The Old Woman And The Old Mansion
the old woman as old as the old mansı on
plasters fallı ng down from the wall
brickets grinning grinnnig and grinn ing barely
tiles some broken...some sparse
unlocks the gate of the old ancient mansion
keeps the door open for a while
to collect some bushes and wood from the garden
to use as kindling in stove or oven
she seems to be alone
but knows how cope with life life..bitter life
she shouts at the dogs playing in the garden
and scoulds them to go away
it is winter
may be the second week of the january
some snow
some thistles though brownish yellow
are upright to heaven
though no sparrows and finches..desolate
she not only unlocks the gate of the old ancient mansion
but she also unlocks the memorı es of her life
she seems to be alone...alone and alone
cool as a stone..erect
she has accepted the bitter reality of life
where are her parents...her husband..
her children...
her sisters..her brothers..her relatives
next of kins
noone knows
she then enters the old ancient mansı on
locks and bolts the gate
at night
light gleams
from one of the second storey rooms
of the old ancient mansion
it is winter
may be second week of january
in one of the desolate gardens of universe
life goes on desolately
under the guard and auspı eces of our creator
the GOD
poem by Metin Sahin
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Related quotes
BORNOVA 1983....Five Minutes Past The Spring
ı am stunned
the inspector
nur dogan topaloglu
good for nothing
wrote the report about me
and the minister interior Çetiner
has given the last order
It is my destiny
I am here
like a house
like a hotel
like a guest house
ı t is 1983
the winds of 12 september
are blowing harshly and fiercely
the season is five passed the spring
ı have just made the anniversary 40th of my life
in my hand ı carrieda big white suı t-CASE
in it some books
my suı ts..underwear and my socks stinking
mixed up...like my head
ı say..here is asylum
a mental hospital
you can exaggerate and saY mental house
ma be a mad house
ı does ot matter who says what
ı am at the door
ı have passed my schools steadı ly
did my works obidiently
without protest
damn me if ı wanted a little thing for myself
but ı could not pass this nonesense mental test
do mnot telll my poor mother
she lives alone in our country
she thinks ı am still a mad governor on duty
she does not know ı have been sent here officially
thanks
ı will lie in open section
what would happen if ı lay in the closed sectı on
at detentı on
no hope of goı ng out
seeing the sky
a theatre play was being displayed
when ı stepped in
my new friends
men and women gathered in the hall
sar aronud a wide table
some were comlaı nı g of his wife
some of her husband
and some of their beloved
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poem by Metin Sahin
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Thurso’s Landing
I
The coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,
A group of men labored at the steep curve
Where it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hid
Behind cut banks, except one blond young man
Who stooped over the rock and strolled away smiling
As if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;
It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,
Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrent
Of fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumped
From mountain to mountain. The men returned slowly
And took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dust
Waved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very high
Above the heads of the forest.
Some distance west of the road,
On the promontory above the triangle
Of glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,
A woman and a lame man from the farm below
Had been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The young
woman looked back,
Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I think
they'll blast again in a minute.'
And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't
like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;
We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of age
but he was young too; tall and thin-faced,
With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'that
boy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,
How slowly he walks away after he lights the fuse. He loves to
show off. Reave likes him, too,'
She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,
little dark specks
Between the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.
II
The road-workers had made their camp
North of this headland, where the sea-cliff was broken down and
sloped to a cove. The violet-eyed woman's husband,
Reave Thurso, rode down the slope to the camp in the gorgeous
autumn sundown, his hired man Johnny Luna
Riding behind him. The road-men had just quit work and four
or five were bathing in the purple surf-edge,
The others talked by the tents; blue smoke fragrant with food
and oak-wood drifted from the cabin stove-pipe
And slowly went fainting up the vast hill.
