Señor Despaïr

Against a Hopeless Time

1. Señor Despaïr

Sand, evening.

The silence of the steps 

by the breathing shore

after the thing I believed too late. 

The steps slip in and out of hearing 

like a memory I cannot reach, a word 

at the back of my mind

that will not come as I stumble

through fog hiding the sea and my shame

in a grayness I almost touch,

toward pilings that loom like the back of a crowd

in a dark theater as they wait for it to begin,

a dance to dazzle them

in cruel wordless patterns bound to something almost  

    holy.

A shining crow—

rara avis indeed here where sea gulls rant,

smudges of whiteness, quivering sandpipers,

and alcatrazes like cracked schists—the crow 

starts up, cawing and strident. 

“Do you see the patterns of the raindrops in the sand?” 

   behind me

a courtly, old-world voice seems to say.

“They call it random out of their mathematical despair.”

The last word is spoken as if in Spanish: “des-pa-eer.”

I turn to see a small, older man, smiling, attired

    impeccably,

bizarrely formal for beach wear—perhaps an hidalgo

from Oaxaca, or a patrón 

from the cultured banlieus of Buenos Aires—

in an old-time white suit, elegant 

bolo tie, his hair and mustache groomed and white as sea

   foam.

I half-imagine he has materialized from the sea.

“But we do not need to listen to them too closely:

we cannot build a life on the psychosis of physics.

If you follow any chain of logic to its end,

you end in madness.” 

                                       I almost thought he said 

next: “The night 

will rage with the storm, 

the rain cuts like ice through the air.

Come, huddle in my arms.” 

                                                  But no. 

He stood there politely and spoke on,

his English lightly accented with Spanish. 

“Listen to the wind—el viento!”

He paused. “The next blow will flatten us, no doubt,

or if not, rip a hole in the sky

that will sink the world in the night like the sea. 

It will be, as they say, very impressive!

“I cannot take much more of this, being 

an old man, and yet I must, 

foolish and weak as I am.

There is little tenderness because there is little

    forgiveness.

I will pray to the night if I can find no other god.

But I can find no other god—eh, what of that?”

He looks toward the waves still visible in the dusk.

“ ‘Join us, join us!’ they call.

The darkness thickens around us, like a blanket.

I stare hypnotized like a snake at the old man.

He smiles more deeply, stares up at an invisible sky 

then lowers his strange eyes back to me.

“One day I was invited to a party—

there was much food and drink y música,

and beautiful and clever and friendly young folk, and

   dancing

all night, and romantic corners just made for kissing—

a wonderful party ‘where everyone is going,’ and I was

guaranteed to have the time of my life.

“But there was one condition, of course (have you ever

    heard

of a wonderful offering without a condition?

After all, we live in a capitalist society!):

No one was allowed to leave the party alive. 

“Everyone knew the condition? Of course we did;

we were not born, as you say so cleverly, yesterday!

It was even written in capital letters at the top, bottom, and

at elegantly spaced intervals across the invitation 

we each received

in the postal mail two weeks ago.

“But each of us was convinced

we would survive:

We would sneak out just before dawn, 

when the death squads were scheduled to descend 

on the silent household

where the partiers were lying about, dead to the world or in restless dreams after the exhausting 

night’s festivities,

and kill them all in their sleep.

“One or two are rumored to have escaped. 

People constantly seek them:
they look into the face of everyone they meet,

hoping that maybe this one is a survivor.

I myself have been taken for such! I am certainly old

   enough!

“May I ask you something?

Do you have a soul? 

That thing that aches in the space you feel

somewhere behind your eyes

or hiding in the cavern of your chest;

that thrums with grief,

shakes with joy, makes you mad with love?

“You often wonder about that. I know this!

The scientists, those nihilistas,

are almost gleeful when they say they can’t find any

prueba científica for it, so, like ghosts, fairies, and God,

it must be dismissed with the condescending doubt 

one gives idiotas, the uneducated, 

and Republicans!

“The soul, they say, 

is nothing but . . . is nothing but . . . is nothing,

nada, though you feel it is 

todo—everything.

“It is not unlike this, which they say is the size

of the heart.” 

He raises his fist and looks at it

almost with admiration.

“It can build a city, it can kill

a rattlesnake. It can shoot a president!

It may be nothing, but it is a nothing that can make

    nothing

of everything. Remember that,

my physicist, biologist, economist, psychologist, psychiatrist, capitalist, Antichrist . . .

“Did I say that? I did not say that—erase it from your

    mind.

It was not said, it was not heard or thought. 

The truth will set you free

por nada. It opens the prison cell

to reveal la prisión infinita outside.”

The old man pauses and locks my eyes in his 

in the darkness as it tightens softly around us.

