Having lived in a number of countries and traveled extensively through many years, people often have asked what my favourite place was. This, of course is impossible to answer. Each one has wonderful memories, intermingled with difficult and painful memories. Each place led me to a new depth in discovering myself. Each place has a myriad of emotion attached to them.

Shodieva Street, is in reference to my home in Uzbekistan, where I lived for a number of years. Due to illness I had to fly back to England quite suddenly, and never had the opportunity to return, sell my home, or say goodbye to my friends.

While I certainly lay no claim to being a poet in any fashion, I have found that I enjoy the challenge of putting such memories to words. Like images, they can take me to a distant place and provide a powerful source of recollection. This allows me to relive the good and bad times. It is my hopes that perhaps you can join the journey with me. It has been a wonderful life!

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The mulberry trees lined most of Shodieva Street,
enabling the young and elderly to escape from the aggressive temperature.
May through August was the hottest of times on that street,
and yet the neighbours stood or sat patiently;
patiently insistent on selling their wares to any passerby.

Sometimes on the rare days,
the small concrete canals which bordered each side of the street,
were full of water.
It’s timing was inconsistent and undependable.
Water is so rare during these months,
that I often wondered why the mothers and young girls
would waste it by splashing it onto the pavement.
It was meant to keep Shodieva Street cool,
yet many suffered from dehydration.

With curious objects spread on thin bits of plastic and cloth,
the residents were always ready to make the extra ‘som.’
Normally their merchandise was of no value to any one.
However, on certain days you could find some things
which would catch your eye
and could be classified in the category of rarity.

Kopecks and rubles from former Soviet days,
rusted bird cages,
American bubble gum,
thick eye glasses,
and bright pink egg carriers were just a few of them.

I once saw a pin given to an “exceptional mother”
presented by the Russian government.
For every child they produced, the women received medals of honour
on Women's Day.
The worn scarlet-vermillion dress had sixteen well-deserved medals
carefully pinned on it.
Never have I seen a military officer, returning from war, so decorated.

They didn’t mind if you walked by without purchasing anything.
You were always invited to come
sit beneath the mulberry trees,
among the dark crimson stains, and share their bread and tea.

You were always encouraged to name a price,
even if you had no intention of buying.
For most, this was their only entertainment.

I lived at the end of Shodieva Street.
We had no mulberry trees to keep us cool or sit beneath.
I had nothing to sell, but my soul.
I’m sure it’s still there somewhere,
or laying in the empty dry canal.