rosebush

Whoever reaches into a rosebush may seize a handful of flowers; but no matter how many one holds, it's only a small portion of the whole. Nevertheless, a handful is enough to experience the nature of the flowers. Only if we refuse to reach into the bush, because we can't possibly seize all the flowers at once, or if we spread out our handful of roses as if it were the whole of the bush itself -- only then does it bloom apart from us, unknown to us, and we are left alone.

Lou Andreas-Salomé, from her memoirs

ecological disaster

after another dubious climate summit this time in Cancun Mexico which was hijacked by the discourse of negotiations between the rich and poor countries of the Copenhagen summit last year, the fault in the collective imagination on ecological disaster revealed itself more clearly. the hollywood narrativization of catastrophic disaster which explodes and transforms the earth has for long time distorted our comprehension of the ecological change. we are waiting for a total collapse of the civilization, an end of the historical time, an indisputable apocalyptic moment. it seems to us that we have still time until that moment arrives. there is still time to discuss and evaluate. in the imagination, ecological disaster is projected as the individual death that is known to be inevitable, yet demands unbelief in order to continue living. in this sense, disaster is locked into the dimension of the categorical unknown.

discussions and arguments will not be able to create a shift in this imagination of disaster. what is needed is another modality of imagining the disaster; not as the disaster-to-come, forever in the future, but rather, as a disaster that has already happened: we are living in the afterwards of an ecological disaster. it has already happened and we haven't realized it yet. we need to act not in the face of a coming disaster, but as the survivors of ecological change that has already impacted every fields of our lives.

Toronto, June 2010

Anlatmam Derdimi

I wouldn't share my troubles with whom who have none
Those who undergo no trouble wouldn't know their value
My troubles are my remedy, I didn't know
Never can a rose be without a thorn

Aşık Veysel (serbest çeviri)

translation suggested by subversion:

I could not tell my troubles to those who have none
Those who suffer none, would know their worth none
Troubles of mine were remedy of mine, I didn't know
Never can a rose be without a thorn

yet another trial:

I would not tell my troubles to those who have none
Those who don't worry can not know their worth
my troubles were my remedies, I didn't know
never can a rose be without a thorn

Coda

Of the secret Word of	Silence, even our mother
tongue does not let us	speak, except by turn-
ing us away. Our true words.	The words never spoken
are here. The words that do not	inhabit a voice resounding
in the air, are here. Read	as if they were not sus-
ceptible to any pronun-	ciation, mutely transmitted. By
the eyes. Passing over the	taut string of gazes, they can
stretch to infinity. Touch-	ing no lip, passing over
no body, the clarity	alloted to words.
Only absorbing the light	of the pupils. Through the eyes.
The true words that connect	us, never reduced to these
sounds; we see them dis-	tinct, their forms appear
clearly. The words that	shine in the pen-
umbra whose meaning sparkles	through one of those rad-
iant days, neither timbre nor	melody, which remains always
the words, these words here.	Intention to divulge them;
but impossible to recount	them in a language that
is entrusted to the voice; perhaps	with numbers they resemble
them a little, although un-	pronounceable, Word of
Silence.

disappearing ink

It's quiet lately at the fortuneteller's.
To control content, use actions.

"X"--someone who
hasn't appeared yet, but

whose purpose we deduce.
I know it's there.
Love, I think.
Or maybe it was goodness.

So many hopes for the outside.
(O hunger, O equivalent)

I approach it calmly.
It spills into everything.

Kate Greenstreet

back...

so I am back here, to the city and to my beloved page, which now has a new theme of colors, until I get bored. Well, of the color theme I suppose.

uncivil anecdote

Dreaming allows for, supports, releases, brings to light an extreme delicacy of moral, sometimes even metaphysical sentiments, the subtlest sense of human relations, refined differences, a learning of the highest civilization, in short a conscious logic, articulated with an extraordinary finesse, which only an intense waking labor would be able to achieve. In short, dreaming makes everything in me which is not strange, foreign, speak: the dream is an uncivil anecdote made up of very civilized sentiments (the dream is civilizing).

Roland Barthes, The Pleasure of the Text

when the inner fire meets the outer fire (dışı seni, içi beni yakar)

I take this as a description of dream-formation, i.e. as meeting of fires

For the eyelids --whose structure the Gods devised as a safeguard for the vision,--when they are shut close, curb the power of the inner fire; which power dissipates and allays the inward motions, and upon their allaying quiet ensues; and when this quiet has become intense there falls upon us a sleep that is well-nigh dreamless; but when some greater motions are still left behind, according to their nature and the positions they occupy such and so great are the images they produce, which images are copied within and are remembered by the sleepers when they awake out of the dream. And it is no longer difficult to perceive the truth about the formation of images in mirrors and in bright and smooth surfaces of every kind. It is from the combination with each other of the inner and the outer fires, every time that they unite on the smooth surface and are variously deflected, that all such reflections necessarily result, owing to the fire of the reflected face coalescing with the fire of the vision on the smooth and bright surface.

Plato, (Timaeus, 45d-46b)

Ey Sözlerin Aslın Bilen

Ey sözlerin aslın bilen gel de bu söz nerden gelir
Söz aslını anlamayan sanır bu söz benden gelir

Söz kılar kayguyu şad söz kılar bilişi yad
Eğer horluk eğer izzet her kişiye sözden gelir

Söz karadan aktan değil yazıp okumaktan değil
Bu yürüyen halktan değil Hâlık avazından gelir

Ne elif okudum ne cim varlığından kelecim
Bilmeye yüzbin müneccim tâalüm n’ıldızdan gelir

Şu’le bize Ay’dan değil aşk eri bu soydan değil
Rızkımsa bu evden değil deryâ-yı ummandan gelir

Biz bir behâne arada ayrık de elden ne gele
Hak çün emir eyler cana bu keleci ondan gelir

YÛNUS bir derd ile âh et kahr evinde neyler rahat
Bu derde derman kefâret bir âh ile suzdan gelir   

Yunus Emre (1240?–1321?)

the whisper

"one needs to lose oneself, in order to find,"
whispered Hayyam to my ear.
one needs to leave,
in order to arrive.

you won't be ever coming back here,
back to now
don't lament your traces
time will erase them all

a rain drop made its way
to the seed underground
what seems dead and silent
can come alive to light

je rêve, moi, je ne suis pas

this was something I wrote down after watching the film Léolo, Leolo's words that remained with me, it is a beautiful little film with a big heart, by the Quebecois director Jean-Claude Lauzon whom I just learned passed away in a plane crash.

the little proud duck

oh little duck
you're so proud
of your bright colors
of dark green and brown
so proud little duck

oh little duck proud
splashing waters around
as you land on the surface
of the shallow little pond
so small is the pond

oh little proud duck
I've crossed the oceans
flied with albatrosses
swam along with the whales
I've seen the biggest storms on earth
I've been to the eyes of maelstroms

the duck, proud and little
how bright are your colors
under the sunlight
what would have become of them
if you had ever left the pond

I love these friends of mine

My friends have many mountains,
Many mountains that I can breathe in
My friends have many houses,
Many caves that I could choose to live in

Yeah, you're a friend of mine
I love these friends of mine

borrowed from Marianne Faithful's song

cloud

I am the cloud
on which
a dream has landed

rastgele okumalar 2

Masalların Masalı

Su başında durmuşuz
çınarla ben.
Suda suretimiz çıkıyor
çınarla benim.
Suyun şavkı vuruyor bize,
çınarla bana.

Su başında durmuşuz
çınarla ben, bir de kedi.
Suda suretimiz çıkıyor
çınarla benim, bir de kedinin.
Suyun şavkı vuruyor bize
çınara, bana, bir de kediye.

Su başında durmuşuz
çınar, ben, kedi, bir de güneş.
Suda suretimiz çıkıyor
çınarın, benim, kedinin, bir de güneşin.
Suyun şavkı vuruyor bize
çınara, bana, kediye, bi de güneşe.

Su başında durmuşuz
çınar, ben, kedi, güneş, bir de ömrümüz.
Suda suretimiz çıkıyor,
çınarın, benim, kedinin, güneşin, bir de ömrümüzün.
Suyun şavkı vuruyor bize
çınara, bana, kediye, güneşe, bir de ömrümüze.

Su başında durmuşuz.
Önce kedi gidecek
kaybolacak suda sureti.
Sonra ben gideceğim
kaybolacak suda suretim.
Sonra çınar gidecek
kaybolacak suda sureti.
Sonra su gidecek
güneş kalacak,
sonra o da gidecek.

Su başında durmuşuz
çınar, ben, kedi, güneş, bir de ömrümüz.
Su serin,
çınar ulu,
ben şiir yazıyorum,
kedi uyukluyor,
güneş sıcak,
çok şükür yaşıyoruz.
Suyun şavkı vuruyor bize
çınara, bana, kediye, güneşe, bir de ömrümüze.

Nazım Hikmet
7 Mart 1958
Varşova - Şvider

rastgele okumalar

bir kitabı elime alıp rastgele bir sayfa açtım. bugünki okumam şu:

KORO

Bile bile, öykü öykü, gibi gibi

Bir kenti aradığımız, bir başka kentin

Adıyla aradığımız ve asıl bulmaktaki

Çözülmez güzelliğin . .

Kan!

Hem sonu hem doğuşu en gerçek ilkelliğin.

Edip Cansever, Tragedyalar I