——————————————————————–

left to rot in the rain

broken and forgotten

left to rot in the rain

life has beaten all

our asses

put on beethoven

and try to forget

the stack of bills,

the unwanted

pregnancy, too

young to fall

in love, too

foolish to fall

for it yet again

and here comes the

wanna be porn star

every phone making

movies

wish upon whatever

star you like

nothing comes true

anymore

here we go

backwards

yet again

our better angels

must have died

in the storm

laughter is all

we have left

——————————————-

there would be no math

farted so loud

the air conditioner

kicked on

i don’t think the

two are related

prove me wrong

i was told there

would be no math

involved

it never is the heat

but always the

humidity

and mr. monopoly

is trying to rob

my bank yet

again

while the strange

women talk about

passion if you only

could send one

hundred dollars

in bitcoin to them

by the morning

they swear we didn’t

leave this planet

although i certainly

feel like an alien

never an ice cream

truck when you need

it

———————————————-

what greatness is supposed to look like

transient on the highway

shirt off in the heat

looked like hulk hogan

if hogan never did steroids

and lived until the age

of 90

he gave me the finger

as i drove by

obviously, playing

the heel

and somewhere

a woman cries over

the death of a prince

and darkness never

fades

even though the

screams and loud

echoes of thunderous

love will

never let them tell

you what greatness

is supposed to look

like

how it is to feel

or be loved

dare to stand out

so bad they will

never be allowed

to forget you

————————————————-

on your side

one of those nights

you put on the moonlight

sonata and ponder your

own death

the whimsical nature

of depravity

your friends are down

to the single digits

success is just a fucking

dream anymore

but pretend love is real

that karma is on your

side

that all the hard work

will lead to a better

tomorrow

pretend the rain doesn’t

hurt

that yet another broken

promise is just a setback

and not the final kick

to the dick that life has

been teasing since the

last failed suicide

attempt

————————————————–

one july afternoon

lost in your madness

the subtle beauty

of a broken woman

hoping to feel alive

once again

every thrust

every heavy breath

every drop of sweat

every lick of your soul

i could feel your energy

from hundreds of miles

away

the one afternoon that

could possibly change

our lives forever

you are now trapped

in my dreams

the lost soul that i was

so damn lucky to find

now comes the fun part

seeing where love takes

this fascinating ride into

the unknown

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, Misfit Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Mad Swirl and Yellow Mama. He is spending most of his days taking care of his disabled mother and betting on Mexican soccer games. He still has a blog but rarely has the time to write on it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Annotation

This article explores how young people in Uzbekistan are accessing international opportunities through information and communication technologies (ICT). It analyzes key platforms, real-life experiences, and the pathways youth follow to showcase their knowledge and skills globally through global programs, grants, online courses, and international cooperation projects. The article also highlights the importance of digital literacy, language skills, and networking in the digital era.

Keywords:

Information technologies, international opportunities, Uzbek youth, online education, grants, digital literacy, networking, global collaboration.

In today’s digital age, the ability to use information technologies effectively is not only a tool for self-development but also a key to competing in the global arena. Young people now have access to the world’s best courses, scholarships, volunteer programs, and startup competitions via the internet. However, making the most of these opportunities requires not only technical knowledge, but also determination, goal-setting, and a strategic approach.

The number of young Uzbeks accessing international platforms through ICT is steadily increasing. For instance, there are youth who study on platforms such as Coursera, edX, and Khan Academy, completing courses offered by institutions like Google, Meta, and NASA. Uzbek youth are also gaining international recognition by participating in programs of organizations like One Young World , Junior Academy , and UNESCO . These achievements are the result of using technology wisely, learning English, and continuously working on self-improvement.

Social platforms such as Telegram , LinkedIn , and Facebook play a vital role in discovering grant and competition announcements, maintaining a strong personal profile, and building a professional network. Many young Uzbeks are now taking their startups to the international stage with the help of platforms like Devpost , Hackathon , and Google Developers .

Furthermore, international cooperation is expanding in areas such as gender equality, inclusive education, and sustainable development — all supported by ICT tools. Interest in technology among young girls is growing, and they too are earning international recognition.

However, several challenges still exist on this journey — such as slow internet speed, language barriers, misinformation, and financial limitations. These problems can be overcome by using free online courses, joining local mentorship programs, actively monitoring grant platforms, and establishing connections with governmental and non-governmental organizations.

Conclusion

Information technologies are tools — how they are used depends on the youth themselves. In Uzbekistan, an increasing number of young people are using these tools for creativity, innovation, and global integration. This progress is accelerating development across the country. Every young person can define their own destiny and compete globally by leveraging technology.

This article has outlined how Uzbek youth are accessing global opportunities through ICT. Real experiences, platforms, and strategies have shown how they demonstrate their potential. In this process, digital literacy, language skills, and continuous learning play a crucial role. Therefore, every young person should use information technologies as a means to achieve their goals.

References

UNESCO. (2023). Digital Skills for Youth Empowerment .

Coursera.org is an online learning platform.

edX.org – Free Online Courses from Harvard, MIT, and more.

One Young World Official Website – www.oneyoungworld.com

Google Developers and Women Techmakers Programs.

Olimova M. (2024). Youth and Digital Innovation in Central Asia . Tashkent: TechFuture Press.

Mother – The Soul’s Sunlight

A question has just bloomed, deep inside my soul,

Please read these lines — they’re heartfelt, pure and whole.

Though my pen is weak, my words hold no disguise,

I took a page to try… still, no phrase justifies.

Mother… O my dearest mom,

Is your smile the morning sun,

Warming me in every hour,

Are your words the books I’ve won —

Each chapter growing mind and power?

Why is your heart so gently made?

So full of grace, so finely laid?

Here’s the news I want to share:

My Lord, He loves you — this I swear.

And what could be the secret cause

Of such beauty in soul and face?

Believe my words, I speak from truth,

Even the moon would feel disgrace!

Forget the moon — just look above,

The skies reflect your endless love.

What does it mean, this boundless light?

What truth does it reveal in sight?

It speaks of God’s own mercy deep,

That matches yours — so wide, so steep.

In short, to summarize it right:

Without you, joy has lost its light.

Among all realms that ever be,

No one on Earth could be like you!

I am a young poet from Zomin, Uzbekistan, born on May 15, 2007. Through my poetry, I seek to express deep emotions and the beauty of the motherly love that inspires and lights up our souls.

TWO MISFITS

it was no time
for love outside-
old winds of worship
found hand and mouth
in ruined rain
slanting over cultured fields
into pagan barns
with patched up planks
finding us two misfits.

i felt the pulse
of your undressed fingers
transmit thoughts
to my senses-
aroused by autumn scents
of milky musk
and husky hay
in this barn’s faith
we climbed the rungs of civilisation
so random in our exile-

and found a bell
housed inside a minaret-
with priest and muezzin
sharing its balcony-
summoning all to prayer
with one voice-
this holy music, was only the wind
blowing through the weathervane,
but we liked its tone to change its time.

LOW VAULTED CEILINGS

within those man stone walls
promoting their god
bringing us to him
i told the priest-
you tell us to be content
with poverty
while you live in this big house
throwing us scraps
begged from money lenders.
this is not what Jesus
asked his disciples to do.
this is not what he died for.
he said live amongst us
and share what they have.
the priest,
red with rage,
oppressive and oppressed-
pulled my mam aside
made her shrink in his stare
weep in his words
walk me in our sins
from his dark-damp house of angels.
outside
in feral sunshine
i pointed to grinning gargoyles
chasing chastened shadows
back down primitive paths-
to a cellar flat,
bare bulb dangling
prison beam probing
baptised flesh
and mam tipped tears
soaking into straw mattresses
sucking up cold from the flagstone floor
woodworms eating a Van Gogh table
where six mouths sat
sharing stale bread and cold beans
with whiskered skirting board mice.
years later,
i left Dedalus in Dublin
in the pages of a book
to his epiphany
and Jesuit suit of guilt-
while i quenched
my glistening fruit
in street light ladies-
drenched in smokey curling
dancing clouds
and stories from voices
bouncing off low vaulted ceilings
caressing human in darkness.

