My mother without paradise Madaminova Ogiloy was born in 2002 in Kopkopir district of Khorezm region. 3rd stage student of Jizzakh State Pedagogical University. She is currently studying English and Turkish. In her free time, she enjoys reading and baking.
My country is Uzbekistan. I couldn’t describe this country, this people, except Abdulla Oripov.
— A voice from far away,
— Tell me, what should I do, grandfather?
— He is a voice from the Motherland,
— Payondoz on their way.
— The sound came again suddenly,
— Tell me what to do, grandfather?
— A world with a burden on its shoulders,
— He is your people, help me, my child.
It is a holy happiness for me to know that I was born in a land of fire from the loving sun, that I live. My heart is filled with pride and joy to be the child of Abdulla Oripovday Kashkadarya, who is known and recognized as the second Navoi of world literature.
A person can choose everything in life. But he cannot choose the blessed Motherland and parents. Happy land with umbilical cord blood. My homeland is Uzbekistan. By his own name, he is a bek, he is a sultan. Motherland is our grandfather’s legacy, our father’s legacy. In every line of Abdulla Oripov, he found the independence of the Motherland and its definition.
…Only my weak pen is mine,
Uzbekistan is my country.
In the poem “Uzbekistan, My Country, My”, the poet tells a deep story about the past of the Motherland.
Today, I decided not to criticize Abdulla Oripov’s biography or his poetry collections, but to visit the poet’s homeland, his heart’s blood, his palace.
My heart sings the ode of the poet “Uzbekistan, my country” like a charming song.
As I read the poem from the beginning to the end, the glory of our ancestors, the halal bread of Uzbek people, appears in my mind. My heart trembles like a chained poem because of the dark days and difficult times they have seen. That’s all you do, old world. Beruni, Amir Temur, Uluğbek, Ghafur Gulam… . In this poem, the word “Motherland” finds its form and shape and pace in the blood of the farmer in the field. This feeling flows like hot blood in my body and soul. It screams like a sign of life. Indeed, Abdulla Oripov A unique poet who glorified and conveyed the value of the homeland in this poem, it is not an exaggeration to say that the heart that has not penetrated into this ode is not an exaggeration.
Don’t be sad, my dear,
Don’t worry about your age.
Over the centuries,
Your everlasting love.
In the great human family,
Your forehead is so bright.
My bright abode is mine,
Uzbekistan is my country.
The poet wrote many beautiful poems about the “Motherland”.
The poet created by mixing his soul and body. I understand the poem “Why I love Uzbekistan” as a logical continuation of the ode “Uzbekistan, My Country”. In this poem too, the artist praises verses about the soil, sky and sun of the Motherland. While talking about Furqat, Mirza Babur, who became a king and a khan in his own country and a king in other countries, came to my mind. My heart is already aching. Because, as the poet said, wherever a person is born, that soil is his land. If his Motherland is surrounded by a cold country that dominates like ice, he will look warm and give his love. He bows to this place and this people.
Well, if they tell me the reason why I love Uzbekistan, before the poet’s beautiful poems – I bow to my motherland.
Abdulla Oripov is like that, a poet who loved the people and was loved by the people.
Today, the wind of Independence is blowing in the song that the poet sang… . In new Uzbekistan, the country is prosperous and the people are happy. The joy of happiness shines on the faces of our people. Today, navbahar came to our country full of light and spring full of flowers. The days of living and living are visited by Navròz. We are also celebrating the poet’s 82nd birthday on such happy occasions. This is also a great blessing of God.
Hero of Uzbekistan, People’s Poet of Uzbekistan Abdulla Oripov wrote thousands of poems, epics, dramas. He translated masterpieces of world literature into Uzbek.
If he writes about the poet, he will not do it. A poet who honors the country and the people always sings the National Anthem of Uzbekistan. It’s no wonder that this is the pride of the poet’s heart.
As I put the last point, I bow to the great poet Abdulla Oripov, who instilled in me and us young people the feeling of loving the Motherland in colorful verses.
