From one street of my life paths...

I remember...My childhood began in a beautiful place called Mirzaabad and still continues in the warm embrace of this place. When I was young, I remember waiting for my mother's hot loaves in the oven to be ready...

I have loved books since I was young. And this light led me to the "Knowledge Competition" held earlier at school. Because I fell in love with the book, I became the absolute winner of the republican stage of this competition. It is not surprising that the feeling of interest in creativity awakened in my heart even then.
  I still remember the first poem I wrote in my school days:

Hello, my daughter-in-law is Spring
I miss you so much
I was waiting for you to come
You are a beautiful garden.
Here, you entered my beautiful nature
Spreading the scent of flowers to the green world,
Now don't go to other countries
Your daughter Sitora will miss you.
It's true, maybe this poem, which came out of my young heart at that time, has no rhyme, no meaning, but it was the first melody of a young heart...

Years have passed since then. The golden pages of the book invited me to Gulistan State University. I remember my high school years...
When I was preparing for Oliykhoh, I read books under an umbrella despite the snowflakes and raindrops falling. Perhaps, because of these hardships, I have achieved the happiness of being a student...
I would like to thank life and fate for these great rewards. I bow down a thousand times to my parents who stood by me and supported me in my bold steps. I still have high hopes for life. Praise be to my God who created me... I am thankful that my life is beautiful and bright...
Currently, I am teaching and educating young people at school 34, Boyovut district. When I see hope for life and confidence in the future in young souls, my interest in life increases. The high status of "MASTER" coming from their tongues makes me hope to live yet. Maybe my life is beautiful with such memorable moments...

The essence and development of translation between the 19th and the 20th centuries.

    Communication is the basis for human societies. Contact between communities is the basis for translation. Whether by conflict or cooperation, translation has been involved in the evolution of societies and it has evolved with them. Translation has an effect on the relationships between peoples, between people and power and between power and people. Translation has been instrumental in the formation of writing and literary culture in every European language (‘European’ here refers to more than the geographical area of Europe, as defined today). Indeed, the history of international contact and cultural development, within and beyond Europe, can be traced by noting the routes of translation. 

Translation is still of the utmost importance in the affairs of a world that has gone through the rapid technological development called modernization, which furthermore has enhanced international relations to the point where people feel they can legitimately talk of ‘globalization’. While this development is far from having reached all parts of the world in equal measure, it is true that science, media, entertainment, commerce, and the many forms of international relations embrace the globe so extensively now, that translation becomes an almost overwhelming issue, indeed a ‘problem’ (the notion of the ‘problem of translation’ has a long and colourful history). Many see a possible solution in the adoption of a single global language, and it seems that English is well on its way to taking on this international role, as Latin did in the very different circumstances of the Late Middle Ages and Renaissance.

The history of translation theory can in fact be imagined as a set of changing relationships between the relative autonomy of the translated text, or the translator’s actions, and two other concepts: equivalence and function. Equivalence has been understood as “accuracy,” “adequacy,” “correctness,” “correspondence,” “fidelity,” or “identity”; it is a variable notion how the translation is connected to the foreign text. Function has been understood as the potentiality of the translated text to release diverse effects, beginning with the communication of information and the production of a response comparable to the one produced by the foreign text in its own culture. Yet the effects of translation are also social, and they have been harnessed to cultural, economic, and political agendas: evangelical programs, commercial ventures, and colonial projects, as well as the development of languages, national literatures, and avant-garde literary movements. Function is a variable notion of how the translated text is connected to the receiving language and culture. In some periods, such as the 1960s and 1970s, the autonomy of translation is limited by the dominance of thinking about equivalence, and functionalism becomes a solution to a theoretical impasse; in other periods, such as the 1980s and 1990s, autonomy is limited by the dominance of functionalisms, and equivalence is rethought to embrace what were previously treated as shifts or deviations from the foreign text.

