poetry from turkmenistan

POETRY FROM TURKMENISTAN

From your holy countenance

I extracted a mirror of the soul,

and on the ancient walls of a basilica,

there where the reeds rustled

I hung it, where the hall is

and in it I made the heart emotional.

In it rubies were reflected

flaming on your lips,

bottomless depths of the soul

brought terror to the heart.

Everything is there: bliss and suffering,

memories of the most ancient years.

Kaaba is there, Jerusalem

and your beloved Alim.

Here is the friend of the Most High, Abraham,

who sacrificed your ashes to the mountains.

Here is the flask where your soul

languished so many ages,

and here is my loved one and I –

the Man whom You forgot.

***

To show to the blind

all the creations of the Creator?

To tell the deaf

of what the Father has done?

The flute plays lovingly.

the stars lead the round dance,

for him everything is silent

and the vault of the heavens is closed.

Only troubled visions

will suddenly alarm the soul

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yet show for a moment

all that’s beautiful around.

Someone will touch the chest

with a warm hand,

call us to peace

and try to save.

Unheard sounds,

invisible rising:

only loving hands

warm the vault of the heavens.

PRAYER OF A DERVISH

Direct me Allah Most High

to the way of Your beloved.

Hear my scarcely audible voice,

my hopeless and remote groan.

If only I, called by You,

could know Your mercy.

If only You, glorious Lord

protector of this dwelling place,

would open up and give mercy

and pour the stream of divine love

into the suffering heart,

I would glorify my birth

and the difficult flow of life

and would not judge the hearts

of people lost in the dark.

I would not ask for justice

but live in Your mercy.

***

T U R K M E N I S T A N : P O E T R Y

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I don’t want your poems

burning with the flame of suffering

and the spell of your words

will no longer alarm dreams,

There’s no need to prepare chains

and flood the steppes with fire

and to plait the nets of jealousy

or to lead oneself to destruction.

I am flayed, killed, robbed,

sworn at, smashed by slander,

weakened by love of the Furies,

my soul grows and mourns.

Love without jealousy, without fear,

without unjustified hurts,

love with the mercy of Allah

will protect me from pain.

And peaceful in a quiet harbour,

intoxicated with the spirit of freedom,

conversing with my Luke,

I will acquire peace.

Enjoying meditation

of the divine creations of the Creator,

I would distance myself from work

with the charms of young maidens.


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MY WORLD

Say goodbye to our courtyard.

Tomorrow we’re setting out on the road,

leaving our little courtyard to be demolished.

Our childhood will never return.

The tired dust settles

on the window in mourning for the house.

I draw in it on the glass,

goodbye my little world.

Spring rests on the steps,

there are so many songs and words on spring,

I just want you to blossom –

goodbye mama of the cats.

Trash near the window warms the bones.

The old hut leaned,

I’m in love with this courtyard’s junk,

good trash – I wish you too goodbye.

On the window in mourning for the house

the tired dust settles:

I draw in it on the glass –

goodbye my little world.

All poems anonymous. ‘My world’ is by a child


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poetry from turkmenistan

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