Poems by Eldar Akhadov

Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού

About Eldar Akhadov:
Eldar Ahadov was born in Baku, Azerbaijan, russian poet, prose writer and literary researcher, co-chairman of the Literary Council of the Eurasian Peoples’ Assembly, honorary member of the Azerbaijan Writers’ Union (2021), member of the Russian branch of the international PEN club (2019), the Russian Writers’ Union (2000) and South Russian Union of Writers (Ukraine, 2018), Russian Geographical Society (2016). In 2003-2008, he was the first deputy chairman of the board of the Krasnoyarsk regional branch of the Union of Writers of Russia, from 2000 to 2010 he was the head of the regional literary association at the State Center for Folk Art and the Bylina regional literary studio for the blind and visually impaired. Author of 70 books of prose and poetry, including Pushkin’s Secrets, Russian Poetry’s Round the World, I Love and Remember, In the Footsteps of Columbus, Magellan and Marco Polo, Vibrations of Life, Far North, Laureate of the State Literary Prize of the Governor of the Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug (2017), winner of an individual grant from the Governor of the Krasnoyarsk Territory (2008), as well as the Silver Pen of Rus’ (2007), For the Benefit of Peace (twice – 2012 and 2013), country without borders” (twice – 2017 and 2018). Silver medal of the IV All-Russian Literary Festival of Festivals (2019, Russia, Tyumen). Silver medal of the IV Eurasian Literary Festival of Festivals (2019, Azerbaijan, Baku). Laureate of dozens of other awards and competitions, including in Germany (ZA-ZA verlag publishing house award, Düsseldorf, 2018), in Greece (Homer award, 2018), in Italy (Accademia Giulia Brignone award winner, 2020, first place of the “Vincenzo Padula” award, 2022, “Cupido Anthology Award” diploma of the “San Valentino” award of the city of Atripalda, 2022), award of the Union of Translators of Montenegro for the book “The Meaning of Life” in Serbian (2020), gratitude from the Union of Writers of Russia (2022) . Ahadov’s books were published in Russia, the USA, Mexico, Serbia, Egypt and India in Russian, English, Spanish and Serbian, are available in the largest Russian libraries, in the US Library of Congress, in the British Library, in the libraries of Berlin and Munich , in the libraries of universities in the USA, Germany, Spain and other countries.


Artillery shots. Foxtrot sounds.
Villages and ancient manuscripts burn.
And only the tree outside the window keeps waiting.
Whenever you glance at it

The mind darkens. Ice crumbles.
A fiery moon ascends.
And only the tree outside the window keeps waiting.
Whenever you glance at it

You wander around for days on end.
Walls before you. Walls behind you.
Nothing is any use.
And only the tree outside the window keeps waiting.
Whenever you glance at it

Echoes turn into a watery abyss.
Time collapses and vanishes.
And only the tree outside the window keeps waiting.
Whenever you glance at it

You turn into snow falling.
Into a whisper in darkness.
But the tree outside the window keeps waiting for you
For this tree is just like you.

Translated from Russian into English by Richard Berengarten


I tore all your photos.
But it did not help. I remembered you.

I went very far and never came back.
But it did not help I remembered you.

I met with others and was loved.
But it did not help. I remembered you.

I got drunk – like dead, like a shoemaker, like a tramp, like the last creature.
But it did not help. I remembered you.

I got married, had children, became home-grown.
But it did not help. I remembered you.

I’m getting old. Everything is eroding from memory.
Everything. Except you.

Translated from Russian into English by Brian Henry Tomlinson


I don ‘t remember the date of the day
From childhood early when
We shouted at the window:
“It is snowing! It is snowing!”
It was snowing, it was cold.
From wind something shivered.
You kept me carefully
on hands and smiled.
And we shouted “Snow’s coming!”
So joyful and sincere,
What from that day every year
He also falls obediently.
And every time on the eve of winter
Barely winds turn into snowstorm,
Again it seems to me,
That you and I are loud scream,
and it is snowing…
The present dawn was quiet,
Only the heart suddenly got sick after midnight…
“She is no longer in the world,”
My sister reported in the morning.
But only the phone was silent,
How the snow went all over again.
… I wanted to shout … and could not.
I couldn ‘t exhale a word!
Flying, flying fun snow,
Circling and falling like an echo…
It ‘s not true you ‘re not here.
Look: how much snow…
It is snowing…

Translated by author


Do not seek your Temple either on earth or in heaven.
Your temple is in you.
Not everyone knows about their Temple.
Not every person who knows see His light.
Not everyone who sees the light will reach the Temple.
But everyone has hope.

