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Ayna poetry collection published in Baku

Politics Materials 9 October 2014 11:17 (UTC +04:00)
A collection of poems by Dalga Khatinoglu, the head of Trend Agency's Iran News Service, has recently been published in Baku. The collection titled “Mirror” in Azerbaijani
Ayna poetry collection published in Baku

Tehran, Iran, Oct. 8

By Milad Fashtami - Trend:

A collection of poems by Dalga Khatinoglu, the head of Trend Agency's Iran News Service, has recently been published in Baku. The collection titled "Mirror" in the Azerbaijani.

Khatinoglu told Trend Agency that the first and last poems of the collection are influenced by Platonic views.

"However, most of the poems that I wrote in the past decade are fit in the modernism category," he said.

According to Khatinoglu, the book's poems are arranged in the chronological order.

"The atmosphere of the poems moves from shout to moan, then a bitter humor. A humor that satires a world crated by greedy men based on Descartes' logic and Kant's subject," he explained.

"Heidegger says that we have reached a point in which everywhere is dark and we can't see the road anymore. In my opinion that's only one part of the real catastrophe, since the human race has reached a point that when looking back, instead of seeing the story of their lives clearly, people just see some confusing images and hear some feverish sounds," Khatinoglu said.

"After the World War II and especially after the Cold War, fear of revolutions and world's explosion decreased, but an even scarier nightmare was born: the world didn't explode like a balloon, but its air is being released slowly with a whining noise," he added.

"Modernism's extremist attitude wiped out the traditional hero-based legends. But the modern legends took their place, and after Nietzsche, especially after the World War II, these logic-based legends also lost their place. Now we know that logic is largely under the influence of our subconscious. Fortunately, we haven't had much control over our subconscious. It has been safe from our own harm and at least one aspect of our self remains natural," Khatinoglu said.

"We shouldn't have surrendered ourselves to our logic to this extent. Of course going back to traditions is also absurd. Traditions can nowadays only be used as a means to reach a goal. We shouldn't completely omit the traditions, but we should not turn them to a goal, either. Of course, if we still believe in any goal," he noted.

In regards to the process of creating a work of art, Khatinoglu believes that "Sophocles' tragedy Oedipus the King manifests in the today's life just as much of Milan Kundera's Immortality or Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye. So I don't believe that a work of art gets old. The actors of the world scene are still mostly like intellectual, but doubtful Hamlet or determined, but foolish Don Quixote".

To my son

You are so beautiful

That you leave my eyes no other choice

Wherever I turn my looks away from you

My eyes return to your face again

It's not a choice

My legs are beyond my control,

While you are the destination of all roads.

Just let go of them, love

Let go of the earth which is heavier than cannonball

And as hollow as a bubble.

Let go of the roads

Stretched on the back of the earth like whip marks.

Let go of the tunnels,

No light can you see even at their end.

Let go of the bridges, useless for traveling through the sky,

And connected to the land on each side.

Let go of the confused heavens

With bloody tears on the cheek of twilight.

Let go of that fortune star

That may have burned out a thousand light years ago

Though tonight, you still see its twinkling.

Lie beside me

Like roads stretched longer than man's life.

Hear my words -here you are-

Such sweet words that,

As they climb from my heart to into my mouth,

I just get tempted to swallow them back

Oh, your homesick eyes

Do not torment you, but they kill me.

Break your silence, say something

Speak endlessly

And do not stop the flow of dreams

Since one day - not so far way - you will find out

The life span of dreams as long as a bud's yawn,

Withers before reaching from heart to lips.

One day you will learn that

The heart is nothing, but a mass grave of untold cravings

You will learn that a lie is a truth in itself.

You are still a baby, and you forget

The dearest things that you lose

You will grow up- not so far away from now -

Then separating from even the most hated things will frighten you

With all of your tomorrows dedicated to the regret of your yesterdays.

Keep on flying above my head by dawn

Heaven be the roof of your room,

Peel the sun orange,

Squeeze the moon's lemon into your tea,

Take candy from the dew-soft clouds,

Or make mattresses and quilts from them-it doesn't matter-

Keep on flying above my head by dawn

Since morrow midnights

You will remain sleepless, confused

Trying to interpret the dreams of your sleeping state.

Keep on loving, keep on

Now a kiss cuts your pain

But, you will grow one day

And your pain will start from a kiss.

Fly free of any claim

Though, being claimless is the biggest claim itself.

All are children until death embraces them

Until seeing life's only truth,

Young and old children

So foolishly pretend to be grownups.

Learn to love

Learn that one and one always makes one

And subtracting one from two leaves nothing but zero.

Remain in love, my dear

And do not trade your wealth

For anything less than a kiss.

Remain in love, my dear

Since even an ideal life is nothing but a disaster

When you find out

That the final order always comes from the mouth of a gun

When you completely understand

That those suffering from hunger

Will never be fed

Unless they are fed up with their lives.

Remain in love, my dear

The earth is heavier than a cannonball

And lighter than a bubble with trembling eyes

Beauty lies in keeping on living deliberately.

My declining crescent does not frighten me

Since my resurrection is your full moon

The sands of my hourglass empty

At the same speed that yours fills

Don't think of life

One should just live one's life

We have nothing to do with the secret of the tulip's pain

Or the viola's hunched back

Or whether the lily truly sprang from Eve's tears

We have nothing to do with describing beauty

Being awed by a rose's immortality is enough for us

With a life as short as a yawn

Learn to love

And to recreate beauty.

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