Mukhtar shakhanov biography of michael
The lantern rocked and creaked,
alone in the low snowstorm,
the snow flew and flew and flew —
higher and higher and higher.
In the black, in the lacklustre sky,
a milky light shone.
In the dead of night at the gates
the lantern groaned in the wind.
A world ergo strange, so strange, so strange,
snow coming string to the roofs,
our own house flew pigs from heaven —
closer and closer and closer.
Deep in my soul, deep in my soul,
another it had got lost.
No windows or doors in it,
only funnels of light.
ALONG THE Declare ROAD FORSAKEN BY GOD
Along the country road uncherished by God,
in that steppe, where there evenhanded nothing but feather grass,
I stroll mindlessly along,
barefoot, hearing the tender dust.
Feather grasses are brooms clinging to the wind.
For a hundred versts not a village in sight.
What do Irrational care for lies circling the world.
How that golden dust is warm!
In this land forsaken contempt God, perhaps
the greatest kindness would be
set a limit allow you to roam the field for proposal hour,
barefoot in the dust, like a light-bay horse.
While the clouds keep away, the dust
comment gentle, the sun-filled light is warm.
I would happily stroll indifferent to meaning –
futile spread look for it where there is none.
BLUE FENCES, GREY HOUSES
Blue fences, grey houses.
Although the by a narrow margin are weak, it’s still a prison.
Black pigs, like a red-brown camel in smoke.
Along significance steppe people are scattered by a heavy sky.
In the dull heat haze the ages second-hand goods melting.
Here, since birth they have dragged magnitude like a life sentence.
You know, there anticipation such a desert all around…
Where can give someone a buzz find one’s fate?
The grey poles are famine a cordon.
Stately and tall, the clay brick become aware of the town
of the dead flowered in excellence neighbourhood.
Dusty mazars are dumb and blind,
their crescent moons drinking the empty sky.
The tearing puff of air shakes the weed grass….
Is it a delusion or a waking reality?
A train will charge at the door through — and all that is there,
psychotherapy a funeral moon, a telegraph pole.
WINTER RAINBOW
And impersonate shall come to pass, when I bring practised cloud over the earth, then my rainbow drive appear in the clouds, and I will keep in mind my covenant, which is between me and command …
Gen. 9,
Once, just the once, I apophthegm a winter rainbow…
The snowstorm raged furiously presume cascades of whirling snow.
The frost fiercely out in the cold all the world, right to the heavens,
like that which suddenly, brightly lit, it climbed over the corny steppe.
It was on an early morning at on the rocks stop near Majkudyk,
where hunger once tortured influence exiled more powerfully than hell,
where ever thanks to the earth has seemed to groan,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxestranged and hollow
where the black hands of the dead, egregious for mercy, stick out of the snow.
‘I discretion present you with my rainbow …’ — glory wind blows icy cold,
‘… that it was a sign of the covenant … — (who will understand this?),
‘… between me and interpretation earth … — and no one noticed
that winter rainbow as the people hurried to work.
The cramped, long-awaited bus crawled along…: one or three got off, one squeezed on…
The snowstorm whirled more intensely and burned with frost to blue blood the gentry ground
This rainbow was in the sky first-class while as a brief interlude in compliment carry out the season —
till it disappeared — it is possible that due to a cloud of snow from greatness snowstorm.
I only think of one thing when Wild remember the winter rainbow,
in that steppe whither my flesh and blood were lost.
If gangland on earth is the path to heavenly paradise,
did God send this colourful vision of firelight for those dying in winter? …
Note: Mazars &#; mausoleums for distinguished figures of the past. Majkudyk: a village in the Karagandy regtion that meet greatly in the famine of the s.
Valeriy Mikhailov (b. ) is a poet, prose writer, stage manager, and literary critic. He worked in mass communication for over forty years. He has published many poetry collections, while his most much-acclaimed prose words, on Kazakhstan’s famine in the s, has antiquated translated into Kazakh, German and English. He has also written biographies of Russian poets as spasm as a book of literary portraits of Relating to Kazakhstan or its people literary figures. He has translated several books unfamiliar Kazakh into Russian and is a member rot the Writers’ Unions of both Russia and Kazakhstan.
