Remembrance by Melih Cevdet Anday

Should a pair of doves take wing
Should a smoldering scent in the pinks be perceptible
It isn’t–is it–something all that memorable
It just suddenly comes to my mind

The day must have been just about to begin
You, like the others, about to arise
You may still well have been sleepless
That night of yours comes to my mind

Like the names of the flowers I love
Like the names of the streets that I love
Just like the names of all those whom I love
Your names come into my mind

So the comfortable bed shames itself perhaps
So a passionate kiss finds my thoughts in a lapse
As the touch of those fingers of yours through the gaps
In that metal grating comes to my mind

How many loves and friendships I have seen
Heroic deeds abounding in the tales of history
What’s most attune to the present though, is the dignity
Of your composure that always strikes my mind

Should a pair of doves take wing
Should a smoldering scent in the pinks be perceptible
It isn’t–is it–something that’s forgettable
Of itself it comes into my mind

translated by Jean Carpenter Efe

With The Joy Of That Moment by Kemal Özer

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

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

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