Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

 

The landscape poems


Translated by the author

 

Time



O time, that walks with a limp on one leg
in the dial of the old clock,
tell me, do you hate each other, like people do
on our planet and often tied between you
brawl, with knifes, and axes and even
bloody hundred years of war where soldiers kills
millions of peaceful, innocent people and even children,
turning beautiful cities into ruins?
What bloody war did you fight, if it's not a secret ,
in what field hospital of which you had one leg
amputated by military surgeons, by removing
a piece of shell from it to prevent gangrene?
O one-legged time, walking, limping on a prosthetic leg,
in the dial of the old clock!
I'm hearing the sound of your footsteps
in the midnight silence, or is it sounds of bitter tears
that drip rhythmically onto the floor
from your gray eyelashes?



17/09/2019.
4:44 of the night.
Canada, Ontario.


Oh, if you only knew!



Sometimes we get a grain of sand in our eye and we are removing it
from our eyes, we do not even think how lonely this grain of sand
is in this city, like a city man in a desert.
Maybe it was brought here by the wind from the distant deserts
and it longs for the desert where the Agamas and monitor lizards run,
raising their tails, so as not to burn their belly on the hot sand, where
sand snakes crawl sideways, leaving traces on the surface
of smooth silk dunes and these traces sweep brooding sand blowing,
like in the deserted midnight streets of snow in winter.
There the Saxauls sing, then crying a hysterical voice on the wind.
They buzz in a sandstorm on the slopes of dunes, like the hump
of wild and yellow camels, where whirlwinds sometimes dance,
like a man who dances whirling, with a sharp dagger in his teeth!
You sit down and look at the ghostly dunes under the starry sky,
when the lonely moon slowly begins to rise in silence,
silently and quietly illuminating the expanses of the midnight desert.
Sometimes skiing on the smooth silky sand dunes,
like the frozen waves of dried seas and oceans, you will feel like a
crazy surfer, barely holds on the crests of giant waves.
Oh, if you only knew how lonely that grain of sand in your eye is,
as humanity and as our orphaned planet in the vast cosmos,
in the nebulae of the universe that have no end!
You will immediately take the grain of sand back to the desert,
or the desert itself will come for this a grain of sand, accepting giant
form of rights, and knocking grains of sand, like grains of snowflakes
in the twilight winter, and it will look in the tiny window of your hut.



15/09/2019.
8:10 am.
Canada, Ontario.

 

Echo



The water droplets fall at the midnight silence.
No, it's not the thawing snow outside the window crying 
and not the footsteps of time, which
walks, hobbling on one leg on the dial of the wall clock.
It's the echo of your tears dripping by the window,
in the moonlight and desolate silence, there
across the oceans, in my distant homeland.



03/09/2018.
10:22 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.


Time clicks its tongue rhythmically



I'm not a king or a caretaker of dogs,
but a distant echo of the sad cries of cranes.
I'm the somber sky and the rainfall pecking
the bunches of the Rowan trees
outside your window, which you will look
through at the distant landscape during winter,
where snow covered forests, fields and
the empty winter snow-covered roads,
the rickety huts of the village.
I'm not a king or a caretaker of dogs,
I'm just a slave to my desires.
A slave of air, water and food.
At night I look at the moon, like a fish
looking through an ice hole, in a frozen river,
listening to the sounds of the wagons of the trains
knocking against the steel spines of the Railways.
A knock that sounds like a heartbeat,
knocking of a clock sounds like hiccups
after eating the time from our lives.
I'm not a king or a caretaker of dogs,
I'm just loneliness and peace.
I am the silence and the orphan hood of old graves.
I'm a lonely passer-by, drunk in the snow blizzard
who forgot the path home.
The twilight is lit by the moon like empty white paper,
like snow-covered winter roads,
similar to our September cotton fields.
I go and lengthen my silent shadow.
Balding trees in parks, as if in a dream,
and the leaves are gently flying to the pavement.
The fallen leaves are so soft,
I want to lie on them and sleep...
Let eternity pass on it's tiptoe,
you can sleep, locking the door.
And let time click it's tongue rhythmically,
swinging the pendulum of the grandfather clock.



03/07/2019.
10:18 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.


F sad holiday



I'll go out on a autumn field as if on a holiday,
like going to the train station, and standing
on a high slope,like if on a platform,
say goodbye to the migratory birds,
that fly south, flapping their wings.
I wave to them, my weathered skullcap
until they disappear over the horizon
and their sad voices in the distance
do not cease.
Until my soul is emptied, like an empty nest,
which blacken from the distant
in the grove, on the branches of birch trees.



22/08/2019.
10:07 in the morning.
Canada, Ontario.



The distant bird noises



At sunset in a poplar grove by the river,
where there are abandoned ruins of the pigsty,
high poplars deafening noisy birds.
The chirping of hundreds of sparrows, the distant noise
still ringing in my ears,
like the sound of waves in a seashell.


22/08/2019.
11:38 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.

 

 

Religious Man



He believed in God, but God did not believe him.




14/08/2019.
8:09 in the morning.
Canada, Ontario.


By the autumn fire



You're busy alone in a quiet autumn garden,
sweeping the fallen leaves with a broom.
Thoughtfully and silently collect firewood,
thinking about our meetings and making a fire,
similar to fuming volcanoes, which smoke
the bitter cigar in the Kuril Islands.
Sitting by the fire, looking into the smoke,
so that people think you're not crying,
it's just your reddened eyes with
tears, because of the bitter smoke.



02/08/2019.
12:26 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.


Longing for spring



Spring as love works wonders,
Waking nature from a sweet dream.
Soon, deafening cries heaven,
The birds return, when the grass is green .

Coming from the pathways is spring,
A slim, naive, youthful lady.
And on the poplar the bird will sing:
-Chicka - di-di-di-di-di-di-di!

Hearing this for a while in silence,
People will stop digging gardens.
Will enjoy the singing birds,
Leaning against the shovel shanks.



16/10/2015.
4:53 of day.
Canada, Ontario.




The poor trees



Rivers and ponds covered with ice,
Outside the window, the blizzard howled.
Oh trees, I would let you into the house,
And you would warm yourself by the fire,

But you're motionless along the road,
In parks, gardens and beside the gates.
Like families in the bitter cold,
The same as people without fuel.

Scurrying, shivering on the frozen river,
And you have no shelter over your head.
But trees, you don't have a stove,
And some wood?..



04/03/2015.
2:08 of the day.
the city of Brampton, Canada.




Winter dandelions



The late dandelions appearing beautiful
They look like fluffy, snow-white balls.
Their hair turns grey, since they are fearful
Fearing that winter is just after fall.

Their winds blew like children in the fields,
It's fluff whirled and flew weightless.
The trees were playing an accordion well,
Like a musician in a cluster of snowflakes.

The blizzards have changed into dandelions,
And the fluff from them is blown away!
These snow-covered streets lights,
The flying dandelions it looks like!



21/01/2016.
12:00 noon.
Canada. Ontario.

 

 

 

Обновлено (18.09.2019 15:33)