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> Bir Türk'ten Şiirler, İNGİLİZCE
HACI
mesaj 22 01 2006 - 20:58
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Levent

To my friend Levent Arsiray (wherever he is)

In a wonderful dream in the early morning
I drove from Sausalito to North Bay
On the back of a humpback whale.
In a brick building in the Ghirardelli Square,
I ran into Levent, my childhood friend.
He was among his palettes.
I saw his last name written somewhere and went to him.
He didn’t recognize me at first.
He spoke German, I spoke English
Until I told him my name in Turkish.
A flicker of recognition came into his eyes.
He muttered my name silently as was his habit.
Just then, suddenly I was awakened and thought
He seemed older and shorter in dream
Than I remembered him.

In early puberty, Levent was my best friend.
Just moved to Ankara, the big city
Having come from a remote town
Raised in my family’s demi shrine,
I was frightened and timid.
He said my manners were gross, my language was coarse and I was color blind.
I was grateful to find a boy who would say such learned things.
Levent’s life was full of brush and paint.
I found him fascinating.

He introduced me to Picasso, Modigliani and Cezanne,
Van Gogh’s portraits, corn fields, lilies under the sun,
Starry nights in Cafés of Paris.
Caricature creatures of Chagal
Smoke filled ballrooms,
Nude models, dripping vaginas, ripped torsos,
Magritte and Dali
Cubists’ cellos,
Sea and garden,
Manet and Monet.
Picasso’s blue period,
Landscapes and luscious bathers
Of the impressionists.
Stuff of my wet dreams.
Half awed, half turned on
I boldly treaded on in the magic
Of the sex and art
Imagination and beauty
With no bias and no boundary.
I developed a taste for the abstract and proportion of mind,
I grew a feeling for intuition,
Symbol, meaning and pride.
I faked learned comments on all manners of colors and shape
Conversed on perspective and viewpoint.
Levent finished a painting every summer day
And spent his nights
With Picasso’s brides
In the centerfolds of Playboys.
His small room always smelled fresh paint
Mixed with
Semen and turpentine.
We skipped the classics.
Levent found Dutch masters boring.
In long summer evenings,
Under long reflections of a pale lamplight
I secretly enjoyed being color blind.


Levent’s mother played the ud, the favored instrument of slave girls
From the territories to the West,
In harems of the old.
Monotonous melodies of the Ottoman music
Accompanied Besamet Mucho
Streaming tape on two big reels.
Neither of us knew what language.
But, we knew in that early age
We had already become masters of music
And connoisseurs of the fine arts.
Except, I just did not learn art from Levent
I learned a different world
Whose existence
I could not even dream to contemplate.

Levent moved to Kadikoy after a year.
I saw him only once since
I was seventeen.
He had a girl friend.
He painted her nude
Ripe, round Turkish buttocks
Of the leaner and fresher Renoir youth
Out of the shower after sex
In the old Istanbul apartment flat.
He said he was ready to study
In the Academy
And loved his new girlfriend.

Forty some years passed since then.
I wonder what happened to Levent.
Is he dead? Is he alive?
Did he find his fame?
How many exhibitions has he held?
Where do his pictures hang?
Which cities did he visit?
How many women has he had?
How many children called him dad?
How many years did his mother play the ud?
Do they still live in that old flat?
Did he have a good friend?
I wish I had a chance to talk to him
In a longer dream.

Vehbi T.

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HACI
mesaj 26 01 2006 - 19:58
İleti #52


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HOMESTEAD

Stop!
You can’t enter this place.
It is holy ground.
I am sorry to tell you sir,
You were misled.
You will have to turn back.
You are asking me, “Where is Troy?”
No sir,
This is not the romantic valley of Troy
On the river Scamander.
This is not where
An enraged Achilles slain brave Hector.
This is not where
Alexander the Great
Paid homage to his heroes.
This is not where
Xerxes’s armies crossed north
On a bridge made from boats.
No sir!
The march to Thermopylae
Did not start from here.
Have I heard of Spartans?
Just a few of them, sir.
As you know,
Peloponnesian wars
Were largely fought
In the Ionian lands.
A few of them
May have drifted here
Now and then.
What about Alcibiades?
His name is vaguely familiar, sir.
Was he a Greek?

