Abay and related thoughts

As part of my process of getting familiar with Kazakhstan before spending the next two-plus years of my life there, I've been reading some from one of the country's most famous poets and Islamic philosophers, Abay Ibragim Kunanbaev. I don't know how the old fellow sounds in the original Kazakh, but in translation he's a bit edgy (I like that) and he seems to have a healthy, almost Kierkegaard-like exasperation with silly and frivolous people and a remarkable talent for self-effacement (also both points in his favour).

I enjoyed his Poem 9 from the McKane translation of The Book of Words:

I don't write poems for amusement,
and not to gather together tales and fables.
I write to give an example to the young,
whose hearts are sensitive and tongues flexible.
These words are available not to the thick-skulled, but to the seekers
who have a reasonable heart and a clear mind.

Come directly, no straying, no looking for devious ways.
You cannot recognise the essence from outside.
In the beginning my words seem strange,
since you've grown up not hearing such words.
I am amazed at people who cannot comprehend what has been said.
They demand new words after new words.

I have told my tale without the fabled Hasret Ali and the dragon,
and there is no beauty with a gold chin.
I don't revile old age, calling death down on it,
and I don't call the dzhigits to dishonour.
Do not turn away, considering my words not colourful enough.
Convince yourselves somehow that the most valuable word is the deepest.

The noisy rustlers are born from knights.
They are bustling people, given over to women and empty fun,
without honour, reason or jobs,
well known as stormy drunkards.
If I arouse laughter from a pitiful group of madmen,
then, my tongue, don't make the effort, be silent.

My brother who has the gift of poetry and fine speech,
I curse--don't waste good words on us.
There's no use in them for us, for you.
Priceless words sink in the emptiness.
Dandy, phrase-monger, womaniser, proud one,
what joy can they bring to you?

This poem is amazing because it cuts straight through the nonsense and aims right at the heart of the matter right from the first line. Though it's a bit light on the imagery, Abay's respect and reverence for language and the power of the spoken word comes through palpably - and yet, by the end, he's employing his best sense of irony with regard to that same reverence, almost daring his audience to prove him wrong. Though he was active the better part of a century before Habermas, he's throwing down the gauntlet in almost the same way - 'come directly'! Don't beat around the bush, looking for ways around me! Are you brave enough to try to comprehend me, to communicate with me? Is there any use even in my asking?... and then he turns the whole force of the poem back on himself in the last stanza. Maybe he is the one wasting words on us? Maybe we're the only ones who can answer that; maybe that's the challenge.

I get the feeling, though, that this poem reads a lot better in Kazakh. As much as there is to appreciate here, perhaps in its original tongue there might be more.