Home » Poems » Best » Aibek Kalmaganbetov » Best Aibek Kalmaganbetov Poems

Best Poems Written by Aibek Kalmaganbetov

Below are the all-time best Aibek Kalmaganbetov poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Aibek Kalmaganbetov Poem

The Komsomol Will Not live Again

Their faces are wrinkled, scribbled in lines,
Old men in Parliament still cling to their shrines.
Like sparrows on wires, all gathered and still,
Basking in sunlight, as if time stands still.

Recalling their feasts, and what they have drank,
Like cows, they regurgitate all that they’ve thank.
“If you don’t touch me—I don’t touch you,” with glee,
But resentful of others who dare to agree.

They duck from the cameras, avoiding the glare,
Hiding from each other, lost in despair.
When one makes a break, it’s a scandalous sight,
Struggling to find the door in the night.

Innocent bloodshed stains the ground so vile,
The last hope of mankind extinguished in a while.
In the massacre of yesteryear’s red,
Countless lives vanished, unnumbered, now dead!

Our brave ones were shot, our nation laid bare,
Millions starved, while the tyrants would glare.
What did the red communist give to our kin?
Only disaster, and suffering within!

So many homes crushed beneath the harsh weight,
Echoes of those days still haunt us with fate.
In the massacre led by yesterday's reds,
The Komsomol's violence still lingers and spreads.

Deep in our veins, the bondage has thrived,
My Kazakh land never could have survived.
Those who celebrated the Komsomol’s reign,
Still linger among us, though much has been slain.

Mourn for them!
Celebrate the century, if you must,
But there’s no turning back, there’s no hope or trust.
The people’s curse echoes, as lives fade away,
The Komsomol will not rise again, come what may.

Komsomol - The youth union

Details | Aibek Kalmaganbetov Poem

Bridge of Love

This time is chaotic, a whirlwind of strife,
I’ve rushed to my people, giving them my life.
The sacred place to me, Shokpartogay,
A witness to the childhood memories of yesterday.

When inspiration filled me and lit the flame,
I wrote in the spring rains, making my name.
“May your future be blessed,” I wish to the land,
To those we knew, now gone from this strand.

I came to share poetry, offering joy,
To soothe the longing in my heart, oh boy.
I turned towards my village, my heart full of pride,
“To cross this bridge, I will open it wide.”

I’ve missed my homeland, haven’t seen it for years,
Where have the days gone? The springs, the cheers?
Old Zhem used to carry us, flowing so strong,
“Monshak” canyon, with no crossing, all along!

Is there land that compares to my birthplace so dear?
That stirs my spirit and brings it near?
The vast plains dance beneath the sky,
In springtime, Zhem roars, rushing by!

The people once lived with endless cheer,
In the small village, where life was clear.
The children of distant villages traveled far,
Hiring a ferry to school, no matter where they are.

The valleys once filled, with flowing streams,
Floods that startled us, beyond our dreams.
When the water returned, covering the green,
The sweet fragrance of the vast land was serene.

With inspiration from the village, I galloped far,
The images of childhood forever in my star.
As a blessing for the future, this bridge I raise,
Let’s call it the "Bridge of Tomorrow's Praise."

My village, for you, I remain true and pure,
Who else could offer such kindness, I’m sure?
As a blessing for good, this bridge we are raise,
Let’s call it the "Bridge of Love’s Embrace."

Let our celebration stretch from dawn to dawn,
With unity, we’ll make our land strong.
If we remain united, with peace in our hearts,
We’ll open the door to joy, where abundance starts.

Details | Aibek Kalmaganbetov Poem

Letter to my friend - 3

How are you, dear village, my golden cradle?  
Your children are growing, as strong as they’re able.  
Are the elders still well, sharing wisdom and care,  
Always speaking of home, the land that we share?  

Oh, the elders, they guide with a look, wise and stern,  
They’ll call out the leaders, make sure they discern.  
Are my mothers still thriving, with kindness so clear,  
In buttermilk’s richness, their blessings appear?  

My mother’s pure dairy, a source of our grace,  
Uniting the people, in this cherished place.  
That harmony’s woven deep into my veins,  
Giving me strength that forever remains.  

Are my brothers still joyful, with laughter and cheer,  
And the sisters beside them, their spirits so near?  
Are my kin, my dear family, thriving and bright,  
Each neighbor a treasure, a glimmering light?  

At ninety anniversary I penned this, my tribute, my song,  
A dream of my youth, where my heart feels so strong.  
Forgive me, dear friend, for not coming this way,  
I promise I coming to you next time anyway.  

Is it time for new journeys, a different school,  
In a world so distinct, with its own set of rules?  
The dorm by the school has been turned into a hall,  
A museum of memories, cherished by all.  

