A Dream Within A Dream

"Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

..."

From A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Alan POE

On Valentine's Day

I caught this insant this morning after leaving mom's.

"oh those women I loved, they were not there anyway

they were wearing rain as the autumn
if I were to cuddle a bit, they’d turn to be kids
if I were to leave, their eyes froggy by the fear
oh those women I loved, they were not there anyway
such a loving has not been lived


no, do not think that they stopped thinking about me
still now and then their letters get here
they were not real they were hopes each
an old song or may be a verse
oh those women I loved, they were not there anyway
such a loving has not been lived


they held my hands in my solitude
their whisper far away makes me shiver
as if they were clouds in the sky
who knows where did they fade away
oh those women I loved, they were not there anyway
Such a loving has not been lived


Atilla ILHAN
Ben Ne Kadınlar Sevdim
through my broken translation"

As for me, I have been very loyal to my very loyal lover.

From weeks ahead, I had already bought my self a lovely present and a ticket to Alle Anderen movie in the festival which I strongly recommend as I really liked this evening as a perfect deep and fun way to mull over the loving process and the reflections on the relationship.

After the movie, I treated my self with a beatiful dinner and a glass of vine in my nice restaurant.

Hope your Valentine Days are all good as mine.

I smell Lolita Lempicka.. from the gift box.

Good night.. sleep tight

An Empty Nest

Yesterday, on my way to the farmers market, I fell on my head and back quite brutally , on the stony asphalte, at the icy end of a slope. Not only the physical pain of my head but I felt so ashamed as tha cars stopped to the incident. And sweeping my tears from my cheeks I realised I suddenly felt so uniquely alone and felt the urge to shed more tears.

I felt as if being alone is "fearful in an offending way / Sometimes one gets exhausted of living captive on a blade". This how I felt it just the way  Atilla ILHAN describes "loving" in one of his very well-known poems*. 

Now and then I am asking myself, although my home is blessed with friends, with dreams came true, joy and love like my cats jumping each other, is there an empty nest inside of me? Is it an obligation?

Does purification bring isolation?

The back of my head and my neck hurts still, but not these thoughts anymore as I am putting them down here.

* - I AM OBLIGED TO YOU

I am obliged to you, you can not know
Like a nail this is how I am keeping your name in my head
Your eyes get bigger and bigger
I am obliged to you, you can not know
I am warming up inside with you

The trees getting ready for the fall
Is this city, that old Istanbul?
The clouds shredded in the darkness
The street lights are on all in a sudden
The smell of the rain on the sidewalks
I am obliged to you, you are missing out

Loving is sometimes fearful in an offending way
One gets exhausted suddenly, on a late afternoon
Of living captive on a blade
Sometimes
His passion breaks his hands
Makes out many lives from his living
Whichever door he knocks sometimes
The sneaky whirling of loneliness at his back

A gramaphone is on in Fatih
Plays a Cuma from the old times
I wish I could listen at the corner perpetually
If only I could bring you an unused sky
The weeks crumble in my hands
Whatever I do, whatever I hold, wherever I go
I am obliged to you, you are missing out

Maybe you are the child in blue dots
Oh noone knows, noone knows you
A cargo vessel oozes away in your deserted eyes
Maybe you are taking a flight in Yesilkoy
You are soaked, you have goose pumps
May be you're blind, you're broken
The evil wind hurls your hair

Whenever I think of a living,
May be hard around this table of volves
Without a shame, without getting our hands dirty
Whenever I think of a living
I say shush and I begin with your name
Your secret seas moves inside me
No, there is no other way
I am obliged to you, you can not know

Atila ILHAN
Ben Sana Mecburum
through my modest translation

Leaving Like Snow

As I was walking to the bus stop this morning, I noticed that all the snow from yesterday disappeared. I mean the trees were not white anymore. But one could say it snowed yesterday. Something in the air..

Lately my dearest cousin Toygar, Oya and Jane from Posy, lived loss of people dear. My mind was busy finding them the words. When it is gone, the loss.. "fire burns where it falls" as they say. Empathy can not give more than confort but I wanted to find this "something new" to them. I thought of the things that leave like the snow of yesterday, pure, more and bright.
I searched the original poem of the turkish song.. "Dünle beraber gitti cancağızım, ne kadar söz varsa düne ait, şimdi yeni şeyler söylemek lazım"

"At one time when life was real, your soul was one with my soul:

All we were, open or secret, was part of the same whole.

If “you” and “I” are pronouns I use, they are only terms - -
In truth, there can be no separate you or I at all.
...

It is an enemy of the sun who climbs on the roof,

Covers both his eyes and shouts: “Look, the sun is dead and gone!”

How lovely to halt and rest – and then to go on your way,

Not frozen nor muddled, to stay fresh by flowing away.

Yesterday is past and gone – so are your words of yesterday:

How lovely to find for each new day something fresh to say.

I took a vow that so long as life does not fade away

From my heart, I shall stay on the straight path and never stray;

But then I looked to my right and to my left - - and I saw

My beloved right and left - - left and right - - every which way."

 
RUMI
from Ruabiyat

translated by Prof. Talat SALMAN

 

The Mercedes I Loved

Before I was 5, I had this nickname Mercedes from my father's driver Sherif Abi where as my older sister was nicknamed Anadol. Although sis and I, we did not know why those names were given, we both loved our nicknames each.

Well, at those days, Mercedes was the best car for Sherif Abi, and Anadol, a national ordinary car. Now I understand that it must have been a delicate way of having a favorite one :)

I have never been into cars but I kept the sweet memories of the dusty town I grew up, the light green mercedes parked in front of our apartment and my soulful Sherif Abi that I currently have the chance to occasionally see at family funerals, holidays or happy gatherings. I see Life passing through us, our hair, our skin, our glances, our postures,.. our smiles. I watch Life do sweetly, slowly sometimes swiftly what it does to all if given a chance.

Thanks
to Life,
to Mercedes Sosa (who passed away the day before yesterday) and to B that I always loved that I first heard this beautiful song from..

Click here to see the video and to listen:

Thanks to Life

By Violeta Parra

Thanks to Life that gave me so much

Gave me two bright stars,

when I open themI perfectly distinguish

the black from the white

And the starred background of the high sky

And in the crowds the man I love.

Thanks to Life that game me so much,

Gave me the hearing which in all its width

Night and day captures the cricket and the canary,

Hammers, turbines, barks and squalls

And the tender voice of my beloved.

Thanks to Life that gave me so much

Gave me the sound and the alphabet,

And along the words I think and declare:

Mother, Friend, Brother, and Light illuminating

The way to the soul of whom I loved.

Thanks to Life that gave me so much,

Gave me the march of my tired feet,

With them I walked cities and ponds,

Beaches and deserts, mountains and plains,

And the house of yours, your street and your backyard.

Thanks to Life that gave me so much,

Gave me a heart that flutters in its cage

When I see the fruit of the human brain,

When I see the good, so far from the bad,

When I see the bottom of your light eyes.

Thanks to Life that gave me so much,

Gave me the laughter and gave me the crying,

Thus I can distingish joy and sadness,

The two materials of which my song is made,

And the song of yours that is the same,

And the song of all, which is my own song

These are the photos of Biffy and I, taken each year at the doorway of Malcolm. Biffy was our imaginary dog with an ex-lover, the son of Malcolm. Biffy was in our dreams of our life together along with our imaginary daughter Lilly and our imaginary friend Shui.

This dog just the dog we have imagined years, years ago came to visit me every year whenever I went down to visit Malcolm. So I knew it was Biffy. The real Biffy.

And above is Malcolm's favorite tree: a huge eucaliptus tree and if you pay enough attention, you can see me hugging it down below.

Forgive me real Mercedes and real Violeta for forgetting lately about being thankful to life for the men I loved.

My heart aches still for each of them.. Deeply, nobly, quietly.

Faithfully.

For they had been my homes in time.

Do you have a favorite street that leads to your lover, to his backyard, to his house?

Are you thanking to Life?

The Piano Speaks

by Sandra BEASLEY

For an hour I forgot my fat self,

my neurotic innards, my addiction to alignment.

For an hour I forgot my fear of rain.

For an hour I was a salamander

shimmying through the kelp in search of shore,

and under his fingers the notes slid loose

from my belly in a long jellyrope of eggs

that took root in the mud. And what

would hatch, I did not know—

a lie. A waltz. An apostle of glass.

For an hour I stood on two legs

and ran. For an hour I panted and galloped.

For an hour I was a maple tree,

and under the summer of his fingers

the notes seeded and winged away

in the clutch of small, elegant helicopters.

On the Way Home

Today,

on my way home I heard something beautiful, I stopped by and tasted the moment.. I listened to the whispers of the pine trees' leaves in the beautiful summer evening

"I am the Eye
I am the Light
I am the new limit in the sky

I am the water in the glass
I am the water in the sea
I am tree and I am grass
I am the generation ‘C’

I am the Queen, I am the King
I am the holder of the Ring
I have power in my fists
I know no fear: I took all risks

I am the one who couldn’t wait any longer
I am the imaginary number
I am the new one in the band...
I am big
I am small...
I can’t wait to hold your hand
∞ "

Today ,
has been Maya STEINS' first day out on earth.
The little sweet poem above is written by "Mr. Father" on the occasion of the baby annnouncement. I just loved it and wanted share it with you.
Welcome to our Planet Maya where away from the plazas, trees whisper on the way back home, if you have time to listen.
And I just love it Maya.
Hope you will too..
ps: can't wait to hold your hand!

Getting Away

Getting away, meter by meter, swimming in the sky,

flying above the sunflower fields ..

Getting there..

The sunflower fields reminded me the old song of YeniTurku with the beatiful lyrics of Murathan Mungan

Let the windows open

Let it rain at night

Let our sunflower dreams

Be soaked with the sound of the rain

We used to be kids

We used to be bright stars then

Although we can not return to back then

We have the springs that we ran after

Constantinopolis-Alexandropoulis (Istanbul-Dedeagac) 6 hours of a very pleasant journey with Varan Setra buses with a break in Tekirdag having the famous meatball lunch, costs you 60YTL(around 30 Euros) with return.

When My Brother Cried

When my brother cried
He was 3, I was 5

In the middle of the night

Waken up by my parents' fight

He was horrified

A horizontal 8 his mouth like

So desperate he was

His face red, downwards were his eyes

All I remember

I felt so strong to cover him with my bigger arms

When my brother cried

So helpless

Yesterday night

He was 33 in a dark blue wedding night

I felt the same I realised

I wanted to cover him in my arms

For my heart melted

The same way it was

When he was 3 and I was five

Waken up by his cry

8 June'09, Tarabya

Weary Hands, Roses and Open Arms

Don't Go, Stay

Think of so many sorrows
Think of all that poverty
Think of the tears
"Don't go" is the desire of a child who knows no "no"s
Don't go, think back,

...

Think of everything, every thing
Think of the midnights
Think of what you have told
Catty rains were falling
It was cold
Think of the fire we burnt

Think of what you are leaving through
Think of, in everywhere on our Earth
When weary hands seize roses
Think of the joy of the hands
Think of the joy of the roses

How much we loved, think back

Arif DAMAR
(hoping that my translation is acceptable)

The Blades of Every Crisis

A Dream of Trees

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,

A quiet house, some green and modest acres

A little way from every troubling town,

A little way from factories, schools, laments.

I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,

With only streams and birds for company.

To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.

And then it came to me, that so was death,

A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees,

But let it go.

Homesick for moderation,

Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.

If any find solution, let him tell it..

Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation

Where, as the times implore our true involvement,

The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.

Who ever made music of a mild day?

Mary OLIVER (1935-present)

I had this running around day last tuesday. Then met with my good old friend Ali to go to a cocktail where we survived for some time till smoke took us apart(why do people still smoke?). He left me to the funicular and although I was so tired of thinking about my beautiful Mary Oliver poem that I discovered before the flat it self and whether to leave or not to leave the flat now, I didnt tell a word that evening. My constant eating must have told him about the way I feel, he was unusually supppotive that night. And while we were saying goodbye, he asked about the latest situation on my job and the rented dream flat and I said "my home was beautiful..". He said "you'll make a more beautiful one.."

Then I remembered how wise he was in telling this and the good architect that he has been. The flats they have made with his creative wife in time. How many homes have they had.

Thatanswer stopped me and woke me up.

Isn't that what life is all about? Starting over

Who ever made music of a mild day?

So the day after I was changed. I started this beautiful butterfly cross-stiching kit. Had the call I was waiting for, for a further interview.

The Tiny Woman and Honeysuckles

A home was my dream. Just like in the poem...


The Giant, The Tiny Woman and Honeysuckles

He was a giant with blue eyes
Loved a tiny woman
The woman's dream was a house
With a garden where honeysuckles grows
in marbled textures

The giant loved like a giant
And his hands were done for so big
That he couldn't do the way
He wouldn't knock on the door
Of the tiny house with a garden
Where honeysuckles grows
in marbled textures

He was a giant with blue eyes
Loved a tiny woman
The woman was teeny tiny
Became hungry for confort
Got exhausted in giant's enormous way
And saying goodbye to the giant
Entered in the arm of a dwarf
To the garden of the house with honeysuckles

Now the giant knows
That to giant loves
Can not even be graves
Tiny houses whith honeysuckles

Nazim Hikmet RAN (1901-1963)

Who could blame the woman? I had no giants, no dwarfs just my home and LOVE. My dream home. At the age of 35 and after dreaming for at least 16 years.

Lost job, lost lover. And am about to loose my home now.

This was my dream for years. What kept me alive. My white tablecloth and my diningwear on top, waiting for my friends around it.

My dream flat..