水心詩篇

1. 言葉のささやき（スコールとの共鳴）

言葉がささやく

スコールの音に混じって、

タイ語が空気を切り裂く前に

既にそこに存在している、と。

市場のドリアンの香りを超えて、

言葉は染みついた足跡を残していく。

言葉がささやく

聞け、雨宿りの軒下で、と。

ここにあったものは

オーブン並みの暑さの残響だ。

静寂を得よ、

托鉢の時間に静かにあれ。

言葉を受け取り、「サワディー・クラップ」と言ってみよ。

言葉を超えて、言葉はひとつの傷

そこからチャオプラヤーが流れ続ける。

言葉がささやく

アロイ、マイ・アロイ、アロイ、 マイ・アロイ。

言葉がささやく

ナムチャイ。

言葉がささやく

来て、一緒に話そう、 触れ合おう、来て。

言葉がささやく

「プート・タイ・マイ・ダイ」と。

2.ここにも

スントーンプーに捧げる

この胸の奥で震えるものは何なのか、

あなたという名前のない存在に

どのような言葉を捧げればよいのか？

タイの夕暮れ、甘い喜びの記憶

マンゴスチンの香りが風に舞い

エメラルドの海が永遠を歌う――

かすかな霊的な予感が

蝶のように心に舞い降りて

あなたの面影の前で

私は静寂の祈りとなる。

私の瞳に映る黄昏の光

唇に残る塩の味わい

股間に宿る生命の熱

手のひらに宿る大地の温もり…

そして心は、愛しい人よ

心はどこに隠れているのか？

ここにも、そこにも、あそこにも

あなたの存在が波紋のように広がり

すべての場所に、すべての瞬間に

あなたの唇の記憶が

やわらかく触れてくる。

バンコクの朝の詩篇（スコールの祝福）

i) 既にここに

朝、そしてバンコクは 既にここにある。

私たちは一緒に到着した アソーク駅に

日本の少女たち

その名は「ナムチャイ」と「カムホーン」。

ii) スコールの歌

疲れることなく

朝の混沌を讃え、

スコールの音が

都市の眠りを引き裂く

天然のエアコンの祝福として。

iii) ただ

ただ菩提樹のたてがみが

光と闇の間に引かれた線をぼかす

ただ心がその境界を曖昧にする

マンゴスチンとドリアンの間を。

iv) 顔

静かで熱い風が肌を撫で、

夜明けの光が葉に優しく横たわる

バンコクは

ゆっくりと、目覚めていく。

至る所で

人々の姿が現れる。

v) 通して

窓辺のバナナの木、

ノート、ペン、光の火花。

花と緑のカーテンを通して、

トゥクトゥクの音、

街の人々の「アロイ！」という声。

1. Whispers of Words (Resonance with the Squall)

Words whisper—

blending into the sound of the squall,

already existing

before Thai slices through the air.

Beyond the durian scent of the market,

words leave behind a trace,

a stain of footsteps.

Words whisper—

“Listen, beneath the eaves of shelter.”

What was here

was the lingering echo

of oven-like heat.

Seek silence,

be still at the hour of alms.

Receive the word and try saying:

“Sawasdee krap.”

Beyond words,

words are a wound

from which the Chao Phraya keeps flowing.

Words whisper—

“Aroi, mai aroi, aroi, mai aroi.”

Words whisper—

“Namjai.”

Words whisper—

“Come, let’s speak,

let’s touch,

come.”

Words whisper—

“Puut Thai mai dai.”

—

2. Here, Too

*Dedicated to Sunthorn Phu*

What trembles deep within this chest—

what words can I offer

to your nameless presence?

A Thai twilight,

memories of sweet joy.

The scent of mangosteen dances in the wind,

an emerald sea sings of forever—

A faint spiritual premonition

descends like a butterfly into my heart.

Before the trace of you,

I become a prayer of silence.

