Weightlifter’s Dilemma, or Upon Looking at a Surrealist painting by Andrew Ferez

(Photo above is of a clown’s face with purple curly hair and white face paint and a big nose suspended above a desk with a microphone)

What the body lifts and carries
Around like a second skin
It sooner memorizes the weight
As it grows inured to the pain

Clowns must be the unborn
Children of Sisyphus, smile
Despite and in spite of –if they only
Knew art is more than a discipline

Takes a while for the heart to catch up
When it does, it surrenders the key
To a floodgate that opens at three
Next thing you know, each morning

The heart wakes up in a circus tent
Of acrobats juggling heavy objects
Handles them like they’re made of air
Who cares about weightlifting clowns?

——-
Biographical note:

Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr. considers himself the official spiritual advisor of his roommates, Gordot and Dwight – the first a goldfish, the other a Turkish Van cat. His works have been published in The Poetry Magazine, Moria Poetry Journal, Fogged Clarity, Everyday Poem, Loch Raven Review, The Buddhist Poetry Review, The Philippines Free Press, Troubadour 21, Full of Crow, Indigo Rising, Asia Writes, Triggerfish Critical Review, Troubadors 21, Gloom Cupboard, TAYO, Haggard & Halloo, and elsewhere. His first book, A Fistful of Moonbeams, was published by Kilmog Press in April 2010. His second, Kleenex Theory, published by Createspace-Amazon, came out in 2015. He is busy anthologizing emptiness and boredom at the moment.

Saturday night
she wears her 
pressed-flower face


which came first
her madness
or her art


behind me
phantom shadow
with a fist


round faces 
 built of cubes
  featured in
   rectangular galleries
    with oval windows


I tell complete strangers
about my pain . . .
climate despair


Swiss-cheese memory . . .
glimpses of past weddings
some of them hers

Roberta Beach Jacobson
Indianola, Iowa, USA


Bio: Roberta Beach Jacobson (she/her) is drawn to the magic of words–poetry, song lyrics, flash fiction, puzzles, and stand-up comedy. Her latest book is Demitasse Fiction: One-Minute Reads for Busy People (Alien Buddha Press, 2023).

A Concise Anatomy of the Esotericism between

a Surajmukhi¹ and Madhumakkhi²

for Nashwa Y. Butt and Umme A. Ali

after The Sunflower by Gustav Klimt (Austria), 1906–1907 CE

If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly our whole life would change.

– Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

   I.

“You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours”—

such utilitarian dictums can hardly ever qualify

as the koh-e-noor³ (in a queen’s crown) to embellish

the Throne of Esotericism – the omniscient guardian

of the coalescence b/w a surajmukhi and madhumakkhi,

as the subatomic electric charges labour to preserve an atom.

N.B.

The exordium and epitome of the aforesaid hum-nafasi⁴

manifests naturally on the grounds of Bauhausian Minimalism:⁵

each simply gives ‘n takes ≯ one’s ^original/_organic ^desires/_dreams!

   II.

AND the Fruits of Philanthropic Labour:

the ↑ the volume of donation of the floral nectar,

     the ↑ the rate of generation of the extrafloral nectaries;

the honey from the bee’s belly relishes the reputation

     as the universal remedy for all manner of ailments;

the mysterious constituents of God’s formulae

     for the propagation of ^macro/_microcosms are laid bare.

© Saad Ali

______________

^1. Surajmukhi (Sanskrit): Sunflower.

^2. Madhumakkhi (Sanskrit): Honeybee.

^3. Koh-e-Noor (Persian): Mountain of Light.
^4. Hum-nafasi (Persian): Breath-sharing companionship.

^5. Bauhaus (1919–1933 CE): The European Modernist Movement/German Art school – with an emphasis upon:

a) combining crafts and fine arts, b) functionality, and c) minimalism (in architectural design).

Le Souvenir: Clay Spinning Top

for Maimoona & Anwaar

after The Spinning Top Game (Le jeu De Toupies) by Nasreddine Dinet (France), 1924 CE

   The famous Mall Road connects the Cantonment area to almost all the major towns and boulevards of the Metropolitan. (The City still has a long, long journey to complete to be truly known as a ‘Cosmopolitan’.) Thanks for the very dual carriageway – with a lush mixed cluster of Pepal, Amaltas, Mahwa, Ticoma, Gul-e-mohar, and Kachnar trees for a green belt (wide dividing strip) – for, it will also take you to the Old City in < 45 odd minutes – provided you don’t travel during the rush hours; provided the weather, power supply, traffic lights, and traffic wardens behave themselves.

