Love Story

“Penelope is sometimes a shadow of your dream.” - Joan Margarit


From Port de la Selva,
a storm cloud shifts and I watch
the shape set sail from distant shore
your ship come home.

This love is an old old story.

Her story lasted twenty years
and one-hundred-and-eight drops of tears
each night through shut eyes would intrude
a scratched and silent film looping sepia nude.

Ten years to win ten more to return
and always he could feel her yearn
under sweat and metal mail
her fingertips played a gentle tale
across his back.

She is a shadow in my dreaming.

Beside my bed your fragrance teeming
preserved in a treasure chest-of-drawers
a secret nightly uncapping your scent transforms
a thousand years of swooning blood in one flash flood.

Words you write lie in bed with me at night
and impress upon your pillow
safe from the light of morn a hollow.

Safe from the blue-gray waters’ thorn
this old love is in many languages reborn
from the Mar Mediterrania to the Ak Deniz
gently billowing east a silky underwater breeze
calling coral currents and the darkest deep.

This old old love is a story.




first published in Barcelona Ink. Nov. 2012, Vol. 11. Print.

Venice Prayer

Why do I crave the fog,
a softened city silhouette?
Wrap me like a Russian nesting doll
in layers of mist that soak and sink;
Immerse me in damp whispers
and blur my outline into thick emerald lagoon,
bright, crisp stars twinkling above.




First published in Bear Creek Haiku. June 2013. Print and online.
http://bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com/2013/07/this-nations-birthday-sacred-texts.html

Alaca Karanlık

Bana, bilmeceler karanlık bastırır.
Penceremden şarkı söylemeyi denerim,
ama alaca karanlık kent silueti, boğardı
ve şaşkınım.



To me, the puzzles grow darker.
I try to sing from my window,
but twilight drowned the skyline,
and I am distracted.


Erzurum, Turkey
January, 2011


Epilogue: I want to point out some interesting connotation differences between the two versions (this is the fun part of translating). Alaca karanlık, directly translated, means "darkness of varied colors" and connotes "twilight." Boğardı, directly translated not only means drowned, but also suffocated, strangled. Kent silueti, directly translated means city silhouette. So the direct translation of the third line is " The darkness of varied colors strangled the city silhouette."

My colleague gave the Turkish version to a class of 11th grade Turkish students, without showing them my English version. Here are their translations:

Riddles drown me in darkness.
I try to sing from my window,
but the twilight silhouette of the city, drowns me
I'm confused.

Riddles darken me.
I try singing out the window,
But the twilight silhouette of the city, suffocates,
and I'm puzzled.

To me, riddles bring darkness
I try to sing out my window
but the twilight silhouette of the city suffocates
and I am perplexed.

Riddles bring nightfall to me.
I try to sing out my window,
but the city silhouette at twilight, suffocates
and I'm amazed.

Riddles imply darkness upon me,
I try to sing out my window
But the silhouette of the twilight city drowns,
Surprises me...

Sevginin Kağıdı

Ne zaman senle olurum, ben hem sakin hem de heyecanlı hissederim.
Ne zaman sensiz olurum, kalbim karmakarışıktır, fakat bu duyguyu severim.
Ben sana tatlı bir şey söylemek isterim, ama sözlerim acemidir.
Bu sözler gariptir, fakat duygularım değil.
Bu cümleler gençtir, fakat duygularım olgun.
Sen sözlerimden beni anlayacak mısın?
Ya da daha çok sözlerimi mi anlayacaksın?




Epilogue: My Turkish is improving, but don't think I sat down and wrote this in 10 minutes without an English-Turkish dictionary, and don't think I didn't ask my Turkish friend to help me with some of the grammar. But do note, especially for those who can read Turkish, that I wanted this to sound like Turkish is not my mother tongue. The idea started when I noticed the moments in my Turkish students' writing when they make word choices or pairings that a native English speaker would never make, and the result is poetic. The subject of my poem is a love note, one whose words are awkward and immature because the poet cannot fully express herself in this other language, though she feels her feelings are not awkward or immature. When I asked my Turkish friend to help me with the grammar, I specifically asked her not to fix everything, as I want the poem to sound as if Turkish is not my language, as it is not, and this is what I truly sound like when I speak it. But I also hope that in my awkwardness, like my students' writing in English, some figurative qualities emerge. I will write an English translation below, but know that this quality will not come across in the English version, as English is my mastered language.

Love Note

When I am with you, I am both calm and excited.
When I am without you, my heart is in utter disarray, but I like the feeling.
I want to say something sweet to you, but my words are awkward.
These words are strange, but my feelings not.
These sentences are young, but my feelings mature.
Will you understand me from my words?
Or will you understand my words more?

Küçük Zamanlar

Prologue: When, finally, you're sitting on the bus waiting for it to take you home, and the muses send you thoughts first in Turkish, after all these months of lessons, hope your pen is nearby.

Küçük Zamanlar
Tango pratik yok, ama
çiçekler var.
Okulu sevmedim, ama
Duygu ile konuşmayı sevdim.
Küçük zamanlar büyüktür.
Ah, şimdi varolan rüyaları yazmak!


Small Times
There is no tango practice, but
there are flowers.
I didn’t enjoy school, but
I loved talking with Duygu.
Small times are large.
Oh, to write dreams that exist right now!


April, 2010
Ankara, Turkey

Response to Christina Rosetti’s “Song”

When I am dead, my dearest,
unhinge the case to my viola.
Rest your chin upon its mahogany,
and pull the horse hair across:

“Beautiful dreamer, dream unto me.”

You will not remember how-
with a shallow and fast bow-
I played the same for my father.

I shall not cringe at your shaky tone;
I shall not turn away;
I shall not hear the music
of the stirred female hearts.

I may skip and twirl instead
to a memory, and dream no more
of this beautiful dream, now dreamt unto me.




September, 2009
Merano, Italy