Regular contributor Bill Tope has launched a new literary magazine, Topiary, which is now accepting submissions! Please send short stories to billtopiary1950@gmail.com.

In March we will have a presence at the Association of Writing Programs conference in Baltimore which will include a free public offsite reading at Urban Reads on Friday, March 6th at 6 pm. All are welcome to attend!

So far the lineup for our reading, the Audible Browsing Experience, includes Elwin Cotman, Katrina Byrd, Terry Tierney, Terena Bell, Shakespeare Okuni, and our editor, Cristina Deptula. If there’s time, an open mic will follow.

Our next issue, Mid-March 2026, will come out Sunday March 22nd.

Yucheng Tao announces the winners of his poetry competition, Steve Schwei and Mark DuCharme. We’ve invited both winners to submit their poetry to Synchronized Chaos for everyone to read!

Now, for March’s first issue! This issue, Fingering the Spines, pays homage to our annual in-person reading, the Audible Browsing Experience. It’s a visual metaphor for looking through various titles in a global bookstore or library.

Genevieve Guevara rings in the dynamic energy of the Fire Horse for Chinese New Year.

Odiljonova Mohlaroyim Iqboljon qizi celebrates the many styles of Uzbek spoken word art. Umarova Gulsevar Ubaydullo qizi highlights the rich semantic and lexical expressiveness of the Uzbek language. Shuhratova Mohinur Abbosjon qizi explores the layered meaning of “k’o’ngil” (heart) in the Uzbek language.

Jesus Rafael Marcano celebrates the beauty of France, likening the nation to butterflies. Timothee Bordenave honors the beauty and majesty of Christian faith, as shown through Notre Dame. Su Yun’s abstract work reflects a meditative, spiritual sensibility. Soumen Roy describes a physical and mental journey towards spiritual inspiration.

Abdumajidova Zuhroxon Ibrohimjon qizi explores themes of hardship and endurance, destiny, faith, patriotism, and loyalty in Shuhrat’s classic Uzbek novel Oltin Zanglamas. Iroda Ibragimova explores themes of resilience and human dignity through oppression in Shukrullo’s novel Buried Without a Shroud. Bakhtiyorova Zakro Farkhod qizi speaks to the role of the short story in Uzbek literature. Ro’zimatova Madinaxon Sherzod qizi analyzes themes of strength, weakness and humanity in Abdulla Qahhor’s story “Ming bir jon.” Anvarova Mohira Sanjarbek qizi contributes a heartfelt poem from the perspective of Gulchehra, a character in O’lmas Umarbekov’s “Being Human is Hard.”

Azimov Mirsaid draws on Ray Bradbury and traditional Uzbek crafts and hospitality to illustrate the value of human warmth and imperfection. Dr. Jernail Singh Anand urges humanity to look into the words of our past and present writers and philosophers for wisdom in this age of great technological advancement. Dr. Jernail Singh Anand also expresses hope for the continuance of human creativity in the age of artificial intelligence. Daniela Chourio-Soto renders all-too-human morning sleepiness with lively humor. Eva Petropoulou Lianou explores the feelings and inspirations of emerging Greek painter Vivian Daouti.

Author Victoria Chukwuemeka discusses her creative journey towards exploring psychology and the subconscious, becoming deeper and more straightforward in her words. Kassandra Aguilera’s work mourns her speaker’s incompleteness, probing whether we need observers to fully realize ourselves. Ananya S. Guha reflects on distance, separation, and reunion, how roads can both bring us apart and together.

Emeniano Somoza poetically compares creative writing and glassblowing: arts where creators shape, rather than force, their materials. Poet Su Yun collects a set of poems from children at the East-West Public School in Bangalore on the theme of “the power of the pen vs the sword.” Taylor Dibbert’s short piece is almost anti-poetry, suggesting without communicating a metaphor.

Stephen Jarrell Williams’ poetry speaks to the risks and joys of openness to emotion and experience. Komilova Parizod reminds us to make the most of our lives and appreciate the joy around us. Priyanka Neogi urges us to act with wisdom and restraint. Boymirzayeva Dilrabo highlights the importance of motivation and discipline in reaching one’s goals.

Sobirova Oydinoy Nozimjon qizi discusses symptoms and types of neurosis. Mashhura Ochilova speaks with poignance and grace of a young woman’s inner battle with depression. Graciela Noemi Villaverde speaks to gaining wisdom through life’s losses. J.J. Campbell’s voice is older, raw, bruised, with hard-won exhaustion and experience.

Axmedova Gulchiroyxon expresses her tender love and concern for her mother. Nurmurodova Masrura Xurshedovna honors the patient, dedicated, behind-the-scenes love of her father. Gulsanam Sherzod qizi Suyarova explicates the value of friendship and how to be a good friend. Aminova Feruza Oktamjon kizi celebrates the beauty and innocence of young love. Qozoqboyeva Husnida yearns with devotion for her soulmate’s arrival. Mesfakus Salahin falls into a reverie about a fanciful love that exists between his imagination and his memory. Prasanna Kumar Dalai smiles through a delicate and tender love. Joeb expresses his hopes for personal and global love and peace. Lan Xin celebrates transcendent union with all others and the universe, with the world as her homeland, in her fanciful dinner piece. Husanxon Odilov laments a love which he acknowledges will never return. Nicholas Gunther reflects on a high school lost love or friendship through a casual ghazal. Bill Tope and Doug Hawley present an unusual relationship arrangement that seems to make several older people happy. Masharipova Yorqinoy Ravshanbek qizi celebrates the tenderness of a mother’s love. Brian Barbeito’s gentle childlike piece creates a surreal atmosphere rich in memory and care. Orzigul Sharobiddinova Ibragimova versifies her love and longing for her Uzbek homeland.

Zarifaxon Nozimjon Odilova qizi highlights the historical contributions of Uzbek statesman and humanist leader Zahriddin Muhammad Babur. Toshkentboyeva Xumora outlines the contributions of Amir Temur to modern Central Asian statecraft. Poet Lan Xin highlights the wisdom and compassion of Chinese Dongba cultural leader Wan Yilong. Abdusaidova Jasmina explicates themes of spirituality, heritage, and love in Alisher Navoiy’s writing. Abduxalilova Shoxsanamxon Azizbek qizi celebrates the benefits of reading culture for society.

Murodova Zarin Sherali qizi explicates the importance of language learning in world communication and international and intercultural relations. Khusanjonova Mukhtasarhkon Khamdamjon qizi discusses how podcasts can help those learning English as a foreign language. Turdimuradova Zulfera Sattor qizi analyzes the use of blended learning in teaching English as a foreign language. Suyunova Zuhra Oybekovna speaks to the importance of writing skills to language learning.

Olimova Marjona Ubaydullayevna celebrates the literary heritage of Zulfiya and her themes of patriotism, women’s dignity, and compassion. Munisa Yo’ldosheva highlights how Zulfiya’s life influenced her works and her contributions to supporting emerging authors. Nozigul Baxshilloyeva discusses emotional and spiritual themes within Zulfiya’s work and how they affect Uzbek readers. Sultonova Shahlo Baxtiyor qizi highlights the literary and cultural influence of Zulfiya’s poetry. Jurayeva Barchinoy does the same, while also highlighting her commitments to education and women’s rights. Nematullayeva Mukhlisa Sherali kizi relates the value of Zulfiya’s work through a narrative story. Gayratova Dilnavo highlights the enduring legacy of Zulfiya’s work, especially what it means for many Uzbek women.

Loki Nounou’s piece dramatizes a woman stripped of her individuality in a toxic marriage, becoming only a vessel to hold others’ dreams. Abigail George probes the maternal and domestic as both sacred and violent, an origin and a wound, along with critiques of colonialism and the power of self-kindness. Manik Chakraborty calls for a natural, spiritual feminine awakening. Asadullo Habibullayev warns of the dangers and social injustices young women can face in Uzbekistan, even when educated, and calls for the younger generation to respect the wisdom of their elders. Eva Petropoulou Lianou urges respect for women and for the roles women play in society, including motherhood. Maxmarajabova Durdona Ismat qizi celebrates the love and care of human mothers and the value of Mother Earth.

Zamira Moldiyeva Bahodirovna analyzes what the nature motifs in Alexander Feinberg’s work reveal about his thoughts on memory and identity. Noah Berlatsky draws on trees to illustrate our shared human heritage, how we connect to each other and hold each other up. Dilafruz Muhammadjonova presents a natural and cultural tour of Uzbekistan’s Andijan province. Suyunova Fotima Oybekovna reminds us of how crucial it is to preserve the environment. O’gabek Mardiyev outlines ways to improve the efficiency of solar power generation. Shavkatova Mohinabonu Oybek qizi urges improvements in Uzbek public transit to encourage tourism as well as benefit ecosystems. Sultonaliyeva Go’zaloy Ilhomjon qizi analyzes the social, cultural, ecological and economic aspects of tourism in Central Asia. Turgunov Jonpolat discusses the ways in which media framing of climate issues affects how people address the problem. Surayyo Nosirova highlights the need for more consistent communication from journalists to the public about climate change in Uzbekistan.

The works of primary school children in China, collected by Su Yun, reflect moments of happiness and ordinary summer fun in nature. Alan Patrick Traynor’s Irish-inspired piece becomes incantatory, mystical, inhabiting littoral and transitional zones at the ocean’s edge. Tea Russo’s spiderweb poem seeks both expansive transcendence and the peace of oblivion, melding into various aspects of nature. Turkan Ergor dreams of the permanence of the ocean’s waves. Eleanor Hill reflects on the calm strength and dignity of a whale, unbothered while creating waves and blowing bubbles. Ri Winters turns to the ocean and its kelp forests as metaphor for the deep, isolating, yet restful morass of depression.

Brian Barbeito sends up a preview of his book Of Love and Mourning, highlighting the original content and the memorials to beloved pets who have passed. Filmmaker Federico Wardal celebrates a film award for a very humane documentary about veterinary care that saved the life of a racehorse. Jerrice J. Baptiste’s piece, accompanied by gentle, colorful artwork, expresses a graceful and natural surrender to death. Sayani Mukherjee’s piece sits between devotion and restlessness, calling the sky a neighbor yet screaming at stars. Mykyta Ryzhykh crafts a fevered love elegy at the edge of war, eros, and annihilation.

Patrick Sweeney sends up a set of index cards from a memory archive. Mark Young’s altered geographies trace the outlines of innocence, memory, and rupture. John Grey’s urban character and landscape pieces show dry, unsentimental grace.

Duane Vorhees’ poetry meditates on time’s circularity, embracing contradictions and the past, present, and future. Ibrahim Honjo reflects that one day his home and everything he knows will fade into memory. Christopher Bernard continues exploring hope, ruin, and creative resilience in the second installment of his prose poem “Senor Despair.”

Maja Milojkovic speaks to the implacable ticking of conscience. Mahbub Alam laments the selfishness and wickedness of humanity. James Tian dramatizes the pain of being underestimated, dismissed, and misunderstood. Mark Lipman calls for greater taxes on the wealthy and for economic egalitarianism. Jacques Fleury hoists his commentary on the fragility of modern democracy on the scaffolding of an extended construction metaphor.

Rahmatullayeva Elmira Rahimjon qizi discusses how we form the value systems that guide our lives. Abduraufova Nilufar Khurshidjon qizi outlines the national values and traditions of the Uzbek people. Islomova Maxsudaxon Axrojon qizi explores ways to inculcate values into Uzbekistan’s young people in school through exposing them to the great thinkers of their heritage. Botirova Mubina looks into ways Uzbekistan’s civil society can uplift teens and prevent delinquency through communicating their national values. Abdullayeva Ezozaxon Qobuljon qizi highlights the importance of social and financial investment in education. Ismoilova Jasmina Shavkatjon qizi highlights the importance of quality education for social progress.

Axtamova Orastaxon Salimjon qizi outlines strategies to assist autistic children’s psychological development. Rajabova Nozima highlights methods of improving young students’ reading comprehension. Dildoraxon Turg’unboyeva outlines the effectiveness of play-based learning methods in education. Sevara Tolanboy Mahmudova qizi discusses educational games for preschoolers. Turgunboyeva Dilafruzxon highlights the importance of preschool education to a child’s development. Muxlisa Olimjon qizi Tursunaliyeva and Adhamova Irodaxon Akmal qizi discuss ways to help educate children with learning disabilities. Dilnora Habibullo qizi discusses interactive methods for teaching children with and without special needs. Burhonova Lobar outlines suggestions for working with children on the autism spectrum. Hikmatova Nigorakhon Hasanboy qizi discusses how to upgrade physical education and make the activities more interactive. Turg’unova O’g’iloy Ravshanbek qizi discusses ways to incorporate physical activity into children’s academic education. Shahobiddinova Sevinch explores the use of educational games in primary education. Arziqulova Adiba details various interactive strategies for engaging young children in educational activities at school. Mashhura Kamolova analyzes the limitations of examinations in terms of measuring student capabilities.

Orinboyeva Zarina discusses how to help children psychologically and emotionally navigate their parents’ divorce. Botiriva Odinaxon elevates the teaching profession and calls for professional development and competence in those who educate young children. Nishonboyeva Shahnoza speaks to her wisdom and dedication towards her goal of becoming a preschool teacher.

Kadirova Feruzakhan Abdiyaminova discusses interactive games that could be useful in science education. Oroqova Nargiza outlines the rise of allergies in children and speculates on the causes. Umidjon Hasamov highlights the potential for artificial intelligence in medical diagnostics. Yunusova Sarvigul Siroj qizi highlights the importance of early screening for gastrointestinal cancer. Rajapova Muqaddas Umidbek qizi highlights the structure and function of the circulatory system.

Shohnazarov Shohjaxon highlights the impact of inflation on a nation’s economy and strategies for managing it. Mamadaliyev Kamronbek highlights the need for cybersecurity technology and cautions about cyberattacks as a weapon of war.

Dr. Jernail S. Anand calls out poets and academics whose lofty ideas don’t connect to present-day reality. While we are all capable of flights of fancy, we hope that this issue is grounded in our world and our humanity.