Translated by author

Composition on the theme “My favorite pet”

It’s Gray.
Soft. Siberian. Woolen.
It becomes a ball easily.
He looks you in the eye.,
He rubs against your legs.
Compassionate requires meat.
Purr … the wool stands up:
He won’t share meat for anything in the world.
When it’s gorged on, it’s kind.
He loves toys.
He rolls them down the ground, pulls them with his teeth.
It fits close to the stove.
He stays there for a long time.
Her belly is soft.
In the month of March, he runs everywhere
Behind cats and dogs.
It’s hard to understand sometimes.
The armchair, it just destroyed it.
It dropped a vase on the TV
because of love by  the flowers.
Now there’s no vase, no TV.
It’s hiding under the couch for a long time.
It know why.
It never lies on the guests ‘ lap.
Only on the most loved people.
At night it is always near the door
If you don’t come on time…
Oh, my god!
What am I writing about?
It died!
It is absent.
It hasn ‘t existed in four years.
But is it possible to forget?…

Translated by author


Where the weightless birds sing emerald songs,
Where the flying sky is ringing from minaret heights,
And the moon shines, ascending in a capsized abyss,
And a variegated handsome hoopoe flashes in the morning…
There, in the palms of the ridges, a mountain echo turns over,
A above the seashore foliage frolics on wind,
There people do not sleep only from love,
there people cry only with happiness and laughter,
Where I’m going back and I’m never gonna die…

Translated by author


Let us remember those whose souls are in the sky
and hear from there all speeches between living people,
Let us remember those who defended this land
and remained in it forever.
Let us remember those who had a beard and
those who had no beard and moustache,
Let us remember those who were sad
and those who laughed,
Let us remember Ukrainians, Belarusian, Ossetians
and people of the small tribe ostyaks,
Let us remember Teleuts, Kabardinians, Erzyanians, Veps, Chuvashes,
Let us remember the Tuvinians, and the Darginians, Latvian and Talishes,
Let us remember Kyrgyz and Tajik, and Uzbek, and Tatars,
Let us remember the Kalmyks, and Kumyks, and Baskirs, and Tofalars,
Let us remember the Ingush, Azerbaijani, Nenets, Enans and Armenians,
Let us remember Nivkhians and Tabasaranians, Jews and Gypsies,
Let us remember Udegeinians, khants, Komi and Kazakhs, and Georgians…
Let us remember those whose names remember only God.
On the day of the victory parade all of them pass a single march in front Him,
All those whom enemies called “the Russians” during the war.

Translated by author

Each river has its own splash

Each river has its own splash.
Every soul has its own rain.
You do not believe in the world that exists,
but you believe in the reality you invented.
You are uphill,
where the ravine is waiting for you
You get married,
and find yourself in your husband’s harem.
And every time you find the wrong people you need.
And every time you go the wrong way.
And next to play the anthem,
And they ask direct questions…
Each chimney has its own smoke.
Each fate has its own house.


Does not lie on the shelf the hat,
The fireplace doesn’t turn on…
“When’s Dad coming back?”
The son asks his mother.
Late autumn came.
At night in the courtyard is frost…
A simple question asked by a son
Мade her cry.
On the eyelashes drops of moisture,
In the heart – a child’s voice.
“Please make dad out of paper”-
Son asked for her .
“It’s nothing that it’s paper.
We won’t tell anyone.
He’s strong and brave.
I will take it with me. “


You can declare that there is no God.
And He will not be for you.
You can think of it and say,
that God is still there.
And he’ll be right there again for you.
There is God for you or not His choice is yours.
God has no choice:
He always loves you.

The Cave

Show me the cave in which the clouds hide.
Show me the cave to which fanciful flocks
of wandering eyes strive, insistently following
the salty foamy lips of the surf…
Show me your cave.
There is no gold nor diamonds in it,
but thousands of fiery genies guard
its dormant ancient smoky abyss,
in which everyone can
only see his vanishing shadow.

Your rose

I want to endlessly kiss your rose
Gently touching it with lips,
Inhale the scent of love that arose
Between us, the tips…
Of her petals are so moist and inviting…
I’m surrounded by a lonely mist…
My heart is daunting
To the alluring songs of the East.

