Selected, Translated and Edited by Mevlut Ceylan
Layer upon layer of civilisations. Religious and cultural heritage stretching back thousands of years. Rich complex history at every street corner. Its name evokes beautiful memories, allows imagination to run riot. Istanbul is the Eternal City, a perpetual destination. Not surprisingly, it has inspired countless poets. Just as in Sufism the mystical experience is described using the language of profane love,yet always contrasted with divine love, the poets address Istanbul hyperbolically as mistress, as girlfriend, as wife, with all the ambiguities such relationships involve. She is an undying and ever young lover. Torment and angst are her middle name. She’s always youthful, beautiful and alluring. Istanbul is a demanding mistress whose favours are courted by many:
I fell in love with you when I saw you,
I can’t forget you till the end of my life
After a long period when her beauties were obscured, mosques, colleges and mausolea, neglected and allowed to decay, and the Golden Horn turned into an industrial sewer, Istanbul has returned to its former glories. During the last decades, mosques have been refurbished, caravanserais converted to new usage such as craft workshops or hotels, the ‘golden’ Horn cleansed. In places like Khodja Mustafa Pasha and the Booksellers Bazaar, never invaded by modernity, it is still possible to recapture something of the past of the peerless city recorded by the English architect and artist, Thomas Allom (1804–72), in his engravings in the early nineteenth century. This was prior to the Tanzimat reforms and the degradation of the Islamic environment due to an uncritical adulation of everything Western. That so much of this beauty was allowed to vanish accounts for the poet’s nostalgia. The consummation of the poet’s love affair comes when he sees the city in everything: ‘Istanbul, I touch you with a hundred thousand hands’.
These poems, covering a span of over hundred years, take us to the physical and emotional heart of the city and reveals some of the mystique of the city. Some of the great poets of Turkish literature take us to a journey along the city’s promenades, pleasure places and cafeterias: Kagithane Square, Sadabad, Camlica, Hisar, and Kucukcekmece, the site of caves at Yarimburgaz where Paleolithic culture flourished. Sometimes the poet address Istanbul directly; other times they describe her charm. But there is always an invitation: come and embrace the undying lure of Istanbul.
Dreams of Istanbul
Mehmet Akif Ersoy (1873–1936)
The boat was rolling over in an ocean…
The dream threw me on the shores of Marmara!
I saw from only a couple of miles away
Your blackened Istanbul clear as crystal,
Its forehead shining like a crescent:
She’s laughing; coquettish, charming and attractive.
What base destitution now, alas!
What arrogance, what ostentation!
Many schools are opened, men and women study;
Factories are in full steam, textile industries progress.
Printing houses work day and night.
New companies emerge for the benefit of the people,
New parties arise to enlighten the people,
Economy prospers
And ships unload wealth from length to length of her shores.
End of September
Yahya Kemal Beyatli (1884–1958)
The days are brief, old folks of Kanlica
Remember all the autumns of the past.
Life is too short to love this district only…
I wish summers to last and days to be longer…
That rare drink quenched our thirst for years…
Ah! Life is too short for such a joy.
Death is our end, we’re not afraid of it,
But it’s hard to be away from the motherland.
Not to return from death’s night to this shore,
Is worse than death, this is the heart’s desire.
Kodja Mujstafa Pasha
Yahya Kemal Beyatli (1884–1958)
Kodja Mustafa Pasha! Poor and distant Istanbul!
Since the conquest you’re a devout believer, and needy,
Here live those who deem sorrow is pleasure.
I was with them all day in this lovely dream.
Our motherland and nation are inseparable twins.
Thus we alone have been seen, and have been heard.
The moral frame radiant for five centuries;
Death is near, so close.
Sun followed an April rain.
On such a day reality mingled with dreams.
Doomsday is on the scene, very near,
So near there’s no dividing wall between,
One is a step away from the other,
Seeing the beloved beyond is certain.
The Derelict Temple of the Mihrimah Sultan Mosque
Riza Tevfik (1869–1949)
I came and wore down your threshold.
You’re encircled by thorns and thistles.
I saw writings on your High Pulpit,
Were they remnants of happy moments, perhaps?