To the homeland, grandfather,
You have planted flowers.
In every line of your poem,
You have lost the value of the country.
This nation, this country,
How many bloods have you swallowed?
Before your description ends,
Today the pen is weak.
Once in a thousand years,
A saint like you.
Kashkadarya region
Koldoshova Dilbar Nuraliyevna, a student of the 10th grade of the 10th grade of the 43rd school of Karshi district.
Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna was born on March 5, 2007 in the Karshi district of the Kashkadarya region.
She is currently the 10th “B” student of the 43rd school.
Dilbarhan is the queen of poetry, the owner of creativity, a singer with a beautiful voice, and a ghazal girl.
She came first in the “Leader of the Year” competition.
1st prize in the regional stage of the “Hundred Gazelles and Hundred Gems” competition.
It took part in the “Children’s Forum” category and won first place in many competitions.
She is currently the coordinator of the training department of Tallikuron MFY in Karshi district.
Kamalak captain of the opposite district.
Head captain of the “Girls There” club at school 43.
The articles titled “Memory is immortal and precious”, “Our School” and “Mother” were published three times in Kenya Times International magazine in 2024.
In 2023, the first poems were published in the poetry collection “Yulduzlar Yogdusi” of the creative youth of the Kashkadarya region.
In 2024, ghazals of the creative youth of the Republic were published in the poetry collection “Youth of Uzbekistan”.
A young man dreamed of becoming very rich. He devoted his life only to work and earn money. But on this way, thinking that his mother could not help him, he ran away from home. His mother always looked forward to his return. Years passed. The young man became rich, became a famous businessman. But during this time, he never heard from his mother. One day he received a letter.
“My son, I miss you so much. It would be nice if you could come and check on me.”
But the guy didn’t come because he had a lot of work. A few years later, he receives news of his mother’s death. The young man returned home and found his mother’s small chest. Inside the box was a letter addressed to him.
“My child, I have tried my best to create a good life for you. If you are happy, I am happy. Just remember one thing: the greatest wealth in the world is mother’s love.” mother’s value.
IBRAT: Appreciating mother’s love, appreciating the greatest wealth in our life, is one of the highest human qualities. Taking care of parents is the duty of every child.
* A Self Interview Craft Essay on Books and Future Work Plan
Brian Michael Barbeito
January, 2025
I sit at my window and the words fly past me like birds —with God’s help I catch some.
-Jean Rhys
Wide Sargasso Sea
literary map book abbreviation legend:
Wind: Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through
Night: When I Hear the Night
Love: The Book of Love and Mourning
Leaves: Exile in Autumn, The Karma of the Leaves
How I feel about it currently is that there should be four books at the least. One, Wind, is already in existence. It is published by Dark Winter Press who did an excellent job and it came out in July 2024. It is a book of prose poems and photography and has three official reviews, plus a positive reception overall. The book’s introduction, a fantastic summary of the work, is by Cristina Deptula and the volume is dedicated to Tara. I am happy with the content and what I call the physicality of the book (how it feels and looks as an actual thing), its overall existential aesthetic.
Dark Winter Press has agreed to publish the next book, called When I Hear the Night. Night is scheduled to be released in January of 2026. The manuscript is complete and the press has it. I am waiting for an introduction by a Vancouver based editor that wrote a highly perceptive and insightful review for Wind. But, yes, other than that said review, the manuscript is complete. Night, as with the four books I am talking about here, will all have similar formats. This includes cover art and back art by me, my prose poems and photography of course, a dedication page and quote page, and an introduction by someone competent and obviously sympathetic to the work.
The third instalment in these four books, The Book of Love and Mourning, has the writing part of the manuscript done. These books are prose poem books, each writing approximately two thirds of a page. Sometimes shorter, sometimes longer. I will still have to pick the photos to go with the writings. I have sometimes been asked about the functions of these art forms, meaning which I practice primarily or if I give equal time and importance to both of them. Actually, I am primarily a poet/writer. In heart, in time spent at craft, in what I think about. In identity. I would like to mention here that each book is titled in accordance and inspiration from one of the writings within the text. For instance, there is a piece to be found in each manuscript that I drew the title of the entire work from. I like this, how it helps bring each entire book together thematically. Hopefully, Dark Winter Press will continue to work with me on this third book and the fourth one also. It would be nice to have a sense of uniformity and publishing stability for all of these projects.