No sir!
This is not where
Lord Byron swam
To cross the fast flowing channel.
I know he wrote a few lines of verse
Here and there.
Mount Ida, sir?
It is somewhere down yonder.


What is underneath?
Nothing.
Schliemann took all the gold.

Really Sir!
If you want to see those places,
You should turn back and walk down a bit.
They are not far from here at all.

If you must know the truth sir,
About what is underneath,
I ask you how anyone can possibly imagine
The dreams
Of half a million young men
Buried under this land?
That is why we hold these grounds
Sacred, sir.

This is where
The sweet Anzac boys came
On the orders of a drunk British Duke
In armored battleships with cannons
All the way from the other end of the Earth
To defeat the Turk.

They signed up for the oriental dream.
But, Turks killed all of them
And cried for their fate
For they were good boys.
They were friends
And playmates.
It wasn’t their war.
But, we often fight someone else’s war, sir,
To make a living.
And, as you know, we occasionally do
Someone else’s killing.

Turks defended their land
From the high hills
Taking shrapnel hits
From the cannon fire
Down from the warships.
It was hell
From dawn till dusk.
They prayed five times a day
They fired their rifles on the beach heads
In between cannon breaks.
They shot the Anzac boys in the mornings,
Before they got a chance
To climb up the hills to safety.
They killed those who climbed up the hills,
Later in the day.
They took Italians, British and French.
Some took a few Turks with them to death.
At the end,
Gunfire, cannonballs, shrapnel and bayonets
Killed a quarter of a million Turks.

Some Turks fasted in Ramadan
Even though they didn’t have to
In this holly war
To defend their fate.
Some broke their fast
Because they had to drink
Their own blood,
Or, died before sunset
Before they got a chance to break fast.
It was a bloody war.
What war isn’t?
Everyone had to fight
To live or die
Like all wars.
In this war,
They mostly died.
All and all
Half a million
In nine months.
It was a record.
So many young men dead
Between conception and the birth
Of one immaculate child.
You were asking me for Greeks
And Spartans, sir?
There never were so much of them living
Anywhere on earth those days.
The dead counted
The entire graduating class
From the only medical school
In Istanbul.
No doctors graduated that year
To cure the sick and dying
On battlefields or elsewhere.

Their blood washed red in the sea
Their corpses fed the shiny olive skins
And the insides of fig trees.
Bees ate the coastal pines’ sap
Horses and cows ate their fill of hay,
There was plenty of milk and cheese that year,
Eggs, honey, ripe red tomatoes, bread and olive,
For the living,
Even though there wasn’t much living
Left.

No more doctors on its battlefields,
Its heroes underground
High on the hills
Under pale greens of the maquis,
This land is
Too lonely and sacred, sir.
You must not enter it.
Please do not come near it.

As you can see,
I am an old man, and know a bit
About the history of these lands.
When I die myself,
If it is not too complicated to ask for my friends,
I have one last wish to make.
They have my permission
To enter this land,
And put my body in it.
Bury me in good company
In the homestead
Of my old friend
Alcibiades.
Yes, he was a Greek, sir,
Not Spartan, Persian or Turk.
Please don’t make a mistake.
I want to lie down
Next to him
And listen to his stories
Until eternity comes.
This is my dying dream

Vehbi T.
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HACI
mesaj 26 01 2006 - 20:47
İleti #53


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DIFFERENCE

I say every day is different
Some say every day is the same.
Herein lays
Our difference.

Vehbi T.
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denizci
mesaj 27 01 2006 - 21:53
İleti #54


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QUOTE
İki nedenden dolayı ben ne yazık dedim..
İlki, dil engeli nedeniyle okuyucuların çoğunun şiirlerdeki inceliği anlayamaması.. İkincisi onları Türkçe'ye çevirmenin mümkün olmaması..
Bir üçüncü neden de Türkçe değil, İngilizce literatürün zenginleşmesi..