   On the way to the Old City, you find an assortment of classic and (post-)modern iconic buildings – from The British Raj Era, too – on either side of the 8–10 km long stretch: Governor’s House, Alhamra Arts Council, Aitchison College, National College of Arts, Museum, Cathedral Church of Resurrection, Masonic Temple, Bagh-e-Jinnah, et cetera. … The Bagh-e-Jinnah (formerly: Lawrence Gardens) is also a home to a 150-year-old tree – Banyan (a hybrid of Banyan branches + Karnikar branches (Kanaka Champa)). … And, if you happen to be an aficionado of history/architecture/arts, you can easily become overwhelmed by the (colour) schemata of the (post-)colonial portrait that the very route happens to be; you can easily find yourself teleported to the late 19^th–early 20^th century CE—when the iconic (London’s) red double-decker buses were also in service in conjunction with the tonga service. Back in the 1930s–40s, the City of Lavapuri/City of Gardens¹ offered an exemplar landscape of (the British/European) modernity.

   *

   This past Summer of ’23 CE, I had had to make the journey – via the very boulevard – to my grand/parents’ ancestral town called Islampura (formerly: Krishan/Sant Nagar) to re-procure a clay spinning top from an old seller of old clay toys. Reason being: the helper had managed to break one from the pair that sat atop my workstation in the study at my place, while she also left the assortment of my journals, fountain pens, ink pots, poem scribbles, pen pouches/holders, lead/mechanical pencils, pair of mechanical keyboards, marble paperweights, cigarette/case + lighters, metal/wood ashtrays, ceramic incense burner, A3/A5 sticky notes, and books hither and thither.

   The clay toy can be easily classified as a souvenir in today’s IT/AI Age. I doubt, if the contemporary generations – Generation Z & Generation Alpha – are even aware of its existence, let alone being aware of where to acquire one. … The clay toy is even far, far older than the times when my grand/parents used to play with it in the streets – laid with bricks made of clay.

   *

   I’m yet to learn to properly operate it – wrap the thin string around its top, middle, bottom; then, with a flick of the wrist unleash the spinning top so as to induce a hundred or so anti/clockwise rotations to it per release.

   Every now ‘n then, I manually make the souvenir whirl on the palm of my left hand – wrong-hand – with a musical adaptation (remix) of رقص ذرات / “Poem of the Atoms” by Jalal al-Din Balkhi (Rumi) playing in the background via YouTube:

O’ Day, rise! So that the particles begin their dance

…

The souls become mystified and joyfully dance

I whisper in your ear where they will dance

..

Every particle, whether joyful or sad,

is infatuated with the light of the Beloved!²

© Saad Ali

______________

¹ Lavapuri (Sanskrit): According to the Hindu tradition/mythology, the City of Prince Lava/Loh – son of God Rama and Goddess Sita (see the Hindu epic poem Ramayana by Valmiki (Adi Kavi/First Poet). Modern day Lahore – the capital city of the Punjab province in Pakistan.

² English translation by Reza Fattahi.

by the force of space + time

for N. Karfakis, L. Jacobs, E. Rahim & Nashwa Y. Butt

after Metaphysical Triangle by Giorgio de Chirico (Italy), 1958 CE

   i

the dandelion seed-light tips of S’s fingers don’t seem

to be familiar with the hypotheses of a beam of light

as the vessel of hypotheses and/or the theoretical theatrics

of e=mc^2[1] and/or the Einsteinian relativity of space + time^[2]

and/or the laws of motion of Newtonian gravity^[3] and/or

the Galilean invariance^[4] and/or Copernican heliocentrism.^[5]

   ii

the wine cork-light fingers simply cannot match the momentum

of the ripples of the keys on his black + blue + red themed

Keychron K2 Pro Chinese mechanical keyboard.

the buraq-like^[6] keys seem too euphoric to perform an ascension

into the superverse of ars poetica. but like the Icarus’ wax-wings,

S’s sunflower petal-light fingers don’t seem to possess

neither the empathy nor the valiance of one Prometheus’

to meet the singularity and be rendered ashes.

   iii

i know a (prose) poem is seeking a refuge

in the cave of these apophthegms ‘n paronomasias.

i know by the time the rails of verses emerge

from the slumber – of a sleeping gypsy’s;

utterly unaware of the sniffing hungry lioness –

maybe in 300 years or so – like the Seven Sleepers

of the cave – they will only be meeting the light of day

to learn of the obsoleteness of their currency.

