POETRY IS THE CRY OF OUR SOUL
Our interlocutor is one of the distinguished representatives of contemporary Azerbaijani literature — poet, writer, translator, linguist, pedagogue, PhD in Philology, Associate Professor, and member of the Writers’ Union of Azerbaijan, Firuza Mammadli.
— For you, what is the most important difference between prose and poetry? Which one reflects your inner world more fully and deeply?
— From the perspective of form, the difference between these two genres is evident. It is also true that both are products of artistic imagination.
Prose, as a rule, takes shape in terms of plot, composition, content, and expression.
Poetry, however, is realized within specific norms, relying on the accurate and purposeful selection and arrangement of poetic aspects hidden in the inner layers of language units — in other words, the semantic possibilities of words and expressions.
In classical Azerbaijani poetry — in forms such as the ghazal, qoshma, gerayli, lullabies, and others — this principle has always been preserved. Rhythm, harmony, rhyme, refrain, internal meter, syllable count, sound prolongation, and so on have been among the main elements that regulate the appeal of poetic thought.
In modern poetry, apart from these poetical-technical elements, the free verse form — which relies solely on the poetic spirit accumulated in the semantic layers of words — has also become one of the prevailing examples of contemporary creativity.
In my view, poetry is a special state of the poet’s soul. It can be compared to a lightning flash that illuminates a single moment. Of course, in narrative poetry, in poems and verse plays, unlike in lyric poetry, the author needs time and lyrical digressions, which makes it difficult to liken them to lightning.
Poetry is the poet’s secret meeting with his own feelings.
Poetry is the rebellion of the silence within us.
Poetry is the outcry of our soul.
— You are a poet, a writer, a translator, and a scholar at the same time. Does working simultaneously in all these fields not cause difficulties for you?
— Poetry, prose, scholarly research, and teaching are the complete expressions of my public life. Each of them, being the product of both mind and heart, seems to wait for its own turn to be realized. A poem does not come every hour. Free moments, then, are more suitable for scientific research or prose.
— The serious obstacles and difficulties you faced on the path of science…
How did you overcome them? Today, how are young women being drawn into research, and in your opinion, what should be emphasized to inspire them?
— I did not face any serious difficulties while conducting my research. But completing the work and defending it cost me dearly. There were people who tried to obstruct my defense. I had written and submitted for defense my dissertation on the topic “The linguistic and stylistic features of Y.V. Chamanzaminli’s novels Girls’ Spring and In Blood*, dedicated to our incomparable writer, a victim of repression. During the defense, one member of the Academic Council — a pro-Armenian scholar — fled the session to prevent it from taking place. By repeating this act twice, he delayed my defense for two years. Finally, I defended the work and sent it to the Higher Attestation Commission in Moscow for approval. The same person sent an anonymous letter there as well. As a result, my work was sent to Turkmenistan for a review by a so-called “black opponent.” Only after receiving a positive review from there — which took another two years — was my dissertation officially approved with the title of Candidate of Sciences.
My entire public activity has always been accompanied by obstacles and envy.
As for young people today, I do not see much genuine interest in scientific research. But my advice to young women is this: the path of science is difficult but honorable. When stepping onto this road, they must first take into account their inner world, their passion for the field, their willingness to sacrifice, and their readiness to endure psychological attacks. They must prepare themselves spiritually for such struggles.
My second piece of advice is that if they cannot bring genuine novelty to their field, they should not pursue it merely for the sake of a title.
As for encouraging them, I cannot say I have strong arguments at hand.
— In literature, what is the most important concept for you? For example: the spirit of the era, the author’s personality, or the thematic problems of the work?
— Naturally, creativity values all three. Any work created is a product of its own era, carrying with it at least some information for the future about that time. For instance, the rich legacy of our writers such as M.F. Akhundov, J. Mammadguluzadeh, A. Hagverdiyev, N. Narimanov, and others serve as examples of this.
In my view, the author, when creating a work, must present it from a completely objective standpoint, without displaying tendencies. Thematic problems, of course, find their artistic expression within the boundaries of time and space in the work.
— In society, do you think the value of people of art and science is adequately recognized?
— Unfortunately, no.
— What events in your life are tied to the concept of “self-sacrifice”?
— My entire life is the equivalent of “self-sacrifice.” Every step I have taken has been accompanied by obstacles, threats, conspiracies, intimidations, “accidents,” and deprivation.
The path I have walked for education, science, art, and profession I do not call a struggle, but rather a war.
— For you, what are the specific qualities of the image of a “woman writer and scholar”?
— A woman who is a writer and scholar must either not marry, or if she is fortunate, unite her life with someone who is understanding, appreciative, and values science and art as she does. Otherwise, if fate ties her to someone who pretends to be a poet without truly being one — that is a disaster… Among women of art, very few are fortunate enough to be happy in both family and creative life.
— As a woman, writer, scholar, and human being, how would you define yourself in a single sentence? In your opinion, what is science — to learn, to understand, or to accept?
— If I were a little younger, I would call myself a “hero” for having achieved all these titles (woman, writer, scholar, human). But now — at 85 — I call myself a “sufferer.”
As for learning, understanding, and accepting… Yes, science is learning, it is understanding, but I am not in favor of blind acceptance. If it represents absolute indicators of objective truths, then I accept — because that acceptance itself is the beginning of the road that leads to learning and understanding.
— How do you envision the literature of the future? With artificial intelligence, will not the emotions of the human heart lose their true value?
— If artificial intelligence is to create the literature of the future, it will likely be in detective or epistolary genres. Yes, artificial intelligence cannot fully express the subtleties of the human heart. It will mostly reflect what is encoded by its programmer. Motivated by the psychology of that programmer, it cannot, in general, acquire truly human qualities.
— In your view, how is the influence of women scholars in Azerbaijani society growing and developing?
— The rise in the influence of women scholars, poets, and artists in our country is an issue that requires special attention.
— Are there truths in our country that you have analyzed but never put into writing?
While pursuing your dreams, have you ever felt yourself drifting away from your own self?
— In brief, to the first part of your question, I can say that there are many such truths, but I do not see the need to elaborate.
As for the second part: in my youth, such moments were frequent. Now I am far from dreams. I am a solitary dweller in the cell of bitter truths.
— Victor Hugo once said: “There is a sight more beautiful than the heavens — the depth of the human heart.” Do you think today’s poets and writers have truly descended into this depth of the human heart?
— No one can know another better than oneself.
The elders have said that poets are the engineers of the human heart. Yet only those poets who can transfer another’s sorrow or joy into their own hearts, and make those emotions their own, can descend to such depths.
At such a moment, poetry speaks through the poet’s pen with the cry of
“I.” This, however, becomes an opportunity for critics to strike:
“That poet only writes about themselves.”
In truth, some of those who read such poetry see their own sorrow in it, and read their own grief through those lines.
Among swimmers, there is even a branch called “deep divers.”
Likewise, for a poet to descend into the human heart, they must possess the nature of a deep diver — and the strength not to be wounded by reproach.
Furthermore, the lingering breath of “Soviet” atmosphere in public opinion and criticism still plays no small role here.
Today, there are many who write. Naturally, it is impossible to follow them all. But descending into the depths of the human heart and bringing up pearls from there — that is not the task of every poet.
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.