SPRING INSPIRES ME

Spring. So much beauty, so much elegance, so much innocence – all this is embodied in spring. Spring. Grasses rise from the ground, branches grow like necks, the sun increases its temperature, mothers prepare sumalak and halim in pots, grandfather farmer takes a hoe and goes to the field, girls wear a wreath of willow leaves in their hair and look for chochmoma all this is embodied in my mind.

Spring. Children throwing leaves into the sky, flying kites, wrestlers going to the wrestling ground to knock each other’s swords on the ground, girls with caps on their heads and eyebrow growths singing songs with handsome guys, cooking kok somsa and dumplings for the bodies tired of winter and in need of vitamins. incarnate in the spring.

Spring. Kindness, people asking each other about each other, giving helping hands to the disabled, widows, asking about the elderly – all this is embodied in spring.

Imagination is a gift given to man by God.

Just thinking about spring brings peace and dreams to the human heart.

Our hearts flutter when we think of spring. Spring renewal, making new dreams, we think of it as stepping forward into life, making new plans. Spring brings with it a world of news. As you imagine, the peach blossoms in the fields and the scent of the tulips on the mountain come to your eyes. Spring is beyond our imagination. We cannot imagine spring without our national games.

I compare the spring season to rejuvenation and renewal, a new era. As soon as spring comes, it begins to spread its blue-blue dress around. The surroundings become more and more beautiful and reflect elegance. She is also compared to a bride. The reason is that a woman’s heart is elegant, delicate, demanding, and can attract any man. Spring is the percentage of seasons.

Spring is as durable as women, patient and tenacious like rocks. No matter how much it rains and winds, it retains its beauty. This is why spring inspires me…

Kucharova Ugiloy Utkir qizi is a student at Samarkand State University in the Sharof Rashidov Faculty of Law. 

Reading Poetry in a Cambridge Graveyard 

Here lies a silence older than stone  

the archaeology of roots digs layer by layer,  

through the relics of different eras,  

perhaps recovering pages turned blank once more,  

seeking clues deeper than the underground river.  

Probing fingers grope through one another’s darkness,  

like long-lost kin, unexpectedly meeting in the late night.  

There must be a half-green, half-red autumn here,  

with heavy branches bending toward the lips of stone.  

There must be bees of sunlight, building their hives  

before the curve of frost seals tight.  

There must be a shining horizon of poetry,  

spreading out from the warm and deep collar.  

Perhaps some poet, whose name has long worn away, 

Listens, forgets he is straddling both worlds,  

knowing everything, yet unable to speak.  

His lips, heavier than marble,  

puckered to a dry berry from the effort to move.  

On Translation

Winter is a war of everyone against everyone,

while translation is a person milking cows in winter.

There are many cows in the pasture—patient, still, docile,

the hair on their necks stiffened by the cold.

You milk them, in the darkness of dawn;

the white milk writes the earth into italics,

you keep squeezing, until the milk is tinged with blood.

Why are you here? This is a cattle shed drafty on all sides,

hay mixes with ice, there are no colored lights here,

no rituals. Those quiet cows line up,

chewing cud, as their swollen and painful breasts

gradually turn into empty, sagging, icy sacks.

No portrait of a leader hangs high here,

only grains of salt mixed in the manure pile,

only the foam that splashes in the tin bucket at your feet—

fragrant, fleeting, and pleasing.