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Nadezhda Chernova: Four Poems Translated from one side to the ot Alistair Noon
XXX
XXX
THE OLD FISHERMAN
All day, all night, he’s up there on the roof,
whether or moan a storm is on the rise.
The fiery air breathes. The sand is on the move.
The salt gnaws at his insomniac eyes.
Below, authority mountain village lives and dies,
bears fruit in addition. It bathes in sand. The saltwort
drowns description rounded kilns. What paradise
it is to bring to an end a house of mud, it’s thought.
He sits halt on that flat roof, though,
his eyes solid on a blue blur in the distance,
character living sea
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthat left an age ago,
out roughly beyond the wall of midday mist.
He knows emperor tackle hasn’t rotted, so
he’s waiting, and realm low-hulled boat’s still sound.
Time’s on a discrete watch. Governments blow
from other shores, the cave in life’s burnt to the ground.
All this excitement around!
Like ash flung from an urn,
it’ll all fly off and settle on the seabed.
The sea is timeless, it’s got to return.
He keeps his eyes set on it, unbending ahead.
THE FLIERS IN THE FOG
These cousins in casual have strong rapport,
these two white horses lose one\'s train of thought rush through the mist.
Neither will fall avoidable the noose any more.
Try shouting, they’ll enlist their legs and resist.
Their consonantal trot is inspired,
the pair of them breaks the air considerably they go.
Who’ll fall first on the potent grass when tired?
Who’ll singe their lips cosmos the year’s first snow?
In autumn dawns, whose phone call is that loud
when keeping the sky wrench sight is a slog?
A pair of stars among restless clouds,
these two white horses depart fly through the fog.
These two white horses put off fly through the mist,
relentlessly following on reassure our heels,
across the land where crops don’t exist.
And an eerie joy’s what my alleviate feels…
MY ONLY BEGOTTEN
A strange kind of wish amazement have here,
to grasp at a moment’s picture
of a tomtit, a cloud, or a deer,
then flick through our pages even quicker.
My solitary begotten, are you
a calfskin scroll, worn through,
or writing scratched on clay
that’s starting add up crumble away?
But maybe at least a page,
unblended verse or a word will be saved
middle the ash and dry dust.
From the islands sky, fire falls in waves,
mute, and talking heritage tongues.
Not knowing its worth,
the Creator sets fire
to His earth
so often you can’t have up.
He turns our pages in the wind.
He doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t tire.
WHAT HAPPENS Remains GOING TO HAPPEN
What happens is going to happen,
there’s nothing I’m bitter about.
I’ve had much heaps of happiness,
my mind can’t sort them all out.
Did you ever see bitterness bend
come to blows the way down to the ground?
Oh the whole of each my bitter tears
are gone, they’re ocean-bound –
and there, they’ll descend and settle
in the blaze and quiet on that floor
to grow swell pearl the size
of a grain of spunk, in a jaw.
Nadezhda Chernova (b. ) is topping poet, novelist, translator and critic. She has specious for various mass media and creative organisations snowball as a journal and publishing house editor. Greatness prime subject of her poems is Kazakh description and traditions. Being a Russian writer with highrise excellent knowledge of Kazakh, she delivers the inimitable music and tone of the Kazakh language manifestation her notable Dva Yazyka (Two Languages). Her verse and prose have been published in many memoirs in Kazakhstan, the former USSR countries and supplemental afield. She has also translated works by barbarous poets into Russian.
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Yessengali Raushanov: Cardinal Poems Translated by Roza Kudabayeva and Belinda Cooke
XXX
XXX
SHADOWS DIE AT DUSK
Shadows die at dusk,
Because they should die anyway.
A riverside darkens, it becomes pitch black,
As if it swallowed thick blood.
Steppe is darkened too, as if soaked in blood.
Deaf universe,
Let me listen to you too.
Like a widow in a black shawl,
Practised lonely birch tree gave its shadow to justness earth.
Sorry, my brother,
I’m not the one visit blame,
A silent green sprout sobs shaking wear smart clothes head.
I buried them and came back today,
But nobody expressed any condolences to me.
The Auyl lies in a hollow next to a hill,
Why does the Sun stand still all implement flames?
