Is raising a glass.

Let us also give ourselves this happiness,

Let us raise a glass.

Bahtiyar Hidayet

Bahtiyar Hidayet, born in 1974 in the Gazakh region of the Republic of Azerbaijan, graduated from university in 1995 and has been working as a history teacher since 1998. Wrote poetry since high school and has 4 poetry books published in Azerbaijan.

Toast

There is nothing strange here, my dear.

We eat cabbage, we eat beans,

They keep eating meat.

According to the laws of nature,

Herbivores are the natural food of carnivores.

Human laws and human rights

Are empty things. We should still be glad

That they only eat our rights.

They could eat us, too.

Let us celebrate this happiness:

Pickled cabbage, a bowl of beans,

Cheese, bread, and a cheap bottle of vodka.

Let us raise a toast

To the honor of herbivores.

And let us also rejoice that

The age of cannibals is over,

Cannibalism is in the past.

Let us raise a glass

To the honor of the modern age.

The heaviest burden for those carnivores

Is raising a glass.

Let us also give ourselves this happiness,

Let us raise a glass.

Let us escape hard work for one day.

On our lightest day,

Let us raise the “heaviest” burden.

Let us give up vegetarianism for one day,

With the cheapest sausage.

____________

Read: The Burden of Sisyphus

The post Toast – A Poem from Azerbaijan first appeared on Sindh Courier.

The sea otter learns to survive

By holding a stone against its chest.

Bahtiyar Hidayet

Bahtiyar Hidayet, born in 1974 in the Gazakh region of the Republic of Azerbaijan, graduated from university in 1995 and has been working as a history teacher since 1998. Wrote poetry since high school and has 4 poetry books published in Azerbaijan.

The Burden of Sisyphus

Watch the documentary:

The sea otter learns to survive

By holding a stone against its chest.

 But

The real documentary should be made about humans.

There are stones instead of hearts

In millions of chests.

Humans use them

Against each other

In order not to survive.

Our hearts have turned into stone

Inside our chests.

Every heart is a burden of Sisyphus.

We are still in the Stone Age.

The subconscious of most of us

Is in the Lower Paleolithic,

The conscious mind of some of us

Is in the Upper Paleolithic,

And the rest are in the Middle Paleolithic.

A good documentary could be made

About this subject:

People of the Stone Age

In modern clothes —

Homo habilis,

Neanderthal man,

And Homo sapiens —

Learn how to survive

From sea otters.

_______________ 

Read: Vandalism in the name of Cleanliness

The post Poetry: The Burden of Sisyphus first appeared on Sindh Courier.

As if they are giving their clothes to the soil

So that the soil will not be cold in winter.

But the city municipality

Has the leaves collected and burned.

Bahtiyar Hidayet

Bahtiyar Hidayet, born in 1974 in the Gazakh region of the Republic of Azerbaijan, graduated from university in 1995 and has been working as a history teacher since 1998. Wrote poetry since high school and has 4 poetry books published in Azerbaijan.

Vandalism in the name of Cleanliness

The trees in the park

Have seen the cutting down of forests,

Raise their arms to the sky and give thanks

For having once left their homeland.

The distant mountains I trusted

Have raised a white flag.

They were the first to surrender to winter.

The trees are taking off their clothes,

As if they are giving their clothes to the soil

So that the soil will not be cold in winter.

But the city municipality

Has the leaves collected and burned.

White fog in the mountains after the rain,

Black fog in the park.

Aristotle’s black-and-white theory is still in force.

But Lotfi Zadeh’s fuzzy logic theory

Should not be forgotten either.

There is a rainbow of a thousand colors in the distance.

And yet,

I know this chairman of the municipality.

So that the city will be clean,

He would burn the manuscripts

Of both Aristotle and Lotfi Zadeh.

But I, looking at these trees,

Feel longing for my homeland.

I think this theory

Is a more precise theory

Than the black-and-white theory,

And the fuzzy logic theory.

Precise and tragic.

______________ 

Read: Fire and İce – Poetry from Azerbaijan

The post Vandalism in the name of Cleanliness first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Fire and ice,

Together.

The ice had set fire to the history teacher’s liver.

Bahtiyar Hidayet

Bahtiyar Hidayet, born in 1974 in the Gazakh region of the Republic of Azerbaijan, graduated from university in 1995 and has been working as a history teacher since 1998. Wrote poetry since high school and has 4 poetry books published in Azerbaijan.