“You think me un viejo loco,

scrambled with drugs and too much tequila—’crasy in the

    head!’—

or just a crank outdated, useless. And you are right!

“It is better for you to think so, you who are young,

however old you feel: Compared to me,

you are a child, and deserve to keep your innocence

a little longer

en las cadenas del mundo y del tiempo—

in, what do you call?—the chains of time and the world,

as long, that is, as you are able to deny them 

in the rage of your mind 

and your strenuous will,

your pride and your fury

at the fate that world and time

are wreathing around your future, 

the one you hope to defy 

with a brilliant name across the air

that all may see, or none, that shouts out: estaba aquí—I

    was here!
Once, once only, irremovable 

in the sun’s cold memory, para siempre.

Even if no one ever sees it again: it was,

eternamente, like an absolute

matchstick—un hombre: un fósforo eterno!

“So what shall we call it, for we must have a name for it,

a word we can blame it on, 

to give us the illusion of knowledge and power?

“‘El Reino des Perdidos’—‘The Kingdom of the Lost’—I

   first liked, then found 

trillado, trite;

then ‘Ink on Coal’ before I found that too banal;

‘Despair’ was at the head for a week; 

and even better: ‘Désespoir’—

before my crítico interno returned 

and tossed that definitively down the pissoir!

‘An Enemy of the People’—now that is an honest title!

But Ibsen used it,

and his fans can be unforgiving.

‘The Plot of the Homeless Sovereigns’ was a desperate

   gesture only,

and ‘The Wilding Masters’ was an admission of defeat.

We eventually settled on something ancient yet unused,

direct, simple:

‘El viento y la noche’: 

‘The Wind and the Night.’

“I remember how the sun rose then. 

The throngs of clubbers staggered from a bar called 

    The End Up.

The heroes banked in a strange fire.

They bowed with a terribly earnest politeness.

It was damning: for only a murderous hatred

with a shot of blood and a pint of poison 

to tickle the imagination could make a man glad.

Love be damned! It was hatred we wanted,

and the prospect of crushing an enemy.

Not the fact so much—the idea:

une jolie fantaisie, as the French say.

“The world is not content to destroy.

It must humiliate at the same stroke:

jeering, shame, and annihilation.

A goal worth pursuing, truly,

even if not realistic! Who knows, 

next time we may get it right!

The Prince de ce monde will aid you if you are

patient and humble, and persevere: Perfect 

destruction is as beautiful as perfect 

creation—more rare and beautiful still!—

una perfección only those cast 

into oblivion can ever know,

for only they are so far lost

there is no memory of them. 

Like certain suicides:

a song, a drama, a dance,

in which realization, culmination, ruin

are one. Are one. Are one. Are one.

“Mi mundo era yo.

I was the world.

When I die, dies the universe—

the only universe I can know.

“I want to shout, ‘No! Never!’

but the futility of such words 

suffocates them 

even before they speak.”

The old man sighs, but seems

not to notice. Drunk on itself,

his voice patters on.

“But courage, my friend! Courage, defiance, and wit: 

a taste for metaphoros and phrase-making: 

much can be made from this garden for growing 

unos universos eternos y infinitos—

universes eternal and infinite!—

out of the humus, compost heap, trash,

of the prima materia of this world;

swelling like lotus blossoms out of the waste

and perfuming the morning with a wilderness sweetness

none—no, none!—could have hoped for or dreamed of,

a delicacy exquisite,

a living line, a profile of ivory

cut from a cloud: the hand of an angel

baffled, as it turns in the air,

by the beauty floating on emptiness 

like waterlilies on a cold pond.

“And who is there to consider all this, 

delight in its million brief enchantments,

its undomesticated glories, 

its conquests and gentleness,

its random ecstasy and splendor,

its snuggling, cozy and quite comical smiles,

its mystery without end—

who but us, my friend? And a few 

torn-winged angels

we no longer believe in, and a passel of other gods.”

The sun had set. I could see no more than the old man’s

    shadow

against the black wall of the sea, from which the voice 

emerged in the wash of waves.

“Despising este espectáculo extraño—this freak show!—

into which we were born

is a sign of good taste.

“For only pity sees the mask 

breaking behind the brazen face

where fear fights with pride, grief 

with insolence, folly with suspicion 

carved, half from wisdom,

half from a refusal to look at the face 

de la realidad: the human 

spirit, part demon, part angel, part monkey—

a pretentious ape that invented God 

and hell.

“But—you are right”—though I had said nothing.

 “Even more foolish is bitterness,

though it cleanses the soul to let it out,

like a scrubbing with a little black soap and brimstone. 

It feels nice to rant, half mad, 

to say unjust and terrible things

to an innocent and long-suffering listener.

Like yourself, young señor! To hell (not 

to use stronger language,

but I have some respect for your sensibilities,

which may not yet have been corrupted

by the fashion in profanity that is now all the rage,

young señor!) to hell with this, to hell with that,

to hell with it all! 

