931. For the next three years, she continued her education at the girls’ school. In 1935-1938, the poetess studied at the Institute of Language and Literature. Her first poem was published in “Ishchi” newspaper in 1931. In 1932, a collection of poems “Life Leaflets” was published. After that, her poetry books such as “Temiroy”, “She’rlar”, “Girls’ Song” were published. The greatest success of the poetess was brought to her by the collections “He called her Farhad”, “Hijran Kunlarida”, and “Hulkar”.

Due to the untimely death of her husband Hamid Olimjon, the poetess fell into a very depressed mood. Despite this, Zulfia took an active part in the movement of Asian and African writers of peace and international solidarity in the second half of the 1950s, and traveled to many countries of the world. It is no exaggeration to say that poems such as “Mushoira”, “My son won’t die of war”, “The dead of Kazakhstan”, “The picture I didn’t draw” brought Zulfia great fame.

She created “Lolaqizgaldok” series of poems dedicated to children. Based on the epic “Semurg or Parizod and Bunyod”, she wrote the play “Semurg” for the puppet theater and the libretto for the opera “Zaynab and Amon”. Many of her works have seen the world. Zulfia was a laureate of the international Jawaharlal Nehru (1968), “Nilufar” (1971) awards and the State Prize of Uzbekistan named after Hamza (1970). Sh translated the works of a number of writers such as A. S. Pushkin, N. A. Nekrasov, M. Vaqif, E. Ognetsvet, Mustay Karim, Amrita Pritam into Uzbek.

In order to show how incomparable her services are, the state award named after Zulfia was established. Our creator not only went down in history as a poetess, but also worked effectively in the fields of journalism and publishing. She did a lot of work in the field of publishing. To give an example, she was the editor of the children’s publishing house, the head of the department at the state publishing house of Uzbekistan, and she founded the “Saodat” magazine and worked as the editor-in-chief of this magazine for about thirty years.

Now, let’s talk about the history of “Saodat” magazine. The magazine is published in Azim Tashkent, our capital. It was brought to the attention of readers only eight times during one year. It was first published under the name “New Way” in 1925-1934. Later, it was published in 1936-1950 under the name “Bright Life”. Then it operated under the name “Women of Uzbekistan” from 1950 to 1965.

But due to some reasons or because of the war, it was not published within a certain period. The magazine contains short stories, poems, useful food recipes for our women and girls, and new, modern dress styles for the elderly. Among these are stories such as “Singer of Enlightenment”, “Rostonbuvi Told the Truth”, “Mother”, “Parnji is the beauty of the past”, “Songs”, “Kochaga Handon Uyga Zindon”. In addition, this magazine has separate sections, such as advice for cooks, various Chinese words, puzzles, children’s sports and health, hair care according to hygiene rules, and advice for hairdressing. Each issue also contains a table of contents.

 ZULFIYA as editor

 Radio editors: Z. Jamolova, Kh. Komilova, H. Muhiddinova, N. Mirpol’atova, Y. Nasriddinova, Kh. Sulaymanova, S. Khalifayeva, S. Shamsiyeva (deputy editor). 

The technical editor was Z. Rahimov.

 Address of the editorial office: Tashkent, Navoi street, house number 30. 

 Currently, Usmanova Munavvarkhan Abduhakimovna works as the editor-in-chief of the monthly socio-political magazine “Saodat” of the Women’s Committee of Uzbekistan. The current address of the publisher is: Navoi street 30, Shaykhontokhur district, Uzbekistan, 100011.

E-mail: saodat-gul@mail.ru.

Organization website: saodat-gul.uz

Grace Note To Self Delusion

To whom it may Con,

My turn now terrorist. The 5th storey of one of my inanities. S. For a longer time, i Broastered i was the doctor of all passable abstract landscapes. H and i thought crime the ingrate figure nine of modern painting. And poetry were laughably ableist

Does a threat Centrelink these ids? Lets get covfefe are showing. Send in the feeling: kinda free.

