THE CHILD AND HIS TREE
Tree of poetry that thrives in all climates
let me climb on your branches.
Stay where you are, baby, fall!
If I climb, I must now
before losing the mad audacity of childhood
Stop! The branches are thin up there.
or reach your leaves fall and die or green
Istanbul, 1983
THE SONG OF MY BELOVED
The sea was the song of my beloved
the war has dropped anchor His voice in my beloved blue
dead soldier.
Wheat was the song of my beloved
the war has put the handcuffs to his eyes my beloved golden
dead soldier.
Peace was the song of my beloved
war has its laugh broke into two white
my beloved dead soldier.
I hear my beloved
chanting the dead soldier
blues songs sound the door of our house.
I hear, the songs for peace
most beautiful are those who sing
muoino war.
Nicosia, 1978
POETRY OF DAYS THAT WE DO NOT BELONG
i.
- your name was Estella
the aunt who lived before us in this house?
had children?
And this photo here on the wall tells
of your wedding day, dear aunt?
- Estella was your name? Tue
hands hang out the washing on the balcony
before us? Tue
finger prints on the tiles
your voice that wandered through the rooms
Aunt, dear aunt ...
ii. You
the door broken with a rifle butt
the dress as aliens
the pot that cooks food for other
You're nothing but an old photo album
Even in space there is left.
iii.
If only I could meet you one day
would be very happy, very happy.
I put aside all your photos, little girl:
- your birthday, here
- the cake with three candles under the tree mandarin
- you are at sea with Uncle Donald
- greetings from the machine by hand
- your father and your mother
smile and you smile at me.
once more give you the, girl:
but from time to time me my heart I thought
anxiety and if you had been killed in war?
iv.
curious I wonder who was the Greek Cypriot who read this book?
He stopped on page 48.
Perhaps at that time was called to war, and the title of the book
The man was not born soldier. I
wanted to have some memories with you
eat with an ice cream treat the wound on his hand
be able to wear your raincoat in a rainy day
And I wanted you to know that I surprised myself how
here, so, I have could continue
the book that you left in half.
v.
All around me smells of blood
blood.
I am not a murderess
me make peace with flowers in vases
blankets, chairs and pictures in albums
I am not a murderess. Everywhere around me
blood flowing blood.
If only you had lived and seen
I am not a murderess.
Ankara, 1979
LAST TALES Heroism
The tale more serious
Just when they start talk of war
a plump woman thought to serious things:
-
I'll sew a new dress, green polka dot orange
shall return soon from my visits
and cook potatoes.
The story of our cat
When I was little I was wondering if the cat
of our neighbors even if it were his Greek
greek.
One day I asked my mother,
cats dogs
Greeks are Turks, he said
attack dogs and cats.
After a while '
a day do I see?
Our cat ate her kittens themselves.
The tale told in silence
The "silent soldier" his friends called him a small Koran in his pocket
neck an amulet blessed
would have gone straight to heaven when they would hit.
God found his corpse as a handful of ashes
not think that it has not resulted in paradise
because he had not seen the Koran el'amuleto.
God sighed
- A man who dies a painful death so
should definitely be in heaven if I had a paradise.
The tale told on Sunday
General goes to sea on Sunday
swims like a fish
collects colorful pebbles and shells.
General building sand castles on Sunday while digging in the sand and
happy
is a small skeleton
great man who makes you cry like a baby
I like the general on Sunday.
The story of our road
The name of our street "Via Martyr Ahmet Kaya."
Before the last war was "Martyr Street Hasan Hayrettin.
My mother says that was
Way Sergeant Hayati, martyr "
first, even before I was born.
No one remembers, my general
what was the name of our street before being
"Martyr".
Nicosia-Ankara, 1979 (1983)
"Perhaps these days it rains and the earth drink plenty of water. The tranquil gardens and dissoderà concimerà. Until then I'll be out of the hospital plant it and what needs to be planted. Along the edges will plant the sweet pea. Once pruned roses, violets add below. I also have to weed the flowers this year. One day when my death comes, look at our garden and say ... "
- From a letter from my mother
A DAY - What is death, mother? You will
jasmine and roses from our garden
Artemis as the Mother Earth and the land that is renewed and reborn.
When I woke up I find flowers watered
everyone is wondering: Who was that?
and just then the bird takes flight
you designed like an eagle above me I know it's you
but no one else knows.