   *

and i am rather afraid, too afraid to install an anchor of period

anywhere on the floor of the galley. the vessel is best left

trembling in the wake of the seismic gravity of letters.

© Saad Ali

______________

^[1] e=mc²: Theory of Special Relativity by A. Einstein (1905 CE) – with an emphasis upon: a) ‘inertial frames’ (speed of light is constant), and b) merger of space and time; where, time = 4^th dimension.

^[2] The Theory of General Relativity by A. Einstein (1917 CE): ‘Gravity’ is a result of the shape of space-time/geometry of the universe.

^[3] The Three Laws of Motion by Sir I. Newton (1687 CE): Principle of Inertia, Principle of Momentum, and Principle of Action/Reaction.

^[4] The Theory of Special Relativity proposed by G. Galilei (1632 CE): the laws of motion remain the same in all ‘inertial frames of references’ (objects moving at a constant speed).

^[5] The Sun-centric Astronomical Model proposed by N. Copernicus (1543 CE) – opposed to the 2^nd century CE Geocentric Model (Earth at the centre) by C. Ptolemaeus.

^[6] Buraq (Islamic tradition): Chimera (with a body of horse, head of human, and wings).

Biography

(Wordcount: 153)

Saad Ali (b. 1980 CE in Okara, Pakistan) has been brought up and educated in the United Kingdom and Pakistan. He is a bilingual poet-philosopher and literary translator. His new collection of poems is titled Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrastic poetry and micro/flash fictions into Urdu: Lorette C. Luzajic: Selected Ekphrases: Translated into Urdu (2023). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. He has had poems published in Synchronized Chaos. His work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology. He has had ekphrases showcased at an Art Exhibition, Bleeding Borders, curated at the Art Gallery of Grande Prairie in Alberta, Canada. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Ovid, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, Freud, Jung, Kafka, and Tagore. He enjoys learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities/towns on foot. To learn further about his work, please visit: www.saadalipoetry.com; www.facebook.com/owlofpines.

History Guide

Sometimes history becomes a burden,

a block, a block in the road we can bump

over or go around. It never gets out of

the way on its own, especially here in

Europe where tour guides feel compelled

to place the churches and buildings we pass,

place them in the context of time. Sometimes

they can stretch it, shape it to fit the moment

and group riding along on their every word.

There were fires and bombings, assassinations

and dynasties that disappeared. There were

religious wars that are hard to explain, explain

how whole cathedrals changed, switched sides

a few centuries back. But the old stuff seems

tame compared to things tourists might recall:

WWI and WWII and who was neutral and who

fell victim, and there’s the Berlin wall and all

the things connected to it, countries freed and

never wanting to return to the walls of various

sorts. It’s their history, so their take on it varies

place to place, personality to personality, with

the guilty being charged or found not guilty.

Most tourists belong to the half listen and nod

off club. Most of what the guide struggles with is

lost on them – lost in this strange place and time.

                   Climate Change

This is not the climate we were born into,

It’s the climate we brought on ourselves.

They even warned us, but we continued

Until we arrived here, surprised for some

Reason. As if all this wasn’t predicted. Just

Watch tremendous downpours and floods.

Then feel the heat rising and harvest these

Empty fields. Swim out in water as warm as

Bathtub water, even hotter. Watch weather

Programs trying to explain what’s happening

As if we can take it in stride – microbursts to

Macro, cyclones to hurricanes, fronts and

Storms of every sort. We get more of them

To name, as if they were our children acting

Out, beyond our control. We love “climate

Change” and “global warming.” We’ve come

To love getting our words to fit what’s going

On around us – like Adam and Eve naming all

The animals they came across. Our version of

This naming may be about the end and not

Some beginning that will play out as we watch.

                                                    In Line

We’re in line

This time

To check

Our legitimacy –

Passport Immigration Inspection.

In line

This time

We know how it goes

Step up

Get a nod

Or sent off to the side.

It’s like a moment

From a movie

About Hitler and Nazis.

Imagine the fright

The worry

As if we were

Jews and gypsies

Hoping to pass

To get the nod

And not the other.

Yes, we’re in line

This time

But history has saved us

At least for now.

