Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI, 16 sierpnia 2014
What species of humanity are you?
Whatever kind you are, you don't worry us.
According to hearsay
you were willing to lay your hands
on small items
deposited by my mother
to the communal account,
close to a bank.
I know that since its existence
Istanbul has changed others.
Some who have gone there wearing worn down shoes
have returned in high heels.
You continue to brush its streets with your skirt.
Mirrors do not show what really happens.
Ah, yes, you forget so quickly
the dusty streets of the sub-prefecture
of your childhood.
This ruse is your currency of the moment.
I know you.
You have swindled your brothers and sisters
with many recoveries.
My daughter, is there nobody to take you by the hair
and demand that you seek out America or Europe?
You have invented a lie to fill your pockets with money.
What species of humanity are you?
Whatever kind you are, you don't worry us.
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Paris, le 09.10.2004
Traduit par by Yakup YURT en français
French free verse translated into English free verse
by Joneve McCormick - 25.10.2004
(Note: Soul to Soul presents this fine poem and others
in the spirit of communicating freely to increase understanding,
not to cater to any agenda or offend any nationality.)
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI, 1 lipca 2012
Do not stay in front of my troubles
And rattle my private feelings
Hereafter, do not touch my ideas
Do not revive my memories
Leave me to myself
Go now...
Come back later!
Me, I depend on my loneliness...
I do not let other people trample
My love so easily
Leave me to myself
Go now...
Come back later!
Me, I am accustomed to the sky's irony
It is of no importance
That I am discovered in my sleep...
I climb my trees myself
I water my flowers myself
Leave me to myself
Go now...
Come back later!
Do not stay in front of my troubles
And rattle my private feelings
Hereafter, do not touch my ideas
Do not revive my memories
Leave me to myself
Go now...
Come back later!
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Ankara, 06.06.1979
Traduit par by Yakup YURT en français
French free verse translated into English free verse
by Joneve McCormick, 22.02.2006
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI, 1 lipca 2012
Some offal in a bottle
Eyes are as transparent
As glass
They wander off down
Like spiders
To the bottom of it
Until mired in hatred right up to your knees
Its no door
More like a cover covering love up
His path all coiled up didn't seem to lead
anywhere really
All on his own
He managed to scare
Roses as they were growing
In old Lowertown
Noisy trucks
Men armed with pistols
Looking so bourgeois
Fear's an obsession
In the eyes of a famished bird
Love is some torture
On Earth
Time is like
fear melting at the table;
Justice is all bleary-eyed
Equality's an artificial rose
In the hands of a wretched soul
Fraternity's some empty dream
To anyone who's poor
The legend of obscurity
Your hands are bloody now, from digging in
The fire's seismic activity
And tears are what matter's most of all
In matters of justice
Some offal in a bottle
Eyes are as transparent
As glass
They wander off down
Like spiders
To the bottom of it.
* Literally: jar
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Mantes la Ville, 15.05.2001
Translated into English free verse
by Richard Vallance, © 2003, June
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI, 1 lipca 2012
You live in your own inner city, which you bought in a
silent auction.
You were again unable to cancel your debts.
Under your blackening eyelids you try to feel certain
things.
Without noticing your withdrawal from self, you leave for
distant parts
by using your ropes of thought like a ski-lift.
Your shudders increase as you touch the numberless elements.
In your screams at the moment when you feel the jolts
from the echoes
of your words crossing the threshold of your thought,
you send birds fleeing before you. As you breathe, your
roses wither.
In your moments of madness, crystals fall from your roof.
As your field of thought shrinks, your city expands. You
exhaust yourself
from running down the streets and avenues.
As the lamps of your voltage machines alight upon your
nights,
your humans robotize themselves.
The toads in your dirty waters frighten even the crocodiles.
Your inner journey makes you grow older.
Your internal cries amplify themselves.
You manifest difficulties with forty paws.
The auxiliary cells of your laboratories do not give you
the opportunity to live any pleasurable moments.
While the fear indicator inside you slackens you through
and through, you
have not
even the possibility of speaking. With each movement of
the clock,
the seasons rip themselves out of your heart.
