poetry planetariat · believes that a poem is the most powerful human weapon against the violence...

Poetry Planetariat

Issue 2, Fall 2019 Istanbul / Medellin

Poets of the World Unite Against Injustice

Issue 3, winter 2019-2020 Istanbul / Medellin

Poets of the World Unite Against Injustice

Copyright 2020 World Poetry MovementPublisher: World Poetry [email protected]

Editor: Ataol Behramoğlu [email protected] Editor: Pelin [email protected]

Editorial Board: Mohammed Al-Nabhan (Kuwait), Ayo Ayoola-Amalae (Nigeria), Francis Combes (France), Jack Hirschman (USA), Jidi Majia (China), Fernando Rendón (Colombia), Rati Saxena (India), Keshab Sigdel (Nepal)

Design and layout by Devrim Erbil and Gülizar Ç. Çetinkaya [email protected]

Adress: Tekin Publishing House Ankara Cad.Konak Han, No:15 Cağaloğlu-İstanbul/TurkeyTel:+(0212)527 69 69 Faks:+(0212)511 11 12www.tekinyayinevi.come-mail:[email protected] XXXXXPoetry Planetariat is published four times a year in Istanbul by the World Poetry Movement in cooperation with

Ataol Behramoğlu-Pelin Batu and Tekin Publishing House

CONTENTS

POETRY: FIRST TO BE RESCUED FROM THE FIRE

SUMMATION OF 2019/ JACK HIRSCHMAN

POETRY

Poems by the indigenous poets

WHAT POETRY MEANS TO ME

Ayo Ayoola-Amale/ what poetry means to me

Rati Saxena/ Poetry is the language, which leads to Life

IN MEMORIAM

Orhan Veli Kanık(1914-1950)

Poems of Orhan Veli Kanık

MANIFESTOS

Extracts from Garip

POETRY PLANETARIAT | ISSUE 3, WINTER 2019-2020, ISTANBUL / MEDELLINPOETS OF THE WORLD UNITE AGAINST WAR

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POETRY: FIRST TO BE RESCUED FROM THE FIRE

The world is in flames, in reality and metaphorically.

One might venture to ask the import and meaning of poetry in such a world.

The answer to this question is that the first value we need to rescue in case of fire is poetry, metaphorically and otherwise.

We cannot fathom to undermine other values created by mankind.

But we believe that the most influential value that carries mankind from the past to the future without being enslaved by the shackles of technology is poetry.

In this issue of our magazine, we have a selection of poems written by 10 indigenous poets. If these poems exhibit the life force of flowers springing forth from amongst stones, they are a proof of the assurance that mankind will survive.

In this issue you will find the articles of RatiSaxena and Ayo Ayoola-Amale, both members of World Poetry Movement’s Coordination Committee, under the new section we have opened called: “What poetry means to me.”

We have dedicated our commemoration and manifesto sections to the great Turkish poet OrhanVeliKanık on his 70th death anniversary. Along with two poems of his and assessment of his work, you will find a section of the Garip manifesto, a movement he helped found.


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SUMMATION OF 2019

Jack Hirschman

Essentially the World Poetry Movement (WPM, founded in Medellin, Colombia in 2011) believes that a poem is the most powerful human weapon against the violence and hatred of war, and the most directly human expression of the heart’s desire for peace through the kindness that is manifested as Love at both the personal and collective levels. To that end, and with rise in violence, wars and other manifestations of one or another form of fascism, and the preponderance of corporative life on the human soul, the WPM in February 2019 organized 1000 poetry readings in 151 countries for A World Without Walls, countering the bestial push on the part of countries like the USA to cage human beings at borders and to separate children from their parents.Against such fascistic exclusions, in June of last year the WPM organized 245 worldwide poetic actions calling for A World Without Wars in 35 countries; and in November and December of 2019, there were 790 readings in 115 countries on five continents under the title that Poetry is the Path to Peace.In addition a campaign to collect signatures in support of an Open Letter to Presidents the world over, with more than 100 signatures from 171 in the name of Peace, was co-ordinated by the WPM.In this regard, a “World Peace Poetry” meeting was held in China in November 2019 as advocated by the WPM. Throughout the year many poetry readings were held throughout the world under the slogan, “Poetry is the Way to Peace.” Among the numerous locations was Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, Geneva, Windhoek, Namibia, Sydney, Grahamstown, İstanbul and Bishkek. In this way, the message of poets calling for peace was once more reiterated. Another motto of the WPM is “World Without Walls.” A recitation of poetry was organized for the second time in Haikou, China where poets came together under the slogan of world without borders. In the same month of February 2019, 14 poets wrote a poem together and read it live before the asylum seeker center in Brussels. The poetry reading was turned into a booklet with a poem in 14 languages. Another such event was held in the March of 2019 in Vienna where 26 poets, performers and writers came together for four days underlining this message. A reading under the same title of “World without Walls” was held in Slovenia where poets read their works and were accompanied by musicians. Nepalese poets also collaborated and did a reading under the very title in February, 2019. In Turkey, the WPM launched a solidarity campaign in support of the imprisoned poet İlhan Sami Çomak to underline the message that all writers and poets in prison should be freed. Readings and events were repeated in April 2019 in Skopje were poems were recited by poets. Thus, the campaign that calls for the bringing down of walls started in Medellin has echoed in many countries through numerous readings and publications. “The World without Borders” slogan has been sung in many places such as Georgia, Philippines, Wales, South Africa, India, St. Martin, Trieste,


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Greece, Sweden, Algeria, Croatia, Lithuania and Israel throughout 2019 and will keep being repeated in the years to come. 2019 was also the 100th year of the great poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti. As the WPM, we celebrated his influential verse and commemorated his poetry in the Poetry Planetariat. With 2020, our 20/20 vision with regard to an end to all wars is continuing with the urgency of the most powerful poems of our time.


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POETRY

Selection_10_Indigenous_Poets


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Haji Gora Haji

WONDERS

Wonders occurred The octopus was trapped in the forestWhich are you explaining to us

Those without wings flewThe wood broke the axeWhitebait swallowed the cat

I tell you so you knowShould not shock youChicks ate the kite

It is a secret inside a secretThe chameleon passed the carWhen you consider this

There is another word like this oneThrough the eye of a needleThe ant which is tiny

By God’s kindnessthe monkey was fished at the coastyou our uleas?

those which fly sat downwhat is it if not death?what is there to say?

many things of todayit is the wonder of the Mercifulit is astonishing if you measure it

It is neither cunning nor judgmentin speed it was behindin the end you will not finish it

which I also speakthe elephant passed uprightgot stuck.


