We present this work in honor of the Turkish holiday, Victory Day.
Taceddin Ahmedi Turkish 1334 – 1413
Up and sing! O anqa-natured nightingale! High in every business doth thy worth prevail: Sing! for good the words are that from thee proceed; Whatsoever thou dost say is prized indeed. Then, since words to utter thee so well doth suit, Pity were it surely if thy tongue were mute. Blow a blast in utt’rance that the Trusted One, When he hears, ten thousand times may cry: “Well done!” Up and sing! O bird most holy! up and sing! Unto us a story fair and beauteous bring. Let not opportunity slip by, silent there; Unto us the beauty of each word declare. Seldom opportunities like this with thee lie; Sing then, for th’ occasion now is thine, so hie! Lose not opportunities that thy hand doth find, For some day full suddenly Death thy tongue shall bind. Of how many singers, eloquent of words, Bound have Death and Doom the tongues fast in their cords! Lose not, then, th’ occasion, but to joy look now, For one day thy station ‘neath earth seek must thou. Whilst the tongue yet floweth, now thy words collect; Them as meaning’s taper ‘midst the feast erect, That thy words, remaining long time after thee, To the listeners hearing shall thy record be. Thy mementoes lustrous biding here behind, Through them they’ll recall thee, O my soul, to mind. Those who’ve left mementoes ne’er have died in truth; Those who’ve left no traces ne’er have lived in sooth. Surely with this object didst thou come to earth, That to mind should ever be recalled thy worth. “May I die not!” say’st thou, one of noble race? Strive, then, that thou leavest here a name of grace.
We present this work in honor of the 40th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Halide Nusret Zorlutuna Turkish 1901 – 1984
When you step over the doorstone, your heart is refreshed Neither a stain on the stony ground, nor a trace on the wood This very charming little home smells of soap, winter and summer Its tablecloths are snow white, its curtains are snow white.
From every corner an elegant feminine taste is shining In everything there is the eye-straining work and labour of a woman A delicate young woman is the mistress of this home Like a shy river, her voice is purling in the heart
Her eyes are dreamy, soft, deep “Home” is a temple to her, “love of family” is her religion! She never lacks babies around her While one of them jumps, the other crawls
Her entire life belongs to the children, to the home Her thin face resembles a three-night moon Whatever your position or age is Wouldn’t you bow your head in front of this woman?
I am a Turk; My religion and my race are great; Sinem, my essence is full of fire. A human being is a servant of his country. A Turkish child does not stay at home, I will go.
I will not have Muhammad’s book removed; I won’t let Osmancık’s flag be removed; I do not let my enemy attack my country. If the house of God does not fall into ruin, I will leave.
These lands are the home of my ancestors; My home, my village are always in this place; Here is the homeland, here is the lap of God. Your fatherland is your homeland, my son will not spoil it, I will leave.
My God is my witness, I will keep my word; The love of my nation is within me; I have nothing but my homeland in my eyes. My beloved bed does not have enemies, I will leave.
I wipe my tears with a white shirt; I sharpen my knife with a black stone; I wish greatness for my country. There will be no one left in this world, I will leave.
In honor of the Commemoration of Ataturk, we present this work by one of modern Turkey’s fiercest poets.
Süreyya Aylin Antmen Turkish b. 1981
when the angels bow down before the roses with a force equal to that of the wave the rose is in the body
pulling the stars out of dark nests down into the deeps, the beds of moonlight the voices that announce her, the crimson within pain and faith-filled nights.
in everthing within everything within no place in nothing your heart an unheard and solitary collision down in the depths of the ocean but burning a thousand times carries the rooted fires under skies where you desired everything, where you thirsted.
whatever it is you craved to hear, or the hunger dragging on from that first day craved to eat is there, where the angels bow down; and the rose is in the body.
I left my understanding to my child As he will be born nude
The twentieth of the centuries mixed up your mind A period of time resting on faith The confusion lay there and you did not understand That the day was decided by the sun On our blue planet
I left understanding to my child As this is a period of knowing
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 95th birthday.
Edip Cansever Turkish 1928 – 1986
That too the hard-heavy nothingness of existing There as daytime stirred The white organ of scattering: heaps of salt Like daytime Lifting nature’s thick shells
Down comes the opposite of a fisherman Dirty August! Things that drag me from here to there A few hotels stick in my mind Or they don’t stick in my mind But not that the hotel itself The brown coloured organ of loneliness: a heap of dreams Made out of brown coloured flames
Nothing else needed, to see nothingness Dirty August! In the end I set my eyelids on fire too
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 125th birthday.
Faruk Nafiz Çamlıbel Turkish 1898 – 1973
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!…
Poets Corner 