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Contemporary Kazakh Literature: Poetry
Featuring the work of some of Kazakhstan's finest poets, and available in English for the first time, this anthology offers a landmark collection in modern international literature. The poetry crosses an impressive breadth of subjects and styles, from strident verses exploring Kazakh nationhood to intimate, fragile inner dialogues. Informed by Kazakhstan's often turbulent history and its unparalleled national landscape, the anthology offers universal insights into the human condition, filtered through Kazakh wisdom, openness, and kindness.
Contemporary Kazakh Literature: Poetry is a window into the culture, connections, and diversity of Kazakhstan, a nation connected with its past and forging its own path to the future.
Contemporary Kazakh Literature: Poetry is a window into the culture, connections, and diversity of Kazakhstan, a nation connected with its past and forging its own path to the future.
- GenresPoetryAsiaKazakhstan
608 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2019
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
Currently reading
July 9, 2024I arranged to meet my kid and their spouse at a bookshop. En route, I was waylaid by spotting a different bookshop: a tiny, quirky, second-hand one. My favourite type.
I sent them a text, saying I would be late, or they could come to this other bookshop, attaching a photo of some very niche titles, including this hefty volume, as enticement.
Then I opened it and wow. The joke, inasmuch as there was one, was on me. And of course, the kiddos came to this book shop and made some purchases themselves.
I'm dipping in and out, but this remains my favourite so far:
I don't know how accurate the translations are, but with poetry, it's even more of an art than a craft or science. Regardless, there is some stunning poetry in these pages, and I like the biographies and photos of each poet. But I wish there was an alphabetical index of titles and first lines, in addition to the detailed ToC.
I sent them a text, saying I would be late, or they could come to this other bookshop, attaching a photo of some very niche titles, including this hefty volume, as enticement.
Then I opened it and wow. The joke, inasmuch as there was one, was on me. And of course, the kiddos came to this book shop and made some purchases themselves.
I'm dipping in and out, but this remains my favourite so far:
If you watch the rain long enough -
A whole day would fit into the space of one raindrop:
... I never tried to offend fate,
because I was ashamed before God.
The day will drip on to the earth with raindrops -
turning into a reflection of the dream:
... I didn't question wicked ones about their wrong-doing -
I was ashamed in front of the righteous.
I matched my feelings with every raindrop
and poured them into my heart;
.. I forced my eyes to run away from beautiful women -
I was ashamed in front of my beloved.
Nature entered my dreams at dawn like an angel,
and left me a wonderful gift:
I never raised my voice talking to those younger than me -
I was ashamed before my elders.
Terrible failures after wonderful starts,
reminded me often that we are mortal:
... I never lied to my poems -
I was ashamed in the eyes of the future.
by Yerlan Junis (born 1984)
I don't know how accurate the translations are, but with poetry, it's even more of an art than a craft or science. Regardless, there is some stunning poetry in these pages, and I like the biographies and photos of each poet. But I wish there was an alphabetical index of titles and first lines, in addition to the detailed ToC.
December 23, 2019
Possibilities
by Kadyr Myrza Ali (1935 to 2011)
They tell you
the snow is melting.
Is the winter just sweating, in fact?
They tell you
that they've seen lightning.
Did the dark just cover a crack?
They tell you
it's barely been raining.
Has the water been squeezed from the clouds?
They tell you
the sky gave a rumble--
or were their whispers that loud?
They tell you
the Samuryk is soaring.
Was a fledgling testing its wings?
They tell you
the nightingale's calling.
Or is somebody sobbing as he sings.
(A Samuryk in Kazakh folklore is a gigantic, powerful, typically benevolent mythical bird which acts as a mediator between the three worlds: celestial [gods], earthly [man], and underworld [the dead].)
(from) The Earth
by Kadyr Myrza Ali
Earth that I love, you'll need to forgive us
our dreadful fate. You look so defenceless.
If only I could have you sit
on my lap,
I'd stroke your head and be gentle.
