Nigar Arif
Moderator 
NIGAR ARIF
Nigar Arif was born in 1993 on 20th of January in Azerbaijan. She studied at Azerbaijan State Pedagogical University in the English faculty in 2010- 2014 and graduated from “III Youth Writers’ School” in “Azerbaijan Writers’ Union” in 2016- 2017. Nigar Arif is a member of “Azerbaijan Writers’ Union”, “World Union of Young Turkish Writers”, “İnternational Writers’ Union in Kyrgyzstan”, “ Writers Union of Central Asia” and the “International Forum for Creativity and Humanity” in Morocco. One of her books “ The Room of Memories” was published in Iran in arabic ABC, another one “ Human’s Rain” in Azerbaijani in Baku. Her poems have been partially translated into English, Turkish, Russian, Persian, Chinese , İtalian, Portuguese , Montenegro, Spanish, Arabic, İndian, Urdu and have been published in different countries. She was a participant of “ IV LIFT- Eurasian Literary Festival of Festivals“ which was held in Baku in 2019 and “30 Festival Internacional De Poesia De Medillin” in 2020 which was held in Colombia, "Panaroma International Literary Festival 2020" in India at an online platform and “ 8th Layoune International Poetry Festival and cultural talk with poets from five continents “ in Morocco in 2024, “16th İnternational Poetry Festival in Uzbekistan” in 2024. She participated at the” Word trip Europe” project, "100 poets around the World for love" and “ Fourth Global Poet Virtual Meeting 2020” and so on...
1. Humans' rain
Here is the city,
people break out and leave...
Here are the snows and rains,
washing their footprints...
Even the sun shines in every morning,
Winds blow and sleek
Nothing can remove those ,
Nothing can be changed...
People soak up to its memory
from its pocky face.
They fetch their colors with themselves
keeping the city pale.
Everywhere is dull,
Everything turns to a grey tale.
People rain and rain falls from their eyes
in every single day
And those getting wet in the heart of this city
who can't run away
Humans are raining cats and dogs,
Ambulances revolve like the umbrellas
under the sick drops...
Either the nights or the noons
wobble from their homes.
The whole world tumble from its place
and falls...
Day by day, week by week
Streets become empty
The roads, cafes see the end.
The shoulders of the heavy shops
are going to bend...
The huge buildings, the small houses
between the city's arms
peeping out with fear at the naked depth
that idles in the villages, travels to the countries
Lonely trees are getting bored
The flowers, birds and meadows
from the dusty feet of this city
missing of the man
Who knows?
May be in their own languages
they even rail
this damn, teasing quarantine.
Now we know, mom
Cities and countries
can also catch the diseases...
What can i say?
Don't worry,
everything will be okay.
There are hopes
that draw out till the hair of this city...
There are our dreams putting the hands to its forehead
to check the heat...
May be we found the best treatment, mom,
Love is the best engraftment
as you always said...
2. The Wind
Hey wind, knocking door to door,
is that one door you're looking for,
is that enough for you?
Where are they now,
those open doors
from the hot, sunny days of summer?
Where are those that loved you,
to dine with and to rest;
who once were pleased to welcome you
and treat you as their guest?
Hey wind, knocking door to door,
where are your lovers now?
Now the weather's turned to winter,
have they turned cold as well?
Don't knock, my dear, don't knock,
no one's opening their door,
no one will look out for you, nor call on you,
no more.
Who, I ask, now the weathers changed,
would call on you at all?
Go dear, go.
Just wander round these dull grey streets
and break dry trees in anger;
just wait as winter turns to summer and your friends,
dear wind, with the sun, will grow again once more.
3.Run After Childhood
My eyes slowly drift away from me,
See the things through glasses as grow old.
My feet have got a fast walk, running before me,
‘Cuz they’re in a hurry to reach to my childhood.
My fluffy hair’s looking for its braid-time,
It becomes white and bare like this winter,
Time calls on wrinkles my face and hands
road to road, as I’m bored year by year.
That's how I'm getting older, tale by tale,
My pains turn into small kids like my children,
listening to my stories and fairy-tales,
Don’t even get off my arms and knees.
The old years like the black and white points,
come on and stay in the domino-stones.
I lose each game on purpose to my grandchild,
At my old age – in my “childhood” years.
