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Articles and essays are in order of arrival

It is a great honor to start this section of our website with the essay sent to me by Aeronwy Thomas in 2008:


One of her conclusive sentences is the basic principle, the turning point of the art-literary Movement IMMAGINE & POESIA:

"In conclusion, I have to admit that the cross-fertilisation of the different arts: words, illustration and music can work if thought out and executed sensitively".  Aeronwy Thomas


Lidia Chiarelli, President of IMMAGINE & POESIA


Aeronwy Thomas: how to enhance Dylan Thomas' works

Courtesy of Hannah Ellis and Trefor Ellis 





            Music has been much used in Shakespeare’s works so why not Dylan Thomas’?

             I will try to make an incomplete but impassioned case why music and poetry including poetic prose as used in my father’s play for voices, Under Milk Wood, can well do without the addition of music.  My suffering in this regard should prove part of the case.

            Ever since I returned to England in 1970, I have been approached by modern composers to listen to Fern Hill or more obscure poems arranged to music.  My first experience was to be approached by an earnest American graduate who wished to use “If my head hurt a hair’s foot” in an original musical composition, using the words as a loose lyric for the music.  In those early days returning from a long stay in Italy, I must have been somewhat naïve.  I agreed to accompany him to the recording studio where his pre-recorded composition was overlain somehow onto a reading of the poem.  Last minute, I was informed that the reader would be me and requested a moment to look at the poem.  A more obscure poem about a child’s fear of causing his mother pain in birth could not have been chosen from my father’s poems.  For me the meaning was almost impenetrable at such short notice so that I must have read it clearly but without understanding.  This was no problem as the music was dominant and drowned the words effectively.  The young artistic entrepreneur then revealed his plan.  Because I had read the poem no royalties would be expected as a beneficiary.  The reason that poem and a couple more had been chosen for the recording was that it was little known to the general public and therefore doubly immune to the payment of royalties.  In any case, the young man told me, he’d spent his last dollars on the recording and was sleeping on friends’ sofas as a result.  I had a sinking feeling that this sort of situation was going to be inevitable now that I was living in London and not in faraway Sicily or even Rome.  Cheap flights to these destinations were still to happen in the future.

     My foreboding was increased when asked to read “Fern Hill” at a public function for the Welsh Development Corporation.  It would take place at the Hilton and feature clog dancing and harp playing which made me slightly uneasy.  However, the fee of £30.00 was an inducement and I turned up in a long cotton Laura Ashley dress and a copy of Dylan’s Selected Poems.  Immediately before I closed the evening with my reading, a band of merry clog dancers filled the floor and skilfully demonstrated how you can dance in uncomfortable wooden shoes.  I would have to change the mood skilfully  and dreaded being helped by the except the harpist.  I was lucky that time as the harpist topped and tailed by did not over-ride the poem with a tinkling waterfall of background musak.

    That occasion kick started my own poetry performance career and I was asked by any number of different organisations to give a reading of my father’s poems. Included were literary festivals and groups as well as entertainment spots at art galleries or even book launches of biographies about my father.  My constant dread was to be requested (after all the arrangements had been made) would I mind a quiet musical accompaniment as I read

the poems.  My fear was often justified as three piece flautists or recorders drowned the words.  By the end, I had to ask that the musical interludes were just that… a musical item between not during poems.  Nowadays, unless it is a reading abroad with translations so that Fern Hill can take 10 minutes to read with its translation, I insist the music is kept to three slots: beginning, interval and end.

     Under Milk Wood, a play to be heard – but mostly seen, integrates songs into the text with words by my father and music by his friend, Swansea composer Dan Jones. These seem to work very well and give a little break from the richness of the text in so much that the words are song-like in scansion and use simple, often childlike words.  The director Michael Bogdanov was the first to add Welsh folk songs for the glee party mentioned in the play to great effect.  Nearly all the productions I see nowadays include additional music such as the UMW Jazz suite by  Stan Tracey directed by Malcolm Taylor, a veteran of these productions, played as the audience settles itself and during the interval.  These productions I can only recommend but I have also suffered all singing and all dancing(the expression used by one of the performers of Under Milk Wood. On a slightly higher level one hopes, The Welsh National Opera has also approached the literary trustees to sing Under Milk Wood.  I await the outcome. 


     Returning to my experiences abroad, I have now new artistic decisions to make regarding my own poetry.  As a result of teaching creative writing to school children in Turin,

one of the teachers, Lidia Chiarelli Actis (who later became my official translator) introduced me to her husband, a part-time painter, Gianpiero Actis. He was keen to illustrate some of my poems and in this way we have to date had dozens of exhibitions based on Word and Image.

The local civic council became involved and subsidised events in which painters all over Turin were invited to illustrate a surreal poem of mine, The Object.  The response was surprisingly positive with nearly a hundred painters of every imaginative style taking up the invitation. Lidia, herself a poet, has also experimented with a Canadian artist who works over the internet.  I wouldn’t be surprised if music will be part of future collaborations.



     In conclusion, I have to admit that the cross-fertilisation of the different arts: words, illustration and music can work if thought out and executed sensitively. This appears to contradict my initial assertion that music and poetry (and as it happens images) cannot enhance each other.  They can and do as experience has taught me.








Peter Thabit Jones


 Time passes. The district of Greenwich Village, situated below 14th Street and West of Broadway, has mostly become the neighbourhood of those on the upper middle-class rung of the social ladder, including ‘A’ list actors.  However, this thoroughly engaging area of New York City, edged by the Hudson River, still oozes with its sense of cultural, indeed counter-cultural history for more than a century.

          Look beyond the smartening up and the modern commercialization and one is in a place where radical, fresh, vibrant, brave, at times eccentric, movements in literature, art , music, and politics came to life, spreading their alternative experiments and visions across America and the rest of the world. One is in a place where the likes of Walt Whitman, Robert Louis Stevenson, Salvador Dali, and Robert Lowell lived, and where Billie Holiday, Lead Belly, Jimi Hendrix, and Bob Dylan kick-started their careers. It became the nest of the leaders of the Beats revolution.

          With its green heart of Washington Square Park, this is also the place that became the necessary retreat for Dylan Thomas, a place where he could be himself when not being the self-described ‘voice on wheels’ in venues form New York to California on those American tours from 1950 to 1953.  He went to ‘the Village’ to be at ease in the bars and restaurants, but it was a place buzzing with creativity in the 1950s. It was a world away from small-time, slowed-down Laugharne, indeed a Britain coming out of the shadow of the rationing of foods and products. It was a world away from an impoverished lifestyle with Caitlin and the children, a world away from his writing shed where he would wait as patient as a heron for an appropriate word.

          He went to America as a matured man, who had been horrified by the Second World War, the Blitz on London and Swansea, and aware of mankind’s descent to the evils of the Holocaust.  He had worked on propaganda films, which expanded his writer’s vision, and he was aiming for more clarity in his serious work, the poems and prose.  He arrived in an America that was young and optimistically ambitious, a country that would ascend within several decades to an empirical status, its political and cultural influences impacting on most parts of the globe. The friends he made, who were working in all areas of the arts, were the sons and daughters of this confident new world. They included those living in Greenwich Village, such as sculptor David Slivka, and his then wife Rose, an art critic; Oscar Williams, poet and anthologist and his poet-wife Gene Derwood; poet E.E. Cummings and his wife, photographer Marion Morehouse.  It was like literary London but on a bigger and more intimidating scale.

          So what was the impact of Greenwich Village, indeed New York with its skyscraper-canyons of carnival-busy days and nights and its rainbow of races ever-present in his mind, on his actual writing?

          One must consider three things when it comes to Dylan Thomas’ creative output and America.  Firstly, the internal and constant battle of performer versus poet on those demanding tours; secondly, what he did produce and hoped to produce; and, thirdly, what would have been produced had he lived beyond his thirty-nine years.

          Caitlin’s eventual dislike of his ‘escapes’ to America, to avoid the focused and solitary life of writing, are well documented.  In a letter to Madame Caetani, a wealthy woman who sponsored the Rome-based magazine Botteghe Oscure, written a year before he died, he admitted that in America he could only play a poet and not make poetry.

          Also, he told many friends and correspondents he was unable to get on with the business of writing even when back in Laugharne.  He did complete ‘Poem on His Birthday’ prior to his 1952 trip to America. In fact, New Directions brought out a slim publication of six new poems written since 1946 for that tour. As late as February 1953, he was confessing to some to only being able to just about complete ‘Author’s Prologue’, the poetic preface for his Collected Poems.

          So what were his actual writings connected with Greenwich Village? It is only in his letter-writing, to his parents and to Caitlin, that we get a tantalising whiff at what he could have written had he wished to do so. His American writings, therefore, are mainly down to his finalising of Under Milk Wood  toward a completed version, though he did work on it back in Laugharne for its New York premiere, and a brief prose-piece for entitled ‘A Visit to America’.

          The prose-piece, broadcast on the BBC Welsh Home Service in March 1954, is Dylan’s only response to America. It is powered by his usual prose style, a traffic-jam of near-the-knuckle jokes, an alliterative listing of words, and over-the-top comparisons, in fact his individual and mischievous Wonderland of poetic prose.

          Under Milk Wood is not only proof that he could focus on finishing a large work with a deadline when forced, even though he failed to start a commissioned American-Impressions book, but also a signpost to one of the creative roads he would have continued along had he lived. In March 1953 he was promising John Malcolm Brinnin the complete manuscript of his ‘play for voices’ on his arrival on his penultimate tour. It was to be performed at the Kaufmann Auditorium in New York. Dylan worked on it in the Hotel Chelsea, at Brinnin’s apartment in Cambridge, Boston, and in Rollie McKenna’s home in Millbrook, New York. Indeed, he was still making changes to it for what turned out to be his last public performance on his fourth and fateful visit to New York.

         The question often asked is what would have Wales’ most famous poet have written had he not died so young in St. Vincent’s Hospital in New York. The success of Under Milk Wood got Dylan excited about other stage possibilities. After the first presentation, he told E.F. Bozman of J.M. Dent, his publisher, that he would work on another ‘play for voices’, using the same structure.  He told Brinnin of his plan to write a ‘proper-er play’. He even talked of a drama called Two Streets. He even thought of making his published short story ‘The Followers’ into a radio play.

          What if the collaboration with composer Igor Stravinsky had become a reality? Robert Craft, the composer’s amanuensis, was the one who suggested Dylan write the libretto. Dylan met Stravinsky and spoke of a work about a world decimated by an atomic bomb and followed by a Garden of Eden-like beginning.  Also, his powerful and popular readings had made him even more aware of a live audience’s initial need for some sort of clarity.  The ground-breaking recordings launched by Caedmon Records could have opened up writing possibilities for that medium.  There are his friendships with some of the most original and innovative American poets of the time. He suggested to Theodore Roethke in a letter in 1953 that they could learn from each other as poets. It is possible he discussed  how one could stretch the rubber band of poetry with Greenwich Village-based, Phillipines-born poet Josè Garcia Villa, who was drawn by Caitlin Thomas, and who was renowned for his eccentric and excessive use of commas in his poems.

          Dylan Thomas was, of course, the superb master of the Houdini approach to achieving freedom within the strait-jacket of his self-made forms. One can only wonder where his obsession with sound-texturing, his craftsman’s need to sing within the chains of his own making, on full display in the prose of Under Milk Wood as well as his final and unfinished poem ‘Elegy’, would have taken him.  What writings that would have come from his ‘memory bank’ widened and deepened by his experiences in America?  Would he have offered the world poems confronting where mankind was after two World Wars, the Holocaust, growing technology, and – as poet who believed the country is holy - issues such as the damage to the environment?

          He had already shown in the poems about the Blitz that he could explore topical issues.  One can only imagine how he would have used his unique skills in pushing his kind of stage dramas, writing for television, and writing film scripts.  

         I have sometimes wondered if John Lennon and Paul McCartney, fans of Dylan Thomas, would have considered him as a possible scriptwriter for the 1964 Beatles’ film A Hard Day’s Night. Dylan would have been forty years of age. In fact, it was scripted by Welshman Alun Owen.

          Time passes. The name of Dylan Thomas will forever be connected with Greenwich Village in New York. We should continue to cherish the writings we do have from one of the greatest lyrical poets of the twentieth-century. His unique works still have much to offer in our unfolding and complex ‘global village’.


© 2021 Peter Thabit Jones



Peter Thabit Jones has authored fourteen books. He has participated in festivals and conferences in America and Europe and is an annual writer-in-residence in Big Sur, California. A recipient of many awards, including the Eric Gregory Award for Poetry (The Society of Authors, London), the Homer: European Medal of Poetry and Art, and the Cross-Cultural Communications Literary Arts Award, two of his dramas for the stage have premiered in America. His opera libretti for Luxembourg composer Albena Petrovic Vratchanska have premiered at the Philarmonie Luxembourg, the National Opera House Stara Zagora, Bulgaria, and the Theatre National Du Luxembourg. Further information from


John Goodby (UK): ‘Thrown back on the cutting floor’: Dylan Thomas and film

‘Thrown back on the cutting floor’: Dylan Thomas and film by John Goodby
Thrown back on the cutting floor - DT es
Documento Adobe Acrobat 238.3 KB

John Goodby (UK) is a poet, academic, translator and editor, and is currently Professor of Arts and Culture at Sheffield Hallam University. He is the editor of the annotated centenary edition of the Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas (2014) and - with Adrian Osbourne - The Fifth Notebook of Dylan Thomas: Annotated Manuscript Edition (2020), and author of The Poetry of Dylan Thomas: Under the Spelling Wall (2013) and Discovering Dylan Thomas: A Companion to the Collected Poems and Notebook Poems (2017). His most recent poetry collection is The Ars (Red Ceilings, 2020), and he is the co-editor, with Lyndon Davies, of The Edge of Necessary: An Anthology of Welsh Innovative Poetry 1966-2018 (Aquifer / Boiled String 2018).

