Rasul Gamzatov (Avar: 袪邪褋褍谢 啸I邪屑蟹邪褌芯胁) was probably the most famous poet writing in the Avar language. Among his poems was "Zhuravli", which became a well-known Russian song.
He was born on September 8, 1923, in the Avar village of Tsada in the north-east Caucasus. His father, Gamzat Tsadasa, was a well-known bard, heir to the ancient tradition of minstrelsy still thriving in the mountains.
Gamzatov was awarded the prestigious State Stalin Prize in 1952, The Lenin Prize in 1963 and Laureate Of The International Botev Prize in 1981.
How fun to find an unknown poetry book from the 70鈥檚 at a used book-sale!
Rasul Gamzatov was an Avar poet of Dagestan (a part of Russia bordering Georgia and Azerbaijan.) The poems collected here speak mainly about the hill folk of that place, the mountains, and universal human experiences. A couple of poems hailing the Soviet Union made me squirm (as they should to anyone who鈥檚 studied the atrocities of that government.) But overall, sweet and simply-written with a dash of poetic sorrow. 鈥� Morning and evening, darkness and light鈥� Fishermen black and fishermen white. The world鈥檚 like an ocean; like fishes are we, Like fishes that swim in the depths of the sea. The world鈥檚 like an ocean where fishermen wait, Preparing their nets, their hooks and their bait. How soon then, O Time, will you bring me to book In the nets of the Night or on Day鈥檚 baited hook? 鈥� A new dawn breaks in soft grey light Without the sun, for thick mist drowns The field where, ageing overnight, The earth, forlorn and sodden, frowns. The earth with clouded brow recalls A mother who in fond hope waits To greet her son, but sees his horse Come empty-saddled through the gates. 鈥� Time, do not brag! We鈥檙e not all shades That glimmer in your light! Many a man among us lives Whose virtue makes you bright. Our heroes, bards, philosophers Illuminate your way. It鈥檚 with their splendour鈥攏ot your own鈥� You shine each hour and day. 鈥� Already twenty years have passed Since my two brothers died. And I鈥攖he third鈥攊n bitter dreams Shed tears at their graveside. I鈥檝e learned from travelling to far And unfamiliar shores: All living men third brothers are Of those who died in war.