İSMAİL ERSEVİM – İngilizce Şiirler (U.S.A.)


                    Standing over the cliff
                    watching the surf,
                    that pounds against the shore,

                    This is the symphony of the sea
                    that had been playing the same melodies,    
                    for me, for you, for all beings
                    over and over again

                    Now, the tide is moving,
                    and, he past is going with it,

                    But I know it well,
                    that the tide shall return,
                    moon after moon.

                    Will the past?          

                                                   (Publ. in: The Amer. Poetry Ant., Vol.II, No.3-                                                                     Fall/Winrer 1983, Santa Cruz, Calif.)


                                                                     LIFE  STORY

                     The Earth, The air
                     The Fire, The Water:
                     That was the beginning.

                      Love, share and care
                      Sorrow, grief and sorry
                      Sunrise and sunset
                      Was the story between.

                      Now it is about the end of the journey
                      Faith is mute and oblivious,
                      Feelings and memories are frozen
                      In the dark shadows
                      of colorless existence.

                      Thus, the end of the beginnning, 
                      and, the beginning of the end
                      all remain to be:
                      The Earth, The air,
                      The Fire and The Water.

                                                                             “Publ. in The Amer. Poetry Showcase                                                                                              1985 Santa Crus, Calif.)


                                             KEEP IT SIMPLE, SWEATHEART

                       I am born,
                       you are born
                       we all are born.

                       I feel,
                       you feel,
                       we all feel.

                       I need love,
                       you need love
                       we all need love.

                       Life is so simple,
                       like this silly poem.
                       Honey, do not complicate it!
                       I want you deadly,
                       Do you want me?

                       Just think and decide:
                       You do want me?
                       If it is so,
                       give me a KISS
                       Keep It Simple, Sweetheart.

                                                    (Publ. in The Amer. Poet. of Anthol., Vol.IV,                                                                      Spring 1985 (Also No.3), Santa Cruz, Calif.)


                                                                FLYING HIGH

                       You serpent haired
                       Ukranian beauty,
                       Always seems to be
                       Flying high in the sky,
                       May be you’ll reach the sun.

                       It was yesterday.

                       When I touch you,
                       I feel you, then,
                       I am happy, sunny,  green and warm
                       Life is so beautiful.

                       It was yesterday.

                       When I don’t touch you,
                       The day is rainy, cold, dark,
                       and, gray, like my hair.

                       What happened to yesterday?

                       I woke up this morning,
                       and was alive until
                       Sun came up, and
                       Surrounded me with its warm
                       and enticing arms, like yours,
                       in a purple nightgown.

                       But now,
                       Sun is going down
                       And the memories
                       Have no meaning.
                       I’ll just lie down,

                                                                           (Publ. in The Amer. Peotry Showcase                                                                                            1985, Santa Cruz, Calif.)


                                                              ONE MAN LATE!

                       Suzie ate too many watermelon seeds
                       So she has a heart in her hear
                       And, her tommie is at her mouth.

                       Oh. baby, do you know where you are coming into?
                       This is a troubled world,
                       Less friendlier than your mommie’s tommie.

                       Evolution… Revolution.
                       Oh, baby, you are going through an evolution
                       Then you are ‘bienvenue’ to revolution.

                       Oh, beautiful baby;
                       I wish I were your daddie,
                       Cuddle you, kiss you, love you,
                       Wisper endless fairy tales into your aqua eyes.

                       But, I am one man late; oh, one man late.

                       Fish swim, birds fly, sun rises, sun downs,
                       Emotions ebb up and down, like o gondola
                       They spring within, then flow from one soul
                       Onto another.

                       Oh baby, do you know where you are coming into?
                       This is a cold, cold world
                       Less warmer than your mommie’s tommie.

                       Evolution… Revolution.
                       Oh, baby, you are going through an evolution,
                       Then, your are ‘bienvenue’ to revolution.

                       Oh, beautiful baby;
                       I wish I were your daddie,
                       Cuddle you, kiss you, love you
                       But mommie got watermelon seeds from someone else,

                       And, I am one man late; oh, one man late!