“Wherever one looks, there is no matter,

and mind disappeared long ago

from every metaphysician’s backpack. No mind, no

    matter,

just waves of energy crossing uncertain voids,

not even nothing underneath:

the only thing we know is words

that cannot even say it!

   We must be careful,

my friend: only the select have ever heard me this far

(they usually run away!), either they are willing to be 

    corrupted

or they have an espíritus fuertes as antidote

for this poison before it kills their . . . souls. The rest

yawned off in droves: we have the fragrance to ourselves,

the sweet briny aroma

of truth. 

    (Sí sí! Esa palabra sucia! That dirty word! 

Go, vete, foul escéptico académico!

Back, back! Where is my stake

to thrust through your black heart at dawn!

Where is my cross! The terrible count

must be destroyed so we may live in hope

of peace, if not happiness:

Truth is dead! Long live Truth! 

    For what are you,

my friend? A prince in exile, a monarch 

on a burning throne.

Sí, mi amigo! I draw your face in ink on coal

against ashes and night.

“Do not be bitter (so I speak to myself); by all means, do

    not be bitter;

you are not alone, cramped in your little cell

of body, time, brain—though one feels

lonely enough in the mob

of billions on this earth.

“They watch the same moon shrink and grow,

scrounge the sun’s seeds from the brittle earth

and stare, like you, at the blackness behind the stars—

that strangely comforting darkness.

“Unlock the gate a little late you closed 

behind your heart after, like a horse, it fled!” 

I raise my hands to my face in the darkness.

Somewhere someone is praying.

But only silence crosses my lips.

“Oh, mi niño . . . ,” the voice whispers.

“The heart’s fear masks its love.

Its hatred masks its munificence.”

Or do I only imagine it? “There is nothing to dispute,

no cause for quarrel—unless of course

your quarrel is with God! ‘He’s too big

for that,’ someone once said—and,

si, he had a point. And I rejoined: 

Even a mouse in a corner fights

the cat!

“So what if he’s bigger than you? That means

you need to be more cunning than God—

like the one who reigns in the regions below!

Anyway, what could be simpler?

He need but give a clear and simple 

reason for the world he has made, 

and for putting us in the middle of it! 

“Above all else: 

We see through you! Do not think

you can hide behind the atheists. What a brilliant

ploy you thought that was! You do not exist!

Poof! You are now off the hook, and the nihilists

can go wreck the world between their bombs and bottom

    lines.

“The devil’s cleverest trick was convincing us he was a

    fable,

and now you’re trying it out on your own! Nice try, 

    o Señor!

You must have more on your conscience than I thought!”

The pause is washed with a blur of surf,

dimly white, like the old man’s moon-lit shadow.

“Humanity is a fiasco. Let us face it frankly.

Man is a bizarre accident (alas, woman also, 

siento tener que decir—er, sorry to have to say!)—

and probably is alone in the cosmic chaos:

It’s just us and God! Two points of mind

and perverse will, one mortal, one inmortal—

talk about having nothing in common but thin skins 

and a bad temper! Fourteen billion

years of grandstanding between them! What a farce!

Clowns performing for an audience of clowns!

“Am I being cruel? Have you gazed with unjaundiced eye

at your neighbors? At yourself? You are not the exception.

What goes on inside your head, en su corazón?

Dime, what do you see there? No, don’t tell me.

I have had enough despaïr for one evening.”

A gull, pulled from the passing wind, screams

through the night. It’s so dark, I cannot 

see my hand in front of my face—

that is a true phrase.

“The truth,

which you believe does not exist, like God and the devil,

is testing his arrows at the edge of the universe,

that beige and brain-shaped cloud, before he notches 

his bow. It will take less time than forever 

to reach us, entangled as we are, like a ball 

of yarn at the end of a kitten’s hijinks. 

The claw is no less merciless for the sweetness

of the eyes of its owner. The world is lovely,

dark and deep. She is innocent and beautiful and ruthless. 

Dime una mentira para que pueda volver 

a dormir. Tell me a lie so I can sleep again. 

Too many truths have burnt a hole in my brain!

I hear the silence of the arrow—el silencio de la flecha—

as it flies toward me . . .”

_____

Christopher Bernard’s most recent collection of poems is titled The Beauty of Matter, “A Pagan’s Verses for a Mystic Idler.” Señor Despaïr will be available in book form from Real Magazine Productions, a publisher based in India, later this year.

When I’m Young 

sometimes i want to take 

a needle and restitch my skin to make it fit me 

better. want to go out 

with the trash and be recycled, so some night

i could dance where people might see me. there’s 

this ache in my bones whenever i hear music,

yearning to bare my throat to the sky, to 

let some divine hand tear the voice out. there’s 

this desire to be where the people 

are, the people who cascade into each other and 

get drunk on air, blending into nighttime marvels like they’re 

creating an excuse for being young 

by existing and 

it makes me wonder how to be that alive.

