{"id":162,"date":"2020-07-20T22:33:43","date_gmt":"2020-07-20T19:33:43","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/yusuferadam.com\/?page_id=162"},"modified":"2020-08-24T19:21:32","modified_gmt":"2020-08-24T16:21:32","slug":"poetry-translations-into-english","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"http:\/\/yusuferadam.com\/?page_id=162","title":{"rendered":"Poetry Translations (Into English)"},"content":{"rendered":"

SAL\u0130H BOLAT<\/strong><\/p>\n

we, the sad children of this city
\nfor long carried the shadow of a phoenix.
\nwe picked up metal flowers from our fields.
\nwe fell in love, we wrote poetry, we shed tears.
\nyears later, feeling the walls of this city
\nits rain, its norms, its friendships, we’re walking.
\nour arms fall upon the pavements as the shadow of a dagger.
\nwe stab it in the feet of the passers-by.
\nah, nobody feels the pain!<\/p>\n

Poetry from Turkey
\n(Translated by Yusuf Eradam. Co-translators mentioned)<\/p>\n

YUSUF ERADAM<\/strong>
\nmad\u0131mak otu \u00e7i\u00e7e\u011fi (Sapana Ta\u015f)<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e7ocuktum ufac\u0131kt\u0131m oyun oynad\u0131m
\narkada\u015flar\u0131mla adlar\u0131n\u0131 unuttum
\nbe\u015f ta\u015f\u0131 yerden kald\u0131r\u0131vermede yoktu \u00fcst\u00fcme
\n\u015f\u00fck\u00fcrler olsun o be\u015f ta\u015fa
\nadlar\u0131n\u0131 bilmedi\u011fim ku\u015flar\u0131 \u00f6ld\u00fcremedim
\ndo\u011fru d\u00fcr\u00fcst tutamad\u0131m ki sapan\u0131 tek elimle<\/p>\n

\u00e7elik \u00e7oma\u011f\u0131mla, u\u00e7urtmamla
\nb\u00fct\u00fcn d\u00fcnyan\u0131n \u00e7ocuklar\u0131yla birdim kolayl\u0131kla
\nduvarlara as\u0131l\u0131 d\u00fc\u015flerime t\u00fcrk\u00fc \u00e7\u0131\u011f\u0131rmada da ustayd\u0131m
\neli sopa tutan m\u00fcd\u00fcr bey onlar\u0131 bir bir yerle bir etmeden \u00f6nce<\/p>\n

o g\u00fcnden sonra i\u015fte elim de\u011fmedi \u00f6ld\u00fcrmeye
\nasla oynamad\u0131m kibritle
\ncanl\u0131 bir \u015feyleri yakar\u0131m diye<\/p>\n

sonra ya\u015fam kadar ger\u00e7ek karikat\u00fcrler g\u00f6rd\u00fcm
\nsava\u015flar, katliamlar, soyk\u0131r\u0131mlar
\nd\u00fc\u015f\u00fcnd\u00fc\u011f\u00fc i\u00e7in \u00f6ld\u00fcr\u00fclen bayku\u015flar g\u00f6rd\u00fcm
\nsahiplerini arayan parmak izleri
\nd\u00fc\u015f\u00fcnce \u00f6zg\u00fcrl\u00fc\u011f\u00fc istedi\u011fi i\u00e7in k\u0131r\u0131lan parmaklar g\u00f6rd\u00fcm
\ncanl\u0131 canl\u0131 yak\u0131lan yazarlar, \u015fairler, t\u00fcrk\u00fcc\u00fcler
\nimdat diye ba\u011f\u0131ran karetta karettalar g\u00f6rd\u00fcm
\n\u00f6ld\u00fcr\u00fclen \u00e7ocuklar\u0131 ard\u0131ndan g\u00f6zya\u015f\u0131 d\u00f6ken analar
\ng\u00f6ky\u00fcz\u00fcn\u00fc karartmaya azimli g\u00f6z\u00fc kara \u00f6nderler g\u00f6rd\u00fcm
\n\u00e7ocuklar\u0131 oyuncaklarla kand\u0131rmaya \u00e7al\u0131\u015fan eli silahl\u0131 soytar\u0131lar
\nreng\u00e2renk kalemleri is i\u00e7inde b\u0131rakan n\u00fckleer bacalar g\u00f6rd\u00fcm
\nuygarl\u0131k kar\u015f\u0131s\u0131nda eller yukar\u0131 masal kahramanlar\u0131 hayvanlar
\nyaln\u0131zca dillerini konu\u015fabilmek i\u00e7in y\u00fcr\u00fcyen insanlar g\u00f6rd\u00fcm
\nba\u015f\u0131n\u0131 alm\u0131\u015f giden ba\u015f\u0131bo\u015f \u015fiddet
\nba\u015f\u0131n\u0131 alm\u0131\u015f giden ba\u015f\u0131bo\u015f ho\u015fg\u00f6r\u00fcs\u00fczl\u00fck
\ninsan ac\u0131s\u0131na kay\u0131ts\u0131z insanlar g\u00f6rd\u00fcm<\/p>\n

\u015fimdi d\u00fcnyan\u0131n her yan\u0131ndan ku\u015flarla dolu odam
\n\u015fiirler i\u00e7inde saklamba\u00e7 oynuyorum
\ng\u00f6z \u00e7\u0131karmayay\u0131m diye yaparken ka\u015f
\nninnilere \u0131\u015f\u0131k tutay\u0131m diye
\nolmayay\u0131m diye
\nsapana ta\u015f.<\/p>\n

Temmuz 1996, Ankara<\/p>\n

Not:<\/strong> Bu \u015fiir \u00f6nce \u201cSapana Ta\u015f\u201d ba\u015fl\u0131\u011f\u0131 ta\u015f\u0131maktayd\u0131. Eradam \u015fiiri \u0130ngilizce\u2019ye \u00e7evirirken de \u201cStone for a Sling\u201d ba\u015fl\u0131\u011f\u0131n\u0131 ye\u011fledi ve \u015fiirin \u0130ngilizce yeniden yaz\u0131lm\u0131\u015f ve k\u0131salt\u0131lm\u0131\u015f hali ABD\u2019de The Space Between Our Steps adl\u0131 d\u00fcnya \u015fiir se\u00e7kisinde yay\u0131mland\u0131. Eradam, ikinci \u015fiir kitab\u0131na girecek b\u00fct\u00fcn \u015fiirlere \u00e7i\u00e7ek isimleri koymaya karar verince de bu \u015fiire en uygun ba\u015fl\u0131k olarak 2 Temmuz 1993\u2019te S\u0131vas\u2019taki Mad\u0131mak Oteli\u2019nin yak\u0131lmas\u0131 sonucu \u00f6ld\u00fcr\u00fclen 37 ki\u015fiyi unutturmamak i\u00e7in \u201cMad\u0131mak Otu \u00c7i\u00e7e\u011fi\u201dni se\u00e7ti. <\/p>\n

Stone for a Sling<\/p>\n

…I played<\/p>\n

games with child friends whose names i forgot<\/p>\n

i was the best at grabbing the five stones off the ground<\/p>\n

thanks to those five stones in one hand<\/p>\n

i could never ever hold a sling to kill birds…<\/p>\n

then i saw life-size cartoons of wars, of massacres, of genocide…<\/p>\n

of fingerprints crying out for their owners…<\/p>\n

of human beings indifferent to human affliction…<\/p>\n

now in my room with birds from all over the world<\/p>\n

i play hide-and-seek in poems<\/p>\n

hoping to shed light onto lullabies…<\/p>\n

hoping not to be<\/p>\n

the stone for a sling.<\/p>\n

(Published in: The Space Between Our Footsteps: poems and paintings from the Middle East.
\nSelected by Naomi Shihab Nye. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1998:88)<\/p>\n

