Petry of chulpon

PETRY OF CHULPON


Chulpan, "wrote the critic Wadud Mahmud in the Turkestan newspaper in December 1923," is the new poet of the Uzbeks. Therefore, in his collection "Sources" today's spirit, state and consciousness of the Uzbek people are boiling. Here, the Uzbek language and Uzbek melody can be heard in full voice. Here, waves of national spirit soar to the skies. Feelings, pains, and worries of Uzbeks are crying in the collection”"

Among the writers of the period under review, the writer Abdulhamid Suleiman (1897-1938), who signed his works mainly with the tahallus Chulpan (“morning star”), stands out in particular. This was a rather gifted person who left a noticeable mark on the history of Russian literature.
The writer was born in Andijan in 1897. His father wanted to give his son a good education. Abdulhamid studied for some time in one of the local schools, and then continues his education in madrasas in Andijan and Tashkent. He studies not only traditional, compulsory subjects-languages and the Koran, but also enthusiastically enriches himself with knowledge of Eastern philosophy, studies logic and history, and deeply penetrates the unique and beautiful world of classical poetry. Abdulhamid Suleiman has shown an outstanding ability in learning languages and reads Firdausi, Saadi, Hafiz, Omar Khayyam and many other great poets of the past in the original.
At the native Russian school, where he later studied, he studied the language of Pushkin and Dostoevsky, whose works Chulpan loved and highly appreciated. Through the Russian language, the poet also gets acquainted with European culture.
Thus, it can be stated that Abdulhamid Suleiman will become quite an educated person, especially for his time.
Chulpan's creative biography began with the publication of the poem “To relatives of Turkestanis” in the newspaper “Sadoi Turkiston”. A few days later, in the same newspaper, he publishes his first story, and a little later-the article " What is literature?", the short story " Dr. Muhammadier”.
Chulpon's talent is also evident in other literary genres. So, in 1917, he wrote the drama “Khalil the skilful", and three years later — the play “Yarkina”, which for many years did not leave the stages of drama theaters in the Turkestan region.
This period of Chulpon's life was extremely interesting and saturated with various events. After the events of 1917, he lived for some time in Orenburg. Later he returned to Tashkent, where until 1920 he worked for the Turkestan-Russian Telegraph Agency (TurkRosTA). He writes a lot, publishes, and becomes one of the most popular writers of his time.
In 1920, one of the first collections of Uzbek poetry was published“Young Uzbek Poets”, which published 13 poems by Gulpan. The first individual poetry collections of the poet, such as“Awakening "(1922),” Sources “(1923),” Morning Charms " (1926) immediately attracted the attention of not only the general population, but also many literary scholars, and far beyond the borders of the region.
"Chulpan," wrote the critic V. Mahmud in the Turkestan newspaper in December 1923, " is a new Uzbek poet. Therefore, in his collection "Sources" today's spirit, state and consciousness of the Uzbek people are boiling. Here, the Uzbek language and Uzbek melody can be heard in full voice. Here, waves of national spirit soar to the skies. Feelings, pains, and worries of Uzbeks are crying in the collection”" In 1924, the famous scholar-Turkologist A. Samoilovich first translated a number of Chulpan's poems into Russian and published them in Moscow. The publication was translated into a small but very emotional article of the scientist about the poet.
In the mid-twenties, Chulpan spent some time working in Moscow as a literary consultant for the drama studio Domaprosveshcheniya. He works hard as usual. He writes the novel “Night and Day”, several plays, poems, and is intensively engaged in translations. It is translations that contribute to his creative growth in many ways. The increased skill of Chulpan during this period is obvious. Perhaps this is what provoked the appearance in 1927 of articles in which the writer was accused of “bourgeois - nationalist views.” Outright harassment of Chulpan began, which somewhat subsided by the beginning of the thirties. This allowed Chulpan to step up his creative activity somewhat. Thus, two years before the fast that followed in the fall of 1937, Chulpan translated Lahuti's “Journey through Europe”, Pushkin's “Dubrovsky” and “Boris Godunov”, Gorky's “Mother” and “Yegor Bulychov” into Uzbek, finished his novel “Night and Day "(1936), and published a collection poems " Soz " (1935). To the reproach of the members of the Writers 'Union that he does not work enough, Chulpan answered with dignity:" ... if you give more, it means to hack, and I don't want to hack.”
And despite what the writer has created, the " leaden clouds” of 1937 are still gathering over him. A year after his arrest, on October 5, 1938, Chulpan was shot.
The poet was rehabilitated in 1956, but it was not until the late eighties that his works were published again, analyzed and returned to readers of his good name. And, unfortunately, not all of Gulpan's works are now available to the Russian-speaking reader. I would like to believe that this circumstance is temporary and the work of the outstanding Uzbek writer will be accessible and loved by the world community.