Previously published in Children, Churches and Daddies 

Kitten
 

"Cream of Wheat," said the young woman with a sigh, closing the menu and addressing her waitress.  It was 6 a.m. and Georgia had bustled into the Corner Diner, simply ravenous from a hard night's work.   She could have chosen to eat anything. but no, she still had a few pounds to lose, so she would be good.  It was very hard, however, and Georgia was in a constant struggle to contain her appetite; she loved to eat. 

 

As if scenting blood, the waitress asked, leaning in, "You want anything to go with that, Hon'?" 

 

Georgia thought hard for a moment, scowled, then said, "Yes!  Three eggs, over-easy, bacon, sausage, a breakfast steak and toast."  The more she thought of food the more she was compelled to order.  Okay, so she wasn't being so good.  "And a glass of orange juice, coffee, and a short stack," she added hastily.  Then she said, "do you have biscuits and gravy?"  The waitress just stared at her.  "Half order," said Georgia determinedly.

 

"Will there be anything else?" asked the waitress sardonically.

 

"Yes," said Georgia.  "Don't forget the hot sauce!"

 

"Wouldn't wanna do that, Hon'," the other woman assured her, then smiled and

flipped closed her order pad.

 

Georgia looked past the counter at which she sat and into the kitchen, in the rear

of the restaurant. There she spied what she supposed was the cook, a really tiny

woman with freckles and a red bandana wrapped round her dark hair.  She

appeared to be smoking a blunt.  Georgia was rather intrigued.

 

"Order up," snapped the waitress, ringing a bell and slipping order receipts under little spring-loaded hooks in front of he kitchen window.  "B & G, hamburger, chiliburger, three over-easy, breakfast steak, short stack, full stack and another

B & G..." 

 

Georgia could see the little cook roll her eyes as the waitress rattled on, then take the reefer from her mouth and next tackle preparing the food. The waitress returned, filling Georgia's coffee cup, said,

 

"Wanna donut?  They're free.  These are the old ones. They were fried last night, and we don't charge for them after 6 a.m."

 

"Sure," replied Georgia, still voraciously hungry.  She glanced at the waitress's

name tag, saw "Marj"  emblazoned on the plastic.  The ageless waitress ducked

her head into a display case and turned up a blueberry donut, served it on a

small plate.  "I could get you a fresh one, but then I'd hafta charge you a buck."

 

"Thanks...Marj."  The other woman smiled. 

 

"I'll just check on your order," she said, and then swept back to the kitchen.   She returned.  "Comin' right up, Hon'."

 

Georgia had a sudden idea.  "Say, Marj," she said, would it be alright if I go back to the kitchen and talk with the cook?"

 

"Help yourself, Baby, she could probably use the company.  Her name's Andrea."  Georgia smiled her thanks and slipped off her stool and headed back to the rear.  Stealing down a corridor marked by really terrible paintings of children with big eyes, Georgia edged up to a half wall separating the preparation area from the dishwashing area, laid her elbows upon the barrier. 

 

"Hi, Andrea," she said.

 

"Hey," replied the cook, scarcely looking up.  And Georgia could see why:  upon

the grill were arrayed sausages, eggs of every type, hash browns, American fries, French toast and her own breakfast steak.  Underneath a bacon press were six slices of sizzling, snapping bacon.  Georgia licked her lips.

 

"I'm Georgia," she volunteered.

 

"Good for you."  Andrea continued with the frenzied cooking.

 

"So...you're the cook, huh?"  Turning, the little cook regarded Georgia.  Looking steadily at her, she said,

 

"No, I'm the astrophysicist working this sector of the universe."  Georgia blinked, but then Andrea smiled, robbing her words of any offense.  She snatched slices of toast from an array of toasters and slathered melted butter across them.

 

"How can you work so hard when you're stoned?" Georgia asked suddenly.  

Andrea lifted the bacon press, flipped the slices of bacon, wiped her spatula

on a wet towel; then she flipped the eggs, rolled up an omelet, plated biscuits and drizzled them with white gravy.  Finally she transferred all the cooked meat to a bed of folded paper towels, plated the meat and turned again to face her visitor.

 

"The real question," she said, "should be: 'how could I not be stoned and still

work in this shit hole?' "  She crossed her skinny arms and smacked the bell with

the blade of her spatula.   "Order up!" she snapped out. Marj appeared at the window, retrieved the food, said,

 

"It's slow right now; take a few minutes if you want, Hon'," she gestured with her head to Georgia, "with your new friend."  Food in hand, Marj withdrew.  Georgia furrowed her brow. 

 

"What'd she mean?" Andrea laughed raucously. 

 

"Marj thinks I'm a crazy lesbian and eager to take down any fresh meat that comes within trolling distance."

 

"Are you, a lesbian, I mean?"

 

"Why, you interested?"  Georgia shook her self, said,

 

"No.  No, of course not!"

 

"Why of course not?" Andrea came back.  "You ever been with a woman?"

 

"No."

 

"Ever been with a man?"

 

"Yes.  Of course."

 

"How many?" asked Andrea.

 

"Five!" said Georgia defiantly.  This gave Andrea pause.

 

"Five.  Well, you been around some.  Five men, huh?" Georgia blushed. 

 

"Well, no.  Two, actually.  I did it once with my prom date and then four times with another bo...man."

 

"How old are you, Kitten?"

 

"My next birthday, I'll be nineteen," said the girl, smiling a little.  "Why, how

old are you?"

 

"Aww, that would be telling," Andrea replied.  Georgia sulked a bit.  Andrea laid the blade of the spatula on the grill, said, "C'mon, let's get high."

 

"You're already high," the other girl pointed out.  Andrea waved that off and led the way to a storeroom, piled high with stacks of flour, sugar, potatoes, onions and all  the rest. 

 

Georgia examined her new friend:  she was small, even pixieish, and swarthy of complexion, like she might have some Hispanic blood, she thought.  Her work clothes weren't much:  overalls and a white thermal shirt underneath and the tiniest shoes that Georgia had ever seen.  She wore rectangular spectacles upon the bridge of her nose.  Her hair was pretty, cut short.  The two girls found a spot on which to perch, on an enormous bag of oatmeal.  Andrea busied herself rolling a new joint.  She was quite an expert at it, thought Georgia.  Her fingers moved so fast.  Completing her task, she handed the cigarette to her companion.  Georgia examined it as if uncertain what to do with it. 

 

"Light it, Kitten," said the little cook.  "You got fire?"

 

"Uh...no, I don't smoke, usually."

 

"Here, come here."  Andrea scooted close till their legs were touching and flicked her lighter.  Lighting the joint, she flicked the lighter shut with a loud snap.  Georgia took an enormous toke, instantly began coughing spasmotically.  Andrea pounded her on the back.  "Jeez, lightweight!"  Georgia, still coughing, nodded.

 

"I am.  I'm sorry."

 

"You ever been high?" Andrea asked.  Georgia nodded. 

 

"Just once.  That was here, tonight."  Andrea twisted her lips wryly and shook her head.  She took the joint, inhaled with gusto, held the smoke inside, then released it contentedly.

 

"Doesn't your boss care if you smoke grass on-the-clock?" asked Georgia.  Andrea shook her head. 

 

"Marj?  Nothin' she can do about it."  replied the little cook.

 

"How come?"

 

"My step-dad owns this joint and, since he's balling the manager, neither of them have anything to say about it.  So long as I keep my mouth shut, things are copasetic."

 

"What about your mom?"

 

"What about her?"

 

"Don't you feel guilty, her not knowing?"

 

"Hell, she's screwing at least two other guys herself," she exclaimed with a frown.

 

"You have a weird family." offered Georgia.

 

"Tell me about it."  She waited a beat.  "Say, Georgia, do you date anyone now?"  Georgia shook her head. 

 

“No, I was seeing this guy, Devon, but..."  Andrea interjected, 

 

"You mean, 'Mr. four-times?' "  Georgia nodded..

 

"Yes.  He told me he wanted to  'see other people' and that I was ‘smothering him.' "

 

"What a turd!  Gets you in the sack and then he dumps you."  She huffed.

 

"Do you...think you might be interested in....a girl?"  Georgia’s head snapped up.

 

"You mean you?  Is that a proposition?" she asked, dumfounded.  Andrea said nothing.  They passed the joint back and forth several times.

 

"Why, Andrea, are you lonely?" asked Georgia with genuine concern.

 

"Well, yeah, sometimes."  She paused a moment.  "I just don’t meet many guys that you know, you can trust, you know what I mean?"  Andrea seemed subdued now.

 

"Have you had bad experiences with boys?"  Andrea nodded.  "What happened?" asked Georgia.

 

"Give me another hit off that reefer," said Andrea, then,  "It was a member of my own freakin’ family, Georgia."  The other girl’s eyes opened wide. 

 

"Who?   You mean your brother, or your uncle, or..."

 

"My father," she cut her off.  "My own freakin’ father."

 

"What happened?"