BEHCET AYSAN<\/strong><\/p>\n

ZEYBEKIKO (*)<\/em>
\ncount the stars, that star
\n is the dawn\u001edeath of love
\n the other the crucifixion of death<\/p>\n

and that one over there that never speaks
\n is the step\u001estar of silence.<\/p>\n

pale the bright star
\n blinking hostilities<\/p>\n

the end of hostilities
\ngatling guns
\n and barricades<\/p>\n

and the bright star
\nof the convict camps
\nand the barbed wire fences.<\/p>\n

i call you, hear me
\nunderstand me.<\/p>\n

i come to you
\n with the fearless wind<\/p>\n

that blows
\n from a ship\u001ewreck.<\/p>\n

the broken marble stones
\ndarkened by rains<\/p>\n

names unreadable<\/p>\n

turbans and crosses overgrown by moss<\/p>\n

i do not know
\n which are the lost grave stones<\/p>\n

all are lost under snows.<\/p>\n

when spring comes
\nour dead blossom <\/p>\n

side by side
\n on one land.
\nthey get up and dance
\nthe horon and the sirtaki.<\/p>\n

from crete my grandfather calls
\nand yours from foca (**)<\/p>\n

when spring came<\/p>\n

in the same stone houses
\nmounting the same carts<\/p>\n

they greeted<\/p>\n

the same poppies<\/p>\n

with the song of the same waters.<\/p>\n

hey takis petrulas<\/p>\n

count the stars<\/p>\n

or add another
\n star<\/p>\n

i’m your friend.<\/p>\n

hey behcet aysan
\ncount the stars<\/p>\n

or add another
\n star<\/p>\n

i’m your friend.<\/p>\n

and friend of the pale blinking stars.<\/p>\n

years later, again sunrise,
\nthe same rustling of leaves<\/p>\n

made me write this poem
\n when it struck 03:00.
\nwhen it struck 03:00
\ni had two hearts.<\/p>\n

either a shipwreck or a lighthouse.<\/p>\n

(Translated by Yusuf Eradam and Michael Gurian)<\/strong><\/p>\n

(*) Zeybekiko:<\/strong><\/em> a song and dance played to the zeybek rhythm,
\npeculiar to the Aegean coast.<\/p>\n

(**) Crete is in Greece and Foca in Turkey. The persona here is
\nunderlining the fact that his and his Greek friend’s grandfathers
\nwere close friends and the idea that borders between people are
\nnonsensical.<\/p>\n

BEH\u00c7ET AYSAN<\/strong><\/p>\n

A LAVENDER DEATH<\/em><\/p>\n

i’m broken\u001ehearted, i’m like
\na scattered pomegranate<\/p>\n

i’m a stream flowing silently
\n through the night
\ni’d go if you say so
\nif you say so i’d stay<\/p>\n

if you say
\ngo<\/p>\n

the birds, autumn birds, wouldn’t return either,
\nwith me i’d take cherry bunches<\/p>\n

and the good days i lived
\n with you,<\/p>\n

the bad days
\ni’d leave.<\/p>\n

the same sky the same grief
\nnothing changes, then
\nwhy go
\nand stand against the rain.<\/p>\n

i’m an unchanted song, abandoned<\/p>\n

perhaps
\ni’ll stay
\nin the old photographs,<\/p>\n

on the tongue of a dark child perhaps.<\/p>\n

all the depths are shallow
\nall the words provisional<\/p>\n

nothing, nothing changes
\nbut death.<\/p>\n

the same sky the same grief.<\/p>\n

BEH\u00c7ET AYSAN<\/strong>
\nA LAVENDER VIOLET<\/em><\/p>\n

once i knew a violet
\n passionately in love<\/p>\n

lavender it was
\nand would bloom in freedom.<\/p>\n

others’ joy
\nwas also its<\/p>\n

death wouldn’t suit
\nits neck
\n embellished
\nwith pearl laces.<\/p>\n

at night, a bird would fly
\nthe violet
\n would wake up
\nas if someone knocked
\n at its door.<\/p>\n

my passionate violet
\nmy fickle lavender pansy<\/p>\n

i’m sorry<\/p>\n

i’m guilty of
\nyour withering away<\/p>\n

i killed you<\/p>\n

by making a pot
\nout of what we lived together.<\/p>\n

SENNUR SEZER<\/strong><\/p>\n

AN UNFINISHED POEM<\/em><\/p>\n

for Refika Bezirci(*)<\/p>\n

No time for poetry, I’m sick
\nI must do the washing and rinsing
\nOr else everything will be messy and incomplete
\nLook she is forbidden to cry
\nBut she’d laugh so beautifully with her husband
\nPeaceful she used to be, like a glass of water
\nNow she has sleepless nights<\/p>\n

No time for poetry, I must get up
\nThe quinces are blooming
\nAshes turned cold
\nPaper turned yellow
\nI must give a warm hug to that woman,
\nNo time for poetry, I must get up<\/p>\n

I must do the washing and rinsing
\nWhichever door I open, I smell soot
\nThe footnotes are complete, the book incomplete
\nI must find the sleeps of that woman.<\/p>\n

(*) Refika Bezirci is the wife of As\u0131m Bezirci, who was a most
\nprolific humanitarian, socialist writer, critic, editor or the author of 71 books. Mr. Bezirci was murdered in Sivas in 1993, in Madimak Hotel set aflame by fundamentalists.<\/p>\n

NAZIM H\u0130KMET (RAN)<\/strong><\/p>\n

INVITATION<\/em><\/p>\n

Galloping from far Asia
\nThis country that lies in the Mediterranean
\nLike the head of a mare
\nIs ours.<\/p>\n

Wrists in blood, teeth clamped, feet naked
\nAnd this land that resembles a silk carpet,
\nThis hell, this heaven
\nIs ours.<\/p>\n

Let alien doors shut, and never open again,
\nDemolish human slavery to human!
\nThis invitation
\nIs ours.<\/p>\n

To live! Like a tree, one and free
\nAnd like a forest in brotherhood
\nThis longing
\nIs ours!<\/p>\n

NAZIM H\u0130KMET (RAN)<\/strong><\/p>\n

HELLO CHILDREN<\/em><\/p>\n

Naz\u0131m, how happy you must be
\ndeep in your heart,
\nyou have said a fine “hello”
\nso ample and so sure.<\/p>\n

Year 1940.
\nMonth July.
\nThe first Thursday of the month.
\n9 a.m.<\/p>\n

Put such a full date on your letters.
\nWe live in such a world
\n that the month, the day and the hour
\n have so much to say, more than the thickest book.<\/p>\n

Hello children.
\nUttering such a wide
\n such a big “Hello”
\nand then before finishing what i have to say
\n looking at your faces, smiling
\n\u001ecunning and happy\u001e
\n winking an eye at you…
\nWe are such excellent friends
\n we can communicate without words<\/p>\n

Hello children,
\nHello to you all…<\/p>\n

NAZIM H\u0130KMET (RAN)<\/strong><\/p>\n

THE LITTLE GIRL<\/em><\/p>\n

I am the one who knocks at the doors
\nall the doors one by one.
\nI cannot be visual to your eyes
\nthe dead cannot be seen.<\/p>\n

Since i died in Hiroshima
\nit’s been almost a decade.
\nI am a girl of seven
\ndead children do not grow up.<\/p>\n

My hair caught fire first,
\nThen my eyes were burnt, roasted.
\nI became a handful of ash,
\nMy ash scattered in the air.<\/p>\n

I want nothing
\nNothing for myself.
\nThe child that burns like paper
\nCan not even eat candies.<\/p>\n

I knock at your door
\nAuntie, uncle, put your signature here.
\nDon’t let children be killed
\nMay they eat candies as well.<\/p>\n

