“MY CHILDHOOD MEMORIES ALWAYS TUNE ME TO FRAGILE NOTES”
Our interlocutor is one of the bright figures of Azerbaijani literature — poet, publicist, and editor; a member of the Azerbaijan Writers’ Union, the “Yanqi Ovoz” Central Asian Writers’ Union, and the “Iraq-Turkmen Writers and Literary Figures Union”; a recipient of the Presidential Scholarship; laureate of the “Rasul Rza” and “Shakhmar Alakbarzadeh” Literary Awards; Head of the Women’s Wing of the Civil Solidarity Party; and editor of the website Mustaqil.az — Aysel Khanlargizi Safarli.
– When speaking about childhood, a person dives into an ocean of both joy and sorrowful memories.
When you recall your childhood years, what feelings awaken in your heart first?
— My childhood memories always tune me to fragile notes. Whenever I recall them, I return to the carefree, beautiful days when my father was still alive. Back then, little Aysel would show her very first poem to her father, and his kind words would light a small spark of creativity in her heart… I become a child again, and my father gently strokes my hair with eyes full of love… In this flow of emotions, I find myself gazing both into my past and into my own soul.
– There is a delicate silence and a deep emotional wave in your poetry.
Where does this silence come from — childhood memories or the turbulence of life?
— Some of these feelings come from the fragility of childhood memories, while others were born while rowing against life in the stormy sea of existence, fighting to survive.
– Every poet carries an invisible flame within.
Who ignited that fire in you for the first time — what event or which feeling?
— The first torch of poetry within me was lit by my late father. From my earliest years, he took pride in my poems, encouraged me, became my first reader, and always stood behind me… I believe it is a unique happiness for a girl to love her father also as her very first reader.
– “Paper planes” — does this symbol represent the purity of childhood or the human need to let dreams fly?
— In fact, the origin of “paper planes” is different. Because I lived far away for many years and waited for someone from afar, my life passed through airports filled with longing… In one of my poems, I wrote about how my son, waiting for his father, made paper planes and flew them across the room, turning our home into an airport… That is where the expression “paper planes” was born.
– Truth and beauty — how do these two concepts merge in your poetic worldview?
— Although truth may sometimes appear ugly to people, in my world it is a form of beauty itself…
Beauty always changes depending on one’s perspective. What matters is the ability to see beautifully. Sometimes a person can feel happiness even in sorrow, can live through pain beautifully, and carry it with dignity.
– In the modern world, a woman is simultaneously a creator, a mother, and a leader.
How do you maintain the delicate balance between these roles?
— I try to maintain it as best as I can. A woman is created so strong and perfect that she can carry the highest emotions of the world with immense love and patience. I am happy that I am both a mother and someone who can express her feelings through writing.
– You also lead the Women’s Wing of the Civil Solidarity Party.
When literature and social activity intersect, what tones collide within your soul?
— The founder of the Civil Solidarity Party is himself a People’s Poet — Sabir Rustamkhanli, a master who gifted priceless works to literature. I believe literature itself is already a form of social activity…
Even the strongest conflicts have often been resolved with a single word. My soul stands in harmony with both my words and my actions; it befriends them, loves both its work and its word.
– There are wars, hunger, and injustices in the world.
What should a poet do in the face of such pain — remain silent or turn the pen into a sword?
— Even if a poet wants to remain silent, they cannot. Poets feel those pains and emotions as if they have lived them themselves. That is why the countless states of the world have always been transformed into poetry, words, and verses — and will continue to be.
– In your opinion, is modern literature a remedy for society’s spiritual wounds, or merely consolation?
— I believe literature is neither consolation nor a remedy. Literature is the verbal expression of feelings that thousands of people cannot articulate. Literature is the image of emotions, the artistic tones of life. When we are alone with ourselves, it makes us think, sometimes awakens us from heedless sleep, and sometimes gives the human soul the strength to fight. Literature is the nourishment of our spiritual world.
– Time changes, technology dominates the human soul.
Do you think the value of words still remains in this century?
— As long as humans exist, words will exist, and their value will remain. Sometimes a word becomes healing and hope in a sick heart; sometimes it becomes life itself.
There is nothing a word cannot do… Just as with a single word — “dear” — a person is ready to sacrifice their life for the one they love.
– They say a person must find the meaning of their life.
Where do you see the meaning of life?
— Giving meaning to life depends on the individual. When a person sees what they value in the place they desire, life becomes beautiful in their eyes. For a creative person, the meaning of life is to live, to create, and not to grow tired of struggle.
– What inspires you most or causes you concern in today’s literary environment?
— The emergence of many talented young writers today inspires me greatly. What concerns me are those who devalue words, who seek so-called fame for the sake of publicity and ratings, or who force themselves into being poets or writers. But then I think to myself: time and the scales of literature will weigh every line and every verse; meaningless things that exhaust the agenda will be sifted out and filtered away.
Leaving everything to time is the wisest choice.
– Is there a distance between today’s reader and the poet, or do souls still hear one another?
— Where there is spiritual kinship, there is no distance. A true reader and one who understands words will feel, sense, and comprehend them anywhere.
Jakhongir NOMOZOV, is a young poet and journalist from Uzbekistan.
He is also a Member of the Union of Journalists of Azerbaijan and the World Young Turkic Writers Union.
The poem The Backbone is a profound condensation of the spiritual core of Chinese civilization. Using “backbone” as a metaphor, it interprets the unyielding integrity that underpins the survival and progress of individuals, nations, civilizations and eras. It not only embodies the persistent spiritual essence of the Chinese nation but also echoes the common pursuit of dignity and perseverance shared by all humanity.
