The Mother God

The Mother God goes walking gracefully

Without the worries of the world

Stepping madly on the edge

Of the conceptual lake.

Sunny climes and tall pine trees

A cottage of silver and spice

Dwelling for unclouded love

Of every rock and stone.

In Memoriam, Johnny Thunders

I dreamt I met Johnny Thunders, and what a resplendent dream it was. To see him sprawled out in a near comatose sleep, and wake up and get another shot. We were sitting in his car, I showed him my work, he thought it was good. I knew he had only a limited time, so I tried to pick out my best poems. As he was heating up the spoon, what a tragic figure he became. I knew he had to leave. But he thought my work was good. He said he had to go soon, on some sort of delivery run. Never got a chance to hear him play.

In the early morning outside in the drizzle of rain, I saw him get up and leave. Shaking off the effects of drug-induced sleep, he got in his car and drove away. And what must have gone through his mind in those final hours: an absurd man willing to face the uncharted desert, choosing lucidity and consciousness over hope and belief, able to face the world without despair, yet careful not to go forth unguarded. The thing is the action—the will and determination to shoulder responsibility in the face of vacant, desolate, detached silence, and to go forth. To continue on destroying the maps, knowing the chartered course is wrong. When one is realized, the desert seems deep and fathomless and goes on eternally. One must have courage and a certain muted insensitivity, for man’s domain is not one of solace for the meek and faithful and all lives irrevocably come to an end. 

Yet that does not stop this absurd man as he stops, takes in the morning dew, prepares himself for another shot, starts up the car and moves ever forward. Stagnation and reintegration must always be avoided at all cost. Such hope is detrimental to this man who suffers all the more for it. I watched him pull out and continue deep into the bowels of the desert. Surely, this would be the last anyone would see of him.

There would be no maps left behind, as it should be. For no maps would suffice in an unchartable area. And nothing postpones the day of reckoning, no acts of rebellion will save oneself, yet the warrior rebels to the end. In such an act—an ungraceful man shrouded in illusions throughout his life at last shows his nobility—and one must conclude that all is well.

Burning, Burning, Amerikhan Inferno

I’ll bet you didn’t know the Amerikhans were allowed to build their own facility at the Olympics in Milano. Burning, burning. It wasn’t put up for debate; the alternative—a full blockade of Italia. When the tanks rolled over frozen corpses, you believed yourselves superior, from the land of the free. You believed blacklisting Dellusian athletes was just fine. You believed they could compete only by denying their country. Now you find yourself in the same jam—but they don’t dare ban the good ole U. V. of A.  

The facility spirals concentrically, down, down, round and around. The lowest, deepest level—burning, burning, frozen ice like Frownland—is reserved for gold medal winners who protest against the United Vassals of Amerikhan.  

The reptilian Vice Premier makes snap judgments, a drumhead trial if you will—this being foreign territory, at least for now. His long, iguana-like tail coils round and round the condemned, flinging them down, down far below to their allotted space. The motion is so fast it blurs, casting down half the contingent, until El Presidente calls:  

“Good work, good work—but leave some left to compete.”  

Burning, burning. The disco inferno under the mirrorball continues on.

Joey Whitton is a poet with a BA from the University of South Alabama. Born in Salem, Massachusetts, and raised in San Diego, he has lived in Mobile, Alabama, since the late 1990s. Hardcore punk has inspired his writing for decades. His poetry has appeared in Flipside and is forthcoming in Misfit Magazine, Sky Island Journal and Poetry Pacific.

What is Breast Cancer?

Breast cancer is a disease in which cells in the breast grow uncontrollably and form a malignant tumor.

It occurs mainly in women, but in rare cases it can also develop in men.

There is no single exact cause of breast cancer. 

However, several factors may increase the risk:

Family history of breast cancer

Increasing age

Obesity

Lack of physical activity

Alcohol consumption

Hormonal changes

Sometimes breast cancer can develop even without any known risk factors.

In many cases, the disease does not cause pain in its early stages.

Therefore, it is very important to be aware of the following signs:

A hard lump in the breast

Change in the shape of the breast

Skin changes that look like “orange peel”

Nipple turning inward

Bloody or unusual discharge from the nipple

Swelling or a lump in the armpit

To diagnose breast cancer, doctors may perform several tests:

Mammography – an X-ray examination of the breast

Breast ultrasound – an ultrasound scan of the breast

Breast biopsy – removing a small tissue sample for examination

Treatment options include:

Surgery

Chemotherapy

Radiation therapy

Hormonal therapy

The doctor chooses the treatment depending on the stage of the disease.

Can breast cancer be prevented?

The following habits may help reduce the risk:

Eating a healthy diet

Maintaining a healthy weight

Regular physical activity

Limiting alcohol consumption

Checking your breasts once a month for any changes

After the age of 40, regular mammography screening is also recommended.