OLD CAFE

a rest, from swinging bar
and animals in the abattoir-
to smoke in mental thinks
spoken holding cooling drinks.

counting out old coppers to be fed
in the set squares of blue and red
plastic table cloth-
just enough to break up bread in thick barley broth.

Jesus is late
after saying he was coming
back to share the wealth and real estate
of capitalist cunning.

maybe. just maybe.
put another song on the jukebox baby:
no more heroes anymore.
what are we fighting for-

he’s hiding in hymns and chants,
in those Monty Python underpants,
from this coalition of new McCarthy’s
and its institutions of Moriarty’s.

some shepherds sheep will do this dance
in hypothermic trance,
for one pound an hour
like a shamed flower,

watched by sinister sentinels-
while scratched tubular bells,
summon all to sunday service
where invisible myths exist-

to a shamed flower
with supernatural power
comes the hour.

AN OLD WOODEN BOAT

an old wooden boat,

the long sail through erotic journey

tattered and torn,

lip red paint peeling on planked carcass,

bleaches on a sandbar-

the silent tributary

of its river bed

dried and cracked.

smudges of mascara

over scented seasons

woman the shell of a dress

she wore

with full breasts

and firm behind.

i remember-

don’t take

the corn coloured sun for granted,

or ignore

her constellation and unmentioned course,

unless, you want to pace the deck,

invisible to love

counting silent stars

talking to the unknown.

DOES HER FAR BEAUTY KNOW

does her

far beauty know

where my thoughts go

without her

when i walk

in lush rain lashing down-

squatting in enclosed fields

of remote wheat and barley

around told feudal cities and towns-

to talk

to fate and how it feels

to be emptied entirely

of hopes sounds-

these evolutions

fill rich men’s purses

and revolutions

are poor universes

that try to bend

the unequal

to be equal

without end.

