I

I know living isn’t an easy thing to do
Or falling in love and singing of your girl
Taking a stroll under the stars at night
Warming up in the sunshine by day
Sneaking out for half a day to take it easy
On top of Istanbul’s loveliest hill
–Countless shades of blue flow in the Bosphorus–
And to forget all in the legions of blue.

II

I know living isn’t an easy thing to do
But look
The bed of a dead man is still warm,
A dead man’s wristwatch is ticking.
Brother, living is no easy affair,
But dying isn’t easy, either.

Leaving the world isn’t easy at all.

translated by Talat S. Halman

And in this frigid hour, when the earth
smells of human dust and is so sad,
I want to knock on every door
and beg forgiveness of I don’t know whom,
and bake bits of fresh bread for him,
here, in the oven of my heart. . .

translated by Rebecca Seiferle

Only an impotent official
is truly surprised when things become new
red clouds giving birth to the ocean dawn
plums and willows ferrying spring across the river
clear skies inciting yellow birds
sunshine turning duckweed green
suddenly hearing a familiar tune
I think of home and dry my eyes

translated by Red Pine

“Enlighten the people generally, and tyranny and oppressions of body and mind will vanish like evil spirits at the dawn of day.”

he was a man of “some” contradictions but he got it right about the value of education

here or there
that is the question
whether it be smarter
in the long run
to pare down
or grab the whirlwind
with both hands
and ride, ride
the cat stares in my face
wondering once again
where his bowls
will be
and the past hovers
over my shoulder
specters whispering
in my ear
a month of decisions
that will determine
the course my life
will take
as I begin to break camp
saddle up
and gaze with eyes
that embrace
the faraway look
that claims me

“If they’re meant to be writers, they will write. There’s nothing that can stop them. It may kill them. They may not be able to stand the terrible indignities, humiliations, privations, shocks that attend the life of an American writer. They may not. Yet they may have some sense of humor about it, and manage to survive.”

the heart sinks under memories
of other days
and I get to thinking
which is not necessarily a good thing
about those faces I see in the dark
try to remember names
personality quirks
the smell of a wet field
the sun breaking through the clouds
for instance
a dog gingerly picks his way along a beach
there are shells everywhere
and is it Gene or David
who stoops to pick one up
grinning
the dog looks up expecting a game
and that long haired woman with the green eyes
who will break my heart
in ways, at times
too numerous to mention
will make the world stop
and time
here in Istanbul
moves forward
just the way it’s supposed to
dragging my mind along
hesitantly
but gently
to where it needs to go

I who was given in a dream the brush of many colours
Wish to write on petals a message to the clouds of morning.

translated by A.C. Graham