The twilight reflected in my eyes,

the taste of salt lingering on my lips,

the heat of life dwelling at my loins,

the warmth of earth resting in my palms…

And still, my heart—

my dear,

where does the heart hide?

Here, there, and beyond,

your presence ripples out like rings on water.

In every place, in every moment,

the memory of your lips

gently touches me.

—

**Morning Psalms of Bangkok (Blessings of the Squall)**

i) Already Here

Morning—

and Bangkok is already here.

We arrived together

at Asoke Station.

Two Japanese girls:

Namjai and Khamhon by name.

—

ii) Song of the Squall

Tirelessly,

it praises the morning’s chaos—

the squall’s sound

tears through the city’s sleep

as a blessing,

nature’s air conditioner.

—

iii)Simply

Simply,

the mane of the bodhi tree

softens the line between light and shadow.

Simply,

the heart blurs the boundary

between mangosteen and durian.

—

iv) Faces

A quiet, hot wind brushes the skin.

Dawn’s light gently lies on the leaves.

Bangkok

slowly,

begins to awaken.

Everywhere—

faces begin to appear.

v) Through

By the window,

a banana tree,

a notebook, a pen,

and sparks of light.

Through curtains

of flowers and green,

the sound of tuk-tuks,

and voices in the street

shouting, “Aroi!”

My Mother, My Mother…

My mother, my mother — my paradise,
My dearest one, my precious prize.
You are my greatest strength and grace,
My flower, my blossom — my warm embrace.

You are the one, my only guide,
With endless love you’re by my side.
Your face — a glimpse of heaven’s light,
Your words — they make my world so bright.

My mother, my mother, may smiles stay,
May joy surround you every day.
Your prayers — my shield, my dawn,
My mother, my mother — my forever sun!

Rashidova Muallima was born on March 28, 2013, in Qorako‘l district, Bukhara region. She is a student of class 5-A at School No. 20. She’s participated in numerous competitions and is the author of more than 20 poems. Her creative works have been featured in anthologies such as “The Youth of New Uzbekistan” and “The Destination of Purpose.   

Beware the Green Creatures in River Boots                      (270 words)

Beware the green creatures in river boots; you cannot sleep here beware! Beware! Beware the green creatures in river boots; you still cannot sleep here beware! Beware! Beware the green creatures in river boots; you still cannot sleep here beware! Beware! why should you be allowed why should this be allowed when you prove in each moment again and again you have no idea of how to obey [^{but beware the green creatures in river boots; you still cannot sleep here beware! Beware!}] why should you be allowed why should this be allowed when you prove in each moment again and again you have no idea of how to obey timpa timpa [_{but beware the green creatures} you still cannot sleep here _{in river boots; you still cannot sleep here beware! Beware}^!] timpani timpani timpani  ^{why should you} you still cannot sleep here  ^{be allowed} boom boom boom  ^{why should this be allowed when you prove} you still cannot _{still cannot} ^{still cannot} sleep here ^{in each momen} [Shout Proust!] ^{again and again you have no idea of how to obey} hit the damned timpani timpani timp timp timp timpani _{but beware the green creatures in river boots; you still cannot sleep here}  boom _beware boom_{! Beware}^! boom boom boom boom ] _{why should you be allowed why should this be allowed when you}  the cleanliness of the over-hosing system would become a prime factor later in this tragedy  _{prove in each moment again and again you have no idea of how to obey} [_{but beware the green creatures in river boots; you still cannot sleep here beware! Beware}^!]    

A TRUE FRIEND – THE MOST PRECIOUS TREASURE IN THE HEART

Shomurotova Sevinchoy

Urgench State Pedagogical Institute

Primary Education Department

4th-year student

Who is a friend? Every person thinks about this question at least once in their lifetime. For some, a friend is a companion in joy; for others – a shoulder in sorrow. In fact, friendship is an invisible yet strong bond between two hearts. This bond is not tied by interest, but by loyalty, trust, and affection.

