The poetry is the voice of the spirit. Only the tender souls can hear them. I think a true poem is a true expression of the soul, the wide impression of the writer’s world. The poetry is such a mysterious gift which differs poets from others. The poetry does not have nationality, It belongs to all nations.
I Wish you every success, my creative friends
Uktamoy more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Uktamoy Khaldorova Poems
The water in the pool is my tears let’s swim, come on winds. The wild and pitiless shamans, Robbed my joys in the darkness.
Life is my long dress Knitted by thousand mistakes.
Rain is a meter
Rain is a meter, Rain is a meter! By years passing The rains of eye tears
A FLOWER TREE
I saw enormous flower trees in India (author) Capricious flowers are making charm To their cheeks hands would not reach. On my breast pressing their breathes
The summer becomes mature like a moonfaced The beautiful daysare born. Putting a fire dress the summer Would heat up the highest.
From the eyes of a sad dove So suffered from loneliness A dropp of tear fell off rolling down, The tear dropp would fall down heavily,
On the wall
*** On the wall there hangs the picture of flowers. The window I open the
Your dreams would not let me to live At nights the missing would scream. The helplessness would break My hopes into pieces one by one.
Flirting and enchanting By thousand ways She came painting her eyes black. It is a charming night.
The fallen leaves
*** The fallen leaves are weeping from sadness A poet -fall is writing, with noises rattling. Its last fragrance the perfume sprinkles,
WITH A FINGER I’D WRITE VERSES
With a finger I’d write verses, Coping down the earth’s pains. The painful picture in my eyes, Can’t be wiped out by bygone days.
*** My missing that has grown green, In a mortar the night is grinding less. Blending deep in the rose flowers
My pillow is an endurance,
*** My pillow is an endurance, My secrets the pillow shares, On it were painted
THE GARDEN A curtain over the garden a night is hanging, Against the flies a mulberry tree is pushing. Against the tree the moon is slowly leaning,
Comments about Uktamoy Khaldorova
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The water in the pool is my tears
let’s swim, come on winds.
The wild and pitiless shamans,
Robbed my joys in the darkness.
Drop your leaves, pine tree,
Making a boat I’d be off to swim.
Bathing in the tears tired I am
To live in tears is to suffer.
The nights tear off their hairs
To Fail the little heart should not.
To worship the land
I must reach that coast,
To reach the coast I must.