Salim Babullaoglu: MY FEAR IS BOUND TO MYSELF; MY STRUGGLE IS WITH MYSELF!
Our guest is Salim Babullaoglu — Secretary of the Azerbaijan Writers’ Union, a renowned poet and translator, and recipient of numerous international awards.
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— When and how did the first awakening of your poetic soul begin? Did this awakening arise from wonder, from love, or from inspiration?
Salim Babullaoglu: You have used some interesting words in your question: “soul,” “wonder,” “love,” “inspiration.” Let me begin with the last one. Once, someone asked me about “inspiration” and the “muse.” I jokingly replied that if every poem were written with the participation of a muse, then poets would have to own harems. It seems that what we call inspiration is actually the poet’s particular state and degree of meditative concentration at the moment of writing — that is what the name refers to. On my mother’s side, my grandfathers — and not only my grandfathers — were devout, deeply attached to the word. They knew the Qur’an, loved and studied the classics of the East, and read them. In my early childhood, I would attend their spiritual poetry gatherings as an observant child, curious about everything. I suppose the very first stirrings of my interest in the word took shape there. Even without understanding, I sensed that spiritual and poetic speech was different from our ordinary daily language.
If I recall the “time of words” to 1979, it was in August of that year, just before my seventh birthday, when I returned from my grandfather’s home — where I had grown up — to my father’s home. That year I was to enter first grade. For the first time, I saw large bookshelves, a library full of books. Then I began school, learned the letters, and discovered that my father wrote poetry. I witnessed how he recited poems at gatherings with friends. In those days, when my father went on vacation, he would take us along, always bringing a few books to read — usually poetry books. He would read passages to us, explain them, and then make us memorize them.
Both in those early gatherings and later when my father read poetry to us, I would be truly amazed. I wondered how words could be like this, and it filled me with joy. Thus, love for poetic speech and a sense of wonder did their work — I fell in love with words. And later… with silence.
— What are your thoughts on a poet’s responsibility in today’s literature? Is a poet first accountable to society, or to their inner world and humanity?
Salim Babullaoglu: “Society” and “humanity” are vast concepts. Setting aside the idea of responsibility before all of humanity, I must say — for me, even imagining a small society as a whole is difficult. I believe that everyone, poet or not, should approach daily speech with care and responsibility — I mean ordinary speech. In our culture there is a saying: “Be the master of your tongue.” This applies to all, but even more so to poets, for they work with metaphors and imagery. If this is observed, I would not call it “bearing responsibility” exactly, but it would certainly free one from irresponsibility. A poet, in general, has no obligation — not responsibility, I mean obligation — before anyone. Even prophets were told, “Convey our word, and do not grieve,” — to deliver it only. Sometimes, people assign a special mission to poets, even a savior’s mission. I think this is unnecessary. To write with that in mind, to set it as a goal, is rather absurd. It is a different matter that a striking poem, or even a single beautiful line, can give someone great impetus, affect their life, even change it. Yes, that is possible. But this is more the mission of the word itself than of the poet.
Of course, people must have values and principles they can lean on in life — in other words, morality. Any person whose words are rooted in such a moral system, including the poet, will produce poetry that is beneficial for humanity, for society, and, most importantly, for the individual. Who knows — perhaps what we call “humanity” is, in truth, that one unknown person.
A thought comes to mind — something like this: “It is highly likely that humanity cannot be saved, but each person has a far greater, more believable chance of saving their own heart.”
— You have received numerous international awards, which is not only worthy of congratulations but also thought-provoking. How have these awards influenced your creativity — have they inspired you, increased your sense of responsibility, or opened new directions?
Salim Babullaoglu: Awards bring a sense of satisfaction. They can influence one’s creativity for the better or for the worse — it probably depends on the person’s character. You know, when someone wins an award, one person is happy — the recipient — while many others, even if they hide it, feel a certain melancholy. I am speaking here about awards given for original creative work. At once, taste enters the picture — amateur taste, professional taste — and discussions begin about differing evaluations, opinions, subjectivity, objectivity.To tell the truth, the vast majority of my awards have not been for my personal creative works, but for my consistent literary activity — more precisely, for my work in translation and literary organization. I cannot say whether that is good or bad, but it is a fact. In that sense, I am actually a bit more at ease, because the work done exists regardless of anyone’s opinion.A writer who respects themselves works without thinking about awards, knowing that nothing can replace the joy of the creative process. In my youth, I did think about awards — I will not hide it. But for the past twenty years, I have not considered myself “young.” I simply do my work. Whatever happens, happens on its own. Does it increase my responsibility? Reduce it? I don’t believe so. In fact, as I mentioned earlier when we spoke about responsibility, we also touched on accountability, so I will not add anything further here.
— In our modern era — an age of war, oppression, and global crises — what stance should a poet or writer take? Should their pen speak with anger, with prayer, or with remembrance?
