We present this work in honor of the 35th anniversary of the poet’s death.
He died –
he doesn’t know he died,
his two hands lie by his side.
They’ll carry him away,
nor can he say,
‘I won’t go!’
He couldn’t even give thanks
to the friends who bore his coffin.
Ah, his death is like no other’s.
We present this work in honor of the 75th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Do not let your head tilt forward
Nevermind my heart, never mind
Don’t let them hear you’re crying
Nevermind my heart, nevermind
Crazy waves outside
Come and lick the walls
These sounds distract you
Nevermind my heart, nevermind
Even if you can’t see the sea
Turn your look upwards
The sky is like the sea
Nevermind my heart, nevermind
When your troubles rear up
Send a reproach to Allah
There are still days to see
Nevermind my heart, nevermind
Bullets finish by shooting
Roads end by walking
Your sentence finishes by serving
Nevermind my heart, nevermind
We present this work in honor of the 105th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Finally, the exorcism, finally
I did not stay within my heart
What is my heart to mark a feeling
Every limb is supposed to be caressed with fur
I love that Nigâr stretches out to heaven with these poems:
As for you, actually, you are always attracted to yourself
Love… that bloodthirsty thing… that close-clinging accident
Do not kill your leash
The ferry will not help the werewolf
Unburdening myself will not resign me
I love what I have and who I am.
I had a chance to love.
Empty heart, empty heart, an empty life…
I am delighted with this life of dreams and elimination
Lonely, cheerful, passionate and playful
I passed and then became a prisoner
Well, if I die… I am happy
O cruel Love, crafty of counsel,
of all gods fairest to behold with the eyes,
of all most grievous when thou dost vex the heart
with unforeseen assault, entering the soul
like a storm-wind and breathing the bitter menace of fire,
with hurricane of anguish and untempered pain.
The shedding of tears is for thee a sweet delight
and to hear the deep-wrung groan;
to inflame a burning redness in the heart
and to blight and wither the bloom upon the cheek,
to make the eyes hollow and to wrest all the mind to madness.
Many thou dost even roll to doom,
even those whom thou meetest in wild and wintry sort,
fraught with frenzy; for in such festivals is thy delight.
Whether then thou art the eldest-born among blessed gods
and from unsmiling Chaos didst arise with fierce and flaming torch
and didst first establish the ordinances of wedded love
and order the rites of the marriage-bed;
or whether Aphrodite of many counsels, queen of Paphos,
bare thee a winged god on soaring pinions,
be thou gracious and to us come gentle and with fair weather
and in tempered measure; for none refuses the work of Love.
Everywhere thou bearest sway and everywhere thou art desired
at once and greatly feared;
and happy is he who cherishes and guards in his breast a temperate Love.
Nor doth the race of Heaven suffice thee nor the breed of men;
thou rejectest not the wild beasts nor all the brood of the barren air;
under the coverts of the nether deep dost thou descend
and even among the finny tribes thou dost array thy darkling shafts;
that naught may be left ignorant of thy compelling power,
not even the fish that swims beneath the waters.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 90th birthday.
They piled the houses high,
in front long balconies.
Far below was water
far below were trees
They piled the houses high,
a thousand stairs to climb.
The outlook a far cry
and friendships further still.
They piled the houses high
in glass and concrete drowned.
In our wisdom we forgot
the earth that was remote
and those who stayed earthbound.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 155th birthday.
I expect no gifts from any, nor beg for wing or feather
In my own sky, in my own heavens, on my own I soar
To bow beneath slavery’s collar weighs heavy on my neck
I’m a poet, my thoughts are free, wisdom free, conscience free
We present this work in honor of the Turkish holiday, Republic Day.
The great Itri has of old been called
The Patron of our music;
How he leads the people far and near,
That conqueror of the day-break,
On how many holiday mornings early
Rattling the heavens with their voices massed together,
Have they chanted the magnificent Tekbir.
