Then We Undress as If Looking Something Up in a
Dictionary
We should wait a little longer, my love
I know, we've spent a lifetime waiting
But the air hasn't cooled,
The stars haven't returned to the stable yet
We should wait a little longer, my love
Though waiting creaks like a clamp
The rain hasn't phoned,
The postmen haven't saddled their horses yet
We should wait a little longer, my love
We should wait the way we waited for the revolution
Then we'll undress as if looking something up in a dictionary
We should wait a little longer, quietly
The children haven't fallen asleep yet
(Translated by
Gökçenur Ç.)
The
Cat Chased by the Night
An unease within me.
A cat, chased by the night, climbs a tree.
An unease within me.
The shadows reach the shore and turn back.
An unease within me.
The shadows reach the shore and turn back.
Sometimes my head begins to tingle
while I'm lying at home, reading my book.
My head tingles. Why?
While I'm lying at home, reading my book.
Suddenly— an unease within me.
The shadows reach the shore and turn back.
Inside me, a cat
-- no matter what I do--
will not come down from the tree.
(Translated by
Gökçenur Ç.)
If
Only I Smelled of Snow, Wolves Following My Trail
Wherever I look,
an unbegun novel
If only I smelled of snow, wolves following my trail
Wherever I look,
an apartment building torn down
Upstairs, the chandeliers are still glowing
Wherever I look,
horses sheltering under sounds
Did I write these whirring things?
Wherever I
look—if only it would cease, just cease
This heart-wrecking autumnstead, the how-many-fingered hands of my soul
I looked in
mirrors, no use; wherever I looked
If only I could see my face didn't resemble houses.
(Translated by
Gökçenur Ç.)
Author’s Bionote:
*Gökçenur Ç. (Çelebioğlu) (Istanbul, Turkey, 1971) is a poet, translator, editor,
and poetry activist living in Istanbul. With eight poetry books to his name in
Turkish, he has received several prestigious awards in Turkey. His poetry has
been translated more than thirty languages and Selected Poetry books has been
published in English, German, Italian, Spanish, Serbian, Romanian, Bulgarian. He is the co-editor of the Turkish domain in Poetry International
portal and is on the editorial board of
Macedonian-based international literary magazine “Blesok”. He is the editor
of renowned literature Magazine Offline Istanbul. He also edited many of literature
magazines, poetry, and poetry in translation books in Turkish. He has translated and published selected poetry books
of Wallace Stevens, Paul Auster, Ursula Le Guin, Ocean Vuong, Anne Carson, and
many other exceptional world poets into Turkish and some of the best Turkish poets into English. He was a
member of the Cunda International Workshop for Translators of Turkish
Literature, which he has attended as a visiting writer as well. He has participated and/or organized poetry
translation workshops and festivals in many countries. He is the curator and
co-director of Word Express; co-director
of international poetry festivals Offline Istanbul International Poetry
Festival and Poesium Istanbul. He was a board member in Nilüfer International
Poetry Festival, Gaziantep Mosaic of Metaphors International Poetry Festival, Crete
International Poetry Festival and Kritya International Poetry Movement.
I know, we've spent a lifetime waiting
But the air hasn't cooled,
The stars haven't returned to the stable yet
Though waiting creaks like a clamp
The rain hasn't phoned,
The postmen haven't saddled their horses yet
We should wait the way we waited for the revolution
Then we'll undress as if looking something up in a dictionary
We should wait a little longer, quietly
A cat, chased by the night, climbs a tree.
An unease within me.
An unease within me.
The shadows reach the shore and turn back.
while I'm lying at home, reading my book.
My head tingles. Why?
Suddenly— an unease within me.
The shadows reach the shore and turn back.
-- no matter what I do--
will not come down from the tree.
If only I smelled of snow, wolves following my trail
Upstairs, the chandeliers are still glowing
Did I write these whirring things?
This heart-wrecking autumnstead, the how-many-fingered hands of my soul
If only I could see my face didn't resemble houses.