Francisco Véjar (chile): Dylan Thomas - Un galés sin precedentes

Dylan Thomas

                                 Un galés sin precedentes


En torno a Dylan Thomas se ha tejido una leyenda. Para muchos fue el arquitecto del poeta maldito. Su existencia osciló entre el hechizo del amor y la muerte, en cuya contraposición encontró los motivos principales de su trabajo poético. Nació el 27 de octubre de 1914, en Swansea, Gales. Siendo muy niño supo de las leyendas populares del Gales más remoto y mítico, donde los valores rurales aún conservaban su impronta. Ese legado que recibiera de sus padres fue la piedra angular de prácticamente toda su obra. En Bajo el bosque de leche, volumen autobiográfico -presentado por primera vez el 14 de mayo de 1953 en Nueva York-, describe la vida de una pequeña aldea al borde del mar, en donde aparecen el predicador, el cartero, los pescadores y, mezclados al tañido de las campanas, los rumores del viento, el mar y la lluvia.

Sin ir más lejos, esta constante se observa en el libro de poesía Muertes y Entradas (1946). Allí publica su poema "Fern Hill", donde nuevamente evoca el paisaje natal en un fragmento: "Cuando era joven y desenvuelto bajo las ramas de los manzanos(...), el tiempo me dejaba dar gritos y trepar / dorado en el momento culminante de sus ojos, / y respetado entre las carretas era príncipe de las ciudades manzaneras".

En una carta a Edith Sitwel, Dylan afirma haber escrito "Fern Hill" cerca de la granja donde transcurre el poema y que suponía para él "una nueva dicha, tan real como lo que hace que las palabras acudan, finalmente, desde esa infancia que nunca ha de ser enterrada, vivida en el cielo o en Gales".

Cabe recordar que el debut literario de Dylan Thomas se remonta a 1934. En septiembre de ese año, el periódico inglés "The Sunday Referee" y la librería The Parton Bookshop publicaron Dieciocho Poemas, cuya tirada inicial fue de doscientos cincuenta ejemplares. El 9 de febrero de 1935, Desmond Hawkins dijo acerca de esta obra: "Un crítico debe reseñar unos quinientos libros durante una década. Con suerte, durante ese período, tal vez descubra diez poetas notables (...) El señor Auden es ya un hito. Pues bien: opino que Dylan Thomas es el primer poeta notable que rompe su línea y posee una voz propia, sin excluir nada de cuanto le ha precedido".

Fue un trabajador incansable. Se desempeñó como reportero e hizo alocuciones para la BBC de Gales a fines de los 30. El primer texto que expuso fue "La vida del poeta moderno", en el cual se encuentran las claves de su postura acerca del intelectual en la sociedad contemporánea. También hizo guiones para el cine. Amaba todo lo que las palabras representan, simbolizan o quieren decir. En el verano de 1951, Dylan Thomas, estando en Nueva York, recordó de aquella búsqueda literaria: "Por entonces escribí infinitas imitaciones, aunque no las consideraba imitaciones sino más bien cosas maravillosamente originales, como huevos puestos por tigres". Y cita: Sir Thomas Browne, De Quincey, las Baladas, Blake, los imaginistas, la Biblia, Poe, Keats y Shakespeare. "Un conjunto variado y que recuerdo al azar", puntualiza.

Anteriormente había publicado Veinticinco poemas (1936) y Retrato del artista cachorro (1940). Este último es una serie de narraciones que describen la infancia y adolescencia del poeta. En una de las aventuras descritas en el cuento "Los duraznos", Thomas y su tío Jim llegan a los bares La Pata de Liebre y La Gota Pura. Entraron al segundo y lo hallaron repleto de gente; era un cuarto lleno de humo, en el cual algunos jugaban a las cartas, otros bebían en silencio. También escribió sobre la granja, el paisaje y los seres extraños, como su primo Gwyliam, que predicaba desde un galpón en ruinas.

A Dylan le tocó la época de los poetas nacidos antes o poco después de la Primera Guerra Mundial. "Ellos se asomaron a la vida -escribe el traductor y ensayista Esteban Pujals- en el momento en que se derrumbaban los valores por los cuales se había luchado y aparecían por todas partes los signos de una inestabilidad general. (...) Ante sus ojos no se abrían otras perspectivas que las proyectadas por la rigurosa crítica del hombre y la cultura modernas, según Eliot, o la realista aceptación del materialismo, de acuerdo con Auden". Por lo mismo su obra estuvo exenta de temas sociales, haciendo de su herencia cultural y moral la entidad de sus escritos. El mismo Dylan llegó a decir: "Un poeta no puede ser fiel al partido y a la poesía al mismo tiempo; un poeta debe sufrir, e históricamente está demostrado que la poesía es el único credo social y económico que perdura".


Viaje a Estados Unidos


El inicio de la década del cincuenta fue decisivo en la vida de Dylan Thomas. El Centro Poético de la YMYWWHA de Nueva York le extendió una invitación a los Estados Unidos para dar recitales en distintas universidades del país. El escritor norteamericano John Malcolm Brinnin se encargó de la organización de su itinerario. De dicho viaje surge la leyenda del dipsómano, excéntrico y genio que derrochaba el talento en los bares del Greenwich Village. En las giras deleitó al público recitando poemas de Thomas Hardy, Yeats, Louis MacNeice, Edith Sitwell, entre otros. En sus lecturas le gustaba incluir a poetas ingleses y después leer sus propias creaciones. Poemas como "Y la muerte no tendrá dominio", cuya grabación aún hoy se puede oír, impresionaba por su intensidad: "Y la muerte no tendrá dominio / Desnudos los muertos se habrán confundido / con el hombre del viento y la luna poniente; / cuando sus huesos estén roídos y sean polvos los limpios, / tendrán estrellas a sus codos y a sus pies; / aunque se vuelvan locos serán cuerdos, / aunque se hundan en el mar saldrán de nuevo, / aunque los amantes se pierdan quedará el amor; / y la muerte no tendrá dominio". El poeta se revelaba contra la agonía de la luz.