Your solitude traverses your spirit without cease.
by Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Mantes la Ville, 22.09.2002
Traduit par by Yakup YURT en français
French free verse translated into English free verse
by F.J. Bergmann
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI, 1 lipca 2012
“Hard prohibitions are necessary in order to live systematically... Strength isn’t affected by being a woman... I must use my authority continuously, even though it may seem insensitive to others....” The eyes of the female administrator widened after she murmured these words to herself.
She told her secretary not to be disturbed and began typing on her computer. She was almost frantic with excitement over the things she wrote. Sometimes her eyes stayed fixed at one point and she was envisioning three dimentional fiction from the words.
Two hours passed. She put the last period on her article, which resembled a political party announcement or a syndicate bulletin and bore no feeling or empathy. She remembered to write her name, title and date at the end. After signing, she picked up the phone and said, “ The difficulties of the opposition against my authority will simply have to be understood."
Her talk, complete with gestures, was reflected upon behind the misty glass. A few minutes later, a white-haired worker entered the room after knocking. He held the letter bestowed upon him. With a trembling hand, he went down the back steps, and read the letter quickly. He took a deep breath after wiping his sweat from his forehead and thought about the negative aspects of being a foreigner in a strange country.
His anxiety continued at home that evening. Watching his children wanting to sit on his lap to get rid of their own day’s troubles doubled his pain. That night he had chest pains and was taken to the hospital by an ambulance, where he died.
His loved ones visited his body in the morgue. His wife wasn’t able to stop her tears while she tried to speak of the cold winds that had changed the direction of their lives. How could their children be greeted in the future if no one knew of their heritage?
The event was forgotten. A few months later, the woman in the same work place said, “Continued effectiveness requires judgement... It must be my duty to continue struggling with foreigners using the best psychological methods... My strength isn’t affected by being a woman.”
She began typing on her computer after murmuring these words to herself and told her secretary not to be disturbed. She was again excited over the things she wrote. She remembered to write her name, title and date below her letter after she put the last period. After signing “Traces from the beginnings of everything reach to the end; forgetting things from the past will make my job easier...”, she said and picked up the phone. Her talk was reflected upon behind the misty glass. She handed the letter to her worker who entered the room after knocking on the door. She stretched out, relaxed, as her worker was going down the back steps. The waiting began...
Her worker took a deep breath at first. Then he folded the letter into his pocket. Sirens sounded in his ears. He felt as if he had died. Nobody noticed the disturbance reflected in his family life as his feelings closed down. Sales advertisements at reduced prices were given more attention than human rights declaration on the walls.
by Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Translated by Fide ERKEN and by Anne PROULX
Paris, 20.12.1998
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI, 1 lipca 2012
You can no longer warm your cold hands, nor offer them in friendship. You have time to look back only once to see the life of your friendship with the flowers, the pleasure you take in love, the light ignited in your heart of hearts.
It is most unfortunate, but there are those who decide your tomorrows. Perhaps the month of March will not return, and the feet of a child will not break the snow. The marks left by war will not longer retire in the schools after you. Books will speak of you. Throw me once more into the arms of my mother, before the bloody marks show, before the agonies. Bid adieu to the flowers, their breath cut off. The time narrows and suffering tramples on your sentiments.
You will never forget while memories sink into living hearts. Why do they wish to make war instead of leaving their fears and resentments? Have you ever though about what they want of you? It is their internal enemy that mobilizes them!
I know that you find yourself facing the folly of those who cannot hear themselves. I can do nothing! I cannot prevent the animosity that makes you a target of killing and sorrow. You are a tiny tot - I love you dearly! Tomorrow the poisons embedded in the recipes of those who seek cover for their fears and complaints will slacken...passions will surely cause hands to tremble while they design with blood as their ink. You can be sure of it my child!
If your starving mother falls on her tears at the table before she can eat a morsel of bread, do not forget to give her a smile, my child! At present, you see who smells like oil, under the menacings of war. Iraq vibrates before your windows, and old lives. I know that flowers do not live in the mouths of canons...war holds grief, not joy, in its foyers! Throw yourself once more into the arms of your mother before the blood flows, and the suffering.
by Uzeyir Lokman CAYCI
Mantes la Ville, 01.03.2003
Traduit par by Yakup YURT en français
French free verse translated into English free verse
by Joneve McCormick
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI, 27 czerwca 2012
One does not sell
broken pottery,
look for profitable business.