Señor Despaïr


Against a Hopeless Time


The Voice

A drop of mercury pools on the horizon;
a pale bruised piece of sky fading above it,
and, curling from a darkness that has been only murmuring and night surf,
I think I can see the old man 
in his old world summer suit, 
in silent profile, bowed before me.
  			   	        “I think,”
I say, stumbling over the words, I have been silent
so long: “I think . . . maybe it . . .”
The old man seems not to hear me. “. . . maybe . . . it 
isn’t as it seems to you: only horrifying.” 

He appears to raise his head. “This you think . . . ?”
he says, in a voice soft as an owlet’s down.

“Yes,” says my voice,
surprising me, for some reason. “The world . . .  
the world, with all . . . its cruelty, chaos, its
brutal banality . . . that . . . everything you say is true. At
    least
it meets my own experience like the two ragged edges 
of a broken bone: 
the stupidity and the suffering, so much of the suffering 
caused by the stupidity (I have learned that lesson only 
too well)—the world has . . .” the voice stops; a number of 
hopelessly inadequate words beat like trapped birds inside
    my brain,
trying to escape.

“Has what”? the old man asks.

“. . . a fascination.”

I bite the inside of my lip, waiting for the laughter 
to crow over my insufficiency,
though the silence is tart as sarcasm.

“A fascination,” he says, expressionlessly. “Una fascinación. With what?”

“With the wonders. With 
the magnificence. 
From the smallest wave, 
the tiniest of particles,
flickering, radiant, from the black hole’s sucking zero
to the scattering spore of stars, the scudding black backs
of galaxies in their nets of dust, and who knows what
endless shoals of universes raised around us,
across or through us, even, in a time and space
beyond infinity, forever
shaming the clichés of eternity 
like toys cast off from a suburban nursery, 
and presenting us with a terrifying glory,
serene grandeurs shining between tempests we never
    beguiled
in our mythologies, yet that may be only a poor man’s
weak trial at conceiving a reality so far
beyond us it must make us worshipful
of the world that created us, not we the world: 
a world beyond our quaint ideas of ‘eternity’ and ‘god’ 
as those were, have been, beyond us, any, ever or now:  
yet nothing here more true. 

“We live at the heart
of divinity without beginning or end,
and this divinity is the world.
We just did not know it before so . . .  definitively.
It has nothing to do with God—it is beyond God.”

“It is beyond Satan, you mean,” the old man’s voice says,
    softly.
“It is a beautiful thought. Un pensamiento hermoso! 
But it is only a thought.

“We do not live in the manors of the universe,
but in a hole where we sweat to make lives
in fear and cold, imagining a fire that does not warm us,
surrounded by rivals, in danger of defeat and shame, 
friendships lost for inscrutable reasons,
disease, old age, poverty, self-disgust, 
failing to get little or nothing of what, or of who, 
we most desire. That desire itself—nuestro propio
    deseo—
walls us from the enchantment: that loveliest of women,
esa brillante carrera, respect, admiration, love,
except in doses tan pequeño they are almost insults: proofs
of what we cannot possess. 
                                            When, despite fate, 
you grasp a trophy 
of granted longing, the envy of ‘friends’
who will not forgive your shabby, little reward, 
poisons the air.
Wealth, fame, power, love are shelterless
from the envious—as our own envy
wounds our lives for triumphs we have missed
and feel we have earned, with justice or without.

“Fate is a pyramid staring down at its climbers,
haughty and cold. 
Success itself is shameful
if it means another’s defeat. But that is how it works,
this glorious world you are so romantic about:
for every beauty you see, a thousand uglinesses
have danced in tears and blood.
You think you can try again, that the door is always open.
But the door finally closes, or has been always closed;
it only seemed ajar.
La vida es una ilusión fabulosa, invented to keep you
moving ahead in hope, deceiving but ever renewed,
desperate worm on cunning hook.”

		                                       The moon
crests the horizon, its face
of cartoon sorrow, round and full as a baby’s,
glows its bright silvery porcelain in the blackness,
yet as though lamenting everything it sees.

“With all due respect, señor”—He bows in the opening
    moonlight.—
“don’t you think you go too far? Don’t you think 
maybe you are offending 
the miracle?” 

		The old man does not move.
But after a moment I think I hear a gently spoken 
question: “Miracle, mi hijo? Que milagro?”
   
                      “The miracle 
of this shabby, this shameful, this dubious life.
By all the laws of chemistry, biology, physics,
relativity, quantum mechanics,
and all the dead-end sciences you laugh at and despise,
it should not have happened at all. 
So, what if this
world 
is the miracle we have sought? 
Our life—bricolage theater for oblivion—
a smudge of ash in the next geological stratum,
a hiccup in a random turn of evolution’s wheel,
until the sun
grows fat and red and devours the earth,
or, shriveling into a kind of icy kernel, freezes it,
or explodes and stars a far-off night
for an hour brighter than the galaxy—
what if that is the miracle? 
                                               But not 
certain is any of this, and the presumption that we 
are able to know 
what it is impossible to know—
the future in the furthest meaning of the term—
is a peculiar crime of the human mind,
thinking it a venial sin;
and, since we squirm recalling thoughtless hopes
that broke in our hands like eggshells
and left our mouths acrid and bitter,
We choose to tell ourselves dark, harsh, 
cold and despairing truths, in order to avoid
another brutal disappointment. But the same
compulsion drives us: the craving to know—
the need for knowledge when only ignorance,
uncertainty, and darkness are to be found,
for all of us are children 
before the unknowable.  
			   Maybe it is true we are
little more than nourishment for oblivion—maybe 
it is not: we do not know either way. 
We may have faith
that, since we are here, now, and have
in a little way thrived,
the world is not absolutely against us
or our somewhat abrupt arrival at the party.
We can go further.” The voice pauses. How
preposterous all of this sounds!
But the voice goes on. The old man
has not moved. “It supports us—it
encourages, shields, shelters, defends,
holds us,
holds us upright,
is us.
We are an expression of its power,
we also;
of the power that builds sense, life,
mind, good, beauty, grace,
against the power
arrayed against us: brutality, stupidity, destruction, 
    and death.
The power that poisons the air. And it is our work
to aid another power, the one that holds us 
    in its hand . . .”

“But that is where the poison works
to most penetrating effect,” the old man 
breaks in, smiling softly. 
“Exactamente en el corazón y el alma y la mente—
in the heart, and soul, and mind—
that you extoll so extáticamente.  There the monster god,
loco, lunático, imbécil, aleatorio, brutal,
works at his most cruel. Life,
la vida es la bestia: life is the monster
that feeds on life, that digs down
to undermine meaning and joy—
a miracle indeed! Milagro satánico.

“It was human intelligence that worked out entropy,
thus putting an end, irónicamente, to eschatology—
the study of final things!—
even better than the sainted Darwin.

“What does science reveal? The dimensions of our prison. 
Have no fear! There is no escape.
The human brain has proven that the human brain
is an accident, and thus proves nothing—
more: it is an aberración that spins out fantasies
it feeds on and must believe in: reality
is ultimately not even—cómo se dice? disponible—
available to us.