      The increasingly interdisciplinary nature of translation studies has multiplied theories of translation. A shared interest in a topic, however, is no guarantee that what is acceptable as a theory in one field or approach will satisfy the conceptual requirements of a theory in others. In the West, from antiquity to the late nineteenth century, theoretical statements about translation fell into traditionally defined areas of thinking about language and culture: literary theory and criticism, rhetoric, grammar, philosophy. And the most frequently cited theorists comprised a fairly limited group. One such catalogue might include: Cicero, Horace, Quintilian, Augustine, Jerome, Dryden, Goethe, Schleiermacher, Arnold, Nietzsche. Twentieth-century translation theory reveals a much expanded range of fields and approaches reflecting the differentiation of modern culture: not only varieties of linguistics, literary criticism, philosophical speculation, and cultural theory, but experimental studies and anthropological fieldwork, as well as translator training and translation practice. 

Any account of theoretical concepts and trends must acknowledge the disciplinary sites in which they emerged in order to understand and evaluate them. At the same time, it is possible to locate recurrent themes and celebrated topoi, if not broad areas of agreement. The Latin poet Horace asserted in his Ars Poetica (c. 10 BC) that the poet who resorts to translation should avoid a certain operation—namely, word-for-word rendering—in order to write distinctive poetry. Here the function of translating is to construct poetic authorship. In a lecture entitled “On the Different Methods of Translating” (1813). Moreover, Louis Kelly has argued that a “complete” theory of translation “has three components: specification of function and goal; description and analysis of operations; and critical comment on relationships between goal and operations” (Kelly 1979:1). Kelly is careful to observe that throughout history theorists have tended to emphasize one of these components at the expense of others. The component that receives the greatest emphasis, I would add, often devolves into a recommendation or prescription for good translating.

    It would be interesting to note that translation theory during this period are rooted in German literary and philosophical traditions, in Romanticism, hermeneutics, and existential phenomenology. They assume that language is not so much communicative as constitutive in its representation of thought and reality, and so translation is seen as an interpretation which necessarily reconstitutes and transforms the foreign text. Nineteenth-century theorists and practitioners like Friedrich Schleiermacher and Wilhelm von Humboldt treated translation as a creative force in which specific translation strategies might serve a variety of cultural and social functions, building languages, literatures, and nations. At the start of the twentieth century, these ideas are rethought from the vantage point of modernist movements which prize experiments with literary form as a way of revitalizing culture. Translation is a focus of theoretical speculation and formal innovation.

In conclusion of this scientific research, the main essence of translation process helped to develop that sphere faster and more efficiently during XIX and XXʼs centuries, which nowadays with the contribution of that works, the field of translation is much more improved.

Author: Yodgorova Billurabonu Shuhrat qizi 
Student of BukhSU Foreign languages Faculty.

Anyone Hungry?

Mom pushes herself away from the table with a loud
squeak from the chair legs. My body
slumps, full from a satisfying meal. I don’t feel like speaking
tonight. My mind is already clouded, but I listen to mom, always loud and dramatic.

Dad’s breathy laugh drifts through the kitchen as my sister finishes her story, and the hum of the heater turns to warm us all.

“Dessert?”, Mom offers, walking back with her homemade
peanut butter pie. I can hear Dad smile without looking at his face. Peanut butter pie is his favorite. My mother sits in front of me, closer to the heater, a woman who is always cold no matter the season.

She makes a comment about my sister. The word “selfish”
slices the air, a knife sharper than what she used to cut
our roast beef. Tension rises with the heat in the kitchen.
Their voices clash against the ceiling.

Dad, complacent to conflict, puts his hands up in a T as if he is a referee.
“Time-out, time-out”, he says.
I stare at the bottom of the heater.

No one hears him. My sister's voice
starts to shake.

Focus
on the hum of the heater.
Focus
on the floor.
Sparks sneak out the edge of
the black box. My heart quickens
its beating. No one notices
a thing, but I see a spark
touch the wood floor, see it grow
into a flame,
stretch its vengeful
fingers towards
my mom's chair.