The suicide towers are goners now, reduced to bloody trouble, along with all Hype of peas in our time.. the plane was to eat the rich…

Lions and tigers and bears o

My Self, im at my witty end, just listening to Let Lose The Reins by The Get Up Kids. With the west of my time, ill never be financially sober.

I slave away for the same Amurican Dream as anyone else: a three bed room terrorist house in Newtown, where its meaningless to eat Frank O’Hara.

So, who put the cannibals in the donation bin? It could have been John, he is like that, after all. Queerly, the whole can of coke with you thing is a get down.

Its well hot in the city. I smell like i mean it lots. I hope to be as criminal as any ism

Enter the cheat coat glistens. Am i to become as prolific as if i were Blomz? Or – terror loomed, a head.

Bonham Carter is up the stares across the road selling out of office jobs the purest myth in sydney. Im a false flag, this is friendly file under bling.

Ah, this Kmart on my back!! But why regret the Everlast in g sun? Petty cash.

Sometimes, in the Skye i see endless sandy sures covered with white, reJoycing notions. The stairs fell one by one into his ice and burnt

Tongue. I dont think, therefore i am the leased cult of all poets. I admiral you, beloved, for the traphouse youve set. Its like a fifth storey nobody reads about because the murder plot isnt over. It has an agent orange bet in it, more than the era can hold.

Yes. You and your fried from high skool word document the fall of men. I dont need your alchemical bromance.

And o, im so Glad the revolution’s *theyre. Stuck in a creative slum, im chasing a P. So, yes, im getting ample excise.

Made Marx: Fuhrer Road. No cents within sheets, but millions in the Streets.

I lie, therefore i am ashamed of my century. But i have m&ms, 8 mile. And the grace to be killed, and live off it as variously as plausible.

One of these days, there’ll be nothing left with which to venture capitalist forth. Interest rates rise like lions.

For shore my heat is boken. Let’s split

Up matthew flinders of self. Same. Lets get enraged asap.

Yrs unfaithfully,

T2xas StYX VisCoUs Fontanella

Ps. This fonts nutella

In A Whisper

In a whisper pupil invites you

To the ancient way

To fly with me.

The moon spreads it’s heart

That beats in a logic circle

To provide love and truth.

The southern wind kisses the circle

The circle touches the fountain of love.

Ah ! A heavenly tune welcomes you

To come and hold me.

The spring is ready to adorn love

And the fairy time for you.

See the sea

The waves are dancing

The sea- birds are singing

The sailors are binding dreams

The ships are bound for your love.

2nd stage student of Samarkand state university named after Sharof Rashidov Interesting facts you don’t know about Azim Bukhara. 

        The word Bukhara is a combination of the words “Bukh” and “oro” and means “Beauty of God”. Bukhara region is one of the Islamic cities. Because scholars and scholars who raised Islam to higher levels were born here. Imam al-Bukhari is one of such people, he collects the hadiths from the time of our Prophet until his own time in the book “Sahih Bukhari” divided into sahih-“reliable” and inauthentic-“unreliable”. His mind was very sharp, and some narrations have been given about it. His contemporaries say that not even 1 dirham, earned without hard work, entered his house.  

        In addition, the doctor Abu Ali Ibn Sina, who served as the foundation for the development of medical science, was born in Afshana village of Bukhara. His works were taught as textbooks in Europe until the 17th century. He wrote about 20 books devoted to the science of medicine. One of them is the 5-volume “Laws of Medicine” book.

    Bukhara is the birthplace of seven great Sufis of the Naqshbandi order. The great representatives of Sufism lived here, engaged in religious and social activities, and contributed to the birth and prosperity of blessed Bukhara, spiritual education and raising the emotional spirit. Here, the burial places of the holy Sufis – pyres and Islamic shrines – have been preserved. This ring starts with Khwaja Abdulkhaliq Gijduvani, Khwaja Arif Revgari, Khwaja Mahmud Anjirfag’navi, Khwaja Ali Romitani, Khwaja Muhammad Baba Samosi, Khwaja Sayyid Amir Kulol with Khwaja Bahauddin Naqshband. ends. We can see foreign tourists as well as local visitors to visit the seven piers. Sayyid Vasliy Samarkandi’s work “Nazm al-silsila” written in Tajik language in 1913 contains information about seven pir silsila. 