Birinci nedeni anlayabiliyorum.
İkincisi... Gerçekten çevirmek mümkün değil mi? Çok mu eksilirler?
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Vehbi
mesaj 28 01 2006 - 19:38
İleti #55


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Sayin Denizci,

Bundan iki ay once Mevlananin 15-16 tane siirini Ingilizce'den Turkceye cevirmek icin epeyce bir caba harcadim. Arkadasim Haci cevirdigim bir kac tane Mevlana siirini bu sayfada basti. Eger Turkce harfleri basmasini bilseydim herhalde daha da cok basardi. Fakat ben bu siirleri cevirirken cok zorlandim. Bazilari iyi netice verdi. Bazilarini beyenmedim. Cogunlugu Canakkale savasi hakkinda olan en son uzun siirimi Turkceye cevirmeye calisacagim. Bu siiri iki sene once ziyaret ettigim Canakkale savas alanlari ve Truva harabelerinin etkisi aldinda kaldigim icin yazdim. Tam bu sirada da Peloponnez Savaslari hakkinda Amerika'da yeni basilan cok ilginc bir tarih kitabini okuyordum. Gene ayni yerlerde gecen bilmedigim bir cok tarihi olaylar ogrendim bu kitabtan. Tarihte gecen bazi olaylar ve bu savas yerini gozlerimle gormek beni cok etkiledi. Belki de yeniden yazmak zorunda kalirim ama bunu yapabilecegimi saniyorum. Sorunlardan birisi Ingilizce klavyeye ve on parmakla daktilo yazmaya cok alisik olmam. Eger Turkce harfleri dogru yazmasini ogrenebilirsem bu is cok daha kolay olur.
Ikinci sorunum da Ingilizce yazmak daha kolayima gidiyor. Ben su anda agir bir iste calisiyorum. Bir kere bir siir yazmaya baslayinca basimi pek kaldirip is yapamiyorum. Burada calistigim isin bana ve benim de bu ise ihtiyacim var. Fakat yorumunuz icin cok tesekkur ederim. Bu dediginizi yapmaya calisacagim.

Hurmetler,

Vehbi
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Vehbi
mesaj 28 01 2006 - 19:40
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POLITICS

I spent my life
Being right
Until I reached the age,
Being right is
Wrong.

Vehbi T
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Vehbi
mesaj 29 01 2006 - 21:32
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MY RELIGION

I am a deeply religious man.
I die often and pray when I can.

I die when I see the sun
Before it goes down.
I die if I am awake at dawn
And look at the morning sky.
I die when I see planets,
And a new moon being born.
I die when I see beauty under the skin
Flower, art, tree,
Woman, mountain, cloud and child,
Big bird that soars high above,
Little bird that hides from the eye.

I die when I am scared.
I die when there is turbulence when I fly.
I die when I work hard.
I die when I am out of luck.
I die when I am beaten badly in backgammon.
I die when people are rude and overbearing.
I die when people are sick and dying.
I die when people are ignorant, poor, and stupid and slow,
I die when people disappoint and lie.

I die when I am betrayed.
I die when I am selfish.
I die when I am embarrassed.
I die when I am self conscious.
I die after I sleep, only to find out
I had been awake all along.

I die when I am mad
I die when I win
I die when I am praised.
I die every time
When I write a poem.

I die when I break a heart
And pray.


Vehbi Tasar


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Vehbi
mesaj 31 01 2006 - 09:15
İleti #58


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MEVLANA’S TOMB

I went to visit Mevlana
In Konya.
I was looking for a sign.
I was looking to find
Something in this sprawling shrine
That I did not find.

It seemed to me
That the man’s life was
So much bigger than his living
That the living
Could not fit him in
After his death
Into his burying ground.

Just when I was about to give up,
On a far corner of the shrine
I saw my sign.
It was his only poem,
That the living hung
In wooden frame
For the man who lived his life
To make a poem.

Rumi spoke to me
Personally.
His turbaned head
Almost eight centuries old,
Said this to me
Clearly
Through his framed poem.

"My friend,
You have been hard
Like a rock
And broke
Many hearts
For thirty years.
How should spring
Bring forth a garden
On the hard stone?
Once,
For the sake of experiment,
Become like earth
Let roses bloom on you."

Vehbi Tasar
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Vehbi
mesaj 31 01 2006 - 15:45
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OSPREY ON THE CELL TOWER

An osprey sits on the cell phone tower
Across the street.
I sit on a chair
In a McDonald’s.
Osprey watches.
I eat my sandwich.
I look at her.
I see greatness
In the distance.
She looks at me.
She sees through the glass
The pupils
Of my eyes.

