Who is your favourite Turkic Poet?(REVISE

 

(Gok_Toruk)

 

Mehmet Akif is not bad too(If you understand his poems), unfortunately we have a langauge barrier.

 

 
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.

 

 

 

 

 

http://www.nazimhikmetran.com/english/index.html

 

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". :