After Midnight

In those years, he always thought after midnight  

about how to restart a world stuck in a loudspeaker  

by then, everyone had fallen asleep, and the fire in the stove was dying down  

the kitten’s purr coiled around an endless ball of yarn  

cold constellations glimmered on the window lattice  

yet his thinking was almost like not thinking at all  

like a creature that neither grows old nor stays young  

adorned with snowflakes on its shoulders, unborn still  

a coin with only one side, its patterns blurred  

so he went downstairs in the dark and wandered the empty streets  

like someone feeling empty after making love  

winter is the wreckage of a year, and he still tried to love it 

Night Falls Again

He has uncovered the truth of eternal recurrence

on winter nights darkness still descends so swiftly, so precisely

a single strike of the dirty bomb, with its incalculable half-life

the moment he speaks its name, he is suddenly standing

in a dim, familiar circular hall

surrounded by a score of identical doors

he pushes one open and steps into a backyard

there a child is prodding a skull half-buried in the grass

making it glimmer faintly, like a thought that refuses to submit

he does not feel the stir of unease, he cannot hear

what the child is humming, perhaps an old song

he cannot kill him from behind, to end this once and for all

he knows their lives are both

pirated copies of a shoddy translation of the same novel

blurred at times, sharp at others, like a promise

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of polyphonic writing and objectified poetics. He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included 9 poetry collections. He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell, Williams, Ashbery and Rosanna Warren. He published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over 600,000 copies.

Head bowed

The numbing curse

of resentment comes

to capture me

in its lumpy maggot-riddled

corpse, putting on my back

a burden I am aware of

I cannot keep.

And even though I wash and scrub,

daily cleansing myself of its

putrid stench, it returns, living,

climbing my shoulders into my hair.

I know the only clear path is forgiveness,

no matter my so-called-righteous-heart

cawing for justice. I know I will never

find peace this way, nor mercy

unless I can give it.

I am the one who need forgiveness

for allowing this monstrosity to suckle on

my spirit for so long.

I thought I was past it.

I thought I truly became a citizen,

sealing my covenant.

But it is here again,

raging like before, expecting

vindication.

I hope it is a ghost of its first-self,

still large but flimsy, visible

but lacking all density.

I pray I can overcome its devouring song

and show the love to others

that I myself have been given.

Open here, casting off

its angry cries,

its barbarian anguish

blocking my own way forward

into saving deliverance.

This Place

From a place of trust

I glimpse your magnificence,

your harnessed race of complexities

in harmony, slow moving, more

powerful than a hundred suns

conjoining.

From a place of faith,

being wrong is just as exciting

as being right – a longing to know

you, knowing I will never know you

only know the minute aspects that flip

and twist and rewrite as my knowledge grows,

while keeping some laws fundamental.

From a place of love,

your love is gathering in

bright awe-inspiring displays,

terrifying in their brilliance and

in their magnitude.

Nothing is personal. Everything is individual,

overreaching galaxies into galaxies,

twin dreams.

From a place of exploration,

finding inspiration

where paradox consumes,

invigorates, illuminates

all places, gloriously shifting.

Surrendered

In the middle –

steady, harsh waves,

salty flavoured ocean,

stranded, treading.

Love comes smiling.

It is a ghost.

Joy comes and passes by.

Purpose comes but floats by

like a jellyfish riding the momentum.

In the middle, tired of treading,

no escape, just the ebb and flow, surging,

retreating waters. What lies beneath makes

no difference because nothing is above

except the burning brutal sun, cloud cover

occasionally, and only air to eat.

Skin cells, bloating. Eyes, unable to keep

open. In the middle

of an endless abyss, all my happy days

behind me.

I hold my hands in prayer position,

arms raised over my head.

I stop struggling to not go under.

I go under and let that weight, the peace

at last, take me down.

She

Fear is splendid

in making the body inflamed,

bloated on trepidation at the news

of many meadows burning.

She hurried and found a healer

inside herself, willing to go

the distance and forfeit

personal power for a greater

acquisition.

She understood the traveller and

the sit-at-homer as one in the same,

especially on a stormy day or a year of upheaval.

Faith is the bullseye with no point-marks gained

unless hit dead-centre, directing every focus

to only that centre.

Faith is the wave to ride to the shore,

removed from other moving sources,

like wind and arm-strokes.

She opened herself to fear

not denying it but seeing it

as just another entity

under the canopy, smaller

than the giving sun.

Out

I asked to be let out

from that unwanted accomplishment.

I asked to shed my shame, my duty

and the hard-core call of doing time.

It was taken down and away from me,

along with so much more.