Malcolm Brinnin, quien en definitiva fue su amigo, recuerda la llegada del poeta a Norteamérica en su libro Yo conocí a Dylan Thomas (1959), donde sostiene: "Envuelto al igual que un inmigrante en una deforme parka de lana, el cabello revuelto como un nido sin pájaros, los ojos desorbitados, temerosos, como si quisieran descubrir de golpe toda la tremenda verdad de América, así llegó al aeropuerto de Idlewild bajo el frío riguroso de una mañana brillante y escarchada. La fecha, el 21 de febrero de 1950". En las cuatro visitas sucesivas a Estados Unidos, Dylan Thomas estuvo con personalidades notables del ambiente artístico de la época. Igor Stravinsky, quien profesaba gran admiración por su obra, lo invitó a trabajar en la composición de un libreto para una ópera, proyecto que no se realizó por la muerte prematura de Dylan. Por su parte, el poeta norteamericano E.E. Cummings, después de asistir a uno de sus recitales, sintió tal emoción que tuvo que caminar varias horas por las calles de Nueva York. Fue admirado por personas de todas las edades, quienes le pedían autógrafos y les gustaba departir con él en la White Horse Taver, donde hacía gala de su inteligencia y además se destruía de manera descomunal. Él mismo confesaba serios problemas hepáticos.

En la madrugada del 4 de noviembre de 1953, al terminar su cuarta gira por Estados Unidos, Thomas, sintiéndose mal de salud, salió del hotel donde se hospedaba junto a Liz -amiga que lo acompañaba en esos días-, y le dijo que sólo necesitaba beberse un trago en el White Horse, que no demoraría más de una hora, pero al volver le anunció lacónicamente: "Acabo de beberme dieciocho whiskies puros. Creo que es el récord". Cae entonces de rodillas, extiende los brazos y se apoya en sus faldas diciendo: "Te amo..., pero estoy solo". Luego fue víctima de un delirium tremens, producto del cual entró en estado de coma que fue definitivo. Murió en el St. Vicent's Hospital, el día 9 de noviembre, a las 12:40 horas, en presencia del poeta norteamericano John Berryman. Caitlin, su mujer, con quien tuvo tres hijos, regresó su cuerpo sin vida a Gales, donde fue enterrado en Laugharne, el 24 de noviembre de ese mismo año, dejando inconcluso su volumen de prosas, que se publicara póstumamente, titulado Con distinta piel (1954). Este libro, como todos los otros que creara, está liberado de derechos y podrá ser impreso por cualquier editorial del mundo. Tal vez ahora Dylan Thomas pueda ser leído como él quería: por amantes desinteresados. No por nada a ellos les dedicó su poema "En mi oficio u hosco arte", donde dice: "Trabajo a la luz cantora / no por ambición ni pan / lucimientos o simpatías / en los escenarios de marfil / sino por el común salario / de su recóndito corazón".




                                                     Francisco Véjar


Publicado anteriormente en






Francisco Véjar nació en Viña del Mar, en 1967. Es poeta, crítico, antólogo y ensayista chileno. Incluido en diversas antologías, tanto en Chile como en el extranjero, sus textos han sido traducidos al inglés, italiano, portugués, croata, y catalán. En 2006 la revista Poesía, dirigida por Nicola Crocetti en Milán, Italia, abordó su trabajo poético, desde Fluvial (1988) en adelante. La exégesis y traducción fueron hechas por Cristina Sparagana. Es así como ha publicado los siguientes libros de poemas: Música para un álbum personal (1992), Canciones imposibles (1998), País Insomnio (2000) y El Emboscado (2003).  En 2008, publica La fiesta y la ceniza, Editorial Universitaria, Colección: El Poliedro y el Mar. En tanto, el 2009, da a conocer su libro de crónicas Los Inesperados, donde da cuenta de la vida y obra de Nicanor Parra, Jorge Teillier, Raúl Ruiz, Efraín Barquero, Pedro Lastra y Claudio Giaconi. En 2015, es seleccionado en la antología GIOVANI POESIA LATINOAMERICANA, traducida por el poeta italiano, Gianni Darconza (Raffaelli Editores, Roma, Italia).  Un año más tarde, publica en España, Cicatrices y Estrellas (Huerga & Fierro Editores). Y en 2019, publica la antología “Poemas de la realidad secreta”, en la Editorial Visor, con selección y prólogo de su autoría. En la actualidad, es crítico de poesía de la Revista de Libros del diario El Mercurio.

MASSIMO TROMBI (ITALY): Requiem per dylan thomas. una poesia ritrovata




Pochi sanno che Luigi Berti, poeta e primo traduttore italiano di Dylan Thomas e di Elliot, compose una poesia dedicata al nostro poeta gallese. L’amicizia nata tra i due nell’estate di quel luglio del 1947 portò Dylan all’Isola d’Elba (fu a Rio Marina che concluse “In country sleep”) e si cementò nelle giornate trascorse assieme visitando in barca le spiagge vergini dell’isola e continuando a bere a dismisura. Dylan chiedeva a Luigi Berti informazioni sulla storia elbana ma era ammaliato dall’austerità di Rio Marina che gli ricordava la Cahersiveen irlandese. Il fatto che fosse un paese di minatori  e operai come Swansea lo metteva a proprio agio. “In country sleep” la trascrisse sul quaderno di scuola di Lapo, figlio di Luigi nonché mio caro amico, e la declamò dopo cena in quel 7 agosto del 1947 per omaggiare gli astanti perché l’indomani sarebbe ripartito per tornare a casa. La lettura della poesia di Dylan fu talmente appassionata da commuovere tutti. Erano presenti pescatori e cavatori, gente semplice. Eppure, senza conoscere la lingua ma ascoltando la voce vibrante che usciva dal poeta, tutti vennero attraversati da emozioni profonde fino alle lacrime. Ma sta in questo il potere della poesia: farci sentire la musica e avvertire il sacro. 

Rientrato a Firenze senza un penny per il tramite di Berti Dylan ottenne dal pittore Ottone Rosai un prestito di cinquantamila lire (che il toscano non rivide mai più).  Ecco perché Luigi Berti, appresa la morte dell’amico poeta, volle scrivere 


“Requiem per Dylan Thomas”


Son lieto che nel giorno in cui raccomandasti

d’esser aquile, abbia riconosciuto, Herman Melville, 

che il vino non sviluppa un calore volgare,

che non nutre basse passioni, ma che alla sua influenza 

il tuo cuore sempre aperto s’apriva più grande

e gloriose visioni ti s’alzavano nel cervello

e tutte le costellazioni del firmamento ti nuotavan nell’anima.

Che sarebbe stato se tu avessi bevuto vino elbano?

Fra i limoni avresti seguito la voce dell’estate

e il passo dei lupi fra le nuvole bianche?

e nelle profondità dell’acqua più antica di quella che solcasti

nel Sud d’un favoloso mondo sconosciuto, qual seme 

sarebbe cresciuto da queste strade d’ombre e pesci?


Tu, invece, o Pablo Neruda, stabiliste lo statuto del vino

su regioni ove la porpora scende come pioggia.