Vehbi Tasar
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HACI
mesaj 01 02 2006 - 02:29
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Benim aradan çıkmam iyi oldu..

Sizleri Vehbi ile baş başa bırakıyorum..
Ama onun tercümanı olmaya devam edeceğim..
Hala benim desteğime ihtiyacı olacağını düşünüyorum..
Şiirlerini size açıklamam gerekebilir.

Kendisi ün peşinde koşan birisi değildir.
Paraya da gereğinden fazla önem vermediğini biliyorum..
Ve paraya ihtiyacı da yoktur..

Vehbi çok okur.. Avid reader terimi sanki onun için icat edilmiştir..

Kendisine bunu henüz söylemedim ama ben, Vehbi'yi, hem Eric Hoffer'e hem de Emily Dickinson'a benzetiyorum.

Şiirleri bana Emily Dickinson'ı anımsatıyor. Ama başlangıç noktası hiç kuşkusuz Eric Hoffer...

Ne demek istediğimi sonra açıklarım..

Selamlar..

HACI
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üçnoktabirdört
mesaj 01 02 2006 - 11:35
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İlgi ile takip etmekteyim.


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Ceyda
mesaj 01 02 2006 - 12:34
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Sayın Vehbi Taşar, eserleri ile anasayfamızda.

http://www.mevsimsiz.com/yazardetay.asp?id=346



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Vehbi
mesaj 02 02 2006 - 14:03
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2005 RAMAZANI

Ramazan başı
Yahya Kemal aklımdaydı.
İstanbulun sonbaharları,

“Günler kısaldı Çamlıcanın ihtiyarları
Bir bir hatırlıyor geçen sonbaharları”

İlk Amerika’ya geliş sıkıntılarım,

“Ölmek kaderde var bize ürküntü vermiyor
Lakin vatandan ayrılışın ızdırabı zor”

Babamın el yazısı hatıra albümünde
Siyah beyaz dolmakalemiyle
En sevdiği teyzesinin ölümünde,

“Yazdan kalan ne varsa olurken haşır neşir.
Günler hazinleşir, geceler uhrevileşir;
Teşrinlerin bu hüznü geçer ta iliklere.
Anlar ki yolcu yol görünür selviliklere.”

Takılmış giderken bu sonbahar tellerine
Bana bir taze değişiklik gerek diye geçirirken aklımdan
Mevlana seslendi yanıbaşımdan,

“Şaraba düşmüştüm geçen yıl
Kızıl bir dünyada gezerim şimdi.
Ateşi gözlerdim geçen yıl
Yanık kebapım şimdi.”

Yanık kebap olamasam da bu ramazanda
Bir dost buldum geçmişte
Gelecekten daha yeni.

Dostum benden yirmi yaş gençti
Kasım başı bir sonbahar günü
Konya’da akşam üstü
Tıpkı bugünkü gibi.
Herkesin bir güneşi varmış,
Mevlana kendi Şemsini gördü
Sene bin iki yüz kırk dört miladi.

İlk bakışta aşık oldu
Deli divane.
Şems erkek güzeli, insan güzeli
Bu dünyadan değil, o dünyadan değil,
Başka bir dünyadan gelmiş olsa gerek böylesi.
Kamaştı gözleri
Kör oldu aşktan.
İnanılmaz bir sevinç doldurdu içini
Bütün aşıklar gibi.
Evrenin başlangıcıydı sanki.

Kavuşma uzun sürmese de,
Başlamıstı bir kere
Aşk mucizesi.
Girmişti gönlüne Mevlana’nın
Şems-i-Tebrizi.
Bütün macerası bildiklerimizin,
Bilemeyeceklerimizin
Açık, kapalı şiirlerinde
Mevlana hiç bir şey gizlemedi.
Ne basit, ne karışık,
Ne sır, ne aşikardı olanlar
Mısraların içinde
Vardı derin imalar.

Şeyhim yok oldu gitti
Fitili bitmiş kandil misali
Gölge bile bırakmadan geri
Bütün ölümsüz aşıklar gibi.
Sene bin iki yüz kırk yedi.

Aşkın verdiği ışık
Yayıldı sekiz yüz yıl
Hüsamın kaleminden
Erenlerin gönlünden
Evrenin her yerinden.