Boots
by Tumanbay Moldagaliyev (1935 to 2011)
Childhood's wheel was racing onwards
and enemies shot holes in my dreams.
Hungry, I slept on a floor in a cold house.
I do not know how I survived.
My mother worried herself sick about me.
We had one pair of boots that we wore
in turns. Enraptured, I listened to the stories
and poems my beloved mother told me.
I went to school in her boots while she stayed
at home by the stove. Many laughed at me,
an orphaned son. And I sat quiet, isolated
in the playground where gangs hooted and yelled.
I wept when the boots became too small for me,
my face streaked and dirty with tears.
'You will wear your father's boots when he returns',
my mother said as she bypassed the house.
We had enough flour to last until the summer.
Happiness for us was someone's help.
My childhood passed by while kept saying
'I will wear my Daddy's boots when he returns.'
Father
by Tumanbay Moldagaliyev
It seems to me that my father is still alive
in this wide land, driving away the enemy,
even if the enemy's bell of victory has rung.
I was six years old when we said goodbye
on the black road. I didn't show my tears
to look like a hero. We hugged,
said goodbye and he vanished into the crowd.
He hid his tears too so as not to upset me.
A paper came announcing my father's death.
I had to pull myself together and ignore
the transparent tears rolling from my eyes.
For the first time ever I cried. Many years later,
my mother still has not come to terms with it.
In my mind I still see my father and hug
the young man he was, like I am now.
There are nights when I look for my father,
for his courage and dignity. I am waiting always
for him, waiting, waiting. If I stop waiting
then he may never come back. I don't want to believe
that his bones lie at the foot of a birch.
But maybe he is still alive
and even if he did die, in his very last breath
I know he thought about me and wanted to see me
just once more. I carry the weight of life on my back,
perhaps my lot is waiting for my father day and night.
Women Up to My Shoulders
by Olzhas Suleimenov (Born 1936)
Women up to my shoulders.
Women up to my chest.
But only one
reached my heart.
I knew her off by heart.
Everything goes well together--
that longing in her eyes,
and little bits of fluff in her hair,
and that fickle look she always had,
the icy way she bared her teeth--
even the cracking of her knuckles,
and the fact she was too short,
and all her thirty-four years.
Everything goes well together--
yes, just like everything that goes!
At the Graveyard
by Marfuga Aitkhozha (born 1936)
My dearest mother, will you
still worry when I tell you
that the time has come
for me to see my homeland.
After thirty years away,
your child is visiting your grave.
Yes, I am visiting your grave,
sensing your patience
has worn you out.
Did any others like you
bear the pains of absence?
I exhausted the wings of longing,
preparing myself for this journey.
Waiting so long to meet you again,
my heart was ready to burst.
My nights were sleepless,
so far away that I couldn't see
your Kosagas.
How should I not weep?
My eyes were misty
as I approached my homeland
and saw so many familiar faces.
My dear mother, my white dawn,
who can say,
when I'll be back again?
So let me take now
take some soil from your grave.
Poems Do Not Age--Only Poets Do
by Fariza Ongarsynova (1939 to 2014)
Poems do not age--only poets do,
but did the poets regret it?
From the wrinkled cage like a golden dream,
the firebird of immortal love flies out.
O, eternal youth possessing hard frost--
snow on the temples, and burning souls,
the poet's soul does not know how to grow old.
It is capable of burning just as it did, at twenty.
And sometimes it is lonely,
like a grey-haired boy with a young soul.
The clock fell apart, spun like worsted.
What was measured, got dark peacefully.
Spaciousness is dazzled from galloping.
Old age introduces its cunning labyrinth.
Modernity and antiquity
have become a tightened knot.
Bestial jealousy triggered insomnia,
death dug up under the cliff of all years
has been maddened with songs--
and the poet has become eternal.
The Fickleness of Himalayan Tigers or the Ballad of Human Courage
by Mukhtar Shakhanov (Born 1942)
Terrible to admit:
almost all of us
should be afraid
of ourselves above everything . . .