 

"When he lived with us he used to drink, at night.   My mom would get pissed and go off and leave him.  And he would...come into my bedroom and...”"

 

"No!  Your own father!  I’m so sorry, Andrea."  Georgia put her arm around the other girl’s neck, pulled her close.  Andrea began to quietly weep.  "What happened?" Georgia wanted to know.

 

"He hurt me.  He really hurt me, then said if I told, he would kill my little sister.  I was afraid."

 

"How long did this go on?"

 

"Almost a year."  Tears leaked out of Andrea's eyes and disappeared into the fabric of her blue overalls.

 

"How did it end?" asked Georgia.

 

"I told my mom and she didn’t believe me at first, and then she actually caught him in the act"   She threw up her hands, blew out a breath.  "Nuclear explosion."

 

"And they got a divorce?"  Andrea nodded. "Then your mom met your step-dad?"  Georgia prompted.

 

"Uh-huh.  He was my mother’s divorce attorney and they ‘fell in love,' whatever that's supposed to mean."

 

"How long ago did all this happen?  How old were you?" Andrea took a shuddering breath. 

 

"tt happened nearly five years ago; I was fourteen," she said.

 

"You’ve had a lot to deal with," observed Georgia and hugged her again.  She glanced back toward the kitchen.  "Don’t you have to get back to work?"

 

"No," said the little cook.  “"I just prep and the a.m. cook comes on; he was a little late this morning.  And then this afternoon I'll help clean up and prep for the evening cook; leaves most of my day free."

 

"So what do you do all day, when you're not setting up for the cooks?"

 

"Hang around and get high."

 

"Do you see any boys?" Georgia asked.  Andrea shook her head. 

 

"No, I guess I have a problem trusting after what happened with my dad."  She stared at her hands in her lap.   “Sometimes it gets hard, Georgia, not having anyone to...touch you.”

 

"Do you really...like girls," asked Georgia.  Andrea frowned, shook her head no.

 

"I don't like them, that way," she explained.  "It's just that girls are a whole lot less scary than boys, you know?  I mean, I've got a cousin who's gay and hey, he's my cousin, I love him.  I'm not against gays or lesbians.  But, it's just not who I am."  Georgia nodded her understanding. 

 

"That's how I feel, too.  Not all males are human garbage, Andrea."  The little cook sniffed.

 

"They’re not?" she asked uncertainly.

 

"No.  The men...boys, I’ve known haven’t been all that bad.  Not monsters, not like your dad.  The really bad ones are somewhat rare, I think.  You’ll find someone."

 

"I will?”"

"Certainly.  You’re cute!”"  The other girl grinned shyly. 

 

"Have you made any girlfriends?" Georgia asked.

 

"Just one.  That was here, tonight..."  Both girls smiled.

 

"I won't be your lover, Andrea, but I'll be your girlfriend; your BFF!  Deal?"

 

"Deal."  They sat in companionable silence for a few moments.

 

"Does your step-father hate you because you’re blackmailing him over Marj and everything?" Andres smiled bashfully. 

 

"No, I made up all that stuff about Mom and Dad cheating on each other."

 

"Why?" asked Georgia, baffled. Andrea shrugged. 

 

"I don’t know; to make myself seem more interesting?"  She smiled some more.  She asked, "are you going to keep your arm around me for the rest of the morning?"

Georgia arched her brows. 

 

"For just as long as you want.”"  Andrea leaned in and kissed Georgia almost impossibly softly on the lips.

 

"Thank you, Kitten."

THE INTERPRETATION OF TIME AND PERIOD IN THE WORKS OF GHAFUR GHULAM

Ibrokhimov Saidakbar
Faculty of Criminal Justice
3rd grade student

Abstract: Gafur Ghulam is a famous writer of Uzbekistan. The history of the Uzbek people found its artistic expression in the poetry and prose of Gafur Ghulam. The writer’s creativity is diverse – poems, songs, epics, odes, stories, short stories. Gafur Ghulam’s work
took an incomparable place in the development of Uzbek literature in the post-war period.
Key words: work, era, interpretation, literature, poetry, poet, work, folk, prose, writer, literature, stories, creator, examples of creativity.

“… When we talk about the personality, memory and legacy of Gafur Ghulam, we compare this great man first of all as a broad, literal poet of the people, in front of his immortal name and unfading work our boss”

Islam Karimov.

