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Главная » 2009 » Ноябрь » 25 » (9) "SPTU" Chapter of the Powest "Lights far away" of Volcano
(9) "SPTU" Chapter of the Powest "Lights far away" of Volcano | 15:25 |
(9) "SPTU" Chapter of the Powest
"Lights far away" of Volcano
\ Translated by from the Uzbek language Sarah Kendzyor. U.S.A
One day, after I finished eighth grade and was about to start
ninth, my father unexpectedly granted me a special kindness: "Do you want to study at a technical school?" he asked. I
was surprised. It was as if a miracle had occurred and my father had
suddenly been transformed into another person. I was delighted. I
assumed it meant that my father was going to send me to art school
because of my talent for drawing.
"Yes, I want to," I said. My father began to talk about the superiority of technical schools for my education.
"The dormitories are free. You get free clothes, and there
is a hot meal three times every day," he said. At these words I dropped
the watermelon that I had been carrying under my arm.
"Yes, I get it, the cost of clothing and food has become
difficult for my father," I thought to myself. It was true, at the time
my father was worried. One time a group of artists had come to display
at a conference held in the collective farm clubhouse. Because there
was a carpenter who kept singing about wood, the head of the farm had
my father build a stage. When my father and his pupils finished it,
they tried to take a ball of wire outside, and at that point my father
ended up getting electrocuted. He had to go to the intensive care unit
and ended up being handicapped. From then on it became difficult for
him to meet the family"s living expenses. I knew about this, even
though I was young. That"s why I decided to reject his invitation even
though I understood the real situation. I thought this might help in
some small way. "What kind of subject will I be mastering?" I asked, giving nothing away.
"Tractors," my father answered. I had to think about this
one - my interest in technical subjects was absolutely zero. But I
thought to myself, maybe this would ease my father"s pain. "OK, I"ll do it," I said. My father beamed.
"Alright, let"s get your things together. I"m going to take you to see a professor at the technical school," he said.
I packed up my things. We went through the cotton fields on
the collective farm to get to the technical school. I knew that this
school accepted people without an examination. When we arrived my
father sent me to meet with the professor in the field shelter. I
recognized some children who I had not thought about since I was seven
who were now technical college students. As they returned from the
cotton they begun to study. As luck would have it, there were some
subjects taught there that I had interest in. The technical college
library became a favorite place of mine. I initially thought I saw
poets working there. One day during the break our literature teacher
made note of a poem that had been written on the table in pen.
"Did you copy these poems from somewhere?" I asked. The
teacher laughed and answered: "I wrote this poem myself." I was
surprised. "Hey, teacher, do you work as a poet?" I asked. Again he laughed.
-
"Anyone could write a poem. Poetry is not a profession," he said.
I was quiet for a moment, and then asked:
"Could I write a poem as well?"
"Of course," he replied.
The bell rang and class began. I listened eagerly to the
lesson that he was teaching that day. I vowed to myself that from that
day forward, I would write poems. After the class I started to write a
poem on paper but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn"t compose a
single line of poetry.
The next day I told the teacher that I was unable to write
poetry. From then on he taught me the secrets of writing poetry, and I
wrote a poem about a breeze, and from there kept going. I still
remember these verses:
Breeze, soft breeze
Leaves dancing in the wind
Flirting with the sky, with the air
Flapping your wings down.
Having written that verse with my teacher, I continued the poem:
You blow in the night by the full moon,
Smiling in encouragement,
Your wave cannot endure the valley,
Your strength is tested in action.
A dandelion blooms again,
In response you say hello.
All this unlimited land before you,
You sink deep in thought.
After he read my poem, my teacher stared at me in surprise.
"Excellent, in the future you will be a great poet," he said.
The teacher who said these words was the poet Farid Usmon,
who is known for his distinctive mix of contemporary Uzbek literature
and classical Arabic-Persian prosody.
That is how I began writing poems. One wonderful day my
friends Rashid and a poet named Olimjon Xoldor brought me to their
literature circle. Olimjon Xoldor would sit in a seat which had been
transformed into a place of honor for the occasion, poets would read a
designated poem, and discuss what they thought.