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Haji Gora Haji was born in Zanzibar, an island near Tanzania, on March 10, 1933. He is a Poet, storyteller, novelist, playwright, songwriter, troubadour and epic narrator, active creator for 40 years. He writes his work in Ki-Tumbatu, dialect of his native island, as well as in Ki-Unguja, the Swahili of Zanzibar, from which the current Swahili originated. Born into a large family, he spent much of his childhood as a fisherman, sailor and as a distributor of spices in the ports. He published the Kimbunga Anthology (The Hurricane), in 1994. He actively participates in literary programs on radio in Tanzania. He is an honorary member of various literary and cultural groups in his country. His poems have been translated into English, French, Dutch and Spanish. He participated in the Rotterdam International Poetry Festival in 1999.


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Duke Redbird

I AM THE REDMAN

I am the RedmanSon of the forest, mountain and lakeWhat use have I of the asphaltWhat use have I of the brick and concreteWhat use have I of the automobileThink you these gifts divineThat I should be humbly grateful…

I am the RedmanSon of the tree, hill and streamWhat use have I of china and crystalWhat use have I of diamonds and goldWhat I use have I of moneyThink you these from heaven sentThat I should be eager to accept.

I am the RedmanSon of the earth, water and skyWhat use have I of silk and velvetWhat use have I of nylon and plasticWhat use have I of your religionThink you these be holy and sacredThat I should kneel in awe.I am the RedmanI look at you White BrotherAnd I ask youSave not me from sin and evilSave yourself…

Photo: www.peacephoto.com

Duke Redbird was born in Southampton, Ontario, Canada, in 1939. He is a poet, painter, esayist, tv screenplay and film director. Some of his books: I am Canadian, 1978; Loveshine and Red Wine, 1981 and Red on White, 1981 and We are Metis: A Metis view of the development of a native Canadian people, 1980. He belongs to the Saugeen Nation. In the sixties and seventies he was in the forefront of Native political organizations.


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Gail Tremblay

INDIAN SINGINGIN 20TH CENTURY AMERICA

We wake; we wake the day,the light rising in us like sun –our breath a prayer brushingagainst the feathers in our hands.We stumble out into streets;patterns of wires invented by strangersare strung between eye and sky,and we dance in two worlds,inevitable as seasons in one,exotic curiosities in the otherwhich rushes headlong down highways,watches us from car windows, explainsus to its children in wordsthat no one could ever makesense of. The images obscuresthe vision, and we wonderwhether anyone will ever hearour own names for the thingswe do. Light dances in the body,surrounds all living things-even the stones singalthough their songs are infinitely

lower than the ones we learnfrom trees. No human voice lastslomf enough to make such music sound.Earth breath eddies between factoriesand office buildings, caresses the surfaceof our skin; we go to jobs, the bossalways watching the clock to seethat we’re on time. He tries to shutout magic and hopes we’ll makemistakes or dissapear. We workfast and steady and remembereach breath alters the compositionof the air. Change moves relentless,the pattern unfolding despite their planning-we’re always there –singing round dancesongs, remembering what supportsour life –impossible to ignore.


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Foto: The Evergreen State College

Gail Tremblay was born in Buffalo, New York, USA, in 1945. She belongs to the Mi’kmaq-Onondaga Nation. She is a poet, playwright, teacher and artist. She has received many awards for her poetry. She is the autor of the following books of poetry: Night Gives Women the Word, 1979; Close to Home, 1981, and Indian Singing in 20th Century America, 1990. “Blending modern and traditional styles in both her writing and her artwork, Tremblay juxtaposes the modern Native American experience with tradition, placing emphasis on the encounters between past and present. Her poetry explores the isolation that accompanies cultural misunderstanding and centuries of oppression.”


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Joséphine Bacon

My wealth is called salmonmy house is calledcariboumy fire is calledblack spinemy canoe is calledplumpmy suit is calledlichenmy hairpin is calledeaglemy song is calleddrumi, i am calledhuman

Joséphin Bacon was born in Pessamit, Innu Nation, Canada, in 1947. He is a poet, translator, filmmaker, composer and singer. He writes his poetry in Innu language and in French. He has published the books of poems: Aimititau! Speak to us !, correspondence with José Acquelin, 2008; Walking sticks with Message / Tshissinuatshitakana, inuit / French bilingual edition, 2009, A Tea in the Tundra, 2013 and We Are All Wild, 2014. He directed the documentary film Mishtikuashisht-The Little European Grand: Johan Beetz (1996) and mounted in the Great Library from Québec the Matshinanu – Nomades exhibition.His poetry is a dialogue with the four cardinal points of his home landscape, his identity, the tundra of the innu, the northern lights, the stars and the song of the ancestors, the company of the caribou, the salmon, the wolf, the crow , the eagle, the forest, the snow, which they embody with Papakassik, the master of land animals, an experience of resistance against colonization and exploitation of natural resources in their territory. As Nathalie Landreville says, “Like salmon upriver to return from where it came from, Joséphine Bacon has spent almost his entire life in search of the traces of the past.”


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Joy Harjo

THIS IS MY HEART

This is my heart. It is a good heart.Weaves a membrane of mist and fire.When we speak love in the flower worldMy heart is close enough to sing to youin a language too clumsy, for human words.

This is my head. It is a good head.Whirrs inside with a swarm of worries.What is the source of this mystery?Why can’t I see it right here, right nowas real as these hands hammering the world together?

This is my soul. It is a good soul.It tells me, “Come here forgetful one.”And we sit together We cook a little something to eat, then a sip of something sweet,for memory, for memory.

This is my song. It is a good song.It walked forever the border of fire and waterclimbed ribs of desire to sing to you.Its new wings quiver with vulnerability.

Come lie next to me.Put your head here.Myheartiscloseenough to sing.


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Joy Harjo, of the Mvskoke Nation, was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Harjo has published eight books of poetry. Her most recent collection of poetry Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings made the short list for the Griffin International Prize and was named the American Library Association’s Notable Book of the Year. Her awards include the prestigious Ruth Lily Prize from the Poetry Foundation for lifetime achievement; the Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets, a Guggenheim Fellowship; and the New Mexico Governor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts, among others. Her memoir Crazy Brave won several awards, including the PEN USA Literary Award for Creative Non-Fiction. She has been performing music with her poetry since the early 1990’s and is the recipient of a Native American Music Award (NAMMY) for Best Female Artist of the Year. Harjo is at work on a musical, We Were There When Jazz Was Invented, a show that will rewrite the origin story of blues and jazz to include the musical contributions of southeastern Native peoples. She is a board member of the Native Arts and Cultures Foundations, and is a founder of the For Girls Becoming arts mentorship program for young women of her tribal nation.


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Apirana Taylor

THE WOMB

Your fires burnt my forestsleaving only the charred bonesoftotararimu and kahikatea.

Your ploughs like the fingernailsof a woman scarred my face.It seems I became a domestic giant.

But in deathyou settlers and farmersreturn to meand I suck on your bodiesas if they are lollipops.

I am the landthe womb of life and death.Ruamoko the unborn Godrumbles within meand the fires of Ruapehu still live.