A glance from the setting sun faded,
Left your Qiblah in the dark,
The destiny of the unlucky Ummah
Casts shadows upon your ruined domes.
In a happy time of Islam
Its fountain had the elixir of life.
Now in its ruined baldaquin
The singing birds are rare.
There are sacred words of wisdom on your inscription,
There’s something to be learned from your speech.
The cries of Tekbeer were suffocated
In your heavenly ruins.
Hey Riza, prostrate yourself before Him, and cry,
Your sufferings will make the stones talk.
I’ll tell you fables, weep, and listen;
That glorious past was only a fairy tale.
Domes
Arif Nihat Asya (1904–1975)
Yesterday, mobilization started, hands are ready;Lead was melted and marble blocks cut down.
It wasn’t money that built these domes,
These minarets, but love.
In such a ship, Noah defeated water
And the soul set sail with these wings.
………..
O traveller, if you could find a place,
A golden moon on everyone’s brow,
Watch the mosques of Istanbul,
Count the minarets and domes!
……….
Here the sky opens quite blue,
It stands on silver pillars…
Shadows of some on the ground
And water reflecting others,
The roads to the Lord are here.
My Dear Istanbul
Necip Fazil Kisakurek (1905–1983)
They have melted my soul and frozen it in a mould;
They have named it Istanbul, and put it on earth.
There’s something smoking inside me; air, colour, grace, and climate;
That’s my beloved who came from beyond time and place.
Its flowers are golden stars, its water is sweet;
The moon and the sun have always been Istanbulian.
The sea and the earth have reached their union in her
And the dreams have turned to reality in her.
Istanbul is my life;
my motherland…
Istanbul,
Istanbul…
History has eyes, the riddles on ancient walls;
Cypresses, cypresses are of fine stature, they’re the curtains
of two worlds…
A steed rears up on the clouds;
Diamond domes, perhaps there are billions of steeds…
The minarets are index fingers pointing to the sky.
In every embroidery a meaning: we must die.
Death is more alive than life, mercy is greater than sin;
When Beyoğlu is drowning in worldly pleasures,
Karacaahmet weeps…
Seek the meaning, find it!
Find it in Istanbul!
Istanbul,
Istanbul…
The Bosphorus, the silver brazier of the Bosphorus, boils the coolness;
The depths of heaven on earth are in Çamlica.
Playful waters are the guests in the basement of the sea-side house;
A photo of the sad face of a former diplomat hangs on the wall.
Every evening flames on the windows in Üsküdar,
A haunted house, big as the city…
A song from the Ud or the Tanbour?
It sings “Katibim” behind the bay-windows…
Its women are like sharp knives,
Warm like fresh blood,
Istanbul,
Istanbul…
Time on the seven hills embroiders
Seven colours, seven voices, endless manifestation…!
Eyüp is an orphan, Kadiköy is dressed up, Moda is haughty,
Wind in the Island plays tricks with the girls.
Each dawn, the arrows fly from their bows.
Cries come from Topkapi Palace still.
The mothers are the best of sweethearts, Istanbul is the best of places;
Never mind the cheerful crowd, those who cry are happier.
Its night smells hyacinth, Its Turkish the nightingale’s voice.
Istanbul,
Istanbul…
My Country
Asaf Halet Çhelebi (1907–1958)
the tree grew out of
Osman Ghazi’s heart,
streams,
meadows,
herds.
the land I live in
my Murad, my Yildirim, my Fatih,
my janissary,
my Evliya Çhelebi,
my Bursa, my Istanbul,
especially my Istanbul;
my history, my fine arts,
my mother, my father,
my neighbours,
Nerkis the black maid,
Nevres my Circassian nurse;
sea lights reflect on my house in Jihangir.
I’ve not fallen from heaven on this place;
this place is my Istanbul,
these people are mine,
these skies are mine;
Omer the sweet child is mine,
my forefathers my country and my
everything is hers.
In the dream Osman Ghazi saw
Omer and I are there.
The Language of My Istanbul
Asaf Halet Çhelebi (1907–1958)
my mother’s tongue,
my father’s tongue,
my Istanbul’s tongue,
my Istanbul’s tongue.
my Istanbul’s Effendi
and its Lady
guardian of my streets,
seller of yogurt, fishmongers,
you’re my life,
interpreter of my soul.
this tongue sang my lullaby,
this tongue told my tales.
