Turkish poet

The Woman with a Pigeon in Her Soul by Tekin Gönenç

/ zdunno03 / Leave a comment

first came your voice
half-opening my doors
then you emerged leaving behind
a blind alley of puzzled clouds
o woman with a pigeon in her soul

your pitch-black hair streaming
you ran to and fro days on end
in the cross-currents of my being

shedding over me
the thousands of stars
concealed in your dimples
now tell me where your journey leads

should we all henceforth
each taking his own poem by the hand
enter from the opposite direction
the dead alley of butterflies

and yet you still abide with me
o woman with a pigeon in her soul

Six O’Clock by Nazim Hikmet

/ zdunno03 / 3 Comments

Morning, six o’clock.
I opened the door of the day and stepped in–
a taste of young blue greeted me in the window,
the lines on my forehead remained in the mirror from yesterday,
and behind me a woman’s voice came softer than peach fuzz
and, on the radio, news from my country,
and now, my greed filling and overflowing,
I’ll run from tree to tree in the orchard of the hours,
and the sun will set, my love,
and I hope that beyond the night
the taste of a new blue will await me, I hope.

translated by Randy Blasing & Mutlu Konuk

With The Joy Of That Moment by Kemal Özer

/ zdunno03 / 1 Comment

With the joy of that moment, my love
that moment when our fingers intertwine
and when our breathing blends
like steam quivering in the mouth of a volcano

With the joy of that moment, my love, that moment
when we close our eyes–to let the uproar
from a strained wire, from the depths of a precipice
collect in ourselves

With the joy of that moment, that moment
when blue stars explode behind your eyelids
when a river of fire flows down a slope
later to gush into the sky

With the joy of that moment, my love
with the joy of that wet and burning moment
when we look at one another as if for the first time
and call our names, we must embrace everything, everything

as the first heralds of a fire.

translated by Suat Karantay

Women by ilhan Berk

/ zdunno03 / Leave a comment

They stand there and chat near the breakwater,
Their voices force the birds to take flight, leaves to shed.
Women of who knows which eras.

There are times when the world comes to a standstill
Some day together we had pressed flowers to dry
In a scrapbook.

Women are something like that
Who knows when, where, suddenly,
It turns out we have lived a voice
they had left with us.

Apprentice Wanted by Refik Durbaş

/ zdunno03 / 1 Comment

My hands have a gift for art, Master
My language for cursing, my heart for pain
Is death all I get
All I get, Master?

Which way is love, Master
Which way is grief
Is solitude all I get
All I get, Master?

Which way is away, Master
Which way is home
Is longing all I get
All I get, Master?

translated by Şehnaz Tahir-Gürçağlar