I remember
how a few years ago,
staying in the Himalayas
I once met
a tiger hunter:
'Just imagine
you are walking
along the side of a mountain
deep in the forest
and suddenly unexpectedly
out of nowhere
right in front of you
there is a striped tiger
with terrible predatory eyes.
What are you going to do?'
he asked me.
Somewhat taken aback,
I shrugged my shoulders.
'The main thing,'--
he continued,
'is to stand firm
and to look him
straight in the eyes
and not to bend.
That's your only chance.
For if you go on all fours
like an animal,
then that's your lot--
you've had it!
He'll be on you in a trice
like a coiled spring
with one powerful leap . . . '
And scientists are puzzled.
Why does the tiger hate it
when a man
takes on the look
of an animal?
Even God
created tigers
in such a noble form
to inspire humans
to be like them.
So when I see some
individual bowed down
and fawning,
I see red--
I want to jump on him
like a tiger.
In Almaty,
where I spent
my youth,
the wife
of a powerful businessman
from high society
was flaunting her
beautiful,
gold-striped fur coat,
bragging about the fact
that she was wearing
the pelt of
the very last tiger
of the Himalayan mountains.
I just didn't want to believe
what she was saying.
The Himalayas are immense,
multi-faceted,
and mysteriously wise--
if there are no tigers left,
then the mountains have died.
You should read the thoughts of the creator
in the eyes of the tiger.
Beautiful Woman
by Temirkhan Medetbek (born 1945)
What a wonder!
One glance at her
and your heart explodes,
bursts into fire.
How much anguish
this woman brings?!
What sorcery her beauty hides?!
Without any hex or spell
she steals your soul . . .
What was she created from?
Moonlight?
A poet's song?
A white flower's petal?
The purity of deep waters?
Sit next to her,
your mind goes blank.
You're confused
and lost for words.
She raises her eyebrow
and lowers her eyelashes,
you almost faint.
If she chooses you,
you feel like jumping from a peak,
losing your mind,
wandering aimlessly,
forgetting everything
and falling in love.
And then you are burned
by her lips
bright red-hot coals.
Wonder and anguish
is yours!
When her breath warms up your skin
you feel the touch
of a golden rain.
When her laughter
caresses your ears
silver bells
tinkle all around you.
She's as graceful as a swan,
supple as a vine,
light as a feather.
Can't take your eyes off her.
When she speaks
her white neck
trembles softly
like a singing nightingale.
What a wonder
and what agony!
Song
by Shomishbay Sariyev (born 1946)
In spite of great misfortune
my land has always sung, with its humped, wide deserts,
its summits yoked like beasts of burden,
the hearts of my people have always sung.
In spite of great misfortune
my land has always sung, with its gurgling springs,
its green grass, it has always sung,
the hearts of my people have always sung.
In spite of great misfortune
my land has always sung, with its vast, silent deserts,
its transparent lakes, my land has always sung,
the hearts of my people have always sung.
In spite of great misfortune
my land has always sung, with its countless, endless byways,
its dense, boundless forests, my land has always sung,
the hearts of my people have always sung!
In spite of great misfortune
my land has always sung, with its people
weeping along with 'Elim aj'.
Oh, my land of countless dreams!
The world is alive because of the melody
of never-ending heartbeats.
Would my people possess this country,
if their hearts had never sung?
(from) Prosperity
by Kulash Akhmetova (born 1946)
Everything is wise in nature,
so live and bless life--
each morning, each night,
returns us to paradise.
Roads lead us to history,
to show us the coming day.
Kites, penguins, rhinos,
even small dragonflies--
live praising her abundance.
Let earthly misfortune,
earthly turmoil, and man's
bad temper pass you by.
So much evil in the world!
No one is innocent among the
passing multitudes--as, age upon
age, we reduce the world to ashes.
Shamelessly, we have trampled
over birds and beasts, but has it made us
any stronger, having driven
innocent birds from their nests?