I listen to my folk songs from this tongue.
I’ve recited my poems with this tongue,
“oh, oppressor, stop prodding me to speak
my innermost self”.
Istanbul
Cahit Irgat (1916–1971)
Don’t ask what’s in Istanbul,
What’s in Istanbul?
There’s Istanbul in Istanbul.
Gift
Ilhan Berk (1916–2008)
I wrote this poem in nineteen forty nine,
I had more trouble than I could handle.
I was looking at Istanbul,
my hands in my pockets.
Many horses passed before me,
pouring sweat
I remembered your strength, I felt relaxed
my thoroughbred,
my beautiful steed,
all day long, the horses before me,
I wandered in Istanbul.
Istanbul
A. Kadir (1917–1985)
There are seas
there,
limpid and full of light,
that make you reflect.
Here are ships at anchor;
who knows
the weight of their chains.
Sarayburnu,
Kizkulesi,
Haydarpasha…
Look, here’s the Bridge,
all day trampled underfoot,
and creaking, screeching roads;
and there, you see
Sultanahmet Square.
At last, the seafront,
where the fish smell good.
And then the Islands
and all their pinewood.
Moonlight was sweet as heaven,
they say,
you lived in a dream world there.
Such is your vision of Istanbul, I think,
if you stand before a postcard
and look with hungry longing.
Longing for the Sea
Ilhan Geçer (1917–2004)
Your soft coolness is in my hand,
the time is in bluish memories.
Your wind is all over blue
and blows through my evenings.
In open sea the sail is homesick,
foaming sea-gulls are on my horizon.
My looks desire salt
and greet bright seasons.
I wish I was in a sea city,
I wish my feet to touch sea-weed,
I wish my song to be sung
by rough waters.
I wish the fishes to swim by my shores,
tiny and handsome fishes.
I wish they’d wave good-bye,
My dear Istanbul.
Emirgan
Salah Birsel (1919–1999)
All of you will run to Emirgan
In September or October
And sit before samovars
Drinking your tea and tea again.
Work and things will be forgotten
Under the plane tree till evening,
You’ll be stretched out as if
You’re in your own home,
You’ll eat corn and corn again.
Gentlemen, there’s no way out,
All of you will laugh and shout,
Sit down and get up
and smoke hubble-bubble, hubble-bubble.
The Bosphorus
Necdet Evliyagil (1920–1992)
Istanbul,
Every season
appears
with her
beauty.
Autumn,
each side of the strait
envelops itself in the wind’s blueness.
Sea is blue,
sky is blue,
the old plane tree is blue
The fisherman’s eyes are blue
who waits his kismet by the sea.
Istanbul
Mucap Ofluoğlu (1923–2012)
Istanbul was cloudy today.
It’s still six o’clock in the morning;
it’s the nineteenth
of June
in Kadiköy Harbour
and the day is Monday.
It’s still six o’clock in the morning;
it’s been some time
since I’ve seen Istanbul
at this time of day.
It’s drizzling, I’m looking at Istanbul the giant city
from hundreds of years ago.
This city turned over
to Mehmed the Conqueror
in fourteen hundred and fifty-three,
on a night in May.
Pulled overland on rollers
the galleys lay in the harbour side by side
against Byzantium’s line of defence.
Amid laughter
The Conqueror’s vessels walked on land.
Scimitars were brandished on the towers
and javelins hurled at the walls,
When Islam spread
and Constantinople became Istanbul.
Yakacik
Mehmet Çinarli (1925–1999)
I fell in love with you when I saw you,
I can’t forget you till the end of my life, Yakacik.
As the moon lights us as its pleases,
O Yakacik! What a sweet evening we had.
As you’d expect to be in such a place
You showed us all your gifts.
We gave all our grievances to the wild winds,
O Yakacik! What a sweet evening we had.
We sat facing Marmara
And added new tunes to the songs,
As if we climbed to the seven heavens.
O Yakacik! What a sweet evening we had.
All the drinks took their taste from your water.
The beloved drank it and became ever sweeter.
