——————– translated by ender gürol
I.
Humans, carnations, jazz
and the world
reach me having stabbed my portrait.
Whatever was stolen in the small hours of the morning
I am stealing the same
—————– from the Earth.
Trains pass through my room,
——— restaurants
—————– winds
—————– —– hissing bullets
and child faces rent asunder
in the uterus
——— over a blue river.
Were I to depict a river
—————— -but a blue one-
I’d have depicted I think
all the children
that died of starvation, in wars.
-Who’s then the worst bloody tyrant in history?
All right, you did well
In letting me stretch your belly a little too taut
so that moonlight spurted from my gun;
——— ours are now all the children of the fall.
Whoever entangled
——— violets in my beard
whoever is wherever
——— Wherever I’ve pegged my jacket
——— Wherever the world has been swirled
I am there swaying in the air
with a scorching heartache
——— reminiscent
——————- of a
——— —– ——— moaning
——— —–——– ——— saxophone.
If we consider our world as
——————- a collection
———- ——————- on which are pasted
dried corpses of soldiers
——— and the burnt bodies of
young men whose hearts had been ripped
out from their bodies
——————- under torture
—————-———– there our era is reigning!
there each of us is called ‘Freedom’
——————- that history will record.
2.
My poetry plunders the world
what I insinuate by words is
the orgasm of rivers and doves.
I kidnap myself
—— through balconies
————– that move me away from the Earth.
The plaster of my heart
————— – was applied
————————– with the raped
April evenings.
Although my chest
——– has been rent asunder
by dense maquis
what I offer you
——– ever morning
——– ——– is flowery rivers.
An argentine tango on the radio,
you know,
——– is more proletarian
——– ——– than its American brother
——– ——– ——– ——– jazz music.
Born in the brothels of Buenos Aires,
——– Its father Astor Piazella
——– ——– is still reigning
——– ——– as a dirty yellow light thief
in all the Argentinian loves and us.
While I and Astor whose hearts are
——– ——– somewhat more daring
——– ——– ——– are asking now:
-Who traced the portrait of the sea on our lips?
3.
I’ve taken up my pen in 1988
——– ——– as though beginning a poem
dangerous and fugitive. I thought
——– ——– what would poetry mean
for Huseyin, the grocer?
The juvenile wind and heavy heart
a sweet lie, perhaps.
I wonder where exactly a kilogram of white cheese
might be stored in the heavenly vault?
The feeling might be incomprehensible, but
I fear that barking of dogs may sound no more
——– ——– ——– ——– in ‘the Star Wars’.
Who would tell about the small town
——– ———– asleep in the lap of acacias?
To whom can we describe the bliss one experiences
——– ———– while holding in one’s hands
the tiny feet of a newborn.
——– ———– Well then, it’s plain
-Peace is life’s fiancé.
4.
Silence everybody! I’m going to sing
—– —- to the mountains, rocks, trees and rivers
I intend to animate the world
—– —- just like Australian aborigines
by singing songs.
Silence! If we keep silent,
—–—- we might perhaps hear
—–—- —–—- the dialogues between
—–—- —–—- —–—- the fishermen of Istanbul
and the Chinese philosophers.
—–—- We can prick our ears to Prague’s heart
—–—- —–—- —–— from Bebek
in a misty November afternoon.
Silence! If we keep silent,
We may perhaps see
the rosy breasts of the fiancé bitten by
an infantry soldier from Khorassan while on leave.
Silence!
A generation annihilated by bullets and in gallows
Is parading before you
—–—- S i l e n c e!
A whole generation of victims
parading before you killed with bullets
—–—- S i l e n c e!
He was thrown in front of history
—–—- as a piece of bloody flesh
—–—- —–– We are lying now in a coffin
to the accompaniment of chants,
—–—- —–– expectations
—–————- —–– and colorful dreams.
But
consider my friend
-whose coffin has history been?
——————– iç. “Allah ve Tango”, Cem Yay., 1990
