ŞEİRLƏR-İNGİLİS DİLİNDƏ
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Gasham Najaphzade was born on 1-st of April in 1959 in the town of Imishli of the Azerbaijan Pepublic. He graduated from the faculty of literature of Pedagocical University. He taught literature at secondary schools and Universities for years. At present he is a head teacher of ‘Tafakkur” University and sub-editor of poetry department at the journal of “Azerbaijan’ attached to Azerbaijan Writers’ Unity.
Qasham Najaphzade’s poems are published on the pages of Azerbaijan and foreign newspapers. Up today his ten books of poems , one book of stories and a scientific publicistic book have been published.
Readers roused interest for his books such as “ Don’t tell me the end of the love”
( Yazichi 1990), ” The picture of a sleeping sea” ( Ganjlik’19910), ‘Side by side with a bridal wave” ( Goyturk, 1994), ‘The fate of my poem’( “ Goyturk’ 1995) ‘Smiling tree”
( stories) ( Goyturk, 1995) “ I want to love again “ ( Goyturk , 1996) “ When I remember you” ( Azerbaijan State Publishing House, 1997) “Farewell to life coming back again”
( Ozan, 1997) ” Towards myself’ ( Azerbaijan State Publishing House, 1998) , “And so on” ( Nurlan , 2004) “Huseynbala Miralamov’s literary activities” ( Yazichi, 2005) . The poet was awarded with the Tofig Mahmud prize for his children’s poems. The critics consider his literary to belong to realistic style. At present his book of “Oh! My God” is going to be published. He is married and has two sons and a daughter.
Every morning each man moves away his wife
and directs his way to work.
The bus is surrounded by perfume of woman
….Perhaps a pair of woman hands creep
on each man’s neck.
and then come down.
As if the hands are hidden
under blanket.
Look at that man! He hasn’t even shaven.
Maybe his wife didn’t go to sleep because of
being angry
This man carries his wife nerve on his face
For not to be seen
He has pressed himself to the corner.
Maybe his wife is repentant
and has not got up yet.
She stretches her feet
under her husband’s blanket,
and takes the heat remaining there
and brings with her foot to her place.
She shuts her her eyes
and embraces heat
as her husband.
In the bus men
put on their knees their hands.
I think hands of each man look like
to a kitchen of his house.
Fingers are kitchen furniture.
Thumb is a lower part,
the little finger is an upper part.
Each evening their wives
take butter,
alt, from the finger eyes
of this kitchen.
One eye is shut,
One is opened,
and buys something from one finger
To other finger puts something.
Hands of each man
Are the kitchen of their house.
War is the appearance of feelings
Song of bullets is an artistic style.
Soldiers are thoughts outflying quickly
blood-is a pause for a minute.
Once I looked at the boot
of a dead soldier.
Inside of it had not become cold yet.
It had not stood straightly
before the map of his feet.
Boots are which make known
the death of a man.
That is why wedding-ring
in the finger pulling the trigger
entreats the finger each time.
I implore you…
Don’t press me on the iron.
Ask from the foot
how the soldier grieved
in the trench.
At times being dirty of boots
is the mark of inside tension.
In one word,
boot is the most mournful
photo of a man.
This night nobody covers
the carrion of the dog on this road.
It is covered only with its own barking.
The dog’s voice goes round the carrion
a hundred times
As if likens the carrion
to a living dog.
As soon as the dog’s voice
falls on the carrion
the dog is covered with
its voice wheediling.
Perhaps voice doesn’t like this place
and wants to take its carrion from here.
Zarifa’s father was a martyr,
Anar’s father is a war cripple.
Vusala’s mother was divorced from his husband,
now she works at school as a sweeper.
And Vusala feels shy before class.
Aydan’s father is a workman,
Ali’s father is a workman,
Nigar has not got a father ,
Aynura has not got a father,
Zulfiyya’s father is in Russian market
No news from him for 8 years .
Sevinj’s father is jobless,
Aysel’s father is jobless,
Nurlan’s father is jobles,
Sara’s s father is disabled,
Aygun’s has not got a father,
Her mother is a kitchen –maid
Sabina’s father died .
Her mother is a sweeper at kindergarten
Vasila’s father is ill
Her mother cooks cakes
at one of the markets.
Elshan’s father is in prison
Emil’s father sells sun-flower seeds
at a railway station.
Each time when the teacher
reads this information
He forgets his birthday
As if this park
is a painting
and has been hung on the collor of this city.
The benches are green
the people on them
specially boys and girls
are its forest dreams.
During time’s wind
the benches caught as tightly as they could
from the people.
A woman has kept her balance
with the help of her child
whose hands she took.
Look at! That girl looking like a student
has hold firmly from the thought
which is in her heart.
The trees stood with their looks,
if you think deeply
these trees were planted
with human looks.
At times the wind
which is an onlooker
shakes these trees.
But the woman
took her child’s hands as tightly
as she could.
She wants to go nowhere.
What a pity!
One day
time will take this painting
as the chief of an exhibition salon.
SLAVE HOURS
The secretaries are the doors
of the office managers.
If they hadn’t mirrow in their hands
I’d say that they are not human beings.
If they didn’t like exclamatory mark
I’d say that they are questions.
If they didn’t speak
if they hadn’t sound
I’d say that they are mushrooms.
They place flower-pots
at the windows.
And they dance under the sound of
samovar orchestra.
All day long the receiver of telephone
is on their ears.
They are always loved by their ears
As if their room
is an exhibition of beauty.
And the managers are hidden
behind this beauty.
They who come for to complain
die in the words of secretaries.
The managers teach them
how to lie.
And they are dismissed from the office
as soon as they become older.
Punishment of beauty is always hard, lady!
I filled into the drop of rain
and loved your window.
Did you know or not- I didn’t know.
From your eyes
I fell into your heart
as a drunk.
Did you laugh or not –I didn’t know.
I loved the standing parallel of our shoes
at the doors before us
Did you love it or not- I didn’t know.
Do you know that
into my heart that you loved
my head was put as a question
and my hands were put as
an exclamatory mark
Do you know or not –I don’t know.
Your hands cast shadow
as clouds
on the light of my hair.
It is going to rain this night
are you aware of it or not –I don’t know.
I measured everything only with you
I thought if you hear rain or not
do you watch TV or not.
I measured the syllable with your lips
I measured the flowers with your breath
I measured the wind with your hair
I measured the longing with your feeling hurt.
I learned from your feet
the length of ways.
Your eyes showed me the place of steppes
I measured air with your arms
I measured the greatness of word
with your silence.
While drinking Dovga
I thought about how it
would taste in your mouth.
While writing a poem
I thought about your thought
While seeing a nice dress I thought about
If you like that dress or not
I thought about if you undestand
my going or coming
with one glance….
….Dovga-it is an Azerbaijani meal made of from sour milk and vegetable
A TRACK
Just before my eyes a girl took her hand and
threw into the sea.
Now it is not her hands
which she put into her pocket.
It is just the case of her hands.
I have seen many people who threw their hands
into the sea.
It looks like that a woman refuses her child
because of not being able to keep it.
Maybe the hands are the first child of the people
and to fling them into the sea
is the main way out of the situation.
We are unaware of the excisting of white papers
in our hands .
For example, that girl loved the another man
but she knew that there was the name of
other man on her hands.
The people throw their hands into the sea
for to lose tracks.
Then they begin to work
with the hands looking like
to their hands.
Translated by Sevil Gulten.
The 8 th of December
