Duty to parents

Parents are the people who worked hard for us to grow up, always thought of us, and fed us without eating. We must learn to appreciate our family members. Because if we don’t appreciate them now, we won’t regret their absence tomorrow.

Nowadays, some children live separately from their parents or take their parents to nursing homes. These people are those who have lost their innocence and childhood. Such vices are not suitable for human beings. ! It means someone.

We know that there are families that are similar to these families. Of course not!

Some children become rich and lose their poverty and become arrogant. First of all, they don’t see how hard their parents have worked. Parents run for their children, but instead of being thanked when they grow up, they cannot live comfortably.

I came to the conclusion from this essay that no matter how much you achieve and become arrogant, if you don’t respect your parents, none of it is useful. The more good you do to your parents, the more rewards you will get in the next world.

Dear parents, let’s appreciate them!

SIMPLE MATH

Left knee to queen’s bishop six:

the renowned Polish ploy to save the connubial chess.

And the Copernican does hypothesize

his private junction of X’s, Y’s:

Marriage is an intersection of curves;

ergo, we mate with the which who’s most available

at some point, A, where both wes’re most vulnerable.

Zen Mack Sennet monks tell this Pollack koan deep in the abbot’s office.

It ends with this punchline proverb:

“Within the novice virgin, nine mobths after she’s hit

with the-old-man-on-the-mountain’s holy stick,

           wisdom is born.”

And the white bride glides down the stainless aisle

past pews of naked delicatessen racks

like a boiled swollen sausage

as she synchronizes her calendar and stopwatch.

“So now who says that this Kamasutra’s Polish Position is back/to/back?”

And the new kielbasa mama splits into a smile.

“I guess I took too serious what he only poked at me in fun.”

SOUL’S ADVICE

“Stop hiding,” urged Soul. “Get close.”

In love and hope I strode unclothed

to your home — you rushed doors closed.

Disarmed unmasked raw revealed —

And all hope of love shrinks, reviled.

“Bewail,” Soul whispers. “Reveil.”

DESCENSUS INFEROS

Our day closes with roses and gold

and soon we’ll night

by a river of silver ores

beneath a banner

of christmastree stars

and we’ll exchange us presents,

tinsel medallions and

lovingcups of liquid chromium,

and one well will fill another

while, beyond the where-we-are,

your world still worlds its way.

Our tomorrow too will resurrect

in a flamingo and salmon dawn

and then

eventually

end again

in honey and

blood-oranges.

SYMBIONTS

An oxpecker and its rhino.

Lovers in an inexplicable bird cage,

opposites caught despite themselves

in an intimate unity of self and other

becoming other and remaining self.

Strong talons in-digging tough hides

hunting for those hidden ticks

that neverend neverend

However many these lovers may be

they are as trinitarian as time —

a divine Now invisibly linked

to the Not Yet Now to Now No More

becoming self remaining other.

EGONOMICS

This I between my left I

and my right, Is divided from themselves

by the selves I am not,

by the identity of their opposites.

The well of self is narrow and deep,

the sky of soul is wide

and deeper,

and they are joined by a shallow rain.

This is how the All coheres.

The now is the what between hull and coral.

Nothingness is just another existence,

a choir that accompanies my dances.

Among my many ises,

in order to anticipate my pasts, I can see all the futures that used to be.

The present is another sequence of wases and willbes,

a passage between being well and killed,

one way from sleep to sleep,

a blurred and fading journal

of my vacations and my trials,

of webs and webs of sometimes.

The past has many paths.

Life is a flood of poetry: a line of thin rain

followed by lines of sunlight

and lines of more rain.

I live within the caesura of my skin

but my plural bodies wear

too many faces,

store too many heads.

So, I am this uncertain shadow,

a stranger to myself,

the corpse between my mes,

a confused collection

of doubtful witnesses

and contradictory laws.

(Or, rather,

though my molecules stay in flux

I’m almost always myself

even though I’m not the one I once

was

and not the one I’ll be.)

I endlessly create myself.

I lodge inside the impersonator I call my body,

I forge this counterfeit worldly disguise.

I never go home with the I I left with.

My mind is the smithy of all idols.

The symbols it imposes are blankly neutral

at the first before they become the crowds of gods.

I’ve clothed these naked signs with universal aspirations —

for justice/mercy, foreordained free will,

for blending all-power to my desires.

