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Who is your favourite Turkic Poet?(REVISE

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Poll Question: Who is your favourite Turkic Poet?(REVISED LIST)
Poll Choice Votes Poll Statistics
3 [15.00%]
2 [10.00%]
0 [0.00%]
1 [5.00%]
2 [10.00%]
4 [20.00%]
1 [5.00%]
0 [0.00%]
3 [15.00%]
4 [20.00%]
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  Quote erkut Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Topic: Who is your favourite Turkic Poet?(REVISE
    Posted: 16-Mar-2007 at 15:25

Asrin yeni bir umdesi var

Hak kapanindir

Soz haykiranin

Mantik ise sarlatanin
 
Tek paye gecmez ele kavuk sallamadikca
 
Kursu liyakat ______  ____ olanin
 
 
>Neyzen Tevfik<
 
**Need a translation to English**


Edited by Seko - 16-Mar-2007 at 15:32
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  Quote Kerimoglu Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 16-Mar-2007 at 12:42

Very nice, thanks a lot and I am glad that it touches the good relations among Turks and Persians Tongue

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  Quote Bulldog Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 16-Mar-2007 at 09:20
Remembering Shahriyar

It's extremely rare for any Turk (Northern or Southern Azerbaijan) not to know the famous poet, Mohammed Hussein Shahriyar (1907-1987) and not to be familiar with his poem, "Heydar Baba, Salam" (Greetings to Heydar Baba). Through the graphic imagery, the poet as a mature adult nostalgically recalls his carefree childhood growing up in a village next to a mountain known as "Heydar Baba" near Tabriz, Iran.
It was while Shahriyar was training as a medical student in Tehran University in the early 1940s that he became inuenced by his mother to develop his colloquial Azeri idiom into a masterful literary language. Equal to Shahriyar's best poetry in Farsi, "Heydar Baba, Salam" proved that he could write Azeri with equal elegance and power.
The poem became so popular and so many Azerbaijanis identied so closely with it that many songs were written and many stanzas have been incorporated into proverbial expressions in everyday Azeri speech.

"Heydar Baba" broke the cultural isolation and silence of Southern Azerbaijan. It can be said that it was responsible for reviving literary Azeri language in Iran. It quickly became known not only in Southern Azerbaijan but throughout the rest of the Turkic world and signaled a new chapter in the literary history in Southern Azerbaijan as the Azeri language at that time was not ofcially recognized nor publication ofcially allowed in Iran. Intellectual exchange with Northern Azerbaijanis was severed as Soviet policy had imposed a new unfamiliar alphabet--Cyrillic--on the language which had united them before.

In fact, though the original work was published in Arabic script in two parts (Tabriz: 1954 and 1966), its inuence is still strongly felt. In 1991, a symphonic work was composed in Iran entitled "Heydar Baba, Salam" and in 1993 in Northern Azerbaijan a mugam singer based his lyrics on these lines as well.

In the 1970s when a publisher was denied permission from the government to reprint the poem in Azeri, he determined to nd a way for even illiterate people to know "Heydar Baba". Soon "underground" cassette tapes were circulating and the impact of the poetry was even stronger than if it had been printed.

Left: Poet's Shrine in Tabriz where Shahriyar is burried.

Shahriyar is recognized as one of the nest contemporary poets of Iran particularly for his brilliant skill with a classical form called ghazal. As well, he established his own school of poetry--known as the "Shahriyar School."


In 1992, a joint Conference about Shahriyar--sponsored by Azerbaijan's Academy of Sciences and Iran's Ministry of Art and Culture was held in Tehran.

As September is the commemoration of Shahriyar's death in 1987, and many remember him and his literary contribution at this time, we use this issue to present the rst six stanzas of "Heydar Baba, Salam"--translated and published in English and transliterated to the new Latin script of Northern Azerbaijan. Both for the rst time.
 