Prima dell’alba riconoscesti la distanza delle spume e le radici 

dei mari del Cile, il cuore  magellanico, l’oceano verde 

alle sue origini. Poi i canti ciechi degli uomini del vino 

che alle pareti dell’anima battono la bara con un osso d’uccello.

Nemmeno tu hai salito le gradinate del vino elbano,

nell’angoscia del tempo e dell’ignoto ormai decifrato

tutt’e due non vi siete afferrati alla purezza di queste estati, 

ai venti che fioriscono il giacinto, alle selve ove gli astri 

si ubriacano di polline, alle fonti meridiane, su ogni zolla 

di fiori gialli ove camminano le voci dei guerrieri astati,

al piede dei Castelli d’Agave erti fra gerani e pesci,  

fra miniere scarlatte e torri diroccate: 

all’eternità del vino che bevvero gli Dei, o Dylan.


Tu qui, dal bicchiere da aleatico t’avvolgevi —

d’un sulfureo vortice di petali. Anche le piume 

dei pesci nell’oscure cattedrali del mare 

ti cingevano del morbido carbone rosso dell’ematite.

Che ne dicesti? Ti dettavano gli scarlatti corpi —

degli Etruschi che appena si scavava in una vigna 

scaturivano come spume segrete di ferro arrostito 

e residui d’argilla più del ferro dura, sui sentieri 

ove passavi e con te i corpi terribili cinti 

di stoffe leggere e i piedi avvolti di rafia, 

ti sussurravano sulla rena il “morendo” delle stelle

e delle conchiglie e le pietre fosforiche e le reti 

che avvolgevano il cielo, la terra e l’acqua, la dolcezza 

e il dolore, le correnti e l’ombre speciali che lottavano 

con l’azzurro, quando l’azzurro dava fondo al continente 

oscuro della pioggia il tuo cuore come tizzone 

sorto dalle ceneri cilestri del mare s’alzava 

a prendere il posto del sole.


E ora sei in un mare ignoto nelle silenti latitudini 

d’una radianza, ma non sappiamo se la tua corrente ci porterà

l’eredità della vita estinta o della forma metallica. 

La neve dell’immensità dello spazio e del tempo ormai 

ti singhiozza nella voce. Il color rosa dell’anima basterà 

a sorridere al capitano australe ch’era in te 

fra le ceneri dei cuori che t’amarono? Lauri e luci ti pendono

sul capo, città di fiamma, gonfaloni, bandiere, eserciti rossi e azzurri,

mari, vele, umori dorati di peschi e fichi, libri e sangue, ombre 

di donne silvestri, musica che vola per i campi ove 

la tua struttura vulcanica arse sulle alture e nelle lande 

ove ancora si dirama la vita, su tutto il rumore della terra elbana

ove si può bere una coppa di sangue come vino in una campana

rovesciata. Con il battaglio  sterminammo le pampas delle nevi,

sfondammo le porte dei giorni e con la voce del cielo chiamammo 

la chiarità della speranza. Ma ora chi ci risponderà? 

Le luci che non vedi, le vie su cui non passi, le pietre rosse, la casa

sul mare di Rio, L’anima appoggiata al davanzale e il vino fragrante 

nel boccale per te, la nobile fronte e il grande albero 

della vita appeso a tutte le finestre,

le ginestre che discutono col vento…


Se hai trovato la nave che recava i globi dei cocomeri

e il ronzio della vespa sul seme nero al fuoco 

dell’acetilene, s’è fatto piccolo il mondo e sul petto 

degli scogli son gocciate foglie di nepitella e squame di delfini. 

Ma i nodi del dubbio stringono alle voci e sulle rade 

tutte le attese ci hanno portato allo sciabordar della risacca. 

Siamo legati alla terra con muri rivolti al mare e piedi 

impazienti si posano dov’era veloce il battito della nostra nuotata.

Perché tu possa baciare altri orizzonti ove il vento 

spumeggia non è vano rotar con il cieco raggio 

della stella marina. Più dolce del fondale verde, l’alga 

arriva ai fuochi della notte e il platano riese 

al nostro letto minerale…


Sei al centro con me il ragno e i fili sono gli stessi 

dove ci sono lune, palizzate, donne,

sui triangoli dei promontori, tra le foglie, ove gli anni 

s’arrampicano sulle pietre e i Castelli d’Agave e i fumi, 

in belle gabbie azzurre, vogano nel cielo.

Sei al centro del golfo dalla terrazza 

che vortica di grilli a sera e fa da podio, il giorno, 

nell’ore lavate d’oro in cui il solo mare trema, 

muoiono le cicale nella colata di luce 

e azzurro, nelle sale bianche del golfo.

Uomini e donne sono scomparsi nel gran lago, 

ove soltanto monti e piante emergono, non si vedono fuochi.

Tacciono le case assalite dal verde, che corona la bocca del sole.

Volgono le foglie sulle scalinate delle margherite verdi 

e i puledri estivi vi galoppano fra vetri e specchi, 

mentre al greve passo degli asini grigi cadono 

le sillabe negre dell’ombre sotto i pini. 

Senza l’angelo dei sogni, senza un’eterna perdita 

di ceneri celesti, che rimarrebbe? Un domicilio d’ali  e d’occhi 

senza sguardo, di confusi territori privi delle rive del cuore.

Eppure ancora opachi zoccoli pazientemente aspettano 

ai crocicchi che i corridoi del ragno macìnino distanze, 

vite di sangue s’attardano fra le stelle della morte, 

voli di giorni e secoli si fermano sui litorali 

ed onde lunari vaste come i pini che s’aprono nella solitudine, 

fra le mani notturne che ti cercano all’alba ove nascono le spugne.


Questa è la terra che ti curva gli occhi, che ti presta 

le piante e le salite e poi l’ombra e la luce, i frutti, 

la fervida chiarezza d’un linguaggio ove i larghi cappelli 

di paglia inondano i tuoi sonni. Immagina le silici sul cielo 

e il vino rubino nella botte che singhiozza e il fischio 

di Duccio fra le lecce: statuetta di rame nei fumi della sera. 

Chi ti dirà delle brezze che mordono i gigli sulla rena? 

Degli avori taciturni che muovono la notte? del colore del silenzio?

dell’odore della polvere? del tifone che cova nell’attesa?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Questa è la lettera che ti scrivo dalle caverne 

delle api d’oro che porti nella capigliatura, nella sera 

piena d’ali e di radici rosa. Non ho conosciuto 

altr’ore che corrono più labili di queste,

mai più fraterne ceneri ci avvolsero nei vini azzurri 

e seppero di più tenere il canto.


Luigi Berti 




articolo di Massimo Trombi

Massimo Trombi (Torino, Italia), libraio, cultore di poesia.