does her

far beauty know

where my thoughts go

with her

when i walk

in lush rain lashing down-

soaked in moments come to this

paradise and precipice

belonging

bonding

thoughts

serendipitous

blowing into us-

gives shelter to the self

of us and other else-

unlike bare rooms we rent

to leave behind

when change moves us to fit

into it-

with only our echo and scent

of passion and mind.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

MIRRORS OF LITTLE SUN 

Mirrors of little sun

ridges rushing with curtain

dark is bright behind carnival  

child transecting The Skeletal lampshades

bright halo faster with pink head  

vanished then hung stars down

the blazing

displayed bright supports with its  

strangely shining radiance

Bronze blasted Sun King wanted snow

his frozen head

like a blow from armor surrounded by shining deities

glowing eyes polished around the blade

spectators saw him unwrap his golden feet

the zero of moon region approaches Sun machine all fused

but earth edge turns galaxies off its golden haze in

the water maidens see nitrogen like methane glowing

A FABULOUS MARBLE DREAMED ON RED GLASS

A FABULOUS marble DREAMED on red GLASS  

a Butterfly IS YELLOW pumpkin and pop

daisy aftershave

soft peppermint Sausages with cake

cock of sandpaper in blue ice lake

fallen peach Candied BETWEEN the skirt inside of

pink tabletop touching crunch with pop

pink sunshine and blue apples  

then another between the legs

with chuckling woodchuck and freaky cone

clock made of pudding

penguin wearing sombrero OF hard sunshine

Eating a marble peppermint and talking to a woodpecker  

SUN in skies under yellow Lake

glass eyes floating in wooden belly

Bunnies pecking corners with Candied lips

breast hops between fuzzy tabletops

ANTIQUE MOON

Submarine with green flesh

bubbles with swarms of bees

empyrean universe filled with ghosts

folded back the jungle as

mist crowns little lakes  

Chemical wind roars

world collapses slowly

waitress forces salts beyond

the pyramidal structure

Empire under thick edges of chopsticks in creased sea

GRANULAR sky polished cloud  

flashing to misted Book buried in darkness

spheres disappear in milky skies

strumming folded fringes in a carbon buzzer

Or harps of ice found hazy rays of jeweled atoms

Blisters looking from the sparkle pulses

recombining floating equations

disconnected in cobblestones

five surfers handed his hats to Blood compounds

infinitesimal CLUSTER an opalescent dream

Kierkegaard the sweet rubbing world

the antique moon disturbing particles through

Little boxes wearing EASTER with intricate gears

pill opened by dull darkness ironed

Roman

 off

HILLBILLY BEES

I saw tables inside tiny rooms  

there the sand drops two forbidden nose cones  

HILLBILLY BEES on a blurry Road  

fuzz approaches with one of the beetles

chieftain sent yellow cone but

space benches would double him

unclear efforts moved to March

clearly someone with gold glass of photos and a talking

system photocopies with corkscrew

Historic animals flip before   

washed shirt or glass of buzzers  

Helga couldn’t bestow a tube that sent dozens from vapor

STORM linen wearing the standard deduction

constructing numerous evenings

which formed and blended

a grim cheer of Bundles when

Neptune saw only Small rimmed etching

CONCENTRATION CAMPFIRE

Swampy crocodiles in

wrecked fluorescent dimension

rain dress shrank her armor

brightness scalded thunder

fire clusters hide shake dimension

focus generators flag electric springs

feather lanterns vanish

cheeks elliptical

assembling continuous drift  

accumulate system vortex

Shelley bruised pillow and cloud

from relaxed incandescence

pink sardines curled freeze arrangement

dented women on confused face magnet

ringing top the juice curfew

thick insect surrounded

lost lozenges of haggard kisses

with hands embroidered groups of

transposed gas planets

POLTEXT

The risen is unbearable

sudden brightness through trigger profits

their galaxy dreams of 22

distant Hardtop without the poles

cyclones flick those silent crystals

smoke falls where ghost seconds against pieces

their mountain systems choreographed despite silver rust

oblivion islands glow in five Ray process

THE wounds had accepted faded bottles

poltext cocked the disintegrator

Chicago shrank into blue hares

black sky pale in the golden time

stepping transparent brightness

denouncing range through melted wire

regressing to the mandatory parentheses

Africa felt hatch of fluttering color

trees dissolved with Aldebaran out of ICE police

hot pressed metal whispered from forbidden consequences

Monday in tiny glowing crack of TWITTERS and decomposing crummalite

the manda grass around nylon gun is GLOWING

closed skull tries swiftly the glimpsed room

ash separator hop and long palms through world liquidation

The timejector pulsation creeps on tomorrow  

then the call was spinning on Machine for pink hours

again picture pressures THE computer candy

but dotted 16 oscillations over crylon bars

burning owls give small covering for folded hands

Gregory Wallace has been making art of various kinds for at least 50 years. He was active in the mail art scene in the 80s and participated in international mail art exhibits and correspondence. Mr. Wallace was a founding editor of Oblivion magazine and has published several books of poetry including The Girl With Seven Hands, The Return of the Cyclades, and Exile and Kingdom Come. His artistic activity encompasses poetry, collage, sculpture, assemblage, photography and painting. His work has appeared in Typo, BlazeVox, #Ranger, Black Scat Review, Clockwise Cat, and many other journals.

Letter To The Unknown Poet

Dear Esther,

I saw the message you sent me about your friend who is interested to be guided as a new unpublished poet. I’m also honored that you take me as someone who would be able to guide someone else. I’m honored because I myself am also a new poet, and I’m willing to help in ways I can.

