Happy Constitution
Deuteronomy head book.
The appeal of all the people,
Disaster of freedoms
Happy Constitution.
He pledge of peace Harmony,
Light of happiness the fountain.
Of perseverance,
Fortunately the Constitution!
Maftuna Rustamova
Bukhara region
Jondor district
30th school
8-"a" class.
Village morning Morning, the spring's canopy shutter, The heart is ready for the feeling of purity. Simple people, simple people, The bag turns the black heart into colors. I'm satisfied with sincere tunes today, The sound of the swallow decorates my heart. Walking in the city streets, I found out that The value of such stones is like a stone. By a rightful mistake of fate, I'm in love with basil today. That another place is like this, Majnuntol, you didn't say, why didn't you say. My magical world with moving walls, The rooster crows in the early morning. After all, you are honest, you are wonderful, The rustling of trees, the dawn of my village! Nilufar Anvarova, daughter of Ulugbek: born in 2011 in Chimyon town, Fergana district. He initially studied at 31 schools, and since September 2023 he is a student of the 8th grade of the creative school named after Erkin Vahidov in the city of Marģilon. His creative works "Human rights in the eyes of children", "The swallow that chased my imagination", "Sizdek sultan yòq" were published in the newspaper "Tong styziri" and the poems "Ha, men oshà..." and "Uzbek's dish" were published in the newspaper "Yangiyer Tongi". published. In addition, creative samples were published in the prestigious "Raven cage" of Germany and "Kenya times" magazine of Kenya. Currently, he has many certificates, diplomas and international certificates. Our poet is active and known to the world for her creative works in anthologies that collect the creative works of various artists! One of his future goals is to win the "Zulfiya" award!
Turkic-speaking people
Today, Turkic-speaking peoples are spread not only in Central Asia, but also from the Sea of Oxoto to the shores of the Black Sea, from Siberia to northern Afghanistan and Iran, partly in Iraq and Eastern Europe, and the total number of speakers is more than 200 million.
The largest number of Turkic-speaking people are the Turks, that is, the people living in the territory of Turkey, their number is about 100 million, and most of them live in Germany. The second largest group is the Uzbeks, the total number of which is about 50 million. because about 8 million people of Uzbek nationality live in the geographical area called South Turkestan, that is, in northern Afghanistan.
At the same time, I must say that in the Republic of Azerbaijan, more than 9 million people of Uzbek nationality live in the northern Ereon area, which is the unofficial name About 15 million Azars live in southern Azerbaijan. As we mentioned above, Gagauz people of Turkic nationality live in Eastern Europe, that is, in the Republic of Moldova, and they have their own administrative territory and language. Currently, Turkey, Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, and Turkmenistan are part of the United Nations.
There are a few independent Turkic states, but the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus is partially recognized and there are also about 20 autonomous or separate Turkish states. For example, Nakhichevan Autonomous Republic in Azerbaijan, Gagauzia in Moldova, South Turkestan in Afghanistan, Eastern Turkestan in the PRC, i.e. Uyghurs. and many other republics in the territory of Russia: Bashkirstan, Tatarstan, Tuva, Yakutia, Chuvashia, Crimea, Karbadino, Bulgaria, Karachay, Cherkessia, etc., and in the territory of Uzbekistan there is also the sovereign democratic republic of Karakalpakstan, and the population belonging to the Karakalpak nation lives here.
These peoples speak several languages belonging to the Turkic language family. We will divide them into 4 large and 2 small groups. The first group is the Kipchak group, this group includes: Kazakh, Karakalpak, Kyrgyz, Karaim, Bashkir, Karachoy, Nogay, Tatar, Crimean Tatar, the second group, Oghuz, Azerbaijani, Turkmen, Gagauz trills, and the third group, Qarluq.
It includes the Uzbek and Uyghur languages, and then the big group is the Siberian group, which includes the Altai Tuva, Khakas, Shora, Yakut languages. The other two subgroups are the Bulgar group, which is grammatically and lexically slightly different from the Turkic languages, the only language of which is the Chuvash language, and the second subgroup is the Khalaj Gurhi, which includes the Khalaj language and the Khalaj language of Iran. used by the Turkish ethnic population.