Studioso del periodo italiano di Dylan Thomas

Khosiyat Rustam, Uzbekistan: For dylan thomas day

We are a nation of poets and writers from all over the world!  No matter where we live, our religion and race, we are a whole nation!  Our land, our sky, our homeland, our home - Literature!  We are nothing without Literature!  At a time when this world is preoccupied with itself, we need to be vigilant, look at the world with a deep gaze, observe life, and leave our word.  It is our duty and responsibility to preserve the words of those who have left the Word to this world, to honor their memories, and to leave them intact for future generations.  We need to raise Dylan Thomas and writers like him like a flag so that the little things of this world don’t get out of hand!  As a Central Asian writer, I consider myself a relative of Thomas.  And I call on the whole world, all my compatriots, to gather in every corner of the universe for the memory of Thomas, to unite in events dedicated to Thomas and to support each other.
 Khosiyat Rustam, Uzbekistan.  
Editor-in-Chief of Kitab Dunyosi newspaper.  
Winner of many international awards.

Khosiyat Rustamova is a modern Uzbek writer, born in the village of Olmos, Namangan region. She is a member of the Writers Union of Uzbekistan and a member of Writers Union of Azerbaijan. Her works have been translated into languages such as Kazakh, Spanish, Russian, English, German, Vietnamese and Assamese.  She has also translated poems by Marina Tsvetaeva, Eugene Eutushenko, Anna Akhmatova, Boris Pasternak,  Ramiz Rovshen, Nigar Refibeyli, Riza Khalil, Neguib Fazil Kisakurak, Khusnu Daglarja and others from Russian ; Turkish and Azerbaijani poems from Russian, Azerbaijani as well as Turkish into Uzbek language. She has been serving as the editor-in-chief of the ‘Kitob Dunyosi’ newspaper since 2015.

Darwin pastorin (Italy): tra le mie cose inutili (PENSANDO A DYLAN THOMAS)




Ho ritrovato, tra le mie cose inutili, in fondo a un cassetto, la tua lettera. L’ultima, se ricordo bene. Un foglio di quaderno a quadretti e quella tua scrittura larga. Mi raccontavi del tuo essere in quel momento, senza un prima, senza un dopo: la stanchezza, la monotonia, i gesti consueti. E la tua voglia di cambiare, di andare via. Di “volare via”, hai scritto. Proprio così.
 (E io ho pensato a quei tuoi canarini nella gabbietta, in quella tua casa di campagna che mi faceva sentire cittadino di una abbagliante, sorprendente terra nuova. “Liberiamoli”, ti ho detto. “Va bene”, mi hai risposto. Li abbiamo visti andare verso il sole: ci sentivamo felici, realizzati, consapevoli. Poi: ho preparato la tavola, mentre tu mi leggevi, da un mensile culturale, una recensione dell’ultimo libro di Richard Ford).
 Ho lasciato a metà la tua lettera. È passata tanto tempo. Sono uscito di casa, la giornata era grigia, ma non prometteva pioggia. Ho preso a camminare, le mani in tasca. Cercavo di ricordare un particolare del tuo volto. Gli occhi, ecco. Di un verde di fiume. Il colore del nostro fiume, quando arriva, danzando, primavera. Era strano ricercarti tra i miei passi, le vetrine, l’andirivieni delle nuvole, il lento sferragliare dei tram. Era strano dimenticarti di nuovo, in quel lungo viale. La nostra città sembrava avvolta, in quel punto, di una bellezza antica, crepuscolare. Ho recitato, così, a memoria, qualche verso di Guido Gozzano. E mi sono sentito, d’improvviso, senza una ragione apparente, un fantasma. Tra la tua ombra e il tuo sorriso, tra il mio presente senza domani e la voglia, improvvisa, di ritrovarmi in quel paesino di mare, dove, in una antica libreria, trovammo una prima edizione di Eugenio Montale. Eravamo felici per quella scoperta. I poeti non ci hanno mai deluso. È stata la vita quotidiana ad abbandonarci. Lentamente, inesorabilmente. Chissà dove sono, adesso, quei tuoi canarini.




Darwin Pastorin (San Paolo del Brasile, 1955), è giornalista e scrittore. È stato al Guerin Sportivo, vent'anni a Tuttosport, direttore di Tele+, Stream TV, ai Nuovi Programmi di Sky Sport, di La7 Sport e Quartarete TV. Ha un blog su Huffington Post.

Sherzod Artikov (Uzbekistan):  ENG AHAMIYATLI DAVR

Eng ahamiyatli davr




Odatda jahon adabiyotida o‘chmas iz qoldirgan shoirlarni ko‘z oldimga keltirsam, ularning aksariyati yosh, navqiron, ayni kuchga to‘lgan holda qarshimda gavdalanishadi. Misol uchun Pushkinni olcak, Aleksandr Sergeevich jingalak sochlariga oq tushmagan, bakenbardlari silliq taroshlangan, tomirlarida jo‘shgan badaviy ajdodlariga xos bo‘lgan ehtiros ko‘zlarida zohir bo‘lgan, orzularga yuragi limmo-lim to‘lgan; Lord Bayron  tashrif qog‘oziga aylangan buyuk tushkunligi bilan navqironligi uyg‘unlashgan holda, oqsoq oyog‘ini sezdirmay, qaddini alp tutib, nigohidagi kishilik jamiyatiga nisbatan so‘nmagan ulkan nafratni yashirishni o‘ziga ep ko‘rmay, uni atrofga maydalab sochib tashlayotgan va murosa nimaligini bilmagan yuragidagi qahr alangasi osmon qadar cho‘zilgan; Lermontov harbiy kiyim o‘ziga munosib yarashgan, chiroyli mo‘ylabi va sochi silliq taralgan, adabiyotga oshufta ko‘ngli nigohidagi ma’yuslik bilan uyg‘unlashgan; Yesenin nafasi qaytayotgan yoshlikni tanasiga sig‘dirolmay, quvnoq kayfiyatda odamlarga tabassum ulashayotgan,  Moskva ko‘chalari va qovoqxonalarida she’r o‘qiyotgan, oq qayin daraxtiga suyanib xayolga cho‘mgan alfozda namoyon bo‘lishadi.

Qanchalik uzoq mulohaza qilmay, ularni keksa odamlarga xos bo‘lgan ko‘rinishda- aytaylik sochlari butunlay oqargan yoki to‘kilgan, tanalari to‘lishgan yoki et olgan, kuchdan qolib hassaga tayangan yoki shalviragan qo‘llaridan tutib, kimdir yetaklab yurgan holatda ko‘rmayman. Istasam-da ko‘rmayman. Hech qachon bunday bo‘lmaydi. Tasavvurimni alday olmayman.

Tasavvurim Tomas Dilan borasida ham shunday. Tomas Dilan- ingliz shoiri. 1914 yilda Uellsning dengiz bo‘yida joylashgan Suonsi shahrida tug‘ilgan. “O‘n sakkizta she’r” , “Yigirma beshta she’r”, “Muhabbat xaritasi”, “O‘limlar va yechimlar” kabi she’riy kitoblar muallifi. U ham yuqoridagi shoirlar kabi qirq yoshgacha ham yashamagan hayotda. O‘ttiz to‘qqiz yoshida Nyu-Yorkda olamdan o‘tgan. Bor yo‘g‘i o‘ttiz to‘qqiz yil umr ko‘rgan. Xuddi polyak bastakori Shopen kabi.