If the book pages are creased, I understand
with your glasses you will rest on the green butterfly
Morris chair but no one else understands.
Gilded frames can not contain your sad smile
with your wedding gown rustling of blacks rose petals flee
in nature in the spring you on fire with pomegranates in flower in autumn
swing from loneliness to solitude
joy and the sadness of the rest of the trees glad
life of sun and rain
crowd that built the earth
That will be you.
The pine tree that defies death on the rocky precipice
tolerance which opens its fragile leaves
birds as insect
and beauty of silent fans
That will be you.
-
One day the earth will become a mother feeding
blooming
their children, and you'll become the earth.
"I keep the book you wrote for the soul of your mother in a box of chocolates in the nightstand drawer. May God bless you son ... Every day I pray for your mother and a Ya Sin Tebareke. When I am dead those who recite? Do not you know say a Fatiha at the grave of your mother. Now you do not remember most of us ... I have no time to take care of the garden. The plum trees, almond trees are now a forest, the branches are above the tiles (those of plum). There's no one prune them. The roof leaks. The drip tank. Back to the reappropriation of your home, your place. Had he not said that you would come last month for Easter. Alas, even when au was not true. Did not you come and not even a letter. Nothing, nothing, nothing ... neither a word nor a greeting, and even when I die you come back? "
-From a letter from my aunt
ZIA-LANGUAGE
i. Home-Zia-Life Language
a pity! Only when she died it was realized that when the house is lived
-life stopped with the heart of the dear old woman
- yet none of us could confess his dismay-
Hey player! Each poem is a confession.
ii. Zia-language whose name is carved on a stone
The teacher's widow when the British were
Süreyya was at home, on the streets and among your friends Judith
Lamia haired golden. Then
times have changed even the neighbors have changed
Greek there is no longer the family home in Sarayönü
nor the house and garden in Neapolis
- more war more war more war-
no stone is left standing .. .
And then came the Turks
Judith was at home, the street Süreyya.
iii. Zia-language takes care of carnations
it fell to her man make all the males of the family
- grandchildren stillborn, my grandfather, my father, I-
smear Vicks on their backs, making their woolen sweaters.
The spring cleaning is entitled to her
the roof that slides, pruning
and especially the cleaning of endless fairy-tale houses.
Our memories are up to her in ruins, and endowments, the rate of house
and housing for teachers and barracks for immigrants
passed quickly and his little life is transported by another war.
it fell to her to keep awake our guards
to recite prayers for the dead always
you read the Koran in Arabic and oil in Latin
and correct my turkish red
Finally, decide where to plant carnations ...
iv. The tale of the dragon Zia-language
but the dragon also has wings and
may suddenly take flight.
two cats to guard her door - for which gate-cats
The man was a guest in her home, was once the dragon has two heads
[eee eh?]
Lusignan look at the sky from the minaret. Under the tomb of
Ahirvan Dede
goes round and round dance - a fairy - in truth
may suddenly take flight.
and a lying tongue forked, double tongues of flames and [hiii!]
believe the dead, but guard a treasure
buried - and everything has wings - and
may suddenly take flight. [UUUU?!]
Sale on the seven heavens and demand goes down, as it was?
-Buoona, buoona, buoona -
But the old woman might, inadvertently becoming a snake
a bird, a lizard or a firefly. [More ... uuu]
Or maybe you're an angel? - Nah, no, no -
Actually it was the queen of that country, and stubborn as a mule
always said No!
- has returned to the war - the King in the palace confines
but may suddenly take flight.
v. Zia-language water blessed
Towards evening on the nebulae of steaming jasmine
flies a small feather
bird flew away the dear aunt, was 85 years old, still very few.
Among the branches of green plums
the stellar light is burning incense blessed with rose water.
innocent as a child
wherever she goes is the sun's energy
- and even more aware of the world - a comet
creeping streamer ... It flew away
dear aunt
red wild rose-language plug
sometimes stubborn goat, sometimes to thunderous laughter trabbocante
and defenseless.
(....)
NINE POEMS OF PASSION
In his hands
flowers of Narcissus
My love is back
returned to me my love, is back.
Here is here in front of me
with black stockings and a black short skirt and
green eyes like a Siamese cat ...
My love is back after I've suffered enough
and before the penalty could relieve
just in time!
(He asks me for the past three months without her, how many people I slept with
1 2 3 4 truth-in no-
9 women and 5 men say
twisted his lips, but who cares
came away from me). My love is
party to take the first plane
tomorrow and I was left back to central London
if I stay here beyond that would be nice
three months seems to come again
holding flowers narcissus
.* * chorus love, read it and read it more ...