A hump on her back
your wife Zâra
beats the wool
Let your hungry children
and your animals that wait for fodder
not cause you to brood;
the marketplace is always there
attaching your soul to money.
You sell your merchandise,
you make money,
you will not go to Nigde...
You remain without hope
in the marketplace.
Your customers hearing your voice
say "Halil is still here..."
Sell your apples
snatched from their branches
hope they are all eaten;
the marketplace is still there
attaching your soul to money.
You sell your merchandise,
you make money,
you will never go to Nigde...
Let indifference
not change you,
the shenanigans
and acrobatics
of all sorts -
let all that
from one direction
not tire your mind.
The marketplace is always there
attaching your soul to money.
You sell your merchandise,
you make money,
you will never go to Nigde...
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Traduit par Yakup YURT en français
French free verse translated into English free verse
by Joneve McCormick
NDTR: Nigde is a prefecture of Turkey
and Bor is a sub-prefecture of Nigde.
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI, 27 czerwca 2012
Friend, you’re not the guilty one
The guilty ones are the evenings
See how they drag you down into this obscurity...
Trouble not yourself
Everyday’s "Love’s Labour Lost"
Vanishes away
Your eyes have learned
The meaning of love anyway
Learn how not to remember
Every point of suffering.
Remember not those eyes, those eyes
Have gone and they’ve enticed you into smoky cafés
Don’t go and believe
your eyes, they're just not
as sharp as they used to be
Friend, because you aren’t the guilty one,
The guilty ones are hopes
Leaving you to the shadows.
So what’s the use of fussing
If they’ve never understood
The poems your own baggy eyes
Have forgotten? ...
You’re alone in an unknown beyond
Your eyes are alone as well ...
You’re not guilty, friend
The guilty ones are hopes
Leaving you alone in darkness.
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
İstanbul, 20.02.1975
Translated from Turkish to French by Yakup Yurt
followed by English translation by Richard Vallance
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI, 27 czerwca 2012
Superannuated children
At the tether of insensitivity,
These are your work -
Born of selfishness,
Each generation slips away
Further and further.
From every sideways glance
Aimed at revolt
Fleas give birth to dragons
And they do it from the underside
Of workbenches only partially covered with tablecloths.
The month of September in their eyes
Piles their up their hatreds day in and day out,
An anteroom for opportunists
A shelter annihilating love
And -
A prop
For confidence,
Whose opposite face falls into a ravine.
My teacher,
Before the wellspring
of your values dries up...
Draw near, and you'll see the capillary vessles
Of youth.
Draw near,
Before the last vestiges of your sensibilities
Are snuffed out, scattered by the winds of Time.
Oh, I know,
No matter what you plea,
Your inner Tribunal doesn't leave you free
So long as tomorrow drops suffering into your lap.
Events fall out on your right,
Secrets shake you up on your left
The source of worrying
Is in every tomorrow
Looming inside you...
Your accomplishments, my dear teacher,
Only see you
They can't see themselves!...
Üzeyir Lokman CAYCI
Paris, 30.04.2001
Traduit par Yakup YURT en français
French free verse translated into English free verse
by Richard Vallance
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI, 27 czerwca 2012
Where the lilies grow
there are also insects;
a moment vanishes
from memory.
The world is like this
- the one dies,
the other is born.
Where the lilies grow
there are also insects.
Many things
remain in the depths
where flaws are not noticed.
Most of the time
writers, designers
teachers
do not discover the truth.
Where the lilies grow
there are also insects.
The world is like this
- the one dies,
the other is born.
by Uzeyir Lokman CAYCI
Traduit par by Yakup YURT en français
French free verse translated into English free verse
by Joneve McCormick - 2002
LA OU POUSSENT LES LYS
Là où poussent les lys
Il y a aussi des insectes…
Il arrive un moment disparaissent
De la mémoire…
Le monde est ainsi fait,
L’un meurt,
L’autre naît…
Là où poussent les lys
Il y a aussi des insectes…
Plusieurs choses
Restent dans les profondeurs…
On ne voit peut-être pas les défauts.
La plupart du temps
Les écrivains, les dessinateurs,
Les lecteurs
Ne découvrent pas la vérité…
Là où poussent les lys
Il y a aussi des insectes…
Le monde est ainsi fait,
L’un meurt,
L’autre naît…
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Paris, le 09.05.1999
Traduit par : Yakup YURT
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