“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

“I have suffered much from being misunderstood. But I would have suffered more if I was understood.”

acts of kindness
are so rare
but rarer still
are those that appreciate them

Above the bird sings
and below the water sings.
Above and below
my soul is opening.

The bird shakes the star
and water rocks the flower.
Above and below
my soul is trembling.

translated by Dennis Maloney

Where was this melancholy in those days?
This crying inside,
Singing of faraway things?
I raised hell
Every day then;
To a dance today, to the movies tomorrow,
If I didn’t like it, to a cafe;
If I didn’t like that either, to the park;
I embellished my lover
In poems,
I took her to picnics,
A book of poems on our laps;
Where, where,
Where was this melancholy in those days?

translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat