Unlike in the pre-internet age, when young poets would wait for recognition by being published in literary magazines, a new generation of writers can easily publish their verse on social media. The poets presented below, Rafiq O’zturk, Tillaniso, and Jontemir, all have big followings on Facebook and Instagram. They also take part in so-called “poetic duels”, where poets improvise in face-to-face battles. Jontemir won the latest competition in January earlier this year, which was also streamed online.
Poetry has always been considered one of the most popular and prestigious of Uzbek occupations. In one literary anecdote about the “founding father” of Uzbek poetry, Alisher Navoi (1441–1501), the poet is playing chess with another writer, Binai, when he stretches out his leg and accidentally touches Binai’s back. “We have so many poets in this country that whenever you stretch your leg, you touch the bum of a poet,” he exclaimed. Binai was quick to retort: “If you pull back your leg, you’ll also touch the bum of a poet.” There are no fewer talented writers in the country today.
Uzbek poetry has also flourished in tandem with other poetic traditions. Navoi’s work, for instance, was the sweet fruit of cross-pollination between the Uzbek epics and Arabo-Persian poetic forms. Cho’lpon (1893-1938), another great reformer of Uzbek poetry, represented the synthesis between the Uzbek classic verse, and Russian avant-garde poetry from the beginning of the 20th century.
Rafiq O’zturk, Tillaniso, and Jontemir, too, are influenced by world poetry, and in this way also belong to a longlasting Uzbek poetry tradition.
A fish plays inside me
Shaking her tail
She is thirsty,
thirsty.
For a day,
Three days,
Ten days,
40 days.
Fish don’t die of thirst.
A fish plays inside me
Shaking her tail.
She crumbles
the truth
With her delicate bone.
A fish plays inside me.
Her eyes are the colour of a dark night.
That was a lie.
Fish die of their own ecstasy.
They strike, they destroy themselves,
They die of their own thoughts.
That was a lie.
One,
Three,
Ten,
Forty days.
Fish don’t die of thirst.
No, it’s not depression,
Depression is a way of life.
Am I living?
And you?
I’m standing at the edge of my own life and watching
(It’s good to stand on the sidelines)
I’m on the edge and watching:
I’m a prostitute,
who trembles at night in the lap of others
To forget it all.
Giving myself to intoxication,
I forget.
And I can’t remember anything
in the morning.
I don’t remember, for example,
My own two kids,
Who never miss me at night,
Calling me mother.
I do the washing in the morning.
I do the washing when I wake up.
I need to do the washing
Or forget.
It was a Ramadan Night
(It’s hard to live at night)
While watching a soap opera
I cried for my kids.
Never again…
I’m a prostitute
Lying on other laps at night
And doing the washing during the day,
I stand on the sidelines
Watching my own life.
It’s good to be on the sidelines.
I’m on the edge of my life.
I’m a masochist.
Like the hero of Yelinek,
I cut my own chest with a piece of glass,
So that I satisfy my imagination about love.
When my lovers leave me sometimes
(I never loved them)
I stab myself a little above my heart.
Sense is dead. Feeling doesn’t exist. Do not be afraid, it doesn’t hurt.
Don’t take it seriously.
It’s not dreadful.
It’s just the sprouting of a grass,
A couple of rain
and fire which goes to the reeds.
Don’t get serious, I hate those who get serious
People in our company
Are too serious about
Warnings,
A Boss
And orders.
They take life routines seriously,
However they can never see
Higher routines.
The routine of the universe.
The routine of flowers.
The routine of the road.
The routine of rain,
and water.
Look from the outside.
I’m a prostitute.
I’ve learned to live without waiting.
Don’t take it seriously, oh my dear.
“Do yourself a favour”
(Someone said these words to me)
Stay a little further away from yourself!
I’m a prostitute
Sometimes I want to destroy myself.
Sometimes I need to completely ruin my own damaged life.
I’m standing at the edge of life
And I watch,
And I still love
Water,
Rain,
A tiny child’s first words and
The chirping of sparrows.
Tillaniso, Nuryogdi’s daughter, was born in 1993 in the Bukhara region. She has published a collection of poems, entitled Fiery Rebellion. She is a doctoral student of the Academy of Sciences of the Republic of Uzbekistan.
My poor dad
would love to be proud of me.
He is glad
if he finds something
that was lost long ago.
My poor dad
is aware of my learning
Russian, English and Norwegian,
and he keeps inviting me
to visit his country,
tries to send me clothes
via the post office for a year.
My poor dad
has suddenly grown old.