Taro Aizu’s Anthologies as a Global Poetry Bridge

.

Taro Aizu of Japan is widely regarded in multicultural literary circles as a poet editor and global cultural mediator whose work transforms personal history into a shared human narrative. Born in 1954 in the Aizu region of Fukushima Prefecture and now living in Ito near Tokyo he carries the memory of his homeland into a body of poetry that spans Japanese English and French and reaches readers across continents. His long dedication to gogyoshi and gogyohka reflects a commitment to concise forms that distill emotion memory and ecological awareness into luminous moments. Critics often observe that his voice blends regional rootedness with planetary consciousness allowing local landscapes to resonate with universal meaning.

.

The events of March 2011 marked a defining moment in his literary journey when the earthquake tsunami and nuclear disaster struck Fukushima. His trilingual volume My Fukushima emerged as both testimony and healing gesture and gained remarkable global participation through translations by readers and fellow poets across social media networks reaching twenty languages. His Takizakura gogyoshi extended even further into thirty five languages demonstrating how poetry can mobilize international solidarity through grassroots collaboration. Multicultural press coverage frequently highlights this phenomenon as an example of participatory translation where community engagement becomes part of the creative process and where a regional tragedy is transformed into a shared global reflection on resilience and renewal.

.

Beyond authorship Taro Aizu has played a significant role as an editor and compiler shaping the international presence of gogyoshi. Since 2019 he has produced successive anthologies of World Gogyoshi bringing together poets from diverse linguistic and cultural backgrounds and establishing a platform for cross cultural dialogue. His publications including The Lovely Earth La Terre Précieuse This Precious Earth and Our Lovely Earth created with Indian poet Dr Sigma Sathish reveal an enduring thematic concern for the planet and humanity’s responsibility toward it. Through these works he positions poetry as an ethical practice that fosters empathy environmental awareness and intercultural understanding.

.

His influence extends into interdisciplinary collaboration where his poems have inspired exhibitions and performances across Europe Asia and South America including events in the Netherlands Brazil Germany Portugal Spain France South Korea and Macedonia. Collaborative concerts in Japan and international art projects demonstrate how his work moves fluidly between text image and sound creating a living network of artistic exchange. Honors from international festivals and literary organizations including awards in Japan the Philippines Macedonia and Greece affirm his standing within the global poetry community. Viewed through a multicultural lens Taro Aizu represents a model of contemporary literary citizenship whose writing editing and collaborative initiatives continue to build bridges across languages cultures and artistic forms.

.

AWARDS

First Prize, 28th All Japan Modern Haiku Competition, Japan, 1991

Special Prize, 2nd Love Poems Competition, Japan, 1991

Three gogyoshi selected for TAKE FIVE Best Contemporary Tanka Volume 4, USA, 2012

Poet Laureate Award, Philippines, 2013

International Excellent Poet Award, Japan, 2014

Literary Career Award, Ditet e Naimit International Poetry Festival, Macedonia, 2015

Award of the Poem, Heraklion, Greece, 2016

ACHIEVEMENTS

Wrote gogyoshi and gogyohka in Japanese for over 12 years and in English and French for 6 years

Published My Fukushima in Japanese English and French following the 2011 Fukushima disaster

My Fukushima translated into 20 languages by global literary community

Takizakura gogyoshi translated into 35 languages through international collaboration

Inspired art exhibitions in Netherlands Brazil Germany Portugal Spain France South Korea Macedonia Belgium UK and Korea between 2012 and 2018

Invited guest and award recipient at international poetry festival Ditet e Naimit in Macedonia, 2015

Co published haiku collection Our Lovely Earth with Indian poet Dr Sigma Sathish, 2016

Compiler and editor of World Gogyoshi anthology series since 2019

Founder figure in global promotion of Gogyoshi Art Project International exhibitions

Collaborative poetry concerts held in Japan including Inawashiro Aizuwakamatsu Tokyo and Kanagawa

WORLD GOGYOSHI ANTHOLOGY SERIES

The First Anthology of World Gogyoshi, 2019

The 2nd Anthology of World Gogyoshi, 2020

The 3rd Anthology of World Gogyoshi, 2021

The 4th Anthology of World Gogyoshi, 2022

The 5th Anthology of World Gogyoshi, 2023

The 6th Anthology of World Gogyoshi, 2024

The 7th Anthology of World Gogyoshi, 2025

The 8th Anthology of World Gogyoshi, 2026 (forthcoming)

