We present this work in honor of the poet’s 80th birthday.
Ever been kidnapped by a poet if i were a poet i’d kidnap you put you in my phrases and meter You to jones beach or maybe coney island or maybe just to my house lyric you in lilacs dash you in the rain blend into the beach to complement my see Play the lyre for you ode you with my love song anything to win you wrap you in the red Black green show you off to mama yeah if i were a poet i’d kid nap you
We present this work in honor of the 45th anniversary of the poet’s death.
I am the final point of a novel that begins Let us not forget everything above level zero I sustain my romance intact between my eyes Then, denying nothing, I set out once again I am the final point of a novel that begins No need to distinguish the horizon from the dance And within my burnous my house survives I am the final point of a novel that begins Of my two Saharas I compose my song I sustain my romance intact between my eyes I am in the truth the pupil and the lesson
Often I recall having been a shepherd… Then in my eyes there’s that long-suffering look Of a fellah who watches in his unbreakable hands The history of a country where the orange tree will be born Often I recall having been a shepherd I have sliced the galette I have parted the figs My daughter I have married well It has no equal To the gun To the task Than my eldest son My wife was the finest in the valley. Among us the word fatherland has a taste of anger My hand has caressed the heart of palm trees The handle of my ax opens an epic And I have seen my grandfather Mokrani Finger his beads watching eagles pass Among us the word fatherland possesses a taste of legend
Daddy ! Why have you deprived me Of fleshly music see: Your son Learning to speak in another tangue Words that I have known Since I was a shepherd lad
Ah my God The night so much night in my eyes Mummy calls herself Ya Ma while I say Mother I have mislaid my burnous my gun my pen And I bear a first name falser than my deeds Ah the night my God but what’s the good of whistling Fear You’re afraid Fear You’re afraid Fear You’re afraid Since a man stalks you like some frightful mirror Your school friends and the streets the jokes But since I tell you I’m a Frenchman just look at my clothes my accent my house I who turn a race into a profession Saying Tunisian when I mean “tradesman” I who think of a Jew as some wretched homegrown soldier? Come on then, my sister wears no veil And in the Lycee didn’t take all the prizes for french?
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 145th birthday.
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a gray dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Here they come the clever ladies in their detachable Peter Pan collars their fringes their sober mein hiding such anger such subtle vices dizzying torments how do they manage to keep it intact that demeanour? Is it something they’ve learned? Not from George rough-hewn or Emily choking her mastiff down on the moors. No it’s Jane with her simpering smile her malice her maidenly virtues rustling through the 20th Century seminars sitting on platforms discussing manner and style how to instruct & parry impertinent questions.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 125th birthday.
Whinnied the dark horses; cracked the leather whip in air, The wagon paused in its tracks for a moment. For a long while rattled the springboard beneath me. Caravanserais one after another passed in front my eyes… With a heavy and homesick heart, I was on my way, Along the Ulukişla road heading into Central Anatolia. Like a first love, a first hurt, a first separation! The air was warmed by the fire burning in my heart, Yellow sky, yellow land, yellow bare trees… Behind me, the high range of the Taurus Mountains, Ahead, foothills faded by a long winter, On spun the wheels, moaning with each turn…. My hands clutched the mane of the wind Our wagon advanced along the mountain slope. Everywhere was steep, everywhere was quiet, Only the driver had a whistle on his lips! The winding roads responded to his whistle Snaking roads which appeared asleep Raised their heads to listen to the emptiness. The skies clouded over, the wind cooled down. It began to drizzle. As the last slope opened up onto flat a pasture An endless plain dawned in front of us The road connected us in one long ribbon to the horizon. This strange land steadily drew me into it. The road, nothing but the road, ever the road…flatness with no end in sight. Nary the vision of a village or a house anywhere to be seen, In the end, it is nothingness the road declares to man, Now and then passed a rider on horseback, or a couple of foot-travelers. Rattling over broken stones on the path, The wheels conveyed something to the route, The long roads vibrated amidst this clatter…. I surrendered unto the noise of the wheels and stretched out on the thin blanket of the springboard.
