İsmet Özel
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
| İsmet Özel | |
|---|---|
| Born | 1944 Kayseri, Turkey |
| Turkish Literature |
| By category |
| Epic Tradition |
| Folk Tradition |
| Ottoman Era |
| Republican Era |
İsmet Özel (born 1944 in Kayseri) is a Turkish poet. Özel attended classes at Political Science Faculty of Ankara University, but graduated from the French Language department of Hacettepe University. He published Halkın Dostları magazine with Ataol Behramoğlu.
İsmet Özel's songs of freedom derived its content from socialism but its structure and symbolism reflected the tastes of Second New Generation. In 1970s İsmet Özel developed a mystic and islamist view which shocked his leftist audience.
Contents |
[edit] Works
[edit] Poetry
- Geceleyin Bir Koşu (1966)
- Evet İsyan (1969)
- Cinayetler Kitabı (1975)
- Celladıma Gülümserken (1984)
- Erbain (1987)
- Bir Yusuf Masalı
- Of Not Being a Jew (2006)
Once a Turkish reader, Ridvan Kilavuz, told about Ismet Ozel : "I love him, I really adore him, I think he is one of the ever best poets of Turkish Literature."
[edit] Articles
- Bilinç bile ilginç
- Tavşanın randevusu
- Cuma mektupları
- İrtica elden gidiyor
- Taşları yemek yasak
- Tahrir vazifeleri.
[edit] Examples From His Poems
LINES WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF THE LAST PICTURES I HAD TAKEN OF ME WHILST I WAS SM
I am Ismet Ozel, a poet in his fortieth year.
Everything happened in my lifetime, I want this
to be known by all. I was there when the deluge came
I was present at the re-creation of the world.
I am at peace now, I have seen everything.
I saw the parting of heavens, the coming to life of clay.
All the evidence is at hand now. I can be lynched.
I earned the hatred of prostitutes
and the curses of virgins.
I have words which can’t even help you cross a bridge,
I have words which will not save you from burning fires.
I have lost the sword of my strength, I no longer
respect harvests. I flew but my flight
was detected by radar. I swore heavily:
this too was entered in my police file.
Let everyone know, I am quite a holigan.
Gendarmes and taxmen are after my soul.
In the eyes of the clockwork toilers,
nothing could be blacker than my soul;
if you ask the denizens of laboratories
my soul is a fake.
All the youngsters who sailed through school
with flying colours and an ey efor what is true
will tell you that my soul is a Slovakian snail
whose home was left in Nepal.
I wonder who knows the truth.
Even I, busy as I am hiding my soul
in every crack and cranny
what do I know? Whata do I possess
that could possibly tempt the devil down my throat?
Dishevelled by anxiety, I selected a state secret
for myself. With a state secret in hand
one could lead a cinematic life,
one could enjoy refined living,
those secret trips to the fleshpots
of whore-houses, not to mention
high-class restaurants or simple bucolic walks.
Who knows, it might all end
on the platform of an aesthetic execution.
Yes, yes, but a soul is not enough
to rake in all these goodies.
If this verdict,
this conclusion,
this inference is right,
why is it that a conference postponed
or a late coach
muddles everything,
why are the trains of national leaders always white,
why are the Russians marching on Berlin?
How absurd, how stupid!
Of the four bibles why do I choose to follow
the gospel according to John?
But here I am,
one out many, like everyone else
standing at this station
next to this spy in his black coat
waiting with my most legible face.
I stay in the game, I play it
for fear that I might miss my turn,
that my ticket might expire.
There are heaps of azaleas
and passion flowers lying before me
like corpes with rigid valves,
there are thousands of flowers before me.
I am afraid it might be my cue to step in:
what if they tell met o begin in order to make an end?
Oh no, not me,
the world mustn’t do this to me.
Tell me, when all is said and done
how many of us went as close as seeing?
their own skeleton in the mirrors?
Come now, humanity,
let’s strike a bargain:
give me all the derelict thoughts
you left behind,
all the days you deserted, your past mistakes
all the moments of despair triggered
by your shortcomings, give them all to me,
give me your sorrows, the jokes you no longer
find funny, all the things you think
you have quelled, give them, give them to me,
the worries you tried to make light of, all the fallen,
broken dreams and the wild, failed ventures,
give them all to me,
give me also your crimes
documented with their entire premeditations.
I know, it wouldn’t be
the done thing if ý were
to hand out cheque exchange,
money is too coarse a unit
to measure the intricacies
of all these sustained plunders.
Look, apart from my usual tricks
I can find other interesting ways of repayment.
When it comes to repayment I am a peerless expert.
For instance, what would you say
to a lecture at one of your club’s meetings?
A lecture: on the shining ideals of humanity.
Or else I could arrange a raffle on your behalf.
With vertigos, nostalgias
and festering loves to be shared
by prize winners.
Let a just bargain be struck
at long last!
Again all your past offences
I have lined up all the crimes
I intend to commit.
No matter what I do
I’ll have to bear the brunt
of every impregnating, pestilent wind.
If still waters cry deep
let them run into me.
The forging strength of fire
and the wisdom of earth
shall not fail to restore
my sword to me.
(Translated by Zeyd Gulesin)
A SHROUD FOR MY DARLING
The shrine of a woman whose hair blazes in henna
soars overhead in an undertone
these violet autumn days inflict their madness
driving you out of your senses and books
tumors, dead ants
chills and shivers cover me
curiosity
is the genesis of a revolutionary
and above me in an undertone fly
cancer, begonia, death.
White gauze behind the windowpane
and eyes plucked out
real human eyes heavy like rocks
a mother endures all the agony
and the dust stirred up by her corpse,
you warden of anguish, you autumn days.
Under the rain of the rebel leader
I clobber my own scorched and paltry beauty
Saturday afternoons pierce like a cramp
my hope
is a ferocious animal
which keeps toppling the banknotes and mass meetings
and chokes the houses we live in
with the aroma of cinnamon and with weariness,
curiosity
is the genesis of a revolutionary
in the bazaars some coppersmiths wash
and women who knead dough are dragged with clangs
in their mortars they pound their stubborn streak
and their vile hopes too.
I cannot love a girl secretly
a thousand curiosities prick me all over
those gloomy smells of incense our mothers
craving food in pregnancy must eat dirt
unite the ropes of my heart against the moon
my heavenly pain throbs in my wrists
sawdust convulsing sawdust
sawdust of the sledge that beats on my temples.
(Translated by [[]])