RIFAT ILGAZ <\/strong><\/p>\n

MY CHILDREN<\/em><\/p>\n

I did not get to know you from teacher’s grade book
\nMy naughty children.
\nI met the least attendant
\nWhen he was getting out of the cinema
\nUnder his arm were newspapers he couldn’t sell;
\nAnd in a stuffy room
\nAs I was welcoming the evening in my style,
\nThe laziest of you offered me a minty candy;
\nThe most pensive of the class
\nWanted to carry in his pannier
\nThe spinach bunch in my hand.
\nMost of you did not even come near school
\nBecause you had no coats, shoes;
\nSome of you sell lemons in the Fish Bazaar,
\nSome serve tea at Tahtakale
\nWhile we try to calculate like the hungry chickens
\nThe vitamins in butter
\nAnd the calories in eggs.
\nWe taught so much to one another in class,
\nWe measured the circumference of the earth,
\nCalculated the distance of the stars,
\nWe talked about Central Asia;
\nAnd when we lacked words
\nWe thought of so many things,
\nWe forgot about reality
\nAnd we mixed with the clouds
\nAnd we even got sorry for the sick leaves
\nThat the trees shed after fall winds
\nIn winter days we pitied the sparrows
\nForgetting ourselves.<\/p>\n

M\u00dc\u015eTAK ERENUS<\/strong><\/p>\n

WHAT’S UP DAD<\/em><\/p>\n

Granny’s lullaby
\nSleepy on the swing
\nRegretful fables eyes closed
\nMidwife is standing there out of experience
\nTell me dad
\nWho made up these disgraceful lies?
\nTell me my one and only
\nWho let this nine\u001eheaded dragon
\nIn the field and how?
\nIny mini miny moe
\nCatch a tiger by the toe. <\/p>\n

INFORMER<\/em><\/p>\n

Being a respectful earth citizen
\nI will put the ladder up the clouds
\nI will let this mail pigeon
\nUp into the heavens
\nFor God’s sake, for Allah’s sake
\nFor h u m a n’s sake
\nI will inform you all.
\nLook what you have made of this earth! <\/p>\n

YOUR HEART, YOUR DEAR HEART<\/em><\/p>\n

At night stars are a blanket for you
\nYou know this
\nBut still you’re cold.
\nThese coward words in full sweat
\nRun into a precipice
\nYou get quiet and think.
\nIs this love for you
\nThis heart
\nThis human dignity in vain?
\nIf our shadows have been scissored on the roads
\nJust once, shake yourself
\nAnd whatever is left to dry on a horse
\nPut your leaves out again to the sun
\nHold the hands of colors.
\nThat’s it.<\/p>\n

KEMALETT\u0130N TU\u011eCU<\/strong><\/p>\n

MR. AHMET’S SHOES<\/em><\/p>\n

He’d spare his shoes and wouldn’t walk in them
\nEvery evening he’d clean them for the next day<\/p>\n

He’d knock at their bottom and listen to the sound
\nHe’d say this is pure French leather<\/p>\n

His shoes had a special brush and cloth
\nHe’d always keep them clean inside and out<\/p>\n

Every evening as soon as he got home he’d put on his slippers
\nHis only concern in life was his shoes<\/p>\n

He’d set out with a Bismillah and walk on asphalt roads
\nHe knew that this shoe nation would rot in snow waters<\/p>\n

The shoes had their place reserved next to the door
\nPoor Mr. Ahmet would put them side by side<\/p>\n

He’d say, “These shoes will last for so many more years.”
\nHe’d say so but unfortunately his life did not last that long<\/p>\n

They did not throw his shoes away
\nNor did they sell them to anyone as the shoes had great memories. <\/p>\n

YE\u015e\u0130M SALMAN<\/strong><\/p>\n

WAR<\/em><\/p>\n

Your waiting for me
\n in the empty station at night
\n you were wearing a raincoat
\n and a scarf around your neck
\n we were looking for a place to talk<\/p>\n

we had very little time<\/p>\n

we sat at the train station cafe
\n two cups of tea on the table
\n two cups of tea we did not drink
\n your fingers in my hands
\n “i’ll write to you wherever i am”<\/p>\n

the eye glasses of the officer in charge
\n were wire framed
\n the eyes of the officer in charge
\n were examining minutely not revealing anything
\n far away a radio was again
\n turned off on Lili Marlen<\/p>\n

the train arrived just in time
\n no one else got on it
\n it speeded up and vanished
\n one of my hands left in the air
\n the other holding the parcels i couldn’t give to you<\/p>\n

when the marigolds dried away i put them in a jar<\/p>\n

i could not receive any news for weeks
\n then a letter arrived
\n it was not from you.<\/p>\n

YE\u015e\u0130M SALMAN<\/strong><\/p>\n

FISHERMEN’S STREET<\/em><\/p>\n

Perch is caught in the light of lantern
\nmackarel’s eyes are small
\nin the fishermen’s street
\nbass shine at night
\nunder the lamp light
\nin his linoleum pocket Canbet, the Armenian
\nsearches for some change
\nas sea water is poured on them from buckets
\ngilt\u001eheads glitter
\non red plates
\nhandsome and slim, Taso, the Greek, walks about
\nwith his boots on, leans down
\nand stands upright again
\nwhen her dowry is ready
\nhis beautiful daughter gets married in the church
\nin the fishermen’s street
\nin Arnavutk\u00f6y (*)<\/p>\n

(*) Arnavutk\u00f6y:<\/strong> a beautiful district on the European side of the
\nBosphorus in \u0130stanbul. It means “Albanian Village.”<\/p>\n

YE\u015e\u0130M SALMAN<\/strong><\/p>\n

THE SMALL PIECE<\/em><\/p>\n

Why is it that you should feel guilty,
\nyou do not have to come
\nyou do not have to be good
\nnor do you have to tell a lie
\nor say that i am beautiful.
\nBecause i am a small piece of the whole.
\nThe whole is beautiful anyway
\ni, i do not have to be
\ni am not that essential
\nbut i am a piece of that beautiful
\nthat great whole!<\/p>\n

YE\u015e\u0130M SALMAN<\/strong><\/p>\n

THE PEARL<\/em><\/p>\n

to H.G. Wells<\/strong><\/p>\n

The writer said
\nthe pearl is
\nof the most gleaming
\nof the beautiful transparent stones
\nbecause they are made
\nof the pain piercing a soul<\/p>\n

now the planet is again
\nof love
\nnow the blue whirls again
\ni have been drawing from my soul
\nfor long
\nwhen will that tiny miny sand
\nbecome a pearl
\nout of me<\/p>\n

YE\u015e\u0130M SALMAN<\/strong><\/p>\n

STONES THRUST INTO THE WATER<\/em><\/p>\n

None of those stones
\nthrust into the water
\nwas in vain
\nthey just precipitated in the deep
\nand each had some space<\/p>\n

they raised the water a bit
\nall had some sound
\nthen their wave came
\neach stone bore a wave
\nthough for a short while
\neach wave in each
\nbroken and forgotten<\/p>\n

YE\u015e\u0130M SALMAN<\/strong><\/p>\n

CHILD EVENING<\/em><\/p>\n

Evening comes slowly
\nappears by me
\nin the evening that blue balcony
\nwater drips from geraniums
\nwater drips on zinc
\nthe madame will soon get angry with the children
\nwho steal plums from trees
\nshe will pour the last pot over them
\nthe children will run away screaming<\/p>\n

loquat is one of the trees
\nher house, the house of that madame, is about to collapse
\nshe wears a dress, laced collar turned yellow
\nfrom balcony to balcony chatting with my mom
\nshe was a mannerly woman
\n just her husband, a shoe\u001erepairman
\n and herself
\n like living in a tale<\/p>\n

behind the roof guttered tile
\nin the front a terrace a dozen tin boxes
\ngeraniums sweet basils
\ntop floor windows always shut<\/p>\n

white curtains hanging
\nground floor no curtains no furniture totally desolate
\njust a scrawny old woman over there
\nshe does not speak to anyone
\nnor does she go anywhere else<\/p>\n

in her hand a handkerchief
\n she cries and sits
\n she just sits and cries<\/p>\n

as we say so just her husband, a shoe\u001erepairman
\n and herself
\n it got dark<\/p>\n

they have been struck by wealth tax
\n\u001eyou were yet to be born\u001e
\nwhatever they owned was sold
\nher husband on exile
\nthe woman dried up somewhere here
\n her face as small as a bird
\n she cries and sits
\n she sits and cries<\/p>\n

child evening is hidden for years<\/p>\n

in that house
\na woman lived on her own
\na woman shedding tears for her husband on exile
\nthe woman who poured a pot full of water
\nto chase the children stealing the plums
\nand the woman in the pale laces
\nwere the same woman<\/p>\n

my child mind fooled me.<\/p>\n

BEH\u00c7ET NECAT\u0130G\u0130L<\/strong><\/p>\n

WATER\u001eLILY<\/em><\/p>\n

I had put it there, they took it away
\nHours squeezed in between.
\nI used to take it out and look, when no one was around.
\nIt was the mirror that would show me to me, they took it away.<\/p>\n