Fire and İce

From the freezer

Of a broken refrigerator

A sheep’s liver

From long ago

Was found.

Like a historian

Who has unearthed ancient fossils

Deep within the glaciers,

The history teacher rejoiced.

With scholarly curiosity,

He searched once more

Through the refrigerator’s “archive.”

But when he found out

He had to buy a new fridge—

On credit—

The history teacher grew sorrowful,

Like a historian

Whose archive had burned!

It was a miracle:

Fire and ice,

Together.

The ice had set fire to the history teacher’s liver.

_______________  

Read: The Happy Refugee – A Poem from Azerbaijan

The post Fire and İce – Poetry from Azerbaijan first appeared on Sindh Courier.

As the only happy refugee.

The happy refugee who had no money for cigarettes

Dragged behind him

All the unhappy refugees

And took them to the cemetery of exile.

Bahtiyar Hidayet

Bahtiyar Hidayet, born in 1974 in the Gazakh region of the Republic of Azerbaijan, graduated from university in 1995 and has been working as a history teacher since 1998. Wrote poetry since high school and has 4 poetry books published in Azerbaijan.

The Happy Refugee Who Had No Money for Cigarettes

Musa grandfather, who had settled in the city as a refugee,

Was a very big man.

In his youth, he had strangled a wolf and killed it.

–

But the city children

Filled the inside of a cigarette with marijuana

And gave it to him instead of a cigarette.

And that big old man,

Thinking the mirage he saw on the asphalt was a lake,

Rolled up his trousers, took his shoes in his hands,

And crossed to the other side of the road.

The city children laughed a lot,

Boasting about their jackal ways.

Musa grandfather said goodbye to life that evening.

He was the only refugee

Who had died from pleasure.

–

Musa grandfather had carried the burden of a house on his shoulders.

Even the movable belongings of his house were living a refugee life.

Ten people could barely lift

The weight he had lifted.

But he himself did not know that

The heaviest burden he had carried throughout his life

Was the shoes in his hands.

–

He was the first resident of this village to die in refugeehood.

It was as if he had passed through that sea of mirage.

Just as Moses had saved his own people,

He too had saved his own villagers.

Because immediately after this, many refugees died and were saved.

Thus,

Musa grandfather went down in history

As the only happy refugee.

The happy refugee who had no money for cigarettes

Dragged behind him

All the unhappy refugees

And took them to the cemetery of exile.

–

Strangely,

A lot of wild marijuana bushes

Have grown around his grave.

Musa grandfather is probably enjoying himself there too.

–

He should be thankful that he died.

Otherwise, because of these wild marijuana bushes,

They would have taken a lot of bribes from him.

They would not have cared

That he did not even have money for cigarettes.

____________________

Read: A Life Shattered Like a Bowl

The post The Happy Refugee = Poetry from Azerbaijan first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Many bowls were broken during the quarrels.

But he—

Each time, bought new bowls,

Changed the bowls.

Bahtiyar Hidayet

Bahtiyar Hidayet, born in 1974 in the Gazakh region of the Republic of Azerbaijan, graduated from university in 1995 and has been working as a history teacher since 1998. Wrote poetry since high school and has 4 poetry books published in Azerbaijan.

A Life Shattered Like a Bowl

He cherished his lover greatly,

Saying, “My flower, my flower,”

As if nurturing her

In a flower vase.

But his lover—

To unload her anger and rage—

Had turned him into a trash can.

Yet he was a man of great talent,

His chest a treasury of words,

A golden bowl.

There were many fights,

Many bowls were broken during the quarrels.

But he—

Each time, bought new bowls,

Changed the bowls.

Yet he never changed

The flower vase.

He was faithful to his love—

Madly.

In the end,

His life shattered

Like a broken bowl.

_______________ 

Read: A Wedding on the Devil’s Cart

The post A Life Shattered Like a Bowl first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Our mullahs called them

“The Devil’s cart.”

Bahtiyar Hidayet

Bahtiyar Hidayet, born in 1974 in the Gazakh region of the Republic of Azerbaijan, graduated from university in 1995 and has been working as a history teacher since 1998. Wrote poetry since high school and has 4 poetry books published in Azerbaijan.

A Wedding on the Devil’s Cart

When the first automobiles appeared,

Our mullahs called them

“The Devil’s cart.”

Now, in the hottest time of summer,

I am on a minibus.

