S e y h a n E r ö z ç e l i k —

translated by E f e M u r a d

from “Summer Sighs”

I

O Carvings, all fall apart and disintegrate
reticulating. The moment when you kiss.

There; where the river meets the sea and
a flower unplucked, familiar & oblivious
to the existence of an azalea, the shore
where the birds are dying shortly thereafter
singing, where the waifs river-
where the river collects silver birches
dragging, and the whittles that shore
on that shore; carved figures reticulating
then disintegrating, on that shore, the sun-
where the sun is banished and the sailors
break their bottles of rum and run
to long mesmerizing breakwaters
at that shore, where waves break on shore
on and on—those things that wash up
on shore, where those carvings, those trees
children give form, where broken nights occur
as the banished sun goes down, piano lids-
where their lids are closed quietly,
is it a shoreless sea now, which shore
a carving where the river meets the sea-
carvings disintegrating, where a good-for-nothing
sailor with a lute in his hand will never play
from Bach, where the sun exiled to the sky, at untipped
shores, in intoxicated midafternoons, chalice-
without a chalice and an ink-holder, without paper, where
flowers are unplucked, where birds,
there. Kiss–
the moment you kiss. Here we are.

II

When the sun gets wet, in purview, when the fog
spreads in waves, in selfhood, at sea–
the sea, in purview, when the clouds
spread the fog in waves, in the hours when
we don’t listen to the jazz and quit drinking tea,
in the hours when we put on hats and glasses
thinking of a woman, salt and day-
when the sun gets wet, burns out, the night
tosses its clothes descending bit by bit,
shriveled in our caverns, at night, nightclubs–
at a nightclub, tinkling, in the hours we lose
control, the taste of rust on our tongues when
the night dies; in the depths of which sea did it get lost–
as we wither away and lose that which expires, seagulls–
seagull
, sun, sea, cloud and something akin to us.

A seagull
, the sun, a sea, a cloud and something akin to us.

III

On the horizon a teeny-weeny sailboat-ish sails!
-ing, the sun—like seawater leaving its salt behind
vaporized, that is, a thin layer of frankincense—slowly submerging!
-ing, does the sun morning rise as such, renewing ourselves
us?

at what time does
the sun ————————— set?
in how many hours

I

Tussling with ourselves in a deaf sleep that got its hands cut off
a pickpocket in ambush, call on him, is he human?
all get loose in the wind
startling, as the waters shudder. Strangle the water!
stopp
—ing dies
we stretch out wide, asleep, tussling with ourselves
our deafness. The mother of a pickpocket comes and washes
the dead we put him in a coffin the day seeps through holes
say now that we should set off for their country,
take our coffin and hit the road.
Robbers block our way. Give us the dead!
resist
—ing forty mules for forty lines we tussle with
ourselves. Asleep. In deaf sleep. We go on water
stretching out our hands bit by bit.

Were we human, I forgot.

II

Through the diffracted lifeless night, the moonlight drips into my room
pieces of glass everywhere quietly bleeding water much more
hesitated moonlight that cannot shudder with clouds
when a bitter cry drips into the room
incrassating the deadly night. He took his feet off the place bleeding
the mother of a gypsy stops the game when the moonlight fills
the room, his son sits all alone
recovering himself, his bleeding finger ached in the moonlight
the mother of a gypsy picks up the pieces
of glass, hesitated
waters. Dying for one last time. A mother and a son hugged the waters
they washed and put them in coffins. Take them away and bury!
—when the moonlight died down—someone said puff!—went
back to the room with the wind. The silence continued when the sun rose
then empty rooms lighting up for sea/marks.
Having completely lost my sight.

III

Waters! Gush out of pearl fountains!
die–do sudden sea/marks know where they die–s
you–from you! No one knows.
I knew it, but lost sight

when rocks are thrown at the spring
crying with a raspy noise the wind
seals–that hits the traces of seas.
hours, hooks, poles
covered with tar, a bell ringing

transmitting the light through a still
————————————being
buffeted—the seal descended—————
———————————
———————— the moon shudders
in the room where the light is diffracted.

It seems I’ve forgotten the rest of this poem.

.