Foto: El autor

Apirana Taylor(Born in 1955), of TeWhānau-ā-Apanui, NgātiPorou and NgātiRuanui descent, has published six collections of poetry, four short story collections, two novels, and three plays. He has also been included in multiple anthologies and has published prolifically in other mediums, including sound and video recordings. He writes for children and the theatre, and is involved in acting and teaching drama. Taylor’s first collection of poetry, Eyes of the Ruru, established his powerful voice among Māori writers. Published in May 2017 by Anahera Press, Taylor’s latest publication is his novel Five Strings.


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Graciela Huinao

THE VOICE OF MY FATHER

In indomitable languageMy verses are bornOf the prolongedNight of the extermination

Translation by Allison Ramay

Foto: Biblioteca Nacional de Chile

Graciela Huinaowas born in Chaurakawin, current province of Osorno, Chile, in 1956. In 1987 she published his first poem “La Loika”. In 1994 it was published in the U.S. in the anthology Ûl: Tour Mapuche Poets. She has published the mapudungun-Spanish bilingual poetry book: Walinto (2001), and the williche book of tales, TheGranddaughter of the Sorcerer (2003). In 2006 she published the poetry co-edition Hilandoen la memoria: 7 women Mapuche poets. Her poems have been anthologized in France, Poland, Argentina, Mexico, USA, and Spain. For her literary work she has been invited to Colombia, Argentina, Brazil, Paraguay, Peru, Ecuador, Mexico, United States and China. He is currently preparing his first novel,From the stove of a house of Williche whores.


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Juan Gregorio Regino

I KNOW THE LANGUAGE OF THE WORLD

The world already goes round with me, already opens the doors for me. I can listen to those who talk, to those who laugh, to those who cry. I go on discovering the mystery of the world. The world already goes round with me, teaches me and talks to me. Because I know the language of the world. Because I know the language of hills, of thunder, of trees and of days. Because I know the language of the sun. Because I know the language of stones,of the earth, of flowers and of nights. Because I know the language of the stars. Because I know the language of the moon, of clouds, of the sea and death. Let the flowers come now.Let the birds come now. Let the roosters come now. Let them sing with me. Let the tree resin come.Let the tobacco come.Let the cacao come,let them listen to me. They will be my guards.They will be the keysthat will open the doors for me.They will watch mein the clearness, in the visible,in the dark and the shadows.They will be my guards.

Translation by Nicolas Suescun

Foto: Festival Internacional de Poesía de Medellín

Juan Gregorio Regino is one of the leading poets in indigenous languages in the Americas. He is Mazatec, born in 1962 in Chicicazapa, Solyaltepec, Oaxaca. In 1987, he received his bachelor’s degree in ethnoliguistics and a second degree from the Center for Research and Graduate Studies in Social Anthropology. He was president of the Center for Writers in Indigenous Languages during the 1990s. Regino’s work follows two distinct paths. One is contemporary, the other is contemporary and based more closely in the Mesoamerican world. Among his best known works is the often translated poem to Maria Sabina, the famed shaman (Taken from Words Withour Borders).


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MorelaManeiro

INVOCACIÓN A LA SELVA

Venerables primordiales: Padre sol atiéndenosAbuela tierra manto protector. Laguna encantamiento tenebrosoCerro resguárdanos a nuestros hermanos.Ríos a nuestros abuelos escúchenlos.Aires ampárennos a nuestros hijos.Dueños de animales a nuestros nietos socórranlos.Minerales del inframundo midan pasos de nuestros bisnietos.Fortifícanos odas del tiempoCantos de arañas con karaña.Cosecha de siete soles.

Foto:Letralia

MorelaManeiro was born in Ciudad Bolívar, Bolivar State, Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela, on August 19, 1967. She belongs to the Kari’ña indigenous people. She coordinated the national literacy program called “the Robinson Mission” in the communities of the Bolivar State. From the age of 11 she has participated in social development movements, and through art she has interacted with various cultural educational institutions, has participated in leadership courses on the defense of the environment, workshops, seminars, photographic and artisanal exhibitions and literature festivals that highlight the indigenous culture. As President of the Marawaka Foundation, she has supported the struggle of indigenous peoples to reconquer their cultural political spaces from the place they have to assume in favor of indigenous peoples. In the words of Adalys Javier, “... The poetry of MorelaManeiro is profound, mystical, progressive, emancipatory and revolutionary.” I was doing like the ant, getting into those labyrinths of the earth and began to know the stadiums and began to see how deep it is to know oneself. ”


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Samuel Wagan Watson

TERROR (WELCOME TO NO MAN’S LAND)

“…You talk about terror…I been terrorized all my days!”From “Terrorized”Mr Willie King, Alabama Blues Legend (1943 – 2009)

All the signs read, SMILE…YOU’RE ON CAMERA, Welcome to No Man’s Land, you’re standing on Terra Firma, that some explorer once coined Terra Australis, and another explorer then retouched with Terra Nullius, that stole this land’s dreams, Terra Firma could be the next target in the War on Terror, from Terra Australis, to Anti-terror Laws, SMILE…YOU’RE ON CAMERA, Welcome to No Man’s Land, Terra Australis, with it’sTerra Firma, deemed Terra Nullius, embroiled into the War on Terror and everyone is governed by Anti-terror Laws, SMILE…YOU’RE ON CAMERA, Welcome to No Man’s Land, population under observation, you gotta love a sun-burnt country with a dry, split personality. Terra Australis, under Terra Nullius, right where you’re standing on Terra Firma with it’s beauty and it’s Terror, Terror, Terror…Welcome to No Man’s Land.

Foto: Sara Marín

Samuel Wagan Watson (Australia, 1972). Born in Brisbane in 1972, Samuel Wagan Watson is of Munanjali, BirriGubba, German, Dutch and Irish descent. He spent much of his childhood on the Sunshine Coast before returning to Brisbane to start a career. He was the winner of the 1999 David Unaipon award for emerging Indigenous writers with his first collection of poetry, Of Muse, Meandering and Midnight. Since then he has written four more collections; Itinerant Blues (2001), Hotel Bone (2001), Smoke Encrypted Whispers (2004), which won the 2005 New South Wales Premier’s Book of the Year and the Kenneth Slessor Poetry Prize, and The Curse Words (2011). (Taken from Poetry International Web).


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HajiGoraHaji

MARAVILLAS

Acontecen maravillas El pulpo fue atrapado en el bosque Según lo que usted dice

Aquellos sin alas volaron La madera rompió el hacha El arenque se comió el gato

Te lo digo para que lo sepas Y no te sorprendas Los pollitos se comieron la cometa

Es un secreto dentro de un secreto El camaleón dejó atrás al coche Si así lo consideras

Hay otra palabra como esta A través del ojo de la aguja La hormiga que es pequeña

Por el amor de Dios el mono fue pescado en la costa ¿ustedes nuestros ulemas?

aquellos que vuelan se sentaron ¿qué otra cosa puede ser si no la muerte?¿qué más se puede decir?

muchas cosas hoy en día son las maravillas de la Gracia Divina es fabuloso si reparas en ello

No es cuestión de astucia ni de buen juicio en la velocidad se queda atrás al final no podrás terminarlo

de esto también yo hablo el elefante pasó verticalmente y se atoró.

