For him “To be or not to be”
Wasn’t a question at all.
One night he slept
And never woke up.
He was taken, carried away,
Washed, prayed for, and buried.
If his creditors hear of his death
They’re sure to give up any claims.
And when his credit comes in . . .
Well, no one owned the deceased a thing.

translated by George Messo

He suffered nothing in this world
More than he suffered from corns.
Although he was created ugly
He wasn’t all that hurt.

He never took the Lord’s name in vain
Unless his shoes pinched,
But he’d hardly count as a sinner.
It’s a pity about Süleyman Efendi.

translated by George Messo

A tomcat and a piece of liver,
It’s all she wants from life.
Great!

translated by George Messo

Sneak out into the street on a spring day,
And that’s what you get.
So there you stew
In your own thoughts.

translated by George Messo

I’m Orhan Veli,
Who wrote the famous line
“It’s a pity about Süleyman Efendi.”
I hear you’re curious
About my private life.
Then let me explain.
First I’m a man, that’s to say
I’m not some kind of circus animal.
I have a nose, ears,
But not all that shapely.

I live at home
And I have a desk job.
I came into this world
With a mother and father.
My head isn’t in the clouds,
And I’m not a paragon of virtue.
I’m not as modest
As the King of England
Nor as aristocratic
As Celal Bey’s stable boy.
I love spinach
And die
For puff pastry.
I don’t give a shit for wealth.
By God, I don’t.

I beat the streets
Without a bodyguard.
Oktay Rifat and Melih Cevdet
Are my best friends.
I have a girlfriend, respectable,
But I can’t tell you her name.
Let the literary historians find her.
I busy myself with pointless things too
But the only “pointless” thing I don’t do
Is busy myself with rotten poets.

Then again
Maybe I have a thousand other habits.
But what’s the point
In listing them all?
They’re all the same.

translated by George Messo

Returning from the funeral, roosters crowed.
A terribly empty April afternoon on earth.
The sky appeared to us as small
As a morning glory. We went to a tavern.
Our table was full of cracks.

translated by Sidney Wade & Efe Murad

In order to find their voices,
Birds race through the garden.
I have seen so many places,
I ache inside to forget them.

translated by Sidney Wade & Efe Murad

**Karacaoğlan was a 17th Century Anatolian folk poet.

Don’t look for those trees anymore
Like red mulberries in the summer noon
The memory of light and shadow
Spilling onto a table glows and burns out

Don’t look for those trees anymore
No one’s under them anymore
Only on the while cloth, light and shadow
At once we burn and burn out.

translated by Sidney Wade & Efe Murad

II

Not always but especially
When I realize
You don’t love me
I want to see you
As I saw other people
From my mother’s lap
When I was young.

trranslated b y George Messo

Don’t think it’s the sun that bothers me;
So what if spring’s here?
Or if the almond tree’s in bloom?
We’re not about to die.
Even if we are, should I be afraid
Of death that comes with the sun?
I’m one year younger every April,
Every spring I’m a little more in love.
Am I afraid?
Friend, my trouble’s different.

translated by George Messo