viernes, 20 de noviembre de 2015

NIGAR RAFIBEYLI [17.554] Poeta de Azerbaiyán


Nigar Khudadat qizi Rafibeyli (Azerbaiyán: Nigar Xudadat Qizi Rəfibəyli), (1913-1981, Bakú), fue una escritora de Azerbaiyán y la Presidenta de la Unión de Escritores de Azerbaiyán. Ella fue la madre de Anar Rzayev, escritora de novelas y cuentos, y esposa del famoso escritor y poeta Rasul Rza.

Nigar Rafibeyli nació el 23 de junio de 1913 en la ciudad de Ganja. Sus padres eran médicos cirujanos. Su padre, Khudadat Rafibeyli fue el primer cirujano Azerí que estudió en Europa. En 1919, fue invitado a dirigir el gobierno Ganja por el gobierno republicano de la República Democrática de Azerbaiyán, pero pronto fue detenido en la instigación por armenios bolcheviques y enviado a Nargin isla, donde fue ejecutado por soldados bolcheviques. Nigar Rafibeyli terminó su educación escolar en Ganja y se trasladó a Bakú para realizar su educación superior. Estudió en la Escuela Técnica Pedagógica. Fue profesora en la escuela, pero siempre escribió novelas. Su primer poema llamado "Chadra" (Velo en azerí) fue publicado en la revista "Dan Ulduzu" en 1928. En los años 1930 a 1932 trabajó en el los estudios Azerbaijanfilm. 

En 1931, trabajó en la editorial Azerneshr como editora y traductora.  Rafibeyli luego continuó sus estudios en la Universidad Pedagógica de Moscú.  Mientras estudiaba en Moscú, su primera colección de poemas fue publicada en Bakú. En los años 1937-1939, trabajó en la editorial Ushaqneshr. A partir de 1940, tradujo numerosas obras azeríes de poetas y escritores extranjeros como los famosos Navai, Schiller, Pushkin, Lermontov, Shevchenko y otros. Por sus grandes contribuciones a la literatura de Azerbaiyán , recibió la orden de Honor. Muchas de las obras de Nigar Rafibeyli versaron sobre el romanticismo, la maternidad , la naturaleza , la patria .

Nigar Rafibeyli murió el 9 de julio de 1981. Una de las calles de Bakú lleva su nombre.

Nigar Khudadat gizi Rafibeyli (in azeri, Nigar Xudadat qızı Rəfibəyli; July 23, 1913, Elizavetpol (now Ganja) - July 9, 1981, Baku) - Azerbaijan poetess, the spouse of the poet Rasul Rza and mother of the writer Anar. 

Nigar Rafibeyli was born in the family of the surgeon Khudadat Rafibeyli, who held the position of a governor of the Ganja province in the years of pre-soviet independence of Azerbaijan (1918-1920). He happened to be among so many Azerbaijan political men who were executed by bolshevists in June, 1920 on the island Nargen.

Having left the secondary school in Ganja, Nigar Rafibeyli entered Baku Pedagogic Technical School. In 1928 her first poem "Chadra" was published in the journal "Dan Ulduzu". In 1931 she worked as a translator in the department of fiction at the Publishing House "Azerneshr", and then she continued studying at Moscow Pedagogic Institute. Meanwhile, her first collection of poems was published in Baku (1934).

On coming back from Moscow, Nigar Rafibeyli worked as an editor of the fiction department at the Publishing House "Ushagneshr". From 1940 to the end of the life Nigar Rafibeyli wrote poems and translated works of poets and writers of the USSR peoples into the Azerbaijani language. She was awarded with the Prize "Glory" for the creative merits.

One of the central streets of Baku was named after Nigar Rafibeyli.


Una flor naciente entre las ruinas
me hizo preguntarme:
¿Por qué los hombres dicen que en medio de tanta desolación
ninguna flor puede crecer?
Los muros de la pequeña casa estaban rotos,
el tejado se había derruido.
Llegó a ser el lugar de residencia
de feroces vientos y nieve invernal.
Los vientos indomables habían echado a perder
el querido confort de este hogar, alguna vez amado.
Y habían traspasado a los transeúntes
con un lamento melancólico.
Las cortinas, tan amorosamente bordadas y cosidas
por suaves manos de mujeres,
colgaban harapientas como trozos de conchas desgarradas
sobre la desolación de la ciudad.
En medio de un montón de piedras y guijarros
brotó la hermosa flor.
Y esa flor llenó todos mis pensamientos
con una cuestión crucial.
Me pregunté: ¿qué jardinero te plantó y nutrió
aquí, delicada flor?
Cuéntame tu historia, el cuento persa de tu vida,
y te escucharé.
Quizás, a pesar de que este lugar no vibre más
con la canción del ruiseñor,
abandonada por pájaros, ¿aun así fuiste llamada
a ser 
por el primer hálito de la primavera?
“Soy la voz de la Tierra”,
contestó la flor con lengua humana.
“Soy esa Vida más Grande
que siempre debe triunfar sobre la Muerte”.

