Prof.Dr. Mammad Ismayil, Vice President


    Poet, Prof.Dr. Mammad Ismayıl was born in November, 1939 in the Esrik village of Tovuz region in Azerbaijan republic. His father Murshud died during the Second World War when he was a year old. He finished the secondary school in Esrik in 1957, later in 1964 he graduated from Azerbaijan State University. He successfully completed two years of higher literature courses of “The Union of

    Writers of the USSR” in Moscow and in 1998 he received his doctorate with a thesis titled “The motifs of Ashik poem in the modern Azerbaijan Poetry”. He worked as a department manager of Azerbaijan Television and Radio company from 1966 to 1973, an editor-in-chief in the cinema studio from 1976 to 1983, later, between the years 1983-1987 he was a general director of “Ishik” publishing house. He became a founder and a general manager of the magazine called “ Genclik” (Molodost), published in two languages: Azerbaijani and Russian from 1988 to 1992, a secretary of the Union of Azerbaijan Writers and the director of the Literary Union of Young Writers of the same union from 1986 to 1997. He was the general manager of the Television and Radio State Company of Azerbaijan from 1992 to 1993. Mammad Ismayıl was selected a co-chairman of Democratic Forces which had an important role in the struggle for freedom in Azerbaijan. In 1993, because of his political views, he had to leave his Motherland and from 1995 to 1996 he worked as a specialist in 96 the project of Turkish Polish Dictionary of the Turkish Language Association in Ankara. Since 1996 he is a professor at Canakkale 18 March University. He was a member of Union of Writers and Journalists in the USSR and still he is a member of Union of Writers of Azerbaijan and Eurasia. He is a representative of Turkey in the Union of International Writers and Journalists and a member of the editorial board of the journal “Literaturnaya Znakomstvo” (Literary Acquaintance) published in Moscow. The poems of Mammad Ismayıl were translated into more than fifty languages and published in different countries. Until now, more than twenty books in Azerbaijani, eight books in Russian in Moscow, nine books in Turkish in Turkey, one book in Kazakh in Kazakhstan, two books in French in France were published. He was rewarded to “ Golden Pen” for the television program “Land of Fire” in 1969, “Komsomol” for the book of poems “The word told in time” in 1978, N.Ostrovski reward for the books “Arable land over the sea” and “The word told in time” in Moscow. In 1996, he became first in the poetry competition “Happy Birthday Week” organized by the Foundation of Religious Affairs of Turkey, consequently, in 1997 Mammad Ismayıl was rewarded to “Service to Turkish World” medal by Association of Writers and Artists of Turkey. In September 2012,

    he received the diploma of first degree in the International Symposium held in Crimea where four hundreds of scientists and artists had attended. Later in 2014 in Moscow, he was rewarded to “Sergey Yesenin” medal and got the certificate of “Golden Fall” for the contribution to the Russian and Turkish literature. More than one hundred and fifty scientific works were translated and published in different languages of the world. He is the author of many scientific documentaries, more than fifty poems were composed by the composers. He participated in the international poem festivals in Hungary, Syria, Russia, Turkey, Vietnam, Rumania, Yakutiya and other countries. His poems were published in “Anthology of World Poetry” in Rumania in 2015. Each year the literary award in his name is given in Turkey




    Where does it get its sweetness

    how can the honey know?

    If you can,

    go and ask,

    The bee knows.

    Where did you sleep in the night

    you know

    Where will you wake up in the morning

    The God knows.





    For the  memory of my mother Gülzar


    We were four

    A spotted sheep

    A wild apple

    My mother and me

    In the memory of future life

    They were sent to the Earth

    My mother was the bridal dress of the beauty

    The apple was the sprout of the forests

    I was the babyhood of the humanity

    When you have a time, just squeeze me

    And see  who I am?!

    I am a mother pie,

    Apple juice, sheep milk.





    -Spring,  where do you come from?

    From the place I found the God

    – Summer, where do you come from?

    -From the place I was aged

    – Autumn, where do you come from?