No, it is us who are defenseless,
as much as these poor animals.
Human and animal now one--
the bullet is heading our way too.
(from) My Little Calves, My Children
by Kulash Akhmetova (born 1946)
My little calves, my children,
snuggle up to me now
and take me out of myself.
When I lose faith in grownups,
I look at you and I'm at peace.
(from) Songs of the Zajran Steppe
by Nadezhda Chernova (born 1947)
Like a darting lizard, the flame
glances up from the fire--tell me
dombyra, who is it just walked in
under the cover of our yurt?
Oh, Well . . .
by Iran-Ghayip (born 1947)
I frolicked
and laughed:
learned that everything is pointless.
I cried
and grieved:
realised that even more things are futile.
I ate,
relieved myself.
My tail tucked firmly between my legs.
(from) Childhood is Like Honey
by Serik Aksunkar (born 1950)
Childhood is like honey.
It is a vine with fresh buds.
I was thirteen and one day
a sixteen-year-old girl asked me,
'Have you ever kissed a girl?'
'No', I replied, my eyes crossing
with her bright eyes, my heart
beating fast, my blood burning,
my brain boiling. 'Come on',
she urged. 'If you don't tell anyone,
let's kiss each other every day
like that.'
(from) A Dog's Life
by Nesipbek Aituly (born 1950)
I met a stray dog in the street.
He was too forlorn for words.
His appearance broke my heart,
as if a storm had just blown in.
. . .
He didn't like the rope chafing his neck,
so I had to let him go,
for he's determined by himself
which path henceforth he'd follow.
My Lover's Breathing Will Shake
by Bakhytzhan Kanapyanov (born 1951)
My lover's breathing will shake
ever so slightly the air,
as if she were in the care
of a ghost in a butterfly's shape.
I will not try to find
the reason she keeps so calm.
The moonlit bed. My arm
extends to draw down the blinds.
Washing the Horse
by Lyubov Shashkova (born 1951)
Go on, wash the horse,
white-maned with its white apples. Let it walk into the Nura.
Like a boat lowered in the water, and into the air and into the sky,
it carries suntanned lads,
neighing loudly
to their slender-legged girlfriends.
Go on, listen close
on all shores
all shallows.
This victorious,
booming cry--
even the river will reply
with the hundredfold echo,
the distant song
of the winged steppe herds!
(from) If My Paper Should Die
by Tynyshtyqbek Abdikakimuly (born 1953)
If my paper should die, its bones yellowed with age, let it be.
If my pen should die it will bleed to death.
That's the unknown for you.
Rich and enlightened, listen to my poems
written on the brow
and full of the fragrant musk of sorrow.
(from) I Have No Secrets
by Yesenqul Jaqypbek (born 2013)
I have no secrets.
I told every secret I ever had.
I do not have a hidden temper.
. . . But, my dear girl, I did have a secret,
one that I kept from you and could not utter.
(from) Don't Ask Poets the Time
by Ulugbek Yesdaulet (born 1954)
Don't ask poets the time.
They just don't live by the clock.
No point trying to make them answer--
it only makes them look away.
(from) I Fell in Love with a Peri-Girl
by Yessengali Raushanov (born 1957)
I fell in love with a peri-girl
called Twilight.
It's either death or pleasure for me, but I risk it.
She sits down quietly beside me,
brass nails hidden in her long sleeves.
(from) Last Breath
by Svetqali Nurjan (born 1962)
So what's the way out for you mind that has eaten you like a worm?
A wise man with a song for a friend will think about it at dusk.
(from) The Sky Can Capsize Out of the Blue
by Gulnar Salykbay (born 1963)
Turn your back to the sky
and end up as some meaningless clod . . .
So what? Life is good anyway!
(from) The Whore
by Maraltai Raiymbekuly (born 1969)
I have never met another like you,
a woman of the night.
(from) When I Lean on Your Shoulder
by Taknakoz Tolkynkyzy (Born 1977)
I forgive the betrayal of the world
when I lay my head on your shoulder.