With faces all smiling, like flowers in bloom,  
Children enter the space, filling it with their room.  
With voices in chorus, greeting with glee,  
It’s clear they’ve been waiting, it’s joyful to see.  

As I witness this scene, my heart fills with grace,  
Nostalgia for school days, the warmth of this place.  
We’ve grown old with the seasons, that much is true,  
But those days won’t return, yet memories renew.  

Like a film in my mind, the frames quickly pass,  
Each moment a treasure, each laugh like fine glass.  
From your faces, I glimpse, as if we’re intertwined,  
Each one a familiar, in my heart’s gentle bind.  

I proclaim, “My village, my cradle of gold,”  
I want to lift your spirit, let your story be told.  
With wisdom’s ascent, all grievances cease,  
The burdens of heartache dissolve into peace.  

I’ve written this letter, your name in my heart,  
Next time I will visit, it’s a brand new start.  
I share my existence, in verses I weave,  
May the village remember, as I too believe.

Details | Aibek Kalmaganbetov Poem

Ancestral Land

In our land, there are no towering peaks,
To guide our dreams to the heights one seeks.
Even humble rocks resemble great hills,
And groves seem like forests in their thrills.

Our rivers don’t rush with a turbulent flow,
They meander gently, serene and slow.
You can’t quench your thirst with a single sip,
When your lips are parched and cracked at the tip.

Without mountains or forests, we lack a shield,
No refuge for storms when the winds reveal.
You’ll stray from the road in a blinding gale,
Where blizzards rage, cold and pale.

The sticky mud clings like a friend too close,
Even the swamp shows its love the most.
And the scorching heat, like a fiery brand,
Burns the stones, searing the land.

Your skin will itch with no relief,
When the buzzing mosquitoes bring you grief.
You’ll squint your eyes, barely open wide,
When the sandstorms swirl, and the winds collide.

Golden cradle, purest place,
Unseen by many, misunderstood space.
Some might scoff and mock its state,
Saying, "Even a dog wouldn’t tolerate."

Oil pumps he black gold below,
Forever spinning, steady they go.
Behind the city, tied to that post,
Many dogs bark at what matters most.

No mountains or forests to cast their shade,
But never a worry in my heart has stayed.
The endless steppe, my boundless quest,
With horizons far, it grants me rest.

The familiar hills, the plains I see,
Are dearer than flames to my eyes, to me.
I weave them into my songs with pride,
These cherished lands where my heart resides.

For you, my soul bursts into song,
With melodies bold and echoes strong.
My beloved ANCESTRAL LAND,
I love you deeply! I love you grand!

Details | Aibek Kalmaganbetov Poem

A thousand thanks

Though spring has come, my heart still feels the way,
We still struggle, but we are unable to do anything.
Let me say a thousand thanks on the "Gratitude Day,"
To the creator who created us from nothing today!

Through frost and storms, we'll endure the strife.
For bringing light into this world, my life,
Spring won’t last forever; winter will not appear,
Let me say a thousand thanks on the "Gratitude Day,"
To my dear parents, I offer thanks today!

Sometimes we laugh, sometimes we might shed tears,
As long as we live, I express my cheers!
For teaching me with care and endless hope,
Let me say a thousand thanks on the "Gratitude Day,"
To my schoolteachers, I offer thanks today!

But if we're at odds, we'll stumble on the ground.
To my friends who gather round, so profound,
When united, we can conquer any peak,
Let me say a thousand thanks on the "Gratitude Day,"
To my friends,  I offer thanks today!

A thousand thanks for kindness evermore!
If we are good, like eagles we will soar.
But if we falter, we'll crawl low like snakes.
Let me say a thousand thanks on the "Gratitude Day,"
To my neighbors,  I offer thanks today!

Like two trees that flourish, side by side,
Like two swans gliding on a peaceful lake.
The love to make strength forever tied!
Let me say a thousand thanks on the "Gratitude Day,"
To my family,  I offer thanks today!

We long for good news, let kindness be our guide,
Rooting out the wrongs, we’ll stand strong and free.
To those who understand and cherish me,
A thousand thanks to my community wide!

What joy it is to rise healthy from your bed,
To see the sun, its light shining bright.
Without obligation,
Without complaints,
Without confusion,
Let’s stand together, showering thanks with delight!

Details | Aibek Kalmaganbetov Poem

The Zhaiyk No Longer Overflows as Before

Cursed by the malice of narrow minds,
Or perhaps ensnared by deceitful designs,
Its azure waves no longer crash the shore—
The White Zhaiyk* no longer overflows as before.

Inmate are the waves that once struck the shore,
Now bearing the weight of human error’s more.
Choked within, its mighty soul suppressed,
The Zhaiyk* departs, unbidden, unconfessed.

Hiding its sorrow, resilient and strong,
The White Zhaiyk* was carry own pain along.
Even as its lifeblood seeps into the sands,
Its wounded soul still sings and withstands.

