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

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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. 

Queen of the Never Was

Below the high moon
in a clearing of lost lands,

she slow walks
to the center of the moment,

a lasting dream
for those surrounding her,

her presence
enlarging heartbeats,

her eyes
never blinking,

her tears forming a path
between her breasts,

a glistening river
to the waiting sea,

her island
no one ever leaves.



Not From Around Here

A flower growing on
her left ear,
roots to her heart.

Her voice whispery,
words born in the moment
capturing all.

A small group,
recent escapees from war
on a newborn river's edge.

On our sore knees,
sipping cool water,
praying for purity...

We made camp.
She sat in the middle,
all eyes watching her.

We fell asleep,
so close we touched
in dreams.

In the morning lift,
she was gone as the wind.
A vision to come?



Islands

Not enough islands
for all of us
wanting,

a safe home
getaway,

surrounded
by a calm sea
and sky of heaven.

TO AZERBAIJAN THE ONE WHICH IS MY LONGING...

Once upon a time, that was when I was going to primary school, I used to listen to my grandmother with all my heart while she was talking about Azerbaijan, and while I was listening, there were movements and excitements that I couldn't understand, I was experiencing emotional moments. Years later, I realized that this was called longing for Azerbaijan, and I still feel the pain of suffering this longing for years in my heart. It is an unforgettable and indescribable feeling for me. I was daydreaming and wondering if one day my longing for the homeland called Azerbaijan would end. 

As I reached Kemal's age and read books on the subject, this incredible longing, this circle of passionate longing was getting bigger and bigger. I kept thinking about Azerbaijan. I was reading whatever I could and adding to my knowledge, I think it was the early eighties, I came across a Turkish literature magazine, the poems of the great Azerbaijani poet Nebi Hezri were published in the magazine. I read his poems with pleasure and wrote a detailed letter to Mr. Nebi Hezri. While writing the letter, I wondered if this great poet would reply to me. ?  I was asking questions to myself. Finally, after two months of hopeless waiting, the answer to my letter came from Nebi Hezri. I was very, very excited. The following was written at the beginning of the letter, which I opened with my hands shaking.

 Calling out and rejoicing in the earth,
 How many times have I seen a flood in my life?
 Even if you don't see me once,
 I have always seen you in my heart.

 This beautiful poem, written especially for me by that great poet, touched me very much and literally made me cry. From that moment on, my longing for Azerbaijan continued to increase unlimitedly. When the date came to 20-01-1992, imperialist Russian tanks brutally attacked the elderly, women and children in Azerbaijan. It was committing the bloodiest massacre in history without any attention, the Western world was turning a deaf ear to what was happening and was shamelessly watching the events. On this occasion, Azerbaijan became my wounded heart, my heart was about to stop. We were trying to keep the events on the agenda by protesting the terrible massacre committed by the imperialists by holding meetings condemning the terrible massacre committed by the imperialists every day, but the longing was still continuing at full speed. 

Time passed quickly and Azerbaijan became independent by paying a bloody price. I went to Azerbaijan and hugged and longed for them. They welcomed my humble person with great magnificence. In the eighties, I was trying to satisfy my longing for years by corresponding with friends I knew in absentia, but my longing did not end, it still continued to increase. I couldn't control my tears of happiness. My friends who saw my tears also started to cry. Tears of longing and joy were flowing like a flood. They were competing with each other to take my humble person as a guest. My dear friend Edalet Guliyev immediately arranged a television program. We made a one and a half hour chat program. In the program, questions about Turkey were asked and I answered. When we finished the program and went to the market, people who knew me from the television screen approached me to meet my humble person and asked me if I was a Turk, I replied that we were all Turks, so the sincerity between us continued to increase. They visited a few newspaper offices and interviewed me, asking questions about Turkey. They immortalized our pictures and gifted them to life. 

The next day, I see my pictures and interviews with me in the newspapers, I get emotional, and I almost cry, I think to myself that this is what it is like to quench my longing, and we go to the martyrs' paradise, we recite fatihas to the souls of the martyrs, thus the road to Azerbaijan has been opened, and these visits continue from time to time. I was very happy to have my poems published in the Anthology titled "VOLUMES OPENING TO TURANA" published by Aybeniz Gafarlı and Gabil Adalet, and considering the point we have reached, I cannot help but say, FROM WHERE TO WHERE?...

The Pussy Whip

Once upon a time, in the very heart of the Village of Greenwich, there lived a performance artist, known for her vision, manifested in striking stage pictures and bold feminist statements. She would tell you that her art was not just her work; it was a calling, emerging out of her journey from small-town midwestern girl to tour de force, with periods of victim and survivor somewhere in between.

Having lucked into a rent-controlled apartment in the ‘90s, she kept her needs modest so that she might enjoy every bit of serendipity that came her way. And, oh, did it ever. Learning early on that she could give herself a fuller life than “a good man” might, she relished in her freedom to travel the globe, staging performances, be they sanctioned or rogue, speaking her truth in a manner so memorable as to land her on the cover of many a magazine.

