History dislikes falsehood and literature does not recognize hearless words – Nicat Hunalp
[Nicat HUNALP is a promising young Azerbaijani poet and writer, a member of the Union of Azerbaijani Writers and the World Union of Young Turkic Writers]
Jakhongir NOMOZOV | Uzbekistan
— You studied History at the university. What is the importance of history for a poet’s heart? How has this subject influenced your poetic thinking?
Yes, I studied in the History faculty at Sumgait State University from 2015 to 2019. I have been passionate about history since a young age. By the time I was nine or ten, I was already reading historical encyclopedias, exploring ancient civilizations, Turkic peoples, and mythologies. History, for me, is not merely a collection of events, but also the spirit, memory, and spiritual code accumulated within a people.
This historical spirit shines through openly in my poetry. In poems like “Where Did the Horses Lead Their Ancestors?”, “Wolf’s Memory”, and “Shaman Writes My Dream”, you can find the worldview of ancient Turks, the spirit of shamanism, and the philosophy of the steppes. Even the Uzbek–translated version of “Where Did the Horses Lead Their Ancestors?” in your publication carries the echo of this historical soul.
— When you write, do you feel closer to yourself or further away?
When I write, I move away from myself. The writing process becomes a kind of self‑loss. To immerse in the depth of one’s own lines and become another version of Nicat — perhaps that is the path to reach Nicat himself again. Writers and poets typically have a different mindset, which occasionally separates them from their society.
Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Camus, Sadegh Hedayat — their works were born in the depths of their personal labyrinths. When I write, I enter those labyrinths as well.
— Can a genuine poem be born without an inner ache, without a sense of wonder or beauty?
No, it is impossible. A poem is the poetic embodiment of something lived and truly felt. Lines written without feeling that ache—without that inner burn—remain lifeless. Consider the Soviet‑era forced poems: ideological, mechanical, artificial. History has sifted them out — today, neither the poems nor the names of those poets are remembered. For history despises deceit, and literature does not tolerate heartless words.
— Have you ever faced false praise or baseless criticism? How did they affect you?
Yes, quite often. False praise has become a habit in our circles. Sometimes they shower you with hollow compliments—it may feel nice for a moment, but then you realize it was meant to stroke someone’s ego, not yours.
Baseless criticism, on the other hand, can burn you. But over time, I understood that a writer must learn to endure not only criticism but also silence and misunderstanding.
— In your poetry, is history just a subject, or is it also spirit, memory, remembrance?
In my work, history is more than plot—it’s a state of mind. It’s not just about remembering; it’s about carrying that spirit, bringing it into the present, keeping it alive. In my lines, you can hear the echo of Attila’s or Asparukh’s horses’ hoofbeats: the 12th‑century Mongol shaman recites a prayer, Genghis Khan on his steed symbolically sees through the Chinese wall with his fierce eyes, wise figures and oracles like Tonyukuk recite the earliest and final songs of the Turkic people in the Orkhon inscriptions. Each line carries the breath of that spirit.
— How does a poetic mind develop? Does thought give birth to inspiration, or does inspiration give birth to thought?
They are processes that give birth to each other, complementing one another. Sometimes a moment of reflection triggers inspiration; other times a spontaneous wave of inspiration plunges a person into deep thought. But I believe that sustained creativity requires a structured thinking system. Inspiration may come and go—but the intellect should not abandon you.
— How do philosophy and spirituality merge in your work? Was that fusion natural, or born of searching?
At first, it was a natural state for me. But as time passed, I realized that the philosophical layer in each line is no coincidence. It stems from my inner spiritual quest as well as from the influence of philosophers and poets I’ve read — Nizami, Nasimi, Omar Khayyam, Navoiy, Rumi, and others. Spirituality comes from the heart; philosophy is the voice of the mind. When they unite, the poem becomes deeper and more enduring.
— Should a poet hide their feelings, or transfer them onto paper exactly as they are?
A poet is the voice for what cannot be spoken. To conceal is a trait of fear. I believe that a true poem should not remain silent. That is why they skinned Nasimi alive for refusing to be silent. True poets cannot be contained in palaces — as Nasimi said, they are too vast to be contained in the world.
— How do you distinguish between “creating” a poem and “finding” one?
“Creating” refers to expressing an idea you formed internally into words. “Finding” refers to discovering a thought that already existed somewhere, and capturing it. I believe poetry is often found — emerging from a dream, a moment of silence, a glance. It hovers in the air, and you catch it. But catching it is also a creative act.
— How does your personal life reflect in your work? And how do you transform the personal into the universal?
My personal life is the core of my creativity. But I don’t present it just as it happened; I filter it into universal emotions. For example, when writing about a separation, I don’t consider only my own sorrow—I think about the feelings of thousands. The poet’s role is to transform what he has lived into what everyone can feel. Personal pain becomes part of collective suffering—and that is how literature is born.
I hope this translation captures the depth, sincerity, and poetic nuance of the original. Let me know if you’d like any adjustments or poetic enhancements!
Read: Artists Have To Foster Global Peace
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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.
