JUST FOR THE HELL OF IT
All the pretty woman thought
The poems I wrote on love
Were meant for them.
And I always felt badly
About having written them
Just for the hell of it.
THERE MUST BE A CATCH
Is the sea as gorgeous as this every day?
Is this what the sky looks like all the time?
This furniture and this window -
Are they always this lovely?
They aren't;
I swear they aren't;
There must be a catch somewhere.
TOWARD FREEDOM
Before dawn,
While the sea is still snow-white, you will set sail;
The grip of the oars in your palms,
And in your heart the joy of toil and vigor,
You will go.
In the roll and sway of the nets, you will go.
For welcome, fish will appear on your course
Delighting you.
As you shake the nets,
Scale by scale, the sea will journey into your hands.
When silence pervades the souls of seagulls
In the cemetery of the rocks,
All of a sudden,
All hell will break loose on the horizon:
Mermaids will scuttle and birds scurry...
Saturnalia and festivals, orgies and carnivals,
Bridal processions, masquerades, revelries, carausals...
Heeeyy!
Whaddya waiting for, man, jump in the sea!
Forget who's waitying for you back there.
Don't you see: Freedom is all around you.
Be the sail, the oar, the rudder, the fish, the water,
And go, go whereever you can.
ILLUSION
I am over an old love:
Now all the woman are pretty,
My shirt is brand new,
I took a bath
And shaved.
Peace is here,
Spring in the air,
The sun is out.
I'm in the street; people are cherful;
I'm cheerful too.
I AM LISTENING TO ISTANBUL
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed:
At first there is a gentle breeze
And the leaves on the trees
Softly sway;
Out there, far away,
The bells of water-carriers unceasingly ring;
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
Then suddenly birds fly by,
Flocks of birds, high up, with a hue and cry,
While the nets are drawn in the fishing grounds
And a woman's feet begin to dabble in the water.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
The Grand Bazaar's serene and cool,
An uproar at the hub of the Market,
Mosque yards are full of pigeons.
While hammers bang and clang at the docks
Spirng winds bear the smell of sweat;
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
Still giddy from the revelries of the past,
A seaside mansion with dingy boathouses is fast asleep.
Amid the din and drone of southern winds, reposed,
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
A pretty girl walks by on the sidewalk:
Four-letter words, whistles and songs, rude remarks;
Something falls out of her hand -
It is a rose, I guess.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
A bird flutters round your skirt;
On your brow, is there sweet? Or not ? I know.
Are your lips wet? Or not? I know.
A silver moon rises beyond the pine trees:
I can sense it all in your heart's throbbing.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
WAVE
I
I need neither paper nor pen
To imagine I'm happy.
A cigarette stuck between my fingers,
I plunge into the blue
Of the painting before me.
The sea drags me along and I go;
The sea pulls, land holds back.
What is there in the air?
Booze or something like that?
Drives you mad, gets you drunk.
It's all lies, I know;
It's a lie that I'm a barge or a boat;
The coolness of water in my ribs,
The wind humming through the loops,
The engine whirring for weeks on end -
All lies.
And yet,
Some lovely days,
I can live in the joy of the blue,
Floating like a watermelon rind
Like the shadow of a tree over the sky,
Like the haze that engulfs the plums at dawn,
Like the haze, the fog, love and fragrance.
II
Neither paper will suffice nor pen
For me to imagine myself happy.
All this is, well, claptrap.
I am neither barge nor boat.
I should be somewhere else,
At a much different place,
Neither like a watermelon rind
Nor light nor fog nor haze...
But like a human being.
GOSSIP
Who started the rumor
That I have a crush on Süheyla?
I dare you to tell who saw me
Kissing Eleni
On the Winding Steps in broad daylight?
Do they say I grabbed Melahat and took her to Alemdar,
Is that what they're saying?
Well, I'll explain that later, but
Whose bottom do they claim I pinched on the stretcar?
And what's the one about the Galata brothels,
That I get loaded, the liquor goes to my head
And I rush down there?
Come off it, man.
Never mind all that,
I know what I'm doing.
And what's that story about
my getting Mualla into a rowboat
And making her sing "Your grief is in my hearth"?
I CAN'T EXPLAIN
(Moro romantico)
If I cried, could you hear
My voice in my poems,
Could you touch my tears
With your hands?
Before I fell prey to this grief,
I never knew songs were so enchanting
And words so mild.
I know there's a place
Where you can talk about everything;
I feel I'm close to that place,
Yet I can't explain
ORHAN VELİ
I am Orhan Veli,
Creator of the famaus line
"It's a pity Süleyman Efendi had to die."
I hear you're wondering
About my private life.
Well, I'll tell you:
First of all, I'm a man,
Not a circus animal.
I have a nose and two ears
Although they're not shapely.
I live in a house.
I have a job.
My head isn't up in the clouds.
I have no holier-than-thou attitude.
I'm neither as modest
As the Kink of England
Nor as aristocratic as the former groom
Of our ex-Premier's stable.
I'm fond of spinach,
And puff pastry
Is my great delight.
I don't give a damn about money or property,
I swear to God I don't.
Oktay Rifat and Melih Cevdet
Are my closest friends.
I have a girl who's very respectable,
So I can't mention her name,
I guess literary historians will have to find out.
I spend a lot of time on trivial things.
Anything I do when I'm not working
On creative stuff is trivial.
Oh, I don't know,
I probably have a thousand hangs-ups.
But why list them one by one?
They're not unique.
ALL MY TALK
I was born in 1914
And began to talk in 1915:
I've been talking ever since.
What's become of all my talk?
Did my words shoot up to the sky?
Maybe they'll all come back
In the form of an airplane
In 1939.
If god exists
O want nothing else from Him,
But then I want neither
God to exist
Nor my affairs
To be left in His hands.
RENAISSANCE
I'd better go down to the wharf tomorrow:
Renaissance is due to arrive by ship.
Let's see what Renaissance is like?
What sort of a figure does he cut?
Is he well-dressed or shabby?
A politician with a cane in his hand?
Sideburns? Mustache?
Does he look like a magician?
Will he come out of the ship's hold or out of a cabin?
Maybe he's a stoker or something.
I wonder if he's arriving as a member of the crew?
Hiç yorum yok:
Yorum Gönder