Maxmasharifova Shodiyabegim

A prospective specialist acquiring knowledge in Economics and Pedagogy

The Motif of Fear in Abdulla Qahhor’s Short Story “Daxshat”:

The Clash Between Psychology and Social Environment

Abstract

This article analyzes the short story “Daxshat” by the prominent Uzbek writer Abdulla Qahhor. In the work, the motif of fear is not presented merely as a narrative element, but as a manifestation of the violation of individual social rights and profound psychological suffering. The story is examined from the perspective of modern psychology, particularly through the theory of fear developed by Sigmund Freud. The literary-critical views of Ozod Sharafiddinov and Matyoqub Qo‘shjonov are also discussed in a scholarly and publicistic manner.

Keywords: Abdulla Qahhor, “Daxshat”, Unsin, motif of fear, social oppression, realism, cemetery.

Abdulla Qahhor entered Uzbek literature like “a ray of light.” Each of his short stories represents a small world; however, carrying the weight of this world requires considerable emotional and intellectual readiness from the reader. Despite their concise form, Qahhor’s stories possess deep psychological intensity.

As literary scholar Ozod Sharafiddinov noted:

“Qahhor turns his gaze to such layers of the human soul where the boundary between fear and courage, baseness and nobility, is thinner than a strand of hair.”

The image of Unsin in Abdulla Qahhor’s short story “Daxshat” exists precisely on this fragile psychological boundary. Analyzing Unsin’s inner experiences through the lens of modern psychology—specifically Sigmund Freud’s theory of fear—helps reveal the core essence of the work. Freud classified fear into three types: real fear, neurotic fear, and moral fear. In Unsin’s character, all three forms tragically collide.

Real Fear and the External Environment

According to Freud, real fear arises from a tangible danger in the external world. For Unsin, the nighttime cemetery, wild animals, or corpses represent real sources of danger. However, Qahhor’s artistic mastery lies in using real fear merely as a background element rather than the central focus. When Unsin enters the cemetery, his mind sends a signal to “escape,” yet social pressure and coercion shackle his movements and suppress this instinct.

Moral Fear and the Superego

Moral fear emerges from a person’s sense of responsibility toward their conscience and the moral norms imposed by society. Freud explains this phenomenon through the concept of the Superego. Unsin fears not the horror of the cemetery as much as Dodkho’s wrath and the violation of his honor and dignity. His tragedy lies in the fact that the Superego—social obligation—defeats his instinct for survival. Although he fears death, he trembles even more at the prospect of living in forced submission with Dodkho.

Neurotic Fear

The most critical moment in the story occurs when Unsin’s foot sinks into the mud and he imagines that he has stepped on a corpse. This episode is a classic example of neurotic fear as defined by Freud. Here, the threat does not originate from the external world but from the individual’s internal imagination. Under extreme emotional tension and panic, rational thinking collapses. Unsin’s unconscious fears are awakened, and reality is interpreted in a horrifying manner. As a result, the human psyche cannot withstand such pressure.

Regarding this scene, Ozod Sharafiddinov states:

“Unsin’s death is not merely a cardiac arrest, but the collapse of a human imagination that crashes into the terrifying wall it has created itself.”

Literary scholar Matyoqub Qo‘shjonov writes:

“It was not the cemetery that killed Unsin, but the remnants of outdated traditions that enslaved his will and the violation of human dignity that led him to this state.”

Conclusion

The motif of fear in Abdulla Qahhor’s “Daxshat” serves as a symbolic representation of a society in which personal freedom is suppressed. Through Unsin’s tragic death, the author exposes the ugly reality of his era and highlights the individual’s psychological loneliness. The story demonstrates that fear is not solely generated by external threats, but is intensified by inner powerlessness and social oppression.

In my view, for contemporary readers, this story stands as a profound moral lesson emphasizing the importance of protecting human dignity and liberating individuals from the shackles of fear and ignorance.

References

Qahhor, A. Selected Works. Tashkent: G‘afur G‘ulom Publishing House, 2010.

Sharafiddinov, O. The Difficult Path of Creativity. Tashkent: Literature and Art, 1980.

Qo‘shjonov, M. The Mastery of Abdulla Qahhor. Tashkent: Fan, 1988.

Freud, S. Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis. (translated edition)

Hadaa Sendoo 

Children’s Prayer at Dawn 

I wake up from the dream

That lights our way home

I’ve lost my favorite schoolbag

And colored pencil

I asked myself sadly

If I had a sacred school

I will study hard. And I am

Still singing and dancing

If I had the wings of Angels

I’d fly to heaven

Perhaps, there, no bleeding

And the pain of the dawn

  …..

