A POET IS BUT A SINGLE PARTICLE OF ALL HUMANITY
Our guest is Sabir Rustamkhanli — People’s Poet of the Republic of
Azerbaijan, Chairman of the Civic Solidarity Party, a prominent figure of
Azerbaijani literature, and a distinguished statesman and public figure.
— What colors and sounds
from your childhood remain in the memory of your soul?
How much have these colors and sounds contributed to the making of your poetic spirit?
— One critic who studied my poetry once wrote: “The
dominant color in Sabir Rustamkhanli’s poems is white.”
From the outside, it may seem so — and one could debate this. After all, I deeply love the color blue, the symbol of Turkic identity. “Mother’s milk,” “Moonlight,” “Snowy mountains,” “White dreams,” “White hopes,” “Our mother’s hands covered in flour, her face covered in flour…” “The beginning of life is white, and its end is white” — these are among my frequent metaphors. The critic likely based his conclusion on the recurrence of such images in my work.
Indeed, I was born in a mountain village where winter seemed endless and snow defined the landscape, and I have written many poems about snow. The kindness in my nature, my habit of doing good for others, also reinforces this “white” color.
But other colors from childhood are equally unforgettable — the golden hue of ripened fields, the richness of grain-threshing yards, and the yellowing autumn forests. Anything tied to farewell and parting has always moved me deeply.
The matter of sound is more complex. Which ones do I remember most? The cries of migrating cranes flying south over our houses. For some reason, I always imagined that these cranes were flying toward Tabriz — to Southern Azerbaijan, which today remains within the borders of Iran. The early morning chorus of birds waking from sleep was as tender as the ear-splitting claps of thunder, the sound of spring rain, and the earth-shaking roar of lightning. Perhaps that is why in my poems, expressions like “larks hanging from their own voices” or “the cry of lightning” appear often. And there is also the sound of the ney — the reed flute — a sound that can shake the heart to its core.
— In poetry, how can one
awaken the national spirit while also reconciling it with universal human
values?
— What we call “universal” is in fact the sum of many
individual national values. Awakening the national spirit does not distance a
people from universal values — on the contrary, it brings them closer. This
applies to all fields of art.
Take Samarkand, Bukhara, and Khiva: their monuments are national. They are the product of Uzbek labor and spirit. Yet how can anyone separate them from the heritage of world culture? As national cultures grow, universal culture grows with them. To be national is to love — your past, your history, your land, your creative power.
By loving yourself, you declare no war on others. The warmongers are those who, under the banner of “universalism,” seek to erase the unique character and historical journey of nations, smothering the world in a single dull gray under the name of globalization. But in my view, if you want to be truly universal, know yourself better — be more national.
For centuries, the national existence, language, historical memory, fighting spirit, yearning for unity and freedom, faith in strength, and capacity for independent living of the Azerbaijani Turks have been preserved precisely through literature — whether written or oral.
When politics opened the door to Persian and Russian occupation, and theology to Arab domination, it was literature that kept our people alive upon their own Azerbaijani-Turkic roots. Knowing this, our enemies throughout history have first targeted the wordsmiths, the thinkers, the mother tongue — seeking to enslave us to foreign languages, foreign literatures, foreign ways of thought. We must ensure that the spirit of universalism never turns into a form of spiritual occupation.
— The relationship between master and
apprentice is not merely the transmission of knowledge, but a school of spirit
that passes from heart to heart. How would you describe the greatest lesson you
learned in this school?
— When I
speak of “masters,” I first think of my schoolteachers, and then of the
classical authors of literature written in the Turkic language. Both have been
pure springs from which I have drunk deeply. My schoolteachers, following the
path of my father and mother, taught me honesty, integrity, love for work, and
loyalty to my homeland and hearth. At the same time, they filled my heart with
love for the land, the nation, and the history of my country — with the spirit
of freedom and courage.
From our great literary masters — Dede Qorqud, Nizami
Ganjavi, Nasimi, Navai, Fuzuli — I learned love for my mother tongue, the
ideals of great humanism, the bond between God and man, spiritual perfection,
and the ability to see the universe as a whole.
— In your opinion, where is the finest thread
connecting poetry and humanity most clearly revealed?
— Poetry and humanity are not separate things. Poetry is the state of
being human that stands closest to the prophet, to God, to the heavens. A poet
sees not only the outer life of people but also their inner worlds. Most
importantly, the poet loves people — and spends an entire lifetime writing from
that love. To me, the shortest thread between the two is love.