“We crave for something we cannot have—
so numb ourselves with games and drugs
and art and music and philosophy and literature and religion and wealth and power 
 	y el lujo y el sexo—
anything to escape the intolerable gnawing.”

Beneath the moon an immensely long, glittering spear of
    light
reaches across the ocean to the horizon,
as if pointing toward the darkness. 
	
		    	        	        “But aren’t we free,”
the voice in me replies, 
“to make, to find, meaning and value and good?
Haven’t we escaped many a horror of the past, 
haven’t we earned the right to hope?”

“We are free, es verdad, of the artificial vise,
so now we can see the more natural chains,”
the old man, patient as a professor 
to a new student (but not unpromising!) explains,
“That piping Emerson, that windbag Whitman—
what did it lead to? Democracia, la libertad, 
America! Look at it, remember it:
there is a country that has no excuses—
and what has it done?

“Mira! A nation half mad with greed, power-lust, pride,
a foolish, arrogant culture that parades 
ugliness in the name of libertad de expresión,
an infantile denial of unflattering truths,
a contempt for reality, a hatred of fact,
an economy verdaderamente hell-bent 
on next quarter’s gain
even if it leads to the destruction of mankind,
civilization, and most of life on earth,
as long as the shareholders get theirs,
and I get mine! I don’t care! I’ll be dead,
with my assault rifles lining my coffin!

“And not America alone:
this cultura de nada has spread like a bacillus
por todo el mundo.
We are locked inside a wallet inside a rocket, and we will
    ride it
until it explodes against its target: we
are a nation of winners!
We must win!
Even in the race to suicide.”

“But what if the game isn’t over? 
What if we are midway through? What 
if we are merely at the beginning? 
Maybe we are steeped in evil like a cheap teabag, 
unable to love anything but ourselves, 
and cannot love even ourselves without hating,
no truth in us without a companion lie,
and the impossible thing is to face ourselves
without pity or rancor.”

“Yet what,” says the voice, “if it is possible, 
and when we dissect our bitter heart, 
the human dazzles with angels
we had no right to hope for. . . . I have names. . . .”

“I know them. I do not deny them. Even
as history's pages are bloody with crimes
of evil men, the margins are often 
mágicamente ilustrado: las horas muy ricas 
of many a bloody chronicle
displays an art of such delicadeza, such gentleness,
such sensibilidad, like soft music
tender as a kiss, and a warm poesía
that makes one love the creature that could
dream up such beauty—la belleza,
which is nothing but el amor encarnado—
how do you say?—the bodying forth of love.

“How can one not love a creature so able
to love?” 

	    The moon has risen, and as it rose, 
seemed to shrink, as if squeezed
into a bubble of white light
that might any moment break and vanish
splintering into ashes among brittle stars 
across the blackness.

“But the newspapers are not littered with prodigies of
    love—
not even the screens of our chosen addictions
or the next sensation to leap, fully armed, from the brain,
collective or garage-bound, of Silicon Valley.
What drives us, drives us, is evil’s fascination,
in love, in hate, in crime, in war: 
these flatter us—only power, 
only sovereign power, leaves behind such wreckage,
What we fear more than meaninglessness
is impotence. We fear 
the hand we cannot raise into a fist
and crush, if we wanted; when we don’t, we pretend 
it is the ‘in hoc signo vinces’
of our sovereignty.  
                       But even we are not fooled. 
Every so often we must prove. 
Prove what? And to whom? 
To ourselves. That we can destroy any foe of our will. 
Every so often? Cómo! Every hour.

“So we lap up stories of manmade horrors
with a double satisfaction: such power! such virtue!
They thrill us with our strength and our righteous
    condemnation, 
evils we then get to sovereignly disdain. 
A clever trick by a monkey with too many brains!”

“What drives us on is love and fear,
like bees in a swarm,”
the voice within me says, speaking aloud,
both me and not me:
“more love than fear, or you have forgotten:
love of life itself, its darkness and brilliance,
smell, flavor, touch, color,
sound: the flick of a breeze, the green
of grass, the hues and tints of wild flowering,
the microtones of light that each moment
sweep across our eyes, the fragrance
of language—if you have not smelled language,
you have not breathed at all—it intoxicates the mouth, 
the ear, the mind,  the teasing licks of music
that make your being quiver, 
the taut trembling that is the body
in pleasure, thrown at all times, even in pain,
the exaltation of the mind in seizing
at discovery,
sensation, assent, refusal, the dry
stimulus, the moist indulgence, the tart burst
on the palate, the bitter edge that makes the spine tingle, 
the dream of happiness
at the heart of love’s dream, the pool of bliss
we live at the bottom of
without knowing until it is suddenly drained,
and then our happiness is all nostalgia—we own
the uncanny ability to take the worst 
of living and make out of it a thing
of goodness, beauty, truth, triumph,
a refusal to be cowed by history, nature,
death, fate—we will defy, I will defy
all odds and snatch from brutal fact
life, we will build the city
of happiness, chanting our gratitude for a world
that spun us out of light, dust, time,
and the faith our ignorance hides from us, a wisdom
we never see exactly but that we
are held by, like a child in its arms.

“We need fear nothing, for there is nothing to fear.

“Death? Death is nothing. We belong
to the cosmos, not ourselves,”
the voice speaks on, seems drunk, almost 
to sing. “The cosmos
is forever, is infinite. We have no words,
no mathematics equal to it. 
Understand it? Good luck!
Have faith in it. It made, formed you. Its heart 
cannot be lost; 
however far you try to throw it away.” 

		     	                       A cloud
eats the moon, and the air grows black as ink,
the sky a gigantic octopus. 
The old man’s whites 
vanish, and the tide, risen, weaves the cries
of crashing waves like the wails of sinners punished
in the hell of their salvationlessness.

“There is no cosmos, there is nada mayor de lo que somos, 
there are only the shadows of the cave.”
The old man’s voice almost disappears into the waves.
I strain to listen. “We live in a shell
that floats like a bubble among fatuidades,
curtains of darkness
pretending they are light,
a light revealing nothing, that can 
reveal nothing except our illusions 
and the depth of our solitude.

“A bizarre aberration
is life in a universe otherwise 
el antagonista absoluto a la vida: cosmology
is an unending slap in the face of hope.

“We cannot even find life’s possibility,
let alone a piece of it—say, just a planet
unas bacterias, an asteroid de baba de estanque, what do you call, “pond slime”;
a world of insects, fungus, rats—
but not anything, as Euclid sweeps the sky,
like Hubble cojeando—no: hobbling Hubble!—before it,
weighing exoplanetas on hope’s duplicitous scales;
then probing Webb, examining droplets of galaxies
at the earliest edge of the big bang.
The universe is más grande, más asombrosa,
más hermoso, más sublime
than was ever dreamed in the stale dreams of the poets—
la poesía (what childishness is hidden in those sweet
    sounds!)
La imaginación is a weak phantom compared to la
     realidad.
The universe not even one, but multiple!
Does nature ever create the unique, the never seen before
    or ever again?
No! She makes only families, 
in molds (as Plato knew!) that form individuals!
Families of existence! Si! And therefore:
El universo no es un universo!
But only one of many, un infinito—
uno de millones of bubbles on a sea
without beginning or end, forever.

