Aaron in Azerbaijan

Just another blog about Azerbaijan.

Posts Tagged ‘Azerbaijani Literature

A Sunday Poem

leave a comment »

This week’s poem is by Vagif Samadoghlu (Vaqif Səmədoğlu), called That Strange and Soft Tune (Sənin səhərdən axşama kimi oxuduğun). Enjoy:

That Strange and Soft Tune

That strange and soft tune
that once you were murmuring all day long
in the language that I didn’t understand,
is still ringing in my ears.
I have learned by heart
the strange words of that nice and inconsolable,
of that distant and desperate song,
and they are still ringing in my ears…
That strange song that once
you were singing all day long
is as far, unhappy and somehow cautious
as my native land.

For the Azeri, read below… Read the rest of this entry »

Advertisements

Written by Aaron

October 23, 2011 at 5:48 am

A Sunday Poem, On Monday

leave a comment »

Travel logistics made Sunday’s poem get pushed back to today. This week, we read a poem by Füzuli, Azerbaijan’s epic poet writing in the 16th century. This is an excerpt from his rendition of Leyla and Majnun (Leyli və Məcnun), describing Leyla:

Among all the girls was one bright as a fairy,
Who aimed all her glances directly at Qays.
So beautiful she, with her ways and her graces,
That many an elder, forgetful of vows,
Might find all his virtue caught up in her curls.
Calamitous chain for the neck was the garland
Of ringleted locks that fell down in a cloud:
Affliction for lovers was spelled by her eyebrows,
As lovely as twins, and, as twins, forming one.
Each eyelash that curved from her lids was an arrow
That pierced to heart and that stirred all the blood:
Her eyes from their shelter poured forth fiery glances
That, piercing the soul, spread the fever of love.
Her brow, like an ocean, far spread and smooth rolling
Like the ocean had many a peril in check.
The black of her eyes shamed collyrium’s darkness
And made it a captive in chains to her mole.
Her cheeks flushing red, paled her rouge to a whiteness,
No rouge ever sullied their delicate blush.
Should her eyes lose their pupils, no blindness would follow,
Her mole would become a black pupil of sight.
Her teeth, pearly white, from between her lips’redness
Gleamed forth as bright pearls in the heart of a rose:
When the doors of her speech were full opened, one fancied
The dead must spring forth from their mouldering tombs.
From her round dimpled chin her neck curved to her bosom;
Her stature and form were creation divine.
The falcon itself, a bird sacred to kingship,
Unhooded, can gaze in the eye of the sun,
But the eyes of this child, with their antelope softness,
Could flash forth a look that the falcon outshone.
Her motion was graceful, her words sugared honey,
No act but had grace, every movement a joy-
But why count her beauties? Put all in a sentence:
The whole world itself, in a passion of terror
Clung fast to her hair, as she went on her way.
Beloved of all the world was this maiden.
Qays looked and he perished, for Leyla her name.
As he with a sorrowful passion of yearning
With sighs fed the fire that her beauty awoke,
So she in a thousand sweet joys lost her reason
For him without whom she knew living was death.
She saw how the world gave its ultimate wonder,
She saw how he held all her world in his hands.

You can find more from Füzuli’s Leyli və Məcnun here at this site about Turkish culture. For even more Azeri poetry, go to Azeri.org’s Poetry page.

Written by Aaron

October 17, 2011 at 12:27 pm

A Sunday Poem

with one comment

This week, a poem by Fikrat Goja (Fikrət Qoca) called An Unfinished Work (Yarımçıq İş):

An Unfinished Work

An unfinished work is
An engaged son or daughter
Without a wedding.
An unfinished work is
An autumn without harvest.
An unfinished work is
A road without a bridge,
A land without a road,
A tongue without a word.
An unfinished work is
A work done without a goal,
A curse without meaning,
A kiss without love.
An unfinished work is
A roof with a ceiling
That leaks,
Brother, in short,
An unfinished work is
A person who is good for nothing.

For the Azerbaijani version, read below… Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Aaron

October 9, 2011 at 5:47 pm

A Sunday Poem

leave a comment »

This week’s poem was written by Samad Vurghun (Səməd Vurğun) and is called Don’t Bend! (Əyilmə!):

Don’t Bend!

O life! At times it’s smirched with mire and dirt,
But see, life’s stage a thousand curtains knows
When you, young man, in difficult times are hurt,
Then bless the manliness which in you grows.

O Time! It may be pitiless, or sad,
And now and it brutally shakes the earth.
If Time intends to annihilate you, my lad,
Go boldly forward, and fight for all you’re worth.

O Boldness! Every moment it must imbue.
Without it, life would perish, that’s my belief.
And you, who’ve come to know my words are true,
As a man, a son of man, control your grief.

