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

the story of the little cloud

children have their own world, not regulated rigidly like that of adults, but still, there is something common, something that we adults still share a little with that world, and through which we can enter into that world often, luckily.

when my niece was about two years old, I read her a tale, a story of a little cloud who decided to leave his parents and travel the world, as a nap time reading. her attention span was short and she was distracted after a while, I thought that the five page story was too long for her. we reverted to well known stories. many days later when it was time for nap, she asked me to read her the story of the cloud, amazed that she remembered the story I nevertheless asked which story she is talking about, I wanted her to tell me about it. "you know, the little cloud that you read me" she said. I read the story from the beginning again and this time she was more patient. later, I would make her tell me the story, she would look at the few drawings and narrate the story in her own way of liking. this was two years ago and I only see her during the summer time not for a very long time. yesterday I was talking to her before she went to bed on webcam and I asked her how the cloud is doing? she didn't ask me which cloud. she asked whether I would like to see it and brought me the book with the drawings of the scenes about the adventures of the little cloud.

children are curious things, like little clouds.

in search of the dream

What’s the price?
“Is the price of living a dream much higher than the price of living without daring to dream?” asked the disciple.
The master took him to a clothes store. There, he asked him to try on a suit in exactly his size. The disciple obeyed, and was very amazed at the quality of the clothes.
Then the master asked him to try on the same suit – but this time a size much bigger than his own. The disciple did as he was asked.
“This one is no use. It’s too big.”
“How much are these suits?” the master asked the shop attendant.
“They both cost the same price. It’s just the size that is different.”
When leaving the store, the master told his disciple, “Living your dream or giving it up also costs the same price, which is usually very high. But the first lets us share the miracle of life, and the second is of no use to us.”
from In Search of the Dream, Paulo Coelho

a definition of dreams

Unauthorized appearance of suppressed longings behind a false face and under a false name.

Cark Spitteler - "My Earlier Experiences," 1913

Basho on poetry

Learn from the pine

Learn about pines from the pine, and about bamboo from the bamboo.

Don't follow in the footsteps of the old poets, seek what they sought.

The basis of art is change in the universe. What's still has changeless form. Moving things change, and because we cannot put a stop to time, it continues unarrested. To stop a thing would be to halve a sight or sound in our heart. Cherry blossoms whirl, leaves fall, and the wind flits them both along the ground. We cannot arrest with our eyes or ears what lies in such things. Were we to gain mastery over them, we would find that the life of each thing had vanished without a trace.

Make the universe your companion, always bearing in mind the true nature of things --mountains and rivers, trees and grasses, and humanity-- and enjoy the falling blossoms and the scattering leaves.

One should know that a hokku is made by combining things.

The secret of poetry lies in treading the middle path between the reality and the vacuity of the world.

One must first of all concentrate one's thoughts on an object. Once one's mind achieves a state of concentration and the space between oneself and the object has disappeared, the essential nature of the object can be perceived. Then express it immediately. If one ponders it, it will vanish from the mind.

Sabi is the color of the poem. It does not necessarily refer to the poem that describes a lonely scene. If a man goes to war wearing stout armor or to a party dressed up in gay clothes, and if this man happens to be an old man, there is something lonely about him. Sabi is something like that.

When you are composing a verse, let there not be a hair's breadth separating your mind from what you write. Quickly say what is in your mind; never hesitate aa moment.

Composition must occur in an instant, like a woodcutter feeling a huge tree, or a swordsman leaping at his enemy. It is also like cutting a ripe watermelon with sharp knife or like taking a large bite at a pear.

Is there any good in saying everything?

...

Eat vegetable soup rather than duck stew.

Matsuo Basho

secret

best dreams are --
kept secret

I am There

I come from there and remember,
I was born like everyone is born, I have a mother
and a house with many windows,
I have brothers, friends and a prison.
I have a wave that sea-gulls snatched away.
I have a view of my own and an extra blade of grass.
I have a moon past the peak of words.
I have the godsent food of birds and an olive tree beyond the kent of time.
I have traversed the land before swords turned bodies into banquets.
I come from there, I return the sky to its mother when for its mother the sky cries,
and I weep for a returning cloud to know me.
I have learned the words of blood-stained courts in order to break the rules.
I have learned and dismantled all the words to construct a single one:
Home 

Mahmoud Darwish

Confessions # 1

In one of my previous jobs, I was asked to write letters on behalf of my employer who already had an assistant for that task. The letters were meant to be simple one or two sentences expressing regrets of declining a certain invitation to attend a certain meeting or gratitude of being invited to such a well-organized event. Not being in a position to decline the task I was given, and at the same time out of fury that I was asked to perform a basic task that someone in the position of my employer is supposed to be able to do, and adding to that, that my employer had an employee whose main task was to perform what I was asked, I wrote these letters of at most two sentences with an overtly stylized language which sounded too sophisticated that rather indicated an arrogant mockery than sophistication.

My employer liked the letters that I wrote so much that he kept asking for more.

I took a Kafkaesque pleasure in my secret revenge.

What happens to a dream deferred?

HARLEM
Langston Hughes


What happens to a dream deferred?


Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?


Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.


Or does it explode?

one of those moments, travelling in time

Hajo (Hans Joachim Rose), Self-Portrait, 1931

fire, gaze, the thing (or das ding)

“the outer gaze always alters the inner thing…by looking at an object we destroy it with our desire, that for accurate vision to occur the thing must be trained to see itself, or otherwise perish in blindness, flawed.”

Ben Marcus, The Age of Wire and String

time

When one doesn't run, time passes slowly.

"In childhood everything is near, everything is immediately present, there isn't the possibility of distance, of an overview, every moment appears to be an eternity."

Peter Weiss

Take off your words they get in the way...

Narcissus

"Narcissus knew that he could never have himself. But if he'd had a photograph maybe his tragedy would have been avoided."

Vik Muniz, Mirrors; Or, 'How to Steal a Masterpiece'

There are no paradises other than lost paradises.

J.L. Borges

Conversation with a stone

I knock at the stone's front door.
"It's only me, let me come in.
I want to enter your insides,
have a look round,
breathe my fill of you."

"Go away," says the stone.
"I'm shut tight.
Even if you break me to pieces,
we'll all still be closed.
You can grind us to sand,
we still won't let you in."

I knock at the stone's front door.
"It's only me, let me come in.
I've come out of pure curiosity.
Only life can quench it.
I mean to stroll through your palace,
then go calling on a leaf, a drop of water.
I don't have much time.
My mortality should touch you."

"I'm made of stone," says the stone,
"and must therefore keep a straight face.
Go away.
I don't have the muscles to laugh."

I knock at the stone's front door.
"It's only me, let me come in.
I hear you have great empty halls inside you,
unseen, their beauty in vain,
soundless, not echoing anyone's steps.
Admit you don't know them well yourself."

"Great and empty, true enough," says the stone,
"but there isn't any room.
Beautiful, perhaps, but not to the taste
of your poor senses.
You may get to know me, but you'll never know me through.
My whole surface is turned toward you,
all my insides turned away."

I knock at the stone's front door.
"It's only me, let me come in.
I don't seek refuge for eternity.
I'm not unhappy.
I'm not homeless.
My world is worth returning to.
I'll enter and exit empty-handed.
And my proof I was there
will be only words,
which no one will believe."

"You shall not enter," says the stone.
"You lack the sense of taking part.
No other sense can make up for your missing sense of taking part.
Even sight heightened to become all-seeing
will do you no good without a sense of taking part.
You shall not enter, you have only a sense of what that sense should be,
only its seed, imagination."

I knock at the stone's front door.
"It's only me, let me come in.
I haven't got two thousand centuries,
so let me come under your roof."

"If you don't believe me," says the stone,
"just ask the leaf, it will tell you the same.
Ask a drop of water, it will say what the leaf has said.
And, finally, ask a hair from your own head.
I am bursting with laughter, yes, laughter, vast laughter,
although I don't know how to laugh."

I knock at the stone's front door.
"It's only me, let me come in."

"I don't have a door," says the stone.

Wislawa Szymborska

city poetics

I missed reading a good poem, or writing one. trying to write one. suddenly coming up with one. but I don't have much time nowadays. what a bad excuse! or, let me say, I don't have a poetic space in my mind these days. so I am indulging myself on the neon scriptures of the city, of the boards, of the ads posted on lamp posts, that is, on the poetics of the city. I wish I was taking their pictures. This is something I saw today, and hence I leave you with the unbearable lightness of its heaviness.

Silence is a text which is easy to misread.

on lies, secrets, and silence

"She goes to poetry or fiction looking for her way of being in the world, since she too has been putting words and images together, she is looking eagerly for guides, maps, possibilities; and over and over ... she comes up against something that negates everything she is about: she meets the image of Woman in books written by men. She finds a terror and a dream, she finds a beautiful pale face, she finds la Belle Dame Sans Merci, she finds Juliet or Tess or Salomé, but precisely what she does not find is that absorbed creature, herself, who sits at a desk trying to put words together."

from On Lies, Secrets, and Silence, Adrienne Rich