Don Quixote
the warrıor of the eternal youth
obeyed his mind throbbing in his heart
and so
one day in JULY
he went for a warfare
to acquire the claims
of the beautiful...the honest and the righteous
in front of him lay the cruel world
with her malicious and stupid giants
riding on his sad but heroine horse ROSINANTE
I know
what is to be longing deeply for this
what is to be brave with a huge unprevented pounding heart
there is no other way
we do it our way
for me and for DON QUIXOTE
than
to fight with the big giant wind-mills
it is a must for us
you are right DON QUIXOTE
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poem by Metin Sahin
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Poem For Raki (raki Is Turkish Brandy)
thanks GOD
rage and vengeance never conqured me
ı have never thought of being a governor
or a dı plomat
ı have never..never run after elections
this is the world
some goes after his lusts
some struggles for his lı vı ng and to live
but drinking rakı
is another..another world
for comfort yourself
you fill the mug or the little glass of something
and begin to ponder and think
you eat also something
bur rakı does not eat with you
never says do not talk
and do not laugh
but always rakı says the last word
and decides the last decision
if it wants it kills you
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poem by Metin Sahin
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The Strangest Creature Of The World
you look lıke a scorpion my friend
you live cowardly ın darkness like a scorpion
you look like a sparrow my friend
you are in the haste of a sparrow
you look like a mussel my friend
like a mussel closed and comfortable
and you are terrible my friend
like the muzzel of a volcano
your number not one
you are not five
but unfortunately there are millions of you
on the world
you look like lamb my friend
when well clad cattle dealer with cloak
raises his baton
you immediately join the herd
and proudly
you run to the slaughter house quickly
that to say word by word
you are the strangest creature of the world
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poem by Metin Sahin
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Waking On A New Morning
thanks GOD..ı have reached a new..fresh morning
that means...ı am on the world..alive
thanks GOD..ı have reached a new..fresh morning
ı am still dreaming..fancying and in dreams
the harnessed cart on road
the anchored ship at hArbour
all my kins...all my relatives gather together..come together
LOOK.. it is so new..a fresh morning
house on house is weary of the world
the mountains are in their joyous moments
vapour in the glittering eyes
the dead and alive together are walking on the steets
the market is in its motion all day
the false and unnecessary haste wearies everyone
on the world
human beings against it are walking on it shaking
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poem by Metin Sahin
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Occupation
when the dawn enlightens by the horns of my oxen
I plow the soıl with my prıde in my patient struggle
under my bare feet ı feel the soil humid and warm
with brilliant lights in my arm muscles
I forge the ıron till noon
the darkness turns to crimson
in the warmth of the afternoon
with the most greennes on their leaves
I gather the newly ripened olives
all my body and my eyes in lights
I have always have visitors in my house in every evening
my door ajar..wide open to every kınd of songs
at night ı go ınto the water knee high
and I pull the nets from the sea
full of fish mixed with the shining stars
now ı am responsible from the world
they ask me
about the human.the soıl, the darkness and the daylight
I think you understand me
I am fully occupied and busy
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poem by Metin Sahin
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the ROAD TO illumination
light
angry with my being
but when i go and leave
and dissapear
it embraces my absence silently
it neither approaches thoroughly
nor leaves and go away completely
i am following a light
i am after a light
sometimes
it flows into me
like an ablutions towel of my mother
like a wet funeral courtyard of a mosgue
and like the water in ablution fountains
you cannot shape it
you cannot make a form of it
you cannot grap it with your hands
you cannot look at it with your bare eyes
sometimes it makes you blind
you cannot taste it with your tongues
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poem by Metin Sahin
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Outsi De The Prison
outside
the birds are singing
the mountains crimson and bare
the fish-bones of the poplars
are hidden under the faded yellowish leaves
since sometime
a huge stork..patient and a hardworker
is gathering something from
the garbage-field
down there..to build her nest
when you look from here
the city seems empty and bare
the clock tower a little bit far and high
sruck eleven of the morning
all my optimism is full in me
and increasing and filling again
that never exhausted and finished yet
that is my peculiar, private treasure
ı hope and say and repeat stubbornly
we will soon be set free
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poem by Metin Sahin
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Leisure
İT is two days
since ıhave been reading a book
in the garden
without moving a bit
ı have no energy even to rise my arms
the boy of my neighbour..cemile's tenant's is playing a violin
he first began playing
when ı first came here
two years ago
do.re.mi.fa.sol.la.ti, do
and now chaikovsky
it is two years
in these years
he has accomplished a great work
and I
what have I done since now
my years flowed like a sea without fish
and are flowing still so
why do ı live
I do not know
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poem by Metin Sahin
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The Hoary Memories In Winter
a day in january
in winter with hoary and grey clouds
the hoary thistles in the garden up over there
the hoary thistles with hoary poppies
the hoary frost on them
the hoary mist up and down
no finches, no birds of any kind
except the black crows and ravens
crowing up and there
hoaring covered everywhere
a hoary man strolles on them
with unsteady steps and paces
what is he after
what is he looking for
what is he searching
look at the ancient houses there
some tumbling down
some with plasters all gone
what the hoary man looks for
what is he after
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poem by Metin Sahin
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Not Anything Of Me
you are not anything of mine
lesser than the things ı write
are you not anything or something else for me
I am not sure..I do not know
whiter than what is needed
you are not anything of mine
your being or not being is not known
you are on the old harbour may be
how you are a star shining in my darkness
you drew with your lips on the window-glass
in the hotels of the fall mostly
searching the sleepness of a college girl
how ugly is her loneliness
may be lethal
at dawn may be her cowardice be much lethal too
her ears on the telephone bells
which are going to ring
when will they ring nobody knows
you are not anything of mine
whom I never made love with
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poem by Metin Sahin
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