By Jakbaraliyev Zafarbek Ziyodbek, 8th general secondary school
Now he is an 11th grade student in school. He has a B2 level in English, besides he knows Turkish and Italian. Until now, I have been the “Laureate” of the “Rainbow Stars Art Festival” republic. At the same time, I am a participant of the republican stage of the “most exemplary school captains” competition. I am a participant of the regional head of the 2023 History Olympiad.
he looked at the map of the stars, a map he had gotten from a National Geographic book. he had affixed it to the wall and tried to remember it. he couldn’t remember the constellations though, not the way other people did. he was terrible at geography of the earth, and apparently could not remember the sky either. but still, he found that he liked the stars, and the whole idea of it. why not? what other posters were there on the wall? it was difficult to remember. Jim Morrison. The Silver Surfer. outside then the rain and the wind, the fall leaves sometimes twirling around as if guided by a spirit. nobody ever home, or hardly anyhow. emptiness. and no trouble there either, no bad people per se, but no good people either. nothing. a certain emptiness. perhaps it was because the past was over but the future had not really begun. open the window. let the night air go through the screen. sometimes angelic light or feeling. feeling. and actually sometimes the bad. what they call the Old Hag Syndrome, where a being sat is on your back and tried to steal your soul. she arrived twice. had to be fended off with will power. the first time she called his name. but was it real? or a medical thing that sometimes happened to people when they slept. music. soft music. plush carpets w/nightlights. the real stars out there, beyond the poster of such. but not as of late in those long nights, because the cloud cover made for an opacity. memory. nostalgia. ghostly. it wasn’t really eating, or sports, dating, or money or music or drawing or travel. what was it? sometimes something in the words read or written. sometimes that if something had to be picked. yes books. and the wind. books and the wind inside the night. the tarot often said the third eye was open. interesting. he wished no harm upon the ones that wished harm upon him. yet, the diviners say much trouble arrived for them. the wind goes through vines, over and around the old graveyard, and atop plum trees. the wind comes into the room and rustles papers, makes a pen and pencil to roll. friendship w/the night. prayer meditation vision mysteries. a group of deer must wander up the path. to appear just then in the dawn, in the very first inkling of the dawn when the light arrives so suddenly and has been borne and born, travelled and birthed. day was okay. night more spacious, wild, its capricious winds and restless clouds, its electric eclectic ephemeral ethereal dreams and the fall rains against the windows in the witching hour.
The Green Jalapeno On My Tongue
I think of the man who was very briefly in my life. I don’t want to think of him but I do. After all this time he comes into view but this time he is saying goodbye. The relationship doesn’t feel quite as magical for him anymore. It’s twenty minutes past one in the afternoon. It’s raining. There’s a chill in the air. I give up wondering who he’s with, what food he’s eating, if he still does his laundry and irons his shirts, or if the young woman in his life does everything for him, like the cooking and cleaning in his house. He was always interested in property and in having plenty of space around him.
You are a newborn. I count your magic digits. Your nose, lips, eyes and mouth are a requiem. You have eczema. I was unemployed. Across the valley’s face you came home. I did not expect you. I did not help paint your room a bright sunshine yellow. I regret that. This bundle. The science of sinking flowers. Magus visiting on a floating ship. Milk-fever on your brow. You cannot speak my name yet. One day you will hate me and say I hurt your feelings. This will happen as a self-aware four year old. I will feel ashamed of myself. I shouted because I was afraid. Afraid you were going to hurt yourself. I did not speak when you turned your head away. I felt afraid. You’re a good psychologist at five. You tell me a baby will make me happy. I believed then in hope like a girl. A man enters the picture when I am thirty-nine. The man I think I am going to marry. It doesn’t work out. In reality it doesn’t but in my head it does. I can hear something that draws my interest as I try to fall asleep. The dogs move in the dark. Their silent maneuvering was disconcerting to me at first. The one walks behind the other.
Then it is the art of serving and helping during Covid-19. Everybody thinks it’s the apocalypse. I don’t think of anything but of getting out of this tiny isolation room they’ve put me in. Now two years seems like such a long time ago. I shit in this room and everyone can see. I pee. Everyone can see. That is not lost on me. My paternal grandfather came from Saint Helena. I was a guinea pig. When I was in the normal ward, whatever normal means, the male nurses could see us showering and would just stand there and watch. They had to. To keep us safe because of safety matters or matters of safety.
The aftermath of the promulgation of the Group Areas Act in post-apartheid South Africa should be a matter of every South Africa’s interest. Might I add it is very much a disquieting Jungian path.
To a sister in Europe that I feel as if I’m learning these things much too late. The things I needed from you. The things you needed from me. You needed someone to listen to you. Well I needed that too. It has come much too late.
I conducted an interview with water in the swimming pool. The droplets of rain feel like ice on my skin. Underneath I am surrounded by giant tap roots and blue trees. A safe blue forest. I can live here forever like I did in high school. I was baptised in the swimming pool hitting forty by an Apostle Harmse.