Ijodkor qancha yashamasin, hayoti davomida faqat birgina eng ahamiyatli davrni boshidan kechiradi. U o‘ttiz yil yashaydimi yoki sakson yilmi-farqi yo‘q buni. Hayoti davomida shaxs sifatida o‘ziga va ijodiga jiddiy ta’sir ko‘rsatgan bitta davri bo‘ladi. Shu davr uni shaxs va ijodkor sifatida o‘sishini ta’minlaydi va uni keyingi butun faoliyatini belgilab beradi. Bu davr bir necha yilnigina emas bir necha oyni ham tashkil qilishi mumkin. Bu yerda muddat rol o‘ynamaydi. Shunchaki oraliq, davr bo‘ladi-tamom.

Misol uchun Pushkinning hayotidagi eng ahamiyatli davr uni Kavkazga surgun qilinish bo‘lgan. U o‘sha yerdagi fusunkor tabiat manzaralari va mo‘tadil iqlim qo‘ynida o‘zining yirik asarlari uchun energiya va quvvat manbaini topgan. U tabiat bilan hamnafaslikda metin irodasini shakllantirgan, ijodkor sifatida balog‘atga yetib, yangi darajaga chiqqan. Bu esa keyinchalik  “Yevgeniy Onegin” kabi she’riy romanini tugatishiga va bir qancha nasriy asarlarini yozishiga turtki bergan.

Lord Bayron uchun eng ahamiyatli davr uni Yunonistondagi faoliyati bo‘lgan. U bir umr ona zamini yoki Venetsiya kabi Ovro‘poning go‘zal maskanlaridan topa olmagan rohat-farog‘atni va ko‘pchilik anglamay bu dunyodan o‘tib ketadigan narsa-yashashdan maqsadi nima ekanligini o‘zi tillarini ham bilmaydigan yunonlarga qo‘shilib erk uchun kurashishdan topgan. U ijodkor sifatida ham, inson sifatida ham aynan qadimiy Ellada zaminida yuqori bosqichga ko‘tarilgan.

Lermontov hayotidagi bunday davr 1837 yili Pushkinning duelda otib o‘ldirilishi bo‘lgan. Nazarimda shunday. Shu paytgacha jamiyat hayotiga faol aralashmagan, xilvatni xushlagan, kazarmalarda siqilib, imkon topildi deguncha tabiat tomon yugurgan shoir shundan so‘ng o‘z she’rlari bilan jamiyatning bir qismiga va katta ovoziga aylangan. Qalamiga mansub “Shoirning o‘limi” she’ri marionetka jamiyat va undagi munofiq, razil, pastkash kishilarga qarata yozilgan qoralov bildirishnomasi bo‘lgan. Hayotidagi bu davr keyinchalik “Zamonamiz qahramoni” asarini yaratilishini ta’minlagan.

Yesenin Aysedora Dunkanga uylanishi ortidan o‘zi uchun eng ahamiyatli davr ostonasiga qadam qo‘ygan. O‘zidan o‘n besh yosh katta bo‘lgan ancha zehnli va zukko, farosatli va bilimli raqqosa ayol shoirning dunyoqarashi va turmush tarziga o‘tkir ta’sir o‘tkazishidan tashqari uni Yevropa va Amerika bo‘ylab katta sayohatga olib ketgan. Buning natijasida Yesenin ijodida yangilanish kuzatilgan, boshqa mentalitet va madaniyatlar bilan yaqindan tanishish, tili va dini boshqa bo‘lgan odamlar bilan kundalik muloqotlarga kirishish uning keyingi she’rlariga sermulohazalik va gumanizmni yangi qirralarini singdirgan. Shundan so‘ng ular birin-ketin rang-barang mavzularda yozilishni boshlagan. Bu yerda birgina “Fors taronalari”ni eslash kifoya.

Tomas Dilan uchun eng ahamiyatli davr bo‘lganmi? Shunday haqli savol tug‘iladi. Menimcha, bo‘lgan. Ikkinchi jahon urushi uning uchun shunday davr toifasiga kiradi. U Suonsi kabi kichik shaharda, tabiatga oshno bo‘lib, xayollar va orzularga cho‘mib, yoshlikning qaynoq quchog‘ida mumdek erib, lirik she’rlar va qisqa hikoyalar bitib yurgan, hayot tarovatidan tom ma’noda bahra olib umr kechirayotgan paytida nogahon urush boshlangani va bu urushga Uinston Cherchill boshchiligidagi Britaniya ham qo‘shilgani uni zudlik bilan harbiy safarbarlikka labbay deb borishiga sabab bo‘ladi. Britaniya ham AQSH bilan birgalikda boshqa davlatlarni o‘z domiga tortgan Ikkinchi jahon urushiga qo‘shiladi. Gitler boshchiligidagi fashistlar yuzaga keltirgan global xaosni jim kuzatib turishdan ma’no yo‘qligini, bu xaos oxir-oqibat ularni ham o‘ziga yuzaga keltirgan po‘rtanada qurbon qilishini Cherchill ham, Ruzvelt ham tushunishadi. Shu tariqa Britaniya zaminida ham urush yillari boshlanadi va ommaviy tarzda boshlangan safarbarlik xalqning turmush tarzini parokanda qilib, izdan chiqarib yuboradi.

Dilanda sog‘lig‘i bilan bog‘liq kichik muammo yuzaga kelgani bois harbiy komissariat tomonidan uni urushda qatnashishga yaroqsiz deb topilishi shoirni bir muddat tushkunlikka tushirib qo‘yadi. Qanday tushkunlikka tushmasin, axir. Erkak kishi uchun bu -malomat, ko‘nikishi qiyin bo‘lgan sinov-ku. Xuddi shunday. Har bir erkak ruhiyatiga bu salbiy ta’sir ko‘rsatmay qolmaydi. Harbiy xizmatga yollanib, urushga ketish va u yerda haqsizlikka qarshi bosh ko‘tarish  uchun yo‘l bo‘yi o‘z o‘ylari bilan band bo‘lgan, fashistlarga qarshi kurashishni, balki shu yo‘l orqali insoniyatni qutqazishni istagan, keyin esa ehtimol “Qutqazilgan Quddus”ni yozgan ulug‘ italyan shoiri Torkvatto Tasso kabi katta bir doston yozishni ko‘ngliga tukkan yosh yigitga rad etilishi,  yaroqsiz deb  topilishi albatta katta ruhiy zarba bo‘ladi.

