from About Living by Nazım Hikmet: No. 1

Living is not a joking matter:
you have to live with great seriousness
. . . . . . . .like a squirrel, for instance,
that is to say, without expecting anything outside or beyond living,
. . .which means, you must devote yourself fully to living.

You have to take living seriously,
in such a way, to such an extent
that, for instance, your hands tied behind you, your back to the wall,
or wearing think spectacles and a white robe,
in a laboratory,
you must be willing to die for other people,
even those whose faces you have never seen,
although nobody has forced you to do this
and although you know that living
. . .is the most beautiful and the most genuine thing.

That is to say, you have to take living so seriously
that, for instance, even at age seventy, you will plant olive trees
. . .and not to leave them to your children, either,
. . .but because you don’t believe in death although you fear it,
. . . . . .because, I mean, living carries greater weight.

translated by Talat S. Halman

The Station by Melih Cevdet Anday

An unknown evening hour
Of a station with an age-old platform, sadness
By my side, I knew no direction.

I had left you up there, in the sky
Dark were the trees and the road
Dark were your white clothes.

The night, that treasure, foreign stone
Your window was above the trees
No voice or iron can save me now.

Here I am in the hours
The hours are nowhere, no
Not in this direction, not in that.

I had left you up there, in the sky.

translated by Şehnaz Tahir-Gürçağlar

Half The Joy by Melih Cevdet Anday

Remember when birds made rain
And rain hit the sun
I came to you

Half the joy in my mouth
Mornings grew to lilies
Plains rode horses

When the sea streamed to its tower
In my pockets stars from the night before
With bees and honey in my blood

My heart turned into a palm, remember
Then it was a fountain too
In the month of sad returns

I came to you.

translated by Şehnaz Tahir-Gürçağlar

The Tulip by Melih Cevdet Anday

I undressed you with my own hands, like the spring
Laying the petals open
Your haste was all seeds like a pomegranate.

O the singing forest of sighs
The heart of kisses and glances
Questions in its fresh silence.

The roof of your desire floated in the sky
It was humming yellow butterflies
When every inch of you burst out.

I tied you down with my teeth
Like a greedy silkworm
Your redness was a crescent

Two petals of a tulip on the sheets.

translated by Şehnaz Tahir-Gürçağlar

Poetic Economics by Erdal Alova

June is the month I feel the coldest
Perhaps because I was born in June
I fell in love at age four
At thirteen I wrote poems
I was a boarder deeply in love
In my eyes violet flowers
I memorized all the works of the night
I was a Phoenix of poetry
I rose from my ashes whenever consumed
I poisoned my roses and cried over them
For love I crossed a thousand mountains
I was Narcissus
From my reflection in the marigold I almost died
It was the year of solitude AD
I drowned between the land and sea

translated by Suat Karantay

Lyrics (4) by Sina Akyol

Stay here. In the noon courtyard.

Settle down at the simple language of time.

Take an interest in horizon-watching.

Experiment with the blue, the white, and the day.

Appreciate the oleander! Surprise me
by murmuring “It’s poison is the ointment
I apply to my skin.”

Try to translate
those feverish insects of August
and their sweaty songs into Turkish.

Learn the rather rich
styles of
washing the courtyard, pruning the vine,
walking barefoot.

Stay here. With the enduring time.
In the noon courtyard.

Absolve from your body. Strip
until you are your own self.

Pour refreshing water over your head.

Sleep soundly.

translated by Suat Karantay

Awakening by Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar

And now life’s desolate twilight hour starts
Beyond distant cypresses daylight departs.

The garden of spring don the brightest sun,
The river’s voice rises and then is gone.

The nightingale sings of love’s sorrows
While rings of fire burn the rims of the rose.

translated by Talat S. Halman