Sönmäz
Burns me up the agony, though it has no flame,
I cannot but, because of it, feel bitter in the mouth,
Never do I say it has no name of its own,
I do rather say so alien have I grown to myself.
Oh! You, my being seek me out,
Just come to me, mix with me, redress my grievanees.
Come to my rescue hold me fast in your arms.
Don't you know how much I miss you?
Sönmäz's poem, "Umud Baxýþlarý" (Desirous looks), presents mirror-image of the social milieu of his time.
I have tied up my grief-stricken heart to a suffering
inside,
It is this suffering with which I have taken a vow.
I am like an old tree, though, out of pride,
Has sprouted a shoot from my withered trunk.
I'm like the rock broken loose from the mountain top,
Yet, ricocheting off, still remain tact.
In his long poem "Ýsanýn Son Þamý," Sönmäz focuses on
Leonardo da Vilici's famous painting of "The Last Supper" and presents
an impressive interpretation of it. The message transmitted by the
poet indicates that man's society is the builder of all human traits.
Should social relations go awry, the social structure not only will block
the way to prosperity for the majority of members of a society but also
will stifle their latent potential. Sönmäz expresses this idea thus:
I fear
That each act of putting aside,
Each act of tyranny,
Changes into a pain in the hearts,
Never to be uttered, never to be written,
Gets bigger and bigger
Like mountains growing higher and higher.
I fear
That a new leaf once more, is turned over
And the half-open buds blossoming out,
Are withered away;
Our tribes get submerged in grief
And our eyes are flooded with tears.
Let him know
That to beat the dark is
Like beating the air;
To fight the dark
One should have a bright torch.
If there is a light,
The dark takes flight,
Then here and there,
Up and down,
Is lit up
No matter if the road is short or long.
Barez
Abbas Islami, who signs his poems with the name "Barez,"
was born into a religious family of Ähär in 1920. Since his youth,
he has been living in the villages of the Äräsbaran region of which Ähär
is the principal town. Therefore his literary works and poems present
in a rural dialect the honesty and frankness, of villagers. It is
unfortunate that most of his works remain unpublished. However, two
volumes of his poems have been printed: Rängin Güllär (Colorful flowers)
and El Dayaðýna Salam (Hello to the supporter of the tribe). Also a large
number of poems in Qýzýl Quþ (The red hawk) were written by Barez.
Several of his poems have been printed in local journals and newspapers.
Looking at his poems, one easily can see his love for his birthplace.
Devotion to his country and love of natural beauties are the dominant themes
in his poetry. Deeply influenced by his contemporary, Þähriyar, Barez
has written his well known poem, "El Dayaðý," in a way that describes El
Dayaðý mountain so sensitizingly that the reader can emphasize with his
way of seeing nature and his birthplace.
Oh, you, El Dayaðý!
When the spring is spreading out her garment,
The nightingale is singing the arrival of the flower,
Girls are out picking New Year flowers,
I wish I were a stream over your rocks, flowing,
Watching your mountain covered with flowers."
Barez's poetry from the 1980s and 1990s still preserves sensuous characteristics but also offers new humanistic, social, and cultural dimensions. For example, consider the following poem, "Mähäbbät Mahnýsý" (Song of affection):
Never do the tears in my eyes get dry,
Always is tumultuous my fortune,
When I meet brother shepherd in the mountain,
I firmly hold truth and honesty my hands.
"Barez"! I am infatuated with beloved,
That which is my true culture, my mother tongue,
When I have a friend's hand in may hands,
It's as though with the entire nation I shake hands.
This humanistic inclination best is reflected in the poem,
“Sülhä Säs Veräk”
(Let's answer the call, for peace):
You who traverse the world of perfection
Be united and involve peace in one voice.
Enliven the voices silenced out of fear,
Through the voices that have been raised.
With a pick of unity in any region,
Eradicate the mischievous deeply rooted;
Through the destruction of the devil's nests
Dispose with the devil's provisions.
The same meaning is also evident in another poem, "Eþq Olsun" (May there be love):
Oh you human beings! Let's answer the call for peace,
Let's change mourning into joy and feast.
The day when this wish comes true,
Blessed is the day;
Blessed is the congregation and chattings therein.
Barez's recent poems carry more mature themes, transcending humanism and touching upon the philosophy of life. In his poem "Qocalýr" (Growing old), the poet makes symbolic use of time and its incessant movement, expressing the view that every phenomenon grows old. In passing, we should mention that in Azerbaijani culture the concept of time is deeply rooted in history. In ancient times, even before the prophet Zoroaster (ca. seventh century before the common era), the Zoorvanies who inhabited Azerbaijan worshiped a god of time. In later times, Dädä Qur Qud, the sacred figure in Azerbaijani culture, concluded every narrative with an eulogy praising time, its prevalence, and immanence. Because of "Qocalýr's" historical and cultural significance, we translate the poem below in its entirety.
Counting the days while living on,
I see that the counting of the counted itself grows old.
The joy does not last as much as I desire,
As the sigh is being heaved, woe grows old.
Ruin is visible in the garden of life.
Depression rules out when welfare reaches its acme.
In this transient life of grieving mountain,
The grass, too, grows old, the river, too, grows old.
I do not say this to make you sad,
The soul grows weak, the body tires out.
Oh, you, who think of your day as better than your night,
The sun, too, grows old, the moon, too, grows old.
When time grudges, joy changes into sorrow,
The heart becomes a condyle hanging from the sky,
The horses cast away their shoes, the sword gets rusty.
"Hey," too, grows old, "Ho" too, grows old.
We read His old testament, made out His Gospel!
Still we did not understand the language of creation.
If we pour over in depth the four seasons,
We see that spring passes away, the summer, too, grows old.
Many have written the philosophy of life.
The reader, still unsatisfied, is asking for more.
This act of creation is too odd,
The sage, too, grows old, the ignorant, too, grows old.
Life is doomed to such a set-up,
Out of its dominance the universe cannot get out,
The revolving universe, running for stability,
Hoping to get young, is growing old.
Barez! Life would refuse you the freedom of choice,
You need step in and see what there is in this life.
If the world gallops the blind horse clumsily.
My Gosh!, too, grows old, My Heavens!, too, grows old.