Then, there came a time that she found herself sidelined with mysterious symptoms that no doctor could diagnose. Thus, the hours that were once spent beneath the Washington Square Park arch, advocating for the visibility of women, the neurodivergent and the gender non-binary were whiled away in her double bed, reading and dreaming up pieces that she began to wonder if she’d ever have the opportunity to perform.

Ever the resilient one, she buoyed herself with fresh flowers, dinners of Instacarted supermarket sushi and Netflix Originals; yet, as time passed, the phone seldom rang, for her friends and colleagues quickly tired of asking after her health. Once a handful of invitations had been declined, they stopped coming. The magazines and theatres, of course, simply had no interest in her beyond the impact of her work.

On a visit to one of the doctors who found himself at a loss as to how to help her, she merely shrugged when he asked how she was doing.

“I feel like I’m disappearing,” she said.

“Perhaps an antidepressant would help,” he suggested. “I’m happy to write you a prescription.”

“I appreciate that, Doctor. I really do. Of course, I was happier when I was living a full life. But, the facts are what they are. I have an undiagnosed illness, and, well, I’m not as young as I once was.”

“That’s nonsense. You’re the same woman who’s always taken the world by storm,” he assured her.

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t equate to feeling seen.”

Over the next few months, she put on a few pounds and her complexion grew quite pale as it became more difficult to make her way from her third-floor walkup down to the concrete stairs that overlooked the street. And, not but a breath after her fiftieth birthday, which she celebrated with her old-lady cat, Marina Abramović, by lighting a candle atop their tuna salad, her periods stopped.

Done. Fini. Once and for all.

The next morning, when she rose to brew herself a cup of gingered black tea, Marina Abramović began to weave her way through the woman’s legs, only to find that they were less than solid. Taken aback, the woman’s treasured feline brought her paw to her heart, then dashed off, mewling as she took shelter in the cubby of her carpeted tree.

“Well, okay, then,” the woman scoffed with a roll of her eyes. “Be that way.”

Once the tea had steeped, the woman tossed the spent leaves into the sink, and after an invigorating first sip, made her way to the shower.

Setting the teacup next to the tap, she fingered the yellow stains in the porcelain, where more than a few cigarettes had burned down while applying her makeup for any one of those old nights on the town.

Then, she turned the shower on to warm, whipped off her nightie and tossed it into the hamper. An expert shot.

Taking another sip of her tea, she glanced toward the mirror, hesitantly, of course, for she refused to accept the lack of fullness within her breasts, only to find that she was . . . well, ever so slightly transparent.

And made a mental note to talk to the doctor about the Ambien.

The heat of the shower worked wonders on her muscles; and, as she stepped out onto the bath mat, she found Marina Abramović waiting on the toilet seat, eager to nuzzle her knees as if in apology.

“No worries, Girlfriend,” she said, mussing the loose skin on her scruff.

It all happened, in the grand scheme of things, gradually. Relativity being relative, after all. And, not a week later, the woman found herself to be as invisible as a princess’s pantyline.

Yet, Marina Abramović, fortunately, seemed to have worked through her issues. Though she wasn’t quite sure where to rub, she managed to hold vigil over the woman’s form, regardless.

“I’m not dying, for Goddess’s sake,” the woman protested as the cat remained glued to her undelineated side. “We just need to play the circumstances to our advantage.”

And that’s when performance art became more than performance. It became magic.

Over the next couple of months, the woman and Marina Abramović crafted a piece that made all of her earlier works look like child’s play.

And, when it was ready, the woman placed a call to Désirée la Bombacere at the Fiefdom of MoMA, advising her of what they had to offer.

“I thought you’d retired,” Ms. la Bombacere said upon her return call.

“Who told you that?”

“Well, we just assumed–.”

“Yeah, that’s never a good idea.”

Thus, on April 7th of 2024, the woman and Marina Abramović presented “The Pussy Whip,” a work that would go down as the most influential one-cat show in history. Those courageous enough to take a seat within the audience departed with their greatest fears and desires exposed, as well as their judgments and dismissals, for in a very short span of time, they witnessed the grains of their own depravity, which they worked so hard to deny; and, as they exited the space with their panties either wet or soiled, one couldn’t help but to notice distinct feline bite marks gracing each ankle.

And, from that moment forward, no one dared to disregard a pussy, no matter what her age, her physical limitations or her lived experience, ever again ‘til the very end of time.

Still burning black, the dizzy morning stretches vastly across the infinite and wakes me up with a rush of its torpidity. It is infectious and I am unwilling to quit my slumbering position. Why should I quit this lull, this rest, this magnanimity of nothingness and descend into the littleness of life that swims without an iota of comfort? What little courage I have, I must use it, extra hours must be a possibility. For if I wake, it’s for the sake of this morning which is dizzy with it’s sleeping run of sweltering glow. I will not go gently into this day, I war with the giddiness of weak bones and an excessively crushed spirit.