In winter, it bloomed in my spring waters;
\nWhat was the point in usurping it to the icy mountains?<\/p>\n

One yellow page in old notebooks.
\nIt was the meaning that would show me to me, they took it away.<\/p>\n

It was some light, it would shine in lonely nights;
\nAt night flowers went to sleep.
\nDarkness covered the other side of the water.
\nIt was the lamp that would show me to me, they took it away.<\/p>\n

BEH\u00c7ET NECAT\u0130G\u0130L<\/strong><\/p>\n

IN LOVES<\/em><\/p>\n

You postponed loves to tomorrow.
\nHesitant, timid, respectful you were
\nAll your relatives misunderstood you
\nThough it was not your choice to do so
\nYou kept everything in your heart
\nWhen one look was enough to tell everything
\nBecause you had so much to do
\nYou were expecting more time
\nIt would sound ugly to utter love in a limited time
\nBut you never guessed life would pass
\nIn a rush of years, and so quickly too
\nIn your secret garden
\nYou had flowers blooming
\nAt night and alone
\nYou thought they were not worth giving
\nOr you just didn’t have the time.<\/p>\n

BEH\u00c7ET NECAT\u0130G\u0130L<\/strong><\/p>\n

SLEEPING WITH THE STARS<\/em><\/p>\n

Darkness falling on the city
\nSaw a man in the street
\nAnd lead the man
\nTo his home.<\/p>\n

The man rested a while,
\nSat at the table.
\nThe family ate
\nThe mother put the child to bed.<\/p>\n

Darkness falling on the city
\nWould tell fables
\nBy the side of the bed
\nOf the child scared alone.<\/p>\n

Something strange happened that night:
\nDarkness reached the sky,
\nTook a star
\nBrought it to the child’s room.<\/p>\n

The star that whirled in vacuum
\nShattered into pieces of light
\nLike the colorful fireworks
\nAnd fell on the child.<\/p>\n

The child fell asleep right away,
\nAnd smiled in his sleep.<\/p>\n

OKTAY R\u0130FAT<\/strong><\/p>\n

FREEDOM HAS HANDS<\/em><\/p>\n

1
\nOur horses galloped in foams
\ntowards the still sea.<\/p>\n

2.
\nThis flight, in the pigeon,
\nwhat is it, the joy of freedom, what?<\/p>\n

3.
\nKissing was forbidden, did you know,
\nthinking was forbidden,
\ndefending labour, forbidden!<\/p>\n

4.
\nThey have separated the fruit from the tree,
\nthey sell it in the market
\nto whatever price they can get;
\nlabour’s branches broken, on the ground.<\/p>\n

5.
\nLight is blinding, they say,
\nand freedom is explosive.
\nIts them who do smash our lamps
\nand who put our freedom aflame.<\/p>\n

They want it to explode when we reach out,
\nand they want us to burn in flames when we light it.
\nThey have mine\u001efields,
\nbread and water wait in the dark.<\/p>\n

6.
\nFreedom has hands,
\neyes, feet;
\nto wipe the bloody sweat,<\/p>\n

to look into the future
\nLeading to equality.<\/p>\n

7.
\nI am the cage, you are the ivy;
\nWind dear, wind as much as you are able!<\/p>\n

8.
\nThis is the love of freedom,
\nonce you are in it
\nthis robe never wears out,
\nthis dream truer than reality.<\/p>\n

9.
\nThe chivalric riders of the historic flow,
\nworkers, the bees of the universe hive;
\nas they swirwe around the black loaf
\nthese brothers that bring freedom to our earth.
\nBy that loaf wakes up reason,
\nBy that loaf night reaches day;
\nBy that sun people reach independence.<\/p>\n

10.
\nThis hope is the door to being free;
\nhalf open humanly to happy days.
\nThis joy is the light of happy days;
\nTimidly and silently, it hits us.<\/p>\n

Come, people of my country, open your eyes,
\nlike the branch at the door of freedom,
\nbehind you is the sky, brotherly blue!<\/p>\n

CAN Y\u00dcCEL<\/strong><\/p>\n

TOUCHMATIC<\/em><\/p>\n

Don’t you see
\nI’m drinking water
\nI’m writing poetry
\nWhat the hell are you touching me for?<\/p>\n

EXPLICATION<\/em><\/p>\n

The dog is not the owner of the property
\nBut the dog of it<\/p>\n

AN ATTEMPT TO HAMLET<\/em><\/p>\n

That is the question: you either are or not<\/p>\n

Or this problem
\nIs either suicide or you’re old.<\/p>\n


\nTHE CALENDER<\/em><\/p>\n

“Mom, when will spring arrive?”
\nLet winter arrive first honey.<\/p>\n

EARLY IN THE MORNING<\/em><\/p>\n

The rose must be the memory of something I forgot
\nWho knows perhaps of the hope that blooms early in the morning<\/p>\n

TWADDLER<\/em><\/p>\n

Aboard, a snake fell by my side
\nI got hold of the sea<\/p>\n

VISUAL<\/em><\/p>\n

They took away my eyes, determined not to give them back
\nWhat a pity not to be able to see you again!<\/p>\n

G\u00d6KHAN TOK<\/strong><\/p>\n

1. MINE<\/em><\/p>\n

The mine does not have feet to walk away.
\n That’s why it takes human feet.<\/p>\n

2. RAINBOW<\/em><\/p>\n

The rainbow is the apology of the storm.<\/p>\n

3. THE TEARS OF SNOWS<\/em><\/p>\n

Spring has come. Our master is dead.<\/p>\n

4. THE SECRET OF THE NIGHT<\/em><\/p>\n

A scream is heard.<\/p>\n

5. LONELINESS<\/em><\/p>\n

I wish there was at least someone to scratch my back.<\/p>\n

6. TALK<\/em><\/p>\n

You never hear it but at breakfast the sweetest talk is
\nbetween the jam and the honey.<\/p>\n

7. POPLAR TREES<\/em><\/p>\n

In the summer no other tree surpasses a poplar tree in
\nbabbling. Especially when the evening wind hits its branches,
\nit talks and talks.<\/p>\n

8. NIGHT<\/em><\/p>\n

Is it because the sun uses all its colors at sunset
\nthat nothing but black is left for the night?<\/p>\n

(G\u00f6khan Tok continued)<\/p>\n

9. THE BLIND MAN AND THE STARS<\/em><\/p>\n

“The stars,” said the blind man, “I have never seen them, but
\nstill I know them all. They are my ancestors.”<\/p>\n

10. SECRET<\/em><\/p>\n

The secret of the absolute is that a secret is absolute.<\/p>\n

11. CERRO CUADRADO<\/em><\/p>\n

Stones preserve the secret of the tree. Those that stayed
\nyoung, like those tried by fire, are the fountain of life. They
\nhope to go back to their country one day.<\/p>\n

12. THE FERRY<\/em><\/p>\n

The ferryboat shining in the quay with all its lights on does
\nnot gleam as much as it does in the journey dreams of an old
\nwoman.<\/p>\n

13. THE HAVEN OF YOUR POCKET<\/em><\/p>\n

For the one who has never in his life seen a star shoot,
\ndon’t you have a star to act as a wishbone?<\/p>\n

TR\u2019s Note: I numbered these poetic aphorisms by G\u00f6khan Tok. You do not have to number them
\nor if you choose any, you do not have to put them in this order either (Yusuf Eradam)<\/p>\n

ORHAN VEL\u0130 (KANIK)<\/strong><\/p>\n

FABLE<\/em><\/p>\n

Free from anxiety is my child heart
\nGlory on faces, abundant is the harvest
\nOn his horse is the prince with purple tuft
\nThe country I have begun to forget.<\/p>\n