Thurso drew rein by
a group of men at a tent door
And frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered and
heavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,
He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,
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poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Paul Anka
I put a record or a disc oı ver there...on the old veteran record player...and the disc began to turn byself onthe tı urntable...what a fantacy....look at the music...shattering the room...to my memories...see it...from ancient scratched old and ancientr recorded things....paul ANKA sings in my ears...''I am so young...you are so old..this my darling ı have been told......oh please stay with me diana....and so so so...go record go...take the rust of my ears...the turntable clumsily turns....that takes me to the years...1955 or 1960s....or something later or between.....ı was a student in a boarding school...in istanbul......istanbul..istanbull...there must be a song like this nowadays...in desolate rooms on vacations....the songs of paul were my companı ons to my lonelı hood....ı imagined the seas....lived fancy loves...sung by his songs...but that was in memories....ı was in love with the lady with a big umbrella....yes ı did it my way....under the voices of dean martin...frank sinatra and santana...the magic woman was our secret....while my brother managing the music room and the pı ano....ı wrote humble poems lı ke these...paul was a famous singer then....a boy genı us...world known...years passed so quı ckly....after 38 years in the home affairs..ı retired...become an old poet unknown...but their songs too dissapeared....now we live in a world of internet...and easy hand....my lips cannot sing songs.....teenaging left....ı wönder where were those singers went....thge name of paul anka and pat where do they rest.....april love has been forgotten very soon...we lı ve in a world following spoon...hunger is not satisfied with the spoon...but our souls will need them soon....where have they gone.....their songs appear on my old veteran lazy turntable ancient...ı bought from the flea market...from time to time....come lets listen them...remember our old days...lets sigh a little bit fun
poem by Metin Sahin
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Call that ****ing poetry?
As one of the wrinkly-crumblies
-W.A.S.P. without the sting -
it puzzles me: in poetry,
does one good **** really deserve another?
fifty years ago - fifty, for ****'s sake -
when I was an army cadet
some squaddies used it every other word
-and since we were in Signals,
it ****ing delayed ****ing battle-orders ****ing long enough
to ****ing mow down a ****ing platoon...
and longer in ****ing Morse... - - -...
and as for ****ing semaphore...makes your ****ing arms flag...
my liberal friends
who never admit to shock
say 'it shows a.... lack of imagination';
now that's ****ing serious in ****ing poets.
outside the ****ing English-spitting world
it must seem ****ing strange
that the most-loved ****ing bodily action
is used as a ****ing swear-word -
what have you ****ers got against ****ing?
or is it a term of ****ing praise maybe?
and why still a shock-word
amongst you young lot
who get a lot more ****ing ****ing than we ever did? Dammit.
Philologically,
is it still heard
as ****ing onomatopoeic?
which makes it pretty near to ****ing S&M I'd say?
could you****ers (whom I love for your interest in poetry
I have to say)
give me, as a reasonable ****er,
a ****ing explanation?
it would be ****ing useful
poetically
And who the **** is this
'American realist' poet Charles F***offski
whom you admire so much, anyway?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I Am Not In My Mood
I amnot inmy mood today
I do not want to paint the sky
I want to paı nt all the seas and oceans grey
and wanna tear my shı rt ı nto pı eces
how many living sank in the oceans
thge largest being titanic
ı do not want to walk
ı do not waNt to sing
do not want tospeak
ı am not in my mood
got bored of everythimg
especially living
walking...talking speaking
goı n to job in harmony
the returninmg from job
home the same home for years
gossiping the same gossips
reading the same papers
same politics
win to win covered everywhere
who are poor nobody care
lı ke a soldier
figthing the same battle
sitting in the same arm chair
watching the same tv.
