Serdar Saparov
He was born in 1977 in Turkmenistan. He graduated from the Public Relations Department of the Communications Faculty of Ankara University. Upon completing his Master’s Degree study at the International Relations Department of the Faculty of Political Sciences of Ankara University in 2001, he continued his doctoral studies at the same faculty. During the same period, he worked at the Science Center of Turkmenistan’s Ankara Embassy, and he took up an active responsibility for a series of cultural projects. Without abandoning the classical style, he kneaded his contemporary poetry mastery within the Turkman national consciousness, and his poems have been followed with great liking especially by the young generation. He uses a philosophical narration style very frequently and in an in-depth dimension. It is also readily observed in his poetry that he was influenced by Turkish poets. He has translated many famous poets of the world into Turkman Turkish. He also translated hundreds of poems and short stories from Turkish literature into Turkman Turkish.


An evening melancholy. Silence reigns in the surrounding area. Doves are also silent, this world is subdued,
I just sit idly inside this meaninglessness, maybe I had not dreamt of the world like this.
Is this silence a state of hopelessness? Or does it augur ill?
Shadows in the shade of the evening, who knows, they dominate which game,
Longing is still there in its old place of loneliness, yearning is enslaved to the shadow,
But I aspire for grief for some reason. Or is this a betrayal to happiness?

I am a passenger in the ship for pursuit, by looking at the world with a sprinkle of love,
Thoughts drag things to uncertainty, where is a foresight to say stop here?!
The evening is the only ruler of the wooden steer; its misty shade pervades the ship board.
From afar the silhouette of flower skirt of the fortuneteller with her flower basket,
Maybe she can tell fortune about this silence, odd shadows, this strange trouble.
Maybe it is an expectation of a hope… Ah, well, the voice if the fortune teller became distant.

To me though, I have to sit. Like caught in a storm,
My hands are over my head, my knees are my shield, I am turning my eyes from horizon.
Or else, it is known; it is not about the storm, the typhoon, nor the work of the world giving evidence
For sure, the old wind walks with its cane kindly.
No offence, these are only a sheer tale. I am a witness to it with my tired eyes…
The evening shade surrounds the world in the silence of the evening sadness.