 
 
 

Greetings, Haydar Baba
By Shahriyar
English Translation by Dr. Hasan Javadi


Heydar Baba, when the thunder resounds across the skies,
When floods roar down the mountainsides,
And the girls line up to watch it rushing by,
Send my greetings to the tribesmen and the village folk
And remember me and my name once more.

Heydar Baba, when pheasants take flight,
And the rabbits scurry from flowering bush,
When your garden burst into full bloom,
May those who remember us live long
And may our saddened hearts be gladdened.

When the March wind strikes down the bowers,
Primrose and snowdrops appear from the frozen earth,
When the clouds wing their white shirts,
Let us be remembered once again
Let our sorrows rise up like a mountain.

Heydar Baba, let your back bear the mark of the sun.
Let your streams weep and your face beam with smiles.
Let your children put together a bouquet
And send it to us when the wind blows this way
So that, perhaps, our sleepy fortune be awakened.

Haydar Baba, may your brows be bright.
May you be circled by streams and gardens.
And after us, may you live long.
This world is full of misfortunes and losses.
The world is replete with those bereaved of sons and orphaned.

Heydar Baba, my steps never crossed your pass.
My life was spent, becoming too late to visit you
I know not what became of all those beautiful girls.
I never knew about deadends, about paths of "no return".
I never knew about separation, loss and death.

Azerbaycan
 
Ey Iran Qesrini eliyle tiken,
Iran dan hamise belalar eken,
Bulaq gzlerini dumanlar ken,
Perisan memleket, dertli memleket.

stne atesler yagan topragim,
Muhabbet ocagim, lfet ocagim,
Ay menim hamiya bar verin bagim,
Ah ekme, bulutlar yanar ahindan.

Tarix az grmeyib qudurqanlari,
Qanlini qan tutar, qandir onlari,
Ey menim xalqimin qartal vuqari,
Enme, z zirvenin ucaligindan.

Ne qadar ki yasar cahanda gnes,
Ne qadar ki sudan ekinir ates,
Sarq adli zyn gvher qasi tek,
Parlasin, Parlasin qoy, AZERBAYCAN.
Qafqazlı Qardaşlar ilə Grş

Ey sefasın unudmayan Qafqaz,
Gelmişem zvq alam maraqından.
Qeyrəti coşqun olmayan nə bilir,
Ki, neler ekmişem firaqından.

Qoy gelim bir qucaqlaşıp pşek,
Bir ekek rzgar elinden dad.
Tanrının şkr edek calalına ki,
Bu qederlikce olmuşuq azad.

Oxuruq biz sizin teraneleri,
Yadigar mrlərden, illerden.
Bakinın sz-sovu, hekayeleri,
Dşməz iller boyu dillerdən.

Sazımın qamli simlerinde menim,
Bakinin başqa bir taranesi var.
Sinemin dar kharabesinde derin,
Bu cevahirlerin xezanesi var.

Men sizin şanlı qahramanlarınızı,
Szlerimde hemişe yad ederem.
Zlme qarşı qılınc szm keskin,
Qahramanlar kimi cihad ederem.

Sen kimi qardaş z qardaşını,
Atmayıb, zge kimse dutmayacaq.
Qoca Təbriz də yz min il kese,
Baki qardaşların unutmayacaq.

Gn o gndr ki, Haq yolun dzler,
Onda biz də dz dze qoşarıq.
Ayıranmaz o gn bizi şemşir,
Ebedi vesl n qucaqlaşarıq.

Rəhimin, Rstemin elini sıxmaq,
Mene dnya boyunca izzeti var.
Qocalıqda bu izzəti tapmaq,
Bir cavanlıq qəderce lezzeti var.

Dilimiz, qanımız bir olduqda,
Qırmaq olmaz bu ehdi-peymanı.
Xalq ile ehdi mhkem etmaqda,
Boşluya bilmerik bu imanı.

Gelmişik doğma yurdumuz Bakiye,
Qoy bu tarix də iftixar olsun.
Şahriyardan da bu fqlərde,
Bir sınıq nağme yadigar olsun.

