Sad, sad they leave their old village,
Far, far they go to the Chiao River.
Officials have an appointed time of arrival,
To flee from orders is to run afoul of capture.
The ruler is already rich in lands,
Expanding the frontier brings no gain!
Abandoned forever is the love of father, mother,
Sobbing, they march away with spears on their backs.

translated by Ronald Miao

Sharpen the sword in the Sobbing Water,
The water reddens, the blade wounds my hand.
How much I want to hush the sound of anguish;
Too long entangled are the strands of my heart!
When a man of courage promises life to his country,
Then what is there to regret and lament?
Deeds of fame live on in the Unicorn Pavilion,
Bones of soldiers will quickly decay.

translated by Irving Y. Lo

What vast additions to the convenience and comforts of living might Mankind have acquired if the money spent in wars had been employed in public utility.

The two roles are completely unattached. When you are standing in the pulpit, you must sound as though you know what you’re talking about. When you’re writing, you’re trying to find out something that you don’t know. The whole language of writing for me is finding out what you don’t want to know, what you don’t want to find out. But something forces you to anyway.

“As someone who directed scripts that I myself had cowritten, what I demanded from actors was very simple: learn your lines.

That reminds me. George Bernard Shaw was directing a production of his play Pygmalion, with a very well-known illustrious actor, Sir Something. The fellow came to rehearsal, a little bit drunk, and he began to invent a little. Shaw listened for a while and then yelled, Stop! For Christ’s sake, why the hell didn’t you learn the script?

Sir Something said, What on earth are you talking about? I know my lines.

Shaw screamed back at him, Yes, you know your lines, but you don’t know my lines.

On bamboo leaves and rooftops the autumn dew is clear
vermilion strings and jade harmonics multiply old feelings
Calling Crow and Departing Cranes are tunes I somehow recognize
containing as they do the sounds of a breaking heart

translated by Red Pine

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