Gafur Ghulam is a unique talent who left a golden name in Uzbek literature of the 20th century. People’s poet of the Republic of Uzbekistan, an academician of the Academy of Sciences of the Republic of Uzbekistan, this great artist greatly contributed to the
development of national literature, culture and science of the Uzbek people with his unique creativity and activity. That is why his work is constantly studied and researched. While reading the works of the writer, we can understand the philosophy of that time and come to primary thoughts about the era. The works of contemporaries greatly influenced the formation of Gafur Ghulam’s world view and artistic taste. Gafur Ghulam writes in one of his articles: “I know and love Russian classical artists and have translated many of their works into my native language. But I want to say that I am a student of Mayakovsky, who “opened up the most exciting and unlimited possibilities for me in the fields of weight, vocabulary, symbols, and the melodic structure of poetry.”

In addition to anger in Mayakovsky’s satire, critical sarcasm, and the enormous power of feeling in his lyrics, I tried to gather in myself… the bold eloquence of his methods, the courage of metaphors, the expressiveness of exaggerations. I even had to use the methodical, melodious and meaningful construction of the poem in the structure of Uzbek poetry.” These are reflected in many poems of Gafur Ghulam, for example: “On the roads of Turksib”, “Motherland”, “Long live peace!”.

In one of the poetic passages written by Gafur Ghulam in 1962, we can come across such a sentence:
Time and mother
Rhyme is coming

Through this verse, as much as the poet was a son for his mother, he was as much a child of the times as a person. It is impossible to understand the creator, whose entire creative period and life path are closely connected with his time. If the period is studied in a strong
connection, both its successes and its shortcomings will be shown accordingly. Almost every poem of Gafur Ghulam, written in the spirit of belonging to the 20th century, requires special attention. The works that cover all the foundations of society and include
people’s dreams and hopes, thoughts about the past and the future, evoke a feeling in the heart of the fan. There are other works of the poet (for example, the poem “Sharaf Manuscript”, stories such as “Hasan Kaifi” and “Aliqul’s Debt”), through which it is possible to read the author’s hidden pains and deeply artistically expressed ideas of
independence. we can understand.

Gafur Ghulom’s prose skill is clearly visible in the short stories “Netay” (1930), “Resurrected Corpse” (1934), “Yodgor” (1936), “Shum Bola” (1936-1962). In particular, in the story “Netay”, the social era causes the fate of the main character to become tragic. In the short story, the writer covers the issue of relations between man and society. He strongly condemns any kind of unrest and draws attention to the fact that even in the “Troublesome days when fathers do not know their sons and mothers do not know their daughters”, true human qualities are preserved and the dear and delicious feelings of fatherhood do not choose a beautiful nation. Ghafur Ghulam writes about one of the great evils of society. The writer angrily exposes “the tyranny of the evil khan”, the violence of
the thousand chiefs, city judges, and governors, and protects women whose “hearts are crying, their faces are smiling, and their hearts are bleeding from insults”.

Today, Gafur Ghulam’s pedagogical views have become a component of our national pedagogic heritage. In the 20s of the last century, ideas about eliminating harmful habits in children’s behavior were discussed. Looking at the work of the writer, he suffers from the
growing number of harmful habits among children. He looks for the causes of harmful habits in the environment in which children live. In his opinion, “thousands of children are not involved in general education due to the fault of officials sitting at the top of the
educational system.”

It is known that during the last century, hundreds of thousands of children were left homeless in the former Soviet state due to national conflicts, war, and drought. As a result, child neglect has reached its peak in the country. Thousands of children who were left out
of school and family control learned harmful habits from street schools. The state and the general public are worried about the increase in child delinquency. Therefore, the poet was
worried about the fate of such orphaned children and said in the poem “I offer”:

Look at this young teenager:
“He lived from the beginning
What a shame, what a shame
He is proud like his grandfather,
You eat a lot!” – you say
…Not yet
School, study is up to him…

In a number of works of the writer, human qualities are recognized. That is, education shows a sense of respect. Respecting one’s parents, elders, and everyone else was considered a high recognition for this person. Respect and value are harmonious concepts, and a person who appreciates the country, parents, and all the circumstances in general is the owner of high education. In this way, the so-called human being becomes the possessor of high virtue. As an example, we can show the poem “Hello” by the writer on page 1.58:

Respect for a person is self-recognition.
The land where the holy term lived.
Na qulu na xo‘ja, na minnat, na zulm,
Dear Sanamak, the sweat on his forehead