Guilt, and worldly bondage

also fell along with security,

along with a strange, twisted pride.

Knuckles down, hands still folded.

In my head are ghosts of patterns dissolved

but are still haunting. Ways of being I don’t have to

carry are dropped, but my empty arms are stalled

in position, humbled by uncertainty.

Set free and starting over, but not yet started,

just starting to try to etch out different

possibilities, a solid surging becoming.

Whiffs of passing currents,

rich aromas that entice briefly then fade.

Whiffs I cannot capture and keep,

not now, maybe never,

let out, dumbfounded,

helpless, screaming, just born.

A Love Like No Other

Your steady love has saved me,

one more dark wave rising and you

hold my hand, staying the course,

sharing with me your glowing inspiration,

giving me space to expose

my gruesome wounds within.

You do not flinch, or distract, but give me room

to writhe and cry out and then you look at me,

love in your eyes like God at my table,

offering water, acceptance,

and with that acceptance, untellable mercy.

Every night you read to me to keep me afloat,

to cup me in the flow of your voice

reminding me why we are here.

I think you will leave me, here

to implode in this over-a-year pit

of me climbing up to the edges, falling back in,

collapsing on bedrock, but you never do.

You stay and you are steady

and you are a miracle, patient, never

cursing your fate, never letting me go.

Allison Grayhurst has been nominated for “Best of the Net” six times. She has over 1,400 poems published in over 530 international journals, including translations of her work. She has 25 published books of poetry and six chapbooks. She is an ethical vegan and lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

Her Sister’s Funeral

On the day of her sister’s funeral, long after the service, Bailey sat in the rain while the workmen backfilled Emily’s grave. In deference to Bailey, the men said nothing. Only their shovels made whispering sounds as they moved the soil. Four dozen metal folding chairs had been set up to accommodate the mourners but they were now empty and slick and shiny with the rain. Bailey watched plumes of her frosty breath as she exhaled on the frigid February afternoon.

How could Emily have died, wondered Bailey for the hundreth time. She had been only seventeen, two years younger than Bailey, and an honors student in her high school, where she had been a senior. In just three months, Emily would have graduated and joined her sister at college. She had planned to study nursing, like Bailey.

But Bailey knew exactly how her sister had died. She had accepted a ride on the back of her mother’s boyfriend, Chris’s motorcycle. Emily was afraid of motorcycles and absolutely refused to ride them. Unlike Bailey, Emily was rather timid. And Chris, Bailey knew, was forever on Emily’s back to “open up” and “experience life” and all that nonsense. He was always trying to change the girls into something resembling their mother, she supposed. What was up with that?

Chris had seemed alright, a good companion to their mother and he hadn’t been a bad guy.  He had a sort of endearing goofiness. He was tall and had coarse red hair and a really ugly red beard and Clark Kent glasses. When he and Mom were going out, he’d say stuff like, “Don’t smoke crack” and “Don’t burn the house down.”

He had finally convinced her little sister to ride along with him and then, on icy streets, Chris was showing off on his bike, taking turns too fast, and the bike spilled over. Emily’s helmet wasn’t fastened properly–and that too was Chris’s fault–and it came off when she fell. She struck her head on the pavement. It was horrible.  At the funeral home they had had a closed casket.

Chris had barely a scratch, but Bailey’s precious sister and best friend, was killed instantly. Her mother was stricken, but she never blamed Chris, maintaining that it was a “call from God.”  What bullshit, thought Bailey bitterly. She knew who was responsible. Damn him. And Chris and her mom were set to get married after Emily left for school, and finally settle down, but for Bailey, things would never, ever be the same again.  

Bailey hated Chris and by extension her mother, his enabler, his apologist, his piece of ass! Bailey shook her head. She could never go back to that house. It was no longer her home.  Chris had practically taken over, insinuating himself into their lives over the past three years. He had already driven her brother Brandon from the home. Two years older than Bailey, he was living across town with his girlfriend. Bailey would catch her train for school tonight and never return. She was on a full scholarship and didn’t need anything from them. She wouldn’t even say good-bye, she vowed. The wind was stirring; Bailey felt cold and she huddled closer inside her jacket.