What changes is the form of expression. In the past, warriors went to meet their beloveds on horseback or in carriages; today they go by car. Yet the essence of the feeling that takes them to that meeting has changed very little. I believe that some qualities we now see in literature will also be hallmarks of the future. The poetry of tomorrow will, without doubt, preserve two tendencies we already know: first, its informational content will grow — in other words, literature will become more intelligent; and second, especially for poetry, there will remain an unshakable and timeless path — the language of feeling and love.
— In your opinion, what is
the greatest happiness of a poet — the effect their writing has on people,
being remembered by history, or the lightening of the heart?
— I believe what matters most is that the poet empties
their heart — giving voice to the sound of their own soul, to their emotions,
to their love and their anger. In this process, the poet rarely, if ever,
thinks about the effect of their words on others or whether their work will
remain in history.
— “The word is a divine power,” they say. In your opinion, how valuable is the word today? Can today’s poets and writers still influence society?
— The attitude toward the word changes according to
historical circumstances and the cultural level of nations. In essence, the
word truly is a divine power. There is even a belief that the universe itself
was created from the Creator’s command, “Be.” In the East, this belief is
especially strong. The faith of our classical poets in “Wahdat al-Wujud”—the
unity of being, the idea of man as a particle of God, directly bound to the
Creator—has influenced both our language and our literary thought. You know
well how widespread the Hurufi movement was in the Turkic world: every feature
of the human face was likened to a letter, and the words inscribed upon it were
read as divine verses.
Today, outwardly, the word may seem to have lost some of its magic, yet no other force has replaced it. In Azerbaijan, the word of poets and writers has always been seen as the voice of wisdom, the word of an elder. People trusted poets. When the national independence movement began in 1988, poets and writers—including myself—were at the forefront. The people believed in us; they followed us. Perhaps this is why the authorities have always looked upon men of letters and literature with a certain jealousy, perhaps even fear.
Today, all over the world, there are deliberate attempts to discredit literature and art. Writers live in a constant atmosphere of unease. State support for literature is declining, and low print runs prevent new books from becoming widely known. Yet literature still retains its strength and its ability to influence society. Literature is sovereign—sovereign even over rulers and states.
— As an artist, what is the problem that troubles you most in today’s society, and how can a poet address it?
— The greatest concern is the global process that
seeks to turn people into slaves of the West, into robots, cutting them from
their roots, destroying families and traditional values. This inevitably
affects the poet’s creativity, often confronting him directly with the ongoing
processes. At such times, the poet must become the guardian of his nation’s
moral values, of the mother tongue, of the national spirit, of justice and
democracy. The fortress of the word is eternal, and the poet must always stand
within that fortress.
— A poet’s life should not
consist solely of poetry. In your opinion, what else should enrich the poet’s
world?
— Although I am
a People’s Poet of Azerbaijan, I have never confined myself to a single genre.
Throughout my life I have written essays and journalistic pieces. There is no
sphere of life about which I have not spoken from a clear civic position. From
a young age I represented Azerbaijani literature in various international
forums. In 1988, I helped lead the “Meydan” movement. In 1989, I published
Azerbaijan’s first independent and democratic newspaper. In 1990, at the
people’s insistence, I was elected to parliament. Later I served as Minister of
Press and Information. I represented Azerbaijan at the World Parliament and the
Parliamentary Union of the Organization of Islamic Countries. I am co-chairman
of the World Congress of Azerbaijanis.
In truth, I have not lived merely the life of a poet—because to me, being a poet first means being an exemplary citizen of one’s country.
As I wrote in one of my poems:
Poets do not come to earth merely to write verses;
They come when the balance of the world is lost.
They come when hearts are veiled with iron curtains,
When rusty waters flow through veins instead of blood.
Only poets can bear the burdens that bend the world,
The unyielding weight of grief that presses the earth like a sphere.
Torments and sorrows too vast for a million hearts
Will find their place in a single poet’s heart.
Poets do not come merely to gaze with dreamy eyes
At flowers and blossoms,
Or to whisper verses to the charms of women and depart.
They come to scatter light into human hearts,
To sow justice,
And to make it grow.
— Many of your poems focus on homeland,
Turkism, the pain of the people, and national themes. In a poem glorifying the
nation’s historical past, apart from talent, inspiration, and knowledge, what
other qualities are important?
— I believe that whether a poet writes socially and
politically charged, civic-themed poetry, or instead focuses on lyrical or
philosophical subjects, is ultimately a matter of fate. No writer can simply
make such a choice mechanically. Family and school upbringing also play a
significant role in this. I was born on the border with Iran, and from
childhood I understood the immense tragedy of the division of a nation and
homeland. Such feelings cannot be experienced in other environments. Historical
knowledge and what I call “Blood Memory” are also vital. The more a person
knows and understands themselves, their nation, their history, and the world,
the more firmly they are bound to their roots and hearth. Without seeing and
knowing the Turkic world, without studying and loving its history and culture,
what could you possibly write about it?