Everybody has left, as a result,
and even his pitiless sons
can’t remember him!
My poor dad
is still amazed at my poetry,
although my book hasn’t been published yet,
and no one has used it as toilet paper,
as he predicted long ago.
My poor dad…
To Halina Poswiatowska
1
You are fluent
in the language of love,
and the movement of your lips
seems to be a flower bud opening.
In front of you, I’m an immigrant
and dumb barely knowing how to speak.
Looking at your gentle face
I mutter to you:
“Do you speak English?”
After that
you stare at me
with wonder.
2
Poems are the result of
the desire to live
over and over again.
Every time,
after finding your peaceful death,
you want to change your mind.
But poems, like artificial flowers,
do not take root in the soil
and artificial flowers
can never be poetry.
3
Your sweet words
seem to be mulberries
spilling from their branches.
Books full of your poems
turn into blue latitudes.
If only my feet could reach
so wide.
I wish, I rejoice
when I mingled with the soil
in honour of your words.
4
Oh Halina, Halina!
I press my face
to the white paper:
“Say something, after all!”
After all, you didn’t know,
Or if you did, would you leave?!
Would you wait for me for a while.
I shuffle through your letters,
and I believe, that
you have something to say to me, anyway!
Rafiq O’zturk was born in 1992, in the Namangan region of the Republic of Uzbekistan.
The night bus stop.
Waiting in the corner.
Smoke rises from my cigarette.
“Are you waiting for the 94?”
I shake my head.
I am
Seeking a mouthful of freedom.
The bus comes and goes.
Someone walks a dog.
Miserly streetlights share their light.
Cabs make a sign: where?
But this bench is enough for me.
“You will freeze by dawn,”
Whispers the breeze.
I smile and point to the sky:
I have my God up there!
From a nearby bar
The sound of a guitar,
Sweet.
I feel out the notes in my head.
I play…
As if lying on a beach
Sandy,
I play…
My palm dances in the air
I play…
Totally losing myself
I play…
Lancing the poison in my heart.
Can you try shooting now?
Past midnight,
A tramp comes,
Dragging his bag,
And sits silently.
An awful stench floods the area.
Thin like a stick,
With a wrinkled face.
I offer him tobacco
Then ask for a handful of his freedom.
Smiling, he offers me bread.
Yes, we each understand freedom differently…
I hardly breathe…
I stare at his yellow beard stuck with old food.
I ask:
“Who are you?”
He shows me the ground.
“Where are you coming from?”
He shows me the ground again.
“Where are you going?”
Again the ground…
“Well it seems
I understood nothing,” I say,
And eat the bread he gave.
It seems so delicious,
A poem flowing into my mind.
I open and close my eyes
And then –
See, the tramp has vanished.
Astaghfirullah!
Allah, Allah!
Astaghfirullah!
All is silent.
There is no love, no freedom, no happiness…
Loneliness and silence alone
Stay with me.
Then I realize that
Loneliness is the poet’s friend
He is born in loneliness,
He lives in loneliness,
He will die in loneliness…
The dawn.
A janitor
Notices me
And investigates:
“Who are you?”
And without hesitation
I show her the ground…
1
‘SEPARATION’ is the property of hell.
If I hear it, I am terrified.
How many scores of times
Have I been confronted by its brutality.
Each time it smothers me,
Like a puppy buried alive,
Erasing all memories
But for the nagging question ‘why?’
2
Then ‘LONELINESS’ adopts you
Becomes your father
Becomes your mother –
The only kind-hearted feeling in the world.
There is a passage in my diary:
‘Loneliness is an ulcer. An infection from God.
Maybe this is why no one but God
Comes near the afflicted.’
3
‘I LOVE…’ is reminiscent of paradise.
But I grew up envious of this word,
Of everyone.
Then I met you,
Walking like music,
Among the greedy ravens.
At that moment, my heart trembled:
‘I LOVE…’
Do not fall into the well of ‘SEPARATION.’
May paradise take root in your heart.
4
‘OVER’ is the most dreadful word in the dictionary.
A weapon forged by the sorcerous blacksmith.
A Damascene blade to slice ‘OVER’.
Once it slides from its sheath between the lips,
Its target is doomed.
Humankind cannot create
A weapon deadlier than ‘OVER’.
Look at my eyes, my darling,
Do not give way,
Bite your lip.
Let’s not paint our hands in blood.
We are not killers, we are not killers.
Jontemir was born in 1994, in the Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan Republic. He has published a book titled ‘The Song of the Dervish’. His works have been translated into multiple languages and published across the media.