Omaggio di Maria Teresa Liuzzo al poeta Sherzod Komil Khalil
Sherzod Komil Khalil
Sherzod Komil Khalil was born on September 13, 1982 in Kitob District, Kashkadarya Region, Republic of Uzbekistan. In 1999-2003, he studied at the faculty of philosophy of UzMU as a bachelor, in 2003-2005 he studied at the master’s degree of the same faculty, and received a master’s degree in modern western philosophy and history. In 2005-2007, he was a student of the Higher Literature course at UzMU and the Writers’ Union of Uzbekistan. In 2016, the book “I left poetry” (“I left poetry”) was published in English. His works have been translated into more than twenty languages and published in foreign countries. In 2019, Sherzod Komil Khalil was the laureate of the international youth writer award named after Magjon Jumaboy in Kazakhstan. In 2021, the writer was awarded the Mother Teresa Peace Prize in India. Sherzod Komil Khalil currently lives in Moscow, in the writer’s town of Peredelkino.
SHERZOD KOMIL KHALIL
THE SANG WORLD
The poets sang everything,
From visible things,
To invisible particles,
Neutrons,
Protons,
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,
Tractors,
Tanks,
Bronx trains,
The noise of engines were sung,
The reactor aircraft screw rotation,
The old Ages’ technologies,
Windmill,
Water-mill,
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,
Ghazal,
Songs,
Sonnets,
Visual samples of poetry,
The Pyramid,
Rhombs,
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?!
People!!!
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!
Because,
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,
Sonnet-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?
I LEFT POETRY
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!