The minibus is packed tight,

The smell of hell inside.

We open the windows—

The dust puts us in a bad situation.

We close the windows—

The heat puts us in a bad situation.

Like Munkar and Nakir,

Who have difficulty deciding

Whether a dead person,

Whose sins and good deeds are fifty-fifty,

Should go to hell or heaven,

We also have difficulty deciding.

But the driver

Is more merciful than God.

By an improvised method,

He has installed a fan.

…

A new passenger.

The driver shouts:

— “Be a little kinder!”

A passionate voice:

— “Don’t worry, brother,

We’re practically related already.”

…

Wedding music

Is playing on the stereo.

How wonderful our people are,

How wonderful our people are—

We can have fun

Even in Hell.

A mullah’s car passes by us.

Its air conditioning is excellent,

Its conditions are excellent.

As if he has fallen into Heaven.

Religious songs

Are playing on his stereo.

The name of the car:

The Heaven Cart.

___________________ 

Read: The Revenge of the Egrets

The post A Wedding on the Devil’s Cart first appeared on Sindh Courier.

belongs to the egrets.

Their backsides

are much cleaner

than this troll’s mouth.

Bahtiyar Hidayet

Bahtiyar Hidayet, born in 1974 in the Gazakh region of the Republic of Azerbaijan, graduated from university in 1995 and has been working as a history teacher since 1998. Wrote poetry since high school and has 4 poetry books published in Azerbaijan.

The Revenge of the Egrets

A stray dog,

spinning its wheels like a car,

marks the map of its own power.

Its claws are much, much more merciful

than the owners of the world

who have seized the map of the world in their claws.

But somehow,

I remembered not the giants of world politics,

but the very last man of world politics,

a troll that has recently gone mad like a dog.

He trusts the representatives of the authorities so much

that he spins his car’s wheels wherever he wants,

drawing the map of his own trolling.

…

TikTok made him famous.

Every day he opened a live broadcast

and praised the local authorities.

He was rewarded with a fake disability status.

As a disabled person,

he was given a property in the center of the city.

He opened a beer house—its name was “Garden of Paradise.”

With beers containing washing powder,

he was cleaning the insides of the people,

and he was making good money.

“To oppose the local administration

is a betrayal of the homeland.”

He repeated these words every day,

and his nickname became “Parrot.”

—

But one day,

egrets built their home

in the trees inside his property.

They covered everything with droppings.

Skeletons of frogs and snakes

began to fall from the nests.

He opened a live broadcast about it

and made a fool of himself.

The Republic Nature Protection Committee

registered the egrets.

—

Thus,

the arrival of these white birds

also brought his black days.

The customers left the place.

One ton of his beer spoiled.

—

He found a solution.

He had the area washed

with a fire engine.

But the Nature Protection Department fined him.

The washing powder in the water

could dry the trees.

The local administration

received a severe reprimand.

Their relations were damaged.

—

But he still opens live broadcasts.

On TikTok,

his followers send him parrots as gifts—

the same people

who would not throw even a handful of grain

to the hungry birds gathered on the internet cables.

—

Although “Parrot” found a new way

to earn money,

his life is now spinning its wheels

in this swamp.

Just look at his necktie.

It is like a dog’s collar around his neck.

As time grows tighter,

the collar around his neck becomes looser,

because he has become thin

like a stray dog.

—

The real live broadcast

belongs to the egrets.

Their backsides

are much cleaner

than this troll’s mouth.

Those water birds,

just as they drive away crows,

will also drive the trolls

out of this province.

Come on,

send gifts to those egrets,

O TikTok generation.

P.S.

At the beginning of history,

life also moved

from water to land.

Now the condition of this country

is also like the beginning of history.

The water birds have arrived,

and they have brought life

with their own droppings

to this place

that we call “Garden of Paradise.”

___________________ 

Read: Ox Heads Think – Poetry from Azerbaijan

The post The Revenge of the Egrets first appeared on Sindh Courier.

In the streets of the city

Ox heads are hung

In front of butcher shops.

Bahtiyar Hidayet

Bahtiyar Hidayet, born in 1974 in the Gazakh region of the Republic of Azerbaijan, graduated from university in 1995 and has been working as a history teacher since 1998. Wrote poetry since high school and has 4 poetry books published in Azerbaijan.

OX HEADS THINK

The city has just opened.

In the streets of the city

Ox heads are hung

In front of butcher shops.