Traducción de Francesca Randazzo

HajiGoraHaji nació en Zanzíbar, isla cercana a Tanzania, el 10 de marzo de 1933. Poeta, cuentista, novelista, dramaturgo, autor de canciones, trovador y narrador épico, activo creador durante 40 años. Escribe su obra en Ki-Tumbatu, dialecto de su isla natal, así como en Ki-Unguja, el Swahili de Zanzibar, del que se originó el actual swahili. Nacido dentro de una familia numerosa, transcurrió buena parte de su infancia como pescador, marinero y como distribuidor de especias en los puertos. Publicó la Antología Kimbunga (El Huracán), en 1994. Participa activamente en programas literarios en la radio de Tanzania. Es miembro honorífico de diversos grupos literarios y culturales en su país. Sus poemas han sido traducidos al inglés, francés y holandés. Participó en el Festival Internacional de Poesía de Rotterdam en 1999.


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DukeRerbird

SOY EL HOMBRE ROJO

Soy el hombre rojoHijo del bosque, la montaña y el lago ¿Para qué el asfalto? ¿Para qué ladrillo y concreto? ¿Para qué el automóvil? Crees que estos dones son divinos Y que debería estar humildemente agradecido...

Soy el hombre rojo Hijo del árbol, la colina y la corriente ¿Para qué porcelana y cristal? ¿Para qué diamantes y oro? ¿Para qué dinero?Crees que fueron enviados desde el cieloY que debería estar ansioso por aceptarlos.

Soy el hombre rojoHijo de la tierra, el agua y el cielo ¿Para qué seda y terciopelo? ¿Para qué nylon y plástico? ¿Para qué tu religión? Crees que es santa y sagrada Que debería arrodillarme con asombro. Soy el hombre rojo Te miro Hermano Blanco Y te pido que No me salves del pecado y el mal Sálvate de ti mismo...

Traducción de León Blanco

DukeRedbird nació en Southampton, Ontario, en 1939. Poeta, pintor, ensayista, guionista de televisión y director de cine; en los años 70’s y 80’s fue líder de importantes organizaciones políticas por la reivindicación de los pueblos indígenas. Pertenece a la Nación Saugeen. Algunas de sus obras: Soy canadiense, 1978 y Resplandor de amor y vino rojo, 1981. Bajo el título Rojo sobre blanco, Martin Dunn, escribió una biografía sobre DukeRedbird, en 1971.


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Gail Tremblay

CANTO INDÍGENAEN LA AMÉRICA DEL SIGLO 20

Despertamos; despertamos el día, la luz se levanta en nosotros como el sol - nuestra respiración, una oración rozando plumajes en nuestras manos. Nos tambaleamos en las calles; patrones de alambre inventados por extraños han sido colgados entre ojo y cielo, y bailamos en dos mundos, inevitables como las estaciones en uno, curiosidades exóticas en el otro que se precipitan de cabeza por carreteras, nos miran desde las ventanas del automóvil, nos explican a sus hijos en palabras que nadie podría jamás encontrarles sentido. Las imágenes oscurecenla visión, y nos preguntamos si alguien alguna vez escuchará nuestros propios nombres para las cosas que hacemos. La luz baila en el cuerpo, rodea todo lo viviente: hasta las piedras cantan aunque sus canciones son infinitamente más bajas que las que aprendemos de los árboles. Ninguna voz humana dura lo suficiente para producir tal sonido musical. La respiración de la Tierra se arremolina entre fábricas y edificios de oficinas, acaricia la superficie de nuestra piel; vamos al trabajo, el jefe observa siempre el reloj a ver si estamos a tiempo. Trata de bloquear la magia y espera que cometamos errores o desaparezcamos. Trabajamos rápido y sin cesar y recordamos que cada respiración altera la composición del aire. El cambio se mueve implacable, la forma emerge a pesar de su previsión- estamos siempre ahí –Entonando juntoscanciones de la danza, recordando lo que apoya nuestra vida -imposible de ignorar.

Traducción de León Blanco

Gail Tremblay nació en Buffalo, Estado de Nueva York, Estados Unidos, en 1945. Pertenece a la Nación Mi’kmaq-Onondaga. Es poeta, dramaturga, profesora y artista plástica. Ha recibido muchos premios por su poesía. Autora, entre otros, de los libros de poesía: La noche le da a las mujeres la palabra, 1979; Cerca al hogar, 1981 y Canto indígena en la América del Siglo 20, 1990. “Mezclando estilos modernos y tradicionales, tanto en sus escritos como en sus obras de arte, Tremblay yuxtapone su experiencia de nativa americana moderna con la tradición, poniendo énfasis en los encuentros entre pasado y presente. Su poesía explora el aislamiento que acompaña a la incomprensión cultural y a siglos de opresión.”


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Joséphin Bacon

Mi riqueza se llama salmónmi casa se llama caribúmi fuego se llama espineta negra mi canoa se llama regordetami traje se llama liquenmi tocado se llama águilami canto se llama tamboryo, yo me llamo humano

Traducción de Rafael Patiño

Joséphin Bacon nació en Pessamit, Nación Innu, Canadá, en 1947. Es poeta, traductora, cineasta, compositora y cantante. Escribe su poesía en lengua Innu y en francés.Ha publicado los libros de poemas: ¡Aimititau! ¡Háblanos!, correspondencia con José Acquelin, 2008; Bastones con Mensaje / Tshissinuatshitakana, edición bilingüe inuit/francés, 2009, Un Té en la Tundra, 2013 y Todos Somos Salvajes, 2014.Dirigió la película documental Mishtikuashisht-El Pequeño Gran Europeo: Johan Beetz (1996) y montó en la Gran Biblioteca de Québec la exposición Matshinanu–Nomades.Es su poesía un diálogo con los cuatro puntos cardinales de su paisaje natal, su identidad, la tundra de los innu, las auroras boreales, las estrellas y el canto de los antepasados, la compañía del caribú, el salmón, el lobo, el cuervo, el águila, el bosque, la nieve, que encarnan con Papakassik, el amo de los animales terrestres, una experiencia de resistencia contra la colonización y la explotación de los recursos naturales en su territorio.Al decir de NathalieLandreville, “Al igual que el salmón río arriba para regresar de donde vino, Joséphine Bacon ha pasado casi toda su vida en busca de las huellas del pasado”.


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Joy Harjo

ESTE ES MI CORAZÓN (THIS IS MY HEART)

Este es mi corazón. Es un buen corazón.Teje una membrana de niebla y fuego.Cuando hacemos el amor en el mundo de las floresEstá tan cerca de ti que puede cantaren un lenguaje demasiado torpe,para las palabras humanas.

Esta es mi cabeza. Es una buena cabeza.En su interior zumba un enjambre de preocupaciones.¿Cuál es la fuente de este misterio?¿Por qué no puedo verla aquí, en este preciso momento tan real como estas manos que unen el mundoa golpes de martillo?