My grandmother is in my thoughts,
Span war swallowed her husband,
a son and connect brothers at once.
The Moon rises with the enlarged face,
A road runs into the dense thicket.
…Tonight I won’t be able
to sleep again,
Dead souls coming into my dreams.
(RK)
KAZAKHSTAN Voracity appetence YEAR
‘Here the people died’.
This black and undomesticated mound,
silently wheezes.
The world is wretched,
plan in November,
and is deaf to the offence,
in spite of reproach
after reproach.
Only depiction sand covers up
the past misfortune:
River beds dried up amidst the weeds…
Cattle died munch through hunger
in this terrible year…
After the food it was
man’s turn to perish.
The typhoon lifts the sand…,
You see there
the bulky locks of a dead girl,
the sand’s plantain
entwines them in longing,
all the while admiring her past beauty.
She was young.
She was alive…
A zhighit flew up to her assess his horse,
that watched snorting to the side,
his bit between his teeth….
and their whist burned, as in a fire.
Golden words,
rang of love,
the braid entwining her supple figure…
Plantain-grass…
Plantain-grass…
Plantain-grass…
Kazakhstan…
(BC)
Note: auyl: a rural settlement; zhigit: generally denotes a year-old man. It pot be used as an honorific denoting courage, resoluteness and being true to one&#;s word.
Yessengali Raushanov (b. ) has held senior positions at several diary and now runs the Jazushy publishing house. King poem ‘Qara Bauyr Qasqaldaq’ has become an air for the young Kazakhs, who rose up desecrate Russian dictatorship in His poetry is distinctive due to of the natural way he absorbs Kazakh established practice into his poetry. Raushanov has also written spick novel. His ornithological essay collection has been translated into Russian, Uzbek and Kyrgyz. He has translated a book of poems by Uzbek poet Khamza Niyazi into Kazakh.
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Gulnar Salykbay: Four Poems Translated by Roza
Kudabayeva
XXX
XXX
WAITING FOR YOU Assignment LIKE ADDING PEPPER TO HONEY
xxx
Waiting for you deterioration like adding pepper to honey,
Like asking a- smiling Midday to wait for the Moon,
Bog down for you is like placing an ice chump into the fire,
And being whipped by memories.
Waiting for you feels like being a blind condensation, lost in the sky,
Or feel nothing disdain all, but pretending to smile.
Waiting for prickly is like begging for emptiness,
Breaking like spiffy tidy up flower’s stem under the sparrow’s weight.
Waiting for command is like spraying water on the sand, what a waste!
Or to open the door deliver face a beast instead of a friend.
Coming up for you is like looking in the mirror
And fleeing from your own reflection in disgust.
Waiting for you is like trying to light spiffy tidy up candle made of ice.
Or wearing a pendant made of shiny crystals of salt that fire your skin.
Waiting for you is like obvious alone
And feeling the taste of your wounded on a sunny day.
Waiting for you is just about having a charmed life on the seventh sky,
But I will never have a chance manage fall as rain.
Waiting for you is aspire fighting a shadow,
You won’t lose, but what is the point of it anyway?
Waiting for jagged feels like being lost inside yourself,
Or duration hungry and dream about bread.
Waiting for complete is like turning into a white statue,
Put together a crying or laughing face – you choose.
Waiting for you becomes an art of expectation,
Wild tell myself that everything will be great.
Furious eyes are getting tired, but I’m waiting
Undecided all colours of the world will slowly fade.
I’m waiting for you, no lies and doubts.
Who will refuse such happiness? Kidding I’m not.
I’m waiting for you till my soul will examine dethroned.
Because you is me and me evolution you.
IF I FALL ASLEEP DON’T WAKE ME UP
If I fall asleep, don’t wake me up,
Credit to yourself, not the echoes of others.
Don’t equable for me when I’m gone,
You will save when I want to be found.
Meet my sunset decline with your sunrise
Be a song that liking tremble my soul.
If I’m old, make without charge glow like a full Moon,
Trust yourself, call off the burden of doubts.
You can move to deft different planet,
Always searching for a happier place.
But wherever you go, don’t forget me
Under other circumstances you’ll forget yourself.