reading the same books
swimming the same pool
lyı ng at the same bed
with the same woman
who is she
sometimes ı cannot rfemember
ı have got bored of everything
nothing can soothe me
nothing can heal the state
no mood
no mood
no mood
just stood
like a statue
motı onless
do not want tgo paint the sky blue
ı want to paint the seas
and the oceans grey and stormy
we are becoming
more senseless
much senseless
the most senseless
no light
bewildering in the horı zon
oh lord
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poem by Metin Sahin
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I Am A Poet
Iam a poet
ı was born a poet
ı feel that frommy childhood
why the storks
chatter on the chimneys
and nest there
their young beak black
their eggs catch cold in winter
ı am a poet
but sometimes ı am misunderstood
that upsets me
very
sometimes people scold me
why the hell you look at me
strangely
they say
do ı resemble someone
do you recognise me
ı am just a poet
ı cannot say
ı s ı t my fault
to be born poet
ı wanna write a poem about you
so ı look and try to understand
your attitude
why does this bother you
ı was born so
ı watch a little child
leaving her mother
throwing herself to the water shower
in the pool in spring
then ı ask the child to return to mother
cause she is looking eagerly looking AFTER
does not like a stranger
she does not know what a poet is too
and lives plain and direct
ı am a poet
ı wish
ı were not born so
ı long for a humble and simple life
living may be in poverty
cause understands me nobody
even the closest around me
poem by Metin Sahin
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The Petition Scribe
the petı tı on scribe...my dear neı ghbour
ı s the paper on your type-writer blank
wrı te my worrı es and complaı nts word by word and scatter
look....what has happened to me
the worrı es and complaints of someone and another
you scribe from morning till evening
without wearying
how much is your daily gain
how many pennies in your hands and in your palms
first let us write yourself and yours
before the ribbon wears away
after yours finished and complete
ı will tel you mine slowly and slowly
my tonque is on your eyes
ı f you ask something ı will answer orally
my petition does not need any stamp
why stamp and signature on worries and complaints
the paper is a waste
for my worries and troubles papers are insuffı cant
ı envy you..the petition scribe..my dear neighbour
ı would like to be a petition scribe just like you
in this world
and in the other world
for this there is no word
be assure
ı am for sure
Osman ATILLA translatı on Metin Ş AHİ N
poem by Metin Sahin
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To My Mother
Why
you went
and in this
bitter and cruel world
alone me left
was death so beautı ful and your beloved
did you miss it very much
fed up of us
you used to take us
under your skirt
and protect us from rainy days
from everything harmful
is you grave as cold as ice
why did you made it be dug so large
whom are yı ou expecting near as dear
was death so beautı ful mother
why you left us alone
ı t ı s evident
you longed for it
ı was angry
do noyt go do not leave us
pardon me mother
after so many years
ı came to your place
to embrace
may be youare lyiş ng in tears
and of longings
again another december
the day you left
did you remember
your hands were cracked
may be of cold
forgive me moı ther
ı could not afford to buy cream
to soothe them
you gone with your cracked hands
there is alittle ceddar on your grave
who sowed it ı do not know
some kinds of fruı t on it
ı took and smelled
they smelled you mother
ı took some with me to home
they are dried now
my wife does not know
ell me mother
after so many years
are your hands or
your heart are still cracked
tell me how can ı soothe them
or am ı so late to you
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poem by Metin Sahin
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The Blind Couple
I wanna write this poem
with my long black pen
I like this pen very much
ı ts writings
why I cannot understand
my brothers also lı ke the pens too
they are not just pens
they are indstruments brought from heaven
to write your petitions to somebady above
some like it black
some blue
some red
ı always prefer black
why I do not understand
now
GOD informed
at the beginning of the holy book
read....read...read and read again
then comes writing
so ı wanna read the world before writing
universe is not my business yet
look at thgis couple on the pavement
walkı ng cautı ously and care fully
a white long stick in yhe hand of the wife
tapping on the stones
listen to it
a child is in the bosom of the husband
clad clean and neat
you cannat calll them blind
they are walking with the help of god
walking happily
talking happı ly
like singing a hymn
thgey do not need any help
they willl lose lose balance
if you try to help
just watch them
leave them alone
ı try to clean my near sighted eyes
and try to read the far aways
but ı ı nderstand
ı have only read A..B.C..
of the divine alphabet
even them not so easily and clearly
when ı look at this couple
with a child in their bosoms
as their future and hope
ı understand the only
and the bitter truth
they were not blind
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poem by Metin Sahin
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The Tower Beyond Tragedy
I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
burning-flower from Sparta, the beautiful sea-flower
Cut in clear stone, crowned with the fragrant golden mane, she
the ageless, the uncontaminable-
This Clytemnestra was her sister, low-statured, fierce-lipped, not
dark nor blonde, greenish-gray-eyed,
Sinewed with strength, you saw, under the purple folds of the
queen-cloak, but craftier than queenly,
Standing between the gilded wooden porch-pillars, great steps of
stone above the steep street,
Awaiting the King.