----------------------------
 
 
 
 

 
Heyderbaba, Neneqızın gzləri,
Rakhşendenin şirin-şirin sozleri,
Trki dedim, oxusunlar ozleri,
Bilsinlər ki, adam geder ad qalar,
Yaxşı-pisden ağızda bir dad qalar.
 
 
The great Shahriyar and his beautiful poetry.
 
 
 
 
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  Quote Bulldog Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 16-Mar-2007 at 08:35
Well I originally did include Ahmed Yasevi but later removed him because he's more of a philospher allthough a great poet aswell.
 
Nesimi was a fantastic poet and very inspirational and Khatai wrote some wonderfull poetry what I really like about him is he wrote in the "peoples tongue", it wasn't elitist and only for aristocracy, everybody could appreciate it all the classes and this is why his poetry is still so popular today.
      What we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others and the world remains and is immortal.
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  Quote Guests Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 17-Feb-2007 at 20:52
I am very surprized not to find two great names of Turkic poetry -- the increddible Nasimi (Nesimi) (14-15th century, born in Shemakha, executed in Syria), and Shah Ismail I Safavi, better known by his poetic name of Khatai (15-16th century, born in Ardabil, died I think in Tabriz). Both of them were from Azerbaijan, and have a fairly rich collection of poetry in Azerbaijani Turki that remains. There are of course other authors - like Hasanoglu, who is a 13th century poet, but only one verse in Turki remains, thus while he would qualify for one of the oldest poets, he probably can't be a favorite. Also, there is a great Turkic (Kazakh) poet of Ahmed Yasevi.  
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  Quote Kerimoglu Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 30-Jan-2007 at 03:11
Thanks, I voted for Fuzuli, Tongue, U know why, but I also have a great respect to others. I will try to find some from fuzuli, in order to put here, but probably not in English, And I dont even have a right to translate him into English Smile
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  Quote Jagatai Khan Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 14-Oct-2006 at 06:27
I like Orhan Veli among modern poets.
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  Quote Bulldog Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 13-Oct-2006 at 19:45
Bakhtiyar Vahabzade
Time on My Mind


Bakhtiyar Mahmud oghlu Vahabzade was born in August 16, 1925, in Nukha (now Shaki). He is a member of Azerbaijan's Parliament (Milli Majlis).

Vahabzade has published more than 40 books in Azeri, 12 in Russian, two in Armenian, two in Uzbek, three in Turkish and one in German. He has a doctor degree in philology (1964) and has been an Associate Member of the Academy of Sciences (1980).

His awards include: Honored Art Worker (1974), State Award of Azerbaijan USSR (1976) and USSR (1984), People's Artist (1984). He was awarded for "his Service for the Literature of the Turkic World" (in Turkey) and was one of the first Azerbaijani writers to be awarded the Istiglal order of Independent Azerbaijan.

Vahabzade has authored the following books: "My Friends" (Manim Dostlarim, 1949), "Eternal Statue" (Abadi Heykal, 1953), "Deer" (Jeyran, 1957), "Man and Time" (Insan va Zaman, 1964), "RootsBranches" (KoklarBudaglar, 1968), "Dawn" (Dan Yeri, 1973), "Greatness in Simplicity" (Sadalikda Boyukluk, 1978), "Autumn Thoughts" (Payiz Dushunjalari, 1981), "Talk to Myself" (Ozumla Sobat, 1985), "Ordinary People", "Four Seasons In One Heart", "Greetings to Coming Mornings", "Selected Works".
 
 
Wiki
 

Bakhtiyar Vahabzade (b. 1925, Şəki-Nuxa, Azerbaijan) is an Azeribaijani poet. He migrated to Baku in 1934 and studied philology at Azerbaijan State University (1947). He became an assistant at the same department and completed his doctorate with his thesis on the famous Azerbaijani poet Samed Vurgun. He still works at the same university as a professor of Contemporary Azerbaijani Literature and as a deputy at the parliament of Azerbaijan.

