Poems by Sherzod Komil Khalil

Poems by Sherzod Komil Khalil
The poets sang everything,
From visible things,
To invisible particles,
The sung atoms too!
The planetary system,
And what else more distant,
Were sung –
There is nothing left,
Even a flower,
The star,
About nightingale,
Rubble thorns,
A meteorite,
Ravens and jackdaws,
All are said words,
And the old metaphors,
Bronx trains,
The noise of engines were sung,
The reactor aircraft screw rotation,
The old Ages’ technologies,
In the videos,
In the Rock n rolls,
And they were sung in the Jazz styles!
The disrepair and modernity were sung,
The poetry is the judge with its metaphors,
It linked,
Added all,
Not constructed the Chinese wall,
Removed the Berlin wall,
The militarist’s slanders,
The chauvinist’s deceptions,
The religion fanatic’s calls,
The art ignored –
(The exception is not art.)
A literature is my heartbeat!
Into my humanism,
And in my soul,
It ordered me to sing so,
Ordered to fight for truth –
To throw into repents and sins,
The consciences,
The soul,
It ordered me!
But what kind of poet I am?
What kind of singer?
While living in the sung world,
May I can’t see the other worlds.
May I can’t think about truth,
If I can’t sing about reality!
What kind of poet I am?
Its heart didn’t locate to rhymes,
Its sorrow didn’t locate to the rhythm!
The poetic forms as the wall of prison,
All rondos,
All rondels,
Visual samples of poetry,
The Pyramid,
The shaped poems don’t match to my poetry!
The poet privileged to live,
But didn’t look forward the same.
What exactly is interrupting me?
What is sticking a needle in my heart?
First of all, save my heart!
I am hearing the cannon’s rattles,
And the rocket’s whining.
Because of poverty,
And dying because of hunger,
I am hearing wails,
Of the African boys,
I am also hearing the signals of whales,
That swam around the oceans,
Before darting themselves to the bank,
I am hearing,
The weepings of the last plants,
The last birds,
The last animals,
Which brakaners captured.
I am hearing,
The cries coming from,
The mother Earth’s,
The mother globe’s aorta,
In the world that everything sung,
In the world that everything thought out,
I am hearing,
Are you also hearing?!
The miserably notes in my copy-book,
My tomorrow is hurrying after today.
You know better, eventually, once upon a time,
I had the exhilarated days, my love.
It had no stains of my unclouded days,
I was looking to the ruby stars secretive.
At that time passed with love,
I had a worth-while life.
I loved my beloved with my heart,
I waited for meetings at nights.
While I was looking at your black eyes,
I was caught your hands unhurried.
Oh, how joyful moments they are!
We walked into the gardens.
Why didn’t people understand us?
Why couldn’t we be happy in the world?
Why didn’t a life concession us?
Why our ways became distinct?
Nowadays I think while reclining the wall,
Or is it such a senseless our destiny?
Did we see the heavy spring rains?
Do we feel a heaviness of the years?
As if splitting our breasts,
Indeed, are our lives passing so?
Our bodies became faint because of sorrows,
A grudge demolishes our souls day by day.
That’s enough, stop now your tortures,
Anymore, give us a support, the divine power.
Otherwise, what happens to our situation in anguish?
I am fed up with living deplorable.
Although you are God, the God,
Eventually, a human soul is not an iron.
A song about the died nightingale which for its love to the red flower
The poets who devoted poems to the sun’s God,
The poets who drunk the rays of the moon,
The poets who exalted the stars,
The leaders of poetry,
In the middle and at the end of it,
I apologise to everyone,
And definitely,
I can’t walk in this tracks you created,
No, it is not a foppery,
And a pretence for an ingenuity,
Just that moonlight days are far from my heart.
Although my homeland is pure,
Quiet and peaceful,
They are harmonic to the great lands’ glory,
But the world tortures me,
The billions of strife inside the strife,
In the planetarium!
I am the poet of Uzbek people of the mankind,
Great poet of humanism who appeared in the sky
In the XXI century,
In the ground of poetry,
I read poems about the Earth concerns!
The shadows of the darkness,
The black lines of the darkness,
Captures the universe,
As if clouds hide the sun,
As if the flange hid the moon’s face,
As if the dust erased the star’s colours,
The thick darkness is capturing!