Gogyoshi is a contemporary poetic form that distills thought and emotion into five concise lines, yet within this brevity it offers remarkable depth, flexibility, and cross cultural adaptability. Originating in Japan and shaped through modern practice, gogyoshi differs from traditional syllabic forms such as haiku and tanka by freeing the poet from strict syllable counts while preserving a disciplined economy of language. Each line functions as a unit of perception, allowing images, reflections, and emotional shifts to unfold in quiet progression rather than in a single moment of revelation. This structure makes the form especially suited to contemporary themes including ecological awareness, displacement, memory, technological change, and spiritual inquiry, while still retaining the contemplative spirit associated with Japanese poetics. In international contexts gogyoshi has become a bridge form because it is easily translatable and adaptable across languages, enabling poets from diverse traditions to participate without losing their linguistic identity. The work of Taro Aizu has been central to this global expansion as both practitioner and editor, promoting the form through multilingual publications, world anthologies, collaborative exhibitions, and community translation projects that invite participation from poets, artists, and readers worldwide. Through these efforts gogyoshi has evolved from a national innovation into a shared global practice that encourages clarity, emotional resonance, and intercultural dialogue. Its five line architecture invites both discipline and freedom, allowing poets to juxtapose stillness and movement, personal memory and collective history, local landscapes and planetary concerns. As a result gogyoshi stands today as a living poetic form that embodies the values of accessibility, collaboration, and global literary citizenship, demonstrating how a concise structure can hold expansive human experience and foster meaningful connection across cultures.

.

Gogyoshi stands today as one of the most open and adaptable forms of contemporary Japanese poetry, defined by its essential structure of a title and five concise lines while remaining free from rigid syllabic counts, rhyme schemes, or prescribed line lengths. First introduced in 1910 by poet Tekkan Yosano with specific syllabic patterns that saw limited adoption, the form was revitalized in the early twenty first century when poets began embracing a modern version liberated from numerical constraints, allowing expression to emerge through clarity, brevity, and layered meaning. Unlike related five line forms such as tanka or gogyohka, gogyoshi is distinguished by the presence of a title that frames the poem’s emotional and conceptual field, guiding readers into a compact yet resonant experience. The term gained international recognition when Mariko Sumikura introduced the English word gogyoshi in 2009, paving the way for global practice and translation. A significant milestone in its evolution came in 2018 when Taro Aizu proposed World Gogyoshi, a bilingual adaptation designed to foster intercultural dialogue and world friendship through poetry. His framework emphasizes seven guiding principles including the use of two languages, capitalization conventions, brevity in each line, and the goal of strengthening global connection. Through annual anthologies and collaborative initiatives World Gogyoshi has expanded into a participatory international movement that invites poets to retain their mother tongues while engaging a shared English medium, transforming the form into a living bridge among cultures. Today gogyoshi is recognized as the freest of Japanese poetic forms, valued for its accessibility, translatability, and capacity to hold profound reflection within minimal space, enabling poets worldwide to articulate personal memory, ecological awareness, spiritual inquiry, and collective experience in a structure that is both disciplined and boundless.

…..

The Collage of Sleepless Nights

Alam Mahbub

Country: Bangladesh 

There is no sleep—

the stairways of the house remain awake all night.

When time shifts, the closed doors will open;

women will once again arrange the household like birds.

Dreams cannot be found—

inside sleep, one must count the hours of waiting,

discard basil flowers

to stain the unreachable hours red.

On the slats of memory, there are no flashbacks—

only the illusion of broken trust,

stories of fallen leaves,

nothing but the sorcery of fog,

a collage of sleepless nights.

In war, red eyes measure loss.

The stored shadows of tomorrow ignite the evening,

casting light—

at the end of the story, the morning traveler calls out:

open the doors of the shadowed passage.

The Echo of Your Light

I don’t seek you in the stars, nor in the breeze,
For the map of my world is you alone,
A sanctuary of moments and of peace,
Where my soul finds rest and light is shown.
Your laughter is the rhyme that fits just right,
The language that I feel, yet cannot speak,
A mystic compass, steady and so bright,
Guiding me to the love that I once sought.
If time were only sand held in my palm,
I’d stop the clock right there within your gaze,
To turn the distant days into a calm,
Eternal present that will never fade.
Because loving you is not just how I feel,
It is the way I choose to walk my part:
With your name as a breath that makes it real,
And a home that always beats within your heart.

Fernando Josè Martìnez Alderete

Mexico

The Center of Everything
​

Beyond the noise and the rising tide,
where time no longer holds its sway,
there is a corner where souls reside:
in the heart of life, far away.
​There, peace is not a hollow dream,
but the pulse that guides the way;
in that calm center, a steady beam,
where all my shadows fade to gray.

