Umid Ali (Kuchimov) – Uzbekistan

Umid Ali (Kuchimov) – Uzbekistan
Umid Ali (Kuchimov) was born in 1978 in the village of Joyisay, Samarkand District, Samarkand Region, Republic of Uzbekistan. From 1997 to 2001 he studied at the Samarkand State University named after Alisher Navoi and received a bachelor’s degree in Uzbek philology. From November 2003 to the present time he has been working as a proofreader, head of department, editor, deputy editor-in-chief of the newspapers “Erudit”, “Alo Kaifiyat”, “Bekajon” Afrosiab at the Creative Center LLC “Erudit”.
The first literary works were published in regional newspapers and republican publications. The first collection of poems by Umid Ali “Dilmohim” was published in 2005 by “Yangi Asr Avlodi” publishing house. After that, collections of poetry and prose were published, such as “Hello, sweet feelings!”
Umid Ali is also engaged in literary translation. He translated the stories of Ernest Hemingway, Ray Bradbury, Gianni Rodari, Ivan Bunin, Avetik Isahakyan, the story of Arthur Samari “Dardi Bedavolar” from Russian into Uzbek.
His poems and stories have been translated into Russian, English, French and Spanish.
It is me – a cut tree from its root,
It is you – a river which had lost its watercourse.
It is me – a couple of palm inside palms,
It is you – a crying shame inside the eyes.
It is you – the moon which is visible to stars,
It is me – a drowning day into nights.
It is you – a bourn depleted its edges,
It is me – a voice deprived of a melody.
It is me – a pain which destroyed hearts,
It is you – a white flower which its thorns decorticated.
It is me – a brave man who are with broken swords,
It is you – a widow into tabernacle without husband.
A pain of a life is endless… too many,
A life is without a collar and a sleeve.
When you left, I found a response to the question,
I can not live without you.
Umbrellas open their wings,
The sences are looking at somewhere.
There are wings but flying… hopeless,
“Birds” looking for a salvation while crying.
The ocean breaks the universe,
It precipitates drop-drop from the sky.
The soul wich loves the rains,
Floats as a ship and looks for salvation.
The air is fresh but more painful,
The universe is full with cries.
The umbrellas are waiting for deliverance,
Every head has a salvation.
A rain is drizzling…
The colour sticks to my eyes,
Or green, or red, or white and blue,
Until now I didn’t recognized,
An alien colour – it is life, there no miracle.
A sence will born soon,
Neither gladness, nor care, but stranger feeling
Not a blood in my tendon, rather a wine,
I am the basin neither new, nor old.
My ears are slave for one melody,
Its’ tunes neither playful, nor sad,
My worlds fill with thought-
The muezzin is calling for pray.
The lightning which lighted up my mind,
Preparing the fifth season for me
My feelings are painted… white,
The world which I selected is a real.
The stone which melted by breath of the morning,
The tear which dropped from eyes of the night
The ray which kissing the heart of the day
The tambour which filliped at the time of sunset
The blood of a verdure which has spat out
The last destination (place of ghosts)
The clean smile – white,
The weeping – black,
The laugh – absolutely white,
The tear – pitch black
The feelings – green,
The sence – red
The love – quite green,
The soul – a ray (God)
The life – blue,
The age – golden,
The spirit – divine,
The soul… colorless
Don’t become a dish but be water inside the dish.
Bruce Lee
A handful of water…
If you spill it becomes a plant,
Then lovers’ breast fills with a lawn.
Unless you sip,
The groud fills with a grass,
At that time may you wanted,
To become a handful of water?!
You put fire into my root,
The sorrows could evoke a soul.
I separated myself from myself,
And realized what the soul is.
Soul is happiness, an angel and honor –
A frill of the eighteen thousand of worlds
If any spark falls into my heart,
It is great “Hamsa” of a poet Navoi.
Here the body, here a soul, heart –
They are giving up because of love.
What a pain you have given to me?
I am not even taking breath without love.
The clock…
The room fills with moan,
Moments are not obeying (mad)
Among the four fences,
Life is an alien to itself.
A silence crawling on the top,
The soul is mixing to the air.
The world is full with regret,
But when?
The heart.
Over the cherry blossoms
beloved bees.
the black sky is
wiped by the sun.
The kites fly up
into the sky.
Childhood is looking for me.
Storm is cutting
Sky’s heart.
Dropping clear blood.
No meeting.
My guard is – umbrella.
Child is sleeping.
the crib is still shaking
in the melody of a lullaby.
The earth blooms during the day
the sky – at midnight.
To the doors of all hearts
The only key that deserves:
The flower does the same –
Smells like you
My dear!
Green trees
Meet the wind
with the applause.
I am lonely,
You are lonely.
Loneliness isn`t alone.
Never loyalty
Either today or future.
Thank you, my past!
Every your blinking
Is a whole book.
My dear!
Without interrupting the conversation
I am listening quietly
The silence.

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