“The only true poets of our time are the cosmologists!

“But that is speculation. El universo
is not especially kind
or altogether welcoming to life—even though she
(cruel and generous as a woman!)
even though she invented it! 
She is like an intoxicated genius, full of brilliance,
marijuana, whisky and crack cocaine, 
throwing off creations a la derecha, a la izquierda, 
and not caring where her numberless seeds fall
or where her children are orphaned:
she is too busy creating
to give two damns about protecting:
let the curators and the archivists worry about that!

“A child today has more power at his fingertips
than Apollo, a teenager can rival Zeus
in havoc, a nation can wipe life from the face of the earth
like Yahweh in his prime.
La ciencia, la tecnología
have given us a scrap of knowledge, wealth
and power—el conocimiento, la riqueza, y el poder!—
that no one before us has ever conceived,
not for kings, not even gods—nosotros somos los dioses!
We now are the gods!

“Yet every extension of our power
laughs at us, scorns and mocks us, since all it shows
is, irónicamente, how weak we are, cómo, al final, somos
    impotentes:
subject to the limits of time, energy, matter,
a brief espiga of a kind of energía
cristalizada embracing its own extinction
in its flame. We have, cómo se dice, borró—erased
la trascendencia—transcendence;
we have assassinated la Gran Esperanza
for the sake of pequeñas pequeñas esperanzas
that lead to nothing. A terrible price,
Doctor Faust, you have paid for your conquests!
Your world is una montaña poderosa, taller than
    Everest—
a mountain made of powder, of victorias pírricas.”

The old man pauses, shaking his head
in delicate disgust. 

               “Outside our little bubble of a blue planet
and its elegant technology, how long does it take
for a living being to perish? 
En un minuto, si tiene suerte. 
En dos minutos, si no tiene suerte!
The antagonism of the stars
is woven into our blood, our bones 
are crystals of it, our thoughts fractures of its dust.
No: there is little glory in being human, mi hermano—
our gifts of skill, insight, invention
merely reveal the hopelessness of our case
in exquisite and eloquent detail. 

“Each day—each hour—bears proof
of our inanity and the emptiness 
of the enormous stage we act on. 
The evidence is overwhelming, as the lawyers say
in their eloquent closing statement: you have no choice,
ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but to convict!”

The old man grins like a wrinkled Puck 
or a moonwashed skull. 
The moon hangs straight overhead, small, 
like a dirty street light.

			  “That is the world’s mistake, 
and ours as well, but only in so far
as it is a mistake,” the voice inside me responds,
shouting (or so it sounds to me), against this empty storm 
of words. 
      “You seem to hate science, you despise 
technology, and maybe we, maybe I, 
have placed too much faith in them,
was too impressed, forgot the glass pedestals they 
    stand on,
brittle, easily seen through:
they cannot even justify themselves! They dazzle,
flatter, blind us—but we, each of us, I
decide how much 
respect I give them. When they tell me I have 
no soul, no self, but only a parade of delusions
of continuity over time, this delusion reminds them
who is master. Humanity created them; 
humanity can destroy them.
I, master of the plug and the switch,
command them.
Science the truth? You make me laugh.
Science knows nothing—all it does
is push back further the horizon of our ignorance
with inspired guesses it can never prove. 
Yet he is my servant
and brilliantly performs in his sphere;
though the moment he betrays me,
I stick him in his place, like any irritated god:
kindly, for he can’t help being a bit of an ‘idiot 
    savant'; 
but incontestably.

“At times his discoveries are painful yet needed,
such as the ridiculous design of the human brain,
the intelligent cortex jerrybuilt on top of a monumentally
    blockheaded
cerebrum on an overexcited reptilian brain stem which
can barely wait to wreak havoc, kill its neighbor, and mate
with the nearest bit of skin,
to say nothing of the atrociously worked out developmental scheme
of the human male. . . .”

			    “You are beginning
to sound like me!” the old man laughs. “But, por favor, 
do go on. Perdóname por mi interrupción.’’

“Only the better to defeat you, viejo!
At times it illuminates a necessary fact
we need to learn—even a fact so beautiful
it opens our sense of the immensity,
the boundless variety that is reality;
and then it is a savior we need not crucify
to deliver us from evil.

“But sometimes it only wrecks our dignity and hope
for the sake of its pride—
or rather the pride of scientists—in the endless 
juggling for status, dominance, power,
brief as they are and illusory as smoke.
But as soon as we recall that we invented them,
that they are subject
to our will—science, technology, scientists, geeks!—
their power evaporates like so many nightmares at dawn.

“And this is true for all the human world:
it has no power over us we do not give it—
that I do not give it—and it is subject
at every moment to my power’s withdrawal.”

“We are lost with them!” The old man
is cackling wildly. “Why do you think we are flying
toward annihilation, hurtling toward
the world’s ending and the human Armageddon:
ecological catastrophe on all fronts,
smothering the world in a cloud
of chemicals that exist nowhere else
en todo el universo, invented to make life
more convenient for our sweet selves,
or to kill all those creatures huddling
between us and our domination of the earth,
or even so much as whim 
(‘Mosquitoes? Oh my! What a nuisance? Kill them all!’)
and the holocaust of species and the coming of artificial
    intelligence
that is likely to find us (oh poetic justice!) equally
    irritating
(‘Humans? Oh my! What a nuisance! Kill them all!’)
and then there is always the possibility of nuclear war en
    cualquier momento
(how boringly last century! But it could still kill everyone!)

“The clock is ticking,
and it is almost midnight! La ciencia?
La tecnología? You think you control them?
Please excuse me while I die laughing! . . .”

“Then die and be quick about it. When I find myself
at loggerheads with my fellow humans,"
says the voice within,
“and they assert a power—like these!—that I deny,
I escape into the world:
my chain of consequence, immediate to transcendence,
holds me beyond defeat or death,
against, if need be, the world. And it often
‘need be’ indeed!
For much of, if not all, the world’s evils you dwell on
lie in the human will to conquer
anything but itself; command
where it was meant to serve and save, 
triumph
where it was meant to bind in kindness,
to dominate where domination is a mirage
and every mountain is made of nothing more
than mist and wind.
The only human triumph, lone victory
for us, for me, is in the breath of a thought:
knowing where the diamonds of being shimmer,
where to whisper into the ear of the god
whose name is one behind the wall of night 
and the eternal chaos of things.

“I hand my faith to it
like a ball of twine in a labyrinth, 
whose end is in my heart.

“When I do thus, my heart and it join;
the only friend I know,
though it sound insolent to say so. . . . 
But that is the way to treat your god.
You will, naturally, not wish to offend 
or grieve or wound the one you love,
who so loves you . . .”

The moon has vanished behind impenetrable cloud.
Nothing now spreads across the sky
like a dust rag, wiping the stars away 
like crumbs.
The white noise of the waves roars monotonously on.