Reflection in Your Eyes
​

I seek no stars in the cold night sky,
nor treasures that time will eventually take,
the flow of your river is enough for me
and the peace that your hand will make.
​You are the silence that calls my name,
the light that makes my journey clear;
if the world is a dance of shadows and flame,
you are my light and my fate, my dear.

Dr. Fernando Martinez Alderete

Writer, poet, theater actor, radio producer. Born in Leon, Guanajuato, Mexico on April 21, 1977, President of Mil Mentes por México in Guanajuato. Dr. HC, global leadership and literature.

His poems are published in more than 200 anthologies in 15 countries around the world and he is the author of ten books of poetry, short stories and novels.

Coding: The Architecture of Modern Power

In the 21st century, power no longer belongs solely to those who control land, capital, or physical resources. Increasingly, it belongs to those who design and control systems. And at the core of every modern system lies one fundamental element: code.

Programming is often misunderstood as a technical skill limited to writing syntax or fixing bugs. In reality, it is a structured way of thinking. Every algorithm represents a strategic solution. Every data structure reflects an intentional design choice. Every optimization is a calculated decision to reduce friction and increase efficiency.

Code is not simply written — it is engineered.

Behind every application, financial platform, transportation network, or robotic mechanism stands an invisible architecture of logic. Users interact with interfaces. Businesses measure outcomes. But beneath those surfaces is a carefully constructed system of rules, conditions, and automated decisions created by programmers who understand complexity at its core.

Robotics demonstrates this transformation most clearly. Lines of code become movement. Sensors gather environmental input, processors evaluate conditions, and mechanical components respond with precision. There is no guesswork in a well-designed system — only cause and effect defined by logic.

The same principle drives modern artificial intelligence. Organizations such as OpenAI develop models that appear capable of reasoning and creativity. Yet beneath the surface, these systems operate on advanced mathematical frameworks — probability distributions, neural networks, and large-scale data processing. What appears intelligent is, in essence, structured computation executed at remarkable scale.

True influence in the digital age belongs to those who understand these structures. To understand a system is to anticipate its behavior. To design a system is to define its limits. And to control systems is to shape outcomes.

As automation accelerates and autonomous technologies expand into industries from manufacturing to medicine, structured reasoning becomes one of the most valuable competencies of our time. The ability to think clearly, design efficiently, and solve complex problems strategically is no longer optional — it is foundational.

Code is not just a tool of creation.

It is the blueprint of modern power.

My full name is Azimov Mirsaid Salimovich. I’m from Uzbekistan, Bukhara. I am a programmer with a strong interest in robotics and intelligent systems. I focus on building structured, efficient solutions that connect software with real-world applications. My work is driven by strategic thinking, system design, and a deep commitment to automation and emerging technologies.

Understanding Cho’lpon

They say that if a scientist creates some world-shaking discovery, then in order to make the people understand it, he must bring this discovery down from the heights of thought to the ground of everyday life, translating it from the language of abstract and complex formulas into the language of familiar notions and simple concepts.In art, however, the opposite is true.The poet also makes world-shaking discoveries — he creates a beautiful world filled with unique colors, enchanting radiance, magical meanings, and treasured wisdom. However,to comprehend and convey this world, it cannot be simplified or translated into ordinary, mundane speech. When we try to change it, the beauty vanishes; the charm of the work is lost, and those poetic lines that just now sent tremors through your soul turn into powerless chains of words… In order to comprehend the discovery created by the poet, a person must, without fail, rise to the very height of that discovery. Only when the person’s heart beats in unison with the poet’s heart, only when the person’s heart, too, thirsts for the refinement within the poet’s heart, only when it throws open its doors to beauty as the author’s heart does — only then can one perceive the supreme beauty that has been revealed. And this, indeed, is an exceedingly difficult task.

Of course, not everyone attains the fortune of rising to the heights to which the poet has ascended. After all, although the notion of “the people” is frequently invoked, it never signifies a force that is equal and whole in every respect. There are always the people, the crowd, the common folk, and the wise…Usually, it is only those whose hearts are awake, who thirst for truth and beauty — the wise — who are able to perceive the world of refinement created by the poet, and they in turn make the heedless aware of its beauties. In this way, the beauty created by poets becomes the property of the people and serves the elevation of their spiritual world. Unfortunately, as has been said above, this process is by no means an easy one — how many poets have there been who passed their lives lamenting that they were not understood, complaining of being unappreciated, suffering from the lovelessness of their contemporaries?! Even a poet like Pushkin, in a number of his poems, called those unable to approach the street of beauty the “common rabble”(“crowd’”), and expressed his disdain toward them. The “Marxist” literary scholars who once called Pushkin the “great poet of the people,” however, were deeply vexed by such “skepticism” and “arrogance toward the people,” for they could not fit it into the mold of “class character.” This was not difficult to explain — it would have sufficed simply to acknowledge the truth that “not everyone is granted the fortune to ascend to the divine abodes of beauty.”