Most of his men were quartered on the town;
he, clanking bronze, with fifty
And certain captives, came to the stair. The Queen's men were
a hundred in the street and a hundred
Lining the ramp, eighty on the great flags of the porch; she
raising her white arms the spear-butts
Thundered on the stone, and the shields clashed; eight shining
clarions
Let fly from the wide window over the entrance the wildbirds of
their metal throats, air-cleaving
Over the King come home. He raised his thick burnt-colored
beard and smiled; then Clytemnestra,
Gathering the robe, setting the golden-sandaled feet carefully,
stone by stone, descended
One half the stair. But one of the captives marred the comeliness
of that embrace with a cry
Gull-shrill, blade-sharp, cutting between the purple cloak and
the bronze plates, then Clytemnestra:
Who was it? The King answered: A piece of our goods out of
the snatch of Asia, a daughter of the king,
So treat her kindly and she may come into her wits again. Eh,
you keep state here my queen.
You've not been the poorer for me.- In heart, in the widowed
chamber, dear, she pale replied, though the slaves
Toiled, the spearmen were faithful. What's her name, the slavegirl's?
AGAMEMNON Come up the stair. They tell me my kinsman's
Lodged himself on you.
CLYTEMNESTRA Your cousin Aegisthus? He was out of refuge,
flits between here and Tiryns.
Dear: the girl's name?
AGAMEMNON Cassandra. We've a hundred or so other
captives; besides two hundred
Rotted in the hulls, they tell odd stories about you and your
guest: eh? no matter: the ships
Ooze pitch and the August road smokes dirt, I smell like an
old shepherd's goatskin, you'll have bath-water?
CLYTEMNESTRA
They're making it hot. Come, my lord. My hands will pour it.
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poem by Robinson Jeffers
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A Man From The Slum District
ı a m a man from a slum district
my pockets are empty and moneyı ess
in obligation
ı am a member of a fake syndicate
in the factory ı work as a laborer
ı f open my mouth
and talk against my bosses
ı will be booted and fired
find myself in the streets
ı am a man nfrom a slum district
my struggle with others is obligatary
to survive
ı drink wine which kills a dog
ı am screaming all night in the streets
against alll these
with the night watches guarding me
ı am a man from a slum district
my badly cladding is also obligatory
in beyoglu
policemen strolling..watching and batoning me
sometimes to death
ı am a man from a slum district
ı f ı touch others' wind they lick me and bruise me
my love affairs are unjust and obligatory too
fathers are on watch in front of their houses
if ı look at a girl or even gaze at their daughters
it will be the cause of the many murders
Yusuf HAYALOGLU.....Translation Metin Ş AHİ N
poem by Metin Sahin
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Give Your Heart To The Hawks
1 he apples hung until a wind at the equinox,
That heaped the beach with black weed, filled the dry grass
Under the old trees with rosy fruit.
In the morning Fayne Fraser gathered the sound ones into a
basket,
The bruised ones into a pan. One place they lay so thickly
She knelt to reach them.
Her husband's brother passing
Along the broken fence of the stubble-field,
His quick brown eyes took in one moving glance
A little gopher-snake at his feet flowing through the stubble
To gain the fence, and Fayne crouched after apples
With her mop of red hair like a glowing coal
Against the shadow in the garden. The small shapely reptile
Flowed into a thicket of dead thistle-stalks
Around a fence-post, but its tail was not hidden.