O, the flower,
Which bloomed at night,
It is a food for nightingale which loved it,
And the mad poet,
Who sang his sweetheart’s disregard,
He sank into the jug which full of wine and suddenly,
He could reach the time of demise,
And an inspiration,
The network – he occurs to spider’s trap,
And the muses of poetry,
They remain the other side of vertical reality,
And you are right Mr. Nietzsche,
On the other side of goodness and badness,
I remained with the secular matters!
O, ghazal-writers,
O, my friends who write poems in a type of poetry metre,
Forgive me,
If I can’t walk the way you used,
Actually, it is not possible.
Because, in the world that you lived,
Orfeo’s flute sounded,
Ismene’s too!
Even though the ancient skiff’s King Antey said:
“I swear, I like the neigh of the horse more”,
About the sounds of that flutes,
Although you,
Destroyed the Troy,
For the rubbery of Paris of Elena,
For the shame,
But in our land,
People are selling women in prostitution markets,
As Philippines Woman,
Thai women,
Tanzania and Chad women,
The Afghan girls that still minors,
With black eyes and eyebrows,
And Tajik girls as pearls,
Selling to the whore houses,
And perhaps there,
May my compatriots,
Your compatriots,
(And there is no need to write “Homeland” with capital letters)
Eventually, poets were glorifying,
Their beauty and eyebrows just yesterday,
Poets were glorifying their spear eyelashes,
The beauty of their black eyes,
And poets were glorifying their cornelian lips,
Poets wanted,
To hang themselves in their hair,
Not to humiliate as an animal.
The wanted to embed,
To the splendour of their body,
They wanted to wander the deserts as Majnun for Layli,
And to break the mountains as Farhod for Shirin,
And they also wanted,
To be the jealous husband as Otello,
For beautiful Ofelia,
But where is the love?
Where is the jealousy?
The “Sevenger’s family” concept,
The husbands who changed their wives on the bed,
Are they really husbands?
The husbands who are selling their wives,
To the money which Franklin’s photo printed,
Are they really husbands?
The husbands who became women,
The wives who became husbands,
Are they really husbands?
The followers of homosexuality,
The nations announced them as,
Husband and husband,
Wife and wife,
And the senators who legislated it,
The God’s forever curse for you!!!
O, in such a period,
The poems which with wonderful rhyme,
O, world,
Lastly, tell me,
How can I sing?
What kind of poems should I write about my sweetheart?
About the nightingale
For its love of red flower,
What can I write about,
If there are flowing the red blood?
From the voice of guns,
From the crashes of snaryads,
From the blast-off,
And under the bullet rains of aircraft,
If the nightingale died,
Even the nightingale,
May the kids crying who lost their parents during the war,
The mother who’s kids died,
And the children whose fathers died,
And old women and men,
May the lives hopeless into the disruption,
What can I write?
O, great Homer,
O, great Ovid,
Great Virgilio!
The great jobs of ancient Darwinism,
Great heroes remained with you,
In the middle of the middle Age,
Great Alisher Navoi wrote great Xamsa!
The Shakespeare is well-known for his inspirational tragedies,
And the poets who lived a bit before,
Poets who are living now!
(These opinions don’t depend on you that the improvisation-writers)
Mister Brodsky,
Mister Pasternak,
And Voznesensky,
Abdulla Orif,
And our brother Olzhas Suleimenov,
You tell me,
After all, in this world,
How can I sing,
And how can I write?
Did the world change or I am?
What was passed, that happened to me.
Yesterday, I was writing poems to the girls,
They followed that my steps.
Now I killed myself,
I left the poetry.
Yesterday, I was speaking with the stars,
As if I am fascinated to the moon’s reflection.
Then I gave up entirely,
When I had lost your meeting!
What is wrong with me, actually?
I left the poetry.
Now it is the unreachable dissatisfaction,
That the golden poetry gardens.
The beautiful moments of yesterday,
Now I need to reach you.
I depreciated my childhood like that,
I left the poetry!
What is suffering for, what is a disappointment for?
What is for remembering the past?
The broken crystal never become total,
If a soul breaks there is no rivet.
Memories – I heckled you futile,
I left the poetry!
Since I also realised a life,
But I left, goodbye, take care.