U dastlabki lahzalarda bu qarorga ko‘nikolmaydi. Qanday qilib uni rad etishlari mumkin?! O‘zi ixtiyoriy ketishni, qo‘liga qurol olib jang qilishni, yuragi yonib kurashishni istab turgan insonni urushga darhol yuborishlari kerak emasmi (qolaversa, bu statistika uchun ham kerak-ku)?! Axir, Remark aytmoqchi “urushda statistika muhim, urushdagi hamma narsa-statistika” emasmi?! Shunday savollarni u go‘yo ochiq osmon ostida tik turganicha har bir olayotgan nafasida o‘ziga beradi. Bir safda turib, navbat bilan ro‘yxatdan o‘tayotgan-ommaviy harbiy safarbarlikka chaqirilgan yosh-u qariga (ko‘proq yosh yigitlarga) nazar solarkan, shu og‘riqli savollar uning ko‘nglidan dam-badam o‘tadi. Hatto, ular birin-ketin yaqinlari bilan quchoqlashib va o‘pishib, quyuq va astoydil xayr-xo‘shlashayotgan paytlarida yoki to‘rva xaltalarini yelkalariga osib, yuk mashinalari bortiga sakrab chiqishayotganlarida o‘zini qandaydir jamiyatdan ajralib, chetga chiqib qolgan kishidek his qiladi. Odamlarning ko‘zlaridan oqib tushayotgan shashqator yosh, bo‘y ko‘rsatgan qo‘rquv, chorasizlik tubida jon berishga tushgan umidsizlik, bo‘sag‘ada homuz tortib turgan ayriliq va hijron kabilarni tanasiga ko‘chirib, o‘zini bu yerda ular bilan birga qolishga haqqi yo‘qdek, urushdan ko‘pi qaytmasligi peshonasiga bitilgan yigitlarga qo‘shilib frontga ketishni azbaroyi istaydi. Yuk mashinalari ortidan halloslab chopgisi, hech bo‘lmaganda yarim yo‘lgacha hayqirib chopib borgisi, ularga qo‘shilib dahshatli frontga ketgisi keladi. Ammo chorasizlikdan joyidan tosh qotadi. Xuddi haykaldek na qo‘llarini, na oyoqlarini qimirlata olmay qoladi.

Shunga qaramay u o‘zini qo‘lga oladi. Shu kundan boshlab urushga tortilgan va fashizm bilan yuzma- yuz kelishi taqdiriga bitilgan vataniga qurol bilan bo‘lmasa-da, loaqal qalami bilan ko‘maklashishni niyat qiladi. Janggohlarda qazilgan okoplarda uyqusizlik va sovuqdan pand yegancha tong ottirib, kuyib kulga aylangan shahar va qishloqlarda qon kechib, dushman pulemyoti va avtomatlaridan yog‘ilgan o‘qlardan badanlari ilma-teshik bo‘lgancha birma-bir dast yiqilib, shafqatsiz tanklar ostida oyoq-qo‘li majag‘lanib, samo uzra turnaqator bo‘lib uchib yurgan aeroplanlar tashlagan bombalar ostida qolish oqibatida tana qismlari parchalanib va ichak-chavoqlari tashqariga otilib, tengqurlari jon berishayotganida u vatanida bu urushni qoralovchi, unga la’nat yog‘dirovchi, uni insoniyatni ayni uzoq kutilgan tamaddun asrida jar yoqasiga boshlab borib, global ma’naviy fojeani keltirib chiqarishini bashorat qiluvchi, shuningdek xalq va odamlarni ruhini ko‘taruvchi, ularni ruhan sinmaslikka va irodani bo‘shashtirmaslikka chaqirib, ertangi  saodatli kunlarga hamda insoniylik tantana qilishiga ishontiruvchi she’rlar bilan maqolalar yozadi.

Shu nomi o‘chgur urush yillarida u barakali ijod qiladi. Undagi shoirona dard insoniy dard bilan muvofiqlashgan tarzda o‘zining yuqori notasida atrofga taraladi. Har kuni frontdan kelayotgan vahimali xabarlar, qora xatlar, umidsizlikka yo‘g‘rilgan yangiliklar uni sindirolmaydi. Aksincha, u mana shular ichida o‘zligini yo‘qotib, irodasi mo‘rtlashayotgan xalqni uyg‘otishga, bir on ham mudramaslikka, oxirgi tomchi qonigacha kurashishga, fashizm ustidan g‘alab qozonish uchun jonini jabborga berishga chaqiradi. Oxiri u she’rlar va maqolalar qolib, tashviqot matnlari ham yozib, yoppasiga tarqatishni boshlaydi. Matnlari aynan xalqni irodasini toblab, uni yengilish haqida o‘ylamasligini ta’minlashga qaratiladi.

Dilan tunlari qovoqxonalarda qo‘shiq xirgoyi qilib, sarmast holda viski ichib, boshqa shinavandalar bilan fikr almashib o‘tirsa-da, kunduzlari ijodidan va tashviqot dasturidan bo‘shamaydi. U ham xuddi Yer yuzi bo‘ylab tarqab ketgan janggohlardagi askarlarga o‘xshab jang qilayotgandek tuyuladi o‘ziga o‘zi. Janggohlarda askarlar dushman askarlari bilan qurol yordamida hayot-mamot jangiga kirishishgan bo‘lsa, u dushman tashviqoti bilan qalam yordamida hayot-mamot jangiga kirishadi.

Xulosa shuki, Ikkinchi Jahon urushining 1943-1945 yillari oralig‘i Dilan hayotidagi eng ahamiyatli davr edi. U bu davrda nafaqat ijodkor, balki inson sifatida ham obdon va to‘laqonli shakllandi. Bu davr nafaqat uni keyingi ijodiy faoliyatini, balki butun ijodiy faoliyatini belgilab beradi, xuddi Pushkin o‘limi Lermontovning yoki Aysedora Dunkanga uylanishi Yesenining butun ijodiy faoliyati negizini tashkil qilib, ularni ham inson, ham ijodkor sifatida yangi bosqichga olib chiqqani kabi.

2021 yil, may

Sherzod Ortiqov



Published in "Nodirabegim", digital literary magazine


Sherzod Artikov was born in 1985 year in Marghilan city of Uzbekistan. He graduated from Ferghana Polytechnic institute in 2005 year. His works are more often published in the republican inside presses. He mainly writes stories and essays. His first book “ The Autumn’s symphony”was published in 2020 year. He is one of the winners of the national literary contest “My Pearl region” in the direction of prose. He was published in such Russian and Ukraine network magazines as “Camerton”, “Topos”, “Autograph”. Besides, his stories were published in the literary magazines and websites of Kazahstan , USA, Serbia, Montenegro, Turkey, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Egypt, Slovenia, Germany, Greece, China, Peru, Saudi Arabia, Mexico, Argentine, Spain, Italy, Bolivia, Costa Rica, Romania and India.