Traducción desde la traducción inglesa de Avril Pyman: Ana Muela Sopeña


A flower blooming amongst the ruins 
set me wondering
Why do men say that in such desolation 
no flower can grow?
The walls of the little house were broken, 
the roof had tumbled in.
It had become the dwelling place 
of fierce winds and winter snow.
The untamed winds had laid waste 
the dear comforts of this once-loved home
And had pierced the passer-by 
with melancholy pity.
The curtains, by gentle women's hands 
so lovingly stitched and sewn,
Hung ragged like shell-torn banners 
over a desolate city.
Amidst the heaps of stone and rubble 
bloomed the beautiful flower,
And that flower filled all my thoughts 
with one all-important question.
I asked: what gardener planted and nurtured 
you here, frail flower?
Tell me your story, the dastan1 of your life, 
and I shall listen.
Perhaps although this place is no more vibrant 
with nightingale's song,
Abandoned by birds, yet you were called 
into being by Spring's first breath?
"I am the voice of the Earth," 
the flower answered with human tongue.
"I am that Greater Life 
which must forever triumph over Death."

1 Dastan - A Persian word used in the region to mean a narrative or epic tale.

Taken from "Azerbaijanian Poetry," edited by Mirza Ibrahimov, Progress Publishers, Moscow. No date [Probably late 1970s]. Translated by Avril Pyman.

Fotografía: Retrato de la propia autora, Nigar Rafibeyli

Kitchen Lines

If I were not a woman
I'd have no dealings
With saucepans,
I would meet the dawn on the seashore,
Among the rocks,
And inhale the sea air
By the lungful.
I would stay for hours
In the untold bliss of the beach,
Baring my breast
To the wind of the plains,
Leisurely composing
Languorous songs
To the Absheron gardens.
I feel so heartsore
In this kitchen world,
After all,
There is something of a poet in me.

There are poems devoted to sweethearts,
To the flowers of spring,
To the falling leaves of Autumn.
Poems are dedicated to the pain of separation,
To the joy of reunion,
To a woman's sweet face.
Then why are there none devoted 
to steam rising from a saucepan,
To a humming samovar?
Why shouldn't there be
Poems about clean dishes
Washed in transparent water?
Some like their food well-salted,
Others don't.
Some like jam,
Others-raw tomatoes.
One cannot tolerate meat,
Another likes his dinner without onions or garlic.
So I must stand there all day,
Wiping, frying, cooking.
Some are destined to occupy high posts,
Others to wash up dishes in the kitchen.
Ah well,
Sometimes an ordinary kitchen
May be cleaner and purer
Than it is in certain high quarters.
If I don't watch out
While onions fry on the gas-stove,
They'll turn into ashes
And dinner will be ruined.
But who's there to see
That the cook burning by the stove
Doesn't turn into cinders?
Who cares for the cook
Whose heart isn't quite tranquil?
Don't grumble, cook,
Watch out,
Don't dare burn the onions
That give taste and flavor to the dinner!

If a flower garden can inspire a poem,
Why can't a kitchen?
Just the same as a flower,
A stove,
And a grimy saucepan, too,
May ascend to the throne of art.
Poetic themes are countless,
As long as you see the world
With the eyes of a poet.

From the tiny window of my kitchen
I watch the four seasons of the year:
Summer, Winter,
Spring, Autumn-
I see their real faces.
In Spring
A tall poplar
Next to my window
Is gradually covered with buds,
Then leaves appear
And it puts on green apparel.
A light breeze blows,
The branches whisper.
In Spring the tree stands swaying 
in all its grandeur.
In Autumn the wind buffets its breast
And with grief it turns yellow.
Then Winter comes and the tree strips bare.
No more greenery to inspire me.
Naked the tree,
Alone with its grief,
Baring its breast to the frost and the cold,
Hoping against hope to survive
Till spring.

With a generous heart,
With a mind that sounds the depths of existence,
Your dreams will not die,
Your thoughts will not fade.
If there is a divine light in your soul,
Hold it up as a torch
And from your tiny kitchen
You will be able to see the great world.

From "Azerbaijanian Poetry," edited by Mirza Ibrahimov, Progress Publishers, Moscow. No date [Probably late 1970s]. Translated by Dorian Rottenberg 


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