He was recognized in Turkey with his article titled Yel Kaya'dan Ne Aparır? (What Does the Wind Steal from the Stone?), which was published in Varlık and which was an answer to the critics of the poet Fuzuli. His articles and poems also appeared in the review Trk Edebiyatı for years. Besides poetry, Vahabzade also wrote long verses or stories in verse (poems), plays and made translations. Among his long verses, there is the Yollar-Oğullar (Roads-Sons) which was dedicated to the Algerian Independence Movement, and the Mugam, which was dedicated to the composer zeyir Hacıbeyli. He wrote numerous lyrics, most of which were set to music and wrote plays such as İkinci Ses (The Second Sound), Yağışdan Sonra (After the Rain), Artığ Adam (Waste Man) and Vicdan (Conscience). He translated the work titled Abidon Felini by Lord Byron into Azerbaijani Turkish. His poems have been translated into many languages in the Soviet Union as well as into many dialects of Turkish and into German, French and Persian. He received the Commodore Medal of the Romania Ministry of Culture in 2002 with his poetry book titled Benim Garibim (My Poor). He has been regarded as the second greatest contemporary poet of Azerbaijan, after Samed Vurgun.

 
 
 
Life is as Short as an Inch
(2003)

Life is as short as an inch, they say
Sometimes Death brings tragedy to 100 families.
By God, in a blink of an eye,
Death is there waiting for you.

What was it like to live?
I never knew.
What is your measurement to assess life?
I've witnessed those who have lived for a century, 150 years,
And still left the world with empty heart and brain.
Do not measure life by its length,
Measure it by its depth.

There are those who confuse their right with their left,
Being respected by both,
Seeking superficial feelings.

To live a life full of meaning.
Isn't Honor what you should build your life upon?
No matter what it takes,
Or else one is really dead while being alive.

If we could live
Each day to its fullest,
We should be thankful for our fate,
And shouldn't complain about the passing of time.

I've witnessed those who lived a century, 150 years,
And still left the world with empty heart and brain
Don't measure life by its length,
Measure it by its depth.

My Mother
(1967)

She is illiterate.
She cannot write her name-my mother.

But she taught me how to count.
She taught me the names
of the months and years,
And most importantly,
She taught me language-my mother.

I tasted joy
And unhappiness
With this language.
And I created every poem
Of mine
And every melody
With this language.

Without it
I am nobody;
I am a lie.
The creator of my work,
In all its volumes and volumes,
Is my mother!

I Love
(1979)

Overcast weather I love;
It shall give birth to the sun,
The sun for sure!

Harsh winter I love;
It shall give birth to hot summer,
Hot summer for sure!

Hatred's climax I love;
It shall give birth to love,
Love for sure!

Tyranny's pain I love;
It shall give birth to justice,
Justice for sure!

Two Blind Men
(1968)

There's a blind man I know: His eyes are sightless,
But he is not blind.
Though he sometimes gets scorched
in the fire of sorrows,
He does not turn a cold shoulder to his passion
And his mind.
He reads and writes day and night,
In his mind's eye he sees, feels, knows.

Butthere is someone else
Although he is not blind,
Nonetheless, he cannot see,
His bosom friend may die
In front of his eyes-
"I saw nothing," he says.
Whatever is good he claims as his;
He fails to see the bad.
He looks at the clock,
But can't tell what time it is.
Nothing noble
Visits his thoughts and feelings;
Often he denies he saw something,
Though he really has.

A sightless man need not be blind;
Blind is he who does not want to see.
To such an ignorant fool,
Life itself is a grave,
If you ask me.

The Earth's Boundaries
(1964)

From the beginning we daubed colors on the map
To divide the world into many countries.
The earth is one color everywhere-and yet
Why did we break it into a hundred pieces?

Every kind declared: "The world belongs to me."
Over and over again, we split the land;
But the earth was never girdled;
It never shrank nor did it ever expand.