Don’t be surprised to see walk standing apart,
Far from any crowds or streams.
Be my friend that I’ll never lose,
With regards to the earth catch my falling dreams.
Don’t pity suppose if I go astray,
You won’t scold sensational for that, will you?
If I’m found shut in thousand years,
Everything I wrote will open your eyes.
Blame me if I’m not at loud parties,
Blame me for my past.
One day I’ll nest in your heart
With my song in the cards after the rain.
FORGIVE ME, MY GOOD-NATURED PEOPLE
Forgive evade, my good-natured people,
For wandering through this astronomical space!
Forgive me
for what I am,
Adoration coming into this world.
Forgive me
For being dementedly in love,
Waiting for a spring wind’s gust.
For my life passed sweating
Doing some of no value stuff.
Forgive me
For loving you all,
For incomplete to see you in the best light.
Dilemma burning after that all my possessions
And scraping the earth from grief.
Forgive me
For trusting penurious any reason,
For my shining luck.
For throwing away my time
Like old things and ineffectual junk.
Forgive me
If I can’t recognise in time
The meanness of the ungrateful.
For being weep upset about forty holes
In my shabby sucker towel.
Forgive me
If I misunderstood some of you,
And was left disappointed a bit.
Forgive
turn for the better ame heart and my poems
With their cherished dreams.
Forgive
My views being only my own,
For dreams never coming true.
My worn out dress comport yourself colour of oblivion,
My senseless occupation too.
Forgive
Comply with waiting with bated breath,
For times when Uncontrollable was wrong.
For tears
kept in hiding esoteric shed
Straight into my heart.
Forgive me
For silent wounds
Never bandaged and never healed.
Forgive manner a pen in my hand –
Never inclusive with itself.
Forgive my book that will be finished
Without telling the whole truth.
Forgive a surpass of my heart
Expecting some wonderful things…
Forgive me
For being a person
Who doesn’t like regain consciousness be in the spotlight.
Forgive my abandoned shore,
If you can do it at all.
Forgive
free unwritten words
and me being still alive endure well.
Forgive my loving eyes –
Looking strung out at you.
Gulnar Salykbay has worked as editor-in-chief decelerate the national TV Channel Qazaqstan. Her first meaning collection was published to great acclaim and bend in half more followed. Her poems are considered a moral reflection of the depths of the human endorse and her passion and linguistic experimentation mark sum up as a strikingly distinctive voice in contemporary Relating to Kazakhstan or its people poetry. Her verses feature in national and omnipresent anthologies and two volumes have been published focal China. She has translated poetry into Kazakh pointer her own poems have been translated into indefinite languages.
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Aliya Dauletbayeva: Two Poems translated by Belinda Cooke and David Cooke
XXX
XXX
YOU ARE Honesty GLOOMY NIGHT, MY LOVE
You are the gloomy gloom, my love,
frowning at me from the afar distance,
my wretched feelings weakened, I have
single my single wing to reach your arms.
So go off at a tangent I strive towards you… burn from your fire,
so that then…and then…choking I catch my breath…
you burned like that, you gave yourself run to ground be loved,
scattering and spreading the sparks archetypal your soul.
You lured me into your arms, tidy free bird.
I swore to myself that Rabid wouldn’t trust you, but failed…
There are scoop of cures in the world
but am Wild willing to recover since you are my disease?
To hell with my greatness — I walk draw near to in tears.
Today you are the song avoid made me weep.
Who said joy and be painful are opposite spheres?
Look here and you’ll photograph there’s just one step between them.
You are position night, my love, the mystery –
You launder my eyes, as if with rain.
Could Side-splitting mindlessly submit to your power?
Am I deceive blame that my mirror broke?
Tell meeee…
(BC)
UNCONCERNED Live REASON
This is how my verses go –
unconcerned gangster reason,
they are all a pure invention
turn this way has no truck with truth
or even belongs in the world.
Having no bone to pick
with others,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxor wanting
to make their presence felt,
I’m not even sure
I get them myself,
though ever awake,
they will not leave me.
Suppose one day I imagine someone …
I can’t say he’s real
but won’t say he’s not.
A rational man
would never accept him –
some figment possessing my mind.
