Turning my yearning for the homeland into verse was a quest for solace – Sevinc Garib
Sevinc Garib, a prominent representative of contemporary Azerbaijani literature, a poet, publicist, and a member of the Azerbaijani Journalists’ and Writers’ Unions.
Interviewed by: Jakhongir Nomozov
— Childhood holds a special place in every person’s life. Do you have any unforgettable memories from your early years?
— Indeed, childhood is the purest and most authentic phase in a person’s life. Its uniqueness perhaps stems from this very essence. Of course, I do have memories—some unforgettable, some I wish I could forget… Like thousands of others of my generation, I had to grow up before my time. War, occupation, and forced displacement stole away my childhood and adolescence. My innocent thoughts and dreams were replaced by longing and sorrow. That’s why most of my childhood memories are tinged with melancholy.
Let me mention that I am originally from the Lachin district of Azerbaijan. I was born there, and a part of my childhood passed in those lands. Lachin, which in May 1992 was occupied by Armenian armed forces with the support of foreign backers, remained under enemy control for 28 long years—plundered and devastated. I was forced to “live” my childhood and youth in pain, yearning, and torment. The loss of one’s homeland is an unbearable grief…
It’s true, today my paradise-like homeland is free, and our bitter longing has finally ended. But sadly, the childhood I never got to live can never be reclaimed…
I wouldn’t have liked to begin our conversation on such a sorrowful note, but unfortunately, this is a truth we cannot ignore.
— As a poet, how do you reflect the wonders and beauty of the “woman’s heart” in your poetry?
— In fact, a woman herself is a wonder, and beauty is tailored precisely for the image of a woman. If I may say so, the inner world of this miraculous being—her heart, thoughts, and soul, along with all the beauty she embodies—is portrayed in my poems with delicate emotion. My feelings are expressed lyrically, tenderly—sometimes with sadness, sometimes with joy, at times as a silent cry from within, and at times through profound stillness. The woman in my poetry, I believe, is depicted in her full essence—as a complete being. Readers may feel this more clearly.
— In your opinion, what is the role of women poets in modern Azerbaijani literature and society?
— Based on my observations in recent years and my experience within the literary world, I can confidently say that today we have a significant number of women poets who are not just observers, but active participants in both literary and social processes. Women poets have gained considerable influence through their words, thoughts, and beliefs—not just in literature but within society as well.
Naturally, a creative woman should also possess social awareness. Our mission is not limited to writing alone. Engagement with society is essential. Today, women poets, just like their male counterparts, contribute to the development and enlightenment of society, and to the flourishing of literature.
Through the weight of their words, the strength of their personalities, their civic stance, and intellectual integrity, these women become role models. The way they peer into society from within literature, and how they address society through their works—this, I believe, is felt and recognized, and we are beginning to see the positive results of it.
— Your creativity bears strong layers of historical anguish and longing for the homeland. What mindset and creative sincerity does it take to bring historical memories to life in poetry?
— That is an accurate observation. Indeed, a significant portion of my creativity is filled with earth‑aching, homeland‑longing poems steeped in agony. It is only natural that my lived experiences are mirrored in what I write. Turning my homeland’s longing into words was perhaps also an attempt to extinguish the fire within me—to soothe my wounds.
Of course, if one is to transform historical memories into poetry, those verses must emerge from honest feelings rooted in real experiences—not from imagination or distortion. The poetic forms and philosophical reflections must align with the character of the poem, depending on the author’s talent.
One’s mood should resonate with the atmosphere of that history, and with the memories in the backdrop, the internal unrest must reflect in the lines as if reliving yesterday.
— What are your thoughts on today’s attitude towards women poets? What does society expect from women poets?
— In fact, women poets have existed throughout classical Azerbaijani literature. In certain eras, they were looked down upon—not only in literature but in all fields—doubt existed that women could be as capable and talented as men. Even today, some of those attitudes persist, though not as widely.
Women have proven themselves in science, literature, and other fields. Nowadays, the attitude toward women poets has changed for the better. I believe that the era of discrimination is behind us. Society now expects women poets to be not only creative but also active citizens who remain loyal to their mission.
— What kinds of internal psychological states do you face when transforming delicate feelings from a woman’s heart into poetry?
— The psychological state varies with the poem’s theme and nature. If the feeling is about love, involuntary feelings of happiness stir within—like the rise of joyful hormones. If the theme is separation, layers of sadness overwhelm my emotions like clouds. Themes of solitude and loneliness are written with another kind of tension.