Knock the Fences Down
(1965)

Everyone puts up a fence
around his own field
Saying, "On this side of the fence,
this is mine."
Come, tear the fences down,
demolish the ramparts
So that our eyes
can gaze at distant parts.
How can rooms contain the heart
that must live free:
It should leap over hill and vale,
on and on.
For so long as my eyes can see,
I shall keep scanning
the widening horizon.
Never hinder the growth of flowers,
of the roses,
Never wound their hearts to die.
Nature is free:
Never hold
It inside the fortresses,
in captivity.
We must refuse to play
a game of backgammon,
Confined to squares inlaid with gold.
Our hearts should keep
growing and soaring, on and on
Like the ever-widening, endless horizon.
Come, tear the fences down,
demolish the ramparts
So that our eyes can gaze
at all the distant parts.

Speed
(1963)

Time was, we would sit
in the compartment of a train
Three days and three nights
Counting the miles
Baku-Moscow
For lack of anything else to do.

Then, eight hours by plane,
Baku-Moscow,
And now just three hours,
Still sorry,
Bored stiff.

We want to fly
With the speed of light,
But even the speed of light
Is too slow to catch
The flight of our thoughts.

I am the son of modern times.
Give me now
The speed of my mind
The speed of my thoughts,
Not to worry me,
Not to bore me to death.
Just now,
Match the swiftness of my mind,
Move now!

Fear
(1966)

In my left hand there's an old wound - A legacy from my childhood,
Unaware that wood burns, I seared my hand on a piece of charcoal.
A warning hissed at me,
The sound of flesh singeing,
But I wasn't afraid,
I felt fear only when I burned my hand.

The real experience of life began with that fire.
Colorful flames from the embers
caressed my childish eyes.
I don't know why everything
I've touched since birth has burned me.
I wasn't afraid until I was burned;
I didn't know fear until I left my childish ways.
Since being burned, I'm careful when playing with fire,
And so life begins, and continues as a habit.

"Life is Short" was translated by Aynura Huseinova and edited by Betty Blair. The remaining poems come from "Bakhtiyar Vahabzade. Poems, Short Stories and a Play", edited by Hadi Sultan-Qurraie, and translated by Talat Sait Halman. Indiana University Turkish Studies Publications: Bloomington, Indiana, 1998.

http://www.azer.com/aiweb/categories/magazine/ai121_folder/121_articles/121_poetry_vahabzade.html
 
 
 
 

More...


(1) "Profile of a Dissident-Bakhtiyar Vahabzade" by Jean Patterson. Azerbaijan International, AI 7.1 (Spring 1999), pp 65-69 .

(2) "Poetic Justice: Memoirs of Poet Bakhtiyar Vahabzade" in AI 10.3 (Autumn 2002), pp 52-55.


Edited by Bulldog - 13-Oct-2006 at 19:56
      What we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others and the world remains and is immortal.
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  Quote erkut Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 08-Oct-2006 at 15:05
Neyzen Tevfik
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  Quote Turkali Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 07-Oct-2006 at 05:17
nizami
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  Quote Bulldog Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 06-Oct-2006 at 18:54
This poet isn't on the list but he's regarded as a great poet of the Qashqai Turks in Iran Fars area.
 
Mazun
 
 

What Is, Is in Love (D-S6)

 


Like a moth circling a burning candle,
I love my friends face.
Give me your hand,
and nothing else.

If my body were dissected
joint by joint, my love
of my friend would leak
from elbow, wrist and knee,
and nothing else.

Before the clocks of creation
began to tick, God asked everyone:
Am I not your lord?
and like a choral symphony
we all replied in unison, You are!
and nothing else.

When the drums of that reply
are faintly heard, an echo,
then the friend is tested
by his enemy he hears
and speaks of love
and nothing else.

By darkness, light. By light,
darkness. One drills down
for gems; and one looks up.
The kings and sultans, presidents
and ministers through all eternity
have long since turned to dirt.
But spirits descended
from every lover who ever lived
still walk the earth.
What is, is in love,
and nothing else.

Holy reverence to my father,
who told my teacher: Give him
your hand and guide him
through loves lessons,
nothing else.

Like the windswept barren desert,
Majnuns tears.
Nothing else.

If Mazun dies dirt-poor, no worry
on his tomb write:
In this place lives love,
and nothing else.

 

Do You Remember? (D-S110)

 


How are you doing, peri?
Write when you can, and let me know,
when you have a moment in between
listening to that guy or this telling you
how gorgeous you are

And you are gorgeous, you know that.
Your breasts are like chiseled marble,
you stand as elegant as alef, a fragrant spruce,
and your black curls frame your face
as sweetly as the sepals of a rose.

Do you remember, peri, while you slept
Id stay all night to guard the incredible treasures
of your face and hair, and body?
The day I fell in love with you,
with your moonlit eyes and voice,
I entered into irremediable pain.

Do you remember, peri, I was saying,
Dawn! Dawn! a warning and a prayer,
in my state of mind, to preserve you
from being found out and ruined?

You shoved me in a cage and watched,
while my eyes followed you around the room
to catch a glimpse of any breeze of paradise
that might sift from your hair.

Do you remember, peri, that from start
to finish you lent your assets to everybody?
So it seemed, to every rake and drunk
who asked. And kept me caged, to watch.

To Mazun in his poverty, this is unendurable.
He rips his collar from his throat.
Tears well into his eyes. And yet,

he still endures because of you,
wipes his tearful face on your skirt
whenever you draw near, in full view
of your dark and moonlit eyes, peri.

 
Heart


Edited by Bulldog - 06-Oct-2006 at 18:57
      What we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others and the world remains and is immortal.
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  Quote Bulldog Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 06-Oct-2006 at 16:51

Ideologies aside, Nazim Hikmet may have been socialist but he was definately a patriot and loved Turkey and he respected AtaTurk.

Anyway, were discussing poetry not his pollitics, he was afterall a great world-renownd poet.
      What we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others and the world remains and is immortal.
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  Quote EGETRK Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 06-Oct-2006 at 16:15
i do not like Nazım...Firstly,he is a comunist and propogander of USSR,second, he have a poems(Burjuva Kemal) who contain insults to Mustafa Kemal
The lands of the of the West may be armored with walls of steel,
But I have borders guarded by the mighty chest of a believer...
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  Quote Bulldog Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 06-Oct-2006 at 16:05
NAZIM HIKMET
 
http://www.cs.rpi.edu/~sibel/poetry/nazim_hikmet.html
 
 
http://www.exil-archiv.de/audio/hikmet/hikmet64.mp3
 
 
THE STRANGEST CREATURE ON EARTH

You're like a scorpion, my brother,
you're in a cowardly darkness like a scorpion.
You're like a sparrow, my brother,
you're in a sparrow's flutter.
You're like a mussel, my brother,
closed as a mussel, tranquil.
And you're dreadful
       as the mouth of an extinct volcano, my brother.
Not one,
     not five,
           you're in millions, unfortunately.
You're like a sheep, my brother,
when the cloaked drover raises his stick
you join the herd at once
and almost proudly run to the slaughter house.
You're the strangest creature on earth, that is,
even stranger than the fish in the sea
                       which doesn't know the sea.
And in this world, this tyranny
                              is thanks to you.
And if we're starved, tired, covered with blood
and if we're still being crushed like grapes for our wine
                  the fault is yours,
                              - though I can't bring myself to say it -
                   but a lot of it, my dear brother, is yours.
 
 
 
OF YOUR HANDS AND LIES

Grave like all stones,
sad like all song sang in prison,
clumsy, heavy like all beasts of burden,
and like hungry children's offended faces, your hands.

Skillful, light like bees,
full like milky breasts,
brave like nature,
and hiding their friendly touch under their rough skin,
                                                                         your hands.

This world is not balanced on the bull's horn,
                  this world is balanced on your hands.

And human beings, alas, my human beings,
they feed you on lies,
but you're starving,
you need to be fed on meat, on bread.
And without eating fully even once at a white table,
you leave this world which has lots of fruits
                                              on its every branch.

Human beings, alas, my human beings,
especially in Asia, in Africa,
                 Near East, Middle East, Pacific islands,
                                                    and my countrymen,
that is, more than seventy percent of all people,

you're old and absentminded like your hands,
you're curious, amazed and young like your hands.

Human beings, alas, my human beings,
my European, my American,
you're smart, bold and forgetful like your hands,
like your hands you're quick to persuade,
                                             easy to get rid of...


Human beings, alas, my human beings,
if the antennas lie,
if the rotatives lie,
if books lie,
if the poster on the wall and the advertisement in the column lie,
if the naked calves of girls on the screen lie,
if prayers lie,
if lullabies lie,
if dreams lie,
if the fiddler at the tavern lies,
if moonlight on the nights of hopeless days lies,
if words lie,
if colours lie,
if voices lie,
if living on your hands
                    everything but your hands
                                                      and everybody lie,
it's to make your hands obedient like clay,
blind like darkness,
stupid like sheepdogs,
                           so that your hands won't rebel,
and so that in this mortal, in this livable world
                      where we are guests for such a short period
                     this merchants' sultanate, this tyranny won't end..
 
 
THE STORY OF BLACK SNAKE
(A FRAGMENT FROM HUMAN LANDSCAPES)

(KaraYilan was an Independance War hero for the Turks in the Antep region who was in resistance wars against the French, after the resistance and victory over the French Antep was renamed GAZI-ANTEP, Warrior Antep, KaraYilan translated means Black Snake)
 
 
 
The people of Antep are fighters.
They can hit a flying crane in the eye,
a running rabbit in its hind leg.
And on their Arabian horses
they sit tall and slim as young green cypresses.

Antep is a hot
                  hard place.
The people of Antep are fighters,
the people of Antep are brave.

Black Snake
             before he became Black Snake,
worked in one of the Antep villages.
Maybe he had a good life,
                           maybe not.
(They didn't leave him time to think about it.)
He lived like a field mouse,
scared as a field mouse.
"Bravery" comes with land, guns, and horses.
He didn't have any horses, guns, or land.
Black Snake
had the same twig-thin neck
               and the same big head
                             before he became Black Snake...

When the heathens entered Antep,
the people of Antep
            flushed him out saklayan
                          of the pistachio tree
                                         where he'd hidden in fear.

They put a horse under him
                   and a Mauser
                                  in his hand.
Antep is a hard place.
Green lizards
                     on red rocks.
And hot clouds pacing the sky
                                     back and forth...

The heathens held the hills.
They had artillery.
The people of Antep
                    were hemmed in on the flat plain.
The heathens' shrapnel fell like rain.
It dug up the earth by the roots.
The heathens held the hills.
The blood of Antep flowed. kanıydı.

Black Snake
took cover behind a rosebush
               before he became Black Snake.
The bush was so scrawny,
and his head so big and his fear so great,
that he lay flat on his belly
                with his gun still empty...

Antep is a hot
            hard place.
The people of Antep are fighters,
the people of Antep are brave.
But the heathens had artillery.
Nothing could be done, it was fate :
       the people of Antep would have to surrender
                                the flat plain to the heathens.

Before he became Black Snake,
                Black Snake didn't really care
                if the heathens held Antep till doomsday.
Because he had never been taught to think.
He lived on the earth like a field mouse,
scared as a field mouse.

His cover was a rosebush.
He was lying under the rosebuch, flat on his belly,
             when behind a white rock
                          a black snake
                                    raised its head -
skin all spangled,
                   eyes fire-red,
                             tongue forked.
Suddenly a bullet
           tore off its head.
The snake collapsed.

Black Snake
       before he became Black Snake,
saw the black snake's end
and shouted out
                   the first thought of his life :
    "Take heed, mad heart -
     Death found the black snake behind the white rock
     and will find you out even inside a steel box..."

