HYMN FOR THE TROUBLED POET
Though I am smaller than a grain
I can contain the whole world!
But the world is too small for me,
Too small, too small, my son.
I can become a cloud,
I can fly to the sky,
I can wander through the meadows,
But I cannot pour like rain, my son.
My hawk is tied in chains,
A carnation in its beak.
This cruel conflict,
I cannot, cannot resolve, my son.
I am a poet, my toil is tough
Hard times bind me in my plight.
I put away my tireless pen,
I cannot, cannot write, my son.
Translated by Nilüfer Mizanoğlu Reddy
SONG FOR AN AGELESS WOMAN
Your face was never a rough sketch
It had the lines of a finished painting
Your face drawn by your own hand
Lovingly, fearfully, hastily
You wove the satin cloth and cut the serge
You were both the cutter and the stitcher
Of school uniforms and prison garb
One was too loose, the other too tight
For the body of the people
What you've lost in blessings for many a day
You've gathered in curses in an exalted life
Perhaps you've taken leave of your body now
But when everything is in uproar
Even lifeless objects stir
Rising from the days of stifling silence
You'll be the one to gather again
The much needed things
With your womanly motherly fertile hands
We made a pillow for your silvery head
From rose petals brought from the mountains
Take a rest now
Translated by Nilüfer Mizanoğlu Reddy
HYMN FOR IRON AND RUST
Between narcissus and autumn roses
For five long years
Between rain and snow
For five long years
Between cold and frost
Between iron and rust
From Seyran to Mamak
For five long years
I came to know the sound of iron
The pressing hand the pushing shoulder
The opening of the padlock the grating of the door
The cruel sound of iron
For five long years
If someone had planted a willow tree,
Its shadow would have darkened the house.
He was my weeping willow I brought him up,
I ache for him deep in my heart.
For five long years.
Your voice is tired, you are wary,
Words especially chosen for us,
Words dried on the clothesline,
Are the only ones we talk with—
If you can call that talking.
No inflection, no color, not a syllable of warmth:
"How are you?"
"I am fine."
For five long years,
I could not call you:
My brave, my one and only, pillar of my house.
I kept it secret, lest they hear, I didn't want that.
Now I feel that my voice has grown old.
There will surely come a day,
I keep shining it.
I know,
The bird in my broken heart will not be silent.
Translated by Nilüfer Mizanoğlu Reddy
AUTUMN
Autumn is here I am bleary-eyed and blind.
Autumn is here I know my hair is falling out.
They say I was born in the highland beyond the seas.
I feel its ups and downs in my knees.
The gazelle descended into the streams, my beloved.
The fight is over. Hang your rifle on the wall.
The kingdom of the hearth has arrived. Take you hatchet
From the corner, go to the forest. Kiss our children.
Those down below raise their kites into the sky—
the weather's right—
Down there children can read, but I am blind.
Their books and newspapers smell good.
I should come down to smell and feel them.
Ah, my beloved, I am tied down here,
Blind and old at the age of thirty.
Take the children and go down,
I want them to see everything.
Autumn is here, my beloved, you're free to go,
But I am blind, I've never gone beyond the stream.
I remember how we slaved all summer long,
But the potatoes couldn't even buy a piece of cloth.
Go and ask: Are we counted as human, are we in the census
book?
I am blind, we're old, but have the children registered.
Take the potatoes to the buyer for twenty-five kuruş,
On the way back sing a thousand songs to the donkey.
For the things of this world one must have the world's
money.
You eked out a pitiful twenty-five liras from the land.
Buy our shroud, don't forget the soap and the scrubber,
Reserve a bit of paradise with the money for the Hoja.
I'll die this autumn, I've finished all my chores.
I've washed in the stream, climbed the walnut tree and
scared away the birds.
I was kidnapped, gave birth to twelve children, swaddled and
tended.
I married sons, raised daughters and reached the age of
thirty.
Don't tell me, "Don't cry, girl," I will be angry.
I'll not cry let the mountains and rocks cry.
I am blind, weak, worn-out and diseased.
Where can I find those who caused this?
Let the birds who feel more than humans cry.
Translated by Nilüfer Mizanoğlu Reddy
THE GERANIUM
Let us remember the rule:
No one can stop the rain,
No one can block the sun
For the planters of seeds and saplings.
I am planting basil and geranium.
My neighbor says they're hardy,
Even if you don't want them,
They take root and keep growing in your garden.
My God, how wonderful, wonderful,
I am planting basil and geranium
In love with the hardiness of grass and flowers.
What is hardiness?
It is hope and resistance
It is to plunge into the bosom of life
It is to be one with life
Believe me, friends, believe me
A geranium shoot separated from the plant
Does not die at all, does not even droop
It keeps blooming in the earth where I planted it.
Translated by Nilüfer Mizanoğlu Reddy
NOT THE FEAR OF SHIVERING
We are the tired warriors worn down by
defeat after
defeat
Too timid or ashamed to enjoy a drink
Someone gathers all the suns, keeps people
waiting for
them
It's not the fear of shivering but warming up
We are the tired warriors, so many loves
frightened
us off
They have held the mountain roads
The arrows are shot, the traps are set
Someone forgives our ugliness
In the name of friendship
We set out on flat roads again without
arrows or
rabbits
We are the daunted warriors, so many loves
frightened
us off
Translated by Talât Sait Halman
[From An Anthology of Turkish literature, Edited by
Kemal Silay]