Abdulhamid Sulaimon oglu Cholpon (Yunusov) was born in Andijan in 1897. He studied first at a madrasa (1908-12) and then at a Russian school (1912-14). The poet's literary heritage consists of poems, prose, drama, journalistic and literary-critical articles and translations. His poetic works are in the collections "Young Uzbek Poets", "Awakening" (1922), "Sources" (1923), "Secrets of the Dawn" (1926) and "Word" (1935), as well as in various newspapers. and published in magazines. His short stories "In the Moonlit Nights", " Tulip in the Snow "and" The Baker's Girl", written in the 20s of the last century, are the first classic examples of lyrical prose in Uzbek literature. He also wrote the novel Night and Day (1936) and plays such as Bright, Khalil Farang, The Assassin (1921), Love and the Kingdom, and The Shepherd's Love (1922). Most of these works have not come down to us). A. S. Pushkin ("Boris Godunov", "Dubrovsky"), I. S. Turgenev ("The Slave"), I. Franko ("A Million"," Feruza"), L. Andreev ("The Governor","The Tale of the Hanging Seven". "") Translated classics of Russian and other literature with great skill. Shakespeare's tragedy "Hamlet" in his translation is a masterpiece of Uzbek translation art. He was arrested on July 14, 1938 and executed shortly after Tashkent. After his death, he was awarded the State Prize of the Republic of Uzbekistan. Alisher Navoi (1991) and the Order of Independence (1999).

TO A RUINED COUNTRY

O great land, where the mountains greet the heavens,
Why * is the dark shadow of a cloud over your head?
Pure as fly caterpillars,
Pure as pearls
When the cool water came down from the mountain,
Like drops flying, like rain,
Why do they moan like tears?
Do they listen to the four sides to see if there is an enemy?
In the fire that destroys the fire of nature,
Boiling springs
Every dark, frightening night on the surface
He says he doesn't want healing, guests.
"Why is that?"
Tell me.
Blue, beautiful meadows,
They have no flocks, no yearlings,
Which passage has shepherds?
Instead of a horse's bridle, a sheep
's bridle-Oh, cry,
Why is that? Scrolls are decorated with ornaments,
The fields are planted with tulips,
He played in the mountains,
Chopingan
Where are the beautiful girls and young brides?
The answer is neither from heaven nor from earth.
Even from a ruined country.
When you ride a horse, you fly like a bird,
Embracing the free air,
When you ride a horse, catching a flying bird,
Where are the young people like flying birds?
Master of the mountain-where are the grey eagles?Your hard secret is those who have been crushing your liver for years,
If you're tired or cursed, they're on your chest.
Masters who have no right to your free land,
Why do they beat you like a slave, without jealousy?
Why doesn't your hoarse voice tell them to go?
Why doesn't your free heart give freedom to your slaves?
Why are your eyelashes laughing at your bodies again?
Why is hope dying in your marriage?
Why share your blood alone?
Why are you so desperate?
Why aren't there flames in your eyes?
Why are wolves hungry at night?
Why doesn't that make you angry?
Why is this degree of destruction in your existence?
Why doesn't the cloud of vengeance fall on the floods?
Why does the god of power have no power?
Come on, let me read you a story,
Weave a fairy tale out of what you've heard.
Come, wipe the tears from your eyes
Come on, let me see your wounded flesh and have my fill.
Why did it roll over or collapse
A heavy toy's poison arrow in the chest?
Why are your enemies time
Don't you have an iron revenge to destroy?
O free land that does not allow any slavery,
Why is the shadow choking your throat?

