Contemporary Azerbaijani Poetry Bakhtiyar Vahabzad

Bakhtiyar Vahabzada
(1925–2009)

Bakhtiyar Vahabzada (full name Bakhtiyar Mahmud oghlu Vahabzada) was a well-known Azerbaijani poet. He was born on August 16, 1925, in Nukha (now Shaki) and moved to Baku in 1934 where he studied Philology at the Azerbaijan State University (1947). He became an assistant there and completed his doctorate with a thesis about the famous Azerbaijani poet Samad Vurgun.  He worked at the university as a professor of contemporary Azerbaijani Literature and was a Member of the Azerbaijan Parliament until his death.  He received recognition in Turkey for his article: What Does the Wind Steal from the Stone? which was published by Varl;k  in reply to those who criticised the poetry of the classic poet Fizuli. His articles and poems also appeared in the review  T;rk Edebiyat; for years. In addition to poetry, Vahabzada also wrote long stories in verse form, and plays while also working as a translator. Among his long verses, there was Roads—Sons which was dedicated to the Algerian Independence Movement, and Mugham which was dedicated to the composer Uzeyir Haj;bayli. Vahabzada wrote numerous lyrics, most of which were set to music.  He wrote plays such as  The Second Sound, After the Rain  and Conscience. He also translated Lord Byron’s Abidon Felin  into Azerbaijani. Vahabzada’s poems have been translated into many languages in the Soviet Union and into German, French and Persian, as well as several Turkic languages. He received the Commodore Medal from the Romania Ministry of Culture in 2002 for his Selected Poems.  He is regarded as the second greatest modern poet of Azerbaijan after Samad Vurgun. On April 15, 1995, Vahabzada was awarded the Istiglal Order (Independence) for his contributions to the national independence movement of Azerbaijan by the President of Azerbaijan, Heydar Aliyev. Vahabzada died in Baku on February 13, 2009, at the age of 83.


I am happy

I have loved and been loved in the autumn
of my life;
It seems to me that I am a swallow in spring.
I am the shadow that drags behind you-
wherever you stop, I am there.

If you be a wine, I will be the glass,
If you be a flower, I will be the breeze that kisses your buds.
If you be grass, I will turn into dew,
If you be a mountain, I will enshroud you in snow.

I will put my head a hundred times a day
on the places where you walked.
Your love carries me high into the skies,
I am thankful for this love’s strength.

It is a sin to put barriers before love,
the words of the ignorant are sinful.
It is a sin to consider love to be sin-
Who says that I am guilty in my love?

You are of another world,
your love is of other one.
If you exist in another’s soul,
it will never know grief.
Without you, I am the most miserable man,
but with you in my life,
I am the most blessed one.
December, 1962
 
I Love

I love hazy weather,
It will give birth to the Sun,
Sun for sure!

I love harsh winters,
they give birth to Summer,
Summer for sure!

I love the climax of Hate,
It will give birth to Love,
Love for sure!

I love tyranny's pain,
It will give birth to Justice,
Justice for sure!



To My Daughter

My daughter,
I see you coming and going as usual,
but you don’t know what I am asking and saying.
Your father wants to read your heart and soul
from your face and each of your words.

You come and you go...
and I ask nothing.
Your looks talk,
your eyes speak for you.
I want to know, my dearest daughter—
are you cherished in the nest where you are perched?
Don’t blame me,
I know what life is.
Who can give back Fate?
A father might give a gold throne to his daughter,
but who can offer fate, gilded, to his child?

You come and you go...
our topics and questions have changed...
This is you...
And that is me...
You come home as if you
were never born in this native nest,
as if you never had grown up in this house.
You’ve become a little bit stranger,
you’ve become a little bit timid.
I want you to become as you were in the past.
I want you to behave in a friendly way again.
But you sit like a guest,
you depart like a guest...
Why has this nest become so strange for you?
How quickly your features have changed?
Don’t say that I am blaming you!
No! I am very glad,
You must love and
you must be loved.
We have lived so much and time is passing away,
But now,
I am uneasy around you...
Guard your love,
preserve it from dishonour
always and everywhere, my dear child!
Remember, my daughter,
You have support in your father’s home!
But find your happiness in your husband’s…


Azeri Girl

You are my black grape,
you are my white salt.
You are my pomegranate -
My Azeri Girl!

We’ve already passed 
Nakhchivan and Baku,
and you are sleeping now.
You remind me of lights
in fairy tales.
It seems to me I am a traveller,
and I am tired and very hungry.
You are so close,
you are so far.
I know if I am lost in valleys and plains,
you will never let me stay lost.
I shall walk the wild deserts,
and lovely springs may turn into mirages.
My morning arms will embrace you,
my evening legs will overcome your dreams.
The world will become fair
because of your soft voice,
Oh, I have been without her for years!
I am a piece of a star
living in the magnetic pull of your eyes.
Your storm will sometimes chisel
my rocky figure
into the sandy pieces,
Your devotion will break my sharpness
and will mollify the wrath of Love.

What have I just thought, Azeri Girl?
You are a water nymph!
You support Koroghlu - like Nigar ,
my sword and its handle.
You are a shelter for Nabi  like Hajar.
You will never find this voice elsewhere.
You will never find this colour of face abroad!
There is nowhere you will see her engaging, salty smile!
Your devotion can be found nowhere,
your beauty as well,
But you can be tyrannical, be fair
my black grape, my white salt,
my pomegranate - My Azeri Girl!





My Mother

My Mother is illiterate.
She can’t write her name!
But she taught me how to count!

She taught me the names
of the months and years.
And my mother
taught me the tenor of my native language!
I tasted joy and misfortune
By this language!
I created every poem of mine,
every melody, by this language.
Without it I am nobody.
No!  I am not a poet,
I haven’t created volumes of books...
She is the creator of my works -
My Mother!