We had the time of our life until late night,
I cannot forget you till the end of my life, Yakacik!
The Cloud of Istanbul
Arif Damar (1925–2010)
Heaps of clouds are coming,
They’re white in the island, and in Moda,
They’re black over the Golden Horn
And they disappear in Topkapi.
Istanbul
Umit Yasar Oguzcan (1926–1984)
A room in the house, in the room Istanbul
A mirror in the room, in the mirror Istanbul.
A man lit his cigarette; Istanbul smoke,
A woman opened her bag, Istanbul in the bag.
I saw the child cast his fishing line in the sea,
He started to pull it up, Istanbul on the hook.
What sort of water is this, what kind of city?
Istanbul’s in the bottle, Istanbul’s on the table.
When we walk she walks, when we stop she stops; we were confused,
She’s on one side, I’m on the other, Istanbul in the middle.
Once you love, you’re in trouble.
Wherever you go, Istanbul is there.
Lost Days
Metin Eloğlu (1927–1985)
Bring me some Istanbul,
fill the bowl with the sea;
let them sift my days in a bag.
Whatever was left of Üsküdar from
that summer with Elif,
stuff them in your pockets;
if they don’t have them, the neighbours might,
they knew me and will be pleased.
Tell them Metin sent you.
Istanbul
Mustafa Necati Karaer (1929-1995)
Perhaps the water of the Bosphorus has changed;
I’ve found you on this Istanbul morning.
I don’t know how to say it –
When I come to Istanbul, I become Istanbul.
Your hands are in Bebek, your face is in Küçüksu,
You’re wearing a sea-blue blouse;
Like a poplar tree long and slender,
I’ve found you on this Istanbul morning.
A good-morning fell on the windows
Near the houses, streets will awaken soon.
Yesterday, today, and tomorrow are in one line.
I’ve found you on this Istanbul morning.
Clouds take me to Eyüp,
Perhaps they know something.
Beyoglu is my wine, my bread is Üsküdar,
When I came to Istanbul, I became Istanbul.
I’m wet, I’ve come from far away,
My business is to love, not to write poetry;
Please don’t disturb my dreams,
I’ve found you on this Istanbul morning
When I came to Istanbul, I became Istanbul.
I Love Istanbul
Ayhan Inal (1931– )
Her lover for years,
I love Istanbul.
Beylerbeyi, Küçükyali,
I love Istanbul.
I love Istanbul
With her sweet accent,
Her poverty, her sufferings,
Her Kumburgaz and her Sile.
Sultanahmet, Dolmabahçe,
From inside
To outside,
Are like lace work on canvas.
Visitors wear out the threshold
Of mosques where the Qur’an is recited.
Its corners are sacred.
I love Istanbul.
Our best ornament.
We’re grateful to Him,
Our heaven on earth,
I love Istanbul.
The Bosphorus has no equal, the Golden Horn is blue,
Let’s walk in the moonlight in Küçüksu.
How can we tire of this city?
I love Istanbul…
Before the Sunrise in Sehzadebasi
Sezai Karakoç (1933– )
In the courtyard of the mosque
he looks for a place to sit
on a cold stone
before the sun rises in Sehzadebasi,
Holding tight his head between two hands,
and picking up birds’ feathers
from the attic of nights,
before the sun rises in Sehzadebasi.
Covered with dust the camels
charmed by poetry;
roses scatter from the saddlebags
before the sun rises in Sehzadebasi.
Few children on the road,
light holds the dome,
fresh sounds in the grave
before the sun rises in Sehzadebasi.
Fountains made of tulips,
fountains of violets,
tombs like waterfalls,
before the sun rises in Sehzadebasi.
Yunus Emre,
Aksemseddin,
Mimar Sinan,
they are all in Sehzadebasi__
before the sun rises.
only a humble tree
bears the sky on its branches,
its roots embrace the earth
before the sun rises in Sehzadebasi.
Higher that the Qaf Mountain,
longer than the Great Wall of China,
the ebb and flow within us,
before the sun rises in Sehzadebasi.
Princes before daybreak
carrying torches,
wander around in Sehzadebasi,
before the sun rises in Sehzadebasi.