(from) How Are You, My Silent Love?
by Aliya Dauletbayeva (born 1977)
I fell in love with your essence, it seemed unique,
but the wind blew so cold from your side.
(from) A Beauty in Mourning
by Nazira Berdaly (born 1980)
The night is like a woman in mourning.
Her eyes are closed, her arms inviting.
by Kadyr Myrza Ali (1935 to 2011)
They tell you
the snow is melting.
Is the winter just sweating, in fact?
They tell you
that they've seen lightning.
Did the dark just cover a crack?
They tell you
it's barely been raining.
Has the water been squeezed from the clouds?
They tell you
the sky gave a rumble--
or were their whispers that loud?
They tell you
the Samuryk is soaring.
Was a fledgling testing its wings?
They tell you
the nightingale's calling.
Or is somebody sobbing as he sings.
(A Samuryk in Kazakh folklore is a gigantic, powerful, typically benevolent mythical bird which acts as a mediator between the three worlds: celestial [gods], earthly [man], and underworld [the dead].)
(from) The Earth
by Kadyr Myrza Ali
Earth that I love, you'll need to forgive us
our dreadful fate. You look so defenceless.
If only I could have you sit
on my lap,
I'd stroke your head and be gentle.
Boots
by Tumanbay Moldagaliyev (1935 to 2011)
Childhood's wheel was racing onwards
and enemies shot holes in my dreams.
Hungry, I slept on a floor in a cold house.
I do not know how I survived.
My mother worried herself sick about me.
We had one pair of boots that we wore
in turns. Enraptured, I listened to the stories
and poems my beloved mother told me.
I went to school in her boots while she stayed
at home by the stove. Many laughed at me,
an orphaned son. And I sat quiet, isolated
in the playground where gangs hooted and yelled.
I wept when the boots became too small for me,
my face streaked and dirty with tears.
'You will wear your father's boots when he returns',
my mother said as she bypassed the house.
We had enough flour to last until the summer.
Happiness for us was someone's help.
My childhood passed by while kept saying
'I will wear my Daddy's boots when he returns.'
Father
by Tumanbay Moldagaliyev
It seems to me that my father is still alive
in this wide land, driving away the enemy,
even if the enemy's bell of victory has rung.
I was six years old when we said goodbye
on the black road. I didn't show my tears
to look like a hero. We hugged,
said goodbye and he vanished into the crowd.
He hid his tears too so as not to upset me.
A paper came announcing my father's death.
I had to pull myself together and ignore
the transparent tears rolling from my eyes.
For the first time ever I cried. Many years later,
my mother still has not come to terms with it.
In my mind I still see my father and hug
the young man he was, like I am now.
There are nights when I look for my father,
for his courage and dignity. I am waiting always
for him, waiting, waiting. If I stop waiting
then he may never come back. I don't want to believe
that his bones lie at the foot of a birch.
But maybe he is still alive
and even if he did die, in his very last breath
I know he thought about me and wanted to see me
just once more. I carry the weight of life on my back,
perhaps my lot is waiting for my father day and night.
Women Up to My Shoulders
by Olzhas Suleimenov (Born 1936)
Women up to my shoulders.
Women up to my chest.
But only one
reached my heart.
I knew her off by heart.
Everything goes well together--
that longing in her eyes,
and little bits of fluff in her hair,
and that fickle look she always had,
the icy way she bared her teeth--
even the cracking of her knuckles,
and the fact she was too short,
and all her thirty-four years.
Everything goes well together--
yes, just like everything that goes!
At the Graveyard
by Marfuga Aitkhozha (born 1936)
My dearest mother, will you
still worry when I tell you
that the time has come
for me to see my homeland.
After thirty years away,
your child is visiting your grave.
Yes, I am visiting your grave,
sensing your patience
has worn you out.
Did any others like you
bear the pains of absence?
I exhausted the wings of longing,
preparing myself for this journey.
