Poems of Prof. Dr. Tarana Turan Rahimli (Azerbaijan)

Assosiate Prof. Dr. Tarana Turan Rahimli is an Azerbaijani poet, writer, journalist, translator, literary critic, teacher, academic, is an active member of the International Literary Agency in Turkey, Azerbaijan, Philippine, Kazakistan, Italy, Oman, Belgium, USA. She is a doctor of philological sciences, Associate Professor, author of 9 books and more than 500 articles. She is the editor and reviewer of 25 monographs and poetry books. Her poems and prose works have been translated into 35 languages. The work has been published in more than 45 Western and Eastern countries.



DON’T LOOK LIKE ME, MY DAUGHTER! 

They resemble you to me, my daughter,
Don’t look like me, my daughter!
Look at my gray hairs,
Don’t look like me, my daughter!

I eat a grief the clock round,
I undress sorrow and put on grief.
I warn you as much as early,
Don’t look like me, my daughter!

Hide patience inside of you,
Hide your secrets inside of you,
Hide your face from the sorrow
Don’t look like me, my daughter!

Pay attention neither to creeping shadow,
Nor try  to be knocked at any time.
Become flames, try to destroy darkness,
Don’t look like me, my  daughter!

All around me are devils,
They don’t let me become myself.
Oh, my darling, try to find your own being
Don’t look like me, my daughter!


GOOD MORNING, ROME! 

Good morning, Rome!
Your sun is smiling at me
In the middle of the winter.
Let your morning
That is far from the malice of the world
Be full of light!
Land of Pompei
Where the swords
That cut the shadows of evil
Are shining from a far distance.
Let your mornings
Which are prohibited to oppression
Be full of light!
Hey,  Fontana Truvi
Let your waters
That are purling
In the kingdom of wishes
In the intention of lovers
Be full of light!
Good morning, Rome!

Hey, tangerine trees,
On the way of Coliseum,
How good you grow here!
Your branches are heavy with fruits,
But nobody picks any of them
In the unjust fight
The crowns of our life
The tiny children,
Are picked up basket after basket.
Good morning, Rome!
Old,  great Vatican!
Let around you always be happy life,
Let you always be flourishing
Let you never witness
To the blood that was shed in vain.
Hey, the stage of theatre of Marcellus!
Let you always be lost in silence!
Be always so-
Being far from the “games”
Played at the world stage.
Enchant my spirit
Let be inspired and write
About your immortal fame.
Good morning, Rome!
I  am sowing a handful of hope
On your soil in which poppies grow
In February.
Let those hopes  germinate
And have a thousand branches.
Poetry  didn’t change us,
Let me  dedicate a poem
To humanity.
Let me write a poem
To each green leaf of you
Maybe  it might take wings
And  guard over the humanity
Good morning, Rome!
Good morning, Rome!

IN THIS NATIVE CITY, IN THIS STRANGE CITY


I loved the light that didn’t fall into my house,
I loved the ashugh  who didn’t play my beloved melody.
I loved each charm calling it my motherland,
In this native city, in this strange city.

I was born here, I  but  couldn’t be its  dear one,
I didn’t  taste any forbidden piece of bread.
I couldn’t  stay inside of myself,
In this native city, in this strange city.

Its malice and hatred displayed themselves to me,
Its broken belief, its grief will never come to an end.
In rare cases I was met with friendly terms,
In this native city, in this strange city.

Pay attention to the suffocated wishes inside of me,
Look at the writings erased on my forehead-
Dear Qarabagh idles  in vain
In this native city, in this strange city.

Who disappeared, what things were lost,
Your baby hopes grew older, become over.
All my close relatives became strange,
In this native city, in this strange city.

Its arms are opened  to others,
It hasn’t time to embrace us.
I can’t find the way leading motherland,
In this native city, in this strange city.


I AM IN  A STRANGE FOREST


I am in a strange forest,
The axes cut the grief.
Who says I have a heart,
It is grief aching under my chest.

I get bored of myself,
Each day I gain a new grief.
When I want to sleep
The grief closes my eyes.


I am inside of trouble,
My lover endowed my grief.
Who says I have tears,
It is the grief that sheds tears.

©® Tarana Turan Rahimli

Translated into English by Sevil Gulten