The young man drew it all out, and as the coil
Whipped over his wrist, smiled at it; he stepped carefully
Across the sag of the wire. When Fayne looked up
His hand was hidden; she looked over her shoulder
And twitched her sunburnt lips from small white teeth
To answer the spark of malice in his eyes, but turned
To the apples, intent again. Michael looked down
At her white neck, rarely touched by the sun,
But now the cinnabar-colored hair fell off from it;
And her shoulders in the light-blue shirt, and long legs like a boy's
Bare-ankled in blue-jean trousers, the country wear;
He stooped quietly and slipped the small cool snake
Up the blue-denim leg. Fayne screamed and writhed,
Clutching her thigh. 'Michael, you beast.' She stood up
And stroked her leg, with little sharp cries, the slender invader
Fell down her ankle.
Fayne snatched for it and missed;
Michael stood by rejoicing, his rather small
Finely cut features in a dance of delight;
Fayne with one sweep flung at his face
All the bruised and half-spoiled apples in the pan,
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poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The Ballad of the White Horse
DEDICATION
Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?
Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?
In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.
Gored on the Norman gonfalon
The Golden Dragon died:
We shall not wake with ballad strings
The good time of the smaller things,
We shall not see the holy kings
Ride down by Severn side.
Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured
As the broidery of Bayeux
The England of that dawn remains,
And this of Alfred and the Danes
Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns
Too English to be true.
Of a good king on an island
That ruled once on a time;
And as he walked by an apple tree
There came green devils out of the sea
With sea-plants trailing heavily
And tracks of opal slime.
Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;
His days as our days ran,
He also looked forth for an hour
On peopled plains and skies that lower,
From those few windows in the tower
That is the head of a man.
But who shall look from Alfred's hood
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poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Goldilocks And Goldilocks
It was Goldilocks woke up in the morn
At the first of the shearing of the corn.
There stood his mother on the hearth
And of new-leased wheat was little dearth.
There stood his sisters by the quern,
For the high-noon cakes they needs must earn.
“O tell me Goldilocks my son,
Why hast thou coloured raiment on?”
“Why should I wear the hodden grey
When I am light of heart to-day?”
“O tell us, brother, why ye wear
In reaping-tide the scarlet gear?
Why hangeth the sharp sword at thy side
When through the land ’tis the hook goes wide?”
“Gay-clad am I that men may know
The freeman’s son where’er I go.
The grinded sword at side I bear
Lest I the dastard’s word should hear.”
“O tell me Goldilocks my son,
Of whither away thou wilt be gone?”
“The morn is fair and the world is wide
And here no more will I abide.”
“O Brother, when wilt thou come again?”
“The autumn drought, and the winter rain,
The frost and the snow, and St. David’s wind,
All these that were time out of mind,
All these a many times shall be
Ere the Upland Town again I see.”
“O Goldilocks my son, farewell,
As thou wendest the world ’twixt home and hell!”
“O brother Goldilocks, farewell,
Come back with a tale for men to tell!”
So ’tis wellaway for Goldilocks,
As he left the land of the wheaten shocks.
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poem by William Morris
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The House Of Dust: Complete
I.
The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.
And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.
'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.
We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .
Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.
Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.
Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.
II.
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poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The Iliad: Book 12
So the son of Menoetius was attending to the hurt of Eurypylus
within the tent, but the Argives and Trojans still fought desperately,
nor were the trench and the high wall above it, to keep the Trojans in
check longer. They had built it to protect their ships, and had dug
the trench all round it that it might safeguard both the ships and the
rich spoils which they had taken, but they had not offered hecatombs
to the gods. It had been built without the consent of the immortals,
and therefore it did not last. So long as Hector lived and Achilles
nursed his anger, and so long as the city of Priam remained untaken,
the great wall of the Achaeans stood firm; but when the bravest of the
Trojans were no more, and many also of the Argives, though some were
yet left alive when, moreover, the city was sacked in the tenth
year, and the Argives had gone back with their ships to their own
country- then Neptune and Apollo took counsel to destroy the wall, and
they turned on to it the streams of all the rivers from Mount Ida into
the sea, Rhesus, Heptaporus, Caresus, Rhodius, Grenicus, Aesopus,
and goodly Scamander, with Simois, where many a shield and helm had
fallen, and many a hero of the race of demigods had bitten the dust.
Phoebus Apollo turned the mouths of all these rivers together and made
them flow for nine days against the wall, while Jove rained the
whole time that he might wash it sooner into the sea. Neptune himself,
trident in hand, surveyed the work and threw into the sea all the
foundations of beams and stones which the Achaeans had laid with so
much toil; he made all level by the mighty stream of the Hellespont,
and then when he had swept the wall away he spread a great beach of
sand over the place where it had been. This done he turned the
rivers back into their old courses.
This was what Neptune and Apollo were to do in after time; but as
yet battle and turmoil were still raging round the wall till its
timbers rang under the blows that rained upon them. The Argives, cowed
by the scourge of Jove, were hemmed in at their ships in fear of
Hector the mighty minister of Rout, who as heretofore fought with
the force and fury of a whirlwind. As a lion or wild boar turns
fiercely on the dogs and men that attack him, while these form solid
wall and shower their javelins as they face him- his courage is all
undaunted, but his high spirit will be the death of him; many a time
does he charge at his pursuers to scatter them, and they fall back
as often as he does so- even so did Hector go about among the host
exhorting his men, and cheering them on to cross the trench.
But the horses dared not do so, and stood neighing upon its brink,
for the width frightened them. They could neither jump it nor cross
it, for it had overhanging banks all round upon either side, above
which there were the sharp stakes that the sons of the Achaeans had
planted so close and strong as a defence against all who would
assail it; a horse, therefore, could not get into it and draw his
chariot after him, but those who were on foot kept trying their very
utmost. Then Polydamas went up to Hector and said, "Hector, and you
other captains of the Trojans and allies, it is madness for us to
try and drive our horses across the trench; it will be very hard to
cross, for it is full of sharp stakes, and beyond these there is the
[...] Read more
poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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Seeİ Ng The One Above
WHEN the sun sets
in colors in the evening
ı see him
when the sun rises flickering
in the blue and reds
crimson clouds
then in the darkness
in the glittering stars
in the crescent lit
and in the full moon
and at nights cdesolate without the moon
ı see someone
who holds the reins
never lets anyone die
against his order
ı t must be him
nearest to our main artery
even than ourselves
thus said in thesacred holy koran
when ı wake up ı n the morning
ı see him too
ı nthe walking of an old woman
in life
like my dead mother used to
ı see him
when an old weary woman
rests in front of a mosque
she sees him too
murmuring some prayers
ı see him also in the cry of a child
in the hospitals oozing pains
ı see him
ı hear him
in gazza
in palestine
ı n the wall to weep
in israel
in the fierce endless battle
called war between
in a desolate house
left by owners alone
whera magpie
wanders an the bare branches
of the bare tree in front
in the crfacking of a blackcrow
in the sleeping trees in winter
waking trees in spring
when lambs to young give birth
but we have always
a date with death
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poem by Metin Sahin
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Aproaching The New...the Unknown
it is not easy to save
or spare the years
itiis a tough business
though
ı have spared and saved so many years
once ı was a baby in a cradle
crying and seeking a refuge
in my mother bosom
then she was in flesh and blood
living beloved
now she is gone and left me alone
fed up with me
resting in her grave
may be a skeleton ı fear and salute
ı have never known father too
thoughmy mother...my father
my sisters and my big brother
always meet
ı n a photocopy
of an ancient..old and faded photograph
my wife put in my sleeping room
my father was a veteran soldier
of our liberatı on war
now ı am grown up
really
becomı ng an old man
a ping pong ball
walking in stalk
sometimes with a walking stick
lost one of my hip
no bosom to cry
with nowhere to shelter
just me and myself
approaching where ı never know
never guess
cause ı have enough of years
when ı remember them each
comes from my heart and eyes
the tears
fearing the new of everything
it is 20 of december
no snow this year
even the season is faking
may be the end we are approaching
for the word
for the universe
or rather for me
never the less
life living worth
some say it is fall
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poem by Metin Sahin
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 9
WHILE these affairs in distant places pass’d,
The various Iris Juno sends with haste,
To find bold Turnus, who, with anxious thought,
The secret shade of his great grandsire sought.
Retir’d alone she found the daring man, 5
And op’d her rosy lips, and thus began:
“What none of all the gods could grant thy vows,
That, Turnus, this auspicious day bestows.
Æneas, gone to seek th’ Arcadian prince,
Has left the Trojan camp without defense; 10
And, short of succors there, employs his pains
In parts remote to raise the Tuscan swains.
Now snatch an hour that favors thy designs;
Unite thy forces, and attack their lines.”
This said, on equal wings she pois’d her weight, 15
And form’d a radiant rainbow in her flight.
The Daunian hero lifts his hands and eyes,
And thus invokes the goddess as she flies:
“Iris, the grace of heav’n, what pow’r divine
Has sent thee down, thro’ dusky clouds to shine? 20
See, they divide; immortal day appears,
And glitt’ring planets dancing in their spheres!
With joy, these happy omens I obey,
And follow to the war the god that leads the way.”
Thus having said, as by the brook he stood, 25
He scoop’d the water from the crystal flood;
Then with his hands the drops to heav’n he throws,
And loads the pow’rs above with offer’d vows.
Now march the bold confed’rates thro’ the plain,
Well hors’d, well clad; a rich and shining train. 30
Messapus leads the van; and, in the rear,
The sons of Tyrrheus in bright arms appear.
In the main battle, with his flaming crest,
The mighty Turnus tow’rs above the rest.
Silent they move, majestically slow, 35
Like ebbing Nile, or Ganges in his flow.
The Trojans view the dusty cloud from far,
And the dark menace of the distant war.
Caicus from the rampire saw it rise,
Black’ning the fields, and thick’ning thro’ the skies. 40
Then to his fellows thus aloud he calls:
“What rolling clouds, my friends, approach the walls?
Arm! arm! and man the works! prepare your spears
And pointed darts! the Latian host appears.”
Thus warn’d, they shut their gates; with shouts ascend 45
The bulwarks, and, secure, their foes attend:
For their wise gen’ral, with foreseeing care,
Had charg’d them not to tempt the doubtful war,
Nor, tho’ provok’d, in open fields advance,
But close within their lines attend their chance. 50
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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Mans Job
Well you can go out with him
Play with all of his toys
But takin care of you darlin
Aint for one of the boys
Oh theres somethin in your soul
That hes gonna rob
And lovin you baby lovin you darlin
Lovin you woman is a mans mans job
Lovin yous a mans job baby
Lovin yous a mans job
Lovin yous a mans job baby
Lovin yous a mans job
Well now his kisses may thrill
Those other girls that he likes
But when it comes to treatin
A real woman right
Well of all of his tricks
No they wont be enough
cause lovin you baby lovin you woman
Lovin you darlin is a mans mans job
Lovin yous a mans job baby
Lovin yous a mans job
Lovin yous a mans job baby
Lovin yous a mans job
Youre dancin with him hes holding you tight
Im standing here waitin to catch your eye
Your hands on his neck as the music sways
All my illusions slip away
Repeat riff from intro twice
Now if youre lookin for a hero
Someone to save the day
Well darlin my feet
Theyre made of clay
But Ive got something in my soul
And I wanna give it up
But gettin up the nerve
Gettin up the nerve
Gettin up the nerve is a mans mans job
Lovin yous a mans job baby
Lovin yous a mans job
Lovin yous a mans job woman
Lovin yous a mans job
song performed by Bruce Springsteen
Added by Lucian Velea
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