Every person meets many acquaintances, peers, and colleagues throughout life. But not all of them can be called friends. Because friendship is a feeling that finds its way from heart to heart and is strengthened by loyalty, trust, and love. The value of friendship becomes especially clear in difficult times and during trials. A true friend cannot be bought with money – such a friend is found only through life’s challenges. A true friend is one of the rarest and most priceless gifts Allah grants to the human heart.

I can proudly say: I too have such a priceless gift – a true friend! Along with granting me the blessing of studying at a higher education institution, Allah also placed in my path a faithful, sincere, kind-hearted friend who is close to my heart. Throughout my life, I have met many people who claimed to be “friends.” Unfortunately, among them were many who wore the mask of friendship only for their own benefit – they were near in times of joy, but far away in sorrow. They stayed with me only until they reached their own goals and then moved on with their lives. However, when my student life began, a new chapter opened for me – in that chapter, I understood the true meaning of genuine friendship. Being a friend does not only mean walking beside someone – it means living in their heart, leaving a sincere and lasting mark on their soul. No matter how many definitions I give, it still doesn’t seem enough – because my dear friend Gulshoda is worthy of each and every one of them.

Gulshoda is one of the greatest blessings Allah has given me. She has always been by my side in any situation – rejoicing in my happiness, sharing in my sorrow, and even being happier than me in my successes. Every day spent with her is one of the brightest pages in my life. Always reminding me of Allah, bringing light into my heart, lifting my spirit with patience and faith in every difficult moment – this is my advisor, my beloved, my kind support: Gulshoda. She is not just a friend – she is Allah’s mercy gifted to me, one of the most beautiful human feelings that fills my heart.

True friendship is the greatest blessing and the biggest treasure in life. Such a friend doesn’t always have to be physically near – they live in your heart and are present in your prayers. If a person finds even one true friend in their lifetime, they are indeed very fortunate. And I consider myself one of those lucky people – because Allah gifted me with a friend like Gulshoda. I will cherish this friendship in my heart with love until the end of my life.

Stay healthy and happy always, my dear person – Gulshoda!

Memoirs of Jumaboy Allaberganov
(Recorded by his granddaughter Muxlisa Khaytbayeva)

First of all, I must say that it gives me great pride to speak about our intelligent friend and contemporary, Omon Matjon.
Omonboy and I studied at the same school. He was a very diligent student, passionate about literature and history, and loved reading books. I can’t recall a time when Omonboy was just idly playing in the streets. He was always seen flipping through a newspaper or a book. He would somehow persuade his father to buy him new books, no matter how difficult it was.

He constantly engaged our school’s history teacher, Mr. Do’simmat, with various questions and eagerly sought answers. This curiosity is clearly reflected in the works he wrote later in life.
He loved his homeland deeply and beautifully expressed the history of Khorezm through legends and stories.

Thanks to his great talent, Omonboy earned everyone’s respect while still in school. His poems and articles regularly appeared in the school’s wall newspapers. Nearly all the students knew his creative works by heart.

He quickly became the pride of our school. His first poem was published in the district newspaper under the title “The Fish and the Rotten Net”:
The fish and the rotten net,
Quarreled hard, you bet.
Said the net: “Hey fishy boy,
You’re in trouble, you’ve lost your joy…”

After that, his poems began to appear in various publications one after another.
Even during his military service — this must have been in the 1960s — his poems were published in the journal “Sharq Yulduzi” (Star of the East).
All of us peers felt great pride in his achievements and rising fame among the people.

Omonboy entered the world of literature in 1965–66. To see him sharing the stage with such great poets of the time as Abdulla Oripov and Erkin Vohidov, enriching the literary garden, was a double joy for all of us.
Today, Omonboy is known to the entire nation as Omon Matjon. He became a prominent representative of the Matjonov family from the village of Bog‘olon, and through his work, he made our village known around the world.

His poems quickly gained popularity.
Who from our village does not remember the following lines?
“Even if autumn strews the roads with leaves,
Even if snow covers the whole world,
Even if spring bursts forth with joy,
One day, I will cross your door.”
With his sharp pen and rich creative legacy, he continues to delight our people.

At the same time, Omonboy played a key role in planting fruit trees over nearly 500 hectares of land in our village, helping transform Bog‘olon into a true land of orchards.
In 1988, we brought fruit saplings from Andijan and together established the “Yoshlik” (Youth) Orchard. It was during this time that I truly realized just how deep his respect was for his birthplace and native village.
Overall, Omon Matjon has been serving our nation and people with great devotion through his noble deeds.
The library operating in our village today also bears his name. He has gifted readers a vast spiritual legacy.

As a People’s Poet of Uzbekistan and winner of the Hamza Prize, our fellow villager Omon Matjon has become a beloved and respected figure thanks to his diverse creative activity and great achievements.
In my opinion, when Omonboy writes about our village, it feels as though he is putting into words the emotions and thoughts we ourselves could not express — and doing so beautifully, simply, and most importantly, deeply.
That is why we hold such deep respect for creative people.
There is no doubt that his works will live on forever and will continue to hold a special place in the hearts of readers.

Khaytbayeva Mukhlisa Mukhtorovna was born on July 11, 2004, in Yangibozor district, Khorezm region, Uzbekistan. She is currently a third-year student at the Faculty of Philology and Arts at Urgench State University, named after Abu Rayhon Beruni.

Inspired by the photos of Eugene Meatyard

Abstraction: chalk with nails

lying one against the other

amid layers of dust

settled beneath eraser clapped,

chalk marked

board,

both nail and chalk

ten penny sized,

one blunt & reused many times,

the others hard & permanent,

unscathed

& a child’s hand nearby

poised to choose

one or the other

Boy wearing white mask beneath broken mirror

hung at adult height

for easy viewing

what is no longer there

The boy’s horror mask

conceals what he might be

feeling,

creates the suggestion that

something might lie

beneath

or within:

the boy and the image

of the boy

wearing a white mask beneath a broken mirror

in a marked

for demolition

home

Two boys, one seeing through a hole in the wall

the other

in profile

in another ruined room

The peeling wallpaper,

the dropped ceiling

where someone fell through,

random piles of dust and debris

broken shards of glass

for trapping the sun’s last light

Boy holding shard of glass before face

When a mirror breaks

where do all

the images it once

contained go?

Are they set free to wander as memories

or is their liberation a kind of

banishment?

A punishment for trusting

such an inconstant medium

as glass?

Only the boy holding a shard

of glass before his face

knows

Boy with two rubber masks climbing rock

one covering his face,

as he climbs

the rock wall,

finger tips grasping

the next hold,

right leg testing where

the left one should go,

the other mask

hanging from a belt loop

in his pants,

its features drawn,

deflated,

as the empty eyes sockets,

nose holes,

the downturned mouth,

with no words left to express

Romance for Ambrose Bierce #3

after Gene Meatyard

Deliberately placed about

the outdoor scene are

painted numbers like

evidence cards for forensic

reasons like markers at a crime scene

randomly spaced on these

rude wooden viewing stands,

bleachers for outdoor events

children dressed for this late Fall

afternoon’s entrainment

wearing sweaters, corduroy pants,

jackets, turtlenecks relaxing,

waiting for second half, quarter,

next event, whatever follows once

shadows lengthen, their grotesque

rubber masks visible after dark

when nothing else is.

CLOTHESLINE IN THE SUN

Out in the garden, I tied the rope with firm knots,

saying this is where the sun falls best.

That pale blue line looked toward your window,

its blinds raised like watchful eyelids.

I brought out my cleanest poems in a woven basket,

and hung them—not laundry—into the warm, fragrant air.

Something stirred in my belly, thick as egg yolk;

I was hanging myself out there,

clipped beneath red clothespins…

Your windows closed their eyes.

Clouds gathered and groaned above my garden.

The poems were already soaked—

and I ran barefoot, unpinning verse by verse,

trying to save at least a line,

or that one word

the whole of life hangs on.