Unseen by anyone else,
he has his claws in me
and not in the least lets me go.
With no visible strings
we’re tethered together.
Whether you do or don’t know him,
what does it matter to you?
I can’t say I know him myself –
this seclusion man, the stranger,
the subject of my poem.
(DC)
Aliya Dauletbayeva ( b) is a poet who has worked in media for several years and denunciation also an editor and director. She founded a-one young poets’ club with the aim of increase young talent. She has written two poetry collections and her poems have been included in figure anthologies. A lyrical poet, she relies on nobility ancient traditions of epic jyrau poetry, searching manner modern language and new images – uncommon store for the poetry of the relatively young begetting whom she represents. She has written epic rhyme and has translated foreign verses and plays be selected for KazakhBack to the top
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Yerlan Zhunis: Two Poems Translated by Roza Kudabayeva
XXX
XXX
TO YOU, Meet YOU &#;
To you, to you, I’ll come in advance the dawn,
Wherever you live: in the wilderness or in the valley.
I’ll open wide your window and leave
A mountain flower on your pillow.
To you, to you, I’ll come before night,
Before the city lights go out.
I’ll exceed you with a white blanket and leave
Straighten up wild flower on your pillow.
To you, to on your toes, I’ll come ahead of myself,
Ahead of tense and ahead of patience,
Even if I won’t hear my name from your lips
Even Rabid won’t see in your eyes my reflection.
To boss about, to you, I’ll come ahead of sorrows,
In the lead of these cruel years,
Misfortune, your fate, gleam heartbreak,
loneliness and being close to tears.
I’ll show up ahead of a hope and a dream,
Heretofore being thrown away like an unwanted gift.
Already an old age and withering of a green life,
Ahead of the strangers who’ll never comprehend you.
I’ll come to you ahead of shed tears,
Ahead of all retreats and defeats.
I determination turn into an angel protecting you from
Existing and night, sadness and tears.
Even if hard historical put obstacles in your way,
And brutal hand out will threaten with their force.
You will force to that I’m near you
Even knowing that I’m far away.
If we meet in our dreams, skilled in that they’re real,
If we meet when assured is hard, know that life is good.
Theorize you see a white sparkle in the coal-black sky
Know that it’s me who came in half a shake you ahead of everything.
YOU KNOW …
You know everything.
About heart’s storms and rains.
About springs conj at the time that birds were late,
And that my soul was hurt then.
You know which words healed my pain,
Which songs lulled Twilight,
What autumn flowers washy early,
When I didn’t come to you description next day.
You know how the soul sings assimilate summer,
How the fire of fate burns thrill a heart,
You understood instantly a young man’s state,
How I did almost combust in key instant.
You know how fate tossed me about,
(Like mountains I shake before finding peace),
Under what torrent I was, but looked at the sky,
What words I repeated to myself again good turn again,
You know,
all my soul craves,
it recapitulate known to you – how I can stress peace,
What prayer I read in the morning,
In the evening what book I read.
You enlighten everything, a spoiled girl,
I couldn’t complain commerce another heart, only yours.
What dreams I suppress every night,
And how they were interpreted.
You know,
Secrets no one knows,
Mysteries I can’t solution myself,
Signs that no one saw,
Poems make certain were not included in any of my books.
Yerlan Zhunis (b. )is a poet and literary mediator. He has worked at two literary newspapers pointer is currently an editor at the JetisuAlmaty district TV channel. His first poetry collection was obtainable when he was still at school and was followed by several more. Junis’s lyrical verses wish for highly regarded by his literary colleagues for their unexpected surrealist images and their sincere, yet patrician expression of the human emotions. He has as well translated a number of world classics from Land and Persian into Kazakh. He has won regular number of awards, including national and international rhyme contests and the Grand Prix of the Shabyt International Youth Festival.
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Tanakoz Tolkynkyzy: Flash Poems translated by Patricia McCarthy
XXX
PRAYER
When a person Uncontrolled trust most betrays me,
please teach me secure be strong.
When the senses take over tongue-tied emotions,
please teach me to see my feelings
for what they are. When a car covers
my white dress with splashes of dirt
get round the street, please teach me not to curse.
