ADIL BAŞOĞUL

 

 

Who Is The Enemy

 

Let not the string of the kite be severed,

for it may tear your heart upon the thorns,

and so you curse the wind.

But the sky—ah, the sky is never thus.

You gaze, and it loves you.

You breathe it in, and it loves you.

Into its endless blue you fall, in wonder,

like mountain, like sea, like soil, like bread—

you kiss it, place it upon your brow, and pass.

After a strange day,

you bid farewell to childhood and pass.

I returned once more to that bay,

to Adrasan, where mountains bow before the sea.

I greeted the waters to reclaim my youth.

I found again those comrades of fate.

We ate basil-scented stew, we broke sweet watermelon.

We laughed, we rejoiced.

How many memories we had gathered!

We spoke through the night, yet could not finish.

Now I dwell within the seas,

within the mountains,

within the hearts of my friends.

Do not sorrow, child.

You are among roses.

You carry grief, and pass.

Ah, child, you are the groom,

your bride is your own heart.

You cut the night like a blade, and pass.

Ah, but beauty has many enemies, beloved bride—

and so does honor.

 

Secrets Of Life

 

I know your sorrow.

Do not tell it.

Do not surrender your secret, do not die.

For hardest of all in life

is to have no place to go,

no hope,

no peace.

Do not tell whom you love,

nor whom you despise,

nor that you have died.

The fire that burns you—

bury its ashes yourself,

speak of its grave to no one.

A secret is only a secret with you.

Guard it.

Do not bare your wounds.

You cannot know the meaning

of kissing the place where a beloved hand has touched.

You cannot know the sorrow hidden

beneath a floral dress.

You cannot know the grief concealed

behind my smile.

Perhaps my smiling through pain,

perhaps my embracing the suffering,

is what drives me to write.

Perhaps to beg forgiveness,

perhaps to forgive,

I write, day by day.

At the end, one comes only

to suicide,

or to madness.

Those were the years that wore me thin—

great and drunken sorrows upon my head,

pieces of me left behind in every place I lived.

Life was a river that spun me round.

Everywhere, something of me remained.

Sometimes I turned my back on life,

sometimes upon myself.

It pained me—

to live not as I wished,

nor as the ordinary do.

To live sometimes in darkness,

sometimes in shadow,

sometimes in light.

It tired me, this nomadic life,

to smell of shadow-basil.

To live many lives,

to meet countless souls,

yet always to be alone.

Each has an account with life,

each a scheme with others.

Foxes circle their minds,

tails never crossing.

I could never be like that,

and I never shall.

I loved people always.

I trusted them always.

Thus I lived.

I lived with what filled my head.

I wrote, I lived.

I lived, I wrote.

Am I a fool? I do not know.

Sometimes I feel I am taken for one.

I do not care.

I am what I am.

And proud of my being.

Sometimes I let go.

Sometimes I laugh at myself.

Sometimes it even serves me.

To untangle this chaos, I write.

My life I give only to poetry.

At the depths of my feelings,

and at their heights,

in the roots of my thoughts,

and at their peaks—

there is always poetry.

Even if I descend into my deepest self,

or ascend the seven heavens,

I cannot live without poetry.

In poetry, nothing is impossible.

This I love most.

Through it, I live many lives and dreams.

I am at war with existence.

And I fill my ordeal with poetry.

I have loved women and children.

Cats, dogs, all creatures.

Fruits and flowers I have loved.

My poems are wandering swallows,

rebellious aphorisms,

doves thirsty for freedom.

They are journeys into the realm of dreams,

letters without an address.

 

Cold Departure

 

Yes, beloved, I too shall die.

I shall carry into the earth

an unfulfilled love.

My song unfinished,

my poem unfinished,

my beloved unfinished.

Like a folk song never sung,

I shall bury myself in my verse.

As though I never lived, I shall depart.

O beloved,

I still owe my debt to nature.

I know—I owe you as well.

Death?

Yes, I shall die.

But in pure waters,

washed clean,

smiling cold as ice,

I shall go.

 

ADIL BAŞOĞUL