Convoys from the country of djinns
pass riding mules,
playing a long song on the violin,
before the sun rises in Sehzadebasi.
Greetings to the crimson horizon
from Süleymaniye and Beyazit.
Of course I want to be there
before the sun rises in Sehzadebasi.
The sun is risen, the day is born,
the dawn will break, this is certain.
The day will conceive many days
before the sun rises in Sehzadebasi.
The Golden Horn
Kemal Özer (1936–2009)
Istanbul has been awake for some time,
the domes and minarets
have pierced the twilight and come out
like working hands, the eyes, and feet
have been awake
without sipping enough of their tea;
they’re on their way to work;
the factories are hungry.
Istanbul has been hungry for a long time,
the sky scrapers are gluttons,
they’re impatient and ready
for their meals,
the big hotels are ready for their visitors,
and casinos, and amusement centres;
merchants have untied their appetite’s collar
to devour the golden horn.
Your Eyes Suddenly Became Istanbul
Yavuz Bülent Bakiler (1936– )
A fine rain starts with you,
The beauty of a poem fills my heart.
The sea gulls perch on my shoulder,
Your eyes suddenly become Istanbul.
I’m away from you, from nights and evenings
My poems are winds blowing in far away mountains…
Like still waters I’ll diminish
One day if you don’t suddenly appear.
You’ll come with songs; sensitive, thoughtful;
‘Just look into my eyes’, you’ll say.
Slowly when my hands touch your hands
You will disappear.
My one hand will draw you on all the windows,
The other will caress you;
My heart a rainbow a thousand times a day
Will become alive.
What joy to find your face in every face.
And lose you almost everywhere.
What joy to miss the ferry,
And be quite alone on the quay;
A fine rain starts with you.
The beauty of a poem fills my heart,
The sea gulls perch on my shoulders,
Your eyes become suddenly Istanbul.
The Pigeons
Erdem Bayazit (1939–2008)
The tree was swallowing a tombstone in Çarsikapi
“Istanbul is moving within us”.
A child was selling the waterless state of temples
In a water jar whose voice we could not remember,
the sun stood over us
like our sins.
Why do these pigeons exist?
To bring a memory to life?
Or to carry an immortal voice beyond,
In the palms of the mosques?
****
Chait Zarifoglu (1940–1987)
he ripped off a face from the text in his hand,
a face that was starting a speech.
“gentlemen”, it said,
“fatih sultan mehemet han
when he entered istanbul
there was a pretty girl,
and such a beauty,
she was so pretty.
if the padishah loves the land
she was the land.
She ran and ran
and kissed the floor in front of his horse”.
“Dear fellows, I wish you
knew the turmoil
within me.
I wish you knew youth, and youthfulness,
I wish you knew the sultan
who was loved by his foes”.
(When the governor visited her village
an old woman said: “Long live my Padishah!”)
Ghazal
Akif Inan (1940–2000)
Before your eyes touched my heart,
O Istanbul, where were those birds?
Sea is my tongue’s lexicon;
Songs, my brother, where were they?
Lasting rain clouds are within me;
Forest, rivers and roses, where were they?
Your fingers are reflections of light,
Where were my mother’s and daughter’s hands?
Before your eyes touched my heart,
Sorrows, laughter and dreams, where were they?
Istanbul
Ataol Behramoğlu (1942–
I’m drawing an Istanbul on my chest
With my thumb, in the shape of a butterfly;
In front of the mirror like a child
I’m stroking my face and my hair.
Any bit of sea from Kadiköy,
A half-empty tram from Sisli
From Samatya, perhaps from Sultanahmet,
I remember fig trees.
I’m drawing an Istanbul on my chest
With my thumb, in the shape of a butterfly,
I haven’t much hope, I’m a bit tired,
I like my eyes best.
Cheerful Loneliness
Mehmet Ragip Karci (1945–2020)
A deer is passing in your eyes
And you’re carrying the hoarse voice of Istanbul
in your hair.
Then on the wettest April day
on the pavements
you seek your childhood.
You’re running, running
and so much happiness on your face;
you’re unrecognisable.
The doves land gently next you,
you start singing a love song.
Your cavalry rides full gallop.
in your cheerful loneliness
Are you laughing?