Aşıkların hediyesi
Yansıdı karanlıkta
Çarptı boş yüreklere
Bilinmeyen boşluklardan
Bizlere geri geldi.
Parlattı şiirleri
Aydınlattı kalpleri
Yaktı her nefeste beni
Şu ramazan günleri.

Ramazanin son günü
Mevlana bana geldi
Heyecanıma gülümsedi
Güzelim Türkçesiyle
Bana şunu söyledi,

“Şiirlerin içindeki mevcudiyetleri dinle
Bırak seni götürsünler
Nereye isterlerse.
Gözden saklı imaların
Peşinden git dikkatle
Ve asla bu mülkü terketme!”

Vehbi Tasar, 3 Kasim, 2005





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Vehbi
mesaj 03 02 2006 - 01:24
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QUITTING

Quitting is
A dance,
I will practice from birth to death.
Yet, I noticed
I can’t quit and swap my shell.
I don’t know who injected my essence
But, it is not because things don’t change.
Perhaps I grasp too much to what attracts
Or, I am afraid of what I will get.
I am sure both are the case.
I know I evolve by quitting,
Alas, I am horrible at it.
Quitting is
A higher order dance
With the rules that I make.

Vehbi Tasar

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Vehbi
mesaj 04 02 2006 - 01:30
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Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 30

Blown by the wind
All is quiet
Their shapes don’t change
Grooves in the sand
They are brilliant.
Profound silence
Away from eye
Not going straight
They may overlap.
Up and down
Twilight has come.
In the horizon
They become one.
Silence astounds
They go down
Color turns brick
Sky is ocean
A far mountain
Rises from none
Touching the moon
Looks like Earth
From the space.
Sky is black
Few more grooves
Climb up its sides
Disappear from eye
Into the stars.
All is silent.


Vehbi Tasar


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Vehbi
mesaj 04 02 2006 - 12:33
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SAILING

I could have enjoyed this
If I didn’t get seasick
If the wind was calm
If the ocean was warm
If there were no sharks
If I was on a reach
If I didn’t have to turnabout
Every minute
If I was skilled
In seeing the fire
And the wind.

I could have watched
Frigate birds-
Flying dinosaurs of the twilight.
I could speak Spanish
With senoritas on the beach in Mazatlan.
Touch sea turtles, flying fish and the blue-footed booby
On the hike in Isla Isabella.
Swim with dolphins, visit with whales
In their home,
The great Pacific Ocean.
Fireworks in Puerto Vallarta in 2002
On the Christmas day
Carefree on a dingy,
I could have enjoyed it
If I wasn’t afraid of dying
If there wasn’t another man.

Our limitations define
Our perimeter for living
And the equation of marrying has
One too many variables to solve.

Vehbi Tasar
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Vehbi
mesaj 05 02 2006 - 09:39
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Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 31, Adagio, ma non troppo

At the end,
Sick and completely deaf
The old man was on his own.
Facing his death alone
He became the child he once was.
They buried him six feet deep
The depth of his music remains unknown.

During every storm,
Soft taps of raindrops on his coffin
Will seal our intimacy with him.
His lullaby will live on.
For only a mother can know a child’s heart
And keep warm
Our tender human heart.

Vehbi Tasar
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Vehbi
mesaj 05 02 2006 - 18:27
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PINK LADY

Pink Lady is the name for a rose,
But it is the apple that I am talking about.
Her blood is noble and pure.
Her father is Golden Delicious
Her mother is Lady Williams of the Wales.
Pink Lady must only be eaten in the winter
When she is fresh.
She was born in the colonies in Perth,
Made her home in the United States.
She is only twenty seven years old.
She likes the soil where wine grows best
In the Eastern Washington state.
She likes to lay naked under the sun
For one hundred and twenty days
Before she is ready to date.
She won’t submit her flesh to men
Before she gets her tan.
She blushes if you get near her.
She smells like a flower
If you bite her.
A rose, gardenia or carnation,
Use your imagination.
She has taste, she has class, and she is juicy and crisp
She is a bargain at one forty-nine a pound.
You are lucky if you can taste the Pink Lady
When she is ready.
When you bite on her flesh next time,
Remember my poem.


