My father is my hero. For me, my father is brave, a hero and more than any other warrior. People always praise our fathers. It is true that they were also ready to give their lives for the country. But the person always sacrifices his life for you, his children, his family it is your dad. Do you know our saying “My father-my country”?! This was said to our selfless father. When did your father say no to you? He says the truth, but he does think about your future. I love my dad so much.
About my family:
There is five girls in my family. But my dad doesn’t separate any of us and treats us equally. I have the only dad in the world. Everyone’s dad is a hero for himself or herself and this is absolutely true!
Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, [the Seneca, Charter of Morava, Franz Kafka and Maxim Gorky awards Laureate, with an opus of 180 books, whose name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia]] is a towering literary figure whose work embodies a rare fusion of creativity, intellect, and moral vision.
Flower
The beautiful white of musked roses
Smelled heavenly as I longed to see
A bright torpedo colour of blue skim
The butterfly vision over me
As I stranded over the cliffs of greenery
I swam a great high
Poetry is like flower
Bright beautiful pansies in a summer day
The long twisted hauled letters smiled at me
The mailed by the night circus of grappling intensity
As I turned around and saw the zeal of monsoon rain
Little sprinkled water of bucketed truth
As the flowers fell over my tip toed joy.
I realized that I must live like a debtor, I am a chosen servant among thousands, I cannot go away like a stone falling into the water, I am not created by ordinary people, I am like that!
Don’t give me peace! Don’t give me obedience! Give me rebellion, give me struggle! Don’t give me excuses! Give me courage! Give me creation! Don’t give me light!
In the eyes that fall, there is a flowery poem, Or a white sweat on my forehead, Although I live as dust, earth, Being like a mountain under the feet of those who trample me!
Do not expect, despise, or praise anyone, Raise me, O Lord, give me your hand, Do not let my life be decided in the hands of the lowly, Give me the way to start great caravans!
*** Wiser thoughts have filled your mind, Life’s lesson is the most difficult lesson, Your bosses have led you to mirages, Sometimes you sow wheat when you don’t reap it!
You have been waiting for happiness from those who have lost everything, Your life has been tied to a long caravan of dreams, From those who have collected pearls in your eyes, Now give up hope and turn to your destiny!
You will laugh at your bitter fate, Your loved ones who have fallen from your heart, Your tears that have dried up like the moisture on the tip of your eyelashes, Your ones that have burned in the chaos of times!
You are a fleeting fragment like a cloud in the sky, You pour out your heart to the rains, While I connect my heavy chest to your heart, If only I could pick your sorrows like flowers…
University
My sorrows fade away as the years pass, My life seeks happiness in your eyes, If I step into the arms of snow, my thirsty soul, If my wild imagination and restless thoughts freeze…
I would like mountains as high as my soul, If the sky falls, I would be proud of my chest! I will reach my feelings in a chaotic way, If I build a path from your memories… The streets are green… The night is dark… The whispers of the rain say your name, The curtains drawn over my heart are dim, Recall the distant past to me.
Poplars… Alley… Hazy street… A gaze that falls like an eyeball on the ground… The first shiver… The first kiss… The full moon night… The dear university that brought us together… My tears are a puddle under the trees, My longing has filled my heart, The path that leads to your bosom, O God, My heart has been entangled…
*** Was it a dream or a fog that I was so distracted by, Waiting for a companion on an incomprehensible path, My eyes filled with tears, I lived my whole life as autumn..
Am I a leaf or one that fell prematurely?! Crushed and broken at the foot of a hill, My sad gaze fixed on the sky, My body was buried in the dust…
I was an Eagle, right?! Ask, I was a Falcon!!! I landed on your wrist as a king – my enemy, The world was a lie, but I was real! You made me so many places, my beloved…
LIFE
Everything is repetitive, everything is old, The circle has been spinning since the dawn of time, The steps of life are faster than anything, The world is as black as your eyes, empty
I’m behind, you’re in front, in the middle is memory… The worry that has covered our face… The heart is forgetting its familiarity… What I lack is love and air…
It will rain, it will snow Seasons bring sadness, dust, Their thoughts are heavy, their moods are narrow, Can you forget a dildo like you?!
The wind asks, the thunder is loud, A soul in a distant hut, The belt is widening, the clouds are close, The sound of the drops…
I run back, my steps follow, I wake up startled, it’s all a dream, a dream… If one day I am absorbed in nothingness, if I leave, You make me like everything, my dear…
My heart is spreading, the shams are shooting arrows, A thousand and one birds do things in space, Chilly summer, cold autumn, dampness is cold Kuzacks give way to winter…
A epkin in the heart that vibrates like grass, Full of noisy silence right and left, Life is slow like tears in the eyes, The address is the late road between the eyebrows…
The address is a long way between the eyebrows!