Abdulhamid Sulaymon og‘li Cho‘lpon (Choʻlpon; 1897–1938) was a leading Uzbek poet and translator of the early 20th century) was among those great poets who were capable of creating — and indeed created — a unique and unparalleled world of poetry. He began his literary activity in 1914, but his flight soared in the 1920s. Especially between 1920 and 1927, Cho‘lpon’s inspiration gushed forth like a vibrant spring, surged like a storm overflowing its banks — in addition to three poetry collections, he created numerous poems, stories, articles, and essays, wrote dozens of dramatic works, and enriched our literature with a series of masterful translations. These works provided the basis for his extraordinarily high recognition.Particularly, some literary critics abroad tried to determine the essence of his creativity with fairness and objectivity.

        They assessed Cho‘lpon as passionate and, at the same time, extremely sensitive, delicate-hearted and therefore, perhaps unsurprisingly, a fearless artist. In their view, Cho‘lpon could never imagine himself as being separate from the people, apart from the life and spiritual world of his contemporaries for whom he served as a poetic source of inspiration. All the tones of Cho‘lpon’s lyricism emerge precisely from this circumstance. Now, let us take a look at the fate of this great poet. Cho‘lpon, who deserves to be the pride of any world literature, who in any cultured society would be recognized as a divinely gifted genius, revered as a “master” and “teacher,” — what kind of destiny did he encounter?

          It is clearly known that this poet, who “could not even imagine himself apart from the people, separated from the life and spiritual world of his contemporaries,” was subjected to condemnation for nearly seventy years. During this period, there was no slander that was not cast upon his name; a kind of competition in denouncing and humiliating him reached its peak. In hundreds of articles, books, and lectures, he was branded with labels such as “bourgeois poet,” “Jadid,” “ideologically corrupt,” “singer of the basmachi,” “nationalist,” “counter-revolutionary,” “a fool who did not understand the October Revolution,” “an alien element poisoning the mind of youth,” “enemy of the people,” and countless other curses. Not for one year, not for ten years — but for almost seventy years!

           This rises a question: could it really be that throughout all those years, among a people as numerous as the Uzbeks, not a single enlightened person could be found who truly understood Cho‘lpon, who grasped that he was a genuinely great poet, and who was not afraid to proclaim this truth? Could it really be that our people are so ungrateful as to fail to appreciate the stream of water flowing right before them? Could it be that our people are so blind and deaf before beauty? A profoundly difficult and complex question. For in the Soviet era, we had become accustomed to speaking of the people only in vague, pompous, high-sounding phrases — the people are wise, the people are great, the people are magnanimous, the people are creative, the people are the builders, and so forth…

          Yet to say — or even to suggest — that the people’s thinking might be limited, that their cultural level might be lacking, that they might fail to honor their own true sons, was impossible. Regardless of whether such statements were just or unjust, they would be deemed disrespectful to the people, slander against their name. And yet, Cho‘lpon, Abdulla Qodiriy, Fitrat, Usmon Nosir, Habib Abdulla…(and how many more great figures could we recall, whose lives unfolded amid tragedy!) — their lives, their fates, their tragedies all took place before the eyes of the people! But the people, as though their mouths were filled with ashes, remained utterly silent, stood by as mere spectators — not only silent spectators, but at times, failing to grasp the essence of the matter, knowingly or unknowingly, they would applaud, and with choked voices shout, “Death to the nationalists!” Yes — their eyes bloodshot with rage, their mouths spitting foam, they would scream in frenzy. And alas, in those moments, not a single brave soul rose up to say, “Hey, brothers! What are you doing? These are flowers of the nation! These are the heroes who sacrifice their lives for the nation!” Yes, this is a fact — an undeniable truth. However, despite this bitter truth, one cannot quite bring oneself to say that “throughout seventy years not a single person among our people was capable of understanding Cho‘lpon.” For indeed, though very few, there were such brave souls. Alongside Boymirza Hayit, whose article we cited earlier, figures such as Zaki Validi — a prominent leader of Tatar-Bashkir culture — Vali Kayumkhan, one of the leaders of the Uzbek émigrés, Dr. Ibrahim Yorkin, who went to study in Berlin in the 1920s and remained there, and others, expressed the highest of opinions about Cho‘lpon. They regarded him as one of the most talented artists of the 20th century. However, the reality is that all of them voiced these opinions while living abroad, and due to the towering, impenetrable iron wall that stood between our socialist homeland and the outside world, their words never reached us. So what about within our own country? Was there any sincere assessment, any warm word said about Cho‘lpon here? Yes, even here such views were expressed. There were times when Cho‘lpon’s works were welcomed warmly by critics, and they were met with positive responses.