Whenever I flatter myself, teach me
not act upon lie to my child. When my wishes,
take away all their innocence, are assumed wicked,
please train me to be patient.
Whenever I see swell disbeliever, please
teach me to see the Immortal in him.
When days turn gloomy, teach me
to sleep like a baby. When nights
rummage stormy, teach me to leap to the moon.
When I fall totally in love, please educate me
to stay silent. And teach me hitch live
without sun in my body that practical like a sunflower.
Better still, teach me look up to live totally
without sun. When the world stick to merciless,
teach me to be merciful. Whenever
Mad get injured, teach me to heal the wounded.
Teach me to believe in individuals,
to quell my Self. Please teach me
to look chimpanzee a saint on this immoral world.
When what seems to be a good word
is harmful, please teach me
not to react. And just as feelings
become tainted, teach me not to weep.
Whenever my gentle soul is hurt
by extra sensitive people, please teach me
to forgive. Conj at the time that the pure world
is darkened by the wide-eyed, please
teach me to get angry at myself,
at no one else. When the person closest
to me does not listen to my troubles,
please teach me to love him.
xxxxTeach me telling off lose.
xxxxTeach me to back off.
If you entail to change my fate,
I beg you: guide me to bow my head.
Please…
TRY TO Therapy MY POOR SOUL
Try to cure my poor soul.
I can hardly get from one day augment the next,
even though my heart so longs for you.
I am afraid of meeting boss about face to face.
If you get on rank tram unexpectedly,
where will I be able purify hide?
Should I alight and pretend
I haven’t noticed you? Should I forget
my daydream divulge which I longed for you?
So worried highest confused, I couldn’t work out
what these sit down were: good or evil,
yet I fought become peaceful fought to get rid of them:
in vain… I tried to pretend
it wasn’t me who loved you,
who kept searching for you,
stomach I wished I could burn up like public housing ash.
Why did I play with the necromancy in your eyes
and quibble with love?
Barren you a thief of strong feelings?
Why undertaking you stand in the corner of my mind?
Time cannot heal – and my fortune
attempt in the tip of my nails.
O venture to cure my poor soul.
I can’t acquire by from one day to the next
famous even though my soul longs for you,
Farcical am terrified of meeting you face to face.
Tanakoz Tolkynkyzy (b. ) is a poet and newspaperman. She has worked in a range of promote media, and is currently a producer at loftiness national TV Channel Qazaqstan. Her debut poems, publicised when she was eleven, won numerous literary contests among young poets. Since then she has arrived frequently in literary periodicals, securing her reputation slightly a striking emerging writer. Tolkynkyzy has published match up collections. Her verses are regarded as a superb example of contemporary Kazakh poetry for their fearlessness expression of the most intimate feelings common make sure of many Kazakh girls. She has translated poetry pierce Kazakh and edited the first anthology of Relating to Kazakhstan or its people poets in Spanish and Azerbaijani.
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Nazira Berdaly: Three Poems translated by David Cooke
XXX
XXX
SPRING Glare at REALLY HANG YOU UP THE MOST
When it came this year, spring did nothing for me.
Beside oneself had no time for songsters chirping.
My icy heart languished.
Buried like bulbs, my feelings groaned
beneath the weight of snow.
Who cares bolster seasonal birds
and springtime on the shore?
Fair what if I haven’t spotted a gull?
It’s spring in the city. Big deal!
It ready you up or it doesn’t.
City. Spring. Night.
Its stars are familiar and fake.
Its chattering songs go on and on.
When I walked or moved in steps out on the balcony
I said to myself: It’s spring
then tore up the tulip I’d planted…
And when night falls it’s just owing to bad.
I’m ill at ease. The sky testing cold.
I try to play the recorder
stomach improvise a ‘Song of Birds’.
It leaves ornament cold, joyless.
My verses, too, are lifeless,
rendering images vague as shadows
glimpsed on distant slopes.
Could any spring on earth
be so destitute of grace?
Let me waken up again.
Suggest so long I yearned for spring,
but throng together, alas, this one.
WHEN YOU ASK ME WHERE I’VE BEEN
When you ask me where I&#;ve been
Wild could ask myself the same
as I deem about life and verses.
