TRANSLATED FROM THE TUKISH BY NEIL P. DOHERTY AND GÖKÇENUR Ç.

Solitary Atlas

Silence. Silence. Silence.

Those hours when god becomes man
Those hours when the leaves mouth prayers
Those hours when dreams touch the world
Those hours when separation drips from eye lashes
Those hours when desire blazes in resignation
Those hours when beds are spread out on the stars
Those hours when in rooms the streets turn to pond
Those hours when stones are painted in sleep…

The mottled ant of sorrow and pleasure in me
A long path passing through a forest in a fairy-tale
In my body, the worldly whims of the wells
On my brow, a charcoal sketch of the future
My mouth, a song with clipped wings
A solitary atlas of two blurred times
A hotel room made of tear candles
Sea gardens where even the sand blooms…
I loved you. I loved you. I loved you

Too Late

To the memory of Paul Eluard

In the name of those sleeping people’s dreams
In the name of insomnia’s sorrow donning the night like a tunic
In the name of the tree’s leafy desire reaching for the sky
In the name of the howling of stray dogs set off by the azan
In the name of the boundless blue darkness of the sea
In the name of pride’s tears twisted in the wind
In the name of the arrogant solitude of summits
In the name of the red blessing bells of pomegranate trees
In the name of hope’s burden, heavier than despair
In the name of the wishes of lovers who trust in their hearts
In the name of distances where roads turn to punishment
In the name of nearness where roads turn to gift
In the name of the songs the goldfinches sing to the rustling birds
In the name of the nights wine makes love to the candles
In the name of the dead, desire trapped in their bodies
In the name of the distant, deep eyes of poverty
In the name of the bow and scrape of helplessness
In the name of the stammering joy of reconciliation
In the name of the walls built from each and every person
In the name of the love that knows no truth other than itself
In the name of the fear and longing of the light-bud
In the name of my inconsolable time forty years too late…
Oh world that births love from a single body
You placed my heart before all this beauty
Do not abandon do not forsake me
for one day somehow death will hold sway

In our Garden, there were no Pomegranate Trees

There the ghost of a mill
Ears of coy wheat, expectancy and prayer
Narrow waters stripped of the wind
A sweating sky, tedium and time dulled

A man shouts out to his inner self
Children unsure of which way to grow
And a woman, her skirts like a summer garden

There pitying poverty
Nights stained with kohl, blurred mornings
Tiredness blooming in the sun
Pale promises washed by moonlight

A steppe where horses converse with dogs
A sky invisible before the stars come out
And a house melting in a copper pot

There the fairy tale whimsy
Distances swelling in a small radio
Grape loaded carts, apple sins and wet dreams

An endless cigarette smoked in a graveyard
Quince yellow hair at the neighbour’s window
Girls their mothers whirling in their fringes
And loneliness brought by distant relatives

My love, my rustling bird, my arab nightingale
Your two eyes are two boundless skies
You asked me why I was crying as we made love
In our garden there were no pomegranate trees

And neither as our bodies frayed were your lips
Desire would start at our eyebrows end in our lashes
I wasn’t crying

I was treasuring my past, I was treasuring your future

Translated by Gökçenur Ç. and Neil P. Doherty

Eclipse of the Moon or Nox Doloris

A night when beds filled of the sea
A night when the sea filled of wine
A night when wine filled of words
A night when words filled of the world
A night when the world filled of your body

Not you
It was my own flesh I was kissing
Oh persecuted spectre, oh winged solitude
It is from you that flows all desire

Translated by Neil P. Doherty

Also, read a Bengali fiction by Swapnamoy Chakraborty , translated into English by Nandini Gupta, and published in The Antonym:

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