TWO POEMS
BASHORAT OTAJONOVA TRANSLATED FROM UZBEK BY SHOKHRUKH USMONOV
Art by Tim Peters
-
SAFIYAga
(“Aya, yuzgacha sanab boʻldim...”)
“Bir, ikki, uch... oʻn bir, oʻn ikki”.
- Aya, tun nega qora?
“Yigirma sakkiz, yigirma toʻqqiz, oʻttiz...”
- Dev nimaga oʻxshaydi, aya?
“Oltmish, oltmish bir, oltmish ikki”.
- Qoʻrqmay qolamanmi koʻp ovqat yesam?
“Sakson besh, sakson olti, sakson yetti”.
- Yuzgacha sanasam, uxlab qolaman-a?
“Yuz!”
Tunni, vaqtni, ishonchni, umidni parchalab tashlaydi yuz.
Yuz oʻzini uradi devorga, derazaga, zulmatga...
Va pastga qulaydi.
Parchalanadi.
Qaytadan boshlaysan hammasin.
“Yuz!”
Unga yetsang,
xalos boʻlasan qoʻrquvdan,
unga yetsang, tunning rangi oʻzgarar.
Unga yetsang...
Serpusht xotinga oʻxshaydi yuz.
Tugʻaveradi, tugʻaveradi...
Ikki yuz, uch yuz, toʻrt yuz...
“Yuz”lar aylanadi yotoqxonada.
Nafas olaman - yuz,
Chiqaraman - yuz.
Oʻpkamni qiynaydi yuzlar.
Oʻpkamni chaynaydi yuzlar.
Tilga kiraman nixoyat.
Tasavvurga erk ber:
Gullar haqda oʻyla,
Sana shudring tomchilarini.
Bir tomchi, ikki tomchi, uch tomchi...
Zulmatning yuziga sep ularni.
Toki seskansin.
Oʻziga kelsin.
Toki qoʻrqmaydigan boʻlsin bolalar.
Va ortidan yugur kapalaklarning
Sening orzularing kabi turfadir, qara.
Oq – bir, sariq – ikki, moviy – uch, safsar – toʻrt...
Sen ranglarni kashf et.
Kesib oʻt ularning chegarasini.
Tunni boʻya.
Sen istagan rangga kiradi dunyo.
Sana, suvning shildirashini.
Shamol shovurin,
Qushlar chugʻurin,
Hatto sanash mumkin yulduzlarning koʻz qisganini.
Hatto goʻzallik bor qora chigirtkaning chirillashida.
Qoʻrquvdan qoʻrqma!
Qoʻrquv bu – dadang,
Qoʻrquv bu – men.
Yana opang ham.
Bizni yaxshi koʻrganing kabi
Uning qoʻllaridan tut,
Oʻpib qoʻyish mumkin yuzidan.
Uning koʻzlarida
shudring,
kapalak,yulduzlar, ranglar, osmon, opang.
Mana, senga qoʻrquv...
Pish-pish uyquga ketasan bagʻrimda.
Men davom ettiraman sanoqni:
Ming, ikki ming...*
Ayol tushlarini tonglarga sepdi,
Don tergandek terib yedi chumchuqlar.
Shundan beri tong otmadi hech,
Ovozini izlab yuradi qushlar
Ayol tushlarini anhorga sepdi,
Ushoq deb oʻyladi sodda baliqlar.
Shundan beri taʼmi oʻzgardi suvning
Baliqlar anhorni dengiz deb oʻylar.
Ayol tushlarini havoga sochdi,
Bevatan chaqmoqlar qoshiga keldi,
Bevatan shamollar qoshiga keldi,
Bevatan yomgʻirlar qoshiga keldi.
Ayol tushlarini Odamga aytdi,
Odam indamadi...
Ketdi.
(Ayol chaqmoqdek titradi,
Shamoldek toʻrt tomon urdi oʻzini,
Yomgʻirga aylandi, tonggi yomgʻirga)
Shundan beri ovozin yoʻqotgan Ayol,
Hayotni shoʻr dengiz deb qilar tasavvur.
Eng yomoni, tush koʻrmaydi hech,
(Odam esa... Qaytmadi hanuz) -
by Shokhrukh Usmonov
Bashorat Otajonova is one of the leading female voices in contemporary Uzbek poetry. Being a polyglot, she not only reads major world poets, but also translates their works from Persian, Turkish, and other languages into Uzbek.