On my temple mother’s warm knee
\nIn my ear the fortune teller woman’s words,
\nBy the lake the sultan’s three daughters,
\nMoving towards Kaf Mountain (*) in procession.<\/p>\n

(*) a fabulous mountain<\/p>\n

MEL\u0130H CEVDET ANDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

WHAT A WONDERFUL THING<\/em><\/p>\n

To be living is really wonderful
\nAnd when the weather is beautiful
\nAnd when you’re healthy and strong
\nAnd when you’re earning your living
\nAnd when your heart is pure
\nAnd when your face is clean of shame
\nThat is, if you’re not scared of yourself
\nIf you’re not afraid of anyone in the world
\nIf you can trust your friend
\nAnd if you’re expecting good days
\nIf you believe in good days to come
\nAnd if the weather is beautiful
\nTo be living is wonderful
\nIt’s really wonderful.<\/p>\n

\u0130LHAN BERK<\/strong> <\/p>\n

IN PLACE OF THE END<\/em><\/p>\n

Brothers,
\nAll sorts of cruelty is bad
\nNone suits
\nHuman beings<\/p>\n

Planting trees, waking up in the mornings is good
\nIt’s good to look after animals and to water flowers
\nIt’s good to think of freedom
\nTo live for it
\nTo work for it the whole day is good
\nThe sleeping, the waking up of all children is good
\nAll kinds of cruelty, bad.<\/p>\n

\u00d6ZDEM\u0130R ASAF<\/strong> <\/p>\n

THAT EVENING<\/em><\/p>\n

They are breaking wallnuts, I look;
\nThey are breaking the wall of the nut.
\nThe nut comes out…
\nThen the children get busy with their games.<\/p>\n

I too pick a wallnut
\nAmidst the many wallnuts.
\nThe sea comes out of my wallnut.
\nI set sail.<\/p>\n

I am sailing in the wall of that nut,
\nAway from the no-game gardens of my childhood.
\nOne evening in that child game
\nAway from that sea of sadness inscribed on my forehead.<\/p>\n

AHMED ARIF<\/strong><\/p>\n

IN JAIL<\/em><\/p>\n

Did you hear stone wall?
\nThe iron door, blind window,
\nMy pillow, my bunk, my chain,
\nThe one I risked my life for,
\nThe sad photograph i hide,
\nDid you hear?
\nMy visitor has sent onions,
\nMy cigarette smells of carnation
\nSpring has come to the mountains of my country…<\/p>\n

THE LULLABY FOR BABY ADILOSH <\/em><\/p>\n

You were born
\nWe kept you starving for three days
\nWe did not nurse you for three days
\nBaby Adilosh,
\nBecause we did not want you to fall ill
\nBecause it was our custom
\nAttack the breast now
\nAttack and grow up…<\/p>\n

These are
\nAdders and centipides,
\nThese are the ones
\nWho have coveted
\nFor our bread and food
\nKnow them well
\nKnow and grow up…<\/p>\n

This is honour
\nIt is scraped on our identity
\nAnd this is patience,
\nStrained from poisons.
\nEmbrace them
\nEmbrace and grow up…<\/p>\n

ED\u0130P CANSEVER <\/strong><\/p>\n

THE ALARM OF LIVING<\/em><\/p>\n

I have never felt so close
\nTo the cherry on the branch
\nTo the light in the windows
\nTo the smell of gravy in my kitchen,
\nTo the stream flowing, the cloud flying,
\nI have never felt so close to living.<\/p>\n

TAHS\u0130N SARA\u00c7<\/strong><\/p>\n

WHEN ALL THE CHILDREN BECOME BROTHERS<\/em><\/p>\n

Sleep gets more like honey
\nWhen children become brothers
\nThe wolf and the sheep are never cross
\nWhen children become brothers.<\/p>\n

To the sea of dreams
\nHappiness sets a thousand sails
\nEvery heart a golden fountain
\nWhen children become brothers.<\/p>\n

The flowing stream shines better
\nWhen children become brothers
\nThe east and the west embrace
\nWhen children become brothers.<\/p>\n

When children become brothers
\nLoving one another
\nLike the shrubs in the wood
\nFamine leaves, and so does fear.<\/p>\n

\u00dcLK\u00dc TAMER <\/strong><\/p>\n

SLEEP<\/em><\/p>\n

Don’t send me flowers
\nSend me a bird tree
\nWith pigeons strolling
\nOn its branches<\/p>\n

Let the pigeons land on my pillow
\nTo put me to sleep
\nFeathers on their backs
\nLullaby on their beaks<\/p>\n

Let them raise my bed high
\nAnd fly it up into heavens
\nAnd let me suddenly find myself
\nAmong the stars<\/p>\n

Don’t send me flowers
\nSend me a bird tree
\nThose that touch my forehead
\nShould say “He has recovered.”<\/p>\n

B\u0130LG\u0130N ADALI <\/strong><\/p>\n

JOKER POEM<\/em><\/p>\n

Come let’s prune the sun
\nso that it shine more
\nlet’s dye the hair of the moon
\nso that it look younger:<\/p>\n

Let’s make flowerpots from the barrels of guns
\nturnstiles from planes
\nand bean sticks from rifles
\nThey will then be of some use.<\/p>\n

Let’s grow melons and watermelons
\non the roofs of houses
\nlet’s sow the sea and plant millet in the middle
\nand let this be the joke of our poem.<\/p>\n

The desert needs water and the field needs seeds
\nthe poor need food, the sick need doctors
\nlet’s put up a school in every village
\nso that the face of the earth change.<\/p>\n

Come on children, do not hesitate,
\nif we delay this
\nthe adults will spoil\u001esport.<\/p>\n

AL\u0130 CENG\u0130ZKAN<\/strong>
\nSELECTED QUATRAINS FROM FOR THE PHOTOGRAPHS OF CONSTANTINE MANOS (1983)<\/em><\/p>\n

1.
\nOthers flowed into the sea like water
\nAnd mountains came in between, hair got white,
\nThe walking stick made out of mulberry branch may be of no use
\nBut I still hear the sound of water echoing in the rocks.<\/p>\n

4.
\nMom puts up the oven every morning
\nDad goes to the field and sows the land.
\nLittle things are pregnant to the bigger
\nIn our homes we enjoy little lights.<\/p>\n

9.
\nThe Olimpos village resembles Naz\u0131m (*)
\nIt flows downhill like water,
\nIn the blue mirror of the sea
\nIt wants to grow and be buried in the heart of humanity.<\/p>\n

12.
\nThis girl is standing by the wall,
\nThis girl will make love under the olive trees.
\nThis girl is making her home out of stones
\nHer grandchildren will bury this girl.<\/p>\n

55.
\nDeath comes wherever and however it wishes to
\nIt finds women, their kissable faces,
\nTheir hair, their lips, eyebrows, eyes.
\nWherever death comes from, it makes mothers cry.<\/p>\n

23.
\nYou, the child thinking in front of his home!
\nYou will grow up one day.
\nYou too will have a living room, your threshold will hold shoes
\nYou too will have a house you will clean with a broom.<\/p>\n

(Ali Cengizkan\u2026 Manos quatrains, continued)<\/p>\n

38.
\nOnly your granny could carry
\nYour head of the sun
\nYour burning, heavy, proud
\nAnd your promising looks for dignified futures.<\/p>\n

52.
\nThe sky is stark blue,
\nThe land is so large.
\nThere is only one wall standing in between
\nAnd everyone here has a cypress.<\/p>\n

53.
\nGetting in through the door or out of it, that’s the question.
\nTwo people hold him from both edges, and the child is born.
\nTwo people hold him from both edges, and the child is born.
\nAre you entering through the door or getting out of it, that’s the question.<\/p>\n

78.
\nAnd people have embellished even death
\nThey put up crosses for their dead, brought flowers for them
\nLit candles, watered their graves
\nAnd in order that life be noticed, they wore black.<\/p>\n

