Taxi, take me,
To the silent yesterdays
To the happy yesterdays
On the wings of the butterfly.
Writer, playwright, poet Elchin Maharram, hailing from Azerbaijan, shares his poetry
Writer, playwright, poet Elchin Maharram was born in the Azerbaijani city of Mingachevir. His creativity is rich in stories, poems and plays. He currently works as the head of the literary section at the Mingachevir State Drama Theater. He has been a member of the Azerbaijan Writers’ Union since 2023. His articles are regularly published in the press. He is also the chairman of the Youth Council of Mingachevir Writers. His plays “Memory, Calendar, Doll”, “Pigeon Language”, “Apples, Bread, Wine”, “In Search of the Lost Deer” have been staged. His stories “Code of Cactuses -64”, “Abadistan Does Not Hear the Screams”, “The Curse of Sidon” have been read with interest in the press.
TAXI
I put the small sum of money
I had earned the day before
On the toughened palm
Of a pale-faced taxi driver.
Taxi, take me,
Deliver me
To the silent yesterdays
To the happy yesterdays
On the wings of the butterfly.
I have a letter to the dead ones.
***
This is neither the first nor the last
The order was given
The sharp axe of the executioner time
Was raised slowly.
This is neither the first nor the last.
It has a number of scaffolds
The place of execution: in front of the cashpoint
From which you withdraw the pension.
Or the soft and comfortable seat of a plane,
The side of the bedding
Once you slept with your lover.
The other day I counted
At least thirty two heads
Were thrown into the black hollow
Of the emptiness.
The black hollow shouted
In thirty two languages:
‘It is enough, I don’t have place anymore,
I want the heart of a poet or a hand of an artist,
I want a tongue of a philosopher,
Send them to me, tell them
I have enough places for them.’
The order was given,
The sharp axe of executioner time
Was lowered.
A poet had a heart attack
While writing his new poem.
A little bit of an artist
Was found
When the dust of cannon projectile
Disappeared.
A philosopher was hung
By his tongue
From the hand of the familiar clock tower.
It is neither the first nor the last.
***
I am such an unhappy man
I am such an unhappy man
I tossed the cigarette butt on the asphalt road
The shining cars rushing forward didn’t trample down it.
I am such an unhappy man
I want to hang myself like Yesenin
But the price of hotel is more expensive than museum’s price
I am such an unhappy man
I need to confer with Hidayetli Sadiq
But he is unavailable, his number is out of range.
I am such an unhappy man.
(Translated from Azerbaijani into English by Sevil Gulten)
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