Страна: Казахстан
Поэзией и музыкой занимаюсь с двенадцати, а прозой с двадцати пяти лет.
Country: Kazakhstan
I’ve been composing poetry and music since I was twelve, and writing prose since I was twenty.
Отрывок из поэзии “I’ll live this life as a Kazakh!”
KAZAKH
A Kazakh is a conscientious deep thinker,
A Kazakh possesses eloquence in speech,
The people teach honesty for future generations,
A lullaby by the crib they sing and they teach.
The Kazakh is a hero, a bulwark from the flood,
Defending many foes from his land.
Fighting until the last drop of blood,
Even if worn out, he’ll still take a stand.
Kazakh is honest, a advocate of truth,
Never afraid to anger a khan or king!
If even one word of veracity comes through,
Hearing out even what a sworn enemy may bring.
Kazakh is vigorous, cheerful from birth,
Merry making to forget sorrows, shortly at least.
Racing horses, playing kokpar, fun and mirth,
A real Kazakh never missed a party, a feast!
And at the feasts, the orators speak,
Strongmen wrestle, testing fate.
The poets praise the nation’s peaks,
Or else sit and complain, debate.
The wisemen’s stories are flowing,
The singers’ songs are rolling,
Their stories bringing out tears pouring,
To the delight of those strolling.
But Kazakhs are nomads from birth.
Looking into the distance of the earth.
As an eagle teaches its fledglings what’s best,
Perseverance is explained in the nest!
Kazakhs know his land, honouring its steppes,
Teaching kids to love their country without any preps,
For the ancestral home he always gave with pride,
His strength, his mind,
his consciousness and never subside.
A Kazakh girl of the steppe is a flower on hill,
Her beauty and grace, the nightingale’s trill,
Her honor and chastity, she holds dear,
A symbol of love, pure and sincere!
Each generation is the beginning of my people,
The backbone of my ancestors, sturdy and ample,
Each boy and girl is from a noble land,
A fragment of pure gold, shining bright and grand.
For the Kazakh, the ancestors set a clear path,
A medicine for future generations, a legacy to surpass,
«Don’t change,» they said, «stay true to your fathers’ way!»
With open hands, blessing his child, not to stray.
Such is the path left by the ancestors,
Kazakh is fortune to be chosen as their successor!
The blue flag of INDEPENDENCE flutters high,
His heart full of freedom and song, a joyous cry.
Centuries of mourning through the clouds breach,
From the steppes to the stars, is the Kazakh’s reach!
The whole world is in awe, recognizing the truth —
I will always write immortal songs about you!
A PEOPLE WHO VALUED WORDS
Longing for youth, a time of truth,
Merry and full of feelings, that’s the proof.
Serving elders, a noble deed,
Their wisdom unmatched, just what we need.
They’d sit like mountains, grand and elegant,
Striking at truth, like eagles valiant!
Full of wisdom like Bactrian camels,
I remeber every story they channeled.
Gathered around the fire, they reminisce,
Sharing tales of the glory of their homeland.
Their speech sweet as honey from the hive,
Their words fill the air with charm.
The old dames, keeping up with their men,
Grandchildren by their side, oh what a blend!
Grateful and warm, preparing feasts so fine,
Making qurt and cheese from butter divine..
The youth listen intently, without interuption,
They respect and learn from their elders.
Passing through the half-light of the night,
Their words resonate, never fading away.
On this day, people mourn the time,
Yearning to hear words that were once sublime.
Only a few remain, passionate and true,
Losing them breaks my heart, through and through.
To whom shall I give my experiences, whom shall I tell?!
No one has time, everyone’s under a spell!
The younglings speak their mind, oh so straight,
Yet the deeper meaning, they fail to contemplate.
Speaking with sincerity, recognizing bravery in action,
Words were once held dear, now just a fraction.
It seems like we need nothing, a nonchalant fling,
Having consumed the soul of true talent, oh what a thing!
WHO AM I?!
«Who are you?.. Why?..»
countless questions in my mind,
I keep wandering yet no answers I find.
My thoughts, my calculations, my fantasies blunder,
Weak and weary, I restlessly ponder.
«Why do you chirp and cry for no reason?»
Some ask, without any true comprehension.