“Your idea is beautifully mystical, my young friend,"
the old man’s patient voice comes out of the blackness.
“I envy you your faith in one
where all I see is el caos de las cosas y del tiempo—
a chaos of things and time. I feel, I admit,
what little order there seems to be is the illusion,
and chaos and the void are the final reality of all;
not order, mind, love, not even hate;
just blind energy and violence tossing
back and forth between each other and boredom, 
like an infinite barracks in a post for reserves in a guerra
perpetua. We need fairy tales to cheer us, 
or drugs of other kinds, from cabernet to canabis, mezcal 
    to ecstasy,
ambition for wealth, fame—art, status, power. There is
nothing to meet the deepest of our necesidades humanas:
para la vida, la juventud y el amor forever!
We are perhaps the only living thing
that has needs that cannot be met:
we spend our lives seeking a food that does not exist—
and so we pursue sustitutos 
irremediablemente inadecuados.
A paradox!

“But we are the paradoxical animal,
and turn on Ixion’s wheel in our torments
till we pass out in a delicious dream of escaping,

waking up only to discover that escape was a cruel 
illusion;
we are fastened still to the rolling wheel.
To be born a human being is the most terrible fate of all.”

“Why have you lived so long?” the voice in me asks
the voice in the darkness. “If human life is so terrible,
why do you live? As the stoics said,
each has a quick escape, with a little, brief courage.”

The darkness sighs and seems almost to smile.
“Touché, my young and clever friend!
You are right! If I find existence
so dreadful and pointless, why not end it—
my own, at least—and put me out, like a broken horse,
of my misery? It would be, at least, more honest,
and take but a small moment of bravery.

“I do not have a good answer for you.
Inertia? Habit? Cowardice? or that little hope . . .
ese pequeño fragmento de esperanza—I have not 
yet flushed from my system,
the hope that someone—who knows! maybe you!—
    will prove me 
wrong. 
              My espíritus animales are incorrigible optimists,
they only believe what they want to believe
however I try to reason with them. They are convinced
    that,
in the end, they will—cómo se dice?—
disprove the numbers—
the numbers that never lie! Ay de mí!
They are like the man falling from the airplane who 
    believes
that something will catch him—that something must catch 
    him—
a flock of condors! an off-course hang glider! the last MAX 787!
a flight of angels from paradise!—
before he hits the ground. 

“Hard as I try, I can’t argue myself into nonexistence
despite all the cunning gambits of la razón
and the logic that leads inexorably to the only
possible conclusion.

“I feel ridiculous because I am ridiculous:
a nihilist, it would seem, who still wishes to live.
Por favor . . . por favor . . .” I think I hear him kneel
down on the sand. 
“Por favor: prove me wrong, so I will feel less absurd.”

The irony in his voice is like a plea;
in the invisible smile I see tears,
beneath the arrogance, the intellectual pride,
an angry child crying in the night,
a child I had known, for I had been
that child, alone in the silence,
alone in the dark and dreaming of a love
that had long withdrawn into ice.

The voice within me nevertheless responded.
“I cannot prove anything, I do not know anything.
What I have is doubt at war with trust 
that, however terrible the future is—
the humanly wrought and administered hell
we re-create with each new generation—
the madness of our dance of wealth and death,
our feverish vulgarity and chronic bad faith,
the shabbiness and disgust of daily life,
the greed and cowardice and self-deceit
(beside which mere falsehoods are almost quaint)
that paralyze us as we destroy
the life we know, the life we have known, 
the life we believed was possible,
and prepare our destruction
with the lunatic conscientiousness of an army corps of
    demons—
to say nothing of the insults of disease and age,
the cruelty of the diseased mind, the self-
defeating brutality of crime and war—
despite all these—even, in some way
because of them—the evils they define
define this good: 
to conquer them,
to make
out of this mud, these stones,
out of the wrath of these seas,

a happiness,

a kindness,

a delight,

a deep contentment in each other and ourselves,

a purpose for life so obvious one laughs, tickled\
(“How blind not to have seen it all this time!”);

out of the coldness of infinite space, 
crossing the violence of infinite time,
a safe and warm and intimate home for joy and for love.

Your love, my love, our love.

“For we are clever monkeys.
Can we deepen cleverness into wisdom,
learn the shifting balance 
of love and freedom, liberty and reverence
(none can bear life without safety,
though safety become a cage;
no breath’s worth drawing without liberty,
though it imperils all that lives;
too much safety is a prison,
too much freedom is hell),
and make of the blue globe a manor
inside which lives a home
for life in its darkling splendor,
bright birth and the payment of death
for the infinite debt of being?
And crush and mold cold despair
into grist for creation’s mills?

“Build, make, form, mold
worlds in unending creation.
Sing so softly you only can hear.
Let your heart dance
in the mouth of the lion. 
   For the creator
of this, of us, though hidden
from us as the lion is hidden
from its fleas, the wilderness from its wolves—
though everything we see is nothing
but, of it, an emanation
in love with its creation
no less than the dancer
is in love with her dancing—
loving, critical, demanding more:
truer delicacy, braver truth, 
deeper beauty—sometimes turning
all creation inside out
from a monstrous curiosity—
yet in love forever with the dance.

“Like that paradigm of inspired impracticality,
a poet, idealist who sacrifices his hours
inventing a few pearled strings of words 
that meet his highly personal terms
of the good and beautiful and true,
though yielding small fame,
little wealth, no power—
just fleeting breath
of a serene affirmation
that is lost a breath later,
and a strange pride that keeps his head high
though humankind else shrugs, puzzled,
suspicious, and disdainful. 

“The world is such a poet, such a dancer:
an obsessive creator spinning patterns 
from clouds.

“All that is, will be, has been, 
will have been beyond the end of time.
We have, I have, this moment—
this moment—now.
That may be the only immortality.
Our work is at the end of the world’s hands.

“Like earth, coal into diamond, we
hold, squeeze, burn darkness into light.

In my mind I hold the universe 
like a jewel in my hand,
from immense grandeur
to tiniest refinement; host
the tent of the circus of being—

for, do not forget, phantom of despair:
in her wild gentleness,
delicacy, power,
to infinity, through eternity, she lives.

“Thus I, thus you,
despite the mask and miserliness 
of slippery time and granite space,
my destiny to decay and death, your
compulsive follies, my grotesqueness,
your unfathomable evil, the
appearance we proffer to the stars’ 
dead laughter, of being so much
the illegitimate progeny of mud and the divine—
I, beaten, broken, by hate, by fear, injustice, death,
was, am, shall be,
a god’s—however he disowns me—
child.”

The darkness was at its deepest. The voice within
sounded strange, hollow, as though
alone in an empty room. 

_____

Christopher Bernard’s most recent collection of poems is titled The Beauty of Matter, “A Pagan’s Verses for a Mystic Idler.” Señor Despaïr will appear in book form from Real Magazine Productions, a publisher based in India, later this year.

Self Portrait as a Half

Woman in the sky

what i’ve gained from your design

the beach is oddly quiet between

an inky charcoal night,

blended with a moment of regret

where i drag my face in the sand,

so incomplete

i can only scream.

A portrait is not complete without its painter

the colors tend to dry,

we’re worlds apart her and i,

separation made me dependent,

there’s a girl on this sphere of survivability

who counts the days between euphoria into isolation.

