Beautiful poems of Rahim Karim Karimov


 RAHIM KARIM KARIMOV

 

Rahim Karim (Karimov) - Uzbek-Kyrgyz-Russian Soviet poet, writer, publicist, translator (born 1960, Osh, Kyrgyzstan). Graduate of the Moscow Literary Institute. A.M. Gorky (1986). Member of the National Union of Writers of the Kyrgyz Republic, the Union of Journalists of the Kyrgyz Republic, the official representative of the International Federation of Russian-speaking Writers (London-Budapest) in Kyrgyzstan. Co-chairman of the Literary Council of the Eurasian Peoples' Assembly (Russia). Member of the Writers' Union of Russia. Laureate of the Republican Literary Prizes named after Moldo Niyaz, Egemberdi Ermatov (Kyrgyzstan). Honorary Doctor of Philosophy (Morocco). Laureate of the International Prize Peter Bogdani (Brussels-Pristina). Member of the International Association of Writers (Belgium). Laureate of the Swami Vivekananda International Peace Prize (India).

 

POEMS BY RAHIM KARIM KARIMOV

 

MULBERRY HOUR


I dedicate to the blessed memory of Uncle Tadzhimat Musayev, missing in Uzhgorod during the Great Patriotic War

The word “satiety” only lived in the dictionary:
It was tight – not to the ladle!
Repeated all phrase in January:
“We would live to the time of mulberry!”

It was necessary to live like an eternity,
But before the time, oh, mulberry!
Humanity was threatened
And the gardens were all without a gardener!

We received the whole letter from the front:
“To defend until the time of mulberry!”
Until the time of fruit ripening, but
How many lives give us blood feuds ?!

For the time being, the long-awaited message came
Our mulberry has ripened like sweet honey …
Loss burned us – bitter stress:
Did not return from the war, oh, Tajimat!

Though the mulberry has ripened 65 times,
We all live in hope: I suppose, alive?
We will always be waiting in the bliss of May deers,
We mulberry hour weeping willows!

 

GRAPES OF WAR.


During the pogroms, violence,
The grapes of all the yards flowered.
Flowers fragile as lilies
Embryos of future fruits.

Whether their tanks frightened,
Either ruined their children and stench?
People burned here.
Remains
Left ... Not that grapes!

By the end of the war, clusters and vines
Smeared and sour on the bushes.
Roses cried under them
The legend of this - on the lips!

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