at night

    feeling secure, we went off to our beds

    but the lake stayed alone in darkness

    ı wish she would talk with the summer grasses

    and would listen to the song of hot herbs

    ı wish falling stars would stop her worries

    and she wouldn’t feel cold


    at night

     we fell into a deep asleep

    the mountains were covered with distances

     but the lake was still awake

    she was wandering alone among the bulrushes

    ı prepared a bed for her

    ı wish she would come to us.


    (Translated by Tozan Alkan)




    these mountains where i have died many deaths
    this timorous child
    this flattened wind
    this black howling at the door
    this deep-blue dead-woman sea
    rising from her sleep at the horizon
    this barren path at the colt's feet
    this fish drowning in shallow waters
    these are not it
    these are an etching of despair
    despair: not till the last nail in my coffin.


    every morning
    a bullet wedges in my sleeplessness
    i awaken a dead soldier in my bed
    beard of blood wrapped around the wind
    i get up to clean my shaving mirror
    why this glassy stain of night?
    i wipe it but it grows bigger
    will my face fade in this dark?

    Translated by Yusuf Eradam and Michael Gurian



    the stone that guides to the night

                            the moonlight that flows in gutter of khanjar,

                            tell this.


                            drought that be lived in the rose

                            dew that wets your fingers,

                            tell this.








    it is like an ancient idea

    touching, to sand and time

    hands of clouds.


    it is becoming the crime

    to look at the shadows

    on the forehead of dead.



    is it will asked to whom this

    bark of wound

    that is behind the mirror.






    the sun was waiting there when I came

    too fig tree

    solitude of a glass water that is derelict in window

    confused of cut wild grasses

    damp of   collected washs on rope

    emptiness,was waiting there.


    there is no one 

    what was effort of roots of dawn

    I hooped word of summer, uselessly, talked when went

    on dried shells bug, on hot branchs

    in time that talks under skin of night

    at savanna, breath of wash stons by salt

    in last songs of drowned bells by rain

    down, in sharp slant of empty house.


    so I waited in spolit silence

    by dark birds that turn evening


    by river that carries another light in its bed

    by divine attidude appearance of the man that gives bait to pigeon

    by closed road in between bread with knife

    by sleeplessness that makes bleed autumn.


    in deltas of not gone directions

    in stretched bow of tales

    immediately, I must to say thing which I saw first:

    the sun was waiting there when I came.






    forget sky

    be a dark that is died solitude
    like defeat which looks from the windov of   suburban trains

    look, how do sea-gulls control the sea

    go away, dissolve in himself, break

    as you didn’t taka place there.


    settle with tar which is in bottom of wreckages of ship

    like crab which is pinched in cables at port

    examine despair, result from your loneliness

    you remember there is leafs whice fall by first wind

    select them, prefer nonexistent

    as didn’t say.


    look after ants that draw map of diligence

    run to trees, implore to roots

    whose footprint is that on sand, find it, argue

    like a leopard which is followed

    measure emptiness that is between you with night

    as didn’t see.



    WHO IS IT?


    treading on weeds of morning, if isn’t wind,   who is it?

    who is writheing in fire of passion and wakeing early

    who is touching on unripe fruit of silence?

    from a strange dream, from a far mountain

             or from loneliness

    had formed in wild time

    who is it, being consoled with heat of bread

    which is cooked on dark ston?


    I want to know inciting ligh,with knowledge of pain

    who is handicaping the way of night and calming with own prayer

    the leaf which struggles for can break off from own branch.


    I want that forest which has thoughtful trees, it isn’t

    what our encounter with song of rununciation in lonely summer

    it isn’t leaving whose own bed it opens by a steel effort, too

    who is asking cause of sky or who is putting a theory

    who is reading article which is formed by worry of desert, it is never

    in light of a pale lamp, in a hut.


    warming seed of morning that is cold, if isn’t sun, who is it?

    forceing mine of word that had closed, with a ruined shoulder

    paying value of bone that had been borrowed and broken

    consist of rubbed shadow, cut clower or suspicion

    in borders of undetermined body

    who is it, budgeing in a sad happiness.


    I want to stop darkening that road with decisiveness of   death

    damaging sleep of the bird and silencing with its oppression

    the blood that reminds forgotten voice by ourselves.




    in this time, autumn talks a thorn

    the sky imitates going, misleads

    the flour that parted for bread of pain.


    one of the horses in herd breeds a savanna

    the soil wants back its seed, resists

    extending shadow of the city abandons from going to west.


    look like a book which is wet and swollen
    two sides of canyon rise

    in this time, fox of night falls into a drap.


    a few gulls wait the sea in coast  

    the dockers, the ropes, the shipwrecks

    in this time, the sea that will come and teach the salt.



                           THE ROAD


    İf I tell a thing, if I tell somebody

    İt will be believe that I talk about the evening

    about shadow that the bat hunted

    the shouts far, the houses of small town

    a swing which is in mourning in the court.


    the leaf which is crushed by the foot of the men who is late

    it is rest from last autumn

    with month names which is scraped on the walls of the city

    the autumn who pass with the amulets and tattoo needles

    irony of the time, so!

    how does wind blend calm waters

    how is silent night broken up by voice of jackal

    how is molten lead explained

    the life bleeds from its a place, sometimes

    just like full moon: golden comb which is insert in hair of the night.


    İf I tell a thing, how I will tell it

    It will be believe that it is a dirge about going

    and not coming back.





    İf   glaze of trees spilled by late snow

    İf   the sea which   stolen by the storm draw back

    İf   a coast which is buffeted by night

    which light will butterfly deads test it with

    how does it will look at mirror which are abraded by memories

    the memories which are the cat who sleep

    in windows of a woman who walks alone in a wooded road.





    every stone wants to walk, just look

    the ash wants to remember that beginning of fire

    the blood wants to sprout in embrace of night

    the deads want to laugh, just look.


    dug soil, found seed, mold

    who can explain distance of sadness

    if mountain appear so, it know a thing

    if sea go mad, it know a thing

    this is loneliness,this is love, this is death

    breath of bird is boreing night, just look.




    I will fire the dawn which is injured by you

    with the bush that I gathered from forest of separateness

    at that moment stones will begin to talk and tell

    that how does time loot

    sapling which we feed on flash of lightining.


    if I come a day, from lost path by weed

    furnitures will be stirer by memories,
    in hous that I had been living in the past

    like standing up of a doze dog,suddenly

    by a foreigner voice.

    I am amazed at the birds which takes wing
                                                Translated by Salih Bolat