Pier 1 is located in my district. There are 2 things that made this district famous. One of them is the mausoleums of Abdukholiq Gijduvani, and the second is the official patent of Gijduvan shashliks.

     Now, if we talk about gijduvan shashliks, gijduvan shashliks are very tasty. They also have several types. Tandoori shashlik is especially popular. Our country is rich in beauties. I hope we can gain new knowledge through this information.

Suddenly in Rome

In Rome that day pressed

Between Florence and Pompeii

Just this morning

Orvieto and Signorelli

Caravaggios and Sistine

Now dashing from one

Santa Maria to another –

Bernini’s soft cumulus grace

Of Saint Teresa’s Ecstasy

To the stern Old Testament faces –

The mosaics of Basilica Maggiore

Guidebook and map in hand

The oblivious impatient tourist

I cut through a park

(More hard dirt than lawn

No flowers lovers or hedge)

And suddenly I’m a goalie

Suddenly I’m Nero the lost

Colossus among these skinny

Dusty boys – my itinerary

Momentarily irrelevant I venture

To kick the ball downfield

They laugh and cheer the giant

Never mind the Trevi Fountain

Spanish Steps or Mouth of Truth

Suddenly I’m in Rome

I’m guessing the Palatine

And Pantheon will still be there

And will wait a while

Practical

Like you, I open

My eyes each morning,

Astonished I’m alive,

Oh so exceedingly aware of

My clumsy mantra,

No, I’ll be frank, simply,

An obsessive repetition:

“Quiet mind.”

“Quiet life.”

I demand, I insist,

And so, until I am

Dead, dead, dead,

This desire remains elusive.

(You must acknowledge the

Absurd, the anxiety, the rage.)

Anyway, in all this

Chaos, this is all

Wishful thinking.

I am weary:

Try, try as I might

To play the sage –

So futile, so silly,

Laughter is likely

More practical.

It Seems Likely

Abruptly, on my usual

ramble, my heart beat

wildly, a reckless gallop

(just yesterday, the doctor

inspected its thumping).

Certain of my end,

it seemed time for reflection,

a samurai’s insistence

on an aesthetic death,

ephemeral significance:

during the night, snow,

heavy on the limbs

and at dawn, with the wind,

robins and chickadees,

a blizzard all over again

as if, only for me,

the wild cherry shed

petals too soon.

Hell no! I’m dying!

I willed my most poignant

images to the surface,

faces of wife, daughter, son,

a perfect memory

for a perfect death.

By the end of the trek,

I returned to routine,

my chest finding predictable

rhythm – so quickly,

I dismissed mortality.

When I die, will I be

preoccupied with deathly

minutia? It seems likely

and cannot be helped,

triviality the tragedy.

At Sixty Nearly

At sixty nearly

A weary old man

I was cured of any

Assumptions of integrity

Nearly fired – nearly

Escorted from the building

(Perp-walked possibly

A committee met

Union rep an idiot

A reluctant reprimand

The negotiated fix)

For landing an expletive

At the office – a quiet

Well-mannered curse

Perfectly placed commentary

On a superior’s appalling

Incompetence – profanity

Confidently justified

Wounding no one

(And solving nothing

As egos were rattled)

Where the expression

Of outrage is forbidden

I’ve learned silence

Cowardice and apathy

Are more prudent policies

My Everything

Though I’ve not auditioned

For this strut across the stage,

I must be heard,

I must be seen,

My twee narcissism

Splayed upon your tiny screen,

On our devices, our vices,

In tawdry bauble pixels,

My everything, my everything.

Ignored, I shall scream.

I desire, I insist, I decree,

To be relevant my dream,

However petty my tinselly fame.

Oh yes, I’m well aware

Of the transience; I haven’t

Forgotten this is all lost when dead.

Perfectly content with my decay,

For now, now, right now,

I simply need to be loved.

Selfish

I’m a selfish man,

But it’s mine, all mine.

Astonishing, it takes my

Breath away, not yours.

