there are some mornings
the call to prayer
resonates
after a long illness
or a hardship endured
but at no times
more than these
with the passing
of a beloved friend
for words fail
to express
what the Ezan
does for me now
it speaks the volumes
in my heart
Month: January 2020
The Daily Rose by Ceyhun Atuf Kansu
Unless they carry the news of spring days
All the newspapers had better be closed
And unless the type metal smells of rose
All the papers ought to come out blank.
He who knows not the rose should not govern;
No one should talk of social order and what not
If the people forsake the time of the rose
And abandon the sagging acacia to rot.
They are the only true friends of the seasons:
From heavenly gardens a grade-school girl descends
Holding the loveliest of orders in her hands
A red rose and a white rose.
Living is the oldest of all constitutions:
Blood is a rose, joy is a rose, love is a rose,
And bread is a rose awakened at daybreak;
So the headlines of daily papers should read:
Beam like a rose, laugh like a rose, be a rose.
translated by Talat S. Halman
Unsaid Love by Behçet Necatigil
You used to have a friend
About five years ago
I saw her yesterday
In the street. She was pleased.
Just there standing up
We said a few words.
She was married,
A girl and a boy.
She asked about you.
“He hasn’t changed a bit,”
I said. “As you knew him.”
She understood.
She was happy. Loved her husband.
They owned their house now.
Like a criminal, guilty,
She sent you her regards.
translatede by Murat Nemet-Nejat
a bird: for Rabia Kip because I said I would
a bird
she says
a bird
to soar
through the air
spreading wings
as free
as the feeling
beating
in my heart
empty canvas: for Rabia Kip
the tubes of acrylics
the brushes
the ideas the images
forming inside
her head
all because
an empty canvas
will give her
no rest
Saturday night, January 4, 2020
a blinking street lamp
my only companion
beckoning this tired body
up the hill
toward home
from the Yüeh-Fu: At Fifteen I Went To War
At fifteen I went to war.
At eighty now I made it home.
Meeting one from my village:
“Who now is at home?”
“Over there is your house.”
Pines, cypresses, tombs in clusters.
Rabbits come and go from dog-holes.
Pheasants fly upon the beams.
Middle of court: wild grains rise.
Well’s edge: wild mallows grow.
Grind grains to make rice.
Pick mallows to make soup.
Rice and soup soon ready.
But for whom?
Go to the east gate to look out:
Tears drench my clothes.
translated by Wai-lim Yip
