We meet. Poet of Uzbekistan. Natalia Beloedova. Встречаем поэта из Узбекистана, Natalia Beloedova.

Natalia Beloedova, Uzbekistan
She is the poet. Since December 2019 member of the Writers' Union of Moscow. Published in the magazines: "Interpoetry" (USA), "Siberian Lights", "Youth", "Volga XXI", "Koster", "Prostokvasha", "Giraffe Light", "Primrose" (Russia), "Star of the East", Novda (Uzbekistan). On the portals: "Textura", "Formaslov", "White Mammoth" (Russia), "Daktil" (Kazakhstan). The collection of poetry is included in the collection "Present Time" (Moscow: Voimega, 2019), published following a meeting of young writers at the Moscow Union of Writers.
Natalia Beloedova, Узбекистан
Поэт. С декабря 2019г. член Союза писателей Москвы. Публиковалась в журналах: «Интерпоэзия» (США), «Сибирские огни», «Юность», «Волга XXI», «Костёр», «Простокваша», «Жирафовый свет», «Первоцвет» (Россия), «Звезда Востока», «Novda» (Узбекистан). На порталах: «Textura», «Формаслов», «Белый Мамонт» (Россия), «Дактиль» (Казахстан). Поэтическая подборка включена в сборник «Настоящее время» (М.: Воймега, 2019), вышедший по итогам совещания молодых писателей при СП Москвы.
* * *
And now they are on the train.
There is vanity and sound all around
which is transmitted
from two sitting opposite each other
girlfriends.
Or from men in railway uniform -
shoulder to shoulder.
Or from a guy in a narrow hat on his head:
eyes are closed, hands repeat movements,
lips - sentences,
long word
sing sing.
And at first it all spins, rings, cracks,
like a train has a wheel
whether it doesn’t matter,
whether it hurts for a long time.
And then it dies down:
and a hum, and a murmur, and a whistle, and a stomp.
And the light is getting brighter
and dust flies across the field.
* * *
This time is completely different
Not like last time
In that
The train is filled with something thick and voluminous
Smells of words, rustling of packages
Under-ear conversations in children's gibberish
A little more than a year old girl runs in the carriage
Muslima Ke
Muslima mana
Musli
Muslimа
Many around in front behind the people
Don't go deep into the book
Do not delve into prose verses
Muslima keee
And the air is so
Like a hot afternoon
Stirred in milk

* Muslima ke (Uzbek) - Muslimа, come here
* Muslima mana (Uzbek) - Muslimа, here
then now all the time

shamanic dances
diamonds
beads
cowrie shells
light is pouring out
roof opening
you can hear how
firewood and fire crackle
flares up
zoro-
astrism
happening around
then
now
constantly


*
Ahura Mazda
great and all-creating
overflowing by the river
radiance
voice
fainting
to Zarathustra
if you were then
when else
will you repeat?

*
sealed impression
with the fact that
once lived
thought about
was killing
was building
was dying
so few
and so many
everything happened
to forget
and again
kill
die
build

* * *
The elevator was changed in the house.
Old doors, paneling, burnt-out buttons are

everywhere.
The floors are like a forgotten dump.

Here's a new one in place. The sides are silvery.
Backlit buttons with music when pressed.

But the elevator is a maddened Tyrannosaurus.
Howls, growls, wriggles,
smashes the floors with its tail
and paws - pounding and pounding.

Day, morning, night, and evening
he rushes down with a roar
and climbs up in the same way.
It seems to me that our house will not stand up soon.
What are the fragile walls -
our concrete walls.
What are the thin doors -
our iron doors.

Yesterday I saw a couple: a man and a woman.
On the first one, they reaped the challenge.
I warned them - the elevator does not work.
He's on the run, it seems.
No, - they say, - what are you talking about.
I hear: the doors slammed.

I wonder what he eats?

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