from SWAP
Looking at You
Upturning the turtle, little girl runs away
For the first time, turtle sees sky
trans. by Raman Mundair
*
From ONE-POEM-STANDS
Call Centre
hello
for the day you met school friends for the first time
please dial your lucky number
for the times you ran tirelessly around the playground
press all the numbers at random
for the steamed-up windows of restaurants in countryside
dial the year of the last family summer holiday
everybody has times they're ashamed of
do not tell the numbers you pick for these to anyone
for the çay and poğaça breakfasts you had on the university lawn
put the receiver down and go out onto the balcony
if you wish to complain about time flying furiously past
please press down hard on the button
if you realise that you don't remember your granddad exactly as he was
look in the mirror
for the smell of dusty books in second-hand bookstores
say the third letter of an illiterate labourer’s name
for your neighbourhood tailor who was found dead in rags
please hold
for that unpredictable moment
that you touched the neck of a woman in your sleep,
dial the same number over and over again
after the beep
the day after the break-up
write in your notebook one hundred times
'I am never going to fall in love again'
beeep
trans. by Bill Herbert
*
Russtylove
I call you honeyovsky
didn't we learn to love from Russian novels
the first night you slept beside me
is in my mind, written in cuneiform script
no, no, as a cave painting
at the start I let you wait a while
forgive me for that
for some time now I've hidden your name
you don’t know why
the scarf you were knitting was left half finished
let it be, until next winter
so that your loneliness is only partial, also
that green apple you gave to me one morning
let it be a secret password between us
and let your eyebrows grow
the pretentiousness scares me,
just as it does with architecture and poetry
your legs are full of childhood wounds
we make love at a canter
we love each other,
patient as your growing hair
but I still confuse
the long nicknames in Russian novels
trans. by Richard Gywn
*
Imagined Conversation
you ask why -
perhaps because of a few white strands from your hair
like a scar
or a royal crest,
like terrible memories or fabulous advice,
a difficult day, a sleepless sunrise
all trailing across your cheek.
you ask why -
because your proud fingers can become playful in a instant
I’m not talking about some magician’s trick
but taking off a tight blouse, a shirt still underneath.
you ask why - because your constantly-escaping hair
is the crumple in every fairytale sheet;
because an adopted princess is what I’m really looking for,
a frog that stays a frog after being kissed.
you do know fairytales are just for kids?
and I'm not a child anymore.
what else? because of your single black dress of which you are so proud,
the large naughty smile that you hand out like flyers,
because that dress and the kitten rubbing against your legs both suit you
– was there even a kitten? –
and because I don’t know
if I will get scared in the night
by your lips like a river
which flows in two contrary directions
or mess up
or fall like an idiot for you
I’ll tell you only once
don’t ask me again
my heart pounded softly
good bye.
trans. by Sian Melangell Dafyd
*
Am I to you?
Am I far away to you? Not much
Bus plus ferry plus tram
I am forbidden to you. Don’t exaggerate
Whenever I look in your eyes
The other end of a recently dug tunnel
I am child to you, let it be
I like to be a nuisance when I’m with you
I am anxious to you, I know
I make a fuss sometimes, Miss
I am inclined to you, don’t move
Like one wave merging into another wave
I am night and day to you
The wicked fox of hesitation
I am wistful to you
We haven’t met each other too late, have we?
I am maybe trouble to you
Will you manage to start again from zero?
I am a blank white paper to you
The smell of a newly sharpened pencil
I am now to you
The enthusiasm of a watch that’s just been repaired
I am afterwards to you, always to you, you to you
I am ‘let’s go’ to you
Are you sure?
I am a basic question put
To you
trans. by Robyn Marsack
*
from FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS
Decoration Suggestions, or What is Important in a House
we need a single bed (I guess 80 cm is enough)
a small airport (for the living room)
a 1:100 model of hell (my place there is guaranteed anyway)
a garden full of untrimmed plants (this is for the kitchen)
we also need an old cuckoo clock: we have more than enough time to waste
a broken radiator: it seems we cannot save the world; it can symbolize this
a secret nook: so I can leave notes to you if I die
and a polygraph machine: so that I can take tests all the time, hah.
a trust machine: we collect it and hand it out by Yeni Cami
a worry machine: it can wipe clean our post-work blues
an envy machine: it could spice up our cooking
a fear machine: we hug each other like two dust particles that collide in the air
a guilt machine: we already keep each other warm; there’s no need for this
a child machine: as a height marker for every living being occupied by learning
a time machine: after visiting our first date we deliver gifts to our future selves
And then we come back to our own kingdom
present time machine: mirror mirror on the wall, tell me
a slave machine: we clean up after ourselves
a nail polish machine: an exception, for you
a sleep machine: we write essays on a glass of water at your bedside
a tranquility machine: the rabbit I pulled out of the hat
a joy machine: coin operated
a ticket machine: a travel bag too full to close and your nakedness winking at me in the mirror
A machine machine: a postcard to celebrate the complexity of nature
A polygraph machine: we can connect each other and watch the universe from a bird’s eye view
A you-machine:
it could measure the amount of purple in an unfinished painting
or beep when my feet touch the seabed swimming back in
we’re in no rush, it could keep stirring the tea
or perhaps arrange a date you’ll be late for, so I can enjoy waiting for you
you, (as a dream of a Platonist) who remains you as years pass
you, the repetition that floods in fast-flowing rivers (thanks to the good fortune of a Marxist)
you, a drill bit into my thoughts
you, a black box of what I have lived
what is important in a house?
we don’t even need happiness
just the rattling of a baby
trans. by James Vella
*
SIMILARITIES BETWEEN THE REVOLUTIONS
revolutions too
like grand plans
can’t be plotted in great detail
like punctual trains
offer peace
and never look back once set off?
on every occasion
forge a connection between us that I can’t name
like close friends
are also useful in covering our own defects
like babies screaming in joy
never tire
like me
they - in truth - don’t like crowds
like all of us
it is a lie that they wish the best for everyone
like all gods
they are sure they are capable of creating the world in a few days
like the relationships
you suddenly find yourself a slave to
like women
you can only suppose you understand them
like a lover
they can only let you down
like a platonic love
they are beautiful after all
trans. by James Vella
*
A List of Items to Sace
1.
the chocolate bar I left unfinished, as an empty promise of happiness
2.
pepper spray I was hit with last summer, in cubic litres and in exact volume
3.
the total sum money I didn’t give to the beggars, in order to make myself uncomfortable
4.
all the wine I’ve ever drank, filling a lake
5.
and a particular woman, as a photo album of the moments she touched me
6.
the last images held in place on the cornea of the dead, saved as jpg or pdf
7.
the last voices they heard, saved as screams
8.
what they last touched, stirred in with love making
9.
what they last tasted, deposited into the bank
10.
what they last smelled, in a perfume bottle
11.
everything I’ve ever said, written on empty cigarette boxes
to be read along with their warning notes
12.
everything I’ve lived through, in coins
to be sold under the counter in Kadıköy Bazaar
13.
and to fall in love, aged in oak barrels
some part donated to the Society for Protection of Children
and the rest downed at the bar
trans. by James Vella
*
from JUNE 16
(June Crossroads is a series of poems 'based on true events' during the revolutionary days in Turkey in 1970)
Ulus Newspaper Occupation
brecht would ask
what is the difference between
he who desires without understanding
and he who understands but keeps quiet
according to beckett
the biggest opportunity has already been missed
according to the union
this was not planned
according to received wisdom
people believe in an unattainable beauty
according to the revolutionaries
every revolutionary action was legitimate
according to my grandma
I should let all these things go
what I really want to know is
whether the reporters and typesetters
were in conflict with the occupiers at first?
according to the typesetters
they inspired the tragic end of a book
which was destined to be confiscated
according to the reporters
this was a news flash that had to be censored
according to a table
it was strange to be talked down to
according to the printing plate
it was almost comfortable to be barricaded in
a grey bearded giant
was serving tea in the middle of all this
according to their worst fears
it would all end badly
according to their feelings
they were already locked in an ever-contracting conga
if we go back to brecht
he would say it all depends on the occupier
before lighting his cigar
trans. by Richard Gywn
*
The Worker Who Comes across His Son in the Barricade of Soldiers
my throat has dried
but it doesn't seem to become quiet
my throat is calloused
for carriying placards in silver trays
my throat is a scary rope-walker
it doesn’t know that it is possible to stand on the rope
only by marching forward
in front of the barricade of soldiers
my throat is scared out of its wits
while soldier’s helmets
are waving by our wind
my throat is blind
isn’t it my own son
hidden in a uniform
indicating me with his rifle
my throat is racing with my legs
blusters like children gang
while leaping up over the barricade
with my throat spread wide
I hug my son
my throat is knotted
keeps the joy to itself
my throat is slitted
the blood of five other
leaking asunder
trans. by Richard Gywn
*
Mehmet and Osman from Cevizli Cigarette Factory
mehmet grew another hectic mehmet
when he became a father
mehmet already owned another shy mehmet
when he got married
he also contracted a sceptical mehmet
urged by necessity
all the mehmets were in fine fettle
next to him stood osman who had many osmans
that mehmet didn’t know
was there a self-sacrificing mehmet?
– mehmet wasn’t sure –
but when a gun was pointed at his group of friends
he didn’t hesitate
secret osman of osman with his police ID in his pocket
held the hand of a tobacco worker for the first time
– the dead mehmet of mehmet –
with sorrow for his widow’s loss of her mehmet
stubborn mehmet walked up to taksim square
he tore up his last regrets
when osman submitted his letter of resignation
it was beautiful to be obstinate in the face of death
even after having died
trans. by Richard Gywn
*
How the Four Workers Were Released from Eyüp Police Station
lock up, clattering, dirty yellow light.
how would you describe the ones inside?
a) as waiting in the cell keeping their shirts clean
b) as primping their hair with regretful hands
c) as knowing everything would be easier if they gave up their beliefs
d) all of the above
for ten thousand years, for many decades, until yesterday.
if we believe the history books they:
a) avoid eye contact with each other
b) turn sneak or rat when frightened
c) inspire legendary heroes even if afraid
outside the police station, impatient whispers.
the crowd was looking very different: why?
a) a most unusual festival was underway
a) a story was circulating that the king’s ass has been kicked
a) someone mentioned the coward lion of oz
a) because fingers clicked before the dance began
what happened next?
a) handcuffs were unlocked with a little-known catchphrase
b) a new name had been sewn on their still pristine shirts
c) or, as actually happened, they scattered into the poisoned streets of Istanbul
trans. by Richard Gywn
*