I call dibs as I’m the only

One who sees the moon

On this crisp morning,

A vivid orange orb

Against electric blue.

Everyone else along Hill Road

Is sound asleep or if

They do happen to notice,

They’ll quietly relish the moment

And keep it to themselves

As I so often do.

There, there, on the lip

Of that wide, deep shadow

(More appealing than Florida)

Is where I’ll retire,

And the neighbors will

Never notice I’ve left.

That’s fine by me;

They’ll wave from afar.

David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.

David Sapp, danieldavidart@gmail.com          

Proverbs 35

You have been told

a harlot is a deep ditch, 

a dangerous pit.

She is a cave of spirits

awaiting judgement,

a tomb under a foundation stone.  

When the priests enter 

the holy of holies,

they cannot hear the wailing souls.

You have been told

avoid the trap of women.

Death is in their blood and breath.

It’s been said god lives in incense 

and the steam of slaughter. 

From the mercy seat, he sees.

But you are lost 

in the tabernacle curtains

and its overlapping veils.

When you hide from him

in a closet of wire and winter coats,

pray she saves you.

Beg her to send you 

the vacuum chord to guide you out. 

Rejoice, she can find you in the dark.

She is the cave of spirits

and the mercy seat. 

She breathes the breath of life.  

Epilogue to a Decade

Our fireplace grate cradles 

a fragile stack of bones 

crackling gently like charred sticks.

Wind pulls hissing smoke

up the wall of stones.

When the house ripped down its center

and April wind came roaring in,

our banister got smashed to splinters,

mail crushed between the spindles—

our stairs already rotted like sin.  

Failing day chokes for its breath, 

and dusk turns to wounded night—

so things end like an escaping balloon 

in the thick black sky, as a final gavel 

in the carnival’s last light.

Catherine Zickgraf

Two lifetimes ago, Catherine performed her poetry in Madrid. Now her main jobs are to write and hang out with her family. Her work has appeared in Pank, Deep Water Literary Journal, and The Grief Diaries. Her chapbook, Soul Full of Eye, is published through Kelsay Books.

Find her in the Bluesky. Watch/read more at www.caththegreat.blogspot.com

Mother

She was carrying nine months in her belly,

She gave birth to the world full of joy,

She spared everything for you,

If you cry, he will cry if you laugh.

God has given me a child,

Okay, I’ll eat it if I don’t want to eat.

Such a loving fate ended,

Okay, I’ll wear it instead of wearing it.

She thinks of you day and night,

She praised and prayed,

Why did you not reach the value of the name

The earth knows itself as the sky.

Taught to speak, write and draw,

Her hair turned gray and he looked at you,

Did you get enough of it once?

Even if the tests come, he holds your hand.

Mushtipar, your father gave his life,

Day and night, he did not stop saying that he was a child

The thorn bush picked your flowers for you,

The world is alive with his love.

Is it easy for you to raise a child?

Not one, but four lovers,

If it’s easy, you tell me

Grow up so many children.

I have nothing else to say to you child

One more day you will be a mother.

Even if your child hits you too

That’s how you know how much you value your loved one.

Then it’s getting late, open your eyes

Do your service and receive his blessing.

Do good, avoid evil

Take advantage of it while it’s still alive.

Every day you take four loaves of bread,

Always ask what your health is saying

Don’t cry waiting for you again,

God bless you, may you live long.

I am Sobirjonova Rayhona, a 9th-grade student of the 8th general secondary school of Vobkent district, Bukhara region. I was born in December 2008 in the village of Chorikalon, Vobkent district in an intellectual family. My mother and father supported me from a young age. I am also interested. I started writing in my 3rd grade. My first creative poem was published in “Wobkent Life” newspaper.

In addition, many magazines were published in America’s Synchaos newspaper, India’s Namaste India magazine, Gulkhan magazine, Germany’s RavenCage magazine and many other magazines and newspapers. my creative works have come out. I actively participated in many contests and won high places and received many gifts. Creativity is my precocity. I am very interested in creativity and enjoy every line. Of course, I will become a great person and bring the name of my country Uzbekistan to heaven, God willing!!!