I remember sun-
days when the man I
call my father made

me shoot free throws, one
for every day of my life
so far. I remember
the sin of imperfect

spin, the ball falling in-
to that moment between
a father and forgive-

ness, between the hands reach-
ing up and everything
they can possibly hold.

CAHİT KÜLEBİ (1917-1997)

Babalar evlerine mahçup döndü her akşam

Harp içinde.

Anaların sütü kesildi,

Çocuklar ağladı,

Erkekler askere gitti.

Kadınlar bir deri bir kemik.

Harp içinde kızlar sarardı.

Savaşanlardansa

Ancak bir hatıra kaldı.

-Cahit KÜLEBİ…

Translation: 

The fathers returned home every night all overwhelmed 

In a war.

The mothers went dry,

And the children all cried.

The men joined the army. 

The women were all skin and bones.

The girls grew pale, in a war. 

 And there remained from the wars 

 Nothing but a memory… 

-Rukiye Uçar…

I didn’t realize the year was so late
or living apart was so lonely

translated by Red Pine

watching a film about time traveling
a man
his father
the woman he loves
reliving moments in life
correcting mistakes
small ones
not major ones
no killing Hitler
or sleeping with Helen of Troy
as the father says
explaining the deal to his son
but those days that are memorable
become more so
a second
or even a third
time around
and my eyes water
watching this fictional son
and his father
bonding over and over again
through time
or his second
even third
chances at getting it right
with the girl he falls in love with
I’m a sucker for those moments
wishing life was like a movie
one could write
and rewrite
the script for
and then act it out
this time
and that time
each precious moment
what I wouldn’t give
to step back in time
to change a few little things
a hand on a shoulder

life is
two thirds heartache
one third happiness
not bad odds
considering
other interpretations
just have to sort out
the numbers
to see where one stands