(....)
I go away, I do not expect
I do not expect I be punished for life
News from me will cease to arrive
Likewise postcards of a city that opens onto the sea .
I go away, I do not expect
continue your life in the tomb of Pharaoh
with the infinite loneliness of your pieces
and with your chewing gum.
(And then There is nothing sad in quest'addio
love in our time was diagnosed as a mental illness
)
I walk away, do not wait six
a lie that deceives itself
and you never listen to me or
let the silence of the soul to tell you the truth.
I go on ... 'If you want to go, go!'
But I read from your eyes that are fixed on me
passion that leaves no freedom
man and frankly I'm afraid you kill me.
(And I still have many more reasons to go away.)
Everything is forgiven over time
but Love never forgive etc.
Istanbul-London-Paris, 1985-1987
OLD SONGS A NEAPOLIS
My grandmother is from Neapolis
My grandmother passes the coffee
thin high-heeled boots
tic tac tic tac
From men looks and laughter
My grandmother says:
'Oh you had to see me in my youth'
tic tac tic tac
boots
I see instead are a coffee color and much of the pitch
tic tac tic tac
My grandmother is so absent-minded, but fair.
Amaro olive tree
Even before I told him I understood that the tree
olive was my grandfather.
arms wrinkled skin covered with wood
radiant face, his eyes dark.
Even when I see you recognize me from afar,
shake the branches and leafy whispers.
say that my grandfather had planted before his death - so vigorous
a barrel, a scent so delicate
the leaves never without a smile
Even before
told me I knew it was my grandfather.
Its silver leaves burn like incense to me
dear grandfather, Amaro olive trees.
Palme Palme
in long lines in the palms open to the sky
bear the first rays of the sun.
Each of the thirty-three beads of rosary beads
date palm honey
fly to us from the deserts green carpets for prayers
palms palms palms. The leaves are
their fingers and toes between the wings of a dove
cypress trees, tiles, electrical wires and television aerials
soar like dervishes
old memories ...
One day in Greece
While we slept they wrote ELLADA
on our door and when we opened his eyes
we found ourselves in Greece!
Fearing turn on the lights and talk
each of us is like a guest in her home.
without the permission of the owners
we can not even go out in the garden.
To those who ask of us,
"I flew to Greece," says my uncle.
The trees I look out the window sad
O we are not ourselves
Or maybe it's our house.
-Neapolis Nicosia, 1986
PIERO WANT you kill me
Piero
want you to kill me I can not drag myself to Venice
seeking a very quick take my life. Piero
I parked my motorcycle at this
you do not pay attention to traffic, my lord
kill me before the light turns green. Piero
I started this in Athens the other hand
Tu-world icons from the silver skin I
oil lamps burning votive offerings
Oh Lord of all things extinguish my flame. Piero
my little angel of death
bend the bow to me in the bare stone
Piero this world is full of wickedness
Please take me to heaven
Piero can not bring them to life
either remain silent or I probably would not escape
you can live
Piero could bury myself in you tonight? Piero
my little angel of death
Piero want you to kill me
Piero go.
Athens, 1988
A NIGHT BUS Barış
The women were lying on the floor with knife wounds terrible
did not stop at any bus stop
the screams in the corridors have locked the doors
those who lived upstairs
With sweet chills I looked at the
same movie every night and every day I memorized my part
and waited my turn to see my face on the screen -
paying the ticket are entered into myself.
The night I kissed his forehead, lips
opening the door showed him his place
- neither male nor female -
produced plastic dolls to awaken the meat they wander
around the house of lust with red liquor
We were asked our name - we did not find -
subtracted from ourselves by winged horses dark night
haa changed our clothes and
freeing our hair with golden stamps
sent us underground.
The women were lying on the floor with knife wounds terrible
did not stop at any bus stop
London, 1988
PANORAMA
Arodes is a village of 72 inhabitants
included me.
Like everyone else I go to church on Sunday
- my father was a good-Kemalist
Like all other communist vote, Please
Christ and Cristofias. And I do
'eyes to the only girl in the village
- their house is on the hill overlooking the sea
and every day with my bike there are passing through. -
usually around nine are still in bed
chickens, donkeys, goats, pigeons ...
This is a place famous for its beauty:
morning in the vineyards,
the evening in the brook between the oleanders that passes by civilians
keep walking - but I look at the landscape .-
Arodes Village, 1991
TIME OF WAR
I used to talk to me in because nobody could hear me, and
that everyone read my silence me!
not had to speak turkish, and it was dangerous to the greek
absolutely forbidden -
Great, who wanted to save me, waiting, all
with his finger on the trigger.
Moreover, since all soldiers were volunteers.
and English remained in the middle, so
a thin knife to separate the pages of textbooks,
speak a language at times
especially with the Greeks!
Often I was unsure even what had been the language in which
pour my tears,
I lived the life that was not foreign, but one of his translations
my mother tongue was one thing, my motherland another
and I, then, another thing again -
Since those days of darkness was
clear that I would never have been the poet of any country,
because I was a minority. And 'Freedom' was a word
suffocated in the lexicon of every nation ...
At the end of those three languages \u200b\u200bcame tangled in my poems
nor the Turks nor the Greeks
could hear my voice within, nor the other -
But do not blame them, it was wartime.
Village Arodes, 1991
HOME LIFE
White space left by a wall clock
walnut table oblivious to the time
Fingerprints cleaned from dust
lost keys from time
Mailbox locked by rust
deep sleep of an old, forgotten his teeth in a glass
And this typewriter that wrote the first poems of my father, the house where mom fell in love and died - this house taken in every war, on fire, machine guns, ransacked the gifts kept in crates Ottoman and mirrors, mirror I behold all the nude women of the family, mirrors that veiled their faces with cloths - and all the flowers withered and lost all but the fragrant scent of wild roses wandering - that time between the grandmother put aside covered with white lace - this little ghost back the place of his death - the long and silent shadows of cypress trees cut down - and now all the inhabitants of this house gaze upon the midnight with photos of wild laughter still echoes of the war - a man in a fez forget his smile looks out from behind the glass - this house and think about how those who never killed anything that belonged to me let me live - Suddenly the lights in the room where the baby was no mention this poem
House Dead House Dead House Dead
nothing ' another that poetry could bring me back here
Neapolis / Nicosia, 1988
THE DOOR! Let me knock. Let
you consider yourself safe in, without never open
alone, closed.
Your window on one eye that looks at the weather outside is a
color in color television channel in channel zap zap zap.
The door! Let me knock.
Who could ever be, a lover?
lovers, male or female as they are, are like windows opening on each
another adventure serials
zap zap. The door!
Whoever it is, it is perhaps worth
open just now? Pur'essa jail ... Freedom is a reality.
Of the two faces of Janus, one is a white door, the other is a black door
. Let it remain closed.
Istanbul, 1995
SWALLOW
Sometimes I feel like crying in my sleep I do not know the reason
or when I wake up I've already forgotten.
Every time I'm going to open our eyes, exploding
headlines. If only I could wake up from poetry
but nailed here, crying without language
I invoke, I invoke
poetry ... Sometimes I make love to a faceless person
or maybe I do not remember any of those I loved. Some dreams take me back to childhood
the war broke out, the mothers did not die
nor all the people I knew are gone ...
But everything is so far away that I could not remember even wanting
then suddenly takes off in his sleep
Flying, flying, I'm flying.
But I can not understand where I am
In what city, in what room, in which bed
on which side should I turn my face
and the language of those who answer questions
in my dream. And then I get confused by the birds in the sky:
was a turtle dove, skylark nooo, maybe a swallow
Yes, I think it was just a swallow
There on the veranda of our house in Lefka
... [I said our house? ]
Sometimes I hear her crying in her sleep.
The swallow: it is very old, I do not remember the place nor the date
A GHOST
Many engravers of Phoenician inscriptions were killed by warriors, but they Phoenicians, why not write the war with the Greek cities had to be ended. Those who remained, continued to live under threat of death, as ghosts ...
From an inscription in Idalia, Cyprus eighth century BC
Only I can come back as a ghost in my house
outcropping mirrors blurred. I do not have much time.
open the windows in the darkness the light of the stars
invades the rooms. I shake the curtains, the sheets covering the
library. I have to remove the dust from
family photos. Moistening the glass with my breath. The
Avenging angel of this house of many languages, now silent,
do promise to anyone who enters to write
(against all these wars, against everything national. Even language.)
that spreads insecticide dust here and there, naphthalene,
words as if they were enchanted. I wash the floors.
Then I lock the doors and disappear again without anyone I've ever seen.
... A ghost can not kill me
Nicosia-London 1997
VELENOSALINGUA
curls. The velenosalingua
without wanting to bite her beloved
and kisses him. Words vomited
lick silence. In an instant island who
speaks to what is being said.
I love teasing ... (The words unsaid
are heavier than those given.)
Forks voice. Contracting
harden
things that pass from the heart.
The spell is broken.
the passage of a snake is
hell breaks loose in love ...
(
What is written is more poisonous tongue)
London, 1997
THE CASE
They entered the house, the thieves
They opened the suitcase, leather studded ...
in there guards the 'smell breast
to breathe again we were opening the They timidly
open.
The pleated skirt of my mother, her mauve scarf, the twin set
gloves, the mirror, his glasses
butterfly, the apron to
ruffle dress with purple sewing by herself
tartan skirt and jacket, slippers,
his silk handkerchief
folding the map of Lebanon
his exercise book, fountain pen
his correspondence ... dust and dirt, dust and dirt that has become a ...
ol 'other military barracks
the trauma of the war the House
repeats once again there is a raid, once the locks are broken
at the gates, plundered
a life to live.
It also looted a life already dead.
You Keep a list of lost items
once again assured the House that we in vain ...
The insurance does not report back
certainly an album of antelope skin, whose photos were missing.
Neither the record as 'valuables'.
Nicosia-London 1997-1998
A poet HAD to run to a frosty forest Where He Turned To a fox, no one
Could recognise Him In His feral fur
But A poet who has to run to a frosty forest Where He turns to a fox,
no one can recognise Him In His But a feral fur
poet who'll Have to run to a frosty forest WHERE he'll turn to a fox ...
fox hunting
At night a fox came to the door and waited ... and waited
We slept in
left his house instead of the smell of jasmine and walked away.
In my dream, my mother, my grandmother and I were waiting in line for food,
the ranks of the Red Cross refugee camp.
In my mother's purse on a
jewelry jewelry decorated
aristocrats in white gloves as the attendants of the Queen
no doubt come to make fox hunting
At the sound of the horns launch into race horses and racing greyhounds so
quick to chase the little fox that it escapes from the picture ...
My mother seemed to him to see my grandmother in that jewelry
me in my dream, "Rubies are the eyes who?"
hunters approaching! My God does not affect the fox
with their shotguns as the sun disappears over the horizon
and let the liberators of the country who steal even our bedroom
can not steal our enchanted jewelry.
"Do not you know how nasty the fox?"
says the voice of the guide: "The fox is cunning, selfish and unfair
and it can not be trusted at all"
"Children are scared blood, "says my grandmother
" Shoot you we go the other way "
I jumped at the sound of fireworks aritificio, Hunters noooo! In
fox is there a poet in the poet a poem, and I in the poem ...
London, 1999
THIEF OF SOULS
The Solomon's knot: I bones, glass, pate de verre
moldy leaf on leaf and lacquer sundial [Repeat]
acquired
Father, brothers acquired and who knows how many lovers you have acquired
stolen. As the thief of souls
live in your home.
birth mother could also
be stepmothers are mostly husbands and husbands acquired.
who steals your soul is you who is closest;
in fact you who opened the door and let him enter with trepidation.
was to be expected, eyes, eyes of bad luck, they look at you, but
rivals, imitators, the enemies can not be your soul thieves.
The thief of souls is the translator of the poet. Turn yourself in itself, or you
turns face. Discover your inner essence
and look inside you like to grab. Become
you, but only until it is satisfied, you ...
You recognize the thief of souls from this:
you say, "I love you so so much so that I am you. "
will show his favor and his copulate
be greedy.
, my soul turned into stone.
But it is not, however, the word stone? Fire
washed with water in the air?
my soul, stop in a cave guarded by a dragon.
remains in rocks.
my tongue, turned to stone.
Because everything is dying,
the body is rotting in the tomb of rock. Even the soul ...
O Charon, ferryman of souls, I dug into the stone
Even if your sails are filled with sighs of the dead,
my soul is in stone. [Repeat]
I am a piece of rock chipped and pointed: Solomon's knot.
Antioch, 1999
© Mehmet Yashin - Rosita D'Amora. Translation and edited by Rosita D'Amora
Mehmet Yashin, The dragon also has wings, 2008, Lecce: Argo - www.argoeditrice.it
http://www. mehmetyashin.com / - http://www.myashin.com/