She screams.
I don’t think.
The cord is right
next to me,
so I reach.

The hum of the heater
stops its singing,
and I am left to stare at the black hole
tattooed on our kitchen floor.

Our new Uzbekistan

Yes, I am that even by the residents of other rich, developed countries I was born in Uzbekistan, a unique country described as a “Paradise land”. First of all, thank God for this. This country is truly a paradise. Its nature, scenery, air, delicacies, friendly and hospitable people, everything is special. Day by day, the example of a new bride in our country is becoming more beautiful and polished. Whether there is a living soul living in this land, whether it is a human, an animal or a plant, everyone is happy to be born in this land, in this wonderful place. 

There are countries where you won’t find a single flower that is a symbol of beauty that will bring you a smile and a good mood. There are countries where you cannot find a child who can be a support to his parents who raised him and loved him in his old age. But God’s eyes fell on our country and everything was given in abundance. Alhamdulillah. The leader of our country, our father, our first president, Islam Karimov, did not stop until our country reached this level. They said that they are my people, whether they walk or stand. They saw people as their family members. They paid special attention to us young people. They said to themselves, “Our children must be stronger, more educated, stronger and certainly happier than us!” they put the slogan. 

In a word, every Uzbek, along with our compatriots, was able to take an indelible place in the hearts of the people of other countries. Today, their follower, our new president, Shavkat Mirziyaev, is continuing the work of our first president, Islam Karimov, for the peace, prosperity, and further development of our country. They are working day and night for the prosperity of our country, for the peaceful and happy life of our people, for us young people to get a good education and never be inferior to anyone else. After all, isn’t this the land under God’s eyes. The people under God’s eyes? Isn’t this the nation on which the bird of happiness landed? 

Yes, this happiness is not for everyone. It is the duty of each of us to preserve this happiness. It is our great goal of every young generation to protect our country, which is growing and developing day by day. Our country is changing day by day, even a person who lives here and goes to study or work in another country for a short period of time comes back and is surprised by the changes. Our country is surprising the world. The leader of our country, our grandfather, is never tired of striving for the prosperity and development of our country, just as the bees never get tired of gathering honey and keeping it. 

There is a big difference between Uzbekistan five years ago and today’s Uzbekistan. In a short period of time, the people of our country have achieved great achievements that have made our country take a worthy place in the world community. He introduced a number of reforms and innovations to our country. Our country has entered a qualitatively new stage of its independent development, New Uzbekistan. And this New Uzbekistan is developed on the basis of the principles of friendly cooperation with the world community, strictly following the recognized norms and principles of democracy, human rights and freedoms, and the ultimate goal is to create a free, prosperous and prosperous life for the people. It was proudly mentioned by a number of editors. 

The phrase “New Uzbekistan” means, first of all, a new life, new reforms, a new way of life, a new worldview. In this regard, we cannot count the achievements made during the past 5 years. During these 5 years, our country has developed more and has more unique landscapes. It proved that it will not be left behind by other developed beautiful countries. Developed in every way. Of course, these achievements are based on strong knowledge. The owners of this knowledge are our peers, young people, people of our country. After all, our first president Islam Karimov said, “The future of Uzbekistan is in the hands of the youth!” they hardly boasted. This is the future! And Uzbekistan is in the hands of our youth. We must make it more prosperous, raise it further, justify the trust given to us. In a word, we should join hands, tie our waists tightly, and live for the country and the  people with enthusiasm!

For Homeland

My grandfather said, "My child this world is yours.
Gird up your loins, you are a flower in the mountains.
Live for this country, let it be self-sacrificing soul,
Be great like your ancestors, white blood in your veins.

Don't give away your cradle, open to the people your door,
Try with all your heart, may luck be always with you.
This beautiful country is for you, for a black eye is yours
Let's hold hands, let's live for the Motherland too.