And he who'd lived like a field mouse,
scared as a field mouse,
sprang into action.
The people of Antep were awed
                                 and quickly fell in behind him.
They made mincemeat of the heathens in the hills.
And he who'd lived like field mouse,
scared as a field mouse,
                    became "Black Snake". :
      What we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others and the world remains and is immortal.
Albert Pine

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  Quote EGETRK Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 06-Oct-2006 at 16:04
Originally posted by mamikon

Koroglu wasn't a poet, but a legendary character or a legend story I believe.
u are wrong...He have the poets who challange to Governor Of Bolu...One of the her Poems name is :Benden Selam Olsun Bolu Beyine(Greetings To Bolu Bey From Me)

And in my memory,i have some lines of his another poet:

Mert Dayanır Namert Kaar
Meydan Gmbr Gmbrdenir
Beyler Beyi Divan Aar
Meydan Gmbr gmbrdenir
...
The lands of the of the West may be armored with walls of steel,
But I have borders guarded by the mighty chest of a believer...
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  Quote Bulldog Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 06-Oct-2006 at 15:39
Barbar
Yes he did, his book "Qut adghu Bilik" was writen in poetric form. Maybe he is the earliest known Turkic poet. But I think he is more than a poet, his work is mainly philosophical, full of wisdom. In my subjective view, a thinker is always higher than a poet.
 
 
I agree but most famous Turkic poets wern't just poets, in contrast to this idea we have in the West of poets being a bit "soft" and "femennine". Many famous Turkic poets were also warriors, leaders, folk hero's, campaigners of the ordinary people's rights and so on.
 
How about "Ahmet Yuknaki" he was also a great Uygur poet, Uygur Turks actually have one of the richest literary histories of the Turks.
 
Actually Yusus Has Hajib's the "Kutadgu Bilil" is a fantastic literary work, its often considered as belonging to the "Mirror for Princes" but it differs in that the philosophies are for all people not just princes. Its not very well known yet in the West, I hope good translations are made and then studies opened for this fascinating millenia old book.
 
 
 
 
 
      What we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others and the world remains and is immortal.
Albert Pine

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  Quote Antioxos Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 06-Oct-2006 at 10:25
The only poem that i know is from Mawlānā Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī and i really like a lot.
 
 
What is to be done, O Muslims? for I do not recognize myself.
I am neither Christian, nor Jew, nor Magian, nor Muslim.
I am not of the East, nor of the West, nor of the land, nor of the sea;
I am not of Nature's mint, nor of the circling heaven.
I am not of earth, nor of water, nor of air, nor of fire;
I am not of the empyrean, nor of the dust, nor of existence, nor of entity.
I am not of India, nor of China, nor of Bulgaria, nor of Saqsin
I am not of the kingdom of 'Iraqian, nor of the country of Khorasan
I am not of the this world, nor of the next, nor of Paradise, nor of Hell
I am not of Adam, nor of Eve, nor of Eden and Rizwan.
My place is the Placeless, my trace is the Traceless 
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  Quote barbar Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 06-Oct-2006 at 09:56
Originally posted by Bulldog

Did Yusuf Has Hajib not also write poetry Barbar? also why isn't this in "Steppe Section" anymore? its difficult to find this post now.

    


Yes he did, his book "Qut adghu Bilik" was writen in poetric form. Maybe he is the earliest known Turkic poet. But I think he is more than a poet, his work is mainly philosophical, full of wisdom. In my subjective view, a thinker is always higher than a poet.

I'm sorry for this inconvenience, I think this is the right place for this thread. Moreover, more people who are interested in cultural history can see it and participate in the discussions of Turkic culture, and also forumers who are usually just come to the steppe section and other few sections, now have to check more places in this forum and might find something interesting.




   
    
Either make a history or become a history.
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  Quote EGETRK Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 05-Oct-2006 at 15:42
ziya gkalp,
The lands of the of the West may be armored with walls of steel,
But I have borders guarded by the mighty chest of a believer...
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  Quote Mortaza Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 05-Oct-2006 at 14:30
I like him too, but his poems have a dark mood.
 
Mehmet Akif is not bad too(If you understand his poems), unfortunately we have a langauge barrier.Cry
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