My mother’s face falls. My father interprets this as both cunning deceit on her part and lovely. Joyce Carol Oates frightens me. The way her mind is engineered to think. Her conditioning. Of this I am certain. Gravity. The leaf falls. You are something that I have lost and that will never be returned to me.
I know the wildflowers of pain. It sucks. I know how to live in the moment. Sometimes it is cool to live in the moment. To wait for the eclipse of this sweet reversal of fortune. The edge of this knife-jab-twist in my sobriety. You, the gorgeous saint of a man who was very briefly in my life, I think have sufficient world peace now. The peace that you were longing for. That I could not give.
I am trying to get my ficus plant to hit the ceiling. It means I will win a prize. The universe will just hand this to me and say, “This is your consolation prize for never having got married. Never having those children.” You never think of me anymore. This of course comes as no surprise to me and why should it? It’s been years. Nearly half a decade.
I wonder how your coffee tastes in the morning that the woman now in your life makes for you. Does your lady make it for you in the exact same way that I did? I wonder how your doctoral studies are going, are you thinking of teaching again, taking up that vocation? You told me that you would only do it for the money. You also told me that you would only teach overseas.
I wonder if you’re still inventing robots in your garage. After all this time, I still know pain. I am still writing sad poetry and books about the woman who never gets the man, who never quite gets it. Love or the domestic affairs of the heart. My parents are still alive. My father is eighty now, can you believe it! He outlived his university contemporaries.
A very young child’s toys covers a mat. My brother has had a daughter since I saw the man who was very briefly in my life last. The child’s mother works at a fast food restaurant during the day. I take care of her daughter with my mother and brother’s help. The child is my consolation prize. It’s not raining so hard anymore.
I joined a film forum. I have a film that is in production. Life is good. It should be good, right? But I keep telling myself that the man was my twin flame. That we were meant to be together. There are others, but what exactly does that matter?
What’s a Cambodian sunrise like? What was a Cambodian sunset like? What was life like now so far away from everything you’ve ever known, what you grew up with? I just wanted you to know that I still think of you sometimes and that when I am older than I am now I will probably still think of you. My tears, a forest of tears, are falling now but I have no idea why I am crying.
I sit in a darkened room drinking a woody cup of tea that nourishes my spirit and I think of my sister far away in Europe locked in a battle for her own survival. I think of my brother falling out of love with the mother of his daughter but who he still sleeps with. I think of my mother whose beauty has never faded, my father who still has all his mental faculties intact. The man who was very briefly in my life has faded from view. Once I walked victorious but now this man is in love with another. I still long for those inescapable moments where he held onto me so tight as if he would never let me go. My being and his were interwoven. It gave me courage and now nothing does. All I want are answers to my questions. Why did the relationship come to an end, why could he not love me, marry me, why could we not make it work, why did I fail to hold him captive and why was I so easy to replace?
Children are in my life now that have replaced the man’s absent love. My brother’s children. A son and a daughter. I am growing older, past the marrying age, past the age of having children. I dream of having a past in which the man is non-existent. Then I won’t have to think of him anymore.
There’s a sweetness to the day, to this light pouring into this winter’s day and the cold, pouring into my limbs and the whistle of the boiling kettle, pouring into this simple meal for a financially inept individual, an individual who finds it difficult to save. I bite into a green apple, make a face at its tartness, its sourness and chew. I swallow the apple and feel calm. The still air composes itself anew at the open windows. I watch a bird fly into the window and compose itself anew and fly off again. I get up and close the window and the thin net curtain in the sitting room. I remember a thin woman called Althea from high school who I didn’t like. I wonder what her children are like. If her husband makes her coffee and breakfast in the morning. She is a doctor now. She’s done well for herself but I remember how she used to make fun of me and pretend to speak like me. I remember her friends of Indian descent. How they seemed clever at life, had all the right moves and always aced their tests. With their high test scores, good looks, fathers who were an amalgamation of dentists, doctors, pharmacists, and business-owners who drove minivans or posh sedans to drop them off they seemed to have it made in ways and means that I did not have it made.
I think of feeling numb. Coming home in the afternoon after school and having no friends, nobody to speak or communicate with. I would wait for the arrival of my younger sister and brother and mother. I would sit in the front of the house and listen to CD’s. I wasn’t frightened of loneliness yet. I didn’t have words yet for that altered state of consciousness.