Since the new Uzbekistan is being built for us, we should live for our homeland. our country, our people, and work together wholeheartedly. We must justify the trust given to the youth. We need to improve our new Uzbekistan and make it flourish. We are proud to live in such a heavenly country, and it is our main duty to protect every inch of its soil like our own home. It is a dream for some to see the beauty of our new Uzbekistan, and some dream of living in other countries. And we are in this country. We should be thankful that we are among the people whom God loves.

Thinking of me, are awake at every step,
When i see you, i feel myself over the moon.
Donʼt refuse, let me lay my head on you lap,
You are always my remedy to my pain.

You sang a lullaby to me over the night,
You calm me down by saying "my daughter".
Let me kiss your beady eyes only a once
Let me lay my on your lap, dear mother.

Such a pity, i donʼt always have time help you
But you always keep me in your heart and mind.
Many years passed since i missed you so much,
Let me lay my on your lap, dear mother.

Your sunshine with an immense kindness
Even the ice melts from your love.
Stroke my head, again kiss my forehead
Let me lay my on your lap, dear mother.

Such a cruel and evil fate cannot test me,
Your prays are a shield and protector.
I forget the whole world, when you tell a story
Let me lay my on your lap, dear mother.

Makhkamova Charos Davron’s daughter. Was born on December 23, 2005 in Orta Chirchik district, Tashkent region. Currently, she is an 11th grade student at the 44th General Secondary School. Articles anda  poems were published in newspapers of India, Thailand, the USA, Great Britain, Canada, Australia, and in anthologies sold in 26 countries. The winner of the district stage of the 2022 “Smart Reader” competition.

One Way of Surviving a Fall

Okay I’m gonna do it!

Good for you good for you!

Okay I’m gonna try it!

Good for you good for you go on!

Step’d to the wall’s that’s nott’d there take the pledge up-touch; lean in; and—oh—it is not there right on fast through fall down into ? so fast there’s no time to live through it at all let alone “talk about it” and—fall.

Fall done en’ tumblin’ not—as there nothing to strike of the consistency of air or rock or anyplace in between to cause the fall t’ be a tumbling fall and so the landing well, it is really hard to predict if the fall gets survived. You know you see? Do you know? Do you see why don’t you know you were shown earlier and you do not know for one simple reason = you did not apply yourself fully = it is not for our kind to apply ourselves fully = oh yes and why not = because the things in life obtained by applying oneself fully are not for such as us = oh no = oh yes = the things in life obtained by applying oneself are not for us they’re for other people what = why you want to waste those damned ten years of life striving out so far that way that you end up going so far out that way you won’t find an arm attached to yourself long enough to reach back and grab yourself and pull yourself back there up to yourself out there and fuse the two which is what makes for a successful = thought still quite hard = oh yes you will you will feel the fall in any case no pain no gain barf bar/ ba’ b’ = wow they’re to feel that in the morning wish I hadn’t seen that oh well what’s done is done, in any case = may be said after the completion of a successfully survived fall that is your two = one now not only did your arm turn out to be just barely good enough and the two halves of yourself = perfectly aligned at the moment of fusion = you stop and you see that if planet Earth does experience {metaphorically of course as = [ with an entire planetary bag o’ living creatures ] = the explanation that’s just been handed out to you = hilariously bad laughably overly-simplified most stuntedly underdeveloped so let’s not go there = I am parched, where’s my am parched water parched, where’s my where’s my am parched, my top-filled am parched, water; my water’ water my God man; you don’t even know what a water looks like, spit-tooten’, spit-tooten = here is what a water looks like

