Love State
The roads... you asked
who gave birth to the roads first.
You were holding the slope of a life in your hands,
A shadow recognizes its owner by its scent, you were holding it.
The lilies were soaked outside,
It was raining only on the flowers and trees,
It was as if death was pressing the shutter of your rain-fed life,
You were holding on to their wet dream.
***
A fire on the stage, the sun in the windows.
Extinct volcanoes erupt in words,
The growing beard of a forest is graying,
Deep caves are waiting to be born in the tunnel of time,
The rustle of silk stretches on the stage,
The lights on the stage illuminate the words,
The distance in the words hangs on the trigger of the roads.
A walking situation for two people in the distance.
Color Of The Age
Expelled, victims are strangled with an age,
The homeless, the oppressed are strangled,
The magma of time erupts, his conscience strangles,
It is choked with a devouring appetite.
Centuries-old rivers change their course,
Passing through cities, squares,
Passing by in a crowd, coin in their hands,
He rips off his head,
The naked people pass by,
It passes in a hum,
Like a noisy audience
But it only passes through the wide streets,
Show up like this.
Venomous snakes are crawling inside me.
A Dream
The sun a crystal glass on the horizon
Like a tulip garden the autumn sucks it in
My lips on your lips
As an ant drinks water from the stream.
We lie out on a vast plain of green
By our door the morning revellers pass
A warm flow of blood from head to toe
We multiply, the earth a bunch of leaves.
Nameless Poem
-for the martyrs of Çanakkale-
Place this poem in the graves of the dead
Let it remain as nameless as they
Whatever they felt as the bullets first rained
Whatever they hoped would keep them alive
Whatever passed right before their eyes
As death swept all before it like a storm
Let this poem be all of these
Place it in the graves of the dead.
Peel all the words from this poem
But let their earth and the desire
They carried about with them remain,
The tiny memories there in their bags,
Let their hunger, their thirst remain,
And all the comes to mind when we say homeland
Let them stay in this poem
Peel all the all of its words away.
Let their songs be a homeland
For there are suns yet to be born
Let them rise now
Over the soil that covers their graves.
You were holding the slope of a life in your hands,
A shadow recognizes its owner by its scent, you were holding it.
The lilies were soaked outside,
It was raining only on the flowers and trees,
It was as if death was pressing the shutter of your rain-fed life,
You were holding on to their wet dream.
A fire on the stage, the sun in the windows.
Extinct volcanoes erupt in words,
The growing beard of a forest is graying,
Deep caves are waiting to be born in the tunnel of time,
The rustle of silk stretches on the stage,
The lights on the stage illuminate the words,
The distance in the words hangs on the trigger of the roads.
A walking situation for two people in the distance.
Color Of The Age
Expelled, victims are strangled with an age,
The homeless, the oppressed are strangled,
The magma of time erupts, his conscience strangles,
It is choked with a devouring appetite.
Centuries-old rivers change their course,
Passing through cities, squares,
Passing by in a crowd, coin in their hands,
He rips off his head,
The naked people pass by,
It passes in a hum,
Like a noisy audience
But it only passes through the wide streets,
Show up like this.
Venomous snakes are crawling inside me.
A Dream
The sun a crystal glass on the horizon
Like a tulip garden the autumn sucks it in
My lips on your lips
As an ant drinks water from the stream.
We lie out on a vast plain of green
By our door the morning revellers pass
A warm flow of blood from head to toe
We multiply, the earth a bunch of leaves.
Place this poem in the graves of the dead
Let it remain as nameless as they
Whatever they felt as the bullets first rained
Whatever they hoped would keep them alive
Whatever passed right before their eyes
As death swept all before it like a storm
Let this poem be all of these
Place it in the graves of the dead.
Peel all the words from this poem
But let their earth and the desire
They carried about with them remain,
The tiny memories there in their bags,
Let their hunger, their thirst remain,
And all the comes to mind when we say homeland
Let them stay in this poem
Peel all the all of its words away.
Let their songs be a homeland
For there are suns yet to be born
Let them rise now
Over the soil that covers their graves.
*Metin Cengiz: He lives in Istanbul, Turkey. He has published 18 poetry books and 24 books of essays, analyses, and theories on poetry. He has also translated and published the works of 19 foreign poets into Turkish. He has prepared, translated, and published two French, one Italian, and one Spanish poetry anthologies. More than 100 critics, poets, essayists, and writers have written about his poetry and prose books. He has given numerous interviews to magazines, newspapers, radio, and television. Four books have been written about his poetry to date. His poetry and prose books have been the subject of theses at universities. His poems and writings have been translated into 33 languages, including German, Arabic, Chinese, Danish, French, English, Spanish, Italian, Hindi, Japanese, Portuguese, Romanian, Russian, Serbian, Vietnamese, and Greek, and published in magazines and books in these languages. 22 poetry books have been published in 20 foreign countries. He has participated in many of the most important poetry festivals held abroad. He has been a speaker at symposiums and on radio and television programs. He participates as an editor or consultant in European and World poetry anthologies prepared abroad. He has served, continues to serve, or acts as a consultant on the executive boards of some important festivals in Turkey and around the world. He has received four of the most important poetry and literature awards in Turkey and has been hosted as an honored guest. Abroad, he has received eight important poetry awards. Most recently, he received the European Poetry Prize, the world's most prestigious poetry award, in Serbia (2023).
(Photo: Patras, Greece 09.2025)