Or the stars assembling
in your dovelike looks?
Cafeteria
Kamil Esfak Berki (1948– )
In Istanbul in Beyoglu
Today I noticed a code of practice:
in this cafeteria of the future
There’s not much food
and not much talk.
The Bitter End
Cumali Ünaldi (1949– )
Shattered life! O spear that hits the heart!
Georgios Francis leans back on an old Byzantine
fountain and tells the story of Paleologolos
the defeated King – our valiant foe –
He talks of the King’s lost water, the sea,
his last moments, the loneliness, and the King
who confronted death proudly;
his longing was a rose beautified by the Conqueror.
The Architect
Mehmet Atilla Maras (1949– )
Oh Sinan
you’re the holy architect of eternity
you’re the minaret
elegant, deep and faithful
you’re the fountain of ablutions
you’re the dove
you’re the limpid river
you’re the coolness of stones
you’re the architect
Rumeli Kavaği
Mustafa Özer (1949– )
By the old plane trees of Kanlica
Winds from the South West rest.
All the colours indulge in an orgy,
all the friends embrace each other
Time, History, and I.
Rumeli Kavaği melts with the breeze,
pomegranate trees hang,
hair of the Bosphorus.
Pomegranate trees, beautiful girls,
and the candle melts and drops fine drops.
Time, History and I.
An Ode
Besir Ayvazoğlu (1953– )
When the shadow of the Padishah wanders
In old Istanbul through the seven seasons
Suddenly a silky silence grows
Mahmud the Second goes to his summer house
The phoenix wand opens in a thousand and one hearts
And brings Leyla from the heart breaking tales
Said Effendi who is from the Thousand and One Nights
Tells countless funny jokes
O beloved who embroiders love on my eyes
Now I’m with you in longing
From the thin lips of silence
Play the songs with one long kiss
Like the sun’s free spirit scattered on the earth
Let the waters shine on your beauty
Let the crescent rest on the players’ fingers
Let them breathe their music to the sky
Looking for Istanbul
Arif Ay (1953– )
This is Istanbul in the sun.
When you look at her
She is standing on guard
And resists your attacks.
These are the minarets
That convey news
From heaven to earth
And from earth to heaven.
When a generous heart
Looks with love,
Doors open to the sea
And streets mirror the morning.
Only with love does she come to you,
When you turn your eyes,
This is Istanbul.
War of Roses
Ahmet Kot (1953– )
The guns you loaded
With water they say
Fired roses
Into the breast of Byzantium
The Fires
Ibrahim Demirci (1955– )
One day we shall find the way
to explain silence
To transmute voices into words
and those wise designs
into telling calligraphy
Fragments of Memory
Necip Evlice (1956– )
we’re in Istanbul
the giant city,
three of us in the early morning
On a sea-gull sea;
we’re terrific passengers.
we’re watching an island
through the angry looks of the crew,
which ship,
which island,
which sea?
Stop My Friend
Ali Göçer (1956– )
I’m looking at the world
looking at oceans of hatred
flowing past
from the Bosphorus,
or the middle-east,
or from the world’s jugular vein.
Stop my friend,
Stop and wait for me.
History
Mevlut Ceylan (1958– )
I am in front of demolished walls
shaking the nights, gathering
the eyes of history
I am the one singled out
to cultivate the well-toiled field
of exile
I am asked to feed
the magnetic north to empty words
we must know where we stand
Istanbul
Rahmi Kaya (1960– )
Water is heavy with grief in the Golden Horn.
The roads of wet Istanbul are sick with panic.
Buildings and laws descend on my heart
like frontier walls.
O Istanbul, only your chaos and echoes remain.
Water is heavy with grief in the Golden Horn.
The Monumental Kiss
Necat Çavuş (1959– )
Mimar Sinan seized the loveliest parts of Constantinople
and kissed her over and over and created Istanbul.
Perhaps in Sehzadebasi or Süleymaniye
one kiss became a popular tree in the wind,
one, alchemy against the ages,
one, music’s blossoming rose,
one, a sound in the sea
In Üsküdar or Samipasa.
Dear God! What a kiss it was. I don’t
think anyone ever gave Istanbul such a kiss!