Zarina Nurakhunova

on translating Mukagali Makatayev

The poem I chose was written by Mukagali Makatayev after the death of his 11 year-old daughter - Maigul.

When I first read this poem, I was struck by its progression from childhood innocence to the inevitability of death. The opening phrase, қалақтай едің, carries an affectionate image of smallness, the kind of expression someone might use when remembering a child. Yet within only a few lines, the same word appears again in a completely different sense — as a shovel standing at the grave. That sudden shift from tenderness to finality was what made me so interested in this poem.

The greatest challenge was how to deal with the word Бұлданба, which means “don’t sulk” or “don’t pout.” The tone is gentle, often consoling, but can also carry mild reproach. Rendering such everyday expressions into English is tricky, because their force depends not only on meaning but also on cultural nuance.

One more difficulty came with the closing line: Туғаныңды, өлгеніңді санап құр. It reduces life to a bare equation, as if nothing remains except two dates on a gravestone. I wanted to capture the bluntness of this statement without making it sound too flat in English. My translation — “What’s left of you now are the dates of your birth and your death.” — tries to retain both the bitterness and the sense of futility that the original conveys.

This process reminded me that translation is never just about words, but about choices. In this poem, that truth lies in the fragile span between birth and death, and the haunting feeling that follows the father.