A sudden jolt…I woke up from a deep sleep; The wagon was passing over the road as smooth as water. Ahead of us like a castle loomed the town of Niğde, Sounds of small bells on the right: Ahead, a camel caravan plodded slowly forth, At the edge of the city emerged a ruined han. A dappled darkness enveloped all, We entered the han and unfettered the horses. Searching a salve for throbbing wounds, Sojourners had now gathered in the han. Wayfarers from every corner of the land had come together here in one place, Souls filled with homesickness clustered near the campfire. All eyes were riveted to the glow, Chests heaved to breathe. The kerosene lamp blackened with soot Drew gloomy streaks across all their faces. The marks on their cheeks and the grief in their eyes Gradually deepened into verses… There was a dark wall beside my bed, Covered with all kinds of marks and writing; Whoever slept here had left his mortal trace on the wall, Languid lines and lewd drawings… I retired early at the end of this sorrowful day, And as my wakeful eyes wandered over the wall, Suddenly a few lines in bright red burned forth It did not seem as a stanza of four lines, but rather like four drops of blood. As I struggled by parse these lines on the wall I felt I had met up with an old poet friend; “I have been gone from Kinadağ for fourteen years now Away from my sweet home, away from my love Never gathering a flower from the garden of my love Banished from one corner of the earth to the next.” Underneath was a date: eight March, thirty seven… I did not see any name in the place of a signature. Destiny is in front of you, don’t be sad, my friend! Finished now are borders, army service, wars; Do not regret that your youth has slipped away. The glory you took from the frontiers will reach your love!… We moved on before sunrise on the following day, A cold March morning… each breath froze in air. The first rays of dawn enflamed the horizon. We left behind us the houses at the edge of the city. The sun rose and set behind the clouds; In the distance appeared mounds as hulky as mountains … Caravans slowly strode beside us, Old hans seemingly built by a feudal lord passed in view. Our journey kept moving ahead along these endless roads, There, through the pass choked between two mountains. There, where the frigid northwest wind scared me to death I was filled with joy after crossing the mountain pass: The places I left behind will meet the spring, The land ahead of us was still covered with snow. The mountain pass separated winter from summer, Here, the final storm snapped off the last branch… The carriage continued on at the same speed, Snow began to hurl around us. It buried all in a white darkness; It was not snow that fell from the sky; but rather death… Inside of me perished the longing to reach a village The carriage driver yelled out: “Over there… Araplibeli!” May God help those who remain on these roads At the end of a day’s journey, we led our horses into a han. Three or four travelers had arrived ahead of us They sat cross-legged before the open fire, The crackling wood enlivened all four with spirit, One told a story of a bandit, the other the fable of a wolf… As I began to doze off to sleep, The black soot left petal-like images on the wall. These lines in my heart emerged from the black soot, “If the remembrance of my love enflames my desire; My strength is not enough to fight it I journey forth like a dried leaf The wind decides my destiny.” In the morning, the sky was bright and the horizon clear, Our carriage headed out on the road to meet a sunny day Along these endless roads passing from one foreign land to another. It has been but three days since I left, but it feels as long as three seasons. After a long ride, we arrived in Incesu, Exhausted, we fell into a sweet slumber in a han. At sunrise I awoke from a dream of death, I felt much sorrow when I read these lines above my bed! “I am a stranger, people call me Kerem They took my beloved Asli away from me and said she was forbidden to me I am ill; they say it is tuberculosis My name is Satilmiş, I am the son of a sheik from Maraş.” One feels that it was his epitaph writ in those lines, I fear you never made it home from this foreign land. O You! Son of a sheik from Maraş, saint’s vow! Cursed was your luck that you could not cross this mountaın! Let it be, for you are not the only one who never made it back home, Many have perished among nameless bandits and wolves in the wilderness!… Our carriage headed out on the road towards Mount Erciyes: “Han Keeper”, I asked, “have you ever met the son of a sheik from Maraş?” His startled eyes peered at me for quite a while, He then replied: “A while back he entered this han a healthy man and he left it dead!” Everything changed now in front of my tear-filled eyes, Şeyhoğlu, our sojourner far from home, never made it beyond this han… The sad news of the fellow wayfarer from Maraş tore at my heart. Many years have passed since that day until now Yet still I shudder each time I pass a han along the road. For I know the secret sorrows held within their walls O! These ancient roads which connect villages to frontiers, Ancient roads grieving for those who will never return home! O! These han walls writ with such mournful lines O! These han walls which wring my heart!…