this little boat
out to sea
and you
sitting on a cushion
on the deck
your almost naked body
basking in the sun
a hand cupping breast
your uplifted face
open to the light
awaits the morning
traveling
from Poems on travel: II by Orhan Veli Kanık
The melody you whistle
Is sweet
Those nights you’re drunk.
But the same tune
At a train window
Isn’t sweet at all.
translated by George Messo
on hotel advertising
what the junior suite was supposed to have but doesn’t:
air conditioning
ceiling fan
safety deposit box
ironing facilities (???)
landmark view (though maybe those buildings/stores pass for landmarks)
washing machine
soundproofing
what was not advertised but the suite has:
a Jacuzzi
could that be considered “a wash”?
my absence
I spent the past week in and around NYC and the hotel I was staying at had internet problems. Actually Verizon (for those of you in the US) had the problem but had not corrected it even at the time of my departure this morning. I was, therefore, without internet access since this past Sunday and, though there were brief moments (actually more like half moments) in time when I was able to get on, I was essentially absent since then.
Now I will try to catch-up, if possible, over the next week before I travel again to New Haven to visit one of my closest friends at Yale.
I will say, though, that apart from the inconvenience of being cut off from the virtual world, I have been enjoying being behind the wheel of a car again. That is something I have avoided in Turkey for obvious reasons to those who have been in Istanbul traffic at least once in their lives.
And now to The Reader.
Traveling by Orhan Veli Kanık
I have no intention of traveling;
But if I did
I would come to Istanbul.
What would you do
If you saw me on the streetcar
going to Bebek?
I told you though,
I have no intention of traveling.
translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat
On a Boat, Awake at Night by Su Tung-p’o0
Faint wind rustles reeds and cattails;
I open the hatch, expecting rain–moon floods the lake.
Boatmen and water birds dream the same dream;
a big fish splashes off like a frightened fox.
It’s late–men and creatures forget each other
while my shadow and I amuse ourselves alone.
Dark tides creep over the flats–I pity the cold mud-worms;
the setting moon, caught in a willow, lights a dangling spider.
Life passes swiftly, hedged by sorrow;
how long before you’ve lost it–a scene like this?
Cocks crow, bells ring, a hundred birds scatter;
drums pound from the bow, shout answers shout.
translated by Burton Watson
Leonard Durso 