79.
\nReading newspapers is good in the mornings,
\nSo is waiting for someone in the mornings.
\nDrinking tea with someone in the mornings is good,
\nSo is facing your back to the sea in the mornings.<\/p>\n

83.
\nIf they ask you to take the picture of time
\nWhat would you take, the light, the stairs,
\nMy granny with her walking stick, or the little girl on the stone
\nOr the stone, the texture of the wall, or the odor of the air?<\/p>\n

AL\u0130 CENG\u0130ZKAN<\/strong><\/p>\n

WALKING BEHIND THE CHILDREN CARRYING FLOWERS<\/em><\/p>\n

No sooner irresistible odors touch my nose
\nRose petals gather in my eyes.
\nAnd children are making roses out of old memories,
\nThey make roses out of what’s left in their hands.<\/p>\n

Rose petals gather in my eyes.
\nIs it because of the fog that my eyes burn?<\/p>\n

But I know,
\nOnly plastic children do not make roses.
\nAnd I see,
\nOnly plastic roses do not shed their petals.<\/p>\n

And children are making roses out of old memories,
\nRose petals gather in my eyes.
\nIn my eyes blooms the most petalled rose of history,
\nI fly behind the children.<\/p>\n

I am not crying.<\/p>\n

\u015e\u00dcKR\u00dc ERBA\u015e<\/strong><\/p>\n

THEY KILLED CHILDREN<\/em>
\n “A child is the father of man”<\/p>\n

Their hands never touched the skin of a rose
\nThat’s why they don’t know what tenderness is
\nThey were brought up without flowers<\/p>\n

In games they were taught nothing but to win
\nThen most of them lost in a bigger game
\nThey were brought up without love<\/p>\n

Left in the barren land, none gave shoots
\nTheir waters were of rough lies and selfishness and of hatred
\nThey were brought up without shadows<\/p>\n

Love birds that took off from the branch of a tender heart
\nNever landed on the voice of any of them
\nThey were brought up without songs<\/p>\n

What is giving a hand to a friend, what is friendship
\nAll they feared was to be betrayed
\nThey were brought up without trust<\/p>\n

A SIP OF WATER<\/em><\/p>\n

Nobody’s joy means anything for anyone else
\nNo one is hearing anybody else’s grief…
\nIn this place where everyone is cold by his own wind
\nHitting loneliness, my body is ravelled
\nMy heart is a dream\u001eroom with forty locks…
\nThe child whose mouth I ate morsels from
\nIs now a long rain in the turbid avenues
\nThe sun is the warm guest of distant worlds
\nNow the evening tuft is on the foreheads of houses
\nAnd the profound games of shadows on faces
\nTime is pulling the curtains on us…
\nThe child whose cradle of eye\u001elashes I slept in,
\nI wish you were here with me, I wish
\nThe light in your eyes fell on the palm of my heart
\nLike the summer waters in threads
\nI’d flow, I’d be purified, I’d be plenty…
\nI’m a shoot of mountain narcissus in a small pot
\nSuffocated, for long I’m giving out
\nThe child in whose dimple I got drowned
\nGive me a sip of water from the vapory fountain of your mouth…<\/p>\n

THUS I LENGTHEN MY LIFE <\/em><\/p>\n

I am incessantly watering trees
\nI go for long walks
\nChasing the light and the wind
\nIn the parks and buses
\nI give my seat to children
\nI love children more than I love adults.
\nA young girl’s circling laughter
\nThe old man pausing for deep breaths by the walls
\nAnd the clouds shaping the sky
\nWith the same simplicity, give me the same joy.<\/p>\n

I bend down to the earth, I bend down to waters
\nAll the birds flying above me
\nFlap their wings to a shoreless time.
\nGetting longer and longer, four seasons are now one
\nOptimistic, large, calm and orange.
\nI envy no one anymore
\nI am not offended by anyone
\nThe pain life put in my heart
\nIs left behind, far behind<\/p>\n

For my face I adopted a new smile
\nA smile with a steppe patience suiting my complexion
\nTo be able to fill the loneliness
\nPeople dug around me with them again
\nI get out of beds with the sun
\nAnd come back home with the moonlight
\nThus I lengthen my life. <\/p>\n

I’M SOME WATER WHITENING<\/em><\/p>\n

How do I understand I’m getting old?
\nWell, women are getting more and more beautiful<\/p>\n

The sun is walking across the earth more quickly
\nWaters are colder and the wind is cooler<\/p>\n

Once, I used to talk eagerly about anything
\nNow, a large smile on my face, I listen<\/p>\n

Huge buildings, and markets in lights are over
\nNow I keep to the side streets and small cosy pubs <\/p>\n

Surprised, I’m learning from children all over again
\nThe childhood I desperately wanted to rid myself of<\/p>\n

All sounds, voices become loneliness echoing
\nI think I said what I felt like saying<\/p>\n

When someone sings in grief
\nI shiever all over with some vapor on my eye lashes<\/p>\n

Brief talk, simple furniture, love of cats
\nIn the stream of time I’m some water whitening as it flows<\/p>\n

How do I understand I’m getting old?
\nWomen are more beautiful, and more distant…<\/p>\n

THE STAIN<\/p>\n

Sitting in the middle of markets
\nThat child is crying in threads with her beautiful grief
\n“If only dad was here
\n if only dad was here
\n if only dad was here…”<\/p>\n

A black stain in front of the lustrous shop\u001ewindows
\nThe child is not crying
\nShe has taken all her longings on her wings
\nAnd a flock of cranes on the peak of her eyes
\nPiercing the night, she is flying.<\/p>\n

ATT\u0130LA \u0130LHAN<\/strong><\/p>\n

THIRD PERSON<\/em><\/p>\n

those times your eyes moved mine
\ni ached and cried
\nthere was another lover
\ni knew
\na skin and bone stripling
\nshameless and scrawny
\nmeeting him, forever moved to kill him
\ni ached and cried<\/p>\n

times moving through ma\u00e7ka (*)
\nships at the waterfront
\ntrees whistled
\na wind ran away with my head
\nas you lit a cigarette
\nsilently, and burnt my fingers
\nmoving your eyes guiltily
\na sudden chill cutting me
\ni ached and cried<\/p>\n

nights ending like novels
\njezabel in a pool of blood
\na ship moved to sea
\nyou to him
\npale as a ghost you went
\nstaying there till light
\na skin and bone stripling
\nwith a funeral smile
\nand when he held you
\ni ached and cried.
\n(Translated by YUSUF ERADAM, FRANK REYNOLDS, G\u00dcLER S\u0130PER)<\/p>\n

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES FOR THE POETS<\/strong> <\/p>\n

(Surnames in alphabetical order)<\/p>\n

B\u0130LG\u0130N ADALI <\/strong>
\n Born in Safranbolu in 1944. He graduated from Ankara University, Department of Press and Publishing. He worked at the Turkish Radio TV and at the Department of Fine Arts of Ege University.<\/p>\n

G\u00dcLTEN AKIN<\/strong>
\n Born in 1933, Ms. Ak\u0131n is Turkey’s most distinguished, most respected and quoted woman poet. She studied law at Ankara U. and worked as a barrister in several parts of Anatolia. She has taken her place in the forefront of poets for whom poetry is synonymous with social responsibility. Many collections and numerous awards. She lives in Ankara.<\/p>\n

MET\u0130N ALTIOK <\/strong>
\n He graduated from the Geography Department of Ankara U. He worked as a civil servant and teacher. He tried to stay out of the prevalent poetic movements, writing his own intimate poetry. Many collections of poems and awards. He was murdered by the Islamic fundamentalists in the hotel fire in Sivas, in 1993.<\/p>\n

MEL\u0130H CEVDET ANDAY<\/strong> (poet, playwright, novelist, essayist and translator)
\nHe was born in Istanbul in 1915. After high school he studied sociology for a while in Belgium and chose journalism later. Since 1940 he has been a prominent figure on the Turkish literary scene. In 1971 UNESCO honored him as one of the world’s major literary figures. Since 1954 he has been working at the Istanbul Municipality Theatres as a tutor and has a column in the most respectable newspaper CUMHURIYET (The Republic). Mr. Anday
\nis a most influential figure on the reading public, in fact a living legend. He died in Istanbul, in 2002.<\/p>\n

