Literature: Anıl Can Uğuz – İncire Ağıt / Lament To A Fig /Klagesang Til Fiken (Şiir)

I won’t fit this coffin Leyla

The sun below the earth is warm still but

When the ways you don’t love me

Like crows have aligned on cornfields

To amass sands in my mouth

Would be good news to the life I maledict.

I won’t fit this coffin Leyla,

The botany will go to pot

If I pluck you as a flower from the stem

But I’ve died,

Imagine that, a fish strangled itself to death

This life I’ve plaited with scrap hands

This eye twitching, this forlorn bed

-the mercy I’ve made up to muddle through myself-

I’ve died now I can say:

Everything has it’s own name, how strange!

I won’t fit this coffin Leyla

Through these houses where everything smells not musty but of naphthalene

I’ve passed many times

And their rooms where flour is kneaded

Often I’ve fallen from the fig tree in eventides grayish-blue

To elude my babyhood

I’ve soldered figs milk to my mouth

Though I’ve winded up my hands on nettle as I wept

-there are bottles of cologne or oil soap-

I was gifted for kindling a stove.

I won’t fit this coffin Leyla

I grew up cross with my mother

I didn’t say, she was importunate to delusion

How simple it is to grow suspicions –mom my head is itching!-

Shampoo for lice had just then freshly minted

Unraveled, like a whistle through the mouth of getting even

I’ve conceded that cowardice was congenital

From mother’s stirps.

I won’t fit this coffin Leyla

My father spared his semen for this trunk

For the sake of sparse joy

-The demon lamenting for us to skirt-

They’ve cut a rooster in the yard

My grandpa sticking a biting cry on his forehead

Wiped down that heart and home where ivy was roasted for years

With his festive handkerchief

Hefty precautions settled on my chubby cheeks.

I won’t fit this coffin Leyla

I’ve known scarfed peddlers

-who’s gum I’m frightened to take-

I hid in the mosque courtyard

Olly olly, the oxen was free, I thought there’d be a sound

I thought my grandma spoke German

When she called my bicycle a velocipede

I snitched silverberries at nightfall

And climbed on cob walls as I ran

I toiled incessantly; couldn’t shatter a single stone in Yedikule*

I won’t fit this coffin Leyla

In this tomb filled with figs

The smuggled tea spilled on my back

The soot of Hıdrellez** that seeped into me

The moon I supposed was god

The scent of smut

My mother’s two-millimeter knitting needle

That weaved

My purple vest victim of brazen moths

Would want to be buried along with me!

I was yet to make nestlings from your voice

-That were ashamed of their craw at the sight of the starved-

Prophets dwell there, I know

The faiths I tell of you

Are too pagan for them to comprehend

Vampires too were almost out of business the day I kissed your neck:

Perhaps I’ll be somewhat revived Leyla

If you weep enough to wash over me.



Translated with the author’s approval by: Ege Dündar

Literature +: Laris Polat (Illustration- Inspired by Anıl Can Uğuz)

To check out other works by Laris Polat:

Bu görsel boş bir alt niteliğe sahip; dosya adı image-2.png
To check out other works by Laris Polat:

Bunları da Sevebilirsiniz

İlkyaz olarak her sayımızda öncelikle üç genç yazarı tanıtıyoruz sizlere. Bir öykü veya birkaç şiirden oluşacak bu eserleri İlkyaz gönüllüleri olarak İngilizce’ye çeviriyor ve dünya kamuoyuyla tanıştırmak için çabalıyoruz. Bunun yanısıra sitemizin aşağıda özetlerini görebileceğiniz köşelerinde gittikçe daha fazla genç yazara yer açıyoruz. Yeni sayımızın içeriğinden özetleri aşağıda bulabilirsiniz! Henüz okuma şansı bulamadıysanız bir önceki …


1889’da Paris’te gerçekleşen Dünya Fuarı’nın ziyaretçileri, yeni inşa edilmiş Eyfel Kulesi’nin gölgesi altında fuar alanına girdi. İçeri girdiklerinde Annie Oakley’in efsane atıcılığını kanıtladığı Buffalo Bill’s Wild West isimli gösteriyle nefesleri kesilebilir ya da Bastille’in heybetini seyre dalabilirlerdi. Bu görsel şölenin ortasında, Hardtmuth Pencil isimli Çek bir üretici belki daha az dramatik ama kesinlikle daha etkili bir yenilikle aradan sıyrıldı. Son ürünü, tüm kurşun kalemler gibi ahşap …

Önceki / Previous İsmail Palıt + Kalthoum Abdullah
Sonraki / Next In Myanmar, underground poetry nıghts buıld brıdges between Rohıngya and Burmese wrıters