Now what I wished to say, I cry aloud:
Aspire to wide horizons, to highest skies!
Don’t think, young man, that life’s a rosy cloud,
And do not bend, no, not in any wise!

For the Azeri, read on… Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Aaron

September 11, 2011 at 12:18 pm

A Sunday Poem

with one comment

This week’s poem is by Vagif Samadoghlu (Vaqif Səmədoğlu), called Heart Full of Words (Ürəyi Sözlə Dolu):

Heart Full of Words

Will my notebook die
as a man his heart full of words?
Or will it tell all what it knows?
Will crows be flying over its corpse?
Or will they be pigeons?
Who’ll remember which of these
thousands of words?
Will this last page of my notebook
be closed tonight forever?
Or will it be opened tomorrow again?
If it’ll be opened tomorrow,
Then who’ll do it?
My nation,
enemy
or the breeze?…

For the Azeri, read below… Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Aaron

September 4, 2011 at 3:56 pm

A Sunday Poem

leave a comment »

This week, the poem comes from Almas Ildirim (Almas İldirim). We last read a poem by Almas here. This week’s is called My Song (Mənim Türküm):

My Song

I am a lover, if my body burns in icy hell,
These fearful mountains cannot stand my inexhaustible mourning
If the angels present paradise to me
I would tell them:
I don’t want paradise,
Give me my Caucasus!
Love for the Caucasus is worth more
Than this world filled with jewels,
If they say,
Forget about your country
and take “The New World”*
I would tell them,
Give me my love,
Give me my rights,
Give me my land,
Let the whole world hear my voice,
Which cannot be stifled.

For the Azeri, read below… Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Aaron

August 21, 2011 at 4:34 pm

Posted in Sunday Poem

Tagged with ,

A Sunday Poem

leave a comment »

This week’s poem is by Nigar Rafibeyli (Nigar Rəfibeyli), called Kitchen Lines (Mətbəx Şərləri). We’ve previously read a poem by Nigar named Flower Blooming, which you can read here. Enjoy:

Kitchen Lines

If I were not a woman
I’d have no dealings
With saucepans,
Crockery,
Ladles
I would meet the dawn on the seashore,
Among the rocks,
And inhale the sea air
By the lungful.
I would stay for hours
In the untold bliss of the beach,
Baring my breast
To the wind of the plains,
Leisurely composing
Quiet,
Languorous songs
To the Absheron gardens.
I feel so heartsore
In this kitchen world,
After all,
There is something of a poet in me.

There are poems devoted to sweethearts,
To the flowers of spring,
To the falling leaves of Autumn.
Poems are dedicated to the pain of separation,
To the joy of reunion,
To a woman’s sweet face.
Then why are there none devoted
to steam rising from a saucepan,
To a humming samovar?
Why shouldn’t there be
Poems about clean dishes
Washed in transparent water?
Some like their food well-salted,
Others don’t.
Some like jam,
Others-raw tomatoes.
One cannot tolerate meat,
Another likes his dinner without onions or garlic.
So I must stand there all day,
Wiping, frying, cooking.
Some are destined to occupy high posts,
Others to wash up dishes in the kitchen.
Ah well,
Sometimes an ordinary kitchen
May be cleaner and purer
Than it is in certain high quarters.
If I don’t watch out
While onions fry on the gas-stove,
They’ll turn into ashes
And dinner will be ruined.
But who’s there to see
That the cook burning by the stove
Doesn’t turn into cinders?
Who cares for the cook
Whose heart isn’t quite tranquil?
Don’t grumble, cook,
Watch out,
Don’t dare burn the onions
That give taste and flavor to the dinner!

If a flower garden can inspire a poem,
Why can’t a kitchen?
Just the same as a flower,
A stove,
And a grimy saucepan, too,
May ascend to the throne of art.
Poetic themes are countless,
As long as you see the world
With the eyes of a poet.

From the tiny window of my kitchen
I watch the four seasons of the year:
Summer, Winter,
Spring, Autumn-
I see their real faces.
In Spring
A tall poplar
Next to my window
Is gradually covered with buds,
Then leaves appear
And it puts on green apparel.
A light breeze blows,
The branches whisper.
In Spring the tree stands swaying
in all its grandeur.
In Autumn the wind buffets its breast
And with grief it turns yellow.
Then Winter comes and the tree strips bare.
No more greenery to inspire me.
Naked the tree,
Alone with its grief,
Baring its breast to the frost and the cold,
Hoping against hope to survive
Till spring.

With a generous heart,
With a mind that sounds the depths of existence,
Your dreams will not die,
Your thoughts will not fade.
If there is a divine light in your soul,
Hold it up as a torch
And from your tiny kitchen
You will be able to see the great world.

Sorry-No translation this week. Check out more Azerbaijani poems and literature at Azeri.org.

Written by Aaron

August 7, 2011 at 12:16 pm