From Budapest to Iraq, even unto Egypt,
From the furthest conquered lands,
The breeze free-flowing o’er the homeland,
Brought with it sound from every blossoming spring.
This man of genius collected them
So that from the plane trees he heard us,
Heard our tale of seven centuries.
In his music flowed on one hand Faith,
On the other, all of Life;
From every side that brightness of the city, the Bosphorus
Flowed with the blue Tunca, and proud Euphrates.
With what voices, with our sky and earth,
With our sadness, our passion, our victories,
Flowed that creation, which resembled us.
How many times have I listened to the Neva-Kâr,
A refrain which is both broad and lively:
While scattering the secrets of the mode Neva,
Brightness shines from the horizons of the Orient;
Drunk with every syllable of his words,
By night, one by one they set out,
Toward the dawn go fifty million souls.
But Chance and Fortune enviously
Have hidden more than a thousand of his works,
As his inheritance there remain to us but twenty.
His Hymn to the Prophet, most awesome and profound,
Then appear the flute and kettle-drum,
And while the turning of the dervishes grows wilder,
His liturgy ascends the seven-tiered Celestial Throne.
He who was the master of a splendid world
Of voice and string,
Remains to us a mystery.
Our learned men know not, who was he?
Who hides his works today?
Are they a treasure kept by Eternity?
Does someone know? Where might they be today?
Death, which covers up such music
Leaves no consolation to mankind.
My heart still is blind
As in exile it passes many hours,
It falls into a pleasant revery:
Perhaps those compositions are yet played,
On an Ocean which never ship shall pass.
We present this work in honor of the 35th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Countries on a misty atlas are
houses that smell of mold now,
plastered with the blood of wounded seagulls.
One turns around clumsily,
in the house it entered by mistake,
comparing the corpse of the world on its wings
with what happens inside.
Outside, street kids play
red and green games,
pathetic tissue with limitless freedom!
The pained body of the seagull drops.
Love is a little rug;
A little sea counted by its walls!
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 70th birthday.
autumn is here
the sun and wine are witnesses
and the vine leaves yellowing on branches
sharpened knives of light are witnesses
to the regrets we’ve gathered
from the vineyard of time
let’s go to her today, to time
to the red Goddess who covers up our memory
with her tulle skirt
we’ve somehow already lost
more than we have
like a jug of wine we poured out without drinking
there are too many things to forget
too few to remember
the love whose sky we are leaning on, is witness
come on let’s drink
the rest of our lives
when descending evening like a break-up song
let’s the wine spread
within our blood slowly by slowly
Like a moment of Vuslat
We present this work in honor of the Turkish holiday, Victory Day.
to Ömer
For it is written of them, they will not believe
even a voice from out of the grave
“I, Lazarus, have come from the dead.”
Transfiguration!
The Holy Prophets Adam, Noah, Abraham, and Jesus
As a race that comes from one another!
Those who did not see Elijah in John the Baptist
How could they ever see Muhammed, Moses, Jesus, each Holy Prophet,
A wretch whose every journey begins from the desert
One who suffers, one who is always about to be killed!
Pitiful human being!
Who does not hear the melodies of forest and light
Whose eyes are veiled by arrogance
Who mutters delusions of infinity
Who builds castles and houses,
as though to dwell there to infinity
Even the disciples
Wanting to build a tabernacle of leaves
For Moses, Elijah, and Jesus
meeting on the mountaintop
They were nothing but uncomprehending servants
O those who take themselves seriously!
Integrals of arrogance!
For it is written, they will not
believe even a voice from out of the grave
“I, Lazarus, have come from the dead”
And the disciples saw
Jesus turn to light
His garments transfigure in a weird whiteness.
Jezebel’s hatred and Elijah
Herodias’ hatred and John
The Jews’ hatred and Jesus
Prophets!
Rough drafts of one another!
Melodies of forest and light!
Behold a swan,
For you,
Splitting into particles of light!
Poets Corner 