A Sunday Poem

It’s been a rough week, so the posts this week have been few. We’ll start the new week with a poem from Bakhtiyar Vahabzade (Bəxtiyər Vahabzadə), called Speed (Sürət):

Speed

Time was, we would sit
in the compartment of a train
Three days and three nights
Counting the miles
Baku-Moscow
For lack of anything else to do.

Then, eight hours by plane,
Baku-Moscow,
And now just three hours,
Still sorry,
Bored stiff.

We want to fly
With the speed of light,
But even the speed of light
Is too slow to catch
The flight of our thoughts.

I am the son of modern times.
Give me now
The speed of my mind
The speed of my thoughts,
Not to worry me,
Not to bore me to death.
Just now,
Match the swiftness of my mind,
Move now!

Sorry that there’s no translation this week. If you’d like to check out more poems by Bəxtiyər, head over to Azeri.org.

Advertisement

A Sunday Poem

This week’s poem is by Ali Karim (Əli Kərim) called Stone (Daş):

Stone

Half-naked,
Primitive man
Cast a stone at his foe,
Shed blood.
But the stone
Didn’t fall to the ground,
It kept flying,
From horizon to horizon.
Don’t say that the stone disappeared.
That stone transformed into an arrow,
And then a sword,
A bullet,
A missile.
It did not stop as we thought.
It transformed into an atom.
Piercing the summit
And wishes
And the ocean,
It sped away…
Nor has that very stone
Stopped even now,
It still shoots through the air, but where?
It becomes neutron,
Electron-
A lot of this, a lot of that.
Transforming into fire.
Death.
Poison.
You, my contemporary,
You, brother of Truth,
Tell me, can’t that stone be stopped,
That the half-naked,
Half-savage,
Primitive man
Cast so long ago?

For the Azeri, read below…

A Sunday Poem

This week, read a poem by Mammad Araz (Məmməd Araz) called If There Were No War (Müharibə Olmasa):

If There Were No War

If there were no war,
We could construct a bridge between Earth and Mars
Melting weapons in an open-hearth furnace.

If there were no war,
The harvest of a thousand years could grow in one day.
Scientists could bring the moon and stars to Earth.

The eyes of the general also says:
“I would be chairman in a small village
If there were no war!”

If there were no war,
We could avoid untimely deaths
Our hair would gray very late.

If there were no war,
We would face
Neither grief, nor parting.

If there were no war,
The bullet of mankind would be his word,
And the word of mankind would be love.

Below, the Azeri version…

A Sunday Poem

In an effort to make sure the Sunday Poem arrives on Sunday, this poem comes sans translation. It’s from Vagif Bayatly Oder (Vaqif Bayatlı Ödər) and is called More Than Anyone Else (Hər Kəsdən Çox):

More Than Anyone Else

I can neither be the strongest man in the world,
Nor do I want to be.
I don’t want anyone to be afraid of me.

I can neither be the wealthiest man in the world,
Nor do I want to be.
For me the greatest wealth in the world,
is a tiny tent with a smiling face and eyes, with an open door and windows!

I can neither love you more than anyone else in the world,
Nor do I want to love you so.
Because only those who love insincerely
Love more than anyone else.

I want to love you quietly and gently,
I want to love you as destined by God,
Like a small bird that has nestled against the tiny corner of its nest.

Enjoy more from Vagif at his Azeri.org page.

A Sunday Poem

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…

A Sunday Poem

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…

A Sunday Poem

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.