AHMED AR\u0130F<\/strong>
\nHe was born in Diyarbak\u0131r in 1927. When he was a student at the Faculty of Letters of Ankara University, because of his political activities he was put in jail and as a result he had to quit studying. Later he earned his living as a journalist. He is one of the most frequently recited and quoted revolutionary poets after Nazim Hikmet Ran. Ahmet Arif died in 1991.<\/p>\n

ORU\u00c7 ARUOBA<\/strong>
\nBorn in Karam\u00fcrsel in 1948, Aruoba is graduate of Hacettepe University, Ankara, Philosophy Department, where he taught philosophy for many years. Being against academic philosophy, Mr. Aruoba quit teaching for his writing career and is now a revered author, philosopher, translator, with several volumes of philosophy and poetry, especially haikus. He is famous but this hasn’t made the rounds yet. Mr. Aruoba lives in Istanbul and Bodrum.<\/p>\n

\u00d6ZDEMIR ASAF <\/strong>
\nHe was born in Ankara in 1923. He quit studying law and economy and took up journalism and printing. Known to be the poet of the art of paradox, Mr. Asaf is one of the most popular,
\neasily remembered and quoted poets of contemporary Turkish poetry. He died in 1981.<\/p>\n

ECE AYHAN<\/strong>
\nBorn in Dat\u00e7a in 1931. Graduated from the Faculty of Political Sciences at Ankara U., worked as a civil servant and governor. Published poetry since 1954. He is a most distinguished member of the Second New Wave movement in contemporary Turkish poetry. Numerous books of poetry, of memoirs, interviews. He died in 2002.<\/p>\n

BEH\u00c7ET AYSAN<\/strong>
\nHe completed his medical studies in 1984 and worked as a psychiatrist in Ankara until his death in the Sivas massacre in 1993. Many collections of poems and many awards including the ABD\u0130 \u0130PEK\u00c7\u0130 PEACE AND FRIENDSHIP AWARD, instituted to contribute to peace between Greece and Turkey, in the name of the assassinated journalist. <\/p>\n

MEHMET BA\u015eARAN<\/strong>
\nBorn in 1926. Poet, novelist and short story writer. He graduated from the Village Institute in 1946. While doing his military service he was demoted from reserve officer to sergeant
\nfor political reasons. He worked as a teacher until 1979 and was one of the founding members of the Teachers’ Union. Then he worked for several encyclopedias. He became one of the pioneers of the rural movement in poetry, which became very popular in the decade 1950\u001e60. In his work, he assimilated and reflected the idea of socialism without being didactic. Many books and awards.<\/p>\n

ILHAN BERK <\/strong>
\nHe was born in Manisa in 1916. Graduated from the Department of French Literature of Gazi University and worked as a teacher and translator. He died in Bodrum in 2008 as one of the veterans of modern Turkish poetry.<\/p>\n

EDIP CANSEVER<\/strong> was born in Istanbul in 1928. Started publishing poetry in 1944. Many books and awards. He died in 1986 leaving a name as one of the best poets of Turkey.<\/p>\n

ALI CENGIZKAN<\/strong> was born in Ankara in 1954. He graduated from Middle East Technical University, Department of Architecture, where he is now the chairman. Started publishing his poems in 1977. Has many books of poetry and awards.<\/p>\n

NECAT\u0130 CUMALI<\/strong> was born in 1921 in Cuma (now Florine in Greece). Graduated from the
\nSchool of Law, Ankara University. Worked as a solicitor for a while and then took up writing to earn his living. He produced almost in every genre, and published novels, stories, essays,
\nplays, but he is mostly celebrated for his poetry. Many books and award. He died in 2001. There is now a poetry award given after his name.<\/p>\n

FAZIL H\u00dcSN\u00dc DA\u011eLARCA<\/strong>
\nBorn in Istanbul in 1914, Mr. Da\u011flarca was one of the most revered poets of Turkey’s literary scene. He completed the Kuleli Military School and worked as an officer all over Turkey. He quit the army in 1950 and opened a bookstore in 1959 and took to publishing. Soon he became one of the most prolific poets. Numerous books and awards. He died in 2008.<\/p>\n

YUSUF ERADAM<\/strong>
\nAuthor of 12 books, translator and editor of many, Eradam is a poet, short-story writer, translator, song and lyric writer and a photographer and a retired full professor of American culture and literature. He was born in 1954 in Central Anatolia, Turkey. Graduated from Dar\u00fc\u015f\u015fafaka, a boarding school for orphans, in Istanbul and the Department of English Language and Literature of Hacettepe University (Ankara) and received his MA in1979 and PhD in 1986 from Hacettepe (unpublished dissertation in English: The Haunted Individual in David Mercer\u2019s Stage Plays). Later, he studied and received his M.A. TESOL with his dissertation Literature in Language Teaching from Moray House College of Education, Edinburgh. He worked as a waiter, a cook assistant and as a mocamp attendent during his college years, and later as a professor of the English language, and American Culture and Literature at Hacettepe and Ankara universities. He taught comparative literature and film at UNLV (1994) and SVSU (Michigan, 1999). He is the founder of Translation Studies of Hali\u00e7 University, a founder of ASAT (American Studies Association of Turkey and of \u00c7EVB\u0130R (Book Translators Association). A member of the Pen and Contemporary Performing Arts Group in Istanbul, Eradam has been writing theatre criticism since 2004. With many awards in fiction, music and photography, he is also known for his translations of Sylvia Plath\u2019s Ariel poems, Paul Auster\u2019s The New York Trilogy and Melville\u2019s Bartleby. He has held four photography exhibitions for the benefit of Dar\u00fc\u015f\u015fafaka, one in Michigan in 1999 after the earthquake in Turkey. Now he lives in Cihangir, Istanbul, teaching \u201cSpecial Topics in American Film\u201d and \u201cPopular Culture & the USA\u201d at Bah\u00e7e\u015fehir University and is working on his first novel and play. (www.yusuferadam.com) <\/p>\n

\u015e\u00dcKR\u00dc ERBA\u015e<\/strong>
\n Born in Yozgat in 1953. He graduated from the Social Sciences _Department at Gazi Teacher Training Institute, Ankara. He lives in Ankara and has been working in the public sector. Many collections of poetry and awards.<\/p>\n

M\u00dc\u015eTAK ERENUS<\/strong>
\n Poet, novelist, lawyer. Author of numerous books, Mr. Erenus was born in Afyonkarahisar in 1915. He calls poetry his “colorful suffering,” his “ever shining window, his beloved.” Being a truely humanistic poet, he has devoted all his life and art to the wellbeing of his people, always together with them. His main concern and theme is children and youth. Erenus lived in Istanbul, on one of the Princess Islands until he died in 2002.<\/p>\n

MEL\u0130SA G\u00dcRPINAR<\/strong>
\n Born in 1941. She is a poet and playwright. She graduated from the Drama Department of the Istanbul Conservatory in 1964. She studied drama in London and prepared programs on cultural topics for the BBC during her stay there. Many collections of poetry. Ms. G\u00fcrpinar lives in Istanbul.<\/p>\n

NAZIM H\u0130KMET (RAN) <\/strong>
\n The poet laurate of Turkey, Mr. Hikmet was born in Salonika (now in Greece) in 1902 and died in Moscow in 1963 in exile. He spent many years in jail and Turkish reading public was forced to forget him for decades. He worked for many journals and newspapers and also in the movie making industry. In 1938 he was arrested and sentenced to 28 years imprisonment. He was set free in 1950 after the amnesty and quit Turkey in 1951 and lived abroad till his death. He is the leading figure of modern Turkish poetry in content and style. His film\u001escripts, plays, essays, novels have also been published, mostly after his death. Now he is revered and quoted not only by the leftist intellectuals but by everyone supporting human rights and peace.<\/p>\n