Esta es mi alma. Es un buen alma.Me dice, “Ven aquí olvidadiza.”Y nos sentamos muy juntasCocinamos algo para comer,luego sorbemos algo dulce,para la memoria, para la memoria.

Este es mi canto. Es un buen canto.Camina desde siempre los límites del fuego y el aguaha trepado las costillas del deseo para dedicarte su canto.Sus alas recién nacidas tiemblan en su vulnerabilidad.

Ven aquí recuéstate a mi lado.Pon tu cabeza aquí.Mi corazón está tan cerca que podrá cantar.

Traducción de Esteban Moore

Joy Harjo nació en Tulsa, Oklahoma, Estados Unidos, en 1951. Pertenece a la Nación Muskogee. En la Universidad de Nuevo México realizó estudios de pintura y teatro. También escribió canciones para una banda de rock, PoeticJustice, de la que ha sido cantante y también intérprete del saxofón. Ha publicado, entre otros, los libros de poemas: The Last Song, 1975; What Moon Drove Me to This?, 1979; SheHadSomeHorses, 1983; Secretsfrom the Center of the World, 1989; In MadLove and War, 1990; The WomanWhoFellfrom the Sky, 1994; The GoodLuckCat, 2000; A Map to the Next World, 2000; HowWeBecame Human: New and SelectedPoems: 1975-2001, 2002; A Map to the Next World: Poems and Tales, 2001. También ha publicado en revistas tales como Massachusetts Review, Ploughshares, RiverStyx, Contact II, The BloomsburyReview, Journal of Ethnic Studies, American Voice, Sonora Review, KenyonReview, Beloit Poetry Review, GreenfieldReview y Puerto del Sol. Ha enseñado en la Universidad de Colorado, en la Universidad de Arizona, en la Universidad de Nuevo México y en la Universidad de California. Su obra poética ha recibido múltiples reconocimientos en norteamérica, entre ellos el William Carlos Williams Award de la Poetry Society of America, por el mayor libro de poesía, en 1991.


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Apirana Taylor

EL VIENTRE

Tus llamas quemaron mis bosques dejando sólo los calcinados huesos detotararimu y kahikatea1

Tus arados como uñas de mujer dejaron cicatrices en mi rostro. Parece que me hubiese convertido en un monstruo gigante.

Pero en la muerte tus colonos y labradores regresan a mí y yo chupo sus cuerpos como si fueran colombinas.

Soy la tierra el vientre de la vida y de la muerte. Ruamoko el dios sin nacer retumba dentro de mí y las llamas del Ruapehu2aún viven.

1 Árboles forestales que se encuentran a lo largo de Nueva Zelanda. 2 El más grande volcán activo de Nueva Zelanda

Traducción de Saray Torres

Apirana Taylor nació en 1955 y es un poeta popular y aclamado, novelista, cuentista, dramaturgo, actor, músico y pintor. Pertenece a la Nación Maorí, Nueva Zelanda. Ha publicado cinco libros de poesía. Accesible, sensible y contundente, su obra asume muchas formas, y se incluye en el currículo de inglés en las escuelas de Nueva Zelanda. No hay muchos Kiwis, jóvenes o viejos, que no están familiarizados con su trabajo, él viaja extensamente por toda Nueva Zelanda e internacionalmente como poeta, músico y narrador. Entre sus libros de poesía publicados, están: Eyes of the Ruru; SoftLeaf Falls of the Moon; y Joyas en el agua. En 1994 ganó el Premio Te Ha de poesía. Pionero e inspirador del teatro maorí, ha viajado a festivales de poesía en India, Austria, Suiza, Italia y Alemania. Su obra poética ha sido traducida al alemán y al italiano. Su obra narrativa ha sido publicada mayormente por la editorial Penguin.En palabras de Apirana: “Soy un maorí de Aotearoa, un país comúnmente llamado Nueva Zelanda. “Maorí” quiere decir ser un ser humano. Mis tribus son GatiPorou, Te Whanau a Apanui, NgatiRuanui y Te AtiAwa. También soy Pakeha en parte, que es la palabra Maorí para una persona de ascendencia europea. El lenguaje, la identidad, la cultura son tres temas relacionados que me ocupan pues estos hilos están tejidos a través de mi vida. Yo escribo sobre la pérdida del lenguaje, la cultura y la identidad, tratando de recuperar lo que se ha perdido, para reconstruirlo. Escribo sobre el dolor el pueblo, y la búsqueda de su curación…”“…El lenguaje no existe por sí mismo. Proviene del alma del pueblo que habla la lengua. Es parte de la cultura e identidad de un pueblo. Los maoríes son polinesios. Nuestros antepasados navegaron en el pacífico y fueron grandes marineros que exploraron el océano, miles de años antes que los europeos. Nosotros colonizamos islas como Samoa y Tonga al occidente, Hawai y Tahití al norte, Rapanui (la isla de Pascua) al oriente y navegamos hasta el extremo sur donde está mi país Aotearoa (Nueva Zelanda). Nosotros hemos conservado en nuestros relatos tradicionales el registro de esas épicas jornadas, en nuestras canciones y en nuestra poesía…”


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Graciela Huinao

LA VOZ DE MI PADRE

En lenguaje indómitoNacen mis versosDe la prolongadaNoche del exterminio

Graciela Huinao nació en Chaurakawin, actual provincia de Osorno, Chile, en 1956. El año 1987 publicó su primer poema “La Loika”. En 1994 fue publicada en E.E.U.U. en la antología Ûl: Four Mapuche Poets. Ha publicado el libro de poesía bilingüe mapudungun-español: Walinto (2001), y el libro de relatos williche La nieta del brujo (2003). El año 2006 publicó la coedición de poesía Hilando en la memoria: 7 mujeres poetas mapuche. Ha sido antologada en Francia, Polonia, Argentina, México, EE.UU. y España. Por su trabajo literario ha sido invitada a Colombia, Argentina, Brasil, Paraguay, Perú, Ecuador, México, Estados Unidos y China. Actualmente prepara su primera novela Desde el fogón de una casa de putas williche.


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Juan Gregorio Regino

CONOZCO LA LENGUA DEL MUNDO

El mundo ya gira conmigo, ya me va abriendo sus puertas.Puedo escuchar a quienes hablan, a quienes ríen, a quienes lloran.Voy descubriendo el misterio del mundo.El mundo ya gira conmigo, me enseña y me habla.Porque yo conozco la lengua del mundo.Porque yo conozco la lengua del cerro, del trueno, del árbol y del día.Porque yo conozco la lengua del sol.Porque yo conozco la lengua de la piedra, de la tierra, de la flor y de la noche.Porque yo conozco la lengua de la estrella.Porque yo conozco la lengua de la luna, de la nube, del mar y de la muerte.Que vengan ahora las flores.Que vengan ahora los pájaros.Que vengan ahora los gallos.Que canten conmigo.Que llegue ahora el copal.Que llegue ahora el tabaco.Que llegue ahora el cacao, que me escuchen.Ellos serán mis guardias.Ellos serán las llavesque me abrirán las puertas.Ellos me vigilarán en lo nítido, en lo visible, en lo oscuro y las sombras.Ellos serán mis guardias.