She dissolved in tears, her rage giving way to sorrow. She had thought she was cried out. Everyone cried, all the time. Except for Chris. She hadn’t seen him shed a single tear and worse, he had never taken responsibility for the accident; he’d never once even said he was sorry! For that she couldn’t, wouldn’t forgive him. Ever. And dismay gave way to anger once more. She looked up suddenly and there, pinioned against the darkening sky, like a statue, stood a man, tall, in a green Army jacket and with coarse red hair, a really ugly red beard: Chris.  

“Bailey?” he said softly. She turned away. He stood before her.  

“What do you want, Chris?” she spat bitterly.

“I came for you; your mom’s worried,” he replied.

“I don’t care,” she said harshly. “I hate you!” She bared her teeth.

“I know,” he said quietly. “So do I.”

She startled a little, looked up at him suspiciously.

“Ever since the accident,” he added, I’ve hated everything about myself.”

“Are you going to get your bike fixed?” she asked with a touch of cruelty.

He shook his head no. “No,” he replied, “even sad old dogs like me can learn new tricks. I just pray it’s not too late.”

“Don’t worry, Mom’s forgiven you already,” she said spitefully.

“She knows I’d never purposely do anything to hurt someone she loved. Someone I love.”

She glanced quickly up at him again. “You really do love her, don’t you, Chris?” she asked, almost desperately.  

“I love you all,” he answered. “And I loved Emily. And Bailey:  I. Am. So. Sorry!”

She peered closely at him.  There were tears swimming in his sky-blue eyes, which were easily his best feature. Bailey took a deep, shuddering breath, and said, “I believe you, Chris.”

With tears continuing to fall from his eyes, he held out his big hand. “Let’s go home, Bailey.”  They walked, hand in hand, from the cemetery just as the light rain transformed into large, beautiful flakes of snow.

Bailey and her mother Sue didn’t speak about Emily or Chris for the next week.  

Bailey finally had to know. “Mom, did you and Chris break up?”

“No,” said Sue, “but he said he needed some time.  It was hard for him to face me.”

“Do you want him back, Mom?”

“Bailey, you don’t know how much I depend on him.”

Bailey didn’t respond, but called Chris the next day.  Chris came over within the hour.

“Bailey told me you missed me, Sue,” Chris told his girlfriend.  “You have no idea how much I missed you.  I thought after what happened, you’d never want to see me again.”

“I need you more than ever, Chris, replied Sue.  “I just hope if all of us stick together we can get through this as a family.”

“Before this happened I wanted to marry you,” Chris said. “I still do, but I don’t know what Bailey thinks.  She may not want me around.”

“Chris, it’s enough for me to know that it’s what Mom wants,” Bailey told Chris when he put the question to her later.  “I think we’ll all be better together.”

Without another word, Sue called Brandon.  “What would you think of Chris as a stepfather?” she asked her son.

“Come on, mom, you know I always liked him.” 

Chris, listening on the extension, smiled with relief.

Chris and Sue got married by a justice of the peace the next day with just immediate family and Brandon’s girlfriend, who was flower girl.     

You are my Koson

Words are not enough to describe your grace,
My eyes rejoice when I see your face.
I write these verses to praise your name,
My dear land, my home, my eternal flame.
Famous across seven worlds, you stand,
You are my Koson, my precious land.

Your poet sons lived for the motherland’s sake,
With souls like Abdulla, for your honor’s sake.
No barrier can stop your path or your stride,
My garden, my freedom, my source of pride.
To the great Oripov, you were the home,
You are my Koson, where greatness has grown.

So many poets have lived on your soil,
With pens in their hands, with wisdom and toil.
Abdulla and Rozimurodov walked your ways,
Inspiring the poets and earning our praise.
A land of inspiration, a gift so rare,
The pride of Qashqadaryo, beyond compare.