I Pray for the Silence of the Rivers 

My heart, this morning

With anxiety for someone or a place

Can I be the green wind

Over all countries

I’m living, today

I don’t feel happier than yesterday

I pray for the silence of the rivers

And the quiet night of the earth

Hadaa Sendoo is a world-renowned Mongolian poet, translator, and literary critic. He is considered one of the leading voices in contemporary poetry, and his work is a unique milestone in modern poetry worldwide. His work often explores the intersection of nature, nomadic traditions, and universal human suffering. Critics note his ability to blend traditional Mongolian subjects with modernist and avant-garde sensibilities. Sendoo’s poems have been translated into more than 40 languages. In 2012, at the Poetry Parnassus festival in London, where his poems were literally dropped by helicopter over the city as part of a “Rain of Poems” event. He has received numerous honors, including: Poet of the Millennium Award (2000). Mongolian Writers Union Prize (2009). World Peace Prize (2019). 

Meadow Mystic

Inside the meadow there was a stand of trees and inside there was the cool shade and whimsical winds sometimes made a sound through the branches. I stood there and rested, halfway through my sojourn exploring nature. There were times outside of there that blue butterflies were thriving and many grasshoppers bloomed, plus some spiders. 

Up above in the summers a blue sky often, but, if it turned and became overcast and that atmospheric energy entered the air, that sort of ‘before the storms’ feeling, well that was just as good as I wasn’t that far from the paths that led out and it was also an interesting change to feel that charge in the air. 

And in the four seasons, that area was a dutiful and true friend, for it at its base never wavered. I think I realize now that the truth of the truth of the truth of the real and actual truth is that that area became along the way a special and loved and loving destination, a marriage of sorts between a poet and the lands where the walking would help the poet go a symbolic and literal step more towards becoming a mystic. 

Spirit message. Intuition. Renewal of the mind, body, and spirit. self-healing. Kindness. Clarity. A structure out of regular psychological sets and more centred in the universal or cosmic. Society was literally and figuratively so far away in those moments, times with feet grounded on the earth, and say, the summer fields colourful or the spring universe beginning to bloom, but also the autumnal grounds with leaves or after, the wild winter, its snow resting upon the world’s reeds, branches, and pathways. Yes, it was a fine place to be and learn, to get ideas for poems, stories, and pictures. And to naturally expand consciousness. 

Sons of Turan

Soft winds caress the silent groves,
Along the roads thin pine rows rise.
A raven circles — distant envoy,
A lone horse wanders under open skies.

Here mountains stand and valleys widen,
Among a thousand lands on earth —
No place has ever been more precious,
No soil of greater sacred worth.

The ruins of forgotten cities,
Old fortresses of ancient days,
The lands once held by noble peoples —
Massagetae and Saka ways.

So many wars we fought for freedom —
No count can hold the tears we’ve known:
For land and honor, truth and homeland,
For sacred right to guard our own.

Here came the early Arab marches,
Met by lions proud and brave.
Here rode the khans of Genghis’ empire,
And blood was spilled in every wave.

Yet through the storms and burning ages,
Through iron will and destiny,
The sons of sacred Turan guarded
Their living flame of liberty.

From grief, from chains and bitter sorrow
Rose simple fighters, firm and strong.
Fathers and Jadids stood together,
Side by side where they belong.

Unbroken stands our spirit, rising,
High and steadfast through the years.
Wide-hearted, open, kind and noble —
The Uzbek people persevere.

Kholbekov Ozodbek Makhammatovich

                

The Bridge of Colors

It matters not the clay that shaped the jar,
nor the wind that blew through the flute of bone,
art is the thread, subtle yet well-known,
that binds all maps into one single star.
The hand that weaves, the voice that tells the tale,
belong to no shore, nor a single wall;
they are lights that guide through the future’s call
with rhymes of silk and silver’s trail.
Let the brush travel through paths of earth,
let the dance awaken the sleeping square,
for a statue is life that breathes the air,
erasing the hate and giving peace birth.
Peoples of the world, open every door:
let your neighbor’s song become your own way,
for art is the sun, the wine, oand the day
that joins our distant souls forevermore.

Fernando Josè Martínez Alderete

Mèxico

The Sowing of Silence

Peace is not born from the coldness of steel,
nor from signatures on paper, torn and hollow;
it grows in the furrow where wounds start to heal,
between the stranger and the friend we follow.
It is a language where borders are gone,
trading the rifle for the grain of wheat,
where hands that once fought, before the dawn,
now build the shelter, the bread, and the seat.
Let the walls of shadow and fear now fall,
let the echo of hate be lost in the gale,
for more strength is found in a finger’s call
that reaches for another, beyond the veil.
It matters not language, the faith, or the skin,
the earth is the map of a single heartbeat;
we are the lineage that lets grace in,
leaving the ghosts of the past in retreat.
Peace is the bridge that spans the abyss,
the table is set, the light on the face,
to find in the other a kinship like this:
that their home is our home, a shared holy space.

Fernando Josè Martínez Alderete

Mèxico

Dr. Fernando Martinez Alderete

Writer, poet, theater actor, radio producer. Born in Leon Guanajato Mexico on April 21, 1977, President of Mil Mentes por México in Guanajuato. Dr. HC, global leadership and literature.

His poems were published in more than 200 anthologies in fifteen countries around the world and he is author of ten books, of poetry, short stories and novels.