MEMORY OF MAHMOUD KHOJA (BEHBUDIY)

On a dark night without a grave
I lit the action candle and searched.
When you smell red and pure blood,
I hurried up the faint hill.

The star of my action that watched
the Black, disgusting ... blood of death on earth.
I asked: "Where did I lose it?"
Places where I also wanted to swallow myself.

Bouquet of flowers in hand
They found a grave and tried to bury it.
In the midst of poisonous tongues instead of flowers
What he did was in vain.

I am also helpless - he is in front of the environment
Find your grave and shed my tears.
And there with my bitter rage
To curse the white-headed black giant.

So shining like a star,
I'll stay with your name handy.
Remember this name and draw your path
I walk without moving, without moving.

Dear Father, about the flowers in my hand
You don't know that this is a flower of mourning.
The flower of joy has long withered,
You can't feel it with a pure soul underground.

Here are the flowers in my heart
I name the hands for the Termak ..

1920

soul

Sorry why are you so sad
Made friends with shackles?
On farioding, on doding bor,
Why are you so slow?

Resentment does not hurt the tongue,
Will the humiliation go away forever?
Chain break,
Now the swords won't break?

You're alive, you're not dead,
You are a man, you are a man;
The shackles, the curves of your neck,
That you too were born free! ..

ME AND OTHERS
(From the mouth of an Uzbek girl)

There are others who laugh, it's me who's crying,
The others who were playing sighed arrogantly.
Another who has heard tales of freedom,
I'm the one who listened to the song of slavery.

The other has wings, flies in the sky,
It lands on branches and grows in the garden.
His words are like pearls, and his voice is like a flute.
He sings his song everywhere.

I also have wings, but the link...
There is no garden, no horns, there is a thick wall.
His words are like pearls, and his voice is like a flute.

I have a burn. Listen to the walls ...
Free others, imprisoned arrogance,
I'm animal number one.

BARG

It came alive, it lived, it looked blue,
I feel a certain freedom in myself.
I can't remember the grief,
I hold out the silk sword of hope.

At the same time, everything in this garden is soft
Everything is green, everything is blooming.
In this garden at this time everything is white,
The sun also shines a handful of light.

Funny song of water in the gutter
It woke up the leaves that were sleeping on the branches.
Especially this soft gust of wind
The leaves on the branches shook and played.

The crimson butterfly is on its way
He met his beautiful daughter,
When the butterfly is sewn, it is in the girl's hand
He covered his face with the paper in his hand.

Children catch the golden beetle
They play with the rope flying in the blues.
Strengthening the poor who do not like slavery,
Why don't they just leave it up to them.

My lips were red from thirst that night.
He doesn't want wine from the water of Kavsar.
Angel swordsman, one of the princesses
He doesn't ask for a kiss to quench his thirst.

When angels descend from heaven as girls.
Again, I don't put herbs on my lap.
If they fill my chest, if they pour out of my chest
The smell of flowers… It never suits me.

I won't kiss an angel, an angel,
a leaf that trembles on a branch of kisses ...

beautiful

On a dark night, looking at the blue,
I ask you the brightest star.
Star was startled and bowed her head.
He says: "I see him in my dreams.
I see such beautiful things in my dreams,
It is more beautiful than us, more beautiful than the moon!