Tören giysileri Ceremonial robes

Tören giysileri

Çürümüş donuk kalbinde bu toprakların
Gözleri gördüm.
Herkes sesiyle vardı
Ve duruşuyla gövdesinin.
Bir insanı en iyi sevişirken tanırız.
Kalbimizi birlikte çürütürken.
Ağırlaşan gövdemiz
Gece uyandırır.
Mezar gibidir avlulu evler.
Çocukluk bir uykudur. Uzun sürer.
Ve dokunmak için bir arzu
Bir arzu sürükler bizi ölüme.
Ben kendimi sınadım her gövdede
Ben kendimi bıraktım her şehirde
İçime aldım göğünü ülkelerin
Ve boşluğunu görünce kalbimin
Gitmeli dedim.
 
Çürümüş tören giysileri içinde
Askıda salınan kökler.
Biz denize düşürsek de ateşi
O hep yanar.Issızlık bahşeder karanlığa. Yanar.
Tarih bir yanılgı olabilir diyor şair
İnsan bir yanılgıdır diyor tanrı.
Çok sonra
Bu toprakların kalbi kadar
Çürümüş bir sonrada
İnsan bir yanılgıdır diyor tanrı.
Ve düzeltmek için varım
Ama geciktim.
 
Ölü kızıl suyun dalgası
Gece yürünen yol
Ve yolcuların dağıldığı zavallı yeryüzü
​Salınan beyaz kefenler
Tören giysileri.
Ve bir koşu için gerekli tek şey
Atın yelesidir.
Aslolan,
Şimdi ve burada
Çürüyüp kaldık.
 
Tanrı görmesin harflerimi
İnsan bir hata diyor durmadan
Ve hatasını düzeltmek için
Acı veriyor
Sadece acı.
 
Şubat 1997, Berlin
 

Ceremonial robes

In the cold dead heart of the land
I saw their eyes. Everyone
was there, with their own stance and voice.
We know each other best when we make love:
together, our hearts decay.
 
Our bodies, growing heavy, wake us in the night.
Houses with courtyards are like graves.
Childhood is a slumber. It lasts a long
time. And the desire to touch
hauls us towards death.
 
I tried myself in every
body. Lost myself in every city,
took each country's sky to heart –
and when I saw the emptiness of my heart –
that's enough, I said.
 
Inside decaying ceremonial robes,
roots swaying on the hanger.
Even if we douse it in the sea.
this fire will burn forever.
It beats out light in the darkness.
It burns on.
 
Perhaps history is a mistake, the poet says.
Humankind is a mistake, says god.
 
The future is corrupt
as the heart of the land.
Humans are a mistake, says god.
I have come to put things right
too late.
 
Red tide of the dead –
the road taken at night.
And the poor earth where pilgrims scatter.
Wan shrouds sweeping – ceremonial robes.
 
To flee, we need
the horse's mane.
 
This is the truth:
left here, we rot.
 
May god not read my words.
He keeps saying humankind
was a mistake. And correcting himself
brings sorrow, nothing
but sorrow.
 
February 1997, Berlin
 

Ceremonial robes

In the cold decayed
heart of these lands
I saw eyes.
Everyone was there with their voice
and pose of their body.
We know someone best while making love,
When we make our hearts decay together.
Growing heavy, our body
wakes us in the night.
Houses with courtyards are like graves.
Childhood is a long-lasting sleep.
A desire to touch
Drags us towards death
I tested myself in every body,
I lost myself in every city.
I took the skies of countries to my heart
and when I saw the emptiness of my heart,
I said, I must leave.
 
*
 
Inside the decayed robes of ceremony
roots swaying on the hanger.
Even if we drop fire in the sea
it will burn for ever,
it grants desolation to the dark,
It burns.
Perhaps history is a mistake says the poet
Human is a mistake says god.
Much later,
in a future corrupt as the heart of these lands,
Human is a mistake says god,
I’m here to correct it
but too late.
 
*
 
The wave of the deceased red tide
The road taken at night.
The poor earth where travellers are scattered.
The white swaying shrouds
are ceremonial robes.
The only thing needed for a race
is the horse’s mane.
This is the truth,
now we are here
left and rotted away..
 
May God not see the letters of my script.
Human is a mistake, he keeps saying.
And to correct his mistake
he gives sorrow,
nothing but sorrow.
 
February 1997 Berlin
 
 
 

Original Poem by

Bejan Matur

Translated by

Canan Marasligil with Jen Hadfield Language

Turkish

Country

Turkey