Whether she writes about the green valleys of her village or about time and seasons, she always investigates her longing and unfulfilled wishes or remembers her childhood fairytales, every time she makes a comparison between her dreams and life, she wants you to be a witness to her sense of awe.
As a literary translator, I fell in love with the poems of Bashorat because they consist of unique simile, exhilarating melody, and charisma. For me, it has always been a pleasure to translate her poems. When it comes to the translation of these two poems, both have their own stories. The poem titled “To Safiya” is my first translation of Bashorat’s work. It has already been three or more years since then. The other one, “Woman Scattered Her Dreams Across the Morning,” is her latest poem that I translated just a few months ago. I postpone all other things in the face of a new poetry translation, even when I am failing to meet other deadlines in favor of reading and translating poems by Bashorat Otajonova.
It is difficult for me to describe her poetic skills with words, I simply appreciate her poems both as a reader and translator. I hope that Bashorat’s talent will be recognized outside Uzbekistan, and if I could have even a little contribution in this, I would be more than satisfied.
Bashorat Otajonova was born in 1986 in the Fergana region of Uzbekistan. Besides writing poetry, she works as a full-time journalist. Her poems have been translated into several languages, including English, Persian, and Turkish. She is the author of the poetry collection Kumush yog‘dular (Silvery Lights). She is a member of the Writers’ Union of Uzbekistan.
Shokhrukh Usmonov is a poet and literary translator, born in 2001 in the Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. He studied translation theory and practice at Tashkent State University of Uzbek Language and Literature. He has translated poems and short stories by various authors, including George Orwell, Ernest Hemingway, Ruskin Bond, Oscar Wilde, Langston Hughes, and Maya Angelou. He has published full-length translations of Astrid Lindgren’s Pippi Longstocking and Gibran Kahlil’s The Madman. He was a runner-up in the Duel, a contest in the field of literary translation in 2021 and his work was nominated for The Best Book for Children and Teenagers in Translation award in 2022.
To Safiya
(“Aya, I’ve counted to a hundred!”)
“One, two, three… eleven, twelve…”
“Aya, why is the night dark?”
“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty…”
“What does the dev look like, aya?”
“Sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two…”
“Will I be less afraid if I clean my plate?”
“Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven…”
“If I count to a hundred, will I fall asleep?”
“One hundred!”
Night, time, belief, and hope are shattered by this hundred.
“One hundred” beats against the wall, the window,
the darkness
and falls,
breaks apart.
But you just have to start over.
“One hundred!”
Reach it,
and be free of fear,
Reach it,
and night’s colour will change,
Reach it…
One hundred looks like a pregnant woman,
bearing and bearing and bearing…
Two hundred, three hundred, four hundred...
These hundreds walk around the bedroom.
I breathe in—one hundred,
breathe out—one hundred.
The hundreds torture my lungs,
the hundreds chew at my lungs.
Finally I unloose my tongue,
let your imagination be free:
Think of flowers,
count the dewdrops—
one drop, two drops, three.
Splash them in the face of Darkness
so the children can sleep
and come to themselves
then fear no more.
And chase butterflies.
Look, theyʼre colourful like your dreams,
white—one,
yellow—two,
blue—three,
violet—four…
Discover colours and
cross their borders,
dye the night.
This world reappears the way you want it.
Count the water’s burbling,
the wind’s roaring,
the birds’ tweeting,
you can even count the twinkling stars,
even in a black grasshopper’s chirping there is beauty.
Donʼt fear fear:
Fear is your Dad,
Fear is me.
Fear is your sister, too.
As you love us,
hold its hands,
you may even kiss its face.
In its eyes
there is dew,
butterflies, stars, colours, the sky, and your sister.
Thatʼs fear…
You drift off in my arms
as I keep counting:
One thousand,
two thousand…
* * *
Woman scattered her dreams across the morning,
Sparrows picked and ate them like grain.
Since then morning hasn’t come,
And the birds have been searching for their voices.
Woman scattered her dreams across the river,
Ignorant fish thought they were crumbs.
Since then the taste of the water has changed
And the fish can’t tell the river from the sea.
Woman scattered her dreams across the air,
Homelandless thunder approached her,
Homelandless wind approached her,
Homelandless rain approached her.
Woman told her dreams to Man,
Man said nothing…
And left.
(Woman trembled like thunder,
Like wind, she blew in all four directions,
Became rain, morning rain)
Since then Woman has lost her voice,
She still imagines the world as a salty sea,
Worst of all, she dreams no more.
(Man… has yet to come back)