O woman, you are sleeping in the body of Jochna

O woman, you are sleeping 

in the body of Jochna. 

Today you have not woken up and seen

the call of the sun on the tip of the grass. 

You have not searched for

the words of nectar in your thirsty chest. 

Have you ever heard in your ears 

the cry of beggarly love. 

Have you seen 

countless stars in the sky falling down due to a cruel blow. 

You have been sleeping, year after year 

You have not woken up even today, you have not seen, you have not heard 

the tears of countless fallen leaves 

that have been burned in the Chaitra fire, 

silently falling. 

You are sleeping on the green carpet of the mountains

Wrapped in a white sheet, in the beautiful song of the fountain, in the heart of the earth

THE COSMIC REGENERATION OF MANKIND

Dr. Jernail Singh Anand

[India]

The Great Disconnect

Heart is the radioactive matter placed inside the body of every living being, which receives and radiates messages to the cosmic divine.  In fact, we are, all the time, connected with supernal forces, through our breath, and we are a part of the manifestation of God’s creative magic. The scriptures want us to realize how we are a part of the cosmos, and how we should act, so that we respect that eternal bond. Education is meant to give us light, in which we could see, what we are, and where we stand, and what is the surrounding reality, and how we should relate to it meaningfully. But, education has gone overboard, and overreached its ends, so that now man thinks he can outdo his creator. Science and technology are treated as challenges to the divine authority. 

There is immense knowledge in the vaults of the earth, but it is not available to men in its entirety because earth reveals its mysteries only to people who have the capability to assimilate, and look beyond their self, and see the overflowing reality. The cosmos tests the beneficiaries of its intellectual affluence, and very few stand the severe test of elements, which ensure that after getting knowledge, it will be used, not for the gratification of one person, but for the betterment of the creation. This is the point at which most of the seekers falter and lose to infernal forces. Divinity does not trust people who show lack of higher purpose and whose passion has no higher perspective. That is why, whatever more or less knowledge we have, it is being directed towards destruction of nature and ultimately, man will land himself in a state where he will die of suffocation as the clean air will not be available for breathing. 

This is how education and limited understanding of scriptures has brought us to a situation in which we are in a state of disconnect. We have our own wisdom which is in contention with the divine wisdom. Today men believe that man is born to live for himself, and die for himself, in utter disregard of any higher purpose. Struggle for existence signifies man’s struggle for survival. But now that we have survived so many onslaughts, we have to contend with the unfolding reality of how to live? How to make our life meaningful. We have to think of beauty, decency, goodness and our commitment to the divine for promoting the welfare of the cosmic community going beyond the idea of humanism.

Post Connect 

The world that thought from the heart, and felt from the mind, the world of unified sensibility which T.S. Eliot talks of, has been buried deep in the opaque layers of history. This is the world which only thinks with its mind, which is trained in such a way that it is focused on the elevation of the self. Education now serves to sever a young man’s connection from the society around, and turn all his passions inside, so that he starts thinking nothing matters except the package and then the apex of success. This is not expected from people with a universal consciousness. Rather, it is the rotten mental stuff which will infect the whole lot. Pitiably, we have got millions of teachers now trained in this passion for self-possession, who are imparting tips to the young through videos on you tube, how to serve their self, become rich, and land astronomical packages. And, I have no hesitation in saying, cheating, double dealing, and fraud are tricks in trade, and they are not considered outlandish for this society nurtured on moral complacency. 

Decyphering Disconnect 

The societies are crying hoarse in the name of culture. But folk dresses, folk dances, and folk songs end up only to lend a spectacular splendour only. At heart, nobody looks back. Efforts at cultural revival are proving counter-productive and blowing hot and cold at the same time. Young men in colleges who love modern life, its chores and its thrills, when don traditional dresses, only present a false spectacle of love for the things gone by. Who wants to go back to times of the bullock cart age which is being idealized in our revivalists songs? It is only noise and clutter in the music albums or in social media. Nobody wants to lead a life without a mobile phone. Farmers know their youngsters don’t like to work in the fields, rather they prefer to mortgage their lands, and migrate to cities and enjoy making films on culture. A culture which they have deserted. The culture of parents, village, the water tank, animals. So, what I want stress here is: it has caused a disconnect between what we are and what we profess to be. The electronic songs won’t salvage our condition in which we do not believe. 

The same disconnect is evident in the case of religion also. Look at Youtube and the deluge of the holy hymns being played.  In spite of such an electronic spurt in religious activity, the religious content in human life is on the decline. People who are truly religious believe in a life of piety, humility, compassion, and honesty. But the men we meet who often visit shrines are just the reverse. What is the reason? Even in religious orders, we see instances of indecent behaviour. The idea of righteous living, which means ethical conduct, has disappeared from the life of these people. 

Let me revert to my statement in the beginning of this article, that our hearts are radioactive, and we connect with the divine through our breath, which is a part of the cosmic equipment. We are a part of the spectacle, and the manifestation. So long as our heart is involved in an activity, it is radiated to the cosmos, and Gods listen to our prayers. And they do respond.  But, look at what is going on now. Instead of our heart, instead of our consciousness , it is the TV which is singing religious songs, and those who sang these songs have already made a lot of money. We have lost our connect with the divine, and all our actions aimed at pleasing gods are just playing to the gallery. Contentless. That is why, all our prayers go unheeded. We play games with divine forces and disregard all our cosmic responsibilities.  And this process of disunification is going on at a faster speed. We think we have accumulated knowledge.  I think this knowledge has hastened our fall. All our actions now onwards, when we are overusing knowledge, overplaying our wisdom, we are actually overreaching ourselves. The breakup with the divine is complete and absolute. 

Cosmic Regeneration of Mankind 

Here, the role of literature gains significance. What time has not corrupted is the essential wisdom of the Vedas. The Prophets still say what they said, unaffected by the currents of time. The great poets and scholars and philosophers still stand aloft, no matter how great the storms in the oceans of time were. The wisdom of humanity still remains ingrained in our scriptures. Only the teachers can check this drift of mankind into the ocean of nothingness. It is not enough to dissect the malaise; there have been scholars who have very effectively diagnosed the social issues. In fact, time has come when the philosophers take the lead, and followed by writers, they should impact the thought processes of the upcoming generations, to weed out ambition, and criminal psychology. Scientists who are working with technology and creating new inventions like the AI need to be informed by the saner elements to stop the research which can lead to the extinction of human life. 

The message is very clear. If philosophers and scientists do not come together to halt this suicidal march, there is no hope for mankind.  That is why, I think that after the dystopian times, we need to introduce a new horizon to our life and letters. It is the new world of hope and all efforts of the writers and philosophers, and scientists and technologists should be on the cosmic regeneration of mankind. 

Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, with an opus of 200 plus books, is Laureate of the Seneca, Charter of Morava, Franz Kafka and Maxim Gorky awards, and a Permanent Senator on the International Academy of Rome.   His name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. Anand is a towering literary figure whose work embodies a rare fusion of creativity, intellect, and moral vision. He is not only one of the most influential voices in contemporary Indian poetry, but a global voice, challenging readers to confront the complexities of existence while offering hope through art and ethics.   

