I saw my mother dead in a dream.
I woke up crying.
It reminded me of one holiday morning
Staring at the balloon I’d lost to the sky,
Crying.
translated by George Messo
poetry
Something like whiskey by Orhan Veli Kanık
There’s something like whiskey in the air
Makes you feel down, down . . .
If you burn with longing, missing her
When your girl is somewhere else
And you’re here
It makes you feel rough, rough . . .
There’s something like whiskey in the air
It makes a man drunk, drunk.
translated by George Messo
I gather old things by Orhan Veli Kanık
I gather old things,
Gather and make them into stars.
If music is the manna of love,
I just love music.
I write poems.
I write poems and gather old things,
Swapping old things for music.
I wish I were a fish in a bottle of gin.
translated by George Messo
Days by Orhan Veli Kanık
There are days, I gather myself and leave,
In the smell of nets freshly hauled from the sea
Taking flight on the path of gulls
Drifting from one island to another.
There are unimaginable worlds,
Flowers open, erupt in noise,
Smoke bursts noisily from the earth.
But the seagulls, the seagulls,
Each feather bristling with haste!
There are days, blue all over me.
There are days, sunlight all over me.
There are days, delirious days . . .
translated by George Messo
New Year’s Eve: Spending the Night Outside Ch’ang-chou City by Su Tung-p’o
From the traveler, singing; from the field, weeping—both spur sorrow.
Fires in the distance, dipping stars move slowly toward extinction.
Am I waiting up for New Year’s? Aching eyes won’t close.
No one here speaks my dialect: I long for home.
A double quilt and my feet still cold—the frost must be heavy;
my head feels light—I washed it and the hair is getting thin.
I thank the flickering torch that doesn’t refuse
to keep me company on a lonely boat through the night.
translated by Burton Watson
My shadow by Orhan Veli Kanık
I’m sick and tired of dragging it around,
For years, on the tips of my toes.
Let’s live a little in this world,
My shadow alone,
Me by myself.
translated by George Messo
Beard by Orhan Veli Kanık
Which of you can make lanterns
From pumpkins like me;
Or carve an old boat on them
With a pearl-handled knife;
Write poems
Or letters;
Sleep
Or get up;
Which of you can please
His girl
The way I do!
This beard didn’t grey for nothing!
translated by George Messo
Shijo 2270 by U T’ak
In one hand I grabbed a bramble,
in the other a stick:
the bramble to block the advance of age, the stick to stay approaching white hair.
White hair, though,
outwitted me: it took a shortcut here.
translated by Kevin O’Rourke
Shijo 2060 by U T’ak
The breeze that melted the blue mountain snow
blew suddenly and was gone.
I’ll borrow that breeze a moment and blow it across my head,
to melt
the frost lodged so long in these locks.
translated by Kevin O’Rourke
To Supernumerary Ts’ui by Wei Ying-wu
Ten years after we parted
we meet on the shores of Huaihai
recalling our days in Loyang
we discuss perfecture colleagues
and facing cups of fine wine
wish our white hair was new
where are you hurrying off to
braving the dust and wind of the road
translted by Red Pine
Leonard Durso 