Like a shy student

When my hands are caressing your hands
You look to me like a shy student,
Unsophisticated in science, but who still understands
Your eyes looking so prudent,
What to whisper about, how to be moody,
Where a pause is more important, awed…
But this is no obstacle to an inexpert body
When love enters it – like God!!!

Your only dress

With the scissors of your arms and legs
You cut and split the air
The sky hears your begs
There are rainbows and stars in your hair
Everything around is brought to life
It has no other dress to wear
Except my legs and arms that strive
To enter this unearthly prayer

Your honey

“Do take me! Love me! Get inside!”
My body almost screamed, startling,
A trickle of honey on your chest did slide,
A small drop on your lips was sparkling.
The whole bed, the world is full of honey,
Of honeysweet and tireless delight.
”I love you! Will take you! I’m coming!”
I’m saying to your eyes, so much beloved.

The sweet flower

You are my precious flower, I love you so much,
I’m longing for your beauty I’m hurrying there to touch.
I so well remember the taste of your sweet lips,
Half-open, with a promise of absolute full bliss…
A day has only passed since I was there with you,
But I began to perish when far away I flew.
My blood will get unfrozen, and I’ll be alright,
With you, my precious flower, so beautiful and bright.

The secret of covert light

The earth has a true miracle somewhere,
Its secret is unknown to mankind:
Wherever you appear, everywhere
You radiate some kind of covert light.
Indifferent eyes can’t ever spot it, mind you,
When money is the measure of all things,
But when there is a loving heart beside you, 
A heart so full of love that it can’t breathe,
That love’s the only thing it can talk of,
It can see only you, all wrapped in light,
This heart will follow you, confide its love,
And eagerly disperse the gloom of night

The light of your eyes

Like summer lightning flashing in the dark,
Like the warm glow of candles at the dawn,
Your eyes are so bright, they have the spark,
With lashes on the sky elaborately drawn…
I’ll float far away, and will again survive
The fire deep inside, it’s burning so bright,
You smile and look at me as I come back alive,
And I’ll never need a different kind of light.
Eternal Waiting
Slam shut the door, lock it, and see again
A mere glimpse of candles in the windowpane.
And now, it’s beginning to dawn.
To snow and dust, to the horizon line,
To roads never ending and always divine
Forever your eyes will be drawn…

It’s been so forever, night gives way to day,
The leaves always rustle when falling away,
Your hands will be tickled with raindrops at night,
And you will keep looking at worldly crossroads,
Repeating your prayers and the holy words,
Forever believing in great love’s full might…

Wherever we are

Wherever I am, and wherever you are:
Let all the expanse be so bright like a star,
And let the blue sky be unclouded by rains,
When I was still able to see you from afar,
And let out words sound like blood in our veins.

Russian-English Translation — Lily Berkush Translation Agency


In 1978 I became a student of the mining institute in St. Petersburg, I lived and studied on Vasilevsky Island. My student comrade Igor Kopeyko found out somewhere (underground! Illegal!) about what Mr. Umnikov did in his apartment museum Akhmatova in Tsar Village. It was officially banned. Therefore, we, young students, me and Igor – secretly went to the address to pay tribute to the memory of the great Russian poet. I was young and hot then, a member of an underground anarchist group. As a youth, I was an anarchist. Probably like all poets! We found Umnikov ‘s apartment, where we had to knock and say the password. But we didn ‘t open the door. The owner wasn ‘t home. I was very disappointed. But on this story did not end, but only began.
My friend Igor, noticing how upset I was, began to call Umnikov ‘s neighbors on the floor. An elderly woman opened the door and said that Umnikov was sick and in hospital, but if we really want to see the museum, she will call her friend (also an old woman) and they will open Umnikov ‘s apartment to us. We agreed and thanked them for such courtesy. Soon two students inspected the exhibition of the secret museum Akhmatova, and our old ladies boiled tea in the kitchen of Umnikov to buy candy and tea to two poor hungry students.
When the water in the kettle boiled, the old ladies invited us to the kitchen (because it was actually an ordinary apartment, not a real museum!) to drink tea with a sweet treat for us. We talked and I confessed to them that I was writing poems. The women immediately asked me to read any of their poems aloud. I read a poem about love, and they really liked it. I loved it so much that they asked me to write down a poem for them for memory. But I had no pencil, no pen, no paper. There was no Internet anywhere at the time either. Women started looking for paper and a pen for me. The pen was found right away, but there was a problem with the paper.
Finally, one of the two women exclaiming “Found Paper!” brought me an old notebook whose last page was empty, unfilled text. I was so pleased that I immediately recorded my poem on a clean page. And only then did we pay attention to the rest of the pages of the notebook. They were all filled with poems written with one hand – Anna Akhmatova ‘s hand! It was her notebook with poems!
Of course, if the owner of the museum was home, nothing like this happened. If his neighbors hadn ‘t opened the museum door, nothing like this would have happened. Then, many years later, I was told that such a notebook in Akhmatova ‘s official archive did not exist. But everyone knows the fact that several manuscripts of Akhmatova were stolen in the year of her death. Perhaps the thief tried to sell these manuscripts to Umnikov and brought them to him secretly, and he fell ill. So happens. It is life.
This case I took as a blessing of the great Russian poet 12 years after his death. And I am grateful to her that fate allowed my self-persuasion to be in the notebook of the genius of Russian poetry.

Don ‘t forget you ‘re beautiful,
After all, those beautiful who love!
Today the rain was crying jealous,
Having listened to your steps,
Foliage was enviously whispered,
Asphalt derisively shone,
And you did not hesitate,
You were in the care of weekdays…
Rustling, cars rushed,
Passionlessly the ships floated …
They probably didn ‘t know how to love,
Otherwise, as they could!
You were going a little proud,
As a winner in hops,
And I understood – you – beautiful,
And I knew I loved you!

Translated by author


I have a name. There is a surname. And there is a middle name. Everyone has them. At everyone the. I have an Azerbaijani middle name, from two words: the first – the name of the father, and the second – “ogly,” which means “son.” There is no ending “ovich” or “ovna” in Azerbaijani. Only “ogly” or “kizi” (daughter). Everything would be nothing, but I live in Russia for more than a quarter of a century, and here it is not all and is not always adequately perceived this. And there were difficulties at work.
It seems like nothing: well, laughing for me sometimes, well, “black” once in the back was called. Not in the face, no. In a face there were ashamed. After all, I speak Russian and write better than many of them. And I have a higher IQ than a lot of them. So to say it to my face was embarrassing to them.
I always go outside with a passport. In principle, there were no problems anywhere except Moscow. Yes, and in the capital, it was without excesses. Stopped me a couple of times, checked, read the passport, and such cold mistrust in their eyes – because I am “ogly,” not “ovich…” It ‘s like I ‘ve done something bad and I ‘m hiding…
And the years were disturbing, gang, nineties. From the reports of newspapers and television we learned about wild cases of massacre of people speaking with an accent or dressed differently from everyone, or praying differently. That could have been the only reason people could have been killed! That ‘s what my Russian wife once advises me:
“Why do you want it “ogly”? You speak Russian and you think Russian and you live in Russia. Go to the passport table, change your middle name, pay and become Alexandrovitch, as director Ryazanov, or Alekseyevich somehow. Can have been other children will stop teasing our children at school. And? “
I deeply thought. Opened the album with photos of father, mother, sisters… And then the old Baku newspaper fell out of the album. January. The ninetieth year. On it – the city square by the sea shore, all covered with countless human sea. The city has a curfew. There are tanks, armoured personnel carriers, machine guns, thousands of armed soldiers on the streets. More than three people are forbidden to gather. But the people went to the square. The people were not afraid of arrests or deaths. The poet Galić once sang:
“You can go out to the square,
Dare you go to the square
At that designated hour?
Where soldiers stand in square
In expectation for the order…”
And the soldiers really stood waiting for the order. And military helicopters were flying over the square. But people, ordinary unarmed people, bakinians, residents of the city went and went to this square. And they couldn ‘t be stopped by anyone!
No soldiers, no machine guns, no tanks. They went to bury their children killed by soldiers on the night of January 20th. In these oblong boxes in the photograph – are dead people. I don ‘t know what their name was: hundreds of dead, young, elderly, young men, girls, children, old people…
They each had a name. There was a surname. Also there was a middle name … The first part of their name – I don ‘t know, but the second – I can ‘t forget wherever I am. Because I ‘m the ogly, I ‘m the son of my father and my mother. Was and will remain. Nazis, skinheads, anyone – no matter, all those who will meet on my way, let’s know: I will remain who was born.