Showing posts with label Kazakh poets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kazakh poets. Show all posts

Monday, 18 May 2009

The ticking of clocks

The ticking of clocks is not an idle sound
life flows by, my friend, their beating repeats
A minutes is like an age for a man:
it goes, it dies, and the circle of life is closed

A clock is a ticking thief,
stealing life daily,
taking it unnoticed so that without love and constancy
life is nonetheless just fleeting deception.

In a clock's rustlings is past life
if it dulls a soul or comforts it,
still reason knows that time is treacherous,
it goes past as though its tick is harmless.

A day, a month, a year goes off in to ashes,
old age comes, time flows away...
Since transient time beckons us pitilessly,
Oh, imperishable Creator, have mercy upon us !


Over the years I have been reading many of the great Kazakh writers, poets and philosophers and one stands out above all others; Abai. He loved his people as no other and that's why his words ooze the blood as his soul bleeds. One of his early poems is about the ticking of clocks (1880) I posted above.

In New Zealand time has finally run out on the 53-year career of a Wellington watchmaker.

Eric Matthews, 79, first retired from his Caledonia St in Miramar shop in 1990 when he was a sprightly 60, but he quickly became bored with chainsawing firewood and drinking beer with retired friends at his Miramar North home.
"I quickly found chainsaws and beer are like petrol and matches. They do not make good bedmates."

After six weeks he returned to the tiny premises where he first set up his business in 1956. Since his 1990 "retirement" he has repeatedly told himself for the past 18 years that he would "just keep the business going for another year".

Now the man who believes himself to be the longest-serving sole trader in the same Wellington region shop knows there will be no going back.

"I've sold my tools. There is no way I am going back," Mr Matthews, who wears a Certina Swiss watch, said.

He has survived month to month in the business for the past 50 years. Soon after setting up shop he signed a two-year lease, but for the past 50 years he has never had a rental agreement.

"I've lived month to month. It's been good," he said.

Mr Matthews, who did his apprenticeship with Wakefield St watchmaker Jack Shields after leaving Wellington High School in 1945, is looking forward to spending more time playing golf with his friends.

Eric Matthews in 1956, the year he started business in Caledonia St, Miramar.

Asked whether he would miss fixing watches and clocks, he responded: "No way. I did it for money. I've done my time."

So Eric, would you agree with Abai's words ?

A clock is a ticking thief,
stealing life daily,
taking it unnoticed so that without love and constancy
life is nonetheless just fleeting deception.

In a clock's rustlings is past life
if it dulls a soul or comforts it,
still reason knows that time is treacherous,
it goes past as though its tick is harmless.

Thursday, 20 December 2007

Christmas in Almaty, Kazakhstan


Coming from New Zealand where we celebrate Christmas in the middle of summer, the European snow theme Christmas cards never made much sense to me. Until, that is, I had some Christmas's in Kazakhstan. A few memories

24 December 2001

It's Monday morning in Almaty and another heavy snowfall last night Up the road the golden cupola's on the Russian Cathedral are covered in snow, but you can still see the gold on the spires. Almaty is a very beautiful city and if ever wanted a "real Christmas scene", this is it.

Yesterday I went skiing at Chimbulak and had a wonderful day's skiing. A number of runs from 3,500m to 2,500m with panoramic views of the Alatau range of the Tienshan. I was so captivated by the environment and the clock seemed to stop as I watched the sun go down and the moon slowly brighten. It is days like yesterday that make me realise the importance of mountains in my life and their grandeur and timelessness.

Time is something which has always fascinated me and most writers allude to it, in one way or another.

Recently I have started reading the great Kazakh writers, poets and philosophers and one stands out above all others; Abai. He loved his people as no other and that's why his words ooze blood as his soul bleeds. One of his early poems is about the ticking of clocks (1880)

The ticking of clocks is not an idle sound
life flows by, my friend, their beating repeats
A minutes is like an age for a man:
it goes, it dies, and the circle of life is closed

A clock is a ticking thief,
stealing life daily,
taking it unnoticed so that without love and constancy
life is nonetheless just fleeting deception.

In a clock's rustlings is past life
if it dulls a soul or comforts it,
still reason knows that time is treacherous,
it goes past as though its tick is harmless.

A day, a month, a year goes off in to ashes,
old age comes, time flows away...
Since transient time beckons us pitilessly,
Oh, imperishable Creator, have mercy upon us !

Abai is one of the few nomads who wrote with such passion and spirit about the life of nomads: