"The poetry of Edip Cansever has two main characteristics: Being the proof of his life and the result of his poetry craftsmanship. A new essence, a new verse form reaches the niveau of simpleness only after undergoing a layered process of craftmanship. Being an opposer of rigid forms makes him an artist of the Ikinci Yeni movement. His accomplished revolutionizing of rigid forms comes from the urge of the essence" (Doğan Hızlan, 1983).
It seems nothing can provoke Our inner silence No sound no word nothing The eyes bring out the eyes!
Nothing else but this unites us A leaf touching another leaf So close and so docile The hands bring out the hands!
In our age love is an opposition Let us unite to cast two single shadows...
Since they are crumbling, turn on the radio, The streets, dogs, god's all assets
Loosens out of our hands, spills out everything We stop, like blood, frozen in a hymn With sounds and broken nails Freezes our madness, captains are at no ship, None, since seas are enormous, dead ones large A chilly moon is heard, cold In solitude. Loneliness is the season, Where ``flowers themselves bunch up.'' And times are at each other's throats, each thicker Than the other Running Tea times crack, memories relic, Seep up dead bodies over white tables And billiard tables, pale, disappear And sunglasses are worn again The pen squeaks stop, telephones are silent, the last stamps Are glued, Some things are missing, gentle, copper rust.
We who are remnants of a fall, we are men, women, Stuffed deer, frightened, flow out.
And our half warmed fright remains; the sky is creatured Of neglect, Sips its drink, stretches back In its own glass, A corpse, both deathless and dead; for it A mere novelty, irresolute in its freedom, alone An embalmed tale, This corpse. An there is another not dead, Because if something like this is needed among us, It weakends our exile.
From one to another what can move in these times?
When the fright moves for a loss: something Darkening its waters slowly into a stone among us, A lexicon of silence.
It is that thing, a bit of hate and Petrified hair, both petrified in those flower shaped Of rocks-dark-painted, Hate Painless, endless, all of love in one. That day of sudden disappearance without good, without suitcases, Shadowy, but in that completely labyrinthe stop With chilly hormones One beauty topping one more beautiful than a third, but all understanding Flying, Daly newspapers bulging with street screams, All fished out of the same heart, tired, disnatured, lazy, after long Comings and goings, and cracked nails, An image we built suddenly, a myth That binds us whole in its laws.
We are dead. Dead ones gather themselves here. Age thickens, tenses up, systems get prepared. The bloody hours fall, the markets remain.
Blood. Generated of pain, blood of the obstinate what, And cold At those hours when our throats change tunes, Those hours when things remain, things inside us Remain the same, and insects, worriless, Change spots; at those hours to become a little Something Some blood! And numberless gestures meet with their muds, In succession, carings and defeats And everything, suddenly everything, Years, cold wishes, hell without fires In those days of death in those undecorated rituals Blood rises in piazzas Victorious.
This blood, The most elementary lesson of birth and decay.
Whereas appearing, one day, palmless and without suitcases, Shadowy, but in that completely labyrinthe stop, All days, uneventful, tickets going to numberless spots: Counters, cold Waters and sunglasses, Slipping in tremor, Slipping, unknowingly, and without finally caring, Rid of dimensions, thinnings, helpless like a deer, A stuffed deer, stumbling and shy, in drinks In drinks, Building, among leaves opening newly, Building its love of nest and indifference.
We are unmade, and our lot is unmade. We just wear Now, the unmourningclothing of you.
We all have remained gods. No one should pretend Gladness.
Now our glooms is a meeting place We are that pale, that lonely, that exiled medusas We slip away by hanging our words Our country, our land, our everything Cloudy rakis at the edge of the glasses
We draw the world with indifferent foots Our faces fall down as a rain’s heaviness Then without realizing how quickly end the drinks The more we speak, the more silence it becomes We ask one of us our name, he tells us his