How pitiful is her sleep.
Now her clear breath is still.
There is nothing falling tonight,
Bird or man,
As dear as she.
Nowhere that she should go
Without me. None but my calling.
O nothing but the cold cry of the snow.
Someone Passing By by İlhan Berk
A swallow a puddle a piece of sky
They must have fallen off a poem.
Someone passing by thus said.
translated by Omer Kursat
For A Hopeful Ending by Turgut Uyar
one day I leave what is to remain of me
everything left unfulfilled remains
who would want to die in summertime
everything I left unfulfilled remains
my life seems to be of a whiteness
everything I left unfulfilled remains
I expand I scatter I am white
one day I leave, what is to remain of me
one day I leave oh vigorous horse
something of mine will surely remain
translated by Omer Kursat
I woke Up Three Times Loving You by İlhan Berk
I woke up three times loving you
I then changed the water in the vase
I could see a cloud that had taken off, drifting away.
Your face looked at if it fell off a part of the morning.
I paced the street the balcony and a half finished poem
I was bored I cooked for myself I dried herbs
I could hear a voice say “My Laurel!”
Your face was like the first days of the Republic.
I got up then walked up and down
Read poems, I reached the age of the poems
I felt your breath of clove gum on me.
I run through it over and over until only your beauty remains.
translated by Omer Kursat
At An Old Street Of Pera by İlhan Berk
Birds ascend from Hagia Irene
A stalk of grass behind their ears.
I tell myself that I am here finally
Here at this place, intersecting wth an old atlas.
A cat is gazing into your eyes
And the sky further below, as low as it can be.
And a woman trying to cross the street
I think of you and her incredibly thin neck that I do not see.
Peddlers, soldiers, knife sharpeners pass in front of me
And the sulky laborers of our world.
A voice says we are on the same peninsula
And vanishes down an old street of Pera.
I tread an old street of Pera like this every night
Every night with your mud on my soles.
translated by Omer Kursat
At Fırst by Turgut Uyar
no one spoke it, perhaps only contemplated
because it exists in one’s life
exists like sleep and anger
no one spoke it
like the sun setting
in salty seas
I missed it too
even though my eyes
are in search of stains all day
I missed it, but one can say that
apart from the entire history of poetry
apart from all values plus or minus
apart from all things previously explained
as in the summer of the hottest countries
in the winter of all colds
I burn I get cold I feel awful
I am of no use
but I still love you
so then, love me too
yes.
translated by Omer Kursat
I hear how leaves are falling: by Mara Belcheva
I hear how leaves are falling:
autumnal days of sorrow . . .
Someone’s bound for heaven–
the church bell’s tolling.
Like a moan for help, it’s fading
blown away into the distance . . .
Autumn days, the falling leaves,
the church bell’s tolling.
translated by Christopher Buxton
Snowdrop by Mara Belcheva
A snowdrop plucked for me
a gift of love from him,
the first of all to leave
through the gates of spring.
Come and teach my soul
how too to blossom in snow
and to pull out from the soil
the teardrops love lets go.
translated by Christopher Buxton
I was born to live in tempests by Mara Belcheva
I was born to live in tempests
hey but life the sharp eyed seer
stretched a hand to cover my lips:
“Listen, a deep spring runs quiet!”
He told me–and looked at me close.
And in his look I detected,
in the clarity of his victory,
both laughter and tears subdued.
translated by Christopher Buxton
3:50am in Moda
not beer
or wine
or some cocktail
but Irish
yes, Irish
flowing down my throat
once again
but sleep
that erstwhile companion
elusive still
Leonard Durso 