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
Month: August 2022
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
hearing my name
eyes open close
the world the same
and yet here
in a land
where my name
is not spoken
there it is
once more
like an old friend
come home
the journey over
the gate closed
the door opened
home briefly
again
Rose by Cemal Süreya
I cry in the middle of the rose
Every night when I die in the middle of the street
I do not know my front or back
When I sense your eyes diminish in the dark
The eyes that keep me standing
I hold your hands, caress them till dawn
Your hands are white, white again and again
I am scared of your hands being this white
They are briefly a train at the station
I am a man who sometimes cannot find the station
I pick up the rose, brush it against my face
Had fallen on the street somehow
I break my arms, my wings
There is blood, a ruckus and music
And a new gypsy playing the horn
translated by Omer Kursat
Even Though We Lived Briefly by Cemal Süreya
When I struck the match
Everything was red as was your face
When I struck the match
Because every face is a country
When I lit my cigarette
Because every cigarette is an utterance
When I lit my cigarette
It was the autumn days as a song
A dove, when I die
Layered with small sorrows
A dove, when I die
translated by Omer Kursat
Is It Spring by Turgut Uyar
I said if it was spring
upon seeing the basil bloom suddenly
an undeniable eternity
hand in hand with heartbreaking feelings
winter
winter of course
or so
or fall
ask that to lovers
but if you ask me
it’s like the summer sweat on a child
that dries and fades away
translated by Omer Kursat
If I Come By Now by Turgut Uyar
if I come by now, you’ve bathed
combed your hair.
droplets on your forehead,
a lightness in your face.
like the stars after a mist
your fingers have turned pink
you’re sprawled on the bed . . .
I wrote this as a love song, my bride
rain is now falling on the roads, on the leaves.
if I come by you are home,
together with all the warmth.
your bosom covered
your lips apart.
if you would breathe upon and warm my hands.
. . . .
but where are you now. . .
translated by Omer Kursat
The Pa River by Po Chü-i
Below the city, where the Pa River’s water flows,
spring comes like yeast-powder spiriting wine:
beaches feel soft as the Wei’s meandering shores,
and cliffs bring memories of T’ien-chin Bridge,
but fresh yellow willows dip their shadows here,
and tiny white duckweed blossoms scent the air.
Sitting beside swelling water, I scratch my head:
all this grief and sorrow, and whose is it anyway?
translated by David Hinton
Leonard Durso 