Now let’s think a little about the story “Shum Bola”, the most famous example of the author’s work. We all know that the period in which this work was written, that is, the 30s of the 20th century, is a difficult period for our country. In this situation, the emergence of
a work with fundamentally opposing concepts to the politics of the time is an unprecedented event. The events of the 10th years are written in the well-known work. If we pay attention, there is no trace of class conflict, struggle, revolutionary spirit in this story. However, the events in the work are reflected in the ordinary life of the people, who are busy with their work in the market, on the streets. When you read the story, it seems that the work consists of adventures, but it creates a special mood for the people of this era, who are in a state of politics. Shum Boy, the main character in the play, is a character
who does not fit into the mold. However, the attention to the life, time, and people who left the children of the nation to fend for themselves in the events of the story is expressed through the character of a simple child. Page 2.8

In conclusion, in Gafur Ghulam’s works, we can see not only creativity, but also the harmony of time and space. Today, if we look at the past, we can see that some of the works written by a number of our writers have fallen from the history. In general, there is
no creator, writer or poet whose works cannot take place on the stage of folk and literature. Because time is sorting out their works. But there are such creators whose works created at the level of their talent still remain in the language of the people, and their name is a
symbol of pride and honor for the people and the era. Therefore, Gafur Ghulam is considered to be such a talented and great creator of the 20th century. A rare talent, an academician of the Academy of Sciences of Uzbekistan, a philosopher-poet, a poet Gafur
Ghulam will remain a scientist, poet and writer who listens to the hearts of our people and all well-intentioned humanity, and can feel the pain of fans from the heart.

Why can’t I be happy, we are finally with perfection,
With knowledge, with love, with beauty,
Our hearts are full of all humanity,
We are sitting on the road in the heart.
Excerpt from the poem “The power of one greeting”.
Gafur Ghulam

References:

1. Naim Karimov, publishing house named after Gafur G’ulam, Tashkent-2003.

2. The spiritual and educational significance of Gafur Ghulam’s work. Scientific conference. Tashkent-2003.
3. www.ziyo.net

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the right to die
 

there's this woman

complaining about

pain and all these

broken bones

 

she thinks she

needs therapy

of some kind

 

the therapist is

telling her what

they could do

for her

 

part of me wishes

the therapist would

offer her the right

to die
------------------------------------------------------------
it was better to be realistic
 

i remember

when i was

younger

 

i dreamed

of marrying

a beautiful

black woman

 

and making

our dysfunction

a superpower

that was going

to destroy the

world

 

i'll never forgive

my parents for

telling me it

was better to

be realistic

 

no wonder my

imagination

carries a strong

sword of revenge
--------------------------------------------------------
that likes to play with knives
 

another night thinking about death

 

following the wrinkles on your face

and trying to remember which ones

are scars

 

your left big toe always hurts

in the rain

 

last time you ever went drinking

with a marine that likes to

play with knives

 

and all the memories of the pool

halls

 

all the free drinks

as no one could touch you

when you got going on any

of the tables

 

driving home like a dumbass

 

feeling great but always sleepy

 

nothing quite like waking up

right before that exit sign gets

too fucking close

 

some think you are lucky

 

others tend to think you are due

 

we're all going to die sometime

 

might as well have a few fucking

stories along the way
-----------------------------------------------------
trying to be civilized
 

a couple inches

of snow on the

ground

 

a few days ago

i was in the store

in shorts and a t-shirt

 

wait ten minutes and...

 

it's a town of rednecks

trying to be civilized

 

hard for them to imagine

anything but white people

around here

 

i always laugh when i see

the few asians or the couple

of blacks that do live here

 

hoping it becomes more

and more

 

having grown up in a very

diverse situation in this state

 

i understand how diversity

can expand your brain and

teach tolerance and

understanding

 

of course, why would these

white fucks ever want that

 

they have what they believe

is utopia

 

of course, you have to explain

to them why the schools need

money

 

and why the roads don't get

paved just because
------------------------------------------------------
drive a mercedes
 

wake up in the middle of a nightmare

and realize you have never felt better

 

death is as natural as a sunset

 

as a flower drying up in a desert

 

but your controlled existence in

the suburbs taught you were special

and special people never die with

jesus on their side

 

hang out with the lost souls long

enough and you'll come to

understand

 

that jesus died on the cross so

your pastor can drive a mercedes

 

it isn't so much about heaven and

hell as much as it is about getting

every last cent into the collection

plate

 

trust me

 

they will warn you

that you always need to be

on the path

 

greatness never followed someone

else's footprints



J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know better. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Asylum Floor and Misfit Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights.