ATTILA ILHAN (1925-2005)

POEMS

Translated into English by

Nilűfer Mizanoğlu Reddy

 ANCIENT MARINE FOLK

we were fifteen
over the coffin
of the dead man
heave ho a bottle of rum
satan and drink
made us sink
heave ho a bottle of rum

over there a strange pebble chants

sea shepherds have driven their flocks into the open sea
mussels’ eyes have harlot’s blue pupils
in the boundless west green galleons of time
were sighted unforgettable and green
drenched in blood
in glittery splendor
you can hear the ancient marine folk
if you listen
in the kinky marine taverns
the kinky marine folk
spanish songs italian wine
and as if you were god you invent curses
from the fifteenth meridian
to the twentieth
by yourself
you invent international curses
and from the libra mast
you god of curses splashings unknown things
you god of lost treasures
you won’t look back nor spit to the wind
unless black sails are hoisted on the admiral’s own masts
chaste breezes will not kindle sparks
in your pirate’s eyes
unless you get used to
chewing the rain and the tobacco
I have not forgotten the mediterranean
I have plunged in the flames I cried with passion
the joy to create
and to be created reverberated in heavens
and the prayers opened like enormous sails
when one looked three crescents spread out all at once
hayrettin’s songs flew like falcons from his arms
windswept barefoot mariners of the algerian captain
were holding messina and septe straits and all the others
surrounding the caravans of ships
they burned them up
la-ilahe-il-allah
but your festivities your troubles will not be forsaken
by the stars in every constellation
and the lighthouses in every isthmus
then you would go to rome with hannibal
long before that phoenicians carried the alphabet and the glass
when dragons breathed sea monsters appeared
the ghost of a genoese galley slave in rhodes castle
his legs in shackles
the whiplash on his back
and latin songs pour forth
from the ships of antonius

you are
unforeseen unforgettable unbearable and deep
as roguish as a deckhand or the mustache of a sailor
the wind is blowing unconstrained from all sides
your centuries old pirate fate
is tattooed on your arms and on your boundless chests
angel-faced mermaids and slippery dolphins
in green and glittery speckles
so what you understand about this world
is the same what children understand
although time is getting older you are still a child
you are the ancient graveyard of pirates and sailors
you are the graveyard of hayrettin’s songs
with your majestic waves you are the big ocean’s
star studded multitudes of plankton life
skates and sea anemones
you are god and you contain countless other gods in your kingdom
the master skippers who ruled over the currents
some sailing north north-east some westward
there was a captain joy we buried him in the arctic sea
there was an andersen and a captain kidd
skippers salih reis burak reis memi reis
bursting in laughter together like canons in salvo
being tossed around and scattered
we died at a festival of giants
then the fish-garths in kushadasi and surmene
to be old and beautiful to defy memory to forget
all the stars but recognize the north star at one glance
then the italian fishermen with briny beards
then like in hell in tatters bit by bit
to enter a port where the fox spat copper
to go ashore feeling like the karakurum desert
and wretchedness of returning like a flood of wine
o my beloved times
the times when we sailed toward the south pole
from the terra del fuega
from the land of fire

(TURKÇESI ESKI DENIZ HALKI, SISLER BULVARI, ss 19-23 OK

YAYINLARI, 3.BASKI,1970)
 the notes of hamdi

“isn’t it a wonder that both the one who doesn’t know the world and the one who knows
talk about it.”
kefevî

1.
I have grown poisonous carnations
in the pots of my alienation
they had a peppery aroma
like a summer evening meal
on a rocky beach by the sea

what I saw was a bloody darkness

was I so wide open or was the world so narrow
the sorrow in me like a wild plant
was opening leaf by leaf
as the trees were diminishing for fall

2.
the mountains are hibernating
at a distance the wind caresses the trees
what passion whirls with the moths
in the dervish light of huge candles
in your eyes the enigmas of stars
in your mouth a jasmine stem
what are you musing about
with your rosary’s sparkling beads
as they roll on to the dark earth
the mountains are hibernating at a distance
the night is flawless with a copper moon
in an enchanted slumber the sounds of incesaz
the songs of bearded ottoman composers
played in hollow spaces
a world-weary
dainty hicazkâr
a frantic şataraban
and some nihavents that sparkle
like magic lamps

the enigma of when it began and when it ended

what passion whirls with these moths
in the dervish light of big candles
who knows where and when it started
who knows with whom
without saying wheat to say bread
without saying tree to say forest
to ascend to the gallows
at the crack of the dawn

3.
I gathered the sunlight
from the reflection of the leaves
I saved it in the lens of my glasses
to light my nights
it smelled like burning cloves
4.

with the weight of snow-blue fogs on their tops

pale poplars contain
the enormous sadness of autumn
in my soul the loneliness of water
water’s loneliness

suddenly from the electric cables

high voltage current like blood
comes to the city
in my soul the loneliness of water
water’s loneliness

no matter how much my age gets closer to death

isn’t it strange that
I also feel closer to my childhood
the swallows are alighting into my hands

5.
those are the plane trees of rugged lives
smoky and hazy they are found
in the magnificent western horizons
when you look at them at a distance
you can’t make out whether they are clouds or plane trees
as soon as they loom up their mysterious leaves
they vanish behind a sheet of rain

a song in my heart
the same one I sang
the day I was arrested
the birds abandon the woods
dragging behind
their chirping like a swarm of sparks
and the water lilies smile
in their dreamy whiteness
with heavy sighing

a song in my heart
the same one I sang
the day I was arrested

somehow girls loved in november

tend to be dainty and shy
in the reflection of the leaves perhaps
they seem to blush a lot
their eyelashes spray silver mists
water drips from their finger tips
their words dispersed by the winds
they are all alone in death

a song in my heart
the same one I sang
the day I was arrested

the weight of loneliness bears heavily on the rushes

because it cannot be stopped
only occasionally like a gilded thread
glisten the whistles of the invisible geese
6.
the seagull swoops down so quickly
its whiteness suspended
in the air

if it can’t catch the fish it kept an eye on

it struggles with hunger
in the water

7.
the icy brightness of the cold seas
where only erratic winds roam
and ghost ships whose crews are dead
seen through the icebergs
seem like silent fish
perhaps only the whistling of sails
and the albatrosses there

from the icy brightness of the cold seas

in the memories of the last fishermen with harpoons
are the old whales going down and coming up
with their exhausted sprays
shiny like silver fountains

in a way life is without before or after

in a way who knows how many autumns pile up on each other

8.
appearing in the deserted quiet of distant shores
with their refined elegance
secretly gloomy
 silvery herons
like fine brooches
birds’ hearts are under strain
with worries like humans
they may be feeling the approaching the storm
they may be getting old
they may not be able to fly any more
the sky is forbidden to them

are these the sailing ships

that darken the west
or are they the piles of clouds
what are these fumes
whose heart’s hazes
which melancholy’s drizzles
they look like a thousand years of suffering
the moment they touch
the seas
the birds
and the trees

ah if I could see
if I could see the dolphins with their bubbly gaiety
how docile they are
how serene
they are farmers of hope
doggedly roam the dark oceans
night and day

as soon as I put my glasses on I see

that beach in büyükada where barefoot Trotsky strolled
 he was sad as an extinguished volcano
he had a fishing rod in one hand
and a gun in the other
because he was exiled from his own revolution

9.
the night is an owl of cloudy feathers
its quills are all grounded glass
its gaze is a window
perched on my right shoulder
outspread and huge

if darkness seems devastating at first sight

sovereign of everything and everywhere
somewhere inside it
a kernel of light is growing secretly
that kernel contains the enlightened
forest of dialectics
 BIRDS OF IMAGINATION

the most frightening crimson ones hit the windows of my sleep

with pointed beaks shiny like the scales of fish

their loneliness is untamed their eyes are heavy maharajah eyes

their magnetic crests like a handful of sparks

their slender necks reach out to all kinds of daydreams you think
they’re the red velvet holders of purple hubble-bubbles

when they open their wings the clouds change their colors
in their complicated feet they wear cloven slippers of lightning

the echo of their horrible green screech narrows the horizons

their shrieks pierce the bloody palms of the tyrants

they’re the birds of imagination elusive turn into dust when touched
to exist in freedom only is their most unforgivable crime.

Tutuklunun Gűnlűğű, S. 45. Imgelem Kuşlari

 MEHMET SIRAGADLARI

if there’s a vacant stone in this land jam on top of it

heaving and restless like a factory
if there’s an empty fathom in this sea I am on top of it
foggy and smoky like a boat in february
I come out of the september mines blackened
I am the evening light at the school of economics
falling on the books respectfully through the rainwashed windows
of all the mehmets existing it is my name doubtless
from yunuz emre on I am mehmet siradağlari
because I listened to the earth understood the iron felt the coals
the drums beat up in the skies my invincibility in wars
because I was hit with many bullets and wounded in the name of god.
if I got up one mehmet I sat down a thousand mehmets
I brought the turk from asia to europe
volcanoes are jealous of my inextinguishable fires
every bayonet against imperialism is my name
from mustafa kemal on I am mehmet siradağlari
no matter how tight they were bound in my wrists
the bloody handcuffs enslaving me to myself are unshackled
the dark field is dizzy the factory is hungry
for some reason the last windows always face the prison yards
even if the sun is shining inside rne outside is all winter
but the gates are wide open and the chains are broken
most majestic ideas are rousing the masses
every step toward a free socialism is my name
from nazim hikmet on I am mehmet siradağlari

Yasak sevişmek, 1961, p. 73

 connectives

in the last few cool days of summer in september

one thinks of the arrival of fall on the horizon
like a ship with tattered sails

for some reason fall is the time to think of one’s own death
the covering of the dead body by yellowed leaves
like a photo of a forgotten fight in the magazines

1.
those are the girls
with tired eyelids
and blue pulses
they search an alla turca tune
with languorous fingers in the keys of a piano
their continence has a somber elegance
those are the girls who live
with the memory of an unlived love
they are like ghosts
abducted from a dream

2.
those are the eyes that are wild
and terrible with the redness of fires
with their dark eyelashes
they thicken a bloody love affair
they are not eyes
but sprays of bullets
shot by the barrel of a gun
those are the eyes that are
the flame of the lighter
the tip of the poisoned dagger
they stand like a ruby chandelier in our loneliness
wherever we go they find us
they come
and they find us

3.
those are the summers that rise
from the sea with a golden haze
like the songs of love
every day one melody fades away
from our memory
a secret wind scatters
the purple sands of the beach

those are the summers that

take the oleanders of abandoned gardens for a stroll
like shimmering candles
gliding in starlight

4.
those are the words that are bitter
crackling like iron whips
in the prison yards
those are the words at times
like a pomegranate tree in bloom
the light of the sea reflected
in a mountain’s horizon like mysterious knives
those are the words that are
the roses of fire
of an endless imagination
they are born and they die with the flutterings of butterflies
we carry those words in our hearts
like a loaded gun
until the day we die
for those words that we uttered once
we are prepared to die

“what I wrote and how you understood is a curious story.” muallim naci
 A SONG IN MY HEART

those are the plane trees of rugged lives smoky and hazy they are found

in the magnificent western horizons

when you look at them at a distance

you can't make out whether they are clouds or plane trees as soon as they 100m up with
their mysterious leaves they vanish behind a sheet of rain

a song in my heart

the same one I sang

the day I was arrested

the birds abandon the woods dragging behind

their chirping like a bunch of sparks and 'the water lilies smile

in their dreamy whiteness

with heavy sighs

a song in my heart

the same one I sang

the day I was arrested

somehow girls loved in November tend to be wary and delicate

in the reflection of the leaves perhaps they seem to blush a lot

their eyelashes spray silver mists

water drips from their finger tips

their words dispersed by the winds they are all alone in death

a song in my heart

the same one I sang

the day I was arrested

the weight of loneliness bear& heavily on the rushes because it cannot be stopped

only occasionally like a gilded thread ,-;- (, glisten the whistles of the invisible geese

BOYLE BIR SEVMEK'TEN gőzlüklü hamdi'nin notlari,5, ss 93-95,

BILGI YAYINLARI 1977-79
 POEM WITH THE SOUND OF “CH” AS IN SELCHUK
(Kochaklama, Eulogy)

how many suns the selchuk shepherds

lift up with their pitch forks shouting heave ho
how many naked suns of spun glass
their iron beards igniting sparks
more tribes are coming from central asia
with twenty five hundred sixty five hundred tents
a poled dome pitched to perfection
to the shrieks of the avshars1 on the heights
underneath the crickets the black crows
cracked mountain holes full of eels
underneath konya bayshehir sivrihisar2
and far away the byzantine hyenas
more tribes are coming from central asia
they are light like a playful heart
their teeth are strong their eyes slanted a bit
in their ears no sound of the non-existing seas
in their palates the taste of the snow blue milk
freshly drawn from their robust mares and fragrant
a few elderly men of broken hopes
with bits of’ salt in the roots of their hair
their lips are sealed tight you can’t open with a knife
in their eye sockets constantly dwindling
a sandy river eaten up by the pebbles
with its dried up beds moaning in the wind

a long hoofed animal climbs up a tree

a lark touches with its glazed wings
the thorns like a scimitar thrown
oguz women with their strong faces
break up loneliness and turn it into dust
their breasts are full with nipples like blackberries
Their muscles are tightly bound to their bones
their voices full of forgiveness
they laugh out biting hard the sun
of tart pears quinces bitter oranges
they make a yogurt so thick even a knife can’t cut
1
Avshar – the name of a Turcoman tribe in South Turkey and South Iran
2
Konya, Bayshehir and Sivrihisar – cities in central Anatolia
a wild honey resting in their metal buckets

more tribes are coring from central asia

with their fishbone eyelashes and leather hats
men carved into hollows sword and mace
their exhaustion dripping into their hoary mustaches
their heaving while passing through the forests
is the same as the hungry axes they cut tree by tree
under a spreading crackling fire
their herds a dusty cry in front of them
pulled and carried away by the shepherd dogs
between the shimmerings of the poplar trees
perhaps from khorasan perhaps from the steppes of pamir
into the inlands of sakarya3 with flesh hoof and horns

welcome turk!... to your right and to your left water all over
your earth is trembling with a mad abundance
how much lead how much sulfur can you extract
your fingers draw wine if you stretch your hand
from the seeded grapes a vineyard full
a greenish olive oil is shining in many pots
the smell of the cottage cheese is for you to savor
many mountain goats are falling into your fire
drawing delicate crescents with their horns in the night
welcome turk... cloudy a bit dreamy perhaps
all your hopes are raised at once
you gave your name to this land and pledged your existence

3
Sakarya – a river in central Anatolia