The love for one’s homeland and nation must be like Majnun’s love—pure, consuming, and ready for any sacrifice in its name.
— “The poet is the mirror of society,” they say. In your opinion, can the poets of today’s Turkic world truly be society’s mirror?
— The Turkic world is vast, and within it poets
compose songs—each different, each beautiful in their own way. There is a need
for them to know each other better and to introduce one another’s works more
widely.
The Turkic world has always produced great talents, and it continues to do so. Poetry and literature are forms of art that reflect a nation’s inner energy, its strength, and its capacity to resist evil. A people who can view the world through poetic eyes and create powerful works of art have no fear of exhaustion, extinction, or death.
Let me give another example: the Kirkuk Turkmens, who
are part of the Azerbaijani Turks, remain far from Azerbaijan and Turkey, situated
within the political map of Iraq. Despite such isolation and political
pressure, rather than forgetting their language and spirit, they have instead
poured their strength into poetic creativity. For them, the Word has become the
mirror of their will to live. The countless Kirkuk khoryat and mani (four-line
poems, bayatis) are a mysterious world. In just four lines, they capture all
the secrets, joys, sorrows, resolve to struggle, and even death that belong to
human nature and existence on earth.
The extremely rich folklore and written literature of
the Turkic peoples, though inherited from the past, is also a guarantee of
their bright future.
For me, without poetic speech, the world would lose its beauty. I believe in the power of the Word.
We are born of the Word, our essence is pure,
We must change the world through words.
Death is our final trench,
We must fight until the very last word!
— What is the main bond between a poet and humanity?
— The poet is a particle of humanity itself. Just as a
drop of water can reflect the whole world within it, a poet, through their life
and creative work, reflects the entire spirit, ideals, and essential qualities
of humanity. That is the core of the connection.
— In your opinion, can contemporary literature
find its way into the hearts of the people? When does literature live together
with the people and the nation?
— For literature to reach the hearts of the people, it
must first be delivered to them.
In other words, book print runs should be large enough so that every interested reader can have access. The book distribution network that existed during the Soviet era no longer exists. The state’s interest in books has diminished; it no longer uses them as an ideological tool. Print runs are limited, and in many districts and villages, no new books reach readers at all. The notion that “now that e-books exist, we no longer need physical books and libraries” is becoming increasingly widespread — and this is a completely wrong way of thinking.
Authors’ trips to rural areas and meetings with readers have become rare. Television channels prefer to give space to entertainment programs and cheap literature rather than to serious literary works. On social media, instead of meaningful and artistic works, meaningless piles of words are often shared.
Because of this, it is not entirely fair to complain that literature does not touch people’s hearts — there is a deliberate effort to take literature away from being a value of the entire nation and turn it into the possession of a narrow circle.
As strange as the comparison may seem, literature is
now treated like a soldier discharged from the army. Yet the moment a war
begins, everyone turns their eyes to the word and to the intellectuals. In
times of hardship, the word — like a soldier — stands at the front lines,
face-to-face with the enemy, together with the people.
This was the case in the recent Karabakh war with Armenia, when Azerbaijani literature, with all its power, stood alongside our army and among our people.
Despite the negative realities I have mentioned regarding books, literature remains forever in the hearts of the people and by their side.
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.
How much have these colors and sounds contributed to the making of your poetic spirit?
From the outside, it may seem so — and one could debate this. After all, I deeply love the color blue, the symbol of Turkic identity. “Mother’s milk,” “Moonlight,” “Snowy mountains,” “White dreams,” “White hopes,” “Our mother’s hands covered in flour, her face covered in flour…” “The beginning of life is white, and its end is white” — these are among my frequent metaphors. The critic likely based his conclusion on the recurrence of such images in my work.
Indeed, I was born in a mountain village where winter seemed endless and snow defined the landscape, and I have written many poems about snow. The kindness in my nature, my habit of doing good for others, also reinforces this “white” color.
But other colors from childhood are equally unforgettable — the golden hue of ripened fields, the richness of grain-threshing yards, and the yellowing autumn forests. Anything tied to farewell and parting has always moved me deeply.
The matter of sound is more complex. Which ones do I remember most? The cries of migrating cranes flying south over our houses. For some reason, I always imagined that these cranes were flying toward Tabriz — to Southern Azerbaijan, which today remains within the borders of Iran. The early morning chorus of birds waking from sleep was as tender as the ear-splitting claps of thunder, the sound of spring rain, and the earth-shaking roar of lightning. Perhaps that is why in my poems, expressions like “larks hanging from their own voices” or “the cry of lightning” appear often. And there is also the sound of the ney — the reed flute — a sound that can shake the heart to its core.