Exile in Autumn, The Karma of the Leaves, or ‘Leaves,’ would be the fourth installment in the prose poem photography books. If things continue as they are, with me writing and photographing each and every day, there will be more than enough poems and pictures to make up this book. I would ideally still have the involvement with the publisher, Dark Winter Press, and continue the format. As with the third book, Love, I would have to find someone who would be interested in writing an introduction. My thoughts about introductions are that they are a fine thing, grounding the reader in a sense of what they are about to embark upon.
I would describe the overall writing as a celebration of nature and also a portrait of the unique spiritual journey. Unique simply because not all embark on it, and also because of those who do, each spiritual path has its own nuances, characters, its own stories. I would describe the photography as lauding the look of unique angles and light, mostly of phenomenon like pastoral vistas and also close things like flower petals.
In conclusion, I am about two-thirds through the work of the prose poems and photos that will compile four books. This is a good place to be at as a poet and photographer. I am happy with the format and content of what has already arrived, what is waiting, and what is and will be in the works. Wind, Night, Love, and Leaves. In this brief writing I will include the four front covers.
Umring bo‘yi ishonging kelar Buyuk bo‘lib tug‘ilganingga. Farishtalar ishora qilar Deya ko‘kdan sen kelganingga.
Umr o‘tdi. Chang – to‘zon aro Bilmay bormi yo eding yo‘qdan. Yerostiga chorlaydi sado, Lek ishorat bo‘lmadi ko‘kdan.
● Alexander Arkadyevich Feinberg
You believe throughout your life, That you born being great, talented Born once in a million. Wait for angels to prove that. Time has gone, life ended Without purpose and achievement You’ve realized nothing. Next life is waiting you, but no prove yet
● Translation by Shukurilloyeva Lazzatoy Shamshodovna
Everywhere I go, the world is noisy, unbearably loud. I can’t stand the sharpness of laughter that pierces the air. I struggle to understand today’s people—their ways, their minds. My friends were once like brothers to me. We spent Friday nights together, savoring the weekend as if it were sacred. But now, everything has changed. Faces are unmasked, and I can clearly see who’s my friend and who’s not.
I’m tired of falling into people’s hands like a losing card, shuffled and discarded. Judgment comes at me mercilessly from all sides. I’m no saint, but my needs feel ignored, my voice silenced. In my exile, my siblings are like sunsets—beautiful but distant. My parents are storms, rumbling and restless.
I wonder if my coworkers and so-called friends notice the bruises on my face. Sometimes, I can’t even find my own body, lost in the heaviness of burying a piece of myself alive. I wrote my final voiceless poem, but as a stateless man, the world gave me a name: The Kite.
They fly me against the wind, just to watch me falter, to see me suspended between the clouds and the earth, barely tethered. Those who mock my accent, the foreign characters with beautiful faces—they steal my breath with their words.
I hug a woman, not out of nervousness but to anchor myself. Yet I bleed brutally when I fly too far, becoming incurable, untouchable. My mother cried the day I was born, sensing something in my face—a mark, an omen—that none of my siblings carried. She calms my father whenever I come home drunk, but she never shares the truth with him or anyone else. Only my homeland knows the full weight of it.
In my grandparents’ time, I would have been a leafless corpse on a mountaintop, touched by fingers and tongues seeking blessings. Now, I seek isolation—not to sin, but to find meaning. To bloom in peace. To live where butterflies don’t die from human greed, where roses aren’t picked in screams.
A child in an orphanage once celebrated his first birthday with nothing but wishes—soft, muted whispers. I don’t want to hear the world’s loudness anymore. I hear it all too clearly, but I can’t promise anything. I’ve been sitting in this metaphorical wheelchair for far too long.