The persons who considered the literature as erf,
Just keep calm slightly.
I devoted you my disgusting poem,
I left the poetry!
(A joke)
‘First see mother, then marry her daughter’
Uzbek national proverb
Our ancestors were strange,
They fried themselves for love.
But the others kept calm,
They saw mothers then, married daughters.
Anymore those rules are not useful,
You know, nowadays a period is hard.
See does the father rich or no?
Where is the meaning to see mothers?
If I join to poets sometimes,
They welcome me as the philosopher.
I also write poems at nights,
As if wander whitened the dawn.
Occasionally, when I fed up with poetry,
If I look for a companion among philosophers,
They are also inflicting me,
They call me the great poet.
O, God, I am surprised for that,
I don’t know I belong to which souls.
Perhaps, I am the philosopher of the poets,
Perhaps, I am the poet of philosophers.
This world is very ancient,
Its purposes are different,
Its people are different,
But we are still the same,
The crowdWho spent their life for a travel!
We have had also great targets,
We concerned with great ideas,
But as if wayfarer stayed under the hail,
We couldn’t divert neither to right nor to the left.
We stepped,
Felt the world is extensive,
Different nations welcomed us,
Their eyes and eyebrows were black,
With the brown hair,
With the white body,
We faced with their claims,
And their arrogances,
And we stepped to the lands,
Where the people looked at our women,
Looked at our children with a disgust,
And sometimes we met,
With the warm faces,
From the dusty lands,
From the cold forever snowy places,
Under the equators’ sun,
Which burnt by the sun,
We walked,
One by one from everywhere,
And we realized,
World is the way only.
Also life is the way,
And you?
Who are overlooked us,
The conceited ringleaders,
Don’t be harry,
Think before to desecrate,
And to say our life is meaningless.
And then your “work-home” formula,
Our “life is the – way” theory is rather.
Your poets said that:
“Clear the world from the gipsies,
Enough to get rid of dog-poor,
And these poets,
Keep only with you,
They are not for us.
We have given all dreams to you,
Agreed, you feel all fortunes.
But you should know that not for gipsies,
The world is yelling because of you!
I don’t know, which time, which period,
The sky was blue and the earth was brown.
The lady who never gives you to the universes,
She called me Sherzod Komil Khalil.
How much time passed after that?
I didn’t aware how many eras were passed.
The pretend of ingenuity was captured me,
I kept myself as a loony.
The suffers and separating for you,
That weren’t seemed even as the corpuscle.
Darling, why I should not revive?
Today the fervent moments are far away from me.
Perhaps, therefore, my day wore black.
Perhaps, thence I forgot the world.
Look at the sky my bright star,
Watch the sky my star has flown.
Now my youth can’t elates me,
Then my youth can’t excite me in vain.
O, my temporary existence,
It is the egoist, didn’t notice the real love.
Now, what happens for my life?
I don’t know what happens exactly.
O, my adorable the eternal?
I never pay my attention to others.
If I do that – I am depleted,
If I do that – I deny myself.
My darling, trust me, my life emaciated,
My darling, believe me, my life is vain.
Now I forgot Ippokrena too,
Let her flow into the vein of myth.
Now I forgot my sweetheart too,
Let her seems lovable for others.
Who is capable of what, who deserves what?
God knows, that’s all.
Nothing can turn me back,
No spite, no tears, no flavour, kiss.
Poetry, I will place you in my heart,
All ends if the poet dies.
And frozen smallpox at the tomb,
As if disappeared in the snow rags,
You will find the other man,
His lips will be full of kisses.
I also will forget the visible feelings,
Death will close my eyes forever.
I will find the far points to live,
O, I want to cry from now, my darling.
But you don’t cry, don’t be regret,
Open your window on the one rainy day.
A bird will be warbling sob,
That will be me, you believe it.
Now I forgot everything,
It is not a myth, not a doubt.
Keep it secret between us, this feeling, this glaze,
Eventually, there are many things except death of a poet?!
A swan never betrays to its pair,
A crow never pecks crows’ eyes.
After gave birth to thousands of torment,
The ewe never gives its lamb to the wolf.
O, you, my dear human from my kinsman,
You strived for crown every time.
Enough, rather than haughtiness,
You show your best streaks.

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