          The first scholar to express warm thoughts about Cho‘lpon in the press was Zarif Bashariy. He was originally from Tatarstan, who lived in Uzbekistan during the 1920s, wrote many articles in Uzbek, published stories, made translations, actively participated in the debates of that time, and even compiled an anthology of modern Uzbek literature, which he had published in Kazan in 1929. On May 4, 1923, Zarif Bashariy published a review of Cho‘lpon’s first collection Awakening (Uyg‘onish) in the newspaper Turkiston. At the very beginning of the review, he wrote: “Comrade Cho‘lpon is one of the foremost among recent Uzbek poets, and being truly worthy of being called a poet, his poems can and should be examined and critiqued through the lens of true literature and poetry.” He then describes Cho‘lpon as “a poet of genuine heart and feeling”—that is, a sensitive lyricist—and supports this idea with illustrative examples. Through his analysis, the critic highlights the vivid imagery in Cho‘lpon’s poetry, the depth of emotions, and the poet’s high mastery in word usage.

         Another critic, Vadud Mahmud, in his review of the collection Buloqlar (Springs), wrote that “a new coat has been put on contemporary Uzbek literature” and revealed that the one who had clothed it in this coat was Cho‘lpon himself. He reflected on the artistic qualities of the Buloqlar collection. Quoting from the poem The Death of Labor, the critic confirmed that “so much poetry, so much awakening melody” is present in it. At the same time, he expressed the view that “the poet vividly and movingly depicts the grief of the nation, the groaning souls of slaves, and the angels who weep in their hearts, consisting of the mothers and young women of the East. Although Vadud Mahmud allowed himself a touch of rhetorical exaggeration in this passage, it can be said that he penetrated quite deeply into the essence of Cho‘lpon’s poetry.

In 1924, two issues of the newspaper Zarafshon published articles titled Young Uzbek Poets and Cho‘lpon. The author, Abdurahmon Sa’diy, examined Cho‘lpon’s work in considerable detail and described the poet with a very brief characterization: “He burns and he makes others burn.” The article also argued, with supporting evidence, that Cho‘lpon was “truly a romantic poet of the heart (a lyricist).”

Similarly, albeit in a very brief form, Abdulla Qodiriy in his short foreword to Cho‘lpon’s book Secrets of Dawn rejected the reproaches circulating in the press that labeled the poet as “a weeping poet.” Qodiriy argued that while tears frequently appeared in Cho‘lpon’s verses, the poet sought “to bring forth blossoms from those tears.”

Another common feature of these early articles on Cho‘lpon was that their authors strove to present an entirely impartial assessment of his poetry. Thus, alongside acknowledging the poet’s strengths, they also pointed out certain weaknesses and shortcomings. Interestingly, one particular flaw emphasized in both articles would, in later years, be magnified and turned into one of the principal arguments for wholly discrediting Cho‘lpon’s poetry.

Zarif Bashiriy wrote: “No matter how frequently Comrade Cho‘lpon writes or speaks the words ‘nation’ and ‘people,’ he is not a people’s poet. He is rather the poet of the intellectuals who are close to the people. In his style and spirit, true populism is scarcely present.”

A year later, Abdurahmon Sa’diy published another article in which he stated: “Cho‘lpon is not the poet of the masses-the people, but of the educated, the intellectuals. The broad populace cannot easily comprehend him. Yet, at the same time, he is a ‘narodnik’ poet who writes of the people’s sorrows—without dividing them into any particular class. Indeed, the very essence of Cho‘lpon lies in this profound quality.”

It should be noted that at the time these words were written—namely, in 1923 and 1924—the assertion that a poet was “not a people’s poet, but an intellectuals’ poet” was not perceived as a political accusation. Thus, such “faults” passed without serious repercussions. Later, however, the very label of “not a people’s poet, but an intellectuals’ poet” would become a dreadful political charge, one that inevitably drew a writer to the brink of death. We shall return to this matter in due course. For now, let us conclude our reflections on the early reviews of Cho‘lpon. However impartial these critiques may have been, and however much warmth and attention they radiated toward a newly emerging young poet, we cannot regard them as significant achievements in understanding Cho‘lpon. At best, they were but the first steps—the lowest rungs on the towering ladder that leads to Cho‘lpon’s true stature. Perhaps, had there been favorable circumstances and a society genuinely invested in deeper understanding, one could have ascended those steps and discovered some of the profound dimensions of the world Cho‘lpon created. Yet that was not to be. On the contrary, the process was cut short at the very outset. No ardent devotee of poetry, no fiery spirit wholly consumed by the passion for beauty and refinement, arose to scale the heights of Cho‘lpon’s genius and grasp his essence. Why was this so? This pressing question—looming large before us once more—we shall postpone answering, as we now turn to the remarkable events unfolding around Cho‘lpon during those years.