Poetry from Shakzoda Kodirova

A rose 

You are the epitome of beauty.
The king of flowers is the rose.
Bringing joy to the surroundings
You open rose.

If I see you, it's mine
My dust will spread.
My heart is full of joy
It opens, rejoices.

Your fragrance is all around
Gives a lot of joy
My mother who loved you
Their hearts will light up.

Your colors are also different
Yellow, pink, white, red
Always be like this
The king of flowers is the rose !

✍️ Shakhzoda Kodirova

Shakhzoda Kodirova was born on May 20, 2007 in Navoi. From a young age she was fond of literature. She started writing stories and poems when she was ten and her poems have been translated into many languages and published in many countries, including Uzbekistan, Germany, America and Belgium. She is a booklover and coordinator of Girls’ Voice. Also she is an official member of GFS and an ambassador of the Iqra foundation. Her first book My Grandfather’s Garden has been published in Uzbekistan. At the moment she is an editor of Germany’s Raven Cage magazine and of Synchronized Chaos, and she is am ambassador of the IFCH and SPSC foundations.

Poetry from Ilyosova Zukhraxon

My mother ❤️

The pain of the world,
You swallowed, too, my mother .
The caregiver also did a great job,
Without a bone, Mom.

Well you go ,
Let's face it. 
The world without you is dark,
Light and sun you, mom.

How upset I was to you,
I'm sorry, if you can.
Life with you,
You have all the - all the power!

You call me my flower,
You are a basil, a lollipop.
If two worlds are not found,
Without my paradise you, my mother

✍ Ilyosova Zukhraxon

Poetry from Ilyosova Fatimakhan

My motherland

Mother, Motherland!
Father, Motherland!
My protective castle,
Spilled umbilical cord blood. 
Beautiful Uzbekistan!

Sunshine, my dear, 
My fruit, beautiful garden.
My life and my breath, 
Hot nonsense my motherland!

My flower, spring,
You are the sky. 
You are the  green,
You are my paradise on earth.
Freedom Uzbekistan!!!

✍Ilyosova Fatimakhan

Poetry from Ilyosova Fatimakhon


The best thing is the book, 
You can't read. 
Word of the sun,
Teach us manners. 

When pleasure reads,
When you learn and read. 
When knitting or knitting, 
Get the book in your hands.

Good friend to you, 
Grow up with it.
You don't stumble in life,
You won't fall with it!

Different content tales,  
 You will be blind.
Don't forget it is a sun, 
Get a neighbor book!

✍ Ilyosova Fatimakhon

Poetry from Sarvinozkhon Olimova


I will be an artist known to the world,
Arrogance will be my enemy at that time
Listen to me sing beautiful songs,
If I give in to the praise, tell me to go back.

Eating the bread of art is not for everyone.
I ask the Creator for patience.
I have you dears on my shoulder,
I sing for you, I live with you.

Be happy and never get hurt.
Do not let the tyrant, pain and sorrow come to you.
Keep the smile on your face,
We will never be less than anyone.

  ✍ Sarvinozkhon  Olimova 


The only truth is that every word is true ,
They say, even if a sword comes to your head .
Never deny the word true, O friend ,
Even bitter taste when the tongue does not feel.

The truth of the word, only everywhere ,
This is the moment the Creator will be with you .
The truth lives only if yooou know ,
All be surprised, wonder for your courage.

✍️Sarvinozkhon  Olimova

Sarvinozkhon Olimova, was born on January 21, 2007 in Fergana region. She is a laureate of several republican competitions in the field of traditional music and traditional singing. In addition, she is the author of two books entitled "Miracle" and "Wonderful feelings".

Poetry from Mohinur Askarova

My beauty

The captive who won my heart,
The secret in his eyes,
The prisoner built in the heart,
My beauty, my beauty.

My heart is in the opposite eye,
Sweet - in the word sugar,
On the most beautiful face,
My beauty, my beauty.

One soul in my chest,
Missed of my mum,
What, I do this bad,
My beauty, my beauty.

Caesar, stubborn bad girl,
I fell to your feet, knee,
I can't live, you,
My beauty, my beauty

✍Mokhinur Askarova

You will never find me

You can never find me,
If I head away.
Maybe then, my dear,
If I go to your soul.

Miss of my parents too,
A person looking forward to my ways.
To my childhood,
You know how bad it is to look.

You can't stop me,
Your dreams say definitely .
You're looking for my smile,
You can't even make me friend .

Without asking me to moon ,
Shame on you for looking at the ground.
I told you, dears,
You will never find me

✍Mokhinur Askarova

Mohinur Askarova was born on May 13, 2006 in Jizzakh city.
She won the III place in "World Talents" with her poems. In addition, she won the first place in the city and regional contests.

Poetry from Andrew Cyril MacDonald

Cheap obituary

Shot nerves clasp
undue cause 
wrested from the brain.

They put to press
makeshift scrawls
their ill-bred worth.

A sick greed for more
knows which god
trite errors played
when night curtailed 
this conjurer’s show—
some revolt four-squared
slow to touch
if matriarchy approves

a loveless life 
indelicately owed 
this one
fought for hinting trysts
plausibly taled 
if funeraled loose.

It breaks that fast
naked words
shape of etiquette outdone.


To wed these blithe earth plumbs—
their end before they start.

Now they shelter their wombs
for fear they should be got

un-groomed from shot-out fields
civilization took, playing each
in games their worth
small lives little understood.

Through dirt and sludge
of needs made real
they take these in
duplicates of what enthrals
if done as work forgives

to come returned 
in left behind
lost time their broke youth bid.

Concert at Palestrina

Light climbs the ground 
relic poises.
It bribes in gain
of loved one’s devotion
pursed lips speak from,
loud their faith enticing.

Now it’s a truant kiss combative
the notions flesh scrapes of
unharnessed ambition
patriots adore.

Still, there is no mark here
save that which chants freedom,
our paled superstition
restless becoming 
the postwar world.

It’s the subtle involvement
of a heart’s notes love gives to
so that what she comprises
are the scales of justice
we hope for
a concert outlining.


Our love formed of passion
thrown to fevered pitch.

It was of secret devotion,
that surabundance involved
prelude to a cause

where bonds were just such purchase
trite notions bled,
exchanged for remission
governance hid
along our boredoms at death.

Now to marrow it goes
and quick along
what traces each judgement
slight errors trend
of a séance attending
we neat grow from—

these, some mere throng contestant
the peace against your bed,
hand-held and endeavoured
wishing you’d contort in.

Our love formed of passion
and this, here in end.

Andrew Cyril Macdonald considers the role of inter-subjectivity in poetic encounter. He celebrates the confrontations between self and Other and the challenges that occur in moments of injustice. He is founding editor of 
Version (9) Magazine, a poetry journal that implicates all things theoretic. You can find his words in such places as A Long Story Short, Blaze VOX, Cavity Magazine, Experiential-Experimental Literature, Fevers of the Mind, Green Ink Poetry, Lothlorien, Nauseated Drive, Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, Unlikely Stories and more. When not writing he is busy caring for seven rescued cats and teaching a next generation of poets.