METIN TURAN

 

The Weary Night Of My Country

 

people change and so do seasons:

warm and cold, old and new the god ages.

the beggar insists he only begs for his children

but his prayers fall short, even for himself,

the eye that can’t tell cracked wheat from rice,

the noon like twilight, the night like midday,

the day sounding like a wheezing water buffalo

 

no more cats meowing by the windows

obviously, it’s september

emplacements transparent

a song of going back home seems to echo in the barracks courtyard

your eyes like laughter on my face burnt by razors

freedom of funerals in this land of grimy mountains

pennsylvania, oceania,

a poor fruit fly looking for the kiblah to pray

 

 

each syllable between fire and ceasefire

hepatitis b, c, virus, antivirus, avian flu, hiv,

swine paste...

the nile flowing from the west

the Balkan war, galicia, Alexandria, mosul, and chechnia,

          Afghanistan, paksitan, Persian, arab, kurd,

all the –istans of the middle east and Africa,

women with their eyebrows, eyes, their lines thick and thin

and worn-out men with body hair, beards, arm-bands, nails,

sexual and metrosexual

in the shadow of transparent lights

sulphurs, exhaust fumes, saturated fats,

woe to the train with car-loads of capital!

 

each staff makes the bearer walk, says my grandfather

that’s what the cane thinks anyway,

even though i am the one walking and making myself walk!

 

like every weary republic

my country sounds like a shiver in autumn

you browse the pages of a history book

and talk about remembering

the defeat hidden in the very answer: yes/no

 

Far Away

 

november is an early afternoon in my life

for i have saved streets to myself

 

the loneliness that increases my wounds

the pain that marks my address

the remains of my childhood, all in tatters

a rough place

i hurt myself with the stones i fling

in this city of istanbul beset by the devil

my fear trumps my cry

growing in the helix of skyscrapers

 

atm stops, ambulance sirens, that’s not life

i’ve forgotten the smell of chestnuts, women selling flowers

i know there’s a reason for all the pain i distribute

i’m the address for departures and the stop for arrivals

 

i’m not saying failed separations should work out, yes

life is what’s possible plus one

 

you left behind a whiff of your warm breath and left

a hint of the Asian scent of your skin

 

you just run away forgetting flight times

changing terminals

in the middle east besmirched with

anti-aircrafts

cannon balls

and all those words of war

anyone who is their own help

is the eyes of a syrian child.

 

in this world that has blood relation to its god

your friend is a mother from gaza,

an injured turk in the mountains of tunceli

a kurdish shivan with every flag i wrap around myself

and a wounded soil with every dagger that sharpens me

 

there you go in this old world

pointing out partitioned homelands

north and south, east and west... you go

 

approaching fifty, i

finally learned that

my mind is more fragile than my heart

my humanity wounded in a hell where roses abound

 

your legacy to me is istanbul:

narcissists postponing their suicides

ambulances with wailing sirens

its innumerable sinners

istanbul with its rain and crowded banks...

 

the world feels so small and insufficient

our house with its terrace where we never drank tea

our houses displaced like hotel stays

far away and far east

the violinist at çiçek pasajı sings

“my olive-eyed, why am i attracted to you?”

seagulls flap their wings defying stuttering prayers

and you turn into an impatient morning, just like that

 

i recognize distance from the smell of your hair

the way you blow the smoke of your cigarette

your nose against my chest in a dateless fait accompli

you fall down a targetless cliff

stretching your little tiny feet just so

and turn into my windowsill

 

many a time we look at the same window

you from far away from the eastmost of far

i pull you close and say the door

you glance at it, warning this sleep won’t last forever

in every boulevard i run

wavelengths come in tides

 

love! is what’s possible plus one

death is the childhood i still miss

 

My Heart İs A Loneliness Gone Mad

 

Woman, you whistled and turned your eyes and a lock of hair 

to face me, dropping your sunshine hands into my day

a brush of your hair would rid my life of its loneliness

my isolation would end the second you knocked on my door

 

I liked the tea

like solving a math question

I’m a tiro fisherman with nothing on my lines

my hands shake, my heart trembles

once again, I have no words in stock

I hope the day won’t end, I say,

I hope  the sun won’t move away from my window

or else all I’ll have will be an ankara night without you, quiet

 

my soil embraces the rain when I hear your footsteps

the swoosh of poplars increases just so

like the way darkness hits light

conversations turn fruitful

 

if only I could ask you not to go, leaving me all alone

let the tired ones surround the beaches

you should know that love is a big loneliness

only your eyes get that.

 

METIN TURAN

 

METIN TURAN: He was born in 1966 in Kağızman (Kars-Turkey). He studied technical education, health and economics. His first tale was published in 1981. He has contributed as a publishing coordinator, delegate and writer in many progressive editions such as; Amatör Sanat, İmece, Yeni Şiir, Erde, which published in the 1980s. Also he has contributed to the magazines as an owner: Sanat Hareketi, Promete, Sendika, Ürün, Anadolu Ekini, Mecaz ve Praksis. Turan attended numerous international scientific and artistic meetings in Germany, Romania, Kazakhstan, Macedonia, Syria, Bulgaria, Moldova, Ukraine, Azerbaijan, TRNC, Russia, Nakhichevan, Italy, Korea, Poland and Turkey. He concentrated his work in the field of folk literature. In 1995, he was honored with the Turkish Folklore Service Award of Folklore Research Institution. He was the folklorist who won this award at the youngest age so far. Metin Turan is the president of KIBATEK (Cyprus, Balkans, Eurasian Turkish Literatures Institution) and Folklore Researchers Foundation. In 2003, he won the first prize “Çalıkalı Spring Festival Turkish World” (in the Republic of Macedonia) and “2004 Ruşen Hakkı Poetry Award”. His poems were translated into Polish, German, Arabic, Bulgarian, Persian, English, Korean, Macedonian, Romanian, Russian, Uzbek, Kurdish, Armenian, Italian, Swedish, Ukrainian and Greek. In addition, his book “KÖROĞLU” was translated into Albanian and Serbian and published in these countries. In 2005 and 2006 he briefly taught Turkish Literature courses and conferences at Kiev National University and between 2007-2011, he gave lectures in folk literature at Yıldız Technical University/Faculty of Arts and Sciences as an academician.  Metin Turan took part in the regulatory committee of "History Foundation (Tarih Vakfı)" and "Pertev Naili Boratav Archive". In 1997-98, he worked in the Ministry of Culture of the Republic of Turkey; Culture and Art Broadcast Advisory Board and Folk Culture Broadcast Advisory Board. Also he was a member of the editorial board of “Türk Dünyası” magazine.  He is the publishing coordinator of FOLKLOR/EDEBİYAT magazine whose contents are folklore, anthropology, sociology, history, music and literature, and has been published since 1994. In addition, he is the publishing director of KIBATEK (Cyprus, Balkans, Eurasian, Turkish Literatures Institution), which started its activities in 1998, and TURNALAR, an international translation and literary magazine.