Translated by Alexandra Buchler
Balcony Of The Tower / Kulenin Balkonu
“I’m not afraid of the dead,” the man said,"Nothingness,
the locust leaping onto the flesh of the summer, sudden rain,
the red-ant circus in the shadow of a stone.
Absence of words makes me far more afraid.
So I write. Endlessly I write. I write the same way I build this tower
in the place of the old well. That damned well
into which my father fell and broke his neck.”
(It was winter. A train was passing across the lowlands like a
snow-white gauze inside a sooty oil-lamp bottle. Soldiers brought
to the front were hanging out of the wagon windows waving
their helmets at the herd of wild horses racing alongside the train.
Children chopping wood in the courtyard. A provisions lorry
sunk into snow and boredom in the voice of the woman
embracing the man on the balcony of the tower, saying “You must go”.
I mean, the usual evens of winter.
The next day the man fell from the tower and broke his neck.
The woman repeatedly knocked on the tower door at the usual time,
a lantern in one hand, umbrella in the other
the manuscript of the man's poems which she could not keep dry
between her teeth.
Behind the wind fear was hiding, sniffing at the woman.
Reality Is Buzzing Like A Horsefly Between The Window And The Curtain / Perdeyle Camın Arasına Sıkışmış Bir At Sineği Gibi Vızıldıyor Gerçeklik
1- Autumn noon, a crow passing without a single cry.
2- As if saying “another cup of tea?” saying “I would give my everything to write like you”
3- The grass grows, stone corrodes,
particles circle around the nucleus of the things with infinite impetus.
4- Everything happens too slowly or too fast
5- So that it's as if nothing happens
6- You say “I already gave everything”
7- Reality is buzzing like a horsefly between the window and the curtain
We Are In The World, So Are Words, How Nice, Everyone’s Here / Dünyadayız, Dil De Dünyada, Ne Güzel Herkes Burda
1- The day hisses like an empty tap
2- There are some gaps in your story, you say, I say the wind awakens
the shawl on your shoulder, is the lace made out of knots or holes?
3- The shadow of a hawk collides with your shadow. Neither you nor the hawk
are aware of this
4- By the way I prefer to think of myself as a stool.
5- I wrote things that have stories, without telling the story.
6- We are in the world, so are words, how nice, everyone’s here
7- If you unbraid and comb my hair, dead bees will rain upon us
Praise For The Concrete Action Of The Hand / Elin Somut Eylemselliğine Övgü
I rested my head on your naked chest
blood dripping from my nose flowing
down the whiteness of your belly to your crotch,
I said: “Words - I thought words can save me.
I don’t believe any more that any image can be
more shocking than a blow to the neck.
How silly I am to think that the reaction chain
set off by my poems will change the world.
The ones who change the world are
those who are not afraid to touch things with bare hands,
with their animal-foot hands, with their night-foot hands,
those who can tie their shoe-laces at once
those who can hammer a nail in without bending it
those who can open a jammed jar
who feed their hands like fire-crows
who water their hands like oleanders
who sharpen their hands on the night
who rip reality with their hands
who settle up with the world with their hands
those who change the world are not the ones
with good ideas, those
who can hold the power of destruction without fear.
Good ideas appear and disappear everywhere
because a good idea is nothing
before a destructive activist gets hold of it.
A line of a poem, even it is
harder than kucklebone, thinner than shinbone,
empty and light as the bone of a bird,
articulated as the bone of a lizard's tail,
straight as tibia or
heavy as elephant bone,
can sprout a black-blue carnation in the field of the body.
See, nonsensical words again, the eye turns black
when punched, that's all.
I'd rather be able to punch with my fists than