 First of all, she has to see poetry as something that she does for herself first, before other people. I started writing poems just before the end of secondary school, and my poems came from sorrows and grief. I remember how we took Literature-In-English classes together and how we did so well in the arts department, and how we were among the best students. We were in the same debate club, we read together, laughed together, but it didn’t occur to me that anybody would read my works in the future and classify them as poetry. Or even classify them as anything. Yes, let me confess that I wasn’t confident. I did not have faith in my writing then. For many years I thought my writing was something that only I could enjoy, love and understand, and I was satisfied with that thought because sitting down every evening to write and pour my heart onto paper was the most glorious thing ever, something akin to prayer.

I didn’t know that I was writing poetry because even though I did literature, I wasn’t very sure if what I was writing qualified as poetry. So I would write for myself for many years as a form of therapy. Poetry helped me to heal of my emotional pain. I wrote poems to see myself, to find myself. I read other poets as sources of comfort. I was deeply introverted, and because I was very hurt in my spirit, poetry helped me to stay alive. I wrote to myself without being sure if I was doing it in the right way, without knowing what I was doing, until many years later when I got an opportunity to be published.

I’m emphasizing on writing poetry for yourself first because poetry wouldn’t make you automatically richer than you are, but it can open doors for you. It can connect you to people or your readers whom you wouldn’t have met outside your writing space. Many publications do not pay you when they publish your poems. You will be paid or earn something only when you win poetry contests, or when a publication that pays their contributors pick you up. So I want her to approach poetry as something that she does for herself first, not as something that can fetch something else.

I want her to approach poetry with humility. I want her to be kind to herself. I want her to be truthful to herself. I want her to be truly herself. Let her see poetry as something she must do, something she has to do, if she is really a poet. If she is a poet, I want her to be proud of being a poet. Let her listen more to her literary spirit. I want her to be happy. Any day she decides to send her work out to any publication, I want her to know that rejections are normal. Many publications will reject her, but she shouldn’t be discouraged. The more she is rejected the more she should write.

The Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie says she writes because she has to write. In interviews, she says that even if she didn’t have the wonderful opportunities she has today to be read widely and deeply appreciated, that she would still be somewhere writing, unknown, but still, she would be writing, and this is true for every genuine and unpretentious writer. Being a published writer is a secondary aspect of being a writer. I think the first aspect is more important than the second. First of all, you have to write, and the writing has to be for yourself first, before moving into the world. You will have to love and believe in the work first, before looking for a publisher, or a publication.

If your friend the poet is Nigerian, or African, I will advise her to read Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s books. If she’s not interested in big books, then she might be interested in her smaller pieces. She might follow her on her social media handles. She might also be interested in watching her interviews on YouTube. Or her popular Ted Talks, The Danger Of The Single Story, and We Should All Be Feminists.

I wish her everything good.

From Isaac Dominion Aju

Isaac Dominion Aju has appeared in different literary publications in the United States, including Poetry X Hunger, Flapper Press, and New York City’s Writers’ Journal. He will be a featured writer in Cajun Mutt Press in the US by November. He lives in Nigeria where he works as a fashion designer and writes in his free time.

our call

what are we if not real?

i propose this question now,

here in our present day

begging for an answer.

we yearn to pick apart

the people surrounding us

leaving our nails covered in 

soot, yet we never clean them.

we long for residue of

others, dream for some

remnant of their life inside ours.

we are layers upon layers,

circles in the trunk of a 

redwood tree, and are made

human by the ones who

came before us, ever

lasting our own thoughts.

i ask you this question

to spur what you believe.

we can never wipe our

slates clean, every choice we

make cemented into the 

roots that travel throughout

our being. it forces us to 

make our own choices, 

spawn our own thoughts,

create what we believe will

have an endless effect on

what we call our existence.

we are human, allowing us to

conceive our reality. if we can

manifest our thoughts, than 

what are we if not real?