Salim Babullaoglu: As I think I have already said, I am against placing a special, exalted mission on the poet. A poet is also a human being. Regardless of profession, I believe people should share the same attitude toward oppression and war. But, let us agree, wars differ from one another. If a thief were to enter our home and our loved ones were in danger, we would hardly find the time to quote from the Qur’an, the Bible, or from Nizami or Shakespeare. We would fight — or at the very least, defend ourselves. That is my answer to part of your question.I am a believer — at least I consider myself one. Human beings are created in such a way that they generally know — or at least feel — whether they are in the right or in the wrong, except for those who have completely lost the chance of salvation. In wars, there are always right and wrong sides. Every person, every community, must bear responsibility for the decision they made before the war began. That is another part of my answer.For the past five or six years, I have been watching events unfold around me — in the literary circles I belong to, in my homeland of which I am a citizen, and in the world of which I am an individual. And, as a rule, I have remained silent, caught in hesitation. Perhaps it will sound strange, but I am more inclined toward individual, concrete action. If I can advise someone, offer material help, encourage a young writer with kind words and feedback, give someone work or professional support — I generally do so, within my means. In the eternal struggle between good and evil, one must always stand on the side of good. But in our world today, drowning in an excess of information, determining what “good” truly is is often far from easy.In the past two months alone, I have read more than 5,000 pages of biographical material — about T. S. Eliot, Czesław Miłosz, Ana Blandiana, and Zbigniew Herbert. What I have read confirms what I have been saying: much is not as it appears; what we do not know is an ocean, what we do know — at best — a single drop. I feel thisevery moment, every second.Prayer, meanwhile, is essential for everyone — the most reliable bridge, and the finest gift given to human beings.As for “remembrance,” I believe that before we “remind,” it is important to “remember correctly.” Anger? I do not know. Perhaps there are moments when anger is justified — yet I am not inclined toward being angry, writing in anger, or writing about anger, unless it is within the demands of a particular genre, form, or plot.In my view, a writer should never do one thing: never make crude generalizations. Sadly, we live surrounded by countless examples of exactly that.
— Lack of recognition, neglect, and injustice can sometimes deeply wound a talented person’s spirit. In Azerbaijan, how are poets and writers treated? Are talents appreciated as they deserve?
Salim Babullaoglu: Forgive me, but I find this question a bit incorrect, because such things are not a matter of geography — they are a matter of human nature. Life is a whirlpool of the satisfied and the dissatisfied. A person is obliged to value what is good, what is different yet beneficial, and what is talented. Indifference is one of humanity’s flaws — and it can wound a person as deeply as evil itself, especially the young. Failing to appreciate someone properly — or misjudging them — is, in essence, a form of indifference. And if we define it more precisely, indifference is ingratitude.Returning to your question: in Azerbaijan, institutionally speaking — in literature, I mean — this matter falls within the scope of the Azerbaijan Writers’ Union, and more broadly, the Ministry of Culture. In my opinion, what can be done within the available means is being done. No one can claim that the work carried out is perfectly objective when weighed on the scales of ideal justice; those who say so are either naïve or insincere. There are those who are dissatisfied, and those who are content.But as for “thinking too much about evaluation,” I believe one should not. Forgive me, but there is a touch of impropriety in it.
— As a poet, what is your deepest fear – to be forgotten, to lose yourself, or for your words to find no echo?
Salim Babullaoglu: I have no fear of being forgotten or of my words failing to resonate. We live in a world where the holy books are not read or lived as they should be, where prophets have been stoned, where the works of the classics gather dust on shelves. My fear is connected to myself; my struggle is with myself — to err, to live wrongly…
— Literary translation is a bridge that unites nations. For you, what is the primary mission of translation – to convey meaning, to preserve the spirit, or to become a brother in language?
Salim Babullaoglu: Literary translation is meant to do all the things you’ve mentioned. But these are not separate components. The word “spirit” is often used; I don’t think people mean it in the classical or theological sense, because that is something entirely different. Yet in the sense you mean it, meaning, spirit, form, brotherhood — these are not separate things.In my view, literary translation exists for a kind of global literary consolation as well.
— Every word has its own color, emotion, and sound. In your poetry, where and how do colors and sounds meet? How do you sense this harmony?
Salim Babullaoglu: That is a difficult question. A word carries its own weight of meaning, its sound, its “color” as you say, and other subtle accessories, just as the meaning of purity is reflected in the beautiful face of a child. The poetic word — the word of a poem — is still simply a word, not marked separately in dictionaries. But when you read a poem — or, as Octavio Paz said, when you listen with your eyes — you begin to feel that between the words of the poem, between the letters themselves, there is an invisible thread, a chain, a connection. The name of that connection is the poet.
It is a hard question. All I can say is that, for me, writing poetry requires isolation — withdrawal from the everyday world and its tasks. That is not always possible. Writing poetry, for me, is at once an intellectual and a contemplative process.
— You are the Secretary for International Literary Relations and Translation at the Azerbaijan Writers’ Union. In your opinion, what initiatives or projects should be implemented to further expand literary connections?
Salim Babullaoglu: My dear friend, in 2004, 2014, and 2023 I delivered extensive reports on translation issues in Azerbaijan. A 300-page book compiling those three reports has also been published. Each time, I have answered the questions of what has been done and what should be done. I do not wish to speak about it now. There is still much to be accomplished — and much that must be done without delay.
— What spiritual similarities and differences do you see between Azerbaijani poetry and the poetry of other Turkic peoples? How does each express its inner voice?
Salim Babullaoglu: In my opinion, Azerbaijani poetry, music, and painting are the most delicate and the deepest within the broader Turkic literary, cultural, and artistic context — followed by our Uzbek brothers. This may seem highly subjective, but I do not believe my view is without foundation. Let literary scholars give a more detailed answer to this question.
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Jakhongir Nomozov, is a young poet and journalist from Uzbekistan. He is also a Member of the Union of Journalists of Azerbaijan and the World Young Turkic Writers Union.