Waiting so long to meet you again,
my heart was ready to burst.
My nights were sleepless,
so far away that I couldn't see
your Kosagas.
How should I not weep?
My eyes were misty
as I approached my homeland
and saw so many familiar faces.
My dear mother, my white dawn,
who can say,
when I'll be back again?
So let me take now
take some soil from your grave.
Poems Do Not Age--Only Poets Do
by Fariza Ongarsynova (1939 to 2014)
Poems do not age--only poets do,
but did the poets regret it?
From the wrinkled cage like a golden dream,
the firebird of immortal love flies out.
O, eternal youth possessing hard frost--
snow on the temples, and burning souls,
the poet's soul does not know how to grow old.
It is capable of burning just as it did, at twenty.
And sometimes it is lonely,
like a grey-haired boy with a young soul.
The clock fell apart, spun like worsted.
What was measured, got dark peacefully.
Spaciousness is dazzled from galloping.
Old age introduces its cunning labyrinth.
Modernity and antiquity
have become a tightened knot.
Bestial jealousy triggered insomnia,
death dug up under the cliff of all years
has been maddened with songs--
and the poet has become eternal.
The Fickleness of Himalayan Tigers or the Ballad of Human Courage
by Mukhtar Shakhanov (Born 1942)
Terrible to admit:
almost all of us
should be afraid
of ourselves above everything . . .
I remember
how a few years ago,
staying in the Himalayas
I once met
a tiger hunter:
'Just imagine
you are walking
along the side of a mountain
deep in the forest
and suddenly unexpectedly
out of nowhere
right in front of you
there is a striped tiger
with terrible predatory eyes.
What are you going to do?'
he asked me.
Somewhat taken aback,
I shrugged my shoulders.
'The main thing,'--
he continued,
'is to stand firm
and to look him
straight in the eyes
and not to bend.
That's your only chance.
For if you go on all fours
like an animal,
then that's your lot--
you've had it!
He'll be on you in a trice
like a coiled spring
with one powerful leap . . . '
And scientists are puzzled.
Why does the tiger hate it
when a man
takes on the look
of an animal?
Even God
created tigers
in such a noble form
to inspire humans
to be like them.
So when I see some
individual bowed down
and fawning,
I see red--
I want to jump on him
like a tiger.
In Almaty,
where I spent
my youth,
the wife
of a powerful businessman
from high society
was flaunting her
beautiful,
gold-striped fur coat,
bragging about the fact
that she was wearing
the pelt of
the very last tiger
of the Himalayan mountains.
I just didn't want to believe
what she was saying.
The Himalayas are immense,
multi-faceted,
and mysteriously wise--
if there are no tigers left,
then the mountains have died.
You should read the thoughts of the creator
in the eyes of the tiger.
Beautiful Woman
by Temirkhan Medetbek (born 1945)
What a wonder!
One glance at her
and your heart explodes,
bursts into fire.
How much anguish
this woman brings?!
What sorcery her beauty hides?!
Without any hex or spell
she steals your soul . . .
What was she created from?
Moonlight?
A poet's song?
A white flower's petal?
The purity of deep waters?
Sit next to her,
your mind goes blank.
You're confused
and lost for words.
She raises her eyebrow
and lowers her eyelashes,
you almost faint.
If she chooses you,
you feel like jumping from a peak,
losing your mind,
wandering aimlessly,
forgetting everything
and falling in love.
And then you are burned
by her lips
bright red-hot coals.
Wonder and anguish
is yours!
When her breath warms up your skin
you feel the touch
of a golden rain.
When her laughter
caresses your ears
silver bells
tinkle all around you.
She's as graceful as a swan,
supple as a vine,
light as a feather.
Can't take your eyes off her.
When she speaks
her white neck
trembles softly
like a singing nightingale.
What a wonder
and what agony!
Song
by Shomishbay Sariyev (born 1946)
In spite of great misfortune
my land has always sung, with its humped, wide deserts,
its summits yoked like beasts of burden,
the hearts of my people have always sung.
