What to Appreciate

In fall 2003, I became intellectually absorbed with Central Asian culture and pored all over nearby libraries and the internet in search for the most recondite of Turkic histories. My roving eye happened upon a website (which now has fallen into disrepair and disuse) where was collected a selection of poems by a very little known 18th century Turkmeni poet by the name of Magtymguly Piragi. While currently Magtumguly enjoys a bit more recognition, back then not only he but also the Turkmeni language were not widely known outside of Turkmenistan. The poem that follows is translated by an early pioneer of Turkmeni literary translation, a scholar out of Cambridge I believe, named Yousef Azemoun.

Since reading Magtymguly eight or so years ago, I've found cause to return to this one poem just about every Thanksgiving. I hope you enjoy.

What To Appreciate

A miller would mistreat a hawk, it stands

to reason, since he knows not what it's for.

If diamonds fall into a shepherd's hands

he'll use them all for flints. Could he care more?

Who will not drink God's verse will dry remain;

who cannot drink God's word will worms sustain;

who pines for love like Majnun goes insane -

should Leyla's beauty find a shuttered door?

Who keeps tight fists will never be a lord;

who has not worked has never rest adored;

who has not been by hunger's spasms gnawed -

for him a fresh-baked loaf has how much draw?

Riches are valued only when they're lost,

and when they're spent, you just can't count the cost.

He who has not in raging fever tossed -

how can he prize the healthy years in store?

He who does not drop anchor deep enough

will find his ship drifts with the winds that puff.

Whose boat has never sunk in storm waves rough -

will he appreciate the stable shore?

No coward holds the moral ground, alas!

Till tired, no-one values the patient ass.

The swan that's never seen a desert's mass -

will she prize placid lakes where reed-beds snore?

Who has not fled to exile from a foe,

who was not bruised by separation's blow,

who has not pined for all to love and know -

who values peace who never sampled war?

The poet says, "Here's how this matter ends:

be thankful for the present moment, friends."

He who cannot see where my wisdom tends -

how could he prize a thousand verses more?!

Find some of Magtymguly's other poetry here: Songs from the Steppes of Central Asia.