I want the whole world to know of your name,
To honor your glory and recognize your fame.
Let my humble poem sing of your worth,
You are my theme, my place of birth.
You’ve taken your place deep in my heart,
My Koson, from whom I shall never part.

By God’s will, a poet I have become,
Taking my pen, my song has begun.
I’ve woven your name into every line,
A world-famous dwelling, ancient and fine.
The pride of Qashqadaryo, forever you’ll be,
My Koson, you are the world to me.

Ozodbek Narzullayev was born on December 20, 2006, in the village of Boʻston, Koson district, Qashqadaryo region. He is the author of the book titled ‘Qalb kechinmalari’ (Reflections of the Soul). He has also been honored with numerous diplomas and certificates for his achievements.

NEUROLOGICAL DISORDERS: CAUSES, TYPES, AND MODERN APPROACHES TO TREATMENT

Abstract

This article analyzes the causes, main types, clinical manifestations, and modern diagnostic and therapeutic approaches to neurological disorders. Diseases of the nervous system significantly affect human health and reduce quality of life. Therefore, early diagnosis and a comprehensive treatment approach are essential for preventing complications and improving patient outcomes.

Keywords: nervous system, neurology, stress, neuron, psychosomatic disorders.

Introduction

The nervous system is one of the most complex and vital systems of the human body, responsible for regulating and coordinating the functions of all organs. Disorders of the central and peripheral nervous systems lead to various neurological diseases. In recent years, increased stress levels, environmental factors, unhealthy lifestyles, and excessive information load have contributed to the growing prevalence of neurological disorders worldwide.

Causes of Neurological Disorders

The development of neurological disorders may be associated with the following factors:

chronic psychological stress and emotional tension;

genetic predisposition;

traumatic injuries to the brain and spinal cord;

infectious diseases such as meningitis and encephalitis;

impaired blood circulation;

toxic exposure and harmful habits;

hormonal and metabolic imbalances.

These factors negatively affect neuronal function and disrupt the transmission of nerve impulses.

Main Types of Neurological Disorders

Neurological disorders present in various clinical forms. The most common include:

Neuroses – functional disorders of the nervous system, often related to stress;

Neuritis and neuralgia – inflammatory conditions of nerve fibers;

Epilepsy – a chronic disorder characterized by abnormal electrical activity in the brain;

Parkinson’s disease – a neurodegenerative condition associated with tremors and slowed movements;

Stroke – an acute disruption of cerebral blood circulation.

Clinical Manifestations

Neurological disorders may present with the following symptoms:

headaches and dizziness;

sleep disturbances and chronic fatigue;

decreased memory and concentration;

numbness or tremors in the limbs;

rapid mood changes;

speech and motor impairments.

The severity and combination of symptoms depend on the type and stage of the disease.

Diagnosis and Treatment Methods

Diagnosis of neurological disorders involves clinical examination supported by laboratory and instrumental methods such as electroencephalography (EEG), magnetic resonance imaging (MRI), and computed tomography (CT). Treatment is based on a comprehensive approach, including:

pharmacological therapy (sedatives, neuroprotective agents);

physiotherapy;

psychotherapy;

adoption of a healthy lifestyle.

Early diagnosis and appropriate treatment significantly reduce the risk of complications.

Conclusion

Neurological disorders remain a significant medical challenge in modern society. Preventive measures such as stress management, balanced nutrition, regular physical activity, and routine medical check-ups play a crucial role in maintaining nervous system health. Timely intervention and proper care contribute to improved physical and mental well-being.

Author: Fahriddin Akramov Uzbekistan

The Sheets

A guy is cleaning his 

Hotel room

In Colombo

He’d rather not be here

But he just got back

From a long walk

And so he’s

Reading a newspaper

While the guy cleans

There are a few

Small yellowish marks

On his sheets

Given his food positioning situation

He’s not quite sure

What those marks are

And the guy asks 

If he’d like fresh sheets

And he says yes

And he feels embarrassed

About his loss of control

And the consequences.

Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “On the Rocks.”