In spite of great misfortune
my land has always sung, with its gurgling springs,
its green grass, it has always sung,
the hearts of my people have always sung.
In spite of great misfortune
my land has always sung, with its vast, silent deserts,
its transparent lakes, my land has always sung,
the hearts of my people have always sung.
In spite of great misfortune
my land has always sung, with its countless, endless byways,
its dense, boundless forests, my land has always sung,
the hearts of my people have always sung!
In spite of great misfortune
my land has always sung, with its people
weeping along with 'Elim aj'.
Oh, my land of countless dreams!
The world is alive because of the melody
of never-ending heartbeats.
Would my people possess this country,
if their hearts had never sung?
(from) Prosperity
by Kulash Akhmetova (born 1946)
Everything is wise in nature,
so live and bless life--
each morning, each night,
returns us to paradise.
Roads lead us to history,
to show us the coming day.
Kites, penguins, rhinos,
even small dragonflies--
live praising her abundance.
Let earthly misfortune,
earthly turmoil, and man's
bad temper pass you by.
So much evil in the world!
No one is innocent among the
passing multitudes--as, age upon
age, we reduce the world to ashes.
Shamelessly, we have trampled
over birds and beasts, but has it made us
any stronger, having driven
innocent birds from their nests?
No, it is us who are defenseless,
as much as these poor animals.
Human and animal now one--
the bullet is heading our way too.
(from) My Little Calves, My Children
by Kulash Akhmetova (born 1946)
My little calves, my children,
snuggle up to me now
and take me out of myself.
When I lose faith in grownups,
I look at you and I'm at peace.
(from) Songs of the Zajran Steppe
by Nadezhda Chernova (born 1947)
Like a darting lizard, the flame
glances up from the fire--tell me
dombyra, who is it just walked in
under the cover of our yurt?
Oh, Well . . .
by Iran-Ghayip (born 1947)
I frolicked
and laughed:
learned that everything is pointless.
I cried
and grieved:
realised that even more things are futile.
I ate,
relieved myself.
My tail tucked firmly between my legs.
(from) Childhood is Like Honey
by Serik Aksunkar (born 1950)
Childhood is like honey.
It is a vine with fresh buds.
I was thirteen and one day
a sixteen-year-old girl asked me,
'Have you ever kissed a girl?'
'No', I replied, my eyes crossing
with her bright eyes, my heart
beating fast, my blood burning,
my brain boiling. 'Come on',
she urged. 'If you don't tell anyone,
let's kiss each other every day
like that.'
(from) A Dog's Life
by Nesipbek Aituly (born 1950)
I met a stray dog in the street.
He was too forlorn for words.
His appearance broke my heart,
as if a storm had just blown in.
. . .
He didn't like the rope chafing his neck,
so I had to let him go,
for he's determined by himself
which path henceforth he'd follow.
My Lover's Breathing Will Shake
by Bakhytzhan Kanapyanov (born 1951)
My lover's breathing will shake
ever so slightly the air,
as if she were in the care
of a ghost in a butterfly's shape.
I will not try to find
the reason she keeps so calm.
The moonlit bed. My arm
extends to draw down the blinds.
Washing the Horse
by Lyubov Shashkova (born 1951)
Go on, wash the horse,
white-maned with its white apples. Let it walk into the Nura.
Like a boat lowered in the water, and into the air and into the sky,
it carries suntanned lads,
neighing loudly
to their slender-legged girlfriends.
Go on, listen close
on all shores
all shallows.
This victorious,
booming cry--
even the river will reply
with the hundredfold echo,
the distant song
of the winged steppe herds!
(from) If My Paper Should Die
by Tynyshtyqbek Abdikakimuly (born 1953)
If my paper should die, its bones yellowed with age, let it be.
If my pen should die it will bleed to death.
That's the unknown for you.
Rich and enlightened, listen to my poems
written on the brow
and full of the fragrant musk of sorrow.