It is winter but it doesn’t feel like winter yet. It’s still warm outside. I feel hot under the blankets and kick them off me. I have regret on my mind that comes to me in waves. Regret becomes this kind of a personal attack on my sobriety and I think back to what the loss of the man meant in my life and the hours it took to produce published and unpublished manuscripts. Both were significant losses. My brother thinks he is in love but he has experienced much sadness in his life. The kind of sadness that is windswept and forlorn, torn between the wildflowers and the beating heart, the sun and interplanetary alignment. I want to ask the dark shadow of the man looming over me in the shower, in the garden, in my childhood bedroom, in the kitchen, in the lounge who he loves now but instead I lose my nerve and light a menthol cigarette instead. I blow the smoke out of my mouth, bite my bottom lip, and chew my fingernail, and stare out of the window remembering when he held me close and told me that he would never let me go. But he did. He did. Whether it was because of my chronic illness or disability or my poor mental health or my weak, limited thinking I will never know but what I do know as I stare into the past and into the eyes of this illusion that I had loved and given my heart to is this. I wish him well. Yes, I wish him well. I play Erik Satie and as the music fills this room I wish that the man is happy and in love with life. That after all this time he has found what I could not give him.
I write to his mother. I still write to her even though her son is no longer in my life. I still write sad poems about the end of our relationship. The end of this tragic yet significant love affair. She writes back. She is full of wisdom and spiritual insights. She tells me to move on with my life and forget all about him but it takes me a while to do this. It takes me years. I even find myself dreaming about him sometimes. In one dream we attend church together. In another I drove around looking for his house. I listen to Hillsong. His favourite band. I sing along. I lift my hands and sing and do praise and worship and then I think of him flirting at church, flirting in the workplace, in high school, in bars and clubs. It makes me feel better to think of him as the villain and myself as the victim. Sometimes I do think of how he has made me happy and then I smile and start to cry when I think of how I called him “Husband” and he called me “Wife”.
I made a bottle of milk for my niece. It’s the children that are important to me now. Other mothers’ progeny. My father and I watch cartoons with my niece. My father sings and does actions. I drink lukewarm coffee. My heart aches for something that doesn’t exist anymore. A love that might have been. It gives rise to a feeling of indecision. The clock ticks away while I sink into a lounge chair while light fills this room.
MARY Mary had a little lamb. It gave her indigestion. And everywhere that Mary went she had to use the restroom LEPIDOPTOURISTS Folding these my genitals into the soft privacy of the parched cocoon. Careful, Lust! Do not disturb that gentle dust. Lightly, precisely, park your eternal lips against my forever mouth, fasten firmly in place. Yes! Twin thoraces fixed just so! to allow free articulation of limbs in the moon's easy breeze, And, now, our skins unzip along spines, splurge toward the distant vacuum beyond the edge of the sheet, until your wings purple lurid under the lunar fluorescence iron themselves indistinguishable into mine (soft-yellowed). Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. More leaves in someone's unremembered book. All, the rest, is settled. Only our eyes bulge up, multifaceted and questing, from the petrified flatland. Until mourning dawn shakes again the pin loose and fossils rewake. WHAT YOU WILL You intruded my soul-- the whirlwind amidst my feathers, the typhoon among my waters-- Some might call it love and, some, religion but I’m satisfied to call it passion. And then our thread despoiled, the balloon discovered fetters, our garden became our desert. Wild/still. Static/ecstatic. Push/and/pull. Anarchy/enchained. -- Call it what you will. HERBERT’S REVELATIONS Ancient George Herbert --an only poet known for piety-- when he was dying was able to put out another tome, TEMPLE: SACRED POEMS AND (it said) PRIVATE EJACULATIONS!! Oh, what a volume! --The hypocrisy of pious clergy and their secret sins! Exposé I sought. But this was not that. Just more holy din. Honest George Herbert, patient preacher-poet, proved his piety even when dying. AMANUENSIS CUNNILINGUS My tongue is your servant you keep at your desk to dictate to fingers the words from my mind in praise of your beauty, in praise of your worth. If only my body consisted of tongues. My tongue is your serpent you keep for your cleft, whose electric tingle wiggles and entwines, for love and in duty, and promotes this verse. If only my body were made out of tongues.
THE DUNES will see it differently: not a bird, but violet is an invasive species she can’t fly i think if i palm the pulse of the waves long enough, they will erode the hard parts of me crunch iceplants between my canine teeth and dig my toes into the sand, the tide rises and falls and with it shifts my surety tugs a fistful of my tangled hair, wretched with saltwater and iceplant- flower perfumed sand leaks into every crevice of my body: it permeates the motion the waves of my brain current pulls back from the shore baring naked the beach she is stripped loveless droplets of judgment collect on my lashes and sting my eyes an invasive species nested high up in the dunes, i bury my naked body among the sand and limestone you’ll never find me.