As if the butcher shop is a book,

The ox head is the picture

Of a flattering poet

And supposedly lost in thoughts.

…In ancient times human heads used to be hung.

The heads of rebels are no longer cut

And shown to the people.

Probably humanity has developed.

But let me

Tell you a few events

That even an ox

Would not do this stupidity.

In the struggle against begging

They use the method of fines.

The poor person cannot even beg.

Or

He must pay as a fine

The money he earned by begging.

Within a state social program

They gave my friend two cows.

Then those thin and sick cows

Were bought cheaply

And with another social protection program

Were given to another citizen.

Look at the news sites:

Site “A” refers to site “B”,

“B” refers to site “C”.

In short, there is information

From site “Z”.

And in that information

They praised the fining of beggars,

They talked about the success

Of the social protection program.

Yes my friend, the situation is like this:

Ox heads have replaced human heads.

Look at the broadcasts:

Those who have enlarged their back sides

Have occupied the screens.

Those who have had no meat at home for months

Satisfy themselves by looking

At the fleshy parts of singers.

And those who send gifts

In the TikTok live broadcasts

Of those whose backsides

Are bigger than ox heads

Are the very ones

Who cannot find meat.

…But maybe I spoke unfairly about oxen.

Look at the herd order

Of the ox-headed gnus.

How friendly

A million-strong herd is.

In nature even predators

Have positive sides:

The lion, the crocodile, the vulture, the hyena…

Those predators

Are the cleaners of nature.

But the predator of humans

Is the enemy of nature

And the enemy of humanity.

Using legal grounds

They litter nature

And they litter human society.

They are worse than an ox,

Although the ox is not a predator.

In the struggle with these two-legged oxen

To be beaten and covered with blood

Is very dangerous.

Just as an ox charges at red,

They take legal grounds

And charge at a person.

Ahh, what thoughts I am thinking.

But now thinking is not needed.

Now is not the era of heads.

Now is the era of back sides.

Now ox heads think.

____________________ 

Read: Letter to a fellow Soldier

The post Ox Heads Think – Poetry from Azerbaijan first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Had been sold to firewood traders.

Every day it was under a heavy load.

There was no one who knew its suffering.

And one day it died under its load. 

Bahtiyar Hidayet, born in 1974 in the Gazakh region of the Republic of Azerbaijan, graduated from university in 1995 and has been working as a history teacher since 1998. Wrote poetry since high school and has 4 poetry books published in Azerbaijan.

Fate of Uncle Mammadhasan’s Donkey

Back then, in those beautiful days,

Uncle Mammadhasan was happy, his family was happy, and his donkey was happy too.

In summer, Uncle Mammadhasan worked at a Pioneer camp.

All the Pioneer children knew his donkey.

The donkey knew them too.

It could even tell the city Pioneer children from the village children.

He took very good care of the donkey.

He bathed it in the river,

Burned garma to drive away its flies.

The Pioneer children even fought with each other

For the chance to bathe the donkey.

He had convinced us that

When the donkey was bathed, it rained.

But this time it did not rain.

Bullets rained.

The fire of war flared up.

The war began.

The fire of war drove away fairness, mercy, and conscience

Like flies.

Uncle Mammadhasan’s two sons became martyrs.

He settled in a remote village as a refugee.

And his donkey was stolen.

This loss burned Uncle Mammadhasan

as much as the grief for his sons.

In those years there was no natural gas in the district.

Everyone carried firewood with donkeys.

The price of a donkey had gone up;

The value of a human being had gone down.

Uncle Mammadhasan’s donkey

Had been sold to firewood traders.

Every day it was under a heavy load.

There was no one who knew its suffering.

And one day it died under its load.

They did not even leave its dead body alone.

They gave it to a sausage factory.

…

These were Uncle Mammadhasan’s last days.

He was eating cheap sausage.

The railway wagon where he lived

Was a source of a bad smell.

He ate sausage

At the table where he killed flies with a fly swatter.

The heat gave him no peace either.

He no longer killed flies.

He fanned himself with the fly swatter

To cool himself.

It was real torment of hell.

That donkey’s cleanliness

No longer exists in this world.

I wish I could bathe that donkey

In the river once again.

And with the water

With which I bathed that donkey,

I wish I could put out

All the fires of war.

__________________ 

Read: Turn Off the Nation’s Lights

The post Poetry: The Fate of a Donkey first appeared on Sindh Courier.