But as for me, my broken heart, in need of mending,
Requires constant care and attending.
Those who trample honor, guilt,
Think they’re smarter, with their pride built.
«Just what are you looking for, tough guy?!»
The mocking shattered my dreams, oh my!
You’re not celebrating with your kin,
Ignoring spouse and children, it’s a sin,
«What have you done?» someone asked with strife,
«Poor thing, till you’re food for dogs and birds, your life.»
I’ve spread the “History of the native land!”
Cursed fools for “ruining language, it’s out of hand,”
My heart in patches, almost stopped,
As I witnessed the damage they have wrought.
What use is my history, language, and art
For those who care only for profit and their part?
Why would scoundrels covet these treasures?
If they rob and sell our country, by any measures.
Do they understand the value of anything at all?
Shouldn’t our heritage pass to the next in line to call?
Will these foolish folks ever comprehend,
The true worth of a «national treasure,» that we must defend?
When I ponder on it, my bones quake, tears start to flow,
Time erases our history, making it fade and go,
Passing by without meaning, leaving us in despair,
Our legacy and heritage disappearing into thin air.
My land, once fertile, now worn out and bare,
My descendants have left, leaving me in despair,
Humanity seems lost, and respect for my people is gone,
I ask myself, «Who am I?» and sit to ponder on.
What am I to do? I ask, trying to console my soul,
Feeling helpless in the fight, with no way to control,
But I know that someday, my descendants will be free,
And they’ll search for our memory, with hopeful glee….
BRUSH IT OFF, KAZAKH!
(One month after the
December Uprising of 1986)
My poetry’s not truly mine,
I feel the poet’s thought entwine,
To delve into my people’s lore,
But sadness fills my chest once more.!
Who’ll hear my sorrow, day and night?
My Kazakh, burdened with plight.
For centuries, a time of woe,
Heavy is the weight you know.
Each time I read our history book,
Your glory shines, in every nook.
My eyes grow misty, as I sigh,
«Let your grief be mine,» I cry.
At every dawn, my Kazakh kin,
Long for a day where joy can begin.
Weary and tired, you pray and plead,
«Begging, O Creator, free me of this need!»
You didn’t distinguish ‘tween white or red,
Just seeking food to fill your homestead.
«The party’s path» you chose in vain,
Made Mankurt[1] of your daughter and son’s name.
“Put aside subsistence and foot-dragging pace,
Focus on the country, if you’re a brave race.
Take hold of your sons, who’ve forgotten their pride,
And in your own hands, let their honor reside.
Unity is key for community and conscience,
Beware the villain’s deceitful nonsense.”
Wise and generous, the forefathers’ plea,
To stand together and stay free.
Hustle and bustle, life flew by,
No chance to wake, none to pry.
What kind of soul in lives so fast?
What empty vessels, devoid of past?!
Out the door, «Barefoot» you go,
Giving a throne, not asking for dough.
But take heed of this wise old quote,
The dog you feed may turn and smote.
The slime commands «attack!», throws a bone,
And you destroys the good ones, leaving none alone.
Like a whimpering dog, unable to lead,
Can’t find a brave man to fulfill the need.
Where are Ahmet, Alikhan, Mustafa Shokai,
Mirzhakip, the wise ones, now in the sky?
Didn’t you set them in a trap, my friend?
Who approved this, where does it all end?
You didn’t see the worth in your star,
And traded them in like they weren’t up to par.
All for the sake of a petty career,
You caused the loss of lives held dear.
You failed to match the greatness they had,
Now you’re left feeling low and sad.
Your fate is to be food for dogs and birds,
A harsh lesson learned from those words.
I’ll tell you straight, my friend, wake up!
Raise your head and brush yourself off!
Regain your pride, let it be your shield,
No enemy can take you if it’s your will.
Why cling to empty fantasies?
Don’t be a wreck, educate with ease.
Teach the nation, the next generation,
Break the walls of the villain with dedication.
When will you let your dignity arise?!
When will my people assemble, be wise?!
Unity is a powerful prize,
And oppression will meet its demise!
[1] Mankurt is the term for an unthinking slave in Chinghiz Aitmatov’s novel The Day Lasts More Than a Hundred Years.