Take Samarkand, Bukhara, and Khiva: their monuments are national. They are the product of Uzbek labor and spirit. Yet how can anyone separate them from the heritage of world culture? As national cultures grow, universal culture grows with them. To be national is to love — your past, your history, your land, your creative power.
By loving yourself, you declare no war on others. The warmongers are those who, under the banner of “universalism,” seek to erase the unique character and historical journey of nations, smothering the world in a single dull gray under the name of globalization. But in my view, if you want to be truly universal, know yourself better — be more national.
For centuries, the national existence, language, historical memory, fighting spirit, yearning for unity and freedom, faith in strength, and capacity for independent living of the Azerbaijani Turks have been preserved precisely through literature — whether written or oral.
When politics opened the door to Persian and Russian occupation, and theology to Arab domination, it was literature that kept our people alive upon their own Azerbaijani-Turkic roots. Knowing this, our enemies throughout history have first targeted the wordsmiths, the thinkers, the mother tongue — seeking to enslave us to foreign languages, foreign literatures, foreign ways of thought. We must ensure that the spirit of universalism never turns into a form of spiritual occupation.
What changes is the form of expression. In the past, warriors went to meet their beloveds on horseback or in carriages; today they go by car. Yet the essence of the feeling that takes them to that meeting has changed very little. I believe that some qualities we now see in literature will also be hallmarks of the future. The poetry of tomorrow will, without doubt, preserve two tendencies we already know: first, its informational content will grow — in other words, literature will become more intelligent; and second, especially for poetry, there will remain an unshakable and timeless path — the language of feeling and love.
— “The word is a divine power,” they say. In your opinion, how valuable is the word today? Can today’s poets and writers still influence society?
Today, outwardly, the word may seem to have lost some of its magic, yet no other force has replaced it. In Azerbaijan, the word of poets and writers has always been seen as the voice of wisdom, the word of an elder. People trusted poets. When the national independence movement began in 1988, poets and writers—including myself—were at the forefront. The people believed in us; they followed us. Perhaps this is why the authorities have always looked upon men of letters and literature with a certain jealousy, perhaps even fear.
Today, all over the world, there are deliberate attempts to discredit literature and art. Writers live in a constant atmosphere of unease. State support for literature is declining, and low print runs prevent new books from becoming widely known. Yet literature still retains its strength and its ability to influence society. Literature is sovereign—sovereign even over rulers and states.
— As an artist, what is the problem that troubles you most in today’s society, and how can a poet address it?
In truth, I have not lived merely the life of a poet—because to me, being a poet first means being an exemplary citizen of one’s country.
They come when the balance of the world is lost.
When rusty waters flow through veins instead of blood.
The unyielding weight of grief that presses the earth like a sphere.
Will find their place in a single poet’s heart.
At flowers and blossoms,
Or to whisper verses to the charms of women and depart.
To sow justice,
And to make it grow.
The love for one’s homeland and nation must be like Majnun’s love—pure, consuming, and ready for any sacrifice in its name.
— “The poet is the mirror of society,” they say. In your opinion, can the poets of today’s Turkic world truly be society’s mirror?
The Turkic world has always produced great talents, and it continues to do so. Poetry and literature are forms of art that reflect a nation’s inner energy, its strength, and its capacity to resist evil. A people who can view the world through poetic eyes and create powerful works of art have no fear of exhaustion, extinction, or death.
For me, without poetic speech, the world would lose its beauty. I believe in the power of the Word.
We must change the world through words.
Death is our final trench,
We must fight until the very last word!
— What is the main bond between a poet and humanity?
In other words, book print runs should be large enough so that every interested reader can have access. The book distribution network that existed during the Soviet era no longer exists. The state’s interest in books has diminished; it no longer uses them as an ideological tool. Print runs are limited, and in many districts and villages, no new books reach readers at all. The notion that “now that e-books exist, we no longer need physical books and libraries” is becoming increasingly widespread — and this is a completely wrong way of thinking.
Authors’ trips to rural areas and meetings with readers have become rare. Television channels prefer to give space to entertainment programs and cheap literature rather than to serious literary works. On social media, instead of meaningful and artistic works, meaningless piles of words are often shared.
Because of this, it is not entirely fair to complain that literature does not touch people’s hearts — there is a deliberate effort to take literature away from being a value of the entire nation and turn it into the possession of a narrow circle.
This was the case in the recent Karabakh war with Armenia, when Azerbaijani literature, with all its power, stood alongside our army and among our people.
Despite the negative realities I have mentioned regarding books, literature remains forever in the hearts of the people and by their side.
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.