                                                                (Publ. in The American Showcase  
                                                                                1985, Santa Cruz, Calif.)



                        Come on honey,
                        we have lots of steps to climb.
                        It’s a sharp hill.
                        Oh, yeh, it’s a sharp hill.

                        There: some glorious flowers,
                        with vibrant colors:
                        Here: some bold rocks,
                        discolored and mouthy.

                        Sun, warm and entacing,
                        wind, emracing and weightless.
                        I wonder sometimes how
                        one could leave behind
                        the good, old buddies, like
                        my Cowboy, my Elf,
                        my Santa Claus, my Candy Man.

                        Take your Tarot Cards with you,
                        Hierophant and the Lovers,
                        and, keep climbing honey, non-stop.
                        It’s a sharp hill, Oh Yeh,
                        it’s a sharp hill.

                                                                   (Received  “Honorable Mention” at the World of Poetry, Nov.21’1987, Sacramento, Calif.)


                                                 YOU LIT THE CANDLES AGAIN

                        One upon a time
                        the lights in the Mecca of my soul
                        were dimmed out.

                        Then, in that deserted island
                         life appeared to be fading away;
                         the sun did not shine as bright,
                         the stars did not blink merrily
                         for their eternal rituals,
                         the winds forgot to whisper
                         the songs of unknown lands.

                        And, one day, you, sublime beauty
                        in your grace and humble serenity
                        wearing whites, lighter than lace
                        and, with a most innocent smile, softer than sil
                        walking weightlessly in the labyrinths
                        of my temple
                        with th wisdom of my old talisman
                        you lit the candles again, in my heart.

                                                                 (Publ. in: “The Hearts on Fire”, Vol.2
                                                                            Amer. Poet. Anthol., 1985, Santa Kruz, Calif.)


                                                             THE ROCKET MAN

                        I have been on your shoulders
                        flying through galaxies,
                        for how many light years.

                        Oh, the Rocket Man,
                        I adore you.
                        You are as light as feather,
                        floating, drifting off into space,
                        so gracefully.

                       But, I missed Mother Earth.
                       I am thankful to you Rocket Man, for,
                       you took away my madness, sadness and confusion
                       that I was afraid that
                       my entire soul
                       could have been exploded into infinity.

                       All through my life,
                       I had been the Jack of Hearts:
                       and, in my kingdom most intimate with
                       Acid, Pot, T.H.C. and Coke..
                       But, the Rocket Man,
                       One-Eyes Jacks are not wild anymore,
                       let me be your Rocket Child
                       and, bring me down to the Mother Earth:
                       nice and easy
                       to rejoice my being “me” again.
                       I promise,
                       I shall never, ever forget you, and,
                       not to play those same games again.

                                                            (Publ. in “The Amer. Poetry Showcase”,
                                                                         1985, Santa Cruz, Calif.)


                                                     UNITED STATES OF EUROPE

                       I had a dream the other night,
                       in which
                       I was sailing “dans la mouche
                       with my French cousin
                       all along in Seine, in Paris.

                       Then, in Hamburg, Germany
                       eating at McDonald’s
                       with my German brother-in-law.
                       I visited my grandparents’ graves
                       in Tessaloniki, Greece;
                       also Gevgili, Yugoslavia
                       my step-mother’s belowed homeland.

                       My blue-eyed nieces, distant cousins
                       of Swedish, Norvegian beauties;
                       Polish paysants, Hungarian barons and gypsies,
                       red-cheeked Irish girls who still rhyme
                       McCormack songs
                       blue jeanned Russian comrads,
                       strolling along Blue Danube or Volga
                       all “Hello!” to you.

                       “Hasta manana” to the widows
                       of the bull-fighters of Seville; and,
                       “Amore!” to “ragazze della Roma“.

                       Thus, time seems to arrive
                        to sing along, hand-in-hand;
                       “Allons, enfants de L’Europe
Le jour d’union est arrivé!”

                                                       (Written before the European Association,
                                                                                 but was not sent anywhere)


                                                                 MY TIRED EYES

                       Countless kingdoms
                       of glories and defeats of mankind
                       had been throug
                       my tired eyes.