Juan Gregorio Regino nació en México, Nación Mazateca, en 1960. Su poesía está arraigada de la tradición oral presente en la cultura mazateca de la que forma parte, donde ha hurgado la memoria para encontrar nuevos caminos a la literatura. Su poesía se ha difundido en diversos países como: España, Francia, Italia, Serbia, Cuba, Argentina y Estados Unidos. En 1996 obtuvo el Premio Nezahualcóyotl de Literatura en Lenguas Mexicanas, otorgado por el Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes. Ha publicado dos libros de poesía: Tatsjejinngakjaboya (No es eterna la muerte) y Ngata’araStsehe (Que siga lloviendo). Una parte de su producción poética ha sido traducida al inglés, francés, italiano, serbio y catalán. Prestigiados intelectuales se han ocupado de su obra como: Eliot Weinberger, Jerome Rothenberg, Miguel León – Portilla, Carlos Montemayor, EarlShorris, PhilippeOllé – Laprune, Elvira Dolores Maison, Donald Frischmann y Ramón Torrents.


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MorelaManeiro

INVOCACIÓN A LA SELVA

Venerables primordiales: Padre sol atiéndenosAbuela tierra manto protector. Laguna encantamiento tenebrosoCerro resguárdanos a nuestros hermanos.Ríos a nuestros abuelos escúchenlos.Aires ampárennos a nuestros hijos.Dueños de animales a nuestros nietos socórranlos.Minerales del inframundo midan pasos de nuestros bisnietos.Fortifícanos odas del tiempoCantos de arañas con karaña.Cosecha de siete soles.

MorelaManeiro nació en Ciudad Bolívar, Estado Bolívar, República Bolivariana de Venezuela, el 19 de agosto de 1967. Pertenece al pueblo indígena Kari’ña. Coordinó el programa de alfabetización nacional denominada “la Misión Robinson” en las comunidades del Estado Bolívar. Desde los 11 años ha participado en movimientos de desarrollo social y a través del arte ha interactuado con diversas instituciones educativas culturales, ha participado en cursos de liderazgo sobre la defensa del ambiente, talleres, seminarios, exposiciones fotográficas, artesanales y festivales de literatura que destacan la cultura indígena. Como Presidenta de la Fundación Marawakaha apoyado la lucha de los pueblos indígenas por reconquistar sus espacios políticos culturales desde el lugar que le toca asumir a favor de los pueblos indígenas. Al decir de Adalys Javier, “…La poesía de MorelaManeiro es profunda, mística, progresista, emancipadora y revolucionaria.”. Fui haciendo como la hormiga, metiéndome por esos laberintos de la tierra y comencé a conocer los estadios y comencé a ver lo profundo que es conocerse uno mismo.”


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Samuel Wagan Watson

TERROR (BIENVENIDO A TIERRA DE NADIE)

“…Ustedes hablan de terror… ¡yo he estado aterrorizado toda mi vida!”De “Terrorized”, MrWillie King, Leyenda del Blues de Alabama (1943 – 2009)

Todas las señales rezan SONRÍA…ESTÁ EN CÁMARA, Bienvenido a Tierra de Nadie, usted está pisando Terra Firma, que algún otro explorador acuñó Terra Australis, y otro explorador luego retocó con Terra Nullius, que robó los sueños de esta tierra, Terra Firma pudiera ser el próximo blanco de la Guerra al Terror, de Terra Australis a Leyes Anti-terrorismo, SONRÍA…ESTÁ EN CÁMARA, Bienvenido a Tierra de Nadie, Terra Australis, con su Terra Firma, considerada Terra Nullius, embrollada en la Guerra al Terror y todo el mundo es gobernado por las Leyes Anti-terrorismo, SONRÍA…ESTÁ EN CÁMARA, Bienvenido a Tierra de Nadie, población bajo observación, tienes que amar un país tostado de sol con una personalidad seca, escindida. Terra Australis, bajo Terra Nullius, justo donde pisas Terra Firma con su belleza y su Terror, Terror, Terror…Bienvenido a Tierra de Nadie.

Traducción de Omar Pérez

Samuel Wagan Watson nació en Brisbane en 1972. En su sangre coexisten ancestros irlandeses, alemanes, Bundjalung y BirriGubba. Hijo del novelista y activista político Sam Watson, quien era el único estudiante indígena en la Universidad de Queensland, en 1971. Reconoce entre sus influencias las de Nick Cave, Tom Waits, Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski y Robert Adamson. Su poesía oscila entre la observación de la vida cotidiana y los efectos de la colonización en un lenguaje vívidamente directo, casi táctil. Ha publicado, entre otros, los libros de poesía: De Musa, sinuosa y medianoche, 1999; Blues Itinerante, 2002; Hotel hueso, 2001; Susurros cifrados de humo, 2004, Premio de Poesía KennettSlessor al mejor libro de poesía del año, 2005; Perros de tres patas y otros poemas, 2005.

Obtuvo el Premio David Unaipon de poesía para jóvenes escritores indígenas. Su poesía oscila entre la observación de la vida cotidiana y los efectos de la colonización en un lenguaje vívidamente directo, casi táctil. Entre otros reconocimientos recibió en el año 2000 un importante premio por sus contribuciones sobresalientes a la cultura australiana.


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WHAT POETRY MEANS TO ME


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What Poetry Means to Me

Ayo Ayoola-Amale

Poetry means… what the world means, it means life, a meaning of life, knowing what that meant, not knowing what that meant… So poetry is an art of communicating using the five senses. Poetry iswhat exactly our senses feel and how our mind interprets them in a way that the words stir up the exact sensory perceptions and thoughts in the listener or reader. Talking about poetry in a deeper way is talking about the active inner part of the self. Poems give voice to the indefinable inner states and expression to the poet’s soul.

“For we are not pans and barrows, nor even porters of the fire and torch-bearers, but children of the fire, made of it, and only the same divinity transmuted, an at two or three removes, when we know least about it.” - Emerson’s “The Poet”- A Circling.

Poetry is so important because it reveresus. Itreveres the unfamiliar and helps us understand the world. It helps us appreciate the world. Poetry awaken our minds and nourish our imagination.It tells us the truth about ourselves and teaches us how to live. To me poetry is a song from my heart, it is expression from my soul that connects with the souls of others. Poetry is my purest expression, my expression of self from my heart, my release, my freedom…I have told my time several times to go to poetry. It’s basically a sanctuary where I can be myself without fear.My poems, my sanctuary. I have spent my time writingpoems like in drawing a mental picture.

In “Of Asphodel, That Greeny Flower,” by WC Williams:It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack Of what is found there.