Authored by Bai Gengsheng and translated by L a n X i n (Lanxin Samei), the translation breaks linguistic barriers to accurately convey the philosophical depth and spiritual power of the original work. It builds a bridge for in-depth dialogue between Chinese spiritual thoughts and the world’s diverse civilizations, allowing the wisdom of Eastern civilization to resonate in a global context and serving as a vivid testament to the mutual learning and symbiosis of world civilizations.
The Backbone
Author: Bai Gengsheng
Translator: Lan Xin (Lanxin Samei)
About the Author: Vice Chairman of the China Writers Association, Member of the Standing Committee of the 13th National Committee of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference (CPPCC), Honorary Dean of the China Yulong Wenbi Dongba Culture Academy
About the Translator: Internationally renowned writer and poet, the only female inheritor of the World Memory Heritage Dongba Culture, Dean of the China Yulong Wenbi Dongba Culture Academy, Winner of International Literary Awards
The wind has no backbone
It roams entirely at its own will
Grass needs no backbone
It merely sways as the wind blows
Water requires no backbone
It just flows gently toward the lowlands
Insects have no need for backbone
They have not evolved to that stage yet
Yet
Mountains possess their backbone
To hold aloft the boundless firmament
Houses stand with their backbone
Or they could never shelter all the needy with warmth and delight
Bridges are built with their backbone
To bear the endless throng of carts and steeds passing over
A person must have backbone
For it lets you stand tall and unshakable in life and living
An army must have backbone
For it lets you hold your broad chest high to stand guard and fight
A nation can never go without backbone
With it you keep your head held high in unyielding perseverance
A country can never go without backbone
With it you are filled with boundless vigor spirit and vitality
A society cannot lack its backbone
Among all mortal beings only the awakened and virtuous embody it
An era cannot lack its backbone
Without it we might as well sink back into ignorance and barbarism
Backbones always lie in quiet solitude
Never vying for the spotlight or fame
Backbones are always left uncelebrated
For they scorn all glib and flattering words
Backbones are often cast aside and forgotten
Yet only when we sit upright or stand tall do we fathom their true worth and essence
Backbones have endured endless wrongs for eons
Yet they remain steadfast without regret or grievance
as if you could wake up, as if you’ve been sitting all along in the morning sun
a little dazed
……..
A Hometown with No One Left
It will never be better again
it exists nowhere on this earth
how can I possibly fabricate
a painted paradise?
behind the open door lies a stretch of dimness
when the sunlight of memory surges forth
when even the dust carries a faint yellowish warmth
I have long forgotten the sound of your voice
it lingers beyond life, beyond death
whispering of us who are no more
when marble seals my lips
when I have no time to bid you farewell
………
What to Do, How to Proceed
Let’s just sit on this jutting rock
the afternoon sun still keeps it warm
it is firm and solid, leaning out over the abyss
let’s sit right here, we can talk about this rock
besides the sunlight, it bears traces of weather, traces of moss
time and wind have not loosened it
instead, they have fused it more tightly with the cliff
Autumn has come, gazing at the increasingly high blue sky
I feel old age, like a stone inside my body, growing bigger day by day
one day we will lift it up
and tap the moon that rose, somehow, at an unknown time
look—It is nothing more than a stone that is consistent inside and out
The others have all gone down the mountain one after another
or vanished into the rock crevices around the bend
lights have lit up inside the stones
we still wait for a sudden gust of wind
to snatch us up, like two small stones
and hurl us at a forehead, glowing bright with the rage of innocence
The Abyss and the Stone
I discovered it at five years old, inside me
a place I could never reach
vast, wreathed in smoke, yet sometimes seeming not to exist at all
as if a single leaf could cover it whole
in the middle of play, it would suddenly emerge from the leaves across the way
rooting me to the spot in terror, back then, I’d turn deathly pale
grab a pebble, and slip away from my friends without a word
Words cannot hide it either, it defies all depiction
so, carrying this abyss—now swelling, now shrinking,
now fading, now flaring—I walk in the earthy world
gradually wearing an expression of solemnity ill-suited to my years
like the faint, ominous shadow of an iron ring
stealing over the brightness of summer
I buried my face in books through entire nights, wandered far and wide
at times, I would suddenly fail to recognize my own kin
Now, I often take it out
as pull a stone from my pocket, it is harder than a fist
blazing hot, it glimmers for a moment, then its surface turns black
I will not hurl it at dogs, nor cast it down into the valley
nor boil meat with it in a spring, as primitive men might do
I set it on the mountain, I think
perhaps it will slowly cool
slowly fade away into the variegated rocks and stones
Early Summer on Purple Mountain
In the small puddles left by wheel ruts beside the wild path
float clumps of frog spawn, like swollen, sticky clusters of tiny white grapes
the tadpoles that have already hatched refuse to leave
tadpoles, tadpoles, hurry and grow your legs
the woods are growing denser, and the puddles are drying up
At the end of every desolate trail, there are couples parking to make love
the path merely cuts through the sweltering thicket, curving toward another
springy slope that could shield against cannon fire
where obscure signals flicker at the crest
I have no choice but to live and die inside every frog spawn
On quiet afternoons, the mugwort pulled up exudes a stronger scent
I still find myself thinking about those clumps of frog spawn
it would be better if it rained a few more times
climbing the mountain with butterflies in the rain
the mountains are filled with frogs joyfully carting landmines
croaking loudly, their trousers rolled up just like mine
Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of polyphonic writing and objectified poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce British and American postmodern poetry into Chinese.
He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included 9 poetry collections. He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell Williams, Ashbery and Rosanna Warren. He published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over 600,000 copies.