RIFAT ILGAZ <\/strong>
\n The peak of Turkish humour and satiric fiction, was born in Cide in 1911. Making his fame with his series of novels entitled HABABAM CLASS, and leaving numerous stories, novels and poems behind, he died in Istanbul in 1993 because of a heart attack immediately after he heard that his writer and poet friends were burnt to death at the Sivas massacre by the Islamic fundamentalists.<\/p>\n

ATTILA ILHAN<\/strong>
\n Poet, novelist, essayist, script\u001ewriter. Born in Menemen in 1925. He quit studying law at Istanbul U. and took up journalism and writing in 1949. Mr. Ilhan is one of the most distinguished and prolific contemporary writers of Turkey and has many books and awards. He is also a most famous orator and talks on TRT on literary and historical topics once a week.<\/p>\n

ORHAN VELI KANIK <\/strong>
\nHe was born in Istanbul in 1914 and died there in 1950 after he fell into a ditch on his way. He studied literature and philosophy at Istanbul University. Then took literature actively. Published one of the most important literary journals in Turkey, YAPRAK (Leaf), and together with Oktay Rifat and Melih Cevdet Anday he started “The Garip Movement” in Turkish literature, which basically advocates simplicity in style and the poor, common people as its subject matter. Orhan Veli is still inspiring many young poets to be.<\/p>\n

CEYHUN ATUF KANSU <\/strong>
\n Graduate of the Faculty of Medicine, Istanbul U., Specialized as a pediatrician. Started publishing his poetry in 1938. He went through the natural experience of assimilating folk poetry of syllabic verse. Later he returned to the same source, this time being enriched with the ideals of populism and nationalism. He gave successful examples of socialist\u001erealist poetry in his poems published in 1950s and 60s. Many collections of poetry and essays. After his death in 1978, a poetry award was instituted in his name.<\/p>\n

ONAT KUTLAR<\/strong>
\n Poet, short\u001estory writer and cinema writer. Studied law at Istanbul U. and philosophy in Paris. Several collections of poetry and stories. His stories are usually from the point of
\nview of a child, occasionally surrealistic, mystical. Winner of some awards, Mr. Kutlar was assassinated in 1994 by the Islamic fundamentalists in the bombing of a hotel cafe in Istanbul.<\/p>\n

CAHIT KULEBI<\/strong>
\n Born in Tokat in 1917, Mr. K\u00fclebi was one of the most revered contemporary poets of Turkey. Graduated from Istanbul Teacher Training College, Department of Turkish Language and Literature. Worked as a teacher and inspector for years. Numerous books and awards. He lives in Ankara and has recently been honored by the Presidential award for his literary merits. He died in Ankara in 1997.<\/p>\n

MURATHAN MUNGAN<\/strong>
\n Poet, playwright, essayist, short\u001estory writer and novelist. Born in Istanbul in 1955. One of the most famous writers of Turkey not only due to his literary merits but also for his being the first \u201cout\u201d gay writer in Turkey. Numerous books and awards. Lives in Istanbul.<\/p>\n

BEH\u00c7ET NECATIGIL<\/strong>
\nHe was born in Istanbul in 1916. Graduated from the Teacher Training School and started teaching. Published his poems after 1935. Many books and awards. He died in 1979. <\/p>\n

ISMET OZEL<\/strong>
\n Born in 1944. Holds a degree in French Language and Literature from Hacettepe U. He taught French at the State Conservatory of Istanbul. Many collections of poetry. With his
\nagressive lyricism, he aimed at a new awareness of social responsibilities. But in the l970s he moved towards a mystical and islamic view of life, without losing the strength of expression and inventiveness which he had evolved during his socialist period. Mr. Ozel lives in Istanbul.<\/p>\n

OKTAY R\u0130FAT<\/strong> was born in Trabzon in 1914. Studied social sciences in Paris and worked as a solicitor for many years. He was one of the founders of the \u201cGarip\u201d movement in Turkish poetry. Later he wrote more sophisticated poetry under the influence of French surrealists. He has many books of poetry, plays and novels. Mr. Rifat died in 1988.<\/p>\n

YE\u015e\u0130M SALMAN<\/strong> was born in Istanbul in 1940. She spent her childhood in Arnavutk\u00f6y, Istanbul. She graduated from American High School for girls and Robert College (now Bosphorus University), Chemistry Department. She taught at Dar\u00fc\u015f\u015fafaka High
\nSchool, which is for poor orphans and when she was teaching there, she lost her ability to walk after a car accident. She started writing poetry in 1990. She died in 2006 leaving two collections of poetry behind: All of A Sudden, and The Book of Time.<\/p>\n

TAHS\u0130N SARA\u00c7<\/strong> (poet, translator) was born in Mu\u015f in 1930. After graduating from Gazi University he took up teaching French and literature. He started publishing poetry in 1960. Many books of poetry and translations, some of which received awards. Tahsin Sara\u2021 died in 1989.<\/p>\n

SENNUR SEZER<\/strong>
\n Poet, essayist, book reviewer. Born in 1943, Ms. Sezer taught at various high schools. She was exiled and therefore quit teaching after the military takeover in 1980. Many books of
\npoetry.<\/p>\n

CEMAL S\u00dcREYA<\/strong>
\n Poet, author, translator. Born in Erzincan in 1931. Graduated from the Faculty of Political Sciences at Ankara U. Quit his job in 1965 and took up writing. With his experimental
\nstyle and technique he soon became one of the leading original poets of rare sensibility. Mr. S\u00fcreya died in 1992.<\/p>\n

TU\u011eRUL TANYOL<\/strong>
\nBorn in 1953. He studied sociology at the Bosphorus U., Istanbul. He is currently a lecturer in the Social Sciences Department at Marmara U. He has written in various periodicals on poetry in general and on Turkish poetry in particular, and has edited two poetry periodicals. Several collections of poetry and awards.<\/p>\n

\u00dcLK\u00dc TAMER <\/strong>(poet and translator) was born in Gaziantep in 1937. Studied at the School of Journalism and acted on stage and in movies. He worked for various newspapers at various positions. Many books of poetry and translations, some of which received awards.<\/p>\n

G\u00d6KHAN TOK<\/strong> (born in Ankara in 1972) is a young and promising writer. He graduated from the Sociology Department of Middle East Technical University and is now a post\u001egraduate student at the same department. Mr. Tok lives in Ankara and is working at
\nTUBiTAK, The Turkish Foundation of Science and Research.<\/p>\n

KEMALETTIN TUGCU,<\/strong> one of the legends of Turkish popular writing, was born in Istanbul in 1902. As he could not walk, he could not attend any school and started writing in 1932. He wrote stories, poems and novels only and only about the grief of poor children. He has over 500 books and that is why he considered himself the richest man on earth. Mr. Tu\u011fcu died in 1997, at the age of 95.<\/p>\n

MEHMET YA\u015eIN<\/strong>
\n Born in Cyprus in 1959. Graduated from the Political Science Department at Ankara U. He worked as a journalist in Cyprus for some time. Several poetry collections and awards.<\/p>\n

CAN Y\u00dcCEL<\/strong> was born in Istanbul in 1926. He studied Latin and Greek at the Faculty of Literature of Ankara University. Stayed and studied in the U.K. for a while. One of the living legends of Turkish literary scene, especially among the revolutionaries, Mr. Yucel is known for his courageous statements, fearless heart, and his subtle and humorous use of Turkish in his poetry. He is also famous for his translations from American and British literature, especially for his adaptations from Shakespeare. On his 70th birthday, he said that he does not play with words but that words play with him. He died in 1999.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

SAL\u0130H BOLAT we, the sad children of this city for long carried the shadow of a phoenix. we picked up metal flowers from our fields. we fell in love, we wrote poetry, we shed tears. years later, feeling the walls of this city its rain, its norms, its friendships, we’re walking. our arms fall upon … <\/p>\n

Devam\u0131n\u0131 oku<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/yusuferadam.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/162"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/yusuferadam.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/yusuferadam.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/yusuferadam.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/yusuferadam.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=162"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"http:\/\/yusuferadam.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/162\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":784,"href":"http:\/\/yusuferadam.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/162\/revisions\/784"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/yusuferadam.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=162"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}