God damn you ah ah ‘illina ‘illina stil’ down t’ road hipsla-tango = you can tell by my faces I am not fooling around you can tell but in any stroke there they were successfully landed bright-bruised, but happy. In contrast to = drink drink drink drink drink = the other way of falling which = drink drink drink drink drink = is just nearly as best but best’s not enough when in this one = drink drink drink drink drink = the faller’s arm-reachback’s not quite so adequate = drink drink drink drink drink = and thus the falling’s not needed since being parted out into two separate ways is inherently fatal in and of itself = drink drink drink drink drink = so we needn’t to go there not to go there we needn’t = to go spit clash glub bub = drink drink drink drink drink = so then squire-lastly there’s this tickle of a final way out of all possible finals ways to = remember the best way to break a fall is to never have fallen at all [yes sir that’s right] know that wisdom now = drink drink drink drink drink = and know it immediately, private, or you will face the living hell of being put in charge of all the vessels do you know what that means sweetheart fear it fear it do you feel the fear of possibly being put in charge of all the vessels or worse yes than this

= drink drink drink drink drink = sir! And worse yes than that = drink drink drink drink drink = sir! but all’s become so tiny sir how can we do it now it’s gone down so tiny? would be actually being put in charge of all the vessels (oh yah oh yah reality does have a way of stepping out of the theoretically real into the really real area of its-self within which lies all pain suffering malicious cruelty and even some petty thieveries of two or three but what’s a (?? tipt’d-tongue tip’d-tongue) “       “ this blank may be filled with any word desired dab-smack’d so whish would you choose Top-mayor, I mean what’s right what’s wrong BOO just never ever ever blacken the family name

BOO for if the family name gets blackened not only will it set all the neighbors a-buzzing [and thus to shut up all smiley when thou doth enter their earshot] so now my nose’s blown and my inner noisefest’s gone a-quiet {nearly}, here’s what happens = the back-half’s been grabbed ‘nd pulled up’s been = not really aligned perfectly = the two halve will mate jaggedly off center = leap back the observers & if any & out of shrapnel’s range = and the two will clash off-center = being mmmmediately kill-xisted into balls of flames slurries of green red and when present at all, most likely laced with streaky-splatter’d gold {but yes oh yes of gold nonetheless so of probable high-value = let’s take ‘em out Sarge! = the minutes all ‘round here b’ ticking yas yas, they be ticking = and it does all seem to not be there anymore just like YOU if you dare fall that way, Toppie, just like YOU and like YOU old-man Toppie, but here we are no wait the doors need to slip open—there.

What?

Regardless of number of hot teas too-accurately drunk, we be.

There. Look!

Jan and Jon turned out from their looking.

Where the hell are we?

In the aftermath of a successfully perfectly harmless fall.

What?

How.

Wonderful!

Party!

= drink drink drink drink drink =

Party!

= drink drink drink drink drink =

Party!

= drink drink drink drink drink =

Party!

= drink drink drink drink drink == drink drink drink drink drink =

Frankfurt am Main, Germany


Often in my wounded warrior years

I think back to Frankfurt, Germany

twenty years after the horror

though I then was

not mindful of the whistle

and bang of bombs,

the dry or the wet mess of rubble;



the streets were postcards reconstructing,

bratwurst sizzling

beer warm, not needing chill,

frauleins in calf-high boots,

mini-skirts, tight sweaters

that your eyes groped wildly, though judiciously.



The sun shone down

as in a travel magazine,

so rich that azure,

the greens dark, bright

in that damp Taunus District climate.



My legs were good.

I walked

one end of the city to the other

never fearing knife, gun, Gestapo, thug;

I walked

fantasizing

the look of the Holy Roman Empire,

of genuine Roman soldiers before that,

the armor clinking or clacking as they walked,

the precision of determined feet on stone, on ground.

I imagined campfires on dark nights,

logs, twigs burning, the crackle,

and the river silent in the shadows out there somewhere.



I strolled by the now and seemingly forever named

Main River,

the stippled white light of noon

floating,



and I

even by myself,

mostly by myself,

entered

the scene like Caspar David Friedrich,

a wanderer above a sea of fog,

but the fog was in the mind,

history, not the eye,

in the mind

and then the cold touch of a railing,

and next to me the frown and pull away

of that pretty girl that I would have liked to meet..



I heard stories of the war,

saw the aria of the old opera house,

the building a shell exploded

with a Beethoven burst.



The fog did not lift;

besides imagined Sturm und Drang.

there was only the crudity, the stupidity

of enlisted army life,

only the George Grosz faces

of people I knew,

drunks,

punks I knew,

kids like me,

when face to face

with a mirror,



and later

through years of sifted sunlight,

time established itself,

the haze of history arose

from its corpse.

I saw in perspective

a personal walk on a stage empty

awaiting the next act of the larger drama.

I was grateful that I lived in less

than Wagnerian times,

the entrances and exits

were losing their impressions

in the accumulating dust,

in the wearing away of wounds

in the sweeping away of the dust.



History is so much cloud;

The brief shapes evaporate

But the essence of storm

Always arises, bit by bit,

And grumbles out to another country,

Bites lightning quick,

Floods with impassioned blood

And roars the rhetoric of anger and grief.



In Frankfurt I roamed the wisps of the past

As if the conclusion of one war was final,

 but it is the human heart that’s always ready for new battle,

arming itself with distrust, suspicion,

vainglorious ambition,



A generation falls dead,

So many puppets rot away,

All that courage, fear, blindness,

Visionary grief evaporated like water,

Puddles of blood hidden, absorbed by weeds,

The dancing flowers of peace so charming,

Disarming nations with the veneer of civilization.

How so much is reconstructed, built with hope,

But all the foundations are built on forgetting, or if

Memory is invoked, the kings, queens, sergeants,

Killers and the fallen are made of bronze or stone.

No blood, no veins, no laughs or tears

Come out of the unchanging mouths of statues,

Posterity that has that faux nobility,

Like scripture has that holier than thou reverence.

Nothing is grounded in the common world of bombs, armor.

The head is still wrapped in historic fog,

----Dan Cuddy

*******




The Gasthaus On Homburger Landstrasse

 

Johan or “John”

owned a profitable business

a gasthaus

serving Henninger Bier

cognac

all manner of whiskey

schnitzel, wurst, pommes frites

that the young depraved American army craved



A somewhat homey place,

the wood paneling,

the white and yellow opaque glass

of the lower window panes,

the comfortable tables,

not too closely spaced;



Locals visited it too,

not just soldiers

that wanted to get off-base

but had to stay nearby,

Edwards Kaserne just across the street

and Third Armor headquarters' gate,

this side half a block down.



John had a glass eye.

He in his late forties

a soldier in Hitler's army,

his frau,

attractive face,

a bit plump

but good living settles, spreads,

sits in contented conversation.

Renoir would approve.



Life moves on.

Certainly, John was not

a war criminal

but a skinny youth

in the bad times,

when harangue and euphoria

were the orders of the day.



John just wanted to get along;

it was his duty to serve,

defend the homeland,

had nothing to do with Jews.

he didn't particularly like Nazis.

He was a dark-haired German

lean, young,

given a uniform, a gun.



John was not an intellectual;

he fell into the general apoplexy,

nurtured no visible conscience

or protest,

just an ordinary man,

Ecco Homo,

the events swarming

before his eyes

within, without his mind,

he just wanted life,

not a soldier's death,

not a hero's monument,



and so,

twenty years after the war

he had a plump attractive wife

who gave him a peck of affection

in public and more in the marriage bed,

three floors above that gasthaus

where soldiers would come and go

talking of drinking and bordellos,

but the American soldiers

were kids

and the couple

like chaperones

kept a semblance of order,

had little trouble with loud voices,

off-key American singing.



A profitable business,

an ordinary life,

not a romantic’s dream

but preferable to the ride

of the Valkyries



one learns to tap forgetfulness

toast the present,


---Dan Cuddy