چه‌ند وشه‌یه‌ك ده‌رباره‌ی ته‌مه‌نی خۆ A Few Lines About My Age

چه‌ند وشه‌یه‌ك ده‌رباره‌ی ته‌مه‌نی خۆ

كاتێ ڤالیا لێم ده‌پرسێ:

«كه‌ی پێت نایه‌ ئه‌م دنیایه‌؟»
پێكه‌نینم، وه‌كوو چووزه‌ره‌ ڕێواسێك،
له‌ژێر به‌فری ده‌م و لێوما سه‌ر ده‌ردێنێ.
پێكه‌نینم – گریانێكه،
زرده‌خه‌نه‌ی هه‌موو دنیا ده‌گه‌چڵێنێ!
به‌ڵێ، ڤالیا!
نیاندرتاڵ بووم
كاتێ پێی خۆم نایه‌ دنیا.
به‌ چاوی خۆم
چاخی هه‌موو پێغه‌مبه‌ره‌كانم دیوه‌.
كاروانی مێژووی شه‌رمه‌زار
به‌سه‌ر لۆچی ناوچه‌وانما تێپه‌ڕیوه‌.
كه‌چی هێشتا...
ئۆفیسه‌ قۆڵبڕه‌كانی
ئه‌م چاخه‌ ویژدان تۆپیوه‌
له‌ ده‌فته‌ری زیندوواندا
ناوی منیان نه‌نووسیوه‌!‌
 

                    19/10/1974 – مۆسكۆ

 

A Few Lines About My Age

When Valia asked me,
'When did you first set foot in the world?',
my laugh, like a rhubarb shoot
pokes its head through the snow of my mouth.
My laugh is a sob
that crumples all the smiles in the world.
Yes, Valia!
I was Neanderthal
when I first set foot in this world.
With my own eyes
I witnessed the era of the prophets,
the shameful passage of history
marched down the wrinkles on my forehead.
And yet...
the swindling institutions
of the rotting conscience of the age
have not recorded my name
in the book of the living.
 
Moscow, 19/10/1974
 

A Few Words About My Own Age

When Valia asks me:
“When did you put your feet on this world?”
my laugh like a single rhubarb,
under the snow of my mouth and lips brings its head out.
My laugh is a cry,
That folds up all the smiles of the world
Yes, Valia!
I was Neanderthal
when I put my feet on this world.
With my own eyes
I have seen the era of all the prophets.
the procession of the disgraceful history
passed over the wrinkles of my forehead.
And yet …
the swindling offices
of the dead conscience of this age
in the book of the living beings
they have not recorded my name
 
Moscow 19/10/1974
 

We Brits tend to think of rhubarb as being a very distinctive British – especially Yorkshire – plant and so we were pleased to come across it the very different context of a poem by a Kurdish poet written when he was living in Moscow. (In fact, the plant originated in China and was brought to Britain during the fourteenth century via the Silk Route and was first known as ‘Turkish Rhubarb’.)

This small poem is, of course, a wry reflection on the ancient culture of the Kurds who, although swindled and pushed from pillar to post for centuries, have not (yet) been accepted as a nation.

Sarah Maguire, Workshop Facilitator

Original Poem by

Abdulla Pashew

Translated by

Mahsn Majidy with The Poetry Translation Workshop Language

Kurdish

Country

Kurdistan