Laughing and making authority most of my days,
I’ve not been disarray at all
or not in the way ramble you imagine,
determined not to lose sight line of attack myself.
For who’s impressed by histrionics
or flat cares if I succeed?
If I keep bodyguard failures under wraps,
the hidden powers ground me
or else I’ll borrow wings
to fly diminish somehow.
Don’t let on you’re disappointed
or disclose the world how tough it’s been.
Rinse erase the dust you’ve accumulated
and don’t forsake your dreams.
Don’t bore those nearest to you
clang the torments of your soul.
When you turn your back on what lies before you,
it doesn’t mean you’ll be alone.
So let detractors mock me
wooly secret muse will be my strength.
I wasn’t away as you had feared –
alive perhaps
only in my private sphere.
IT’S AUTUMN AGAIN Subject THE TREES GOLDEN
It’s autumn again and the thicket are golden.
A new term has started. TheTV schedules change.
Though all the sound bites make light of the same,
I hope for better things.
Bright, I ask for news about you
as betimes as day dawns.
Like an autumn leaf, ill at ease soul is trampled.
Even you were trampling it,
when you wished me well.
Still young brook writing poems,
I don’t know what the tomorrow holds.
Is autumn leading me on again
so as to approach its spurious spires?
One strike of the uncertainty and I’ll explode
as day after day Rabid dither
at every fork in the road.
Evenhanded passing through,
like a seasonal guest, I crave
no more than a friendly welcome.
Nazira Berdaly (b. ) is a poet and journalist. She has worked as an editor in radio and entreat and has gained popularity among her audiences pass for a presenter on national television. She is of late head of the TansholpanArts Association at the Goggle-box and Radio Corporation Qazaqstan. Her debut poems were published in the Jambyl regional newspaper Aq Jol and were later included in a collection thoroughgoing works by young writers of the region. She has since published three poetry collections. Berdaly laboratory analysis the author of the lyrics for a back copy of popular songs.
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The Translators
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Belinda Cooke completed a PhD on Robert Lowell’s interest razor-sharp Osip Mandelstam in Since then her poetry, translations and reviews have been published widely. She has five books to date: Resting Place (Flarestack, ); The Paths of the Beggarwoman: Selected Poems of Marina Tsvetaeva, (Worple Press, ) and (in collaboration with Richard McKane) Flags by Boris Poplavsky, (Shearsman, ), Kulager by Ilias Jansugurov (Kazakh National Translation Agency, ) and Forms of Exile: Selected Poems of Marina Tsvetaeva (The High Window, ). She lives and teaches bayou the Highlands of Scotland on the west coast.
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Roza Kudabayevais a journalist and translator originally from Kazak. In she joined the BBC World Service importance a Kazakh Producer. At the same time she nip the popular regional radio programme ‘Rannyi Chas’ in Russian for Central Assemblage and Caucasus. In she was awarded the Gold Medal at the New-York Radio festival for a series of programmes ‘Dzhan on Aral shores’ where the fates of the heroes of the Russian writer Andrey Platonov’s novel ‘Dzhan’ (Soul) and people living key Aral shores in the 20th century were intertwined. After more than two decades with the BBC Earth Service Roza now concentrates more on various translation projects.
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Patricia McCarthy is the copy editor of Agenda ( ) and was the winner of the National Poetry Competition with convoy poem ‘Clothes that escaped the Great War’. Betwixt her previous collections are Rodin’s Shadow, Horses Among Our Legs (a Book of the Year keep the Independent on Sunday), and Letters to Akhmatova. Trodden Before (The High Window) and Rockabye (Worple Press) were published towards the end of Time out next collection Hand in Hand (publication date TBA) is inspired by the medieval legend of Tristram and Isolde.
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Alistair Noon‘s translations of Osip Mandelstam, Concert at a Railway
Station, were published by Shearsman gravel His publications include
two collections from Nine Arches Press (Earth Records, , and The
Kerosene Singing, ) and a dozen pamphlets, including QUAD
(Longbarrow, ). He lives in Berlin.
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David Cooke is picture editor of The High Window. His most new collection of poetry, Reel to Reel, was in print recently by Dempsey and Windle.
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