(from) I Have No Secrets
by Yesenqul Jaqypbek (born 2013)
I have no secrets.
I told every secret I ever had.
I do not have a hidden temper.
. . . But, my dear girl, I did have a secret,
one that I kept from you and could not utter.
(from) Don't Ask Poets the Time
by Ulugbek Yesdaulet (born 1954)
Don't ask poets the time.
They just don't live by the clock.
No point trying to make them answer--
it only makes them look away.
(from) I Fell in Love with a Peri-Girl
by Yessengali Raushanov (born 1957)
I fell in love with a peri-girl
called Twilight.
It's either death or pleasure for me, but I risk it.
She sits down quietly beside me,
brass nails hidden in her long sleeves.
(from) Last Breath
by Svetqali Nurjan (born 1962)
So what's the way out for you mind that has eaten you like a worm?
A wise man with a song for a friend will think about it at dusk.
(from) The Sky Can Capsize Out of the Blue
by Gulnar Salykbay (born 1963)
Turn your back to the sky
and end up as some meaningless clod . . .
So what? Life is good anyway!
(from) The Whore
by Maraltai Raiymbekuly (born 1969)
I have never met another like you,
a woman of the night.
(from) When I Lean on Your Shoulder
by Taknakoz Tolkynkyzy (Born 1977)
I forgive the betrayal of the world
when I lay my head on your shoulder.
(from) How Are You, My Silent Love?
by Aliya Dauletbayeva (born 1977)
I fell in love with your essence, it seemed unique,
but the wind blew so cold from your side.
(from) A Beauty in Mourning
by Nazira Berdaly (born 1980)
The night is like a woman in mourning.
Her eyes are closed, her arms inviting.
Read
October 18, 2019894.345 C7615p 2019
May 18, 2024
(3.5)
I'm slowly trying to become more of a poetry appreciator. And since I already checked out the volume of contemporary Kazakh prose, I figured I should do the same with its poetry counterpart. There are a truly massive amount of poems in this collection; with about 12-15 works for each poet and 31 poets, that's ~420 poems! But even though I sometimes didn't understand the works completely, each one was fascinating and beautiful, and sometimes very surreal. I loved the look into different historical periods and getting a glimpse of the steppe through different poets' eyes.
My favorite poet from the collection would have to be Nadezhda Chernova, whose works I hope will someday be translated into English. Other fantastic poets are Tumanbay Moldagaliyev and Marfuga Aitkhozha. The poems in particular that I love are Kulash Akhmetova's "Mother Tongue," Marfuga Aitkhozha's "Žajķoŋyr," and Mukhtar Sharimov's "The Fickleness of Himalayan Tigers or the Ballad of Human Courage."
This took me an age to complete, and I can't say that I enjoyed every single work, but I'm definitely glad that I got this chance to listen to these seldom-translated voices.
I'm slowly trying to become more of a poetry appreciator. And since I already checked out the volume of contemporary Kazakh prose, I figured I should do the same with its poetry counterpart. There are a truly massive amount of poems in this collection; with about 12-15 works for each poet and 31 poets, that's ~420 poems! But even though I sometimes didn't understand the works completely, each one was fascinating and beautiful, and sometimes very surreal. I loved the look into different historical periods and getting a glimpse of the steppe through different poets' eyes.
My favorite poet from the collection would have to be Nadezhda Chernova, whose works I hope will someday be translated into English. Other fantastic poets are Tumanbay Moldagaliyev and Marfuga Aitkhozha. The poems in particular that I love are Kulash Akhmetova's "Mother Tongue," Marfuga Aitkhozha's "Žajķoŋyr," and Mukhtar Sharimov's "The Fickleness of Himalayan Tigers or the Ballad of Human Courage."
This took me an age to complete, and I can't say that I enjoyed every single work, but I'm definitely glad that I got this chance to listen to these seldom-translated voices.
June 14, 2023
Marfuga Aitkhozha is one of my favorites since before, so I'm glad to see she was included in this anthology.
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews