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Derya Onder

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by Derya Onder

Friday, May 23, 2008
Rated "G" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Derya Onder
•  Mon Coeur est pour la pluie
•  Je vous ai vu monsieur
•  The Dove in the Balcony
•  Night was my dream
           >> View all 5

We are on the verge of the night that is approaching, whirling and whirling
At the edge of the bridge composed of the murmurs uttered when we are delirius
How is it possible to narrate why all these injuries occur, without arms and weapons
How is it possible to explain this depthlessness causing the flower to fade
Life is a ball of silk thread, multicoloured
Life is all the sad poppies standing still under the rainbow
The mystery in how a man falls in love with a woman silently
How the magic is unveiled in the silent love of a woman
I am gathering all the rain drops, all the downpours in the towns that are piled together
Gathering the suns in the vast blues, our hands so skinny
The piercing pain of all the incomplete loves, carried away, in whatever age one is
Ask me, I will tell how many stars there are, if possible,
All rolling down in the night, from the darkness, into the light

Our mouths, full of foam, love in our mouths, chewed and spit out
Welcome’s, goodmorning’s, how are you’s all chewed and spit out
This is not how it goes, I know, impossible to proceed, remaining thus behind
Thin ropes streched between us, ponds of tear drops rolling down in thin lines
How can the lovers ordered to go away, and all those unreachable Springs be narrated
Better would it be you and me as the only audience, how crowded are the spectators
Watching the despair, as if one crosses a garden full of pebbles, rocks, stones
Stabbing one, piercing needles into the body in full length
And then, watching how one suffers, this unmatched defeat, that is unique

We are approaching turning round and round, remaining in the night
That is why we still are where we are, the abscissa, zero and all, zero is the ordinate
No wings have I, streched out, not even a revenge, not taken at all
No harm done in asking you for the last time, I know
No harm done for certain women
If they remain out of their shells then they won’t be in despair
No pain in my soul, dry are my eyes, and if despair
Does not roam around me…then I am well, better than anyone….

Our mouths, full of foam, why is all this foam for
This night, which season does it belong to, and who says ‘you’ to you
Being involved in life, falling in love, into despair, laughing and playing
Weeping for the one that has passed away, just laughing and playing
As I already said, if it is a dream, it is a dream, and if a lie, then it is a lie
As the lies told destroy the untold dreams
This is how we all are…how calm and withdrawn, how offended…and thirsty

Now we should rest beneath the trees grown by us
And, just today, is the exact time to talk about us, and about all those
Septembers, Octobers that will follow each other in time, the way you wish
The children too die as their childhoods do die
Open the rear window of the world and look around
That green field and grass made up of hopes
That carnation, that rose, that one, tell me what its name is
The one that falls upon the darkness, whirling and whirling
Is it this life that will take us out into the streets

I just laugh.

(Translated into English by Aysu ERDEN)



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Reviewed by Axilea MU 5/23/2008
A whirling extended metaphor, rich with sensitivity.

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