                       Your inspiring beuaty,
                       his entacing speech, 
                       her serpent hair,
                       our tested wisdom
                       their life-long accomplishments,
                       my tired eyes,
                       could all instantly be placed in an ash-box.

                       Should life have been eternal,
                       drinking love endlessly
                       from the Mountain of Youth;
                       caressing your silky, bird-feathered hair
                       playing the rhapsody of ecstasy on our sore lips, and
                       squirming our bodies
                       becoming “one” in you,
                       would have been “To be”.

                       This is the story of Earth Living.

                       Now, just look up to the sky and, see that
                       silent moon and flirty clouds
                       seem to be playing the same
                       endless “touch-and-go”, “hide-and-seek” games,
                       in the boundless blues of the universe,
                       with the witnesses of the nude bathing Neptune girlls 
                       of open seas,
                       yet to appear to my tired eyes.

                       Stars: mythical inhabitants of the galaxy,
                       some sparkling, some mute,
                       some telling stories to each other
                       of Jesus, Mohammed and Moses,
                       about the inevitable exodus of mankind.

                       This is the story of Sky Living.

                       Thus, at the final countdown,
                       “To Be” equals to “Not To Be”,
                       at the unreachable horizons
                       of the Kingdoms of the Earth and the Skies
                       nothing matters anymore
                       to my tired eyes. 

                                                              (Written in Boston, 1988, not sent anywhere.)



                       My heart is a canary
                       reborn onto your chest
                       with silent screams
                       to free up the pain;
                       wih milky hopes
                       of a new chance,
                       another light, another life
                       to my ever-lasting tears.

                       Fear not
                       the archaic wisdom of turquoise magic
                       that reads eternally
                       “One Thousand and One Nights Arabic Tales”
                       sat beneath the fireplace.

                       My meories,
                       frozen in time;
                       wishing a whisper, a smile,
                       a long distance hug.

                       You beautiful canary,
                       can you exchange your world with me?

                                                                (Publ. in the “Best New Poets of 1988 & 
                                                                         “Amer. Poetry Assoc., Santa Cruz, Calif. 1989)


                                                                     I’M  LONELY

                       In life’s ceaseless ocean
                       I am a stow’away
                       in an unnamed, rain-soaked ship.

                       There is no reason to abandon the craft
                       the Healer’s hand did yield some hope, and,
                       my beingness was reserved for something rare
                       that I would have outrun death.

                       Oh, I wish my mom were here,
                       just for a day or two
                       until my soul regains its serenity
                       of sunny childhood of yesteryears.

                       Rememberences of cooking smells,
                       long apron strings drawn tight
                       of nestling in the rocking chair,
                       sunlit mornings, crisp white dresses.

                       Oh, I wish my mom were here,
                       just for a day or two,
                       to grace my days,
                       to calm my fears
                       in wind-blown lightning nights.

                                               (Having me win a “second best = Silver Poet” prize at the 1st Annual Convention of American Poetry Association, on July 28-30, 1989, San Francisco, California. Published in eight antologies.)



                       We are driven
                       to be ordained to love,
                       as Bible says so.           
                       Yet, my sorrowing heart
                       does not warm up
                       with mornings’ young light.

                       The ashes of my ancestors
                       who had passed through the scented doors,
                       my desolation in me that depletes
                       my calm fortitude.

                       I wake up to my silent screams
                       suppressed with grief
                       from my distempered dreams.

                       As I try to endure
                       the pains of evil destiny
                       life only appears to be perfect
                       to the blind.

                       I am at the end,
                       Where I’d begun.
                       What happened
                       to the serenity of cozy solitude,
                       eloquent sunsets, and
                       my mother’s transcendental beauty?

                       Promised paradise
                       from childhood’ hour on
                       seems to be frozen in time.
                       We are driven
                       to be ordained to die
                       as everything says so.

                                      (Publ. in: “Heartland, Anth. of Poetry
                                                         Orinda, California 1989)

                                                                                                        Ismail Ersevim

                                                                      *       *




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