In addition to his military education, he also attended the School of Medicine. Between 1890 and 1894, he became interested in literature while in Paris to conduct medical research. He especially liked Verlaine and Mallarmé. After his return from Europe, he held a position at the Directory of Quarantine. Following a series of positions, he retired from the Umur-ı Sıhhiye (Health Department) as a general superintendent in 1914. Şahabettin, who was on the faculty in Istanbul University’s Department of Literature, also joined the Servet-i Fünun movement. Cenab Şahabeddin is credited for having written the first sonnet in Turkish literature. Even though he presented himself as a contemporary poet who used new images, colorful descriptions and similes, he did not support language purification in literature or the modernization of society. POETRY: Tamat (1887), Cenab Şahabeddin'in Bütün Şiirleri (1984, edited by M. Kaplan, İ. Enginün, B. Emil, N. Birinci, A. Uçman). OTHER WORKS: Hac Yolunda (1909-1925, travel notes), YalanEvrak-ı Eyyam (1915, essays), Körebe (1917, play), Nesr-i Harb, Nesr-i Sulh ve Tiryaki Sözleri (1918, essays), Avrupa Mektupları (1919). (1911, play),
WINTERSONG
A pale trembling, a hazy flight,
Like a bird losing sight of its mate
the snow
Searches for springtime days gone by.
Oh impassioned songs of hearts,
The public canticles of pigeons,
This is that spring's tomorrow:
Covering all in a profound stillness
the snows
That mutely weep now and again.
Oh butterfly falling dead in mid-flight,
Like an angel-wing's white fringe
the snow
Seeks you in faded gardens.
As you unfold over the blossoms
A tiny floral-patterned fan
Now over your body, oh corpse
Flake by flake they begin to fly...
the snows
That fall from the sky and falling weep
You've gone, flown away, oh birds
Like tiny, white-head owlets
the snows
Seek you on branches, in nests
You're gone, you're gone oh birds,
The nests are all empty now,
In those nests only mute, unweeping orphans
Following the last bits of blue feather...
the snows
That fly in the sky and flying weep
Oh winter sky, in your hand are heaped
Petals of jessamine, pigeon wings, moist clouds.
Heavens spill out—as nature's spirit sleeps—
Pure white blossoms onto the dark earth.
Now are the boughs—with neither leaf nor flower—
A heap of gloom and darkness and despair.
Hasten, oh hand of winter sky, and draw
Over all the woods a veil of white.
Snow-flakes flow from the heavens like hope,
Snow-flakes fly about like my imaginings.
Dozing on the unstained wing of a still wind
They pause a moment, then fly away.
Right and left, left and right, trembling in flight.
Now soaring like feathers, now pouring down,
The snows, their every song a psalm of silence,
The snows, their every blossom a garden of paradise.
Pour forth onto the black earth, oh heaven's hand, pour forth
Oh heaven's hand, generous hand, winter hand, pour forth
In place of spring's blossoms, the white snows,
In place of birdsong, the stillness of hope.
Translated by Walter G. Andrews
[From An Anthology of Turkish Literature, Edited by Kemal Silay]