Poetry is a big part of me. Out there in a boarding house, leaving home for the first time, that’s when poetry found me.I love writing poetry. I love reading poems. Poetryis good for my soul.As a child poetry gave me a great tool for developing myself, for developing my skills and it thought methe art of creative expression.Poetry helps me understand people. Poetry helps me understand myself.Poetry helps me make sense of the world around me. In doing so, it helps me re-claim that which i might have subdued for the sake of my ordinary survival. Poetry means… What reallydoes poetry mean to me?Poetry means so much to me that I could go on and on about what it means to me forever.It is an art that has limitless meaning, Poetry to me is life. Poetry is the world we live in and what happens within it. Poetry is the beauty of the heart. Poetry is freedom, the essence, the truth, the meaning of life,perfect words,fresh seeing, fresh tasting, i could go on and on… Poetry is a surreal form of expressing my thoughts, emotions and experiences. Poetry has made it possible for me to pour out the feelings that i hold in my heart. Poetry has made me write down the feelings in my heart. Poetry makes me more fully human.Poetry is a release of my creativity and emotions.


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To me, being a poet means everything. Poetry means everything to me.It means finding my voice and representing ‘the people’ as a whole.I am a poet whose passion for poetry is combined with a passion for social change.I believe that poetry can change the world. It explains why most of my poems recognize and honour the human spirit with a sense of joy and wholeness.To me, poetry is a weapon.Poetry is an outlet that gives light to darkness.I know that great poetry has the power to start a fire. Poetry has power to start a powerful force in a person’s life and in the way we see the world.It can change the way we see ourselves. It can change the way we see others. It can change the way we see the world. Great poetry calls out our deepbeing. It calls for the fullness of humanity.In most part of Africa, it was typical for every community or tribe to pass down timeless wisdom in couplets, poetic songs, and proverbs and therefore keep it alive across generationsIn Yoruba land, poetry is a community. Poetry is a sacred prayer. Society is very important to the conversation of the oral poet in social occasions like the naming of a child, wedding and funeral ceremonies where poetry is brought to ordinary people on the street.A personal poem like oracle poetry is spiritual which consist of poetic chants and songs. Poetry is only a meaning of life. Poetry means…

According to Poet Jane Hirshfield: “Whether from reading the New England Transcendentalists or Eskimo poetry, I feel that everything I know about being human has been deepened by the poems I’ve read.”

This is what poetry means to me: It means speaking my mind. It means being heard. It means knowing that listeners or readers of my poems will see their own truths in it.Poetry means… Poetry means passion bursting… I could go on and on.


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Poetry is the language, which leads to LifeRati Saxena

Once, while driving on the highway I saw a number of advertisements. Some of them were for jewelry and some for dresses. Last time I saw an interesting board advertising “sari”. It had a beautiful woman wearing a beautiful sari - and lines were written on them - sari is poetry on the body of a woman. Among common people poetry is always related with beauty, flowers, rose, cloud and birds. All beautiful things come in the category of poetry. But in the world of poets, poetry talks about pain, sorrow, war and even hatred. Poetry is another name for life, and life contains everything - good or bad, love or hate, beauty and no beauty. All the contradictions! In other words, the definition of beauty is different in poetry, and the approach is also different.Death is a difficult thing for everyone, but poetry tries to go beyond the death. It explains different dimensions of the death, the death in war is cruelty but death in old age is liberation. Poetry goes beyond the relief even and tries to go in search of a new world. Poetry walks towards liberation through pain; it searches for beauty in every pain and sorrow. Poetry is not short-term emotions, which survive only for some time, but it is a combination of thought, emotion and life experience.History is crucified in a half burnt stage directly in front of open eyes; Neruda’s poem is lying near the dead bodies of children, and a young girl is standing like a black shadow resisting the suppression of the voice and sight of the young generation. The lines on the palms have been question marked. These things happen in front of people belonging to all generations.What is the truth of poetry? In other words, what is poetry itself ? A subject which is discussed a lot is not a new theme. In fact all societies and intellectuals have their own thoughts on this issue. Intellectuals of our contemporary period feel that poetry should talk about the realities of society, reality means the rawness and the cruelty we see around us. At the same time a large number of people still enjoy poetry in lyric, appreciate beauty and imagination in filmy style. I sometimes wonder -- the critic says that poetry should be of people related to the earth, but the earth belongs to so many other creatures, like earthworms, worms, snakes, lizards, spiders and so on. Romantic poetry was poetry that devoted itself to the beautiful things around us – the romantic poets talked a lot about flowers, butterflies, clouds, mountains and the innumerable things in nature that stirred the sense of beauty in human beings and inspired them to appreciate the wonderful creations of this world. Truly speaking, poetry has in the real sense ignored those who are close to the earth. In our selfishness, we think for ourselves, only for ourselves; with this state of mind, how can we think for or about others who are closer to the earth than we?So poetry is universal, and connect me to universe and leads to light as Indian Upanishads say- “Keep me not in the Darkness (of Ignorance), but lead me towards the Light (of Spiritual Knowledge),Keep me not in the (Fear of ) Death (due to the bondage of the Mortal World), but lead me towards the Immortality (gained by the Knowledge of the Immortal Self beyond Death)”.


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IN MEMORIAM


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ORHAN VELİ KANIK(1914-1950)

He started the second new movement that brought novelty tothe essence of Turkish poetry after thefree verse revolution realized by NâzımHikmet. He was actually one of three pioneers. In this issue you will find excerpts from the “Garip” Manifesto co-written with his friends OktayRıfat (1914-1988) and MelihCevdetAnday (1915-2002) in year 1941, elaborating their reformist literary outburst. It can be said that in their long lives Anday and Oktay’s poetry reached universal standards. On the other hand, the brief life of OrhanVeli which ended with an unfortunate accident at the age of thirty six, and whom we commemorate on his 70th death anniversary this year, became the foremost name associated with the Garip Movement. In my opinion it can also be said that he deserved this identification in his own lifetime.What is “Garip” and why is it “strange?” It will become obvious when one reads the manifesto. It is evident that nothing is actually strange. What is manifest is that this poetry does away with difficult and classic metaphors, standard rhymes and metres to create a stark poetry. One needs to think of this concept as a paradox, a hint that will pull in the reader, a kind of fishing hook, if you will.OrhanVeli crammed in a lot of things into his short life. Yahya Kemal Beyatlı, the founder of 20th Century Turkish Poetry before NâzımHikmethad years ago stated that every language had a “unique, natural, sincere, simple mode of expression without ornament” and it was up to the poet to extract this. This is precisely what OrhanVeli accomplished. He is a rare trailblazing poet who managed to mold the unique, bare, natural and austere expression of the Turkish language into a poetic language. This is the secret of his ongoing influence on Turkish poetry to this day.

A. Behramoğlu

POEMS OF ORHAN VELİ KANIK

I Can’t ExplainIf I cried, could you hearMy voice in my poems,Could you touch my tearsWith your hands? Before I fell prey to this grief,I never knew songs were so enchantingAnd words so mild. I know there’s a placeWhere you can talk about everything;I feel I’m close to that place,Yet I can’t explain.Translation by Murat Nemet-Nejat


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No puedo ExplicarSi lloro, ¿podría oír mi vozEn mis versos?Podría atreverse, para tocarMis lágrimas, con tus manos? Yo no sabía, la belleza de las canciones,Y la incompetencia, de las palabras,Antes de entrar este problema. Sé que hay un lugarDonde todo es posible decir,Estoy muy cerca, oigo ... Pero no puedo explicar.

Translated by Hasan Umar

I Am Listening To IstanbulI am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eles closed:At first there is a gentle breezeAnd the leaves on the treesSoftly sway;Out there, far away,The bells of water-carriers unceasingly ring;I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed. I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;Then suddenly birds fly by,Flocks of birds, high up, with a hue and cry,While the nets are drawn in the fishing groundsAnd a woman’s feet begin to dabble in the water.I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed. I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.The Grand Bazaar’s serene and cool,An uproar at the hub of the Market,Mosque yards are full of pigeons.While hammers bang and clang at the docksSpring winds bear the smell of sweat;I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.


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I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;Still giddy from the revelries of the past,A seaside mansion with dingy boathouses is fast asleep.Amid the din and drone of southern winds, reposed,I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.A pretty girl walks by on the sidewalk:Four-letter words, whistles and songs, rude remarks;Something falls out of her hand --It is a rose, I guess.I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.A bird flutters round your skirt;On your brow, is there sweat? Or not? I know.Are your lips wet? Or not? I know.A silver moon rises beyond the pine trees:I can sense it all in your heart’s throbbing.I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

Translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat


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MANIFESTOS


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Garip/Strange(Summary)

Poetry, the art of rhetoric and figures of speech, has undergone many changes in its journey to its current stage [1941 -ed.]. At this point we understand that poetry is very different from proper spoken language. Turkish poetry, in its current form, differs from natural, or unaffected and ordinary language, and offers its readers a relative strangeness (garabet). Yet it is interesting to note that this strangeness has created a new set of conventions of its own in poetic language, which removes the very strangeness, or peculiarity, from poetic speech. The child who is being educated by today’s intellectuals perceives the world from a conventional or traditional point of view, and so the new poetry will sound strange (garip) to the child. The new poetry will show him the relativity of poetic language so that he can question what he has been taught…

Those regarded highly by history are those who find themselves at major turning points in history. They demolish one tradition and create a new one. Actually, they discover a new system of registers that emerges naturally from within the old one. It becomes a tradition when it is transmitted to the following generations. The great artist exists only within the context of literary or artistic registers. The new artist is the one who looks always for more than what he has seen in books, who tries to bring new registers to the art. seventeenth-century French classicism was full of principles or norms, but was never traditionalist. It established its own principles. The eighteenth-century French writers were traditionalists, but they never established rigid principles or norms, because they did not feel the need of new registers; instead they learned them from previous conventions. Writers feel or do not feel the necessity of new literary registers. Those who feel the necessity are called founders, and those who feel it is needless are demolishers. In the end, both of these groups are more beneficial than those who continue previous conventions without adding anything new to it. Both of these groups cannot be successful all the time. Permanently valuable artistic works should follow changes in the social structure and be relevant to them. One of the reasons literary movements are sometimes unsuccessful is that their programs do not match with the realities of their times. One may not be able to make what he has founded complete, but entrusts a good share to those who will follow his new literary conventions. He might discover a new paradigm or assert that the old paradigm is wrong. This person is the flag-bearer, the bodyguard of a struggle in literature. Someone who has the courage to be a martyr should be regarded highly, because many would never risk losing power within their conventional frameworks for an ideal.

I am not a supporter of the interdisciplinary in art. Poetry should be regarded as poetry, painting as painting, music as music. Each of these arts has its own specific traits and vessels of expression. They explain their purpose through these vessels, and not only do they limit themselves with these vessels and their respect for past values, but they also make room for challenge and labor. This is very difficult. Music in poetry, painting in music, or literature in painting are simply tricks of those who cannot establish norms within one artistic convention but feel they must establish an interdisciplinary approach. When certain arts are combined with others, they lose their essence. For instance, we cannot compare the singular music of poetry that has been created as particular words come together in harmony, with a musical piece with all of its variations in music and the richness of its scores. To bring words that have the same sounds together is a cheap trick that creates artificial harmony in poetry. In general, works of art that are easily accepted and liked by the common people are those that are most easily understood. For instance, those who appreciate aesthetics in music might listen to the themes in Tchaikovsky’s 1812 overture as if it were a painting depicting events


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during Napoleon’s Moscow campaign. Those with this sort of aesthetic might consider Saint-Saëns’s “Danse Macabre”, a piece that tells the story of corpses rising from their graves after midnight and then returning to their graves after finishing their dances, and Borodin’s “On the Steppes of Central Asia”, which tells the story of a caravan moving slowly along the river with the sound of water, the greatest of all musical pieces. This is a cheap trick. Using such a vast art, music, as a simple tool of illustration is a great weakness. No great artist should use intertextual imitation to attract the common person’s appreciation. An artist needs to discover the unique essence of his own art and demonstrate his skills via this essence. Poetry, at the end of the day, is a form of speech that unveils its essence in the way it expresses itself (eda). In other words, it is only made out of expression. Meaning does not appeal to one’s five senses; it appeals to the soul. Poetry, whose real value resides in its meaning and its relation to one’s soul, might be taken for granted if one depended on the cheap and secondary slights of hand like the musical quality of its language…

Plainness and simplicity bring the genuine aesthetic touch to a work of art. However, one should not accuse poetry written in this manner of being “plain” or “primitive.” If you see a poet who has suffered much and overcome many obstacles in his art, do not be judgmental about his work. You might think he is writing like an amateur; in fact, he has perfectly imitated and thereby mastered the qualities of plainness and simplicity.Art is not only about automatism, it is about struggle and talent. Artists are those who make us believe that what they say is absolutely sincere.One of the assumptions poets often make is that the line (mısra) is the perfect unit. This is a bad habit. OrhanVeli understands the wish to produce the perfect line as a pernicious addiction. A poem should not rely on perfect lines, but on an overarching theme whose meaning is conveyed through its lines. A poem is a literary convention of wholeness and unity.The idea that the line should be taken as the basis of a poem makes us pay attention to each word and analyze it as the unit of a line. This practice encourages us to think of words as abstract entities in a poem and to assign beauty or ugliness to the words. However, words, like bricks in a building, are never beautiful. Plaster is never beautiful. It is only an architecture composed of these elements that is beautiful. If we beheld a building made of agate, heliotrope, and silver but which had no overarching aesthetic beauty, it could not be considered a work of art. If the words of a poem simply sound good but do not add anything of beauty to the poem itself, the poem is not a work of art…

Translated by...Daniel Evans Pritchard.Summarised by P.Batu


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poetry planetariat · believes that a poem is the most powerful human weapon against the violence...

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