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mesaj 06 02 2006 - 17:16
İleti #69


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RESPONSIBILITY

Responsibility is like a stone.
It is nice and round.
Good to have it about.
Feels good to touch,
It is heavy and hard.
I can drop it on the ground.
I can juggle it over my head.
I can throw it to someone else.
It can be fun.
On the other hand,
I can hurt myself with it.
I can kill people with it.
It is a weapon.
If it gets too unwieldy to handle,
I may ignore it;
Or, I can do something about it
Like write a good poem.
No matter what I do to it,
It will always be there.
Just don’t make a mistake about it.
I am not the stone.

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mesaj 07 02 2006 - 16:19
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Creationism

One wrong question,
Too many words are spoken.
If God was here first, why man?
If man was here first,
Why is God needed?

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mesaj 07 02 2006 - 19:12
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Señorita Trujillo

I meet Señorita Trujillo today
She tells me it is her husband’s name;
She is newly married.
She has two small eyes and Irish skin,
On two freckled cheeks.
She has knotted her hair
In two disks.
Smaller one lies at the bottom,
The big one spirals to its top.
Irish hair,
Long and red.
Two long ruby earrings
Dangle down her white long neck.
A long white shawl on white shoulders
Is this a Goya I am speaking with?
She tells me her mother is Danish,
Her father, I forget.
Ah, I am so lucky to meet female beauty
Without consequences.

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mesaj 07 02 2006 - 23:25
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Cartoons of the Prophet

Some say it is freedom,
Some say it is disrespect.
Is there freedom to disrespect?
When the world is a family,
The rules of freedom will change.

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mesaj 08 02 2006 - 11:01
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CAMERA

I have to buy a camera,
I cannot wait
For one more day.
I am in a buying heat.
I have lofty plans for it.
I will capture the souls
Of living and non-living
Without touching.
Animal, plant, child,
Flower and mountain,
Countries I visit,
All the women I will meet,
Places I haven’t seen,
Homes that I will own,
My children and wives,
Relatives and friends,
Everyone I work with,
Souls of everything,
Living and non-living.

I don’t want to touch them,
I am afraid to become
A part of their pain.
I am selfish.
I am aloof to their joys.
I will not spoil their beauty.
I am an environmentalist.
It is only their presence
That I am interested in.
I am a soul man
In passing.

It has to be digital,
I have no patience to wait
For developing film.
I will store my souls in a laptop
I will back them up on disks.
I will carry them with me
Halfway around the world,
Wherever I go.
We can’t be separated,
They are my reason for living.
I am a collector of souls.

Price is irrelevant.
A soul is priceless
Even if it was practical to buy it.
A soul machine is worth everything
That I own.
It doesn’t matter what kind,
Canon, Casio, Fuji, Kodak, Nikon or Sony,
As long as it has a zoom.
I don’t want to get too close.
It is a discreet affair,
This business
Of capturing souls.
Besides, I want to be safe.
There are some poisonous souls
Out there.
If I have to get too close
I must not touch them.
I can’t look too sentimental
I am a professional
Collector of souls.
It can’t be too small.
I have to look important
When I hold it.
I am a naturalist,
Not a tourist.
It has to be a bit heavy.
I can’t afford to look weak.
It can’t be too heavy.
I am not pretentious.
It must look complicated.
I am not stupid.

When I am old and senile,
And ready to give up,
I will look at all the souls
That I collected
And say to myself,
I did it!
I captured them all!
This is how I lived it.
This was my life!

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mesaj 09 02 2006 - 20:07
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Two Teardrops

I was ten years old.
Watched my grandmother pray
As in most days,
In our shared room.

Two teardrops fell
On her cheeks
Sitting,
Still in prayer.

At that moment,
I understood
There are finalities
Beyond prayer.

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mesaj 10 02 2006 - 04:38
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PURPOSE OF POETRY

I will not write a book about this.
The purpose of poetry is to hide nothing.
Open your heart.
Few will see it
Few will read it
Only the chosen will understand.
Such is the nature of heart.
Please don’t be offended by what I say
I mean no harm.
If you want to offend me,
Please proceed.
I may not have his talent
But, I have Nazım Hikmet’s heart.
Made from water buffalo’s skin
Thick, dense and big.

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