    From the place I was withered up

    -Winter, where do you come from?

    From the place I was forgotten


    Mourning for the life passed

    I’m at the north coast.

    Sun behind the clouds

    I am in a foreign land


    Is there anyone who asks for me?

    Where am I, where am I?

    Search your memory well

    I am at the place you have forgotten.




    Railway station … Train rails

    In the middle,  snow falls in silence

    At the back, backless youth

    How could he know, what  is ahead


    Separation … the heart of the time was bored

    A darkening evening on the horizon

    My father was with me, my luck was awake

    My luck was awake, but I was sleeping


    Do these cold verses say something

    The sound of the snow was also heard later…

    Imagine a mother, aged twenty,

    A son, at most,  at one and a half years


    Destiny can see the things the human cannot see

    What happened in the past, what will happen in the future

    This train intends to take us apart

    Released  with steam breath


    Need to talk was freezing in the air

    Father’s words are broken:

    “The light of my eyes, open your eyes

    Maybe,  this  is the last separation!


    What is this bitter cold?

    My premonition came true

    There is no need to prove or explain

    The word “father”  is already a proof .


    Days passed, months passed, years heaped up

    The time nibbles my life bit by bit…

    I shut my eyes, my luck is tied up

    Even I untie it,  my luck will not be  unwrap.


    The name of  “the father” is my lifetime comrade

    The blood of the memory of my childhood is cold…

    There is nothing left such as  memories

    There is not even a picture to look and cry…


    … The time tries to exit through the gap,

    The snow spinning in the air…

    Life leaves the life… From this separation

    The train leaves with the smoke on its head…


    Time was trembling when thinking something

    It holds Joseph’s cut rope

    One of the road would have a return,

    But one is  “one way only”.


    The train pulls off  the  unbearable troubles

    Seeing the state  of the person who looks but not see

    Day already down on the mountains

    The moon was glad see the clouds in the sky.


    The train  would take off pulling the troubles

    The dreams of  the baby was snowy…

    If he had open his bloody eyes, maybe

    He would have a picture of his father within himself…




    Our mind was young and sufficient at that time

    Nostalgia was wandering around  the stream and the plains

    A name was mentioned during the conversation.

    We were like a sword hanging on hope,

    The mothers took us from the swaddle

    And put us in between the themselves and  desire


    … So,  after a hard day came the evening  

    The sun would fall down to the branch of mountain from the distance.

    The mother would have the evening in her eyes,

    The brides were fall to the bed, tired.

    Someone would knock the door,


    Me, I came.

    The footsteps would fall down to the heart

    Return back and come back again…

    In the dreams of the  mother brides,

    The empty space of the soldier fathers.


    There was the pain in the  dawn,

    There was …

    It was not heard and no one knows.

    It was the snow on the roads,

    It was snow.. No one came to the houses…


    The footpaths  were dead at the many gardens

    The roads were facing each other  come to an end…

    In the sleeping snowy village

    Only the fresh sprouts were awakening.


    We were like a sword hanging on hope,

    We were sharp: :

    Sharp as the word “I Love” !

    Sharp as the eye of the needle

    As the selfish  greedy eyes…


    The cry and complain of the bride

    Hardly could warm her mother heart

    Her emotions and desires had died

    Her love and affections as well…


    Where would the flow of the life goes

    The burned off and dimmed out.

    They brightened their husband’s home

    And were  transformed to a “honour nest” !


    Give me the familiar smell of the pillows,

    Drown,  suppressed  excitements…

    Give the mothers’ bridesgown

    The lives lived  and died in one heart

    There is a part  of their life in our life’s

    Maybe the mothers made a mistake

    Give it, what is the sin of the brides?


    Our mind was young and sufficient at that time

    Nostalgia was wandering around  the stream and the plains

    A name was mentioned during the conversation.

    We were like a sword hanging on hope,

    The mothers took us from the swaddle

    And put us in between themself and  desire

    Between  this earth
    Between this sky

    Between this world

    Between the their love  and themselves!…  English version by Baanu Akkok


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