• Zulfiya – Not Only a Poet, but a Symbol of Inner Strength

Some people write poetry, while others express the spirit of an entire era through words. Zulfiya was one of those rare figures. She was not only a talented poet, but also a creator who reflected the patience, resilience, and delicate soul of the Uzbek woman, earning a lasting place in the hearts of her people.

Zulfiya was born in 1915 in Tashkent. From childhood, she developed a deep love for literature and began writing poems at a young age. Her life was not easy. The early death of her husband, the famous poet Hamid Olimjon, became a painful turning point in her life. However, she transformed this tragedy not only into sorrow, but into creative strength. In her later poems, themes of loyalty, separation, patience, and inner power became even deeper and more meaningful.

The main characteristic of Zulfiya’s creative work is sincerity. There is no unnecessary exaggeration or artificiality in her poetry. She portrays a woman’s heart, a mother’s love, and devotion to the Motherland with natural and pure emotions. Especially in the poems written during the war years, she reflects the suffering, hope, and resilience of women who remained behind the front lines. In this sense, she was not only a poet, but also a witness of her time.

For many years, Zulfiya actively participated in the literary community and supported young writers. She was recognized not only nationally but also internationally. The establishment of a State Prize named after her clearly shows how important her role is in Uzbek culture.

In my opinion, when one reads Zulfiya’s poetry, it feels like hearing a voice close to one’s own heart. She did not simply write poems; she lived through emotions and made her readers feel them as well. In her lines, feminine tenderness exists alongside strong willpower. That is why she has left an indelible mark on Uzbek literature.

In conclusion, Zulfiya is not only a historical figure but also a symbol of spiritual support and strength. Her creative work remains a lesson for today’s youth: no matter how difficult life may be, the light and faith within the human heart must never fade.

My name is Nozigul Baxshilloyeva. I was born on August 27, 2007, in Bukhara, Uzbekistan. I am currently pursuing a degree in English Philology at the Faculty of English Philology, Uzbekistan State World Languages University. My academic interests include linguistics, translation studies, and English language teaching methodology. I am committed to developing my professional competencies and plan to continue my education at the master’s level in the future, with the aim of becoming a university lecturer.

Toshkentboyeva Xumora

She was born on August 31, 2008, in Shahrisabz city, Qashqadaryo region. From an early age, she was curious about learning and had a strong interest in studying languages. Currently, she is a student at Samarkand State Institute of Foreign Languages, majoring in Foreign Language and Literature. In addition, she holds several international certificates and is among the students who are passionate about reading.

The Path of Development of Amir Temur

Abstract

Amir Temur is regarded as one of the greatest figures who left a profound mark on Uzbek and world politics and civilization. Today, we clearly understand the significance of his rich experience in establishing a just system of state governance. This article discusses Amir Temur’s path of development, his state-building policy, and his reforms in the fields of education and the military. It also highlights the importance of The Code of Temur in public administration and its influence on the worldview of modern students. Furthermore, the article reveals Amir Temur’s role as a great statesman and the processes of development achieved through his policies.

Keywords: Amir Temur, political stability, Timurid state, activity, The Code of Temur, military reforms, education system, historical heritage, Babur, Samarkand, justice, rule of law, centralized state.

Main Part

Amir Temur: His Life and Personality

Amir Temur was born on April 9, 1336, in the village of Khoja Ilgor near Kesh. According to legends, he was born holding a clot of red blood in his hand, and his hair was said to be white like that of an elderly man. Such descriptions were even compared to stories about Genghis Khan.

From a young age, he mastered science, military arts, and archery, possessing a sharp memory and strong determination. His father, Amir Muhammad Taraghay, was from the Barlas clan of Turkic origin and was a respected and influential noble in Transoxiana.

In 1370, after defeating Amir Husayn, he ascended the throne in Samarkand as the ruler of all Transoxiana. He organized campaigns to the Golden Horde, the Ottoman Empire, India, and Iran, establishing a vast empire.

Timurid Military Art

The Timurid army was precisely organized in terms of numbers, its battle formations were well-developed, and it was equipped with the advanced weapons and military technology of its time. Military units were distinguished by their uniforms, banners, and standards.

Their strategies included destroying enemy defenses through various methods, launching sudden strikes on major cities, surrounding enemy forces on a large scale, and defeating them step by step.

Amir Temur and his descendants, especially Babur, made significant contributions to the development of world military art. This has been acknowledged by military specialists and commanders. Known as a great military leader and innovative organizer, Sahibqiran succeeded in creating a disciplined army, wisely managing troops during battles, overcoming obstacles with strategic skill, and maintaining high morale among his soldiers.

The Educational Renaissance during the Reign of Amir Temur

During the Timurid period, special attention was given to education, science, and culture as the foundation of a renaissance. Scholars, poets, and craftsmen were supported, and the development of science was elevated to the level of state policy.

In building a powerful state and enlightened society, Amir Temur relied on ancient Turkic statehood traditions and Islamic law. He deeply understood that the foundation of any development lies in a high-quality education system. Therefore, he first focused on properly establishing education and upbringing and raising the social status of educated and enlightened individuals. Educational institutions were established throughout major cities.

Historical sources indicate that there was a tradition of enrolling boys in school at the age of four years, four months, and four days, and primary education covered all cultural regions of the vast empire.

The Code of Temur

During Amir Temur’s lifetime, a special work entitled The Code of Temur was written, describing the principles of state governance. The work consists of two parts and is considered a priceless historical source of the Middle Ages.

It includes biographical information related to Temur’s life events, his views on military art, and descriptions of state structure and governance. The centralized and powerful state created by Amir Temur was established based on the invaluable principles contained in this work.

The main ideas of the book include:

Justice as the main pillar of the state;

Supremacy of law as equal for all;

A disciplined army as the guarantee of a strong state;

Wisdom and consultation as superior to violence;

Loyalty and diligence as the criteria for holding office.

The historical significance of this work lies in the fact that The Code of Temur is an important source for studying the history of statehood in Central Asia. It served as a political guide for many rulers. Even today, it provides valuable ideas about leadership, justice, and order.

Economic and Cultural Development

After establishing a large state, Amir Temur created conditions for the economic and cultural development of his country. Ancient traditions of past eras were revived in a new historical form. As Transoxiana became a center of trade, economy, and culture across the Near and Middle East, cities such as Samarkand, Kesh, Bukhara, Termez, Tashkent, and Merv flourished and were beautified.

Large buildings of mosques, madrasahs, mausoleums, caravanserais, and bathhouses were constructed. It became customary for every victory to be immortalized in architecture. In his construction activities, Amir Temur pursued specific political goals — the structures he built were meant to demonstrate the power and greatness of his empire.

Conclusion

Amir Temur occupies an important place in history not only as a powerful military commander but also as a great statesman who paved the way for development. His path of progress was achieved through the establishment of a strong state, just governance, and reliance on knowledge and enlightenment.

References

Amir Temur – A Great Military Commander and Statesman. Collection of materials from the Republican Scientific-Practical Conference. 2025, 420 pages.

People’s Word newspaper.

The Code of Temur. Conclusion section, 318 pages.