AHMET OKTAY 

A BRlEF MOMENT OF HAPPlNESS
The moth conversing with the lamp light, 
the sea has long leaked under the door, 
is now intoxicated in the porch. It's only 
a moment: the kind of happiness that comes 
after the rain pouring through the vine; 
in this mortal fief. While you reach 
to your glass, your wife says, "I saw death in your 
cup this morning". Ah, no shore 
can defeat time, 
still alive, as alive as ever 
is the pain of fire. The sinking day 
still distills a vision, 
whichever florist you stop by 
spreads upon you the smell of graveyard; 
when you think you're safe you're closer. 
the beach wets your feet, yet 
the night is still full of the howls of 
the flood. The eyes of the tortured 
is no dream, no dream. You lived 
like a summer's end: the bus stops under open fire, 
you have born the taste of the water from the well 
in your mouth since yesterday; and strolling inside you 
is the gloomy voice of a Koran night. 
It's only a moment: in this fight 
you never know if it's the past 
burning out the future. You put the glass down, 
hold your wife by the hand; "History 
you say--is irresistible. And everything hints death 
in a time of defeat".

You blow out the lamp.

Translated by Sehnaz Tahir



FlRST WORDS OF SADNESS
Old lovers! The rose gardens 
I spent my nights in. All I wrote 
and all I said, I did to unveil 
the secret
                                with a new
secret.


        --Why does the road 
lead in three directions:
forward, backward and to the side ?- 
asked the child 
on black days 
               when we lose 
even our own image 
               in the mirror.

You who 
remembers me 
                  less 
than a rainy day: 
               says Attar: 
"How can a stray soul 
answer your questiod"

Who shed each 
                     other 
like leaves! Is that Per Gynt 
or an onion! Is there ever a snowy 
day that does not dream 
of a blooming night!

Twin meanings! "Twin 
           Destinied" 
How the marks 
of a homecoming and departure intermingle 
and the rose rotting on the ground 
is a sign of life.

I, too, soaked myself for years 
in the ink of sorrow, 
thinking I would ripen. 
In my 
         shaking 
hand the pen borrowed from Sontag
and the pain it leaks: 
in or out 
"all journeys were made 
to write and only write".

Old lovers! The first 
and sad words 
of a conversation that starts 
             with death.

Translated by Sehnaz Tahir


ANA SAYFAYA - BACK



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