This time is difficult. Wait for me.
We will live it out vividly.
Give me your small hand:
we will rise and suffer,
we will feel, we will rejoice.

We are once more the pair
who live in bristling places,
in harsh nests in the rock.
This time is difficult. Wait for me
with a basket, with a shovel,
with your shoes and your clothes.

Now we need each other,
not only for the carnations’ sake,
not only to look for honey–
we need our hands
to wash with, to make fire.
So let our difficult time
stand up to infinity
with four hands and four eyes.

When your hands go out,
love, toward mine,
what do they bring me flying?
Why do they stop
at my mouth, suddenly,
why do I recognize them
as if then, before,
I had touched them,
as if before they existed
they had passed over
my forehead, my waist?

Their softness came
flying over time,
over the sea, over the smoke,
over the spring,
and when you placed
your hands on my chest,
I recognized those golden
dove wings,
I recognized that clay
and that color of wheat.

All the years of my life
I walked around looking for them.
I went up the stairs,
I crossed the roads,
trains carried me,
waters brought me,
and in the skin of the grapes
I thought I touched you.
The wood suddenly
brought me your touch,
the almond announced to me
your secret softness,
until your hands
closed on my chest
and there…

Of the many men who I am, who we are,
I can’t find a single one;
they disappear among my clothes,
they’ve left for another city.

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as intelligent,
the fool I always keep hidden
takes over all that I say.

At other times, I’m asleep
among distinguished people,
and when I look for my brave self,
a coward unknown to me
rushes to cover my skeleton
with a thousand fine excuses.

When a decent house catches fire,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and that’s me. What can I do?
What can I do to distinguish myself?
How can I pull myself together?

All the books I read
are full of dazzling heroes,
always sure of themselves.
I die with envy of them;
and in films full of wind and bullets,
I goggle at…

BRING a leaf to me
just a leaf just a
spring leaf, an
april leaf
just
come

Blue sky
never mind
Spring rain
never mind
Reach up and
take a leaf and
come
just come

he has euphemisms for everything
sex, work, aging
feeding the chicken
beating the bushes
turning the page
and love
well there’s one for love, too
drilling for oil
and he says you go bust
most times you drill
though sometimes you hit a vein
and love gushes out
pure, rich, hot
you bathe in it
roll in it
slide your way into heaven
and maybe, he says
if you’re lucky
the well won’t run dry

there you were again
in my dream
and I was helpless
to usher you out
stubborn, as usual
you stayed
long past your welcome
your smile haunting me
teeth everywhere I turned
and that way you have
of asking a question
ringing in my ears
I would like what I feel
to be dead and buried
but it rises from the grave
like in some horror movie
though you would never be
a star in such films
which is the trouble
and I am stuck
in dreams
with you in repeat mode
echoing in my head

No new poems his brush will trace;
Even his fame is dead.
His old poems are deep in dust
At the bottom of boxes and cupboards.
Once lately, when someone was singing,
Suddenly I heard a verse–
Before I had time to catch the words
A pain had stabbed my heart.

translated by Arthur Waley

We shall always swim together in these blue waters
In this vervain sea that resembles your face.
Beating together, both my pulse and yours
Will strike at death and denounce darkness.

All the fish will chase us from the depths,
Saying Külebi is here now with his loved one.
Like a gull swooping from the vast horizon
The wind will drop shafts of light like pearls.

And the pearls will glitter around your neck,
On your chest and arms, like the words of my verses,
Sea anemone on your hair, your most secret parts,
Like rain, the stars will glide in your eyes.

Our love shall make these blue flames sacred.

translated by Talat S. Halman

there are moments
in this lifetime
when I drift away
lost
in the sea
of forgetfulness

A flower, and yet not a flower
Of mist, and yet not of mist
At midnight she comes
And at daybreak, leaves.
She comes like a spring dream, for how long?
She goes like morning dew, without a trace.

translated by Eugene Eoyang