Gone are the fishermen casting their nets,
The gulls’ cries no longer, their sun has set.
Instead, a stranded shore greets you today,
With ships marooned, lifeless in disarray.

Zhaiyk* – the river in west of Kazakhstan

Details | Aibek Kalmaganbetov Poem

They will write thick books dedicated to me

Even if I die, my poems will blaze like fire,
Conquering the heart of the Earth entire.
Wise men who once refused to know my name
Will write thick books in my honor and fame.

When the all strength of lies are spent,
Truth seizes them by the collar, intent.
This treacherous world are in endless strife,
Does it ever pause, even for a blink of life?

Oh, my weeping Kazakh, you are in sorrow deep,
Oppression and cruelty their power keep.
Lives are taken, lives are given in the struggle above,
For wealth that offers no one true love!

Cruelty knows no shame or sense of honor,
Avoid it, if you have the strength to conquer.
Though the greedy find the wide world too small,
The earth's grave will have room for all.

May the generations have bright and shining faces,
Let them define their goals and find their places.
May their lives, not just their palaces, shine,
With winters, springs, summers, and autumns divine.

Details | Aibek Kalmaganbetov Poem

Each Has Their Own God

Who can drift through this fleeting world like a star on high?
I, too, shall not touch the depths of the vast, endless sky.
I lived my life in my own way, gathering wisdom with care,
Yet upon death, I will take none of it, none of it will I bear.

I might depart this world too soon for one, or linger on for another,
But I won’t end my days like a stray dog on the gutter.
As long as I walk with honesty, free from life's afflictions,
The truth will stand revealed in the five poems I've written.

In this deceitful age we live, only the honest will prevail,
Yet still my heart stays pure and free, untouched by any tale.
Tempted by the devil's wiles, men stray from truth's embrace,
And wealth, fame, and fleeting status, reveal their true disgrace.

I've learned the tongues of many lands, seen all that life can show,
Yet cannot grasp the voice of God, my heart is filled with woe.
In God's name, the frail wear masks, pretending to be wise,
They seek revenge from silent graves, behind their faith, the lies.

Each has their own God now, and people stand apart,
Harmony has vanished, twisted minds and heavy heart.
Once the lid has lifted from the blessings God bestows,
Each one pulls for themselves, as discord ever grows.

Details | Aibek Kalmaganbetov Poem

Our path is different, my friend

If you don't choose the peaks where clouds contend,
If you don't soar over that steep, distant end,
If you don’t fathom the depths of the seas,
If your strength doesn’t dive into vastness with ease,
Our path is different, my friend.

If your heart doesn’t tear for the truth’s sake,
If your soul doesn’t strive for the truth to awake,
If your shadow doesn’t stand like a tree,
If your arms aren’t full of humanity,
Our path is different, my friend.

If there’s no storm in the chest that roars,
If there’s no flood tumbling down from high shores,
If your heart doesn’t melt the ice and snow,
If the wind in your soul doesn’t blow,
Our path is different, my friend.

Details | Aibek Kalmaganbetov Poem

Letter to my friend - 1

Has water spread on the lowlands this year?  
Has grass grown in Aigara’s sphere?  
Oh my friend, like poison it’s spilled,  
This longing within me can’t be stilled.  

Has the Zhem* turned towards Shomishkol**?  
Did springs from Mughalzhar flow as a whole?  
Like a spring breeze, the waters do rise,  
A storm brews inside me, I can’t disguise.  

Once deep was the Zhem, so wide and so grand,  
On horseback, we rode, through this vibrant land.  
After the flood, the cliffs became bare,  
A million swallows made their home there.  

Is the village still putting sheep in the fold?  
Does the evening still bring tales to be told?  
Are the goats still struggling with their heavy load,  
With thistles embraced in their grassy abode?  

Do the old folks at dusk count the sheep with care?  
Are the young men still taming the wild with flair?  
Such thoughts make me chuckle, I can’t help but grin,  
Does a young man still water at Qosköl’s* inn?  

Will a girl come by to fetch water anew?  
When alone, will their hearts beat with joy, too?  
In the early spring, does love still unite,  
Are two swans still gracing the lake, pure and white?  

Will the green grass still flourish, soft under the sky,  
Laid out like a carpet for lovers passing by?  
Do the cows still munch, full and satisfied,  
Does the tea boil swiftly, with bubbles that glide?  

By the way, our old men used to proclaim,  
There’s oil in Mylkymbay, they’d say with no shame.  
Now gods arise, from the tales of mankind,  
All misfortune comes from those we’ve maligned.  

Dear friend, let’s keep quiet, for others to hear,  
Let’s not speak of the oil that’s close and so near!

Zhem* - name of river 
Shomishkol, Qosköl** - name of lakes