*** To ask for mercy with such great love, Your head is like a stone, How hard it is to laugh and cry silently, One day we will see our hearts bloom like flowers on the ground…
I have become accustomed to the burdens that tear my neck, I have stopped caring about the heart-warming encouragements, I do not trust the promises that the sky kisses, I have no grudge, I will never hold a grudge against them…
Is a small cup of patience, The depths of my covenant are deep, Even the kiss of a false lover cannot be erased, Is the path of life always steep and steep?
I am leaving, my sky is raining heavily, In every struggle, my shovels have bitten the ground, Having lost heart from everyone who gave me hope, I am leaving, life has “planted” me…
It’s true that a passenger made a passenger, A lesson for someone, a fate for someone, I give a lot, I get a little in this fight, The height of the heart of a broken heart!
Did I head into spaces like air? A thousand and one mistakes in the tangled street of thoughts, Don’t let the winds blow my heart, Even if I fall, lift me up, God!
Latofat Amirova was born in 1997 in Kashkadarya region, Republic of Uzbekistan.
The bird in the blue sky pauses wing motion and hovers, glides, surveying something. Those fields are open and not. They are interesting to imagine from a Carlos Castaneda type view, a would-be mystical lens. Sky and ground and sky and ground what’s all around? There are impossibly tall hydro lines, looking like stationary monsters, and their wires go down just a little bit, right?- if you watched them from car windows long ago you know this and you probably know this anyhow. They are comprising something from another world in the midst of those lands. A copse of trees near, winter branches barren and lonesome, jutting upwards in airs, also still and bereft of life. Grey. They are grey and I wonder if anything besides the black and grey squirrels traverse ‘round them.
Hawk. The bird is a hawk. Another one arrives and they seem to sway as if on invisible strings in a cosmic play. Then they move along and soon disappear. There is then nothing. Water flows along a stream, as a stream, and on the inside ridges are formed icicles half melted and looking for some reason like champagne glasses, dozens of them in each group as one goes along.
There must be deer and coyote that go past at some point. Nocturnal? Coy? Like some spirit totem animals. Rabbit. The summer snake, dragonfly, butterfly maybe also. Other things. There is always more than one thought. Other worlds. Could be spirits if metaphysics is true. What then watches?- deva, sprite, fairy, limbo soul earthbound spectre happy angry or sad phantoms?- I don’t know. Pebbles. Stones. Some bricks at certain passages. Places where water traces lines on hills and follows them down into the larger water. Sojourns for precipitation. Beingness. The natural world of wildflowers and animals, of flora and fauna plus the ground in any season and the skies, are better than social constructs and the infrastructure of metropolis and even the quaintest of towns.
Hue. Realm. Language gives the possibility of poems and poets, so that’s good, the benevolence of idiom, diction, slang and formality both, doesn’t go too much farther than that, or so I would think anyhow.
Existence raw. Those hawks. Flowing water. Those things were before and will be after. We just enter for a little while. If there is the transmigration of souls, a continued journey after, fine, good and well. If not, it’s a win-win situation as there would be no ‘us,’ ‘soul,’ or consciousness to be disappointed anyhow. If we are dust and ash, far less than the beautiful winter hawks, far less than even a field mouse, far less than a part of a dying flying falling petal, then so be it, and that world, which is the real world, universally and scientifically, physically, is okay, has to be okay. It has its own eternal flare, glare, and stare.
Soon the wind arrives and goes along the branches and distant lakes, around tall golden growths like wheat proud and together in the middle of somewhere. But it’s cold. It doesn’t carry the true and desired warmth that spring air can sometimes, the type of warmth that assuages the trouble of many souls for a minute, and inclines them to shift perspective towards minor but important comments such as, ‘Spring is coming,’ or, ‘I heard it’s going to get really warm next week,’ and, ‘I’d like to clean the outside places of some leaves soon…’ no, the wind is not from an auspicious poem them, but still cold and it is also like this: winter, a guest that one thought left but hadn’t. Thought: ‘Oh, they are still here. They had left the room momentarily and I took it that they left the greater house and grounds. But they are here. What’s more, they don’t even look like they getting ready to leaving.’
Oh how it goes like that. But it’s nice, the company of the competent bird there. Hover again just like then, no?- over the hydro lines monstrous, above the stream, perhaps as spirits watch on, by the great glen that leads to wide and wild side boulders. Hover and glide for a few seconds more.
In the orchard of knives, the trees whisper your name.
Mouths full of rotten fruit cackle at the blistered moon.
And you walk through, barefoot, picking the sharpest blade
to slice out the loneliness rooted in your throat.
Funeral Shoes
I bought a pair of funeral shoes today. Black leather, stiff as a scream. The assistant
smiled like a woman flogging coffins. Thought about returning them. Didn’t. I’ll wear them everywhere. To the bar. To the fights. To the last slow dance on earth. You never know when the ground will open up. And it’s best to be ready.
