Tashkent Chimes
The sun in Tashkent first falls on the minarets quietly flowing in the wounds
Of the Chichiq river through the voices in the Madrasas
where a woman prays for her daughter’s marriage
The sun in Tashkent then falls on Yulduz’s black belly
as she stretches in the sun her paws carving caravan
routes for silk and cotton to travel from the city of stones to you,
to you, who sit across the valley of Chimgon, Adelong and Beshtor
where you wait for donkeys and camels to bring you silk from the mulberry leaves,
tea, grapes from vineyards, prayer rugs, copper lamps, sheepskin,
and some porcelain hearts to break from Termez.
The sun in Tashkent drapes its golden veil over Hazrah Imam’s pages of Quran,
blue, white mosaic tiles, blood of Uthman, onto Timur’s trembling lips, as he pulls out a sword
where a citadel stands to tell stories of the past, the sun stops
to embrace the boats in Amudarya, gazelles that only look into the horizon,
five bathhouses of Afrasiyab and the Oasis where you wait for me.
The sun moves through the Fergana valley in your grey eyes, where the wind
wanders until it touches the temple of our silhouette, haunting, aching
as the snow and sun all beat at once where uncut grass lay swaying in desire
The sun now slips into salt mines of Namangan as an old woman returns home
with an empty Shokosa singing in Tajik for her grandchildren stories about
precious stones of mihrab, rabad in which there is bazaroiwhich sells everything
from melons to horsemeat that is bustling with men wearing taqiyahs,
women with headscarves and a library where a small boy looks into picture books.
The sun is sleepy now in Hilol’s embroidery silk drapes, the pods of pomegranate,
the winding stairs of Registan where you stopped my heartbeat with your poem
The sun sets on the forehead of woman that touch Abraham’s stone,
on the prayer rug that is folded, Nodiza’s frozen cherries from spring, in the round bread
that all of us break every dinner under the chinor trees, tapchan, samvar
simmering on the table, the cats closing their eyes to poetry in different tongues
The sun dozes at Azam’s doorstep where all our footwear rest after a long day of walking,
blue and white plates wait patiently at the table for samsa to be shared,
lullaby notes from the piano keys flow into the human veins where
God himself is walking in the living room, passing warm bread and bowl of poetry
to all of us to savor and bless those hands that cross the heart in respect, open in prayers,
fold in acceptance as we walked this pilgrimage together holding hands into a land called
Uzbekistan! Uzbekistan! Uzbekistan!
Resham Ramesh,
poet, India