One time I brought a poem I had written about a frog to the
group. The poem was about a frog that had bounced around a stove and
was burnt by coal, and juxtaposed with a cold child. The greedy frog,
who had swallowed the coal, died tragically through his desire.
After I"d read my poem, Olimjon Xoldor turned towards the circle:
"Who wants to give their opinion of this poem?" he said.
Someone raised their hand. It was the poet Nusrat Abdusalomov. He stood
up and began to criticize my poem.
"A frog never would swallow coal," he said. I was very
upset. Then someone else raised their hand. I recognized him as the
well-known poet Karimjob Qobilov. Qobilov was a thin man with long
hair, over which he wore a cap, and he was crippled in one leg. He had
a nose like a Bulgarian pepper; great, buling eyes, and a long face.
This poet stood up, and said that he had liked my poem:
"Xoldor is an observant boy. In truth, a frog would indeed
swallow a lump of coal. One evening I was smoking a cigarette, and a
curious frog thought the embers were a beetle, and this frog just
licked it up. He thrashed about, poor thing," he said.
At this Olimjon Xoldor began laughing. He laughed so long
his shoulders began to shake. Tears came out of his eyes. Still
laughing, he began to speak:
"When I was a kid, my mother was melting sheep fat in the
oven, stoking the embers, scattering them on some chickens that were
near the stove, and the chickens ended up thrashing about as well.
These events just came back into my mind. The poem that Xoldor wrote
did it naturally," said Olimjon Xoldor. This is the way my first
literary society went.
Years passed, and I found my own place in literature. My
followers are many. Even so much that young artists began to claim me
as their teacher. My books were published, and I joined the Uzbekistan
Writers Union. I"ve heard from people that Farid Usmon said with pride:
"Xoldor Vulqon was my apprentice. I"ve had hundreds of
student apprentices and there is no equal," he is rumored to have said.
When my friend died, my village was not the same. It was
like I was completely alone in the world, like my existence was empty.
"A dog who tied at the neck has no use for hunting," they say. After I
received my diploma with perfect grades from in my scientific work
SPTU, in the ordinary common language "Latapizu", I began to make a
living with my drawing skills, which I loved to do and which didn"t
have to do with my diploma.
I started to work as an artist in an iron factory located
in a place called Kuyganyor. Here I worked on pictures on the panels of
the officers of the factory, outfitting them with displays of
agitation. I also would write, quickly replacing the poets who had
summoned the progressive laborers of communism. Besides that, I got
additional money working under the orders of various organizations and
establishments of the collective farm. One day an influential person
from an organization left for his house with a drawing of a worker"s
daughter drawn on a stand. When morning arrived, that same girl"s
picture had been smeared over. I was really furious and began to
investigate. That night the leaders were in their offices drinking
alcohol and eating dinner. As they became drunk, one of the deputies
kissed the picture of the girl in an inappropriate way. As I moved to
strike the deputy, my friend Oxunjon arrived. I told him what had
happened, and he began to open up about his pain:
"Oh Xoldorjon, that"s nothing. I created a picture of Lenin
on the façade of the building under the orders of the organization. The
façade was very high and stood straight up. I worked on putting up a
thick blackboard on the highest part of the façade. My students tied a
rope from the bottom for the paint. I pulled it up. By this time,
spectators had gathered to watch my work. I see now that I was cursed,
because the blackboard was decayed, and the foundation beneath my legs
collapsed with a snapping sound.
"I cascaded to the ground like in a movie, a newspaper hat
on my head and a paintbrush in my hand. As fortune would have it the
floor was covered in dirt. I landed on the ground, creating a cloud of
dust in my wake. The spectators were terrified and froze in their
places. A jar of red paint had landed right near my head and began to
leak out. Moaning from the pain in my legs, I stood up and limped over
to where the people were standing. The people took in the red substance
gushing from the artist"s head and thought my brains were leaking from
my skull. That"s when the ambulance arrived to take me to the hospital.
I was in the hospital for a month. You see, a customer is like a dog,
he does not leave his organization," said Oxunjon.
I laughed at these words as I painted over the foundation, drawing the picture of the female worker once again.
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