    The scion of a sleepy eyed warrior is to be feared for laziness is more effective than hard work in the right hands. What I would do with my match stick, and my blunt and hard cock and other miscellanies would tear the world away from itself and at the same time, would mean nothing. None of it would matter, indeed, none does matter as much as a somnambulant passion, an unconscious dog burrowing his snout in stinking sand, digging and pissing, that’s why I wish to sleep. I badly wish to sleep and I would return to the rays of my slumber if only the bus of life was directed towards that destination. What is the use of waking when man, in his infinite finiteness, only truly spreads his pinions when he dreams? What is waking but a torment, a mosquito sucking the aspirations from every vein treading the mirrorless earth. It is my intention through these verses (for consider this bad poetry unversified), to sleep while I wake, to bite back the skin of the mosquito and drone and disturb it’s ears. To curse this circus is to mock the thin thread and what higher goal should man aspire towards in this gamut of deception we call wake. Eating the muck that makes up the bug which sucks our blood.

    Everything, everything that moves and breathes secretly secretes a wish for death as they progress through time. It’s like they grow weary and purposely slip, hoping they crack their thinking skulls on the porcelain; like they were tired of thinking and would gladly give away the faculty for it. Like it, a burden rather cast away, had done it’s time. It had always done its time; thinking. My eyes are tired of seeing and I wish I could close them, forever and dream of nothingness or of a Hera’s plump breasts. Whichever soothes the mood I am at that moment– nothingness for ennui; the poetic breasts, well, is for everything else. And like a cockroach, seeking death at every turn, hungry for a corpse of food, hungry to be a corpse of food, I hasten towards the pails of soothe to bathe me in its gushing enshroud. Fogs, clouding against the backdrop to sanctify my choices; to be or not to be, rather to be or to perish and gloat in the perishing– rise like buildings half decimated, half eager to be seen. And in the hubbub of the court of life, I ignore the fog, the sanctity, the choices brought to the steps of my bolted door and I choose slumber; the peace of it, the comfort of assurance. And does this make me an impotent pretender, who even in his parts– the pretense, is made impotent, or raw, like the secretion of all that moves and breathes, that aspires to flee from hunger? Does it make me be? Am I– in the indelible food truck of laughter, laughing at myself, throwing a mock at everything, even this bedsheet, rumpled from giving me repose, while wishing I was an acolyte of something; my trusts saving me from the deliriums of free will?

    At the edge of the shore the waves merge with the thirsty sand and it’s saltwater provokes parching through delicate care. The waves hopes it’s tides of love, which it repeatedly bathes the shores with, would one day sate it’s love, pacify her, relentlessly bring her to the four walls of a gentle climax. But each act of kindness, each touch of thoughtfulness only worsens the state of the shores. But to protest at this point, (if even it could do that, as all protest is a mask of dissatisfaction which leads to more tedium,) is a futile activity. It could even be termed rash; so the shores die in silence. No wonder the pallidity of the beach so stuns us we inevitably fall for it. All men long for woe in their massification, and thrive within the tokens of dry bones self destruct gets from pity, but the men who last… No man lasts, but all unconsciously believe they will.

    All girls are lesbians, but I must wake now from my waking dream. Aurora begins to sieve her provocative rays through the meshes in the window, laying siege to my thoughts. It gilds my room with a flood of light this sunlight. I have not consulted the time. I hate the time for it reminds me of my minuteness and makes me wish so badly I am god– above time and more mean spirited, like a fish that devours the reeds, man and other fishes. This wish targets his aloneness most of all: imagine controlling the world, watching naked bodies, envious: far above the threshold yet close enough to judge. I don’t mind god too much because I don’t know much of him and I don’t believe that any man could know God better than I know God, if he did exist. Pale face that shames the sun, a dick with the seed of stars and buckets of galaxies, time in his pocket, a haughty nature which still is revered? Why give excuses for God while the same characters are disdained in man, and even give God veneration? What makes him of better stock when I exist and he does not? For to exist is to be in this world, and to be in this world props more honor than any transcendence ever will. Death is a nullification as well as all things in the unknown alter; all forms beyond the void.

    To survive the melancholia, the wake, the aches in a blunted finger, to walk a distance under the blazing sun and still love it. God! Why should one not love life and hold it’s beauties however tedious, to greatest esteem. The cutting sunlight, like a knock on the head, begins to discipline me to efficacy, begins to steer me towards stirring from the bed. Still my leaden feet resists, my eyes are shut, still shooting towards sleep and I wish to dream forever.

Iduoze Abdulhafiz is a poet, playwright, short story writer and philosopher. His works delves into themes of introspection and existential questions. In them he explores profound emotions such as grief, longing, ecstasy, the divine and other worldly issues. 

He hopes that through his writing, he brings some form of sate or a glim of light, to the reader reading his work.

Many of his works contemplate issues of existence using metaphorical imagery and philosophical reflections. He has been published in the ekonke magazine.

The park

In the park where dreams take flight,
Beneath the trees so green and bright,
Children's laughter fills the air,
As they play without a care.

Birds above in graceful flight,
Their songs a melody of delight,
Flowers blooming, colors array,
Creating a beautiful display.

Families gathered, picnics spread,
Love and joy, no words unsaid,
Couples walking hand in hand,
Creating memories so grand.

Oh, park so serene and fair,
A place of peace beyond compare,
In your embrace, we find respite,
A sanctuary, a pure delight.

-Don Bormon