The wise magi

found a god

in a feedbox;

so I can locate mine any where

and then I can exist slowly

like mountains, seas, and stars.

I am lived by beings (my genes)

who incarcerate my existence.

Though the rituals of seduction are usually mutual,

generation nevertheless begins as corruption.

To proliferate this me

I need poetry and conception:

I need your body of verses

and I need your erogenous one

to unfold and spread like morning lilies

while starlings sing their Sumerian songs.

Then the urgency of the mind

meets the wisdom of the flesh,

the cavalry in my entrails

encounters the fanatic in your womb.

In the organ dialectic

the Old I disappears into a new text.

Thoughts hide inside words and words within thought.

Wordthought erects evolution,

poetry engineers environment.

And yet, the poet precedes the poem

and is yet the product of the page,

as the poem also precedes the poet

in the merger of image emotion and happenstance.

My language speaks itself

but as a mirror that must reverse.

It fixes and flatters, divulges deceives displays detects distorts,

memorializes my veneration of self-lies,

encourages my construction of shadow.

This is why

I confuse reflection with appearance (honesty with vanity).

The All comes in many fashions, styles, and designs.

My cradle is my casket, I that corpse between my mes.

Everyone lives with death, one of many infinities,

though both death and life are empty phantoms.

Death lives even before birth,

and our final death is not life’s only one —

and not even its worst.

But this instant is my only eternity. So,

dispose of my corpse as you will, w

ith coals or shovels.

The I between my left and my right

will unite at last!

But after immortality, what?

Sea

Hey sea, take me in your arms
How much I love you
Even though I can’t fit in a big city
I’ll tell you everything.

Hey sea, calm reigns in you
The waves don’t crash, go to the shore
The dawn when people are striving for the shore
Take me far away.

Hey sea, I’m rushing towards you
High mountains stand between you
Your destination is far away, the roads are long
I will definitely go and find a way.

Hey sea, all the love is in you
There is light, there is magic in your beauty
You only listen and laugh quietly
Because you have love, loyalty, and affection.

Hey sea, you live in my imagination
The waves beat softly in my heart
I know! You have been waiting for me, sea
I will go to you, I am close.

                 Nilufar Tokhtaboyeva

Uzbekistan 

We Are Children!

We make the world go round

but we are taken to the ground

We make ourselves ready to be used

but we are abused!

We make the world a proud place

but we are pushed aside in many ways!

We make up the figure

but we  are not shown the gesture!

We make forgiveness our priority

but we are faced with cruelty!

We make the truth our watch-word

but we are influenced by the Liar’s Rod!

We make the world one

but we are treated as none!

We make freedom play out itself

but we are stuck in the growing years of  self!

We make ourselves happy at school

but we are not just cool!

We make our elders better brethren

but we are children!

(E)

Family

I am the symbol of unity

I am the showcase of magnanimity

I am the reason for marriage

I am not regarding age

I am the room where my members rage

(Yet) I am the reason for the home

I am the husband’s and wife’s foam

I am the reason man and wife stay warm

I am the inspiration behind children

I am the very society’s pen

I am “Love Reign Supreme”

I ensure all members are at their prime

I put the very needed effects in the home on time

“Who are you?” asks Mr. Rhyme.

I simply reply: I am Family.

Nizomova Ismigul Zarif qizi, Shakhrisabz State Pedagogical Institute Master’s student

Meeting

       Eyes meet.  The boy smiles at the girl.  The girl noticed it.  His heart began to beat as if it had burst out of its sheath.  He slowly looked at the ground and asked permission from his companion.

      Wow, man was created and he is destined to descend into a place of testing called the world.  Man’s life, love, career and even death is a test.  Only the Almighty knows the greatness and smallness of the trial and the level of his servant in the presence of God.  But love was not a simple test either.  It was a great test.  It was a hard test.  It was a test that every lover could not bear and could not receive his love.  It was a test of pure love, similar to the test of Yusuf and Zulaikha.  This is what the girl thought (she realized it when she grew up).   Thinking about it, the girl was at a loss for words.  He looked only into the eyes of the man in front of him.  He looked into the eyes of his beloved Suigani, the one he couldn’t forget even after years, the one he hoped to be together in heaven after the separation of the world.  The eyes in front of him smiled.  The girl couldn’t laugh.  The feelings are confused.

How must she feel, poor girl?  He didn’t notice as he walked out of his office.  What if we worked on the same team, if our gazes met every day.  He didn’t even know how he stopped the car with such thoughts in his head.  He cried on the way.  From the window of the car, she admired the beauty of the countryside in her youth, where she dreamed of going as a bride when she grew up.  But no such luck.   I wish it were as beautiful as this scene!  Sometimes ordinary eyes are not enough to notice beauty.  To realize the truth of beauty, besides two eyes, one also needs sight, that is, the eye of the heart.

Among the people of our time, those eyes are a blessing given only to the beloved of Allah.  “We didn’t get it,” the girl read.  ‘Well, I was young, but he is a man.  Are you happy now?  Is the world beautiful without me for the man who once said the world is beautiful with me?

      A few years ago, the girl noticed that the hardships, aches and pains in her heart began to affect not only her soul, but her body as well.  He realized this again when he looked in the mirror in his room.  Complaining of fever, headache, insomnia, he began to cry again in his dark room.  Complaining to anyone.  There is a reward for the pains that were not told to the mother.  This girl has pains and sorrows that she has not even told her mother about.  How can she tell her mother that the one love of her life, the God-given love of her life, has re-entered her life and begun to affect her feelings?

      No! No! I can’t tell her.  She records the sounds of her heart in her journal.  She seals it to make it easier for her.  Why is he smiling at me?  Or laughing at me?  Why was I surrounded by incomprehensible feelings: sadness, humiliation, crying, deceit?

      I was someone who loved, fought and lost.  That’s all.  I confessed.  My goal is near the valley of loneliness.  He loves me as his slave.

      Years later, she realized  That the only one she should trust, love, rely on and tell of her suffering was Allah.  Now, as always, she remembered a verse of her favorite song, “They don’t call him a rich man, he has no country, for he’s a piece of heart.”  “Yes, I have no country to my liking.  I must keep this wealth and riches pure and prepare to meet God who created me, loved me, made me love, tested me, blessed me and made me dearer than all.” 

“In sha Allah, the trials of life will one day end.  The answers to the exam will be tested.  And we will be victorious.  Our meeting will be beautiful.  Because you saved your money, I kept my love in my heart pure, and because I was able to laugh in this life even if it was hard.  My liquid!  Go and enjoy the ocean of knowledge, your students.  I said: “Allah.  I have a sea of patience.  With wishes for a beautiful meeting,” said the girl, entrusting her beloved to God, and went to sleep.

Your Last Video

There’s our Jo Jo, in the video she

took of herself preparing a recipe for

braised beef neck bone and seasoned turnips

only a week or so before the accident

that devastated us. For the longest time

I couldn’t bring myself to watch the clip,

sorely aware that hand, pinching the salt,

busy with the knife and onion, now lay cold

in cherrywood in the Wisconsin earth.

The oaks through winter aptly wore no green.

Wind ushered cloudy skies. I’d forgotten

about it altogether. Then one day

there it was in my files, jo jo_s julia—

hovering out on a new PC’s large screen,

her voice chirping on to my astonishment.

Stir the vinegar briskly, adding oil,

a drop or two—oops, three… Strange how cooking

draws out the intensity in her, the swallowed

husky voice, her look’s aimed fire.

Why doesn’t Jo Jo smile? her mom frowned.

That isn’t my little girl. True to the mother

that somehow may never be consoled.

She was determined to succeed at everything,

shadow and pith, the hairbrush in her mirror

to the subtleties in settlement depositions—

vying for partnership in the firm.

Clyde her husband didn’t grasp every hand

extended from the sleeves of their tailored suits.

Her driver’s heavy foot was notorious.

Either you slow down, I once barked at her

from my squirming passenger seat,

or stop the damn car and let me out.

I’ll walk, I told her. Kill yourself if you want to.

I told her that. I didn’t mean it that way

of course, and how I deal with having said it

is with admiration for her persistence that could

make me say a thing because I meant it

beyond how out of line it was. Courage,

I often wonder, or restraint from offending,

which is the greater virtue? Honesty or kindness—

wholly ignoring the context of that morning

as though it were all fate for a type

of personality, all her will. And nothing to do with

the unseen ice on the road into the curve.