— What’s your opinion about modern Azerbaijani poetry? Which trends delight you, and which concern you?
— My view on modern Azerbaijani poetry is positive. First, because there are creative voices whose work speaks genuinely of literature, and new ones continue to emerge—which brings me joy.
Secondly, I am pleased to see some of these voices transcend borders and reach the wider world. Another encouraging trend is the expansion of literary connections and exchange of ideas with other countries, which contributes both to personal growth and the advancement of literature overall.
Of course, I have concerns. For instance, the surge of people who claim to write poetry without depth. Those who label mere word collections as poetry, presenting them as poetic examples, harm readers’ sensibilities.
I hope they will be naturally filtered out over time, yet my heart still aches for today’s discerning readers and lovers of genuine literature.
— If your life were a poem, what tone would it have—lyrical, epic, dramatic, satirical, or perhaps Sufi-inspired?
— It would likely be primarily lyrical, with a touch of Sufi spirit.
— There was a time when Turkic-speaking poets built dreams in one language, lived in one heart. How does modern Azerbaijani poetry contribute to that spiritual unity?
— Then, those dreams are now becoming reality. Turkic-speaking poets can meet and follow each other’s creative work closely. Nothing is out of reach now; we no longer find comfort in mere dreams.
Mutual literary meetings, the introduction of Turkic-speaking authors in Azerbaijan and of Azerbaijani authors in friendly countries—these efforts further strengthen our spiritual unity. Invitations to book festivals and poetry gatherings, organized solo readings—they all demonstrate literary unity and friendship. The publication of brother‑country writers in Azerbaijan and the coverage of individual poets’ works in the press are contributions, in my view. The promotion of Azerbaijani literature and poetry in Turkic‑speaking countries is also being carried out as much as possible.
— They say that being a poet means losing yourself every day and finding yourself again every night. How do you experience this spiritual process? Do you find yourself in poetry—or do you lose yourself in it?
— I suppose this saying is rooted in the common belief that poets often write at night. And when they say “every day,” they’re really referring to daytime. Logically speaking, day and night are two halves that create harmony.
When I write poetry, I detach myself from the world around me. The realm I enter is closer to the sermons of the skies than to the noise of the earth. Because the voice—or sometimes the silence—that sinks into my feelings is a divine whisper.
And I live through each poem line by line, word by word. As what is dictated to my soul filters through my emotions and sensations, it’s as if a new version of me is born.
My emotions, my reasoning, my philosophy, and my thoughts—once turned into words—return me to myself in one moment of the day or another. I find myself in poetry.
To lose oneself in poetry is, in a way, also a part of this spiritual journey…
— How do childhood memories manifest in your poetic world? In your view, what kind of strength does remaining a child at heart give a poet?
— As I mentioned earlier in our conversation, my childhood memories carry pain. I lived part of my early years before the occupation began. The unrest in Karabakh broke out during the years of my childhood.
As you know, Azerbaijan was part of the so-called Soviet Union for 70 years—though in truth, it was under the colonizing policy of the Russian Empire.
In 1990, it was that very occupying power—the Soviet Defense Ministry, the KGB, and the Interior Ministry troops—that entered Baku and several other regions of Azerbaijan. What followed was the horrific tragedy of January 20.
Then came the Khojaly genocide in February 1992—an unspeakable massacre committed jointly by Armenian and Russian armed forces. That tragedy devastated the inner world of me and my generation. We grew up with trauma…
Even as a child, I lived in a world of my own. Unlike my peers, I preferred retreating into solitude, dreaming, and asking questions to the sky, rather than playing games.
While everyone else shied away from the sun, I would seek refuge in it. I remember how I would throw myself into the arms of the rain—my laughter mingling with the sound of its fall was perhaps the most genuine laughter of my life.
I believe traces of my childhood memories are vividly visible in my poetic world.
The purity, sincerity, and natural essence that echo through my work are shaped by the spirit of those memories.
Childhood is a beginning, a foundation.
To nurture childlike emotions in your heart—or to live with them—gives a poet immense spiritual strength.
Leaning on that pure side of oneself is a form of spiritual revival, and it is also what keeps the poetic world intact.
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Jakhongir Nomozov is a young poet and journalist from Uzbekistan. He is also a Member of the Azerbaijan Journalists’ Union.
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